[illustration: "that gardening is best ... which best ministers to man's felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom." this is my study. the tree in the middle of the picture is barrie's elm. i once lifted it between my thumb and finger, but i was younger and the tree was smaller. the dark tree in the foreground on the right is felix adler's hemlock. [page ]] the amateur garden by george w. cable illustrated charles scribner's sons new york: mcmxiv _copyright, , by_ charles scribner's sons _published october, _ contents page my own acre the american garden where to plant what the cottage gardens of northampton the private garden's public value the midwinter gardens of new orleans illustrations "that gardening is best ... which best ministers to man's felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom" _frontis_ "... that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where mill river loiters through paradise" "on this green of the dryads ... lies my own acre" "the beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full back to the rapids just above my own acre" "a fountain ... where one,--or two,--can sit and hear it whisper" "the bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of my own acre" "souvenir trees had from time to time been planted on the lawn by visiting friends" "how the words were said which some of the planters spoke" "'where are you going?' says the eye. 'come and see,' says the roaming line" "the lane is open to view from end to end. it has two deep bays on the side nearest the lawn" "... until the house itself seems as naturally ... to grow up out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end of a lady's song" "beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds" "muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom" fences masked by shrubbery after the first frost annual plantings cease to be attractive shrubbery versus annuals shrubs are better than annuals for masking right angles. south hall, williston seminary "... a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful undulations" "however enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must require of her some subserviency about your own dwelling" "plant it where it will best enjoy itself" "... climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far end" "some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure" "... tall, rectangular, three-story piles ... full of windows all of one size, pigeon-house style" "you can make gardening a concerted public movement" "plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines of all its buildings" "not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure its widest and most general dissemination" "having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus" "one such competing garden was so beautiful last year that strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount and enjoy a nearer view" "beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious domicile" "those who pay no one to die, plant or prune for them" "in new orleans the home is bounded by its fences, not by its doors--so they clothe them with shrubberies and vines" "the lawn ... lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across" "there eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward.... in a half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely dignity by the elimination of these excesses" "the rear walk ... follows the dwelling's ground contour with business precision--being a business path" "thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even ... where it does not conceal, the house's architectural faults" "... a lovely stage scene without a hint of the stage's unreality" "back of the building-line the fences ... generally more than head-high ... are _sure_ to be draped" "... from the autumn side of christmas to the summer side of easter" "the sleeping beauty of the garden's unlost configuration ... keeping a winter's share of its feminine grace and softness" "it is only there that i see anything so stalwart as a pine or so rigid as a spruce" my own acre a lifelong habit of story-telling has much to do with the production of these pages. all the more does it move me because it has always included, as perhaps it does in most story-tellers, a keen preference for true stories, stories of actual occurrence. a flower-garden trying to be beautiful is a charming instance of something which a storyteller can otherwise only dream of. for such a garden is itself a story, one which actually and naturally occurs, yet occurs under its master's guidance and control and with artistic effect. yet it was this same story-telling bent which long held me back while from time to time i generalized on gardening and on gardens other than my own. a well-designed garden is not only a true story happening artistically but it is one that passes through a new revision each year, "with the former translations diligently compared and revised." each year my own acre has confessed itself so full of mistranslations of the true text of gardening, has promised, each season, so much fairer a show in its next edition, and has been kept so prolongedly busy teaching and reteaching its master where to plant what, while as to money outlays compelled to live so much more like a poet than like a prince, that the bent for story-telling itself could not help but say wait. now, however, the company to which this chapter logically belongs is actually showing excellent reasons why a history of their writer's own acre should lead them. let me, then, begin by explaining that the small city of northampton, massachusetts, where i have lived all the latter three-fifths of my adult years, sits on the first rise of ground which from the west overlooks the alluvial meadows of the connecticut, nine miles above south hadley falls. close at its back a small stream, mill river, coming out of the hampshire hills on its way to the connecticut, winds through a strip of woods so fair as to have been named--from a much earlier day than when jenny lind called it so--"paradise." on its town side this wooded ground a few hundred yards wide drops suddenly a hundred feet or so to the mill stream and is cut into many transverse ravines. in its timber growth, conspicuous by their number, tower white-pines, while among them stand only less loftily a remarkable variety of forest trees imperfectly listed by a certain humble authority as "mostly h-oak, h-ellum, and h-ash, with a little 'ickory." imperfectly listed, for there one may find also the birch and the beech, the linden, sycamore, chestnut, poplar, hemlock-spruce, butternut, and maple overhanging such pleasant undergrowths as the hornbeam and hop-hornbeam, willows, black-cherry and choke-cherry, dogwood and other cornels, several viburnums, bush maples of two or three kinds, alder, elder, sumach, hazel, witch-hazel, the shadblow and other perennial, fair-blooming, sweet-smelling favorites, beneath which lies a leaf-mould rife with ferns and wild flowers. from its business quarter the town's chief street of residence, elm street, begins a gently winding westerly ascent to become an open high-road from one to another of the several farming and manufacturing villages that use the water-power of mill river. but while it is still a street there runs from it southerly at a right angle a straight bit of avenue some three hundred yards long--an exceptional length of unbent street for northampton. this short avenue ends at another, still shorter, lying square across its foot within some seventy yards of that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where mill river loiters through paradise. the strip of land between the woods and this last street is taken up by half a dozen dwellings of modest dignity, whose front shade-trees, being on the southerly side, have been placed not on the sidewalk's roadside edge but on the side next the dwellings and close within their line of private ownership: red, white and post-oaks set there by the present writer when he named the street "dryads' green." they are now twenty-one years old and give a good shade which actually falls where it is wanted--upon the sidewalk. [illustration: " ... that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where mill river loiters through paradise." a strong wire fence (invisible in the picture) here divides the _grove_ from the old river road.] on this green of the dryads, where it intercepts the "avenue" that slips over from the elm street trolley-cars, lies, such as it is, my own acre; house, lawn, shrubberies and, at the rear, in the edge of the pines, the study. back there by the study--which sometimes in irony we call the power-house--the lawn merges into my seven other acres, in paradise. really the whole possession is a much humbler one than i find myself able to make it appear in the flattering terms of land measure. those seven acres of paradise i acquired as "waste land." nevertheless, if i were selling that "waste," that "hole in the ground," it would not hurt my conscience, such as it is, to declare that the birds on it alone are worth more than it cost: wood-thrushes and robins, golden orioles, scarlet tanagers, blackbirds, bluebirds, oven-birds, cedar-birds, veeries, vireos, song-sparrows, flycatchers, kinglets, the flicker, the cuckoo, the nuthatch, the chickadee and the rose-breasted grosbeak, not to mention jays or kingfishers, swallows, the little green heron or that cock of the walk, the red squirrel. speaking of walks, it was with them--and one drive--in this grove, that i made my first venture toward the artistic enhancement of my acre,--acre this time in the old sense that ignores feet and rods. i was quite willing to make it a matter of as many years as necessary when pursued as play, not work, on the least possible money outlay and having for its end a garden of joy, not of care. by no inborn sagacity did i discover this to be the true first step, but by the trained eye of an honored and dear friend, that distinguished engineer and famous street commissioner of new york, colonel george e. waring, who lost his life in the sanitary regeneration of havana. [illustration: "on this green of the dryads ... lies my own acre." the two young oaks in the picture are part of the row which gives the street its name.] "contour paths" was the word he gave me; paths starting from the top of the steep broken ground and bending in and out across and around its ridges and ravines at a uniform decline of, say, six inches to every ten feet, until the desired terminus is reached below; much as, in its larger way, a railway or aqueduct might, or as cattle do when they roam in the hills. thus, by the slightest possible interference with natural conditions, these paths were given a winding course every step of which was pleasing because justified by the necessities of the case, traversing the main inequalities of the ground with the ease of level land yet without diminishing its superior variety and charm. and so with contour paths i began to find, right at my back door and on my own acre, in nerve-tired hours, an outdoor relaxation which i could begin, leave off and resume at any moment and which has never staled on me. for this was the genesis of all i have learned or done in gardening, such as it is. my appliances for laying out the grades were simple enough: a spirit-level, a stiff ten-foot rod with an eighteen-inch leg nailed firmly on one end of it, a twelve-inch leg on the other, a hatchet, and a basket of short stakes with which to mark the points, ten feet apart, where the longer leg, in front on all down grades, rested when the spirit-level, strapped on the rod, showed the rod to be exactly horizontal. trivial inequalities of surface were arbitrarily cut down or built up and covered with leaves and pine-straw to disguise the fact, and whenever a tree or anything worth preserving stood in the way here came the loaded barrow and the barrowist, like a piece of artillery sweeping into action, and a fill undistinguishable from nature soon brought the path around the obstacle on what had been its lower side, to meander on at its unvarying rate of rise or fall as though nothing--except the trees and wild flowers--had happened since the vast freshets of the post-glacial period built the landscape. i made the drive first, of steeper grade than the paths; but every new length of way built, whether walk or road, made the next easier to build, by making easier going for the artillery, the construction train. also each new path has made it easier to bring up, for the lawn garden, sand, clay, or leaf-mould, or for hearth consumption all the wood which the grove's natural mortality each year requires to be disposed of. there is a superior spiritual quality in the warmth of a fire of h-oak, h-ash, and even h-ellum gathered from your own acre, especially if the acre is very small and has contour paths. by a fire of my own acre's "dead and down" i write these lines. i never buy cordwood. only half the grove has required these paths, the other half being down on the flat margin of the river, traversed by a cart-road at least half a century old, though used by wheels hardly twice a year; but in the three acres where lie the contour paths there is now three-fifths of a mile of them, not a rod of which is superfluous. and then i have two examples of another kind of path: paths with steps; paths which for good and lawful reasons cannot allow you time to go around on the "five per cent" grade but must cut across, taking a single ravine lengthwise, to visit its three fish-pools. these steps, and two short retaining walls elsewhere in the grove, are made of the field stones of the region, uncut. all are laid "dry" like the ordinary stone fences of new england farms, and the walls are built with a smart inward batter so that the winter frosts may heave them year after year, heave and leave but not tumble them down. i got that idea from a book. everything worth while on my acre is from books except what two or three professional friends have from time to time dropped into my hungry ear. both my ears have good appetites--for garden lore. about half a mile from me, down mill river, stands the factory of a prized friend who more than any other man helps by personal daily care to promote northampton's "people's institute," of whose home-garden work i have much to say in the chapters that follow this one. for forty years or more this factory has been known far and wide as the "hoe shop" because it makes shovels. it has never made hoes. it uses water-power, and the beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full back to the rapids just above my own acre. in winter this is the favorite skating-pond of the town and of smith college. in the greener seasons of college terms the girls constantly pass upstream and down in their pretty rowboats and canoes, making a charming effect as seen from my lawn's rear edge at the head of the pine and oak shaded ravine whose fish-pools are gay by turns with elder, wild sunflower, sumach, iris, water-lilies, and forget-me-not. [illustration: "the beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full back to the rapids just above my own acre." this is the "hoe shop." the tower was ruined by fire many years ago, and because of its unsafety is being taken down at the present writing.] this ravine, the middle one of the grove's three, is about a hundred feet wide. when i first began to venture the human touch in it, it afforded no open spot level enough to hold a camp-stool. from the lawn above to the river road below, the distance is three hundred and thirty feet, and the fall, of fifty-five feet, is mostly at the upper end, which is therefore too steep, as well as too full of varied undergrowth, for any going but climbing. in the next ravine on its left there was a clear, cold spring and in the one on its right ran a natural rivulet that trickled even in august; but this middle ravine was dry or merely moist. here let me say to any who would try an amateur landscape art on their own acre at the edge of a growing town, that the town's growth tends steadily to diminish the amount of their landscape's natural water supply by catching on street pavements and scores and hundreds of roofs, lawns and walks, and carrying away in sewers, the rain and melting snows which for ages filtered slowly through the soil. small wonder, i think, that, when in the square quarter-mile between my acre and elm street fifty-three dwellings and three short streets took the place of an old farm, my grove, by sheer water famine, lost several of its giant pines. wonder to me is that the harm seems at length to have ceased. but about that ravine: one day the nature of its growth and soil, especially its alders, elders, and willows and a show of clay and gravel, forced on my notice the likelihood that here, too, had once been a spring, if no more. i scratched at its head with a stick and out came an imprisoned rill like a recollected word from the scratched head of a schoolboy. happily the spot was just at the bottom of the impassably steep fall of ground next the edge of the lawn and was almost in the centre of those four acres--one of sward, three of woods--which i proposed to hold under more or less discipline, leaving the rest--a wooded strip running up the river shore--wholly wild, as college girls, for example, would count wildness. in both parts the wealth of foliage on timber and underbrush almost everywhere shut the river out of view from the lawn and kept the eye restless for a glint, if no more, of water. and so there i thought at once to give myself what i had all my life most absurdly wished for, a fish-pool. i had never been able to look upon an aquarium and keep the tenth commandment. i had never caught a fish without wanting to take it home and legally adopt it into the family--a tendency which once led my son to say, "yes, he would be pleased to go fishing with me if i would only fish in a sportsmanlike manner." what a beautifully marked fish is the sun-perch! once, in boyhood, i kept six of those "pumpkin-seed" in a cistern, and my smile has never been the same since i lost them--one of my war losses. i resolved to impound the waters of my spring in the ravine and keep fish at last--without salt--to my heart's content. yet i remembered certain restraining precepts: first, that law of art which condemns incongruity--requires everything to be in keeping with its natural surroundings--and which therefore, for one thing, makes an american garden the best possible sort of garden to have in america; second, that twin art law, against inutility, which demands that everything in an artistic scheme serve the use it pretends to serve; third, a precept of colonel waring's: "don't fool with running water if you haven't money to fool away"; and, fourth, that best of all gardening rules--look before you leap. however, on second thought, and tenth, and twentieth, one thought a day for twenty days, i found that if water was to be impounded anywhere on my acre here was the strategic point. down this ravine, as i have said, was the lawn's one good glimpse of the river, and a kindred gleam intervening would tend, in effect, to draw those farther waters in under the trees and into the picture. such relationships are very rewarding to find to whoever would garden well. hence this mention. one's garden has to do with whatever is in sight from it, fair or otherwise, and it is as feasible and important to plant in the fair as to plant out the otherwise. also, in making my grove paths, i had noticed that to cross this ravine where at one or two places in its upper half a contour grade would have been pettily circuitous and uninteresting, and to cross it comfortably, there should be either a bridge or a dam; and a dam with water behind it seemed pleasanter every way--showed less incongruity and less inutility--than a bridge with no water under it. as to "fooling with running water," the mere trickle here in question had to be dragged out of its cradle to make it run at all. it remained for me to find out by experience that even that weakling, imprisoned and grown to a pool, though of only three hundred square feet in surface, when aided and abetted by new england frosts and exposed on a southern slope to winter noonday suns, could give its amateur captor as much trouble--proportionately--as any hebrew babe drawn from the bulrushes of the nile is said to have given his. now if there is any value in recording these experiences it can be only in the art principles they reveal. to me in the present small instance the principle illustrated was that of the true profile line for ascent or descent in a garden. you may go into any american town where there is any inequality of ground and in half an hour find a hundred or two private lawns graded--from the house to each boundary line--on a single falling curve, or, in plain english, a hump. the best reason why this curve is not artistic, not pleasing, but stupid, is that it is not natural and gains nothing by being unnatural. all gardening is a certain conquest of nature, and even when "formal" should interfere with her own manner and custom as slightly as is required by the necessities of the case--the needs of that particular spot's human use and joy. the right profile and surface for a lawn of falling grade, the surface which will permanently best beguile both eye and foot, should follow a double curve, an ogee line. for, more or less emphasized, that is nature's line in all her affable moods on land or water: a descent or ascent beginning gradually, increasing rapidly, and concluding gently. we see it in the face of any smooth knoll or billow. i believe the artists impute to praxiteles a certain ownership in this double curve. it is a living line; it suggests nature conscious and astir as no single curve or straight line can. i admit that even among amateurs this is rather small talk, but it brings me to this point: in the passage of water down a ravine of its own making, this line of nature astir may repeat itself again and again but is commonly too inaffable, abrupt, angular, to suggest the ogee. in that middle part of it where the descent is swift it may be more or less of a plunge, and after the plunge the water is likely to pause on the third turn, in a natural pool, before resuming its triple action again. and so, in my ravine, some seasons later, i ventured to detain the overflow of my first pool on a second and a third lingering place, augmenting the water supply by new springs developed in the bottoms of the new pools. the second pool has a surface of a thousand square feet, the third spans nineteen hundred, and there are fish in all three, hatched there--"pumpkin-seed" included, but also trout--among spontaneous bulrushes, pond-lilies, flags, and dainty water-weeds; and sometimes at night, when the reflected glory of a ten-o'clock full moon shines up from it to the stone exedra on the lawn, i seem to have taken my praxitelean curves so directly from nature that she thinks she took them herself from me and thanks me for the suggestion. please observe that of great gardens, or of costly gardens whether great or only costly, we here say nothing. our theme is such a garden as a householder may himself make and keep or for which, at most, he needs professional advice only in its first planning, and for its upkeep one gardener, with one occasional helper in pressing seasons or in constructional work. constructional work. dams, for example. in two of my dams i built cores of concrete and thus made acquaintance with that interesting material. later i pressed the acquaintanceship, made garden and grove seats, a table or two, a very modest fountain for a single jet of water in my highest, smallest fish-pool, and even a flight of steps with a pair of gaîne-shaped pedestals--suggested by a sculptor friend--at their top. the exedra i mentioned just now is of concrete. the stuff is a temptation to be wary of. the ordinary gray sort--i have touched no other--is a humble medium, and pretentious designs in humble materials are one of the worst, and oldest, of garden incongruities. in my ventures with concrete i have studied for grace in form but grace subordinated to stability, and have shunned embellishment. embellishment for its own sake is the easiest and commonest sin against good art wherever art becomes self-conscious. it is having a riotous time just now in concrete. i have rarely seen a commercial concrete garden-seat which was not more ornate than i should want it for my own acre. i happen to have two or three articles in my garden which are a trifle elaborate but they are of terra-cotta, are not home-made and would be plainer could i have found them so. a garden needs furniture only less than a house, and concrete is a boon to "natural" gardening, being inexpensive, rustic, and imperishable. i fancy a chief reason why there is such inconsiderate dearth of seats and steps in our american amateur gardens is the old fashion--so well got rid of at any cost--of rustic cedar and hickory stairs and benches. "have none of them," was colonel waring's injunction; "they are forever out of repair." but i fear another reason is that so often our gardens are neither for private ease nor social joy, but for public display and are planned mainly for street exhibition. that is the way we commonly treat garden fountains! we make a smug show of unfenced, unhedged, universal hospitality across a sidewalk boundary which nevertheless we hold inviolate--sometimes by means of a painted sign or gas-pipe--and never say "have a seat" to the dearest friend in any secluded nook of our shrubberies, if there is such a nook. how many of us know a fountain beside an embowered seat where one,--or two,--with or without the book of verses, can sit and hear it whisper or watch the moonlight cover it with silent kisses? in my limited experience i have known of but two. one is by the once favorite thought-promoting summer seat of augustus saint-gaudens on his own home acre in vermont; the other i need not particularize further than to say that it is one of the things which interlock and unify a certain garden and grove. [illustration: "a fountain ... where one,--or two,--can sit and hear it whisper." the ravine of the three fish pools. there is a drop of thirty feet between the upper and the lowermost pool.] the bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of my own acre. when the house was built its lot and others backed up to a hard, straight rear line where the old field had halted at its fence and where the woods began on ground that fell to the river at an angle of from forty to fifty degrees. here my gifted friend and adviser gave me a precept got from his earlier gifted friend and adviser, frederick law olmsted: that passing from any part of a pleasure-ground to any part next it should be entirely safe and easy or else impossible. by the application of this maxim i brought my lawn and grove together in one of the happiest of marriages. for i proceeded, by filling with earth (and furnace ashes), to carry the lawn in, practically level, beyond the old fence line and under the chestnuts and pines sometimes six feet, sometimes twelve, until the difficult and unsafe forty or fifty degrees of abrupt fall were changed to an impassable sixty and seventy degrees, and every one's instinctive choice of way was the contour paths. at the same time this has preserved, and even enhanced, the place's wildness, especially the wild flowers and the low-nesting birds. sometimes a few yards of retaining-wall, never cemented, always laid up dry and with a strong inward batter, had to be put in to avoid smothering the roots of some great tree; for, as everybody knows and nearly everybody forgets, roots, like fishes, must have air. in one place, across the filled head of a ravine, the wall, though but a scant yard high, is fifty feet long, and there is another place where there should be one like it. in this work no tree was sacrificed save one noble oak done to death by a youth who knew but forgot that roots must have air. not to make the work expensive it was pursued slowly, through many successive seasons; yet before even its easy, first half was done the lawn was in under the grove on an apparently natural, irregular crest line. moreover the grove was out on the lawn with an even more natural haphazard bordering line; for another operation had been carried on meantime. trees, souvenir trees, had from time to time been planted on the lawn by visiting friends. most of them are set close enough to the grove to become a part of it, standing in a careful irregularity which has already obliterated, without molesting, the tree line of the ancient fence. [illustration: "the bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of my own acre." at the point where the party is drinking tea (the site of the indian mound) the overlap of grove and lawn is eighty-five feet across the old fence line that once sharply divided them.] young senators among their seniors, they still have much growth to make before they can enter into their full forest dignity, yet henry ward beecher's elm is nearly two feet through and has a spread of fifty; max o'rell's white-ash is a foot in diameter and fifty feet high; edward atkinson's is something more, and felix adler's hemlock-spruce, the maple of anthony hope hawkins, l. clark seelye's english ash, henry van dyke's white-ash, sol smith russell's linden, and hamilton wright mabie's horse-chestnut are all about thirty-five feet high and cast a goodly shade. sir james m. barrie's elm--his and sir william robertson nicoll's, who planted it with him later than the plantings aforementioned--has, by some virtue in the soil or in its own energies, reached a height of nearly sixty-five feet and a diameter of sixteen inches. other souvenirs are a horse-chestnut planted by minnie maddern fiske, a ginkgo by alice freeman palmer, a beech by paul van dyke, a horse-chestnut by anna hempstead branch, another by sir sidney lee, yet another by mary e. burt, a catalpa by madelaine wynne, a colorado blue spruce--fitly placed after much labor of mind--by sir moses ezekiel, and a kentucky coffee-tree by gerald stanley lee and jennette lee, of our own town. among these should also stand the maple of sir arthur conan doyle, but it was killed in its second winter by an undetected mouse at its roots. except sir moses, all the knights here named received the accolade after their tree plantings, but i draw no moral. [illustration: "souvenir trees had from time to time been planted on the lawn by visiting friends." the beecher elm, first of the souvenir trees.] would it were practicable to transmit to those who may know these trees in later days the scenes of their setting out and to tell just how the words were said which some of the planters spoke. mr. beecher, lover of young trees and young children, straightened up after pressing the soil about the roots with hands as well as feet and said: "i cannot wish you to live as long as this tree, but may your children's children and their children sit under its shade." said felix adler to his hemlock-spruce, "vivat, crescat, floreat"; and a sentiment much like it was implied in sol smith russell's words to the grove's master as they finished putting in his linden together--for he was just then proposing to play rip van winkle, which joseph jefferson had finally decided to produce no more: "here's to your healt', undt der healt' of all your family; may you lif long undt brosper." we--the first person singular grows tiresome--we might have now, on our acre, a tree planted by joseph jefferson had we thought in time to be provided with a sapling, growing, in a tub. have your prospective souvenir tree already tubbed and waiting. this idea i got from andrew carnegie, with whom i had the honor to plant an oak at skibo castle and from whom i, like so many others, have had other things almost as good as ideas. have your prospective souvenir tree tubbed and the tub sunk in the ground, of course, to its rim. then the dear friend can plant it at any time that he may chance along between march and december. but let no souvenir tree, however planted, be treated, after planting, as other than a living thing if you would be just to it, to your friend, or to yourself. cultivate it; coax it on; and it will grow two or three or four times as fast as if left to fight its daily battle for life unaided. and do not forbear to plant trees because they grow so slowly. they need not. they do not. with a little attention they grow so swiftly! before you know it you are sitting in their shade. besides sir arthur's maple the only souvenir tree we have lost was a tulip-tree planted by my friend of half a lifetime, the late franklin h. head. so much for my grove. i write of it not in self-complacency. my many blunders, some of them yet to be made, are a good insurance against that. i write because of the countless acres as good as mine, in this great, dear america, which might now be giving their owners all the healthful pastime, private solace, or solitary or social delights which this one yields, yet which are only "waste lands" or "holes in the ground" because unavailable for house lots or tillage. [illustration: "how the words were said which some of the planters spoke." president seelye of smith college planting a tree.--a majority of the company present were smith college students and others engaged in the work of the people's institute. the tree on the left is barrie's elm. the tree directly behind the small sapling which is being planted, and on a line with it, is max o'rell's. the hemlock-spruce between them is felix adler's.] and now as to the single acre by measure, of lawn, shrubs, and plants, close around my house; for the reason that it was and is my school of gardening. there was no garden here--i write this in the midst of it--when i began. ten steps from where i sit there had been a small indian mound which some one had carefully excavated. i found stone arrow chips on the spot, and one whole arrow-head. so here no one else's earlier skill was in evidence to point my course or impede it. this was my clean new slate and at that time i had never "done a sum" in gardening and got anything like a right answer. it is emphatically an amateur garden and a book garden: a garden which to me, as to most of us, would have been impossible in any but these days when the whole art of gardening has been printed in books and no amateur is excusable for trying to garden without reading them, or for saying after having read them that he has planned and worked without professional advice. the books _are_ the professional advice, with few drawbacks and with the great advantage that they are ours truly and do not even have to be "'phoned." i should rather have in my library my bailey's "american cyclopedia of horticulture," than any two garden periodicals once a month. these, too, i value, but, for me, they are over-apt to carry too much deckload of the advice and gentle vauntings of other amateurs. i have an amateur's abhorrence of amateurs! the cyclopedia _knows_, and will always send me to the right books if it cannot thresh a matter out with me itself. before bailey my fount of knowledge was mr. e. j. canning, late of smith college botanic gardens; a spring still far from dry. as the books enjoin, i began my book-gardening with a plan on paper; not the elaborate thing one pays for when he can give his garden more money than time, but a light sketch, a mere fundamental suggestion. this came professionally from a landscape-architect, miss frances bullard, of bridgeport, connecticut, who had just finished plotting the grounds of my neighbor, the college. i tell of my own garden for another reason: that it shows, i think, how much can be done with how little, if for the doing you take time instead of money. all things come to the garden that knows how to wait. mine has acquired at leisure a group of effects which would have cost from ten to twenty times as much if got in a hurry. garden for ten-year results and get them for next to nothing, and at the same time you may quicken speed whenever your exchequer smiles broadly enough. of course this argument is chiefly for those who have the time and not the money; for by time we mean play time, time which is money lost if you don't play. the garden that gives the most joy, "joyous gard," as sir launcelot named his, is not to be bought, like a circassian slave; it must be brought up, like a daughter. how much of life they can miss who can buy whatever they want whenever they want it! but i tell first of my own garden also because i believe it summarizes to the eye a number of primary book-rules, authoritative "don'ts," by the observance of which a multitude of amateur gardeners may get better results than it yet shows. nevertheless, i will hardly do more than note a few exceptions to these ground rules, which may give the rules a more convincing force. first of all, "don't" let any of your planting cut or split your place in two. how many a small house-lot lawn we see split down the middle by a row of ornamental shrubs or fruit-trees which might as easily have been set within a few feet of the property line, whose rigidity, moreover, would have best excused the rigidity of the planted line. but such glaring instances aside, there are many subtler ones quite as unfortunate; "don't" be too sure you are not unwittingly furnishing one. "don't" destroy the openness of your sward by dotting it with shrubs or pattern flower-beds. to this rule i doubt if a plausible exception could be contrived. it is so sweeping and so primary that we might well withhold it here were we not seeking to state its artistic reason why. which is, that such plantings are mere eruptions of individual smartness, without dignity and with no part in any general unity; chirping up like pert children in a company presumably trying to be rational. on the other hand, i hope my acre, despite all its unconscious or unconfessed mistakes, shows pleasantly that the best openness of a lawn is not to be got between unclothed, right-angled and parallel bounds. the more its verdure-clad borders swing in and out the longer they look, not merely because they are longer but also because they interest and lure the eye. "where are you going?" says the eye. "come and see," says the roaming line. "don't" plant in stiff lines except in close relation to architectural or legal bounds. a straight horizontal line nature scarcely knows save in her rocks and on a vaster scale than we here have to do with. yet straight lines in gardening are often good and fine if only they are lines of real need. where, when and in what degree it is good to subordinate utility to beauty or beauty to utility depends on time, place and circumstance, but when in doubt "don't" pinch either to pet the other. oppression is never good art. yet "don't" cry war, war, where there is no war. a true beauty and a needed utility may bristle on first collision but they soon make friends. was it not ruskin himself who wanted to butt the railway-train off the track and paw up the rails--something like that? but even between them and the landscape there is now an entente cordiale. i have seen the hand of joseph pennell make beautiful peace with billboards and telegraph-poles and wires. the railway points us to the fact that along the ground nature is as innocent of parallel lines, however bent, as of straight ones, and that in landscape-gardening parallels should be avoided unless they are lines of utility. "don't" lay parallel lines, either straight or curved, where nature would not and utility need not. yet my own acre has taught me a modification of this rule so marked as to be almost an exception. on each side of me next my nearest neighbor i have a turfed alley between a continuous bed of flowering shrubs and plants next the division line, and a similar bed whose meanderings border my lawn. at first i gave these two alleys a sinuous course in correspondence with the windings of the bed bordering the lawn--for they were purely ways of pleasure among the flowers, and a loitering course seemed only reasonable. but sinuous lines proved as disappointing in the alleys as they were satisfying out on the lawn, and by and by i saw that whereas the bendings of the open lawn's borders lured and rewarded the eye, the same curves in the alleys obstructed and baffled it. the show of floral charms was piecemeal, momentary and therefore trivial. "don't" be trivial! [illustration: "'where are you going?' says the eye. 'come and see,' says the roaming line." this planting conceals one of the alleys described on page . in the alley a concrete bench built into a concrete wall looks across the entire breadth of the garden and into the sunset.] but a cure was easy. i had to straighten but one side of each alley to restore the eye's freedom of perspective, and nothing more was wanting. the american eye's freedom of perspective is one of our great liberties. oh, say, can you _see_--? i made this change, of course, on the side nearest the straight, property-division bound, where ran an invisible wire fence. thus the bed on that side was set between two straight parallels, while the bed on the lawn side remained between waving parallels. this gave the best simplicity with the least artificiality. and thus the two lanes are open to view from end to end, yet each has two deep bays on the side nearest the lawn, bays which remain unseen till one actually reaches them in traversing the lane. in such a bay one should always have, i think, some floral revelation of special charm worthy of the seclusion and the surprise. but this thought is only one of a hundred that tell me my garden is not a finished thing. to its true lover a garden never is. another sort of bay, the sort resulting from a swift retreat of a line of shrubberies pursued by the lawn and then swinging round and returning upon the lawn in a counter pursuit, i thought i had learned from books and miss bullard and had established on my own acre, until i saw the college gardens of oxford, england, and the landscape work in hyde park, london. on my return thence i made haste to give my own garden's in-and-out curves twice the boldness they had had. and doubling their boldness i doubled their beauty. "don't" ever let your acre's, or half or quarter acre's, ground lines relax into feebleness or shrink into pettiness. "don't" ever plan a layout for whose free swing your limits are cramped. [illustration: "the lane is open to view from end to end. it has two deep bays on the side nearest the lawn." the straight line of high growth conceals in the midst of its foliage a wire division fence, and makes a perfect background for blooming herbaceous perennials.] "don't" ever, if you can help it, says another of my old mistakes to me, let your acre lead your guest to any point which can be departed from only by retracing one's steps. such necessities involve a lapse--not to say collapse--of interest, which makes for dulness and loss of dignity. lack what my own acre may, i have it now so that by its alleys, lawns and contour paths in garden and grove we can walk and walk through every part of it without once meeting our own tracks, and that is not all because of the pleasant fact that the walks, where not turfed, are covered with pine-straw, of which each new september drops us a fresh harvest. a garden, we say, should never compel us to go back the way we came; but in truth a garden should never compel us to do anything. its don'ts should be laid solely on itself. those applicable to its master, mistress, or guests should all be impossibilities, not requests. "private grounds, no crossing"--take that away, please, wherever you can, and plant your margins so that there can be no crossing. wire nettings hidden by shrubberies from all but the shameless trespasser you will find far more effective, more promotive to beauty and more courteous. "don't" make your garden a garden of don'ts. for no garden is quite a garden until it is "joyous gard." let not yours or mine be a garden for display. then our rhododendrons and like splendors will not be at the front gate, and our grounds be less and less worth seeing the farther into them we go. nor let yours or mine be a garden of pride. the ways of such a garden are not pleasantness nor its paths peace. and let us not have a garden of tiring care or a user up of precious time. that is not good citizenship. neither let us have an old-trousers, sun-bonnet, black finger-nails garden--especially if you are a woman. a garden that makes a wife, daughter or sister a dowdy is hardly "joyous gard." neither is one which makes itself a mania to her and an affliction to her family. let us not even have, you or me, a wonder garden--of arboreal or floral curiosities. perhaps because i have not travelled enough i have never seen a garden of exotics that was a real garden in any good art sense; in any way, that is, lastingly pleasing to a noble spirit. let your garden, and let mine, be the garden of joy. for the only way it can be that, on and on, year in, year out, is to be so good in art and so finely human in its purposes that to have it and daily keep it will make us more worth while to ourselves and to mankind than to go without it. the american garden almost any good american will admit it to be a part of our national social scheme, i think,--if we have a social scheme,--that everybody shall aspire to all the refinements of life. particularly is it our theory that every one shall propose to give to his home all the joys and graces which are anywhere associated with the name of home. yet until of late we have neglected the art of gardening. now and then we see, or more likely we read about, some garden of wonderful beauty; but the very fame of it points the fact that really artistic gardening is not democratically general with us. our cities and towns, without number, have the architect and the engineer, for house and for landscape, for sky-scrapers and all manner of public works; we have the nurseryman, the florist; we have parks, shaded boulevards and riverside and lakeside drives. under private ownership we have a vast multitude of exactly rectilinear lawns, extremely bare or else very badly planted; and we have hundreds of thousands of beautiful dames and girls who "love flowers." but our home gardens, our home gardeners, either professional or amateur, where are they? our smaller cities by scores and our towns by hundreds are full of home-dwellers each privately puzzled to know why every one of his neighbors' houses, however respectable in architecture, stares at him and after him with a vacant, deaf-mute air of having just landed in this country, without friends. what ails these dwellings is largely lack of true gardening. they will never look like homes, never look really human and benign, that is, until they are set in a gardening worthy of them. for a garden which alike in its dignity and in its modesty is worthy of the house around which it is set, is the smile of the place. in the small city of northampton, massachusetts, there has been for many years an annual prize competition of amateur flower-gardens. in there were over a thousand homes, about one-fourth of all the dwellings in the town, in this pretty contest. not all, not half, these competitors could make a show worthy the name of good gardening, but every one of these households stood pledged to do something during the year for the outdoor improvement of the home, and hundreds of their house lots were florally beautiful. if i seem to hurry into a mention of it here it is partly in the notion that such a recital may be my best credentials as the writer of these pages, and partly in the notion that such a concrete example may possibly have a tendency to help on flower-gardening in the country at large and even to aid us in determining what american flower-gardening had best be. for the reader's better advantage, however, let me first state one or two general ideas which have given this activity and its picturesque results particular aspects and not others. i lately heard a lady ask an amateur gardener, "what is the garden's foundation principle?" there was a certain overgrown pomp in the question's form, but that is how she very modestly asked it, and i will take no liberty with its construction. i thought his reply a good one. "we have all," he said, "come up from wild nature. in wild nature there are innumerable delights, but they are qualified by countless inconveniences. the cave, tent, cabin, cottage and castle have gradually been evolved by an orderly accumulation and combination of defences and conveniences which secure to us a host of advantages over wild nature and wild man. yet rightly we are loath to lose any more of nature than we must in order to be her masters and her children in one, and to gather from her the largest fund of profit and delight she can be made to yield. hence around the cottage, the castle or the palace waves and blooms the garden." was he not right? this is why, in our pleasant northampton affair, we have accepted it as our first rule of private gardening that _the house is the climacteric note_. this is why the garden should never be more architectural and artificial than the house of which it is the setting, and this is why the garden should grow less and less architectural and artificial as it draws away from the house. to say the same thing in reverse, the garden, as it approaches the house, should accept more and more discipline--domestication--social refinement, until the house itself at length seems as unabruptly and naturally to grow up out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end of a lady's song. by this understanding of the matter what a fine truce-note is blown between the contending advocates of "natural" and of "formal" gardening! the right choice between these two aspects of the art, and the right degree in either choice, depend on the character of the house. the house is a part of the garden. it is the garden's brow and eyes. in gardening, almost the only thing which costs unduly is for us to try to give our house some other house's garden. one's private garden should never be quite so far removed from a state of nature as his house is. its leading function should be to delight its house's inmates (and intimates) in things of nature so refined as to inspire and satisfy their happiest moods. therefore no garden should cost, nor look as if it cost, an outlay of money, time or toil that cramps the house's own ability to minister to the genuine bodily needs and spiritual enlargements of its indwellers; and therefore, also, it should never seem to cost, in its first making or in its daily keeping, so much pains as to lack, itself, a garden's supreme essential--tranquillity. so, then, to those who would incite whole streets of american towns to become florally beautiful, "formal" gardening seems hardly the sort to recommend. about the palatial dwellings of men of princely revenue it may be enchanting. there it appears quite in place. for with all its exquisite artificiality it still is nearer to nature than the stately edifice it surrounds and adorns. but for any less costly homes it costs too much. it is expensive in its first outlay and it demands constantly the greatest care and the highest skill. our ordinary american life is too busy for it unless the ground is quite handed over to the hired professional and openly betrays itself as that very unsatisfying thing, a "gardener's garden." [illustration: " ... until the house itself seems as naturally ... to grow up out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end of a lady's song." on the right of this picture you may see the piers of one of the front gates of my own acre standing under henry ward beecher's elm. the urn forms surmounting them are of concrete, and the urns are cast from earlier forms in wood, which were a gift from henry van dyke. on the left the tops of the arbor vitæ and a magnolia are bending in the wind.] our ordinary american life is also too near nature for the formal garden to come in between. unless our formal gardening is of some inexpensive sort our modest dwelling-houses give us an anticlimax, and there is no inexpensive sort of formal gardening. except in the far south our american climate expatriates it. a very good practical rule would be for none of us to venture upon such gardening until he is well able to keep up an adequate greenhouse. a formal garden without a greenhouse or two--or three--is a glorious army on a war footing, but without a base of supplies. it is largely his greenhouses which make the public gardener and the commercial florist so misleading an example for the cottager to follow in his private gardening. to be beautiful, formal gardening requires stately proportions. without these it is almost certain to be petty and frivolous. in the tiny gardens of british and european peasants, it is true, a certain formality of design is often practised with pleasing success; but these gardens are a by-product of peasant toil, and in america we have no joy in contemplating an american home limited to the aspirations of peasant life. in such gardening there is a constraint, a lack of natural freedom, a distance from nature, and a certain contented subserviency, which makes it--however fortunate it may be under other social conditions--wholly unfit to express the buoyant, not to say exuberant, complacencies of the american home. for these we want, what we have not yet quite evolved, the american garden. when this comes it must come, of course, unconsciously; but we may be sure it will not be much like the gardens of any politically shut-in people. no, not even of those supreme artists in gardening, the japanese. it will express the traits of our american domestic life; our strong individuality and self-assurance, our sense of unguarded security, our affability and unexclusiveness and our dislike to high-walled privacy. if we would hasten its day we must make way for it along the lines of these traits. on the other hand, if in following these lines we can contrive to adhere faithfully to the worldwide laws of all true art, who knows but our very gardening may tend to correct more than one shortcoming or excess in our national character? in our northampton experiment it has been our conviction from the beginning that for a private garden to be what it should be--to have a happy individuality--a countenance of its own--one worthy to be its own--it must in some practical way be the fruit of its householder's own spirit and not merely of some hired gardener's. if one can employ a landscape-architect, all very well; but the most of us cannot, and after all, the true landscape-architect, the artist gardener, works on this principle and seeks to convey into every garden distinctively the soul of the household for which it springs and flowers. "since when it grows and smells, i swear, not of itself but thee." few american householders, however, have any enthusiasm for this theory, which many would call high-strung, and as we in northampton cannot undertake to counsel and direct our neighbors' hired helps, we enroll in the main branch of our competition only those who garden for themselves and hire no labor. to such the twenty-one prizes, ranging from two dollars and a half up to fifteen dollars, are a strong incentive, and by such the advice of visiting committees is eagerly sought and followed. the public educative value of the movement is probably largest under these limitations, for in this way we show what beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds and with the least outlay. its private educative value, too, is probably largest thus, because thus we disseminate as a home delight a practical knowledge of æsthetic principles among those who may at any time find it expedient to become wage-earning gardeners on the home grounds of the well-to-do. [illustration: "beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds." this is half of a back yard, the whole of which is equally handsome. the place to which it belongs took a capital prize in the carnegie flower garden competition.] [illustration: "muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom." an invisible fault of this planting is that it was set too close to the building and tended to give an impression, probably groundless, of promoting dampness. also it was an inconvenience to mechanics in painting or repairing.] the competing gardens being kept wholly without hired labor, of course our constant advice to all contestants is to shun formal gardening. it is a pity that in nearly all our cities and towns the most notable examples of gardening are found in the parks, boulevards, and cemeteries. by these flaring displays thousands of modest cottagers who might easily provide, on their small scale, lovely gardens about their dwellings at virtually no cost and with no burdensome care, get a notion that this, and this only, is artistic gardening and hence that a home garden for oneself would be too expensive and troublesome to be thought of. on the other hand, a few are tempted to mimic them on a petty scale, and so spoil their little grass-plots and amuse, without entertaining, their not more tasteful but only less aspiring neighbors. in northampton, in our carnegie prize contest--so called for a very sufficient and pleasant reason--our counsel is to avoid all mimicry in gardening as we would avoid it in speech or in gait. sometimes we do not mind being repetitious. "in gardening" we say--as if we had never said it before--"almost the only thing which costs unduly--in money or in mortification--is for one to try to give himself somebody else's garden!" often we say this twice to the same person. one of the reasons we give against it is that it leads to toy gardening, and toy gardening is of all sorts the most pitiful and ridiculous. "no true art," we say, "can tolerate any make-believe which is not in some way finer than the reality it simulates. in other words, imitation should always be in the nature of an amiable condescension. whatever falseness, pretension or even mere frailty or smallness, suggests to the eye the ineffectuality of a toy is out of place in any sort of gardening." we do not actually speak all this, but we imply it, and we often find that the mere utterance of the one word, "toy gardening," has a magical effect to suggest all the rest and to overwhelm with contrition the bad taste and frivolity of many a misguided attempt at adornment. at that word of exorcism joints of cerulean sewer-pipe crested with scarlet geraniums, rows of whited cobbles along the walk or drive like a cannibal's skulls around his hut, purple paint-kegs of petunias on the scanty door-steps, crimson wash-kettles of verbenas, ant-hill rockeries, and well-sweeps and curbs where no wells are, steal modestly and forever into oblivion. now, when we so preach we try also to make it very plain that there is not one set of rules for gardening on a small scale of expense in a small piece of ground, and another set for gardening on a larger scale. for of course the very thing which makes the small garden different from the large, the rich man's from the poor man's, the scotch or italian peasant's from the american mechanic's, or the public garden from the private, is the universal and immutable oneness of the great canons of art. one of our competitors, having honestly purged her soul of every impulse she may ever have had to mimic the gardening of the cemeteries, planted her dooryard with a trueness of art which made it the joy of all beholders. only then was it that a passing admirer stopped and cried: "upon me soul, mrs. anonyma, yir gyairden looks joost loike a pooblic pairk!" he meant--without knowing it--that the spot was lovely for not trying to look the least bit like a public park, and he was right. she had kept what it would be well for the public gardeners to keep much better than some of them do--the moral law of gardening. * * * * * there is a moral law of gardening. no garden should ever tell a lie. no garden should ever put on any false pretence. no garden should ever break a promise. to the present reader these proclamations may seem very trite; it may seem very trite to say that if anything in or of a garden is meant for adornment, it must adorn; but we have to say such things to many who do not know what trite means--who think it is something you buy from the butcher. a thing meant for adornment, we tell them, must so truly and sufficiently adorn as to be worth all the room and attention it takes up. thou shalt not let anything in thy garden take away thy guest's attention without repaying him for it; it is stealing. a lady, not in our competition but one of its most valued patronesses, lately proposed to herself to place in the centre of a wide, oval lawn a sun-dial and to have four paths cross the grass and meet there. but on reflection the query came to her-- "in my unformal garden of simplest grove and sward will a sun-dial--posing in an office it never performed there, and will never again be needed for anywhere--a cabinet relic now--will a _posed_ sun-dial be interesting enough when it is arrived at to justify a special journey and four kept-up paths which cut my beautiful grass-plot into quarters?" with that she changed her mind--a thing the good gardener must often do--and appointed the dial to a place where one comes upon it quite incidentally while moving from one main feature of the grounds to another. it is now a pleasing, mild surprise instead of a tame fulfilment of a showy promise; pleasing, after all, it must, however, be admitted, to the toy-loving spirit, since the sun-dial has long been, and henceforth ever will be, an utterly useless thing in a garden, only true to art when it stands in an old garden, a genuine historical survival of its day of true utility. only in such a case does the sun-dial belong to the good morals of gardening. but maybe this is an overstrict rule for the majority of us who are much too fond of embellishments and display--the rouge and powder of high art. on the other hand, we go to quite as much pains to say that though a garden may not lie nor steal, it may have its concealments; they are as right as they are valuable. one of the first steps in the making of a garden should be to determine what to hide and how most gracefully to hide it. a garden is a house's garments, its fig-leaves, as we may say, and the garden's concealments, like its revelations, ought always to be in the interest of comfort, dignity, and charm. we once had a very bumptious member on our board of judges. "my dear madam!" he exclaimed to an aspirant for the prizes, the underpinning of whose dwelling stood out unconcealed by any sprig of floral growth, "your house is barefooted! nobody wants to see your house's underpinning, any more than he wants to see your own!" it is not good to be so brusque about non-penitentiary offences, but skilful and lovely concealments in gardening were his hobby. to another he whispered, "my dear sir, tell your pretty house her petticoat shows!" and to yet another, "take all those shrubs out of the middle of your lawn and 'plant out' with them every feature of your house which would be of no interest to you if the house were not yours. your house's morals may be all right, but its manners are insufferable, it talks so much about itself and its family." to a fourth he said: "in a gardening sense your house makes too much noise; you can hear its right angles hit the ground. muffle them! muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom. up in the air they may be ever so correct and fine, but down in the garden and unclothed they are heinous, heinous!" another precept we try to inculcate in our rounds among the gardens, another commandment in the moral law of gardening, is that with all a garden's worthy concealments it should never, and need never, be frivolous or be lacking in candor. i know an amateur gardener--and the amateur gardener, like the amateur photographer, sometimes ranks higher than the professional--who is at this moment altering the location of a sidewalk gate which by an earlier owner was architecturally misplaced for the sole purpose of making a path with curves--and such curves!--instead of a straight and honest one, from the street to the kitchen. when a path is sent on a plain business errand it should never loaf. and yet those lines of a garden's layout which are designed not for business but for pleasure, should never behave as though they were on business; they should loiter just enough to make their guests feel at ease, while not enough to waste time. how like a perfect lady, or a perfect gentleman, is--however humble or exalted its rank--a garden with courtly manners! as to manners, our incipient american garden has already developed one trait which distinguishes it from those beyond the atlantic. it is a habit which reminds one of what somebody has lately said about americans themselves: that, whoever they are and whatever their manners may be, they have this to their credit, that they unfailingly desire and propose to be polite. the thing we are hinting at is our american gardens' excessive openness. our people have, or until just now had, almost abolished the fence and the hedge. a gard, yard, garth, garden, used to mean an enclosure, a close, and implied a privacy to its owner superior to any he enjoyed outside of it. but now that we no longer have any military need of privacy we are tempted--are we not?--to overlook its spiritual value. we seem to enjoy publicity better. in our american eagerness to publish everything for everybody and to everybody, we have published our gardens--published them in paper bindings; that is to say, with their boundaries visible only on maps filed with the registrar of deeds. foreigners who travel among us complain that we so overdo our good-natured endurance of every public inconvenience that we have made it a national misfortune and are losing our sense of our public rights. this obliteration of private boundaries is an instance. our public spirit and out imperturbability are flattered by it, but our gardens, except among the rich, have become american by ceasing to be gardens. i have a neighbor who every year plants a garden of annuals. he has no fence, but two of his neighbors have each a setter dog. these dogs are rarely confined. one morning i saw him put in the seed of his lovely annuals and leave his smoothly raked beds already a pleasant show and a prophecy of delight while yet without a spray of green. an hour later i saw those two setter dogs wrestling and sprawling around in joyous circles all over those garden beds. "gay, guiltless pair!" what is one to do in such a case, in a land where everybody is expected to take everything good-naturedly, and where a fence is sign of a sour temper? of course he can do as others do, and have no garden. but to have no garden is a distinct poverty in a householder's life, whether he knows it or not, and--suppose he very much wants a garden? they were the well-to-do who began this abolition movement against enclosures and i have an idea it never would have had a beginning had there prevailed generally, democratically, among us a sentiment for real gardening, and a knowledge of its practical principles; for with this sentiment and knowledge we should have had that sweet experience of outdoor privacy for lack of which we lose one of the noblest charms of home. the well-to-do started the fashion, it cost less money to follow than to withstand it and presently the landlords of the poor utilized it. the poor man--the poor woman--needs the protection of a fence to a degree of which the well-to-do know nothing. in the common interest of the whole community, of any community, the poor man--the poor woman--ought to have a garden; but if they are going to have a garden they ought to have a fence. we in northampton know scores of poor homes whose tenants strive year after year to establish some floral beauty about them, and fail for want of enclosures. the neighbors' children, their dogs, their cats, geese, ducks, hens--it is useless. many refuse to make the effort; some, i say, make it and give it up, and now and then some one wins a surprising and delightful success. two or three such have taken high prizes in our competition. the two chief things which made their triumph possible were, first, an invincible passion for gardening, and, second, poultry-netting. a great new boon to the home gardener they are, these wire fencings and nettings. with them ever so many things may be done now at a quarter or tenth of what they would once have cost. our old-fashioned fences were sometimes very expensive, sometimes very perishable, sometimes both. also they were apt to be very ugly. yet instead of concealing them we made them a display, while the shrubbery which should have masked them in leaf and bloom stood scattered over the lawn, each little new bush by itself, visibly if not audibly saying-- "you'd scarce expect one of my age----" etc.; the shrubs orphaned, the lawn destroyed. if the enclosure was a hedge it had to be a tight one or else it did not enclose. now wire netting charms away these embarrassments. your hedge can be as loose as you care to have it, while your enclosure may be rigidly effective yet be hidden from the eye by undulating fence-rows; and as we now have definite bounds and corners to plant out, we do not so often as formerly need to be reminded of frederick law olmsted's favorite maxim, "take care of the corners, and the centres will take care of themselves." [illustration: fences masked by shrubbery. one straight line of williston seminary campus, the effect of whose iron fence before it was planted out with barberry may be seen in the two panels of it still bare on the extreme right.] here there is a word to be added in the interest of home-lovers, whose tastes we properly expect to find more highly trained than those of the average tenant cottager. our american love of spaciousness leads us to fancy that--not to-day or to-morrow, but somewhere in a near future--we are going to unite our unfenced lawns in a concerted park treatment: a sort of wee horticultural united states comprised within a few city squares; but ever our american individualism stands broadly in the way, and our gardens almost never relate themselves to one another with that intimacy which their absence of boundaries demands in order to take on any special beauty, nobility, delightsomeness, of gardening. the true gardener--who, if he is reading this, must be getting very tired of our insistent triteness--carefully keeps in mind the laws of linear and of aërial perspective, no matter how large or small the garden. the relative stature of things, both actual and prospective; their breadth; the breadth or slenderness, darkness or lightness, openness or density, of their foliage; the splendor or delicacy of their flowers, whether in size or in color; the season of their blooming; the contour of the grounds--all these points must be taken into account in determining where things are to stand and how be grouped. once the fence or hedge was the frame of the picture; but now our pictures, on almost any street of unpalatial, comfortable homes, touch edge to edge without frames, and the reason they do not mar one another's effects is that they have no particular effects to be marred, but lie side by side as undiscordantly as so many string instruments without strings. let us hope for a time when they will rise in insurrection, resolved to be either parts of a private park, or each one a whole private garden. in our carnegie prize contest nothing yields its judges more pleasure than to inculcate the garden rules of perspective to which we have just referred and to see the blissful complacency of those who successfully carry them out. i have now in my mind's eye a garden to which was awarded the capital prize of . a cottage of maybe six small rooms crowns a high bank on a corner where two rural streets cross. there are a few square yards of lawn on its front, and still fewer (scarcely eight or ten) on the side next the cross-street, but on the other two sides there is nearly a quarter of an acre. on these two sides the limits touch other gardens, and all four sides are entirely without fencing. from the front sward have been taken away a number of good shrubs which once broke it into ineffectual bits, and these have been grouped against the inward and outward angles of the house. the front porch is garlanded--not smothered--with vines whose flowers are all white, pink, blue or light purple. about the base of the porch and of all the house's front, bloom flowers of these same delicate tints, the tallest nearest the house, the lesser at their knees and feet. the edges of the beds--gentle waves that never degenerate to straightness--are thickly bordered with mignonette. not an audacious thing, not a red blossom nor a strong yellow one, nor one broad leaf, nor any mass of dense or dark foliage, comes into view until one reaches a side of the dwelling. but there at once he finds the second phase in a crescendo of floral colors. the base of the house, and especially those empty eye-sockets, the cellar windows, are veiled in exultant bloom, yellows predominating. then at the back of the place comes the full chorus, and red flowers overmaster the yellow, though the delicate tints with which the scheme began are still present to preserve the dignity and suavity of all--the ladies of the feast. the paths are only one or two and they never turn abruptly and ask you to keep off their corners; they have none. neither have the flower-beds. they flow wideningly around the hard turnings of the house with the grace of a rivulet. out on the two wider sides of the lawn nothing breaks the smooth green but a well-situated tree or two until the limits of the premises are reached, and there, in lines that widen and narrow and widen again and hide the surveyor's angles, the flowers rise once more in a final burst of innumerable blossoms and splendid hues--a kind of sunset of the garden's own. when this place, five seasons ago, first entered the competition, it could hardly be called a garden at all. yet it was already superior to many rivals. in those days it seemed to us as though scarcely one of our working people in a hundred knew that a garden was anything more than a bed of flowers set down anywhere and anyhow. it was a common experience for us to be led by an unkept path and through a patch of weeds or across an ungrassed dooryard full of rubbish, in order to reach a so-called garden which had never spoken a civil word to the house nor got one from it. now, the understanding is that every part of the premises, every outdoor thing on the premises--path, fence, truck-patch, stable, stable-yard, hen-yard, tennis or croquet-court--everything is either a part of the garden or is so reasonably related to it that from whatever point one views the place he beholds a single satisfactory picture. this, i say, is the understanding. i do not say that even among our prize-winners anybody has yet perfectly attained this, although a few have come very near it. with these the main surviving drawback is that the artistic effect is each season so long coming and passes away so soon--cometh up as a flower and presently has withered. one of our most gifted literary critics a while ago pointed out the poetic charm of evanescence; pointed it out more plainly, i fancy, than it has ever been shown before. but evanescence has this poetic charm chiefly in nature, almost never in art. the transitoriness of a sunset glory, or of human life, is rife with poetic pathos because it is a transitoriness which _cannot be helped_. therein lay the charm of that poetic wonder and marvel of its day ( ) the columbian exposition's "white city"; it was an architectural triumph and glory which we could not have except on condition that it should vanish with the swiftness of an aurora. even so, there would have been little poetry in its evanescence if, through bad workmanship or any obvious folly, it had failed to fulfil the transient purpose for which it was erected. the only poetic evanescence is the evanescence that is inevitable. an unnecessary evanescence in things we make is bad art. if i remember the story correctly, it was to a roman lady that benvenuto cellini took the exquisite waxen model of some piece of goldsmithing she had commissioned him to execute for her. so delighted was she with this mere model that she longed to keep it and called it the perfection of art, or some such word. but benvenuto said, no, he could not claim for it the high name of art until he should have reproduced it in gold, that being the most worthy material in which it would endure the use for which it was designed. unless the great italian was in error, then, a garden ought not to be so largely made up of plants which perish with the summer as to be, at their death, no longer a garden. said that harsh-spoken judge whom we have already once or twice quoted--that shepherd's-dog of a judge--at one of the annual bestowals of our carnegie garden prizes: "almost any planting about the base of a building, fence or wall is better than none; but for this purpose shrubs are far better than annual flowers. annuals do not sufficiently mask the hard, offensive right-angles of the structure's corners or of the line whence it starts up from the ground. and even if sometimes they do, they take so long to grow enough to do it, and are so soon gone with the first cold blast, that the things they are to hide are for the most of the year not hidden. besides which, even at their best moments, when undoubtedly they are very beautiful, they have not a sufficiently substantial look to be good company for the solid structure they are set against. sweetly, modestly, yet obstinately, they confess to every passer-by that they did not come, but were put there and were put there only last spring. shrubs, contrariwise, give a feeling that they have sprung and grown there in the course of nature and of the years, and so convey to the house what so many american homes stand in want of--a quiet air of being long married and a mother of growing children. "flowering shrubs of well-chosen kinds are in leaf two-thirds of the year, and their leafless branches and twigs are a pleasing relief to the structure's cold nakedness even through the winter. i have seen a house, whose mistress was too exclusively fond of annuals, stand waiting for its shoes and stockings from october clear round to august, and then barefooted again in october. in such gardening there is too much of love's labor lost. if one's grounds are so small that there is no better place for the annuals they can be planted against the shrubs, as the shrubs are planted against the building or fence. at any rate they should never be bedded out in the midst of the lawn, and quite as emphatically they should never, alone, be set to mark the boundary lines of a property." [illustration: after the first frost annual plantings cease to be attractive.] [illustration: shrubbery versus annuals. the contrast in these two pictures is between two small street plantings standing in sight of each other, one of annuals with a decorative effect and lasting three months, the other with shrubberies and lasting nine months.] it is hoped these sayings, quoted or otherwise, may seem the more in place here because they contemplate the aspects likely to characterize the american garden whenever that garden fully arrives. we like largeness. there are many other qualities to desire, and to desire even more; but if we give them also the liking we truly owe them it is right for us to like largeness. certainly it is better to like largeness even for itself, rather than smallness for itself. especially is it right that we should like our gardens to look as large as we can make them appear. our countless lawns, naked clear up into their rigid corners and to their dividing lines, are naked in revolt against the earlier fashion of spotting them over with shrubs, the easiest as well as the worst way of making a place look small. but a naked lawn does not make the premises look as large, nor does it look as large itself, as it will if planted in the manner we venture to commend to our northampton prize-seekers. between any two points a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful undulations appears much longer than a straight one, because it is longer. but, over and above this, it makes the distance between the two points seem greater. everybody knows the old boast of the landscape-architects--that they can make one piece of ground look twice as large as another of the same measure, however small, by merely grading and planting the two on contrary schemes. the present writer knows one small street in his town, a street of fair dwellings, on which every lawn is diminished to the eye by faulty grading. [illustration: shrubs are better than annuals for masking right angles. south hall, williston seminary. (see "where to plant what.")] [illustration: " ... a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful undulations." the straight planting on this picture's left masks the back yards of three neighbors, and gives them a privacy as well as my own acre. the curved planting shows but one of three bends. it was here that i first made the mistake of planting a sinuous alley. (see "my own acre," p. .)] for this he has no occasion to make himself responsible but there are certain empty lots not far from him for whose aspect he is answerable, having graded them himself (before he knew how). he has repeatedly heard their depth estimated at ninety feet, never at more. in fact it is one hundred and thirty-nine. however, he has somewhat to do also with a garden whose grading was quite as bad--identical, indeed--whose fault has been covered up and its depth made to seem actually greater than it is, entirely by a corrective planting of its shrubbery. one of the happiest things about gardening is that when it is bad you can always--you and time--you and year after next--make it good. it is very easy to think of the plants, beds and paths of a garden as things which, being once placed, must stay where they are; but it is shortsighted and it is fatal to effective gardening. we should look upon the arrangement of things in our garden very much as a housekeeper looks on the arrangement of the furniture in her house. except buildings, pavements and great trees--and not always excepting the trees--we should regard nothing in it as permanent architecture but only as furnishment and decoration. at favorable moments you will make whatever rearrangement may seem to you good. a shrub's mere being in a certain place is no final reason that it should stay there; a shrub or a dozen shrubs--next spring or fall you may transplant them. a shrub, or even a tree, may belong where it is this season, and the next and the next; and yet in the fourth year, because of its excessive growth, of the more desired growth of something else, or of some rearrangement of other things, that spot may be no longer the best place for it. very few shrubs are injured by careful and seasonable, even though repeated, transplanting. many are benefited by one or another effect of the process: by the root pruning they get, by the "division," by the change of soil, by change of exposure or even by backset in growth. transplanting is part of a garden's good discipline. it is almost as necessary to the best results as pruning--on which grave subject there is no room to speak here. the owner even of an american garden should rule his garden, not be ruled by it. yet he should rule without oppression, and it will not be truly american if it fails to show at a glance that it is not overgardened. thus do we propose to exhort our next season's competitors as this fall and winter they gather at our projected indoor garden-talks, or as we go among them to offer counsel concerning their grounds plans for next spring. and we hope not to omit to say, as we had almost omitted to say here, in behalf of the kind of garden we preach, that shrubs, the most of them, require no great enrichment of the soil--an important consideration. and we shall take much care to recommend the perusal of books on gardening. once this gentle art was largely kept a close secret of craftsmen; but now all that can be put into books is in books, and the books are non-technical, brief and inexpensive; or if voluminous and costly, as some of the best needs must be, are in the public libraries. in their pages are a host of facts (indexed!) which once had to be burdensomely remembered. for one preoccupied with other cares--as every amateur gardener ought to be--these books are no mean part of his equipment; they are as necessary to his best gardening as the dictionary to his best english. what a daily, hourly, unfailing wonder are the modern opportunities and facilities by which we are surrounded! if the present reader and the present writer, and maybe a few others, will but respond to them worthily, who knows but we may ourselves live to see, and to see as democratically common as telephones and electric cars, the american garden? of course there is ever and ever so much more to be said about it, and the present writer is not at all weary; but he hears his reader's clock telling the hour and feels very sure it is correct. where to plant what often one's hands are too heavily veneered with garden loam for him to go to his books to verify a quotation. it was the great jefferson, was it not, who laid into the foundations of american democracy the imperishable maxim that "that gardening is best which gardens the least"? my rendition of it may be more a parody than a quotation but, whatever its inaccuracy, to me it still sounds jeffersonian--joseph jeffersonian. whether we read it "garden" or "govern," it has this fine mark of a masterful utterance, that it makes no perceptible effort to protect itself against the caviller or the simpleton; from men, for instance, who would interpret it as meaning that the only perfect government, or gardening, is none at all. speaking from the point of view of a garden-lover, i suppose the true signification is that the best government is the government which procures and preserves the noblest happiness of the community with the least enthralment of the individual. now, i hope that as world-citizens and even as americans we may bear in mind that, while this maxim may be wholly true, it is not therefore the whole truth. what maxim is? let us ever keep a sweet, self-respecting modesty with which to confront and consort with those who see the science of government, or art of gardening, from the standpoint of some other equally true fraction of the whole truth. all we need here maintain for our jeffersonian maxim is that its wide domination in american sentiment explains the larger part of all the merits and faults of american government--and american gardening. it accounts for nearly all our american laws and ordinances, manners, customs, and whims, and in the great discussion of where to plant what (in america) no one need hope to prevail who does not recognize that this high principle of american democracy is the best rule for american gardening. that gardening is best, for most americans, which best ministers to man's felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom. hence the initial question--a question which every amateur gardener must answer for himself. how much subserviency of nature to art and utility is really necessary to my own and my friends' and neighbors' best delight? for--be not deceived--however enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must require of her _some_ subserviency close about your own dwelling. you cannot there persistently enjoy the wolf and the panther, the muskrat, buzzard, gopher, rattlesnake, poison-ivy and skunk in full swing, as it were. how much, then, of nature's subserviency does the range of your tastes demand? also, how much will your purse allow? for it is as true in gardening as in statecraft that, your government being once genuinely established, the more of it you have, the more you must pay for it. in gardening, as in government, the cost of the scheme is not in proportion to the goodness or badness of its art, but to its intensity. this is why the general and very sane inclination of our american preferences is away from that intense sort of gardening called "formal," and toward that rather unfairly termed "informal" method which here, at least, i should like to distinguish as "free-line" gardening. a free people who govern leniently will garden leniently. their gardening will not be a vexing tax upon themselves, upon others, or upon the garden. whatever freedom it takes away from themselves or others or the garden will be no more than is required for the noblest delight; and whatever freedom remains untaken, such gardening will help everybody to exercise and enjoy. the garden of free lines, provided only it be a real garden under a real government, is, to my eye, an angel's protest against every species and degree of tyranny and oppression, and such a garden, however small or extensive, will contain a large proportion of flowering shrubbery. because a garden should not, any more than my lady's face, have all its features--nose, eyes, ears, lips--of one size? no, that is true of all gardening alike; but because with flowering shrubbery our gardening can be more lenient than with annuals alone, or with only herbaceous plants and evergreens. [illustration: "however enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must require of her _some_ subserviency about your own dwelling." a front view of the three older buildings of williston seminary.] so, then, our problem, where to plant what, may become for a moment, where to plant shrubbery; and the response of the free-line garden will be, of course, "remember, concerning each separate shrub, that he or she--or it, if you really _prefer_ the neuter--is your guest, and plant him or her or it where it will best enjoy itself, while promoting the whole company's joy." before it has arrived in the garden, therefore, learn--and carefully consider--its likes and dislikes, habits, manners and accomplishments and its friendly or possibly unfriendly relations with your other guests. this done, determine between whom and whom you will seat it; between what and what you will plant it, that is, so as to "draw it out," as we say of diffident or reticent persons; or to use it for drawing out others of less social address. but how many a lovely shrub has arrived where it was urgently invited, and found that its host or hostess, or both, had actually forgotten its name! did not know how to introduce it to any fellow guest, or whether it loved sun or shade, loam, peat, clay, leaf-mould or sand, wetness or dryness; and yet should have found all that out in the proper blue-book (horticultural dictionary) before inviting the poor mortified guest at all. "oh, pray be seated--anywhere. plant yourself alone in the middle. this is liberty garden." "it is no such thing," says the tear-bedewed beauty to herself; "it's anarchy garden." yet, like the lady she is, she stays where she is put, and gets along surprisingly well. new england calls northampton one of her most beautiful towns. but its beauty lies in the natural landscape in and around it, in the rise, fall, and swing of the seat on which it sits, the graceful curving of its streets, the noble spread of its great elms and maples, the green and blue openness of grounds everywhere about its modest homes and its highly picturesque outlook upon distant hills and mountains and intervening meadows and fields, with the connecticut winding through. its architecture is in three or four instances admirable though not extraordinary, and, as in almost every town in our vast america, there are hardly five householders in it who are really skilled flower-gardeners, either professional or amateur. [illustration: "plant it where it will best enjoy itself." these wild roses are in two clumps with a six-foot open way between them. they are a wild rose (_rosa arkansana_) not much in use but worthy of more attention, as indeed all the wild roses are. the sunlit tree farthest on the right is sol smith russell's linden.] as the present century was coming in, however, the opportunity, through private flower-gardening, to double or quadruple the town's beauty and to do it without great trouble or expense, yet with great individual delight and social pleasure, came to the lively notice of a number of us. it is, then, for the promotion of this object throughout all our bounds, and not for the perfection of the art for its own sake, that we maintain this competition and award these "carnegie" prizes. hence certain features of our method the value and necessity of which might not be clear to the casual inquirer without this explanation. may i repeat it? not to reward two or three persons yearly for reaching some dizzy peak of art unattainable by ordinary taste and skill, nor to reward one part of the town or one element of its people for gardening better than another, nor to promote the production of individual plants or flowers of extraordinary splendor, nor even to incite children to raise patches of flowers, is our design; but to make the modest and democratic art of where to plant what (an art, nevertheless, quite beyond the grasp of children) so well known and so valued that its practical adoption shall overrun the whole town. to this end we have divided our field into seven districts, in each of which the number of gardens is about the same. in each of these seven districts only three prizes (out of twenty-one) may be taken in any one season. consequently three prizes _must_ fall to each district every year. yet the best garden of all still carries off the capital prize, the second-best may win the second, and cannot take a lower than the third, and the lowest awards go into the district showing the poorest results. even this plan is so modified as further to stimulate those who strive against odds of location or conditions, for no district is allowed to receive two prizes consecutive in the list. the second prize cannot be bestowed in the same district in which the first is being awarded, though the third can. the third cannot go into the same district as the second, though the fourth may. and so on to the twenty-first. moreover, a garden showing much improvement over the previous season may take a prize, as against a better garden which shows no such improvement. also no garden can take the capital prize twice nor ever take a prize not higher than it has taken before. the twenty-one prizes are for those who hire no help in their gardening; two others are for those who reserve the liberty to employ help, and still another two are exclusively for previous winners of the capital prize, competing among themselves. in each of the five districts a committee of ladies visits the competing gardens, inspecting, advising, encouraging, sometimes learning more than they teach, and reporting to headquarters, the people's institute. at these headquarters, on two acres of ground in the heart of the city, we have brought gradually into shape, on a plan furnished by frederick law olmsted's sons, landscape architects, of boston (brookline), a remarkably handsome garden of flowers and shrubbery designed as a model for the guidance of those in the competition who seek to combine artistic beauty with inexpensiveness. from time to time we have given at these headquarters winter courses of lectures on practical flower-gardening. as a result we have improved, and are still improving, the aspect of entire streets and are interesting the whole city. but to return to our discussion. here is a short story of two ladies. they are not in our competition, though among its most ardent well-wishers. a friend had given one of them a bit of green, woody growth some two feet high and half an inch thick. she had a wee square bit of front grass-plot something larger than a table-cloth, but certainly not large enough for a game of marbles. in the centre of this bit of grass she planted her friend's gift. then came our other lady, making a call, and with her best smile of humorous commendation, saying: "my dear, you have violated the first rule of gardening. you've planted your bush where you wanted it." the delighted gardener went in the strength of that witticism for forty weeks or at least until some fiend of candor, a brother, like as not, said: "yes, truly you have violated the first rule of gardening, for you have put your willow-tree--that's what it is--where a minute's real reflection would have told you you'd wish you hadn't." where to plant what! plant it where you--and your friends--your friends of best gardening taste--will be glad you planted it when all your things are planted. please those who know best, and so best please yourself. nevertheless, beware! watch yourself! do so specially when you think you have mastered the whole art. watch even those who indisputably know better than you do, for everybody makes mistakes which he never would have dreamed he could make. only the other day i heard an amateur say to a distinguished professional gardener: "did you plant those shrubs of gorgeous flower and broad, dark leaf out on your street front purely as a matter of artistic taste?" "i did," he replied. "i wanted to put my best foot foremost. wouldn't you?" "why should i?" asked the amateur. "i wouldn't begin a song with my highest note, nor a game with my strongest card, nor an address with my most impassioned declaration, nor a sonnet with its most pregnant line. if i should, where were my climax?" certainly the amateur had the best of it. a garden is a discourse. a garden is a play. see with what care both the dramatist and the stage-manager avoid putting the best foot foremost. see how warily they hold back the supreme strength of the four or five act piece for the last act but one. there is a charmingly instructive analogy between a garden and a drama. in each you have preparation, progress, climax, and close. and then, also, in each you must have your lesser climaxes leading masterfully up to the supreme one, and a final quiet one to let gratefully down from the giddy height. in northampton nearly all of our hundreds of gardens contesting for prizes are plays of only one or two acts. i mean they have only one or two buildings to garden up to and between and around and away from. yet it is among these one-act plays, these one-house gardens, that i find the art truth most gracefully emphasized, that the best foot should not go foremost. in a large garden a false start may be atoned for by better art farther on and in; but in a small garden, for mere want of room and the chance to forget, a bad start spoils all. no, be the garden a prince's or a cottager's, the climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far end. even in the one-house garden i should like to see the climaxes plural to the extent of two; one immediately at the back of the house, the other at the extreme rear of the ground. at the far end of the lot i would have the final storm of passion and riot of disclosure, and then close about the rear of the house there should be the things of supreme richness, exquisiteness and rarity. this soft-voiced echo answering back out of the inmost heart of the whole demesne gives genuineness of sentiment to the entire scheme. to plant a conflagration of color against the back fence and stop there would be worse than melodramatic. it would be to close the play with a bang, and even a worthy one-act play does not close with a bang. the back of the lot is not the absolute end of the garden-play. like the stage-play, the garden-play brings its beholder back at the very last, by a sweet reversion, to the point from which it started. the true garden-lover gardens not mainly for the passer-by, but rather for himself and the friends who come to see him. even when he treads his garden paths alone he is a pleased and welcome visitor to himself, and shows his garden to himself as to a visitor. hence there is always at last a turning back to the house or to the front entrance, and _this_ is the play's final lines, the last grouping of the players, the relief of all tension and the descent of the curtain. [illustration: " ... climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far end." everything in this photograph was planted by the amateur gardener except the pine-trees in perspective.] one point farther in this direction and we may give our hard-worked analogy a respite. it is this: as those who make and present a play take great pains that, by flashes of revelation to eye and to ear, the secrets most unguessed by the characters in the piece shall be early revealed to the audience and persistently pressed upon its attention, so should the planting of a garden be; that, as if quite without the gardener's or the garden's knowledge, always, to the eye, nostril or ear, some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure across easy and tempting distances from nook to nook of the small garden, or from alley to alley and from glade to glade of the large one. where to plant what? plant it as far away as, according to the force of its character or the splendor of its charms, it can stand and beckon back with best advantage for the whole garden. [illustration: "some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure." from a photograph taken on my own acre, showing how i pulled the lawn in under the trees. the big chestnuts in the middle are on the old fence line that stood on the very edge of the precipitously falling ground. all the ground in sight in the picture is a fill.] thus we generalize. and as long as one may generalize he is comparatively safe from humiliating criticism. it is only when he begins to name things by name and say what is best for just where, that he touches the naked eyeball (or the funny-bone) of others whose crotchets are not identical with his. yet in northampton this is what we have to do, and since the competitors for our prizes always have the where before they are moved to get and place the what, we find our where-and-what problem easiest to handle when we lift it, so to speak, by the tail. then it is "what to plant where," and for answer we have made a short list of familiar flowering shrubs best suited to our immediate geographical locality. we name only fourteen and we so describe each as to indicate clearly enough, without dictating, whereabouts to put it. we begin: "azalea. our common wild azalea is the flowering bush best known as 'swamp honeysuckle.' the two azaleas listed here, _a. mollis_ and the ghent varieties, are of large, beautiful and luxuriant bloom, and except the 'swamp honeysuckle' are the only azaleas hardy in western massachusetts. mollis is from two to six feet high, three to six feet broad, and blooms in april and may. its blossoms are yellow, orange or pink, single or double. its soil may be sandy or peaty, and moist, but any good garden soil will serve; its position partly shaded or in full sunlight. the ghents are somewhat taller and not so broad in proportion. they bloom from may to july, and their blossoms are white, yellow, orange, pink, carmine, or red, single or double. soil and position about the same as for mollis. "berberis. berberis is the barberry, so well known by its beautiful pendent berries. it is one of the best shrubs to use where a thorny bush is wanted. _b. vulgaris_, the common sort, and one of the most beautiful, grows from four to eight feet high, with a breadth of from three to six feet. _b. thunbergii_, or thunberg's barberry, is the well-known japanese variety, a dense, drooping bush from two to four feet high and somewhat greater breadth. its pale-yellow blossoms come in april and may, and its small, slender, bright-red berries remain on the spray until spring. a dry soil is the best for it, though it will grow in any, and needs little shade or none. _b. purpurea_ is a variety of vulgaris and is as handsome as the common. it answers to the same description, except that its foliage is purple, which makes it very tempting to new gardeners, but very hard to relate in good artistic taste among the other shrubs of the garden. few small gardens can make good use of purple foliage. "_deutzia gracilis._ the gracilis is one of the most beautiful of all the deutzias. its delicate foliage of rather light green, its snowy flowers and its somewhat bending form, make it one of the fairest ornaments of the home grounds. its height is three feet, its breadth from two to four feet. it blooms in may and june. its soil may be any well-drained sort, and its position any slightly sheltered aspect." so we hurry down the alphabet. the list is short for several good reasons, one being that it is well to give other lists from season to season. no doubt our inaccuracies would distress a botanist or scientific gardener, but we convey the information, such as it is, to our fellow citizens, and they use it. in the last ten years we have furnished to our amateurs thousands of shrubs and plants, at the same reduced rates for a few specimens each which we pay for them by the hundred. but of the really good sorts are there shrubs enough, you ask, to afford new lists year after year? well, for the campus of a certain preparatory school for boys, with the planting of which the present writer had somewhat to do a few years ago, the list of shrubs set round the bases of four large buildings and several hundred yards of fence numbered seventy-five kinds. to end the chapter, let us say something about that operation. on a pictorial page or two we give ourselves the pleasure of showing the results of this undertaking; but first, both by pictures and by verbal description let me show where we planted what. of course we made sundry mistakes. each thing we did may be vulnerable to criticism, and our own largest hope is that our results may not fall entirely beneath that sort of compliment. this campus covers some five acres in the midst of a small town. along three of its boundaries old maples and elms, in ordinary single-file shade-tree lines, tower and spread. on the fourth line, the rear bound, a board fence divides the ground from the very unattractive back yards, stables and sheds of a number of town residents. the front lies along the main street of the place, facing the usual "shop-row." the entire area has nearly always been grassed. not what an englishman would call so, but turfed in a stuttering fashion, impetuous and abashed by turns, and very easy to keep off; most rank up against the granite underpinnings of the buildings, and managing somehow to writhe to all the fences, of which those on the street fronts are of iron. parallel with the front fence and some fifty feet behind it, three of the institution's buildings stand abreast and about a hundred feet apart. all three are tall, rectangular three-story piles of old red brick, on granite foundations, and full of windows all of one size, pigeon-house style. the middle one has a fairly good greek-pillared porch, of wood, on the middle half of its front. [illustration: " ... tall, rectangular, three-story piles ... full of windows all of one size, pigeon-house style." middle hall, williston seminary, facing the main street of the town.] among these buildings we began our planting. we had drawn, of course, a ground plan of the whole place, to scale, showing each ground-floor door and window, so that we might respect its customary or projected use. a great point, that, in where to plant what. i once heard of a school whose small boys were accused of wantonly trampling down some newly set shrubs on the playground. "well," demanded one brave urchin, "what made 'em go and plant a lot of bushes right on first base?" and no one was ready with an answer, for there is something morally wrong about any garden that will rob a boy of his rights. with this ground plan before us we decided indoors where to plant what outdoors and calculated arithmetically the number of each sort of shrub we should need for the particular interval we designed that sort to fill. our scheme of arrangement was a crescendo of foliage and flower effects, beginning on the fronts of the buildings and rising toward their rears, while at all points making more of foliage than of bloom, because the bloom shows for only a month or less, while the leaf remains for seven or more. beginning thus with our quietest note, the interest of any one looking in, or coming in, from the public front is steadily quickened and progressively rewarded, while the crowning effects at the rear of the buildings are reserved for the crowning moment when the visitor may be said to be fully received. on the other hand, if the approach is a returning one from the rear of the entire campus,--where stands the institution's only other building, a large tall-towered gymnasium, also of red brick,--these superlative effects show out across an open grassy distance of from two hundred to three hundred feet. wherefore--and here at last we venture to bring names of things and their places together--at the fronts of the northernmost and southernmost of these three "halls" we set favorite varieties of white-flowering spireas (_thunbergia, sorbifolia_, _arguta_, _van houttei_), the pearl-bush (_exochorda_), pink diervillas, and flowering-almonds. after these, on the southern side of the southernmost building, for example, followed lilacs, white and purple, against the masonry,--the white against the red brick, the lilac tint well away from it,--with tamarisk and kerria outside, abreast of them, and then pink and red spireas (_bumaldi_ and its dwarf variety, _anthony waterer_). on the other side of the same house we set deutzias (_scabra_ against the brick-work and _lemoynei_ and _gracilis_ outside). in a wing corner, where melting snows crash down from a roof-valley, we placed the purple-flowered _lespedeza penduliflorum_, which each year dies to the ground before the snow-slides come, yet each september blooms from three to four feet high in drooping profusion. then from that angle to the rear corner we put in a mass of pink wild roses. lastly, on the tall, doorless, windowless rear end, we planted the crimson-rambler rose, and under it a good hundred of the red rugosas. in the arrangement of these plantings we found ourselves called upon to deal with a very attractive and, to us, new phase of our question. the rising progression from front to rear was a matter of course, but how about the progression at right angles to it; from building to building, that is, of these three so nearly alike in size and dignity? to the passer-by along their main street front--the admiring passer-by, as we hope--should there be no augmentation of charm in the direction of his steps? and if there should be, then where and how ought it to show forth so as to avoid an anticlimax to one passing along the same front from the opposite direction? we promptly saw,--as the reader sees, no doubt, before we can tell it,--that what we wanted was two crescendos meeting somewhere near the middle; a crescendo passing into a diminuendo from whichever end you moved to the other--a swell. we saw that our loud-pedal effect should come upon "middle hall." so there, on its lucky bit of greek porch, we bestowed the purple wistaria for spring, and for late summer that fragrant snowdrift, the clematis paniculata, so adapted as to festoon and chaplet, but never to smother, the greek columns. on one of this structure's sides we planted forsythia, backed closer against the masonry by althæas, with the low and exquisite mahonia (holly-leafed barberry) under its outer spread. on the other side of the house we placed, first, loniceras (bush honeysuckles); next, azaleas, in variety and profusion; then, toward the rear end, a mass of hardy hydrangeas (_hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_), and at the very back of the pile another mass, of the flowering-quince (_pyrus japonica_), with the trumpet-creeper (_tecoma radicans_), to climb out of it. about "north hall," the third building, we planted more quietly, and most quietly on its outer, its northern, side where our lateral "swell" (rising effect) begins, or ends, according to the direction of your going, beginning with that modest but pretty bloomer the _ligustrum ibota_, a perfectly hardy privet more graceful than the california (_ovalifolium_) species, which really has little business in icy new england away from the seashore. i might have remarked before that nearly all the walls of these three buildings, as well as the gymnasium on the far side of the campus, were already adorned with the "boston ivy" (_ampelopsis veitchii_). with the plantings thus described, and with the gymnasium surrounded by yet stronger greenery; with the back fence masked by willows, elders and red-stemmed cornus; and with a number of haphazard footpaths reduced to an equally convenient and far more graceful few, our scheme stands complete in its first, but only, please notice, its first, phase. the picture is submitted to your imagination not as it looked the day we ceased planting, but as we expected it to appear after a season or two, and as it does look now. at present, rather tardily, we have begun to introduce herbaceous flowering perennials, which we ignored in the first part of our plan, because herbaceous plants are the flesh and blood and garments of a complete living and breathing garden; the walls, shrubs, trees, walks and drives are its bones. when this secondary phase has been more fully realized and we have placed bush-clumps and tree-clumps out on the open campus, and when our hundreds of cottage gardens are shaking off the prison irons of frost, we hope, if you cannot do us the honor to be with us bodily, your spirit may be near, aiding us on in the conquest of this ever beautiful where-to-plant-what problem, which i believe would make us a finer and happier nation if it could be expanded to national proportions. the cottage gardens of northampton adam and eve, it is generally conceded, were precocious. they entered into the cares and joys of adult life at an earlier age than any later human prodigy. we call them the grand old gardener and his wife, but, in fact, they were the youngest gardeners the world has ever seen, and they really did not give entire satisfaction. how could they without tools? let it pass. the whole allusion is prompted only by the thought that youth does not spontaneously garden. if it was actually necessary that our first parents should begin life as gardeners, that fully explains why they had to begin it also as adults. youth enjoys the garden, yes! but not its making or tending. childhood, the abecedarian, may love to plant seeds, to watch them spring, grow, and flower, and to help them do so; but that is the merest a-b-c of gardening, and no more makes him an amateur in the art than spelling words of one letter makes him a poet. one may raise or love flowers for a lifetime, yet never in any art sense become a gardener. in front of the main building of a public institution which we must presently mention again there is a sloping strip of sward a hundred feet long and some fifteen wide. a florist of fully half a century's experience one day halted beside it and exclaimed to the present writer, "only say the word, and i'll set out the 'ole len'th o' that strip in foliage-plants a-spellin' o' the name: 'people's hinstitute!'" yet that gentle enthusiast advertised himself as a landscape-gardener and got clients. for who was there to tell them or him that he was not one? not only must we confess that youth does not spontaneously garden, but that our whole american civilization is still so lingeringly in its non-gardening youth that only now and then, here and there, does it realize that a florist, whether professional or amateur, or even a nurseryman, is not necessarily a constructive gardener, or that artistic gardening, however informal, is nine-tenths constructive. yet particularly because such gardening is so, and because some of its finest rewards are so slow-coming and long-abiding, there is no stage of life in which it is so reasonable for man or woman to love and practise the art as when youth is in its first full stature and may garden for itself and not merely for posterity. "john," said his aged father to one of our living poets, "i know now how to transplant full-grown trees successfully. do it a long time ago." let the stripling plant the sapling. youth, however, and especially our american youth, has his or her excuses, such as they are. of the garden or the place to be gardened, "it's not mine," he or she warmly says; "it's only my father's," or "my mother's." young man! young maiden! true, the place, so pathetically begging to be gardened, may not be your future home, may never be your property, and it is right enough that a feeling for ownership should begin to shape your daily life. but let it not misshape it. you know that ownership is not all of life nor the better half of it, and it is quite as good for you to give the fact due recognition by gardening early in life as it was for adam and eve. it is better, for you can do so in a much more fortunate manner, having tools and the first pair's warning example. it is better also because you can do what to them was impossible; you can make gardening a concerted public movement. that is what we have made it in northampton, massachusetts, whose curving streets and ancient elms you may have heard of as making it very garden-like in its mere layout; many of whose windows, piazzas, and hillside lawns look on across the beautiful connecticut, winding broadly among its farmed meadows and vanishing southward through the towering gateway made for or by it millenniums ago between mounts tom and holyoke. there smith college is, as well as that "people's institute" aforementioned, and it is through that institute, one of whose several branches of work is carried on wholly by smith college students, that we, the northampton townspeople, established and maintain another branch, our concerted gardening. [illustration: "you can make gardening a concerted public movement." a gathering on my own acre in the interest of the flower garden competition.] one evening in september a company of several hundred persons gathered in the main hall of the institute's "carnegie house" to witness and receive the prize awards of their twelfth annual flower-garden competition. the place was filled. a strong majority of those present were men and women who earn their daily bread with their hands. the whole population of northampton is but twenty thousand or so, and the entire number of its voters hardly exceeds four thousand, yet there were one thousand and thirteen gardens in the competition, the gardens of that many homes; and although children had taken part in the care of many of them, and now were present to see the prizes go to their winners, not one was separately a child's garden. by a rule of the contest, each garden had been required to comprise the entire home lot, with the dwelling for its dominating feature and the family its spiritual unit. the ceremony of award began with the lowest cash prize and moved steadily up to the second and first, these two being accompanied by brilliantly illuminated diplomas, and as each award was bestowed, the whole gathering of winners and non-winners--for no one could be called a loser--sounded their congratulations by a hearty clapping of hands. they had made the matter a public, concerted movement, and were interested in its results and rewards as spiritual proprietors in a common possession much wider than mere personal ownership under the law. this wider sentiment of community, so valuable to the whole public interest, was further promoted by the combining of nearly two hundred of these same gardens in "neighborhood garden clubs" of seven or more gardens each, every garden in each club directly adjoining another, and the clubs competing for prizes of so much a garden to the best and second-best clubs. yet none the less for all this, but much more, a great majority of the multitude of home gardeners represented by this gathering were enjoying also--each home pair through their own home garden--the pleasures of personal ownership and achievement. many of the prize-winners were young, but many were gray, and some were even aged, yet all alike would have testified that even for age, and so all the more for youth, artistic flower-gardening is as self-rewarding a form of unselfish work and as promptly rewarding a mode of waiting on the future as can easily be found; that there is no more beautifully rewarding way by which youth may "learn to labor and to wait." maybe that is why adam and eve were apprenticed to it so very young. it should have been said before that in advance of the award of prizes some very pleasant music and song were given from the platform by a few smith college girls, and that then the company were shown stereopticon pictures of a number of their own gardens as they looked during the past summer and as they had looked when, a few years ago,--although seemingly but yesterday,--their owners began to plan and to plant. the contrasts were amazing and lent great emphasis to the two or three truths we have here dwelt on probably long enough. to wit: first, that, as a rule, all true gardeners are grown-ups; second, that therein lies the finest value of concerted gardening; third, that the younger the grown-up the better, for the very reason that the crowning recompenses of true gardening come surely, but come late; and fourth, that, nevertheless, gardening yields a lovely amplitude of immediate rewards. for instance, this gathering in our people's institute also, before the announcement of prizes, took delight in hearing reported the aggregate of the flowers, mostly of that season's planting, distributed by a considerable number of the competitors to the shut-in and the bereaved. this feature of the movement had been begun only the previous year, and its total was no more than some three thousand dozens of flowers; but many grateful acknowledgments, both verbal and written, prove that it gave solace and joy to many hearts and we may call it a good beginning. a garden should be owned not to be monopolized, but to be shared, as a song is owned not to be hushed, but to be sung; and the wide giving of its flowers is but one of several ways in which a garden may sing or be sung--for the garden is both song and singer. at any rate it cannot help but be a public benefaction and a public asset, if only its art be true. hence one of the values of our gardening in northampton: making the gardens so many and so artistically true and good, it makes the town, as a whole, more interesting and pleasing to itself, and in corresponding degree the better to live in. possibly there may be some further value in telling here how we do it. as soon as signs of spring are plain to the general eye the visiting for enrolment begins. a secretary of the institute sets out to canvass such quarters of the field as have not been apportioned among themselves individually by the ladies composing the committee of "volunteer garden visitors." at the same time these ladies begin their calls, some undertaking more, some less, according to each one's willingness or ability. this first round consists merely in enrolling the competitors by name, street, and number and in sending these registrations in to the institute. later, by the same ladies, the same ground is more or less gone over again in visits of observation, inquiry and counsel, and once a month throughout the season the ladies meet together with the president of the institute to report the conditions and sentiments encountered and to plan further work. the importance of these calls is not confined to the advancement of good gardening. they promote fellowship among neighbors and kind feeling between widely parted elements of society. last year this committee made nearly eleven hundred such visits. meanwhile a circular letter has been early mailed to the previous year's competitors, urging them to re-enroll by post-card. last year hundreds did so. meanwhile, too, as soon as the enrolment is completed, the institute's general secretary begins a tour of official inspection, and as he is an experienced teacher of his art, his inspections are expert. his errand is known by the time he is in sight, and, as a rule, the householder joins him in a circuit of the place, showing achievements, reciting difficulties and disappointments, confessing errors, and taking tactful advice. and what room he finds for tact! he sees a grave-like bed of verbenas defacing the middle of a small greensward--a dab of rouge on a young cheek; a pert child doing all the talking. whereupon he shrewdly pleads not for the sward but for the flowers, "you have those there to show off at their best?" "yes. don't they do it?" "not quite." he looks again. "nine feet long--five wide. if you'll plant them next year in a foot-wide ribbon under that border of stronger things along your side boundary they'll give you at least forty feet of color instead of nine, and they'll illuminate your bit of sward instead of eclipsing it." in another garden he says, "splendid sunburst of color, that big tub of geraniums!" and the householder is pleased to admit the fact. "if you'd sink the tub into the ground clear down to the rim they'd take up no more room and they'd look natural. besides, you wouldn't have to water them continually." "that's true!" says the householder, quite in the incredible way of an old-fashioned book. "i'll do it!" "and then," says the caller, "if you will set it away off on that far corner of the lawn it will shine clear across, showing everything between here and there, like a lighthouse across a harbor, or like a mirror, which you hang not in your parlor door, but at the far end of the room." "when you come back you shall see it there," is the reply. sometimes, yet not often, a contestant is met who does not want advice, and who can hardly hide his scorn for book statements and experts. the present writer came upon one last year who "could not see what beauty there was in john smith's garden, yet we had given him and his wife the capital prize!" frequently one finds the house of a competitor fast locked and dumb, its occupants being at work in some mill or shop. then if the visit is one of official inspection a card stating that fact and dated and signed on the spot is left under the door, and on its reverse side the returning householder finds printed the following: "in marking for merit your whole place is considered your garden. it is marked on four points: ( ) its layout, or ground plan; ( ) its harmonies--of arrangement as to color of blooms and as to form and size of trees, shrubs and plants; ( ) its condition--as to the neatness and order of everything; and ( ) its duration--from how early in the year to how late it will make a pleasing show. "mow your lawn as often as the mower will cut the grass, but also keep it thoroughly weeded. as a rule, in laying out your plantings avoid straight lines and hard angles; the _double_ curve, or wave line, is the line of grace. plant all the flowers you wish, few or many, but set shrubs at their back to give stronger and more lasting effects when the flowers are out of season as well as while they are in bloom. "try to plant so as to make your whole place one single picture of a _home_, with the house the chief element and the boundary-lines of the lot the frame. plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines of all its buildings; but between these plantings keep the space grassed only, and open. in these house and boundary borders let your chief plantings be shrubs, and so have a nine months' instead of a three months' garden." the secretary's tour completed and his score of all the gardens tabulated, a list is drawn from it of the one hundred and fifty best gardens, and a second circuit of counsel and inspection, limited to this greatly reduced number, is made by the president of the institute, who marks them again on the same four points of merit. these two markings, averaged, determine the standing of all prize-winning gardens except the leading four. then the president calls in one professional and one amateur expert, visits with them as many of the most promising contestants as can be seen in an afternoon's drive, and with them decides the award of the four highest prizes. [illustration: "plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines of all its buildings." a secluded back corner of a prize-winner's garden which shows how slight a planting may redeem the homeliness of an old fence.] [illustration: "not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure its widest and most general dissemination." a cheap apartment row whose landlord had its planting done by the people's institute.] that is all. when we have given two or three lesser items our story is told--for what it is worth. it is well to say we began small; in our first season, fifteen years ago, our whole roll of competitors numbered but sixty. it is the visiting that makes the difference; last season these visits, volunteer and official, were more than thirty-one hundred. another source of our success we believe to be the fact that our prizes are many and the leading ones large--fifteen, twelve, nine dollars, and so on down. prizes and all, the whole movement costs a yearly cash outlay of less than three hundred dollars; without the people's institute at its back it could still be done for five hundred. and now, this being told in the hope that it may incite others, and especially youth, to make experiments like it elsewhere, to what impulse shall we appeal? will it not suffice if we invoke that adolescent instinct which moves us to merge our individual life--to consolidate it, as the stock-manipulators say--in the world's one great life, our "celestial selfishness" being intuitively assured that our own priceless individuality will gain, not lose, thereby? or shall we make our plea to an "art impulse"? no? is the world already artificial enough? not by half, although it is full, crammed, with the things the long-vanished dead have done for it in every art, from cameos to shade-trees; done for it because it was already so fair that, live long or die soon, they could not hold themselves back from making it fairer. yet, all that aside, is not this concerted gardening precisely such a work that young manhood and womanhood, however artificial or unartificial, anywhere, everywhere, old world or newest frontier, ought to take to naturally? adam and eve did, and they--but we have squeezed adam and eve dry enough. patriotism! can you imagine a young man or woman without it? and if you are young and a lover of your country, do you not love its physical aspects, "its rocks and rills, its woods and templed hills"? and if so, do you love only those parts of it which you never see and the appearance of which you have no power to modify? or do you love the land only and not the people, the nation, the government? or, loving these, have you no love for the nearest public fraction of it, your own town and neighbors? why, then, your love of the stars and stripes is the flattest, silliest idolatry; so flat and silly it is hardly worth chiding. your patriotism is a patriotism for war only, and a country with only that kind is never long without war. you see the difference? patriotism for war generalizes. a patriotism for peace particularizes, localizes. ah, you do love, despite all their faults, your nation, your government, your town and townspeople, else you would not so often scold them! otherwise, why do you let us call them yours? because they belong to you? no, because you belong to them. beyond cavil you are your own, but beyond cavil, too, you are theirs; their purchased possession, paid for long, long in advance and sight-unseen. you cannot use a sidewalk, a street-lamp, or a post-box, or slip away into the woods and find them cleared of savages and deadly serpents, without seeing part of the price paid for you before your great-grandfather was born. so, then, loving your town enough to scold it, you will also serve it! now this we say not so much to be preaching as to bring in a last word descriptive of our northampton movement. we do not make that work a mere aggregation of private kindnesses, but a public business for the promotion of the town in sanitary upkeep, beauty and civic fellowship. and so our aim is not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure its widest and most general dissemination. the individual is definitely subordinated to the community's undivided interest. since gardening tends to develop in fortunate sections and to die out in others, we have laid off our town map in seven parts and made a rule that to each of these shall go three of the prizes. moreover, no two consecutive prizes can be awarded in any one of these districts. where a competitor takes the capital prize no other can take a higher than the third, and if two in one district win the first and third prizes no one else there can take a higher than the fifth. so on through to prize twenty-one. still further, a garden taking any of these prizes can never again take any of them but a higher one, and those who attain to the capital prize are thenceforth _hors concours_ except to strive for the "past competitors' prizes," first and second. thus the seasons come and go, the gardens wake, rise, rejoice and slumber again; and because this arrangement is so evidently for the common weal and fellowship first, and yet leaves personal ownership all its liberties, rights and delights, it is cordially accepted of the whole people. and, lastly, as a certain dear lady whom we may not more closely specify exclaimed when, to her glad surprise, she easily turned the ceremonial golden key which first unlocked the carnegie house of our people's institute, "it works!" the private garden's public value what its pages are to a book, a town's private households are to a town. no true home, standing solitarily apart from the town (unbound, as it were) could be the blessed thing it is were there not so many other houses not standing apart but gathered into villages, towns and cities. whence comes civilization but from _civitas_, the city? and where did _civitas_ get its name, when city and state were one, but from citizen? he is not named for the city but the city for him, and his title meant first the head of a household, the master of a home. to make a civilization, great numbers of men must have homes, must mass them compactly together and must not mass them together on a dead level of equal material equipment but in a confederation of homes of all ranks and conditions. the home is the cornerstone of the state. the town, the organized assemblage of homes, is the keystone of civilization's arch. in order to keep our whole civilization moving on and up, _which is the only way for home and town to pay to each other their endless spiral of reciprocal indebtedness_, every home in a town--or state, for that matter--should be made as truly and fully a home as every wise effort and kind influence of all the other homes can make it. unless it takes part in this effort and influence, no home, be it ever so favored, can realize, even for itself and in itself, the finest civilization it might attain. why should it? i believe this is a moral duty, a debt as real as taxes and very much like them. in our people's institute over in northampton, massachusetts, this is the a-b-c of all they seek to do: the individual tutoring, by college girls and town residents, of hundreds of young working men and women in whatever these may choose from among a score or so of light studies calculated to refine their aspirations; the training of young girls, by paid experts, in the arts of the home, from cooking to embroidery; the training of both sexes in all the social amenities; and the enlistment of more than a thousand cottage homes in a yearly prize competition. it is particularly of this happy garden contest that i wish to say a word or two more. in it completed its sixteenth season, but it is modelled on a much older one in the town of dunfermline, scotland, the birthplace of mr. andrew carnegie, and it is from the bountiful spirit of that great citizen of two lands that both affairs draw at least one vital element of their existence. we in northampton first learned of the dunfermline movement in . we saw at once how strongly such a scheme might promote the general spiritual enrichment of our working people's homes if made one of the functions of our home-culture clubs, several features of whose work were already from five to ten years old. we proceeded to adopt and adapt the plan, and had our first competition and award of prizes in -' . like dunfermline, we made our prizes large, and to this we attribute no small part of our success. when we saw fit to increase their number we increased the total outlay as well, and at present we award twenty-one prizes a year, the highest being fifteen dollars, and one hundred dollars the sum of the whole twenty-one prizes. so we have gained one of our main purposes: to tempt into the contest the man of the house and thus to stimulate in him that care and pride of his home, the decline of which, in the man of the house, is one of the costliest losses of hard living. one day on their round of inspection our garden judges came to a small house at the edge of the town, near the top of a hill through which the rustic street cuts its way some twelve or fifteen feet below. the air was pure, the surroundings green, the prospect wide and lovely. here was a rare chance for picturesque gardening. although the yard was without a fence there had been some planting of flowers in it. yet it could hardly be called a garden. so destitute was it of any intelligent plan and so uncared for that it seemed almost to have a conscious, awkward self-contempt. in the flecked shade of a rude trellis of grapes that sheltered a side door two children of the household fell to work with great parade at a small machine, setting bristles into tooth-brushes for a neighboring factory, but it was amusingly plain that their labor was spasmodic and capricious. the mother was away on a business errand. the father was present. he had done his day's stint in the cutlery works very early, and with five hours of sunlight yet before him had no use to make of them but to sit on a bowlder on the crest of the pleasant hill and smoke and whittle. had he been mentally trained he might, without leaving that stone, have turned those hours into real living, communing with nature and his own mind; but he had, as half an eye could see, no developed powers of observation, reflection or imagination, and probably, for sheer want of practice, could not have fixed his attention on a worthy book through five of its pages. the question that arose in the minds of his visitors comes again here: what could have been so good to keep idleness from breeding its swarm of evils in his brain and hands--and home--as for somebody, something, somehow, to put it into his head--well--for example--to make a garden? a garden, we will say, that should win a prize, and--even though it failed to win--should render him and his house and household more interesting to himself, his neighbors and his town. he and his house seemed to be keeping the ten commandments in a slouching sort of way and we may even suppose they were out of debt--money debt; yet already they were an unconscious menace to society; their wage-earning powers had outgrown their wants. outgrown them not because the wages were too high but because their wants were too low; were only wants of the body, wants of the barrenest unculture; _the inelastic wants_. that is "my own invention," that phrase! the bodily wants of a reptile are elastic. if an alligator or a boa-constrictor catches a dog he can swallow him whole and enjoy that one meal in unriotous bliss for weeks. thereafter if he must put up with no more than a minnow or a mouse he can do that for weeks in unriotous patience. in a spring in one of our northampton gardens i saw a catfish swallow a frog so big that the hind toes stuck out of the devourer's mouth for four days; but they went in at last, and the fish, in his fishy fashion, from start to finish was happy. he was never demoralized. it is not so with us. we cannot much distend or contract our purely physical needs. especially is any oversupply of them mischievous. they have not the reptilian elasticity. day by day they must have just enough. but the civilized man has spiritual wants and they are as elastic as air. a home is a house well filled with these elastic wants. home-culture is getting such wants into households--not merely into single individuals--that lack them. what makes a man rich? is the term merely comparative? not merely. to be rich is to have, beyond the demands of our bodily needs, abundant means to supply our spiritual wants. to possess more material resources than we can or will use or bestow to the spiritual advantage of ourselves and others is to be perilously rich, whether we belong to a grinders' union in the cutlery works or to a royal family. why is it so often right that a rich college, for example, should, in its money-chest, feel poor? because it could so easily supply more spiritual wants if it had more money. not low wages will ever make men harmless, nor high wages make them happy, nor low nor high save them from a spirit of pauperism or of malignant envy; but having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus--spiritual wants, that know both how to suffer need and how to abound, and to do either without backsliding toward savagery. whoever would help this state of things on, let him seek at the same time to increase the home's wage-earning power and its spiritual powers to put to fine use the wages earned: to augment the love of beauty in nature and in art, the love of truth and knowledge, the love of achievement and of service, the love of god and of human society, the ambition to put more into the world than we get out of it. wages will never be too high, nor the hours of a day's work too many or too few, which follow that "sliding scale." how much our garden contest may do of this sort for that cottage on the hill we have yet to know; last year was its first in the competition. but it has shown the ambition to enter the lists, and a number that promised no more at the outset have since won prizes. one such was so beautiful last year that strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount and enjoy a nearer view. [illustration: "having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus." the owner of this cottage, who stands on the lawn, spaded and graded it and grassed it herself, and by shrubbery plantings about the house's foundation and on the outer boundaries of the grass has so transformed it since this picture was taken as to win one of the highest prizes awarded among more than a thousand competitors.] [illustration: "one such competing garden was so beautiful last year that strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount and enjoy a nearer view." a capital prize-winner's back yard which was a sand bank when he entered the competition. his front yard is still handsomer.] a certain garden to which we early awarded a high prize was, and yet remains, among the loveliest in northampton. its house stands perhaps seventy feet back from the public way and so nearly at one edge of its broad lot that all its exits and entrances are away from that side and toward the garden. a lawn and front bordered on side by loose hedges of regel's privet and thunberg's barberry and with only one or two slim trees of delicate foliage near its street line, rises slightly from the sidewalk to the house in a smooth half wave that never sinks below any level it has attained and yet consists of two curves. (it takes two curves, let us say once more, to make even half of the gentlest wave that can be made, if you take it from the middle of the crest to the middle of the trough, and in our american gardening thousands of lawns, especially small front lawns, are spoiled in their first layout by being sloped in a single curve instead of in two curves bending opposite ways.) along a side of this greensward farthest from the boundary to which the house is so closely set are the drive and walk, in one, and on the farther side of these, next the sun, is the main flower-garden, half surrounding another and smaller piece of lawn. the dwelling stands endwise to the street and broadside to this expanse of bloom. against its front foundations lies a bed of flowering shrubs which at the corner farthest from the drive swings away along that side's boundary line and borders it with shrubbery down to the street, the main feature of the group being a luxuriant flowering quince as large as ten ordinary ones and in every springtime a red splendor. but the focus of the gardening scheme is at the southeasterly side entrance of the house. to this the drive comes on unrigorous lines from the street. the walk curves away a few steps earlier to go to the front door but the drive, passing on, swings in under the rear corner windows and to the kitchen steps, veers around by the carriage-house door and so loops back into itself. in this loop, and all about the bases of the dwelling and carriage-house the flowers rise in dense abundance, related to one another with clever taste and with a happy care for a procession of bloom uninterrupted throughout the season. straightaway from the side door, leaving the drive at a right angle, runs a short arbor of vines. four or five steps to the left of this bower a clump of shrubbery veils the view from the street and in between shrubs and arbor lies a small pool of water flowers and goldfish. on the arbor's right, in charming privacy, masked by hollyhocks, dahlias and other tall-maidenly things, lie beds of strawberries and lettuce and all the prim ranks and orders of the kitchen garden. words are poor things to paint with; i wish i could set forth all in one clear picture: lawn, drive, house, loop, lily pond, bower, rose-bordered drive again (as the eye comes back) and flowers crowding before, behind and beside you, some following clear out to the street and beseeching you not to go so soon. such is the garden, kept without hired labor, of two soft-handed women; not beyond criticism in any of its aspects but bearing witness to their love of nature, of beauty and of home and of their wisdom and skill to exalt and refine them. this competitor early won, i say, a leading prize, and in later seasons easily held--still holds--a fine pre-eminence. yet the later prizes fell to others, because, while this one had been a beautiful garden for years before the competition began, they, rising from much newer and humbler beginnings, sometimes from very chaos, showed between one season and the next far greater advances _toward_ artistic excellence. in the very next year a high prize fell to a garden in full sight of this one, a garden whose makers had caught their inspiration from this one, and, copying its art, had brought forth a charming result out of what our judges described as "particularly forlorn conditions." does this seem hardly fair to the first garden? but to spread the gardening contagion and to instigate a wise copying after the right gardeners--these are what our prizes and honors are for. progress first, perfection afterward, is our maxim. we value and reward originality, nevertheless, and only count it a stronger necessity to see not merely that no talented or happily circumstanced few, but that not even any one or two fortunate neighborhoods, shall presently be capturing all the prizes. hence the rules already cited, which a prompt discovery of this tendency forced upon us. about this copying: no art is more inoffensively imitated than gardening but unluckily none is more easily, or more absurdly, miscopied. a safe way is to copy the gardener rather than the garden. to copy any performance in a way to do it honor we must discern and adapt its art without mimicking its act. to miscopy is far easier--we have only to mimic the act and murder the art. i once heard a man ask an architect if it would not answer to give his plan to the contractor and let him work it out without the architect's supervision. "my dear sir," the architect replied, "you wouldn't know the corpse." i suppose one reason why even the miscopying of gardens provokes so little offence is that the acts it mimics have no art it can murder. mrs. budd sets out her one little "high geraingia" in the middle of her tiny grass-plat (probably trimming it to look like a ballet-dancer on one leg). whereupon mrs. mudd, the situation of whose house and grounds is not in the least like her neighbor's, plants and trims hers the same way and feels sure it has the same effect, for--why shouldn't it? the prize-winning copyist i am telling of copied principles only. to have copied mere performance would have been particularly unlucky, for though his garden stands within fifty yards of the one from which it drew its inspiration the two are so differently located that the same art principles demand of them very different performances. an old-time lover of gardens whom i have to quote at second-hand mentions in contrast "gardens to look in upon" and "gardens to look out from." the garden i have described at length is planned to be looked in upon; most town gardens must be, of course; but its competitor across the street, of which i am about to give account, is an exception. the lot has a very broad front and very little depth--at one side almost none, at the other barely enough for a small house and a few feet of front yard. why there should be a drive i cannot say, but it is so well taken into the general scheme that to call it to account would be ungenerous. it enters at the narrowest part of the ground, farthest from the house, makes a long parabola, and turns again into the street close beside the dwelling. in the bit of lawn thus marked off, shrubs have place near the street, three or four old apple-trees range down the middle, and along the drive runs a gay border of annual flowers. along the rear side of the drive lies but a narrow strip of turf beyond which the ground drops all at once to another level some thirty feet below. on the right this fall is so abrupt that the only way down to it is by a steep rustic stair. on the left, behind the house, the face of the bluff is broken into narrow terraces, from top to bottom of which, and well out on the lower level, the entire space is mantled with the richly burdened trellises of a small vineyard. at the right on this lower ground is a kitchen garden; beyond it stretch fair meadows too low to build on, but fruitful in hay and grain; farther away, on higher ground, the town again shows its gables and steeples among its great maples and elms, and still beyond, some three miles distant, the green domes and brown precipices of the mount holyoke range stand across the sky in sharp billows of forest and rock. it seems at times a pity that mount holyoke and mount tom cannot themselves know how many modest gardens they are a component part of--the high violin note of: gardens, like this one, "to look out from." it stops one's pen for one to find himself using the same phrases for these new england cottage gardens that famous travellers have used in telling of the gardens of italian princes; yet why should we not, when the one nature and the one art are mother and godmother of them all? it is a laughing wonder what beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious domicile, out of what ugliness such beauty can be evoked and at how trivial a cost in money. three years before this "garden to look out from" won its carnegie prize it was for the most part a rubbish heap. let me now tell of one other, that sprang from conditions still more unlovely because cramped and shut in. it was on the other side of the town from those i have been telling of. the house stood broadside to the street and flush with the sidewalk. the front of the lot was only broad enough for the house and an alley hardly four feet wide between the house's end and a high, tight board fence. the alley led into a small, square back yard one of whose bounds was the back fence of the house. on a second side was a low, mossy, picturesquely old wing-building set at right angles to the larger house, its doors and windows letting into the yard. a third boundary was the side of one well weathered barn and the back of another, with a scanty glimpse between them of meadows stretching down to the connecticut river. the fourth was an open fence marking off a field of riotous weeds. when the tenant mistress of this unpromising spot began to occupy it the yard and alley were a free range for the poultry of the neighborhood, and its only greenery was two or three haphazard patches of weedy turf. one-fourth of the ground, in the angle made by the open fence and one of the barns, had been a hen-yard and was still inclosed within a high wire-netting; but outside that space every plant she set out had to be protected from the grubbing fowls by four stakes driven down with a hammer. three years afterward she bore off our capital prize in a competition of one hundred gardens. let me tell what the judges found. [illustration: "beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious domicile." one of a great number of competing cottages whose gardens are handsomer in the rear and out of sight than on the street-front, though well kept there also.] [illustration: "those who pay no one to dig, plant or prune for them." the aged owner of this place has hired no help for twenty years. behind her honey-locust hedge a highly kept and handsome flower and shrubbery garden fills the whole house lot. she is a capital prize-winner.] out in the street, at the off side of the alley-gate, between a rude fence and an electric-railway siding, in about as much space as would give standing room to one horse and cart, bloomed--not by right of lease, but by permission of the railway company--a wealth of annual flowers, the lowest (pansies and such like) at the outer edge, the tallest against the unsightly fence. this was the prelude. in the alley the fence was clothed with vines; the windows--of which there were two--were decked with boxes of plumbago--pink, violet, white and blue, and of lady-ferns and maiden-hair. the back yard was a soft, smooth turf wherever there were not flowers. along the back doors and windows of the house and the low-roofed wing a rough arbor was covered with a vine whose countless blossoms scented the air and feasted the bees, while its luminous canopy sheltered a rare assemblage of such flowers as bloom and thrive only for those whom they know and trust. but the crowning transformation was out in the open sunlight, in the space which had been the hen-yard. within it was a holiday throng of the gardening world's best-known and loved gentles and commons, from roses down to forget-me-nots. its screen of poultry-netting had been kept in place, and no feature on the premises more charmingly showed that this floral profusion came of no mere greed for abundance or diversity, but of a true art instinct recognizing the limits of its resources. the garden had to be made a "garden to look in upon," a veritable imprisoned garden; the question of expense required it to be chiefly of annuals, and all the structural features of the place called for concealment. these wire nettings did so; on their outside, next the grass, two complete groups of herbaceous things were so disposed as to keep them veiled in bloom throughout the whole warm half of the year. close against them and overpeering their tops were hollyhocks and dahlias; against these stood at lesser height sweet peas, asters, zinnias, coreopsis and others of like stature; in front of these were poppies for summer, marigolds for autumn; beneath these again were verbenas, candytuft--all this is sketched from memory, and i recall the winsome effect rather than species and names; and still below nestled portulaca and periwinkle. i fear the enumeration gives but a harlequin effect; but the fault of that is surely mine, for the result was delightful. i have ventured to make report of these two or three gardens, not as in themselves worthy of a great public's consideration and praise but as happy instances of a fruitage we are gathering among hundreds of homes in a little city where it is proposed to give every home, if possible, its utmost value. many other pleasing examples could be cited if further turnings of the kaleidoscope were a real need, but this slender discourse is as long now as it should be. it seems droll to call grave attention to such humble things in a world so rightly preoccupied with great sciences and high arts, vast industries, shining discoveries and international rivalries, strifes and projects; yet what are all these for, at last, but the simple citizen, his family and his home, and for him and them in the cottage as well as in the palace? the poor man's home may shine dimly but it is one of the stars by which civilization must guide its onward course. it may well be supposed that those whose office it is to award the twenty-one prizes of our garden competition among our eleven hundred competitors have an intricate task. yet some of its intricacies add to the pleasure of it. one of these pleasing complications arises from our division of the field of contest into seven parts, in each of which prizes must be given to three contestants. another comes from our rule that not alone the competitors who show the best gardening are to be rewarded, but also those who have made the most earnest effort and largest progress toward the best gardening. under this plan one whose work shows a patient and signal progress in the face of many disadvantages may outrank on our prize list a rival whose superior artistic result has been got easily under favoring conditions and reveals no marked advance beyond the season before. after the manner of dunfermline again, our rules are that no gardener by trade and no one who hires help in his garden may compete. any friend may help his friend, and any one may use all the advice he can get from amateur or professional. children may help in the care of the gardens, and many do; but children may not themselves put gardens into the competition. "if the head of the house is the gardener-in-chief," shrewdly argued one of our committee, "the children, oftener than otherwise, will garden with him, or will catch the gardening spirit as they grow up; but if the children are head-gardeners we shall get only children's gardening. we want to dispel the notion that flower-gardening is only woman's work and child's play." our rule against hired labor sets naturally a maximum limit to the extent of ground a garden may cover. our minimum is but fifty square yards, including turf, beds, and walks, and it may be of any shape whatever if only it does not leave out any part of the dooryard, front or rear, and give it up to neglect and disorder. to the ear even fifty square yards seems extensive, but really it is very small. it had so formidable a sound when we first named it that one of our most esteemed friends, pastor of a catholic church in that very pretty and thrifty part of northampton called for its silk mills florence, generously added two supplementary prizes for gardens under the limit of size. this happy thought had a good effect, for, although in the first and second years father gallon's people took prizes for gardens above the minimum limit in size, while his own two prizes fell to contestants not in his flock, yet only in the third year did it become to all of us quite as plain as a pikestaff that fifty square yards are only the one-fiftieth part of fifty yards square, and that whoever in northampton had a dooryard at all had fifty square yards. in more than two hundred and fifty gardens were already in the contest but every one was large enough to compete for the carnegie prizes, and the kind bestower of the extra ones (withdrawn as superfluous), unselfishly ignoring his own large share of credit, wrote: "your gardens have altered the aspect of my parish." such praise is high wages. it is better than to have achieved the very perfection of gardening about any one home. we are not trying to raise the world's standard of the gardening art. our work is for the home and its indwellers; for the home and the town. our ideal is a town of homes all taking pleasant care of one another. we want to make all neighbors and all homes esthetically interesting to one another, believing that this will relate them humanely, morally and politically. we began with those who pay no one to dig, plant or prune for them, but soon we went further and ventured to open to gardens kept with hired service an allied competition for a separate list of prizes. in this way we put into motion, between two elements of our people which there are always more than enough influences to hold sufficiently apart, a joint pursuit of the same refining delight and so promoted the fellowship of an unconflicting common interest. in degree some of us who use hired help had already obtained this effect. last season: "come," i often heard one of our judges say on his rounds, "see my own garden some afternoon; i'll show you all the mistakes i've made!" and some came, and exchanged seeds and plants with him. "a high civilization," said an old soldier to me only a few days ago, "must always produce great social inequalities. they are needed mainly by and for those who see no need of them." i admitted that the need is as real, though not so stern, as the need of inequalities in military rank. "but," i said, "in the military relation you must also vividly keep up, across all inequalities of rank, a splendid sentiment of common interest and devotion, mutual confidence and affection, or your army will be but a broken weapon, a sword without a hilt." "yes," he agreed, "and so in civilization; if it would be of the highest it must draw across its lines of social cleavage the bonds of civic fellowship." it was what i had intended to say myself. social selection raises walls between us which we all help to build, but they need not be chinese walls. they need not be so high that civic fellowship, even at its most feminine stature, may not look over them every now and then to ask: "how does my neighbor's garden grow?" it is with this end in view as well as for practical convenience that we have divided our field into seven districts and from our "women's council" have appointed residents of each to visit, animate and counsel the contestants of that district. the plan works well. on the other hand, to prevent the movement, in any district, from shrinking into village isolation; in order to keep the whole town comprised, and, as nearly as may be, to win the whole town's sympathy and participation, we have made a rule that in whatever district the capital prize is awarded, the second prize must go to some other district. if we have said this before you may slip it here; a certain repetitiousness is one part of our policy. a competitor in the district where the capital prize is awarded may take the third prize, but no one may take the third in the district where the second has been awarded. he may, however, be given the fourth. in a word, no two consecutive prizes can be won in the same district. also, not more than three prizes of the fifteen may in one season be awarded in any one district. so each district has three prize-winners each year, and each year the prizes go all over town. again, no garden may take the same prize two years in succession; it must take a higher one or else wait over. "this prize-garden business is just all right!" said one of the competitors to our general secretary. "it gives us good things to say to one another's face instead of bad things at one another's back, it does!" that is a merit we claim for it; that it operates, in the most inexpensive way that can be, to restore the social bond. hard poverty minus village neighborship drives the social relation out of the home and starves out of its victims their spiritual powers to interest and entertain one another, or even themselves. if something could keep alive the good aspects of village neighborship without disturbing what is good in that more energetic social assortment which follows the expansion of the village into the town or city, we should have better and fairer towns and cities and a sounder and safer civilization. but it must be something which will give entirely differing social elements "good things to say to one another's face instead of bad things at one another's back." we believe our northampton garden competition tends to do this. it brings together in neighborly fellowship those whom the discrepancies of social accomplishments would forever hold asunder and it brings them together without forced equality or awkward condescension, civic partners in that common weal to neglect which is one of the "dangers and temptations of the home." two of our committee called one day at a house whose garden seemed to have fallen into its ill condition after a very happy start. its mistress came to the door wearing a heart-weary look. the weather had been very dry, she said in a melodious french accent, and she had not felt so very well, and so she had not cared to struggle for a garden, much less for a prize. "but the weather," suggested her visitors, "had been quite as dry for her competitors, and few of them had made so fair a beginning. to say nothing of prizes, was not the garden itself its own reward?" she shook her head drearily; she did not know that she should ever care to garden any more. "why?" exclaimed one questioner persuasively, "you didn't talk so when i was here last month!" "no," was the reply, "but since three weeks ago--" and all at once up came the stifled tears, filling her great black eyes and coursing down her cheeks unhindered, "i los' my baby." the abashed visitors stammered such apologies as they could. "they would not have come on this untimely errand could they have known." they begged forgiveness for their slowness to perceive. "yet do not wholly," they presently ventured to urge, "give up your garden. the day may come when the thought that is now so bitter will, as a memory, yield some sweetness as well, and then it may be that the least of bitterness and the most of sweetness will come to you when you are busy among your flowers." "it may be," she sighed, but with an unconvinced shrug. and still, before the summer was gone, the garden sedately, yet very sweetly, smiled again and even the visitors ventured back. that was nearly three years ago. only a few weeks since those two were in the company of an accomplished man who by some chance--being a frenchman--had met and talked with this mother and her husband. "we made a sad bungle there," said the visitors. "do not think it!" he protested. "they are your devoted friends. they speak of you with the tenderest regard. moreover, i think they told me that last year--" "yes," rejoined one of the visitors, "last year their garden took one of the prizes." the midwinter gardens of new orleans if the following pages might choose their own time and place they would meet their reader not in the trolley-car or on the suburban train, but in his own home, comfortably seated. for in order to justify the eulogistic tone of the descriptions which must presently occupy them their first word must be a conciliatory protest against hurry. one reason we americans garden so little is that we are so perpetually in haste. the art of gardening is primarily a leisurely and gentle one. and gentility still has some rights. our louisiana creoles know this, and at times maintain it far beyond the pales of their evergreen gardens. "'step lively'?" one of them is said to have amazedly retorted in a new york street-car. "no, the lady shall not step lively. at yo' leisure, madame, entrez!" in new orleans the conductors do not cry "step lively!" right or wrong, the cars there are not absolutely democratic. gentility really enjoys in them a certain right to be treated gently. if democracy could know its own tyrants it would know that one of them is haste--the haste, the hurry of the crowd; that hurry whose cracking whip makes every one a compulsory sharer in it. the street-car conductor, poor lad, is not to blame. the fault is ours, many of us being in such a scramble to buy democracy at any price that, as if we were belatedly buying railway tickets, we forget to wait for our change. now one of this tyrant's human forms is a man a part of whose tyranny is to call himself a gardener, though he knows he is not one, and the symbol of whose oppression is nothing more or less than that germ enemy of good gardening, the lawn-mower. you, if you know the gardening of our average american home almost anywhere else, would see, yourself, how true this is, were you in new orleans. but you see it beautifully proved not by the presence but by the absence of the tyranny. the lawn-mower is there, of course; no one is going to propose that the lawn-mower anywhere be abolished. it is one of our modern marvels of convenience, a blessed release of countless human backs from countless hours of crouching, sickle-shaped, over the sickle. it is not the tyrant, but only like so many other instruments of beneficent democratic emancipation, the tyrant's opportunity. a large part of its convenience is expedition, and expedition is the easiest thing in the world to become vulgarized; vulgarized it becomes haste, and haste is the tyrant. such arguing would sound absurdly subtle aimed against the uncloaked, barefaced tyranny of the street-car conductor, but the tyranny of the man with the lawn-mower is itself subtle, masked, and requires subtlety to unmask it. see how it operates. for so we shall be the better prepared for a generous appreciation of those far southern gardens whose beauty has singled them out for our admiration. we know, of course, that the "formal garden," by reason of its initial and continuing costliness, is, and must remain, the garden of the wealthy few, and that the gardening for the great democracy of our land, the kind that will make the country at large a gardened land, is "informal," freehand, ungeometrical gardening. in this sort, on whatever scale, whether of the capitalist or of the cottager, the supreme feature is the lawn; the lawn-mower puts this feature within the reach of all, and pretty nearly every american householder has, such as it is, his bit of eden. but just in that happy moment the tempter gets in. the garden's mistress or master is beguiled to believe that one may have a garden without the expense of a gardener and at the same time without any gardening knowledge. the stable-boy, or the man-of-all-work, or the cook, or the cottager himself, pushes the lawn-mower, and except for green grass, or changeable brown and green, their bit of eden is naked and is not ashamed. or if ashamed, certain other beguilements, other masked democratic tyrannies, entering, reassure it; bliss of publicity, contempt of skill, and joy in machinery and machine results. an itinerant ignoramus comes round with his own lawn-mower, the pushing of which he now makes his sole occupation for the green half of the year, and the entire length, breadth and thickness of whose wisdom is a wisdom not of the lawn but only of the lawn-mower; how to keep its bearings oiled and its knives chewing fine; and the lawn becomes staringly a factory product. then tyranny turns the screw again, and in the bliss of publicity and a very reasonable desire to make the small home lot look as large as possible, down come the fences, side and front, and the applauding specialist of the lawn-mower begs that those obstructions may never be set up again, because now the householder can have his lawn mowed so much _quicker_, and he, the pusher, can serve more customers. were he truly a gardener he might know somewhat of the sweet, sunlit, zephyrous, fragrant outdoor privacies possible to a real garden, and more or less of that benign art which, by skilful shrubbery plantings, can make a small place look much larger--as well as incomparably more interesting--than can any mere abolition of fences, and particularly of the street fence. but he has not so much as one eye of a genuine gardener or he would know that he is not keeping your lawn but only keeping it shaven. he is not even a good garden laborer. you might as well ask him how to know the wild flowers as how to know the lawn pests--dandelion, chickweed, summer-grass, heal-all, moneywort and the like--with which you must reckon wearily by and by because he only mows them in his blindness and lets them flatten to the ground and scatter their seed like an infantry firing-line. inquire of him concerning any one of the few orphan shrubs he has permitted you to set where he least dislikes them, and which he has trimmed clear of the sod--put into short skirts--so that he may run his whirling razors under (and now and then against) them at full speed. will he know the smallest fact about it or yield any echo of your interest in it? there is a late story of an aged mother, in a darkened room, saying falteringly to the kind son who has brought in some flowers which she caresses with her soft touch, "i was wishing to-day--we used to have them in the yard--before the lawn-mower--" and saying no more. i know it for a fact, that in a certain cemetery the "sons of the american revolution" have for years been prevented from setting up their modest marks of commemoration upon the graves of revolutionary heroes, because they would be in the way of the sexton's lawn-mower. now in new orleans the case is so different that really the amateur gardener elsewhere has not all his rights until he knows why it is so different. let us, therefore, look into it. in that city one day the present writer accosted an irishman who stood, pruning-shears in hand, at the foot of clay's statue, lafayette square. it was the first week of january, but beside him bloomed abundantly that lovely drooping jasmine called in the books _jasminum multiflorum_. "can you tell me what shrub this is?" "that, sor, is the _monthly flora!_ thim as don't know the but-hanical nayum sometimes calls it the stare jismin, but the but-hanical nayum is the _monthly flora_." the inquirer spoke his thanks and passed on, but an eager footfall overtook him, his elbow felt a touch, and the high title came a third time: "the but-hanical nayum is the _monthly flora_." the querist passed on, warmed by a grateful esteem for one who, though doubtless a skilled and frequent tinkler of the lawn-mower within its just limitations, was no mere dragoon of it, but kept a regard for things higher than the bare sod, things of grace in form, in bloom, in odor, and worthy of "but-hanical nayum." no mere chauffeur he, of the little two-wheeled machine whose cult, throughout the most of our land, has all but exterminated ornamental gardening. in new orleans, where it has not conquered, there is no crowding for room. a ten-story building is called there a sky-scraper. the town has not a dozen in all, and not one of that stature is an apartment or tenement house. having felled her surrounding forests of cypress and drained the swamps in which they stood, she has at command an open plain capable of housing a population seven times her present three hundred and fifty thousand, if ever she chooses to build skyward as other cities do. but this explains only why new orleans _might_ have gardens, not why she chooses to have them, and has them by thousands, when hundreds of other towns that have the room--and the lawns--choose not to have the shrubberies, vines and flowers, or have them without arrangement. why should new orleans so exceptionally choose to garden, and garden with such exceptional grace? her house-lots are extraordinarily numerous in proportion to the numbers of her people, and that is a beginning of the explanation; but it is only a beginning. individually the most of those lots are no roomier than lots elsewhere. thousands of them, prettily planted, are extremely small. the explanation lies mainly in certain peculiar limitations, already hinted, of her--democracy! that is to say, it lies in her fences. her fences remain, her democracy is different from the northern variety. the difference may consist only in faults both there and here which we all hope to see democracy itself one day eliminate; but the difference is palpable. the fences mean that the dwellers behind them have never accorded to each other, as neighbors, that liberty-to-take-liberties of which northern householders and garden-holders, after a quarter-century's disappointing experiment, are a bit weary. in new orleans virtually every home, be it ever so proud or poor, has a fence on each of its four sides. as a result the home is bounded by its fences, not by its doors. unpleasant necessities these barriers are admitted to be, and those who have them are quite right in not liking them in their bare anatomy. so they clothe them with shrubberies and vines and thus on the home's true corporate bound the garden's profile, countenance and character are established in the best way possible; without, that is, any impulse toward embellishment _insulated_ from utility. compelled by the common frailties of all human nature (even in a democracy) to maintain fortifications, the householder has veiled the militant aspect of his defences in the flowered robes and garlandries of nature's diplomacy and hospitality. thus reassured, his own inner hospitality can freely overflow into the fragrant open air and out upon the lawn--a lawn whose dimensions are enlarged to both eye and mind, inasmuch as every step around its edges--around its meandering shrubbery borders--is made affable and entertaining by flora's versatilities. [illustration: "in new orleans the home is bounded by its fences, not by its doors--so they clothe them with shrubberies and vines." it is pleasant to notice how entirely the evergreen-vine-covered wall preserves the general air of spaciousness. the forest tree at the front and right (evergreen magnolia) is covered with an evergreen vine from the turf to its branches.] [illustration: "the lawn ... lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across." a common garden feature in new orleans is the division fence with front half of wire, rear half of boards, both planted out with shrubs. the overhanging forest tree is the evergreen magnolia (_m. grandiflora_).] at the same time, let us note in passing, this enlargement is partly because the lawn--not always but very much oftener than where lawns go unenclosed--lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across; free of bush, statue, urn, fountain, sun-dial or pattern-bed, an uninterrupted sward. even where there are lapses from this delightful excellence they often do not spoil, but only discount, more or less, the beauty of the general scheme, as may be noted--if without offence we may offer it the homage of criticism--in one of the gardens we have photographed [page ] to illustrate these argumentations. there eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward without in the least adding to the garden's abounding charm. the smallest effort of the reader's eye will show how largely, in a short half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely dignity simply by the elimination of these slight excesses, or by their withdrawal toward the lawn's margins and into closer company with the tall trees. in new orleans, where, even when there are basements, of which there are many, the domains of the cook and butler are somewhere else, a nearly universal feature of every sort of dwelling--the banker's on two or three lots, the laborer's on half a one--is a paved walk along one side of the house, between the house and the lawn, from a front gate to the kitchen. generally there is but the one front gate, facing the front door, with a short walk leading directly up to this door. in such case the rear walk, beginning at the front door-steps, turns squarely along the house's front, then at its corner turns again as squarely to the rear as a drill-sergeant and follows the dwelling's ground contour with business precision--being a business path. in fact it is only the same path we see in uncrowded town life everywhere in our land. [illustration: "there eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward.... in a half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely dignity by the elimination of these excesses." the sky-line of this beautiful garden becomes a part of the garden itself, a fact of frequent occurrence in new orleans. the happy contrast of rearmost oak and palm is also worthy of notice.] but down there it shows this peculiarity, that it is altogether likely to be well bordered with blooming shrubs and plants along all that side of it next the lawn. of course it is a fault that this shrubbery border--and all the more so because it is very apt to be, as in three of our illustrations [pages , , ], a rose border--should, so often as it is, be pinched in between parallel edges. "no pinching" is as good a rule for the garden as for the kindergarten. manifestly, on the side next the house the edge between the walk and the planted border should run parallel with the base line of the house, for these are business lines and therefore ever so properly lines of promptitude--of the shortest practicable distance between two points--lines of supply and demand, lines of need. for lines of need, business speed! but for lines of pleasure, grace and leisure. it is the tactful office of this shrubbery border to veil the business path from the lawn--from the pleasure-ground. therefore its _outside_, lawn-side edge should be a line of pleasure, hence a line of grace, hence not a straight line (dead line), nor yet a line of but one lethargic curve, but a line of suavity and tranquil ongoing, a leisurely undulating line. [illustration: "the rear walk ... follows the dwelling's ground contour with business precision--being a business path."] not to have it so is an error, but the error is an inoffensive one easily corrected and the merit is that the dwelling's business path is greenly, bloomingly screened from its pleasure-ground by a lovely natural drapery which at the same time furnishes, as far as the path goes, the house's robes of modesty. indeed they are furnished farther than the path goes; for no good work gathers momentum more readily than does good gardening, and the householder, having begun so rightly, has now nothing to do to complete the main fabric of his garden but to carry this flow of natural draperies on round the domicile's back and farther side and forward to its front again. thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even above its reach and where it does not conceal, the house's architectural faults, thus winsomely enhance all its architectural charm; like a sweet human mistress of the place, putting into generous shadow all the ill, and into open sunshine all the best, of a husband's strong character. (see both right and left foreground of illustration on page , and right foreground on page .) and now if this new orleans idea--that enough private enclosure to secure good home gardening is not incompatible with public freedom, green lawns, good neighborship, sense of room and fulness of hospitality, and that a house-lot which is a picture is worth more to everybody (and therefore is even more democratic) than one which is little else than a map--if this idea, we say, finds any credence among sister cities and towns that may be able to teach the creole city much in other realms of art and criticism, let us cast away chalk and charcoal for palette and brush and show in floral, arborescent, redolent detail what is the actual pictorial excellence of these new orleans gardens. for notwithstanding all their shut-in state, neither their virtues nor their faults are hid from the passing eye. the street fence, oftenest of iron, is rarely more than breast-high and is always an open fence. against its inner side frequently runs an evergreen hedge never taller than the fence's top. commonly it is not so tall, is always well clipped and is so civil to strangers that one would wish to see its like on every street front, though he might prefer to find it not so invariably of the one sort of growth--a small, handsome privet, that is, which nevertheless fulfils its office with the perfection of a solid line of palace sentries. unluckily there still prevails a very old-fashioned tendency to treat the front fence as in itself ornamental and to forget two things: first, that its nakedness is no part of its ornamental value; that it would be much handsomer lightly clothed--underclothed--like, probably, its very next neighbor; clothed with a hedge, either close or loose, and generously kept below the passer's line of sight. and, second, that from the householder's point of view, looking streetward from his garden's inner depth, its fence, when unplanted, is a blank interruption to his whole fair scheme of meandering foliage and bloom which on the other three sides frames in the lawn; as though the garden were a lovely stage scene with the fence for footlights, and some one had left the footlights unlit. [illustration: "thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even ... where it does not conceal, the house's architectural faults."] a lovely stage scene, we say, without a hint of the stage's unreality; for the side and rear fences and walls, being frankly unornamental, call for more careful management than the front and are often charmingly treated. (page .) (see, for an example of a side fence with front half of wire and rear half of boards, page , and for solid walls, pages and .) where they separate neighbors' front lawns they may be low and open, but back of the building-line, being oftenest tight and generally more than head-high, they are sure to be draped with such climbing floral fineries as honeysuckles, ivies, jasmines white and yellow, lantanas, roses or the madeira vine. more frequently than not they are planted also, in strong masses, with ever so many beautiful sorts of firmer-stemmed growths, herbaceous next the sod, woody behind, assembled according to stature, from one to twelve feet high, swinging in and out around the lawn until all stiffness of boundaries is waved and smiled away. [illustration: " ... a lovely stage scene without a hint of the stage's unreality." the beauty of this spot could be enhanced in ten minutes by taking away the planted urns which stand like gazing children in the middle of the background.] in that first week of january already mentioned the present writer saw at every turn, in such borders and in leaf and blossom, the delicate blue-flowered plumbago; two or three kinds of white jasmine, also in bloom; and the broad bush-form of the yellow jasmine, beginning to flower. with them were blooming roses of a dozen kinds; the hibiscus (not althæa but the _h. rosasinensis_ of our northern greenhouses), slim and tall, flaring its mallow-flowers pink, orange, salmon and deep red; the trailing-lantana, covering broad trellises of ten feet in height and with its drooping masses of delicate foliage turned from green to mingled hues of lilac and rose by a complete mantle of their blossoms. he saw the low, sweet-scented geraniums of lemon, rose and nutmeg odors, persisting through the winter unblighted, and the round-leaved, "zonal" sorts surprisingly large of growth--in one case, on a division fence, trained to the width and height of six feet. there, too, was the poinsettia still bending in its christmas red, taller than the tallest man's reach, often set too forthpushingly at the front, but at times, with truer art, glowing like a red constellation from the remoter bays of the lawn; and there, taller yet, the evergreen _magnolia fuscata_, full of its waxen, cream-tinted, inch-long flowers smelling delicately like the banana. he found the sweet olive, of refined leaf and minute axillary flowers yielding their ravishing tonic odor with the reserve of the violet; the pittosporum; the box; the myrtle; the camphor-tree with its neat foliage answering fragrantly the grasp of the hand. the dark camellia was there, as broad and tall as a lilac-bush, its firm, glossy leaves of the deepest green and its splendid red flowers covering it from tip to sod, one specimen showing by count a thousand blossoms open at once and the sod beneath innumerably starred with others already fallen. the night jasmine, in full green, was not yet in blossom but it was visibly thinking of the spring. the chinese privet, of twenty feet stature, in perennial leaf, was saving its flowers for may. the sea-green oleander, fifteen feet high and wide (see extreme left foreground, page ), drooped to the sward on four sides but hoarded its floral cascade for june. the evergreen loquat (locally miscalled the mespilus plum) was already faltering into bloom; also the orange, with its flower-buds among its polished leaves, whitening for their own wedding; while high over them towered the date and other palms, spired the cedar and arborvitæ, and with majestic infrequency, where grounds were ample, spread the lofty green, scintillating boughs of the magnolia grandiflora (see left foregrounds on pages , and ), the giant, winter-bare pecan and the wide, mossy arms of the vast live-oak. [illustration: "back of the building-line the fences ... generally more than head-high ... are sure to be draped."] [illustration: " ... from the autumn side of christmas to the summer side of easter." in any garden as fair as this there should be some place to sit down. this deficiency is one of the commonest faults in american gardening.] now while the time of year in which these conditions are visible heightens their lovely wonder, their practical value to northern home-lovers is not the marvel and delight of something inimitable but their inspiring suggestion of what may be done with ordinary northern home grounds, to the end that the floral pageantry of the southern january may be fully rivalled by the glory of the northern june. for of course the flora of the north, who in the winter of long white nights puts off all her jewelry and nearly all her robes and "lies down to pleasant dreams," is the blonde sister of, and equal heiress with, this darker one who, in undivested greenery and flowered trappings, persists in open-air revelry through all the months from the autumn side of christmas to the summer side of easter. wherefore it seems to me the northern householder's first step should be to lay hold upon this new orleans idea in gardening--which is merely by adoption a new orleans idea, while through and through, except where now and then its votaries stoop to folly, it is by book a northern voice, the garden gospel of frederick law olmsted. wherever american homes are assembled we may have, all winter, for the asking--if we will but ask ourselves instead of the lawn-mower man--an effect of home, of comfort, cheer and grace, of summer and autumn reminiscences and of spring's anticipations, immeasurably better than any ordinary eye or fancy can extort from the rectangular and stiffened-out nakedness of unplanted boundaries; immeasurably better than the month-by-month daily death-stare of shroud-like snow around houses standing barefooted on the frozen ground. it may be by hearty choice that we abide where we must forego outdoor roses in christmas week and broad-leaved evergreens blooming at new year's, twelfth-night or carnival. well and good! but we can have even in mid-january, and ought to allow ourselves, the lawn-garden's surviving form and tranced life rather than the shrubless lawn's unmarked grave flattened beneath the void of the snow. we ought to retain the sleeping beauty of the ordered garden's unlost configuration, with the warm house for its bosom, with all its remoter contours--alleys, bays, bushy networks and sky-line--keeping a winter share of their feminine grace and softness. we ought to retain the "frozen music" of its myriad gray, red and yellow stems and twigs and lingering blue and scarlet berries stirring, though leaflessly, for the kiss of spring. and we ought to retain the invincible green of cedars, junipers and box, cypress, laurel, hemlock spruce and cloaking ivy, darkling amid and above these, receiving from and giving to them a cheer which neither could have in their frostbound eden without mutual contrast. [illustration: "the sleeping beauty of the garden's unlost configuration ... keeping a winter's share of its feminine grace and softness." this picture was taken in the first flush of spring. the trees in blossom are the wild japanese cherry.] eden! if i so recklessly ignore latitude as to borrow the name of the first gardener's garden for such a shivering garden as this it is because i see this one in a dream of hope--a diffident, interrogating hope--really to behold, some day, this dream-garden of northern winters as i have never with actual open eyes found one kept by any merely well-to-do american citizen. if i describe it i must preface with all the disclaimers of a self-conscious amateur whose most venturesome argument goes no farther than "why not?" yet whom the evergreen gardens of new orleans revisited in january impel to protest against every needless submission to the tyrannies of frost and of a gardening art--or non-art, a submission which only in the outdoor embellishment of the home takes winter supinely, abjectly. this garden of a hope's dream covers but three ordinary town lots. often it shrinks to but one without asking for any notable change of plan. following all the lines, the hard, law lines, that divide it from its neighbors and the street, there runs, waist-high on its street front, shoulder-high on its side bounds, a close evergreen hedge of hemlock spruce. in its young way this hedge has been handsome from infancy; though still but a few years old it gives, the twelvemonth round, a note both virile and refined in color, texture and form, and if the art that planted it and the care that keeps it do not decay neither need the hedge for a century to come. against the intensest cold this side of labrador it is perfectly hardy, is trimmed with a sloping top to shed snows whose weight might mutilate it, and can be kept in repair from generation to generation, like the house's plumbing or roof, or like some green-uniformed pet regiment with ranks yet full after the last of its first members has perished. furthermore, along the inner side of this green hedge (sometimes close against it, sometimes with a turfed alley between), as well as all round about the house, extend borders of deciduous shrubs, with such meandering boundaries next the broad white lawn as the present writer, for this time, has probably extolled enough. these bare, gray shrub masses are not wholly bare or gray and have other and most pleasingly visible advantages over unplanted, pallid vacancy, others besides the mere lace-work of their twigs and the occasional tenderness of a last summer's bird's nest. here and there, breaking the cold monotone, a bush of moose maple shows the white-streaked green of its bare stems and sprays, or cornus or willow gives a soft glow of red, purple or yellow. only here and there, insists my dream, lest when winter at length gives way to the "rosy time of the year" their large and rustic gentleness mar the nuptial revels of summer's returned aristocracy. because, moreover, there is a far stronger effect of life, home and cheer from the broad-leaved evergreens which, in duly limited numbers, assemble with and behind these, and from the lither sorts of conifers that spire out of the network and haze of living things in winter sleep. the plantings at the garden's and dwelling's front being properly, of course, lower than those farther back, i see among them, in this dream, the evergreen box and several kinds of evergreen ferns. i see two or three species of evergreen barberries, not to speak of thunberg's leafless one warm red with its all-winter berries, the winter garden's rubric. i see two varieties of euonymus; various low junipers; two sorts of laurel; two of andromeda, and the high-clambering evergreen ivy. beginning with these in front, infrequent there but multiplying toward the place's rear, are bush and tree forms of evergreen holly, native rhododendrons, the many sorts of foreign cedars and our native ones white and red, their skyward lines modified as the square or pointed architecture of the house may call for contrasts in pointed or broad-topped arborescence. if, at times, i dream behind all this a grove, with now and then one of its broad, steepling or columnar trees pushed forward upon the lawn, it is only there that i see anything so stalwart as a pine or so rigid as a spruce. such is the vision, and if i never see it with open eyes and in real sunlight, even as a dream it is--like certain other things of less dignity--grateful, comforting. i warrant there are mistakes in it, but you will find mistakes wherever you find achievement, and there is no law against them--in well-meant dreams. observe, if you please, this vision lays no drawback on the garden's summer beauty and affluence. twelve months of the year it enhances its dignity and elegance. both the numerical proportions of evergreens to other greens, and the scheme of their distribution, are quite as correct and effective for contrast and background to the transient foliage and countless flowers of july as amid the bare ramage of january. summer and winter alike, the gravest items among them all, the conifers, retain their values even in those new orleans gardens. when we remember that in new england and on all its isotherm it is winter all that half of the year when most of us are at home, why should we not seek to realize this snow-garden dream? even a partial or faulty achievement of it will surely look lovelier than the naked house left out on its naked white lawn like an unclaimed trunk on a way-station platform. i would not, for anything, offend the reader's dignity, but i must think that this midwinter garden may be made at least as much lovelier than no garden as alice's cheshire cat was lovelier--with or without its grin--than the grin without the cat. [illustration: "it is only there that i see anything so stalwart as a pine or so rigid as a spruce." the blossoming trees in this picture are a chinese crab blooming ten days later than the japanese wild cherry (see illustration facing p. ), which is now in full leaf at their back.] shall we summarize? our gist is this: that those gardens of new orleans are as they are, not by mere advantage of climate but for several other reasons. their bounds of ownership and privacy are enclosed in hedges, tight or loose, or in vine-clad fences or walls. the lawn is regarded as a ruling feature of the home's visage, but not as its whole countenance--one flat feature never yet made a lovely face. this lawn feature is beautified and magnified by keeping it open from shrub border to shrub border, saving it, above all things, from the gaudy barbarism of pattern-bedding; and by giving it swing and sweep of graceful contours. and lastly, all ground lines of the house are clothed with shrubberies whose deciduous growths are companioned with broad-leafed evergreens and varied conifers, in whatever proportions will secure the best midwinter effects without such abatement to those of summer as would diminish the total of the whole year's joy. these are things that can be done anywhere in our land, and wherever done with due regard to soil as well as to climate will give us gardens worthy to be named with those of new orleans, if not, in some aspects and at particular times of the year, excelling them. as long as mistakes are made in the architecture of houses they will be made in the architecture of gardening, and new orleans herself, by a little more care for the fundamentals of art, of all art, could easily surpass her present floral charm. yet in her gardens there is one further point calling for approval and imitation: the _very_ high trimming of the stems of lofty trees. here many a reader will feel a start of resentment; but in the name of the exceptional beauty one may there see resulting from the practice let us allow the idea a moment's entertainment, put argument aside and consider a concrete instance whose description shall be our closing word. across the street in which, that january, we sojourned (we were two), there was a piece of ground of an ordinary town square's length and somewhat less breadth. it had been a private garden. its owner had given it to the city. along its broad side, which our windows looked out upon, stood perfectly straight and upright across the sky to the south of them a row of magnolias (grandiflora) at least sixty feet high, with their boles, as smooth as the beach, trimmed bare for two-thirds of their stature. the really decorative marks of the trimming had been so many years, so many decades, healed as to show that no harm had come of it or would come. the soaring, dark-green, glittering foliage stood out against the almost perpetually blue and white sky. beyond them, a few yards within the place but not in a straight line, rose even higher a number of old cedars similarly treated and offering a pleasing contrast to the magnolias by the feathery texture of their dense sprays and the very different cast of their lack-lustre green. overtopping all, on the farther line of the grounds, southern line, several pecan-trees of nearly a hundred feet in height, leafless, with a multitude of broad-spreading boughs all high in air by natural habit, gave an effect strongly like that of winter elms, though much enlivened by the near company of the evergreen masses of cedar and magnolia. these made the upper-air half of the garden, the other half being assembled below. for the lofty trim of the wintergreen-trees--the beauty of which may have been learned from the palms--allowed and invited another planting beneath them. magnolias, when permitted to branch low, are, to undergrowth, among the most inhospitable of trees, but in this garden, where the sunlight and the breezes passed abundantly under such high-lifted arms and among such clean, bare stems, a congregation of shrubs, undershrubs and plants of every stature and breadth, arose, flourished and flowered without stint. yonder the wind-split, fathom-long leaves of the banana, brightening the background, arched upward, drooped again and faintly oscillated to the air's caress. here bloomed and smelled the delicate magnolia fuscata, and here, redder with flowers than green with shining leaves, shone the camellia. here spread the dark oleander, the pittosporum and the chinese privet; and here were the camphor-tree and the slender sweet olive--we have named them all before and our steps should not take us over the same ground twice in one circuit; that would be bad gardening. but there they were, under those ordinarily so intolerant trees, prospering and singing praises with them, some in full blossom and perfume, some waiting their turn, like parts of a choir. in the midst of all, where a broad path eddied quite round an irregular open space, and that tender quaintness of decay appeared which is the unfailing new orleans touch, the space was filled with roses. this spot was lovely enough by day and not less so for being a haunt of toddling babes and their nurses; but at night--! regularly at evening there comes into the new orleans air, from heaven knows whither, not a mist, not a fog nor a dampness, but a soft, transparent, poetical dimness that in no wise shortens the range of vision--a counterpart of that condition which so many thousands of favored travellers in other longitudes know as the "atlantic haze." one night--oh, oftener than that, but let us say one for the value of understatement--returning to our quarters some time before midnight, we stepped out upon the balcony to gaze across into that garden. the sky was clear, the neighborhood silent. a wind stirred, but the shrubberies stood motionless. the moon, nearly full, swung directly before us, pouring its gracious light through the tenuous cross-hatchings of the pecans, nestling it in the dense tops of the cedars and magnolias and sprinkling it to the ground among the lower growths and between their green-black shadows. when in a certain impotence of rapture we cast about in our minds for an adequate comparison--where description in words seemed impossible--the only parallel we could find was the art of corot and such masters from the lands where the wonderful pictorial value of trees trimmed high has been known for centuries and is still cherished. for without those trees so disciplined the ravishing picture of that garden would have been impossible. of course our northern gardens cannot smile like that in winter. but they need not perish, as tens of thousands of lawn-mower, pattern-bed, so-called gardens do. they should but hibernate, as snugly as the bear, the squirrel, the bee; and who that ever in full health of mind and body saw spring come back to a northern garden of blossoming trees, shrubs and undershrubs has not rejoiced in a year of four clear-cut seasons? or who that ever saw mating birds, greening swards, starting violets and all the early flowers loved of shakespeare, milton, shelley, bryant and tennyson, has not felt that the resurrection of landscape and garden owes at least half its glory to the long trance of winter, and wished that dwellers in creole lands might see new england's first of june? for what says the brave old song-couplet of new england's mothers? that-- "spring would be but wintry weather if we had nothing else but spring." every year, even in massachusetts--even in michigan--spring, summer, and autumn are sure to come overladen with their gifts and make us a good, long, merry visit. all the other enlightened and well-to-do nations of the world entertain them with the gardening art and its joys and so make fairer, richer and stronger than can be made indoors alone the individual soul, the family, the social, the civic, the national life. in this small matter we americans are at the wrong end of the procession. what shall we do about it? brownsmith's boy, a romance in a garden, by george manville fenn. _______________________________________________________________________ this is an absolutely delightful book, which has most of its early action in a market garden, and then more in another one. the author is a great naturalist, and he has much to teach us about the way in which work should be done to raise fruit and vegetables to be taken to london daily for the market. somehow that sounds boring but there is so much action entwined with these facts that they are made far from boring. the action takes place about . the hero lives with his mother in a house overlooking the garden. when she dies he is taken in by old brownsmith to be taught the skills of a market gardener. another boy, shock, hangs about the garden, sleeping rough and living on a primitive diet of snails, hedgehogs and rabbits and whatever he can get. there is an uneasy relationship between the boys, with shock constantly doing unkind and strange things, and our hero, grant dennison, longing to get to know him better. i particularly loved the episode where an old worker, ike, takes the even older horse, basket, for his regular overnight trip to the london fruit and vegetable market, taking grant with him. there are plenty of the usual manville fenn episodes of terror and near-disaster, and indeed it is a lovely book. do read it. nh ________________________________________________________________________ brownsmith's boy, a romance in a garden, by george manville fenn. chapter one. the boy in the garden. i always felt as if i should like to punch that boy's head, and then directly after i used to feel as if i shouldn't care to touch him, because he looked so dirty and ragged. it was not dirty dirt, if you know what i mean by that, but dirt that he gathered up in his work--bits of hay and straw, and dust off a shed floor; mud over his boots and on his toes, for you could see that the big boots he wore seemed to be like a kind of coarse rough shell with a great open mouth in front, and his toes used to seem as if they lived in there as hermit-crabs do in whelk shells. they used to play about in there and waggle this side and that side when he was standing still looking at you; and i used to think that some day they would come a little way out and wait for prey like the different molluscs i had read about in my books. but you should have seen his hands! i've seen them so coated with dirt that it hung on them in knobs, and at such times he used to hold them up to me with the thumbs and fingers spread out wide, and then down he would go again and continue his work, which, when he was in this state, would be pulling up the weeds from among the onions in the long beds. i didn't want him to do it, but he used to see me at the window looking out; and i being one lonely boy in the big pond of life, and he being another lonely boy in the same big pond, and both floating about like bits of stick, he seemed as if he wanted to gravitate towards me as bits of stick do to each other, and in his uncouth way he would do all sorts of things to attract my attention. sometimes it seemed as if it was to frighten me, at others to show how clever he was; but of course i know now that it was all out of the superabundant energy he had in him, and the natural longing of a boy for a companion. i'll just tell you what he'd do. after showing me his muddy fingers, and crawling along and digging them as hard as he could into the soil to tear out the weeds, all at once he would kick his heels up in the air like a donkey. then he would go on weeding again, look to see if i was watching him, and leave his basket and run down between two onion beds on all-fours like a dog, run back, and go on with his work. every now and then he would pull up a young onion with the weeds and pick it out, give it a rub on his sleeve, put one end in his mouth, and eat it gradually, taking it in as i've seen a cow with a long strand of rye or grass. another time he would fall to punching the ground with his doubled fist, make a basin-like depression, put his head in, support himself by setting his hands on each side of the depression, and then, as easily as could be, throw up his heels and stand upon his head. it seemed to be no trouble to him to keep his balance, and when up like that he would twist his legs about, open them wide, put them forwards and backwards, and end by insulting me with his feet, so it seemed to me, for he would spar at me with them and make believe to hit out. all at once he would see one of the labourers in the distance, and then down he would go and continue his weeding. perhaps, when no one was looking, he would start up, look round, go down again on all-fours, and canter up to a pear-tree, raise himself up, and begin scratching the bark like one of the cats sharpening its claws; or perhaps trot to an apple-tree, climb up with wonderful activity, creep out along a horizontal branch, and pretend to fall, but save himself by catching with and hanging by one hand. that done he would make a snatch with his other hand, swing about for a few moments, and then up would go his legs to be crossed over the branch, when he would swing to and fro head downwards, making derisive gestures at me with his hands. so it was that i used to hate that boy, and think he was little better than a monkey; but somehow i felt envious of him too when the sun shone--i didn't so much mind when it was wet--for he seemed so free and independent, and he was so active and clever, while whenever i tried to stand on my head on the carpet i always tipped right over and hurt my back. that was a wonderful place, that garden, and i used to gaze over the high wall with its bristle of young shoots of plum-trees growing over the coping, and see the chaffinches building in the spring-time among the green leaves and milky-white blossoms of the pear-trees; or, perhaps, it would be in a handy fork of an apple-tree, with the crimson and pink blossoms all around. those trees were planted in straight rows, so that, look which way i would, i could see straight down an avenue; and under them there were rows of gooseberry trees or red currants that the men used to cut so closely in the winter that they seemed to be complete skeletons. where there were no gooseberries or currants, the rows of rhubarb plants used to send up their red stems and great green leaves; and in other places there would be great patches of wallflowers, from which wafts of delicious scent would come in at the open window. in the spring there would be great rows of red and yellow tulips, and later on sweet-william and rockets, and purple and yellow pansies in great beds. i used to wonder that such a boy was allowed to go loose in such a garden as that, among those flowers and strawberry beds, and, above all, apples, and pears, and plums, for in the autumn time the trees trained up against the high red-brick wall were covered with purple and yellow plums, and the rosy apples peeped from among the green leaves, and the pears would hang down till it seemed as if the branches must break. but that boy went about just as he liked, and it often seemed very hard that such a shaggy-looking wild fellow in rags should have the run of such a beautiful garden, while i had none. there was a little single opera-glass on the chimney-piece which i used to take down and focus, so that i could see the fruit that was ripe, and the fruit that was green, and the beauty of the flowers. i used to watch the birds building through that glass, and could almost see the eggs in one little mossy cup of a chaffinch's nest; but i could not quite. i did see the tips of the young birds' beaks, though, when they were hatched and the old ones came to feed them. it was by means of that glass that i could see how the boy fastened up his trousers with one strap and a piece of string, for he had no braces, and there were no brace buttons. those corduroy trousers had been made for somebody else, i should say for a man, and pieces of the legs had been cut off, and the upper part came well over his back and chest. he had no waistcoat, but he wore a jacket that must have belonged to a man. it was a jacket that was fustian behind, and had fustian sleeves, but the front was of purple plush with red and yellow flowers, softened down with dirt; and the sleeves of this jacket were tucked up very high, while the bottom came down to his knees. he did not wear a hat, but the crown of an old straw bonnet, the top of which had come unsewed, and rose and fell like the lid of a round box with one hinge, and when the lid blew open you could see his shaggy hair, which seemed as if it had never been brushed since it first came up out of his skin. the opera-glass was very useful to me, especially as the boy fascinated me so, for i used to watch him with it till i knew that he had two brass shank-buttons and three four-holes of bone on his jacket, that there were no buttons at all on his shirt, and that he had blue eyes, a snub-nose, and had lost one of his top front teeth. i must have been quite as great an attraction to him as he was to me, but he showed it in a very different way. there would be threatening movements made with his fists. after an hour's hard work at weeding, without paying the slightest heed to my presence, he would suddenly jump up as if resenting my watching, catch up the basket, and make believe to hurl it at me. perhaps he would pick up a great clod and pretend to throw that, but let it fall beside him; while one day, when i went to the window and looked out, i found him with a good-sized switch which had been the young shoot of a pear tree, and a lump of something of a yellowish brown tucked in the fork of a tree close by where he worked. he had a basket by his side and was busily engaged as usual weeding, for there was a great battle for ever going on in that garden, where the weeds were always trying to master the flowers and vegetables, and that boy's duty seemed to be to tear up weeds by the roots, and nothing else. but there by his side stuck in the ground was the switch, and as soon as he saw me at the window he gave a look round to see if he was watched, and then picked up the stick. "i wonder what he is going to do!" i thought, as i twisted the glass a little and had a good look. he was so near that the glass was not necessary, but i saw through it that he pinched off a bit of the yellowish-brown stuff, which was evidently clay, and, after rolling it between his hands, he stuck what seemed to be a bit as big as a large taw marble on the end of the switch, gave it a flourish, and the bit of clay flew off. i could not see where it went, but i saw him watching it, as he quickly took another piece, kneaded it, and with another flourish away that flew. that bit evidently went over our house; and the next time he tried--_flap_! the piece struck the wall somewhere under the window. five times more did he throw, the clay flying swiftly, till all at once _thud_! came a pellet and stuck on the window pane just above my head. i looked up at the flattened clay, which was sticking fast, and then at that boy, who was down on his knees again weeding away as hard as he could weed, but taking no more notice of me, and i saw the reason: his master was coming down the garden. chapter two. old brownsmith. i used to take a good deal of notice of that boy's master as i sat at the window, and it always seemed to me that he went up and down his garden because he was so fond of it. later on i knew that it was because he was a market-gardener, and was making his plans as to what was to be cut or picked, or what wanted doing in the place. he was a pleasant-looking man, with white hair and whiskers, and a red face that always used to make me think of apples, and he was always dressed the same--in black, with a clean white shirt front, and a white cravat without any starch. perhaps it was so that they might not get in the mud, but at any rate his black trousers were very tight, and his tail-coat was cut very broad and loose, with cross pockets like a shooting-jacket, and these pockets used to bulge. sometimes they bulged because he had bast matting for tying up plants, and a knife in one, and a lot of shreds and nails and a hammer in the other; sometimes it was because he had been picking up fruit, or vegetable marrows, or new potatoes, whatever was in season. they always made me think of the clown's breeches, because he used to put everything in, and very often a good deal would be sticking out. i remember once seeing him go down the garden with a good-sized kitten in each pocket, for there were their heads looking over the sides, and they seemed to be quite contented, blinking away at the other cats which were running and skipping about. for that boy's master, who was called brownsmith, was a great man for cats; and whenever he went down his garden there were always six or eight blacks, and black and whites, and tabbies, and tortoise-shells running on before or behind him. when he stopped, first one and then another would have a rub against his leg, beginning with the point of its nose, and running itself along right to the end of its tail, crossing over and having a rub on the other side against the other leg. so sure as one cat had a rub all the others that could get a chance had a rub as well. then perhaps their master would stoop down with his knife in his teeth, and take a piece of bast from his pocket, to tie up a flower or a lettuce, when one of the cats was sure to jump on his back, and stop there till he rose, when sometimes it would go on and sit upon his shoulder, more often jump off. it used to interest me a good deal to watch old brownsmith and his cats, for i had never known that a cat would run after any one out of doors like a dog. then, too, they were so full of fun, chasing each other through the bushes, crouching down with their tails writhing from side to side, ready to spring out at their master, or dash off again up the side of a big tree, and look down at him from high upon some branch. i say all this used to interest me, for i had no companions, and went to no school, but spent my time with my poor mother, who was very ill; and i know now how greatly she must have suffered often and often, when, broken down in health and spirit, suffering from a great sorrow, she used to devote all her time to teaching me. our apartments, as you see, overlooked old brownsmith's market-garden, and very often, as i sat there watching it, i used to wish that i could be as other boys were, running about free in the fields, playing cricket and football, and learning to swim, instead of being shut up there with my mother. perhaps i was a selfish boy, perhaps i was no worse than others of my age. i know i was very fond of my mother, for she was always so sweet, and gentle, and tender with me, making the most tedious lessons pleasant by the way she explained them, and helping me when i was worried over some arithmetical question about how many men would do so much work in such and such a number of days if so many men would do the same work in another number of days. these sums always puzzled me, and do now; perhaps it is because i have an awkwardly shaped brain. sometimes, as we sat over the lessons, i used to see a curious pained look spread over my mother's face, and the tears would come in her eyes, but when i kissed her she would smile directly and call my attention to the beauty of the rime frost on the fruit-trees in brownsmith's garden; or, if it was summer, to the sweet scent of the flowers; or to the ripening fruit in autumn. ah, if i had known then, i say to myself, how different i might have been; how much more patient and helpful to her! but i did not know, for i was a very thoughtless boy. now it came to pass one day that an idea entered my head as i saw my mother seated with her pale cheek resting upon her hand, looking out over old brownsmith's garden, which was just then at its best. it was summer time, and wherever you looked there were flowers--not neat flower-beds, but great clumps and patches of roses, and sweet-williams and pinks, and carnations, that made the air thick with their sweet odours. her eyes were half closed, and every now and then i saw her draw in a long breath, as if she were enjoying the sweet scent. as i said, i had an idea, and the idea was that i would slip out quietly and go and spend that sixpence. which sixpence? why, that sixpence--that red-hot one that tried so hard to burn a hole through my pocket. i had had it for two days, and it was still at the bottom along with my knife, a ball of string, and that piece of india-rubber i had chewed for hours to make a pop patch. i had nearly spent it twice--the first time on one of these large white neatly-sewn balls, with "best tennis" printed upon them in blue; the second time in a pewter squirt. i had wanted a squirt for a long time, for those things had a great fascination for me, and i had actually entered the shop door to make my purchase when something seemed to stop me, and i ran home. and now i thought i would go and spend that coin. i slipped quietly to the other window, and had a good look round, but i could not see that boy, for if i had seen him i don't think i should have had the heart to go, feeling sure, as i did, that he had a spite against me. as i said, though, he was nowhere visible, so i slipped downstairs, ran along the lane to the big gate, and walked boldly in. there were several people about, but they took no notice of me--stout hard-looking women, with coarse aprons tied tightly about their waists and legs; there were men too, but all were busy in the great sheds, where they seemed to be packing baskets, quite a mountain of which stood close at hand. there were high oblong baskets big enough to hold me, but besides these there were piles upon piles of round flat baskets of two sizes, and hanging to the side of one of the sheds great bunches of white wood strawberry pottles, looking at a distance like some kind of giant flower, all in elongated buds. close by was a cart with its shafts sticking up in the air. farther on a wagon with "brownsmith" in yellow letters on a great red band; and this i passed to go up to the house. but the door was closed, and it was evident that every one was busy in the garden preparing the night's load for market. i stood still for a minute, thinking that i could not be very wrong if i went down the garden, to see if i could find mr brownsmith, and my heart began to beat fast at the idea of penetrating what was to me a land of mystery, of which, just then, i held the silver pass-key in the shape of that sixpence. "i'll go," i said. "he can't be very cross;" and, plucking up courage, but with the feeling upon me that i was trespassing, i went past the cart, and had gone half-way by the wagon, when there was a creaking, rattling noise of baskets, and something made a bound. i started back, feeling sure that some huge dog was coming at me; but there in the wagon, and kneeling on the edge to gaze down at me with a fierce grin, was that boy. i was dreadfully alarmed, and felt as if the next minute he and i would be having a big fight; but i wouldn't show my fear, and i stared up at him defiantly with my fists clenching, ready for his first attack. he did not speak--i did not speak; but we stared at each other for some moments, before he took a small round turnip out of his pocket and began to munch it. "shock!" cried somebody just then; and the boy turned himself over the edge of the wagon, dropped on to the ground, and ran towards one of the sheds, while, greatly relieved, i looked about me, and could see mr brownsmith some distance off, down between two rows of trees that formed quite an avenue. it seemed so beautiful after being shut up so much in our sitting-room, to walk down between clusters of white roses and moss roses, with anne boleyne pinks scenting the air, and far back in the shade bright orange double wallflowers blowing a little after their time. i had not gone far when a blackbird flew out of a pear-tree, and i knew that there must be a nest somewhere close by. sure enough i could see it in a fork, with a curious chirping noise coming from it, as another blackbird flew out, saw me, and darted back. i would have given that sixpence for the right to climb that pear-tree, and i gave vent to a sigh as i saw the figure of old brownsmith coming towards me, looking much more stern and sharp than he did at a distance, and with his side pockets bulging enormously. "hallo, young shaver! what's your business?" he said, in a quick authoritative way, as we drew near to each other. i turned a little red, for it sounded insulting for a market gardener to speak to me like that, for i never forgot that my father had been a captain in an indian regiment, and was killed fighting in the sikh war. i did not answer, but drew myself up a little, before saying rather consequentially: "sixpenn'orth of flowers and strawberries--good ones." "oh, get out!" he said gruffly, and he half turned away. "we've no time for picking sixpenn'orths, boy. run up into the road to the greengrocer's shop." my face grew scarlet, and the beautiful garden seemed as if it was under a cloud instead of the full blaze of sunshine, while i turned upon my heel and was walking straight back. "here!" i walked on. "hi, boy!" shouted old brownsmith. i turned round, and he was signalling to me with the whole of his crooked arm. "come on," he shouted, and he thrust a hand and the greater part of his arm into one of his big pockets, and pulled out one of those curved buckhorn-handled knives, which he opened with his white teeth. he did not look quite so grim now, as he said: "come o' purpose, eh?" "yes," i said. "ah! well, i won't send you back without 'em, only i don't keep a shop." i looked rather haughty and consequential, i believe, but the looks of such a boy as i made no impression, and he began to cut here and there moss, and maiden's blush, and cabbage roses--simple old-fashioned flowers, for the great french growers had not filled england with their beautiful children, and a gardener in these days would not have believed in the possibility of a creamy _gloire de dijon_ or that great hook-thorned golden beauty _marechal niel_. he cut and cut, long-stalked flowers with leaf and bud, and thrust them into his left hand, his knife cutting and his hand grasping the flower in one movement, while his eye selected the best blossom at a glance. at last there were so many that i grew fidgety. "i said sixpenn'orth, sir, flowers and strawberries," i ventured to remark. "not deaf, my lad," he replied with a grim smile. "here, let's get some of these." these were pinks and carnations, of which he cut a number, pushing one of the cats aside with his foot so that it should not be in his way. "here you are!" he cried. "mind the thorns. my roses have got plenty to keep off pickers and stealers. now, what next?" "i did want some strawberries," i said, "but--" "where's your basket, my hearty?" i replied that i had not brought one. "you're a pretty fellow," he said. "i can't tie strawberries up in a bunch. why didn't you bring a basket? oh, i see; you want to carry 'em inside?" "no," i said shortly, for he seemed now unpleasantly familiar, and the garden was not half so agreeable as i had expected. however he seemed to be quite good-tempered now, and giving me a nod and a jerk of his head, which meant--"this way," he went down a path, cut a great rhubarb leaf, and turned to me. "here, catch hold," he cried; "here's one of nature's own baskets. now let's see if there's any strawberries ripe." i saw that he was noticing me a good deal as we went along another path towards where the garden was more open, but i kept on in an independent way, smelling the pinks from time to time, till we came to a great square bed, all straw, with the great tufts of the dark green strawberry plants standing out of it in rows. the leaves looked large, and glistened in the sunshine, and every here and there i could see the great scarlet berries shining as if they had been varnished, and waiting to be picked. "ah, thief!" shouted my guide, as a blackbird flew out of the bed, uttering its loud call. "why, boys, boys, you ought to have caught him." this was to the cats, one of which answered by giving itself a rub down his leg, while he clapped his hand upon my shoulder. "there you are, my hearty. it isn't so far for you to stoop as it would be for me. go and pick 'em." "pick them?" i said, looking at him wonderingly. "to be sure. go ahead. i'll hold your flowers. only take the ripe ones, and see here--do you know how to pick strawberries?" i felt so amused at such a silly question that i looked up at him and laughed. "oh, you do?" he said. "why, anybody could pick strawberries," i replied. "really, now! well, let's see. there's a big flat fellow, pick him." i handed him the flowers, and stepping between two rows of plants, stooped down, and picked the great strawberry he pointed out. "oh, you call that picking, do you?" he said. "yes, sir. don't you?" "no: i call it tearing my plants to pieces. why, look here, if my pickers were to go to work like that, i should only get half a crop and my plants would be spoiled." i looked at him helplessly, and wished he would pick the strawberries himself. "look here," he said, stooping over a plant, and letting a great scarlet berry specked with golden seeds fall over into his hand. "now see: finger nail and thumb nail; turn 'em into scissors; draw one against the other, and the stalk's through. that's the way to do it, and the rest of the bunch not hurt. now then, your back's younger than mine. go ahead." i felt hot and uncomfortable, but i took the rhubarb leaf, stepped in amongst the clean straw, and, using my nails as he had bid me, found that the strawberries came off wonderfully well. "only the ripe ones, boy; leave the others. pick away. poor old tommy then!" i looked up to see if he was speaking to me, but he had let one of the cats run up to his shoulder, and he was stroking the soft lithe creature as it rubbed itself against his head. "that's the way, boy," he cried, as i scissored off two or three berries in the way he had taught me. "i like to see a chap with brains. come, pick away." i did pick away, till i had about twenty in the soft green leaf, and then i stopped, knowing that in flowers and fruit i had twice as much as i should have obtained at the shop. "oh, come, get on," he cried contemptuously. "you're not half a fellow. don't stop. does your back ache?" "no, sir," i said; "but--" "oh, you wouldn't earn your salt as a picker," he cried. as he said this he came on to the bed, and, bending down, seemed to sweep a hand round the strawberry plant, gathering its leaves aside, and leaving the berries free to be snipped off by the right finger and thumb. he kept on bidding me pick away, but he sheared off three to my one, and at the end of a few minutes i was holding the rhubarb leaf against my breast to keep the fruit from falling over the side. "there you are," he cried at last. "that do?" "oh, yes, sir," i said; "but--" "that's enough," he cried sharply. "here, hand over that sixpence. money's money, and you can't get on without it, youngster." i gave him the coin, and he took it, span it up in the air, caught it, and after dragging out a small wash-leather bag he dropped it in, gave me a comical look as he twisted a string about the neck, tucked it in, and replaced the bag in his pocket. "there you are," he cried. "small profits and quick returns. no credit given. toddle; and don't you come and bother me again. i'm a market grower, my young shaver, and can't trade your fashion." "i did not know, sir," i said, trying to look and speak with dignity, for it was very unpleasant to be addressed so off-handedly by this man, just as if i had been asking him a favour. "i'm very much obliged to you," i added, for i had glanced at the bunch of roses; and as i looked at the fresh sweet-scented beauties i thought of how delighted my poor mother would be, and i could not help feeling that old brownsmith had been very generous. then making him rather an awkward bow, i stalked off, feeling very small, and was some distance back towards the gate, wondering whether i should meet "shock," when from behind there came a loud "hi!" i paid no heed and went on, for it was not pleasant to be shouted at like that by a market grower, and my dignity was a good deal touched by the treatment i had received; but all at once there came from behind me such a roar that i was compelled to stop, and on turning round there was old brownsmith trotting after me, with his cats skipping about in all directions to avoid being trodden on and to keep up. he was very much more red in the face now, for the colour went all down below his cheeks and about his temples, and he was shining very much. "why, i didn't know you with your cap on," he cried. "take it off. no, you can't. i will." to my great annoyance he snatched off my cap. "to be sure! i'm right," he said, and then he put my cap on again, uncomfortably wrong, and all back: for no one can put your cap on for you as you do it yourself. "you live over yonder at the white house with the lady who is ill?" i nodded. "the widow lady?" "i live with mamma," i said shortly. "been very ill, hasn't she?" "yes, sir." "ah! bad thing illness, i suppose. never was ill, only when the wagon went over my leg." "yes, sir, she has been very bad." i was fidgeting to go, but he took hold of one of the ends of my little check silk tie, and kept fiddling it about between his finger and thumb. "what's the matter?" "dr morrison told mrs beeton, our landlady, that it was decline, sir." "and then mrs beeton told you?" "no, sir, i heard the doctor tell her." "and then you went and frightened the poor thing and made her worse by telling her?" "no, i did not, sir," i said warmly. "why not?" "because i thought it might make her worse." "humph! hah! poor dear lady!" he said more softly. "looked too ill to come to church last sunday, boy. flowers and fruit for her?" i nodded. "she send you to buy 'em?" i shook my head, for i was so hurt by his abrupt way, his sharp cross-examination, and the thoughts of my mother's illness, that i could not speak. "who sent you then--mrs beeton?" "no, sir." "who did?" "nobody, sir. i thought she would like some, and i came." "for a surprise, eh?" yes, sir. "own money?" i stared at him hard. "i said, own money? the sixpence? where did you get it?" "i have sixpence a week allowed me to spend." "hah! to be sure," he said, still holding on by my tie, and staring at me as he fumbled with one hand in his trousers pocket. "get out, dick, or i'll tread on you!" this to one of the cats, who seemed to think because he was black and covered with black fur that he was a blacking-brush, and he was using himself accordingly all over his master's boots. "if you please, i want to go now," i said hurriedly. "to be sure you do," he said, still holding on to the end of my tie--"to be sure you do. hah! that's got him at last." i stared in return, for there had been a great deal of screwing about going on in that pocket, as if he could not get out his big fist, but it came out at last with a snatch. "here, where are you?" he said. "weskit? why, what a bit of a slit it is to call a pocket. hold the sixpence though, won't it?" "if you please i'd rather pay for the flowers," i cried, flushing as he held on by the tie with one hand, and thrust the sixpence back in my pocket with the other. "dessay you would," he replied; "but i told you before i'm market grower and dursen't take small sums. not according to cocker. didn't know cocker, i suppose, did you?" "no, sir." "taught 'rithmetic. didn't learn his 'rithmetic then?" "no, sir," i replied, "walkinghame's." "did you though? there, now, you play a walking game, and get home and count your strawberries." "yes, sir, but--" "i say, what a fellow you are to but! why, you're like teddy, my goat, i once had. no, no! no money. welcome to the fruit, ditto flowers, boy. this way." he was leading me towards the gate now like a dog by a string, and it annoyed me that he would hold me by the end of my tie, the more so that i could see shock with a basket turned over his head watching me from down amongst the trees. "come on again, my lad, often as you like. lots growing--lots spoils." "thank you, sir," i said diffidently, "but--" "woa, teddy," he cried, laughing. "there; that'll do. look here, why don't you bring her for a walk round the garden--do her good? glad to see her any time. here, what a fellow you are, dropping your strawberries. let it alone, dick. do for shock." i had let a great double strawberry roll off the top of my heap, and a cat darted at it to give it a sniff; but old brownsmith picked it up and laid it on the top of a post formed of a cut-down tree. "now, then, let's get a basket. look better for an invalid. one minute: some leaves." he stooped and picked some strawberry leaves, and one or two very large ripe berries, which he told me were myatt's. then taking me to a low cool shed that smelt strongly of cut flowers, he took down a large open strawberry basket from a nail, and deftly arranged the leaves and fruit therein, with the finest ripened fruit pointing upwards. "that's the way to manage it, my lad," he said, giving me a queer look; "put all the bad ones at the bottom and the good ones at the top. that's what you'd better do with your qualities, only never let the bad ones get out." "now, your pinks and roses," he said; and, taking them, he shook them out loosely on the bench beneath a window, arranged them all very cleverly in a bunch, and tied it up with a piece of matting. "i'm sure i'm very much obliged to you, sir," i said, warmly now, for it seemed to me that i had been making a mistake about mr brownsmith, and that he was a very good old fellow after all. "that's right," he said, laughing. "so you ought to be. good-bye. come again soon. my dooty to your mamma, and i hope she'll be better. shake hands." i held out my hand and grasped his warmly as we reached the gate, seeing shock watching me all the time. then as i stood outside old brownsmith laughed and nodded. "mind how you pack your strawberries," he said with a laugh; "bad 'uns at bottom, good 'uns at top. good-bye, youngster, good-bye." chapter three. old brownsmith's visitor. the time glided on, but i did not go to the garden again, for my mother felt that we must not put ourselves under so great an obligation to a stranger. neither did i take her over for a walk, but we sat at the window a great deal after lesson time; and whenever i was alone and shock was within sight, he used to indulge in some monkey-like gesture, all of which seemed meant to show me what a very little he thought of me. at the end of a fortnight, as i was sitting at the window talking to a boy who went to a neighbouring school, and telling him why i did not go, a great clod of earth came over the wall and hit the boy in the back. "who's that!" he cried sharply. "did you shy that lump?" "no," i said; and before i could say more, he cried: "i know. it was brownsmith's baboon shied that. only let us get him out in the fields, we'll give it him. you know him, don't you?" "do you mean shock?" i said. "yes, that ragged old dirty chap," he cried. "you can see him out of your window, can't you?" "i can sometimes," i said; "but i can't now." "that's because he's sneaking along under the wall. never mind; we'll pay him some day if he only comes out." "doesn't he come out then?" "no. he's nobody's boy, and sleeps in the sheds over there. one of brownsmith's men picked him up in the road, and brought him home in one of the market carts. brownsmith sent him to the workhouse, but he always runs away and comes back. he's just like a monkey, ain't he? here, i must go; but i say, why don't you ask your ma to let you come and play with us; we have rare games down the meadows, bathing, and wading, and catching dace?" "i should like to come," i said dolefully. "ah, there's no end of things to see down there--water-rats and frogs; and there's a swan's nest, with the old bird sitting; and don't the old cock come after you savage if you go near! oh, we do have rare games there on half-holidays! i wish you'd come." "i should like to," i said. "ain't too proud; are you?" "oh no!" i said, shaking my head. "because i was afraid you were. well, i shall catch it if i stop any longer. i say, is your ma better?" i shook my head. "ain't going to die, is she?" "oh no!" i said sharply. "that's all right. well, you get her to let you come. what's your name?" "grant," i said. "grant! grant what?" "dennison." "oh, all right, grant! i shall call for you next half-holiday; and mind you come." "stop a moment," i said. "what's your name?" "george day," he replied; and then my new friend trotted off, swinging half-a-dozen books at the end of a strap, and i sat at the window wishing that i too could go to school and have a strap to put round my books and swing them, for my life seemed very dull. all at once i saw something amongst the bristly young shoots of the plum-trees along the wall, and on looking more attentively i made out that it was the top of shock's straw head-piece with the lid gone, and the hair sticking out in the most comical way. i watched him intently, fully expecting to see another great clod of earth come over, and wishing i had something to throw back at him; but i had nothing but a flower-pot with a geranium in it, and the shells upon the chimney-piece, and they were mrs beeton's, and i didn't like to take them. the head came a little higher till the whole of the straw bonnet crown was visible, and i could just make out the boy's eyes. of course he was watching me, and i sat and watched him, feeling that he must have turned one of the trained plum-trees into a ladder, and climbed up; and i found myself wondering whether he had knocked off any of the young fruit. then, as he remained perfectly still, watching me, i began to wonder why he should be so fond of taking every opportunity he could find to stare at me; and then i wondered what old brownsmith would say to him, or do, if he came slowly up behind him and caught him climbing up his beautifully trained trees. just then i heard a loud cough that i knew was old brownsmith's, for i had heard it dozens of times, and shock's head disappeared as if by magic. i jumped up to see, for i felt sure that shock was going to catch it, and then i saw that old brownsmith was not in his garden, but in the lane on our side, and that he was close beneath the window looking up at me. he nodded, and i had just made up my mind that i would not complain about shock, when there was a loud thump of the knocker, and directly after i heard the door open, a heavy step in the passage, the door closed, and then the sound of old brownsmith wiping his shoes on the big mat. his shoes could not have wanted wiping, for it was a very dry day, but he kept on rub--rub--rub, till mrs beeton, who waited upon us as well as let us her apartments, came upstairs, knocked at my mother's door, and went down again. then there was old brownsmith's heavy foot on the stair, and he was shown in to where i was waiting. "mrs dennison will be here directly," said our landlady, and the old man smiled pleasantly at me. i say old man, for he was in my eyes a very old man, though i don't suppose he was far beyond fifty; but he was very grey, and grey hairs in those days meant to me age. "how do?" he said as soon as he saw me. "being such a nigh neighbour i thought i'd come and pay my respects." he had a basket in his hand, and just then my mother entered, and he turned and began backing before her on to me. "like taking a liberty," he said in his rough way, "but your son and me's old friends, ma'am, and i've brought you a few strawberries before they're over." before my mother could thank him he went on: "been no rain, you see, and the sun's ripening of 'em off so fast. a few flowers, too, not so good as they should be, ma'am, but he said you liked flowers." i saw the tears stand in my mother's eyes as she thanked him warmly for his consideration, and begged him to sit down. but no. he was too busy. lot of people getting ready for market and he was wanted at home, he said, but he thought he would bring those few strawberries and flowers. "i told him, you know, how welcome you'd be," he continued. "garden's always open to you, ma'am. come often. him too." he was at the door as he said this, and nodding and bowing he backed out, while i followed him downstairs to open the door. "look here," he said, offending me directly by catching hold of one end of my neckerchief, "you bring her over, and look here," he went on in a severe whisper, "you be a good boy to her, and try all you can to make her happy. do you hear?" "_yes_, sir," i said. "i do try." "that's right. don't you worry her, because--because it's my opinion that she couldn't bear it, and boys are such fellows. now you mind." "yes, sir," i said, "i'll mind;" and he went away, while, when i returned to the room where my mother was holding the flowers to her face, and seeming as if their beauty and sweetness were almost more than she could bear, i glanced towards the window, and there once more, with his head just above the wall, and peering through the thick bristling twigs, was that boy shock, watching our window till old brownsmith reached his gate. hardly a week had passed before the old man got hold of me as i was going by his gate, taking me as usual by the end of my tie and leading me down the garden to cut some more flowers. "you haven't brought her yet," he said. "look here, if you don't bring her i shall think you are too proud." "he shall not think that," my mother said; and for the next week or two she went across for a short time every day, while i walked beside her, for her to lean upon my shoulder, and to carry the folding seat so that she might sit down from time to time. upon these occasions i never saw shock, and old brownsmith never came near us. it was as if he wanted us to have the garden to ourselves for these walks, and to a great extent we did. of course i used to notice how often i had to spread out that chair for her to sit down under the shady trees; but i thought very little more of it. she was weak. well, i knew that; but some people were weak, i said, and some were strong, and she would be better when it was not so hot. chapter four. a lesson in swimming. it was hot! one of those dry summers when the air seems to quiver with the heat, and one afternoon, as i was in my old place at the window watching shock go to and fro, carrying baskets of what seemed to be beans, george day came along. "i say," he cried, "ask leave to come with us. we've got a half-holiday." just then i saw the bristling shoots on the wall shake, but i paid no heed, for i was too much interested in my new friend's words. "where are you going?" i asked. "oh, down the meadows! that's the best place, and there's no end of fun to be had. i'll take a fishing-rod." i went to where my mother was lying down and asked her consent, receiving a feeble _yes_, and her hand went up to my neck, to draw me down that she might kiss me. "be back in good time," she whispered. "george day, you said?" "yes; his father is something in london, and he goes to the grammar-school." "be back in good time," she whispered again; and getting my cap, i just caught sight of shock at the top of the wall as i ran by the window. "poor fellow!" i thought, "how he, too, would like a holiday!" "here i am," i cried; and feeling as if i had been just released from some long confinement, i set off with my companion at a sharp run. we had to call at his house, a large red brick place just at the end of the village, close to isleworth church, where the rod was obtained, with a basket to hold bait, lines, and the fish that we were going to catch; and soon after we were down where the sleek cows were contentedly lying about munching, and giving their heads an angry toss now and then to keep off the flies. rich grass, golden butter-cups, bushes and trees whose boughs swept down towards the ground, swallows and swifts darting here and there, and beneath the vividly blue sky there was the river like so much damascened silver, for in those days one never thought about the mud. i cannot describe the joy i felt in running here and there with my companion, and a couple of his school-fellows who had preceded us, and who saluted us as we approached with a shout. we ran about till we were tired, and then the fishing commenced from the bank, for the tide was well up, and according to my companion's account the fish were in plenty. perhaps they were, but though bait after bait was placed upon the hook, and the line thrown out to float along with the current, not a fish was caught, no vestige of that nerve-titillating tremble of the float--a bite--was seen. every now and then some one struck sharply, trying to make himself believe that roach or dace had taken the bait, but the movement of the float was always due to the line dragging the gravelly ground, or the bait touching one of the many weeds. the sun was intensely hot, and scorched our backs, and burned our faces by flashing back from the water, which looked cool and tempting, as it ran past our feet. we fished on, sometimes one handling the rod and sometimes the other-- beginning by throwing in the line with whispered words, so as not to frighten the fish that were evidently not there, and ending by sending in bait and float with a splash, and with noise and joking. "there's a big one," some one would cry, and a clod torn out from the bank, or a stone, would be thrown in amidst bursts of laughter. "oh it's not a jolly bit of good," cried one of the boys; "they won't bite to-day. i'm so thirsty, let's have a drink." "no, no, don't drink the water," i said; "it isn't good enough." "what shall we do then--run after the cows for a pen'orth of milk?" "i say, look there," cried george day; "the tide's turned. it's running down. we shall get plenty of fish now." "why, there's somebody bathing down below there," cried another of the boys. "yes, and can't he swim!" "let's all have a bathe," cried young day. "ah, come on: it will be jolly here. who's first in?" i looked on half in amazement, for directly after catching sight of the head of some lad in the water about a couple of hundred yards below us, who seemed to be swimming about in the cool water with the greatest ease, my companions began to throw off caps and jackets, and to untie and kick off their boots. "but we haven't got any towels," cried george day. "towels!" cried one of the others; "why, the sun will dry us in five minutes; come on. what a day for a swim!" it did look tempting there at the bottom of that green meadow, deep in grass and with the waving trees to hide us from observation, though there was not a house within a mile, nor, saving an occasional barge with a sleepy man hanging over the tiller, a boat to be seen, and as i watched the actions of my companions, i, for the first time in my life, felt the desire to imitate them come on me strongly. they were not long undressing, one kicking off his things anyhow, another carefully folding them as he took them off, and tucking his socks inside his boots. but careful and careless alike, five minutes had not elapsed before to my delight george day, who was a boy of about fourteen, ran back a dozen yards from the river's brink and threw up his arms. "one, two, three, cock warning!" he shouted, ran by me swiftly, and plunged into the river with a tremendous splash. i felt horrified, but the next moment his head reappeared bobbing about, and he swam along easily and well. "oh it's so lovely," he cried. "come along." "all right!" cried one of his friends, sitting down on the edge of the bank, and lowering himself in gently, to stand for a few moments up to his arm-pits, and then duck his head down twice, rubbing his eyes to get the water out, and then stooping down and beginning to swim slowly and laboriously, and with a great deal of puffing. "oh, what a cowardly way of getting in!" said the third, who stood on the bank, hesitating. "well, let's see you, then," cried george day, who was swimming close at hand. "jump in." "oh, i can't jump in like you do," said the other; "it gives me the headache." "why, you're afraid." "no, i'm not." "yes, you are. come in, or i'll pull you down." "there!" the boy jumped in feet first, and as soon as he came up he struggled to the bank, and puffed and panted and squeezed the water out of his hair. "oh my, isn't it jolly cold!" he cried. "it takes all my breath away." "cold!" cried the others; "it's lovely. here you, dennison, come in." "i can't swim," i said, feeling a curious shrinking on the one side, quite a temptation on the other. "and you never will," cried george day, "if you don't try. it's so easy: look here!" he swam a few yards with the greatest ease, turned round, and began swimming slowly back. "go on--faster," i cried, for i was interested. "can't," he cried, "tide runs so sharp. if i didn't mind i should be swept right away. come in. i'll soon teach you." i shook my head. "oh, you are a fellow. come on." "no, i sha'n't bathe," i said in a doubtful tone. "oh, here's a chap! i say isn't he a one! always tied to his mother's apron-string: can't play cricket, or rounders, or football, and can't swim. i say, isn't he a molly." the others laughed, and being now out of their misery, as they termed it, they were splashing about and enjoying the water, but neither of them went far from the bank. "i say, why don't you come in?" cried the boy who jumped in feet first. "you will like it so." "yes: come along, and try to swim. i can take five strokes. look here." i watched while the boy went along puffing and panting, and making a great deal of splashing. "get out!" said the other; "he has got one leg on the ground. this is the way to learn to swim. look here, dennison, my father showed me." i looked, and he waded out three or four yards, till the water was nearly over his shoulders. "oh, i say, isn't the tide strong!" he cried. "now, then, look." he threw up his arms, joined his hands as he stood facing me, made a sort of jump and turned right over, plunging down before me, his legs and feet coming right out, and then for some seconds there was a great deal of turmoil and splashing in the muddy water, and he came up close to the bank. "that's the way," he cried, panting. "you have to try to get to the bottom, and that gives you confidence." "i didn't learn that way," shouted george day. "see me float!" we all looked, and he turned over on his back, but splashed a good deal to keep himself up. then all at once he went under, and my heart seemed to stand still, but he came up again directly, shaking his head and spitting. "tread water!" he cried; and he seemed to be wading about with difficulty. "is it deep there?" i shouted. "look," he cried; and raising his hands above his head he sank out of sight, his hands disappearing too, and then he was up again directly and swam to the bank. "i wish i could swim like you do," i said, looking at him with admiration. "well, it's easy enough," he said. "come along." "shall i?" "yes. why, what are you afraid of? nobody ever comes down here except us boys who want a bathe. slip off your clothes and have a good dip. you're sure to like it." "but i've never been used to it," i protested. "then get used to it," he cried. "i say, boys, he ought to learn, oughtn't he?" "yes," cried the others. "let's get out and make him." "oh, i don't want any making," i said proudly. "but i say--is it dangerous?" "dangerous! hark at him! ha--ha--ha!" laughed day. "why, what are you afraid of? there, jump out of your jacket. i sha'n't stop in much longer, and i want to give you a lesson." "he's afraid," shouted the other two boys. "am i! you'll see," i said sturdily; and, feeling as if i were going to do something very desperate, and with a curious sensation of dread coming all over me, even to the roots of my hair, i rapidly undressed and went to the edge. "hooray!" shouted day. "now, look here: you can jump in head first, which is the proper way, or sneak in toes first, like they do. show 'em you aren't afraid. they daren't jump in head first. come on; i'll take care you don't come up too far out, as you can't swim." "would it matter if i did?" i said excitedly. "get along with you! no," cried day. i hesitated, for the water looked very dreadful, and in spite of the burning sunshine it seemed cold. i felt so helpless too, and would gladly have run back to my clothes and dressed, instead of standing on the brink of the river. "in with you," shouted day, backing away from the bank, and the other two boys stood a little way off, with the water up to their chests, grinning and jeering. "he daren't." "he's afraid." "i say, don't you jump in: you'll get wet." "i say, young 'un, don't. you learn to swim in the washing-tub in warm water." "don't you take any notice of them," cried day. "you jump in. join your hands above your head and go in with a regular good leap. they can't." i felt desperate. the water seemed to drive me back, but all the time the jeers of the boys pricked and stirred me on, and at last, obeying day to the letter, i placed my hands above my head, diver fashion, and took the plunge down into the darkness of the chilly water, which seemed to roar and thunder in my ears, and then, before i knew where i was, i found myself standing up, spitting, half blind, with a curious burning sensation in my nostrils, and a horrible catching of the breath. "hooray!" shouted day. "you've beat them hollow. now you're out of your misery and can show them. i bet a penny you learn to swim before they can." this was encouraging, and i began to feel a warm glow of satisfaction in my veins. "catch hold of my hand," cried day. "no, no," i cried excitedly. "you'll take me where it's deep." "get out!" he said. "i shouldn't be such a fool. there, go on then by yourself. don't go where it's more than up to your chin." "oh, no!" i said, stooping and rising, and letting the water, as it ran swiftly, send a curious cold thrill all over me. and then, as i began cautiously to wade about, panting, and with my breath coming in an irregular manner, there was a very pleasurable sensation in it all. first i began to notice how firm and close and heavy the water felt, and how it pressed against me. then i began to think of how hard it was to walk, the water keeping me back; and directly after, as i stepped suddenly in a soft place all mud, which seemed to ooze up between my toes, the water came to my shoulders, and i felt as if i were being lifted from my feet. "i say how do you like it?" cried day, who was swimming a few yards away. "i don't know," i panted. "i think i like it." "oh, you'll soon think it glorious," he replied. "you'll love it as soon as you can swim." the other two had waded on for some distance against the current, taking no further interest in me now i had made my plunge. "i should like to swim," i said. "oh it's easy enough once you get used to it. that chap down below there swims twice as well as i can, but i don't know who he is." "what shall i do first?" i asked. "oh, throw yourself flat on the water, and kick out your arms and legs like i do--like a frog. you'll soon learn. now i'm going to swim up as far as they are, and then let myself float back. you'll see me come down. it's so easy. you watch." "all right!" i said. "you keep close in to the bank," he shouted; "the tide don't run there. keep on trying to throw yourself down and kick out like a frog. you'll soon swim." i nodded, and stood holding on by a tuft of coarse sedge, watching him as he threw himself on his side, and went off pretty close to the bank, where the water was eddying; and the next minute he was beyond a clump of sedge that projected into the river, and i was alone. i felt no dread now, for the water seemed pleasantly cool, and i began to grow more confident. the buoyancy was delicious, and i found that by holding on with both hands to the long rushes i could float on the water, throwing myself down and keeping close to the surface, but with my legs gradually sinking, till i gave them a kick and rose again. i amused myself this way for a minute or two, and then, leaving the tuft of rushes, i began to wade slowly along with the water up to my chest, and every now and then i stooped down, so that it came above my shoulders, and struck out with my hands; but i dare not throw myself flat with my legs off the bottom. that was too much to expect, and i had not recovered yet from the desperate plunge in, the recollection of which made me wonder at my temerity. it was very nice, that first lesson in the water's buoyancy, and as i jumped up, or lowered myself down, or held on by the tufts by the brink, and let myself float, i could not help comparing myself to the soap in the bathtub at home, for that almost floated, but gradually settled down to the bottom, just as my body seemed to do. "i shall soon swim," i thought to myself; but i felt no inclination to risk the first plunge and begin the struggle. it was far more pleasant to keep on wading there with the water up to my chest, and the delicious sensation of novelty, half fear, half pleasure, making me now venture out a few inches into deeper water, now shrink back towards the bank. how beautiful it all seemed, with the mellow afternoon sunlight dancing on the water as a puff of warm wind came now and then along the river. the trees were so green and the sky so blue, and the barges, and horses that drew them by the towing-path on the other side, all seemed to add to my pleasure, for the barges seemed to glide along so easily, and they floated, and that was what i wanted to do. i forgot all about my companions, who must have been a couple of hundred yards higher up the river, while i was wading down. by degrees i found the water a little deeper, and i shrank from it at first, but i was close to the bank and had only to stretch out my hand to catch hold of a tuft of grass or sedge, and, after the shrinking sensation, it seemed pleasant to have the water higher up about my shoulders. it was so much harder to walk, and i could feel myself almost panting. beside this there was a nice soft muddy bottom, pleasanter to the feet than the gravel where i had plunged in. yes: i thought it a much nicer place there, and i was slowly and cautiously wading on, while all at once i found the water seeming to come in the opposite direction, curving round towards me in a place where the bank was scooped out. it looked so smooth that i pressed on, taking one step forward, so that the water might rush up against me, and--then i was floating, for my feet found no bottom, and with an excited thrill of delight i felt that i could swim. yes; there was no doubt about it. i could swim as easily as george day, only i was not moving my hands, while the water was bearing me up and carrying me round as in a whirlpool just once, and then i was swept into the tide-way with the water thundering in my ears, a horrible strangling sensation in my nostrils, and a dimness coming over my aching eyes. i could never remember much about it, only that it was all a confusion of thundering in my ears and rushing sounds. i kept on beating the water with my hands as i had seen a dog beat the surface when he could not swim, and i seemed to throw my head right back as i gasped for breath. but i do not remember that it was very horrible, or that i was drowning, as i surely was. confusion is the best expression for explaining my sensations as i was swept rapidly down by the tide. what do i remember next? i hardly know. only a sensation of some one catching me by the wrist, from somewhere in the darkness that was closing me in. but the next thing after that is, i remember shutting my eyes, because the sun shone in them so fiercely as i lay on my back in the grass, with my head aching furiously, and a strange pain at the back of my neck, as if some one had been trying to break my head off, as a mischievous child would serve a doll. just then i heard some one sobbing and crying, and i felt as if i must be asleep and dreaming all this. "don't make that row. he's all right, i tell you. he isn't drowned. what's the good of making a row like that!" it was george day's voice, and opening my eyes i said hoarsely: "what's the matter? is he hurt?" "no: it's only harry leggatt thought you were--you were hurt, you know. can you get up, and run? all our clothes are two fields off. come on. the sun will dry you." i got up, feeling giddy and strange, and the aching at the back of my head was almost unbearable; but i began to walk with day holding my hand, and after a time--he guiding me, for i felt very stupid--i began to trot; and at last, with my head throbbing and whirring, i found myself standing by my clothes, and my companions helped me to dress. "you went out too far," day said. "i told you not, you know." i was shivering with cold and terribly uncomfortable with putting on my things over my wet chilled body. it had been a hard task too, especially with my socks, but i hardly spoke till we were walking home, and when i did it was during the time i was smoothing my wet hair with a pocket comb lent me by one of the boys. "how was it i went too far?" i said at last, dolefully. "i don't know," said day. "i shouldn't have known anything if that chap shock hadn't come shouting to us; and when we came, thinking he was going to steal our clothes, he brought us and showed us where he had dragged you out on to the bank. it was him we saw swimming when we first went in." "where is he now?" i said wearily. "let's ask him all about it." "i don't know," replied day. "he ran off to dress himself, i suppose, and he didn't come back. but i say, you're better now." "oh yes!" i said, "i'm better now;" and by degrees the walk in the warm afternoon sunshine seemed to make me feel more myself; beside which i was dry when i got back home, but very low-spirited and dull. i did not say anything, for my mother was lying down, and mrs beeton never invited my confidence; beside which i felt rather conscience-stricken, and after having my solitary tea i went to the window, feeling warmer, and less disposed to shiver. and as i sat there about seven o'clock on that warm summer evening it almost seemed as if my afternoon's experience had been a dream, and that shock had not swum out and saved me from drowning, for there he was under one of the pear-trees, with a switch and a piece of clay, throwing pellets at our house, one of which came right in at the open window close by my cheek, and struck against mrs beeton's cheffonier door. chapter five. beginning a new life. i don't want to say much about a sad, sad time in my life, but old brownsmith played so large a part in it then that i feel bound to set it all down. i saw very little more of george day, for just about that time he was sent off to another school; and i am glad to recollect that i went little away from the invalid who used to watch me with such wistful eyes. i had no more lessons in swimming, but i saved up a shilling for a particular purpose, and that was to give to shock; but though i tried to get near him time after time when i was in the big garden with my mother, no sooner did i seem to be going after him than the boy went off like some wild thing--diving in amongst the bushes, and, knowing the garden so well, he soon got out of sight. i did not want to send the present by anybody, for that seemed to me like entering into explanations why i sent the money; and i knew that if the news reached my mother's ears that i had been half-drowned, it would come upon her like a terrible shock; and she was, i knew now, too ill to bear anything more. so though i was most friendly in my disposition towards shock, and wanted to pay him in my mild way for saving my life, he persisted in looking upon me as an enemy, and threw clay, clods, and, so to speak, derisive gestures, whenever we met at a distance. "i won't run after him any more," i said to myself one day. "he's half a wild beast, and if he wants us to be enemies, we will." i suppose i knew a good deal for my age, as far as education went. if i had been set to answer the questions in an examination paper i believe i should have failed; but all the same i had learned a great deal of french, german, and latin, and i could write a fair hand and express myself decently on paper. but when i sat at our window watching shock's wonderful activity, and recalled how splendidly he must be able to swim, i used to feel as if i were a very inferior being, and that he was a long way ahead of me. as the time went on our visits to the garden used to grow less frequent; but whenever the weather was fine and my mother felt equal to the task, we used to go over; and towards the end old brownsmith's big armed windsor chair, with its cushions, used to be set under a big quince tree in the centre walk, just where there were most flowers, and as soon as we had reached it the old fellow used to come down with a piece of carpet to double up and put beneath my mother's feet. "used to be a bit of a spring here," he said with a nod to me; "might be a little damp." then he would leave a couple of cats, "just for company like," he would say, and then go softly away. i did not realise it was so near when that terrible time came and i followed my poor mother to her grave, seeing everything about me in a strange, unnatural manner. one minute it seemed to be real; then again as if it were all a dream. there were people about me in black, and i was in black, but i was half stunned, listening to the words that were said; and at last i was left almost alone, for those who were with me stepped back a yard or two. i was gazing down with my eyes dimmed and a strange aching feeling at my heart, when i felt someone touch my elbow, and turning round to follow whoever it was, i found old brownsmith there, in his black clothes and white neckerchief, holding an enormous bunch of white roses in his arms. "thought you'd like it, my lad," he said in a low husky voice. "she used to be very fond o' my white roses, poor soul!" as he spoke he nodded and took his great pruning-knife from his coat pocket, opened it with his teeth, and cut the strip of sweet-scented russia mat. then holding them ready in his arms he stood there while i slowly scattered the beautiful flowers down more and more, more and more, till the coffin was nearly covered, and instead of the black cloth i saw beneath me the fragrant heap of flowers, and the dear, loving face that had gazed so tenderly in mine seemed once more to be looking in my eyes. i held the last two roses in my hand for a moment or two, hesitating, but i let them fall at last; and then the tears i had kept back so long came with a rush, and i sank down on my knees sobbing as if my heart would break. it was one of my uncles who laid his hand upon my shoulder and made me start as he bent over me, and said in a low, chilling voice: "get up, my boy; we are going back. come!--be a man!" i did get up in a weary, wretched way, and as i did so i looked round after old brownsmith, and there he was a little distance off, watching me, it seemed. then we went back, my relatives who were there taking very little notice of me; and i was made the more wretched by hearing one cousin, whom i had never seen before, say angrily that he did not approve of that last scene being made--"such an exhibition with those flowers." it was about a month after that sad scene that i went over to see old brownsmith. i was very young, but my life with my invalid mother had, i suppose, made me thoughtful; and though i used to sit a great deal at the window i felt as if i had not the heart to go into the great garden, where every path and bed would seem to bring up one of the days when somebody used to be sitting there, watching the flowers and listening to the birds. i used to fancy that if i went down any of her favourite walks i should burst out crying; and i had a horror of doing that, for the knowledge was beginning to dawn upon me that a great change was coming over my life, and that i must begin to think of acting like a man. as i turned in at the gate i saw shock at the door of one of the lofts over the big packing-sheds. he had evidently gone up there after some baskets, and as soon as i saw him i walked quickly in his direction; but he darted out of sight in the loft; and if i had any idea of scaling the ladder and going up to him to take him by storm, it was checked at once, for a half-sieve basket--one of those flat, round affairs in which fruit is packed--came flying out of the door, and then another and another, one after the other, at a tremendous rate, quite sufficient to have knocked me backwards before i was half-way up. "a brute!" i said angrily to myself. "i'll treat him with contempt;" and striding away i went down the garden, with the creaking, banging of the falling baskets going on. and when i turned to look, some fifty yards away, there was a big heap of the round wicker-work flats at the foot of the ladder, and others kept on flying out of the door. i had not gone far before i saw old brownsmith busy as usual amongst his cats; and as he rose from stooping to tie up a plant he caught sight of me, and immediately turned down the path where i was. he held out his great rough hand, took mine, and shook it up and down gently for quite a minute, just as if it had been the handle of a pump. "seen my new pansies?" he said. i shook my head. "no, of course you haven't," he said. "well, how are you?" i said i was pretty well, and hoped he was. "middling," he replied. "want more sun. can't get my pears to market without more sun." "it has been dull," i said. "splendid for planting out, my lad, but bad for ripening off. well, how are you?" i said again that i was very well; and he looked at me thoughtfully, put one end of a bit of matting between his teeth, and drew it out tightly with his left hand. then he began to twang it thoughtfully, and made it give out a dull musical note. "seen my new pansies?" he said--"no, of course not," he added quickly; "and i asked you before. come and look at them." he led me to a bed which was full of beautifully rounded, velvety-petalled flowers. "what do you think of them?" he said--"eh? there's a fine one, _mulberry superb_; rich colour--eh?" "they are lovely," i said warmly. "hah! yes!" he said, looking at me thoughtfully; "she liked white roses, though--yes, white roses--and they are all over." my lip began to quiver, but i mastered the emotion and he went on: "thought i should have seen you before, my lad. didn't think i should see you for some time. thought perhaps i should never see you again. thought you'd be sure to come and say `good-bye!' before you went. contradictions--eh?" "i always meant to come over and see you, mr brownsmith," i said. "of course you did, my lad. been damp and cold. want more sun badly." i said i hoped the weather would soon change, and i began to feel uncomfortable and was just thinking i would go, when he thrust the piece of matting in his pocket, and took up and began stroking one of the cats. "ah! it's a bad job, my lad!" he said softly--"a terrible job!" i nodded. "a sad job, my lad!--a very sad job!" i nodded again, and waited till a choking sensation had gone off. "boys don't think enough about their mothers--some boys don't," he went on. "i didn't, till she was took away. you did--stopped with her a deal." "i'm afraid,"--i began. "i'm not," he said, interrupting me hastily. "i notice a deal--weather, and people, and children, and boys, and things growing. want sun badly--don't we?" "yes, sir," i said; and i looked up in his florid face, with its bushy white whiskers; and then i looked at his great bulging pockets, and next down lower at his black legs, which the cats were turning into rubbing-posts; and as they served me the same in the most friendly manner i began wondering whether he ever brushed his black trousers, and thought of what a job i should have to get all the cats' hairs off mine. for there they all were, quite a little troop, arching their backs and purring, sticking their tails straight up, and every now and then giving their ends a flick. they were so friendly in their rubbings against me that i did not like to refuse to accept their salutes; but it seemed to me as if only the light-coloured hairs came off, and in a short time i was furry from the knees of my black trousers down to my boots. there was something, too, of welcome in their ways that was pleasant to me in my desolate position, for just then i seemed as if i had not one friend in the world; and even mr brownsmith seemed strange and cold, and as if he would be very glad when i was gone and he could get along with his work. "there, there," he cried suddenly, "we mustn't fret about it, you know. it's what we must all come to, and i don't hold with people making it out dreadful. it's very sad, boy, so it is. dull weather too. when all my trees and plants die off for the winter, we don't call that dreadful, because we know they'll all bud and leaf and blossom again after their long sleep; and so it is with them as has gone away. there, there, there, you must try to be a man." "yes, sir," i said; "i am trying very hard." "that's the way," he cried; "that's the way;" and he clapped me on the shoulder. "to be sure it is hard work, though, when you are on'y twelve or thirteen years old." "yes, sir." "but look here, boy, there's a tremendous deal done by a lad who makes up his mind to try; do you see?" "yes sir, i see," i said, looking at him wonderingly, for he did not seem to want to get rid of me now, as he was holding me tightly by the arm. "'member coming for the strawberries?" he said drily. "yes, sir." "thought me a disagreeable old fellow, didn't you then?" i hesitated, but he looked at me sharply. "yes, sir, i did then," i said. "i did not know how kind you could be." "that's just what i am," he said gruffly; "very disagreeable." i shook my head. "i am," he said. "ask any of my men and women. here--what's going to become of you, my lad--what are you going to be--soldier like your father?" "oh no!" i said. "what then?" "i don't know, sir. i believe i am to wait till my uncles and my father's cousin have settled." "how many of them are to settle it, boy?" "four, sir." "four, eh, my boy! ah, then i suppose it will take a lot of settling! you'll have to wait." "yes, sir, i've got to wait," i said. "but have you no prospects?" "oh yes, sir!" i said. "i believe i have." "well, what?" "my uncle frederick said that i must make up my mind to go somewhere and earn my own living." "that's a nice prospect." "yes, sir." he was silent for a moment or two, and then smiled. "well, you're right," he said. "it is a nice prospect, though you and i were thinking different things. i like a boy to make up his mind to earn his living when he is called upon to do it. makes him busy and self-reliant--makes a man of him. did he say how?" "who, sir--my uncle frederick?" "yes." "no, sir, he only said that i must wait." "like i have to wait for the sun to ripen my fruit, eh? ah, but i don't like that. if the sun don't come i pick it, and store it under cover to ripen as well as it will." i looked at him wonderingly. "that waiting," he went on, "puts me in mind of the farmer and his corn in the fable--get out, cats!--he waited till he found that the proper thing to do was to get his sons to work and cut the corn themselves." "yes, sir," i said smiling; "and then the lark thought it was time to take her young ones away." "good, lad; right!" he cried. "that fable contains the finest lesson a boy can learn. don't you wait for others to help you: help yourself." "i'll try, sir." "that's right. ah! i wish i had always been as wise as that lark." "then you would not wait if you were me, sir?" i said, looking up at him wonderingly. "not a week, my lad, if you can get anything to do. fact is, i've been looking into it, and your relations are all waiting for each other to take you in hand. there isn't one of them wants the job." i sighed, and said: "i'm afraid i shall be a great deal of trouble to them, sir, and an enormous expense." "oh, you think so, do you!" he said, stooping down and lifting up first one cat and then another, stroking them gently the while. then one of them, as usual, leaped upon his back. "well, look here, my boy," he said thoughtfully, "that's all nonsense about expense! i--" he stopped short and went on stroking one cat's back, as it rubbed against his leg, and he seemed to be thinking very deeply. "yes, all nonsense. see here; wait for a week or two, perhaps one of your uncles may find you something to do, or send you to a good school, eh?" "no, sir," i said; "my uncle frederick said i must not expect to be sent to a school." "oh he did, did he?" "yes, sir." "well, then, if nothing better turns up--if they don't find you a good place, you might come and help me." "help you, sir!" i said wonderingly; "what, learn to be a market-gardener?" "yes, there's nothing so very dreadful in that, is there?" "oh no, sir! but what could i do?" "heaps of things. tally the bunches and check the sieves, learn to bud and graft, and how to cut young trees, and--oh, i could find you enough to do." i looked at him aghast, and began to see in my mind's eye rough, dirty shock, crawling about on his hands and knees, and digging out the weeds from among the onions with his fingers. "oh, there's lots of things you could do!" he continued. "why, of a night you might use your pen and help me do the booking, and read and improve yourself while i sat and smoked my pipe. cats don't come into the house." "do you mean that i should come and live with you, sir?" i said. "that's it, my boy, always supposing you couldn't do any better. could you?" i shook my head. "i don't think so, sir," i said dismally. "not such a good life for a boy in winter when things are bare, as in summer when the flowers are out and the fruit comes on. like fruit, don't you?" "yes, sir, but you don't let your boys eat the fruit." "tchah! i should never miss what you would eat," he said with a laugh, "and you would soon get tired of the apples and pears and gooseberries. think you'd like to come, eh-em? you don't know; of course you don't. wouldn't make a gentleman of you. i never heard of a gentleman gardener; plenty of gentlemen farmers, though." "yes, sir," i said, with my heart beating fast, "i've heard of gentlemen farmers." "but not of gentlemen market-gardeners, eh? no, my boy, they don't call us gentlemen, and i never professed to be one; but a man may be a gentleman at heart whatever his business, and that's better than being a gentleman in name." i looked up in his fresh red face, and there was such a kindly look in it that i felt happier than i had been for weeks, and i don't know what moved me to do it, but i laid my hand upon his arm. he looked down at me thoughtfully as he went on. "people are rather strange about these things. gentleman farmer cultivates a hundred acres of land that he pays a hundred and fifty pounds a year for say: market-gardener cultivates twenty acres that he pays two or three hundred for; and they call the one a gentleman, the other a gardener. but it don't matter, master dennison, a bit. does it?" "no, sir," i said, "i don't think so." "old business, gardening," he went on, with a dry look at me--"very old. let me see. there was a man named adam took to it first, wasn't there? cultivated a garden, didn't he?" i nodded and smiled. "ah, yes," he said; "but that was a long time ago, and you've not been brought up for such a business. you wouldn't like it." "indeed, but i should, sir," i cried enthusiastically. "no, no," he said, deliberately. "don't be in a hurry to choose, my boy. i knew a lad once who said he would like to be a sailor, and he went to sea and had such a taste of it from london to plymouth that he would not go any farther, and they had to set him ashore." "he must have been a great coward," i said. "to be sure he was; but then you might be if you pricked your finger with the thorns of a rose, or had to do something in the garden when it was freezing hard, eh?" "i don't think i should be," i replied. "but you must think," he said. "it's very nice to see flowers blooming and fruit fit to pick with the sun shining and the sky blue; but life is not all summer, my boy, is it? there are wet days and storms, and rough times, and the flowers you see blossoming have been got ready in the cold wintry weather, when they were only seeds, or bare shabby-looking roots." "yes, i know that," i said. "and you think you would like to come?" "yes, sir." "what for? to play in the garden, and look on while the work is done?" "i think i should be ashamed to do that," i said; "it would be so lazy. if you please, mr brownsmith, i've got to work and do something, and if you will have me, i should like to come." "well, well," he said, "mine's a good business and profitable and healthy, and there are times when, in spite of bad crops, bad weather, and market losses, i thank god that i took to such a pleasant and instructive way of getting a living." "it is instructive then, sir?" i said. "instructive, my lad!" he cried with energy. "i don't know any business that is more full of teaching. i've been at it all my life, and the older i grow the more i find there is to learn." "i like that," i said, for it opened out a vista of adventure to me that seemed full of bright flowers and sunshine. "a man who has brains may go on learning and making discoveries, not discoveries of countries and wonders, but of little things that may make matters better for the people who are to come after him. then he may turn a bit of the england where he works into a tropical country, by covering it over with glass, and having a stove; then some day, if he goes on trying, he may find himself able to write frhs at the end of his name." "and did you, sir?" "no," he said, "i never did. i was content with plodding. i'm a regular plodder, you see; so's samuel." "is he, sir?" i said, for he evidently wanted me to speak. "yes, a regular plodder. well, there, my boy, we'll see. don't you be in a hurry; wait and see if your relatives are going to do anything better for you. if they are not, don't you be in a hurry." but i was in a hurry, for the idea of coming to that garden, living there, and learning all about the flowers and fruit, excited me, longing as i was for some change. "yes, yes," he said, "wait, wait;" and he looked at me, and then about him in the slow meditative manner peculiar to gardeners; "we'll see, we'll see, wait till you know whether your people are going to do anything for you." "but, indeed, sir," i began. "yes, yes, i know, boy," he replied; but we must wait. "perhaps they've planted a business bulb for you, and we must wait and see whether it is going to shoot and blossom. you're impatient; you want to pull up the bulb and see if it has any roots yet." i looked at him in a disappointed way, and he smiled. "come, come," he said; "at your age you can afford to wait a few days, if it is for your good. there, wait and see, and i'll be plain with you; if they do not find you something better to do, i'll take you on here at once, and do the best i can for you, as far as teaching you to be a gardener goes." "o, thank you, sir!" i cried. "wait a bit," he said quietly, "wait a bit. there i'm going to be very busy; i've got a cart to load. so now suppose you be off." i shook hands with him and walked away surprised and pleased, but at the same time disappointed, and as i neared the end of the big loft i heard two or three more baskets come rattling down. chapter six. i decide and go to work. i felt that i ought to write to my uncles and cousins, and i consulted mrs beeton about it. mrs beeton put her head on one side and tried how far she could get her arm down the black worsted stocking she was darning, looking at me meditatively the while. "well, do you know," she said, "if i were you, my dear, i would write; for it do seem strange to leave you here, as i may say, all alone." "then i will write," i said. "i want to know what i am going to be." "oh! i should be a soldier, like your dear pa was, if i were you," she said; "and i'd go into a regiment where they wore blue and silver-blue and silver always looks so well." "i don't want to be a soldier," i said rather sadly, for my fancy did at one time go strongly in that direction; but it did not seem so very long since the news came that my poor father had been killed in a skirmish with the indians; and i remembered how my poor mother had thrown her arms round my neck and sobbed, and made me promise that i would never think of being a soldier. and then it seemed as if after that news she had gradually drooped and faded, just as a flower might upon its stalk, till two years had gone by, and then all happened as i have related to you, and i was left pretty well alone in the world. "i'm sorry you don't want to be a soldier," said mrs beeton, looking at me through her glasses, with her head a little more on one side. "if i had been a young gentleman i should have been a horse-soldier. i wouldn't be a sailor if i was you, sir." "why not?" i said. "because they do smell so of tar, and they're so rough and boisterous." "i think i shall be a gardener," i said. "a what?" "a gardener." "my dear boy!" she cried in horror, "whatever put that in your head? why, you couldn't be anything worse. there!--i do declare you startled me so i've stuck the needle right into my finger, and it bleeds!" we had many arguments about the matter while i was waiting for answers to my letters, for no one came down to see me. uncle thomas said he was going to see about my being put in a good public school, but there was no hurry; and perhaps it would be better to wait and see what uncle johnson meant to do, for he should not like to offend him, as he was much better off, and it might be doing me harm. uncle johnson wrote a very short letter, saying that i had better write to my uncle frederick. second-cousin willis did not reply for a week, and he said it was the duty of one of my uncles to provide for me; and he should make a point of bringing them both to book if they did not see about something for me before long. one or two other relatives wrote to me that they were not in circumstances to help me, and that if they were strong, stout boys such as i was, they would try and get a situation, for it was no disgrace to earn my living; and they wished me well. i took all these letters over to mr brownsmith, and he read them day after day as they came; but he did not say a word, and it made my heart sink, as it seemed to me that he was repenting of his offer. and so a month slipped by; and when i was not reading or writing i found myself gazing out of the window at the pleasant old garden, where the fruit was being gathered day after day. the time was passing, and the chances of my going over to brownsmith's seemed to me growing remote, while i never seemed to have seen so much of shock. it appeared to me that he must know of my disappointment; for whenever he saw me at the window, and could do so unseen, he threw dabs of clay, or indulged in derisive gestures more extravagant than ever. i affected to take no heed of these antics, but they annoyed me all the same; and i found myself wishing at times that mr brownsmith would take me, if only to give me a chance of some day thrashing that objectionable boy. i was sitting very disconsolately at the window one day, with a table on which i had been writing drawn up very close to the bay, when i heard a footstep below, and looking down there was old brownsmith, who nodded to me familiarly and came up. "well," he said, "how are you? nice weather for my work." he sat down, pursed up his lips, and looked about him for some minutes without speaking. "news," he said, "any news?" "no, sir," i replied. "humph! not going to make you manager of the bank of england or master of the mint--eh?" "no, sir. i have had no more news." "i was afraid you wouldn't," he continued. "well, i told you the other day not to be rash, for there was plenty of time." "yes, sir." "now i'm going to change my tune." i jumped up excitedly. "yes, change my tune," he said. "you're wasting time now. what do you say after thinking it over?--like to come?" "may i, sir?" i cried joyfully. "i'm a man of my word, my boy," he replied drily. "oh! thank you, sir!" i cried. "i shall always be grateful to you for this, and--" "gently, gently," he said, interrupting me. "never promise too much. acts are better than words, my boy. there!--good-bye! see you soon, i suppose?" i would have gone with him then, but he told me to take things coolly and get what i wanted packed up. "why, grant, my boy," he said, laughing, "you'll have to look over the loading of some of my carts when i'm not there; and if you do them in that hurried fashion how will it be done?" i felt the rebuke and hung my head. "there!--i'm not finding fault," he said kindly; "i only want you to be business-like, for i have to teach you to be a business man." he then went away and left me to settle up matters with mrs beeton, who began to cry when i told her i was going, and where. "it seems too dreadful," she sobbed, "and you so nicely brought up. what am i to say to your friends when they come?" "tell them where i am," i said, smiling. "ah, my dear! you may laugh," she cried; "but it's a very dreadful life you are going to, and i expect i shall see you back before the week's out." my clothes did not fill the small school-box, but i had a good many odds, and ends and books that weighed up and made it too heavy to carry, as i had intended; so i had to go over to the garden, meaning to ask for help. i fully expected to meet shock about the sheds or in one of the carts or wagons, but the first person i set eyes on was old brownsmith himself--i say _old_ brownsmith, for everybody called him so. he was wearing a long blue serge apron, as he came towards me with his open knife in his teeth and a quantity of russia matting in his hands, tearing and cutting it into narrow lengths. "well, young fellow?" he said as coolly as if no conversation had passed between us. "i've come, sir, for good," i said sharply. "i hope you have," he replied drily; "but is that all of you? where's your tooth-brush and comb, and clean stockings?" "i wanted to bring my box, sir," i said, "but it was too heavy. would any of the men come and fetch it?" "ask 'em," he said abruptly, and he turned away. this seemed cold and strange; but i knew him to be rather curious and eccentric in his ways, so i walked to one of the cart-sheds and looked about for a man to help me. i thought i saw some one enter the shed; but when i got inside no one was there, as far as i could see--only piles of great baskets reaching from floor to ceiling. disappointed, i was coming away, when in the gloom at the other end there seemed to be something that was not basket; and taking a few steps forward i made out that it was the boy shock standing close up against the baskets, with his face away from me. i stood thinking what i should do. i was to be in the same garden with this lad, who was always sneering at me; and i felt that if i let him have the upper hand he would make my life very much more miserable than it had been lately. my mind was made up in a moment, and with a decision for which i had not given myself credit i went right in and stood behind him. "shock!" i cried; but the boy only gave himself a twitch as if a spasm had run through him, and did not move. "do you hear, sir?" i said sharply. "come here; i want you to help carry my box." still he did not move, and i felt that if i did not master him he would me. "do you hear what i say, sir?" i cried in my most angry tones; "come with me and fetch my box." he leaped round so quickly that he made me start, and stood glaring at me as if about to strike. "you must come and fetch my box," i said, feeling all the while a good deal of dread of the rough, fierce-looking boy. i was between him and the wide door; and he stooped and looked first one side of me and then the other, as if about to dart by. but, growing bolder, i took a step forward and laid my hand upon his shoulder. up flew his arms as if about to strike mine away, but he caught my eye and understood it wrongly. he must have thought i was gazing resolutely at him, but i really was not. to my great satisfaction, though, he stepped forward, drooping his arms and hanging his head, walking beside me out into the open yard, where we came suddenly upon old brownsmith, who looked at me sharply, nodded his head, and then went on. i led the way, and shock half-followed, half-walked beside me, and we had just reached the gate when old brownsmith shouted: "take the barrow." shock trotted back like a dog; and as i watched him, thinking what a curious half-savage lad he was, and how much bigger and stronger than i was, he came back with the light basket barrow, trundling it along. we went in silence as far as my old home, where mrs beeton held up her hands as she saw my companion, and drew back, holding the door open for us to get the corded box which stood in the floor-clothed hall. shock put down the barrow; and then his mischief-loving disposition got the better of his sulkiness, and stooping down he astonished me and made mrs beeton shriek by taking a leap up the two steps, like a dog, and going on all-fours to the box. "pray, pray, take him away, master dennison!" the poor woman cried in real alarm; "and do, pray, mind yourself--the boy's mad!" "oh, no; he won't hurt you," i said, taking one end of the box. but shock growled, shook it free, lifted it from the floor, and before i could stop him, bumped it down the steps on to the barrow with a bang, laid it fairly across, and then seizing the handles went off at a trot. "i can't stop," i said quickly; "i must go and look after him." "yes, but pray take care, my dear. he bites. he bit a boy once very badly, and he isn't safe." not very pleasant news, but i could not stay to hear more, and, running after the barrow, i caught up to it and laid my hand upon one side of the box as if to keep it steady. i did not speak for a minute, and shock subsided into a walk; then, turning to him and looking in his morose, ill-used face: "i've never thanked you yet for getting me out of the river." the box gave a bump and a bound, for the handles of the barrow were raised very high and shock began to run. at the end of a minute i stopped him, and as soon as we were going on steadily i made the same remark. but up went the barrow and box again and off we trotted. when, after stopping him for the second time, i made an attempt to get into conversation and to thank him, shock banged down the legs of the barrow, looking as stolid and heavy as if he were perfectly deaf, threw open the gate, and ran the barrow up to the house-door. "oh! here's your baggage, then!" said old brownsmith. "bring it in, shock; set it on end there in the passage. we'll take it up after tea. come along." shock lifted in the box before i could help him; and then seizing the barrow-handles, with his back to me, he let out a kick like a mule and caught me in the calf, nearly sending me down. "hallo! hold on, my lad," said old brownsmith, who had not seen the cause; and of course i would not tell tales; but i made up my mind to repay mr shock for that kick and for his insolent obstinacy the first time the opportunity served. i followed my master into a great shed that struck cool as we descended to the floor, which was six or seven feet below the surface, being like a cellar opened and then roofed in with wood. here some seven or eight women were busy tying up rosebuds in market bunches, while a couple of men went and came with baskets which they brought in full and took out empty. the scent was delicious; and as we went past the women, whose busy fingers were all hard at work, old brownsmith stopped where another man kept taking up so many bunches of the roses in each hand and then diving his head and shoulders into a great oblong basket, leaving the roses at the bottom as he came out, and seized a piece of chalk and made a mark upon a slate. "give him the slate, ike," said old brownsmith. "he'll tally 'em off for you now. look here, grant, you keep account on the slate how many bunches are put in each barge, and how many barges are filled." "yes, sir," i said, taking the slate and chalk with trembling fingers, for i felt flushed and excited. "this is the way--you put down a stroke like that for every dozen, and one like that for a barge. do you see?" "yes, sir," i said, "i can do that; but when am i to put down a barge?" "when it's full, of course, and covered in--lidded up." "but shall we fill a barge to-night, sir?" "well, i hope so--a good many," said old brownsmith. "will he go down to the river with me to show me where, sir?" "river!--show you what, my boy?" "the barges we are to fill, sir." "whoo-oop!" it was ike made this peculiar noise. it answered in him for a laugh. then he dived down into the great oblong basket and stopped there. "you don't know what a barge is," said old brownsmith kindly. "oh yes, sir, i do!" i replied. "not one of our barges, my lad," he said, laying his hand upon my shoulder. "we call these large baskets barges. you'll soon pick up the names. there, go on." i at once began to keep count of the bunches, old brownsmith seeming to take no farther notice of me, while ike the packer kept on laying in dozen after dozen, once or twice pretending to lay them in and bringing the bunches out again, as if to balk me, but all in a grim serious way, as if it was part of his work. i was so busy and excited that i hardly had time to enjoy the sweet scent of the flowers in that cool, soft pit; but in a short time i was so far accustomed that i had an eye for the men bringing in fresh supplies, just cut, and for the women who, working at rough benches, were so cleverly laying the buds in a half-moon shape between their fingers and thumbs, the flowers being laid flat upon the bench. then a second row was laid upon the first, a piece of wet matting was rapidly twisted round, tied, and the stalks cut off regularly with one pressure of the knife. it seemed to me as if enough of the beautiful pink buds nestling in their delicate green leaves were being tied up to supply all london, but i was exceedingly ignorant then. mine was not a hard task; and as i attended to it, whenever ike, who was packing, had his eyes averted from me, i had a good look at him. i had often seen him before, but only at a distance, and at a distance ike certainly looked best. i know he could not help it, but decidedly ike, old brownsmith's chief packer and carter, was one of the strongest and ugliest men i ever saw. he was a brawny, broad-shouldered fellow of about fifty, with iron-grey hair; and standing out of his brown-red face, half-way between fierce, stiff, bushy whiskers, was a tremendous aquiline nose. when his hat was off, as he removed it from time to time to give it a rub, you saw that he had a very shiny bald head--in consequence, as i suppose, of so much polishing. his eyes were deeply set but very keen-looking, and his mouth when shut had one aspect, when open another. when open it seemed as if it was the place where a few very black teeth were kept. when closed it seemed as if made to match his enormous nose; the line formed by the closed lips, being continued right down on either side in a half-moon or parenthesis curve to the chin, which was always in motion. a closer examination showed that ike had only a mouth of the ordinary dimensions, the appearance of size being caused by two marks of caked tobacco-juice, a piece of that herb being always between his teeth. this habit he afterwards told me he had learned when he was a soldier, and he still found it useful and comforting in the long night watches he had to take. i have said that his eyes were piercing, and so it seemed to me at first; but in a short time, as i grew more accustomed to him, i found that they were only piercing one at a time, for as if nature had intended to make him as ugly as possible, ike's eyes acted independently one of the other, and i often found him looking at me with one, and down into the barge basket with the other. old brownsmith had no sooner left the pit than ike seized a couple of handsful of roses, plunged with them into the basket, bobbed up, and looked at me with one eye, just as he caught me noticing him intently. "rum un, ain't i?" he said, gruffly, and taking me terribly aback. "not much to look at, eh?" "you look very strong," i said, evasively. "strong, eh? yes, and so i am, my lad. good un to go." then he plunged into the barge again and uttered a low growl, came up again and uttered another. i have not the least idea what he meant by it, though i suppose he expected me to answer, for to my great confusion he rose up suddenly and stared at me. "eh?" he said. "i didn't speak, sir," i said. "no, but i did. got 'em all down? go on then, one barge, fresh un this is: you didn't put down the other." i hastened to rectify my error, and then we went steadily on with the task, the women being remarkably silent, as if it took all their energy to keep their fingers going so fast, till all at once old brownsmith appeared at the door and beckoned me to him. "tea's ready, my lad," he said; "let's have it and get out again, for there's a lot to do this evening." i followed him into a snug old-fashioned room that seemed as if it had been furnished by a cook with genteel ideas, or else by a lady who was fond of a good kitchen, for this room was neither one nor the other; it had old-fashioned dining-room chairs and a carpet, but the floor was brick, and the fireplace had an oven and boiler. then there was a dresser on one side, but it was mahogany, and in place of ordinary plates and dishes, and jugs swinging from hooks, this dresser was ornamented with old china and three big punch-bowls were turned up on the broad part upside down. there was a comfortable meal spread, with a fresh loaf and butter, and a nice large piece of ham. there was fruit, too, on the table, and a crisp lettuce, all in my honour as i afterwards found, for my employer or guardian, or whatever i am to style him, rarely touched any of the produce of his own grounds excepting potatoes, and these he absolutely loved, a cold potato for breakfast or tea being with him a thorough relish. "make yourself at home, grant, my boy," he said kindly. "i want you to settle down quickly. we shall have to work hard, but you'll enjoy your meals and sleep all the better." i thanked him, and tried to do as he suggested, and to eat as if i enjoyed my meal; but i did not in the least, and i certainly did not feel in the slightest degree at home. "what time did you go to bed over yonder, grant?" said the old gentleman. "ten o'clock, sir." "and what time did you get up?" "eight, sir." "ugh, you extravagant young dog!" he cried. "ten hours' sleep! you'll have to turn over a new leaf. nine o'clock's my bedtime, if we are not busy, and i like to be out in the garden again by four or five. what do you say to that?" i did not know what to say, so i said nothing. we did not sit very long over our tea, for there was the cart to load up with flowers for the morning's market, and soon after i was watching ike carefully packing in the great baskets along the bottom of the cart, and then right over the shafts upon the broad projecting ladder, and also upon that which was fitted in at the back. "you keep account, grant," said old brownsmith to me, and i entered the number of baskets and their contents upon my slate, the old gentleman going away and leaving me to transact this part of the business myself, as i believe now, to give me confidence, for he carefully counted all the baskets and checked them off when he came back. ike squinted at me fiercely several times as he helped to hoist in several baskets, and for some time he did not speak, but at last he stopped, took off his hat, drew a piece of cabbage leaf from the crown, and carefully wiped his bald head with it, looking comically at me the while. "green silk," he said gruffly, as he replaced the leaf. "nature's own growth. never send 'em to the wash. throw 'em away and use another." i laughed at the idea, and this pleased ike, who looked at me from top to toe. "you couldn't load a cart," he said at last. "couldn't i?" i replied. "why not? it seems easy enough." "seems easy! of course it does, youngster. seems easy to take a spade and dig all day, but you try, and i'm sorry for your back and jyntes." "but you've only got to put the baskets in the cart," i argued. "only got to put the baskets in the cart!" grumbled ike. "hark at him!" "that's what you've been doing," i continued. "what i've been doing!" he said. "i'm sorry for the poor horse if you had the loading up. a cart ain't a wagon." "well, i know that," i said, "a wagon has four wheels, and a cart two." "send i may live," cried ike. "why, he is a clever boy. he knows a cart's got two wheels and a wagon four." he said this in a low serious voice, as if talking to himself, and admiring my wisdom; but of course i could see that it was his way of laughing at me, and i hastened to add: "oh, you know what i mean!" "yes, i know what you mean, but you don't know what i mean, and if you're so offle clever you'd best teach me, for i can't teach you." "but i want you to teach me," i cried. "i've come here to learn. what is there in particular in loading a cart?" "oh, you're ever so much more clever than i am," he grumbled. "here, len's a hand with that barge." this was to the man who was helping him, and who now seized hold of another basket, which was hoisted into its place. then more baskets were piled up, the light flower barges being put at the top, till the cart began to look like a mountain as it stood there with the shafts and hind portion supported by pieces of wood. "look ye here," said ike, waving his arms about from the top of the pile of baskets, and addressing me as if from a rostrum. "when you loads a cart, reck'lect as all your weight's to come on your axle-tree. your load's to be all ballancy ballancy, you see, so as you could move it up or down with a finger." "oh yes, i see!" i cried. "oh yes, you see--now i've telled you," said ike. "people as don't know how to load a cart spyles their hosses by loading for'ard, and getting all the weight on the hoss's back, or loading back'ards, and getting all the pull on the hoss's belly-band." "yes, i see clearly now," i said. "of course you do! now you see my load here's so reg'lated that when i take them props away after the horse is in, all that weight'll swing on the axle-tree, and won't hurt the horse at all. that's what i call loading up to rights." "you've got too much weight behind, ike," said old brownsmith, who came up just then, and was looking on from opposite one wheel of the cart. "no, no, she's 'bout right," growled ike to himself. "you had better put another barge on in front. lay it flat," cried old brownsmith, whose eye was educated by years of experience, and i stood back behind the cart, listening curiously to the conversation. "yes, you're too heavy behind." "no, no, she's 'bout right, master," growled ike, "right as can be. just you look here." he took a step back over the baskets, and i heard the prop that supported the cart fall, as ike yelled out--"run, boy, run!" i did not run, for two reasons. firstly, i was too much confused to understand my danger. secondly, i had not time, for in spite of ike's insistence that the balance was correct the shafts flew up; ike threw himself down on the baskets, and the top layer of flat round sieves that had not yet been tied like the barges, came gliding off like a landslip, and before i knew where i was, i felt myself stricken down, half buried by the wicker avalanche, and all was blank. chapter seven. i make a friend. i began to understand and see and hear again an angry voice was saying: "you clumsy scoundrel! i believe you did it on purpose to injure the poor boy." "not i," growled another voice. "i aren't no spite agen him. now if it had been young shock--" "don't stand arguing," cried the first voice, which seemed to be coming from somewhere out of a mist. "run up the road and ask the doctor to come down directly." "all right, master! i'll go." "poor lad! poor boy!" the other voice in the mist seemed to say. "nice beginning for him!--nice beginning! tut--tut--tut!" it sounded very indistinct and dreamy. somehow it seemed to have something to do with my first attempt to swim, and i thought i was being pulled out of the water, which kept splashing about and making my face and hair wet. i knew i was safe, but my forehead hurt me just as if it had been scratched by the thorns on one of the hedges close to the water-side. my head ached too, and i was drowsy. i wanted to go to sleep, but people kept talking, and the water splashed so about my face and trickled back with a musical noise into the river, i thought, but really into a basin. for all at once i was wide awake again, looking at the geraniums in the window, as i lay on my back upon the sofa. i did not understand it for a few minutes; for though my eyes were wide open, the aching and giddiness in my head troubled me so, that though i wanted to speak i did not know what to say. then, as i turned my eyes from the geraniums in the window and they rested on the grey hair and florid face of old brownsmith, who was busily bathing my forehead with a sponge and water, the scene in the yard came back like a flash, and i caught the hand that held the sponge. "has it hurt the baskets of flowers?" i cried excitedly. "never mind the baskets of flowers," said old brownsmith warmly; "has it hurt you?" "i don't know; not much," i said quickly. "but won't it be a great deal of trouble and expense?" he smiled, and patted my shoulder. "never mind that," he said good-humouredly. "all people who keep horses and carts, and blundering obstinate fellows for servants, have accidents to contend against. there!--never mind, i say, so long as you have no bones broken; and i don't think you have. here, stretch out your arms." i did so. "that's right," he said. "now, kick out your legs as if you were swimming." i looked up at him sharply, for it seemed so strange for him to say that just after i had been thinking of being nearly drowned. i kicked out, though, as he told me. "no bones broken there," he said; and he proceeded then to feel my ribs. "capital!" he said after a few moments. "why, there's nothing the matter but a little bark off your forehead, and i'm afraid you'll have a black eye. a bit of sticking-plaster will set you right after all, and we sha'n't want the doctor." "doctor! oh! no," i said. "my head aches a bit, and that place smarts, but it will soon be better." "to be sure it will," he said, nodding pleasantly.--"well, is he coming?" this was to ike, who came up to the open door. "he's out," said ike gruffly. "won't be home for two hours, and he'll come on when he gets home." "that will do," said old brownsmith. "shall i see 'bout loading up again?" "oh, no!" said old brownsmith sarcastically. "let the baskets lie where they are. it doesn't matter about sending to market to sell the things. you never want any wages!" "what's the good o' talking to a man like that, master?" growled ike. "you know you don't mean it, no more'n i meant to send the sieves atop o' young grant here. i'm werry sorry; and a man can't say fairer than that." "go and load up then," said old brownsmith. "we must risk the damaged goods." ike looked hard at me and went away. "had you said anything to offend him, my lad?" said the old man as soon as we were alone. "oh! no, sir," i cried; "we were capital friends, and he was telling me the best way to load." "a capital teacher!" cried the old gentleman sarcastically. "no; i don't think he did it intentionally. if i did i'd send him about his business this very night. there!--lie down and go to sleep; it will take off the giddiness." i lay quite still, and as i did so old brownsmith seemed to swell up like the genii who came out of the sealed jar the fisherman caught instead of fish. then he grew cloudy and filled the room, and then there was the creaking of baskets, and i saw things clearly again. old brownsmith was gone, and the soft evening air came through the open window by the pots of geraniums. my eyes were half-closed and i saw things rather dimly, particularly one pot on the window-sill, which, instead of being red and regular pot-shaped, seemed to be rounder and light-coloured, and to have a couple of eyes, and grinning white teeth. there were no leaves above it nor scarlet blossoms, but a straw hat upside-down, with fuzzy hair standing up out of it; and the eyes kept on staring at me till it seemed to be shock! then it grew dark and i must have fallen asleep, wondering what that boy could have to do with my accident. perhaps i came to again--i don't know; for it may have been a dream that the old gentleman came softly back and dabbed my head gently with a towel, and that the towel was stained with blood. of course it was a dream that i was out in the east with my father, who was not hurt in the skirmish, but it was i who received the wound, which bled a good deal; and somehow i seemed to have been hurt in the shoulder, which ached and felt strained and wrenched. but all became blank again and i lay some time asleep. when i opened my eyes again i found that i was being hurt a good deal by the doctor, who was seeing to my injuries. old brownsmith and ike were both in the room, and i could see shock peeping round the big _arbor vitae_ outside the window to see what was going on. the doctor was holding a glass to my lips, while old brownsmith raised me up. "drink that, my boy," said the doctor. "that's the way!--capital! isn't it?" i shuddered and looked up at him reproachfully, for the stuff he had given me to drink tasted like a mixture of soap and smelling-salts; and i said so. "good description of the volatile alkali, my lad," he said, laughing. "there!--you'll soon be all right. i've strapped up your wound." "my wound, sir!" i said, wonderingly. "to be sure; didn't you know that you had a cut upon your forehead?" i shook my head, but stopped, for it made the room seem to turn round. "you need not mind," he continued, taking my hand. "it isn't so deep as a well nor so wide as a church-door, as somebody once said. you don't know who it was?" "shakespeare, sir," i said, rather drowsily. "bravo, young market-gardener!" he cried, laughing. "oh! you're not very bad. now, then, what are you going to do--lie still here and be nursed by mr brownsmith's maid, or get up and bear it like a man--try the fresh air?" "i'm going to get up, sir," i said quickly; and throwing my legs off the sofa i stood up; but i had to stretch out my arms, for the room-walls seemed to run by me, the floor to rise up, and i should have fallen if the doctor had not taken my arm, giving me such pain that i cried out, and the giddiness passed off, but only came back with more intensity. he pressed me back gently and laid me upon the sofa. "where did i hurt you, my boy?" he said. "my shoulder," i replied faintly. "ah! another injury!" he exclaimed. "i did not know of this. tendon a bit wrenched," he muttered as he felt me firmly but gently, giving me a good deal of pain, which i tried hard to bear without showing it, though the twitching of my face betrayed me. "you had better lie still a little while, my man. you'll soon be better." i obeyed his orders very willingly and lay still in a good deal of pain; but i must soon have dropped off asleep for a while, waking to find it growing dusk. the window was still open; and through it i could hear the creaking of baskets as they were moved, and old brownsmith's voice in loud altercation with ike. "well, there," said the latter, "'tain't no use for me to keep on saying i didn't, master, if you says i did." "not a bit, ike; and i'll make you pay for the damage as sure as i stand here." "oh! all right! i'm a rich man, master--lots o' money, and land, and stock, and implements. make me pay! i've saved a fortin on the eighteen shillings a week. here, what should i want to hurt the boy for, master? come, tell me that." "afraid he'd find out some of your tricks, i suppose." "that's it: go it, master! hark at that, now, after sarving him faithful all these years!" "get on with your work and don't talk," cried old brownsmith sharply. "catch that rope. mind you don't miss that handle." "i sha'n't miss no handles," growled ike; and as i lay listening to the sawing noise made by the rope being dragged through basket-handles and under hooks in the cart, i felt so much better that i got up and went out into the yard, to find that the cart had been carefully reloaded. ike was standing on one of the wheels passing a cart-rope in and out, so as to secure the baskets, and dragging it tight to fasten off here and there. he caught sight of me coming out of the house, feeling dull and low-spirited, for this did not seem a very pleasant beginning of my new career. "hah!" he ejaculated, letting himself down in a lumbering way from the wheel, and then rubbing his right hand up and down his trouser-leg to get it clean; "hah! now we'll have it out!" he came right up to me, spreading out his open hand. "here, young un!" he cried; "the master says i did that thar a-purpose to hurt you, out of jealous feeling like. what do you say?" "it was an accident," i cried, eagerly. "hear that, master," cried ike; "and that's a fact; so here's my hand, and here's my heart. why, i'd be ashamed o' mysen to hurt a bit of a boy like you. it war an accident, lad, and that's honest. so now what's it to be--shake hands or leave it alone?" "shake hands," i said, lifting mine with difficulty. "i don't think you could have done such a cowardly thing." i looked round sharply at mr brownsmith, for i felt as if i had said something that would offend him, since i was taking sides against him. "be careful, please," i added quickly; "my arm's very bad, and you'll hurt me." "careful!" cried ike; "i'll shake it as easy as if it was a young shoot o' sea-kale, boy. there, hear him, master! hear what this here boy says!" he shook hands with me, i dare say thinking he was treating me very gently, but he hurt me very much. the grip of his hard brown hand alone was bad enough, but i bore it all as well as i could, and tried to smile in the rough fellow's face. "that's the sort as i like," he said in a good-humoured growl. "put that down on the slate. that's being a trump, that is; and we two's shipmates after this here." old brownsmith did not speak, and ike went on: "i say, master, what a bad un you do think me! i'd ha' hated myself as long as i lived, and never forgive myself, if i'd done such a thing. look ye here--my monkey's up now, master--did yer ever know me ill-use the 'orses?" "no, ike," said old brownsmith shortly. "never once. there's the white, and i give it a crack now and then; but ask either capen or starlit, and see if ever they've got anything agen me. and here's a man as never ill-used a 'orse, and on'y kicked young shock now and then when he'd been extry owdacious, and you say as i tried to upset the load on young un here. why, master, i'm ashamed on yer. i wouldn't even ha' done it to you." i felt sorry for ike, and my sympathies were against old brownsmith, who seemed to be treating him rather hardly, especially when he said shortly: "did you fasten off that hind rope?" "yes, master, i did fasten off that hind rope," growled ike. "then, now you're out o' breath with talking, go and get your sleep. don't start later than twelve." ike uttered a low grunt, and went off with his hands in his pockets, and old brownsmith came and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "pretty well bed-time, grant, my boy. let's go in." i followed him in, feeling rather low-spirited, but when he had lit a candle he turned to me with a grim smile. "ike didn't like what i said to him, but it won't do him any harm." i looked at him, wondering how he could treat it all so coolly, but he turned off the conversation to something else, and soon after he showed me my bedroom--a neat clean chamber at the back, and as i opened the window to look out at the moon i found that there was a vine growing up a thick trellis right up to and round it, the leaves regularly framing it in. there was a comfortable-looking bed, and my box just at the foot, and i was so weary and low-spirited that i was not long before i was lying down on my left side, for i could not lie on my right on account of my shoulder being bad. as i lay there i could look out on the moon shining among the vine leaves, and it seemed to me that i ought to get out and draw down the blind; but while i was still thinking about it i suppose i must have dropped asleep, for the next thing that seemed to occur was that i was looking at the window, and it was morning, and as i lay trying to think where i was i saw something move gently just outside. at first i thought it was fancy, and that the soft morning light had deceived me, or that one of the vine leaves had been moved by the wind; but no, there was something moving just as shock's head used to come among the young shoots of the plum-trees above the wall, and, sure enough, directly after there was that boy's head with his eyes above the sill, staring right in upon me as i lay in bed. chapter eight. shock's breakfast. i lay as if fascinated for a minute or two, staring, and he stared at me. then without further hesitation i leaped out of bed and indignantly rushed to the window, but only on opening it to find him gone. there was no mistake about it though, for the trellis was still quivering, and as i looked out it seemed to me that he must have dropped part of the way and darted round the house. it was very early, but the sun was shining brightly over the dew-wet trees and plants, and a fresh, delicious scent came in at the open window. my headache and giddiness had gone, taking with them my low-spirited feeling, and dressing quickly i thought i would have a run round the garden and a look at shock before old brownsmith came down. "i wonder where shock sleeps and lives," i said to myself as i walked round peering about the place, finding the cart gone, for i had not heard the opening gate, and crushing and bumping of the wheels as it went out at midnight. the great sheds and pits seemed to be empty, and as i went down one of the long paths the garden was quite deserted, the men and women not having come. "they must be late," i thought, when i heard the old clock at isleworth church begin to strike, and listening i counted five. it was an hour earlier than i thought for, and turning down a path to the left i walked towards a sort of toolshed right in the centre of the garden, and, to my surprise, saw that the little roughly-built chimney in one corner of the building was sending out a column of pale-blue smoke. "i wonder who has lit a fire so early!" i said to myself, and walking slowly on i expected to see one of the garden women boiling her kettle and getting ready for her breakfast--some of the work-people i knew having their meals in the sheds. i stopped short as i reached the door, for before a fire of wood and rubbish burnt down into embers, and sending out a pretty good heat, there knelt shock; and as i had approached quietly he had not heard me. i stared with wonder at him, and soon my wonder turned into disgust, for what he was doing seemed to be so cruel. the fire was burning on a big slab of stone, and the embers being swept away from one part the boy had there about a score of large garden snails, which he was pushing on to the hot stone, where they hissed and sent out a lot of foam and steam. then he changed them about with a bit of stick into hotter or cooler parts, and all with his back half-turned to me. "the nasty, cruel brute!" i said to myself, for it seemed as if he were doing this out of wantonness, and i was blaming myself for not interfering to save the poor things from their painful death, when a thought flashed across my mind, and i stood there silently watching him. i had not long to watch for proof. taking a scrap of paper from his pocket, shock opened it, and i saw what it contained. then taking a monstrous pin from out of the edge of his jacket, he picked up one of the snails with his left hand, used the pin cleverly, and dragged out one of the creatures from its shell, reduced to about half its original size, blew it, dipped it in the paper of salt, and, to my horror and disgust, ate it. before i had recovered from my surprise he had eaten another and another, and he was busy over the sixth when an ejaculation i uttered made him turn and see me. he stared at me, pin in one hand, snail-shell in the other, for a moment in mute astonishment; then, turning more away from me, he went on with his repast, and began insultingly to throw the shells at me over his head. i bore it all for a few minutes in silence; then, feeling qualmish at the half-savage boy's meal, i caught one of the shells as it came, and tossed it back with such good aim that it hit him a smart rap on the head. he turned sharply round with a vicious look, and seemed as if about to fly at me. "what are you doing?" i cried. he had never spoken to me before, and he seemed to hesitate now, staring at me as if reluctant to use his tongue, but he did speak in a quick angry way. "eatin'; can't you see?" i had questioned him, but i was quite as much surprised at hearing an answer, as at the repast of which he was partaking. i stared hard at him, and he gave me a sidelong look, after which he gave three or four of the snails a thrust with a bit of stick to where they would cook better, took up another, and wriggled it out with the pin. i was disgusted and half nauseated, but i could not help noticing that the cooked snail did not smell badly, and that instead of being the wet, foaming, slimy thing i was accustomed to see, it looked dried up and firm. at last, with a horrified look at the young savage, i exclaimed: "do you know those are snails?" "yes. have one?" he answered quite sharply, and i took a step back, for i had not had my breakfast. i was rather disposed to be faint from the effects of my last night's accident, and the sight of what was going on made me ready to flee, for all at once, after letting his dirty fingers hover for a few moments over the hot stone, he picked up the largest snail, blew it as he threw it from hand to hand because it was hot, and ended by holding it out to me with: "got a big pin?" i shrank away from him with my lip curling, and i uttered a peculiar "ugh!" "all right!" he said gruffly. "they're stunning." to prove his assertion he went on eating rapidly without paying any further heed to me, throwing the shells over his head, and ending by screwing the paper up tightly that contained the salt. then he sprang up and faced me; took two or three steps in my direction, and made a spring as if to jump right on to me. naturally enough i gave way, and he darted out of the shed and dashed down between two rows of trees, to be out of sight directly, for i did not give chase. "he can talk," i said to myself as i went on down the garden thinking of the snails, and that shock was something like the wild boy of whom i had once read. but soon the various objects in the great garden made me forget shock, for the men were at work, hoeing, digging, and planting, and i was beginning to feel uncomfortable and to think that old brownsmith would be annoyed if he found me idle, when he came down one of the walks, followed by his cats, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "better?" he said abruptly. "that's right. what you're to do? oh wait a bit, we'll see! get used to the place first." he gave me a short nod, and began pointing out different tasks that he wished his men to carry out, while i watched attentively, feeling as if i should like to run off and look at the ripening fruit, but not caring to go away, for fear mr brownsmith might want me. one thing was quite evident, and that was that the cats were disposed to be very friendly. they did not take any notice of the men, but one after the other came and had a rub up against my leg, purring softly, and looking up at me with their slits of eyes closed up in the bright sunshine, till all at once old brownsmith laid his hand upon my shoulder again, and said one word: "breakfast!" i walked with him up to the house, and noticed that instead of following us in, the cats ran up a flight of steps into a narrow loft which seemed to be their home, two of them seating themselves at once in the doorway to blink at the sunshine. "like cats?" said the old gentleman. "oh yes!" i said. "ah! i see you've made friends." "yes, i replied; but i haven't made friends with that boy shock." "well, that does not matter," said old brownsmith. "come, sit down; bread and milk morning." i sat down opposite to him, to find that a big basin of bread and milk stood before each of us, and at which, after a short grace, old brownsmith at once began. i hesitated for a moment, feeling a little awkward and strange, but i was soon after as busy as he. "not going to be ill, i see," he said suddenly. "you must be on the look-out another time. accident--ike didn't mean it." i was going to say i was sure of that, when he went on: "so you haven't made friends with shock?" "no, sir." "well, don't." "i will not if you don't wish it, sir," i said eagerly. "be kind to him, and keep him in his place. hasn't been rough to you, has he?" "oh no!" i said. "he only seems disposed to play tricks." "yes, like a monkey. rum fellow, isn't he?" "yes, sir. he isn't--" "bit of an idiot, eh? oh no! he's sharp enough. i let him do as he likes for the present. awkward boy to manage." "is he, sir?" "yes, my lad. ike found him under the horses' hoofs one night, going up to market. little fellow had crawled out into the road. left in the ditch by some one or another. ike put him in a half-sieve basket with some hay, and fixed him in with some sticks same as we cover fruit, and he curled up and went to sleep till ike brought him in to me in the yard." "but where were his father and mother?" i cried. "who knows!" said old brownsmith, poking at a bit of brown crust in his basin of milk. "ike brought him to me grinning, and he said, `here's another cat for you, master.' "i was very angry," said the old gentleman after a pause; "but just then the little fellow--he was about a year old--put his head up through the wooden bars and looked at me, and i told one of the women to give him something to eat. after that i sent him to the workhouse, where they took care of him, and one day when he got bigger i gave him a treat, and had him here for a day's holiday. then after a twelvemonth, i gave him another holiday, and i should have given him two a year, only he was such a young rascal. the workhouse master said he could do nothing with him. he couldn't make him learn anything--even his letters. the only thing he would do well was work in the garden." "same as he does now, sir?" i said, for i was deeply interested. "same as he does now," assented old brownsmith. "then one day after i had given him his treat, i suppose when he was about ten years old, i found him in the garden. he had run away from the workhouse school." "and did he stay here, sir?" "no, i sent him back, grant, and he ran away again. i sent him back once more, but he came back; and at last i got to be tired of it, for the more i sent him back the more he came." the old gentleman chuckled and finished his bread and milk, while i waited to hear more. "i say i got tired of it at last, for i knew they flogged and locked up the boy, and kept him on bread and water; but it did him no good; he would run away. he used to come here, through the gate if it was open, over the wall when it was shut, and he never said a word, only hung about like a dog. "i talked to him, coaxed him, and told him that if he would be a good lad, and learn, i would have him to work some day, and he stared at me just as if he were some dumb animal, and when i had done and sent him off, what do you think happened, grant?" "he came back again, sir." "yes: came back again as soon as he could get away, and at last, being a very foolish sort of old man, i let him stop, and he has been here ever since." "and never goes to school?" "never, grant, i tried to send him, but i could only get him there by blows, and i gave that up. i don't like beating boys." i felt a curious shiver run through me as he said this, and i saw him smile, but he made no allusion to me, and went on talking about shock. "then i tried making a decent boy of him, giving him clothes, had a bed put for him in the attic, and his meals provided for him here in the kitchen." "and wasn't he glad?" i said. "perhaps he was," said old brownsmith, quietly, "but he didn't show it, for i couldn't get him to sleep in the bed, and he would not sit down to his meals in the kitchen; so at last i grew tired, and took to paying him wages, and made arrangements for one of the women who comes to work, to find him a lodging, and he goes there to sleep sometimes." i noticed that he said _sometimes_, in a peculiar manner, looking at me the while. then he went on: "i've tried several times since, grant, my lad, but the young savage is apparently irreclaimable. perhaps when he gets older something may be done." "i hope so," i said. "it seems so dreadful to see a boy so--" "so dirty and lost, as the north-country people call it, boy. ah, well, let him have his way for a bit, and we'll see by and by! you say he has not annoyed you?" "no, no," i said; "i don't think he likes me though." "that does not matter," said the old gentleman, rising. "there, now, i'm going to shave." i looked at him in wonder, as he took a tin pot from out of a cupboard, and brought forth his razors, soap, and brush. "give me that looking-glass that hangs on the wall, my lad; that's it." i fetched the glass from the nail on which it hung, and then he set it upright, propped by a little support behind, and then i sat still as he placed his razor in boiling water, soaped his chin all round, and scraped it well, removing the grey stubble, and leaving it perfectly clean. it seemed to me a curious thing to do on a breakfast-table, but it was the old man's custom, and it was not likely that he would change his habits for me. "there," he said smiling, "that's a job you won't want to do just yet awhile. now hang up the glass, and you can go out in the garden. i shall be there by and by. head hurt you?" "oh no, sir!" i said. "shoulder?" "only a little stiff, sir." then i don't think we need have the doctor any more. i laughed, for the idea seemed ridiculous. "well, then, we won't waste his time. put on your hat and go and see him. you know where he lives?" i said that i did; and i went up to his house, saw him, and he sent me away again, patting me on the shoulder that was not stiff. "yes, you're all right," he said. "now take care and don't get into my clutches again." chapter nine. gathering pippins. i did not understand it at the time, but that accident made me a very excellent friend in the shape of ike, the big ugly carter and packer, for after his fashion he took me regularly under his wing, and watched over me during the time i was at old brownsmith's. i'm obliged to stop again over that way of speaking of the market-gardener, but whenever i write "mr brownsmith," or "the old gentleman," it does not seem natural. old brownsmith it always was, and i should not have been surprised to have seen his letters come by the postman directed _old brownsmith_. ike used to look quite pleasant when i was busy near him, and while he taught me all he knew, nothing pleased him better than for me to call him from his digging, or hoeing, or planting, to move a ladder, or lift a basket, or perform some other act that was beyond my strength. all the same, though, he had a way of not showing it. i had been at the garden about a week when old brownsmith began talking about picking some of his pippins to send to market. "i hear they are making a good price," he said, "and i shall try a few sieves to-morrow morning, grant." "yes, sir," i said, for the sound of apple-picking was pleasant. "i suppose if i were to send you up one of the apple trees with a basket, you would throw yourself out and break one of your limbs." "oh no, sir!" i said. "i could climb one of the trees and pick the apples without doing that." "thank you," he replied; "that's not the way to pick my apples. why, don't you know that the fruit does not grow in the middle of a tree, but round the outside, where the sun and wind can get at the blossom?" "i didn't know it," i said rather ruefully. "i seem to be very ignorant. i wish i had been more to school." "they wouldn't have taught you that at school, my lad," he said smiling. "why, of course you did not know it. i didn't know such things when i was your age. look here. you must have a ladder put for you against a tree, and take a basket with a hook to the handle. there, i'll show you; but you are sure you will not tumble?" "i'll take care, sir," i said. "i'll be very careful." it was a sunny morning, and leading the way, old brownsmith went out to where ike was busy putting in plants with a dibber, striding over a stretched-out line, making holes, thrusting in one of the plants he held in his left hand, and with one thrust or two of the dibber surrounding it with the soft moist earth. he raised himself unwillingly, and went off to obey orders; one of the work-women was sent to fetch some flat sieves; while from one of the sheds i brought a couple of deep cross-handled baskets to each of which a wooden hook was attached. by the time we had walked to where the king-pippin trees stood with their tall straight branches, ike was before us with a ladder, with the lower rounds made of great length, so as to give width to the bottom. i had noticed this before when i had seen the ladders hanging up in the long shed, and now asked the reason why they were so made. "to keep them from tilting over when you are up there," said old brownsmith. "gently, ike, don't bruise them. ah! there they go." for, as ike thumped down the bottom of the ladder, and then let the top lean against the tree, a couple of apples were knocked off, to come down, one with a thud on the soft soil, the other to strike in the fork of the tree and bound to my feet. "some on 'em's sure to get knocked off," growled ike. "who's agoin' to pick?" "he is," said mr brownsmith shortly. "then you don't want me no more?" "not at present." "then i may go on with my planting?" "yes." "ho!" i could not help feeling amused at the way in which this conversation was carried on, and the heavy clumsy manner adopted by ike in going away. "there you are, grant," said old brownsmith, "plenty of apples. what do you say--can you go up the ladder safely and pick them?" "oh yes, sir!" i cried. "and you will not fall?" "oh! i shall not fall, sir," i cried laughing. "very well. up you go then. take your basket and hook it on to the round of the ladder where you are picking, then take each apple carefully, raise it, and it will come off at a point on the stalk where it joins the twig. don't tear them out and break the stalks, or they become unsaleable." "i'll mind, sir," i said. "i know the big marie louise pears at home used to come off like that at a joint." "good!" he cried smiling, and tapping my shoulder. "when you've picked an apple of course you'll throw it into the basket?" "yes, sir." "you'd better not," he cried sharply. "lay it in as tenderly as you can. if you throw it in, the apple will be bruised--bruised apples are worth very little in the market, and soon decay." "i'll mind them, sir," i said, and eagerly mounting the ladder i began to pick the beautiful little apples that hung about me, old brownsmith watching me the while. "that's right," he said encouragingly. "when you get your basket nearly full, bring it down and empty it very gently in one of the sieves-- gently, mind." i promised, and he went away, leaving me as busy as could be in the warm sunshine, thoroughly enjoying my task, picking away carefully at the apples, beginning low down, and then getting higher and higher till i felt the ladder bend and the branch give, and i had to hold on tightly by one hand. i had to go down three times to empty my basket, pouring out the apples very gently so as not to bruise them, and at last i had picked all the pippins i could reach from the ladder. i got down and proceeded to move it, so as to get to another part of the tree. it was easy enough, after i had got it free of the twigs, to pull the ladder upright, and this done i looked at the place where i meant to put it next, and getting hold of it tightly, began to lift it by the spokes just as i had seen ike manage it. the fact did not occur to me that i was a mere boy and he a muscular man, for i'm afraid i had plenty of conceit, and, drawing in a long breath, i lifted the ladder straight up easily enough, took a couple of steps in the right direction, and then felt to my horror that the strength of my arms was as nothing as soon as the balance ceased to be preserved, for in spite of my efforts the top of the ladder began to go over slowly, then faster and faster, then there was a sharp whishing crash as the bough of a pear-tree was literally cut off and a bump and a sharp crack. the top of the ladder had struck the ground, breaking several feet right off, and i was clinging to the bottom. one minute i was happy and in the highest of spirits; now i was plunged into a state of hopeless despair as i wondered what old brownsmith would say, and how much it would cost to repair that ladder. i was so prostrated by my accident that for a minute or so i stood holding on to the broken ladder, ruefully gazing at my work, and once i actually found myself looking towards the wall where the trained plum-trees formed a ladder easy of ascent for shock, and just as easy for me to get over and run for it--anywhere so as not to have to meet old brownsmith after destroying his property. "well, you've been and gone and done it now, young 'un, and no mistake," said a gruff voice; and i found that ike had come softly up behind me. "i thought it was you tumbling and breaking of yourself again; but the ladder. oh my!" "i couldn't help it," i cried piteously; "the top was so heavy, it seemed to pull it over when i tried to move it. please how much will a new one cost?" "cost!" said ike grimly, as he stood looking with one eye at the ladder, with the other at me--"hundred--hundred and twenty--say a hundred pound at the very outside." "a hundred pounds!" i cried aghast. "well, not more'n that," said ike. "trying to move it, was you? and-- why, you've smashed that branch off the pear-tree. i say, hadn't you better cut and run?" "i don't know, ike," i said hopelessly; "had i?" "well, i don't think i would this time. the ganger perhaps'll let you off if you pay for it out of your wage." "but i don't have any wages," i said in despair. "you don't!" he cried. "well, then, you're in for it. my word, i wouldn't be you for a crown." i stood gazing helplessly from the ladder to ike and back, half feeling that he was imposing upon me, but in too much trouble to resent it, and as i stared about a robin came and sat upon the broken branch, and seemed to be examining how much damage i had done. "well, what shall we do, young 'un?" said ike. "i suppose i must go on picking with the broken ladder," i said gloomily. "you ain't going to cut then?" "no," i said firmly. "then look here," said ike; "suppose i take the broken ladder up into the shed, and hang it up, and bring another. when the ganger finds it he'll think it was shock broke it, and then you'll be all right, eh? what do you say to that?" "that i wouldn't be such a coward," i said stoutly. "i shall tell mr brownsmith myself." "oh, very well!" said ike, stooping and picking up the broken ladder. "here, give me that bit. i'll soon be back. don't much matter. on'y four foot gone, and we wanted a shorter one. this'll just do." "then it won't cost a hundred pounds?" i cried. "no; nor a hundred pennies, boy. it was only my gammon. i'll soon be back." i felt as if a load had been lifted off my breast as ike came back at a heavy trot with a fresh ladder and planted it for me against the apple-tree. "that's about safe," he cried. "if you feel yourself falling, hook one of your ears over a bough and hang on. never mind the ladder: let that go." "that's nonsense!" i said sharply, and ike chuckled. "look ye here, boy," he said, as i thanked him and ran up the ladder with my empty basket, "i'll take that bough as you broke in among the gooseberries, where he never hardly comes, and i'll tell him that i broke the ladder moving it. you've had plenty of trouble already, and my shoulders is bigger than yours." "but it wouldn't be true," i said. "wouldn't it?" he replied, with a queer look. "well, i suppose it wouldn't; but i'll tell him all the same." "no," i cried, after a fight with a very cowardly feeling within me that seemed to be pulling me towards the creep-hole of escape, "i shall tell him myself." ike turned off sharply, and walked straight to where the broken pear bough lay, jumped up and pulled down the place where it had snapped off, opened his knife, and trimmed the ragged place off clean, and then went back to his work. "now he's offended," i said to myself with a sigh; and i went on picking apples in terribly low spirits. chapter ten. my first apple. i had been working for about half an hour longer when i found i could get no more, and this time i went a little way and called ike from where he was at work to move the ladder for me. he came in a surly way, and then stared at me. "want me to move the ladder? why can't yer move it yerself?" he grumbled. "you know i'm not strong enough," i said. "ho! that's it, is it? i thought you were such a great big cock-a-hoop sort of a chap that you could do anything. well, where's it to be?" "round the other side, i think," i said. "no; this here's best," he cried, and whisking up the ladder i stood admiring his great brown arms and the play of the muscles as he carried the ladder as if it had been a straw, and planted it, after thrusting the intervening boughs aside with the top to get it against a stout limb. "there you are, my lad," he said. "now, are you satisfied?" "yes; and thank you, ike," i said quickly. "and i'm very much obliged to you about wanting to take the blame upon yourself about the broken ladder and--" "here, i can't stand listening to speeches with my plants a-shrivelling up in the sun. call me if you wants me agen." he gave me a curious look and went away, leaving me with the impression that i had thoroughly offended him now, and that i was a most unlucky boy. i climbed the ladder again, picking as fast as i could to make up for lost time; and as the sun shone so hotly and i kept on picking the beautiful fruit with the bough giving and swaying so easily, i began to feel more at ease once more. while i picked and filled and emptied my basket i began to reason with myself and to think that after all mr brownsmith would not be so very angry with me if i went to him boldly and told the truth. this thought cheered me wonderfully, and i was busily working away when i heard the whistling and scratching noise made by somebody walking sharply through the gooseberry bushes, and, looking round, there was ike carrying another ladder, and shock coming along loaded with baskets, evidently to go on picking apples from one of the neighbouring trees. they neither of them spoke. ike planted the ladder ready, and shock took a basket and ran up, and was hard at work by the time ike was out of sight. i had hardly spoken to the boy since i had found him eating snails; and as i went on picking with my back to him, and thinking of the poor child being found crawling in the road and brought in a basket, and of his always running away from the workhouse, i felt a kind of pity for him, and determined to try if i could not help him, when all at once i felt a sharp pain accompanying a severe blow on the leg, as if some one had thrown a stone at me. i turned sharply round, holding tightly with one hand; but shock's back was turned to me, and he was picking apples most diligently. i looked about, and there was no one else near, the trees being too small for anyone to hide behind their trunks. shock did not look in my direction, but worked away, and i at last, as the sting grew less, went on with mine. "i know it was him," i said to myself angrily. "if i catch him at it--" i made some kind of mental vow about what i would do, finished filling my basket, went down and emptied it, and ascended the ladder again just as he was doing the same, but i might have been a hundred miles away for all the notice he took of me. i had just begun picking again, and was glancing over my shoulder to see if he was going to play any antics, when he began to ascend his ladder, and i went on. _thump_! a big lump of earth struck me right in the back, and as i looked angrily round i saw shock fall from the top to the bottom of his ladder, and i felt that horrible sensation that people call your heart in your mouth. he rose to a sitting position, put his hand to his head, and shouted out: "who's that throwing lumps?" nobody answered; and as i saw him run up the ladder again it occurred to me that it was more a slip down than a fall from the ladder, and i had just come to this conclusion when, seeing that i was watching him, he made me start and cling tightly, for he suddenly fell again. it was like lightning almost. one moment he was high up on the ladder, the next he was at the foot; but this time i was able to make out that he guided himself with his arms and his legs, and that it was really more a slide down than a fall. i turned from him in disgust, annoyed with myself for letting him cheat me into the belief that he had met with an accident, and went on picking apples. "he's no better than a monkey," i said to myself. _whiz_! an apple came so close to my ear, thrown with great violence, that i felt it almost brush me, and i turned so sharply round that i swung myself off the ladder, and had i not clung tightly by my hands i must have fallen. as it was, the ladder turned right round, in spite of its broadly set foot, and i hung beneath it, while my half-filled basket was in my place at the top. the distance was not great, but i felt startled as i hung there, when, to my utter astonishment, shock threw himself round, twisted his ladder, and hung beneath just as i did, and then went down by his hands from round to round of the ladder, turned it back, ran up again, and went on picking apples as if nothing was wrong. i could not do as he did; i had not muscle enough in my arms, but i threw my legs round the tottering ladder, and slid down, turned it back to its old place, went up quickly, and again picked away. for the next quarter of an hour all was very quiet, and i had just finished getting all i could when ike came along. i started guiltily, for i thought it was old brownsmith, but the voice reassured me, and i felt reprieved for the moment as ike said: "want the ladder moved?" i carried my basket down, and emptied it while ike changed the position of the ladder. "there you are," he said. "there's plenty for you up yonder. come, you're getting on. yes; and clean picked, too," he continued, giving the basket a shake. "now you, shock, come down, and i'll move yourn." the boy got down sullenly, and turned his back to me while the ladder was moved, so that this time we were working at different trees, but nearly facing each other. ike gave me a nod, and went off again to his work; and as i turned my head to gaze after him, _whack_ came a little apple, and struck me on the side of the ear. i was so much annoyed that i picked a big one out of my basket and threw it at shock with all my might, disturbing my balance so that i had to hold on tightly with one hand. my shot did not go anywhere near the boy, but he fell from the ladder, hanging by one leg in a horrible way, his head down, and his hands feeling about and stretching here and there, as if to get hold of something to draw him up. he swung about and uttered a low animal-like moan of distress that horrified me, and sliding down my ladder, unwilling to call for aid, i ran to help him myself. he was squinting frightfully, and lay back head downwards, and arms outstretched on the ladder as i began to ascend. his face was flushed, his mouth open, and his tongue out. in fact, he looked as if he were being strangled by his position, and, trembling with eagerness, i went up four rounds, when _smack_! _crack_! i received a blow on each ear that sent me down. when i recovered myself, my cheeks tingling, and my heart throbbing with wrath, shock had thrown himself up again, and, with his back to me, was picking away at the apples as if nothing had been wrong. "you see if i trust you again, my fine fellow," i cried in a rage; and, picking up a lot of clods, i began to pelt him as hard as i could, missing him half the time, but giving him several sharp blows on the back and head. it was the last shot that hit him on the head, and the clod was big and cakey, hitting him so hard that it flew to pieces like a shell. it must have hurt him, for he slid down and came at me fiercely with his mouth open, and showing his teeth like a dog. i daresay at another time, as he was much bigger and stronger than i was, i should have turned and fled; but just then i was so hot and excited that i went at him with my doubled fists, and for the next five minutes we were fighting furiously, every now and then engaged in a struggle, and going down to continue it upon the ground. i fell heavily several times, and was getting the worst of it when, all at once, i managed to get one hand free, and in my despair struck him as hard as i could. the blow must have been a hard one, for shock staggered back, caught his foot in one of the gooseberry bushes, and fell with a crash into one of them, splitting the bush open. i was half blind with rage, and smarting with blows; and as he seemed to be coming at me again, i made another dash at him, striking out right and left with my arms going like a windmill, till i was checked suddenly by being lifted from the ground, and a hoarse voice uttered a tremendous--"haw, haw, haw!" i had felt this last time that shock was very big and strong, hence it took me some moments to realise that the boy had crept out of the gooseberry bush and had shuffled away, while it was ike whom i was belabouring and drumming with all my might. "well done, little one," he cried. "there, cool down. shock's give in. you've whacked him. here's the ganger coming. get on with your work." shock ran by us with a rush, mounted his ladder, and i hurried up mine, to go on picking as well, while, panting and hot, smarting with blows and anger, i wondered what old brownsmith would say to me for what i had done. he only went along the path, however, with his cats, as he saw that ike was there, and the apple-picking went on till he was out of sight. "ah! you're only a bit dirty," said ike to me rather less roughly than usual. "come down and i'll give you a brush." "there you are," he said, after performing the task for me. "was he up to his larks with you?" "yes," i said; "he has been pelting me, and he pretended to fall; and when i went to help him he struck me, and i couldn't stand that." "so you licked him well? that's right, boy. he won't do it again. if he does, give it him, and teach him better. i don't like fighting till you're obliged; but when you are obliged--hit hard's my motter, and that's what you've done by him." of course i knew that _that_ was what i had done by him, but i felt very sorry all the same, for i knew i had hurt shock a good deal, and i had hurt myself; and somehow, as ike went away chuckling and rubbing his big hands down his sides, it seemed very cruel of him to laugh. everything seemed to have gone so wrong, and i was in such trouble, that neither the sunshine nor the beauty of the apples gave me the least satisfaction. i kept on picking, expecting every moment that shock would begin again, and i kept a watchful eye upon him; but he threw no more lumps of earth or apples, and only went on picking as quickly as he could, and i noticed that he always had his face turned from me. "i do nothing but offend people," i thought, as i worked away, and i felt as sure as could be that this boy would contrive pitfalls for me and play me tricks, making my life quite a burden. in fact, i became very imaginative, as boys of my age often will, and instead of trying to take things in the manly english spirit that should be the aim of every lad, i grew more and more depressed. just when i was at my worst, and i was thinking what an unlucky boy i was, i heard a sound, followed by another. the nearest representation of the sounds are these--_quack_--_craunche_. "why, he's eating apples," i said to myself, as i went down my ladder, emptied my basket, and went up again. now some who read this will think it a strange thing, but, though i had been busy all that morning handling beautiful little pippins, long, rosy, and flat-topped, i had never even thought of tasting one. like fruit? i loved it; but i was so intent upon my work, so eager to do it well, and i had had so much to think about, that it seemed to come upon me like a surprise that the apples were good to eat. now that shock had begun, and was crunching away famously as he worked, i suddenly found that, though i was not so hot as i was after my encounter, my mouth felt dry. i was very thirsty, and those apples seemed to be the most tempting of any i had ever seen in my life. but i would not touch one. i went higher up the ladder and picked; then higher and higher till i was close to the top, holding on by the tall stem of the tree picking some of the ripest apples i had yet gathered, and swaying with a pleasant motion every time i reached here or there to pick one at the end of a twig. what beauties they seemed, and how, while those that grew in the shady parts under the leaves, were of a delicate green, the ones i had picked from out in the full sunshine were dark and ruddy and bronzed! how they clustered together too, out here in the top of the tree, so thickly that it seemed as if i should never get them all. but by degrees i reached up and up where i could not take the basket, and thrust the apples into my breast and pockets. one i had a tremendous job to reach, after going a little lower to where my basket hung to empty my pockets before climbing again. it was a splendid fellow, the biggest yet, and growing right at the top of a twig. it seemed dangerous to get up there, for it meant holding on by the branch, and standing on the very top round of the ladder, and i hesitated. still i did not like to be beaten, and with the branch bending i held on and went up and up, till i stood right at the top of the ladder, and then cautiously raising my hand i was about to reach up at and try to pick the apple, when something induced me to turn my head and look in the direction of shock's tree. sure enough he was watching me. i saw his face right up in the top; but he turned it quickly, and there was a rustle and a crack as if he had nearly fallen. for a few moments this unsteadied me, and for the first time i began to think that i was running great risks, and that i should fall. so peculiar was the feeling that i clung tightly to the swaying bending branch and shut my eyes. the feeling went off as quickly as it came, for i set my teeth, and, knowing that shock was watching me, determined that he should not see i was afraid. the next moment i was reaching up cautiously, and by degrees got my hand just under the apple, but could get no higher. my head was thrown back, the branch bending towards me, and my feet on the top round, so that i was leaning back far out of the perpendicular, and the more i tried to get that pippin, and could not reach, the more bright and beautiful it looked. i forgot all about the danger, for shock was watching me, and i would have it; and as i strained up i at last was able to touch it with the tips of my fingers, for my feet were pressing the branch one way, my hands drawing it the other, till it came lower, lower, lower, my fingers grasped the apple--more and more, and at last, when i felt that i could bear the strain no longer, the stalk gave way, and the apple dropped between the twig and my hand. then for a moment, as i grasped it, i felt as if i was going to lose my footing, and hang off the ladder. if i did, the bough was so thin that i knew it would break, and it was only by exerting all my strength that i held on. at last, lowering hand below hand, i got to be a little more upright. my feet were firmer on the ladder, and i was able to take a step down. another few moments and, with a sigh of relief at my escape from a heavy fall--for it really was an escape--i thrust the beautiful apple in my breast and descended to my basket, gave a final glance round to see if there was any more fruit within reach, found there was not, and so i went to the foot of the ladder, emptied my basket, took out the apple from my breast, and found that it was as beautiful as it had seemed up there. "i must have you," i thought, and, turning the rosy side towards me, i took a tremendous bite out of it, a rich sweet juicy bite, and then stood staring stupidly, for old brownsmith was standing there with his cats, looking at me in a quiet serious way. chapter eleven. making things right. just at that moment i fancied that i heard a sort of laugh from up in the other tree, but my eyes were fixed upon old brownsmith, and i had a large piece of apple in my mouth that i dared not begin to chew. he stood looking at me as i stood there, feeling three of his cats come and begin rubbing themselves up against my legs in the most friendly way, while i felt as if my misfortunes were being piled up one on the top of the other. from previous conversations i had gathered that he expected the boys to now and then eat a little fruit, and there was no harm in it; but it seemed so hard that the very first time i tasted an apple he should be standing there watching me. "dinner's ready," he said suddenly; "come along." "shall i leave the baskets here, sir?" i said. "yes; just as they are." he stooped down and examined the apples, turning them over a little. "hah! yes," he said; "nicely picked. that will do. you've got on too." he went on, and i was following behind the cats, but he drew on one side to let me walk by him. "eat your apple," he said smiling, as he looked sidewise at me. "only we always pick out the ugliest fruit and vegetables for home use, and send the best-looking to market." "i'll remember that, sir," i said. "do, grant, my lad. you will not lose by it, for i'll tell you something. the shabbiest-looking, awkwardly-grown apples, pears, and plums are generally the finest flavoured." "are they, sir?" i said. "that they are, my boy. if you want a delicious pear don't pick out the great shapely ones, but those that are screwed all on one side and covered with rusty spots. the same with the plums and apples. they are almost always to be depended upon." i had finished my mouthful of apple, and thrust the fruit in my jacket pocket. "it is often the same with people in this life, my boy. many of the plain-looking, shabby folks are very beautiful everywhere but outside. there's a moral lesson for you. save it up." i said i would, and looked at him sidewise, hesitating, for i wanted to speak to him. i was wondering, too, whether he knew that i had been fighting with shock, for my hands were very dirty and my knuckles were cut. he did not speak any more, but stooped and took up one of the cats, to stroke it and let it get up on his shoulder, and we had nearly reached the house before i burst out desperately: "if you please, mr brownsmith--" then i stopped short and stared at him helplessly, for the words seemed to stick in my throat. "well," he said, "what is it? want to speak to me?" "yes, sir," i burst out; "i want to tell you that i--that i broke--" "the ladder, eh?" he said smiling. "that's right, grant; always speak out when you have had an accident of any kind. nothing like being frank. it's honest and gives people confidence in you. yes, i know all about the ladder. i was coming to see if you wanted it moved when i saw you overcome by it. did ike trim off that branch?" "yes, sir," i cried hastily. "i'm very sorry, sir. i did not know that--" "it was so heavy, grant. leverage, my boy. a strong man can hardly hold a ladder if he gets it off the balance." "will it cost much to--" "it was an old ladder, grant, and i'm not sorry it is broken; for there was a bad crack there, i see, covered over by the paint. we might have had a nasty accident. it will do now for the low trees. look here." he led me into the shed where the ladders hung, and showed me the broken ladder, neatly sawn off at the top, and thinned down a little, and trimmed off with a spokeshave, while a pot of lead-coloured paint and a brush stood by with which the old gentleman had been going over the freshly-cut wood. "my job," he said quietly. "dry by to-morrow. you were quite right to tell me." then there was a pause. "how many apples does that make you've had to-day?" he said, suddenly. "apples, sir? oh! that was the first." "humph!" he ejaculated, looking at me sharply. "and so you've been having a set-to with shock, eh?" "yes, sir," i said in an aggrieved tone; "he--" "don't tell tales out of school, grant," he said. "you've had your fight, and have come off better than i expected. don't let's have any more of it, if you can help it. there, have a wash; make haste. dinner's waiting." the relief i felt was something tremendous, and though five minutes or so before i had not wanted any dinner, i had no sooner had a good wash in the tin bowl with the clean cold water from the pump, and a good rub with the round towel behind the kitchen door, than i felt outrageously hungry; and it was quite a happy, flushed face, with a strapped-up wound on the forehead and a rather swollen and cut lip, that looked out at me from the little square shaving glass on the wall. that morning i had been despondently thinking that i was making no end of enemies in my new home. that afternoon i began to find that things were not so very bad after all. shock was sulky, and seemed to delight in showing me the roots of his hair in the nape of his neck, always turning his back; but he did not throw any more apples and he played no more pranks, but went on steadily picking. i did the same, making no further advances to him, though, as i recalled how i hammered his body and head, and how he must have been pricked by falling into the gooseberry bush, i felt sorry, and if he had offered to shake hands i should have forgotten how grubby his always were, and held out mine at once. as the afternoon wore on we filled our baskets, and more had to be fetched. then, later on, i wanted my ladder moved to another tree, and came down and called ike, but he was not there, so i asked one of the other men, who came and did it for me, and then moved shock's. i was just mounting again when ike came up, taking long strides and scowling angrily. "s'pose you couldn't ha' waited a moment, could you?" he growled. "i didn't move the ladder just as you wanted, i suppose. you're precious partickler, you are. now, look here, my fine gentleman, next time you want a ladder moved you may move it yourself." "but i did call you, ike," i said; "and you weren't there." "i hadn't gone to get another two hundred o' plarnts, i suppose, and was comin' back as fast as i could, i s'pose. no, o' course not. i ought to ha' been clost to your elber, ready when you called. never mind; next time you wants the ladder moved get some one else, for i sha'n't do it;" and he strode away. half an hour later he was back to see if i wanted it moved, and waited till i had finished gathering a few more apples, when, smiling quite good-humouredly, he shifted the ladder into a good place. "there," he said, "you'll get a basketful up there. "shock, shall i shift yours 'fore i go? that's your sort. well, you two chaps have picked a lot." i soon grew quite at home at old brownsmith's, and found him very kind. ike, too, in his rough way, quite took to me--at least if anything had to be done he was offended if i asked another of the men. i worked hard at the fruit-picking, and kept account when ike laid straw or fern over the tops of the bushel and half-bushel baskets, and placed sticks across, lattice fashion, to keep the apples and pears in. then of a night i used to transfer the writing on the slate to a book, and tell old brownsmith what i had put down, reading the items over and summing up the quantities and the amounts they fetched when the salesmen's accounts came from covent garden. the men and women about the place--all very quiet, thoughtful people-- generally had a smile for me when i said good-morning, and i went on capitally, my old troubles being distant and the memories less painful day by day. but somehow i never got on with shock. i didn't want to make a companion of him, but i did not want him to be an enemy, and that he always seemed to be. he never threw lumps of soil or apples or potatoes at me now; but he would often make-believe to be about to hurl something, and if he could not get away because of his work he always turned his back. "he doesn't like me, ike," i said to the big gardener one day. "no, he don't, that's sartain," said ike. "he's jealous of you, like, because the ganger makes so much of you." "mr brownsmith would make as much of him if he would be smart and clean, and act like other boys," i said. "yes, but that's just what he won't do, won't shock. you see, young 'un, he's a 'riginal--a reg'lar 'riginal, and you can't alter him. ain't tried to lick you again, has he?" "oh, no!" i said; "and he does not throw at me." "don't shy at you now! well, i wonder at that," said ike. "he's a wunner at shying. he can hit anything with a stone. i've seen him knock over a bird afore now, and when he gets off in the fields of an evening i've often knowed him bring back a rabbit." "what does he do with it?" "do with it! come, there's a good 'un. cook it down in the shed, and eat it. he'd eat a'most anything. but don't you mind him. it don't matter whether he's pleased or whether he ain't. if he's too hard on you, hit him again, and don't be afraid." in fact the more i saw of shock, the more distant he grew; and though i tried to make friends with him by putting slices of bread and butter and bits of cold pudding in the shed down the garden that he used to like to make his home at meal-time and of an evening, he used to eat them, and we were as bad friends as ever. one morning, when there was rather a bigger fire than usual down in the old tool-shed, i walked to the door, and found shock on his knees apparently making a pudding of soft clay, which he was kneading and beating about on the end of the hearthstone. i looked round for the twig, for i felt sure that he was going to use the clay for pellets to sling at me, but there was no stick visible. as i came to the doorway he just glanced over his shoulder; and then, seeing who it was, he shuffled round a little more and went on. "what are you doing, shock?" i asked. he made no reply, but rapidly pinched off pieces of the clay and roughly formed them into the head, body, legs, and arms of a human being, which he set up against the wall, and then with a hoarse laugh knocked into a shapeless mass with one punch of his clay-coated fist. "he meant that for me," i said to myself; and i was going to turn away when i caught sight of something lying in the shadow beneath the little old four-paned window. it was something i had never seen before except in pictures; and i was so interested that i stepped in and was about to pick up the object, but shock snatched it away. "where did you get it?" i said eagerly. he did not answer for a few moments, and then said gruffly, "fields." "it's a hedgehog, isn't it?" i said. "here, let me look." he slowly laid the little prickly animal down on the earthen floor and pushed it towards me--a concession of civility that was wonderful for shock; and i eagerly examined the curious little creature, pricking my fingers a good deal in the efforts to get a good look at the little black-faced animal with its pointed snout. "what are you going to do with it?" i said. shock looked up at me in a curious half-cunning way, as he beat out his clay into a broad sheet; and then, as if about to make a pudding, he made the hedgehog into a long ball, laid it on the clay, and covered it up, rolling it over and over till there was nothing visible but a clay ball. "what a baby you are, shock, playing at making mud puddings!" i said. he did not reply, only smiled in a half-pitying way, took an old broomstick that he used for a poker, and scraping the ashes of the fire aside rolled the clay pig-pudding into the middle of the fire, and then covered it over with the burning ashes, and piled on some bits of wood and dry cabbage-stumps, making up a good fire, which he set himself to watch. it was a wet day, and there was nothing particular to do in the garden; so i stood looking at shock's cookery for a time, and then grew tired and was coming away when for a wonder he spoke. "be done soon," he said. just then i heard my name called, and running through the rain i found that old brownsmith wanted me for a while about some entries that he could not find in the book, and which he thought had not been made. i was able, however, to show him that the entries had been made; and as soon as i was at liberty i ran down the garden again to see how the cookery was going on. as i reached the door the little shed was all of a glow, for shock was raking the fire aside, but, apparently not satisfied, he raked it all back again, and for the next half hour he amused himself piling up scraps of wood and refuse to make the fire burn, ending at last by raking all away, leaving the lump of clay baked hard and red. i had been standing by the door watching him all the time; and now he just turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder as he rose and took a little old battered tin plate from where it stuck beneath the rough thatch, giving it a rub on the tail of his jacket. "like hedgehog?" he said grimly. "no," i cried with a look of disgust. "you ain't tasted it," he said, growing wonderfully conversational as he took a hand-bill from a nail where it hung. then, kneeling down before the fire, he gave the hard clay ball a sharp blow with the hand-bill, making it crack right across and fall open, showing the little animal steaming hot and evidently done, the bristly skin adhering to the clay shell that had just been broken, so that there was no difficulty in turning it out upon the tin plate, the shell in two halves being cast upon the fire, where the interior began to burn. it seemed very horrible! it seemed very nice! i thought in opposite directions in the following moments, and all the time my nose was being assailed by a very savoury odour, for the cookery smelt very good. "you won't have none--will you?" said shock, without looking at me. "no," i said shortly; "it isn't good to eat. you might as well eat rats." "i like rats," he replied, coolly taking out his knife from one pocket, a piece of bread from the other; and to my horror he rapidly ate up the hedgehog, throwing the bones on the fire as he picked them, and ending by rubbing the tin plate over with a bit of old gardener's apron which he took from the wall. "well," i said sarcastically, "was it nice?" "bewfle!" he said, giving his lips a smack and then sighing. "did you say you eat rats?" i continued. "yes." "and mice too?" "no; there ain't nuffin' on 'em--they're all bones." "do you eat anything else?" "snails." "yes, i've seen you eat the nasty slimy things." "they ain't nasty slimy things; they're good." "do you eat anything else?" "birds." "what?" i said. "birds--blackbirds, and thrushes, and sparrers, and starlings. ketches 'em in traps like i do the rats." "but do you really eat rats?" "yes--them as comes after the apples in the loft and after the corn. they are good." "but don't you get enough to eat at home?" i asked him. "home!--what, here?" "no, i mean your home." "what, where i sleeps? sometimes." "but you're not obliged to eat these things. does mr brownsmith know?" "oh! yes, he knows. i like 'em. i eat frogs once. ain't fish good? i ketch 'em in the medders." "where you saved me when i was drowning?" i said hastily. shock turned his face away from me and knelt there, throwing scraps of wood, cinder, and dirt into the fire, with his head bent down; and though i tried in all kinds of ways to get him to speak again, not a single word would he say. i gave him up as a bad job at last and left him. that night, just before going to bed, old brownsmith sent me out to one of the packing-sheds to fetch the slate, which had been forgotten. it was dark and starlight, for the wind had risen and the rain had been swept away. i found the slate after fumbling a little about the bench, and was on my way back to the door of the long packing-shed when i heard a curious rustling in the loft overhead, followed by a thump on the board as if something had fallen, and then a heavy breathing could be heard--a regular heavy breathing that was almost a snore. for a few moments i stood listening, and then, feeling very uncomfortable, i stole out, ran into the house, and stood before old brownsmith with the slate. "anything the matter?" he said. "there's someone up in the loft over the packing-shed--asleep," i said hoarsely. "in the loft!" he said quickly. "oh! it is only shock. he often sleeps there. you'll find his nest in amongst the russia mats." surely enough, when i had the curiosity next morning to go up the ladder and look in the loft, there was shock's nest deep down amongst the mats that were used to cover the frames in the frosty spring, and some of these were evidently used to cover him up. i came down, thinking that if i were old brownsmith i should make master shock go to his lodging and sleep of a night, and try whether i could not make him live like a christian, and not go about feeding on snails and hedgehogs and other odds and ends that he picked up in the fields. chapter twelve. an awkward predicament. for the next fortnight we were all very busy picking and packing fruit, and ike was off every night about eleven or twelve with his load, coming back after market in the morning, and only doing a little work in the garden of an afternoon, and seeing to the packing ready for a fresh start in the night. the weather was glorious, and the pears came on so fast that shock and i were always picking so that they might not be too ripe. it was a delightful time, for the novelty having gone off i was able to do my work with ease. i did not try to move the ladder any more, so i had no accident of that kind; and though i slipped once or twice, i was able to save myself, and began to feel quite at home up in the trees. every now and then if shock was anywhere near he played some monkey trick or another. his idea evidently was to frighten me by seeming to fall or by hanging by hand or leg. but he never succeeded now, for i knew him too well; and though i admired his daring at times, when he threw himself backwards on the ladder and slid down head foremost clinging with his legs, i did not run to his help. in spite of the conversation i had had with him in the shed, we were no better friends next time we met, or rather when we nearly met, for whenever he saw me coming he turned his back and went off in another direction. as i said, a fortnight had passed, and the fruit-picking was at its height as far as pears and apples went, when one night, after a very hot day, when the cart was waiting in the yard, loaded up high with bushel and half-bushel baskets, and the horse was enjoying his corn, and rattling his chain by the manger, i left old brownsmith smoking his pipe and reading a seed-list, and strolled out into the garden. it was a starlight night, and very cool and pleasant, as i went down one of the paths and then back along another, trying to make out the blossoms of the nasturtiums that grew so thickly along the borders just where i was. the air smelt so sweet and fresh that it seemed to do me good, but i was thinking that i must be getting back into the house and up to my bed, when the fancy took me that i should like to go down the path as far as mrs beeton's house, and look at the window where i used to sit when shock pelted me with clay. the path was made with ashes, so that my footsteps were very quiet, and as i walked in the shadow of a large row of pear-trees i was almost invisible. in fact i could hardly see my own hand. all at once i stopped short, for i heard a peculiar scratching noise and a whispering, and, though i could hardly distinguish anything, i was perfectly sure that somebody had climbed to the top of the wall, and was sitting there with a leg over our side, for i heard it rustling amongst the plum boughs. "it's all right," was whispered; and then there was more scuffling, and it seemed to me that some one else had climbed up. then another and another, and then they seemed to pull up another one, so that i believed there were five people on the wall. then came some whispering, and i felt sure that they were boys, for one said: "now, then, all together!" in a boyish voice, when there was a lot of rustling and scratching, and i could hear the plum-tree branches trained to the wall torn down, one breaking right off, as the intruders dropped over into our garden. for the moment i was puzzled. then i knew what it meant, and a flush of angry indignation came into my cheeks. "boys after our pears!" i said to myself as my fists clenched. for i had become so thoroughly at home at old brownsmith's that everything seemed to belong to me, and i felt it was my duty to defend it. i listened to make sure, and heard a lot of whispering going on as the marauders crossed the path i was on, rustled by amongst the gooseberry bushes, and went farther into the garden. "they're after the _marie louise_ pears," i thought; and i was about to run and shout at them, for i knew that would startle them away; but on second thoughts i felt as if i should like to catch some of them, and turning, i ran softly back up the path, meaning to tell mr brownsmith. but before i had reached the end of the path another idea had occurred to me. old brownsmith would not be able to catch one of the boys, but shock would if he was up in the loft, and in the hope that he was sleeping there i ran to the foot of the steps, scrambled up, and pushing back the door, which was only secured with a big wooden latch, i crept in as cautiously as i could. "shock!" i whispered. "shock! are you here?" i listened, but there was not a sound. "shock!" i whispered again. "shock!" "if ver don't go i'll heave the hay-fork at yer," came in a low angry voice. "no, no: don't," i said. "i want you. come on, and bring a big stick: there's some boys stealing the pears." there was a rustle and a scramble, and shock was by my side, more full of life and excitement than i had ever noticed him before. "pears?" he whispered hoarsely; "arter the pears? where? where are they?" he kept on the move, making for the door and coming back, and behaving altogether like a dog full of expectation of a rush after some wild creature in a hunt. "be quiet or we sha'n't catch them," i whispered. "some boys have climbed over the wall, and are after the _marie louise_ pears." he stopped short suddenly. "yah!" he cried, "they ain't. it's your larks." "you stupid fellow! i tell you they are." "mary louisas ain't ripe," he cried. "don't care; they've gone after them. come, and bring a stick." "fain larks," he said dubiously. "just as if i would play tricks with you!" i cried impatiently. "no, you wouldn't, would yer?" he said hoarsely. "wouldn't be hard on a chap. stop a minute." he rustled off amongst the straw, and i heard a rattling noise and then a chuckle, and shock was back to hand me a stick as thick as my finger. "hezzles," he whispered--"nut hezzle. come along. you go first." though i had roused shock out of bed he had no dressing to do, and following me down the ladder he walked quickly after me down one of the paths, then to the right along another till we came to a corner, when we both stopped and listened. shock began to hiss very softly, as if he were a steam-engine with the vapour escaping from the safety-valve, as we heard, about fifty yards from us, the rustling of the pear-trees, the heavy shake of a bough, and then through the pitchy darkness _whop! whop! whop! whop_! as the pears fell on to the soft ground. "you go this way," i whispered to shock, "and i'll go that way, and then we'll rush in and catch them." "yes," he said back. "hit hard, and mind and get hold o' the bag." we were separating when he caught hold of my arm. "'old 'ard," he whispered. "let's rush 'em together." in the darkness perhaps his was the better plan. at all events we adopted it, and taking hold of hands we advanced on tiptoe trembling with expectation, our sticks grasped, and every now and then the pendent branches of some tree rustling in and sweeping our faces. and all the time, just in front, we could hear the hurried shaking of boughs, the fall of the pears, and tittering and whispering as the party seemed to be picking up the spoil. "we shall have too many," whispered a voice just before us. "never mind; let's fill the bag. go it, boys." "hush! some one'll hear." "not they. go on. here's a bough loaded. oh, i say!" shock gave my hand a nip to which i responded, and then all at once from under the tree where we stood we made a rush at the indistinct figures we could sometimes make out a few yards away. _whish, rush, whack_! "i say what are you doing of?" "oh!" "run! run!" "oh!" these ejaculations were mingled with the blows dealt by our sticks, several of which fell upon heads, backs, legs, and arms, anywhere, though more struck the trees; and in the excitement one i delivered did no end of mischief to a young pear-tree, and brought down a shower of fruit upon my head. it was all the work of a few moments. at the first the marauding party thought it was some trick of a companion; directly after they scattered and ran, under the impression that old brownsmith and all his men were in pursuit. as for me, i felt red-hot with excitement, and found myself after a dash through some gooseberry bushes, whose pricking only seemed to give me fresh energy, running along a path after one boy at whom i kept cutting with my hazel stick. at every stroke there was a howl from the boy, who kept on shouting as he ran: "oh! please, sir--oh! sir--don't, sir--oh! pray, sir!" in my hard-heartedness and excitement i showed no mercy, but every time i got near enough as we panted on i gave him a sharp cut, and he would have been punished far worse if all at once i had not run right into a hanging bough of one of the pears, and gone down backwards, while when i scrambled up again my stick was gone. i felt that if i waited to search for it i should lose the boy i meant to make a prisoner, and ran on in the direction where i could hear his steps. knowing the garden as i did i was able to make a cut so as to recover the lost ground, for i realised that he was making for the wall, and i was just in time to catch him as he scrambled up one of the trained trees, and had his chest on the top. he would have been over in another second or two had i not made a jump at his legs, one of which i caught, and, twisting my arms round it, i held on with all my might. "oh! oh!" he yelled pitifully. "pray let me go, sir. i'll never come no more, sir. help! oh my! help!" "come down," i panted as well as i could for want of breath, "come down!" and i gave the leg i held a tremendous shake. "oh!--oh! pray let me go this time, sir." "come down," i cried again fiercely, and i nearly dragged him from the wall, as i held on with all my might. "no, sir! oh, sir! it wasn't me, sir. it was--oh, please let me go!" the voice sounded as if it were on the outside of the wall, as my captive hung by his elbows and chest, while i could feel the leg i held quiver and tremble as i tugged hard to get its owner down into the garden; but distant and muffled as that voice was, it seemed familiar when it yelled again: "oh i pray let me go this time, sir." "no," i shouted, as i gave the leg a snatch and hung on, "come down, you thieving rascal, come down." "why, it's you, is it?" came from the top of the wall, a little plainer now. "what! george day!" i exclaimed, but without relaxing my hold. "oh, you sneak!" he cried. "let go, will you." "no," i cried stoutly. "come down." "sha'n't. it ain't your place. let go, you sneak." "i sha'n't," i cried angrily. "come down, you thief." "if you call me a thief i'll come down and half smash you. let go!" his courage returned as he found out who was his captor, and he kicked out savagely, but i held on. "do you hear?" he cried. "here, let go, and i'll give you a fourpenny piece out of my next pocket-money." "you come down to mr brownsmith," i cried. "get out! you know who i am: george day." "i know you're a thief, and i shall take you up to mr brownsmith," i said, "and here he comes." "if you don't let go," he cried with a sudden access of fury, "i'll just come down and i'll--" he did not finish his threat. i daresay it would have been something very dreadful, but i was not in the least frightened as i held on; but as he clung to the big quaint coping of the wall he suddenly gave two or three such tremendous kicks that one of them, aided by his getting his free foot on my shoulder, was given with such force that i was driven backwards, and after staggering a few steps, caught my heel and came down in a sitting position upon the path. i leaped to my feet again, but only just in time to hear a scuffling noise on the top of the wall, the sound of some one dropping on the other side, and then _pat, pat, pat_, steps fast repeated, as my prisoner ran away. "ah!" i exclaimed, with a stamp of the foot in my disappointment. "chiv-ee! why, ho! where are yer?" "here, shock!" i cried in answer to the shout on my right, and the boy came running up. "got him?" "no," i replied. "he climbed up the wall and kicked me backwards. didn't you catch one?" "no. they skiddled off like rabbuts, and the one i tried to run down dodged me in the dark, and when i heerd him he was close up to the fence t'other side, and got away. didn't i give it some of 'em though!" "oh! i do wish we had caught one," i exclaimed; and then i felt as if i did not wish so, especially as the boy i had chased was george day. "they didn't get the pears," said shock suddenly; and now it struck me that we had suddenly grown to be wonderfully talkative, and the best of friends. "no," i replied, "i don't think they got the pears. let's go and see." we trudged off, i for my part feeling very stiff, and as if all the excitement had gone out of the adventure; and in a minute we were feeling about under the pear-trees, and kicking against fallen fruit. "here she is," said shock suddenly. "big bag. stodge full." i ran to him, and was in the act of passing my hands over the bulging bag when i uttered a faint cry of horror, for something soft seemed to have dropped upon my back, and a voice from out of the darkness exclaimed: "what are you boys doing here?" at the same moment i knew that it was one of the cats that had leaped upon my back, and old brownsmith who was speaking. "we have been after some boys who were stealing the pears, sir," i said. "were they?" cried the old man sternly; "and i've come and caught them. you, shock, bring that bag up to the door." shock seized and shouldered the bag, and we followed the old gentleman to the house; but though i spoke two or three times he made no reply, and i felt too much hurt by his suspicions to say more. there was a large house lantern alight in the kitchen, as if the old gentleman had been about to bring it down the garden with him and had altered his mind, and the first thing he did was to open the lantern, take out the candle in his fingers, and hold it up so as to look at each of us in turn, frowning and suspicious, while we shrank and half-closed our eyes, dazzled by the light. then he turned his attention to the big bag which shock had placed upon the table, the top of which opened out, and a pear or two rolled upon the floor as soon as it was released. "humph! pillow-case, eh?" said the old man, and his face brightened as if the suspicion was being cleared away. "who heard 'em?" "i did, sir," i cried; and i told him how i had wakened up shock, and of our fight; but i did not mention george day's name, and i did not mean to do so unless i was asked, for it seemed to be so shocking for a boy like that to be charged with stealing fruit. "humph! ought to have caught some of the dogs! but i say, did you hit 'em hard?" "as hard as i could, sir," i replied innocently. "hah! aha! that's right. young scoundrels. spoilt a basket of pears that were not ripe. young dogs! i'll put glass bottles all along the walls, and see how they like that. there, be off to bed." i hesitated. "well," he said, "what is it?" "you don't think it was i who went to steal the pears, sir?" i said uneasily. "my good boy, no!" he said. "pooh! nonsense! looked like it at first. caught you dirty-handed. good night!" he turned away, and i ran into the yard, where shock was slowly going back to his hole in the straw. "good night, shock!" i said. he stopped without turning round, and did not reply. it was as if the sulky morose fit had come over him again, but it did not last, for he half turned his head and said: "i hit one on 'em such a crack on the nut." then he went to the ladder and climbed up into the loft, and i stood listening to him as he nestled down in amongst the straw. then old brownsmith came to the back-door with the lantern and called me in to go up to my room. chapter thirteen. learning my lessons. next morning the old gentleman talked at breakfast-time about the police, and having the young scoundrels sent to prison. directly after, he went down the garden with me and nine cats, to inspect the damages, and when he saw the trampling and breaking of boughs he stroked a tom-cat and made it purr, while he declared fiercely that he would not let an hour pass without having the young dogs punished. "they shall be caught and sent to prison," he cried. "poor old sammy then.--i'll have 'em severely punished, the young depredators.--grant, you'd better get a sharp knife and a light ladder, and cut off those broken boughs--the young villains--and tell ike to bring a big rake and smooth out these footmarks. no; i'll tell him. you get the knife. i shall go to the police at once." i cut out the broken boughs, and ike brought down the ladder for me and smoothed over the footmarks, chatting about the events of the past night the while. "he won't get no police to work, my lad, not he. forget all about it directly. makes him a bit raw, o' course," said ike, smoothing away with the rake. "haw! haw! haw! think o' you two leathering of 'em. i wish i'd been here, 'stead of on the road to london. did you hit 'em hard?" "hard as i could," i said. "i think shock and i punished them enough." "so do i. so do he. rare and frightened they _was_ too. why, o' course boys will steal apples. i dunno how it is, but they always would, and will." "but these were pears," i said. "all the same, only one's longer than t'other. apples and pears. he won't do nothing." ike was right, for the matter was soon forgotten, and mrs dodley his housekeeper used the pillow-case as a bag for clothes-pegs. those were bright and pleasant days, for though now and then some trouble came like a cloud over my life there was more often plenty of sunshine to clear that cloud away. my uncles came to see me, first one and then the other, and they had very long talks with mr brownsmith. one of them told me i was a very noble boy, and that he was proud of me. he said he was quite sure i should turn out a man. "talks to the boy as if he felt he might turn out a woman," old brownsmith grumbled after he was gone. it was some time after before the other came, and he looked me all over as if he were trying to find a hump or a crooked rib. then he said it was all right, and that i could not do better. one of them said when he went away that he should not lose sight of me, but remember me now and then; and when he had gone old brownsmith said, half aloud: "thank goodness, i never had no uncles!" then he gave me a comical look, but turned serious directly. "look here, grant," he said. "some folk start life with their gardens already dug up and planted, some begin with their bit of ground all rough, and some begin without any land at all. which do you belong to?" "the last, sir," i said. "right! well, i suppose you are not going to wait for one uncle to take a garden for you and the other to dig it up?" "no," i said sturdily; "i shall work for myself." "right! i don't like boys to be cocky and impudent but i like a little self-dependence." as the time went on, old brownsmith taught me how to bud roses and prune, and, later on, to graft. he used to encourage me to ask questions, and i must have pestered him sometimes, but he never seemed weary. "it's quite right," he used to say; "the boy who asks questions learns far more than the one who is simply taught." "why, sir?" i said. "well, i'll tell you. he has got his bit of ground ready, and is waiting for the seed or young plant to be popped in. then it begins to grow at once. don't you see this; he has half-learned what he wants to know in the desire he feels. that desire is satisfied when he is told, and the chances are that he never forgets. now you say to me--what is the good of pruning or cutting this plum-tree? i'll tell you." we were standing in front of the big red brick wall one bright winter's day, for the time had gone by very quickly. old brownsmith had a sharp knife in his hand, and i was holding the whetstone and a thin-bladed saw that he used to cut through the thicker branches. "now look here, grant. here's this plum-tree, and if you look at it you will see that there are two kinds of wood in it." "two kinds of wood, sir?" "yes. can't you tell the difference?" "no, sir; only that some of the shoots are big and strong, and some are little and twiggy." "exactly: that is the difference, my lad. well, can you see any more difference in the shoots?" i looked for some moments, and then replied: "yes; these big shoots are long and smooth and straight, and the little twiggy ones are all over sharp points." "then as there is too much wood there, which had we better cut out. what should you do?" "cut out the scrubby little twigs, and nail up these nice long shoots." "that's the way, grant! now you'll know more about pruning after this than shock has learned in two years. look here, my lad; you've fallen into everybody's mistake, as a matter of course. those fine long shoots will grow into big branches; those little twigs with the points, as you call them, are fruit spurs, covered with blossom buds. if i cut them out i should have no plums next year, but a bigger and a more barren tree. no, my boy, i don't want to grow wood, but fruit. look here." i looked, and he cut out with clean, sharp strokes all those long shoots but one, carefully leaving the wood and bark smooth, while to me it seemed as if he were cutting half the tree away. "you've left one, sir," i said. "yes, grant, i've left one; and i'll show you why. do you see this old hard bough?" i nodded. "well, this one has done its work, so i'm going to cut it out, and let this young shoot take its place." "but it has no fruit buds on it," i said quickly. "no, grant; but it will have next year; and that's one thing we gardeners always have to do with stone-fruit trees--keep cutting out the old wood and letting the young shoots take the old branches' place." "why, sir?" i asked. "because old branches bear small fruit, young branches bear large, and large fruit is worth more than twice as much as small. give me the saw." i handed him the thin-bladed saw, and he rapidly cut out the old hard bough, close down to the place where it branched from the dumpy trunk, and then, handing me the tool, he knelt down on a pad of carpet he carried in his tremendous pocket. "now look here," he said; and taking his sharp pruning-knife he cut off every mark of the saw, and trimmed the bark. i looked on attentively till he had ended. "well," he said, "ain't you going to ask why i did that?" "i know, sir," i said. "to make it neat." "only partly right, grant. i've cut that off smoothly so that no rain may lodge and rot the place before the wound has had time to heal." "and will it heal, sir?" "yes, grant. in time nature will spread a ring of bark round that, which will thicken and close in till the place is healed completely over." then he busily showed me the use of the saw and knife among the big standard trees, using them liberally to get rid of all the scrubby, crowded, useless branches that lived upon the strength of the tree and did no work, only kept out the light, air, and sunshine from those that did work and bear fruit. "why it almost seems, sir," i said one day, "as if nature had made the trees so badly that man was obliged to improve them." "ah, i'm glad to hear you say that, my lad," he said; "but you are not right. i'm only a gardener, but i've noticed these things a great deal. nature is not a bungler. she gives us apple and plum trees, and they grow and bear fruit in a natural and sufficient way. it is because man wants them to bear more and bigger fruit, and for more to grow on a small piece of ground than nature would plant, that man has to cut and prune." "but suppose nature planted a lot of trees on a small piece of ground," i said, "what then?" "what then, grant? why, for a time they'd grow up thin and poor and spindly, till one of them made a start and overtopped the others. then it would go on growing, and the others would dwindle and die away." the time glided on, and i kept learning the many little things about the place pretty fast. as the months went on i became of some use to my employer over his accounts, and by degrees pretty well knew his position. it seemed that he had been a widower for many years, and mrs dodley, the housekeeper and general servant all in one, confided to me one day that "missus's" bonnets and shawls and gowns were all hanging up in their places just as they had been left by mrs brownsmith. "which it's a dead waste, master grant," she used to finish by saying, "as there's several as i know would be glad to have 'em; but as to that--lor' bless yer!" it was not often that mrs dodley spoke, but when she did it was to inveigh against some oppression or trouble. candles were a great burden to the scrupulously clean woman. "tens i says," she confided to me one day, "but he will have eights, and what's the consequence? if i want to do a bit of extry needle-work i might light up two tens, but i should never have the heart to burn two eights at once, for extravagance i can't abear. ah! he's a hard master, and i'm sorry for you, my dear." "why?" i said. "ah! you'll find out some day," she said, shaking her head and then bustling off to her work. i had not much companionship, for ike was generally too busy to say a word, and though after the pear adventure shock did nothing more annoying to me than to stand now and then upon his head, look at me upside down, and point and spar at me with his toes, we seemed to get to be no better friends. he took to that trick all at once one day in a soft bit of newly dug earth. he was picking up stones, and i was sticking fresh labels at the ends of some rows of plants, when all at once he uttered a peculiar monkey-like noise, down went his head, up went his heels, and i stared in astonishment at first and then turned my back. this always annoyed shock; but one day when he stood up after his quaint fashion i was out of temper and had a bad headache, so i ran to him, and he struck at me with his feet, just as if they had been hands, only he could not have doubled them up. i was too quick for him though, and with a push drove him down. he jumped up again directly and repeated the performance. i knocked him down angrily. he stood up again. i knocked him down again. and so on, again and again, when he turned and ran off laughing, and i went on with my work, vexed with myself for having shown temper. every now and then a fit of low spirits used to attack me. it was generally on washing-days, when mrs dodley filled the place with steam early in the morning by lighting the copper fire, and then seeming to be making calico puddings to boil and send an unpleasant soapy odour through the house. doors and chair backs were so damp and steamy then that i used to be glad to go out and see shock, whom i often used to find right away in the little shed indulging in a bit of cookery of his own. if shock's hands had been clean i could often have joined him in his feasts, but i never could fancy turnips boiled in a dirty old sauce-pan, nor tender bits of cabbage stump. i made up my mind that i would some day try snails, but when i did join shock on a soaking wet morning when there was no gardening, and he invited me in his sulky way to dinner, the only times i partook of his fare were on chat days. what are chat days? why, the days when he used to have a good fire of wood and stumps, and roast the chats, as they called the little refuse potatoes too small for seed, in the ashes. they were very nice, though there was not much in one. still they were hot and floury, and not bad with a bit of salt. wet days, though, were always a trouble to me, and i used to feel a kind of natural sympathy with mr brownsmith as he set his men jobs in the sheds, and kept walking to the doors to see if the rain had ceased. "that's one thing i should like to have altered in nature," he said to me with one of his dry comical looks. "i should like the rain to come down in the night, my boy, so as to leave the day free for work. always work." "i like it, sir," i said. "no, you don't, you young impostor!" he cried. "you want to be playing with tops or marbles, or at football or something." i shook my head. "you do, you dog!" he cried. i shook my head again. "no, sir," i said; "i like learning all about the plants and the pruning. ike showed me on some dead wood the other day how to graft." "ah, i'll show you how to do it on live wood some day. there's a lot more things i should like to show you, but i've no glass." "no," i said; "i've often wished we had a microscope." "a what, grant?" "microscope, sir, to look at the blight and the veins in the plants' leaves." "no, no; i mean greenhouses and forcing-houses, where fruit and vegetables and flowers are brought on early: but wait a bit." i did wait a bit, and went on learning, getting imperceptibly to know a good deal about gardening, and so a couple of years slipped away, when one day i was superintending the loading of the cart after seeing that it was properly supported with trestles. ike was seated astride one of the large baskets as if it were a saddle, and taking off his old hat he began to indulge in a good scratch at his head. "lookye here," he exclaimed suddenly, "why don't you go to market?" "too young," i said, with a feeling of eagerness flashing through me. "not you," he said slowly, as he looked down at me and seemed to measure me with his eye as one of my uncles did. "there's a much littler boy than you goes with one of the carts, and i see him cutting about the market with a book under his arm, looking as chuff as a pea on a shovel. he ain't nothing to you. come along o' me. i'll take an old coat for wrapper, and you'll be as right as the mail. you ask him. he'll let you come." ike was wrong, for when i asked old brownsmith's leave he shook his head. "no, no, boy. you're too young yet. best in bed." "too partickler by half," ike growled when i let him know the result of my asking. "he's jealous, that's what he is. wants to keep you all to hisself. not as i wants you. 'tain't to please me. you're young and wants eddicating; well, you wants night eddication as well as day eddication. what do you know about the road to london of a night?" "nothing at all, ike?" i said with a sigh. "scholard as you are too," growled ike. "why, my figgering and writing ain't even worth talking about with a pen, though i am good with chalk, but even i know the road to london." "he'll let me go some day," i said. "some day!" cried ike in a tone of disgust. "any one could go by day. it's some night's the time. ah! it is a pity, much as you've got to learn too. there's the riding up with the stars over your heads, and the bumping of the cart, and the bumping and rattle of other carts, as you can hear a mile away on a still night before and behind you, and then the getting on to the stones." "on to the stones, ike?" i said. "yes, of course, on to the paving-stones, and the getting into the market and finding a good pitch, and the selling off in the morning. ah! it would be a treat for you, my lad. i'm sorry for yer." ike's sorrow lasted, and i grew quite uneasy at last through being looked down upon with so much contempt; but, as is often the case, i had leave when i least expected it. we had been very busy cutting, bunching, and packing flowers one day, when all at once old brownsmith came and looked at my slate with the total of the flower baskets set down side by side with the tale of the strawberry baskets, for it was in the height of the season. "big load to-night, grant," the old gentleman said. "yes, sir; largest load you've sent up this year," i replied, in all my newly-fledged importance as a young clerk. "you had better go up with ike to-night, grant," said the old man suddenly. "you are big enough now, and a night out won't hurt you. here, ike!" "yes, master." "you'll want a little help to-morrow morning to stand by you in the market. will you have shock?" "yes, master, he's the very thing, if you'll send some one to hold him, or lend me a dog-collar and chain." "don't be an idiot, ike," said old brownsmith sharply. "no, master." "would you rather have this boy?" "would i rather? just hark at him!" ike looked round at me as if this was an excellent joke, but old brownsmith took it as being perfectly serious, and gave ike a series of instructions about taking care of me. "of course you will not go to a public-house on the road." "'tain't likely," growled ike, "'less he gets leading me astray and takes me there." "there's a coffee-shop in great russell street where you can get your breakfasts." "lookye here, master," growled ike in an ill-humoured voice, "ain't i been to market afore?" "i shall leave him in your charge, ike, and expect you to take care of him." "oh, all right, master!" said ike, and then the old gentleman gave me a nod and walked away. "at last, ike!" i cried. "hurrah! why, what's the matter?" "what's the matter?" said ike in tones of disgust; "why, everything's the matter. here, let's have a look at you, boy. yes," he continued, turning me round, and as if talking to himself, "it is a boy. any one to hear him would have thought it was a sugar-stick." chapter fourteen. a night journey. it seemed to me as if starting-time would never come, and i fidgeted in and out from the kitchen to the stable to see if ike had come back, while mrs dodley kept on shaking her at me in a pitying way. "hadn't you better give it, up, my dear?" she said dolefully. "out all night! it'll be a trying time." "what nonsense!" i said. "why, sailors have to keep watch of a night regularly." "when the stormy wynds do blow," said mrs dodley with something between a sniff and a sob. "does mrs beeton know you are going?" "no," i said stoutly. "my poor orphan bye," she said with a real sob. "don't--don't go." "why, mrs dodley," i cried, "any one would think i was a baby." "here, grant," cried mr brownsmith, "hadn't you better lie down for an hour or two. you've plenty of time." "no, sir," i said stoutly; "i couldn't sleep if i did." "well, then, come and have some supper." that i was quite willing to have, and i sat there, with the old gentleman looking at me every now and then with a smile. "you will not feel so eager as this next time, master grant." at last i heard the big latch rattle on the gate, and started up in the greatest excitement. old brownsmith gave me a nod, and as i passed through the kitchen mrs dodley looked at me with such piteous eyes and so wrinkled a forehead that i stopped. "why, what's the matter?" i asked. "oh, don't ask me, my dear, don't ask me. what could master be a-thinking!" her words filled me with so much dread that i hurried out into the yard, hardly knowing which i feared most--to go, or to be forced to stay at home, for the adventure through the dark hours of the night began to seem to be something far more full of peril than i had thought a ride up to market on the cart would prove. the sight of ike, however, made me forget the looks of mrs dodley, and i was soon busy with him in the stable--that is to say, i held the lantern while he harnessed "basket," the great gaunt old horse whom i had so nicknamed on account of the way in which his ribs stuck out through his skin. "you don't give him enough to eat, ike," i said. "not give him enough to eat!" he replied. "wo ho, bonyparty, shove yer head through. that's the way. not give him enough to eat, my lad! lor' bless you, the more he eats the thinner he gets. he finds the work too hard for him grinding his oats, for he's got hardly any teeth worth anything." "is he so old, then?" i asked, as i saw collar and hames and the rest of the heavy harness adjusted. "old! i should just think he is, my lad. close upon two hunderd i should say's his age." "nonsense!" i said; "horses are very old indeed at twenty!" "some horses; but he was only a baby then. he's the oldest horse as ever was, and about the best; ain't you, basket? come along, old chap." the horse gave a bit of a snort and followed the man in a slow deliberate way, born of custom, right out into the yard to where the trestle-supported cart stood. then as i held the lantern the great bony creature turned and backed itself clumsily in between the shafts, and under the great framework ladder piled up with baskets till its tail touched the front of the cart, when it heaved a long sigh as if of satisfaction. "look at that!" said ike; "no young horse couldn't have done that, my lad;" and as if to deny the assertion, basket gave himself a shake which made the chains of his harness rattle. "steady, old man," cried ike as he hooked on the chains to the shaft, and then going to the other side he started. "hullo! what are you doing here?" he cried, and the light fell upon shock, who had busily fastened the chains on the other side. he did not speak, but backed off into the darkness. "got your coat, squire?" cried ike. "that's well. open the gates, shock. that's your sort. now, then, `basket,' steady." the horse made the chains rattle as he stuck the edges of his hoofs into the gravel, the wheels turned, the great axle-tree rattled; there was a swing of the load to left and another to right, a bump or two, and we were out in the lane, going steadily along upon a lovely starlight night. as soon as we were clear of the yard, and shock could be heard closing the gates and rattling up the bar, ike gave his long cart-whip three tremendous cracks, and i expected to see "basket" start off in a lumbering trot; but he paid not the slightest heed to the sharp reports, and it was evidently only a matter of habit, for ike stuck the whip directly after in an iron loop close by where the horse's great well-filled nose-bag was strapped to the front-ladder, beneath which there was a sack fairly filled with good old hay. "yes," said ike, seeing the direction of my eyes, "we don't starve the old hoss; do we, bonyparty?" he slapped the horse's haunch affectionately, and basket wagged his tail, while the cart jolted on. the clock was striking eleven, and sounded mellow and sweet on the night air as we made for the main road, having just ten miles to go to reach the market, only a short journey in these railway times, but one which it took the bony old horse exactly five hours to compass. "it seems a deal," i said. "i could walk it in much less time." "well, yes, master grant," said ike, rubbing his nose; "it do seem a deal, five hours--two mile an hour; but a horse is a boss, and you can't make nothing else out of him till he's dead. i've been to market with him hunderds upon hunderds of times, and he says it's five hours' work, and he takes five hours to do it in; no more, and no less. p'r'a'ps i might get him up sooner if i used the whip; but how would you like any one to use a whip on you when you was picking apples or counting baskets of strawbys into a wan?" "not at all," i said, laughing. "well, then, what call is there to use it on a boss? he knows what he can do, and he doos it." "has mr brownsmith had him long?" "has _old_ brownsmith had him long?" he said correctively. "oh, yes! ages. i don't know how long. he had him and he was a old boss when i come, and that's years ago. he's done nothing but go uppards and down'ards all his life, and he must know how long it takes by now, mustn't he?" "yes, i suppose so," i said. "of course he do, my lad. he knows just where his orf forefoot ought to be at one o'clock, and his near hind-foot at two. why, he goes like clockwork. i just winds him up once with a bit o' corn and a drink o' water, starts him, and there's his old legs go tick-tack, tick-tack, and his head swinging like a pendulow. use 'is secon' natur', and all i've got to do is to tie up the reins to the fore ladder and go to sleep if i like, for he knows his way as well as a christian. 'leven o'clock i starts; four o'clock he gets to the market; and if it wasn't for thieves, and some one to look after the baskets, that old hoss could go and do the marketing all hisself." it was all wonderfully fresh and enjoyable to me, that ride along the quiet country road, with another market cart jolting on about a hundred yards ahead, and another one as far behind, while no doubt there were plenty more, but they did not get any closer together, and no one seemed to hurry or trouble in the least. we trudged on together for some distance, and then ike made a couple of seats for us under the ladder by folding up sacks, on one of which i sat, on the other he. very uncomfortable seats i should call them now; most enjoyable i thought them then, and with no other drawback than a switch now and then from the horse's long tail, an attention perfectly unnecessary, for at that time of night there were no flies. there was not much to see but hedgerows and houses and fields as we jolted slowly on. once we met what ike called the "padrole," and the mounted policeman, in his long cloak and with the scabbard of his sabre peeping from beneath, looked to me a very formidable personage; but he was not too important to wish ike a friendly good-night. we had passed the horse-patrol about a quarter of a mile, when all at once we heard some one singing, or rather howling: "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." this was repeated over and over again, and seemed as we sat there under our basket canopy to come from some one driving behind us; but the jolting of the cart and the grinding of wheels and the horse's trampling drowned the sound of the following vehicle, and there it went on: "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." but the singer pronounced it _do-ho-ver_; and then it went on over and over again. "yes," said ike, as if he had been talking about something; "them padroles put a stop to that game." "what game?" i said. "highwaymen's. this used to be one of their fav'rite spots, from here away to hounslow heath. there was plenty of 'em in the old days, with their spanking horses and their pistols, and their `stand and deliver' to the coach passengers. now you couldn't find a highwayman for love or money, even if you wanted him to stuff and putt in a glass case." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." "i wish you'd stopped there," said ike, in a grumbling voice. "ah, those used to be days. that's where dick turpin used to go, you know-- hounslow heath." "but there are none now?" i said, with some little feeling of trepidation. "didn't i tell you, no," said ike, "unless that there's one coming on behind. how much money have you got, lad?" "two shillings and sixpence and some halfpence." "and i've got five and two, lad. wouldn't pay to keep a blood-horse to rob us, would it?" "no," i said. "didn't they hang the highwaymen in chains, ike?" "to be sure they did. i see one myself swinging about on hounslow heath." "wasn't it very horrible?" "i dunno. dessay it was. just look how reg'lar old bonyparty goes along, don't he--just in the same part of the road? i dessay he's a-counting all the steps he takes, and checking of 'em off to see how many more he's got to go through." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." "i say, i wish that chap would pass us--it worries me," cried ike pettishly. then he went on: "roads warn't at all safe in those days, my lad. there was footpads too--chaps as couldn't afford to have horses, and they used to hang under the hedges, just like that there dark one yonder, and run out and lay holt of the reins, and hold a pistol to a man's head." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." "go agen then, and stop," growled ike irritably. "swep' all away, my lad, by the road-police, and now--" "there's a man standing in the dark here under this hedge, ike," i whispered. "is--is he likely to be a foot-pad?" "either a footpad or a policeman. which does he look like?" said ike. "policeman," i whispered. "i think i saw the top of his hat shine." "right, lad. you needn't be scared about them sort o' gentlemen now. as old brownsmith says, gas and steam-engines and police have done away with them, and the road's safe enough, night or day." we jolted on past the policeman, who turned his bull's-eye lantern upon us for a moment, so that i could see basket's ribs and the profile of ike's great nose as he bent forward with his arms resting on his legs. there was a friendly "good-night," and we had left him about a couple of hundred yards behind, when, amidst the jolting of the cart and the creaking of the baskets overhead, ike said suddenly: "seem to have left that chap behind, or else he's gone to--" "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." "why, if he ar'n't there agen!" cried ike savagely. "look here, it worries me. i'd rayther have a dog behind barking than a chap singing like that. i hates singing." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." "look here," said ike; "i shall just draw to one side and wait till he've gone by. steady, bony; woa, lad! now he may go on, and sing all the way to dover if he likes." suiting the action to the word ike pulled one rein; but basket kept steadily on, and ike pulled harder. but though ike pulled till he drew the horse's head round so that he could look at us, the legs went on in the same track, and we did not even get near the side of the road. "he knows it ain't right to stop here," growled ike. "woa, will yer! what a obstin't hammer-headed old buffler it is! woa!" basket paid not the slightest heed for a few minutes. then, as if he suddenly comprehended, he stopped short. "thankye," said ike drily; "much obliged. it's my belief, though, that the wicked old walking scaffold was fast asleep, and has on'y just woke up." "why, he couldn't go on walking in his sleep, ike," i exclaimed. "not go on walking in his sleep, mate! that there hoss couldn't! bless your 'art, he'd do a deal more wonderful things than that. well, that there chap's a long time going by. i can't wait." ike looked back, holding on by the iron support of the ladder. "i carnt see nothing. just you look, mate, your side." i looked back too, but could see nothing, and said so. "it's strange," growled ike. "go on, bony." the horse started again, the baskets creaked, the wheels ground the gravel, and the cart jolted and jerked in its own particular springless way, and then all of a sudden: "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." ike looked sharply round at me, as if he half suspected me of ventriloquism, and it seemed so comical that i began to laugh. "look here," he said in a hoarse whisper, "don't you laugh. there's something wrong about this here." he turned the other way, and holding tightly by the ladder looked out behind, leaning a good way from the side of the cart. "i can't see nothinct," he grumbled, as he drew back and bent forward to pat the horse. "seems rum." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." there was the song or rather howl again, sounding curiously distant, and yet, odd as it may seem, curiously near, and ike leant towards me. "i say," he whispered, "did you ever hear of anything being harnted?" "yes," i said, "i've heard of haunted houses." "but you never heerd of a harnted market cart, did yer?" "no," i said laughing; "never." "that's right," he whispered. "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." i burst out laughing, though the next moment i felt a little queer, for ike laid his hand on my shoulder. "don't laugh, my lad," he whispered; "there's some'at queer 'bout this here." "why, nonsense, ike!" i said. "ah! you may say it's nonsense; but i don't like it." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." this came very softly now, and it had such an effect on ike that he jumped down from the shaft into the road, and taking his whip from the staple in which it was stuck, he let the cart pass him, and came round the back to my side. "well?" i said; "is there a cart behind?" "i can't hear one, and i can't see one," he whispered; "and i says it's very queer. i don't like it, my lad, so there." he let the cart pass him, went back behind it again, reached his own seat, and climbed in under the ladder. bump, jolt, creak, on we went, and all at once basket kicked a flint stone, and there was a tiny flash of fire. "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." there it was again, so loud that ike seized the reins, and by main force tried to stop the horse, which resisted with all its might, and then stopped short with the baskets giving a jerk that threatened to send them over the front ladder, on to the horse's back. ike jumped down on one side and i jumped down on the other. i was not afraid, but the big fellow's uneasiness had its effect upon me, and i certainly felt uncomfortable. there was something strange about riding along that dark road in the middle of the night, and this being my first experience of sitting up till morning the slightest thing was enough to put me off my balance. the horse went on, and ike and i met at the back, looked about us, and then silently returned to our seats, climbing up without stopping the horse; but we had not been there a minute before ike bounded off again, for there once more, buzzing curiously in the air, came that curious howling song: "i've been to paris and i've been to dover." i slipped off too, and ike ran round, whip in hand, and gripped my arm. "it was your larks," he growled savagely, as i burst into a fit of laughing. "it wasn't," i cried, as soon as i could speak. "give me the whip," i whispered. "what for?" he growled. "you give me the whip," i whispered; and i took it from his hand, trotted on to the side of the cart, and then reaching up, gave a cut over the top of the load. "stash that!" shouted a voice; and then, as i lashed again, "you leave off, will yer? you'll get something you don't like." "woa, bony!" roared ike with such vehemence that the horse stopped short, and there, kneeling on the top of the high load of baskets, we could dimly see a well-known figure, straw-hat and all. "you want me to come down, an' 'it you?" he cried, writhing. "here, give me that whip," cried ike fiercely. "how did you come there?" "got up," said shock sulkily. "who told you to come?" "no one. he's come, ain't he?" "that's no reason why you should come. get down, you young dog!" "sha'n't!" "you give's holt o' that whip, and i'll flick him down like i would a fly." "no, no; don't hurt him, ike," i said, laughing. "what were you making that noise for, shock?" "he calls that singing," cried ike, spitting on the ground in his disgust. "he calls that singing. he's been lying on his back, howling up at the sky like a sick dog, and he calls that singing. here, give us that whip." "no, no, ike; let him be." "yes; he'd better," cried shock defiantly. "yes; i had better," cried ike, snatching the whip from me, and giving it a crack like the report of a gun, with the result that basket started off, and would not stop any more. "come down," roared ike. "sha'n't!" cried shock. "you 'it me, and i'll cut the rope and let the baskets down." "come down then." "sha'n't! i ain't doing nothing to you." _crack_! went the whip again, and i saw shock bend down. "i'm a-cutting the cart rope," he shouted. "come down." _crack_! went the whip. shock did not speak. "will he cut the rope?" i whispered. "if he do we shall be two hours loading up again, and a lot o' things smashed," growled ike. then aloud: "are you a coming down? get down and go home." "sha'n't!" came from above us; and, like a good general, ike accepted his defeat, and climbed back to his place on the left shaft, while i took mine on the right. "it's no good," he said in a low grumbling tone. "when he says he won't, he won't, and them ropes is the noo 'uns. he'll have to go on with us now; and i'm blest if i don't think we've lost a good ten minutes over him and his noise." "i've been to paris and i've been to dover," came from over our heads. "think o' me letting that scare me!" said ike, giving his whip a vicious _whisk_ through the air. "but it seemed so strange," i said. "ay, it did. look yonder," he said. "that's the norrard. it looks light, don't it?" "yes," i said. "ah! it never gets no darker than that all night. you'll see that get more round to the nor-east as we gets nigher to london." so it proved, for by degrees i saw the stars in the north-east pale; and by the time we reached hyde park corner a man was busy with a light ladder putting out the lamps, and it seemed all so strange that it should be broad daylight, while, as we jolted over the paving-stones as we went farther, the light had got well round now to the east, and the daylight affected ike, for as, after a long silence, we suddenly heard once more from the top of the baskets: "i've been to paris and i've been to dover!" ike took up the old song, and in a rough, but not unmusical voice roared out the second line: "i've been a-travelling all the world over." or, as he gave it to match do-ho-ver--"o-ho-ver." and it seemed to me that i had become a great traveller, for that was london all before me, with a long golden line above it in the sky. chapter fifteen. in the market. i could almost have fancied that there was some truth in ike's declaration about old basket or bonyparty, as he called him, for certainly he seemed to quicken his pace as we drew nearer; and so it was that, as we turned into the busy market, and the horse made its way to one particular spot at the south-east corner, ike triumphantly pointed to the church clock we had just passed. "what did i tell yer?" he exclaimed with a grim smile of satisfaction on his countenance; "he picked up them lost ten minutes, and here we are-- just four." what a scene it seemed to me. the whole place packed with laden cart, wagon, and light van. noise, confusion, and shouting, pleasant smells and evil smells--flowers and crushed cabbage; here it was peas and mint, there it was strawberries; then a whole wagon announced through the sides of its piled-up baskets that the load was cauliflowers. for a time i could do nothing but gape and stare around at the bustling crowd and the number of men busily carrying great baskets on the top of porters' knots. women, too, in caps, ready to put the same great pad round forehead and make it rest upon their shoulders, and bear off great boxes of fruit or baskets of vegetable. here i saw a complete stack of bushel baskets being regularly built up from the unloading of a wagon, to know by the scent they were early peas; a little farther on, some men seemed to be making a bastion for the defence of the market by means of gabions, which, to add to the fancy, were not filled with sand, but with large round gravel of a pale whitish-yellow, only a closer inspection showed that the contents were new potatoes. the strawberries took my attention, though, most, for i felt quite a feeling of sorrow for old brownsmith as i saw what seemed to me to be such a glut of the rich red fruit that i was sure those which we had brought up would not sell. how delicious they smelt in the old-fashioned pottles which we never see now--long narrow cones, with a cross-handle, over which, when filled, or supposed to be filled, for a big strawberry would block up the narrow part of the cone at times, a few leaves were placed, and then a piece of white paper was tied over with a bit of bast. nowadays deep and shallow punnets are the order of the day, and a good thing too. flowers! there seemed to me enough to last london for a month; and i was going, after a look round, to tell ike that i was afraid we should have to take our load back, when i felt a heavy thump on the back of my head, which knocked off my cap. nothing annoyed me more as a boy than for my cap to be knocked off. shock knew that, and it had been one of his favourite tricks, so that i knew, as i thought, whence this piece of annoyance had come, and, picking up the small hard cabbage that had been thrown, i determined to avenge myself by sending it back with a good aim. true enough there was master shock, lying flat on his chest with his chin resting in his hands, and his feet kicking up behind, now going up and down, now patting together, for he had taken off his boots. shock was having a good stare over the market from his elevated position on the top of the baskets; and, taking a good aim as i thought, i threw the little hard stale cabbage, and then dodged round the side of the cart. i stood aghast directly after, beside a pile of baskets, and watch a quarrel that had just begun a dozen yards away, where a big red-faced man was holding a very fluffy white hat in his hand and brushing it with his arm, and bandying angry words with a rough-looking young market porter, who, with a great flat basket under one arm and his other through a knot, was speaking menacingly-- "don't you hit me again." "yes, i will, and knock your ugly head off if you do that again," said the man with the white hat. "do what again?" "do what again!--why, throw rotten cabbages at my hat." "i didn't." "yes, you did." "no, i didn't." "why, half-a-dozen here saw you do it. you've got hold of the wrong man, my lad, for larks; so now, then!" i saw him stick on his white hat all on one side, and he looked very fierce and severe; while i felt covered with shame and confusion, for i knew that it was my cabbage that had done the mischief. _whop_! that was another right in my ear, and i turned angrily upon shock, forgetting all about the man with the white hat and the half-conceived idea of going up to him and telling the truth. but there was shock staring about him from a dozen feet above my head, and singing softly, "i've been to paris and i've been to dover;" and the cabbage had struck me on the other side, so that unless shock had learned how to project decayed cabbage after the fashion of boomerangs it could not have been he. there was a group of bare-legged boys, though, away to my left--a set of ragged objects who might have passed for shock's brothers and cousins, only that they were thin and unwholesomely pale, and extremely dirty, while although shock was often quite as dirty, his seemed to be the wholesome dirt of country earth, and he looked brown, and healthy, and strong. then i became aware of the presence of ike, who said with a grim smile: "don't you heed them, my lad. i see one of 'em chuck it and then turn round. wait a bit and i shall get a charnce, and i'll drar my whip round one of 'em in a way as'll be a startler." a quick busy-looking man came bustling up just then, had a chat with ike, and hurried off, carrying away my companion; and as soon as he had gone a bruised potato struck the side of the cart, and as i changed my position a damaged stump of a cauliflower struck basket on the flank, making him start and give himself a shake that rattled all the chains of the harness before resettling down to the task of picking the corn out of the chaff in his well-filled nose-bag. my first idea was to call shock down from where he was see-sawing his legs to and fro till his feet looked like two tilt-hammers beating a piece of iron, and then with his help attack the young vagabonds who were amusing themselves by making me a target for all the market refuse they could find. second thoughts are said to be best, and i had sense enough to know that nothing would be gained by a struggle with the young roughs. so, gaining knowledge from my previous experience, i changed my position so as to get in the front of some sturdy-looking men who were all standing with their hands in their pockets chinking their money. i had yet to learn that they were costermongers waiting for prices to come down. directly after _whiz_! came something close by my head and struck one of the men in the face, with the result that he made a dash at the boys, who darted away in and out among the baskets, whooping and yelling defiance; but one ran right into the arms of a man in uniform, who gave him three or four sharp cuts with a cane and sent him howling away. this episode was hardly over before ike was back, and he nodded as he said: "he's coming direckly to sell us off." "shall you be able to sell the things, then, this morning?" "sell 'em! i should just think we shall; well too. there's precious little in the market to-day." "little!" i exclaimed. "why, i thought there would be too much for ours to be wanted." "bless your young innocence! this is nothing. bad times for the costers, my boy; they'll get nothing cheap. here you, shock, as you are come, help with these here ropes; and mind, you two, you look after these new ropes and the sacks." "look after them!" i said innocently. "yes," said ike with a queer look; "they gets wild and into bad habits in london--walks away, they does--and when you go and look for 'em, there you finds 'em in marine store-shops in the dirty alleys." shock and i set to work helping to unfasten the ropes, which were laced in and out of the basket-handles, and through the iron stays, and beneath the hooks placed on purpose about the cart, after which the ropes were made into neat bunches by ike, who passed them from hand to elbow over and over and tied them in the middle, and then in a row to the ladder of the cart. the baskets were just set free when the busy-looking man came back along with a tall red-nosed fellow. i noticed his red nose because it was the same colour as a book he held, whose leather cover was like a bad strawberry. he had a little ink-bottle hanging at his buttonhole and a pen in his mouth, and was followed by quite a crowd of keen-looking men. "now, jacob," said the little man, and clapping his hand upon the thin man's shoulder he stepped up on to the top of a pile of barge-baskets, whose lids were tied down with tarred string over the cauliflowers with which they were gorged. then, as i stared at him, he put his hands on either side of his mouth and seemed to go mad with satisfaction, dancing his body up and down and slowly turning round as he yelled out: "strawby's! strawby's! strawby's!" over and over again. i looked up at ike, whose face was as if cut out of mahogany, it was so solid; then i looked round at the people, but there wasn't a smile. nobody laughed but shock, who grinned silently till he saw me watching him, and then he looked sulky and turned his back. just then ike, who seemed as solemn as a judge, climbed up the wheel and on to the cart with another man following him; and as the crowd increased about our cart i realised that everything was being sold by auction, for the busy man kept shouting prices quickly higher and higher, and then giving a tap with a pencil on a basket, entering something in a memorandum-book, while his red-nosed clerk did the same. i stared to see how quickly it was all done, ike and the strange man handing down the baskets, which were seized and carried away by porters to carts standing at a distance; and i wondered how they would ever find out afterwards who had taken them, and get the money paid. but ike seemed to be quite satisfied as he trampled about over the baskets, which were handed rapidly down till from being high up he was getting low down, before the busy-looking man began to shout what sounded to me like, "flow--wow--wow--wow!" as if he were trying to imitate barking like a dog. half the crowd went away now, but a fresh lot of men came up, and first of all baskets full of flowers were sold, then half-baskets, then so many bunches, as fast as could be. again i found myself wondering how the money would be obtained, and i thought that old brownsmith would be sure to be cheated; but ike looked quite easy, and instead of there being so many things in the market that ours would not sell, i found that the men around bought them up eagerly, and the baskets grew less in number than ever. i glanced round once or twice on that busy summer morning, to see the street as far as i could grasp packed with carts, and to these a regular throng of men were carrying baskets, while every here and there barrows were being piled up with flowers. all about us too, as far as i could see by climbing up to the ladder over basket's back, men were shouting away as they sold the contents of other carts, whose baskets were being handed down to the hungry crowds, who were pushing and struggling and making way for the porters with the heavy baskets on their heads. by degrees i began to understand that all this enormous quantity of garden produce was being bought up by the greengrocers and barrow-dealers from all over london, and that they would soon be driving off east, west, north, and south, to their shops and places of business. i should have liked to sit perched up there and watching all that went on, but i had to move to let ike drag back the baskets; then i had to help handing out bunches, till at last the crowd melted away, and the busy man closed his book with a snap. "very good this morning," he shouted to ike; and then climbing down he went off with his red-nosed clerk, and the people who were about followed him. "getting warm, mate?" said ike, grinning at me. "yes," i said; "the sun's so hot, and there's no wind here." "no, my lad; they builds houses to shut it out. soon be done now. you and shock get down and hand up them baskets." he pointed to a pile that some men had been making, and these i found all had "brownsmith, isleworth," painted upon them, and it dawned upon me now that those which had been carried away would not be returned till next journey. "that's it," said ike. "market-gardeners has to give a lot o' trust that way." "but do they get the baskets all back again, ike?" i said. "to be sure they do, my lad--oh yes, pretty well." "but shall we get paid the money for all that's been sold this morning?" "why, of course, my lad. that gentleman as sold for us, he's our salesman; and he pays for it all, and they pay him. don't you see?" i said "yes," but my mind was not very clear about it. "we're all right there. work away, shock, and let's finish loading up, and then we'll have our breakfast. nice sort o' looking party you are, to take anywhere to feed," he grumbled, as he glanced at shock, whose appearance was certainly not much in his favour. it was much easier work loading with empty baskets, and besides there was not a full load, so that it was not very long before ike had them all piled up to his satisfaction and the ropes undone and thrown over and over and laced in and out and hooked and tied and strained to the sides of the cart. "that's the way we does it, squire," cried ike; "haul away, shock, my lad. you've worked well. old bonyparty's had the best of it; this is his rest and feeding time. you might leave him there hours; but as soon as it's time to go home, away he starts, and there's no stopping him. "that's about it," he said, as he fastened off a rope. "that'll do. we sha'n't want no more for this lot. now don't you two leave the cart. i'm going up to mr blackton, our salesman, you know, just to see if he's anything to say, and then we'll go and have our braxfass. don't you chaps leave the cart." "i sha'n't go," i said, and i glanced at shock, who climbed up to the top of the baskets, and lay down flat on his face, so as to be away from me as it seemed, but i could see him watching me out of one eye from time to time. "i wonder whether he will ever be different," i thought to myself, as i watched the selling of a huge load of beautifully white bunches of turnips, as regular and clean as could be, when all at once i felt a blow in my back, and looking sharply round, there were several of the ragged boys who haunted the market grinning at me. there was no handy place for me to post myself again so as to stop the throwing, and i had to content myself with looking at them angrily; but that did no good, for they separated, getting behind baskets and stacks of baskets, like so many sharpshooters, and from thence laid siege to me, firing shots with bits of market refuse, and anything they could find. i generally managed to dodge the missiles, but the boys were clever enough to hit me several times, and with my blood boiling, and fingers tingling to pull their ears or punch their dirty heads, i had to stand fast and bear it all. barelegged, barefooted, and as active as cats, i felt sure that if i chased one he would dodge in and out and escape me, and as to throwing back at them, i was not going to stoop to do that. "dirty young vagabonds!" i said to myself, and i looked at them contemptuously with as much effect as if i had directed my severe looks at a market basket; and then i went and leaned against the end of the cart, determined to take no notice of them, and wishing that ike would come back. the young rascals only grew more impudent though, and came nearer, two in particular, and one of them, quite a little fellow with a big head and two small dark shiny eyes, over which his shock head of hair kept falling, ran right in, making charges at me, and striking at me with a muddy little fist, while his companion made pokes with a stick. this was getting beyond bearing, for i was not a wild beast in a cage unable to get away; but still i determined not to be led into any disgraceful struggle with the dirty little blackguards. i was not afraid of them, for i was too angry for that, and nothing would have given me greater satisfaction than to have come to blows. but that would not do, i knew. i glanced round and saw that there were plenty of people about, but they were all too busy with their own affairs to take much notice of me, so that if i wanted to free myself from the pack of young ruffians i must act for myself. the attack went on, and i should have fared worse, only that it soon became evident that ammunition was running short; and failing this, the boys began to throw words, while the two most daring kept making rushes at me and then shrank back ready to throw themselves down if i should strike at them. all at once i thought of ike's great cart-whip, and in the full confidence that i could make it crack as loudly and as well as its master i determined to give it a good whish or two in the air. it was stuck high up in one of the staples in the front of the cart, and, determined to climb up and reach it down, i turned and raised one foot to a spoke of the great wheel, when the two foremost boys uttered a yell and made a furious onslaught upon me. they were too late, for in an instant i had seen the object of their advance. there was no doubt about it. they were keeping my attention from what was going on upon the other side, where one of their companions had been stealing along under cover of some baskets, and was just in the act of untying one of the coils of nearly new rope, which had not been required and hung from the ladder. the young thief had that moment finished, and slipped his arm through, catching sight of me at the same time, and darting off. i did not stop to think. in one flash i realised that i had been left in charge of the cart, and had been so poor a sentry that i had allowed the enemy to get possession of something that i ought to have protected, and thinking of what ike would say, and later on of old brownsmith, i ran off after the thief. chapter sixteen. an exciting chase. but not without shouting to shock, whom i suddenly remembered. "shock--shock!" i cried; "look out for the cart." not that i supposed that the boys i left behind would run off with it and the old horse; but there were more coils of rope swinging from the ladder, and there were the sacks and ike's old coat and whip. i thought of all this in an instant as i ran, followed by the yells of the young plunderer's companions. i was not far behind, but he was barefoot, used to the place, knew every inch of the ground, and while i slipped and nearly went down twice over, he ran easily and well, pad--pad--pad--pad over the stones. he doubled here and went in and out of the carts and wagons, dodged round a stack of baskets there, threaded his way easily among the people, while i tried to imitate him, and only blundered against them and got thrust aside. then i nearly knocked over a basket of peas built up on the top of other baskets like a pillar, and at last nearly lost my quarry, for he darted in at the door of a herbalist's shop; and as i went panting up, sure now of catching him, i suddenly awakened to the fact that there was a door on the other side out by which he had passed. as luck had it, when i darted round i just caught sight of him disappearing behind a cabbage wagon. this time, as he disappeared, i tried to bring a little strategy to bear, and running round another way by which i felt sure he would go, i was able to make up all my lost ground, for i came plump upon him. "stop, you young thief!" i panted as i made a snatch at the rope and his arm. it was like catching at an eel. just as i thought i had him he dodged aside, dived under a horse, and as i ran round the back of the cart, not caring to imitate his example, he was a dozen yards away, going in and out of stalls and piles of vegetables. i lost sight of him then, and the next minute saw him watching me round a corner, when i again gave chase, hot, panting, and with a curious aching pain in my legs; but when i reached the corner he had gone, and i felt that i had lost him, and, thoroughly disheartened, did not know which way to turn. i was about to go despondently back to the cart, when, giving a final glance round, i saw him stealing away beyond some columns. he had not seen me, and he was walking; so, keeping as much out of sight as i could, and rejoicing in the fact that i had recovered my breath, i hurried on. all at once i heard a shrill warning cry, and looking to my right saw the two young ruffians who had been the most obnoxious, while at the same moment i saw that the warning had taken effect, the boy i chased having started off afresh. "i will catch you," i muttered through my teeth; and, determined not to lose sight of him again, i ran on, in and out among carts and vans, jostling and being jostled, running blindly now, for my sole thought was to keep that boy in view, and this i did the more easily now, that feeling at last that he could not escape me in the market, he suddenly crossed the road, ran in and out for a minute in what seemed like an archway, and then ran as hard as he could along a wide street and i after him. suddenly he turned to the right into a narrow street, and along by a great building. at the end of this he turned to the right again, past the front and nearly to the bottom of the street, when he turned to the left and followed a wide street till it became suddenly narrow, and instead of being full of people it was quite empty. here he darted into a covered way with columns all along the side, running very fast still, and i suppose i was too, and gradually overtaking him, but he reached the end of the street before i could come up with him, and as he turned the corner i felt quite despairing once more at seeing him pass out of sight. it was only a matter of moments before i too turned the corner, and found myself in the dirtiest busiest street i had ever seen, with unpleasant-looking people about, and throngs of children playing over the foul pavement and in the road. my boy seemed quite at home there and as if he belonged to the place. i noticed that as i ran after him, wondering whether it would be of any use to call to them to stop him, though if i had determined that it would be i had not the breath, as i panted on at a much slower rate now, and with the perspiration streaming down my face. i kept losing sight of him, there were so many people grouped about the pavement along which he ran, while i kept to the road, but he went in and out among them as easily as a dog might have run, till all at once i saw him dive in amongst a number of men talking at the entrance of a narrow archway with a public-house on one side, and as i ran up i found that it was a court, down which i caught a glimpse of the boy with the rope still over his arm. i stopped for nothing but dashed in after him, the men giving way at first, but as i blundered in my haste against one rough-looking fellow, he roared out savagely: "now, then, where are you running to?" and made a snatch at my collar. i eluded him by making quite a bound in my alarm, and nearly falling over the leg of another, who thrust it out to trip me up. i escaped a fall, however, and entered the court, which seemed to be half full of children, just in time to see my boy slip into a house nearly at the bottom, on the left. he stopped for a moment to look back to see if i was coming, and then he disappeared, and my heart gave a bound, for in my excitement i felt that i had succeeded, and that i had traced the young thief to his lair. i did not think about anything else, only that the children all stopped their games and set up a kind of yell, while it seemed to me that the men who were at the entrance of the court were all following me slowly with their hands thrust down low in their pockets, and it struck me for the moment that they were all coming down to see the capture of the thief. i was in happy ignorance just then that i had followed the boy into one of the vilest and most dangerous parts of london in those days,--to wit a drury lane court, one of the refuges of some of the worst characters in that district. in this ignorance i was still observant, and noticed that the doors on each side of the dirty court stood wide open, while the yell set up by the children brought people to some of the open windows. that was all seen in a glance, as i made for the open door at the end, before which a boy of my own size ran as if to stop me; but even if i had wished to stop just then i could not, and i gave him a sharp push, the weight of my body driving him back into a sitting position as i stumbled in from the pavement, up a couple of stone steps, and on to the boards of the narrow passage, which seemed, by contrast to the bright sunshine outside, quite dark. i did not stop, but went on as if by instinct to the end, passed a flight of steps leading down to the cellar kitchen, up which came a noisome odour that turned me sick, and began to ascend the stairs before me. then i paused for a moment with my hand on a sticky balustrade and listened. yes! i was quite right, for up above me i could hear the stairs creaking as if some one was going up; and to make me the more sure that the boy had not entered a room i could hear his hoarse panting, accompanied by a faint whimpering cry, as if every moment or two he kept saying softly, "oh!" that satisfied me, and as fast as i could i went up one flight and then another of dirty creaking stairs and found myself on the first floor. then up another flight, dirtier, more creaking, and with the woodwork broken away here and there. up another flight worse still, and by the light of a staircase window i could see that the plaster ceiling was down here and there, showing the laths, while the wall was blackened by hands passing over it. on the handrail side the balusters were broken out entirely in the most dangerous way; but all this seemed of no consequence whatever, for there was the boy still going on, evidently to the very top of the house. all at once there was silence above me, and i thought he must have gone, but he was only listening, and as he heard me coming he uttered a faint cry, and went on up whimpering, evidently so much exhausted by the long chase that he could hardly drag himself up higher. by this time i was up to the second floor, where there were a couple of battered doors and another staircase window nearly without glass, the broken panes being covered with paper pasted on, or else, fortunately for the inhabitants of the noisome place, left open for the air to blow through. i ought to have stopped; in fact i ought never to have gone; but i was too much excited by my chase to think of anything but getting hold of that boy and shaking him till he dropped our new rope; and now as i began to toil breathlessly up the last flight i knew that my task was done, for my young enemy could hardly crawl, and had begun to sob and whine, and i could just make out: "you'd best let me be--i--i--ain't--i ain't done--done--" i heard no more, only that doors were being thrown open, and there was a buzz of voices below, with heavy footsteps in the passage. still that did not seem to have anything to do with me, so intent was i on my pursuit up those last two flights of stairs, which seemed to be steeper, more broken, and more difficult to climb than those which had gone before. in fact the boy above me was dragging himself up, and i had settled down into a walk, helping myself on by the dirty hand-rail, and panting so hoarsely that each breath came to be a snore. my heart, too, throbbed heavily, and seemed to be beating right up into my throat. i had gained on my quarry, so that we were on the last flight together, and this gave me the requisite strength for the last climb, for i knew that he could go no further. half-way up and there was a sloping ceiling above, in which was a blackened skylight, across which was a string and some dirty white garments hanging to dry, while to right and to left there were doors that had been painted black for reasons full of wisdom; and as my head rose higher i saw the boy who had literally crawled up on to the landing, rise up, with the rope still upon his arm, and fling himself against the farthest of these two doors. it flew open with a crash, and then seemed to be banged to heavily, but it was against me, for, summoning up all my remaining strength, i reached the top, and imitating the boy's action, the door came back upon my hands, and was dashed open again. i almost tumbled in, staggering forward, and hardly able to keep upon my legs, so that i nearly reached the middle of the room before i was aware that the boy was cowering down in a corner upon our rope, and that a big scowling stubble-chinned man had just risen dressed from a bed on which he had lain, to catch me by the shoulders in a tremendous grip, and hold me backwards panting like some newly captured bird. i noticed that the man wore a great sleeved waistcoat, breeches, and heavy boots, and that his low forehead was puckered up into an ugly scowl, with one great wrinkle across it that seemed like another mouth as he forced me right back against the wall, and held me shivering there. "here, shet that there door, polly," he said in a low harsh growl, like the snarl of a wild beast. then to me: "here, what d'yer mean a-comin' in here, eh?" he accompanied his words with a fierce shake that made the back of my head tap against the wall. for a few moments the man's savage look seemed to fascinate me, and i felt horribly alarmed, as i could think for the moment about nothing but the ogre and hop-o'-my-thumb, and wonder whether he was going to take out a big knife and threaten me. i was still panting and breathless with my exertions, and there was a curious pain in my legs, mingled with a sensation as if they were going to double up under me, but i made an effort to be brave as the great heavy-browed scoundrel gave me another shake, and said:-- "d'yer hear? what d'yer mean by banging into my room like that 'ere?" i glanced at a sad-faced dull-eyed slatternly woman who had closed the door, and then at the boy, who still crouched close up under the window, whimpering like a whipped dog, but keenly watching all that was going on with his sharp restless dark eyes; then, making a determined attempt to be braver than i looked, i said as stoutly as i could: "i want our new rope. he stole our new rope." "who stole yer noo rope!" cried the fellow, giving me another shake; "what d'yer mean?" "he took our rope off the cart in covent garden this morning," i cried, feeling angry now. "why, he ain't been out o' the court this morning," said the fellow sharply; "have yer, micky?" "no, father," said the boy. "jest up, ain't he, missus?" continued my captor, turning to the heavy-eyed woman. "yes, just up," said the woman in a low mechanical voice, and then with more animation, "let him go, ned." "you mind yer own business," said the fellow savagely; then to me, "now, then, d'yer hear that?" "i don't care; he did," i said firmly. "he stole our rope--that's it, you give it me directly." "what! that?" he cried. "you're a nice un, you are. why, that's my rope, as 'longs to my donnerkey-cart. don't you come lying here." "i tell you that's our rope, and i saw him steal it," i cried, growing stronger now. "you let me go, and give me my rope, or i'll tell the police." "why, you never had no rope, yer young liar!" he cried. "it's my master's rope," i said, struggling to get free. "i will have it." "what! yer'd steal it, would yer? yer'd tell the polliss, would yer!" growled the fellow, tightening his grip; "i'll soon see about that. here you, micky, bring that there rope here." the boy struggled to his feet, and came slowly to us with the rope, which the man scanned eagerly. "i don't want to make no mistakes," he growled. "let's see it. if it's your rope, you shall have it, but--now then! d'yer hear?" this was to the boy, who took advantage of my helpless position to give me a couple of savage kicks in the leg as he stood there; but as he had no shoes on, the kicks did not do much harm. "why, o' course it is our rope," growled the fellow. "gahn with you, what d'yer mean by coming here with a tale like that?" he gave me a shake, and the woman interfered. "let him go, ned," she said, "or ther'll be a row." the man took one hand from my shoulder, and doubled his great fist, which he held close to the woman's face in a menacing way. then turning sharply he made believe to strike me with all his might right in the mouth, when, as i flinched, he growled out with a savage grin: "ah! yer know'd yer deserved it. now i dunno whether i'm going to keep yer here, or whether i shall let yer go; but whichever i does, don't you go a sweering that this here's your rope, a cause it's mine. d'yer hear, mine?" the door was kicked open at that moment, and a couple of the rough-looking fellows i had seen at the entrance to the court stood half inside, leaning against the door-posts and looking stolidly on. i was about to appeal to them for help, but my instinct told me that such an application would be in vain, while their first words told me how right i was. "give it him, ned. what's he a-doin' here?" said one. "see if he's got any tin," said the other. "ah! make him pay up," said the first. "'ow much have yer got, eh?" said my captor, giving me a shake, which was the signal for the boy to kick at me again with all his might. "gahn, will yer," cried the man, "or i'll wrap that rope's end round yer." the woman just then made a step forward and struck at the boy, who dodged the blow, and retreated to the far end of the room, the woman shrinking away too as the man growled: "let him alone; will yer?" i seized the opportunity to wrench myself partly away, and to catch hold of the rope, which the man had now beneath one of his feet. "ah, would yer!" he shouted, tearing the rope away from me. "comes up here, mates, bold as brass, and says it's his'n." i felt more enraged and mortified now than alarmed, and i cried out: "it is our rope, and that boy stole it; and i'll tell the police." "oh! yer will, will yer?" cried my captor. "we'll see about that. here, what money have yer got?" "i've only enough for my breakfast," i cried defiantly. "give me my rope and let me go." "oh yes, i'll let yer go," he cried, as i wrestled to get away, fighting with all my might, and striving to reach the rope at the same moment. "look out, ned," said one of the men at the door, grinning. "he'll be too much for yer;" and the other uttered a hoarse laugh. "ah, that he will!" cried the big fellow, letting me get hold of the rope, and, tightening his grasp upon my collar, he kicked my legs from under me, so that i fell heavily half across the coil, while he went down on one knee and held me panting and quivering there, perfectly helpless. the boy made another dart forward, and i saw the woman catch at him by the head, but his shortly-cropped hair glided through her hands, and he would have reached me had not the man kicked out at him and made him stop suddenly and watch for another chance. "who's got a knife?" growled the man now savagely as he turned towards the two fellows at the door; "i'll soon show him what it is to come here a-wanting to steal our cart-ropes. chuck that there knife here." he rose as he spoke, and planted one foot upon my chest. then catching the pocket-knife thrown to him by one of the men at the door, he opened it with a great deal of show and menace, bending down to stare savagely in my eyes as he whetted the blade upon the boot resting on my chest. of course i was a good deal alarmed, but i knew all the while that this was all show and that the great ruffian was trying to frighten me. i was in a desperately bad state, in an evil place, but it was broad daylight, and people had seen me come in, so that i did not for a moment think he would dare to kill me. all the same, though, i could not help feeling a curious nervous kind of tremor run through my frame as he flourished the knife about and glared at me as if pondering as to what he should do next. "i wish ike were here," i thought; and as i did so i could not help thinking how big and strong he was, and how little he would make of seizing this great cowardly ruffian by the throat and making him let me go. "now, then," he cried, "out wi' that there money." for answer, i foolishly showed him where it was by clapping my hand upon my pocket, when, with a grin of satisfaction, he tore my hand away, thrust in his great fingers, and dragged it out, spat on the various coins, and thrust them in his own pocket. "what d'yer say?" he cried, bending down again towards me. "the police shall make you give that up," i panted. "says we're to spend this here in beer, mates," he said, grinning, while the woman stood with her eyes half shut and her arms folded, looking on. the two men at the door laughed. "now, then," said the big fellow, "since he's come out genteel-like with his money, i don't think i'll give him the knife this time. get up with yer, and be off while your shoes are good." he took his great boot off my chest, and i started up. "i wouldn't give much for yer," he growled, "if yer showed yer face here agen." he accompanied this with such a menacing look that i involuntarily shrank away, but recovering myself directly i seized the coil of rope and made for the door. "what!" roared the great ruffian, snatching the rope, and, as i held on to it, dragging me back. "trying to steal, are you?" "it's mine--it's ours," i cried passionately. "oh! i'll soon let yer know about that," he cried. "look here, mates; this is our rope, ain't it?" "yes," said one of them: "i'll swear to it." "it's mine," i cried, tugging at it angrily. "let go, will yer--d'yer hear; let go." he tugged and snatched at it savagely, and just then the boy leaped upon me, butting at me, and striking with all his might, infuriating me so by his cowardly attack, that, holding on to the rope with one hand, i swung round my doubled fist with the other and struck him with all my might. it must have been a heavy blow right in the face, for he staggered back, caught against a chair, and then fell with a crash, howling dismally. "look at that, now," cried the big ruffian. "now he shall have it." "serves him right!" said the woman passionately. "let the boy go, ned, or you'll get into trouble." "i'll get into trouble for something then," cried the fellow savagely, as he hurt me terribly by jerking the rope out of my hand and catching me by the collar, when i saw the two men at the open door look round, and i heard a familiar growl on the stairs that made my heart leap with joy. "ike!--here!--ike!" i shouted with all my might. "hold yer row," hissed the great ruffian in a hoarse whisper, and clapping one hand behind my head he placed the other upon my mouth. he dragged me round, half-choked and helpless, and then he said something over his shoulder to the woman, while i fought and struggled, and tried hard to shout again to ike, whose heavy feet i could hear in the midst of a good deal of altercation on the stairs. as i struggled to get free i saw that the window was opened and the rope thrown out. then the window was quickly shut, and i was dragged towards the door. "here, you be off outer this," whispered the great ruffian, with his lips close to my ear. "you cut; and don't you--" he stopped short, holding me tightly, and seemed to hesitate, his eyes glaring round as if in search of some place where he could hide me, not knowing what to do for the best. "shut the door, mates," he said quickly; and the two men dragged the door to after them as they stood outside. "just you make half a sound, and--" he put his lips close to my ear as he said this, and closed the great clasp-knife with a sharp click which made me start; while his eyes seemed to fascinate me as he bent down and glared at me. it was only for a moment, though, and then i managed to slip my face aside and shouted aloud: "ike!" there was a rush and a scuffle outside, and the woman said in an ill-used tone: "i told yer how it would be." "you hold--" he did not finish, for just then one of the men outside growled--plainly heard through the thin door: "now, then, where are yer shovin' to?" "in here," roared a voice that sent a thrill of joy through me. "now, then, what d'yer want?" cried the big fellow, thrusting me behind him as ike kicked open the door and strode into the room. "what do i want?" he roared. "i want him and our cart-rope. now, then, where is it?" there was a fierce muttering among the men, and they drew together while the boy and the woman cowered into one corner of the attic. "oh! you're not going to scare me," cried ike fiercely. "there's the police just at hand if i wants help. now then, where's that rope?" "what rope?" growled the ruffian. "i don't know about no ropes." "they threw it out of the window, ike," i cried. "that's a lie," snarled the man. "there ain't never been no ropes here." "there has been one," i cried, feeling bold now; "but they threw it out of the window." "well, of all--" began one of the men, who had crossed the room with his companion to the big ruffian's side. "you go on down, my lad," whispered ike in a low deep voice. "go on, now." "but are you coming?" i whispered back. "you may depend on that," he said, as if to himself, "if they'll let me. go on." i moved towards the open door, when one of the men made a dash to stop me; but ike threw put one leg, and he fell sprawling. at the same moment my enemy made a rush at ike, who stepped back, and then i saw his great fist fly out straight. there was a dull, heavy sound, and the big ruffian stopped short, reeled, and then dropped down upon his hands and knees. "quick, boy, quick! you go first," whispered ike, as i stopped as if paralysed; "i'll foller." his words roused me, and i ran out of the room. chapter seventeen. what became of the rope. i nearly fell headlong down as i reached the stairs, for my foot went through a hole in the boards, but i recovered myself and began to run down as fast as i dared, on account of the rickety state of the steps, while ike came clumping down after me, and we could hear the big ruffian's voice saying something loudly as we hurried from flight to flight. there were knots of women on the different landings and at the bottom of the stairs, and they were all talking excitedly; but only to cease and look curiously at us as we went by. there was quite a crowd, too, of men, women, and children in the court below as we left the doorway; but ike's bold manner and the decided way in which he strode out with me, looking sharply from one to the other, put a stop to all opposition, even if it had been intended. there were plenty of scowling, menacing looks, and there was a little hooting from the men, but they gave way, and in another minute we were out of the court and in the dirty street, with a troop of children following us and the people on either side looking on. "but, ike," i said in a despairing tone, "we haven't got the rope after all." "no," he said; "but i've got you out o' that place safe, and i haven't got much hurt myself, and that's saying a deal. talk about savages and wild beasts abroad! why, they're nothing." "i didn't see any policemen, ike," i said, as i thought of their power. "more didn't i," he replied with a grim smile. "they don't care much about going down these sort o' places; no more don't i. we're well out of that job, my lad. you didn't ought to have gone." "but that boy was running off with the best cart rope, ike," i said despondently, "and i was trying to get it back, and now it's gone. what will mr brownsmith say?" "old brownsmith won't say never a word," said ike, as we trudged on along a more respectable street. "oh, but he will," i cried. "he is so particular about the ropes." "so he be, my lad. here, let's brush you down; you're a bit dirty." "but he will," i said, as i submitted to the operation. "not he," said ike. "them police is in the right of it. i'm all of a shiver, now that bit of a burst's over;" and he wiped his brow. "you are, ike?" i said wonderingly. "to be sure i am, my lad. i was all right there, and ready to fight; but now it's over and we're well out of it, i feel just as i did when the cart tipped up and all the baskets come down atop of you." "i am glad you feel like that," i said. "why?" he cried sharply. "because it makes me feel that i was not such a terrible coward after all." "but you were," he said, giving me a curious look. "oh, yes: about as big a coward as ever i see." i did not understand why i was so very great a coward, but he did not explain, and i trudged on by him. "i say, what would you have done if i hadn't come?" "i don't know," i said. "i suppose they would have let me go at last. they got all my money." "they did?" "yes," i said dolefully; "and then there's the rope. what will mr brownsmith say?" "nothin' at all," said ike. "but he will," i cried again. "no he won't, because we'll buy a new one 'fore we goes back." "i thought of that," i said, "but i've no money now." "oh, all right! i have," he said. "we may think ourselves well out of a bad mess, my lad; and i don't know as we oughtn't to go to the police, but we haven't no time for that. there'll be another load o' strawb'ys ready by the time we get back, and i shall have to come up again to-night. strawb'ys sold well to-day. no: we've no time for the police." "they deserve to be taken up," i said. "ay, they do, my boy; but folks don't get all they deserve." "or i should be punished for letting that boy steal the rope." "hang the rope!" he said crustily. "i mean, hang the boy or his father, and that's what some of 'em'll come to," he cried grimly, "if they don't mind. they're a bad lot down that court. lor' a mussy me! i'd sooner live in one of our sheds on some straw, with a sack for a pillow, than be shut up along o' these folk in them courts." "but they wouldn't have hurt me, ike?" i said. "i dunno, my lad. p'r'aps they would, p'r'aps they wouldn't. they might have kept you and made a bad un of yer. frightened you into it like." i shook my head. "ah! you don't know, my lad. how much did they get?" "two shillings and ninepence halfpenny," i said dolefully. "and a nearly new rope. ah, it's a bad morning's work for your first journey." "it is, ike," i said; "but i didn't know any better. how did you know where i was?" "how did i know? why, shock saw you and followed you, and come back and fetched me, when i was staring at the cart and wondering what had gone of you two." "where is he now?" i asked. "what, shock? oh, i don't know. he's a queer chap. p'r'aps they've got him instead of you." i stopped short and looked at him, but saw directly that he was only joking, and went on again: "you don't think that," i said quickly; "for if you did you would not have come away. do you think he has gone back to the cart?" "oh, there's no knowing," he replied. "p'r'aps when we get back there won't be any cart; some one will have run away with it. they're rum uns here in london." "why, you haven't left the cart alone, ike," i cried. "that's a good one, that is," he exclaimed. "you haven't left the cart alone! why, you and shock did." "yes," i said; "but--" "there, come and let's see," he said gruffly. "we should look well, we two, going back home without a cart, and old bonyparty took away and cut up for goodness knows what and his skin made into leather. come along." we walked quickly, for it seemed as if this was going to be a day all misfortunes; but as we reached the market again i found that ike had not left the cart untended, for a man was there by the horse, and the big whip curved over in safety from where it was stuck. "seen anything of our other boy?" said ike as we reached the cart. "no," was the reply. "hadn't we better go back and look for him?" i said anxiously. "well, i don't know," said ike, rubbing one ear; "he ain't so much consequence as you." "i've been to paris and i've been to do-ho-ver." "why, there he is," i cried; and, climbing up the wheel, there lay shock on his back right on the top of the baskets, and as soon as he saw my face he grinned and then turned his back. "he's all right," i said as i descended; and just then there was a creaking noise among the baskets, and shock's head appeared over the edge. "here y'are," he cried. "that there tumbled out o' window, and i ketched it and brought it here." as he spoke he threw down the coil of nearly new rope, and i felt so delighted that i could have gone up to him and shaken hands. "well, that's a good un, that is," said ike with a chuckle. "i am 'bout fine and glad o' that." he took the rope and tied it up to the ladder again, and then turned to me. "come along and get some breakfast, my lad," he said. "i dessay you're fine and hungry." "but how about shock?" "oh, we'll send him out some. here, you, shock, look after the cart and horse. don't you leave 'em," ike added to the man; and then we made our way to a coffee-house, where ike's first act, to my great satisfaction, was to procure a great mug of coffee and a couple of rolls, which he opened as if they had been oysters, dabbed a lump of butter in each, and then put under his arm. "he don't deserve 'em," he growled, "for coming; but he did show me where you was." "and he saved the rope," i said. ike nodded. "you sit down till i come back, my lad," he said; and then he went off, to return in a few minutes to face me at a table where we were regaled with steaming coffee and grilled haddocks. "this is the best part of the coming to market, my lad," he said, "only it's a mistake." "what is?" i asked. "haddocks, my lad. they're a trickier kind o' meat than bloaters. i ordered this here for us 'cause it seemed more respectable like, as i'd got company, than herrin'; but it's a mistake." "but this is very nice," i said, beginning very hungrily upon the hot roll and fish, but with a qualm in my mind as to how it was to be paid for. "ye-es," said ike, after saying "soup" very loudly as he took a long sip of his coffee; "tidyish, my lad, tidyish, but you see one gets eddicated to a herring, and knows exactly where every bone will be. these things seems as if the bones is all nowhere and yet they're everywhere all the time, and so sure as you feel safe and take a bite you find a sharp pynte, just like a trap laid o' purpose to ketch yer." "well, there are a good many little bones, certainly," i said. "good many! thick as slugs after a shower. there's one again, sharp as a needle. wish i'd a red herrin', that i do." "i say, ike," i said suddenly, as i was in the middle of my breakfast, "i wish i could make haste and grow into a man." "do you, now?" he said with a derisive laugh. "ah! i shouldn't wonder. if you'd been a man i s'pose you'd have pitched all those rough uns out o' window, eh?" "i should have liked to be able to take care of myself," i said. "without old ike, eh, my lad?" "i don't mean that," i said; "only i should like to be a man." "instead o' being very glad you're a boy with everything fresh and bright about you. red cheeks and clean skin and all your teeth, and all the time to come before you, instead of having to look back and think you're like an old spade--most wore out." "oh, but you're so strong, ike! i should like to be a man." "like to be a boy, my lad, and thank god you are one," said old ike, speaking as i had never heard him speak before. "it's natur', i s'pose. all boys wishes they was men, and when they're men they look back on that happiest time of their lives when they was boys and wishes it could come over again." "do they, ike?" i said. "i never knew a man who didn't," said ike, making the cups dance on the table by giving it a thump with his fist. "why, master grant, i was kicked about and hit when i was a boy more'n ever a boy was before, but all that time seems bright and sunshiny to me." "but do you think shock's happy?" i said; "he's a boy, and has no one to care about him." "happy! i should just think he is. all boys has troubles that they feels bad at the time, but take 'em altogether they're as happy as can be. shock's happy enough his way or he wouldn't have been singing all night atop of the load. there, you're a boy, and just you be thankful that you are, my lad; being a boy's about as good a thing as there is." we had nearly finished our breakfast when ike turned on me sharply. "why, you don't look as if you was glad to be a boy," he said. "i was thinking about what mr brownsmith will say when he knows i've been in such trouble," i replied. "ah, he won't like it! but i suppose you ain't going to tell him?" "yes," i said, "i shall tell him." ike remained silent for a few minutes, and sat slowly filling his pipe. at last, as we rose to go, after ike had paid the waitress, he said to me slowly: "sometimes doing right ain't pleasant and doing wrong is. it's quite right to go and tell old brownsmith and get blowed up, and it would be quite wrong not to tell him, but much the nystest. howsoever, you tell him as soon as we get back. he can't kill yer for that, and i don't s'pose he'll knock yer down with the kitchen poker and then kick you out. you've got to risk it." i did tell old brownsmith all my trouble when we reached home, and he listened attentively and nodding his head sometimes. then he said softly, "ah!" and that was all. but i heard him scold master shock tremendously for going off from his work without leave. shock had been looking on from a distance while i was telling old brownsmith, and this put it into his head, i suppose, that i had been speaking against him, for during the next month he turned his back whenever he met me, and every now and then, if i looked up suddenly, it was to see him shaking his fist at me, while his hair seemed to stand up more fiercely than ever out of his crownless straw hat like young rhubarb thrusting up the lid from the forcing-pot put on to draw the stalks. chapter eighteen. the gardener surgeon. "people sneer at gardening and gardeners, grant," said the old gentleman to me one day. "perhaps you may take to some other occupation when you grow older; but don't you never be ashamed of having learned to be a gardener." "i'm sure i never shall," i said. "i hope you will not, my boy, for there's something in gardening and watching the growth of trees and plants that's good for a lad's nature; and if i was a schoolmaster i'd let every boy have a garden, and make him keep it neat. it would be as good a lesson as any he could teach." "i like gardening more and more, sir," i said. "that's right, my boy. i hope you do, but you've a deal to learn yet. gardening's like learning to play the fiddle; there's always something more to get hold of than you know. i wish i had some more glass." "i wish you had, sir," i said. "why, boy?--why?" he cried sharply. "because you seem as if you'd like it, sir," i said, feeling rather abashed by his sharp manner. "yes, but it was so that i should be able to teach you, sir. but wait a bit, i'll talk to my brother one of these days." time glided on, and as i grew bigger and stronger i used now and then to go up with ike to the market. he would have liked me to go every time, but mr brownsmith shook his head, and would only hear of it in times of emergency. "not a good task for you, grant," he used to say. "i want you at home." we were down the garden one morning after a very stormy night, when the wind had been so high that a great many of the fruit-trees had had their branches broken off, and we were busy with ladder, saw, and knife, repairing damages. i was up the ladder in a fine young apple-tree, whose branch had been broken and was hanging by a few fibres, and as soon as i had fixed myself pretty safely i began to cut, while when i glanced down to see if old brownsmith was taking any notice i saw that he was smiling. "won't do--won't do, grant," he said. "cutting off a branch of a tree that has been broken is like practising amputation on a man. cut lower, boy." "but i wanted to save all that great piece with those little boughs," i said. "but you can't, my lad. now just look down the side there below where you are cutting, and what can you see?" "only a little crack that will grow up." "only a little crack that won't grow up, grant, but which will admit the rain, and the wet will decay the tree; and that bough, at the end of two or three years, instead of being sound and covered with young shoots, will be dying away. a surgeon, when he performs an amputation, cuts right below the splintered part of the bone. cut three feet lower down, my lad, and then pare all off nice and smooth, just as i showed you over the pruning. "that's the way," he said, as he watched me. "that's a neat smooth wound in the tree that will dry up easily after every shower, and nature will send out some of her healing gum or sap, and it will turn hard, and the bark, just as i showed you before, will come up in a new ring, and swell and swell till it covers the wood, and by and by you will hardly see where the cut was made." i finished my task, and was going to shoulder the ladder and get on to the next tree, when the old gentleman said in his quaint dry way: "you know what the first workman was, grant?" "yes," i said, "a gardener." "good!" he said. "and do you know who was the first doctor and surgeon?" "no," i said. "a gardener, my boy, just as the men were who first began to improve the way in which men lived, and gave them fruit and corn and vegetables to eat, as well as the wild creatures they killed by hunting." "oh, yes!" i said, "i see all that, but i don't see how the first doctor and surgeon could have been a gardener." "don't you?" he said, laughing silently. "i do. who but a gardener would find out the value of the different herbs and juices, and what they would do. you may call him a botanist, my lad, but he was a gardener. he would find out that some vegetables were good for the blood at times, and from that observation grew the whole doctrine of medicine. that's my theory, my boy. now cut off that pear-tree branch." i set the ladder right, and proceeded to cut and trim the injury, thinking all the while what a pity it was that the trees should have been so knocked about by the storm. "do you know who were the best gardeners in england in the olden times, grant?" said the old gentleman as he stood below whetting my knife. "no, sir,--yes, i think i do," i hastened to add--"the monks." "exactly. we have them to thank for introducing and improving no end of plants and fruit-trees. they were very great gardeners--famous gardeners and cultivators of herbs and strange flowers, and it was thus that they, many of them, became the doctors or teachers of their district, and i've got an idea in my head that it was on just such a morning as this that some old monk--no, he must have been a young monk, and a very bold and clever one--here, take your knife, it's as sharp as a razor now." i stooped down and took the knife, and hanging my saw from one of the rounds of the ladder began to cut, and the old gentleman went on: "it must have been after such a morning as this, boy, that some monk made the first bold start at surgery." i looked down at him, and he went on: "you may depend upon it that during the storm some poor fellow had been caught out in the forest by a falling limb of a tree, one of the boughs of which pinned him to the ground and smashed his leg." "an oak-tree," i said, quite enjoying the fact that he was inventing a story. "no, boy, an elm. oak branches when they break are so full of tough fibre that they hang on by the stump. it is your elm that is the treacherous tree, and snaps short off, and comes down like thunder." "an elm-tree, then," i said, paring away. "yes, a huge branch of an elm, and there the poor fellow lay till some one heard his shouts, and came to his help." "where he would be lying in horrible agony," i said, trimming away at the bough. "wrong again, grant. nature is kinder than that. with such an injury the poor fellow's limb would be numbed by the terrible shock, and possibly he felt but little pain. i knew an officer whose foot was taken off in a battle in india. a cannon-ball struck him just above the ankle, and he felt a terrible blow, but it did not hurt him afterwards for the time; and all he thought of was that his horse was killed, till he began to struggle away from the fallen beast, when he found that his own leg was gone." "how horrible!" i said. "all war is horrible, my boy," he said gravely. "well, to go on with my story. i believe that they came and hoisted out the poor fellow under the tree, and carried him up to the old priory to have his broken leg cured by one of the monks, who would be out in his garden just the same as we are, grant, cutting off and paring the broken boughs of his apple and pear trees. then they laid him in one of the cells, and his leg was bound up and dressed with healing herbs, and the poor fellow was left to get well." "and did he?" i said. "then the gardener monk went out into the garden again and continued to trim off the broken branches, sawing these and cutting those, and thinking all the while about his patient in the cell. "then the next day came, and the poor fellow's relatives ran up to see him, and he was in very great agony, and they called upon the monks to help him, and they dressed the terrible injury again, and the poor fellow was very feverish and bad in spite of all that was done. but at last he dropped off into a weary sleep, and the poor people went away thinking what a great thing it was to have so much knowledge of healing, while, as soon as they had gone the monk shook his head. "next day came, and the relatives and friends were delighted, for the pain was nearly all gone, and the injured man lay very still. "`he'll soon get well now,' they said; and they went away full of hope and quite satisfied; but the monk, after he had given the patient some refreshing drink, went out into his garden among his trees, and then after walking about in the sunny walk under the old stone wall, he stopped by the mossy seat by the sun-dial, and stood looking down at the gnomon, whose shadow marked the hours, and sighed deeply as he thought how many times the shadow would point to noon before his poor patient was dead." "why, i thought he was getting better," i said. "carry your ladder to the next tree, grant," said the old gentleman, "and you shall work while i prattle." i obeyed him, and this time i had a great apple-tree bough to operate upon with the thin saw. i began using the saw very gently, and listening, for i seemed to see that monk in his long grey garment, and rope round his waist, looking down at the sun-dial, when old brownsmith went on slowly: "he knew it could not be long first, for the man's leg was crushed and the bone splintered so terribly that it would never heal up, and that the calm sense of comfort was a bad sign, for the limb was mortifying, and unless that mortification was stopped the man must die." "poor fellow!" i ejaculated, for the old man told the story with such earnestness that it seemed to be real. "yes, poor fellow! that is what the monk said as he thought of all the herbs and decoctions he had made, and that not one of them would stop the terrible change that was going on. he felt how helpless he was, and at last, grant, he sat down on the mossy old stone bench, and covering his face with his hands, cried like a child." "but he was a man," i said. "yes, my lad; but there are times when men are so prostrated by misery and despair that they cry like women--not often--perhaps only once or twice in a man's life. my monk cried bitterly, and then he jumped up, feeling ashamed of himself, and began walking up and down. then he went and stood by the great fish stew, where the big carp and tench were growing fatter as they fed by night and basked in the sunshine among the water weeds by day; but no thought came to him as to how he could save the poor fellow lying in the cell." old brownsmith stopped to blow his nose on a brown-and-orange silk handkerchief, and stroke two or three cats, while i sawed away very slowly, waiting for what was to come. "then he went round by where one apple-tree, like that, had lost a bough, and whose stump he had carefully trimmed--just as you are going to trim that, grant." "i know," i cried, eagerly; "and then--" "you attend to your apple-tree, sir, and let me tell my story," he said, half gruffly, half in a good-humoured way, and i sawed away with my thin saw till i was quite through, and the stump i had cut off fell with such a bang that the cats all jumped in different directions, and then stared back at the stump with dilated eyes, till, seeing that there was no danger, one big tom went and rubbed himself against it from end to end, and the others followed suit. "all at once, as he stood staring at the broken tree, an idea flashed across his brain, grant." "yes," i said, pruning-knife in hand. "he knew that if he had not cut and trimmed off that branch the limb would have gone on decaying right away, and perhaps have killed the tree." "yes, of course," i said, still watching him. "isn't your knife sharp enough, my lad?" said old brownsmith dryly. "yes, sir," i said; and i went on trimming. "well, he thought that if this saved the tree, why should it not save the life of the man?" and he grew so excited that he went in at once and had a look at the patient, and then went in to the prior, who shook his head. "`poor fellow,' he said; `he will die.' "`yes,' said the young monk, `unless--' "`unless--' said the prior. "`yes, unless,' said the young monk; and he horrified the prior by telling him all his ideas, while the other monks shook their heads. "`it could not be done,' they said. `it would be too horrible.' "`there is no horror in performing an act like that to save a man's life,' said the young monk; `it is a duty.' "`but it would kill the poor fellow,' they chorused. "`he will die as it is,' said the young monk. `you said as much when i came in, and i am sure of it.' "`yes,' said the prior sadly, `he will die.' "`this might save his life,' said the young monk; but the old men shook their heads. "`such a thing has never been done,' they said. `it is too horrible.' "`and even if it saved his life he would only have one leg.' "`better have no legs at all,' said the young monk, `than die before his time.' "`but it would be his time,' said the old monks. "`it would not be his time if i could save his life,' said the young monk. "but still the old monks shook their heads, and said that no man had ever yet heard of such a thing. it was too terrible to be thought of, and they frowned very severely upon the young monk till the prior, who had been very thoughtful, exclaimed:-- "`and cutting the limb off the apple-tree made you think that?' "the young monk said that it was so. "`but a man is not an apple-tree,' said the oldest monk present; and all the others shook their heads again; but, oddly enough, a few minutes later they nodded their heads, for the prior suddenly exclaimed:-- "`our brother is quite right, and he shall try.' "there was a strange thrill ran through the monks, but what the prior said was law in those days, grant, and in a few minutes it was known all through the priory that brother anselm was going to cut off the poor swineherd's leg. "then--i say, my boy, i wish you'd go on with your work. i can't talk if you do not," said old brownsmith, with a comical look at me, and i went on busily again while he continued his story. "when brother anselm had obtained the prior's leave to try his experiment he felt nervous and shrank from the task. he went down the garden and looked at the trees that he had cut, and he felt more than ever that a man was, as the monks said, not an apple-tree. then he examined the places which looked healthy and well, and he wondered whether if he performed such an operation on the poor patient he also would be healthy and well at the end of a week, and he shook his head and felt nervous." "if you please, mr brownsmith," i said, "i can't go on till you've done, and i must hear the end." he chuckled a little, and seating himself on a bushel basket which he turned upside down, a couple of cats sprang in his lap, another got on his shoulder, and he went on talking while i thrust an arm through one of the rounds of the ladder, and leaned back against it as he went on. "well, grant," he said, "brother anselm felt sorry now that he had leave to perform his experiment, and he went slowly back to the cell and talked to the poor swineherd, a fine handsome, young man with fair curly brown hair and a skin as white as a woman's where the sun had not tanned him. "and he talked to him about how he felt; and the poor fellow said he felt much better and much worse--that the pain had all gone, but that he did not think he should ever be well any more. "this set the brother thinking more and more, but he felt that he could do nothing that day, and he waited till the next, lying awake all night thinking of what he would do and how he would do it, till the cold time about sunrise, when he had given up the idea in despair. but when he saw the light coming in the east, with the glorious gold and orange clouds, and then the bright sunshine of a new day, he began to think of how sad it would be for that young man, cut down as he had been in a moment, to be left to die when perhaps he might be saved. he thought, too, about trees that had been cut years before, and which had been healthy and well ever since, and that morning, feeling stronger in his determination, he went to the cell where the patient lay, to talk to him, and the first thing the poor fellow said was:-- "`tell me the truth, please. i'm going to die, am i not?' "the young monk was silent. "`i know it,' said the swineherd sadly. `i feel it now.' "brother anselm looked at him sadly for a few minutes and then said to him:-- "`i must not deceive you at such a time--yes; but one thing might save your life.' "`what is that?' cried the poor fellow eagerly; and he told him as gently as he could of the great operation, expecting to see the patient shudder and turn faint. "`well,' he said, when the monk had ended, `why don't you do it?' "`but would you rather suffer that--would you run the risk?' "`am i not a man?' said the poor fellow calmly. `yes: life is very sweet, and i would bear any pain that i might live.' "that settled the matter, and the monk went out of the cell to shut himself up in his own and pray for the space of two hours, and the old monks said that it was all talk, and that he had given up his horrible idea; but the prior knew better, and he was not a bit surprised to see anselm coming out of his cell looking brave, and calm, and cool. "then he took a bottle of plant juice that he knew helped to stop bleeding, and he got ready his bandages, and his keenest knives, and his saw, and a bowl of water, and then he thought for a bit, and ended by asking the monks which of them would help him, but they all shrank away and turned pale, all but the prior, who said he would help, and then they went into the poor fellow's cell." old brownsmith stopped here, and kept on stroking one of the cats for such a long time, beginning at the tip of his nose and going right on to the end of his tail, that i grew impatient. "and did he perform the operation?" i said eagerly. "yes, bravely and well, but of course very clumsily for want of experience. he cut off the leg, grant, right above where the bone was splintered, and all the terrible irritation was going on." "and the poor fellow died after all?" i said. "no, he did not, my lad; it left him terribly weak and he was very low for some days, but he began to mend from the very first, and i suppose when he grew well and strong he had to make himself a wooden leg or else to go about with a crutch. about that i know nothing. there was the poor fellow dying, and there was a gardener who knew that if the broken place were cut nature would heal it up; for nature likes to be helped sometimes, my boy, and she is waiting for you now." "yes, sir, i'll do it directly," i said, glancing at the stump i had sawn off, and thinking about the swineherd's leg, and half-wondering that it did not bleed; "but tell me, please, is all that true?" "i'm afraid not, grant," he said smiling; "but it is my idea--my theory about how our great surgeons gained their first knowledge from a gardener; and if it is not true, it might very well be." "yes," i said, looking at him wonderingly as he smoothed the fur of his cats and was surrounded by them, rubbing themselves and purring loudly, "but i did not know you could tell stories like that." "i did not know it myself, grant, till i began, and one word coaxed out another. seriously, though, my boy, there is nothing to be ashamed of in being a gardener." "i'm not ashamed," i said; "i like it." "gardeners can propagate and bring into use plants that may prove to be of great service to man; they can improve vegetables and fruits--and when you come to think of what a number of trees and plants are useful, you see what a field there is to work in! why, even a man who makes a better cabbage or potato grow than we have had before is one who has been of great service to his fellow-creatures. so work away; you may do something yet." "yes," i cried, "i'll work away and as hard as i can; but i begin to wish now that you had some glass." "so do i," said the old gentleman. "there!" i said, coming down the ladder, "i think that will heal up now, like the poor swineherd's leg. it's as smooth as smooth." "let me look," said a voice behind me; and i started with surprise to find myself face to face with a man who seemed to be old brownsmith when he was, if not young brownsmith, just about what he would have been at forty. chapter nineteen. brother solomon. the new-comer went slowly up the ladder, looked at my work, and then took out a small knife with a flat ivory handle, came down again, stropped the knife on his boot, went up, and pared my stump just round the edge, taking off a very thin smooth piece of bark. "good!" he said as he wiped his knife, came down, and put the knife away; "but your knife wanted a touch on a bit o' turkey-stone. how are you, ezra?" old brownsmith set down some cats gently, got up off the bushel basket slowly, and shook hands. "fairly, solomon, fairly; and how are you?" "tidy," said the visitor, "tidy;" and he stared very hard at me. "this is him, is it?" "yes, this is he, solomon. grant, my lad, this is my brother solomon." i bowed after the old fashion taught at home. "shake hands. how are you?" said mr solomon; and i shook hands with him and said i was quite well, i thanked him; and he said, "hah!" "he has just come up from hampton, grant--from sir francis linton's. he's going to take you back." "take me back, sir!" i said wonderingly. "have--have i done anything you don't like?" "no, my lad, no--only i've taught you all i can; and now you will go with him and learn gardening under glass--to grow peaches, and grapes, and mushrooms, and all kinds of choice flowers." i looked at him in a troubled way, and he hastened to add: "a fine opportunity for you, my boy. brother solomon is a very famous gardener and takes prizes at the shows." "oh! as to that," said brother solomon, "we're not much. we do the best we can." "horticultural medals, gold and bronze," said old brownsmith, smiling. "there!--you'll have to do so as well, grant, my lad--you will have to do me credit." i crept close to him and half-whispered: "but must i go, sir?" "yes, my lad, it is for your benefit," he said rather sternly; and i suppose i gave him such a piteous look that his face softened a little and he patted my shoulder. "come," he said, "you must be a man!" i seemed to have something in my throat which i was obliged to swallow; but i made an effort, and after a trial or two found that i could speak more clearly. "shall i have to go soon, sir?" "yes: now," said old brownsmith. "not till i've had a look round," said brother solomon in a slow meditative way, as he took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands, staring about him at the trees and bushes, and then, as a cat gave a friendly rub against his leg, he stooped down after the fashion of his brother, picked it up, and held it on his arm, stroking it all the time. i had not liked the look of brother solomon, for he seemed cold, and quiet, and hard. his face looked stiff, as if he never by any chance smiled; and it appeared to me as if i were going from where i had been treated like a son to a home where i should be a stranger. "yes," he said after looking about him, as if he were going to find fault, "i sha'n't go back just yet awhile." "oh no! you'll have a snap of something first, and grant here will want a bit of time to pack up his things." old brownsmith seemed to be speaking more kindly to me now, and this made me all the more miserable, for i had felt quite at home; and though shock and i were bad friends, and ike was not much of a companion, i did not want to leave them. old brownsmith saw my looks, and he said: "you will run over now and then to see me and tell me how you get on. brother solomon here never likes to leave his glass-houses, but you can get away now and then. eh, solomon?" "p'r'aps," said brother solomon, looking right away from us. "we shall see." my heart sank as i saw how cold and unsympathetic he seemed. i felt that i should never like him, and that he would never like me. he had hardly looked at me, but when he did there was to me the appearance in his eyes of his being a man who hated all boys as nuisances and to make matters worse, he took his eyes off a bed of onions to turn them suddenly on his brother and say: "hadn't he better go and make up his bundle?" "yes, to be sure," said old brownsmith. "go and tell mrs dodley you want your clean clothes, my boy; and tell her my brother solomon's going to have a bit with us." "and see whether your boy has given my horse his oats, will you?" said brother solomon. i went away, feeling very heavy-hearted, and found shock in the stable, in the next stall to old basket, watching a fine stoutly-built cob that had just been taken out of a light cart. the horse's head-stall had been taken off, and a halter put on; and as he munched at his oats, shock helped him, munching away at a few that he took from one hand. i was in so friendly a mood to every one just then that i was about to go up and shake hands with shock; but as soon as he saw me coming he dived under the manger, and crept through into old basket's stall, and then thrust back his doubled fist at me, and there it was being shaken menacingly, as if he were threatening to punch my head. this exasperated me so that in an instant the honey within me was turned to vinegar, and i made a rush round at him, startling our old horse so that he snorted and plunged; but i did not catch shock, for he dived back through the hole under the manger into the next stall. then on under the manger where brother solomon's horse was feeding, making him start back and nearly break his halter, while shock went on into the third stall, disturbing a hen from the nest she had made in the manger, and sending her cackling and screaming out into the yard, where the cock and the other hens joined in the hubbub. as i ran round to the third stall i was just in time to see shock's legs disappearing, as he climbed up the perpendicular ladder against the wall, and shot through the trap-door into the hay-loft. "you shall beg my pardon before i go," i said between my teeth, as i looked up, and there was his grubby fist coming out of the hole in the ceiling, and being shaken at me. i rushed at the ladder, and had ascended a couple of rounds, when bang went the trap-door, and there was a bump, which i knew meant that shock had seated himself on the trap, so that i could not get it up. "oh, all right!" i said aloud. "i sha'n't come after you, you dirty old grub. i'm going away to-day, and you can shake your fist at somebody else." i had satisfied myself that brother solomon's horse was all right, so i now strode up to the house and told mrs dodley to spread the table for a visitor, and said that i should want my clean things as i was going away. "what! for a holiday?" she said. "no; i'm going away altogether," i said. "i know'd it," she cried angrily; "i know'd it. i always said it would come to that with you mixing yourself up with that bye. a nasty dirty hay-and-straw-sleeping young rascal, as is more like a monkey than a bye. and now you're to be sent away." "yes," i said grimly; "now i'm to be sent away." she stood frowning at me for a minute, and then took off her dirty apron and put on a clean one, with a good deal of angry snatching. "i shall just go and give mr brownsmith a bit of my mind," she said. "i won't have you sent away like that, and all on account of that bye." "no, no," i said. "i'm going away with mr brownsmith's brother, to learn all about hothouses i suppose." "oh, my dear bye!" she exclaimed. "you mustn't do that. you'll have to be stoking and poking all night long, and ketch your death o' cold, and be laid up, and be ill-used, and be away from everybody who cares for you, and and i don't want you to go." the tears began to run down the poor homely-looking woman's face, and affected me, so that i was obliged to run out, or i should have caught her complaint. "i must be a man over it," i said. "i suppose it's right;" and i went off down the garden to say "good-bye" to the men and women, and have a few last words with ike. as i went down the garden i suddenly began to feel that for a long time past it had been my home, and that every tree i passed was an old friend. i had not known it before, but it struck me now that i had been very happy there leading a calm peaceable life; and now i was going away to fresh troubles and cares amongst strangers, and it seemed as if i should never be so happy again. to make matters worse i was going down the path that i had traversed that day so long ago, when i first went to buy some fruit and flowers for my mother, and this brought back her illness, and the terrible trouble that had followed. then i seemed to see myself up at the window over the wall there, at mrs beeton's, watching the garden, and shock throwing dabs of clay at me with the stick. "poor old shock!" i said. "i wonder whether he'll be glad when i'm gone. i suppose he will." i was thinking about how funny it was that we had never become a bit nearer to being friendly, and then i turned miserable and choking, for i came upon half a dozen of the women pulling and bunching onions for market. "i've come to say good-bye," i cried huskily. "i'm going away." "oh! are you?" said one of them just looking up. "good luck to you!" the coolness of the rough woman seemed to act as a check on my sentimentality, and i went on feeling quite hurt; and a few minutes later i was quite angry, for i came to where the men were digging, and told them i was going away, and one of them stopped, and stared, and said: "all right! will yer leave us a lock of yer hair?" i went on, and they shouted after me: "i say, stand a gallon o' beer afore you go." "there's nobody cares for me but poor mrs dodley," i said to myself in a choking voice, and then my pride gave me strength. "very well," i exclaimed aloud; "if they don't care, i don't, and i'm glad i'm going, and i shall be very glad when i'm gone." that was not true, for, as i went on, i saw this tree whose pears i had picked, and that apple-tree whose beautiful rosy fruit i had put so carefully into baskets. there were the plum-trees i had learned how to prune and nail, and whose violet and golden fruit i had so often watched ripening. that was where george day had scrambled over, and i had hung on to his legs, and there--no; i turned away from that path, for there were the two brothers slowly walking along with the cats, looking at the different crops, and i did not want to be seen then by one who was so ready to throw me over, and by the other, who seemed so cold and hard, and was, i felt, going to be a regular tyrant. "and i'm all alone, and not even a cat to care about me," i said to myself; and, weak and miserable, the tears came into my eyes as i stopped in one of the cross paths. i started, and dashed away a tear or two that made me feel like a girl, for just then there was a rustle, and looking round, there was one of old brownsmith's cats coming along the path with curved back, and tail drooped sidewise, and every hair upon it erect till it looked like a drooping plume. the cat suddenly rushed at me, stopped short, tore round me, and then ran a little way, and crouched, as if about to make a spring upon me, ending by walking up in a very stately way to rub himself against my leg. "why, ginger, old fellow," i said, "are you come to say good-bye?" i don't think the cat understood me, but he looked up, blinked, and uttered a pathetic kind of _mew_ that went to my heart, as i stooped down and lifted him up in my arms to hug him to my breast, where he nestled, purring loudly, and inserting his claws gently into my jacket, and tearing them out, as if the act was satisfactory. he was an ugly great sandy tom, with stripes down his sides, but he seemed to me just then to be the handsomest cat i had ever seen, and the best friend i had in the world, and i made a vow that i would ask old brownsmith to let me have him to take with me, if his brother would allow me to include him in my belongings. "will you come with me, ginger?" i said, stroking him. the cat purred and went on, climbing up to my shoulder, where there was not much room for him, but he set his fore-paws on my shoulder, drove them into my jacket, and let his hind-legs go well down my back before he hooked on there, crouching close to me, and seeming perfectly happy as i walked on wondering where ike was at work. i found him at last, busy trenching some ground at the back of shock's kitchen, as i called the shed where he cooked his potatoes and snails. as i came up to the old fellow he glanced at me surlily, stopped digging, and began to scrape his big shining spade. "hullo!" he said gruffly; and the faint hope that he would be sorry died away. "ike," i said, "i'm going away." "what?" he shouted. "i'm going to leave here," i said. "get out, you discontented warmint!" he cried savagely, "you don't know when you're well off." "yes, i do," i said; "but mr brownsmith's going to send me away." "what!" he roared, driving in his spade, and beginning to dig with all his might. "mr brownsmith's going to send me away." "old brownsmith's going to send you away?" "yes." "why, what have you been a-doin' of?" he cried more fiercely than ever, as he drove his spade into the earth. "nothing at all." "he wouldn't send you away for doing nothing at all," cried ike, giving an obstinate clod that he had turned up a tremendous blow with his spade, and turning it into soft mould. "i'm to go to hampton with mr brownsmith's brother," i said, "to learn all about glass-houses." "what, old brownsmith's brother sol?" "yes," i said sadly, as i petted and caressed the cat. "he's a tartar and a tyrant, that's what he is," said ike fiercely, and he drove in his spade as if he meant to reach australia. "but he understands glass," i said. "smash his glass!" growled ike, digging away like a machine. "i'm going to-day," i said after a pause, and with all a boy's longing for a sympathetic word or two. "oh! are you?" he said sulkily. "yes, and i don't know when i shall get over here again." "course you don't," growled ike, smashing another clod. i stood patting the cat, hoping that ike would stretch out his great rough hand to me to say "good-bye;" but he went on digging, as if he were very cross. "i didn't know it till to-day, ike," i said. "ho!" said ike with a snap, and he bent down to chop an enormous earthworm in two, but instead of doing so he gave it a flip with the corner of his spade, and sent it flying up into a pear-tree, where i saw it hanging across a twig till it writhed itself over, when, one end of its long body being heavier than the other, it dropped back on to the soft earth with a slight pat. still ike did not speak, and all at once i heard old brownsmith's voice calling. "i must go now, ike," i said, "i'll come back and say `good-bye.'" "and after the way as i've tried to make a man of yer," he said as if talking to his mother earth, which he was chopping so remorselessly. "it isn't my fault, ike," i said. "i'll come over and see you again as soon as i can." "who said it war your fault?" "no one, ike," i said humbly. "don't be cross with me." "who is cross with yer?" cried ike, cleaning his spade. "you seemed to be." "hah!" "i will come and see you again as soon as i can," i repeated. "nobody don't want you," he growled. "grant!" "coming, sir," i shouted back, and then i turned to ike, who dug away as hard as ever he could, without looking at me, and with a sigh i hurried off, feeling that i must have been behaving very ungratefully to him. then there was a sense as of resentment as i thought of how calmly everybody seemed to take my departure, making me think that i had done nothing to win people's liking, and that i must be a very unpleasant, disagreeable kind of lad, since, with the exception of mrs dodley and the cat, nobody seemed to care whether i went away or stayed. chapter twenty. a cold start in a new life. brother solomon loitered about the garden with old brownsmith, and it was not until we had had an early tea that i had to fetch down my little box to put in the cart, which was standing in the yard with shock holding the horse, and teasing it by thrusting a barley straw in its nostrils and ears. as i came down with the box, mrs dodley said "good-bye" very warmly and wetly on my face, giving as she said: "mind you send me all your stockings and shirts and i'll always put them right for you, my dear, and goodbye." she hurried away, and as soon as my box was in the cart i ran down the garden to say "good-bye" to ike; but he had gone home, so i was told, and i came back disappointed. "good-bye, shock!" i said, holding out my hand; but he did not take it, only stared at me stolidly, just as if he hated me and was glad i was going; and this nettled me so that i did not mind his sulkiness, and drawing myself up, i tried hard to smile and look as if i didn't care a bit. brother solomon came slowly towards the cart, rolling the stalk of a rosebud in his mouth, and as he took the reins he said to one of the chimneys at the top of the house: "if i was you, ez, i'd plant a good big bit with that winter lettuce. you'll find 'em go off well." i knew now that he was talking to his brother, but he certainly seemed to be addressing himself to the chimney-pot. "i will, sol, a whole rood of 'em," said old brownsmith, "and thank ye for the advice." "quite welkim," said brother solomon to the horse's ears. "jump up." he seemed to say this to shock, who stared at him, wrinkled up his face, and shook his head. "yes, jump up, grant, my lad," said old brownsmith. "fine evening for your drive." "yes, sir," i said, "good-bye; and say good-bye to ike for me, will you, please?" "yes, to be sure, good-bye; god bless you, lad; and do your best." and i was so firm and hard just before, thinking no one cared for me, that i was ready to smile as i went away. that "god bless you!" did it, and that firm pressure of the hand. he did like me, then, and was sorry i was going; and though i tried to speak, not a word would come. i could only pinch my lips together and give him an agonised look--the look of an orphan boy going off into what was to him an unknown world. i was so blinded by a kind of mist in my eyes that i could not distinctly see that all the men and women were gathered together close to the cart, it being near leaving time; but i did see that brother solomon nodded at one of the gate-posts, as he said: "tlck! go on." and then, as the wheels turned and we were going out of the gate, there was a hoarse "_hooroar_!" from the men, and a shrill "_hurray_!" from the women; and then--_whack_! a great stone had hit the panel at the back of the cart, and i knew without telling that it was shock who had thrown that stone. then we were fairly off, with brother solomon sitting straight up in the cart beside me, and the horse throwing out his legs in a great swinging trot that soon carried us past the walls of old brownsmith's garden, and past the hedges into the main road, on a glorious evening that had succeeded the storm of the previous night; but, fast as the horse went, brother solomon did not seem satisfied, for he kept on screwing up his lips and making a noise, like a young thrush just out of the nest, to hurry the horse on, but it had not the slightest effect, for the animal had its own pace--a very quick one, and kept to it. i never remember the lane to have looked so beautiful before. the great elm-trees in the hedgerow seemed gilded by the sinking sun, and the fields were of a glorious green, while a flock of rooks, startled by the horse's hoofs, flew off with a loud cawing noise, and i could see the purply black feathers on their backs glisten as they caught the light. the wheels spun round and seemed to form a kind of tune that had something to do with my going away, while as the horse trotted on and on, uttering a snort at times as if glad to be homeward bound, my heart seemed to sink lower and lower, and i looked in vain for a sympathetic glance or a word of encouragement and comfort from the silent stolid man at my side. "but some of them were sorry i was going!" i thought with a flash of joy, which went away at once as i recalled the behaviour of ike and shock, towards whom i felt something like resentment, till i thought again that i was for the second time going away from home, and this time among people who were all as strange as strange could be. at any other time it would have been a pleasant evening drive, but certainly one wanted a different driver, for whether it was our crops at old brownsmith's, or the idea that he had undertaken a great responsibility in taking charge of me, or whether at any moment he anticipated meeting with an accident, i don't know. all i do know is that mr solomon did not speak to me once, but sat rolling the flower-stalk in his mouth, and staring right before him, aiming straight at some place or another that was going to be my prison, and all the while the sturdy horse trotted fast, the wheels spun round, and there was a disposition on the part of my box to hop and slide about on the great knot in the centre made by the cord. fields and hedgerows, and gentlemen's residences with lawns and gardens, first on one side and then on another, but they only suggested hiding-places to me as i sat there wondering what would be the consequences if i were to slip over the back of the seat on to my box when mr solomon was not looking, and then over the back of the cart and escape. the idea was too childish, but it kept coming again and again all through that dismal journey. all at once, after an hour's drive, i caught sight of a great white house among some trees, and as we passed it mr solomon slowly turned round to me and gave his head a jerk, which nearly shook off his hat. then he poked it back straight with the handle of his whip, and i wondered what he meant; but realised directly after that he wished to draw my attention to that house as being probably the one to which we were bound, for a few minutes later, after driving for some distance by a high blank wall, he stuck the whip behind him, and the horse stopped of its own accord with its nose close to some great closed gates. on either side of these was a brick pillar, with what looked like an enormous stone egg in an egg-cup on the top, while on the right-hand pillar there was painted a square white patch, in the centre of which was a black knob looking out of it like an eye. i quite started, so wrapped was i in thought, when mr solomon spoke for the first time in a sharp decided way. "pop out and pull that bell," he said, looking at it as if he wondered whether it would ring without being touched. i hurriedly got down and pulled the knob, feeling ashamed the next moment for my act seemed to have awakened the sleepy place. there was a tremendous jangling of a great angry-voiced bell which sounded hollow and echoing all over the place; there was the rattling of chains, as half a dozen dogs seemed to have rushed out of their kennels, and they began baying furiously, with the result that the horse threw up his head and uttered a loud neigh. then there was a trampling, as of some one in very heavy nailed boots over a paved yard, and after the rattling of bolts, the clang of a great iron bar, and the sharp click of a big lock, a sour-looking man drew back first one gate and then the other, each fold uttering a dissatisfied creak as if disliking to be disturbed. the horse wanted no driving, but walked right into the yard and across to a large open shed, while five dogs--there were not six--barked and bayed at me, tugging at their chains. there was a large newfoundland-- this was before the days of saint bernards--a couple of spotted coach-dogs, a great hound of some kind with shortly cropped ears, and looking like a terrier grown out of knowledge, and a curly black retriever, each of which had a great green kennel, and they tugged so furiously at their chains that it seemed as if they would drag their houses across the yard in an attack upon the stranger. "get out!" shouted mr solomon as the sour-looking man closed and fastened the doors; but the dogs barked the more furiously. "here, come along," said mr solomon to me, and he took me up to the great furious-looking hound on whose neck, as i approached, i could see a brass collar studded with spikes, while as we closed up, his white teeth glistened, and i could see right into his great red mouth with its black gums. "hi, nero!" cried mr solomon, as i began to feel extremely nervous. "steady, boy. this is grant. now, grant, make friends." there was a tremendous chorus of barks here, just as if nero was out of patience, and the other four dogs were savage because he was going to be fed with the new boy before them; but as mr solomon laid his hand on the great fierce-looking beast's head it ceased barking, and the others stopped as well. "he won't hurt you now," said mr solomon. "come close." i did not like the task, for i was doubtful of the gardener's knowledge, but i did go close up, and the great dog began to smell me from my toes upwards, and subsided into a low growl that sounded like disappointment that he was not to eat me. "pat him now," said mr solomon. i obeyed rather nervously, and the great dog threw up his head and began striking at me with one great paw, which i found meant that it was to be taken, and i gave it a friendly shake. hereupon there was a chorus of short sharp whining barks and snaps from the other dogs, all of which began to strain at their chains with renewed vigour. "go and pat 'em all," said mr solomon; "they'll make friends now." i went to the great shaggy newfoundland, who smelt me, and then threw himself up on his hind legs, and hanging against his chain put out his tongue in the most rollicking fashion, and offered me both his hands--i mean paws--in token of friendship. then the retriever literally danced, and yelped, and jumped over his chain, favouring me with a lick or two on the hand, while the two spotted coach-dogs cowered down, licked my boots, and yelped as i patted them in turn. only so many dogs, who barked again as i left them, but it seemed to do me good, and i felt better and readier to help mr solomon when he called me to aid in unharnessing the horse, which trotted of its own free-will into its stable, while we ran the cart back into the shed, and lifted my box out on to the stones. "that'll be all right till we fetch it," said mr solomon in his quiet dry way, and he led the way into the stable, where, as i was thinking how hard and unfriendly he seemed, he went up to the horse, patted it kindly, and ended by going to a bin, filling a large measure with oats; and taking them to the horse, which gave a snort of satisfaction as they were turned into its manger. "shall i get a pail of water for him, sir?" i said. he looked at me and nodded, and i went out to a great pump in the middle of the yard with a hook on its spout, upon which i was able to hang the stable pail as i worked hard to throw the long handle up and down. "wages!" said mr solomon, taking the pail from me and holding it for the horse to drink. for the moment i felt confused, not knowing whether he meant that as a question about what wages i required, but he turned his back, and by degrees i found that he meant that the corn and water were the horse's wages. he busied himself about the horse for some minutes in a quiet punctilious way, for the sour-looking man had gone, and as i waited about, the great yard seemed with its big wall and gates, and dog-kennels, such a cold cheerless place that the trees had all turned the shabby parts of their backs to it and were looking the other way. everything was very prim and clean and freshly painted, and only in one place could i see some short grass peeping between the stones. there was a patch of moss, too, like a dark green velvet pin-cushion on the top of the little penthouse where the big bell lived on the end of a great curly spring, otherwise everything was carefully painted, and the row of stabling buildings with rooms over looked like prisons for horses and their warders, who must, i felt, live very unhappy lives. there was one door up in a corner of the great yard, right in the wall, and down towards this, from where it had grown on the other side, there hung a few strands of ivy in a very untidy fashion, and it struck me that this ivy did not belong to the yard, or else it would have been clipped or cut away. in summer, with the warm glow of the setting sun in the sky, the place looked shivery and depressing, and as i waited for mr solomon i found myself thinking what a place it must be in the winter when the snow had fallen and drifted into the corners, and how miserable the poor dogs must be. then as i stood looking at my box and wondering what shock was doing, and whether he had gone to his home or was sleeping in the loft, and why ike was so surly to me, and what a miserable piece of business it was that i should have to leave that pleasant old garden and old brownsmith, i suddenly felt a hand laid upon my shoulder. i started and stared as i saw mr solomon's cold, stern face. "come along," he said; and he led the way to that door in the corner that seemed to me as if it led into an inner prison. i shivered and felt depressed and cold as we went towards the door, and, to make matters worse, the dogs rattled their chains and howled in chorus as if, having made friends, they were very sorry for me. the big hound, nero, seemed the most sorrowful of all, and putting his head as high as he could reach he uttered a deep hollow howl, that to my excited fancy sounded like "poooooor boooooy!" just as mr solomon, with a face as stern as an executioner's might have been as he led someone to the tower block, threw open the great door in the wall and said shortly: "go on!" i went on before him, passed through in a wretched, despairing way, wishing i had been a boy like shock, who was not ashamed to run away, and then, as i took a few steps forward, i uttered a loud "oh!" chapter twenty one. i look round. my ejaculation made mr solomon look completely changed, for, as i glanced back at him, i could see that there was a twinkle in his eyes and a little dent or two about the corners of his lips, but as he saw me looking wonderingly at him he became cold and stern of aspect again. "well," he said shortly, "will that do?" "do, sir!" i cried excitedly; "is this your garden?" "master's," he said, shortly. "your master's garden?" "and your master's, too," he said. "well, will it do?" "do!" i cried; "it's lovely. i never saw such a beautiful garden in my life. what a lawn! what paths! what flowers!" "what a lot o' work, eh? what a lot to do?" "yes," i said; "but what a place!" after that cold cheerless yard i seemed to have stepped into a perfect paradise of flowers and ornamental evergreens. a lawn like green velvet led up to a vast, closely-clipped yew hedge, and down to a glistening pool, full of great broad lily leaves, and with the silver cups floating on the golden surface, for the water reflected the tints in the skies. here and there were grey-looking statues in nooks among the evergreens, and the great beauty of all to me was that there was no regularity about the place; it was all up and down, and fresh beauties struck the eye at every glance. paths wandered here and there, great clumps of ornamental trees hid other clumps, and patches of soft velvet turf were everywhere showing up beds in which were masses of flowers of every hue. there were cedars, too, that seemed to be laying their great broad boughs upon the grass in utter weariness--they were so heavy and thick; slopes that were masses of rhododendrons, and when i had feasted my eyes for a time on one part mr solomon led me on in his serious way to another, where fresh points of beauty struck the eye. "it's lovely," i cried. "oh! mr solomon, what a garden!" "mr brownsmith, not mr solomon," he said rather gruffly; and i apologised and remembered; but i must go on calling him mr solomon to distinguish him from my older friend. "i never saw such a place," i added; "and it's kept so well." "tidyish--pretty tidy," he said coldly. "not enough hands. only nine and me--and you--but we do our best." "why, it's perfection!" i cried. "no it ain't," he said gruffly. "too much glass. takes a deal o' time. i shall make you a glass boy mostly." "make me--a what, sir?" "glass boy. you'll see." i said "oh," and began to understand. "was it like this when you came?" i said. i was very glad i said it, for mr solomon's mouth twitched, then his eyes closed, and there were pleasant wrinkles all over his face, while he shook himself all over, and made a sound, or series of sounds, as if he were trying to bray like a donkey. i thought he was at first, but it was his way of laughing, and he pulled himself up short directly and looked quite severe as he smoothed the wrinkles out of his face as if it were a bed, and he had been using a rake. "not a bit," he said. "twenty years ago. bit of garden to the house with the big trees and cedars. all the rest fields and a great up-and-down gravel pit." "and you made it like this?" i cried with animation. he nodded. "like it?" he asked. "like it!" i cried. "oh!" "come along," he said. "this is the ornamental. useful along here." i followed him down a curving path, and at a turn he gave his head a jerk over his right shoulder. "house!" he said. i looked in the indicated direction, and could see the very handsome long, low, white house, with a broad green verandah in the front, and a great range of conservatories at one end, whose glass glistened in the evening light. the house stood on a kind of terrace, and lawn, and patches of flowers and shrubs sloped away from it down into quite a dell. "old gravel, pits," said mr solomon, noticing the way i gazed about the place. "come along." he walked up to a great thick yew hedge with an archway of deep green in it, and as soon as we were through he said shortly: "useful." i stared with wonder, for though i was now in a fruit and vegetable garden it was wonderfully different to old brownsmith's, for here, in addition to exquisite neatness, there was some attempt at ornamentation. as soon as we had passed under the green arch we were on a great grass walk, beautifully soft and velvety, with here and there stone seats, and a group of stone figures at the farther end. right and left were abundance of old-fashioned flowers, but in addition there were neatly trained and trimmed fruit-trees by the hundred, not allowed to grow high like ours, but tied down as espaliers, and full of the promise of fruit. away right and left i could see great red brick walls covered with more fruit-trees spread out like fans, or with one big stem going straight up and the branches trained right and left in straight lines. everywhere the garden was a scene of abundance: great asparagus beds, trim and well-kept rows of peas laden with pods, scarlet-runners running at a tremendous rate up sticks; and lower down, quite an orchard of big pyramid pear and apple trees. "like it?" said mr solomon, watching me narrowly. "i can't tell you how much, sir!" i cried excitedly. "i never thought to see such a garden as this." "ain't half seen it yet," he replied. "come and see the glass." he led me towards where i could see ranges of glass houses, looking white and shining amongst the trees, and as we went on he pointed to different plots of vegetables and other objects of interest. "pump and well," he said. "deep. 'nother at the bottom. dry in summer; plenty in the pools. frames and pits yonder. nobody at home but the young gents. wish they weren't," he added in a growl. "limbs, both of them. like to know where you are to live?" he said. "yes, sir. is it at the house?" "no. yonder." he pointed to a low cottage covered with a large wisteria, and built almost in the middle of the great fruit and vegetable garden, while between it and the great yew hedge lay the range of glass houses. "you can find your way?" "yes, sir," i said, feeling damped again by his cold manner. "are you going?" "yes, now." "shall i fetch my box, sir?" "no; i told tom to take it to the cottage. you would like to look round and see where you'll work? don't want to begin to-night, eh?" "yes, sir, i'm ready, if you like," i said. "humph!" he ejaculated. "well, perhaps we'll go and look at the fires by and by. you're my apprentice now, you know." "am i, sir?" "yes; didn't brother ezra tell you?" i shook my head. "don't matter. come to learn glass. there's the houses; go and look round. i'll call you when supper's ready." i don't know whether i felt in good spirits or bad; but soon ceased to think of everything but what i was seeing, as, being about to become a glass boy, i entered one of the great hothouses belonging to the large range of glass buildings. a warm sweet-scented puff of air saluted me as i raised the copper latch of the door, and found myself in a great red-tiled vinery, with long canes trained from the rich soil at the roots straight up to the very ridge, while, with wonderful regularity, large bunches like inverted cones of great black grapes hung suspended from the tied-in twigs. there were rows of black iron pipes along the sides from which rose a soft heat, and the effect of this was visible in the rich juicy-looking berries covered with a pearly bloom, while from succulent shoot, leaf, and tendril rose the delicious scent that had saluted me as soon as i entered the place. from this glass palace of a house, as it seemed to me, i went down into a far hotter place, where the walls were whitewashed and the glass roof very low. there was a peculiar odour of tan here, and as i closed the door after me the atmosphere felt hot and steamy. but the sight that greeted my eyes made me forget all other sensations, for there all along the centre were what seemed to be beautiful, luxuriant aloes; and as i thought of the old story that they bloomed only once in a hundred years, i began to wonder how long it was since one of these spiky-leaved plants had blossomed, and then i cried excitedly: "pine-apples!" true enough they were, for i had entered a large pinery where fruits were ripening and others coming on in the most beautiful manner, while what struck me most was the perfection and neatness of all the place. then i found myself in another grape-house where the vines bore oval white grapes, with a label to tell that they were muscats. then i went on into a long low house full of figs--small dumpy fig-trees in pots, with a peculiar odour rising from them through the hot moist air. again i was in a long low place something like the pinery, and here i was amongst melons--large netted-skinned melons of all sizes, some being quite huge, and apparently ready to cut. i could have stayed in these various houses for hours, but i was anxious to see all i could, and i passed on over the red-tiled floor to a door which opened at once into the largest and most spacious house i had seen. here the air was comparatively cool, and there was quite a soft breeze from the open windows as i walked along between little trees that formed a complete grove, with cross paths and side walks, and every long leaf looking dark and clear and healthy. i could not keep back an exclamation of delight as i stopped in one of the paths of this beautiful little grove; for all about me the trees were laden with fruit in a way that set me thinking of the garden traversed by aladdin when in search of the wonderful lamp. i was in no magic cave, it is true, but i was in a sort of crystal palace of great extent, with here and there beautiful creepers running along rods up the sides and across close to the roof, while my trees were not laden with what looked like bits of coloured glass, but the loveliest of fruit, some smooth and of rich, deep, fiery crimson; others yellowish or with russet gold on their smooth skins, while others again were larger and covered with a fine down, upon which lay a rich soft carmine flush. i had seen peaches and nectarines growing before, trained up against walls; but here they were studded about beautiful little unsupported trees, and their numbers and the novelty of the sight were to me delightful. i began to understand now why old brownsmith had arranged with his brother for me to come; and, full of visions of the future and of how i was going to learn how to grow fruit in this perfection, i stopped, gazing here and there at the ripe and ripening peaches, that looked so beautiful that i thought it would be a sin for them to be picked. in fact, i had been so long amongst fruit that, though i liked it, i found so much pleasure in its production that i rarely thought of eating any, and though this sounds a strange thing for a boy to say, it is none the less perfectly true. in fact, as a rule, gardeners rather grudge themselves a taste of their own delicacies. i must have been in this house a full quarter of an hour, and had only seen one end, and i had turned into a cross walk of red tiles looking to right and left, when, just beyond the stem of one peach-tree whose fruit was ripening and had ripened fast, i saw just as it had fallen one great juicy peach with a bruise on its side, and a crack through which its delicious essence was escaping. pale creamy was the downy skin, with a bloom of softest crimson on the side beyond the bruise and crack, and making a soft hissing noise as i drew in my breath--a noise that i meant to express, "oh, what a pity!"--i stooped down and reached over to pick up the damaged fruit, and to lay it upon one of the open shelves where i had seen a couple more already placed. i heard no step, had seen no one in the place, but just as i leaned over to get the fruit there was a swishing sound as of something parting the air with great swiftness, and i uttered a cry of pain, for i felt a sensation as if a sharp knife had suddenly fallen upon my back, and that knife was red hot, and, after it had divided it, had seared the flesh. i had taken the peach in my hand when the pain made me involuntarily crush it before it fell from my fingers upon the rich earth; and, grinding my teeth with rage and agony, i started round to face whoever it was that had struck me so cruel a blow. chapter twenty two. master philip. "what! i caught you then, did i?" cried a sharp unpleasant voice. "just dropped upon you, did i, my fine fellow? you scoundrel, how dare you steal our peaches!" the speaker was a boy of somewhere about my own age, and as i faced him i saw that he was thin, and had black hair, a yellowish skin, and dark eyes. he was showing his rather irregular teeth in a sneering smile that made his hooked nose seem to hang over his mouth, while his high-pitched, harsh, girlish voice rang and buzzed in my ears in a discordant way. i did not answer; i felt as if i could not speak. all i wanted to do was to fly at him and strike out wildly, while something seemed to hold me back as he stood vapouring before me, swishing about the thin, black, silver-handled cane he carried, and at every swish he cut some leaf or twig. "how dare you strike me?" i cried at last furiously, and i advanced with my teeth set and my lists clenched, forgetting my position there, and not even troubling myself in my hot passion to wonder who or what this boy might be. "how dare i, you ugly-looking dog!" he cried, retreating before me a step or two. "i'll soon let you know that. who are you, you thief?" "i'm not a thief," i shouted, wincing still with the pain. "yes, you are," he cried. "how did you get in here? i've caught you, though, and we shall know now where our fruit goes when we get the blame. here, out you come." the boy caught me by the collar, and i seized him by the arms with a fierce, vindictive feeling coming over me; but he was very light and active, and, wresting himself partly free, he gave the cane a swing in the air, raised it above his head, and struck at me with all his might. i hardly know how it all occurred in the hurry and excitement, but i know that i gave myself a wrench round, driving him back as i did so, and making a grasp at the cane with the full intention of getting it from him and thrashing him as hard as i could in return for his blow. he missed his aim: i missed mine. my hand did not go near the cane; the cane did not come down as he intended upon my back, but with a fierce swish struck the branch of one of the peaches, breaking it so that it hung by the bark and a few fibres, while three or four of the ripe fruit fell with heavy thuds upon the ground. "there, now you've done it, you young rough!" he cried viciously. "come out." his dark eyes glowed, and he showed his white teeth as he struck at me again and again; but i avoided the blows as i wrestled with him, and at last my sturdy strength, helped by the work i had had in old brownsmith's garden, told, and i got hold of the cane, forced open his hand, and wrested it away. i remember very well the triumphant feeling that came over me as i raised the cane and was in the act of bringing it down with all my might, when there was a strong hand from behind upon my shoulder, and another caught my arm, ran down it to the wrist and hand, wrested the cane away, and swung me round. it was mr solomon, looking very red in the face, and frowning at me severely. "what are you doing?" he cried. "do you know who that is?" "he struck me with the cane." "he was stealing peaches." "i was not; i was picking one up." "he was stealing them. just look what he has done." "i did not do it, mr solomon," i cried. "it was he." "oh, what a cracker, brownie! i came and caught him at it; and because i said he was a thief he hit at me with that cane." "how did he get the cane? why, it's yours," said mr solomon; "and i believe you broke that young peach." "get out! it was he. take him to the police. i caught him at it." mr solomon stooped and picked up the bruised and fallen peaches, laid them on a shelf, and then took out his knife and cut away the broken bough neatly. then he stood and looked at it for a moment, and the sight of the damage roused up a feeling of anger in him, for he turned sharply. "here, you be off!" he said, advancing on the boy with the cane under his arm. for answer the boy snatched the cane away. "what do you say?" he cried haughtily. "i say you be off out of my glass-houses, master philip. i won't have you here, and so i tell you." "how dare you talk to me like that?" cried the boy. "dare! i'll dare a deal more than that, young fellow, if you are not off," cried mr solomon, who was a great deal more excited and animated than i should have imagined possible. "i'm not going to have my fruit spoiled like this." "your fruit indeed! i like that," cried the boy. "yours?" "see what you've done to my royal george!" "see what i've done to your royal george!"--mockingly. "now be off," cried mr solomon. "serves me right for not keeping the houses locked up. now, then, you be off out." "sha'n't," said the boy. "i shall stop here as long as i like. you touch me if you dare. if you do i'll tell papa." "i shall tell him myself, my lad," cried mr solomon. "you forget who i am," cried the boy. "i don't know anything about who you are when my show of fruit's being spoiled," replied mr solomon. "a mischievous boy's a boy doing mischief to me when i catch him, and i won't have him here." "turn him out, then," cried the boy; "turn out that rough young blackguard. i came in and caught him picking and stealing, and i gave him such a one." he switched his cane as he spoke, and looked at me so maliciously that i took a step forward, but mr solomon caught me sharply by the shoulder and uttered a low warning growl. "i don't believe he was stealing the fruit," said mr solomon slowly. "he has got a good character, master philip, and that's what you haven't been able to show." "if you talk to me like that i'll tell papa everything, and have you discharged." "do!" said mr solomon. "and i'll tell papa that you are always having in your friends, and showing 'em round the garden. what's that beggar doing in our hothouses?" "i'm not a beggar," i cried hotly. "hold your tongue, grant," said mr solomon in a low growl as he trimmed off a broken twig that had escaped him at first. "it was lucky i came in," continued the boy, looking at me tauntingly. "if i hadn't come i don't know how many he wouldn't have had." "mr brownsmith," i said, as i smarted with pain, rage, and the desire to get hold of that cane once more, and use it, "i found a peach lying on the ground, and i was going to pick it up." "and eat it?" said the gardener without looking at me. "eat it! no," i said hotly, "i can go amongst fruit without wanting to eat it like a little child." i looked at him indignantly, for he seemed to be suspecting me, he was so cold and hard, and distant in his manner. "mr brownsmith always trusted me amongst his fruit," i said angrily. "humph!" said mr solomon, "and so you weren't going to eat the peach?" "he was; i saw him. it was close up to his mouth." "it is not true," i cried. "he isn't fit to be trusted in here, and i shall tell papa how i saved the peaches. he won't like it when he hears." "i won't stop a day in the place," i said to myself in the heat of my indignation, for mr solomon seemed to be doubting me, and i felt as if i couldn't bear to be suspected of being a thief. my attention was taken from myself to the boy and mr solomon the next moment, for there was a scene. "now," said mr solomon, "i want to lock up this house, young gentleman, so out you go." "you can come when i've done," said the boy, poking at first one fruit and then another with the cane, as he strutted about. "i'm not going yet." he was in the act of touching a ripe nectarine when mr solomon looked as if he could bear it no longer, and he snatched the cane away. "here, you give me my cane," cried the boy. "you be off out, sir." "sha'n't!" "will you go?" "no. don't you push me!" "walk out then." "sha'n't. it's our place, and i sha'n't go for you." "will you go out quietly?" "no, i shall stop as long as i like." "once more, master philip, will you go?" "no!" yelled the boy; "and you give me back my cane." "will you go, sir? once more." "send that beggar away, and not me," cried the boy. "i shall stop till i choose to go, and i shall pick the peaches if i like." mr solomon looked down at him aghast for a few moments, and then, as the boy made a snatch at his cane, he caught him up, tucked him under his arm, and carried him out, kicking and struggling with all his might. i followed close behind, thoroughly enjoying the discomfiture of my enemy, and was the better satisfied for seeing the boy thrown down pretty heavily upon a heap of mowings of the lawn. "i'll pay you for this," cried the boy, who had recovered his cane; and, giving it a swish through the air, he raised it as if about to strike mr solomon across the face. i saw mr solomon colour up of a deeper red as he looked at the boy very hard; and then he said softly, but in a curious hissing way: "i shouldn't advise you to do that, young sir. if you did i might forget you were sir francis' boy, and take and pitch you into the gold-fish pond. i feel just as if i should like to do it without." the boy quailed before his stern look, and uttered a nasty sniggering laugh. "i can get in any of the houses when i like, and i can take the fruit when i like, and i'll let papa know about your beggars of friends meddling with the peaches." "there, you be off," said the gardener. "i'll tell sir francis too, as sure as my name's brownsmith." "ha--ha--ha! there's a name!" cried the boy jeeringly. "brownsmith. what a name for a cabbage-builder, who pretends to be a gardener, and is only an old woman about the place! roberts's gardener is worth a hundred sol brownsmiths. he grows finer fruit and better flowers, and you'll soon be kicked out. perhaps papa will send you away now." mr solomon bit his lips as he locked the door, for he was touched in a tender place, for, as i found out afterwards, he was very jealous of the success of general roberts's gardener. his back was turned, and, taking advantage of this, the boy made a dash at me with his cane. this was too much in my frame of mind, and i went at him, when the head gardener turned sharply and stood between us. "that'll do," he cried sternly to us both. "all right!" said the boy in a cool disdainful manner. "i'll watch for him, and if ever he comes in our garden again i'll let him know. i'll pay the beggar out. he is a beggar, isn't he, old solomon?" "well, if i was asked which of you was the young gentleman, and which the ill-bred young beggar, i should be able to say pretty right," replied the gardener slowly. "oh! should you? well, don't you bring him here again, or i'll let him know." "you'd better let him know now, boy, for he's going to stop." "what's he, the new boy?" said the lad, as if asking a very innocent question. "where did you get him, brownsmith? is he out of the workhouse?" mr solomon smiled at the boy's malice, but he saw me wince, and he drew me to his side in an instant. i had been thinking what a cold, hard man he was, and how different to his brother, who had been quite fatherly to me of late; but i found out now that he was, under his stern outward seeming, as good-hearted as old brownsmith himself. he did not speak, but he laid one hand upon my shoulder and pressed it, and that hand seemed to say to me: "don't take any notice of the little-minded, contemptible, spoiled cub;" and i drew a deep breath and began to feel that perhaps after all i should not want to go away. "i thought so," cried the boy with a snigger--"he's a pauper then. ha, ha, ha! a pauper! i'll tell courtenay. we'll call him pauper if he stops here." "and that's just what he is going to do, master philip," said the head gardener, who seemed to have recovered his temper; "and that's what, thank goodness, you are not going to do. and the sooner you are off back to school to be licked into shape the better for you, that is if ever you expect to grow into a man. come along, my lad, it's getting late." "yes, take him away," shouted the boy as i went off with mr solomon, my blood seeming to tingle in my veins as i heard a jeering burst of laughter behind me, and directly after the boy shouted: "here, hi! courtenay. here's a game. we've got a new pauper in the place." mr solomon heard it, but he said nothing as we went on, while i felt very low-spirited again, and was thinking whether i had not better give up learning how to grow fruit and go back to old brownsmith, and ike, and shock, and mrs dodley, when my new guide said to me kindly: "don't you take any notice of them, my lad." "them?" i said in dismay. "yes, there's a pair of 'em--nice pair too. but they're often away at school, and sir francis is a thorough gentleman. they're not his boys, but her ladyship's, and she has spoiled 'em, i suppose. let 'em grow wild, grant. i say, my lad," he continued, looking at me with a droll twinkle in his eye, "they want us to train them, and prune them, and take off some of their straggling growths, eh? i think we could make a difference in them, don't you?" i smiled and nodded. "only schoolboys. say anything, but it won't hurt us. here we are. come in." he led the way into a plainly furnished room, where everything seemed to have been scoured till it glistened or turned white; and standing by a table, over which the supper cloth had been spread, was a tall, quiet-looking, elderly woman, with her greyish hair very smoothly stroked down on either side of her rather severe face. "this is young grant," said mr solomon. the woman nodded, and looked me all over, and it seemed as if she took more notice of my shirt and collar than she did of me. "sit down, grant, you must be hungry," said mr solomon; and as soon as we were seated the woman, who, i supposed, was mrs solomon, began to cut us both some cold bacon and some bread. "master philip been at you long?" said mr solomon, with his mouth full. "no, sir," i said; "it all happened in a moment or two." "i'm glad you didn't hit him," he said. "eat away, my lad." the woman kept on cutting bread, but she was evidently listening intently. "i'm glad now, sir," i said; "but he hurt me so, and i was in such a passion that i didn't think. i didn't know who he was." "of course not. go on with your supper." "i hope, sir, you don't think i was going to eat that peach," i said, for the thought of the affair made my supper seem to choke me. "if i thought you were the sort of boy who couldn't be trusted, my lad, you wouldn't be here," said mr solomon quietly. "bit more fat, mother." i brightened up, and he saw it. "why, of course not, my lad. didn't i trust you, and send you in among my choice grapes, and ripe figs, and things. there, say no more about it. gardeners don't grow fruit to satisfy their mouths, but their eyes, and their minds, my lad. eat away. don't let a squabble with a schoolboy who hasn't learned manners spoil your supper. we've never had any children; but if we had, grant, i don't think they would be like that." "they make me miserable when they are at home," said mrs solomon, speaking almost for the first time. "don't see why they should," said mr solomon, with his voice sounding as if his tongue were a little mixed up with his supper. "why, they don't come here." "they might be made such different boys if properly trained." "they'll come right by and by, but for the present, grant, you steer clear of them. they're just like a couple of young slugs, or so much blight in the garden now." the supper was ended, and mrs solomon, in a very quiet, quick way, cleared the cloth, and after she had done, placed a bible on the table, out of which mr solomon read a short chapter, and then shook hands with me and sent me away happy. "good night, my lad!" he said. "it's all strange to you now, and we're not noisy jolly sort of people, but you're welcome here, and we shall get on." "yes," said mrs solomon in a very cold stern way that did not seem at all inviting or kind. "come along and i'll show you your bed-room." i followed her upstairs and into a little room with a sloping ceiling and a window looking out upon the garden; and at the sight of the neat little place, smelling of lavender, and with some flowers in a jug upon the drawers, the depression which kept haunting me was driven away. everything looked attractive--the clean white bed and its dainty hangings, the blue ewer and basin on the washstand, the picture or two on the wall, and the strips of light-coloured carpet on the white floor, all made the place cheerful and did something to recompense me for the trouble of having to leave what seemed to be my regular home, and come from one who had of late been most fatherly and kind, to people who were not likely to care for me at all. "i think there's everything you want," said mrs solomon, looking at me curiously. "soap and towel, and of course you've got your hair-brush and things in your box there." she pointed at the corded box which stood in front of the table. "if there's anything you want you can ask. i hope you'll be very clean." "i'll try to be, ma'am," i said, feeling quite uncomfortable, she looked at me so coldly. "you can use those drawers, and your box can go in the back room. good-night!" she went away and shut the door, looking wonderfully clean and prim, but depressing instead of cheering me; and as soon as she was gone i uncorded my box, wondering whether i should be able to stay, and wishing myself back at isleworth. i had taken out my clothes and had reached the bottom of my box, anxious to see whether the treasures i had there in a flat case, consisting of pinned-out moths and butterflies, were all right and had not been shaken out of place by the jolting of the cart, when there was a sharp tap at the door and mr solomon came in. "hullo!" he said; "butterflies and moths!--eh?" he spoke quite angrily, as it seemed to me, and chilled me, as i felt that he would not like me to do such a thing as collect. "hah!" he said. "i used to do that when i was a boy. there's lots here; but don't go after them when you're at work." "no, sir," i said. "thought i'd come up, my lad, as it's all strange to you. i haven't much to say to you, only keep away from those boys. let 'em talk, but never you mind." "i'll try, sir." "that's right. work to-morrow morning at six. you may begin sooner if you like. i often, do. breakfast at eight; dinner at twelve; tea at five, and then work's supposed to be done. i generally go in the houses then. always something wants doing there." he stood thinking and looking as cold and hard as could be while i waited for him to speak again; but he did not for quite five minutes, during which time he stood picking up my comb and dropping it back into the hair-brush. "yes," he said suddenly, "i should go in for those late lettuces if i was ezra. he'd find a good sale for them when salads were getting scarce. celery's very good, but people don't like to be always tied down to celery and endives--a tough kind of meat at the best of times. if you write home--no, this is home now--if you write to brother ezra, you say i hope he'll keep his word about the lettuces. good-night!" i felt puzzled as soon as he had gone, and had not the slightest idea how i felt towards the people with whom i was to pass months--perhaps years. "i shall never like mrs solomon," i said to myself dolefully; "and i shall only like him half and half--liking him sometimes and not caring for him at others." i was very tired, and soon after i was lying in the cool sweet sheets thinking about my new home, and watching the dimly-seen window; and then it seemed to be all light and to look over old brownsmith's garden, where shock was pelting at me with pellets of clay thrown from the end of a switch. and all the time he came nearer and nearer till the pellets went right over my shoulder, and they grew bigger till they were peaches that he kept sticking on the end of the switch, and as he threw them they broke with a noise that was like the word _push_! i wanted to stop him, but i could not till he threw one peach with all his might, and the switch caught me across the back, and i retaliated by taking it away and thrashing him. then i woke with a start, and found i had been dreaming. i lay for a few minutes after that in the darkness thinking that i would learn all i could about fruit-growing as fast as possible, so as to know everything, and get back to old brownsmith; and then all at once i found myself sitting up in bed listening, with the sun shining in at one side of my blind, while i was wondering where i was and how i had come there. chapter twenty three. i begin work. boys like sleep in the morning, but the desire to cuddle up for a few minutes more and to go back to dreamland is not there on the first morning at a new home or at a fresh school. on that particular morning i did not feel in the least sleepy, only uncomfortably nervous; and, hearing voices through the wall, i jumped up and dressed quickly, to find on going down that mr solomon was in the kitchen putting on his thick boots. "just coming to call you," he said, nodding. "harpus five. hah! change coming," he cried, stamping his feet in his boots; "rain--rain. come along." he unbolted the door and i followed him out, drawing a breath of the sweetly fragrant air as we stepped at once into the bright sunshine, where the flowers were blooming and the trees were putting forth their strength. but i had no opportunity for looking about the garden, for mr solomon led the way at once to the stoke-holes down behind the glass-houses, rattled open the doors, and gave a stoke here with a great iron rod, and a poke there where the fires were caked together; while, without waiting to be asked, i seized upon the shovel i saw handy and threw on some coke. "far back as you can, my lad," said mr solomon. "seems a rum time of year to be having fires; but we're obliged to keep up a little, specially on cloudy days." this done, he led the way into one of the sunken pits where the melons were growing, and after reaching in among them and snipping off a runner or two he routed out a slug and killed it. then turning to me: "first thing in gardening, grant, is to look out for your enemies. you'll never beat them; all you can do is to keep 'em down. now look here," he said, picking off a melon leaf and holding it before me, "what's the matter with that?" "i don't see much the matter," i said, "only that the leaf looks specked a little with yellow, as if it was unhealthy." "turn it over," he said. i did, and looked at it well. "there are a few red specks on it--very small ones," i said. "good eyes," he said approvingly. "that's what's the matter, my lad. you've seen the greatest enemy we have under glass. those red specks, so small that you can hardly see them, cover the lower parts of the leaves with tiny cobwebs and choke the growth while they suck all the goodness out, and make the yellow specks on the top by sucking all the sap from the leaves." "what, those tiny specks!" "yes, those little specks would spoil all our melon plants if we did not destroy them--melons, cucumbers, vines, peaches, and nectarines-- anything almost under glass. but there's your gun and ammunition; load up and shoot 'em. never give them any rest." i looked at him wonderingly, for he was pointing at a syringe standing in a pail of soapy-looking water. "yes," he continued, "that's right--kill 'em when you can. if you leave them, and greenfly, and those sort of things, alone till to-morrow, by that time they're turned into great-grandfathers, and have got such a family of little ones about 'em that your leaves are ten times worse." "but what are those red specks?" i said. "red spider, boy. now i'll show you. this is my plan to keep my plants healthy: have a bucket of soap and water in every house, and a syringe in it. then you take it up as soon as you see the mischief and kill it at once. it's all handy for you, same as it is to have a bit of matting hanging up on a nail, ready to tie up the stem that wants it. somebody said, grant, `a stitch in time saves nine,' it ought to have been, `a washed leaf keeps off grief.' see here." he took the syringe, filled it, and sent a fine shower beneath the leaves of the melons, where they were trained over a trellis, thoroughly washing them all over. "now you try," he said, and taking off my jacket i syringed away vigorously, while with matting and knife he tied in some loose strands and cut off others, so as to leave the vines neat. "that'll do for the present," he said; "but mind this, grant, if ever you see an enemy, shoot him while he's a single man if you can. wait till to-morrow, you'll have to shoot all his relations too." he led the way out of the pit, and round by the grounds, where different men were at work mowing and sweeping, the short cut grass smelling delicious in the morning air. he spoke to first one and then another in a short business-like way, and then went on with me to one of the great conservatories up by the house. "i might put you to that sort of work, grant," he said, giving his head a backward jerk; "but that wants no brains. work under glass does. you want to work with your hands and your head. now we'll have a tidy up in here. sir francis likes plenty of bright flowers." i should have liked to stop looking about as soon as we were in the large glass building, which was one mass of bloom; but following mr solomon's example i was soon busily snipping off dead flowers and leaves, so as to make the various plants tidy; and i was extremely busy in one corner over this when i suddenly found that mr solomon was watching me, and that a big bell was ringing somewhere. "that's right," he said, nodding his head in a satisfied way. "that's what i want. you don't know much yet, but you will. if i was to set one of those men to do that he'd have knocked off half the buds, and-- what have you been doing there?" "i tied up those two flower-stems," i said. "wasn't it right, sir?" "right and wrong, my lad," he said, whipping out his knife and cutting them free. "look here." he took a piece of wet matting--a mere strip--and tied them up again, with his big fingers moving so quickly and cleverly that i wondered. "there, that's the way. looks the same as you did it, eh?" "yes," i said, smiling. "no, it isn't. you tied yours in front of the stem, with an ugly knot to rub and fret it, and make a sore place when the windows were open. i've put a neat band round mine, and the knot rests on the stick." "oh, i see!" i cried. "yes, grant, there's a right way and a wrong way, and somehow the natural way is generally the wrong. never saw one tried, but i believe if you took a savage black and told him to get up on a horse, he would go on the wrong side, put his left foot in the stirrup, and throw his right leg over, and come down sitting with his face to the tail. breakfast." "what! so soon?" i said. "soon! why, it's past eight." i was astounded, the time had gone so quickly; and soon after i was saying "good morning" to mrs solomon, and partaking of the plain meal. "well?" said mrs solomon in her cold impassive way. mr solomon was so busy with a piece of cold bacon and some bread that he did not look up, and mrs solomon waited patiently till he raised his head and gave her a nod. "i am glad," she said, giving a sigh as if she were relieved; and then she turned to me and looked quite pleasantly at me, and taking my cup, refilled it with coffee, and actually smiled. "notice the missus?" said mr solomon, as, after a glance at his big silver watch, he had suddenly said "harpusate," and led the way to the vineries. "notice mrs brownsmith?" i said. "yes; see anything about her?" "i thought she looked better this morning than she did last night. was she ill?" "yes," he said shortly. "get them steps." i fetched _them_ steps, and thought that a gardener might just as well be grammatical. he opened them out, and opening his knife, cut a few strands of matting ready, stuck them under one of his braces, after taking off his coat, and then climbed up to the top to tie in a long green cane of the grape-vine. "hold the steps steady," he said; and then with his head in amongst the leaves he went on talking. "bit queer in the head," he said slowly, and with his face averted. "shied at you." i stared. his wife was not a horse, and i thought they were the only things that shied; but i found i was wrong, for mr solomon went on: "i did, too. ezra said a lot about you. fine young shoot this, ain't it?" i said it was, for it was about ten feet long and as thick as my finger, and it seemed wonderful that it should have grown like that in a few months; but all the time my cheeks were tingling as i wondered what old brownsmith had said about me. "sounded all right, but it's risky to take a boy into your house when you are comfortable without, you see." i felt ashamed and hurt that i should have been talked of so, and remained silent. "the missus said you might be dirty and awkward in the house. this cane will be loaded next year if we get it well ripened this year, grant. that's why i'm tying it in here close to the glass, where it'll get plenty of sun and air." "what! will that bear grapes next year, sir?" i said, for i felt obliged to say something. "yes; and when the leaves are off you shall cut this one right out down at the bottom yonder." he tapped a beautiful branch or cane from the main stem, which was bearing about a dozen fine bunches of grapes, and it seemed a pity; but of course he knew best, and he began cutting and snapping out shoots and big leaves between the new green cane and the glass. "she was afraid you'd be a nuisance to me, and said you'd be playing with tops, and throwing stones, and breaking the glass. i told her that brother ezra wouldn't send me such a boy as that; but she only shook her head. `i know what boys are,' she said. `look at her ladyship's two.' but i said that you wouldn't be like them, and you won't, will you?" i laughed, for it seemed such a comical idea for me to be behaving as mrs solomon had supposed. "what are you laughing at?" he said, looking down at me. "i was thinking about what mrs brownsmith said," i replied. "oh yes! to be sure," he continued. "you'll like her. she's a very nice woman. a very good woman. i've known her thirty years." "have you had any children, sir?" i said. "no," he replied, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye; "and yet i've always been looking after nurseries--all my life." in about an hour he finished his morning work in the vinery, and i went out with him in the garden, where he left me to tidy up a great bed of geraniums with a basket and a pair of scissors. "i've got to see to the men now," he said. "by-and-by we'll go and have a turn at the cucumbers." the bed i was employed upon was right away from the house in a sort of nook where the lawn ran up amongst some great portugal laurels. it was a mass of green and scarlet, surrounded by shortly cropped grass, and i was very busy in the hot sunshine, enjoying my task, and now and then watching the thrushes that kept hopping out on to the lawn and then back under the shelter of the evergreens, when i suddenly saw a shadow, and, turning sharply, found that my friend of the peach-house had come softly up over the grass with another lad very much like him, but a little taller, and probably a couple of years older. "hullo, pauper!" said the first. i felt my cheeks tingle, and my tongue wanted to say something very sharp, but i kept my teeth closed for a moment and then said: "good morning, sir!" he took no notice of this, but turned to his brother and whispered something, when they both laughed together; and as i bent down over my work i felt as if i must have looked very much like one of the scarlet geraniums whose dead blossom stems i was taking out. of course, a boy with a well-balanced brain and plenty of sound, honest, english stuff in him ought to be able to treat with contempt the jeering and laughter of those who are teasing him; but somehow i'm afraid that there are very few boys who can bear being laughed at with equanimity. i know, to be frank, i could not, for as those two lads stared at me and then looked at each other and whispered, and then laughed heartily-- well, no; not heartily, but in a forced way, i felt my face burn and my fingers tingle. my mouth seemed to get a little dry, too, and the thought came upon me in the midst of my sensations that i wanted to get up and fight. the circumstances were rather exceptional, for i was suffering from two sore places. one started from my shoulder and went down my back, where there must have been the mark of the cane; the other was a mental sore, caused by the word _pauper_, which seemed to rankle and sting more than the cut from the cane. of course i ought to have treated it as beneath my notice, but whoever reads this will have found out before now that i was very far from perfect; and as those two lads evidently saw my annoyance, and went on trying to increase it, i bent over my work in a vicious way, and kept on taking out the dead leaves and stems as if they were some of the enemies mr solomon had been talking about in the pits. all at once, as i was bending down, i heard courtenay, the elder boy, say: "what did he say--back to school and be flogged?" "yes," said philip aloud; "but he didn't know. they only flog workhouse boys and paupers." "i say, though," said courtenay, "who is that chap grubbing out the slugs and snails?" my back was turned, and i went on with my work. "what! that chap i spoke to?" said philip; "why, i told you. he's a pauper." "is he?" "yes, and browny fetched him from the workhouse. brought him home in the cart. he's going to be a caterpillar crusher." i felt as if i should have liked to be a boy crusher, and have run at him with my fists clenched, and drubbed him till he roared for mercy, but i did not stir. "then what's he doing here?" said courtenay in a sour, morose tone of voice. "he ought to be among the cabbages, and not here." this was as if they were talking to themselves, but meant for me to hear. "old browny was afraid to put him there for fear he'd begin wolfing them. i caught him as soon as he came. he got loose, and i found him in the peach-house eating the peaches, but i dropped on to him with the cane and made the beggar howl." "old browny ought to look after him," said courtenay. "don't i tell you he ran away. i expect browny will have to put a dog-collar and chain on him, and drive a stake down in the kitchen-garden to keep him from eating the cabbages when he's caterpillaring. these workhouse boys are such hungry beggars." "put a muzzle on him like they do on a ferret," said courtenay; and then they laughed together. "hasn't he got a rum phiz?" said philip, who, i soon found, was the quicker with his tongue. "yes; don't talk so loud: he'll hear you. just like a monkey," said courtenay; and they laughed again. "i say, is he going to stop?" said courtenay. "i suppose so. they want a boy to scrape the shovels and light the fires, and go up the hothouse chimneys to clear out the soot. he's just the sort for that." "he'll have to polish old browny's boots, too." "yes; and wash mother browny's stockings. i say, court, don't he look a hungry one?" "regular wolf," said courtenay; and there was another laugh. "i say," said courtenay, "i don't believe he's a workhouse." "he is, i tell you; browny went and bought him yesterday. they sell 'em cheap. you can have as many as you like almost for nothing. they're glad to get rid of 'em." "i wonder what they'd say to poor old shock!" i thought to myself. "i'm glad he isn't here." "i don't care," said courtenay; "i think he's a london street boy. he looks like it from the cut of his jib." i paid not the slightest heed, but my heart beat fast and i could feel the perspiration standing all over my face. "i don't care; he's a pauper. i wonder what old browny will feed him on." "skilly," said courtenay; and the boys laughed again. all at once i felt a push with a foot, and if i had not suddenly stiffened my arms i should have gone down and broken some of the geraniums, but they escaped, and i leaped to my feet and faced them angrily. "here, what's your name?" said courtenay haughtily. i swallowed my annoyance, and answered: "grant." "what a name for a boy!" said courtenay. "i say, phil, isn't his hair cut short. he ought to have his ears trimmed too. here, where are your father and mother?" i felt a catch in my throat as i tried to answer steadily: "dead." "there, i told you so," cried philip. "he hasn't got any father or mother. didn't you come out of the workhouse, pauper?" "no," i said steadily, as my fingers itched to strike him. "here, what was your father?" said courtenay. i did not answer. "do you hear? and say `sir' when you speak," cried courtenay with a brutal insolent manner that seemed to fit with his dark thin face. "i say, do you hear, boy?" "yes," i replied. "yes, _sir_, you beggar," cried courtenay. "what was your father?" "he don't know," cried philip grinning. "pauper boys don't know. they're all mixed up together, and they call 'em sunday, monday, tuesday, or names of streets or places, anything. he doesn't know what his father was. he was mixed up with a lot more." "i'll make him answer," said courtenay. "here, what was your father?" "an officer and a gentleman," i said proudly. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed philip, dancing about with delight, and hanging on to his brother, who laughed too. "here's a game--a gardener's boy a gentleman! oh my!" i was sorry i had said those words, but they slipped out, and i stood there angry and mortified before my tormentors. "i say, court, don't he look like a gentleman? look at the knees of his trousers, and his fists." "never mind," said courtenay, "i want to bat. look here, you, sir, can you play cricket?" "yes," i said, "a little." "yes, _sir_, you beggar; how many more times am i to tell you! come out in the field. you've got to bowl for us. here, catch!" he threw a cricket-ball he had in his hand at me with all his might, and in a nasty spiteful way, but i caught it, and in a jeering way philip shouted: "well fielded. here, come on, court. we'll make the beggar run." i hesitated, for i wanted to go on with my work, but these were my master's sons, and i felt that i ought to obey. "what are you standing staring like that for, pauper?" cried philip. "didn't you hear mr courtenay say you were to come on and bowl?" "what do you want, young gentleman?" said a voice that was very welcome to me; and mr solomon came from behind the great laurels. "what's that to you, browny? he's coming to bowl for us in the field," said courtenay. "no, he is not," said mr solomon coolly. "he's coming to help me in the cucumber house." "no, he isn't," said philip; "he's coming to bowl for us. come along, pauper." i threw the ball towards him and it fell on the lawn, for neither of the boys tried to catch it. "here, you, sir," cried courtenay furiously, "come and pick up this ball." i glanced at mr solomon and did not stir. "do you hear, you, sir! come and pick up this ball," said courtenay. "now, pauper, look alive," said philip. i turned and stooped down over my work. "i say, court, we're not going to stand this, are we?" "go into the field and play, boys," said mr solomon coldly; "we've got to work." "yes, paupers have to work," said courtenay with a sneer. "if i thought that worth notice, young fellow, i'd make you take that word back," said mr solomon sternly. "yes, it's all right, courtenay; the boy isn't a pauper." "you said he was." "yes, but it was a mistake," sneered philip; "he says he's a gentleman." the two boys roared with laughter, and mr solomon looked red. "look here, grant," he said quietly, "if being a gentleman is to be like these two here, don't you be one, but keep to being a gardener." "ha, ha, ha!--ho, ho, ho!" they both laughed. "a gentleman! pretty sort of a gentleman." "pauper gentleman," cried philip maliciously. "yes, i daresay he has got a title," said courtenay, who looked viciously angry at being thwarted; and he was the more enraged because mr solomon bent down and helped me at the bed, taking no notice whatever of the orders for me to go. "yes," said philip; "he's a barrow-net--a wheelbarrow-net. ha, ha, ha!" "with a potato-fork for his crest." "and ragged coat without any arms," said philip. "and his motto is `oh the poor workhouse boy!'" cried courtenay. "there, that will do, grant," said mr solomon. "let these little boys amuse themselves. it won't hurt us. bring your basket." "yes, take him away, browny," cried philip. "ah, young fellows, your father will find out some day what nice boys you are! come along, grant and let these young _gentlemen_ talk till they're tired." "yes, go on," cried philip; while i saw courtenay turn yellow with rage at the cold bitter words mr solomon used. "take away your pauper--take care of your gentleman--go and chain him up, and give him his skilly. go on! take him to his kennel. oh, i say, courtenay--a gentleman! what a game!" i followed mr solomon with my face wrinkled and lips tightened up, till he turned round and looked at me and then clapped his hand on my shoulder. "bah!" he said laughing; "you are not going to mind that, my lad. it isn't worth a snap of the fingers. i wish, though, you hadn't said anything about being a gentleman." "so do i, sir," i said. "it slipped out, though, and i was sorry when it was too late." "never mind; and don't you leave your work for them. now come and have a look at my cucumber house, and then--ha, ha, ha! there's something better than skilly for dinner, my boy." i found out that mr solomon had another nature beside the one that seemed cold. chapter twenty four. sir francis and a friend. the next few days passed pleasantly enough, for i saw very little of the two young gentlemen, who spent a good deal of their time in a meadow beyond the garden, playing cricket and quarrelling. once there seemed to have been a fight, for i came upon philip kneeling down by a watering-pot busy with his handkerchief bathing his face, and the state of the water told tales of what had happened to his nose. as he seemed in trouble i was about to offer him my services, but he turned upon me so viciously with, "hullo! pauper, what do you want?" that i went away. the weather was lovely, and while it was so hot mr solomon used to do the principal part of his work in the glass houses at early morn and in the evening. "makes us work later, grant," he used to say apologetically; "but as it's for our own convenience we ought not to grumble." "i'm not going to grumble, sir," i said laughing; "all that training and tying in is so interesting, i like it." "that's right," he said, patting me on the shoulder; "always try and like your work; take a pride in it, my man, and it will turn up trumps some time or another. it means taking prizes." i had not seen sir francis yet, for he had been away, and i could not help feeling a little nervous about our first meeting. still i was pretty happy there, and i felt that in spite of a few strong sensations of longing to be back at the old garden with ike and shock, i was getting to like my new life very much indeed, and that as soon as the two boys had gone back to their school i should be as happy as could be. i was gradually getting to like mr solomon, and mrs solomon grew more kind to me every day. the men about the garden, too, were all very civil to me, and beyond a little bit of good-humoured banter from them now and then i had no cause for complaint. my great fear was that they would catch up the name young philip had bestowed upon me. that they knew of it i had pretty good evidence, for one day when i was busy over one of the verbena beds--busy at a task mr solomon had set me after the sun had made the peach-house too hot, a big bluff gardener came and worked close by me, mowing the grass in a shady part under some trees. "it's dry, and cuts like wire," he said, stopping to wipe his scythe and give it a touch with the stone, making the blade ring and send forth what always sounded to be pleasant music to me. "oughtn't you to cut it when the dew is on?" i said. "yes, squire, if you can," he replied; "but there is so much grass we can't get over it all in the early morning." he went on mowing, and i continued my task of pegging down the long shoots of the beautiful scarlet, crimson, and white flowers, just as mr solomon had instructed me, when all at once he came and looked on, making me feel very nervous; but he nodded and went away, so i supposed he was satisfied, and i worked on again as cheerfully as could be, till all at once i felt the blood flush up in my face, for the voice of young philip dalton came unpleasantly grating on my ear, as he said: "hullo, bunce, mowing again?" "yes, master philup, mowin' again." "why, you've got the pauper there!" cried philip. "i say, did you know he was a pauper?" "no," said bunce, "i didn't know. do you want your legs ampytated?" "no, stoopid, of course i don't." "then get outer the way or i shall take 'em off like carrots." "get out!" said philip, as i saw that he was watching me. "i say, though, did you know that he was a pauper, and lived on skilly?" "no," said the gardener quietly; and i felt as if i must get up and go away, for now i knew i should be a mark of contempt for the whole staff who worked in the garden. "he was," said philip. "pauper, was he?" said bunce, making his scythe glide round in a half circle. "i shouldn't ha' thought it." "oh but he was or is, and always will be," said the boy maliciously. "once a pauper always a pauper. look at him." "i've been a looking at him," said bunce slowly, for he was a big meditative man, and he stood upright, took a piece of flannel from the strap that supported his whetstone sheath, and wiped the blade of the scythe. "well, can't you see?" cried my tormentor, watching me as i worked away and assumed ignorance of his presence. "no," said bunce sturdily; "and seeing what a long, yellow, lizardly-looking wisp you are, master phil, if you two changed clothing i should pick you out as the pauper." "how dare you!" cried the boy fiercely. "mind the scythe," shouted bunce; "d'yer want to get cut?" "you insolent old worm chopper, how dare you call me a pauper?" "i didn't call you a pauper," said bunce chuckling; "did i, grant?" "no," i said. "you're a liar, you pauper!" cried the boy, who was furious. "i'll tell papa--i'll tell sir francis, and you shall both be discharged, you blackguards." "i'm just going to mow there, squire," said bunce, sharpening away at his scythe. "then you'll wait till i choose to move." "if you don't get out of the way i shall take the soles off your boots," said bunce, putting back his rubber. "i'll speak to papa about your insolence," cried the boy, with his eyes flashing and his fists clenched; and i thought he was going to strike bunce. "well," said a sharp ringing voice, "speak to him then. what is it?" i started to my feet, and bunce touched his cap to a tall elderly gentleman with closely-cut grey hair and a very fierce-looking white moustache, whose keen eyes seemed to look me through and through. "i said, what is it, phil?" cried the newcomer, whom i felt to be sir francis before philip spoke. "this fellow called me a pauper, pa!" sir francis turned sharply on bunce, who did not seem in the slightest degree alarmed. "how dare you call my son a pauper, sir?" he said sternly. "i--" "stop!" cried sir francis. "here, you boy, go away and wait till i call you. not far." "yes, sir," i said; and i walked away thinking what a fierce quick man he seemed, and not knowing then that he was one of the magistrates. a minute later he called to me to go back, and as soon as i had reached him, with philip by his side and bunce before him, philip stepped back and held up his fist at me menacingly. he thought the movement was unobserved by his stepfather; but sir francis, who was an old indian officer, noted the act, as he showed us directly after. "now, boy," he said, "what's your name?" "grant, sir francis." "well, grant, did this under-gardener call master philip a pauper?" i told him exactly what had occurred, and sir francis turned sharply on his step-son. "you were already self-condemned, philip," he said sternly. "i saw you threaten this boy with your fist. the way to win respect from those beneath you in station is to treat them with respect." "but, papa--" "hold your tongue, sir," said sir francis sternly. "i had eight hundred men in my regiment, and all the band came from one of the unions, and better fellows could not be found. my lad," he continued, "i dare say you know that pauper only means poor. it is no disgrace to be poor. philip, go indoors." "that's a flea in his ear," said bunce chuckling, as sir francis went one way, philip the other. "what do you think of the master?" "he seems very sharp and angry," i said, returning to my work. "he's all that," said the man; "but he's a reg'lar gentleman. he always drops on to them two if he catches 'em up to their larks. nice boys both of 'em." that word _pauper_ rankled a good deal in my breast, for it was quite evident to me that sir francis thought i was from one of the unions, and i had had no opportunity of showing him that i was not. "but i will show him," i said to myself angrily. "he sha'n't see anything in me to make him believe it. it's too bad." i was busy, as i said that, arranging a barrowful of plants in rows, where they were to be surrounded with earth, "plunged," as we called it, under the shelter of a wall, where they would get warmth and sunshine and grow hardy and strong, ready for taking in to the shelter of the greenhouse when the weather turned cold. it was some days since i had seen philip; but, weakly enough, i let the memory of that word rankle still. to carry out my task i had to fetch a pot at a time from the large wide barrow, and set them down in the trench that had been cut for them. this necessitated stooping, and as i was setting one down a lump of something caught me so smartly on the back that i nearly dropped the flower-pot and started upright, looking round for the thrower of the piece of clay, for there it was at my feet. i could not see, but i guessed at once that it was philip, though it might have been courtenay hiding behind some gooseberry bushes or the low hornbeam hedge, about twenty yards away. "i won't take any notice of the ill-bred young cubs," i said to myself angrily; and i stooped and arranged the pot in its place and went back for another, when _whack_! came another well-aimed piece, and hit me on the side of the cap. "you--" i stopped myself, as i banged down the pot in a rage--stopped words and act, for i was going to run towards the spot whence the clay seemed to have come. "it's only play after all," i said to myself. "i'll show them, pauper or no, that i'm above being annoyed by such a trifle as that." i moved a couple more pots, when something whizzed by my ear, and then i was hit on the shoulder by a little raw potato. i wanted to run round to the back of the hornbeam hedge, which had been planted to shelter plants and not sharpshooters, but i restrained myself. "playing cricket makes them take such good aim," i thought to myself, as a piece of clay hit me on the back again; and i worked hard to finish my task so as to get to the pit from which i was fetching the pots down to the grass walk where i was; and i had got to the last pot, when, in stooping to put it in its place, _plop_ came a soft lump of clay on the nape of my neck, and began to slip under my collar. down went the pot, and my cap on to the plant, and i turned sharp round, certain now that the missiles had been sent, not from the shelter hedge nor the gooseberry bushes, but from the wall, and there, sure enough, with his head and shoulders above the top, was my assailant. my angry look changed to a bland smile as i saw the ragged straw hat with the hair standing out of the top, and the grubby face of shock looking at me with his eyes twinkling and the skin all round wrinkled, while the rest of his face was sour. "why, shock!" i cried; "who'd have thought of seeing you? how did you get there?" "clum up." "did mr brownsmith send you?" he shook his head. "how is it you are here, then?" "hooked it." "why, you haven't run away?" "i jest have, though." "but you are going back?" he shook his head with all his might. "i've sin you lots o' times," he said. "when?" "yes'day. day afore, and day afore that." "what! have you been here three days?" shock nodded. "where have you slept, then?" "haystack." "and what have you had to eat?" "bread. lots o' things i fun' in the fields. rabbud." "who's that boy?" said a sharp voice that well knew; and shock's head disappeared. "mr ezra brownsmith's boy, sir francis," i said. "he used to work with me." "was he from the workhouse?" "yes, sir francis." "tell him not to do that again, and don't you encourage him. i don't approve of it. go on with your work." i took the barrow handles and wheeled it away, biting my lips, for it had suddenly struck me that sir francis thought that i was talking to a boy who was my companion in the workhouse, and it seemed as if fate was fixing the term pauper upon me so tightly that i should not be able to get it removed. plenty of little annoyances occurred, but i put up with them; and not the least was the appearance of shock at the top of first one wall and then another, but never near enough to speak to me. he showed himself so often here and there that i used to go about the garden feeling sure that he was watching me; and at last i found, to my horror, that he had grown more bold, and used to get into the garden, for one day i caught sight of him creeping on hands and knees among the gooseberry bushes. i started in pursuit, but stopped directly, feeling sure that if i did so the act would result in trouble to us both, and determined to write to mr ezra about him. i was glad i did so the next minute, for courtenay and philip came down the garden to amuse themselves picking gooseberries and eating them. i was busy watering some celery that had been planted in trenches and shaded from the hot sun. to do this i had a barrel fitted on wheels in a sort of barrow. from this i filled my can by dipping it, and when i had finished i had to go down to the bottom of the garden to a good-sized pond and reverse the process, dipping a bucket at some steps and filling the barrel. i had filled my barrel once, and was busy dipping my can and thinking about shock and what would be the consequences if he were seen by the two boys, when i suddenly found them by me, each with his cap full of ripe gooseberries, which they were eating as they watched me; and after giving his brother a look, philip opened the annoyance by saying: "come, pauper, work away." i took no notice, when a half-sucked gooseberry struck me on the arm. it was a disgusting act on the young coward's part, but though in a moment i felt on fire, i only wiped it off, when courtenay threw one and hit me on the face. i wiped that away too, and raising my can stepped off the path on to the bed to go to the trench, but not in time to avoid a large over-ripe gooseberry which smashed as it struck me in the ear and began to trickle down. i was in such a rage that the roar of laughter from my two tyrants half maddened me, and i watered that celery in a way that washed some of the roots quite bare. they were waiting for me when i got back to the tub, and, emboldened by the patient way in which i bore their insults, they kept on pelting me with the over-ripe fruit till i had it in my hair, my eyes, and down within the collar of my shirt. i ground my teeth with rage, and felt that i could bear it no longer, but i made no sign. then they pelted me with words too, inventing ridiculous names, asking me about the workhouse food, and at last i determined to bear it no longer, but go straight up to the house and show sir francis the state i was in and beg him to put a stop to this annoyance. but just then it flashed upon my mind that sir francis and her ladyship had gone out the day before to stay somewhere for a fortnight, and this explained the boldness of the two young ruffians, who had never behaved so outrageously before. "if i go and tell mr solomon," i thought, "he will only tell me i was foolish to take any notice;" and at last, writhing with annoyance, i emptied the barrel and trundled it down to the pond, hoping to leave my tormentors behind. but no; they followed me and continued their assaults as soon as they had replenished their caps with the gooseberries that were abundant on the bushes, over-ripe many of them, and of monstrous size. "did you ever see such a coward?" said philip. "like all these paupers," cried courtenay. "ha! ha! ha! right in the ear." i stamped with rage for his words were true about his aim, though i did not feel cowardly, for i was working hard to do my duty and keep my hands from my assailants. "give him one in the eye," said philip. "bet you twopence, court, i hit him first in the eye." they went on pelting and i went on filling my barrel, dipping with the bucket and pouring it in, and a dozen times over it was all i could do to keep from discharging the contents of the pail in courtenay's face. full at last, and i was ready to go up the garden again. i glanced round in the hope of seeing mr solomon or bunce or one of the other gardeners; but they were all busy in the upper gardens, while i was quite shut in here with my tormentors. "here, let's get some more shot, court," cried philip. "i'll serve the sneaking coward out for getting me in that row with pa." "wait a bit," said his brother; "look at him. he goes down just like a monkey. he's going to wash his gooseberry face." he was quite right, for i had laid my cap aside and stooped down at the dipping place to wash off some of the seedy, sticky pulp before going back. "dirty brute!" said philip. "i never saw such a coward in my life." i ought to have been on my guard and not have given them the opportunity which i did, for as i stooped down there, crouching on my heels, i placed a great temptation in courtenay dalton's way. for as i stooped right down, scooping up the water with one hand to bathe my face, i suddenly felt a sharp thrust from a foot on my back, and before i could save myself i was head over heels in the deep water. it was not so deep but that i got my footing directly, and seizing the post at the side tried to struggle out, when amidst shouts of laughter philip cried: "give him another dowse. that's the way to wash a pauper clean." i was half-blind with the water, as courtenay thrust my hand from the post, and in i went again, to come up red hot instead of cold. he thrust me in again and i went right under; but my rage was not quenched, and, taught by my experience, i made a rush as if to spring out on to the dipping-place but instead of doing so i caught at a branch of a willow by the side and sprang out. "shake yourself, dog!" cried courtenay, roaring with laughter. "fetch him a towel," cried philip. "a towel for the clean pauper. give him another ducking, courtenay." he ran at me, but in those moments i had forgotten everything in my thirst to be revenged on my cowardly persecutors. philip only seemed to be something in my way as i made at his brother, and throwing out one fist, he went down amongst the willows, while the next minute i was striking at courtenay with all my might. he was a bigger boy than i. taller and older, and he had had many a good fight at school no doubt; but my onslaught staggered him, and i drove him before me, striking at him as he reached the handles of my water-barrow, and he fell over them heavily. this only enraged him, and he sprang up and received my next blow right in the face, to be staggered for the moment. then i don't know what happened, only that my arms were going like windmills, that i was battering courtenay, and that he was battering me; that we were down, and then up, and then down again, over and over, and fighting fiercely as a couple of dogs. i think i was getting the best of it, when i began to feel weak, and that my adversary was hitting me back and front at once. then i realised that philip had attacked me too, and that i was getting very much the worst of it in a sort of thunderstorm which rained blows. then the blows only came from one side, for there was a hoarse panting and the sound of heavy blows and scuffling away from me, while i was hitting out again with all my might at one boy instead of two. all at once there was a crash and the rattle of an iron handle, and courtenay went down. he had caught against the pail and fallen. this gave me time to glance round and see in a half-blinded way that philip was fighting with some other boy, who closed with him, and down they went together. "yah! yah! cowards! cowards!" cried a voice that i well knew; and i saw giddily that courtenay and philip were running up the path, and that shock was standing beside me. "well done!" cried another voice. "what a licking you two give 'em!" shock started, and ran, darting among the bushes, while i sat down on a barrow-handle, feeling rather thick and dizzy. "i was coming to stop it. two to one's too bad; but that ragged chap come out at young phil, and my word, he did give it him well. are you much hurt, my lad?" "no, not much, mr bunce," i said, staring at him in rather a confused way. "here, i'll get some water," he said; and he went and dipped a pailful. "bathe your face in that." i did so, and felt clearer and refreshed directly. "go on," he said; "keep it up. it will stop the bleeding. what! have you been in the pond?" "yes," i said; "they've been pelting me this last half hour, and then they pushed me in." "the young rips!" cried bunce. "never mind. i'm as pleased as if some one had given me a sovereign." "yes," i said dismally; "and they'll tell sir francis, and i shall have to go." "not you," said bunce. "they're awful curs, but they're beaten, and they won't tell." "hallo! what's all this?" said mr solomon, coming up. bunce told him. "and did he thrash 'em well?" said mr solomon, looking rather angry, "the pair of them?" "no. they were too strong both at once, but that ragged jack of a chap that's been hanging about--him as i told you of this morning--he come out and tackled young phil when he was on grant's back, and my word those two have gone off with their tails between their legs. licked, sir, licked out and out." "i suppose i shall be sent away, sir," i said, wringing the water out of my shirt-sleeves. "i suppose you won't," said mr solomon sharply. "i've seen a deal, my lad, and i wondered you didn't have a turn at them before. i didn't think you'd got the stuff in you, to tell you the truth." "oh, but he had!" said bunce. "i wish you'd ha' seen." "well, i'm sorry," said mr solomon. "no, i'm not; i'm glad. they'll leave you alone now. there, go and change your things. it was time you did strike. here, i'll go with you, or you'll frighten the missus into fits. i say," he shouted back, "keep a sharp look-out for that boy, and catch him if you can. i must have him stopped." "poor old shock!" i thought, as i felt grateful to him for what he had done. the next minute i was at the gardener's cottage, being scolded and wiped by mrs solomon, who said she had never seen such a sight in her life, and who was not happy till she had me down-stairs in dry things, bathing one of my eyes, putting a leech on the other, and carefully strapping up a cut on the back of my head. chapter twenty five. i have a difficult task. the gardener was right. the fight was a lesson for the boys, who kept at a distance from me, during the next few days, while our scratches and bruises grew faint and began to heal. we had expected they would have been off to school; but for some reason, illness i believe, the holidays were extended for a month, and so they stayed, but i was pretty well left in peace. my first hint of sir francis' return was given by that gentleman himself, who came upon me suddenly as i was busy in the peach-house. i was painting away at the branches that had become infected with a tiresome kind of blight, when i heard a sharp quick step behind me, and my heart quailed, for i felt that it was sir francis about to take me to task for my encounter with his sons. i kept busily on with my work, in the faint, hope that he might pass me and say nothing, but he stopped short, and looked on as i busied myself with my brush and the poisonous decoction that was to kill the insects. i was in agony, for i felt that he was looking me through and through, and when he did speak at last i gave quite a jump. "hah!" he exclaimed, "rather hard upon the insects. well, grant, how are you getting on?" "very well, sir francis, i think," i said. "seen any more of that boy?" "yes, sir francis," i said, colouring. "climbed up the wall, has he?" "i don't know, sir francis," i replied; "but he has got into the garden lately." "that's right, my lad, be frank," he said. "i know he has got into the garden. i caught my young gentleman and took him to task. he says he came because you were here." "i'm afraid that is why he did come, sir francis," i said. "did you tell him to come?" "no, sir francis. we were never very friendly." "ho!" he said, and he walked on looking at the peaches for a few minutes, and then went away, leaving me to wipe the cold perspiration off my forehead, for i had fully expected a severe scolding. i finished my task in the peach-house, and then went to see how the celery was getting on, for i found that when mr solomon gave me a task he expected me to continue to watch, whatever it was. "so that i may feel that when i have put anything in your hands it will be properly done," he said more than once; so, feeling that i was responsible for the success of the celery plants, i was on my way to the bottom garden by the pond, thinking of the encounter i had when i was busy watering there that day, when, as i turned down one of the alleys of the garden, i saw a man in the distance digging up a piece of ground with a broad spade, and turning over the soil in that easy regular way, levelling it as he went, that experienced gardeners acquire. there was something in his way of digging that seemed familiar, and i stopped and stared. the man stopped too, and glanced in my direction; but he only scraped his spade and went on, while, as soon as i had seen his profile i ran up to him and held out my hand. "why, ike!" i cried, "is that you?" he paused for a few moments, ran his hand over his nose, involuntarily, i'm sure, glanced down at first one leg, and then the other, after which he went on digging. "yes," he said; "it's me." "why, what are you doing here?" "digging," he said gruffly, and, turning up a spadeful of earth, he gave it a blow with the spade, as if he were boxing its ears, and levelled it smoothly. "i know that," i cried; "but how is it you're here?" "got took on." "oh! i am glad," i cried. he looked up at me sidewise, and drove his spade in again. "no, you ain't," he said gruffly. "indeed i am, ike," i cried, "though you wouldn't say good-bye." "now--now--now--now!" he cried; "don't go on that how." "did you come this morning?" i said. "been here 'most a week." "and i didn't know! but why did you leave mr brownsmith?" "i left old brownsmith because i wanted to leave him." "did you have a quarrel, ike?" "quarrel? no! what should i want to quarrel for?" "but why did you leave?" "'cause i liked. man ain't a slave, is he?" "i am glad you're here, though, ike," i cried. "not you," he said sourly, as he thrust and chopped and levelled the soil. "indeed but i am," i cried. "yes, sir, coming," i shouted, for i heard mr solomon asking for me. i went to him, and he set me to water the pots that had been plunged under the big wall; but on going to the pump in the middle of the big walk, where the well was that we used for this garden, i found the handle swing loosely up and down. i went and told mr solomon that there was no water to be had there. "i thought as much!" he cried angrily. "i saw those boys jerking the handle about yesterday. here, bunce!" bunce was sent off with a message, and i went about some other task, glad to find that ike was there at work, for somehow i liked him, though i did not know why, since he was always very gruff and snappish with me. but still it seemed as if he had come to hampton because i was there. the next morning, after breakfast, as i went down the garden i found that mr solomon was by the well talking to a man who carried a basket of tools. as i approached he put them down, mr solomon helped him, and together they lifted up a great stone in the pathway, which covered the mouth of the well. there is something very attractive and yet repellent about a well, at least to me. i always want to look down it and listen to the peculiar echoing noise, and the whispers that seem to creep about its green wet sides. it was so here, and while the man stood talking to mr solomon i went down on one knee and peered into the well, to see, far down, a glistening round of what looked like a mirror with my face in it, but in a blurred indistinct way, for there was a musical splashing of water falling from the sides, and as i bent lower the air seemed cold and dank, while above it was sunny and warm. i started up suddenly, for just then i heard a laugh, and recalling the way in which i had been thrust into the pond i did not care to risk a kick from him who laughed, or from his companion. for, attracted by bunce, who was carrying a long ladder, they asked him if he was going to gather fruit, and on learning that the well was being opened they, to use their own words, came to see the fun. bunce laid the ladder along the path and went off again to his work, while the two boys seemed to ignore my presence, and stood talking to one another and waiting, philip throwing stones, while courtenay amused himself by kicking a coil of rope that lay upon the path. "here, grant," cried mr solomon, turning upon me suddenly. "run to the cottage and get a candle and a box of matches." "yes, sir," i said, going. "yes sir, certainly sir, yes sir," said philip in a mocking tone. "and, grant," shouted mr solomon, "bring one of the men with you." "bunce?" i said. "no, he's busy. bring that new man, isaac." i ran off to the cottage for the candle and matches, and mrs solomon asked what they were for. "to see down in the well, i think," i said. "oh yes, to be sure! the pump is broken. tell master to be very careful. wells are very dangerous places. i once knew of a well where four men tumbled down and never came up again." "we'll take care not to tumble," i cried laughing; and i ran off to find ike, who was digging away near where i had seen him before. "eh! good mornin'!" he said sourly. "is it? i didn't know. mornin's seems always all alike to a man as has to dig." "but how well you're doing it, ike! it's better dug than our men generally dig it." "be it?" he said dubiously: "well, i have punished it pretty well. ground's very foul and full o' bear-bine." "put down your spade and come along with me," i cried; "they're doing something to the well." "all right, i'll come!" said ike sourly. "pay me my wage and i'm ready. night work or day work, it's all the same to me, and such is life. 'tis a rum set out." "don't grumble, ike," i said, "on a morning like this." "grumble! that ain't grumbling. but i say, young 'un, are you glad i come?" "why, of course i am, ike." "so am i then. i s'pose i come o' purpose to work along o' you; but i miss my hoss a deal. i say, old brownsmith didn't like it a bit; but here i am; and did you know about young shock?" "no: what about him? have they caught him and sent him away?" "no: they've caught him and give him a decent suit of clothes, so stiff he can't hardly move in 'em, and he's took on." "shock is?" "to be sure he is; and if he behaves decent his fortun's made." "oh, look here, my man," said mr solomon as we came up, "you had better stop here and help. lower down that ladder." ike took hold of the ladder as if it were an enemy, gave me a nod, and i went and stood at the foot, so as to hold it down, while ike raised it erect, and then, taking it by the rounds with his strong brown hands, he lifted it as if it had been a feather, and, walking to the mouth of the well, let the ladder glide softly down till he held the top in his hands; then, swinging it about, he found a resting-place for the bottom upon a piece of wood such as were fixed across the well every ten or a dozen feet to support the pipe and other gear of the pump. "that do, master?" said ike. "yes," said mr solomon. "now, mr grinling, you had better try her. here, stop, what are you going to do?" "going down," said courtenay. "do you know that well is perhaps very foul?" cried mr solomon. "then it's your place to keep it clean," said philip sharply. "go on down, court, or else i shall." "you won't, neither of you, go down while i'm here," said mr solomon stoutly. "what right have you to interfere?" cried courtenay: "same right as any man has to interfere when he sees a young goose going to throw away his life." "oh rubbish!" said courtenay. "just as if i couldn't go down a ladder. here, stand aside." mr solomon did not stand aside, and he looked so very sturdy and firm that courtenay gave up and drew back with his brother, whispering and waiting his opportunity. during this time the plumber had been rattling his tools in his basket, and mr solomon turned to him again. "ain't you going to try her?" he said. "that well hasn't been open these two years." "oh! she's right enough," said the plumber sourly. "it ain't the first time i've been down a well." "but i don't think it's safe," said mr solomon. "what do you say?" he continued, turning to ike. "looks right enough," said ike, kneeling down and looking into the well. then rising, "but i wouldn't go down unless i didn't want to come up no more." "tchah!" ejaculated the plumber; and i knelt down once more to look for the danger, but could see nothing but the dark whispering hole, with, at a great depth below, the round disc of light representing the mouth of the well. just then something passed my head and fell down with, after a while, a strange hollow _plash_ from below. "that'll do," said mr solomon angrily. "no more of that, please." "you mind your own business, browny. anyone would think you were the master here." "master or no, here's sir francis coming. let's see whether he likes you to be throwing stones down the well." mr solomon uttered a sigh of relief, for, as sir francis came along a neighbouring path, the two lads slowly walked away. "that's a blessing," he said. "now we can work in peace. you'll try her first--won't you, plumber?" "all right, gardener. what are you scared about?" mr solomon looked at him angrily and then said: "i don't know that i'm scared about you, my man; but i don't want to risk my life, or to send down one of my men to fetch you out." the plumber grunted, and i looked on wondering what the danger was, for i knew nothing then about chemistry or foul gases; and i stared all the more when the plumber took a ball of thin string from his jacket pocket, tied the candle with a couple of half hitches, and then struck a match and lit the wick. then as soon as it was burning brightly, sheltered by his hands from the breeze, he stooped down and held it in the well and then lowered it down. we stood round watching the candle swing gently and the flame dance as the plumber slowly unrolled the ball of string. at first the light looked very pale; but it grew brighter as it left the sunshine near the mouth of the well and lit up the dark slimy-looking old bricks, the rusty iron pipe, and the cross pieces of timber, while far down i could now and then catch sight of the cylinder of the pump as the candle began to swing now like a pendulum. it was very indistinct, just gleaming now and then, while the walls glistened, and i realised more and more what a horrible place it would be for anyone to fall into. i was full of imaginings of horror, and i fancied the fearful splash, the darkness, the rising to the surface, and then the poor wretch-- myself perhaps--striving to get my fingers in between the slippery bricks, and getting no hold, and then--"there!--what did i tell you?" said mr solomon. "she's a foul un, and no mistake," growled ike. "oh! that's nothing," said the plumber. "i've been down worse wells than that." i was puzzled, for it seemed to me that the candle must be bad. as i had watched it the flame grew brighter and brighter as it reached the darkness, and then it burned more palely, grew smaller, and then all at once it turned blue and went out. he drew it up, lit it again, and lowered it once more, and it seemed to go down a little lower before it went out. he drew it up again, relit it, and once more sent it down; and this time it went as far as the cylinder of the pump--which was fixed, i saw, on a sort of scaffold or framework where the foot of the ladder rested. i was able to see all this before the light went out and was drawn up again. "all right in a few minutes," said the plumber; and he unfastened the candle, lowered down his basket of tools by means of the string, and made it lodge on a bit of a platform close by the works of the pump. it was all very interesting to me to see how low down the pump was fixed, and that the handle worked an iron rod up and down--a rod of great length. the plumber took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, after sticking the candle in his waist and the matches in his pocket, and prepared to descend. "why, you are not going down like that--are you?" said mr solomon. "i always do go down like that," said the man with a laugh. "how should you go down-head first?" "no," cried mr solomon angrily; "but with a rope fastened to my waist, and a couple of men to hold it." "d'yer think i'm a baby?" said the plumber, "or a little child?" "worse," said mr solomon shortly. "you can make them do what's right." "tchah! i know what i'm about, just as well as you know how to bud roses." "i dare say you do," said mr solomon sternly; "but that well's got a lot of foul gas in it, and you're not going down without a rope to hold you." "rubbish!" said the plumber, laughing; "i am." "and who's going to use the water agen if you're drowned in it?" said ike seriously. "it'll be all full o' white-lead and putty, and kill the plarnts!" "you're very clever," said the plumber sharply; "but just mind your own business." as he spoke he sat down with his legs in the well, but mr solomon seized him by the collar. "you stop," he cried; "i won't have it. you don't go down that well without a rope round you. fetch bunce," he said, addressing ike. "if i can't do my work my own way," said the plumber sharply, "i sha'n't do it at all." he started up, threw on his jacket, and went off after ike, while mr solomon stood thinking. "such idiocy!" he exclaimed. "the well isn't safe, and he wants to run unnecessary risks. i suppose he'll come back," he muttered. "perhaps i shall have to fetch him. here, grant, you stop here and don't leave the mouth of the well for fear anyone should go near." he went after the men, and i lay down gazing into the dark hollow place, wondering what the foul gas was like, and whether i could see it down below; and i was just wishing that i had the candle and string to try experiments, and wondering how far the light would go down now, when i uttered a cry. my heart seemed to give a great leap, for somebody gave me a rough push and it seemed as if i were going to be thrust down the well. "there's a coward!" cried philip jeeringly. "did you ever see such a cur, court? thought he was going down." "perhaps i did," i replied warmly, as i glanced from one to the other, wondering whether it was to be war again; but they paid no further attention to me, and began arguing between themselves. "you daren't!" said philip. "daren't!" cried courtenay. "why, i went down last time hanging to a rope when it was cleaned out, and there was no water at the bottom." "but there is water now--twenty or thirty feet, and you daren't go down." "yes i dare." "bet you sixpence you daren't." "done!" cried courtenay. "mind i shall make you pay." "you daren't go." "all right; you'll see!" cried courtenay; and to my horror he went close to the mouth and looked down. "you can't go down," i said; "the well isn't safe." "who spoke to you, pauper?" cried philip sharply. and then with a sniggering laugh, "it ain't safe, courtenay. you can't go down, and you'll have to pay me all the same." "i'm going down," said courtenay. "you can't," i cried. "it's full of foul air." "you mind your own business, pauper," cried courtenay. this repetition of the word pauper so enraged me that for the moment i felt tempted to let him go down, but the next moment i shuddered at the thought and cried: "it is my business. i was to keep everyone from going near." "don't take any notice of the workus boy, court. go on down, if you dare." "i dare," he said, laughing. "i tell you it isn't safe," i cried. "do you want a punch on the head?" said philip menacingly. "yes, but you daren't give it me," i cried fiercely. "never mind him," said courtenay. "look here, i'm only going to the bottom of the ladder. i'm not going to slide down the pipe to the water." as he spoke he sat down on the edge with his legs dangling over the side. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed philip, seating himself opposite to him and kicking at his brother's feet. "you daren't go." "you say i daren't go again i'll take you by the scruff of the neck and make you go down instead. i say, let's send the pauper down to swallow the foul air." "there, i knew you daren't go," cried philip. "i dare." "you daren't." "he shall not go," i cried; and i caught the lad by the collar. he gave himself a twist, and as he freed himself he struck me a savage blow with his elbow right in the lower part of the chest. the blow took away my breath and made me stagger back in agony, and gasping, while by the time i had recovered myself he had stepped on to the ladder, gone down several rounds, and his head disappeared. "there, coward, what do you think of that?" cried philip. i ran to the side with my heart throbbing painfully, and i felt as if my eyes were wild and staring as i saw the lad go down about a dozen feet and stop. "i say, phil," he cried, with his voice echoing and sounding hollow, "come down. it is so jolly and cool." "i'll go down when you've come up," said his brother. "that isn't far enough. i don't call that anything." "wait a bit. don't be in a wax." "come up, sir, pray come up," i cried. "there's foul air lower down. the candle wouldn't burn." "pitch him down if he don't hold his tongue, phil," cried courtenay. "here goes for a slide." he grasped the sides of the ladder, took his feet off the round on which he stood, and throwing his legs round he began to slide slowly down. "i say, it's as cool as eating ices, phil," he cried. "come on down." philip made no answer, but glanced at me, and i suppose my blanched and horrified countenance startled him, for he too suddenly turned white and exclaimed: "there, you've won, court. i give in. come back now." too late! courtenay slid slowly on for a few moments, then faster, and then we saw his arms relax and he fell over backwards, while as i stood on the brink gazing down i felt as if i had suddenly been turned to stone. chapter twenty six. "what shall we do?" i seemed to be standing there some time, but mr solomon afterwards told me it was not a moment, before i looked up, and seeing him returning with the plumber, ran towards them swiftly, shouting for help. the two men started running directly, and as we reached the well together there was philip lying upon the ground beside the path, face downwards, and with his fingers thrust into his ears. "now, then," shouted mr solomon to the plumber, as ike came running up straight across beds, bushes, everything. "now, then, you said the well was safe; go down and fetch him up." the plumber went upon one knee, seized the top of the ladder, and got up again shaking his head. "i can't afford it," he said. "i've a wife and bairns at home." "i--i daren't go down," groaned mr solomon. "man, man, what shall we do?" "it scares me," growled ike hoarsely; "but i've got no wife and no bairns; and if master grant here says, `go,' i'll go, though," he added slowly, "it's going down into one's grave." "can you see him, grant?" cried mr solomon. "yes; down on the wood," i said in a hoarse whisper; "he's lying across a beam with his head down. what shall we do?" as i asked this piteously i raised my head, to see philip close by me kneeling on the gravel, his eyes half closed, his face of a yellowish grey, his hands clenched, and his teeth chattering. no one spoke, and as i looked from one man to the other every face was pale and stony-looking, for the men felt that to go down into that carbonic acid gas was to give up life. i felt horribly frightened, and as if i were sinking somewhere. i glanced round, and there was the beautiful garden all flowers and fruit, with the glorious sunshine over all. below me that terrible pit with the falling whispering water, and a chill seeming to rise out of its depths. as i looked i saw shock coming towards us at a run, as if he divined that something was the matter, and the sight of him made me think of mr brownsmith's garden and my happy life there, and i gave a low sob as my eyes filled with tears. i tell you i felt horribly frightened, and all this that has taken so long to describe seemed to pass in a flash--almost as i started from gazing down the well to my feet. "tie the rope round me," i said huskily. "you can pull me up if i fall." "well done, young un!" shouted the plumber, catching up the coil of rope. "i like pluck, i do." "you stand aside," cried ike, snatching the rope from him and giving him a rough thrust with his elbow. "i'll do this here." he ran the rope rapidly through his hands, and secured one end about my chest. then he made a running noose at the other end. "look here," he cried. "you take this here noose in your hand, my lad; there's plenty of rope to reach down double. when you gets to him put it over his arm or his leg, or anywhere, and pull it tight. i'll take care o' you, my boy, and have you up again like a shot." "shake hands, ike," i said, all of a tremble. "ay, i will, boy." "go, and god help you!" groaned mr solomon; and the next instant, with the noose in my hand and just feeling the rope drag on my chest, i stepped on to the ladder, clasped it as courtenay had done, and let myself slide down. as i went i looked up, and it seemed dark, for there was a ring of heads round the top; but below as i looked it was still darker. down, down, with a curious catching of the breath, and a strange sensation of this not being real seizing me. then i seemed to wake up and find myself where the water was dripping, and the well whispering, and still i slid down till i was on the slimy platform where the foot of the ladder rested, but young dalton was not there, but some ten feet down, on the next crosspiece of timber. "lower me down," i cried, and hanging by the rope i felt myself lowered more and more, and that i was slowly spinning round; but as i swung to and fro i caught at something i could dimly see, and found it was the great slippery pipe that went down into the water, and guided myself by that. only about ten feet; but the distance in that curious state of dread that made me feel as if my breath was painful and difficult, seemed ten times as great. the rope seemed to be compressing the bones of my chest tighter and tighter, and twice over i felt that i was in amongst the foul air that i believed would kill me before i reached the crosspiece on which the lad hung. the next minute i was seated astride the slippery piece of oak with the water about half a dozen feet below me, and i saw that the least touch would send courtenay off. i remembered my lesson though, and, forgetting my dread in the excitement, i slipped the rope over the hanging arm nearest to me, right up to the shoulder, and was in the act of drawing it tight, when, as i bent down, a curious choking sensation seized me, and all was blank. ike told me what took place afterwards, for i knew nothing more till i opened my eyes, and found that i was lying down, and several people whose faces looked misty and confused were about me. i felt sick, and my head throbbed violently. there was a weight over me too, and a curious feeling of confusion, in the midst of which a cool hand was laid upon my fore-head, and i heard some one say: "he's coming round fast." i lay quite still for some time, and at last i exclaimed: "what's the matter--is anyone hurt?" "lie still, my lad," said a strange voice. "i know," i cried excitedly. "did you get him out?" "yes, yes, he's all right, and so are you, grant, my lad," said mr solomon; and just then the room seemed to be darkened, and i heard ike's voice: "is he coming to?" "yes. he's all right." then i felt that i was wrong about some one else, and that it was that accident with the cart tipping up at old brownsmith's, and it was i who was hurt. that all passed away like a cloud, and my full senses seemed to come back. "did you get master courtenay out?" i said. "yes, my lad, he is quite safe," said a quick sharp voice, which its owner seemed to me trying to make gentle, and turning my head i saw sir francis. i tried to get up, but turned giddy. "lie still, my lad," he said kindly. "don't disturb him, brownsmith. good-bye, my lad! i'll see you again." he shook hands with me and went to the door. "well," he said sharply, "are you going to shake hands with the brave fellow who saved your brother's life?" the next moment i saw young philip at my side, and he took my hand in his, which felt cold and damp like the tail of a cod-fish. "if he seems to change in any way," said the voice i had heard before, "send for me directly; but i think he will be all right in an hour or two. i'm going up to the house." "who's that?" i said sharply. "the doctor, my lad," said mr solomon. "but i'm not ill," i said. "what was it? did i fall into the water?" "foul air overcame you, my lad. how do you feel?" "yes, how do you feel?" said mrs solomon gently, as she took my hand. "i'm all right," i said, sitting up, and this time i didn't feel giddy. "only something seems to hurt my chest." "the rope cut you a bit, that's all. it will soon go off." through the open door i could see ike standing watching me attentively, and as soon as he caught my eye he began to jerk his arm in the air as if he were crying "hooray!" just then a head came slowly round the door-post, and i saw shock staring in at me; but as soon as he saw that i was looking his head was snatched back. "how is he now?" said the plumber, coming to the door. "oh, i am quite well," i said, in an irritable tone that was new to me, and i got up; "i'm going out now." "you're well out of it, my lad," said the plumber. "i knowed a case once where five chaps went down one after the other to save him as had gone first, and they all fell to the bottom and died." "there, for goodness' sake, man, don't talk like that to the lad after what he has gone through," said mrs solomon. "all right, mum," said the plumber; "but as i was going to say, i don't think i shall have the heart to go down today, but i'll see how the air is whether or no." "you're not going out," said mrs solomon. "yes, please; it will do me good," i said; and the air did seem to refresh me, as i followed them back to the well, where the plumber tried it again by lowering down the lighted candle, to find it burn brightly till it was down by the cross piece on which young dalton had lain, after which it went out directly. he tried it again and again, always with the same result. "it's got lower and lower," he said. "by to-morrow there won't be much in. that young gent couldn't have been overcome by the bad air," he continued. "it's my belief as he fell out of being frightened, and it's lucky for him that he stopped where he did. if he'd gone a foot lower, that doctor wouldn't have brought him round." "well," said mr solomon rather impatiently, "what are you going to do?" "kiver up the well for to-day, and come on tomorrow." "but we want water." "can't help it; i couldn't go down and work there to-day. my nerves is shook." "suppose we put a rope round you." "bless your heart, mr brownsmith, sir, i couldn't go down if you put two ropes round me. i'm just going to lift out this here ladder, and then p'r'aps your man will help me put on the stone." mr solomon grunted, and i looked on, shivering a little in spite of the hot sunshine as i saw the ladder lifted out and laid down beside the path by ike, after which mr solomon himself helped to put the stone back in its place before walking with the plumber towards the gate. "how was it all, ike?" i said eagerly. "oh, you'd better ask young shock here." shock, who was in a stiff suit of corduroys, looked at him sharply, spun round, and ran off. "y'ever see the likes o' him?" said ike chuckling. "puts me in mind of a scared dog, he do, reg'lar." "but tell me," i said; "how was it? i don't remember." "well, it were like this, you see," said ike. "i were holding the rope tightly and watching of you, and i see you slip on the noose, and tightened it, and then all at once i shouted to the others, `hook on,' i says, `it's got him.' "i was on the watch for it, you see, and ready, and hauled at once. thank goodness, i am strong in the arm if i ain't in the head. so i hauled, and they hauled, and so had you both up a few feet directly, one at each end of the rope, and you two couldn't be civil to each other even then, but must get quarrelling." "quarrelling! nonsense, ike! i was insensible, and so was he." "i don't care; you was quarrelling and got yourselves tangled up together, and the rope twissen round and round under one of them bits o' wood as goes acrost." "yes, i know," i said excitedly, for the thought made me shudder. "well, there you was; and the more you was pulled the tighter you was, just below the bottom of the ladder." "and what did you do, ike?" "well, i was going down, and was about handing the ropes to old brownsmith's brother, when young shock hops in on to the ladder like a wild monkey a'most. down he goes chattering like anything, and it was no use to shout to him to have a rope. afore we knowed it a'most, he was down and lying flat on his stum. `lower a bit,' he shouts, and we lowered, and he untwisted you two and guided you both clear, and stopped till you were both out, when he came out whistling as if nothing was the matter." "a brave fellow!" i cried warmly. "that's what i said," cried ike; "but the plumber said it was because he didn't know there was any danger." "well, ike, what then?" "oh, there's no more to tell, only that sir francis come and a doctor was fetched, and the guv'nor said it would be a warning to them two boys; and young shaver who went down's up at home getting all right, and you've got all right, and that's all." that was not all, for i went down the garden--and found shock, to thank him for what he had done, but he only turned his back on me and then walked away; while, feeling faint, i turned to go up to the cottage and lie down till the sick sensation had gone off. i had gone about a dozen yards, when, _thump_! a worm-eaten baking pear, half-grown, hit me on the back, and i did not need telling that it was thrown by shock. chapter twenty seven. at the sand-pit. the plumber came and repaired the pump next day, going down the well with a couple of men to hold the rope he had round his waist, and i heard mr solomon grumbling and laughing a good deal about the care he was taking. "if he does meet with an accident, grant," he said, "it won't be his fault this time. why, you look poorly, my lad. don't you feel well?" "i don't indeed, sir," i said; "my head swims, and things look strange about me." "ah! yes," he said. "well, look here; you have a good idle for a day or two." "but there are so many things want doing in the houses, sir," i said. "and always will be, grant. gardeners are never done. but let that slide. i can get on without you for a day or two." "have you heard how mr courtenay is?" i asked. "yes, ever so much better, young whelp! sir francis has been giving his brother a tremendous setting down, i hear; and i think they are going to school or somewhere else at once." that day, as i was wandering about the kitchen-garden after a chat with ike, who had settled down to his work just as if he belonged to the place, and after i had tried to have a few words with shock, who puzzled me more than ever, for he always seemed to hate me, and yet he had followed me here, i heard some one shout, "hi! halt!" i turned and saw sir francis beckoning to me, and i went up to him. "better? yes, of course. boys always get better," he said. "look here. behaved very well yesterday. go on. i've said a word to brownsmith about you; but, look here: don't you tease my lads. boys will be boys, i know; but they are not in your station of life, and you must not try to make companions of them." i made no answer: i could not, i was so taken aback by his words; and by the time i had thought of saying that i had never teased either courtenay or philip, and that i had always tried to avoid them, he was a hundred yards away. "they must have been telling lies about me," i said angrily; and i walked on to where ike was digging, to talk to him about it and ask his advice as to whether i should go and tell sir francis everything. "no," he said, stopping to scrape his spade when i had done. "i shouldn't. it's kicks, that's what it is, and we all gets kicked more or less through life, my boy; but what of it? he wouldn't think no better of you for going and telling tales. let him find it out. sure to, some day. feel badly?" "yes," i said, rather faintly. "ah! sure to," said ike, driving his spade into the ground. "but you don't want no doctor. you swallowed a lot of bad air; now you swallow a lot of good, and it'll be like lime on a bit o' newly dug ground. load or two would do this good. there's the ganger hollering after you." "yes!" i cried, and i went towards where mr brownsmith was standing. "look here, grant," he said, looking very red in the face. "sir francis has given me this to buy you a watch by and by. he says you're too young to have one now, but i'm to buy it and keep it for you a year or two. five pounds." "i'm much obliged to him," i said rather dolefully; but i did not feel at all pleased, and mr solomon looked disappointed, and i'm afraid he thought i was rather a queer boy. at the end of the week i heard that courtenay was better, but that he was to go with his brother down to the seaside, and to my great delight they went; and though i thought the lad might have said, "thank you," to me for saving his life, i was so pleased to find he was going, that this troubled me very little, for it was as if a holiday time had just begun. the effects of my adventure soon passed away, and the days glided on most enjoyably. there was plenty to do in the glass-houses, but it was always such interesting work that i was never tired of it; and it was delightful to me to see the fruit ripening and the progress of the glorious flowers that we grew. mr solomon was always ready to tell or show me anything, and i suppose he was satisfied with me, for he used to nod now and then--he never praised; and mrs solomon sometimes smiled at me, but not very often. the autumn was well advanced when one day mr solomon told me that he had arranged for ike, as he was a good carter, to go with the strongest horse and cart to a place he named in surrey, to fetch a good load of a particular kind of silver sand for potting. "it's a long journey, grant," he said; "and you'll have to start very early, but i thought you would like to go. be a change." "i should like it," i said. "does ike know i'm going?" "no; you can tell him." i went down to ike, who was as usual digging, for he was the best handler of a spade in the garden, and he liked the work. "hullo!" he said surlily. "i'm to go with you for the sand, ike," i cried. "think o' that now!" he replied with a grim smile. "why, i was just a-thinking it would be like going off with the old cart and bonyparty to market, and how you and me went." "with shock on the top of the load," i said laughing. "ay, to be sure. well, he's a-going this time to help mind the horse. and so you are going too?" "yes," i said mischievously, "to look after you, and see that you do your work." "gahn!" he growled, beginning to dig again. look here, though; if you ain't ready i shall go without you. "all right, ike!" i said. "what time do you start?" "twelve o'clock sees me outside the yard gates, my lad. five arter sees me down the road." "do you know the way, ike?" i said. "do i know the way!" cried ike, taking his spade close up to the blade and scraping and looking at it as if addressing it. "why, i was born close to that san'-pit, and put old brownsmith's brother up to getting some. i can show him where to get some real peat too, if he behaves hisself." the trip to the sand-pit kept all other thoughts out of my head; and though i was packed off to bed at seven for a few hours' rest, mr solomon having promised to sit up so as to call me, i don't think i slept much, and at last, when i was off soundly, i jumped up in a fright, to find that the moon was shining full in at my window, and i felt sure that i had overslept myself and that ike had gone. i had not undressed, only taken off jacket, waistcoat, and boots; and i softly opened my door and stole down in my stocking feet to look at the eight-day clock, when, as i reached the mat, a peculiar odour smote on my senses, and then there was the sound of a fire being tapped gently, and mrs solomon said: "i think i'll go and wake him now." "i am awake," i said, opening the door softly, to find the table spread for breakfast, and mr solomon in spectacles making up his gardening accounts. "just coming to call you, my lad," he said. "half-past eleven, and ike has just gone to the stable." "and shock?" i said. "the young dog! he has been sleeping up in the hay-loft again. ike says he can't keep him at their lodgings." i ran back upstairs and finished dressing, to come down and find that mr solomon had taken out two basins of hot coffee and some bread and butter for ike and shock, while mine was waiting. "put that in your pocket, grant," said mrs solomon, giving me a brown paper parcel. "what is it?" i asked. "sandwiches. you'll be glad of them by and by." i took the packet unwillingly, for i was not hungry then, and i thought it a nuisance; for i had no idea then that i was providing myself with that which would save my life in the peril that was to come. it was ten minutes to twelve when i went down to the yard, where all the dogs were standing on their hind legs and straining at their chains, eager to be patted and talked to, and strongly excited at the sight of the horse being put to in the strong, springless cart. they howled and yelped and barked, begging in their way for a run, but they were nearly all doomed to disappointment. "just going to start without you," cried ike in his surly way. "no, you were not," i said. "it isn't time." "'tis by my watch," he growled as he fastened the chains of the cart harness. "i don't pay no heed to no other time." "bring as good a load as you can, and the coarser the better; but don't hurry the horse," said mr solomon. "give him his own time, and he'll draw a very heavy load." "all right, master. i'll take care." "got your shovel and pick?" "shovel. shan't want no pick; the sand comes down as soon as you touch it. now, then, mars grant, ready? may as well take a couple more sacks." the sacks were put in, and we were ready for a start, when a yelp took my attention, and i said: "i suppose you wouldn't like us to take juno, sir?" "oh, i don't know. do the dog good. do you want to take her?" "yes," i said eagerly. the handsome, black, curly-haired retriever barked furiously, for she saw that we were looking at her. mr solomon nodded, and i ran and unbuckled the dog's collar, having my face licked by way of thanks. as i threw the chain over the kennel juno bounded up at the horse and then rushed at the gate, barking furiously. then she rushed back, and charged at all the other dogs, barking as if saying, "come along, lads, we're off." but the big gates were set open, juno rushed out, there was a final word or two from mr solomon, who said: "i sha'n't be surprised if you are very late." then the dogs set up a dismal howl as the cart rumbled out over the stones, and in chorus they seemed to say: "oh what a shame!" then i looked back, and saw mr solomon in the moonlight shutting the gates, and i was trudging along beside ike, close to the horse; and it almost seemed, in the stillness of the night, with the cart rattling by us and the horse's hoofs sounding loud and clear on the hard road, that we were bound for covent garden. "but where's shock?" i said all at once. ike gave his head a jerk towards the cart, and i ran and looked over the tailboard, to see a heap of sacks and some straw, but no shock. in one corner, though, there was a strongly made boot, and i took hold of that, to find it belonged to something alive, for its owner began to kick fiercely. "better jump in, my lad," said ike, and we did so, when, the seat having been set right so as to balance the weight, ike gave a chirrup, and we went off at a good round trot. "let him be," said ike as i drew his attention to the heap of straw and sacks. "he goes best when you let him have his own way. he'll go to sleep for a bit, and i dessay we can manage to get on without him. his conversation isn't so very entertaining." i laughed, and for about an hour we trotted on, the whole affair being so novel and strange that i felt quite excited, and wondered that ike neither looked to right nor left, but seemed to be studying the horse's ears. the fact was his thoughts were running in one particular direction, and i soon found which, for he began in his morose way: "just as if i should overload or ill-use a hoss! look at old bonyparty." "what do you mean?" i said. "why, him talking like that afore we started. i know what i'm about. you'd better lie down and cover yourself over with some sacks. get a good sleep; i'll call you when we get there." "what, and miss seeing the country?" i cried. "seeing the country! lor', what a baby you are, mars grant! what is there to see in that?" i thought a great deal; and a glorious ride it seemed through the moonlight and under the dark shadows of the trees in the country lanes. then there was the dawn, and the sun rising, and the bright morning once more, with the dew glittering on the grassy strands and hedgerows; and i was so happy and excited that ike said, with one of his grim smiles: "why, anybody'd think you was going out for a holiday 'stead of helping to load a sand cart." "it's such a change, ike," i said. "change! what sort o' change? going to use a shovel 'stead of a spade; and sand's easy to dig but awful heavy. here, get up; are you going to lie snoring there all day?" he leaned over me and poked with the butt of the whip handle at shock, but that gentleman only kicked and growled, and so he was left in peace. just before eight o'clock, after a glorious morning ride through a hilly country, we came to a pretty-looking village with the houses covered in with slabs of stone instead of slates or tiles or thatch, and the soft grey, and the yellow and green lichen and moss seemed to make the place quaint and wonderfully attractive to me; but i was not allowed to sit thinking about the beauty of the place, for ike began to tell me of the plan of our campaign. "yon's the sand-hill," he said, pointing with his whip as he drew up at a little inn. "we'll order some braxfass here; then while they're briling the bacon we'll take the cart up to the pit and leave it, and bring the horse back to stop in the stable till we want him again." the order was given, and then we had a slow climb up a long hill to where, right at the top, the road had been cut straight through, leaving an embankment, forty or fifty feet high, on each side, while, for generations past, the sand had been dug away till the embankments were some distance back from the road. "just like being on the sea-shore," said ike. "i see the ocean once. linkyshire cost. all sand like this. rum place, ain't it?" "i think it's beautiful," i said as the cart was drawn over the yielding sand, the horse's hoofs and the wheels sinking in deep, while quite a cliff, crowned with dark fir-trees, towered above our heads. the face of the sandy cliff was scored with furrows where the water had run down, and here it was reddish, there yellow or cream colour, and then dazzlingly white, while just below the top it was honey-combed with holes. "san'-martins' nesties," said ike, pointing with his whip. "there's clouds of 'em sometimes. there they go." he pointed to the pretty white-breasted birds as they darted here and there, and on we still went, jolting up and down in the sandy bottom, where there was only a faint track, till we were opposite to a series of cavern-like holes and the sand cliff towered up with pine-trees here and there half-way down where the sand had given way or been undermined, and they had glided down a quarter--half--three parts of the distance. in short, it was a lovely, romantic spot, with a view over the pleasant land of surrey on our right, and on our left a cliff of beautiful salmon-coloured sand, side by side with one that was quite white. "you won't get better sand than that nowheres," said ike, standing up and getting out of the cart, an example i followed. "here we'll pitch, mars grant, and--" quickly and silently, as he gave me a comical look, he unhitched a chain or two, unbuckled the belly-band, and let the shafts fly up. the result was that shock's head went bang against the tail-board, and then his legs went over it, and he came out with a curious somersault, and stared about only half awake, and covered with straw and sacks. he jumped up angrily, and as soon as he saw that we were laughing at him, turned his back, and kicked the sand at us like a pawing horse; but ike gave the whip a flick at him, and told him to put the sacks in the cart. "no one won't touch them. come along, old horse," he cried; and, leading the way, the horse followed us with the reins tucked in its pad, and we waded through the sand in which juno rolled and tried to burrow till we were out once more in the hard road, where the dog had to be whistled for, consequent upon her having started a rabbit. we found her at last, trying to get into a hole that would have been a tight fit for a terrier, and she came reluctantly away. the most delicious breakfast i ever tasted was ready at the little inn; but ike saw to his horse first, and did not sit down till it was enjoying its corn, after a good rub down with a wisp of straw. then the way in which we made bread and bacon disappear was terrible, for the journey had given us a famous appetite. shock would not join us, preferring the society of the horse in the stable, but he did not fare badly. i saw to that. at last after a final look at the horse, who was to rest till evening, we walked back to the sand-pit, climbing higher and higher into the sweet fresh air, till we were once more by the cart, when ike laid one hand upon the wheel and raised the other. "look here, lads," he said; "that horse must have eight hours' rest 'fore tackling her load, and a stop on the way home, so let's load up at once with the best coarse white--we can do it in half an hour or so-- then you two can go rabbiting or bird-nesting, or what you like, while i have a pipe and a sleep in the sand till it's time to get something to eat and fetch the horse and go." "where's a shovel?" i cried; and shock jumped into the cart for another. "steady, lads, steady," said ike; "plenty of time. only best coarse white, you know. wait till i've propped the sharps and got her so as she can't tilt uppards. that's your sort. she's all right now. we don't want no more berryin's, mars grant, do we? now, then, only the best white, mind. load away." he set the example, just where the beautiful white sand seemed to have trickled, down from the cliff till it formed a softly rounded slope, and attacking this vigorously we were not long before ike cried: "woa!" "but it isn't half full," i cried. "no, my lad. if it was," said ike, "our horse couldn't pull it. that stuff's twice as heavy as stones. there, stick in your shovels, and now be off. don't go far. you ought with that dog to find us a rabbit for dinner." shock's eyes flashed, and he looked quite pleased, forgetting to turn his back, and seeming disposed for once to be friendly, as, with juno at our heels, we started up the sandy bottom on an expedition that proved one of the most adventurous of our lives. chapter twenty eight. lost! purple heath, golden gorse, and tufts of broom. tall pines with branches like steps to tempt you to climb. regular precipices after climbing above the sand-pit, from which you could jump into the soft sand, and then slide and roll down to the bottom. once i jumped upon a little promontory high above the slope, and it gave way, and i slid down on about a ton of matted root and earth and sand. then we climbed to the sand-martins' nests, and slipped down or rolled down, and climbed again, and along ledges, and thrust in our arms, but nesting was over for the year, and the swift little birds made their nurseries beyond our reach, for we did not find the bottom of one single hole. shock was full of fun, and shouted and threw sand at juno, who barked, and made believe to bite him, and rolled over and over with him down some slope, to be half buried in the sand at the bottom. we soon forgot all about ike, but we once smelt a whiff of tobacco, which seemed to be mingled with the sweet scent of the pines in the hot sunshine. there were butterflies, too, red admirals, that came flitting into the sandy bottom, and settled on the face of the sandy cliff, but always sailed away before we got near. then we went out on to the wild heathery waste to the south, and chased lizards in the dry short growth. then shock uttered an excited cry and drew back juno, who was sniffing, and struck two or three rapid blows at something, ending by stooping and raising a little writhing serpent by the tail. "nedder," he said, and he crushed it beneath his heel. there were grasshoppers, too, by the thousand, and furze, and stone-chats flitting from bush to bush, while sometimes a dove winged its way overheard, or uttered its deep coo from the pine-wood at the foot of the hill. delicious blue sky overhead; a view all about that seemed to fade into a delicious bluey pink; and the sweet warm odour of the earth rising to be breathed and drunk in and enjoyed; the place seemed to me a very paradise, and the dog appeared to enjoy it as much as i. shock rarely spoke to me, but he did not turn his back. the boy was as excited as the dog, going down on all-fours to push his way amongst the heath and broom, and scratch some hole bigger where it was evident that a rabbit had made his home. then he was after a butterfly; then stalking a bird, as if he expected to catch it without the proverbial salt for its tail; and i'm afraid i was just as wild. i don't know that i need say _afraid_, for our amusement was innocent enough, and you must remember that we were two boys, who resembled juno, the dog, in this respect that we were let loose for a time, and enjoying the freedom of a scamper over the hills. we had gone some distance through the pines, when, as we turned back and came to where they suddenly ended, and the earth down the slope seemed to be covered with pine needles, and was all heather and short fine furze, i sat down suddenly on the soft fir leaves, taking off my cap for the sweet fresh breeze to blow through my hair. shock flung himself down on his chest, and the dog couched between us with her eyes sparkling, her mouth open, and her tongue out and curled up at the end, as she panted with fatigue and excitement. "i say," cried shock all at once, with his face flushed, and his eyes full of excitement, "don't let's go back--let's stop and live here. i'll find a cave in the sand." "and what are we to live on?" i said. "rabbits, and birds, and snails, and fish--there's a big pond down there. let's stop. there'll be nuts and blackberries, and whorts, and pig-nuts, and mushrooms. there's plenty to eat. let's stop." he looked up at me eagerly. "i can make traps for birds, and ketch rabbits, and--look, there she goes." he started to his feet, for there was a bound and a rustle just below us, as a rabbit suddenly found it was in danger, and darted away to find out a place of refuge lower down the hill. "hey, dog! on, dog!" cried shock, clapping his hands; and juno took up the scent directly, running quickly in and out amongst, the furze and heath, while shock and i followed for about a quarter of a mile, when, panting and hot, we came upon juno carrying a fine rabbit in her mouth, for this time she had overtaken it before one of the burrows was reached. "good dog!" cried shock. "dinner;" and, taking the rabbit by the hind legs, the dog wagged her tail as if asking whether she had not done that well, and followed us as we went back to where we had seen the holes in the sandy cliff. we avoided the cut near which we knew that ike would be having his nap, and, making our way to the bottom of the cliff, we selected one of the biggest of the holes, stooped and went in, and found that it widened out to some ten or a dozen feet, and then ran back, thirty or forty. it seemed to be partly natural, partly to have been scooped out by hand, while it certainly seemed just the place for us. "we'll stop here," cried shock. "you go and get a lot of wood from up a-top, where there's lots lying, while i skins the rabbud." "what are you going to do?" i said. "make a fire and cook him for dinner." i was in no wise unwilling, for it seemed very good fun, and going out i climbed up through a narrow gully and into the fir-wood, where i soon found a good armful of wood, carried it to the edge of the cliff, just over the mouth of the hole, and went back and got another and another. when i climbed down again i found shock busy finishing his task, and as i entered juno was making a meal of the skin peppered with sand. shock came out after sticking his knife in the cliff wall for a peg on which to hang the rabbit, and we soon put the wood inside the hole, where, shock being provided with matches, we soon had a fire burning, and from the way in which it drew into the cave it seemed as if there must be a hole somewhere, and this i found in the shape of a crack in the roof, through which the smoke rose. the novelty of the idea kept me from minding the smoke, and i entered into the fun of keeping up the fire, feeding it with bits of wood, while shock skewered the rabbit on a neatly cut stick, and placed it where the fire was clear of smoke, so that it soon began to hiss and assume a pleasanter colour than the bluish-red that a skinned rabbit generally wears. the fire burned freely, and shock lay down on his chest and kicked his heels about after the fashion practised when he was on the top of the market cart. his face was a study, as he watched the progress of his cookery; while juno took the other side of the fire, couched, and watched the hissing sputtering rabbit too, as if calculating how much she would get for her share. i looked at them for a few minutes, and then, finding the smoke rather too much for me, not being such an enthusiast about cooking as shock, i began to explore the sand-cave, to find it ended about a dozen paces in from the fire, and that there was nothing more to see, while the place was very smoky and very hot. "here, come and watch the rabbud while i go and get some more wood," shouted shock to me. "no, thank you," i said. "you may watch the cooking. i'll get some wood." i hung my jacket on a stone that stuck out of the wall and went out for the wood, glad to be away from the heat and smoke, and after climbing up among the firs i collected and brought back a good faggot, with which the fire was fed till shock declared the rabbit done. "are you ready?" he said. "ready!" i replied, as i looked at the half-raw, half-burned delicacy. "no: i don't want any, shock. you may have it." "you don't want none?" he said, staring at me with astonishment. "no: i've got some sandwiches in my pocket, and i shall eat them by and by." "oh, all right!" he said; and, taking his pocket-knife, he cut off the rabbit's head and held it out to the dog. "there's your bit," he said. "be off." juno took the hot delicacy rather timorously; but she seemed to give the donor a grateful look, and then trotted out into the sunshine, and lay down to crunch the bones. the fire was nearly out, the fir-wood burning fiercely and quickly away; but though it was a nuisance to me it seemed to find favour with shock, who set to work, like the young savage he was, tearing off and devouring the rabbit, throwing the bones together, ready for the dog when she should come back. i felt half disgusted, and yet hungry, so, going to where i had hung my jacket, i thought i would get out the sandwiches mrs solomon had cut for me; but as i turned round and looked at shock i felt that i should enjoy them better if i waited till he had done. so i leaned against the rough side of the sand-cave, watching him tear away at the bones, holding a piece in one hand, the remains of the rabbit in the other. i remember it all so well--him sitting there with just a faint blue curl of smoke rising from the embers, and beyond him, seen as it were in a rugged frame formed by the low entrance of the hole, was the lovely picture of hill and vale, stretching far as the eye could reach, and all bright in the sunshine, and with the bare sky beyond. i was just thinking what a rough-looking object shock seemed as he sat there just in the entrance to the hole, and wishing that, now he had a good situation and was decently clothed, he would become like other boys, when i saw juno come slowly towards shock, wagging her tail and showing her teeth as if asking for more bones, but she suddenly whisked round and darted away, as, with a noise like a dull clap of thunder, something seemed to shut out the scene from the mouth of the hole, i felt a puff of heat and smoke in my face, and all was darkness. i stood there as if petrified for a minute, i should think, quite unable to make out what was the matter, and panting for breath. then the thought came like a flash, that a quantity of sand had fallen, and blocked up the mouth of the cave. for a moment or two i felt as if i should fall. then the instinct of self-preservation moved me to act, and with my hands stretched out before me i went quietly towards the entrance. "shock! shock!" i cried, but there was no reply, and it sounded as if my voice was squeezed up in a narrowed space; then i seemed to hear a rustling noise as i stepped forward, i was kicked violently in the shins and fell forward with my hands plunging into a mass of soft sand, and to my horror i found that i was lying upon my companion, who was half buried. the perspiration stood out all over me as i leaped to my feet; and then went down again to find that shock was kicking frantically, and a moment's investigation told me that he could not extricate himself. seizing one of his legs, which as i grasped by the ankle and clasped it to my side, kept giving spasmodic jerks, i dragged with all my might, and found i could not move him; but as i dragged again he seemed to give a tremendous throb, and i went backwards, followed, it seemed to me in the darkness, by a quantity of soft sand; but shock was free, for i could feel him by me lying on his face, and as i turned him over he uttered a groan. and now a horrible sensation of fear came over me as i thoroughly realised that i was buried alive in that sand-cave. i felt that my climbing about on the top of the cliff had loosened or cracked the compressed sand. shock and i had jumped about over it when we threw down the wood we had gathered, and that seemed to be the explanation of the mishap. but i had no time to think of this now, for the thought that perhaps shock was killed, suffocated, came over me with terrible force, and i bent over him, feeling his face, his heart, and hands. his heart was beating fast, and his hands were warm, but though i spoke to him over and over again, in the darkness, there was no answer, and with a cry of despair i threw myself on my knees, when all at once he shouted: "hullo!" "shock," i cried, "i'm here." "what yer do that for?" he cried fiercely. "i didn't do anything." "yes, yer did," he cried. "yer threw a lump o' sand on my head. i'm half blind, and my ears is full. just wait till i gets hold on yer, i'll pay yer for it." then he began panting, and spitting, and muttering about his eyes, and at last--"here, where are yer?" "i'm here, close by you," i said. "don't you understand? the sand has fallen and shut us in." there was silence for a few minutes--a terrible painful silence to me, as i felt that i was face to face with death. then shock seemed to have grasped the situation, for he said coolly enough: "like the rabbuds. well, we shall have to get out." "yes, but how?" i cried. "same's they do. scratch yer way, and make a hole. i don't mind, do you?" "mind!" i said, "it's horrible." "is it?" he replied quietly. "why?" "don't you see--" "no," he said sharply, "not werry well. i can a little." "but i mean, don't you understand?" i cried in an awe-stricken choking voice, "that if we don't get out soon, we shall die." "what, like when you kills a rabbud or a bird?" "yes." "get out!" he cried in contemptuous tones. "i hadn't finished my rabbud, and my eyes is half full of sand still." "never mind the rabbit," i said angrily, "let's try and dig our way out." "let ikey do it," he said, "he's got the shovels." "but will he find out where we are," i cried, for i must own to being terribly unnerved, and ready to marvel at shock's coolness. "why, of course he will," said shock. "i say, don't you be frightened. you don't mind the dark, do you?" "i don't mind the dark," i replied, "but it's horrible to be shut in here." "why, it's only sand," he said, "only sand, mate." "but it nearly smothered you," i cried. "it would have smothered you if i hadn't pulled you out." "yes, but that was because it fell atop of my head and held me down, else it wouldn't. i thought it was your games." i had never heard shock talk like this before. our mutual distress seemed to have made us friends, and i felt ready to shake hands with him and hold on by his arm. "i say," he cried, his voice sounding, like mine, more and more subdued--at least so it seemed to me--"i say, i weren't looking; it didn't go down on the dog too--did it?" "no, shock, i saw her run away." there was a few moments' silence and then he said: "well, i am glad of that. i likes dorgs, and we was reg'lar good friends." "hark!" i said; "is that ike digging?" "no," he said; "it was some more sand tumbled down, i think." i knew he was right, for there was a dull thud, and then another; but whether inside or outside i could not tell. it made me tremble though; for i wondered whether i should be able to struggle out if part of the roof came down upon my head. all at once shock began to whistle--not a tune, but something of an imitation of a blackbird; and as i was envying him his coolness in danger i heard a scratching noise and saw a line of light. then there was another scratch and a series of little sparkles. another scratch, and a blue flame as the brimstone on the end caught fire; and then, as the splint of wood burned up, i could see in the midst of a ring of light the face of shock, looking very intent as he bent over the burning match, and held to it the wick of a little end of a common tallow candle. "i allus carries a bit o' candle out of the lanthorns," he said, showing his teeth; and then he held up the light, and i could see that the opening to the cave was completely closed up, just as if the roof had all come down, and the cave we were in was not half the size it was at first, a slope of sand encroaching on the floor. i felt chilled, for i felt that it would be impossible to tunnel through that sand. "now, then," said shock coolly, "that there's the way--ain't it? well, we don't want no light to see to do that; so you put it out 'case we wants it agen, and put it in yer pocket. i'll go down on my knees and have first scratch, and when i'm tired you shall try, and we'll soon get through it. we won't wait for ike." i longed to keep the candle burning, but what shock said seemed to be right; so i put it out, and as i did so i saw the boy begin to scratch away as hard as he could at the sand in the direction of the entrance, and then in the dark i could hear him panting away like some wild animal. "i say," he cried at last. "yes," i said. "it don't seem no good. more you pulls it away, more it comes down. it's like dry water, and runs all through your hands." "let me have a try," i said. "all right. you go where i did, and keep straight on." keep straight on! it was, as he said, like grasping at water; and the more i tore at it, in the hope of making a tunnel through, the more it came pouring down, till in utter despair i gave it up and told shock it was no good. "never mind," he said. "it's dry and warm. i've been in worse places than this is, where you couldn't keep the rain out. let's sit down and talk. i say i wish i'd got the rest o' my rabbud." i didn't answer, for, hot, weary, and despairing at our position, i was lying down on the sand with my hands covering my face. i don't know how long a time passed, for i felt confused and strange; but i was aroused by shock, who exclaimed suddenly: "here, i want to get out of this. let's have another try at scratching a hole." i heard him move, and then he struck a light again so as to see where to begin. "must know, you see," he said. "if i get scratching at the wrong side, it would take so long to get out." in spite of my trouble i could not help feeling amused, there seemed to be something so droll in the idea of shock burrowing his way right into the hill and expecting to get out; but the next moment i was listening to him and watching the tiny spark at the end of the burned match die out. rustle, rustle, rustle, he went on, and every now and then there was a loud panting such as some wild animal would make. then i uttered a cry of fear, for i felt a quantity of sand strike me and i bounded aside, for it seemed that the top was coming down. "what's matter?" cried shock, stopping short. "nothing," i said as i realised the cause of my fright. "some of the sand hit me." "what! some as i chucked behind me?" "yes." the scratching and tearing went on again, and i felt the sand scattered over me several times, but the fear did not attack me again. all at once there was a soft rushing noise, and shock uttered a yell which seemed to make my heart leap. "shock!" i cried, "shock!" but there was no answer, only a scuffling noise. "shock! where are you?" the scuffling noise continued, and their there was a loud panting, a cry of "oh!" and my companion staggered by me. "shock!" i cried. "oh! i say," he groaned, "i've got it all in my eyes agen. a lot come down and buried me. i sha'n't do it no more." he uttered a series of strange gasps and cries, shaking himself, spitting, and stamping on the ground. "i swallowed lots o' sand, i think, and it come down on my back horrid. you try now." i hesitated, but felt that i must not be cowardly if i wished for us to escape; and so i asked him to light a match again. he did so, and by its feeble light i saw where to work, and also that, the place seemed to be filling up with the sand, and that we had not half so much room as we had at first. then out went the light, and with a desperate haste i went down on my hands and knees and began to tear at and throw the sand behind me, filling up our prison more and more, but doing nothing towards our extrication, for as fast as i drew the sand away from the tunnel more came; and at last, just as i began to think that i was making a little progress, i heard a rustling, dribbling sound, some hard bits of adhesive sand fell upon my head, and i instinctively started back, as there was a rush that came over my knees, and i knew that if i had remained where i was, tunnelling, i should have been buried. "what, did you get it?" cried shock, laughing. i was so startled that i did not answer. "oh! he's buried!" cried shock in a wild tone; and he threw himself by me, and began to tear at the sand. "mars grant, mars grant," he cried excitedly. "don't leave me here alone." "i'm not there, shock," i said. "i jumped back." "then what did yer go and pretend as you was buried in the sand for?" cried the boy savagely. i did not reply, and i heard him go as far from me as he could, muttering and growling to himself, and in spite of my position i could not help thinking of what a curious and different side i was seeing of shock's character. i had always found him so quiet and reserved, and yet it was evident that he could talk and think like the best of us, and somehow it seemed as if in spite of the way in which he turned away he had a sort of liking for me. this idea influenced me so that i felt a kind of pity for my companion in misfortune. that was a good deal in the direction of liking him in return. i felt sorry that i had frightened him, and at last after a good deal of thinking i said to him: "shock!" "hullo!" "i'm sorry i made you think i was buried." "are yer?" "yes. will you shake hands?" "what for?" this staggered me, and i could make no reply, and so we remained silent for some time. "here, let's see," said shock all at once. "where's that there candle?" "here it is," i said, and as he struck a light i held the scrap of little more than an inch long to the flame, and it burned up so that we could examine our position, and we soon found that our prison was reduced to about half its size. "it's of no use to try and dig our way out, shock," i said despairingly, as i extinguished the candle. "we shall only bring down more sand and cover ourselves in." "like old brownsmith's toolips," said shock, laughing. "i say, should we come up?" "don't talk like that," i said angrily. "don't you understand that we are buried alive." "course i do," he said. "well, what on it?" "what of it?" i said in agony, as the perspiration stood upon my brow. "yes, what on it? they'll dig us out like we do the taters out of a clamp. what's the good o' being in a wax. i wish i'd some more rabbud." i drew in a long breath, and sat down as far from the sealed-up opening as i could get, and listened to the rustling trickling noise made by the sand every now and then, as more and more seemed to be coming in, and i knew most thoroughly now that our only course was to wait till ike missed us, and came and dug us out. "and that can't be long," i thought, for we must have been in here two or three hours. all at once i heard a peculiar soft beating noise, and my heart leaped, for it sounded like the quick strokes of a spade at regular intervals. "hear that, shock?" i cried. "hear what?" he said, and the noise ceased. "somebody digging," i cried joyfully. "no. it was me--my feet," he said, and the sound began again, as i realised that he must be lying in his old attitude, kicking his legs up and down. if i had any doubt of it i was convinced the next moment, for he burst out: "i've been to paris, and i've been to do-ho-ver, i've been a travelling all the world o-ho-ver. over and over, and over, and o-ho-ver, so drink up yer licker and turn the bowl o-ho-ver." "don't, don't, don't, shock," i cried passionately. "i can't bear it;" and i again covered my face with my hands, and crouched lower and lower, listening to the trickling of the sand that seemed to be flowing in like water to take up all the space we had left. suddenly i started, for a hand touched me. "is that you, shock?" "yes. mind my coming and sitting along o' you? i ain't so werry dirty now." "mind? no," i said: "it will be company." "yes," he said. "it's werry dark and werry quiet like, ain't it?" "yes, very." "ain't ike a long time?" "yes," i said despairingly, for i began to wonder whether we should be found. "i'd ha' came shovelling arter him 'fore now. i say, ain't you tired?" "tired!" i said. "no, i never thought of feeling tired shut up in this horrible place. let's try if we can't get out by the way the smoke went." "i've been trying," said shock; "but it's too high up. you can't reach it." "not if you stood on my shoulders?" "no," he said. "i looked when you had hold of the candle, and if you did try you'd only pull the sand down atop of your head." i knew it, and heaved a deep sigh. then there was a long silence, and i was roused out of thoughts about how we had enjoyed ourselves that morning, and how little we had imagined that we should have such a termination to our holiday, by a heavy breathing. i listened, and there it was quite loud as if some animal were near. "do you hear that, shock?" i whispered. there was no answer. "shock!" i said, "do you hear that noise?" no answer, and i understood now that in spite of our perilous position he had fallen fast asleep. chapter twenty nine. finding a treasure. "can't be time to get up yet," i thought, and i turned over on my soft bed. it was too dark, and i was dozing off again when a loud snorting gasp made me start and throw off the clothes that lay so heavy on me. then i stopped short, trembling and puzzled. where was i? it was very dark. that was not clothes, but something that slipped and trickled through my fingers as i grasped at it. my legs felt heavy and numbed, and this darkness was so strange that i couldn't make it out. was i asleep still? i must have been to sleep--heavily asleep, but i was awake now, and--what did it mean? a curious feeling of horror was upon me, and i lay perfectly still. i could not stir for some minutes, and then it all came like a flash, and i knew that i must have lain listening for some time to shock breathing heavily, and then insensibly have fallen asleep, and for how long? that i could not of course tell, but so long that the sand had gone on trickling in till it had nearly covered me, as i lay nearest to the opening. it had been right over my chest, and sloped up and away from, me, so that my legs were deeply buried, and it required quite a struggle to get them free, while to my horror as i dragged them out from beneath the heavy weight more sand came down, and one hard lump rolled down and up against me sufficiently hard to give me pain. there was the same terrible silence about me, and it seemed to grow deeper. a short time before i had heard shock breathing hard, but now his breath came softly, and then seemed to cease. that silence had lasted some time, when all at once it was broken by my companion as i knelt there in the soft sand. "mars grant! i say. you awake?" "yes." "what yer doing of?" "i am saying my prayers." there was another silence here, and then shock said softly: "what yer praying for?" "for help and protection in this terrible place," i cried passionately; and i crouched down lower as i bowed myself and prayed that i might see the sunshine and the bright sky once again--that i might live. just then a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and i felt shock's lips almost touch my ear as he whispered softly: "i say--i want to say my prayers too." "well," i said sternly, "pray." there was again that silence that seemed so painful, and then a low hoarse voice at my side said slowly: "i can't. i 'most forgets how." "shock," i cried, as i caught at his hands, which closed tightly and clung to mine; and for the first time it seemed to come to me that this poor half-wild boy was only different to myself in that he had been left neglected to make his way in life almost as he pleased, and that in spite of his wilful ways and half-savage animal habits it was more the want of teaching than his fault. i seemed to feel brighter and more cheerful as we sat together soon after, discussing whether we should light the candle again, and all at once shock exclaimed: "i say." "what, shock?" "i won't shy nothing at you no more." "it does not seem as if you will ever have the chance, shock," i cried dolefully. "oh, i don't know, mate," he said; and at that word "mate" i seemed to feel a curious shrinking from him; but it passed off directly. "shall i light the candle?" he said after a pause. "yes, just for one look round," i said. "perhaps we can find a way out." the candle was lit, and i started as i saw how much the sand had crept in during the time that we had been asleep. it had regularly flowed in like water, and as we held the candle down there was one place where it trickled down a slope, just as you see it in an egg-boiler or an old-fashioned hour-glass. we looked all round; went to the spot where the hole ended in what was quite hard sandy rock. then we looked up at the top, where we could dimly make out the crack or rift through which the smoke had gone, but there was no daylight to be seen through it, though of course it communicated with the outer air. then we had a look at the part where we had come in, but there the sand was loose, and we had learned by bitter experience that to touch it was only to bring down more. "i say," said shock, as we extinguished the scrap of candle left, part of which had run down on shock's hand; "we're shut up." "shut up!" i said indignantly; "have you just found that out?" "well, don't hit a fellow," he cried. "i say, have a bit?" "bit of what?" i cried, as i realised how hungry i had grown. "taller," he said. "some on it run down. there ain't much; two or three little nobbles. i'll give yer a fair whack." "why, you don't mean to eat that, you nasty fellow," i cried. "don't!" he said; "but i do. here's your half. i've eat worse things than that." "why, shock," i cried, as a flash of hope ran through me, "i forgot." "forgot what?" he cried. "way out?" "no," i said gloomily; "but my sandwiches--bread and meat mrs solomon cut for me." "bread and meat!" he shouted. "where is it?" "in my jacket. i hung it on a stone in the side somewhere here. light a match." _crick--crick--crack_ went the match; then there was a flash, and the sputtering bubbling blue flame of the sulphur, for matches were made differently in those days, when paraffin had not been dreamed of for soaking the wood. then the light burned up clearly, and shock held the splint above his head, and we looked round. "there ain't no jacket here," said shock dolefully. "what did yer say bread and meat for?" he continued, as the match burned out and he threw it down. "it's made me feel so hungry. i could eat a bit o' you." "i can't understand it, shock," i said. "i wish i'd got some snails or some frogs," he muttered. "i could eat 'em raw." "don't," i said with a shudder. "i knowed a chap once who eat two live frogs. put 'em on his tongue-- little uns, you know--and swallowed 'em down. he said he could feel 'em hopping about inside him after. wasn't he a brute?" "don't talk to me," i cried, as i went feeling about the wall, with my head in a state of confusion. "i know i had the jacket in here." "have you got it on?" he said. "no--no--no! i hung it on a bit of sharp stone that stuck out of the wall somewhere, and i can't feel the place. it's so puzzling being in the dark. i don't know which is front and which is back now." "front's where the soft sand is," said shock. "of course," i cried, feeling half stupefied all the time. "then this is the front here. i hung it on the stone and it was just above my head." i walked about on the soft sand, feeling about above my head, and all over the face of the cave side for a long time in vain; and then with my head swimming i sank down in despair, and leaned heavily back, to utter a cry of pain. "what's matter?" cried shock, coming to me. "i've struck the back of my head against a sharp stone," i cried, turning round to feel for the projecting piece. "why, it's here, shock. this is the piece i hung my jacket on, but it has sunk down. no, no," i cried; "i forgot; it is the bottom of the hole that has filled up. the sand has come up all this way. keep back." i had turned on my hands and knees and was tearing out the sand just below the projecting piece of sand-rock. "what yer doing?" cried shock. "you'll make more come down and cover us up." "my jacket is buried down here," i cried, and i worked away feeling certain that i should find it, and at last, in spite of the sand coming down almost as fast as i tore it out, i scratched and scraped away till, to my great delight, i got hold of a part of the jacket and dragged it out. "hurrah!" i cried. "i've got it." "and the bread and meat?" cried shock. "oh, give us a bit; i am so bad." "no," i said despairingly. "what! yer won't give me a bit?" he cried fiercely. "it isn't here," i said. "it was in my pocket, but it's gone. stop!" i cried; "it was a big packet and it must have come out." i plunged my arms into the soft sand again, and worked away for long, though i was ready to give up again and again, and my fingers were getting painfully sore, but i worked on, and at last, to my great delight, as i dug down something slipped slowly down on to the back of my hands--i had dug down past it, and the sand had brought it out of the side down to me. "here it is!" i cried, standing up and shaking the sand away from the paper as i tore it open. shock uttered a cry like a hungry dog as he heard the paper rustle, and then i divided the sandwiches in two parts and wrapped one back in the paper. "what yer doin'?" cried shock. "saving half for next time," i said. "we mustn't eat all now." shock growled, but i paid no heed, and gave him half of what i had in my hands, and then putting the parcel with the rest right at the end where the sand did not fall, i sat down and we ate our gritty but welcome meal. we tried round the place again and again, using up the candle till the wick fell over and dropped in the sand; and then first one match and then another was burned till we were compelled to give up all hope of escaping by our own efforts. refreshed and strengthened by the food, shock expressed himself ready for a new trial at digging his way out. "i can do it," he said. "i'll soon get through." soon after he was clinging to me, hot, panting, and trembling in every limb, after narrowly escaping suffocation, and when i wanted to take up the task where he had left off, he clung to me more tightly and would not let me go from his side. "yer can't do it," he said hoarsely. "sand comes down and smothers yer. faster yer works, faster it comes. let ike bring the shovels." there was no other chance. i felt that, and sat down beside shock and talked and tried to cheer him up; and when i broke down he roused up and tried to cheer me. then i talked to him about stories i had read, where people had been buried alive, and where they were always dug out at last, and when i was weary he took his turn, showing me that in his rough way he could talk quickly and in an interesting way about catching birds and rats. how at times he had caught rats with his hands, and had been bitten by them. "but," he added, with a laugh, "i served 'em out for it--i bit them after i'd skinned and cooked 'em." "how horrible!" i said. "horrible! why? they'd lived on our fruit and corn till they were fat as fat, i like rat." then we grew tired, and as soon as we ceased talking a curious sensation of fear came over us. i say us, for more than once i knew that shock felt it, by his whispering to me in an awe-stricken tone: "i never know'd as being in the dark was like this before. it's darker like, much darker, you know than being in one of the lofts under the straw." chapter thirty. how we were rescued. it is all confused at times as i try to recall it. some of our adventure stands out clear to me, as if it took place only yesterday, while other parts seem strange and dreamy, and i know now that we both dozed a great deal in the warm close place like a pair of animals shut up for their winter sleep. we soon finished our food, for we were in such good hope of soon being dug out that we had not the heart to save a part of it in our hungry state. then we slept again, and woke, and slept again, till waking and sleeping were mixed up strangely. the horror seemed to wear off a great deal, only when shock started up suddenly and began talking loudly about something i could not understand, my feeling of fear increased. how time went--when it was night and when it was day--i could not tell; and at last almost our sole thought was about what we should eat when we got out again. at last i felt too weak and helpless to do more than lie still and try to think of a prayer or two, which at times was only half uttered before i dropped asleep. then i woke to think of mr solomon and the garden, and fell asleep again. and then i recall trying to rouse up shock, who seemed to be always sleeping; and while i was trying feebly to get him to speak to me again i seem to have gone to sleep once more, and everything was like being at an end. at first i had suffered agonies of fear and horror. at last all seemed to fade, as it were, into a dreamless sleep. "it was like this here," ike told me afterwards. "i lay down and made myself comfortable, and then after smoking a pipe i went off asleep. when i woke up i heerd you two a chiveying about and shouting, but it was too soon to move, so i went asleep again. "then i woke up and looked about for you, and shouted for you to come down and have something to eat, and bring up the horse again, for i thought by that time he'd have had a good rest. "i shouted again, but i couldn't make you hear, so i went up higher and hollered once more, and then juno came trotting up to me and looked up in my face. "i asked her where you two was, but she didn't say anything of course, so i began to grow rough, and i said you might find your way back, my lads; and i went down to the public, ordered some tea and some briled ham; see to my horse having another feed and some water, and then, as you hadn't come down, i had my tea all alone in a huff. "then i finished, and you hadn't come, so i says, `well, that's their fault, and they may go without.' but all the same i says to myself, `well, poor chaps, they don't often get a run in the country!' and that made me a bit soft like, and i pulled a half-quartern loaf in two and put all the briled ham that was left in the middle, and tied it up in a clean hankychy for you to eat going home. "then i pays for the eating and the horse, harnessed him up, after a good rub down his legs, and whistled to juno, who was keeping very close to me, and we went up the hill to the sand-pit again. "i shouted and hollered again, and then, as it was got to be quite time we started, i grew waxy, and pulls out my knife and cuts a good ash stick out of the hedge for master shock, for i put it down to him for having led you off. "still you didn't come, and though i looked all about there was nothing fresh as i could see, only sand everywhere; and at last i says to myself, `i sha'n't wait with that load to get out of the pit here,' and so i started. "nice tug the hoss had, but she brought it well out on to the hard road, and there i rested just a quarter of an hour, giving a holler now and then. "`i'm off!' i says at last, `and they may foller. come on, juno,' i says; but the dog wasn't there. "that made me more waxy, and i shouted and whistled, and she come from out of the sand-pit and kept looking back, as if she wanted to know why you two didn't come. she follered the cart, though, right enough; and feeling precious put out, i went on slowly down the hill; stopped in the village ten minutes, and then, knowing you could find out that i'd gone on, i set to for my long job, and trudged on by the hoss. "it was a long job, hour after hour, for i couldn't hurry--that little looking load was too heavy for that. and so i went on, and eight o'clock come, and nine, and ten, and you didn't overtake me, and then it got to be twelve o'clock; and at last, reg'lar fagged out, me and hoss, we got to the yard just as it was striking four, and getting to be day. "i put the hoss up, and saw juno go into her kennel, but i was too tired to chain her, and i lay down in the loft on some hay and went off to sleep. "i didn't seem to have been asleep above ten minutes, but it was eight o'clock when old brownsmith's brother stirs me up with his foot, and i sat up and stared at him. "`where's young grant and the boy?' he says. "`what! ain't they come?' i says, and i told him. "`and you've left the dog behind too,' he says, quite waxy with me. "`no,' i says; `she come home along o' me and went into her kennel.' "`she's not there now,' he says. "`then,' says i, `she's gone back to meet 'em.' "`then there's something wrong,' he says sharply; `and look here, ike, if you've let that boy come to harm i'll never forgive you.' "`why, i'd sooner come to harm myself,' i says. `it's larks, that's what it is.' "`well,' he says, `i'll wait till twelve o'clock, and if they're not back then you must come along with me and find 'em, for there is something wrong.' "i never cared a bit about you, my lad, but i couldn't sleep no more, and i couldn't touch a bit o' breakfast; and when twelve o'clock came, mrs old brownsmith's brother's wife had been at me with a face as white as noo milk, and she wanted us to go off before. "we was off at twelve, though, in the light cart and with a fresh horse; and though i expected to see you every minute along the road, we got back to the public, and asked for you, and found that you hadn't been seen. "then we put up the hoss and went and looked about the sand-pits, and could see nothing of you there, and we didn't see nothing of the dog. then we went over the common and searched the wood, and there was no sign. "then back we was at the sand-pits, and there was the sand everywhere, but nothing seemed to say as it had fallen down. there was some holes, and we looked in all of 'em, but we couldn't tell that any of 'em had filled up. last of all, it was getting dark, when we heard a whine, and saw juno come out of the fir-wood on the top with a rabbit in her mouth. "but that taught us nothing, and we coaxed her down to the public again, and drove home. "`i've got it,' i says, as we stood in the stable-yard: `that boy shock's got him on to it, and they've gone off to portsmouth to be sailors.' "old brownsmith's brother looked at me and shook his head, but i stack to it i was right; and he said he'd go down to portsmouth and see. "but he didn't, for next day he goes over to isleworth, and as i was coming out of the garden next night he was back, and he stops me and takes me to the cottage. "`good job,' he says, `as sir francis ain't at home, for he thought a deal of that boy.' "`warn't my fault,' i says; but he shook his head, and took me in, and there sat old brownsmith's brother's wife, with a white face and red eyes as if she had been crying, and old brownsmith himself. "well, he gives me a long talking to, and i told him everything about it; and when i'd done i says again as it warn't my fault, and old brownsmith turns to his brother and he says, as fair as a man could speak, `it warn't his fault, solomon; and if it's as he says, grant's that sort o' boy as'll repent and be very sorry, and if he don't come back before, you'll get a letter begging your pardon for what he's done, or else i shall. you wait a couple of days.' "i dunno why, but i was reg'lar uncomf'table about you, my lad, and i didn't understand juno stopping away so, for next day she was gone again, but next night she was back. next day she was gone again, and didn't come back, and on the fourth, when i was down the garden digging--leastwise, i wasn't digging, for i was leaning on my spade thinking, up comes old brownsmith's brother with his mouth open, and before he could say a word i says to him, `stop!' i says; `i've got it,' for it come to me like a flash o' lightning. "`what?' he says. "`them boys is in that sand-pit, covered over!' i says. "`that's it!' he says. `i was coming to say i thought so, and that we'd go over directly.' "bless your heart, my boy, i was all of a shiver as i got into the light cart alongside old brownsmith's brother and six shovels and four spades in the bottom of the cart as i felt we should want, and i see as old brownsmith's brother had got a flask o' something strong in his breast-pocket. then i just looked and saw that juno warn't there, and we were off. "my hye, how that there horse did go till we got to the little public. we stopped once to give her mouth a wash out and a mouthful of hay, and then we were off again, never hardly saying a word, but as we got to the public we pulls up, and old brownsmith's brother shouts to the landlord, `send half-a-dozen men up to the sand-pit directly. boys buried.' "you see he felt that sure, my lad, that he said that, and then we drove on up the hill, with the horse smoking, and a lot of men after us. "first thing we see was juno trotting towards us, and she looked up and whined, and then trotted back to a place where it was plain enough, now we knew, a great bit of the side had caved down and made a slope, and here juno began scratching hard, and as fast as she scratched the more sand come down. "i looked, at old brownsmith's brother, and he looked at me, and we jumped out, slipped off our coats and weskits, took a shovel apiece, and began to throw the sand away. "my head was all of a buzz, for every shovelful i threw out i seemed to see your white gal's face staring at me and asking of me to work harder, and i did work like a steam-engyne. "then, one by one, eight men come up, and we set 'em all at work; but old brownsmith's brother, the ganger, you know, stops us after a bit. "`this is no use!' he says; `we're only burying of 'em deeper.' "right he was, for the sand kept crumbling down from the top as soon as ever we made a bit of space below, and twice over some one called out `_warning_!' and we had to run back to keep from being buried, while i got in right up to the chest once. "`there's hundreds o' tons loose,' says the old--the ganger, you know; `and we shall never get in that way.' he stopped to think, but it made me mad, for i knowed you must be in there, and i began digging again, wondering how it was that juno hadn't found you before, and 'sposed the sand didn't hold the scent, or else the rabbits up above 'tracted her away. "`i can see no other way,' said the ganger at last. `you must dig, my lads. go on. i'll get on the top, and see how much more is loose. take care. you,' he said to a tall, thin lad of sixteen--`you stand there; and as soon as you see any sand crumbling down, you shout.' "the men began to dig again, and at the end of a minute the lad shouted, and we had to scuttle off, or we should have been buried, and things looked worse than ever. we'd been digging and shovelling back the sloping bank, but it grew instead of getting less, and this made me obstint as i dug away as hard as i could get my shovel down. "all at once i hears a shout from the ganger. `come up here, ike,' he says; and i shouldered my spade, and had to go a good bit round 'fore i could climb up to him, and i found him twenty or thirty foot back from the edge, among some furze. "`look here,' he says; `i was hunting for cracks when i slipped down here.' "i looked, and i saw a narrow crack, 'bout a foot wide, nearly covered with furze. "`now, listen,' he says, and he kneeled down and shouted, and, sure enough, there was a bit of a groan came up. "`echo!' i says. "`no,' he says. `listen again,' and he shouted, and there was a sort of answer. "`they're here,' he says excitedly. `hi! juno, juno!' the dog came rushing up, and we put her to the hole or crack, and she darted into it, went down snuffling, and came back again barking. we sent her down again, and then she didn't come back, and when we called we could hear her barking, but she didn't come to us, and at last we felt that she couldn't get back. "`what's to be done?' said the ganger. `we can't get down there.' "`dig down,' i says. "`no, no,' says he. `if we do we shall smother them.' "`that boy, then, you sot to look out--send him down.' "`go and bring him,' says the ganger; `and--oh, we have no rope. bring the reins; they're strong and new.' "five minutes after, the boy was up with us, and he said he'd go down if we'd put the reins round him like a rope, and so we did, and after we'd torn some furze away he got into the hole feet first, and wriggled himself down till only his head was out. "`goes down all sidewise,' he says, `and then turns round.' "`will you go, my lad? the dog's down there, and we'll hold on to the reins, and have you out in a minute, if you shout.' "`and 'spose the sand falls?' "`why, we've got the reins to trace you by, and we'll dig you out in a jiffy,' i says. "`all right!' he says, and he shuffled himself down and went out of sight, and he kept on saying, `all right! all right!' and then all at once, quickly, `i've slipped,' he says, as if frightened. `there's no bottom. i'm over a big hole.' "just then, my lad, the rein had tightened, but we held on. "`pull me up!' he says, and we pulled hard, and strained the reins a good deal, and at last he come up, looking hot and scared. "`i couldn't touch bottom,' he says, `and the dog began to bark loudly.' "`i see,' says the ganger, `the dog slipped there, and can't get out. we must have a rope; you, ike, take the reins, and drive down to the village and get a stout cart-rope. bring two.' "the landlord of the inn had just come up, and he said he'd got plenty, and he'd go with me, and so he did, and in a quarter of an hour we'd been down and driven back with two good strong new ropes. "there was no more digging going on, it was no use; but while we'd been gone they'd chopped away the furze, cutting through it with spades, so that the hole, which was a big crack, was all clear. "`now, then,' says old brownsmith's brother, `go down again, my boy. with this stout rope round we can take care of you,' but the boy shook his head, he'd been too much scared last time. "`who'll go?' says the ganger. `a sovereign for the man who goes down and fetches them up.' "the chaps talked together, but no one moved. "`it'll cave in,' says one of 'em. "`you must cut a way down, ike,' says the ganger. `i'm too stout, or i'd go down myself.' "`nay,' i says, `if they're down there, and you get digging, you'll bury 'em. p'r'aps i could squeedge myself down. let's try.' "so they ties the rope round me, and i lets myself into the hole, which was all sand, and roots to hold it a bit together. "`it's a tight fit,' i says, as i wriggled myself down with my face to the ganger, but i soon found that wouldn't do, and i dragged myself out again and took off my boots, tightened my strap, and went down the other way. "that was better, but it was a tight job going all round a corner like a zigger-me-zag, as you calls it, or a furnace chimney; and as i scrouged down with my eyes shut, and the sand and stones scuttling down after me, i began to wonder how i was going to get up again. "`here!' i shouts, `i shall want two ropes. see if you can reach down the other.' "i put up my hand as far as i could reach, and the thin boy put a loop round his foot and come down, shutting out the light, till he could reach my hand, and i got hold of the second rope, and went scuttling farther, till all at once i found it like the boy had said--my legs was hanging and kicking about. "`here's in for it now,' i says to myself; and i wondered whether i should be buried; but i shouts out, `lower away,' and i let myself slide, and then there was a rush of falling sand and i was half smothered as i swung about, but they lowered down, and directly after i touched bottom with my feet, and juno was jumping about me and barking like mad. "`found 'em?' i heard the ganger shout from up in daylight, and i began to feel about for you; and, lor'! there has been times when i've longed for a match, when i've wanted a pipe o' tobacco; but nothing like what i longed then, so as to see where i was, for it was as black as pitch. "but i felt about with the dog barking, and followed to where she was, and feeling about, i got hold of you two boys cuddled up together as if you was asleep, and nearly covered up with sand. "i puts my hands to my mouth, and i yells out as loud as i could: `i've got 'em!' and there came back a `hooray!' sounding hollow and strange like, and then i s'pose it was the sand had got in my eyes so as they began to water like anything. "but i knelt down trembling all over, for i was afraid you was both dead, and i can't a-bear touching dead boys. i never did touch none, but i can't a-bear touching of 'em all the same. "then i felt something jump up in my throat, as if i'd swallowed a new potato, only upside down like, other way on, you know, the tater coming up and not going down for when i got feeling you about you was both warm. "`out o' the way, dog,' i says, for she kept licking of you both, and i feels to find out which was you, and soon found that out, because shock had such a rough head; and then i says to myself, `which shall i send up first?' "i did think o' sending shock, so as to make him open the hole a bit more; but i thought p'raps the top'd fall in with sending the first one up, and you was more use than shock, so i made the rope, as was loose, fast round your chest, and then i shouts to 'em as i lifted you up. "`haul steady,' i shouts, and as the rope tightened hoisted you more and more, till you went up and up, and i was shoving your legs, then your feet, and then you was dragged away from me, and i was knocked down flat by 'bout hunderd ton o' sand coming on my head. i didn't weigh it, so p'r'aps there warn't so much. "i was made half stupid; but i heerd them cheering, and i knowed they'd got you out, for they shouted down the hole for the next, and i had to drag the rope i had out of the sand before i fastened it round shock, who give a bit of a groan as soon as i touched him, and i wished i'd heerd you groan too. "`haul away,' i shouted, and i walked right up a heap of sand, as they hauled at shock, and as soon as they'd dragged him away from me, and he was going up, i jumped back, expecting some more sand to fall, and so it did, as they hauled, whole barrowfuls of it. "then come some more shouting, and old brownsmith's brother roared down the hole:-- "`all right. safe up.' "`all right, is it?' i says, scratching the sand out o' my head, `and how's me and the dog to come?' "they seemed to have thought of that, for the ganger shouts down the crooked hole--`how are we to get down the rope to you?' "`i d'know,' i says; and i stood there in the dark thinking and listening to the buzzing voices, and wondering what to do. "`wonder how nigh i am to the hole,' i says to myself; and i walked up quite a heap o' sand and tried if i could touch anything, but i couldn't. "then i thought of the dog. "`hi, juno!' i says, and she whined and come to me, and i took hold of her. "`here, you try if you can't get out, old gal,' i says; and i believe as she understood me as i lifted her up and helped her scramble up, and somehow i got her right with her stomach on my head. then i lifted her shoulders up as high as i could reach, as i stood on the heap o' sand, and she got her legs on my head, and my! how she did scratch, and then the sand began to come down, and i knowed she could reach the top. next moment she'd got one of her hind paws on my hand as i reached up high, and then there was a rush and scramble, and i heard another shouting of `hooray!' while the sand come down so that i had to get right as far away as i could. "`what shall we do now?' says the ganger, shouting to me:-- "`send the dog down again with the two ropes round her.' "`right!' he says; and then in a minute there was a scuffling and more rushing, and juno come down with a run, to begin barking loudly as she fell on the soft sand. "`there you are, old gal,' i says, patting her, as i took off one rope, and felt that the other was fast round her. `up you go again.' i lifted her up and shouted to 'em to haul, and in half a minute she was gone, and i was alone in the dark, but with the rope made fast round my chest. "`are you ready?' shouts the ganger. "`ay!' i says. `pull steady, for i'm heavier than the dog.' "they began to haul as i took tight hold of the rope above my head, and up i went slowly with the sand being cut away by the tight line, and coming thundering down on me at an awful rate, just as if some one was shooting cart loads atop of me. "`steady!' i yelled; and they pulled away slowly, while i wondered whether the rope would give way. but it held, and i felt my head bang against the sand, and some more fell. then, as i kicked my legs about, i felt myself dragged more into the hole, and i tried to help myself; but all i did was to send about a ton of sand down from under me. then very slowly i was hauled past an elbow in the hole, and i was got round towards the other when a lot more sand fell from beneath me, and then, just as i was seeing daylight, there was a sort of heave above me, and the top came down and nipped me fast just about the hips. "`haul! my lads, haul!' the ganger shouted, and they hauled till i felt most cut in two, and i had to holler to 'em to stop. "`i shall want my legs,' i says. `they ain't much o' ones, but useful!' "there was nothing for it but to begin digging, for they could see my face now, and they began watching very carefully that the sand didn't get over my head, when, all at once, as they dug, there was a slip, and the sand, and the roots, and stones all dropped down into the hole below, and i was hauled out on to the top safe and sound, 'cept a few scratches, and only a bit of the sleeve of my shirt left. "there, you know the rest." chapter thirty one. "what's the meaning of all this?" i did know the rest; how shock and i lay for a fortnight at the little country inn carefully tended before we were declared fit to go back home, for the doctor was not long in bringing us back to our senses; and, save that i used to wake with a start out of my sleep in the dark, fancying i was back in the pit, i was not much the worse. shock was better, for he looked cleaner and fresher, but he objected a great deal to our nurse brushing his hair. i was just back and feeling strong again, when one day sir francis came down into the pinery, and stopped and spoke to me. he said he had heard all about my narrow escape, and hoped it would be a warning to me never to trust myself in a sand-pit again. he was very kind after his manner, which was generally as if he thought all the world were soldiers, and i was going up to my dinner soon, after i had stopped for a bit of a cool down in one of the other houses, when, to my great disgust, i saw courtenay and philip back, and i felt a kind of foreboding that there would soon be some more troubles to face. i was quite right, for during the rest of their stay at home they seemed to have combined to make my life as wretched as they possibly could. i was often on the point of complaining, but i did not like to do so, for it seemed to be so cowardly, and besides, i argued to myself that i could not expect all sunshine. old brownsmith used to have me over to spend sundays with him, and his brother and mrs solomon were very kind. ike sometimes went so far as to say "good-morning" and "good-night," and shock had become so friendly that he would talk, and bring me a good moth or butterfly for my case. i went steadily on collecting, for mr solomon said, as long as the work was done well he would rather i did amuse myself in a sensible way. the consequence was that i often used to go down the garden of a night, and my collection of moths was largely increased. i noticed about this time that sir francis used to talk a good deal to shock, and by and by i found from ike that the boy was going regularly to an evening-school, and altering a great deal for the better. unfortunately, ike, with whom he lodged, was not improving, as i had several opportunities of observing, and one day i took him to task about it. "i know the excuse you have, ike," i said, "that habit you got into when going backwards and forwards to the market; but when you had settled down here in a gentleman's garden, i should have thought that you would have given it up." "ah, yes," he said, as he drove in his spade. "you're a gent, you see, and i'm only a workman." "i'm going to be a workman too, ike," i said. "ay, but not a digger like me. they don't set me to prune, and thin grapes, and mind chyce flowers. i'm not like you." "it does not matter what any one is, ike," i said. "you ought to turn over a new leaf and keep away from the public-house." "true," he said, smashing a clod; "and i do turn over a noo leaf, but it will turn itself back." "nonsense!" i said. "you are sharp enough on shock's failings, and you tell me of mine. why don't you attend to your own?" "look here, young gent," he cried sharply, "do you want to quarrel just because i like a drop now and then?" "quarrel! no, ike. i tell you because i don't want to see you discharged." "think they would start me if they knowed, lad?" "i'm sure of it," i said earnestly. "sir francis is so particular." "then," he said, scraping his spade fiercely, "it won't do. i want to stop here. i'll turn over a noo leaf." one day in the next autumn, as i was carefully shutting in a pill-box a moth that i had found, a gentleman who was staying at the house caught sight of me and asked to see it. "ah, yes!" he said. "goat-moth, and a nice specimen. do you sugar?" "do i sugar, sir?" i said vacantly. "yes, i like sugar, sir." "bless the lad!" he said, laughing. "i mean sugar the trees. smear them with thick sugar and water or treacle, and then go round at night with a lantern; that's the way to catch the best moths." i was delighted with the idea and was not long before i tried it, and as luck would have it, there was an old bull's-eye lantern in the tool-house that mr solomon used when he went round to the furnaces of a night. i remember well one evening, just at leaving-off time, taking my bottle of thick syrup and brush from the tool-house shelf, and slipping down the garden and into the pear-plantation where the choice late fruit was waiting and asking daily to be picked. mr solomon was very proud of his pears, and certainly some of them grew to a magnificent size. i was noticing how beautiful and tawny and golden some of them were growing to be as i smeared the trunk of one and then of another with my sweet stuff, and as it was a deliciously warm still evening, i was full of expectation of a good take. i had just finished when all at once i heard a curious noise, which made me think of lying in the dark in the sand-cave listening to shock's hard breathing; and i gave quite a shudder as i looked round, and then turned hot and angry. i knew what the noise was, and had not to look far to find ike lying under a large tree right away from the path fast asleep, and every now and then uttering a few words and giving a snort. "ike!" i said, shaking him. "ike! wake up and go home." but the more i tried the more stupid he seemed to grow, and i stood at last wondering what i had better do, not liking the idea of mr solomon hearing, for it was certain to mean a very severe reprimand. it might mean discharge. it seemed such a pity, too, and i could not help thinking that this bad habit of ike's was the reason why he had lived to fifty and never risen above the position of labourer. i tried again to wake him, but it was of no use, and just then i heard mr solomon shout to me that tea was waiting. i ran up the garden quickly for fear mr solomon should come down and see ike, and as i went i made up my mind that i would get the key of the gate into the lane and come down after dark and smuggle him out without anyone knowing. "well, butterfly boy," said mrs solomon, smiling in her half-serious way, "we've been waiting tea these ten minutes." i said i was very sorry, and though i felt a little guilty as i sat down i soon forgot all about ike in my pleasant meal. then i felt frightened as i heard some laughing and shouting, and started and listened, for it struck me that courtenay and philip might be going down the garden, and if they should see poor ike in such a state, i knew that they would begin baiting and teasing him, when he would perhaps fly in a passion such as i had seen him in once before, when he abused me, and apologised the next day, saying that it wasn't temper, but beer. the sound died away, and then it seemed to rise again nearer to us. "ah!" said mr solomon, "i'm sorry for those who have boys." "no, you are not, solomon," said his wife, cutting the bread and butter. "well, such boys as them." "ah!" said mrs solomon. "that's better." that seemed a long tea-time, and it appeared to be longer still before i could get away, for mr solomon had a lot of things to ask me about the grape-house and pit. i kept glancing at the wall where the key hung on a nail, and though another time i might easily have taken it, on this particular occasion it seemed as if i could not get near the place unobserved. at last my time came; mrs solomon had gone into the back kitchen, and mr solomon to his desk in the parlour. i did not lose a moment, but, snatching the key from the nail, i slipped it in my pocket, caught my cap from the peg, and slipped out. i was not going to do any wicked act, but somehow i felt as if all this was very wrong, and i found myself running along the grass borders, leaping over the gravel paths, so that my footsteps should not be heard, and in this way i reached the tool-house, where, quite at home in the darkness, and making no more noise than jingling a hanging spade against the bricks, i reached up on to the corner shelf and found my lantern and matches. there was the little lamp inside already trimmed, and i soon had it alight and darkened by the shade, slipped it in my pocket, and then started down the long green walk by the big wall where the espaliers were trained, and the wall was covered with big pear-trees. "i feel just like a robber," i said to myself as i stole along to find ike and turn him out. then i stopped short, for there was a scrambling noise on one side. "he is awake and trying to get over the wall," i said to myself, and setting down my lantern by one of the big trees, i went forward towards the great pear-tree, whose branches would make a ladder right to the top. it was very dark, and the great wall made it seem blacker as i stole on over the soft green path meaning to make sure that ike had gone over quite safely, and then go to my moth-hunting. "it's as well not to speak to him," i thought. then i stopped again, for if it was ike he was either talking to himself or had some one whispering to him. "it can't be ike," i thought, for after the whispering some one jumped down on the soft bed, and then some one else followed--_crash_. there was a scuffle here, and some one uttered an ejaculation of pain as if he had hurt himself in jumping, while the other laughed, and then they whispered together. it was not ike going away then, but two people come over the wall to get at the great choice pears that were growing on my left. "what a shame," i thought; and as i recalled a similar occurrence at old brownsmith's i wished that shock were with me to help protect sir francis' choice fruit. i ought to have slipped off back and told mr solomon, who would have made the gardener come from the lower cottage; but i did not think of that; i only listened and heard one of the thieves whisper to the other: "get up; you aren't hurt. come along." then there was a rustling as they forced their way among the bushes, and went bang up against an espalier. this they skirted, coming close to me as i stood in the shadow of a pear-tree. "come along quick!" i heard; and then the two figures went on rustling and crashing among the black-currant bushes, so that i could smell the peculiar herbaceous medicine-scent they gave out. i knew as well as if i had been told where they were going, and that was to a double row of beautiful great pears that were just ready to pick, and which i had noticed that morning, and again when i was sugaring the trees close by. at first i had taken them for men, but by degrees, by the tone of their whispers and the faint sight i got of them now and then as they passed an open place, i knew that they were boys. a few minutes before i had felt excited and nervous; then i felt less alarm. my first idea was to frighten them by shouting for the different men about the place; but as soon as i was sure that they were boys, a curiously pugnacious sensation came over me, and i determined to see if i couldn't catch one of them and drag him up to mr solomon, for i felt sure that i should only have one to fight with, the other would be sure to run as hard as he could go. i stopped short again with an unpleasant thought in my mind. surely this could not be shock with some companion. no, it could not be he, i felt sure, and i was rather ashamed of having thought it as i crept on after the two thieves, so that i was quite near them when, as i expected they would, they stopped by the little thick heavily-laden trees. "look out! hold the bag and be quick," was whispered; and then there was snapping of twigs, the rustling of leaves, and a couple of dull thuds as two pears fell. "never mind them," was whispered in the same tone. "there's no end of 'em about." i crept nearer with my teeth grinding together, for it seemed to be such a shameful thing to clear those pears from the tree in that way, and then i grew furious, for one whispered something to the other, and the tree being stripped was shaken, and then _thump, thump, thump_, one after another the beautiful fruit fell. they scuffled about, and i was so close now that i could hear the pears banged and bruised one upon another as they were thrown into a bag. then i felt as if i could bear it no longer. the pears were as if they were my own, and making a dash at the faintly seen figure with the bag i struck him a blow with all my might, and that, the surprise, and the weight of my body combined were sufficient to send him over amongst the black currants, while i went at the other, and in a blind fury began laying on to him with my fists as hard as i could. he tried to get away, but i held on to him, and this drove him to fight desperately, and for some minutes we were up and down, fighting, wrestling, and hanging on to each other with all the fury of bitter enemies. i was beaten down to my knees twice over. i struggled up again though, and held on with the stubbornness of a bull-dog. then being stronger than i he swung me round, so that i was crushed up against the trunk of one of the trees, but the more he hurt me the more angry i grew, and held on, striking at him whenever i could get an arm free. i could hear him grinding his teeth as he struggled with me, and at last i caught my feet in a currant bush, for even then i could tell it by the smell, and down i went. but not alone. i held on to him, and dragged him atop of me. "let go!" he cried hoarsely, as he struck me savagely in the face; and when the pain only made me hang on all the more tightly he called out to his companion, who had taken no farther part in the fray: "here, phil, phil. come on, you sneak." i felt as if i had been stunned. not by his blow, but by his words, as for the first time i realised with whom i had been engaged. a rustling noise on my left warned me that some one else was coming; but i let my hands fall to my side, for i had made a grievous mistake, and must strike no more. in place now of my hanging on to courtenay, he was holding me, and drawing in his breath he raised himself a little, raised one hand and was about to strike me, but before he could, philip seemed to seize me by the collar, and his brother too, but in an instant i felt that it was a stronger grip, and a hoarse gruff voice that i knew well enough was that of sir francis shouted out, "caught you, have i, you young scoundrels." as he spoke he made us rise, and forced us before him--neither of us speaking--through the bushes and on to the path, a little point of light appearing above me, and puffs of pungent smoke from a cigar striking my face. "i've got t'other one," said a rough voice that i also recognised, and i cried out involuntarily: "ike--ike!" "that's me, lad. i've got him fast." "you let me go. you hurt me," cried philip out of the darkness. "hurt yer? i should think i do hurt you. traps always does hurt, my fine fellow. who are you? what's your name?" "bring him here," cried sir francis; and as ike half carried, half dragged philip out from among the trees on to the broad green walk, sir francis cried fiercely: "now, then! what's the meaning of all this!" i heard philip give a gasp as i opened my lips to speak, but before i could say a word courtenay cried out quickly: "phil and i heard them stealing the pears, and we came down to stop them--didn't we, phil?" "yes: they pounced upon us in the dark." "i am knocked about," cried courtenay. "what a wicked lie!" i exclaimed, as soon as i could get my breath. "lie, sir, lie!" cried sir francis fiercely, as he tightened his grasp upon my collar. "why, i saw you come creeping along with that dark lantern, and watched you. you had no business down here, and yet i find you along with this fellow, who has no right to be in the garden now, assaulting my sons." chapter thirty two. circumstantial evidence. "now, sir," cried sir francis angrily, "have the goodness to explain what you were doing there." this was to ike, who seemed stupid and confused. the excitement of the fight had roused him up for a few minutes; but as soon as that was over he yawned very loudly, and when sir francis turned fiercely upon him and asked him that question he said aloud: "eh?" "answer me, you scoundrel!" cried sir francis. "you heard what i said." "eh? hah, yes. what had i been a-doing--heigh--ho--hum! oh, how sleepy i am! what had i been a-doing here? what i been doing, mars grant?" "you were asleep," i said on being appealed to; and i spoke angrily, for i was smarting under the accusation and suspicion of being a thief. "asleep!" cried ike. "to be sure. that's it. asleep i was under the bushes there. dropped right off." "you repeat your lesson well," said sir francis. "pray, go up to the house--to the library, you boys--you, sir, follow me." courtenay and philip went on in advance, sir francis followed, and we were bringing up the rear when ike exclaimed in remonstrance: "that ain't fair, master. you ought to sep'rate them two or a nyste bit of a tale they'll make up between them." "you insolent scoundrel!" roared sir francis. "all right, sir; scoundrel it is, just as you like. wonder who'll tell the truth, and who won't?" "hold your tongue, ike!" i said angrily. _plop_! that strange sound was made by ike, who struck his mouth with his hand as if to stop it up and prevent more words coming. meanwhile we were going up the garden, and came suddenly upon a spot of fire which kept glowing and fading, and resolved itself into mr solomon's evening pipe in the kitchen-garden middle walk. "hallo! young gentlemen!" he exclaimed; and then, seeing his master: "anything the matter, sir francis?" "matter!" cried sir francis, who was in a great passion. "why are you, my head gardener, not protecting my place with the idle scoundrels i pay? here am i and my sons obliged to turn out of an evening to keep thieves from the fruit." "thieves! what thieves?" cried mr solomon. "why, isaac, what are you doing here?" "me!" said ike. "don't quite know. thought i'd been having a nap. the master says i've been stealing o' pears." "silence!" cried sir francis. "you, brownsmith, see that those two fellows come straight up to the library. i hold you answerable for their appearance." sir francis went on first and we followed, to find ourselves, about ten minutes later, in the big library, with sir francis seated behind a large table, and a lamp and some silver candlesticks on table and mantel-piece, trying to make the gloomy room light. they did not succeed, but there was light enough to show courtenay and philip all the better for running up to their rooms and getting a wash and brush, while i was ragged, dirty and torn, bruised and bleeding, for i could not keep my nose from giving forth tokens of the fierce fight. courtenay was not perfect, though, for his mouth looked puffy and his eyes were swelling up in a curious way that seemed to promise to reduce them to a couple of slits. i glanced at mr solomon, and saw that he was looking very anxious, and as our eyes met his lips moved, and he seemed to be saying to me: "how could you do such a disgraceful thing?" but i smiled at him and looked him full in the eyes without flinching, and he appeared to be more cheerful directly. "attention!" cried sir francis as if he were drilling his men; but there was no more fierceness. the officer and angry master had given place to the magistrate, and he cleared his throat and proceeded to try the case. there was a little shuffling about, and philip whispered to courtenay. "silence!" cried sir francis. "now, courtenay, you are the elder: tell me what you were doing down the garden." "we were up by the big conservatory door, papa," said courtenay boldly--"phil and i--and we were talking together about getting some bait for fishing, when all at once there came a whistle from down the garden, and directly after some one seemed to answer it; and then, sir--`what's that?' said `phil,' and i knew directly." "how did you know?" cried sir francis. "well, i guessed it, sir, and i said it was someone after the fruit; and i asked phil if he'd come with me and watch and see who it was." "and he did?" "yes, sir; and we went down the garden and couldn't hear or see anything, and we went right to the bottom, and as we were coming back we heard the pear-trees being shaken." "how did you know it was the pear-trees, sir?--it was dark." "it sounded like pear-trees, sir, and you could hear the big pears tumbling on the ground." "well, sir?" courtenay spoke out boldly and well. he did not hesitate in the least; and i could not help feeling what a ragged dejected-looking object i seemed, and how much appearances were against me. "i said to phil that we ought to try and catch the thieves, and he said we would, so we crept up and charged them, and i had this boy, and i suppose phil brought that man, but it was so dark i could not see what he did." "well, sir?" "well, papa, this boy knocked me about shamefully, and called me all sorts of names." "and you knocked him about too, i suppose?" said sir francis. "yes, i suppose i did, sir. he hurt me, and i was in a passion." "now, philip, what have you to say?" philip looked uneasy as he glanced at his brother and then at sir francis. "well, go on, sir." "we were up by the big con--" "yes, yes, we have heard all about that," cried sir francis. "yes, pa; and we heard whistles, and courtenay said, `what's that?'" "i thought it was you said `what's that?'" "no, pa, it was courtenay," cried the boy quickly: "he said it. and then i wanted to go down and catch the thieves, and courtenay came too, and we could hear them shaking down the pears. then i went one way and courtenay went the other, and i saw that new labourer--that man--" "fine eyes for his age," said ike in a low growl. "how dare you speak, sir, till you are called upon for your defence!" cried sir francis. "oh, all right, your worship!" growled ike. "on'y you know how dark it weer." "silence, man!" _plop_! that was ike's hand over his mouth again to enforce silence. "go on, philip," said sir francis quietly. "yes, pa," cried the boy excitedly. "as soon as i saw that man shaking down the big pears i ran at him to try and catch him." "you should ha' took off your cap, young un, and ketched me like a butterfly," growled ike. "will you be silent, sir!" _plop_! "he struck me, then, in the chest, pa, and knocked me right down in among the bushes." "no, he did not," i exclaimed indignantly; "it was i." "it was not; it was that man," cried philip; and ike burst out into a hearty laugh. "am i to order you out of the room, sir?" cried sir francis, severely. "all right, your worship! no," cried ike. _plop_! "now, philip, go on." "yes, pa. i'm not very strong, and he shook me and banged me about ever so; but i was determined that i would not let him go, and held on till we heard you come; and then instead of trying to get away any more he turned round and began to drag me towards you, pretending that he had caught me, when i had caught him, you know." "go and sit down," said sir francis. "you boys talk well." "yes, papa, we are trying to tell you everything," said philip. "thank you," said sir francis, and then he turned to me and looked me all over. "well, sir," he said, "your appearance and the evidence are very much against you." "yes, sir francis," i said; "very much indeed." "well, what have you to say?" i could not answer for some moments, for my feelings of indignation got the better of me, but at last i blurted out: "i went down the garden sir francis, to try and catch some moths." "with this, eh?" said sir francis picking up something from the floor, and placing my old dark lantern on the table. "yes, sir francis," i said. "i am making a collection." "where is it, then?" "down at the cottage, sir francis." "humph!" ejaculated sir francis. "have you seen his collection, brownsmith?" "yes, sir francis; he has a great many--butterflies and moths." "humph! sugar the trees, eh?" "yes, sir," i said quickly. "and do you know that he goes down the garden of a night?" "yes, sir francis, often," said mr solomon. "isn't it enough to tempt him to take the pears?" "no, sir francis," replied mr solomon boldly. "i might just as well say to you, `isn't it enough to tempt him to take the grapes or the peaches to trust him among them alone.'" "he did steal the peaches when he first came. i caught him at it," cried philip viciously. "no, you did not, young gentleman," said mr solomon sternly; "but i saw you cut two bunches of grapes one evening--the muscat of alexandria--and take them away." "oh what a wicked story!" cried philip, angrily. "call it what you like, young gentleman," said mr solomon; "but it's a fact. i meant to speak to sir francis, for i hate the choice fruit to be touched till it's wanted for the house; but i said to myself he's only a schoolboy and he was tempted, and here are the young gentleman's nail scissors, sir francis, that he dropped in his hurry and left behind." as mr solomon spoke he handed a pair of pearl-handled scissors--a pair of those spring affairs with a tiny knife-blade in each handle--and in the midst of a dead silence laid them on the table before sir francis. "those are not mine," said philip hastily. "humph!" ejaculated sir francis, picking them up and examining them. "i shall have to order you out of the room, man, if you make that noise," he cried, as he turned to ike. "i weer on'y laughin', your worship," said ike. "then leave off laughing, sir," continued sir francis, "and have the goodness to tell me what you were doing down the garden. were you collecting moths with a dark lantern?" "me, your honour! not i." "what were you doing, then?" "well, your honour's worship, i was having a bit of a sleep--tired, you see." "oh!" exclaimed sir francis. "now, look here, grant, you knew that man was down the garden." "yes, sir francis." "and didn't you go to join him?" "yes, sir francis." "to get a lot of my pears?" "no, sir francis." "then why did you go?" he thundered. i was silent. "do you hear, sir?" "yes, sir francis." "then speak, sir." i remained silent. "will you tell me why you went down the garden to join that man?" i looked at poor ike, and felt that if i spoke it would be to get him discharged, so i preferred to remain silent, and said not a word. "will you speak, sir?" cried sir francis, beating the table with his fist. "i can't tell you, sir francis." "you mean you won't, sir?" "yes, sir francis." "why not tell the whole truth, grant?" said mr solomon, reproachfully. "because i can't, sir," i replied sadly. "be silent, brownsmith," cried sir francis fiercely. "he's too good a mate to tell," said ike stoutly. "here, i may as well make a clean breast of it, and here it is. i'm an old soldier, sir, and--well, theer, it got hold of me at dinner-time. 'stead of having anything to eat i had a lot to drink, having had some salt herrin' for breakfast, and i suppose i took too much." "herring, my man?" "no, your worship, beer; and i went to sleep down among the bushes. there, that's the honest truth, mr brownsmith's brother. fact as fact." "i believe you, ike," said mr solomon. "he's a very honest workman, sir francis." "thank ye; i call that handsome, i do," said ike. "stop! this is getting very irregular," cried sir francis. "now, grant, once more. did you not go down the garden thinking you would get some of those pears?" "no, sir francis." "to meet that man, and let him take them away?" "no, sir francis." "do you mean to tell me, sir, that you did not go down to join that man?" "i did go down to join him, sir francis," i replied. "i saw him asleep and tipsy in among the black currants and i left him there, and took this key to-night to wake him up and let him out by the gate in the wall." "why not through the coach-yard?" "because i was afraid he would meet mr solomon brownsmith, and get into disgrace for drinking." "thankye, mars grant, thankye kindly," said ike. "silence!" _plop_! "a nice tale?" said sir francis. "we are getting to the bottom of a pretty state of things." just then i saw courtenay look at philip as if he were uneasy. then i glanced at sir francis and saw him gnawing at his moustache. "lookye here, sir," said ike sturdily. "is it likely as we two would take the fruit? why, we're always amongst it, and think no more of it than if it was so much stones and dirt. we ain't thieves." "look here," said sir francis, suddenly taking a tack in another direction, "you own that you beat my son--my stepson," he added correctively, "in that way?" "yes, sir francis," i said, "i didn't know who he was in the dark." "you couldn't see him?" "only just, sir francis; and i hit him as hard as i could." "and you, my man, do you own that you struck my other stepson as hard as you could in the chest?" "no!" cried ike fiercely; and to the surprise of all he threw off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, displaying a great red-brown mass of bone and muscle, and a mighty fist. "lookye here, your worship. see there. why, if i'd hit that boy with that there fist as hard as ever i could, there wouldn't be no boy now, only a coroner's inquess. bah! i wonder at you, sir francis! there's none of my marks on him, only where i gripped his arms. take off your jacket, youngster, and show your pa." "how dare you!" cried philip indignantly. "take off your jacket, sir!" roared sir francis, and trembling and flushing, philip did as he was told, and at a second bidding rolled up his sleeves to show the marks of ike's fingers plainly enough. ike said nothing now, but uttered a low grunt. "he did hit me," cried philip excitedly. "no; i hit you," i cried, "when i rushed at you first. i followed you after i'd heard you scramble over the wall." "oh!" cried philip with an indignant look. "you heard them scramble over the wall?" said sir francis sharply. "yes, sir francis. i think it was by the big keeping-pear that is trained horizontally--that large old tree, the last in the row." sir francis sat back in his chair for a few moments in silence; and courtenay said to his brother in a whisper, but loud enough for everyone to hear: "did you ever hear anyone go on like that!" sir francis took no notice, but slowly rose from his seat, crossed the room, opened the french window that looked out upon the lawn, and then said: "hand me a candle, brownsmith." the candle was placed in his hands, and he walked with it right out on to the lawn and then held it above his head. then, walking back into the room, he took up another candlestick. "let everyone stay as he is till i come back." "do you mean us to stay here, papa--with these people?" said courtenay haughtily. sir francis stopped short and looked at him sternly without speaking, making the boy blench. then he turned away without a word, and followed by mr solomon bearing a lighted candle, which hardly flickered in the still autumn evening, he went on down the garden. "haw--haw--haw!" laughed ike as soon as we were alone. "you're a pair o' nice uns--you are! but you're ketched this time," he added. "how dare you speak to us, sir!" cried courtenay indignantly. "hold your tongue, sir!" "no use to hold it now," said ike laughing. "i say, don't you feel warm?" "don't take any notice of the fellow, court," cried phil; "and as for pauper--" "you leave him to me," said courtenay with a vindictive look. "i'll make him remember telling his lies of me--yes, and of you too. he shall remember to-night as long as he lives, unless he asks our pardon, as soon as sir francis comes back and owns that it was he who was taking the pears." i turned away from them and spoke to ike, who was asking me about my hurts. "oh! they're nothing," i said--"only a few scratches and bruises. i don't mind them." the two boys were whispering eagerly together, and i heard philip say: "well, ask him; he'd do anything for money." "look here," said courtenay. i believe he was going to offer to bribe us; but just then there was the sound of voices in the garden and sir francis appeared directly after, candle in hand, closely followed by mr solomon, and both of them looking very serious, though somehow it did not have the slightest effect on me, for i was watching the faces of courtenay and philip. "shut that window, brownsmith," said sir francis, as he set down his candle and went back to his chair behind the table. mr solomon shut the window, and then came forward and set down his candle in turn. "now," said sir francis, "we can finish this business, i think. you say, grant, that you heard someone climb over the wall by the big trained pear-tree?" "i heard two people come over, sir, and one of them fell down, and, i think, broke a small tree or bush." "yes," said sir francis, "a bush is broken, and someone has climbed over by that big pear-tree." "i digged that bit along that wall only yesterday," said ike. "be silent, sir," cried sir francis; "stop. come forward; set a candle down on the floor, brownsmith." it was done. "you, isaac, hold up one of your feet--there, by the candle. no, no, man; i want to see the sole." ike held up a foot as if he were a horse about to be shod, and growled out: "fifteen and six, master, and warranted water-tights." "that will do, my man," said sir francis, frowning severely as if to hide a smile; and ike put down his great boot and went softly back to his place. "now you, grant," said sir francis. i walked boldly to the candle and held up my heavily-nailed garden boots, so that sir francis could see the soles. "that will do, my lad," he said. "now you, courtenay, and you, philip." they came forward half-puzzled, but i saw clearly enough sir francis' reasons, ike's remark about the fresh digging having given me the clue. "that will do," said sir francis; and as the boys passed me to go back to their places i heard philip utter a sigh of relief. "what time did you hear these people climb over the wall, grant?" said sir francis. "i can't tell exactly, sir francis," i replied. "i think it must have been about eight o'clock." "what time is it now, courtenay?" said sir francis. the lad clapped his hand to his pocket, but his watch was not there. "i've left it in the bed-room," he said hastily; and he turned to leave the library, but stopped as if turned to stone as he heard sir francis thunder out: "you left it hanging on the easter beurre pear-tree, sir, when you climbed down with your brother--on one of the short spurs, before you both left your foot-marks all over the newly-dug bed. courtenay dalton--philip dalton, if you were my own sons i should feel that a terrible stain had fallen upon my name." the boys stood staring at him, looking yellow, and almost ghastly. "and as if that proof were not enough, courtenay, dalton; when you fell and broke that currant bush--" "it was phil who fell," cried the boy with a vicious snarl. "the truth for the first time," said sir francis. then bitterly: "and i thought you were both gentlemen! leave the room." "it was phil who proposed it all, papa," cried courtenay appealingly. "ah, you sneak!" cried philip. "i didn't, sir. i was as bad as he was, i suppose, and i thought it good fun, but i shouldn't have told all those lies if he hadn't made me. there, they were all lies! now you can punish me if you like." "leave the room!" said sir francis again; and he stood pointing to the door as the brothers went out, looking miserably crestfallen. then the door closed, and the silence was broken by a sharp cry, a scuffle, the sound of blows, and a fall, accompanied by the smashing of some vessel on the stone floor. sir francis strode out into the hall, and there was a hubbub of voices, and i heard philip cry passionately: "yes; i did hit him. he began on me, and i'll do it again--a coward!" then there was a low murmur for a few minutes, and sir francis came back into the library and stood by the table, with the light shining on his great silver moustache; and i thought what a fine, handsome, fierce old fellow he looked as he stood frowning there for quite a minute without speaking. then, turning to mr solomon, he said quickly: "i beg your pardon, brownsmith. i was excited and irritable to-night, and said what i am sorry for now." "then don't say any more, sir francis," replied mr solomon quietly. "i've been your servant--" "faithful servant, brownsmith." "well, sir francis, `faithful servant,'" said mr solomon smiling, "these twenty years, and you don't suppose i'm going to heed a word or two like that." "thank you, brownsmith," said sir francis, and he turned to ike and spoke sharply once more. "what regiment were you in, sir?" "eighth hoozoars, captain," said ike, drawing himself up and standing at attention. "colonel," whispered mr solomon. "all right!" growled ike. "well, then, isaac barnes, speaking as one old soldier to another, i said words to you to-night for which i am heartily sorry. i beg your pardon." "god bless you, colonel! if you talk to me like that arterward, you may call me what you like." "eh?" cried sir francis sharply; "then i will. how dare you then, you scoundrel, go and disgrace yourself; you, an ex-british soldier--a man who has worn the king's uniform--disgrace yourself by getting drunk? shame on you, man, shame!" "go on, colonel. give it to me," growled ike. "i desarve it." "no," said sir francis, smiling; "not another word; but don't let it occur again." ike drew his right hand across one eye, and the left over the other, and gave each a flip as if to shake off a tear, as he growled something about "never no more." i hardly heard him, though, for i was trembling with agitation as i saw sir francis turn to me, and i knew that my turn had come. "grant, my lad," he said quietly; "i can't tell you how hurt and sorry i felt to-night when i believed you to be mixed up with that contemptible bit of filching. there is an abundance of fruit grown here, and i should never grudge you sharing in that which you help to produce. i was the more sorry because i have been watching your progress, and i was more than satisfied: i beg your pardon too, for all that i have said. those boys shall beg it too." he held out his hand, and i caught it eagerly in mine as i said, in choking tones. "my father was an officer and a gentleman, sir, and to be called a thief was very hard to bear." "it was, my lad; it was," he said, shaking my hand warmly. "there, there, i'll talk to you another time." i drew back, and we were leaving the room, i last, when, obeying an impulse, i ran back. "well, my lad?" he said kindly. "i beg your pardon, sir francis; but you said that they should beg my pardon." "yes," he said hotly; "and they shall." "if you please, sir francis," i said, "i would rather they did not." "why, sir?" "i think they have been humbled enough." "by their own conduct?" said sir francis. "yes, you are right. i will not mention it again." chapter thirty three. after seven years. sir francis, as i afterwards learned, did not insist upon the matter, but the very next day, as i was in the peach-house, i heard the door open, and i felt anything but comfortable as i saw courtenay enter the place and come slowly up to me. i was prepared for anything, but i had no cause for expecting war. he had come in peace. "we're going away directly after lunch," he said in a low, surly tone, as if he resented what he was saying. "i'll--, i'll--there! i'll try-- to be different when i come back again." he turned and went hurriedly out of the place, and he had not been gone long when the door at the other end clicked, and i found, as soon as he who entered had come round into sight, that it was philip. he came up to me in a quick, impetuous way, as if eager to get his task over, and as our eyes met i could see that he had evidently been suffering a good deal. "i'm going away this afternoon," he said quickly. "i wish i hadn't said and done all i have. i beg--" he could not finish, but burst into a passionate fit of sobbing, and turned away his face. "good-bye!" i said. "i shall not think about it any more." "then we'll shake hands," he cried--"some day--next time we meet." we did shake hands next time we met, but when philip dalton said those words he did not know it would be seven years first. but so it was. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i never knew exactly how it happened, but i believe one of my uncles was influenced to take some part in the affair, and sir francis did all the rest. what i do know is that about three months after the young daltons had gone i was on my way to a clergyman's house, where i stayed a year, being prepared for my future career; and when i had been with the reverend hartley dallas a year i was able to join the military college at woolwich, where i went through the regular course, and in due time obtained my commission in the artillery. i had not long been in the service before the crimean war broke out, and our battery was one of the first despatched to the seat of war, where, in company with my comrades, i went through that terrible period of misery and privation. one night i was in charge of a couple of guns in a rather dangerous position near the redan, and after repairing damages under fire my lads had contrived to patch up a pretty secure shelter with sand-bag and gabion, ready for knocking down next day, but it kept off the rain, and where we huddled together there was no mud under our feet, though it was inches deep in the trench. it was a bitter night, and the tiny bit of fire that we had ventured to make in the hole we had scooped underground hardly kept the chill from our half-frozen limbs. food was not plentiful, luxuries we had none, and in place of the dashing-looking artillerymen in blue and gold people are accustomed to see on parade, anyone who had looked upon us would have seen a set of mud-stained, ragged scarecrows, blackened with powder, grim looking, but hard and full of fight. i was seated on an upturned barrel, hugging my sheepskin-lined greatcoat closer to me, and drawing it down over my high boots, as i made room for a couple of my wet, shivering men, and i felt ashamed to be the owner of so warm a coat as i looked at their well-worn service covering, when my sergeant put in his head and said: "captain of the company of foot, sir, would be glad if you could give him a taste of the fire and a drop of brandy; he's half dead with the cold." "bring him in," i said; and i waited, thinking about home and the old garden at isleworth and then of that at hampton; i didn't know why, but i did. and then i was thinking to myself that it was a good job that we had the stern, manly feeling to comfort us of our hard work being our duty, when i heard the _slush, slush, slush, slush_, sound of feet coming along the trenches, and then my sergeant said: "you'll have to stoop very low to get in, sir, but you'll find it warm and dry. the lieutenant's inside." "yes, come in," i said; and my men drew back to let the fresh corner get a bit of the fire. "it's awfully kind of you," he said, as he knelt down, took off his dripping gloves, and held his blue fingers to the flame. "what a night! it isn't fit for a dog to be out in. 'pon my soul, gunner, i feel ashamed to come in and get shelter, and leave my poor boys in the trench." "get a good warm then, and let's thaw and dry one of them at a time. i'm going to turn out soon." "sorry for you," he said. "brandy--thanks. it's worth anything a night like this. i've got some cigars in my breast-pocket, as soon as my fingers will let me get at them." he had taken off his shako, and the light shone full upon his face, which i recognised directly, though he did not know me, as he looked up and said again: "it's awfully kind of you, gunner." "oh! it's nothing," i said, "captain dalton--philip dalton, is it not?" "yes," he said; "you know me?" "to be sure," i replied; "but you said that next time we met we'd shake hands." he sank back and his jaw dropped. "you remember me--grant? how is sir francis?" "remember you!" he said, seizing my hand, "oh! i say, what a young beast i was!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i learned more than once that he and his brother turned out fine, manly soldiers, and did their duty well in that hard-fought campaign. i tried also to do mine, and came back one of the last to leave the crimea, another grade higher in my rank. during my college life i often used to go over and see the brothers brownsmith, to be warmly welcomed at every visit; and if ever he got to know that i was going to isleworth to spend sunday, ike used to walk over, straighten his back and draw himself up to attention, and salute me, looking as serious as if in uniform. he did not approve of my going into the artillery, though. "it's wrong," he used to say; and in these days he was back at isleworth, for mr solomon had entered into partnership with his brother, and both ike and shock had elected to follow him back to the old place. "yes," he would say, "it's wrong, mars grant, i was always drew to you because your father had been a sojer; but what would he have said to you if he had lived to know as you turned gunner?" "what would you have had me, then? you must have artillerymen." "yes, of course, sir; but what are they? you ought to have been a hoozoar:-- "`oh, them as with jackets go flying, oh, they are the gallant hoozoars,'" he sang--at least he tried to sing; but i went into the artillery. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ by the way, i did not tell you the name of the sergeant who ushered philip dalton into my shelter that night. his name was john hampton, as fine a soldier as ever stepped. he joined the artillery when i got my commission. poor shock, for i knew him better by that name; he followed me with the fidelity of a dog; he always contrived something hot for me when we were almost starving, and any day he would have gone without that i might eat. and i believe that he would have fought for me to the death. poor shock! the night when i was told that he could not live, after being struck down by a piece of shell, i knelt by him in the mud and held his hand. he just looked up in my face and said softly: "remember being shut up in the sand-pit, sir, and how you prayed? if you wouldn't mind, sir--once again?" i bent down lower and lower, and at last--soldier--hardened by horrors-- grown stern by the life i led--i felt as if i had lost in that rough, true man the best of friends, and i cried over him like a child! the end. a life's eclipse, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ this is a short book by g.m. fenn's usual standards, but you will enjoy reading it. the hero is john grange, a young gardener on mrs mostyn's estate, who finds himself to be in love with mary ellis, the daughter of the bailiff, james ellis. but as he is no more than an under-gardener ellis is angry with him for even thinking of mary. there is an accident when john has ascended a large cedar tree that had lost a bough in a gale, and a broken branch needed to be tidied up. john falls from where he was sawing, onto the ground, landing on his head. he recovers from the concussion, but is now blind. his rival not only for mary's hand but also for promotion to head gardener when dunton, the present head gardener, now very old, dies, is daniel barnett, who of course gets the job. but he is a nasty man, not very good at his work, while the blind john can do his work almost as well as before, working by touch. barnett plays a number of most unkind tricks on his rival john. eventually john disappears without trace and rumour is rife that daniel barnett had made away with him, so that he might have a clear run to mary's hand--not that mary is interested in him. there is a surprise ending to the story, of course. all the characters are beautifully drawn, and this little book is quite a masterpiece. it was published by the society for the promotion of christian knowledge, and must have been within their guidelines, without being excessively pious. do read it--it won't take you long. nh ________________________________________________________________________ a life's eclipse, by george manville fenn. chapter one. "what insolence!" john grange's brown, good-looking face turned of a reddish-brown in the cheeks, the warm tint mounting into his forehead, as he looked straight in the speaker's eyes, and there was a good, manly english ring in his voice as he said sturdily-- "i didn't know, mr ellis, that it was insolent for a man to come in a straightforward way, and say to the father of the young lady simply-- yes, and humbly--`i love your daughter, sir.'" "but it is, sir, downright insolence. recollect what you are, sir, only an under-gardener living at the bothy on thirty shillings a week." "i do recollect it, sir, but i don't mean to be an under-gardener always." "oh, indeed," said james ellis sarcastically, "but poor old dunton is not dead yet, and when he does die, mrs mostyn is quite as likely to appoint daniel barnett to his place as you, and if she takes my advice, she'll give the post to neither of you, but get some able, sensible man from chiswick." "but, mr ellis--" "that will do, john grange," said the owner of that name pompously. "i know what you are going to say. i am not ashamed of having been only a gardener once, but i am mrs mostyn's bailiff and agent now, sir, and, so to speak, your master. let me hear no more of this nonsense, sir. that will do. but one moment. have you had the--i mean, does mary--i mean, does miss ellis know that you were going to speak to me this evening?" "no, sir," said john grange sternly. "i'm only an under-gardener, but i've heard that it was the proper thing to speak out openly first." "then mary does not know that you--i mean, that you think about her?" "i hope and believe she does; sir," said the young man warmly, and his eyes flashed, and a proud, joyful look came into his countenance. "then i beg you will not hope and believe anything of the kind, sir, again. my daughter will do precisely as i wish, and when i part with her, it will be to see her go to a substantial home. good-evening!" james ellis tucked his walking-stick under his arm, took off his grey felt hat, drew a red silk handkerchief from the crown, rubbed his bald head, and made himself look hotter as he strode away, while after standing and watching him go toward the bailiff's cottage just outside the park fence at the hollows on the hill slope, a quarter of a mile away, the young man uttered a sigh and turned in at an open doorway in a high wall, whose top was fringed with young shoots of peaches, nectarines, and apricots, suggestive of the horticultural treasures within. "what a slap in the face!" he muttered. "under-gardener! well, that's all right. give poor old dunton's place to dan barnett! here, i can't go in now, i must walk this off." john grange pulled the open door to, so that it fastened with a snap, and turned off to make for the woods, where he could think alone. his way was for a couple of hundred yards toward the pretty villa known as the bailiff's cottage, and he had not gone half that distance when a sudden pang shot through him. for the place stood high, and he caught sight of two figures in the garden, one that of a man, the other that of some one in white muslin and a straw hat, coming toward the gate. the next minute the man was in the road, and half a minute later he was standing talking to mrs mostyn's agent, while the white muslin that had been so plainly seen amongst the shrubs had disappeared into the cottage. john grange's face grew dark with a look of despair, and he did not go off into the woods. dan barnett, up there at the cottage talking to mary, while he had been speaking to her father, and she had come down to the gate with her visitor. something very like a groan escaped the young man's lips as he crossed the road to lean his arms upon the gate, and looked over into the park, feeling more miserable than ever before in his life. "i'm a poor, weak fool," he thought. "he's good-looking, and knows the way to a girl's heart. better keep to my nailing and pruning. one from the father, two from dan barnett. regular knock-down blows. better get up again, go to work and forget it all--if i can." "nice evening, john grange. drop o' rain coming?" "eh? yes, i think so, tummus," said the young man, turning to the dry, quaint old fellow who had spoken, and who now screwed up the bark on his face--it more resembled that than skin--showed three or four ancient, yellow teeth, and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. "i say--see that? young dan barnett going courtin', and now having it out with miss mary's dad. you mark my words, mr john, sir, if poor old dunton dies, and dan barnett steps into his shoes, there'll be a wedding yonder." "think so, tummus?" said john grange, with a forced smile. "aye, that's what i think, sir," said the old man, and then showing his gums as well as his teeth, he continued, "and i thinks this 'ere too-- that if i'd been a young, good-looking chap like some one i know, i wouldn't ha' let dan barnett shoulder me out, and stand in first with the prettiest and best young lady in these parts. evening!" "here, hi! you!" came from behind them, and the person in question strode up, looking frowning and angry. "you ca' me, mr dan?" "yes; did you finish wheeling up that stuff?" "aye; i fishened it all 'fore i left work. good-evening." he left the two young men standing together, and there was a peculiar, malicious look in the fresh-comer's eyes as he gave john grange a short nod. "mrs mostyn say anything to you 'bout the cedar?" "yes; she said the broken stump was to be cut off to-morrow." "then you'd better get the ladders and ropes ready first thing." "you mean _we_ had better," said john grange quietly. "no, i don't. i'm not going to break my neck for thirty shillings a week. heard how dunton is?" "very bad. doctor manning was here again this evening." "well, he's nearly ninety--a man can't expect to live for ever. time he did go." john grange walked away toward the head-gardener's cottage to ask for the last news, and daniel barnett stood watching him with a frown on his rather handsome features. "poor old dunton!" said john grange to himself; "we shall miss him when he's gone." "hang him!" muttered barnett, "that's it. i saw him talking to the old man, but he hasn't won yet. insolence, eh? i like that. the barnetts are as good as the ellis's, anyhow. wait a bit, my lady, and i may take a bit of the pride out of you." some men have a habit of thinking across the grain. chapter two. at seven o'clock next morning john grange felt better when he stood with daniel barnett, old tummus, and mary ellis's father at the foot of the great cedar facing the house, a tree sadly shorn of its beauty by a sudden squall that had swept down the valley, and snapped off the top, where an ugly stump now stood out forty feet from the lawn. grange felt better, for in spite of his hectoring, triumphant manner, it was plain to see that daniel barnett had not sped well with mary's father, whatever might have been his success with the lady herself. james ellis was no longer young, and early work before breakfast had grown distasteful; still, he had come to see the broken stump sawn off. the ladder had been raised, and got into position, but it was too short by ten feet, and there was an awkward climb before the man who went up could use the saw or attach the rope to keep the sawn-off stump from falling with a crash. "well," said ellis, "what are we waiting for?" old tummus chuckled. "why when i first come to these here gardens five-and-forty years ago, i'd ha' gone up there like a squirrel, mr ellis, sir; but these here fine new-fangled gardeners can't do as we did." "better go up now," said barnett. "nay, nay, my lad, sixty-eight's a bit too ripe for climbing trees, eh, master ellis?" "yes, of course," said the bailiff. "come, get it done." "do you hear, john grange?" said barnett. "up with you. better hitch the rope under that big bough, and saw the next. make it well fast before you begin to saw." "i thought mrs mostyn told you to go up and cut it?" said ellis pompously; "and i heard you tell her how you should do it?" "or have it done, sir. here, up with you, john." john grange felt annoyed at the other's manner in the presence of the bailiff. there was a tone--a hectoring way--which nettled him the more that they were precisely equal in status at the great gardens; and, besides, there were mary and old tummus's words. he had, he knew, let this rather overbearing fellow-servant step in front of him again and again, and this morning he felt ready to resent it, as the blood came into his cheeks. "well, what are you waiting for?" cried barnett. "up with you!" "if it was your orders, why don't you go?" retorted grange. barnett burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and turned to the bailiff. "hear that, sir? he's afraid. ha-ha-ha! well, well! i did think he had some pluck." "perhaps i have pluck enough," said the young man, "even if it is an awkward job, but i don't see why i'm to be bullied into doing your work." "i thought so," continued barnett, "white feather! talk away, john, you can't hide it now." old tummus showed his yellow stumps. "he can't do it, mr dan," he chuckled. "you're the chap to go up. you show him how to do it." "you hold your tongue. speak when you're spoken to," said barnett fiercely; and the old man chuckled the more as barnett turned to john grange. "now then, are you afraid to go up? because if so, say so, and i'll do it." john grange glanced at the bailiff, and then stooped and picked up the coil of rope, passed it over his shoulder, and then seized the saw. he mounted the ladder, and clinging to the tree, stood on the last round, and then climbing actively, mounted the remaining ten feet to where he could stand upon a branch and attach the rope to the stump, pass the end over a higher bough and lower it down to the others. then rolling his sleeves right up to the shoulder, he began to cut, the keen teeth of the saw biting into the soft, mahogany-like wood, and sending down the dust like sleet. it was a good half-hour's task to cut it through, but the sturdy young fellow worked away till only a cut or two more was necessary, and then he stopped. "ready below?" he said, glancing down. "all right!" cried ellis. "cut clean through, so that it does not splinter." "yes, sir," shouted grange; and he was giving the final cuts, when for some reason, possibly to get the rope a little farther along, barnett gave it a sharp jerk, with the effect that the nearly free piece of timber gave way with a sharp crash, just as john grange was reaching out to give the last cut. cedar snaps like glass. down went the block with a crash to the extent the rope would allow, and there swung like a pendulum. down, too, went grange, overbalanced. he dropped the saw, and made a desperate snatch at a bough in front, and he caught it, and hung in a most precarious way for a few moments. "quick!" he shouted to barnett; "the ladder!" ellis and old tummus held the rope, not daring to let go and bring the piece of timber crashing down. barnett alone was at liberty to move the ladder; and he stood staring up, as if paralysed by the danger and by the thought that the man above him was his rival, for whose sake he had been, only a few hours before, refused. but it was only a matter of seconds. john grange's fingers were already gliding over the rough bark; and before barnett could throw off the horrible mental chains which bound him, the young man uttered a low, hoarse cry, and fell headlong through the air. chapter three. "how do you say it happened?" old tummus was riding in the doctor's gig back to the hollows after running across to the village for help; and he now repeated all he knew, with the additions of sundry remarks about these new-fangled young "harticult'ral gardeners who know'd everything but their work." "come right down on his head, poor lad," he said; "but you'll do your best for him, doctor: don't you let him slip through your fingers." the doctor smiled grimly, and soon after drew up at the door in the garden wall, and hurried through to the bothy where john grange had been carried and lay perfectly insensible, with mrs mostyn, a dignified elderly widow lady, who had hurried out as soon as she had heard of the accident, bathing his head, and who now anxiously waited till the doctor's examination was at an end. "well, doctor," said mrs mostyn eagerly, "don't keep me in suspense." "i must," he replied gravely. "it will be some time before i can say anything definite. i feared fractured skull, but there are no bones broken." "thank heaven!" said mrs mostyn piously. "such a frank, promising young man--such an admirable florist. then he is not going to be very bad?" "i cannot tell yet. he is perfectly insensible, and in all probability he will suffer from the concussion to the brain, and spinal injury be the result." "oh, doctor, i would have given anything sooner than this terrible accident should have occurred. pray forgive me--would you like assistance?" "yes: of a good nurse. if complications arise, i will suggest the sending for some eminent man." many hours elapsed before john grange opened his eyes from what seemed to be a deep sleep; and then he only muttered incoherently, and old tummus's plump, elderly wife, who was famed in the district for her nursing qualities, sat by the bedside and shed tears as she held his hand. "such a bonny lad," she said, "i wonder what miss mary'll say if he should die." mary had heard the news at breakfast-time before her father had returned, but she made no sign, only looked very pale and grave. and as she dwelt upon the news she wondered what she would have said if john grange had come to her and spoken as daniel barnett did on the previous evening. this thought made the colour come back to her cheeks and a strange fluttering to her breast as she recalled the different times they had met, and john grange's tenderly respectful way towards her. then she chased away her thoughts, for her mother announced from the window that "father" was coming. a minute later james ellis entered, to sit down sadly to his breakfast, his silence being respected by mother and daughter. at last he spoke. "you heard, of course, about poor grange?" "yes. how is he?" "bad--very bad. doctor don't say much, but it's a serious case, i fear. come right down on his head, close to my feet. there--i can't eat. only fancy, mother, talking to me as he was last night, and now lying almost at the point of death." he pushed away cup and plate, and sat back in his chair. "`in the midst of life we are in death,'" he muttered. "dear, dear, i wish i hadn't spoken so harshly to him last night, mother. fine, straightforward young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped." mrs ellis sighed and glanced at her daughter, who was looking wildly from one to the other. "there; i'll get back. ah! who's this?" it was daniel barnett, who had run up from the bothy; and ellis hurried out to the door. "what is it?" he cried anxiously. "old hannah says, `will you come on:' she don't like the looks of him. he's off his head." ellis caught his hat from the peg, and glanced at daniel barnett with a peculiar thought or two in his head as the young man looked quickly at the door and window. barnett caught the glance and felt uncomfortable, for though sorry for his fellow-worker's accident, certain thoughts would intrude relating to his own prospects if john grange were not at the hollows. they hurried down to the grounds, mother and daughter watching from the window, and in those few minutes a great change came over mary ellis's face. it was as if it rapidly altered from that of the happy, careless girl, who went singing about the house, to the thoughtful, anxious woman. even her way of speaking was different, as she turned quickly upon her mother. "what was father so angry about last night?" she said. "did he have a quarrel with poor mr grange?" "well, hardly a quarrel, my dear. oh, it was nothing." "but he said he was sorry he spoke so harshly to him. mother, you are keeping something back." "well, well, well, my darling, nothing much; only young men will be young men; and father was put out by his vanity and conceit. he actually got talking to father about you." "about me?" said mary, flushing, and beginning to tremble. "yes, my dear; and, as father said, it was nothing short of impudence for a young man in his position to think about you. i don't know what's come to the young men now-a-days, i'm sure." mary said nothing, but she was very thoughtful all that day, and during the days which followed, for she had found out the truth about herself, and a little germ that had been growing in her breast, but of which she had thought little till daniel barnett came up and spoke, and made her know she had a heart--a fact of which she became perfectly sure, when the news reached her next morning of the sad accident in the grounds. chapter four. old hannah's fears were needless, for the delirium passed away; and as the days glided by and poor grange lay in his darkened bedroom, untiringly watched by old tummus's patient wife, james ellis used to take the tidings home till the day when in secret mary went up afterwards to her own room to sink upon her knees by her bedside, and hide her burning face in her hands, as if guiltily, while she offered up her prayer and thanksgiving for all that she had heard. for the doctor had definitely said that john grange would not die from the effects of his fall. "thank you, tummus, old man," said the patient, one evening about a fortnight after the accident; and he took a bunch of roses in his hand. "i can't see them, but they smell deliciously. hah! how it makes me long to be back again among the dear old flowers." "aye, to be sure, my lad. you mun mak' haste and get well and get out to us again. dan barnett arn't half the man you are among the missus's orchardses. and look here, i want my old woman home again. you mun look sharp and get well." "yes: i hope the doctor will soon let me get up. god bless you, hannah! you've been quite like a mother to me." "nonsense, nonsense, boy; only a bit o' nussing. make haste and get well again." "aye, she'd be a good nuss if she warn't quite so fond o' mustard," said old tummus. "it's allus mustard, mustard, stuck about you to pingle and sting if there's owt the matter. i like my mustard on my beef. and that's what you want, master john--some good slices o' beef. they women's never happy wi'out giving you spoon meat." "hold your tongue, tummus, and don't talk so much nonsense," said his wife. "nay, i arn't going to be choked. i s'pose mrs mostyn sends you jellies and chicken-broth, and the like?" "yes, every one is very kind," said grange. "but look here, have you seen to the mushroom bed?" "aye." "and those cuttings in the frames?" "you mak' haste and get well, master john, and don't you worry about nowt. i'm seeing to everything quite proper, for i don't trust master dan barnett a bit. he's thinking too much o' finding scuses to go up to the cottage, and i know why. there, good-night. get well, lad. i do want to see that bandage from over your eyes next time i come. old dunton's mortal bad, they say. good-night." it was a bad night for john grange, who was so feverish that the doctor remarked upon it, and the progress was so poor during the next week that the doctor determined to have his patient up, and came one morning in company with the bailiff, talking to him seriously the while. they were very kind to him, helping him to dress, and helped him at last into the outer room, where it was light and cool, and old hannah, with a face full of commiseration, had placed an easy-chair for the pale, weak man, with his eyes and head bandaged heavily. it so happened that just as john grange lay back in the chair, while old hannah stood with her handkerchief to her eyes, crying silently, and james ellis was behind the chair looking very grave and stern, daniel barnett came up to the door of the bothy with a message, which he did not deliver, for the words he heard arrested him, and he drew back listening. "now, doctor, please," sighed grange; "it has been so hard to bear all this long time, and i have been very patient. let me have the bandage off, and, if it's only a glimpse, one look at the bright sunshine again." there was silence for a moment, and then the doctor took the young man's hand, his voice shaking a little, as he said gravely-- "grange, my lad, three weeks ago i felt that i could not save your life. god has heard our prayers, and let my poor skill avail. you will in a few weeks be as strong as ever." "yes--yes," said the patient, in tones of humble thankfulness, and then his lips moved for a few moments, but no sound was heard. then aloud--"believe me, doctor, i am grateful. but the bandage. let me see the light." "my poor fellow!" began the doctor, and old hannah uttered a sob, "you must know." "ah!" cried john grange, snatching the bandage from his eyes, the broad handkerchief kept there ever since the fall. "don't--don't tell me that--i--i was afraid--yes--dark--all dark! doctor--doctor--don't tell me i am blind!" old hannah's sobs grew piteous, and in the silence which followed, james ellis stole on tiptoe towards the window, unable to be a witness of the agony which convulsed the young man's face. "then it is true!" said grange. "blind--blind from that awful shock." "ah, here you are, master barnett," cried the voice of old tummus outside. "the doctor. is he coming over? 'cause he needn't now." "what is the matter?" said ellis, stepping out, with daniel barnett backing away from the porch before him. "poor owd dunton's gone, sir; dropped off dead ripe at last--just gone to sleep." james ellis looked daniel barnett in the eyes, and both had the same thought in their minds. what a change in the younger man's prospects this last stroke of fate had made! chapter five. "i am very deeply grieved, mr manning," said mrs mostyn, as she sat in her drawing-room, holding a kind of consultation with the doctor and james ellis, her old agent, and as she spoke, the truth of her words was very evident, for she kept applying her handkerchief to her eyes. "i liked john grange. a frank, manly fellow, whose heart was in his work, and i fully intended, ellis, that he should succeed poor old dunton." "yes, ma'am; a most worthy young man," said the bailiff. "worthy? he was more than that. he was fond of his work and proud of the garden. go in that conservatory, doctor, and look at my orchids. his skill was beyond question." "your flowers are the envy of the county, mrs mostyn," said the doctor. "ah, well! it is not my flowers in question, but this poor fellow's future. do you mean to tell me that you can do nothing for him?" "i regret to say that i must," said the doctor gravely. "we try all we can to master nature's mechanism, but i frankly confess that we are often very helpless. in this case the terrible shock of the fall on the head seems to have paralysed certain optical nerves. time may work wonders, but i fear that his sight is permanently destroyed." "oh, dear, dear, dear!" sighed mrs mostyn, down whose pleasant old face the tears now coursed unchecked; "and all to satisfy my whims--all because i objected to a ragged, broken branch. but, doctor, can nothing be done?" "i can only recommend one thing, madam--that he should go up to one of the specialists, who will suggest that he should stay in his private infirmary." "well, why not?" said mrs mostyn eagerly. "there is the expense, madam," said the doctor hesitatingly. "expense? pooh! fudge! people say i am very mean. poor old dunton used to say so, and james ellis here." "i beg your pardon, ma'am--" began the bailiff. "oh, don't deny it, james; you know you have. i heard of it over and over again, because i would not agree to some extravagant folly proposed by you or poor old dunton for the estate or garden." "but--" "silence! i remember dunton said i could spend hundreds on new orchids, and stinted him in help; and you were quite angry because i wouldn't have half-a-mile of new park palings, when the old mossy ones look lovely. but i'm not mean, doctor, when there is a proper need for outlay. now you go at once and make arrangements for that poor young man to be taken up to town and placed in this institution. mind, you are to spare no expense. it was my fault that poor grange lost his sight, and i shall never love my garden again if his eyes are not restored." the doctor rose, shook hands, and went away, leaving the bailiff with his mistress, who turned to him with her brow all in puckers. "well, james ellis, i hardly know what to say. it is a dreadful shock, and i don't like to do anything hastily. if there was a prospect of poor grange recovering i would wait." the bailiff shook his head. "doctor manning told me, ma'am, that he was afraid it was hopeless." "and i'm afraid so too," said mrs mostyn, with a sigh. "i can't superintend the garden myself, ma'am." "no, ellis, you have too much to do." "and gardens are gardens, ma'am--ours in particular." "yes," said mrs mostyn, who was thinking of the poor fellow lying at the bothy in darkness. "and with all those glass-houses and their valuable contents, a day's neglect is never recovered." "no, james ellis." "the men, too, want some one over them whom they must obey." "of course--of course, ellis. and you think daniel barnett is quite equal to the duties?" "oh, yes, ma'am. he is quite as good a gardener as john grange, so i don't think you could do better, ma'am. you see we know him, that he is trustworthy and clever." "well, well, i'll think about it. i will not decide this morning; but i suppose it will have to be so. i can't go appointing another man directly the breath is out of poor old dunton's body, and with that poor fellow lying there in misery. come to me this day week, james ellis, and i will give my decision." the bailiff bowed and withdrew, to go straight to the gardens, where, quite by accident, of course, daniel barnett came along one of the paths, and met him, looking at him inquiringly; but ellis did not say a word about the subject nearest then to the young man's heart. he asked how the grapes were looking, and had a peep at them and the melons. then went on through the orchid-houses, reeking with heat and moisture, and at last stood still wiping his head in the hot sunshine. "they do you credit, barnett," he said. "i'm very glad to see how you have thrown yourself into the gap, and managed now poor john grange is down; everything looks perfect. i see you have kept the men up to their work." "done my best, mr ellis, of course," said the young man. "of course, of course. i told mrs mostyn i was sure you would. there, i must be off. good-morning." he started off for the gate, and then turned. "oh, by the way, barnett, poor john grange is to be sent up to town. i thought you would like to hear. but don't say a word to him, and--er-- i'm always at home of an evening if you care to step up and have a quiet pipe with me, and a bit of music before supper. good-morning." "the wind's changed," said dan barnett, with his face flushed up by the exultation he felt. "i'm safe two ways. poor old jack grange! well, we can't all win." chapter six. the week, had passed, and daniel barnett had been up to the cottage twice while john grange lay in the dark. the welcome had been warm enough from james ellis; mrs ellis had been lukewarm and wary. "ah, well, that will come," said the young man to himself on the previous evening, after he had received his instructions from the bailiff about the fly to the station, and his duties in taking charge of john grange, and going up with him to the little private infirmary where he was to stay for a few months if necessary. "poor chap! i'm sorry for him, but, as i said before, we can't all win." the day for john grange's departure had come, and he lay back upon a little couch fighting hard to bear his misfortune like a man, and think hopefully of his future. mrs mostyn had been to see him four times, and spoke in the most motherly way as she prophesied a successful issue to the journey; but only left him more low-spirited as he thought of mary and his and her future. the couch was close to the open window, where he could feel the warm sunshine, and old hannah had left him for a short time alone to go and finish packing his little bag, while daniel barnett in his best was waiting to see james ellis, when he came from the house, receive his final instructions, and then have the fly brought to the garden-door for john grange. he had quite half-an-hour to wait before ellis appeared, and on joining him held out his hand. "good-bye, sir," said barnett, "but i shall see you at the bothy. i'll take great care of the poor fellow." "i meant to congratulate you, dan barnett, our new head-gardener," said ellis. "mrs mostyn confirms your appointment. success to you! now come on to the bothy, and let's get that poor fellow off. i'll let him know of it by and by--not for a week or two yet." but john grange, as he lay there, was feeling sure that the appointment would be given to barnett, and he only sighed in a hopeless way, and felt that it was just. and just then he heard a step and pulled himself together. "come in," he said, trying to speak cheerily. "no mistaking your fairy footsteps, tummus. i thought you'd come and say good-bye." "aye, and come to the station too, my lad. and i mean to come up to the orspittle once a week, to bring you a bit o' fruit and a few flowers, if i have to walk." "thank you, old man; thank you." "you need a bit o' comfort, my lad, and i want you to get right. that old 'ooman's drying hersen up wi' crying about you. there wean't be a drop o' mysture left in her by and by. ah! it's a strange world." "it never felt so beautiful before, old man," said john grange sadly. "thought i'd try and comfort you up a bit. s'pose you know that dan barnett's safe to be the new head?" "yes, i suppose so, tummus." "yah! means ruins to the grand old place." "nonsense! dan is a thoroughly good gardener when he likes." "aye, when he likes," said the old man; and he suddenly subsided into silence, which lasted some minutes, during which john grange was very thoughtful. then, suddenly starting, the invalid said-- "there, old fellow, don't run down a good man. it was to be." there was a deep sigh. "don't do that, old chap," said john. "it isn't cheering. i don't mind it so very much. but you must go now; i want to think a bit before they fetch me. good-bye, and thank you and your dear old wife for all she has done. it's no use to fight against it, old man; i'm going to be always in the dark, i know well enough, so you may as well try and train up some dog to lead me about when i come back, for heaven only knows what's to become of me. but there, say good-bye. my old mother shan't have taught me to kneel down and say every night, `thy will be done!' for nothing. there--shake hands and go," he said, trying to command his trembling voice--"before i break down and cry like a girl, just when i want to act the man." he stretched out his hand again, and it closed, but not upon old tummus's horny palm, but ringers that were soft and warm, and clung to his; and as that little, soft, trembling hand seemed to nestle there, john grange uttered a hoarse cry. "who--who is this?" he whispered then. for answer there was a quick, rustling sound, as of some one kneeling down by the couch, and then there was wild sobbing and panting as a soft, wet cheek was laid against his hands. "miss ellis--mary!" he cried wildly; and the answer came at once. "oh, john, john, i could not bear it--i could not let you go without one word." chapter seven. in those few joyous moments the darkness became light, dazzling light, to john grange; misery, despair, the blank life before him, had dropped away, and the future spread out in a vista wherein hope shone brightly, and all was illumined by the sweet love of a true-hearted woman. he would have been less than man if he had not drawn the half-shrinking, half-yielding figure to his heart, and held mary tightly there as, amidst tears and sobs, she confessed how she had long felt that he loved her, but doubted herself the reality of the new sensation which had made her pleased to see him, while when she met him as they spoke something seemed to urge her to avoid him, and look hard, distant, and cold. then the terrible misfortune had come, and she knew the truth; the bud grew and had opened, and she trembled lest any one should divine her secret, till she knew that he was to go away believing that she might care for daniel barnett; in suffering and mental pain, needing all that those who cared for him could do to soften his pitiable case; and at last, believing that she alone could send him away hopeful and patient to bear his awful infirmity, she had cast off all reserve and come to say good-bye. "and you will not think the less of me?" she whispered appealingly. "think the less of you!" he cried proudly; "how can you ask that? mary, you send me away happy. i shall go patient and hopeful, believing that the doctors can and will give me back my sight, and ready to wait till i may come back to you, my own love--for i do love you, dear. this year past my every thought has been of you, and i have worked and studied to make myself worthy, but always in despair, for i felt that you could not care for one like me, and that--" "how could you think it?" she whispered tenderly, as she nestled to him. "i never, never could have cared for him, john, nor for any one but you." and for those brief minutes all was the brightest of life's sunshine in that humble room. there were tears in mary's sweet grey eyes, and they clung upon the lashes and lay wet upon her cheeks; but that sunshine made them flash irradiant with joy before the black cloud closed in again, and john grange's pale face grew convulsed with agony, as he shrank from her, only holding her hands in his with a painful clasp; while, as she gazed at him wildly, startled by the change, she saw that his eyes seemed to be staring wildly at her, so bright, unchanged, and keen that it was impossible to believe that they were blank, so plainly did they bespeak the agony and despair in the poor fellow's breast. "john," she cried excitedly, "what is it? shall i go for help? you are in terrible pain?" "yes, yes, dear," he moaned; "pain so great that it is more than i can bear. no, no, don't go, not for a minute, dear; but go then, never to come near me more. don't, don't tempt me. god help me and give me strength." "john, dear," he whispered piteously, as she clung to his hands, and he felt her press towards him till the throbbings of her heart beat upon his wrists. "no, no," he groaned. "mary, dear, let me tell you while i have strength. i should be no man if i was silent now. i shouldn't be worthy of you, dear, nor of the love you have shown me you could have given." "john, john!" "don't, don't speak to me like that," he groaned, "or you will make me forget once more, and speak to you as i did just now. i was half mad with joy, beside myself with the sweet delight. but 'tis taking a coward's, a cruel advantage of you in your innocence and love. mary, mary dear," he said faintly; and could those eyes which stared so blankly towards her have seen, he would have gazed upon the calm, patient face, upon which slowly dawned a gentle tenderness, as she bent lower and lower as if longing to kiss his hands, which she caressed with her warm breath, while she listened to his words. "listen, dear," he said, "and let me tell you the truth before you say good-bye, and go back to pray for me--for your own dear self--that we may be patient and bear it. time will make it easier, and by and by we can look back upon all this as something that might have been." "yes," she said gently, and she raised her face a little as she knelt by the couch to gaze fondly in his eyes. "i am going away, dear, and it is best, for what we have said must be like a dream. mary, dear, you will not forget me, but you must think of me as a poor brother smitten with this affliction, one, dear, that i have to bear patiently to the end." "yes, john," she said, with a strange calmness in her tones. "how could i let you tie yourself down to a poor helpless wretch who will always be dependent upon others for help? it would be a death in life for you, mary. in my great joy i forgot it all; but my reason has come back. there is no hope, dear. i am going up to town because mrs mostyn wishes it. heaven bless her for a good, true woman! but it is of no use, i know. doctor manning knows it well enough. my sight has gone, dear, and i must face the future like a man. you well know i am speaking the truth." she tried to reply, but there was a suffocating sensation at her throat, and it was some moments before she could wildly gasp out--"yes!" then the strange, sweet, patient look of calm came back, with the gentle pity and resignation in her eyes as she gazed at him with sorrow. "there," he said, "you must go now. bless you, mary--bless you, dear. you have sent gladness and a spirit of hopefulness into my dark heart, and i am going away ready to bear it all manfully, for i know it will be easier to bear--by and by--when i get well and strong. then you shall hear how patient i am, and some day in the future i shall be pleased in hearing, dear, that you are happy with some good, honest fellow who loves and deserves you; and perhaps too," he continued, talking quickly and with a smile upon his lip, as he tried to speak cheerfully in his great desire to lessen her grief and send her away suffering less keenly--"perhaps too, some day, i may be able to come and see--" he broke down. he could, in his weak state, bear no more, and with a piteous cry he snatched away his hands and covered his convulsed features, as he lay back there quivering in every nerve. and then from out of the deep, black darkness, mental and bodily, which closed him in, light shone out once more, as, gently and tenderly, a slight soft arm glided round his neck, and a cold, wet cheek was laid against his hands, while in low, measured tones, every word spoken calmly, almost in a whisper, but thrilling the suffering man to the core, mary murmured-- "i never knew till now how much a woman's duty in life is to help and comfort those who suffer. john, dear, i have listened to everything you said, and feel it no shame now to speak out all that is in my heart. i always liked the frank, straightforward man who spoke to me as if he respected me; who never gave me a look that was not full of the reverence for me that i felt was in his breast. you never paid me a compliment, never talked to me but in words which i felt were wise and true. you made me like you, and now, once more, i tell you that when this trouble came i learned that i loved you. john, dear, this great affliction has come to you--to us both, and i know you will learn to bear it in your own patient, wise way." "yes, yes," he groaned; "but blind--blind! mary--for pity's sake leave me--in the dark--in the dark." she rose from her knees by his side, and he uttered a sob, for he felt that she was going; but she retained one of his hands between hers in a firm, cool clasp. "no, dear," she said softly; "those who love are one. john grange, i will never leave you, and your life shall not be dark. heaven helping me, it shall be my task to lighten your way. you shall see with my eyes, dear; my hand shall always be there to guide you wherever you may go; and some day in the future, when we have grown old and grey, you shall look back, dear, with your strong, patient mind, and then tell me that i have done well, and that your path in life has not been dark." "mary," he groaned, "for pity's sake don't tempt me; it is more than i can bear." "it is no temptation, john," she said softly, and in utter ignorance that there were black shadows across her and the stricken man, she bent down and kissed his forehead. "last sunday only, in church, i heard these words--`if aught but death part me and thee.'" she sank upon her knees once more, and with her hands clasped together and resting upon his breast, her face turned heavenwards, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in prayer, while the two shadows which had been cast on the sunlight from the door softly passed away, james ellis and daniel barnett stepping back on to the green, and standing looking in each other's eyes, till the sound of approaching wheels was heard. then assuming that they had that moment come up, james ellis and the new head-gardener strode once more up to the door. chapter eight. ellis had been so thoroughly astounded upon seeing mary kneeling by john grange's side that he had made a quick sign to barnett to come away; and as soon as they were at a short distance from the door he felt that his action had been ill-judged, and likely to excite the derision of his companion, whom he had begun now to think of as a possible son-in-law. "wretched--foolish girl!" he said to himself, and leading the way, they both entered the bothy. "mary!" he cried angrily, "i am here. what is the meaning of this?" daniel barnett, who was quivering with jealous rage, expected to see the bailiff's daughter spring to her feet, flushed with shame and dread, at being surprised in such a position, but to his astonishment she hardly stirred, merely raising her head a little to look gently and sadly in her father's face as she said-- "i have come to bid poor john grange good-bye." "without my leave!" stormed ellis, "and like this. mary! shameless girl, have you taken leave of your senses?" she smiled at him sadly, and shook her head. "disgraceful!" cried ellis. "what will mr barnett--what will every one think of your conduct?" he caught her hand in his rage, and drew her sharply away as he turned to john grange. "and you, sir, what have you to say? your weakness and injury are no excuse. everything possible has been done for you. we have all worked for you, and tried to lighten your affliction; even now i have come with mr barnett to see you off, and i find my kindness returned by a cruel, underhanded, cowardly blow." "mr ellis," began john, with his pale face flushing and his dark eyes wandering as he tried to fix them upon the speaker's face. "silence, sir! how dare you! how long has this disgraceful business been going on?" "oh, father, father!" cried mary, clinging to him; "pray, pray say no more. we are not alone." "no," cried ellis, who had now worked himself into a towering passion; "we are not alone. mr barnett is here, a witness to the way in which this man has prevailed upon you to set all common decency at defiance, and come here alone. how long, i repeat, has this disgraceful business been going on?" mary was about to speak, but at that moment john grange raised himself upon his elbow and said firmly-- "one moment, please, mr ellis; this is a matter solely between you and me. if daniel barnett is here, surely it is his duty, as a man, to go." "i don't take my instructions from you, sir," cried ellis; "and i beg and desire that mr barnett will stay and hear what i have to say to you--you miserable, underhanded, contemptible hound." john grange flushed, and noted the "mr" applied again and again to his fellow-worker, and a pang of disappointment shot through him as he fully grasped what it meant. "you are angry and bitter, sir," he said, though calmly, "and are saying things which you will regret. there has been nothing underhanded. that i have long loved miss ellis, i am proud to say; but until this present time no word has passed between us, and i have never, as you know, addressed her as a lover." "oh yes, you say so," cried ellis angrily. "you talked finely enough the other day, but what about now? so this is the way in which you carry out your high principles, deluding a silly child into coming here for this clandestine interview, and making her--a baby as she is, and not knowing her own mind--believe that you are a perfect hero, and entangling her with your soft speeches into i don't know what promises." "it is not true, sir," said john grange sadly. "how do i know it is not true, sir? bah! it is true! i come here and find you and this shameless girl locked in each other's arms." "father!" cried mary, snatching away her hand, and before ellis could arrest her, going back to john grange's side to lay that hand upon his shoulder, "i cannot stand here and listen to your cruel, unjust words; john grange is not to blame, it was my doing entirely." "shame upon you, then!" "no, it is no shame," she cried proudly. "you force me to defend myself before another, and i will speak out now before the man who has for long enough pestered me with his attentions, and whom, during these past few days, you have made your friend and encouraged to come home; let him hear then that i feel it no shame to say i love john grange very dearly, and that i would not let him leave here, weak, suffering, and in the dark, without knowing that his love was returned." then, bending down, she took john grange's hand, and raised it to her lips. "good-bye!" she said softly. "mary!" cried her father, beside himself now with rage; and he once more snatched her away. "yes, father, i am ready," she said quietly; "and you, who are always so good and just, will tell john grange that you have cruelly misjudged him, before he goes." but james ellis did not then, for drawing his child's arm through his own, he hurried her away from the bothy, and home in silence to the cottage, where she flung herself sobbing in her mother's arms, and crouched there, listening, while the angry man walked up and down, relieving himself of all he had seen. mrs ellis's pleasant countenance grew full of puckers, and she sat in silence, softly patting mary's shoulder with one hand, holding her tightly with the other, till her husband had ended with-- "disgraceful--disgraceful, i say. i don't know what mrs mostyn would think if she knew." "well, i don't know, my dear," sighed mrs ellis, with the tears gently trickling down her cheeks, and dropping one by one like dew-drops on mary's beautiful hair. "mrs mostyn has been a dear, good mistress to us." "yes, and a pretty business for her to hear--our child degrading herself like this." "'tis very sad, james, but mrs mostyn made a runaway match with captain mostyn." "eliza, are you mad too?" "no, james, dear; but i'm afraid these are mysteries that men don't quite understand." "bah!" "but they do not, dear. if you remember, my poor dear dad and your father were very angry about your wanting me. dad said you were only a common gardener, but i felt--" "woman, you are as bad as your daughter," raged james ellis. "was i a poor blind man?" "no, my dear; for you always had very, very fine eyes, but--" "bah!" raged out james ellis; and he went out and banged the door. chapter nine. john grange's journey to london was performed almost in silence, for as he sat back in the corner of the carriage, weak and terribly shaken by the scene through which he had passed, daniel barnett sat opposite to him, wishing that they did not live in a civilised country, but somewhere among savages who would think no ill of one who rid himself of a useless, troublesome rival. but after a time rage gave way to contempt. he felt that he had nothing to fear from the helpless object in question. mary never looked more attractive than when she stood up there defending the poor blind fellow before him. "if i could only get her to be as fond of me, and ready to stick up for me like that!" he thought; and he softly rubbed his hands together. "and i will," he muttered. "she's very young, and it was quite natural. she'll soon forget poor old blind jack, and then--but we shall see. head-gardener at the hollows, and james ellis willing. i shall win, my lad, and step into the old man's shoes as well." he parted from john grange at the infirmary, and somehow the darkness did not seem so black to the sufferer for some days. for he was full of hope, a hope which grew stronger as the time went by. then old tummus came up to see him, and gladdened his heart with old-fashioned chatter about the garden, obstinately dwelling upon the "taters," and cabbages, and codlin and cat's-head apples, when the patient was eager to hear about the orchids, grapes, pines, and melons, which he pictured as he had seen them last. but mary's name was not mentioned, for john grange had thought the matter out. it was impossible, he said, and time would soften the agony for both--unless his stay here proved of avail. but the days glided by--a week--a fortnight--a month--then two months, during which specialists had seen him, consultations had been held; and then came the day when old tummus was up in town again, with flowers and fruit, which john grange took round the ward from patient to patient, walking slowly, but with little to show that he was blind, as he distributed the presents he had received, and said good-bye to his dark companions. for the verdict had been passed by the profession who had seen him that they could do nothing, and mrs mostyn had sent word that grange was to be fetched back, old tummus and his wife gladly acceding to the proposal that the young man should lodge with them for a few weeks, till arrangements could be made for his entrance to some asylum, or some way hit upon for him to get his living free from the misery of having nothing to do. "cheer up, my lad!" said the old man, as they were on their way back. "i do, old fellow," said john grange quietly. "i have been two months in that place, and it has taught me patience. there, i am never going to repine." "you're as patient as a lamb, my dear," said old hannah the next day; "and it's wonderful to see how you go about and don't look blind a bit. why, you go quite natural-like into our bit of garden, and begin feeling the plants." "yes," he said, "i feel happier then. i've been thinking, hannah, whether a blind man could get his living off an acre of ground with plants and flowers that he could not see, but would know by the smell." "well, you do cap me, my dear," said the old woman. "i don't know." and then to herself, "look at him, handsome and bright-eyed--even if he can't see, i don't see why he shouldn't manage to marry his own dear love after all. there'd be an eye apiece for them, there would, and an eye above all-seeing to watch over 'em both." and old hannah wiped her own, as she saw john grange stoop down and gently caress a homely tuft of southern-wood, passing his hands over it, inhaling the scent, and then talking to himself, just as mrs mostyn came up to the garden hedge, and stood watching him, holding up her hand to old hannah, to be silent, and not let him know that she was there. chapter ten. "wait and see, my lad, wait and see," said james ellis. "there, there: we're in no hurry. you've only just got your appointment, and, as you know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. very soft, dan, my boy. bless 'em, they're very nice though. we grow in the open air; they grow under glass, as you may say. we're outdoor plants; they're indoor, and soft, and want care. polly took a fancy to poor john grange, and his misfortune made her worse. he became a sort of hero for her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and i was to come the stern father, and say, you must marry dan barnett, what would be the consequences? she'd mope and think herself persecuted, and be ready to do anything for his sake." daniel barnett sighed. "there, don't be a fool, man," said ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. "have patience. my pol--mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. what we saw was all sentiment and emotion. she's very young, and every day she'll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. poor john grange has gone." "but he has come back, and is staying with old tummus." "yes, yes, i know, but only for a few days, till mrs mostyn has settled something about him. she's a dear, good mistress, dan, and i'd do anything for her. she consulted me about it only the other day. she wants to get him into some institution; and if she can't she'll pension him off somewhere. i think he'll go to some relatives of his out lancashire way. but, anyhow, john grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. you've got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of john." "yes; he'd got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir." "well, well, you can do the same. she loves her flowers, and poor john was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. she saw that, and of course it pleased her. all you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and-- there, i needn't preach to you, daniel, my lad; you're as good a gardener as poor john grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides for life." "not quite, sir," cried the young man quietly. "all right; i know what you mean." "then you consent, sir?" "oh, no, i don't. i only say to you, wait and see. i'm not going to promise anything, and i'm not going to have my comfortable home made miserable by seeing wife and child glum and ready to burst out crying. i'm not going to force that tender plant, dan. mary's a sensible girl, and give her time and she'll see that it is impossible for her to spend her life playing stick, or little dog, to a blind man. she shall see that her father wishes what is best for her, and in the end the pretty little fruit, which is only green now, will become ripe, and drop into some worthy young fellow's hands. if his name is daniel barnett, well and good. we shall see. all i want is to see my pet go to a good home and be happy." daniel barnett held out his hand. "no, no; i'm going to clinch no bargains, and i'm not going to be bothered about this any more. your policy is to wait. the seed's sown. i dare say it will come up some day. now then, business. about maitland williams?" "well, mr ellis, you know him as well as i do. admiral morgan can't give him a rise because the other men are all right, and he wants to be a step higher, and be all under glass. he has spoken to me twice. he says he wouldn't have done so, only poor john grange was of course out of it, and he didn't think that we had any one who could be promoted." "that's quite right. he has been to me three times, and i don't see that we could do better. think you could get on with him?" "oh, yes, he's all right, sir." "very well, then; i'm going up to the house to see the mistress about the hay. nixon wants to buy it again this year." "and take all the mowing off our hands, sir?" "yes, i suppose you would rather not spare the men to make it ourselves." "well, sir, you know the season as well as i do. there's no end of things asking to be done." "yes, i shall advise her to let it go, and i'll ask her to sanction williams being taken on. he says he can come and fill poor grange's place at once." they parted, daniel barnett to go and begin tying up some loose strands in the vinery, and trim out some side-growth which interfered with the ripening of the figs; james ellis to walk up to the house and ask to see mrs mostyn, who sent out word by the butler that she would be in the library in a few minutes. chapter eleven. meanwhile there had been tears and trouble at the cottage, and mary was sobbing in her mother's arms. "but it seems so hard, dear," she whispered; "he's there, and waiting hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving words." "that you can't go and say, dear. i know--i know, but you cannot go, my darling. now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. he is certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his face. now come, come, do be patient and wait. some day, perhaps, his sight may come back, and if it did i'm sure father loves you too well to stand in the way of your happiness." "but you don't think as he does, mother dear, so don't say you think he is right." "i'm afraid i must, dear, much as it goes against me to say so. it couldn't be, mary--it couldn't indeed, my dear; and you know what you told me--how sensible and wise poor john grange spoke about it himself. it would be a kind of madness, mary, dear: so come, come, wipe your poor eyes. god knows what is best for us all, and when the afflictions come let's try to bear them patiently." "yes, mother," cried mary, hastily drying her eyes. "i will be patient and firm." "and you see, dear, that it would not be right for you to go down to old hannah's. it would be, as i said, like flying in the face of father, who, i'm sure, has been as nice as could be about all you did that day." "yes, mother," said mary, with another sigh. "then i will be patient and wait." "that's right, my darling. and there, now i'll tell you something i heard from father. poor john grange is not forgotten; mrs mostyn is trying to place him in a home, and if she doesn't, he's to go to some friends, and she's going to pension him for life." mary sighed once more, a deeper, more painful sigh, one which seemed to tear its way through her heart, as in imagination she saw the fine manly fellow who had won that heart pursuing his dark road through life alone, desolate, and a pensioner. up at the house james ellis was not kept waiting long before there was a rustling sound, and mrs mostyn came in through the french window from the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house. she looked radiant and quite young, in spite of her sixty-five years and silver hair, and there was a happy smile upon her lip that brightened the tears in her eyes, as she nodded to her agent cheerfully, and held out a great bunch of newly-cut orchids, which she held in her hand. "smell those, james ellis. look at them. are they not beautiful?" "yes, ma'am, and if you sent them to the guildstone show they'd take the first prize." "and the plants come back half spoiled. no, i don't think i shall. i have them grown for their beauty and perfection, not out of pride and emulation. you never used to grow me and my dear husband such flowers when you were head-gardener, james." "no, ma'am," said ellis, smiling at his mistress, as she sat down, drew a great shallow china bowl to her side, and began to daintily arrange the quaint, beautifully-tinted blooms according to her taste; "no, ma'am, but there were no such orchids in those days." "ah, no! that's forty years ago, james ellis. well, what is it this morning?" "about the big oak, ma'am. it is three parts dead, and in another year it will be gone. of course, it's a bad time of year, but i thought if it was cut down now, i might--" "don't! never say a word to me again about cutting down a tree, james ellis," cried his mistress angrily. the bailiff made a deprecating sign. "let them stand till they die. tell barnett to plant some of that beautiful clematis to run over the dead branches. no more cutting down dead boughs while i live." "very good, ma'am." "is that all?" "no, ma'am; about the hay. mr nixon would be glad to have it at the market price." "of course, let mr nixon have all you can spare. and now i'm very busy, james ellis--by the way, how is your wife, and how is mary?" "quite well, thank you, ma'am," said the bailiff, hesitating, as he turned when half-way to the door. "i am glad of it. mind that mary has what flowers she likes for her little greenhouse." "thank you, ma'am, she will be very pleased, but--" "yes! what?" "there was one other thing, ma'am. daniel barnett has been speaking to me about help, and there is one of admiral morgan's men wants to leave to better himself. i know the young man well. an excellent gardener, who would thoroughly suit. his character is unexceptionable, and he is an excellent grower of orchids." "oh!" said mrs mostyn sharply; "and you want me to engage him to take poor john grange's place?" "yes, ma'am," said the bailiff respectfully. "the admiral will recommend him strongly, and i don't think you could do better." "then i do," cried the lady, bringing down one hand so heavily upon the table that the water leaped out of the bowl on to the cloth. "james ellis," she said, rising, "come with me." the bailiff stared, and followed the rustling silk dress out through the french window, and along the tiled floors of the conservatory, to the angle where it turned suddenly and went along by the drawing-room. there she stopped suddenly, with her eyes looking bright and tearful once more, as she pointed to the far end and whispered-- "not do better, james ellis? man, what do you say to that?" chapter twelve. james ellis did not say anything to "that" for a few moments, but stood rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hard rim of his hat, which he held in his hand. for there, to his utter astonishment, was john grange, bright-eyed, erect, and with his face lit up with eager pleasure, busily tying up a plant to the sticks from which its strands had strayed. a few pieces of raffia grass were hung round his neck, his sleeves were turned up, and, evidently in utter ignorance of the fact that he was being watched, he bent over the plant upon its shelf, and with deft fingers traced the course of this branch and that, and following all up in turn, tied those which were loose. after cutting the grass as he tied each knot, he examined the plant all over with his fingers till he found one wanton, wild, unnecessary shoot, and passing the knife-blade down to its origin, he was in the act of cutting it off when james ellis made a gesture to stop him, but was arrested by mrs mostyn, who held up her hand and frowned. by that time the shoot was neatly taken off--cut as a gardener can cut, drawing his knife slightly and cleverly across, making one of those wounds in the right place which heal so easily in the young skin. then grange's hands played about the plant for a few minutes as he felt whether it was in perfect balance, and pressed it back a little upon the shelf, measuring by a touch whether it was exactly in its place. directly after he walked across that end of the conservatory without a moment's hesitation, stopped before the opposite stand, and stretched out his hand to place it upon a pot, about whose contents it began to stray, was withdrawn, extended again, and then wandered to the pots on either side; but only to be finally withdrawn, the poor fellow looking puzzled, and mrs mostyn smiled, nodded, and placing her lips close to the bailiff's ear, whispered-- "there used to be another of those white pelargoniums standing there." by this time john grange's hands were busy at a shelf above, and the lookers-on watched with keen interest for the result, for the flower he sought had been moved on to the higher range, and they were both wondering whether he would find it. they were not long kept in suspense, for john grange's hand touched one of the leaves the next moment, pressed it gently, raised it to his nose, and a look of satisfaction came into the poor fellow's face as, with a smile, he bent over, lifted the pot from its place, stood it on the floor, and went down on one knee to begin examining the plant all over with fingers grown white, soft, and delicate during his illness. mrs mostyn kept on glancing brightly at james ellis, as if she were saying, "do you see that? isn't it wonderful?" and the bailiff stared, and kept on rubbing his nose with the hard brim of his felt hat, while he watched john grange's fingers run up the tender young shoots, and, without injuring a blossom, busy themselves among those where the green aphides had made a nursery, and were clustering thickly, drawing the vital juices from the succulent young stems. and then bringing all his old knowledge to bear, he knelt down on both knees, so that he could nip the pot between them with the plant sloping away from him, and with both hands at liberty, he softly removed the troublesome insects, those which he failed to catch, and which fell from their hold, dropping on to the floor instead of back among the leaves of the plant. every flower, bud, and shoot was examined by touch before the pot was once more stood upright, the various shoots tried as to whether they were properly tied up to their sticks, and then the young man rose, lifted a plant from the lower shelf, placed it where the pelargonium had stood, and lastly, after raising it from the floor, and smelling its leaves, arranged it in the place on the shelf where he had left it a couple of days before his accident. the next minute he walked to where another was standing, as if led by a wonderful instinct, though it was only the result of years of care, application, and method, for he had worked in that conservatory till he knew the position of every ornamental plant as well as he knew its requirements, how long it would last, take to flower, and with what other kind he would replace it from one end of the year to the other. mrs mostyn and her bailiff stood watching john grange for quite half-an-hour, in what seemed to the latter almost a miraculous performance, and in those hasty minutes they both plainly saw the man's devotion to his work, his love for the plants he cultivated, and how thoroughly he was at home in the house and interested in what had taken place in his enforced absence. he showed them, by his actions, that he knew how much the plumbago had grown on the trellis, how long the shoots were that had been made on the layer, and his fingers ran from one mazy cluster of buds and flowers to another; hard-wooded shrubby stems were examined for scale, which was carefully removed; and every now and then he paused and placed his hands on the exact place to raise up some fragrant plant--lemon verbena or heliotrope--to inhale its sweet odour and replace it with a sigh of satisfaction. james ellis watched the young gardener, expecting moment by moment, and, in his then frame of mind, almost hoping to see him knock down some pot on to the tiled floor, or stumble over some flower-stand. but he watched in vain, and he thought the while that if john grange, suffering as he was from that awful infliction, could be so deft and clever there amongst that varied collection of flowers, his work in the other houses among melons, pines, cucumbers, tomatoes, and grapes would soon grow simplicity itself, for, educated as he was by long experience, he would teach himself to thin grapes by touch, train the fruit-bearing stems of the cucumber and melon vines, and remove the unnecessary shoots of the tomatoes with the greatest ease. there would be a hundred things he could do, and each year he would grow more accustomed to working by touch. and as james ellis thought, he, an old gardener, shut his eyes fast, and, in imagination, saw before him a fresh growing tomato plant, and beginning at the bottom, felt whether it was stiff and healthy. then ran up his fingers past the few leaves to the first great cluster of large fruit, removed the young shoots which came from the axils of the leaves, and ran up and up the stem feeling the clusters gradually growing smaller till higher up there were fully-developed blossoms, and higher still tufts of buds and tender leaves with their surface covered with metallic golden down. he started from his musing to gaze open-eyed at his mistress, who had touched his arm, and now signed to him to follow her softly back to the library window, and into the room. "why, james ellis!" she said petulantly, "were you asleep?" "no, ma'am, i was shutting my eyes to try how it would be amongst the plants." "ah," she said, with the tears now brimming up into her eyes; "isn't it wonderful? poor fellow, i cannot tell you how happy it has made me feel. why, james ellis, i had been thinking that he had to face a desolate, blank existence, and i was nearly heart-broken about him, and all the time, as you saw, he was going about happy and light-hearted, actually smiling over his work." "yes, ma'am," said the bailiff rather gruffly, "it seems very wonderful. i don't think he can be quite blind." "what!" "his eyes look as bright as any one else's, ma'am." "you think then that he is an impostor?" "oh, no, ma'am, i wouldn't say that." "no, james ellis, you had better not," said his mistress tartly. "well, you saw what he can do." "yes, ma'am, and i was very much surprised. i did not know he was here;" and ellis spoke as if he felt rather aggrieved. "i suppose not," said mrs mostyn dryly. "i saw him in old tummus's garden yesterday, and i walked across and fetched him here this morning to see what he could do in the conservatory, and really, blind as he is, he seems more clever and careful than daniel barnett." james ellis coughed a little, in a dry, nervous way. "and now i repeat my question, what do you say to that?" "well, ma'am, i--er--that is--" "you want me to engage one of admiral morgan's men to take poor john grange's place?" "yes, ma'am," said the bailiff, recovering himself; "and i don't think, you can do better." "but i don't want another man." the bailiff shrugged his shoulders, and looked deprecatingly at his mistress. "i know you like the garden and houses to look well, ma'am, and we're two hands short." "no, we are not, james ellis. old dunton has done nothing in the garden but look on for years. i only wished for my poor husband's old servant to end his days in peace; and do you think i am going to supersede that poor fellow whom we have just been watching?" "but, pardon me, ma'am, there are many things he could never do." "then barnett must do them, and i shall make a change for poor john grange's sake: i shall give up showy flowers and grow all kinds that shed perfume. that will do. it is impossible for grange to be head-gardener, but he will retain his old position, and you may tell barnett that grange is to do exactly what he feels is suitable to him. he is not to be interfered with in any way." "yes, ma'am," said the bailiff respectfully. "if he is so wonderful now, i don't know what he will be in a few months. now, you understand: john grange is to continue in his work as if nothing had happened, and--you here?" for at that moment two hands busy tying up some loose strands of a bougainvillea dropped to their owner's side, and poor john grange, who had come up to the window unheard, uttered a low cry as he stood with his head bent forward and hands half extended toward the speaker. "mrs mostyn--dear mistress," he faltered, "heaven bless you for those words!" "god tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, john grange," she said softly, as she laid her hand upon one of those extended toward her as if to reach light in darkness; "should not his servants strive to follow that which they are taught?" the blank, bright eyes gazed wildly toward her, and then the head was bowed down over the hand which was touched by two quivering lips, as reverently as if it had been that of a queen. five minutes later james ellis was on his way back to the gardens, thinking it was time that mary went away from home to begin life as a governess, or as attendant to some invalid dame. chapter thirteen. james ellis went straight to the gardens, and had no difficulty in finding daniel barnett, whose voice he heard sounding loud, though smothered, in the closely-shut orchid-house, where he was abusing one of the under-gardeners. "i don't care--i don't believe it," he cried angrily, as ellis opened the door slowly; and then came: "hi! what idiot's that? don't let all the cold wind in out of the garden. i say that glossum and that cattleya has been moved. hi! are you going to shut that door? oh, it's you, mr ellis. i thought it was one of the lads; they will not be careful with those doors." "send him away," said the bailiff. "you can go," said barnett shortly, to the man, "and mind, i mean to know who moved those orchids. it was done out of opposition. i changed 'em there, and that's where they're to stand." "well, i didn't move 'em," growled the man. "didn't move them, _sir_" cried barnett; but at that moment the door was closed with a bang. "i shall have to get rid of that fellow, mr ellis. he don't like me being promoted, and he has been moving my orchids out o' orkardness. ha, ha! not so very bad, that." "he did not move them," said ellis grimly. "who did, then?" "john grange." "john grange?" "yes; i dare say he has been here. he has been in the big conservatory ever so long, tying up plants and clearing off dead stuff." "john grange! what, has he got back his sight?" "no; the mistress fetched him over from old tummus's cottage, and he has been hard at work ever so long." "but there wasn't no clearing up to do," cried barnett, flushing angrily. "wasn't there? well, he was at it, and you may tell that fellow he won't be wanted, for john grange is going to stay." daniel barnett said something which, fortunately, was inaudible, and need not be recorded; and he turned pale through the harvest brown sun-tan with mortification and jealous rage. "why, you don't mean to say, mr ellis, sir," he cried, "that you've been a party to bringing that poor creature back here to make himself a nuisance and get meddling with my plants?" "no, sir, i do not," said the bailiff sharply; "it's your mistress's work. she has a way of doing what she likes, and you'd better talk to her about that." he turned upon his heel and left the orchid-house, and as soon as he was gone the new head-gardener stood watching him till he was out of hearing, and then, doubling up his fist, he struck out from the shoulder at one of the offending pots standing at a corner--a lovely mauve-tinted cattleya in full blossom--and sent it flying to shivers upon the floor. it was the kind of blow he felt in his rage that he would have liked to direct at john grange's head, but as in his unreasonable jealous spite it was only a good-sized earthenware pot, the result was very unsatisfactory, for the flower was broken, the pot shattered, and a couple of red spots appeared on daniel barnett's knuckles, which began to bleed freely. "that's it, is it?" he muttered. "he's to be kept here like a pet monkey, i suppose. well, he's not going to interfere with my work, and so i tell him. don't want no blind beggars about. a silly old fool: that's what she is--a silly old fool; and i should like to tell her so. so he's to come here and do what he likes, is he? well, we shall see about that. it's indecent, that's what it is. why can't he act like a man, and take it as he should, not come whining about here like a blind beggar of bethnal green? but if he can't see, others can. perhaps mr john grange mayn't stop here very long. who knows?" daniel barnett, for some reason or another, uttered a low-toned, unpleasant laugh, and then began to pick up the pieces of the broken pot, and examine the injured orchid, to see what portions would live; but after a few minutes' inspection he bundled all into a wooden basket, carried it out to the rubbish heap, and called one of the men to sweep up the soil upon the red-tiled floor. chapter fourteen. the days glided by and john grange's powers developed in a wonderful way. he busied himself about the glass-houses from morning to night, but he did not return to the bothy in the grounds, preferring to go on lodging with old hannah and her husband. at first the men used to watch him, leaving off their work to talk together when he passed down the garden, and first one and then another stood ready to lend him a helping hand; but this never seemed to be needed, grange making sure by touching a wall, fence, shrub, or some familiar object whose position he knew, and then walking steadily along with no other help than a stick, and finding his way anywhere about the grounds. "it caps me, lads!" said old tummus; "but there, i dunno: he allus was one of the clever ones. look at him now; who'd ever think that he was blind as a mole? why, he walks as upright as i do." there was a roar of laughter at this. "well, so he do," cried old tummus indignantly. "that ain't saying much, old man," said one of the gardeners; "why, you go crawling over the ground like a rip-hook out for a walk." "ah, never mind," grumbled old tummus, "perhaps if you'd bent down to your work as i have, you'd be as much warped. don't you get leaving tools and barrers and garden-rollers all over the place now." "why not?" "'cause we, none on us, want to see that poor lad fall over 'em, and break his legs. eh?" no one did; and from that hour a new form of tidiness was observed in mrs mostyn's garden. daniel barnett said very little, but quite avoided grange, who accepted the position, divining as he did the jealous feeling of his new superior, and devoted himself patiently to such tasks as he could perform, but instinctively standing on his guard against him whom he felt to be his enemy. a couple of months had gone by when, one day, mrs mostyn came upon grange in the conservatory, busily watering various plants which a touch had informed him required water. "do you think it would hurt some of the best orchids to make a good stand full of them here for a couple of days, grange?" said his mistress. "i have a friend coming down who takes a great deal of interest in these plants." "there is always the risk of giving them a check, ma'am," said grange quietly; "but if you wouldn't mind the place being kept rather close, and a little fire being started to heat the pipes, they would be quite right." "oh, do what you think best," said mrs mostyn, "and make me a good handsome show by the day after to-morrow. just there, between these two windows." "if you'll excuse me, ma'am, they would be better on the other side against the house. they would show off better, and be less likely to get a check if a window was opened, as might happen." "of course, john grange. then put them there. i want a good, brilliant show, mind, to please my friend." "they shall be there, ma'am. i'll get a stand cleared at once, ma'am, and put the orchids on to-morrow." by that evening one of the large stands was clear, all but a few flowers to keep it from looking blank, and late on the next afternoon daniel barnett encountered old tummus. "hullo, where are you going with that long barrow?" "orchid-house, to fetch pots." "what for?" "muster grange wants me to help him make up a stand in the zervyturry." daniel barnett walked off muttering-- "i'm nobody, of course. it ain't my garden. better make him head at once." "beautiful! lovely!" cried mrs mostyn, as she stood in front of the lovely bank of blossoms; "and capitally arranged, john grange. why, it is quite a flower show." that evening the guest arrived to dinner in the person of a great physician, whose sole relaxation was his garden; and directly after breakfast the next morning, full of triumph about the perfection of her orchids, mrs mostyn led the way into the conservatory, just as john grange hurried out at the garden entrance, as if to avoid being seen. "a minute too late," said the doctor, smiling; "but i thought you said that the man who attends to this place was quite blind?" "he is! that is the man, but no one would think it. now you shall see what a lovely stand of orchids he has arranged by touch. it is really wonderful what a blind man can do." "yes, it is wonderful, sometimes," replied the visitor. "i have noticed many cases where nature seems to supply these afflicted people with another sense, and--" "oh, dear me! oh, you tiresome, stupid man! my poor flowers! i wouldn't for a hundred pounds have had this happen, and just too when i wanted it all as a surprise for you. that's why he hurried out." "ah, dear me!" said the great physician, raising his glasses to his eye. "such lovely specimens, too. poor fellow! he must have slipped. a sad accident due to his blindness, of course, while watering, i presume." for there, on the red-tiled floor of the conservatory, lay an overturned watering-can, whose contents had formed a muddy puddle, in which were about a dozen broken pots just as they had been knocked down from the stand, the bulbs snapped, beautiful trusses of blossom shivered and crushed, and the whole display ruined by the gap made in its midst. the tears of vexation stood in mrs mostyn's eyes, but she turned very calm directly as she walked back into the drawing-room and rang, looking white now with anger and annoyance. "send john grange to the conservatory directly," she said to the butler, and then walked back with her guest. five minutes later john grange came in from the garden, and the great physician watched him keenly, as the young man's eye looked full of trouble and his face twitched a little as he went towards where he believed his mistress to be. "what is the meaning of this horrible destruction, grange?" she cried. "i don't know, ma'am," he replied excitedly. "i came in and found the pots all down only a few moments ago." "that will do," she said sternly, and she turned away with her guest. "even he cannot speak the truth, doctor. oh, what cowards some men can be!" chapter fifteen. mrs mostyn said but little more, though she thought a great deal. john grange gave her his explanation. he had, he said, been into the conservatory twice that morning; and on the second visit brought the can of water to give the orchids a final freshening, when he felt something crush beneath his feet, and, startled and horrified at finding what was wrong, he had dropped the pot of water and added to the mishap. mrs mostyn said, "that will do," rather coldly; and the young man went away crushed, feeling that she did not believe him, and that the morning's business had, in her disappointment, cast him down from his high position. a day or two later he tried to renew the matter, but he received a short "that will do"; and, humbled and disheartened, he went away, feeling that his position at the hollows would never be the same again. it was talked over at the cottage, where mary listened in agony. "pity he did not own to having met with an accident at once," said her father. "of course it is no more than one expected, it was sure to come some time; but it was a pity he was such a coward and took, refuge in a lie. just like a child: but, poor fellow, his accident has made him weak." mary flushed up in her agony and indignation, for it was as if her father had accused her of untruthfulness; but an imploring look from her mother, just as she was going to speak, silenced her, and she suffered to herself till her father had gone, and then indignantly declared that john grange was incapable of telling a lie. the trouble was discussed too pretty largely at old hannah's cottage, where tummus's wife gave it as her opinion that it was "one of they dratted cats." they was always breaking something, and if the truth was known it was "the missus's prusshun tom, as she allers called shah." "i don't want to accuse anybody," said john grange sadly, as he sat with a piteous look in his blank eyes; "but i'm afraid one of the servants must have stumbled up against the stand, and was then afraid to speak." "burr-urr!" growled old tummus, who was devouring his late meal--a meat tea, the solid part consisting of a great hunch of bread and upon it a large piece of cold boiled, streaky, salt pork. "don't make noises like that at the table, tummus," said his wife. "what will mr grange think of you?" "only said `burr-urr!'" grumbled old tummus. "well, you shouldn't; and i do wish you would use the proper knife and fork like a christian, and keep your pork on your plate." "this here's quite sharp enough, missus," said the old man, cutting the piece of pork with the blade of his great pruning-knife, and re-arranging the piece under his perfectly clean but dirty-looking, garden-stained thumb. "but it looks so bad, cutting like that; and how do we know what you used that knife for last." "well, muster john grange can't see, can he?" "no, no, i cannot see, man," said grange sadly. "go on in your own way as if i were not here." "burr-urr!" growled old tummus again. "why, what is the matter with the man?" cried his wife. "have you not meat enough?" "aye, it's right enow. i was only thinking about them orchards. i know." "know what?" said his wife. "who done it. i see him go there and come away." "what?" cried john grange excitedly, as he turned his eyes towards the old gardener. "i see muster dan barnett come away from the conservatory all in a hurry like, d're'ckly after you'd been there." "you saw dan barnett?" "aye, that's so. i see him: did it out o' spite 'cause the missus didn't give him the job." "tummus, what are you a-saying of?" cried his wife, as the old man's words made grange start excitedly from his chair. "why, if dan'l barnett heared as you said that, you'd be turned away at a moment's notice." "i don't keer; it's the solomon truth," said old tummus, cutting off a cubic piece of pork and lifting it from his bread with the point of his pruning-knife. "it can't be anything of the sort, so hold your tongue. there, there, mr grange, my dear. don't you take any notice of his silly clat. have another cup of tea: here's quite a beauty left." "you say you saw daniel barnett come from the conservatory that morning?" cried grange excitedly; and there was a wild look of agony in his eyes as he spoke. "nay, nay, he didn't, my dear," cried old hannah; "it's all his nonsense. just see what you've done, tummus, with your rubbishing stuff." "aye, but i did see him come out, and i see him go in all of a hurry like," said old tummus sturdily. "where were you?" "in the shrubbery, raking up the dead leaves as he told me to the night afore, and forgotten as i was there so near." "and you were busy raking the leaves?" said grange. "nay, i warn't; i was a-watching on him, and left off, for i didn't see what he wanted there." "no, no, it's impossible; he would have been so careful," said grange hurriedly. "keerful?" cried old tummus contemptuously: "he did it o' purpose. i know: out o' spite." "tummus, you're driving us in a coach and four into the workhouse," cried his wife passionately. "good job too. i don't keer. i say dan barnett did it out o' spite, and i'll go straight to the missus and tell her." "no," said john grange sternly. "not a word. what you say is impossible. daniel barnett does not like me, and he resents my being here, but he could not have been guilty of so cowardly, so contemptible an act." "burr-urr!" growled old tummus; "wouldn't he? i know." "whatever you know," said john grange sternly, "you must keep to yourself." "what, and let the missus think you done it?" "the truth comes to the surface some time or another," said john grange very firmly. "i cannot believe this is the truth, but even if it is i forbid you to speak." "yes; he'd better," put in old hannah, shaking her head severely at her husband; and the meal was finished in silence. another month had passed, and john grange's position remained unchanged. he worked in the houses, and tied up plants by the green walks; but mrs mostyn never came round to stand by his side and talk to him regarding her flowers, and ask questions about the raising of fresh choice plants for the garden. in those painful minutes he had fallen very low in her estimation, and was no longer the same in her eyes, only the ordinary gardener whom she kept on out of charity, and whom she would keep on to the end of her days. john grange felt it bitterly, and longed to get away from a place which caused him intense agony, for, from time to time, he could not help knowing that daniel barnett went up to smoke a pipe with james ellis, and talk about the garden. but the sufferer was helpless. he could not decide what to do if he went away, for there was no talk now of getting him into an asylum; and in spite of all his strong endeavours and determination to be manly and firm, he felt that it would be impossible to go away from the hollows and leave mary ellis. from time to time barnett saw little things which convinced him that so long as john grange was near he would have no chance of making any headway with the object of his pursuit, and this made him so morose and bitter that he would often walk up and down one of the shrubberies on dark nights, inveighing against his rival, who still did not accept his position, but hung on in a place where he was not wanted. "the girl's mad about him," he muttered, "absolutely mad, and--" he stopped short, thoroughly startled by the thoughts which came into his mind. it was as if a temptation had been whispered to him, and, looking sharply round in the darkness, he hurried back to the bothy. that night he lay awake tossing about till morning. that very day he had encountered john grange twice at the end of the long green walk, with its sloping sides and velvet turf, at the top of which slopes were long beds filled with dahlias. these john grange was busy tying up to their sticks, and, as if unable to keep away, barnett hung about that walk, and bullied the man at one end who was cutting the grass by hand where the machine could not be used; and at last made the poor fellow so wroth that he threw down his scythe as soon as barnett had gone, and said he might do it himself. barnett came to the other end a couple of hundred yards away, and began to find fault with the way in which the dahlias were being tied up. but john grange bore it all without a word, though his lips quivered a little. this was repeated, and grange felt that it was the beginning of a course of persecution to drive him away. barnett went down the long green path till nearly at the end, when the dinner-bell began to ring, and just then he came upon the scythe lying where the man had thrown it in his pet. "humph!" ejaculated barnett. "well, he won't have mrs mostyn to take his part. pretty thing if i can't find fault with those under me." at that moment he turned, and there, a hundred yards away, was john grange coming along to his dinner, erect, and walking at a fair pace along the green walk, touching the side from time to time with his stick so as to keep in the centre. the idea came like a flash, and daniel barnett glanced round. no one appeared to be in sight, and quick as thought it was done. one sharp thrust at the bent handle was sufficient to raise the scythe blade and swing it round across the green path, so that the keen edge rose up and kept in position a few inches above the grass right in john grange's path as he came steadily on. the next moment barnett had sprung among the bushes, and was gone. chapter sixteen. the late albert smith, in his _christopher tadpole_, describes a lady whose weakness was periwinkles. old hannah likewise had a weakness, but it was not for that unpleasant-looking curly mollusc which has to be wriggled out with a pin, but, as she expressed it, "a big mellow williams pear with a maddick in it." old hannah's "maddick" was, of course, a maggot in north-country language, but it was not that she had a liking for the larva of a fly, but for the fruit in which that maggot lived for as a gardener's wife she knew well enough that very often those were the finest pears, the first to ripen, that they fell off the tree and were useless for the purpose of dessert, and were often left to rot. so that, knowing well his wife's weakness, old tummus would pick up a fallen pear when he saw it under the tree in september, show it to old dunton, who would nod his head, and the destination of that pear would be tummus's pocket. now there was a fine old pyramid pear-tree not far from the green walk, and while hoeing away at the weeds that morning, where the rich soil made them disposed to grow rampant, old tummus came upon "the very moral" of the pear his old woman would like. it was big, mellow, and streaked with vermilion and patched with gold; and had evidently lain there two nights, for its fragrant odour had attracted a slug, which had carved a couple of round cells in the side, close to where the round black hole betrayed where the maggot lived, and sundry other marks showed that it was still at hand. tummus picked up that pear and laid it in the green cup formed by a young broccoli plant, went on with his hoeing till the bell rang, and was half-way to the gate, stick and lunch-basket in hand, when he remembered the pear, and hurried back--that is to say, he walked back-- not quite so slowly as usual, for tummus never ran. a man that came from "his parts" remembered that the old man had been known to run once, at some cottagers' festival, but that was ages before, and ever since he had walked very deliberately. anyhow, he found the pear, and was returning to cut across the green path, when he caught sight of daniel barnett, and stopped short. "i forgetted as poor old dunton's dead," he thought, "he'll turn nasty if i ask him about the pear; and what's he a-doing of?" old tummus peered through a great row of scarlet-runners and stared at his superior, and saw him bend over something on the green path, and then dart in among the bushes and disappear. "now what is he doing of?" old tummus muttered. "not a-going to--why here comes poor master grange. well, he couldn't have seen him. not a-setting o' no more traps, is he?" old tummus watched for a moment or two, and then walked right across the borders to reach the green path, breathless, just before john grange came up, and shouted loudly-- "ware well!" it was just in time, for in another instant the blind man's ankle would have struck severely against the keen scythe edge, which by accident or malignant design was so placed that its cut would have proved most dangerous, that is to say, in a slightly diagonal position--that is, it would have produced what is known to swordsmen as a draw-cut. but the poor fellow escaped, for, at the first warning of danger he stopped short, erect in his place, with his nostrils widening and face turned towards the speaker. "well?" he cried. "impossible! i am three parts of the way along the green path." "aye, that's so, muster grange," said old tummus, carefully removing the scythe, and placing it in safety by hooking the blade high up in a dense yew-tree. "no well here, but i thought it best any way to stop you." "to stop me? why?" cried grange. "'cause some one as ought to be kicked out o' the place left his scythe lying across the grass ready for you to chop your shins. it's all right now." they walked on in silence till they reached a gate opening upon the green meadow, where john grange stopped short with his hand resting upon the upper bar. "what is it, my lad?" said old tummus. "i was only thinking of how helpless i am. i thank you, tummus," he said simply, as he turned and held out his hand. "i might have cut myself terribly." "aye, you might, my lad. there, go on to your dinner, and tell the missus i shall be there directly." john grange wrung the old man's hand, and went on in perfect ignorance of the trap that had been laid, with the idea that if he were injured and had to go to a hospital once again, it was not likely that he would return to the gardens; while old tummus went off to the tool-shed, a quiet, retired nook, suitable for a good think, to cogitate as to what he should do under the circumstances. his first thought was to go straight to mrs mostyn, and tell her what he had seen, and also about the orchids, but he argued directly that his mistress would not believe him. "for i didn't see him upset the orchards, and as to this here business," he thought, "nobody wouldn't believe as a human being would go and do such a thing. dunno as i would mysen if i hadn't seen it, and i arn't quite sure now as he meant to do it, though it looks as much like it as ever it could. he's got his knife into poor john grange, somehow, and i don't see why, for the poor fellow arn't likely to do much harm to anybody now." then he considered for a bit as to whether he should tell john grange what he had seen; but he concluded that he would not, for it would only make the poor fellow miserable if he believed him. old tummus was still considering as to the best course when the two o'clock bell rang, and he jumped up to go back to his work. "never mind," he thought, with a grin, "i dessay there'll be a few cold taters left, and i must have them with my tea." that same evening, after old tummus had finished a meal which more than made up for his abstemiously plain dinner, he made up his mind to tell john grange out in the garden. "for," said he to himself, "i mayn't be there next time there's a scythe across the path, and who knows but what some day it may be the well in real airnest; dan barnett may leave the lid off, or uncover the soft-water tank, and the poor chap be drowned 'fore he knows it." but when he went out he found his lodger looking so happy and contented, tying up the loose shoots of the monthly rose which ran over the cottage, that he held his tongue. "it arn't my business," he argued, and he went off to meet an old crony or two in the village. "don't let any one run away with the house while i'm gone, mr john," said old hannah, a few minutes later. "i'm going down to the shop, and i shan't be very long." grange nodded pleasantly, and went on with his work. that night mary ellis sat at her open window, sad and thoughtful, inhaling the cool, soft breeze which came through the trees, laden with woodland scents. the south-eastern sky was faintly aglow, lit up by the heralds of the rising moon, and save the barking of a dog up at the kennels, all was still. she was thinking very deeply of her position, and of daniel barnett's manner towards her the last time they met. it was plain enough that her father favoured the head-gardener's visits, and in her misery her thoughts turned to john grange, the tears falling softly the while. all at once she started away from the window, for, plainly heard, a low, deep sigh came from the dark shadow of the trees across the road. daniel barnett? john grange? there so late? who could it be? her heart said john grange, for the wish was father to the thought. but she heard nothing more for a few minutes, and then in a whisper, hardly above the breath, the words-- "good-bye--for ever, perhaps--good-bye!" then came the hurrying sound of steps on the dewy grass at the side of the road, and the speaker was gone, leaving mary leaning out of the window, excited and trembling violently, while her heart beat in the stillness of the night as if it were the echo of the hurried pace rapidly dying away. "it could not be--it could not be," she sighed at last, as she left the window to prepare for bed. "and yet he loves me so dearly. but why should he say that?" she stopped in the middle of the room, and the words seemed to repeat themselves-- "good-bye--for ever, perhaps--good-bye!" the tears fell fast as she felt that it was so like john grange in his manly, honourable way of treating their positions. "he feels it all so terribly that it would be like tying me down--that it would be terrible for me--because he is blind." she wiped her eyes, and a bright smile played about her lips, for there, self-pictured, was a happy future for them both, and she saw herself lightening the great trouble of john grange's life, and smoothing his onward course. there was their happy home with her husband seeing with her eyes, guided always by her hand, and looking proud, manly, and strong once more as she had known him of old. "it will only draw us closer together," she said softly; "and father will never refuse when he once feels it's for my happiness and for poor john's good." but the smile died out as black clouds once more rose to blot out the pleasant picture she had formed in her mind; and as the mists gathered the tears fell once more, hot, briny tears which seemed to scald her eyes as she sank upon her knees by the bedside and buried her face in her hands. that night mary ellis's couch remained unpressed, and the rising sun shone in at the window upon her glossy hair where she crouched down beside her bed. it was a movement in the adjoining room which roused her from the heavy stupor into which she had fallen, for it could hardly be called a natural sleep, and she started up to look round as if feeling guilty of some lapse of duty. for a few minutes she suffered from a strange feeling of confusion accompanied by depression. then by degrees the incidents of the past night came clearly to her mind, and she recalled how she had sunk down by her bed to pray for help and patience, and that the terrible affliction might be lightened for him she loved, and then all had become blank. a few minutes before mary's face had looked wan and pale, now it was suffused by a warm glow that was not that of the ruddy early morning sun. for the hope had risen strongly in her breast that, in spite of all, the terrible affliction would be lightened, and by her. chapter seventeen. four days elapsed, and mrs ellis noticed a change in her child. mary had been more than usually attentive to her father, and james ellis had noticed and looked pleased. "'tis going off, mother," he said one evening. "of course it hit very hard at the time, poor little lass, for she felt very fond of him, i suppose; but i always said to myself that time would heal the sore place, and, bless her, it is doing it. you've noticed how much brighter she seems?" "yes, i've noticed," said mrs ellis, nodding her head as she prepared the supper. "she was actually singing gently to herself this morning over her work, just as she used to, and you don't know, james dear, what a lot of good it did me." "oh, yes, i do--oh, yes, i do," said the bailiff, nodding his head. "of course it would, mother." "yes, dear, it did, for it has been cruel work for me to see her going about the house in that heart-breaking way." "humph! of course, and for me too." "no, james, you're at home so little. you have your meals and sit with me of an evening, and at such times there's something going on to make the poor dear busy. but as soon as you're out of sight it has been dreadful again. i've seen a deal more of her poor heart-breaking than you have, and there have been times when--" "heart-breaking! stuff and nonsense!" cried james ellis petulantly. "ah, you don't know," said his wife, shaking her head at him sadly. "don't know what, you silly woman? there, that sounds like heart-breaking, doesn't it?" for at that moment, plainly heard, came the sound of mary's voice singing the old english song, "robin adair"; and as the notes reached his ear, james ellis smiled, held his head on one side, swayed it to the melody, and began softly to hum over the plaintive tune. "_rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," sang james ellis. "well done, little lassie! talk about a voice, mother, why it's as sweet as a bird's." "yes, dear, but i wish she wouldn't sing such sad things--it puts me in mind of the robins in the autumn time." "i wish you wouldn't be so melancholy, mother. you're enough to put a whole regiment of soldiers out of spirits, let alone a poor girl. here, hold your tongue now. here she comes." footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the foot was more springy than it had been of late, as mary entered the room. "ready for supper, father dear?" said mary, going behind his chair, placing her arms about his neck, and drawing his head back so that she could lay her cheek against his forehead. "ready, my pet? of course i am;" and "_rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," he sang. "that's the way. i'm glad to hear you tune up a bit. it's like the birds in spring corn: and mother wants it, for of all the melancholy old women that ever lived, she's about the worst." _click_! "hallo! who's that at the gate? just look, dear." mary went to the window, but there was no need, for she knew the step; and as her mother glanced at her, she saw the girl's face harden as she said-- "mr barnett, father." "humph! what does he want to-night?" muttered ellis. "let him in, my dear; and, mary, my girl, don't run away out of the room." mary was silent, and a tapping came at the door, evidently administered by the head of a stick. "evening, miss mary," said the visitor briskly. "nice growing weather. father at home?" "yes, i'm at home. want me, daniel barnett?" "well, yes, mr ellis, sir, there's a little bit o' business i want to see you about. i ought to have asked you this morning and down at the gardens, but somehow i've always got such a lot of things on my mind there that a lot of 'em slip out again." "come in then, come in then," said ellis. "not if it's disturbing you, sir," protested the visitor. "say the word, and i'll go and come up another evening. i don't mind a walk, miss mary," he added, in a confidential way. "business, business, daniel barnett! and there's nothing like getting it over," said ellis, as, after a good deal of preliminary shoe-rubbing, barnett stepped to the door of the sitting-room, and then stopped short in a very apologetic way. "why, you're just going to supper. i'd best come up to-morrow night." james ellis felt in the best of humours, and he smiled. "well," he said, "if you come to-morrow evening, i suppose i shall have some supper then. sit down, man, and out with it." "oh, thank you, mr ellis, and with many apologies to you, mrs ellis, ma'am, and to you too, miss mary." "why, hallo! daniel barnett. been to the bookseller's lately?" "eh? no, sir, i haven't been to the town for a fortnight past," said barnett wonderingly. "oh," said the bailiff, with a knowing look at his wife and daughter; "i thought perhaps you'd bought and been studying up _etiquette for gentlemen_." "no, no, sir! ha, ha, ha! that's a good one, mr ellis. oh, no, sir, i'm only a rough one, and what i know of etiquetty came up natural like--like--" "mushrooms?" "that's a good one too!" cried barnett, with forced gaiety. "he's having his little joke at me, miss mary." "there, never mind them," said the bailiff, "let's have the business and get it over. what is it?" "of course, sir. it won't take long." "shall we go in the kitchen, james?" said mrs ellis. "eh, ma'am?" cried the young man eagerly. "oh, no, pray don't let me drive you away, it's only garden business." "they're not going," said ellis, half jocularly. "now then, what is it, my lad?" "well, it's about the gravel paths, mr ellis," said the young man, leaning forward, after wiping his damp forehead, and speaking confidentially. "i'm getting a bit anxious about them." "glad to hear it, my lad. i was always proud o' my paths in the old days." "and so am i, sir. if the gravel paths in a garden's kept right there isn't so very much the matter." "humph! well, i don't go so far as that, daniel barnett, but paths go a long way. so you're ashamed of their being so weedy, eh?" "weedy, sir," said the young man, flushing. "why those paths--oh, i see! ha ha! he's chaffing me again, miss mary." mary did not even smile, and the visitor looked uncomfortable, his own face growing serious again directly. "it's a long time since they've been regravelled, mr ellis, sir, and as i could spare a bit of time, i thought, if you were not much pressed up at the farm, you might let me have a hundred loads of gravel carted from the pit." "take a lot of time and very hard work for the horses," said the bailiff, pursing up his lips. "yes, sir, i calculated all that, but it would be a wonderful improvement to my paths, and they'd pay for doing." "i don't want to spare the carts, daniel barnett; but i agree with you it would be a great improvement, and i want mrs mostyn to feel that you are doing justice to the place, so i suppose i must say yes." "thank you, sir, thank you," cried barnett, for he could feel the strength of the encouragement, and knew how much it meant. "there," he continued, rising very slowly and glancing at mother and daughter as he spoke, "i'll start two men picking up the big path, and i s'pose you'll be sending down the gravel almost any time." "they shall begin soon and get it over." "thank you, sir; then i'll say good-night now. good-night, mrs ellis. good-night, miss mary." "what, won't you stop and have a bit of supper with us, daniel?" said the bailiff. wouldn't he! and "daniel" too! he dropped down into his chair muttering something about its being very kind, and that he thought he wouldn't mind a morsel, but he looked in vain for a welcoming smile from mary, who, without a word, slowly left the room, and returned as silently as she went, but with fresh knives and forks, and a couple more plates. "but she didn't put 'em next to hers," thought daniel barnett, most unreasonably, for there was the whole opposite side of the table at liberty, and she laid a place for him there. it was of course what he had been looking for. he had come expecting to be asked to stay, and as soon as they were all seated he told himself that it was all right, and he stared hard at the gentle face across the table and started various topics of conversation, directed at mary, her father good-humouredly helping him with a word now and then, while mrs ellis looked on and attended to the wants of her guest. "yes, she's coming round at last," thought daniel barnett; for, whenever she was addressed, mary replied in a quiet, gentle way, and once entered into the conversation with some word of animation, making the bailiff look across the table at his wife, and give her a nod, as much as to say-- "now then, who's broken-hearted now?" but mrs ellis only tightened her lips and said to herself-- "yes, it's all very well; but fathers don't understand their girls like mothers do. women know how to read women and men don't, and never will--that's my humble opinion about that--and i wish daniel barnett would go--" daniel barnett was a clever fellow, but like many sharp men he could be too much so sometimes. metaphorically, he was one of those men who disdained the use of stirrups for mounting a horse, and liked to vault into the saddle, which he could do with ease and grace, but sometimes he would, in his efforts to show off, over-leap himself--vaulting ambition fashion--and come down heavily on the other side. he performed that feat on the present occasion at supper, for, in his blundering way, now that circumstances had occurred which made him feel pretty safe, he thought it would be good form to show mary what a fine, magnanimous side there was in his character, and how, far from looking upon john grange as a possible rival, he treated him as a poor, unfortunate being, for whom he could feel nothing but pity. "rather strange business, wasn't it, about poor grange, mr ellis, eh?" mary started. mrs ellis thrust her hand beneath the table-cloth to give her daughter's dress a twitch, and ellis frowned and uttered a kind of grunt, which might have meant anything. any one else would have known by the silence that he had touched dangerous ground. daniel barnett felt that it was an opportunity for him to speak. "i am very sorry for the poor fellow," he said; "it seems so sad, but it is no more than i expected." mary turned white and cold. "you don't know where he has gone, mr ellis?" "no," said the bailiff shortly. "no; i thought you said so. poor chap! i did everything i could to make matters easy for him, and selected little jobs that i thought he could do; but, of course, he would not take to them happily. he felt it hard to have to take his orders from me, and very naturally, for he expected to be head-gardener, and would have been, eh, mr ellis?" "yes," grunted the bailiff. "to be sure he would. i'm not such a donkey as to suppose i should have got the place if he had been all right. i'm a good gardener, though i say it as shouldn't say it, miss mary; but there were lots of little dodges about flowers where he could beat me hollow. ha, ha, ha!" he laughed, "i wouldn't say that before the men, but i don't mind here." "is mr grange bad again?" asked mrs ellis, unable to restrain her curiosity. "bad, ma'am? well, of course he's bad; but no worse than usual. you know, i suppose, that he's gone away?" "i? no." "oh, yes, quite mysterious like; never said good-bye to a soul." "but me," thought mary, with a sensation as of something clutching her heart, as she recalled that night at her bedroom window. "yes, poor fellow, he's gone," said ellis, who felt that it was time to speak. "of course i know why," said barnett, "it was too much for him. he was fretting his heart out, poor chap, and he no doubt thought it was the best he could do--get right away you know, where he wasn't known, and where everything he saw--i mean everything he touched--didn't remind him of the old place. it's all very sad, and it used to make me feel uncomfortable, and keep away for fear of making him think of my superseding him; but there, we're all like plants and flowers, miss mary, and suffer from our blights and east winds." he looked across at mary, whose face was stony, and her eyes fixed upon him so strangely that he felt abashed, and turned to mrs ellis. "sad business, ma'am, from the beginning," he said; "but, as the saying is, we don't know, and perhaps it's all for the best." mrs ellis sighed, the supper was at an end; and to the great relief of all, barnett rose, and in a tone of voice which suggested that every one had been pressing him very hard to stay longer, he cried-- "well, really, i must go now." mrs ellis said meekly, "must you, mr barnett?" and held out her hand promptly. he shook hands with her quite affectionately, and then turned to mary, who let him take her hand more than gave it, and he sighed as he said "good-night." "you'll think about the gravel, mr ellis?" he said to his host. "i want that garden to look better than any one in the county." "yes, you shall have it, barnett, first time i can spare the horses at the farm. and i'll go down to the gate with you." they walked not only to the gate, but a couple of hundred yards towards the gardens before either spoke, and then just as barnett was congratulating himself upon how well he had got on at the cottage that night, ellis turned to him sharply. "i told mrs mostyn about john grange having gone away so suddenly." "did you, sir? what did she say?" "that she didn't want to hear his name mentioned again, for she had been disappointed in the man." "poor chap!" said barnett sadly. "yes, poor chap!" said ellis hastily. "for heaven's sake don't ever hint at such a thing at home, daniel, but i've a horrible thought of something being wrong about that poor fellow. you don't think that, quite out of heart and in despair like, he has gone and done anything rash, do you?" "well, mr ellis, i didn't like to hint at such a thing to any one, but as you do think like that, and as old tummus and his wife seem to be quite suspicious like, it did set me thinking, and i've felt sometimes that he must have walked two miles the other night to the river, and then gone in." "by accident?" said ellis quietly, "in his blindness." "ah!" said barnett solemnly, "that's more than i can tell." "or must tell," said ellis excitedly. "it mustn't even be breathed, dan barnett. if my mary even heard it whispered, she'd go melancholy mad." chapter eighteen. "nay, sir, i don't know any more about it, and i arn't a-going to say nowt about it, but if that there poor bairn--" "what poor bairn?" said james ellis angrily, as he stood in the keeping-room of old tummus's cottage. "i was asking you about john grange." "well, i know you were. arn't he quite a bairn to me?" "please don't be cross with him, mr ellis, sir," said old hannah respectfully; "it's only his way, sir." "very well, let him go on," cried james ellis testily. "just you keep your spoon out o' the broth, mother," grumbled old tummus, "i know what i'm about." "well, what was it you were going to say?" asked the bailiff. "i were going to say as i wouldn't say nowt about it, and i won't, but that poor lad has either been made away wi--" "tut, tut, nonsense!" "well, then, he's made away wi' himself," cried old tummus, bringing his hand down upon the table with a heavy bang. the bailiff, who had not removed his hat before now, took it off, showing a heavy dew upon his forehead, which he wiped away as he looked uneasily from one to the other. "what--what makes you say that, tummus?" murmured ellis, who did not seem to be himself at all. "now, tummus, do mind what you're saying," said old hannah, in a lachrymose tone of voice. "well, i am, arn't i? what i say is this: warn't it likely?" "likely?" "aye, likely. here's the poor lad loses his sight all at once just when he's getting on and going to be head-gardener and marry my pretty bairn." "nothing of the sort, sir," cried the bailiff warmly. "you're too fond of settling other people's business." "yes, mr ellis, sir, that's what i tell him," said old hannah anxiously. "tchah!" growled old tummus, giving his body a jerk. "very well then, sir, he thowt he were, and it got on his mind like that he were all in the darkness, and it's my belief as he couldn't bear it, and went and made a hole in the water so as to be out of his misery." "oh, tummus, you shouldn't!" "no, no; he was not the man to do such a thing," said ellis, whose voice sounded husky, and who looked limp and not himself. "i dunno," growled tummus; "they say when a man's in love and can't get matters settled, he's ready to do owt. i never weer in love, so i doan't know for sure." "oh, tummus!" cried old hannah reproachfully. "will ta howd thee tongue?" cried the old man. "no, i won't, tummus. not even with mr ellis here, if you stand there telling such wicked stories." "arn't a story," cried the old man, with the twinkle of a grim smile at the corners of his lips. "who'd ever go and fall in love with an ugly owd woman like thou?" "it couldn't be that; no, no, it couldn't be that," said the bailiff hastily. "wheer is he then, sir?" said old tummus firmly. "gone away for a bit--perhaps to london." "nay, not he," said old tummus, shaking his head, "i'm sewer o' that." "why, how do you know?" "would a smart young man like john grange was ha' gone up to london without takking a clean shirt wi' him?" "what!" "didn't take no clean shirt nor stoggins nor nowt." "are you sure of that?" said the bailiff. "i couldn't make out that anything was gone out of his room, sir," said old hannah, clapping her apron to her eyes. "poor dear: it's very, very sad." "aye, it's sad enough," said old tummus; "not as it matters much, what's the good o' going on living?" "tummus!" cried his wife. "well, what are yow shoutin' at? i say it again: what's the good o' livin'? you on'y get horrid owd, and your missus allus naggin' you at home, and your dan barnetts shoutin' at you in the garden, or else master ellis here giving it to you about something." "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, tummus," said his wife. "to go and say such a thing to mr ellis's face, as has allus been a kind friend to you." "aye, lass, i don't grumble much at he, but we'm do grow precious owd." "and a great blessing too, tummus," cried his wife. "you don't hear mr ellis complain about getting old." "nay, but then he's got a pretty bairn, bless her!--as sweet and good a lass as ever stepped; and i says that to master ellis's face, same as i've often said it behind his back. bless her! there!" james ellis, with the great care upon his breast--the haunting thought that perhaps, after all, he had had something to do with john grange's disappearance--now stood in old tummus's cottage a different being. there was none of the rather pompous, important manner that he was in the habit of putting on when addressing his inferiors. the faces of john grange and mary seemed to rise before him reproachfully, and, for the first time in his life, he stood before the old couple in the cottage a humbled man, hardly conscious of what was being said. "then he took nothing away with him, hannah?" he said at last. "no, sir, nothing that i can make out." "nowt!" said old tummus. "here he were, hevving his tea that night, looking that down sad, that a bad tater was nowt to him; next thing is as we hears him go out o' the door--that there door just behind wheer you're a-standing, mr ellis, sir, and he didn't come back." "didn't come back," said the bailiff, repeating the old man's words. "we didn't set up for him because we know'd he'd shut oop all right, and if he didn't nobody wouldn't come and steal our plate, 'cause the owd woman allus taks it to bed wi' her." "tummus!" "well, so you do; six silver teaspoons, on'y one was lost years ago, and the sugar bows, sir, she allus wrops 'em up in an owd pocky ankychy." "there is no water near," said james ellis, as if to himself, but old tummus's ears were sharp enough. "there's the river." "two miles away, tummus." "what's two miles to a man who wants to drownd hissen! why, if i wanted to mak' a hole in the watter i'd walk twenty." "tummus, i will not have you say such dreadful things." "it's very, very sad, hannah," said james ellis at last; "and i'm more upset about it than i can say, for he was a fine, worthy young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped." "that he was," murmured the old couple. "but we don't know that anything so terrible has happened. some day perhaps we shall be hearing news of him." "nay, you never hear news o' them as has gone before, master ellis, sir. if i were you, i'd have the pond dragged up at the farm, and watter dreened off at jagley's mill." "no, no," cried the bailiff hastily. "there is no reason for suspecting such a thing. john grange was not the man to go and do anything rash. there, i thought i'd come and have a few words with you, hannah, and you too, tummus. i want you' to hold your tongues, now, and to let this sad business die a natural death. you understand?" "oh yes, sir." "chatter grows into bad news sometimes. there, good-evening. i dare say you'll hear news about the poor fellow some day." "nay, we wean't," said old tummus, when the bailiff was gone. "john grange is as dead as a door-nail, and owd jemmy ellis knows it too; but he's scarred of his bairn hearing, and don't want the missus up at the house to think on it." "but we don't know that he is dead," said old hannah. "not for sewer," growled old tummus, beginning to take off his heavy boots; "and we arn't sewer of a many things. but then, owd jimmy's as good as master here, and if you go flying in his face you may just as well fly over the garden wall same time. i've done, missus. i don't say who done it, but it's my belief john grange was put out o' the way." "oh, don't, tummus; you give me the creeps." "all right, all right, i've done. it's a rum world, and everything goes wrong in it." "not quite everything, dear." "well, no, not quite everything, but nearly. i believe it's because it was made round. lookye here, missus: how can matters go right on a thing as has got no sound bottom to stand on? if the world had been made square it would have stood square, and things would have come right; but there it is all round and never keeping steady, and allus changing. why, if you get a fine day you never can count upon another." "no," sighed hannah; "but there's a deal of good in the world, after all." "eh? what?" cried old tummus, jumping up and standing upon the patchwork hearthrug in his stockings, "wheerabouts?--wheer is it, owd woman? i'm a-going to look for it 'fore i gets a day owder." "sit down, and don't talk such stuff, tummus," cried the old woman, giving him a push which sent him back in his chair. "i won't have it." "ah! that's it," he said, with a low, chuckling laugh; "it's because the world's round. if it had been square we should all have stood solid, and old women wouldn't ha' flown at their mesters and knocked 'em down." chapter nineteen. old tummus and his wife both declared that they minded what the bailiff said, and never let a word escape from them about the old man's suspicions; but rumour is a sad spreader of news, and the result of some bit of tittle-tattle turns up in places least expected, doing incalculable harm. it was not likely that john grange's disappearance would die out of ordinary conversation without being pretty well embroidered by people's imagination, and like the three black crows of the old story, being added to until the origin looked very trifling and small. but all the same, it was some time before people's doubts reached mrs mostyn's ears through her housekeeper, and she turned upon her old confidential servant with a look of horror. "oh, my good woman!" she cried, "don't tell me that: it can't be true." the housekeeper shook her head. "i hope not, ma'am; but it has grown to be common talk." "why, if it really were so, i could never live happily in the old place again. go away, and send some one to fetch james ellis here, directly." the bailiff came in due course; and as soon as he entered the drawing-room, where his mistress's face plainly showed that something was very wrong, she saluted him with-- "what's all this i hear about that poor young man?" "well, ma'am, i--" "ah, no hesitation, james ellis. i want the precise facts. is it true that he made away with himself?" "that nobody can say, ma'am," said james ellis firmly. "there has been some tattle of that kind." "and you think that he did?" "i try not to, ma'am," said the bailiff, "for everybody's sake. it would be terrible." mrs mostyn was silent. "thank you, ellis," she said, after a few minutes of awful silence; "it would indeed be terrible. but ought some search to be made? is it my duty to have representations made to the police?" "i think not now, ma'am. i did not like to give any encouragement to the rumour, for, after all, it is only a rumour." "but where there's smoke there's fire, james ellis." "yes, ma'am," said the bailiff sagely; "but people often see what they think is smoke, and it turns out to be only a vapour which dies away in the sunshine." "yes, yes," said mrs mostyn thoughtfully. "i have gone into the matter a good deal, ma'am, i hope, as an honest man." "i am sure of that, james ellis," said his mistress. "and for two reasons i have tried to think i was right in taking no steps about what may, after all, be all a fancy at which we have jumped." "and what were the reasons, james ellis?" "one was, ma'am, that i knew it would be a great pain and trouble to my employer." mrs mostyn bent her head. "and the other?" "well, ma'am, to speak plainly, there was a little bit of leaning on the part of my mary towards poor john grange, and there's no doubt he was very fond of her." "ah! this is news to me. and you and mrs ellis?" "these things come about, ma'am, without fathers and mothers having anything to do with them till too late." "yes, yes," said mrs mostyn thoughtfully. "but when john grange's bad accident happened, of course i had to put down my foot firmly, and say it could not be." "it seems very hard, james ellis," sighed his mistress; "but i suppose it was right." then she added quickly: "you are afraid of the poor girl hearing such a rumour?" "more than that, ma'am," said the bailiff huskily; "i'm afraid it would kill her, or send her melancholy mad." mrs mostyn heaved a deep sigh, and remained silent. "do you think it was my duty to have spoken to the police, ma'am, and told them i suspected the poor fellow made an end of himself?" "james ellis," said mrs mostyn gravely, "you are mary's father, and love your child." "she is my one great comfort in life, ma'am." "yes; and i am a weak woman, full of sympathy for one of my sex. i will not trust myself to judge in one way or the other. let the matter rest for a time, and let us see what that brings forth." "yes," said james ellis, as he went back home; "let us see what time brings forth." time brought the rumour sooner than james ellis suspected, for while he was having his interview with mrs mostyn, the story had floated to the cottage, where mary heard it whispered to her mother than john grange had wandered away from his lodgings one night, and, either by accident from his blindness, or in despair on account of his affliction, he had walked into the river, or some pool, and been drowned; for though plenty of inquiries had been made, he had not since been seen. "good-bye--good-bye for ever." those words she had heard that night as she sat at the window: his farewell to her; and it seemed to come home to her like a stroke of lightning, that in his despair he had rashly sought the end. she said nothing. there was no wild cry of horror: only a sudden motion of her hands towards her bosom, where she held them pressed; and they saw her face turn of a deathly white, even to her lips, as the blood flew to her heart. then she uttered a low sigh and sank down in a chair, where she was still seated, gazing vacantly before her into the future, when her father returned and flew to her side. he looked at his wife without speaking, but his eyes said plainly, "you have heard?" and mrs ellis bowed her head. "mary, my darling," the old man whispered, as he caught her to his heart. and at this she uttered a faint cry, and hid her poor white face upon her hands. "we can do nothing, mother," whispered ellis. "let her rest. time is the only cure for this. i tried to hide it, but i knew it must come at last, and it has come." "good-bye--good-bye for ever," murmured mary, almost in a whisper; and her words sent a chill through both their breasts. chapter twenty. from that hour they saw the poor girl droop and begin to fade like some flower stricken by blight. no murmur escaped her lips, and john grange's name was never mentioned. but it was noted at home that she appeared to be more gently affectionate to those about her, and anxious to please her father, while many a time poor mrs ellis told her husband that she was sure "our mary" was slowly sinking into the grave. "wait a bit, wife--wait a bit," he would reply testily. "it's quite natural. you'll see it will pass off, and she'll forget." "never, james." "well, then, it will become softened down as time goes on; she's gentler towards daniel barnett, too, now. there: it will all come right in the end." mrs ellis sighed and shook her head, but all the same she thought that after all her husband might prove to be correct. "for james is a very wise man," she argued, "and one can't go on mourning for ever, however much one may have loved." daniel barnett placed his own interpretation on mary's manner towards him, and there were times when he was exulted, and felt how successfully he had climbed up the ladder of life. head-gardener at mrs mostyn's by eight-and-twenty; james ellis's prospective son-in-law; and in the future he would be bailiff and agent, when ellis was removed by infirmity or death; and in the latter case he and mary, the only child, would inherit the nice little bit of money the old man had saved, and the six cottages which he had bought from time to time. very pleasant all this, joined to the success in the gardens, where mrs mostyn had begun to show him more favour, and had several times expressed great satisfaction at the state of her garden. but daniel barnett was not happy. he was perfectly sure that mary would some day yield to his and her mother's wishes, and become his wife; but even that knowledge did not clear away the black cloud which overhung his life. for, sleeping or waking, he could not get rid of the feeling that john grange's remains would some day be discovered, and conscience troubled him with the idea that he was more or less to blame for the poor fellow's untimely end. it was in vain that he indignantly protested to himself that it was not likely a man should risk his life if he could help it. that he was not bound to climb that tree, and that he did quite right to take care of himself, and so escape what might have been his fate. "i might have fallen, and turned blind, or might have been killed," he would often say to himself. "it was a bit of luck for me--ill-luck for him, poor chap. he went, and there's an end of it." but there was not "an end of it," for daniel barnett's life was made a misery to him by the thoughts of how grange had suffered, and how he had treated him, till in despair-- "yes; that's it," tummus would whisper to him; "he went and walked into the river, or--" daniel barnett shivered and avoided the big well in the garden, and stubbornly refused to have the two great underground rain-water tanks cleaned out in the dry time for fear of some revelation being made. in his own mind he grew more and more sure that john grange had taken his life, but he said nothing, and though affectionately amiable to his friends up at the cottage, he daily grew more morose to those beneath him in the gardens, and made their lives as great a burden as his own was to him. troubles of this kind go on for a long time before they reach the employer's ears. james ellis heard that there were complaints of barnett's tyrannical treatment, and threats on the part of the men to leave; but he saw that the garden was admirably kept and sided with the head, refusing to listen to the murmurs which grew deep now instead of loud. the months had glided by, and it was autumn once more, with the fruit ripening fast in the garden, and, save to mary ellis, the sad episode of john grange's career had grown fainter and fainter in the memories of those who had known him. barnett had long ceased to wait for invitations, and quite three times a week used to go up to the cottage and stay late, while at the house he was often joked and questioned as to when it was coming off, whereupon he would smile and look knowing, while all the time there was a bitter gnawing at his heart, for he knew that he was no nearer winning mary than he was the year before when john grange disappeared. then came a sharp little encounter, one bright september day in the garden, where, after his wont, old tummus had been to what he called "torment them there weeds," to wit, chopping and tearing them up with his hoe, and leaving them to shrink and die. the _bon chretiens_ were particularly fine that year, and one which had become worm-eaten, and had in consequence prematurely ripened, showing all the bright tints of its kind, had fallen and lay ready to rot, when, hoeing away, old tummus saw it, smiled to himself as he thought how it would please old hannah, picked it up and laid it aside ready to take up to the bothy when he put on his coat at dinner-time. "i shall have to ask him for it," muttered the old man, "or else there'll be a row." just at that moment, as luck had it, mrs mostyn came along, with scissors and basket, to cut a few dahlias, and, in obedience to a sudden thought, old tummus raised the fruit by the stalk and stepped toward his mistress, offering her the pear. "strange nyste pear, mum," he said. "and ripe so soon. there, lay it in the basket. ah! tut, tut! it's all worm-eaten; take it away, and give it to somebody who will not mind." mrs mostyn went on, and old tummus chuckled, and hid the pear just as daniel barnett caught sight of him, and having marked the spot, waited till the old man had gone away. he then searched for, found the pear, and leaving it untouched, quietly watched at dinner-time, saw old tummus secure the treasure, pocket it, and he was going off when barnett accosted him with-- "what have you got there?" "pear," said the old man stubbornly, as barnett tried to snatch it from his pocket. "now i know where the fruit goes. why, you thieving old scoundrel. i'll soon put an end to this." "scoundrel yourself!" cried the old man fiercely. "smart a man as you are, dan barnett. i never set myself to steal another man's love and harassed him till he went and drowned hisself, if you didn't go behind and throw him into the tank you won't have cleaned." "why, you lying old villain!" roared barnett. "lying, eh?" retorted old tummus; "it's a lie then that you shoved they orchards off the shelf, i s'pose, and made believe it was poor john grange. a lie, perhaps, as you laid the scythe for the poor blind man to walk on and cut hisself." "yes, a lie," cried barnett, turning white. "then you tell it, for i see you do it, i did, and saved him from crippling hisself for life. but we've had enough o' this. i goes straight to missus mostyn and tells her all i know." "mrs mostyn is here, sir," said a sharp, stern voice, "and has heard all you have said." chapter twenty one. in the scene which followed, when the two men saw their mistress standing before them, that lady acted the part of judge. "i told the old man he might take the pear," she said to daniel barnett sternly. "but you, sir," she cried, turning upon old tummus, "how dare you make such horrible charges against my gardener?" "begging your pardon, my lady, mrs mostyn," said old tummus, "i'm as much your gardener as dan barnett, mum. what i says i sticks to. he was allus agin' poor john grange, and if he arn't made an end on him, what i says is this here--wheer is he?" mrs mostyn for answer pointed to the gate. "go," she said quietly, "you do not know what you are saying. when you are ready to apologise to mr barnett for what you have said, come to me. till then you had better stay away from the grounds." old tummus raised the mellow pear, which he still held in his pocket, dashed it with all his might upon the ground, and then stumped away with head erect. mrs mostyn stood watching the old man for a few moments, and then turned to barnett. "you were nearly as much in fault as he," she said sternly. "i do not approve of my servants, even if they are in fault, being addressed in such a tone." mrs mostyn walked away, and daniel barnett abstained from visiting at the cottage that night. a week later old tummus was reinstated without apologising to the head-gardener, after old hannah had been up to the house and begged him on. "no, ma'am," she said, through her tears; "he hasn't 'pologised, and he says he can't, because it's all true." "then it is sheer obstinacy, hannah," said mrs mostyn. "yes, mum, that's just what it is. many's the time his mother's told me that he was the obstintest boy that ever lived, and well i know it. once he's said a thing, wild horses couldn't make him alter it. and you see he's seventy-five now, ma'am, and been sixty-three years in these gardens. he's been growing obstin't' all this time, and i'm afraid you can't change him now. please, please, let him come back to work, mum; you'll kill him if you don't." "there, go away with you, you stupid woman, and tell him i'm very very angry with him for a careless, obstinate, wicked old man, and i don't forgive him a bit; but he may come back to work, and you can ask the housekeeper to give you half-a-pound of tea as you go." old hannah went away, sobbing aloud, and so overcome that, in spite of the hot water which bedewed her cheeks, she forgot all about the tea. chapter twenty two. another six months had passed, and it was spring again, with its bright promises of renewing life and sunshine, when, one evening, mrs ellis sat holding her child's hand, the tears stealing slowly down her cheeks as she talked in a low voice, stifling a sob from time to time, and in every way showing how bad an ambassadress she was, and how thoroughly her sympathies were with her child. "did father tell you to say this, mother?" said mary wearily. "yes, my darling. he says he is getting older, and that it is the one wish of his heart to see you happy." "but he would not see me happy, mother, if i said yes," replied mary. "i cannot, indeed, i cannot love daniel barnett. i could never make him a good wife. why will he persecute me so?" "because he loves you, dear; and don't, pray don't be hasty! you don't know: the love may come, dear." "yes, mother; the love may come, but will it?" "see how good and patient he has been; and father says it is his sole care to see you settled, and to know that if anything happens to him you have a strong right hand to protect you. come, darling, let me go down and tell them both that you have thought better of it, and that you consent." "mother, you do not wish it," said mary gently. "all this does not come from the heart." "i think it does, my darling," said mrs ellis. "you see, it is my duty to do what your father wishes. yours to love and obey him." "no, mother dear," said mary gently. "your voice contradicts it all. this does not come from your heart. you do not wish to see me daniel barnett's wife." mrs ellis's face went down on her child's breast, and she let her tears have their course for a few minutes, but raised her head again with a sigh. "i oughtn't to have done that," she said hurriedly. "mary, my darling, your father desires it, and it is, indeed it is, your duty to try and meet his wishes. what am i to go down and say?" "go and tell him that i cannot forget the past, mother, and tell mr barnett to wait. in a few months i will try to think, as you all wish me, if--if i live." "oh, my darling, my darling," sobbed the mother. "don't cry, dear," said mary calmly. "i can't help feeling like that sometimes, it is when i think that he must be dead, and then hope comes, and--mother," she whispered, "do you believe in dreams?" "my darling, no," said mrs ellis, "only that they are the result of thinking too much during the day of some particular thing. but i must go down to them now, dear. father will be so impatient. he was angry last time daniel came here, because you would keep up-stairs." "daniel!" said mary sadly. "mother, are you beginning to side against me too?" mary ellis had hardly asked these words when the sound of voices below made her spring to her feet, run to the door, and stand there listening. "mary, my child, what is it?" cried mrs ellis. for answer mary ran down into the little parlour. "john!" she cried wildly, and the next moment she was clinging to john grange's neck, while he stood there with one arm about her, holding her tightly to him, and proudly facing her father and barnett, who stood scowling and trying hard to speak. chapter twenty three. in the dead silence which fell upon all in the bailiff's room when mary ellis flung herself upon john grange's neck, a looker-on might have counted sixty beats of the pendulum which swung to and fro in the old oak-cased "grandfather's clock," before another word was uttered. mrs ellis stood with her face working, as if premonitory to bursting out into a fit of sobbing; james ellis felt something rising in his throat, and looked on with a grim kind of jealous pleasure at the lovers' embrace; and barnett broke the silence by making a strange grinding noise with his teeth. "do you--are you going to allow this?" he panted out at last. james ellis made a deprecating gesture with his hands, and looked uneasily at his wife, who had crossed to grange, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and said gently-- "and we thought you were dead--we thought you were dead." "as i should have been, mrs ellis, to you all," cried the young man proudly, "if i could not have come back to you like this." by this time barnett had fully recovered the speech of which jealous rage and disappointment had nearly deprived him, and after a savage scowl at grange, he turned upon the bailiff. "look here, mr ellis, is this your house? are you master here?" ellis made an angry gesture now. "my good sir," he cried; "you see: what can i do?" "order this fellow--this beggar--this impostor out. he has no business here." mary turned upon him fiercely, but her angry look faded out, and gave place to a smile of content, as she now linked her hands together about grange's strong right arm and looked gently in his face, as if to say, "don't be angry, he hardly knows what he says." maddened more by this, barnett stepped forward to separate them, but, roused now in turn, james ellis stepped between. "yes," he said firmly; "this is my house, and i am master here, daniel barnett. no violence, if you please." "as much violence as is necessary to turn this fellow out," roared the young man. "i claim your promise, my rights. mary, you are by your father's words my affianced wife; keep away from that man. mrs ellis, stand aside, or i will not be answerable for the consequences. you coward!" he cried to grange; "you screen yourself between two women. now then, out with you!" one moment john grange had been standing there calm and happy, with the women clinging to him; the next, by a quick movement, strong yet gentle, he had shaken himself free; and as barnett seized him by the throat to eject him from the room, he was perfectly transformed. for, with almost superhuman strength, he seized his rival in return, quickly bore him back a step or two, and then wrenched his legs from beneath him, bringing him to his knees. "it is you who are the coward," he cried in a deep voice, "or you would not have forced on this before two helpless women. mr ellis, i claim mary by the ties of our old and faithful love. i, john grange, thanks to god, strong, hale, keen of sight again as once i was, a man who can and will protect her while i live. now, sir, open that door. if there is to be a struggle between us two, it will not take place here." "john!" that one word in a tone of appeal from mary, and he dropped his hands. "yes," he said, with the calm assurance of a man who valued his strength; "you are right, dear, daniel barnett was half mad. that will do, sir. it is mary's wish that you should go, and mr ellis will not refuse me a hearing when his child's happiness is at stake." barnett rose slowly, looking from one to the other, and finally his eyes rested upon ellis, who nodded gravely. "yes," he said, "you'd better go, daniel barnett. i should not be doing my duty to my child if i fought against her now." he walked slowly to the door, opened it, and without another word barnett followed him out. five minutes later the latch of the gate was heard to click, and as all stood listening, james ellis came in and uttered a sigh of relief. there was that in his face which made mary, with her eyes bright and a flush upon her cheeks such as had not been seen there for a year, run to him and fling her arms about his neck, as she went into a wild fit of joyful hysterical sobbing, which it was long before she could control. there was not much to tell, but it was to the following effect. it dated from the evening when he had been left busying himself in the garden of old tummus's cottage, left entirely to himself, trimming up the roses, and thinking sadly that there was no future for him in the world. this had been going on for some time, and he was busily feeling the prickly rose strands, and taking nails and shreds from his pocket to tack the wild, blossoming shoots neatly in their places, in perfect ignorance, after a while, that he was being watched. for, though he heard hoofs upon the hard green turf beside the road, he supposed the sounds to be made by some horse returning to its stables from its pasture on the common, and did not imagine that it was mounted, as he heard it stop, and begin cropping the young shoots upon the garden hedge. "good-evening," said a decisive voice suddenly, speaking as if it was a good evening, and he who spoke would like to hear any one contradict him. "good-evening, sir," replied john grange, adding the "sir," for the voice seemed familiar, and he knew the speaker was riding. "you remember me, eh?" there was a slight twitching about the muscles of john grange's forehead as he craned his neck towards the speaker, and then he seemed to draw back, as he said sadly-- "no, sir; i seem to remember your voice, but i am blind." "quite blind?" "yes, sir." "look in my direction--hard, and now tell me: can you not make out my face, even faintly?" "i can see that there is light, sir, where you are; but you have your back to the west. it is the warm sunset." "then you are not quite blind, my lad. well, has mrs mostyn forgiven you about her orchids?" "ah! i remember you now, sir," cried grange. "you are the friend--the great doctor--who came to see them." "to be sure i am the doctor--i don't know about great--who stayed the night--doctor renton, of the gables, dale-by-lyndon." "yes, sir, i know. i have heard tell of your beautiful garden." "indeed? well, look here, my man. your mistress interested me in your case, and i thought i would ride over some evening and see you. i should like you to come to me, so that i could examine your eyes, and test them a little." john grange turned ghastly and fell a-trembling, as he grasped at the window-sill to steady himself. "come, come, that will not do," cried the doctor quickly. "be a man! you are weak and nervous. try and control your feelings." "but--then--oh, for heaven's sake, speak, sir," said grange, in a husky whisper. "you think there is hope?" "i do not say that, my man, but since mrs mostyn told me about your case, i have thought of it a great deal. come over and see me, saying nothing to any one, for fear of disappointment. then, if i think it is worth while, you shall come up to london and stay." "it is too much to bear," groaned the sufferer. "no: and you will bear it. but you must expect nothing. i shall in all probability fail, but if i do, you will be no worse off than you are now." "no, sir, i could be no worse off," faltered grange. "that is the way to take it. then you will come? but i must warn you: it may mean your being away for a year--perhaps for two." "i would do anything to get back my sight." "then you will come? i will not communicate with mrs mostyn, for fear of raising false hopes. if i succeed she will forgive your sudden leaving. she is a good mistress, my lad. pity you did not speak out the truth that day." john grange flushed up. "indeed it was the truth, sir," he cried angrily. "there, there! no excitement. you will have to lead now a calm, unemotional life if i am to do you good. good-evening. i shall expect to see you to-morrow morning, then, before i leave for town. but once more, keep your own counsel, and hope for nothing; then all that comes will be so much gain." he drew up the rein, touched his horse's side, and went off at a canter, leaving grange standing in the cottage garden, one moment with his mind illumined by hope, the next black with despair. "no," he cried softly; "it is too late. he can do nothing. only that long, dark journey before me to the end. tell no one! lead no one to expect that i may be cured! no, not a word to any. better away from here to be forgotten, for everything about me grows too hard to bear." that night he stole away in the darkness, to pause on the opposite side of the road, to whisper to the winds good-bye, and feel for a few brief minutes that he was near mary before he said "good-bye--for ever!" to be dead to all he knew unless he could return to them as he had been of old. this was john grange's story--condensed--as he told it to the group at the cottage. then in a low, deep tone, full of emotion-- "if i was to end my days sightless, mary, i knew i could not come to you again; but heaven has willed it otherwise. it has been a long, long waiting, hopeless till within the last month, and it was only within the past few days that the doctor told me that all was safe, and i might be at rest." "but you might have written, john, if only once," said mrs ellis, with a sob in her throat. "yes," he said, "i might, but i believe what i did was right, mrs ellis; forgive me, all of you, if i was wrong." what followed? mrs mostyn was eager to see john grange back in his old position, but he gravely shook his head. "no," he said, "mary, i am not going to trample on a man who is down. let dan barnett keep the place; the doctor offers me one that will make us a happy home; and it will be, will it not?" mary glanced at her mother before replying, and james ellis clasped the young man's hand, while mrs ellis rushed out to have what she called a good hearty cry. "lor', missus," said old tummus, "i never worried much about it. there's a deal of trouble in this here life, but a lot o' joy as well: things generally comes right in the end." "not always, dear." "eh? well, never mind, this one has; and i only wish i was a bit younger, so that i could go and be under muster john grange.--no, i couldn't. i can go and see 'em once in a way, but i must stop here, in this old garden, with the missus, until we die." "yes, tummus, yes," said old hannah. "it wouldn't do at our time o' life to make a change." "only that last big one, old lady, to go and work in the master's vineyard, if he sees as we've done right. but there, dear, on'y to think o' all this here trouble coming from sawing off a bit o' ragged wood." the end. mary's meadow and other tales of fields and flowers. by juliana horatia ewing. society for promoting christian knowledge, london: northumberland avenue, w.c. , queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j.b. young & co. [published under the direction of the general literature committee.] * * * * * contents. mary's meadow letters from a little garden garden lore sunflowers and a rushlight dandelion clocks the trinity flower ladders to heaven * * * * * mary's meadow. preface. "mary's meadow" first appeared in the numbers of _aunt judy's magazine_ from november to march . it was the last serial story which mrs. ewing wrote, and i believe the subject of it arose from the fact that in , after having spent several years in moving from place to place, she went to live at villa ponente, taunton, where she had a settled home with a garden, and was able to revert to the practical cultivation of flowers, which had been one of the favourite pursuits of her girlhood. the game of the earthly paradise was received with great delight by the readers of the story; one family of children adopted the word "mary-meadowing" to describe the work which they did towards beautifying hedges and bare places; and my sister received many letters of inquiry about the various plants mentioned in her tale. these she answered in the correspondence columns of the magazine, and in july it was suggested that a "parkinson society" should be formed, whose objects were "to search out and cultivate old garden flowers which have become scarce; to exchange seeds and plants; to plant waste places with hardy flowers; to circulate books on gardening amongst the members;" and further, "to try to prevent the extermination of rare wild flowers, as well as of garden treasures." reports of the society, with correspondence on the exchanges of plants and books, and quaint local names of flowers, were given in the magazine until it was brought to a close after mrs. ewing's death; but i am glad to say that the society existed for some years under the management of the founder, miss alice sargant, and when she was obliged to relinquish the work it was merged in the "selborne society," which aims at the preservation of rare species of animals as well as plants. the "letters from a little garden" were published in _aunt judy's magazine_ between november and february , and as they, as well as "mary's meadow," were due to the interest which my sister was taking in the tending of her own earthly paradise,--they are inserted in this volume, although they were left unfinished when the writer was called away to be "fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither!" horatia k.f. eden. _december, ._ * * * * * note.--if any readers of "mary's meadow" have been as completely puzzled as the writer was by the title of john parkinson's old book, it may interest them to know that the question has been raised and answered in _notes and queries_. i first saw the _paradisi in sole paradisus terrestris_ at kew, some years ago, and was much bewitched by its quaint charm. i grieve to say that i do not possess it; but an old friend and florist--the rev. h.t. ellacombe--was good enough to lend me his copy for reference, and to him i wrote for the meaning of the title. but his scholarship, and that of other learned friends, was quite at fault. my old friend's youthful energies (he will permit me to say that he is ninety-four) were not satisfied to rust in ignorance, and he wrote to _notes and queries_ on the subject, and has been twice answered. it is an absurd play upon words, after the fashion of john parkinson's day. paradise, as _aunt judy's_ readers may know, is originally an eastern word, meaning a park, or pleasure-ground. i am ashamed to say that the knowledge of this fact did not help me to the pun. _paradisi in sole paradisus terrestris_ means park--in--son's earthly paradise! j.h.e., _february ._ * * * * * how fresh, o lord, how sweet and clean are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring; to which, besides their own demean, the late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. grief melts away like snow in may, as if there were no such cold thing. who would have thought my shrivel'd heart could have recover'd greenness? it was gone quite under ground; as flowers depart to see their mother-root, when they have blown; where they together all the hard weather, dead to the world, keep house unknown. * * * * * o that i once past changing were, fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither! many a spring i shoot up fair, offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither; nor doth my flower want a spring-shower, my sins and i joining together. * * * * * these are thy wonders, lord of love, to make us see we are but flowers that glide: which when we once can find and prove, thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. who would be more, swelling through store, forfeit their paradise by their pride. george herbert. * * * * * mary's meadow chapter i. mother is always trying to make us love our neighbours as ourselves. she does so despise us for greediness, or grudging, or snatching, or not sharing what we have got, or taking the best and leaving the rest, or helping ourselves first, or pushing forward, or praising number one, or being dogs in the manger, or anything selfish. and we cannot bear her to despise us! we despise being selfish, too; but very often we forget. besides, it is sometimes rather difficult to love your neighbour as yourself when you want a thing very much; and arthur says he believes it is particularly difficult if it is your next-door-neighbour, and that that is why father and the old squire quarrelled about the footpath through mary's meadow. the old squire is not really his name, but that is what people call him. he is very rich. his place comes next to ours, and it is much bigger, and he has quantities of fields, and father has only got a few; but there are two fields beyond mary's meadow which belong to father, though the old squire wanted to buy them. father would not sell them, and he says he has a right of way through mary's meadow to go to his fields, but the old squire says he has nothing of the kind, and that is what they quarrelled about. arthur says if you quarrel, and are too grown-up to punch each other's heads, you go to law; and if going to law doesn't make it up, you appeal. they went to law, i know, for mother cried about it; and i suppose it did not make it up, for the old squire appealed. after that he used to ride about all day on his grey horse, with saxon, his yellow bull-dog, following him, to see that we did not trespass on mary's meadow. i think he thought that if we children were there, saxon would frighten us, for i do not suppose he knew that we knew him. but saxon used often to come with the old squire's scotch gardener to see our gardener, and when they were looking at the wall-fruit, saxon used to come snuffing after us. he is the nicest dog i know. he looks very savage, but he is only very funny. his lower jaw sticks out, which makes him grin, and some people think he is gnashing his teeth with rage. we think it looks as if he were laughing--like mother hubbard's dog, when she brought home his coffin, and he wasn't dead--but it really is only the shape of his jaw. i loved saxon the first day i saw him, and he likes me, and licks my face. but what he likes best of all are bath oliver biscuits. one day the scotch gardener saw me feeding him, and he pulled his red beard, and said, "ye do weel to mak' hay while the sun shines, saxon, my man. there's sma' sight o' young leddies and sweet cakes at hame for ye!" and saxon grinned, and wagged his tail, and the scotch gardener touched his hat to me, and took him away. the old squire's weeding woman is our nursery-maid's aunt. she is not very old, but she looks so, because she has lost her teeth, and is bent nearly double. she wears a large hood, and carries a big basket, which she puts down outside the nursery door when she comes to tea with bessy. if it is a fine afternoon, and we are gardening, she lets us borrow the basket, and then we play at being weeding women in each other's gardens. she tells bessy about the old squire. she says--"he do be a real old skinflint, the old zquire a be!" but she thinks it--"zim as if 'twas having ne'er a wife nor child for to keep the natur' in 'un, so his heart do zim to shrivel, like they walnuts butler tells us of as a zets down for desart. the old zquire he mostly eats ne'er a one now's teeth be so bad. but a counts them every night when's desart's done. and a keeps 'em till the karnels be mowldy, and a keeps 'em till they be dry, and a keeps 'em till they be dust; and when the karnels is dust, a cracks aal the lot of 'em when desart's done, zo's no one mayn't have no good of they walnuts, since they be no good to be." arthur can imitate the weeding woman exactly, and he can imitate the scotch gardener too. chris (that is christopher, our youngest brother) is very fond of "the zquire and the walnuts." he gets nuts, or anything, like shells or bits of flower-pots, that will break, and something to hit with, and when arthur comes to "_the karnels is dust_," chris smashes everything before him, shouting, "_a cracks aal the lot of em_," and then he throws the bits all over the place, with "_they be no good to he_." father laughed very much when he heard arthur do the weeding woman, and mother could not help laughing too; but she did not like it, because she does not like us to repeat servants' gossip. the weeding woman is a great gossip. she gossips all the time she is having her tea, and it is generally about the old squire. she used to tell bessy that his flowers bloomed themselves to death, and the fruit rotted on the walls, because he would let nothing be picked, and gave nothing away, except now and then a grand present of fruit to lady catherine, for which the old lady returned no thanks, but only a rude message to say that his peaches were over-ripe, and he had better have sent the grapes to the infirmary. adela asked--"why is the old squire so kind to lady catherine?" and father said--"because we are so fond of lords and ladies in this part of the country." i thought he meant the lords and ladies in the hedges, for we are very fond of them. but he didn't. he meant real lords and ladies. there are splendid lords and ladies in the hedges of mary's meadow. i never can make up my mind when i like them best. in april and may, when they have smooth plum-coloured coats and pale green cowls, and push up out of last year's dry leaves, or in august and september, when their hoods have fallen away, and their red berries shine through the dusty grass and nettles that have been growing up round them all the summer out of the ditch. flowers were one reason for our wanting to go to mary's meadow. another reason was the nightingale. there was one that used always to sing there, and mother had made us a story about it. we are very fond of fairy books, and one of our greatest favourites is bechstein's _as pretty as seven._ it has very nice pictures, and we particularly like "the man in the moon, and how he came there;" but the story doesn't end well, for he came there by gathering sticks on sunday, and then scoffing about it, and he has been there ever since. but mother made us a new fairy tale about the nightingale in mary's meadow being the naughty woodcutter's only child, who was turned into a little brown bird that lives on in the woods, and sits on a tree on summer nights, and sings to its father up in the moon. but after our father and the old squire went to law, mother told us we must be content with hearing the nightingale from a distance. we did not really know about the lawsuit then, we only understood that the old squire was rather crosser than usual; and we rather resented being warned not to go into mary's meadow, especially as father kept saying we had a perfect right so to do. i thought that mother was probably afraid of saxon being set at us, and of course i had no fears about him. indeed, i used to wish that it could happen that the old squire, riding after me as full of fury as king padella in the _rose and the ring_, might set saxon on me, as the lions were let loose to eat the princess rosalba. "instead of devouring her with their great teeth, it was with kisses they gobbled her up. they licked her pretty feet, they nuzzled their noses in her lap," and she put her arms "round their tawny necks and kissed them." saxon gobbles us with kisses, and nuzzles his nose, and we put our arms round his tawny neck. what a surprise it would be to the old squire to see him! and then i wondered if my feet were as pretty as rosalba's, and i thought they were, and i wondered if saxon would lick them, supposing that by any possibility it could ever happen that i should be barefoot in mary's meadow at the mercy of the old squire and his bull-dog. one does not, as a rule, begin to go to bed by letting down one's hair, and taking off one's shoes and stockings. but one night i was silly enough to do this, just to see if i looked (in the mirror) at all like the picture of rosalba in the _rose and the ring._ i was trying to see my feet as well as my hair, when i heard arthur jumping the three steps in the middle of the passage between his room and mine. i had only just time to spring into the window-seat, and tuck my feet under me, when he gave a hasty knock, and bounced in with his telescope in his hand. "oh, mary," he cried, "i want you to see the old squire, with a great-coat over his evening clothes, and a squash hat, marching up and down mary's meadow." and he pulled up my blind, and threw open the window, and arranged the telescope for me. it was a glorious night. the moon was rising round and large out of the mist, and dark against its brightness i could see the figure of the old squire pacing the pathway over mary's meadow. saxon was not there; but on a slender branch of a tree in the hedgerow sat the nightingale, singing to comfort the poor, lonely old man in the moon. chapter ii. lady catherine is mother's aunt by marriage, and mother is one of the few people she is not rude to. she is very rude, and yet she is very kind, especially to the poor. but she does kind things so rudely, that people now and then wish that she would mind her own business instead. father says so, though mother would say that that is gossip. but i think sometimes that mother is thinking of aunt catherine when she tells us that in kindness it is not enough to be good to others, one should also learn to be gracious. mother thought she was very rude to _her_ once, when she said, quite out loud, that father is very ill-tempered, and that, if mother had not the temper of an angel, the house could never hold together. mother was very angry, but father did not mind. he says our house will hold together much longer than most houses, because he swore at the workmen, and went to law with the builder for using dirt instead of mortar, so the builder had to pull down what was done wrong, and do it right; and father says he knows he has a bad temper, but he does not mean to pull the house over our heads at present, unless he has to get bricks out to heave at lady catherine if she becomes quite unbearable. we do not like dear father to be called bad-tempered. he comes home cross sometimes, and then we have to be very quiet, and keep out of the way; and sometimes he goes out rather cross, but not always. it was what chris said about that that pleased lady catherine so much. it was one day when father came home cross, and was very much vexed to find us playing about the house. arthur had got a new adventure book, and he had been reading to us about the west coast of africa, and niggers, and tom-toms, and "going fantee;" and james gave him a lot of old corks out of the pantry, and let him burn them in a candle. it rained, and we could not go out; so we all blacked our faces with burnt cork, and played at the west coast in one of the back passages, and at james being the captain of a slave ship, because he tried to catch us when we beat the tom-toms too near him when he was cleaning the plate, to make him give us rouge and whitening to tattoo with. dear father came home rather earlier than we expected, and rather cross. chris did not hear the front door, because his ears were pinched up with tying curtain rings on to them, and just at that minute he shouted, "i go fantee!" and tore his pinafore right up the middle, and burst into the front hall with it hanging in two pieces by the armholes, his eyes shut, and a good grab of james's rouge-powder smudged on his nose, yelling and playing the tom-tom on what is left of arthur's drum. father was very angry indeed, and chris was sent to bed, and not allowed to go down to dessert; and lady catherine was dining at our house, so he missed her. next time she called, and saw chris, she asked him why he had not been at dessert that night. mother looked at chris, and said, "why was it, chris? tell aunt catherine." mother thought he would say, "because i tore my pinafore, and made a noise in the front hall." but he smiled, the grave way chris does, and said, "because father came home cross." and lady catherine was pleased, but mother was vexed. i am quite sure chris meant no harm, but he does say very funny things. perhaps it is because his head is rather large for his body, with some water having got into his brain when he was very little, so that we have to take care of him. and though he does say very odd things, very slowly, i do not think any one of us tries harder to be good. i remember once mother had been trying to make us forgive each other's trespasses, and arthur would say that you cannot _make_ yourself feel kindly to them that trespass against you; and mother said if you make yourself do right, then at last you get to feel right; and it was very soon after this that harry and christopher quarrelled, and would not forgive each other's trespasses in the least, in spite of all that i could do to try and make peace between them. chris went off in the sulks, but after a long time i came upon him in the toy-cupboard, looking rather pale and very large-headed, and winding up his new american top, and talking to himself. when he talks to himself he mutters, so i could only just hear what he was saying, and he said it over and over again: "_dos first and feels afterwards_." "what are you doing, chris?" i asked. "i'm getting ready my new top to give to harry. _dos first and feels afterwards._" "well," i said, "christopher, you _are_ a good boy." "i should like to punch his head," said chris--and he said it in just the same sing-song tone--"but i'm getting the top ready. _dos first and feels afterwards_." and he went on winding and muttering. afterwards he told me that the "feels" came sooner than he expected. harry wouldn't take his top, and they made up their quarrel. christopher is very simple, but sometimes we think he is also a little sly. he can make very wily excuses about things he does not like. he does not like nurse to hold back his head and wash his face; and at last one day she let him go down-stairs with a dirty face, and then complained to mother. so mother asked chris why he was so naughty about having his face washed, and he said, quite gravely, "i do think it would be _such pity_ if the water got into my head again by accident." mother did not know he had ever heard about it, but she said, "oh, chris! chris! that's one of your excuses." and he said, "it's not my _'scusis_. she lets a good deal get in--at my ears--and lather too." but, with all his whimsical ways, lady catherine is devoted to christopher. she likes him far better than any one of us, and he is very fond of her; and they say quite rude things to each other all along. and father says it is very lucky, for if she had not been so fond of chris, and so ready to take him too, mother would never have been persuaded to leave us when aunt catherine took them to the south of france. mother had been very unwell for a long time. she has so many worries, and dr. solomon said she ought to avoid worry, and aunt catherine said worries were killing her, and father said "pshaw!" and aunt catherine said "care killed the cat," and that a cat has nine lives, and a woman has only one; and then mother got worse, and aunt catherine wanted to take her abroad, and she wouldn't go; and then christopher was ill, and aunt catherine said she would take him too, if only mother would go with her; and dr. solomon said it might be the turning-point of his health, and father said "the turning-point which way?" but he thanked lady catherine, and they didn't quarrel; and so mother yielded, and it was settled that they should go. before they went, mother spoke to me, and told me i must be a little mother to the others whilst she was away. she hoped we should all try to please father, and to be unselfish with each other; but she expected me to try far harder than the others, and never to think of myself at all, so that i might fill her place whilst she was away. so i promised to try, and i did. we missed christopher sadly. and saxon missed him. the first time saxon came to see us after mother and chris went away, we told him all about it, and he looked very sorry. then we said that he should be our brother in christopher's stead, whilst chris was away; and he looked very much pleased, and wagged his tail, and licked our faces all round. so we told him to come and see us very often. he did not, but we do not think it was his fault. he is chained up so much. one day arthur and i were walking down the road outside the old squire's stables, and saxon smelt us, and we could hear him run and rattle his chain, and he gave deep, soft barks. arthur laughed. he said, "do you hear saxon, mary? now i dare say the old squire thinks he smells tramps and wants to bite them. he doesn't know that saxon smells his new sister and brother, and wishes he could go out walking with them in mary's meadow." chapter iii. nothing comforted us so much whilst mother and chris were away as being allowed to play in the library. we were not usually allowed to be there so often, but when we asked father he gave us leave to amuse ourselves there at the time when mother would have had us with her, provided that we did not bother him or hurt the books. we did not hurt the books, and in the end we were allowed to go there as much as we liked. we have plenty of books of our own, and we have new ones very often: on birthdays and at christmas. sometimes they are interesting, and sometimes they are disappointing. most of them have pretty pictures. it was because we had been rather unlucky for some time, and had had disappointing ones on our birthdays, that arthur said to me, "look here, mary, i'm not going to read any books now but grown-up ones, unless it is an adventure book. i'm sick of books for young people, there's so much _stuff_ in them." we call it _stuff_ when there seems to be going to be a story and it comes to nothing but talk; and we call it _stuff_ when there is a very interesting picture, and you read to see what it is about, and the reading does not tell you, or tells you wrong. both arthur and christopher had had disappointments in their books on their birthdays. arthur jumped at his book at first, because there were japanese pictures in it, and uncle charley had just been staying with us, and had brought beautiful japanese pictures with him, and had told us japanese fairy tales, and they were as good as bechstein. so arthur was full of japan. the most beautiful picture of all was of a stork, high up in a tall pine tree, and the branches of the pine tree, and the cones, and the pine needles were most beautifully drawn; and there was a nest with young storks in it, and behind the stork and the nest and the tall pine the sun was blazing with all his rays. and uncle charley told us the story to it, and it was called "the nest of the stork." so when arthur saw a stork standing among pine needles in his new book he shouted with delight, though the pine needles were rather badly done, with thick strokes. but presently he said, "it's not nearly so good a stork as uncle charley's. and where's the stem of the pine? it looks as if the stork were on the ground and on the top of the pine tree too, and there's no nest. and there's no sun. and, oh! mary, what do you think is written under it? '_crane and water-reeds_.' well, i do call that a sell!" christopher's disappointment was quite as bad. mother gave him a book with very nice pictures, particularly of beasts. the chief reason she got it for him was that there was such a very good picture of a toad, and chris is so fond of toads. for months he made friends with one in the garden. it used to crawl away from him, and he used to creep after it, talking to it, and then it used to half begin, to crawl up the garden wall, and stand so, on its hind legs, and let chris rub its wrinkled back. the toad in the picture was exactly like christopher's toad, and he ran about the house with the book in his arms begging us to read him the story about dear toady. we were all busy but arthur, and he said, "i want to go on with my water-wheel." but mother said, "don't be selfish, arthur." and he said, "i forgot. all right, chris; bring me the book." so they went and sat in the conservatory, not to disturb any one. but very soon they came back, chris crying, and saying, "it couldn't be the right one, arthur;" and arthur frowning, and saying, "it _is_ the right story; but it's _stuff_. i'll tell you what that book's good for, chris. to paint the pictures. and you've got a new paint-box." so mother said, "what's the matter?" and arthur said, "chris thinks i haven't read him the right story to his toad picture. but i have, and what do you think it's about? it's about the silliest little girl you can imagine--a regular mawk of a girl--_and a frog_. not a toad, but a f. r. o. g. frog! a regular hop, skip, jumping frog!" arthur hopped round the room, but chris cried bitterly. so arthur ran up to him and kissed him, and said, "don't cry, old chap, i'll tell you what i'll do. you get mary to cut out a lot of the leaves of your book that have no pictures, and that will make it like a real scrap-book; and then i'll give you a lot of my scraps and pictures to paste over what's left of the stories, and you'll have such a painting-book as you never had in all your life before." so we did. and arthur was very good, for he gave chris pictures that i know he prized, because chris liked them. but the very first picture he gave him was the "crane and water-reeds." i thought it so good of arthur to be so nice with chris that i wished i could have helped him over his water-wheel. he had put japan out of his head since the disappointment, and spent all his play-time in making mills and machinery. he did grind some corn into flour once, but it was not at all white. he said that was because the bran was left in. but it was not only bran in arthur's flour. there was a good deal of sand too, from his millstones being made of sandstone, which he thought would not matter. but it grinds off. down in the valley, below mary's meadow, runs the ladybrook, which turns the old water-wheel of mary's mill. it is a very picturesque old mill, and mother has made beautiful sketches of it. she caught the last cold she got before going abroad with sketching it--the day we had a most delightful picnic there, and went about in the punt. and from that afternoon arthur made up his mind that his next mill should be a water-mill. the reason i am no good at helping arthur about his mills is that i am stupid about machinery; and i was so vexed not to help him, that when i saw a book in the library which i thought would do so, i did not stop to take it out, for it was in four very large volumes, but ran off at once to tell arthur. he said, "what _is_ the matter, mary?" i said, "oh, arthur! i've found a book that will tell you all about mills; and it is the nicest smelling book in the library." "the nicest _smelling_? what's that got to do with mills?" "nothing, of course. but it's bound in russia, and i am so fond of the smell of russia. but that's nothing. it's a miller's dictionary, and it is in four huge volumes, 'with plates.' i should think you could look out all about every kind of mill there ever was a miller to." "if the plates give sections and diagrams"--arthur began, but i did not hear the rest, for he started off for the library at once, and i ran after him. but when we got miller's dictionary on the floor, how he did tease me! for there was nothing about mills or millers in it. it was a gardener's and botanist's dictionary, by philip miller; and the plates were plates of flowers, very truly drawn, like the pine tree in uncle charley's jap. picture. there were some sections too, but they were sections of greenhouses, not of any kinds of mills or machinery. the odd thing was that it turned out a kind of help to arthur after all. for we got so much interested in it that it roused us up about our gardens. we are all very fond of flowers, i most of all. and at last arthur said he thought that miniature mills were really rather humbugging things, and it would be much easier and more useful to build a cold frame to keep choice auriculas and _half-hardies_ in. when we took up our gardens so hotly, harry and adela took up theirs, and we did a great deal, for the weather was fine. we were surprised to find that the old squire's scotch gardener knew miller's gardener's dictionary quite well. he said, "it's a gran' wurrk!" (arthur can say it just like him.) one day he wished he could see it, and smell the russia binding; he said he liked to feel a nice smell. father was away, and we were by ourselves, so we invited him into the library. saxon wanted to come in too, but the gardener was very cross with him, and sent him out; and he sat on the mat outside and dribbled with longing to get in, and thudded his stiff tail whenever he saw any one through the doorway. the scotch gardener enjoyed himself very much, and he explained a lot of things to arthur, and helped us to put away the dictionary when we had done with it. when he took up his hat to go, he gave one long look all round the library. then he turned to arthur (and saxon took advantage of this to wag his way in and join the party), and said, "it's a rare privilege, the free entry of a book chamber like this. i'm hoping, young gentleman, that you're not insensible of it?" then he caught sight of saxon, and beat him out of the room with his hat. but he came back himself to say, that it might just happen that he would be glad now and again to hear what was said about this or that plant (of which he would write down the botanical name) in these noble volumes. so we told him that if he would bring saxon to see us pretty often, we would look out anything he wanted to know about in miller's gardener's dictionary. chapter iv. looking round the library one day, to see if i could see any more books about gardening, i found the book of paradise. it is a very old book, and very queer. it has a brown leather back--not russia--and stiff little gold flowers and ornaments all the way down, where miller's dictionary has gold swans in crowns, and ornaments. there are a good many old books in the library, but they are not generally very interesting--at least not to us. so when i found that though this one had a latin name on the title-page, it was written in english, and that though it seemed to be about paradise, it was really about a garden, and quite common flowers, i was delighted, for i always have cared more for gardening and flowers than for any other amusement, long before we found miller's gardener's dictionary. and the book of paradise is much smaller than the dictionary, and easier to hold. and i like old, queer things, and it is very old and queer. the latin name is _paradisi in sole, paradisus terrestris_, which we do not any of us understand, though we are all learning latin; so we call it the book of paradise. but the english name is--"or a garden of all sorts of pleasant flowers which our english ayre will permitt to be noursed up;" and on the top of every page is written "the garden of pleasant flowers," and it says--"collected by john parkinson, apothecary of london, and the king's herbarist, ." i had to think a minute to remember who was the king then, and it was king charles i.; so then i knew that it was queen henrietta to whom the book was dedicated. this was the dedication:-- "to the queen's most excellent majesty. "madame,--knowing your majesty so much delighted with all the fair flowers of a garden, and furnished with them as far beyond others as you are eminent before them; this my work of a garden long before this intended to be published, and but now only finished, seemed as it were destined to be first offered into your highness's hands as of right, challenging the propriety of patronage from all others. accept, i beseech your majesty, this speaking garden, that may inform you in all the particulars of your store as well as wants, when you cannot see any of them fresh upon the ground: and it shall further encourage him to accomplish the remainder; who in praying that your highness may enjoy the heavenly paradise, after many years' fruition of this earthly, submitteth to be your majesties, "in all humble devotion, "john parkinson." we like queer old things like this, they are so funny! i liked the dedication, and i wondered if the queen's garden really was an earthly paradise, and whether she did enjoy reading john parkinson's book about flowers in the winter time, when her own flowers were no longer "fresh upon the ground." and then i wondered what flowers she had, and i looked out a great many of our chief favourites, and she had several kinds of them. we are particularly fond of daffodils, and she had several kinds of daffodils, from the "primrose peerlesse,"[ ] "of a sweet but stuffing scent," to "the least daffodil of all,"[ ] which the book says "was brought to us by a frenchman called francis le vean, the honestest root-gatherer that ever came over to us." [footnote : _narcissus media lutens vulgaris._] [footnote : _narcissus minimus_, parkinson. _n. minor_, miller.] the queen had cowslips too, though our gardener despised them when he saw them in my garden. i dug mine up in mary's meadow before father and the old squire went to law; but they were only common cowslips, with one oxlip, by good luck. in the earthly paradise there were "double cowslips, one within another." and they were called hose-in-hose. i wished i had hose-in-hose. arthur was quite as much delighted with the book of paradise as i. he said, "isn't it funny to think of queen henrietta maria gardening! i wonder if she went trailing up and down the walks looking like that picture of her we saw when you and i were in london with mother about our teeth, and went to see the loan collection of old masters. i wonder if the dwarf picked the flowers for her. i do wonder what apothecary john parkinson looked like when he offered his speaking garden into her highness's hands. and what beautiful hands she had! do you remember the picture, mary? it was by vandyck." i remembered it quite well. that afternoon the others could not amuse themselves, and wanted me to tell them a story. they do not like old stories too often, and it is rather difficult to invent new ones. sometimes we do it by turns. we sit in a circle and one of us begins, and the next must add something, and so we go on. but that way does not make a good plot. my head was so full of the book of paradise that afternoon that i could not think of a story, but i said i would begin one. so i began: "once upon a time there was a queen--" "how was she dressed?" asked adela, who thinks a good deal about dress. "she had a beautiful dark-blue satin robe." "_princesse_ shape?" inquired adela. "no; queen's shape," said arthur. "drive on, mary." "and lace ruffles falling back from her highness's hands--" "sweet!" murmured adela. "and a high hat, with plumes, on her head, and--" "a very low dwarf at her heels," added arthur. "was there really a dwarf, mary?" asked harry. "there was," said i. "had he a hump, or was he only a plain dwarf?" "he was a very plain dwarf," said arthur. "does arthur know the story, mary?" "no, harry, he doesn't; and he oughtn't to interfere till i come to a stop." "beg pardon, mary. drive on." "the queen was very much delighted with all fair flowers, and she had a garden so full of them that it was called the earthly paradise." there was a long-drawn and general "oh!" of admiration. "but though she was a queen, she couldn't have flowers in the winter, not even in an earthly paradise." "don't you suppose she had a greenhouse, by the bye, mary?" said arthur. "oh, arthur," cried harry, "i do wish you'd be quiet: when you know it's a fairy story, and that queens of that sort never had greenhouses or anything like we have now." "and so the king's apothecary and herbarist, whose name was john parkinson--" "i shouldn't have thought he would have had a common name like that," said harry. "bessy's name is parkinson," said adela. "well, i can't help it; his name _was_ john parkinson." "drive on, mary!" said arthur. "and he made her a book, called the book of paradise, in which there were pictures and written accounts of her flowers, so that when she could not see any of them fresh upon the ground, she could read about them, and think about them, and count up how many she had." "ah, but she couldn't tell. some of them might have died in the winter," said adela. "ah, but some of the others might have got little ones at their roots," said harry. "so that would make up." i said nothing. i was glad of the diversion, for i could not think how to go on with the story. before i quite gave in, harry luckily asked, "was there a weeding woman in the earthly paradise?" "there was," said i. "how was she dressed?" asked adela. "she had a dress the colour of common earth." "_princesse_ shape?" inquired arthur. "no; weeding woman shape. arthur, i wish you wouldn't--" "all right, mary. drive on." "and a little shawl, that had partly the colour of grass, and partly the colour of hay." "_hay dear_!" interpolated arthur, exactly imitating a well-known sigh peculiar to bessy's aunt. "was her bonnet like our weeding woman's bonnet?" asked adela, in a disappointed tone. "much larger," said i, "and the colour of a marigold." adela looked happier. "strings the same?" she asked. "no. one string canary-colour, and the other white." "and a basket?" asked harry. "yes, a basket, of course. well, the queen had all sorts of flowers in her garden. some of them were natives of the country, and some of them were brought to her from countries far away, by men called root-gatherers. there were very beautiful daffodils in the earthly paradise, but the smallest of all the daffodils--" "a dwarf, like the hunchback?" said harry. "the dwarf daffodil of all was brought to her by a man called francis le vean." "that was a _much_ nicer name than john parkinson," said harry. "and he was the honestest root-gatherer that ever brought foreign flowers into the earthly paradise." "then i love him!" said harry. chapter v. one sometimes thinks it is very easy to be good, and then there comes something which makes it very hard. i liked being a little mother to the others, and almost enjoyed giving way to them. "others first, little mothers afterwards," as we used to say--till the day i made up that story for them out of the book of paradise. the idea of it took our fancy completely, the others as well as mine, and though the story was constantly interrupted, and never came to any real plot or end, there were no queens, or dwarfs, or characters of any kind in all bechstein's fairy tales, or even in grimm, more popular than the queen of the blue robe and her dwarf, and the honest root-gatherer, and john parkinson, king's apothecary and herbarist, and the weeding woman of the earthly paradise. when i said, "wouldn't it be a good new game to have an earthly paradise in our gardens, and to have a king's apothecary and herbarist to gather things and make medicine of them, and an honest root-gatherer to divide the polyanthus plants and the bulbs when we take them up, and divide them fairly, and a weeding woman to work and make things tidy, and a queen in a blue dress, and saxon for the dwarf"--the others set up such a shout of approbation that father sent james to inquire if we imagined that he was going to allow his house to be turned into a bear-garden. and arthur said, "no. tell him we're only turning it into a speaking garden, and we're going to turn our own gardens into an earthly paradise." but i said, "oh, james! please don't say anything of the kind. say we're very sorry, and we will be quite quiet." and james said, "trust me, miss. it would be a deal more than my place is worth to carry master arthur's messages to his pa." "i'll be the honestest root-gatherer," said harry. "i'll take up dandelion roots to the very bottom, and sell them to the king's apothecary to make dandelion tea of." "that's a good idea of yours, harry," said arthur. "i shall be john parkinson--" "_my_ name is francis le vean," said harry. "king's apothecary and herbarist," continued arthur, disdaining the interruption. "and i'll bet you my cloth of gold pansy to your black prince that bessy's aunt takes three bottles of my dandelion and camomile mixture for 'the swimmings,' bathes her eyes every morning with my elder-flower lotion to strengthen the sight, and sleeps every night on my herb pillow (if mary 'll make me a flannel bag) before the week's out." "i could make you a flannel bag," said adela, "if mary will make me a bonnet, so that i can be the weeding woman. you could make it of tissue-paper, with stiff paper inside, like all those caps you made for us last christmas, mary dear, couldn't you? and there is some lovely orange-coloured paper, i know, and pale yellow, and white. the bonnet was marigold colour, was it not? and one string canary-coloured and one white. i couldn't tie them, of course, being paper; but bessy's aunt doesn't tie her bonnet. she wears it like a helmet, to shade her eyes. i shall wear mine so too. it will be all marigold, won't it, dear? front _and_ crown; and the white string going back over one shoulder and the canary string over the other. they might be pinned together behind, perhaps, if they were in my way. don't you think so?" i said "yes," because if one does not say something, adela never stops saying whatever it is she is saying, even if she has to say it two or three times over. but i felt so cross and so selfish, that if mother _could_ have known she _would_ have despised me! for the truth was, i had set my heart upon being the weeding woman. i thought adela would want to be the queen, because of the blue dress, and the plumed hat, and the lace ruffles. besides, she likes picking flowers, but she never liked grubbing. she would not really like the weeding woman's work; it was the bonnet that had caught her fancy, and i found it hard to smother the vexing thought that if i had gone on dressing the weeding woman of the earthly paradise like bessy's aunt, instead of trying to make the story more interesting by inventing a marigold bonnet with yellow and white strings for her, i might have had the part i wished to play in our new game (which certainly was of my devising), and adela would have been better pleased to be the queen than to be anything else. as it was, i knew that if i asked her she would give up the weeding woman. adela is very good, and she is very good-natured. and i knew, too, that it would not have cost her much. she would have given a sigh about the bonnet, and then have turned her whole attention to a blue robe, and how to manage the ruffles. but even whilst i was thinking about it, arthur said: "of course, mary must be the queen, unless we could think of something else--very good--for her. if we could have thought of something, mary, i was thinking how jolly it would be, when mother comes home, to have had _her_ for the queen, with chris for her dwarf, and to give her flowers out of our earthly paradise." "she would, look just like a queen," said harry. "in her navy blue nun's cloth and russian lace," said adela. that settled the question. nothing could be so nice as to have mother in the game, and the plan provided for christopher also. i had no wish to be queen, as far as that went. dressing up, and walking about the garden would be no fun for me. i really had looked forward to clearing away big baskets full of weeds and rubbish, and keeping our five gardens and the paths between them so tidy as they had never been kept before. and i knew the weeds would have a fine time of it with adela, as weeding woman, in a tissue-paper bonnet! but one thing was more important, than tidy gardens--not to be selfish. i had been left as little mother to the others, and i had been lucky enough to think of a game that pleased them. if i turned selfish now, it would spoil everything. so i said that arthur's idea was excellent; that i had no wish to be queen, that i thought i might, perhaps, devise another character for myself by and by; and that if the others would leave me alone, i would think about it whilst i was making adela's bonnet. the others were quite satisfied. father says people always are satisfied with things in general, when they've got what they want for themselves, and i think that is true. i got the tissue-paper and the gum; resisted adela's extreme desire to be with me and talk about the bonnet, and shut myself up in the library. i got out the book of paradise too, and propped it up in an arm-chair, and sat on a footstool in front of it, so that i could read in between whiles of making the bonnet. there is an index, so that you can look out the flowers you want to read about. it was no use our looking out flowers, except common ones, such as harry would be allowed to get bits of out of the big garden to plant in our little gardens, when he became our honest root-gatherer. i looked at the cowslips again. i am very fond of them, and so, they say, are nightingales; which is, perhaps, why that nightingale we know lives in mary's meadow, for it is full of cowslips. the queen had a great many kinds, and there are pictures of most of them. she had the common field cowslip, the primrose cowslip, the single green cowslip, curled cowslips, or galligaskins, double cowslips, or hose-in-hose, and the franticke or foolish cowslip, or jackanapes on horsebacke. i did not know one of them except the common cowslip, but i remembered that bessy's aunt once told me that she had a double cowslip. it was the day i was planting common ones in my garden, when our gardener despised them. bessy's aunt despised them too, and she said the double ones were only fit for a cottage garden. i laughed so much that i tore the canary-coloured string as i was gumming it on to the bonnet, to think how i could tell her now that cowslips are queen's flowers, the common ones as well as the hose-in-hose. then i looked out the honeysuckle, it was page , and there were no pictures. i began at the beginning of the chapter; this was it, and it was as funnily spelt as the preface, but i could read it. "chap. cv. _periclymemum_. honeysuckles. "the honisucle that groweth wilde in euery hedge, although it be very sweete, yet doe i not bring it into my garden, but let it rest in his owne place, to serue their senses that trauell by it, or haue no garden." i had got so far when james came in. he said--"letters, miss." it was the second post, and there was a letter for me, and a book parcel; both from mother. mother's letters are always delightful; and, like things she says, they often seem to come in answer to something you have been thinking about, and which you would never imagine she could know, unless she was a witch. this was _the knowing bit_ in that letter:--"_your dear father's note this morning did me more good than bottles of tonic. it is due to you, my trust-worthy little daughter, to tell you of the bit that pleased me most. he says_--'_the children seem to me to be behaving unusually well, and i must say, i believe the credit belongs to mary. she seems to have a genius for keeping them amused, which luckily means keeping them out of mischief_.' _now, good little mother, i wonder how you yourself are being entertained? i hope the others are not presuming on your unselfishness? anyhow, i send you a book for your own amusement when they leave you a bit of peace and quiet. i have long been fond of it in french, and i have found an english translation with nice little pictures, and send it to you. i know you will enjoy it, because you are so fond of flowers_." oh, how glad i was that i had let adela be the weeding woman with a good grace, and could open my book parcel with a clear conscience! i put the old book away and buried myself in the new one. i never had a nicer. it was called _a tour round my garden_, and some of the little stories in it--like the tulip rebecca, and the discomfited florists--were very amusing indeed; and some were sad and pretty, like the yellow roses; and there were delicious bits, like the enriched woodman and the connoisseur deceived; but there was no "stuff" in it at all. some chapters were duller than others, and at last i got into a very dull one, about the vine, and it had a good deal of greek in it, and we have not begun greek. but after the greek, and the part about bacchus and anacreon (i did not care about _them_; they were not in the least like the discomfited florists, or the enriched woodman!) there came this, and i liked it the best of all:-- "at the extremity of my garden the vine extends in long porticoes, through the arcades of which may be seen trees of all sorts, and foliage of all colours. there is an _azerolier_ (a small medlar) which is covered in autumn with little apples, producing the richest effect. i have given away several grafts of this; far from deriving pleasure from the privation of others, i do my utmost to spread and render common and vulgar all the trees and plants that i prefer; it is as if i multiplied the pleasure and the chances of beholding them of all who, like me, really love flowers for their splendour, their grace, and their perfume. those who, on the contrary, are jealous of their plants, and only esteem them in proportion with their conviction that no one else possesses them, do not love flowers; and be assured that it is either chance or poverty which has made them collectors of flowers, instead of being collectors of pictures, cameos, medals, or any other thing that might serve as an excuse for indulging in all the joys of possession, seasoned with the idea that others do not possess. "i have even carried the vulgarization of beautiful flowers farther than this. "i ramble about the country near my dwelling, and seek the wildest and least-frequented spots. in these, after clearing and preparing a few inches of ground, i scatter the seeds of my most favourite plants, which re-sow themselves, perpetuate themselves, and multiply themselves. at this moment, whilst the fields display nothing but the common red poppy, strollers find with surprise in certain wild nooks of our country, the most beautiful double poppies, with their white, red, pink, carnation, and variegated blossoms. "at the foot of an isolated tree, instead of the little bindweed with its white flower, may sometimes be found the beautifully climbing convolvulus major, of all the lovely colours that can be imagined. "sweet peas fasten their tendrils to the bushes, and cover them with the deliciously-scented white, rose-colour, or white and violet butterflies. "it affords me immense pleasure to fix upon a wild-rose in a hedge, and graft upon it red and white cultivated roses, sometimes single roses of a magnificent golden yellow, then large provence roses, or others variegated with red and white. "the rivulets in our neighbourhood do not produce on their banks these forget-me-nots, with their blue flowers, with which the rivulet of my garden is adorned; i mean to save the seed, and scatter it in my walks. "i have observed two young wild quince trees in the nearest wood; next spring i will engraft upon them two of the best kinds of pears. "and then, how i enjoy beforehand and in imagination, the pleasure and surprise which the solitary stroller will experience when he meets in his rambles with those beautiful flowers and these delicious fruits! "this fancy of mine may, one day or another, cause some learned botanist who is herbarizing in these parts a hundred years hence, to print a stupid and startling system. all these beautiful flowers will have become common in the country, and will give it an aspect peculiar to itself; and, perhaps, chance or the wind will cast a few of the seeds or some of them amidst the grass which shall cover my forgotten grave!" this was the end of the chapter, and then there was a vignette, a very pretty one, of a cross-marked, grass-bound grave. some books, generally grown-up ones, put things into your head with a sort of rush, and now it suddenly rushed into mine--"_that's what i'll be!_ i can think of a name hereafter--but that's what i'll do. i'll take seeds and cuttings, and off-shoots from our garden, and set them in waste places, and hedges, and fields, and i'll make an earthly paradise of mary's meadow." chapter vi. the only difficulty about my part was to find a name for it. i might have taken the name of the man who wrote the book--it is alphonse karr,--just as arthur was going to be called john parkinson. but i am a girl, so it seemed silly to take a man's name. and i wanted some kind of title, too, like king's apothecary and herbarist, or weeding woman, and alphonse karr does not seem to have had any by-name of that sort. i had put adela's bonnet on my head to carry it safely, and was still sitting thinking, when the others burst into the library. arthur was first, waving a sheet of paper; but when adela saw the bonnet, she caught hold of his arm and pushed forward. "oh, it's sweet! mary, dear, you're an angel. you couldn't be better if you were a real milliner and lived in paris. i'm sure you couldn't." "mary," said arthur, "remove that bonnet, which by no means becomes you, and let adela take it into a corner and gibber over it to herself. i want you to hear this." "you generally do want the platform," i said, laughing. "adela, i am very glad you like it. to-morrow, if i can find a bit of pink tissue-paper, i think i could gum on little pleats round the edge of the strings as a finish." i did not mind how gaudily i dressed the part of weeding woman now. "you are good, mary. it will make it simply perfect; and, kilts don't you think? not box pleats?" arthur groaned. "you shall have which you like, dear. now, arthur, what is it?" arthur shook out his paper, gave it a flap with the back of his hand, as you do with letters when you are acting, and said--"it's to mother, and when she gets it, she'll be a good deal astonished, i fancy." when i had heard the letter, i thought so too. "to the queen's most excellent maiestie-- "my dear mother,--this is to tell you that we have made you queen of the blue robe, and that your son christopher is a dwarf, and we think you'll both be very much pleased when you hear it. he can do as he likes about having a hump back. when you come home we shall give faire flowers into your highnesse hands--that is if you'll do what i'm going to ask you, for nobody can grow flowers out of nothing. i want you to write to john--write straight to him, don't put it in your letter to father--and tell him that you have given us leave to have some of the seedlings out of the frames, and that he's to dig us up a good big clump of daffodils out of the shrubbery--and we'll divide them fairly, for harry is the honestest root-gatherer that ever came over to us. we have turned the whole of our gardens into a _paradisi in sole paradisus terrestris_, if you can construe that; but we must have something to make a start. he's got no end of bedding things over--that are doing nothing in the kitchen garden and might just as well be in our earthly paradise. and please tell him to keep us a tiny pinch of seed at the bottom of every paper when he is sowing the annuals. a little goes a long way, particularly of poppies. and you might give him a hint to let us have a flower-pot or two now and then (i'm sure he takes ours if he finds any of our dead window-plants lying about), and that he needn't be so mighty mean about the good earth in the potting-shed, or the labels either, they're dirt cheap. mind you write straight. if only you let john know that the gardens don't entirely belong to him, you'll see that what's spare from the big garden would more than set us going; and it shall further encourage him to accomplish the remainder, who in praying that your highnesse may enjoy the heavenly paradise after the many years fruition of this earthly, "submitteth to be, your maiestie's, "in all humble devotion, "john parkinson, "king's apothecary and herbarist. "p.s.--it was mary's idea." "my _dear_ arthur!" said i. "well, i know it's not very well mixed," said arthur. "not half so well as i intended at first. i meant to write it all in the parkinson style. but then, i thought, if i put the part about john in queer language and old spelling, she mightn't understand what we want. but every word of the end comes out of the dedication; i copied it the other day, and i think she'll find it a puzzlewig when she comes to it." after which arthur folded his paper and put it into an envelope which he licked copiously, and closed the letter with a great deal of display. but then his industry coming to an abrupt end, as it often did, he tossed it to me, saying, "you can address it, mary;" so i enclosed it in my own letter to thank mother for the book, and i fancy she did write to our gardener, for he gave us a good lot of things, and was much more good-natured than usual. after arthur had tossed his letter to me, he clasped his hands over his head and walked up and down thinking. i thought he was calculating what he should be able to get out of john, for when you are planning about a garden, you seem to have to do so much calculating. suddenly he stopped in front of me and threw down his arms. "mary," he said, "if mother were at home, she _would_ despise us for selfishness, wouldn't she just?" "i don't think it's selfish to want spare things for our gardens, if she gives us leave," said i. "i'm not thinking of that," said arthur; "and you're not selfish, you never are; but she would despise me, and adela, and harry, because we've taken your game, and got our parts, and you've made that preposterous bonnet for adela to be the weeding woman in--much she'll weed!--" "i _shall_ weed," said adela. "oh, yes! you'll weed,--groundsel!--and leave mary to get up the docks and dandelions, and clear away the heap. but, never mind. here we've taken mary's game, and she hasn't even got a part." "yes," said i, "i have; i have got a capital part. i have only to think of a name." "how shall you be dressed?" asked adela. "i don't know yet," said i. "i have only just thought of the part." "are you sure it's a good-enough one?" asked harry, with a grave and remorseful air; "because, if not, you must take francis le vean. girls are called frances sometimes." i explained, and i read aloud the bit that had struck my fancy. arthur got restless half-way through, and took out the book of paradise. his letter was on his mind. but adela was truly delighted. "oh, mary," she said. "it is lovely. and it just suits you. it suits you much better than being a queen." "much better," said i. "you'll be exactly the reverse of me," said harry. "when i'm digging up, you'll be putting in." "mary," said arthur, from the corner where he was sitting with the book of paradise in his lap, "what have you put a mark in the place about honeysuckle for?" "oh, only because i was just reading there when james brought the letters." "john parkinson can't have been quite so nice a man as alphonse karr," said adela; "not so unselfish. he took care of the queen's gardens, but he didn't think of making the lanes and hedges nice for poor wayfarers." i was in the rocking-chair, and i rocked harder to shake up something that was coming into my head. then i remembered. "yes, adela, he did--a little. he wouldn't root up the honeysuckle out of the hedges (and i suppose he wouldn't let his root-gatherers grub it up, either); he didn't put it in the queen's gardens, but left it wild outside--" "to serve their senses that travel by it, or have no garden," interrupted arthur, reading from the book, "and, oh, mary! that reminds me--_travel--travellers._ i've got a name for your part just coming into my head. but it dodges out again like a wire-worm through a three-pronged fork. _travel--traveller--travellers_--what's the common name for the--oh, dear! the what's his name that scrambles about in the hedges. a flower--you know?" "deadly nightshade?" said harry. "deadly fiddlestick!--" "bryony?" i suggested. "oh, no; it begins with c." "clematis?" said adela. "clematis. right you are, adela. and the common name for clematis is traveller's joy. and that's the name for you, mary, because you're going to serve their senses that travel by hedges and ditches and perhaps have no garden." "traveller's joy," said harry. "hooray!" "hooray!" said adela, and she waved the weeding woman's bonnet. it was a charming name, but it was too good for me, and i said so. arthur jumped on the rockers, and rocked me to stop my talking. when i was far back, he took the point of my chin in his two hands and lifted up my cheeks to be kissed, saying in his very kindest way, "it's not a bit too good for you--it's you all over." then he jumped off as suddenly as he had jumped on, and as i went back with a bounce he cried, "oh, mary! give me back that letter. i must put another postscript and another puzzlewig. 'p.p.s.--excellent majesty: mary will still be our little mother on all common occasions, as you wished, but in the earthly paradise we call her traveller's joy.'" chapter vii. there are two or three reasons why the part of traveller's joy suited me very well. in the first place it required a good deal of trouble, and i like taking trouble. then john was willing to let me do many things he would not have allowed the others to do, because he could trust me to be careful and to mind what he said. on each side of the long walk in the kitchen garden there are flowers between you and the vegetables, herbaceous borders, with nice big clumps of things that have suckers, and off-shoots and seedlings at their feet. "the long walk's the place to steal from if i wasn't an _honest_ root-gatherer," said harry. john had lovely poppies there that summer. when i read about the poppies alphonse karr sowed in the wild nooks of his native country, it made me think of john's french poppies, and paeony poppies, and ranunculus poppies, and carnation poppies, some very large, some quite small, some round and neat, some full and ragged like japanese chrysanthemums, but all of such beautiful shades of red, rose, crimson, pink, pale blush, and white, that if they had but smelt like carnations instead of smelling like laudanum when you have the toothache, they would have been quite perfect. in one way they are nicer than carnations. they have such lots of seed, and it is so easy to get. i asked john to let me have some of the heads. he could not possibly want them all, for each head has enough in it to sow two or three yards of a border. he said i might have what seeds i liked, if i used scissors, and did not drag things out of the ground by pulling. but i was not to let the young gentlemen go seed gathering. "boys be so destructive," john said. after a time, however, i persuaded him to let harry transplant seedlings of the things that sow themselves and come up in the autumn, if they came up a certain distance from the parent plants. harry got a lot of things for our paradise in this way; indeed, he would not have got much otherwise, except wild flowers; and, as he said, "how can i be your honest root-gatherer if i mayn't gather anything up by the roots?" i can't help laughing sometimes to think of the morning when he left off being our honest root-gatherer. he did look so funny, and so like chris. a day or two before, the scotch gardener had brought saxon to see us, and a new kind of mouldiness that had got into his grape vines to show to john. he was very cross with saxon for walking on my garden. (and i am sure i quite forgave him, for i am so fond of him, and he knew no better, poor dear!) but, though he kicked saxon, the scotch gardener was kind to us. he told us that the reason our gardens do not do so well as the big garden, and that my _jules margottin_ has not such big roses as john's _jules margottin_ is because we have never renewed the soil. arthur and harry got very much excited about this. they made the scotch gardener tell them what good soil ought to be made of, and all the rest of the day they talked of nothing but _compost_. indeed arthur would come into my room and talk about compost after i had gone to bed. father's farming man was always much more good-natured to us than john ever was. he would give us anything we wanted. warm milk when the cows were milked, or sweet-pea sticks, or bran to stuff the dolls' pillows. i've known him take his hedging-bill, in his dinner-hour, and cut fuel for our beacon-fire, when we were playing at a french invasion. nothing could be kinder. perhaps we do not tease him so much as we tease john. but when i say that, arthur says, "now, mary, that's just how you explain away things. the real difference between john and michael is, that michael is good-natured and john is not. catch john showing me the duck's nest by the pond, or letting you into the cow-house to kiss the new calf between the eyes--if he were farm man instead of gardener!" and the night arthur sat in my room, talking about compost, he said, "i shall get some good stuff out of michael, i know; and harry and i see our way to road-scrapings if we can't get sand; and we mean to take precious good care john doesn't have all the old leaves to himself. it's the top-spit that puzzles us, and loam is the most important thing of all." "what is top-spit?" i asked. "it's the earth you get when you dig up squares of grass out of a field like the paddock. the new earth that's just underneath. i expect john got a lot when he turfed that new piece by the pond, but i don't believe he'd spare us a flower-pot full to save his life." "don't quarrel with john, arthur. it's no good." "i won't quarrel with him if he behaves himself," said arthur, "but we mean to have some top-spit somehow." "if you aggravate him he'll only complain of us to father." "i know," said arthur hotly, "and beastly mean of him, too, when he knows what father is about this sort of thing." "i know it's mean. but what's the good of fighting when you'll only get the worst of it?" "why to show that you're in the right, and that you know you are," said arthur. "good-night, mary. we'll have a compost heap of our own this autumn, mark my words." next day, in spite of my remonstrances, arthur and harry came to open war with john, and loudly and long did they rehearse their grievances, when we were out of father's hearing. "have we ever swept our own walks, except that once, long ago, when the german women came round with threepenny brooms?" asked arthur, throwing out his right arm, as if he were making a speech. "and think of all the years john has been getting leaf mould for himself out of our copper beech leaves, and now refuses us a barrow-load of loam!" the next morning but one harry was late for breakfast, and then it seemed that he was not dressing he had gone out,--very early, one of the servants said. it frightened me, and i went out to look for him. when i came upon him in our gardens, it was he who was frightened. "oh, dear," he exclaimed, "i thought you were john." i have often seen harry dirty--very dirty,--but from the mud on his boots to the marks on his face where he had pushed the hair out of his eyes with earthy fingers, i never saw him quite so grubby before. and if there had been a clean place left in any part of his clothes well away from the ground, that spot must have been soiled by a huge and very dirty sack, under the weight of which his poor little shoulders were bent nearly to his knees. "what are you doing, honest root-gatherer?" i asked; "are you turning yourself into a hump-backed dwarf?" "i'm not honest, and i'm not a root-gatherer just now," said harry, when he had got breath after setting down his load. he spoke shyly and a little surlily, like chris when he is in mischief. "harry, what's that?" "it's a sack i borrowed from michael. it won't hurt it, it's had mangel-wurzels in already." "what have you got in it now? it looks dreadfully heavy." "it _is_ heavy, i can tell you," said harry, with one more rub of his dirty fingers over his face. "you look half dead. what is it?" "it's top-spit;" and harry began to discharge his load on to the walk. "oh, harry; where did you get it?" "out of the paddock. i've been digging up turfs and getting this out, and putting the turfs back, and stamping them down not to show, ever since six o'clock. it _was_ hard work; and i was so afraid of john coming. mary, you won't tell tales?" "no, harry. but i don't think you ought to have taken it without mother's leave." "i don't think you can call it stealing," said harry. "fields are a kind of wild places anyhow, and the paddock belongs to father, and it certainly doesn't belong to john." "no," said i, doubtfully. "i won't get any more; it's dreadfully hard work," said harry, but as he shook the sack out and folded it up, he added (in rather a satisfied tone), "i've got a good deal." i helped him to wash himself for breakfast, and half-way through he suddenly smiled and said, "john parkinson will be glad when he sees _you-know-what_, mary, whatever the other john thinks of it." but harry did not cut any more turfs without leave, for he told me that he had a horrid dream that night of waking up in prison with a warder looking at him through a hole in the door of his cell, and finding out that he was in penal servitude for stealing top-spit from the bottom of the paddock, and father would not take him out of prison, and that mother did not know about it. however, he and arthur made a lot of compost. they said we couldn't possibly have a paradise without it. it made them very impatient. we always want the spring and summer and autumn and winter to get along faster than they do. but this year arthur and harry were very impatient with summer. they were nearly caught one day by father coming home just as they had got through the gates with michael's old sack full of road-scrapings, instead of sand (we have not any sand growing near us, and silver sand is rather dear), but we did get leaves together and stacked them to rot into leaf mould. leaf mould is splendid stuff, but it takes a long time for the leaves to get mouldy, and it takes a great many too. arthur is rather impatient, and he used to say--"i never saw leaves stick on to branches in such a way. i mean to get into some of these old trees and give them a good shaking to remind them what time of year it is. if i don't we shan't have anything like enough leaves for our compost." chapter viii. mother was very much surprised by arthur's letter, but not so much puzzled as he expected. she knew parkinson's _paradisus_ quite well, and only wrote to me to ask, "what are the boys after with the old books? does your father know?" but when i told her that he had given us leave to be in the library, and that we took great care of the books, and how much we enjoyed the ones about gardening, and all that we were going to do, she was very kind indeed, and promised to put on a blue dress and lace ruffles and be queen of our earthly paradise as soon as she came home. when she did come home she was much better, and so was chris. he was delighted to be our dwarf, but he wanted to have a hump, and he would have such a big one that it would not keep in its place, and kept slipping under his arm and into all sorts of queer positions. not one of us enjoyed our new game more than chris did, and he was always teasing me to tell him the story i had told the others, and to read out the names of the flowers which "the real queen" had in her "real paradise." he made mother promise to try to get him a bulb of the real dwarf daffodil as his next birthday present, to put in his own garden. "and i'll give you some compost," said arthur. "it'll be ever so much better than a stupid book with 'stuff' in it." chris did seem much stronger. he had colour in his cheeks, and his head did not look so large. but he seemed to puzzle over things in it as much as ever, and he was just as odd and quaint. one warm day i had taken the _tour round my garden_ and was sitting near the bush in the little wood behind our house, when chris came after me with a japanese fan in his hand, and sat down cross-legged at my feet. as i was reading, and mother has taught us not to interrupt people when they are reading, he said nothing, but there he sat. "what is it, chris?" said i. "i am discontented," said chris. "i'm very sorry," said i. "i don't think i'm selfish, particularly, but i'm discontented." "what about?" "oh, mary, i do wish i had not been away when you invented paradise, then i should have had a name in the game." "you've got a name, chris. you're the dwarf." "ah, but what was the dwarf's name?" "i don't know," i admitted. "no; that's just it. i've only one name, and arthur and harry have two. arthur is a pothecary" (chris could never be induced to accept apothecary as one word), "and he's john parkinson as well. harry is honest root-gatherer, and he is francis le vean. if i'd not been away i should have had two names." "you can easily have two names," said i. "we'll call the dwarf thomas brown." chris shook his big head. "no, no. that wasn't his name; i know it wasn't. it's only stuff. i want another name out of the old book." i dared not tell him that the dwarf was not in the old book. i said: "my dear chris, you really are discontented; we can't all have double names. adela has only one name, she is weeding woman and nothing else; and i have only one name, i'm traveller's joy, and that's all." "but you and adela are girls," said chris, complacently: "the boys have two names." i suppressed some resentment, for christopher's eyes were beginning to look weary, and said: "shall i read to you for a bit?" "no, don't read. tell me things out of the old book. tell me about the queen's flowers. don't tell me about daffodils, they make me think what a long way off my birthday is, and i'm quite discontented enough." and chris sighed, and lay down on the grass, with one arm under his head, and his fan in his hand; and, as well as i could remember, i told him all about the different varieties of cowslips, down to the franticke, or foolish cowslip, and he became quite happy. dear father is rather short-sighted, but he can hold a round glass in his eye without cutting himself. it was the other eye which was next to chris at prayers the following morning; but he saw his legs, and the servants had hardly got out of the hall before he shouted, "pull up your stockings, chris!"--and then to mother, "why do you keep that sloven of a girl bessy, if she can't dress the children decently? but i can't conceive what made you put that child into knickerbockers, he can't keep his stockings up." "yes, i can," said christopher, calmly, looking at his legs. "then what have you got 'em down for?" shouted father. "they're not all down," said chris, his head still bent over his knees, till i began to fear he would have a fit. "one of 'em is, anyhow. i saw it at prayers. pull it up." "two of them are," said christopher, never lifting his admiring gaze from his stockings. "two of them are down, and two of them are up, quite up, quite tidy." dear father rubbed his glass and put it back into his eye. "why, how many stockings have you got on?" "four," said chris, smiling serenely at his legs; "and it isn't bessy's fault. i put 'em all on myself, every one of them." at this minute james brought in the papers, and father only laughed, and said, "i never saw such a chap," and began to read. he is very fond of christopher, and chris is never afraid of him. i was going out of the room, and chris followed me into the hall, and drew my attention to his legs, which were clothed in four stockings; one pair, as he said, being drawn tidily up over his knees, the other pair turned down with some neatness in folds a little above his ankles. "mary," he said, "i'm contented now." "i'm very glad, chris. but do leave off staring at your legs. all the blood will run into your head." "i wish things wouldn't always get into _my_ head, and nobody else's," said chris, peevishly, as he raised it; but when he looked back at his stockings, they seemed to comfort him again. "mary, i've found another name for myself." "dear chris! i'm so glad." "it's a real one, out of the old book. i thought of it entirely by myself." "good dwarf. what is your name?" "_hose-in-hose_," said christopher, still smiling down upon his legs. chapter ix. alas for the hose-in-hose! i laughed over christopher and his double stockings, and i danced for joy when bessy's aunt told me that she had got me a fine lot of roots of double cowslips. i never guessed what misery i was about to suffer, because of the hose-in-hose. i had almost forgotten that bessy's aunt knew double cowslips. after i became traveller's joy i was so busy with wayside planting that i had thought less of my own garden than usual, and had allowed arthur to do what he liked with it as part of the earthly paradise (and he was always changing his plans), but bessy's aunt had not forgotten about it, which was very good of her. the squire's weeding woman is old enough to be bessy's aunt, but she has an aunt of her own, who lives seven miles on the other side of the moor, and the weeding woman does not get to see her very often. it is a very out-of-the-way village, and she has to wait for chances of a cart and team coming and going from one of the farms, and so get a lift. it was the weeding woman's aunt who sent me the hose-in-hose. the weeding woman told me--"aunt be mortal fond of her flowers, but she've no notions of gardening, not in the ways of a gentleman's garden. but she be after 'em all along, so well as the roomatiz in her back do let her, with an old shovel and a bit of stuff to keep the frost out, one time, and the old shovel and a bit of stuff to keep 'em moistened from the drought, another time; cuddling of 'em like christians. 'ee zee, miss, aunt be advanced in years; her family be off her mind, zum married, zum buried; and it zim as if her flowers be like new childern for her, spoilt childern, too, as i zay, and most fuss about they that be least worth it, zickly uns and contrairy uns, as parents will. many's time i do say to she--'th' old zquire's garden, now, 'twould zim strange to thee, sartinly 'twould! how would 'ee feel to see gardener zowing's spring plants by the hunderd, and a-throwing of 'em away by the score when beds be vull, and turning of un out for bedding plants, and throwing they away when he'eve made his cuttings?' and she 'low she couldn't abear it, no more'n see herod a mass-sakering of the innocents. but if 'ee come to bible, i do say aunt put me in mind of the par'ble of the talents, she do, for what you give her she make ten of, while other folks be losing what they got. and 'tis well too, for if 'twas not for givin' of un away, seeing's she lose nothing and can't abear to destry nothin', and never takes un up but to set un again, six in place of one, as i say, with such a mossel of a garden, 'aunt, where would you be?' and she 'low she can't tell, but the lard would provide. 'thank he,' i says, 'you be so out o' way, and 'ee back so bad, and past travelling, zo there be no chance of 'ee ever seem' old zquire's gardener's houses and they stove plants;' for if gardener give un a pot, sure's death her'd set it in the chimbly nook on frosty nights, and put bed-quilt over un, and any cold corner would do for she." at this point the weeding woman became short of breath, and i managed to protest against taking so many plants of the hose-in-hose. "take un and welcome, my dear, take un and welcome," replied bessy's aunt. "i did say to aunt to keep two or dree, but 'one be aal i want,' her says, 'i'll have so many agin in a few years, dividin' of un in autumn,' her says. 'thee've one foot in grave, aunt,' says i, 'it don't altogether become 'ee to forecast autumns,' i says, 'when next may be your latter end, 's like as not.' 'niece,' her says, 'i be no ways presuming. his will be done,' her says, 'but if i'm spared i'll rear un, and if i'm took, 'twill be where i sha'n't want un. zo let young lady have un,' her says. and there a be!" when i first saw the nice little plants, i did think of my own garden, but not for long. my next and final thought was--"mary's meadow!" since i became traveller's joy, i had chiefly been busy in the hedge-rows by the high-roads, and in waste places, like the old quarry, and very bare and trampled bits, where there seemed to be no flowers at all. you cannot say that of mary's meadow. not to be a garden, it is one of the most flowery places i know. i did once begin a list of all that grows in it, but it was in one of arthur's old exercise-books, which he had "thrown in," in a bargain we had, and there were very few blank pages left. i had thought a couple of pages would be more than enough, so i began with rather full accounts of the flowers, but i used up the book long before i had written out one half of what blossoms in mary's meadow. wild roses, and white bramble, and hawthorn, and dogwood, with its curious red flowers; and nuts, and maple, and privet, and all sorts of bushes in the hedge, far more than one would think; and ferns, and the stinking iris, which has such splendid berries, in the ditch--the ditch on the lower side where it is damp, and where i meant to sow forget-me-nots, like alphonse karr, for there are none there as it happens. on the other side, at the top of the field, it is dry, and blue succory grows, and grows out on the road beyond. the most beautiful blue possible, but so hard to pick. and there are lent lilies, and lords and ladies, and ground ivy, which smells herby when you find it, trailing about and turning the colour of mother's "aurora" wool in green winters; and sweet white violets, and blue dog violets, and primroses, of course, and two or three kinds of orchis, and all over the field cowslips, cowslips, cowslips--to please the nightingale. and i wondered if the nightingale would find out the hose-in-hose, when i had planted six of them in the sunniest, cosiest corner of mary's meadow. for this was what i resolved to do, though i kept my resolve to myself, for which i was afterwards very glad. i did not tell the others because i thought that arthur might want some of the plants for our earthly paradise, and i wanted to put them all in mary's meadow. i said to myself, like bessy's great-aunt, that "if i was spared" i would go next year and divide the roots of the six, and bring some off-sets to our gardens, but i would keep none back now. the nightingale should have them all. we had been busy in our gardens, and in the roads and bye-lanes, and i had not been in mary's meadow for a long time before the afternoon when i put my little trowel, and a bottle of water, and the six hose-in-hose into a basket, and was glad to get off quietly and alone to plant them. the highways and hedges were very dusty, but there it was very green. the nightingale had long been silent, i do not know where he was, but the rooks were not at all silent; they had been holding a parliament at the upper end of the field this morning, and were now all talking at once, and flapping about the tops of the big elms which were turning bright yellow, whilst down below a flight of starlings had taken their place, and sat in the prettiest circles; and groups of hedge-sparrows flew and mimicked them. and in the fields round about the sheep baaed, and the air, which was very sweet, was so quiet that these country noises were the only sounds to be heard, and they could be heard from very far away. i had found the exact spot i wanted, and had planted four of the hose-in-hose, and watered them from the bottle, and had the fifth in my hand, and the sixth still in the basket, when all these nice noises were drowned by a loud harsh shout which made me start, and sent the flight of starlings into the next field, and made the hedge-sparrows jump into the hedge. and when i looked up i saw the old squire coming towards me, and storming and shaking his fist at me as he came. but with the other hand he held saxon by the collar, who was struggling to get away from him and to go to me. i had so entirely forgotten about father's quarrel with the squire, that when the sight of the old gentleman in a rage suddenly reminded me, i was greatly stupefied and confused, and really did not at first hear what he said. but when i understood that he was accusing me of digging cowslips out of his field, i said at once (and pretty loud, for he was deaf) that i was not digging up anything, but was planting double cowslips to grow up and spread amongst the common ones. i suppose it did sound rather unlikely, as the old squire knew nothing about our game, but a thing being unlikely is no reason for calling truthful people liars, and that was what the old squire called me. it choked me, and when he said i was shameless, and that he had caught me with the plants upon me, and yelled to me to empty my basket, i threw away the fifth and sixth hose-in-hose as if they had been adders, but i could not speak again. he must have been beside himself with rage, for he called me all sorts of names, and said i was my father's own child, a liar and a thief. whilst he was talking about sending me to prison (and i thought of harry's dream, and turned cold with fear), saxon was tugging to get to me, and at last he got away and came rushing up. _now_ i knew that the old squire was holding saxon back because he thought saxon wanted to worry me as a trespasser, but i don't know whether he let saxon go at last, because he thought i deserved to be worried, or whether saxon got away of himself. when his paws were almost on me the old squire left off abusing me, and yelled to the dog, who at last, very unwillingly, went back to him, but when he just got to the squire's feet he stopped, and pawed the ground in the funny way he sometimes does, and looked up at his master as much as to say, "you see it's only play," and then turned round and raced back to me as hard as he could lay legs to ground. this time he reached me, and jumped to lick my face, and i threw my arms round his neck and burst into tears. when you are crying and kissing at the same time, you cannot hear anything else, so what more the old squire said i do not know. i picked up my basket and trowel at once, and fled homewards as fast as i could go, which was not very fast, so breathless was i with tears and shame and fright. when i was safe in our grounds i paused and looked back. the old squire was still there, shouting and gesticulating, and saxon was at his heels, and over the hedge two cows were looking at him; but the rooks and the starlings were far off in distant trees and fields. and i sobbed afresh when i remembered that i had been called a liar and a thief, and had lost every one of my hose-in-hose; and this was all that had come of trying to make an earthly paradise of mary's meadow, and of taking upon myself the name of traveller's joy. chapter x. i told no one. it was bad enough to think of by myself. i could not have talked about it. but every day i expected that the old squire would send a letter or a policeman, or come himself, and rage and storm, and tell father. he never did; and no one seemed to suspect that anything had gone wrong, except that mother fidgeted because i looked ill, and would show me to dr. solomon. it is a good thing doctors tell you what they think is the matter, and don't ask you what you think, for i could not have told him about the squire. he said i was below par, and that it was our abominable english climate, and he sent me a bottle of tonic. and when i had taken half the bottle, and had begun to leave off watching for the policeman, i looked quite well again. so i took the rest, not to waste it, and thought myself very lucky. my only fear now was that bessy's aunt might ask after the hose in-hose. but she never did. i had one more fright, where i least expected it. it had never occurred to me that lady catherine would take an interest in our game, and want to know what we had done, and what we were doing, and what we were going to do, or i should have been far more afraid of her than of bessy's aunt. for the weeding woman has a good deal of delicacy, and often begs pardon for taking liberties; but if aunt catherine takes an interest, and wants to know, she asks one question after another, and does not think whether you like to answer or not. she took an interest in our game after one of christopher's luncheons with her. she often asks chris to go there to luncheon, all by himself. father is not very fond of his going, chiefly, i fancy, because he is so fond of chris, and misses him. sometimes, in the middle of luncheon, he looks at christopher's empty place, and says, "i wonder what those two are talking about over their pudding. they are the queerest pair of friends." if we ask chris what they have talked about, he wags his head, and looks very well pleased with himself, and says, "lots of things. i tell her things, and she tells me things." and that is all we can get out of him. a few weeks afterwards, after i lost the hose-in-hose, chris went to have luncheon with aunt catherine, and he came back rather later than usual. "you must have been telling each other a good deal to-day, chris," i said. "i told her lots," said chris, complacently. "she didn't tell me nothing, hardly. but i told her lots. my apple fritter got cold whilst i was telling it. she sent it away, and had two hot ones, new, on purpose for me." "what _did_ you tell her?" "i told her your story; she liked it very much. and i told her daffodils, and about my birthday; and i told her cowslips--all of them. oh, i told her lots. she didn't tell me nothing." a few days later, aunt catherine asked us to tea--all of us--me, arthur, adela, harry, and chris. and she asked us all about our game. when harry said, "i dig up, but mary plants--not in our garden, but in wild places, and woods, and hedges, and fields," lady catherine blew her nose very loud, and said, "i should think you don't do much digging and planting in that field your father went to law about?" and my teeth chattered so with fright that i think lady catherine would have heard them if she hadn't been blowing her nose. but, luckily for me, arthur said, "oh, we never go near mary's meadow now, we're so busy." and then aunt catherine asked what made us think of my name, and i repeated most of the bit from alphonse karr, for i knew it by heart now; and arthur repeated what john parkinson says about the "honisucle that groweth wilde in every hedge," and how he left it there, "to serue their senses that trauell by it, or haue no garden;" and then he said, "so mary is called traveller's joy, because she plants flowers in the hedges, to serve their senses that travel by them." "and who serves them that have no garden?" asked aunt catherine, sticking her gold glasses over her nose, and looking at us. "none of us do," said arthur, after thinking for a minute. "humph!" said aunt catherine. next time chris was asked to luncheon, i was asked too. father laughed at me, and teased me, but i went. i was very much amused by the airs which chris gave himself at table. he was perfectly well-behaved, but, in his quiet old-fashioned way, he certainly gave himself airs. we have only one man indoors--james; but aunt catherine has three--a butler, a footman, and a second footman. the second footman kept near christopher, who sat opposite aunt catherine (she made me sit on one side), and seemed to watch to attend upon him; but if christopher did want any thing, he always ignored this man, and asked the butler for it, and called him by his name. after a bit, aunt catherine began to talk about the game again. "have you got any one to serve them that have no garden, yet?" she asked. christopher shook his head, and said "no." "humph," said aunt catherine; "better take me into the game." "could you be of any use?" asked christopher. "toast and water, chambers." the butler nodded, as majestically as chris himself, to the second footman, who flew to replenish the silver mug, which had been lady catherine's when she was a little girl. when christopher had drained it (he is a very thirsty boy), he repeated the question: "do you think you could be of any use?" mr. chambers, the butler, never seems to hear anything that people say, except when they ask for something to eat or drink; and he does not often hear that, because he watches to see what you want, and gives it of himself, or sends it by the footman. he looks just as if he was having his photograph taken, staring at a point on the wall and thinking of nothing; but when christopher repeated his question i saw chambers frown. i believe he thinks christopher presumes on lady catherine's kindness, and does not approve of it. it is quite the other way with aunt catherine. just when you would think she must turn angry, and scold chris for being rude, she only begins to laugh, and shakes like a jelly (she is very stout), and encourages him. she said-- "take care all that toast and water doesn't get into your head, chris." she said that to vex him, because, ever since he heard that he had water on the brain, chris is very easily affronted about his head. he was affronted now, and began to eat his bread-and-butter pudding in silence, lady catherine still shaking and laughing. then she wiped her eyes, and said-- "never mind, old man, i'm going to tell you something. put the sugar and cream on the table, chambers, and you needn't wait." the men went out very quietly, and aunt catherine went on-- "where do you think i was yesterday? in the new barracks--a place i set my face against ever since they began to build it, and spoil one of my best peeps from the rhododendron walk. i went to see a young cousin of mine, who was fool enough to marry a poor officer, and have a lot of little boys and girls, no handsomer than you, chris." "are they as handsome?" said chris, who had recovered himself, and was selecting currants from his pudding, and laying them aside for a final _bonne bouche_. "humph! perhaps not. but they eat so much pudding, and wear out so many boots, that they are all too poor to live anywhere except in barracks." christopher laid down his spoon, and looked as he always looks when he is hearing a sad story. "is barracks like the workhouse, aunt catherine?" he asked. "a good deal like the workhouse," said aunt catherine. then she went on--"i told her mother i could not begin calling at the barracks. there are some very low streets close by, and my coachman said he couldn't answer for his horses with bugles, and perhaps guns, going off when you least expect them. i told her i would ask them to dinner; and i did, but they were engaged. well, yesterday i changed my mind, and i told harness that i meant to go to the barracks, and the horses would have to take me. so we started. when we were going along the upper road, between the high hedges, what do you think i saw?" chris had been going on with his pudding again, but he paused to make a guess. "a large cannon, just going off?" "no. if i'd seen that, you wouldn't have seen any more of me. i saw masses of wild clematis scrambling everywhere, so that the hedge looked as if somebody had been dressing it up in tufts of feathers." as she said this, lady catherine held out her hand to me across the table very kindly. she has a fat hand, covered with rings, and i put my hand into it. "and what do you think came into my head?" she asked. "toast and water," said chris, maliciously. "no, you monkey. i began to think of hedgeflowers, and travellers, and traveller's joy." aunt catherine shook my hand here, and dropped it. "and you thought how nice it was for the poor travellers to have such nice flowers," said chris, smiling, and wagging his head up and down. "nothing of the kind," said aunt catherine, brusquely. "i thought what lots of flowers the travellers had already, without mary planting any more; and i thought not one traveller in a dozen paid much attention to them--begging john parkinson's pardon--and how much more in want of flowers people 'that have no garden' are; and then i thought of that poor girl in those bare barracks, whose old home was one of the prettiest places, with the loveliest garden, in all berkshire." "was it an earthly paradise?" asked chris. "it was, indeed. well, when i thought of her inside those brick walls, looking out on one of those yards they march about in, now they've cut down all the trees, and planted sentry-boxes, i put my best bonnet out of the window, which always spoils the feather, and told harness to turn his horses' heads, and drive home again." "what for?" said chris, as brusquely as lady catherine. "i sent for hobbs." "hobbs the gardener?" said chris. "hobbs the gardener; and i told chambers to give him the basket from the second peg, and then i sent him into the conservatory to fill it. mary, my dear, i am very particular about my baskets. if ever i lend you my diamonds, and you lose them, i may forgive you--i shall know _that_ was an accident; but if i lend you a basket, and you don't return it, don't look me in the face again. i always write my name on them, so there's no excuse. and i don't know a greater piece of impudence--and people are wonderfully impudent now-a-days--than to think that because a thing only cost fourpence, you need not be at the trouble of keeping it clean and dry, and of sending it back." "some more toast and water, please," said chris. aunt catherine helped him, and continued--"hobbs is a careful man--he has been with me ten years--he doesn't cut flowers recklessly as a rule, but when i saw that basket i said, 'hobbs, you've been very extravagant.' he looked ashamed of himself, but he said, 'i understood they was for miss kitty, m'm. she's been used to nice gardens, m'm.' hobbs lived with them in berkshire before he came to me." "it was very nice of hobbs," said chris, emphatically. "humph!" said aunt catherine, "the flowers were mine." "did you ever get to the barracks?" asked chris, "and what was they like when you did?" "they were about as unlike kitty's old home as anything could well be. she has made her rooms pretty enough, but it was easy to see she is hard up for flowers. she's got an old rose-coloured sèvres bowl that was my grandmother's, and there it was, filled with bramble leaves and traveller's joy (which _she_ calls old man's beard; kitty always would differ from her elders!), and a soup-plate full of forget-me-nots. she said two of the children had half-drowned themselves and lost a good straw hat in getting them for her. just like their mother, as i told her." "what did she say when you brought out the basket?" asked chris, disposing of his reserve of currants at one mouthful, and laying down his spoon. "she said, 'oh! oh! oh!' till i told her to say something more amusing, and then she said, 'i could cry for joy!' and, 'tell hobbs he remembers all my favourites.'" christopher here bent his head over his empty plate, and said grace (chris is very particular about his grace), and then got down from his chair and went up to lady catherine, and threw his arms round her as far as they would go, saying, "you are good. and i love you. i should think she thinked you was a fairy godmother." after they had hugged each other, aunt catherine said, "will you take me into the game, if i serve them that have no garden?" chris and i said "yes" with one voice. "then come into the drawing-room," said aunt catherine, getting up and giving a hand to each of us. "and chris shall give me a name." chris pondered a long time on this subject, and seemed a good deal disturbed in his mind. presently he said, "i _won't_ be selfish. you shall have it." "shall have what, you oddity?" "i'm not a oddity, and i'm going to give you the name i invented for myself. but you'll have to wear four stockings, two up and two down." "then you may keep _that_ name to yourself," said aunt catherine. christopher looked relieved. "perhaps you'd not like to be called old man's beard?" "certainly not!" said aunt catherine. "it _is_ more of a boy's name," said chris. "you might be the franticke or foolish cowslip, but it is jack an apes on horseback too, and that's a boy's name. you shall be daffodil, not a dwarf daffodil, but a big one, because you are big. wait a minute--i know which you shall be. you shall be nonsuch. it's a very big one, and it means none like it. so you shall be nonsuch, for there's no one like you." on which christopher and lady catherine hugged each other afresh. * * * * * "who told most to-day?" asked father when we got home. "oh, aunt catherine. much most," said christopher. chapter xi. the height of our game was in autumn. it is such a good time for digging up, and planting, and dividing, and making cuttings, and gathering seeds, and sowing them too. but it went by very quickly, and when the leaves began to fall they fell very quickly, and arthur never had to go up the trees and shake them. after the first hard frost we quite gave up playing at the earthly paradise; first, because there was nothing we could do, and, secondly, because a lot of snow fell; and arthur had a grand idea of making-snow statues all along the terrace, so that mother could see them from the drawing-room windows. we worked very hard, and it was very difficult to manage legs without breaking; so we made most of them romans in togas, and they looked very well from a distance, and lasted a long time, because the frost lasted. and, by degrees, i almost forgot that terrible afternoon in mary's meadow. only when saxon came to see us i told him that i was very glad that no one understood his bark, so that he could not let out what had become of the hose-in-hose. but when the winter was past, and the snow-drops came out in the shrubbery, and there were catkins on the nut trees, and the missel-thrush we had been feeding in the frost sat out on mild days and sang to us, we all of us began to think of our gardens again, and to go poking about "with our noses in the borders," as arthur said, "as if we were dogs snuffing after truffles." what we really were "snuffing after" were the plants we had planted in autumn, and which were poking and sprouting, and coming up in all directions. arthur and harry did real gardening in the easter holidays, and they captured adela now and then, and made her weed. but christopher's delight was to go with me to the waste places and hedges, where i had planted things as traveller's joy, and to get me to show them to him where they had begun to make a spring start, and to help him to make up rambling stories, which he called "supposings," of what the flowers would be like, and what this or that traveller would say when he saw them. one of his favourite _supposings_ was--"supposing a very poor man was coming along the road, with his dinner in a handkerchief; and supposing he sat down under the hedge to eat it; and supposing it was cold beef; and he had no mustard; and supposing there was a seed on your nasturtium plants, and he knew it wouldn't poison him; and supposing he ate it with his beef, and it tasted nice and hot, like a pickle, wouldn't he wonder how it got there?" but when the primroses had been out a long time, and the cowslips were coming into bloom, to my horror christopher began "supposing" that we should find hose-in-hose in some of the fields, and all my efforts to put this idea out of his head, and to divert him from the search, were utterly in vain. whether it had anything to do with his having had water on the brain i do not know, but when once an idea got into christopher's head there was no dislodging it. he now talked of hose-in-hose constantly. one day he announced that he was "discontented" once more, and should remain so till he had "found a hose-in-hose." i enticed him to a field where i knew it was possible to secure an occasional oxlip, but he only looked pale, shook his head distressingly, and said, "i don't think nothin' of oxlips." coloured primroses would not comfort him. he professed to disbelieve in the time-honoured prescription, "plant a primrose upside down, and it will come up a polyanthus," and refused to help me to make the experiment. at last the worst came. he suddenly spoke, with smiles--"i _know_ where we'll find hose-in-hose! in mary's meadow. it's the fullest field of cowslips there is. hurrah! supposing we find hose-in-hose, and supposing we find green cowslips, and supposing we find curled cowslips or galligaskins, and supposing--" but i could not bear it, i fairly ran away from him, and shut myself up in my room and cried. i knew it was silly, and yet i could not bear the thought of having to satisfy everybody's curiosity, and describe that scene in mary's meadow, which had wounded me so bitterly, and explain why i had not told of it before. i cried, too, for another reason. mary's meadow had been dear to us all, ever since i could remember. it was always our favourite field. we had coaxed our nurses there, when we could induce them to leave the high-road, or when, luckily for us, on account of an epidemic, or for some reason or another, they were forbidden to go gossiping into the town. we had "pretended" fairies in the nooks of the delightfully neglected hedges, and we had found fairy-rings to prove our pretendings true. we went there for flowers; we went there for mushrooms and puff-balls; we went there to hear the nightingale. what cowslip balls and what cowslip tea-parties it had afforded us! it is fair to the old squire to say that we were sad trespassers, before he and father quarrelled and went to law. for mary's meadow was a field with every quality to recommend it to childish affections. and now i was banished from it, not only by the quarrel, of which we had really not heard much, or realized it as fully, but by my own bitter memories. i cried afresh to think i should never go again to the corner where i always found the earliest violets; and then i cried to think that the nightingale would soon be back, and how that very morning, when i opened my window, i had heard the cuckoo, and could tell that he was calling from just about mary's meadow. i cried my eyes into such a state, that i was obliged to turn my attention to making them fit to be seen; and i had spent quite half-an-hour in bathing them and breathing on my handkerchief, and dabbing them, which is more soothing, when i heard mother calling me. i winked hard, drew a few long breaths, rubbed my cheeks, which were so white they showed up my red eyes, and ran down-stairs. mother was coming to meet me. she said--"where is christopher?" it startled me. i said, "he was with me in the garden, about--oh, about an hour ago; have you lost him? i'll go and look for him." and i snatched up a garden hat, which shaded my swollen eyelids, and ran out. i could not find him anywhere, and becoming frightened, i ran down the drive, calling him as i went, and through the gate, and out into the road. a few yards farther on i met him. that child is most extraordinary. one minute he looks like a ghost; an hour later his face is beaming with a radiance that seems absolutely to fatten him under your eyes. that was how he looked just then as he came towards me, smiling in an effulgent sort of way, as if he were the noonday sun--no less, and carrying a small nosegay in his hand. when he came within hearing he boasted, as if he had been cæsar himself-- "i went; i found it. i've got them." and as he held his hand up, and waved the nosegay--i knew all. he had been to mary's meadow, and the flowers between his fingers were hose-in-hose. chapter xii. "i won't be selfish, mary," christopher said. "you invented the game, and you told me about them. you shall have them in water on your dressing-table; they might get lost in the nursery. bessy is always throwing things out. to-morrow i shall go and look for galligaskins." i was too glad to keep them from bessy's observation, as well as her unparalleled powers of destruction, which i knew well. i put them into a slim glass on my table, and looked stupidly at them, and then out of the window at mary's meadow. so they had lived--and grown--and settled there--and were now in bloom. _my_ plants. next morning i was sitting, drawing, in the school-room window, when i saw the old squire coming up the drive. there is no mistaking him when you can see him at all. he is a big, handsome old man, with white whiskers, and a white hat, and white gaiters, and he generally wears a light coat, and a flower in his button-hole. the flower he wore this morning looked like--, but i was angry with myself for thinking of it, and went on drawing again, as well as i could, for i could not help wondering why he was coming to our house. then it struck me he might have seen chris trespassing, and he might be coming at last to lay a formal complaint. twenty minutes later james came to tell me that father wished to see me in the library, and when i got there, father was just settling his eye-glass in his eye, and the old squire was standing on the hearth-rug, with a big piece of paper in his hand. and then i saw that i was right, and that the flowers in his button-hole were hose-in-hose. as i came in he laid down the paper, took the hose-in-hose out of his button-hole in his left hand, and held out his right hand to me, saying: "i'm more accustomed to public speaking than to private speaking, miss mary. but--will you be friends with me?" in mary's meadow my head had got all confused, because i was frightened. i was not frightened to-day, and i saw the whole matter in a moment. he had found the double cowslips, and he knew now that i was neither a liar nor a thief. i was glad, but i could not feel very friendly to him. i said, "you can speak when you are angry." though he was behind me, i could feel father coming nearer, and i knew somehow that he had taken out his glass again to rub it and put it back, as he does when he is rather surprised or amused. i was afraid he meant to laugh at me afterwards, and he can tease terribly, but i could not have helped saying what came into my head that morning if i had tried. when you have suffered a great deal about anything, you cannot sham, not even politeness. the old squire got rather red. then he said, "i am afraid i am very hasty, my dear, and say very unjustifiable things. but i am very sorry, and i beg your pardon. will you forgive me?" i said, "of course, if you're sorry, i forgive you, but you have been a very long time in repenting." which was true. if i had been cross with one, of the others, and had borne malice for five months, i should have thought myself very wicked. but when i had said it, i felt sorry, for the old gentleman made no answer. father did not speak either, and i began to feel very miserable. i touched the flowers, and the old squire gave them to me in silence. i thanked him very much, and then i said-- "i am very glad you know about it now.... i'm very glad they lived ... i hope you like them?... i hope, if you do like them, that they'll grow and spread all over your field." the old squire spoke at last. he said, "it is not my field any longer." i said, "oh, why?" "i have given it away; i have been a long time in repenting, but when i did repent i punished myself. i have given it away." it overwhelmed me, and when he took up the big paper again, i thought he was going, and i tried to stop him, for i was sorry i had spoken unkindly to him, and i wanted to be friends. "please don't go," i said. "please stop and be friends. and oh, please, please don't give mary's meadow away. you mustn't punish yourself. there's nothing to punish yourself for. i forgive you with all my heart, and i'm sorry i spoke crossly. i have been so very miserable, and i was so vexed at wasting the hose-in-hose, because bessy's great-aunt gave them to me, and i've none left. oh, the unkindest thing you could do to me now would be to give away mary's meadow." the old squire had taken both my hands in his, and now he asked very kindly--"why, my dear, why don't you want me to give away mary's meadow?" "because we are so fond of it. and because i was beginning to hope that now we're friends, and you know we don't want to steal your things, or to hurt your field, perhaps you would let us play in it sometimes, and perhaps have saxon to play with us there. we are so very fond of him too." "you are fond of mary's meadow?" said the old squire. "yes, yes! we have been fond of it all our lives. we don't think there is any field like it, and i don't believe there can be. don't give it away. you'll never get one with such flowers in it again. and now there are hose-in-hose, and they are not at all common. bessy's aunt's aunt has only got one left, and she's taking care of it with a shovel. and if you'll let us in we'll plant a lot of things, and do no harm, we will indeed. and the nightingale will be here directly. oh, don't give it away!" my head was whirling now with the difficulty of persuading him, and i did not hear what he said across me to my father. but i heard father's reply--"tell her yourself, sir." on which the old squire stuffed the big paper into my arms, and put his hand on my head and patted it. "i told you i was a bad hand at talking, my dear," he said, "but mary's meadow is given away, and that's the deed of gift which you've got in your arms, drawn up as tight as any rascal of a lawyer can do it, and that's not so tight, i believe, but what some other rascal of a lawyer could undo it. however, they may let you alone. for i've given it to you, my dear, and it is yours. so you can plant, and play, and do what you please there. 'you, and your heirs and assigns, for ever,' as the rascals say." it was my turn now to be speechless. but as i stared blankly in front of me, i saw that father had come round, and was looking at me through his eye-glass. he nodded to me, and said, "yes, mary, the squire has given mary's meadow to you, and it is yours." * * * * * nothing would induce the old squire to take it back, so i had to have it, for my very own. he said he had always been sorry he had spoken so roughly to me, but he could not say so, as he and father were not on speaking terms. just lately he was dining with lady catherine, to meet her cousins from the barracks, and she was telling people after dinner about our game (rather mean of her, i think, to let out our secrets at a dinner-party), and when he heard about my planting things in the hedges, he remembered what i had said. and next day he went to the place to look, and there were the hose-in-hose. oh, how delighted the others were when they heard that mary's meadow belonged to me. "it's like having an earthly paradise given to you, straight off!" said harry. "and one that doesn't want weeding," said adela. "and oh, mary, mary!" cried arthur. "think of the yards and yards of top-spit. it does rejoice me to think i can go to you now when i'm making compost, and need not be beholden to that old sell-up-your-grandfather john for as much as would fill adela's weeding basket, and that's about as small an article as any one can make-believe with." "it's very heavy when it's full," said adela. "is everything hers?" asked christopher. "is the grass hers, and the trees hers, and the hedges hers, and the rooks hers, and the starling hers, and will the nightingale be hers when he comes home, and if she could dig through to the other side of the world, would there be a field the same size in australia that would be hers, and are the sheep hers, and--" "for mercy's sake stop that catalogue, chris," said father. "of course the sheep are not hers; they were moved yesterday. by the bye, mary, i don't know what you propose to do with your property, but if you like to let it to me, i'll turn some sheep in to-morrow, and i'll pay you so much a year, which i advise you to put into the post office savings bank." i couldn't fancy mary's meadow always without sheep, so i was too thankful; though at first i could not see that it was fair that dear father should let me have his sheep to look pretty in my field for nothing, and pay me, too. he is always teasing me about my field, and he teases me a good deal about the squire, too. he says we have set up another queer friendship in the family, and that the old squire and i are as odd a pair as aunt catherine and chris. i am very fond of the old squire now, and he is very kind to me. he wants to give me saxon, but i will not accept him. it would be selfish. but the old squire says i had better take him, for we have quite spoilt him for a yard dog by petting him, till he has not a bit of savageness left in him. we do not believe saxon ever was savage; but i daren't say so to the old squire, for he does not like you to think you know better than he does about anything. there is one other subject on which he expects to be humoured, and i am careful not to offend him. he cannot tolerate the idea that he might be supposed to have yielded to father the point about which they went to law, in giving mary's meadow to me. he is always lecturing me on encroachments, and the abuse of privileges, and warning me to be very strict about trespassers on the path through mary's meadow; and now that the field is mine, nothing will induce him to walk in it without asking my leave. that is his protest against the decision from which he meant to appeal. though i have not accepted saxon, he spends most of his time with us. he likes to come for the night, because he sleeps on the floor of my room, instead of in a kennel, which must be horrid, i am sure. yesterday, the old squire said, "one of these fine days, when master saxon does not come home till morning, he'll find a big mastiff in his kennel, and will have to seek a home for himself where he can." chris has been rather whimsical lately. father says lady catherine spoils him. one day he came to me, looking very peevish, and said, "mary, if a hedgehog should come and live in one of your hedges, michael says he would be yours, he's sure. if michael finds him, will you give him to me?" "yes, chris; but what do you want with a hedgehog?" "i want him to sleep by my bed," said chris. "you have saxon by your bed; i want something by mine. i want a hedgehog. i feel discontented without a hedgehog. i think i might have something the matter with my brain if i didn't get a hedgehog pretty soon. can i go with michael and look for him this afternoon?" and he put his hand to his forehead. "chris, chris!" i said, "you should not be so sly. you're a real slyboots. double-stockings and slyboots." and i took him on my lap. chris put his arms round my neck, and buried his cheek against mine. "i won't be sly, mary," he whispered; and then, hugging me as he hugs lady catherine, he added, "for i do love you; for you are a darling, and i do really think it always was yours." "what, chris?" "if not," said chris, "why was it always called mary's meadow?" letters from a little garden. letter i. "all is fine that is fit."_--old proverb._ dear little friend, when, with the touching confidence of youth, that your elders have made-up as well as grown-up minds on all subjects, you asked my opinion on _ribbon-gardening_, the above proverb came into my head, to the relief of its natural tendency to see an inconvenient number of sides to every question. the more i reflect upon it, the more i am convinced it is a comfortably compact confession of my faith on all matters decorative, and thence on the decoration of gardens. i take some credit to myself for having the courage of my moderation, since you obviously expect a more sweeping reply. the bedding-out system is in bad odour just now; and you ask, "wasn't it hideous?" and "wasn't it hateful?" and "will it ever come into fashion again, to the re-extermination of the dear old-fashioned flowers which we are now slowly, and with pains, recalling from banishment?" to discover one's own deliberate opinion upon a subject is not always easy--prophetic opinions one must refuse to offer. but i feel no doubt whatever that the good lady who shall coddle this little garden at some distant date after me will be quite as fond of her borders as i am of mine; and i suspect that these will be about as like each other as our respective best bonnets. the annals of fashion must always be full of funny stories. i know two of the best amateur gardeners of the day; they are father and son. the father, living _and gardening_ still (he sent me a specimen lily lately by parcel post, and is beholden to no one for help, either with packing or addressing, in his constant use of this new convenience), is making good way between ninety and a hundred years of age. what we call old-fashioned flowers were the pets of his youth. about the time when ribbon-bordering "came in," he changed his residence, and, in the garden where he had cultivated countless kinds of perennials, his son reigned in his stead. the horticultural taste proved hereditary, but in the younger man it took the impress of the fashion of his day. away went the "herbaceous stuff" on to rubbish heaps, and the borders were soon gay with geraniums, and kaleidoscopic with calceolarias. but "the whirligig of time brings in his revenges," and, perhaps, a real love for flowers could never, in the nature of things, have been finally satisfied by the dozen or by the score; so it came to pass that the garden is once more herbaceous, and far-famed as such. the father--a _perennial_ gardener in more senses than one, long may he flourish!--has told me, chuckling, of many a penitential pilgrimage to the rubbish heaps, if haply fragments could be found of the herbaceous treasures which had been so rashly cast away. doubtless there were many restorations. abandoned "bedding stuff" soon perishes, but uprooted clumps of "herbaceous stuff" linger long in shady corners, and will sometimes flower pathetically on the heap where they have been thrown to rot. i once saw a fine queen anne country house--an old one; not a modern imitation. chippendale had made the furniture. he had worked in the house. whether the chairs and tables were beautiful or not is a matter of taste, but they were well made and seasoned; so, like the herbaceous stuff, they were hardy. the next generation decided that they were ugly. new chairs and tables were bought, and the chippendale "stuff" was sent up into the maids' bedrooms, and down to the men's. it drifted into the farmhouses and cottages on the estate. no doubt a good deal was destroyed. the caprices of fashion are not confined to one class, and the lower classes are the more prodigal and destructive. i have seen the remains of elizabethan bedsteads under hay-ricks, and untold "old oak" has fed the cottage fire. i once asked a village maiden why the people made firewood of carved arm-chairs, when painted pinewood, upholstered in american cloth, is, if lovelier, not so lasting. her reply was--"they get stalled on[ ] 'em." and she added: "maybe a man 'll look at an old arm-chair that's stood on t' hearth-place as long as he can remember, and he'll say--i'm fair sick o' t' seet o' _yon_. we mun have a new 'un for t' feast. _i'll chop thee oop_!'" [footnote : "stalled on" = tired of. "t' feast" = the village feast, an annual festival and fair, for which most houses in that district are cleaned within and whitewashed without.] possibly some of the chippendale chairs also fell to the hatchet and fed the flames, but most of them bore neglect as well as hardy perennials, and when queen anne houses and "old chips" came into fashion again, there was routing and rummaging from attic to cellar, in farmhouse and cottage, and the banished furniture went triumphantly back to its own place. i first saw single dahlias in some "little gardens" in cheshire, five or six years ago. no others had ever been cultivated there. in these quiet nooks the double dahlia was still a new-fangled flower. if the single dahlias yet hold their own, those little gardens must now find themselves in the height of the floral fashion, with the unusual luck of the conservative old woman who "wore her bonnet till the fashions came round again." it is such little gardens which have kept for us the blue primrose, the highly fragrant summer roses (including rose de meaux, and the red and copper briar), countless beautiful varieties of daffy-down-dillies, and all the host of sweet, various and hardy flowers which are now returning, like the chippendale chairs, from the village to the hall. it is still in cottage gardens chiefly that the crown imperial hangs its royal head. one may buy small sheaves of it in the taunton market-place on early summer saturdays. what a stately flower it is! and, in the paler variety, of what an exquisite yellow! i always fancy _fritillaria imperialis flava_ to be dressed in silk from the flowery land--that robe of imperial yellow which only general gordon and the blood royal of china are entitled to wear! "all is fine that is fit." and is the "bedding-out" system--ribbon-gardening--ever fit, and therefore ever fine? my little friend, i am inclined to think that it sometimes is. for long straight borders in parks and public promenades, for some terrace garden on a large scale, viewed perhaps from windows at a considerable distance, and, in a general way, for pleasure-grounds ordered by professional skill, and not by an _amateur_ gardener (which, mark you, being interpreted, is gardener _for love_!), the bedding-out style _is_ good for general effect, and i think it is capable of prettier ingenuities than one often sees employed in its use. i think that, if i ever gardened in this expensive and mechanical style, i should make "arrangements," à la whistler, with flowers of various shades of the same colour. but harmony and gradation of colour always give me more pleasure than contrast. then, besides the fitness of the gardening to the garden, there is the fitness of the garden to its owner; and the owner must be considered from two points of view, his taste, and his means. indeed, i think it would be fair to add a third, his leisure. now, there are owners of big gardens and little gardens, who like to have a garden (what englishman does not?), and like to see it gay and tidy, but who don't know one flower from the rest. on the other hand, some scientists are acquainted with botany and learned in horticulture. they know every plant and its value, but they care little about tidiness. cut flowers are feminine frivolities in their eyes, and they count nosegays as childish gauds, like daisy chains and cowslip balls. they are not curious in colours, and do not know which flowers are fragrant and which are scentless. for them every garden is a botanical garden. then, many persons fully appreciate the beauty and the scent of flowers, and enjoy selecting and arranging them for a room, who can't abide to handle a fork or meddle with mother earth. others again, amongst whom i number myself, love not only the lore of flowers, and the sight of them, and the fragrance of them, and the growing of them, and the picking of them, and the arranging of them, but also inherit from father adam a natural relish for tilling the ground from whence they were taken and to which they shall return. with little persons in little gardens, having also little strength and little leisure, this husbandry may not exceed the small uses of fork and trowel, but the earth-love is there, all the same. i remember once, coming among some family papers upon an old letter from my grandmother to my grandfather. she was a clever girl (she did not outlive youth), and the letter was natural and full of energy and point. my grandfather seems to have apologized to his bride for the disorderly state of the garden to which she was about to-go home, and in reply she quaintly and vehemently congratulates herself upon this unpromising fact. for--"i do so dearly love _grubbing_." this touches another point. she was a botanist, and painted a little. so were most of the lady gardeners of her youth. the education of women was, as a rule, poor enough in those days; but a study of "the linnean system" was among the elegant accomplishments held to "become a young woman"; and one may feel pretty sure that even a smattering of botanical knowledge, and the observation needed for third or fourth-rate flower-painting, would tend to a love of variety in beds and borders which ribbon-gardening would by no means satisfy. _lobelia erinus speciosa_ does make a wonderfully smooth blue stripe in sufficient quantities, but that would not console any one who knew or had painted _lobelia cardinalis_, and _fulgens_, for the banishment of these from the garden. i think we may dismiss ribbon-gardening as unfit for a botanist, or for any one who happens to like _grubbing_, or tending his flowers. is it ever "fit" in a little garden? well, if the owner has either no taste for gardening, or no time, it may be the shortest and brightest plan to get some nurseryman near to fill the little beds and borders with spring bedding plants for spring (and let me note that this _spring bedding_, which is of later date than the first rage for ribbon-borders, had to draw its supplies very largely from "herbaceous stuff," _myosotis_, _viola_, _aubretia_, _iberis_, &c., and may have paved the way for the return of hardy perennials into favour), and with tom thumb geranium, blue lobelia, and yellow calceolaria for the summer and autumn. these latter are most charming plants. they are very gay and persistent whilst they last, and it is not their fault that they cannot stand our winters. they are no invalids till frost comes. with my personal predilections, i like even "bedding stuff" best in variety. the varieties of what we call geraniums are many and most beautiful. i should always prefer a group of individual specimens to a band of one. and never have i seen the canary yellow of calceolarias to such advantage as in an "old-fashioned" rectory-garden in yorkshire, where they were cunningly used as points of brilliancy at corners of beds mostly filled with "hardy herbaceous stuff." but there, again, one begins to spend time and taste! let us admit that, if a little garden must be made gay by the neighbouring nurseryman, it will look very bright, on the "ribbon" system, at a minimum cost of time and trouble--_but not of money!_ even for a little garden, bedding plants are very expensive. for you must either use plenty, or leave it alone. a ragged ribbon-border can have no admirers. if time and money are both lacking, and horticulture is not a hobby, divide what sum you are prepared to spend on your little garden in two. lay out half in making good soil, and spend the rest on a limited range of hardy plants. if mother earth is well fed, and if you have got her _deep down_, and not a surface layer of half a foot on a substratum of builder's rubbish, she will take care of every plant you commit to her hold. i should give up the back of the borders (if the aspect is east or south) to a few very good "perpetual" roses to cut from; dwarfs, not standards; and for the line of colour in front it will be no great trouble to arrange roughly to have red, white, blue, and yellow alternately. one of the best cheap bedders is pink catchfly (_silene pendula_). its rosy cushions are as neat and as lasting as blue lobelia. it is a hardy annual, but the plants should be autumn sown of the year before. it flowers early and long, and its place might be taken for the autumn by scarlet dwarf nasturtiums, or clumps of geranium. pink catchfly, blue forget-me-not, white arabis, and yellow viola would make gay any spring border. then to show, to last, and to cut from, few flowers rival the self-coloured pansies (viola class). blue, white, purple, and yellow alternately, they are charming, and if in good soil, well watered in drought, and constantly cut from, they bloom the whole summer long. and some of them are very fragrant. the secret of success with these is never to leave a flower to go to seed. they are not cut off by autumnal frosts. on the contrary, you can take them up, and divide, and reset, and send a portion to other little gardens where they are lacking. all mine (and they have been very gay this year and very sweet) i owe to the bounty of friends who garden _non sibi sed toti_. lastly, if there is even a very little taste and time to spare, surely nothing can be so satisfactory as a garden full of such flowers as (in the words of john parkinson) "our english ayre will permitt to be noursed up." bearing in mind these counsels: make a wise selection of hardy plants. grow only good sorts, and of these choose what suit your soil and climate. give them space and good feeding. disturb the roots as little as possible, and cut the flowers constantly. then they will be fine as well as fit. good-bye, little friend, yours, &c. letter ii. "the tropics may have their delights; but they have not turf, and the world without turf is a dreary desert. the original garden of eden could not have had such turf as one sees in england. * * * * * "woman always did, from the first, make a muss in a garden. * * * * * "nevertheless, what a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it." _pusley; or, my summer in a garden_.--c. d. warner. dear little friend, do you know the little book from which these sayings are quoted? it is one you can laugh over by yourself, again and again. a very good specimen of that curious, new-world kind of wit--american humour; and also full of the truest sense of natural beauty and of gardening delights. mr. warner is not complimentary to woman's work in the garden, though he displays all the graceful deference of his countrymen to the weaker sex. in the charming dedication to his wife, whilst desiring "to acknowledge an influence which has lent half the charm to my labour," he adds: "if i were in a court of justice, or injustice, under oath, i should not like to say that, either in the wooing days of spring, or under the suns of the summer solstice, you had been, either with hoe, rake, or miniature spade, of the least use in the garden." perhaps our fair cousins on the other side of the atlantic do not _grub_ so energetically as we do. certainly, with us it is very common for the ladies of the family to be the practical gardeners, the master of the house caring chiefly for a good general effect, with tidy walks and grassplots, and displaying less of that almost maternal solicitude which does bring flowers to perfection. i have sometimes thought that it would be a good division of labour in a little garden, if, where joan coddles the roses and rears the seedlings, darby would devote some of his leisure to the walks and grassplots. few things in one's garden are pleasanter to one's own eye, or gain more admiration from others, than well-kept turf. green grass is one of the charms of the british isles, which are emerald isles throughout, though ireland is so _par excellence_. it is so much a matter of course to us that we hardly realize this till we hear or read what foreigners say about it, and also our own american and colonial cousins. we go abroad and revel in real sunshine, and come home with glowing memories to abuse our own cloudy skies; but they come from burnt-up landscapes to refresh their eyes with our perpetual green. even a little grassplot well repays pains and care. if you have to make it, never use cheap seed. buy the very best from seedsmen of repute, or you will get a conglomeration of weeds instead of a greensward of fine grasses and white clover. trench the ground to an _even_ depth, tread it firm, and have light, finely-sifted soil uppermost. sow thickly early in april, cover lightly, and protect from birds. if the soil is good, and the seed first-rate, your sward will be green the first season. turfs make a lawn somewhat quicker than seed. the best are cut from the road-side, but it is a hateful despoiling of one of the fairest of travellers' joys. those who commit this highway robbery should reckon themselves in honour bound to sow the bare places they leave behind. some people cut the pieces eighteen inches square, some about a yard long and twelve inches wide. cut thin, roll up like thin bread-and-butter. when they are laid down, fit close together, like bits of a puzzle, and roll well after laying. if they gape with shrinking, fill in between with finely-sifted soil, and roll again and again. strictly speaking, a grassplot should be all grass, grass and a little white clover. "soldiers" (of the plantain type) are not to be tolerated on a lawn, but i have a weak corner for dog-daisies. i once owned a little garden in canada, but never a dog-daisy grew there. a lady i knew had one--in a pot--sent from "home." but even if you have a sentimental fondness for "the pretty things" (as their botanical name signifies), and like to see their little white faces peeping out of the grass, this must not be carried too far. in some soils dog-daisies will soon devour the whole lawn. how are they, and "soldiers," and other weeds to be extirpated? there are many nostrums, but none so effectual as a patient digging up (with a long "daisy fork") of plant after plant _by the roots_. the whole family party and any chance visitors will not be too many for the work, and, if each labourer is provided with a cast-iron back with a hinge in it, so much the better. a writer in the _garden_ seems to have been very successful with salt, used early in the season and with great care. he says: "after the first cutting in the spring put as much salt on each weed, through the palm of the hand, as will distinctly cover it. in two or three days, depending on the weather, they will turn brown. those weeds that have escaped can be distinctly seen, and the operation should be repeated. the weeds thus treated die, and in about three weeks the grass will have grown, and there will not be a vestige of disturbance left. two years ago i converted a rough pasture into a tennis-ground for six courts. naturally the turf was a mass of rough weeds. it took three days to salt them, and the result was curiously successful." another prescription is to cut off the crowns of the offending plants, and dose them with a few drops of carbolic acid. grass will only grow dense by constant cutting and moisture. the scythe works best when the grass is wet, and the machine when it is dry. sweep it and roll it during the winter. pick off stones, sticks, or anything that "has no business" on it, as you would pick "bits" off a carpet. if grass grows rank and coarse, a dressing of sand will improve it; if it is poor and easily burned up, give it a sprinkling of soot, or guano, or wood ashes (or all three mixed) before rain. "slops" are as welcome to parched grass as to half-starved flowers. if the weather is hot and the soil light, it is well occasionally to leave the short clippings of one mowing upon the lawn to protect the roots. i do not know if it becomes unmanageable, but, in moderation, i think camomile a very charming intruder on a lawn, and the aromatic scent which it yields to one's tread to be very grateful in the open air. it is pleasant, too, to have a knoll or a bank somewhere, where thyme can grow among the grass. but the subject of flowers that grow well through grass is a large one. it is one also on which the members of our parkinson society would do kindly to give us any exceptional experiences, especially in reference to flowers which not only flourish among grass, but do not resent being mown down. the lovely blue windflower (_anemone apennina_) is, i believe, one of these. there is no doubt that now and then plants prefer to meet with a little resistance, and despise a bed that is made too comfortable. self-sown ones often come up much more vigorously through the hard path than when the seed has fallen within the border. the way to grow the parsley fern is said to be to clap a good big stone on his crown very early in the spring, and let him struggle out at all corners from underneath it. it is undoubtedly a comfort to rock-plants and creeping things to be planted with a stone over their feet to keep them cool! which reminds me of stones for bordering. i think they make the best of all edgings for a little garden. box-edgings are the prettiest, but they are expensive, require good keeping, and harbour slugs. for that matter, most things seem to harbour slugs in any but a very dry climate, and there are even more prescriptions for their destruction than that of lawn weeds. i don't think lime does much, nor soot. wet soon slakes them. thick slices of turnip are attractive. slugs really do seem to like them, even better than one's favourite seedlings. little heaps of bran also, and young lettuces. my slugs do not care for cabbage leaves, and they are very untidy. put thick slices of turnip near your auriculas, favourite primroses and polyanthuses, and christmas roses, and near anything tender and not well established, and overhaul them early in the morning. "you can't get up too early, if you have a garden," says mr. warner; and he adds: "things appear to go on in the night in the garden uncommonly. it would be less trouble to stay up than it is to get up so early!" to return to stone edgings. when quite newly laid, like miniature rockwork, they are, perhaps, the least bit cockneyfied, and suggestive of something between oyster-shell borderings and mock ruins. but this effect very rapidly disappears as they bury themselves in cushions of pink catch-fly (v. _compacta_), or low-growing pinks, tiny campanulas, yellow viola, london pride, and the vast variety of rock-plants, "alpines," and low-growing "herbaceous stuff," which delight in squeezing up to a big cool stone that will keep a little moisture for their rootlets in hot summer weather. this is a much more interesting kind of edging than any one kind of plant can make, i think, and in a little garden it is like an additional border, leaving the other free for bigger plants. if one kind is preferred, for a light soil there is nothing like thrift. and the white thrift is very silvery and more beautiful than the pink. there is a large thrift, too, which is handsome. but i prefer stones, and i like varieties of colour--bits of grey boulder, and red and yellow sandstone. i like warm colour also on the walks. i should always have red walks if i could afford them. there is a red material, the result of some process of burning, which we used to get in the iron and coal districts of yorkshire, which i used to think very pretty, but i do not know what it is called. good walks are a great luxury. it is a wise economy to go round your walks after rain and look for little puddles; make a note of where the water lodges and fill it up. keep gratings swept. if the grating is free and there is an overflow not to be accounted for, it is very possible that a drain-pipe somewhere is choke-full of the roots of some tree. some people advise hacking up your walks from time to time, and other people advise you not. some people say there is nothing like salt to destroy walk weeds and moss, and brighten the gravel, and some people say that salt in the long run feeds the ground and the weeds. i am disposed to think that, in a little garden, there is nothing like a weeding woman with an old knife and a little salt afterwards. it is also advisable to be your own weeding woman, that you may be sure that the weeds come up by the roots! next to the cast-iron back before mentioned, i recommend a housemaid's kneeling mat (such as is used for scrubbing floors), as a gardener's comfort. i hope, if you have been bulb planting, that you got them all in by lord mayor's day. whether bulbs should be planted deep or shallow is another "vexed question." in a little garden, where you don't want to disturb them, and may like to plant out some small-rooted annuals on the top of them later on, i should plant deep. if you are planting roses, remember that two or three, carefully planted in good stuff that goes deep, will pay you better than six times the number stuck _into a hole_ in cold clay or sand or builders' rubbish, and left to push their rootlets as best they can, or perish in the attempt. spread out these rootlets very tenderly when planting. you will reap the reward of your gentleness in flowers. rose roots don't like being squeezed, like a chinese lady's feet. i was taught this by one who knows,--he has a good name for the briar suckers and sprouts which i hope you carefully cut off from your grafted roses,--he calls it "the old adam!" yours, &c. letter iii. "a good rule is a good tool." dear little friend, january is not a month in which you are likely to be doing much in your little garden. possibly a wet blanket of snow lies thick and white over all its hopes and anxieties. no doubt you made all tidy, and some things warm, for the winter, in the delicious opportunities of st. luke's and st. martin's little summers, and, like the amusing american i told you of, "turned away writing _resurgam_ on the gate-post." i write _resurgam_ on labels, and put them wherever bulbs lie buried, or such herbaceous treasures as die down, and are, in consequence, too often treated as mere mortal remains of the departed, by the undiscriminating hand of the jobbing gardener. winter is a good time to make plans, and to put them down in your garden-book. have you a garden-book? a note-book, i mean, devoted to garden memoranda. it is a very useful kind of commonplace book, and soon becomes as fascinating as autumn and spring catalogues. one has to learn to manage even a little garden chiefly by experience, which is sure teaching, if slow. books and gardeners are helpful; but, like other doctors, they differ. i think one is often slower to learn anything than one need be, from not making at once for first principles. if one knew more of these, it would be easier to apply one's own experience, and to decide amid conflicting advice. here are a few rough-and-ready "first principles" for you. _hardy flowers in hedges and ditches are partly fed, and are also covered from cold and heat, and winds, and drought, by fallen leaves and refuse. hardy flowers in gardens have all this tidied away from them, and, being left somewhat hungry and naked in proportion, are all the better for an occasional top-dressing and mulching, especially in autumn._ it is not absolutely necessary to turn a flower border upside down and dig it over every year. it may (for some years at any rate), if you find this more convenient, be treated on the hedge system, and _fed from the top_; thinning big clumps, pulling up weeds, moving and removing in detail. _concentrated strength means large blooms._ if a plant is ripening seed, some strength goes to that; if bursting into many blooms, some goes to each of them; if it is trying to hold up against blustering winds, or to thrive on exhausted ground, or to straighten out cramped and clogged roots, these struggles also demand strength. moral: plant carefully, support your tall plants, keep all your plants in easy circumstances, don't put them to the trouble of ripening seed (unless you specially want it). to this end cut off fading flowers, and also cut off buds in places where they would not show well when they came out, and all this economized strength will go into the blossoms that remain. _you cannot grow everything. grow what suits your soil and climate, and the best kinds of these, as well as you can._ you may make soil to suit a plant, but you cannot make the climate to suit it, and some flowers are more fastidious about the air they breathe than about the soil they feed upon. there are, however, scores of sturdy, handsome flowers, as hardy as highlanders, which will thrive in almost any soil, and under all the variations of climate of the british isles. some will even endure the smoke-laden atmosphere of towns and town suburbs; which, sooner or later, is certain death to so many. it is a pity that small florists and greengrocers in london do not know more about this; and it would be a great act of kindness to them and to their customers to instruct them. then, instead of encouraging the ruthless slaughter of primroses, scores and hundreds of plants of which are torn up and then sold in a smoky atmosphere to which they never adapt themselves, these small shopkeepers might offer plants of the many beautiful varieties of poppies, from the grand _orientalis_ onwards, chrysanthemums, stocks, wall-flowers, canterbury bells, salvias, oenotheras, snapdragons, perennial lobelias, iris, and other plants which are known to be very patient under a long course of soot. most of the hardy californian annuals bear town life well. perhaps because they have only to bear it for a year. _convolvulus major_--the morning glory, as our american cousins so prettily call it--flourishes on a smutty wall as generously as the virginian creeper. _north borders are safest in winter._ they are free from the dangerous alternation of sunshine and frost. put things of doubtful hardihood under a north wall, with plenty of sandy soil or ashes over their roots, some cinders on that, and perhaps a little light protection, like bracken, in front of them, and their chances will not be bad. apropos to tender things, if your little garden is in a cold part of the british isles, and has ungenial conditions of soil and aspect, don't try to keep tender things out of doors in winter; but, if it is in the south or west of the british isles, i should be tempted to very wide experiments with lots of plants not commonly reckoned "hardy." where laurels flower freely you will probably be successful eight years out of ten. most fuchsias, and tender things which _die down_, may be kept. _very little will keep jack frost out, if he has not yet been in_, either in the garden or the house. a "hot bottle" will keep frost out of a small room where one has stored geraniums, &c., so will a small paraffin lamp (which--n.b.--will also keep water-pipes from catastrophe). how i have toiled, in my young days, with these same hot-water bottles in a cupboard off the nursery, which was my nearest approach to a greenhouse! and how sadly i have experienced that where mr. frost goes out mr. mould is apt to slink in! truly, as mr. warner says, "the gardener needs all the consolations of a high philosophy!" it is a great satisfaction if things _will_ live out of doors. and in a _little_ garden a good deal of coddling may be done. i am going to get some round fruit hampers to turn over certain tender pets this winter. when one has one's flowers by the specimen and not by the score, such cosseting is possible. ashes and cinders are excellent protection for the roots, and for plants--like roses--which do not die back to the earth level, and which sometimes require a screen as well as a quilt, bracken, fir branches, a few pea-sticks, and matting or straw are all handy helps. the old gentleman who ran out--without his dressing-gown--to fling his own bed-quilt over some plants endangered by an unexpected frost, came very near to having a fine show of bloom and not being there to see it; but, short of this excessive zeal, when one's garden is a little one, and close to one's threshold, one may catch jack frost on the surface of many bits of rough-and-ready fencing on very cold nights. _in drought, one good soaking with tepid water is worth six sprinklings._ watering is very fatiguing, but it is unskilled labour, and one ought to be able to hire strong arms to do it at a small rate. but i never met the hired person yet who could be persuaded that it was needful to do more than make the surface of the ground look as if it had been raining. there is a "first principle" of which some gardeners are very fond, but in which i do not believe, that if you begin to water you must go on, and that too few waterings do harm. what i don't believe is that they do harm, nor did i ever meet with a gardener who complained of an odd shower, even if the skies did not follow it up. an odd sprinkling does next to no good, but an odd soaking may save the lives of your plants. in very hot weather don't grudge a few waterings to your polyanthuses and primroses. if they are planted in open sunny borders, with no shade or hedge-mulching, they suffer greatly from drought. _flowers, like human beings, are, to some extent, creatures of habit._ they get used to many things which they can't at all abide once in a way. if your little garden (like mine) is part of a wandering establishment, here to-day and there to-morrow, you may get even your roses into very good habits of moving good-humouredly, and making themselves quickly at home. if plants from the first are accustomed to being moved about,--every year, or two years,--they do not greatly resent it. a real "old resident," who has pushed his rootlets far and wide, and never tried any other soil or aspect, is very slow to settle elsewhere, even if he does not die of _nostalgia_ and nervous shock! in making cuttings, consider the habits and customs of the parent plant. if it has been grown in heat, the cuttings will require heat to start them. and so on, as to dry soil or moist, &c. if somebody gives you "a root" in hot weather, or a bad time for moving, when you have made your hole pour water in very freely. saturate the ground below, "puddle in" your plants with plenty more, and you will probably save it, especially if you turn a pot or basket over it in the heat of the day. in warm weather plant in the evening, the new-comers then have a round of the clock in dews and restfulness before the sun is fierce enough to make them flag. in cold weather move in the morning, and for the same period they will be safe from possible frost. little, if any, watering is needed for late autumn plantings. _those parts of a plant which are not accustomed to exposure are those which suffer from it._ you may garden bare-handed in a cold wind and not be the worse for it, but, if both your arms were bared to the shoulders, the consequences would probably be very different. a bundle of rose-trees or shrubs will bear a good deal on their leaves and branches, but for every moment you leave their roots exposed to drying and chilling blasts they suffer. when a plant is out of the ground, protect its crown and its roots at once. if a plant is moved quickly, it is advantageous, of course, to take it up with as much earth as possible, if the roots remain undisturbed in their little plat. otherwise, earth is no better than any other protection; and in sending plants by post, &c. (when soil weighs very heavily), it is better to wash every bit of soil out of the roots, and then thoroughly wrap them in moss, and outside that in hay or tow, or cotton-wool. then, if the roots are comfortably spread in nice mould at the other end of the journey, all should go well. i reserve a sneaking credulity about "lucky fingers." or rather, i should say, a belief that some people have a strange power (or tact) in dealing with the vegetable world, as others have in controlling and coaxing animals. it is a vivid memory of my childhood that (amongst the box-edged gardens of a family of eight), that of my eldest brother was almost inconvenienced by the luck of his fingers. "survival of the fittest" (if hardiest does mean fittest!) kept the others within bounds; but what he begged, borrowed, and stole, survived, all of it, conglomerate around the "double velvet" rose, which formed the centre-piece. we used to say that when the top layer was pared off, a buried crop came up. an old friend with lucky fingers visited my little garden this autumn. he wanders all over the world, and has no garden of his own except window-boxes in london, where he seems to grow what he pleases. he is constantly doing kindnesses, and likes to do them his own way. he christened a border (out of which i had not then turned the builders' rubbish) desolation border, with more candour than compliment. he said it wanted flowers, and he meant to sow some. i suggested that, sown at that period of the summer, they would not flower this season. he said they would. (they did.) none of my suggestions met with favour, so i became gratefully passive, and watched the lucky fingers from a distance, fluttering small papers, and making mystic deposits here and there, through the length and breadth of the garden. i only begged him to avoid my labels. the seeds he sowed ranged from three (rather old) seeds of bottle gourd to a packet of mixed virginian stock. they all came up. he said, "i shall put them in where i think it is desirable, and when they come up you'll see where they are." i did. for some days after his departure, on other country visits, i received plants by post. not in tins, or boxes, but in envelopes with little or no packing. in this way came sea lavender in full bloom, crimson monkey plant from the london window-box, and cuttings of mesembryanthemum. they are all alive and thriving! the bottle gourd and the annuals have had their day, and it is over; but in the most unexpected places there still rise, like ghosts, certain plants which completely puzzle me.[ ] they have not blossomed, but they grow on in spite of frost. some of them are nearly as tall as myself. they almost alarm me when i am dividing violas, and trifling with alpines. they stand over me (without sticks) and seem to say, "we are up, you see where we are! we shall grow as long as we think it desirable." farewell for the present, little friend, yours, &c. [footnote : when fully grown these plants proved to be the tree-mallow, _lavatera arborea_; the seeds were gathered from specimens on the shores of the mediterranean.] letter iv. "when candlemas day is come and gone, the snow lies on a hot stone."--_old saw_. dear little friend, among all the changes and chances of human life which go to make up fiction as well as fact, there is one change which has never chanced to any man; and yet the idea has been found so fascinating by all men that it appears in the literature of every country. most other fancied transformations are recorded as facts somewhere in the history of our race. poor men have become rich, the beggar has sat among princes, the sick have been made whole, the dead have been raised, the neglected man has awoke to find himself famous, rough and kindly beasts have been charmed by lovely ladies into very passable princes, and it would be hard to say that the ugly have not seen themselves beautiful in the mirror of friendly eyes; but the old have never become young. the elixir of youth has intoxicated the imagination of many, but no drop of it has ever passed human lips. if we ever do just taste anything of the vital, hopeful rapture, the elastic delight of the old man of a fairy tale, who leaves his cares, his crutches, and his chimney-corner, to go forth again young amongst the young,--it is when the winter is ended and the spring is come. some people may feel this rising of the sap of life within them more than others, but there are probably very few persons whom the first mild airs and bursting buds and pushing flower-crowns do not slightly intoxicate with a sort of triumphant pleasure. what then, dear little friend, must be the february feelings of the owner of a little garden? knowing, as we do, every plant and its place,--having taken just pride in its summer bloom,--having preserved this by cares and trimmings and proppings to a picturesque and florid autumn, though wild-flowers have long been shrivelled and shapeless,--having tidied it up and put a little something comforting round it when bloom and outline were absolutely no more: what must we feel when we first detect the ruddy young shoots of our favourite pæonies, or perceive that the brown old hepaticas have become green and young again and are full of flower-buds? the process of strolling, with bent back and peering eyes, by the side of the still frosty borders is so deeply interesting, and a very little sunshine on a broad band of crocuses has such a summer-like effect, that one is apt to forget that it is one of the cheapest ways of catching cold. the last days of the gardening year not unfrequently lead from the flower-bed to the sick-bed. but though there is for susceptible folk a noxious influence in the decaying vegetation of autumn, from which spring is free, there is bitter treachery in many a spring wind, and the damp of the ground seems to reek with the exuding chill of all the frosts that have bound it in mid-winter. i often wonder that, for some exigencies of weather, the outdoor red-flannel knickerbockers which one wears in canada are not more in use here. the very small children have all their clothes stuffed into them, and tumble safely about in the snow like little dutchmen. older wearers of petticoats cram all in except the outermost skirt. it is a very simple garment made of three pieces,--two (straight) legs and a large square. the square is folded like a kerchief, and the leg pieces attached to the two sloping sides. a broad elastic and small openings on each side and at the top enable these very baggy knickerbockers to be easily pulled on for going out (where they effectually exclude cold exhalations from snow or damp ground), and pulled off on coming in. short of such coddling as this, i strongly urge fleecy cork socks inside your garden boots; and i may add that if you've never tried them, you can have no idea of the warmth and comfort of a pair of boy's common yellow-leather leggings, but the buttons will require some adjusting. of course, very robust gardeners are independent of these troublesome considerations; but the gardening members of a family, whether young or old, are very often not those vigorous people who can enjoy their fresh air at unlimited tennis or a real good stretching walk over the hills. they are oftener those weaker vessels who have to be content with strolls, and drives, and sketching, and "pottering about the garden." now, pottering about the garden in spring and autumn has many risks for feeble vitalities, and yet these are just the seasons when everything requires doing, and there is a good hour's work in every yard of a pet border any day. so _verbum sap_. one has to "pay with one's person" for most of one's pleasures, if one is delicate; but it is possible to do a great deal of equinoctial grubbing with safety and even benefit, if one is very warmly protected, especially about the feet and legs. these details are very tedious for young people, but not so tedious as being kept indoors by a cold. and not only must delicate gardeners be cosseted with little advantages at these uncertain seasons, the less robust of the flowers gain equally by timely care. jack frost comes and goes, and leaves many plants (especially those planted the previous autumn) half jumped out of the ground. look out for this, and tread them firmly in again. a shovel-full of cinder-siftings is a most timely attention round the young shoots of such as are poking up their noses a little too early, and seem likely to get them frost-bitten. most alpines and low-growing stuff will bear light rolling after the frost has unsettled them. this is done in large gardens, but in a little garden they can be attended to individually. give a little protection to what is too forward in growth, or badly placed, or of doubtful hardihood, or newly planted. roses and hardy perennials can be planted in open weather. but you will; not really be very busy outside till march, and we are not concerning ourselves with what has to be done "in heat," where a good deal is going on. still, in mild climates or seasons (and one must always remember how greatly the british isles vary in parts, as to climate), the idea of seedlings and cuttings will begin to stir our souls, when february "fills dike," if it is "with black and not with white," _i.e._ with rain and not snow. so i will just say that for a little garden, and a mixed garden, demanding patches, not scores of things, you can raise a wonderfully sufficient number of half-hardy things in an ordinary room, with one or two bell-glasses to give the moist atmosphere in which sitting-rooms are wanting. a common tumbler will cover a dozen "seedlings," and there you have two nice little clumps of half-a-dozen plants each, when they are put out. (and mind you leave them space to spread.) a lot of little cuttings can be rooted in wet sand. hard-wooded cuttings may grow along slowly in cool places; little juicy soft ones need warmth, damp, and quick pushing forward. the very tips of fuchsias grow very easily struck early in wet sand, and will flower the same year. kind friends will give you these, and if they will also give you "tips" of white, yellow, and blue marguerites (this last is _agathea celestis_), these strike as easily as chrysanthemums, and are delightful afterwards to cut from. they are not very tender, though not quite hardy. for the few pots and pans and boxes of cuttings and seedlings which you require, it is well worth while to get a small stock of good compost from a nursery gardener; leaf mould, peat, and sand, whether for seedlings or cuttings. always _sink_ your pot in a second covering. either have your pots sunk in a box of sand, which you can keep damp, or have small pots sunk in larger ones. a _great-coat_ to prevent evaporation, in some shape, is invaluable. yours, &c., j.h.e. garden-lore. every child who has gardening tools, should learn by heart these gardening rules. he who owns a gardening spade, should be able to dig the depth of its blade. he who owns a gardening hoe, must be sure how he means his strokes to go. but he who owns a gardening fork, may make it do all the other tools' work. though to shift, or to pot, or annex what you can, a trowel's the tool for child, woman, or man. 'twas a bird that sits in the medlar-tree, who sang these gardening saws to me. the little gardener's alphabet of proverbs. autumn-sown annuals flower soonest and strongest. what you sow in the spring, sow often and thin. bulbs bought early are best chosen. if you wish your tulips to wake up gay, they must all be in bed by lord mayor's day. "cut my leaves this year, and you won't cut my flowers next year," said the daffodil to tabitha tidy. cut a rose for your neighbour, and it will tell two buds to blossom for you. don't let me forget to pray for travellers when i thank heaven i'm content to stay in my own garden. it is furnished from the ends of the earth. enough comes out of anybody's old garden in autumn, to stock a new one for somebody else. but you want sympathy on one side and sense on the other, and they are rarer than most perennials. flowers are like gentlemen--"best everywhere."[ ] [footnote : "clowns are best in their own company, but gentlemen are best everywhere."--_old proverb._] give mother earth plenty of food, and she'll give you plenty of flowers. he who can keep what he gets, and multiply what he has got, should always buy the best kinds; and he who can do neither should buy none. if nothing else accounts for it, ten to one there's a worm in the pot. jobbing gardeners are sometimes neat, and if they leave their rubbish behind them, the hepaticas may turn up again. known sorts before new sorts, if your list has limits. leave a bit behind you--for conscience's sake--if it's only _polypodium vulgaris_. mischief shows in the leaves, but lies at the root. north borders are warmest in winter. old women's window-plants have guardian angels. pussy cats have nine lives and some pot-plants have more; but both do die of neglect. quaint, gay, sweet, and good for nosegays, is good enough for my garden. rubbish is rubbish when it lies about--compost when it's all of a heap--and food for flowers when it's dug in. sow thick, and you'll have to thin; but sow peas as thick as you please. tree-leaves in the garden, and tea-leaves in the parlour, are good for mulching. "useful if ugly," as the toad said to the lily when he ate the grubs. very little will keep jack frost out--_before he gets in_. water your rose with a slop-pail when it's in bud, and you'll be asked the name of it when it's in flower. xeranthemum, rhodanthe, helichrysum, white yellow, purple, and red. grow us, cut us, tie us, and hang us with drooping head. good christians all, find a nook for us, for we bloom for the church and the dead. you may find more heart's-ease in your garden than grows in the pansy-bed. zinnia elegans flore-pleno is a showy annual, and there's a coloured picture in the catalogue; but--like many other portraits--it's a favourable likeness. sunflowers and a rushlight. _sunflowers and a rushlight originally appeared in "aunt judy's magazine," november . it is now re-published for the first time._ chapter i. "a man named solomon"--jael and the china poodle--johnson's dictionary--nail-spots--family bereavements--a family doctor--the books in the attic--a puzzling tale--"a journey to go." doctor brown is our doctor. he lives in our village, at the top of the hill. when we were quite little, and had scarlet-fever, and measles, and those things, dr. brown used to be very kind to us, and dress his first finger up in his pocket-handkerchief with a knot for the turban, and rings on his thumb and middle finger, and do--"at the top of a hill lived a man named solomon," in a hollow voice, which frightened me rather. and then he used to say--"wise man, solomon! he lived at the top of a hill," and laugh till his face got redder than usual, and his eyes filled with laughter-tears, and twinkled in the nice way they do, and i was not frightened any more. dr. brown left off being our doctor once. that was when he and grandmamma quarrelled. but they made it up again. it was when i was so unhappy--i tried to help it, but i really could not--about my poor dear white china poodle (jael broke him when she was dusting, and then she swept up his tail, though i have so begged her to keep the bits when she cleans our room, and breaks things; and now he never never can be mended, all the days of my life):--it was when i was crying about him, and grandmamma told dr. brown how silly i was, to make me feel ashamed, that he said--"there are some tempers which, if they haven't enough people to love, will love things." margery says he did not say _tempers_ but _temperaments_. i know it began with temper, because it reminded me of jael, who said "them tears is all temper, miss grace," which was very hard, because she knew--she knew quite well--it was about my poodle; and though accidents will happen, she need not have swept up his tail. margery is sure to be right. she always it. besides, we looked it out in johnson's dictionary, which we are rather food of, though it is very heavy to lift. we like the bits out of books, in small print; but i could not understand the bits to the word _temperament_, and i do not think margery could either, though she can understand much more than i can. there is a very odd bit to the word _temperamental_, and it is signed _brown_; but we do not know if that means our dr. brown. this is the bit: "that _temperamental_ dignotions, and conjecture of prevalent humours, may be collected from spots in our nails, we concede."--_brown_. we could not understand it, so we lifted down the other volume (one is just as heavy as the other), and looked out "dignotion," and it means "distinction, distinguishing mark," and then there is the same bit over again, but at the end is "_brown's vulgar errors_." and we did not like to ask dr. brown if they were his vulgar errors, for fear he should think us rude. i thought we might perhaps ask him if they were his errors, and leave out _vulgar_, which is rather a rude word, but margery thought it better not, and she is sure to be right. she always is. but we should have liked to ask dr. brown about it, if it had not been rude, because we think a good deal of spots on our nails. all we know about them is that you begin at your thumb, and count on to your little finger, in this way, "a gift, a beau, a friend, a foe, a journey to go." i like having a beau, or a friend; margery likes a gift, or a journey to go. we neither of us like having foes. and it shows that it does come true, because margery had a white spot in the middle of her left little finger-nail, just when our father's old friend wrote to grandmamma, for one of us to go and pay him a visit; and margery went, because she was the elder of the two. i do not know how i bore parting with her, except with hoping that she would enjoy herself, for she always had wanted so very much to have a journey to go. but if she had been at home, so that i could have taken her advice, i do not think i should have been so silly about the sunflowers and the rushlight. she says--"you'd have put on your slippers, and had a blanket round you at least. but, oh, my dear grace, you always are so rash!" i did not know i was. i thought rash people were brave; and if i had been brave, the rushlight would never have come out of the roof. still margery is sure to be right. i know i am very foolish and lonely without her. there are only two of us. our father, and our mother, and our brother, all died of fever, nearly five years ago. we shall never see them again till we go to paradise, and that is one reason why we wish to try to be good and never to be naughty, so that we may be sure to see them again. i remember them a little. i remember being frightened by sitting so high up on my father's shoulder, and then feeling so safe when i got into my mother's lap; and i remember robin's curls, and his taking my woolly ball from me. i remember our black frocks coming in the hair-trunk with brass nails to the seaside, where margery and i were with our nurse, and her telling the landlady that our father and mother and brother were all laid in one grave. and i remember going home, and seeing the stone flags up in the yard, and a deep dark hole near the pump, and thinking that was the grave; and how margery found me stark with fright, and knew better, and told me that the grave was in the churchyard, and that this hole was only where workmen had been digging for drains. and then never seeing those three, day after day, and having to do without them ever since! but margery remembers a good deal more (she is three years older than i am). she remembers things people said, and the funeral sermon, and the books being moved into the attic, and she remembers grandmamma's quarrel with dr. brown. she says she was sitting behind the parlour curtains with mrs. trimmer's roman history, and grandmamma was sitting, looking very grave in her new black dress, with a pocket-handkerchief and book in her lap, and sherry and sponge biscuits on a tray on the piano, for visitors of condolence, when dr. brown came in, looking very grave too, and took off one of his black gloves and shook hands. then he took off the other, and put them both into his hat, and had a glass of sherry and a sponge biscuit, so margery knew that he was a visitor of condolence. then he and grandmamma talked a long time. margery does not know what about, for she was reading mrs. trimmer; but she thinks they were getting rather cross with each other. then they got up, and dr. brown looked into his hat, and took out his gloves, and grandmamma wiped her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, and said, "i hope i know how to submit, but it has been a heavy judgment, dr. brown." and margery was just beginning to cry too, when dr. brown said, "a very heavy judgment indeed, madam, for letting the cesspool leak into the well;" and it puzzled her so much that she stopped. then grandmamma was very angry, and dr. brown was angry too, and then grandmamma said, "i don't know another respectable practitioner, dr. brown, who would have said what you have said this morning." and dr. brown brushed his hat the wrong way with his coat-sleeve, and said, "too true, madam! we are not a body of reformers, with all our opportunities we're as bigoted as most priesthoods, but we count fewer missionary martyrs. the sins, the negligences, and the ignorances of every age have gone on much the same as far as we have been concerned, though very few people keep family chaplains, and most folk have a family doctor." then grandmamma got very stiff, margery says (she always is rather stiff), and said, "i am sorry, dr. brown, to hear you speak so ill of the members of an honourable profession, to which you yourself belong." and dr. brown found out that he had brushed his hat the wrong way, and he brushed it right, and said, "not at all, madam, not at all! i think we're a very decent set, for men with large public responsibilities, almost entirely shielded from the wholesome light of public criticism, who handle more lives than most commanders, and are not called upon to publish our disasters or make returns of our losses. but don't expect too much of us! i say we are not reformers. they rise up amongst us now and again; but we don't encourage them, we don't encourage them. we are a privileged caste of medicine men, whose 'mysteries' are protected by the faith of those to whom we minister, a faith fortified by ignorance and fear. i wish you good-morning, madam." margery has often repeated this to me. we call it "dr. brown's speeches." she is very fond of spouting speeches, much longer ones than dr. brown's. she learns them by heart out of history books, and then dresses up and spouts them to me in our attic. margery says she did not understand at the time what they were quarrelling about; and when, afterwards, she asked grandmamma what a cesspool was, grandmamma was cross with her too, and said it was a very coarse and vulgar word, and that dr. brown was a very coarse and vulgar person. we've looked it out since in johnson's dictionary, for we thought it might be one of dr. brown's vulgar errors, but it is not there. margery reads a great deal of history; she likes it; she likes all the sensible books in the attic, and i like the rest, particularly poetry and fairy tales. the books are mother's books, they belonged to her father. she liked having them all in the parlour, "littering the whole place," jael says; but grandmamma has moved them to the attic now, all but a volume of sermons for sunday, and the oriental annual, to amuse visitors if they are left alone. only she says you never ought to leave your visitors alone. jael is very glad the books were taken to the attic, because "they gather dust worse than chimney ornaments;" so she says. margery and i are very glad too, for we are sent to play in the attic, and then we read as much as ever we like; and we move our pet books to our own corner and pretend they are our very own. we have very cosy corners; we pile up some of the big books for seats, and then make a bigger pile in front of us for tables, and there we sit. once dr. brown found us. we had got whooping cough, and he had come to see if we were better; and he is very big, and he tramped so heavily on the stairs i did really think he was a burglar; and margery was a little frightened too, so we were very glad to see him; and when he saw us reading at our tables, he said, "so this is the attic salt ye season life with, is it?" and then he laughed just as he always does. there is one story in my favourite fairy book which margery likes too; it is called "a puzzling tale." i read it to margery when we were sitting in our tree seat in the garden, and i put my hand over the answer to the puzzle, and she could not guess; and if margery could not guess, i do not think any one else could. this is the tale:--"three women were once changed into flowers, and grew in a field; but one was permitted to go home at night. once, when day was dawning, and she was about to return to her companions in the field and become a flower again, she said to her husband, 'in the morning come to the field and pick me off my stalk, then i shall be released, and able to live at home for the future.' so the husband went to the field as he was told, and picked his wife and took her home. "now how did he know his wife's flower from the other two, for all the three flowers were alike?" (that is the puzzle. this is the answer:) "_he knew his wife because there was no dew upon her flower._" there is a very nice picture of the three flowers standing stiff and upright, with leaves held out like hands, and large round flower faces, all three exactly alike. i have looked at them again and again, but i never could see any difference; for you can't see the dew on the ones who had been out all night, and so you can't tell which was the one who was allowed to go home. but i think it was partly being so fond of those round flower faces in the puzzling tale, that made me get so very very fond of sunflowers. we have splendid sunflowers in our garden, so tall, and with such large round faces! the sunflowers were in bloom when margery went away. she bade them good-bye, and kissed her hands to them as well as to me. she went away in a cab, with her things in the hair trunk with brass nails on the top. she waved her hand to me as long as ever i could see her, and she wagged one finger particularly. i knew which finger it was, and what she meant. it was the little finger with that dignotion on the nail, which showed that she had a journey to go. chapter ii. on the wing--sunflower saints--dew-drenched--a bad night--a bad headache--regular regimen in grandmamma's young days--tired nature's sweet restorer--a sinful waste of candle-grease. the sunflowers were in bloom when margery went away; and the swallows were on the wing. the garden was full of them all the morning, and when she had gone, they went too. they had been restless for days past, so i dare say they had dignotions of their own, that they had a journey to go as well as margery. but when they were gone, and she was gone, the garden felt very lonely. the sunflowers stretched out their round faces just as if they were looking to see if the cab was coming back; and there was a robin, which kept hopping on and off the pump and peeping about with his eyes, as if he could not imagine what had become of all the swallows. and margery's black cat came and mewed to me, and rubbed itself against my pinafore, and walked up and down with me till i went in and got the "ancient mariner" and my little chair, and came back and read to the sunflowers. sunflowers are quite as good as dolls to play with. margery and i think them better in some ways. you can't move them about unless you pick them; but then they will stand of themselves, which dolls will not. you can give them names just as well, and you can teach them lessons just as well. they will grow, which dolls won't; and they really live and die, which dolls don't. in fact, for tallness, they are rather like grown-up people. then more come out, which is nice; and you see the little sunflowers growing into big ones, which you can't see with dolls. we can play a sunday game with the sunflowers. we do not have any of our toys on sunday, except in winter, when we have noah's ark. in the summer we may go in the garden between the services, and we always walk up and down together and play with the sunflowers. the sunday sunflower game is calling them after the black-letter saints in the kalendar, and reading about them in a very old book--a big one with a black leather binding--in the attic, called _lives of the saints_. i read, and then i tell it to margery as we walk up and down, and say--"this is st. prisca, this is st. fabian, this is st. agnes, this is st. agatha, and this is st. valentine"--and so on. what made us first think of having them for saints on sunday, was that the yellow does sometimes look so very like a glory round their faces. we choose by turns which name to give to each, but if there is a very big one with a lot of yellow flaming out, we always called him st. george of england, because there is a very old figure of st. george slaying the dragon, in a painted window in our church; and st. george's hair is yellow, and standing out all round; and when the sun shines through the window, so that you can't see his nose and his mouth at all clearly, he looks quite wonderfully like a sunflower. then on week-days, the game i like best is pretending that they are women changed into flowers. they feel so grown up with being so tall, that they are much more like grown-up people turned into flowers than like children. i pretend my doll is my child when i play with her; but i don't think i could pretend a sunflower was my child; and sometimes if margery leaves me alone with rather big sunflowers, when it is getting dusk, and i look up at them, and they stare at me with their big faces in the twilight, i get so frightened for fear they should have got leave to go home at night, _and be just turning_, that i run indoors as hard as ever i can. two or three times i have got up early and gone out to see if any one of them had no dew; but they have always been drenched, every one them. dew, thick over their brown faces, and rolling like tears down their yellow glories. i am quite sure that i have never seen a sunflower yet that had had leave to go home at night, and margery says the same. and she is certain to know. i had a very bad night, the night after margery went away. i was so terribly frightened with being alone in the dark. i know it was very silly, but it was most miserable. i was afraid to go and wake jael, and i was more afraid of going to grandmamma, and i was most of all afraid of staying where i was. it seemed to be years and years before the light began to come a little, and the noises left off creaking, and dropping, and cracking, and moving about. next day i had a very bad headache. jael does not like me when i have headaches, because i give trouble, and have to have hot water and mustard for my feet at odd times. jael does not mind bringing up hot water at night; but she says she can't abide folk wanting things at odd times. so she does not like me when i have headaches; and when i have headaches, i do not much like her. she treads so very heavily, it shakes the floor just as ogres in ogre stories shake the ground when they go out kidnapping; and then the pain jumps in my head till i get frightened, and wonder what happens to people when the pain gets so bad that they cannot bear it any longer. that morning, i thought i never should have got dressed; stooping and fastening things do make you so very bad. i was very late, and grandmamma was beginning to scold me, but when she saw i had got a headache she didn't--she only said i looked like a washed-out pocket-handkerchief; and when i could not eat any breakfast, she said i must have a dose of rhubarb and magnesia, and as she had not got any rhubarb left, she sent jael up to dr. brown's to get some. i did not like having to take rhubarb and magnesia; but i was very glad to get rid of jael for a bit, though i knew she would hate me for having had to take a message at an odd time. it was her shaking the room when she brought in the urn, and knocking the tongs into the fender with her dress as she went by, that had made me not able to eat any breakfast. just as she was starting, grandmamma beckoned to her to come back, and told her to call at the barber's, and tell him to come up in the afternoon to "thin" my hair. my hair is very thick. i brush as much out as i can; but i think it only gets thicker and thicker. grandmamma says she believes that is what gives me so many headaches, and she says it is no use cutting it shorter, for it always is kept cut short; the only way is to thin it, that is, cutting lumps out here and there down to the roots. thinning does make less of it; but when it grows again it is very difficult to keep tidy, which makes jael say she "never see such a head, it's all odds and ends," and sometimes she adds--"inside _and_ out." margery can imitate jael exactly. when jael came back, she said dr. brown would step down and see me himself. so he came. then he felt my pulse and asked me what sort of a night i had had, and i was obliged to tell him, and grandmamma was very much vexed, and made me tell the whole truth, and she said i did not deserve any pity for my headaches when i brought them on myself, which is true. i think it was being vexed with me that made her vexed with dr. brown, when he said rhubarb and magnesia would not do me any good. she said she liked a regular system with the health of young people; and when she and her six sisters were girls they were physicked with perfect regularity; they were bled in the spring, and the fall of the leaf; and had their hair thinned and their teeth taken out, once a quarter, by the advice of their excellent friend and local practitioner, who afterwards removed to london, and became very distinguished, and had his portrait painted in oils for one of the learned societies. and grandmamma said she had been spared to survive all her family, and had never had a headache in her life. though my head was so bad, i listened as hard as i could to hear what dr. brown would say. for i thought--"if he makes one of his speeches, they will quarrel, and he will leave off being our doctor again." but he didn't, he only said--"well, well, madam, i'll send the child some medicine. let her go and lie down at once, with a hot bottle to her feet, and as many pillows as she wants under her head; and don't let a sound reach her for the next three or four hours. when she wakes, give her a basin of bread-and-milk." so he went away, and presently he came back himself with the medicine. it tasted very nice, and he was very kind; only he made jael so cross with saying she had not put boiling water in the hot bottle, and sending it down again; and then making her fetch more pillows out of the spare bedroom (jael does not like odd things any more than odd times). but i never had such a hot bottle or such a comfortable headache before, and he pulled the blind down, and i went to sleep. at first i dreamt a little of the pain, and then i forgot it, and then slept like a top, for hours and hours. when i awoke i found a basin of bread-and-milk, with a plate over it to keep it warm, on the rush-bottomed chair by the bed. it hadn't kept it very warm. it made me think of the suppers of the three bears in their three basins, and i dare say theirs were rather cold too. perhaps their jael boiled their bread-and-milk at her own time, whether they were ready for it or not. but i think mine must have been like the little bear's supper, for i ate it all up. my head was much better, so i went up to our attic, and got out the fairy book, that i might not think too much about margery, and it opened of itself at the puzzling tale. i was just beginning to read it, when i heard a noise under the rafters, in one of those low sort of cupboard places that run all round the attic, where spare boxes and old things are kept, and where margery and i sometimes play at voyages of discovery. i thought margery's black cat must be shut up there, but when i went to look, there was another crash, and then the door burst open, and out came jael, with her cap so crushed that i could not help laughing. i was glad to see her, for my head was well, so i liked her again, and did not mind her being ogre-footed, and i wanted to know what she was doing; but jael had not got to like me again, and she spoke very crossly, and said it was more trouble of my giving, and that dr. brown had said that i was to have a light in my bedroom till miss margery came back--"if ever there was a sinful waste of candle-grease!" and that it wasn't likely the mistress was going to throw away money on box night-lights; and she had sent the boy to the shop for half-a-dozen farthing rushlights--if they kept them, and if not, for half-a-pound of "sixteen" dips, and had sent her to the attic to find the old rushlight-tin. "what's it like, jael?" "it's like a rushlight-tin, to be sure," said jael "and it's not been used since your pa and ma's last illness. so it's safe to be thick with dust, and a pretty job it is for me to have to do, losing the pin out of my cap, and tearing my apron on one of them old boxes, all to find a dirty old rushlight, just because of _your_ whims and fancies, miss grace!" "jael, i am so sorry for your cap and apron. i will go in and find the rushlight for you. tell me, is it painted black, with a lot of round holes in the sides, and a little door, and a place like a candlestick in the middle? if it is, i know where it is." i knew quite well. it was behind a very old portmanteau, and a tin box with a wig and moths in it, and the bottom part of the shower-bath, just at the corner, which margery and i call bass's straits. so i made a voyage of discovery, and brought it out, "thick with dust," as jael had said. and jael took it, and went away very cross and very ogre-footed, with her cap still awry; and as she stumped down the attic-stairs, and kept clattering the rushlight against the rails, i could hear her muttering--"a sinful waste of candle-grease--whims and fancies--scandilus!" chapter iii. pain past--a reprieve from the barber--sunflower sleep--little michaelmas goose--snuffing a rushlight--a pursuit of knowledge under difficulties--grandmamma with a watchman's rattle. jael's ogre-footsteps had hardly ceased to resound from the wooden stairs, when these shook again to the tread of dr. brown. he said--"how are you?" and i said--"very happy, thank you," which was true. for the only nice thing about dreadful pain is that, when it is gone, you feel for a little bit as if you could cry with joy at having nothing to bear. then i thanked him for asking grandmamma to let me have the rushlight till margery came home; and he said i ought to be very much obliged to him, for he had begged me off the barber too. so i asked him if he thought my hair gave me headaches, and he felt it, and said--"no!" which i was very glad of. he said he thought it was more what i grew inside, than what i grew outside my head that did it, and that i was not to puzzle too much over books. i was afraid he meant the puzzling tale, so i told him it was very short, and the answer was given; so he said he should like to hear it--and i read it to him. he liked it very much, and he liked the picture; and i told him we thought they were sunflowers, only that the glory leaves were folded in so oddly, and we did not know why. and he said--"why, because they're asleep, to be sure. don't you know that flowers sleep as soundly as you do? _they_ don't lie awake in the dark!" and then he shook with laughing, till he shook the red into his face, and the tears into his eyes, as he always does. dr. brown must know a great deal about flowers, much more than i thought he did; i told him so, and he said, "didn't think i looked as like a flower sprite as yourself, eh? 'pon my word, i don't think i'm unlike one of your favourites. tall, ye know, big beaming face, eh? there are people more unlike a sunflower than dr. brown! ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, he always does; but he told me quite delightful things about flowers: how they sleep, and breathe, and eat, and drink, and catch cold in draughts, and turn faint in the sun, and sometimes are all the better for a change ("like miss margery," so he said), and sometimes are home-sick and won't settle ("which i've a notion might be one of your follies, miss grace"), and turn pale and sickly in dark corners or stuffy rooms. but he never knew one that went home at night. except for being too big for our chairs and tables, and for going voyages of discovery, i do think dr. brown would make a very nice person to play with; he seems to believe in fancy things, and he knows so much, and is so good-natured. he asked me what flower i thought jael was like; and when i told him margery could imitate her exactly, he said he must see that some day. i dared not tell him margery can do him too, making his speeches in the shovel hat we found in an old old hat-box near bass's straits, and a pair of old black gloves of grandmamma's. when he went away he patted my head, and said margery and i must come to tea with him some day, and he would show us wonderful things in his microscope, and if we were very good, a plant that eats meat. "but most flowers thrive by 'eating the air,' as the irish say, and you're one of 'em, miss grace. do ye hear? you're not to bury yourself in this attic in the holidays. run out in the garden, and play with your friends the sunflowers, and remember what i've told you about their going to sleep and setting you a good example. it's as true as gospel, and there's many a rough old gardener besides dr. brown will tell you that flowers gathered in the morning last longer than those gathered in the evening, because those are fresh after a night's nap, and these are tired and want to rest, and not to be taken into parlours, and kept awake with candles. good-bye, little michaelmas goose!" and away he went, clomping down-stairs, but not a bit like jael. when bed-time came i was a good deal tired; but after i got into bed i kept my candle alight for a time, hoping jael would bring the rushlight and put it on the floor near margery's bed, as i had asked her to do. but after a while i had to put out my candle, for grandmamma is rather particular about it, and then i was so sleepy i fell asleep. i was awakened by a noise and a sort of flashing, and i thought it was thunder and lightning, but it was only jael; she had come stumping in, and was flashing the rushlight about before my eyes to see if i was asleep, and when she saw i was, she wanted to take it away again, but i begged and prayed, and then i said grandmamma had promised, and she always keeps her promises, and i should go and ask her. so at last jael set it down by margery's bed, and went away more ogre-footed than ever, grumbling and growling about the waste of candle-grease. but i had got the rushlight, so i didn't mind; i only hugged my knees, and laughed, and lay down again. and when i heard jael go stumping up-stairs, i knew that she had waited till her own bed-time to bring the rushlight, and that was why it was late. and i thought to-morrow i would tell grandmamma, for she promised, and she always performs. she does not spoil us, we know, but she is always fair. jael isn't, always. a rushlight is a very queer thing. it looked so grim as it stood by margery's bed, in a little round of light; rather like a ruined castle in the middle of a lake in the moonshine. a castle with one big door, and a lot of round windows with the light coming through. they made big spots and patches of light all about the room. i could not shut my eyes for watching them, for they were not all the same shape, and they kept changing and moving; at last they got so faint, i was afraid the rushlight was going out, so i jumped up and went to see, and i found there was a very big thief in the candle, so i got the snuffers out of my candlestick, and snuffed it, and got into bed again; and now there were beautiful big moons of light all over margery's bed-valance. thinking of the thief in the rushlight made me think of a thief in a castle, and then of thieves getting into our house, and that if one got in at my window i could do nothing except scream for help, because grandmamma keeps the watchman's rattle under her own pillow, and locks her bedroom door. and then i looked at my window, and saw a bit of light, and it made me quite cold, for i thought it was a burglar's lantern, till i saw it was the moon. then i knew how silly i was, and i determined that i would not be such a coward. i determined i would not think of burglars, nor ghosts, nor even margery. margery and i are quite sure that we can think of things, and prevent ourselves thinking of things, by trying very hard. but it is rather difficult. i tried, and i did. i thought i would think of flowers, and of dr. brown, for he is very cheerful to think of. so i thought of sunflowers, and how they eat the air, and go to sleep at night, and perhaps look like the three women in the fairy tale. and i thought i would always pick flowers in the morning now, and never at night, when they want to go to sleep and not to be woke up in a parlour with candles. and then i wondered: would they wake with candles if they had begun to go to sleep? would they wake with a jump, as i did, if jael flashed the rushlight in their faces? would the moon wake them? were they awake then, that very minute, like me, or asleep, as i was before jael came in? did they look like the picture in the fairy book, with their glory leaves folded over their faces? if i took a candle now, and held it before st. george of england, looking like that, would he wake with a start, and spread his glory leaves out all round, and stare at me, broad-wide awake? then i thought how often i had gone out early, and wet my petticoats, to see if any of them had no dew on their faces, and that i had never gone out at night to see if they looked like the women in the fairy tale; and i wondered why i never had, and i supposed it was because i was silly, and perhaps afraid of going out in the dark. then i remembered that it wasn't dark. there was a moon: besides my having a rushlight. then i wondered if i was very very silly, and why dr. brown had called me a michaelmas goose. but i remembered that it must be because to-morrow, was the th of september. then the stairs clock struck eleven. i counted all the strokes, and then i saw that the rushlight was getting dim again, so i got up and snuffed it, and all the moons came out as bright as ever; but i did not feel in the least sleepy. i did not feel frightened any more. i only wished i knew for certain what sunflowers look like when they are asleep, and whether you can wake them up with candles. and i went on wondering, and watching the moons. then the stairs clock struck a quarter-past eleven, and i thought--"oh, grace! if you were not such a coward, if you had jumped up when the clock struck eleven, and slipped down the back-stairs, with the rushlight in your hands, and unlocked the side-door, you might have run down the grass walk without hurting your feet, and flashed it in the faces of the sunflowers, and had a good look, and got back to bed again before the clock struck a quarter-past; and then it would have been done, and couldn't be undone, and you would have known whether they look like the picture, and if they wake up with candles, and you never could have unknown. but now, you'll go on putting off, and being frightened about it, and perhaps to-morrow jael will tell grandmamma you were asleep, and she won't let you have a rushlight any more, not even when you are a grown-up young lady; and even when you get married and go away, you may marry a man who won't let you have one; and so you may never never know what you want to know, all because you're a michaelmas goose." then the rushlight began to get dim again, so i got up and snuffed it, and it shone out bright, and i thought, "if it was margery she would do it straight off. i won't be a michaelmas goose; i'll go while i'm up, and be back before the stairs clock strikes again, and then it will be done and can't be undone, and i shall know, and can't unknow." so i took up the rushlight and went as fast as i could. i met a black beetle on the back-stairs, which was horrid, but i went on. the side-door key is very rusty and very stiff; i had to put down the rushlight and use both my hands, and just then the clock struck the half-hour, which was rather a good thing, for it drowned the noise of the lock. it did not take me two minutes to run down the grass path, and there were the sunflowers. i did it and it can't be undone, but i don't know what i wanted to know after all, for the moon was shining in their faces, so they may not have been really sound asleep. they are so tall, the rushlight was too heavy for me to lift right up, so i opened the door and took out the candle, and flashed it in their faces. but they did not take as much notice as i expected. their glory leaves looked rather narrow and tight, but they were not quite like the flower-women in the picture. sunflowers are alive, i know; they look so different when they are dead. and i am sure they go to sleep, and wake up with candles, or dr. brown would not have said so. but it is rather a quiet kind of being alive and awake, i think. something like grandmamma, when she is very stiff on sunday afternoon, and goes to sleep upright in a chair, and wakes up a little when her book drops. but not alive and awake like margery's black cat, which must have heard me open the side-door, and followed me without my seeing it. it did frighten me, with jumping out of the bushes, and looking at me with yellow eyes! then i saw another eye. the eye of a moth, who was on one of the leaves. a most beautiful fellow! his coloured wings were rather tight, like the sunflower's glory leaves, but he was wide awake--watching the candle. i should have got back to bed quicker if it had not been for margery's black cat and the night-moths. i wanted to get the cat into the house again, but she would not follow me, and the moths would; and i had such hard work to keep them out of the rushlight. there was nothing to drown the noise the key made when i locked the side-door again, and when i got to the bottom of the back-stairs, i saw a light at the top, and there was grandmamma in the most awful night-cap you can imagine, with a candle in one hand, and the watchman's rattle in the other. chapter iv. heads off!--jael and master john--farewell--a friend in need--a free pardon. the worst of it was, i caught such a very bad cold, i gave more trouble than ever; besides grandmamma having rheumatism in her back with the draught up the back-stairs, and nothing on but her night things and the watchman's rattle. i knew i deserved to be punished, but i did not think my punishment would have been such a terrible one. i hoped it might have been lessons, or even, perhaps, not having the rushlight again, but i did not think grandmamma would think of hurting the sunflowers. she waited till i was well enough to go out, and i really began to think she was going to be kind enough to forgive me, with a free forgiveness. but that day she called me to her, and spoke very seriously, and said, that to punish me for my misconduct, and to try and cure me of the babyish nonsense i gave way to about things, she had decided to have all the sunflowers destroyed at once, and not to have any seed sown for new ones, any more. the gardener was to do it next morning, and i was to be there to see. she hoped it would make me remember the occasion, and teach me better sense for the future. i should have begged and prayed, but it is no use begging and praying to grandmamma; jael attends more to that. there was no comfort anywhere, except in thinking that margery would be at home in two days, and that i could pour out all my sorrow to her. as i went crying down the passage i met jael. "what's the matter now?" said she. "grandmamma's going to have all the sunflowers killed," i sobbed. "oh, i wish i'd never gone to look at them with the rushlight!" "that's how it is," said jael sagely, "folks always wishes they'd done different when it's too late. but don't sob your heart out that fashion, miss grace. come into the pantry and i'll give you a bit of cake." "thank you, dear jael, you're very kind, but i don't think i _could_ eat cake. oh, jael, dear jael! do you think she would spare one, just one?" "that she wouldn't, miss grace, so you needn't trouble your head about it. when your grandmamma's made up her mind, there's no one ever i saw can move her, unless it be dr. brown. besides, the missus has never much mattered those sunflowers. they were your mamma's fancy, and she'd as many whims as you have, and put your grandmamma about a good deal. she was always at your papa to be doing this and that to the place, 'wasting good money,' as your grandmamma said. your poor papa was a very easy gentleman. he wanted to please his wife, and he wanted to please his mother. deary me! i remember his coming to me in this very pantry--i don't know if it would be more than three months afore they were both taken--and, standing there, as it might be you, miss grace, and saying--'jael,' he says, 'this window looks out on the yard,' he says; 'do you ever smell anything, jael? you are here a good deal.' 'master john,' i says, 'i thank my maker, my nose never troubles me; but if it did,' i says, 'i hope i know better than to set _my_self up to smell more than my neighbours.'--'to be sure, to be sure,' he says, looking round in a foolish kind of a way at the sink. then he says, 'jael, do you ever taste anything in the water? my wife thinks there's something wrong with the well.' 'master john,' i says, 'with all respect to your good lady, she disturbs her mind a deal too much with books. an ounce of ex-perience, i says, is worth a pound of book learning; and i'll tell you what my father said to them parties that goes round stirring up stinks, when they were for meddling with his farm-yard. "let wells alone," he says, "and muck-heaps likewise." and my father passed three-score years and ten, master john, and died where he was born.' well-a-day! i see your poor pa now. he stood and looked as puzzled as a bee in a bottle. then he says--'well, jael, my wife says sunflowers are good against fevers; and there's no harm in sowing some.' which he did that very afternoon, she standing by him, with her hand on his shoulder; but, bless ye, my dear! they were took long before the seeds was up. your mother was a pretty woman, i'll say that for her. you'd never have thought it, to look at her, that she was so fond of poking in dirty places." "jael!" i said, "mamma was right about the smells in the back-yard. margery and i hold our noses"--"you'd a deal better hold your tongues," interrupted jael. "we do, jael, we do, because i don't like mustard-plasters on my throat, and when the back-yard smells a good deal, my throat is always sore. but oh, jael! if sunflowers are good for smells, don't you think we might tell grandmamma, and she would let us have them for that?" "she'll not, miss grace," said jael, "so don't worry on. they're ragged things at the best, and all they're good for is to fatten fowls; and i shall tell gardener he may cut their heads off and throw 'em to the poultry, before he roots up the rest." i could not bear to hear her, so i went out to bid the sunflowers good-bye. i held their dear rough stems, rough with nice little white hairs, and i knew how easily their poor heads would cut off, there is so much pith inside the stems. i kissed all their dear faces one after another. they are very nice to kiss, especially in the sun, for then they smell honey-sweet, like blue scabious, and lots of flowers that have not much scent, but only smell as if bees would like them. i kissed them once round for myself, and then once for margery, for i knew how sorry she would be. and it was whilst i was holding st. george of england's face in my two hands, kissing him for margery, that i saw the dignotion on my middle finger-nail. a gift, a beau, _a friend_!-- and then it flashed into my mind, all in a moment--"there can be no friend to me and the sunflowers, except dr. brown, for jael says he is the only person who ever changes grandmamma's mind." i dawdled that night when i could not make up my mind about going out with the rushlight, but i did not wait one minute now. i climbed over the garden wall into the road, and ran as hard as i could run up to the top of the hill, where lived a man--i mean where dr. brown lived. now, i know that he is the kindest person that ever could be. i told him everything, and he asked particularly about my throat and the smells. then he looked graver than i ever saw him, and said, "listen, little woman; you must look out for spots on your little finger-nails. you're going away for a bit, till i've doctored these smells. don't turn your eyes into saucers. margery shall go with you; i wish i could turn ye both into flowers and plant ye out in a field for three months! but you are not to give me any trouble by turning home-sick, do you hear? i shall have trouble enough with grandmamma, though i am joint guardian with her (your dear mother's doing, that!), and have some voice in the disposal of your fates. now, if i save the sunflowers, will you promise me not to cry to come home again till i send for you?" "shall you be able to change her mind, to let us have sunflowers sown for next year, too?" "yes!" "then i promise." i could have danced for joy. the only thing that made me feel uncomfortable was having to tell dr. brown about the spot on my middle finger-nail. he would ask all about it, and so i let out about johnson's dictionary and the dignotions, and brown's vulgar errors, and i was afraid margery would say i had been very silly, and let a cat out of a bag. i hope he was not vexed about his vulgar errors. he only laughed till he nearly tumbled off his chair. i never did have a spot on my journey-to-go nail, but we went away all the same; so i suppose dignotions do not always tell true. when grandmamma forgave me, and told me she would spare the sunflowers this time, as dr. brown had begged them off, she said--"and dr. brown assures me, grace, that when you are stronger you will have more sense. i am sure i hope he is right." i hope so, too! dandelion clocks. every child knows how to tell the time by a dandelion clock. you blow till the seed is all blown away, and you count each of the puffs--an hour to a puff. every child knows this, and very few children want to know any more on the subject. it was peter paul's peculiarity that he always did want to know more about everything; a habit whose first and foremost inconvenience is that one can so seldom get people to answer one's questions. peter paul and his two sisters were playing in the pastures. rich, green, dutch pastures, unbroken by hedge or wall, which stretched--like an emerald ocean--to the horizon and met the sky. the cows stood ankle-deep in it and chewed the cud, the clouds sailed slowly over it to the sea, and on a dry hillock sat mother, in her broad sun-hat, with one eye to the cows and one to the linen she was bleaching, thinking of her farm. peter paul and his sisters had found another little hillock where, among some tufts of meadow-flowers which the cows had not yet eaten, were dandelion clocks. they divided them quite fairly, and began to tell each other the time of day. little anna blew very hard for her size, and as the wind blew too, her clock was finished in a couple of puffs. "one, two. it's only two o'clock," she said, with a sigh. her elder sister was more careful, but still the wind was against them. "one, two, three. it's three o'clock by me," she said. peter paul turned his back to the wind, and held his clock low. "one, two, three, four, five. it's five o'clock by my dandelion--i wonder why the fairy clocks all go differently." "we blow differently," said his sister. "then they don't really tell the time," said peter paul. "oh yes, they do--the fairy time." and the little girls got more clocks, and turned their backs to the wind in imitation of peter paul, and went on blowing. but the boy went up to his mother. "mother, why do dandelion clocks keep different time? it was only two o'clock by anna's, and three o'clock by leena's, and five by mine. it can't really be evening with me and only afternoon with anna. the days don't go quicker with one person than another, do they?" "drive daisy and buttermilk nearer this way," said his mother; "and if you must ask questions, ask your uncle jacob." there was a reason for sending the boy to uncle jacob with his difficulties. he had been born after his father's death, and uncle jacob had taken up the paternal duties. it was he who had chosen the child's name. he had called him peter paul after peter paul rubens, not that he hoped the boy would become a painter, but he wished him to be called after some great man, and--having just returned from antwerp--the only great man he could think of was peter paul. "give a boy a great name," said uncle jacob, "and if there's any stuff in him, there's a chance he'll live up to it." this was a kindly way of putting the proverb about giving a dog a bad name, and uncle jacob's strongest quality was kindness--kindness and the cultivation of tulips. he was sitting in the summer-house smoking, and reading over a bulb-list when peter paul found him. "uncle jacob, why do dandelion clocks tell different time to different people? sixty seconds make a minute, sixty minutes make an hour, twenty-four hours make a day, three hundred and sixty-five days make a year. that's right, isn't it? hours are the same length for everybody, aren't they? but if i got to tea-time when it was only two o'clock with anna, and went on like that, first the days and then the years would go much quicker with me, and i don't know if i should die sooner,--but it couldn't be, could it?" "certainly not," said uncle jacob; and he went on with his list. "yellow pottebakker, yellow tournesol and yellow rose." "then the fairy clocks tell lies?" said peter paul. "that you must ask godfather time," replied uncle jacob, jocosely. "he is responsible for the clocks and the hour-glasses." "where does he live?" asked the boy. but uncle jacob had spread the list on the summer-house table; he was fairly immersed in it and in a cloud of tobacco smoke, and peter paul did not like to disturb him. "twenty-five bybloemens, twenty-five bizards, twenty-five roses, and a seedling-bed for first bloom this year." * * * * * some of uncle jacob's seedling tulips were still "breeders," whose future was yet unmarked[ ] (he did not name them in hope, as he had christened his nephew!) when peter paul went to sea. [footnote : the first bloom of seedling tulips is usually without stripes or markings, and it is often years before they break into stripes; till then they are called breeders, and are not named.] he was quite unfitted for a farmer. he was always looking forward to what he should do hereafter, or backward to the time when he believed in fairy clocks. now a farmer should live in the present, and time himself by a steady-going watch with an enamelled face. then little things get done at the right time, which is everything in farming. "peter paul puzzles too much," said his mother, "and that is your fault, jacob, for giving him a great name. but while he's thinking, daisy misses her mash and the hens lay away. he'll never make a farmer. indeed, for that matter, men never farm like women, and leena will take to it after me. she knows all my ways." they were a kindly family, with no minds to make this short life bitter for each other by thwarting, as so many well-meaning relatives do; so the boy chose his own trade and went to sea. he saw many places and many people; he saw a great deal of life, and came face to face with death more than once, and under strange shapes. he found answers to a lot of the old questions, and then new ones came in their stead. each year seemed to hold more than a life-time at home would have held, and yet how quickly the years went by! a great many had gone by when peter paul set foot once more upon dutch soil. "and it only seems like yesterday that i went away!" said he. mother was dead. that was the one great change. peter paul's sisters had inherited the farm. they managed it together, and they had divided their mother's clothes, and also her rings and ear-rings, her gold skull-cap and head-band and pins,--the heirlooms of a dutch farmeress. "it matters very little how we divide them, dear," anna had said, "for i shall never marry, and they will all go to your girl." the elder sister was married and had two children. she had grown up very pretty--a fair woman, with liquid misleading eyes. they looked as if they were gazing into the far future, but they did not see an inch beyond the farm. anna was a very plain copy of her in body, in mind she was the elder sister's echo. they were very fond of each other, and the prettiest thing about them was their faithful love for their mother, whose memory was kept as green as pastures after rain. on sunday peter paul went with them to her grave, and then to service. the ugly little church, the same old clerk, even the look of that part of the seat where peter paul had kicked the paint off during sermons--all strengthened the feeling that it could only have been a few days since he was there before. as they walked home he told his sisters about the various religious services he had seen abroad. they were curious to hear about them, under a sort of protest, for they disapproved of every form of worship but their own. "the music in some of the cathedrals is very beautiful," said peter paul. "and the choristers in their gowns, singing as they come, always affect me. no doubt only some are devout at heart, and others careless--which is also the case with the congregation--but outward reverence is, at the lowest, an acknowledgment of what we owe, and for my own part it helps me. those white figures are not angels i know; but they make one think of them, and i try to be worthier of singing god's praises with them." there was a little pause, and leena's beautiful eyes were full of reflections. presently she said, "who washes all the white gowns?" "i really don't know," said peter paul. "i fancy they don't bleach anywhere as they do in holland," she continued. "indeed, brother, i doubt if dutchwomen are what they were. no one bleaches as mother did. mother bleached beautifully." "yes, she bleached beautifully," said anna. peter paul was only to be three weeks at home before he sailed again; but when ten days were over, he began to think the rest of the time would never come to an end. and this was from no want of love for his sisters, or of respect for their friends. one cannot help having an irritable brain, which rides an idea to the moon and home again, without stirrups, whilst some folks are getting the harness of words on to its back. there had been hours in his youth when all the unsolved riddles, the untasted joys, the great possibilities of even a common existence like his, so pressed upon him, that the shortness of the longest life of man seemed the most pitiable thing about it. but when he took tea with vrow schmidt and her daughters, and supper-time would not come, peter paul thought of the penance of the wandering jew, and felt very sorry for him. the sisters would have been glad if peter paul would have given up the sea and settled down with them. leena had a plan of her own for it. she wanted him to marry vrow schmidt's niece, who had a farm. "but i am afraid you do not care for young ladies?" said she. peter paul got red "vrow schmidt's niece is a very nice young lady," said he. he was not thinking of vrow schmidt's niece, he was thinking of something else--something for which he would have liked a little sympathy; but he doubted whether leena could give it to him. indeed, to cure heartache is godfather time's business, and even he is not invariably successful. it was probably a sharp twinge that made peter paul say, "have you never wondered that when one's life is so very short, one can manage to get so much pain into it?" leena dropped her work and looked up. "you don't say so?" said she. "dear brother, is it rheumatism? i'm sure it must be a dreadful risk being out on the masts in the night air, without a roof over your head. but do you wear flannel, peter paul? mother was very much troubled with rheumatism latterly. she thought it was the dews at milking time, and she always wore flannel." "yes, dear, mother always wore flannel," said anna. peter paul satisfied them on this head. he wore flannel, red flannel too, which has virtues of its own. leena was more anxious than ever that he should marry vrow schmidt's niece, and be taken good care of. but it was not to be: peter paul went back to his ship and into the wide world again. uncle jacob would have given him an off-set of his new tulip--a real novelty, and named--if he had had any place to plant it in. "i've a bed of breeders that will be worth looking at next time you come home," said he. leena walked far over the pastures with peter paul. she was very fond of him, and she had a woman's perception that they would miss him more than he could miss them. "i am very sorry you could not settle down with us," she said, and her eyes brimmed over. peter paul kissed the tears tenderly from her cheeks. "perhaps i shall when i am older, and have shaken off a few more of my whims into the sea. i'll come back yet, leena, and live very near to you and grow tulips, and be as good an old bachelor-uncle to your boy as uncle jacob was to me." "and if a foreign wife would suit you better than one of the schmidts," said leena, re-arranging his bundle for him, "don't think we sha'n't like her. any one you love will be welcome to us, peter paul--as welcome as you have been." when they got to the hillock where mother used to sit, peter paul took her once more into his arms. "good-bye, good sister," he said. "i have been back in my childhood again, and god knows that is both pleasant and good for one." "and it is funny that you should say so," said leena, smiling through her tears; "for when we were children you were never happy except in thinking of when you should be a man." "and there sit your children, just where we used to play," said peter paul. "they are blowing dandelion clocks," said leena, and she called them. "come and bid uncle peter good-bye." he kissed them both. "well, what o'clock is it?" said he. the boy gave one mighty puff and dispersed his fairy clock at a breath. "one o'clock," he cried stoutly. "one, two, three, four o'clock," said the girl. and they went back to their play. and leena stood by them, with mother's old sun-hat on her young head, and watched peter paul's figure over the flat pastures till it was an indistinguishable speck. he turned back a dozen times to wave his hands to her, and to the children telling the fairy time. but he did not ask now why dandelion clocks go differently with different people. godfather time had told him. he teaches us many things. the trinity flower. a legend. "break forth, my lips, in praise, and own the wiser love severely kind: since, richer for its chastening grown, i see, whereas i once was blind." _the clear vision_, j.g. whittier. in days of yore there was once a certain hermit, who dwelt in a cell, which he had fashioned for himself from a natural cave in the side of a hill. now this hermit had a great love for flowers, and was moreover learned in the virtues of herbs, and in that great mystery of healing which lies hidden among the green things of god. and so it came to pass that the country people from all parts came to him for the simples which grew in the little garden which he had made before his cell. and as his fame spread, and more people came to him, he added more and more to the plat which he had reclaimed from the waste land around. but after many years there came a spring when the colours of the flowers seemed paler to the hermit than they used to be; and as summer drew on, their shapes became indistinct, and he mistook one plant for another; and when autumn came, he told them by their various scents, and by their form, rather than by sight; and when the flowers were gone, and winter had come, the hermit was quite blind. now in the hamlet below there lived a boy who had become known to the hermit on this manner. on the edge of the hermit's garden there grew two crab trees, from the fruit of which he made every year a certain confection, which was very grateful to the sick. one year many of these crab-apples were stolen, and the sick folk of the hamlet had very little conserve. so the following year, as the fruit was ripening, the hermit spoke every day to those who came to his cell, saying-- "i pray you, good people, to make it known that he who robs these crab trees, robs not me alone, which is dishonest, but the sick, which is inhuman." and yet once more the crab-apples were taken. the following evening, as the hermit sat on the side of the hill, he overheard two boys disputing about the theft. "it must either have been a very big man, or a small boy, to do it," said one. "so i say, and i have my reason." "and what is thy reason, master wiseacre?" asked the other. "the fruit is too high to be plucked except by a very big man," said the first boy. "and the branches are not strong enough for any but a child to climb." "canst thou think of no other way to rob an apple tree but by standing a-tip-toe, or climbing up to the apples, when they should come down to thee?" said the second boy. "truly thy head will never save thy heels; but here's a riddle for thee: riddle me riddle me re, four big brothers are we; we gather the fruit, but climb never a tree. who are they?" "four tall robbers, i suppose," said the other. "tush!" cried his comrade. "they are the four winds; and when they whistle, down falls the ripest. but others can shake besides the winds, as i will show thee if thou hast any doubts in the matter." and as he spoke he sprang to catch the other boy, who ran from him; and they chased each other down the hill, and the hermit heard no more. but as he turned to go home he said, "the thief was not far away when thou stoodst near. nevertheless, i will have patience. it needs not that i should go to seek thee, for what saith the scripture? _thy sin_ will find thee out." and he made conserve of such apples as were left, and said nothing. now after a certain time a plague broke out in the hamlet; and it was so sore, and there were so few to nurse the many who were sick, that, though it was not the wont of the hermit ever to leave his place, yet in their need he came down and ministered to the people in the village. and one day, as he passed a certain house, he heard moans from within, and entering, he saw lying upon a bed a boy who tossed and moaned in fever, and cried out most miserably that his throat was parched and burning. and when the hermit looked upon his face, behold it was the boy who had given the riddle of the four winds upon the side of the hill. then the hermit fed him with some of the confection which he had with him, and it was so grateful to the boy's parched palate, that he thanked and blessed the hermit aloud, and prayed him to leave a morsel of it behind, to soothe his torments in the night. then said the hermit, "my son, i would that i had more of this confection, for the sake of others as well as for thee. but indeed i have only two trees which bear the fruit whereof this is made; and in two successive years have the apples been stolen by some thief, thereby robbing not only me, which is dishonest, but the poor, which is inhuman." then the boy's theft came back to his mind, and he burst into tears, and cried, "my father, i took the crab-apples!" and after a while he recovered his health; the plague also abated in the hamlet, and the hermit went back to his cell. but the boy would thenceforth never leave him, always wishing to show his penitence and gratitude. and though the hermit sent him away, he ever returned, saying-- "of what avail is it to drive me from thee, since i am resolved to serve thee, even as samuel served eli, and timothy ministered unto st. paul?" but the hermit said, "my rule is to live alone, and without companions; wherefore begone." and when the boy still came, he drove him from the garden. then the boy wandered far and wide, over moor and bog, and gathered rare plants and herbs, and laid them down near the hermit's cell. and when the hermit was inside, the boy came into the garden, and gathered the stones and swept the paths, and tied up such plants as were drooping, and did all neatly and well, for he was a quick and skilful lad. and when the hermit said, "thou hast done well, and i thank thee; but now begone," he only answered, "what avails it, when i am resolved to serve thee?" so at last there came a day when the hermit said, "it may be that it is ordained; wherefore abide, my son." and the boy answered, "even so, for i am resolved to serve thee." thus he remained. and thenceforward the hermit's garden throve as it had never thriven before. for, though he had skill, the hermit was old and feeble; but the boy was young and active, and he worked hard, and it was to him a labour of love. and being a clever boy, he quickly knew the names and properties of the plants as well as the hermit himself. and when he was not working, he would go far afield to seek for new herbs. and he always returned to the village at night. now when the hermit's sight began to fail, the boy put him right if he mistook one plant for another; and when the hermit became quite blind, he relied completely upon the boy to gather for him the herbs that he wanted. and when anything new was planted, the boy led the old man to the spot, that he might know that it was so many paces in such a direction from the cell, and might feel the shape and texture of the leaves, and learn its scent. and through the skill and knowledge of the boy, the hermit was in no wise hindered from preparing his accustomed remedies, for he knew the names and virtues of the herbs, and where every plant grew. and when the sun shone, the boy would guide his master's steps into the garden, and would lead him up to certain flowers; but to those which had a perfume of their own the old man could go without help, being guided by the scent. and as he fingered their leaves and breathed their fragrance, he would say, "blessed be god for every herb of the field, but thrice blessed for those that smell." and at the end of the garden was set a bush of rosemary. "for," said the hermit, "to this we must all come." because rosemary is the herb they scatter over the dead. and he knew where almost everything grew, and what he did not know the boy told him. yet for all this, and though he had embraced poverty and solitude with joy, in the service of god and man, yet so bitter was blindness to him, that he bewailed the loss of his sight, with a grief that never lessened. "for," said he, "if it had pleased our lord to send me any other affliction, such as a continual pain or a consuming sickness, i would have borne it gladly, seeing it would have left me free to see these herbs, which i use for the benefit of the poor. but now the sick suffer through my blindness, and to this boy also i am a continual burden." and when the boy called him at the hours of prayer, paying, "my father, it is now time for the nones office, for the marigold is closing," or, "the vespers bell will soon sound from the valley, for the bindweed bells are folded," and the hermit recited the appointed prayers, he always added, "i beseech thee take away my blindness, as thou didst heal thy servant the son of timæus." and as the boy and he sorted herbs, he cried, "is there no balm in gilead?" and the boy answered, "the balm of gilead grows six full paces from the gate, my father." but the hermit said, "i spoke in a figure, my son. i meant not that herb. but, alas! is there no remedy to heal the physician? no cure for the curer?" and the boy's heart grew heavier day by day, because of the hermit's grief. for he loved him. now one morning as the boy came up from the village, the hermit met him, groping painfully with his hands, but with joy in his countenance, and he said, "is that thy step, my son? come in, for i have somewhat to tell thee." and he said, "a vision has been vouchsafed to me, even a dream. moreover, i believe that there shall be a cure for my blindness." then the boy was glad, and begged of the hermit to relate his dream, which he did as follows:-- "i dreamed, and behold i stood in the garden--thou also with me--and many people were gathered at the gate, to whom, with thy help, i gave herbs of healing in such fashion as i have been able since this blindness came upon me. and when they were gone, i smote upon my forehead, and said, 'where is the herb that shall heal my affliction?' and a voice beside me said, 'here, my son.' and i cried to thee, 'who spoke?' and thou saidst, 'it is a man in pilgrim's weeds, and lo, he hath a strange flower in his hand.' then said the pilgrim, 'it is a trinity flower. moreover, i suppose that when thou hast it, thou wilt see clearly.' then i thought that thou didst take the flower from the pilgrim and put it in my hand. and lo, my eyes were opened, and i saw clearly. and i knew the pilgrim's face, though where i have seen him i cannot yet recall. but i believed him to be raphael the archangel--he who led tobias, and gave sight to his father. and even as it came to me to know him, he vanished; and i saw him no more." "and what was the trinity flower like, my father?" asked the boy. "it was about the size of herb paris, my son," replied the hermit, "but instead of being fourfold every way, it numbered the mystic three. every part was threefold. the leaves were three, the petals three, the sepals three. the flower was snow-white, but on each of the three parts it was stained with crimson stripes, like white garments dyed in blood."[ ] [footnote : _trillium erythrocarpum_. north america.] then the boy started up, saying, "if there be such a plant on the earth i will find it for thee." but the hermit laid his hand on him, and said, "nay, my son, leave me not, for i have need of thee. and the flower will come yet, and then i shall see." and all day long the old man murmured to himself, "then i shall see." "and didst thou see me, and the garden, in thy dream, my father?" asked the boy. "ay, that i did, my son. and i meant to say to thee that it much pleaseth me that thou art grown so well, and of such a strangely fair countenance. also the garden is such as i have never before beheld it, which must needs be due to thy care. but wherefore didst thou not tell me of those fair palms that have grown where the thorn hedge was wont to be? i was but just stretching out my hand for some, when i awoke." "there are no palms there, my father," said the boy. "now, indeed it is thy youth that makes thee so little observant," said the hermit. "however, i pardon thee, if it were only for that good thought which moved thee to plant a yew beyond the rosemary bush; seeing that the yew is the emblem of eternal life, which lies beyond the grave." but the boy said, "there is no yew there, my father." "have i not seen it, even in a vision?" cried the hermit. "thou wilt say next that all the borders are not set with hearts-ease, which indeed must be through thy industry; and whence they come i know not, but they are most rare and beautiful, and my eyes long sore to see them again." "alas, my father!" cried the boy, "the borders are set with rue, and there are but a few clumps of hearts-ease here and there." "could i forget what i saw in an hour?" asked the old man angrily. "and did not the holy raphael himself point to them, saying, 'blessed are the eyes that behold this garden, where the borders are set with hearts-ease, and the hedges crowned with palm!' but thou wouldst know better than an archangel, forsooth." then the boy wept; and when the hermit heard him weeping, he put his arm round him and said, "weep, not, my dear son. and i pray thee, pardon me that i spoke harshly to thee. for indeed i am ill-tempered by reason of my infirmities; and as for thee, god will reward thee for thy goodness to me, as i never can. moreover, i believe it is thy modesty, which is as great as thy goodness, that hath hindered thee from telling me of all that thou hast done for my garden, even to those fair and sweet everlasting flowers, the like of which i never saw before, which thou hast set in the east border, and where even now i hear the bees humming in the sun." then the boy looked sadly out into the garden, and answered, "i cannot lie to thee. there are no everlasting flowers. it is the flowers of the thyme in which the bees are rioting. and in the hedge bottom there creepeth the bitter-sweet." but the hermit heard him not. he had groped his way out into the sunshine, and wandered up and down the walks, murmuring to himself, "then i shall see." now when the summer was past, one autumn morning there came to the garden gate a man in pilgrim's weeds; and when he saw the boy he beckoned to him, and giving him a small tuber root, he said, "give this to thy master. it is the root of the trinity flower." and he passed on down towards the valley. then the boy ran hastily to the hermit; and when he had told him, and given him the root, he said, "the face of the pilgrim is known to me also, o my father! for i remember when i lay sick of the plague, that ever it seemed to me as if a shadowy figure passed in and out, and went up and down the streets, and his face was as the face of this pilgrim. but--i cannot deceive thee--methought it was the angel of death." then the hermit mused; and after a little space he answered, "it was then also that i saw him. i remember now. nevertheless, let us plant the root, and abide what god shall send." and thus they did. and as the autumn and winter went by, the hermit became very feeble, but the boy constantly cheered him, saying, "patience, my father. thou shalt see yet!" but the hermit replied, "my son, i repent me that i have not been patient under affliction. moreover, i have set thee an ill example, in that i have murmured at that which god--who knoweth best--ordained for me." and when the boy ofttimes repeated, "thou shalt yet see," the hermit answered, "if god will. when god will. as god will." and when he said the prayers for the hours, he no longer added what he had added beforetime, but evermore repeated, "if thou wilt. when thou wilt. as thou wilt!" and so the winter passed; and when the snow lay on the ground the boy and the hermit talked of the garden; and the boy no longer contradicted the old man, though he spoke continually of the hearts-ease, and the everlasting flowers, and the palm. for he said, "when spring comes i may be able to get these plants, and fit the garden to his vision." and at length the spring came. and with it rose the trinity flower. and when the leaves unfolded, they were three, as the hermit had said. then the boy was wild with joy and with impatience. and when the sun shone for two days together, he would kneel by the flower, and say, "i pray thee, lord, send showers, that it may wax apace." and when it rained, he said, "i pray thee, send sunshine, that it may blossom speedily." for he knew not what to ask. and he danced about the hermit, and cried, "soon shalt thou see." but the hermit trembled, and said, "not as i will, but as thou wilt!" and so the bud formed. and at length one evening, before he went down to the hamlet, the boy came to the hermit and said, "the bud is almost breaking, my father. to-morrow thou shalt see." then the hermit moved his hands till he laid them on the boy's head, and he said, "the lord repay thee sevenfold for all thou hast done for me, dear child. and now i pray thee, my son, give me thy pardon for all in which i have sinned against thee by word or deed, for indeed my thoughts of thee have ever been tender." and when the boy wept, the hermit still pressed him, till he said that he forgave him. and as they unwillingly parted, the hermit said, "i pray thee, dear son, to remember that, though late, i conformed myself to the will of god." saying which, the hermit went into his cell, and the boy returned to the village. but so great was his anxiety, that he could not rest; and he returned to the garden ere it was light, and sat by the flower till the dawn. and with the first dim light he saw that the trinity flower was in bloom. and as the hermit had said, it was white, and stained with crimson as with blood. then the boy shed tears of joy, and he plucked the flower and ran into the hermit's cell, where the hermit lay very still upon his couch. and the boy said, "i will not disturb him. when he wakes he will find the flower." and he went out and sat down outside the cell and waited. and being weary as he waited, he fell asleep. now before sunrise, whilst it was yet early, he was awakened by the voice of the hermit crying, "my son, my dear son!" and he jumped up, saying, "my father!" but as he spoke the hermit passed him. and as he passed he turned, and the boy saw that his eyes were open. and the hermit fixed them long and tenderly on him. then the boy cried, "ah, tell me, my father, dost thou see?" and he answered, "_i see now!_" and so passed on down the walk. and as he went through the garden, in the still dawn, the boy trembled, for the hermit's footsteps gave no sound. and he passed beyond the rosemary bush, and came not again. and when the day wore on, and the hermit did not return, the boy went into his cell. without, the sunshine dried the dew from paths on which the hermit's feet had left no prints, and cherished the spring flowers bursting into bloom. but within, the hermit's dead body lay stretched upon his pallet, and the trinity flower was in his hand. ladders to heaven. a legend.[ ] there was a certain valley in which the grass was very green, for it was watered by a stream which never failed; and once upon a time certain pious men withdrew from the wide world and from their separate homes, and made a home in common, and a little world for themselves, in the valley where the grass was green. [footnote : "ladders to heaven" was an old name for lilies of the valley.] the world outside, in those days, was very rough and full of wars; but the little world in the green valley was quiet and full of peace. and most of these men who had taken each other for brothers, and had made one home there, were happy, and being good deserved to be so. and some of them were good with the ignorant innocence of children, and there were others who had washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb. brother benedict was so named, because where he came blessings followed. this was said of him, from a child, when the babies stopped crying if he ran up to them, and when on the darkest days old women could see sunbeams playing in his hair. he had always been fond of flowers, and as there were not many things in the brotherhood of the green valley on which a man could full-spend his energies, when prayers were said, and duties done, brother benedict spent the balance of his upon the garden. and he grew herbs for healing, and plants that were good for food, and flowers that were only pleasant to the eyes; and where he sowed he reaped, and what he planted prospered, as if blessings followed him. in time the fame of his flowers spread beyond the valley, and people from the world outside sent to beg plants and seeds of him, and sent him others in return. and he kept a roll of the plants that he possessed, and the list grew longer with every autumn and every spring; so that the garden of the monastery became filled with rare and curious things, in which brother benedict took great pride. the day came when he thought that he took too much pride. for he said, "the cares of the garden are, after all, cares of this world, and i have set my affections upon things of the earth." and at last, it so troubled him that he obtained leave to make a pilgrimage to the cell of an old hermit, whose wisdom was much esteemed, and to him he told his fears. but when brother benedict had ended his tale, the old man said, "go in peace. what a man labours for he must love, if he be made in the image of his maker; for he rejoices in the works of his hands." so brother benedict returned, and his conscience was at ease till the autumn, when a certain abbot, who spent much care and pains upon his garden, was on a journey, and rested at the monastery of the green valley. and it appeared that he had more things in his garden than brother benedict, for the abbey was very rich, and he had collected far and near. and brother benedict was jealous for the garden of the monastery, and then he was wroth with himself for his jealousy; and when the abbot had gone he obtained leave, and made a pilgrimage to the cell of the hermit and told him all. and the old man, looking at him, loved him, and he said: "my son, a man may bind his soul with fine-drawn strands till it is either entangled in a web or breaks all bonds. gird thyself with one strong line, and let little things go by." and benedict said, "with which line?" and the hermit answered, "what said augustine? 'love, and do what thou wilt.' if therefore thy labours and thy pride be for others, and not for thyself, have no fear. he who lives for god and for his neighbours may forget his own soul in safety, and shall find it hereafter; for, for such a spirit--of the toils and pains and pleasures of this life--grace shall, alike build ladders unto heaven." then benedict bowed his head, and departed; and when he reached home he found a messenger who had ridden for many days, and who brought him a bundle of roots, and a written message, which ran thus: "these roots, though common with us, are unknown where thou dwellest. it is a lily, as white and as fragrant as the lily of the annunciation, but much smaller. beautiful as it is, it is hardy, and if planted in a damp spot and left strictly undisturbed it will spread and flourish like a weed. it hath a rare and delicate perfume, and having white bells on many footstalks up the stem, one above the other, as the angels stood in jacob's dream, the common children call it ladders to heaven." and when brother benedict read the first part of the letter he laughed hastily, and said, "the abbot hath no such lily." but when he had finished it, he said, "god rid my soul of self-seeking! the common children shall have them, and not i." and, seizing the plants and a spade, he ran out beyond the bounds of the monastery, and down into a little copse where the earth was kept damp by the waters of the stream which never failed. and there he planted the roots, and as he turned to go away he said, "the blessing of our maker rest on thee! and give joy of thy loveliness, and pleasure of thy perfume, to others when i am gone. and let him who enjoys remember the soul of him who planted thee." and he covered his face with his hands, and went back to the monastery. and he did not enter the new plant upon his roll, for he had no such lily in his garden. * * * * * brother benedict's soul had long departed, when in times of turbulence and change the monastery was destroyed, and between fire and plunder and reckless destruction everything perished, and even the garden was laid waste. but no one touched the lilies of the valley in the copse below, for they were so common that they were looked upon as weeds. and though nothing remained of the brotherhood but old tales, these lingered, and were handed on; and when the children played with the lilies and bickered over them, crying, "my ladder has twelve white angels and yours has only eight," they would often call them brother benedict's flowers, adding, "but the real right name of them is ladders to heaven." and after a time a new race came into the green valley and filled it; and the stream which never failed turned many wheels, and trades were brisk, and they were what are called black trades. and men made money soon, and spent it soon, and died soon; and in the time between each lived for himself, and had little reverence for those who were gone, and less concern for those who should come after. and at first they were too busy to care for what is only beautiful, but after a time they built smart houses, and made gardens, and went down into the copse and tore up clumps of brother benedict's flowers, and planted them in exposed rockeries, and in pots in dry hot parlours, where they died, and then the good folk went back for more; and no one reckoned if he was taking more than his fair share, or studied the culture of what he took away, or took the pains to cover the roots of those he left behind, and in three years there was not left a ladder to heaven in all the green valley. * * * * * the green valley had long been called the black valley, when those who laboured and grew rich in it awoke--as man must sooner or later awake--to the needs of the spirit above the flesh. they were a race famed for music, and they became more so. the love of beauty also grew, and was cultivated, and in time there were finer flowers blossoming in that smoky air than under many brighter skies. and with the earnings of their grimy trades they built a fine church, and adorned it more richly than the old church of the monastery that had been destroyed. the parson who served this church and this people was as well-beloved by them as brother benedict had been in his day, and it was in striving to link their minds with sympathies of the past as well as hopes of the future, that one day he told them the legend of the ladders to heaven. a few days afterwards he was wandering near the stream, when he saw two or three lads with grimy faces busily at work in the wood through which the stream ran. at first, when he came suddenly on them, they looked shyly at one another, and at last one stood up and spoke. "it's a few lily roots, sir, we got in the market, and we're planting them; and two or three of us have set ourselves to watch that they are not shifted till they've settled. maybe we shall none of us see them fair wild here again, any more than brother benedict did. for black trades are short-lived trades, and there's none of us will be as old as he. but maybe we can take a pride too in thinking that they'll blow for other folk and other folk's children when we are gone." * * * * * once more the fastidious[ ] flowers spread, and became common in the valley, and were guarded with jealous care; and the memory of brother benedict lingered by the stream, and was doubly blessed. [footnote : it is well known that lilies of the valley are flowers which resent disturbance, though they are perfectly hardy and vigorous if left in peace.] for if he is blessed whose love and wisdom add to the world's worth, and make life richer in pleasant things, thrice blessed is he whose unselfish example shall be culture to the ignorant or the thoughtless, and set ladders to heaven for the feet of those who follow him! the end. * * * * * _the present series of mrs. ewing's works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform edition published_. _it will consist of volumes, small crown vo, at s. d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the series will be completed within months. the device of the cover was specially designed by a friend of mrs. ewing_. _the following is a list of the books included in the series_-- . melchior's dream, and other tales. . mrs. overtheway's remembrances. . old-fashioned fairy tales. . a flat iron for a farthing. . the brownies, and other tales. . six to sixteen. . lob lie-by-the-fire, and other tales. . jan of the windmill. . verses for children, and songs. . the peace egg--a christmas mumming play--hints for private theatricals, &c. . a great emergency, and other tales. . brothers of pity, and other tales of beasts and men. . we and the world, part i. . we and the world, part ii. . jackanapes--daddy darwin's dovecote--the story of a short life. . mary's meadow, and other tales of fields and flowers. . miscellanea, including the mystery of the bloody hand--wonder stories--tales of the khoja, and other translations. . juliana horatia ewing and her books, with a selection from mrs. ewing's letters. s.p.c.k., northumberland avenue, london, w.c. * * * * * [transcriber's note: susan warner ( - ), _nobody_ ( ), nisbet edition] nobody by susan warner author of "the wide, wide world" "queechy" etc. etc. "let me see; what think you of falling in love?" --_as you like it_ london james nisbet & c° limited berners street notice to reader. the following is again a true story of real life. for character and colouring, no doubt, i am responsible; but the facts are facts. martlaer's rock, _aug_. , . contents. chapter i. who is she? ii. at breakfast iii. a luncheon party iv. another luncheon party v. in council vi. happiness vii. the worth of things viii. mrs. armadale ix. the family x. lois's garden xi. summer movements xii. appledore xiii. a summer hotel xiv. watched xv. tactics xvi. mrs. marx's opinion xvii. tom's decision xviii. mr. dillwyn's plan xix. news xx. shampuashuh xxi. greville's memoirs xxii. learning xxiii. a breakfast table xxiv. the carpenter xxv. roast pig xxvi. scruples xxvii. peas and radishes xxviii. the lagoon of venice xxix. an ox cart xxx. poetry xxxi. long clams xxxii. a visitor xxxiii. the value of money xxxiv. under an umbrella xxxv. opinions xxxvi. two sunday schools xxxvii. an oyster supper xxxviii. breaking up xxxix. luxury xl. attentions xli. chess xlii. rules xliii. about work xliv. choosing a wife xlv. duty xlvi. off and on xlvii. plans xlviii. announcements xlix. on the pass nobody. chapter i. who is she? "tom, who was that girl you were so taken with last night?" "wasn't particularly taken last night with anybody." which practical falsehood the gentleman escaped from by a mental reservation, saying to himself that it was not _last night_ that he was "taken." "i mean the girl you had so much to do with. come, tom!" "i hadn't much to do with her. i had to be civil to somebody. she was the easiest." "who is she, tom?" "her name is lothrop." "o you tedious boy! i know what her name is, for i was introduced to her, and mrs. wishart spoke so i could not help but understand her; but i mean something else, and you know i do. who is she? and where does she come from?" "she is a cousin of mrs. wishart; and she comes from the country somewhere." "one can see _that_." "how can you?" the brother asked rather fiercely. "you see it as well as i do," the sister returned coolly. "her dress shows it." "i didn't notice anything about her dress." "you are a man." "well, you women dress for the men. if you only knew a thing or two, you would dress differently." "that will do! you would not take me anywhere, if i dressed like miss lothrop." "i'll tell you what," said the young man, stopping short in his walk up and down the floor;--"she can afford to do without your advantages!" "mamma!" appealed the sister now to a third member of the party,--"do you hear? tom has lost his head." the lady addressed sat busy with newspapers, at a table a little withdrawn from the fire; a lady in fresh middle age, and comely to look at. the daughter, not comely, but sensible-looking, sat in the glow of the fireshine, doing nothing. both were extremely well dressed, if "well" means in the fashion and in rich stuffs, and with no sparing of money or care. the elder woman looked up from her studies now for a moment, with the remark, that she did not care about tom's head, if he would keep his heart. "but that is just precisely what he will not do, mamma. tom can't keep anything, his heart least of all. and this girl mamma, i tell you he is in danger. tom, how many times have you been to see her?" "i don't go to see _her;_ i go to see mrs. wishart." "oh!--and you see miss lothrop by accident! well, how many times, tom? three--four--five." "don't be ridiculous!" the brother struck in. "of course a fellow goes where he can amuse himself and have the best time; and mrs. wishart keeps a pleasant house." "especially lately. well, tom, take care! it won't do. i warn you." "what won't do?"--angrily. "this girl; not for _our_ family. not for you, tom. she hasn't anything,--and she isn't anybody; and it will not do for you to marry in that way. if your fortune was ready made to your hand, or if you were established in your profession and at the top of it,--why, perhaps you might be justified in pleasing yourself; but as it is, _don't_, tom! be a good boy, and _don't!_" "my dear, he will not," said the elder lady here. "tom is wiser than you give him credit for." "i don't give any man credit for being wise, mamma, when a pretty face is in question. and this girl has a pretty face; she is very pretty. but she has no style; she' is as poor as a mouse; she knows nothing of the world; and to crown all, tom, she's one of the religious sort.--think of that! one of the real religious sort, you know. think how that would fit." "what sort are you?" asked her brother. "not that sort, tom, and you aren't either." "how do you know she is?" "very easy," said the girl coolly. "she told me herself." "she told you!" "yes." "how?" "o, simply enough. i was confessing that sunday is such a fearfully long day to me, and i did not know what to do with it; and she looked at me as if i were a poor heathen--which i suppose she thought me--and said, 'but there is always the bible!' fancy!--'always the bible.' so i knew in a moment where to place her." "i don't think religion hurts a woman," said the young man. "but you do not want her to have too much of it--" the mother remarked, without looking up from her paper. "i don't know what you mean by too much, mother. i'd as lief she found sunday short as long. by her own showing, julia has the worst of it." "mamma! speak to him," urged the girl. "no need, my dear, i think. tom isn't a fool." "any man is, when he is in love, mamma." tom came and stood by the mantelpiece, confronting them. he was a remarkably handsome young man; tall, well formed, very well dressed, hair and moustaches carefully trimmed, and features of regular though manly beauty, with an expression of genial kindness and courtesy. "i am not in love," he said, half laughing. "but i will tell you,--i never saw a nicer girl than lois lothrop. and i think all that you say about her being poor, and all that, is just--bosh." the newspapers went down. "my dear boy, julia is right. i should be very sorry to see you hurt your career and injure your chances by choosing a girl who would give you no sort of help. and you would regret it yourself, when it was too late. you would be certain to regret it. you could not help but regret it." "i am not going to do it. but why should i regret it?" "you know why, as well as i do. such a girl would not be a good wife for you. she would be a millstone round your neck." perhaps mr. tom thought she would be a pleasant millstone in those circumstances; but he only remarked that he believed the lady in question would be a good wife for whoever could get her. "well, not for you. you can have anybody you want to, tom; and you may just as well have money and family as well as beauty. it is a very bad thing for a girl not to have family. that deprives her husband of a great advantage; and besides, saddles upon him often most undesirable burdens in the shape of brothers and sisters, and nephews perhaps. what is this girl's family, do you know?" "respectable," said tom, "or she would not be a cousin of mrs. wishart. and that makes her a cousin of edward's wife." "my dear, everybody has cousins; and people are not responsible for them. she is a poor relation, whom mrs. wishart has here for the purpose of befriending her; she'll marry her off if she can; and you would do as well as another. indeed you would do splendidly; but the advantage would be all on their side; and that is what i do not wish for you." tom was silent. his sister remarked that mrs. wishart really was not a match-maker. "no more than everybody is; it is no harm; of course she would like to see this little girl well married. is she educated? accomplished?" "tom can tell," said the daughter. "i never saw her do anything. what can she do, tom?" "_do?_" said tom, flaring up. "what do you mean?" "can she play?" "no, and i am glad she can't. if ever there was a bore, it is the performances of you young ladies on the piano. it's just to show what you can do. who cares, except the music master?" "does she sing?" "i don't know!" "can she speak french?" "french!" cried tom. "who wants her to speak french? we talk english in this country." "but, my dear boy, we often have to use french or some other language, there are so many foreigners that one meets in society. and a lady _must_ know french at least. does she know anything?" "i don't know," said tom. "i have no doubt she does. i haven't tried her. how much, do you suppose, do girls in general know? girls with ever so much money and family? and who cares how much they know? one does not seek a lady's society for the purpose of being instructed." "one might, and get no harm," said the sister softly; but tom flung out of the room. "mamma, it is serious." "do you think so?" asked the elder lady, now thrusting aside all her papers. "i am sure of it. and if we do not do something--we shall all be sorry for it." "what is this girl, julia? is she pretty?" julia hesitated. "yes," she said. "i suppose the men would call her so." "you don't?" "well, yes, mamma; she is pretty, handsome, in a way; though she has not the least bit of style; not the least bit! she is rather peculiar; and i suppose with the men that is one of her attractions." "peculiar how?" said the mother, looking anxious. "i cannot tell; it is indefinable. and yet it is very marked. just that want of style makes her peculiar." "awkward?" "no." "not awkward. how then? shy?" "no." "how then, julia? what is she like?" "it is hard to tell in words what people are like. she is plainly dressed, but not badly; mrs. wishart would see to that; so it isn't exactly her dress that makes her want of style. she has a very good figure; uncommonly good. then she has most beautiful hair, mamma; a full head of bright brown hair, that would be auburn if it were a shade or two darker; and it is somewhat wavy and curly, and heaps itself around her head in a way that is like a picture. she don't dress it in the fashion; i don't believe there is a hairpin in it, and i am sure there isn't a cushion, or anything; only this bright brown hair puffing and waving and curling itself together in some inexplicable way, that would be very pretty if it were not so altogether out of the way that everybody else wears. then there _is_ a sweet, pretty face under it; but you can see at the first look that she was never born or brought up in new york or any other city, and knows just nothing about the world." "dangerous!" said the mother, knitting her brows. "yes; for just that sort of thing is taking to the men; and they don't look any further. and tom above all. i tell you, he is smitten, mamma. and he goes to mrs. wishart's with a regularity which is appalling." "tom takes things hard, too," said the mother. "foolish boy!" was the sister's comment. "what can be done?" "i'll tell you, mamma. i've been thinking. your health will never stand the march winds in new york. you must go somewhere." "where?" "florida, for instance?" "i should like it very well." "it would be better anyhow than to let tom get hopelessly entangled." "anything would be better than that." "and prevention is better than cure. you can't apply a cure, besides. when a man like tom, or any man, once gets a thing of this sort in his head, it is hopeless. he'll go through thick and thin, and take time to repent afterwards. men are so stupid!" "women sometimes." "not i, mamma; if you mean me. i hope for the credit of your discernment you don't." "lent will begin soon," observed the elder lady presently. "lent will not make any difference with tom," returned the daughter. "and little parties are more dangerous than big ones." "what shall i do about the party we were going to give? i should be obliged to ask mrs. wishart." "i'll tell you, mamma," julia said after a little thinking. "let it be a luncheon party; and get tom to go down into the country that day. and then go off to florida, both of you." chapter ii. at breakfast. "how do you like new york, lois? you have been here long enough to judge of us now?" "have i?" mrs. wishart and her guest being at breakfast, this question and answer go over the table. it is not exactly in new york, however. that is, it is within the city bounds, but not yet among the city buildings. some little distance out of town, with green fields about it, and trees, and lawn sloping down to the river bank, and a view of the jersey shore on the other side. the breakfast room windows look out over this view, upon which the winter sun is shining; and green fields stand in beautiful illumination, with patches of snow lying here and there. snow is not on the lawn, however. mrs. wishart's is a handsome old house, not according to the latest fashion, either in itself or its fitting up; both are of a simpler style than anybody of any pretension would choose now-a-days; but mrs. wishart has no need to make any pretension; her standing and her title to it are too well known. moreover, there are certain quain't witnesses to it all over, wherever you look. none but one of such secured position would have such an old carpet on her floor; and few but those of like antecedents could show such rare old silver on the board. the shawl that wraps the lady is indian, and not worn for show; there are portraits on the walls that go back to a respectable english ancestry; there is precious old furniture about, that money could not buy; old and quain't and rich, and yet not striking the eye; and the lady is served in the most observant style by one of those ancient house servants whose dignity is inseparably connected with the dignity of the house and springs from it. no new comer to wealth and place can be served so. the whole air of everything in the room is easy, refined, leisurely, assured, and comfortable. the coffee is capital; and the meal, simple enough, is very delicate in its arrangement. only the two ladies are at the table; one behind the coffee urn, and the other near her. the mistress of the house has a sensible, agreeable face, and well-bred manner; the other lady is the one who has been so jealously discussed and described in another family. as miss julia described her, there she sits, in a morning dress which lends her figure no attraction whatever. and--her figure can do without it. as the question is asked her about new york, her eye goes over to the glittering western shore. "i like this a great deal better than the city," she added to her former words. "o, of course, the brick and stone!" answered her hostess. "i did not mean _that_. i mean, how do you like _us?_" "mrs. wishart, i like _you_ very much," said the girl with a certain sweet spirit. "thank you! but i did not mean that either. do you like no one but me?" "i do not know anybody else." "you have seen plenty of people." "i do not know them, though. not a bit. one thing i do not like. people talk so on the surface of things." "do you want them to go deep in an evening party?" "it is not only in evening parties. if you want me to say what i think, mrs. wishart. it is the same always, if people come for morning calls, or if we go to them, or if we see them in the evening; people talk about nothing; nothing they care about." "nothing _you_ care about." "they do not seem to care about it either." "why do you suppose they talk it then?" mrs. wishart asked, amused. "it seems to be a form they must go through," lois said, laughing a little. "perhaps they enjoy it, but they do not seem as if they did. and they laugh so incessantly,--some of them,--at what has no fun in it. that seems to be a form too; but laughing for form's sake seems to me hard work." "my dear, do you want people to be always serious?" "how do you mean, 'serious'?" "do you want them to be always going 'deep' into things?" "n-o, perhaps not; but i would like them to be always in earnest." "my dear! what a fearful state of society you would bring about! imagine for a moment that everybody was always in earnest!" "why not? i mean, not always _sober;_ did you think i meant that? i mean, whether they laugh or talk, doing it heartily, and feeling and thinking as they speak. or rather, speaking and laughing only as they feel." "my dear, do you know what would become of society?" "no. what?" "i go to see mrs. brinkerhoff, for instance. i have something on my mind, and i do not feel like discussing any light matter, so i sit silent. mrs. brinkerhoff has a fearfully hard piece of work to keep the conversation going; and when i have departed she votes me a great bore, and hopes i will never come again. when she returns my visit, the conditions are reversed; i vote _her_ a bore; and we conclude it is easier to do without each other's company." "but do you never find people a bore as it is?" mrs. wishart laughed. "do you?" "sometimes. at least i should if i lived among them. _now_, all is new, and i am curious." "i can tell you one thing, lois; nobody votes you a bore." "but i never talk as they do." "never mind. there are exceptions to all rules. but, my dear, even you must not be always so desperately in earnest. by the way! that handsome young mr. caruthers--does he make himself a bore too? you have seen a good deal of him." "no," said lois with some deliberation. "he is pleasant, what i have seen of him." "and, as i remarked, that is a good deal. isn't he a handsome fellow? i think tom caruthers is a good fellow, too. and he is likely to be a successful fellow. he is starting well in life, and he has connections that will help him on. it is a good family; and they have money enough." "how do you mean, 'a good family'?" "why, you know what that phrase expresses, don't you?" "i am not sure that i do, in your sense. you do not mean religious?" "no," said mrs. wishart, smiling; "not necessarily. religion has nothing to do with it. i mean--we mean-- it is astonishing how hard it is to put some things! i mean, a family that has had a good social standing for generations. of course such a family is connected with other good families, and it is consequently strong, and has advantages for all belonging to it." "i mean," said lois slowly, "a family that has served god for generations. such a family has connections too, and advantages." "why, my dear," said mrs. wishart, opening her eyes a little at the girl, "the two things are not inconsistent, i hope." "i hope not." "wealth and position are good things at any rate, are they not?" "so far as they go, i suppose so," said lois. "o yes, they are pleasant things; and good things, if they are used right." "they are whether or no. come! i can't have you holding any extravagant ideas, lois. they don't do in the world. they make one peculiar, and it is not good taste to be peculiar." "you know, i am not in the world," lois answered quietly. "not when you are at home, i grant you; but here, in my house, you are; and when you have a house of your own, it is likely you will be. no more coffee, my dear? then let us go to the order of the day. what is this, williams?" "for miss lot'rop," the obsequious servant replied with a bow,--"de bo-quet." but he presented to his mistress a little note on his salver, and then handed to lois a magnificent bunch of hothouse flowers. mrs. wishart's eyes followed the bouquet, and she even rose up to examine it. "that is beautiful, my dear. what camellias! and what geraniums! that is the black prince, one of those, i am certain; yes, i am sure it is; and that is one of the new rare varieties. that has not come from any florist's greenhouse. never. and that rose-coloured geranium is lady sutherland. who sent the flowers, williams?" "here is his card, mrs. wishart," said lois. "mr. caruthers." "tom caruthers!" echoed mrs. wishart. "he has cut them in his mother's greenhouse, the sinner!" "why?" said lois. "would that be not right?" "it would be right, _if_--. here's a note from tom's mother, lois--but not about the flowers. it is to ask us to a luncheon party. shall we go?" "you know, dear mrs. wishart, i go just where you choose to take me," said the girl, on whose cheeks an exquisite rose tint rivalled the lady sutherland geranium blossoms. mrs. wishart noticed it, and eyed the girl as she was engrossed with her flowers, examining, smelling, and smiling at them. it was pleasure that raised that delicious bloom in her cheeks, she decided; was it anything more than pleasure? what a fair creature! thought her hostess; and yet, fair as she is, what possible chance for her in a good family? a young man may be taken with beauty, but not his relations; and they would object to a girl who is nobody and has nothing. well, there is a chance for her, and she shall have the chance. "lois, what will you wear to this luncheon party?" "you know all my dresses, mrs. wishart. i suppose my black silk would be right." "no, it would not be right at all. you are too young to wear black silk to a luncheon party. and your white dress is not the thing either." "i have nothing else that would do. you must let me be old, in a black silk." "i will not let you be anything of the kind. i will get you a dress." "no, mrs. wishart; i cannot pay for it." "i will pay for it." "i cannot let you do that. you have done enough for me already. mrs. wishart, it is no matter. people will just think i cannot afford anything better, and that is the very truth." "no, lois; they will think you do not know any better." "that is the truth too," said lois, laughing. "no it isn't; and if it is, i do not choose they should think so. i shall dress you for this once, my dear; and i shall not ruin myself either." mrs. wishart had her way; and so it came to pass that lois went to the luncheon party in a dress of bright green silk; and how lovely she looked in it is impossible to describe. the colour, which would have been ruinous to another person, simply set off her delicate complexion and bright brown hair in the most charming manner; while at the same time the green was not so brilliant as to make an obvious patch of colour wherever its wearer might be. mrs. wishart was a great enemy of startling effects, in any kind; and the hue was deep and rich and decided, without being flashy. "you never looked so well in anything," was mrs. wishart's comment. "i have hit just the right thing. my dear, i would put one of those white camellias in your hair--that will relieve the eye." "from what?" lois asked, laughing. "never mind; you do as i tell you." chapter iii. a luncheon party. luncheon parties were not then precisely what they are now; nevertheless the entertainment was extremely handsome. lois and her friend had first a long drive from their home in the country to a house in one of the older parts of the city. old the house also was; but it was after a roomy and luxurious fashion, if somewhat antiquated; and the air of ancient respectability, even of ancient distinction, was stamped upon it, as upon the family that inhabited it. mrs. wishart and lois were received with warm cordiality by miss caruthers; but the former did not fail to observe a shadow that crossed mrs. caruthers' face when lois was presented to her. lois did not see it, and would not have known how to interpret it if she had seen it. she is safe, thought mrs. wishart, as she noticed the calm unembarrassed air with which lois sat down to talk with the younger of her hostesses. "you are making a long stay with mrs. wishart," was the unpromising opening remark. "mrs. wishart keeps me." "do you often come to visit her?" "i was never here before." "then this is your first acquain'tance with new york?" "yes." "how does it strike you? one loves to get at new impressions of what one has known all one's life. nothing strikes us here, i suppose. do tell me what strikes you." "i might say, everything." "how delightful! nothing strikes me. i have seen it all five hundred times. nothing is new." "but people are new," said lois. "i mean they are different from one another. there is continual variety there." "to me there seems continual sameness!" said the other, with a half shutting up of her eyes, as of one dazed with monotony. "they are all alike. i know beforehand exactly what every one will say to me, and how every one will behave." "that is not how it is at home," returned lois. "it is different there." "people are _not_ all alike?" "no indeed. perfectly unlike, and individual." "how agreeable! so that is one of the things that strike you here? the contrast?" "no," said lois, laughing; "_i_ find here the same variety that i find at home. people are not alike to me." "but different, i suppose, from the varieties you are accustomed to at home?" lois admitted that. "well, now tell me how. i have never travelled in new england; i have travelled everywhere else. tell me, won't you, how those whom you see here differ from the people you see at home." "in the same sort of way that a sea-gull differs from a land sparrow," lois answered demurely. "i don't understand. are we like the sparrows, or like the gulls?" "i do not know that. i mean merely that the different sorts are fitted to different spheres and ways of life." miss caruthers looked a little curiously at the girl. "i know _this_ sphere," she said. "i want you to tell me yours." "it is free space instead of narrow streets, and clear air instead of smoke. and the people all have something to do, and are doing it." "and you think _we_ are doing nothing?" asked miss caruthers, laughing. "perhaps i am mistaken. it seems to me so." "o, you are mistaken. we work hard. and yet, since i went to school, i never had anything that i _must_ do, in my life." "that can be only because you did not know what it was." "i had nothing that i must do." "but nobody is put in this world without some thing to do," said lois. "do you think a good watchmaker would carefully make and finish a very costly pin or wheel, and put it in the works of his watch to do nothing?" miss caruthers stared now at the girl. had this soft, innocent-looking maiden absolutely dared to read a lesson to her?--"you are religious!" she remarked dryly. lois neither affirmed nor denied it. her eye roved over the gathering throng; the rustle of silks, the shimmer of lustrous satin, the falls of lace, the drapery of one or two magnificent camels'-hair shawls, the carefully dressed heads, the carefully gloved hands; for the ladies did not keep on their bonnets then; and the soft murmur of voices, which, however, did not remain soft. it waxed and grew, rising and falling, until the room was filled with a breaking sea of sound. miss caruthers had been called off to attend to other guests, and then came to conduct lois herself to the dining-room. the party was large, the table was long; and it was a mass of glitter and glisten with plate and glass. a superb old-fashioned épergne in the middle, great dishes of flowers sending their perfumed breath through the room, and bearing their delicate exotic witness to the luxury that reigned in the house. and not they alone. before each guest's plate a semicircular wreath of flowers stood, seemingly upon the tablecloth; but lois made the discovery that the stems were safe in water in crescent-shaped glass dishes, like little troughs, which the flowers completely covered up and hid. her own special wreath was of heliotropes. miss caruthers had placed her next herself. there were no gentlemen present, nor expected, lois observed. it was simply a company of ladies, met apparently for the purpose of eating; for that business went on for some time with a degree of satisfaction, and a supply of means to afford satisfaction, which lois had never seen equalled. from one delicate and delicious thing to another she was required to go, until she came to a stop; but that was the case, she observed, with no one else of the party. "you do not drink wine?" asked miss caruthers civilly. "no, thank you." "have you scruples?" said the young lady, with a half smile. lois assented. "why? what's the harm?" "we all have scruples at shampuashuh." "about drinking wine?" "or cider, or beer, or anything of the sort." "do tell me why." "it does so much mischief." "among low people," said miss caruthers, opening her eyes; "but not among respectable people." "we are willing to hinder mischief anywhere," said lois with a smile of some fun. "but what good does _your_ not drinking it do? that will not hinder them." "it does hinder them, though," said lois; "for we will not have liquor shops. and so, we have no crime in the town. we could leave our doors unlocked, with perfect safety, if it were not for the people that come wandering through from the next towns, where liquor is sold. we have no crime, and no poverty; or next to none." "bless me! what an agreeable state of things! but that need not hinder your taking a glass of champagne _here?_ everybody here has no scruple, and there are liquor shops at every corner; there is no use in setting an example." but lois declined the wine. "a cup of coffee then?" lois accepted the coffee. "i think you know my brother?" observed miss caruthers then, making her observations as she spoke. "mr. caruthers? yes; i believe he is your brother." "i have heard him speak of you. he has seen you at mrs. wishart's, i think." "at mrs. wishart's--yes." lois spoke naturally, yet miss caruthers fancied she could discern a certain check to the flow of her words. "you could not be in a better place for seeing what new york is like, for everybody goes to mrs. wishart's; that is, everybody who is anybody." this did not seem to lois to require any answer. her eye went over the long tableful; went from face to face. everybody was talking, nearly everybody was smiling. why not? if enjoyment would make them smile, where could more means of enjoyment be heaped up, than at this feast? yet lois could not help thinking that the tokens of real pleasure-taking were not unequivocal. _she_ was having a very good time; full of amusement; to the others it was an old story. of what use, then? miss caruthers had been engaged in a lively battle of words with some of her young companions; and now her attention came back to lois, whose meditative, amused expression struck her. "i am sure," she said, "you are philosophizing! let me have the results of your observations, do! what do your eyes see, that mine perhaps do not?" "i cannot tell," said lois. "yours ought to know it all." "but you know, we do not see what we have always seen." "then i have an advantage," said lois pleasantly. "my eyes see something very pretty." "but you were criticizing something.--o you unlucky boy!" this exclamation, and the change of tone with it, seemed to be called forth by the entrance of a new comer, even tom caruthers himself. tom was not in company trim exactly, but with his gloves in his hand and his overcoat evidently just pulled off. he was surveying the company with a contented expression; then came forward and began a series of greetings round the table; not hurrying them, but pausing here and there for a little talk. "tom!" cried his mother, "is that you?" "to command. yes, mrs. badger, i am just off the cars. i did not know what i should find here." "how did you get back so soon, tom?" "had nothing to keep me longer, ma'am. miss farrel, i have the honour to remind you of a _phillipoena_." there was a shout of laughter. it bewildered lois, who could not understand what they were laughing about, and could as little keep her attention from following tom's progress round the table. miss caruthers observed this, and was annoyed. "careless boy!" she said. "i don't believe he has done the half of what he had to do, tom, what brought you home?" tom was by this time approaching them. "is the question to be understood in a physical or moral sense?" said he. "as you understand it!" said his sister. tom disregarded the question, and paid his respects to miss lothrop. julia's jealous eyes saw more than the ordinary gay civility in his face and manner. "tom," she cried, "have you done everything? i don't believe you have." "have, though," said tom. and he offered to lois a basket of bon-bons. "did you see the carpenter?" "saw him and gave him his orders." "were the dogs well?" "i wish you had seen them bid me good morning!" "did you look at the mare's foot?" "yes." "what is the matter with it?" "nothing--a nail--miss lothrop, you have no wine." "nothing! and a nail!" cried miss julia as lois covered her glass with her hand and forbade the wine. "as if a nail were not enough to ruin a horse! o you careless boy! miss lothrop is more of a philosopher than you are. she drinks no wine." tom passed on, speaking to other ladies. lois had scarcely spoken at all; but miss caruthers thought she could discern a little stir in the soft colour of the cheeks and a little additional life in the grave soft eyes; and she wished tom heartily at a distance. at a distance, however, he was no more that day. he made himself gracefully busy indeed with the rest of his mother's guests; but after they quitted the table, he contrived to be at lois's side, and asked if she would not like to see the greenhouse? it was a welcome proposition, and while nobody at the moment paid any attention to the two young people, they passed out by a glass door at the other end of the dining-room into the conservatory, while the stream of guests went the other way. then lois was plunged in a wilderness of green leafage and brilliant bloom, warm atmosphere and mixed perfume; her first breath was an involuntary exclamation of delight and relief. "ah! you like this better than the other room, don't you?" said tom. lois did not answer; however, she went with such an absorbed expression from one plant to another, that tom must needs conclude she liked this better than the other company too. "i never saw such a beautiful greenhouse," she said at last, "nor so large a one." "_this_ is not much," replied tom. "most of our plants are in the country--where i have come from to-day; this is just a city affair. shampuashuh don't cultivate exotics, then?" "o no! nor anything much, except the needful." "that sounds rather--tiresome," said tom. "o, it is not tiresome. one does not get tired of the needful, you know." "don't you! _i_ do," said tom. "awfully. but what do you do for pleasure then, up there in shampuashuh?" "pleasure? o, we have it--i have it-- but we do not spend much time in the search of it. o how beautiful! what is that?" "it's got some long name--metrosideros, i believe. what _do_ you do for pleasure up there then, miss lothrop?" "dig clams." "clams!" cried tom. "yes. long clams. it's great fun. but i find pleasure all over." "how come you to be such a philosopher?" "that is not philosophy." "what is it? i can tell you, there isn't a girl in new york that would say what you have just said." lois thought the faces around the lunch table had quite harmonized with this statement. she forgot them again in a most luxuriant trailing pelargonium covered with large white blossoms of great elegance. "but it is philosophy that makes you not drink wine? or don't you like it?" "o no," said lois, "it is not philosophy; it is humanity." "how? i think it is humanity to share in people's social pleasures." "if they were harmless." "this is harmless!" lois shook her head. "to you, maybe." "and to you. then why shouldn't we take it?" "for the sake of others, to whom it is not harmless." "they must look out for themselves." "yes, and we must help them." "we _can't_ help them. if a man hasn't strength enough to stand, you cannot hold him up." "o yes," said lois gently, "you can and you must. that is not much to do! when on one side it is life, and on the other side it is only a minute's taste of something sweet, it is very little, i think, to give up one for the other." "that is because you are so good," said tom. "i am not so good." at this instant a voice was heard within, and sounds of the servants removing the lunch dishes. "i never heard anybody in my life talk as you do," tom went on. lois thought she had talked enough, and would say no more. tom saw she would not, and gave her glance after glance of admiration, which began to grow into veneration. what a pure creature was this! what a gentle simplicity, and yet what a quiet dignity! what absolutely natural sweetness, with no airs whatever! and what a fresh beauty. "i think it must be easier to be good where you live," tom added presently, and sincerely. "why?" said lois. "i assure you it ain't easy for a fellow here." "what do you mean by 'good,' mr. caruthers? not drinking wine?" said lois, somewhat amused. "i mean, to be like you," said he softly. "you are better than all the rest of us here." "i hope not. mr. caruthers, we must go back to mrs. wishart, or certainly _she_ will not think me good." so they went back, through the empty lunch room. "i thought you would be here to-day," said tom. "i was not going to miss the pleasure; so i took a frightfully early train, and despatched business faster than it had ever been despatched before, at our house. i surprised the people, almost as much as i surprised my mother and julia. you ought always to wear a white camellia in your hair!" lois smiled to herself. if he knew what things she had to do at her own home, and how such an adornment would be in place! was it easier to be good there? she queried. it was easier to be pleased here. the guests were mostly gone. "well, my dear," said mrs. wishart on the drive home, "how have you enjoyed yourself?" lois looked grave. "i am afraid it turns my head," she answered. "that shows your head is _not_ turned. it must carry a good deal of ballast too, somewhere." "it does," said lois. "and i don't like to have my head turned." "tom," said miss julia, as mrs. wishart's carriage drove off and tom came back to the drawing-room, "you mustn't turn that little girl's head." "i can't," said tom. "you are trying." "i am doing nothing of the sort." "then what _are_ you doing? you are paying her a great deal of attention. she is not accustomed to our ways; she will not understand it. i do not think it is fair to her." "i don't mean anything that is not fair to her. she is worth attention ten times as much as all the rest of the girls that were here to-day." "but, tom, she would not take it as coolly. she knows only country ways. she might think attentions mean more than they do." "i don't care," said tom. "my dear boy," said his mother now, "it will not do, not to care. it would not be honourable to raise hopes you do not mean to fulfil; and to take such a girl for your wife, would be simply ruinous." "where will you find such another girl?" cried tom, flaring up. "but she has nothing, and she is nobody." "she is her own sweet self," said tom. "but not an advantageous wife for you, my dear. society does not know her, and she does not know society. your career would be a much more humble one with her by your side. and money you want, too. you need it, to get on properly; as i wish to see you get on, and as you wish it your self. my dear boy, do not throw your chances away!" "it's my belief, that is just what you are trying to make me do!" said the young man; and he went off in something of a huff. "mamma, we must do something. and soon," remarked miss julia. "men are such fools! he rushed through with everything and came home to-day just to see that girl. a pretty face absolutely bewitches them." _n. b_. miss julia herself did not possess that bewitching power. "i will go to florida," said mrs. caruthers, sighing. chapter iv. another luncheon party. a journey can be decided upon in a minute, but not so soon entered upon. mrs. caruthers needed a week to make ready; and during that week her son and heir found opportunity to make several visits at mrs. wishart's. a certain marriage connection between the families gave him somewhat the familiar right of a cousin; he could go when he pleased; and mrs. wishart liked him, and used no means to keep him away. tom caruthers was a model of manly beauty; gentle and agreeable in his manners; and of an evidently affectionate and kindly disposition. why should not the young people like each other? she thought; and things were in fair train. upon this came the departure for florida. tom spoke his regrets unreservedly out; he could not help himself, his mother's health required her to go to the south for the month of march, and she must necessarily have his escort. lois said little. mrs. wishart feared, or hoped, she felt the more. a little absence is no harm, the lady thought; _may_ be no harm. but now lois began to speak of returning to shampuashuh; and that indeed might make the separation too long for profit. she thought too that lois was a little more thoughtful and a trifle more quiet than she had been before this journey was talked of. one day, it was a cold, blustering day in march, mrs. wishart and her guest had gone down into the lower part of the city to do some particular shopping; mrs. wishart having promised lois that they would take lunch and rest at a particular fashionable restaurant. such an expedition had a great charm for the little country girl, to whom everything was new, and to whose healthy mental senses the ways and manners of the business world, with all the accessories thereof, were as interesting as the gayer regions and the lighter life of fashion. mrs. wishart had occasion to go to a banker's in wall street; she had business at the post office; she had something to do which took her to several furrier's shops; she visited a particular magazine of varieties in maiden lane, where things, she told lois, were about half the price they bore up town. she spent near an hour at the tract house in nassau street. there was no question of taking the carriage into these regions; an omnibus had brought them to wall street, and from there they went about on their own feet, walking and standing alternately, till both ladies were well tired. mrs. wishart breathed out a sigh of relief as she took her seat in the omnibus which was to carry them up town again. "tired out, lois, are you? i am." "i am not. i have been too much amused." "it's delightful to take you anywhere! you reverse the old fairy-tale catastrophe, and a little handful of ashes turns to fruit for you, or to gold. well, i will make some silver turn to fruit presently. i want my lunch, and i know you do. i should like to have you with me always, lois. i get some of the good of your fairy fruit and gold when you are along with me. tell me, child, do you do that sort of thing at home?" "what sort?" said lois, laughing. "turning nothings into gold." "i don't know," said lois. "i believe i do pick up a good deal of that sort of gold as i go along. but at home our life has a great deal of sameness about it, you know. _here_ everything is wonderful." "wonderful!" repeated mrs. wishart. "to you it is wonderful. and to me it is the dullest old story, the whole of it. i feel as dusty now, mentally, as i am outwardly. but we'll have some luncheon, lois, and that will be refreshing, i hope." hopes were to be much disappointed. getting out of the omnibus near the locality of the desired restaurant, the whole street was found in confusion. there had been a fire, it seemed, that morning, in a house adjoining or very near, and loungers and firemen and an engine and hose took up all the way. no restaurant to be reached there that morning. greatly dismayed, mrs. wishart put herself and lois in one of the street cars to go on up town. "i am famishing!" she declared. "and now i do not know where to go. everybody has had lunch at home by this time, or there are half-a-dozen houses i could go to." "are there no other restaurants but that one?" "plenty; but i could not eat in comfort unless i know things are clean. i know that place, and the others i don't know. ha, mr. dillwyn!"-- this exclamation was called forth by the sight of a gentleman who just at that moment was entering the car. apparently he was an old acquain'tance, for the recognition was eager on both sides. the new comer took a seat on the other side of mrs. wishart. "where do you come from," said he, "that i find you here?" "from the depths of business--wall street--and all over; and now the depths of despair, that we cannot get lunch. i am going home starving." "what does that mean?" "just a _contretemps_. i promised my young friend here i would give her a good lunch at the best restaurant i knew; and to-day of all days, and just as we come tired out to get some refreshment, there's a fire and firemen and all the street in a hubbub. nothing for it but to go home fasting." "no," said he, "there is a better thing. you will do me the honour and give me the pleasure of lunching with me. i am living at the 'imperial,'--and here we are!" he signalled the car to stop, even as he spoke, and rose to help the ladies out. mrs. wishart had no time to think about it, and on the sudden impulse yielded. they left the car, and a few steps brought them to the immense beautiful building called the imperial hotel. mr. dillwyn took them in as one at home, conducted them to the great dining-room; proposed to them to go first to a dressing-room, but this mrs. wishart declined. so they took places at a small table, near enough to one of the great clear windows for lois to look down into the avenue and see all that was going on there. but first the place where she was occupied her. with a kind of wondering delight her eye went down the lines of the immense room, reviewed its loftiness, its adornments, its light and airiness and beauty; its perfection of luxurious furnishing and outfitting. few people were in it just at this hour, and the few were too far off to trouble at all the sense of privacy. lois was tired, she was hungry; this sudden escape from din and motion and dust, to refreshment and stillness and a soft atmosphere, was like the changes in an arabian nights' enchantment. and the place was splendid enough and dainty enough to fit into one of those stories too. lois sat back in her chair, quietly but intensely enjoying. it never occurred to her that she herself might be a worthy object of contemplation. yet a fairer might have been sought for, all new york through. she was not vulgarly gazing; she had not the aspect of one strange to the place; quiet, grave, withdrawn into herself, she wore an air of most sweet reserve and unconscious dignity. features more beautiful might be found, no doubt, and in numbers; it was not the mere lines, nor the mere colours of her face, which made it so remarkable, but rather the mental character. the beautiful poise of a spirit at rest within itself; the simplicity of unconsciousness; the freshness of a mind to which nothing has grown stale or old, and which sees nothing in its conventional shell; along with the sweetness that comes of habitual dwelling in sweetness. both her companions occasionally looked at her; lois did not know it; she did not think herself of sufficient importance to be looked at. and then came the luncheon. such a luncheon! and served with a delicacy which became it. chocolate which was a rich froth; rolls which were puff balls of perfection; salad, and fruit. anything yet more substantial mrs. wishart declined. also she declined wine. "i should not dare, before lois," she said. therewith came their entertainer's eyes round to lois again. "is she allowed to keep your conscience, mrs. wishart?" "poor child! i don't charge her with that. but you know, mr. dillwyn, in presence of angels one would walk a little carefully!" "that almost sounds as if the angels would be uncomfortable companions," said lois. "not quite _sans gêne_"--the gentleman added, then lois's eyes met his full. "i do not know what that is," she said. "only a couple of french words." "i do not know french," said lois simply. he had not seen before what beautiful eyes they were; soft and grave, and true with the clearness of the blue ether. he thought he would like another such look into their transparent depths. so he asked, "but what is it about the wine?" "o, we are water-drinkers up about my home," lois answered, looking, however, at her chocolate cup from which she was refreshing herself. "that is what the english call us as a nation, i am sure most inappropriately. some of us know good wine when we see it; and most of the rest have an intimate acquain'tance with wine or some thing else that is _not_ good. perhaps miss lothrop has formed her opinion, and practice, upon knowledge of this latter kind?" lois did not say; she thought her opinions, or practice, could have very little interest for this fine gentleman. "lois is unfashionable enough to form her own opinions," mrs. wishart remarked. "but not inconsistent enough to build them on nothing, i hope?" "i could tell you what they are built on," said lois, brought out by this challenge; "but i do not know that you would see from that how well founded they are." "i should be very grateful for such an indulgence." "in this particular case we are speaking of, they are built on two foundation stones--both out of the same quarry," said lois, her colour rising a little, while she smiled too. "one is this--'whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' and the other--'i will neither eat meat, nor drink wine, nor _anything_, by which my brother stumbleth, or is offended, or made weak.'" lois did not look up as she spoke, and mrs. wishart smiled with amusement. their host's face expressed an undoubted astonishment. he regarded the gentle and yet bold speaker with steady attention for a minute or two, noting the modesty, and the gentleness, and the fearlessness with which she spoke. noting her great beauty too. "precious stones!" said he lightly, when she had done speaking. "i do not know whether they are broad enough for such a superstructure as you would build on them." and then he turned to mrs. wishart again, and they left the subject and plunged into a variety of other subjects where lois scarce could follow them. what did they not talk of! mr. dillwyn, it appeared, had lately returned from abroad, where mrs. wishart had also formerly lived for some time; and now they went over a multitude of things and people familiar to both of them, but of which lois did not even know the names. she listened, however, eagerly; and gleaned, as an eager listener generally may, a good deal. places, until now unheard of, took a certain form and aspect in lois's imagination; people were discerned, also in imagination, as being of different types and wonderfully different habits and manners of life from any lois knew at home, or had even seen in new york. she heard pictures talked of, and wondered what sort of a world that art world might be, in which mr. dillwyn was so much at home. lois had never seen any pictures in her life which were much to her. and the talk about countries sounded strange. she knew where germany was on the map, and could give its boundaries no doubt accurately; but all this gossip about the rhineland and its vineyards and the vintages there and in france, sounded fascinatingly novel. and she knew where italy was on the map; but italy's skies, and soft air, and mementos of past times of history and art, were unknown; and she listened with ever-quickening attention. the result of the whole at last was a mortifying sense that she knew nothing. these people, her friend and this other, lived in a world of mental impressions and mentally stored-up knowledge, which seemed to make their life unendingly broader and richer than her own. especially the gentleman. lois observed that it was constantly he who had something new to tell mrs. wishart, and that in all the ground they went over, he was more at home than she. indeed, lois got the impression that mr. dillwyn knew the world and everything in it better than anybody she had ever seen. mr. caruthers was extremely _au fait_ in many things; lois had the thought, not the word; but mr. dillwyn was an older man and had seen much more. he was terrifically wise in it all, she thought; and by degrees she got a kind of awe of him. a little of mrs. wishart too. how much her friend knew, how at home she was in this big world! what a plain little piece of ignorance was she herself beside her. well, thought lois--every one to his place! my place is shampuashuh. i suppose i am fitted for that. "miss lothrop," said their entertainer here, "will you allow me to give you some grapes?" "grapes in march!" said lois, smiling, as a beautiful white bunch was laid before her. "people who live in new york can have everything, it seems, that they want." "provided they can pay for it," mrs. wishart put in. "how is it in your part of the world?" said mr. dillwyn. "you cannot have what you want?" "depends upon what order you keep your wishes in," said lois. "you can have strawberries in june--and grapes in september." "what order do you keep your wishes in?" was the next question. "i think it best to have as few as possible." "but that would reduce life to a mere framework of life,--if one had no wishes!" "one can find something else to fill it up," said lois. "pray what would you substitute? for with wishes i connect the accomplishment of wishes." "are they always connected?" "not always; but generally, the one are the means to the other." "i believe i do not find it so." "then, pardon me, what would you substitute, miss lothrop, to fill up your life, and not have it a bare existence?" "there is always work--" said lois shyly; "and there are the pleasures that come without being wished for. i mean, without being particularly sought and expected." "does much come that way?" asked their entertainer, with an incredulous smile of mockery. "o, a great deal!" cried lois; and then she checked herself. "this is a very interesting investigation, mrs. wishart," said the gentleman. "do you think i may presume upon miss lothrop's good nature, and carry it further?" "miss lothrop's good nature is a commodity i never knew yet to fail." "then i will go on, for i am curious to know, with an honest desire to enlarge my circle of knowledge. will you tell me, miss lothrop, what are the pleasures in your mind when you speak of their coming unsought?" lois tried to draw back. "i do not believe you would understand them," she said a little shyly. "i trust you do my understanding less than justice!" "no," said lois, blushing, "for your enjoyments are in another line." "please indulge me, and tell me the line of yours." he is laughing at me, thought lois. and her next thought was, what matter! so, after an instant's hesitation, she answered simply. "to anybody who has travelled over the world, shampuashuh is a small place; and to anybody who knows all you have been talking about, what we know at shampuashuh would seem very little. but every morning it is a pleasure to me to wake and see the sun rise; and the fields, and the river, and the sound, are a constant delight to me at all times of day, and in all sorts of weather. a walk or a ride is always a great pleasure, and different every time. then i take constant pleasure in my work." "mrs. wishart," said the gentleman, "this is a revelation to me. would it be indiscreet, if i were to ask miss lothrop what she can possibly mean under the use of the term '_work_'?" i think mrs. wishart considered that it _would_ be rather indiscreet, and wished lois would be a little reticent about her home affairs. lois, however, had no such feeling. "i mean work," she said. "i can have no objection that anybody should know what our life is at home. we have a little farm, very small; it just keeps a few cows and sheep. in the house we are three sisters; and we have an old grandmother to take care of, and to keep the house, and manage the farm." "but surely you cannot do that last?" said the gentleman. "we do not manage the cows and sheep," said lois, smiling; "men's hands do that; but we make the butter, and we spin the wool, and we cultivate our garden. _that_ we do ourselves entirely; and we have a good garden too. and that is one of the things," added lois, smiling, "in which i take unending pleasure." "what can you do in a garden?" "all there is to do, except ploughing. we get a neighbour to do that." "and the digging?" "i can dig," said lois, laughing. "but do not?" "certainly i do." "and sow seeds, and dress beds?" "certainly. and enjoy every moment of it. i do it early, before the sun gets hot. and then, there is all the rest; gathering the fruit, and pulling the vegetables, and the care of them when we have got them; and i take great pleasure in it all. the summer mornings and spring mornings in the garden are delightful, and all the work of a garden is delightful, i think." "you will except the digging?" "you are laughing at me," said lois quietly. "no, i do not except the digging. i like it particularly. hoeing and raking i do not like half so well." "i am not laughing," said mr. dillwyn, "or certainly not at you. if at anybody, it is myself. i am filled with admiration." "there is no room for that either," said lois. "we just have it to do, and we do it; that is all." "miss lothrop, i never have _had_ to do anything in my life, since i left college." lois thought privately her own thoughts, but did not give them expression; she had talked a great deal more than she meant to do. perhaps mrs. wishart too thought there had been enough of it, for she began to make preparations for departure. "mrs. wishart," said mr. dillwyn, "i have to thank you for the greatest pleasure i have enjoyed since i landed." "unsought and unwished-for, too, according to miss lothrop's theory. certainly we have to thank you, philip, for we were in a distressed condition when you found us. come and see me. and," she added _sotto voce_ as he was leading her out, and lois had stepped on before them, "i consider that all the information that has been given you is strictly in confidence." "quite delicious confidence!" "yes, but not for all ears," added mrs. wishart somewhat anxiously. "i am glad you think me worthy. i will not abuse the trust." "i did not say i thought you worthy," said the lady, laughing; "i was not consulted. young eyes see the world in the fresh colours of morning, and think daisies grow everywhere." they had reached the street. mr. dillwyn accompanied the ladies a part of their way, and then took leave of them. chapter v. in council. sauntering back to his hotel, mr. dillwyn's thoughts were a good deal engaged with the impressions of the last hour. it was odd, too; he had seen all varieties and descriptions of feminine fascination, or he thought he had; some of them in very high places, and with all the adventitious charms which wealth and place and breeding can add to those of nature's giving. yet here was something new. a novelty as fresh as one of the daisies mrs. wishart had spoken of. he had seen daisies too before, he thought; and was not particularly fond of that style. no; this was something other than a daisy. sauntering along and not heeding his surroundings, he was suddenly hailed by a joyful voice, and an arm was thrust within his own. "philip! where did you come from? and when did you come?" "only the other day--from egypt--was coming to see you, but have been bothered with custom-house business. how do you all do, tom?" "what are you bringing over? curiosities? or precious things?" "might be both. how do you do, old boy?" "very much put out, just at present, by a notion of my mother's; she will go to florida to escape march winds." "florida! well, florida is a good place, when march is stalking abroad like this. what are you put out for? i don't comprehend." "yes, but you see, the month will be half over before she gets ready to be off; and what's the use? april will be here directly; she might just as well wait here for april." "you cannot pick oranges off the trees here in april. you forget that." "don't want to pick 'em anywhere. but come along, and see them at home. they'll be awfully glad to see you." it was not far, and talking of nothings the two strolled that way. there was much rejoicing over philip's return, and much curiosity expressed as to where he had been and what he had been doing for a long time past. finally, mrs. caruthers proposed that he should go on to florida with them. "yes, do!" cried tom. "you go, and i'll stay." "my dear tom!" said his mother, "i could not possibly do without you." "take julia. i'll look after the house, and dillwyn will look after your baggage." "and who will look after you, you silly boy?" said his sister. "you're the worst charge of all." "what is the matter?" philip asked now. "women's notions," said tom. "women are always full of notions! they can spy game at hawk's distance; only they make a mistake sometimes, which the hawk don't, i reckon; and think they see something when there is nothing." "we know what we see this time," said his sister. "philip, he's dreadfully caught." "not the first time?" said dillwyn humorously. "no danger, is there?" "there is real danger," said miss julia. "he is caught with an impossible country girl." "caught _by_ her? fie, tom! aren't you wiser?" "that's not fair!" cried tom hotly. "she catches nobody, nor tries it, in the way you mean. i am not caught, either; that's more; but you shouldn't speak in that way." "who is the lady? it is very plain tom isn't caught. but where is she?" "she is a little country girl come to see the world for the first time. of course she makes great eyes; and the eyes are pretty; and tom couldn't stand it." miss julia spoke laughing, yet serious. "i should not think a little country girl would be dangerous to tom." "no, would you? it's vexatious, to have one's confidence in one's brother so shaken." "what's the matter with her?" broke out tom here. "i am not caught, as you call it, neither by her nor with her; but if you want to discuss her, i say, what's the matter with her?" "nothing, tom!" said his mother soothingly; "there is nothing whatever the matter with her; and i have no doubt she is a nice girl. but she has no education." "hang education!" said tom. "anybody can pick that up. she can talk, i can tell you, better than anybody of all those you had round your table the other day. she's an uncommon good talker." "you are, you mean," said his sister; "and she listens and makes big eyes. of course nothing can be more delightful. but, tom, she knows nothing at all; not so much as how to dress herself." "wasn't she well enough dressed the other day?" "somebody arranged that for her." "well, somebody could do it again. you girls think so much of _dressing_. it isn't the first thing about a woman, after all." "you men think enough about it, though. what would tempt you to go out with me if i wasn't _assez bien mise?_ or what would take any man down broadway with his wife if she hadn't a hoop on?" "doesn't the lady in question wear a hoop?" inquired philip. "no, she don't." "singular want of taste!" "well, you don't like them; but, after all, it's the fashion, and one can't help oneself. and, as i said, you may not like them, but you wouldn't walk with me if i hadn't one." "then, to sum up--the deficiencies of this lady, as i understand, are,--education and a hoop? is that all?" "by no means!" cried mrs. caruthers. "she is nobody, philip. she comes from a family in the country--very respectable people, i have no doubt, but,--well, she is nobody. no connections, no habit of the world. and no money. they are quite poor people." "that _is_ serious," said dillwyn. "tom is in such straitened circumstances himself. i was thinking, he might be able to provide the hoop; but if she has no money, it is critical." "you may laugh!" said miss julia. "that is all the comfort one gets from a man. but he does not laugh when it comes to be his own case, and matters have gone too far to be mended, and he is feeling the consequences of his rashness." "you speak as if i were in danger! but i do not see how it should come to be 'my own case,' as i never even saw the lady. who is she? and where is she? and how comes she--so dangerous--to be visiting you?" all spoke now at once, and philip heard a confused medley of "mrs. wishart"--"miss lothrop"--"staying with her"--"poor cousin"--"kind to her of course." mr. dillwyn's countenance changed. "mrs. wishart!" he echoed. "mrs. wishart is irreproachable." "certainly, but that does not put a penny in miss lothrop's pocket, nor give her position, nor knowledge of the world." "what do you mean by knowledge of the world?" mr. dillwyn inquired with slow words. "why! you know. just the sort of thing that makes the difference between the raw and the manufactured article," miss julia answered, laughing. she was comfortably conscious of being thoroughly "manufactured" herself. no crude ignorances or deficiencies there.--"the sort of thing that makes a person at home and _au fait_ everywhere, and in all companies, and shuts out awkwardnesses and inelegancies. "_does_ it shut them out?" "why, of course! how can you ask? what else will shut them out? all that makes the difference between a woman of the world and a milkmaid." "this little girl, i understand, then, is awkward and inelegant?" "she is nothing of the kind!" tom burst out. "ridiculous!" but dillwyn waited for miss julia's answer. "i cannot call her just _awkward_," said mrs. caruthers. "n-o," said julia, "perhaps not. she has been living with mrs. wishart, you know, and has got accustomed to a certain set of things. she does not strike you unpleasantly in society, seated at a lunch table, for instance; but of course all beyond the lunch table is like london to a laplander." tom flung himself out of the room. "and that is what you are going to florida for?" pursued dillwyn. "you have guessed it! yes, indeed. do you know, there seems to be nothing else to do. tom is in actual danger. i know he goes very often to mrs. wishart's; and you know tom is impressible; and before we know it he might do something he would be sorry for. the only thing is to get him away." "i think i will go to mrs. wishart's too," said philip. "do you think there would be danger?" "i don't know!" said miss julia, arching her brows. "i never can comprehend why the men take such furies of fancies for this girl or for that. to me they do not seem so different. i believe this girl takes just because she is not like the rest of what one sees every day." "that might be a recommendation. did it never strike you, miss julia, that there is a certain degree of sameness in our world? not in nature, for there the variety is simply endless; but in our ways of living. here the effort seems to be to fall in with one general pattern. houses and dresses; and entertainments, and even the routine of conversation. generally speaking, it is all one thing." "well," said miss julia, with spirit, "when anything is once recognized as the right thing, of course everybody wants to conform to it." "i have not recognized it as the right thing." "what?" "this uniformity." "what would you have?" "i think i would like to see, for a change, freedom and individuality. why should a woman with sharp features dress her hair in a manner that sets off their sharpness, because her neighbour with a classic head can draw it severely about her in close bands and coils, and so only the better show its nobility of contour? why may not a beautiful head of hair be dressed flowingly, because the fashion favours the people who have no hair at all? why may not a plain dress set off a fine figure, because the mode is to leave no unbroken line or sweeping drapery anywhere? and i might go on endlessly." "i can't tell, i am sure," said miss julia; "but if one lives in the world, it won't do to defy the world. and that you know as well as i." "what would happen, i wonder?" "the world would quietly drop you. unless you are a person of importance enough to set a new fashion." "is there not some unworthy bondage about that?" "you can't help it, philip dillwyn, if there is. we have got to take it as it is; and make the best of it." "and this new fate of tom's--this new fancy rather,--as i understand, she is quite out of the world?" "quite. lives in a village in new england somewhere, and grows onions." "for market?" said philip, with a somewhat startled face. "no, no!" said julia, laughing--"how could you think i meant that? no; i don't know anything about the onions; but she has lived among farmers and sailors all her life, and that is all she knows. and it is perfectly ridiculous, but tom is so smitten with her that all we can do is to get him away. fancy, tom!" "he has got to come back," said philip, rising. "you had better get somebody to take the girl away." "perhaps you will do that?" said miss julia, laughing. "i'll think of it," said dillwyn as he took leave. chapter vi. happiness. philip kept his promise. thinking, however, he soon found, did not amount to much till he had seen more; and he went a few days after to mrs. wishart's house. it was afternoon. the sun was streaming in from the west, filling the sitting-room with its splendour; and in the radiance of it lois was sitting with some work. she was as unadorned as when philip had seen her the other day in the street; her gown was of some plain stuff, plainly made; she was a very unfashionable-looking person. but the good figure that mr. dillwyn liked to see was there; the fair outlines, simple and graceful, light and girlish; and the exquisite hair caught the light, and showed its varying, warm, bright tints. it was massed up somehow, without the least artificiality, in order, and yet lying loose and wavy; a beautiful combination which only a few heads can attain to. there was nobody else in the room; and as lois rose to meet the visitor, he was not flattered to see that she did not recognize him. then the next minute a flash of light came into her face. "i have had the pleasure," said dillwyn. "i was afraid you were going to ignore the fact." "you gave us lunch the other day," said lois, smiling. "yes, i remember. i shall always remember." "you got home comfortably?" "o yes, after we were so fortified. mrs. wishart was quite exhausted, before lunch, i mean." "this is a pleasant situation," said philip, going a step nearer the window. "yes, very! i enjoy those rocks very much." "you have no rocks at home?" "no rocks," said lois; "plenty of _rock_, or stone; but it comes up out of the ground just enough to make trouble, not to give pleasure. the country is all level." "and you enjoy the variety?" "o, not because it is variety. but i have been nowhere and have seen nothing in my life." "so the world is a great unopened book to you?" said philip, with a smile regarding her. "it will always be that, i think," lois replied, shaking her head. "why should it?" "i live at shampuashuh." "what then? here you are in new york." "yes, wonderfully. but i am going home again." "not soon?" "very soon. it will be time to begin to make garden in a few days." "can the garden not be made without you?" "not very well; for nobody knows, except me, just where things were planted last year." "and is that important?" "very important." lois smiled at his simplicity. "because many things must be changed. they must not be planted where they were last year." "why not?" "they would not do so well. they have all to shift about, like puss-in-the-corner; and it is puzzling. the peas must go where the corn or the potatoes went; and the corn must find another place, and so on." "and you are the only one who keeps a map of the garden in your head?" "not in my head," said lois, smiling. "i keep it in my drawer." "ah! that is being more systematic than i gave you credit for." "but you cannot do anything with a garden if you have not system." "nor with anything else! but where did _you_ learn that?" "in the garden, i suppose," said lois simply. she talked frankly and quietly. mr. dillwyn could see by her manner, he thought, that she would be glad if mrs. wishart would come in and take him off her hands; but there was no awkwardness or ungracefulness or unreadiness. in fact, it was the grace of the girl that struck him, not her want of it. then she was so very lovely. a quiet little figure, in her very plain dress; but the features were exceedingly fair, the clear skin was as pure as a pearl, the head with its crown of soft bright hair might have belonged to one of the graces. more than all, was the very rare expression and air of the face. that philip could not read; he could not decide what gave the girl her special beauty. something in the mind or soul of her, he was sure; and he longed to get at it and find out what it was. she is not commonplace, he said to himself, while he was talking something else to her;--but it is more than being not commonplace. she is very pure; but i have seen other pure faces. it is not that she is a madonna; this is no creature ". . . . too bright and good for human nature's daily food." but what "daily food" for human nature she would be! she is a lofty creature; yet she is a half-timid country girl; and i suppose she does not know much beyond her garden. yes, probably mrs. caruthers was right; she would not do for tom. tom is not a quarter good enough for her! she is a little country girl, and she does not know much; and yet--happy will be the man to whom she will give a free kiss of those wise, sweet lips! with these somewhat contradictory thoughts running through his mind, mr. dillwyn set himself seriously to entertain lois. as she had never travelled, he told her of things he had seen--and things he had known without seeing--in his own many journeyings about the world. presently lois dropped her work out of her hands, forgot it, and turned upon mr. dillwyn a pair of eager, intelligent eyes, which it was a pleasure to talk to. he became absorbed in his turn, and equally; ministering to the attention and curiosity and power of imagination he had aroused. what listeners her eyes were! and how quick to receive and keen to pass judgement was the intelligence behind them. it surprised him; however, its responses were mainly given through the eyes. in vain he tried to get a fair share of words from her too; sought to draw her out. lois was not afraid to speak; and yet, for sheer modesty and simpleness, that supposed her words incapable of giving pleasure and would not speak them as a matter of conventionality, she said very few. at last philip made a determined effort to draw her out. "i have told you now about my home," he said. "what is yours like?" and his manner said, i am going to stop, and you are going to begin. "there is nothing striking about it, i think," said lois. "perhaps you think so, just because it is familiar to you." "no, it is because there is really not much to tell about it. there are just level farm fields; and the river, and the sound." "the river?" "the connecticut." "o, _that_ is where you are, is it? and are you near the river?" "not very near. about as near the river on one side as we are to the sound on the other; either of them is a mile and more away." "you wish they were nearer?" "no," said lois; "i don't think i do; there is always the pleasure of going to them." "then you should wish them further. a mile is a short drive." "o, we do not drive much. we walk to the shore often, and sometimes to the river." "you like the large water so much the best?" "i think i like it best," said lois, laughing a little; "but we go for clams." "can you get them yourself?" "certainly! it is great fun. while you go to drive in the park, we go to dig clams. and i think we have the best of it too, for a stand-by." "do tell me about the clams." "do you like them?" "i suppose i do. i do not know them. what are they? the usual little soup fish?" "i don't know about soup fish. o no! not those; they are _not_ the sort mrs. wishart has sometimes. these are long; ours in the sound, i mean; longish and blackish; and do not taste like the clams you have here." "better, i hope?" "a great deal better. there is nothing much pleasanter than a dish of long clams that you have dug yourself. at least we think so." "because you have got them yourself!" "no; but i suppose that helps." "so you get them by digging?" "yes. it is funny work. the clams are at the edge of the water, where the rushes grow, in the mud. we go for them when the tide is out. then, in the blue mud you see quantities of small holes as big as a lead pencil would make; those are the clam holes." "and what then?" "then we dig for them; dig with a hoe; and you must dig very fast, or the clam will get away from you. then, if you get pretty near him he spits at you." "i suppose that is a harmless remonstrance." "it may come in your face." mr. dillwyn laughed a little, looking at this fair creature, who was talking to him, and finding it hard to imagine her among the rushes racing with a long clam. "it is wet ground i suppose, where you find the clams?" "o yes. one must take off shoes and stockings and go barefoot. but the mud is warm, and it is pleasant enough." "the clams must be good, to reward the trouble?" "we think it is as pleasant to get them as to eat them." "i believe you remarked, this sport is your substitute for our central park?" "yes, it is a sort of a substitute." "and, in the comparison, you think you are the gainers?" "you cannot compare the two things," said lois; "only that both are ways of seeking pleasure." "so you say; and i wanted your comparative estimate of the two ways." "central park is new to me, you know," said lois; "and i am very fond of riding,--_driving_, mrs. wishart says i ought to call it; the scene is like fairyland to me. but i do not think it is better fun, really, than going after clams. and the people do not seem to enjoy it a quarter as much." "the people whom you see driving?" "yes. they do not look as if they were taking much pleasure. most of them." "pray why should they go, if they do not find pleasure in it?" lois looked at her questioner. "you can tell, better than i, mr. dillwyn. for the same reasons, i suppose, that they do other things." "pardon me,--what things do you mean?" "i mean, _all_ the things they do for pleasure, or that are supposed to be for pleasure. parties--luncheon parties, and dinners, and--" lois hesitated. "_supposed_ to be for pleasure!" philip echoed the words. "excuse me--but what makes you think they do not gain their end?" "people do not look really happy," said lois. "they do not seem to me as if they really enjoyed what they were doing." "you are a nice observer!" "am i?" "pray, at--i forget the name--your home in the country, are the people more happily constituted?" "not that i know of. not more happily constituted; but i think they live more natural lives." "instance!" said philip, looking curious. "well," said lois, laughing and colouring, "i do not think they do things unless they want to. they do not ask people unless they want to see them; and when they _do_ make a party, everybody has a good time. it is not brilliant, or splendid, or wonderful, like parties here; but yet i think it is more really what it is meant to be." "and here you think things are not what they are meant to be?" "perhaps i am mistaken," said lois modestly. "i have seen so little." "you are not mistaken in your general view. it would be a mistake to think there are no exceptions." "o, i do not think that." "but it is matter of astonishment to me, how you have so soon acquired such keen discernment. is it that you do not enjoy these occasions yourself?" "o, i enjoy them intensely," said lois, smiling. "sometimes i think i am the only one of the company that does; but _i_ enjoy them." "by the power of what secret talisman?" "i don't know;--being happy, i suppose," said lois shyly. "you are speaking seriously; and therefore you are touching the greatest question of human life. can you say of yourself that you are truly _happy?_" lois met his eyes in a little wonderment at this questioning, and answered a plain "yes." "but, to be _happy_, with me, means, to be independent of circumstances. i do not call him _happy_, whose happiness is gone if the east wind blow, or a party miscarry, or a bank break; even though it were the bank in which his property is involved." "nor do i," said lois gravely. "and--pray forgive me for asking!--but, are you happy in this exclusive sense?" "i have no property in a bank," said lois, smiling again; "i have not been tried that way; but i suppose it may do as well to have no property anywhere. yes, mr. dillwyn." "but that is equal to having the philosopher's stone!" cried dillwyn. "what is the philosopher's stone?" "the wise men of old time made themselves very busy in the search for some substance, or composition, which would turn other substances to gold. looking upon gold as the source and sum of all felicity, they spent endless pains and countless time upon the search for this transmuting substance. they thought, if they could get gold enough, they would be happy. sometimes some one of them fancied he was just upon the point of making the immortal discovery; but there he always broke down." "they were looking in the wrong place," said lois thoughtfully. "is there a _right_ place to look then?" lois smiled. it was a smile that struck philip very much, for its calm and confident sweetness; yes, more than that; for its gladness. she was not in haste to answer; apparently she felt some difficulty. "i do not think gold ever made anybody happy," she said at length. "that is what moralists tell us. but, after all, miss lothrop, money is the means to everything else in this world." "not to happiness, is it?" "well, what is, then? they say--and perhaps you will say--that friendships and affections can do more; but i assure you, where there are not the means to stave off grinding toil or crushing poverty, affections wither; or if they do not quite wither, they bear no golden fruit of happiness. on the contrary, they offer vulnerable spots to the stings of pain." "money can do a great deal," said lois. "what can do more?" lois lifted up her eyes and looked at her questioner inquiringly. did he know no better than that? "with money, one can do everything," he went on, though struck by her expression. "yes," said lois; "and yet--all that never satisfied anybody." "satisfied!" cried philip. "satisfied is a very large word. who is satisfied?" lois glanced up again, mutely. "if i dared venture to say so--you look, miss lothrop, you absolutely look, as if _you_ were; and yet it is impossible." "why is it impossible?" "because it is what all the generations of men have been trying for, ever since the world began; and none of them ever found it." "not if they looked for it in their money bags," said lois. "it was never found there." "was it ever found anywhere?" "why, yes!" "pray tell me where, that i may have it too!" the girl's cheeks flushed; and what was very odd to philip, her eyes, he was sure, had grown moist; but the lids fell over them, and he could not see as well as he wished. what a lovely face it was, he thought, in this its mood of stirred gravity! "do you ever read the bible, mr. dillwyn?" the question occasioned him a kind of revulsion. the bible! was _that_ to be brought upon his head? a confused notion of organ-song, the solemnity of a still house, a white surplice, and words in measured cadence, came over him. nothing in that connection had ever given him the idea of being satisfied. but lois's question-- "the bible?" he repeated. "may i ask, why you ask?" "i thought you did not know something that is in it." "very possibly. it is the business of clergymen, isn't it, to tell us what is in it? that is what they are paid for. of what are you thinking?" "i was thinking of a person in it, mentioned in it, i mean,--who said just what you said a minute ago." "what was that? and who was that?" "it was a poor woman who once held a long talk with the lord jesus as he was resting beside a well. she had come to draw water, and jesus asked her for some; and then he told her that whoever drank of that water would thirst again--as she knew; but whoever should drink of the water that _he_ would give, should never thirst. i was telling you of that water, mr. dillwyn. and the woman answered just what you answered--'give me this water, that i thirst not, neither come hither to draw.'" "did she get it?" "i think she did." "you mean, something that satisfied her, and would satisfy me?" "it satisfies every one who drinks of it," said lois. "but you know, i do not in the least understand you." the girl rose up and fetched a bible which lay upon a distant table. philip looked at the book as she brought it near; no volume of mrs. wishart's, he was sure. lois had had her own bible with her in the drawing-room. she must be one of the devout kind. he was sorry. he believed they were a narrow and prejudiced sort of people, given to laying down the law and erecting barricades across other people's paths. he was sorry this fair girl was one of them. but she was a lovely specimen. could she unlearn these ways, perhaps? but now, what was she going to bring forth to him out of the bible? he watched the fingers that turned the leaves; pretty fingers enough, and delicate, but not very white. gardening probably was not conducive to the blanching of a lady's hand. it was a pity. she found her place so soon that he had little time to think his regrets. "you allowed that nobody is satisfied, mr. dillwyn," said lois then. "see if you understand this." "'ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money: come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money, and without price. wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.'" lois closed her book. "who says that?" philip inquired. "god himself, by his messenger." "and to whom?" "i think, just now, the words come to you, mr. dillwyn." lois said this with a manner and look of such simplicity, that philip was not even reminded of the class of monitors he had in his mind assigned her with. it was absolute simple matter of fact; she meant business. "may i look at it?" he said. she found the page again, and he considered it. then as he gave it back, remarked, "this does not tell me yet _what_ this satisfying food is?" "no, that you can know only by experience." "how is the experience to be obtained?" again lois found the words in her book and showed them to him. "'whosoever drinketh of the water _that i shall give him_'--and again, above, 'if thou knewest the gift of god, and who it is that saith to thee, give me to drink, thou wouldest have asked of him, and _he would have given thee_ living water.' christ gives it, and he must be asked for it." "and then--?" said philip. "then you would be _satisfied_." "you think it?" "i know it." "it takes a great deal to satisfy a man!" "not more than it does for a woman." "and you are satisfied?" he asked searchingly. but lois smiled as she gave her answer; and it was an odd and very inconsistent thing that philip should be disposed to quarrel with her for that smile. i think he wished she were _not_ satisfied. it was very absurd, but he did not reason about it; he only felt annoyed. "well, miss lothrop," he said as he rose, "i shall never forget this conversation. i am very glad no one came in to interrupt it." lois had no phrases of society ready, and replied nothing. chapter vii. the worth of things. mr. dillwyn walked away from mrs. wishart's in a discontented mood, which was not usual with him. he felt almost annoyed with something; yet did not quite know what, and he did not stop to analyze the feeling. he walked away, wondering at himself for being so discomposed, and pondering with sufficient distinctness one or two questions which stood out from the discomposure. he was a man who had gone through all the usual routine of education and experience common to those who belong to the upper class of society, and can boast of a good name and family. he had lived his college life; he had travelled; he knew the principal cities of his own country, and many in other lands, with sufficient familiarity. speaking generally, he had seen everything, and knew everybody. he had ceased to be surprised at anything, or to expect much from the world beyond what his own efforts and talents could procure him. his connections and associations had been always with good society and with the old and established portions of it; but he had come into possession of his property not so very long ago, and the pleasure of that was not yet worn off. he was a man who thought himself happy, and certainly possessed a very high place in the esteem of those who knew him; being educated, travelled, clever, and of noble character, and withal rich. it was the oddest thing for philip to walk as he walked now, musingly, with measured steps, and eyes bent on the ground. there was a most strange sense of uneasiness upon him. the image of lois busied him constantly. it was such a lovely image. but he had seen hundreds of handsomer women, he told himself. had he? yes, he thought so. yet not one, not one of them all, had made as much impression upon him. it was inconvenient; and why was it inconvenient? something about her bewitched him. yes, he had seen handsomer women; but more or less they were all of a certain pattern; not alike in feature, or name, or place, or style, yet nevertheless all belonging to the general sisterhood of what is called the world. and this girl was different. how different? she was uneducated, but _that_ could not give a charm; though philip thereby reflected that there was a certain charm in variety, and this made variety. she was unaccustomed to the great world and its ways; there could be no charm in that, for he liked the utmost elegance of the best breeding. here he fetched himself up again. lois was not in the least ill-bred. nothing of the kind. she was utterly and truly refined, in every look and word and movement showing that she was so. yet she had no "manner," as mrs. caruthers would have expressed it. no, she had not. she had no trained and inevitable way of speaking and looking; her way was her own, and sprang naturally from the truth of her thought or feeling at the moment. therefore it could never be counted upon, and gave one the constant pleasure of surprises. yes, philip concluded that this was one point of interest about her. she had not learned how to hide herself, and the manner of her revelations was a continual refreshing variety, inasmuch as what she had to reveal was only fair and delicate and true. but what made the girl so provokingly happy? so secure in her contentment? mr. dillwyn thought himself a happy man; content with himself and with life; yet life had reached something too like a dead level, and himself, he was conscious, led a purposeless sort of existence. what purpose indeed was there to live for? but this little girl--philip recalled the bright, soft, clear expression of eye with which she had looked at him; the very sweet curves of happy consciousness about her lips; the confident bearing with which she had spoken, as one who had found a treasure which, as she said, satisfied her. but it cannot! said philip to himself. it is that she is pure and sweet, and takes happiness like a baby, sucking in what seems to her the pure milk of existence. it is true, the remembered expression of lois's features did not quite agree with this explanation; pure and sweet, no doubt, but also grave and high, and sometimes evidencing a keen intellectual perception and wisdom. not just like a baby; and he found he could not dismiss the matter so. what made her, then, so happy? philip could not remember ever seeing a grown person who seemed so happy; whose happiness seemed to rest on such a steady foundation. can she be in love? thought dillwyn; and the idea gave him a most unreasonable thrill of displeasure. for a moment only; then his reason told him that the look in lois's face was not like that. it was not the brilliance of ecstasy; it was the sunshine of deep and fixed content. why in the world should mr. dillwyn wish that lois were not so content? so beyond what he or anybody could give her? and having got to this point, mr. dillwyn pulled himself up again. what business was it of his, the particular spring of happiness she had found to drink of? and if it quenched her thirst, as she said it did, why should he be anything but glad of it? why, even if lois were happy in some new-found human treasure, should it move him, philip dillwyn, with discomfort? was it possible that he too could be following in those steps of tom caruthers, from which tom's mother was at such pains to divert her son? philip began to see where he stood. could it be?--and what if? he studied the question now with a clear view of its bearings. he had got out of a fog. lois was all he had thought of her. would she do for a wife for him? uneducated--inexperienced--not in accord with the habits of the world--accustomed to very different habits and society--with no family to give weight to her name and honour to his choice,--all that philip pondered; and, on the other side, the loveliness, the freshness, the intellect, the character, and the refinement, which were undoubted. he pondered and pondered. a girl who was nobody, and whom society would look upon as an intruder; a girl who had had no advantages of education--how she could express herself so well and so intelligently philip could not conceive, but the fact was there; lois had had no education beyond the most simple training of a school in the country;--would it do? he turned it all over and over, and shook his head. it would be too daring an experiment; it would not be wise; it would not do; he must give it up, all thought of such a thing; and well that he had come to handle the question so early, as else he might--he--might have got so entangled that he could not save himself. poor tom! but philip had no mother to interpose to save _him;_ and his sister was not at hand. he went thinking about all this the whole way back to his hotel; thinking, and shaking his head at it. no, this kind of thing was for a boy to do, not for a man who knew the world. and yet, the image of lois worried him. i believe, he said to himself, i had better not see the little witch again. meanwhile he was not going to have much opportunity. mrs. wishart came home a little while after philip had gone. lois was stitching by the last fading light. "do stop, my dear! you will put your eyes out. stop, and let us have tea. has anybody been here?" "mr. dillwyn came. he went away hardly a quarter of an hour ago." "mr. dillwyn! sorry i missed him. but he will come again. i met tom caruthers; he is mourning about this going with his mother to florida." "what are they going for?" asked lois. "to escape the march winds, he says." "who? mr. caruthers? he does not look delicate." mrs. wishart laughed. "not very! and his mother don't either, does she? but, my dear, people are weak in different spots; it isn't always in their lungs." "are there no march winds in florida?" "not where they are going. it is all sunshine and oranges--and orange blossoms. but tom is not delighted with the prospect. what do you think of that young man?" "he is a very handsome man." "is he not? but i did not mean that. of course you have eyes. i want to know whether you have judgment." "i have not seen much of mr. caruthers to judge by." "no. take what you have seen and make the most of it." "i don't think i have judgment," said lois. "about people, i mean, and men especially. i am not accustomed to new york people, besides." "are they different from shampuashuh people?" "o, very." "how?" "miss caruthers asked me the same thing," said lois, smiling. "i suppose at bottom all people are alike; indeed, i know they are. but in the country i think they show out more." "less disguise about them?" "i think so." "my dear, are we such a set of masqueraders in your eyes?" "no," said lois; "i did not mean that." "what do you think of philip dillwyn? comare him with young caruthers." "i cannot," said lois. "mr. dillwyn strikes me as a man who knows everything there is in all the world." "and tom, you think, does not?" "not so much," said, lois hesitating; "at least he does not impress me so." "you are more impressed with mr. dillwyn?" "in what way?" said lois simply. "i am impressed with the sense of my own ignorance. i should be oppressed by it, if it was my fault." "now you speak like a sensible girl, as you are. lois, men do not care about women knowing much." "sensible men must." "they are precisely the ones who do not. it is odd enough, but it is a fact. but go on; which of these two do you like best?" "i have seen most of mr. caruthers, you know. but, mrs. wishart, sensible men _must_ like sense in other people." "yes, my dear; they do; unless when they want to marry the people; and then their choice very often lights upon a fool. i have seen it over and over and over again; the clever one of a family is passed by, and a silly sister is the one chosen." "why?" "a pink and white skin, or a pair of black eyebrows, or perhaps some soft blue eyes." "but people cannot live upon a pair of black eyebrows," said lois. "they find that out afterwards." "mr. dillwyn talks as if he liked sense," said lois. "i mean, he talks about sensible things." "do you mean that tom don't, my dear?" a slight colour rose on the cheek mrs. wishart was looking at; and lois said somewhat hastily that she was not comparing. "i shall try to find out what tom talks to you about, when he comes back from florida. i shall scold him if he indulges in nonsense." "it will be neither sense nor nonsense. i shall be gone long before then." "gone whither?" "home--to shampuashuh. i have been wanting to speak to you about it, mrs. wishart. i must go in a very few days." "nonsense! i shall not let you. i cannot get along without you. they don't want you at home, lois." "the garden does. and the dairy work will be more now in a week or two; there will be more milk to take care of, and madge will want help." "dairy work! lois, you must not do dairy work. you will spoil your hands." lois laughed. "somebody's hands must do it. but madge takes care of the dairy. my hands see to the garden." "is it necessary?" "why, yes, certainly, if we would have butter or vegetables; and you would not counsel us to do without them. the two make half the living of the family." "and you really cannot afford a servant?" "no, nor want one," said lois. "there are three of us, and so we get along nicely." "apropos;--my dear, i am sorry that it is so, but must is must. what i wanted to say to you is, that it is not necessary to tell all this to other people." lois looked up, surprised. "i have told no one but you, mrs. wishart. o yes! i did speak to mr. dillwyn about it, i believe." "yes. well, there is no occasion, my dear. it is just as well not." "is it _better_ not? what is the harm? everybody at shampuashuh knows it." "nobody knows it here; and there is no reason why they should. i meant to tell you this before." "i think i have told nobody but mr. dillwyn." "he is safe. i only speak for the future, my dear." "i don't understand yet," said lois, half laughing. "mrs. wishart, we are not ashamed of it." "certainly not, my dear; you have no occasion." "then why _should_ we be ashamed of it?" lois persisted. "my dear, there is nothing to be ashamed of. do not think i mean that. only, people here would not understand it." "how could they _mis_understand it?" "you do not know the world, lois. people have peculiar ways of looking at things; and they put their own interpretation on things; and of course they often make great blunders. and so it is just as well to keep your own private affairs to yourself, and not give them the opportunity of blundering." lois was silent a little while. "you mean," she said then,--"you think, that some of these people i have been seeing here, would think less of me, if they knew how we do at home?" "they might, my dear. people are just stupid enough for that." "then it seems to me i ought to let them know," lois said, half laughing again. "i do not like to be taken for what i am not; and i do not want to have anybody's good opinion on false grounds." her colour rose a bit at the same time. "my dear, it is nobody's business. and anybody that once knew you would judge you for yourself, and not upon any adventitious circumstances. they cannot, in my opinion, think of you too highly." "i think it is better they should know at once that i am a poor girl," said lois. however, she reflected privately that it did not matter, as she was going away so soon. and she remembered also that mr. dillwyn had not seemed to think any the less of her for what she had told him. did tom caruthers know? "but, lois, my dear, about your going-- there is no garden work to be done yet. it is march." "it will soon be april. and the ground must be got ready, and potatoes must go in, and peas." "surely somebody else can stick in potatoes and peas." "they would not know where to put them." "does it matter where?" "to be sure it does!" said lois, amused. "they must not go where they were last year." "why not?" "i don't know! it seems that every plant wants a particular sort of food, and gets it, if it can; and so, the place where it grows is more or less impoverished, and would have less to give it another year. but a different sort of plant requiring a different sort of food, would be all right in that place." "food?" said mrs. wishart. "do you mean manure? you can have that put in." "no, i do not mean that. i mean something the plant gets from the soil itself." "i do not understand! well, my dear, write them word where the peas must go." lois laughed again. "i hardly know myself, till i have studied the map," she said. "i mean, the map of the garden. it is a more difficult matter than you can guess, to arrange all the new order every spring; all has to be changed; and upon where the peas go depends, perhaps, where the cabbages go, and the corn, and the tomatoes, and everything else. it is a matter for study." "can't somebody else do it for you?" mrs. wishart asked compassionately. "there is no one else. we have just our three selves; and all that is done we do; and the garden is under my management." "well, my dear, you are wonderful women; that is all i have to say. but, lois, you must pay me a visit by and by in the summer time; i must have that; i shall go to the isles of shoals for a while, and i am going to have you there." "if i can be spared from home, dear mrs. wishart, it would be delightful!" chapter viii. mrs. armadale. it was a few days later, but march yet, and a keen wind blowing from the sea. a raw day out of doors; so much the more comfortable seemed the good fire, and swept-up hearth, and gentle warmth filling the farmhouse kitchen. the farmhouse was not very large, neither by consequence was the kitchen; however, it was more than ordinarily pleasant to look at, because it was not a servants' room; and so was furnished not only for the work, but also for the habitation of the family, who made it in winter almost exclusively their abiding-place. the floor was covered with a thick, gay rag carpet; a settee sofa looked inviting with its bright chintz hangings; rocking chairs, well cushioned, were in number and variety; and a basket of work here, and a pretty lamp there, spoke of ease and quiet occupation. one person only sat there, in the best easy-chair, at the hearth corner; beside her a little table with a large book upon it and a roll of knitting. she was not reading nor working just now; waiting, perhaps, or thinking, with hands folded in her lap. by the look of the hands they had done many a job of hard work in their day; by the look of the face and air of the person, one could see that the hard work was over. the hands were bony, thin, enlarged at the joints, so as age and long rough usage make them, but quiet hands now; and the face was steady and calm, with no haste or restlessness upon it any more, if ever there had been, but a very sweet and gracious repose. it was a hard-featured countenance; it had never been handsome; only the beauty of sense and character it had, and the dignity of a well-lived life. something more too; some thing of a more noble calm than even the fairest retrospect can give; a more restful repose than comes of mere cessation from labour; a deeper content than has its ground in the actual present. she was a most reverent person, to look at. just now she was waiting for something, and listening; for her ear caught the sound of a door, and then the tread of swift feet coming down the stair, and then lois entered upon the scene; evidently fresh from her journey. she had been to her room to lay by her wrappings and change her dress; she was in a dark stuff gown now, with an enveloping white apron. she came up and kissed once more the face which had watched her entrance. "you've been gone a good while, lois!" "yes, grandma. too long, did you think?" "i don' know, child. that depends on what you stayed for." "does it? grandma, i don't know what i stayed for. i suppose because it was pleasant." "pleasanter than here?" "grandma, i haven't been home long enough to know. it all looks and feels so strange to me as you cannot think!" "what looks strange?" "everything! the house, and the place, and the furniture--i have been living in such a different world till my eyes have grown unaccustomed. you can't think how odd it is." "what sort of a world have you been living in, lois? your letters didn't tell." the old lady spoke with a certain serious doubtfulness, looking at the girl by her side. "didn't they?" lois returned. "i suppose i did not give you the impression because i had it not myself. i had got accustomed to that, you see; and i did not realize how strange it was. i just took it as if i had always lived in it." "_what?_" "o grandma, i can never tell you so that you can understand! it was like living in the arabian nights." "i don't believe in no arabian nights." "and yet they were there, you see. houses so beautiful, and filled with such beautiful things; and you know, grandmother, i like things to be pretty;--and then, the ease, i suppose. mrs. wishart's servants go about almost like fairies; they are hardly seen or heard, but the work is done. and you never have to think about it; you go out, and come home to find dinner ready, and capital dinners too; and you sit reading or talking, and do not know how time goes till it is tea-time, and then there comes the tea; and so it is in-doors and out of doors. all that is quite pleasant." "and you are sorry to be home again?" "no, indeed, i am glad. i enjoyed all i have been telling you about, but i think i enjoyed it quite long enough. it is time for me to be here. is the frost well out of the ground yet?" "mr. bince has been ploughin'." "has he? i'm glad. then i'll put in some peas to-morrow. o yes! i am glad to be home, grandma." her hand nestled in one of those worn, bony ones affectionately. "could you live just right there, lois?" "i tried, grandma." "did all that help you?" "i don't know that it hindered. it might not be good for always; but i was there only for a little while, and i just took the pleasure of it." "seems to me, you was there a pretty long spell to be called 'a little while.' ain't it a dangerous kind o' pleasure, lois? didn't you never get tempted?" "tempted to what, grandma?" "i don' know! to want to live easy." "would that be wrong?" said lois, putting her soft cheek alongside the withered one, so that her wavy hair brushed it caressingly. perhaps it was unconscious bribery. but mrs. armadale was never bribed. "it wouldn't be right, lois, if it made you want to get out o' your duties." "i think it didn't, grandma. i'm all ready for them. and your dinner is the first thing. madge and charity--you say they are gone to new haven?" "charity's tooth tormented her so, and madge wanted to get a bonnet; and they thought they'd make one job of it. they didn't know you was comin' to-day, and they thought they'd just hit it to go before you come. they won't be back early, nother." "what have they left for your dinner?" said lois, going to rummage. "grandma, here's nothing at all!" "an egg'll do, dear. they didn't calkilate for you." "an egg will do for me," said lois, laughing; "but there's only a crust of bread." "madge calkilated to make tea biscuits after she come home." "then i'll do that now." lois stripped up the sleeves from her shapely arms, and presently was very busy at the great kitchen table, with the board before her covered with white cakes, and the cutter and rolling pin still at work producing more. then the fire was made up, and the tin baker set in front of the blaze, charged with a panful for baking. lois stripped down her sleeves and set the table, cut ham and fried it, fried eggs, and soon sat opposite mrs. armadale pouring her out a cup of tea. "this is cosy!" she exclaimed. "it is nice to have you all alone for the first, grandma. what's the news?" "ain't no news, child. mrs. saddler's been to new london for a week." "and i have come home. is that all?" "i don't make no count o' news, child. 'one generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth for ever.'" "but one likes to hear of the things that change, grandma." "do 'ee? i like to hear of the things that remain." "but grandma! the earth itself changes; at least it is as different in different places as anything can be." "some's cold, and some's hot," observed the old lady. "it is much more than that. the trees are different, and the fruits are different; and the animals; and the country is different, and the buildings, and the people's dresses." "the men and women is the same," said the old lady contentedly. "but no, not even that, grandma. they are as different as they can be, and still be men and women." "'as in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.' be the new york folks so queer, then, lois?" "o no, not the new york people; though they are different too; quite different from shampuashuh--" "how?" lois did not want to say. her grandmother, she thought, could not understand her; and if she could understand, she thought she would be perhaps hurt. she turned the conversation. then came the clearing away the remains of dinner; washing the dishes; baking the rest of the tea-cakes; cleansing and putting away the baker; preparing flour for next day's bread-making; making her own bed and putting her room in order; doing work in the dairy which madge was not at home to take care of; brushing up the kitchen, putting on the kettle, setting the table for tea. altogether lois had a busy two or three hours, before she could put on her afternoon dress and come and sit down by her grandmother. "it is a change!" she said, smiling. "such a different life from what i have been living. you can't think, grandma, what a contrast between this afternoon and last friday." "what was then?" "i was sitting in mrs. wishart's drawing-room, doing nothing but play work, and a gentleman talking to me." "why was he talking to _you?_ warn't mrs. wishart there?" "no; she was out." "what did he talk to you for?" "i was the only one there was," said lois. but looking back, she could not avoid the thought that mr. dillwyn's long stay and conversation had not been solely a taking up with what he could get. "he could have gone away," said mrs. armadale, echoing her thought. "i do not think he wanted to go away. i think he liked to talk to me." it was very odd too, she thought. "and did you like to talk to him?" "yes. you know i hare not much to talk about; but somehow he seemed to find out what there was." "had _he_ much to talk about?" "i think there is no end to that," said lois. "he has been all over the world and seen everything; and he is a man of sense, to care for the things that are worth while; and he is educated; and it is very entertaining to hear him talk." "who is he? a young man?" "yes, he is young. o, he is an old friend of mrs. wishart." "did you like him best of all the people you saw?" "o no, not by any means. i hardly know him, in fact; not so well as others." "who are the others?" "what others, grandmother?" "the other people that you like better." lois named several ladies, among them mrs. wishart, her hostess. "there's no men's names among them," remarked mrs. armadale. "didn't you see none, savin' that one?" "plenty!" said lois, smiling. "an' nary one that you liked?" "why, yes, grandmother; several; but of course--" "what of course?" "i was going to say, of course i did not have much to do with them; but there was one i had a good deal to do with." "who was he?" "he was a young mr. caruthers. o, i did not have much to do with _him;_ only he was there pretty often, and talked to me. he was pleasant." "was he a real godly man?" "no, grandmother. he is not a christian at all, i think." "and yet he pleased you, lois?" "i did not say so, grandmother." "i heerd it in the tone of your voice." "did you? yes, he was pleasant. i liked him pretty well. people that you would call godly people never came there at all. i suppose there must be some in new york; but i did not see any." there was silence a while. "eliza wishart must keep poor company, if there ain't one godly one among 'em," mrs. armadale began again. but lois was silent. "what do they talk about?" "everything in the world, except that. people and things, and what this one says and what that one did, and this party and that party. i can't tell you, grandma. there seemed no end of talk; and yet it did not amount to much when all was done. i am not speaking of a few, gentlemen like mr. dillwyn, and a few more." "but he ain't a christian?" "no." "nor t'other one? the one you liked." "no." "i'm glad you've come away, lois." "yes, grandma, and so am i; but why?" "you know why. a christian woman maunt have nothin' to do with men that ain't christian." "nothing to do! why, we must, grandma. we cannot help seeing people and talking to them." "the snares is laid that way," said mrs. armadale. "what are we to do, then, grandmother?" "lois lothrop," said the old lady, suddenly sitting upright, "what's the lord's will?" "about--what?" "about drawin' in a yoke with one that don't go your way?" "he says, don't do it." "then mind you don't." "but, grandma, there is no talk of any such thing in this case," said lois, half laughing, yet a little annoyed. "nobody was thinking of such a thing." "you don' know what they was thinkin' of." "i know what they _could not_ have thought of. i am different from them; i am not of their world; and i am not educated, and i am poor. there is no danger, grandmother." "lois, child, you never know where danger is comin'. it's safe to have your armour on, and keep out o' temptation. tell me you'll never let yourself like a man that ain't christian!" "but i might not be able to help liking him." "then promise me you'll never marry no sich a one." "grandma, i'm not thinking of marrying." "lois, what is the lord's will about it?" "i know, grandma," lois answered rather soberly. "and you know why. 'thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son. for they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods.' i've seen it, lois, over and over agin. i've been a woman--or a man--witched away and dragged down, till if they hadn't lost all the godliness they ever had, it warn't because they didn't seem so. and the children grew up to be scapegraces.'" "don't it sometimes work the other way?" "not often, if a christian man or woman has married wrong with their eyes open. cos it proves, lois, _that_ proves, that the ungodly one of the two has the most power; and what he has he's like to keep. lois, i mayn't be here allays to look after you; promise me that you'll do the lord's will." "i hope i will, grandma," lois answered soberly. "read them words in corinthians again." lois got the bible and obeyed, "'be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? and what concord hath christ with belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?'" "lois, ain't them words plain?" "very plain, grandma." "will ye mind 'em?" "yes, grandma; by his grace." "ay, ye may want it," said the old lady; "but it's safe to trust the lord. an' i'd rather have you suffer heartbreak follerin' the lord, than goin' t'other way. now you may read to me, lois. we'll have it before they come home." "who has read to you while i have been gone?" "o, one and another. madge mostly; but madge don't care, and so she don' know how to read." mrs. armadale's sight was not good; and it was the custom for one of the girls, lois generally, to read her a verse or two morning and evening. generally it was a small portion, talked over if they had time, and if not, then thought over by the old lady all the remainder of the day or evening, as the case might be. for she was like the man of whom it is written--"his delight is in the law of the lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night." "what shall i read, grandma?" "you can't go wrong." the epistle to the corinthians lay open before lois, and she read the words following those which had just been called for. "'and what agreement hath the temple of god with idols? for ye are the temple of the living god; as god hath said, i will dwell in them, and walk in them; and i will be their god, and they shall be my people. wherefore come ye out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and i will receive you, and will be a father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the lord almighty.'" if anybody had been there to see, the two women made the loveliest picture at this moment. the one of them old, weather-worn, plain-featured, sitting with the quiet calm of the end of a work day and listening; the other young, blooming, fresh, lovely, with a wealth of youthful charms about her, bending a little over the big book on her lap; on both faces a reverent sweet gravity which was most gracious. lois read and stopped, without looking up. "i think small of all the world, alongside o' that promise, lois." "and so do i, grandmother." "but, you see, the lord's sons and daughters has got to be separate from other folks." "in some ways." "of course they've got to live among folks, but they've got to be separate for all; and keep their garments." "i do not believe it is easy in a place like new york," said lois. "seems to me i was getting all mixed up." "'tain't easy nowheres, child. only, where the way is very smooth, folks slides quicker." "how can one be 'separate' always, grandma, in the midst of other people?" "take care that you keep nearest to god. walk with him; and you'll be pretty sure to be separate from the most o' folks." there was no more said. lois presently closed the book and laid it away, and the two sat in silence awhile. i will not affirm that lois did not feel something of a stricture round her, since she had given that promise so clearly. truly the promise altered nothing, it only made things somewhat more tangible; and there floated now and then past lois's mental vision an image of a handsome head, crowned with graceful locks of luxuriant light brown hair, and a face of winning pleasantness, and eyes that looked eagerly into her eyes. it came up now before her, this vision, with a certain sense of something lost. not that she had ever reckoned that image as a thing won; as belonging, or ever possibly to belong, to herself; for lois never had such a thought for a moment. all the same came now the vision before her with the commentary,--'you never can have it. that acquain'tance, and that friendship, and that intercourse, is a thing of the past; and whatever for another it might have led to, it could lead to nothing for you.' it was not a defined thought; rather a floating semi-consciousness; and lois presently rose up and went from thought to action. chapter ix. the family. the spring day was fading into the dusk of evening, when feet and voices heard outside announced that the travellers were returning. and in they came, bringing a breeze of business and a number of tied-up parcels with them into the quiet house. "the table ready! how good! and the fire. o, it's lois! lois is here!"--and then there were warm embraces, and then the old grandmother was kissed. there were two girls, one tall, the other very tall. "i'm tired to death!" said the former of these. "charity would do no end of work; you know she is a steam-engine, and she had the steam up to-day, i can tell you. there's no saying how good supper will be; for our lunch wasn't much, and not good at that; and there's something good here, i can tell by my nose. did you take care of the milk, lois? you couldn't know where to set it." "there is no bread, lois. i suppose you found out?" the other sister said. "o, she's made biscuits!" said madge. "aren't you a brick, though, lois! i was expecting we'd have everything to do; and it's all done. ain't that what you call comfortable? is the tea made? i'll be ready in a minute." but that was easier said than done. "lois! what sort of hats are they wearing in new york?" "lois, are mantillas fashionable? the woman in new haven, the milliner, said everybody was going to wear them. she wanted to make me get one." "we can make a mantilla as well as she can," lois answered. "if we had the pattern! but is everybody wearing them in new york?" "i think it must be early for mantillas." "o, lined and wadded, of course. but is every body wearing them?" "i do not know. i do not recollect." "not recollect!" cried the tall sister. "what are your eyes good for? what _do_ people wear?" "i wore my coat and cape. i do not know very well about other people. people wear different things." "o, but that they do not, lois!" the other sister exclaimed. "there is always one thing that is the fashion; and that is the thing one wants to know about. last year it was visites. now what is it this year? and what are the hats like?" "they are smaller." "there! and that woman in new haven said they were going to be large still. who is one to trust!" "you may trust me," said lois. "i am sure of so much. moreover, there is my new straw bonnet which mrs. wishart gave me; you can see by that." this was very satisfactory; and talk ran on in the same line for some time. "and lois, have you seen a great many people? at mrs. wishart's, i mean." "yes, plenty; at her house and at other houses." "was it great fun?" madge asked. "sometimes. but indeed, yes; it was great fun generally, to see the different ways of people, and the beautiful houses, and furniture, and pictures, and everything." "_everything!_ was everything beautiful?" "no, not beautiful; but everything in most of the houses where i went was handsome; often it was magnificent." "i suppose it seemed so to you," said charity. "tell us, lois!" urged the other sister. "what do you think of solid silver dishes to hold the vegetables on the table, and solid silver pudding dishes, and gold teaspoons, in the most delicate little painted cups?" "i should say it was ridiculous," said the elder sister. "what's the use o' havin' your vegetables in silver dishes?" "what's the use of having them in dishes at all?" laughed lois. "they might be served in big cabbage leaves; or in baskets." "that's nonsense," said charity. "of course they must be in dishes of some sort; but vegetables don't taste any better out o' silver." "the dinner does not taste any better," said lois, "but it _looks_ a deal better, i can tell you. you have just no idea, girls, how beautiful a dinner table can be. the glass is beautiful; delicate, thin, clear glass, cut with elegant flowers and vines running over it. and the table linen is a pleasure to see, just the damask; it is so white, and so fine, and so smooth, and woven in such lovely designs. mrs. wishart is very fond of her table linen, and has it in beautiful patterns. then silver is always handsome. then sometimes there is a most superb centre-piece to the table; a magnificent tall thing of silver--i don't know what to call it; not a vase, and not a dish; but high, and with different bowls or shells filled with flowers and fruit. why the mere ice-creams sometimes were in all sorts of pretty flower and fruit forms." "ice-cream!" cried madge. "and i say, what's the use of all that?" said charity, who had not been baptized in character. "the use is, its looking so very pretty," lois answered. "and so, i suppose you would like to have _your_ vegetables in silver dishes? i should like to know why things are any better for looking pretty, when all's done?" "they are not better, i suppose," said madge. "i don't know _why,_ but i think they must be," said lois, innocent of the personal application which the other two were making. for madge was a very handsome girl, while charity was hard-favoured, like her grandmother. "it does one good to see pretty things." "that's no better than pride," said charity. "things that ain't pretty are just as useful, and more useful. that's all pride, silver dishes, and flowers, and stuff. it just makes people stuck-up. don't they think themselves, all those grand folks, don't they think themselves a hitch or two higher than shampuashuh folks?" "perhaps," said lois; "but i do not know, so i cannot say." "o lois," cried madge, "are the people very nice?" "some of them." "you haven't lost your heart, have you?" "only part of it." "part of it! o, to whom, lois? who is it?" "mrs. wishart's black horses." "pshaw!" exclaimed charity. "haven't shampuashuh folks got horses? don't tell me!" "but, lois!" pursued madge, "who was the nicest person you saw?" "madge, i don't know. a good many seemed to be nice." "well, who was the handsomest? and who was the cleverest? and who was the kindest to you? i don't mean mrs. wishart. now answer." "the handsomest, and the cleverest, and the kindest to me?" lois repeated slowly. "well, let me see. the handsomest was a mr. caruthers." "who's he?" "mr. caruthers." "_what_ is he, then?" "he is a gentleman, very much thought of; rich, and knows everybody; that's about all i can tell." "was he the cleverest, too, that you saw?" "no, i think not." "who was that?" "another gentleman; a mr. dillwyn." "dillun!" madge repeated. "that is the pronunciation of the name. it is spelt d, i, l, l, w, y, n,--dilwin; but it is called dillun." "and who was kindest to you? go on, lois." "o, everybody was kind to me," lois said evasively. "kind enough. i did not need kindness." "whom did you like best, then?" "of those two? they are both men of the world, and nothing to me; but of the two, i think i like the first best." "caruthers. i shall remember," said madge. "that is foolish talk, children," remarked mrs. armadale. "yes, but grandma, you know children are bound to be foolish sometimes," returned madge. "and then the rod of correction must drive it far from them," said the old lady. "that's the common way; but it ain't the easiest way. lois said true; these people are nothing and can be nothing to her. i wouldn't make believe anything about it, if i was you." the conversation changed to other things. and soon took a fresh spring at the entrance of another of the family, an aunt of the girls; who lived in the neighbourhood, and came in to hear the news from new haven as well as from new york. and then it knew no stop. while the table was clearing, and while charity and madge were doing up the dishes, and when they all sat down round the fire afterwards, there went on a ceaseless, restless, unending flow of questions, answers, and comments; going over, i am bound to say, all the ground already travelled during supper. mrs. armadale sometimes sighed to herself; but this, if the others heard it, could not check them. mrs. marx was a lively, clever, kind, good-natured woman; with plenty of administrative ability, like so many new england women, full of resources; quick with her head and her hands, and not slow with her tongue; an uneducated woman, and yet one who had made such good use of life-schooling, that for all practical purposes she had twice the wit of many who have gone through all the drill of the best institutions. a keen eye, a prompt judgment, and a fearless speech, all belonged to mrs. marx; universally esteemed and looked up to and welcomed by all her associates. she was not handsome; she was even strikingly deficient in the lines of beauty; and refinement was not one of her characteristics, other than the refinement which comes of kindness and unselfishness. mrs. marx would be delicately careful of another's feelings, when there was real need; she could show an exceeding great tenderness and tact then; while in ordinary life her voice was rather loud, her movements were free and angular, and her expressions very unconstrained. nobody ever saw mrs. marx anything but neat, whatever she possibly might be doing; in other respects her costume was often extremely unconventional; but she could dress herself nicely and look quite as becomes a lady. independent was mrs. marx, above all and in everything. "i guess she's come back all safe!" was her comment, made to mrs. armadale, at the conclusion of the long talk. mrs. armadale made no answer. "it's sort o' risky, to let a young thing like that go off by herself among all those highflyers. it's like sendin' a pigeon to sail about with the hawks." "why, aunt anne," said lois at this, "whom can you possibly mean by the hawks?" "the sort o' birds that eat up pigeons." "i saw nobody that wanted to eat me up, i assure you." "there's the difference between you and a real pigeon. the pigeon knows the hawk when she sees it; you don't." "do you think the hawks all live in cities?" "no, i don't," said mrs. marx. "they go swoopin' about in the country now and then. i shouldn't a bit wonder to see one come sailin' over our heads one of these fine days. but now, you see, grandma has got you under her wing again." mrs. marx was mrs. armadale's half-daughter only, and sometimes in company of others called her as her grandchildren did. "how does home look to you, lois, now you're back in it?" "very much as it used to look," lois answered, smiling. "the taste ain't somehow taken out o' things? ha' you got your old appetite for common doin's?" "i shall try to-morrow. i am going out into the garden to get some peas in." "mine is in." "not long, aunt anne? the frost hasn't been long out of the ground." "put 'em in to-day, lois. and your garden has the sun on it; so i shouldn't wonder if you beat me after all. well, i must go along and look arter my old man. he just let me run away now 'cause i told him i was kind o' crazy about the fashions; and he said 'twas a feminine weakness and he pitied me. so i come. mrs. dashiell has been a week to new london; but la! new london bonnets is no account." "you don't get much light from lois," remarked charity. "no. did ye learn anything, lois, while you was away?" "i think so, aunt anne." "what, then? let's hear. learnin' ain't good for much, without you give it out." lois, however, seemed not inclined to be generous with her stores of new knowledge. "i guess she's learned shampuashuh ain't much of a place," the elder sister remarked further. "she's been spellin' her lesson backwards, then. shampuashuh's a first-rate place." "but we've no grand people here. we don't eat off silver dishes, nor drink out o' gold spoons; and our horses can go without little lookin'-glasses over their heads," charity proceeded. "do you think there's any use in all that, lois?" said her aunt. "i don't know, aunt anne," lois answered with a little hesitation. "then i'm sorry for ye, girl, if you are left to think such nonsense. ain't our victuals as good here, as what comes out o' those silver dishes?" "not always." "are new york folks better cooks than we be?" "they have servants that know how to do things." "servants! don't tell me o' no servants' doin's! what can they make that i can't make better?" "can you make a soufflé, aunt anne?" "what's that?" "or biscuit glacé?" "_biskwee glassy?_" repeated the indignant shampuashuh lady. "what do you mean, lois? speak english, if i am to understand you." "these things have no english names." "are they any the better for that?" "no; and nothing could make them better. they are as good as it is possible for anything to be; and there are a hundred other things equally good, that we know nothing about here." "i'd have watched and found out how they were done," said the elder woman, eyeing lois with a mingled expression of incredulity and curiosity and desire, which it was comical to see. only nobody there perceived the comicality. they sympathized too deeply in the feeling. "i would have watched," said lois; "but i could not go down into the kitchen for it." "why not?" "nobody goes into the kitchen, except to give orders." "nobody goes into the kitchen!" cried mrs. marx, sinking down again into a chair. she had risen to go. "i mean, except the servants." "it's the shiftlessest thing i ever heard o' new york. and do you think _that's_ a nice way o' livin', lois?" "i am afraid i do, aunt anne. it is pleasant to have plenty of time for other things." "what other things?" "reading." "reading! la, child! i can read more books in a year than is good for me, and do all my own work, too. i like play, as well as other folks; but i like to know my work's done first. then i can play." "well, there the servants do the work." "and you like that? that ain't a nat'ral way o' livin', lois; and i believe it leaves folks too much time to get into mischief. when folks hasn't business enough of their own to attend to, they're free to put their fingers in other folks' business. and they get sot up, besides. my word for it, it ain't healthy for mind nor body. and you needn't think i'm doin' what i complain of, for your business is my business. good-bye, girls. i'll buy a cook-book the next time i go to new london, and learn how to make suflles. lois shan't hold that whip over me." chapter x. lois's garden. lois went at her gardening the next morning, as good as her word. it was the last of march, and an anticipation of april, according to the fashion the months have of sending promissory notes in advance of them; and this year the spring was early. the sun was up, but not much more, when lois, with her spade and rake and garden line, opened the little door in the garden fence and shut it after her. then she was alone with the spring. the garden was quite a roomy place, and pretty, a little later in the season; for some old and large apple and cherry trees shadowed parts of it, and broke up the stiff, bare regularity of an ordinary square bit of ground laid out in lesser squares. such regularity was impossible here. in one place, two or three great apple trees in a group formed a canopy over a wide circuit of turf. the hoe and the spade must stand back respectfully; there was nothing to be done. one corner was quite given up to the occupancy of an old cherry tree, and its spread of grassy ground beneath and about it was again considerable. still other trees stood here and there; and the stems of none of them were approached by cultivation. in the spaces between, lois stretched her line and drew her furrows, and her rows of peas and patches of corn had even so room enough. grass was hardly green yet, and tree branches were bare, and the upturned earth was implanted. there was nothing here yet but the spring with lois. it is wonderful what a way spring has of revealing herself, even while she is hid behind the brown and grey wrappings she has borrowed from winter. her face is hardly seen; her form is not discernible; but there is a breath and a smile and a kiss, that are like nothing her brothers and sisters have to give. of them all, spring's smile brings most of hope and expectation with it. and there is a perfume spring wears, which is the rarest, and most untraceable, and most unmistakeable, of all. the breath and the perfume, and the smile and the kiss, greeted lois as she went into the old garden. she knew them well of old time, and welcomed them now. she even stood still a bit to take in the rare beauty and joy of them. and yet, the apple trees were bare, and the cherry trees; the turf was dead and withered; the brown ploughed-up soil had no relief of green growths. only spring was there with lois, and yet that seemed enough; spring and associations. how many hours of pleasant labour in that enclosed bit of ground there had been; how many lapfuls and basketfuls of fruits the rich reward of the labour; how lois had enjoyed both! and now, here was spring again, and the implanted garden. lois wanted no more. she took her stand under one of the bare old apple trees, and surveyed her ground, like a young general. she had it all mapped out, and knew just where things were last year. the patch of potatoes was in that corner, and a fine yield they had been. corn had been here; yes, and here she would run her lines of early peas. lois went to work. it was not very easy work, as you would know if you had ever tried to reduce ground that has been merely ploughed and harrowed, to the smooth evenness necessary for making shallow drills. lois plied spade and rake with an earnest good-will, and thorough knowledge of her business. do not imagine an untidy long skirt sweeping the soft soil and transferring large portions of it to the gardener's ankles; lois was dressed for her work in a short stuff frock and leggins; and looked as nice when she came out as when she went in, albeit not in any costume ever seen in fifth avenue or central park. but what do i say? if she looked "nice" when she went out to her garden, she looked superb when she came in, or when she had been an hour or so delving. her hat fallen back a little; her rich masses of hair just a little loosened, enough to show their luxuriance; the colour flushed into her cheeks with the exercise, and her eyes all alive with spirit and zeal--ah, the fair ones in fifth or any other avenue would give a great deal to look so; but that sort of thing goes with the short frock and leggins, and will not be conjured up by a mantua-maker. lois had after a while a strip of her garden ground nicely levelled and raked smooth; and then her line was stretched over it, and her drills drawn, and the peas were planted and were covered; and a little stick at each end marked how far the planted rows extended. lois gathered up her tools then, to go in, but instead of going in she sat down on one of the wooden seats that were fixed under the great apple trees. she was tired and satisfied; and in that mood of mind and body one is easily tempted to musing. aimlessly, carelessly, thoughts roved and carried her she knew not whither. she began to draw contrasts. her home life, the sweets of which she was just tasting, set off her life at mrs. wishart's with its strange difference of flavour; hardly the brown earth of her garden was more different from the brilliant--coloured smyrna carpets upon which her feet had moved in some people's houses. life there and life here,--how diverse from one another! could both be life? suddenly it occurred to lois that her garden fence shut in a very small world, and a world in which there was no room for many things that had seemed to her delightful and desirable in these weeks that were just passed. life must be narrow within these borders. she had had several times in new york a sort of perception of this, and here it grew defined. knowledge, education, the intercourse of polished society, the smooth ease and refinement of well-ordered households, and the habits of affluence, and the gratification of cultivated tastes; more yet, the _having_ cultivated tastes; the gratification of them seemed to lois a less matter. a large horizon, a wide experience of men and things; was it not better, did it not make life richer, did it not elevate the human creature to something of more power and worth, than a very narrow and confined sphere, with its consequent narrow and confined way of looking at things? lois was just tired enough to let all these thoughts pass over her, like gentle waves of an incoming tide, and they were emphazised here and there by a vision of a brown curly head, and a kindly, handsome, human face looking into hers. it was a vision that came and went, floated in and disappeared among the waves of thought that rose and fell. was it not better to sit and talk even with mr. dillwyn, than to dig and plant peas? was not the lois who did _that_, a quite superior creature to the lois who did _this?_ any common, coarse man could plant peas, and do it as well as she; was this to be her work, this and the like, for the rest of her life? just the labour for material existence, instead of the refining and forming and up-building of the nobler, inner nature, the elevation of existence itself? my little garden ground! thought lois; is this indeed all? and what would mr. caruthers think, if he could see me now? think he had been cheated, and that i am not what he thought i was. it is no matter what he thinks; i shall never see him again; it will not be best that i should ever pay mrs. wishart a visit again, even if she should ask me; not in new york. i suppose the isles of shoals would be safe enough. there would be nobody there. well--i like gardening. and it is great fun to gather the peas when they are large enough; and it is fun to pick strawberries; and it is fun to do everything, generally. i like it all. but if i could, if i had a chance, which i cannot have, i would like, and enjoy, the other sort of thing too. i could be a good deal more than i am, _if_ i had the opportunity. lois was getting rested by this time, and she gathered up her tools again, with the thought that breakfast would taste good. i suppose a whiff of the fumes of coffee preparing in the house was borne out to her upon the air, and suggested the idea. and as she went in she cheerfully reflected that their plain house was full of comfort, if not of beauty; and that she and her sisters were doing what was given them to do, and therefore what they were meant to do; and then came the thought, so sweet to the servant who loves his master, that it is all _for_ the master; and that if he is pleased, all is gained, the utmost, that life can do or desire. and lois went in, trilling low a sweet methodist hymn, to an air both plaintive and joyous, which somehow--as many of the old methodist tunes do--expressed the plaintiveness and the joyousness together with a kind of triumphant effect. "o tell me no more of this world's vain store! the time for such trifles with me now is o'er." lois had a voice exceedingly sweet and rich; an uncommon contralto; and when she sang one of these hymns, it came with its fall power. mrs. armadale heard her, and murmured a "praise the lord!" and charity, getting the breakfast, heard her; and made a different comment. "were you meaning, now, what you were singing when you came in?" she asked at breakfast. "what i was singing?" lois repeated in astonishment. "yes, what you were singing. you sang it loud enough and plain enough; ha' you forgotten? did you mean it?" "one should always mean what one sings," said lois gravely. "so i think; and i want to know, did you mean that? 'the time for such trifles'--is it over with you, sure enough?" "what trifles?" "you know best. what did you mean? it begins about 'this world's vain store;' ha' you done with the world?" "not exactly." "then i wouldn't say so." "but i didn't say so," lois returned, laughing now. "the hymn means, that 'this world's vain store' is not my treasure; and it isn't. 'the time for such trifles with me now is o'er.' i have found something better. as paul says, 'when i became a man, i put away childish things.' so, since i have learned to know something else, the world's store has lost its great value for me." "thank the lord!" said mrs. armadale. "you needn't say that, neither, grandma," charity retorted. "i don't believe it one bit, all such talk. it ain't nature, nor reasonable. folks say that just when somethin's gone the wrong way, and they want to comfort themselves with makin' believe they don't care about it. wait till the chance comes, and see if they don't care! that's what i say." "i wish you wouldn't say it, then, charity," remarked the old grandmother. "everybody has a right to his views," returned miss charity. "that's what i always say." "you must leave her her views, grandma," said lois pleasantly. "she will have to change them, some day." "what will make me change them?" "coming to know the truth." "you think nobody but you knows the truth. now, lois, i'll ask you. ain't you sorry to be back and out of 'this world's vain store'--out of all the magnificence, and back in your garden work again?" "no." "you enjoy digging in the dirt and wearin' that outlandish rig you put on for the garden?" "i enjoy digging in the dirt very much. the dress i admire no more than you do." "and you've got everythin' you want in the world?" "charity, charity, that ain't fair," madge put in. "nobody has that; you haven't, and i haven't; why should lois?" "'cos she says she's found 'a city where true joys abound;' now let's hear if she has." "quite true," said lois, smiling. "and you've got all you want?" "no, i would like a good many things i haven't got, if it's the lord's pleasure to give them." "suppose it ain't?" "then i do not want them," said lois, looking up with so clear and bright a face that her carping sister was for the moment silenced. and i suppose charity watched; but she never could find reason to think that lois had not spoken the truth. lois was the life of the house. madge was a handsome and quiet girl; could follow but rarely led in the conversation. charity talked, but was hardly enlivening to the spirits of the company. mrs. armadale was in ordinary a silent woman; could talk indeed, and well, and much; however, these occasions were mostly when she had one auditor, and was in thorough sympathy with that one. amidst these different elements of the household life lois played the part of the flux in a furnace; she was the happy accommodating medium through which all the others came into best play and found their full relations to one another. lois's brightness and spirit were never dulled; her sympathies were never wearied; her intelligence was never at fault. and her work was never neglected. nobody had ever to remind lois that it was time for her to attend to this or that thing which it was her charge to do. instead of which, she was very often ready to help somebody else not quite so "forehanded." the garden took on fast its dressed and ordered look; the strawberries were uncovered; and the raspberries tied up, and the currant bushes trimmed; and pea-sticks and bean-poles bristled here and there promisingly. and then the green growths for which lois had worked began to reward her labour. radishes were on the tea-table, and lettuce made the dinner "another thing;" and rows of springing beets and carrots looked like plenty in the future. potatoes were up, and rare-ripes were planted, and cabbages; and corn began to appear. one thing after another, till lois got the garden all planted; and then she was just as busy keeping it clean. for weeds, we all know, do thrive as unaccountably in the natural as in the spiritual world. it cost lois hard work to keep them under; but she did it. nothing would have tempted her to bear the reproach of them among her vegetables and fruits. and so the latter had a good chance, and throve. there was not much time or much space for flowers; yet lois had a few. red poppies found growing room between the currant bushes; here and there at a corner a dahlia got leave to stand and rear its stately head. rose-bushes were set wherever a rose-bush could be; and there were some balsams, and pinks, and balm, and larkspur, and marigolds. not many; however, they served to refresh lois's soul when she went to pick vegetables for dinner, and they furnished nosegays for the table in the hall, or in the sitting-room, when the hot weather drove the family out of the kitchen. before that came june and strawberries. lois picked the fruit always. she had been a good while one very warm afternoon bending down among the strawberry beds, and had brought in a great bowl full of fruit. she and madge came together to their room to wash hands and get in order for tea. "i have worked over all that butter," said madge, "and skimmed a lot of milk. i must churn again to-morrow. there is no end to work!" "no end to it," lois assented. "did you see my strawberries?" "no." "they are splendid. those black princes are doing finely too. if we have rain they will be superb." "how many did you get to-day?" "two quarts, and more." "and cherries to preserve to-morrow. lois, i get tired once in a while!" "o, so do i; but i always get rested again." "i don't mean that. i mean it is _all_ work, work; day in and day out, and from one year's end to another. there is no let up to it. i get tired of that." "what would you have?" "i'd like a little play." "yes, but in a certain sense i think it is all play." "in a nonsensical sense," said madge. "how can work be play?" "that's according to how you look at it," lois returned cheerfully. "if you take it as i think you can take it, it is much better than play." "i wish you'd make me understand you," said madge discontentedly. "if there is any meaning to your words, that is." lois hesitated. "i like work anyhow better than play," she said. "but then, if you look at it in a certain way, it becomes much better than play. don't you know, madge, i take it all, everything, as given me by the lord to do;--to do for him;--and i do it so; and that makes every bit of it all pleasant." "but you can't!" said madge pettishly. she was not a pettish person, only just now something in her sister's words had the effect of irritation. "can't what?" "do everything for the lord. making butter, for instance; or cherry sweetmeats. ridiculous! and nonsense." "i don't mean it for nonsense. it is the way i do my garden work and my sewing." "what _do_ you mean, lois? the garden work is for our eating, and the sewing is for your own back, or grandma's. i understand religion, but i don't understand cant." "madge, it's not cant; it's the plain truth." "only that it is impossible." "no. you do not understand religion, or you would know how it is. all these things are things given us to do; we must make the clothes and preserve the cherries, and i must weed strawberries, and then pick strawberries, and all the rest. god has given me these things to do, and i do them for him." "you do them for yourself, or for grandma, and for the rest of us." "yes, but first for him. yes, madge, i do. i do every bit of all these things in the way that i think will please and honour him best--as far as i know how." "making your dresses!" "certainly. making my dresses so that i may look, as near as i can, as a servant of christ in my place ought to look. and taking things in that way, madge, you can't think how pleasant they are; nor how all sorts of little worries fall off. i wish you knew, madge! if i am hot and tired in a strawberry bed, and the thought comes, whose servant i am, and that he has made the sun shine and put me to work in it,--then it's all right in a minute, and i don't mind any longer." madge looked at her, with eyes that were half scornful, half admiring. "there is just one thing that does tempt me," lois went on, her eye going forth to the world outside the window, or to a world more distant and in tangible, that she looked at without seeing,--"i _do_ sometimes wish i had time to read and learn." "learn!" madge echoed. "what?" "loads of things. i never thought about it much, till i went to new york last winter; then, seeing people and talking to people that were different, made me feel how ignorant i was, and what a pleasant thing it would be to have knowledge--education--yes, and accomplishments. i have the temptation to wish for that sometimes; but i know it is a temptation; for if i was intended to have all those things, the way would have been opened, and it is not, and never was. just a breath of longing comes over me now and then for that; not for play, but to make more of myself; and then i remember that i am exactly where the lord wants me to be, and _as_ he chooses for me, and then i am quite content again." "you never said so before," the other sister answered, now sympathizingly. "no," said lois, smiling; "why should i? only just now i thought i would confess." "lois, i have wished for that very thing!" "well, maybe it is good to have the wish. if ever a chance comes, we shall know we are meant to use it; and we won't be slow!" chapter xi. summer movements. all things in the world, so far as the dwellers in shampuashuh knew, went their usual course in peace for the next few months. lois gathered her strawberries, and madge made her currant jelly. peas ripened, and green corn was on the board, and potatoes blossomed, and young beets were pulled, and peaches began to come. it was a calm, gentle life the little family lived; every day exceedingly like the day before, and yet every day with something new in it. small pieces of novelty, no doubt; a dish of tomatoes, or the first yellow raspberries, or a new pattern for a dress, or a new receipt for cake. or they walked down to the shore and dug clams, some fine afternoon; or mrs. dashiell lent them a new book; or mr. dashiell preached an extraordinary sermon. it was a very slight ebb and flow of the tide of time; however, it served to keep everything from stagnation. then suddenly, at the end of july, came mrs. wishart's summons to lois to join her on her way to the isles of shoals. "i shall go in about a week," the letter ran; "and i want you to meet me at the shampuashuh station; for i shall go that way to boston. i cannot stop, but i will have your place taken and all ready for you. you must come, lois, for i cannot do without you; and when other people need you, you know, you never hesitate. do not hesitate now." there was a good deal of hesitation, however, on one part and another, before the question was settled. "lois has just got home," said charity. "i don't see what she should be going again for. i should like to know if mrs. wishart thinks she ain't wanted at home!" "people don't think about it," said madge; "only what they want themselves. but it is a fine chance for lois." "why don't she ask you?" said charity. "she thought madge would enjoy a visit to her in new york more," said lois. "so she said to me." "and so i would," cried madge. "i don't care for a parcel of little islands out at sea. but that would just suit lois. what sort of a place _is_ the isles of shoals anyhow?" "just that," said lois; "so far as i know. a parcel of little islands, out in the sea." "where at?" said charity. "i don't know exactly." "get the map and look." "they are too small to be down on the map." "what is eliza wishart wantin' to go there for?" asked mrs. armadale. "o, she goes somewhere every year, grandma; to one place and another; and i suppose she likes novelty." "that's a poor way to live," said the old lady. "but i suppose, bein' such a place, it'll be sort o' lonesome, and she wants you for company. may be she goes for her health." "i think quite a good many people go there, grandma." "there can't, if they're little islands out at sea. most folks wouldn't like that. do you want to go, lois?" "i would like it, very much. i just want to see what they are like, grandmother. i never did see the sea yet." "you saw it yesterday, when we went for clams," said charity scornfully. "that? o no. that's not the sea, charity." "well, it's mighty near it." it seemed to be agreed at last that lois should accept her cousin's invitation; and she made her preparations. she made them with great delight. pleasant as the home-life was, it was quite favourable to the growth of an appetite for change and variety; and the appetite in lois was healthy and strong. the sea and the islands, and, on the other hand, an intermission of gardening and fruit-picking; shampuashuh people lost sight of for a time, and new, new, strange forms of humanity and ways of human life; the prospect was happy. and a happy girl was lois, when one evening in the early part of august she joined mrs. wishart in the night train to boston. that lady met her at the door of the drawing-room car, and led her to the little compartment where they were screened off from the rest of the world. "i am so glad to have you!" was her salutation. "dear me, how well you look, child! what have you been doing to yourself?" "getting brown in the sun, picking berries." "you are not brown a bit. you are as fair as--whatever shall i compare you to? roses are common." "nothing better than roses, though," said lois. "well, a rose you must be; but of the freshest and sweetest. we don't have such roses in new york. fact, we do not. i never see anything so fresh there. i wonder why?" "people don't live out-of-doors picking berries," suggested lois. "what has berry-picking to do with it? my dear, it is a pity we shall have none of your old admirers at the isles of shoals; but i cannot promise you one. you see, it is off the track. the caruthers are going to saratoga; they stayed in town after the mother and son got back from florida. the bentons are gone to europe. mr. dillwyn, by the way, was he one of your admirers, lois?" "certainly not," said lois, laughing. "but i have a pleasant remembrance of him, he gave us such a good lunch one day. i am very glad i am not going to see anybody i ever saw before. where _are_ the isles of shoals? and what are they, that you should go to see them?" "i'm not going to see them--there's nothing to see, unless you like sea and rocks. i am going for the air, and because i must go somewhere, and i am tired of everywhere else. o, they're out in the atlantic--sea all round them--queer, barren places. i am so glad i've got you, lois! i don't know a soul that's to be there--can't guess what we shall find; but i've got you, and i can get along." "do people go there just for health?" "o, a few, perhaps; but the thing is what i am after--novelty; they are hardly the fashion yet." "that is the very oddest reason for doing or not doing things!" said lois. "because it's the fashion! as if that made it pleasant, or useful." "it does!" said mrs. wishart. "of course it does. pleasant, yes, and useful too. my dear, you don't want to be out of the fashion?" "why not, if the fashion does not agree with me?" "o my dear, you will learn. not to agree with the fashion, is to be out with the world." "with one part of it," said lois merrily. "just the part that is of importance. never mind, you will learn. lois, i am so sleepy, i can not keep up any longer. i must curl down and take a nap. i just kept myself awake till we reached shampuashuh. you had better do as i do. my dear, i am very sorry, but i can't help it." so mrs. wishart settled herself upon a heap of bags and wraps, took off her bonnet, and went to sleep. lois did not feel in the least like following her example. she was wide-awake with excitement and expectation, and needed no help of entertainment from anybody. with her thoroughly sound mind and body and healthy appetites, every detail and every foot of the journey was a pleasure to her; even the corner of a drawing-room car on a night train. it was such change and variety! and lois had spent all her life nearly in one narrow sphere and the self-same daily course of life and experience. new york had been one great break in this uniformity, and now came another. islands in the sea! lois tried to fancy what they would be like. so much resorted to already, they must be very charming; and green meadows, shadowing trees, soft shores and cosy nooks rose up before her imagination. mr. caruthers and his family were at saratoga, that was well; but there would be other people, different from the shampuashuh type; and lois delighted in seeing new varieties of humankind as well as new portions of the earth where they live. she sat wide-awake opposite to her sleeping hostess, and made an entertainment for herself out of the place and the night journey. it was a starlit, sultry night; the world outside the hurrying train covered with a wonderful misty veil, under which it lay half revealed by the heavenly illumination; soft, mysterious, vast; a breath now and then whispering of nature's luxuriant abundance and sweetness that lay all around, out there under the stars, for miles and hundreds of miles. lois looked and peered out sometimes, so happy that it was not shampuashuh, and that she was away, and that she would see the sun shine on new landscapes when the morning came round; and sometimes she looked within the car, and marvelled at the different signs and tokens of human life and character that met her there. and every yard of the way was a delight to her. meanwhile, how weirdly and strangely do the threads of human life cross and twine and untwine in this world! that same evening, in new york, in the caruthers mansion in twenty-third street, the drawing-room windows were open to let in the refreshing breeze from the sea. the light lace curtains swayed to and fro as the wind came and went, but were not drawn; for mrs. caruthers liked, she said, to have so much of a screen between her and the passers-by. for that matter, the windows were high enough above the street to prevent all danger of any one's looking in. the lights were burning low in the rooms, on account of the heat; and within, in attitudes of exhaustion and helplessness sat mother and daughter in their several easy-chairs. tom was on his back on the floor, which, being nicely matted, was not the worst place. a welcome break to the monotony of the evening was the entrance of philip dillwyn. tom got up from the floor to welcome him, and went back then to his former position. "how come you to be here at this time of year?" dillwyn asked. "it was mere accident my finding you. should never have thought of looking for you. but by chance passing, i saw that windows were open and lights visible, so i concluded that something else might be visible if i came in." "we are only just passing through," julia explained. "going to saratoga to-morrow. we have only just come from newport." "what drove you away from newport? this is the time to be by the sea." "o, who cares for the sea! or anything else? it's the people; and the people at newport didn't suit mother. the benthams were there, and that set; and mother don't like the benthams; and miss zagumski, the daughter of the russian minister, was there, and all the world was crazy about her. nothing was to be seen or heard but miss zagumski, and her dancing, and her playing, and her singing. mother got tired of it." "and yet newport is a large place," remarked philip. "too large," mrs. caruthers answered. "what do you expect to find at saratoga?" "heat," said mrs. caruthers; "and another crowd." "i think you will not be disappointed, if this weather holds." "it is a great deal more comfortable here!" sighed the elder lady. "saratoga's a dreadfully hot place! home is a great deal more comfortable." "then why not stay at home? comfort is what you are after." "o, but one can't! everybody goes somewhere; and one must do as everybody does." "why?" "philip, what makes you ask such a question?" "i assure you, a very honest ignorance of the answer to it." "why, one must do as everybody does?" "yes." the lady's tone and accent had implied that the answer was self-evident; yet it was not given. "really,"--philip went on. "what should hinder you from staying in this pleasant house part of the summer, or all of the summer, if you find yourselves more comfortable here?" "being comfortable isn't the only thing," said julia. "no. what other consideration governs the decision? that is what i am asking." "why, philip, there is nobody in town." "that is better than company you do not like." "i wish it was the fashion to stay in town," said mrs. caruthers. "there is everything here, in one's own house, to make the heat endurable, and just what we miss when we go to a hotel. large rooms, and cool nights, and clean servants, and gas, and baths--hotel rooms are so stuffy." "after all, one does not live in one's rooms," said julia. "but," said philip, returning to the charge, "why should not you, mrs. caruthers, do what you like? why should you be displeased in saratoga, or anywhere, merely because other people are pleased there? why not do as you like?" "you know one can't do as one likes in this world," julia returned. "why not, if one can,--as you can?" said philip, laughing. "but that's ridiculous," said julia, raising herself up with a little show of energy. "you know perfectly well, mr. dillwyn, that people belonging to the world must do as the rest of the world do. nobody is in town. if we stayed here, people would get up some unspeakable story to account for our doing it; that would be the next thing." "dillwyn, where are you going?" said tom suddenly from the floor, where he had been more uneasy than his situation accounted for. "i don't know--perhaps i'll take your train and go to saratoga too. not for fear, though." "that's capital!" said tom, half raising himself up and leaning on his elbow. "i'll turn the care of my family over to you, and i'll seek the wilderness." "what wilderness?" asked his sister sharply. "some wilderness--some place where i shall not see crinoline, nor be expected to do the polite thing. i'll go for the sea, i guess." "what have you in your head, tom?" "refreshment." "you've just come from the sea." "i've just come from the sea where it was fashionable. now i'll find some place where it is unfashionable. i don't favour saratoga any more than you do. it's a jolly stupid; that's what it is." "but where do you want to go, tom? you have some place in your head." "i'd as lief go off for the isles of shoals as anywhere," said tom, lying down again. "they haven't got fashionable yet. i've a notion to see 'em first." "i doubt about that," remarked philip gravely. "i am not sure but the isles of shoals are about the most distinguished place you could go to." "isles of shoals. where are they? and what are they?" julia asked. "a few little piles of rock out in the atlantic, on which it spends its wrath all the year round; but of course the ocean is not always raging; and when it is not raging, it smiles; and they say the smile is nowhere more bewitching than at the isles of shoals," philip answered. "but will nobody be there?" "nobody you would care about," returned tom. "then what'll you do?" "fish." "tom! you're not a fisher. you needn't pretend it." "sun myself on the rocks." "you are brown enough already." "they say, everything gets bleached there." "then i should like to go. but i couldn't stand the sea and solitude, and i don't believe you can stand it. tom, this is ridiculous. you're not serious?" "not often," said tom; "but this time i am. i am going to the isles of shoals. if philip will take you to saratoga, i'll start to-morrow; otherwise i will wait till i get you rooms and see you settled." "is there a hotel there?" "something that does duty for one, as i understand." "tom, this is too ridiculous, and vexatious," remonstrated his sister. "we want you at saratoga." "well, it is flattering; but you wanted me at st. augustine a little while ago, and you had me. you can't always have a fellow. i'm going to see the isles of shoals before they're the rage. i want to get cooled off, for once, after florida and newport, besides." "isn't that the place where mrs. wishart is gone," said philip now. "i don't know--yes, i believe so." "mrs. wishart!" exclaimed julia in a different tone. "_she_ gone to the isles of shoals?" "'mrs. wishart!" mrs. caruthers echoed. "has she got that girl with her?" silence. then philip remarked with a laugh, that tom's plan of "cooling off" seemed problematical. "tom," said his sister solemnly, "_is_ miss lothrop going to be there?" "don't know, upon my word," said tom. "i haven't heard." "she is, and that's what you're going for. o tom, tom!" cried his sister despairingly. "mr. dillwyn, what shall we do with him?" "can't easily manage a fellow of his size, miss julia. let him take his chance." "take his chance! such a chance!" "yes, philip," said tom's mother; "you ought to stand by us." "with all my heart, dear mrs. caruthers; but i am afraid i should be a weak support. really, don't you think tom might do worse?" "worse?" said the elder lady; "what could be worse than for him to bring such a wife into the house?" tom gave an inarticulate kind of snort just here, which was not lacking in expression. philip went on calmly. "such a wife--" he repeated. "mrs. caruthers, here is room for discussion. suppose we settle, for example, what tom, or anybody situated like tom, ought to look for and insist upon finding, in a wife. i wish you and miss julia would make out the list of qualifications." "stuff!" muttered tom. "it would be hard lines, if a fellow must have a wife of his family's choosing!" "his family can talk about it," said philip, "and certainly will. hold your tongue, tom. i want to hear your mother." "why, mr. dillwyn," said the lady, "you know as well as i do; and you think just as i do about it, and about this miss lothrop." "perhaps; but let us reason the matter out. maybe it will do tom good. what ought he to have in a wife, mrs. caruthers? and we'll try to show him he is looking in the wrong quarter." "i'm not looking anywhere!" growled tom; but no one believed him. "well, philip," mrs. caruthers began, "he ought to marry a girl of good family." "certainly. by 'good family' you mean--?" "everybody knows what i mean." "possibly tom does not." "i mean, a girl that one knows about, and that everybody knows about; that has good blood in her veins." "the blood of respectable and respected ancestors," philip said. "yes! that is what i mean. i mean, that have been respectable and respected for a long time back--for years and years." "you believe in inheritance." "i don't know about that," said mrs. caruthers. "i believe in family." "well, _i_ believe in inheritance. but what proof is there that the young lady of whom we were speaking has no family?" julia raised herself up from her reclining position, and mrs. caruthers sat suddenly forward in her chair. "why, she is nobody!" cried the first. "nobody knows her, nor anything about her." "_here_--" said philip. "here! of course. where else?" "yes, just listen to that!" tom broke in. "i xxow should anybody know her here, where she has never lived! but that's the way--" "i suppose a sandwich islander's family is known in the sandwich islands," said mrs. caruthers. "but what good is that to us?" "then you mean, the family must be a new york family?" "n--o," said mrs. caruthers hesitatingly; "i don't mean that exactly. there are good southern families--" "and good eastern families!" put in tom. "but nobody knows anything about this girl's family," said the ladies both in a breath. "mrs. wishart does," said philip. "she has even told me. the family dates back to the beginning of the colony, and boasts of extreme respectability. i forget how many judges and ministers it can count up; and at least one governor of the colony; and there is no spot or stain upon it anywhere." there was silence. "go on, mrs. caruthers. what else should tom look for in a wife?" "it is not merely what a family has been, but what its associations have been," said mrs. caruthers. "these have evidently been respectable." "but it is not that only, philip. we want the associations of good society; and we want position. i want tom to marry a woman of good position." "hm!" said philip. "this lady has not been accustomed to anything that you would call 'society,' and 'position'--but your son has position enough, mrs. caruthers. he can stand without much help." "now, philip, don't you go to encourage tom in this mad fancy. it's just a fancy. the girl has nothing; and tom's wife ought to be-- i shall break my heart if tom's wife is not of good family and position, and good manners, and good education. that's the least i can ask for." "she has as good manners as anybody you know!" said tom flaring up. "as good as julia's, and better." "i should say, she has no manner whatever," remarked miss julia quietly. "what is 'manner'?" said tom indignantly. "i hate it. manner! they all have 'manner'--except the girls who make believe they have none; and their 'manner' is to want manner. stuff!" "but the girl knows nothing," persisted mrs. caruthers. "she knows absolutely _nothing_,"--julia confirmed this statement. silence. "she speaks correct english," said dillwyn. "that at least." "english!--but not a word of french or of any other language. and she has no particular use for the one language she does know; she cannot talk about anything. how do you know she speaks good grammar, mr. dillwyn? did you ever talk with her?" "yes--" said philip, making slow admission. "and i think you are mistaken in your other statement; she _can_ talk on some subjects. probably you did not hit the right ones." "well, she does not know anything," said miss julia. "that is bad. perhaps it might be mended." "how? nonsense! i beg your pardon, mr. dillwyn; but you cannot make an accomplished woman out of a country girl, if you don't begin before she is twenty. and imagine tom with such a wife! and me with such a sister!" "i cannot imagine it. don't you see, tom, you must give it up?" dillwyn said lightly. "i'll go to the isles of shoals and think about that," said tom. wherewith he got up and went off. "mamma," said julia then, "he's going to that place to meet that girl. either she is to be there with mrs. wishart, or he is reckoning to see her by the way; and the isles of shoals are just a blind. and the only thing left for you and me is to go too, and be of the party!" "tom don't want us along," said tom's mother. "of course he don't want us along; and i am sure we don't want it either; but it is the only thing left for us to do. don't you see? she'll be there, or he can stop at her place by the way, going and coming; maybe mrs. wishart is asking her on purpose--i shouldn't be at all surprised--and they'll make up the match between them. it would be a thing for the girl, to marry tom caruthers!" mrs. caruthers groaned, i suppose at the double prospect before her and before tom. philip was silent. miss julia went on discussing and arranging; till her brother returned. "tom," said she cheerfully, "we've been talking over matters, and i'll tell you what we'll do--if you won't go with us, we will go with you!" "where?" "why, to the isles of shoals, of course." "you and mother!" said tom. "yes. there is no fun in going about alone. we will go along with you." "what on earth will _you_ do at a place like that?" "keep you from being lonely." "stuff, julia! you will wish yourself back before you've been there an hour; and i tell you, i want to go fishing. what would become of mother, landed on a bare rock like that, with nobody to speak to, and nothing but crabs to eat?" "crabs!" julia echoed. philip burst into a laugh. "crabs and mussels," said tom. "i don't believe you'll get anything else." "but is mrs. wishart gone there?" "philip says so." "mrs. wishart isn't a fool." and tom was unable to overthrow this argument. chapter xii. appledore. it was a very bright, warm august day when mrs. wishart and her young companion steamed over from portsmouth to the isles of shoals. it was lois's first sight of the sea, for the journey from new york had been made by land; and the ocean, however still, was nothing but a most wonderful novelty to her. she wanted nothing, she could well-nigh attend to nothing, but the movements and developments of this vast and mysterious presence of nature. mrs. wishart was amused and yet half provoked. there was no talk in lois; nothing to be got out of her; hardly any attention to be had from her. she sat by the vessel's side and gazed, with a brow of grave awe and eyes of submissive admiration; rapt, absorbed, silent, and evidently glad. mrs. wishart was provoked at her, and envied her. "what _do_ you find in the water, lois?" "o, the wonder of it!" said the girl, with a breath of rapture. "wonder! what wonder? i suppose everything is wonderful, if you look at it. what do you see there that seems so very wonderful?" "i don't know, mrs. wishart. it is so great! and it is so beautiful! and it is so awful!" "beautiful?" said mrs. wishart. "i confess i do not see it. i suppose it is your gain, lois. yes, it is awful enough in a storm, but not to-day. the sea is quiet." quiet! with those low-rolling, majestic soft billows. the quiet of a lion asleep with his head upon his paws. lois did not say what she thought. "and you have never seen the sea-shore yet," mrs. wishart went on. "well, you will have enough of the sea at the isles. and those are they, i fancy, yonder. are those the isles of shoals?" she asked a passing man of the crew; and was answered with a rough voiced, "yaw, mum; they be th' oisles." lois gazed now at those distant brown spots, as the vessel drew nearer and nearer. brown spots they remained, and, to her surprise, _small_ brown spots. nearer and nearer views only forced the conviction deeper. the isles seemed to be merely some rough rocky projections from old ocean's bed, too small to have beauty, too rough to have value. were those the desired isles of shoals? lois felt deep disappointment. little bits of bare rock in the midst of the sea; nothing more. no trees, she was sure; as the light fell she could even see no green. why would they not be better relegated to ocean's domain, from which they were only saved by a few feet of upheaval? why should anybody live there? and still more, why should anybody make a pleasure visit there? "i suppose the people are all fishermen?" she said to mrs. wishart. "i suppose so. o, there is a house of entertainment--a sort of hotel." "how many people live there?" "my dear, i don't know. a handful, i should think, by the look of the place. what tempts _them_, i don't see." nor did lois. she was greatly disappointed. all her fairy visions were fled. no meadows, no shady banks, no soft green dales; nothing she had ever imagined in connection with country loveliness. her expectations sank down, collapsed, and vanished for ever. she showed nothing of all this. she helped mrs. wishart gather her small baggage together, and followed her on shore, with her usual quiet thoughtfulness; saw her established in the hotel, and assisted her to get things a little in order. but then, when the elder lady lay down to "catch a nap," as she said, before tea, lois seized her flat hat and fled out of the house. there was grass around it, and sheep and cows to be seen. alas, no trees. but there were bushes certainly growing here and there, and lois had not gone far before she found a flower. with that in her hand she sped on, out of the little grassy vale, upon the rocks that surrounded it, and over them, till she caught sight of the sea. then she made her way, as she could, over the roughnesses and hindrances of the rocks, till she got near the edge of the island at that place; and sat down a little above where the billows of the atlantic were rolling in. the wide sea line was before her, with its mysterious and infinite depth of colour; at her feet the waves were coming in and breaking, slow and gently to-day, yet every one seeming to make an invasion of the little rocky domain which defied it, and to retire unwillingly, foiled, beaten, and broken, to gather new forces and come on again for a new attack. lois watched them, fascinated by their persistence, their sluggish power, and yet their ever-recurring discomfiture; admired the changing colours and hues of the water, endlessly varying, cool and lovely and delicate, contrasting with the wet washed rocks and the dark line of sea-weed lying where high tide had cast it up. the breeze blew in her face gently, but filled with freshness, life, and pungency of the salt air; sea-birds flew past hither and thither, sometimes uttering a cry; there was no sound in earth or heaven but that of the water and the wild birds. and by and by the silence, and the broad freedom of nature, and the sweet freshness of the life-giving breeze, began to take effect upon the watcher. she drank in the air in deep breaths; she watched with growing enjoyment the play of light and colour which offered such an endless variety; she let slip, softly and insensibly, every thought and consideration which had any sort of care attached to it; her heart grew light, as her lungs took in the salt breath, which had upon her somewhat the effect of champagne. lois was at no time a very heavy-hearted person; and i lack a similitude which should fitly image the elastic bound her spirits made now. she never stirred from her seat, till it suddenly came into her head to remember that there might be dinner or supper in prospect somewhere. she rose then and made her way back to the hotel, where she found mrs. wishart just arousing from her sleep. "well, lois" said the lady, with the sleep still in her voice, "where have you been? and what have you got? and what sort of a place have we come to?" "look at that, mrs. wishart!" "what's that? a white violet! violets here, on these rocks?" "did you ever see _such_ a white violet? look at the size of it, and the colour of it. and here's pimpernel. and o, mrs. wishart, i am so glad we came here, that i don't know what to do! it is just delightful. the air is the best air i ever saw." "can you _see_ it, my dear? well, i am glad you are pleased. what's that bell for, dinner or supper? i suppose all the meals here are alike. let us go down and see." lois had an excellent appetite. "this fish is very good, mrs. wishart." "o my dear, it is just fish! you are in a mood to glorify everything. i am envious of you, lois." "but it is really capital; it is so fresh. i don't believe you can get such blue fish in new york." "my dear, it is your good appetite. i wish i was as hungry, for anything, as you are." "is it mrs. wishart?" asked a lady who sat opposite them at the table. she spoke politely, with an accent of hope and expectation. mrs. wishart acknowledged the identity. "i am very happy to meet you. i was afraid i might find absolutely no one here that i knew. i was saying only the other day--three days ago; this is friday, isn't it? yes; it was last tuesday. i was saying to my sister after our early dinner--we always have early dinner at home, and it comes quite natural here--we were sitting together after dinner, and talking about my coming. i have been meaning to come ever since three years ago; wanting to make this trip, and never could get away, until this summer things opened out to let me. i was saying to lottie i was afraid i should find nobody here that i could speak to; and when i saw you, i said to myself, can that be mrs. wishart?--i am so very glad. you have just come?" "to-day,"--mrs. wishart assented. "came by water?" "from portsmouth." "yes--ha, ha!" said the affable lady. "of course. you could not well help it. but from new york?" "by railway. i had occasion to come by land." "i prefer it always. in a steamer you never know what will happen to you. if it's good weather, you may have a pleasant time; but you never can tell. i took the steamer once to go to boston--i mean to stonington, you know; and the boat was so loaded with freight of some sort or other that she was as low down in the water as she could be and be safe; and i didn't think she was safe. and we went so slowly! and then we had a storm, a regular thunderstorm and squall, and the rain poured in torrents, and the sound was rough, and people were sick, and i was very glad and thankful when we got to stonington. i thought it would never be for pleasure that i would take a boat again." "the fall river boats are the best." "i daresay they are, but i hope to be allowed to keep clear of them all. you had a pleasant morning for the trip over from portsmouth." "very pleasant." "it is such a gain to have the sea quiet! it roars and beats here enough in the best of times. i am sure i hope there will not a storm come while we are here; for i should think it must be dreadfully dreary. it's all sea here, you know." "i should like to see what a storm here is like," lois remarked. "o, don't wish that!" cried the lady, "or your wish may bring it. don't think me a heathen," she added, laughing; "but i have known such queer things. i must tell you--" "you never knew a wish bring fair weather?" said lois, smiling, as the lady stopped for a mouthful of omelet. "o no, not fair weather; i am sure, if it did, we should have fair weather a great deal more than we do. but i was speaking of a storm, and i must tell you what i have seen.--these fish are very deliciously cooked!" "they understand fish, i suppose, here," said lois. "we were going down the bay to escort some friends who were going to europe. there was my cousin llewellyn and his wife, and her sister, and one or two others in the party; and lottie and i went to see them off. i always think it's rather a foolish thing to do, for why shouldn't one say good-bye at the water's edge, when they go on board, instead of making a journey of miles out to sea to say it there?--but this time lottie wanted to go. she had never seen the ocean, except from the land; and you know that is very different; so we went. lottie always likes to see all she can, and is never satisfied till she has got to the bottom of everything--" "she would be satisfied with something less than that in this case?" said lois. "hey? she was satisfied," said the lady, not apparently catching lois's meaning; "she was more delighted with the sea than i was; for though it was quiet, they said, there was unquietness enough to make a good deal of motion; the vessel went sailing up and down a succession of small rolling hills, and i began to think there was nothing steady inside of me, any more than _out_side. i never can bear to be rocked, in any shape or form." "you must have been a troublesome baby," said lois. "i don't know how that was; naturally i have forgotten; but since i have been old enough to think for myself, i never could bear rocking-chairs. i like an easy-chair--as easy as you please--but i want it to stand firm upon its four legs. so i did not enjoy the water quite as well as my sister did. but she grew enthusiastic; she wished she was going all the way over, and i told her she would have to drop _me_ at some wayside station--" "where?" said lois, as the lady stopped to carry her coffee cup to her lips. the question seemed not to have been heard. "lottie wished she could see the ocean in a mood not quite so quiet; she wished for a storm; she said she wished a little storm would get up before we got home, that she might see how the waves looked. i begged and prayed her not to say so, for our wishes often fulfil themselves. isn't it extraordinary how they do? haven't you often observed it, mrs. wishart?" "in cases where wishes could take effect," returned that lady. "in the case of the elements, i do not see how they could do that." "but i don't know how it is," said the other; "i have observed it so often." "you call me by name," mrs. wishart went on rather hastily; "and i have been trying in vain to recall yours. if i had met you anywhere else, of course i should be at no loss; but at the isles of shoals one expects to see nobody, and one is surprised out of one's memory." "i am never surprised out of my memory," said the other, chuckling. "i am poor enough in all other ways, i am sure, but my memory is good. i can tell you where i first saw you. you were at the catskill house, with a large party; my brother-in-law dr. salisbury was there, and he had the pleasure of knowing you. it was two years ago." "i recollect being at the catskill house very well," said mrs. wishart, "and of course it was there i became acquain'ted with you; but you must excuse me, at the isles of shoals, for forgetting all my connections with the rest of the world." "o, i am sure you are very excusable," said dr. salisbury's sister-in-law. "i am delighted to meet you again. i think one is particularly glad of a friend's face where one had not expected to see it; and i really expected nothing at the isles of shoals--but sea air." "you came for sea air?" "yes, to get it pure. to be sure, coney island beach is not far off--for we live in brooklyn; but i wanted the sea air wholly sea air--quite unmixed; and at coney island, somehow new york is so near, i couldn't fancy it would be the same thing. i don't want to smell the smoke of it. and i was curious about this place too; and i have so little opportunity for travelling, i thought it was a pity now when i _had_ the opportunity, not to take the utmost advantage of it. they laughed at me at home, but i said no, i was going to the isles of shoals or nowhere. and now i am very glad i came."-- "lois," mrs. wishart said when they went back to their own room, "i don't know that woman from adam. i have not the least recollection of ever seeing her. i know dr. salisbury--and he might be anybody's brother-in-law. i wonder if she will keep that seat opposite us? because she is worse than a smoky chimney!" "o no, not that," said lois. "she amuses me." "everything amuses you, you happy creature! you look as if the fairies that wait upon young girls had made you their special care. did you ever read the 'rape of the lock'?" "i have never read anything," lois answered, a little soberly. "never mind; you have so much the more pleasure before you. but the 'rape of the lock'--in that story there is a young lady, a famous beauty, whose dressing-table is attended by sprites or fairies. one of them colours her lips; another hides in the folds of her gown; another tucks himself away in a curl of her hair.--you make me think of that young lady." chapter xiii. a summer hotel. mrs. wishart was reminded of belinda again the next morning. lois was beaming. she managed to keep their talkative neighbour in order during breakfast; and then proposed to mrs. wishart to take a walk. but mrs. wishart excused herself, and lois set off alone. after a couple of hours she came back with her hands full. "o, mrs. wishart!" she burst forth,--"this is the very loveliest place you ever saw in your life! i can never thank you enough for bringing me! what can i do to thank you?" "what makes it so delightful?" said the elder lady, smiling at her. "there is nothing here but the sea and the rocks. you have found the philosopher's stone, you happy girl!" "the philosopher's stone?" said lois. "that was what mr. dillwyn told me about." "philip? i wish he was here." "it would be nice for you. _i_ don't want anybody. the place is enough." "what have you found, child?" "flowers--and mosses--and shells. o, the flowers are beautiful! but it isn't the flowers, nor any one thing; it is the place. the air is wonderful; and the sea, o, the sea is a constant delight to me!" "the philosopher's stone!" repeated the lady. "what is it, lois? you are the happiest creature i ever saw.--you find pleasure in everything." "perhaps it is that," said lois simply. "because i am happy." "but what business have you to be so happy?--living in a corner like shampuashuh. i beg your pardon, lois, but it is a corner of the earth. what makes you happy?" lois answered lightly, that perhaps it was easier to be happy in a corner than in a wide place; and went off again. she would not give mrs. wishart an answer she could by no possibility understand. some time later in the day, mrs. wishart too, becoming tired of the monotony of her own room, descended to the piazza; and was sitting there when the little steamboat arrived with some new guests for the hotel. she watched one particular party approaching. a young lady in advance, attended by a gentleman; then another pair following, an older lady, leaning on the arm of a cavalier whom mrs. wishart recognized first of them all. she smiled to herself. "mrs. wishart!" julia caruthers exclaimed, as she came upon the verandah. "you _are_ here. that is delightful! mamma, here is mrs. wishart. but whatever did bring you here? i am reminded of captain cook's voyages, that i used to read when i was a child, and i fancy i have come to one of his savage islands; only i don't see the salvages. they will appear, perhaps. but i don't see anything else; cocoanut trees, or palms, or bananas, the tale of which used to make my mouth water. there are no trees here at all, that i can see, nor anything else. what brought you here, mrs. wishart? may i present mr. lenox?--what brought you here, mrs. wishart?" "what brought _you_ here?" was the smiling retort. the answer was prompt. "tom." mrs. wishart looked at tom, who came up and paid his respects in marked form; while his mother, as if exhausted, sank down on one of the chairs. "yes, it was tom," she repeated. "nothing would do for tom but the isles of shoals; and so, julia and i had to follow in his train. in my grandmother's days that would have been different. what is here, dear mrs. wishart, besides you? you are not alone?" "not quite. i have brought my little friend, lois lothrop, with me; and she thinks the isles of shoals the most charming place that was ever discovered, by captain cook or anybody else." "ah, she is here!" said mrs. caruthers dryly; while julia and mr. lenox exchanged glances. "much other company?" "not much; and what there is comes more from new hampshire than new york, i fancy." "ah!--and what else is here then, that anybody should come here for?" "i don't know yet. you must ask miss lothrop. yonder she comes. she has been exploring ever since five o'clock, i believe." "i suppose she is accustomed to get up at that hour," remarked the other, as if the fact involved a good deal of disparagement. and then they were all silent, and watched lois, who was slowly and unconsciously approaching her reviewers. her hands were again full of different gleanings from the wonderful wilderness in which she had been exploring; and she came with a slow step, still busy with them as she walked. her hat had fallen back a little; the beautiful hair was a trifle disordered, showing so only the better its rich abundance and exquisite colour; the face it framed and crowned was fair and flushed, intent upon her gains from rock and meadow--for there was a little bit of meadow ground at appledore;--and so happy in its sweet absorption, that an involuntary tribute of homage to its beauty was wrung from the most critical. lois walked with a light, steady step; her careless bearing was free and graceful; her dress was not very fashionable, but entirely proper for the place; all eyes consented to this, and then all eyes came back to the face. it was so happy, so pure, so unconscious and unshadowed; the look was of the sort that one does not see in the assemblies of the world's pleasure-seekers; nor ever but in the faces of heaven's pleasure-finders. she was a very lovely vision, and somehow all the little group on the piazza with one consent kept silence, watching her as she came. she drew near with busy, pleased thoughts, and leisurely happy steps, and never looked up till she reached the foot of the steps leading to the piazza. nor even then; she had picked up her skirt and mounted several steps daintily before she heard her name and raised her eyes. then her face changed. the glance of surprise, it is true, was immediately followed by a smile of civil greeting; but the look of rapt happiness was gone; and somehow nobody on the piazza felt the change to be flattering. she accepted quietly tom's hand, given partly in greeting, partly to assist her up the last steps, and faced the group who were regarding her. "how delightful to find you here, miss lothrop!" said julia,--"and how strange that people should meet on the isles of shoals." "why is it strange?" "o, because there is really nothing to come here for, you know. i don't know how we happen to be here ourselves.--mr. lenox, miss lothrop.--what have you found in this desert?" "you have been spoiling appledore?" added tom. "i don't think i have done any harm," said lois innocently. "there is enough more, mr. caruthers." "enough of what?" tom inquired, while julia and her friend exchanged a swift glance again, of triumph on the lady's part. "there is a shell," said lois, putting one into his hand. "i think that is pretty, and it certainly is odd. and what do you say to those white violets, mr. caruthers? and here is some very beautiful pimpernel--and here is a flower that i do not know at all,--and the rest is what you would call rubbish," she finished with a smile, so charming that tom could not see the violets for dazzled eyes. "show me the flowers, tom," his mother demanded; and she kept him by her, answering her questions and remarks about them; while julia asked where they could be found. "i find them in quite a good many places," said lois; "and every time it is a sort of surprise. i gathered only a few; i do not like to take them away from their places; they are best there." she said a word or two to mrs. wishart, and passed on into the house. "that's the girl," julia said in a low voice to her lover, walking off to the other end of the verandah with him. "tom might do worse," was the reply. "george! how can you say so? a girl who doesn't know common english!" "she might go to school," suggested lenox. "to school! at her age! and then, think of her associations, and her ignorance of everything a lady should be and should know. o you men! i have no patience with you. see a face you like, and you lose your wits at once, the best of you. i wonder you ever fancied me!" "tastes are unaccountable," the young man returned, with a lover-like smile. "but do you call that girl pretty?" mr. lenox looked portentously grave. "she has handsome hair," he ventured. "hair! what's hair! anybody can have handsome hair, that will pay for it." "she has not paid for hers." "no, and i don't mean that tom shall. now george, you must help. i brought you along to help. tom is lost if we don't save him. he must not be left alone with this girl; and if he gets talking to her, you must mix in and break it up, make love to her yourself, if necessary. and we must see to it that they do not go off walking together. you must help me watch and help me hinder. will you?" "really, i should not be grateful to anyone who did _me_ such kind service." "but it is to save tom." "save him! from what?" "from a low marriage. what could be worse?" "adjectives are declinable. there is low, lower, lowest." "well, what could be lower? a poor girl, uneducated, inexperienced, knowing nobody, brought up in the country, and of no family in particular, with nothing in the world but beautiful hair! tom ought to have something better than that." "i'll study her further, and then tell you what i think." "you are very stupid to-day, george!" nobody got a chance to study lois much more that day. seeing that mrs. wishart was for the present well provided with company, she withdrew to her own room; and there she stayed. at supper she appeared, but silent and reserved; and after supper she went away again. next morning lois was late at breakfast; she had to run a gauntlet of eyes, as she took her seat at a little distance. "overslept, lois?" queried mrs. wishart. "miss lothrop looks as if she never had been asleep, nor ever meant to be," quoth tom. "what a dreadful character!" said miss julia. "pray, miss lothrop, excuse him; the poor boy means, i have no doubt, to be complimentary." "not so bad, for a beginner," remarked mr. lenox. "ladies always like to be thought bright-eyed, i believe." "but never to sleep!" said julia. "imagine the staring effect." "_you_ are complimentary without effort," tom remarked pointedly. "lois, my dear, have you been out already?" mrs. wishart asked. lois gave a quiet assent and betook herself to her breakfast. "i knew it," said tom. "morning air has a wonderful effect, if ladies would only believe it. they won't believe it, and they suffer accordingly." "another compliment!" said miss julia, laughing. "but what do you find, miss lothrop, that can attract you so much before breakfast? or after breakfast either, for that matter?" "before breakfast is the best time in the twenty-four hours," said lois. "pray, for what?" "if _you_ were asked, you would say, for sleeping," put in tom. "for what, miss lothrop? tom, you are troublesome." "for doing what, do you mean?" said lois. "i should say, for anything; but i was thinking of enjoying." "we are all just arrived," mr. lenox began; "and we are slow to believe there is anything to enjoy at the isles. will miss lothrop enlighten us?" "i do not know that i can," said lois. "you might not find what i find." "what do you find?" "if you will go out with me to-morrow morning at five o'clock, i will show you," said lois, with a little smile of amusement, or of archness, which quite struck mr. lenox and quite captivated tom. "five o'clock!" the former echoed. "perhaps he would not then see what you see," julia suggested. "perhaps not," said lois. "i am by no means sure." she was let alone after that; and as soon as breakfast was over she escaped again. she made her way to a particular hiding-place she had discovered, in the rocks, down near the shore; from which she had a most beautiful view of the sea and of several of the other islands. her nook of a seat was comfortable enough, but all around it the rocks were piled in broken confusion, sheltering her, she thought, from any possible chance comer. and this was what lois wanted; for, in the first place, she was minded to keep herself out of the way of the newly-arrived party, each and all of them; and, in the second place, she was intoxicated with the delights of the ocean. perhaps i should say rather, of the ocean and the rocks and the air and the sky, and of everything at appledore, where she sat, she had a low brown reef in sight, jutting out into the sea just below her; and upon this reef the billows were rolling and breaking in a way utterly and wholly entrancing. there was no wind, to speak of, yet there was much more motion in the sea than yesterday; which often happens from the effect of winds that have been at work far away; and the breakers which beat and foamed upon that reef, and indeed upon all the shore, were beyond all telling graceful, beautiful, wonderful, mighty, and changeful. lois had been there to see the sunrise; now that fairy hour was long past, and the day was in its full bright strength; but still she sat spellbound and watched the waves; watched the colours on the rocks, the brown and the grey; the countless, nameless hues of ocean, and the light on the neighbouring islands, so different now from what they had been a few hours ago. now and then a thought or two went to the hotel and its new inhabitants, and passed in review the breakfast that morning. lois had taken scarce any part in the conversation; her place at table put her at a distance from mr. caruthers; and after those few first words she had been able to keep very quiet, as her wish was. but she had listened, and observed. well, the talk had not been, as to quality, one whit better than what shampuashuh could furnish every day; nay, lois thought the advantage of sense and wit and shrewdness was decidedly on the side of her country neighbours; while the staple of talk was nearly the same. a small sort of gossip and remark, with commentary, on other people and other people's doings, past, present, and to come. it had no interest whatever to lois's mind, neither subject nor treatment. but the _manner_ to-day gave her something to think about. the manner was different; and the manner not of talk only, but of all that was done. not so did shampuashuh discuss its neighbours, and not so did shampuashuh eat bread and butter. shampuashuh ways were more rough, angular, hurried; less quietness, less grace, whether of movement or speech; less calm security in every action; less delicacy of taste. it must have been good blood in lois which recognized all this, but recognize it she did; and, as i said, every now and then an involuntary thought of it came over the girl. she felt that she was unlike these people; not of their class or society; she was sure they knew it too, and would act accordingly; that is, not rudely or ungracefully making the fact known, but nevertheless feeling, and showing that they felt, that she belonged to a detached portion of humanity. or they; what did it matter? lois did not misjudge or undervalue herself; she knew she was the equal of these people, perhaps more than their equal, in true refinement of feeling and delicacy of perception; she knew she was not awkward in manner; yet she knew, too, that she had not their ease of habit, nor the confidence given by knowledge of the world and all other sorts of knowledge. her up-bringing and her surroundings had not been like theirs; they had been rougher, coarser, and if of as good material, of far inferior form. she thought with herself that she would keep as much out of their company as she properly could. for there was beneath all this consciousness an unrecognized, or at least unacknowledged, sense of other things in lois's mind; of mr. caruthers' possible feelings, his people's certain displeasure, and her own promise to her grandmother. she would keep herself out of the way; easy at appledore-- "have i found you, miss lothrop?" said a soft, gracious voice, with a glad accent. chapter xiv. watched. "have i found you, miss lothrop?" looking over her shoulder, lois saw the handsome features of mr. caruthers, wearing a smile of most undoubted satisfaction. and, to the scorn of all her previous considerations, she was conscious of a flush of pleasure in her own mind. this was not suffered to appear. "i thought i was where nobody could find me," she answered. "do you think there is such a place in the whole world?" said tom gallantly. meanwhile he scrambled over some inconvenient rocks to a place by her side. "i am very glad to find you, miss lothrop, both ways,--first at appledore, and then here." to this compliment lois made no reply. "what has driven you to this little out-of-the-way nook?" "you mean appledore?" "no, no! this very uncomfortable situation among the rocks here? what drove you to it?" "you think there is no attraction?" "i don't see what attraction there is here for you." "then you should not have come to appledore." "why not?" "there is nothing here for you." "ah, but! what is there for you? do you find anything here to like now, really?" "i have been down in this 'uncomfortable place' ever since near five o'clock--except while we were at breakfast." "what for?" "what for?" said lois, laughing. "if you ask, it is no use to tell you, mr. caruthers." "ah, be generous!" said tom. "i'm a stupid fellow, i know; but do try and help me a little to a sense of the beautiful. _is_ it the beautiful, by the way, or is it something else?" lois's laugh rang softly out again. she was a country girl, it is true; but her laugh was as sweet to hear as the ripple of the waters among the stones. the laugh of anybody tells very much of what he is, making revelations undreamt of often by the laugher. a harsh croak does not come from a mind at peace, nor an empty clangour from a heart full of sensitive happiness; nor a coarse laugh from a person of refined sensibilities, nor a hard laugh from a tender spirit. moreover, people cannot dissemble successfully in laughing; the truth comes out in a startling manner. lois's laugh was sweet and musical; it was a pleasure to hear. and tom's eyes said so. "i always knew i was a stupid fellow," he said; "but i never felt myself so stupid as to-day! what is it, miss lothrop?" "what is what, mr. caruthers?--i beg your pardon." "what is it you find in this queer place?" "i am afraid it is waste trouble to tell you." "good morning!" cried a cheery voice here from below them; and looking towards the water they saw mr. lenox, making his way as best he could over slippery seaweed and wet rocks. "hollo, george!" cried tom in a different tone--"what are you doing there?" "trying to keep out of the water, don't you see?" "to an ordinary mind, that object would seem more likely to be attained if you kept further away from it." "may i come up where you are?" "certainly!" said lois. "but take care how you do it." a little scrambling and the help of tom's hand accomplished the feat; and the new comer looked about him with much content. "you came the other way," he said. "i see. i shall know how next time. what a delightful post, miss lothrop!" "i have been trying to find what she came here for; and she won't tell me," said tom. "you know what you came here for," said his friend. "why cannot you credit other people with as much curiosity as you have yourself?" "i credit them with more," said tom. "but curiosity on appledore will find itself baffled, i should say." "depends on what curiosity is after," said lenox. "tell him, miss lothrop; he will not be any the wiser." "then why should i tell him?" said lois. "perhaps i shall!" lois's laugh came again. "seriously. if any one were to ask me, not only what we but what anybody should come to this place for, i should be unprepared with an answer. i am forcibly reminded of an old gentleman who went up mount washington on one occasion when i also went up. it came on to rain--a sudden summer gust and downpour, hiding the very mountain it self from our eyes; hiding the path, hiding the members of the party from each other. we were descending the mountain by that time, and it was ticklish work for a nervous person; every one was committed to his own sweet guidance; and as i went blindly stumbling along, i came every now and then upon the old gentleman, also stumbling along, on his donkey. and whenever i was near enough to him, i could hear him dismally soliloquizing, 'why am i here!'--in a tone of mingled disgust and self-reproach which was in the highest degree comical." "so that is your state of mind now, is it?" said tom. "not quite yet, but i feel it is going to be. unless miss lothrop can teach me something." "there are some things that cannot be taught," said lois. "and people--hey? but i am not one of those, miss lothrop." he looked at her with such a face of demure innocence, that lois could not keep her gravity. "now tom _is_," lenox went on. "you cannot teach him anything, miss lothrop. it would be lost labour." "i am not so stupid as you think," said tom. "he's not stupid--he's obstinate," lenox went on, addressing himself to lois. "he takes a thing in his head. now that sounds intelligent; but it isn't, or _he_ isn't; for when you try, you can't get it out of his head again. so he took it into his head to come to the isles of shoals, and hither he has dragged his mother and his sister, and hither by consequence he has dragged me. now i ask you, as one who can tell--what have we all come here for?" half-quizzically, half-inquisitively, the young man put the question, lounging on the rocks and looking up into lois's face. tom grew impatient. but lois was too humble and simple-minded to fall into the snare laid for her. i think she had a half-discernment of a hidden intent under mr. lenox's words; nevertheless in the simple dignity of truth she disregarded it, and did not even blush, either with consciousness or awkwardness. she was a little amused. "i suppose experience will have to be your teacher, as it is other people's." "i have heard so; i never saw anybody who had learned much that way." "come, george, that's ridiculous. learning by experience is proverbial," said tom. "i know!--but it's a delusion nevertheless. you sprain your ankle among these stones, for instance. well--you won't put your foot in that particular hole again; but you will in another. that's the way you do, tom. but to return--miss lothrop, what has experience done for you in the isles of shoals?" "i have not had much yet." "does it pay to come here?" "i think it does." "how came anybody to think of coming here at first? that is what i should like to know. i never saw a more uncompromising bit of barrenness. is there no desolation anywhere else, that men should come to the isles of shoals?" "there was quite a large settlement here once," said lois. "indeed! when?" "before the war of the revolution. there were hundreds of people; six hundred, somebody told me." "what became of them?" "well," said lois, smiling, "as that is more than a hundred years ago, i suppose they all died." "and their descendants?--" "living on the mainland, most of them. when the war came, they could not protect themselves against the english." "fancy, tom," said lenox. "people liked it so well on these rocks, that it took ships of war to drive them away!" "the people that live here now are just as fond of them, i am told." "what earthly or heavenly inducement?--" "yes, i might have said so too, the first hour of my being here, or the first day. the second, i began to understand it." "do make me understand it!" "if you will come here at five o'clock to-morrow, mr. leno--xin the morning, i mean,--and will watch the wonderful sunrise, the waking up of land and sea; if you will stay here then patiently till ten o'clock, and see the changes and the colours on everything--let the sea and the sky speak to you, as they will; then they will tell you--all you can understand!" "all i can understand. h'm! may i go home for breakfast?" "perhaps you must; but you will wish you need not." "will you be here?" "no," said lois. "i will be somewhere else." "but i couldn't stand such a long talk with myself as that," said the young man. "it was a talk with nature i recommended to you." "all the same. nature says queer things if you let her alone." "best listen to them, then." "why?" "she tells you the truth." "do you like the truth?" "certainly. of course. do not you?" "_always?_" "yes, always. do not you?" "it's fearfully awkward!" said the young man. "yes, isn't it?" tom echoed. "do you like falsehood, mr. lenox?" "i dare not say what i like--in this presence. miss lothrop, i am very much afraid you are a puritan." "what is a puritan?" asked lois simply. "he doesn't know!" said tom. "you needn't ask him." "i will ask you then, for i do not know. what does he mean by it?" "he doesn't know that," said lenox, laughing. "i will tell you, miss lothrop--if i can. a puritan is a person so much better than the ordinary run of mortals, that she is not afraid to let nature and solitude speak to her--dares to look roses in the face, in fact;--has no charity for the crooked ways of the world or for the people entangled in them; a person who can bear truth and has no need of falsehood, and who is thereby lifted above the multitudes of this world's population, and stands as it were alone." "i'll report that speech to julia," said tom, laughing. "but that is not what a 'puritan' generally means, is it?" said lois. they both laughed now at the quain't simplicity with which this was spoken. "that is what it _is_," tom answered. "i do not think the term is complimentary," lois went on, shaking her head, "however mr. lenox's explanation may be. isn't it ten o'clock?" "near eleven." "then i must go in." the two gentlemen accompanied her, making themselves very pleasant by the way. lenox asked her about flowers; and tom, who was some thing of a naturalist, told her about mosses and lichens, more than she knew; and the walk was too short for lois. but on reaching the hotel she went straight to her own room and stayed there. so also after dinner, which of course brought her to the company, she went back to her solitude and her work. she must write home, she said. yet writing was not lois's sole reason for shutting herself up. she would keep herself out of the way, she reasoned. probably this company of city people with city tastes would not stay long at appledore; while they were there she had better be seen as little as possible. for she felt that the sight of tom caruthers' handsome face had been a pleasure; and she felt--and what woman does not?--that there is a certain very sweet charm in being liked, independently of the question how much you like in return. and lois knew, though she hardly in her modesty acknowledged it to herself, that mr. caruthers liked her. eyes and smiles and manner showed it; she could not mistake it; nay, engaged man though he was, mr. lenox liked her too. she did not quite understand him or his manner; with the keen intuition of a true woman she felt vaguely what she did not clearly discern, and was not sure of the colour of his liking, as she was sure of tom's. tom's--it might not be deep, but it was true, and it was pleasant; and lois remembered her promise to her grandmother. she even, when her letter was done, took out her bible and opened it at that well-known place in nd corinthians; "be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers"--and she looked hard at the familiar words. then, said lois to herself, it is best to keep at a distance from temptation. for these people were unbelievers. they could not understand one word of christian hope or joy, if she spoke them. what had she and they in common? yet lois drew rather a long breath once or twice in the course of her meditations. these "unbelievers" were so pleasant. yes, it was an undoubted fact; they were pleasant people to be with and to talk to. they might not think with her, or comprehend her even, in the great questions of life and duty; in the lesser matters of everyday experience they were well versed. they understood the world and the things in the world, and the men; and they were skilled and deft and graceful in the arts of society. lois knew no young men,--nor old, for that matter,--who were, as gentlemen, as social companions, to be compared with these and others their associates in graces of person and manner, and interest of conversation. she went over again and again in memory the interview and the talk of that morning; and not without a secret thrill of gratification, although also not without a vague half perception of something in mr. lenox's manner that she could not quite read and did not quite trust. what did he mean? he was miss caruthers' property; how came he to busy himself at all with her own insignificant self? lois was too innocent to guess; at the same time too finely gifted as a woman to be entirely hoodwinked. she rose at last with a third little sigh, as she concluded that her best way was to keep as well away as she could from this pleasant companionship. but she could not stay in-doors. for once in her life she was at appledore; she must not miss her chance. the afternoon was half gone; the house all still; probably everybody was in his room, and she could slip out safely. she went down on soft feet; she found nobody on the piazza, not a creature in sight; she was glad; and yet, she would not have been sorry to see tom caruthers' genial face, which was always so very genial towards her. inconsistent!--but who is not inconsistent? lois thought herself free, and had half descended the steps from the verandah, when she heard a voice and her own name. she paused and looked round. "miss lothrop!--are you going for a walk? may i come with you?"--and therewith emerged the form of miss julia from the house. "are you going for a walk? will you let me go along?" "certainly," said lois. "i am regularly cast away here," said the young lady, joining her. "i don't know what to do with myself. _is_ there anything to do or to see in this place?" "i think so. plenty." "then do show me what you have found. where are you going?" "i am going down to the shore somewhere. i have only begun to find things yet; but i never in my life saw a place where there was so much to find." "what, pray? i cannot imagine. i see a little wild bit of ground, and that is all i see; except the sea beating on the rocks. it is the forlornest place of amusement i ever heard of in my life!" "are you fond of flowers, miss caruthers?" "flowers? no, not very. o, i like them to dress a dinner table, or to make rooms look pretty, of course; but i am not what you call 'fond' of them. that means, loving to dig in the dirt, don't it?" lois presently stooped and gathered a flower or two. "did yon ever see such lovely white violets?" she said; "and is not that eyebright delicate, with its edging of colour? there are quantities of flowers here. and have you noticed how deep and rich the colours are? no, you have not been here long enough perhaps; but they are finer than any i ever saw of their kinds." "what do you find down at the shore?" said miss caruthers, looking very disparagingly at the slight beauties in lois's fingers. "there are no flowers there, i suppose?" "i can hardly get away from the shore, every time i go to it," said lois. "o, i have only begun to explore yet. over on that end of appledore there are the old remains of a village, where the people used to live, once upon a time. i want to go and see that, but i haven't got there yet. now take care of your footing, miss caruthers--" they descended the rocks to one of the small coves of the island. out of sight now of all save rocks and sea and the tiny bottom of the cove filled with mud and sand. even the low bushes which grow so thick on appledore were out of sight, huckleberry and bayberry and others; the wildness and solitude of the spot were perfect. miss caruthers found a dry seat on a rock. lois began to look carefully about in the mud and sand. "what are you looking for?" her companion asked, somewhat scornfully. "anything i can find!" "what can you find in that mud?" "_this_ is gravel, where i am looking now." "well, what is in the gravel?" "i don't know," said lois, in the dreamy tone of rapt enjoyment. "i don't know yet. plenty of broken shells." "broken shells!" ejaculated the other. "are you collecting broken shells?" "look," said lois, coming to her and displaying her palm full of sea treasures. "see the colours of those bits of shell--that's a bit of a mussel; and that is a piece of a snail shell, i think; and aren't those little stones lovely?" "that is because they are wet!" said the other in disgust. "they will be nothing when they are dry." lois laughed and went back to her search; and miss julia waited awhile with impatience for some change in the programme. "do you enjoy this, miss lothrop?" "very much! more than i can in any way tell you!" cried lois, stopping and turning to look at her questioner. her face answered for her; it was all flushed and bright with delight and the spirit of discovery; a pretty creature indeed she looked as she stood there on the wet gravel of the cove; but her face lost brightness for a moment, as lois discerned tom's head above the herbs and grasses that bordered the bank above the cove. julia saw the change, and then the cause of it. "tom!" said she, "what brought you here?" "what brought you, i suppose," said mr. tom, springing down the bank. "miss lothrop, what can you be doing?" passing his sister he went to the other girl's side. and now there were _two_ searching and peering into the mud and gravel which the tide had left wet and bare; and miss caruthers, sitting on a rock a little above them, looked on; much marvelling at the follies men will be guilty of when a pretty face draws them on. "tom--tom!--what do you expect to find?" she cried after awhile. but tom was too busy to heed her. and then appeared mr. lenox upon the scene. "you too!" said miss caruthers. "now you have only to go down into the mud like the others and complete the situation. look at tom! poking about to see if he can find a whole snail shell in the wet stuff there. look at him! george, a brother is the most vexatious thing to take care of in the world. look at tom!" mr. lenox did, with an amused expression of feature. "bad job, julia," he said. "it is in one way, but it isn't in another, for i am not going to be baffled. he shall not make a fool of himself with that girl." "she isn't a fool." "what then?" said julia sharply. "nothing. i was only thinking of the materials upon which your judgment is made up." "materials!" echoed julia. "yours is made up upon a nice complexion. that bewilders all men's faculties. do _you_ think she is very pretty, george?" mr. lenox had no time to answer, for lois, and of course tom, at this moment left the cove bottom and came towards them. lois was beaming, like a child, with such bright, pure pleasure; and coming up, showed upon her open palm a very delicate little white shell, not a snail shell by any means. "i have found that!" she proclaimed. "what is that?" said julia disdainfully, though not with rudeness. "you see. isn't it beautiful? and isn't it wonderful that it should not be broken? if you think of the power of the waves here, that have beat to pieces almost everything--rolled and ground and crushed everything that would break--and this delicate little thing has lived through it." "there is a power of life in some delicate things," said tom. "power of fiddlestick!" said his sister. "miss lothrop, i think this place is a terrible desert!" "then we will not stay here any longer," said lois. "i am very fond of these little coves." "no, no, i mean appledore generally. it is the stupidest place i ever was in in my life. there is nothing here." lois looked at the lady with an expression of wondering compassion. "your experience does not agree with that of miss caruthers?" said lenox. "no," said lois. "let us take her to the place where you found me this morning; maybe she would like that." "we must go, i suppose," groaned julia, as mr. lenox helped her up over the rocks after the lighter-footed couple that preceded them. "george, i believe you are in the way." "thanks!" said the young man, laughing. "but you will excuse me for continuing to be in the way." "i don't know--you see, it just sets tom free to attend to her. look at him--picking those purple irises--as if iris did not grow anywhere else! and now elderberry blossoms! and he will give her lessons in botany, i shouldn't wonder. o, tom's a goose!" "that disease is helpless," said lenox, laughing again. "but george, it is madness!" mr. lenox's laugh rang out heartily at this. his sovereign mistress was not altogether pleased. "i do certainly consider--and so do you,--i do certainly consider unequal marriages to be a great misfortune to all concerned." "certainly--inequalities that cannot be made up. for instance, too tall and too short do not match well together. or for the lady to be rich and the man to be poor; that is perilous." "nonsense, george! don't be ridiculous! height is nothing, and money is nothing; but family--and breeding--and habits--" "what is her family?" asked mr. lenox, pursing up his lips as if for a whistle. "no family at all. just country people, living at shampuashuh." "don't you know, the english middle class is the finest in the world?" "no! no better than ours." "my dear, we have no middle class." "but what about the english middle class? why do you bring it up?" "it owes its great qualities to its having the mixed blood of the higher and the lower." "ridiculous! what is that to us, if we have no middle class? but don't you _see_, george, what an unhappy thing it would be for tom to marry this girl?" mr. lenox whistled slightly, smiled, and pulled a purple iris blossom from a tuft growing in a little spot of wet ground. he offered it to his disturbed companion. "there is a country flower for you," he observed. but miss caruthers flung the flower impatiently away, and hastened her steps to catch up with her brother and lois, who made better speed than she. mr. lenox picked up the iris and followed, smiling again to himself. they found lois seated in her old place, where the gentlemen had seen her in the morning. she rose at once to give the seat to miss caruthers, and herself took a less convenient one. it was almost a new scene to lois, that lay before them now. the lights were from a different quarter; the colours those of the sinking day; the sea, from some inexplicable reason, was rolling higher than it had done six hours ago, and dashed on the rocks and on the reef in beautiful breakers, sending up now and then a tall jet of foam or a shower of spray. the hazy mainland shore line was very indistinct under the bright sky and lowering sun; while every bit of west-looking rock, and every sail, and every combing billow was touched with warm hues or gilded with a sharp reflection. the air was like the air nowhere but at the isles of shoals; with the sea's salt strength and freshness, and at times a waft of perfumes from the land side. lois drank it with an inexpressible sense of exhilaration; while her eye went joyously roving from the lovely light on a sail, to the dancing foam of the breakers, to the colours of driftwood or seaweed or moss left wet and bare on the rocks, to the line of the distant ocean, or the soft vapoury racks of clouds floating over from the west. she well-nigh forgot her companions altogether; who, however, were less absorbed. yet for a while they all sat silent, looking partly at lois, partly at each other, partly no doubt at the leaping spray from the broken waves on the reef. there was only the delicious sound of the splash and gurgle of waters--the scream of a gull--the breath of the air--the chirrup of a few insects; all was wild stillness and freshness and pureness, except only that little group of four human beings. and then, the puzzled vexation and perplexity in tom's face, and the impatient disgust in the face of his sister, were too much for mr. lenox's sense of the humorous; and the silence was broken by a hearty burst of laughter, which naturally brought all eyes to himself. "pardon!" said the young gentleman. "the delight in your face, julia, was irresistible." "delight!" she echoed. "miss lothrop, do you find something here in which you take pleasure?" lois looked round. "yes," she said simply. "i find something everywhere to take pleasure in." "even at shampuashuh?" "at shampuashuh, of course. that is my home." "but i never take pleasure in anything at home. it is all such an old story. every day is just like any other day, and i know beforehand exactly how everything will be; and one dress is like another, and one party is like another. i must go away from home to get any real pleasure." lois wondered if she succeeded. "that's a nice look-out for you, george," caruthers remarked. "i shall know how to make home so agreeable that she will not want to wander any more," said the other. "that is what the women do for the men, down our way," said lois, smiling. she began to feel a little mischief stirring. "what sort of pleasures do you find, or make, at home, miss lothrop?" julia went on. "you are very quiet, are you not?" "there is always one's work," said lois lightly. she knew it would be in vain to tell her questioner the instances that came up in her memory; the first dish of ripe strawberries brought in to surprise her grandmother; the new potatoes uncommonly early; the fine yield of her raspberry bushes; the wonderful beauty of the early mornings in her garden; the rarer, sweeter beauty of the bible reading and talk with old mrs. armadale; the triumphant afternoons on the shore, from which she and her sisters came back with great baskets of long clams; and countless other visions of home comfort and home peace, things accomplished and the fruit of them enjoyed. miss caruthers could not understand all this; so lois answered simply, "there is always one's work." "work! i hate work," cried the other woman. "what do you call work?" "everything that is to be done," said lois. "everything, except what we do for mere pleasure. we keep no servant; my sisters and i do all that there is to do, in doors and out." "_out_--of--doors!" cried miss caruthers. "what do you mean? you cannot do the farming?" "no," said lois, smiling merrily; "no; not the farming. that is done by men. but the gardening i do." "not seriously?" "very seriously. if you will come and see us, i will give you some new potatoes of my planting. i am rather proud of them. i was just thinking of them." "planting potatoes!" repeated the other lady, not too politely. "then _that_ is the reason why you find it a pleasure to sit here and see those waves beat." the logical concatenation of this speech was not so apparent but that it touched all the risible nerves of the party; and miss caruthers could not understand why all three laughed so heartily. "what did you expect when you came here?" asked lois, still sparkling with fun. "just what i found!" returned the other rather grumbly. chapter xv. tactics. miss caruthers carried on the tactics with which she had begun. lois had never in her life found her society so diligently cultivated. if she walked out, miss caruthers begged to be permitted to go along; she wished to learn about the islands. lois could not see that she advanced much in learning; and sometimes wondered that she did not prefer her brother or her lover as instructors. true, her brother and her lover were frequently of the party; yet even then miss julia seemed to choose to take her lessons from lois; and managed as much as possible to engross her. lois could see that at such times tom was often annoyed, and mr. lenox amused, at something, she could not quite tell what; and she was too inexperienced, and too modest withal, to guess. she only knew that she was not as free as she would have liked to be. sometimes tom found a chance for a little walk and talk with her alone; and those quarters of an hour were exceedingly pleasant; tom told her about flowers, in a scientific way, that is; and made himself a really charming companion. those minutes flew swiftly. but they never were many. if not julia, at least mr. lenox was sure to appear upon the scene; and then, though he was very pleasant too, and more than courteous to lois, somehow the charm was gone. it was just as well, lois told herself; but that did not make her like it. except with tom, he did not enjoy herself thoroughly in the caruthers society. she felt, with a sure, secret, fine instinct, what they were not high-bred enough to hide;--that they did not accept her as upon their own platform. i do not think the consciousness was plain enough to be put into words; nevertheless it was decided enough to make her quite willing to avoid their company. she tried, but she could not avoid it. in the house as out of the house. tom would seek her out and sit down beside her; and then julia would come to learn a crochet stitch, or mrs. caruthers would call her to remedy a fault in her knitting, or to hold her wool to be wound; refusing to let mr. lenox hold it, under the plea that lois did it better; which was true, no doubt. or mr. lenox himself would join them, and turn everything tom said into banter; till lois could not help laughing, though yet she was vexed. so days went on. and then something happened to relieve both parties of the efforts they were making; a very strange thing to happen at the isles of shoals. mrs. wishart was taken seriously ill. she had not been quite well when she came; and she always afterwards maintained that the air did not agree with her. lois thought it could not be the air, and must be some imprudence; but however it was, the fact was undoubted. mrs. wishart was ill; and the doctor who was fetched over from portsmouth to see her, said she could not be moved, and must be carefully nursed. was it the air? it couldn't be the air, he answered; nobody ever got sick at the isles of shoals. was it some imprudence? couldn't be, he said; there was no way in which she could be imprudent; she could not help living a natural life at appledore. no, it was something the seeds of which she had brought with her; and the strong sea air had developed it. reasoning which lois did not understand; but she understood nursing, and gave herself to it, night and day. there was a sudden relief to miss julia's watch and ward; nobody was in danger of saying too many words to lois now; nobody could get a chance; she was only seen by glimpses. "how long is this sort of thing going on?" inquired mr. lenox one afternoon. he and julia had been spending a very unrefreshing hour on the piazza doing nothing. "impossible to say." "i'm rather tired of it. how long has mrs. wishart been laid up now?" "a week; and she has no idea of being moved." "well, are we fixtures too?" "you know what i came for, george. if tom will go, i will, and thankful." "tom," said the gentleman, as tom at this minute came out of the house, "have you got enough of appledore?" "i don't care about appledore. it's the fishing." tom, i may remark, had been a good deal out in a fishing-boat during this past week. "that's glorious." "but you don't care for fishing, old boy." "o, don't i!" "no, not a farthing. seriously, don't you think we might mend our quarters?" "you can," said tom. "of course i can't go while mrs. wishart is sick. i can't leave those two women alone here to take care of themselves. you can take julia and my mother away, where you like." "and a good riddance," muttered lenox, as the other ran down the steps and went off. "he won't stir," said julia. "you see how right i was." "are you sure about it?" "why, of course i am! quite sure. what are you thinking about?" "just wondering whether you might have made a mistake." "a mistake! how? i don't make mistakes." "that's pleasant doctrine! but i am not so certain. i have been thinking whether tom is likely ever to get anything better." "than this girl? george, don't you think he _deserves_ something better? my brother? what are you thinking of?" "tom has got an enormous fancy for her; i can see that. it's not play with him. and upon my honour, julia, i do not think she would do any thing to wear off the fancy." "not if she could help it!" returned julia scornfully. "she isn't a bit of a flirt." "you think that is a recommendation? men like flirts. this girl don't know how, that is all." "i do not believe she knows how to do anything wrong." "now do set up a discourse in praise of virtue! what if she don't? that's nothing to the purpose. i want tom to go into political life." "a virtuous wife wouldn't hurt him there." "and an ignorant, country-bred, untrained woman wouldn't help him, would she?" "tom will never want help in political life, for he will never go into it. well, i have said my say, and resign myself to appledore for two weeks longer. only, mind you, i question if tom will ever get anything as good again in the shape of a wife, as you are keeping him from now. it is something of a responsibility to play providence." the situation therefore remained unchanged for several days more. mrs. wishart needed constant attention, and had it; and nobody else saw lois for more than the merest snatches of time. i think lois made these moments as short as she could. tom was in despair, but stuck to his post and his determination; and with sighs and groans his mother and sister held fast to theirs. the hotel at appledore made a good thing of it. then one day tom was lounging on the piazza at the time of the steamer's coming in from portsmouth; and in a short time thereafter a new guest was seen advancing towards the hotel. tom gave her a glance or two; he needed no more. she was middle-aged, plain, and evidently not from that quarter of the world where mr. tom caruthers was known. neatly dressed, however, and coming with an alert, business step over the grass, and so she mounted to the piazza. there she made straight for tom, who was the only person visible. "is this the place where a lady is lying sick and another lady is tendin' her?" "that _is_ the case here," said tom politely. "miss lothrop is attending upon a sick friend in this house." "that's it--miss lothrop. i'm her aunt. how's the sick lady? dangerous?" "not at all, i should say," returned tom; "but miss lothrop is very much confined with her. she will be very glad to see you, i have no doubt. allow me to see about your room." and so saying, he would have relieved the new comer of a heavy handbag. "never mind," she said, holding fast. "you're very obliging--but when i'm away from home i always hold fast to whatever i've got; and i'll go to miss lothrop's room. are there more folks in the house?" "certainly. several. this way--i will show you." "then i s'pose there's plenty to help nurse, and they have no call for me?" "i think miss lothrop has done the most of the nursing. your coming will set her a little more at liberty. she has been very much confined with her sick friend." "what have the other folks been about?" "not helping much, i am afraid. and of course a man is at a disadvantage at such a time." "are they all men?" inquired mrs. marx suddenly. "no--i was thinking of my own case. i would have been very glad to be useful." "o!" said the lady. "that's the sort o' world we live in; most of it ain't good for much when it comes to the pinch. thank you--much obliged." tom had guided her up-stairs and along a gallery, and now indicated the door of lois's room. lois was quite as glad to see her aunt as tom had supposed she would be. "aunty!--whatever has brought you here, to the isles of shoals?" "not to see the isles, you may bet. i've come to look after you." "why, i'm well enough. but it's very good of you." "no, it ain't, for i wanted an excuse to see what the place is like. you haven't grown thin yet. what's all the folks about, that they let you do all the nursing?" "o, it comes to me naturally, being with mrs. wishart. who should do it?" "to be sure," said mrs. marx; "who should do it? most folks are good at keepin' out o' the way when they are wanted. there's one clever chap in the house--he showed me the way up here; who's he?" "fair hair?" "yes, and curly. a handsome fellow. and he knows you." "o, they all know me by this time." "this one particularly?" "well--i knew him in new york." "i see! what's the matter with this sick woman?" "i don't know. she is nervous, and feverish, and does not seem to get well as she ought to do." "well, if i was going to get sick, i'd choose some other place than a rock out in the middle of the ocean. _seems_ to me i would. one never knows what one may be left to do." "one cannot generally choose where one will be sick," said lois, smiling. "yes, you can," said the other, as sharp as a needle. "if one's in the wrong place, one can keep up till one can get to the right one. you needn't tell me. i know it, and i've done it. i've held up when i hadn't feet to stand upon, nor a head to hold. if you're a mind to, you can. nervous, eh? that's the trouble o' folks that haven't enough to do. mercy! i don't wonder they get nervous. but you've had a little too much, lois, and you show it. now, you go and lie down. i'll look after the nerves." "how are they all at home?" "splendid! charity goes round like a bee in a bottle, as usual. ma's well; and madge is as handsome as ever. garden's growin' up to weeds, and i don't see as there's anybody to help it; but that corner peach tree's ripe, and as good as if you had fifteen gardeners." "it's time i was home!" said lois, sighing. "no, it ain't,--not if you're havin' a good time here. _are_ you havin' a good time?" "why, i've been doing nothing but take care of mrs. wishart for this week past." "well, now i'm here. you go off. do you like this queer place, i want to know?" "aunty, it is just perfectly delightful!" "is it? i don't see it. maybe i will by and by. now go off, lois." mrs. marx from this time took upon herself the post of head nurse. lois was free to go out as much as she pleased. yet she made less use of this freedom than might have been expected, and still confined herself unnecessarily to the sick-room. "why don't you go?" her aunt remonstrated. "seems to me you ain't so dreadful fond of the isles of shoals after all." "if one could be alone!" sighed lois; "but there is always a pack at my heels." "alone! is that what you're after? i thought half the fun was to see the folks." "well, some of them," said lois. "but as sure as i go out to have a good time with the rocks and the sea, as i like to have it, there comes first one and then another and then another, and maybe a fourth; and the game is up." "why? i don't see how they should spoil it." "o, they do not care for the things i care for; the sea is nothing to them, and the rocks less than nothing; and instead of being quiet, they talk nonsense, or what seems nonsense to me; and i'd as lieve be at home." "what do they go for then?" "i don't know. i think they do not know what to do with themselves." "what do they stay here for, then, for pity's sake? if they are tired, why don't they go away?" "i can't tell. that is what i have asked myself a great many times. they are all as well as fishes, every one of them." mrs. marx held her peace and let things go their train for a few days more. mrs. wishart still gave her and lois a good deal to do, though her ailments aroused no anxiety. after those few days, mrs. marx spoke again. "what keeps you so mum?" she said to lois. "why don't you talk, as other folks do?" "i hardly see them, you know, except at meals." "why don't you talk at meal times? that's what i am askin' about. you can talk as well as anybody; and you sit as mum as a stick." "aunty, they all talk about things i do not understand." "then i'd talk of something _they_ don't understand. two can play at that game." "it wouldn't be amusing," said lois, laughing. "do you call _their_ talk amusing? it's the stupidest stuff i ever did hear. i can't make head or tail of it; nor i don't believe they can. sounds to me as if they were tryin' amazin' hard to be witty, and couldn't make it out." "it sounds a good deal like that," lois assented. "they go on just as if you wasn't there!" "and why shouldn't they?" "because you are there." "i am nothing to them," said lois quietly. "nothing to them! you are worth the whole lot." "they do not think so." "and politeness is politeness." "i sometimes think," said lois, "that politeness is rudeness." "well, i wouldn't let myself be put in a corner so, if i was you." "but i am in a corner, to them. all the world is where _they_ live; and i live in a little corner down by shampuashuh." "nobody's big enough to live in more than a corner--if you come to that; and one corner's as good as another. that's nonsense, lois." "maybe, aunty. but there is a certain knowledge of the world, and habit of the world, which makes some people very different from other people; you can't help that." "i don't want to help it?" said mrs. marx. "i wouldn't have you like them, for all the black sheep in my flock." chapter xvi. mrs. marx's opinion. a few more days went by; and then mrs. wishart began to mend; so much that she insisted her friends must not shut themselves up with her. "do go down-stairs and see the people!" she said; "or take your kind aunt, lois, and show her the wonders of appledore. is all the world gone yet?" "nobody's gone," said mrs. marx; "except one thick man and one thin one; and neither of 'em counts." "are the caruthers here?" "every man of 'em." "there is only one man of them; unless you count mr. lenox." "i don't count him. i count that fair-haired chap. all the rest of 'em are stay in' for him." "staying for him!" repeated mrs. wishart. "that's what they say. they seem to take it sort o' hard, that tom's so fond of appledore." mrs. wishart was silent a minute, and then she smiled. "he spends his time trollin' for blue fish," mrs. marx went on. "ah, i dare say. do go down, mrs. marx, and take a walk, and see if he has caught anything." lois would not go along; she told her aunt what to look for, and which way to take, and said she would sit still with mrs. wishart and keep her amused. at the very edge of the narrow valley in which the house stood, mrs. marx came face to face with tom caruthers. tom pulled off his hat with great civility, and asked if he could do anything for her. "well, you can set me straight, i guess," said the lady. "lois told me which way to go, but i don't seem to be any wiser. where's the old dead village? south, she said; but in such a little place south and north seems all alike. _i_ don' know which is south." "you are not far out of the way," said tom. "let me have the pleasure of showing you. why did you not bring miss lothrop out?" "best reason in the world; i couldn't. she would stay and see to mrs. wishart." "that's the sort of nurse i should like to have take care of me," said tom, "if ever i was in trouble." "ah, wouldn't you!" returned mrs. marx. "that's a kind o' nurses that ain't in the market. look here, young man--where are we going?" "all right," said tom. "just round over these rocks. the village was at the south end of the island, as miss lois said. i believe she has studied up appledore twice as much as any of the rest of us." it was a fresh, sunny day in september; everything at appledore was in a kind of glory, difficult to describe in words, and which no painter ever yet put on canvas. there was wind enough to toss the waves in lively style; and when the two companions came out upon the scene of the one-time settlement of appledore, all brilliance of light and air and colour seemed to be sparkling together. under this glory lay the ruins and remains of what had been once homes and dwelling-places of men. grass-grown cellar excavations, moss-grown stones and bits of walls; little else; but a number of those lying soft and sunny in the september light. soft, and sunny, and lonely; no trace of human habitation any longer, where once human activity had been in full play. silence, where the babble of voices had been; emptiness, where young feet and old feet had gone in and out; barrenness, where the fruits of human industry had been busily gathered and dispensed. something in the quiet, sunny scene stilled for a moment the not very sensitive spirits of the two who had come to visit it; while the sea waves rose and broke in their old fashion, as they had done on those same rocks in old time, and would do for generation after generation yet to come. that was always the same. it made the contrast greater with what had passed and was passing away. "there was a good many of 'em."--mrs. marx' voice broke the pause which had come upon the talk. "quite a village," her companion assented. "why ain't they here now?" "dead and gone?" suggested tom, half laughing. "of course! i mean, why ain't the village here, and the people? the people are somewhere--the children and grandchildren of those that lived here; what's become of 'em?" "that's true," said tom; "they are somewhere. i believe they are to be found scattered along the coast of the mainland." "got tired o' livin' between sea and sky with no ground to speak of. well, i should think they would!" "miss lothrop says, on the contrary, that they never get tired of it, the people who live here; and that nothing but necessity forced the former inhabitants to abandon appledore." "what sort of necessity?" "too exposed, in the time of the war." "ah! likely. well, we'll go, mr. caruthers; this sort o' thing makes me melancholy, and that' against my principles to be." yet she stood still, looking. "miss lothrop likes this place," tom remarked. "then it don't make her melancholy." "does anything?" "i hope so. she's human." "but she seems to me always to have the sweetest air of happiness about her, that ever i saw in a human being." "have you got where you can see _air?_" inquired mrs. marx sharply. tom laughed. "i mean, that she finds something everywhere to like and to take pleasure in. now i confess, this bit of ground, full of graves and old excavations, has no particular charms for me; and my sister will not stay here a minute." "and what does lois find here to delight her? "everything!" said tom with enthusiasm. "i was with her the first time she came to this corner of the island,--and it was a lesson, to see her delight. the old cellars and the old stones, and the graves; and then the short green turf that grows among them, and the flowers and weeds--what _i_ call weeds, who know no better--but miss lois tried to make me see the beauty of the sumach and all the rest of it." "and she couldn't!" said mrs. marx. "well, i can't. the noise of the sea, and the sight of it, eternally breaking there upon the rocks, would drive me out of my mind, i believe, after a while." and yet mrs. marx sat down upon a turfy bank and looked contentedly about her. "mrs. marx," said tom suddenly, "you are a good friend of miss lothrop, aren't you?" "try to be a friend to everybody. i've counted sixty-six o' these old cellars!" "i believe there are more than that. i think miss lothrop said seventy." "she seems to have told you a good deal." "i was so fortunate as to be here alone with her. miss lothrop is often very silent in company." "so i observe," said mrs. marx dryly. "i wish you'd be my friend too!" said tom, now taking a seat by her side. "you said you are a friend of everybody." "that is, of everybody who needs me," said mrs. marx, casting a side look at tom's handsome, winning countenance. "i judge, young man, that ain't your case." "but it is, indeed!" "maybe," said mrs. marx incredulously. "go on, and let's hear." "you will let me speak to you frankly?" "don't like any other sort." "and you will answer me also frankly?" "i don't know," said the lady, "but one thing i can say, if i've got the answer, i'll give it to you." "i don't know who should," said tom flatteringly, "if not you. i thought i could trust you, when i had seen you a few times." "maybe you won't think so after to-day. but go on. what's the business?" "it is very important business," said tom slowly; "and it concerns--miss lothrop." "you have got hold of me now," said lois's aunt. "i'll go into the business, you may depend upon it. what _is_ the business?" "mrs. marx, i have a great admiration for miss lothrop." "i dare say. so have some other folks." "i have had it for a long while. i came here because i heard she was coming. i have lost my heart to her, mrs. marx." "ah!--what are you going to do about it? or what can _i_ do about it? lost hearts can't be picked up under every bush." "i want you to tell me what i shall do." "what hinders your making up your own mind?" "it is made up!--long ago." "then act upon it. what hinders you? i don't see what i have got to do with that." "mrs. marx, do you think she would have me if i asked her? as a friend, won't you tell me?" "i don't see why i should,--if i knew,--which i don't. i don't see how it would be a friend's part. why should i tell you, supposin' i could? she's the only person that knows anything about it." tom pulled his moustache right and left in a worried manner. "have you asked her?" "haven't had a ghost of a chance, since i have been here!" cried the young man; "and she isn't like other girls; she don't give a fellow a bit of help." mrs. marx laughed out. "i mean," said tom, "she is so quiet and steady, and she don't talk, and she don't let one see what she thinks. i think she must know i like her--but i have not the least idea whether she likes me." "the shortest way would be to ask her." "yes, but you see i can't get a chance. miss lothrop is always up-stairs in that sick-room; and if she comes down, my sister or my mother or somebody is sure to be running after her." "besides you," said mrs. marx. "yes, besides me." "perhaps they don't want to let you have her all to yourself." "that's the disagreeable truth!" said tom in a burst of vexed candour. "perhaps they are afraid you will do something imprudent if they do not take care." "that's what they call it, with their ridiculous ways of looking at things. mrs. marx, i wish people had sense." "perhaps they are right. perhaps they _have_ sense, and it would be imprudent." "why? mrs. marx, i am sure _you_ have sense. i have plenty to live upon, and live as i like. there is no difficulty in my case about ways and means." "what is the difficulty, then?" "you see, i don't want to go against my mother and sister, unless i had some encouragement to think that miss lothrop would listen to me; and i thought--i hoped--you would be able to help me." "how can i help you?" "tell me what i shall do." "well, when it comes to marryin'," said mrs. marx, "i always say to folks, if you can live and get along without gettin' married--don't!" "don't get married?" "just so," said mrs. marx. "don't get married; not if you can live without." "you to speak so!" said tom. "i never should have thought, mrs. marx, you were one of that sort." "what sort?" "the sort that talk against marriage." "i don't!--only against marryin' the wrong one; and unless it's somebody that you can't live without, you may be sure it ain't the right one." "how many people in the world do you suppose are married on that principle?" "everybody that has any business to be married at all," responded the lady with great decision. "well, honestly, i don't feel as if i could live without miss lothrop. i've been thinking about it for months." "i wouldn't stay much longer in that state," said mrs. marx, "if i was you. when people don' know whether they're goin' to live or die, their existence ain't much good to 'em." "then you think i may ask her?" "tell me first, what would happen if you did--that is, supposin' she said yes to you, about which i don't know anything, no more'n the people that lived in these old cellars. what would happen if you did? and if she did?" "i would make her happy, mrs. marx!" "yes," said the lady slowly--"i guess you would; for lois won't say yes to anybody _she_ can live without; and i've a good opinion of your disposition; but what would happen to other people?" "my mother and sister, you mean?" "them, or anybody else that's concerned." "there is nobody else concerned," said tom, idly defacing the rocks in his neighbourhood by tearing the lichen from them. and mrs. marx watched him, and patiently waited. "there is no sense in it!" he broke out at last. "it is all folly. mrs. marx, what is life good for, but to be happy?" "just so," assented mrs. marx. "and haven't i a right to be happy in my own way?" "if you can." "so i think! i will ask miss lothrop if she will have me, this very day. i'm determined." "but i said, _if you can_. happiness is somethin' besides sugar and water. what else'll go in?" "what do you mean?" asked tom, looking at her. "suppose you're satisfied, and suppose _she's_ satisfied. will everybody else be?" tom went at the rocks again. "it's my affair--and hers," he said then. "and what will your mother and sister say?" "julia has chosen for herself." "i should say, she has chosen very well. does she like your choice." "mrs. marx," said the poor young man, leaving the lichens, "they bother me to death!" "ah? how is that?" "always watching, and hanging around, and giving a fellow no chance for his life, and putting in their word. they call themselves very wise, but i think it is the other thing." "they don't approve, then?" "i don't want to marry money!" cried tom; "and i don't care for fashionable girls. i'm tired of 'em. lois is worth the whole lot. such absurd stuff! and she is handsomer than any girl that was in town last winter." "they want a fashionable girl," said mrs. marx calmly. "well, you see," said tom, "they live for that. if an angel was to come down from heaven, they would say her dress wasn't cut right, and they wouldn't ask her to dinner!" "i don't suppose they'd know how to talk to her either, if they did," said mrs. marx. "it would be uncomfortable--for them; i don't suppose an angel can be uncomfortable. but lois ain't an angel. i guess you'd better give it up, mr. caruthers." tom turned towards her a dismayed kind of look, but did not speak. "you see," mrs. marx went on, "things haven't gone very far. lois is all right; and you'll come back to life again. a fish that swims in fresh water couldn't go along very well with one that lives in the salt. that's how i look at it. lois is one sort, and you're another. i don't know but both sorts are good; but they are different, and you can't make 'em alike." "i would never want her to be different!" burst out tom. "well, you see, she ain't your sort exactly," mrs. marx added, but not as if she were depressed by the consideration. "and then, lois is religious." "you don't think that is a difficulty? mrs. marx, i am not a religious man myself; at least i have never made any profession; but i assure you i have a great respect for religion." "that is what folks say of something a great way off, and that they don't want to come nearer." "my mother and sister are members of the church; and i should like my wife to be, too." "why?" "i told you, i have a great respect for religion; and i believe in it especially for women." "i don't see why what's good for them shouldn't be good for you." "that need be no hindrance," tom urged. "well, i don' know. i guess lois would think it was. and maybe you would think it was, too,--come to find out. i guess you'd better let things be, mr. caruthers." tom looked very gloomy. "you think she would not have me?" he repeated. "i think you will get over it," said mrs. marx, rising. "and i think you had better find somebody that will suit your mother and sister." and after that time, it may be said, mrs. marx was as careful of lois on the one side as mrs. and miss caruthers were of tom on the other. two or three more days passed away. "how _is_ mrs. wishart?" miss julia asked one afternoon. "first-rate," answered mrs. marx. "she's sittin' up. she'll be off and away before you know it." "will you stay, mrs. marx, to help in the care of her, till she is able to move?" "came for nothin' else." "then i do not see, mother, what good we can do by remaining longer. could we, mrs. marx?" "nothin', but lose your chance o' somethin' better, i should say." "tom, do you want to do any more fishing? aren't you ready to go?" "whenever you like," said tom gloomily. chapter xvii. tom's decision. the caruthers family took their departure from appledore. "well, we have had to fight for it, but we have saved tom," julia remarked to mr. lenox, standing by the guards and looking back at the islands as the steamer bore them away. "saved!--" "yes!" she said decidedly,--"we have saved him." "it's a responsibility," said the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders. "i am not clear that you have not 'saved' tom from a better thing than he'll ever find again." "perhaps _you'd_ like her!" said miss julia sharply. "how ridiculous all you men are about a pretty face!" the remaining days of her stay in appledore lois roved about to her heart's content. and yet i will not say that her enjoyment of rocks and waves was just what it had been at her first arrival. the island seemed empty, somehow. appledore is lovely in september and october; and lois sat on the rocks and watched the play of the waves, and delighted herself in the changing colours of sea, and sky, and clouds, and gathered wild-flowers, and picked up shells; but there was somehow very present to her the vision of a fair, kindly, handsome face, and eyes that sought hers eagerly, and hands that were ready gladly with any little service that there was room to render. she was no longer troubled by a group of people dogging her footsteps; and she found now that there had been, however inopportune, a little excitement in that. it was very well they were gone, she acknowledged; for mr. caruthers _might_ have come to like her too well, and that would have been inconvenient; and yet it is so pleasant to be liked! upon the sober humdrum of lois's every day home life, tom caruthers was like a bit of brilliant embroidery; and we know how involuntarily the eyes seek out such a spot of colour, and how they return to it. yes, life at home was exceedingly pleasant, but it was a picture in grey; this was a dash of blue and gold. it had better be grey, lois said to herself; life is not glitter. and yet, a little bit of glitter on the greys and browns is so delightful. well, it was gone. there was small hope now that anything so brilliant would ever illuminate her quiet course again. lois sat on the rocks and looked at the sea, and thought about it. if they, tom and his friends, had not come to appledore at all, her visit would have been most delightful; nay, it had been most delightful, whether or no; but--this and her new york experience had given lois a new standard by which to measure life and men. from one point of view, it is true, the new lost in comparison with the old. tom and his people were not "religious." they knew nothing of what made her own life so sweet; they had not her prospects or joys in looking on towards the far future, nor her strength and security in view of the trials and vicissitudes of earth and time. she had the best of it; as she joyfully confessed to herself, seeing the glorious breaking waves and watching the play of light on them, and recalling cowper's words-- "my father made them all!" but there remained another aspect of the matter which raised other feelings in the girl's mind. the difference in education. those people could speak french, and mr. caruthers could speak spanish, and mr. lenox spoke german. whether well or ill, lois did not know; but in any case, how many doors, in literature and in life, stood open to them; which were closed and locked doors to her! and we all know, that ever since bluebeard's time--i might go back further, and say, ever since eve's time--eve's daughters have been unable to stand before a closed door without the wish to open it. the impulse, partly for good, partly for evil, is incontestable. lois fairly longed to know what tom and his sister knew in the fields of learning. and there were other fields. there was a certain light, graceful, inimitable habit of the world and of society; familiarity with all the pretty and refined ways and uses of the more refined portions of society; knowledge and practice of proprieties, as the above-mentioned classes of the world recognize them; which all seemed to lois greatly desirable and becoming. nay, the said "proprieties" and so forth were not always of the most important kind; miss caruthers could be what lois considered coolly rude, upon occasion; and her mother could be carelessly impolite; and mr. lenox could be wanting in the delicate regard which a gentleman should show to a lady; "i suppose," thought lois, "he did not think i would know any better." in these things, these essential things, some of the farmers of shampuashuh and their wives were the peers at least, if not the superiors, of these fine ladies and gentlemen. but in lesser things! these people knew how to walk gracefully, sit gracefully, eat gracefully. their manner and address in all the little details of life, had the ease, and polish, and charm which comes of use, and habit, and confidence. the way mr. lenox and tom would give help to a lady in getting over the rough rocks of appledore; the deference with which they would attend to her comfort and provide for her pleasure; the grace of a bow, the good breeding of a smile; the ease of action which comes from trained physical and practised mental nature; these and a great deal more, even the details of dress and equipment which are only possible to those who know how, and which are instantly seen to be excellent and becoming, even by those who do not know how; all this had appealed mightily to lois's nature, and raised in her longings and regrets more or less vague, but very real. all that, she would like to have. she wanted the familiarity with books, and also the familiarity with the world, which some people had; the secure _à plomb_ and the easy facility of manner which are so imposing and so attractive to a girl like lois. she felt that to these people life was richer, larger, wider than to her; its riches more at command; the standpoint higher from which to take a view of the world; the facility greater which could get from the world what it had to give. and it was a closed door before which lois stood. truly on her side of the door there was very much that she had and they had not; she knew that, and did not fail to recognize it and appreciate it. what was the lord's beautiful creation to them? a place to kill time in, and get rid of it as fast as possible. the ocean, to them, was little but a great bath-tub; or a very inconvenient separating medium, which prevented them from going constantly to paris and rome. to judge by all that appeared, the sky had no colours for them, and the wind no voices, and the flowers no speech. and as for the bible, and the hopes and joys which take their source there, they knew no more of it _so_ than if they had been mahometans. they took no additional pleasure in the things of the natural world, because those things were made by a hand that they loved. poor people! and lois knew they were poor; and yet--she said to herself, and also truly, that the possession of her knowledge would not be lessened by the possession of _theirs_. and a little pensiveness mingled for a few days with her enjoyment of appledore. meanwhile mrs. wishart was getting well. "so they have all gone!" she said, a day or two after the caruthers party had taken themselves away. "yes, and appledore seems, you can't think how lonely," said lois. she had just come in from a ramble. "you saw a great deal of them, dear?" "quite a good deal. did you ever see such bright pimpernel? isn't it lovely?" "i don't understand how tom could get away." "i believe he did not want to go." "why didn't you keep him?" "i!" said lois with an astonished start. "why should i keep him, mrs. wishart?" "because he likes you so much." "does he?" said lois a little bitterly. "yes! don't you like him? how do you like him, lois?" "he is nice, mrs. wishart. but if you ask me, i do not think he has enough strength of character." "if tom has let them carry him off against his will, he _is_ rather weak." lois made no answer. had he? and had they done it? a vague notion of what might be the truth of the whole transaction floated in and out of her mind, and made her indignant. whatever one's private views of the danger may be, i think no one likes to be taken care of in this fashion. of course tom caruthers was and could be nothing to her, lois said to herself; and of course she could be nothing to him; but that his friends should fear the contrary and take measures to prevent it, stirred her most disagreeably. yes; if things had gone _so_, then tom certainly was weak; and it vexed her that he should be weak. very inconsistent, when it would have occasioned her so much trouble if he had been strong! but when is human nature consistent? altogether this visit to appledore, the pleasure of which began so spicily, left rather a flat taste upon her tongue; and she was vexed at that. there was another person who probably thought tom weak, and who was curious to know how he had come out of this trial of strength with his relations; but mr. dillwyn had wandered off to a distance, and it was not till a month later that he saw any of the caruthers. by that time they were settled in their town quarters for the winter, and there one evening he called upon them. he found only julia and her mother. "by the way," said he, when the talk had rambled on for a while, "how did you get on at the isles of shoals?" "we had an awful time," said julia. "you cannot conceive of anything so slow." "how long did you stay?" "o, ages! we were there four or five weeks. imagine, if you can. nothing but sea and rocks, and no company!" "no company! what kept you there?" "o, tom!" "what kept tom?" "mrs. wishart got sick, you see, and couldn't get away, poor soul! and that made her stay so long." "and you had to stay too, to nurse her?" "no, nothing of that. miss lothrop was there, and she did the nursing; and then a ridiculous aunt of hers came to help her." "you staid for sympathy?" "don't be absurd, philip! you know we were kept by tom. we could not get him away." "what made tom want to stay?" "o, that girl." "how did you get him away at last?" "just because we stuck to him. no other way. he would undoubtedly have made a fool of himself with that girl--he was just ready to do it--but we never left him a chance. george and i, and mother, we surrounded him," said julia, laughing; "we kept close by him; we never left them alone. tom got enough of it at last, and agreed, very melancholy, to come away. he is dreadfully in the blues yet." "you have a good deal to answer for, julia." "now, don't, philip! that's what george says. it is _too_ absurd. just because she has a pretty face. all you men are bewitched by pretty faces." "she has a good manner, too." "manner? she has no manner at all; and she don't know anything, out of her garden. we have saved tom from a great danger. it would be a terrible thing, perfectly _terrible_, to have him marry a girl who is not a lady, nor even an educated woman." "you think you could not have made a lady of her?" "mamma, do hear philip! isn't he too bad? just because that girl has a little beauty. i wonder what there is in beauty, it turns all your heads! mamma, do you hear mr. dillwyn? he wishes we had let tom have his head and marry that little gardening girl." "indeed i do not," said philip seriously. "i am very glad you succeeded in preventing it but allow me to ask if you are sure you _have_ succeeded? is it quite certain tom will not have his head after all? he may cheat you yet." "o no! he's very melancholy, but he has given it up. if he don't, we'll take him abroad in the spring. i think he has given it up. his being melancholy looks like it." "true. i'll sound him when i get a chance." the chance offered itself very soon; for tom came in, and when dillwyn left the house, tom went to walk with him. they sauntered along fifth avenue, which was pretty full of people still, enjoying the mild air and beautiful starlight. "tom, what did you do at the isles of shoals?" mr. dillwyn asked suddenly. "did a lot of fishing. capital trolling." "all your fishing done on the high seas, eh?" "all my successful fishing." "what was the matter? not a faint heart?" "no. it's disgusting, the whole thing!" tom broke out with hearty emphasis. "you don't like to talk about it? i'll spare you, if you say so." "i don't care what you do to me," said tom; "and i have no objection to talk about it--to you." nevertheless he stopped. "have you changed your mind?" "i shouldn't change my mind, if i lived to be as old as methuselah!" "that's right. well, then,--the thing is going on?" "it _isn't_ going on! and i suppose it never will!" "had the lady any objection? i cannot believe that." "i don't know," said tom, with a big sigh. "i almost think she hadn't; but i never could find that out." "what hindered you, old fellow?" "my blessed relations. julia and mother made such a row. i wouldn't have minded the row neither; for a man must marry to please himself and not his mother; and i believe no man ever yet married to please his sister; but, philip, they didn't give me a minute. i could never join her anywhere, but julia would be round the next corner; or else george would be there before me. george must put his oar in; and between them they kept it up." "and you think she liked you?" tom was silent a while. "well," said he at last, "i won't swear; for you never know where a woman is till you've got her; but if she didn't, all i have to say is, signs aren't good for anything." it was philip now who was silent, for several minutes. "what's going to be the upshot of it?" "o, i suppose i shall go abroad with julia and george in the spring, and end by taking an orthodox wife some day; somebody with blue blood, and pretension, and nothing else. my people will be happy, and the family name will be safe." "and what will become of her?" "o, she's all right. she won't break her heart about me. she isn't that sort of girl," tom caruthers said gloomily. "do you know, i admire her immensely, philip! i believe she's good enough for anything. maybe she's too good. that's what her aunt hinted." "her aunt! who's she?" "she's a sort of a snapping turtle. a good sort of woman, too. i took counsel with her, do you know, when i found it was no use for me to try to see lois. i asked her if she would stand my friend. she was as sharp as a fish-hook, and about as ugly a customer; and she as good as told me to go about my business." "did she give reasons for such advice?" "o yes! she saw through julia and mother as well as i did; and she spoke as any friend of lois would, who had a little pride about her. i can't blame her." silence fell again, and lasted while the two young men walked the length of several blocks. then mr. dillwyn began again. "tom, there ought to be no more shilly-shallying about this matter." "no _more!_ yes, you're right. i ought to have settled it long ago, before julia and mother got hold of it. that's where i made a mistake." "and you think it too late?" tom hesitated. "it's too late. i've lost my time. _she_ has given me up, and mother and julia have set their hearts that i should give her up. i am not a match for them. is a man ever a match for a woman, do you think, dillwyn, if she takes something seriously in hand?" "will you go to europe next spring?" "perhaps. i suppose so." "if you do, perhaps i will join the party--that is, if you will all let me." so the conversation went over into another channel. chapter xviii. mr. dillwyn's plan. two or three evenings after this, philip dillwyn was taking his way down the avenue, not up it. he followed it down to nearly its lower termination, and turned up into clinton place, where he presently run up the steps of a respectable but rather dingy house, rang the bell, and asked for mrs. barclay. the room where he awaited her was one of those dismal places, a public parlour in a boarding-house of second or third rank. respectable, but forlorn. nothing was ragged or untidy, but nothing either had the least look of home comfort or home privacy. as to home elegance, or luxury, the look of such a room is enough to put it out of one's head that there can be such things in the world. the ugly ingrain carpet, the ungraceful frame of the small glass in the pier, the abominable portraits on the walls, the disagreeable paper with which they were hung, the hideous lamps on the mantelpiece;--wherever the eye looked, it came back with uneasy discomfort. philip's eye came back to the fire; and _that_ was not pleasant to see; for the fireplace was not properly cared for, the coals were lifeless, and evidently more economical than useful. philip looked very out of place in these surroundings. no one could for a moment have supposed him to be living among them. his thoroughly well-dressed figure, the look of easy refinement in his face, the air of one who is his own master, so inimitable by one whose circumstances master him; all said plainly that mr. dillwyn was here only on account of some one else. it could be no home of his. as little did it seem fitted to be the home of the lady who presently entered. a tall, elegant, dignified woman; in the simplest of dresses, indeed, which probably bespoke scantiness of means, but which could not at all disguise or injure the impression of high breeding and refinement of manners which her appearance immediately produced. she was a little older than her visitor, yet not much; a woman in the prime of life she would have been, had not life gone hard with her; and she had been very handsome, though the regular features were shadowed with sadness, and the eyes had wept too many tears not to have suffered loss of their original brightness. she had the slow, quiet manner of one whose life is played out; whom the joys and sorrows of the world have both swept over, like great waves, and receding, have left the world a barren strand for her; where the tide is never to rise again. she was a sad-eyed woman, who had accepted her sadness, and could be quietly cheerful on the surface of it. always, at least, as far as good breeding demanded. she welcomed mr. dilhvyn with a smile and evident genuine pleasure. "how do i find you?" he said, sitting down. "quite well. where have you been all summer? i need not ask how _you_ are." "useless things always thrive," he said. "i have been wandering about among the mountains and lakes in the northern part of maine." "that is very wild, isn't it?" "therein lies its charm." "there are not roads and hotels?" "the roads the lumberers make. and i saw one hotel, and did not want to see any more." "how did you find your way?" "i had a guide--an indian, who could speak a little english." "no other company?" "rifle and fishing-rod." "good work for them there, i suppose?" "capital. moose, and wild-fowl, and fish, all of best quality. i wished i could have sent you some." "thank you for thinking of me. i should have liked the game too." "are you comfortable here?" he asked, lowering his voice. just then the door opened; a man's head was put in, surveyed the two people in the room, and after a second's deliberation disappeared again. "you have not this room to yourself?" inquired dilhvyn. "o no. it is public property." "then we may be interrupted?" "at any minute. do you want to talk to me, '_unter vier augen_'?" "i want no more, certainly. yes, i came to talk to you; and i cannot, if people keep coming in." a woman's head had now shown itself for a moment. "i suppose in half an hour there will be a couple of old gentlemen here playing backgammon. i see a board. have you not a corner to yourself?" "i have a corner," she said, hesitating; "but it is only big enough to hold me. however, if you will promise to make no remarks, and to 'make believe,' as the children say, that the place is six times as large as it is, i will, for once take you to it. i would take no one else." "the honour will not outweigh the pleasure," said dillwyn as he rose. "but why must i put such a force upon my imagination?" "i do not want you to pity me. do you mind going up two flights of stairs?" "i would not mind going to the top of st. peter's!" "the prospect will be hardly like that." she led the way up two flights of stairs. at the top of them, in the third story, she opened the door of a little end room, cut off the hall. dillwyn waited outside till she had found her box of matches and lit a lamp; then she let him come in and shut the door. it was a little bit of a place indeed, about six feet by twelve. a table, covered with books and papers, hanging shelves with more books, a work-basket, a trunk converted into a divan by a cushion and chintz cover, and a rocking-chair, about filled the space. dillwyn took the divan, and mrs. barclay the chair. dillwyn looked around him. "i should never dream of pitying the person who can be contented here," he said. "why?" "the mental composition must be so admirable! i suppose you have another corner, where to sleep?" "yes," she said, smiling; "the other little room like this at the other end of the hall. i preferred this arrangement to having one larger room where i must sit and sleep both. old habits are hard to get rid of. now tell me more about the forests of maine. i have always had a curiosity about that portion of the country." he did gratify her for a while; told of his travels, and camping out; and of his hunting and fishing; and of the lovely scenery of the lakes and hills. he had been to the summit of mount kataydin, and he had explored the waters in 'birches;' and he told of odd specimens of humanity he had found on his way; but after a while of this talk philip came suddenly back to his starting point. "mrs. barclay, you are not comfortable here?" "as well as i can expect," she said, in her quiet, sad manner. the sadness was not obtrusive, not on the surface; it was only the background to everything. "but it is not comfort. i am not insulting you with pity, mind; but i am thinking. would you not like better to be in the country? in some pleasant place?" "you do not call this a pleasant place?" she said, with her faint smile. "now i do. when i get up here, and shut the door, i am my own mistress." "would you not like the country?" "it is out of my reach, philip. i must do something, you know, to keep even this refuge." "i think you said you would not be averse to doing something in the line of giving instruction?" "if i had the right pupils. but there is no chance of that. there are too many competitors. the city is overstocked." "we were talking of the country." "yes, but it is still less possible in the country. i could not find _there_ the sort of teaching i could do. all requisitions of that sort, people expect to have met in the city; and they come to the city for it," "i do not speak with certain'ty," said philip, "but i _think_ i know a place that would suit you. good air, pleasant country, comfortable quarters, and moderate charges. and if you went _there_, there is work." "where is it?" "on the connecticut shore--far down the sound. not too far from new york, though; perfectly accessible." "who lives there?" "it is a new england village, and you know what those are. broad grassy streets, and shadowy old elms, and comfortable houses; and the sea not far off. quiet, and good air, and people with their intelligence alive. there is even a library." "and among these comfortable inhabitants, who would want to be troubled with me?" "i think i know. i think i know just the house, where your coming would be a boon. they are _not_ very well-to-do. i have not asked, but i am inclined to believe they would be glad to have you." "who are they?" "a household of women. the father and mother are dead; the grandmother is there yet, and there are three daughters. they are relations of an old friend of mine, indeed a connection of mine, in the city. so i know something about them." "not the people themselves?" "yes, i know the people,--so far as one specimen goes. i fancy they are people you could get along with." mrs. barclay looked a little scrutinizingly at the young man. his face revealed nothing, more than a friendly solicitude. but he caught the look, and broke out suddenly with a change of subject. "how do you women get along without cigars? what is your substitute?" "what does the cigar, to you, represent?" "soothing and comforting of the nerves--aids to thought--powerful helps to good humour--something to do--" "there! now you have it. philip you are talking nonsense. your nerves are as steady and sound as a granite mountain; you can think without help of any extraneous kind; your good-humour is quite as fair as most people's; but--you do want something to do! i cannot bear to have you waste your life in smoke, be it never so fragrant." "what would you have me do?" "anything! so you were hard at work, and _doing_ work." "there is nothing for me to do." "that cannot be," said she, shaking her head. "propose something." "you have no need to work for yourself," she said; "so it must be for other people. say politics." "if ever there was anything carried on purely for selfish interests, it is the business you name." "the more need for some men to go into it _not_ for self, but for the country." "it's a maelstrom; one would be sure to get drawn in. and it is a dirty business. you know the proverb about touching pitch." "it need not be so, philip." "it brings one into disgusting contact and associations. my cigar is better." "it does nobody any good except the tobacconist. and, philip, it helps this habit of careless letting everything go, which you have got into." "i take care of myself, and of my money," he said. "men ought to live for more than to take care of themselves." "i was just trying to take care of somebody else, and you head me off! you should encourage a fellow better. one must make a beginning. and i _would_ like to be of use to somebody, if i could." "go on," she said, with her faint smile again. "how do you propose that i shall meet the increased expenditures of your connecticut paradise?" "you would like it?" he said eagerly. "i cannot tell. but if the people are as pleasant as the place--it would be a paradise. still, i cannot afford to live in paradise, i am afraid." "you have only heard half my plan. it will cost you nothing. you have heard only what you are to get--not what you are to give." "let me hear. what am i to give?" "the benefits of your knowledge of the world, and knowledge of literature, and knowledge of languages, to two persons who need and are with out them all." "'two persons.' what sort of persons?" "two of the daughters i spoke of." mrs. barclay was silent a minute, looking at him. "whose plan is this?" "your humble servant's. as i said, one must make a beginning; and this is my beginning of an attempt to do good in the world." "how old are these two persons?" "one of them, about eighteen, i judge. the other, a year or two older." "and they wish for such instruction?" "i believe they would welcome it. but they know nothing about the plan--and must not know," he added very distinctly, meeting mrs. barclay's eyes with praiseworthy steadiness. "what makes you think they would be willing to pay for my services, then? or, indeed, how could they do it?" "they are not to do it. they are to know nothing whatever about it. they are not able to pay for any such advantages. here comes in the benevolence of my plan. you are to do it for _me_, and i am to pay the worth of the work; which i will do to the full. it will much more than meet the cost of your stay in the house. you can lay up money," he said, smiling. "phil," said mrs. barclay, "what is behind this very odd scheme?" "i do not know that anything--beyond the good done to two young girls, and the good done to you." "it is not that," she said. "this plan never originated in your regard for my welfare solely." "no. i had an eye to theirs also." "_only_ to theirs and mine, phil?" she asked, bending a keen look upon him. he laughed, and changed his position, but did not answer. "philip, philip, what is this?" "you may call it a whim, a fancy, a notion. i do not know that anything will ever come of it. i could wish there might--but that is a very cloudy and misty château en espagne, and i do not much look at it. the present thing is practical. will you take the place, and do what you can for these girls?" "what ever put this thing in your head?" "what matter, if it is a good thing?" "i must know more about it. who are these people?" "connections of mrs. wishart. perfectly respectable." "_what_ are they, then?" "country people. they belong, i suppose, to the farming population of a new england village. that is very good material." "certainly--for some things. how do they live--by keeping boarders?" "nothing of the kind! they live, i suppose,--i don't know how they live; and i do not care. they live as farmers, i suppose. but they are poor." "and so, without education?" "which i am asking you to supply." "phil, you are interested in one of these girls?" "didn't i tell you i was interested in both of them?" he said, laughing. and he rose now, and stood half leaning against the door of the little room, looking down at mrs. barclay; and she reviewed him. he looked exactly like what he was; a refined and cultivated man of the world, with a lively intelligence in full play, and every instinct and habit of a gentleman. mrs. barclay looked at him with a very grave face. "philip, this is a very crazy scheme!" she said, after a minute or two of mutual consideration. "i cannot prove it anything else," he said lightly. "time must do that." "i do not think time will do anything of the kind. what time does ordinarily, is to draw the veil off the follies our passions and fancies have covered up." "true; and there is another work time some times does. he sometimes draws forth a treasure from under the encumbering rubbish that hid it, and lets it appear for the gold it is." "philip, you have never lost your heart to one of these girls?" said mrs. barclay, with an expression of real and grave anxiety. "not exactly." "but your words mean that." "they are not intended to convey any such meaning. why should they?" "because if they do not mean that, your plan is utterly wild and extravagant. and if they do--" "what then?" "_then_ it would be far more wild and extravagant. and deplorable." "see there the inconsistency of you good people!" said mr. dillwyn, still speaking lightly. "a little while ago you were urging me to make myself useful. i propose a way, in which i want your co-operation, calculated to be highly beneficial in a variety of ways,--and i hit upon hindrances directly." "philip, it isn't that. i cannot bear to think of your marrying a woman unworthy of you." "i still less!" he assured her, with mock gravity. "and that is what you are thinking of. a woman without education, without breeding, without knowledge of the world, without _anything_, that could make her a fit companion for you. philip, give this up!" "not my plan," said he cheerfully. "the rest is all in your imagination. what you have to do, if you will grant my prayer, is to make this little country girl the exact opposite of all that. you will do it, won't you?" "where will you be?" "not near, to trouble you. probably in europe. i think of going with the caruthers in the spring." "what makes you think this girl wants--i mean, desires--education?" "if she does not, then the fat's in the fire, that's all." "i did not know you were so romantic, before." "romantic! could anything be more practical? and i think it will be so good for you, in that sea air." "i would rather never smell the sea air, if this is going to be for your damage. does the girl know you are an admirer of hers?" "she hardly knows i am in the world! o yes, she has seen me, and i have talked with her; by which means i come to know that labour spent on her will not be spent in vain. but of me _she_ knows nothing." "after talking with you!" said mrs. barclay. "what else is she? handsome?" "perhaps i had better let you judge of that. i could never marry a mere pretty face, i think. but there is a wonderful charm about this creature, which i do not yet understand. i have never been able to find out what is the secret of it." "a pretty face and a pink cheek!" said mrs. barclay, with half a groan. "you are all alike, you men! now we women--philip, is the thing mutual already? does she think of you as you think of her?" "she does not think of me at all," said he, sitting down again, and facing mrs. barclay with an earnest face. "she hardly knows me. her attention has been taken up, i fancy, with another suitor." "another suitor! you are not going to be quixote enough to educate a wife for another man?" "no," said he, half laughing. "the other man is out of the way, and makes no more pretension." "rejected? and how do you know all this so accurately?" "because he told me. now have you done with objections?" "philip, this is a very blind business! you may send me to this place, and i may do my best, and you may spend your money,--and at the end of all, she may marry somebody else; or, which is quite on the cards, you may get another fancy." "well," said he, "suppose it. no harm will be done. as i never had any fancy whatever before, perhaps your second alternative is hardly likely. the other i must risk, and you must watch against." mrs. barclay shook her head, but the end was, she yielded. chapter xix. news. november had come. it was early in the month still; yet, as often happens, the season was thoroughly defined already. later, perhaps, some sweet relics or reminders of october would come in, or days of the soberer charm which october's successor often brings; but just now, a grey sky and a brown earth and a wind with no tenderness in it banished all thought of such pleasant times. the day was dark and gloomy. so the fire which burned bright in the kitchen of mrs. armadale's house showed particularly bright, and its warm reflections were exceedingly welcome both to the eye and to the mind. it was a wood fire, in an open chimney, for mrs. armadale would sit by no other; and i call the place the kitchen, for really a large portion of the work of the kitchen was done there; however, there was a stove in an adjoining room, which accommodated most of the boilers and kettles in use, while the room itself was used for all the "mussy" work. nevertheless, it was only upon occasion that fire was kindled in that outer room, economy in fuel forbidding that two fires should be all the while kept going. in the sitting-room kitchen, then, this november afternoon, the whole family were assembled. the place was as nice as a pin, and as neat as if no work were ever done there. all the work of the day, indeed, was over; and even miss charity had come to sit down with the rest, knitting in hand. they had all changed their dresses and put off their big aprons, and looked unexceptionably nice and proper; only, it is needless to say, with no attempt at a fashionable appearance. their gowns were calico; collars and cuffs of plain linen; and the white aprons they all wore were not fine nor ornamented. only the old lady, who did no housework any longer, was dressed in a stuff gown, and wore an apron of black silk. charity, as i said, was knitting; so was her grandmother. madge was making more linen collars. lois sat by her grandmother's chair, for the minute doing nothing. "what do you expect to do for a bonnet, lois?" charity broke the silence. "or i either?" put in madge. "or you yourself, charity? we are all in the same box." "i wish our hats were!" said the elder sister. "i have not thought much about it," lois answered. "i suppose, if necessary, i shall wear my straw." "then you'll have nothing to wear in the summer! it's robbing peter to pay paul." "well," said lois, smiling,--"if paul's turn comes first. i cannot look so long ahead as next summer." "it'll be here before you can turn round," said charity, whose knitting needles flew without her having any occasion to watch them. "and then, straw is cold in winter." "i can tie a comforter over my ears." "that would look poverty-stricken." "i suppose," said madge slowly, "that is what we are. it looks like it, just now." "'the lord maketh poor and maketh rich,'" mrs. armadale said. "yes, mother," said charity; "but our cow died because she was tethered carelessly." "and our hay failed because there was no rain," madge added. "and our apples gave out because they killed themselves with bearing last year." "you forget, child, it is the lord 'that giveth rain, both the former and the latter, in his season.'" "but he _didn't_ give it, mother; that's what i'm talking about; neither the former _nor_ the latter; though what that means, i'm sure i don't know; we have it all the year round, most years." "then be contented if a year comes when he does not send it." "grandmother, it'll do for you to talk; but what are we girls going to do without bonnets?" "do without," said lois archly, with the gleam of her eye and the arch of her pretty brow which used now and then to bewitch poor tom caruthers. "we have hardly apples to make sauce of," charity went on. "if it had been a good year, we could have got our bonnets with our apples, nicely. now, i don't see where they are to come from." "don't wish for what the lord don't send, child," said mrs. armadale. "o mother! that's a good deal to ask," cried charity. "it's very well for you, sitting in your arm-chair all the year round; but we have to put our heads out; and for one, i'd rather have something on them. lois, haven't you got anything to do, that you sit there with your hands in your lap?" "i am going to the post-office," said lois, rising; "the train's in. i heard the whistle." the village street lay very empty, this brown november day; and so, to lois's fancy, lay the prospect of the winter. even so; brown and lightless, with a chill nip in the air that dampened rather than encouraged energy. she was young and cheery-tempered; but perhaps there was a shimmer yet in her memory of the colours on the isles of shoals; at any rate the village street seemed dull to her and the day forbidding. she walked fast, to stir her spirits. the country around shampuashuh is flat; never a hill or lofty object of any kind rose upon her horizon to suggest wider look-outs and higher standing-points than her present footing gave her. the best she could see was a glimpse of the distant connecticut, a little light blue thread afar off; and i cannot tell why, what she thought of when she saw it was tom caruthers. i suppose tom was associated in her mind with any wider horizon than shampuashuh street afforded. anyhow, mr. caruthers' handsome face came be fore her; and a little, a very little, breath of regret escaped her, because it was a face she would see no more. yet why should she wish to see it? she asked herself. mr. caruthers could be nothing to her; he _never_ could be anything to her; for he knew not and cared not to know either the joys or the obligations of religion, in which lois's whole life was bound up. however, though he could be nothing to her, lois had a woman's instinctive perception that she herself was, or had been, something to him; and that is an experience a simple girl does not easily forget. she had a kindness for him, and she was pretty sure he had more than a kindness for her, or would have had, if his sister had let him alone. lois went back to her appledore experiences, revolving and studying them, and understanding them a little better now, she thought, than at the time. at the time she had not understood them at all. it was just as well! she said to herself. she could never have married him. but why did his friends not want him to marry her? she was in the depths of this problem when she arrived at the post-office. the post-office was in the further end of a grocery store, or rather a store of varieties, such as country villages find convenient. from behind a little lattice the grocer's boy handed her a letter, with the remark that she was in luck to-day. lois recognized mrs. wishart's hand, and half questioned the assertion. what was this? a new invitation? that cannot be, thought lois; i was with her so long last winter, and now this summer again for weeks and weeks-- and, anyhow, i could not go if she asked me. i could not even get a bonnet to go in; and i could not afford the money for the journey. she hoped it was not an invitation. it is hard to have the cup set to your lips, if you are not to drink it; any cup; and a visit to mrs. wishart was a very sweet cup to lois. the letter filled her thoughts all the way home; and she took it to her own room at once, to have the pleasure, or the pain, mastered before she told of it to the rest of the family. but in a very few minutes lois came flying down-stairs, with light in her eyes and a sudden colour in her cheeks. "girls, i've got some news for you!" she burst in. charity dropped her knitting in her lap. madge, who was setting the table for tea, stood still with a plate in her hand. all eyes were on lois. "don't say news never comes! we've got it to-day." "what? who is the letter from?" said charity. "the letter is from mrs. wishart, but that does not tell you anything." "o, if it is from mrs. wishart, i suppose the news only concerns you," said madge, setting down her plate. "mistaken!" cried lois. "it concerns us all. madge, don't go off. it is such a big piece of news that i do not know how to begin to give it to you; it seems as if every side of it was too big to take hold of for a handle. mother, listen, for it concerns you specially." "i hear, child." and mrs. armadale looked interested and curious. "it's delightful to have you all looking like that," said lois, "and to know it's not for nothing. you'll look more 'like that' when i've told you--if ever i can begin." "my dear, you are quite excited," said the old lady. "yes, grandmother, a little. it's so seldom that anything happens, here." "the days are very good, when nothing happens. i think," said the old lady softly. "and now something has really happened--for once. prick up your ears, charity! ah, i see they are pricked up already," lois went on merrily. "now listen. this letter is from mrs. wishart." "she wants you again!" cried madge. "nothing of the sort. she asks--" "why don't you read the letter?" "i will; but i want to tell you first. she says there is a certain friend of a friend of hers--a very nice person, a widow lady, who would like to live in the country if she could find a good place; and mrs. wishart wants to know, if _we_ would like to have her in our house." "to board?" cried madge. lois nodded, and watched the faces around her. "we never did that before," said madge. "no. the question is, whether we will do it now." "take her to board!" repeated charity. "it would be a great bother. what room would you give her?" "rooms. she wants two. one for a sitting-room." "two! we couldn't, unless we gave her our best parlour, and had none for ourselves. _that_ wouldn't do." "unless she would pay for it," lois suggested. "how much would she pay? does mrs. wishart say?" "guess, girls! she would pay--twelve dollars a week." charity almost jumped from her chair. madge stood leaning with her hands upon the table and stared at her sister. only the old grandmother went on now quietly with her knitting. the words were re-echoed by both sisters. "twelve dollars a week! fifty dollars a month!" cried madge, and clapped her hands. "we can have bonnets all round; and the hay and the apples won't matter. fifty dollars a month! why, lois!--" "it would be an awful bother," said charity. "mrs. wishart says not. at least she says this lady--this mrs. barclay--is a delightful person, and we shall like her so much we shall not mind the trouble. besides, i do not think it will be so much trouble. and we do not use our parlour much. i'll read you the letter now." so she did; and then followed an eager talk. "she is a city body, of course. do you suppose she will be contented with our ways of going on?" charity queried. "what ways do you mean?" "well--will our table suit her?" "we can make it suit her," said madge. "just think--with fifty dollars a month--" "but we're not going to keep a cook," charity went on. "i won't do that. i can do _all_ the work of the house, but i can't do half of it. and if i do the cooking, i shall do it just as i have always done it. i can't go to fussing. it'll be country ways she'll be treated to; and the question is, how she'll like 'em?" "she can try," said lois. "and then, maybe she'll be somebody that'll take airs." "perhaps," said lois, laughing; "but not likely. what if she did, charity? that would be her affair." "it would be my affair to bear it," said charity grimly. "daughters," said mrs. armadale gently, "suppose we have some tea." this suggestion brought all to their bearings. madge set the table briskly, charity made the tea, lois cut bread and made toast; and presently talking and eating went on in the harmonious combination which is so agreeable. "if she comes," said lois, "there must be curtains to the parlour windows. i can make some of chintz, that will look pretty and not cost much. and there must be a cover for the table." "why must there? the table is nice mahogany," said charity. "it looks cold and bare so. all tables in use have covers, at mrs. wishart's." "i don't see any sense in that. what's the good of it?" "looks pretty and comfortable." "that's nothing but a notion. i don't believe in notions. you'll tell me next our steel forks won't do." "well, i do tell you that. certainly they will not do, to a person always accustomed to silver." "that's nothing but uppishness, lois. i can't stand that sort of thing. steel's _just_ as good as silver, only it don't cost so much; that's all." "it don't taste as well." "you don't need to eat your fork." "no, but you have to touch your lips to it." "how does that hurt you, i want to know?" "it hurts my taste," said lois; "and so it is uncomfortable. if mrs. barclay comes, i should certainly get some plated forks. half a dozen would not cost much." "mother," said charity, "speak to lois! she's getting right worldly, i think. set her right, mother!" "it is something i don't understand," said the old lady gravely. "steel forks were good enough for anybody in the land, when i was young. i don't see, for my part, why they ain't just as good now." lois wisely left this question unanswered. "but you think we ought to let this lady come, mother, don't you?" "my dear," said mrs. armadale, "i think it's a providence!" "and it won't worry you, grandmother, will it?" "i hope not. if she's agreeable, she may do us good; and if she's disagreeable, we may do her good." "that's grandma all over!" exclaimed charity; "but if she's disagreeable, i'll tell you what, girls, i'd rather scrub floors. 'tain't my vocation to do ugly folks good." "charity," said mrs. armadale, "it _is_ your vocation. it is what everybody is called to do." "it's what you've been trying to do to me all my life, ain't it?" said charity, laughing. "but you've got to keep on, mother; it ain't done yet. but i declare! there ought to be somebody in a house who can be disagreeable by spells, or the rest of the world'd grow rampant." chapter xx. shampuashuh. it was in vain to try to talk of anything else; the conversation ran on that one subject all the evening. indeed, there was a great deal to be thought of and to be done, and it must of necessity be talked of first. "how soon does she want to come?" mrs. armadale asked, meaning of course the new inmate proposed for the house. "just as soon as we are ready for her; didn't you hear what i read, grandmother? she wants to get into the country air." "a queer time to come into the country!" said charity. "i thought city folks kept to the city in winter. but it's good for us." "we must get in some coal for the parlour," remarked madge. "yes; and who's going to make coal fires and clean the grate and fetch boxes of coal?" said charity. "i don't mind makin' a wood fire, and keepin' it up; wood's clean; but coals i do hate." there was general silence. "i'll do it," said lois. "i guess you will! you look like it." "somebody must; and i may as well as anybody." "you could get tim bodson to carry coal for you," remarked mrs. armadale. "so we could; that's an excellent idea; and i don't mind the rest at all," said lois. "i like to kindle fires. but maybe she'll want soft coal. i think it is likely. mrs. wishart never will burn hard coal where she sits. and soft coal is easier to manage." "it's dirtier, though," said charity. "i hope she ain't going to be a fanciful woman. i can't get along with fancy folks. then she'll be in a fidget about her eating; and i can't stand that. i'll cook for her, but she must take things as she finds them. i can't have anything to do with tomfooleries." "that means custards?" said lois, laughing. "i like custards myself. i'll take the tomfoolery part of the business, charity." "will you?" said charity. "what else?" "i'll tell you what else, girls. we must have some new tablecloths, and some napkins." "and we ought to have our bonnets before anybody comes," added madge. "and i must make some covers and mats for the dressing table and washstand in the best room," said lois. "covers and mats! what for? what ails the things as they are? they've got covers." "o, i mean white covers. they make the room look so much nicer." "i'll tell you what, lois; you can't do everything that rich folks do; and it's no use to try. and you may as well begin as you're goin' on. where are you going to get money for coal and bonnets and tablecloths and napkins and curtains, before we begin to have the board paid in?" "i have thought of that. aunt marx will lend us some. it won't be much, the whole of it." "i hope we aren't buying a pig in a poke," said charity. "mother, do you think it will worry you to have her?" lois asked tenderly. "no, child," said the old lady; "why should it worry me?" so the thing was settled, and eager preparations immediately set on foot. simple preparations, which did not take much time. on her part mrs. barclay had some to make, but hers were still more quickly despatched; so that before november had run all its thirty days, she had all ready for the move. mr. dillwyn went with her to the station and put her into the car. they were early, so he took a seat beside her to bear her company during the minutes of waiting. "i would gladly have gone with you, to see you safe there," he remarked; "but i thought it not best, for several reasons." "i should think so!" mrs. barclay returned dryly. "philip, i consider this the very craziest scheme i ever had to do with!" "precisely; your being in it redeems it from that character." "i do not think so. i am afraid you are preparing trouble for yourself; but your heart cannot be much in it yet!" "don't swear that," he said. "well, it cannot, surely. love will grow on scant fare, i acknowledge; but it must have a little." "it has had a little. but you are hardly to give it that name yet. say, a fancy." "sensible men do not do such things for a fancy. why, philip, suppose i am able to do my part, and that it succeeds to the full; though how i am even to set about it i have at present no idea; i cannot assume that these young women are ignorant, and say i have come to give them an education! but suppose i find a way, and suppose i succeed; what then? _you_ will be no nearer your aim--perhaps not so near." "perhaps not," he said carelessly. "phil, it's a very crazy business! i wouldn't go into it, only i am so selfish, and the plan is so magnificent for me." "that is enough to recommend it. now i want you to let me know, from time to time, what i can send you that will either tend to your comfort, or help the work we have in view. will you?" "but where are you going to be? i thought you were going to europe?" "not till spring. i shall be in new york this winter." "but you will not come to--what is the name of the place--where i am going?" she asked earnestly. "no," said he, smiling. "shall i send you a piano?" "a piano! is music intended to be in the programme? what should i do with a piano?" "that you would find out. but you are so fond of music--it would be a comfort, and i have no doubt it would be a help." mrs. barclay looked at him with a steady gravity, under which lurked a little sparkle of amusement. "do you mean that i am to teach your dulcinea to play? or to sing?" "the use of the possessive pronoun is entirely inappropriate." "which _is_ she, by the way? there are three, are there not? how am i to know the person in whom i am to be interested?" "by the interest." "that will do!" said mrs. barclay, laughing. "but it is a very mad scheme, philip--a very mad scheme! here you have got me--who ought to be wiser--into a plan for making, not history, but romance. i do not approve of romance, and not at all of making it." "thank you!" said he, as he rose in obedience to the warning stroke of the bell. "do not be romantic, but as practical as possible. i am. good-bye! write me, won't you?" the train moved out of the station, and mrs. barclay fell to meditating. the prospect before her, she thought, was extremely misty and doubtful. she liked neither the object of mr. dillwyn's plan, nor the means he had chosen to attain it; and yet, here she was, going to be his active agent, obedient to his will in the matter. partly because she liked philip, who had been a dear and faithful friend of her husband; partly because, as she said, the scheme offered such tempting advantage to herself; but more than either, because she knew that if philip could not get her help he was more than likely to find some other which would not serve him so well. if mrs. barclay had thought that her refusal to help him would have put an end to the thing, she would undoubtedly have refused. now she pondered what she had undertaken to do, and wondered what the end would be. mr. diliwyn had been taken by a pretty face; that was the old story; he retained wit enough to feel that something more than a pretty face was necessary, therefore he had applied to her; but suppose her mission failed? brains cannot be bought. or suppose even the brains were there, and her mission succeeded? what then? how was the wooing to be done? however, one thing was certain--mr. dillwyn must wait. education is a thing that demands time. while he was waiting, he might wear out his fancy, or get up a fancy for some one else. time was everything. so at last she quieted herself, and fell to a restful enjoyment of her journey, and amused watching of her fellow-travellers, and observing of the country. the country offered nothing very remarkable. after the sound was lost sight of, the road ran on among farms and fields and villages; now and then crossing a stream; with nothing specially picturesque in land or water. mrs. barclay went back to thoughts that led her far away, and forgot both the fact of her travelling and the reason why. till the civil conductor said at her elbow--"here's your place, ma'am--shampuashuh." mrs. barclay was almost sorry, but she rose, and the conductor took her bag, and they went out. the afternoons were short now, and the sun was already down; but mrs. barclay could see a neat station-house, with a long platform extending along the track, and a wide, level, green country. the train puffed off again. a few people were taking their way homewards, on foot and in waggons; she saw no cab or omnibus in waiting for the benefit of strangers. then, while she was thinking to find some railway official and ask instructions, a person came towards her; a woman, bundled up in a shawl and carrying a horsewhip. "perhaps you are mrs. barclay?" she said unceremoniously. "i have come after you." "thank you. and who is it that has come after me?" "you are going to the lothrops' house, ain't you? i thought so. it's all right. i'm their aunt. you see, they haven't a team; and i told 'em i'd come and fetch you, for as like as not tompkins wouldn't be here. is that your trunk?--mr. lifton, won't you have the goodness to get this into my buggy? it's round at the other side. now, will you come?" this last to mrs. barclay. and, following her new friend, she and her baggage were presently disposed of in a neat little vehicle, and the owner of it got into her place and drove off. the soft light showed one of those peaceful-looking landscapes which impress one immediately with this feature in their character. a wide grassy street, or road, in which carriages might take their choice of tracks; a level open country wherever the eye caught a sight of it; great shadowy elms at intervals, giving an air of dignity and elegance to the place; and neat and well-to-do houses scattered along on both sides, not too near each other for privacy and independence. cool fresh air, with a savour in it of salt water; and stillness--stillness that told of evening rest, and quiet, and leisure. one got a respect for the place involuntarily. "they're lookin' for you," the driving lady began. "yes. i wrote i would be here to-day." "they'll do all they can to make you comfortable; and if there's anything you'd like, you've only to tell 'em. that is, anything that can be had at shampuashuh; for you see, we ain't at new york; and the girls never took in a lodger before. but they'll do what they can." "i hope i shall not be very exacting." "most folks like shampuashuh that come to know it. that is!--we don't have much of the high-flyin' public; that sort goes over to castletown, and i'm quite willin' they should; but in summer we have quite a sprinklin' of people that want country and the sea; and they most of 'em stay right along, from the beginning of the season to the end of it. we don't often have 'em come in november, though." "i suppose not." "though the winters here are pleasant," the other went on. "_i_ think they're first-rate. you see, we're so near the sea, we never have it very cold; and the snow don't get a chance to lie. the worst we have here is in march; and if anybody is particular about his head and his eyes, i'd advise him to take 'em somewheres else; but, dear me! there's somethin' to be said about every place. i do hear folks say, down in florida is a regular garden of eden; but i don' know! seems to me i wouldn't want to live on oranges all the year round, and never see the snow. i'd rather have a good pippin now than ne'er an orange. here we are. mr. starks!"--addressing a man who was going along the side way--"hold on, will you? here's a box to lift down--won't you bear a hand?" this service was very willingly rendered, the man not only lifting the heavy trunk out of the vehicle, but carrying it in and up the stairs to its destination. the door of the house stood open. mrs. barclay descended from the buggy, mrs. marx kept her seat. "good-bye," she said. "go right in--you'll find somebody, and they'll take care of you." mrs. barclay went in at the little gate, and up the path of a few yards to the house. it was a very seemly white house, quite large, with a porch over the door and a balcony above it. mrs. barclay went in, feeling herself on very doubtful ground; then appeared a figure in the doorway which put her meditations to flight. such a fair figure, with a grave, sweet, innocent charm, and a manner which surprised the lady. mrs. barclay looked, in a sort of fascination. "we are very glad to see you," lois said simply. "it is mrs. barclay, i suppose? the train was in good time. let me take your bag, and i will show you right up to your room." "thank you. yes, i am mrs. barclay; but who are you?" "i am lois. mrs. wishart wrote to me about you. now, here is your room; and here is your trunk. thank you, mr. starks.--what can i do for you? tea will be ready presently." "you seem to have obliging neighbours! ought i not to pay him for his trouble?" said mrs. barclay, looking after the retreating starks. "pay? o no!" said lois, smiling. "mr starks does not want pay. he is very well off indeed; has a farm of his own, and makes it valuable." "he deserves to be well off, for his obligingness. is it a general characteristic of shampuashuh?" "i rather think it is," said lois. "when you come down, mrs. barclay, i will show you your other room." mrs. barclay took off her wrappings and looked about her in a maze. the room was extremely neat and pleasant, with its white naperies and old-fashioned furniture. all that she had seen of the place was pleasant. but the girl!--o philip, philip! thought mrs. barclay, have you lost your heart here! and what ever will come of it all? i can understand it; but what will come of it! down-stairs lois met her again, and took her into the room arranged for her sitting-room. it was not a new york drawing-room; but many gorgeous drawing-rooms would fail in a comparison with it. warm-coloured chintz curtains; the carpet neither fine nor handsome, indeed, but of a hue which did not clash violently with the hue of the draperies; plain, dark furniture; and a blaze of soft coal. mrs. barclay exclaimed, "delightful! o, delightful! is this my room, did you say? it is quite charming. i am afraid i am putting you to great inconvenience?" "the convenience is much greater than the inconvenience," said lois simply. "i hope we may be able to make you comfortable; but my sisters are afraid you will not like our country way of living." "are you the housekeeper?" "no," said lois, with her pleasant smile again; "i am the gardener and the out-of-doors woman generally; the man of business of the house." "that is a rather hard place for a woman to fill, sometimes." "it is easy here, and where people have so little out-of-door business as we have." she arranged the fire and shut the shutters of the windows; mrs. barclay watching and admiring her as she did so. it was a pretty figure, though in a calico and white apron. the manner of quiet self-possession and simplicity left nothing to be desired. and the face,--but what was it in the face which so struck mrs. barclay? it was not the fair features; they _were_ fair, but she had seen others as fair, a thousand times before. this charm was something she had never seen before in all her life. there was a gravity that had no connection with shadows, nor even suggested them; a curious loftiness of mien, which had nothing to do with external position or internal consciousness; and a purity, which was like the grave purity of a child, without the child's want of knowledge or immaturity of mental power. mrs. barclay was attracted, and curious. at the same time, the dress and the apron were of a style--well, of no style; the plainest attire of a plain country girl. "i will call you when tea is ready," said lois. "or would you like to come out at once, and see the rest of the family?" "by all means! let me go with you," mrs. barclay answered; and lois opened a door and ushered her at once into the common room of the family. here mrs. armadale was sitting in her rocking-chair. "this is my grandmother," said lois simply; and mrs. barclay came up. "how do you do, ma'am?" said the old lady. "i am pleased to see you." mrs. barclay took a chair by her side, made her greetings, and surveyed the room. it was very cheerful and home-looking, with its firelight, and the table comfortably spread in the middle of the floor, and various little tokens of domestic occupation. "how pleasant this fire is!" she remarked. "wood is so sweet!" "it's better than the fire in the parlour," said mrs. armadale; "but that room has only a grate." "i will never complain, as long as i have soft coal," returned the new guest; "but there is an uncommon charm to me in a wood fire." "you don't get it often in new york, lois says." "miss lois has been to the great city, then?" "yes, she's been there. our cousin, mrs. wishart, likes to have her, and lois was there quite a spell last winter; but i expect that's the end of it. i guess she'll stay at home the rest of her life." "why should she?" "here's where her work is," said the old lady; "and one is best where one's work is." "but her work might be elsewhere? she'll marry some day. if i were a man, i think i should fall in love with her." "she mightn't marry you, still," said mrs. armadale, with a fine smile. "no, certainly," said mrs. barclay, returning the smile; "but--you know, girls' hearts are not to be depended on. they do run away with them, when the right person comes." "my lois will wait till he comes," said the old lady, with a sort of tender confidence that was impressive and almost solemn. mrs. barclay's thoughts made a few quick gyrations; and then the door opened, and lois, who had left the room, came in again, followed by one of her sisters bearing a plate of butter. "another beauty!" thought mrs. barclay, as madge was presented to her. "which is which, i wonder?" this was a beauty of quite another sort. regular features, black hair, eyes dark and soft under long lashes, a white brow and a very handsome mouth. but madge had a bow of ribband in her black hair, while lois's red-brown masses were soft, and fluffy, and unadorned. madge's face lacked the loftiness, if it had the quietness, of the other; and it had not that innocent dignity which seemed--to mrs. barclay's fancy--to set lois apart from the rest of young women. yet most men would admire madge most, she thought. o philip, philip! she said to herself, what sort of a mess have you brought me into! this is no common romance you have induced me to put my fingers in. these girls!-- but then entered a third, of a different type, and mrs. barclay felt some amusement at the variety surrounding her. miss charity was plain, like her grandmother; and mrs. armadale was not, as i have said, a handsome old woman. she had never been a handsome young one; bony, angular, strong, _not_ gracious; although the expression of calm sense, and character, and the handwriting of life-work, and the dignity of mental calm, were unmistakeable now, and made her a person worth looking at. charity was much younger, of course; but she had the plainness without the dignity; sense, i am bound to say, was not wanting. the supper was ready, and they all sat down. the meal was excellent; but at first very silently enjoyed. save the words of anxious hospitality, there were none spoken. the quicker i get acquain'ted, the better, thought mrs. barclay. so she began. "your village looks to me like a quiet place." "that is its character," said mrs. armadale. "especially in winter, i suppose?" "well, it allays was quiet, since i've known it," the old lady went on. "they've got a hotel now for strangers, down at the point--but that ain't the village." "and the hotel is empty now," added lois. "what does the village do, to amuse itself, in these quiet winter days and nights?" "nothing," said charity. "really? are there _no_ amusements? i never heard of such a place." "i don't know what you mean by amusements," mrs. armadale took up the subject. "i think, doin' one's work is the best amusement there is. i never wanted no other." "does the old proverb not hold good then in shampuashuh, of 'all work and no play'--you know? the consequences are said to be disastrous." "no," said lois, laughing, "it does not hold good. people are not dull here. i don't mean that they are very lively; but they are not dull." "is there a library here?" "a sort of one; not large. books that some of the people subscribe for, and pass round to each other's houses." "then it is not much of a reading community?" "well, it is, considerable," said mrs. armadale. "there's a good many books in the village, take 'em all together. i guess the folks have as much as they can do to read what they've got, and don't stand in need of no more." "well, are people any happier for living in such a quiet way? are they sheltered in any degree from the storms that come upon the rest of the world? how is it? as i drove along from the station to-night, i thought it looked like a haven of peace, where people could not have heartbreaks." "i hope the lord will make it such to you, ma'am," the old lady said solemnly. the turn was so sudden and so earnest, that it in a sort took mrs. barclay's breath away. she merely said, "thank you!" and let the talk drop. chapter xxi. greville's memoirs. mrs. barclay found her room pleasant, her bed excellent, and all the arrangements and appointments simple, indeed, but quite sufficient. the next morning brought brilliant sunlight, glittering in the elm trees, and on the green sward which filled large spaces in the street, and on chimneys and housetops, and on the bit of the connecticut river which was visible in the distance. quiet it was certainly, and peaceful, and at the same time the sight was inspiriting. mrs. barclay dressed and went down; and there she found her parlour in order, the sunlight streaming in, and a beautiful fire blazing to welcome her. "this is luxury!" thought she, as she took her place in a comfortable rocking-chair before the fire. "but how am i to get at my work!"--presently lois came in, looking like a young rose. "i beg pardon!" she said, greeting mrs. barclay, "but i left my duster--" has _she_ been putting my room in order! thought the lady. this elegant creature? but she showed nothing of her feeling; only asked lois if she were busy. "no," said lois, with a smile; "i have done. do you want something of me?" "yes, in that case. sit down, and let us get acquain'ted." lois sat down, duster in hand, and looked pleasantly ready. "i am afraid i am giving you a great deal of trouble! if you get tired of me, you must just let me know. will you?" "there is no fear," lois assured her. "we are very glad to have you. if only you do not get tired of our quiet. it is very quiet, after what you have been accustomed to." "just what i want! i have been longing for the country; and the air here is delicious. i cannot get enough of it. i keep sniffing up the salt smell. and you have made me so comfortable! how lovely those old elms are over the way! i could hardly get dressed, for looking at them. do you draw?" "i? o no!" cried lois. "i have been to school, of course, but i have learned only common things. i do not know anything about drawing." "perhaps you will let me teach you?" the colour flashed into the girl's cheeks; she made no answer at first, and then murmured, "you are very kind!" "one must do something, you know," mrs. bar clay said. "i cannot let all your goodness make me idle. i am very fond of drawing, myself; it has whiled away many an hour for me. besides, it enables one to keep a record of pretty and pleasant things, wherever one goes." "we live among our pleasant things," said lois; "but i should think that would be delightful for the people who travel." "you will travel some day." "no, there is no hope of that." "you would like it, then?" "o, who would not like it! i went with mrs. wishart to the isles of shoals last summer; and it was the first time i began to have a notion what a place the world is." "and what a place do you think it is?" "o, so wonderfully full of beautiful things--so full! so full!--and of such _different_ beautiful things. i had only known shampuashuh and the sound and new york; and appledore was like a new world." lois spoke with a kind of inner fire, which sparkled in her eyes and gave accent to her words. "what was the charm? i do not know appledore," said mrs. barclay carelessly, but watching her. "it is difficult to put some things in words. i seemed to be out of the world of everyday life, and surrounded by what was pure and fresh and powerful and beautiful--it all comes back to me now, when i think of the surf breaking on the rocks, and the lights and colours, and the feeling of the air." "but how were the people? were _they_ uncommon too? part of one's impression is apt to come from the human side of the thing." "mine did not. the people of the islands are queer, rough people, almost as strange as all the rest; but i saw more of some city people staying at the hotel; and they did not fit the place at all." "why not?" "they did not enjoy it. they did not seem to see what i saw, unless they were told of it; nor then either." "well, you must come in and let me teach you to draw," said mrs. barclay. "i shall want to feel that i have some occupation, or i shall not be happy. perhaps your sister will come too." "madge? o, thank you! how kind of you! i do not know whether madge ever thought of such a thing." "you are the man of business of the house. what is she?" "madge is the dairywoman, and the sempstress. but we all do that." "you are fond of reading? i have brought a few books with me, which i hope you will use freely. i shall unpack them by and by." "that will be delightful," lois said, with a bright expression of pleasure. "we have not subscribed to the library, because we felt we could hardly spare the money." they were called to breakfast; and mrs. barclay studied again with fresh interest all the family group. no want of capacity and receptive readiness, she was sure; nor of active energy. sense, and self-reliance, and independence, and quick intelligence, were to be read in the face and manner of each one; good ground to work upon. still mrs. barclay privately shook her head at her task. "miss madge," she said suddenly, "i have been proposing to teach your sister to draw. would you like to join her?" madge seemed too much astonished to answer immediately. charity spoke up and asked, "to draw what?" "anything she likes. pretty things, and places." "i don't see what's the use. when you've got a pretty thing, what should you draw it for?" "suppose you have _not_ got it." "then you can't draw it," said charity. "o charity, you don't understand," cried lois. "if i had known how to draw, i could have brought you home pictures of the isles of shoals last summer." "they wouldn't have been like." lois laughed, and mrs. barclay remarked, that was rather begging the question. "what question?" said charity. "i mean, you are assuming a thing without evidence." "it don't need evidence," said charity. "i never saw a picture yet that was worth a red cent. it's only a make-believe." "then you will not join our drawing class, miss charity?" "no; and i should think madge had better stick to her sewing. there's plenty to do." "duty comes first," said the old lady; "and _i_ shouldn't think duty would leave much time for making marks on paper." the first thing mrs. barclay did after breakfast was to unpack some of her books and get out her writing box; and then the impulse seized her to write to mr. dillwyn. "i had meant to wait," she wrote him, "and not say anything to you until i had had more time for observation; but i have seen so much already that my head is in an excited state, and i feel i must relieve myself by talking to you. which of these ladies is _the_ one? is it the black-haired beauty, with her white forehead and clean-cut features? she is very handsome! but the other, i confess, is my favourite; she is less handsome, but more lovely. yes, she is lovely; and both of them have capacity and cleverness. but, philip, they belong to the strictly religious sort; i see that; the old grandmother is a regular puritan, and the girls follow her lead; and i am in a confused state of mind thinking what can ever be the end of it all. whatever would you do with such a wife, philip dillwyn? you are not a bad sort of man at all; at least you know _i_ think well of you; but you are not a puritan, and this little girl _is_. i do not mean to say anything against her; only, you want me to make a woman of the world out of the girl--and i doubt much whether i shall be able. there is strength in the whole family; it is a characteristic of them; a capital trait, of course, but in certain cases interfering with any effort to mould or bend the material to which it belongs. what would you do, philip, with a wife who would disapprove of worldly pleasures, and refuse to take part in worldly plans, and insist on bringing all questions to the bar of the bible? i have indeed heard no distinctively religious conversation here yet; but i cannot be mistaken; i see what they are; i know what they will say when they open their lips. i feel as if i were a swindler, taking your money on false pretences; setting about an enterprise which may succeed, possibly, but would succeed little to your advantage. think better of it and give it up! i am unselfish in saying that; for the people please me. life in their house, i can fancy, might be very agreeable to me; but i am not seeking to marry them, and so there is no violent forcing of incongruities into union and fellowship. phil, you cannot marry a puritan." how mrs. barclay was to initiate a system of higher education in this farmhouse, she did not clearly see. drawing was a simple thing enough; but how was she to propose teaching languages, or suggest algebra, or insist upon history? she must wait, and feel her way; and in the meantime she scattered books about her room, books chosen with some care, to act as baits; hoping so by and by to catch her fish. meanwhile she made herself very agreeable in the family; and that without any particular exertion, which she rightly judged would hinder and not help her object. "isn't she pleasant?" said lois one evening, when the family were alone. "she's elegant!" said madge. "she has plenty to say for herself," added charity. "but she don't look like a happy woman, lois," madge went on. "her face is regularly sad, when she ain't talking." "but it's sweet when she is." "i'll tell you what, girls," said charity,--"she's a real proud woman." "o charity! nothing of the sort," cried lois. "she is as kind as she can be." "who said she wasn't? i said she was proud, and she is. she's a right, for all i know; she ain't like our shampuashuh people." "she is a lady," said lois. "what do you mean by that, lois?" madge fired up. "you don't mean, i hope, that the rest of us are not ladies, do you?" "not like her." "well, why should we be like her?" "because her ways are so beautiful. i should be glad to be like her. she is just what you called her--elegant." "everybody has their own ways," said madge. "i hope none of you will be like her," said mrs. armadale gravely; "for she's a woman of the world, and knows the world's ways, and she knows nothin' else, poor thing!" "but, grandmother," lois put in, "some of the world's ways are good." "be they?" said the old lady. "i don' know which of 'em." "well, grandmother, this way of beautiful manners. they don't all have it--i don't mean that--but some of them do. they seem to know exactly how to behave to everybody, and always what to do or to say; and you can see mrs. barclay is one of those. and i like those people. there is a charm about them." "don't you always know what's right to do or say, with the bible before you?" "o grandmother, but i mean in little things; little words and ways, and tones of voice even. it isn't like shampuashuh people." "well, _we_'re shampuashuh folks," said charity. "i hope you won't set up for nothin' else, lois. i guess your head got turned a bit, with goin' round the world. but i wish i knew what makes her look so sober!" "she has lost her husband." "other folks have lost their husbands, and a good many of 'em have found another. don't be ridiculous, lois!" the first bait that took, in the shape of books, was scott's "lady of the lake." lois opened it one day, was caught, begged to be allowed to read it; and from that time had it in her hand whenever her hand was free to hold it. she read it aloud, sometimes, to her grandmother, who listened with a half shake of her head, but allowed it was pretty. charity was less easy to bribe with sweet sounds. "what on earth is the use of that?" she demanded one day, when she had stood still for ten minutes in her way through the room, to hear the account of fitz james's adventure in the wood with roderick dhu. "don't you like it?" said lois. "don't make head or tail of it. and there sits madge with her mouth open, as if it was something to eat; and lois's cheeks are as pink as if she expected the people to step out and walk in. mother, do you like all that stuff?" "it is _poetry_, charity," cried lois. "what's the use o' poetry? can you tell me? it seems to me nonsense for a man to write in that way. if he has got something to say, why don't he _say_ it, and be done with it?" "he does say it, in a most beautiful way." "it'd be a queer way of doing business!" "it is _not_ business," said lois, laughing. "charity, will you not understand? it is _poetry_." "what is poetry?" but alas! charity had asked what nobody could answer, and she had the field in triumph. "it is just a jingle-jangle, and what i call nonsense. mother, ain't that what you would say is a waste of time?" "i don't know, my dear," said mrs. armadale doubtfully, applying her knitting needle to the back of her ear. "it isn't nonsense; it is delightful!" said madge indignantly. "you want me to go on, grandmother, don't you?" said lois. "we want to know about the fight, when the two get to coilantogle ford." and as she was not forbidden, she went on; while charity got the spice-box she had come for, and left the room superior. the "lady of the lake" was read through. mrs. barclay had hoped to draw on some historical inquiries by means of it; but before she could find a chance, lois took up greville's memoirs. this she read to herself; and not many pages, before she came with the book and a puzzled face to mrs. barclay's room. mrs. barclay was, we may say, a fisher lying in wait for a bite; now she saw she had got one; the thing was to haul in the line warily and skilfully. she broke up a piece of coal on the fire, and gave her visitor an easy-chair. "sit there, my dear. i am very glad of your company. what have you in your hand? greville?" "yes. i want to ask you about some things. am i not disturbing you?" "most agreeably. i can have nothing better to do than to talk with you. what is the question?" "there are several questions. it seems to me a very strange book!" "perhaps it is. but why do you say so?" "perhaps i should rather say that the people are strange. is _this_ what the highest society in england is like?" "in what particulars, do you mean?" "why, i think shampuashuh is better. i am sure shampuashuh would be ashamed of such doings." "what are you thinking of?" mrs. barclay asked, carefully repressing a smile. "why, here are people with every advantage, with money and with education, and with the power of place and rank,--living for nothing but mere amusement, and very poor amusement too." "the conversations alluded to were very often not poor amusement. some of the society were very brilliant and very experienced men." "but they did nothing with their lives." "how does that appear?" "here, at the duke of york's," said lois, turning over her leaves;--"they sat up till four in the morning playing whist; and on sunday they amused themselves shooting pistols and eating fruit in the garden, and playing with the monkeys! that is like children." "my dear, half the world do nothing with their lives, as you phrase it." "but they ought. and you expect it of people in high places, and having all sorts of advantages." "you expect, then, what you do not find." "and is all of what is called the great world, no better than that?" "some of it is better." (o philip, philip, where are you? thought mrs. barclay.) "they do not all play whist all night. but you know, lois, people come together to be amused; and it is not everybody that can talk, or act, sensibly for a long stretch." "how _can_ they play cards all night?" "whist is very ensnaring. and the little excitement of stakes draws people on." "stakes?" said lois inquiringly. "sums staked on the game." "oh! but that is worse than foolish." "it is to keep the game from growing tiresome. do you see any harm in it?" "why, that's gambling." "in a small way." "is it always in a small way?" "people do not generally play very high at whist." "it is all the same thing," said lois. "people begin with a little, and then a little will not satisfy them." "true; but one must take the world as one finds it." "is the new york world like this?" said lois, after a moment's pause. "no! not in the coarseness you find mr. greville tells of. in the matter of pleasure-seeking, i am afraid times and places are much alike. those who live for pleasure, are driven to seek it in all manner of ways. the ways sometimes vary; the principle does not." "and do all the men gamble?" "no. many do not touch cards. my friend, mr. dillwyn, for example." "mr. dillwyn? do you know him?" "very well. he was a dear friend of my husband, and has been a faithful friend to me. do you know him?" "a little. i have seen him." "you must not expect too much from the world, my dear." "according to what you say, one must not expect _anything_ from it." "that is too severe." "no," said lois. "what is there to admire or respect in a person who lives only for pleasure?" "sometimes there are fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers." "ah, that makes it only worse!" cried lois. "fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers, all used for nothing! that _is_ miserable; and when there is so much to do in the world, too!" "of what kind?" asked mrs. barclay, curious to know her companion's course of thought. "o, help." "what sort of help?" "almost all sorts," said lois. "you must know even better than i. don't you see a great many people in new york that are in want of some sort of help?" "yes; but it is not always easy to give, even where the need is greatest. people's troubles come largely from their follies." "or from other people's follies." "that is true. but how would you help, lois?" "where there's a will, there's a way, mrs. barclay." "you are thinking of help to the poor? there is a great deal of that done." "i am thinking of poverty, and sickness, and weakness, and ignorance, and injustice. and a grand man could do a great deal. but not if he lived like the creatures in this book. i never saw such a book." "but we must take men as we find them; and most men are busy seeking their own happiness. you cannot blame them for that. it is human nature." "i blame them for seeking it so. and it is not happiness that people play whist for, till four o'clock in the morning." "what then?" "forgetfulness, i should think; distraction; because they do not know anything about happiness." "who does?" said mrs. barclay sadly. lois was silent, not because she had not something to say, but because she was not certain how best to say it. there was no doubt in her sweet face, rather a grave assurance which stimulated mrs. barclay's curiosity. "we must take people as we find them," she repeated. "you cannot expect men who live for pleasure to give up their search for the sake of other people's pleasure." "yet that is the way,--which they miss," said lois. "the way to what?" "to real enjoyment. to life that is worth living." "what would you have them do?" "only what the bible says." "i do not believe i know the bible as well as you do. of what directions are you thinking? 'the poor ye have always with you'?" "not that," said lois. "let me get my bible, and i will tell you.--this, mrs. barclay--'to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke..... to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house; when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh'....." "and do you think, to live right, one must live so?" "it is the bible!" said lois, with so innocent a look of having answered all questions, that mrs. barclay was near smiling. "do you think anybody ever did live so?" "job." "did he! i forget." lois turned over some leaves, and again read--"'when the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: because i delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me: and i caused the widow's heart to sing for joy.... i was eyes to the blind, and feet was i to the lame. i was a father to the poor: and the cause that i knew not i searched out. and i brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth.'" "to be a _father to the poor_, in these days, would give a man enough to do, certainly; especially if he searched out all the causes which were doubtful. it would take all a man's time, and all his money too, if he were as rich as job;--unless you put some limit, lois." "what limit, mrs. barclay?" "do you put none? i was not long ago speaking with a friend, such a man of parts and powers as was mentioned just now; a man who thus far in his life has done nothing but for his own cultivation and amusement. i was urging upon him to do _something_ with himself; but i did not tell him what. it did not occur to me to set him about righting ail the wrongs of the world." "is he a christian?" "i am afraid you would not say so." "then he could not. one must love other people, to live for them." "love _all sorts?_" said mrs. barclay. "you cannot work for them unless you do." "then it is hopeless!--unless one is born with an exceptional mind." "o no," said lois, smiling, "not hopeless. the love of christ brings the love of all that he loves." there was a glow and a sparkle, and a tenderness too, in the girl's face, which made mrs. barclay look at her in a somewhat puzzled admiration. she did not understand lois's words, and she saw that her face was a commentary upon them; therefore also unintelligible; but it was strangely pure and fair. "you would do for philip, i do believe," she thought, "if he could get you; but he will never get you." aloud she said nothing. by and by lois returned to the book she had brought in with her. "here are some words which i cannot read; they are not english. what are they?" mrs. barclay read: "_le bon goût, les ris, l'aimable liberté_. that is french." "what does it mean?" "good taste, laughter, and charming liberty. you do not know french?" "o no," said lois, with a sort of breath of longing. "french words come in quite often here, and i am always so curious to know what they mean." "very well, why not learn? i will teach you." "o, mrs. barclay!"-- "it will give me the greatest pleasure. and it is very easy." "o, i do not care about _that_," said lois; "but i would be so glad to know a little more than i do." "you seem to me to have _thought_ a good deal more than most girls of your age; and thought is better than knowledge." "ah, but one needs knowledge in order to think justly." "an excellent remark! which--if you will for give me--i was making to myself a few minutes ago." "a few minutes ago? about what i said? o, but there i _have_ knowledge," said lois, smiling. "you are sure of that?" "yes," said lois, gravely now. "the bible cannot be mistaken, mrs. barclay." "but your application of it?" "how can that be mistaken? the words are plain." "pardon me. i was only venturing to think that you could have seen little, here in shampuashuh, of the miseries of the world, and so know little of the difficulty of getting rid of them, or of ministering to them effectually." "not much," lois agreed. "yet i have seen so much done by people without means--i thought, those who _have_ means might do more." "what have you seen? do tell me. here i am ignorant; except in so far as i know what some large societies accomplish, and fail to accomplish." "i have not seen much," lois repeated. "but i know one person, a farmer's wife, no better off than a great many people here, who has brought up and educated a dozen girls who were friendless and poor." "a dozen girls!" mrs. barclay echoed. "i think there have been thirteen. she had no children of her own; she was comfortably well off; and she took these girls, one after another, sometimes two or three together; and taught them and trained them, and fed and clothed them, and sent them to school; and kept them with her until one by one they married off. they all turned out well." "i am dumb!" said mrs. barclay. "giving money is one thing; i can understand that; but taking strangers' children into one's house and home life--and a _dozen_ strangers' children!" "i know another woman, not so well off, who does her own work, as most do here; who goes to nurse any one she hears of that is sick and cannot afford to get help. she will sit up all night taking care of somebody, and then at break of the morning go home to make her own fire and get her own family's breakfast." "but that is superb!" cried mrs. barclay. "and my father," lois went on, with a lowered voice,--"he was not very well off, but he used to keep a certain little sum for lending; to lend to anybody that might be in great need; and generally, as soon as one person paid it back another person was in want of it." "was it always paid back?" "always; except, i think, at two times. once the man died before he could repay it. the other time it was lent to a woman, a widow; and she married again, and between the man and the woman my father never could get his money. but it was made up to him another way. he lost nothing." "you have been in a different school from mine, lois," said mrs. barclay. "i am filled with admiration." "you see," lois went on, "i thought, if with no money or opportunity to speak of, one can do so much, what might be done if one had the power and the will too?" "but in my small experience it is by no means the rule, that money lent is honestly paid back again." "ah," said lois, with an irradiating smile, "but this money was lent to the lord; i suppose that makes the difference." "and are you bound to think well of no man but one who lives after this exalted fashion? how will you ever get married, lois?" "i should not like to be married to this duke of york the book tells of; nor to the writer of the book," lois said, smiling. "that duke of york was brother to the king of england." "the king was worse yet! he was not even respectable." "i believe you are right. come--let us begin our french lessons." with shy delight, lois came near and followed with most eager attention the instructions of her friend. mrs. barclay fetched a volume of florian's "easy writing"; and to the end of her life lois will never forget the opening sentences in which she made her first essay at french pronunciation, and received her first knowledge of what french words mean. "non loin de la ville de cures, dans le pays des sabins, au milieu d'une antique forêt, s'élève un temple consacré à cérès." so it began; and the words had a truly witching interest for lois.. but while she delightedly forgot all she had been talking about, mrs. barclay, not delightedly, recalled and went over it. philip, philip! your case is dark! she was saying. and what am i about, trying to help you! chapter xxii. learning. there came a charming new life into the house of the lothrops. madge and lois were learning to draw, and lois was prosecuting her french studies with a zeal which promised to carry all before it. every minute of her time was used; every opportunity was grasped; "numa pompilius" and the dictionary were in her hands whenever her hands were free; or lois was bending over her drawing with an intent eye and eager fingers. madge kept her company in these new pursuits, perhaps with less engrossing interest; nevertheless with steady purpose and steady progress. then mrs. barclay received from new york a consignment of beautiful drawings and engravings from the best old masters, and some of the best of the new; and she found her hands becoming very full. to look at these engravings was almost a passion with the two girls; but not in the common way of picture-seeing. lois wanted to understand everything; and it was necessary, therefore, to go into wide fields of knowledge, where the paths branched many ways, and to follow these various tracks out, one after another. this could not be done all in talking; and lois plunged into a very sea of reading. mrs. barclay was not obliged to restrain her, for the girl was thorough and methodical in her ways of study, as of doing other things; however, she would carry on two or three lines of reading at once. mrs. barclay wrote to her unknown correspondent, "send me 'sismondi';" "send me hallam's 'middle ages';" "send me 'walks about kome';" "send me 'plutarch's lives';" "send me d'aubigné's 'réformation';" at last she wrote, "send me ruskin's 'modern painters'." "i have the most enormous intellectual appetite to feed that ever i had to do with in my life. and yet no danger of an indigestion. positively, philip, my task is growing from day to day delightful; it is only when i think of the end and aim of it all that i get feverish and uneasy. at present we are going with 'a full sail and a flowing sea'; a regular sweeping into knowledge, with a smooth, easy, swift occupying and taking possession, which gives the looker-on a stir of wondering admiration. those engravings were a great success; they opened for me, and at once, doors before which i might have waited some time; and now, eyes are exploring eagerly the vast realms those doors unclose, and hesitating only in which first to set foot. you may send the 'stones of venice' too; i foresee that it will be useful; and the 'seven lamps of architecture.' i am catching my breath, with the swiftness of the way we go on. it is astonishing, what all clustered round a view of milan cathedral yesterday. by the way, philip,--no hurry,--but by and by a stereoscope would be a good thing here. let it be a little hand-glass, not a great instrument of unvarying routine and magnificent sameness." books came by packages and packages. such books! the eyes of the two girls gloated over them, as they helped mrs. barclay unpack; the room grew full, with delightful disorder of riches; but none too much, for they began to feel their minds so empty that no amount of provision could be too generous. "the room is getting to be running-over full. what will you do, mrs. barclay?" "it is terrible when you have to sweep the carpet, isn't it? i must send for some book cases." "you might let mr. midgin put up some--shelves i could stain them, and make them look very nice." "who is mr. midgin?" "the carpenter." "oh! well.--i think we had better send for him, lois." the door stood open into the kitchen, or dining-room rather, on account of the packing-cases which the girls were just moving out; then appeared the figure of mrs. marx in the opening. "lois, charity ain't at home--how much beef are you goin' to want?" "beef?" said lois, smiling at the transition in her thoughts.--"for salting, you mean?" "for salting, and for smoking, and for mince-meat, and for pickling. what is the girl thinking of?" "she is thinking of books just now, mrs. marx," suggested mrs. barclay. "books!" the lady stepped nearer and looked in. "well, i declare! i should think you had _some_. what in all the world can you do with so many?" "just what we were considering. i think we must have the carpenter here, to put up some shelves." "well i should say that was plain. but when you have got 'em on the shelves, what next? what will you do with 'em then?" "take 'em down and read them, aunt anne." "your life ain't as busy as mine, then, if you have time for all that. what's the good o' readin' so much?" "there's so much to know, that we don't know!" "i should like to know what,"--said mrs. marx, going round and picking up one book after another. "you've been to school, haven't you?" lois changed her tone. "i'll talk to charity about the beef, and let you know, aunt anne." "well, come out to the other room and let me talk to you! good afternoon, ma'am--i hope you don't let these girls make you too much worry.--now, lois" (after the door was shut between them and mrs. barclay), "i just want you to tell me what you and madge are about?" lois told her, and mrs. marx listened with a judicial air; then observed gravely, "'seems to me, there ain't much sense in all that, lois." "o, yes, aunt anne! there is." "what's the use? what do you want to know more tongues than your own for, to begin with? you can't talk but in one at once. and spending your time in making marks on paper! i believe in girls goin' to school, and gettin' all they can there; but when school is done, then they have something else to see to. i'd rather have you raakin' quilts and gettin' ready to be married; dom' women's work." "i do my work," said lois gaily. "child, your head's gettin' turned. mother, do you know the way madge and lois are goin' on?" "i don't understand it," said mrs. armadale. "i understand it. and i'll tell you. i like learning,--nobody better; but i want things kept in their places. and i tell you, if this is let to go on, it'll be like jack's bean vine, and not stop at the top of the house; and they'll be like jack, and go after to see, and never come back to common ground any more." mrs. armadale sat looking unenlightened. madge, who had come in midway of this speech, stood indignant. "aunt anne, that's not like you! you read as much yourself as ever you can; and never can get books enough." "i stick to english." "english or french, what's the odds?" "what was good enough for your fathers and mothers ought to be good enough for you." "that won't do, aunt anne," retorted madge. "you were wanting a berkshire pig a while ago, and i heard you talking of 'shorthorns.'" "that's it. i'd like to hear you talking of shorthorns." "if it is necessary, i could," said lois; "but there are pleasanter things to talk about." "there you are! but pictures won't help madge make butter; and french is no use in a garden. it's all very well for some people, i suppose; but, mother, if these girls go on, they'll be all spoiled for their place in life. this lodger of yours is trying to make 'em like herself." "i wish she could!" said madge. "that's it, mother; that's what i say. but she's one thing, and they're another; she lives in her world, which ain't shampuashuh by a long jump, and they live in shampuashuh, and have got to live there. ain't it a pity to get their heads so filled with the other things that they'll be for ever out o' conceit o' their own?" "it don't work so, aunt anne," said lois. "it will work so. what use can all these krinkum-krankums be to you? shampuashuh ain't the place for 'em. you'll be like the girl that got a new bonnet, and had to sit with her head out o' window to wear it." madge's cheeks grew red. lois laughed. "daughter," said mrs. armadale, "'seems to me you are making a storm in a teapot." mrs. marx laughed at that; then became quite serious again. "i ain't doin' that," she said. "i never do. and i've no enmity against all manner of fiddle-faddling, if folks have got nothin' better to do. but 'tain't so with our girls. they work for their livin', and they've got to work; and what i say is, they're in a way to get to hate work, if they don't despise it, and in my judgment that's a poor business. it's going the wrong way to be happy. mother, they ought to marry farmers; and they won't look at a farmer in all shampuashuh, if you let 'em go on." lois remarked merrily that she did not want to look at a man anywhere. "then you ought. it's time. i'd like to see you married to a good, solid man, who would learn you to talk of shorthorns and berkshires. life's life, chickens; and it ain't the tinkle of a piano. all well enough for your neighbour in the other room; but you're a different sort." privately, lois did not want to be of a different sort. the refinement, the information, the accomplishments, the grace of manner, which in a high degree belonged to mrs. barclay, seemed to her very desirable possessions and endowments; and the mental life of a person so enriched and gifted, appeared to her far to be preferred over a horizon bounded by cheese and bed-quilts. mrs. marx was not herself a narrow-minded woman, or one wanting in appreciation of knowledge and culture; but she was also a shrewd business woman, and what she had seen at the isles of shoals had possibly given her a key wherewith to find her way through certain problems. she was not sure but lois had been a little touched by the attentions of that very handsome, fair-haired and elegant gentleman who had done mrs. marx the honour to take her into his confidence; she was jealous lest all this study of things unneeded in shampuashuh life might have a dim purpose of growing fitness for some other. there she did lois wrong, for no distant image of mr. caruthers was connected in her niece's mind with the delight of the new acquirements she was making; although tom caruthers had done his part, i do not doubt, towards lois's keen perception of the beauty and advantage of such acquirements. she was not thinking of tom, when she made her copies and studied her verbs; though if she had never known the society in which she met tom and of which he was a member, she might not have taken hold of them so eagerly. "mother," she said when mrs. marx was gone, "are you afraid these new things will make me forget my duties, or make me unfit for them?" mrs. armadale's mind was a shade more liberal than her daughter's, and she had not been at the isles of shoals. she answered somewhat hesitatingly, "no, child--i don't know as i am. i don't see as they do. i don't see what use they will be to you; but maybe they'll be some." "they are pleasure," said lois. "we don't live for pleasing ourselves, child." "no, mother; but don't you think, if duties are not neglected, that we ought to educate ourselves all we can, and get all of every sort of good that we can, when we have the opportunity?" "to be sure," said mrs. armadale; "if it ain't a temptation, it's a providence. maybe you'll find a use for it you don't think. only take care it ain't a temptation, lois." from that time lois's studies were carried on with more systematic order. she would not neglect her duties, and the short winter days left her little spare time of daylight; therefore she rose long before daylight came. if anybody had been there to look, lois might have been seen at four o'clock in the family room, which this winter rather lost its character of kitchen, seated at the table with her lamp and her books; the room warm and quiet, no noise but the snapping of the fire and breathing of the flames, and now and then the fall of a brand. and lois sitting absorbed and intent, motionless, except when the above-mentioned falling brands obliged her to get up and put them in their places. her drawing she left for another time of day; she could do that in company; in these hours she read and wrote french, and read pages and pages of history. sometimes madge was there too; but lois always, from a very early hour until the dawn was advanced far enough for her to see to put mrs. barclay's room in order. then with a sigh of pleasure lois would turn down her lamp, and with another breath of hope and expectation betake herself to the next room to put all things in readiness for its owner's occupancy and use, which occupancy and use involved most delightful hours of reading and talking and instruction by and by. making the fire, sweeping, brushing, dusting, regulating chairs and tables and books and trifles, drawing back the curtains and opening the shutters; which last, to be sure, she began with. and then lois went to do the same offices for the family room, and to set the table for breakfast; unless madge had already done it. and then lois brought her bible and read to mrs. armadale, who by this time was in her chair by the fireside, and busy with her knitting. the knitting was laid down then, however; and mrs. armadale loved to take the book in her hands, upon her lap, while her granddaughter, leaning over it, read to her. they two had it alone; no other meddled with them. charity was always in the kitchen at this time, and madge often in her dairy, and neither of them inclined to share in the service which lois always loved dearly to render. they two, the old and the young, would sit wholly engrossed with their reading and their talk, unconscious of what was going on around them; even while charity and madge were bustling in and out with the preparations for breakfast. nothing of the bustle reached mrs. armadale or lois, whose faces at such times had a high and sweet and withdrawn look, very lovely to behold. the hard features and wrinkled lines of the one face made more noticeable the soft bloom and delicate moulding of the other, while the contrast enhanced the evident oneness of spirit and interest which filled them both. when they were called to breakfast and moved to the table, then there was a difference. both, indeed, showed a subdued sweet gravity; but mrs. armadale was wont also to be very silent and withdrawn into herself, or busied with inner communings; while lois was ready with speech or action for everybody's occasions, and full of gentle ministry. mrs. barclay used to study them both, and be wonderingly busy with the contemplation. chapter xxiii. a breakfast table. it was christmas eve. lois had done her morning work by the lamplight, and was putting the dining-room, or sitting-room rather, in order; when madge joined her and began to help. "is the other room ready?" "all ready," said lois. "are you doing that elm tree?" "yes." "how do you get along?" "i cannot manage it yet, to my satisfaction; but i will. o madge, isn't it too delicious?" "what? the drawing? isn't it!!" "i don't mean the drawing only. everything. i am getting hold of french, and it's delightful. but the books! o madge, the books! i feel as if i had been a chicken in his shell until now, and as if i were just getting my eyes open to see what the world is like." "what _is_ it like?" asked madge, laughing. "my eyes are shut yet, i suppose, for _i_ haven't found out. you can tell me." "eyes that are open cannot help eyes that are shut. besides, mine are only getting open." "what do they see? come, lois, tell." lois stood still, resting on her broom handle. "the world seems to me an immense battle-place, where wrong and right have been struggling; always struggling. and sometimes the wrong seems to cover the whole earth, like a flood, and there is nothing but confusion and horror; and then sometimes the floods part and one sees a little bit of firm ground, where grass and flowers might grow, if they had a chance. and in those spots there is generally some great, grand man, who has fought back the flood of wrong and made a clearing." "well, i do not understand all that one bit!" said madge. "i do not wonder," said lois, laughing, "i do not understand it very clearly myself. i cannot blame you. but it is very curious, madge, that the ancient persians had just that idea of the world being a battle-place, and that wrong and right were fighting; or rather, that the spirit of good and the spirit of evil were struggling. ormuzd was their name for the good spirit, and ahriman the other. it is very strange, for that is just the truth." "then why is it strange?" said downright madge. "because they were heathen; they did not know the bible." "is that what the bible says? i didn't know it." "why, madge, yes, you did. you know who is called the 'prince of this world'; and you know jesus 'was manifested that he might destroy the works of the devil'; and you know 'he shall reign till he has put all enemies under his feet.' but how should those old persians know so much, with out knowing more? i'll tell you, madge! you know, enoch knew?"-- "no, i don't." "yes, you do! enoch knew. and of course they all knew when they came out of the ark"-- "who--the persians?" lois broke out into a laugh, and began to move her broom again. "what have you been reading, to put all this into your head?" the broom stopped. "ancient history, and modern; parts here and there, in different books. mrs. barclay showed me where; and then we have talked"-- lois began now to sweep vigorously. "lois, is _she_ like the people you used to see in new york? i mean, were they all like her?" "not all so nice." "but like her?" "not in everything. no, they were not most of them so clever, and most of them did not know so much, and were not so accomplished." "but they were like her in other things?" "no," said lois, standing still; "she is a head and shoulders above most of the women i saw; but they were of her sort, if that is what you mean." "that is what i mean. she is not a bit like people here. we must seem very stupid to her, lois." "shampuashuh people are not stupid." "well, aunt anne isn't stupid; but she is not like mrs. barclay. and she don't want us to be like mrs. barclay." "no danger!"--said lois, very busy now at her work. "but wouldn't you _like_ to be like mrs. barclay?" "yes." "so would i." "well, we can, in the things that are most valuable," said lois, standing still again for a moment to look at her sister. "o, yes, books-- but i would like to be graceful like mrs. barclay. you would call that not valuable; but i care more for it than for all the rest. her beautiful manners." "she _has_ beautiful manners," said lois. "i do not think manners can be taught. they cannot be imitated." "why not?" "o, they wouldn't be natural. and what suits one might not suit another. a very handsome nose of somebody else might not be good on my face. no, they would not be natural." "you need not wish for anybody's nose but your own," said madge. "_that_ will do, and so will mine, i'm thankful! but what makes her look so unhappy, lois?" "she does look unhappy." "she looks as if she had lost all her friends." "she has got _one_, here," said lois, sweeping away. "but what good can you do her?" "nothing. it isn't likely that she will ever even know the fact." "she's doing a good deal for us." a little later, mrs. barclay came down to her room. she found it, as always, in bright order; the fire casting red reflections into every corner, and making pleasant contrast with the grey without. for it was cloudy and windy weather, and wintry neutral tints were all that could be seen abroad; the clouds swept along grey overhead, and the earth lay brown and bare below. but in mrs. barclay's room was the cheeriest play of light and colour; here it touched the rich leather bindings of books, there the black and white of an engraving; here it was caught in tin folds of the chintz curtains which were ruddy and purple in hue, and again it warmed up the old-fashioned furniture and lost itself in a brown tablecover. mrs. barclay's eye loved harmonies, and it found them even in this country-furnished room at shampuashuh. though, indeed, the piles of books came from afar, and so did the large portfolio of engravings, and mrs. barclay's desk was a foreigner. she sat in her comfortable chair before the fire and read her letters, which lois had laid ready for her; and then she was called to breakfast. mrs. barclay admired her surroundings here too, as she had often done before. the old lady, ungainly as her figure and uncomely as her face were, had yet a dignity in both; the dignity of a strong and true character, which with abundant self-respect, had not, and never had, any anxious concern about the opinion of any human being. whoever feels himself responsible to the one great ruler alone, and _does_ feel that responsibility, will be both worthy of respect and sure to have it in his relations with his fellows. such tribute mrs. barclay paid mrs. armadale. her eye passed on and admired madge, who was very handsome in her neat, smart home dress; and rested on lois finally with absolute contentment. lois was in a nut-brown stuff dress, with a white knitted shawl bound round her shoulders in the way children sometimes have, the ends crossed on the breast and tied at the back of the waist. brown and white was her whole figure, except the rosy flush on cheeks and lips; the masses of fluffy hair were reddish-brown, a shade lighter than her dress. at charity mrs. barclay did not look much, unless for curiosity; she was a study of a different sort. "what delicious rolls!" said mrs. barclay. "are these your work, miss charity?" "i can make as good, i guess," said that lady; "but these ain't mine. lois made 'em." "lois!" said mrs. barclay. "i did not know that this was one of your accomplishments." "is _that_ what you call an accomplishment," said charity. "certainly. what do you mean by it?" "i thought an accomplishment was something that one could accomplish that was no use." "i am sorry you have such an opinion of accomplishments." "well, ain't it true? lois, maybe mrs. barclay don't care for sausages. there's cold meat." "your sausages are excellent. i like _such_ sausage very much." "i always think sausages ain't sausages if they ain't stuffed. aunt anne won't have the plague of it; but i say, if a thing's worth doing at all, it's worth doing the best way; and there's no comparison in my mind." "so you judge everything by its utility." "don't everybody, that's got any sense?" "and therefore you condemn accomplishments?" "well, i don't see the use. o, if folks have got nothing else to do, and just want to make a flare-up--but for us in shampuashuh, what's the good of them? for lois and madge, now? i don't make it out." "you forget, your sisters may marry, and go somewhere else to live; and then"-- "i don't know what madge'll do; but lois ain't goin' to marry anybody but a real godly man, and what use'll her accomplishments be to her then?" "why, just as much use, i hope," said mrs. barclay, smiling. "why not? the more education a woman has, the more fit she is to content a man of education, anywhere." "where's she to get a man of education?" said charity. "what you mean by that don't grow in these parts. we ain't savages exactly, but there ain't many accomplishments scattered through the village. unless, as you say, bread-makin's one. we do know how to make bread, and cake, with anybody; lois said she didn't see a bit o' real good cake all the while she was in gotham; and we can cure hams, and we understand horses and cows, and butter and cheese, and farming, of course, and that; but you won't find your man of education here, or lois won't." "she may find him somewhere else," said mrs. barclay, looking at charity over her coffee-cup. "then he won't be the right kind," persisted charity; while lois laughed, and begged they would not discuss the question of her possible "finds"; but mrs. barclay asked, "how not the right kind?" "well, every place has its sort," said charity. "our sort is religious. i don't know whether we're any _better_ than other folks, but we're religious; and your men of accomplishments ain't, be they?" "depends on what you mean by religious." "well, i mean godly. lois won't ever marry any but a godly man." "i hope not!" said mrs. armadale. "_she_ won't," said charity; "but you had better talk to madge, mother. i am not so sure of her. lois is safe." "'the fashion of this world passeth away,'" said the old lady, with a gravity which was yet sweet; "'but the word of the lord endureth for ever.'" mrs. barclay was now silent. this morning, contrary to her usual wont, she kept her place at the table, though the meal was finished. she was curious to see the ways of the household, and felt herself familiar enough with the family to venture to stay. charity began to gather her cups. "did you give aunt anne's invitation? hand along the plates, madge, and carry your butter away. we've been for ever eating breakfast." "talking," said mrs. barclay, with a smile. "talking's all very well, but i think one thing at a time is enough. it is as much as most folks can attend to. lois, do give me the plates; and give your invitation." "aunt anne wants us all to come and take tea with her to-night," said lois; "and she sent her compliments to mrs. barclay, and a message that she would be very glad to see her with the rest of us." "i am much obliged, and shall be very happy to go." "'tain't a party," said charity, who was receiving plates and knives and forks from lois's hand, and making them elaborately ready for washing; while madge went back and forth clearing the table of the remains of the meal. "it's nothin' but to go and take our tea there instead of here. we save the trouble of gettin' it ready, and have the trouble of going; that's our side; and what aunt anne has for her side she knows best herself. i guess she's proud of her sweetmeats." mrs. barclay smiled again. "it seems parties are much the same thing, wherever they are given," she said. "this ain't a party," repeated charity. madge had now brought a tub of hot water, and the washing up of the breakfast dishes was undertaken by lois and charity with a despatch and neatness and celerity which the looker-on had never seen equalled. "parties do not seem to be shampuashuh fashion," she remarked. "i have not heard of any since i have been here." "no," said charity. "we have more sense." "i am not sure that it shows sense," remarked lois, carrying off a pile of clean hot plates to the cupboard. "what's the use of 'em?" said the elder sister. "cultivation of friendly feeling," suggested mrs. barclay. "if folks ain't friendly already, the less they see of one another the better they'll agree," said charity. "miss charity, i am afraid you do not love your fellow-creatures," said mrs. barclay, much amused. "as well as they love me, i guess," said charity. "mrs. armadale," said mrs. barclay, appealing to the old lady who sat in her corner knitting as usual,--"do not these opinions require some correction?" "charity speaks what she thinks," said mrs. armadale, scratching behind her ear with the point of her needle, as she was very apt to do when called upon. "but that is not the right way to think, is it?" "it's the natural way," said the old lady. "it is only the fruit of the spirit that is 'love, joy, peace.' 'tain't natural to love what you don't like." "what you don't like! no," said mrs. barclay; "that is a pitch of love i never dreamed of." "'if ye love them that love you, what thank have ye?'" said the old lady quietly. "mother's off now," said charity; "out of anybody's understanding. one would think i was more unnatural than the rest of folks!" "she _said_ you were more natural, thats all," said lois, with a sly smile. the talk ceased. mrs. barclay looked on for a few minutes more, marvelling to see the quick dexterity with which everything was done by the two girls; until the dishes were put away, the tcib and towels were gone, the table was covered with its brown cloth, a few crumbs were brushed from the carpet; and charity disappeared in one direction and lois in another. mrs. barclay herself withdrew to her room and her thoughts. chapter xxiv. the carpenter. the day was a more than commonly busy one, so that the usual hours of lessons in mrs. barclay's room did not come off. it was not till late in the afternoon that lois went to her friend, to tell her that mrs. marx would send her little carriage in about an hour to fetch her mother, and that mrs. barclay also might ride if she would. mrs. barclay was sitting in her easy-chair before the fire, doing nothing, and on receipt of this in formation turned a very shadowed face towards the bringer of it. "what will you say to me, if after all your aunt's kindness in asking me, i do not go?" "not go? you are not well?" inquired lois anxiously. "i am quite well--too well!" "but something is the matter?" "nothing new." "dear mrs. barclay, can i help you?" "i do not think you can. i am tired, lois!" "tired! o, that is spending so much time giving lessons to madge and me! i am so sorry." "it is nothing of the kind," said mrs. barclay, stretching out her hand to take one of lois's, which she retained in her own. "if anything would take away this tired feeling, it is just that, lois. nothing refreshes me so much, or does me so much good." "then what tires you, dear mrs. barclay?" lois's face showed unaffected anxiety. mrs. barclay gave the hand she held a little squeeze. "it is nothing new, my child," she said, with a faint smile. "i am tired of life." looking at the girl, as she spoke, she saw how unable her listener's mind was to comprehend her. lois looked puzzled. "you do not know what i mean?" she said. "hardly--" "i hope you never will. it is a miserable feeling. it is like what i can fancy a withered autumn leaf feeling, if it were a sentient and intelligent thing;--of no use to the branch which holds it--freshness and power gone--no reason for existence left--its work all done. only i never did any work, and was never of any particular use." "o, you cannot mean that!" cried lois, much troubled and perplexed. "i keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that was found under the dead soldier's pillow. the words run in my head, and wake echoes. 'i lay me down to sleep, with little thought or care whether the waking find me here, or there. 'a bowing, burdened head--'" but here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes lois saw, or guessed, that she could not go on. "never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. do you remember?-- 'my good right hand forgets its cunning now. to march the weary march, i know not how. 'i am not eager, bold, nor brave; all that is past. i am ready not to do, at last, at last!--' i am too young to feel so," mrs. barclay went on, after a pause which lois did not break; "but that is how i feel to-day." "i do not think one need--or ought--at any age," lois said gently; but her words were hardly regarded. "do you hear that wind?" said mrs. barclay. "it has been singing and sighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon." "it is christmas," said lois. "yes, it often sings so, and i like it. i like it especially at christmas time." "it carries me back--years. it takes me to my old home, when i was a child. i think it must have sighed so round the house then. it takes me to a time when i was in my fresh young life and vigour--the unfolding leaf--when life was careless and cloudless; and i have a kind of home-sickness to-night for my father and mother.--of the days since that time, i dare not think." lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly and few, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and her heart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. yet she did not know how to speak. she recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which mrs. barclay had passed over-- "a bowing, burdened head, that only asks to rest, unquestioning, upon a loving breast." she thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? she sat still and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better than any words could have done it. and perhaps mrs. barclay felt it so, for she presently went on after a manner which was not like her usual reserve. "o that wind! o that wind! it sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. but it makes me home-sick, lois!" "cannot you go on with the hymn, dear mrs. barclay? you know how it goes,-- 'my half day's work is done; and this is all my part-- i give a patient god my patient heart.'" "what does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her. "what? o, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the one thing he cares about! that we would love him." "i have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart is not patient. it is only tired, and dead." "it is not that," said lois. "how very, very good you have been to madge and me!" "you have been good to me. and, as your grandmother quoted this morning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. my heart does not seem to be alive, lois. you had better go to your aunt's without me, dear. i should not be good company." "but i cannot leave you so!" exclaimed lois; and she left her seat and sank upon her knees at her friend's side, still clasping the hand that had taken hers. "dear mrs. barclay, there is help." "if you could give it, there would be, you pretty creature!" said mrs. barclay, with her other hand pushing the beautiful masses of red-brown hair right and left from lois's brow. "but there is one who can give it, who is stronger than i, and loves you better." "what makes you think so?" "because he has promised. 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and i will give you rest.'" mrs. barclay said nothing, but she shook her head. "it is a promise," lois repeated. "it is a promise. it is the king's promise; and he never breaks his word." "how do you know, my child? you have never been where i am." "no," said lois, "not there. i have never felt just _so_." "i have had all that life could give. i have had it, and knew i had it. and it is all gone. there is nothing left." "there is this left," said lois eagerly, "which you have not tried." "what?" "the promise of christ." "my dear, you do not know what you are talking of. life is in its spring with you." "but i know the king's promise," said lois. "how do you know it?" "i have tried it." "but you have never had any occasion to try it, you heart-sound creature!" said mrs. barclay, with again a caressing, admiring touch of lois's brow. "o, but indeed i have. not in need like yours--i have never touched _that_--i never felt like that; but in other need, as great and as terrible. and i know, and everybody else who has ever tried knows, that the lord keeps his word." "how have you tried?" mrs. barclay asked abstractedly. "i needed the forgiveness of sin," said lois, letting her voice fall a little, "and deliverance from it." "_you!_" said mrs. barclay. "i was as unhappy as anybody could be till i got it." "when was that?" "four years ago." "are you much different now from what you were before?" "entirely." "i cannot imagine you in need of forgiveness. what had you done?" "i had done nothing whatever that i ought to have done. i loved only myself,--i mean _first_,--and lived only to myself and my own pleasure, and did my own will." "whose will do you now? your grandmother's?" "not grandmother's first. i do god's will, as far as i know it." "and therefore you think you are forgiven?" "i don't _think_, i know," said lois, with a quick breath. "and it is not 'therefore' at all; it is because i am covered, or my sin is, with the blood of christ. and i love him; and he makes me happy." "it is easy to make you happy, dear. to me there is nothing left in the world, nor the possibility of anything. that wind is singing a dirge in my ears; and it sweeps over a desert. a desert where nothing green will grow any more!" the words were spoken very calmly; there was no emotion visible that either threatened or promised tears; a dull, matter-of-fact, perfectly clear and quiet utterance, that almost broke lois's heart. the water that was denied to the other eyes sprang to her own. "it was in the wilderness that the people were fed with manna," she said, with a great gush of feeling in both heart and voice. "it was when they were starving and had no food, just then, that they got the bread from heaven." "manna does not fall now-a-days," said mrs. barclay with a faint smile. "o yes, it does! there is your mistake, because you do not know. it _does_ come. look here, mrs. barclay--" she sprang up, went for a bible which lay on one of the tables, and, dropping on her knees again by mrs. barclay's side, showed her an open page. "look here--'i am the bread of life; he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst... this is the bread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and not die.' not die of weariness, nor of anything else." mrs. barclay did look with a little curiosity at the words lois held before her, but then she put down the book and took the girl in her arms, holding her close and laying her own head on lois's shoulder. whether the words had moved her, lois could not tell, or whether it was the power of her own affection and sympathy; mrs. barclay did not speak, and lois did not dare add another word. they were still, wrapped in each other's arms, and one or two of lois's tears wet the other woman's cheek; and there was no movement made by either of them; until the door was suddenly opened and they sprang apart. "here's mr. midgin," announced the voice of miss charity. "shall he come in? or ain't there time? of all things, why can't folks choose convenient times for doin' what they have to do! it passes me. it's because it's a sinful world, i suppose. but what shall i tell him? to go about his business, and come new year's, or next fourth of july?" "you do not want to see him now?" said lois hastily. but mrs. barclay roused herself, and begged that he might come in. "it is the carpenter, i suppose," said she. mr. midgin was a tall, loose-jointed, large-featured man, with an undecided cast of countenance, and slow movements; which fitted oddly to his big frame and powerful muscles. he wore his working suit, which hung about him in a flabby way, and entered mrs. barclay's room with his hat on. hat and all, his head made a little jerk of salutation to the lady. "good arternoon!" said he. "sun'thin' i kin do here?" "yes, mr. midgin--i left word for you three days ago," said lois. "jest so. i heerd. and here i be. wall, i never see a room with so many books in it! lois, you must be like a cow in clover, if you're half as fond of 'em as i be." "you are fond of reading, mr. midgin?" said mrs. barclay. "wall, i think so. but what's in 'em all?" he came a step further into the room and picked up a volume from the table. mrs. barclay watched him. he opened the book, and stood still, eagerly scanning the page, for a minute or two. "'lamps of architectur'," said he, looking then at the title-page;--"that's beyond me. the only lamps of architectur that _i_ ever see, in shampuashuh anyway, is them that stands up at the depot, by the railroad; but here's 'truth,' and 'sacrifice,' and i don' know what all; 'hope' and 'love,' i expect. wall, them's good lamps to light up anythin' by; only i don't make out whatever they kin have to do with buildin's." he picked up an other volume. "what's this?" said he. "'tain't _my_ native tongue. what do ye call it, lois?" "that is french, mr. midgin." "that's french, eh?" said he, turning over the leaves. "i want to know! don't look as though there was any sense in it. what is it about, now?" "it is a story of a man who was king of rome a great while ago." "king o' rome! what was his name? not romulus and remus, i s'pose?" "no; but he came just after romulus." "did, hey? then you s'pose there ever _was_ sich a man as romulus?" "probably," mrs. barclay now said. "when a story gets form and lives, there is generally some thing of fact to serve as foundation for it." "you think that?" said the carpenter. "wall, i kin tell you stories that had form enough and life enough in 'em, to do a good deal o' work; and that yet grew up out o' nothin' but smoke. there was governor denver; he was governor o' this state for quite a spell; and he was a shampuashuh man, so we all knew him and thought lots o' him. he was sot against drinking. mebbe you don't think there's no harm in wine and the like?" "i have not been accustomed to think there was any harm in it certainly, unless taken immoderately." "ay, but how're you goin' to fix what's moderately? there's the pinch. what's a gallon for me's only a pint for you. wall, governor denver didn't believe in havin' nothin' to do with the blamed stuff; and he had taken the pledge agin it, and he was known for an out and out temperance man; teetotal was the word with him. wall, his daughter was married, over here at new haven; and they had a grand weddin', and a good many o' the folks was like you, they thought there was no harm in it, if one kept inside the pint, you know; and there was enough for everybody to hev had his gallon. and then they said the governor had taken his glass to his daughter's health, or something like that. wall, all shampuashuh was talkin' about it, and governor denver's friends was hangin' their heads, and didn't know what to say; for whatever a man thinks,--and thoughts is free,--he's bound to stand to what he _says_, and particularly if he has taken his oath upon it. so governor denver's friends was as worried as a steam-vessel in a fog, when she can't hear the 'larm bells; and one said this and t'other said that. and at last i couldn't stand it no longer; and i writ him a letter--to the governor; and says i, 'governor,' says i, '_did_ you drink wine at your daughter lottie's weddin' at new haven last month?' and if you'll believe me, he writ me back, 'jonathan midgin, esq. dear sir, i was in new york the day you mention, shakin' with chills and fever, and never got to lottie's weddin' at all.'--what do you think o' that? overturns your theory a leetle, don't it? warn't no sort o' foundation for that story; and yet it did go round, and folks said it was so." "it is a strong story for your side, mr. midgin, undoubtedly." "ain't it! la! bless you, there's nothin' you kin be sartain of in this world. i don't believe in no romulus and his wolf. half o' all these books, now, i have no doubt, tells lies; and the other half, you don' know which 'tis." "i cannot throw them away however, just yet; and so, mr. midgin, i want some shelves to keep them off the floor." "i should say you jest did! where'll you put 'em?" "the shelves? all along that side of the room, i think. and about six feet high." "that'll hold 'em," said mr. midgin, as he applied his measuring rule. "jest shelves? or do you want a bookcase fixed up all reg'lar?" "just shelves. that is the prettiest bookcase, to my thinking." "that's as folks looks at it," said mr. midgin, who apparently was of a different opinion. "what'll they be? mahogany, or walnut, or cherry, or maple, or pine? you kin stain 'em any colour. one thing's handsome, and another thing's cheap; and i don' know yet whether you want 'em cheap or handsome." "want 'em both, mr. midgin," said lois. "h'm!-- well--maybe there's folks that knows how to combine both advantages--but i'm afeard i ain't one of 'em. nothin' that's cheap's handsome, to my way o' thinkin'. you don't make much count o' cheap things _here_ anyhow," said he, surveying the room. and then he began his measurements, going round the sides of the apartment to apply his rule to all the plain spaces; and mrs. barclay noticed how tenderly he handled the books which he had to move out of his way. now and then he stopped to open one, and stood a minute or two peering into it. all this while his hat was on. "should like to read that," he remarked, with a volume of macaulay's essays in his hands. "that's well written. but a man can't read all the world," he went on, as he laid it out of his hands again. "'much study is a weariness to the flesh.' arter all, i don't suppose a man'd be no wiser if he'd read all you've got here. the biggest fool i ever knowed, was the man that had read the most." "how did he show his folly?" mrs. barclay asked. "wall, it's a story. lois knows. he was dreadfully sot on a little grandchild he had; his chil'n was all dead, and he had jest this one left; she was a little girl. and he never left her out o' his sight, nor she him; until one day he had to go to boston for some business; and he couldn't take her; and he said he knowed some harm'd come. do you believe in presentiments." "sometimes," said mrs. barclay. "how should a man have presentiments o' what's comin'?" "i cannot answer that." "no, nor nobody else. it ain't reason. i believe the presentiments makes the things come." "was that the case in this instance?" "wall, i don't see how it could. when he come back from boston, the little girl was dead; but she was as well as ever when he went away. ain't that curious?" "certainly; if it is true." "i'm tellin' you nothin' but the truth. the hull town knows it. 'tain't no secret. 'twas old mr. roderick, you know, lois; lived up yonder on the road to the ferry. and after he come back from the funeral he shut himself up in the room where his grandchild had been--and nobody ever see him no more from that day, 'thout 'twas the folks in the house; and there warn't many o' them; but he never went out. an' he never went out for seven years; and at the end o' seven years he _had_ to--there was money in it--and folks that won't mind nothin' else, they minds mammon, you know; so he went out. an' as soon as he was out o' the house, his women-folks, they made a rush for his room, fur to clean it; for, if you'll believe me, it hadn't been cleaned all those years; and i expect 'twas in a condition; but the women likes nothin' better; and as they opened some door or other, of a closet or that, out runs a little white mouse, and it run clear off; they couldn't catch it any way, and they tried every way. it was gone, and they were scared, for they knowed the old gentleman's ways. it wasn't a closet either it was in, but some piece o' furniture; i'm blessed ef i can remember what they called it. the mouse was gone, and the women-folks was scared; and to be sure, when mr. roderick come home he went as straight as a line to that there door where the mouse was; and they say he made a terrible rumpus when he couldn't find it; but arter that the spell was broke, like; and he lived pretty much as other folks. did you say six feet?" "that will be high enough. and you may leave a space of eight or ten feet on that side, from window to window." "thout any?" "yes." "that'll be kind o' lop-sided, won't it? i allays likes to see things samely. what'll you do with all that space of emptiness? it'll look awful bare." "i will put something else there. what do you suppose the white mouse had to do with your old gentleman's seclusion?" "seclusion? livin' shut up, you mean? why, don't ye see, he believed the mouse was the sperrit o' the child--leastways the sperrit o' the child was in it. you see, when he got back from the funeral the first thing his eyes lit upon was that ere white mouse; and it was white, you see, and that ain't a common colour for a mouse; and it got into his head, and couldn't get out, that that was ella's sperrit. it mought ha' ben, for all i can say; but arter that day, it was gone." "you think the child's spirit might have been in the mouse?" "who knows? i never say nothin' i don't know, nor deny nothin' i _du_ know; ain't that a good principle?" "but you know better than that, mr. midgin," said lois. "wall, i don't! maybe you do, lois; but accordin' to my lights i _don't_ know. you'll hev 'em walnut, won't you? that'll look more like furniture." "are you coming? the waggon's here, lois," said madge, opening the door. "is mrs. barclay ready?" "will be in two minutes," replied that lady. "yes, mr. midgin, let them be walnut; and good evening! yes, lois, i am quite roused up now, and i will go with you. i will walk, dear; i prefer it." chapter xxv. roast pig. mrs. barclay seemed to have entirely regained her usual composure and even her usual spirits, which indeed were never high. she said she enjoyed the walk, which she and lois took in company, madge having gone with her grandmother and charity in mrs. marx's waggon. the winter evening was falling grey, and the grey was growing dark; and there was something in the dusky stillness, and soft, half-defined lines of the landscape, with the sharp, crisp air, which suited the mood of both ladies. the stars were not visible yet; the western horizon had still a glow left from the sunset; and houses and trees stood like dark solemn ghosts along the way before the end of the walk was reached. they talked hardly at all, but mrs. barclay said when she got to mrs. marx's, that the walk had been delightful. at mrs. marx's all was in holiday perfection of order; though that was the normal condition of things, indeed, where that lady ruled. the paint of the floors was yellow and shining; the carpets were thick and bright; the table was set with great care; the great chimney in the upper kitchen where the supper was prepared, was magnificent with its blazing logs. so was a lesser fireplace in the best parlour, where the guests were first received; but supper was ready, and they adjourned to the next room. there the table invited them most hospitably, loaded with dainties such as people in the country can get at christmas time. one item of the entertainment not usual at christmas time was a roast pig; its brown and glossy back making a very conspicuous object at one side of the board. "i thought i'd surprise you all," remarked the satisfied hostess; for she knew the pig was done to a turn; "and anything you don't expect tastes twice as good. i knew ma' liked pig better'n anything; and i think myself it's about the top sheaf. i suppose nothin' can be a surprise to mrs. barclay." "why do you suppose so?" asked that lady. "i thought you'd seen everything there was in the world, and a little more." "never saw a roast pig before in my life. but i have read of them." "read of them!" exclaimed their hostess. "in a cook-book, likely?" "alas! i never read a cook-book." "no more didn't i; but you'll excuse me, i didn't believe you carried it all in your head, like we folks." "i have not a bit of it in my head, if you mean the art of cookery. i have a profound respect for it; but i know nothing about it whatever." "well, you're right to have a respect for it. uncle tim, do you just give mrs. barclay some of the best of that pig, and let us see how she likes it. and the stuffing, uncle tim, and the gravy; and plenty of the crackle. mother, it's done just as you used to do it." mrs. barclay meanwhile surveyed the company. mrs. armadale sat at the end of the table; placid and pleasant as always, though to mrs. barclay her aspect had somewhat of the severe. she did not smile much, yet she looked kindly over her assembled children. uncle tim was her brother; uncle tim hotchkiss. he had the so frequent new england mingling of the shrewd and the benevolent in his face; and he was a much more jolly personage than his sister; younger than she, too, and still vigorous. unlike her, also, he was a handsome man; had been very handsome in his young days; and, as mrs. barclay's eye roved over the table, she thought few could show a better assemblage of comeliness than was gathered round this one. madge was strikingly handsome in her well-fitting black dress; lois made a very plain brown stuff seem resplendent; she had a little fleecy white woollen shawl wound about her shoulders, and mrs. barclay could hardly keep her eyes away from the girl. and if the other members of the party were less beautiful in feature, they had every one of them in a high degree the stamp of intellect and of character. mrs. barclay speculated upon the strange society in which she found herself; upon the odd significance of her being there; and on the possible outcome, weighty and incalculable, of the connection of the two things. so intently that she almost forgot what she was eating, and she started at mrs. marx's sudden question--"well, how do you like it? charity, give mrs. barclay some pickles--what she likes; there's sweet pickle, that's peaches; and sharp pickle, that's red cabbage; and i don' know which of 'em she likes best; and give her some apple--have you got any apple sauce, mrs. barclay?" "thank you, everything; and everything is delicious." "that's how things are gen'ally, in mrs. marx's hands," remarked uncle tim. "there ain't her beat for sweets and sours in all the country." "mrs. barclay's accustomed to another sort o' doings," said their hostess. "i didn't know but she mightn't like our ways." "i like them very much, i assure you." "there ain't no better ways than shampuashuh ways," said uncle tim. "if there be, i'd like to see 'em once. lois, you never see a handsomer dinner'n this in new york, did you? come now, and tell. _did_ you?" "i never saw a dinner where things were better of their kind, uncle tim." mrs. barclay smiled to herself. that will do, she thought. "is that an answer?" said uncle tim. "i'll be shot if i know." "it is as good an answer as i can give," returned lois, smiling. "of course she has seen handsomer!" said mrs. marx. "if you talk of elegance, we don't pretend to it in shampuashuh. be thankful if what you have got is good, uncle tim; and leave the rest." "well, i don't understand," responded uncle tim. "why shouldn't shampuashuh be elegant, i don't see? ain't this elegant enough for anybody?" "'tain't elegant at all," said mrs. marx. "if this was in one o' the elegant places, there'd be a bunch o' flowers in the pig's mouth, and a ring on his tail." at the face which uncle tim made at this, lois's gravity gave way; and a perfect echo of laughter went round the table. "well, i don' know what you're all laughin' at nor what you mean," said the object of their merriment; "but i should uncommonly like to know." "tell him, lois," cried madge, "what a dinner in new york is like. you never did tell him." "well, i'm ready to hear," said the old gentleman. "i thought a dinner was a dinner; but i'm willin' to learn." "tell him, lois!" madge repeated. "it would be very stupid for mrs. barclay," lois objected. "on the contrary!" said that lady. "i should very much like to hear your description. it is interesting to hear what is familiar to us described by one to whom it is novel. go on, lois." "i'll tell you of one dinner, uncle tim," said lois, after a moment of consideration. "_all_ dinners in new york, you must understand, are not like this; this was a grand dinner." "christmas eve?" suggested uncle tim. "no. i was not there at christmas; this was just a party. there were twelve at table. "in the first place, there was an oval plate of looking-glass, as long as this table--not quite so broad--that took up the whole centre of the table." here lois was interrupted. "looking-glass!" cried uncle tim. "did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" said charity. "looking-glass to set the hot dishes on?" said mrs. marx, to whom this story seemed new. "no; not to set anything on. it took up the whole centre of the table. round the edge of this looking-glass, all round, was a border or little fence of solid silver, about six or eight inches high; of beautiful wrought open-work; and just within this silver fence, at intervals, stood most exquisite little white marble statues, about a foot and a half high. there must have been a dozen of them; and anything more beautiful than the whole thing was, you cannot imagine." "i should think they'd have been awfully in the way," remarked charity. "not at all; there was room enough all round outside for the plates and glasses." "the looking-glass, i suppose, was for the pretty ladies to see themselves in!" "quite mistaken, uncle tim; one could not see the reflection of oneself; only bits of one's opposite neighbours; little flashes of colour here and there; and the reflection of the statuettes on the further side; it was prettier than ever you can think." "i reckon it must ha' been; but i don't see the use of it," said uncle tim. "that wasn't all," lois went on. "everybody had his own salt-cellar." "table must ha' been full, i should say." "no, it was not full at all; there was plenty of room for everything, and that allowed every pretty thing to be seen. and those salt-cellars were a study. they were delicious little silver figures--every one different from the others--and each little figure presented the salt in something. mine was a little girl, with her apron all gathered up, as if to hold nuts or apples, and the salt was in her apron. the one next to her was a market-woman with a flat basket on her head, and the salt was in the basket. another was a man bowing, with his hat in his hand; the salt was in the hat. i could not see them all, but each one seemed prettier than the other. one was a man standing by a well, with a bucket drawn up, but full of salt, not water. a very pretty one was a milkman with a pail." uncle tim was now reduced to silence, but charity remarked that she could not understand where the dishes were--the dinner. "it was somewhere else. it was not on the table at all. the waiters brought the things round. there were six waiters, handsomely dressed in black, and with white silk gloves." "white silk gloves!" echoed charity. "well, i _do_ think the way some people live is just a sin and a shame!" "how did you know what there was for dinner?" inquired mrs. marx now. "i shouldn't like to make my dinner of boiled beef, if there was partridges comin'. and when there's plum-puddin' i always like to know it beforehand." "we knew everything beforehand, aunt anne. there were beautifully painted little pieces of white silk on everybody's plate, with all the dishes named; only many, most of them, were french names, and i was none the wiser for them." "can't they call good victuals by english names?" asked uncle tim. "what's the sense o' that? how was anybody to know what he was eatin'?" "o they all knew," said lois. "except me." "i'll bet you were the only sensible one o' the lot," said the old gentleman. "then at every plate there was a beautiful cut glass bottle, something like a decanter, with ice water, and over the mouth of it a tumbler to match. besides that, there were at each plate five or six other goblets or glasses, of different colours." "what colours?" demanded charity. "yellow, and dark red, and green, and white." "what were _they_ all for?" asked uncle tim. "wine; different sorts of wine." "different sorts o' wine! how many sorts did they have, at one dinner?" "i cannot tell you. i do not know. a great many." "did you drink any, lois?" "no, aunt anne." "i suppose they thought you were a real country girl, because you didn't?" "nobody thought anything about it. the servants brought the wine; everybody did just as he pleased about taking it." "what did you have to eat, lois, with so much to drink?" asked her elder sister. "more than i can tell, charity. there must have been a dozen large dishes, at each end of the table, besides the soup and the fish; and no end of smaller dishes." "for a dozen people!" cried charity. "i suppose it's because i don't know anythin'," said mr. hotchkiss,--"but i always _du_ hate to see a whole lot o' things before me more'n i can eat!" "it's downright wicked waste, that's what i call it," said mrs. marx; "but i s'pose that's because i don't know anythin'." "and you like that sort o' way better 'n this 'n?" inquired uncle tim of lois. "i said no more than that it was prettier, uncle tim." "but _du_ ye?" lois's eye met involuntarily mrs. barclay's for an instant, and she smiled. "uncle tim, i think there is something to be said on both sides." "there ain't no sense on that side." "there is some prettiness; and i like prettiness." "prettiness won't butter nobody's bread. mother, you've let lois go once too often among those city folks. she's nigh about sp'iled for a shampuashuh man now." "perhaps a shampuashuh man will not get her," said mrs. barclay mischievously. "who else is to get her?" cried mrs. marx. "we're all o' one sort here; and there's hardly a man but what's respectable, and very few that ain't more or less well-to-do; but we all work and mean to work, and we mostly all know our own mind. i do despise a man who don't do nothin', and who asks other folks what he's to think!" "that sort of person is not held in very high esteem in any society, i believe," said mrs. barclay courteously; though she was much amused, and was willing for her own reasons that the talk should go a little further. therefore she spoke. "well, idleness breeds 'em," said the other lady. "but who respects them?" "the world'll respect anybody, even a man that goes with his hands in his pockets, if he only can fetch 'em out full o' money. there was such a feller hangin' round appledore last summer. my! didn't he try my patience!" "appledore?" said lois, pricking up her ears. "yes; there was a lot of 'em." "people who did not know their own minds?" mrs. barclay asked, purposely and curiously. "well, no, i won't say that of all of 'em. there was some of 'em knew their own minds a'most _too_ well; but he warn't one. he come to me once to help him out; and i filled his pipe for him, and sent him to smoke it." "aunt anne!" said lois, drawing up her pretty figure with a most unwonted assumption of astonished dignity. both the dignity and the astonishment drew all eyes upon her. she was looking at mrs. marx with eyes full of startled displeasure. mrs. marx was entrenched behind a whole army of coffee and tea pots and pitchers, and answered coolly. "yes, i did. what is it to you? did he come to _you_ for help too?" "i do not know whom you are talking of." "oh!" said mrs. marx. "i thought you _did_. before i'd have you marry such a soft feller as that, i'd--i'd shoot him!" there was some laughter, but lois did not join in it, and with heightened colour was attending very busily to her supper. "was the poor man looking that way?" asked mrs. barclay. "he was lookin' two ways," said mrs. marx; "and when a man's doin' that, he don't fetch up nowhere, you bet. i'd like to know what becomes of him! they were all of the sort lois has been tellin' of; thought a deal o' 'prettiness.' i do think, the way some people live, is a way to shame the flies; and i don't know nothin' in creation more useless than they be!" mrs. marx could speak better english, but the truth was, when she got much excited she forgot her grammar. "but at a watering-place," remarked mrs. barclay, "you do not expect people to show their useful side. they are out for play and amusement." "i can play too," said the hostess; "but my play always has some meaning to it. did i tell you, mother, what that lady was doing?" "i thought you were speaking of a gentleman," said quiet mrs. armadale. "well, there was a lady too; and she was doin' a piece o' work. it was a beautiful piece of grey satin; thick and handsome as you ever see; and she was sewin' gold thread upon it with fine gold-coloured silk; fine gold thread; and it went one way straight and another way round, curling and crinkling, like nothin' on earth but a spider's web; all over the grey satin. i watched her a while, and then, says i, 'what are you doin', if you please? i've been lookin' at you, and i can't make out.' 'no,' says she, 'i s'pose not. it's a cover for a bellows.' 'for a _what?_' says i. 'for a bellows,' says she; 'a _bellows_, to blow the fire with. don't you know what they are?' 'yes,' says i; 'i've seen a fire bellows before now; but in our part o' the country we don't cover 'em with satin.' 'no,' says she, 'i suppose not.' 'i would just like to ask one more question,' says i. 'well, you may,' says she; 'what is it?' 'i would just like to know,' says i, 'what the fire is made of that you blow with a satin and gold bellows?' and she laughed a little. ' 'cause,' says i, 'it ought to be somethin' that won't soil a kid glove and that won't give out no sparks nor smoke.' 'o,' says she, 'nobody really blows the fire; only the bellows have come into fashion, along with the _fire-dogs_, wherever people have an open fireplace and a wood fire.' well, what she meant by fire dogs i couldn't guess; but i thought i wouldn't expose any more o' my ignorance. now, mother, how would you like to have lois in a house like that?--where people don't know any better what to do with their immortal lives than to make satin covers for bellows they don't want to blow the fire with! and dish up dinner enough for twelve people, to feed a hundred?" "lois will never be in a house like that," responded the old lady contentedly. "then it's just as well if you keep her away from the places where they make so much of _prettiness_, i can tell you. lois is human." "lois is christian," said mrs. armadale; "and she knows her duty." "well, it's heart-breakin' work, to know one's duty, sometimes," said mrs. marx. "but you do not think, i hope, that one is a pattern for all?" said mrs. barclay. "there are exceptions; it is not everybody in the great world that lives to no purpose." "if that's what you call the great world, _i_ call it mighty small, then. if i didn't know anything better to do with myself than to work sprangles o' gold on a satin cover that warn't to cover nothin', i'd go down to fairhaven and hire myself out to open oysters! and think i made by the bargain. anyhow, i'd respect myself better." "i don't know what you mean by the great world," said uncle tim. "be there two on 'em--a big and a little?" "don't you see, all shampuashuh would go in one o' those houses lois was tellin' about! and if it got there, i expect they wouldn't give it house-room." "the worlds are not so different as you think," mrs. barclay went on courteously. "human nature is the same everywhere." "well, i guess likely," responded mrs. marx. "mother, if you've done, we'll go into the other." chapter xxvi. scruples. the next day was christmas; but in the country of shampuashuh, christmas, though a holiday, was not held in so high regard as it receives in many other quarters of the earth. there was no service in the church; and after dinner lois came as usual to draw in mrs. barclay's room. "i did not understand some of your aunt's talk last evening," mrs. barclay remarked after a while. "i am not surprised at that," said lois. "did you?" "o yes. i understand aunt anne." "does she really think that _all_ the people who like pretty things, lead useless lives?" "she does not care so much about pretty things as i do," said lois slightly. "but does she think all who belong to the 'great world' are evil? given up to wickedness?" "not so bad as that," lois answered, smiling; "but naturally aunt anne does not understand any world but this of shampuashuh." "i understood her to assume that under no circumstances could you marry one of the great world she was talking of?" "well," said lois, "i suppose she thinks that one of them would not be a christian." "you mean, an enthusiast." "no," said lois; "but i mean, and she means, one who is in heart a true servant of christ. he might, or he might not, be enthusiastic." "and would you marry no one who was not a christian, as you understand the word?" "the bible forbids it," said lois, her colour rising a little. "the bible forbids it? i have not studied the bible like you; but i have heard it read from the pulpit all my life; and i never heard, either from the pulpit or out of it, such an idea, as that one who is a christian may not marry one who is not." "i can show you the command--in more places than one," said lois. "i wish you would." lois left her drawing and fetched a bible. "it is forbidden in the old testament and in the new," she said; "but i will show you a place in the new. here it is--in the second epistle to the corinthians--'be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers;' and it goes on to give the reason." "unbelievers! but those, in that day, were heathen." "yes," said lois simply, going on with her drawing. "there are no heathen now,--not here." "i suppose that makes no difference. it is the party which will not obey and serve christ; and which is working against him. in that day they worshipped idols of wood and stone; now they worship a different sort. they do not worship _him;_ and there are but two parties." "no neutrals?" "no. the bible says not." "but what is being 'yoked together'? what do you understand is forbidden by that? marriage?" "any connection, i suppose," said lois, looking up, "in which two people are forced to pull together. you know what a 'yoke' is?" "and you can smile at that, you wicked girl?" lois laughed now. "why not?" she said. "i have not much fancy for putting my head in a yoke at all; but a yoke where the two pull different ways must be very miserable!" "you forget; you might draw somebody else to go the right way." "that would depend upon who was the strongest." "true," said mrs. barclay. "but, my dear lois! you do not suppose that a man cannot belong to the world and yet be what you call a christian? that would be very uncharitable." "i do not want to be uncharitable," said lois. "mrs. barclay, it is _extremely_ difficult to mark the foliage of different sorts of trees!" "yes, but you are making a very good beginning. lois, do you know, you are fitting to be the wife of just one of that world you are condemning-cultivated, polished, full of accomplishments and graces, and fine and refined tastes." "then he would be very dangerous," said lois, "if he were not a christian. he might have all that, and yet be a christian too." "suppose he were not; would you refuse him?" "i hope i should," said lois. but her questioner noticed that this answer was soberly given. that evening she wrote a letter to mr. dillwyn. "i am enjoying the most delightful rest," the letter said, "that i have known for a very long time; yet i have a doubt whether i ought to confess it; whether i ought not to declare myself tired of shampuashuh, and throw up my cards. i feel a little like an honest swindler, using your money, not on false pretences, but on a foregone case. i should _never_ get tired of the place or the people. everyone of them, indeed almost every one that i see, is a character; and here, where there is less varnish, the grain of the wood shows more plainly. i have had a most original carpenter here to measure for my book-shelves, only yesterday; for my room is running over with books. not only everybody is a character, but nearly everybody has a good mixture of what is admirable in his composition; and as for these two girls--well, i am even more in love than you are, philip. the elder is the handsomer, perhaps; she is very handsome; but your favourite is my favourite. lois is lovely. there is a strange, fresh, simple, undefinable charm about the girl that makes one her captive. even me, a woman. she wins upon me daily with her sweet unconscious ways. but nevertheless i am uneasy when i remember what i am here for, and what you are expecting. i fear i am acting the part of an innocent swindler, as i said; little better. "in one way there is no disappointment to be looked for. these girls are both gifted with a great capacity and aptitude for mental growth. lois especially, for she cares more to go into the depths of things; but both of them grow fast, and i can see the change almost from day to day. tastes are waking up, and eager for gratification; there is no limit to the intellectual hunger or the power of assimilation; the winter is one of very great enjoyment to them (as to me!), and there is, and that has been from the first, a refinement of manner which surprised me, but that too is growing. and yet, with all this, which promises so much, there is another element which threatens discomfiture to our hopes. i must not conceal it from you. these people are regular puritans. they think now, in this age of the world, to regulate their behaviour entirely by the bible. you are of a different type; and i am persuaded that the whole family would regard an alliance with a man like you as an unlawful thing; ay, though he were a prince or a rothschild, it would make no difference in their view of the thing. for here is independence, pure and absolute. the family is very poor; they are glad of the money i pay them; but they would not bend their heads before the prestige of wealth, or do what they think wrong to gain any human favour or any earthly advantage. and lois is like the rest; quite as firm; in fact, some of these gentlewomen have a power of saying 'no' which is only a little less than fearful. i cannot tell what love would do; but i do not believe it would break down her principle. we had a talk lately on this very subject; she was very firm. "i think i ought not to conceal from you that i have doubts on another question. we were at a family supper party last night at an aunt's house. she is a character too; a kind of a grenadier of a woman, in nature, not looks. the house and the entertainment were very interesting to me; the mingling of things was very striking, that one does not expect to find in connection. for instance, the appointments of the table were, as of course they would be, of no pretension to style or elegance; clumsily comfortable, was all you could say. and the cooking was delicately fine. then, manners and language were somewhat lacking in polish, to put it mildly; and the tone of thought and the qualities of mind and character exhibited were very far above what i have heard often in circles of great pretension. once the conversation got upon the contrasting ways of life in this society and in what is called the world; the latter, i confess to you, met with some hard treatment; and the idea was rejected with scorn that one of the girls should ever be tempted out of her own sphere into the other. all this is of no consequence; but what struck me was a hint or two that lois _had been_ tempted; and a pretty plain assertion that this aunt, who it seems was at appledore last summer nursing mrs. wishart, had received some sort of overture or advance on lois's behalf, and had rejected it. this was evidently news to lois; and she showed so much startled displeasure--in her face, for she said almost nothing--that the suspicion was forced upon me, there might have been more in the matter than the aunt knew. who was at appledore? a friend of yours, was it not? and are you _sure_ he did not gain some sort of lien upon this heart which you are so keen to win? i owe it to you to set you upon this inquiry; for if i know anything of the girl, she is as true and as unbending as steel. what she holds she will hold; what she loves she will love, i believe, to the end. so, before we go any further, let us find whether we have ground to go on. no, i would not have you come here at present. not in any case; and certainly not in this uncertain'ty. you are too wise to wish it." whether philip were too wise to wish it, he was too wise to give the rein to his wishes. he stayed in new york all winter, contenting himself with sending to shampuashuh every imaginable thing that could make mrs. barclay's life there pleasant, or help her to make it useful to her two young friends. a fine chickering piano arrived between christmas and new year's day, and was set up in the space left for it between the bookshelves. books continued to flow in; books of all sorts--science and art, history and biography, poetry and general literature. and lois would have developed into a bookworm, had not the piano exercised an almost equal charm upon her. listening to mrs. barclay's music at first was an absorbing pleasure; then mrs. barclay asked casually one day "shall i teach you?" "o, you could not!" was lois's answer, given with a breath and a flush of excitement. "let us try," said mrs. barclay, smiling. "you might learn at least enough to accompany yourself. i have never heard your voice. have you a voice?" "i do not know what you would call a voice," said lois, smiling. "but you sing?" "hymns. nothing else." "have you a hymn-book? with music, i mean?" lois brought one. mrs. barclay played the accompaniment of a familiar hymn, and lois sang. "my dear," exclaimed the former when she had done, "that is delicious!" "is it?" "your voice is very fine; it has a peculiar and uncommon richness. you must let me train that voice." "i should like to sing hymns as well as i _can_," lois answered, flushing somewhat. "you would like to sing other things, too." "songs?" "yes. some songs are beautiful." "i never liked much those i have heard." "why not?" "they seemed rather foolish." "did they! the choice must have been unfortunate. where did you hear them?" "in new york. in company there. the voices were sometimes delightful; but the words--" "well, the words?" "i wondered how they could like to sing them. there was nothing in them but nonsense." "you are a very severe critic!" "no," said lois deprecatingly; "but i think hymns are so much better." "well, we will see. songs are not the first thing; your voice must be trained." so a new element came into the busy life of that winter; and music now made demands on time and attention which lois found it a little difficult to meet, without abridging the long reading hours and diligent studies to which she had hitherto been giving all her spare time. but the piano was so alluring! and every morsel of real music that mrs. barclay touched was so entrancing to lois. to lois; madge did not care about it, except for the wonder of seeing mrs. barclay's fingers fly over the keys; and charity took quite a different view again. "mother," she said one evening to the old lady, whom they often called so, "don't it seem to you that lois is gettin' turned round?" "how, my dear?" "well, it ain't like the lois we used to have. she's rushin' at books from morning to night, or scritch-scratching on a slate; and the rest o' the time she's like nothin' but the girl in the song, that had 'bells on her fingers and rings on her toes.' i hear that piano-forty going at all hours; it's tinkle, tinkle, every other thing. what's the good of all that?" "what's the _harm?_" said lois. "what's she doin' it for, that woman? one 'ud think she had come here just on purpose to teach madge and you; for she don't do anything else. what's it all for? that's what i'd like to be told." "i'm sure she's very kind," said madge. "mother, do you like it?" "what is the harm in what we are doing, charity?" asked her younger sister. "if a thing ain't good it's always harm!" "but these things are good." "maybe good for some folks; they ain't good for you." "i wish you would say 'are not,'" said lois. "there!" said charity. "there it is! you're pilin' one thing on top of another, till your head won't stand it; and the house won't be high enough for you by and by. all these ridiculous ways, of people that think themselves too nice for common things! and you've lived all your life among common things, and are going to live all your life among them. and, mother, all this french and music will just make lois discontented. you see if it don't." "do i act discontented?" lois asked, with a pleasant smile. "does she leave any of her work for you to do, charity?" said madge. "wait till the spring opens and garden must be made," said charity. "i should never think of leaving _that_ to you to do, charity," said lois, laughing. "we should have a poor chance of a garden." "mother, i wish you'd stop it." mrs. armadale said, however, nothing at the time. but the next chance she had when she and her youngest granddaughter were alone, she said, "lois, are you in danger of lettin' your pleasure make you forget your duty?" "i hope not, grandmother. i do not think it. i take these things to be duty. i think one ought always to learn anything one has an opportunity of learning." "one thing is needful," said the old lady doubtfully. "yes, grandmother. i do not forget that." "you don't want to learn the ways of the world, lois?" "no, grandmother." chapter xxvii. peas and radishes. mr. dillwyn, as i said, did not come near shampuashuh. he took his indemnification in sending all sorts of pleasant things. papers and magazines overflowed, flowed over into mrs. marx's hands, and made her life rich; flowed over again into mr. hotchkiss's hands, and embroidered his life for him. mr. dillwyn sent fruit; foreign fruit, strange and delicious, which it was a sort of education even to eat, bringing one nearer to the countries so far and unknown, where it grew. he sent music; and if some of it passed under lois's ban as "nonsense," that was not the case with the greater part. "she has a marvellous true appreciation of what is fine," mrs. barclay wrote; "and she rejects with an accuracy which surprises me, all that is merely pretty and flashy. there are some bits of handel that have great power over the girl; she listens to them, i might almost say, devoutly, and is never weary. madge is delighted with rossini; but lois gives her adherence to the german classics, and when i play haydn or mozart or mendelssohn, stands rapt in her delighted listening, and looking like--well, i will not tantalize you by trying to describe to you what i see every day. i marvel only where the girl got these tastes and susceptibilities; it must be blood; i believe in inheritance. she has had until now no training or experience; but your bird is growing her wings fast now, philip. if you can manage to cage her! natures hereabout are not tame, by any means." mr. dillwyn, i believe i mentioned, sent engravings and exquisite photographs; and these almost rivalled haydn and mozart in lois's mind. for various reasons, mrs. barclay sought to make at least this source of pleasure common to the whole family; and would often invite them all into her room, or carry her portfolio out into their general sitting-room, and display to the eyes of them all the views of foreign lands; cities, castles and ruins, palaces and temples, swiss mountains and scotch lochs, paris boulevards and venetian canals, together with remains of ancient art and works of modern artists; of all which philip sent an unbounded number and variety. these evenings were unendingly curious to mrs. barclay. comment was free, and undoubtedly original, whatever else might be said of it; and character, and the habit of life of her audience, were unconsciously revealed to her. intense curiosity and eagerness for information were observable in them all; but tastes, and the power of apprehension and receptiveness towards new and strange ideas, and the judgment passed upon things, were very different in the different members of the group. these exhibitions had further one good effect, not unintended by the exhibitor; they brought the whole family somewhat in tone with the new life to which two of its members were rising. it was not desirable that lois should be too far in advance of her people, or rather that they should be too far behind her. the questions propounded to mrs. barclay on these occasions, and the elucidations she found it desirable to give without questions, transformed her part into that of a lecturer; and the end of such an evening would find her tired with her exertions, yet well repaid for them. the old grandmother manifested great curiosity, great admiration, with frequently an expression of doubt or disapproval; and very often a strange, slight, inexpressible air of one who felt herself to belong to a different world, to which all these things were more or less foreign. charity showed also intense eagerness and curiosity, and inquisitiveness; and mingled with those, a very perceptible flavour of incredulity or of disdain, the latter possibly born of envy. but lois and madge were growing with every journey to distant lands, and every new introduction to the great works of men's hands, of every kind and of every age. after receiving that letter of mrs. barclay's mentioned in the last chapter, philip dillwyn would immediately have attacked tom caruthers again on the question of his liking for miss lothrop, to find out whether possibly there were any the least foundation for mrs. barclay's scruples and fears. but it was no longer in his power. the caruthers family had altered their plans; and instead of going abroad in the spring, had taken their departure with the first of december, after an impromptu wedding of julia to her betrothed. mr. dillwyn did not seriously believe that there was anything his plan had to fear from this side; nevertheless he preferred not to move in the dark; and he waited. besides, he must allow time for the work he had sent mrs. barclay to do; to hurry matters would be to spoil everything; and it was much better on every ground that he should keep away from shampuashuh. as i said, he busied himself with shampuashuh affairs all he could, and wore out the winter as he best might; which was not very satisfactorily. and when spring came he resolutely carried out his purpose, and sailed for europe. till at least a year had gone by he would not try to see lois; mrs. barclay should have a year at least to push her beneficent influence and bring her educational efforts to some visible result; he would keep away; but it would be much easier to keep away if the ocean lay between them, and he went to florence and northern italy and the adriatic. meanwhile the winter had "flown on soft wings" at shampuashuh. every day seemed to be growing fuller and richer than its predecessors; every day lois and madge were more eager in the search after knowledge, and more ready for the reception of it. a change was going on in them, so swift that mrs. barclay could almost see it from day to day. whether others saw it i cannot tell; but mrs. marx shook her head in the fear of it, and charity opined that the family "might whistle for a garden, and for butter and cheese next summer." precious opportunity of winter days, when no gardening nor dairy work was possible! and blessed long nights and mornings, after sunset and before sunrise, when no housework of any sort put in claims upon the leisure of the two girls. there were no interruptions from without. in shampuashuh, society could not be said to flourish. beyond an occasional "sewing society" meeting, and a much more rare gathering for purely social purposes, nothing more than a stray caller now and then broke the rich quiet of those winter days; the time for a tillage, and a sowing, and a growth far beyond in preciousness all "the precious things put forth by the sun" in the more genial time of the year. but days began to become longer, nevertheless, as the weeks went on; and daylight was pushing those happy mornings and evenings into lesser and lesser compass; and snow quite disappeared from the fields, and buds began to swell on the trees and take colour, and airs grew more gentle in temperature; though i am bound to say there is a sharpness sometimes in the nature of a shampuashuh spring, that quite outdoes all the greater rigours of the winter that has gone. "the frost is out of the ground!" said lois one day to her friend. "well," said mrs. barclay innocently; "i suppose that is a good thing." lois went on with her drawing, and made no answer. but soon mrs. barclay began to perceive that less reading and studying were done; or else some drawing lingered on its way towards completion; and the deficits became more and more striking. at last she demanded the reason. "o," said madge, "the cows have come in, and i have a good deal to do in the dairy now; it takes up all my mornings. i'm so sorry, i don't know what to do! but the milk must be seen to, and the butter churned, and then worked over; and it takes time, mrs. barclay." "and lois?" "o, lois is making garden." "making garden!" "yes; o, she always does it. it's her particular part of the business. we all do a little of everything; but the garden is lois's special province, and the dairy mine, and charity takes the cooking and the sewing. o, we all do our own sewing, and we all do grandmother's sewing; only charity takes head in that department." "what does lois do in the garden?" "o, everything. we get somebody to plough it up in the fall; and in the spring we have it dug over; but all the rest she does. we have a good garden too," said madge, smiling. "and these things take your morning and her morning?" "yes, indeed; i should think they did. rather!" mrs. barclay held her peace then, and for some time afterwards. the spring came on, the days became soft and lovely, after march had blown itself out; the trees began to put forth leaves, the blue-birds were darting about, like skyey messengers; robins were whistling, and daffodils were bursting, and grass was green. one lovely warm morning, when everything without seemed beckoning to her, mrs. barclay threw on a shawl and hat, and made her way out to the old garden, which up to this day she had never entered. she found the great wide enclosure looking empty and bare enough. the two or three old apple trees hung protectingly over the wooden bench in the middle, their branches making pretty tracery against the tender, clear blue of the sky; but no shade was there. the branches only showed a little token of swelling and bursting buds, which indeed softened in a lovely manner the lines of their interlacing network, and promised a plenty of green shadow by and by. no shadow was needed at present, for the sun was too gentle; its warmth was welcome, and beneficent, and kindly. the old cherry tree in the corner was beginning to open its wealth of white blossoms; everywhere else the bareness and brownness of winter was still reigning, only excepting the patches of green turf around the boles and under the spreading boughs of the trees here and there. the garden was no garden, only a spread of soft, up-turned brown loam. it looked a desolate place to mrs. barclay. in the midst of it, the one point of life and movement was lois. she was in a coarse, stout stuff dress, short, and tucked up besides, to keep it out of the dirt. her hands were covered with coarse, thick gloves, her head with a little old straw hat. at the moment mrs. barclay came up, she was raking a patch of ground which she had carefully marked out, and bounded with a trampled footway; she was bringing it with her rake into a condition of beautiful level smoothness, handling her tool with light dexterity. as mrs. barclay came near, she looked up with a flash of surprise and a smile. "i have found you," said the lady. "so this is what you are about!" "it is what i am always about at this time of year." "what are you doing?" "just here i am going to put in radishes and lettuce." "radishes and lettuce! and that is instead of french and philosophy!" "this is philosophy," said lois, while with a neat movement of her rake she threw off some stones which she had collected from the surface of the bed. "very good philosophy. surely the philosophy of life is first--to live." mrs. barclay was silent a moment upon this. "are radishes and lettuce the first thing you plant in the spring, then?" "o dear, no!" said lois. "do you see all that corner? that's in potatoes. do you see those slightly marked lines--here, running across from the walk to the wall?--peas are there. they'll be up soon. i think i shall put in some corn to-morrow. yonder is a bed of radishes and lettuce just out of the ground. we'll have some radishes for tea, before you know it." "and do you mean to say that _you_ have been planting potatoes? _you?_" "yes," said lois, looking at her and laughing. "i like to plant potatoes. in fact, i like to plant anything. what i do not always like so well, is the taking care of them after they are up and growing." mrs. barclay sat down and watched her. lois was now tracing delicate little drills across the breadth of her nicely-prepared bed; little drills all alike, just so deep and just so far apart. then she went to a basket hard by for a little paper of seeds; two papers; and began deftly to scatter the seed along the drills, with delicate and careful but quick fingers. mrs. barclay watched her till she had filled all the rows, and began to cover the seeds in; that, too, she did quick and skilfully. "that is not fit work for you to do, lois." "why not?" "you have something better to do." "i do not see how i can. this is the work that is given me." "but any common person could do that?" "we have not got the common person to do it," said lois, laughing; "so it comes upon an uncommon one." "but there is a fitness in things." "so you will think, when you get some of my young lettuce." the drills were fast covered in, but there were a good many of them, and lois went on talking and working with equal spirit. "i do not think i shall--" mrs. barclay answered the last statement. "i like to do this, mrs. barclay. i like to do it very much. i _am_ pulled a little two ways this spring--but that only shows this is good for me." "how so?" "when anybody is living to his own pleasure, i guess he is not in the best way of improvement." "is there no one but you to do all the weeding, by and by, when the garden will be full of plants?" "nobody else," said lois. "that must take a great deal of your time!" "yes," said lois, "it does; that and the fruit-picking." "fruit-picking! mercy! why, child, _must_ you do all that?" "it is my part," said lois pleasantly. "charity and madge have each their part. this is mine, and i like it better than theirs. but it is only so, mrs. barclay, that we are able to get along. a gardener would eat up our garden. i take only my share. and there is a great deal of pleasure in it. it is pleasant to provide for the family's wants, and to see the others enjoy what i bring in;--yes, and to enjoy it myself. and then, do you see how pleasant the work is! don't you like it out here this morning?" mrs. barclay cast a glance around her again. there was a slight spring haze in the air, which seemed to catch and hold the sun's rays and diffuse them in gentle beneficence. through it the opening cherry blossoms gave their tender promise; the brown, bare apple trees were softened; an indescribable breath of hope and life was in the air, to which the birds were doing all they could to give expression; there was a delicate joy in nature's face, as if at being released from the bands of winter and having her hands free again. the smell of the upturned earth came fresh to mrs. barclay's nostrils, along with a salt savour from the not distant sea. yes, it was pleasant, with a rare and wonderful pleasantness; and yet mrs. barclay's eyes came discontentedly back to lois. "it would be possible to enjoy all this, lois, if you were not doing such evil work." "evil work! o no, mrs. barclay. the work that the lord gives anybody to do cannot be evil. it must be the very best thing he can do. and i do not believe i should enjoy the spring--and the summer--and the autumn--near so well, if i were not doing it." "must one be a gardener, to have such enjoyment?" "_i_ must," said lois, laughing. "if i do not follow my work, my work follows me; and then it comes like a taskmaster, and carries a whip." "but, lois! that sort of work will make your hands rough." lois lifted one of her hands in its thick glove, and looked at it. "well," she said, "what then? what are hands made for?" "you know very well what i mean. you know a time may come when you would like to have your hands white and delicate." "the time is come now," said lois, laughing. "i have not to wait for it. i like white hands, and delicate hands, as well as anybody. mine must do their work, all the same. something might be said for my feet, too, i suppose," she added, with another laugh. at the moment she had finished outlining an other bed, and was now trampling a little hard border pathway round it, making the length of her foot the breadth of the pathway, and setting foot to foot close together, so bit by bit stamping it round. mrs. barclay looked on, and wished some body else could have looked on, at the bright, fresh face under the little old hat, and the free action and spirit and accuracy with which everything that either feet or hands did was done. somehow she forgot the coarse dress, and only saw the delicate creature in it. "lois, i do not like it!" she began again. "do you know, some people are very particular about these little things--fastidious about them. you may one day yet want to please one of those very men." "not unless he wants to please me first!" said lois, with a glance from her path-treading. "of course. i am supposing that." "i don't know him!" said lois. "and i don't see him in the distance!" "that proves nothing." "and it wouldn't make any difference if i did." "you are mistaken in thinking that. you do not know yet what it is to be in love, lois." "i don't know," said lois. "can't one be in love with one's grandmother?" "but, lois, this is going to take a great deal of your time." "yes, ma'am." "and you want all your time, to give to more important things. i can't bear to have you drop them all to plant potatoes. could not somebody else be found to do it?" "we could not afford the somebody, mrs. barclay." it was not doubtfully or regretfully that the girl spoke; the brisk content of her answers drove mrs. barclay almost to despair. "lois, you owe something to yourself." "what, mrs. barclay?" "you owe it to yourself to be prepared for what i am sure is coming to you. you are not made to live in shampuashuh all your life. somebody will want you to quit it and go out into the wide world with him." lois was silent a few minutes, with her colour a little heightened, fresh as it had been already; then, having tramped all round her new bed, she came up to where mrs. barclay and her basket of seeds were. "i don't believe it at all," she said. "i think i shall live and die here." "do you feel satisfied with that prospect?" lois turned over the bags of seeds in her basket, a little hurriedly; then she stopped and looked up at her questioner. "i have nothing to do with all that," she said. "i do not want to think of it. i have enough in hand to think of. and i am satisfied, mrs. barclay, with whatever god gives me." she turned to her basket of seeds again, searching for a particular paper. "i never heard any one say that before," remarked the other lady. "as long as i can say it, don't you see that is enough?" said lois lightly. "i enjoy all this work, besides; and so will you by and by when you get the lettuce and radishes, and some of my tom thumb peas. and i am not going to stop my studies either." she went back to the new bed now, where she presently was very busy putting more seeds in. mrs. barclay watched her a while. then, seeing a small smile break on the lips of the gardener, she asked lois what she was thinking of? lois looked up. "i was thinking of that geode you showed us last night." "that geode!" "yes, it is so lovely. i have thought of it a great many times. i am wanting very much to learn about stones now. i thought always _till_ now that stones were only stones. the whole world is changed to me since you have come, mrs. barclay." yes, thought that lady to herself, and what will be the end of it? "to tell the truth," lois went on, "the garden work comes harder to me this spring than ever it did before; but that shows it is good for me. i have been having too much pleasure all winter." "can one have too much pleasure?" said mrs. barclay discontentedly. "if it makes one unready for duty," said lois. chapter xxviii. the lagoon of venice. towards evening, one day late in the summer, the sun was shining, as its manner is, on that marvellous combination of domes, arches, mosaics and carvings which goes by the name of st. mark's at venice. the soft italian sky, glowing and rich, gave a very benediction of colour; all around was the still peace of the lagoon city; only in the great square there was a gentle stir and flutter and rustle and movement; for thousands of doves were flying about, and coming down to be fed, and a crowd of varied human nature, but chiefly not belonging to the place, were watching and distributing food to the feathered multitude. people were engaged with the doves, or with each other; few had a look to spare for the great church; nobody even glanced at the columns bearing st. theodore and the lion. that is, speaking generally. for under one of the arcades, leaning against one of the great pillars of the same, a man stood whose look by turns went to everything. he had been standing there motionless for half an hour; and it passed to him like a minute. sometimes he studied that combination aforesaid, where feeling and fancy and faith have made such glorious work together; and to which, as i hinted, the venetian evening was lending such indescribable magnificence. his eye dwelt on details of loveliness, of which it was constantly discovering new revelations; or rested on the whole colour-glorified pile with meditative remembrance of what it had seen and done, and whence it had come. then with sudden transition he would give his attention to the motley crowd before him, and the soft-winged doves fluttering up and down and filling the air. and, tiring of these, his look would go off again to the bronze lion on his place of honour in the piazzetta, his thought probably wandering back to the time when he was set there. the man himself was noticed by nobody. he stood in the shade of the pillar and did not stir. he was a gentleman evidently; one sees that by slight characteristics, which are nevertheless quite unmistakeable and not to be counterfeited. his dress of course was the quiet, unobtrusive, and yet perfectly correct thing, which dress ought to be. his attitude was that of a man who knew both how to move and how to be still, and did both easily; and further, the look of him betrayed the habit of travel. this man had seen so much that he was not moved by any young curiosity; knew so much, that he could weigh and compare what he knew. his figure was very good; his face agreeable and intelligent, with good observant grey eyes; the whole appearance striking. but nobody noted him. and he had noted nobody; the crowd before him was to him simply a crowd, which excited no interest except as a whole. until, suddenly, he caught sight of a head and shoulders in the moving throng, which started him out of his carelessness. they were but a few yards from him, seen and lost again in the swaying mass of human beings; but though half seen he was sure he could not mistake. he spoke out a little loud the word "tom!" he was not heard, and the person spoken to moved out of sight again. the speaker, however, now left his place and plunged among the people. presently he had another glimpse of the head and shoulders, and was yet more sure of his man; lost sight of him anew, but, following in the direction taken by the chase, gradually won his way nearer, and at length overtook the man, who was then standing between the pillars of the lion and st. theodore, and looking out towards the water. "tom!" said his pursuer, clapping him on the shoulder. "philip dillwyn!" said the other, turning. "philip! where did you come from? what a lucky turn-up! that i should find you here!" "i found you, man. where have _you_ come from?" "o, from everywhere." "are you alone? where are your people?" "o, julia and lenox are gone home. mamma and i are here yet. i left mamma in a _pension_ in switzerland, where i could not hold it out any longer; and i have been wandering about--florence, and pisa, and i don't know all--till now i have brought up in venice. it is so jolly to get you!" "what are you doing here?" "nothing." "what are you going to do?" "nothing. o, i have done everything, you know. there is nothing left to a fellow." "that sounds hopeless," said dillwyn, laughing. "it is hopeless. really i don't see, sometimes, what a fellow's life is good for. i believe the people who have to work for it, have after all the best time!" "they work to live," said the other. "i suppose they do." "therefore you are going round in a circle. if life is worth nothing, why should one work to keep it up?" "well, what is it worth, dillwyn? upon my word, i have never made it out satisfactorily." "look here--we cannot talk in this place. have you ever been to torcello?" "no." "suppose we take a gondola and go?" "now? what is there?" "an old church." "there are old churches all over. the thing is to find a new one." "you prefer the new ones?" "just for the rarity," said tom, smiling. "i do not believe you have studied the old ones yet. do you know the mosaics in st. mark's?" "i never study mosaics." "and i'll wager you have not seen the tintorets in the palace of the doges?" "there are tintorets all over!" said tom, shrugging his shoulders wearily. "then have you seen murano?" "the glass-works, yes." "i do not mean the glass-works. come along--anywhere in a gondola will do, such an evening as this; and we can talk comfortably. you need not look at anything." they entered a gondola, and were presently gliding smoothly over the coloured waters of the lagoon; shining with richer sky reflections than any mortal painter could put on canvas. not long in silence. "where have you been, tom, all this while?" "i told you, everywhere!" said tom, with another shrug of his shoulders. "the one thing one comes abroad for, you know, is to run away from the winter; so we have been doing that, as long as there was any winter to run from, and since then we have been running away from the summer. let me see--we came over in november, didn't we? or december; we went to rome as fast as we could. there was very good society in rome last winter. then, as spring came on, we coasted down to naples and palermo. we staid at palermo a while. from there we went back to england; and from england we came to switzerland. and there we have been till i couldn't stand switzerland any longer; and i bolted." "palermo isn't a bad place to spend a while in." "no;--but sicily is stupid generally. it's all ridiculous, philip. except for the name of the thing, one can get just as good nearer home. i could get _better_ sport at appledore last summer, than in any place i've been at in europe." "ah! appledore," said philip slowly, and dipping his hand in the water. "i surmise the society also was good there?" "would have been," tom returned discontentedly, "if there had not been a little too much of it." "too much of it!" "yes. i couldn't stir without two or three at my heels. it's very kind, you know; but it rather hampers a fellow." "miss lothrop was there, wasn't she?" "of course she was! that made all the trouble." "and all the sport too; hey, tom? things usually are two-sided in this world." "she made no trouble. it was my mother and sister. they were so awfully afraid of her. and they drilled george in; so among them they were too many for me. but i think appledore is the nicest place i know." "you might buy one of the islands--a little money would do it--build a lodge, and have your europe always at hand; when the winter is gone, as you say. even the winter you might manage to live through, if you could secure the right sort of society. hey, tom? isn't that an idea? i wonder it never occurred to you. i think one might bid defiance to the world, if one were settled at the isles of shoals." "yes," said tom, with something very like a groan. "if one hadn't a mother and sister." "you are heathenish!" "i'm not, at all!" returned tom passionately. "see here, philip. there is one thing goes before mother and sister; and that you know. it's a man's wife. and i've seen my wife, and i can't get her." "why?" said dillwyri dryly. he was hanging over the side of the gondola, and looking attentively at the play of colour in the water; which reflecting the sky in still splendour where it lay quiet, broke up in ripples under the gondolier's oar, and seemed to scatter diamonds and amethysts and topazes in fairy-like prodigality all around. "i've told you!" said tom fretfully. "yes, but i do not comprehend. does not the lady in question like appledore as well as you do?" "she likes appledore well enough. i do not know how well she likes me. i never had a chance to find out. i don't think she _dis_likes me, though," said tom meditatively. "it is not too late to find out yet," philip said, with even more dryness in his tone. "o, isn't it, though!" said tom. "i'm tied up from ever asking her now. i'm engaged to another woman." "tom!" said the other, suddenly straightening himself up. "don't shout at a fellow! what could i do? they wouldn't let me have what i wanted; and now they're quite pleased, and julia has gone home. she has done her work. o, i am making an excellent match. 'an old family, and three hundred thousand dollars,' as my mother says. that's all one wants, you know." "who is the lady?" "it don't matter, you know, when you have heard her qualifications. it's miss dulcimer--one of the philadelphia dulcimers. of course one couldn't make a better bargain for oneself. and i'm as fond of her as i can be; in fact, i was afraid i was getting _too_ fond. so i ran away, as i told you, to think over my happiness at leisure, and moderate my feelings." "tom, tom, i never heard you bitter before," said his friend, regarding him with real concern. "because i never _was_ bitter before. o, i shall be all right now. i haven't had a soul on whom i could pour out my mind, till this hour. i know you're as safe as a mine. it does me good to talk to you. i tell you, i shall be all right. i'm a very happy bridegroom expectant. you know, if the caruthers have plenty of money, the dulcimers have twice as much. money's really everything." "have you any idea how this news will touch miss--the other lady you were talking about?" "i suppose it won't touch her at all. she's different; that's one reason why i liked her. she would not care a farthing for me because i'm a caruthers, or because i have money; not a brass farthing! she is the _real_est person i ever saw. she would go about appledore from morning to night in the greatest state of delight you ever saw anybody; where my sister, for instance, would see nothing but rocks and weeds, lois would have her hands full of what julia would call trash, and what to her was better than if the fairies had done it. things pulled out of the shingle and mud,--i can just see her,--and flowers, and stones, and shells. what she would make of _this_ now!--but you couldn't set that girl down anywhere, i believe, that she wouldn't find something to make her feel rich. she's a richer woman this minute, than my dulcimer with her thousands. and she's got good blood in her too, philip. i learned that from mrs. wishart. she has the blood of ever so many of the old pilgrims in her veins; and that is good descent, philip?" "they think so in new england." "well, they are right, i am ready to believe. anyhow, i don't care--" he broke off, and there was a silence of some minutes' length. the gondola swam along over the quiet water, under the magnificent sky; the reflected colours glanced upon two faces, grave and self-absorbed. "old boy," said philip at length, "i hardly think you are right." "right in what? i am right in all i have told you." "i meant, right in your proposed plan of action. you may say it is none of my business." "i shall not say it, though. what's the wrong you mean?" "it seems to me miss dulcimer would not feel obliged to you, if she knew all." "she doesn't feel obliged to me at all," said tom. "she gives a good as she gets." "no better?" "what do you mean?" "pardon me, tom; but you have been frank with me. by your own account, she will get very little." "all she wants. i'll give her a local habitation and a name." "i am sure you are unjust." "not at all. that is all half the girls want; all they try for. she's very content. o, i'm very good to her when we are together; and i mean to be. you needn't look at me," said tom, trying to laugh. "three-quarters of all the marriages that are made are on the same pattern. why, phil, what do the men and women of this world live for? what's the purpose in all i've been doing since i left college? what's the good of floating round in the world as i have been doing all summer and winter here this year? and at home it is different only in the manner of it. people live for nothing, and don't enjoy life. i don't know at this minute a single man or woman, of our sort, you know, that enjoys life; except that one. and _she_ isn't our sort. she has no money, and no society, and no europe to wander round in! o, they would _say_ they enjoy life; but their way shows they don't." "enjoyment is not the first thing," philip said thoughtfully. "o, isn't it! it's what we're all after, anyhow; you'll allow that." "perhaps that is the way we miss it." "so dulcimer and i are all right, you see," pursued tom, without heeding this remark. "we shall be a very happy couple. all the world will have us at their houses, and we shall have all the world at ours. there won't be room left for any thing but happiness; and that'll squeeze in anywhere, you know. it's like chips floating round on the surface of a whirlpool--they fly round and round splendidly--till they get sucked in." "tom!" cried his companion. "what has come to you? your life is not so different now from what it has always been;--and i have always known you for a light-hearted fellow. i can't have you take this tone." tom was silent, biting the ends of his moustache in a nervous way, which bespoke a good deal of mental excitement; philip feared, of mental trouble. "if a friend may ask, how came you to do what is so unsatisfactory to you?" he said at length. "my mother and sister! they were so preciously afraid i should ruin myself. philip, i _could not_ make head against them. they were too much for me, and too many for me; they were all round me; they were ahead of me; i had no chance at all. so i gave up in despair. women are the overpowering when they take a thing in their head! a man's nowhere. i gave in, and gave up, and came away, and now--they're satisfied." "then the affair is definitely concluded?" "as definitely as if my head was off." philip did not laugh, and there was a pause again. the colours were fading from sky and water, and a yellow, soft moonlight began to assert her turn. it was a change of beauty for beauty; but neither of the two young men seemed to take notice of it. "tom," began the other after a time, "what you say about the way most of us live, is more or less true; and it ought not to be true." "of course it is true!" said tom. "but it ought not to be true." "what are you going to do about it? one must do as everybody else does; i suppose." "_must_ one? that is the very question." "what can you do else, as long as you haven't your bread to get?" "i believe the people who _have_ their bread to get have the best of it. but there must be some use in the world, i suppose, for those who are under no such necessity. did you ever hear that miss--lothrop's family were strictly religious?" "no--yes, i have," said tom. "i know _she_ is." "that would not have suited you." "yes, it would. anything she did would have suited me. i have a great respect for religion, philip." "what do you mean by religion?" "i don't know--what everybody means by it. it is the care of the spiritual part of our nature, i suppose." "and how does that care work?" "i don't know," said tom. "it works altar-cloths; and it seems to mean church-going, and choral music, and teaching ragged schools; and that sort of thing. i don't understand it; but i should never interfere with it. it seems to suit the women particularly." again there fell a pause. "where have _you_ been, dillwyn? and what brought you here again?" tom began now. "i came to pass the time," the other said musingly. "ah! and where have you passed it?" "along the shores of the adriatic, part of the time. at abazzia, and sebenico, and the islands." "what's in all that? i never heard of abazzia." "the world is a large place," said philip absently. "but what is abazzia?" "a little paradise of a place, so sheltered that it is like a nest of all lovely things. really; it has its own climate, through certain favouring circumstances; and it is a hidden little nook of delight." "ah!--what took you to the shores of the adriatic, anyhow?" "full of interest," said philip. "pray, of what kind?" "every kind. historical, industrial, mechanical, natural, and artistic. but i grant you, tom, that was not why i went there. i went there to get out of the ruts of travel and break new ground. like you, being a little tired of going round in a circle for ever. and it occurs to me that man must have been made for somewhat else than such a purposeless circle. no other creature is a burden to himself." "because no other creature thinks," said tom. "the power of thought can surely be no final disadvantage." "i don't see what it amounts to," tom returned. "a man is happy enough, i suppose, as long as he is busy thinking out some new thing--inventing, creating, discovering, or working out his discoveries; but as soon as he has brought his invention to perfection and set it going, he is tired of it, and drives after something else." "you are coming to solomon's judgment," said the other, leaning back upon the cushions and clasping his hands above his head,--"what the preacher says--'vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'" "well, so are you," said tom. "it makes me ashamed." "of what?" "myself." "why?" "that i should have lived to be thirty-two years old, and never have done anything, or found any way to be of any good in the world! there isn't a butterfly of less use than i!" "you weren't made to be of use," said tom. "upon my word, my dear fellow, you have said the most disparaging thing, i hope, that ever was said of me! you cannot better that statement, if you think an hour! you mean it of me as a human being, i trust? not as an individual? in the one case it would be indeed melancholy, but in the other it would be humiliating. you take the race, not the personal view. the practical view is, that what is of no use had better not be in existence. look here--here we are at murano; i had not noticed it. shall we land, and see things by moonlight? or go back to venice?" "back, and have dinner," said tom. "by way of prolonging this existence, which to you is burdensome and to me is unsatisfactory. where is the logic of that?" but they went back, and had a very good dinner too. chapter xxix. an ox cart. it happened not far from this same time in the end of august, when mr. dillwyn and tom caruthers came together on the piazzetta of st. mark, that another meeting took place in the far-away regions of shampuashuh. a train going to boston was stopped by a broken bridge ahead, and its passengers discharged in one of the small towns along the coast, to wait until the means of getting over the little river could be arranged. people on a railway journey commonly do not like to wait; it was different no doubt in the days of stage-coaches, when patience had some exercise frequently; now, we are spoiled, and you may notice that ten minutes' delay is often more than can be endured with complacency. our fathers and mothers had hours to wait, and took it as a matter of course. among the impatient passengers thrown out at independence were two specially impatient. "what on earth shall we do with ourselves?" said the lady. "pity the break-down had not occurred a little further on," said the gentleman. "you might have visited your friend--or tom's friend--miss lothrop. we are just a few miles from shampuashuh." "shampuashuh!--miss lothrop!--was that where she lived? how far, george?" "a few miles--half a dozen, perhaps." "o george, let us get horses and drive there!" "but then you may not catch the train this evening again." "i don't care. i cannot wait _here_. it would be a great deal better to have the drive and see the other place. yes, we will go and visit her. get horses, george, please! quick. _this_ is terrible." "will you ask for their hospitality?" "yes, of course. they would be delighted. that is just what the better sort of country people like, to have somebody come and see them. make haste, george." with a queer little smile on his face, mr. lenox however did as he was desired. a waggon was procured without very much delay, in which they could be driven to shampuashuh. it was a very warm day, and the travellers had just the height of it. hot sunbeams poured down upon them; the level, shadeless country through which lay their way, showed as little as it could of the attractive features which really belonged to it. the lady declared herself exceeded by the heat and dust; the gentleman opined they might as well have stayed in independence, where they were. between two and three o'clock they entered the long green street of shampuashuh. the sunbeams seemed tempered there, but it was only a mental effect produced by the quiet beauty and airy space of the village avenue, and the shade of great elms which fell so frequently upon the wayside grass. "what a sweet place!" cried the lady. "comfortable-looking houses," suggested the gentleman. "it seems cooler here," the lady went on. "it is getting to a cooler time of day." "why, no, george! three o'clock is just the crown of the heat. don't it look as if nobody ever did anything here? there's no stir at all." "my eyes see different tokens; they are more versed in business than yours are--naturally." "what do your eyes see?"--a little impatiently. "you may notice that nothing is out of order. there is no bit of fence out of repair; and never a gate hanging upon its hinges. there is no carelessness. do you observe the neatness of this broad street?" "what should make it unneat? with so few travellers?" "ground is the last thing to keep itself in order. i notice, too, the neat stacks of wood in the wood-sheds. and in the fields we have passed, the work is all done, up to the minute; nothing hanging by the eyelids. the houses are full of windows, and all of them shining bright." "you might be a newspaper reporter, george! is this the house we are coming to? it is quite a large house; quite respectable." "did you think that little girl had come out of any but a respectable house?" "pshaw, george! you know what i mean. they are very poor and very plain people. i suppose we might go straight in?" they dismissed their vehicle, so burning their ships, and knocked at the front door. a moment after it was opened by charity. her tall figure was arrayed in a homely print gown, of no particular fashion; a little shawl was over her shoulders, notwithstanding the heat, and on her head a sun-bonnet. "does miss lothrop live here?" "three of us," said charity, confronting the pair with a doubtful face. "is miss lois at home?" "she's as near as possible not," said the door-keeper; "but i guess she is. you may come in, and i'll see." she opened a door in the hall which led to a room on the north side of it, corresponding to mrs. barclay's on the south; and there she left them. it was large and pleasant and cool, if it was also very plain; and mrs. lenox sank into a rocking-chair, repeating to herself that it was 'very respectable.' on a table at one side lay a few books, which drew mr. lenox's curiosity. "ruskin's 'modern painters'!" he exclaimed, looking at his wife. "selections, i suppose." "no, this is vol. . and the next is thiers' 'consulate and empire'!" "translation." "no. original. and 'the old red sandstone.'" "what's that?" "hugh miller." "who's hugh miller?" "he is, or was, a gentleman whom you would not admit to your society. he began life as a scotch mason." meanwhile, charity, going back to the living-room of the family, found there lois busied in arraying old mrs. armadale for some sort of excursion; putting a light shawl about her, and drawing a white sun-bonnet over her cap. lois herself was in an old nankeen dress with a cape, and had her hat on. "there's some folks that want you, lois," her sister announced. "want me!" said lois. "who is it? why didn't you tell them we were just going out?" "i don't usually say things without i know that it's so," responded charity. "maybe we're going to be hindered." "we must not be hindered," returned lois. "grandmother is ready, and mrs. barclay is ready, and the cart is here. we must go, whoever comes. you get mother into the cart, and the baskets and everything, and i'll be as quick as i can." so lois went into the parlour. a great surprise came over her when she saw who was there, and with the surprise a slight feeling of amusement; along with some other feeling, she could not have told what, which put her gently upon her mettle. she received her visitors frankly and pleasantly, and also with a calm ease which at the moment was superior to their own. so she heard their explanation of what had befallen them, and of their resolution to visit her; and a slight account of their drive from independence; all which mrs. lenox gave with more prolixity than she had intended or previously thought necessary. "and now," said lois, "i will invite you to another drive. we are just going down to the sound, to smell the salt air and get cooled off. we shall have supper down there before we come home. i do not think i could give you anything pleasanter, if i had the choice; but it happens that all is arranged for this. do come with us; it will be a variety for you, at least." the lady and gentleman looked at each other. "it's so hot!" objected the former. "it will be cooler every minute now," said lois. "we ought to take the train--when it comes along--" "you cannot tell when that will be," said mr. lenox. "you would find it very tedious waiting at the station. we might take the night train. that will pass about ten o'clock, or should." "but we should be in your way, i am afraid," mrs. lenox went on, turning to lois. "you are not prepared for two more in your party." "always!" said lois, smiling. "we should never think ourselves prepared at all, in shampuashuh, if we were not ready for two more than the party. and the cart will hold us all." "the cart!" cried the other. "yes. o yes! i did not tell you that," said lois, smiling more broadly. "we are going in an ox cart. that will be a novel experience for you too." if mrs. lenox had not half accepted the invitation already, i am not sure but this intimation would have been too much for her courage. however, she was an outwardly well-bred woman; that is, like so many others, well-bred when there was nothing to gain by being otherwise; and so she excused her hesitation and doubt by the plea of being "so dusty." there was help for that; lois took her upstairs to a neat chamber, and furnished her with water and towels. it was new experience to the city lady. she took note, half disdainfully, of the plainness of the room; the painted floor, yellow and shining, which boasted only one or two little strips of carpet; the common earthenware toilet-set; the rush-bottomed chairs. on the other hand, there was an old mahogany dressing bureau; a neat bed; and water and towels (the latter coarse) were exceedingly fresh and sweet. she made up her mind to go through with the adventure, and rejoined her husband with a composed mind. lois took them first to the sitting-room, where they were introduced to mrs. barclay, and then they all went out at the back door of the house, and across a little grassy space, to a gate leading into a lane. here stood the cart, in which the rest of the family was already bestowed; mrs. armadale being in an arm-chair with short legs, while madge and charity sat in the straw with which the whole bottom of the cart was spread. a tall, oldish man, with an ox whip, stood leaning against the fence and surveying things. "are we to go in _there?_" said mrs. lenox, with perceptible doubt. "it's the only carriage we have to offer you," said lois merrily. "for your sake, i wish we had a better; for my own, i like nothing so well as an ox cart. mrs. barclay, will you get in? and stimulate this lady's courage?" a kitchen chair had been brought out to facilitate the operation; and mrs. barclay stepped lightly in, curled herself down in the soft bed of straw, and declared that it was very comfortable. with an expression of face which made lois and madge laugh for weeks after when they recalled it, mrs. lenox stepped gingerly in, following, and took her place. "grandmother," said lois, "this is mrs. lenox, whom you have heard me speak about. and these are my sisters, madge and charity, mrs. lenox. and grandmother, this is mr. lenox. now, you see the cart has room enough," she added, as herself and the gentleman also took their seats. "is that the hull of ye?" inquired now the man with the ox whip, coming forward. "and be all your stores got in for the v'yage? i don't want to be comin' back from somewheres about half-way." "all right, mr. sears," said lois. "you may drive on. mother, are you comfortable?" and then there was a "whoa"-ing and a "gee"-ing and a mysterious flourishing of the long leathern whip, with which the driver seemed to be playing; for if its tip touched the shoulders of the oxen it did no more, though it waved over them vigorously. but the oxen understood, and pulled the cart forward; lifting and setting down their heavy feet with great deliberation seemingly, but with equal certain'ty, and swaying their great heads gently from side to side as they went. lois was so much amused at her guests' situation, that she had some difficulty to keep her features in their due calmness and sobriety. mrs. lenox eyed the oxen, then the contents of the cart, then the fields. "slow travelling!" said lois, with a smile. "can they go no faster?" "they could go a little faster if they were urged; but that would spoil the comfort of the whole thing. the entire genius of a ride in an ox cart is, that everybody should take his ease." "oxen included?" said mr. lenox. "why not?" "why not, indeed!" said the gentleman, smiling. "only, ordinary people cannot get rid easily of the notion that the object of going is to get somewhere." "that's not the object in this case," lois answered merrily. "the one sole object is fun." mrs. lenox said nothing more, but her face spoke as plainly as possible, and you call _this_ fun! "i am enjoying myself very much," said mrs. barclay. "i think it is delightful." something in her manner of speech made mr. lenox look at her. she was sitting next him on the cart bottom. "perhaps this is a new experience also to you?" he said. "delightfully new. never rode in an ox cart before in my life; hardly ever saw one, in fact. we are quite out of the race and struggle and uneasiness of the world, don't you see? there comes down a feeling of repose upon one, softly, as longfellow says-- 'as a feather is wafted downward from an eagle in his flight.' only i should say in this case it was from the wing of an angel." "mrs. barclay, you are too poetical for an ox cart," said lois, laughing. "if we began to be poetical, i am afraid the repose would be troubled." "'twont du poetry no harm to go in an ox cart," remarked here the ox driver. "i agree with you, sir," said mrs. barclay. "poetry would not be poetry if she could not ride anywhere. but why should she trouble repose. lois?" "yes," added mr. lenox; "i was about to ask that question. i thought poetry was always soothing. or that the ladies at least think so." "i like it well enough," said lois, "but i think it is apt to be melancholy. except in hymns." "_except_ hymns!" said mrs. lenox. "i thought hymns were always sad. they deal so much with death and the grave." "and the resurrection!" said lois. "they always make _me_ gloomy," the lady went on. "the resurrection! do you call that a lively subject?" "depends on how you look at it, i suppose," said her husband. "but, miss lothrop, i cannot recover from my surprise at your assertion respecting non-religious poetry." lois left that statement alone. she did not care whether he recovered or not. mr. lenox, however, was curious. "i wish you would show me on what your opinion is founded," he went on pleasantly. "yes, lois, justify yourself," said mrs. barclay. "i could not do that without making quotations, mrs. barclay, and i am afraid i cannot remember enough. besides, it would hardly be interesting." "to me it would," said mrs. barclay. "where could one have a better time? the oxen go so comfortably, and leisure is so graciously abundant." "pray go on, miss lothrop!" mr. lenox urged. "and then i hope you'll go on and prove hymns lively," added his wife. the conversation which followed was long enough to have a chapter to itself; and so may be comfortably skipped by any who are so inclined. chapter xxx. poetry. "perhaps you will none of you agree with me," lois said; "and i do not know much poetry; but there seems to me to run an undertone of lament and weariness through most of what i know. now take the 'death of the flowers,'--that you were reading yesterday, mrs. barclay-- 'the south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, and sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.' that is the tone i mean; a sigh and a regret." "but the 'death of the flowers' is _exquisite_," pleaded mrs. lenox. "certainly it is," said lois; "but is it gay? 'the wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, and the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; but on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, and the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, and the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.'" "how you remember it, lois!" said mrs. barclay. "but is not that all true?" asked mr. lenox. "true in fact," said lois. "the flowers do die. but the frost does not fall like a plague; and nobody that was right happy would say so, or think so. take pringle's 'afar in the desert,' mrs. barclay-- 'when the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, and sick of the present i turn to the past; when the eye is suffused with regretful tears from the fond recollections of former years, and shadows of things that are long since fled, flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead; bright visions--' i forget how it goes on." "but that is as old as the hills!" exclaimed mrs. lenox. "it shows what i mean." "i am afraid you will not better your case by coming down into modern time, mrs. lenox," remarked mrs. barclay. "take tennyson-- 'with weary steps i loiter on, though always under altered skies; the purple from the distance dies, my prospect and horizon gone.'" "take byron," said lois-- 'my days are in the yellow leaf, the flower and fruit of life are gone; the worm, the canker, and the grief, are mine alone.'" "o, byron was morbid," said mrs. lenox. "take moore," mrs. barclay went on, humouring the discussion on purpose. "do you remember?-- 'my birthday! what a different sound that word had in my younger years! and now, each time the day comes round, less and less white its mark appears.'" "well, i am sure that is true," said the other lady. "do you remember robert herrick's lines to daffodils?-- 'fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon.' and then-- 'we have short time to stay as you; we have as short a spring; as quick a growth to meet decay, as you or anything: we die as your showers do; and dry away like to the summer's rain, or as the pearls of morning dew, ne'er to be found again.' and waller to the rose-- 'then die! that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee. how small a part of time they share, that are so wondrous sweet and fair!' "and burns to the daisy," said lois-- 'there in thy scanty mantle clad, thy snowy bosom sunward spread, thou lifts thy unassuming head in humble guise; but now the share uptears thy bed, and low thou lies! 'even thou who mournst the daisy's fate, that fate is thine--no distant date; stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, full on thy bloom, till, crushed beneath the furrow's weight, shall be thy doom!'" "o, you are getting very gloomy!" exclaimed mrs. lenox. "not we," said lois merrily laughing, "but your poets." "mend your cause, julia," said her husband. "i haven't got the poets in my head," said the lady. "they are not all like that. i am very fond of elizabeth barrett browning." "the 'cry of the children'?" said mrs. barclay. "o no, indeed! she's not all like that." "she is not all like that. there is 'hector in the garden.'" "o, that is pretty!" said lois. "but do you remember how it runs?-- 'nine years old! the first of any seem the happiest years that come--'" "go on, lois," said her friend. and the request being seconded, lois gave the whole, ending with-- 'oh the birds, the tree, the ruddy and white blossoms, sleek with rain! oh my garden, rich with pansies! oh my childhood's bright romances! all revive, like hector's body, and i see them stir again! 'and despite life's changes--chances, and despite the deathbell's toll, they press on me in full seeming! help, some angel! stay this dreaming! as the birds sang in the branches, sing god's patience through my soul! 'that no dreamer, no neglecter of the present work unsped, i may wake up and be doing, life's heroic ends pursuing, though my past is dead as hector, and though hector is twice dead.'" "well," said mrs. lenox slowly, "of course that is all true." "from her standpoint," said lois. "that is according to my charge, which you disallowed." "from her standpoint?" repeated mr. lenox. "may i ask for an explanation?" "i mean, that as she saw things,-- 'the first of any seem the happiest years that come.'" "well, of course!" said mrs. lenox. "does not everybody say so?" nobody answered. "does not everybody agree in that judgment, miss lothrop?" urged the gentleman. "i dare say--everybody looking from that standpoint," said lois. "and the poets write accordingly. they are all of them seeing shadows." "how can they help seeing shadows?" returned mrs. lenox impatiently. "the shadows are there!" "yes," said lois, "the shadows are there." but there was a reservation in her voice. "do not _you_, then, reckon the years of childhood the happiest?" mr. lenox inquired. "no." "but you cannot have had much experience of life," said mrs. lenox, "to say so. i don't see how they can _help_ being the happiest, to any one." "i believe," lois answered, lowering her voice a little, "that if we could see all, we should see that the oldest person in our company is the happiest here." the eyes of the strangers glanced towards the old lady in her low chair at the front of the ox cart. in her wrinkled face there was not a line of beauty, perhaps never had been; in spite of its sense and character unmistakeable; it was grave, she was thinking her own thoughts; it was weather-beaten, so to say, with the storms of life; and yet there was an expression of unruffled repose upon it, as calm as the glint of stars in a still lake. mrs. lenox's look was curiously incredulous, scornful, and wistful, together; it touched lois. "one's young years ought not to be one's best," she said. "how are you going to help it?" came almost querulously. lois thought, if _she_ were mr. lenox, she would not feel flattered. "when one is young, one does not know disappointment," the other went on. "and when one is old, one may get the better of disappointment." "when one is young, everything is fresh." "i think things grow fresher to me with every year," said lois, laughing. "mrs. lenox, it is possible to keep one's youth." "then you have found the philosopher's stone?" said mr. lenox. lois's smile was brilliant, but she said nothing to that. she was beginning to feel that she had talked more than her share, and was inclined to draw back. then there came a voice from the arm-chair, it came upon a pause of stillness, with its quiet, firm tones: 'he satisfieth thy mouth with good things, so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's.'" the voice came like an oracle, and was listened to with somewhat of the same silent reverence. but after that pause mr. lenox remarked that he never understood that comparison. what was it about an eagle's youth? "why," said lois, "an eagle never grows old!" "is that it! but i wish you would go on a little further, miss lothrop. you spoke of hymn-writers having a different standpoint, and of their words as more cheerful than the utterances of other poets. do you know, i had never thought other poets were not cheerful, until now; and i certainly never got the notion that hymns were an enlivening sort of literature. i thought they dealt with the shadowy side of life almost exclusively." "well--yes, perhaps they do," said lois; "but they go kindling beacons everywhere to light it up; and it is the beacons you see, and not the darkness. now the secular poets turn that about. they deal with the brightest things they can find; but, to change the figure, they cannot keep the minor chord out of their music." mr. and mrs. lenox looked at each other. "do you mean to say," said the latter, "that the hymn-writers do not use the minor key? they write in it, or they sing in it, more properly, altogether!" "yes," said lois, into whose cheeks a slight colour was mounting; "yes, perhaps; but it is with the blast of the trumpet and the clash of the cymbals of triumph. there may be the confession of pain, but the cry of victory is there too!" "victory--over what?" said mrs. lenox rather scornfully, "over pain, for one thing," said lois; "and over loss, and weariness, and disappointment." "you will have to confirm your words by examples again, lois," said mrs. barclay. "we do not all know hymn literature as well as you do." "i never saw anything of all that in hymns," said mrs. lenox. "they always sound a little, to me, like dirges." lois hesitated. the cart was plodding along through the smooth lanes at the rate of less than a mile an hour, the oxen swaying from side to side with their slow, patient steps. the level country around lay sleepily still under the hot afternoon sun; it was rarely that any human stir was to be seen, save only the ox driver walking beside the cart. he walked beside the _cart_, not the oxen; evidently lending a curious ear to what was spoken in the company; on which account also the progress of the vehicle was a little less lively than it might have been. "my cynthy's writ a lot o' hymns," he remarked just here. "i never heerd no trumpets in 'em, though. i don' know what them other things is." "cymbals?" said lois. "they are round, thin plates of metal, mr. sears, with handles on one side to hold them by; and the player clashes them together, at certain parts of the music--as you would slap the palms of your hands." "doos, hey? i want to know! and what doos they sound like?" "i can't tell," said lois. "they sound shrill, and sweet, and gay." "but that's cur'ous sort o' church music!" said the farmer. "now, miss lothrop,--you must let us hear the figurative cymbals," mr. lenox reminded her. "do!" said mrs. barclay. "there cannot be much of it," opined mrs. lenox. "on the contrary," said lois; "there is so much of it that i am at a loss where to begin. 'i love yon pale blue sky; it is the floor of that glad home where i shall shortly be; a home from which i shall go out no more, from toil and grief and vanity set free. 'i gaze upon yon everlasting arch, up which the bright stars wander as they shine; and, as i mark them in their nightly march, i think how soon that journey shall be mine! 'yon silver drift of silent cloud, far up in the still heaven--through you my pathway lies: yon rugged mountain peak--how soon your top shall i behold beneath me, as i rise! 'not many more of life's slow-pacing hours, shaded with sorrow's melancholy hue; oh what a glad ascending shall be ours, oh what a pathway up yon starry blue! 'a journey like elijah's, swift and bright, caught gently upward to an early crown, in heaven's own chariot of all-blazing light, with death untasted and the grave unknown.'" "that's not like any hymn i ever heard," remarked mrs. lenox, after a pause had followed the last words. "that is a hymn of dr. bonar's," said lois. "i took it merely because it came first into my head. long ago somebody else wrote something very like it-- 'ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode; the pavement of those heavenly courts where i shall see my god. 'the father of unnumbered lights shall there his beams display; _and not one moment's darkness mix with that unvaried day_.' do you hear the cymbals, mrs. lenox?" there came here a long breath, it sounded like a breath of satisfaction or rest; it was breathed by mrs. armadale. in the stillness of their progress, the slowly revolving wheels making no noise on the smooth road, and the feet of the oxen falling almost soundlessly, they all heard it; and they all felt it. it was nothing less than an echo of what lois had been repeating; a mute "even so!"--probably unconscious, and certainly undesigned. mrs. lenox glanced that way. there was a far-off look on the old worn face, and lines of peace all about the lips and the brow and the quiet folded hands. mrs. lenox did not know that a sigh came from herself as her eyes turned away. her husband eyed the three women curiously. they were a study to him, albeit he hardly knew the grammar of the language in which so many things seemed to be written on their faces. mrs. armadale's features, if strong, were of the homeliest kind; work-worn and weather-worn, to boot; yet the young man was filled with reverence as he looked from the hands in their cotton gloves, folded on her lap, to the hard features shaded and framed by the white sun-bonnet. the absolute, profound calm was imposing to him; the still peace of the spirit was attractive. he looked at his wife; and the contrast struck even him. her face was murky. it was impatience, in part, he guessed, which made it so; _but_ why was she impatient? it was cloudy with unhappiness; and she ought to be very happy, mr. lenox thought; had she not everything in the world that she cared about? how could there be a cloud of unrest and discontent on her brow, and those displeased lines about her lips? his eye turned to lois, and lingered as long as it dared. there was peace too, very sunny, and a look of lofty thought, and a brightness that seemed to know no shadow; though at the moment she was not smiling. "are you not going on, miss lothrop?" he said gently; for he felt mrs. barclay's eye upon him. and, besides, he wanted to provoke the girl to speak more. "i could go on till i tired you," said lois. "i do not think you could," he returned pleasantly. "what can we do better? we are in a most pastoral frame of mind, with pastoral surroundings; poetry could not be better accompanied." "when one gets excited in talking, perhaps one had better stop," lois said modestly. "on the contrary! then the truth will come out best." lois smiled and shook her head. "we shall soon be at the shore. look,--this way we turn down to go to it, and leave the high road." "then make haste!" said mr. lenox. "it will sound nowhere better than here." "yes, go on," said his wife now, raising her heavy eyelids. "well," said lois. "do you remember bryant's 'thanatopsis'?" "of course. _that_ is bright enough at any rate," said the lady. "do you think so?" "yes! what is the matter with it?" "dark--and earthly." "i don't think so at all!" cried mrs. lenox, now becoming excited in her turn. "what would you have? i think it is beautiful! and elevated; and hopeful." "can you repeat the last lines?" "no; but i dare say you can. you seem to me to have a library of poets in your head." "i can," said mrs. barclay here, putting in her word at this not very civil speech. and she went on-- 'the gay will laugh when thou art gone, the solemn brood of care plod on, and each one as before will chase his favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave their mirth and their employments, and shall come and make their bed with thee.'" "well, of course," said mrs. lenox. "that is true." "is it cheerful?" said mrs. barclay. "but that is not the last.-- 'so live, that when thy summons comes to join the innumerable caravan, which moves to that mysterious realm, where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death, thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.'" "there!" mrs. lenox exclaimed. "what would you have, better than that?" lois looked at her, and said nothing. the look irritated husband and wife, in different ways; her to impatience, him to curiosity. "have you got anything better, miss lothrop?" he asked. "you can judge. compare that with a dying christian's address to his soul-- 'deathless principle, arise; soar, thou native of the skies. pearl of price, by jesus bought, to his glorious likeness wrought, go, to shine before the throne; deck the mediatorial crown; go, his triumphs to adorn; made for god, to god return.' i won't give you the whole of it-- 'is thy earthly house distressed? willing to retain her guest? 'tis not thou, but she, must die; fly, celestial tenant, fly.' burst thy shackles, drop thy clay, sweetly breathe thyself away: singing, to thy crown remove, swift of wing, and fired with love.' 'shudder not to pass the stream; venture all thy care on him; him whose dying love and power stilled its tossing, hushed its roar. safe is the expanded wave, gentle as a summer's eve; not one object of his care ever suffered shipwreck there.'" "that ain't no hymn in the book, is it?" inquired the ox driver. "haw!--go 'long. that ain't in the book, is it, lois?" "not in the one we use in church, mr. sears." "i wisht it was!--like it fust-rate. never heerd it afore in my life." "there's as good as that _in_ the church book," remarked mrs. armadale. "yes," said lois; "i like wesley's hymn even better-- 'come, let us join our friends above that have obtained the prize; and on the eagle wings of love to joys celestial rise. . . . . 'one army of the living god, to his command we bow; part of his host have crossed the flood and part are crossing now. . . . . . . 'his militant embodied host, with wishful looks we stand, and long to see that happy coast, and reach the heavenly land. 'e'en now, by faith, we join our hands with those that went before; and greet the blood-besprinkled bands on the eternal shore.'" chapter xxxi. long clams. there was a soft ring in lois's voice; it might be an echo of the trumpets and cymbals of which she had been speaking. yet not done for effect; it was unconscious, and delicate as indescribable, for which reason it had the greater power. the party remained silent for a few minutes, all of them; during which a killdeer on the fence uttered his little shout of gratulation; and the wild, salt smell coming from the sound and the not distant ocean, joined with the silence and lois's hymn, gave a peculiar impression of solitude and desolation to at least one of the party. the cart entered an enclosure, and halted before a small building at the edge of the shore, just above high-water mark. there were several such buildings scattered along the shore at intervals, some enclosed, some not. the whole breadth of the sound lay in view, blinking under the summer sun; yet the air was far fresher here than it had been in the village. the tide was half out; a wide stretch of wet sand, with little pools in the hollows, intervened between the rocks and the water; the rocks being no magnificent buttresses of the land, but large and small boulders strewn along the shore edge, hung with seaweed draperies; and where there were not rocks there was a growth of rushes on a mud bottom. the party were helped out of the cart one by one, and the strangers surveyed the prospect. "'afar in the desert,' this is, i declare," said the gentleman. "might as well be," echoed his wife. "whatever do you come here for?" she said, turning to lois; "and what do you do when you are here?" "get some clams and have supper." "_clams!_"--with an inimitable accent. "where do you get clams?" "down yonder--at the edge of the rushes." "who gets them? and how do you get them?" "i guess i shall get them to-day. o, we do it with a hoe." lois stayed for no more, but ran in. the interior room of the house, which was very large for a bathing-house, was divided in two by a partition. in the inner, smaller room, lois began busily to change her dress. on the walls hung a number of bathing suits of heavy flannel, one of which she appropriated. charity came in after her. "you ain't a goin' for clams, lois? well, i wouldn't, if i was you." "why not?" "i wouldn't make myself such a sight, for folks to see." "i don't at all do it for folks to see, but that folks may eat. we have brought 'em here, and now we must give them something for supper." "are you goin' with bare feet?" "why not?" said lois, laughing. "do you think i am going to spoil my best pair of shoes for vanity's sake?" and she threw off shoes and stockings as she spoke, and showed a pair of pretty little white feet, which glanced coquettishly under the blue flannel. "lois, what's brought these folks here?" "i am sure i don't know." "i wish they'd stayed where they belong. that woman's just turning up her nose at every blessed thing she sees." "it won't hurt the sound!" said lois, laughing. "what did they come for?" "i can't tell; but, charity, it will never do to let them go away feeling they got nothing by coming. so you have the kettle boiled, will you, and the table all ready--and i'll try for the clams." "they won't like 'em." "can't help that." "and what am i going to do with mr. sears?" "give him his supper of course." "along with all the others?" "you must. you cannot set two tables." "there's aunt anne!" exclaimed charity; and in the next minute aunt anne came round to them by the front steps; for each half of the bathing-house had its own door of approach, as well as a door of communication. mrs. marx came in, surveyed lois, and heard charity's statement. "these things will happen in the best regulated families," she remarked, beginning also to loosen her dress. "what are you going to do, aunt anne?" "going after clams, with lois. we shall want a bushel or less; and we can't wait till the moon rises, to eat 'em." "and how am i going to set the table with them all there?" mrs. marx laughed. "i expect they're like cats in a strange garret. set your table just as usual, charry; push 'em out o' the way if they get in it. now then, lois!" and, slipping down the steps and away off to the stretch of mud where the rushes grew, two extraordinary, flannel-clad, barefooted figures, topped with sun-bonnets and armed with hoes and baskets, were presently seen to be very busy there about something. charity opened the door of communication between the two parts of the house, and surveyed the party. mrs. barclay sat on the step outside, looking over the plain of waters, with her head in her hand. mrs. armadale was in a rocking-chair, just within the door, placidly knitting. mr. and mrs. lenox, somewhat further back, seemed not to know just what to do with themselves; and madge, holding a little aloof, met her sister's eye with an expression of despair and doubt. outside, at the foot of the steps, where mrs. barclay sat, lounged the ox driver. "ben here afore?" he asked confidentially of the lady. "yes, once or twice. i never came in an ox cart before." "i guess you hain't," he replied, chewing a blade of rank grass which he had pulled for the purpose. "my judgment is we had a fust-rate entertainment, comin' down." "i quite agree with you." "now in anythin' _but_ an ox cart, you couldn't ha' had it." "no, not so well, certainly." "_i_ couldn't ha' had it, anyway, withouten we'd come so softly. i declare, i believe them critters stepped soft o' purpose. it's better'n a book, to hear that girl talk, now, ain't it?" "much better than many books." "she's got a lot o' 'em inside her head. that beats me! she allays was smart, lois was; but i'd no idee she was so full o' book larnin'. books is a great thing!" and he heaved a sigh. "do you have time to read much yourself, sir?" "depends on the book," he said, with a bit of a laugh. "accordin' to that, i get much or little. no; in these here summer days a man can't do much at books; the evenin's short, you see, and the days is long; and the days is full o' work. the winter's the time for readin'. i got hold o' a book last winter that was wuth a great deal o' time, and got it. i never liked a book better. that was rollin's 'ancient history.'" "ah!" said mrs. barclay. "so you enjoyed that?" "ever read it?" "yes." "didn't you enjoy it?" "i believe i like modern history better." "i've read some o' that too," said he meditatively. "it ain't so different. 'seems to me, folks is allays pretty much alike; only we call things by different names. alexander the great, now,--he warn't much different from napoleon buonaparte." "wasn't he a better man?" inquired mr. lenox, putting his head out at the door. "wall, i don' know; it's difficult, you know, to judge of folk's insides; but i don't make much count of a man that drinks himself to death at thirty." "haven't you any drinking in shampuashuh?" "wall, there ain't much; and what there is, is done in the dark, like. you won't find no rum-shops open." "indeed! how long has the town been so distinguished?" "i guess it's five year. i _know_ it is; for it was just afore we put in our last president. then we voted liquor shouldn't be president in shampuashuh." "do you get along any better for it?" "wall"--slowly--"i should say we did. there ain't no quarrellin', nor fightin', nor anybody took up for the jail, nor no one livin' in the poorhouse--'thout it's some tramp on his way to some place where there _is_ liquor. an' _he_ don't want to stay." "what are those two figures yonder among the grass?" mrs. lenox now asked; she also having come out of the house in search of objects of interest, the interior offering none. "them?" said mr. sears. "them's lois and her aunt. their baskets is gettin' heavy, too. i'll make the fire for ye, miss charity," he cried, lifting his voice; and therewith disappeared. "what are they doing?" mrs. lenox asked, in a lower tone. "digging clams," mrs. barclay informed her. "digging clams! how do they dig them?" "with a hoe, i believe." "i ought to go and offer my services," said the gentleman, rising. "do not think of it," said mrs. barclay. "you could not go without plunging into wet, soft mud; the clams are found only there, i believe." "how do _they_ go?" "barefoot-dressed for it." "_un_dressed for it," said mrs. lenox. "barefoot in the mud! could you have conceived it!" "they say the mud is warm," mrs. barclay returned, keeping back a smile. "but how horrid!" "i am told it is very good sport. the clams are shy, and endeavour to take flight when they hear the strokes of the hoe; so that it comes to a trial of speed between the pursuer and the pursued; which is quite exciting." "i should think, if i could see a clam, i could pick it up," mrs. lenox said scornfully. "yes; you cannot see them." "do you mean, they run away _under ground?_" "so i am told." "how can they? they have no feet." mrs. barclay could not help laughing now, and confessed her ignorance of the natural powers of the clam family. "where is that old man gone to make his fire? didn't he say he was going to make a fire?" "yes; in the cooking-house." "where is that?" and mrs. lenox came down the steps and went to explore. a few yards from the bathing-house, just within the enclosure fence, she found a small building, hardly two yards square, but thoroughly built and possessing a chimney. the door stood open; within was a cooking-stove, in which fire was roaring; a neat pile of billets of wood for firing, a tea-kettle, a large iron pot, and several other kitchen utensils. "what is this for?" inquired mrs. lenox, looking curiously in. "wall, i guess we're goin' to hev supper by and by; ef the world don't come to an end sooner than i expect, we will, sure. i'm a gettin' ready." "and is this place built and arranged just for the sake of having supper, as you call it, down here once in a while?" "couldn't be no better arrangement," said mr. sears. "this stove draws first-rate." "but this is a great deal of trouble. i should think they would take their clams home and have them there." "some folks doos," returned mr. sears. "these here folks knows what's good. wait till you see. i tell you! long clams, fresh digged, and b'iled as soon as they're fetched in, is somethin' you never see beat." "_long_ clams," repeated the lady. "are they not the usual sort?" "depends on what you're used to. these is usual here, and i'm glad on't. round clams ain't nowheres alongside o' 'em." he went off to fill the kettle, and the lady returned slowly round the house to the steps and the door, which were on the sea side. mr. lenox had gone in and was talking to mrs. armadale; mrs. barclay was in her old position on the steps, looking out to sea. there was a wonderful light of westering rays on land and water; a rich gleam from brown rock and green seaweed; a glitter and fresh sparkle on the waves of the incoming tide; an indescribable freshness and life in the air and in the light; a delicious invigoration in the salt breath of the ocean. mrs. barclay sat drinking it all in, like one who had been long athirst. mrs. lenox stood looking, half cognizant of what was before her, more than half impatient and scornful of it; yet even on her the witchery of the place and the scene was not without its effect. "do you come here often?" she asked mrs. barclay. . "never so often as i would like." "i should think you would be tired to death!" then, as mrs. barclay made no answer, she looked at her watch. "our train is not till ten o'clock," she remarked. "plenty of time," said the other. and then there was silence; and the sun's light grew more westering, and the sparkle on earth and water more fresh, and the air only more and more sweet; till two figures were discerned approaching the bathing-house, carrying hoes slung over their shoulders, and baskets, evidently filled, in their hands. they went round the house towards the cook-house; and mrs. barclay came down from her seat and went to meet them there, mrs. lenox following. two such figures! sun-bonnets shading merry faces, flushed with business; blue flannel bathing-suits draping very unpicturesquely the persons, bare feet stained with mud,--baskets full of the delicate fish they had been catching. "what a quantity!" exclaimed mrs. barclay. "yes, because i had aunt anne to help. we cannot boil them all at once, but that is all the better. they will come hot and hot." "you don't mean that you are going to cook all those?" said mrs. lenox incredulously. "there will not be one too many," said lois. "you do not know long clams yet." "they are ugly things!" said the other, with a look of great disgust into the basket. "i don't think i could touch them." "there's no obligation," responded here mrs. marx. she had thrown one basketful into a huge pan, and was washing them free from the mud and sand of their original sphere. "it's a free country. but looks don't prove much--neither at the shore nor anywhere else. an ugly shell often covers a good fish. so i find it; and t'other way." "how do you get them?" inquired mr. lenox, who also came now to the door of the cook-house. lois made her escape. "i see you make use of hoes." "yes," said mrs. marx, throwing her clams about in the water with great energy; "we dig for 'em. see where the clam lives, and then drive at him, and don't be slow about it; and then when the clam spits at you, you know you're on his heels--or on his track, i should say; and you take care of your eyes and go ahead, till you catch up with him; and then you've got him. and every one you throw into your basket you feel gladder and gladder; in fact, as the basket grows heavy, your heart grows light. and that's diggin' for long clams." "the best part of it is the hunt, isn't it?" "i'll take your opinion on that after supper." mr. lenox laughed, and he and his wife sauntered round to the front again. the freshness, the sweetness, the bright rich colouring of sky and water and land, the stillness, the strangeness, the novelty, all moved mr. lenox to say, "i would not have missed this for a hundred dollars!" "missed what?" asked his wife. "this whole afternoon." "it's one way that people live, i suppose." "yes, for they really do live; there is no stagnation; that is one thing that strikes me." "don't you want to buy a farm here, and settle down?" asked mrs. lenox scornfully. "live on hymns and long clams?" meanwhile the interior of the bathing-house was changing its aspect. part of the partition of boards had been removed and a long table improvised, running the length of the house, and made of planks laid on trestles. white cloths hid the rudeness of this board, and dishes and cups and viands were giving it a most hospitable look. a whiff of coffee aroma came now and then through the door at the back of the house, which opened near the place of cookery; piles of white bread and brown gingerbread, and golden butter and rosy ham and new cheese, made a most abundant and inviting display; and, after the guests were seated, mr. sears came in bearing a great dish of the clams, smoking hot. well, mrs. lenox was hungry, through the combined effects of salt air and an early dinner; she found bread and butter and coffee and ham most excellent, but looked askance at the dish of clams; which, however, she saw emptied with astonishing rapidity. noticing at last a striking heap of shells beside her husband's plate, the lady's fastidiousness gave way to curiosity; and after that,--it was well that another big dishful was coming, or _somebody_ would have been obliged to go short. at ten o'clock that evening mr. and mrs. lenox took the night train to boston. "i never passed a pleasanter afternoon in my life," was the gentleman's comment as the train started. "pretty faces go a great way always with you men!" answered his wife. "there is something more than a pretty face there. and she is improved--changed, somehow--since a year ago. what do you think now of your brother's choice, julia?" "it would have been his ruin!" said the lady violently. "i declare i doubt it. i am afraid he'll never find a better. i am afraid you have done him mistaken service." "george, this girl is _nobody_." "she is a lady. and she is intelligent, and she is cultivated, and she has excellent manners. i see no fault at all to be found. tom does not need money." "she is nobody, nevertheless, george! it would have been miserable for tom to lose all the advantage he is going to have with his wife, and to marry this girl whom no one knows, and who knows nobody." "i am sorry for poor tom!" "george, you are very provoking. tom will live to thank mamma and me all his life." "do you know, i don't believe it. i am glad to see _she's_ all right, anyhow. i was afraid at the isles she might have been bitten." "you don't know anything about it," returned his wife sharply. "women don't show. _i_ think she was taken with tom." "i hope not!" said the gentleman; "that's all i have to say." chapter xxxii. a visitor. after that summer day, the time sped on smoothly at shampuashuh; until the autumn coolness had replaced the heat of the dog days, and hay harvest and grain harvest were long over, and there began to be a suspicion of frost in the air. lois had gathered in her pears, and was garnering her apples. there were two or three famous apple trees in the lothrop old garden, the fruit of which kept sound and sweet all through the winter, and was very good to eat. one fair day in october, mrs. barclay, wanting to speak with lois, was directed to the garden and sought her there. the day was as mild as summer, without summer's passion, and without spring's impulses of hope and action. a quiet day; the air was still; the light was mellow, not brilliant; the sky was clear, but no longer of an intense blue; the little racks of cloud were lying supine on its calm depths, apparently having nowhere to go and nothing to do. the driving, sweeping, changing forms of vapour, which in spring had come with rain and in summer had come with thunder, had all disappeared; and these little delicate lines of cloud lay purposeless and at rest on the blue. nature had done her work for the year; she had grown the grass and ripened the grain, and manufactured the wonderful juices in the tissues of the fruit, and laid a new growth of woody fibre round the heart of the trees. she was resting now, as it were, content with her work. and so seemed lois to be doing, at the moment mrs. barclay entered the garden. it was unusual to find her so. i suppose the witching beauty of the day beguiled her. but it was of another beauty mrs. barclay thought, as she drew near the girl. a short ladder stood under one of the apple trees, upon which lois had been mounting to pluck her fruit. on the ground below stood two large baskets, full now of the ruddy apples, shining and beautiful. beside them, on the dry turf, sat lois with her hands in her lap; and mrs. barclay wondered at her as she drew near. yet it is not too easy to tell why, at least so as to make the reader get at the sense of the words. i have the girl's image before my eyes, mentally, but words have neither form nor colour; how shall i paint with them? it was not the beauty of mere form and colour, either, that struck mrs. barclay in lois's face. you may easily see more regular features and more dazzling complexion. it was not any particular brilliance of eye, or piquancy of expression. there was a soundness and fulness of young life; that is not so uncommon either. there was a steadfast strength and sweetness of nature. there was an unconscious, innocent grace, that is exceedingly rare. and a high, noble expression of countenance and air and movement, such as can belong only to one whose thoughts and aims never descend to pettinesses; who assimilates nobility by being always concerned with what is noble. and then, the face was very fair; the ruddy brown hair very rich and abundant; the figure graceful and good; all the spiritual beauty i have been endeavouring to describe had a favouring groundwork of nature to display itself upon. mrs. barclay's steps grew slower and slower as she came near, that she might prolong the view, which to her was so lovely. then lois looked at her and slightly smiled. "lois, my dear, what are you doing?" "not exactly nothing, mrs. barclay; though it looks like it. such a day one cannot bear to go in-doors!" "you are gathering your apples?" "i have got done for to-day." "what are you studying, here beside your baskets? what beautiful apples!" "aren't they? these are our royal reddings; they are good for eating and cooking, and they keep perfectly. if only they are picked off by hand." "what were you studying, lois? may i not know?" mrs. barclay took an apple and a seat on the turf beside the girl. "hardly studying. only musing--as such a day makes one muse. i was thinking, mrs. barclay, what use i could make of my life." "what _use?_ can you make better use of it than you are doing, in taking care of mrs. armadale?" "yes--as things are now. but in the common course of things i should outlive grandmamma." "then you will marry somebody, and take care of him." "very unlikely, i think." "may i ask, why?" "i do not know anybody that is the sort of man i could marry." "what do you require?" asked mrs. barclay. "a great deal, i suppose," said lois slowly. "i have never studied that; i was not studying it just now. but i was thinking, what might be the best way of making myself of some use in the world. foolish, too." "why so?" "it is no use for us to lay plans for our lives; not much use for us to lay plans for anything. they are pretty sure to be broken up." "yes," said mrs. barclay, sighing. "i wonder why!" "i suppose, because they do not fall in with god's plans for us." "his plans for us," repeated mrs. barclay slowly. "do you believe in such things? that would mean, individual plans, lois; for you individually, and for me?" "yes, mrs. barclay--that is what i believe." "it is incomprehensible to me." "why should it be?" "to think that the highest should concern him self with such small details." "it is just because he is the highest, and so high, that he can. besides--do we know what _are_ small details?" "but why should he care what becomes of us?" said mrs. barclay gloomily. "o, do you ask that? when he is love itself, and would have the very best things for each one of us?" "we don't have them, i am sure." "because we will not, then. to have them, we must fall in with his plans." "my dear lois, do you know that you are talking the profoundest mysteries?" "no. they are not mysteries to me. the bible says all i have been saying." "that is sufficient for you, and you do not stop to look into the mystery. lois, it is _all_ mystery. look at all the wretched ruined lives one sees; what becomes of those plans for good for them?" "failed, mrs. barclay; because of the people's unwillingness to come into the plans." "they do not know them!" "no, but they do know the steps which lead into them, and those steps they refuse to take." "i do not understand you. what steps?" "the lord does not show us his plans. he shows us, one by one, the steps he bids us take. if we take them, one by one, they will bring us into all that god has purposed and meant for us--the very best that could come to us." "and you think his plans and purposes could be overthrown?" "why, certainly. else what mean christ's lamentations over jerusalem? 'o jerusalem,... how often would i have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her brood under her wings, and ye would not.' i would--ye would not; and the choice lies with us." "and suppose a person falls in with these plans, as you say, step by step?" "o, then it is all good," said lois; "the way and the end; all good. there is no mistake nor misadventure." "nor disaster?" "not what turns out to be such." "lois," said mrs. barclay, after a thoughtful pause, "you are a very happy person!" "yes," said lois, smiling; "and i have just told you the reason. don't you see? i have no care about anything." "on your principles, i do not see what need you had to consider your future way of life; to speculate about it, i mean." "no," said lois, rising, "i have not. only sometimes one must look a little carefully at the parting of the ways, to see which road one is meant to take." "sit down again. i did not come out here to talk of all this. i wanted to ask you something." lois sat down. "i came to ask a favour." "how could you, mrs. barclay? i mean, nothing we could do could be a _favour_ to you!" "yes, it could. i have a friend that wants to come to see me." "well?" "may he come?" "why, of course." "but it is a gentleman." "well," said lois again, smiling, "we have no objections to gentlemen." "it is a friend whom i have not seen in a very long while; a dear friend; a dear friend of my husband's in years gone by. he has just returned from europe; and he writes to ask if he may call on his way to boston and spend sunday with me." "he shall be very welcome, mrs. barclay; and we will try to make him comfortable." "o, comfortable! there is no question of that. but will it not be at all inconvenient?" "not in the least." "then he may come?" "certainly. when does he wish to come?" "this week--saturday. his name is dillwyn." "dillwyn!" lois repeated. "dillwyn? i saw a mr. dillwyn at mrs. wishart's once or twice." "it must be the same. i do not know of two. and he knows mrs. wishart. so you remember him? what do you remember about him?" "not much. i have an impression that he knows a great deal, and has very pleasant manners." "quite right. that is the man. so he may come? thank you." lois took up one of her baskets of apples and carried it into the house, where she deposited it at mrs. armadale's feet. "they are beautiful this year, aren't they, mother? girls, we are going to have a visitor." charity was brushing up the floor; the broom paused. madge was sewing; the needle remained drawn out. both looked at lois. "a visitor!" came from both pairs of lips. "yes, indeed. a visitor. a gentleman. and he is coming to stay over sunday. so, charry, you must see and have things very special. and so must i." "a gentleman! who is he? uncle tim?" "not a bit of it. a young, at least a much younger, gentleman; a travelled gentleman; an elegant gentleman. a friend of mrs. barclay." "what are we to do with him?" "nothing. nothing whatever. we have nothing to do with him, and couldn't do it if we had." "you needn't laugh. we have got to lodge him and feed him." "that's easy. i'll put the white spread on the bed in the spare room; and you may get out your pickles." "pickles! is he fond of pickles?" "i don't know!" said lois, laughing still. "i have an impression he is a man who likes all sorts of nice things." "i hate men who like nice things! but, lois!--there will be saturday tea, and sunday breakfast and dinner and supper, and monday morning breakfast." "perhaps monday dinner." "o, he can't stay to dinner." "why not?" "it is washing day." "my dear charry! to such men monday is just like all other days; and washing is--well, of course, a necessity, but it is done by fairies, or it might be, for all they know about it." "there's five meals anyhow," charity went on.--"wouldn't it be a good plan to get uncle tim to be here?" "what for?" "why, we haven't a man in the house." "what then?" "who'll talk to him?" "mrs. barclay will take care of that. you, charity dear, see to your pickles." "i don't know what you mean," said charity fretfully. "what are we going to have for dinner, sunday? i could fricassee a pair of chickens." "no, charity, you couldn't. sunday is sunday, just as much with mr. dillwyn here." "dillwyn!" said madge. "i've heard you speak of him." "very likely. i saw him once or twice in my new york days." "and he gave you lunch." "mrs. wishart and me. yes. and a good lunch it was. that's why i spoke of pickles, charity. do the very best you can." "i cannot do my best, unless i can cook the chickens," said charity, who all this while stood leaning upon her broom. "i might do it for once." "where is your leave to do wrong once?" "but this is a particular occasion--you may call it a necessity; and necessity makes an exception." "what is the necessity, charity?" said mrs. armadale, who until now had not spoken. "why, grandma, you want to treat a stranger well?" "with whatever i have got to give him. but sunday time isn't mine to give." "but _necessary_ things, grandma?--we may do necessary things?" "what have you got in the house?" "nothing on earth, except a ham to boil. cold ham,--that's all. do you think that's enough?" "it won't hurt him to dine on cold ham," the old lady said complacently. "why don't you cook your chickens and have them cold too?" lois asked. "cold fricassee ain't worth a cent." "cook them some other way. roast them,--or-- give them to me, and i'll do them for you! i'll do them, charity. then with your nice bread, and apple sauce, and potatoes, and some of my pears and apples, and a pumpkin pie, charity, and coffee,--we shall do very well. mr. dillwyn has made a worse dinner in the course of his wanderings, i'll undertake to maintain." "what shall i have for supper?" charity asked doubtfully. "supper comes first." "shortcake. and some of your cold ham. and stew up some quinces and apples together, cherry. you don't want anything more,--or better." "do you think he will understand having a cold dinner, sunday?" charity asked. "men make so much of hot dinners." "what does it signify, my dear, whether he understands it or not?" said mrs. armadale. "what we have to do, is what the lord tells us to do. that is all you need mind." "i mind what folks think, though," said charity. "mrs. barclay's friend especially." "i do not think he will notice it," said simple mrs. armadale. chapter xxxiii. the value of money. there was a little more bustle in the house than usual during the next two days; and the spare room was no doubt put in very particular order, with the best of all the house could furnish on the bed and toilet-table. pantry and larder also were well stocked; and lois was just watching the preparation of her chickens, saturday evening, and therefore in the kitchen, when mr. dillwyn came to the door. mrs. barclay herself let him in, and brought him into her own warm, comfortable, luxurious-looking sitting-room. the evening was falling dusk, so that the little wood lire in mrs. barclay's chimney had opportunity to display itself, and i might say, the room too; which never could have showed to better advantage. the flickering light danced back again from gilded books, from the polished case of the piano, from picture frames, and pictures, and piles of music, and comfortable easy-chairs standing invitingly, and trinkets of art or curiosity; an unrolled engraving in one place, a stereoscope in another, a work-basket, and the bright brass stand of a microscope. the greeting was warm between the two friends; and then mrs. barclay sat down and surveyed her visitor, whom she had not seen for so long. he was not a beauty of tom caruthers' sort, but he was what i think better; manly and intelligent, and with an air and bearing of frank nobleness which became him exceedingly. that he was a man with a serious purpose in life, or any object of earnest pursuit, you would not have supposed; and that character had never belonged to him. mrs. barclay, looking at him, could not see any sign that it was his now. look and manner were easy and careless as of old. "you are not changed," she remarked. "what should change me?" said he, while his eye ran rapidly over the apartment. "and you?--you do not look as if life was stagnating here." "it does not stagnate. i never was further from stagnation in all my life." "and yet shampuashuh is in a corner!" "is not most of the work of the world done in corners? it is not the butterfly, but the coral insect, that lays foundations and lifts up islands out of the sea." "you are not a coral insect any more than i am a butterfly," said dillwyn, laughing. "rather more." "i acknowledge it, thankfully. and i am rejoiced to know from your letters that the seclusion has been without any evil consequences to yourself. it has been pleasant?" "royally pleasant. i have delighted in my building; even although i could not tell whether my island would not prove a dangerous one to mariners." "i have just been having a discourse on that subject with my sister. i think one's sisters are--i beg your pardon!--the mischief. tom's sister has done for him; and mine is very eager to take care of me." "did you consult her?" asked mrs. barclay, with surprise. "nothing of the kind! i merely told her i was coming up here to see you. a few questions followed, as to what you were doing here,--which i did not tell her, by the way,--and she hit the bull's eye with the instinctive accuracy of a woman; poured out upon me in consequence a lecture upon imprudence. of course i confessed to nothing, but that mattered not. all that tom's sister urged upon him, my good sister pressed upon me." "so did i once, did i not?" "you are not going to repeat it?" "no; that is over, for me. i know better. but, philip, i do not see the way very clear before you." he left the matter there, and went off into a talk with her upon widely-different subjects, touching or growing out of his travels and experiences during the last year and a half. the twilight darkened, and the fire brightened, and in the light of the fire the two sat and talked; till a door opened, and in the same flickering shine a figure presented itself which mr. dillwyn remembered. though now it was clothed in nothing finer than a dark calico, and round her shoulders a little white worsted shawl was twisted. mrs. barclay began a sentence of introduction, but mr. dillwyn cut her short. "do not do me such dishonour," he said. "must i suppose that miss lothrop has forgotten me?" "not at all, mr. dillwyn," said lois frankly; "i remember you very well. tea will be ready in a minute--would you like to see your room first?" "you are too kind, to receive me!" "it is a pleasure. you are mrs. barclay's friend, and she is at home here; i will get a light." which she did, and mr. dillwyn, seeing he could not find his own way, was obliged to accept her services and see her trip up the stairs before him. at the door she handed him the light and ran down again. there was a fire here too--a wood fire; blazing hospitably, and throwing its cheery light upon a wide, pleasant, country room, not like what mr. dillwyn was accustomed to, but it seemed the more hospitable. nothing handsome there; no articles of luxury (beside the fire); the reflection of the blaze came back from dark old-fashioned chairs and chests of drawers, dark chintz hangings to windows and bed, white counterpane and napery, with a sonsy, sober, quiet air of comfort; and the air was fresh and sweet as air should be, and as air can only be at a distance from the smoke of many chimneys and the congregated habitations of many human beings. i do not think mr. dillwyn spent much attention upon these details; yet he felt himself in a sound, clear, healthy atmosphere, socially as well as physically; also had a perception that it was very far removed from that in which he had lived and breathed hitherto. how simply that girl had lighted him up the stairs, and given him his brass candlestick at the door of his room! what _à plomb_ could have been more perfect! i do not mean to imply that mr. dillwyn knew the candlestick was brass; i am afraid there was a glamour over his eyes which made it seem golden. he found mrs. barclay seated in a very thoughtful attitude before her fire, when he came down again; but just then the door of the other room was opened, and they were called in to tea. the family were in rather gala trim. lois, as i said, wore indeed only a dark print dress, with her white fichu over it; but charity had put on her best silk, and madge had stuck two golden chrysanthemums in her dark hair (with excellent effect), and mrs. armadale was stately in her best cap. alas! philip dillwyn did not know what any of them had on. he was placed next to mrs. armadale, and all supper time his special attention, so far as appeared, was given to the old lady. he talked to her, and he served her, with an easy, pleasant grace, and without at all putting himself forward or taking the part of the distinguished stranger. it was simply good will and good breeding; however, it produced a great effect. "the air up here is delicious!" he remarked, after he had attended to all the old lady's immediate wants, and applied himself to his own supper. "it gives one a tremendous appetite." "i allays like to see folks eat," said mrs. armadale. "after one's done the gettin' things ready, i hate to have it all for nothin'." "it shall not be for nothing this time, as far as i am concerned." "ain't the air good in new york?" mrs. armadale next asked. "i do not think it ever was so sweet as this. but when you crowd a million or so of people into room that is only enough for a thousand, you can guess what the consequences must be." "what do they crowd up so for, then?" "it must be the case in a great city." "i don't see the sense o' that," said mrs. armadale. "ain't the world big enough?" "far too big," said mr. dillwyn. "you see, when people's time is very valuable, they cannot afford to spend too much of it in running about after each other." "what makes their time worth any more'n our'n?" "they are making money so fast with it." "and is _that_ what makes folks' time valeyable?" "in their opinion, madam." "i never could see no use in havin' much money," said the old lady. "but there comes a question," said dillwyn. "what is 'much'?" "more'n enough, i should say." "enough for what? that also must be settled." "i'm an old-fashioned woman," said the old lady, "and i go by the old-fashionedst book in the world. that says, 'we brought nothing into this world, and we can carry nothing out; therefore, having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.'" "but, again, what sort of food, and what sort of raiment?" urged the gentleman pleasantly. "for instance; would you be content to exchange this delicious manufacture,--which seems to me rather like ambrosia than common food,--for some of the black bread of norway? with no qualification of golden butter? or for scotch oatmeal bannocks? or for sour corn cake?" "i would be quite content, if it was the lord's will," said the old lady. "there's no obligation upon anybody to have it _sour_." mr. dillwyn laughed gently. "i can fancy," he said, "that you never would allow such a dereliction in duty. but, beside having the bread sweet, is it not allowed us to have the best we can get?" "the best we can _make_," answered mrs. armadale; "i believe in everybody doin' the best he kin with what he has got to work with; but food ain't worth so much that we should pay a large price for it." the gentleman's eye glanced with a scarcely perceptible movement over the table at which he was sitting. bread, indeed, in piles of white flakiness; and butter; but besides, there was the cold ham in delicate slices, and excellent-looking cheese, and apples in a sort of beautiful golden confection, and cake of superb colour and texture; a pitcher of milk that was rosy sweet, and coffee rich with cream. the glance that took all this in was slight and swift, and yet the old lady was quick enough to see and understand it. "yes," she said, "it's all our'n, all there is on the table. our cow eats our own grass, and madge, my daughter, makes the butter and the cheese. we've raised and cured our own pork; and the wheat that makes the bread is grown on our ground too; we farm it out on shares; and it is ground at a mill about four miles off. our hens lay our eggs; it's all from home." "but suppose the case of people who have no ground, nor hens, nor pork, nor cow? they must buy." "of course," said the old lady; "everybody ain't farmers." "i am ready to wish i was one," said dillwyn. "but even then, i confess, i should want coffee and tea and sugar--as i see you. do." "well, those things don't grow in america," said mrs. armadale. "and spice don't, neither, mother," observed charity. "so it appears that even you send abroad for luxuries," mr. dillwyn went on. "and why not? and the question is, where shall we stop? if i want coffee, i must have money to buy it, and the better the coffee the more money; and the same with tea. in cities we must buy all we use or consume, unless one is a butcher or a baker. may i not try to get more money, in order that i may have better things? we have got round to our starting-point." "'they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,'" mrs. armadale said quietly. "then where is the line?--miss lois, you are smiling. is it at my stupidity?" "no," said lois. "i was thinking of a lunch--such as i have seen it--in one of the great new york hotels." "well?" said he, without betraying on his own part any recollection; "how does that come in? by way of illustrating mrs. armadale, or me?" "i seem to remember a number of things that illustrate both," said lois; "but as i profited by them at the time, it would be ungrateful in me to instance them now." "you profited by them with pleasure, or otherwise?" "not otherwise. i was very hungry." "you evade my question, however." "i will not. i profited by them with much pleasure." "then you are on my side, as far as i can be said to have a side?" "i think not. the pleasure is undoubted; but i do not know that that touches the question of expediency." "i think it does. i think it settles the question. mrs. armadale, your granddaughter confesses the pleasure; and what else do we live for, but to get the most good out of life?" "what pleasure does she confess?" asked the old lady, with more eagerness than her words hitherto had manifested. "pleasure in nice things, grandmother; in particularly nice things; that had cost a great deal to fetch them from nobody knows where; and pleasure in pretty things too. that hotel seemed almost like the halls of aladdin to my inexperienced eyes. there is certainly pleasure in a wonderfully dainty meal, served in wonderful vessels of glass and china and silver, and marble and gold and flowers to help the effect. i could have dreamed myself into a fairy tale, often, if it had not been for the people." "life is not a fairy tale," said mrs. armadale somewhat severely. "no, grandmother; and so the humanity present generally reminded me. but the illusion for a minute was delightful." "is there any harm in making it as much like a fairy tale as we can?" some of the little courtesies and hospitalities of the table came in here, and mr. dillwyn's question received no answer. his eye went round the table. no, clearly these people did not live in fairyland, and as little in the search after it. good, strong, sensible, practical faces; women that evidently had their work to do, and did it; habitual energy and purpose spoke in every one of them, and purpose _attained_. here was no aimless dreaming or fruitless wishing. the old lady's face was sorely weather-beaten, but calm as a ship in harbour. charity was homely, but comfortable. madge and lois were blooming in strength and activity, and as innocent apparently of any vague, unfulfilled longings as a new-blown rose. only when mr. dillwyn's eye met mrs. barclay's he was sensible of a different record. he half sighed. the calm and the rest were not there. the talk rambled on. mr. dillwyn made him self exceedingly pleasant; told of things he had seen in his travels, things and people, and ways of life; interesting even mrs. armadale with a sort of fascinated interest, and gaining, he knew, no little share of her good-will. so, just as the meal was ending, he ventured to bring forward the old subject again. "you will pardon me, mrs. armadale," he began,--"but you are the first person i ever met who did not value money." "perhaps i am the first person you ever met who had something better." "you mean--?" said philip, with a look of inquiry. "i do not understand." "i have treasure in heaven." "but the coin of that realm is not current here?--and we are _here_." "that coin makes me rich now; and i take it with me when i go," said the old lady, as she rose from the table. chapter xxxiv. under an umbrella. mrs. barclay returned to her own room, and mr. dillwyn was forced to follow her. the door was shut between them and the rest of the household. mrs. barclay trimmed her fire, and her guest looked on absently. then they sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace; mrs. barclay smiling inwardly, for she knew that philip was impatient; however, nothing could be more sedate to all appearance than she was. "do you hear how the wind moans in the chimney?" she said. "that means rain." "rather dismal, isn't it?" "no. in this house nothing is dismal. there is a wholesome way of looking at everything." "not at money?" "it is no use, philip, to talk to people about what they cannot understand." "i thought understanding on that point was universal." "they have another standard in this family for weighing things, from that which you and i have been accustomed to go by." "what is it?" "i can hardly tell you, in a word. i am not sure that i can tell you at all. ask lois." "when can i ask her? do you spend your evenings alone?" "by no means! sometimes i go out and read 'rob roy' to them. sometimes the girls come to me for some deeper reading, or lessons." "will they come to-night?" "of course not! they would not interfere with your enjoyment of my society." "cannot you ask lois in, on some pretext?" "not without her sister. it is hard on you, philip! i will do the best for you i can; but you must watch your opportunity." mr. dillwyn gave it up with a good grace, and devoted himself to mrs. barclay for the rest of the evening. on the other side of the wall separating the two rooms, meanwhile a different colloquy had taken place. "so that is one of your fine people?" said miss charity. "well, i don't think much of him." "i have no doubt he would return the compliment," said madge. "no," said lois; "i think he is too polite." "he was polite to grandmother," returned charity. "not to anybody else, that i saw. but, girls, didn't he like the bread!" "i thought he liked everything pretty well," said madge. "when's he goin'?" mrs. armadale asked suddenly. "monday, some time," madge answered. "mrs. barclay said 'until monday.' what time monday i don't know." "well, we've got things enough to hold out till then," said charity, gathering up her dishes. "it's fun, too; i like to set a nice table." "why, grandmother?" said lois. "don't you like mrs. barclay's friend?" "well enough, child. i don't want him for none of our'n." "why, grandmother?" said madge. "his world ain't our world, children, and his hopes ain't our hopes--if the poor soul has any. 'seems to me he's all in the dark." "that's only on one subject," said lois. "about everything else he knows a great deal; and he has seen everything." "yes," said mrs. armadale; "very like he has; and he likes to talk about it; and he has a pleasant tongue; and he is a civil man. but there's one thing he hain't seen, and that is the light; and one thing he don't know, and that is happiness. and he may have plenty of money--i dare say he has; but he's what i call a poor man. i don't want you to have no such friends." "but grandmother, you do not dislike to have him in the house these two days, do you?" "it can't be helped, my dear, and we'll do the best for him we can. but i don't want _you_ to have no such friends." "i believe we should go out of the world to suit grandmother," remarked charity. "she won't think us safe as long as we're in it." the whole family went to church the next morning. mr. dillwyn's particular object, however, was not much furthered. he saw lois, indeed, at the breakfast table; and the sight was everything his fancy had painted it. he thought of milton's "pensive nun, devout and pure, sober, stedfast, and demure"-- only the description did not quite fit; for there was a healthy, sweet freshness about lois which gave the idea of more life and activity, mental and bodily, than could consort with a pensive character. the rest fitted pretty well; and the lines ran again and again through mr. dillwyn's head. lois was gone to church long before the rest of the family set out; and in church she did not sit with the others; and she did not come home with them. however, she was at dinner. but immediately after dinner mrs. barclay with drew again into her own room, and mr. dillwyn had no choice but to accompany her. "what now?" he asked. "what do you do the rest of the day?" "i stay at home and read. lois goes to sunday school." mr. dillwyn looked to the windows. the rain mrs. barclay threatened had come; and had already begun in a sort of fury, in company with a wind, which drove it and beat it, as it seemed, from all points of the compass at once. the lines of rain-drops went slantwise past the windows, and then beat violently upon them; the ground was wet in a few minutes; the sky was dark with its thick watery veils. wind and rain were holding revelry. "she will not go out in this weather," said the gentleman, with conviction which seemed to be agreeable. "the weather will not hinder her," returned mrs. barclay. "_this_ weather?" "no. lois does not mind weather. i have learned to know her by this time. where she thinks she ought to go, or what she thinks she ought to do, there no hindrance will stop her. it is good you should learn to know her too, philip." "pray tell me,--is the question of 'ought' never affected by what should be legitimate hindrances?" "they are never credited with being legitimate," mrs. barclay said, with a slight laugh. "the principle is the same as that old soldier's who said, you know, when ordered upon some difficult duty, 'sir, if it is possible, it shall be done; and if it is impossible, it _must_ be done!'" "that will do for a soldier,", said dillwyn. "at what o'clock does she go?" "in about a quarter of an hour i shall expect to hear her feet pattering softly through the hall, and then the door will open and shut without noise, and a dark figure will shoot past the windows." mr. dillwyn left the room, and probably made some preparations; for when, a few minutes later, a figure all wrapped up in a waterproof cloak did pass softly through the hall, he came out of mrs. barclay's room and confronted it; and i think his overcoat was on. "miss lois! you cannot be going out in this storm?" "o yes. the storm is nothing--only something to fight against." "but it blows quite furiously." "i don't dislike a wind," said lois, laying her hand on the lock of the door. "you have no umbrella?" "don't need it. i am all protected, don't you see? mr. dillwyn, _you_ are not going out?" "why not?" "but you have nothing to call you out?" "i beg your pardon. the same thing, i venture to presume, that calls you out,--duty. only in my case the duty is pleasure." "you are not going to take care of me?" "certainly." "but there's no need. not the least in the world." "from your point of view." he was so alertly ready, had the door open and his umbrella spread, and stood outside waiting for her, lois did not know how to get rid of him. she would surely have done it if she could. so she found herself going up the street with him by her side, and the umbrella warding off the wind and rain from her face. it was vexatious and amusing. from her face! who had faced sharnpuashuh storms ever since she could remember. it is very odd to be taken care of on a sudden, when you are accustomed, and perfectly able, to take care of your self. it is also agreeable. "you had better take my arm, miss lois," said her companion. "i could shield you better." "well," said lois, half laughing, "since you are here, i may as well take the good of it." and then mr. dillwyn had got things as he wanted them. "i ventured to assume, a little while ago, miss lois, that duty was taking you out into this storm; but i confess my curiosity to know what duty could have the right to do it. if my curiosity is indiscreet, you can rebuke it." "it is not indiscreet," said lois. "i have a sort of a bible class, in the upper part of the village, a quarter of a mile beyond the church." "i understood it was something of that kind, or i should not have asked. but in such weather as this, surely they would not expect you?" "yes, they would. at any rate, i am bound to show that i expect them." "_do_ you expect them, to come out to-day?" "not all of them," lois allowed. "but if there would not be one, still i must be there." "why?--if you will pardon me for asking." "it is good they should know that i am regular and to be depended on. and, besides, they will be sure to measure the depth of my interest in the work by my desire to do it. and one can do so little in this world at one's best, that one is bound to do all one can." "all one can," mr. dillwyn repeated. "you cannot put it at a lower figure. i was struck with a word in one of mrs. barclay's books--'the life and correspondence of john foster,'--'power, to its very last particle, is duty.'" "but that would be to make life a terrible responsibility." "say noble--not terrible!" said lois. "i confess it seems to me terrible also. i do not see how you can get rid of the element of terribleness." "yes,--if duty is neglected. not if duty is done." "who does his duty, at that rate?" "some people _try_," said lois. "and that trying must make life a servitude." "service--not servitude!" exclaimed lois again, with the same wholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticed before. "how do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inward smile; and yet mr. dillwyn was earnest enough too. "there is more than a line between them," said lois. "there is all the distance between freedom and slavery." and the words recurred to her, "i will walk at liberty, _for i seek thy precepts;_" but she judged they would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation from him, so she did not speak them. "_service_," she went on, "i think is one of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be rendered servilely. it must be free, from the heart." "you make nice distinctions. service, i suppose you mean, of one's fellow creatures?" "no," said lois, "i do not mean that. service must be given to god. it will work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course." "nice distinctions again," said mr. dillwyn. "but very real! and very essential." "is there not service--true service--that is given wholly to one's needy fellows of humanity? it seems to me i have heard of such." "there is a good deal of such service," said lois, "but it is not the true. it is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; and is found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. true service, given to god, and rising from the love of him, goes where it is sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever to fail. real service gives all, and is ready for everything." "how much do you mean, i wonder, by 'giving all'? do you use the words soberly?" "quite soberly," said lois, laughing. "giving all what?" "all one's power,--according to foster's judgment of it." "do you know what that would end in?" "i think i do. how do you mean?" "do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gave _all_ he had?" "yes, of course i do." "what would be left for himself?" lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk and stood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion. and her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to give them. "there would be left for him--all that the riches and love of god could do for his child." mr. dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed, fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simple unconsciousness,--and for the moment did not think of replying. then lois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on. "i am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "i do not know why i do. somehow i think it is your fault, mr. dillwyn. i am not in the habit, i think, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better than myself." "i am sure you are aware that i was speaking honestly, and that i do _not_ know better?" he said. "i suppose i thought so," lois answered. "but that does not quite excuse me. only--i was sorry for you, mr. dillwyn." "thank you. now, may i go on? the conversation can hardly be so interesting to you as it is to me." "i think i have said enough," said lois, a little shyly. "no, not enough, for i want to know more. the sentence you quoted from foster, if it is true, is overwhelming. if it is true, it leaves all the world with terrible arrears of obligation." "yes," lois answered half reluctantly,--"duty unfulfilled _is_ terrible. but, not 'all the world,' mr. dillwyn." "you are an exception." "i did not mean myself. i do not suppose i do all i ought to do. i do try to do all i know. but there are a great many beside me, who do better." "you agree then, that one is not bound by duties _unknown?_" lois hesitated. "you are making me talk again, as if i were wise," she said. "what should hinder any one from knowing his duty, mr. dillwyn." "suppose a case of pure ignorance." "then let ignorance study." "study what?" "mr. dillwyn, you ought to ask somebody who can answer you better." "i do not know any such somebody." "haven't you a christian among all your friends?" "i have not a friend in the world, of whom i could ask such a question with the least hope of having it answered." "where is your minister?" "my minister? clergyman, you mean? miss lois, i have been a wanderer over the earth for years. i have not any 'minister.'" lois was silent again. they had been walking fast, as well as talking fast, spite of wind and rain; the church was left behind some time ago, and the more comely and elegant part of the village settlement. "we shall have to stop talking now," lois said, "for we are near my place." "which is your place?" "do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? we have that for our meetings. some of the boys put it in order and make the fire for me." "you will let me come in?" "you?" said lois. "o no! nobody is there but my class." "you will let me be one of them to-day? seriously,--i am going to wait to see you home; you will not let me wait in the rain?" "i shall bid you go home," said lois, laughing. "i am not going to do that." "seriously, mr. dillwyn, i do not need the least care." "perhaps. but i must look at the matter from my point of view." what a troublesome man! thought lois; but then they were at the schoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, that it seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so mr. dillwyn went in with her, and how to turn him out lois did not know. it was a bare little place. the sanded floor gave little help or seeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the place habitable, even to its furthest corners. six people were already there. lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. there was no time, and it was no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder. "mr. dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, as far from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes nor ears? you must not be seen to have either--by any use you make of them. if you keep quite still, maybe they will forget you are here. you can keep up the fire for us." she turned from him to greet her young friends, and mr. dillwyn obeyed orders. he hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthest corner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears should be hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his attitude might have suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation on things far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. lois and her six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, which was too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctly heard by the one idle spectator. a spectator in truth mr. dillwyn desired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he must not be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve both purposes, of seeing and not seeing. the hour was not long to this one spectator, although it extended itself to full an hour and a half. he gave as close attention as ever when a student in college he had given to lecture or lesson. and yet, though he did this, mr. dillwyn was not, at least not at the time, thinking much of the matter of the lesson. he was studying the lecturer. and the study grew intense. it was not flattering to perceive, as he soon did, that lois had entirely forgotten his presence. he saw it by the free unconcern with which she did her work, as well as in the absorbed interest she gave to it. not flattering, and it cast a little shadow upon him, but it was convenient for his present purpose of observation. so he watched,--and listened. he heard the sweet utterance and clear enunciation, first of all; he heard them, it is true, whenever she spoke; but now the utterance sounded sweeter than usual, as if there were a vibration from some fuller than usual mental harmony, and the voice was of a silvery melody. it contrasted with the other voices, which were more or less rough or grating or nasal, too high pitched or low, and rough-cadenced, as uncultured voices are apt to be. from the voices, mr. dillwyn's attention was drawn to what the voices said. and here he found, most unexpectedly, a great deal to interest him. those rough voices spoke words of genuine intelligence; they expressed earnest interest; and they showed the speakers to be acute, thoughtful, not uninformed, quick to catch what was presented to them, often cunning to deal with it. mr. dillwyn was in danger of smiling, more than once. and lois met them, if not with the skill of a practised logician, with the quick wit of a woman's intuition and a woman's loving sympathy, armed with knowledge, and penetration, and tact, and gentleness, and wisdom. it was something delightful to hear her soft accents answer them, with such hidden strength under their softness; it was charming to see her gentleness and patience, and eagerness too; for lois was talking with all her heart. mr. dillwyn lost his wonder that her class came out in the rain; he only wished he could be one of them, and have the privilege too! it was impossible but that with all this mental observation mr. dillwyn's eyes should also take notice of the fair exterior before them. they would not have been worthy to see it else. lois had laid off her bonnet in the hot little room; it had left her hair a little loosened and disordered; yet not with what deserved to be called disorder; it was merely a softening and lifting of the rich, full masses, adding to the grace of the contour, not taking from it. nothing could be plainer than the girl's dress; all the more the observer's eye noted the excellent lines of the figure and the natural charm of every movement and attitude. the charm that comes, and always must come, from inward refinement and delicacy, when combined with absence of consciousness; and which can only be helped, not produced, by any perfection of the physical structure. then the tints of absolute health, and those low, musical, sensitive tones, flowing on in such sweet modulations-- what a woman was this! mr. dillwyn could see, too, the effect of mrs. barclay's work. he was sure he could. the whole giving of that bible lesson betrayed the refinement of mental training and culture; even the management of the voice told of it. here was not a fine machine, sound and good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating to get it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running told how well. by degrees mr. dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the class, and the schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that was lois. his head and heart grew full of her. he had been in the grasp of a strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money, and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it was fancy no longer. he had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once for all; not to try to win lois, but to have her. she, he saw, was as yet ungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. that made no difference. philip dillwyn had one object in life from this time. he hardly saw or heard lois's leave-takings with her class, but as she came up to him he rose. "i have kept you too long, mr. dillwyn; but i could not help it; and really, you know, it was your own fault." "not a minute too long," he assured her; and he put on her cloak and handed her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which lois would have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it which even then struck her. they set out upon their homeward way, but the walk home was not as the walk out had been. the rain and the wind were unchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as they more nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven against them with greater fury. lois was fain to cling to her companion's arm, and the umbrella had to be handled with discretion. but the storm had been violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which made the difference. neither was it the fact that both parties were now almost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly; though it was a fact. perhaps lois was tired with talking, seeing she had been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed philip? and what gave the walk its new character? lois did not know, though she felt it in every fibre of her being. and mr. dillwyn did not know, though the cause lay in him. he was taking care of lois; he had been taking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as a man only does it for one woman in the world. hardly more careful of her, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, which lois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. it was something she had never touched before in her life, and did not now know what it meant; at least i should say her _reason_ did not know; yet nature answered to nature infallibly, and by some hidden intuition of recognition the girl was subdued and dumb. this was nothing like tom caruthers, and anything she had received from him. tom had been flattering, demonstrative, obsequious; there was no flattery here, and no demonstration, and nothing could be farther from obsequiousness. it was the delicate reverence which a man gives to only one woman of all the world; something that must be felt and cannot be feigned; the most subtle incense of worship one human spirit can render to another; which the one renders and the other receives, without either being able to tell how it is done. the more is the incense sweet, penetrating, powerful. lois went home silently, through the rain and wind, and did not know why a certain mist of happiness seemed to encompass her. she was ignorant why the storm was so very beneficent in its action; did not know why the wind was so musical and the rain so refreshing; could not guess why she was sorry to get home. yet the fact was before her as she stepped in. "it has done you no harm!" said mr. dillwyn, smiling, as he met lois's eyes, and saw her fresh, flushed cheeks. "are you wet?" "i think not at all." "this must come off, however," he went on, proceeding to unfasten her cloak; "it has caught more rain-drops than you know." and lois submitted, and meekly stood still and allowed the cloak, very wet on one side, to be taken off her. "where is this to go? there seems to be no place to hang it here." "o, i will hang it up to dry in the kitchen, thank you," said lois, offering to take it. "_i_ will hang it up to dry in the kitchen,--if you will show me the way. you cannot handle it." lois could have laughed, for did she not handle everything? and did wet or dry make any difference to her? however, she did not on this occasion feel like contesting the matter; but with unwonted docility preceded mr. dillwyn through the sitting-room, where were mrs. armadale and madge, to the kitchen beyond, where charity was just putting on the tea-kettle. chapter xxxv. opinions. mr. dillwyn rejoined mrs. barclay in her parlour, but he was a less entertaining man this evening than he had been during the former part of his visit. mrs. barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. even at the tea-table things were not like last evening. philip entered into no discussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to his duties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become second nature, and talked only so much as politeness required. mrs. barclay looked at lois, but could tell nothing from the grave face there. always on sunday evenings it had a very fair, sweet gravity. the rest of the time, after tea, was spent in making music. it had become a usual sunday evening entertainment. mrs. barclay played, and she and the two girls sang. it was all sacred music, of course, varied exceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. old hymn and psaulm tunes were what mrs. armadale liked; and those generally came first; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those mrs. barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. madge and lois both had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and mrs. barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. this evening philip joined the choir; and charity declared it was "better'n they could do in the episcopal church." "do they have the best singing in the episcopal church?" asked philip absently. "well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. our folks won't practise." "i don't care how folk's voices sound, if their hearts _are_ in it," said mrs. armadale. "but you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," said dillwyn. "that made a large part of the beauty of our concert this evening." "was your'n in it?" asked mrs. armadale abruptly. "my heart? in the words? i am afraid i must own it was not, in the way you mean, madam. if i must answer truth." "don't you always speak truth?" "i believe i may say, that _is_ my habit," philip answered, smiling. "then, do you think you ought to sing sech words, if you don't mean 'em?" the question looks abrupt, on paper. it did not sound equally so. something of earnest wistfulness there was in the old lady's look and manner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentleman forgive her on the spot. he sat down beside her. "would you bid me not join in singing such words, then?" "it's not my place to bid or forbid. but you can judge for yourself. do you set much valley on professions that mean nothing?" "i made no professions." "ain't it professin', when you say what the hymns say?" "if you will forgive me--i did not say it," responded philip. "ain't singin' sayin'?" "they are generally looked upon as essentially different. people are never held responsible for the things they sing,--out of church," added philip, smiling. "is it otherwise with church singing?" "what's church singin' good for, then?" "i thought it was to put the minds of the worshippers in a right state;--to sober and harmonize them." "i thought it was to tell the lord how we felt," said the old lady. "that is a new view of it, certainly." "_i_ thought the words was to tell one how we had ought to feel!" said charity. "there wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you had _your_ way; and then we should have nice music!" "i think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind of sober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched philip. the ring of truth was there, at any rate. "could the world be managed," he said, with very gentle deference; "could the world be managed on such principles of truth and purity? must we not take people as we find them?" "those are the lord's principles," said mrs. armadale. "yes, but you know how the world is. must we not, a little, as i said, take people as we find them?" "the lord won't do that," said the old lady. "he will either make them better, or he will cast them away." "but we? we must deal with things as they are." "how are you goin' to deal with 'em?" "in charity and kindness; having patience with what is wrong, and believing that the good god will have more patience yet." "you had better believe what he tells you," the old lady answered, somewhat sternly. "but grandmother," lois put in here, "he _does_ have patience." "with whom, child?" lois did not answer; she only quoted softly the words-- "'plenteous in mercy, long-suffering, abundant in goodness and truth.'" "ay, child; but you know what happens to the houses built on the sand." the party broke up here, mrs. barclay bidding good-night and leaving the dining-room, whither they had all gone to eat apples. as philip parted from lois he remarked,-- "i did not understand the allusion in mrs. armadale's last words." lois's look fascinated him. it was just a moment's look, pausing before turning away; swift with eagerness and intent with some hidden feeling which he hardly comprehended. she only said,-- "look in the end of the seventh chapter of matthew." "well," said mrs. barclay, when the door was closed, "what do you think of our progress?" "progress?" repeated philip vacantly. "i beg your pardon!"-- "in music, man!" said mrs. barclay, laughing. "o!--admirable. have you a bible here?" "a bible?" mrs. barclay echoed. "yes--there is a bible in every room, i believe. yonder, on that table. why? what do you want of one now?" "i have had a sermon preached to me, and i want to find the text." mrs. barclay asked no further, but she watched him, as with the book in his hand he sat down before the fire and studied the open page. studied with grave thoughtfulness, drawing his brows a little, and pondering with eyes fixed on the words for some length of time. then he bade her good-night with a smile, and went away. he went away in good earnest next day; but as a subject of conversation in the village his visit lasted a good while. that same evening mrs. marx came to make a call, just before supper. "how much pork are you goin' to want this year, mother?" she began, with the business of one who had been stirring her energies with a walk in a cool wind. "i suppose, about as usual," said mrs. armadale. "i forget how much that is; i can't keep it in my head from one year to another. besides, i didn't know but you'd want an extra quantity, if your family was goin' to be larger." "it is not going to be larger, as i know." "if my pork ain't, i shall come short home. it beats me! i've fed 'em just the same as usual,--and the corn's every bit as good as usual, never better; good big fat yellow ears, that had ought to make a porker's heart dance for joy; and i should think they were sufferin' from continual lowness o' spirits, to judge by the way they _don't_ get fat. they're growing real long-legged and slab-sided--just the way i hate to see pigs look. i don' know what's the matter with 'em." "where do you keep 'em?" "under the barn--just where they always be. well, you've had a visitor?" "mrs. barclay has." "i understood 'twas her company; but you saw him?" "we saw him as much as she did," put in charity. "what's he like?" nobody answered. "is he one of your high-flyers?" "i don't know what you call high-flyers, aunt anne," said madge. "he was a gentleman." "what do you mean by _that?_ i saw some 'gentlemen' last summer at appledore--and i don't want to see no more. was he that kind?" "i wasn't there," said madge, "and can't tell. i should have no objection to see a good many of them, if he is." "i heard he went to sunday school with lois, through the rain." "how did you know?" said lois. "why shouldn't i know?" "i thought nobody was out but me." "do you think folks will see an umbrella walkin' up street in the rain, and not look to see if there's somebody under it?" "_i_ shouldn't," said lois. "when should an umbrella be out walking, but in the rain?" "well, go along. what sort of a man is he? and what brings him to shampuashuh?" "he came to see mrs. barclay," said madge. "he's a sort of man you are willin' to take trouble for," said charity. "real nice, and considerate; and to hear him talk, it is as good as a book; and he's awfully polite. you should have seen him marching in here with lois's wet cloak, out to the kitchen with it, and hangin' it up. so to pay, i turned round and hung up his'n. one good turn deserves another, i told him. but at first, i declare, i thought i couldn't keep from laughin'." mrs. marx laughed a little here. "i know the sort," she said. "wears kid gloves always and a little line of hair over his upper lip, and is lazy like. i would lose all my patience to have one o' them round for long, smokin' a cigar every other thing, and poisonin' all the air for half a mile." "i think he _is_ sort o' lazy," said charity. "he don't smoke," said lois. "yes he does," said madge. "i found an end of cigar just down by the front steps, when i was sweeping." "i don't think he's a lazy man, either," said lois. "that slow, easy way does not mean laziness." "what does it mean?" inquired mrs. marx sharply. "it is nothing to us what it means," said mrs. armadale, speaking for the first time. "we have no concern with this man. he came to see mrs. barclay, his friend, and i suppose he'll never come again." "why shouldn't he come again, mother?" said charity. "if she's his friend, he might want to see her more than once, seems to me. and what's more, he _is_ coming again. i heard him askin' her if he might; and then mrs. barclay asked me if it would be convenient, and i said it would, of course. he said he would be comin' back from boston in a few weeks, and he would like to stop again as he went by. and do you know _i_ think she coloured. it was only a little, but she ain't a woman to blush much; and _i_ believe she knows why he wants to come, as well as he does." "nonsense, charity!" said madge incredulously. "then half the world are busy with nonsense, that's all i have to say; and i'm glad for my part i've somethin' better to do." "do you say he's comin' again?" inquired mrs. armadale. "he says so, mother." "what for?" "why, to visit his friend mrs. barclay, of course." "she is our friend," said the old lady; "and her friends must be entertained; but he is not _our_ friend, children. we ain't of his kind, and he ain't of our'n." "what's the matter? ain't he good?" asked mrs. marx. "he's _very_ good!" said madge. "not in grandmother's way," said lois softly. "mother," said mrs. marx, "you can't have everybody cut out on your pattern." mrs. armadale made no answer. "and there ain't enough o' your pattern to keep one from bein' lonesome, if we're to have nothin' to do with the rest." "better so," said the old lady. "i don't want no company for my chil'en that won't help 'em on the road to heaven. they'll have company enough when they get there." "and how are you goin' to be the salt o' the earth, then, if you won't touch nothin'?" "how, if the salt loses its saltness, daughter?" "well, mother, it always puzzles me, that there's so much to be said on both sides of things! i'll go home and think about it. then he ain't one o' your appledore friends, lois?" "not one of my friends at all, aunt anne." so the talk ended. there was a little private extension of it that evening, when lois and madge went up to bed. "it's a pity grandma is so sharp about things," the latter remarked to her sister. "things?" said lois. "what things?" "well--people. don't you like that mr. dillwyn?" "yes." "so do i. and she don't want us to have anything to do with him." "but she is right," said lois. "he is not a christian." "but one can't live only with christians in this world. and, lois, i'll tell you what i think; he is a great deal pleasanter than a good many christians i know." "he is good company," said lois. "he has seen a great deal and read a great deal, and he knows how to talk. that makes him pleasant." "well, he's a great deal more improving to be with than anybody i know in shampuashuh." "in one way." "why shouldn't one have the pleasure, then, and the good, if he isn't a christian?" "the pleasanter he is, i suppose the more danger, grandmother would think." "danger of what?" "you know, madge, it is not my say-so, nor even grandmother's. you know, christians are not of the world." "but they must _see_ the world." "if we were to see much of that sort of person, we might get to wishing to see them always." "by 'that sort of person' i suppose you mean mr. dillwyn? well, i have got so far as that already. i wish i could see such people always." "i am sorry." "why? you ought to be glad at my good taste." "i am sorry, because you are wishing for what you cannot have." "how do you know that? you cannot tell what may happen." "madge, a man like mr. dillwyn would never think of a girl like you or me." "i am not wanting him to think of me," said madge rather hotly. "but, lois, if you come to that, i think i--and you--are fit for anybody." "yes," said lois quietly. "i think so too. but _they_ do not take the same view. and if they did, madge, we could not think of them." "why not?--_if_ they did. i do not hold quite such extreme rules as you and grandmother do." "and the bible."-- "other people do not think the bible is so strict." "you know what the words are, madge." "i don't know what the words mean." lois was brushing out the thick masses of her beautiful hair, which floated about over her in waves of golden brown; and madge had been thinking, privately, that if anybody could have just that view of lois, his scruples--if he had any--would certainly give way. now, at her sister's last words, however, lois laid down her brush, and, coming up, laid hold of madge by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shaking. it ended in something of a romp, but lois declared madge should never say such a thing again. chapter xxxvi. two sunday schools. lois was inclined now to think it might be quite as well if something hindered mr. dillwyn's second visit. she did not wonder at madge's evident fascination; she had felt the same herself long ago, and in connection with other people; the charm of good breeding and gracious manners, and the habit of the world, even apart from knowledge and cultivation and the art of conversation. yes, mr. dillwyn was a good specimen of this sort of attraction; and for a moment lois's imagination recalled that day's two walks in the rain; then she shook off the impression. two poor shampuashuh girls were not likely to have much to do with that sort of society, and--it was best they should not. it would be just as well if mr. dillwyn was hindered from coming again. but he came. a month had passed; it was the beginning of december when he knocked next at the door, and cold and grey and cloudy and windy as it is december's character in certain moods to be. the reception he got was hearty in proportion; fires were larger, the table even more hospitably spread; mrs. barclay even more cordial, and the family atmosphere not less genial. nevertheless the visit, for mr. dillwyn's special ends, was hardly satisfactory. he could get no private speech with lois. she was always "busy;" and at meal-times it was obviously impossible, and would have been impolitic, to pay any particular attention to her. philip did not attempt it. he talked rather to every one else; made himself delightful company; but groaned in secret. "cannot you make some excuse for getting her in here?" he asked mrs. barclay at evening. "not without her sister." "with her sister, then." "they are very busy just now preparing some thing they call 'apple butter.' it's unlucky, philip. i am very sorry. i always told you your way looked to me intricate." fortune favoured him, however, in an unexpected way. after a day passed in much inward impatience, for he had not got a word with lois, and he had no excuse for prolonging his stay beyond the next day, as they sat at supper, the door opened, and in came two ladies. mr. dillwyn was formally presented to one of them as to "my aunt, mrs. marx;" the other was named as "mrs. seelye." the latter was a neat, brisk little body, with a capable air and a mien of business; all whose words came out as if they had been nicely picked and squared, and sorted and packed, and served in order. "sorry to interrupt, mrs. armadale" she began, in a chirruping little voice. indeed, her whole air was that of a notable little hen looking after her chickens. charity assured her it was no interruption. "mrs. seelye and i had our tea hours ago," said mrs. marx. "i had muffins for her, and we ate all we could then. we don't want no more now. we're on business." "yes," said mrs. seelye. "mrs. marx and i, we've got to see everybody, pretty much; and there ain't much time to do it in; so you see we can't choose, and we just come here to see what you'll do for us." "what do you want us to do for you, mrs. seelye?" lois asked. "well, i don't know; only all you can. we want your counsel, and then your help. mr. seelye he said, go to the lothrop girls first. i didn't come _first_, 'cause there was somebody else on my way here; but this is our fourth call, ain't it, mrs. marx?" "i thought i'd never get you away from no. ," was the answer. "they were very much interested,--and i wanted to make them all understand--it was important that they should all understand--" "and there are different ways of understanin'," added mrs. marx; "and there are a good many of 'em--the hicks's, i mean; and so, when we thought we'd got it all right with one, we found somebody else was in a fog; and then _he_ had to be fetched out." "but we are all in a fog," said madge, laughing. "what are you coming to? and what are we to understand?" "we have a little plan," said mrs. seelye. "it'll be a big one, before we get through with it," added her coadjutor. "nobody'll be frightened here if you call it a big one to start with, mrs. seelye. i like to look things in the face." "so do we," said mrs. armadale, with a kind of grim humour,--"if you will give us a chance." "well, it's about the children," said mrs. seelye. "christmas--" added mrs. marx. "be quiet, anne," said her mother. "go on, mrs. seelye. whose children?" "i might say, they are all mr. seelye's children," said the little lady, laughing; "and so they are in a way, as they are all belonging to his church. he feels he is responsible for the care of 'em, and he _don't_ want to lose 'em. and that's what it's all about, and how the plan came up." "how's he goin' to lose 'em?" mrs. armadale asked, beginning now to knit again. "well, you see the other church is makin' great efforts; and they're goin' to have a tree." "what sort of a tree? and what do they want a tree for?" "why, a fir tree!"--and, "why, a christmas tree!" cried the two ladies who advocated the "plan," both in a breath. "mother don't know about that," mrs. marx went on. "it's a new fashion, mother,--come up since your day. they have a green tree, planted in a tub, and hung with all sorts of things to make it look pretty; little candles especially; and at night they light it up; and the children are tickled to death with it." "in-doors?" "why, of course in-doors. couldn't be out-of-doors, in the snow." "i didn't know," said the old lady; "i don't understand the new fashions. i should think they would burn up the house, if it's in-doors." "o no, no danger," explained mrs. seelye. "they make them wonderfully pretty, with the branches all hung full with glass balls, and candles, and ribbands, and gilt toys, and papers of sugar plums--cornucopia, you know; and dolls, and tops, and jacks, and trumpets, and whips, and everything you can think of,--till it is as full as it can be, and the branches hang down with the weight; and it looks like a fairy tree; and then the heavy presents lie at the foot round about and cover the tub." "i should think the children would be delighted," said madge. "i don't believe it's as much fun as santa claus and the stocking," said lois. "no, nor i," said mrs. barclay. "but we have nothing to do with the children's stockings," said mrs. seelye. "they may hang up as many as they like. that's at home. this is in the church." "o, in the church! i thought you said it was in the house--in people's houses," said charity. "so it is; but _this_ tree is to be in the church." "what tree?" "la! how stupid you are, charity," exclaimed her aunt. "didn't mrs. seelye tell you?--the tree the other church are gettin' up." "oh--" said charity. "well, you can't hinder 'em, as i see." "don't want to hinder 'em! what should we hinder 'em for? but we don't want 'em to get all our chil'en away; that's what we're lookin' at." "do you think they'd go?" "mr. seelye's afraid it'll thin off the school dreadful," said mr. seelye's helpmate. "they're safe to go," added mrs. marx. "ask children to step in and see fairyland, and why shouldn't they go? i'd go if i was they. all the rest of the year it ain't fairyland in shampuashuh. i'd go fast enough." "then i don't see what you are goin' to do about it," said charity, "but to sit down and count your chickens that are left." "that's what we came to tell you," said the minister's wife. "well, tell," said charity. "you haven't told yet, only what the other church is going to do." "well, we thought the only way was for us to do somethin' too." "only not another tree," said lois. "not that, for pity's sake." "why not?" asked the little minister's wife, with an air of being somewhat taken aback. "why haven't we as good a right to have a tree as they have?" "_right_, if you like," said lois; "but right isn't all." "go on, and let's hear your wisdom, lois," said her aunt. "i s'pose you'll say first, we can't do it." "we can do it, perhaps," said lois; "but, aunt anne, it would make bad feeling." "that's not our look-out," rejoined mrs. marx. "we haven't any bad feeling." "no, not in the least," added mrs. seelye. "_we_ only want to give our children as good a time as the others have. that's right." "'let nothing be done through strife or vainglory,'" mrs. armadale's voice was here heard to say. "yes, i know, mother, you have old-fashioned ideas," said mrs. marx; "but the world ain't as it used to be when you was a girl. now everybody's puttin' steam on; and churches and sunday schools as well as all the rest. we have organs, and choirs, and concerts, and celebrations, and fairs, and festivals; and if we don't go with the crowd, they'll leave us behind, you see." "i don't believe in it all!" said mrs. armadale. "well, mother, we've got to take the world as we find it. now the children all through the village are all agog with the story of what the yellow church is goin' to do; and if the white church don't do somethin', they'll all run t'other way--that you may depend on. children are children." "i sometimes think the grown folks are children," said the old lady. "well, we ought to be children," said mrs. seelye; "i am sure we all know that. but mr. seelye thought this was the only thing we could do." "there comes in the second difficulty, mrs. seelye," said lois. "we cannot do it." "i don't see why we cannot. we've as good a place for it, quite." "i mean, we cannot do it satisfactorily. it will not be the same thing. we cannot raise the money. don't it take a good deal?" "well, it takes considerable. but i think, if we all try, we can scare it up somehow." lois shook her head. "the other church is richer than we are," she said. "that's a fact," said charity. mrs. seelye hesitated. "i don't know," she said,--"they have one or two rich men. mr. georges--" "o, and mr. flare," cried madge, "and buck, and setterdown; and the ropers and the magnuses." "yes," said mrs. seelye; "but we have more people, and there's none of 'em to call poor. if we get 'em interested--and those we have spoken to are very much taken with the plan--very much; i think it would be a great disappointment now if we were to stop; and the children have got talking about it. i think we can do it; and it would be a very good thing for the whole church, to get 'em interested." "you can always get people interested in play," said mrs. armadale. "what you want, is to get 'em interested in work." "there'll be a good deal of work about this, before it's over," said mrs. seelye, with a pleased chuckle. "and i think, when they get their pride up, the money will be coming." mrs. marx made a grimace, but said nothing. "'when pride cometh, than cometh shame,'" said mrs. armadale quietly. "o yes, some sorts of pride," said the little minister's wife briskly; "but i mean a proper sort. we don't want to let our church go down, and we don't want to have our sunday school thinned out; and i can tell you, where the children go, there the fathers and mothers will be going, next thing." "what do you propose to do?" said lois. "we have not fairly heard yet." "well, we thought we'd have some sort of celebration, and give the school a jolly time somehow. we'd dress up the church handsomely with evergreens; and have it well lighted; and then, we would have a christmas tree if we could. or, if we couldn't, then we'd have a real good hot supper, and give the children presents. but i'm afraid, if we don't have a tree, they'll all run off to the other church; and i think they're going already, so as to get asked. mr. seelye said the attendance was real thin last sabbath." there followed an animated discussion of the whole subject, with every point brought up again, and again and again. the talkers were, for the most part, charity and madge, with the two ladies who had come in; mrs. armadale rarely throwing in a word, which always seemed to have a disturbing power; and things were taken up and gone over anew to get rid of the disturbance. lois sat silent and played with her spoon. mrs. barclay and philip listened with grave amusement. "well, i can't sit here all night," said charity at last, rising from behind her tea-board. "madge and lois,--just jump up and put away the things, won't you; and hand me up the knives and plates. don't trouble yourself, mrs. barclay. if other folks in the village are as busy as i am, you'll come short home for your christmas work, mrs. seelye." "it's the busy people always that help," said the little lady propitiatingly. "that's a fact; but i don't see no end o' this to take hold of. you hain't got the money; and if you had it, you don't know what you want; and if you did know, it ain't in shampuashuh; and i don't see who is to go to new york or new haven, shopping for you. and if you had it, who knows how to fix a christmas tree? not a soul in our church." mrs. barclay and her guest withdrew at this point of the discussion. but later, when the visitors were gone, she opened the door of her room, and said, "madge and lois, can you come in here for a few minutes? it is business." the two girls came in, madge a little eagerly; lois, mrs. barclay fancied, with a manner of some reserve. "mr. dillwyn has something to suggest," she began, "about this plan we have heard talked over; that is, if you care about it's being carried into execution." "i care, of course," said madge. "if it is to be done, i think it will be great fun." "if it is to be done," lois repeated. "grandmother does not approve of it; and i always think, what she does not like, i must not like." "always?" asked mr. dillwyn. "i try to have it always. grandmother thinks that the way--the best way--to keep a sunday school together, is to make the lessons interesting." "i am sure she is right!" said mr. dillwyn. "but to the point," said mrs. barclay. "lois, they will do this thing, i can see. the question now is, do you care whether it is done ill or well?" "certainly! if it is done, i should wish it to be as well done as possible. failure is more than failure." "how about ways and means?" "money? o, if the people all set their hearts on it, they could do it well enough. but they are slow to take hold of anything out of the common run they are accustomed to. the wheels go in ruts at shampuashuh." "shampuashuh is not the only place," said philip. "then will you let an outsider help?" "help? we would be very glad of help," said madge; but lois remarked, "i think the church ought to do it themselves, if they want to do it." "well, hear my plan," said mr. dillwyn. "i think you objected to two rival trees?" "i object to rival anythings," said lois; "in church matters especially." "then i propose that no tree be set up, but instead, that you let santa claus come in with his sledge." "santa claus!" cried lois. "who would be santa claus?" "an old man in a white mantle, his head and beard covered with snow and fringed with icicles; his dress of fur; his sledge a large one, and well heaped up with things to delight the children. what do you think?" madge's colour rose, and lois's eye took a sparkle; both were silent. then madge spoke. "i don't see how that plan could be carried out, any more than the other. it is a great deal _better_, it is magnificent; but it is a great deal too magnificent for shampuashuh." "why so?" "nobody here knows how to do it." "i know how." "you! o but,--that would be too much--" "all you have to do is to get the other things ready, and let it be known that at the proper time santa claus will appear, with a well-furnished sled. sharp on time." "well-furnished!--but there again--i don't believe we can raise money enough for that." "how much money?" asked dillwyn, with an amused smile. "o, i can't tell--i suppose a hundred dollars at least." "i have as much as that lying useless--it may just as well do some good. it never was heard that anybody but santa claus furnished his own sled. if you will allow me, i will take care of that." "how splendid!" cried madge. "but it is too much; it wouldn't be right for us to let you do all that for a church that is nothing to you." "on the contrary, you ought to encourage me in my first endeavours to make myself of some use in the world. miss madge, i have never, so far, done a bit of good in my life." "o, mr. dillwyn! i cannot believe that. people do not grow useful so all of a sudden, without practice," said madge, hitting a great general truth. "it is a fact, however," said he, half lightly, and yet evidently meaning what he said. "i have lived thirty-two years in the world--nearly thirty-three--without making my life of the least use to anybody so far as i know. do you wonder that i seize a chance?" lois's eyes were suddenly lifted, and then as suddenly lowered; she did not speak. "i can read that," he said laughingly, for his eyes had caught the glance. "you mean, if i am so eager for chances, i might make them! miss lois, i do not know how." "come, philip," said mrs. barclay, "you are making your character unnecessarily bad. i know you better than that. think what you have done for me." "i beg your pardon," said he. "think what you have done for me. that score cannot be reckoned to my favour. have no scruples, miss madge, about employing me. though i believe miss lois thinks the good of this undertaking a doubtful one. how many children does your school number?" "all together,--and they would be sure for once to be all together!--there are a hundred and fifty." "have you the names?" "o, certainly." "and ages--proximately?" "yes, that too." "and you know something, i suppose, about many of them; something about their families and conditions?" "about _all_ of them?" said madge. "yes, indeed we do." "till mrs. barclay came, you must understand," put in lois here, "we had nothing, or not much, to study besides shampuashuh; so we studied that." "and since mrs. barclay came?--" asked philip. "o, mrs. barclay has been opening one door after another of knowledge, and we have been peeping in." "and what special door offers most attraction to your view, of them all?" "i don't know. i think, perhaps, for me, geology and mineralogy; but almost every one helps in the study of the bible." "o, do they!" said dillwyn somewhat dryly. "i like music best," said madge. "but that is not a door into knowledge," objected lois. "i meant, of all the doors mrs. barclay has opened to us." "mrs. barclay is a favoured person." "it is we that are favoured," said madge. "our life is a different thing since she came. we hope she will never go away." then madge coloured, with some sudden thought, and she went back to the former subject. "why do you ask about the children's ages and all that, mr. dillwyn?" "i was thinking-- when a thing is to be done, i like to do it well. it occurred to me, that as santa claus must have something on his sledge for each one, it might be good, if possible, to secure some adaptation or fitness in the gift. those who would like books should have books, and the right books; and playthings had better not go astray, if we can help it; and perhaps the poorer children would be better for articles of clothing.--i am only throwing out hints." "capital hints!" said lois. "you mean, if we can tell what would be good for each one--i think we can, pretty nearly. but there are few _poor_ people in shampuashuh, mr. dillwyn." "shampuashuh is a happy place." "this plan will give you an immensity of work, mr. dillwyn." "what then?" "i have scruples. it is not fair to let you do it. what is shampuashuh to you?" "it might be difficult to make that computation," said mr. dillwyn dryly. "have no scruples, miss lois. as i told you, i have nothing better to do with myself. if you can make me useful, it will be a rare chance." "but there are plenty of other things to do, mr. dillwyn," said lois. he gave her only a glance and smile by way of answer, and plunged immediately into the business question with madge. lois sat by, silent and wondering, till all was settled that could be settled that evening, and she and madge went back to the other room. chapter xxxvii. an oyster supper. "hurrah!" cried madge, but softly--"now it will go! mother! what do you think? guess, charity! mr. dillwyn is going to take our sunday school celebration on himself; he's going to do it; and we're to have, not a stupid christmas tree, but santa claus and his sled; and he'll be santa claus! won't it be fun?" "who'll be santa claus?" said charity, looking stupefied. "mr. dillwyn. in fact, he'll be santa claus and his sled too; he'll do the whole thing. all we have got to do is to dress the children and ourselves, and light up the church." "will the committees like that?" "like it? of course they will! like it, indeed! don't you see it will save them all expense? they'll have nothing to do but dress up and light up." "and warm up too, i hope. what makes mr. dillwyn do all that? i don't just make out." "i'll tell you," said madge, shaking her finger at the others impressively. "he's after mrs. barclay. so this gives him a chance to come here again, don't you see?" "after mrs. barclay?" repeated charity. "i want to know!" "i don't believe it," said lois. "she is too old for him." "she's not old," said madge. "and he is no chicken, my dear. you'll see. it's she he's after. he's coming next time as santa claus, that's all. and we have got to make out a list of things--things for presents,--for every individual girl and boy in the sunday school; there's a job for you. santa claus will want a big sled." "_who_ is going to do _what?_" inquired mrs. armadale here. "i don't understand, you speak so fast, children." "mother, instead of a christmas tree, we are going to have santa claus and his sled; and the sled is to be heaped full of presents for all the children; and mr. dillwyn is going to do it, and get the presents, and be santa claus himself." "how, _be_ santa claus?" "why, he will dress up like santa claus, and come in with his sled." "where?" "in the church, grandmother; there is no other place. the other church have their sunday-school room you know; but we have none." "they are going to have their tree in the church, though," said charity; "they reckon the sunday-school room won't be big enough to hold all the folks." "are they going to turn the church into a playhouse?" mrs. armadale asked. "it's for the sake of the church and the school, you know, mother. santa claus will come in with his sled and give his presents,--that is all. at least, that is all the play there will be." "what else will there be?" "o, there'll be singing, grandma," said madge; "hymns and carols and such things, that the children will sing; and speeches and prayers, i suppose." "the church used to be god's house, in my day," said the old lady, with a concerned face, looking up from her knitting, while her fingers went on with their work as busily as ever. "they don't mean it for anything else, grandmother," said madge. "it's all for the sake of the school." "maybe they think so," the old lady answered. "what else, mother? what else should it be?" but this she did not answer. "what's mr. dillwyn got to do with it?" she asked presently. "he's going to help," said madge. "it's nothing but kindness. he supposes it is something good to do, and he says he'd like to be useful." "he hain't no idea how," said mrs. armadale, "poor creatur'! you can tell him, it ain't the lord's work he's doin'." "but we cannot tell him that, mother," said lois. "if the people want to have this celebration,--and they will,--hadn't we better make it a good one? is it really a bad thing?" "the devil's ways never help no one to heaven, child, not if they go singin' hymns all the way." "but, mother!" cried madge. "mr. dillwyn ain't a christian, maybe, but he ain't as bad as that." "i didn't mean mr. dillwyn, dear, nor no one else. i meant theatre work." "_santa claus_, mother?" "it's actin', ain't it?" the girls looked at each other. "there's very little of anything like acting about it," lois said. "'make straight paths for your feet'!" said mrs. armadale, rising to go to bed. "'make straight paths for your feet,' children. straight ways is the shortest too. if the chil'en that don't love their teachers wants to go to the yellow church, let 'em go. i'd rather have the lord in a little school, than santa claus in a big one." she was leaving the room, but the girls stayed her and begged to know what they should do in the matter of the lists they were engaged to prepare for mr. dillwyn. "you must do what you think best," she said. "only don't be mixed up with it all any more than you can help, lois." why did the name of one child come to her lips and not the other? did the old lady's affection, or natural acuteness, discern that mr. dillwyn was _not_ drawn to shampuashuh by any particular admiration of his friend mrs. barclay? had she some of that preternatural intuition, plain old country woman though she was, which makes a woman see the invisible and hear the inaudible? which serves as one of the natural means of defence granted to the weaker creatures. i do not know; i do not think she knew; however, the warning was given, and not on that occasion alone. and as lois heeded all her grandmother's admonitions, although in this case without the most remote perception of this possible ground to them, it followed that mr. dillwyn gained less by his motion than he had hoped and anticipated. the scheme went forward, hailed by the whole community belonging to the white church, with the single exception of mrs. armadale. it went forward and was brought to a successful termination. i might say, a triumphant termination; only the triumph was not for mr. dillwyn, or not in the line where he wanted it. he did his part admirably. a better santa claus was never seen, nor a better filled sled. and genial pleasantness, and wise management, and cool generalship, and fun and kindness, were never better represented. so it was all through the consultations and arrangements that preceded the festival, as well as on the grand occasion itself; and shampuashuh will long remember the time with wonder and exultation; but it was madge who was mr. dillwyn's coadjutor and fellow-counsellor. it was madge and mrs. barclay who helped him in all the work of preparing and ticketing the parcels for the sled; as well as in the prior deliberations as to what the parcels should be. madge seemed to be the one at hand always to answer a question. madge went with him to the church; and in general, lois, though sympathizing and curious, and interested and amused, was very much out of the play. not so entirely as to make the fact striking; only enough to leave mr. dillwyn disappointed and tantalized. i am not going into a description of the festival and the show. the children sang; the minister made a speech to them, not ten consecutive words of which were listened to by three-quarters of the people. the church was filled with men, women, and children; the walls were hung with festoons and wreaths, and emblazoned with mottoes; the anthems and carols followed each other till the last thread of patience in the waiting crowd gave way. and at last came what they were waiting for--santa claus, all fur robes and snow and icicles, dragging after him a sledge that looked like a small mountain with the heap of articles piled and packed upon it. and then followed a very busy and delightful hour and a half, during which the business was--the distribution of pleasure. it was such warm work for santa claus, that at the time he had no leisure for thinking. naturally, the thinking came afterwards. he and mrs. barclay sat by her fire, resting, after coming home from the church. dillwyn was very silent and meditative. "you must be glad it is done, philip," said his friend, watching him, and wishing to get at his thoughts. "i have no particular reason to be glad." "you have done a good thing." "i am not sure if it is a good thing. mrs. armadale does not think so." "mrs. armadale has rather narrow notions." "i don't know. i should be glad to be sure she is not right. it's discouraging," he added, with half a smile;--"for the first time in my life i set myself to work; and now am not at all certain that i might not just as well have been idle." "work is a good thing in itself," said mrs. barclay, smiling. "pardon me!--work for an end. work without an end--or with the end not attained--it is no better than a squirrel in a wheel." "you have given a great deal of pleasure." "to the children! for ought i know, they might have been just as well without it. there will be a reaction to-morrow, very likely; and then they will wish they had gone to see the christmas tree at the other church." "but they were kept at their own church." "how do i know that is any good? perhaps the teaching at the other school is the best." "you are tired," said mrs. barclay sympathizingly. "not that. i have done nothing to tire me; but it strikes me it is very difficult to see one's ends in doing good; much more difficult than to see the way to the ends." "you have partly missed your end, haven't you?" said mrs. barclay softly. he moved a little restlessly in his chair; then got up and began to walk about the room; then came and sat down again. "what are you going to do next?" she asked in the same way. "suppose you invite them--the two girls--or her alone--to make you a visit in new york?" "where?" "at any hotel you prefer; say, the windsor." "o philip, philip!"-- "what?--you could have pleasant rooms, and be quite private and comfortable; as much as if you were in your own house." "and what should we cost you?" "you are not thinking of _that?_" said he. "i will get you a house, if you like it better; but then you would have the trouble of a staff of servants. i think the windsor would be much the easiest plan." "you _are_ in earnest!" "in earnest!" he repeated in surprise. "have you ever questioned it? you judge because you never saw me in earnest in anything before in my life." "no, indeed," said mrs. barclay. "i always knew it was in you. what you wanted was only an object." "what do you say to my plan?" "i am afraid they would not come. there is the care of the old grandmother; they would not leave everything to their sister alone." "tempt them with pictures and music, and the opera." "the opera! philip, she would not go to a theatre, or anything theatrical, for any consideration. they are very strict on that point, and sunday-keeping, and dancing. do not speak to her of the opera." "they are not so far wrong. i never saw a decent opera yet in my life." "philip!" exclaimed mrs. barclay in the greatest surprise. "i never heard you say anything like that before." "i suppose it makes a difference," he said thoughtfully, "with what eyes a man looks at a thing. and dancing--i don't think i care to see her dance." "philip! you are extravagant." "i believe i should be fit to commit murder if i saw her waltzing with anybody." "jealous already?" said mrs. barclay slyly. "if you like.--do you see her as i see her?" he asked abruptly. there was a tone in the last words which gave mrs. barclay's heart a kind of constriction. she answered with gentle sympathy, "i think i do." "i have seen handsomer women," he went on;--"madge is handsomer, in a way; you may see many women more beautiful, according to the rules; but i never saw any one so lovely!" "i quite agree with you," said mrs. barclay. "i never saw anything so lovely!" he repeated. "she is most like--" "a white lily," said mrs. barclay. "no, that is not her type. no. as long as the world stands, a rose just open will remain the fairest similitude for a perfect woman. it's commonness cannot hinder that. she is not an unearthly dendrobium, she is an earthly rose-- 'not too good for human nature's daily food,' --if one could find the right sort of human nature! just so fresh, unconscious, and fair; with just such a dignity of purity about her. i cannot fancy her at the opera, or dancing." "a sort of unapproachable tea-rose?" said mrs. barclay, smiling at him, though her eyes were wistful. "no," said he, "a tea-rose is too fragile. there is nothing of that about her, thank heaven!" "no," said mrs. barclay, "there is nothing but sound healthy life about her; mental and bodily; and i agree with you, sweet as ever a human life can be. in the garden or at her books,--hark! that is for supper." for here there came a slight tap on the door. "supper!" cried philip. "yes; it is rather late, and the girls promised me a cup of coffee, after your exertions! but i dare say everybody wants some refreshment by this time. come!" there was a cheery supper table spread in the dining-room; coffee, indeed, and stoney creek oysters, and excellently cooked. only charity and madge were there; mrs. armadale had gone to bed, and lois was attending upon her. mr. diliwyn, however, was served assiduously. "i hope you're hungry! you've done a load of good this evening, mr. dillwyn," said charity, as she gave him his coffee. "thank you. i don't see the connection," said philip, with an air as different as possible from that he had worn in talking to mrs. barclay in the next room. "people ought to be hungry when they have done a great deal of work," madge explained, as she gave him a plate of oysters. "i do not feel that i have done any work." "o, well! i suppose it was play to you," said charity, "but that don't make any difference. you've done a load of good. why, the children will never be able to forget it, nor the grown folks either, as far as that goes; they'll talk of it, and of you, for two years, and more." "i am doubtful about the real worth of fame, miss charity, even when it lasts two years." "o, but you've done so much _good!_" said the lady. "everybody sees now that the white church can hold her own. nobody'll think of making disagreeable comparisons, if they have fifty christmas trees." "suppose i had helped the yellow church?" charity looked as if she did not know what he would be at. just then in came lois and took her place at the table; and mr. dillwyn forgot all about rival churches. "here's mr. dillwyn don't think he's done any good, lois!" cried her elder sister. "do cheer him up a little. i think it's a shame to talk so. why, we've done all we wanted to, and more. there won't a soul go away from our church or school after this, now they see what we can do; and i shouldn't wonder if we got some accessions from the other instead. and here's mr. dillwyn says he don't know as he's done any good!" lois lifted her eyes and met his, and they both smiled. "miss lois sees the matter as i do," he said. "these are capital oysters. where do they come from?" "but, philip," said mrs. barclay, "you have given a great deal of pleasure. isn't that good?" "depends--" said he. "probably it will be followed by a reaction." "and you have kept the church together," added charity, who was zealous. "by a rope of sand, then, miss charity." "at any rate, mr. dillwyn, you _meant_ to do good," lois put in here. "i do not know, miss lois. i am afraid i was thinking more of pleasure, myself; and shall experience myself the reaction i spoke of. i think i feel the shadow of it already, as a coming event." "but if we aren't to have any pleasure, because afterwards we feel a little flat,--and of course we do," said charity; "everybody knows that. but, for instance, if we're not to have green peas in summer, because we can't have 'em any way but dry in winter,--things would be very queer! queerer than they are; and they're queer enough already." this speech called forth some merriment. "you think even the dry remains of pleasure are better than nothing!" said philip. "perhaps you are right." "and to have those, we _must_ have had the green reality," said lois merrily. "i wonder if there is any way of keeping pleasure green," said dillwyn. "vain, vain, mr. dillwyn!" said mrs. barclay. "_tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe!_ don't you know? solomon said, i believe, that all was vanity. and he ought to know." "but he didn't know," said lois quickly. "lois!" said charity--"it's in the bible." "i know it is in the bible that he said so," lois rejoined merrily. "was he not right, then?" mr. dillwyn asked. "perhaps," lois answered, now gravely, "if you take simply his view." "what was his view? won't you explain?" "i suppose you ain't going to set up to be wiser than solomon, at this time of day," said charity severely. but that stirred lois's merriment again. "explain, miss lois!" said dillwyn. "i am not solomon, that i should preach," she said. "you just said you knew better than he," said charity. "how you should know better than the bible, i don't see. it's news." "why, charity, solomon was not a good man." "how came he to write proverbs, then?" "at least he was not always a good man." "that don't hinder his knowing what was vanity, does it?" "but, lois!" said mrs. barclay. "go back, and tell us your secret, if you have one. how was solomon's view mistaken? or what is yours?" "these things were all given for our pleasure, mrs. barclay." "but they die--and they go--and they fade," said mrs. barclay. "you will not understand me," said lois; "and yet it is true. if you are christ's--then, 'all things are yours;... the world, or life, or _death_, or things present, or things to come: all are yours.' there is no loss, but there comes more gain." "i wish you'd let mr. dillwyn have some more oysters," said charity; "and, madge, do hand along mrs. barclay's cup. you mustn't talk, if you can't eat at the same time. lois ain't solomon yet, if she does preach. you shut up, lois, and mind your supper. my rule is, to enjoy things as i go along; and just now, it's oysters." "i will say for lois," here put in mrs. barclay, "that she does exemplify her own principles. i never knew anybody with such a spring of perpetual enjoyment." "she ain't happier than the rest of us," said the elder sister. "not so happy as grandmother," added madge. "at least, grandmother would say so. i don't know." chapter xxxviii. breaking up. mr. dillwyn went away. things returned to their normal condition at shampuashuh, saving that for a while there was a great deal of talk about the santa clans doings and the principal actor in them, and no end of speculations as to his inducements and purposes to be served in taking so much trouble. for shampuashuh people were shrewd, and did not believe, any more than king lear, that anything could come of nothing. that he was _not_ moved by general benevolence, poured out upon the school of the white church, was generally agreed. "what's we to him?" asked pertinently one of the old ladies; and vain efforts were made to ascertain mr. dillwyn's denomination. "for all i kin make out, he hain't got none," was the declaration of another matron. "i don't b'lieve he's no better than he should be." which was ungrateful, and hardly justified miss charity's prognostications of enduring fame; by which, of course, she meant good fame. few had seen mr. dillwyn undisguised, so that they could give a report of him; but mrs. marx assured them he was "a real personable man; nice and plain, and takin' no airs. she liked him first-rate." "who's he after? not one o' your gals?" "mercy, no! he, indeed! he's one of the high-flyers; he won't come to shampuashuh to look for a wife. 'seems to me he's made o' money; and he's been everywhere; he's fished for crocodiles in the nile, and eaten his luncheon at the top of the pyramids of egypt, and sailed to the north pole to be sure of cool lemonade in summer. _he_ won't marry in shampuashuh." "what brings him here, then?" "the spirit of restlessness, i should say. those people that have been everywhere, you may notice, can't stay nowhere. i always knew there was fools in the world, but i _didn't_ know there was so many of 'em as there be. he ain't no fool neither, some ways; and that makes him a bigger fool in the end; only i don't know why the fools should have all the money." and so, after a little, the talk about this theme died out, and things settled down, not without some of the reaction mr. dillwyn had predicted; but they settled down, and all was as before in shampuashuh. mr. dillwyn did not come again to make a visit, or mrs. marx's aroused vigilance would have found some ground for suspicion. there did come numerous presents of game and fruit from him, but they were sent to mrs. barclay, and could not be objected against, although they came in such quantities that the whole household had to combine to dispose of them. what would philip do next?--mrs. barclay queried. as he had said, he could not go on with repeated visits to the house. madge and lois would not hear of being tempted to new york, paint the picture as bright as she would. things were not ripe for any decided step on mr. dillwyn's part, and how should they become so? mrs. barclay could not see the way. she did for philip what she could by writing to him, whether for his good or his harm she could not decide. she feared the latter. she told him, however, of the sweet, quiet life she was leading; of the reading she was doing with the two girls, and the whole family; of the progress lois and madge were making in singing and drawing and in various branches of study; of the walks in the fresh sea-breezes, and the cosy evenings with wood fires and the lamp; and she told him how they enjoyed his game, and what a comfort the oranges were to mrs. armadale. this lasted through january, and then there came a change. mrs. armadale was ill. there was no more question of visits, or of studies; and all sorts of enjoyments and occupations gave place to the one absorbing interest of watching and waiting upon the sick one. and then, that ceased too. mrs. armadale had caught cold, she had not strength to throw off disease; it took violent form, and in a few days ran its course. very suddenly the little family found itself without its head. there was nothing to grieve for, but their own loss. the long, weary earth-journey was done, and the traveller had taken up her abode where there is "the rest begun, that christ hath for his people won." she had gone triumphantly. "through god we shall do valiantly"--being her last--uttered words. her children took them as a legacy, and felt rich. but they looked at her empty chair, and counted themselves poorer than ever before. mrs. barclay saw that the mourning was deep. yet, with the reserved strength of new england natures, it made no noise, and scarce any show. mrs. barclay lived much alone those first days. she would gladly have talked to somebody; she wanted to know about the affairs of the little family, but saw no one to talk to. until, two or three days after the funeral, coming home one afternoon from a walk in the cold, she found her fire had died out; and she went into the next room to warm herself. there she saw none of the usual inmates. mrs. armadale's chair stood on one side the fire, unoccupied, and on the other side stood uncle tim hotchkiss. "how do you do, mr. hotchkiss? may i come and warm myself? i have been out, and i am half-frozen." "i guess you're welcome to most anything in this house, ma'am,--and fire we wouldn't grudge to anybody. sit down, ma'am;" and he set a chair for her. "it's pretty tight weather." "we had nothing like this last winter," said mrs. barclay, shivering. "we expect to hev one or two snaps in the course of the winter," said mr. hotchkiss. "shampuashuh ain't what you call a cold place; but we expect to see them two snaps. it comes seasonable this time. i'd rayther hev it now than in march. my sister--that's gone,--she could always tell you how the weather was goin' to be. i've never seen no one like her for that." "nor for some other things," said mrs. barclay. "it is a sad change to feel her place empty." "ay," said uncle tim, with a glance at the unused chair,--"it's the difference between full and empty. 'i went out full, and the lord has brought me back empty', ruth's mother-in-law said." "who is ruth?" mrs. barclay asked, a little bewildered, and willing to change the subject; for she noticed a suppressed quiver in the hard features. "do i know her?" "i mean ruth the moabitess. of course you know her. she was a poor heathen thing, but she got all right at last. it was her mother-in-law that was bitter. well--troubles hadn't ought to make us bitter. i guess there's allays somethin' wrong when they do." "hard to help it, sometimes," said mrs. barclay. "she wouldn't ha' let you say that," said the old man, indicating sufficiently by his accent of whom he was speaking. "there warn't no bitterness in her; and she had seen trouble enough! she's out o' it now." "what will the girls do? stay on and keep the house here just as they have done?" "well, i don' know," said mr. hotchkiss, evidently glad to welcome a business question, and now taking a chair himself. "mrs. marx and me, we've ben arguin' that question out, and it ain't decided. there's one big house here, and there's another where mrs. marx lives; and there's one little family, and here's another little family. it's expensive to scatter over so much ground. they had ought to come to mrs. marx, or she had ought to move in here, and then the other house could be rented. that's how the thing looks to me. it's expensive for five people to take two big houses to live in. i know, the girls have got you now; but they might not keep you allays; and we must look at things as they be." "i must leave them in the spring," said mrs. barclay hastily. "in the spring, must ye!" "must," she repeated. "i would like to stay here the rest of my life; but circumstances are imperative. i must go in the spring." "then i think that settles it," said mr. hotchkiss. "i'm glad to know it. that is! of course i'm sorry ye're goin'; the girls be very fond of you." "and i of them," said mrs. barclay; "but i must go." after that, she waited for the chance of a talk with lois. she waited not long. the household had hardly settled down into regular ways again after the disturbance of sickness and death, when lois came one evening at twilight into mrs. barclay's room. she sat down, at first was silent, and then burst into tears. mrs. barclay let her alone, knowing that for her just now the tears were good. and the woman who had seen so much heavier life-storms, looked on almost with a feeling of envy at the weeping which gave so simple and frank expression to grief. until this feeling was overcome by another, and she begged lois to weep no more. "i do not mean it--i did not mean it," said lois, drying her eyes. "it is ungrateful of me; for we have so much to be thankful for. i am so glad for grandmother!"--yet somehow the tears went on falling. "glad?"--repeated mrs. barclay doubtfully. "you mean, because she is out of her suffering." "she did not suffer much. it is not that. i am so glad to think she has got home!" "i suppose," said mrs. barclay in a constrained voice, "to such a person as your grandmother, death has no fear. yet life seems to me more desirable." "she has entered into life!" said lois. "she is where she wanted to be, and with what she loved best. and i am very, very glad! even though i do cry." "how can you speak with such certain'ty, lois? i know, in such a case as that of your grandmother, there could be no fear; and yet i do not see how you can speak as if you knew where she is, and with whom." "only because the bible tells us," said lois, smiling even through wet eyes. "not the _place;_ it does not tell us the place; but with christ. that they are; and that is all we want to know. 'beyond the sighing and the weeping.' --it makes me gladder than ever i can tell you, to think of it." "then what are those tears for, my dear?" "it's the turning over a leaf," said lois sadly, "and that is always sorrowful. and i have lost--uncle tim says," she broke off suddenly, "he says,--can it be?--he says you say you must go from us in the spring?" "that is turning over another leaf," said mrs. barclay. "but is it true?" "absolutely true. circumstances make it imperative. it is not my wish. i would like to stay here with you all my life." "i wish you could. i half hoped you would," said lois wistfully. "but i cannot, my dear. i cannot." "then that is another thing over," said lois. "what a good time it has been, this year and a half you have been with us! how much worth to madge and me! but won't you come back again?" "i fear not. you will not miss me so much; you will all keep house together, mr. hotchkiss tells me." "_i_ shall not be here," said lois. "where will you be?" mrs. barclay started. "i don't know; but it will be best for me to do something to help along. i think i shall take a school somewhere. i think i can get one." "a _school_, my dear? why should you do such a thing?" "to help along," said lois. "you know, we have not much to live on here at home. i should make one less here, and i should be earning a little besides." "very little, lois!" "very little will do." "but you do a great deal now towards the family support. what will become of your garden?" "uncle tim can take care of that. besides, mrs. barclay, even if i could stay at home, i think i ought not. i ought to be doing something--be of some use in the world. i am not needed here, now dear grandmother is gone; and there must be some other place where i am needed." "my dear, somebody will want you to keep house for him, some of these days." lois shook her head. "i do not think of it," she said. "i do not think it is very likely; that is, anybody _i_ should want. but if it were true," she added, looking up and smiling, "that has nothing to do with present duty." "my dear, i cannot bear to think of your going into such drudgery!" "drudgery?" said lois. "i do not know,--perhaps i should not find it so. but i may as well do it as somebody else." "you are fit for something better." "there is nothing better, and there is nothing happier," said lois, rising, "than to do what god gives us to do. i should not be unhappy, mrs. barclay. it wouldn't be just like these days we have passed together, i suppose;--these days have been a garden of flowers." and what have they all amounted to? thought mrs. barclay when she was left alone. have i done any good--or only harm--by acceding to that mad proposition of philip's? some good, surely; these two girls have grown and changed, mentally, at a great rate of progress; they are educated, cultivated, informed, refined, to a degree that i would never have thought a year and a half could do. even so! _have_ i done them good? they are lifted quite out of the level of their surroundings; and to be lifted so, means sometimes a barren living alone. yet i will not think that; it is better to rise in the scale of being, if ever one can, whatever comes of it; what one is in oneself is of more importance than one's relations to the world around. but philip?--i have helped him nourish this fancy--and it is not a fancy now--it is the man's whole life. heigh ho! i begin to think he was right, and that it is very difficult to know what is doing good and what isn't. i must write to philip-- so she did, at once. she told him of the contemplated changes in the family arrangements; of lois's plan for teaching a district school; and declared that she herself must now leave shampuashuh. she had done what she came for, whether for good or for ill. it was done; and she could no longer continue living there on mr. dillwyn's bounty. _now_ it would be mere bounty, if she stayed where she was; until now she might say she had been doing his work. his work was done now, her part of it; the rest he must finish for himself. mrs. barclay would leave shampuashuh in april. this letter would bring matters to a point, she thought, if anything could; she much expected to see mr. dillwyn himself appear again before march was over. he did not come, however; he wrote a short answer to mrs. barclay, saying that he was sorry for her resolve, and would combat it if he could; but felt that he had not the power. she must satisfy her fastidious notions of independence, and he could only thank her to the last day of his life for what she had already done for him; service which thanks could never repay. he sent this letter, but said nothing of coming; and he did not come. later, mrs. barclay wrote again. the household changes were just about to be made; she herself had but a week or two more in shampuashuh; and lois, against all expectation, had found opportunity immediately to try her vocation for teaching. the lady placed over a school in a remote little village had suddenly died; and the trustees of the school had considered favourably lois's application. she was going in a day or two to undertake the charge of a score or two of boys and girls, of all ages, in a wild and rough part of the country; where even the accommodations for her own personal comfort, mrs. barclay feared, would be of the plainest. to this letter also she received an answer, though after a little interval. mr. dillwyn wrote, he regretted lois's determination; regretted that she thought it necessary; but appreciated the straightforward, unflinching sense of duty which never consulted with ease or selfishness. he himself was going, he added, on business, for a time, to the north; that is, not massachusetts, but canada. he would therefore not see mrs. barclay until after a considerable interval. mrs. barclay did not know what to make of this letter. had philip given up his fancy? it was not like him. men are fickle, it is true; but fickle in his friendships she had never known mr. dillwyn to be. yet this letter said nothing of love, or hope, or fear; it was cool, friendly, business-like. mrs. barclay nevertheless did not know how to believe in the business. _he_ have business! what business? she had always known him as an easy, graceful, pleasure-taker; finding his pleasure in no evil ways, indeed; kept from that by early associations, or by his own refined tastes and sense of honour; but never living to anything but pleasure. his property was ample and unencumbered; even the care of that was not difficult, and did not require much of his time. and now, just when he ought to put in his claim for lois, if he was ever going to make it; just when she was set loose from her old ties and marking out a new and hard way of life for herself, he ought to come; and he was going on business to canada! mrs. barclay was excessively disgusted and disappointed. she had not, indeed, all along seen how philip's wooing could issue successfully, if it ever came to the point of wooing; the elements were too discordant, and principles too obstinate; and yet she had worked on in hope, vague and doubtful, but still hope, thinking highly herself of mr. dillwyn's pretensions and powers of persuasion, and knowing that in human nature at large all principle and all discordance are apt to come to a signal defeat when love takes the field. but now there seemed to be no question of wooing; love was not on hand, where his power was wanted; the friends were all scattered one from another--lois going to the drudgery of teaching rough boys and girls, she herself to the seclusion of some quiet seaside retreat, and mr. dillwyn--to hunt bears?--in canada. chapter xxxix. luxury. so they were all scattered. but the moving and communicating wires of human society seem as often as any way to run underground; quite out of sight, at least; then specially strong, when to an outsider they appear to be broken and parted for ever. into the history of the summer it is impossible to go minutely. what mr. dillwyn did in canada, and how lois fought with ignorance and rudeness and prejudice in her new situation, mrs. barclay learned but very imperfectly from the letters she received; so imperfectly, that she felt she knew nothing. mr. dillwyn never mentioned miss lothrop. could it be that he had prematurely brought things to a decision, and so got them decided wrong? but in that case mrs. barclay felt sure some sign would have escaped lois; and she gave none. the summer passed, and two-thirds of the autumn. one evening in the end of october, mrs. wishart was sitting alone in her back drawing-room. she was suffering from a cold, and coddling herself over the fire. her major-domo brought her mr. dillwyn's name and request for admission, which was joyfully granted. mrs. wishart was denied to ordinary visitors; and philip's arrival was like a benediction. "where have you been all summer?" she asked him, when they had talked awhile of some things nearer home. "in the backwoods of canada." "the backwoods of canada!" "i assure you it is a very enjoyable region." "what _could_ you find to do there?" "more than enough. i spent my time between hunting--fishing--and studying." "studying what, pray? not backwoods farming, i suppose?" "well, no, not exactly. backwoods farming is not precisely in my line." "what is in your line that you could study there?" "it is not a bad place to study anything;--if you except, perhaps, art and antiquity." "i did not know you studied anything _but_ art." "it is hardly a sufficient object to fill a man's life worthily; do you think so?" "what would fill it worthily?" the lady asked, with a kind of dreary abstractedness. and if philip had surprised her a moment before, he was surprised in his turn. as he did not answer immediately, mrs. wishart went on. "a man's life, or a woman's life? what would fill it worthily? do you know? sometimes it seems to me that we are all living for nothing." "i am ready to confess that has been the case with me,--to my shame be it said." "i mean, that there is nothing really worth living for." "_that_ cannot be true, however." "well, i suppose i say so at the times when i am unable to enjoy anything in my life. and yet, if you stop to think, what _does_ anybody's life amount to? nobody's missed, after he is gone; or only for a minute; and for himself--there is not a year of _my_ life that i can remember, that i would be willing to live over again." "apparently, then, to enjoy is not the chief end of existence. i mean, of this existence." "what do we know of any other? and if we do not enjoy ourselves, pray what in the world should we live for?" "i have seen people that i thought enjoyed themselves," philip said slowly. "have you? who were they? i do not know them." "you know some of them. do you recollect a friend of mine, for whom you negotiated lodgings at a far-off country village?" "yes, i remember. they took her, didn't they?" "they took her. and i had the pleasure once or twice of visiting her there." "did she like it?" "very much. she could not help liking it. and i thought those people seemed to enjoy life. not relatively, but positively." "the lothrops!" cried mrs. wishart. "i can not conceive it. why, they are very poor." "that made no hindrance, in their case." "poor people, i am afraid they have not been enjoying themselves this year." "i heard of mrs. armadale's death." "yes. o, she was old; she could not be expected to live long. but they are all broken up." "how am i to understand that?" "well, you know they have very little to live upon. i suppose it was for that reason lois went off to a distance from home to teach a district school. you know,--or _do_ you know?--what country schools are, in some places; this was one of the places. pretty rough; and hard living. and then a railroad was opened in the neighbourhood--the place became sickly--a fever broke out among lois's scholars and the families they came from; and lois spent her vacation in nursing. then got sick herself with the fever, and is only just now getting well." "i heard something of this before from mrs. barclay." "then madge went to take care of lois, and they were both there. that is weeks and weeks ago,--months, i should think." "but the sick one is well again?" "she is better. but one does not get up from those fevers so soon. one's strength is gone. i have sent for them to come and make me a visit and recruit." "they are coming, i hope?" "i expect them here to-morrow." mr. dillwyn had nearly been betrayed into an exclamation. he remembered himself in time, and replied with proper self-possession that he was very glad to hear it. "yes, i told them to come here and rest. they must want it, poor girls, both of them." "then they are coming to-morrow?" "yes." "by what train?" "i believe, it is the new haven train that gets in about five o'clock. or six. i do not know exactly." "i know. now, mrs. wishart, you are not well yourself, and must not go out. i will meet the train and bring them safe to you." "you? o, that's delightful. i have been puzzling my brain to know how i should manage; for i am not fit to go out yet, and servants are so unsatisfactory. will you really? that's good of you!" "not at all. it is the least i can do. the family received me most kindly on more than one occasion; and i would gladly do them a greater service than this." at two o'clock next day the waiting-room of the new haven station held, among others, two very handsome young girls; who kept close together, waiting for their summons to the train. one of them was very pale and thin and feeble-looking, and indeed sat so that she leaned part of her weight upon her sister. madge was pale too, and looked somewhat anxious. both pairs of eyes watched languidly the moving, various groups of travellers clustered about in the room. "madge, it's like a dream!" murmured the one girl to the other. "what? if you mean this crowd, _my_ dreams have more order in them." "i mean, being away from esterbrooke, and off a sick-bed, and moving, and especially going to--where we are going. it's a dream!" "why?" "too good to be true. i had thought, do you know, i never should make a visit there again." "why not, lois?" "i thought it would be best not. but now the way seems clear, and i can take the fun of it. it is clearly right to go." "of course! it is always right to go wherever you are asked." "o no, madge!" "well,--wherever the invitation is honest, i mean." "o, that isn't enough." "what else? supposing you have the means to go. i am not sure that we have that condition in the present instance. but if you have, what else is to be waited for?" "duty--" lois whispered. "o, bother duty! here have you gone and almost killed yourself for duty." "well,--supposing one does kill oneself?--one must do what is duty." "that isn't duty." "o, it may be." "not to kill yourself. you have almost killed yourself, lois." "i couldn't help it." "yes, you could. you make duty a kind of iron thing." "not iron," said lois; she spoke slowly and faintly, but now she smiled. "it is golden!" "that don't help. chains of gold may be as hard to break as chains of iron." "who wants them broken?" said lois, in the same slow, contented way. "duty? why madge, it's the king's orders!" "do you mean that you were ordered to go to that place, and then to nurse those children through the fever?" "yes, i think so." "i should be terribly afraid of duty, if i thought it came in such shapes. there's the train!--now if you can get downstairs--" that was accomplished, though with tottering steps, and lois was safely seated in one of the cars, and her head pillowed upon the back of the seat. there was no more talking then for some time. only when haarlem bridge was past and new york close at hand, lois spoke. "madge, suppose mrs. wishart should not be here to meet us? you must think what you would do." "why, the train don't go any further, does it?" "no!--but it goes back. i mean, it will not stand still for you. it moves away out of the station-house as soon as it is empty." "there will be carriages waiting, i suppose. but i am sure i hope she will meet us. i wrote in plenty of time. don't worry, dear! we'll manage." "i am not worrying," said lois. "i am a great deal too happy to worry." however, that was not madge's case, and she felt very fidgety. with lois so feeble, and in a place so unknown to her, and with baggage checks to dispose of, and so little time to do anything, and no doubt a crowd of doubtful characters lounging about, as she had always heard they did in new york; madge did wish very anxiously for a pilot and a protector. as the train slowly moved into the grand central, she eagerly looked to see some friend appear. but none appeared. "we must go out, madge," said lois. "maybe we shall find mrs. wishart--i dare say we shall--she could not come into the cars--" the two made their way accordingly, slowly, at the end of the procession filing out of the car, till madge got out upon the platform. there she uttered an exclamation of joy. "o lois!--there's mr. dillwyn?" "but we are looking for mrs. wishart," said lois. the next thing she knew, however, somebody was carefully helping her down to the landing; and then, her hand was on a stronger arm than that of mrs. wishart, and she was slowly following the stream of people to the front of the station-house. lois was too exhausted by this time to ask any questions; suffered herself to be put in a carriage passively, where madge took her place also, while mr. dillwyn went to give the checks of their baggage in charge to an expressman. lois then broke out again with, "o madge, it's like a dream!" "isn't it?" said madge. "i have been in a regular fidget for two hours past, for fear mrs. wishart would not be here." "i didn't _fidget_," said lois, "but i did not know how i was going to get from the cars to the carriage. i feel in a kind of exhausted elysium!" "it's convenient to have a man belonging to one," said madge. "hush, pray!" said lois, closing her eyes. and she hardly opened them again until the carriage arrived at mrs. wishart's, which was something of a drive. madge and mr. dillwyn kept up a lively conversation, about the journey and lois's condition, and her summer; and how he happened to be at the grand central. he went to meet some friends, he said coolly, whom he expected to see by that train. "then we must have been in your way," exclaimed madge regretfully. "not at all," he said. "but we hindered you from taking care of your friends?" "no," he said indifferently; "by no means. they are taken care of." and both madge and lois were too simple to know what he meant. at mrs. wishart's, lois was again helped carefully out and carefully in, and half carried up-stairs to her own room, whither it was decided she had better go at once. and there, after being furnished with a bowl of soup, she was left, while the others went down to tea. so madge found her an hour afterwards, sunk in the depths of a great, soft easy-chair, gazing at the fanciful flames of a kennel coal fire. "o madge, it's a dream!" lois said again languidly, though with plenty of expression. "i can't believe in the change from esterbrooke here." "it's a change from shampuashuh," madge returned. "lois, i didn't know things could be so pretty. and we have had the most delightful tea, and something--cakes--mrs. wishart calls _wigs_, the best things you ever saw in your life; but mr. dillwyn wouldn't let us send some up to you." "mr. dillwyn!"-- "yes, he said they were not good for you. he has been just as pleasant as he could be. i never saw anybody so pleasant. i like mr. dillwyn _very_ much." "don't!" said lois languidly. "why?" "you had better not." "but why not? you are ungrateful, it seems to me, if you don't like him." "i like him," said lois slowly; "but he belongs to a different world from ours. the worlds can't come together; so it is best not to like him too much." "how do you mean, a different world?" "o, he's different, madge! all his thoughts and ways and associations are unlike ours--a great way off from ours; and must be. it is best as i said. i guess it is best not to like anybody too much." with which oracular and superhumanly wise utterance lois closed her eyes softly again. madge, provoked, was about to carry on the discussion, when, noticing how pale the cheek was which lay against the crimson chair cushion, and how very delicate the lines of the face, she thought better of it and was silent. a while later, however, when she had brought lois a cup of gruel and biscuit, she broke out on a new theme. "what a thing it is, that some people should have so much silver, and other people so little!" "what silver are you thinking of?" "why, mrs. wishart's, to be sure. who's else? i never saw anything like it, out of aladdin's cave. great urns, and salvers, and cream-jugs, and sugar-bowls, and cake-baskets, and pitchers, and salt-cellars. the salt-cellars were lined with something yellow, or washed, to hinder the staining, i suppose." "gold," said lois. "gold?" "yes. plated with gold." "well i never saw anything like the sideboard down-stairs; the sideboard and the tea-table. it is funny, lois, as i said, why some should have so much, and others so little." "we, you mean? what should we do with a load of silver?" "i wish i had it, and then you'd see! you should have a silk dress, to begin with, and so should i." "never mind," said lois, letting her eyelids fall again with an expression of supreme content, having finished her gruel. "there are compensations, madge." "compensations! what compensations? we are hardly respectably dressed, you and i, for this place." "never mind!" said lois again. "if you had been sick as i was, and in that place, and among those people, you would know something." "what should i know?" "how delightful this chair is;--and how good that gruel, out of a china cup;--and how delicious all this luxury! mrs. wishart isn't as rich as i am to-night." "the difference is, she can keep it, and you cannot, you poor child!" "o yes, i can keep it," said lois, in the slow, happy accent with which she said everything to-night;--"i can keep the remembrance of it, and the good of it. when i get back to my work, i shall not want it." "your work!" said madge. "yes." "esterbrooke!" "yes, if they want me." "you are never going back to that place!" exclaimed madge energetically. "never! not with my good leave. bury yourself in that wild country, and kill yourself with hard work! not if i know it." "if that is the work given me," said lois, in the same calm voice. "they want somebody there, badly; and i have made a beginning." "a nice beginning!--almost killed yourself. now, lois, don't think about anything! do you know, mrs. wishart says you are the handsomest girl she ever saw!" "that's a mistake. i know several much handsomer." "she tried to make mr. dillwyn say so too; and he wouldn't." "naturally." "it was funny to hear them; she tried to drive him up to the point, and he wouldn't be driven; he said one clever thing after another, but always managed to give her no answer; till at last she pinned him with a point-blank question." "what did he do then?" "said what you said; that he had seen women who would be called handsomer." the conversation dropped here, for lois made no reply, and madge recollected she had talked enough. chapter xl. attentions. it was days before lois went down-stairs. she seemed indeed to be in no hurry. her room was luxuriously comfortable; madge tended her there, and mrs. wishart visited her; and lois sat in her great easy-chair, and rested, and devoured the delicate meals that were brought her; and the colour began gently to come back to her face, in the imperceptible fashion in which a white van thol tulip takes on its hues of crimson. she began to read a little; but she did not care to go down-stairs. madge told her everything that went on; who came, and what was said by one and another. mr. dillwyn's name was of very frequent occurrence. "he's a real nice man!" said madge enthusiastically. "madge, madge, madge!--you mustn't speak so," said lois. "you must not say 'real nice.'" "i don't, down-stairs," said madge, laughing. "it was only to you. it is more expressive, lois, sometimes, to speak wrong than to speak right." "do not speak so expressively, then." "but i must, when i am speaking of mr. dillwyn. i never saw anybody so nice. he is teaching me to play chess, lois, and it is such fun." "it seems to me he comes here very often." "he does; he is an old friend of mrs. wishart's, and she is as glad to see him as i am." "don't be too glad, madge. i do not like to hear you speak so." "why not?" "it was one of the reasons why i did not want to accept mrs. barclay's invitation last winter, that i knew he would be visiting her constantly. i did not expect to see him _here_ much." lois looked grave. "what harm in seeing him, lois? why shouldn't one have the pleasure? for it is a pleasure; his talk is so bright, and his manner is so very kind and graceful; and _he_ is so kind. he is going to take me to drive again." "you go to drive with mrs. wishart. isn't that enough?" "it isn't a quarter so pleasant," madge said, laughing again. "mr. dillwyn talks, something one likes to hear talked. mrs. wishart tells me about old families, and where they used to live, and where they live now; what do i care about old new york families! and mr. dillwyn lets _me_ talk. i never have anything whatever to say to mrs. wishart; she does it all." "i would rather have you go driving with her, though." "why, lois? that's ridiculous. i like to go with mr. dillwyn." "don't like it too well." "how can i like it too well?" "so much that you would miss it, when you do not have it any longer." "miss it!" said madge, half angrily. "i might _miss_ it, as i might miss any pleasant thing; but i could stand that. i'm not a chicken just out of the egg. i have missed things before now, and it hasn't killed me." "don't think i am foolish, madge. it isn't a question of how much you can stand. but the men like--like this one--are so pleasant with their graceful, smooth ways, that country girls like you and me might easily be drawn on, without knowing it, further than they want to go." "he does not want to draw anybody on!" said madge indignantly. "that's the very thing. you might think--or i might think--that pleasant manner means something; and it don't mean anything." "i don't want it to 'mean anything,' as you say; but what has our being country girls to do with it?" "we are not accustomed to that sort of society, and so it makes, i suppose, more impression. and what might mean something to others, would not to us. from such men, i mean." "what do you mean by 'such men'?" asked madge, who was getting rather excited. "rich--fashionable--belonging to the great world, and having the ways of it. you know what mr. dillwyn is like. it is not what we have in shainpuashuh." "but, lois!--what are you talking about? i don't care a red cent for all this, but i want to understand. you said such a manner would mean nothing to _us_." "yes." "why not to us, as well as anybody else?" "because we are nobodies, madge." "what do you mean?" said the other hotly. "just that. it is quite true. you are nobody, and i am nobody. you see, if we were somebody, it would be different." "if you think--i'll tell you what, lois! i think you are fit to be the wife of the best man that lives and breathes." "i think so myself," lois returned quietly. "and i am." "i think you are, madge. but that makes no difference. my dear, we are nobody." "how?"--impatiently. "isn't our family as respectable as anybody's? haven't we had governors and governors, of massachusetts and connecticut both; and judges and ministers, ever so many, among our ancestors? and didn't a half-dozen of 'em, or more, come over in the 'mayflower'?" "yes, madge; all true; and i am as glad of it as you are." "then you talk nonsense!" "no, i don't," said lois, sighing a little. "i have seen a little more of the world than you have, you know, dear madge; not very much, but a little more than you; and i know what i am talking about. we are unknown, we are not rich, we have none of what they call 'connections.' so you see i do not want you to like too much a person who, beyond civility, and kindness perhaps, would never think of liking you." "i don't want him to, that's one thing," said madge. "but if all that is true, he is meaner than i think him; that's what i've got to say. and it is a mean state of society where all that can be true." "i suppose it is human nature," said lois. "it's awfully mean human nature!" "i guess there is not much true nobleness but where the religion of christ comes in. if you have got that, madge, be content and thankful." "but nobody likes to be unjustly depreciated." "isn't that pride?" "one must have some pride. i can't make religion _everything_, lois. i was a woman before i was a christian." "if you want to be a happy woman, you will let religion be everything." "but, lois!--wouldn't _you_ like to be rich, and have pretty things about you?" "don't ask me," said lois, smiling. "i am a woman too, and dearly fond of pretty things. but, madge, there is something else i love better," she added, with a sudden sweet gravity; "and that is, the will of my god. i would rather have what he chooses to give me. really and truly; i would _rather_ have that." the conversation therewith was at an end. in the evening of that same day lois left her seclusion and came down-stairs for the first time. she was languid enough yet to be obliged to move slowly, and her cheeks had not got back their full colour, and were thinner than they used to be; otherwise she looked well, and mrs. wishart contemplated her with great satisfaction. somewhat to lois's vexation, or she thought so, they found mr. diliwyn down-stairs also. lois had the invalid's place of honour, in a corner of the sofa, with a little table drawn up for her separate tea; and madge and mr. dillwyn made toast for her at the fire. the fire gave its warm light, the lamps glittered with a more brilliant illumination; ruddy hues of tapestry and white gleams from silver and glass filled the room, with lights and shadows everywhere, that contented the eye and the imagination too, with suggestions of luxury and plenty and sheltered comfort. lois felt the shelter and the comfort and the pleasure, with that enhanced intensity which belongs to one's sensations in a state of convalescence, and in her case was heightened by previous experiences. nestled among cushions in her corner, she watched everything and took the effect of every detail; tasted every flavour of the situation; but all with a thoughtful, wordless gravity; she hardly spoke at all. after tea, mr. dillwyn and madge sat down to the chess-board. and then lois's attention fastened upon them. madge had drawn the little table that held the chessmen into very close proximity to the sofa, so that she was just at lois's hand; but then her whole mind was bent upon the game, and lois could study her as she pleased. she did study madge. she admired her sister's great beauty; the glossy black hair, the delicate skin, the excellent features, the pretty figure. madge was very handsome, there was no doubt; mr. dillwyn would not have far to look, lois thought, to find one handsomer than herself was. there was a frank, fine expression of face, too; and manners thoroughly good. they lacked some of the quietness of long usage, lois thought; a quick look or movement now and then, or her eager eyes, or an abrupt tone of voice, did in some measure betray the country girl, to whom everything was novel and interesting; and distinguished her from the half _blasé_, wholly indifferent air of other people. she will learn that quietness soon enough, thought lois; and then, nothing could be left to desire in madge. the quietness had always been a characteristic of lois herself; partly difference of temperament, partly the sweeter poise of lois's mind, had made this difference between the sisters; and now of course lois had had more experience of people and the world. but it was not in her the result of experience, this fair, unshaken balance of mind and manner which was always a charm in her. however, this by the way; the girl herself was drawing no comparisons, except so far as to judge her sister handsomer than herself. from madge her eye strayed to mr. dillwyn, and studied him. she was lying back a little in shadow, and could do it safely. he was teaching madge the game; and lois could not but acknowledge and admire in him the finished manner she missed in her sister. yes, she could not help admiring it. the gentle, graceful, easy way, in which he directed her, gave reproofs and suggestions about the game, and at the same time kept up a running conversation with mrs. wishart; letting not one thing interfere with another, nor failing for a moment to attend to both ladies. there was a quiet perfection about the whole home picture; it remained in lois's memory for ever. mrs. wishart sat on an opposite sofa knitting; not a long blue stocking, like her dear grandmother, but a web of wonderful hues, thick and soft, and various as the feathers on a peacock's neck. it harmonized with all the rest of the room, where warmth and colour and a certain fulness of detail gave the impression of long-established easy living. the contrast was very strong with lois's own life surroundings; she compared and contrasted, and was not quite sure how much of this sort of thing might be good for her. however, for the present here she was, and she enjoyed it. then she queried if mr. dillwyn were enjoying it. she noticed the hand which he had run through the locks of his hair, resting his head on the hand. it was well formed, well kept; in that nothing remarkable; but there was a certain character of energy in the fingers which did not look like the hand of a lazy man. how could he spend his life so in doing nothing? she did not fancy that he cared much about the game, or much about the talk; what was he there for, so often? did he, possibly, care about madge? lois's thoughts came back to the conversation. "mrs. wishart, what is to be done with the poor of our city?" mr. dillwyn was saying. "i don't know! i wish something could be done with them, to keep them from coming to the house. my cook turns away a dozen a day, some days." "those are not the poor i mean." "they are poor enough." "they are to a large extent pretenders. i mean the masses of solid poverty which fill certain parts of the city--and not small parts either. it is no pretence there." "i thought there were societies enough to look after them. i know i pay my share to keep up the societies. what are they doing?" "something, i suppose. as if a man should carry a watering-pot to vesuvius." "what in the world has turned _your_ attention that way? i pay my subscriptions, and then i discharge the matter from my mind. it is the business of the societies. what has set you to thinking about it?" "something i have seen, and something i have heard." "what have you heard? are you studying political economy? i did not know you studied anything but art criticism." "what do you do with your poor at shampuashuh, miss madge?" "we do not have any poor. that is, hardly any. there is nobody in the poorhouse. a few--perhaps half a dozen--people, cannot quite support themselves. check to your queen, mr. dillwyn." "what do you do with them?" "o, take care of them. it's very simple. they understand that whenever they are in absolute need of it, they can go to the store and get what they want." "at whose expense?" "o, there is a fund there for them. some of the better-off people take care of that." "i should think that would be quite too simple," said mrs. wishart, "and extremely liable to abuse." "it is never abused, though. some of the people, those poor ones, will come as near as possible to starving before they will apply for anything." mrs. wishart remarked that shampuashuh was altogether unlike all other places she ever had heard of. "things at shampuashuh are as they ought to be," mr. dillwyn said. "now, mr. dillwyn," cried madge, "i will forgive you for taking my queen, if you will answer a question for me. what is 'art criticism'?" "why, madge, you know!" said lois from her sofa corner. "i do not admire ignorance so much as to pretend to it," madge rejoined. "what is art criticism, mr. dillwyn?" "what is art?" "that is what i do not know!" said madge, laughing. "i understand criticism. it is the art that bothers me. i only know that it is something as far from nature as possible." "o madge, madge!" said lois again; and mr. dillwyn laughed a little. "on the contrary, miss madge. your learning must be unlearnt. art is really so near to nature--check!--that it consists in giving again the facts and effects of nature in human language." "human language? that is, letters and words?" "those are the symbols of one language." "what other is there?" "music--painting--architecture---- i am afraid, miss madge, that is check-mate?" "you said you had seen and heard something, mr. dillwyn," mrs. wishart now began. "do tell us what. i have neither seen nor heard anything in an age." mr. dillwyn was setting the chessmen again. "what i saw," he said, "was a silk necktie--or scarf--such as we wear. what i heard, was the price paid for making it." "was there anything remarkable about the scarf?" "nothing whatever; except the aforesaid price." "what _was_ the price paid for making it?" "two cents." "who told you?" "a friend of mine, who took me in on purpose that i might see and hear, what i have reported." "_two cents_, did you say? but that's no price!" "so i thought." "how many could a woman make in a day, madge, of those silk scarfs?" "i don't know--i suppose, a dozen." "a dozen, i was told, is a fair day's work," mr. dillwyn said. "they do more, but it is by working on into the night." "good patience! twenty-five cents for a hard day's work!" said mrs. wishart. "a dollar and a half a week! where is bread to come from, to keep them alive to do it?" "better die at once, i should say," echoed madge. "many a one would be glad of that alternative, i doubt not," mr. dillwyn went on. "but there is perhaps an old mother to be taken care of, or a child or two to feed and bring up." "don't talk about it!" said mrs. wishart. "it makes me feel blue." "i must risk that. i want you to think about it. where is help to come from? these are the people i was thinking of, when i asked you what was to be done with our poor." "i don't know why you ask me. _i_ can do nothing. it is not my business." "will it do to assume that as quite certain?" "why yes. what can i do with a set of master tailors?" "you can cry down the cheap shops; and say why." "are the dear shops any better?" mr. dillwyn laughed. "presumably! but talking--even your talking--will not do all. i want you to think about it." "i don't want to think about it," answered the lady. "it's beyond _me_. poverty is people's own fault. industrious and honest people can always get along." "if sickness does not set in, or some father, or husband, or son does not take to bad ways." "how can i help all that?" asked the lady somewhat pettishly. "i never knew you were in the benevolent and reformatory line before, mr. dillwyn. what has put all this in your head?" "those scarfs, for one thing. another thing was a visit i had lately occasion to make. it was near midday. i found a room as bare as a room could be, of all that we call comfort; in the floor a small pine table set with three plates, bread, cold herrings, and cheese. that was the dinner for a little boy, whom i found setting the table, and his father and mother. the parents work in a factory hard by, from early to late; they have had sickness in the family this autumn, and are too poor to afford a fire to eat their dinner by, or to make it warm, so the other child, a little girl, has been sent away for the winter. it was frostily cold the day i was there. the boy goes to school in the afternoon, and comes home in time to light up a fire for his father and mother to warm themselves by at evening. and the mother has all her housework to do after she comes home." "that's better than the other case," said mrs. wishart. "but what could be done, mr. dillwyn?" said lois from her corner. "it seems as if something was wrong. but how could it be mended?" "i want mrs. wishart to consider of that." "i can't consider it!" said the lady. "i suppose it is intended that there should be poor people always, to give us something to do." "then let us do it." "how?" "i am not certain; but i make a suggestion. suppose all the ladies of this city devoted their diamonds to this purpose. then any number of dwelling-houses could be put up; separate, but so arranged as to be warmed by steam from a general centre, at a merely nominal cost for each one; well ventilated and comfortable; so putting an end to the enormity of tenement houses. then a commission might be established to look after the rights of the poor; to see that they got proper wages, were not cheated, and that all should have work who wanted it. so much might be done." "with no end of money." "i proposed to take the diamonds of the city, you know." "and why just the diamonds?" inquired mrs. wishart. "why don't you speak of some of the indulgences of the men? take the horses--or the wines--" "i am speaking to a lady," said dillwyn, smiling. "when i have a man to apply to, i will make my application accordingly." "ask him for his tobacco?" said mrs. wishart. "certainly for his tobacco. there is as much money spent in this city for tobacco as there is for bread." madge exclaimed in incredulous astonishment; and lois asked if the diamonds of the city would amount to very much. "yes, miss lois. american ladies are very fond of diamonds; and it is a common thing for one of them to have from ten thousand to twenty thousand or thirty thousand dollars' worth of them as part of the adornment of her pretty person at one time." "twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on at once!" cried madge. "i call that wicked!" "why?" asked mr. dillwyn, smiling. "there's no wickedness in it," said mrs. wishart. "how should it be wicked? you put on a flower; and another, who can afford it, puts on a diamond. what's the difference?" "my flower does not cost anybody anything," said madge. "what do my diamonds cost anybody?" returned mrs. wishart. madge was silent, though not because she had nothing to say; and at this precise moment the door opened, and visitors were ushered in. chapter xli. chess. there entered upon the scene, that is, a little lady of very gay and airy manner; whose airiness, however, was thoroughly well bred. she was accompanied by a tall, pleasant-looking man, of somewhat dreamy aspect; and they were named to lois and madge as mrs. and mr. burrage. to mr. dillwyn they were not named; and the greet ing in that quarter was familiar; the lady giving him a nod, and the gentleman an easy "good evening." the lady's attention came round to him again as soon as she was seated. "why, philip, i did not expect to find you. what are you doing here?" "i was making toast a little while ago." "i did not know that was one of your accomplishments." "they said i did it well. i have picked up a good deal of cooking in the course of my travels." "in what part of the world did you learn to make toast?" asked the lady, while a pair of lively eyes seemed to take note rapidly of all that was in the room; rapidly but carefully, lois thought. she was glad she herself was hidden in the shadowy sofa corner. "i believe that is always learned in a cold country, where people have fire," mr. dillwyn answered the question. "these people who travel all over get to be insufferable!" the little lady went on, turning to mrs. wishart; "they think they know everything; and they are not a bit wiser than the rest of us. you were not at the de large's luncheon,--what a pity! i know; your cold shut you up. you must take care of that cold. well, you lost something. this is the seventh entertainment that has been given to that english party; and every one of them has exceeded the others. there is nothing left for the eighth. nobody will dare give an eighth. one is fairly tired with the struggle of magnificence. it's the battle of the giants over again, with a difference." "it is not a battle with attempt to destroy," said her husband. "yes, it is--to destroy competition. i have been at every one of the seven but one--and i am absolutely tired with splendour. but there is really nothing left for any one else to do. i don't see how one is to go any further--without the lamp of aladdin." "a return to simplicity would be grateful," remarked mrs. wishart. "and as new as anything else could be." "simplicity! o, my dear mrs. wishart!--don't talk of simplicity. we don't want simplicity. we have got past that. simplicity is the dream of children and country folks; and it means, eating your meat with your fingers." "it's the sweetest way of all," said dillwyn. "where did you discover that? it must have been among savages. children--country folks--_and_ savages, i ought to have said." "orientals are not savages. on the contrary, very far exceeding in politeness any western nation i know of." "you would set a table, then, with napkins and fingers! or are the napkins not essential?" "c'est selon," said dillwyn. "in a strawberry bed, or under a cherry tree, i should vote them a nuisance. at an asiatic grandee's table you would have them embroidered and perfumed; and one for your lap and another for your lips." "evidently they are long past the stage of simplicity. talking of napkins we had them embroidered--and exquisitely--japanese work; at the de larges'. mine had a peacock in one corner; or i don't know if it was a peacock; it was a gay-feathered bird--" "a peacock has a tail," suggested mr. dillwyn. "well, i don't know whether it had a tail, but it was most exquisite; in blue and red and gold; i never saw anything prettier. and at every plate were such exquisite gifts! really elegant, you know. flowers are all very well; but when it comes to jewellery, i think it is a little beyond good taste. everybody can't do it, you know; and it is rather embarrassing to _nous autres_." "simplicity _has_ its advantages," observed mr. dillwyn. "nonsense, philip! you are as artificial a man as any one i know." "in what sense?" asked mr. dillwyn calmly. "you are bound to explain, for the sake of my character, that i do not wear false heels to my boots." "don't be ridiculous! you have no need to wear false heels. _art_ need not be _false_, need it?" "true art never is," said mr. dillwyn, amid some laughter. "well, artifice, then?" "artifice, i am afraid, is of another family, and not allied to truth." "well, everybody that knows you knows you are true; but they know, too, that if ever there was a fastidious man, it is you; and a man that wants everything at its last pitch of refinement." "which desirable stage i should say the luncheon you were describing had not reached." "you don't know. i had not told you the half. fancy!--the ice floated in our glasses in the form of pond lilies; as pretty as possible, with broad leaves and buds." "how did they get it in such shapes?" asked madge, with her eyes a trifle wider open than was usual with them. "o, froze it in moulds, of course. but you might have fancied the fairies had carved it. then, mrs. wishart, there was an arrangement of glasses over the gas burners, which produced the most silver sounds of music you ever heard; no chime, you know, of course; but a most peculiar, sweet, mysterious succession of musical breathings. add to that, by means of some invisible vaporizers, the whole air was filled with sweetness; now it was orange flowers, and now it was roses, and then again it would be heliotrope or violets; i never saw anything so refined and so exquisite in my life. waves of sweetness, rising and falling, coming and going, and changing; it was perfect." the little lady delivered herself of this description with much animation, accompanying the latter part of it with a soft waving of her hand; which altogether overcame philip's gravity, and he burst into a laugh, in which mr. burrage presently joined him; and lois and madge found it impossible not to follow. "what's the matter, philip?" the lady asked. "i am reminded of an old gentleman i once saw at gratz; he was copying the madonna della seggia in a mosaic made with the different-coloured wax heads of matches." "he must have been out of his head." "that was the conclusion i came to." "pray what brought him to your remembrance just then?" "i was thinking of the different ways people take in the search after happiness." "and one worth as much as another, i suppose you mean? that is a matter of taste. mrs. wishart, i see _your_ happiness is cared for, in having such charming friends with you. o, by the way!--talking of seeing,--_have_ you seen dulles & grant's new persian rugs and carpets?" "i have been hardly anywhere. i wanted to take madge to see brett's collection of paintings; but i have been unequal to any exertion." "well, the first time you go anywhere, go to dulles & grant's. take her to see those. pictures are common; but these turkish rugs and things are not. they are the most exquisite, the most odd, the most delicious things you ever saw. i have been wanting to ruin myself with them ever since i saw them. it's high art, really. those orientals are wonderful people! there is one rug--it is as large as this floor, nearly,--well, it is covered with medallions in old gold, set in a wild, irregular design of all sorts of cashmere shawl colours--thrown about anyhow; and yet the effect is rich beyond description; simple, too. another,--o, that is very rare; it is a rare keelum carpet; let me see if i can describe it. the ground is a full bright red. over this run palm leaves and little bits of ruby and maroon and gold mosaic; and between the palm leaves come great ovals of olive mixed with black, blue, and yellow; shading off into them. i _never_ saw anything i wanted so much." "what price?" "o, they are all prices. the keelum carpet is only fifteen hundred--but my husband says it is too much. then another persian carpet has a centre of red and white. round this a border of palm leaves. round these another border of deliciously mixed up warm colours; warm and rich. then another border of palms; and then the rest of the carpet is in blended shades of dark dull red and pink, with olive flowers thrown over it. o, i can't tell you the half. you must go and see. they have immensely wide borders, all of them; and great thick, soft piles." "have you been to brett's collection?" "yes." "what is there?" "the usual thing. o, but i haven't told you what i have come here for to-night." "i thought it was, to see me." "yes, but not for pleasure, this time," said the lively lady, laughing. "i had business--i really do have business sometimes. i came this evening, because i wanted to see you when i could have a chance to explain myself. mrs. wishart, i want you to take my place. they have made me first directress of the forlorn children's home." "does the epithet apply to the place? or to the children?" mr. dillwyn asked. "now i _cannot_ undertake the office," mrs. burrage went on without heeding him. "my hands are as full as they can hold, and my head fuller. you must take it, mrs. wishart. you are just the person." "i?" said mrs. wishart, with no delighted expression. "what are the duties?" "o, just oversight, you know; keeping things straight. everybody needs to be kept up to the mark. i cannot, for our reading club meets just at the time when i ought to be up at the home." the ladies went into a closer discussion of the subject in its various bearings; and mr. dillwyn and madge returned to their chess play. lois lay watching and thinking. mr. burrage looked on at the chess-board, and made remarks on the game languidly. by and by the talk of the two ladies ceased, and the head of mrs. burrage came round, and she also studied the chess-players. her face was observant and critical, lois thought; oddly observant and thoughtful. "where did you get such charming friends to stay with you, mrs. wishart? you are to be envied." mrs. wishart explained, how lois had been ill, and had come to get well under her care. "you must bring them to see me. will you? are they fond of music? bring them to my next musical evening." and then she rose; but before taking leave she tripped across to lois's couch and came and stood quite close to her, looking at her for a moment in what seemed to the girl rather an odd silence. "you aren't equal to playing chess yet?" was her equally odd abrupt question. lois's smile showed some amusement. "my brother is such an idle fellow, he has got nothing better to do than to amuse sick people. it's charity to employ him. and when you are able to come out, if you'll come to me, you shall hear some good music. good-bye!" her brother! thought lois as she went off. mr. dillwyn, _her_ brother! i don't believe she likes madge and me to know him. meanwhile mr. and mrs. chauncey burrage drove away in silence for a few minutes; then the lady broke out. "there's mischief there, chauncey!" "what mischief?" the gentleman asked innocently. "those girls." "very handsome girls. at least the one that was visible." "the other's worse. _i_ saw her. the one you saw is handsome; but the other is peculiar. she is rare. maybe not just so handsome, but more refined; and _peculiar_. i don't know just what it is in her; but she fascinated me. masses of auburn hair--not just auburn--more of a golden tint than brown--with a gold _reflet_, you know, that is so lovely; and a face--" "well, what sort of a face?" asked mr. burrage, as his spouse paused. "something between a baby and an angel, and yet with a sort of sybil look of wisdom. i believe she put one of domenichino's sybils into my head; there's that kind of complexion--" "my dear," said the gentleman, laughing, "you could not tell what complexion she was of. she was in a shady corner." "i was quite near her. now that sort of thing might just catch philip." "well," said the gentleman, "you cannot help that." "i don't know if i can or no!" "why should you want to help it, after all?" "why? i don't want philip to make a mis-match." "why should it be a mis-match?" "philip has got too much money to marry a girl with nothing." mr. burrage laughed. his wife demanded to know what he was laughing at? and he said "the logic of her arithmetic." "you men have no more logic in action, than we women have in speculation. i am logical the other way." "that is too involved for me to follow. but it occurs to me to ask, why should there be any match in the case here?" "that's so like a man! why shouldn't there? take a man like my brother, who don't know what to do with himself; a man whose eye and ear are refined till he judges everything according to a standard of beauty;--and give him a girl like that to look at! i said she reminded me of one of domenichino's sybils--but it isn't that. i'll tell you what it is. she is like one of fra angelico's angels. fancy philip set down opposite to one of fra angelico's angels in flesh and blood!" "can a man do better than marry an angel?" "yes! so long as he is not an angel himself, and don't live in paradise." "they do not marry in paradise," said mr. burrage dryly. "but why a fellow may not get as near a paradisaical condition as he can, with the drawback of marriage, and in this mundane sphere,--i do not see." "men never see anything till afterwards. i don't know anything about this girl, chauncey, except her face. but it is just the way with men, to fall in love with a face. i do not know what she is, only she is nobody; and philip ought to marry somebody. i know where they are from. she has no money, and she has no family; she has of course no breeding; she has probably no education, to fit her for being his wife. philip ought to have the very reverse of all that. or else he ought not to marry at all, and let his money come to little phil chauncey." "what are you going to do about it?" asked the gentleman, seeming amused. but mrs. burrage made no answer, and the rest of the drive, long as it was, was rather stupid. chapter xlii. rules. the next day mr. dillwyn came to take madge to see brett's collection of paintings. mrs. wishart declared herself not yet up to it. madge came home in a great state of delight. "it was so nice!" she explained to her sister; "just as nice as it could be. mr. dillwyn was so pleasant; and told me everything and about everything; about the pictures, and the masters; i shouldn't have known what anything meant, but he explained it all. and it was such fun to see the people." "the people!" said lois. "yes. there were a great many people; almost a crowd; and it _did_ amuse me to watch them." "i thought you went to see the paintings." "well, i saw the paintings; and i heard more about them than i can ever remember." "what was there?" "o, i can't tell you. landscapes and landscapes; and then holy families; and saints in misery, of one sort or another; and battle-pieces, but those were such confusion that all i could make out was horses on their hind-legs; and portraits. i think it is nonsense for people to try to paint battles; they can't do it; and, besides, as far as the fighting goes, one fight is just like another. mr. dillwyn told me of a travelling showman, in germany, who travelled about with the panorama of a battle; and every year he gave it a new name, the name of the last battle that was in men's mouths; and all he had to do was to change the uniforms, he said. he had a pot of green paint for the prussians, and red for the english, and blue, i believe, for the french, and so on; and it did just as well." "what did you see that you liked best?" "i'll tell you. it was a little picture of kittens, in and out of a basket. mr. dillwyn didn't care about it; but i thought it was the prettiest thing there. mrs. burrage was there." "was she?" "and mr. dillwyn does know more than ever anybody else in the world, i think. o, he was so nice, lois! so nice and kind. i wouldn't have given a pin to be there, if it hadn't been for him. he wouldn't let me get tired; and he made everything amusing; and o, i could have sat there till now and watched the people." "the people! if the pictures were good, i don't see how you could have eyes for the people." "'the proper study of mankind is _man_,' my dear; and i like them alive better than painted. it was fun to see the dresses; and then the ways. how some people tried to be interested--" "like you?" "what do you mean? i _was_ interested; and some talked and flirted, and some stared. i watched every new set that came in. mr. diliwyn says he will come and take us to the philarmonic, as soon as the performances begin." "madge, it is _better_ for us to go with mrs. wishart." "she may go too, if she likes." "and it is _better_ for us not to go with mr. diliwyn, more than we can help." "i won't," said madge. "i can't help going with him whenever he asks me, and i am not going any other time." "what did mrs. burrage say to you?" "hm!-- not much. i caught her looking at me more than once. she said she would have a musical party next week, and we must come; and she asked if you would be well enough." "i hope i shall not." "that's nonsense. mr. dillwyn wants us to go, i know." "that is not a reason for going." "i think it _is_. he is just as good as he can be, and i like him more than anybody else i ever saw in my life. i'd like to see the thing he'd ask me, that i wouldn't do." "madge, madge!" "hush, lois; that's nonsense." "madge you trouble me very much." "and that's nonsense too." madge was beginning to get over the first sense of novelty and strangeness in all about her; and, as she overcame that, a feeling of delight replaced it, and grew and grew. madge was revelling in enjoyment. she went out with mrs. wishart, for drives in the park and for shopping expeditions in the city, and once or twice to make visits. she went out with mr. dillwyn, too, as we have seen, who took her to drive, and conducted her to galleries of pictures and museums of curiosities; and finally, and with mrs. wishart, to a philharmonic rehearsal. madge came home in a great state of exultation; though lois was almost indignant to find that the place and the people had rivalled the performance in producing it. lois herself was almost well enough to go, though delicate enough still to allow her the choice of staying at home. she was looking like herself again; yet a little paler in colour and more deliberate in action than her old wont; both the tokens of a want of strength which continued to be very manifest. one day madge came home from going with mrs. wishart to dulles & grant's. i may remark that the evening at mrs. burrage's had not yet come off, owing to a great storm the night of the music party; but another was looming up in the distance. "lois," madge delivered herself as she was taking off her wrappings, "it is a great thing to be rich!" "one needs to be sick to know how true that is," responded lois. "if you could guess what i would have given last summer and fall for a few crumbs of the comfort with which this house is stacked full--like hay in a barn!" "but i am not thinking of comfort." "i am. how i wanted everything for the sick people at esterbrooke. think of not being able to change their bed linen properly, nor anything like properly!" "of course," said madge, "poor people do not have plenty of things. but i was not thinking of _comfort_, when i spoke." "comfort is the best thing." "don't you like pretty things?" "too well, i am afraid." "you cannot like them too well. pretty things were meant to be liked. what else were they made for? and of all pretty things--o, those carpets and rugs! lois, i never saw or dreamed of anything so magnificent. i _should_ like to be rich, for once!" "to buy a persian carpet?" "yes. that and other things. why not?" "madge, don't you know this was what grandmother was afraid of, when we were learning to know mr. dillwyn?" "what?" said madge defiantly. "that we would be bewitched--or dazzled--and lose sight of better things; i think 'bewitched' is the word; all these beautiful things and this luxurious comfort--it is bewitching; and so are the fine manners and the cultivation and the delightful talk. i confess it. i feel it as much as you do; but this is just what dear grandmother wanted to protect us from." "_what_ did she want to protect us from?" repeated madge vehemently. "not persian carpets, nor luxury; we are not likely to be tempted by either of them in shampuashuh." "we might _here_." "be tempted? to what? i shall hardly be likely to go and buy a fifteen-hundred-dollar carpet. and it was _cheap_ at that, lois! i can live without it, besides. i haven't got so far that i can't stand on the floor, without any carpet at all, if i must. you needn't think it." "i do not think it. only, do not be tempted to fancy, darling, that there is any way open to you to get such things; that is all." "any way open to me? you mean, i might marry a rich man some day?" "you might think you might." "why shouldn't i?" "because, dear madge, you will not be asked. i told you why. and if you were,--madge, you would not, you _could_ not, marry a man that was not a christian? grandmother made me promise i never would." "she did not make me promise it. lois, don't be ridiculous. i don't want to marry anybody at present; but i like persian carpets, and nothing will make me say i don't. and i like silver and gold; and servants, and silk dresses, and ice-cream, and pictures, and big houses, and big mirrors, and all the rest of it." "you can find it all in the eighteenth chapter of revelation, in the description of the city babylon; which means the world." "i thought babylon was rome." "read for yourself." i think madge did not read it for herself, however; and the days went on after the accustomed fashion, till the one arrived which was fixed for mrs. chauncey burrage's second musical party. the three ladies were all invited. mrs. wishart supposed they were all going; but when the day came lois begged off. she did not feel like going, she said; it would be far pleasanter to her if she could stay at home quietly; it would be better for her. mrs. wishart demurred; the invitation had been very urgent; mrs. burrage would be disappointed; and, besides, she was a little proud herself of her handsome young relations, and wanted the glory of producing them together. however, lois was earnest in her wish to be left at home; quietly earnest, which is the more difficult to deal with; and, knowing her passionate love for music, mrs. wishart decided that it must be her lingering weakness and languor which indisposed her for going. lois was indeed looking well again; but both her friends had noticed that she was not come back to her old lively energy, whether of speaking or doing. strength comes back so slowly, they said, after one of those fevers. yet madge was not satisfied with this reasoning, and pondered, as she and mrs. wishart drove away, what else might be the cause of lois's refusal to go with them. meanwhile lois, having seen them off and heard the house door close upon them, drew up her chair before the fire and sat down. she was in the back drawing-room, the windows of which looked out to the river and the opposite shore; but the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn, and only the interior view to be had now. so, or any way, lois loved the place. it was large, roomy, old-fashioned, with none of the stiffness of new things about it; elegant, with the many tokens of home life, and of a long habit of culture and comfort. in a big chimney a big wood fire was burning quietly; the room was softly warm; a brilliant lamp behind lois banished even imaginary gloom, and a faint red shine came from the burning hickory logs. only this last illumination fell on lois's face, and in it lois's face showed grave and troubled. she was more like a sybil at this moment, looking into confused earthly things, than like one of fra angelico's angels rejoicing in the clear light of heaven. lois pulled her chair nearer to the fire, and bent down, leaning towards it; not for warmth, for she was not in the least cold; but for company, or for counsel. who has not taken counsel of a fire? and lois was in perplexity of some sort, and trying to think hard and to examine into herself. she half wished she had gone to the party at mrs. burrage's. and why had she not gone? she did not want, she did not think it was best, to meet mr. dillwyn there. and why not, seeing that she met him constantly where she was? well, _that_ she could not help; this would be voluntary; put ting herself in his way, and in his sister's way. better not, lois said to herself. but why, better not? it would surely be a pleasant gathering at mrs. burrage's, a pleasant party; her parties always were pleasant, mrs. wishart said; there would be none but the best sort of people there, good talking and good music; lois would have liked it. what if mr. dillwyn were there too? must she keep out of sight of him? why should she keep out of sight of him? lois put the question sharply to her conscience. and she found that the answer, if given truly, would be that she fancied mr. dillwyn liked her sister's society better than her own. but what then? the blood began to rush over lois's cheeks and brow and to burn in her pulses. _then_, it must be that she herself liked _his_ society--liked him--yes, a little too well; else what harm in his preferring madge? o, could it be? lois hid her face in her hands for a while, greatly disturbed; she was very much afraid the case was even so. but suppose it so; still, what of it? what did it signify, whom mr. dillwyn liked? to lois he could never be anything. only a pleasant acquain'tance. he and she were in two different lines of life, lines that never cross. her promise was passed to her grandmother; she could never marry a man who was not a christian. happily mr. dillwyn did not want to marry her; no such question was coming up for decision. then what was it to her if he liked madge? something, because it was not liking that would end in anything; it was impossible a man in his position and circumstances should choose for a wife one in hers. if he could make such a choice, it would be madge's duty, as much as it would be her own, to refuse him. would madge refuse? lois believed not. indeed, she thought no one could refuse him, that had not unconquerable reasons of conscience; and madge, she knew, did not share those which were so strong in her own mind. ought madge to share them? was it indeed an absolute command that justified and necessitated the promise made to her grandmother? or was it a less stringent thing, that might possibly be passed over by one not so bound? lois's mind was in a turmoil of thoughts most unusual, and most foreign to her nature and habit; thoughts seemed to go round in a whirl. and in the midst of the whirl there would come before her mind's eye, not now tom caruthers' face, but the vision of a pair of pleasant grey eyes at once keen and gentle; or of a close head of hair with a white hand roving amid the thick locks of it; or the outlines of a figure manly and lithe; or some little thing done with that ease of manner which was so winning. sometimes she saw them as in mrs. wishart's drawing-room, and sometimes at the table in the dear old house in shampuashuh, and sometimes under the drip of an umbrella in a pouring rain, and sometimes in the old schoolhouse. manly and kind, and full of intelligence, filled with knowledge, well-bred, and noble; so lois thought of him. yet he was not a christian, therefore no fit partner for madge or for any one else who was a christian. could that be the absolute fact? must it be? was such the inevitable and universal conclusion? on what did the logic of it rest? some words in the bible bore the brunt of it, she knew; lois had read them and talked them over with her grandmother; and now an irresistible desire took possession of her to read them again, and more critically. she jumped up and ran up-stairs for her bible. the fire was down in her own room; the gas was not lit; so she went back to the bright drawing-room, which to-night she had all to herself. she laid her book on the table and opened it, and then was suddenly checked by the question--what did all this matter to her, that she should be so fiercely eager about it? dismay struck her anew. what was any un-christian man to her, that her heart should beat so at considering possible relations between them? no such relations were desired by any such person; what ailed lois even to take up the subject? if mr. dillwyn liked either of the sisters particularly, it was madge. probably his liking, if it existed, was no more than tom caruthers', of which lois thought with great scorn. still, she argued, did it not concern her to know with certain'ty what madge ought to do, in the event of mr. dillwyn being not precisely like tom caruthers? chapter xliii. about work. the sound of the opening door made her start up. she would not have even a servant surprise her so; kneeling on the floor with her face buried in her hands on the table. she started up hurriedly; and then was confounded to see entering--mr. dillwyn himself. she had heard no ring of the door-bell; that must have been when she was up-stairs getting her bible. lois found her feet, in the midst of a terrible confusion of thoughts; but the very inward confusion admonished her to be outwardly calm. she was not a woman of the world, and she had not had very much experience in the difficult art of hiding her feelings, or _acting_ in any way; nevertheless she was a true woman, and woman's blessed--or cursed?--instinct of self-command came to her aid. she met mr. dillwyn with a face and manner perfectly composed; she knew she did; and cried to herself privately some thing very like a sea captain's order to his helmsman--"steady! keep her so." mr. dillwyn saw that her face was flushed; but he saw, too, that he had disturbed her and startled her; that must be the reason. she looked so far from being delighted, that he could draw no other conclusion. so they shook hands. she thought he did not look delighted either. of course, she thought, madge was not there. and mr. dillwyn, whatever his mood when he came, recognized immediately the decided reserve and coolness of lois's manner, and, to use another nautical phrase, laid his course accordingly. "how do you do, this evening?" "i think, quite well. there is nobody at home but me, mr. dillwyn." "so i have been told. but it is a great deal pleasanter here, even with only one-third of the family, than it is in my solitary rooms at the hotel." at that lois sat down, and so did he. she could not seem to bid him go away. however, she said-- "mrs. wishart has taken madge to your sister's. it is the night of her music party." "why did not mrs. wishart take you?" "i thought--it was better for me to stay at home," lois answered, with a little hesitation. "you are not afraid of an evening alone!" "no, indeed; how could i be? indeed, i think in new york it is rather a luxury." then she wished she had not said that. would he think she meant to intimate that he was depriving her of a luxury? lois was annoyed at herself; and hurried on to say something else, which she did not intend should be so much in the same line as it proved. indeed, she was shocked the moment she had spoken. "don't you go to your sister's music parties, mr. dillwyn?" "not universally." "i thought you were so fond of music"--lois said apologetically. "yes," he said, smiling. "that keeps me away." "i thought,"--said lois,--"i thought they said the music was so good?" "i have no doubt they say it. and they mean it honestly." "and it is not?" "i find it quite too severe a tax on my powers of simulation and dissimulation. those are powers you never call in play?" he added, with a most pleasant smile and glance at her. "simulation and dissimulation?" repeated lois, who had by no means got her usual balance of mind or manner yet. "are those powers which ought to be called into play?" "what are you going to do?" "when?" "when, for instance, you are in the mood for a grand theme of handel, and somebody gives you a sentimental bit of rossini. or when mendelssohn is played as if 'songs without words' were songs without meaning. or when a singer simply displays to you a voice, and leaves music out of the question altogether." "that is hard!" said lois. "what is one to do then?" "it is hard," lois said again. "but i suppose one ought always to be true." "if i am true, i must say what i think." "yes. if you speak at all." "what will _they_ think then?" "yes," said lois. "but, after all, that is not the first question." "what is the first question?" "i think--to do right." "but what _is_ right? what will people think of me, if i tell them their playing is abominable?" "you need not say it just with those words," said lois. "and perhaps, if anybody told them the truth, they would do better. at any rate, what they think is not the question, mr. dillwyn." "what is the question?" he asked, smiling. "what the lord will think." "miss lois, do you never use dissimulation?" lois could not help colouring, a little distressed. "i try not," she answered. "i dare say i do, sometimes. i dare not say i do not. it is very difficult for a woman to help it." "more difficult for a woman than for a man?" "i do not know. i suppose it is." "why should that be?" "i do not know--unless because she is the weaker, and it may be part of the defensive armour of a weak animal." mr. dillwyn laughed a little. "but that is _dis_simulation," said lois. "one is not bound always to say all one thinks; only never to say what one does not think." "you would always give a true answer to a question?" "i would try." "i believe it. and now, miss lois, in that trust, i am going to ask you a question. do you recollect a certain walk in the rain?" "certainly!" she said, looking at him with some anxiety. "and the conversation we held under the umbrella, without simulation or dissimulation?" "yes." "you tacitly--perhaps more than tacitly--blamed me for having spent so much of my life in idleness; that is uselessly, to all but myself." "did i?" "you did. and i have thought about it since. and i quite agree with you that to be idle is to be neither wise nor dignified. but here rises a difficulty. i think i would like to be of some use in the world, if i could. but i do not know what to set about." lois waited, with silent attention. "my question is this: how is a man to find his work in the world?" lois's eyes, which had been on his face, went away to the fire. his, which had been on the ground, rose to her face. "i am in a fog," he said "i believe every one has his work," lois remarked. "i think you said so." "the bible says so, at any rate." "_then_ how is a man to find his work?" philip asked, half smiling; at the same time he drew up his chair a little nearer the fire, and began to put the same in order. evidently he was not going away immediately, and had a mind to talk out the subject. but why with her? and was he not going to his sister's?-- "if each one has, not only his work but his peculiar work, it must be a very important matter to make sure he has found it. a wheel in a machine can do its own work, but it cannot take the part of another wheel. and your words suppose an exact adjustment of parts and powers." "the bible words," said lois. "yes. well, to my question. i do not know what i ought to do, miss lois. i do not see the work to my hand. how am i ever to be any wiser?" "i am the last person you should ask. and besides,--i do not think anybody knows enough to set another his appointed task." "how is he to find it, then?" "he must ask the one who does know." "ask?--_pray_, you mean?" "yes, pray. he must ask to be shown what he ought to do, and how to do it. god knows what place he is meant to fill in the world." "and if he asks, will he be told?" "certainly. that is the promise. 'if any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of god, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; _and it shall be given him_.'" lois's eyes came over to her questioner at the last words, as it were, setting a seal to them. "how will he get the answer? suppose, for instance, i want wisdom; and i kneel down and pray that i may know my work. i rise from my prayer,--there is no voice, nor writing, nor visible sign; how am i the wiser?" "you think it will _not_ be given him?" lois said, with a faint smile. "i do not say that. i dare not. but how?" "you must not think that, or the asking will be vain. you must believe the lord's promise." lois was warming out of her reserve, and possibly mr. dillwyn had a purpose that she should; though i think he was quite earnest with his question. but certainly he was watching her, as well as listening to her. "go on," he said. "how will the answer come to me?" "there is another condition, too. you must be quite willing to hear the answer." "why?" "else you will be likely to miss it. you know, mr. dillwyn,--you do _not_ know much about housekeeping things,--but i suppose you understand, that if you want to weigh anything truly, your balance must hang even." he smiled. "well, then,--miss lois?" "the answer? it comes different ways. but it is sure to come. i think one way is this,--you see distinctly one thing you ought to do; it is not life-work, but it is one thing. that is enough for one step. you do that; and then you find that that one step has brought you where you can see a little further, and another step is clear. that will do," lois concluded, smiling; "step by step, you will get where you want to be." mr. dillwyn smiled too, thoughtfully, as it were, to himself. "was it _so_ that you went to teach school at that unlucky place?--what do you call it?" "it was not unlucky. esterbrooke. yes, i think i went so." "was not that a mistake?" "no, i think not." "but your work there was broken up?" "o, but i expect to go back again." "back! there? it is too unhealthy." "it will not be unhealthy, when the railroad is finished." "i am afraid it will, for some time. and it is too rough a place for you." "that is why they want me the more." "miss lois, you are not strong enough." "i am very strong!" she answered, with a delicious smile. "but there is such a thing--don't you think so?--as fitness of means to ends. you would not take a silver spade to break ground with?" "i am not at all a silver spade," said lois. "but if i were; suppose i had no other?" "then surely the breaking ground must be left to a different instrument." "that won't do," said lois, shaking her head. "the instrument cannot choose, you know, where it will be employed. it does not know enough for that." "but it made you ill, that work." "i am recovering fast." "you came to a good place for recovering," said dillwyn, glancing round the room, and willing, perhaps, to leave the subject. "almost too good," said lois. "it spoils one. you cannot imagine the contrast between what i came from--and _this_. i have been like one in dreamland. and there comes over me now and then a strange feeling of the inequality of things; almost a sense of wrong; the way i am cared for is so very different from the very best and utmost that could be done for the poor people at esterbrooke. think of my soups and creams and ices and oranges and grapes!--and there, very often i could not get a bit of fresh beef to make beef-tea; and what could i do without beef-tea? and what would i not have given for an orange sometimes! i do not mean, for myself. i could get hardly anything the sick people really wanted. and here--it is like rain from the clouds." "where does the 'sense of wrong' come in?" "it seems as if things _need_ not be so unequal." "and what does your silver spade expect to do there?" "don't say that! i have no silver spade. but just so far as i could help to introduce better ways and a knowledge of better things, the inequality would be made up--or on the way to be made up." "what refining measures are you thinking of?--beside your own presence and example." "i was certainly not thinking of _that_. why, mr. dillwyn, knowledge itself is refining; and then, so is comfort; and i could help them to more comfort, in their houses, and in their meals. i began to teach them singing, which has a great effect; and i carried all the pictures i had with me. most of all, though, to bring them to a knowledge of bible truth is the principal thing and the surest way. the rest is really in order to that." "wasn't it very hard work?" "no," said lois. "some things were hard; but not the work." "because you like it." "yes. o, mr. dillwyn, there is nothing pleasanter than to do one's work, if it is work one is sure god has given." "that must be because you love him," said philip gravely. "yet i understand, that in the universal adjustment of things, the instrument and its proper work must agree." he was silent a minute, and lois did not break the pause. if he would think, let him think, was her meaning. then he began again. "there are different ways. what would you think of a man who spent his whole life in painting?" "i should not think that could be anybody's proper life-work." "i think it was truly his, and he served god in it." "who was he?" "a catholic monk, in the fifteenth century." "what did he paint? what was his name?" "his name was fra angelico--by reason of the angelic character which belonged to him and to his paintings; otherwise fra giovanni; he was a monk in a dominican cloister. he entered the convent when he was twenty years old; and from that time, till he was sixty-eight, he served god and his generation by painting." lois looked somewhat incredulous. mr. dillwyn here took from one of his pockets a small case, opened it and put it in her hands. it was an excellent copy of a bit of fra angelico's work. "that," he said as he gave it her, "is the head of one of fra angelico's angels, from a group in a large picture. i had this copy made for myself some years ago--at a time when i only dimly felt what now i am beginning to understand." lois scarce heard what he said. from the time she received the picture in her hands she lost all thought of everything else. the unearthly beauty and purity, the heavenly devotion and joy, seized her heart as with a spell. the delicate lines of the face, the sweet colouring, the finished, perfect handling, were most admirable; but it was the marvellous spiritual love and purity which so took possession of lois. her eyes filled and her cheeks flushed. it was, so far as painting could give it, the truth of heaven; and that goes to the heart of the human creature who perceives it. mr. dillwyn was watching her, meanwhile, and could look safely, secure that lois was in no danger of finding it out; and while she, very likely, was thinking of the distance between that angel face and her own, philip, on the other hand, was following the line of his sister's thought, and tracing the fancied likeness. like one of fra angelico's angels! yes, there was the same sort of grave purity, of unworldly if not unearthly spiritual beauty. truly the rapt joy was not there, nor the unshadowed triumph; but love,--and innocence,--and humility,--and truth; and not a stain of the world upon it. lois said not one word, but looked and looked, till at last she tendered the picture back to its owner. "perhaps you would like to keep it," said he, "and show it to your sister." he brought it to have madge see it! thought lois. aloud-- "no--she would enjoy it a great deal more if you showed it to her;--then you could tell her about it." "i think you could explain it better." as he made no motion to take back the picture, lois drew in her hand again and took a further view. how beautiful was the fair, bright, rapt, blissful face of the angel!--as if, indeed, he were looking at heaven's glories. "did he--did the painter--always paint like this?" "always, i believe. he improved in his manner as he went on; he painted better and better; but from youth to age he was incessantly doing the one thing, serving god with his pencil. he never painted for money; that is, not for himself; the money went into the church's treasury. he did not work for fame; much of his best work is upon the walls of the monks' cells, where few would see it. he would not receive office. he lived upon the old and new testaments, and prayer; and the one business of his life was to show forth to the world what he believed, in such beautiful wise that they might be won to believe it too." "that is exactly the work we have to do,--everybody," said lois, lifting her eyes with a bright light in them. "i mean, everybody that is a christian. that is it;--to show forth christ, and in such wise that men may see and believe in him too. that is the word in philippians--'shining as lights in the world, holding forth the word of life.' i did not know it was possible to do it in painting--but i see it is. o, thank you for showing me this!--it has done me good." her eyes were glistening as she gave him the picture again. philip put it in security, in silence, and rose up. "well," said he, "now i will go and hear somebody play the 'carnival of venice,' as if it were all rattle and no fun." "is that the way they play it?" "it is the way some people play it. good night." the door closed after him, and lois sat down alone before the fire again. chapter xliv. choosing a wife. she did not open her bible to go on with the investigation mr. dillwyn had broken off. now that he had just been with her in proper person, an instinct of scared modesty fled from the question whether or no he were a man whom a christian woman might marry. what was it to her? lois said to herself; what did it concern her, whether such a marriage were permissible or no? such a question would never come to her for decision. to madge, perhaps? but now the other question did ask for consideration;--why she winced at the idea that it might come to madge? madge did not share her sister's scruple; madge had not made the promise lois had made; if mr. dillwyn asked her, she would accept him, lois had little doubt. perhaps he would ask her; and why, why did lois wish he would not? for she perceived that the idea gave her pain. why should it give her pain? for herself, the thing was a fixed fact; whatever the bible said--and she knew pretty well what it said--for _her_, such a marriage was an impossibility. and why should she think about it at all? nobody else was thinking about it. fra angelico's angel came back to her mind; the clear, unshadowed eyes, the pure, glad face, the separateness from all earth's passions or pleasures, the lofty exaltation above them. so ought she to be. and then, while this thought was warmest, came, shutting it out, the image of mr. dillwyn at the music party; what he was doing there, how he would look and speak, how madge would enjoy his attentions, and everything; and lois suddenly felt as if she herself were very much alone. not merely alone now, to-night; she had chosen this, and liked it; (did she like it?)--not now, but all through her life. it suddenly seemed to lois as if she were henceforth to be always alone. madge would no doubt marry--somebody; and there was no home, and nobody to make home for lois. she had never thought of it before, but now she seemed to see it all quite clearly. mrs. barclay's work had been, to separate her, in a certain way, from her family and her surroundings. they fitted together no longer. lois knew what they did not know; she had tastes which they did not share, but which now were become part of her being; the society in which she had moved all her life till two years, or three years, ago, could no longer content her. it was not inanimate nature, her garden, her spade and her wheelbarrow, that seemed distasteful; lois could have gone into that work again with all her heart, and thought it no hardship; it was the mental level at which the people lived; the social level, in houses, tables, dress, and amusements, and manner; the aesthetic level of beauty, and grace, and fitness, or at least the perception of them. lois pondered and revolved this all till she began to grow rather dreary. think of the esterbrooke school, and of being alone there! rough, rude, coarse boys and girls; untaught, untamed, ungovernable, except by an uncommon exertion of wisdom and will; long days of hard labour, nights of common food and sleep, with no delicate arrangements for either, and social refreshment utterly out of the question. and madge away; married, perhaps, and travelling in europe, and seeing fra angelico's paintings. then the angel's face recurred to lois, and she pulled herself up. the angel's face and the painter's history both confronted her. on one hand, the seraphic purity and joy of a creature who knew no will but god's will; on the other hand, the quiet, patient life, which had borne such fruits. four hundred years ago, fra angelico painted; and ever since his work had been bearing witness to god's truth and salvation; was even at that minute teaching and admonishing herself. what did it signify just _how_ her own work should be done, if only it were like work? what matter whether rough or smooth, alone or in company? where the service is to be done, there the master puts his servant; what the service is, he knows; for the servant, all that he has to take care of is, that step by step he follow where he is led, and everywhere, and by all means in his power, that he show forth christ to men. then something like that angel's security would be with him all the way, and something like that angel's joy be at the end of it. the little picture had helped and comforted lois amazingly, and she went to bed with a heart humbled and almost contented. she went, however, in good time, before madge could return home; she did not want to hear the outflow of description and expatiation which might be expected. and madge indeed found her so seemingly sleepy, that she was forced to give up talking and come to bed too. but all lois had gained was a respite. the next morning, as soon as they were awake, madge began. "lois, we had a grand time last night! you were so stupidly asleep when i came home, i couldn't tell you. we had a beautiful time! o lois, mrs. burrage's house is just magnificent!" "i suppose so." "the floors are all laid in patterns of different coloured woods--a sort of mosaic--" "parquetry." "what?--i call it mosaic, with centre-pieces and borders,--o, elegant! and they are smooth and polished; and then carpets and rugs of all sorts are laid about; and it's most beautiful. she has got one of those persian carpets she was telling about, lois." "i dare say." "and the walls are all great mirrors, or else there is the richest sort of drapery--curtains, or hangings; and the prettiest painted walls. and o, lois, the flowers!--" "where were they?" "everywhere! on tables, and little shelves on the wall--" "brackets." "o, well!--shelves they _are_, call them what you like; and stands of plants and pots of plants--the whole place was sweet with the smell, and green with the leaves, and brilliant with the flowers--" "seems to have been brilliant generally." "so it was, just _brilliant_, with all that, and with the lights, and with the people." "were the people brilliant too?" "and the playing." "o,--the playing!" "everybody said so. it wasn't like mrs. barclay's playing." "what was it like?" "it looked like very hard work, to me. my dear, i saw the drops of sweat standing on one man's forehead;--he had been playing a pretty long piece," madge added, by way of accounting for things. "i never saw anything like it, in all my life!" "like what?--sweat on a man's forehead?" "like the playing. don't be ridiculous." "it is not i," said lois, who meanwhile had risenn and was getting dressed. madge was doing the same, talking all the while. "so the playing was something to be _seen_. what was the singing?" madge stood still, comb in hand. "i don't know!" she said gravely. lois could not help laughing. "well, i don't," madge went on. "it was so queer, some of it, i did not know which way to look. some of it was regular yelling, lois; and if people are going to yell, i'd rather have it out-of-doors. but one man--i think he thought he was doing it remarkably well--the goings up and down of his voice--" "cadences--" "well, the cadences if you choose; they made me think of nothing but the tones of the lions and other beasts in the menagerie. don't you know how they roar up and down? first softly and then loud? i had everything in the world to do not to laugh out downright. he was singing something meant to be very pathetic; and it was absolutely killing." "it was not all like that, i suppose?" "no. there was some i liked. but nothing one-half so good as your singing a hymn, lois. i wish you could have been there to give them one. only you could not sing a hymn in such a place." "why not?" "why, because! it would be out of place." "i would not go anywhere where a hymn would be out of place." "that's nonsense. but o, how the people were dressed, lois! brilliant! o you may well say so. it took away my breath at first" "you got it again, i hope?" "yes. but o, lois, it _is_ nice to have plenty of money." "well, yes. and it is nice _not_ to have it--if the lord makes it so." "makes _what_ so? you are very unsympathetic this morning, lois! but if you had only been there. o lois, there were one or two fur rugs--fur skins for rugs,--the most beautiful things i ever saw. one was a leopard's skin, with its beautiful spots; the other was white and thick and fluffy--i couldn't find out what it was." "bear, maybe." "bear! o lois--those two skins finished me! i kept my head for a while, with all the mosaic floors and rich hangings and flowers and dresses,--but those two skins took away the little sense i had left. they looked so magnificent! so luxurious." "they are luxurious, no doubt." "lois, i don't see why some people should have so much, and others so little." "the same sort of question that puzzled david once." "why should mrs. burrage have all that, and you and i have only yellow painted floors and rag carpets?" "i don't want 'all that.'" "don't you?" "no." "i do." "madge, those things do not make people happy." "it's all very well to say so, lois. i should like just to try once." "how do you like mrs. burrage?" madge hesitated a trifle. "she is pleasant,--pretty, and clever, and lively; she went flying about among the people like a butterfly, stopping a minute here and a minute there, but i guess it was not to get honey but to give it. she was a little honeyfied to me, but not much. i don't--think"--(slowly) "she liked to see her brother making much of me." lois was silent. "he was there; i didn't tell you. he came a little late. he said he had been here, and as he didn't find us he came on to his sister's." "he was here a little while." "so he said. but he was so good, lois! he was _very_ good. he talked to me, and told me about things, and took care of me, and gave me supper. i tell you, i thought madam his sister looked a little askance at him once or twice. i _know_ she tried to get him away." lois again made no answer. "why should she, lois?" "maybe you were mistaken." "i don't think i was mistaken. but why should she, lois?" "madge, dear, you know what i told you." "about what?" "about that; people's feelings. you and i do not belong to this gay, rich world; we are not rich, and we are not fashionable, and we do not live as they live, in any way; and they do not want us; why should they?" "we should not hurt them!" said madge indignantly. "nor be of any use or pleasure to them." "there isn't a girl among them all to compare with you, as far as looks go." "i am afraid that will not help the matter," said lois, smiling; but then she added with earnest and almost anxious eagerness, "madge, dear, don't think about it! happiness is not there; and what god gives us is best. best for you and best for me. don't you wish for riches!--or for anything we haven't got. what we have to do, is to live so as to show forth christ and his truth before men." "very few do that," said madge shortly. "let us be some of the few." "i'd like to do it in high places, then," said madge. "o, you needn't talk, lois! it's a great deal nicer to have a leopard skin under your feet than a rag-carpet." lois could not help smiling, though something like tears was gathering. "and i'd rather have mr. dillwyn take care of me than uncle tim hotchkiss." the laughter and the tears came both more unmistakeably. lois felt a little hysterical. she finished dressing hurriedly, and heard as little as possible of madge's further communications. it was a few hours later, that same morning, that philip dillwyn strolled into his sister's breakfast-room. it was a room at the back of the house, the end of a suite; and from it the eye roved through half-drawn _portières_ and between rows of pillars, along a vista of the parquetted floors madge had described to her sister; catching here the glitter of gold from a picture frame, and there a gleam of white from a marble figure, through the half light which reigned there. in the breakfast-room it was bright day; and mrs. burrage was finishing her chocolate and playing with bits of dry toast, when her brother came in. philip had hardly exchanged greetings and taken his seat, when his attention was claimed by mrs. burrage's young son and heir, who forthwith thrust himself between his uncle's knees, a bat in one hand, a worsted ball in the other. "uncle phil, mamma says her name usen't to be burrage--it was your name?" "that is correct." "if it was your name once, why isn't it your name now?" "because she changed it and became burrage." "what made her be burrage?" "that is a deep question in mental philosophy, which i am unable to answer, chauncey." "she says, it's because she married papa." "does not your mother generally speak truth?" young philip chauncey seemed to consider this question; and finally waiving it, went on pulling at a button of his uncle's coat in the energy of his inquiries. "uncle phil, you haven't got a wife?" "no." "why haven't you?" "an old cookery book says, 'first catch your hare.'" "must you catch your wife?" "i suppose so." "how do you catch her?" but the answer to this most serious inquiry was met by such a burst of laughter on the part of both the older persons in the room, that phil had to wait; nothing daunted, however, returned to the charge. "uncle phil, if you had a wife, what would her name be?" "if ever i have one, chauncey, her name will be--" but here the speaker had very nearly, in his abstraction, brought out a name that would, to say the least, have astonished his sister. he caught himself up just in time, and laughed. "if ever i have one, her name will be mine." "i did not know, last night, but you had chosen the lady to whom you intended to do so much honour," his sister observed coolly, looking at him across her chocolate cup. "or who i hoped would do me so much honour. what did you think of my supposed choice?" he asked with equal coolness. "what could i think, except that you were like all other men--distraught for a pretty face." "one might do worse," observed philip, in the same tone, while that of his sister grew warmer. "some men,--but not you, philip?" "what distinguishes me from the mass?" "you are too old to be made a fool of." "old enough to be wise, certainly." "and you are too fastidious to be satisfied with anything short of perfection; and then you fill too high a position in the world to marry a girl who is nobody." "so?"--said philip, using, which it always vexed his sister to have him do, the half questioning, half admiring, wholly unattackable german expression. "then the person alluded to seemed to you something short of perfection?" "she is handsome," returned his sister; "she has a very handsome face; anybody can see that; but that does not make her your equal." "humph!--you suppose i can find that rare bird, my equal, do you?" "not there." "what's the matter with her?" "she is simply nobody." "seems to say a good deal," responded philip. "i do not know just _what_ it says." "you know as well as i do! and she is unformed; unused to all the ways of the world; a mere novice in society." "part of that is soon mended," said philip easily. "i heard your uncle, or burrage's uncle, old colonel chauncey, last night declaring that there is not a girl in the city that has such manners as one of the miss lothrops; manners of 'mingled grace and dignity,' he said." "that was the other one." "that was the other one." "_she_ has been in new york before?" "yes." "that was the one that tom caruthers was bewitched with?" "have you heard _that_ story?" said mr. dillwyn dryly. "why shouldn't i hear it?" "no reason, that i know. it is one of the 'ways of the world' you referred to, to tell everything of everybody,--especially when it is not true." "isn't that story true?" "it has no inherent improbability. tom is open to influences, and--" he stopped. "i know it is true; for mrs. caruthers told me herself." "poor tom!"-- "it was very good for him, that the thing was put an end to. but _you_--you should fly at higher game than tom caruthers can strike, philip." "thank you. there was no occasion for your special fear last night. i am in no danger there. but i know a man, jessie,--a man i think much of, too,--who _is_ very much drawn to one of those ladies. he has confessed as much to me. what advice shall i give him? he is a man that can please himself; he has abundant means, and no ties to encumber him." "does he hold as high a position as you?" "quite." "and may pretend to as much?" "he is not a man of pretensions. but, taking your words as they mean, i should say, yes." "is it any use to offer him advice?" "i think he generally hears mine--if he is not too far gone in something." "ah!--well, philip, tell him to think what he is doing." "o, i _have_ put that before him." "he would make himself a great goose." "perhaps i ought to have some arguments wherewith to substantiate that prophecy." "he can see the whole for himself. let him think of the fitness of things. imagine such a girl set to preside over his house--a house like this, for instance. imagine her helping him receive his guests; sitting at the head of his table. fancy it; a girl who has been accustomed to sanded floors, perhaps, and paper window-shades, and who has fed on pumpkins and pork all her life." mr. dillwyn smiled, as his eye roved over what of his sister's house was visible from where he sat, and he remembered the meal-times in shampuashuh; he smiled, but his eye had more thought in it than mrs. burrage liked. she was watching him. "i cannot tell what sort of a house is in question in the present case," he said at length. "perhaps it would not be a house like this." "it _ought_ to be a house like this." "isn't that an open question?" "no! i am supposing that this man, your friend-- do i know him?" "do you not know everybody? but i have no permission to disclose his name." "and i do not care for it, if he is going to make a _mésalliance;_ a marriage beneath him. such marriages turn out miserably. a woman not fit for society drags her husband out of it; a woman who has not refined tastes makes him gradually coarse; a woman with no connections keeps him from rising in life; if she is without education, she lets all the best part of him go to waste. in short, if he marries a nobody he becomes nobody too; parts with all his antecedents, and buries all his advantages. it's social ruin, philip! it is just ruin." "if this man only does not prefer the bliss of ruining himself!"--said her brother, rising and lightly stretching himself. mrs. burrage looked at him keenly and doubtfully. "there is no greater mistake a man can make, than to marry beneath him," she went on. "yes, i think that too." "it sinks him below his level; it is a weight round his neck; people afterwards, when he is mentioned say,--'_he married such a one, you know;_' and, '_didn't he marry unfortunately?_'--he is like depreciated coin. it kills him, philip, politically." "and fashionably." "o, fashionably! of course." "what's left to a man when he ceases to be fashionable?" "well, of course he chooses a new set of associates." "but if tom caruthers had married as you say he wanted to marry, his wife would have come at once into his circle, and made one of it?" "provided she could hold the place." "of that i have no doubt." "it was a great gain to tom that he missed." "the world has odd balances to weigh loss and gain!" said philip. "why, philip, in addition to everything else, these girls are _religious;_--not after a reasonable fashion, you know, but puritanical; prejudiced, and narrow, and stiff." "how do you know all that?" "from that one's talk last night. and from mrs. wishart." "did _she_ say they were puritanical?" "yes. o yes! they are stiff about dancing and cards; and i had nearly laughed last night at the way miss--what's her name?--opened her eyes at me when i spoke of the theatre." "she does not know what the theatre is," said philip. "she thinks she does." "she does not know the half." "philip," said mrs. burrage severely and discontentedly, "you are not agreeing with me." "not entirely, sister." "you are as fond of the theatre, or of the opera, as anybody i know." "i never saw a decent opera in my life." "philip!" "nor did you." "how ridiculous! you have been going to the opera all your life, and the theatre too, in half a dozen different countries." "therefore i claim to know of what i speak. and if i had a wife--" he paused. his thoughts made two or three leaps; the vision of lois's sweet, pure dignity came before him, and words were wanting. "what if you had a wife?" asked his sister impatiently. "i would rather she would be anything but a 'fast' woman." "she needn't be 'fast'; but she needn't be precise either." there was something in philip's air or his silence which provoked mrs. burrage. she went on with some heat, and defiantly. "i have no objection to religion, in a proper way. i always teach chauncey to make the responses." "make them yourself?" "of course." "do you mean them?" "mean them!"-- "yes. do you mean what you say? when you have said, 'lord, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners'--did you feel guilty? or miserable?" "miserable!"-- "yes. did you feel miserable?" "philip, i have no idea what you are driving at, unless you are defending these two precise, puritanical young country-women." "a little of that," he said, smiling, "and a little of something else." he had risen, as if to go. his sister looked at him, vexed and uncertain. she was proud of her brother, she admired him, as almost people did who knew mr. dillwyn. suddenly she changed her tactics; rose up, and coming to him laid both her hands on his shoulders so that she could raise herself up to kiss him. "don't _you_ go and be foolish!" she said. "i will forgive your friend, philip, but i will not forgive you!" chapter xlv. duty. the days of december went by. lois was herself again, in health; and nothing was in the way of madge's full enjoyment of new york and its pleasures, so she enjoyed them to the full. she went wherever mrs. wishart would take her. that did not involve any very outrageous dissipation, for mrs. wishart, though fond of society, liked it best in moderation. moderate companies and moderate hours suited her. however, madge had enough to content her new thirst for excitement and variety, especially as mr. dillwyn continually came in to fill up gaps in her engagements. he took her to drive, or to see various sights, which for the country-bred girl were full of enchantment; and he came to the house constantly on the empty evenings. lois queried again and again what brought him there? madge it must be; it could hardly be the society of his old friend mrs. wishart. it was not her society that he sought. he was general in his attentions, to be sure; but he played chess with madge, he accompanied madge's singing, he helped madge in her french reading and italian pronunciation, and took madge out. he did none of these things with lois. truly lois had been asked, and would not go out either alone or with her sister in mr. dillwyn's carriage or in mr. dillwyn's convoy. and she had been challenged, and invariably declined, to sing with them; and she did not want to learn the game of chess, and took no help from anybody in her studies. indeed, lois kept herself persistently in the background, and refused to accompany her friends to any sort of parties; and at home, though she must sit down-stairs in the evening, she withdrew from the conversation as much as she could. "my dear," said mrs. wishart, much vexed at last, "you do not think it is _wicked_ to go into society, i hope?" "not for you. i do not think it would be right for me." "why not, pray? is this puritanism?" "not at all," said lois, smiling. "she is a regular puritan, though," said madge. "it isn't that," lois repeated. "i like going out among people as well as madge does. i am afraid i might like it too well." "what do you mean by 'too well'?" demanded her protectress, a little angrily. "more than would be good for me. just think--in a little while i must go back to esterbrooke and teaching; don't you see, i had better not get myself entangled with what would unfit me for my work?" "nonsense! that is not your work." "you are _never_ going back to that horrid place!" exclaimed madge. but they both knew, from the manner of lois's quiet silence, that their positions would not be maintained. "there's the more reason, if you are going back there by and by, why you should take all the advantage you can of the present," mrs. wishart added. lois gave her a sweet, grateful look, acknowledging her tenderness, but not granting her conclusions. she got away from the subject as soon as she could. the question of the sisters' return home had already been broached by lois; received, however, by mrs. wishart with such contempt, and by madge with such utter disfavour, that lois found the point could not be carried; at least not at that time; and then winter began to set in, and she could find no valid reason for making the move before it should be gone again, mrs. wishart's intention being unmistakeable to keep them until spring. but how was she going to hold out until spring? lois felt herself very uncomfortable. she could not possibly avoid seeing mr. dillwyn constantly; she could not always help talking to him, for sometimes he would make her talk; and she was very much afraid that she liked to talk to him. all the while she was obliged to see how much attention he was paying to madge, and it was no secret how well madge liked it; and lois was afraid to look at her own reasons for disliking it. was it merely because mr. dillwyn was a man of the world, and she did not want her sister to get entangled with him? her sister, who had made no promise to her grandmother, and who was only bound, and perhaps would not be bound, by bible commands? lois had never opened her bible to study the point, since that evening when mr. dillwyn had interrupted her. she was ashamed to do it. the question ought to have no interest for her. so days went by, and weeks, and the year was near at an end, when the first snow came. it had held off wonderfully, people said; and now when it came it came in earnest. it snowed all night and all day; and slowly then the clouds thinned and parted and cleared away, and the westering sun broke out upon a brilliant world. lois sat at her window, looking out at it, and chiding herself that it made her feel sober. or else, by contrast, it let her know how sober she was. the spectacle was wholly joy-inspiring, and so she had been wont to find it. snow lying unbroken on all the ground, in one white, fair glitter; snow lying piled up on the branches and twigs of trees, doubling them with white coral; snow in ridges and banks on the opposite shore of the river; and between, the rolling waters. madge burst in. "isn't it glorious?" said lois. "come here and see how black the river is rolling between its white banks." "black? i didn't know anything was black," said madge. "here is mr. dillwyn, come to take me sleigh-riding. just think, lois!--a sleigh ride in the park!--o, i'm so glad i have got my hood done!" lois slowly turned her head round. "sleigh-riding?" she said. "are you going sleigh-riding, and with mr. dillwyn?" "yes indeed, why not?" said madge, bustling about with great activity. "i'd rather go with him than with anybody else, i can tell you. he has got his sister's horses--mrs. burrage don't like sleighing--and mr. burrage begged he would take the horses out. they're gay, but he knows how to drive. o, won't it be magnificent?" lois looked at her sister in silence, unwilling, yet not knowing what to object; while madge wrapped herself in a warm cloak, and donned a silk hood lined with cherry colour, in which she was certainly something to look at. no plainer attire nor brighter beauty would be seen among the gay snow-revellers that afternoon. she flung a sparkling glance at her sister as she turned to go. "don't be very long!" lois said. "just as long as he likes to make it!" madge returned. "do you think _i_ am going to ask him to turn about, before he is ready? not i, i promise you. good-bye, hermit!" away she ran, and lois turned again to her window, where all the white seemed suddenly to have become black. she will marry him!--she was saying to herself. and why should she not? she has made no promise. _i_ am bound--doubly; what is it to me, what they do? yet if not right for me it is not right for madge. _is_ the bible absolute about it? she thought it would perhaps serve to settle and stay her mind if she went to the bible with the question and studied it fairly out. she drew up the table with the book, and prayed earnestly to be taught the truth, and to be kept contented with the right. then she opened at the well-known words in corinthians, chap. vi. "be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers"-- "yoked together." that is, bound in a bond which obliges two to go one way and pull in one draught. then of course they _must_ go one way; and which way, will depend upon which is strongest. but cannot a good woman use her influence to induce a man who is also good, only not christian, to go the right way? lois pondered this, wishing to believe it. yet there stood the command. and she remembered there are two sides to influence; could not a good man, and a pleasant man, only not christian, use his power to induce a christian woman to go the wrong way? how little she would like to displease him! how willingly she would gratify him!--and then there stands the command. and, turning from it to a parallel passage in cor. vii. , she read again the directions for the marriage of a christian widow; she is at liberty to be married to whom she will, "_only in the lord_." there could be no question of what is the will of god in this matter. and in deut. vii. , , she studied anew the reasons there given. "neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son. for they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods." lois studied these passages with i cannot say how much aching of heart. why did her heart ache? it was nothing to her, surely; she neither loved nor was going to love any man to whom the prohibition could apply. why should she concern herself with the matter? madge?-- well, madge must be the keeper of her own conscience; she would probably marry mr. dillwyn; and poor lois saw sufficiently into the workings of her own heart to know that she thought her sister very happy in the prospect. but then, if the question of conscience could be so got over, _why_ was she troubled? she would not evade the inquiry; she forced herself to make it; and she writhed under the pressure and the pain it caused her. at last, thoroughly humbled and grieved and ashamed, she fled to a woman's refuge in tears, and a christian's refuge in prayer; and from the bottom of her heart, though with some very hard struggles, gave up every lingering thought and wish that ran counter to the bible command. let madge do what madge thought right; she had warned her of the truth. now her business was with herself and her own action; and lois made clean work of it. i cannot say she was exactly a happy woman as she went down-stairs; but she felt strong and at peace. doing the lord's will, she could not be miserable; with the lord's presence she could not be utterly alone; anyhow, she would trust him and do her duty, and leave all the rest. she went down-stairs at last, for she had spent the afternoon in her own room, and felt that she owed it to mrs. wishart to go down and keep her company. o, if spring were but come! she thought as she descended the staircase,--and she could get away, and take hold of her work, and bring things into the old train! spring was many weeks off yet, and she must do different and harder work first, she saw. she went down to the back drawing-room and laid herself upon the sofa. "are you not well, lois?" was the immediate question from mrs. wishart. "yes, ma'am; only not just vigorous. how long they are gone! it is growing late." "the sleighing is tempting. it is not often we have such a chance. i suppose everybody is out. _you_ don't go into the air enough, lois." "i took a walk this morning." "in the snow!--and came back tired. i saw it in your face. such dreadful walking was enough to tire you. i don't think you half know how to take care of yourself." lois let the charge pass undisputed, and lay still. the afternoon had waned and the sun gone down; the snow, however, made it still light outside. but that light faded too; and it was really evening, when sounds at the front door announced the return of the sleighing party. presently madge burst in, rosy and gay as snow and sleigh-bells could make anybody. "it's glorious!" she said. "o, we have been to the park and all over. it's splendid! everybody in the world is out, and we saw everybody, and some people we saw two or three times; and it's like nothing in all the world i ever saw before. the whole air is full of sleigh-bells; and the roads are so thick with sleighs that it is positively dangerous." "that must make it very pleasant!" said lois languidly. "o, it does! there's the excitement, you know, and the skill of steering clear of people that you think are going to run over you. it's the greatest fun i ever saw in my life. and mr. dillwyn drives beautifully." "i dare say." "and the next piece of driving he does, is to drive you out." "i hardly think he will manage that." "well, you'll see. here he is. she says she hardly thinks you will, mr. dillwyn. now for a trial of power!" madge stood in the centre of the room, her hood off, her little plain cloak still round her; eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy with pleasure and frosty air, a very handsome and striking figure. lois's eyes dwelt upon her, glad and sorry at once; but lois had herself in hand now, and was as calm as the other was excited. then presently came mr. diliwyn, and sat down beside her couch. "how do you do, this evening?" his manner, she noticed, was not at all like madge's; it was quiet, sober, collected, gentle; sleighing seemed to have wrought no particular exhilaration on him. therefore it disarmed lois. she gave her answer in a similar tone. "have you been out to-day?" "yes--quite a long walk this morning." "now i want you to let me give you a short drive." "o no, i think not." "come!" said he. "i may not have another opportunity to show you what you will see to-day; and i want you to see it." he did not seem to use much urgency, and yet there was a certain insistance in his tone which lois felt, and which had its effect upon her, as such tones are apt to do, even when one does not willingly submit to them. she objected that it was late. "o, the moon is up," cried madge; "it won't be any darker than it is now." "it will be brighter," said philip. "but your horses must have had enough." "just enough," said philip, laughing, "to make them go quietly. miss madge will bear witness they were beyond that at first. i want you to go with me. come, miss lois! we must be home before mrs. wishart's tea. miss madge, give her your hood and cloak; that will save time." why should she not say no? she found it difficult, against that something in his tone. he was more intent upon the affirmative than she upon the negative. and after all, why _should_ she say no? she had fought her fight and conquered; mr. dillwyn was nothing to her, more than another man; unless, indeed, he were to be madge's husband, and then she would have to be on good terms with, him. and she had a secret fancy to have, for once, the pleasure of this drive with him. why not, just to see how it tasted? i think it went with lois at this moment as in the german story, where a little boy vaunted himself to his sister that he had resisted the temptation to buy some ripe cherries, and so had saved his pennies. his sister praised his prudence and firmness. "but now, dear hercules," she went on, "now that you have done right and saved your pennies, now, my dear brother, you may reward yourself and buy your cherries!" perhaps it was with some such unconscious recoil from judgment that lois acted now. at any rate, she slowly rose from her sofa, and madge, rejoicing, threw off her cloak and put it round her, and fastened its ties. then mr. dillwyn himself took the hood and put it on her head, and tied the strings under her chin. the start this gave her almost made lois repent of her decision; he was looking into her face, and his fingers were touching her cheek, and the pain of it was more than lois had bargained for. no, she thought, she had better not gone; but it was too late now to alter things. she stood still, feeling that thrill of pain and pleasure where the one so makes the other keen, keeping quiet and not meeting his eyes; and then he put her hand upon his arm and led her down the wide, old-fashioned staircase. something in the air of it all brought to lois's remembrance that sunday afternoon at shampuashuh and the walk home in the rain; and it gave her a stricture of heart. she put the manner now to madge's account, and thought within herself that if madge's hood and cloak were beside him it probably did not matter who was in them; his fancy could do the rest. somehow she did not want to go to drive as madge's proxy. however, there was no helping that now. she was put into the sleigh, enveloped in the fur robes; mr. dillwyn took his place beside her, and they were off. chapter xlvi. off and on. certinaly madge had not said too much, and the scene was like witchery. the sun was down, but the moon was up, near full, and giving a white illumination to the white world. the snow had fallen thick, and neither sun nor wind had as yet made any impression upon it; the covering of the road was thick and well beaten, and on every exposed level surface lay the white treasure piled up. every twig and branch of the trees still held its burden; every roof was blanketed; there had been no time yet for smoke and soil to come upon the pure surfaces; and on all this fell the pale moon rays, casting pale shadows and making the world somehow look like something better than itself. the horses mr. dillwyn drove were fresh enough yet, and stepped off gaily, their bells clinking musically; and other bells passed them and sounded in the nearer and further distance. moreover, under this illumination all less agreeable features of the landscape were covered up. it was a pure region of enchanted beauty to lois's sense, through which they drove; and she felt as if a spell had come upon her too, and this bit of experience were no more real than the rest of it. it was exquisitely and intensely pleasant; a bit of life quite apart and by itself, and never to be repeated, therefore to be enjoyed all she could while she had it. which thought was not enjoyment. was she not foolish to have come? "are you comfortable?" suddenly mr. dillwyn's voice came in upon these musings. "o, perfectly!" lois answered, with an accentuation between delight and desperation. and then he was silent again; and she went on with her musings, just that word having given them a spur. how exquisite the scene was! how exquisite everything, in fact. all the uncomelinesses of a city suburb were veiled under the moonlight; nothing but beauty could be seen; here were points that caught the light, and there were shadows that simply served to set off the silvery whiteness of the moon and the snow; what it was that made those points of reflection, or what lay beneath those soft shadows, did not appear. the road was beaten smooth, the going was capital, the horses trotted swiftly and steadily, lois was wrapped in soft furs, and the air which she was breathing was merely cold enough to exhilarate. it was perfection. in truth it was so perfect, and lois enjoyed it so keenly, that she began to be vexed at herself for her enjoyment. why should mr. dillwyn have got her out? all this luxury of sense and feeling was not good for her; did not belong to her; and why should she taste at all a delight which must be so fleeting? and what had possessed him to tie her hood strings for her, and to do it in that leisurely way, as if he liked it? and why did _she_ like it? lois scolded and chid herself. if he were going to marry madge ever so much, that gave him no right to take such a liberty; and she would not allow him such liberties; she would keep him at a distance. but was she not going to a distance herself? there would be no need. the moonlight was troubled, though by no cloud on the ethereal firmament; and lois was not quite so conscious as she had been of the beauty around her. the silence lasted a good while; she wondered if her neighbour's thoughts were busy with the lady he had just set down, to such a degree that he forgot to attend to his new companion? nothing could be more wide of the truth; but that is the way we judge and misjudge one another. she was almost hurt at his silence, before he spoke again. the fact is, that the general axiom that a man can always put in words anything of which his head and heart are both full, seems to have one exception. mr. dillwyn was a good talker, always, on matters he cared about, and matters he did not care about; and yet now, when he had secured, one would say, the most favourable circumstances for a hearing, and opportunity to speak as he liked, he did not know how to speak. by and by his hand came again round lois to see that the fur robes were well tucked in about her. something in the action made her impatient. "i am very well," she said. "you must be taken care of, you know," he said; to lois's fancy he said it as if there were some one to whom he must be responsible for her. "i am not used to being taken care of," she said. "i have taken care of myself, generally." "like it better?" "i don't know. i suppose really no woman can say she likes it better. but i am accustomed to it." "don't you think i could take care of you?" "you _are_ taking capital care of me," said lois, not knowing exactly how to understand him. "just now it is your business; and i should say you were doing it well." "what would you say if i told you that i wanted to take care of you all your life?" he had let the horses come to a walk; the sleigh-bells only tinkled softly; no other bells were near. which way they had gone lois had not considered; but evidently it had not been towards the busy and noisy haunts of men. however, she did not think of this till a few minutes afterwards; she thought now that mr. dillwyn's words regarded madge's sister, and her feeling of independence became rigid. "a kind wish,--but impracticable," she answered. "why?" "i shall be too far off. that is one thing." "where are you going to be?--forgive me for asking!" "o yes. i shall be keeping school in new england somewhere, i suppose; first of all, at esterbrooke." "but if i had the care of you--you would not be there?" "that is my place," said lois shortly. "do you mean it is the place you prefer?" "there is no question of preference. you know, one's work is what is given one; and the thing given me to do, at present, seems to be there. of course i do prefer what my work is." still the horses were smoothly walking. mr. dillwyri was silent a moment. "you did not understand what i said to you just now. it was earnest." "i did not think it was anything else," said lois, beginning to wish herself at home. "i am sure you meant it, and i know you are very good; but--you cannot take care of me." "give me your reasons," he said, restraining the horses, which would have set off upon a quicker pace again. "why, mr. dillwyn, it is self-evident. you would not respect me if i allowed you to do it; and i should not respect myself. we new england folks, if we are nothing else, we are independent." "so?--" said mr. dillwyn, in a puzzled manner, but then a light broke upon him, and he half laughed.--"i never heard that the most rampant spirit of independence made a wife object to being dependent on her husband." "a wife?" said lois, not knowing whether she heard aright. "yes," said he. "how else? how could it be else? lois, may i have you, to take care of the rest of my life, as my very own?" the short, smothered breath with which this was spoken was intelligible enough, and put lois in the rarest confusion. "me?--" was all she could ejaculate. "you, certainly. i never saw any other woman in my life to whom i wished to put the question. you are the whole world to me, as far as happiness is concerned." "i?--" said lois again. "i thought--" "what?" she hesitated, and he urged the question. lois was not enough mistress of herself to choose her words. "i thought--it was somebody else." "did you?--who did you think it was?" "o, don't ask me!" "but i think i must ask you. it concerns me to know how, and towards whom, my manner can have misled you. who was it?" "it was not--your manner--exactly," said lois, in terrible embarrassment. "i was mistaken." "how could you be mistaken?" "i never dreamed--the thought never entered my head--that--it was i." "i must have been in fault then," said he gently; "i did not want to wear my heart on my sleeve, and so perhaps i guarded myself too well. i did not wish to know anybody else's opinion of my suit till i had heard yours. what is yours, lois?--what have you to say to me?" he checked the horses again, and sat with his face inclined towards her, waiting eagerly, lois knew. and then, what a sharp pain shot through her! all that had gone before was nothing to this; and for a moment the girl's whole nature writhed under the torture. she knew her own mind now; she was fully conscious that the best gift of earth was within her grasp; her hands were stretched longingly towards it, her whole heart bounded towards it; to let it go was to fall into an abyss from which light and hope seemed banished; there was everything in all the world to bid her give the answer that was waited for; only duty bade her not give it. loyalty to god said no, and her promise bound her tongue. for that minute that she was silent lois wrestled with mortal pain. there are martyrs and martyrdoms now-a-days, that the world takes no account of; nevertheless they have bled to death for the cause, and have been true to their king at the cost of all they had in the world. mr. dillwyn was waiting, and the fight had to be short, though well she knew the pain would not be. she must speak. she did it huskily, and with a fierce effort. it seemed as if the words would not come out. "i have nothing to say, mr. dillwyn,--that you would like to hear," she added, remembering that her first utterance was rather indefinite. "you do not mean that?" he said hurriedly. "indeed i do." "i know," he said, "you never say anything you do not mean. but _how_ do you mean it, lois? not to deny me? you do not mean _that?_" "yes," she said. and it was like putting a knife through her own heart when she said it. o, if she were at home! o, if she had never come on this drive! o, if she had never left esterbrooke and those sick-beds!--but here she was, and must stand the question; and mr. dillwyn had not done. "what reason do you give me?"--and his voice grated now with pain. "i gave none," said lois faintly. "don't let us talk about it! it is no use. don't ask me anything more!" "one question i must. i must know it. do you dislike me, lois?" "dislike? o no! how should i dislike you?" she answered. there was a little, very slight, vibration in her voice as she spoke, and her companion discerned it. when an instrument is very high strung, a quite soft touch will be felt and answered, and that touch swept all the strings of mr. dillwyn's soul with music. "if you do not dislike me, then," said he, "what is it? do you, possibly _like_ me, lois?" lois could not prevent a little hesitation before she answered, and that, too, philip well noted. "it makes no difference," she said desperately. "it isn't that. don't let us talk any more about it! mr. dillwyn, the horses have been walking this great while, and we are a long way from home; won't you drive on?" he did drive on then, and for a while said not a word more. lois was panting with eagerness to get home, and could not go fast enough; she would gladly have driven herself, only not quite such a fresh and gay pair of horses. they swept along towards a region that she could see from afar was thicker set with lights than the parts where they were. before they reached it, however, mr. dillwyn drew rein again, and made the horses walk gently. "there is one question still i must ask," he said; "and to ask it, i must for a moment disobey your commands. forgive me; but when the happiness of a whole life is at stake, a moment's pain must be borne--and even inflicted--to make sure one is not suffering needlessly a far greater evil. miss lois, you never do anything without a reason; tell me your reason for refusing me. you thought i liked some one else; it is not that; i never have liked any one else. now, what is it?" "there is no use in talking," lois murmured. "it is only pain." "necessary pain," said he firmly. "it is right i should know, and it must be possible for you to tell me. say that it is because you cannot like me well enough--and i shall understand that." but lois could not say it; and the pause, which embarrassed her terribly, had naturally a different effect upon her companion. "it is _not_ that!" he cried. "have you been led to believe something false about me, lois?--lois?" "no," she said, trembling; the pain, and the difficulty of speaking, and the struggle it cost, set her absolutely to trembling. "no, it is something _true_." she spoke faintly, but he listened well. "_true!_ what is it? it is not true. what do you mean, dear?" the several things which came with the intonations of this last question overset the remnant of lois's composure. she burst into tears; and he was looking, and the moonlight was full in her face, and he could not but see it. "i cannot help it," she cried; "and you cannot help it. it is no use to talk about it. you know--o, you know--you are not a christian!" it was almost a cry at last with which she said it; and the usually self-contained lois hid her face away from him. whether the horses walked or trotted for a little while she did not know; and i think it was only mechanical, the effort by which their driver kept them at a foot pace. he waited, however, till lois dropped her hands again, and he thought she would attend to him. "may i ask," he then said, and his voice was curiously clear and composed,--"if that is your _only_ objection to me?" "it is enough!" said lois smotheredly, and noticing at the same time that ring in his voice. "you think, one who is a christian ought never to marry another who is not a christian?" "no!" she said, in the same way, as if catching her breath. "it is very often done." she made no reply. this was a most cruel discussion, she thought. would they never reach home? and the horses walking! walking, and shaking their heads, with soft little peals of the bells, like creatures who had at last got quiet enough to like walking. "is that all, lois?" he asked again; and the tone of his voice irritated her. "there need not be anything more," she answered. "that is enough. it is a barrier for ever between us; you cannot overcome it--and i cannot. o, do make the horses go! we shall never get home! and don't talk any more." "i will let the horses go presently; but first i must talk a little more, because there is something that must be said. that _was_ a barrier, a while ago; but it is not now. there is no need for either of us to overcome it or try to overcome it, for it does not exist. lois, do you hear me? it does not exist." "i do not understand," she said, in a dazed kind of way, turning towards him. "what does not exist?" "that barrier--or any barrier--between you and me." "yes, it does. it _is_ a barrier. i promised my dear grandmother--and if i had not promised her, it would be just the same, for i have promised to obey god; and he forbids it." "forbids what?" "forbids me, a christian, to have anything to do with you, who are not a christian. i mean, in that way." "but, lois--i am a christian too." "you?" she said, turning towards him. "yes." "what sort of a one?" philip could not help laughing at the naïve question, which, however, he perfectly understood. "not an old one," he said; "and not a good one; and yet, lois, truly an honest one. as you mean the word. one whose king christ is, as he is yours; and who trusts in him with the whole heart, as you do." "you a christian!" exclaimed lois now, in the greatest astonishment. "when did it happen?" he laughed again. "a fair question. well, it came about last summer. you recollect our talk one sunday in the rain?" "o yes!"-- "that set me to thinking; and the more i saw of you,--yes, and of mrs. armadale,--and the more i heard of you from mrs. barclay, the more the conviction forced itself upon my mind, that i was living, and had always lived, a fool's life. that was a conclusion easily reached; but how to become wise was another matter. i resolved to give myself to the study till i had found the answer; and that i might do it uninterruptedly, i betook myself to the wilds of canada, with not much baggage beside my gun and my bible. i hunted and fished; but i studied more than i did either. i took time for it too. i was longing to see you; but i resolved this subject should be disposed of first. and i gave myself to it, until it was all clear to me. and then i made open profession of my belief, and took service as one of christ's declared servants. that was in montreal." "in montreal!" "yes." "why did you never say anything about it, then?" "i am not accustomed to talking on the subject, you know. but, really, i had a reason. i did not want to seem to propitiate your favour by any such means; i wished to try my chances with you on my own merits; and that was also a reason why i made my profession in montreal. i wanted to do it without delay, it is true; i also wanted to do it quietly. i mean everybody shall know; but i wished you to be the first." there followed a silence. things rushed into and over lois's mind with such a sweep and confusion, that she hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling. all her positions were knocked away; all her assumptions were found baseless; her defences had been erected against nothing; her fears and her hopes were alike come to nought. that is, _bien entendu_, her old fears and her old hopes; and amid the ruins of the latter new ones were starting, in equally bewildering confusion. like little green heads of daffodils pushing up above the frozen ground, and fair blossoms of hepatica opening beneath a concealing mat of dead leaves. ah, they would blossom freely by and by; now lois hardly knew where they were or what they were. seeing her utterly silent and moveless, mr. dillwyn did probably the wisest thing he could do, and drove on. for some time the horses trotted and the bells jingled; and by too swift approaches that wilderness of lights which marked the city suburb came nearer and nearer. when it was very near and they had almost entered it, he drew in his reins again and the horses tossed their heads and walked. "lois, i think it is fair i should have another answer to my question now." "what question?" she asked hurriedly. "you know, i was so daring as to ask to have the care of you for the rest of your natural life--or of mine. what do you say to it?" lois said nothing. she could not find words. words seemed to tumble over one another in her mind,--or thoughts did. "what answer are you going to give me?" he asked again, more gravely. "you know, mr. dillwyn," said lois stammeringly, "i never thought,--i never knew before,--i never had any notion, that--that--that you thought so."-- "thought _so?_--about what?" "about me." "i have thought so about you for a great while." silence again. the horses, being by this time pretty well exercised, needed no restraining, and walked for their own pleasure. everything with lois seemed to be in a whirl. "and now it becomes necessary to know what you think about me," mr. dillwyn went on, after that pause. "i am very glad--" lois said tremulously. "of what?" "that you are a christian." "yes, but," said he, half laughing, "that is not the immediate matter in hand. what do you think of me in my proposed character as having the ownership and the care of you?" "i have never thought of you so," lois managed to get out. the words were rather faint, heard, however, as mr. dillwyn's hand came just then adjusting and tucking in her fur robes, and his face was thereby near hers. "and now you _do_ think of me so?--what do you say to me?" she could not say anything. never in her life had lois been at a loss and wrecked in all self-management before. "you know, it is necessary to say something, that i may know where i stand. i must either stay or go. will you send me away? or keep me 'for good,' as the children say?" the tone was not without a touch of grave anxiety now, and impatient earnestness, which lois heard well enough and would have answered; but it seemed as if her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. mr. dillwyn waited now for her to speak, keeping the horses at a walk, and bending down a little to hear what she would say. one sleigh passed them, then another. it became intolerable to lois. "i do not want to send you away," she managed finally to say, trembling. the words, however, were clear and slow-spoken, and mr. dillwyn asked no more then. he drove on, and attended to his driving, even went fast; and lois hardly knew how houses and rocks and vehicles flew past them, till the reins were drawn at mrs. wishart's door. philip whistled; a groom presently appeared from the house and took the horses, and he lifted lois out. as they were going up the steps he asked softly, "is that _all_ you are going to say to me?" "isn't it enough for to-night?" lois returned. "i see you think so," he said, half laughing. "i don't; but, however--are you going to be alone to-morrow morning, or will you take another sleigh ride with me?" "mrs. wishart and madge are going to mme. cisco's _matinée_." "at what o'clock?" "they will leave here at half-past ten." "then i will be here before eleven." the door opened, and with a grip of her hand he turned away. chapter xlvii. plans. lois went along the hall in that condition of the nerves in which the feet seem to walk without stepping on anything. she queried what time it could be; was the evening half gone? or had they possibly not done tea yet? then the parlour door opened. "lois!--is that you? come along; you are just in time; we are at tea. hurry, now!" lois went to her room, wishing that she could any way escape going to the table; she felt as if her friend and her sister would read the news in her face immediately, and hear it in her voice as soon as she spoke. there was no help for it; she hastened down, and presently perceived to her wonderment that her friends were absolutely without suspicion. she kept as quiet as possible, and found, happily, that she was very hungry. mrs. wishart and madge were busy in talk. "you remember mr. caruthers, lois?" said the former;--"tom caruthers, who used to be here so often?" "certainly." "did you hear he had made a great match?" "i heard he was going to be married. i heard that a great while ago." "yes, he has made a very great match. it has been delayed by the death of her mother; they had to wait. he was married a few months ago, in florence. they had a splendid wedding." "what makes what you call a 'great match'?" madge asked. "money,--and family." "i understand money," madge went on; "but what do you mean by 'family,' mrs. wishart?" "my dear, if you lived in the world, you would know. it means name, and position, and standing. i suppose at shampuashuh you are all alike--one is as good as another." "indeed," said madge, "you are much mistaken, mrs. wishart. we think one is much better than another." "do you? ah well,--then you know what i mean, my dear. i suppose the world is really very much alike in all places; it is only the names of things that vary." "in shampuashuh," madge went on, "we mean by a good family, a houseful of honest and religious people." "yes, madge," said lois, looking up, "we mean a little more than that. we mean a family that has been honest and religious, and educated too, for a long while--for generations. we mean as much as that, when we speak of a good family." "that's different," said mrs. wishart shortly. "different from what you mean?" "different from what is meant here, when we use the term." "you _don't_ mean anything honest and religious?" said madge. "o, honest! my dear, everybody is honest, or supposed to be; but we do not mean religious." "not religious, and only supposed to be honest!" echoed madge. "yes," said mrs. wishart. "it isn't that. it has nothing to do with that. when people have been in society, and held high positions for generation after generation, it is a good family. the individuals need not be all good." "oh--!" said madge. "no. i know families among the very best in the state, that have been wicked enough; but though they have been wicked, that did not hinder their being gentlemen." "oh--!" said madge again. "i begin to comprehend." "there is too much made of money now-a-days," mrs. wishart went on serenely; "and there is no denying that money buys position. _i_ do not call a good family one that was not a good family a hundred years ago; but everybody is not so particular. not here. they are more particular in philadelphia. in new york, any nobody who has money can push himself forward." "what sort of family is mr. dillwyn's?" "o, good, of course. not wealthy, till lately. they have been poor, ever since i knew the family; until the sister married chauncey burrage, and philip came into his property." "the caruthers are rich, aren't they?" "yes." "and now the young one has made a great match? is she handsome?" "i never heard so. but she is rolling in money." "what else is she?" inquired madge dryly. "she is a dulcimer." "that tells me nothing," said madge. "by the way you speak it, the word seems to have a good deal of meaning for you." "certainly," said mrs. wishart. "she is one of the philadelphia dulcimers. it is an old family, and they have always been wealthy." "how happy the gentleman must be!" "i hope so," said mrs. wishart gravely. "_you_ used to know tom quite well, lois. what did you think of him?" "i liked him," said lois. "very pleasant and amiable, and always gentlemanly. but i did not think he had much character." mrs. wishart was satisfied; for lois's tone was as disengaged as anything could possibly be. lois could not bring herself to say anything to madge that night about the turn in her fortunes. her own thoughts were in too much agitation, and only by slow degrees resolving themselves into settled conclusions. or rather, for the conclusions were not doubtful, settling into such quiet that she could look at conclusions. and lois began to be afraid to do even that, and tried to turn her eyes away, and thought of the hour of half-past ten next morning with trembling and heart-beating. it came with tremendous swiftness, too. however, she excused herself from going to the _matinée_, though with difficulty. mrs. wishart was sure she ought to go; and madge tried persuasion and raillery. lois watched her get ready, and at last contentedly saw the two drive off. that was good. she wanted no discussion with them before she had seen mr. dillwyn again; and now the coast was clear. but then lois retreated to her own room up-stairs to wait; she could not stay in the drawing-room, to be found there. she would have so much time for preparation as his ring at the door and his name being brought up-stairs would give her. preparation for what? when the summons came, lois went down feeling that she had not a bit of preparation. philip was standing in the middle of the floor, waiting for her; and the apparition that greeted him was so unexpected that he stood still, feasting his eyes with it. he had always seen lois calm, collected, moving and speaking with frank independence, although with perfect modesty. now?--how was it? eyes cast down, colour coming and going; a look and manner, not of shyness, for she came straight to him, but of the most lovely maidenly consciousness; of all things, that which a lover would most wish to see. yet she came straight to him, and as he met her and held out his hand, she put hers in it. "what are you going to say to me this morning, lois?" he said softly; for the pure dignity of the girl was a thing to fill him with reverence as well as with delight, and her hand seemed to him something sacred. her colour stirred again, but the lowered eyelids were lifted up, and the eyes met his with a most blessed smile in them. "i am very happy, mr. dillwyn," she said. everybody knows how words fail upon occasion; and on this occasion the silence lasted some considerable time. and then philip put lois into one of the big easy-chairs, and went down on one knee at her feet, holding her hand. lois tried to collect her spirits to make remonstrance. "o, mr. dillwyn, do not stay there!" she begged. "why not? it becomes me." "i do not think it becomes you at all," said lois, laughing a little nervously,--"and i am sure it does not become me." "mistaken on both points! it becomes me well, and i think it does not become you ill," said he, kissing the hand he held. and then, bending forward to carry his kiss from the hand to the cheek,--"o my darling, how long i have waited for this!" "long?" said lois, in surprise. how pretty the incredulity was on her innocent face. "very long!--while you thought i was liking somebody else. there has never been any change in me, lois. i have been patiently and impatiently waiting for you this great while. you will not think it unreasonable, if that fact makes me intolerant of any more waiting, will you?" "don't keep that position!" said lois earnestly. "it is the position i mean to keep all the rest of my life!" but that set lois to laughing, a little nervously no doubt, yet so merrily that philip could not but join in. "do i not owe everything to you?" he went on presently, with tender seriousness. "you first set me upon thinking. do you recollect your earliest talk to me here in this room once, a good while ago, about being _satisfied?_" "yes," said lois, suddenly opening her eyes. "that was the beginning. you said it to me more with your looks than with your words; for i saw that, somehow, you were in the secret, and had yourself what you offered to me. _that_ i could not forget. i had never seen anybody 'satisfied' before." "you know what it means now?" she said softly. "to-day?-- i do!" "no, no; i do not mean to-day. you know what i mean!" she said, with beautiful blushes. "i know. yes, and i have it, lois. but you have a great deal to teach me yet." "o no!" she said most unaffectedly. "it is you who will have to teach me." "what?" "everything." "how soon may i begin?" "how soon?" "yes. you do not think mrs. wishart's house is the best place, or her company the best assistance for that, do you?" "ah, please get up!" said lois. but he laughed at her. "you make me so ashamed!" "you do not look it in the least. shall i tell you my plans?" "plans!" said lois. "or will you tell me your plans?" "ah, you are laughing at me! what do you mean?" "you were confiding to me your plans of a little while ago; esterbrooke, and school, and all the rest of it. my darling!--that's all nowhere." "but,"--said lois timidly. "well?" "_that_ is all gone, of course. but--" "you will let me say what you shall do?" "i suppose you will." "your hand is in all my plans, from henceforth, to turn them and twist them what way you like. but now let me tell you my present plans. we will be married, as soon as you can accustom your self to the idea. hush!--wait. you shall have time to think about it. then, as early as spring winds will let us, we will cross to england." "england?" cried lois. "wait, and hear me out. there we will look about us a while and get such things as you may want for travelling, which one can get better in england than anywhere else. then we will go over the channel and see paris, and perhaps supplement purchases there. so work our way--" "always making purchases?" said lois, laughing, though she caught her breath too, and her colour was growing high. "certainly, making purchases. so work our way along, and get to switzerland early in june--say by the end of the first week." "switzerland!" "don't you want to see switzerland?" "but it is not the question, what i might like to see." "with me it is." "as for that, i have an untirable appetite for seeing things. but--but," and her voice lowered, "i can be quite happy enough on this side." "not if i can make you happier on the other." "but that depends. i should not be happy unless i was quite sure it was right, and the best thing to do; and it looks to me like a piece of self-indulgence. we have so much already." the gentle manner of this scruple and frank admission touched mr. dillwyn exceedingly. "i think it is right," he said. "do you remember my telling you once about my old house at home?" "yes, a little." "i think i never told you much; but now you will care to hear. it is a good way from this place, in foster county, and not very far from a busy little manufacturing town; but it stands alone in the country, in the midst of fields and woods that i used to love very much when i was a boy. the place never came into my possession till about seven or eight years ago; and for much longer than that it has been neglected and left without any sort of care. but the house is large and old-fashioned, and can be made very pretty; and the grounds, as i think, leave nothing to be desired, in their natural capabilities. however, all is in disorder, and needs a good deal of work done up on it; which must be done before you take possession. this work will require some months. where can we be better, meanwhile, than in switzerland?" "can the work be done without you?" "yes." he waited a bit. the new things at work in lois's mind made the new expression of manner and feature a most delicious study to him. she had a little difficulty in speaking, and he was still and watched her. "i am afraid to talk about it," she said at length, "why?" "i should like it so much!"-- "therefore you doubt?" "yes. i am afraid of listening just to my own pleasure." "you shall not," said he, laughing. "listen to mine. i want to see your eyes open at the jung frau, and mont blanc." "my eyes open easily at anything," said lois, yielding to the laugh;--"they are such ignorant eyes." "very wise eyes, on the contrary! for they know a thing when they see it." "but they have seen so little," said lois, finding it impossible to get back to a serious demeanour. "that sole defect in your character, i propose to cure." "ah, do not praise me!" "why not? i used to rejoice in the remembrance that you were not an angel but human. do you know the old lines?-- 'a creature _not_ too bright and good for human nature's daily food; for transient sorrows, simple wiles, praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.' only 'wiles' you never descend to; 'blame' is not to be thought of; if you forbid praise, what is left to me but the rest of it?" and truly, what with laughter and some other emotions, tears were not far from lois's eyes; and how could the kisses be wanting? "i never heard you talk so before!" she managed to say. "i have only begun." "please come back to order, and sobriety." "sobriety is not in order, as your want of it shows." "then come back to switzerland." "ah!--i want you to go up the aeggischhorn, and to stand on the görner grät, and to cross a pass or two; and i want you to see the flowers." "are there so many?" "more than on a western prairie in spring. most people travel in switzerland later in the season, and so miss the flowers. you must not miss them." "what flowers are they?" "a very great many kinds. i remember the gentians, and the forget-me-nots; but the profusion is wonderful, and exceedingly rich. they grow just at the edge of the snow, some of them. then we will linger a while at zermatt and chamounix, and a mountain _pension_ here and there, and so slowly work our way over into italy. it will be too late for rome; but we will go, if you like it, to venice; and then, as the heats grow greater, get back into the tyrol." "o, mrs. barclay had beautiful views from the tyrol; a few, but very beautiful." "how do you like my programme?" "you have not mentioned glaciers." "are you' interested in glaciers?" "_very_ much." "you shall see as much of them as you can see safely from terra firma." "are they so dangerous?" "sometimes." "but you have crossed them, have you not?" "times enough to make me scruple about your doing it." "i am very sure-footed." he kissed her hand, and inquired again what she thought of his programme. "there is no fault to be found with the programme. but--" "if i add to it the crossing of a glacier?" "no, no," said lois, laughing; "do you think i am so insatiable? but--" "would you like it all, my darling?" "like it? don't speak of liking," she said, with a quick breath of excitement. "but--" "well? but--what?" "we are not going to live to ourselves?" she said it a little anxiously and eagerly, almost pleadingly. "i do not mean it," he answered her, with a smile. "but as to this journey my mind is entirely clear. it will take but a few months. and while we are wandering over the mountains, you and i will take our bibles and study them and our work together. we can study where we stop to rest and where we stop to eat; i know by experience what good times and places those are for other reading; and they cannot be so good for any as for this." "oh! how good!" said lois, giving a little delighted and grateful pressure to the hand in which her own still lay. "you agree to my plans, then?" "i agree to--part. what is that?"--for a slight noise was heard in the hall.--"o philip, get up!--get up!--there is somebody coming!" mr. dillwyn rose now, being bidden on this wise, and stood confronting the doorway, in which presently appeared his sister, mrs. burrage. he stood quiet and calm to meet her; while lois, hidden by the back of the great easy-chair, had a moment to collect herself. he shielded her as much as he could. a swift review of the situation made him resolve for the present to "play dark." he could not trust his sister, that if the truth of the case were suddenly made known to her, she would not by her speech, or manner, or by her silence maybe, do something that would hurt lois. he would not risk it. give her time, and she would fit herself to her circumstances gracefully enough, he knew; and lois need never be told what had been her sister-in-law's first view of them. so he stood, with an unconcerned face, watching mrs. burrage come down the room. and she, it may be said, came slowly, watching him. chapter xlviii. announcements. i have never described mr. dillwyn; and if i try to do it now, i am aware that words will give to nobody else the image of him. he was not a beauty, like tom caruthers; some people declared him not handsome at all, yet they were in a minority. certainly his features were not according to classical rule, and criticism might find something to say to every one of them; if i except the shape and air of the face and head, the set of the latter, and the rich hair; which, very dark in colour, massed itself thick and high on the top of the head, and clung in close thick locks at the sides. the head sat nobly upon the shoulders, and correspondent therewith was the frank and manly expression of the face. i think irregular features sometimes make a better whole than regular ones. philip's eyes were not remarkable, unless for their honest and spirited outlook; his nose was neither roman nor grecian, and his mouth was rather large; however, it was somewhat concealed by the long soft moustache, which he wore after the fashion of some continentals (_n. b_., _not_ like the french emperor), carefully dressed and with points turning up; and the mouth itself was both manly and pleasant. altogether, the people who denied mr. dillwyn the praise of beauty, never questioned that he was very fine-looking. his sister was excessively proud of him, and, naturally thought that nothing less than the best of everything--more especially of womankind--was good enough for him. she was thinking this now, as she came down the room, and looking jealously to see signs of what she dreaded, an entanglement that would preclude for ever his having the best. do not let us judge her hardly. what sister is not critical of her brother's choice of a wife? if, indeed, she be willing that he should have a wife at all. mrs. burrage watched for signs, but saw nothing. philip stood there, calmly smiling at her, not at all flustered by her appearance. lois saw his coolness too, and envied it; feeling that as a man, and as a man of the world, he had greatly the advantage of her. she was nervous, and felt flushed. however, there is a power of will in some women which can do a great deal, and lois was determined that mr. dillwyn should not be ashamed of her. by the time it was needful for her to rise she did rise, and faced her visitor with a very quiet and perfectly composed manner. only, if anything, it was a trifle _too_ quiet; but her manner was other wise quite faultless. "philip!--" said mrs. burrage, advancing--"good morning--miss lothrop. philip, what are you doing here?" "i believe you asked me that question once on a former occasion. then, i think, i had been making toast. now, i have been telling miss lothrop my plans for the summer, since she was so good as to listen." "plans?" repeated mrs. burrage. "what plans?" she looked doubtfully from one to the other of the faces before her. "does he tell you his plans, miss lothrop?" "won't you sit down, mrs. burrage?" said lois. "i am always interested when anybody speaks of switzerland." "switzerland!" cried the lady, sinking into a chair, and her eyes going to her brother again. "you are not talking of _switzerland_ for next summer?" "where can one be better in summer?" "but you have been there ever so many times!" "by which i know how good it will be to go again." "i thought you would spend the summer with me!" "where?" he asked, with a smile. "philip, i wish you would dress your hair like other people." "it defies dressing, sister," he said, passing his hand over the thick mass. "no, no, i mean your moustache. when you smile, it gives you a demoniac expression, which drives me out of all patience. miss lothrop, would he not look a great deal better if he would cut off those hungarian twists, and wear his upper lip like a christian?" this was a trial! lois gave one glance at the moustache in question, a glance compounded of mingled horror and amusement, and flushed all over. philip saw the glance and commanded his features only by a strong exertion of will, remaining, however, to all seeming as impassive as a judge. "you don't think so?" said mrs. burrage. "philip, why are you not at that picture sale this minute, with me?" "why are you not there, let me ask, this minute without me?" "because i wanted you to tell me if i should buy in that murillo." "i can tell you as well here as there. what do you want to buy it for?" "what a question! why, they say it is a genuine murillo, and no doubt about it; and i have just one place on the wall in my second drawing-room, where something is wanting; there is one place not filled up, and it looks badly." "and the murillo is to fill up the vacant space?" "yes. if you say it is worth it." "worth what?" "the money. five hundred. but i dare say they would take four, and perhaps three. it is a real murillo, they say. everybody says." "jessie, i think it would be extravagance." "extravagance! five hundred dollars for a murillo! why, everybody says it is no price at all." "not for the murillo; but for a wall panel, i think it is. what do you say, miss lothrop, to panelling a room at five hundred dollars the panel?" "miss lothrop's experience in panels would hardly qualify her to answer you," mrs. burrage said, with a polite covert sneer. "miss lothrop has experience in some other things," philip returned immoveably. but the appeal put lois in great embarrassment. "what is the picture?" she asked, as the best way out of it. "it's a st. sebastian," mrs. burrage answered shortly. "do you know the story?" asked philip. "he was an officer in the household of the roman emperor, diocletian; a christian; and discovered to be a christian by his bold and faithful daring in the cause of truth. diocletian ordered him to be bound to a tree and shot to death with arrows, and that the inscription over his head should state that there was no fault found in him but only that he was a christian. this picture my sister wants to buy, shows him stripped and bound to the tree, and the executioner's work going on. arrows are piercing him in various places; and the saint's face is raised to heaven with the look upon it of struggling pain and triumphing faith together. you can see that the struggle is sharp, and that only strength which is not his own enables him to hold out; but you see that he will hold out, and the martyr's palm of victory is even already waving before him." lois's eyes eagerly looked into those of the speaker while he went on; then they fell silently. mrs. burrage grew impatient. "you tell it with a certain _goût_," she said. "it's a horrid story!" "o, it's a beautiful story!" said lois, suddenly looking up. "if you like horrors," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "but i believe you are one of that kind yourself, are you not?" "liking horrors?" said lois, in astonishment. "no, no, of course! not that. but i mean, you are one of that saint's spiritual relations. are you not? you would rather be shot than live easy?" philip bit his lip; but lois answered with the most delicious simplicity,-- "if living easy implied living unfaithful, i hope i would rather be shot." her eyes looked, as she spoke, straight and quietly into those of her visitor. "and i hope i would," added philip. "_you?_" said his sister, turning sharp upon him. "everybody knows you would!" "but everybody does not know yet that i am a fellow-servant of that sebastian of long ago; and that to me now, faithful and unfaithful mean the same that they meant to him. not faithfulness to man, but faithfulness to god--or unfaithfulness." "philip!--" "and as faithfulness is a word of large comprehension, it takes in also the use of money," mr. dillwyn went on smiling; "and so, jessie, i think, you see, with my new views of things, that five hundred dollars is too much for a panel." "or for a picture, i suppose!" said mrs. burrage, with dry concentrated expression. "depends. decidedly too much for a picture not meant to be looked at?" "why shouldn't it be looked at?" "people will not look much at what they cannot understand." "why shouldn't they understand it?" "it is a representation of giving up all for christ, and of faithfulness unto death. what do the crowds who fill your second drawing-room know about such experience?" mrs. burrage had put the foregoing questions dryly and shortly, examining her brother while he spoke, with intent, searching eyes. she had risen once as if to go, and now sat down again. lois thought she even turned pale. "philip!--i never heard you talk so before. what do you mean?" "merely to let you know that i am a christian. it is time." "you were always a christian!" "in name. now it is reality." "you don't mean that you--_you!_--have become one of those fanatics?" "what fanatics?" "those people who give up everything for religion, and are insane upon the subject." "you could not have described it better, than in the first half of your speech. i have given up everything for religion. that is, i have given myself and all i have to christ and his service; and whatever i do henceforth, i do only in that character and in that interest. but as to sanity,"--he smiled again,--"i think i was never sane until now." mrs. burrage had risen for the second time, and her brother was now standing opposite to her; and if she had been proud of him a little while before, it was lois's turn now. the calm, clear frankness and nobleness of his face and bearing made her heart fairly swell with its gladness and admiration; but it filled the other woman's heart with a different feeling. "and this is you, philip dillwyn!" she said bitterly. "and i know you; what you have said you will stand to. such a man as you! lost to the world!" "why lost to the world, mrs. burrage?" said lois gently. she had risen too. the other lady faced her. "without more knowledge of what the world is, i could hardly explain to you," she said, with cool rudeness; the sort of insolence that a fine lady can use upon occasion when it suits her. philip's face flushed, but he would not make the rudeness more palpable by seeming to notice it. "i hope it is the other way," he said. "i have been an idle man all my life hitherto, and have done nothing except for myself. nobody could be of less use to the world." "and what are you going to do now?" "i cannot tell. i shall find out. i am going to study the question." "and is miss lothrop your teacher?" the civil sneer was too apparent again, but it did not call up a flush this time. philip was too angry. it was lois that answered, and pleasantly,-- "she does not even wish to be that." "haven't you taught him already?" asked the lady, with prompt inquisition. "yes," said philip. lois did colour now; she could not deny the fact, nor even declare that it had been an unintentional fact; but her colour was very pretty, and so was the sort of deprecating way in which she looked at her future sister-in-law. not disarmed, mrs. burrage went on. "it is a dangerous office to take, my dear, for we women never can keep it. we may think we stand on an eminence of wisdom one day; and the next we find we have to come down to a very lowly place, and sit at somebody else's feet, and receive our orders. i find it rather hard sometimes. well, philip,--will you go on with the lesson i suppose i have interrupted? or will you have the complaisance to go with me to see about the murillo?" "i will certainly stay." "rather hard upon me, after promising me last night you would go." "i made no such promise." "indeed you did, begging your pardon. last night, when you came home with the horses, i told you of the sale, and asked you if you would go and see that i did not get cheated." "i have no recollection of it." "and you said you would with pleasure." "_that_ is no longer possible, jessie. and the sale would be over before we could get to it," he added, looking at his watch. "shall i leave you here, then?" said the lady, with a mingling of disagreeable feelings which found indescribable expression. "if miss lothrop will let me be left. you forget, it depends upon her permission." "miss lothrop," said the lady, offering her hand to lois with formal politeness, "i do not ask you the question, for my brother all his life has never been refused anything he chose to demand. pardon me my want of attention; he is responsible for it, having upset all my ideas with his strange announcements. good-bye!" lois curtseyed silently. in all this dialogue, the contrast had been striking between the two ladies; for the advantage of manner had been on the side, not of the experienced woman of the world, but of the younger and simpler and country-bred little shampuashuh woman. it comes to this; that the thirteenth chapter of first corinthians gives one the very soul and essence of what in the world is called good breeding; the kernel and thing itself; while what is for the most part known in society is the empty shell, simulating and counterfeiting it only. therefore he in whose heart that thirteenth chapter is a living truth, will never be ill-bred; and if he possesses besides a sensitive and refined nature, and is free of self-consciousness, and has some common sense to boot, he has all the make-up of the veriest high-breeding. nothing could seem more unruffled, because nothing could be more unruffled, than lois during this whole interview; she was even a little sorry for mrs. burrage, knowing that the lady would be very sorry herself afterwards for what she had done; and lois meant to bury it in perfect oblivion. so her demeanour was free, simple, dignified, most graceful; and philip was penetrated with delight and shame at once. he went with his sister to put her in her carriage, which was done with scarce any words on either part; and then returned to the room where he had left lois. she was still standing beside her chair, having in truth her thoughts too busy to remember to sit down. philip's action was to come straight to her and fold his arms round her. they were arms of caressing and protection at once; lois felt both the caressing and the protecting clasp, as something her life had never known before; and a thrill went through her of happiness that was almost mingled with awe. "my darling!"--said philip--"will you hold me responsible? will you charge it all upon me?--and let me make it good as best i can?" "o philip, there is nothing to charge!" said lois, lifting her flushed face, "fair as the moon," to meet his anxious eyes. "do not think of it again. it is perfectly natural, from her point of view. you know, you are very much somebody; and i--am nobody." the remainder of the interview may be left unreported. it lasted till the two ladies returned from the _matinée_. mrs. wishart immediately retained mr. dillwyn for luncheon, and the two girls went up-stairs together. "how long has that man been here?" was madge's disrespectful inquiry. "i don't know." "what did he come for?" "i suppose--to see me." "to see _you!_ did he come to take you sleigh-riding again?" "he said nothing about sleigh-riding." "the snow is all slush down in the city. what did he want to see you for, then?" said madge, turning round upon her sister, while at the same time she was endeavouring to extricate her head from her bonnet, which was caught upon a pin. "he had something to say to me," lois answered, trembling with an odd sort of excitement. "what?--lois, not _that?_" cried madge, stopping with her bonnet only half off her head. but lois nodded; and madge dropped herself into the nearest chair, making no further effort as regarded the bonnet. "lois!--what did you say to him?" "what could i say to him?" "why, two or three things, _i_ should think. if it was i, i should think so." "there can be but one answer to such a question. it must be yes or no." "i am sure that's two to choose from. have you gone and said yes to that man?" "don't you like him?" said lois, with a furtive smile, glancing up at her sister now from under lowered eyelids. "like him! i never saw the man yet, that i liked as well as my liberty." "liberty!" "yes. have you forgotten already what that means? o lois! have you said yes to that man? why, i am always afraid of him, every time i see him." "_afraid_ of him?" "yes. i get over it after he has been in the room a while; but the next time i see him it comes back. o lois! are you going to let him have you?" "madge, you are talking most dreadful nonsense. you never were afraid of anybody in your life; and of him least of all." "fact, though," said madge, beginning at her bonnet again. "it's the way his head is set on his shoulders, i suppose. if i had known what was happening, while i was listening to mme. cisco's screeching!"-- "you couldn't have helped it." "and now, now, actually you belong to somebody else! lois, when are you going to be married?" "i don't know." "not for a great while? not _soon_, at any rate?" "i don't know. mr. dillwyn wishes--" "and are you going to do everything he wishes?" "as far as i can," said lois, with again a rosy smile and glance. "there's the call to luncheon!" said madge. "people must eat, if they're ever so happy or ever so unhappy. it is one of the disgusting things about human nature. i just wish he wasn't going to be here. well--come along!" madge went ahead till she reached the drawing-room door; there she suddenly paused, waved herself to one side, and let lois go in before her. lois was promptly wrapped in mrs. wishart's arms, and had to endure a most warm and heartfelt embracing and congratulating. the lady was delighted. meanwhile madge found herself shaking hands with philip. "you know all about it?" he said, looking hard at her, and holding her hand fast. "if you mean what lois has told me--" "are not you going to wish me joy?" "there is no occasion--for anybody who has got lois," said madge. and then she choked, pulled her hand away, and broke down. and when lois got free from mrs. wishart, she saw madge sitting with her head in her hands, and mr. dillwyn bending over her. lois came swiftly behind and put both arms softly around her sister. "it's no use!" said madge, sobbing and yet defiant. "he has got you, and i haven't got you any longer. let me alone--i am not going to be a fool, but to be asked to wish him joy is too much." and she broke away and ran off. lois could have followed her with all her heart; but she had herself habitually under better control than madge, and knew with fine instinct what was due to others. her eyes glistened; nevertheless her bearing was quiet and undisturbed; and a second time to-day mr. dillwyn was charmed with the grace of her manner. i must add that madge presently made her appearance again, and was soon as gay as usual; her lucubrations even going so far before the end of luncheon as to wonder _where_ lois would hold her wedding. will she fetch all the folks down here? thought madge. or will everybody go to shampuashuh? with the decision, however, the reader need not be troubled. chapter xlix. on the pass. only one incident more need be told. it is the last point in my story. the intermediate days and months must be passed over, and we skip the interval to the summer and june. it is now the middle of june. mr. dillwyn's programme had been successfully carried out; and, after an easy and most festive journey from england, through france, he and lois had come by gentle stages to switzerland. a festive journey, yes; but the expression regards the mental progress rather than the apparent. mr. dillwyn, being an old traveller, took things with the calm habit of use and wont; and lois, new as all was to her, made no more fussy demonstration than he did. all the more delicious to him, and satisfactory, were the sparkles in her eyes and the flushes on her cheeks, which constantly witnessed to her pure delight or interest in something. all the more happily he felt the grasp of her hand sometimes when she did not speak; or listened to the low accents of rapture when she saw something that deserved them; or to her merry soft laugh at something that touched her sense of fun. for he found lois had a great sense of fun. she was altogether of the most buoyant, happy, and enjoying nature possible. no one could be a better traveller. she ignored discomforts (truly there had not been much in that line), and she laughed at disappointments; and travellers must meet disappointments now and then. so mr. dillwyn had found the journey giving him all he had promised himself; and to lois it gave--well lois's dreams had never promised her the quarter. so it had come to be the middle of june, and they were in switzerland. and this day, the sixteenth, found them in a little wayside inn near the top of a pass, snowed up. so far they had come, the last mile or two through a heavy storm; and then the snow clouds had descended so low and so thick, and gave forth their treasures of snow-flakes so confusedly and incessantly, that going on was not to be thought of. they were sheltered in the little inn; and that is nearly all you could say of it, for the accommodations were of the smallest and simplest. travellers were not apt to stop at that little hostelry for more than a passing refreshment; and even so, it was too early in the season for many travellers to be expected. so there were philip and his wife now, making the best of things. mr. dillwyn was coaxing the little fire to burn, which had been hastily made on their arrival; but lois sat at one of the windows looking out, and every now and then proclaiming her enjoyment by the tone in which some innocent remark came from her lips. "it is raining now, philip." "what do you see in the rain?" "nothing whatever, at this minute; but a little while ago there was a kind of drawing aside of the thick curtain of falling snow, and i had a view of some terribly grand rocks, and one glimpse of a most wonderful distance." "vague distance?" said philip, laughing. "that sounds like looking off into space." "well, it was. like chaos, and order struggling out of its awful beginnings." "don't unpractically catch cold, while you are studying natural developement." "i am perfectly warm. i think it is great fun to be kept here over night. such a nice little place as it is, and such a nice little hostess. do you notice how neat everything is? o philip!--here is somebody else coming!" "coming to the inn?" "yes. o, i'm afraid so. here's one of these original little carriages crawling along, and it has stopped, and the people are getting out. poor storm-stayed people, like ourselves." "they will come to a fire, which we didn't," said philip, leaving his post now and placing himself at the back of lois's chair, where he too could see what was going on in front of the house. a queer little vehicle had certainly stopped there, and somebody very much muffled had got out, and was now helping a second person to alight, which second person must be a woman; and she was followed by another woman, who alighted with less difficulty and less attention, though she had two or three things to carry. "i pity women who travel in the alps with their maids!" said mr. dillwyn. "philip, that first one, the gentleman, had a little bit--just a little bit--the air of your friend, mr. caruthers. he was so muffled up, one could not tell what he was like; but somehow he reminded me of mr. caruthers." "i thought tom was _your_ friend?" "friend? no. he was an acquain'tance; he was never my friend, i think." "then his name raises no tender associations in your mind?" "why, no!" said lois, with a gay little laugh. "no, indeed. but i liked him very well at one time; and i--_think_--he liked me." "poor tom!" "why do you say that?" lois asked merrily. "he is not poor; he has married a dulcimer. i never can hear her name without thinking of nebuchadnezzar's image! he has forgotten me long ago." "i see you have forgotten him," said dillwyn, bending down till his face was very near lois's. "how should i not? but i did like him at one time, quite well. i suppose i was flattered by his attentions, which i think were rather marked. and you know, at that time i did not know you." lois's voice fell a little; the last sentence being given with a delicate, sweet reserve, which spoke much more than effusion. philip's answer was mute. "besides," said lois, "he is a sort of man that i never could have liked beyond a certain point. he is a weak character; do you know it, philip?" "i know it. i observe, that is the last fault women will forgive in a man." "why should they?" said lois. "what have you, where you have not strength? it is impossible to love where you cannot respect. or if you love, it is a poor contemptible sort of love." philip laughed; and just then the door opened, and the hostess of the inn appeared on the threshhold, with other figures looming dimly behind her. she came in apologizing. more storm-bound travellers had arrived--there was no other room with a fire ready--would monsieur and madame be so gracious and allow the strangers to come in and get warm and dry by their fire? almost before she had finished her speech the two men had sprung towards each other, and "tom!"--"philip diliwyn!"--had been cried in different tones of surprised greeting. "where did you come from?" said tom, shaking his friend's hand. "what a chance! here is my wife. arabella, this is mr. dillwyn, whose name you have heard often enough. at the top of this pass!--" the lady thus addressed came in behind tom, throwing off her wrappings, and throwing each, or dropping it as it was taken off, into the hands of her attendant who followed her. she appeared now to be a slim person, of medium height, dressed very handsomely, with an insignificant face, and a quantity of light hair disposed in a mysterious manner to look like a wig. that is, it looked like nothing natural, and yet could not be resolved by the curious eye into bands or braids or any defined form of fashionable art or artifice. the face looked fretted, and returned mr. dillwyn's salutation discontentedly. tom's eye meanwhile had wandered, with an unmistakeable air of apprehension, towards the fourth member of the party; and lois came forward now, giving him a frank greeting, and holding out her hand. tom bowed very low over it, without saying one word; and philip noted that his eye shunned lois's face, and that his own face was all shadowed when he raised it. mr. dillwyn put himself in between. "may i present my wife, mrs. caruthers?" mrs. caruthers gave lois a look, swift and dissatisfied, and turned to the fire, shivering. "have we got to stay here?" she asked querulously. "we couldn't go on, you know," said tom. "we may be glad of any sort of a shelter. i am afraid we are interfering with your comfort, philip; but really, we couldn't help it. the storm's awful outside. mrs. caruthers was sure we should be overtaken by an avalanche; and then she was certain there must be a crevasse somewhere. i wonder if one can get anything to eat in this place?" "make yourself easy; they have promised us dinner, and you shall share with us. what the dinner will be, i cannot say; but we shall not starve; and you see what a fire i have coaxed up for you. take this chair, mrs. caruthers." the lady sat down and hovered over the fire; and tom restlessly bustled in and out. mr. diliwyn tended the fire, and lois kept a little in the background. till, after an uncomfortable interval, the hostess came in, bringing the very simple fare, which was all she had to set before them. brown bread, and cheese, and coffee, and a common sort of red wine; with a bit of cold salted meat, the precise antecedents of which it was not so easy to divine. the lady by the fire looked on disdainfully, and tom hastened to supplement things from their own stores. cold game, white bread, and better wine were produced from somewhere, with hard-boiled eggs and even some fruit. mrs. caruthers sat by the fire and looked on; while tom brought these articles, one after another, and lois arranged the table. philip watched her covertly; admired her lithe figure in its neat mountain dress, which he thought became her charmingly; admired the quiet, delicate tact of her whole manner and bearing; the grace with which she acted and spoke, as well as the pretty deftness of her ministrations about the table. she was taking the part of hostess, and doing it with simple dignity; and he was very sorry for tom. tom, he observed, would not see her when he could help it. but they had to all gather round the table together and face each other generally. "this is improper luxury for the mountains," dillwyn said. "mrs. caruthers thinks it best to be always provided for occasions. these small houses, you know, they can't give you any but small fare." "small fare is good for you!" "good for _you_," said tom,--"all right; but my--arabella cannot eat things if they are _too_ small. that cheese, now!--" "it is quite passable." "where are you going, philip?" "bound for the aeggischhorn, in the first place." "you are never going up?" "why not?" lois asked, with her bright smile. tom glanced at her from under his brows, and grew as dark as a thundercloud. _she_ was ministering to tom's wife in the prettiest way; not assuming anything, and yet acting in a certain sort as mistress of ceremonies. and mrs. caruthers was coming out of her apathy every now and then, and looking at her in a curious attentive way. i dare say it struck tom hard. for he could not but see that to all her natural sweetness lois had added now a full measure of the ease and grace which come from the habit of society, and which lois herself had once admired in the ladies of his family. "ay, even _they_ wouldn't say she was nobody now!" he said to himself bitterly. and philip, he saw, was so accustomed to this fact, that he took it as a matter of course. "where are you going after the aeggischhorn?" he went on, to say something. "we mean to work our way, by degrees, to zermatt." "_we_ are going to zermatt," mrs. caruthers put in blandly. "we might travel in company." "can you walk?" asked philip, smiling. "walk!" "yes. we do it on foot." "what for? pray, pardon me! but are you serious?" "i am in earnest, if that is what you mean. we do not look upon it in a serious light. it's rather a jollification." "it is far the pleasantest way, mrs. caruthers," lois added. "but do you travel without any baggage?" "not quite," said lois demurely. "we generally send that on ahead, except what will go in small satchels slung over the shoulder." "and take what you can find at the little inns?" "o yes; and fare very well." "i like to be comfortable!" sighed the other lady. "try that wine, and see how much better it is." "thank you, no; i prefer the coffee." "no use to ask _her_ to take wine," growled tom. "i know she won't. she never would. she has principles. offer it to mr. dillwyn." "you do me the honour to suppose me without principles," said philip dryly. "i don't suppose you hold _her_ principles," said tom, indicating lois rather awkwardly by the pronoun rather than in any more definite way. "you never used." "quite true; i never used. but i do it now." "do you mean that you have given up drinking wine?" "i have given it up?" said philip, smiling at tom's air, which was almost of consternation. "because she don't like it?" "i hope i would give up a greater thing than that, if she did not like it," said philip gravely. "this seems to me not a great thing. but the reason you suppose is not my reason." "if the reason isn't a secret, i wish you'd mention it; mrs. caruthers will be asking me in private, by and by; and i do not like her to ask me questions i cannot answer." "my reason is,--i think it does more harm than good." "wine?" "wine, and its congeners." "take a cup of coffee, mr. caruthers," said lois; "and confess it will do instead of the other thing." tom accepted the coffee; i don't think he could have rejected anything she held out to him; but he remarked grumly to philip, as he took it,-- "it is easy to see where you got your principles!" "less easy than you think," philip answered. "i got them from no living man or woman, though i grant you, lois showed me the way to them. i got them from the bible, old friend." tom glared at the speaker. "have you given up your cigars too?" mr. dillwyn laughed out, and lois said somewhat exultantly, "yes, mr. caruthers." "i am sure i wish you would too!" said tom's wife deploringly to her husband. "i think if anything's horrid, it's the after smell of tobacco." "but the _first_ taste of it is all the comfort a fellow gets in this world," said tom. "no fellow ought to say that," his friend returned. "the bible!" tom repeated, as if it were a hard pill to swallow. "philip dillwyn quoting _that_ old authority!" "perhaps i ought to go a little further, and say, tom, that my quoting it is not a matter of form. i have taken service in the christian army, since i saw you the last time. now tell me how you and mrs. caruthers come to be at the top of this pass in a snow-storm on the sixteenth of june?" "fate!" said tom. "we did not expect to have a snow-storm, mr. dillwyn," mrs. caruthers added. "but you might," said philip. "there have been snow-storms everywhere in switzerland this year." "well," said tom, "we did not come for pleasure, anyhow. never should dream of it, until a month later. but mrs. caruthers got word that a special friend of hers would be at zermatt by a certain day, and begged to meet her; and stay was uncertain; and so we took what was said to be the shortest way from where the letter found us. and here we are." "how is the coffee, mr. caruthers?" lois asked pleasantly. tom looked into the depths of his coffee cup, as if it were an abstraction, and then answered, that it was the best coffee he had ever had in switzerland; and upon that he turned determinately to mr. dillwyn and began to talk of other things, unconnected with switzerland or the present time. lois was fain to entertain tom's wife. the two women had little in common; nevertheless mrs. caruthers gradually warmed under the influence that shone upon her; thawed out, and began even to enjoy herself. tom saw it all, without once turning his face that way; and he was fool enough to fancy that he was the only one. but philip saw it too, as it were without looking; and delighted himself all the while in the gracious sweetness, and the tender tact, and the simple dignity of unconsciousness, with which lois attended to everybody, ministered to everybody, and finally smoothed down even poor mrs. caruthers' ruffled plumes under her sympathizing and kindly touch. "how soon will you be at zermatt?" the latter asked. "i wish we could travel together! when do you expect to get there?" "o, i do not know. we are going first, you know, to the aeggischhorn. we go where we like, and stay as long as we like; and we never know beforehand how it will be." "but so early!--" "mr. dillwyn wanted me to see the flowers. and the snow views are grand too; i am very glad not to miss them. just before you came, i had one. the clouds swept apart for a moment, and gave me a wonderful sight of a gorge, the wildest possible, and tremendous rocks, half revealed, and a chaos of cloud and storm." "do you like that?" "i like it all," said lois, smiling. and the other woman looked, with a fascinated, uncomprehending air, at the beauty of that smile. "but why do you walk?" "o, that's half the fun," cried lois. "we gain so a whole world of things that other people miss. and the walking itself is delightful." "i wonder if i could walk?" said mrs. caruthers enviously. "how far can you go in a day? you must make very slow progress?" "not very. now i am getting in training, we can do twenty or thirty miles a day with ease." "twenty or thirty miles!" mrs. caruthers as nearly screamed as politeness would let her do. "we do it easily, beginning the day early." "how early? what do you call early?" "about four or five o'clock." mrs. caruthers looked now as if she were staring at a prodigy. "start at four o'clock! where do you get breakfast? don't you have breakfast? will the people give you breakfast so early? why, they would have to be up by two." tom was listening now. he could not help it. "o, we have breakfast," lois said. "we carry it with us, and we stop at some nice place and take rest on the rocks, or on a soft carpet of moss, when we have walked an hour or two. mr. dillwyn carries our breakfast in a little knapsack." "is it _nice?_" enquired the lady, with such an expression of doubt and scruple that the risible nerves of the others could not stand it, and there was a general burst of laughter. "come and try once," said lois, "and you will see." "if you do not like such fare," philip went on, "you can almost always stop at a house and get breakfast." "i could not eat dry food," said the lady; "and you do not drink wine. what _do_ you drink? water?" "sometimes. generally we manage to get milk. it is fresh and excellent." "and without cups and saucers?" said the astonished lady. lois's "ripple of laughter" sounded again softly. "not quite without cups; i am afraid we really do without saucers. we have an unlimited tablecloth, you know, of lichen and moss." "and you really enjoy it?" but here lois shook her head. "there are no words to tell how much." mrs. caruthers sighed. if she had spoken out her thoughts, it was too plain to lois, she would have said, "i do not enjoy anything." "how long are you thinking to stay on this side of the water?" tom asked his friend now. "several months yet, i hope. i want to push on into tyrol. we are not in a hurry. the old house at home is getting put into order, and till it is ready for habitation we can be nowhere better than here." "the old house? _your_ house, do you mean? the old house at battersby?" "yes." "you are not going _there?_ for the winter at least?" "yes, we propose that. why?" "it is i that should ask 'why.' what on earth should you go to live _there_ for?" "it is a nice country, a very good house, and a place i am fond of, and i think lois will like." "but out of the world!" "only out of your world," his friend returned, with a smile. "why should you go out of our world? it is _the_ world." "for what good properties?" "and it has always been your world," tom went on, disregarding this question. "i told you, i am changed." "but does becoming a christian _change_ a man, mr. dillwyn?" mrs. caruthers asked. "so the bible says." "i never saw much difference. i thought we were all christians." "if you were to live a while in the house with that lady," said tom darkly, "you'd find your mistake. what in all the world do you expect to do up there at battersby?" he went on, turning to his friend. "live," said philip. "in your world you only drag along existence. and we expect to work, which you never do. there is no real living without working, man. try it, tom." "cannot you work, as you call it, in town?" "we want more free play, and more time, than town life allows one." "besides, the country is so much pleasanter," lois added. "but such a neighbourhood! you don't know the neighbourhood--but you _do_, philip. you have no society, and battersby is nothing but a manufacturing place--" "battersby is three and a half miles off; too far for its noise or its smoke to reach us; and we can get society, as much as we want, and _what_ we want; and in such a place there is always a great deal that might be done." the talk went on for some time; mrs. caruthers seeming amazed and mystified, tom dissatisfied and critical. at last, being informed that their own quarters were ready, the later comers withdrew, after agreeing that they would all sup together. "tom," said mrs. caruthers presently, "whom did mr. dillwyn marry?" "whom did he marry?" "yes. who was she before she married?" "i always heard she was nobody," tom answered, with something between a grunt and a groan. "nobody! but that's nonsense. i haven't seen a woman with more style in a great while." "style!" echoed tom, and his word would have had a sharp addition if he had not been speaking to his wife; but tom was before all things a gentleman. as it was, his tone would have done honour to a grisly bear somewhat out of temper. "yes," repeated mrs. caruthers. "you may not know it, tom, being a man; but _i_ know what i am saying; and i tell you mrs. dillwyn has very distinguished manners. i hope we may see a good deal of them." meanwhile lois was standing still where they had left her, in front of the fire; looking down meditatively into it. her face was grave, and her abstraction for some minutes deep. i suppose her new england reserve was struggling with her individual frankness of nature, for she said no word, and mr. dillwyn, who was watching her, also stood silent. at last frankness, or affection, got the better of reserve; and, with a slow, gentle motion she turned to him, laying one hand on his shoulder, and sinking her face upon his breast. "lois! what is it?" he asked, folding his arms about her. "philip, it smites me!" "what, my darling?" he said, almost startled. and then she lifted up her face and looked at him. "to know myself so happy, and to see them so unhappy. philip, they are not happy,--neither one of them!" "i am afraid it is true. and we can do nothing to help them." "no, i see that too." lois said it with a sigh, and was silent again. philip did not choose to push the subject further, uncertain how far her perceptions went, and not wishing to give them any assistance. lois stood silent and pondering, still within his arms, and he waited and watched her. at last she began again. "we cannot do _them_ any good. but i feel as if i should like to spend my life in making people happy." "how many people?" said her husband fondly, with a kiss or two which explained his meaning. lois laughed out. "philip, _i_ do not make you happy." "you come very near it." "but i mean-- your happiness has something better to rest on. i should like to spend my life bringing happiness to the people who know nothing about being happy." "do it, sweetheart!" said he, straining her a little closer. "and let me help." "let you help!--when you would have to do almost the whole. but, to be sure, money is not all; and money alone will not do it, in most cases. philip, i will tell you where i should like to begin." "where? i will begin there also." "with mrs. barclay." "mrs. barclay!" there came a sudden light into philip's eyes. "do you know, she is not a happy woman?" "i know it." "and she seems very much alone in the world." "she is alone in the world." "and she has been so good to us! she has done a great deal for madge and me." "she has done as much for me." "i don't know about that. i do not see how she could. in a way, i owe her almost everything. philip, you would never have married the woman i was three years ago." "don't take your oath upon that," he said lightly. "but you would not, and you ought not." "there is a counterpart to that. i am sure you would not have married the man i was three years ago." at that lois laid down her face again for a moment on his breast. "i had a pretty hard quarter of an hour in a sleigh with you once!" she said. philip's answer was again wordless. "but about mrs. barclay?" said lois, recovering herself. "are you one of the few women who can keep to the point?" said he, laughing. "what can we do for her?" "what would you like to do for her?" "oh-- make her happy!" "and to that end--?" lois lifted her face and looked into mr. dillwyn's as if she would search out something there. the frank nobleness which belonged to it was encouraging, and yet she did not speak. "shall we ask her to make her home with us?" "o philip!" said lois, with her face all illuminated,--"would you like it?" "i owe her much more than you do. and, love, i like what you like." "would she come?" "if she could resist you and me together, she would be harder than i think her." "i love her very much," said lois thoughtfully, "and i think she loves me. and if she will come--i am almost sure we _can_ make her happy." "we will try, darling." "and these other people--we need not meet them at zermatt, need we?" "we will find it not convenient." neither at zermatt nor anywhere else in switzerland did the friends again join company. afterwards, when both parties had returned to their own country, it was impossible but that encounters should now and then take place. but whenever and wherever they happened, tom made them as short as his wife would let him. and as long as he lives, he will never see mrs. philip dillwyn without a clouding of his face and a very evident discomposure of his gay and not specially profound nature. it has tenacity somewhere, and has received at least one thing which it will never lose. the end printed by morrison and gibb limited, edinburgh typographical errors silently corrected: chapter : =but you see the month= replaced by =but you see, the month= chapter : =a father unto you= replaced by =a father unto you= chapter : =want to know did you= replaced by =want to know, did you= chapter : =you see it if off= replaced by =you see, it is off= chapter : =vier augen= replaced by =vier augen= chapter : =will come of it!'= replaced by =will come of it!= chapter : =bon goût= replaced by =bon goût= chapter : =children!= replaced by =children!"= chapter : =aubigne= replaced by =aubigné= chapter : =heavy eyelids."= replaced by =heavy eyelids.= chapter : =compliment, said= replaced by =compliment," said= chapter : =chapter of matthew.= replaced by =chapter of matthew."= chapter : =come hear and rest= replaced by =comes here and rest= chapter : =mankind is man,'" my dear; "and= replaced by =mankind is man,' my dear; and= chapter : =your hare'= replaced by =your hare.'= chapter : =not become me.= replaced by =not become me."= chapter : =might like to see.= replaced by =might like to see."= chapter : =certain gout= replaced by =certain goût= chapter : =use of money,= replaced by =use of money,"= chapter : =and so, jessie= replaced by ="and so, jessie= immutable, unchangeable, natural law= that produced the =human organism itself=, it supplies to that organism those elements which in poor health are lacking, elements that must be placed and retained in the system if permanent good health is to be enjoyed, and vitae-ore and vitae-ore only can put and retain them there. if you are sick and ailing, if you are all run down, if your organs, your blood, your stomach, your heart, your kidneys, are not working right, =if you are sick and do not know what is the matter with you=, if the doctors cannot and do not tell you, cannot and do not help you, =you ought to give this wonderful, natural, mineral remedy a trial= and the chance it needs =to prove= all this to you. it won't cost you a penny! =the owners take all the risk!= what doctor, what hospital, what sanitarium, has ever offered to treat you this way? what other medicine has ever been so offered? =you are to be both judge and jury, to pass upon it.= you have the entire say-so. if it helps you, you pay for it--if it does not help you, you do not pay for it. one package, =enough= for a month's trial, is all that is necessary to convince you. how can you refuse? if you need it and do not send for it, =what is your excuse?= you are to be the judge. read this special offer! we will send to every sick and ailing person who writes us, mentioning the mayflower, a full-sized =one dollar= package of =vitae-ore=, by mail, =postpaid=, sufficient for one month's treatment, to be paid for within one month's time after receipt, if the receiver can truthfully say that its use has done him or her more good than all the drugs and dopes of quacks or good doctors or patent medicines he or she has ever used. =read= this over again carefully, and understand that we ask our pay only =when it has done you good, not before=. we take all the risk; you have nothing to lose. if it does not benefit you, you pay us nothing. =vitae-ore= is a natural, hard, adamantine rock-like substance--mineral--=ore=--mined from the ground like gold and silver, and requires about twenty years for oxidization. it contains free iron, free sulphur and magnesium, and one package will equal in medicinal strength and curative value gallons of the most powerful efficacious mineral water drunk fresh at the springs. it is a geological discovery, to which there is nothing added or taken from. it is the marvel of the century for curing such diseases as--=rheumatism, bright's disease, blood poisoning, heart trouble, dropsy, catarrh and throat affections, liver, kidney and bladder ailments, stomach and female disorders, la grippe, malarial fever, nervous prostration and general debility= as thousands testify, and as no one, answering this, writing for a package, will deny after using. =vitae-ore= has cured more chronic, obstinate, pronounced incurable cases than any other known medicine, and will reach every case with a more rapid and powerful curative action than any medicine, combination of medicines, or doctor's prescriptions which it is possible to procure. =vitae-ore= will do the same for you as it has for hundreds of readers of the mayflower, if you will give it a trial. =send for a $ . package at our risk.= you have nothing to lose but the stamp to answer this announcement. =we want no one's money whom vitae-ore cannot benefit. you are to be the judge!= can anything be more fair? what sensible person, no matter how prejudiced he or she may be, who desires a cure and is willing to pay for it, would hesitate to try =vitae-ore= on this liberal offer? one package is usually sufficient to cure ordinary cases; two or three for chronic, obstinate cases. =we mean just what we say= in this announcement and will do just as we agree. write to-day for a package at our risk and expense, giving your age and ailments, and mention the mayflower, so we may know that you are entitled to this liberal offer. not a penny unless you are benefited. this offer will challenge the attention and consideration, and afterwards the gratitude of every living person who desires better health or who suffers pains, ills, and diseases which have defied the medical world and grown worse with age. we care not for your skepticism, but ask only your investigation and at our expense, regardless of what ills you have, by sending to us for a package, address theo. noel co. m. g. dept. vitae-ore building, chicago. {transcriber's note: this etext contains . a new orchard and garden, by william lawson . the country housewifes garden, by william lawson . a most profitable new treatise, from approved experience of the art of propagating plants, by simon harwood . the husband mans fruitful orchard the first edition of "a new orchard and garden", which included "the country housewifes garden" appeared in ; many further editions appeared over the period to . the "art of propagating plants" and "the husband mans fruitful orchard" appeared in all editions from . this transcript is taken from the edition. the transcriber used a modern facsimile of the edition to clarify some doubtful readings. the spelling and hyphenation in the original are erratic. no corrections have been made other than those listed at the end of the etext. the formatting of the original tables of contents has been normalised. sidenotes are enclosed in braces, prefixed with "sn" and placed before the paragraph in which they appear. transcriber's notes in the text are enclosed in braces and prefixed with "tn". } a nevv orchard and garden or the best way for planting, grafting, and to make _any ground good, for a rich orchard: particularly in the north,_ and generally for the whole kingdome of _england_, as in nature, _reason, situation, and all probabilitie, may and doth appeare_. with the country housewifes garden for hearbes of common vse: _their vertues, seasons, profits, ornaments, varietie of knots, models_ for trees, and plots for the best ordering of grounds and walkes. as also, _the husbandry of bees, with their seuerall vses and annoyances_ being the experience of yeares labour, and now the second time corrected and much enlarged, by _william lawson_. whereunto is newly added the art of propagating plants, with the true _ordering of all manner of fruits, in their gathering, carrying home, & preseruation._ {illustration: skill and paines bring fruitfull gaines. _nemo sibi natus._} _london_, printed by _nicholas okes_ for iohn harison, at the golden vnicorne in pater-noster-row. . to the right worshipfvll sir henry belosses, knight and baronet, _worthy sir_, when in many yeeres by long experience i had furnished this my northerne orchard and countrey garden with needfull plants and vsefull hearbes, i did impart the view thereof to my friends, who resorted to me to conferre in matters of that nature, they did see it, and seeing it desired, and i must not denie now the publishing of it (which then i allotted to my priuate delight) for the publike profit of others. wherefore, though i could pleade custome the ordinarie excuse of all writers, to chuse a patron and protector of their workes, and so shroud my selfe from scandall vnder your honourable fauour, yet haue i certaine reasons to excuse this my presumption: first, the many courtesies you haue vouchsafed me. secondly, your delightfull skill in matters of this nature. thirdly, the profit which i receiued from your learned discourse of fruit-trees. fourthly, your animating and assisting of others to such endeuours. last of all, the rare worke of your owne in this kind: all which to publish vnder your protection, i haue aduentured (as you see). vouchsafe it therefore entertainement, i pray you, and i hope you shall finde it not the vnprofitablest seruant of your retinue: for when your serious employments are ouerpassed, it may interpose some commoditie, and raise your contentment out of varietie. _your worships most bounden_, william lavvson. the preface to all well minded. _art hath her first originall out of experience, which therefore is called the schoole-mistresse of fooles, because she teacheth infallibly, and plainely, as drawing her knowledge out of the course of nature, (which neuer failes in the generall) by the senses, feelingly apprehending, and comparing (with the helpe of the minde) the workes of nature; and as in all other things naturall, so especially in trees; for what is art more then a prouident and skilfull collectrix of the faults of nature in particular workes, apprehended by the senses? as when good ground naturally brings forth thistles, trees stand too thicke, or too thin, or disorderly, or (without dressing) put forth vnprofitable suckers, and suchlike. all which and a thousand more, art reformeth, being taught by experience: and therefore must we count that art the surest, that stands vpon experimentall rules, gathered by the rule of reason (not conceit) of all other rules the surest._ _whereupon haue i of my meere and sole experience, without respect to any former written treatise, gathered these rules, and set them downe in writing, not daring to hide the least talent giuen me of my lord and master in heauen: neither is this iniurious to any, though it differ from the common opinion in diuers points, to make it knowne to others, what good i haue found out in this facultie by long triall and experience. i confesse freely my want of curious skill in the art of planting. and i admire and praise _plinie_, _aristotle_, _virgil_, _cicero_, and many others for wit and iudgement in this kind, and leaue them to their times, manner, and seuerall countries._ _i am not determined (neither can i worthily) to set forth the praises of this art: how some, and not a few, euen of the best, haue accounted it a chiefe part of earthly happinesse, to haue faire and pleasant orchards, as in _hesperia_ and _thessaly_, how all with one consent agree, that it is a chiefe part of husbandry (as _tully de senectute_) and husbandry maintaines the world; how ancient, how profitable, how pleasant it is, how many secrets of nature it doth containe, how loued, how much practised in the best places, and of the best: this hath already beene done by many. i only aime at the common good. _i_ delight not in curious conceits, as planting and graffing with the root vpwards, inoculating roses on thornes, and such like, although i haue heard of diuers prooued some, and read of moe._ _the stationer hath (as being most desirous with me, to further the common good) bestowed much cost and care in hauing the knots and models by the best artizan cut in great varietie, that nothing might be any way wanting to satisfie the curious desire of those that would make vse of this booke._ _and i shew a plaine and sure way of planting, which i haue found good by . yeeres (and moe) experience in the north part of _england_: i preiudicate and enuie none, wishing yet all to abstaine from maligning that good (to them vnknowne) which is well intended. farewell._ thine, for thy good, _w. l._ a table of the things contayned in this booke chap. . _of the gardner his labour and wadges._ _pag. _ chap. . _of the soyle._ _p. _ _the kinds of trees._ _p. _ _of barren earth._ _p. _ _of grasse._ _p. _ _of the crust of the earth._ _p. _ chap. . _lowe & neere the riuer_. _p. _ _of windes._ _p. _ _of the sunne._ _p. _ _trees against a wall._ _p. _ chap. . _of the quantity._ _p. _ _orchards as good as a corne-field._ _p. _ _good as the vineyard._ _p. _ _what quantity of ground._ _p. _ _want no hinderance._ _p. _ _how land-lords by their tenants may make flourishing orchards._ _p. _ chap. . _the forme of the orchard._ _p. _ chap. . _of fences._ _p. _ _effects of euill fencing._ _p. _ _the kinds of fencinge._ _p. _ _of pales and rayles._ _p. _ _of stone-walles._ _p. _ _of quicksets and moates._ _p. _ chap. . _of setts._ _p. _ _of slipps._ _p. _ _of burknots._ _p. _ _of small setts._ _p. _ _tying of trees._ _p. _ _signes of diseases._ _p. _ _of suckers._ _p. _ _a running plant._ _p. _ _of bought setts._ _p. _ _the best sett._ _p. _ _times of remouing._ _p. _ _the manner of setting._ _p. _ chap. . _of the distance of trees._ _p. _ _the hurts of too neere planting._ _p. _ _all touches hurtfull._ _p. _ _the best distance._ _p. _ _of wast ground in an orchard._ _p. _ chap. . _of the placing of trees._ _p. _ chap. . _of grafting._ _p. _ _the kinds of grafting._ _p. _ _how to graft._ _p. _ _what a graft is._ _p. _ _the eies of a graft._ _p. _ _time of grafting._ _p. _ _gathering of grafts._ _p. _ _of incising._ _p. _ _of packing._ _p. _ _of inoculating._ _p. _ _grafting in the scutcheon._ _p. _ chap. . _the right dressing of trees._ _p. _ _timber-wood euill drest._ _p. _ _the cause of hurts in wood._ _p. _ _how to dresse timber._ _p. _ _the profit of dressing._ _p. - _ _trees will take any forme._ _p. _ _how to dresse all fruit-trees._ _p. _ _the best times for proyning._ _p. _ _faults of euill dressing and the remedies._ _p. _ _of water-boughes._ _p. _ _barke-pyld._ _p. - _ _instruments for dressing._ _p. _ chap. _of foyling._ _p. _ _time fit for foyling._ _p. _ chap. _of annoyances._ _p. _ _two euills in an orchard._ _p. _ _of galls cankers, mosse &c._ _p. _ _of wilfull annoyances._ _p. _ chap. . _of the age of trees._ _p. _ _the parts of a trees age._ _p. _ _of mans age._ _p. _ _the age of timber-trees._ _p. _ _to discerne the age of trees._ _p. _ chap. . _of gathering and keeping fruit._ _p. _ chap. . _the profit of orchards._ _p. _ _of cydar and perry._ _p. _ _of fruit, waters and conserue._ _p. _ chap. . _of ornaments._ _p. _ _of the delights._ _p. _ _the causes of delights._ _p. _ _of flowers, borders, mounts &c._ _p. _ _of bees._ _p. _ the best, svre and readiest vvay to make a good _orchard_ and _garden_. chapter. . _of the gardner, and his wages._ {sn: religious.} whosoeuer desireth & endeauoureth to haue a pleasant, and profitable orchard, must (if he be able) prouide himselfe of a fruicterer, religious, honest, skilful in that faculty, & therwithall painfull: by religious, i meane (because many think religion but a fashion or custome to go to church) maintaining, & cherishing things religious: as schooles of learning, churches, tythes, church-goods, & rights; and aboue all things, gods word, & the preachers thereof, so much as he is able, practising prayers, comfortable conference, mutuall instruction to edifie, almes, and other works of charity, and all out of a good conscience. {sn: honest.} honesty in a gardner, will grace your garden, and all your house, and helpe to stay vnbridled seruingmen, giuing offence to none, not calling your name into question by dishonest acts, nor infecting your family by euill counsell or example. for there is no plague so infectious as popery and knauery, he will not purloine your profit, nor hinder your pleasures. {sn: skilfull.} concerning his skill, he must not be a scolist, to make shew or take in hand that, which he cannot performe, especially in so weighty a thing as an orchard: than the which, there can be no humane thing more excellent, either for pleasure or profit, as shall (god willing) be proued in the treatise following. and what an hinderance shall it be, not onely to the owner, but to the common good, that the vnspeakeble benefit of many hundred yeeres shall be lost, by the audacious attempt of an vnskilfull arborist. {sn: painfull.} the gardner had not need be an idle, or lazie lubber, for to your orchard being a matter of such moment, will not prosper. there will euer be some thing to doe. weedes are alwaies growing. the great mother of all liuing creatures, the earth, is full of seed in her bowels, and any stirring giues them heat of sunne, and being laid neere day, they grow: mowles worke daily, though not alwaies alike. winter herbes at all times will grow (except in extreame frost.) in winter your young trees and herbes would be lightned of snow, and your allyes cleansed: drifts of snow will set deere, hares, and conyes, and other noysome beasts ouer your walles & hedges, into your orchard. when summer cloathes your borders with greene and peckled colours, your gardner must dresse his hedges, and antike workes: watch his bees, and hiue them: distill his roses and other herbes. now begins summer fruit to ripe, and craue your hand to pull them. if he haue a garden (as he must need) to keepe, you must needs allow him good helpe, to end his labours which are endlesse, for no one man is sufficient for these things. {sn: wages.} such a gardner as will conscionably, quietly and patiently, trauell in your orchard, god shall crowne the labours of his hands with ioyfulnesse, and make the clouds drop fatnesse vpon your trees, he will prouoke your loue, and earne his wages, and fees belonging to his place: the house being serued, fallen fruite, superfluity of herbes, and flowers, seedes, grasses, sets, and besides all other of that fruit which your bountifull hand shall reward him withall, will much augment his wages, and the profit of your bees will pay you backe againe. if you be not able, nor willing to hire a gardner, keepe your profits to your selfe, but then you must take all the pains: and for that purpose (if you want this faculty) to instruct you, haue i vndertaken these labours, and gathered these rules, but chiefly respecting my countries good. chap. . _of the soyle._ {sn: kinds of trees.} {sn: soyle.} fruit-trees most common, and meetest for our northerne countries: (as apples, peares, cheries, filberds, red and white plummes, damsons, and bulles,) for we meddle not with apricockes nor peaches, nor scarcely with quinces, which will not like in our cold parts, vnlesse they be helped with some reflex of sunne, or other like meanes, nor with bushes, bearing berries, as barberies, goose-berries, or grosers, raspe-berries, and such like, though the barbery be wholesome, and the tree may be made great: doe require (as all other trees doe) a blacke, fat, mellow, cleane and well tempered soyle, wherein they may gather plenty of good sap. some thinke the hasell would haue a chanily rocke, and the sallow, and eller a waterish marish. the soile is made better by deluing, and other meanes, being well melted, and the wildnesse of the earth and weedes (for euery thing subiect to man, and seruing his vse (not well ordered) is by nature subiect to the curse,) is killed by frosts and drought, by fallowing and laying on heapes, and if it be wild earth, with burning. {sn: barren earth.} if your ground be barren (for some are forced to make an orchard of barren ground) make a pit three quarters deepe, and two yards wide, and round in such places, where you would set your trees, and fill the same with fat, pure, and mellow earth, one whole foot higher then your soile, and therein set your plant. for who is able to manure an whole orchard plot, if it be barren? but if you determine to manure the whole site, this is your way: digge a trench halfe a yard deepe, all along the lower (if there be a lower) side of your orchard plot, casting vp all the earth on the inner side, and fill the same with good short, hot, & tender muck, and make such another trench, and fill the same as the first, and so the third, and so through out your ground. and by this meanes your plot shall be fertile for your life. but be sure you set your trees, neither in dung nor barren earth. {sn: plaine.} {sn: moyst.} your ground must be plaine, that it may receiue, and keepe moysture, not onely the raine falling thereon, but also water cast vpon it, or descending from higher ground by sluices, conduits, &c. for i account moisture in summer very needfull in the soile of trees, & drought in winter. prouided, that the ground neither be boggy, nor the inundation be past . houres at any time, and but twice in the whole summer, and so oft in the winter. therefore if your plot be in a banke, or haue a descent, make trenches by degrees, allyes, walkes, and such like, so as the water may be stayed from passage. and if too much water be any hinderance to your walks (for dry walkes doe well become an orchard, and an orchard them:) raise your walkes with earth first, and then with stones, as bigge as walnuts: and lastly, with grauell. in summer you need not doubt too much water from heauen, either to hurt the health of your body, or of your trees. and if ouerflowing molest you after one day, auoid it then by deepe trenching. some for this purpose dig the soile of their orchard to receiue moisture, which i cannot approue: for the roots with digging are oftentimes hurt, and especially being digged by some vnskilfull seruant: for the gardiner cannot doe all himselfe. and moreouer, the roots of apples & peares being laid neere day, with the heate of the sun, will put forth suckers, which are a great hinderance, and sometimes with euill guiding, the destruction of trees, vnlesse the deluing be very shallow, and the ground laid very leuell againe. cherries and plummes without deluing, will hardly or neuer (after twenty yeares) be kept from such suckers, nor aspes. {sn: grasse.} grasse also is thought needfull for moisture, so you let it not touch the roots of your trees: for it will breed mosse, and the boall of your tree neere the earth would haue the comfort of the sunne and ayre. some take their ground to be too moist when it is not so, by reason of waters standing thereon, for except in soure marshes, springs, and continuall ouerflowings, no earth can be too moyst. sandy & fat earth will auoid all water falling by receit. indeed a stiffe clay will not receiue the water, and therefore if it be grassie or plaine, especially hollow, the water will abide, and it wil seeme waterish, when the fault is in the want of manuring, and other good dressing. {sn: naturally plaine.} {sn: crust of the earth.} this plainnesse which we require, had need be naturall, because to force an vneuen ground will destroy the fatnesse. for euery soile hath his crust next day wherein trees and herbes put their roots, and whence they draw their sap, which is the best of the soile, and made fertile with heat and cold, moisture and drought, and vnder which by reason of the want of the said temperature, by the said foure qualities, no tree nor herbe (in a manner) will or can put root. as may be seene if in digging your ground, you take the weeds of most growth: as grasse or docks, (which will grow though they lie vpon the earth bare) yet bury them vnder the crust, and they will surely dye and perish, & become manure to your ground. this crust is not past . or . inches deepe in good ground, in other grounds lesse. hereby appeares the fault of forced plaines, viz. your crust in the lower parts, is couered with the crust of the higher parts, and both with worse earth: your heights hauing the crust taken away, are become meerely barren: so that either you must force a new crust, or haue an euill soile. and be sure you leuell, before you plant, lest you be forced to remoue, or hurt your plants by digging, and casting amongst their roots. your ground must be cleered as much as you may of stones, and grauell, walls, hedges, bushes, & other weeds. chap. . _of the site._ {sn: low and neere a riuer.} there is no difference, that i find betwixt the necessity of a good soile, and a good site of an orchard. for a good soile (as is before described) cannot want a good site, and if it do, the fruit cannot be good, and a good site will much mend an euill soile. the best site is in low grounds, (and if you can) neere vnto a riuer. high grounds are not naturally fat. and if they haue any fatnesse by mans hand, the very descent in time doth wash it away. it is with grounds in this case as it is with men in a common wealth. much will haue more: and once poore, seldome or neuer rich. the raine will scind, and wash, and the wind will blow fatnesse from the heights to the hollowes, where it will abide, and fatten the earth though it were barren before. {sn: psal. . .} {sn: ezek. . .} {sn: eccl. . .} {sn: mr. _markham_.} hence it is, that we haue seldome any plaine grounds, and low, barren: and as seldome any heights naturally fertill. it is vnspeakeable, what fatnesse is brought to low grounds by inundations of waters. neither did i euer know any barren ground in a low plaine by a riuer side. the goodnesse of the soile in _howle_ or _hollowdernes_, in _york-shire_, is well knowne to all that know the riuer _humber_, and the huge bulkes of their cattell there. by estimation of them that haue seene the low grounds in _holland_ and _zealand_ they farre surpasse the most countries in _europe_ for fruitfulnesse, and only because they lie so low. the world cannot compare with _Ã�gypt_, for fertility, so farre as _nilus_ doth ouer flow his bankes. so that a fitter place cannot be chosen for an orchard, then a low plaine by a riuer side. for besides the fatnesse which the water brings, if any cloudy mist or raine be stirring, it commonly falls downe to, and followes the course of the riuer. and where see we greater trees of bulke and bough, then standing on or neere the waters side? if you aske why the plaines in _holderns_, and such countries are destitute of woods? i answer that men and cattell (that haue put trees thence, from out of plaines to void corners) are better then trees. neither are those places without trees. our old fathers can tel vs, how woods are decaied, & people in the roomth of trees multiplied. i haue stood somwhat long in this poynt, because some do condemne a moist soile for fruit-trees. {sn: winds. chap. .} a low ground is good to auoide the danger of winds, both for shaking downe your vnripe fruite. trees the most (that i know) being loaden with wood, for want of proyning, and growing high, by the vnskilfulnesse of the arborist, must needes be in continuall danger of the south-west, west, and north west winds, especially in _september_ and _march_, when the aire is most temperate from extreme heat, and cold, which are deadly enemies to great winds. wherefore chuse your ground low: or if you be forced to plant in a higher ground, let high and strong wals, houses, and trees, as wall-nuts, plane trees, okes, and ashes, placed in good order, be your fence for winds. the sucken of your dwelling house, descending into your orchard, if it be cleanly conueyed, is good. {sn: sunne.} the sunne, in some sort, is the life of the world. it maketh proud growth, and ripens kindly, and speedily, according to the golden tearme: _annus fructificat, non tellus_. therefore in the countries, neerer approching the zodiake, the sunnes habitation, they haue better, and sooner ripe fruite, then we that dwell in these frozen parts. {sn: trees against a wall.} this prouoketh most of our great arborists, to plant apricockes, cherries and peaches, by a wall, and with tackes, and other meanes to spread them vpon, and fasten them to a wall, to haue the benefit of the immoderate reflexe of the sunne, which is commendable, for the hauing of faire, good & soone ripe fruit. but let them know it is more hurtfull to their trees then the benefit they reape therby: as not suffering a tree to liue the tenth part of his age. it helpes gardners to worke, for first the wall hinders the roots, because into a dry and hard wall of earth or stone a tree will not, nor cannot put any root to profit, but especially it stops the passage of sap, whereby the barke is wounded, & the wood, & diseases grow, so that the tree becomes short of life. for as in the body of a man, the leaning or lying on some member, wherby the course of bloud is stopt, makes that member as it were dead for the time, till the bloud returne to his course, and i thinke, if that stopping should continue any time, the member would perish for want of bloud (for the life is in the bloud) and so endanger the body: so the sap is the life of the tree, as the bloud is to mans body: neither doth the tree in winter (as is supposed) want his sap, no more then mans body his bloud, which in winter, and time of sleep draws inward. so that the dead time of winter, to a tree, is but a night of rest: for the tree at all times, euen in winter is nourished with sap, & groweth as well as mans body. the chilling cold may well some little time stay, or hinder the proud course of the sap, but so little & so short a time, that in calme & mild season, euen in the depth of winter, if you marke it, you may easily perceiue, the sap to put out, and your trees to increase their buds, which were formed in the summer before, & may easily be discerned: for leaues fall not off, til they be thrust off, with the knots or buds, wherupon it comes to passe that trees cannot beare fruit plentifully two yeares together, and make themselues ready to blossome against the seasonablenesse of the next spring. and if any frost be so extreme, that it stay the sap too much, or too long, then it kils the forward fruit in the bud, and sometimes the tender leaues and twigs, but not the tree. wherefore, to returne, it is perillous to stop the sap. and where, or when, did you euer see a great tree packt on a wall? nay, who did euer know a tree so vnkindly splat, come to age? i haue heard of some, that out of their imaginary cunning, haue planted such trees, on the north side of the wall, to auoide drought, but the heate of the sunne is as comfortable (which they should haue regarded) as the drought is hurtfull. and although water is a soueraigne remedy against drought, ye want of sun is no way to be helped. wherefore to conclude this chapter, let your ground lie so, that it may haue the benefit of the south, and west sun, and so low and close, that it may haue moysture, and increase his fatnesse (for trees are the greatest suckers & pillers of earth) and (as much as may be) free from great winds. chap. . _of the quantity._ {sn: orchard as good as a corn-field.} {sn: compared with a vinyard.} {sn: compared with a garden.} it would be remembred what a benefit riseth, not onely to euery particular owner of an orchard, but also to the common wealth, by fruit, as shall be shewed in the . chapter (god willing) whereupon must needes follow: the greater the orchard is (being good and well kept) the better it is, for of good things, being equally good, the biggest is the best. and if it shall appeare, that no ground a man occupieth (no, not the corne field) yeeldeth more gaine to the purse, and house keeping (not to speake of the vnspeakeable pleasure) quantity for quantity, than a good orchard (besides the cost in planting, and dressing an orchard, is not so much by farre, as the labour and feeding of your corne fields, nor for durance of time, comparable, besides the certainty of the on before the other) i see not how any labour, or cost in this kind, can be idly or wastfully bestowed, or thought too much. and what other things is a vineyard, in those countries where vines doe thriue, than a large orchard of trees bearing fruit? or what difference is there in the iuice of the grape, and our cyder & perry, but the goodnes of the soile & clime where they grow? which maketh the one more ripe, & so more pleasant then the other. what soeuer can be said for the benefit rising from an orchard, that makes for the largenesse of the orchards bounds. and (me thinkes) they do preposterously, that bestow more cost and labours, and more ground in and vpon a garden than vpon an orchard, whence they reape and may reape both more pleasure and more profit, by infinite degrees. and further, that a garden neuer so fresh, and faire, and well kept, cannot continue without both renewing of the earth and the hearbs often, in the short and ordinary age of a man: whereas your orchard well kept shall dure diuers hundred yeares, as shall be shewed chap. . in a large orchard there is much labour saued, in fencing, and otherwise: for three little orchards, or few trees, being, in a manner, all out-sides, are so blasted and dangered, and commonly in keeping neglected, and require a great fence; whereas in a great orchard, trees are a mutuall fence one to another, and the keeping is regarded, and lesse fencing serues sixe acres together, than three in seuerall inclosures. {sn: what quantity of ground.} now what quantity of ground is meetest for an orchard can no man prescribe, but that must be left to euery mans seuerall iudgement, to be measured according to his ability and will, for other necessaries besides fruite must be had, and some are more delighted with orchard then others. {sn: want is no hinderance.} {sn: how land-lords by their tenants may make flourishing orchards in _england_.} let no man hauing a fit plot plead pouerty in this case, for an orchard once planted will maintaine it selfe, and yeeld infinite profit besides. and i am perswaded, that if men did know the right and best way of planting, dressing, and keeping trees, and felt the profit and pleasure thereof, both they that haue no orchards would haue them, & they that haue orchards, would haue them larger, yea fruit-trees in their hedges, as in _worcester-shire_, &c. and i think, that the want of planting, is a great losse to our common-wealth, & in particular, to the owners of lord-ships, which land lords themselues might easily amend, by granting longer terme, and better assurance to their tenants, who haue taken vp this prouerbe _botch and sit, build and flit_: for who will build or plant for an other mans profit? or the parliament mighte ioyne euery occupier of grounds to plant and mainetaine for so many acres of fruitfull ground, so many seuerall trees or kinds of trees for fruit. thus much for quantity. chap. . _of the forme._ {sn: the vsuall forme is a square.} the goodnesse of the soile, and site, are necessary to the wel being of an orchard simply, but the forme is so farre necessary, as the owner shall thinke meete, for that kind of forme wherewith euery particular man is delighted, we leaue it to himselfe, _suum cuique pulchrum_. the forme that men like in generall is a square, for although roundnesse be _forma perfectissima_, yet that principle is good where necessity by art doth not force some other forme. if within one large square the gardner shall make one round labyrinth or maze with some kind of berries, it will grace your forme, so there be sufficient roomth left for walkes, so will foure or more round knots do. for it is to be noted, that the eye must be pleased with the forme. i haue seene squares rising by degrees with stayes from your house-ward, according to this forme which i haue, _crassa quod aiunt minerua_, with an vnsteady hand, rough hewen, for in forming the country gardens, the better sort may vse better formes, and more costly worke. what is needefull more to be sayd, i referre that all (concerning the forme,) to the chapter of the ornaments of an orchard. {illustration: _a._ al these squares must bee set with trees, the gardens and other ornaments must stand in spaces betwixt the trees, & in the borders & fences. _b._ trees . yards asunder. _c._ garden knots. _d._ kitchen garden. _e._ bridge. _f._ conduit. _g._ staires. _h._ walkes set with great wood thicke. _i._ walkes set with great wood round about your orchard. _k._ the out fence. _l._ the out fence set with stone-fruite. _m._ mount. to force earth for a mount, or such like set it round with quicke, and lay boughes of trees strangely intermingled tops inward, with the earth in the midle. _n._ still-house. _o._ good standing for bees, if you haue an house. _p._ if the riuer run by your doore, & vnder your mount, it will be pleasant.} chap. . _of fences._ {sn: effects of euill fencing.} {sn: let the fence be your owne.} all your labour past and to come about an orchard is lost vnlesse you fence well. it shall grieue you much to see your young sets rubd loose at the rootes, the barke pild, the boughes and twigs cropt, your fruite stolne, your trees broken, and your many yeares labours and hopes destroyed, for want of fences. a chiefe care must be had in this point. you must therefore plant in such a soile, where you may prouide a conuenient, strong and seemely fence. for you can possesse no goods, that haue so many enemies as an orchard, looke chapter . fruits are so delightsome, and desired of so many (nay, in a manner of all) and yet few will be at cost and take paines to prouide them. fence well therefore, let your plot be wholly in your owne power, that you make all your fence your selfe: for neighbours fencing is none at all, or very carelesse. take heed of a doore or window, (yea of a wall) of any other mans into your orchard: yea, though it be nayld vp, or the wall be high, for perhaps they will proue theeues. {sn: kinds of fences, earthen walles.} all fences commonly are made of earth, stone, bricke, wood, or both earth and wood. dry wall of earth, and dry ditches, are the worst fences saue pales or railes, and doe waste the soonest, vnlesse they be well copt with glooe and morter, whereon at _mighill-tide_ it will be good to sow wall-flowers, commonly called bee-flowers, or winter gilly-flowers, because they will grow (though amongst stones) and abide the strongest frost and drought, continually greene and flowring euen in winter, and haue a pleasant smell, and are timely, (that is, they will floure the first and last of flowers) and are good for bees. and your earthen wall is good for bees dry and warme. but these fences are both vnseemly, euill to repaire, and onely for need, where stone or wood cannot be had. whosoeuer makes such walles, must not pill the ground in the orchard, for getting earth, nor make any pits or hallowes, which are both vnseemly and vnprofitable. old dry earth mixt with sand is best for these. this kind of wall will soone decay, by reason of the trees which grow neere it, for the roots and boales of great trees, will increase, vndermine, and ouerturne such walles, though they were of stone, as is apparant by ashes, rountrees, burt-trees, and such like, carried in the chat, or berry, by birds into stone-walles. {sn: pale and raile.} fences of dead wood, as pales, will not last, neither will railes either last or make good fence. {sn: stone walls.} stone walles (where stone may be had) are the best of this sort, both for fencing, lasting, and shrouding of your young trees. but about this must you bestow much paines and more cost, to haue them handsome, high and durable. {sn: quicke wood and moates.} but of all other (in mine owne opinion) quickwood, and moats or ditches of water, where the ground is leuell, is the best fence. in vnequall grounds, which will not keepe water, there a double ditch may be cast, made streight and leuel on the top, two yards broad for a faire walke, fiue or sixe foot higher then the soyle, with a gutter on either side, two yards wide, and foure foot deepe set with out, with three or foure chesse of thorns, and within with cherry, plumme, damson, bullys, filbirds, (for i loue these trees better for their fruit, and as well for their forme, as priuit) for you may make them take any forme. and in euery corner (and middle if you will) a mount would be raised, whereabout the wood may claspe, powdered with wood-binde: which wil make with dressing a faire, plesant, profitable, & sure fence. but you must be sure that your quicke thornes either grow wholly, or that there be a supply betime, either with planting new, or plashing the old where need is. and assure your selfe, that neither wood, stone, earth, nor water, can make so strong a fence, as this after seuen yeares growth. {sn: moates.} moates, fish-ponds, and (especially at one side a riuer) within and without your fence, will afford you fish, fence, and moysture to your trees, and pleasure also, if they be so great and deepe that you may haue swans, & other water birds, good for deuouring of vermine, and boat for many good vses. it shall hardly auaile you to make any fence for your orchard, if you be a niggard of your fruit. for as liberality will saue it best from noysome neighbours, liberality i say is the best fence, so iustice must restraine rioters. thus when your ground is tempered, squared, and fenced, it is time to prouide for planting. chap. . _of sets._ there is not one point (in my opinion) about an orchard more to be regarded, than the choyce getting and setting of good plants, either for readinesse or hauing good fruite, or for continuall lasting. for whosoeuer shall faile in the choyce of good sets, or in getting, or gathering, or setting his plants, shall neuer haue a good or lasting orchard. and i take want of skill in this faculty to be a chiefe hinderance to the most orchards, and to many for hauing of orchards at all. {sn: slips.} some for readinesse vse slips, which seldome take roote: and if they doe take, they cannot last, both because their roote hauing a maine wound will in short time decay the body of the tree: and besides that rootes being so weakely put, are soone nipt with drought or frost. i could neuer see (lightly) any slip but of apples onely set for trees. {sn: bur-knot.} a bur-knot kindly taken from an apple tree, is much better and surer. you must cut him close at the roote ende, an handfull vnder the knot. (some vse in summer about _lammas_ to circumcise him, and put earth to the knots with hay roaps, and in winter cut him off and set him, but this is curiosity, needlesse, and danger with remouing, and drought,) and cut away all his twigs saue one, the most principall, which in setting you must leaue aboue the earth, burying his trunk in the crust of the earth for his root. it matters not much what part of the bough the twig growes out of. if it grow out of or neere the roote end, some say such an apple will haue no coare nor kirnell. or if it please the plantor, he may let his bough be crooked, and leaue out his top end, one foote or somewhat more, wherein will be good grafting, if either you like not, or doubt the fruite of the bough (for commonly your bur-knots are summer fruit) or if you thinke he will not couer his wound safely. {sn: vsuall sets.} {sn: maine rootes cut.} {sn: stow sets remoued.} {sn: generall rule.} {sn: tying of trees.} {sn: generall rule.} {sn: signes of diseases, chap .} the most vsuall kind of sets, is plants with rootes growing of kirnels of apples, peares, and crabbes, or stones of cherries, plummes, &c. remoued out of a nursery, wood or other orchard, into, and set in your orchard in their due places i grant this kind to be better than either of the former, by much, as more sure and more durable. herein you must note that in sets so remoued, you get all the roots you can; and without brusing of any; i vtterly dislike the opinion of those great gardners, that following their bookes would haue the maine rootes cut away, for tops cannot growe without rootes. and because none can get all the rootes, and remouall is an hinderance, you may not leaue on all tops, when you set them: for there is a proportion betwixt the top and root of a tree, euen in the number (at least) in the growth. if the roots be many, they will bring you many tops, if they be not hindred. and if you vse to stow or top your tree too much or too low, and leaue no issue, or little for sap, (as is to be seene in your hedges) it will hinder the growth of rootes and boale, because such a kind of stowing is a kind of smothering, or choaking the sap. great wood, as oke, elme, ash, &c. being continually kept downe with sheeres, knife, axe, &c. neither boale nor roote will thriue, but as an hedge or bush. if you intend to graff in your set, you may cut him closer with a greater wound, and nearer the earth, within a foote or two, because the graft or grafts will couer his wound. if you like his fruite, and would haue him to be a tree of himselfe, be not so bold: this i can tell you, that though you do cut his top close, and leaue nothing but his bulke, because his rootes are few, if he be (but little) bigger than your thumbe (as i with all plants remoued to be) he will safely recouer wound within seuen yeares; by good guidance that is. in the next time of dressing immediatly aboue his vppermost sprig, you cut him off aslope cleanely, to that the sprigge stand on the backe side, (and if you can northward, that the wound may haue the benefit of sunne) at the vpper ende of the wound: and let that sprigge onely be the boale. and take this for a generall rule; euery young plant, if he thriue, will recouer any wound aboue the earth, by good dressing, although it be to the one halfe, and to his very heart. this short cutting at the remoue, saues your plants from wind, and neede the lesse or no staking. i commend not lying or leaning of trees against holds or stayres; for it breedes obstruction of sap and wounds incureable. all remouing of trees as great as your arme, or aboue, is dangerous: though sometime some such will grow but not continue long: because they be tainted with deadly wounds, either in the roote or top. (and a tree once throughly tainted is neuer good) and though they get some hold in the earth with some lesser taw, or tawes, which giue some nourishment to the body of the tree: yet the heart being tainted, he will hardly euer thriue; which you may easily discerne by the blackenesse of the boughes at the heart, when you dresse your trees. also, when he is set with moe tops than the rootes can nourish, the tops decaying, blacken the boughes, and the boughs the armes, and so they boile at the very heart. or this taint in the remouall, if it kill not presently, but after some short time, it may be discerned by blacknesse or yellownesse in the barke, and a small hungred leafe. or if your remoued plant put forth leaues the next and second summer, and little or few spraies, it is a great signe of a taint, and next yeares death. i haue knowne a tree tainted in setting, yet grow, & beare blossomes for diuers yeares: and yet for want of strength could neuer shape his fruit. {sn: suckers good sets.} next vnto this or rather equall with these plants, are suckers growing out of the roots of great trees, which cherries and plums do seldome or neuer want: and being taken kindly with their roots, will make very good sets. and you may helpe them much by enlarging their rootes with the taws of the tree, whence you take them. they are of two sorts: either growing from the very root of the tree: and here you must be carefull, not to hurt your tree when you gather them, by ripping amongst the rootes; and that you take them cleane away: for these are a great and continuall annoyance to the growth of your tree: and they will hardly be cleansed. secondly, or they do arise from some taw: and these may be taken without danger, with long and good rootes, and will soone become trees of strength. {sn: a running plant.} there is another way, which i haue not throughly proued, to get not onely plants for graffing, but sets to remaine for trees, which i call a _running plant_: the manner of it is this: take a roote or kirnell, and put it into the middle of your plot, and the second yeare in the spring, geld his top, if he haue one principall (as commonly by nature they haue) and let him put forth onely foure cyons toward the foure corners of the orchard, as neere the earth as you can. if he put not foure, (which is rare) stay his top till he haue put so many. when you haue such foure, cut the stocke aslope, as is aforesayd in this chapter, hard aboue the vttermost sprig, & keepe those foure without cyons cleane and straight, till you haue them a yard and a halfe, at least, or two yards long. then the next spring in grassing time, lay downe those foure sprayes, towards the foure corners of your orchard, with their tops in an heape of pure and good earth, and railed as high as the roote of your cyon (for sap will not descend) and a sod to keepe them downe, leauing nine or twelue inches of the top to looke vpward. in that hill he will put rootes, and his top new cyons, which you must spread as before, and so from hill to hill till he spread the compasse of your ground, or as farre as you list. if in bending, the cyons cracke, the matter is small, cleanse the ground and he will recouer. euery bended bough will put forth branches, and become trees. if this plant be of a burre knot, there is no doubt. i haue proued it in one branch my selfe: and i know at _wilton_ in _cleeue-land_ a peare-tree of a great bulke and age, blowne close to the earth, hath put at euery knot rootes into the earth, and from roote to top, a great number of mighty armes or trees, filling a great roomth, like many trees, or a little orchard. much better may it be done by art in a lesse tree. and i could not mislike this kind, saue that the time will be long before it come to perfection. {sn: sets bought.} many vse to buy sets already grafted, which is not the best way: for first, all remoues are dangerous: againe, there is danger in the carriage: thirdly, it is a costly course of planting: fourthly, euery gardner is not trusty to sell you good fruite: fifthly, you know not which is best, which is worst, and so may take most care about your worst trees. lastly, this way keepes you from practise, and so from experience in so good, gentlemanly, scholerlike, and profitable a faculty. {sn: the best sets.} {sn: vnremoued how.} the onely best way (in my opinion) to haue sure and lasting sets, is neuer to remoue: for euery remoue is an hinderance, if not a dangerous hurt or deadly taint. this is the way. the plot forme being layd, and the plot appointed where you will plant euery set in your orchard, digge the roomth, where your sets shall stand, a yard compasse, and make the earth mellow and cleane, and mingle it with a few coale-ashes, to auoide wormes: and immediately after the first change of the moone, in the latter end of _february_, the earth being a fresh turn'd ouer, put in euery such roomth three or foure kirnels of apples or peares, of the best: euery kirnell in an hole made with your finger, finger deepe, a foote distant one from another: and that day moneth following, as many moe, (lest some of the former misse) in the same compasse; but not in the same holes. hence (god willing) shall you haue rootes enough. if they all, or diuers of them come vp, you may draw (but not digge) vp (nor put downe) at your pleasure, the next _nouember_. how many soeuer you take away, to giue or bestow elsewhere, be sure to leaue two of the proudest. and when in your . and . yeare you graffe, if you graffe then at all, leaue the one of those two vngraffed, lest in graffing the other you faile: for i find by tryall, that after first or second graffing in the same stocke, being mist (for who hits all) the third misse puts your stocke in deadly danger, for want of issue of sap. yea, though you hit in graffing, yet may your graffes with winde or otherwise be broken downe. if your graffes or graffe prosper, you haue your desire, in a plant vnremoued, without taint, and the fruite at your owne choyce, and so you may (some little earth being remooued) pull, but not digge vp the other plant or plants in that roomth. if your graffe or stocke, or both perish, you haue another in the same place, of better strength to worke vpon. for thriuing without snub he will ouer-lay your grafted stocke much. and it is hardly possible to misse in graffing so often, if your gardiner be worth his name. {sn: sets vngrafted best of all.} it shall not be amisse (as i iudge it) if your kirnels be of choyce fruite, and that you see them come forward proudly in their body, and beare a faire and broad leafe in colour, tending to a greenish yellow (which argues pleasant and great fruit) to try some of them vngraffed: for although it be a long time ere this come to beare fruit, ten or twelue yeares, or moe; and at their first bearing, the fruit will not seeme to be like his owne kind: yet am i assured, vpon tryall, before twenty yeares growth, such trees will increase the bignesse and goodnesse of their fruite, and come perfectly to their owne kind. trees (like other breeding creatures) as they grow in yeares, bignes and strength, so they mend their fruit. husbands and houswiues find this true by experience, in the rearing of their yong store. more then this, there is no tree like this for soundnes and dureable last, if his keeping and dressing be answerable. i grant, the readiest way to come soone to fruit is graffing: because in a manner, all your graffes are taken of fruit bearing trees. {sn: time of remouing.} {sn: generall rule.} now when you haue made choise of your sets to remoue, the ground being ready, the best time is, immediatly after the fall of the leafe, in, or about the change of the moone, when the sap is most quiet: for then the sap is in turning: for it makes no stay, but in the _extremity_ of drought or cold. at any time in winter, may you transplant trees so you put no ice nor snow to the root of your plant in the setting: and therefore open, calme and moist weather is best. to remoue, the leafe being ready to fall and not fallen, or buds apparantly put forth in a moist warme season, for need, sometime may do well: but the safest is to walke in the plaine trodden path. some hold opinion that it is best remouing before the fall of the leafe, and i heare it commonly practised in the south by our best arborists, the leafe not fallen: and they giue the reason to be, that the descending of the sap will make speedy rootes. but marke the reasons following and i thinke you shall find no soundnesse, either in that position or practise, at least in the reason. . i say, it is dangerous to remoue when the sap is not quiet, for euery remoue giues a maine checke to the stirring sap, by staying the course therof in the body of your plant, as may appeare in trees remoued any time in summer, they commonly dye, nay hardly shall you saue the life of the most young and tender plant of any kinde of wood (scarcely herbes) if you remoue them in the pride of sap. for proud sap vniuersally staied by remoual, euer hinders; often taints and so presently, or in very short time kills. sap is like bloud in mans body, in which is the life, _cap. . p. ._ if the blood vniuersally be cold, life is excluded; so is sap tainted by vntimely remouall. a stay by drought, or cold, is not so dangerous (though dangerous if it be extreme) because more naturall. . the sap neuer descends, as men suppose, but is consollidated & transubstantiated into the substance of the tree, and passeth (alwayes aboue the earth) vpward, not onely betwixt the barke and the wood, but also into and in both body & barke, though not so plentifully, as may appeare by a tree budding, nay fructifying two or three yeres, after he be circumcised at the very root, like a riuer that inlargeth his channel by a continual descent. . i cannot perceiue what time they would haue the sap to descend. at _midsommer_ in a biting drought it staies, but descends not, for immediatly vpon moisture it makes second shoots, at (or before rather) _michaeltide_, when it shapens his buds for next yeares fruit. if at the fal of leafe, i grant, about that time is the greatest stand, but no descent, of sap, which begins somwhat before the leafe fall, but not long, therfore at that time must be the best remouing, not by reason of descent, but stay of sap. . the sap in this course hath his profitable and apparant effects, as the growth of the tree, couering of wounds, putting of buds, &c. wherupon it follows, if the sap descend, it must needs haue some effect to shew it. . lastly, boughs plasht and laid lower then the root, dye for want of sap descending, except where it is forced by the maine streame of the sap, as in top boughs hanging like water in pipes, or except the plasht bough lying on the ground put rootes of his owne, yea vnder boughs which we commonly call water boughs, can scarcely get sap to liue, yea in time dye, because the sap doth presse so violently vpward, and therefore the fairest shootes and fruits are alwayes in the top. {sn: remooue soone.} _obiect._ if you say that many so remoued thriue, i say that somewhat before the fall of the leafe (but not much) is the stand, for the fall & the stand are not at one instant, before the stand is dangerous. but to returne. the sooner in winter you remoue your sets, the better; the latter the worse: for it is very perillous if a strong drought take your sets before they haue made good their rooting. a plant set at the fall, shall gaine (in a a manner) a whole yeeres growth of that which is set in the spring after. {sn: the manner of setting.} i vse in the setting to be sure, that the earth be mouldy, (and somewhat moist) that it may runne among the small tangles without straining or bruising: and as i fill in earth to his root, i shake the set easily to and fro, to make the earth settle the better to his roots: and withall easily with my foot i put in the earth close; for ayre is noysome, and will follow concauities. some prescribe oates to be put in with the earth. i could like it, if i could know any reason thereof: and they vse to set their plant with the same side toward the sunne: but this conceit is like the other. for first i would haue euery tree to stand so free from shade, that not onely the root (which therefore you must keepe bare from graffe) but body, boughes, and branches, and euery spray, may haue the benefit of sunne. and what hurt, if that part of the tree, that before was shadowed, be now made partaker of the heat of the sunne? in turning of bees, i know it is hurtfull, because it changeth their entrance, passage, and whole worke: but not so in trees. {sn: set in the crust.} set as deepe as you can, so that in any wise you goe not beneath the crust. looke chap. . {sn: moysture good.} we speake in the second chapter of moysture in generall: but now especially hauing put your remoued plant into the earth, powre on water (of a puddle were good) by distilling presently, and so euery weeke twice in strong drought, so long as the earth will drinke, and refuse by ouerflowing. for moisture mollifies, and both giues leaue to the roots to spread, and makes the earth yeeld sap and nourishment with plenty & facility. nurses (they say) giue most & best milke after warme drinks. if your ground be such that it will keepe no moisture at the root of your plant, such plant shall neuer like, or but for a time. there is nothing more hurtfull for young trees then piercing drought. i haue known trees of good stature after they haue beene of diuers yeeres growth, & thriue well for a good time, perish for want of water, and very many by reason of taints in setting. {sn: grafts must be fenced.} it is meet your sets and grafts be fenced, till they be as big as your arme, for feare of annoyances. many waies may sets receiue dammages, after they be set, whether grafted or vngrafted. for although we suppose, that no noysome beast, or other thing must haue accesse among your trees: yet by casualty, a dog, cat, or such like, or your selfe, or negligent friend bearing you company, or a shrewd boy, may tread or fall vpon a young and tender plant or graft. to auoid these and many such chances, you must stake them round a pretty distance from the set, neither so neere, nor so thicke, but that it may haue the benefit of sun, raine, and ayre. your stakes (small or great) would be so surely put, or driuen into the earth, that they breake not, if any thing happen to leane vpon them, else may the fall be more hurtfull, then the want of the fence. let not your stakes shelter any weeds about your sets, for want of sunne is a great hinderance. let them stand so farre off, that your grafts spreading receiue no hurt, either by rubbing on them, or of any other thing passing by. if your stocke be long, and high grafted (which i must discommend (except in need) because there the sap is weake, and they are subiect to strong wind, and the lighting of birds) tie easily with a soft list three or foure prickes vnder the clay, and let their tops stand aboue the grafts, to auoid the lighting of crowes, pyes, &c. vpon your grafts. if you sticke some sharpe thornes at the roots of your stakes, they will make hurtfull things keepe off the better. other better fences for your grafts i know none. and thus much for sets and setting. chap. . _of the distance of trees._ {sn: hurts of too neere planting.} i know not to what end you should prouide good ground, well fenced, & plant good sets; and when your trees should come to profit, haue all your labours lost, for want of due regard to the distance of placing your trees. i haue seene many trees stand so thicke, that one could not thriue for the throng of his neighbours. if you doe marke it, you shall see the tops of trees rubd off, their sides galled like a galled horses backe, and many trees haue more stumps then boughes, and most trees no well thriuing, but short, stumpish, and euill thriuing boughes: like a corne field ouer seeded, or a towne ouer peopled, or a pasture ouer-laid, which the gardiner must either let grow, or leaue the tree very few boughes to beare fruit. hence small thrift, galls, wounds, diseases, and short life to the trees: and while they liue greene, little, hard, worme-eaten, and euill thriuing fruit arise, to the discomfort of the owners. {sn: remedy.} {sn: generall rule.} {sn: all touches hurtfull.} to preuent which discommodity, one of the best remedies is the sufficient and fit distance of trees. therefore at the setting of your plants you must haue such respect, that the distance of them be such, that euery tree be not annoyance, but an helpe to his fellowes: for trees (as all other things of the same kind) should shroud, and not hurt one another. and assure your selfe that euery touch of trees (as well vnder as aboue the earth) is hurtfull. therefore this must be a generall rule in this art: that no tree in an orchard well ordered, nor bough, nor cyon, drop vpon, or touch his fellowes. let no man thinke this vnpossible, but looke in the eleuenth chapter of dressing of trees. if they touch, the winde will cause a forcible rub. young twigs are tender, if boughes or armes touch or rub, if they are strong, they make great galls. no kind of touch therefore in trees can be good. {sn: the best distance of trees.} {sn: the parts of a tree.} now it is to be considered what distance amongst sets is requisite, and that must be gathered from the compasse and roomth, that each tree by probability will take and fill. and herein i am of a contrary opinion to all them, which practise or teach the planting of trees, that euer yet i knew, read, or heard of. for the common space betweene tree and tree is ten foot: if twenty foot, it is thought very much. but i suppose twenty yards distance is small enough betwixt tree and tree, or rather too too little. for the distance must needs be as far as two trees are well able to ouer spread, and fill, so they touch not by one yard at least. now i am assured, and i know one apple-tree, set of a slip _finger-great_, in the space of yeares, (which i account a very small part of a trees age, as is shewed chapter .) hath spred his boughes eleuen or twelue yards compasse, that is, fiue or sixe yards on euery side. here i gather, that in forty or fifty yeares (which yet is but a small time of his age) a tree in good soile, well liking, by good dressing (for that is much auaileable to this purpose) will spread double at the least, viz. twelue yards on a side, which being added to twelue alotted to his fellow, make twenty and foure yards, and so farre distant must euery tree stand from another. and looke how farre a tree spreads his boughes aboue, so far doth he put his roots vnder the earth, or rather further, if there be no stop, nor let by walls, trees, rocks, barren earth and such like: for an huge bulk, and strong armes, massie boughes, many branches, and infinite twigs, require wide spreading roots. the top hath the vast aire to spread his boughs in, high and low, this way and that way: but the roots are kept in the crust of the earth, they may not goe downward, nor vpward out of the earth, which is their element, no more then the fish out of the water, camelion out of the aire, nor salamander out of the fire. therefore they must needs spread farre vnder the earth. and i dare well say, if nature would giue leaue to man by art, to dresse the roots of trees, to take away the tawes and tangles, that lap and fret and grow superfluously and disorderly, (for euery thing _sublunary_ is cursed for mans sake) the tops aboue being answerably dressed, we should haue trees of wonderfull greatnes, and infinite durance. and i perswade myselfe that this might be done sometimes in winter, to trees standing in faire plaines and kindly earth, with small or no danger at all. so that i conclude, that twenty foure yards are the least space that art can allot for trees to stand distant one from another. {sn: waste ground in an orchard.} if you aske me what vse shall be made of that waste ground betwixt tree and tree? i answer: if you please to plant some tree or trees in that middle space, you may, and as your trees grow contigious, great and thick, you may at your pleasure take vp those last trees. and this i take to be the chiefe cause, why the most trees stand so thicke. for men not knowing (or not regarding) this secret of needfull distance, and louing fruit of trees planted to their handes, thinke much to pull vpp any, though they pine one another. if you or your heires or successors would take vp some great trees (past setting) where they stand too thicke, be sure you doe it about _midsummer_, and leaue no maine root. i destinate this space of foure and twenty yards, for trees of age & stature. more then this, you haue borders to be made for walkes with roses, berries, &c. and chiefly consider: that your orchard, for the first twenty or thirty yeeres, will serue you for many gardens, for safron, licoras, roots, and other herbs for profit, and flowers for pleasure: so that no ground need be wasted if the gardiner be skillfull and diligent. but be sure you come not neere with such deepe deluing the roots of your trees, whose compasse you may partly discerne, by the compasse of the tops, if your top be well spread. and vnder the droppings and shadow of your trees, be sure no herbes will like. let this be said for the distance of trees. chap. . _of the placing of trees._ the placing of trees in an orchard is well worth the regard: for although it must be granted, that any of our foresaid trees (chap. .) will like well in any part of your orchard, being good and well drest earth: yet are not all trees alike worthy of a good place. and therefore i wish that your filbird, plummes, damsons, bulesse, and such like, be vtterly remoued from the plaine soile of your orchard into your fence: for there is not such fertility and easefull growth, as within: and there also they are more subiect to, and can abide the blasts of _Ã�olus_. the cherries and plummes being ripe in the hot time of summer, and the rest standing longer, are not so soone shaken as your better fruit: neither if they suffer losse, is your losse so great. besides that, your fences and ditches will deuoure some of your fruit growing in or neere your hedges. and seeing the continuance of all these (except nuts) is small, the care of them ought to be the lesse. and make no doubt but the fences of a large orchard will containe a sufficient number of such kind of fruit trees in the whole compasse. it is not material, but at your pleasure, in the said fences, you may either intermingle your seueral kinds of fruit-trees, or set euery kind by himselfe, which order doth very well become your better and greater fruit. let therefore your apples, peares, and quinches, possesse all the soile of your orchard, vnlesse you be especially affected to some of your other kinds: and of them let your greatest trees of growth stand furthest from sunne, and your quinches at the south side or end, and your apples in the middle, so shall none be any hinderance to his fellowes. the warden-tree, and winter-peare will challenge the preheminence for stature. of your apple-trees you shall finde difference in growth. a good pippin will grow large, and a costard-tree: stead them on the north side of your other apples, thus being placed, the least will giue sun to the rest, and the greatest will shroud their fellowes. the fences and out-trees will guard all. chap. . _of grafting._ {sn: of grauing or caruing.} {sn: grafting what.} {sn: a graffe.} now are we come to the most curious point of our faculty: curious in conceit, but indeede as plaine and easie as the rest, when it is plainely shewne, which we commonly call _graffing_, or (after some) _grafting_. i cannot _etymologize_, nor shew the originall of the word, except it come of _grauing_ and _caruing_. but the thing or matter is: the reforming of the fruite of one tree with the fruit of another, by an artificiall transplacing, or transposing of a twigge, bud or leafe, (commonly called a _graft_) taken from one tree of the same, or some other kind, and placed or put to, or into another tree in one time and manner. {illustration} {sn: kinds of grafting.} of this there be diuers kinds, but three or foure now especially in vse: to wit, grafting, incising, packing on, grafting in the scutchion, or inoculating: whereof the chiefe and most vsuall, is called grafting (by the generall name, _catahexocen_:) for it is the most knowne, surest, readiest, and plainest way to haue store of good fruit. {sn: graft how.} it is thus wrought: you must with a fine, thin, strong and sharpe saw, made and armed for that purpose, cut off a foot aboue the ground, or thereabouts, in a plaine without a knot, or as neere as you can without a knot (for some stocks will be knotty) your stocke, set, or plant, being surely stayed with your foot and legge, or otherwise straight ouerthwart (for the stocke may be crooked) and then plaine his wound smoothly with a sharpe knife: that done, cleaue him cleanly in the middle with a cleauer, and a knocke or mall, and with a wedge of wood, iron or bone, two handfull long at least, put into the middle of that clift, with the same knocke, make the wound gape a straw bredth wide, into which you must put your graffes. {sn: a graft what.} the graft is a top twig taken from some other tree (for it is folly to put a graffe into his owne stocke) beneath the vppermost (and sometime in need the second) knot, and with a sharpe knife fitted in the knot (and some time out of the knot when need is) with shoulders an ynch downeward, and so put into the stocke with some thrusting (but not straining) barke to barke inward. {sn: eyes.} {sn: generall rule.} let your graffe haue three or foure eyes, for readinesse to put forth, and giue issue to the sap. it is not amisse to cut off the top of your graffe, and leaue it but fiue or sixe inches long, because commonly you shall see the tops of long graffes die. the reason is this. the sap in graffing receiues a rebuke, and cannot worke so strongly presently, and your graffes receiue not sap so readily, as the naturall branches. when your graffes are cleanely and closely put in, and your wedge puld out nimbly, for feare of putting your graffes out of frame, take well tempered morter, soundly wrought with chaffe or horse dung (for the dung of cattell will grow hard, and straine your graffes) the quantity of a gooses egge, and diuide it iust, and therewithall, couer your stocke, laying the one halfe on the one side and the other halfe on the other side of your graffes (for thrusting against your graffes) you moue them, and let both your hands thrust at once, and alike, and let your clay be tender, to yeeld easily; and all, lest you moue your graffes. some vse to couer the clift of the stocke, vnder the clay with a piece of barke or leafe, some with a sear-cloth of waxe and butter, which as they be not much needfull, so they hurt not, vnlesse that by being busie about them, you moue your graffes from their places. they vse also mosse tyed on aboue the clay with some bryer, wicker, or other bands. these profit nothing. they all put the graffes in danger, with pulling and thrusting: for i hold this generall rule in graffing and planting: if your stocke and graffes take, and thriue (for some will take and not thriue, being tainted by some meanes in the planting or graffing) they will (without doubt) recouer their wounds safely and shortly. {sn: time of graffing.} the best time of graffing from the time of remouing your stocke is the next spring, for that saues a second wound, and a second repulse of sap, if your stocke be of sufficient bignesse to take a graffe from as big as your thumbe, to as big as an arme of a man. you may graffe lesse (which i like) and bigger, which i like not so well. the best time of the yeere is in the last part of _february_, or in _march_, or beginning of _aprill_, when the sunne with his heat begins to make the sap stirre more rankely, about the change of moone before you see any great apparancy of leafe or flowers but onely knots and buds, and before they be proud, though it be sooner. cheries, peares, apricocks, quinces, and plummes would be gathered and grafted sooner. {sn: gathering graffes.} {sn: graffes of old trees.} the graffes may be gathered sooner in _february_, or any time within a moneth, or two before you graffe or vpon the same day (which i commend) if you get them any time before, for i haue knowne graffes gathered in _december_, and doe well, take heed of drought. i haue my selfe taken a burknot of a tree, & the same day when he was laid in the earth about mid _february_, gathered grafts and put in him, and one of those graffes bore the third yeere after, and the fourth plentifully. graffes of old trees would be gathered sooner then of young trees, for they sooner breake and bud. if you keepe graffes in the earth, moisture with the heat of the sun will make them sprout as fast, as if they were growing on the tree. and therefore seeing keeping is dangerous, the surest way (as i iudge) is to take them within a weeke of the time of your grafting. {sn: where taken.} the grafts would be taken not of the proudest twigs, for it may be your stocke is not answerable in strength. and therefore say i, the grafts brought from south to vs in the north although they take and thriue (which is somewhat doubtfull, by reason of the difference of the clime and carriage) yet shall they in time fashion themselues to our cold northerne soile, in growth, taste &c. {sn: emmits.} nor of the poorest, for want of strength may make them vnready to receiue sap (and who can tell but a poore graft is tainted) nor on the outside of your tree, for there should your tree spread but in the middest; for there you may be sure your tree is no whit hindered in his growth or forme. he will stil recouer inward, more then you would wish. if your clay clift in summer with drought, looke well in the chinkes for emmits and earewigs, for they are cunning and close theeues about grafts you shall finde them stirring in the morning and euening, and the rather in the moist weather. i haue had many young buds of graffes, euen in the flourishing, eaten with ants. let this suffice for graffing, which is in the faculty counted the chiefe secret, and because it is most vsuall it is best knowne. graffes are not to be disliked for growth, till they wither, pine, and die. vsually before _midsummer_ they breake, if they liue. some (but few) keeping proud and greene, will not put till the second yeere, so is it to be thought of sets. the first shew of putting is no sure signe of growth, it is but the sap the graffe brought with him from his tree. so soone as you see the graft put for growth, take away the clay, for then doth neither the stocke nor the graffe need it (put a little fresh well tempered clay in the hole of the stocke) for the clay is now tender, and rather keepes moistture then drought. the other waies of changing the naturall fruit of trees, are more curious then profitable, and therefore i mind not to bestow much labour or time about them, onely i shall make knowne what i haue proued, and what i doe thinke. {sn: incising.} {sn: a great stocke.} and first of incising, which is the cutting of the backe of the boale, a rine or branch of a tree at some bending or knee, shoulderwise with two gashes, onely with a sharpe knife to the wood: then take a wedge, the bignes of your graffe sharpe ended, flat on the one side, agreeing with the tree, and round on the other side, and with that being thrust in, raise your barke, then put in your graffe, fashioned like your wedge iust: and lastly couer your wound, and fast it vp, and take heed of straining. this will grow but to small purpose, for it is weake hold, and lightly it will be vnder growth. thus may you graft betwixt the barke and the tree of a great stocke that will not easily be clifted: but i haue tryed a better way for great trees, viz first, cut him off straight, and cleanse him with your knife, then cleaue him into foure quarters, equally with a strong cleauer: then take for euery clift two or three small (but hard) wedges iust of the bignesse of your grafts, and with those wedges driuen in with an hammer open the foure clifts so wide (but no wider) that they may take your foure graffes, with thrusting not with straining: and lastly couer and clay it closely, and this is a sure and good way of grafting: or thus, clift your stocke by his edges twice or thrice with your cleauer, and open him with your wedge in euery clift one by one, and put in your grafts, and then couer them. this may doe well. {sn: packing thus.} packing on is, when you cut aslope a twig of the same bignesse with your graft, either in or besides the knot, two inches long, and make your graft agree iumpe with the cyon, and gash your graft and your cyon in the middest of the wound, length-way, a straw breadth deepe, and thrust the one into the other, wound to wound, sap to sap, barke to barke, then tie them close and clay them. this may doe well. the fairest graft i haue in my little orchard, which i haue planted, is thus packt on, and the branch whereon i put him, is in his plentifull roote. to be short in this point, cut your graft in any sort or fashion, two inches long, and ioyne him cleanly and close to any other sprig of any tree in the latter end of the time of grafting, when sap is somewhat rife, and in all probability they will close and thriue: thus {illustration: _the sprig._ _the graft._ _the twig._ _the graft._} or any other fashion you thinke good. {sn: inoculating.} inoculating is an eye or bud, taken barke and all from one tree, and placed in the roome of another eie or bud of another, cut both of one compasse, and there bound. this must be done in summer, when the sap is proud. {sn: graffing in the scutchion.} much like vnto this is that, they call grafting in the scutchion, they differ thus: that here you must take an eie with his leafe, or (in mine opinion) a bud with his leaues. (note that an eie is for a cyon, a bud is for flowers and fruit,) and place them on another tree, in a plaine (for so they teach) the place or barke where you must set it, must be thus cut with a sharpe knife, and the barke raised with a wedge, and then the eie or budde put in and so bound vp. {tn: a diagram of an h} i cannot denie but such may grow. and your bud if he take will flowre and beare fruit that yeere: as some grafts & sets also, being set for bloomes. if these two kinds thriue, they reforme but a spray, and an vndergrowth. thus you may place roses on thornes, and cherries on apples, and such like. many write much more of grafting, but to small purpose. whom we leaue to themselues, & their followers; & ending this secret we come in the next chapter to a point of knowledge most requisite in an arborist, as well for all other woods as for an orchard. chap. . _of the right dressing of trees._ {sn: necessity of dressing trees.} {sn: generall rule.} if all these things aforesaid were indeed performed, as we haue shewed them in words, you should haue a perfect orchard in nature and substance, begunne to your hand; and yet are all these things nothing, if you want that skill to keepe and dresse your trees. such is the condition of all earthly things, whereby a man receiueth profit or pleasure, that they degenerate presently without good ordering. man himselfe left to himselfe, growes from his heauenly and spirituall generation, and becommeth beastly, yea deuillish to his owne kind, vnlesse he be regenerate no maruell then, if trees make their shootes, and put their spraies disorderly. and truly (if i were worthy to iudge) there is not a mischiefe that breedeth greater and more generall harme to all the orchard (especially if they be of any continuance) that euer i saw, (i will not except three) then the want of the skilfull dressing of trees. it is a common and vnskilfull opinion, and saying. let all grow, and they will beare more fruit: and if you lop away superfluous boughes, they say, what a pitty is this? how many apples would these haue borne? not considering there may arise hurt to your orchard, as well (nay rather) by abundance, as by want of wood. sound and thriuing plants in a good soile, will euer yeeld too much wood, and disorderly, but neuer too little. so that a skilfull and painfull arborist, need neuer want matter to effect a plentifull and well drest orchard: for it is an easie matter to take away superfluous boughes (if your gardner haue skill to know them) whereof your plants will yeeld abundance, and skill will leaue sufficient well ordered. all ages both by rule and experience doe consent to a pruining and lopping of trees: yet haue not any that i know described vnto vs (except in darke and generall words) what or which are those superfluous boughes, which we must take away, and that is the chiefe and most needfull point to be knowne in lopping. and we may well assure our selues, (as in all other arts, so in this) there is a vantage and dexterity, by skill, and an habite by practise out of experience, in the performance hereof for the profit of mankind; yet doe i not know (let me speake it with the patience of our cunning arborists) any thing within the compasse of humane affaires so necessary, and so little regarded, not onely in orchards, but also in all other timber trees, where or whatsoeuer. {sn: timber wood euill drest.} {sn: the cause of hurts in woods.} {sn: dresse timber trees how.} how many forrests and woods? wherein you shall haue for one liuely thriuing tree, foure (nay sometimes .) euill thriuing, rotten and dying trees, euen while they liue. and instead of trees thousands of bushes and shrubs. what rottennesse? what hollownesse? what dead armes? withered tops? curtailed trunkes? what loads of mosses? drouping boughes? and dying branches shall you see euery where? and those that like in this sort are in a manner all vnprofitable boughes, canked armes, crooked, little and short boales: what an infinite number of bushes, shrubs, and skrogs of hazels, thornes, and other profitable wood, which might be brought by dressing to become great and goodly trees. consider now the cause: the lesser wood hath beene spoiled with carelesse, vnskilfull, and vntimely stowing, and much also of the great wood. the greater trees at the first rising haue filled and ouer-loaden themselues with a number of wastfull boughes and suckers, which haue not onely drawne the sap from the boale, but also haue made it knotty, and themselues and the boale mossie for want of dressing, whereas if in the prime of growth they had bene taken away close, all but one top (according to this patterne) and cleane by the bulke, the strength of all the sap should haue gone to the bulke, and so he would haue recouered and couered his knots, and haue put forth a faire, long and streight body (as you see) for timber profitable, huge great of bulke, and of infinite last. {illustration: _imagine the roote to be spread farre wider._} if all timber trees were such (will some say) how should we haue crooked wood for wheeles, courbs, &c. _answ._ dresse all you can, and there will be enough crooked for those vses. more than this, in most places, they grow so thicke, that neither themselues, nor earth, nor any thing vnder or neere them can thriue, nor sunne, nor raine, nor aire can doe them, nor any thing neere or vnder them any profit or comfort. i see a number of hags, where out of one roote you shall see three or foure (nay more, such as mens vnskilfull greedinesse, who desiring many haue none good) pretty okes or ashes straight and tall, because the root at the first shoote giues sap amaine: but if one onely of them might bee suffered to grow, and that well and cleanely pruned, all to his very top, what a tree should we haue in time? and we see by those rootes continually and plentifully springing, notwithstanding so deadly wounded. what a commodity should arise to the owner, and the common-wealth, if wood were cherished, and orderly dressed. {sn: profit of trees dressed.} {sn: the end of trees.} the wast boughes closely and skilfully taken away, would giue vs store of fences and fewell, and the bulke of the tree in time would grow of huge length and bignes. but here (me thinkes) i heare an vnskilfull arborist say, that trees haue their seuerall formes, euen by nature, the peare, the holly, the aspe, &c. grow long in bulke with few and little armes, the oke by nature broad, and such like. all this i graunt: but grant me also, that there is a profitable end, and vse of euery tree, from which if it decline (though by nature) yet man by art may (nay must) correct it. now other end of trees i neuer could learne, than good timber, fruit much and good, and pleasure. vses physicall hinder nothing a good forme. {sn: trees will take any forme.} neither let any man euer so much as thinke, that it vnprobable, much lesse vnpossible, to reforme any tree of what kind soeuer. for (beleeue me) i haue tried it, i can bring any tree (beginning by time) to any forme. the peare and holly may be made to spread, and the oke to close. {sn: the end of trees.} but why do i wander out of the compasse of mine orchard, into the forrests and woods? neither yet am i from my purpose, if boales of timber trees stand in need of all the sap, to make them great and straight (for strong growth and dressing makes strong trees) then it must needes be profitable for fruit (a thing more immediately seruing a mans need) to haue all the sap his roote can yeeld: for as timber sound, great and long, is _the good of timber trees_, and therefore they beare no fruite of worth: so fruit, good, sound, pleasant, great and much, is the end of fruit-trees. that gardner therefore shall performe his duty skilfully and faithfully, which shall so dresse his trees, that they may beare such and such store of fruit, which he shall neuer do (dare vndertake) vnlesse he keepe this order in dressing his trees. {sn: how to dresse a fruit-tree.} a fruit tree so standing, that there need none other end of dressing but fruit (not ornaments for walkes, nor delight to such as would please their eye onely, and yet the best forme can not but both adorne and delight) must be parted from within two foote, or thereabouts, of the earth, so high to giue liberty to dresse his roote, and no higher, for drinking vp the sap that should feede his fruit, for the boale will be first, and best serued and fed, because he is next the roote, and of grenest waxe and substance, and that makes him longest of life, into two, three, or foure armes, as your stocke or graffes yeelde twigs, and euery arme into two or more branches, and euery branch into his seuerall cyons, still spreading by equall degrees, so that his lowest spray be hardly without the reach of a mans hand, and his highest be not past two yards higher, rarely (especially in the middest) that no one twig touch his fellow. let him spread as farre as he list without his maister-bough or lop equally. and when any bough doth grow sadder and fall lower, than his fellowes (as they will with weight of fruite) ease him the next spring of his superfluous twigs, and he will rise: when any bough or spray shall amount aboue the rest; either snub his top with a nip betwixt your finger and your thumbe, or with a sharpe knife, and take him cleane away, and so you may vse any cyon you would reforme, and as your tree shall grow in stature and strength, so let him rise with his tops, but slowly, and earely, especially in the middest, and equally, and in bredth also, and follow him vpward with lopping his vndergrowth and water boughes, keeping the same distance of two yards, but not aboue three in any wise, betwixt the lowest and the highest twigs. {sn: benefits of good dressing.} . thus you shall haue well liking, cleane skind, healthfull great, and long-lasting trees. . thus shall your tree grow low, and safe from winds, for his top will be great, broad and weighty. . thus growing broad, shall your trees beare much fruit (i dare say) one as much as sixe of your common trees, and good without shadowing, dropping and fretting: for his boughes, branches, and twigs shalbe many, and those are they (not the boale) which beare the fruit. . thus shall your boale being little (not small but low) by reason of his shortnesse, take little, and yeeld much sap to the fruit. . thus your trees by reason of strength in time of setting shall put forth more blossomes, and more fruite, being free from taints; for strength is a great helpe to bring forth much and safely, whereas weakenesse failes in setting though the season be calme. some vse to bare trees rootes in winter, to stay the setting til hotter seasons, which i discommend, because, . they hurt the rootes. . it stayes it nothing at all. . though it did, being small, with vs in the north, they haue their part of our _aprill_ and _mayes_ frosts. . hinderance cannot profit weake trees in setting. . they wast much labour. . thus shall your tree be easie to dresse, and without danger, either to the tree or the dresser. . thus may you safely and easily gather your fruite without falling, bruising or breaking of cyons. this is the best forme of a fruit tree, which i haue here onely shadowed out for the better capacity of them that are led more with the eye, than the mind, crauing pardon for the deformity, because i am nothing skilfull either in painting or caruing. imagine that the paper makes but one side of the tree to appeare, the whole round compasse will giue leaue for many more armes, boughes, branches, and cyons. {illustration: _the perfect forme of a fruit-tree._} if any thinke a tree cannot well be brought to this forme: _experto crede roberto_, i can shew diuers of them vnder twenty yeeres of age. {sn: time best for proining.} the fittest time of the moone for proyning is as of grafting, when the sap is ready to stirre (not proudly stirring) and so to couer the wound, and of the yeere, a moneth before (or at least when) you graffe. dresse peares, apricocks, peaches, cherries, and bullys sooner. and old trees before young plants, you may dresse at any time betwixt leafe and leafe. and note, where you take any thing away, the sap the next summer will be putting: be sure therefore when he puts a bud in any place where you would not haue him, rub it off with your finger. {sn: dressing betime.} and here you must remember the common homely prouerbe: _soone crookes the tree, that good camrell must be._ {sn: faults of euill drest trees, and the remedy.} beginne betime with trees, and do what you list: but if you let them grow great and stubborne, you must do as the trees list. they will not bend but breake, nor bee wound without danger. a small branch will become a bough, and a bough an arme in bignesse. then if you cut him, his wound will fester, and hardly, without good skill, recouer: therefore, _obsta principys_. of such wounds, and lesser, of any bough cut off a handfull or more from the body, comes hollownesse, and vntimely death. and therefore when you cut, strik close, and cleane, and vpward, and leaue no bunch. {sn: the forme altered.} this forme in some cases sometimes may be altered: if your tree, or trees, stand neere your walkes, if it please your fancy more, let him not breake, till his boale be aboue you head: so may you walke vnder your trees at your pleasure. or if you set your fruit-trees for your shades in your groues, then i expect not the forme of the tree, but the comelinesse of the walke. {sn: dressing of old trees.} all this hitherto spoken of dressing, must be vnderstood of young plants, to be formed: it is meete somewhat be sayd for the instruction of them that haue olde trees already formed, or rather deformed: for, _malum non vitatur nisi cognitum_. the faults therefore of the disordered tree, i find to be fiue: {sn: faults are fiue, and their remedies.} . an vnprofitable boale. . water-boughes. . fretters. . suckers: and, . one principall top. {sn: . long boale.} {sn: no remedy.} a long boale asketh much feeding, and the more he hath the more he desires, and gets (as a drunken man drinke, or a couetuous man wealth) and the lesse remaines for the fruit, he puts his boughes into the aire, and makes them, the fruit, and it selfe more dangered with windes: for this i know no remedy, after that the tree is come to growth, once euill, neuer good. {sn: . water boughs.} water boughes, or vndergrowth, are such boughes as grow low vnder others and are by them ouergrowne, ouershadowed, dropped on, and pinde for want of plenty of sap, and by that meanes in time die: for the sap presseth vpward; and it is like water in her course, where it findeth most issue, thither it floweth, leauing the other lesser floes dry: euen as wealth to wealth, and much to more. these so long as they beare, they beare lesse, worse, and fewer fruit, and waterish. {sn: remedy.} {sn: barke-pild, and the remedy.} the remedy is easie if they be not growne greater then your arme. lop them close and cleane, and couer the midel of the wound, the next summer when he is dry, with a salue made of tallow, tarre, and a very little pitch, good for the couering of any such wound of a great tree: vnlesse it be barke-pild, and then sear-cloath of fresh butter, hony, and waxe, presently (while the wound is greene) applyed, is a soueraigne remedy in summer especially. some bind such wounds with a thumbe rope of hay, moist, and rub it with dung. {sn: fretters.} {sn: touching.} {sn: remedy.} fretters are, when as by the negligence of the gardner, two or moe parts of the tree, or of diuers trees, as armes, boughes, branches, or twigs, grow to neere and close together, that one of them by rubbing, doth wound another. this fault of all other shewes the want of skill or care (at least) in the arborist: for here the hurt is apparant, and the remedy easie, seene to betime: galls and wounds incurable, but by taking away those members: for let them grow, and they will be worse and worse, & so kill themselues with ciuill strife for roomth, and danger the whole tree. auoide them betime therefore, as a common wealth doth bosome enemies. {sn: suckers.} a sucker is a long, proud, and disorderly cyon, growing straight vp (for pride of sap makes proud, long, and straight growth) cut of any lower parts of the tree, receiuing a great part of the sap, and bearing no fruit, till it haue tyrannized ouer the whole tree. these are like idle and great drones amongst bees; and proud and idle members in a common wealth. {sn: remedy.} the remedy of this is, as of water-boughes, vnlesse he be growne greater then all the rest of the boughs, and then your gardner (at your discretion) may leaue him for his boale, and take away all, or the most of the rest. if he be little, slip him, and set him, perhaps he will take: my fairest apple-tree was such a slip. {sn: one principall top or bough, and remedy.} one or two principall top boughes are as euill, in a manner, as suckers, they rise of the same cause, and receiue the same remedy; yet these are more tolerable, because these beare fruit, yea the best: but suckers of long doe not beare. {sn: instruments for dressing.} i know not how your tree should be faulty, if you reforme all your vices timely, and orderly. as these rules serue for dressing young trees and sets in the first planting: so may they well serue to helpe old trees, though not exactly to recouer them. the instruments fittest for all these purposes, are most commonly: for the great trees an handsome long, light ladder of firpoles, a little, nimble, and strong armed saw, and sharpe. for lesse trees, a little and sharpe hatchet, a broad mouthed chesell, strong and sharpe, with an hand-beetle, your strong and sharpe cleeuer, with a knock, & (which is a most necessary instrument amongst little trees) a great hafted and sharpe knife or whittle. and as needfull is a stoole on the top of a ladder of eight or moe rungs, with two backe-feet, whereon you may safely and easefully stand to graffe, to dresse, and to gather fruit thus formed: the feet may be fast wedged in: but the ladder must hang loose with two bands of iron. and thus much of dressing trees for fruit, formerly to profit. {illustration} chap. . _of foyling._ {sn: necessity of foiling.} there is one thing yet very necessary for make your orchard both better, and more lasting: yea, so necessary, that without it your orchard cannot last, nor prosper long, which is neglected generally both in precepts and in practice, viz. manuring with foile: whereby it hapneth that when trees (amongst other euils) through want of fatnesse to feed them, become mossie, and in their growth are euill (or not) thriuing, it is either attributed to some wrong cause, as age (when indeed they are but young) or euill standing (stand they neuer so well) or such like, or else the cause is altogether vnknowne, and so not amended. {sn: trees great suckers.} {sn: great bodies.} can there be deuised any way by nature, or art, sooner or soundlier to seeke out, and take away the heart and strength of earth, then by great trees? such great bodies cannot be sustained without great store of sap. what liuing body haue you greater then of trees? the great sea monsters (whereof one came a land at _teesmouth_ in _yorkeshire_, hard by vs, . yards in length, and neere as much in compasse) seeme hideous, huge, strange and monstrous, because they be indeed great: but especially because they are seldome seene: but a tree liuing, come to his growth and age, twice that length, and of a bulke neuer so great, besides his other parts, is not admired, because he is so commonly seene. and i doubt not, but if he were well regarded from his kirnell, by succeeding ages, to his full strength, the most of them would double their measure. about fifty yeeres agoe i heard by credible and constant report, that in _brooham_ parke in _west more-land_, neere vnto _penrith_, there lay a blowne oake, whose trunke was so bigge, that two horse men being the one on the one side, and the other on the other side, they could not one see another: to which if you adde his armes, boughs, and roots, and consider of his bignesse, what would he haue been, if preserued to the vantage. also i read in the history of the _west-indians_, out of _peter martyr_, that sixteene men taking hands one with another, were not able to fathome one of those trees about. now nature hauing giuen to such a faculty by large and infinite roots, taws and tangles, to draw immediately his sustenance from our common mother the earth (which is like in this point to all other mothers that beare) hath also ordained that the tree ouer loden with fruit, and wanting sap to feed all she hath brought forth, will waine all she cannot feed, like a woman bringing forth moe children at once then she hath teats. see you not how trees especially, by kind being great, standing so thicke and close, that they cannot get plenty of sap, pine away all the grasse, weeds, lesser shrubs, and trees, yea and themselues also for want of vigor of sap? so that trees growing large, sucking the soile whereon they stand, continually, and amaine, and the foyzon of the earth that feeds them decaying (for what is there that wastes continually, that shall not haue end?) must either haue supply of sucker, or else leaue thriuing and growing. some grounds will beare corne while they be new, and no longer, because their crust is shallow, and not very good, and lying they scind and wash, and become barren. the ordinary corne soiles continue not fertile, with fallowing and foyling, and the best requires supply, euen for the little body of corne. how then can we thinke that any ground (how good soeuer) can containe bodies of such greatnesse, and such great feeding, without great plenty of sap arising from good earth? this is one of the chiefe causes, why so many of our orchards in _england_ are so euill thriuing when they come to growth, and our fruit so bad. men are loth to bestow much ground, and desire much fruit, and will neither set their trees in sufficient compasse, nor yet feed them with manure. therefore of necessity orchards must be foiled. {sn: time fit for foyling.} {sn: kind of foyle.} the fittest time is, when your trees are growne great, and haue neere hand spread your earth, wanting new earth to sustaine them, which if they doe, they will seeke abroad for better earth, and shun that, which is barren (if they find better) as cattell euill pasturing. for nature hath taught euery creature to desire and seeke his owne good, and to auoid hurt. the best time of the yeere is at the fall, that the frost may bite and make it tender, and the raine wash it to the roots. the summer time is perillous if ye digge, because the sap fills amaine. the best kind of foile is such as is fat, hot, and tender. your earth must be but lightly opened, that the dung may goe in, and wash away; and but shallow, lest you hurt the roots: and the spring closely and equally made plaine againe for feare of suckers. i could wish, that after my trees haue fully possessed the soile of mine orchard, that euery seuen yeeres at least, the soile were bespread with dung halfe a foot thicke at least. puddle water out of the dunghill powred on plentifully, will not onely moisten but fatten especially in _iune_ and _iuly_. if it be thicke and fat, and applied euery yeere, your orchard shall need none other foiling. your ground may lye so low at the riuer side, that the floud standing some daies and nights thereon, shall saue you all this labour of foiling. chap. . _of annoyances._ a chiefe helpe to make euery thing good, is to auoid the euils thereof: you shall neuer attaine to that good of your orchard you looke for, vnlesse you haue a gardner, that can discerne the diseases of your trees, and other annoyances of your orchard, and find out the causes thereof, and know & apply fit remedies for the same. for be your ground, site, plants, and trees as you would wish, if they be wasted with hurtfull things, what haue you gained but your labour for your trauell? it is with an orchard and euery tree, as with mans body, the best part of physicke for preseruation of health, is to foresee and cure diseases. {sn: two kinds of euils in an orchard.} all the diseases of an orchard are of two sorts, either internall or externall. i call those inward hurts which breed on and in particular trees. galles. canker. mosse. weaknes in setting. barke bound. barke pild. worme. deadly wounds. {sn: galls.} galles, canker, mosse, weaknes, though they be diuers diseases: yet (howsoeuer authors thinke otherwise) they rise all out of the same cause. galles we haue described with their cause and remedy, in the . chapter vnder the name of fretters. {sn: canker.} canker is the consumption of any part of the tree, barke and wood, which also in the same place is deceiphered vnder the title of water-boughes. {sn: mosse.} mosse is sensibly seene and knowne of all, the cause is pointed out in the same chapter, in the discourse of timber-wood, and partly also the remedy: but for mosse adde this, that at any time in summer (the spring is best) when the cause is remoued, with an harecloth, immediatly after a showre of raine, rub off your mosse, or with a peece of weed (if the mosse abound) formed like a great knife. {sn: weaknesse in setting.} weaknesse in the setting of your fruit shall you finde there also in the same chapter, and his remedy. all these flow from the want of roomth in good soile, wrong planting, chap. . and euill or no dressing. {sn: barke-bound.} bark-bound (as i thinke) riseth of the same cause, and the best, & present remedy (the causes being taken away) is with your sharpe knife in the spring, length-way to launch his bark throughout, on . or . sides of his boale. {sn: worme.} {sn: remedy.} the disease called the worme is thus discernd: the barke will be hoald in diuers places like gall, the wood will die & dry, and you shall see easily the barke swell. it is verily to be thought, that therin is bred some worm i haue not yet thorowly sought it out, because i was neuer troubled therewithall: but onely haue seene such trees in diuers places. i thinke it a worme rather, because i see this disease in trees, bringing fruit of sweet taste, and the swelling shewes as much. the remedy (as i coniecture) is so soone as you perceiue the wound, the next spring cut it out barke and all, and apply cowes pisse and vineger presently, and so twice or thrice a weeke for a moneths space: for i well perceiue, if you suffer it any time, it eates the tree or bough round, and so kils. since i first wrote this treatise, i haue changed my mind concerning the disease called the worme, because i read in the history of the _west-indians_, that their trees are not troubled with the disease called the worme or canker, which ariseth of a raw and euill concocted humor or sap, witnesse _pliny_, by reason their country is more hot then ours, whereof i thinke the best remedy is (not disallowing the former, considering that the worme may breed by such an humor) warme standing, sound lopping and good dressing. {sn: barke pild.} bark-pild you shall find with his remedy in the . chapter. {sn: wounds.} deadly wounds are when a mans arborist wanting skill, cut off armes, boughes or branches an inch, or (as i see sometimes) an handfull, or halfe a foot or more from the body: these so cut cannot couer in any time with sap, and therefore they die, and dying they perish the heart, and so the tree becomes hollow, and with such a deadly wound cannot liue long. {sn: remedy.} the remedy is, if you find him before he be perished, cut him close, as in the . chapter: if he be hoald, cut him close, fill his wound, tho neuer so deepe, with morter well tempered & so close at the top his wound with a seare-cloth doubled and nailed on, that no aire nor raine approach his wound. if he be not very old, and detaining, he will recouer, and the hole being closed, his wound within shall not hurt him for many yeeres. {sn: hurts on trees.} {sn: ants, earewigs, caterpillars, and such like wormes.} hurts on your trees are chiefly ants, earewigs, and caterpillars. of ants and earewigs is said chap. . let there be no swarme of pismires neere your tree-root, no not in your orchard, turne them ouer in a frost, and powre in water, and you kill them. for caterpillars, the vigilant fruterer shall soone espy their lodging by their web, or the decay of leaues eaten around about them. and being seene, they are easily destroyed with your hand, or rather (if your tree may spare it) take sprig and all: for the red peckled butterfly doth euer put them, being her sparm, among the tender spraies for better feeding, especially in drought, and tread them vnder your feet. i like nothing of smoke among my trees. vnnaturall heates are nothing good for naturall trees. this for diseases of particular trees. {sn: externall euils.} externall hurts are either things naturall or artificiall. naturall things, externally hurting orchards. beasts. deere. birds. bulfinch. goates. thrush. sheepe. blackbird. hare. crow. cony. pye. cattell. horse. &c. _the other things are_, winds. cold. trees. weeds. wormes. mowles. filth. poysonfull smoke. _externall wilfull euils are these._ walls. trenches. other works noisome done in or neere your orchard. euill neighbours. a carelesse master. an vndiscreet, negligent or no keeper. see you here an whole army of mischeifes banded in troupes against the most fruitfull trees the earth beares? assailing your good labours. good things haue most enemies. {sn: remedy.} a skilfull fructerer must put so his helping hand, and disband and put them to flight. {sn: deere, &c.} for the first ranke of beasts, besides your out strong fence, you must haue a faire and swift greyhound, a stone-bow, gun, and if need require, an apple with an hooke for a deere, and an hare-pipe for an hare. {sn: birds.} your cherries and other berris when they be ripe, will draw all the black-birds, thrushes, and maw pies to your orchard. the bul-finch is a deuourer of your fruit in the bud, i haue had whole trees shald out with them in winter-time. {sn: remedy.} the best remedy here is a stone bow, a piece, especially if you haue a musket or spar-hawke in winter to make the black bird stoope into a bush or hedge. {sn: other trees.} the gardner must cleanse his soile of all other trees: but fruit-trees aforesaid chapter for which it is ordained, and i would especially name oakes, elmes, ashes, and such other great wood, but that i doubt it should be taken as an admission of lesser trees: for i admit of nothing to grow in mine orchard but fruit and flowers. if sap can hardly be good to feed our fruit-trees, why should we allow of any other, especially those, that will becom their masters, & wrong them in their liuelyhood. {sn: winds.} {sn: frosts.} and although we admit without the fence of wall-nuts in most plaine places, trees middle-most, and ashes or okes, or elmes vtmost, set in comely rowes equally distant with faire allies twixt row and row to auoide the boisterous blasts of winds, and within them also others for bees; yet wee admit none of these into your orchard-plat: other remedy then this haue wee none against the nipping frosts. {sn: weeds.} weeds in a fertile soile (because the generall curse is so) till your trees grow great, will be noysome, and deforme your allies, walkes, beds, and squares, your vnder gardners must labour to keepe all cleanly & handsome from them and all other filth with a spade, weeding kniues, rake with iron teeth: a skrapple of iron thus formed. ic for nettles and ground-iuy after a showre. {sn: remedy.} when weeds, straw, stickes and all other scrapings are gathered together, burne them not, but bury them vnder your crust in any place of your orchard, and they will dye and fatten your ground. {sn: wormes. moales.} wormes and moales open the earth, and let in aire to the roots of your trees, and deforme your squares and walkes, and feeding in the earth, being in number infinite, draw on barrennesse. {sn: remedy.} worms may be easily destroyed. any summer euening when it is darke, after a showre with a candle, you may fill bushels, but you must tred nimbly & where you cannot come to catch them so; sift the earth with coale ashes an inch or two thicknes, and that is a plague to them, so is sharpe grauell. moales will anger you, if your gardner or some skilful moale-catcher ease you not, especially hauing made their fortresses among the roots of your trees: you must watch her wel with a moal spare, at morne, noon, and night, when you see her vtmost hill, cast a trench betwixt her and her home (for she hath a principall mansion to dwell and breed in about _aprill_, which you may discerne by a principall hill, wherein you may catch her, if you trench it round and sure, and watch well) or wheresoeuer you can discerne a single passage (for such she hath) there trench, and watch, and haue her. {sn: wilfull annoyances.} wilfull annoyances must be preuented and auoided by the loue of the master and fruterer, which they beare to their orchard. {sn: remedy.} iustice and liberality will put away euill neighbours or euill neighbour-hood. and then if (god blesse and giue successe to your labours) i see not what hurt your orchard can sustaine. chap. . _of the age of trees._ {sn: the age of trees.} it is to be considered: all this treatise of trees tends to this end, that men may loue and plant orchards, whereunto there cannot be a better inducement then that they know (or at least be perswaded) that all that benefit they shall reape thereby, whether of pleasure or profit, shall not be for a day or a moneth, or one, or many (but many hundreth) yeeres. of good things the greatest, and most durable is alwaies the best. if therefore out of reason grounded vpon experience, it be made (i thinke) manifest, but i am sure probable, that a fruit tree in such a soile and site, as is described so planted and trimmed and kept, as is afore appointed and duely foiled, shall dure yeeres, why should we not take paines, and be at two or three yeeres charges (for vnder seuen yeeres will an orchard be perfected for the first planting, and in that time be brought to fruit) to reape such a commodity and so long lasting. {sn: gathered by reason out of experience.} let no man thinke this to be strange, but peruse and consider the reason. i haue apple trees standing in my little orchard, which i haue knowne these forty yeeres, whose age before my time i cannot learne, it is beyond memory, tho i haue enquired of diuers aged men of . yeeres and vpwards: these trees although come into my possession very euill ordered, mishapen, and one of them wounded to his heart, and that deadly (for i know it will be his death) with a wound, wherein i might haue put my foot in the heart of his bulke (now it is lesse) notwithstanding, with that small regard they haue had since, they so like, that i assure my selfe they are not come to their growth by more then . parts of . which i discerne not onely by their owne growth, but also by comparing them with the bulke of other trees. and i find them short (at least) by so many parts in bignesse, although i know those other fruit-trees to haue beene much hindred in their stature by euill guiding. herehence i gather thus. {sn: parts of a trees age.} if my trees be a hundred yeeres old, and yet want two hundred of their growth before they leaue encreasing, which make three hundred, then we must needs resolue, that this three hundred yeere are but the third part of a trees life, because (as all things liuing besides) so trees must haue allowed them for their increase one third, another third for their stand, and a third part of time also for their decay. all which time of a tree amounts to nine hundred yeeres, three hundred for increase, three hundred for his stand, whereof we haue the terme stature, and three hundred for his decay, and yet i thinke (for we must coniecture by comparing, because no one man liueth to see the full age of trees) i am within the compasse of his age, supposing alwaies the foresaid meanes of preseruing his life. consider the age of other liuing creatures. the horse and moiled oxe wrought to an vntimely death, yet double the time of their increase. a dog likewise increaseth three, stanns three at least, end in as many (or rather moe) decayes. {sn: mans age.} euery liuing thing bestowes the least part of his age in his growth, and so must it needs be with trees. a man comes not to his full growth and strength (by common estimation) before thirty yeeres, and some slender and cleane bodies, not till forty, so long also stands his strength, & so long also must he haue allowed by course of nature to decay. euer supposing that he be well kept with necessaries, and from and without straines, bruises, and all other dominyring diseases. i will not say vpon true report, that physicke holds it possible, that a cleane body kept by these . doctors, _doctor dyet_, _doctor quiet_, and _doctor merriman_, may liue neere a hundred yeeres. neither will i here vrge the long yeeres of _methushalah_, and those men of that time, because you will say, mans dayes are shortned since the floud. but what hath shortned them? god for mans sinnes: but by meanes, as want of knowledge, euill gouernment, ryot, gluttony, drunkenesse, and (to be short) the encrease of the curse, our sinnes increasing in an iron and wicked age. now if a man, whose body is nothing (in a manner) but tender rottennesse, whose course of life cannot by any meanes, by counsell, restraint of lawes, or punishment, nor hope of praise, profet, or eturnall glory, be kept within any bounds, who is degenerate cleane from his naturall feeding, to effeminate nicenesse, and cloying his body with excesse of meate, drinke, sleepe &c. and to whom nothing is so pleasant and so much desired as the causes of his owne death, as idlenesse, lust, &c. may liue to that age: i see not but a tree of a solide substance, not damnified by heate or cold, capable of, and subiect to any kinde of ordering or dressing that a man shall apply vnto him, feeding naturally, as from the beginning disburdened of all superfluities, eased of, and of his owne accord auoiding the causes that may annoy him, should double the life of a man, more then twice told; and yet naturall phylosophy, and the vniuersall consent of all histories tell vs, that many other liuing creatures farre exceed man in the length of yeeres: as the hart and the rauen. thus reporteth that famous _roterodam_ out of _hesiodus_, and many other historiographers. the testimony of _cicero_ in his booke _de senectute_, is weighty to this purpose: that we must _in posteras ætates ferere arbores_, which can haue none other fence: but that our fruit-trees whereof he speakes, can endure for many ages. what else are trees in comparison with the earth: but as haires to the body of a man? and it is certaine, without poisoning, euill and distemperate dyet, and vsage, or other such forcible cause, the haires dure with the body. that they be called excrements, it is by reason of their superfluous growth: (for cut them as often as you list, and they will still come to their naturall length) not in respect of their substance, and nature. haires endure long, and are an ornament and vse also to the body, as trees to the earth. so that i resolue vpon good reason, that fruit-trees well ordered, may liue and like a thousand yeeres, and beare fruit, and the longer, the more, the greater, and the better, because his vigour is proud and stronger, when his yeeres are many: you shall see old trees put their buds and blossomes both sooner and more plentifully then young trees by much. and i sensibly perceiue my young trees to inlarge their fruit, as they grow greater, both for number and greatnesse. young heifers bring not forth the calues so faire, neither are they so plentifull to milke, as when they become to be old kine. no good houswife will breed of a young but of an old bird-mother: it is so in all things naturally, therefore in trees. {sn: the age of timber trees.} and if fruit-trees last to this age, how many ages is it to be supposed, strong and huge timber-trees will last? whose huge bodies require the yeeres of diuers _methushalaes_, before they end their dayes, whose sap is strong and bitter, whose barke is hard and thicke, and their substance solid and stiffe: all which are defences of health and long life. their strength withstands all forcible winds, their sap of that quality is not subiect to wormes and tainting. their barke receiues seldome or neuer by casualty any wound. and not onely so, but he is free from remoualls, which are the death of millions of trees, where as the fruit-tree in comparison is little, and often blowne downe, his sap sweet, easily and soone tainted, his barke tender, and soone wounded, and himselfe vsed by man, as man vseth himselfe, that is either vnskilfully or carelessely. {sn: age of trees discerned.} it is good for some purposes to regard the age of your fruit trees, which you may easily know, till they come to accomplish twenty yeeres, by his knots: reckon from his root vp an arme and so to hys top-twig, and euery yeeres growth is distinguished from other by a knot, except lopping or remouing doe hinder. chap. . _of gathering and keeping fruit._ {sn: generall rule.} {sn: cherries, &c.} although it be an easie matter, when god shall send it, to gather and keepe fruit, yet are they certaine things worthy your regard. you must gather your fruit when it is ripe, and not before, else will it wither and be tough and sowre. all fruit generally are ripe, when they beginne to fall. for trees doe as all other bearers doe, when their yong ones are ripe, they will waine them. the doue her pigeons, the cony her rabbets, and women their children. some fruit tree sometimes getting a taint in the setting with a frost or euill wind, will cast his fruit vntimely, but not before he leaue giuing them sap, or they leaue growing. except from this foresaid rule, cherries, damsons and bullies. the cherry is ripe when he is sweld wholy red, and sweet: damsons and bulies not before the first frost. {sn: apples.} apples are knowne to be ripe, partly by their colour, growing towards a yellow, except the leather-coat and some peares and greening. {sn: when.} timely summer fruit will be ready, some at midsummer, most at lammus for present vse; but generally noe keeping fruit before _michal-tide_. hard winter fruit and wardens longer. {sn: dry stalkes.} gather at the full of the moone for keeping, gather dry for feare of rotting. gather the stalkes with all: for a little wound in fruit, is deadly: but not the stumpe, that must beare the next fruit, nor leaues, for moisture putrifies. {sn: seuerally.} gather euery kind seuerally by it selfe, for all will not keepe alike, and it is hard to discerne them, when they are mingled. {sn: ouerladen trees.} if your trees be ouer-laden (as they will be, being ordered, as is before taught you) i like better of pulling some off (tho they be not ripe) neere the top end of the bough, then of propping by much, the rest shall be better fed. propping puts the bough in danger, and frets it at least. {sn: instruments.} {sn: bruises.} instruments: a long ladder of light firre: a stoole-ladder as in the . chapter. a gathering apron like a poake before you, made of purpose, or a wallet hung on a bough, or a basket with a siue bottome, or skinne bottome, with lathes or splinters vnder, hung in a rope to pull vp and downe: bruise none, euery bruise is to fruit death: if you doe, vse them presently. an hooke to pull boughs to you is necessary, breake no boughes. {sn: keeping.} for keeping, lay them in a dry loft, the longest keeping apples first and furthest on dry straw, on heapes ten or fourteene dayes, thicke, that they may sweat. then dry them with a soft and cleane cloth, and lay them thinne abroad. long keeping fruit would be turned once in a moneth softly: but not in nor immediately after frost. in a loft couer well with straw, but rather with chaffe or branne: for frost doth cause tender rottennesse. chap. . _of profits._ now pause with your selfe, and view the end of all your labours in an orchard: vnspeakable pleasure, and infinite commodity. the pleasure of an orchard i referre to the last chapter for the conclusion: and in this chapter, a word or two of the profit, which thorowly to declare is past my skill: and i count it as if a man should attempt to adde light to the sunne with a candle, or number the starres. no man that hath but a meane orchard or iudgement but knowes, that the commodity of an orchard is great: neither would i speake of this, being a thing so manifest to all; but that i see, that through the carelesse lazinesse of men, it is a thing generally neglected. but let them know, that they lose hereby the chiefest good which belongs to house-keeping. compare the commodity that commeth of halfe an acre of ground, set with fruit-trees and hearbs, so as is prescribed, and an whole acre (say it be two) with corne, or the best commodity you can wish, and the orchard shall exceed by diuers degrees. {sn: cydar and perry.} in _france_ and some other countries, and in _england_, they make great vse of cydar and perry, thus made: dresse euery apple, the stalke, vpper end, and all galles away, stampe them, and straine them, and within . houres tun them vp into cleane, sweet, and sound vessels, for feare of euill ayre, which they will readily take: and if you hang a poakefull of cloues, mace, nutmegs, cinamon, ginger, and pils of lemmons in the midst of the vessell, it will make it as wholesome and pleasant as wine. the like vsage doth perry require. these drinks are very wholesome, they coole, purge, and preuent hot agues. but i leaue this skill to physicians. {sn: fruit.} the benefit of your fruit, roots and hearbs, though it were but to eate and sell, is much. {sn: waters.} waters distilled of roses, woodbind, angelica, are both profitable and wondrous pleasant, and comfortable. {sn: conserue.} saffron and licoras will yeeld you much conserues and preserues, are ornaments to your feasts, health in your sicknesse, and a good helpe to your friend, and to your purse. he that will not be moued with such vnspeakable profits, is well worthy to want, when others abound in plenty of good things. chap. . _ornaments._ me thinks hitherto we haue but a bare orchard for fruit, and but halfe good, so long as it wants those comely ornaments, that should giue beauty to all our labours, and make much for the honest delight of the owner and his friends. {sn: delight the chiefe end of orchards.} {sn: an orchard delightsome.} {sn: an orchard is paradise.} {sn: causes of wearisomnesse.} {sn: orchard is the remedy.} for it is not to be doubted: but as god hath giuen man things profitable, so hath he allowed him honest comfort, delight, and recreation in all the workes of his hands. nay, all his labours vnder the sunne without this are troubles, and vexation of mind: for what is greedy gaine, without delight, but moyling, and turmoyling in slauery? but comfortable delight, with content, is the good of euery thing, and the patterne of heauen. a morsell of bread with comfort, is better by much then a fat oxe with vnquietnesse. and who can deny, but the principall end of an orchard, is the honest delight of one wearied with the works of his lawfull calling? the very workes of, and in an orchard and garden, are better then the ease and rest of and from other labours. when god had made man after his owne image, in a perfect state, and would haue him to represent himselfe in authority, tranquillity, and pleasure vpon the earth, he placed him in _paradise_. what was _paradise_? but a garden and orchard of trees and hearbs, full of pleasure? and nothing there but delights. the gods of the earth, resembling the great god of heauen in authority, maiestie, and abundance of all things, wherein is their most delight? and whither doe they withdraw themselues from the troublesome affaires of their estate, being tyred with the hearing and iudging of litigious controuersies? choked (as it were) with the close ayres of their sumptuous buildings, their stomacks cloyed with variety of banquets, their eares filled and ouerburthened with tedious discoursings? whither? but into their orchards? made and prepared, dressed and destinated for that purpose, to renue and refresh their sences, and to call home their ouer-wearied spirits. nay, it is (no doubt) a comfort to them, to set open their cazements into a most delicate garden and orchard, whereby they may not onely see that, wherein they are so much delighted, but also to giue fresh, sweet, and pleasant ayre to their galleries and chambers. {sn: all delight in orchards.} and looke, what these men do by reason of their greatnes and ability, prouoked with delight, the same doubtlesse would euery of vs doe, if power were answerable to our desires, whereby we shew manifestly, that of all other delights on earth, they that are taken by orchards, are most excellent, and most agreeing with nature. {sn: this delights all the senses.} for whereas euery other pleasure commonly filles some one of our senses, and that onely, with delight, this makes all our sences swimme in pleasure, and that with infinite variety, ioyned with no lesse commodity. {sn: delighteth old age.} that famous _philosopher_, and matchlesse orator, _m.t.c._ prescribeth nothing more fit, to take away the tediousnesse and heauy load of three or foure score yeeres, then the pleasure of an orchard. {sn: causes of delight in an orchard.} what can your eye desire to see, your eares to hear, your mouth to tast, or your nose to smell, that is not to be had in an orchard, with abundance and variety? what more delightsome then an infinite variety of sweet smelling flowers? decking with sundry colours, the greene mantle of the earth, the vniuersall mother of vs all, so by them bespotted, so dyed, that all the world cannot sample them, and wherein it is more fit to admire the dyer, then imitate his workemanship. colouring not onely the earth, but decking the ayre, and sweetning euery breath and spirit. {sn: flowers.} the rose red, damaske, veluet, and double double prouince rose, the sweet muske rose double and single, the double and single white rose. the faire and sweet senting woodbinde, double and single, and double double. purple cowslips, and double cowslips, and double double cowslips. primerose double and single. the violet nothing behinde the best, for smelling sweetly. a thousand more will prouoke your content. {sn: borders and squares.} and all these, by the skill of your gardner, so comely, and orderly placed in your borders and squares, and so intermingled, that none looking thereon, cannot but wonder, to see, what nature corrected by art can doe. {sn: mounts.} {sn: whence you may shoote a bucke.} {sn: dyall.} {sn: musique.} when you behold in diuers corners of your orchard _mounts_ of stone, or wood curiously wrought within and without, or of earth couered with fruit-trees: kentish cherry, damsons, plummes, &c. with staires of precious workmanship. and in some corner (or moe) a true dyall or clocke and some anticke-workes and especially siluer-sounding musique, mixt instruments and voices, gracing all the rest: how will you be rapt with delight? {sn: walkes.} {sn: seates.} large walkes, broad and long, close and open, like the _tempe_ groues in _thessalie_, raised with grauell and sand, hauing seats and bankes of cammomile, all this delights the minde, and brings health to the body. {sn: order of trees.} view now with delight the workes of your owne hands, your fruit-trees of all sorts, loaden with sweet blossomes, and fruit of all tasts, operations, and colours: your trees standing in comely order which way soeuer you looke. {sn: shape of men and beasts.} your borders on euery side hanging and drooping with feberries, raspberries, barberries, currens, and the rootes of your trees powdred with strawberries, red, white, and greene, what a pleasure is this? your gardner can frame your lesser wood to the shape of men armed in the field, ready to giue battell: or swift running greyhounds: or of well sented and true running hounds, to chase the deere, or hunt the hare. this kind of hunting shall not waste your corne, nor much your coyne. {sn: mazes.} mazes well framed a mans height, may perhaps make your friend wander in gathering of berries, till he cannot recouer himselfe without your helpe. {sn: bowle-alley.} {sn: buts.} to haue occasion to exercise within your orchard: it shall be a pleasure to haue a bowling alley, or rather (which is more manly, and more healthfull) a paire of buts, to stretch your armes. {sn: hearbes.} rosemary and sweete eglantine are seemely ornaments about a doore or window, and so is woodbinde. {sn: conduit.} looke chapter , and you shall see the forme of a conduite. if there were two or more, it were not amisse. {sn: riuer.} {sn: moats.} and in mine opinion, i could highly commend your orchard, if either through it, or hard by it there should runne a pleasant riuer with siluer streames; you might sit in your mount, and angle a peckled trout, or fleightie eele, or some other dainty fish. or moats, whereon you might row with a boate, and fish with nettes. {sn: bees.} store of bees in a dry and warme bee-house, comely made of fir-boords, to sing, and sit, and feede vpon your flowers and sprouts, make a pleasant noyse and sight. for cleanely and innocent bees, of all other things, loue and become, and thriue in an orchard. if they thriue (as they must needes, if your gardiner bee skilfull, and loue them: for they loue their friends, and hate none but their enemies) they will, besides the pleasure, yeeld great profit, to pay him his wages yea, the increase of twenty stockes or stooles, with other fees will keepe your orchard. you need not doubt their stings, for they hurt not whom they know, and they know their keeper and acquaintance. if you like not to come amongst them, you need not doubt them: for but neere their store, and in their owne defence, they will not fight, and in that case onely (and who can blame them?) they are manly, and fight desperately. some (as that honorable lady at _hacknes_, whose name doth much grace mine orchard) vse to make seates for them in the stone wall of their orchard, or garden, which is good, but wood is better. {sn: vine.} a vine ouer-shadowing a seate, is very comely, though her grapes with vs ripe slowly. {sn: birds.} {sn: nightingale.} {sn: robin-red-brest.} {sn: wren.} one chiefe grace that adornes an orchard, i cannot let slip: a brood of nightingales, who with their seuerall notes and tunes, with a strong delightsome voyce, out of a weake body, will beare you company night and day. she loues (and liues in) hots of woods in her hart. she will helpe you to cleanse your trees of caterpillers, and all noysome wormes and flyes. the gentle robin-red-brest will helpe her, and in winter in the coldest stormes will keepe a part. neither will the silly wren be behind in summer, with her distinct whistle (like a sweete recorder) to cheere your spirits. {sn: black-bird.} {sn: thrush.} the black-bird and threstle (for i take it the thrush sings not, but deuoures) sing loudly in a _may_ morning and delights the eare much (and you neede not want their company, if you haue ripe cherries or berries, and would as gladly as the rest do you pleasure:) but i had rather want their company than my fruit. what shall i say? a thousand of pleasant delightes are attendant in an orchard: and sooner shall i be weary, then i can recken the least part of that pleasure, which one that hath and loues an orchard, may find therein. what is there of all these few that i haue reckoned, which doth not please the eye, the eare, the smell, and taste? and by these sences as organes, pipes, and windowes, these delights are carried to refresh the gentle, generous, and noble mind. {sn: your owne labour.} to conclude, what ioy may you haue, that you liuing to such an age, shall see the blessings of god on your labours while you liue, and leaue behind you to heires or successors (for god will make heires) such a worke, that many ages after your death, shall record your loue to their countrey? and the rather, when you consider (_chap. ._) to what length of time your worke is like to last. _finis._ the covntry hovse-vvifes garden. _containing rules for hearbs and seedes_ of common vse, with their times and seasons, when to set and sow them. together, with the husbandry of bees, published with secrets _very necessary for euery house-wife_. as also diuerse new knots for gardens. the contents see at large in the last page. genes. . . _i haue giuen vnto you euery herbe, and euery tree, that shall be to you for meate._ ic _london_, printed by _nicholas okes_ for iohn harison, at the golden vnicorne in pater-noster-row. . the covntry hovsvvifes garden. chap. . _the soyle._ {sn: dry.} {sn: hops.} the soyle of an orchard and garden, differ onely in these three points: first, the gardens soyle would be somewhat dryer, because hearbes being more tender then trees, can neither abide moisture nor drought, in such excessiue measure, as trees; and therefore hauing a dryer soyle, the remedy is easie against drought, if need be: water soundly, which may be done with small labour, the compasse of a garden being nothing so great, as of an orchard, and this is the cause (if they know it) that gardners raise their squares: but if moysture trouble you, i see no remedy without a generall danger, except in hops, which delight much in a low and sappy earth. {sn: plaine.} secondly, the soyle of a garden would be plaine and leuell, at least euery square (for we purpose the square to be the fittest forme) the reason: the earth of a garden wanting such helpes, as should stay the water, which an orchard hath, and the rootes of hearbes being short, and not able to fetch their liquor from the bottome, are more annoyed by drought, and the soyle being mellow and loose, is soone either washt away, or sends out his heart by too much drenching and washing. thirdly, if a garden soyle be not cleere of weedes, and namely, of grasse, the hearbes shall neuer thriue: for how should good hearbes prosper, when euill weeds waxe so fast: considering good hearbes are tender in respect of euill weedes: these being strengthened by nature, and the other by art? gardens haue small place in comparison, and therefore may be more easily be fallowed, at the least one halfe yeare before, and the better dressed after it is framed. and you shall finde that cleane keeping doth not onely auoide danger of gathering weedes, but also is a speciall ornament, and leaues more plentifull sap for your tender hearbes. chap. . _of the sites._ i cannot see in any sort, how the site of the one should not be good, and fit for the other: the ends of both being one, good, wholesome, and much fruit ioyned with delight, vnlesse trees be more able to abide the nipping frostes than tender hearbes: but i am sure, the flowers of trees are as soone perished with cold, as any hearbe except pumpions, and melons. chap. . _of the forme._ let that which is sayd in the orchards forme, suffice for a garden in generall: but for speciall formes in squares, they are as many, as there are diuices in gardners braines. neither is the wit and art of a skilfull gardner in this poynt not to be commended, that can worke more variety for breeding of more delightsome choyce, and of all those things, where the owner is able and desirous to be satisfied. the number of formes, mazes and knots is so great, and men are so diuersly delighted, that i leaue euery house-wife to her selfe, especially seeing to set downe many, had bene but to fill much paper; yet lest i depriue her of all delight and direction, let her view these few, choyse, new formes, and note this generally, that all plots are square, and all are bordered about with priuit, raisins, fea-berries, roses, thorne, rosemary, bee-flowers, isop, sage, or such like. {illustration: the ground plot for knots.} {illustration: cinkfoyle.} {illustration: flower-deluce.} {illustration: the trefoyle.} {illustration: the fret.} {illustration: lozenges.} {illustration: crosse-bow.} {illustration: diamond.} {illustration: ouall.} {illustration: maze.} chap. . _of the quantity._ a garden requireth not so large a scope of ground as an orchard, both in regard of the much weeding, dressing and remouing, and also the paines in a garden is not so well repaied home, as in an orchard. it is to be graunted, that the kitchin garden doth yeeld rich gaines by berries, roots, cabbages, &c. yet these are no way comparable to the fruits of a rich orchard: but notwithstanding i am of opinion, that it were better for _england_, that we had more orchards and gardens, and more large. and therefore we leaue the quantity to euery mans ability and will. chap. . _of fence._ seeing we allow gardens in orchard plots, and the benefit of a garden is much, they both require a strong and shrowding fence. therefore leauing this, let vs come to the hearbes themselues, which must be the fruit of all these labours. chap. . _of two gardens._ hearbes are of two sorts, and therefore it is meete (they requiring diuers manners of husbandry) that we haue two gardens: a garden for flowers, and a kitchen garden: or a summer garden: not that we meane so perfect a distinction, that the garden for flowers should or can be without hearbes good for the kitchen, or the kitchen garden should want flowers, nor on the contrary: but for the most part they would be seuered: first, because your garden flowers shall suffer some disgrace, if among them you intermingle onions, parsnips, &c. secondly, your garden that is durable, must be of one forme: but that, which is for your kitchens vse, must yeeld daily rootes, or other hearbes, and suffer deformity. thirdly, the hearbs of both will not be both alike ready, at one time, either for gathering, or remouing. first therefore _of the summer garden._ these hearbs and flowers are comely and durable for squares and knots and all to set at _michael-tide_, or somewhat before, that they may be setled in, and taken with the ground before winter, though they may be set, especially sowne in the spring. roses of all sorts (spoken of in the orchard) must be set. some vie to set slips and twine them, which sometimes, but seldome thriue all. rosemary, lauender, bee-flowers, isop, sage, time, cowslips, pyony, dasies, cloue gilliflowers, pinkes, sothernwood, lillies, of all which hereafter. _of the kitchen garden._ though your garden for flowers doth in a sort peculiarly challenge to it seise a profit, and exquisite forme to the eyes, yet you may not altogether neglect this, where your hearbes for the pot do growe. and therefore, some here make comely borders with the hearbes aforesayd. the rather because aboundance of roses and lauender yeeld much profit, and comfort to the sences: rose-water and lauender, the one cordial (as also the violets, burrage, and buglas) the other reuiuing the spirits by the sence of smelling: both most durable for smell, both in flowers and water: you need not here raise your beds, as in the other garden, because summer towards, will not let too much wet annoy you. and these hearbes require more moysture: yet must you haue your beds diuided, that you may goe betwixt to weede, and somewhat forme would be expected: to which it auaileth, that you place your herbes of biggest growth, by walles, or in borders, as fenell, &c. and the lowest in the middest, as saffron, strawberries, onions, &c. chap. . _diuision of hearbs._ garden hearbs are innumerable, yet these are common and sufficient for our country house-wifes. _hearbs of greatest growth._ fenell, anglica, tansie, hollihock, louage, elly campane, french mallows, lillies, french poppy, endiue, succory and clary. _herbes of middle growth._ burrage, buglas, parsley, sweet sicilly, floure-de-luce, stocke gilliflowers, wall-flowers, anniseedes, coriander, feather fewell, marigolds, oculus christi, langdibeefe, alexanders, carduus benedictus. _hearbes of smallest growth._ pansy, or harts-ease, coast margeram, sauery, strawberries, saffron, lycoras, daffadowndillies, leekes, chiues, chibals, skerots, onions, batchellors buttons, dasies, peniroyall. hitherto i haue onely reckoned vp, and put in this ranke, some hearbs. their husbandry follow each in an alphabeticall order, the better to be found. chap. . _husbandry of herbes._ _alexanders_ are to be renewed as _angelica_. it is a timely pot-hearbe. _anglica_ is renued with his seede, whereof he beareth plenty the second yeare, and so dieth. you may remoue the rootes the first yeare. the leaues distilled, yeeld water soueraigne to expell paine from the stomacke. the roote dried taken in the fall, stoppeth the poares against infections. _annyseedes_ make their growth, and beareth seeds the first yeere, and dieth as _coriander_: it is good for opening the pipes, and it is vsed in comfits. _artichoakes_ are renewed by diuiding the rootes into sets, in _march_, euery third or fourth yeare. they require a seuerall vsage, and therefore a seuerall whole plot by themselues, especially considering they are plentifull of fruite much desired. _burrage_ and _buglas_, two cordials, renue themselues by seed yearely, which is hard to be gathered: they are exceeding good pot-hearbes, good for bees, and most comfortable for the heart and stomacke, as quinces and wardens. _camomile_, set rootes in bankes and walkes. it is sweete smelling, qualifying head-ach. _cabbages_ require great roome, they seed the second yeare: sow them in _february_, remoue them when the plants are an handfull long, set deepe and wet. looke well in drought for the white caterpillers worme, the spaunes vnder the leafe closely; for euery liuing creature doth seeke foode and quiet shelter, and growing quicke, they draw to, and eate the heart: you may finde them in a rainy deawy morning. it is a good pothearbe, and of this hearbe called _cole_ our countrie house-wiues giue their pottage their name, and call them _caell_. _carduus benedictus_, or blessed thistle, seeds and dyes the first yeere, the excellent vertue thereof i referre to herbals, for we are gardiners, not physitians. _carrets_ are sowne late in _aprill_ or _may_, as turneps, else they seede the first yeere, and then their roots are naught: the second yeere they dye, their roots grow great, and require large roome. _chibals_ or _chiues_ haue their roots parted, as garlick, lillies, &c. and so are they set euery third or fourth yeere: a good pot-hearb opening, but euill for the eies. _clarie_ is sowne, it seeds the second yeere, and dyes. it is somewhat harsh in taste, a little in pottage is good, it strengtheneth the reines. _coast_, roote parted make sets in _march_: it beares the second yeere: it is vsed in ale in _may_. _coriander_ is for vsage and vses, much like anniseeds. _daffadowndillies_ haue their roots parted, and set once in three or foure yeere, or longer time. they flower timely, and after _midsummer_, are scarcely seene. they are more for ornament, then for vse, so are daisies. _daisie_-rootes parted and set, as flowre-deluce and camomile, when you see them grow too thicke or decay. they be good to keepe vp, and strengthen the edges of your borders, as pinkes, they be red, white, mixt. _ellycampane_ root is long lasting, as is the louage, it seeds yeerely, you may diuide the root, and set the roote, taken in vvinter it is good (being dryed, powdered and drunke) to kill itches. _endiue_ and _succory_ are much like in nature, shape, and vse, they renue themselues by seed, as fennell, and other hearbs. you may remoue them before they put forth shankes, a good pot-hearbe. _fennell_ is renued, either by the seeds (which it beareth the second yeere, and so yeerely in great abundance) sowne in the fall or spring, or by diuiding one root into many sets, as artichoke, it is long of growth and life. you may remoue the roote vnshankt. it is exceeding good for the eyes, distilled, or any otherwise taken: it is vsed in dressing hiues for swarmes, a very good pot-hearbe, or for sallets. _fetherfewle_ shakes seed. good against a shaking feuer, taken in a posset drinke fasting. _flower-deluce_, long lasting. diuide his roots, and set: the roots dryed haue a sweet smell. _garlicke_ may be set an handfull distance, two inches deepe, in the edge of your beds. part the heads into seuerall cloues, and euery cloue set in the latter end of _february_, will increase to a great head before _september_: good for opening, euill for eyes: when the blade is long, fast two & two together, the heads will be bigger. _hollyhocke_ riseth high, seedeth and dyeth: the chiefe vse i know is ornament. _isop_ is reasonable long lasting: young roots are good set, slips better. a good pot-hearbe. _iuly-flowers_, commonly called _gilly-flowers_, or _cloue-iuly-flowers_ (i call them so, because they flowre in _iuly_) they haue the name of _cloues_, of their sent. i may well call them the king of flowers (except the rose) and the best sort of them are called _queene-iuly flowers_. i haue of them nine or ten seuerall colours, and diuers of them as big as roses; of all flowers (saue the damaske rose) they are the most pleasant to sight and smell: they last not past three or foure yeeres vnremoued. take the slips (without shanks) and set any time, saue in extreme frost, but especially at _michael tide_. their vse is much in ornament, and comforting the spirits, by the sence of smelling. _iuly flowers_ of the wall, or wall-_iuly-flowers_, wall-flowers, or bee-flowers, or winter-_iuly-flowers_, because growing in the walles, euen in winter, and good for bees, will grow euen in stone walls, they will seeme dead in summer, and yet reuiue in winter. they yeeld seed plentifully, which you may sow at any time, or in any broken earth, especially on the top of a mud-wall, but moist, you may set the root before it be brancht, euery slip that is not flowr'd will take root, or crop him in summer, and he will flower in winter: but his winter-seed is vntimely. this and palmes are exceeding good, and timely for bees. _leekes_ yeeld seed the second yeere, vnremoued and die, vnlesse you remoue them, vsuall to eate with salt and bread, as onyons alwaies greene, good pot-hearb, euill for the eyes. _lauendar spike_ would be remoued within yeeres, or eight at the most. slips twined as isop and sage, would take best at _michael-tide_. this flower is good for bees, most comfortable for smelling, except roses; and kept dry, is as strong after a yeere, and when it is gathered. the water of this is comfortable. white _lauendar_ would be remoued sooner. _lettice_ yeelds seed the first yeere, and dyes: sow betime, and if you would haue them _cabbage_ for sallets, remoue them as you doe _cabbage_. they are vsuall in sallets, and the pot. _lillies_ white and red, remoued once in three or foure yeeres their roots yeeld many sets, like the garlicke, _michael-tide_ is the best: they grow high, after they get roote: these roots are good to breake a byle, as are mallowes and sorrell. _mallowes_, french or gagged, the first or second yeere, seed plentifully: sow in _march_, or before, they are good for the house-wifes pot, or to breake a bunch. _marigolds_ most commonly come of seed, you may remoue the plants, when they be two inches long. the double marigold, being as bigge as a little rose, is good for shew. they are a good pot-hearbe. _oculus christi_, or christs eye, seeds and dyes the first or second yeere: you may remoue the yong plants, but seed is better: one of these seeds put into the eye, within three or foure houres will gather a thicke skinne, cleere the eye, and bolt it selfe forth without hurt to the eye. a good pot-hearbe. _onyons_ are sowne in _february_, they are gathered at _michael-tide_, and all the summer long, for sallets; as also young parsly, sage, chibals, lettice, sweet sicily, fennell, &c. good alone, or with meate as mutton, &c. for sauce, especially for the pot. _parsly_ sow the first yeere, and vse the next yeere: it seedes plentifully, an hearbe of much vse, as sweet sicily is. the seed and roots are good against the stone. _parsneps_ require and whole plot, they be plentifull and common: sow them in _february_, the kings (that is in the middle) seed broadest and reddest. parsneps are sustenance for a strong stomacke, not good for euill eies: when they couer the earth in a drought, to tread the tops, make the rootes bigger. _peny-royall_, or pudding grasse, creepes along the ground like ground iuie. it lasts long, like daisies, because it puts and spreads dayly new roots. diuide, and remoue the roots, it hath a pleasant taste and smell, good for the pot, or hackt meate, or haggas pudding. _pumpions_: set seedes with your finger, a finger deepe, late in _march_, and so soone as they appeare, euery night if you doubt frost, couer them, and water them continually out of a water-pot: they be very tender, their fruit is great and waterish. _french poppy_ beareth a faire flower, and the seed will make you sleepe. _raddish_ is sauce for cloyed stomacks, as capers, oliues, and cucumbers, cast the seeds all summer long here and there, and you shall haue them alwaies young and fresh. _rosemary_, the grace of hearbs here in _england_, in other countries common. to set slips immediately after _lammas_, is the surest way. seede sowne may proue well, so they be sowne in hot weather, somewhat moist, and good earth: for the hearbe, though great, is nesh and tender (as i take it) brought from hot countries to vs in the cold north: set thinne. it becomes a window well. the vse is much in meates, more in physicke, most for bees. _rue, or hearbe of grace_, continually greene, the slips are set. it lasts long as rosemary, sothernwood, &c. too strong for mine housewifes pot, vnlesse she will brue ale therewith, against the plague: let him not seede, if you will haue him last. _saffron_ euery third yeere his roots would be remoued at _midsummer_: for when all other hearbs grow most, it dyeth. it flowreth at _michael-tide_, and groweth all winter: keepe his flowers from birds in the morning, & gather the yellow (or they shape much like lillies) dry, and after dry them: they be precious, expelling diseases from the heart and stomacke. _sauery_ seeds and dyes the first yeere, good for my housewifes pot and pye. _sage_: set slips in _may_, and they grow aye: let it not seed it will last the longer. the vse is much and common. the monkish prouerbe is _tritum_: _cur moritur homo, cum saluia crescit in horto?_ _skerots_, roots are set when they be parted, as _pyonie_, and flower-deluce at _michael-tide_: the roote is but small and very sweet. i know none other speciall vse but the table. sweet _sicily_, long lasting, pleasantly tasting, either the seed sowne, or the root parted, and remoued, makes increase, it is of like vse with parsly. _strawberries_ long lasting, set roots at _michael-tide_ or the spring, they be red, white and greene, and ripe, when they be great and soft, some by _midsummer_ with vs. the vse is: they will coole my housewife well, if they be put in wine or creame with sugar. _time_, both seeds, slips and rootes are good. if it seed not, it will last three or foure yeeres or more, it smelleth comfortably. it hath much vse: namely, in all cold meats, it is good for bees. _turnep_ is sowne. in the second yeere they beare plenty of seed: they require the same time of sowing that carrets doe: they are sicke of the same disease that cabbages be. the roots increaseth much, it is most wholesome, if it be sowne in a good and well tempered earth: soueraigne for eyes and bees. i reckon these hearbs onely, because i teach my countrey housewife, not skilfull artists, and it should be an endlesse labour, and would make the matter tedious to reckon vp _landtheefe_, _stocke-iuly-flowers_, _charuall_, _valerian_, _go-to bed at noone_, _piony_, _licoras_, _tansie_, _garden mints_, _germander_, _centaurie_, and a thousand such physicke hearbs. let her first grow cunning in this, and then she may enlarge her garden as her skill and ability increaseth. and to helpe her the more, i haue set her downe these obseruations. chap. . _generall rules in gardening._ in the south parts gardening may be more timely, and more safely done, then with vs in _yorkeshire_, because our ayre is not so fauourable, nor our ground so good. secondly most seeds shakt, by turning the good earth, are renued, their mother the earth keeping them in her bowels, till the sunne their father can reach them with his heat. in setting hearbs, leaue no top more then an handfull aboue the ground, nor more then a foot vnder the earth. twine the roots of those slips you set, if they will abide it. gilly-flowers are too tender. set moist, and sowe dry. set slips without shankes any time, except at _midsummer_, and in frosts. seeding spoiles the most roots, as drawing the heart and sap from the root. gather for the pot and medicines, hearbs tender and greene, the sap being in the top, but in winter the root is best. all the hearbs in the garden for flowers, would once in seuen yeeres be renued, or soundly watered with puddle water, except rosemary. in all your gardens and orchards, bankes and seates of camomile, peny-royall, daisies and violets, are seemely and comfortable. these require whole plots: artichokes, cabbages, turneps, parsneps, onyons, carrets, and (if you will) saffron and scerrits. gather all your seeds, dead, ripe, and dry. lay no dung to the roots of your hearbs, as vsually they doe: for dung not melted is too hot, euen for trees. thin setting and sewing (so the rootes stand not past a foot distance) is profitable, for the hearbs will like the better. greater hearbs would haue more distance. set and sow hearbs in their time of growth (except at _midsummer_, for then they are too too tender) but trees in their time of rest. a good housewife may, and will gather store of hearbs for the pot, about _lammas_, and dry them, and pownd them, and in winter they will make good seruice. thus haue i lined out a garden to our countrey housewiues, and giuen them rules for common hearbs. if any of them (as sometimes they are) be knotty, i referre them to chap. . the skill and paines of weeding the garden with weeding kniues or fingers, i refer to themselues, and their maides, willing them to take the opportunitie after a showre of raine: withall i aduise the mistresse, either be present her selfe, or to teach her maides to know hearbs from weeds. chap. . _the husbandry of bees._ there remaineth one necessary thing to be prescribed, which in mine opinion makes as much for ornament as either flowers, or forme, or cleanlinesse, and i am sure as commodious as any of, or all the rest: which is bees, well ordered. and i will not account her any of my good house-wiues, that wanteth either bees or skilfulnesse about them. and though i knowe some haue written well and truely, and others more plentifully vpon this theame: yet somewhat haue i learned by experience (being a bee-maister my selfe) which hitherto i cannot finde put into writing, for which i thinke our house-wiues will count themselues beholding vnto me. {sn: bee-house.} the first thing that a gardiner about bees must be carefull for, is an house not stakes and stones abroad, _sub dio_: for stakes rot and reele, raine and weather eate your hiues, and couers, and cold most of all is hurtfull for your bees. therefore you must haue an house made along, a sure dry wall in your garden, neere, or in your orchard: for bees loue flowers and wood with their hearts. this is the forme, a frame standing on posts with a floore (if you would haue it hold more hiues, two floores boorded) layd on bearers, and backe posts, couered ouer with boords, slate-wise. ic let the floores be without holes or clifts, least in casting time, the bees lye out, and loyter. and though your hiues stand within an hand breadth the one of another: yet will bees know their home. in this frame may your bees stand drye and warme, especially if you make doores like doores of windows to shroud them in winter, as in an house: prouided you leaue the hiues mouths open. i my self haue deuised such an house, and i find that it keeps and strengthens my bees much, and my hiues will last sixe to one. {sn: hiues.} m. _markham_ commends hiues of wood. i discommend them not: but straw hiues are in vse with vs, and i thinke with all the world, which i commend for nimblenesse, closenesse, warmnesse and drinesse. bees loue no externall motions of dawbing or such like. sometimes occasion shall be offered to lift and turne hiues, as shall appeare hereafter. one light entire hiue of straw in that case is better, then one that is dawbed, weighty and cumbersome. i wish euery hiue, for a keeping swarme, to hold three pecks at least in measure. for too little hiues procure bees, in casting time, either to lye out, and loyter, or else to cast before they be ripe and strong, and so make weake swarmes and vntimely: whereas if they haue roome sufficient, they ripen timely, and casting seasonably, are strong, and fit for labour presently. neither would the hiue be too too great, for then they loyter, and waste meate and time. {sn: hiuing of bees.} your bees delight in wood, for feeding, especially for casting: therefore want not an orchard. a _mayes_ swarme is worth a mares foale: if they want wood, they be in danger of flying away. any time before _midsummer_ is good, for casting and timely before _iuly_ is not euill. i much like m _markhams_ opinion for hiuing a swarme in combes of a dead or forsaken hiue, so they be fresh & cleanly. to thinke that a swarme of your owne, or others, will of it selfe come into such an hiue, is a meere conceit. _experto crede roberto._ his smearing with honey, is to no purpose, for the other bees will eate it vp. if your swarme knit in the top of a tree, as they will, if the winde beate them not to fall downe: let the stoole or ladder described in the orchard, doe you seruice. {sn: spelkes.} the lesse your spelkes are, the lesse is the waste of your honey, and the more easily will they draw, when you take your bees. foure spelkes athwart, and one top spelke are sufficient. the bees will fasten their combes to the hiue. a little honey is good: but if you want, fennell will serue to rub your hiue withall. the hiue being drest and ready spelkt, rubd and the hole made for their passage (i vse no hole in the hiue, but a piece of wood hoal'd to saue the hiue & keep out mice) shake in your bees, or the most of them (for all commonly you cannot get) the remainder will follow. many vse smoke, nettles, &c. which i vtterly dislike: for bees loue not to be molested. ringing in the time of casting is a meere fancie, violent handling of them is simply euill, because bees of all other creatures, loue cleanlinesse and peace. therefore handle them leasurely & quietly, and their keeper whom they know, may do with them, what he will, without hurt: being hiued at night, bring them to their seat. set your hiues all of one yeere together. signes of breeding, if they be strong: they will auoid dead young bees and droanes. they will sweat in the morning, till it runne from them; alwaies when they be strong. _signes of casting._ they will fly droanes, by reason of heat. the young swarme will once or twice in some faire season, come forth mustering, as though they would cast, to proue themselues, and goe in againe. the night before they cast, if you lay your eare to the hiues mouth, yo shall heare two or three, but especially one aboue the rest, cry, vp, vp, vp; or, tout, tout, tout, like a trumpet, sounding the alarum to the battell. {sn: catching.} {sn: clustering.} much descanting there is, of, and about the master-bee, and their degrees, order and gouernment: but the truth in this point is rather imagined, then demonstrated. there are some coniectures of it, _viz._ we see in the combs diuers greater houses then the rest, & we heare commonly the night before they cast, sometimes one bee, sometimes two, or more bees, giue a lowd and seueral sound from the rest, and sometimes bees of greater bodies then the common sort: but what of all this? i leane not on coniectures, but loue to set downe that i know to be true, and leaue these things to them that loue to diuine. keepe none weake, for it is hazard, oftentimes with losse: feeding will not helpe them: for being weake, they cannot come downe to meate, or if they come downe, they dye, because bees weake cannot abide cold. if none of these, yet will the other bees being strong, smell the honey, and come and spoile, and kill them. some helpe is in casting time, to put two weake swarmes together, or as m. _markham_ well saith: let not them cast late, by raising them with wood or stone: but with impes (say i.) an impe is three or foure wreathes, wrought as the hiue, the same compasse, to rase the hiue withall: but by experience in tryall, i haue found out a better way by clustering, for late or weake swarmes hitherto not found out of any that i know. that is this: after casting time, if i haue any stocke proud, and hindered from timely casting, with former winters pouerty, or euill weather in casting time, with two handles and crookes, fitted for the purpose, i turne vp that stocke so pestred with bees, and set it on the crowne, vpon which so turned with the mouth vpward, i place another empty hiue well drest, and spelkt, into which without any labour, the swarme that would not depart, and cast, will presently ascend, because the old bees haue this qualitie (as all other breeding creatures haue) to expell the young, when they haue brought them vp. ic there will the swarme build as kindely, as if they had of themselues beene cast. but bee sure you lay betwixt the hiues some straight and cleanly sticke or stickes, or rather a boord with holes, to keepe them asunder: otherwise they will ioyne their workes together so fast, that they cannot be parted. if you so keepe them asunder at _michael-tide_, if you like the weight of your swarme (for the goodnesse of swarmes is tryed by weight) so catched, you may set it by for a stocke to keepe. take heed in any case the combes be not broken, for then the other bees will smell the honey, and spoyle them. this haue i tryed to be very profitable for the sauing of bees. the instrument hath this forme. the great straight piece is wood, the rest are iron claspes and nailes, the claspes are loose in the stapes: two men with two of these fastened to the hiue, will easily turne it vp. they gather not till _iuly_; for then they be discharged of their young, or else they are become now strong to labour, and now sap in flowers is strong and proud: by reason of time, and force of sunne. and now also in the north (and not before) the hearbs of greatest vigour put their flowers; as beanes, fennell, burrage, rape, &c. the most sensible weather for them, is heat and drought, because the nesh bee can neither abide cold or wet: and showres (which they well fore-see) doe interrupt their labours, vnlesse they fall on the night, and so they further them. {sn: droanes.} after casting time, you shall benefit your stockes much, if you helpe them to kill their droanes, which by all probability and iudgement, are an idle kind of bees, and wastefull. some say they breed and haue seene young droanes in taking their honey, which i know is true. but i am of opinion, that there are also bees which haue lost their stings, and so being, as it were gelded, become idle and great. there is great vse of them: _deus, et natura nihil fecit frustra_. they hate the bees, and cause them cast the sooner. they neuer come foorth but when they be ouer heated. they neuer come home loaden. after casting time, and when the bees want meate, you shall see the labouring bees fasten on them, two, three, or foure at once, as if they were theeues to be led to the gallowes, and killing them, they cast out, and draw them farre from home, as hatefull enemies. our housewife, if she be the keeper of her owne bees (as she had need to be) may with her bare hand in the heate of the day, safely destroy them in the hiues mouth. some vse towards night, in a hot day, to set before the mouth of the hiue a thin board, with little holes, in at which the lesser bees may enter, but not the droanes, so that you may kill them at your pleasure. {sn: annoyances.} snayles spoile them by night like theeues: they come so quietly, and are so fast, that the bees feare them not. looke earely and late, especially in a rainie or dewey euening or morning. mice are no lesse hurtfull, and the rather to hiues of straw: and therefore couerings of straw draw them. they will in either at the mouth, or sheere themselues an hole. the remedy is good cats, rats-bane and watching. the cleanly bee hateth the smoake as poison, therefore let your bees stand neerer your garden then your brew-house or kitchen. they say sparrowes and swallowes are enemies to bees, but i see it not. more hiues perish by winters cold, then by all other hurts: for the bee is tender and nice, and onely liues in warme weather, and dyes in cold: and therefore let my housewife be perswaded, that a warme dry house before described, is the chiefest helpe she can make her bees against this, and many more mischiefes. many vse against cold in winter, to stop vp their hiue close, and some set them in houses, perswading themselues, that thereby they relieue their bees. first, tossing and mouing is hurtfull. secondly, in houses, going, knocking, and shaking is noysome. thirdly, too much heate in an house is vnnaturall for them: but lastly, and especially, bees cannot abide to be stopt close vp. for at euery warme season of the sunne they reuiue, and liuing eate, and eating must needs purge abroad, (in her house) the cleanly bee will not purge her selfe. iudge you what it is for any liuing creature, not to disburden nature. being shut vp in calme seasons, lay your care to the hiue, and you shall heare them yarme and yell, as so many hungred prisoners. therefore impound not your bees, so profitable and free a creature. {sn: taking of bees.} let none stand aboue three yeares, else the combes will be blacke and knotty, your honey will be thinne and vncleanly: and if any cast after three yeares, it is such as haue swarmes, and old bees kept all together, which is great losse. smoaking with ragges, rozen, or brimstone, many vse: some vse drowning in a tub of cleane water, and the water well brewde, will be good botchet. drawe out your spelkes immediatly with a paire of pinchars, lest the wood grow soft and swell, and so will not be drawne, then must you cut your hiue. {sn: straining honey.} let no fire come neere your hony, for fire softeneth the waxe and drosse, and makes them runne with the hony. fire softneth, weakeneth, and hindereth hony for purging. breake your combes small (when the dead empty combes are parted from the loaden combes) into a siue, borne ouer a great bowle, or vessell, with two staues, and so let it runne two or three dayes. the sooner you tunne it vp, the better will it purge. runne your swarme honey by it selfe, and that shall be your best. the elder your hiues are, the worse is your honey. {sn: vessels.} vsuall vessels are of clay, but after wood be satiated with honey (for it will leake at first: for honey is maruellously searching, the thicke, and therefore vertuous.) i vse it rather because it will not breake so soone, with fals, frosts, or otherwise, and greater vessels of clay will hardly last. when you vse your honey, with a spoone take off the skin which it hath put vp. and it is worth the regard, that bees thus vsed, if you haue but forty stockes, shall yeeld you more commodity cleerely than forty acres of ground. and thus much may suffice, to make good housewiues loue and haue good gardens and bees. _deo laus._ _finis._ the contents of the countrey _house-wifes garden._ chap. . _the soyle._ _pag. _ chap. . _site._ _p. _ chap. . _forme._ _p. _ chap. . _quantity._ _p. _ chap. . _fences._ _p. ibid._ chap. . _two gardens._ _p. _ chap. . _diuision of herbs._ _p. _ chap. . _the husbandry of herbes._ _p. ibid._ chap. . _generall rules._ _p. _ chap. . _the husbandry of bees._ _p. _ _bee-house._ _p. ._ _hiues._ _p. ._ _hiuing of bees._ _p. ibid._ _spelkes._ _p. ._ _catching._ _p. ._ _clustering._ _p. ._ _droanes._ _p. ._ _annoyances._ _p. ._ _taking of bees._ _p. ._ _straining honey._ _p. ibid._ _vessels._ _p. ibid._ a most profitable newe treatise, from approued experience of the art _of propagating plants: by_ simon harward. chap. . _the art of propagating plants._ {sn: .} there are foure sorts of planting, or propagating, as in laying of shootes or little branches, whiles they are yet tender in some pit made at their foote, as shall be sayd hereafter, or vpon a little ladder or basket of earth, tyed to the bottome of the branch, or in boaring a willow thorow, and putting the branch of the tree into the hole, as shall be fully declared in the chapter of grafting. {sn: .} there are likewise seasons to propagate in; but the best is in the spring, and _march_, when the trees are in the flower, and doe begin to grow lusty. the young planted siens or little grafts must be propagated in the beginning of winter, a foot deepe in the earth, and good manure mingled amongst the earth, which you shall cast forth of the pit, wherein you meane to propagate it, to tumble it in vpon it againe. in like manner your superfluous siens, or little plants must be cut close by the earth, when as they grow about some small impe, which we meane to propagate, for they would doe nothing but rot. for to propagate, you must digge the earth round about the tree, that so your rootes may be laid in a manner halfe bare. afterward draw into length the pit on that side where you meane to propagate, and according as you perceiue that the roots will be best able to yeeld, and be gouerned in the same pit, to vie them, and that with all gentlenesse, and stop close your siens, in such sort, as that the wreath which is in the place where it is grafted, may be a little lower then the siens of the new wood, growing out of the earth, euen so high as it possible may be. if the trees that you would propagate be somewhat thicke, and thereby the harder to ply, and somewhat stiffe to lay in the pit: then you may wet the stocke almost to the midst, betwixt the roote and the wreathing place, and so with gentle handling of it, bow downe into the pit the wood which the grafts haue put forth, and that in as round a compasse as you can, keeping you from breaking of it: afterward lay ouer the cut, with gummed waxe, or with grauell and sand. chap. . _grafting in the barke._ grafting in the barke, is vsed from mid-_august_, to the beginning of winter, and also when the westerne winde beginneth to blow, being from the . of _february_, vnto . of _iune_. but there must care be had, not to graffe in the barke in any rainy season, because it would wash away the matter of ioyning the one and the other together, and so hinder it. {sn: .} grafting in the budde, is vsed in the summer time, from the end of _may_, vntill _august_, as being the time when the trees are strong and lusty, and full of sap and leaues. to wit, in a hot countrey, from the midst of _iune_, vnto the midst of _iuly_: but cold countries, to the midst of _august_, after some small showres of raine. if the summer be so exceeding dry, as that some trees doe withhold their sap, you must waite the time till it doe returne. graft from the full of the moone, vntill the end of the old. you may graft in a cleft, without hauing regard to the raine, for the sap will keepe it off. you may graft from mid-_august_, to the beginning of _nouember_: cowes dung with straw doth mightily preserue the graft. it is better to graft in the euening, then the morning. the furniture and tooles of a grafter, are a basket to lay his grafts in, clay, grauell, sand, or strong earth, to draw ouer the plants clouen: mosse, woollen clothes, barkes of willow to ioyne to the late things and earth before spoken, and to keepe them fast: oziers to tye againe vpon the barke, to keepe them firme and fast: gummed wax, to dresse and couer the ends and tops of the grafts newly cut, that so the raine and cold may not hurt them, neither yet the sap rising from belowe, be constrained to returne againe vnto the shootes. a little sawe or hand sawe, to sawe off the stocke of the plants, a little knife or pen-knife to graffe, and to cut and sharpen the grafts, that so the barke may not pill nor be broken; which often commeth to passe when the graft is full of sap. you shall cut the graffe so long, as that it may fill the cliffe of the plant, and therewithall it must be left thicker on the barke-side, that so it may fill vp both the cliffe and other incisions, as any need is to be made, which must be alwaies well ground, well burnished without all rust. two wedges, the one broad for thicke trees, the other narrow for lesse and tender trees, both of them of box, or some other hard and smooth wood, or steele, or of very hard iron, that so they may need lesse labour in making them sharpe. a little hand-bill to set the plants at more liberty, by cutting off superfluous boughs, helu'd of iuory, box, or brazell. chap. . _grafting in the cleft._ the manner of grafting in a cleft, to wit, the stocke being clou'd, is proper not onely to trees, which are as great as a mans legs or armes, but also to greater. it is true that in as much as the trees cannot easily be clouen in their stocke, that therefore it is expedient to make incision in some one of their branches, and not in the maine body, as we see to be practised in great apple trees, and great peare-trees, and as we haue already declared heretofore. to graft in the cleft, you must make choise of a graft that is full of sap and iuyce, but it must not bee, but till from after _ianuary_ vntill _march_: and you must not thus graft in any tree that is already budded, because a great part of the iuyce and sap would be already mounted vp on high, and risen to the top, and there dispersed and scattered hither and thither, into euery sprigge and twigge, and vse nothing welcome to the graft. you must likewise be resolued not to gather your graft the day you graft in, but ten or twelue dayes before: for otherwise, if you graft it new gathered, it will not be able easily to incorporate itselfe with the body and stocke, where it shall be grafted; because that some part of it will dry, and by this meanes will be a hinderance in the stocke to the rising vp of the sap, which it should communerate vnto the graft, for the making of it to put forth, and whereas this dried part will fall a crumbling, and breaking thorow his rottennesse, it will cause to remaine a concauity, or hollow place in the stock, which will be an occasion of a like inconuenience to befall the graft. moreouer, the graft being new and tender, might easily be hurt of the bands, which are of necessity to be tyed about the stocke, to keepe the graft firme and fast. and you must further see, that your plant was not of late remoued, but that it haue already fully taken root. when you are minded to graft many grafts into one cleft, you must see that they be cut in the end all alike. {sn: .} see that the grafts be of one length, or not much differing, and it is enough, that they haue three or foure eylets without the wrench when the plant is once sawed, and lopped of all his small siens and shootes round about, as also implyed of all his branches, if it haue many: then you must leaue but two at the most, before you come to the cleauing of it: then put to your little saw, or your knife, or other edged toole that is very sharpe, cleaue it quite thorow the middest, in gentle and soft sort: first, tying the stocke very sure, that so it may not cleaue further then is need: and then put to your wedges into the cleft vntill such time as you haue set in your grafts, and in cleauing of it, hold the knife with the one hand, and the tree with the other, to helpe to keepe it from cleauing too farre. afterwards put in your wedge of boxe or brazill, or bone at the small end, that so you may the better take it out againe, when you haue set in your grafts. {sn: .} if the stocke be clouen, or the barke loosed too much from the wood: then cleaue it downe lower, and set your grafts in, and looke that their incision bee fit, and very iustly answerable to the cleft, and that the two saps, first, of the plant and graft, be right and euen set one against the other, and so handsomely fitted, as that there may not be the least appearance of any cut or cleft. for if they doe not thus lumpe one with another, they will neuer take one with another, because they cannot worke their seeming matter, and as it were cartilaguous glue in conuenient sort or manner, to the gluing of their ioynts together. you must likewise beware, not to make your cleft ouerthwart the pitch, but somewhat aside. the barke of your plant being thicker then that of your graft, you must set the graft so much the more outwardly in the cleft, that so the two saps may in any case be ioyned, and set right the one with the other but the rinde of the plant must be somewhat more out, then that of the grafts on the clouen side. {sn: .} {sn: .} to the end that you may not faile of this worke of imping, you must principally take heed, not to ouer-cleaue the stockes of your trees. but before you widen the cleft of your wedges, binde, and goe about the stocke with two or three turnes, and that with an ozier, close drawne together, vnderneath the same place, where you would haue your cleft to end, that so your stocke cleaue not too farre, which is a very vsuall cause of the miscarrying of grafts, in asmuch as hereby the cleft standeth so wide and open, as that it cannot be shut, and so not grow together againe; but in the meane time spendeth it selfe, and breatheth out all his life in that place, which is the cause that the stocke and the graft are both spilt. and this falleth out most often in plum-trees, & branches of trees. you must be careful so to ioyne the rinds of your grafts, and plants, that nothing may continue open, to the end that the wind, moisture of the clay or raine, running vpon the grafted place, do not get in: when the plant cloueth very straight, there is not any danger nor hardnesse in sloping downe the graft. if you leaue it somewhat vneuen, or rough in some places, so that the saps both of the one and of the other may the better grow, and be glued together, when your grafts are once well ioyned to your plants, draw out your wedges very softly, lest you displace them againe, you may leaue there within the cleft some small end of a wedge of greene wood, cutting it very close with the head of the stocke: some cast glue into the cleft, some sugar, and some gummed waxe. {sn: .} if the stocke of the plant whereupon you intend to graft, be not so thicke as your graft, you shall graft it after the fashion of a goates foot, make a cleft in the stocke of the plant, not direct, but byas, & that smooth and euen, not rough: then apply and make fast thereto, the graft withall his barke on, and answering to the barke of the plant. this being done, couer the place with the fat earth and mosse of the woods tyed together with a strong band: sticke a pole of wood by it, to keepe it stedfast. chap. . _grafting like a scutcheon._ in grafting after the manner of a scutcheon, you shall not vary nor differ much from that of the flute or pipe, saue only that the scutcheon-like graft, hauing one eyelet, as the other hath yet the wood of the tree whereupon the scutcheon-like graft is grafted, hath not any knob, or budde, as the wood whereupon the graft is grafted, after the manner of a pipe. {sn: .} in summer when the trees are well replenished with sap, and that their new siens begin to grow somewhat hard, you shall take a shoote at the end of the chiefe branches of some noble and reclaimed tree, whereof you would faine haue some fruit, and not many of his old store or wood, and from thence raise a good eylet, the tayle and all thereof to make your graft. but when you choose, take the thickest, and grossest, diuide the tayle in the middest, before you doe any thing else, casting away the leafe (if it be not a peare plum-tree: for that would haue two or three leaues) without remouing any more of the said tayle: afterward with the point of a sharpe knife, cut off the barke of the said shoote, the patterne of a shield, of the length of a nayle. {sn: .} in which there is onely one eylet higher then the middest together, with the residue of the tayle which you left behinde: and for the lifting vp of the said graft in scutcheon, after that you haue cut the barke of the shoote round about, without cutting of the wood within, you must take it gently with your thumbe, and in putting it away you must presse vpon the wood from which you pull it, that so you may bring the bud and all away together with the scutcheon: for if you leaue it behinde with the wood, then were the scutcheon nothing worth. you shall finde out if the scutcheon be nothing worth, if looking within when it is pulled away from the wood of the same sute, you finde it to haue a hole within, but more manifestly, if the bud doe stay behind in the vvood, which ought to haue beene in the scutcheon. {sn: .} thus your scutcheon being well raised and taken off, hold it a little by the tayle betwixt your lips, without wetting of it, euen vntill you haue cut the barke of the tree where you would graft it, and looke that it be cut without any wounding of the wood within, after the manner of a crutch, but somewhat longer then the scutcheon that you haue to set in it, and in no place cutting the wood within; after you haue made incision, you must open it, and make it gape wide on both sides, but in all manner of gentle handling, and that with little sizers of bone, and separating the wood and the barke a little within, euen so much as your scutcheon is in length and breadth: you must take heed that in doing hereof, you do not hurt the bark. {sn: .} {sn: .} this done take your scutcheon by the end, and your tayle which you haue left remaining, and put into your incision made in your tree, lifting vp softly your two sides of the incision with your said sizers of bone, and cause the said scutcheon to ioyne, and lye as close as may be, with the wood of the tree, being cut, as aforesaid, in waying a little vpon the end of your rinde: so cut and let the vpper part of your scutcheon lye close vnto the vpper end of your incision, or barke of your said tree: afterward binde your scutcheon about with a band of hempe, as thicke as a pen or a quill, more or lesse, according as your tree is small or great, taking the same hempe in the middest, to the end that either part of it may performe a like seruice; and wreathing and binding of the said scutcheon into the incision of a tree, and it must not be tyed too strait, for that would keepe it from taking the ioyning of the one sap to the other, being hindred thereby, and neither the scutcheon, nor yet the hempe must be moist or wet: and the more iustly to binde them together, begin at the backe side of the tree, right ouer against the middest of the incision, and from thence come forward to ioyne them before, aboue the eylet and tayle of the scutcheon, crossing your band of hempe, so oft as the two ends meet, and from thence returning backe againe, come about and tye it likewise vnderneath the eylets: and thus cast about your band still backward and forward, vntill the whole cleft of the incision be couered aboue and below with the said hempe, the eylet onely excepted, and his tayle which must not be couered at all; his tayle will fall away one part after another, and that shortly after the ingrafting, if so be the scutcheon will take. leaue your trees and scutcheons thus bound, for the space of one moneth, and the thicker, a great deale longer time. afterward looke them ouer, and if you perceiue them to grow together, vntye them, or at the leastwise cut the hempe behinde them, and leaue them vncouered. cut also your branch two or three fingers aboue that, so the impe may prosper the better: and thus let them remaine till after winter, about the moneth of _march_, and _aprill_. {sn: .} if you perceiue that your budde of your scutcheon doe swell and come forward: then cut off the tree three fingers or thereabouts, aboue the scutcheon: for if it be cut off too neere the scutcheon, at such time as it putteth forth his first blossome, it would be a meanes greatly to hinder the flowring of it, and cause also that it should not thriue and prosper so well after that one yeere is past, and that the shoote beginneth to be strong: beginning to put forth the second bud and blossome, you must goe forward to cut off in byas-wise the three fingers in the top of the tree, which you left there, when you cut it in the yeere going before, as hath beene said. {sn: .} {sn: .} {sn: .} when your shoote shall haue put foorth a great deale of length, you must sticke down there, euen hard ioyned thereunto, little stakes, tying them together very gently and easily; and these shall stay your shootes and prop them vp, letting the winde from doing any harme vnto them. thus you may graft white roses in red, and red in white. thus you may graft two or three scutcheons: prouided that they be all of one side: for they will not be set equally together in height because then they would bee all staruelings, neither would they be directly one ouer another; for the lower would stay the rising vp of the sap of the tree, and so those aboue should consume in penury, and vndergoe the aforesaid inconuenience. you must note, that the scutcheon which is gathered from the sien of a tree whose fruite is sowre, must be cut in square forme, and not in the plaine fashion of a scutcheon. it is ordinary to graffe the sweet quince tree, bastard peach-tree, apricock-tree, iuiube-tree, sowre cherry tree, sweet cherry-tree, and chestnut tree, after this fashion, howbeit they might be grafted in the cleft more easily, and more profitably; although diuers be of contrary opinion, as thus best: take the grafts of sweet quince tree, and bastard peach-tree, or the fairest wood, and best fed that you can finde, growing vpon the wood of two yeeres old, because the wood is not so firme nor solid as the others, and you shall graffe them vpon small plum-tree stocks, being of the thicknes of ones thumbe; these you shall cut after the fashion of a goats foot: you shall not goe about to make the cleft of any more sides then one, being about a foot high from the ground; you must open it with your small wedge: and being thus grafted, it will seeme to you that it is open but of one side; afterward you shall wrap it vp with a little mosse, putting thereto some gummed wax, or clay, and binde it vp with oziers to keepe it surer, because the stocke is not strong enough it selfe to hold it, and you shall furnish it euery manner of way as others are dealt withall: this is most profitable. _the time of grafting._ all moneths are good to graft in, (the moneth of _october_ and _nouember_ onely excepted). but commonly, graft at that time of the winter, when sap beginneth to arise. in a cold countrey graft later, and in a warme countrey earlier. the best time generall is from the first of _february_, vntill the first of _may_. the grafts must alwaies be gathered, in the old of the moone. for grafts choose shootes of a yeere old, or at the furthermost two yeeres old. if you must carry grafts farre, pricke them into a turnep newly gathered, or lay earth about the ends. if you set stones of plummes, almonds, nuts, or peaches: first let them lye a little in the sunne, and then steepe them in milke or water, three or foure dayes before you put them into the earth. dry the kernels of pippins, and sow them in the end of _nouember_. the stone of a plum-tree must be set a foot deepe in _nouember_, or _february_. the date-stone must be set the great end downwards, two cubits deepe in the earth, in a place enriched with dung. the peach-stone would be set presently after the fruit is eaten, some quantity of the flesh of the peach remaining about the stone. if you will haue it to be excellent, graft it afterward vpon an almond tree. the little siens of cherry-trees, grown thicke with haire, rots, and those also which doe grow vp from the rootes of the great cherry-trees, being remoued, doe grow better and sooner then they which come of stones: but they must be remoued and planted while they are but two or three yeeres old, the branches must be lopped. the contents of the art of _propagating plants_. _the art of propagating plants._ _page ._ _grafting in the barke._ _p. ._ _grafting in the cleft._ _p. ._ _grafters tooles._ _time of planting & seting._ _time of grafting._ _how to cut the stumps in grafting._ _sprouts and imps: how gathered._ _grafting like a scutcheon._ _p. ._ _inoculation in the barke._ _emplaister-wise grafting._ _to pricke stickes to beare the first yeere._ _to haue cherries or plums without stones._ _to make quinces great._ _to set stones of plummes._ _dates, nut, and peaches._ _to make fruit smell well._ _to plant cherry-trees._ the hvsband mans frvitefvll orchard. for the true ordering of all sorts of _fruits in their due seasons; and how double_ increase commeth by care in gathering _yeere after yeare: as also the best way_ of carriage by land or by water: _with their preseruation for_ longest continuance. {sn: cherries.} of all stone fruit, cherries are the first to be gathered: of which, though we reckon foure sorts; _english_, _flemish_, _gascoyne_ and _blacke_, yet are they reduced to two, the early, and the ordinary: the earely are those whose grafts came first from _france_ and _flanders_, and are now ripe with vs in _may_: the ordinary is our owne naturall cherry, and is not ripe before _iune_; they must be carefully kept from birds, either with nets, noise, or other industry. {sn: gathering of cheries.} they are not all ripe at once, nor may be gathered at once, therefore with a light ladder, made to stand of it selfe, without hurting the boughes, mount to the tree, and with a gathering hooke, gather those which be full ripe, and put them into your cherry-pot, or kybzey hanging by your side, or vpon any bough you please, and be sure to breake no stalke, but that the cherry hangs by; and pull them gently, lay them downe tenderly, and handle them as little as you can. {sn: to carry cherries.} for the conueyance or portage of cherries, they are best to be carried in broad baskets like siues, with smooth yeelding bottomes, onely two broad laths going along the bottome: and if you doe transport them by ship, or boate, let not the siues be fil'd to the top, lest setting one vpon another, you bruise and hurt the cherries: if you carry by horse-backe, then panniers well lined with fearne, and packt full and close is the best and safest way. {sn: other stone-fruit.} now for the gathering of all other stone-fruite, as nectarines, apricockes, peaches, peare-plumbes, damsons, bullas, and such like, although in their seuerall kinds, they seeme not to be ripe at once on one tree: yet when any is ready to drop from the tree, though the other seeme hard, yet they may also be gathered, for they haue receiued the full substance the tree can giue them; and therefore the day being faire, and the dew drawne away; set vp your ladder, and as you gathered your cherries, so gather them: onely in the bottomes of your large siues, where you part them, you shall lay nettles, and likewise in the top, for that will ripen those that are most vnready. {sn: gathering of peares.} in gathering of peares are three things obserued; to gather for expence, for transportation, or to sell to the apothecary. if for expence, and your owne vse, then gather them as soone as they change, and are as it were halfe ripe, and no more but those which are changed, letting the rest hang till they change also: for thus they will ripen kindely, and not rot so soone, as if they were full ripe at the gathering. but if your peares be to be transported farre either by land or water, then pull one from the tree, and cut it in the middest, and if you finde it hollow about the choare, and the kernell a large space to lye in: although no peare be ready to drop from the tree, yet then they may be gathered, and then laying them on a heape one vpon another, as of necessity they must be for transportation, they will ripen of themselues, and eate kindly: but gathered before, they will wither, shrinke and eate rough, losing not onely their taste, but beauty. now for the manner of gathering; albeit some climb into the trees by the boughes, and some by ladder, yet both is amisse: the best way is with the ladder before spoken of, which standeth of it selfe, with a basket and a line, which being full, you must gently let downe, and keeping the string still in your hand, being emptied, draw it vp againe, and so finish your labour, without troubling your selfe, or hurting the tree. {sn: gathering of apples.} now touching the gathering of apples, it is to be done according to the ripening of the fruite; your summer apples first, and the winter after. for summer fruit, when it is ripe, some will drop from the tree, and birds will be picking at them: but if you cut one of the greenest, and finde it as was shew'd you before of the peare: then you may gather them, and in the house they will come to their ripenesse and perfection. for your winter fruit, you shall know the ripenesse by the obseruation before shewed; but it must be gathered in a faire, sunny, and dry day, in the waine of the moone, and no wind in the east, also after the deaw is gone away: for the least wet or moysture will make them subiect to rot and mildew: also you must haue an apron to gather in, and to empty into the great baskets, and a hooke to draw the boughes vnto you, which you cannot reach with your hands at ease: the apron is to be an ell euery way, loopt vp to your girdle, so as it may serue for either hand without any trouble: and when it is full, vnloose one of your loopes, and empty it gently into the great basket, for in throwing them downe roughly, their owne stalkes may pricke them; and those which are prickt, will euer rot. againe, you must gather your fruit cleane without leaues or brunts, because the one hurts the tree, for euery brunt would be a stalke for fruit to grow vpon: the other hurts the fruit by bruising, and pricking it as it is layd together, and there is nothing sooner rotteth fruit, then the greene and withered leaues lying amongst them; neither must you gather them without any stalke at all: for such fruit will begin to rot where the stalke stood. {sn: to vse the fallings.} for such fruit as falleth from the trees, and are not gathered, they must not be layd with the gathered fruit: and of fallings there are two sorts, one that fals through ripenesse, and they are best, and may be kept to bake or roast; the other windfals, and before they are ripe, and they must be spent as they are gathered, or else they will wither and come to nothing: and therefore it is not good by any meanes to beate downe fruit with poales, or to carrie them in carts loose and iogging or in sacks where they may be bruised. {sn: carriage of fruit.} when your fruit is gathered, you shall lay them in deepe baskets of wicker, which shall containe foure or sixe bushels, and so betweene two men, carry them to your apple-loft, and in shooting or laying them downe, be very carefull that it be done with all gentlenesse, and leasure, laying euery sort of fruit seuerall by it selfe: but if there be want of roome hauing so many sorts that you cannot lay them seuerally, then such some fruite as is neerest in taste and colour, and of winter fruit, such as will taste alike, may if need require, be laid together, and in time you may separate them, as shall bee shewed hereafter. but if your fruit be gathered faire from your apple-loft, them must the bottomes of your baskets be lined with greene ferne, and draw the stuborne ends of the same through the basket, that none but the soft leafe may touch the fruit, and likewise couer the tops of the baskets with ferne also, and draw small cord ouer it, that the ferne may not fall away, nor the fruit scatter out, or iogge vp and downe: and thus you may carry fruit by land or by water, by boat, or cart, as farre as you please: and the ferne doth not onely keepe them from bruising, but also ripens them, especially peares. when your fruit is brought to your apple-loft or store house, if you finde them not ripened enough, then lay them in thicker heapes vpon fearne, and couer them with ferne also: and when they are neere ripe, then vncouer them, and make the heapes thinner, so as the ayre may passe thorow them: and if you will not hasten the ripening of them, then lay them on the boords without any fearne at all. now for winter, or long lasting peares, they may be packt either in ferne or straw, and carried whither you please; and being come to the iourneys end must be laid vpon sweet straw; but beware the roome be not too warme, nor windie, and too cold, for both are hurtfull: but in a temperate place, where they may haue ayre, but not too much. {sn: of wardens.} wardens are to be gathered, carried, packt, and laid as winter peares are. {sn: of medlers.} medlers are to be gathered about _michaelmas_, after a frost hath toucht them; at which time they are in their full growth, and will then be dropping from the tree, but neuer ripe vpon the tree. when they are gathered, they must be laid in a basket, siue, barrell, or any such caske, and wrapt about with woollen cloths, vnder, ouer, and on all sides, and also some waight laid vpon them, with a boord betweene: for except they be brought into a heat, they will neuer ripen kindly or taste well. now when they haue laine till you thinke some of them be ripe, the ripest, still as they ripen, must be taken from the rest: therefore powre them out into another siue or basket leasurely, that so you may well finde them that be ripest, letting the hard one fall into the other basket, and those which be ripe laid aside: the other that be halfe ripe, seuer also into a third siue or basket: for if the ripe and halfe ripe be kept together, the one will be mouldy, before the other be ripe: and thus doe, till all be throughly ripe. {sn: of quinces.} quinces should not be laid with other fruite; for the sent is offensiue both to other fruite, and to those that keepe the fruite or come amongst them: therefore lay them by themselues vpon sweet strawe, where they may haue ayre enough: they must be packt like medlers, and gathered with medlers. {sn: to packe apples.} apples must be packt in wheat or rye-straw, and in maunds or baskets lyned with the same, and being gently handled, will ripen with such packing and lying together. if seuerall sorts of apples be packt in one maund or basket, then betweene euery sort, lay sweet strawe of a pretty thicknesse. {sn: emptying and laying apples.} apples must not be powred out, but with care and leasure: first, the straw pickt cleane from them, and then gently take out euery seuerall sort, and place them by themselues: but if for want of roome you mixe the sorts together, then lay those together that are of equall lasting; but if they haue all one taste, then they need no separation. apples that are not of the like colours should not be laid together, and if any such be mingled, let it be amended, and those which are first ripe, let them be first spent; and to that end, lay those apples together, that are of one time ripening: and thus you must vse pippins also, yet will they endure bruises better then other fruit, and whilst they are greene will heale one another. {sn: difference in fruit.} pippins though they grow of one tree, and in one ground, yet some will last better then other some, and some will bee bigger then others of the same kinde, according as they haue more or lesse of the sunne, or more or lesse of the droppings of the trees or vpper branches: therefore let euery one make most of that fruite which is fairest, and longest lasting. againe, the largenesse and goodnesse of fruite consists in the age of the tree: for as the tree increaseth, so the fruite increaseth in bignesse, beauty, taste, and firmnesse: and otherwise, as it decreaseth. {sn: transporting fruit by water.} if you be to transport your fruit farre by water, then prouide some dry hogges-heads or barrells, and packe in your apples, one by one with your hand, that no empty place may be left, to occasion sogging; and you must line your vessell at both ends with fine sweet straw; but not the sides, to auoid heat: and you must bore a dozen holes at either end, to receiue ayre so much the better; and by no meanes let them take wet. some vse, that transport beyond seas, to shut the fruite vnder hatches vpon straw: but it is not so good, if caske may be gotten. {sn: when not to transport fruit.} it is not good to transport fruite in _march_, when the wind blowes bitterly, nor in frosty weather, neither in the extreme heate of summer. {sn: to conuay small store of fruit.} if the quantity be small you would carry, then you may carry them in dossers or panniers, prouided they be euer filled close, and that cherries and peares be lined with greene fearne, and apples with sweete straw; and that, but at the bottomes and tops, not on the sides. {sn: roomes for fruite.} winter fruite must lye neither too hot, nor too cold; too close, nor too open: for all are offensiue. a lowe roome or cellar that is sweet, and either boorded or paued, and not too close, is good, from _christmas_ till _march_: and roomes that are seeled ouer head, and from the ground, are good from _march_ till _may_: then the cellar againe, from _may_ till _michaelmas_. the apple loft would be seeled or boorded, which if it want, take the longest rye-straw, and raise it against the walles, to make a fence as high as the fruite lyeth; and let it be no thicker then to keepe the fruite from the wall, which being moyst, may doe hurt, or if not moist, then the dust is offensiue. {sn: sorting of fruit.} there are some fruite which will last but vntill _allhallontide_: they must be laid by themselues; then those which will last till _christmas_, by themselues: then those which will last till it be _candlemas_, by themselues: those that will last till _shrouetide_, by themselues: and pippins, apple-iohns, peare-maines, and winter-russettings, which will last all the yeere by themselues. now if you spy any rotten fruite in your heapes, pick them out, and with a trey for the purpose, see you turne the heapes ouer, and leaue not a tainted apple in them, diuiding the hardest by themselues, and the broken skinned by themselues to be first spent, and the rotten ones to be cast away; and euer as you turne them, and picke them, vnder-lay them with fresh straw: thus shall you keepe them safe for your vse, which otherwise would rot suddenly. {sn: times of stirring fruit.} pippins, iohn apples, peare maines, and such like long lasting fruit, need not to be turned till the weeke before _christmas_, vnlesse they be mixt with other of a riper kind, or that the fallings be also with them, or much of the first straw left amongst them: the next time of turning is at _shroue-tide_, and after that, once a moneth till _whitson-tide_; and after that, once a fortnight; and euer in the turning, lay your heapes lower and lower, and your straw very thinne: prouided you doe none of this labour in any great frost, except it be in a close celler. at euery thawe, all fruit is moyst, and then they must not be touched: neither in rainy weather, for then they will be danke also: and therefore at such seasons it is good to set open your windowes, and doores, that the ayre may haue free passage to dry them, as at nine of the clocke in the fore-noone in winter; and at sixe in the fore-noone, and at eight at night in summer: onely in _march_, open not your windowes at all. all lasting fruite, after the middest of _may_, beginne to wither, because then they waxe dry, and the moisture gone, which made them looke plumpe: they must needes wither, and be smaller; and nature decaying, they must needes rot. and thus much touching the ordering of fruites. _finis._ * * * * * ic london, printed by _nicholas okes_ for iohn harison, at the golden vnicorne in pater-noster-row. . {transcriber's notes the following corrections have been made: title page "carring home" changed to "carrying home". sig. a r "sir henry belosses" possible error for "sir henry belloses"; not changed. sig. a v "how ancient, how, profitable," changed to "how ancient, how profitable,". "roses on thornes. and such like," changed to "roses on thornes, and such like,". sig. a r "_of bough setts._" changed to "_of bought setts._" for consistency with the text. sig. a v page number for "_of foyling_" in chapter changed from to , for consistency with the text. page number for "_of flowers, borders, mounts &c._" in chapter changed from to , for consistency with the text. chapter , page "other offall, that fruit" changed to "all other of that fruit" chapter , page "nor searcely with quinces," changed to "nor scarcely with quinces,". "(not well ordered," changed to "(not well ordered)". page "will pu forth suckers" changed to "will put forth suckers". page "become manure to your ground" changed to "become manure to your ground.". " . or inches deepe" changed to " . or . inches deepe". chapter , page "(as is before described," changed to "(as is before described)". page "in _holland_ and _zealand_" the "a" in "and" is italicised in the original. "our old fathers can telvs" changed to "our old fathers can tel vs". page "chuse your ground low or if you be forced" changed to "chuse your ground low: or if you be forced". page "(for trees are the greatest suckers & pillers of earth," changed to "(for trees are the greatest suckers & pillers of earth)". chapter , page "for commonly your bur-knots are summer fruit)" changed to "(for commonly your bur-knots are summer fruit)". page "arse from some taw" changed to "arise from some taw". page "i could not mislke this kind" changed to "i could not mislike this kind". page "let not you stakes" changed to "let not your stakes". "or of auy other thing" changed to "or of any other thing". chapter , page "forty or fity yeares" changed to "forty or fifty yeares". "alotted to his felllow" changed to "alotted to his fellow". page "vpward out of he earth" changed to "vpward out of the earth". chapter , page "they are more subiect," changed to "they are more subiect to,". chapter , page "commonly called a _graft_)" changed to "(commonly called a _graft_)". chapter , page "(nay more) such as mens" changed to "(nay more, such as mens". page "it stayes it nothing at al" changed to "it stayes it nothing at all.". chapter , page "wastes cotinually" changed to "wastes continually". chapter , page "take sprig and all (for" changed to "take sprig and all: for". page "cleanse his foile" changed to "cleanse his soile". chapter , page "growth: for cut them" changed to "growth: (for cut them". page "to inlarge their frust" changed to "to inlarge their fruit". chapter , page "orchrad shall exceed" changed to "orchard shall exceed" chapter , page "double double cowslips" not changed. the country housewifes garden chapter , page "drunke to kill itches" changed to "drunke) to kill itches". page "it floweth at _michael-tide_" changed to "it flowreth at _michael-tide_". page "_cur moritur homo, cum saluia crescit in horto?_" not changed. possible error for "... cui saluia ...". chapter , page "for then they are too too tender" not changed. chapter , page "the beees lye out" changed to "the bees lye out". page "neither would the hiue be too too great" not changed. page "hey cannot come downe" changed to "they cannot come downe". page "claspes are loose in the stapes" not changed. page "combes into a siue" changed to "combes) into a siue". the art of propagating plants chapter , page the last side note has been changed from " ." to " .". chapter , page "aud these shall stay" changed to "and these shall stay". "sowre cherry treee" changed to "sowre cherry tree". the husband mans fruitefull orchard page "_gascoyne_ and blacke" changed to "_gascoyne_ and _blacke_". page "if you doe trasport them" changed to "if you doe transport them". "nertarines, apricockes" changed to "nectarines, apricockes". } [illustration: "it seemed scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness"--_page _] the secret garden by frances hodgson burnett _author of_ "_the shuttle_," "_the making of a marchioness_," "_the methods of lady walderhurst_," "_that lass o' lowries_," "_through one administration_," "_little lord fauntleroy_" "_a lady of quality_," etc. [illustration] new york frederick a. stokes company publishers _copyright, , by_ frances hodgson burnett _copyright, , , by_ the phillips publishing co. _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian._ _august, ._ contents chapter page i there is no one left ii mistress mary quite contrary iii across the moor iv martha v the cry in the corridor vi "there was some one crying--there was!" vii the key of the garden viii the robin who showed the way ix the strangest house any one ever lived in x dickon xi the nest of the missel thrush xii "might i have a bit of earth?" xiii "i am colin" xiv a young rajah xv nest building xvi "i won't!" said mary xvii a tantrum xviii "tha' munnot waste no time" xix "it has come!" xx "i shall live forever--and ever--and ever!" xxi ben weatherstaff xxii when the sun went down xxiii magic xxiv "let them laugh" xxv the curtain xxvi "it's mother!" xxvii in the garden the secret garden chapter i there is no one left when mary lennox was sent to misselthwaite manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. it was true, too. she had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in india and had always been ill in one way or another. her father had held a position under the english government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. she had not wanted a little girl at all, and when mary was born she handed her over to the care of an ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the mem sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. so when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. she never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the mem sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. the young english governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. so if mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all. one frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her ayah. "why did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "i will not let you stay. send my ayah to me." the woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the ayah could not come and when mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the ayah to come to missie sahib. there was something mysterious in the air that morning. nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. but no one would tell her anything and her ayah did not come. she was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. she pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call saidie when she returned. "pig! pig! daughter of pigs!" she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all. she was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. she was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. she had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from england. the child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. she always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the mem sahib--mary used to call her that oftener than anything else--was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. all her clothes were thin and floating, and mary said they were "full of lace." they looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. they were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face. "is it so very bad? oh, is it?" mary heard her say. "awfully," the young man answered in a trembling voice. "awfully, mrs. lennox. you ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago." the mem sahib wrung her hands. "oh, i know i ought!" she cried. "i only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. what a fool i was!" at that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants' quarters that she clutched the young man's arm, and mary stood shivering from head to foot. the wailing grew wilder and wilder. "what is it? what is it?" mrs. lennox gasped. "some one has died," answered the boy officer. "you did not say it had broken out among your servants." "i did not know!" the mem sahib cried. "come with me! come with me!" and she turned and ran into the house. after that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to mary. the cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. the ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. there was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows. during the confusion and bewilderment of the second day mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by every one. nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. she only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. the child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. it was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. the wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time. many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow. when she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. the house was perfectly still. she had never known it to be so silent before. she heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. she wondered also who would take care of her now her ayah was dead. there would be a new ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. mary had been rather tired of the old ones. she did not cry because her nurse had died. she was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. the noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. every one was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. when people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. but if every one had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her. but no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. she heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. she was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. he slipped under the door as she watched him. "how queer and quiet it is," she said. "it sounds as if there was no one in the bungalow but me and the snake." almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. they were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. no one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. "what desolation!" she heard one voice say. "that pretty, pretty woman! i suppose the child, too. i heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her." mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. she looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. the first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. he looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back. "barney!" he cried out. "there is a child here! a child alone! in a place like this! mercy on us, who is she!" "i am mary lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. she thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "a place like this!" "i fell asleep when every one had the cholera and i have only just wakened up. why does nobody come?" "it is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. "she has actually been forgotten!" "why was i forgotten?" mary said, stamping her foot. "why does nobody come?" the young man whose name was barney looked at her very sadly. mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away. "poor little kid!" he said. "there is nobody left to come." it was in that strange and sudden way that mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a missie sahib. that was why the place was so quiet. it was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake. chapter ii mistress mary quite contrary mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. she did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. if she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. what she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her ayah and the other native servants had done. she knew that she was not going to stay at the english clergyman's house where she was taken at first. she did not want to stay. the english clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. by the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious. it was basil who thought of it first. basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose and mary hated him. she was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. she was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and basil came and stood near to watch her. presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion. "why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?" he said. "there in the middle," and he leaned over her to point. "go away!" cried mary. "i don't want boys. go away!" for a moment basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. he was always teasing his sisters. he danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed. "mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row." he sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser mary got, the more they sang "mistress mary, quite contrary"; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her "mistress mary quite contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her. "you are going to be sent home," basil said to her, "at the end of the week. and we're glad of it." "i am glad of it, too," answered mary. "where is home?" "she doesn't know where home is!" said basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "it's england, of course. our grandmama lives there and our sister mabel was sent to her last year. you are not going to your grandmama. you have none. you are going to your uncle. his name is mr. archibald craven." "i don't know anything about him," snapped mary. "i know you don't," basil answered. "you don't know anything. girls never do. i heard father and mother talking about him. he lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. he's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. he's a hunchback, and he's horrid." "i don't believe you," said mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more. but she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when mrs. crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to england in a few days and go to her uncle, mr. archibald craven, who lived at misselthwaite manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. they tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when mrs. crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when mr. crawford patted her shoulder. "she is such a plain child," mrs. crawford said pityingly, afterward. "and her mother was such a pretty creature. she had a very pretty manner, too, and mary has the most unattractive ways i ever saw in a child. the children call her 'mistress mary quite contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it." "perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery mary might have learned some pretty ways too. it is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all." "i believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed mrs. crawford. "when her ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. colonel mcgrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room." mary made the long voyage to england under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. she was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman mr. archibald craven sent to meet her, in london. the woman was his housekeeper at misselthwaite manor, and her name was mrs. medlock. she was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. she wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident mrs. medlock did not think much of her. "my word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "and we'd heard that her mother was a beauty. she hasn't handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife said good-naturedly. "if she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. children alter so much." "she'll have to alter a good deal," answered mrs. medlock. "and there's nothing likely to improve children at misselthwaite--if you ask me!" they thought mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. she was watching the passing buses and cabs, and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. what sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? what was a hunchback? she had never seen one. perhaps there were none in india. since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. she had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive. other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be any one's little girl. she had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. she did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. she often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself. she thought mrs. medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. when the next day they set out on their journey to yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. it would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl. but mrs. medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. she was the kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones." at least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. she had not wanted to go to london just when her sister maria's daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at misselthwaite manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what mr. archibald craven told her to do. she never dared even to ask a question. "captain lennox and his wife died of the cholera," mr. craven had said in his short, cold way. "captain lennox was my wife's brother and i am their daughter's guardian. the child is to be brought here. you must go to london and bring her yourself." so she packed her small trunk and made the journey. mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. she had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crêpe hat. "a more marred-looking young one i never saw in my life," mrs. medlock thought. (marred is a yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) she had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice. "i suppose i may as well tell you something about where you are going to," she said. "do you know anything about your uncle?" "no," said mary. "never heard your father and mother talk about him?" "no," said mary frowning. she frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. certainly they had never told her things. "humph," muttered mrs. medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. she did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again. "i suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. you are going to a queer place." mary said nothing at all, and mrs. medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on. "not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and mr. craven's proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. the house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. and there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground--some of them." she paused and took another breath. "but there's nothing else," she ended suddenly. mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. it all sounded so unlike india, and anything new rather attracted her. but she did not intend to look as if she were interested. that was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. so she sat still. "well," said mrs. medlock. "what do you think of it?" "nothing," she answered. "i know nothing about such places." that made mrs. medlock laugh a short sort of laugh. "eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. don't you care?" "it doesn't matter," said mary, "whether i care or not." "you are right enough there," said mrs. medlock. "it doesn't. what you're to be kept at misselthwaite manor for i don't know, unless because it's the easiest way. _he's_ not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. he never troubles himself about no one." she stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time. "he's got a crooked back," she said. "that set him wrong. he was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married." mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. she had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised. mrs. medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. this was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate. "she was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade o' grass she wanted. nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. but she didn't--she didn't," positively. "when she died--" mary gave a little involuntary jump. "oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. she had just remembered a french fairy story she had once read called "riquet à la houppe." it had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for mr. archibald craven. "yes, she died," mrs. medlock answered. "and it made him queerer than ever. he cares about nobody. he won't see people. most of the time he goes away, and when he is at misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the west wing and won't let any one but pitcher see him. pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways." it sounded like something in a book and it did not make mary feel cheerful. a house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor was--sounded dreary. a man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! she stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. if the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." but she was not there any more. "you needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said mrs. medlock. "and you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you. you'll have to play about and look after yourself. you'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. there's gardens enough. but when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. mr. craven won't have it." "i shall not want to go poking about," said sour little mary; and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for mr. archibald craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him. and she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. she watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep. chapter iii across the moor she slept a long time, and when she awakened mrs. medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. the rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. the guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and mrs. medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. she ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. it was quite dark when she awakened again. the train had stopped at a station and mrs. medlock was shaking her. "you have had a sleep!" she said. "it's time to open your eyes! we're at thwaite station and we've got a long drive before us." mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while mrs. medlock collected her parcels. the little girl did not offer to help her, because in india native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one. the station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. the station-master spoke to mrs. medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which mary found out afterward was yorkshire. "i see tha's got back," he said. "an' tha's browt th' young 'un with thee." "aye, that's her," answered mrs. medlock, speaking with a yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward mary. "how's thy missus?" "well enow. th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee." a brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. his long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included. when he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. she sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place mrs. medlock had spoken of. she was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on the edge of a moor. "what is a moor?" she said suddenly to mrs. medlock. "look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman answered. "we've got to drive five miles across missel moor before we get to the manor. you won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see something." mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. the carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. after they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. after that there seemed nothing different for a long time--or at least it seemed a long time to her. at last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. she could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. she leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt. "eh! we're on the moor now sure enough," said mrs. medlock. the carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. a wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound. "it's--it's not the sea, is it?" said mary, looking round at her companion. "no, not it," answered mrs. medlock. "nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep." "i feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said mary. "it sounds like the sea just now." "that's the wind blowing through the bushes," mrs. medlock said. "it's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom." on and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. the road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land. "i don't like it," she said to herself. "i don't like it," and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together. the horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. mrs. medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief. "eh, i am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "it's the light in the lodge window. we shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events." it was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault. they drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. at first mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner up-stairs showed a dull glow. the entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. it opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made mary feel that she did not want to look at them. as she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked. a neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them. "you are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "he doesn't want to see her. he's going to london in the morning." "very well, mr. pitcher," mrs. medlock answered. "so long as i know what's expected of me, i can manage." "what's expected of you, mrs. medlock," mr. pitcher said, "is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see." and then mary lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table. mrs. medlock said unceremoniously: "well, here you are! this room and the next are where you'll live--and you must keep to them. don't you forget that!" it was in this way mistress mary arrived at misselthwaite manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life. chapter iv martha when she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. she had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. the walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. there were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. there were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea. "what is that?" she said, pointing out of the window. martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also. "that there?" she said. "yes." "that's th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "does tha' like it?" "no," answered mary. "i hate it." "that's because tha'rt not used to it," martha said, going back to her hearth. "tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now. but tha' will like it." "do you?" inquired mary. "aye, that i do," answered martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate. "i just love it. it's none bare. it's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. it's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower. it smells o' honey an' there's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin' an' singin'. eh! i wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'." mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. the native servants she had been used to in india were not in the least like this. they were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. they made salaams and called them "protector of the poor" and names of that sort. indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. it was not the custom to say "please" and "thank you" and mary had always slapped her ayah in the face when she was angry. she wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. she was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made mistress mary wonder if she might not even slap back--if the person who slapped her was only a little girl. "you are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather haughtily. martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper. "eh! i know that," she said. "if there was a grand missus at misselthwaite i should never have been even one of th' under housemaids. i might have been let to be scullery-maid but i'd never have been let up-stairs. i'm too common an' i talk too much yorkshire. but this is a funny house for all it's so grand. seems like there's neither master nor mistress except mr. pitcher an' mrs. medlock. mr. craven, he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly always away. mrs. medlock gave me th' place out o' kindness. she told me she could never have done it if misselthwaite had been like other big houses." "are you going to be my servant?" mary asked, still in her imperious little indian way. martha began to rub her grate again. "i'm mrs. medlock's servant," she said stoutly. "an' she's mr. craven's--but i'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a bit. but you won't need much waitin' on." "who is going to dress me?" demanded mary. martha sat up on her heels again and stared. she spoke in broad yorkshire in her amazement. "canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said. "what do you mean? i don't understand your language," said mary. "eh! i forgot," martha said. "mrs. medlock told me i'd have to be careful or you wouldn't know what i was sayin'. i mean can't you put on your own clothes?" "no," answered mary, quite indignantly. "i never did in my life. my ayah dressed me, of course." "well," said martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn. tha' cannot begin younger. it'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. my mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair fools--what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an' took out to walk as if they was puppies!" "it is different in india," said mistress mary disdainfully. she could scarcely stand this. but martha was not at all crushed. "eh! i can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically. "i dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people. when i heard you was comin' from india i thought you was a black too." mary sat up in bed furious. "what!" she said. "what! you thought i was a native. you--you daughter of a pig!" martha stared and looked hot. "who are you callin' names?" she said. "you needn't be so vexed. that's not th' way for a young lady to talk. i've nothin' against th' blacks. when you read about 'em in tracts they're always very religious. you always read as a black's a man an' a brother. i've never seen a black an' i was fair pleased to think i was goin' to see one close. when i come in to light your fire this mornin' i crep' up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at you. an' there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me--for all you're so yeller." mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation. "you thought i was a native! you dared! you don't know anything about natives! they are not people--they're servants who must salaam to you. you know nothing about india. you know nothing about anything!" she was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. she sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured yorkshire martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. she went to the bed and bent over her. "eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "you mustn't for sure. i didn't know you'd be vexed. i don't know anythin' about anythin'--just like you said. i beg your pardon, miss. do stop cryin'." there was something comforting and really friendly in her queer yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on mary. she gradually ceased crying and became quiet. martha looked relieved. "it's time for thee to get up now," she said. "mrs. medlock said i was to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. it's been made into a nursery for thee. i'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. if th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up tha'self." when mary at last decided to get up, the clothes martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with mrs. medlock. "those are not mine," she said. "mine are black." she looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval: "those are nicer than mine." "these are th' ones tha' must put on," martha answered. "mr. craven ordered mrs. medlock to get 'em in london. he said 'i won't have a child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said. 'it'd make the place sadder than it is. put color on her.' mother she said she knew what he meant. mother always knows what a body means. she doesn't hold with black hersel'." "i hate black things," said mary. the dressing process was one which taught them both something. martha had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own. "why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when mary quietly held out her foot. "my ayah did it," answered mary, staring. "it was the custom." she said that very often--"it was the custom." the native servants were always saying it. if one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "it is not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter. it had not been the custom that mistress mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at misselthwaite manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her--things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. if martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. she was, however, only an untrained yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things. if mary lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at martha's readiness to talk, but mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. at first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, mary began to notice what she was saying. "eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "there's twelve of us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. i can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. they tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. she says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. our dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own." "where did he get it?" asked mary. "he found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. and it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. so she began to feel a slight interest in dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. when she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. it was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. a table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. but she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate martha set before her. "i don't want it," she said. "tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" martha exclaimed incredulously. "no." "tha' doesn't know how good it is. put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar." "i don't want it," repeated mary. "eh!" said martha. "i can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. if our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes." "why?" said mary coldly. "why!" echoed martha. "because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. they're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes." "i don't know what it is to be hungry," said mary, with the indifference of ignorance. martha looked indignant. "well, it would do thee good to try it. i can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "i've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. my word! don't i wish dickon and phil an' jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores." "why don't you take it to them?" suggested mary. "it's not mine," answered martha stoutly. "an' this isn't my day out. i get my day out once a month same as th' rest. then i go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest." mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade. "you wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said martha. "it'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat." mary went to the window. there were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry. "out? why should i go out on a day like this?" "well, if tha' doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?" mary glanced about her. there was nothing to do. when mrs. medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like. "who will go with me?" she inquired. martha stared. "you'll go by yourself," she answered. "you'll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. our dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. that's how he made friends with th' pony. he's got sheep on th' moor that knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand. however little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets." it was really this mention of dickon which made mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it. there would be birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep. they would be different from the birds in india and it might amuse her to look at them. martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way down-stairs. "if tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "there's lots o' flowers in summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." she seemed to hesitate a second before she added, "one of th' gardens is locked up. no one has been in it for ten years." "why?" asked mary in spite of herself. here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house. "mr. craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. he won't let no one go inside. it was her garden. he locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key. there's mrs. medlock's bell ringing--i must run." after she was gone mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. she could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years. she wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. when she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. there were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. but the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. this was not the garden which was shut up. how could a garden be shut up? you could always walk into a garden. she was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. she was not familiar enough with england to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing. she went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open. this was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it. she went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another. she saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables. fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames. the place was bare and ugly enough, mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. it might be nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now. presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden. he looked startled when he saw mary, and then touched his cap. he had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her--but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him. "what is this place?" she asked. "one o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered. "what is that?" said mary, pointing through the other green door. "another of 'em," shortly. "there's another on t'other side o' th' wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that." "can i go in them?" asked mary. "if tha' likes. but there's nowt to see." mary made no response. she went down the path and through the second green door. there she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open. perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years. as she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do, mary went to the green door and turned the handle. she hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard. there were walls all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green door to be seen anywhere. mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side. she could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song--almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her. she stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. if she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was "mistress mary quite contrary" she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. she listened to him until he flew away. he was not like an indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it. perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. she was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. why had mr. archibald craven buried the key? if he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? she wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing. "people never like me and i never like people," she thought. "and i never can talk as the crawford children could. they were always talking and laughing and making noises." she thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path. "i believe that tree was in the secret garden--i feel sure it was," she said. "there was a wall round the place and there was no door." she walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. she went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. he took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him. "i have been into the other gardens," she said. "there was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily. "i went into the orchard." "there was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered. "there was no door there into the other garden," said mary. "what garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment. "the one on the other side of the wall," answered mistress mary. "there are trees there--i saw the tops of them. a bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang." to her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. a slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. it made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. she had not thought of it before. he turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle--a low soft whistle. she could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound. almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. she heard a soft little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot. "here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child. "where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "i've not seen thee before to-day. has tha' begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? tha'rt too forrad." the bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. he seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. he hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. it actually gave mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. he had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs. "will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper. "aye, that he will. i've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. he come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. when he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me." "what kind of a bird is he?" mary asked. "doesn't tha' know? he's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds alive. they're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know how to get on with 'em. watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round at us now an' again. he knows we're talkin' about him." it was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. he looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him. "he's a conceited one," he chuckled. "he likes to hear folk talk about him. an' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. he's always comin' to see what i'm plantin'. he knows all th' things mester craven never troubles hissel' to find out. he's th' head gardener, he is." the robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little. mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity. it really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. the queer feeling in her heart increased. "where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked. "there's no knowin'. the old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. this one was a knowin' one an' he knew he was lonely." mistress mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard. "i'm lonely," she said. she had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross. she seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin. the old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute. "art tha' th' little wench from india?" he asked. mary nodded. "then no wonder tha'rt lonely. tha'lt be lonelier before tha's done," he said. he began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed. "what is your name?" mary inquired. he stood up to answer her. "ben weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, "i'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. "he's th' only friend i've got." "i have no friends at all," said mary. "i never had. my ayah didn't like me and i never played with any one." it is a yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old ben weatherstaff was a yorkshire moor man. "tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "we was wove out of th' same cloth. we're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. we've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, i'll warrant." this was plain speaking, and mary lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life. native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did. she had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as ben weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came. she actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." she felt uncomfortable. suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round. she was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. ben weatherstaff laughed outright. "what did he do that for?" asked mary. "he's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied ben. "dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "to me?" said mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. "would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "would you?" and she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that ben weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle. "why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. tha' said it almost like dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor." "do you know dickon?" mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry. "everybody knows him. dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. i warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him." mary would have liked to ask some more questions. she was almost as curious about dickon as she was about the deserted garden. but just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. he had made his visit and had other things to do. "he has flown over the wall!" mary cried out, watching him. "he has flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the garden where there is no door!" "he lives there," said old ben. "he came out o' th' egg there. if he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there." "rose-trees," said mary. "are there rose-trees?" ben weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig. "there was ten year' ago," he mumbled. "i should like to see them," said mary. "where is the green door? there must be a door somewhere." ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him. "there was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said. "no door!" cried mary. "there must be." "none as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. here, i must go on with my work. get you gone an' play you. i've no more time." and he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by. chapter v the cry in the corridor at first each day which passed by for mary lennox was exactly like the others. every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. she did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. she ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. but the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it. but after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty. "tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said martha. "it tastes nice to-day," said mary, feeling a little surprised herself. "it's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered martha. "it's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. there's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. you go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller." "i don't play," said mary. "i have nothing to play with." "nothin' to play with!" exclaimed martha. "our children plays with sticks and stones. they just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." mary did not shout, but she looked at things. there was nothing else to do. she walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. sometimes she looked for ben weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose. one place she went to oftener than to any other. it was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. there were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. there was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. it seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. the rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all. a few days after she had talked to ben weatherstaff mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. she had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, perched ben weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side. "oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" and it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she was sure that he would understand and answer her. he did answer. he twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. it seemed to mistress mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. it was as if he said: "good morning! isn't the wind nice? isn't the sun nice? isn't everything nice? let us both chirp and hop and twitter. come on! come on!" mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. poor little thin, sallow, ugly mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment. "i like you! i like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. but the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. at last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. that reminded mary of the first time she had seen him. he had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside. "it's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "it's the garden without a door. he lives in there. how i wish i could see what it is like!" she ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak. "it is the garden," she said. "i am sure it is." she walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door. "it's very queer," she said. "ben weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. but there must have been one ten years ago, because mr. craven buried the key." this gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to misselthwaite manor. in india she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. the fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little. she stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. she did not feel cross when martha chattered away. she felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. she asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire. "why did mr. craven hate the garden?" she said. she had made martha stay with her and martha had not objected at all. she was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall down-stairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in india, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her. she sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked. "art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "i knew tha' would. that was just the way with me when i first heard about it." "why did he hate it?" mary persisted. martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable. "listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "you could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night." mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. it must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. but one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire. "but why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. she intended to know if martha did. then martha gave up her store of knowledge. "mind," she said, "mrs. medlock said it's not to be talked about. there's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. that's mr. craven's orders. his troubles are none servants' business, he says. but for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. it was mrs. craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. an' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' an' talkin'. an' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. an' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. but one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. that's why he hates it. no one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it." mary did not ask any more questions. she looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." it seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. at that moment a very good thing was happening to her. four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to misselthwaite manor. she had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one. she was getting on. but as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. she did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. it was a curious sound--it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently mistress mary felt quite sure that this sound was inside the house, not outside it. it was far away, but it was inside. she turned round and looked at martha. "do you hear any one crying?" she said. martha suddenly looked confused. "no," she answered. "it's th' wind. sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. it's got all sorts o' sounds." "but listen," said mary. "it's in the house--down one of those long corridors." and at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere down-stairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever. "there!" said mary. "i told you so! it is some one crying--and it isn't a grown-up person." martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments. "it was th' wind," said martha stubbornly. "an' if it wasn't, it was little betty butterworth, th' scullery-maid. she's had th' toothache all day." but something troubled and awkward in her manner made mistress mary stare very hard at her. she did not believe she was speaking the truth. chapter vi "there was some one crying--there was!" the next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud. there could be no going out to-day. "what do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked martha. "try to keep from under each other's feet mostly," martha answered. "eh! there does seem a lot of us then. mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered. the biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there. dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. he goes out just th' same as if th' sun was shinin'. he says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather. he once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm. its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swum out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. he's got it at home now. he found a half-drowned young crow another time an' he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. it's named soot because it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about with him everywhere." the time had come when mary had forgotten to resent martha's familiar talk. she had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away. the stories she had been told by her ayah when she lived in india had been quite unlike those martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat. the children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies. mary was most attracted by the mother and dickon. when martha told stories of what "mother" said or did they always sounded comfortable. "if i had a raven or a fox cub i could play with it," said mary. "but i have nothing." martha looked perplexed. "can tha' knit?" she asked. "no," answered mary. "can tha' sew?" "no." "can tha' read?" "yes." "then why doesn't tha' read somethin', or learn a bit o' spellin'? tha'st old enough to be learnin' thy book a good bit now." "i haven't any books," said mary. "those i had were left in india." "that's a pity," said martha. "if mrs. medlock'd let thee go into th' library, there's thousands o' books there." mary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea. she made up her mind to go and find it herself. she was not troubled about mrs. medlock. mrs. medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's sitting-room down-stairs. in this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all. in fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants' hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal of lively romping went on when mrs. medlock was out of the way. mary's meals were served regularly, and martha waited on her, but no one troubled themselves about her in the least. mrs. medlock came and looked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do. she supposed that perhaps this was the english way of treating children. in india she had always been attended by her ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. she had often been tired of her company. now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on. "hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her. "our susan ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's only four year' old. sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head." mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several entirely new things. she stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone down-stairs. she was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library. she did not care very much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors. she wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them. were there a hundred really? why shouldn't she go and see how many doors she could count? it would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out. she had never been taught to ask permission to do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have thought it necessary to ask mrs. medlock if she might walk about the house, even if she had seen her. she opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings. it was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. there were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. she found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. she had never thought there could be so many in any house. she walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. she felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from india was doing in their house. some were pictures of children--little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks. she always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes. there was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. she wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. her eyes had a sharp, curious look. "where do you live now?" said mary aloud to her. "i wish you were here." surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. it seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about up-stairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked. since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true. it was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door. all the doors were shut, as mrs. medlock had said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it. she was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened. it was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom. there were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in india stood about the room. a broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever. "perhaps she slept here once," said mary. "she stares at me so that she makes me feel queer." after that she opened more doors and more. she saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not counted them. in all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them. there were curious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of them. in one room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room, the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory. they were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs. some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies. mary had seen carved ivory in india and she knew all about elephants. she opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time. when she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet. in all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something. just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. it made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come. in the corner of the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it. mary crept softly across the room to look. the bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there. six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. if there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all. "if they wouldn't be so frightened i would take them back with me," said mary. she had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she turned back. two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was. "i believe i have taken a wrong turning again," she said, standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall. "i don't know which way to go. how still everything is!" it was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness was broken by a sound. it was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful, childish whine muffled by passing through walls. "it's nearer than it was," said mary, her heart beating rather faster. "and it _is_ crying." she put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. the tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and mrs. medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face. "what are you doing here?" she said, and she took mary by the arm and pulled her away. "what did i tell you?" "i turned round the wrong corner," explained mary. "i didn't know which way to go and i heard some one crying." she quite hated mrs. medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next. "you didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper. "you come along back to your own nursery or i'll box your ears." and she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room. "now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself locked up. the master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would. you're one that needs some one to look sharp after you. i've got enough to do." she went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. she did not cry, but ground her teeth. "there _was_ some one crying--there _was_--there _was_!" she said to herself. she had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. she had found out a great deal this morning. she felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion. chapter vii the key of the garden two days after this, when mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to martha. "look at the moor! look at the moor!" the rain-storm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. the wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. never, never had mary dreamed of a sky so blue. in india skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. the far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray. "aye," said martha with a cheerful grin. "th' storm's over for a bit. it does like this at this time o' th' year. it goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. that's because th' springtime's on its way. it's a long way off yet, but it's comin'." "i thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in england," mary said. "eh! no!" said martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "nowt o' th' soart!" "what does that mean?" asked mary seriously. in india the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when martha used words she did not know. martha laughed as she had done the first morning. "there now," she said. "i've talked broad yorkshire again like mrs. medlock said i mustn't. 'nowt o' th' soart' means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. i told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. you'll want to get out on it at sunrise an' live out on it all day like dickon does." "could i ever get there?" asked mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. it was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color. "i don't know," answered martha. "tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. tha' couldn't walk five mile. it's five mile to our cottage." "i should like to see your cottage." martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. she was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. it looked just a trifle like little susan ann's when she wanted something very much. "i'll ask my mother about it," she said. "she's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. it's my day out to-day an' i'm goin' home. eh! i am glad. mrs. medlock thinks a lot o' mother. perhaps she could talk to her." "i like your mother," said mary. "i should think tha' did," agreed martha, polishing away. "i've never seen her," said mary. "no, tha' hasn't," replied martha. she sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively. "well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' good-natured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. when i'm goin' home to her on my day out i just jump for joy when i'm crossin' th' moor." "i like dickon," added mary. "and i've never seen him." "well," said martha stoutly, "i've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. i wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what dickon would think of thee?" "he wouldn't like me," said mary in her stiff, cold little way. "no one does." martha looked reflective again. "how does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know. mary hesitated a moment and thought it over. "not at all--really," she answered. "but i never thought of that before." martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection. "mother said that to me once," she said. "she was at her wash-tub an' i was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: 'tha' young vixon, tha'! there tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. how does tha' like thysel'?' it made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute." she went away in high spirits as soon as she had given mary her breakfast. she was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly. mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. she went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. she counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. the sunshine made the whole place look different. the high, deep, blue sky arched over misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. she went into the first kitchen-garden and found ben weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. the change in the weather seemed to have done him good. he spoke to her of his own accord. "springtime's comin'," he said. "cannot tha' smell it?" mary sniffed and thought she could. "i smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said. "that's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "it's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. it's glad when plantin' time comes. it's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. in th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. th' sun's warmin' 'em. you'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit." "what will they be?" asked mary. "crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. has tha' never seen them?" "no. everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in india," said mary. "and i think things grow up in a night." "these won't grow up in a night," said weatherstaff. "tha'll have to wait for 'em. they'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. you watch 'em." "i am going to," answered mary. very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. he was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked ben weatherstaff a question. "do you think he remembers me?" she said. "remembers thee!" said weatherstaff indignantly. "he knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. he's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. tha's no need to try to hide anything from _him_." "are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" mary inquired. "what garden?" grunted weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "the one where the old rose-trees are." she could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? are there ever any roses?" "ask him," said ben weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "he's the only one as knows. no one else has seen inside it for ten year'." ten years was a long time, mary thought. she had been born ten years ago. she walked away, slowly thinking. she had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and dickon and martha's mother. she was beginning to like martha, too. that seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. she thought of the robin as one of the people. she went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through ben weatherstaff's robin. she heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. but she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "you do remember me!" she cried out. "you do! you are prettier than anything else in the world!" she chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. it was as if he were talking. his red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. mistress mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds. oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! he knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. he knew it because he was a real person--only nicer than any other person in the world. she was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe. the flower-bed was not quite bare. it was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. he stopped on it to look for a worm. the earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole. mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. it was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. it was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time. mistress mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger. "perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "perhaps it is the key to the garden!" chapter viii the robin who showed the way she looked at the key quite a long time. she turned it over and over, and thought about it. as i have said before, she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things. all she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed garden, and she could find out where the door was, she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls, and what had happened to the old rose-trees. it was because it had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it. it seemed as if it must be different from other places and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years. besides that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind her, and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was, but would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the earth. the thought of that pleased her very much. living as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brain to working and was actually awakening her imagination. there is no doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it. just as it had given her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood, so the same things had stirred her mind. in india she had always been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things. already she felt less "contrary," though she did not know why. she put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. no one but herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it. the ivy was the baffling thing. howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly-growing, glossy, dark green leaves. she was very much disappointed. something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside. it seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in. she took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready. mrs. medlock had allowed martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits. "i got up at four o'clock," she said. "eh! it was pretty on th' moor with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'. i didn't walk all th' way. a man gave me a ride in his cart an' i can tell you i did enjoy myself." she was full of stories of the delights of her day out. her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way. she had even made each of the children a dough-cake with a bit of brown sugar in it. "i had 'em all pipin' hot when they came in from playin' on th' moor. an' th' cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin' an' there was a good fire, an' they just shouted for joy. our dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king to live in." in the evening they had all sat round the fire, and martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and martha had told them about the little girl who had come from india and who had been waited on all her life by what martha called "blacks" until she didn't know how to put on her own stockings. "eh! they did like to hear about you," said martha. "they wanted to know all about th' blacks an' about th' ship you came in. i couldn't tell 'em enough." mary reflected a little. "i'll tell you a great deal more before your next day out," she said, "so that you will have more to talk about. i dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers." "my word!" cried delighted martha. "it would set 'em clean off their heads. would tha' really do that, miss? it would be same as a wild beast show like we heard they had in york once." "india is quite different from yorkshire," mary said slowly, as she thought the matter over. "i never thought of that. did dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?" "why, our dickon's eyes nearly started out o' his head, they got that round," answered martha. "but mother, she was put out about your seemin' to be all by yourself like. she said, 'hasn't mr. craven got no governess for her, nor no nurse?' and i said, 'no, he hasn't, though mrs. medlock says he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn't think of it for two or three years.'" "i don't want a governess," said mary sharply. "but mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this time an' you ought to have a woman to look after you, an' she says: 'now, martha, you just think how you'd feel yourself, in a big place like that, wanderin' about all alone, an' no mother. you do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' i said i would." mary gave her a long, steady look. "you do cheer me up," she said. "i like to hear you talk." presently martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands under her apron. "what does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin. "i've brought thee a present." "a present!" exclaimed mistress mary. how could a cottage full of fourteen hungry people give any one a present! "a man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," martha explained. "an' he stopped his cart at our door. he had pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buy anythin'. just as he was goin' away our 'lizabeth ellen called out, 'mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an' blue handles.' an' mother she calls out quite sudden, 'here, stop, mister! how much are they?' an' he says 'tuppence,' an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an' she says to me, 'martha, tha's brought me thy wages like a good lass, an' i've got four places to put every penny, but i'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an' here it is." she brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly. it was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but mary lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. she gazed at it with a mystified expression. "what is it for?" she asked curiously. "for!" cried out martha. "does tha' mean that they've not got skippin'-ropes in india, for all they've got elephants and tigers and camels! no wonder most of 'em's black. this is what it's for; just watch me." and she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses. but martha did not even see them. the interest and curiosity in mistress mary's face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred. "i could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped. "i've skipped as much as five hundred when i was twelve, but i wasn't as fat then as i am now, an' i was in practice." mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself. "it looks nice," she said. "your mother is a kind woman. do you think i could ever skip like that?" "you just try it," urged martha, handing her the skipping-rope. "you can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practise you'll mount up. that's what mother said. she says, 'nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. it's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'" it was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in mistress mary's arms and legs when she first began to skip. she was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop. "put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said martha. "mother said i must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm." mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. she opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly. "martha," she said, "they were your wages. it was your twopence really. thank you." she said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her. "thank you," she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do. martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either. then she laughed. "eh! tha' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "if tha'd been our 'lizabeth ellen tha'd have give me a kiss." mary looked stiffer than ever. "do you want me to kiss you?" martha laughed again. "nay, not me," she answered. "if tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to thysel'. but tha' isn't. run off outside an' play with thy rope." mistress mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. yorkshire people seemed strange, and martha was always rather a puzzle to her. at first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. the skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. she counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born. the sun was shining and a little wind was blowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it. she skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another. she skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw ben weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. she skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression. she had wondered if he would notice her. she really wanted him to see her skip. "well!" he exclaimed. "upon my word! p'raps tha' art a young 'un, after all, an' p'raps tha's got child's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk. tha's skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's ben weatherstaff. i wouldn't have believed tha' could do it." "i never skipped before," mary said. "i'm just beginning. i can only go up to twenty." "tha' keep on," said ben. "tha' shapes well enough at it for a young 'un that's lived with heathen. just see how he's watchin' thee," jerking his head toward the robin. "he followed after thee yesterday. he'll be at it again to-day. he'll be bound to find out what th' skippin'-rope is. he's never seen one. eh!" shaking his head at the bird, "tha' curosity will be th' death of thee sometime if tha' doesn't look sharp." mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes. at length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it. it was a good long skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop. she did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty. she stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy. he had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp. as mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again. "you showed me where the key was yesterday," she said. "you ought to show me the door to-day; but i don't believe you know!" the robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off--and they are nearly always doing it. mary lennox had heard a great deal about magic in her ayah's stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was magic. one of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest. it was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand. this she did because she had seen something under it--a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it. it was the knob of a door. she put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside. thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron. mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement. the robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was. what was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in? it was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. she put the key in and turned it. it took two hands to do it, but it did turn. and then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming. no one was coming. no one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly--slowly. then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight. she was standing _inside_ the secret garden. chapter ix the strangest house any one ever lived in it was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. the high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. mary lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in india. all the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rose-bushes if they were alive. there were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. there were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. there were neither leaves nor roses on them now and mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. it was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. "how still it is!" she whispered. "how still!" then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. the robin, who had flown to his tree-top, was still as all the rest. he did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at mary. "no wonder it is still," she whispered again. "i am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years." she moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening some one. she was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. she walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "i wonder if they are all quite dead," she said. "is it all a quite dead garden? i wish it wasn't." if she had been ben weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere. but she was _inside_ the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own. the sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. the robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another. he chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all. all that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. she did not want it to be a quite dead garden. if it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side! her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. there seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss-covered flower urns in them. as she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping. there had once been a flower-bed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth--some sharp little pale green points. she remembered what ben weatherstaff had said and she knelt down to look at them. "yes, they are tiny growing things and they _might_ be crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils," she whispered. she bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. she liked it very much. "perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places," she said. "i will go all over the garden and look." she did not skip, but walked. she went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. she looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited again. "it isn't a quite dead garden," she cried out softly to herself. "even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive." she did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow. she searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them. "now they look as if they could breathe," she said, after she had finished with the first ones. "i am going to do ever so many more. i'll do all i can see. if i haven't time to-day i can come to-morrow." she went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. the exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down on to the grass and the pale green points all the time. the robin was tremendously busy. he was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate. he had often wondered at ben weatherstaff. where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil. now here was this new kind of creature who was not half ben's size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once. mistress mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. in fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours. she had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them. "i shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her. then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy. she had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that martha was delighted. "two pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. "eh! mother will be pleased when i tell her what th' skippin'-rope's done for thee." in the course of her digging with her pointed stick mistress mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. she had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if martha could tell her what it was. "martha," she said, "what are those white roots that look like onions?" "they're bulbs," answered martha. "lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissusis an' jonquils an' daffydowndillys. th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. eh! they are nice. dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden." "does dickon know all about them?" asked mary, a new idea taking possession of her. "our dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. mother says he just whispers things out o' th' ground." "do bulbs live a long time? would they live years and years if no one helped them?" inquired mary anxiously. "they're things as helps themselves," said martha. "that's why poor folk can afford to have 'em. if you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns. there's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by thousands. they're the prettiest sight in yorkshire when th' spring comes. no one knows when they was first planted." "i wish the spring was here now," said mary. "i want to see all the things that grow in england." she had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug. "i wish--i wish i had a little spade," she said. "whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked martha, laughing. "art tha' goin' to take to diggin'? i must tell mother that, too." mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. she must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. she wasn't doing any harm, but if mr. craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. she really could not bear that. "this is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. "the house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. so many places seem shut up. i never did many things in india, but there were more people to look at--natives and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing, and my ayah told me stories. there is no one to talk to here except you and ben weatherstaff. and you have to do your work and ben weatherstaff won't speak to me often. i thought if i had a little spade i could dig somewhere as he does, and i might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds." martha's face quite lighted up. "there now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother said. she says, 'there's such a lot o' room in that big place, why don't they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't plant nothin' but parsley an' radishes? she'd dig an' rake away an' be right down happy over it.' them was the very words she said." "were they?" said mary. "how many things she knows, doesn't she?" "eh!" said martha. "it's like she says: 'a woman as brings up twelve children learns something besides her a b c. children's as good as 'rithmetic to set you findin' out things.'" "how much would a spade cost--a little one?" mary asked. "well," was martha's reflective answer, "at thwaite village there's a shop or so an' i saw little garden sets with a spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied together for two shillings. an' they was stout enough to work with, too." "i've got more than that in my purse," said mary. "mrs. morrison gave me five shillings and mrs. medlock gave me some money from mr. craven." "did he remember thee that much?" exclaimed martha. "mrs. medlock said i was to have a shilling a week to spend. she gives me one every saturday. i didn't know what to spend it on." "my word! that's riches," said martha. "tha' can buy anything in th' world tha' wants. th' rent of our cottage is only one an' threepence an' it's like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. now i've just thought of somethin'," putting her hands on her hips. "what?" said mary eagerly. "in the shop at thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a penny each, and our dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an' how to make 'em grow. he walks over to thwaite many a day just for th' fun of it. does tha' know how to print letters?" suddenly. "i know how to write," mary answered. martha shook her head. "our dickon can only read printin'. if tha' could print we could write a letter to him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an' th' seeds at th' same time." "oh! you're a good girl!" mary cried. "you are, really! i didn't know you were so nice. i know i can print letters if i try. let's ask mrs. medlock for a pen and ink and some paper." "i've got some of my own," said martha. "i bought 'em so i could print a bit of a letter to mother of a sunday. i'll go and get it." she ran out of the room, and mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure. "if i have a spade," she whispered, "i can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds. if i have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won't be dead at all--it will come alive." she did not go out again that afternoon because when martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes down-stairs and when she got into the kitchen mrs. medlock was there and told her to do something, so mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. then it was a serious piece of work to write to dickon. mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her. she could not spell particularly well but she found that she could print letters when she tried. this was the letter martha dictated to her: "_my dear dickon:_ this comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present. miss mary has plenty of money and will you go to thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed. pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in india which is different. give my love to mother and every one of you. miss mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers. "your loving sister, "martha phoebe sowerby." "we'll put the money in th' envelope an' i'll get th' butcher's boy to take it in his cart. he's a great friend o' dickon's," said martha. "how shall i get the things when dickon buys them?" asked mary. "he'll bring 'em to you himself. he'll like to walk over this way." "oh!" exclaimed mary, "then i shall see him! i never thought i should see dickon." "does tha' want to see him?" asked martha suddenly, she had looked so pleased. "yes, i do. i never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. i want to see him very much." martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something. "now to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there; an' i thought i was goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. i asked mother--and she said she'd ask mrs. medlock her own self." "do you mean--" mary began. "what i said tuesday. ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an' butter, an' a glass o' milk." it seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. to think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue! to think of going into the cottage which held twelve children! "does she think mrs. medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite anxiously. "aye, she thinks she would. she knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage." "if i went i should see your mother as well as dickon," said mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "she doesn't seem to be like the mothers in india." her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. but just before martha went down-stairs for the tea-tray, mary asked a question. "martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again to-day?" martha certainly started slightly. "what makes thee ask that?" she said. "because when i waited so long for you to come back i opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. and i heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. there isn't a wind to-day, so you see it couldn't have been the wind." "eh!" said martha restlessly. "tha' mustn't go walkin' about in corridors an' listenin'. mr. craven would be that there angry there's no knowin' what he'd do." "i wasn't listening," said mary. "i was just waiting for you--and i heard it. that's three times." "my word! there's mrs. medlock's bell," said martha, and she almost ran out of the room. "it's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. chapter x dickon the sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. the secret garden was what mary called it when she was thinking of it. she liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. it seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. the few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. she had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at misselthwaite. she was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. she could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. the bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if mistress mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. the sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive. mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed. she worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. it seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. she found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. they seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. there were so many that she remembered what martha had said about the "snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making new ones. these had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. she wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers. sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom. during that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with ben weatherstaff. she surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. the truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. but, in fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company. then, also, she was more civil than she had been. he did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to do things. "tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him. "i never knows when i shall see thee or which side tha'll come from." "he's friends with me now," said mary. "that's like him," snapped ben weatherstaff. "makin' up to th' women folk just for vanity an' flightiness. there's nothin' he wouldn't do for th' sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. he's as full o' pride as an egg's full o' meat." he very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer mary's questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual. he stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over. "how long has tha' been here?" he jerked out. "i think it's about a month," she answered. "tha's beginnin' to do misselthwaite credit," he said. "tha's a bit fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. tha' looked like a young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. thinks i to myself i never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un." mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed. "i know i'm fatter," she said. "my stockings are getting tighter. they used to make wrinkles. there's the robin, ben weatherstaff." there, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. his red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. he seemed determined to make ben weatherstaff admire him. but ben was sarcastic. "aye, there tha' art!" he said. "tha' can put up with me for a bit sometimes when tha's got no one better. tha's been reddinin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. i know what tha's up to. tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere, tellin' thy lies to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on missel moor an' ready to fight all th' rest of 'em." "oh! look at him!" exclaimed mary. the robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. he hopped closer and closer and looked at ben weatherstaff more and more engagingly. he flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him. "tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said ben, wrinkling his face up in such a way that mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. "tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what tha' thinks." the robin spread his wings--mary could scarcely believe her eyes. he flew right up to the handle of ben weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. he stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away. he spoke quite in a whisper. "well, i'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something quite different. "tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'." and he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes. but because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, mary was not afraid to talk to him. "have you a garden of your own?" she asked. "no. i'm bachelder an' lodge with martin at th' gate." "if you had one," said mary, "what would you plant?" "cabbages an' 'taters an' onions." "but if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted mary, "what would you plant?" "bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses." mary's face lighted up. "do you like roses?" she said. ben weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered. "well, yes, i do. i was learned that by a young lady i was gardener to. she had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they was children--or robins. i've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." he dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "that were as much as ten year' ago." "where is she now?" asked mary, much interested. "heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording to what parson says." "what happened to the roses?" mary asked again, more interested than ever. "they was left to themselves." mary was becoming quite excited. "did they quite die? do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?" she ventured. "well, i'd got to like 'em--an' i liked her--an' she liked 'em," ben weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "once or twice a year i'd go an' work at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. they run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived." "when they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired mary. "wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain an' th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out." "how--how?" cried mary, forgetting to be careful. "look along th' twigs an' branches an' if tha' sees a bit of a brown lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what happens." he stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face. "why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he demanded. mistress mary felt her face grow red. she was almost afraid to answer. "i--i want to play that--that i have a garden of my own," she stammered. "i--there is nothing for me to do. i have nothing--and no one." "well," said ben weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true. tha' hasn't." he said it in such an odd way that mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for her. she had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much. but now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. if no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always. she stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as she dared. he answered every one of them in his queer grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her. he said something about roses just as she was going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond of. "do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked. "not been this year. my rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints." he said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with her, though she did not see why he should. "now look here!" he said sharply. "don't tha' ask so many questions. tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions i've ever come across. get thee gone an' play thee. i've done talkin' for to-day." and he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another minute. she went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. she liked old ben weatherstaff. yes, she did like him. she always wanted to try to make him talk to her. also she began to believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers. there was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. she thought she would skip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about. she enjoyed the skipping very much and when she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it was. it was a very strange thing indeed. she quite caught her breath as she stopped to look at it. a boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. he was a funny looking boy about twelve. he looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had mistress mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. and on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make. when he saw mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping. "don't tha' move," he said. "it'd flight 'em." mary remained motionless. he stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. he moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened. "i'm dickon," the boy said. "i know tha'rt miss mary." then mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was dickon. who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in india? he had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "i got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. a body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." he did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "did you get martha's letter?" she asked. he nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "that's why i come." he stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "i've got th' garden tools. there's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. eh! they are good 'uns. there's a trowel, too. an' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when i bought th' other seeds." "will you show the seeds to me?" mary said. she wished she could talk as he did. his speech was so quick and easy. it sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. as she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. she liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy. "let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said. they sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. he untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. "there's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "mignonette's th' sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's th' nicest of all." he stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up. "where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said. the chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and mary thought she knew whose it was. "is it really calling us?" she asked. "aye," said dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "he's callin' some one he's friends with. that's same as sayin' 'here i am. look at me. i wants a bit of a chat.' there he is in the bush. whose is he?" "he's ben weatherstaff's, but i think he knows me a little," answered mary. "aye, he knows thee," said dickon in his low voice again. "an' he likes thee. he's took thee on. he'll tell me all about thee in a minute." he moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter. the robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question. "aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled dickon. "do you think he is?" cried mary eagerly. she did so want to know. "do you think he really likes me?" "he wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered dickon. "birds is rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. see, he's making up to thee now. 'cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'." and it really seemed as if it must be true. he so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush. "do you understand everything birds say?" said mary. dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head. "i think i do, and they think i do," he said. "i've lived on th' moor with 'em so long. i've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge an' learn to fly an' begin to sing, till i think i'm one of 'em. sometimes i think p'raps i'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an' i don't know it." he laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. he told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them. "see here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "i'll plant them for thee myself. where is tha' garden?" mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. she did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. she had never thought of this. she felt miserable. and she felt as if she went red and then pale. "tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" dickon said. it was true that she had turned red and then pale. dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled. "wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he asked. "hasn't tha' got any yet?" she held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him. "i don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "could you keep a secret, if i told you one? it's a great secret. i don't know what i should do if any one found it out. i believe i should die!" she said the last sentence quite fiercely. dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. "i'm keepin' secrets all th' time," he said. "if i couldn't keep secrets from th' other lads, secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild things' holes, there'd be naught safe on th' moor. aye, i can keep secrets." mistress mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it. "i've stolen a garden," she said very fast. "it isn't mine. it isn't anybody's. nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. perhaps everything is dead in it already; i don't know." she began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life. "i don't care, i don't care! nobody has any right to take it from me when i care about it and they don't. they're letting it die, all shut in by itself," she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying--poor little mistress mary. dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. "eh-h-h!" he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy. "i've nothing to do," said mary. "nothing belongs to me. i found it myself and i got into it myself. i was only just like the robin, and they wouldn't take it from the robin." "where is it?" asked dickon in a dropped voice. mistress mary got up from the log at once. she knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. she was imperious and indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful. "come with me and i'll show you," she said. she led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. he felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's nest and must move softly. when she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. there was a door and mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly. "it's this," she said. "it's a secret garden, and i'm the only one in the world who wants it to be alive." dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again. "eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! it's like as if a body was in a dream." chapter xi the nest of the missel thrush for two or three minutes he stood looking round him, while mary watched him, and then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls. his eyes seemed to be taking in everything--the gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them. "i never thought i'd see this place," he said at last, in a whisper. "did you know about it?" asked mary. she had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her. "we must talk low," he said, "or some one'll hear us an' wonder what's to do in here." "oh! i forgot!" said mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly against her mouth. "did you know about the garden?" she asked again when she had recovered herself. dickon nodded. "martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside," he answered. "us used to wonder what it was like." he stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy. "eh! the nests as'll be here come springtime," he said. "it'd be th' safest nestin' place in england. no one never comin' near an' tangles o' trees an' roses to build in. i wonder all th' birds on th' moor don't build here." mistress mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it. "will there be roses?" she whispered. "can you tell? i thought perhaps they were all dead." "eh! no! not them--not all of 'em!" he answered. "look here!" he stepped over to the nearest tree--an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. he took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades. "there's lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said. "an' there's a lot o' old wood, but it made some new last year. this here's a new bit," and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray. mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way. "that one?" she said. "is that one quite alive--quite?" dickon curved his wide smiling mouth. "it's as wick as you or me," he said; and mary remembered that martha had told her that "wick" meant "alive" or "lively." "i'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper. "i want them all to be wick. let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are." she quite panted with eagerness, and dickon was as eager as she was. they went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful. "they've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest ones has fair thrived on it. the delicatest ones has died out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an' spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. see here!" and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch. "a body might think this was dead wood, but i don't believe it is--down to th' root. i'll cut it low down an' see." he knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the earth. "there!" he said exultantly. "i told thee so. there's green in that wood yet. look at it." mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might. "when it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that, it's wick," he explained. "when th' inside is dry an' breaks easy, like this here piece i've cut off, it's done for. there's a big root here as all this live wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an' it's dug round, an' took care of there'll be--" he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him--"there'll be a fountain o' roses here this summer." they went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. he was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it. in the course of half an hour mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade of moist green. the spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. he showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in. they were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise. "why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. "who did that there?" it was one of mary's own little clearings round the pale green points. "i did it," said mary. "why, i thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin'," he exclaimed. "i don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. so i made a place for them. i don't even know what they are." dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile. "tha' was right," he said. "a gardener couldn't have told thee better. they'll grow now like jack's bean-stalk. they're crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses," turning to another patch, "an' here's daffydowndillys. eh! they will be a sight." he ran from one clearing to another. "tha' has done a lot o' work for such a little wench," he said, looking her over. "i'm growing fatter," said mary, "and i'm growing stronger. i used always to be tired. when i dig i'm not tired at all. i like to smell the earth when it's turned up." "it's rare good for thee," he said, nodding his head wisely. "there's naught as nice as th' smell o' good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin' things when th' rain falls on 'em. i get out on th' moor many a day when it's rainin' an' i lie under a bush an' listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th' heather an' i just sniff an' sniff. my nose end fair quivers like a rabbit's, mother says." "do you never catch cold?" inquired mary, gazing at him wonderingly. she had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one. "not me," he said, grinning. "i never ketched cold since i was born. i wasn't brought up nesh enough. i've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th' rabbits does. mother says i've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold. i'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick." he was working all the time he was talking and mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel. "there's a lot of work to do here!" he said once, looking about quite exultantly. "will you come again and help me to do it?" mary begged. "i'm sure i can help, too. i can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. oh! do come, dickon!" "i'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "it's th' best fun i ever had in my life--shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden." "if you will come," said mary, "if you will help me to make it alive i'll--i don't know what i'll do," she ended helplessly. what could you do for a boy like that? "i'll tell thee what tha'll do," said dickon, with his happy grin. "tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th' robin same as i do. eh! we'll have a lot o' fun." he began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression. "i wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick an' span, would you?" he said. "it's nicer like this with things runnin' wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other." "don't let us make it tidy," said mary anxiously. "it wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy." dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look. "it's a secret garden sure enough," he said, "but seems like some one besides th' robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year' ago." "but the door was locked and the key was buried," said mary. "no one could get in." "that's true," he answered. "it's a queer place. seems to me as if there'd been a bit o' prunin' done here an' there, later than ten year' ago." "but how could it have been done?" said mary. he was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head. "aye! how could it!" he murmured. "with th' door locked an' th' key buried." mistress mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. when dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her. "are there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired. "lilies o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away with the trowel, "an' there's canterbury bells, an' campanulas." "let us plant some," said mary. "there's lilies o' th' valley here already; i saw 'em. they'll have growed too close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty. th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but i can bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden. why does tha' want 'em?" then mary told him about basil and his brothers and sisters in india and of how she had hated them and of their calling her "mistress mary quite contrary." "they used to dance round and sing at me. they sang-- 'mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row.' i just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells." she frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth. "i wasn't as contrary as they were." but dickon laughed. "eh!" he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it, "there doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there's flowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wild things runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin' nests an' singin' an' whistlin', does there?" mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning. "dickon," she said. "you are as nice as martha said you were. i like you, and you make the fifth person. i never thought i should like five people." dickon sat up on his heels as martha did when she was polishing the grate. he did look funny and delightful, mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose. "only five folk as tha' likes?" he said. "who is th' other four?" "your mother and martha," mary checked them off on her fingers, "and the robin and ben weatherstaff." dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth. "i know tha' thinks i'm a queer lad," he said, "but i think tha' art th' queerest little lass i ever saw." then mary did a strange thing. she leaned forward and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking any one before. and she tried to ask it in yorkshire because that was his language, and in india a native was always pleased if you knew his speech. "does tha' like me?" she said. "eh!" he answered heartily, "that i does. i likes thee wonderful, an' so does th' robin, i do believe!" "that's two, then," said mary. "that's two for me." and then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner. "i shall have to go," she said mournfully. "and you will have to go too, won't you?" dickon grinned. "my dinner's easy to carry about with me," he said. "mother always lets me put a bit o' somethin' in my pocket." he picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quiet clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief. it held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them. "it's oftenest naught but bread," he said, "but i've got a fine slice o' fat bacon with it to-day." mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it. "run on an' get thy victuals," he said. "i'll be done with mine first. i'll get some more work done before i start back home." he sat down with his back against a tree. "i'll call th' robin up," he said, "and give him th' rind o' th' bacon to peck at. they likes a bit o' fat wonderful." mary could scarcely bear to leave him. suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. he seemed too good to be true. she went slowly half-way to the door in the wall and then she stopped and went back. "whatever happens, you--you never would tell?" she said. his poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly. "if tha' was a missel thrush an' showed me where thy nest was, does tha' think i'd tell any one? not me," he said. "tha' art as safe as a missel thrush." and she was quite sure she was. chapter xii "might i have a bit of earth?" mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink. her dinner was waiting on the table, and martha was waiting near it. "tha's a bit late," she said. "where has tha' been?" "i've seen dickon!" said mary. "i've seen dickon!" "i knew he'd come," said martha exultantly. "how does tha' like him?" "i think--i think he's beautiful!" said mary in a determined voice. martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too. "well," she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born, but us never thought he was handsome. his nose turns up too much." "i like it to turn up," said mary. "an' his eyes is so round," said martha, a trifle doubtful. "though they're a nice color." "i like them round," said mary. "and they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor." martha beamed with satisfaction. "mother says he made 'em that color with always lookin' up at th' birds an' th' clouds. but he has got a big mouth, hasn't he, now?" "i love his big mouth," said mary obstinately. "i wish mine were just like it." martha chuckled delightedly. "it'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said. "but i knowed it would be that way when tha' saw him. how did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden tools?" "how did you know he brought them?" asked mary. "eh! i never thought of him not bringin' 'em. he'd be sure to bring 'em if they was in yorkshire. he's such a trusty lad." mary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not. she was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only one moment when mary was frightened. this was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted. "who did tha' ask about it?" she inquired. "i haven't asked anybody yet," said mary, hesitating. "well, i wouldn't ask th' head gardener. he's too grand, mr. roach is." "i've never seen him," said mary. "i've only seen under-gardeners and ben weatherstaff." "if i was you, i'd ask ben weatherstaff," advised martha. "he's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed. mr. craven lets him do what he likes because he was here when mrs. craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh. she liked him. perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o' the way." "if it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one _could_ mind my having it, could they?" mary said anxiously. "there wouldn't be no reason," answered martha. "you wouldn't do no harm." mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but martha stopped her. "i've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "i thought i'd let you eat your dinner first. mr. craven came back this mornin' and i think he wants to see you." mary turned quite pale. "oh!" she said. "why! why! he didn't want to see me when i came. i heard pitcher say he didn't." "well," explained martha, "mrs. medlock says it's because o' mother. she was walkin' to thwaite village an' she met him. she'd never spoke to him before, but mrs. craven had been to our cottage two or three times. he'd forgot, but mother hadn't an' she made bold to stop him. i don't know what she said to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th' mind to see you before he goes away again, to-morrow." "oh!" cried mary, "is he going away to-morrow? i am so glad!" "he's goin' for a long time. he mayn't come back till autumn or winter. he's goin' to travel in foreign places. he's always doin' it." "oh! i'm so glad--so glad!" said mary thankfully. if he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least. "when do you think he will want to see--" she did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and mrs. medlock walked in. she had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. it was a colored photograph of mr. medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. she looked nervous and excited. "your hair's rough," she said quickly. "go and brush it. martha, help her to slip on her best dress. mr. craven sent me to bring her to him in his study." all the pink left mary's cheeks. her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. she did not even answer mrs. medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by martha. she said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed mrs. medlock down the corridors, in silence. what was there for her to say? she was obliged to go and see mr. craven and he would not like her, and she would not like him. she knew what he would think of her. she was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. at last mrs. medlock knocked at a door, and when some one said, "come in," they entered the room together. a man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and mrs. medlock spoke to him. "this is miss mary, sir," she said. "you can go and leave her here. i will ring for you when i want you to take her away," said mr. craven. when she went out and closed the door, mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. she could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white. he turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her. "come here!" he said. mary went to him. he was not ugly. his face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable. he looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her. "are you well?" he asked. "yes," answered mary. "do they take good care of you?" "yes." he rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over. "you are very thin," he said. "i am getting fatter," mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way. what an unhappy face he had! his black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her. "i forgot you," he said. "how could i remember you? i intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some one of that sort, but i forgot." "please," began mary. "please--" and then the lump in her throat choked her. "what do you want to say?" he inquired. "i am--i am too big for a nurse," said mary. "and please--please don't make me have a governess yet." he rubbed his forehead again and stared at her. "that was what the sowerby woman said," he muttered absent-mindedly. then mary gathered a scrap of courage. "is she--is she martha's mother?" she stammered. "yes, i think so," he replied. "she knows about children," said mary. "she has twelve. she knows." he seemed to rouse himself. "what do you want to do?" "i want to play out of doors," mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble. "i never liked it in india. it makes me hungry here, and i am getting fatter." he was watching her. "mrs. sowerby said it would do you good. perhaps it will," he said. "she thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess." "it makes me feel strong when i play and the wind comes over the moor," argued mary. "where do you play?" he asked next. "everywhere," gasped mary. "martha's mother sent me a skipping-rope. i skip and run--and i look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. i don't do any harm." "don't look so frightened," he said in a worried voice. "you could not do any harm, a child like you! you may do what you like." mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it. she came a step nearer to him. "may i?" she said tremulously. her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever. "don't look so frightened," he exclaimed. "of course you may. i am your guardian, though i am a poor one for any child. i cannot give you time or attention. i am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but i wish you to be happy and comfortable. i don't know anything about children, but mrs. medlock is to see that you have all you need. i sent for you to-day because mrs. sowerby said i ought to see you. her daughter had talked about you. she thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about." "she knows all about children," mary said again in spite of herself. "she ought to," said mr. craven. "i thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--mrs. craven had been kind to her." it seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife's name. "she is a respectable woman. now i have seen you i think she said sensible things. play out of doors as much as you like. it's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him. "do you want toys, books, dolls?" "might i," quavered mary, "might i have a bit of earth?" in her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. mr. craven looked quite startled. "earth!" he repeated. "what do you mean?" "to plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them come alive," mary faltered. he gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. "do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly. "i didn't know about them in india," said mary. "i was always ill and tired and it was too hot. i sometimes made little beds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. but here it is different." mr. craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. "a bit of earth," he said to himself, and mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. when he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "you can have as much earth as you want," he said. "you remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. when you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it come alive." "may i take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?" "anywhere," he answered. "there! you must go now, i am tired." he touched the bell to call mrs. medlock. "good-by. i shall be away all summer." mrs. medlock came so quickly that mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. "mrs. medlock," mr. craven said to her, "now i have seen the child i understand what mrs. sowerby meant. she must be less delicate before she begins lessons. give her simple, healthy food. let her run wild in the garden. don't look after her too much. she needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. mrs. sowerby is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes go to the cottage." mrs. medlock looked pleased. she was relieved to hear that she need not "look after" mary too much. she had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen as little of her as she dared. in addition to this she was fond of martha's mother. "thank you, sir," she said. "susan sowerby and me went to school together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you'd find in a day's walk. i never had any children myself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier or better ones. miss mary can get no harm from them. i'd always take susan sowerby's advice about children myself. she's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me." "i understand," mr. craven answered. "take miss mary away now and send pitcher to me." when mrs. medlock left her at the end of her own corridor mary flew back to her room. she found martha waiting there. martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service. "i can have my garden!" cried mary. "i may have it where i like! i am not going to have a governess for a long time! your mother is coming to see me and i may go to your cottage! he says a little girl like me could not do any harm and i may do what i like--anywhere!" "eh!" said martha delightedly, "that was nice of him wasn't it?" "martha," said mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together." she ran as quickly as she could to the garden. she had been away so much longer than she had thought she should and she knew dickon would have to set out early on his five-mile walk. when she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him. the gardening tools were laid together under a tree. she ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no dickon to be seen. he had gone away and the secret garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her. "he's gone," she said wofully. "oh! was he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?" something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. it was a piece of paper--in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for martha to send to dickon. it was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew dickon had left it there. there were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. at first she could not tell what it was. then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. underneath were the printed letters and they said: "i will cum bak." chapter xiii "i am colin" mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to martha. "eh!" said martha with great pride. "i never knew our dickon was as clever as that. that there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural." then mary knew dickon had meant the picture to be a message. he had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. oh, how she did like that queer, common boy! she hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning. but you never know what the weather will do in yorkshire, particularly in the springtime. she was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window. it was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house. mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry. "the rain is as contrary as i ever was," she said. "it came because it knew i did not want it." she threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. she did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." she could not go to sleep again. the mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. if she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. how it "wuthered" and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane! "it sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said. * * * * * she had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening. she listened and she listened. "it isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "that isn't the wind. it is different. it is that crying i heard before." the door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying. she listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more and more sure. she felt as if she must find out what it was. it seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key. perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold. she put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor. "i am going to find out what it is," she said. "everybody is in bed and i don't care about mrs. medlock--i don't care!" there was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room. the corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that. she thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry--the one mrs. medlock had come through the day she lost herself. the sound had come up that passage. so she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it. the far-off faint crying went on and led her. sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. was this the right corner to turn? she stopped and thought. yes it was. down this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again. yes, there was the tapestry door. she pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood in the corridor and could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was not loud. it was on the other side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on there was a door. she could see a glimmer of light coming from beneath it. the someone was crying in that room, and it was quite a young someone. so she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was standing in the room! it was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it. there was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the side of a carved four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy, crying fretfully. mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it. the boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to have eyes too big for it. he had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller. he looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain. mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath. then she crept across the room, and as she drew nearer the light attracted the boy's attention and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense. [illustration: "'who are you?--are you a ghost?'"--_page _] "who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper. "are you a ghost?" "no, i am not," mary answered, her own whisper sounding half frightened. "are you one?" he stared and stared and stared. mary could not help noticing what strange eyes he had. they were agate gray and they looked too big for his face because they had black lashes all round them. "no," he replied after waiting a moment or so. "i am colin." "who is colin?" she faltered. "i am colin craven. who are you?" "i am mary lennox. mr. craven is my uncle." "he is my father," said the boy. "your father!" gasped mary. "no one ever told me he had a boy! why didn't they?" "come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with an anxious expression. she came close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her. "you are real, aren't you?" he said. "i have such real dreams very often. you might be one of them." mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she put a piece of it between his fingers. "rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said. "i will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how real i am. for a minute i thought you might be a dream too." "where did you come from?" he asked. "from my own room. the wind wuthered so i couldn't go to sleep and i heard some one crying and wanted to find out who it was. what were you crying for?" "because i couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. tell me your name again." "mary lennox. did no one ever tell you i had come to live here?" he was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality. "no," he answered. "they daren't." "why?" asked mary. "because i should have been afraid you would see me. i won't let people see me and talk me over." "why?" mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment. "because i am like this always, ill and having to lie down. my father won't let people talk me over either. the servants are not allowed to speak about me. if i live i may be a hunchback, but i shan't live. my father hates to think i may be like him." "oh, what a queer house this is!" mary said. "what a queer house! everything is a kind of secret. rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you! have you been locked up?" "no. i stay in this room because i don't want to be moved out of it. it tires me too much." "does your father come and see you?" mary ventured. "sometimes. generally when i am asleep. he doesn't want to see me." "why?" mary could not help asking again. a sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face. "my mother died when i was born and it makes him wretched to look at me. he thinks i don't know, but i've heard people talking. he almost hates me." "he hates the garden, because she died," said mary half speaking to herself. "what garden?" the boy asked. "oh! just--just a garden she used to like," mary stammered. "have you been here always?" "nearly always. sometimes i have been taken to places at the seaside, but i won't stay because people stare at me. i used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from london to see me and said it was stupid. he told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air. i hate fresh air and i don't want to go out." "i didn't when first i came here," said mary. "why do you keep looking at me like that?" "because of the dreams that are so real," he answered rather fretfully. "sometimes when i open my eyes i don't believe i'm awake." "we're both awake," said mary. she glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim firelight. "it looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us. we are wide awake." "i don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly. mary thought of something all at once. "if you don't like people to see you," she began, "do you want me to go away?" he still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull. "no," he said. "i should be sure you were a dream if you went. if you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk. i want to hear about you." mary put down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the cushioned stool. she did not want to go away at all. she wanted to stay in the mysterious hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy. "what do you want me to tell you?" she said. he wanted to know how long she had been at misselthwaite; he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; if she disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came to yorkshire. she answered all these questions and many more and he lay back on his pillow and listened. he made her tell him a great deal about india and about her voyage across the ocean. she found out that because he had been an invalid he had not learned things as other children had. one of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking at pictures in splendid books. though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with. he never seemed to have been amused, however. he could have anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did not like to do. "every one is obliged to do what pleases me," he said indifferently. "it makes me ill to be angry. no one believes i shall live to grow up." he said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to matter to him at all. he seemed to like the sound of mary's voice. as she went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way. once or twice she wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze. but at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject. "how old are you?" he asked. "i am ten," answered mary, forgetting herself for the moment, "and so are you." "how do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice. "because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was buried. and it has been locked for ten years." colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows. "what garden door was locked? who did it? where was the key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested. "it--it was the garden mr. craven hates," said mary nervously. "he locked the door. no one--no one knew where he buried the key." "what sort of a garden is it?" colin persisted eagerly. "no one has been allowed to go into it for ten years," was mary's careful answer. but it was too late to be careful. he was too much like herself. he too had had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted her. he asked question after question. where was it? had she never looked for the door? had she never asked the gardeners? "they won't talk about it," said mary. "i think they have been told not to answer questions." "i would make them," said colin. "could you?" mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. if he could make people answer questions, who knew what might happen! "every one is obliged to please me. i told you that," he said. "if i were to live, this place would sometime belong to me. they all know that. i would make them tell me." mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. he thought that the whole world belonged to him. how peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living. "do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden. "i don't suppose i shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken before. "ever since i remember anything i have heard people say i shan't. at first they thought i was too little to understand and now they think i don't hear. but i do. my doctor is my father's cousin. he is quite poor and if i die he will have all misselthwaite when my father is dead. i should think he wouldn't want me to live." "do you want to live?" inquired mary. "no," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "but i don't want to die. when i feel ill i lie here and think about it until i cry and cry." "i have heard you crying three times," mary said, "but i did not know who it was. were you crying about that?" she did so want him to forget the garden. "i dare say," he answered. "let us talk about something else. talk about that garden. don't you want to see it?" "yes," answered mary, in quite a low voice. "i do," he went on persistently. "i don't think i ever really wanted to see anything before, but i want to see that garden. i want the key dug up. i want the door unlocked. i would let them take me there in my chair. that would be getting fresh air. i am going to make them open the door." he had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever. "they have to please me," he said. "i will make them take me there and i will let you go, too." mary's hands clutched each other. everything would be spoiled--everything! dickon would never come back. she would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest. "oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out. he stared as if he thought she had gone crazy! "why?" he exclaimed. "you said you wanted to see it." "i do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat, "but if you make them open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again." he leaned still farther forward. "a secret," he said. "what do you mean? tell me." mary's words almost tumbled over one another. "you see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows but ourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if we could slip through it together and shut it behind us, and no one knew any one was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--" "is it dead?" he interrupted her. "it soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on. "the bulbs will live but the roses--" he stopped her again as excited as she was herself. "what are bulbs?" he put in quickly. "they are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. they are working in the earth now--pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming." "is the spring coming?" he said. "what is it like? you don't see it in rooms if you are ill." "it is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth," said mary. "if the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive. don't you see? oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?" he dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face. "i never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to grow up. they don't know i know that, so it is a sort of secret. but i like this kind better." "if you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded mary, "perhaps--i feel almost sure i can find out how to get in sometime. and then--if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden." "i should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "i should like that. i should not mind fresh air in a secret garden." mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him. she felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp into it when they chose. "i'll tell you what i _think_ it would be like, if we could go into it," she said. "it has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle perhaps." he lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which _might_ have clambered from tree to tree and hung down--about the many birds which _might_ have built their nests there because it was so safe. and then she told him about the robin and ben weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the robin and it was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to feel afraid. the robin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at first mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself, with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair. "i did not know birds could be like that," he said. "but if you stay in a room you never see things. what a lot of things you know. i feel as if you had been inside that garden." she did not know what to say, so she did not say anything. he evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise. "i am going to let you look at something," he said. "do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?" mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. it was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture. "yes," she answered. "there is a cord hanging from it," said colin. "go and pull it." mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord. when she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture. it was the picture of a girl with a laughing face. she had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like colin's unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round them. "she is my mother," said colin complainingly. "i don't see why she died. sometimes i hate her for doing it." "how queer!" said mary. "if she had lived i believe i should not have been ill always," he grumbled. "i dare say i should have lived, too. and my father would not have hated to look at me. i dare say i should have had a strong back. draw the curtain again." mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool. "she is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like yours--at least they are the same shape and color. why is the curtain drawn over her?" he moved uncomfortably. "i made them do it," he said. "sometimes i don't like to see her looking at me. she smiles too much when i am ill and miserable. besides, she is mine and i don't want every one to see her." there were a few moments of silence and then mary spoke. "what would mrs. medlock do if she found out that i had been here?" she inquired. "she would do as i told her to do," he answered. "and i should tell her that i wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. i am glad you came." "so am i," said mary. "i will come as often as i can, but"--she hesitated--"i shall have to look every day for the garden door." "yes, you must," said colin, "and you can tell me about it afterward." he lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again. "i think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "i will not tell them until they find out. i can always send the nurse out of the room and say that i want to be by myself. do you know martha?" "yes, i know her very well," said mary. "she waits on me." he nodded his head toward the outer corridor. "she is the one who is asleep in the other room. the nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with her sister and she always makes martha attend to me when she wants to go out. martha shall tell you when to come here." then mary understood martha's troubled look when she had asked questions about the crying. "martha knew about you all the time?" she said. "yes; she often attends to me. the nurse likes to get away from me and then martha comes." "i have been here a long time," said mary. "shall i go away now? your eyes look sleepy." "i wish i could go to sleep before you leave me," he said rather shyly. "shut your eyes," said mary, drawing her footstool closer, "and i will do what my ayah used to do in india. i will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something quite low." "i should like that perhaps," he said drowsily. somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little chanting song in hindustani. "that is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. so she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound. chapter xiv a young rajah the moor was hidden in mist when the morning came and the rain had not stopped pouring down. there could be no going out of doors. martha was so busy that mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery. she came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing nothing else. "what's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat down. "tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say." "i have. i have found out what the crying was," said mary. martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes. "tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "never!" "i heard it in the night," mary went on. "and i got up and went to see where it came from. it was colin. i found him." martha's face became red with fright. "eh! miss mary!" she said half crying. "tha' shouldn't have done it--tha' shouldn't! tha'll get me in trouble. i never told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get me in trouble. i shall lose my place and what'll mother do!" "you won't lose your place," said mary. "he was glad i came. we talked and talked and he said he was glad i came." "was he?" cried martha. "art tha' sure? tha' doesn't know what he's like when anything vexes him. he's a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he's in a passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. he knows us daren't call our souls our own." "he wasn't vexed," said mary. "i asked him if i should go away and he made me stay. he asked me questions and i sat on a big footstool and talked to him about india and about the robin and gardens. he wouldn't let me go. he let me see his mother's picture. before i left him i sang him to sleep." martha fairly gasped with amazement. "i can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "it's as if tha'd walked straight into a lion's den. if he'd been like he is most times he'd have throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th' house. he won't let strangers look at him." "he let me look at him. i looked at him all the time and he looked at me. we stared!" said mary. "i don't know what to do!" cried agitated martha. "if mrs. medlock finds out, she'll think i broke orders and told thee and i shall be packed back to mother." "he is not going to tell mrs. medlock anything about it yet. it's to be a sort of secret just at first," said mary firmly. "and he says everybody is obliged to do as he pleases." "aye, that's true enough--th' bad lad!" sighed martha, wiping her forehead with her apron. "he says mrs. medlock must. and he wants me to come and talk to him every day. and you are to tell me when he wants me." "me!" said martha; "i shall lose my place--i shall for sure!" "you can't if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is ordered to obey him," mary argued. "does tha' mean to say," cried martha with wide open eyes, "that he was nice to thee!" "i think he almost liked me," mary answered. "then tha' must have bewitched him!" decided martha, drawing a long breath. "do you mean magic?" inquired mary. "i've heard about magic in india, but i can't make it. i just went into his room and i was so surprised to see him i stood and stared. and then he turned round and stared at me. and he thought i was a ghost or a dream and i thought perhaps he was. and it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of the night and not knowing about each other. and we began to ask each other questions. and when i asked him if i must go away he said i must not." "th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped martha. "what is the matter with him?" asked mary. "nobody knows for sure and certain," said martha. "mr. craven went off his head like when he was born. th' doctors thought he'd have to be put in a 'sylum. it was because mrs. craven died like i told you. he wouldn't set eyes on th' baby. he just raved and said it'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die." "is colin a hunchback?" mary asked. "he didn't look like one." "he isn't yet," said martha. "but he began all wrong. mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th' house to set any child wrong. they was afraid his back was weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin' him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. once they made him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill. then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take it off. he talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way. he said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin' him have his own way." "i think he's a very spoiled boy," said mary. "he's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said martha. "i won't say as he hasn't been ill a good bit. he's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him two or three times. once he had rheumatic fever an' once he had typhoid. eh! mrs. medlock did get a fright then. he'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th' nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said, 'he'll die this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an' for everybody.' an' she looked at him an' there he was with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensible as she was herself. she didn't know what'd happen but he just stared at her an' says, 'you give me some water an' stop talkin'.'" "do you think he will die?" asked mary. "mother says there's no reason why any child should live that gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lie on his back an' read picture-books an' take medicine. he's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o' doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill." mary sat and looked at the fire. "i wonder," she said slowly, "if it would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things growing. it did me good." "one of th' worst fits he ever had," said martha, "was one time they took him out where the roses is by the fountain. he'd been readin' in a paper about people gettin' somethin' he called 'rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn't know th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious. he threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd looked at him because he was going to be a hunchback. he cried himself into a fever an' was ill all night." "if he ever gets angry at me, i'll never go and see him again," said mary. "he'll have thee if he wants thee," said martha. "tha' may as well know that at th' start." very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting. "i dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit," she said. "i hope he's in a good temper." she was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a puzzled expression. "well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "he's up on his sofa with his picture-books. he's told the nurse to stay away until six o'clock. i'm to wait in the next room. th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, 'i want mary lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you're not to tell any one.' you'd better go as quick as you can." mary was quite willing to go quickly. she did not want to see colin as much as she wanted to see dickon, but she wanted to see him very much. there was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in the daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed. there were rich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the walls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite of the gray sky and falling rain. colin looked rather like a picture himself. he was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion. he had a red spot on each cheek. "come in," he said. "i've been thinking about you all morning." "i've been thinking about you, too," answered mary. "you don't know how frightened martha is. she says mrs. medlock will think she told me about you and then she will be sent away." he frowned. "go and tell her to come here," he said. "she is in the next room." mary went and brought her back. poor martha was shaking in her shoes. colin was still frowning. "have you to do what i please or have you not?" he demanded. "i have to do what you please, sir," martha faltered, turning quite red. "has medlock to do what i please?" "everybody has, sir," said martha. "well, then, if i order you to bring miss mary to me, how can medlock send you away if she finds it out?" "please don't let her, sir," pleaded martha. "i'll send _her_ away if she dares to say a word about such a thing," said master craven grandly. "she wouldn't like that, i can tell you." "thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "i want to do my duty, sir." "what i want is your duty," said colin more grandly still. "i'll take care of you. now go away." when the door closed behind martha, colin found mistress mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering. "why do you look at me like that?" he asked her. "what are you thinking about?" "i am thinking about two things." "what are they? sit down and tell me." "this is the first one," said mary, seating herself on the big stool. "once in india i saw a boy who was a rajah. he had rubies and emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him. he spoke to his people just as you spoke to martha. everybody had to do everything he told them--in a minute. i think they would have been killed if they hadn't." "i shall make you tell me about rajahs presently," he said, "but first tell me what the second thing was." "i was thinking," said mary, "how different you are from dickon." "who is dickon?" he said. "what a queer name!" she might as well tell him, she thought. she could talk about dickon without mentioning the secret garden. she had liked to hear martha talk about him. besides, she longed to talk about him. it would seem to bring him nearer. "he is martha's brother. he is twelve years old," she explained. "he is not like any one else in the world. he can charm foxes and squirrels and birds just as the natives in india charm snakes. he plays a very soft tune on a pipe and they come and listen." there were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one suddenly toward him. "there is a picture of a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed. "come and look at it." the book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he turned to one of them. "can he do that?" he asked eagerly. "he played on his pipe and they listened," mary explained. "but he doesn't call it magic. he says it's because he lives on the moor so much and he knows their ways. he says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so. i think he asked the robin questions. it seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps." colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his cheeks burned. "tell me some more about him," he said. "he knows all about eggs and nests," mary went on. "and he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live. he keeps them secret so that other boys won't find their holes and frighten them. he knows about everything that grows or lives on the moor." "does he like the moor?" said colin. "how can he when it's such a great, bare, dreary place?" "it's the most beautiful place," protested mary. "thousands of lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other. they are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather. it's their world." "how do you know all that?" said colin, turning on his elbow to look at her. "i have never been there once, really," said mary suddenly remembering. "i only drove over it in the dark. i thought it was hideous. martha told me about it first and then dickon. when dickon talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies." "you never see anything if you are ill," said colin restlessly. he looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was. "you can't if you stay in a room," said mary. "i couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone. mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold. "you might--sometime." he moved as if he were startled. "go on the moor! how could i? i am going to die." "how do you know?" said mary unsympathetically. she didn't like the way he had of talking about dying. she did not feel very sympathetic. she felt rather as if he almost boasted about it. "oh, i've heard it ever since i remember," he answered crossly. "they are always whispering about it and thinking i don't notice. they wish i would, too." mistress mary felt quite contrary. she pinched her lips together. "if they wished i would," she said, "i wouldn't. who wishes you would?" "the servants--and of course dr. craven because he would get misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. he daren't say so, but he always looks cheerful when i am worse. when i had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. i think my father wishes it, too." "i don't believe he does," said mary quite obstinately. that made colin turn and look at her again. "don't you?" he said. and then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were thinking. and there was quite a long silence. perhaps they were both of them thinking strange things children do not usually think of. "i like the grand doctor from london, because he made them take the iron thing off," said mary at last. "did he say you were going to die?" "no." "what did he say?" "he didn't whisper," colin answered. "perhaps he knew i hated whispering. i heard him say one thing quite aloud. he said, 'the lad might live if he would make up his mind to it. put him in the humor.' it sounded as if he was in a temper." "i'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps," said mary reflecting. she felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one way or the other. "i believe dickon would. he's always talking about live things. he never talks about dead things or things that are ill. he's always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying--or looking down at the earth to see something growing. he has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about. and he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries." she pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes. "see here," she said. "don't let us talk about dying; i don't like it. let us talk about living. let us talk and talk about dickon. and then we will look at your pictures." it was the best thing she could have said. to talk about dickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week--and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies. and about dickon's mother--and the skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on it--and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod. and it was all so alive that mary talked more than she had ever talked before--and colin both talked and listened as he had never done either before. and they both began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy together. and they laughed so that in the end they were making as much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going to die. they enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they forgot about the time. they had been laughing quite loudly over ben weatherstaff and his robin and colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgotten about his weak back when he suddenly remembered something. "do you know there is one thing we have never once thought of," he said. "we are cousins." it seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever, because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything. and in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walked dr. craven and mrs. medlock. dr. craven started in actual alarm and mrs. medlock almost fell back because he had accidentally bumped against her. "good lord!" exclaimed poor mrs. medlock, with her eyes almost starting out of her head. "good lord!" "what is this?" said dr. craven, coming forward. "what does it mean?" then mary was reminded of the boy rajah again. colin answered as if neither the doctor's alarm nor mrs. medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence. he was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderly cat and dog had walked into the room. "this is my cousin, mary lennox," he said. "i asked her to come and talk to me. i like her. she must come and talk to me whenever i send for her." dr. craven turned reproachfully to mrs. medlock. "oh, sir," she panted. "i don't know how it's happened. there's not a servant on the place that'd dare to talk--they all have their orders." "nobody told her anything," said colin, "she heard me crying and found me herself. i am glad she came. don't be silly, medlock." mary saw that dr. craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain that he dare not oppose his patient. he sat down by colin and felt his pulse. "i am afraid there has been too much excitement. excitement is not good for you, my boy," he said. "i should be excited if she kept away," answered colin, his eyes beginning to look dangerously sparkling. "i am better. she makes me better. the nurse must bring up her tea with mine. we will have tea together." mrs. medlock and dr. craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but there was evidently nothing to be done. "he does look rather better, sir," ventured mrs. medlock. "but"--thinking the matter over--"he looked better this morning before she came into the room." "she came into the room last night. she stayed with me a long time. she sang a hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep," said colin. "i was better when i wakened up. i wanted my breakfast. i want my tea now. tell nurse, medlock." dr. craven did not stay very long. he talked to the nurse for a few minutes when she came into the room and said a few words of warning to colin. he must not talk too much; he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forget that he was very easily tired. mary thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was not to forget. colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on dr. craven's face. "i _want_ to forget it," he said at last. "she makes me forget it. that is why i want her." dr. craven did not look happy when he left the room. he gave a puzzled glance at the little girl sitting on the large stool. she had become a stiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he could not see what the attraction was. the boy actually did look brighter, however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the corridor. "they are always wanting me to eat things when i don't want to," said colin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the sofa. "now, if you'll eat i will. those muffins look so nice and hot. tell me about rajahs." chapter xv nest building after another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot. though there had been no chance to see either the secret garden or dickon, mistress mary had enjoyed herself very much. the week had not seemed long. she had spent hours of every day with colin in his room, talking about rajahs or gardens or dickon and the cottage on the moor. they had looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes mary had read things to colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her. when he was amused and interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all, except that his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa. "you are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go following things up like you did that night," mrs. medlock said once. "but there's no saying it's not been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. he's not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends. the nurse was just going to give up the case because she was so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind staying now you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little. in her talks with colin, mary had tried to be very cautious about the secret garden. there were certain things she wanted to find out from him, but she felt that she must find them out without asking him direct questions. in the first place, as she began to like to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy you could tell a secret to. he was not in the least like dickon, but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted. but she had not known him long enough to be sure. the second thing she wanted to find out was this: if he could be trusted--if he really could--wouldn't it be possible to take him to the garden without having any one find it out? the grand doctor had said that he must have fresh air and colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in a secret garden. perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and knew dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think so much about dying. mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she had realized that she looked quite a different creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from india. this child looked nicer. even martha had seen a change in her. "th' air from th' moor has done thee good already," she had said. "tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so scrawny. even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha' head so flat. it's got some life in it so as it sticks out a bit." "it's like me," said mary. "it's growing stronger and fatter. i'm sure there's more of it." "it looks it, for sure," said martha, ruffling it up a little round her face. "tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks." if gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be good for colin. but then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see dickon. "why does it make you angry when you are looked at?" she inquired one day. "i always hated it," he answered, "even when i was very little. then when they took me to the seaside and i used to lie in my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin to whisper and i knew then they were saying i shouldn't live to grow up. then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks and say 'poor child!' once when a lady did that i screamed out loud and bit her hand. she was so frightened she ran away." "she thought you had gone mad like a dog," said mary, not at all admiringly. "i don't care what she thought," said colin, frowning. "i wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when i came into your room?" said mary. then she began to smile slowly. "i thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said. "you can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don't care." "would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?" mary asked uncertainly. he lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully. "there's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over every word, "there's one boy i believe i shouldn't mind. it's that boy who knows where the foxes live--dickon." "i'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said mary. "the birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking it over, "perhaps that's why i shouldn't. he's a sort of animal charmer and i am a boy animal." then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both laughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed. what mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about dickon. * * * * * on that first morning when the sky was blue again mary wakened very early. the sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. she drew up the blinds and opened the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her. the moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something magic had happened to it. there were tender little fluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert. mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun. "it's warm--warm!" she said. "it will make the green points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their might under the earth." she kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because she remembered what dickon's mother had said about the end of his nose quivering like a rabbit's. "it must be very early," she said. "the little clouds are all pink and i've never seen the sky look like this. no one is up. i don't even hear the stable boys." a sudden thought made her scramble to her feet. "i can't wait! i am going to see the garden!" she had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her clothes in five minutes. she knew a small side door which she could unbolt herself and she flew down-stairs in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall. she unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree. she clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it. she ran around the shrubs and paths toward the secret garden. "it is all different already," she said. "the grass is greener and things are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing. this afternoon i am sure dickon will come." the long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall. there were things sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. six months before mistress mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing. when she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. it was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed. she had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped away across the garden. she hoped he was not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would. when she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree, and under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red head of dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard. mary flew across the grass to him. "oh, dickon! dickon!" she cried out. "how could you get here so early! how could you! the sun has only just got up!" he got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky. "eh!" he said. "i was up long before him. how could i have stayed abed! th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. an' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. when th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' i was in the midst of th' heather, an' i run like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. an' i come straight here. i couldn't have stayed away. why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!" mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself. "oh, dickon! dickon!" she said. "i'm so happy i can scarcely breathe!" seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder. "this is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little reddish animal's head. "it's named captain. an' this here's soot. soot he flew across th' moor with me an' captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him. they both felt same as i did." neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of mary. when dickon began to walk about, soot stayed on his shoulder and captain trotted quietly close to his side. "see here!" said dickon. "see how these has pushed up, an' these an' these! an' eh! look at these here!" he threw himself upon his knees and mary went down beside him. they had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold. mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them. "you never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted her head. "flowers are so different." he looked puzzled but smiled. "eh!" he said, "i've kissed mother many a time that way when i come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an' comfortable." they ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low. he showed her swelling leaf-buds on rose branches which had seemed dead. he showed her ten thousand new green points pushing through the mould. they put their eager young noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low with rapture until mistress mary's hair was as tumbled as dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his. there was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful. swiftly something flew across the wall and darted through the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak. dickon stood quite still and put his hand on mary almost as if they had suddenly found themselves laughing in a church. "we munnot stir," he whispered in broad yorkshire. "we munnot scarce breathe. i knowed he was mate-huntin' when i seed him last. it's ben weatherstaff's robin. he's buildin' his nest. he'll stay here if us don't flight him." they settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving. "us mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close," said dickon. "he'd be out with us for good if he got th' notion us was interferin' now. he'll be a good bit different till all this is over. he's settin' up housekeepin'. he'll be shyer an' readier to take things ill. he's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. us must keep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an' trees an' bushes. then when he's got used to seein' us i'll chirp a bit an' he'll know us'll not be in his way." mistress mary was not at all sure that she knew, as dickon seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes. but he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves. but he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could. "it's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin' is," he said. "i warrant it's been goin' on in th' same way every year since th' world was begun. they've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things an' a body had better not meddle. you can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you're too curious." "if we talk about him i can't help looking at him," mary said as softly as possible. "we must talk of something else. there is something i want to tell you." "he'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said dickon. "what is it tha's got to tell me?" "well--do you know about colin?" she whispered. he turned his head to look at her. "what does tha' know about him?" he asked. "i've seen him. i have been to talk to him every day this week. he wants me to come. he says i'm making him forget about being ill and dying," answered mary. dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face. "i am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "i'm right down glad. it makes me easier. i knowed i must say nothin' about him an' i don't like havin' to hide things." "don't you like hiding the garden?" said mary. "i'll never tell about it," he answered. "but i says to mother, 'mother,' i says, 'i got a secret to keep. it's not a bad 'un, tha' knows that. it's no worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. tha' doesn't mind it, does tha'?'" mary always wanted to hear about mother. "what did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear. dickon grinned sweet-temperedly. "it was just like her, what she said," he answered. "she give my head a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'eh, lad, tha' can have all th' secrets tha' likes. i've knowed thee twelve year'.'" "how did you know about colin?" asked mary. "everybody as knowed about mester craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowed mester craven didn't like him to be talked about. folks is sorry for mester craven because mrs. craven was such a pretty young lady an' they was so fond of each other. mrs. medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to thwaite an' she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty. how did tha' find out about him? martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came home. she said tha'd heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an' she didn't know what to say." mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner. when she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes dickon shook his head. "them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always laughin', they say," he said. "they say as mr. craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an' it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an' yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face." "do you think he wants him to die?" whispered mary. "no, but he wishes he'd never been born. mother she says that's th' worst thing on earth for a child. them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. mester craven he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to forget as he's on earth. for one thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he's growed hunchback." "colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said mary. "he says he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death." "eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said dickon. "no lad could get well as thought them sort o' things." the fox was lying on the grass close by him looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence. presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden. "when first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything was gray. look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a difference." mary looked and caught her breath a little. "why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing. it is as if a green mist were creeping over it. it's almost like a green gauze veil." "aye," said dickon. "an' it'll be greener and greener till th' gray's all gone. can tha' guess what i was thinkin'?" "i know it was something nice," said mary eagerly. "i believe it was something about colin." "i was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier," explained dickon. "i was wonderin' if us could ever get him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th' trees in his carriage." "i've been wondering that myself. i've thought of it almost every time i've talked to him," said mary. "i've wondered if he could keep a secret and i've wondered if we could bring him here without any one seeing us. i thought perhaps you could push his carriage. the doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him. he won't go out for other people and perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us. he could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn't find out." dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched captain's back. "it'd be good for him, i'll warrant," he said. "us'd not be thinkin' he'd better never been born. us'd be just two children watchin' a garden grow, an' he'd be another. two lads an' a little lass just lookin' on at th' springtime. i warrant it'd be better than doctor's stuff." "he's been lying in his room so long and he's always been so afraid of his back that it has made him queer," said mary. "he knows a good many things out of books but he doesn't know anything else. he says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners. but he likes to hear about this garden because it is a secret. i daren't tell him much but he said he wanted to see it." "us'll have him out here sometime for sure," said dickon. "i could push his carriage well enough. has tha' noticed how th' robin an' his mate has been workin' while we've been sittin' here? look at him perched on that branch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he's got in his beak." he made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head and looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig. dickon spoke to him as ben weatherstaff did, but dickon's tone was one of friendly advice. "wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'll be all right. tha' knew how to build tha' nest before tha' came out o' th' egg. get on with thee, lad. tha'st got no time to lose." "oh, i do like to hear you talk to him!" mary said, laughing delightedly. "ben weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks as if he understood every word, and i know he likes it. ben weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather have stones thrown at him than not be noticed." dickon laughed too and went on talking. "tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin. "us is near bein' wild things ourselves. us is nest-buildin' too, bless thee. look out tha' doesn't tell on us." and though the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied, mary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secret for the world. chapter xvi "i won't!" said mary they found a great deal to do that morning and mary was late in returning to the house and was also in such a hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgot colin until the last moment. "tell colin that i can't come and see him yet," she said to martha. "i'm very busy in the garden." martha looked rather frightened. "eh! miss mary," she said, "it may put him all out of humor when i tell him that." but mary was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not a self-sacrificing person. "i can't stay," she answered. "dickon's waiting for me;" and she ran away. the afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been. already nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of the roses and trees had been pruned or dug about. dickon had brought a spade of his own and he had taught mary to use all her tools, so that by this time it was plain that though the lovely wild place was not likely to become a "gardener's garden" it would be a wilderness of growing things before the springtime was over. "there'll be apple blossoms an' cherry blossoms overhead," dickon said, working away with all his might. "an' there'll be peach an' plum trees in bloom against th' walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowers." the little fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and the robin and his mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning. sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared away over the tree-tops in the park. each time he came back and perched near dickon and cawed several times as if he were relating his adventures, and dickon talked to him just as he had talked to the robin. once when dickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first, soot flew on to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak. when mary wanted to rest a little dickon sat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little notes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened. "tha's a good bit stronger than tha' was," dickon said, looking at her as she was digging. "tha's beginning to look different, for sure." mary was glowing with exercise and good spirits. "i'm getting fatter and fatter every day," she said quite exultantly. "mrs. medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses. martha says my hair is growing thicker. it isn't so flat and stringy." the sun was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays slanting under the trees when they parted. "it'll be fine to-morrow," said dickon. "i'll be at work by sunrise." "so will i," said mary. * * * * * she ran back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her. she wanted to tell colin about dickon's fox cub and the rook and about what the springtime had been doing. she felt sure he would like to hear. so it was not very pleasant when she opened the door of her room, to see martha standing waiting for her with a doleful face. "what is the matter?" she asked. "what did colin say when you told him i couldn't come?" "eh!" said martha, "i wish tha'd gone. he was nigh goin' into one o' his tantrums. there's been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him quiet. he would watch the clock all th' time." mary's lips pinched themselves together. she was no more used to considering other people than colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best. she knew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too. when she had had a headache in india she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad. and she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that colin was quite wrong. he was not on his sofa when she went into his room. he was lying flat on his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in. this was a bad beginning and mary marched up to him with her stiff manner. "why didn't you get up?" she said. "i did get up this morning when i thought you were coming," he answered, without looking at her. "i made them put me back in bed this afternoon. my back ached and my head ached and i was tired. why didn't you come?" "i was working in the garden with dickon," said mary. colin frowned and condescended to look at her. "i won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me," he said. mary flew into a fine passion. she could fly into a passion without making a noise. she just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened. "if you send dickon away, i'll never come into this room again!" she retorted. "you'll have to if i want you," said colin. "i won't!" said mary. "i'll make you," said colin, "they shall drag you in." "shall they, mr. rajah!" said mary fiercely. "they may drag me in but they can't make me talk when they get me here. i'll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing. i won't even look at you. i'll stare at the floor!" they were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. if they had been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight. as it was, they did the next thing to it. "you are a selfish thing!" cried colin. "what are you?" said mary. "selfish people always say that. any one is selfish who doesn't do what they want. you're more selfish than i am. you're the most selfish boy i ever saw." "i'm not!" snapped colin. "i'm not as selfish as your fine dickon is! he keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows i am all by myself. he's selfish, if you like!" mary's eyes flashed fire. "he's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!" she said. "he's--he's like an angel!" it might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care. "a nice angel!" colin sneered ferociously. "he's a common cottage boy off the moor!" "he's better than a common rajah!" retorted mary. "he's a thousand times better!" because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. the truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor mary knew anything about that. he turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek. he was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself--not for any one else. "i'm not as selfish as you, because i'm always ill, and i'm sure there is a lump coming on my back," he said. "and i am going to die besides." "you're not!" contradicted mary unsympathetically. he opened his eyes quite wide with indignation. he had never heard such a thing said before. he was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at the same time. "i'm not?" he cried. "i am! you know i am! everybody says so." "i don't believe it!" said mary sourly. "you just say that to make people sorry. i believe you're proud of it. i don't believe it! if you were a nice boy it might be true--but you're too nasty!" in spite of his invalid back colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage. "get out of the room!" he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her. he was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet, but mary's face looked as pinched as a nutcracker. "i'm going," she said. "and i won't come back!" she walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again. "i was going to tell you all sorts of nice things," she said. "dickon brought his fox and his rook and i was going to tell you all about them. now i won't tell you a single thing!" she marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazing still--she was laughing. she was a big handsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to leave colin to martha or any one else who would take her place. mary had never liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief. "what are you laughing at?" she asked her. "at you two young ones," said the nurse. "it's the best thing that could happen to the sickly pampered thing to have some one to stand up to him that's as spoiled as himself;" and she laughed into her handkerchief again. "if he'd had a young vixen of a sister to fight with it would have been the saving of him." "is he going to die?" "i don't know and i don't care," said the nurse. "hysterics and temper are half what ails him." "what are hysterics?" asked mary. "you'll find out if you work him into a tantrum after this--but at any rate you've given him something to have hysterics about, and i'm glad of it." mary went back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she had come in from the garden. she was cross and disappointed but not at all sorry for colin. she had looked forward to telling him a great many things and she had meant to try to make up her mind whether it would be safe to trust him with the great secret. she had been beginning to think it would be, but now she had changed her mind entirely. she would never tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh air and die if he liked! it would serve him right! she felt so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about dickon and the green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down from the moor. martha was waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been temporarily replaced by interest and curiosity. there was a wooden box on the table and its cover had been removed and revealed that it was full of neat packages. "mr. craven sent it to you," said martha. "it looks as if it had picture-books in it." mary remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room. "do you want anything--dolls--toys--books?" she opened the package wondering if he had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do with it if he had. but he had not sent one. there were several beautiful books such as colin had, and two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures. there were two or three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand. everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind. she had not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite warm. "i can write better than i can print," she said, "and the first thing i shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him i am much obliged." if she had been friends with colin she would have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming. he had a way of doing that which she could not bear. it gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself. he said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. something he had heard mrs. medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. mrs. medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child. he had never told any one but mary that most of his "tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear. mary had been sorry for him when he had told her. "he always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to herself. "and he has been cross to-day. perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon." she stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking. "i said i would never go back again--" she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps, i will go and see--if he wants me--in the morning. perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but--i think--i'll go." chapter xvii a tantrum she had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. as she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself: "i'll go out before breakfast and work with dickon and then afterward--i believe--i'll go to see him." she thought it was the middle of the night when she was wakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. what was it--what was it? the next minute she felt quite sure she knew. doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and some one was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way. "it's colin," she said. "he's having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics. how awful it sounds." as she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them. she put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering. "i don't know what to do. i don't know what to do," she kept saying. "i can't bear it." once she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she remembered how he had driven her out of the room and thought that perhaps the sight of her might make him worse. even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears she could not keep the awful sounds out. she hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her. she was not used to any one's tempers but her own. she took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. "he ought to be stopped! somebody ought to make him stop! somebody ought to beat him!" she cried out. just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in. she was not laughing now by any means. she even looked rather pale. "he's worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "he'll do himself harm. no one can do anything with him. you come and try, like a good child. he likes you." "he turned me out of the room this morning," said mary, stamping her foot with excitement. the stamp rather pleased the nurse. the truth was that she had been afraid she might find mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes. "that's right," she said. "you're in the right humor. you go and scold him. give him something new to think of. do go, child, as quick as ever you can." it was not until afterward that mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as colin himself. she flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted. she felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. she slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. "you stop!" she almost shouted. "you stop! i hate you! everybody hates you! i wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death! you _will_ scream yourself to death in a minute, and i wish you would!" a nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. he had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. his face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little mary did not care an atom. "if you scream another scream," she said, "i'll scream too--and i can scream louder than you can and i'll frighten you, i'll frighten you!" he actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. the scream which had been coming almost choked him. the tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over. "i can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "i can't--i can't!" "you can!" shouted mary. "half that ails you is hysterics and temper--just hysterics--hysterics--hysterics!" and she stamped each time she said it. "i felt the lump--i felt it," choked out colin. "i knew i should. i shall have a hunch on my back and then i shall die," and he began to writhe again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn't scream. "you didn't feel a lump!" contradicted mary fiercely. "if you did it was only a hysterical lump. hysterics makes lumps. there's nothing the matter with your horrid back--nothing but hysterics! turn over and let me look at it!" she liked the word "hysterics" and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him. he was probably like herself and had never heard it before. "nurse," she commanded, "come here and show me his back this minute!" the nurse, mrs. medlock and martha had been standing huddled together near the door staring at her, their mouths half open. all three had gasped with fright more than once. the nurse came forward as if she were half afraid. colin was heaving with great breathless sobs. "perhaps he--he won't let me," she hesitated in a low voice. colin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs: "sh--show her! she--she'll see then!" it was a poor thin back to look at when it was bared. every rib could be counted and every joint of the spine, though mistress mary did not count them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn savage little face. she looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth. there was just a minute's silence, for even colin tried to hold his breath while mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she had been the great doctor from london. "there's not a single lump there!" she said at last. "there's not a lump as big as a pin--except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you're thin. i've got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as yours do, until i began to get fatter, and i am not fat enough yet to hide them. there's not a lump as big as a pin! if you ever say there is again, i shall laugh!" no one but colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish words had on him. if he had ever had any one to talk to about his secret terrors--if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions--if he had had childish companions and had not lain on his back in the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by himself. but he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days and months and years. and now that an angry unsympathetic little girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth. "i didn't know," ventured the nurse, "that he thought he had a lump on his spine. his back is weak because he won't try to sit up. i could have told him there was no lump there." colin gulped and turned his face a little to look at her. "c-could you?" he said pathetically. "yes, sir." "there!" said mary, and she gulped too. colin turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken breaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow. actually the tears meant that a curious great relief had come to him. presently he turned and looked at the nurse again and strangely enough he was not like a rajah at all as he spoke to her. "do you think--i could--live to grow up?" he said. the nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some of the london doctor's words. "you probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give way to your temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air." colin's tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and this perhaps made him feel gentle. he put out his hand a little toward mary, and i am glad to say that, her own tantrum having passed, she was softened too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up. "i'll--i'll go out with you, mary," he said. "i shan't hate fresh air if we can find--" he remembered just in time to stop himself from saying "if we can find the secret garden" and he ended, "i shall like to go out with you if dickon will come and push my chair. i do so want to see dickon and the fox and the crow." the nurse remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the pillows. then she made colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to mary, who really was very glad to get it after her excitement. mrs. medlock and martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm and in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away also. she was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her sleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at mary, who had pushed her big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding colin's hand. "you must go back and get your sleep out," she said. "he'll drop off after a while--if he's not too upset. then i'll lie down myself in the next room." "would you like me to sing you that song i learned from my ayah?" mary whispered to colin. his hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly. "oh, yes!" he answered. "it's such a soft song. i shall go to sleep in a minute." "i will put him to sleep," mary said to the yawning nurse. "you can go if you like." "well," said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance. "if he doesn't go to sleep in half an hour you must call me." "very well," answered mary. the nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone colin pulled mary's hand again. "i almost told," he said; "but i stopped myself in time. i won't talk and i'll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell me. have you--do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into the secret garden?" mary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her heart relented. "ye-es," she answered, "i think i have. and if you will go to sleep i will tell you to-morrow." his hand quite trembled. "oh, mary!" he said. "oh, mary! if i could get into it i think i should live to grow up! do you suppose that instead of singing the ayah song--you could just tell me softly as you did that first day what you imagine it looks like inside? i am sure it will make me go to sleep." "yes," answered mary. "shut your eyes." he closed his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice. "i think it has been left alone so long--that it has grown all into a lovely tangle. i think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground--almost like a strange gray mist. some of them have died but many--are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses. i think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark. now the spring has begun--perhaps--perhaps--" the soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on. "perhaps they are coming up through the grass--perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones--even now. perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl--and perhaps--the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping--and creeping over--everything. and the birds are coming to look at it--because it is--so safe and still. and perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--" very softly and slowly indeed, "the robin has found a mate--and is building a nest." and colin was asleep. chapter xviii "tha' munnot waste no time" of course mary did not waken early the next morning. she slept late because she was tired, and when martha brought her breakfast she told her that though colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crying. mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened. "he says he wishes tha' would please go and see him as soon as tha' can," martha said. "it's queer what a fancy he's took to thee. tha' did give it him last night for sure--didn't tha'? nobody else would have dared to do it. eh! poor lad! he's been spoiled till salt won't save him. mother says as th' two worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way--or always to have it. she doesn't know which is th' worst. tha' was in a fine temper tha'self, too. but he says to me when i went into his room, 'please ask miss mary if she'll please come an' talk to me?' think o' him saying please! will you go, miss?" "i'll run and see dickon first," said mary. "no, i'll go and see colin first and tell him--i know what i'll tell him," with a sudden inspiration. she had her hat on when she appeared in colin's room and for a second he looked disappointed. he was in bed and his face was pitifully white and there were dark circles round his eyes. "i'm glad you came," he said. "my head aches and i ache all over because i'm so tired. are you going somewhere?" mary went and leaned against his bed. "i won't be long," she said. "i'm going to dickon, but i'll come back. colin, it's--it's something about the secret garden." his whole face brightened and a little color came into it. "oh! is it!" he cried out. "i dreamed about it all night. i heard you say something about gray changing into green, and i dreamed i was standing in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves--and there were birds on nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still. i'll lie and think about it until you come back." in five minutes mary was with dickon in their garden. the fox and the crow were with him again and this time he had brought two tame squirrels. "i came over on the pony this mornin'," he said. "eh! he is a good little chap--jump is! i brought these two in my pockets. this here one he's called nut an' this here other one's called shell." when he said "nut" one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and when he said "shell" the other one leaped on to his left shoulder. when they sat down on the grass with captain curled at their feet, soot solemnly listening on a tree and nut and shell nosing about close to them, it seemed to mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness, but when she began to tell her story somehow the look in dickon's funny face gradually changed her mind. she could see he felt sorrier for colin than she did. he looked up at the sky and all about him. "just listen to them birds--th' world seems full of 'em--all whistlin' an' pipin'," he said. "look at 'em dartin' about, an' hearken at 'em callin' to each other. come springtime seems like as if all th' world's callin'. the leaves is uncurlin' so you can see 'em--an', my word, th' nice smells there is about!" sniffing with his happy turned-up nose. "an' that poor lad lyin' shut up an' seein' so little that he gets to thinkin' o' things as sets him screamin'. eh! my! we mun get him out here--we mun get him watchin' an' listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an' get him just soaked through wi' sunshine. an' we munnot lose no time about it." when he was very much interested he often spoke quite broad yorkshire though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that mary could better understand. but she loved his broad yorkshire and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself. so she spoke a little now. "aye, that we mun," she said (which meant "yes, indeed, we must"). "i'll tell thee what us'll do first," she proceeded, and dickon grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking yorkshire it amused him very much. "he's took a graidely fancy to thee. he wants to see thee and he wants to see soot an' captain. when i go back to the house to talk to him i'll ax him if tha' canna' come an' see him to-morrow mornin'--an' bring tha' creatures wi' thee--an' then--in a bit, when there's more leaves out, an' happen a bud or two, we'll get him to come out an' tha' shall push him in his chair an' we'll bring him here an' show him everything." when she stopped she was quite proud of herself. she had never made a long speech in yorkshire before and she had remembered very well. "tha' mun talk a bit o' yorkshire like that to mester colin," dickon chuckled. "tha'll make him laugh an' there's nowt as good for ill folk as laughin' is. mother says she believes as half a hour's good laugh every mornin' 'ud cure a chap as was makin' ready for typhus fever." "i'm going to talk yorkshire to him this very day," said mary, chuckling herself. the garden had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if magicians were passing through it drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with wands. it was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as nut had actually crept on to her dress and shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes. but she went back to the house and when she sat down close to colin's bed he began to sniff as dickon did though not in such an experienced way. "you smell like flowers and--and fresh things," he cried out quite joyously. "what is it you smell of? it's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time." "it's th' wind from th' moor," said mary. "it comes o' sittin' on th' grass under a tree wi' dickon an' wi' captain an' soot an' nut an' shell. it's th' springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely." she said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. colin began to laugh. "what are you doing?" he said. "i never heard you talk like that before. how funny it sounds." "i'm givin' thee a bit o' yorkshire," answered mary triumphantly. "i canna' talk as graidely as dickon an' martha can but tha' sees i can shape a bit. doesn't tha' understand a bit o' yorkshire when tha' hears it? an' tha' a yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! eh! i wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." and then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and mrs. medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "whoever heard th' like! whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" there was so much to talk about. it seemed as if colin could never hear enough of dickon and captain and soot and nut and shell and the pony whose name was jump. mary had run round into the wood with dickon to see jump. he was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. he was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. he had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then dickon had talked into his ear and jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. dickon had made him give mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "does he really understand everything dickon says?" colin asked. "it seems as if he does," answered mary. "dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but mary saw he was thinking. "i wish i was friends with things," he said at last, "but i'm not. i never had anything to be friends with, and i can't bear people." "can't you bear me?" asked mary. "yes, i can," he answered. "it's very funny but i even like you." "ben weatherstaff said i was like him," said mary. "he said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. i think you are like him too. we are all three alike--you and i and ben weatherstaff. he said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked. but i don't feel as sour as i used to before i knew the robin and dickon." "did you feel as if you hated people?" "yes," answered mary without any affectation. "i should have detested you if i had seen you before i saw the robin and dickon." colin put out his thin hand and touched her. "mary," he said, "i wish i hadn't said what i did about sending dickon away. i hated you when you said he was like an angel and i laughed at you but--but perhaps he is." "well, it was rather funny to say it," she admitted frankly, "because his nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have patches all over them and he talks broad yorkshire, but--but if an angel did come to yorkshire and live on the moor--if there was a yorkshire angel--i believe he'd understand the green things and know how to make them grow and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as dickon does and they'd know he was friends for sure." "i shouldn't mind dickon looking at me," said colin; "i want to see him." "i'm glad you said that," answered mary, "because--because--" quite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. colin knew something new was coming. "because what?" he cried eagerly. mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. "can i trust you? i trusted dickon because birds trusted him. can i trust you--for sure--_for sure_?" she implored. her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. "yes--yes!" "well, dickon will come to see you to-morrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him." "oh! oh!" colin cried out in delight. "but that's not all," mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement. "the rest is better. there is a door into the garden. i found it. it is under the ivy on the wall." if he had been a strong healthy boy colin would probably have shouted "hooray! hooray! hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath. "oh! mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "shall i see it? shall i get into it? shall i _live_ to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "of course you'll see it!" snapped mary indignantly. "of course you'll live to get into it! don't be silly!" and she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured. "it is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "it sounds just as if you had really seen it. you know i said that when you told me first." mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth. "i had seen it--and i had been in," she said. "i found the key and got in weeks ago. but i daren't tell you--i daren't because i was so afraid i couldn't trust you--_for sure_!" chapter xix "it has come!" of course dr. craven had been sent for the morning after colin had had his tantrum. he was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. in fact, dr. craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. on this occasion he was away from misselthwaite manor until afternoon. "how is he?" he asked mrs. medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "he will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. the boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence." "well, sir," answered mrs. medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. that plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him. how she's done it there's no telling. the lord knows she's nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her speak, but she did what none of us dare do. she just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop, and this afternoon--well just come up and see, sir. it's past crediting." the scene which dr. craven beheld when he entered his patient's room was indeed rather astonishing to him. as mrs. medlock opened the door he heard laughing and chattering. colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picture in one of the garden books and talking to the plain child who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all because her face was so glowing with enjoyment. "those long spires of blue ones--we'll have a lot of those," colin was announcing. "they're called del-phin-iums." "dickon says they're larkspurs made big and grand," cried mistress mary. "there are clumps there already." then they saw dr. craven and stopped. mary became quite still and colin looked fretful. "i am sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy," dr. craven said a trifle nervously. he was rather a nervous man. "i'm better now--much better," colin answered, rather like a rajah. "i'm going out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine. i want some fresh air." dr. craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him curiously. "it must be a very fine day," he said, "and you must be very careful not to tire yourself." "fresh air won't tire me," said the young rajah. as there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled. "i thought you did not like fresh air," he said. "i don't when i am by myself," replied the rajah; "but my cousin is going out with me." "and the nurse, of course?" suggested dr. craven. "no, i will not have the nurse," so magnificently that mary could not help remembering how the young native prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive his orders. "my cousin knows how to take care of me. i am always better when she is with me. she made me better last night. a very strong boy i know will push my carriage." dr. craven felt rather alarmed. if this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting misselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger. "he must be a strong boy and a steady boy," he said. "and i must know something about him. who is he? what is his name?" "it's dickon," mary spoke up suddenly. she felt somehow that everybody who knew the moor must know dickon. and she was right, too. she saw that in a moment dr. craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile. "oh, dickon," he said. "if it is dickon you will be safe enough. he's as strong as a moor pony, is dickon." "and he's trusty," said mary. "he's th' trustiest lad i' yorkshire." she had been talking yorkshire to colin and she forgot herself. "did dickon teach you that?" asked dr. craven, laughing outright. "i'm learning it as if it was french," said mary rather coldly. "it's like a native dialect in india. very clever people try to learn them. i like it and so does colin." "well, well," he said. "if it amuses you perhaps it won't do you any harm. did you take your bromide last night, colin?" "no," colin answered. "i wouldn't take it at first and after mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep--in a low voice--about the spring creeping into a garden." "that sounds soothing," said dr. craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at mistress mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet. "you are evidently better, but you must remember--" "i don't want to remember," interrupted the rajah, appearing again. "when i lie by myself and remember i begin to have pains everywhere and i think of things that make me begin to scream because i hate them so. if there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of remembering it i would have him brought here." and he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies. "it is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better." dr. craven had never made such a short stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things. this afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and he was spared any disagreeable scenes. when he went down-stairs he looked very thoughtful and when he talked to mrs. medlock in the library she felt that he was a much puzzled man. "well, sir," she ventured, "could you have believed it?" "it is certainly a new state of affairs," said the doctor. "and there's no denying it is better than the old one." "i believe susan sowerby's right--i do that," said mrs. medlock. "i stopped in her cottage on my way to thwaite yesterday and had a bit of talk with her. and she says to me, 'well, sarah ann, she mayn't be a good child, an' she mayn't be a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needs children.' we went to school together, susan sowerby and me." "she's the best sick nurse i know," said dr. craven. "when i find her in a cottage i know the chances are that i shall save my patient." mrs. medlock smiled. she was fond of susan sowerby. "she's got a way with her, has susan," she went on quite volubly. "i've been thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. she says, 'once when i was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' i ses to 'em all, "when i was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an' i found out before i was ten that th' whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. no one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. but don't you--none o' you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out without hard knocks." what children learns from children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole orange--peel an' all. if you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitter to eat.'" "she's a shrewd woman," said dr. craven, putting on his coat. "well, she's got a way of saying things," ended mrs. medlock, much pleased. "sometimes i've said to her, 'eh! susan, if you was a different woman an' didn't talk such broad yorkshire i've seen the times when i should have said you was clever.'" * * * * * that night colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. it was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. he felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. he did not know that dr. craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of dickon and his wild creatures. it was so nice to have things to think about. and he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and mary was at the door. the next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. "you've been out! you've been out! there's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried. she had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. "it's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "you never saw anything so beautiful! it has _come_! i thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. it is here now! it has come, the spring! dickon says so!" "has it?" cried colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat. he actually sat up in bed. "open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy. "perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!" and though he laughed, mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds' songs were pouring through. "that's fresh air," she said. "lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it. that's what dickon does when he's lying on the moor. he says he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and ever. breathe it and breathe it." she was only repeating what dickon had told her, but she caught colin's fancy. "'forever and ever'! does it make him feel like that?" he said, and he did as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to him. mary was at his bedside again. "things are crowding up out of the earth," she ran on in a hurry. "and there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden. and the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb." and then she paused for breath. the new-born lamb dickon had found three days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor. it was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it. he had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk. it was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs rather long for its body. dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak. a lamb--a lamb! a living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby! she was describing it with great joy and colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered. she started a little at the sight of the open window. she had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold. "are you sure you are not chilly, master colin?" she inquired. "no," was the answer. "i am breathing long breaths of fresh air. it makes you strong. i am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast and my cousin will have breakfast with me." the nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts. she found the servants' hall a more amusing place than the invalid's chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from up-stairs. there was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, "had found his master, and good for him." the servants' hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better "for a good hiding." when colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the table he made an announcement to the nurse in his most rajah-like manner. "a boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are coming to see me this morning. i want them brought up-stairs as soon as they come," he said. "you are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants' hall and keep them there. i want them here." the nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough. "yes, sir," she answered. "i'll tell you what you can do," added colin, waving his hand. "you can tell martha to bring them here. the boy is martha's brother. his name is dickon and he is an animal charmer." "i hope the animals won't bite, master colin," said the nurse. "i told you he was a charmer," said colin austerely. "charmers' animals never bite." "there are snake-charmers in india," said mary; "and they can put their snakes' heads in their mouths." "goodness!" shuddered the nurse. they ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them. colin's breakfast was a very good one and mary watched him with serious interest. "you will begin to get fatter just as i did," she said. "i never wanted my breakfast when i was in india and now i always want it." "i wanted mine this morning," said colin. "perhaps it was the fresh air. when do you think dickon will come?" he was not long in coming. in about ten minutes mary held up her hand. "listen!" she said. "did you hear a caw?" colin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear inside a house, a hoarse "caw-caw." "yes," he answered. "that's soot," said mary. "listen again! do you hear a bleat--a tiny one?" "oh, yes!" cried colin, quite flushing. "that's the new-born lamb," said mary. "he's coming." dickon's moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to walk quietly they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors. mary and colin heard him marching--marching, until he passed through the tapestry door on to the soft carpet of colin's own passage. "if you please, sir," announced martha, opening the door, "if you please, sir, here's dickon an' his creatures." [illustration: "dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile."--_page _] dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile. the new-born lamb was in his arms and the little red fox trotted by his side. nut sat on his left shoulder and soot on his right and shell's head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket. colin slowly sat up and stared and stared--as he had stared when he first saw mary; but this was a stare of wonder and delight. the truth was that in spite of all he had heard he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like and that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness that they seemed almost to be part of himself. colin had never talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and curiosity that he did not even think of speaking. but dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward. he had not felt embarrassed because the crow had not known his language and had only stared and had not spoken to him the first time they met. creatures were always like that until they found out about you. he walked over to colin's sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side. of course no boy could have helped speaking then. "what is it doing?" cried colin. "what does it want?" "it wants its mother," said dickon, smiling more and more. "i brought it to thee a bit hungry because i knowed tha'd like to see it feed." he knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket. "come on, little 'un," he said, turning the small woolly white head with a gentle brown hand. "this is what tha's after. tha'll get more out o' this than tha' will out o' silk velvet coats. there now," and he pushed the rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the lamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy. after that there was no wondering what to say. by the time the lamb fell asleep questions poured forth and dickon answered them all. he told them how he had found the lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago. he had been standing on the moor listening to a skylark and watching him swing higher and higher into the sky until he was only a speck in the heights of blue. "i'd almost lost him but for his song an' i was wonderin' how a chap could hear it when it seemed as if he'd get out o' th' world in a minute--an' just then i heard somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushes. it was a weak bleatin' an' i knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry an' i knowed it wouldn't be hungry if it hadn't lost its mother somehow, so i set off searchin'. eh! i did have a look for it. i went in an' out among th' gorse bushes an' round an' round an' i always seemed to take th' wrong turnin'. but at last i seed a bit o' white by a rock on top o' th' moor an' i climbed up an' found th' little 'un half dead wi' cold an' clemmin'." while he talked, soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window and cawed remarks about the scenery while nut and shell made excursions into the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored branches. captain curled up near dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from preference. they looked at the pictures in the gardening books and dickon knew all the flowers by their country names and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden. "i couldna' say that there name," he said, pointing to one under which was written "aquilegia," "but us calls that a columbine, an' that there one it's a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is garden ones an' they're bigger an' grander. there's some big clumps o' columbine in th' garden. they'll look like a bed o' blue an' white butterflies flutterin' when they're out." "i'm going to see them," cried colin. "i am going to see them!" "aye, that tha' mun," said mary quite seriously. "an tha' munnot lose no time about it." chapter xx "i shall live forever--and ever--and ever!" but they were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came some very windy days and then colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning to do and almost every day dickon came in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor and in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams. the things he had to tell about otters' and badgers' and water-rats' houses, not to mention birds' nests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy underworld was working. "they're same as us," said dickon, "only they have to build their homes every year. an' it keeps 'em so busy they fair scuffle to get 'em done." the most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden. no one must see the chair-carriage and dickon and mary after they turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls. as each day passed, colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms. nothing must spoil that. no one must ever suspect that they had a secret. people must think that he was simply going out with mary and dickon because he liked them and did not object to their looking at him. they had long and quite delightful talks about their route. they would go up this path and down that one and cross the other and go round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were looking at the "bedding-out plants" the head gardener, mr. roach, had been having arranged. that would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it at all mysterious. they would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls. it was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of march made by great generals in time of war. rumors of the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalid's apartments had of course filtered through the servants' hall into the stable yards and out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this, mr. roach was startled one day when he received orders from master colin's room to the effect that he must report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid himself desired to speak to him. "well, well," he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat, "what's to do now? his royal highness that wasn't to be looked at calling up a man he's never set eyes on." mr. roach was not without curiosity. he had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers. the thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him. "things are changing in this house, mr. roach," said mrs. medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber. "let's hope they're changing for the better, mrs. medlock," he answered. "they couldn't well change for the worse," she continued; "and queer as it all is there's them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under. don't you be surprised, mr. roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie and martha sowerby's dickon more at home than you or me could ever be." there really was a sort of magic about dickon, as mary always privately believed. when mr. roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently. "he'd be at home in buckingham palace or at the bottom of a coal mine," he said. "and yet it's not impudence, either. he's just fine, is that lad." it was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled. when the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying "caw--caw" quite loudly. in spite of mrs. medlock's warning, mr. roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward. the young rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa. he was sitting in an armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle. a squirrel was perched on dickon's bent back attentively nibbling a nut. the little girl from india was sitting on a big footstool looking on. "here is mr. roach, master colin," said mrs. medlock. the young rajah turned and looked his servitor over--at least that was what the head gardener felt happened. "oh, you are roach, are you?" he said. "i sent for you to give you some very important orders." "very good, sir," answered roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens. "i am going out in my chair this afternoon," said colin. "if the fresh air agrees with me i may go out every day. when i go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the long walk by the garden walls. no one is to be there. i shall go out about two o'clock and every one must keep away until i send word that they may go back to their work." "very good, sir," replied mr. roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe. "mary," said colin, turning to her, "what is that thing you say in india when you have finished talking and want people to go?" "you say, 'you have my permission to go,'" answered mary. the rajah waved his hand. "you have my permission to go, roach," he said. "but, remember, this is very important." "caw--caw!" remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely. "very good, sir. thank you, sir," said mr. roach, and mrs. medlock took him out of the room. outside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost laughed. "my word!" he said, "he's got a fine lordly way with him, hasn't he? you'd think he was a whole royal family rolled into one--prince consort and all." "eh!" protested mrs. medlock, "we've had to let him trample all over every one of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that's what folks was born for." "perhaps he'll grow out of it, if he lives," suggested mr. roach. "well, there's one thing pretty sure," said mrs. medlock. "if he does live and that indian child stays here i'll warrant she teaches him that the whole orange does not belong to him, as susan sowerby says. and he'll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter." inside the room colin was leaning back on his cushions. "it's all safe now," he said. "and this afternoon i shall see it--this afternoon i shall be in it!" dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and mary stayed with colin. she did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it. she wondered why and asked him about it. "what big eyes you've got, colin," she said. "when you are thinking they get as big as saucers. what are you thinking about now?" "i can't help thinking about what it will look like," he answered. "the garden?" asked mary. "the springtime," he said. "i was thinking that i've really never seen it before. i scarcely ever went out and when i did go i never looked at it. i didn't even think about it." "i never saw it in india because there wasn't any," said mary. shut in and morbid as his life had been, colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures. "that morning when you ran in and said 'it's come! it's come!' you made me feel quite queer. it sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music. i've a picture like it in one of my books--crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, every one laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. that was why i said, 'perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets' and told you to throw open the window." "how funny!" said mary. "that's really just what it feels like. and if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be! i'm sure they'd dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music." they both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so liked it. a little later the nurse made colin ready. she noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with mary all the time. "this is one of his good days, sir," she said to dr. craven, who dropped in to inspect him. "he's in such good spirits that it makes him stronger." "i'll call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in," said dr. craven. "i must see how the going out agrees with him. i wish," in a very low voice, "that he would let you go with him." "i'd rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it's suggested," answered the nurse with sudden firmness. "i hadn't really decided to suggest it," said the doctor, with his slight nervousness. "we'll try the experiment. dickon's a lad i'd trust with a new-born child." the strongest footman in the house carried colin down-stairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which dickon waited outside. after the manservant had arranged his rugs and cushions the rajah waved his hand to him and to the nurse. "you have my permission to go," he said, and they both disappeared quickly and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house. dickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. mistress mary walked beside it and colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. the arch of it looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness. the wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moor and was strange with a wild clear scented sweetness. colin kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they which were listening--listening, instead of his ears. "there are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out," he said. "what is that scent the puffs of wind bring?" "it's gorse on th' moor that's openin' out," answered dickon. "eh! th' bees are at it wonderful to-day." not a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took. in fact every gardener or gardener's lad had been witched away. but they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. but when at last they turned into the long walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers. "this is it," breathed mary. "this is where i used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder." "is it?" cried colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. "but i can see nothing," he whispered. "there is no door." "that's what i thought," said mary. then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on. "that is the garden where ben weatherstaff works," said mary. "is it?" said colin. a few yards more and mary whispered again. "this is where the robin flew over the wall," she said. "is it?" cried colin. "oh! i wish he'd come again!" "and that," said mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key." then colin sat up. "where? where? there?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in red riding-hood, when red riding-hood felt called upon to remark on them. dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped. "and this," said mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where i went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. and this is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green curtain. "oh! is it--is it!" gasped colin. "and here is the handle, and here is the door. dickon push him in--push him in quickly!" and dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push. but colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as dickon and mary had done. and over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. and the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch. and in wonder mary and dickon stood and stared at him. he looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him--ivory face and neck and hands and all. "i shall get well! i shall get well!" he cried out. "mary! dickon! i shall get well! and i shall live forever and ever and ever!" chapter xxi ben weatherstaff one of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. one knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the east almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. one knows it then for a moment or so. and one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes. and it was like that with colin when he first saw and heard and felt the springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. that afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowded everything it possibly could into that one place. more than once dickon paused in what he was doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly. "eh! it is graidely," he said. "i'm twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like i never seed one as graidely as this 'ere." "aye, it is a graidely one," said mary, and she sighed for mere joy. "i'll warrant it's th' graidelest one as ever was in this world." "does tha' think," said colin with dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for me?" "my word!" cried mary admiringly, "that there is a bit o' good yorkshire. tha'rt shapin' first-rate--that tha' art." and delight reigned. they drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with blossoms and musical with bees. it was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. there were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes. mary and dickon worked a little here and there and colin watched them. they brought him things to look at--buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. it was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained. "i wonder if we shall see the robin?" said colin. "tha'll see him often enow after a bit," answered dickon. "when th' eggs hatches out th' little chap he'll be kep' so busy it'll make his head swim. tha'll see him flyin' backward an' for'ard carryin' worms nigh as big as himsel' an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest when he gets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th' first piece in. an' gapin' beaks an' squawks on every side. mother says as when she sees th' work a robin has to keep them gapin' beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin' to do. she says she's seen th' little chaps when it seemed like th' sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though folk can't see it." this made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. he liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper. every moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew more golden. the wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when colin saw something he had not had time to notice before. "that's a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. dickon looked across the grass at the tree and mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness. "yes," answered dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound. mary gazed at the tree and thought. "the branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," colin went on. "it's quite dead, isn't it?" "aye," admitted dickon. "but them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. it won't look dead then. it'll be th' prettiest of all." mary still gazed at the tree and thought. "it looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said colin. "i wonder how it was done." "it's been done many a year," answered dickon. "eh!" with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on colin. "look at that robin! there he is! he's been foragin' for his mate." colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. he darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. "he's taking her tea to her. perhaps it's five o'clock. i think i'd like some tea myself." and so they were safe. "it was magic which sent the robin," said mary secretly to dickon afterward. "i know it was magic." for both she and dickon had been afraid colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way. "we mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "we couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. if he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful." "aye, that we mun," had answered mary. but she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. she wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing dickon had said. he had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. "mrs. craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "an' mother she thinks maybe she's about misselthwaite many a time lookin' after mester colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. they have to come back, tha' sees. happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here." mary had thought he meant something about magic. she was a great believer in magic. secretly she quite believed that dickon worked magic, of course good magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend. she wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when colin asked that dangerous question. she felt that his magic was working all the afternoon and making colin look like an entirely different boy. it did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. the faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away. he looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax. they saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that colin felt they must have some. "go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "and then you and dickon can bring it here." it was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. nut and shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp. the afternoon was dragging toward its mellow hour. the sun was deepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less often. dickon and mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was re-packed ready to be taken back to the house, and colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color. "i don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but i shall come back to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after." "you'll get plenty of fresh air, won't you?" said mary. "i'm going to get nothing else," he answered. "i've seen the spring now and i'm going to see the summer. i'm going to see everything grow here. i'm going to grow here myself." "that tha' will," said dickon. "us'll have thee walkin' about here an' diggin' same as other folk afore long." colin flushed tremendously. "walk!" he said. "dig! shall i?" dickon's glance at him was delicately cautious. neither he nor mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs. "for sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "tha'--tha's got legs o' thine own, same as other folks!" mary was rather frightened until she heard colin's answer. "nothing really ails them," he said, "but they are so thin and weak. they shake so that i'm afraid to try to stand on them." both mary and dickon drew a relieved breath. "when tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em," dickon said with renewed cheer. "an' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in a bit." "i shall?" said colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things. they were really very quiet for a little while. the sun was dropping lower. it was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon. colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. even the creatures had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them. soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes. mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute. in the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper: "who is that man?" dickon and mary scrambled to their feet. "man!" they both cried in low quick voices. colin pointed to the high wall. "look!" he whispered excitedly. "just look!" mary and dickon wheeled about and looked. there was ben weatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder! he actually shook his fist at mary. "if i wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o' mine," he cried, "i'd give thee a hidin'!" he mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her. "i never thowt much o' thee!" he harangued. "i couldna' abide thee th' first time i set eyes on thee. a scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin' questions an' pokin' tha' nose where it wasna' wanted. i never knowed how tha' got so thick wi' me. if it hadna' been for th' robin--drat him--" "ben weatherstaff," called out mary, finding her breath. she stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp. "ben weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!" then it did seem as if ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged. "tha' young bad 'un!" he called down at her. "layin' tha' badness on a robin,--not but what he's impidint enow for anythin'. him showin' thee th' way! him! eh! tha' young nowt,"--she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity--"however i' this world did tha' get in?" "it was the robin who showed me the way," she protested obstinately. "he didn't know he was doing it but he did. and i can't tell you from here while you're shaking your fist at me." he stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him. at the first sound of his torrent of words colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. but in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to dickon. "wheel me over there!" he commanded. "wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!" and this, if you please, this is what ben weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop. a wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of state coach because a young rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him. and it stopped right under ben weatherstaff's nose. it was really no wonder his mouth dropped open. "do you know who i am?" demanded the rajah. how ben weatherstaff stared! his red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost. he gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word. "do you know who i am?" demanded colin still more imperiously. "answer!" ben weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice. "who tha' art?" he said. "aye, that i do--wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at me out o' tha' face. lord knows how tha' come here. but tha'rt th' poor cripple." colin forgot that he had ever had a back. his face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright. "i'm not a cripple!" he cried out furiously. "i'm not!" "he's not!" cried mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation. "he's not got a lump as big as a pin! i looked and there was none there--not one!" ben weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough. his hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. he was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard. "tha'--tha' hasn't got a crooked back?" he said hoarsely. "no!" shouted colin. "tha'--tha' hasn't got crooked legs?" quavered ben more hoarsely yet. it was too much. the strength which colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way. never yet had he been accused of crooked legs--even in whispers--and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by ben weatherstaff's voice was more than rajah flesh and blood could endure. his anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength. "come here!" he shouted to dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. "come here! come here! this minute!" dickon was by his side in a second. mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale. "he can do it! he can do it! he can do it! he can!" she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could. there was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on to the ground, dickon held colin's arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass. colin was standing upright--upright--as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall--his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning. "look at me!" he flung up at ben weatherstaff. "just look at me--you! just look at me!" "he's as straight as i am!" cried dickon. "he's as straight as any lad i' yorkshire!" what ben weatherstaff did mary thought queer beyond measure. he choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together. "eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as white as a wraith, but there's not a knob on thee. tha'lt make a mon yet. god bless thee!" dickon held colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter. he stood straighter and straighter and looked ben weatherstaff in the face. "i'm your master," he said, "when my father is away. and you are to obey me. this is my garden. don't dare to say a word about it! you get down from that ladder and go out to the long walk and miss mary will meet you and bring you here. i want to talk to you. we did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret. be quick!" ben weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears. it seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back. "eh! lad," he almost whispered. "eh! my lad!" and then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "yes, sir! yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder. chapter xxii when the sun went down when his head was out of sight colin turned to mary. "go and meet him," he said; and mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy. dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. there were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling. "i can stand," he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite grandly. "i told thee tha' could as soon as tha' stopped bein' afraid," answered dickon. "an' tha's stopped." "yes, i've stopped," said colin. then suddenly he remembered something mary had said. "are you making magic?" he asked sharply. dickon's curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin. "tha's doin' magic thysel'," he said. "it's same magic as made these 'ere work out o' th' earth," and he touched with his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass. colin looked down at them. "aye," he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger magic then that there--there couldna' be." he drew himself up straighter than ever. "i'm going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him. "i'm going to be standing when weatherstaff comes here. i can rest against the tree if i like. when i want to sit down i will sit down, but not before. bring a rug from the chair." he walked to the tree and though dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady. when he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall. when ben weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he heard mary muttering something under her breath. "what art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face. but she did not tell him. what she was saying was this: "you can do it! you can do it! i told you you could! you can do it! you can do it! you _can_!" she was saying it to colin because she wanted to make magic and keep him on his feet looking like that. she could not bear that he should give in before ben weatherstaff. he did not give in. she was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. he fixed his eyes on ben weatherstaff in his funny imperious way. "look at me!" he commanded. "look at me all over! am i a hunchback? have i got crooked legs?" ben weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little and answered almost in his usual way. "not tha'," he said. "nowt o' th' sort. what's tha' been doin' with thysel'--? hidin' out o' sight an' lettin' folk think tha' was cripple an' half-witted?" "half-witted!" said colin angrily. "who thought that?" "lots o' fools," said ben. "th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never bray nowt but lies. what did tha' shut thysel' up for?" "every one thought i was going to die," said colin shortly. "i'm not!" and he said it with such decision ben weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. "tha' die!" he said with dry exultation. "nowt o' th' sort! tha's got too much pluck in thee. when i seed thee put tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry i knowed tha' was all right. sit thee down on th' rug a bit young mester an' give me thy orders." there was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner. mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the long walk. the chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that colin was getting well--getting well. the garden was doing it. no one must let him remember about having humps and dying. the rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree. "what work do you do in the gardens, weatherstaff?" he inquired. "anythin' i'm told to do," answered old ben. "i'm kep' on by favor--because she liked me." "she?" said colin. "tha' mother," answered ben weatherstaff. "my mother?" said colin, and he looked about him quietly. "this was her garden, wasn't it?" "aye, it was that!" and ben weatherstaff looked about him too. "she were main fond of it." "it is my garden now, i am fond of it. i shall come here every day," announced colin. "but it is to be a secret. my orders are that no one is to know that we come here. dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive. i shall send for you sometimes to help--but you must come when no one can see you." ben weatherstaff's face twisted itself in a dry old smile. "i've come here before when no one saw me," he said. "what!" exclaimed colin. "when?" "th' last time i was here," rubbing his chin and looking round, "was about two year' ago." "but no one has been in it for ten years!" cried colin. "there was no door!" "i'm no one," said old ben dryly. "an' i didn't come through th' door. i come over th' wall. th' rheumatics held me back th' last two year'." "tha' come an' did a bit o' prunin'!" cried dickon. "i couldn't make out how it had been done." "she was so fond of it--she was!" said ben weatherstaff slowly. "an' she was such a pretty young thing. she says to me once, 'ben,' says she laughin', 'if ever i'm ill or if i go away you must take care of my roses.' when she did go away th' orders was no one was ever to come nigh. but i come," with grumpy obstinacy. "over th' wall i come--until th' rheumatics stopped me--an' i did a bit o' work once a year. she'd gave her order first." "it wouldn't have been as wick as it is if tha' hadn't done it," said dickon. "i did wonder." "i'm glad you did it, weatherstaff," said colin. "you'll know how to keep the secret." "aye, i'll know, sir," answered ben. "an' it'll be easier for a man wi' rheumatics to come in at th' door." on the grass near the tree mary had dropped her trowel. colin stretched out his hand and took it up. an odd expression came into his face and he began to scratch at the earth. his thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watched him--mary with quite breathless interest--he drove the end of the trowel into the soil and turned some over. "you can do it! you can do it!" said mary to herself. "i tell you, you can!" dickon's round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a word. ben weatherstaff looked on with interested face. colin persevered. after he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke exultantly to dickon in his best yorkshire. "tha' said as tha'd have me walkin' about here same as other folk--an' tha' said tha'd have me diggin'. i thowt tha' was just leein' to please me. this is only th' first day an' i've walked--an' here i am diggin'." ben weatherstaff's mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by chuckling. "eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. tha'rt a yorkshire lad for sure. an' tha'rt diggin', too. how'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? i can get thee a rose in a pot." "go and get it!" said colin, digging excitedly. "quick! quick!" it was done quickly enough indeed. ben weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics. dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. when dickon had deepened the hole colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. he looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. "i want to do it before the sun goes quite--quite down," he said. mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. ben weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. he hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. he had begun to be excited, too. he knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. "here, lad," he said, handing the plant to colin. "set it in the earth thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place." the thin white hands shook a little and colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old ben made firm the earth. it was filled in and pressed down and made steady. mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. nut and shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree. "it's planted!" said colin at last. "and the sun is only slipping over the edge. help me up, dickon. i want to be standing when it goes. that's part of the magic." and dickon helped him, and the magic--or whatever it was--so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. chapter xxiii magic dr. craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. he had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the garden paths. when colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously. "you should not have stayed so long," he said. "you must not overexert yourself." "i am not tired at all," said colin. "it has made me well. to-morrow i am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon." "i am not sure that i can allow it," answered dr. craven. "i am afraid it would not be wise." "it would not be wise to try to stop me," said colin quite seriously. "i am going." even mary had found out that one of colin's chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about. he had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare himself with. mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had been at misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular. having made this discovery she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to colin. so she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after dr. craven had gone. she wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did. "what are you looking at me for?" he said. "i'm thinking that i am rather sorry for dr. craven." "so am i," said colin calmly, but not without an air of some satisfaction. "he won't get misselthwaite at all now i'm not going to die." "i'm sorry for him because of that, of course," said mary, "but i was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. i would never have done it." "am i rude?" colin inquired undisturbedly. "if you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man," said mary, "he would have slapped you." "but he daren't," said colin. "no, he daren't," answered mistress mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice. "nobody ever dared to do anything you didn't like--because you were going to die and things like that. you were such a poor thing." "but," announced colin stubbornly, "i am not going to be a poor thing. i won't let people think i'm one. i stood on my feet this afternoon." "it is always having your own way that has made you so queer," mary went on, thinking aloud. colin turned his head, frowning. "am i queer?" he demanded. "yes," answered mary, "very. but you needn't be cross," she added impartially, "because so am i queer--and so is ben weatherstaff. but i am not as queer as i was before i began to like people and before i found the garden." "i don't want to be queer," said colin. "i am not going to be," and he frowned again with determination. he was a very proud boy. he lay thinking for a while and then mary saw his beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face. "i shall stop being queer," he said, "if i go every day to the garden. there is magic in there--good magic, you know, mary. i am sure there is." "so am i," said mary. "even if it isn't real magic," colin said, "we can pretend it is. _something_ is there--_something_!" "it's magic," said mary, "but not black. it's as white as snow." they always called it magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed--the wonderful months--the radiant months--the amazing ones. oh! the things which happened in that garden! if you have never had a garden, you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. at first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. in its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. ben weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "she was main fond o' them--she was," ben weatherstaff said. "she liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. she just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." the seeds dickon and mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. and the roses--the roses! rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades--they came alive day by day, hour by hour. fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. even gray days pleased him. he would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. if you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country. a mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees' ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave him a new world to explore and when dickon revealed them all and added foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets' ways, squirrels' ways, and trout's and water-rats' and badgers' ways, there was no end to the things to talk about and think over. and this was not the half of the magic. the fact that he had really once stood on his feet had set colin thinking tremendously and when mary told him of the spell she had worked he was excited and approved of it greatly. he talked of it constantly. "of course there must be lots of magic in the world," he said wisely one day, "but people don't know what it is like or how to make it. perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. i am going to try and experiment." the next morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once for ben weatherstaff. ben came as quickly as he could and found the rajah standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling. "good morning, ben weatherstaff," he said. "i want you and dickon and miss mary to stand in a row and listen to me because i am going to tell you something very important." "aye, aye, sir!" answered ben weatherstaff, touching his forehead. (one of the long concealed charms of ben weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run away to sea and had made voyages. so he could reply like a sailor.) "i am going to try a scientific experiment," explained the rajah. "when i grow up i am going to make great scientific discoveries and i am going to begin now with this experiment." "aye, aye, sir!" said ben weatherstaff promptly, though this was the first time he had heard of great scientific discoveries. it was the first time mary had heard of them, either, but even at this stage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, colin had read about a great many singular things and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy. when he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you it seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself though he was only ten years old--going on eleven. at this moment he was especially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person. "the great scientific discoveries i am going to make," he went on, "will be about magic. magic is a great thing and scarcely any one knows anything about it except a few people in old books--and mary a little, because she was born in india where there are fakirs. i believe dickon knows some magic, but perhaps he doesn't know he knows it. he charms animals and people. i would never have let him come to see me if he had not been an animal charmer--which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy is an animal. i am sure there is magic in everything, only we have not sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us--like electricity and horses and steam." this sounded so imposing that ben weatherstaff became quite excited and really could not keep still. "aye, aye, sir," he said and he began to stand up quite straight. "when mary found this garden it looked quite dead," the orator proceeded. "then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things out of nothing. one day things weren't there and another they were. i had never watched things before and it made me feel very curious. scientific people are always curious and i am going to be scientific. i keep saying to myself, 'what is it? what is it?' it's something. it can't be nothing! i don't know its name so i call it magic. i have never seen the sun rise but mary and dickon have and from what they tell me i am sure that is magic too. something pushes it up and draws it. sometimes since i've been in the garden i've looked up through the trees at the sky and i have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. so it must be all around us. in this garden--in all the places. the magic in this garden has made me stand up and know i am going to live to be a man. i am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. i don't know how to do it but i think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it perhaps it will come. perhaps that is the first baby way to get it. when i was going to try to stand that first time mary kept saying to herself as fast as she could, 'you can do it! you can do it!' and i did. i had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her magic helped me--and so did dickon's. every morning and evening and as often in the daytime as i can remember i am going to say, 'magic is in me! magic is making me well! i am going to be as strong as dickon, as strong as dickon!' and you must all do it, too. that is my experiment. will you help, ben weatherstaff?" "aye, aye, sir!" said ben weatherstaff. "aye, aye!" "if you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through drill we shall see what will happen and find out if the experiment succeeds. you learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind forever and i think it will be the same with magic. if you keep calling it to come to you and help you it will get to be part of you and it will stay and do things." "i once heard an officer in india tell my mother that there were fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times," said mary. "i've heard jem fettleworth's wife say th' same thing over thousands o' times--callin' jem a drunken brute," said ben weatherstaff dryly. "summat allus come o' that, sure enough. he gave her a good hidin' an' went to th' blue lion an' got as drunk as a lord." colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes. then he cheered up. "well," he said, "you see something did come of it. she used the wrong magic until she made him beat her. if she'd used the right magic and had said something nice perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps--perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet." ben weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes. "tha'rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, mester colin," he said. "next time i see bess fettleworth i'll give her a bit of a hint o' what magic will do for her. she'd be rare an' pleased if th' sinetifik 'speriment worked--an' so 'ud jem." dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight. nut and shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself. "do you think the experiment will work?" colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking. he so often wondered what dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him or at one of his "creatures" with his happy wide smile. he smiled now and his smile was wider than usual. "aye," he answered, "that i do. it'll work same as th' seeds do when th' sun shines on 'em. it'll work for sure. shall us begin it now?" colin was delighted and so was mary. fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in illustrations colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy. "it will be like sitting in a sort of temple," said colin. "i'm rather tired and i want to sit down." "eh!" said dickon, "tha' musn't begin by sayin' tha'rt tired. tha' might spoil th' magic." colin turned and looked at him--into his innocent round eyes. "that's true," he said slowly. "i must only think of the magic." it all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. ben weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. mistress mary felt solemnly enraptured. dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "the 'creatures' have come," said colin gravely. "they want to help us." colin really looked quite beautiful, mary thought. he held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. the light shone on him through the tree canopy. "now we will begin," he said. "shall we sway backward and forward, mary, as if we were dervishes?" "i canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said ben weatherstaff. "i've got th' rheumatics." "the magic will take them away," said colin in a high priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. we will only chant." "i canna' do no chantin'," said ben weatherstaff a trifle testily. "they turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time i ever tried it." no one smiled. they were all too much in earnest. colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. he was thinking only of the magic. "then i will chant," he said. and he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "the sun is shining--the sun is shining. that is the magic. the flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. that is the magic. being alive is the magic--being strong is the magic. the magic is in me--the magic is in me. it is in me--it is in me. it's in every one of us. it's in ben weatherstaff's back. magic! magic! come and help!" he said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. mary listened entranced. she felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. ben weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. the humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. at last colin stopped. "now i am going to walk round the garden," he announced. ben weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "you have been asleep," said colin. "nowt o' th' sort," mumbled ben. "th' sermon was good enow--but i'm bound to get out afore th' collection." he was not quite awake yet. "you're not in church," said colin. "not me," said ben, straightening himself. "who said i were? i heard every bit of it. you said th' magic was in my back. th' doctor calls it rheumatics." the rajah waved his hand. "that was the wrong magic," he said. "you will get better. you have my permission to go to your work. but come back to-morrow." "i'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted ben. it was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. in fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. the rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. it really did look like a procession. colin was at its head with dickon on one side and mary on the other. ben weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. it was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. every few yards it stopped to rest. colin leaned on dickon's arm and privately ben weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. his head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "the magic is in me!" he kept saying. "the magic is making me strong! i can feel it! i can feel it!" it seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. he sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. when he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "i did it! the magic worked!" he cried. "that is my first scientific discovery." "what will dr. craven say?" broke out mary. "he won't say anything," colin answered, "because he will not be told. this is to be the biggest secret of all. no one is to know anything about it until i have grown so strong that i can walk and run like any other boy. i shall come here every day in my chair and i shall be taken back in it. i won't have people whispering and asking questions and i won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. then sometime when he comes back to misselthwaite i shall just walk into his study and say 'here i am; i am like any other boy. i am quite well and i shall live to be a man. it has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "he will think he is in a dream," cried mary. "he won't believe his eyes." colin flushed triumphantly. he had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. and the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. one of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "he'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "one of the things i am going to do, after the magic works and before i begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "we shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said ben weatherstaff. "tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all england." colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. you must not take liberties because you are in the secret. however much the magic works i shall not be a prize-fighter. i shall be a scientific discoverer." "ax pardon--ax pardon, sir," answered ben, touching his forehead in salute. "i ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. he really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. chapter xxiv "let them laugh" the secret garden was not the only one dickon worked in. round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days colin and mary did not see him, dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. in the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. while he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of yorkshire moor songs or talked to soot or captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "we'd never get on as comfortable as we do," mrs. sowerby said, "if it wasn't for dickon's garden. anything'll grow for him. his 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." when she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. after supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. she could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. she loved this time. there were not only vegetables in this garden. dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. the low wall was one of the prettiest things in yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "all a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. they're just like th' 'creatures.' if they're thirsty give 'em a drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. they want to live same as we do. if they died i should feel as if i'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." it was in these twilight hours that mrs. sowerby heard of all that happened at misselthwaite manor. at first she was only told that "mester colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with miss mary and that it was doing him good. but it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that dickon's mother might "come into the secret." somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." so one beautiful still evening dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret mistress mary had planned never to reveal. the coming of dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of mester colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of ben weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and mester colin's sudden indignant strength, made mrs. sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "my word!" she said. "it was a good thing that little lass came to th' manor. it's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin' o' him. standin' on his feet! an' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." she asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "what do they make of it at th' manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "they don't know what to make of it," answered dickon. "every day as comes round his face looks different. it's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. but he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "what for, i' mercy's name?" asked mrs. sowerby. dickon chuckled. "he does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. if the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell mester craven. mester colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. he's goin' to practise his magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. but him an' miss mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." mrs. sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' theirselves, i'll warrant. they'll get a good bit o' play actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. let's hear what they do, dickon lad." dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. his eyes were twinkling with fun. "mester colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "an' he flies out at john, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. he makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. an' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. him an' miss mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'poor colin! does it hurt you so much? are you so weak as that, poor colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. when we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. an' they have to stuff their faces into mester colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of 'em's about." "th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said mrs. sowerby, still laughing herself. "good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. that pair'll plump up for sure." "they are plumpin' up," said dickon. "they're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. mester colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. miss mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." mrs. sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty, that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and dickon laughed with her. "i'll tell thee what, lad," mrs. sowerby said when she could speak. "i've thought of a way to help 'em. when tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' i'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th' fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "eh! mother!" said dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! tha' always sees a way out o' things. they was quite in a pother yesterday. they didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "they're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said mrs. sowerby. then she smiled dickon's own curving smile. "eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. she was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. colin and mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. the idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by dr. craven himself. "your appetite is improving very much, master colin," the nurse had said one day. "you used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "nothing disagrees with me now," replied colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "at least things don't so often disagree with me. it's the fresh air." "perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "but i must talk to dr. craven about it." "how she stared at you!" said mary when she went away. "as if she thought there must be something to find out." "i won't have her finding out things," said colin. "no one must begin to find out yet." when dr. craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. he asked a number of questions, to colin's great annoyance. "you stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "where do you go?" colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "i will not let any one know where i go," he answered. "i go to a place i like. every one has orders to keep out of the way. i won't be watched and stared at. you know that!" "you seem to be out all day but i do not think it has done you harm--i do not think so. the nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "perhaps," said colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "i do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said dr. craven. "you are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "perhaps--perhaps i am bloated and feverish," said colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "people who are not going to live are often--different." dr. craven shook his head. he was holding colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "you are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. if we can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. your father will be very happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "i won't have him told!" colin broke forth fiercely. "it will only disappoint him if i get worse again--and i may get worse this very night. i might have a raging fever. i feel as if i might be beginning to have one now. i won't have letters written to my father--i won't--i won't! you are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. i feel hot already. i hate being written about and being talked over as much as i hate being stared at!" "hush-h! my boy," dr. craven soothed him. "nothing shall be written without your permission. you are too sensitive about things. you must not undo the good which has been done." he said no more about writing to mr. craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "the boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "his advance seems almost abnormal. but of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." mary and colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. from this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "i may be obliged to have a tantrum," said colin regretfully. "i don't want to have one and i'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. perhaps i couldn't have one at all. that lump doesn't come in my throat now and i keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. but if they talk about writing to my father i shall have to do something." he made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "i think we shall have to eat it all this morning, mary," colin always ended by saying. "we can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." but they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "i do wish," colin would say also, "i do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "it's enough for a person who is going to die," answered mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. i sometimes feel as if i could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." the morning that dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rose-bush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. what a wonderful thing for mrs. sowerby to think of! what a kind, clever woman she must be! how good the buns were! and what delicious fresh milk! "magic is in her just as it is in dickon," said colin. "it makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. she is a magic person. tell her we are grateful, dickon--extremely grateful." he was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. he enjoyed them. he liked this so much that he improved upon it. "tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." and then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. this was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. they actually awoke to the fact that as mrs. sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. so they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. you could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. every beautiful morning the magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. after the ceremony colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. and each day his belief in the magic grew stronger--as well it might. he tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was dickon who showed him the best things of all. "yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "i went to thwaite for mother an' near th' blue cow inn i seed bob haworth. he's the strongest chap on th' moor. he's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. he's gone all th' way to scotland for th' sports some years. he's knowed me ever since i was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' i axed him some questions. th' gentry calls him a athlete and i thought o' thee, mester colin, and i says, 'how did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, bob? did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' an' he says 'well, yes, lad, i did. a strong man in a show that came to thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body.' an' i says, 'could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' i says, 'no, but i knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' i wish i knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' i didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. he's friendly same as i said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' i imitated what he did till i knowed it by heart." colin had been listening excitedly. "can you show me?" he cried. "will you?" "aye, to be sure," dickon answered, getting up. "but he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "i'll be careful," said colin. "show me! show me! dickon, you are the most magic boy in the world!" dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. colin watched them with widening eyes. he could do a few while he was sitting down. presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. mary began to do them also. soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. from that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the magic was. it became possible for both colin and mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. but the little oven in the hollow and mrs. sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that mrs. medlock and the nurse and dr. craven became mystified again. you can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oat-cakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "they are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "they'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. and yet see how they look." "look!" exclaimed mrs. medlock indignantly. "eh! i'm moithered to death with them. they're a pair of young satans. bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals cook can tempt them with. not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair _invented_ a pudding for them--and back it's sent. she almost cried. she's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." dr. craven came and looked at colin long and carefully. he wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by colin's sofa and examined him. he had been called to london on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. when young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. the waxen tinge had left colin's skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. his once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. his lips were fuller and of a normal color. in fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. dr. craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "i am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "that will not do. you will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. you ate so well a short time ago." "i told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered colin. mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "what is the matter?" said dr. craven, turning to look at her. mary became quite severe in her manner. "it was something between a sneeze and a cough," she replied with reproachful dignity, "and it got into my throat." "but" she said afterward to colin, "i couldn't stop myself. it just burst out because all at once i couldn't help remembering that last big potato you ate and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through that thick lovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it." "is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?" dr. craven inquired of mrs. medlock. "there's no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees," mrs. medlock answered. "they stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but each other. and if they want anything different to eat from what's sent up to them they need only ask for it." "well," said dr. craven, "so long as going without food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselves. the boy is a new creature." "so is the girl," said mrs. medlock. "she's begun to be downright pretty since she's filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. her hair's grown thick and healthy looking and she's got a bright color. the glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and master colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones. perhaps they're growing fat on that." "perhaps they are," said dr. craven. "let them laugh." chapter xxv the curtain and the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. in the robin's nest there were eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings. at first she was very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful. even dickon did not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves--nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them--the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of eggs. if there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end--if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air. but they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it. at first the robin watched mary and colin with sharp anxiety. for some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch dickon. the first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or feathers. he could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other). to speak robin to a robin is like speaking french to a frenchman. dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. the robin thought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to understand feathered speech. his movements also were robin. they never startled one by being sudden enough to seem dangerous or threatening. any robin could understand dickon, so his presence was not even disturbing. but at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other two. in the first place the boy creature did not come into the garden on his legs. he was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skins of wild animals were thrown over him. that in itself was doubtful. then when he began to stand up and move about he did it in a queer unaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him. the robin used to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head tilted first on one side and then on the other. he thought that the slow movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do. when cats are preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very slowly. the robin talked this over with his mate a great deal for a few days but after that he decided not to speak of the subject because her terror was so great that he was afraid it might be injurious to the eggs. when the boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it was an immense relief. but for a long time--or it seemed a long time to the robin--he was a source of some anxiety. he did not act as the other humans did. he seemed very fond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying down for a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner to begin again. one day the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to learn to fly by his parents he had done much the same sort of thing. he had taken short flights of a few yards and then had been obliged to rest. so it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly--or rather to walk. he mentioned this to his mate and when he told her that the eggs would probably conduct themselves in the same way after they were fledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly interested and derived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of her nest--though she always thought that the eggs would be much cleverer and learn more quickly. but then she said indulgently that humans were always more clumsy and slow than eggs and most of them never seemed really to learn to fly at all. you never met them in the air or on tree-tops. after a while the boy began to move about as the others did, but all three of the children at times did unusual things. they would stand under the trees and move their arms and legs and heads about in a way which was neither walking nor running nor sitting down. they went through these movements at intervals every day and the robin was never able to explain to his mate what they were doing or trying to do. he could only say that he was sure that the eggs would never flap about in such a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was doing the thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions were not of a dangerous nature. of course neither the robin nor his mate had ever heard of the champion wrestler, bob haworth, and his exercises for making the muscles stand out like lumps. robins are not like human beings; their muscles are always exercised from the first and so they develop themselves in a natural manner. if you have to fly about to find every meal you eat, your muscles do not become atrophied (atrophied means wasted away through want of use). when the boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like the others, the nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace and content. fears for the eggs became things of the past. knowing that your eggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vault and the fact that you could watch so many curious things going on made setting a most entertaining occupation. on wet days the eggs' mother sometimes felt even a little dull because the children did not come into the garden. but even on wet days it could not be said that mary and colin were dull. one morning when the rain streamed down unceasingly and colin was beginning to feel a little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it was not safe to get up and walk about, mary had an inspiration. "now that i am a real boy," colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my body are so full of magic that i can't keep them still. they want to be doing things all the time. do you know that when i waken in the morning, mary, when it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy--even the trees and things we can't really hear--i feel as if i must jump out of bed and shout myself. and if i did it, just think what would happen!" mary giggled inordinately. "the nurse would come running and mrs. medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. colin giggled himself. he could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "i wish my father would come home," he said. "i want to tell him myself. i'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. i can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides i look too different. i wish it wasn't raining to-day." it was then mistress mary had her inspiration. "colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "about a thousand, i suppose," he answered. "there's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said mary. "and one rainy day i went and looked into ever so many of them. no one ever knew, though mrs. medlock nearly found me out. i lost my way when i was coming back and i stopped at the end of your corridor. that was the second time i heard you crying." colin started up on his sofa. "a hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "it sounds almost like a secret garden. suppose we go and look at them. you could wheel me in my chair and nobody would know where we went." "that's what i was thinking," said mary. "no one would dare to follow us. there are galleries where you could run. we could do our exercises. there is a little indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. there are all sorts of rooms." "ring the bell," said colin. when the nurse came in he gave his orders. "i want my chair," he said. "miss mary and i are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. john can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. then he must go away and leave us alone until i send for him again." rainy days lost their terrors that morning. when the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, colin and mary looked at each other delighted. as soon as mary had made sure that john was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, colin got out of his chair. "i am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other," he said, "and then i am going to jump and then we will do bob haworth's exercises." and they did all these things and many others. they looked at the portraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her finger. "all these," said colin, "must be my relations. they lived a long time ago. that parrot one, i believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts. she looks rather like you, mary--not as you look now but as you looked when you came here. now you are a great deal fatter and better looking." "so are you," said mary, and they both laughed. they went to the indian room and amused themselves with the ivory elephants. they found the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in the cushion the mouse had left but the mice had grown up and run away and the hole was empty. they saw more rooms and made more discoveries than mary had made on her first pilgrimage. they found new corridors and corners and flights of steps and new old pictures they liked and weird old things they did not know the use of. it was a curiously entertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same house with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were miles away from them was a fascinating thing. "i'm glad we came," colin said. "i never knew i lived in such a big queer old place. i like it. we will ramble about every rainy day. we shall always be finding new queer corners and things." that morning they had found among other things such good appetites that when they returned to colin's room it was not possible to send the luncheon away untouched. when the nurse carried the tray down-stairs she slapped it down on the kitchen dresser so that mrs. loomis, the cook, could see the highly polished dishes and plates. "look at that!" she said. "this is a house of mystery, and those two children are the greatest mysteries in it." "if they keep that up every day," said the strong young footman john, "there'd be small wonder that he weighs twice as much to-day as he did a month ago. i should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing my muscles an injury." that afternoon mary noticed that something new had happened in colin's room. she had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change might have been made by chance. she said nothing to-day but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel. she could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside. that was the change she noticed. "i know what you want me to tell you," said colin, after she had stared a few minutes. "i always know when you want me to tell you something. you are wondering why the curtain is drawn back. i am going to keep it like that." "why?" asked mary. "because it doesn't make me angry any more to see her laughing. i wakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the magic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that i couldn't lie still. i got up and looked out of the window. the room was quite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord. she looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad i was standing there. it made me like to look at her. i want to see her laughing like that all the time. i think she must have been a sort of magic person perhaps." "you are so like her now," said mary, "that sometimes i think perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy." that idea seemed to impress colin. he thought it over and then answered her slowly. "if i were her ghost--my father would be fond of me," he said. "do you want him to be fond of you?" inquired mary. "i used to hate it because he was not fond of me. if he grew fond of me i think i should tell him about the magic. it might make him more cheerful." chapter xxvi "it's mother!" their belief in the magic was an abiding thing. after the morning's incantations colin sometimes gave them magic lectures. "i like to do it," he explained, "because when i grow up and make great scientific discoveries i shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise. i can only give short lectures now because i am very young, and besides ben weatherstaff would feel as if he was in church and he would go to sleep." "th' best thing about lecturin'," said ben, "is that a chap can get up an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. i wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes." but when colin held forth under his tree old ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept them there. he looked him over with critical affection. it was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held itself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light he remembered in another pair. sometimes when colin felt ben's earnest gaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him. "what are you thinking about, ben weatherstaff?" he asked. "i was thinkin'," answered ben, "as i'd warrant tha's gone up three or four pound this week. i was lookin' at tha' calves an' tha' shoulders. i'd like to get thee on a pair o' scales." "it's the magic and--and mrs. sowerby's buns and milk and things," said colin. "you see the scientific experiment has succeeded." that morning dickon was too late to hear the lecture. when he came he was ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than usual. as they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they fell to work. they always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking rain. the moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold. colin was as good at weeding as any one in these days and he could lecture while he was doing it. "the magic works best when you work yourself," he said this morning. "you can feel it in your bones and muscles. i am going to read books about bones and muscles, but i am going to write a book about magic. i am making it up now. i keep finding out things." it was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel and stood up on his feet. he had been silent for several minutes and they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did. when he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to mary and dickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him do it. he stretched himself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly. color glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness. all at once he had realized something to the full. "mary! dickon!" he cried. "just look at me!" they stopped their weeding and looked at him. "do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?" he demanded. dickon was looking at him very hard. being an animal charmer he could see more things than most people could and many of them were things he never talked about. he saw some of them now in this boy. "aye, that we do," he answered. mary looked hard too, but she said nothing. "just this minute," said colin, "all at once i remembered it myself--when i looked at my hand digging with the trowel--and i had to stand up on my feet to see if it was real. and it _is_ real! i'm _well_--i'm _well_!" "aye, that tha' art!" said dickon. "i'm well! i'm well!" said colin again, and his face went quite red all over. he had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all through him--a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been so strong that he could not help calling out. "i shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "i shall find out thousands and thousands of things. i shall find out about people and creatures and everything that grows--like dickon--and i shall never stop making magic. i'm well! i'm well! i feel--i feel as if i want to shout out something--something thankful, joyful!" ben weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round at him. "tha' might sing th' doxology," he suggested in his dryest grunt. he had no opinion of the doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any particular reverence. but colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the doxology. "what is that?" he inquired. "dickon can sing it for thee, i'll warrant," replied ben weatherstaff. dickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer's smile. "they sing it i' church," he said. "mother says she believes th' skylarks sings it when they gets up i' th' mornin'." "if she says that, it must be a nice song," colin answered. "i've never been in a church myself. i was always too ill. sing it, dickon. i want to hear it." dickon was quite simple and unaffected about it. he understood what colin felt better than colin did himself. he understood by a sort of instinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding. he pulled off his cap and looked round still smiling. "tha' must take off tha' cap," he said to colin, "an' so mun tha', ben--an' tha' mun stand up, tha' knows." colin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as he watched dickon intently. ben weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old face as if he didn't know exactly why he was doing this remarkable thing. dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice: "praise god from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below, praise him above ye heavenly host, praise father, son, and holy ghost. amen." when he had finished, ben weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on colin. colin's face was thoughtful and appreciative. "it is a very nice song," he said. "i like it. perhaps it means just what i mean when i want to shout out that i am thankful to the magic." he stopped and thought in a puzzled way. "perhaps they are both the same thing. how can we know the exact names of everything? sing it again, dickon. let us try, mary. i want to sing it, too. it's my song. how does it begin? 'praise god from whom all blessings flow'?" [illustration: "'praise god from whom all blessings flow'"--_page _] and they sang it again, and mary and colin lifted their voices as musically as they could and dickon's swelled quite loud and beautiful--and at the second line ben weatherstaff raspingly cleared his throat and at the third he joined in with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and when the "amen" came to an end mary observed that the very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he found out that colin was not a cripple--his chin was twitching and he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet. "i never seed no sense in th' doxology afore," he said hoarsely, "but i may change my mind i' time. i should say tha'd gone up five pound this week, mester colin--five on 'em!" colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his expression had become a startled one. "who is coming in here?" he said quickly. "who is it?" the door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered. she had come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and looking at them. with the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of colin's books. she had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in--all of them, even ben weatherstaff and the "creatures" and every flower that was in bloom. unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all. dickon's eyes lighted like lamps. "it's mother--that's who it is!" he cried and he went across the grass at a run. colin began to move toward her, too, and mary went with him. they both felt their pulses beat faster. "it's mother!" dickon said again when they met half-way. "i knowed tha' wanted to see her an' i told her where th' door was hid." colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face. "even when i was ill i wanted to see you," he said, "you and dickon and the secret garden. i'd never wanted to see any one or anything before." the sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. she flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes. "eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "eh! dear lad!" as if she had not known she were going to say it. she did not say, "mester colin," but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. she might have said it to dickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her. colin liked it. "are you surprised because i am so well?" he asked. she put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes. "aye, that i am!" she said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my heart jump." "do you think," said colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father like me?" "aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick pat. "he mun come home--he mun come home." "susan sowerby," said ben weatherstaff, getting close to her. "look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? they was like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' i heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same time. look at 'em now!" susan sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh. "they're goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "let him go on playin' an' workin' in th' garden an' eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i' yorkshire, thank god for it." she put both hands on mistress mary's shoulders and looked her little face over in a motherly fashion. "an' thee, too!" she said. "tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'lizabeth ellen. i'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. our martha told me as mrs. medlock heard she was a pretty woman. tha'lt be like a blush rose when tha' grows up, my little lass, bless thee." she did not mention that when martha came home on her "day out" and described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what mrs. medlock had heard. "it doesn't stand to reason that a pretty woman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she had added obstinately. mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. she had only known that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. but remembering her pleasure in looking at the mem sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her. susan sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. colin walked on one side of her and mary on the other. each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them--a sort of warm, supported feeling. it seemed as if she understood them as dickon understood his "creatures." she stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were children. soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were dickon's. when they told her about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little mellow laugh in her throat. "i suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin' children to walk, but i'm feared i should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o' legs," she said. it was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that at last she was told about the magic. "do you believe in magic?" asked colin after he had explained about indian fakirs. "i do hope you do." "that i do, lad," she answered. "i never knowed it by that name but what does th' name matter? i warrant they call it a different name i' france an' a different one i' germany. th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin' an' th' sun shinin' made thee a well lad an' it's th' good thing. it isn't like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. th' big good thing doesn't stop to worrit, bless thee. it goes on makin' worlds by th' million--worlds like us. never thee stop believin' in th' big good thing an' knowin' th' world's full of it--an' call it what tha' likes. tha' wert singin' to it when i come into th' garden." "i felt so joyful," said colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at her. "suddenly i felt how different i was--how strong my arms and legs were, you know--and how i could dig and stand--and i jumped up and wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen." "th' magic listened when tha' sung th' doxology. it would ha' listened to anything tha'd sung. it was th' joy that mattered. eh! lad, lad--what's names to th' joy maker," and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again. she had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry hour came and dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. she was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. she told them stories in broad yorkshire and taught them new words. she laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that colin was still a fretful invalid. "you see we can't help laughing nearly all the time when we are together," explained colin. "and it doesn't sound ill at all. we try to choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever." "there's one thing that comes into my mind so often," said mary, "and i can scarcely ever hold in when i think of it suddenly. i keep thinking suppose colin's face should get to look like a full moon. it isn't like one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and suppose some morning it should look like one--what should we do!" "bless us all, i can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said susan sowerby. "but tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. mester craven'll come home." "do you think he will?" asked colin. "why?" susan sowerby chuckled softly. "i suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told him in tha' own way," she said. "tha's laid awake nights plannin' it." "i couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said colin. "i think about different ways every day. i think now i just want to run into his room." "that'd be a fine start for him," said susan sowerby. "i'd like to see his face, lad. i would that! he mun come back--that he mun." one of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage. they planned it all. they were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather. they would see all the twelve children and dickon's garden and would not come back until they were tired. susan sowerby got up at last to return to the house and mrs. medlock. it was time for colin to be wheeled back also. but before he got into his chair he stood quite close to susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast. "you are just what i--what i wanted," he said. "i wish you were my mother--as well as dickon's!" all at once susan sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been dickon's brother. the quick mist swept over her eyes. "eh! dear lad!" she said. "thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, i do believe. she couldna' keep out of it. thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" chapter xxvii in the garden in each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. in the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. in this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. at first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. one of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. to let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. if you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live. so long as mistress mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child. circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. they began to push her about for her own good. when her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired. so long as colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. when new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood. his scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was nothing weird about it at all. much more surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. two things cannot be in one place. "where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow." while the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming alive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away beautiful places in the norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains of switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. he had not been courageous; he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark ones. he had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. a terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to allow any rift of light to pierce through. he had forgotten and deserted his home and his duties. when he traveled about, darkness so brooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people because it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. most strangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden crime on his soul. he was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked shoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was, "archibald craven, misselthwaite manor, yorkshire, england." he had traveled far and wide since the day he saw mistress mary in his study and told her she might have her "bit of earth." he had been in the most beautiful places in europe, though he had remained nowhere more than a few days. he had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. he had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born. but the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened. he was in a wonderful valley in the austrian tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted any man's soul out of shadow. he had walked a long way and it had not lifted his. but at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. it was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness. sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones. he saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away. it seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. the valley was very, very still. as he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, archibald craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself. he wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not. he sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge. there was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago. he was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. he did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind--filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside. it was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark water away. but of course he did not think of this himself. he only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness. he did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself. something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly. "what is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead. "i almost feel as if--i were alive!" i do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him. neither does any one else yet. he did not understand at all himself--but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden: "i am going to live forever and ever and ever!" the singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. he did not know that it could be kept. by the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back. he left the valley and went on his wandering way again. but, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one. slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive" with the garden. as the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to the lake of como. there he found the loveliness of a dream. he spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep. but by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him. "perhaps," he thought, "my body is growing stronger." it was growing stronger but--because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were changed--his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. he began to think of misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes. he shrank from it. one marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. the stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in. he walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night. he felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep. he did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming. he remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was. he thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a voice calling. it was sweet and clear and happy and far away. it seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very side. "archie! archie! archie!" it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer than before, "archie! archie!" he thought he sprang to his feet not even startled. it was such a real voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it. "lilias! lilias!" he answered. "lilias! where are you?" "in the garden," it came back like a sound from a golden flute. "in the garden!" and then the dream ended. but he did not awaken. he slept soundly and sweetly all through the lovely night. when he did awake at last it was brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. he was an italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master might do. no one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night. the man held a salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until mr. craven took them. when he had gone away mr. craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake. his strange calm was still upon him and something more--a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as he thought--as if something had changed. he was remembering the dream--the real--real dream. "in the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "in the garden! but the door is locked and the key is buried deep." when he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an english letter and came from yorkshire. it was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew. he opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once. "_dear sir:_ "i am susan sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor. it was about miss mary i spoke. i will make bold to speak again. please, sir, i would come home if i was you. i think you would be glad to come and--if you will excuse me, sir--i think your lady would ask you to come if she was here. "your obedient servant, "susan sowerby." mr. craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope. he kept thinking about the dream. "i will go back to misselthwaite," he said. "yes, i'll go at once." and he went through the garden to the villa and ordered pitcher to prepare for his return to england. * * * * * in a few days he was in yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past. during those years he had only wished to forget him. now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind. he remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. he had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure it would die in a few days. but to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature. he had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all. he had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. the first time after a year's absence he returned to misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death. after that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. he could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail. all this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was "coming alive" began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply. "perhaps i have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "ten years is a long time. it may be too late to do anything--quite too late. what have i been thinking of!" of course this was the wrong magic--to begin by saying "too late." even colin could have told him that. but he knew nothing of magic--either black or white. this he had yet to learn. he wondered if susan sowerby had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse--was fatally ill. if he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched than ever. but the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in better things. "could it be possible that she sees that i may be able to do him good and control him?" he thought. "i will go and see her on my way to misselthwaite." but when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby. "our dickon," they volunteered, was over at the manor working in one of the gardens where he went several days each week. mr. craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. he smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to "our 'lizabeth ellen" who was the oldest. "if you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of you," he said. then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind. the drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing. why did it seem to give him a sense of home-coming which he had been sure he could never feel again--that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing nearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six hundred years? how he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed with the brocaded hangings. was it possible that perhaps he might find him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his shrinking from him? how real that dream had been--how wonderful and clear the voice which called back to him, "in the garden--in the garden!" "i will try to find the key," he said. "i will try to open the door. i must--though i don't know why." when he arrived at the manor the servants who received him with the usual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to the remote rooms where he usually lived attended by pitcher. he went into the library and sent for mrs. medlock. she came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered. "how is master colin, medlock?" he inquired. "well, sir," mrs. medlock answered, "he's--he's different, in a manner of speaking." "worse?" he suggested. mrs. medlock really was flushed. "well, you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neither dr. craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out." "why is that?" "to tell the truth, sir, master colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse. his appetite, sir, is past understanding--and his ways--" "has he become more--more peculiar?" her master asked, knitting his brows anxiously. "that's it, sir. he's growing very peculiar--when you compare him with what he used to be. he used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous--and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back just as they used to be. you never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. the things we've gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf. he'd throw himself into such a state that dr. craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. well, sir, just without warning--not long after one of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by miss mary and susan sowerby's boy dickon that could push his chair. he took a fancy to both miss mary and dickon, and dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night." "how does he look?" was the next question. "if he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. he laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's alone with miss mary. he never used to laugh at all. dr. craven is coming to see you at once, if you'll allow him. he never was as puzzled in his life." "where is master colin now?" mr. craven asked. "in the garden, sir. he's always in the garden--though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him." mr. craven scarcely heard her last words. "in the garden," he said, and after he had sent mrs. medlock away he stood and repeated it again and again. "in the garden!" he had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room. he took his way, as mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. the fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers. he crossed the lawn and turned into the long walk by the ivied walls. he did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. he felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why. as he drew near to it his step became still more slow. he knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--that buried key. so he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused he started and listened--asking himself if he were walking in a dream. the ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years--and yet inside the garden there were sounds. they were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices--exclamations and smothered joyous cries. it seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so--as their excitement mounted--would burst forth. what in heaven's name was he dreaming of--what in heaven's name did he hear? was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears? was it that the far clear voice had meant? and then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves. the feet ran faster and faster--they were nearing the garden door--there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained--and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms. mr. craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath. he was a tall boy and a handsome one. he was glowing with life and his running had sent splendid color leaping to his face. he threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes--eyes full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. it was the eyes which made mr. craven gasp for breath. "who--what? who!" he stammered. this was not what colin had expected--this was not what he had planned. he had never thought of such a meeting. and yet to come dashing out--winning a race--perhaps it was even better. he drew himself up to his very tallest. mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before--inches taller. "father," he said, "i'm colin. you can't believe it. i scarcely can myself. i'm colin." like mrs. medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly: "in the garden! in the garden!" "yes," hurried on colin. "it was the garden that did it--and mary and dickon and the creatures--and the magic. no one knows. we kept it to tell you when you came. i'm well, i can beat mary in a race. i'm going to be an athlete." he said it all so like a healthy boy--his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness--that mr. craven's soul shook with unbelieving joy. colin put out his hand and laid it on his father's arm. "aren't you glad, father?" he ended. "aren't you glad? i'm going to live forever and ever and ever!" mr. craven put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still. he knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment. "take me into the garden, my boy," he said at last. "and tell me all about it." and so they led him in. the place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together--lilies which were white or white and ruby. he remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves. late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one stood in an embowered temple of gold. the newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its grayness. he looked round and round. "i thought it would be dead," he said. "mary thought so at first," said colin. "but it came alive." then they sat down under their tree--all but colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story. it was the strangest thing he had ever heard, archibald craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. mystery and magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting--the coming of the spring--the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young rajah to his feet to defy old ben weatherstaff to his face. the odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept. the listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing. the athlete, the lecturer, the scientific discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing. "now," he said at the end of the story, "it need not be a secret any more. i dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me--but i am never going to get into the chair again. i shall walk back with you, father--to the house." * * * * * ben weatherstaff's duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants' hall by mrs. medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on the spot--as he had hoped to be--when the most dramatic event misselthwaite manor had seen during the present generation actually took place. one of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn. mrs. medlock, knowing ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with master colin. "did you see either of them, weatherstaff?" she asked. ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "aye, that i did," he answered with a shrewdly significant air. "both of them?" suggested mrs. medlock. "both of 'em," returned ben weatherstaff. "thank ye kindly, ma'am, i could sup up another mug of it." "together?" said mrs. medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her excitement. "together, ma'am," and ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp. "where was master colin? how did he look? what did they say to each other?" "i didna' hear that," said ben, "along o' only bein' on th' step-ladder lookin' over th' wall. but i'll tell thee this. there's been things goin' on outside as you house people knows nowt about. an' what tha'll find out tha'll find out soon." and it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the shrubbery a piece of the lawn. "look there," he said, "if tha's curious. look what's comin' across th' grass." when mrs. medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the servants' hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads. across the lawn came the master of misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him. and by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in yorkshire--master colin! the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: table of contents, an exclamation point was added to chapter vi's title to match the text. (there was!") page , quotation mark added. (india," said) page , apostrophe added to "an'". (readin' an') page , quotation mark added. (come to-morrow.") page , comma changed to period. (she ventured.) page , extraneous quotation mark removed. (the gardeners?) page , "it" changed to "if". (wondering if he) page , illustration: closing punctuation added. (wide smile.") page , period added. (he said.) page , apostrophe added. (dickon. "an') page , "every" changed to "very". (very easily) page , "eggs" changed to "eggs" to fit rest of text. (injurious to the eggs) the garden, you, and i [illustration: a seaside garden.] the garden, you, and i by barbara author of "the garden of a commuter's wife," "people of the whirlpool," "at the sign of the fox," etc. new york the macmillan company london: macmillan & co., ltd. _all rights reserved_ copyright, . by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published june, . norwood press j.s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. ~dedicated~ to j.l.g. i.m.t. and a.b.p. the literary gardeners of redding greeting this book is for those who in treading the garden path have no thought of material gain; rather must they give,--from the pocket as they may,--from the brain much,--and from the heart all,--if they would drink in full measure this pure joy of living. "allons! the road is before us! it is safe--i have tried it--my own feet have tried it well--be not detained." --walt whitman. contents chapter page i. the ways of the wind ii. the book of the garden, you, and i iii. concerning hardy plants iv. their garden vacation v. annuals--worthy and unworthy vi. their fortunate escape vii. a simple rose garden viii. a midnight adventure ix. ferns, fences, and white birches x. frankness--gardening and otherwise list of flower combinations for the table from barbara's _garden boke_ xi. a seaside garden xii. the transplanting of evergreens xiii. lilies and their whims xiv. fragrant flowers and leaves xv. the pink family outdoors xvi. the frame of the picture xvii. the ins and outs of the matter xviii. the value of white flowers xix. pandora's chest xx. epilogue appendix for the hardy seed bed some worthy annuals list of illustrations a seaside garden (see p. ) _frontispiece_ "the magnolias below at the road-bend" english larkspur seven feet high fraxinella--german iris and candy-tuft longfellow's garden the summer garden--verbenas asters the pictorial value of evergreens "my roses are scattered here, there, and everywhere" madame plantier at van cortland manor a convenient rose-bed "the last of the old orchard" the screen of white birches "an endless shelter for every sort of wild thing" speciosum lilies in the shade the poet's narcissus a bed of japan pinks single and double pinks "the silver maple by the lane gate" "a curtain to the side porch" an iris hedge daphne cneorum a terrible example "the low snow-covered meadow" "punch ... has a cache under the syringa bushes" the garden, you, and i i the ways of the wind "out of the veins of the world comes the blood of me; the heart that beats in my side is the heart of the sea; the hills have known me of old, and they do not forget; long ago was i friends with the wind; i am friends with it yet." --gerald gould. whenever a piece of the land is to be set apart for a garden, two mighty rulers must be consulted as to the boundaries. when this earth child is born and flower garnished for the christening, the same two must be also bidden as sponsors. these rulers are the sun and the wind. the sun, if the matter in hand is once fairly spread before him and put in his charge, is a faithful guardian, meeting frankness frankly and sending his penetrating and vitalizing messengers through well-nigh inviolable shade. but of the wind, who shall answer for it or trust it? do we really ever learn all of its vagaries and impossible possibilities? if frankness best suits the sun, diplomacy must be our shield of defence windward, for the wind is not one but a composite of many moods, and to lure one on, and skilfully but not insultingly bar out another, is our portion. to shut out the wind of summer, the bearer of vitality, the uplifter of stifling vapours, the disperser of moulds, would indeed be an error; therefore, the great art of the planters of a garden is to learn the ways of the wind and to make friends with it. if the soil is sodden and sour, it may be drained and sweetened; if it is poor, it may be nourished; but when all this is done, if the garden lies where the winds of winter and spring in passing swiftly to and fro whet their steel-edged tempers upon it, what avails? what does it matter if violet or pansy frames are set in a sunny nook, if it be one of the wind's winter playgrounds, where he drifts the snow deep for his pastime, so that after each storm of snow or sleet a serious bit of engineering must be undergone before the sashes can be lifted and the plants saved from dampness; or if the daffodils and tulips lie well bedded all the winter through, if, when the sun has called them forth, the winds of march blight their sap-tender foliage? yet the lands that send the north winds also send us the means to deter them--the cold-loving evergreens, low growing, high growing, medium, woven dense in warp and woof, to be windbreaks, also the shrubs of tough, twisted fibre and stubborn thorns lying close to the earth for windbuffers. therefore, before the planting of rose or hardy herbs, bulbs or tenderer flowers, go out, compass in hand, face the four quarters of heaven, and, considering well, set your windbreaks of sweeping hemlocks, pines, spruces, not in fortress-like walls barring all the horizon, but in alternate groups that flank, without appearing to do so heavily, the north and northwest. even a barberry hedge on two sides of a garden, wedge point to north, like the wild-goose squadrons of springtime, will make that spot an oasis in the winter valley of death. a wise gardener it is who thinks of the winter in springtime and plants for it as surely as he thinks of spring in the winter season and longs for it! if, in the many ways by which the affairs of daily life are re-enforced, the saying is true that "forethought is coin in the pocket, quiet in the brain, and content in the heart," doubly does it apply to the pleasures of living, of which the outdoor life of working side by side with nature, called gardening, is one of the chief. when a garden is inherited, the traditions of the soil or reverence for those who planned and toiled in it may make one blind to certain defects in its conception, and beginning with _a priori_ set by another one does as one can. but in those choosing site, and breaking soil for themselves, inconsistency is inexcusable. follow the lay of the land and let it lead. nature does not attempt placid lowland pictures on a steep hillside, nor dramatic landscape effects in a horizonless meadow, therefore why should you? for one great garden principle you will learn from nature's close companionship--consistency! you who have a bit of abrupt hillside of impoverished soil, yet where the sky-line is divided in a picture of many panels by the trees, you should not try to perch thereon a prim dutch garden of formal lines; neither should you, to whom a portion of fertile level plain has fallen, seek to make it picturesque by a tortuous maze of walks, curving about nothing in particular and leading nowhere, for of such is not nature. either situation will develop the skill, though in different directions, and do not forget that in spite of better soil it takes greater individuality to make a truly good and harmonious garden on the flat than on the rolling ground. i always tremble for the lowlander who, down in the depth of his nature, has a prenatal hankering for rocks, because he is apt to build an undigested rockery! these sort of rockeries are wholly separate from the rock gardens, often majestic, that nowadays supplement a bit of natural rocky woodland, bringing it within the garden pale. the awful rockery of the flat garden is like unto a nest of prehistoric eggs that have been turned to stone, from the interstices of which a few wan vines and ferns protrude somewhat, suggesting the garnishing for an omelet. also, if you follow nature and study her devices, you will alone learn the ways of the winds and how to prepare for them. where does spring set her first flag of truce--out in the windswept open? no! the arbutus and hepatica lie bedded not alone in the fallen leaves of the forest but amid their own enduring foliage. the skunk cabbage raises his hooded head first in sheltered hollows. the marsh marigold lies in the protection of bog tussocks and stream banks. the first bloodroot is always found at the foot of some natural windbreak, while the shad-bush, that ventures farther afield and higher in air than any, is usually set in a protecting hedge, like his golden forerunner the spice-bush. if nature looks to the ways of the wind when she plants, why should not we? a bed of the hardiest roses set on a hill crest is a folly. much more likely would they be to thrive wholly on the north side of it. a garden set in a cut between hills that form a natural blowpipe can at best do no more than hold its own, without advancing. but there are some things that belong to the never-never land and may not be done here. you may plant roses and carnations in the shade or in dry sea sand, but they will not thrive; you cannot keep upland lilies cheerful with their feet in wet clay; you cannot have a garden all the year in our northern latitudes, for nature does not; and you cannot afford to ignore the ways of the wind, for according as it is kind or cruel does it mean garden life or death! "men, they say, know many things; but lo, they have taken wings,-- the arts and sciences, and a thousand appliances; the wind that blows is all that anybody knows." --thoreau. ii the book of the garden, you, and i _april ._ gray dawn, into which father and evan vanished with their fishing rods; then sunrise, curtained by a slant of rain, during which the birds sang on with undamped ardour, a catbird making his début for the season as soloist. it must not be thought that i was up and out at dawn. at twenty i did so frequently, at thirty sometimes, now at thirty-five i _can_ do it _perfectly well_, if necessary, otherwise, save at the change of seasons, to keep in touch with earth and sky, i raise myself comfortably, elbow on pillow, and through the window scan garden, wild walk, and the old orchard at leisure, and then let my arm slip and the impression deepen through the magic of one more chance for dreams. _ o'clock._ the warm throb of spring in the earth, rising in a potent mist, sap pervaded and tangible, having a clinging, unctuous softness like the touch of unfolding beech leaves, lured me out to finish the transplanting of the pansies among the hardy roses, while the first brown thrasher, high in the bare top of an ash, eyes fixed on the sky, proclaimed with many turns and changes the exact spot where he did not intend to locate his nest. this is an early spring, of a truth. presently pale sunbeams thread the mist, gathering colour as they filter through the pollen-meshed catkins of the black birches; an oriole bugling in the yulan magnolias below at the road-bend, fire amid snow; a high-hole laughing his courtship in the old orchard. then lavinia cortright coming up to exchange dahlia bulbs and discuss annuals and aster bugs. she and martin browse about the country, visiting from door to door like veritable natives, while their garden, at first so prim and genteel, like one of lavinia's own frocks, has broken bounds and taken on brocade, embroidery, and all sorts of lace frills, overflowed the south meadow, and only pauses at the stile in the wall of our old crab-apple orchard, rivalling in beauty and refined attraction any garden at the bluffs. martin's purse is fuller than of yore, owing to the rise in whirlpool real estate, and nothing is too good for lavinia's garden. even more, he has of late let the dust rest peacefully on human genealogy and is collecting quaint garden books and herbals, flower catalogues and lists, with the solemn intent of writing a book on historic flowers. at least so he declares; but when lavinia is in the garden, there too is martin. to-day, however, he joined my men before noon at the lower brook. fancy a house-reared man a convert to fishing when past threescore! evan insists that it is because, being above all things consistent, he wishes to appear at home in the company of father's cherished collection of walton's and other fishing books. father says, "nonsense! no man can help liking to fish!" [illustration: "the magnolias below at the road-bend."] toward evening came home a creel lined with bog moss; within, a rainbow glimmer of brook trout, a posy of shad-bush, marsh marigolds, anemones, and rosy spring beauties from the river woods,--with three cheerfully tired men, who gathered by the den hearth fire with coffee cup and pipe, inside an admiring but sleepy circle of beagle hounds, who had run free the livelong day and who could doubtless impart the latest rabbit news with thrilling detail. all this and much more made up to-day, one of red letters. yesterday, monday, was quite different, and if not absolutely black, was decidedly slate coloured. it is only when some one of the household is positively ill that the record must be set down in black characters, for what else really counts? why is it that the city folk persist in judging all rural days alike, that is until they have once really _lived_ in the country, not merely boarded and tried to kill time and their own digestions at one and the same moment. such exceptional days as yesterday should only be chronicled now and then to give an added halo to happy to-morrows,--disagreeables are remembered quite long enough by perverse human nature. yesterday began with the pipe from the water-back bursting, thereby doing away with hot water for shaving and the range fire at the same time. the coffee resented hurry, and the contact with an oil stove developed the peanutty side of its disposition, something that is latent in the best and most equable of brands. the spring timetable having changed at midnight sunday, unobserved by evan, he missed the early train, which it was especially important that he should take. three other men found themselves in the same predicament, two being bluffers and one a plotter. (these are the names given hereabout to our two colonies of non-natives. the bluffers are the people of the bluffs, who always drive to the station; the plotters, living on a pretty tract of land near the village that was "plotted" into house-lots a few years ago, have the usual newcomer's hallucination about making money from raising chickens, and always walk.) after a hasty consultation, one of the bluffers telephoned for his automobile and invited the others to make the trip to town with him. in order to reach the north turnpike that runs fairly straight to the city, the chauffeur, a novice in local byways, proposed to take a short cut through our wood road, instead of wheeling into the pike below wakeleigh. this wood road holds the frost very late, in spite of an innocent appearance to the contrary; this fact evan stated tersely. would a chauffeur of the bluffs listen to advice from a man living halfway down the hill, who not only was autoless but frequently walked to the station, and therefore to be classed with the plotters? certainly not; while at the same moment the owner of the car decided the matter by pulling out his watch and murmuring to his neighbour something about an important committee meeting, and it being the one day in the month when time meant money! into the road they plunged, and after several hair-breadth lurches, for the cut is deep and in places the rocks parallel with the roadway, the turnpike was visible; then a sudden jolt, a sort of groan from the motor, and it ceased to breathe, the heavy wheels having settled in a treacherous spot not wholly free from frost, its great stomach, or whatever they call the part that holds its insides, wallowed hopelessly in the mud! the gentlemen from the bluffs deciding that, after all, there was no real need of going to town, as they had only moved into the country the week previous, and the auto owner challenged to a game of billiards by his friend, they returned home, while the plotter and evan walked back two miles to the depot and caught the third train! at home things still sizzled. father had an important consultation at the hospital at ten; ringing the stable call for the horses, he found that tim, evidently forgetting the hour, had taken them, evan's also being of the trio, to the shoer half an hour before. there was a moment's consternation and bertel left the digging over of my hardy beds to speed down to the village on his bicycle, and when the stanhope finally came up, father was as nearly irritable as i have ever seen him, while tim saunders's eyes looked extra small and pointed. evidently bertel had said things on his own account. was an explosion coming at last to end twelve years of out-of-door peace, also involving my neighbour and domestic standby, martha corkle saunders? no; the two elderly men glanced at each other; there was nothing of the domineering or resentful attitude that so often renders difficult the relation of master and man--"i must be getting old and forgetful," quoth father, stepping into the gig. "nae, it's mair like i'm growin' deef in the nigh ear," said tim, and without further argument they drove away. i was still pondering upon the real inwardness of the matter, when the boys came home to luncheon. two hungry, happy boys are a tonic at any time, and for a time i buttered bread--though alack, the real necessity for so doing has long since passed--when, on explaining father's absence from the meal, ian said abruptly, "jinks! grandpa's gone the day before! he told tim _tuesday_ at 'leven, i heard him!" but, as it chanced, it was a slip of tongue, not memory, and i blessed timothy saunders for his scotch forbearance, which evan insists upon calling prudence. my own time of trial came in the early afternoon. during the more than ten years that i have been a gardener on my own account, i have naturally tried many experiments and have gradually come to the conclusion that it is a mistake to grow too many species of flowers,--better to have more of a kind and thus avoid spinkiness. the pink family in general is one of those that has stood the test, and this year a cousin of evan's sent me over a quantity of margaret carnation seed from prize stock, together with that of some exhibition single dahlias. late in february i sowed the seed in two of the most protected hotbeds, muffled them in mats and old carpets every night, almost turned myself into a patent ventilator in order to give the carnations enough air during that critical teething period of pinks, when the first grasslike leaves emerge from the oval seed leaves and the little plants are apt to weaken at the ground level, damp off, and disappear, thinned them out with the greatest care, and had (day before yesterday) full five hundred lusty little plants, ready to go out into the deeply dug cool bed and there wax strong according to the need of pinks before summer heat gains the upper hand. the dahlias had also thriven, but then they are less particular, and if they live well will put up with more snubs than will a carnation. weather and bertel being propitious, i prepared to plant out my pets, though of course they must be sheltered of nights for another half month. as i was about to remove one of the props that held the sash aloft, to let in air to the dahlias, and still constitute it a windbreak, i heard a violent whistling in our grass road north of the barn that divides the home acres from the upper pastures and martha's chicken farm. at first i thought but little of it, as many people use it as a short cut from the back road from the bluffs down to the village. soon a shout came from the same direction, and going toward the wall, i saw mr. vandeveer struggling along, his great st. bernard jupiter, prize winner in a recent show and but lately released from winter confinement, bounding around and over him to such an extent that the spruce new yorker, who had the reputation of always being on dress parade from the moment that he left bed until he returned to it in hand-embroidered pink silk pajamas, was not only covered with abundant april mud, but could hardly keep his footing. at the moment i spied the pair, a great brindled cat, who sometimes ventures on the place, in spite of all the attentions paid her by the beagles, and who had been watching sparrows in the barnyard, sprang to the wall. zip! there was a rush, a snarl, a hiss, and a smash! dog and what had been cat crashed through the sash of my dahlia frame, and in the rebound ploughed into the soft earth that held the carnations. the next minute mr. vandeveer absolutely leaped over the wall, and seeing the dog, apparently in the midst of the broken glass, turned almost apoplectic, shouting, "ah, his legs will be cut; he'll be ruined, and julie will never forgive me! he's her best dog and cost $ spot cash! get him out, somebody, why don't you? what business have people to put such dangerous skylights near a public road?" meanwhile, as wrath arose in my throat and formed ugly words, jupiter, a great friend of ours, who has had more comfortable meals in our kitchen during the winter than the careless kennel men would have wished to be known, sprang toward me with well-meant, if rough, caresses,--evidently the few scratches he had amounted to nothing. i forgave him the cat cheerfully, but my poor carnations! they do not belong to the grovelling tribe of herbs that bend and refuse to break like portulaca, chickweed, and pusley the accursed. fortunately, just then, a scene of the past year, which had come to me by report, floated across my vision. our young hounds, bob and pete, in the heat of undisciplined rat-catching (for these dogs when young and unbroken will chase anything that runs), completely undermined the vandeveers' mushroom bed, the door of the pit having been left open! when mr. vandeveer recovered himself, he began profuse apologies. would "send the glazier down immediately"--"so sorry to spoil such lovely young onions and spinach!" "what! not early vegetables, but flowers?" oh, then he should not feel so badly. really, he had quite forgotten himself, but the truth was julie thought more of her dogs and horses than even of himself, he sometimes thought,--almost, but not quite; "ha! ha! really, don't you know!" while, judging by the comparative behaviour of dog and man, the balance was decidedly in favour of jupiter. but you see i never like men who dress like ladies, i had lost my young plants, and i love dogs from mongrel all up the ladder (lap dogs excepted), so i may be prejudiced. after bertel had carefully removed the splintered glass from the earth, so that i could take account of my damaged stock, about half seemed to be redeemable; but even those poor seedlings looked like soldiers after battle, a limb gone here and an eye missing there. at supper father, evan, and i were silent and ceremoniously polite, neither referring to the day's disasters, and i could see that the boys were regarding us with open-eyed wonder. when the meal was almost finished, the bell of the front door rang and effie returned, bearing a large, ornamental basket, almost of the proportions of a hamper, with a card fastened conspicuously to the handle, upon which was printed "with apologies from jupiter!" inside was a daintily arranged assortment of hothouse vegetables,--cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant eggs, artichokes,--with a separate basket in one corner brimming with strawberries, and in the other a pink tissue-paper parcel, tied with ribbon, containing mushrooms, proving that, after all, fussy mr. vandeveer has the saving grace of humour. my righteous garden-indignation dwindled; laughter caught me by the throat and quenched the remainder. evan, knowing nothing of the concatenation, but scenting something from the card, joined sympathetically. glancing at father, i saw that his nose was twitching, and in a moment his shoulders began to shake and he led the general confession that followed. it seems that he arrived at the hospital really the day of the consultation, but found that the patient, in need of surgical care, had been seized with nervous panic and gone home! after such a thoroughly vulgar day there is really nothing to do but laugh and plan something pleasant for to-morrow, unless you prefer crying, which, though frequently a relief to the spirit, is particularly bad for eye wrinkles in the middle-aged. _may-day._ i always take this as a holiday, and give myself up to any sort of outdoor folly that comes into my head. there is nothing more rejuvenating than to let one's self thoroughly go now and then. then, besides, to an american, may-day is usually a surprise in itself. you never can tell what it will bring, for it is by no means the amiable and guileless child of the poets, breathing perfumed south wind and followed by young lambs through meadows knee deep in grass and flowers. in the course of fifteen years i have seen four may-days when there was enough grass to blow in the wind and frost had wholly left for the season; to balance this there have been two brief snow squalls, three deluges that washed even big beans out of ground, and a scorching drought that reduced the brooks, unsheltered by leafage, to august shallowness. but to-day has been entirely lovable and full of the promise that after all makes may the garden month of the year, the time of perfect faith, hope, and charity when we may believe all things! this morning i took a stroll in the woods, partly to please the dogs, for though they always run free, they smile and wag furiously when they see the symptoms that tell that i am going beyond the garden. what a difference there is between the north and south side of things! on the south slope the hepaticas have gone and the columbines show a trace of red blood, while on the north, one is in perfection and the other only as yet making leaves. this is a point to be remembered in the garden, by which the season of blooming can be lengthened for almost all plants that do not demand full, unalloyed sun, like the rose and pink families. every year i am more and more surprised at the hints that can be carried from the wild to the cultivated. for instance, the local soil in which the native plants of a given family nourish is almost always sure to agree better with its cultivated, and perhaps tropical, cousin than the most elaborately and scientifically prepared compost. this is a matter that both simplifies and guarantees better success to the woman who is her own gardener and lives in a country sufficiently open for her to be able to collect soil of various qualities for special purposes. lilies were always a very uncertain quantity with me, until the idea occurred of filling my bed with earth from a meadow edge where _lilium canadense_, year after year, mounted her chimes of gold and copper bells on leafy standards often four feet high. we may read and listen to cultural ways and methods, but when all is said and done, one who has not a fat purse for experiments and failures must live the outdoor life of her own locality to get the best results in the garden. then to have a woman friend to compare notes with and prove rules by is a comforting necessity. no living being can say positively, "i _will_ do so and so;" or "i _know_," when coming in contact with the wise old earth! lavinia cortright has only had a garden for half a dozen summers, and consults me as a veteran, yet i'm discovering quite as much from her experiments as she from mine. last winter, when seed-catalogue time came round, and we met daily and scorched our shoes before the fire, drinking a great deal too much tea in the excitement of making out our lists, we resolved to form a horticulture society of only three members, of which she elected me the recording secretary, to be called "the garden, you, and i." we expect to have a variety of experiences this season, and frequent meetings both actual and by pen, for lavinia, in combination with horace and sylvia bradford, last year built a tiny shore cottage, three miles up the coast, at gray rocks, where they are going for alternate weeks or days as the mood seizes them, and they mean to try experiments with real seashore gardening, while evan proposes that we should combine pleasure with business in a way to make frequent vacations possible and take driving trips together to many lovely gardens both large and small, to our mutual benefit, his eyes being open to construction and landscape effect, and mine to the soul of the garden, as it were; for he is pleased to say that a woman can grasp and translate this more easily and fully than a man. what if the records of the garden, you, and i should turn into a real book, an humble shadow of "six of spades" of jovial memory! is it possible that i am about to be seized with agamemnon peterkin's ambition to write a book to make the world wise? alas, poor agamemnon! when he had searched the woods for an oak gall to make ink, gone to the post-office, after hours, to buy a sheet of paper, and caused a commotion in the neighbourhood and rumour of thieves by going to the poultry yard with a lantern to pluck a fresh goose quill for a pen, he found that he had nothing to say, and paused--thereby, at least, proving his own wisdom. i'm afraid i ramble too much to be a good recording secretary, but this habit belongs to my very own garden books that no critical eyes can see. that reminds me! father says that he met bartram penrose in town last week and that he seemed rather nervous and tired, and worried about nothing, and wanted advice. after looking him over a bit, father told him that all he needed was a long vacation from keeping train, as well as many other kinds of time, for it seems during the six years of his marriage he has had no real vacation but his honeymoon. mary penrose's mother, my mother, and lavinia cortright were all school friends together, and since mary married bartram and moved to woodridge we've exchanged many little visits, for our husbands agree, and now that she has time she is becoming an enthusiastic gardener, after my own heart, having last season become convinced of the ugliness of cannas and coleus beds about a restored colonial farmhouse. why might they not join us on our driving trips, by way of their vacation? immediately i started to telephone the invitation, and then paused. i will write instead. mary penrose is on the long-distance line,--toll thirty cents in the daytime! in spring i am very stingy; thirty cents means six papers of flower seeds, or three heliotropes. whereas in winter it is simply thirty cents, and it must be a very vapid conversation indeed that is not worth so much on a dark winter day of the quality when neither driving nor walking is pleasant, and if you get sufficiently close to the window to see to read, you develop a stiff neck. also, the difficulty is that thirty cents is only the beginning of a conversation betwixt mary penrose and myself, for whoever begins it usually has to pay for overtime, which provokes quarterly discussion. is it not strange that very generous men often have such serious objections to the long-distance tails to their telephone bills, and insist upon investigating them with vigour, when they pay a speculator an extra dollar for a theatre ticket without a murmur? they must remember that telephones, whatever may be said to the contrary, are one of the modern aids to domesticity and preventives of gadding, while still keeping one not only in touch with a friend but within range of the voice. surely there can be no woman so self-sufficient that she does not in silent moments yearn for a spoken word with one of her kind. when i had finished sowing my first planting of mignonette and growled at the prospective labour entailed by thinning out the fall-sown shirley poppies (i have quite resolved to plant everything in the vegetable-garden seed beds and then transplant to the flowering beds as the easier task), lavinia cortright came up, note-book in hand, inviting herself comfortably to spend the day, and thoroughly inspect the hardy seed bed, to see what i had for exchange, as well as perfect her plan of starting one of her own. by noon the sun had made the south corner, where the russian violets grow, quite warm enough to make lunching out-of-doors possible, and promising to protect lavinia's rather thinly shod feet from the ground with one of the rubber mats whereon i kneel when i transplant, she consented to thus celebrate the coming of the season of liberty, doors open to the air and sun, the soul to every whisper of heart of nature himself, the steward of the plan and eternal messenger of god. "hard is the heart that loveth naught in may!" yes, so hard that it is no longer flesh and blood, for under the spell of renewal every grass blade has new beauty, every trifle becomes of importance, and the humble song sparrow a nightingale. the stars that blazed of winter nights have fallen and turned to dandelions in the grass; the forsythias are decked in gold, a colour that is carried up and down the garden borders in narcissus, dwarf tulips, and pansies, peach blossoms giving a rosy tinge to the snow fall of cherry bloom. to-day there are two catbirds, elle et lui, and the first johnny wren is inspecting the particular row of cottages that top the long screen of honeysuckles back of the walk named by richard _wren street_. why is the song sparrow calling "dick, dick!" so lustily and scratching so testily in the leaves that have drifted under an old rose shrub? the birds' bath and drinking basin is still empty; i pour out the libation to the day by filling it. the seed bed is reached at last. it has wintered fairly well, and the lines of plants all show new growth. as i started to point out and explain, lavinia cortright began to jot down name and quantity, and then, stopping, said: "no, you must write it out as the first record for the garden, you, and i. i make a motion to that effect." as i was about to protest, the postman brought some letters, one being from mary penrose, to whom mrs. cortright stands as aunt by courtesy. i opened it, and spreading it between us we began to read, so that afterward lavinia declared that her motion was passed by default. "woodridge, _april_ . "my dear mrs. evan, "i am going into gardening in earnest this spring, and i want you and aunt lavinia to tell me things,--things that you have done yourselves and succeeded or failed in. especially about the failures. it is a great mistake for garden books and papers to insist that there is no such word in horticulture as fail, that every flower bed can be kept in full flower six months of the year, in addition to listing things that will bloom outdoors in winter in the middle states, and give all floral measurements as if seen through a telephoto lens. it makes one feel the exceptional fool. it's discouraging and not stimulating in the least. doesn't even nature meet with disaster once in a while as if by way of encouragement to us? and doesn't nature's garden have on and off seasons? so why shouldn't ours? "there is a quantity of _garden goozle_ going about nowadays that is as unbelievable, and quite as bad for the constitution and pocket, as the guarantees of patent medicines. no, _garden goozle_ is not my word, you must understand; it was invented by a clever professor of agriculture, whom bart met not long ago, and we loved the word so much that we have adopted it. the mental quality of _garden goozle_ seems to be compounded of summer squash and milkweed milk, and it would be quite harmless were it not for the strong catbriers grafted in the mass for impaling the purses of the trusting. "ah, if we only lived a little nearer together, near enough to talk over the garden fence! it seems cruel to ask you to write answers to all my questions, but after listing the hardy plants i want for putting the garden on a consistent old-time footing, i find the amount runs quite to the impossible three figures, aside from everything else we need, so i've decided on beginning with a seed bed, and i want to know before we locate the new asparagus bed how much ground i shall need for a seed bed, what and how to plant, and everything else! "i like all the hardy things you have, especially those that are mice, lice, and water proof! if you will send me ever so rough a list, i shall be grateful. would i better begin at once or wait until july or august, as some of the catalogues suggest? "bart has just come in and evidently has something on his mind of which he wishes to relieve himself via speech. "your little sister of the garden, "mary p." "she must join the garden, you, and i," said lavinia cortright, almost before i had finished the letter. "she will be entertainer in chief, for she never fails to be amusing!" "i thought there were to be but three members," i protested, thinking of the possible complications of a three-cornered correspondence. "ah, well," lavinia cortright replied quickly, "make the garden an _honorary_ member; it is usual so to rank people of importance from whom much is expected, and then we shall still be but three--with privilege of adding your husband as councillor and mine as librarian and custodian of deeds!" so i have promised to write to mary penrose this evening. iii concerning hardy plants the seed bed for hardy flowers when the cortrights first came to oaklands, expecting to remain here but a few months each summer, their garden consisted of some borders of old-fashioned, hardy flowers, back of the house. these bounded a straight walk that, beginning at the porch, went through an arched grape arbour, divided the vegetable garden, and finally ended under a tree in the orchard at the barrier made by a high-backed green wooden seat, that looked as if it might have been a pew taken from some primitive church on its rebuilding. there were, at intervals, along this walk, some bushes of lilacs, bridal-wreath spirea, flowering almond, snowball, syringa, and scarlet flowering quince; for roses, mme. plantier, the half double boursault, and some great clumps of the little cinnamon rose and harrison's yellow brier, whose flat opening flowers are things of a day, these two varieties having the habit of travelling all over a garden by means of their root suckers. here and there were groups of tiger and lemon lilies growing out of the ragged turf, bunches of scarlet bee balm, or oswego tea, as it is locally called, while plantain lilies, with deeply ribbed heart-shaped leaves, catnip, southernwood, and mats of grass pinks. single hollyhocks of a few colours followed the fence line; tall phlox of two colours, white and a dreary dull purple, rambled into the grass and was scattered through the orchard, in company with new england asters and various golden rods that had crept up from the waste pasture-land below; and a straggling line of button chrysanthemums, yellow, white, maroon, and a sort of medicinal rhubarb-pink, had backed up against the woodhouse as if seeking shelter. lilies-of-the-valley planted in the shade and consequently anæmic and scant of bells, blended with the blue periwinkle until their mingled foliage made a great shield of deep, cool green that glistened against its setting of faded, untrimmed grass. this garden, such as it was, could be truly called hardy, insomuch as all the care it had received for several years was an annual cutting of the longest grass. the fittest had survived, and, among herbaceous things, whatsoever came of seed, self-sown, had reverted nearly to the original type, as in the case of hollyhocks, phlox, and a few common annuals. the long grass, topped by the leaves that had drifted in and been left undisturbed, made a better winter blanket than many people furnish to their hardy plants,--the word _hardy_ as applied to the infinite variety of modern herbaceous plants as produced by selection and hybridization not being perfectly understood. while a wise selection of flowering shrubs and truly hardy roses will, if properly planted, pruned, and fertilized, live for many years, certain varieties even outlasting more than one human generation, the modern hardy perennial and biennial of many species and sumptuous effects must be watched and treated with almost as much attention as the so-called bedding-plants demand in order to bring about the best results. the common idea, fostered by inexperience, and also, i'm sorry to say, by what mary penrose dubs _garden goozle_, that a hardy garden once planted is a thing accomplished for life, is an error tending to bitter disappointment. if we would have a satisfactory garden of any sort, we must in our turn follow nature, who never rests in her processes, never even sleeping without a purpose. but if fairly understood, looked squarely in the face, and treated intelligently, the hardy garden, supplemented here and there with annual flowers, is more than worth while and a perpetual source of joy. if money is not an object to the planter, she may begin by buying plants to stock her beds, always remembering that if these thrive, they must be thinned out or the clumps subdivided every few years, as in the case of hybrid phloxes, chrysanthemums, etc., or else dug up bodily and reset; for if this is not done, smaller flowers with poorer colours will be the result. the foxglove, one of the easily raised and very hardy plants, of majestic mien and great landscape value, will go on growing in one location for many years; but if you watch closely, you will find that it is rarely the original plant that has survived, but a seedling from it that has sprung up unobserved under the sheltering leaves of its parent. the old plant grows thick at the juncture of root stock and leaf, the action of the frost furrows and splits it, water or slugs gain an entrance, and it disappears, the younger growth taking its place. especially true is this also of hollyhocks. the larkspurs have different roots and more underground vigour, and all tap-rooted herbs hold their own well, the difficulty being to curb their spreading and undermining their border companions. [illustration: english larkspur seven feet high.] it is conditions like these that keep the gardener of hardy things ever on the alert. beds for annuals or florists' plants are thoroughly dug and graded each spring, so that the weeds that must be combated are of new and comparatively shallow growth. the hardy bed, on the contrary, in certain places must be stirred with a fork only and that with the greatest care, for, if well-planned, plants of low growth will carpet the ground between tall standing things, so that in many spots the fingers, with a small weeding hoe only, are admissible. thus a blade of grass here, some chickweed there, the seed ball of a composite dropping in its aerial flight, and lo! presently weedlings and seedlings are wrestling together, and you hesitate to deal roughly with one for fear of injuring the constitution of the other. to go to the other extreme and keep the hardy garden or border as spick and span clean as a row of onions or carrots in the vegetable garden, is to do away with the informality and a certain gracious blending of form and colour that is one of its greatest charms. thus it comes about, with the most successful of hardy mixed borders, that, at the end of the third season, things will become a little confused and the relations between certain border-brothers slightly strained; the central flowers of the clumps of phloxes, etc., grow small, because the newer growth of the outside circle saps their vitality. personally, i believe in drastic measures and every third or fourth year, in late september, or else april, according to season and other contingencies, i have all the plants carefully removed from the beds and ranged in rows of a kind upon the broad central walk. then, after the bed is thoroughly worked, manured, and graded, the plants are divided and reset, the leavings often serving as a sort of horticultural wampum, the medium of exchange among neighbours with gardens, or else going as a freewill offering to found a garden for one of the "plotters" who needs encouragement. the limitations of the soil of my garden and surroundings serve as the basis of an experience that, however, i have found carried out practically in the same way in the larger gardens of the bluffs and in many other places that evan and i have visited. so that any one thinking that a hardy garden, at least of herbaceous plants, is a thing that, once established, will, if not molested, go on forever, after the manner of the fern banks of the woods or the wild flowers of marsh and meadow, will be grievously disappointed. of course, where hardy plants are massed, as in nurseries, horticultural gardens, or the large estates, each in a bed or plot of its kind, this resetting is far simpler, as each variety can receive the culture best suited to it, and there is no mixing of species. another common error in regard to the hardy garden, aided and abetted by _garden goozle_, is that it is easy or even practicable to have every bed in a blooming and decorative condition during the whole season. it is perfectly possible always to have colour and fragrance in some part of the garden during the entire season, after the manner of the natural sequence of bloom that passes over the land, each bed in bloom some of the time, but not every bed all of the time. artifice and not nature alone can produce this, and artifice is too costly a thing for the woman who is her own gardener, even if otherwise desirable. for it should appeal to every one having a grain of garden sense that, if the plants of may and june are to grow and bloom abundantly, those that come to perfection in july and august, if planted in their immediate vicinity, must be overshadowed and dwarfed. the best that can be done is to leave little gaps or lines between the hardy plants, so that gladioli, or some of the quick-growing and really worthy annuals, can be introduced to lend colour to what becomes too severely of the past. there is one hardy garden, not far from boston, one of those where the landscape architect lingers to study the possibilities of the formal side of his art in skilful adjustment of pillar, urn, pergola, and basin,--this garden is never out of flower. at many seasons evan and i had visited it, early and late, only to find it one unbroken sheet of bloom. how was it possible, we queried? comes a day when the complex secret of the apparent simple abundance was revealed. it was as the foxgloves, that flanked a long alley, were decidedly waning when, quite early one morning, we chanced to behold a small regiment of men remove the plants, root and branch, and swiftly substitute for them immense pot-grown plants of the tall flower snapdragon (_antirrhinum_), perfectly symmetrical in shape, with buds well open and showing colour. these would continue in bloom quite through august and into september. so rapidly was the change made that, in a couple of hours at most, all traces were obliterated, and the casual passer-by would have been unaware that the plants had not grown on the spot. this sort of thing is a permissible luxury to those who can afford and desire an exhibition garden, but it is not watching the garden growing and quivering and responding to all its vicissitudes and escapes as does the humble owner. hardy gardening of this kind is both more difficult and costly, even if more satisfactory, than filling a bed with a rotation of florists' flowers, after the custom as seen in the parks and about club-houses: to wit, first tulips, then pansies and daisies, next foliage plants or geraniums, and finally, when frost threatens, potted plants of hardy chrysanthemums are brought into play. no, the garden, you, and i know that hardy plants, native and acclimated, may be had in bloom from hepatica time until ice crowns the last button chrysanthemum and chance pansy, but to have every bed in continuous bloom all the season is not for us, any more than it is to be expected that every individual plant in a row should survive the frost upheavals and thaws of winter. if a garden is so small that half a dozen each of the ten or twelve best-known species of hardy herbs will suffice, they may be bought of one of the many reliable dealers who now offer such things; but if the place is large and rambling, affording nooks for hardy plants of many kinds and in large quantities, then a permanent seed bed is a positive necessity. this advice is especially for those who are now so rapidly taking up old farmsteads, bringing light again to the eyes of the window-panes that have looked out on the world of nature so long that they were growing dim from human neglect. in these places, where land is reckoned by the acre, not by the foot, there is no excuse for the lack of seed beds for both hardy and annual flowers (though these latter belong to another record), in addition to space for cuttings of shrubs, hardy roses, and other woody things that may be thus rooted. if there is a bit of land that has been used for a vegetable garden and is not wholly worn out, so much the better. the best seed bed i have ever seen belongs to jane crandon at the jenks-smith place on the bluffs. it was an old asparagus bed belonging to the farm, thoroughly well drained and fertilized, but the original crop had grown thin and spindling from being neglected and allowed to drop its seed. in the birth of this bed the wind and sun, as in all happy gardens, had been duly consulted, and the wind promised to keep well behind a thick wall of hemlocks that bounded it on the north and east whenever he was in a cruel mood. the sun, casting his rays about to get the points of compass, promised that he would fix his eye upon the bed as soon as he had bathed his face in mist on rising and turned the corner of the house, and then, after watching it until past noon, turn his back, so no wonder that the bed throve. any well-located bit of fairly good ground can be made into a hardy seed bed, provided only that it is not where frozen water covers it in winter, or in the way of the wind, coming through a cut or sweeping over the brow of a hill, for flowers are like birds in this respect,--they can endure cold and many other hardships, but they quail before the blight of wind. for all gardens of ordinary size a bit of ground ten feet by thirty feet will be sufficient. if the earth is heavy loam and inclined to cake or mould, add a little sifted sand and a thin sprinkling of either nitrate of soda or one of the "complete" commercial manures. barn-yard manure, unless very well rotted and thoroughly worked under, is apt to develop fungi destructive to seedlings. this will be sufficient preparation if the soil is in average condition; but if the earth is old and worn out, it must be either sub-soiled or dug and enriched with barnyard (not stable) manure to the depth of a foot, or more if yellow loam is not met below that depth. if the bed is on a slight slope, so much the better. dig a shallow trench of six or eight inches around it to carry off the wash. an abrupt hillside is a poor place for such a bed, as the finer seeds will inevitably be washed out in the heavy rains of early summer. if the surface soil is lumpy or full of small stones that escape fine raking, it must be shovelled through a sand-screen, as it is impossible for the most ambitious seed to grow if its first attempt is met by the pressure of what would be the equivalent of a hundred-ton boulder to a man. it is to details such as these that success or failure in seed raising is due, and when people say, "i prefer to buy plants; i am very unlucky with seeds," i smile to myself, and the picture of something i once observed done by one of the so-called gardeners of my early married days flits before me. the man scraped a groove half an inch deep in hard-baked soil, with a pointed stick, scattered therein the dustlike seeds of the dwarf blue lobelia as thickly as if he had been sprinkling sugar on some very sour article, then proceeded to trample them into the earth with all the force of very heavy feet. of course the seeds thus treated found themselves sealed in a cement vault, somewhat after the manner of treating victims of the inquisition, the trickle of moisture that could possibly reach them from a careless watering only serving to prolong their death from suffocation. the woman gardener, i believe, is never so stupid as this; rather is she tempted to kill by kindness in overfertilizing and overwatering, but too lavish of seed in the sowing she certainly is, and i speak from the conviction born of my own experience. when the earth is all ready for the planting, and the sweet, moist odour rises when you open the seed papers with fingers almost trembling with eagerness, it seems second nature to be lavish. if a few seeds will produce a few plants, why not the more the merrier? if they come up too thick, they can be thinned out, you argue, and thick sowing is being on the safe side. but is it? quite the contrary. when the seedlings appear, you delay, waiting for them to gain a good start before jarring their roots by thinning. all of a sudden they make such strides that when you begin, you are appalled by the task, and after a while cease pulling the individual plants, but recklessly attack whole "chunks" at once, or else give up in a despair that results in a row of anæmic, drawn-out starvelings that are certainly not to be called a success. after having tried and duly weighed the labour connected with both methods, i find it best to sow thinly and to rely on filling gaps by taking a plant here and there from a crowded spot. for this reason, as well as that of uniformity also, it is always better to sow seeds of hardy or annual flowers in a seed bed, and then remove, when half a dozen leaves appear, to the permanent position in the ornamental part of the garden. with annuals, of course, there are some exceptions to this rule,--in the case of sweet peas, nasturtiums, mignonette, portulaca, poppies, and the like, where great quantities are massed. when you have prepared a hardy seed bed of the dimensions of ten by thirty feet, which will allow of thirty rows, ten feet long and a foot apart (though you must double the thirty feet if you intend to cultivate between the rows with any sort of weeding machine, and if you have room there should be two feet or even three between the rows), draw a garden line taut across the narrow way of the plot at the top, snap it, and you will have the drill for your first planting, which you may deepen if the seeds be large. before beginning, make a list of your seeds, with the heights marked against each, and put the tallest at the top of the bed. "why bother with this, when they are to be transplanted as soon as they are fist up?" i hear mary penrose exclaim quickly, her head tipped to one side like an inquisitive bird. because this seed bed, if well planned, will serve the double purpose of being also the "house supply bed." if, when the transplanting is done, the seedlings are taken at regular intervals, instead of all from one spot, those that remain, if not needed as emergency fillers, will bloom as they stand and be the flowers to be utilized by cutting for house decoration, without depriving the garden beds of too much of their colour. at the commercial florists, and in many of the large private gardens, rows upon rows of flowers are grown on the vegetable-garden plan, solely for gathering for the house, and while those with limited labour and room cannot do this extensively, they can gain the same end by an intelligent use of their seed beds. many men (and more especially many women), many minds, but however much tastes may differ i think that a list of thirty species of herbaceous perennials should be enough to satisfy the ambition of an amateur, at least in the climate of the middle and eastern united states. i have tried many more, and i could be satisfied with a few less. of course by buying the seeds in separate colours, as in the single case of pansies, one may use the entire bed for a single species, but the calculation of size is based upon either a ten-foot row of a mixture of one species, or else that amount of ground subdivided among several colours. of the seeds for the hardy beds themselves, the enticing catalogues offer a bewildering array. the maker of the new garden would try them all, and thereby often brings on a bit of horticultural indigestion in which gardener and garden suffer equally, and the resulting plants frequently perish from pernicious anæmia. of the number of plants needed, each gardener must be the judge; also, in spite of many warnings and directions, each one must finally work on the lines of personally won experience. what is acceptable to the soil and protected by certain shelter in my garden on one side of hill crest or road may not flourish in a different soil and exposure only a mile away. one thing is very certain, however,--it is time wasted to plant a hardy garden of herbaceous plants in shallow soil. in starting the hardy seed bed it is always safe to plant columbines, canterbury bells, coreopsis, larkspur, pinks in variety, foxgloves, hollyhocks, gaillardia, the cheerful evergreen candy-tuft, bee balm and its cousin wild bergamot, forget-me-nots, evening primroses, and the day-flowering sundrops, iceland and oriental poppies, hybrid phlox, the primrose and cowslips of both english fields and gardens, that are quite hardy here (at least in the coastwise new england and middle states), double feverfew, lupins, honesty, with its profusion of lilac and white bloom and seed vessels that glisten like mother-of-pearl, the tall snapdragons, decorative alike in garden or house, fraxinella or gas plant, with its spikes of odd white flowers, and pansies, always pansies, for the open in spring and autumn, in rich, shady nooks all summer, and even at midwinter a few tufts left in a sunny spot, at the bottom of a wall by the snowdrops, will surprise you with round, cheerful faces with the snow coverlet tucked quite under their chins. [illustration: fraxinella,--german iris and candy-tuft.] it is well to keep a tabulated list of these old-time perennials in the _garden boke_, so that in the feverish haste and excitement of the planting season a mere glance will be a reminder of height, colour, and time of bloom. i lend you mine, not as containing anything new or original, but simply as a suggestion, a hint of what one garden has found good and writ on its honour list. newer things and hybrids are now endless, and may be tested and added, one by one, but it takes at least three seasons of this adorably unmonotonous climate of alternate drought, damp, open or cold winter, to prove a plant hardy and worthy a place on the honour roll. (see p. .) before you plant, sit down by yourself with the packages spread before you and examine the seeds at your leisure. this is the first uplifting of the veil that you may see into the real life of a garden, a personal knowledge of the seed that mothers the perfect plant. it may seem a trivial matter, but it is not so; each seed, be it seemingly but a dust grain, bears its own type and identity. also, from its shape, size, and the hardness or thinness of its covering, you may learn the necessities of its planting and development, for nowhere more than in the seed is shown the miraculous in nature and the forethought and economy of it all. the smaller the seed, the greater the yield to a flower, as if to guard against chances of loss. the stately foxglove springs from a dust grain, and fading holds aloft a seed spike of prolific invention; the lupin has stout, podded, countable seeds that must of necessity fall to the ground by force of weight. also in fingering the seeds, you will know why some are slow in germinating: these are either hard and gritty, sandlike, like those of the english primrose, smooth as if coated with varnish, like the pansy, violet, columbine, and many others, or enclosed in a rigid shell like the iris-hued japanese morning-glories and other ipomeas. heart of nature is never in a hurry, for him time is not. what matters it if a seed lies one or two years in the ground? with us of seed beds and gardens, it is different. we wish present visible growth, and so we must be willing to lend aid, and first aid to such seeds is to give them a whiff of moist heat to soften what has become more hard than desirable through man's intervention. for in wild nature the seed is sown as soon as it ripens, and falls to the care of the ground before the vitality of the parent plant has quite passed from it. that is why the seed of a hardy plant, self-sown at midsummer, grows with so much more vigour than kindred seed that has been lodged in a packet since the previous, season. my way of "first aiding" these seeds is to tie them loosely in a wisp of fine cheese-cloth or muslin, leaving a length of string for a handle (as tea is sometimes prepared for the pot by those who do not like mussy tea leaves). dip the bag in hot (not boiling) water, and leave it there at least an hour, oftentimes all night. in this way the seed is softened and germination awakened. i have left pansy seeds in soak for twenty-four hours with good results. of course the seed should be planted before it dries, and rubbing it in a little earth (after the manner of flouring currants for cake) will keep the seeds from sticking either to the fingers or to each other. what a contrast it all is, our economy and nature's lavishness; our impatience, nature's calm assurance! in the garden the sower feels a responsibility, the sweat beads stand on the brow in the sowing. with nature undisturbed it may be the blind flower of the wild violet perfecting its moist seed under the soil, a nod of a stalk to the wind, a ball of fluff sailing by, or the hunger of a bird, and the sowing is done. iv their garden vacation (from mary penrose to barbara campbell) woodridge, _may_ . "dear mrs. evan, "for the past week i have been delving in the seed bed, and until it was an accomplished fact, that is as far as putting on the top sheet of finely sifted dirt over the seeds sleeping in rows and rounding the edges after the most approved methods of bed-making, praying the while for a speedy awakening, i had neither fingers for pen, ink, and paper, nor the head to properly think out the answer to your may-day invitation. "so you have heard that we are to take a long vacation this summer, and therefore ask us to join your driving and tramping trip in search of garden and sylvan adventure; in short to become your fellow-strollers in the forest of arden, now transported to the berkshires. "it was certainly a kind and gracious thought of yours to admit outsiders into the intimacies of such a journey, and on the moment we both cried, 'yes, we will go!' and then appeared _but_--that little word of three letters, and yet the condensation of whole volumes, that is so often the stumbling-block to enthusiasm. "the translation of this particular _but_ will take a quire of paper, much ink, and double postage on my part, and a deal of perusive patience on yours, so to proceed. like much else that is hearable the report is partly true, insomuch that your father, dr. russell, thinks it necessary for bart to take a real vacation, as he put it, 'an entire change in a place where time is not beaten insistently at the usual sixty-seconds-a-minute rate, day in and out,' where he shall have no train-catching or appointments either business or social hanging over him. at the same time he must not hibernate physically, but be where he will feel impelled to take plenty of open-air exercise, as a matter of course! for you see, as a lawyer, bart breathes in a great deal of bad air, and his tongue and pen hand get much more exercise than do his legs, while all the spring he has 'gone back on his vittles that reckless it would break your heart,' as anastasia, our devoted, if outspoken, celtic cook puts it. "the exact location of this desired valley of perfection, the ways and means of reaching it, as well as what shall become of the house and infant during our absence, have formed a daily dialogue for the past fortnight, or i should say triologue, for anastasia has decided opinions, and has turned into a brooding raven, informing us constantly of the disasters that have overtaken various residents of the place who have taken vacations, the head of one family having acquired typhoid in the catskills, a second injured his spine at the seaside by diving in shallow water, while the third was mistaken for a moose in canada and shot. however, her interest is comforting from the fact that she evidently does not wish to part with us at present. "it must be considered that if we take a really comfortable trip of a couple of months' duration, and bart's chief is willing to allow him a three months' absence, as it will be his first real vacation since we were married six years ago, it will devour the entire sum that we have saved for improving the farm and garden. "you live on the place where you were born, which has developed by degrees like yourselves, yet you probably know that rescuing, not an abandoned farm but the abode of ancient and decayed gentility, even though the house is oak-ribbed colonial, and making it a tangible home for a commuter, is not a cheap bit of work. "as to the infant--to take a human four-and-a-half-year-old travelling, for the best part of a summer, is an imposition upon herself, her parents, and the public at large. to leave her with bart's mother, whose forte is scotch crossed with pennsylvania dutch discipline, will probably be to find on her return that she has developed a quaking fear of the dark; while, if she goes to my mother, bless her! who has the beautiful and soothing southern genius for doing the most comfortable thing for the moment, regardless of consequences, the infant for months after will expect to be sung to sleep, my hand cuddled against her cheek, until i develop laryngitis from continued vocal struggles with 'ole uncle ned,' 'down in de cane brake,' and 'de possum and de coon.' "this mental and verbal struggle was brought to an end yesterday by _the man from everywhere_. do you remember, that was the title that we gave ross blake, the engineer, two summers ago, when you and evan visited us, because he was continually turning up and always from some new quarter? just now he has been put in charge of the construction of the reservoir that is to do away with our beloved piece of wild-flower river woods in the valley below three brothers hills. "as usual he turned up unexpectedly with bartram saturday afternoon and 'made camp,' as a matter of course. a most soothing sort of person is this same _man from everywhere_, and a special dispensation to any woman whose husband's best friend he chances to be, as in my case, for a man who is as well satisfied with crackers, cheese, and ale as with your very best company spread, praises the daintiness of your guest chamber, but sleeps equally sound in a hammock swung in the infant's attic play-room, is not to be met every day in this age of finnickiness. then again he has the gift of saying the right thing at difficult moments, and meaning it too, and though a born rover, has an almost feminine sympathy for the little dilemmas of housekeeping that are so vital to us and yet are of no moment to the masculine mind. yes, i do admire him immensely, and only wish i saw an opportunity of marrying him either into the family or the immediate neighbourhood, for though he is nearly forty, he is neither a misanthrope nor a woman hater, but rather seems to have set himself a difficult ideal and had limited opportunities. once, not long ago, i asked him why he did not marry. 'because,' he answered, 'i can only marry a perfectly frank woman, and the few of that clan i have met, since there has been anything in my pocket to back my wish, have always been married!' "'i have noticed that too,' said bart, whom i did not know was listening; 'then there is nothing for us to do but find you a widow!' "'no, that will not do, either; i want born, not acquired, frankness, for that is only another term for expediency,' he replied with emphasis. "so you see this _man_ is not only somewhat difficult, but he has observed! "last night after dinner, when the men drew their chairs toward the fire,--for we still have one, though the windows are open,--and the fragrance from the bed of double english violets, that you sent me, mingled with the wood smoke, we all began to croon comfortably. as soon as _he_ had settled back in the big chair, with closed eyes and finger tips nicely matched, we propounded our conundrum of taking three from two and having four remain. "a brief summary of the five years we have lived here will make the needs of the place more clear. "the first year, settling ourselves in the house and the arrival of the infant completely absorbed ourselves, income, and a good bit of savings. repairing the home filled the second year. the outdoor time and money of the third year was eaten up by an expensive and obliterative process called 'grading,' a trap for newly fledged landowners. this meant taking all the kinks and little original attitudes out of the soil and reproving its occasional shoulder shrugs, so to speak,--delsarte methods applied to the earth,--and you know that evan actually laughed at us for doing it. "even in the beginning we didn't care much for this grading, but it was in the plan that father penrose had made for us by a landscape gardener, renowned about philadelphia at the time he gave us the place as a 'start in life,' so we felt in some way mysteriously bound by it. and i may as well assert right here that, though it is well to have a clear idea of what you mean to do in making a garden, or ever so small pleasure grounds, that every bit of labour, however trivial, may go toward one end and not have to be undone, a conventional plan unsympathetically made and blindly followed often becomes a cross between fetish and juggernaut. it has taken me exactly four years of blundering to find that you must live your garden life, find out and study its peculiarities and necessities yourself, just as you do that of your indoor home, if success is to be the result! "as it was, the grading began behind the lilac bushes inside the front fence and proceeded in fairly graceful sweeps, dividing each side of the level bit where the old garden had been, the still remaining boxwood bushes and outlines of walks and beds, saving this from obliteration, and meeting again at the drying yard. "here the proceeding stopped abruptly, as if it had received a shock, which it had, as at this point the family purse wholly collapsed with a shudder, for the next requirement of the plan was the turning of a long crest of rocky woodland, shaped like a three-humped camel, that bounded us on the northwest, into a series of terraces, to render the assent from a somewhat trim residential section to the pastures of the real farming country next door less abrupt. "in its original state this spur of woodland had undoubtedly been very beautiful, with hemlocks making a windbreak, and all manner of shrubs, wild herbs, and ferns filling in the leaf-mould pockets between the boulders. now it is bare of everything except a few old hemlocks that sweep the pasture and the rocks, wandering cattle and excursionists from the village, during the 'abandoned' period of the place, having caused havoc among the shrubs and ferns. "various estimates have been given, but $ seemed to be the average for carrying out the terrace plan even partially, as much blasting is involved, and $ is exactly one-fourth of the spendable part of bart's yearly earnings! "the flower garden also cries for proper raiment, for though the original lines have been preserved and the soil put in a satisfactory shape, in lieu of the hardy plants and old-time favourites that belong to such a place, in emergency we were reduced, last summer, to the quick-growing but monotonous bedding plants for fillers. can you imagine anything more jarring and inconsistent than cannas, castor-oil beans, coleus, and nasturtiums in a prim setting of box? "then, too, last christmas, bart's parents sent us a dear old sundial, with a very good fluted column for a base. the motto reads 'never consult me at night,' which bart insists is an admonition for us to keep, chickenlike, early hours! be this as it may, in order to live up to the dial, the beds that form its court must be consistently clothed--for cannas, coleus, and beans, read peonies, madonna lilies, sweet-william, clove-pinks, and hollyhocks, which latter the seed bed i hope will duly furnish. "all these details, and more too, i poured into the ears of _the man from everywhere_, while bart kept rather silent, but i could tell by the way his pipe breathed, short and quick, that he was thinking hard. one has to be a little careful in talking over plans and wishes with bart; his spirit is generous beyond his pocket-power and he is a bit sensitive. he wants to do so much for the infant, the home, and me, that when desire outruns the purse, he seems to feel that the limit lies somewhere within the range of his own incapacity, and that bare, camel-backed knoll outlining the horizon, as seen from the dining-room window, showing the roof of the abandoned barn and hen yards, and the difficulty of wrestling with it, is an especially tender spot. "'if it was anything possible, i'd hump my back and do it, but it isn't!' he jerked, knocking his pipe against the chimney-side before it was half empty and then refilling it; 'it's either a vacation _or_ the knoll--which shall it be? "'i don't hanker after leaving home, but that's what a complete change means, i suppose, though i confess i should enjoy a rest for a time from travelling to and fro, like a weaver's shuttle! mary hates to leave home too; she's a regular sit-by-the-fire! come, which shall it be? this indecision makes the cure worse than the disease!' and bart fingered a penny prior to giving it the decisive flip--'head, a vacation; tail, an attack on the knoll!' the penny spun, and then taking a queer backward leap fell into the ashes, where it lay buried. "'that reads like neither!' said bart, sitting up with a start. "'no, both!' replied _the man from everywhere_, opening his eyes and gazing first at bart and then at me with a quizzical expression. "instantly curiosity was piqued, for compared to this most domestic of travelled bachelors, the lady from philadelphia was without either foresight or resources. "'you said that your riddle was to take three from two and have four. my plan is very simple; just add three to two and you have not only four but five! take a vacation from business, but stay at home; do your own garden improvements with your head and a horse and cart and a pair of strong hands with a pick and spade to help you out, for you can't, with impunity, turn an office man, all of a sudden, into a day labourer. as to hewing the knoll into terraces up and down again, tear up that confounded plan. restore the ground on nature's lines, and you'll have a better windbreak for your house and garden in winter than the best engineer could construct, besides having a retreat for hot weather where you can sit in your bones without being observed by the neighbours!' "he spoke very slowly, letting the smoke wreaths float before his eyes, as if in them he sought the solution he was voicing. "'a terrace implies closely shorn turf and formal surroundings, out of keeping with this place; besides, young people with only a general maid and a useful man can't afford to be formal,--if they would, the game isn't worth the strain.' (did i not tell you that he observes?) "'let us take a look at the knoll to-morrow and see what has grown there and guess at what may be coaxed to grow, and then you can spend a couple of months during this summer and autumn searching the woods and byways for native plants for the restoration. this reservoir building is your opportunity; you can rob the river valley with impunity, for the clearing will begin in october, consequently anything you take will be in the line of a rescue. so there you are--living in the fresh air, improving your place, and saving money at both ends.' "'by george! it sounds well, as far as i'm concerned!' ejaculated bart, 'but how will such a scheme give mary a vacation from housekeeping and the everlasting three meals a day? she seldom growls, but the last month she too has confessed to feeling tired.' "'i think it's a perfectly fascinating idea, but how will it give bart a "complete change, away from the sound of the beat of time," as the doctor puts it?' i asked with more eagerness than i realized, for i always dislike to be far away from home at night, and you see there has been whooping cough in the neighbourhood and there are also green apples to be reckoned with in season, even though the infant has long ago passed safely through the mysteries of the second summer. "_the man from everywhere_ did not answer bart at all, but, turning to me with the air of a paternal sage and pointing an authoritative forefinger, said, somewhat sarcastically, i thought, 'what greater change can an american have than leisure in which to enjoy his own home? for giving time the slip, all you have to do is to stop the clocks and follow the sun and your own inclinations. as to living out of doors, the old open-sided hay barn on the pasture side of the knoll, that you have not decided whether to rebuild or tear down, will make an excellent camp. aside from the roof, it is as open as a hawk's nest. don't hurry your decision; incubate the idea over sunday, madam penrose, and i'll warrant by monday you will have hatched a really tangible plan, if not a brood of them.' "i looked at bart, he nodded back approvingly, so i slipped out, first to see that the infant was sleeping properly, head up, and not down under the clothes, as i had once found her, and then to walk to and fro under the budding stars for inspiration, leaving the pair to talk the men's talk that is so good and nourishing for a married man like bart, no matter how much he cares for the infant and me. "jumbled up as the garden is, the spring twilight veils all deficiencies and releases persuasive odours from every corner, while the knoll, with its gnarled trees outlined against the sky, appealed to me as never before, a thing desirable and to be restored and preserved even at a cost rather than obliterated. "'oh, mrs. evan, i wish i could tell you how _the man's_ plan touches me and seems made for me especially this spring. i seem fairly to have a passion for home and the bit of earth about and sky above it that is all our own. and unlike other times when i loved to have my friends come and visit me, and share and return the hospitality of neighbours, i want to be alone with myself and bart, to spend long days under the sky and trees and have nothing come between our real selves and god, not even the ticking and dictation of a clock! there is so much that i want to tell my husband just now, that cannot be put in words, and that he may only read by intuition. when i was younger and first married, i did not feel this need so much, but now life seems to take on so much deeper a meaning! do you understand? ah, yes, i know you do! but i am wandering from the point, just as i yearn to wander from all the stringencies of life this summer. "evidently seeing me, the rural delivery man whistled from his cart, instead of leaving the evening mail in its wren box, as usual. i went to the gate rather reluctantly, i was so absorbed in garden dreams, took the letters from the carrier, and, as the men were still sitting in the dark, carried them up to the lamp in my own sitting room, little realizing that even at that moment i was holding the key to the 'really tangible plan' in my hand. * * * * * "_the next morning._ two of the letters i received on saturday night would have been of great importance if we were still planning to go away for a vacation, instead of hoping to stay at home for it. the first, from mother, told me that she and my brother expect to spend the summer in taking a journey, in which alaska is to be the turning-point. she begs us to go with them and offers to give me her right-hand-reliable, jane mcelroy, who cared for me when a baby, to stay here with the infant. the second letter was from maria maxwell, a distant cousin of bart's. she has also heard of our intended vacation,--indeed the rapidity with which the news travels and the interest it causes are good proofs of our stay-at-home tendencies and the general sobriety of our six years of matrimony! "maria is a very bright, adaptable woman of about thirty-five, who teaches music in the new york public schools, is alone in the world, and manages to keep an attractive home in a mere scrap of a flat. when she comes to visit us, we like her as well the last day of her stay as the first, which fact speaks volumes for her character! though forced by circumstances to live in town, she has a deep love for the country, and wishes, if we intend to leave the house open, to come and care for it in our absence, even offering to cook for herself if we do not care to have the expense of a maid, saying, 'to cook a real meal, with a real fire instead of gas, will be a great and refreshing change for me, so you need feel under no obligation whatever!' "thinking of the pity of wasting such tempting offers as these, i went to church with my body only, my mind staying outside under a horse-chestnut tree, and instead of listening as i should, i looked sidewise out of the window at my double in the shade and wondered if, after all, the stay-at-home vacation was not a wild scheme. there being a puritan streak in me, via my father, i sometimes question the right of what i wish to do simply because i like to do it. "at dinner i was so grumpy, answering in monosyllables, that sensitive bart looked anxious, and as if he thought i was disappointed at the possible turn of affairs, but _the man from everywhere_ laughed, saying, 'let her alone; she is not through incubating the plan, and you know the best of setting hens merely cluck and growl when disturbed.' "immediately after dinner bart and _the man_ went for a walk up the river valley, and i, going to the living room, seated myself by the window, where i could watch the infant playing on the gravel outside, it being the afternoon out of both the general maid anastasia and barney the man, between whom i suspect matrimonial intentions. "the singing of the birds, the hum of bees in the opening lilacs, and the garden fragrance blending with the infant's prattle, as she babbled to her dolls, floated through the open door and made me drowsy, and i turned from the light toward the now empty fireplace. "a snap! and the air seemed suddenly exhilarating! was it an electric spark from the telephone? no, simply the clarifying of the thoughts that had been puzzling me. "maria maxwell shall come during our vacations,--at that moment i decided to separate the time into several periods,--she shall take entire charge of all within doors. "bart and i will divide off a portion of the old hay-barn with screens, and camp out there (unless in case of very bad thunder or one of the cold july storms that we sometimes have). anastasia shall serve us a very simple hot dinner at noon in the summer kitchen, and keep a supply of cooked food in the pantry, from which we can arrange our breakfasts and suppers in the opposite side of the barn from our sleeping place, and there we can have a table, chairs, and a little oil stove for making tea and coffee. "maria, besides attending to domestic details, must also inspect the mail and only show us letters when absolutely necessary, as well as to say 'not at home,' with the impenetrable new york butler manner to every one who calls. "thus bart and i will be equally free without the rending of heart strings--free to love and enjoy home from without, for it is really strange when one comes to think of it, we learn of the outside world by looking out the windows, but we so seldom have time to stand in another view-point and look in. thus it occurred to me, instead of taking one long vacation, we can break the time into three or four in order to follow the garden seasons and the work they suggest. a bit at the end of may for both planning and locating the spring wild flowers before they have wholly shed their petals, and so on through the season, ending in october by the transplanting of trees and shrubs that we have marked and in setting out the hardy roses, for which we shall have made a garden according to the plan that aunt lavinia says is to be among the early garden, you, and i records. "_may ._ maria maxwell has joyfully agreed to come the twenty-first, having obtained a substitute for her final week of teaching, as well as rented her 'parlor car,' as she calls her flat, to a couple of students who come from the south for change of air and to attend summer school at columbia college. it seems that many people look upon new york as a summer watering place. strange that a difference in climate can be merely a matter of point of view. "now that we have decided to camp out at home, we are beginning to realize the positive economy of the arrangement, for as we are not going among people,--neither are they coming to us,--we shall need no new clothes! "we, a pair of natural spendthrifts, are actually turning miserly for the garden's sake. "last night bart went to the attic with a lantern and dragged from obscurity two frightful misfit suits of the first bicycle cuff-on-the-pants period, that were ripening in the camphor chest for future missionary purposes, announcing that these, together with some flannel shirts, would be his summer outfit, while this morning i went into town and did battle at a sale of substantial, dollar shirt-waists, and turning my back upon all the fascinations of little girls' frills and fur-belows, bought stout gingham for aprons and overalls, into which i shall presently pop the infant, and thus save both stitches and laundry work. "mother has sent a note expressing her pleasure in our plan and enclosing a cheque for $ , suggesting that it should be put into a birthday rose bed--my birthday is in two days--in miniature like the old garden at her home on the north virginia border. i'm sending you the list of such roses as she remembered that were in it, but i'm sure many, like gloire de dijon, would be winter killed here. will you revise the list for me? "bart has arranged to shut off the back hall and stairs, so that when we wish, we can get to our indoor bedroom and bath at any hour without going through the house or disturbing its routine. "anastasia has been heard to express doubts as to our entire sanity confidentially to barney, on his return from the removal of two cots from the attic to the part of the barn enclosed by some old piazza screens, thereby publicly declaring our intention of sleeping out in all seasonable weather. "_may ._ the blakes, next door below, are going to europe, and have offered us their comfortable family horse, the buggy, and a light-work wagon, if we will feed, shoe, pet, and otherwise care for him (his name, it seems, is romeo). could anything be more in keeping with both our desires and needs? "to-day, half as a joke, i've sent out p.p.c. cards to all our formal friends in the county. bart frowns, saying that they may be taken seriously and produce like results! "_may ._ maria has arrived, taken possession of the market-book, housekeeping box, and had a satisfactory conference with anastasia. "hurrah for liberty and outdoors! _it_ begins to-morrow. you may label it their garden vacation, and admit it to the records of the garden, you, and i, at your own risk and peril; but as you say that if you are to boil down the practical part of your garden-boke experiences for the benefit of aunt lavinia and me and i must send you my summer doings, i shall take this way of accomplishing it, at intervals, the only regular task, if gossiping to you can be so called, that i shall set myself this summer. "a new moon to-night. will it prove a second honeymoon, think you, or end in a total eclipse of our venture? i'm poppy sleepy! "_may ._ a.m. (a postal.) starting on vacation; stopped bedroom clock and put away watches last night, and so overslept. it seems quite easy to get away from time! please tell me what annuals i can plant as late in the season as this, while we are locating the rose bed. "mary penrose." v annuals--worthy and unworthy the midsummer garden _oaklands, may ._ a garden vacation! fifty dollars to spend for roses! what annuals may be planted now to tide you easily over the summer? really, mary penrose, the rush of your astonishing letter completely took away my breath, and while i was recovering it by pacing up and down the wild walk, and trying to decide whether i should answer your questions first, and if i did which one, or ask you others instead, scotch fashion, about your unique summer plans, evan came home a train earlier than usual, with a pair of horticultural problems for which he needed an immediate solution. last evening, in the working out of these schemes, we found that we were really travelling on lines parallel with your needs, and so in due course you shall have evan's prescription and design for a simple rose garden (if it isn't simple enough, you can begin with half, as the proportions will be the same), while i now send you my plans for an inexpensive midsummer garden, which will be useful to you only as a part of the whole chain, but for which evan has a separate need. over at east meadow, a suburb of bridgeton that lies toward the shore and is therefore attractive to summer people, a friend of evan's has put up a dozen tasteful, but inexpensive, colonial cottages, and evan has planned the grounds that surround them, about an acre being allotted to each house, for lawn and garden of summer vegetables, though no arbitrary boundaries separate the plots. the houses are intended for people of refined taste and moderate means who, only being able to leave town during the school vacation, from middle june to late september, yet desire to have a bit of garden to tend and to have flowers about them other than the decorative but limited piazza boxes or row of geraniums around the porch. the vegetable gardens consist of four squares, conveniently intersected by paths, these squares to be edged by annuals or bulbs of rapid growth, things that, planted in may, will begin to be interesting when the tenants come a month later. but here am i, on the verge of rushing into another theme, without having expressed our disappointment that you cannot bear us company this summer, yet i must say that the edge of regret is somewhat dulled by my interest in the progress and result of your garden vacation, which to us at least is a perfectly unique idea, and quite worthy of the inventive genius of _the man from everywhere_. plainly do i see by the scope of this same letter of yours that the records of the garden, you, and i, instead of being a confection of undistinguishable ingredients blended by a chef of artistic soul, will be a home-made strawberry shortcake, for which i am to furnish the necessary but uninspired crust, while you will supply the filling of fragrant berries. with the beginning of your vacation begin my questions domestic that threaten to overbalance your questions horticultural. if the infant should wail at night, do you expect to stay quietly out "in camp" and not steal on tiptoe to the house, and at least peep in at the window? also, you have put a match-making thought in a head swept clean of all such clinging cobwebs since sukey crandon married carthy latham and, turning their backs on his ranch experiment, they decided to settle near the bradfords at the ridge, where presently there will be another garden growing. if you have no one either in the family or neighbourhood likely to attract _the man from everywhere_, why may we not have him? jane crandon is quite unexpectedly bright, as frank as society allows, this being one of his requirements, besides having grown very pretty since she has virtually become daughter to mrs. jenks-smith and had sufficient material in her gowns to allow her chest to develop. but more of this later; to return to the annuals, i understand that you have had your hardy beds prepared and that you want something to brighten them, as summer tenants, until early autumn, when the permanent residents may be transplanted from the hardy seed bed. annuals make a text fit for a very long sermon. verily there are many kinds, and the topic forms easily about a preachment, for they may be divided summarily into two classes, the worthy and the unworthy, though the worth or lack of it in annuals, as with most of us humans, is a matter of climate, food, and environment, rather than inherent original sin. the truth is, nature, though eternally patient and good-natured, will not be hurried beyond a certain point, and the life of a flower that is born under the light cloud shelter of english skies, fed by nourishing mist through long days that have enough sunlight to stimulate and not scorch, has a different consummation than with us, where the climate of extremes makes the perfection of flowers most uncertain, at least in the months of july and august when the immature bud of one day is the open, but often imperfect, flower of the next. as no one may change climatic conditions, the only thing to be done is to give to this class of flowers of the summer garden room for individual development, all the air they need to breathe both below ground, by frequent stirring of the soil, and above, by avoidance of over-crowding, and then select only those varieties that are really worth while. this qualification can best be settled by pausing and asking three questions, when confronting the alluring portrait of an above-the-average specimen of annual in a catalogue, for _garden goozle_ applies not only to the literature of the subject, but to the pictures as well, and a measurement of, for instance, a flower stalk of drummond phlox, taken from a specimen pot-grown plant, raised at least partly under glass, is sure to cause disappointment when the average border plant is compared with it. first--is the species of a colour and length of flowering season to be used in jungle-like masses for summer colour? second--has it fragrance or decorative quality for house decoration? thirdly, has it the backbone to stand alone or will the plant flop and flatten shapelessly at the first hard shower and so render an array of conspicuous stakes necessary? stakes, next to unsightly insecticides and malodorous fertilizers, are the bane of gardening, but that subject is big enough for a separate chronicle. by ability to stand alone, i do not mean is every branchlet stiff as if galvanized, like a balsam, for this is by no means pretty, but is the plant so constructed that it can languish gracefully, petunia fashion, and not fall over stark and prone like an uprooted castor bean. hybridization, like physical culture in the human, has evidently infused grace in the plant races, for many things that in my youth seemed the embodiment of stiffness, like the gladiolus, have developed suppleness, and instead of the stiff bayonet spike of florets, this useful and indefatigable bulb, if left to itself and not bound to a stake like a martyr, now produces flower sprays that start out at right angles, curve, and almost droop, with striking, orchid-like effect. for making patches of colour, without paying special heed to the size of flower or development of individual plants, annuals may be sown thinly broadcast, raked in lightly, and, if the beds or borders are not too wide for reaching, thinned out as soon as four or five leaves appear. portulaca, sweet alyssum, shirley poppies, and the annual gaillardias belong to this class, as well as single petunias of the inexpensive varieties used to edge shrubberies, and dwarf nasturtiums. sweet peas, of course, are to be sown early and deep, where they are to stand half an inch apart, like garden peas, and then thinned out so that there is not less than an inch between (two is better, but it is usually heartbreaking to pull up so many sturdy pealets) and reënforced by brush or wire trellising. otherwise i plant the really worthy, or what might be called major annuals, in a seed bed much like that used for the hardy plants, at intervals during the month of may, according to the earliness of the season, and the time they are wanted to bloom. later, i transplant them to their summer resting places, leaving those that are not needed, for it is difficult to calculate too closely without scrimping, in the seed bed, to cut for house decoration, as with the perennials. of course if annuals are desired for very early flowering, many species may be started in a hotbed and taken from thence to the borders. biennials that it is desired shall flower the first season are best hurried in this way, yet for the gardenerless garden of a woman this makes o'er muckle work. the occasional help of the "general useful" is not very efficient when it comes to tending hotbeds, giving the exact quantity of water necessary to quench the thirst of seedlings without producing dropsy, and the consequent "damping off" which, when it suddenly appears, seems as intangible and makes one feel as helpless as trying to check a backing horse by helpless force of bit. a frame for margaret carnations, early asters, and experiments in seedling dahlias and chrysanthemums will be quite enough. the woman who lives all the year in the country can so manage that her spring bulbs and hardy borders, together with the roses, last well into july. after this the annuals must be depended upon for ground colour, and to supplement the phloxes, gladioli, dahlias, and the like. by the raising of these seeds in hotbeds they are apt to reach their high tide of bloom during the most intense heat of august, when they quickly mature and dry away; while, on the other hand, if they are reared in an open-air seed bed, they are not only stronger but they last longer, owing to more deliberate growth. asters sown out-of-doors in may bloom well into october, when the forced plants barely outlast august. of many annuals it is writ in the catalogues, "sow at intervals of two weeks or a month for succession." this sounds very plausible, for are not vegetables so dealt with, the green string-beans in our garden being always sown every two weeks from early april until september first? yes, but to vegetables is usually given fresher and deeper soil for the crop succession than falls to flower seeds, and in addition the seeds are of a more rugged quality. my garden does not take kindly to this successive sowing, and i have gradually learned to control the flower-bearing period by difference in location. spring, and in our latitude may, is the time of universal seed vitality, and seeds germinating then seem to possess the maximum of strength; in june this is lessened, while a july-sown seed of a common plant, such as a nasturtium or zinnia, seems to be impressed by the lateness of the season and often flowers when but a few inches high, the whole plant having a weazened, precocious look, akin to the progeny of people, or higher animals, who are either born out of due season or of elderly parents. on the other hand, the plant retarded in its growth by a less stimulating location, when it blooms, is quite as perfect and of equal quality with its seed-bed fellows who were transplanted at once into full sunlight. take, for example, mignonette, which in the larger gardens is always treated by successive sowings. a row sown early in april, in a sunny spot in the open garden and thinned out, will flower profusely before very hot weather, bloom itself out, and then leave room for some late, flowering biennial. that sown in the regular seed bed early in may may be transplanted (for this is the way by which large trusses of bloom may be obtained) early in june into three locations, using it as a border for taller plants, except in the bed of sweet odours, where it may be set in bunches of a dozen plants, for in this bed individuality may be allowed to blend in a universal mass of fragrance. in order to judge accurately of the exact capabilities for shade or sunlight of the different portions of a garden, one must live with it, follow the shadows traced by the tree fingers on the ground the year through, and know its moods as the expressions that pass over a familiar face. for you must not transplant any of these annuals, that only live to see their sun father for one brief season, into the shade of any tree or overhanging roof, but at most in the travelling umbra of a distant object, such as a tall spruce, the northeastern side of a hedge, or such like. in my garden one planting of mignonette in full sun goes in front of the march-planted sweet peas; of the two transplantings from the seed, one goes on the southwest side of the rose arbour and the other on the upper or northeast side, where it blooms until it is literally turned into green ice where it stands. this manipulation of annuals belongs to the realm of the permanent resident; the summer cottager must be content to either accept the conditions of the garden as arranged by his landlord, or in a brief visit or two made before taking possession, do his own sowing where the plants are to stand. in this case let him choose his varieties carefully and spare his hand in thickness of sowing, and he may have as many flowers for his table and as happy an experience with the summer garden, even though it is brief, as his wealthy neighbour who spends many dollars for bedding plants and foliage effects that may be neither smelled, gathered nor familiarized. among all the numerous birds that flit through the trees as visitors, or else stay with us and nest in secluded places, how comparatively few do we really depend upon for the aerial colour and the song that opens a glimpse of eden to our eager eyes and ears each year, for our eternal solace and encouragement? there are some, like the wood thrush, song-sparrow, oriole, robin, barn-swallow, catbird, and wren, without which june would not be june, but an imperfect harmony lacking the dominant note. [illustration: longfellow's garden.] down close to the earth, yes, in the earth, the same obtains. upon how few of all the species of annuals listed does the real success of the summer garden rest? this is more and more apparent each year, when the fittest are still further developed by hybridization for survival and the indifferent species drop out of sight. we often think erroneously of the beauty of old-time gardens. this beauty was largely that of consistency of form with the architecture of the dwelling and simplicity, rather than the variety, of flowers grown. maeterlinck brings this before us with forcible charm in his essay on old-fashioned flowers, and even now martin cortright is making a little biography of the flowers of our forefathers, as a birthday surprise for lavinia. these flowers depended more upon individuality and association than upon their great variety. first among the worthy annuals come sweet peas, mignonette, nasturtiums, and asters, each one of the four having two out of the three necessary qualifications, and the sweet pea all of them,--fragrance and decorative value for both garden and house. to be sure, the sweet pea, though an annual, must be planted before may if a satisfactory, well-grown hedge with flowers held on long stems well above the foliage is to be expected, and in certain warm, well-drained soils it is practicable to sow seed the autumn before. this puts the sweet pea a little out of the running for the hirer of a summer cottage, unless he can have access to the place early in the season, but sown thinly and once fairly rooted and kept free from dead flowers and pods, the vines will go on yielding quite through september, though on the coming of hot weather the flower stems shorten. i often plant seeds of the climbing nasturtium in the row with the sweet peas at a distance of one seed to the fist, the planting not being done until late may. the peas mature first, and after the best of their season has passed they are supplanted by the nasturtiums, which cover the dry vines and festoon the supporting brush with gorgeous colour in early autumn, keeping in the same colour scheme with salvia, sunflowers, gaillardias, and tritomas. this is excellent where space is of account, and also where more sweet peas are planted for their early yield than can be kept in good shape the whole season. centaurea or cornflower, the bachelor's button or ragged sailor of old gardens, is in the front rank of the worthies. the flowers have almost the keeping qualities of everlastings, and are of easy culture, while the sweet sultan, also of this family, adds fragrance to its other qualities. the blue cornflower is best sown in a long border or bed of unconventional shape, and may be treated like a biennial, one sowing being made in september so that the seedlings will make sturdy tufts before cold weather. these, if lightly covered with salt hay or rough litter (not leaves), will bloom in may and june, and if then replaced by a second sowing, flowers may be had from september first until freezing weather, so hardy is this true, blue _kaiser-blumen_. all the poppies are worthy, from the lovely shirley, with its butterfly-winged petals, to the eschscholtzia, the state flower of california. one thing to be remembered about poppies is not to rely greatly upon their durability and make the mistake of expecting them to fill too conspicuous a place, or keep long in the marching line of the garden pageant. they have a disappointing way, especially the great, long-stemmed double varieties, of suddenly turning to impossible party-coloured mush after a bit of damp weather that is most discouraging. treated as mere garden episodes and massed here and there where a sudden disappearance will not leave a gap, they will yield a feast of unsurpassed colour. to me the shirley is the only really satisfactory annual poppy, and i sow it in autumn and cover it after the fashion of the cornflower, as it will survive anything but an open, rainy winter, and in the resulting display that lasts the whole month of june it rivals the roses in everything but perfume. godetia is a good flower for half-shady places that it is difficult to fill, and rings the colour change from white through pink to crimson and carmine. marigolds hold their own for garden colour, but not for gathering or bringing near the nose, and zinnias meet them on the same plane. the morning-glory tribe of _ipomæa_ is both useful and decorative for rapid-growing screens, but heed should be taken that the common varieties be not allowed to scatter their seeds at random, or the next season, before you know it, every plant in the garden will be held tight in their insinuating grasp. especially beautiful are the new imperial japanese morning glories that are exquisitely margined and fringed, and of the size and pattern of rare glass wine cups. petunias, if judiciously used, and of good colour, belong in the second grade of the first rank. they have their uses, but the family has a morbid tendency to run to sad, half-mourning hues, and i have put a black mark against it as far as my own garden is concerned. drummond phlox deserves especial mention, for so wide a colour range has it, and so easy is its growth (if only you give it plenty of water and elbow room, and remember that a crowded drummond phlox is an unhappy plant of short life), that a very tasteful group of beds could be made of this flower alone by a careful selection of colours, while by constant cutting for the house the length of the blooming season is prolonged. the dwarf salvias, too, grow readily from seed, and balsams, if one has room, line up finely along straight walks, the firm blossoms of the camelia-flowered variety, with their delicate rosettes of pink, salmon, and lavender, also serving to make novel table decorations when arranged in many ways with leaves of the laurel, english ivy, or fern fronds. portulaca, though cousin to the objectionable "pusley," is most useful where mere colour is wanted to cover the ground in beds that have held early tulips or other spring bulbs, as well as for covering dry, sandy spots where little else will grow. it should not be planted until really warm weather, and therefore may be scattered between the rows of narcissi and late tulips when their tops are cut off, and by the time they are quite withered and done away with, the cheerful portulaca, feeding upon the hottest sunbeams, will begin to cover the ground, a pleasure to the eye as well as a decorative screen to the bulbs beneath, sucking the fiercest sun rays before they penetrate. chief among the low-growing worthies comes the verbena, good for bedding, good for cutting, and in some of the mammoth varieties subtly fragrant. verbenas may be raised to advantage in a hotbed, but if the seed be soaked overnight in warm water, it will germinate freely out of doors in may and be a mass of bloom from july until late october. for beds grouped around a sundial or any other garden centre, the verbena has no peer; its trailing habit gives it grace, the flowers are borne erect, yet it requires no staking and it is easily controlled by pinching or pinning to the soil with stout hair-pins. one little fragrant flower, fraught with meaning and remembrance, belongs to the annuals, though its family is much better known among the half-hardy perennials that require winter protection here. this is the gold and brown annual wall-flower, slender sister of _die gelbe violet_, and having that same subtle violet odour in perfect degree. it cannot be called a decorative plant, but it should have plenty of room given it in the bed of sweet odours and be used as a border on the sunny side of wall or fence, where, protected from the wind and absorbing every ray of autumn sunlight, it will often give you at least a buttonhole bouquet on christmas morning. [illustration: the summer garden--verbenas.] the cosmos is counted by catalogues and culturists one of the most worthy of the newer annuals, and so it is when it takes heed to its ways and behaves its best, but otherwise it has all the terrible uncertainty of action common to human and garden parvenues. from the very beginning of its career it is a conspicuous person, demanding room and abundance of food. thinking that its failure to bloom until frost threatened was because i had sown the seed out of doors in may, i gave it a front room in my very best hotbed early in march, where, long before the other occupants of the place were big enough to be transplanted, mrs. cosmos and family pushed their heads against the sash and insisted upon seeing the world. once in the garden, they throve mightily, and early in july, at a time when i had more flowers than i needed, the entire row threatened to bloom. after two weeks of coquettish showing of colour here and there, up and down the line, they concluded that midsummer sun did not agree with any of the shades of pink, carmine, or crimson of which their clothes were fashioned, and as for white, the memory of recent acres of field daisies made it too common, so they changed their minds and proceeded to grow steadily for two months. when they were pinched in on top, they simply expanded sidewise; ordinary and inconspicuous staking failed to restrain them, and they even pulled away at different angles from poles of silver birch with stout rope between, like a festive company of bacchantes eluding the embraces of the police. a heavy wind storm in late september snapped and twisted their hollow trunks and branches. were they discouraged? not a particle; they simply rested comfortably upon whatever they had chanced to fall and grew again from this new basis. meanwhile the plants in front of them and on the opposite side of the way began to feel discouraged, and a fine lot of asters, now within the shadow, were attacked by facial paralysis and developed their blossoms only on one side. the middle of october, the week before the coming of black frost, the garden executioner, the cosmos, now heavy with buds, settled down to bloom. two large jars were filled with them, after much difficulty in the gathering, and then the axe fell. sometimes, of course, they behave quite differently, and those who can spare ground for a great hedge backed by wall or fence and supported in front by pea brush deftly insinuated betwixt and between ground and plants, so that it restrains, but is at the same time invisible, may feast their eyes upon a spectacle of billows of white and pink that, at a little distance, are reminiscent of the orchards of may. but if you, mary penrose, are leaning toward cosmos and reading in the seed catalogue of their size and wonderful dawn-like tints, remember that the best of highly hybridized things revert unexpectedly to the commonest type, and somewhere in this family of lofty mexicans there must have been a totally irresponsible wayside weed. then turn backward toward the front of the catalogue, find the letter a, and buy, in place of cosmos, aster seeds of every variety and colour that your pocket will allow. of course the black golden-rod beetle may try to dwell among the aster flowers, and the aphis that are nursery maids to the ants infest their roots; you must pick off the one and dig sulphur and unslaked lime deeply into the soil to discourage the other, but whatever labour you spend will not be lost. other annuals there are, and their name is legion, that are pretty enough, perhaps, and well adapted to special purposes, like the decorative and curious tassel flower, cockscombs, gourds, four o'clocks, etc., and the great tribe of "everlastings" for those people, if such there be, who still prefer dried things for winter bouquets, when an ivy-wreathed window filled with a succession of bulbs, ferns, or oxalis is so easily achieved! it is too harsh, perhaps, to call these minor annuals unworthy, but as they are unimportant and increase the labour rather than add to the pleasure, they are really unworthy of admission to the woman's garden where there is only time and room for the best results. but here i am rambling at large instead of plainly answering your question, "what annuals can we plant as late as this (may ) while we are locating the rose bed?" you may plant any or all of them up to the first of june, the success of course depending upon a long autumn and late frosts. no, not quite all; the tall-growing sweet peas should be in the ground not later than may in this south new england latitude, though in the northern states and canada they are planted in june as a matter of course. blanche ferry, of the brilliant pink-and-white complexion, however, will do very nicely in the light of a labour-saving afterthought, as, only reaching a foot and a half high, little, if any, brush is needed. [illustration: asters well massed.] we found your rose list replete with charming varieties, but most of them too delicate for positive success hereabouts. i'm sending you presently the list for a fifty-dollar rose garden, which it seems is much in demand, so that i've adapted my own experience to the simple plan that evan drew to enlighten amateur rose lovers and turn them from coveting their wealthy neighbours' goods to spending their energy in producing covetable roses of their own! by the way, i send you my own particular list of worthy annuals to match the hardy plants and keep heights and colours easily before you until your own garden book is formulated and we can compare notes. (see page .) you forgot to tell me whether you have decided to keep hens or not! i know that the matter has been discussed every spring since you have lived at woodridge. if you are planning a hennery, i shall not encourage the rosary, for the days of a commuter's wife are not long enough for both without encountering nervous prostration on the immediate premises. some problems are ably solved by coöperation. as i am a devotee of the ornamental and comfortable, martha saunders _née_ corkle runs a coöperative hen-yard in our north pasture for the benefit of the cortrights and ourselves to our mutual joy! vi their fortunate escape concerning evergreens and hens (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _june ._ i have not dipped pen in ink for an entire week, which has been one of stirring events, for not only have we wholly emerged from indoor life, but we have had a hair-breadth escape from something that not only threatened to mar the present summer, but to cast so heavy a shadow over the garden that no self-respecting flowers could flourish even under the thought of it. you cannot possibly guess with what we were threatened, but i am running ahead of myself. the day that we began _it_--the vacation--by stopping the clocks, we overslept until nine o'clock. when we came downstairs, the house was in a condition of cheerful good order unknown to that hour of the day. there is such a temperamental difference in this mere setting things to rights. it can be done so that every chair has a stiffly repellent look, and the conspicuous absence of dust makes one painfully conscious that it has not always been thus, while the fingers inadvertently stray over one's attire, plucking a shred here and a thread there. even flowers can be arranged in a vase so as to look thoroughly and reproachfully uncomfortable, and all the grace and meaning crushed out of them. but maria maxwell has the touch gracious that makes even a plainly furnished room hold out detaining hands as you go through, and the flowers on the greeting table in the hall (yes, lavinia cortright taught me that little fancy of yours during her first visit), though much the same as i had been gathering for a week past, wore an air of novelty! for a moment we stood at the foot of the stairs looking about and getting our bearings, as guests in an unfamiliar place rather than householders. it flitted through my body that i was hungry, and one of the "must be's" of the vacation country was that we were to forage for breakfast. at the same time bart sauntered unconsciously toward the mail-box under the hat-rack and then, suddenly putting his hands behind him, turned to me with a quizzical expression, saying: "letters are forbidden, i know, but how about the paper? even the 'weekly tribune' would be something; you know that sheet was devised for farmers!" "if this vacation isn't to be a punishment, but a pleasure, i think we had both better 'have what we want when we want it'!" i replied, for at that moment i spied the infant out on the porch, and to hug her ladyship was a swiftly accomplished desire. for some reason she seemed rather astonished at this very usual performance, and putting her hands, boy-fashion, into the pockets of her checked overalls, surveyed herself deliberately, and then looking up at me rather reproachfully remarked, "tousin maria says that now you and father are tumpany!" "and what is company?" i asked, rather anxious to know from what new point we were to be regarded. "tumpany is people that comes to stay in the pink room wif trunks, and we play wif them and make them do somfing to amuse 'em all the time hard, and give 'em nicer things than we have to eat, and father shaves too much and tuts him and wears his little dinky coat to dinner. and by and by when they've gone away ann-stasia says, 'glory be!' and muvver goes to sleep. but muvver, if you are the tumpany, you can't go to sleep when you've gone away, can you?" a voice joined me in laughter, maria maxwell's, from inside the open window of the dining room. looking toward the sound, i saw that, though the dining table itself had been cleared, a side table drawn close to the window was set with places for two, a posy of poets' narcissus and the last lilies-of-the-valley between, while a folded napkin at one place rested on a newspaper! "i thought we were to get our own breakfasts," i said, in a tone of very feeble expostulation, which plainly told that, at that particular moment, it was the last thing i wished to do. "you are, the very minute you feel like it, and not before! you must let yourselves down gradually, and not bolt out of the house as if you had been evicted. if bart went paperless and letterless this very first morning, until he has met something that interests him more, he would think about the lack of the news and the mail all day until they became more than usually important!" so saying, maria swept the stems and litter of the flowers she had been arranging into her apron, and annexing the infant to one capable finger, all the other nine being occupied, she went down the path toward the garden for fresh supplies, leaving ann-stasia, as the infant calls her, to serve the coffee, a prerogative of which she would not consent to be bereft, not even upon the plea of lightening her labours! "isn't this perfect!" i exclaimed, looking toward a gap in the hills that was framed by the debatable knoll on one side and reached by a short cut across the old orchard and abandoned meadows of the farm above, the lack of cultivation resulting in a wealth of field flowers. "entirely!" assented bart, his spoon in the coffee cup stirring vigorously and his head enveloped in the newspaper. but what did the point of view matter: he was content and unhurried--what better beginning for a vacation? in fact in those two words lies the real vacation essence. meanwhile, as i munched and sipped, with luxurious irresponsibility, i watched maria moving to and fro between the shrubs that bounded the east alley of the old garden. in her compressed city surroundings she had always seemed to me a very big sort of person, with an efficiency that was at times overpowering, whose brown eyes had a "charge bayonet" way of fixing one, as if commanding the attention of her pupils by force of eye had become a habit. but here, her most cherished belongings given room to breathe in the spare room that rambles across one end of the house, while her wardrobe has a chance to realize itself in the deep closet, maria in two short days had become another person. she does not seem large, but merely well built. the black gowns and straight white collars that she always wore, as a sort of professional garb, have vanished before a shirtwaist with an openwork neck and half sleeves, while the flesh exposed thereby is pink and wholesome. hair not secured for the wear and tear of the daily rounds of school, but allowed to air itself, requires only a few hair-pins, and, if it is naturally wavy, follows its own will with good effect. while as to her eyes, what in them seemed piercing at short range melted to an engaging frankness in the soft light under the trees. in short, if she had been any other than maria maxwell, music teacher, bart's staid cousin and the avowed family spinster, i should have thought of her as a fine-looking woman who only needed a magic touch of some sort to become positively handsome. coffee and paper finished, i became aware that bart was gazing at me. "well," i said, extending my hand, "what next?" i had speedily made up my mind that bart should take the initiative in our camping-out arrangement, and i therefore did not suggest that the first thing to be done was to set our camp itself in order. "come out," he said, taking my hand in the same way that the infant does when she wishes to lead the way to the discovery of the fairyland that lies beyond the meadows of the farm. so we sauntered out. once under the sun, the same delicious thought occurred to each that, certain prudences having been seen to, we were for the time without responsibilities, and the fact made us laugh for the very freedom of it and pull one another hither and thither like a couple of children. meanwhile the word _knoll_ had not been uttered, but our feet were at once drawn in its direction by an irresistible force, and presently we found ourselves standing at the lower end of the ridge and looking up the slope! "i wish we had a picture of it as it must have been before the land was cleared,--it would be a great help in replanting," i said; "it needs something dense and bold for a background to the rocks." "the skeleton of the old barn on the other side spoils it; it ought to come down," was bart's rejoinder. "it seems as if everything we wish to do hinges on some other thing." this barn had been set back against the knoll so that from the house the hayloft window seemed like a part of a low shed. certainly our forbears knew the ways of the new england wind very thoroughly, judging by the way they huddled their houses and outbuildings in hollows or under hillsides to avoid its stress. and when they couldn't do that, they turned sloping, humpbacked roofs toward the northeast to shed the snow and tempt the wind in its wild moods to play leapfrog and thus pass over. such a roof as this has the house at the next farm, and judging by the location of the old hay barn, and the lay of the road, it must have once belonged to this adjoining property rather than to ours. slowly we circled the knoll, dropped into the hollow, and stood upon the uneven floor of wide chestnut planks that was to be our camp. other lodgers had this barn besides ourselves and, unlike ourselves, hereditary tenants. swallows of steel-blue wings hung their nests in a whispering colony against the beams, a pair of gray squirrels arched their tails at us and chattering whisked up aloft, where they evidently have a family in the dilapidated pigeon cote, while among some cornstalks and other litter in the low earth cellar beneath we could hear the rustling doubtless born of the swift little feet of mice. (yes, i know that it is a feminine quality lacking in me, but i have never yet been able to conjure up any species of fear in connection with these playful little rodents.) the cots, table, chairs, and screens were as i had placed them several days ago; but it was not the interior that held us but the view looking eastward across the sunlit meadows. in fact this side of the barn had the wide openings of an observatory. the gnarled apple trees of the orchard still bore pink-and-white wreaths on the shady side, and the purling of bluebirds blended with the voice of the river that ran between the hills afar off--the same stream that further up country was to be pent between walls and prisoned to make a reservoir. sitting there, we gazed upon the soft yet glowing beauty of it all, with never a thought of pick and spade, grub axe or crowbar, to pry between the rocks of the knoll to find the depth or quality of its soil or test the planting possibilities. "let us go up to the woods and see blake; he wrote me that he is to be there to-day, and suggested we should both meet him and see the treasure-trove to be found there before the spring blossoms are quite shed," said bart, suddenly, fumbling among the letters in his pocket; "and by the way, he said he would come back with us. he evidently forgets that we are not 'at home' to company!" "but _the man from everywhere_ is not company. he is simply a permanent institution and can go on dropping in as usual all summer if he likes. ann-stasia adores him, for did he not bring her a beautiful sandalwood rosary of carved beads from somewhere and a pair of real tortoise-shell combs not two months ago? and of course maria maxwell will not object; why should she? he will come and go as usual, and she will hardly know that he is in the house." barney harnessed the mild-faced horse of our neighbour's lending to that most comfortable of all vehicles, a buggy with an ample box behind and a top that can be dropped and made into a deep pocket to hold gleanings, or raised as a shield from sun and rain. ah! dear mrs. evan, is there anything that turns a sober, settled married couple backward to the enchanted "engaged" region like driving away through the spring lanes in a buggy pulled by a horse who has had nature-loving owners, so that he seems to know by intuition when to pause and when it would be most acceptable to his passengers to have him wander from the beaten track and browse among the tender wayside grasses that always seem so much more tempting than any pasture grazing? as you will infer from this, romeo is not only of a gentle, meditative disposition, but his harness is destitute of a check rein, overdraw, or otherwise. "have you put in the trowels?" i asked, as we drove out the gate, the reins hanging so loosely from between bart's knees, as he lit his pipe, that it was by mere chance that romeo took the right turn. "no, i never thought of them; this is merely a prospecting trip. did you put in the lunch?" i was obliged to confess that i had not, but later on a box of sandwiches was found under the seat in company with romeo's nose-bag of oats, this indication being that, as barney alone knew directly of our destination, he must have informed anastasia, who took pity, regarding us, as she does, as a cross between lunatics and the babes in the woods. we chose byways, and only crossed the macadamized highroad, that haunt of automobiles, once, and after an hour's sauntering crossed the river and drove into the woodlots to the north of it, now the property of the water company, who have already posted warning to trespassers. we straightway began to trespass, seeing _the man from everywhere_ on horseback coming down to meet us. without an apparent change of soil or altitude, the scenery at once grew more bold and dramatic. "what is it?" i said. "we have been driving through lanes lined by dogwood and yet that little tree below and the scrubby bit of hillside make a more perfect picture than any we have seen!" [illustration: the pictorial value of evergreens.] bart, who had left the buggy and was walking beside it with _the man_, who had dismounted and led his nag, turned and looked backward, but did not answer. "it is the evergreens that give it the quality," said _the man_, "even though they are only those stiff little noah's-ark cedars. i notice it far and wide, wherever i go; a landscape is never monotonous so long as there is a pine, spruce, hemlock, or bit of a cedar to bind it together. i believe that is why i am never content for long in the land of palms!" "i love evergreens in winter, but i've never thought much about them in the growing leafy season; they seem unimportant then," i said. "unimportant or not, they are still there. look at that wall of trees rising across the river! every conceivable tint of green is there, besides shades of pink and lavender in leaf case and catkin, but what dominates and translates the whole? the great hemlocks on the crest and the dark pointed cedars off on the horizon where the woodland thins toward the pastures. whether you separate them or not, they are there. people are only just beginning to understand the value of evergreens in their home gardens, both as windbreaks and backgrounds. no, i don't mean stark, isolated specimens, stiff as christmas trees. you have a magnificent chance to use them on that knoll of yours that you are going to restore!" as he was speaking i thought bart paid very scant attention, but following his pointing finger i at once saw what had absorbed him. on the opposite side of the river, extending into the brush lots, was a knoll the size and counterpart of ours, even in the way that it lay by the compass, only this was untouched, as nature planned it, and the model for our restoration. "do you clear the land as far back as this?" bart asked of _the man_, eagerly. "yes, not for the sake of the land, but for the boulders and loose rock on those ledges; all the rock hereabout will be little enough for our masonry!" "then," said bart, "i'm going to transplant the growth on this knoll, root and branch, herb and shrub, moss and fern, to our own, if it takes me until christmas! it isn't often that a man finds an illustrated plan with all the materials for carrying it out under his hand for merely the taking. there are enough young hemlocks up there to windbreak our whole garden. the thing i'm not sure about is just when it will do to begin the transplanting. meanwhile i'll make a list of the plants we know that we can add to as others develop and blossom." so he set to work on his list then and there, _the man from everywhere_ helping, because he can name a plant from its leaves or even the twigs. i said that i would write to you _at once_ and ask you or evan to tell us about the best way to transplant all the wild things, except woody shrubs and trees, because we know it's best to wait for those until leaf fall. but as it turns out, i've waited six days--oh! such aggravating days when there is so much to decide and do! that afternoon _the man_ rode home with us, as a matter of course, we quite forgetting that instead of late dinner, as usual, the meal would be tea, as the infant and maria maxwell are to dine now at one! as a shower threatened, it seemed much more natural for us to turn into the house than the camp, and before i knew how it happened i was sitting at the head of my own table serving soup instead of tea! i dared not look at maria, but as the meal was nearly ended she remarked demurely, looking out of the west window to where the shower was passing off slantwise, leaving a glorious sunset trail in its wake, "wouldn't you like to have your coffee in camp, as the rain forced you to take dinner indoors?" by which i knew that maria would not allow us to lose sight of our outdoor intentions. bart laughed, and _the man_, gazing around the table innocently said, "oh, has _it_ begun, and am i intruding and breaking up plans? why didn't you tell me?" so we went out through the sweet-smelling twilight, or rather the glow that comes before it, and as we idly sipped the coffee, lo and behold, the old farm lay before us--a dream picture painted by the twilight! the little window-panes, iridescent with age and bulged into odd shapes by yielding sashes, caught the sunset hues and turned to fire opals; the light mist rising over the green meadows where the flowers now slept with heads bent and eyes closed lent the green and pearl tints of those mysterious gems to which drops of rain or dew strung everywhere made diamond settings. "by jove!" exclaimed bart, "how beautiful the opie farm looks to-night! if a real-estate agent could only get a photograph of what we see, we should soon have a neighbour to rescue the place!" "you mustn't call it the opie farm any more; it is opal farm from to-night!" i cried, "and no one shall buy it unless they promise to leave in the old windows and let the meadow and crab orchard stay as they are, besides giving me right of way through it quite down to the river woods!" but to get back by this circuitous route to the threatened danger with which i opened this letter-- the postman whistled, as he has an alluring way of doing when he brings the evening mail, always hoping that some one will come out for a bit of evening gossip, in which he is rarely disappointed. we all started to our feet, but maria, whose special duty it had become to look over the mail, distanced us all by taking a short cut, regardless of wet grass. talk branched into divers pleasant ways, and we had almost forgotten her errand when she returned and, breaking abruptly into the conversation, said to bart, "sorry to interrupt, but the postman reports that there are three large crates of live stock down at the station, and the agent says will you please send for them to-night, as he doesn't dare leave them out, there are so many strangers about, and they will surely stifle if he crowds them into the office!" "live stock!" exclaimed bart, "i'm sure i've bought nothing!" then, as light broke in his brain,--"maybe it's that setter pup that truesdale promised me as soon as it was weaned, which would be about now!" "would a setter pup come in three crates?" inquired _the man_, solemnly. "it must be live plants and not live stock!" i said, coming to bart's rescue, "for aunt lavinia cortright wrote me last week that she was sending me some of her prize pink dahlias, and some gladioli bulbs!" "possibly these might fill three large cases!" laughed bart, in his turn. "why not see if any of those letters throw light upon the mystery, and then i'll help 'hook up,' as i suppose barney has gone home, and we will bring up the crates even if they contain crocodiles!" said _the man_, cheerfully. complications always have an especially cheering effect upon him, i've often noticed. the beams of a quarter moon were picturesque, but not a satisfactory light by which to read letters, especially when under excitement, so bart brought out a carriage lantern with which we had equipped our camp, and proceeded to sort the mail, tossing the rejected letters into my lap. suddenly he paused at one, extra bulky and bearing the handwriting of his mother, weighed it on the palm of his hand, and opened it slowly. from it fell three of the yellow-brown papers upon which receipts for expressage are commonly written; i picked them up while bart read slowly-- "my dear son, "we were most glad to hear through daughter mary of your eminently sensible and frugal plan for passing your summer vacation in the improvement of your land without the expense of travel. "wishing to give you some solid mark of our approval, as well as to contribute what must be a material aid to your income, father and i send you to-day, by express, three crates of hens--one of white leghorns, one of plymouth rocks, and one of brown dorkings, a male companion accompanying each crate, as i am told is usual. we did not select an incubator, thinking you might have some preference in the matter, but it will be forthcoming when your decision is made. "of course i know that you cannot usually spare the time for the care of these fowls, but it will be a good outdoor vocation for mary, amusing and lucrative, besides being thoroughly feminine, for such poultry raising was considered even in my younger days. "a book, _the complete guide to poultry farming_, which i sent mary a year ago on her birthday, as a mere suggestion, will tell her all she need know in the beginning, and the responsibility and occupation itself will be a good corrective for giving too much time to the beauties of the flower garden, which are merely pleasurable. "i need not remind you that the different breeds should be housed separately, but you who always had a gift for carpentry can easily arrange this. indeed it was only yesterday that in opening a chest of drawers i came across a small lead saw bought for sixpence, with which you succeeded in quite cutting through the large wisteria vine on grandma bartram's porch! i wished to punish you, but she said--'no, susanna, rather preserve the tool as a memento of his industry and patience.' "i wish that i could be near to witness your natural surprise on receiving this token of our approval, but i must trust mary to write us of it. "your mother, "susan bartram penrose." with something between a groan and a laugh bart dropped this letter into my lap, with the others. "so, after a successful struggle all these five years of our country life against the fatal magnetism of _hens_ that has run epidemic up and down the population of commuting householders, bringing financial prostration to some and the purely nervous article to others; after avoiding 'the wars of the chickens, or who scratched up those early peas,'--events as celebrated in local history as the revolution or war of the rebellion,--we are to be forced into the chicken business for the good of bart's health and pocket, and my mental discipline, and also that a thrifty pennsylvania air may be thrown about our altogether too delightful and altruistic summer arrangements! it's t-o-o bad!" i wailed. of course i know, mrs. evan, that i was in a temper, and that my "in-laws" mean well, but since comfortable setting hens have gone out of fashion, and incubators and brooders taken their place, there is no more pleasure or sentiment about raising poultry than in manufacturing any other article by rule. it's a business, and a very pernickety one to boot, and it's to keep bart away from business that we are striving. besides, that chicken book tells how many square feet per hen must be allowed for the exercising yards, and how the pens for the little chicks must be built on wheels and moved daily to fresh pasture. all the vegetable garden and flower beds and the bit of side lawn which i want for mother's rose garden would not be too much! but i seem to be leaving the track again. bart didn't say a word, except that "at any rate we must bring the fowls up from the station," and as the stable door was locked and the key in barney's pocket, bart and _the man_ started to walk down to the village to look him up in some of his haunts, or failing in this to get the express wagon from the stable. maria and i sat and talked for some time about _the_ _man from everywhere_, the chickens, and the location of the rose beds. she is surprisingly keen about flowers, considering that it is quite ten years since her own home in the country was broken up, but then i think this is the sort of knowledge that stays by one the longest of all. i hope that i have succeeded in convincing her that _the man_ is not company to be bothered about, but a comfortable family institution to come and go as he likes, to be taken easily and not too seriously. when the moon disappeared beyond the river woods, we went to the southwest porch, and there decided that the piece of lawn where we had some uninteresting foliage beds one summer was the best place for the roses and we might possibly have a trellis across the north wall for climbers. would you plant roses in rows or small separate beds? and how about the soil? but perhaps the plan you are sending me will explain all this. it was more than an hour before the men returned, and, not having found barney, bart had signed for the poultry in order to leave the express agent free to go home, and had left word at the stable for them to send the crates up as soon as the long wagon returned from leighton, whither it had gone with trunks. after much discussion we decided that the fowls should be housed for the night in the small yard back of the stable, where the infant's cow (a present from _my_ mother) spends her nights under the shed. "did you find any signs of a chicken house on the place when you first came?" asked maria, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if its location was the only thing now to be considered. "yes, there was one directly in the fence line at the eastern gap where we see the three brothers hills," said bart, "and i've always intended to plant a flower bed of some sort there both to hide the gap in the wall and that something may be benefited by the hen manure of decades that must have accumulated there!" "how would the place do for the new hen-house?" pursued maria, relentlessly. "not at all!" i snapped very decidedly: "it is directly in the path the cool summer winds take on their way to the dining room, and you know at best fowl houses are not bushes of lemon balm!" "then why not locate your bed of good-smelling things in the gap, and sup on nectar and distilled perfume," said _the man from everywhere_, soothingly. "the very thing! and i will write mrs. evan at once for a list of the plants in her 'bed of sweet odours,' as she calls it." then presently, as the men sat talking, maria having gone into the house, our summer work seemed to lie accomplished and complete before me, even as you once saw your garden of dreams before its making,--the knoll restored to its wildness, ending not too abruptly at the garden in some loose rock; the bed of sweet odours filling the gap between it and the gate of the little pasture in the rear; straight beds of hardy plants bordering the vegetable squares; the two seed beds topping the furthest bit, then a space of lawn with the straight walk of the old garden running through, to the sundial amid some beds of summer flowers at the orchard end, while the open lawn below the side porch is given up to roses! i even crossed the fence in imagination, and took in the possibilities of opal farm. if only i could have some one there to talk flowers and other perplexities to, as you have lavinia cortright, without going through the front gate! two hours must have passed in pleasant chat, for the hall clock, the only one in the front part of the house we had not stopped, was chiming eleven when wheels paused before the house and the latch of the gate that swung both ways gave its double click! "the hens have come!" i cried in dismay, the dream garden vanishing before an equally imaginary chorus of clucks and crows. mr. hale himself, the stable keeper, appeared at the house corner at the same moment that bart and _the man_ reached it. consternation sat upon his features, and his voice was fairly husky as he jerked out,--"they've gone,--clean gone,--mr. penrose, all three crates! and the dust is so kicked up about that depot that you can't read out no tracks. some loafers must hev seen them come and laid to get in ahead o' you, as hevin' signed the company ain't liable! what! don't you want to drive down to the sheriff's?" and mr. hale's lips hung loose with dismay at bart's apparent apathy. "mr. hale," said bart, in mock heroic tones, "i thank you for your sympathy, but because some troubles fall upon us unawares, it does not follow that we should set bait for others!" whereupon mr. hale the next day remarked that he didn't know whether or not penrose was taking action in the matter, because you could never judge a good lawyer's meanings by his speech. however, if the hens escaped, so did we, and the next morning bart forgot his paper until afternoon, so eager was he to test the depth of soil in the knoll. i'm sending you a list of the wild things at hand. will you tell me in due course which of the ferns are best for our purpose? i've noticed some of the larger ones turn quite shabby early in august. vii a simple rose garden (barbara campbell to mary penrose) _oaklands, june ._ yesterday my roses began to bloom. the very old bush of thorny, half-double brier roses with petals of soft yellow crêpe, in which the sunbeams caught and glinted, took the lead as usual. before night enough jacqueminot buds showed rich colour to justify my filling the bowl on the greeting table, fringing it with sprays of the yellow brier buds and wands of copper beech now in its velvety perfection of youth. this morning, the moment that i crossed my bedroom threshold, the jacqueminot odour wafted up. is there anything more like the incense of praise to the flower lover? not less individual than the voice of friends, or the song of familiar birds, is the perfume of flowers to those who live with them, and among roses none impress this characteristic more poignantly than the crimson jacqueminot and the silver-pink la france, equally delicious and absolutely different. as one who has learned by long and sometimes disastrous experience, to one who is now really plunging headlong into the sea of garden mysteries and undercurrents for the first time, i give you warning! if you have a real rose garden, or, merely what lavinia cortright calls hers, a rosary of assorted beads, try as far as possible to have all your seed sowing and transplanting done before the june rose season begins, that you may give yourself up to this one flower, heart, soul, yes, and body also! it was no haphazard symbolist that, in troubadour days, gave love the rose for his own flower, for to be its real self the rose demands all and must be all in all to its possessor. as for you, mary penrose, who eschewed hen-keeping as a deceitful masquerade of labour, under the name of rural employment, ponder deeply before you have spade put to turf in your south lawn, and invest your birthday dollars in the list of roses that at this very moment i am preparing to send you, with all possible allurement of description to egg you on. for unless you have very poor luck, which the slope of your land, depth of soil, and your own pertinacity and staying qualities discount, many more dollars in quarters, halves, or entire will follow the first large outlay, and i may even hear of your substituting the perpetual breakfast prune of boarding-houses for your grapefruit in winter, or being overcome in summer by the prevailing health-food epidemic, in order that you may plunder the housekeeping purse successfully. [illustration: my roses are scattered here, there, and everywhere.] but this is the time and hour that one gardener, on a very modest scale, may be excused if she overrates the charms of rose possessing, for it is a june morning, both bright and overcast by turns. a wood thrush is practising his arpegios in the little cedar copse on one side, and a catbird is hurling every sort of vocal challenge and bedevilment from his ancestral syringa bush on the other, and all between is a gap filled with a vista of rose-bushes--not marshalled in a garden together, but scattered here, there, and everywhere that a good exposure and deep foothold could be found. as far as the arrangement of my roses is concerned, "do as i say, not as i do" is a most convenient motto. i have tried to formalize my roses these ten years past, but how can i, for my yellow brier (harrison's) has followed its own sweet will so long that it makes almost a hedge. the madame plantiers of mother's garden are stalwart shrubs, like many other nameless bushes collected from old gardens hereabout, one declining so persistently to be uprooted from a particularly cheerful corner that it finds itself in the modern company of japanese iris, and inadvertently sheds its petals to make rose-water of the birds' bath. an english sweetbrier of delicious leafage hobnobs with honeysuckle and clematis on one of the wren arbours, while a great nameless bush of exquisite blush buds, quite destitute of thorns (one of the many cuttings sent "the doctor's wife" in the long ago), stands an unconscious chaperone between marshall p. wilder and mrs. john lang. i must at once confess that it is much better to keep the roses apart in long borders of a kind than to scatter them at random. by so doing the plants can be easily reached from either side, more care being taken not to overshadow the dwarf varieties by the more vigorous. lavinia cortright has left the old-fashioned june roses that belonged to her garden where they were, but is now gathering the new hybrids after the manner of evan's little plan. in this way, without venturing into roses from a collector's standpoint, she can have representatives of the best groups and a continuous supply of buds of some sort both outdoors and for the house from the first week in june until winter. to begin with, roses need plenty of air. this does not mean that they flourish in a draught made by the rushing of north or east wind between buildings or down a cut or roadway. if roses are set in a mixed border, the tendency is inevitably to crowd or flank them by some succulent annual that overgrows the limit we mentally set for it, thereby stopping the circulation of air about the rose roots, and lo! the harm is done! if you want good roses, you must be content to see a little bare, brown earth between the bushes, only allowing a narrow outside border of pansies, the horned bedding violets (_cornuta_), or some equally compact and clean-growing flower. to plant anything thickly between the roses themselves prevents stirring the soil and the necessary seasonal mulchings, for if the ground-covering plants flourish you will dislike to disturb them. the first thing to secure for your rosary is sun--sun for all the morning. if the shadow of house, barn, or of distant trees breaks the direct afternoon rays in july and august, so much the better, but no overhead shade at any time or season. this does not prevent your protecting a particularly fine quantity of buds, needed for some special occasion, with a tentlike umbrella, such as one sees fastened to the seat in pedlers' wagons. a pair of these same umbrellas are almost a horticultural necessity for the gardener's comfort as well, when she sits on her rubber mat to transplant and weed. given your location, consideration of soil comes next, for this can be controlled in a way in which the sun may not be, though if the ground chosen is in the bottom of a hollow or in a place where surface water is likely to settle in winter, you had better shift the location without more ado. it was a remark pertinent to all such places that dean hole made to the titled lady who showed him an elaborately planned rose garden, in a hollow, and waited for his praise. she heard only the remark that it was an admirable spot for _ferns_! if your soil is clayey, and holds water for this reason, it can be drained by porous tiles, sunk at intervals in the same way as meadow or hay land would be drained, that is if the size of your garden and the lay of the land warrants it. if, however, the roses are to be in separate beds or long borders, the earth can be dug out to the depth of two and a half or three feet, the good fertile portion being put on one side and the clay or yellow loam, if any there be, removed. then fill the hole with cobblestones, rubbish of old plaster, etc., for a foot in depth (never tin cans); mix the good earth thoroughly with one-third its bulk of well-rotted cow dung, a generous sprinkling of unslaked lime and sulphur, and replace, leaving it to settle for a few days and watering it thoroughly, if it does not rain, before planting. one of the advantages of planting roses by themselves is that the stirring of the soil and giving of special fertilizers when needful may be unhampered. in the ordinary planting of roses by the novice, the most necessary rules are usually the first violated. the roses are generally purchased in pots, with a certain amount of foliage and a few buds produced by forcing. a hole is excavated, we will suppose, in a hardened border of hardy plants that, owing to the tangle of roots, can be at best but superficially dug and must rely upon top dressing for its nutriment. owing to the difficulty of digging the hole, it is likely to be a tight fit for the pot-bound ball of calloused roots that is to fill it. hence, instead of the woody roots and delicate fibres being carefully spread out and covered, so that each one is surrounded by fresh earth, they are jammed just as they are (or often with an additional squeeze) into a rigid socket, and small wonder if the conjunction of the two results in blighting and a lingering death rather than the renewal of vitality and increase. evan, who has had a wide experience in watching the development of his plans, both by professional gardeners and amateurs, says that he is convinced more and more each day that, where transplanting of any sort fails, it is due to carelessness in the securing of the root anchors, rather than any fault of the dealer who supplies the plants, this of course applying particularly to all growths having woody roots, where breakage and wastage cannot be rapidly restored. when a rose is once established, its persistent roots may find means of boring through soil that in its first nonresistant state is impossible. while stiff, impervious clay is undesirable, a soil too loose with sand, that allows the bush to shift with the wind, instead of holding it firmly, is quite as undesirable. in planting all hardy or half-hardy roses,--whether they are of the type that flower once in early summer, the hybrid perpetuals that bloom freely in june and again at intervals during late summer and autumn, or the hybrid teas that, if wisely selected and protected, combine the wintering ability of their hardy parents with the monthly blooming cross of the teas,--it is best to plant dormant field-grown plants in october, or else as early in april as the ground is sufficiently dry and frost free. these field-grown roses have better roots, and though, when planted in the spring, for the first few months the growth is apparently slower than that of the pot-grown bushes, it is much more normal and satisfactory, at least in the middle and new england states of which i have knowledge. all roses, even the sturdy, old-fashioned damasks, madame plantier, and the like, should have some covering in winter, such as stable litter of coarse manure with the straw left in. hybrid perpetuals i hill up well with earth after the manner of celery banked for bleaching, the trenches between making good water courses for snow water, while in spring cow manure and nitrate of soda is scattered in these ruts before the soil is restored to its level by forking. the hybrid teas, of which la france is the best exponent, should be hilled up and then filled in between with evergreen branches, upland sedge grass, straw or corn stalks, and if you have the wherewithal, they may be capped with straw. i do not care for leaves as a covering, unless something coarse underlies them, for in wet seasons they form a cold and discouraging poultice to everything but the bob-tailed meadow mice, who love to bed and burrow under them. such tea roses as it is possible to winter in the north should be treated in the same way, but there is something else to be suggested about their culture in another place. the climbing roses of arbours, if in very exposed situations, in addition to the mulch of straw and manure, may have corn stalks stacked against the slats, which makes a windbreak well worth the trouble. but the more tender species of climbing roses should be grown upon pillars, english fashion. these can be snugly strawed up after the fashion of wine bottles, and then a conical cap of the waterproof tar paper used by builders drawn over the whole, the manure being banked up to hold the base firmly in place. with this device it is possible to grow the lovely gloire de dijon, in the open, that festoons the eaves of english cottages, but is our despair. [illustration: pillar for corners of rose bed.] not long ago we invented an inexpensive "pillar" trellis for roses and vines which, standing seven feet high and built about a cedar clothes-pole, the end well coated with tar before setting, is both symmetrical and durable, not burning tender shoots, as do the metal affairs, and costing, if the material is bought and a carpenter hired by the day, the moderate price of two dollars and a half each, including paint, which should be dark green. [illustration: rose garden with outside border of gravel and grass.] evan has made a sketch of it for you. he finds it useful in many ways, and in laying out a new garden these pillars, set at corners or at intervals along the walks, serve to break the hot look of a wide expanse and give a certain formality that draws together without being too stiff and artificial. for little gardens, like yours and mine, i think deep-green paint the best colour for pergola, pillars, seats, plant tubs, and the like. white paint is clean and cheerful, but stains easily. if one has the surroundings and money for marble columns and garden furniture, it must form part of a well-planned whole and not be pitched in at random, but the imitation article, compounded of cement or whitewashed wood, belongs in the region of stage properties or beer gardens! the little plan i'm sending you needs a bit of ground not less than fifty feet by seventy-five for its development, and that, i think, is well within the limits of your southwest lawn. the pergola can be made of rough cedar posts with the bark left on. evan says that there are any quantity of cedar trees in your river woods that are to be cleared for the reservoir, and you can probably get them for a song. the border enclosing the grass plots is four feet in width, which allows you to reach into the centre from either side. two rows of hybrid perpetuals or three of hybrid tea or summer roses can be planted in these beds, according to their size, thus allowing, at the minimum, for one hundred hybrid perpetuals, fifty hybrid teas, fifty summer roses, and eighteen climbers, nine on either side of the pergola, with four additional for the corner pillars. the irregular beds in the small lawns should not be planted in set rows, but after the manner of shrubberies. rugosa roses, if their colours be well chosen, are best for the centre of these beds. they are striking when in flower and decorative in fruit, while the handsome leaves, that are very free from insects, i find most useful as green in arranging other roses the foliage of which is scanty. the pink-and-white damask roses belong here, and the dear, profuse, and graceful madame plantier,--a dozen bushes of this hybrid china rose of seven leaflets are not too many. for seventy years it has held undisputed sway among hardy white roses and has become so much a part of old gardens that we are inclined to place its origin too far back in the past among historic roses, because we cannot imagine a time when it was not. this is a rose to pick by the armful, and grown in masses it lends an air of luxury to the simplest garden. [illustration: madame plantier at van cortland manor.] personally, i object to the rambler tribe of roses for any but large gardens, where in a certain sense the personality of flowers must sometimes be lost in decorative effect. a scentless rose has no right to intrude on the tender intimacies of the woman's garden, but pruned back to a tall standard it may be cautiously mingled with madame plantier with good effect, lending the pale lady the reflected touch of the colour that gives life. for the pergola a few ramblers may be used for rapid effect, while the slower growing varieties are making wood, but sooner or later i'm sure that they will disappear before more friendly roses, and even to-day the old-fashioned gem of the prairies, felicité perpetual, and baltimore belle seem to me worthier. colour and profusion the rambler has, but equally so has the torrent of coloured paper flowers that pours out of the juggler's hat, and they are much bigger. no, i'm apt to be emphatic (evan calls it pertinacious), but i'm sure the time will come when at least the crimson rambler, trained over a gas-pipe arch, except for purely decorative purposes, will be as much disliked by the real rose lover as the tripod with the iron pot painted red and filled with red geraniums! the english sweetbrier is a climbing or pillar rose, capable of being pruned into a bush or hedge that not only gives fragrance in june but every time the rain falls or dew condenses upon its magic leaves. this you must have as well as some of its kin, the penzance hybrid-sweetbriers, either against the pergola or trained to the corner pillars, where you will become more intimate with them. you may be fairly sure of success in wintering well-chosen hybrid perpetual roses and the hybrid teas. if, for any reason, certain varieties that succeed in lavinia cortright's garden and ours do not thrive with you, they must be replaced by a gradual process of elimination. you alone may judge of this. i'm simply giving you a list of varieties that have thriven in my garden; others may not find them the best. only let me advise you to begin with roses that have stood a test of not less than half a dozen years, for it really takes that long to know the influence of heredity in this highly specialized race. after the rose garden has shown you all its colours, it is easy to supplement a needed tint here or a proven newcomer there without speculating, as it were, in garden stock in a bull market. too much of spending money for something that two years hence will be known no more is a financial side of the _garden-goozle_ question that saddens the commuter, as well as his wife. it is a continual proof of man's, and particularly woman's, innocency that such pictures as horticultural pedlers show when extolling their wares do not deter instead of encouraging purchasers. if the fruits and flowers were believable, as depicted, still they should be unattractive to eye and palate. the hybrid perpetuals give their great yield in june, followed by a more or less scattering autumn blooming. it is foolish to expect a rose specialized and proven by the tests climatic and otherwise of holland, england, or france, and pronounced a perpetual bloomer, to live up to its reputation in this country of sudden extremes: unveiled summer heat, that forces the bud open before it has developed quality, causing certain shades of pink and crimson to fade and flatten before the flower is really fit for gathering. americans in general must be content with the half loaf, as far as garden roses are concerned, for in the cooler parts of the country, where the development of the flower is slower and more satisfactory, the winter lends added dangers. good roses--not, however, the perfect flowers of the connoisseur or even of the cottage exhibitions of england--may be had from early june until the first week of july, but the hybrid tea roses that brave the latter part of that month and august are but short lived, even when gathered in the bud. those known as summer bedders of the bourbon class, chiefly scentless, of which appoline is a well-known example, are simply bits of decorative colour without the endearing attributes of roses, and garden colour may be obtained with far less labour. in july and august you may safely let your eyes wander from the rosary to the beds of summer annuals, the gladioli, japan lilies, and dahlias, and depend for fragrance on your bed of sweet odours. but as the nights begin to lengthen, at the end of august, you may prepare for a tea-rose festival, if you have a little forethought and a very little money. you have, i think, a florist in your neighbourhood who raises roses for the market. this is my method, practised for many years with comforting success. instead of buying pot-grown tea roses in april or may, that, unless a good price (from twenty-five cents up) is paid for them, will be so small that they can only be called bushes at the season's end, i go to our florist and buy fifty of the bushes that he has forced during the winter and being considered spent are cast out about june first, in order to fill in the new stock. all such roses are not discarded each season, but the process is carried on in alternate benches and years, so that there are always some to be obtained. these plants, big, tired-looking, and weak in the branches, i buy for the nominal sum of ten dollars per hundred, five dollars' worth filling a long border when set out in alternating rows. on taking these home, i thin out the woodiest shoots, or those that interfere, and plant deep in the border, into which nitrate of soda has been dug in the proportion of about two ounces to a plant. after spreading out the roots as carefully as possible, i plant firmly and water thoroughly, but do not as yet prune off the long branches. in ten days, having given meanwhile two waterings of liquid manure, i prune the bushes back sharply. by this time they will have probably dropped the greater part of their leaves, and having had a short but sufficient nap, are ready to grow, which they proceed to do freely. i do not encourage bloom in july, but as soon as we have dew-heavy august nights it begins and goes on, increasing in quality until hard frost. many of these bushes have wintered comfortably and on being pruned to within three inches of the ground have lasted many years. as to the varieties so treated, that is a secondary consideration, for under these circumstances you must take what the florist has to offer, which will of course be those most suitable to the winter market. i have used perle des jardins, catherine mermet, bride and bridesmaid, safrano, souvenir d'un ami, and bon silene (the rose for button-hole buds) with equal success, though a very intelligent grower affirms that both bride and bridesmaid are unsatisfactory as outdoor roses. i do not say that the individual flowers from these bushes bear relation to the perfect specimens of greenhouse growth in anything but fragrance, but in this way i have roses all the autumn, "by the fistful," as timothy saunders's scotch appreciation of values puts it, though his spouse, martha corkle, whose home memories are usually expanded by the perspective of time and absence, in this case speaks truly when she says on receiving a handful, "yes, mrs. evan, they're nice and sweetish and i thank you kindly, but, ma'am, they couldn't stand in it with those that grows as free as corn poppies round the four-shillin'-a-week cottages out gloucester way, and _no_ disrespec' intended." the working season of the rose garden begins the first of april with the cutting out of dead wood and the shortening and shaping of last year's growth. with hardy roses the flowers come from fresh twigs on old growth. i never prune in the autumn, because winter always kills a bit of the top and cutting opens the tubular stem to the weather and induces decay. pruning is a science in itself, to be learned by experience. this is the formula that i once wrote on a slate and kept in my attic desk with my first _boke of the garden_. _april ._ uncover bushes, prune, and have the winter mulch thoroughly dug in. place stakes in the centre of bushes that you know from experience will need them. re-tie climbers that have broken away from supports, but not too tightly; let some sprays swing and arch in their own way. _may._ as soon as the foliage begins to appear, spray with whale-oil soap lotion mixed hot and let cool: strength--a bit the size of a walnut to a gallon of water. do this every two weeks until the rosebuds show decided colour, then stop. this is to keep the rose aphis at bay, the little soft green fly that is as succulent as the sap upon which it feeds. if the spring is damp and mildew appears, dust with sulphur flower in a small bellows. _june._ the rose hopper or thrip, an active little pale yellow, transparent-winged insect that clings to the under side of the leaf, will now come if the weather is dry; dislodged easily by shaking, it immediately returns. _remedy_, spraying leaves from underneath with water and applying powdered helebore with a bellows. if _black spot_, a rather recent nuisance, appears on the leaves, spray with bordeaux mixture, bought of a horticultural dealer, directions accompanying. meanwhile the leaf worm is sure to put in appearance. this is also transparent and either brownish green, or yellow, seemingly according to the leaves upon which it feeds. _remedy_, if they won't yield to helebore (and they seldom do unless very sickly), brush them off into a cup. an old shaving brush is good for this purpose, as it is close set but too soft to scrape the leaf. _june ._ when the roses are in bloom, stop all insecticides. there is such a thing as the cure being worse than the disease, and a rose garden redolent of whale-oil soap and phosphates and encrusted with helebore and bordeaux mixture has a painful suggestion of a horticultural hospital. now is the time for the rose chafer, a dull brownish beetle about half an inch long, who times his coming up out of the ground to feast upon the most fragrant and luscious roses. these hunt in couples and are wholly obnoxious. picking into a fruit jar with a little kerosene in the bottom is the only way to kill them. in one day last season evan came to my rescue and filled a quart jar in two hours; they are so fat and spunky they may be considered as the big game among garden bugs, and their catching, if not carried to an extreme, in the light of sport. _july._ see that all dead flowers are cut off and no petals allowed to mould on the ground. mulch with short grass during hot, dry weather, and use liquid manure upon hybrid teas and teas every two weeks, immediately after watering or a rain. never, at any season, allow a rose to wither on the bush! _august._ the same, keeping on the watch for all previous insects but the rose beetle; this will have left. mulch hybrid perpetuals if a dry season, and give liquid manure for the second blooming. _september._ stir the ground after heavy rains, and watch for tendencies of mould. _october._ the same. _november._ begin to draw the soil about roots soon after black frost, and bank up before the ground freezes, but do not add straw, litter, or manure in the trenches until the ground is actually frozen, which will be from december first onward, except in the case of teas, which should be covered gradually until the top is reached. by this you will judge, mary penrose, that a rosary has its labours, as well as pleasures, and that like all other joys it is accompanied by difficulties. yet you can grow good roses if you _will_, but the difficulty is that most people _won't_. i think, by the way, that remark belongs to dean hole of fragrant rose-garden memory, and of a truth he has said all that is likely to be spoken or written about the rose on the side of both knowledge and human fancy for many a day. modern roses of the hybrid-perpetual and hybrid-tea types may be bought of several reliable dealers for twenty-five dollars per hundred, in two conditions, either grown on their own roots or budded on manette or brier stock. personally i prefer the first or natural condition, if the constitution of the plant is sufficiently vigorous to warrant it. there are, however, many indispensable varieties that do better for the infusion of vigorous brier blood. a budded rose will show the junction by a little knob where the bud was inserted; this must be planted at least three inches below ground so that new shoots will be encouraged to spring from _above_ the bud, as those below are merely wild, worthless suckers, to be removed as soon as they appear. [illustration: a convenient rose bed.] how can you tell wild suckers from the desired growth? at first by following them back to the root until you have taken their measure, but as soon as experience has enlightened you they will be as easily recognized at sight as the mongrel dog by a connoisseur. many admirable varieties, like jacqueminot, anne de diesbach, alfred colomb, madame plantier, and all the climbers, do so well on their own roots that it is foolish to take the risk of budded plants, the worse side of which is a tendency to decay at the point of juncture. tea roses, being of rapid growth and flowering wholly upon new wood, are perfectly satisfactory when rooted from cuttings. of many well-attested varieties of hybrid perpetuals, hybrid china, or other so-called june roses, you may at the start safely select from the following twenty. _pink, of various shades_ . anne de diesbach. one of the most fragrant, hardy, and altogether satisfactory of hybrid perpetual roses. forms a large bush, covered with large deep carmine-pink flowers. should be grown on own root. . paul neyron. rose pink, of large size, handsome even when fully open. fragrant and hardy. . cabbage, or rose the provence rose of history and old of leaves. gardens, supposed to have been known to pliny. rich pink, full, fragrant, and hardy. own roots. . magna charta. a fine fragrant pink rose of the hybrid china type. not seen as often as it should be. own roots. . clio. a vigorous grower with flesh-coloured and pink-shaded blossoms. . oakmont. exquisite deep rose, fragrant, vigorous, and with a long blooming season. _white_ . marchioness of free, full, and fragrant. immense londonderry. cream-white flowers, carried on long stems. very beautiful. . madame plantier a medium-sized, pure white rose, (hybrid china). with creamy centre; flowers so profusely as to appear to be in clusters. delicately fragrant, leaves deep green and remarkably free from blights. perfectly hardy; forms so large a bush in time that it should be placed in the rose shrubbery rather than amid smaller species. . margaret dickson. a splendid, finely formed, fragrant white rose, with deep green foliage. . coquette des blanches. one of the very hardy white roses, an occasional pink streak tinting the outside petals. cup-shaped and a profuse bloomer. . coquette des alps. a very hardy bush, coming into bloom rather later than the former and lasting well. satisfactory. _red and crimson_ . general jacqueminot. bright velvety crimson. the established favourite of its colour and class, though fashion has in some measure pushed it aside for newer varieties. may be grown to a large shrub. fragrant and hardy. best when in bud, as it opens rather flat. . alfred colomb. bright crimson. full, sweet. a vigorous grower and entirely satisfactory. if you can grow but one red rose, take this. . fisher holmes. a seedling of jacqueminot, but of the darkest velvety crimson; fragrant, and blooms very early. . marshal p. wilder. also a seedling of jacqueminot. vigorous and of well-set foliage. full, large flowers of a bright cherry red. very fragrant. . marie bauman. a crimson rose of delicious fragrance and lovely shape. this does best when budded on brier or manette stock, and needs petting and a diet of liquid manure, but it will repay the trouble. . jules margottin. a fine, old-fashioned, rich red rose, fragrant, and while humble in its demands, well repays liberal feeding. . john hopper. a splendid, early crimson rose, fragrant and easily cared for. . prince camille de rohan. the peer of dark red roses, not large, but rich in fragrance and of deep colour. . ulrich brunner. one of the best out-of-door roses, hardy, carries its bright cerise flowers well, which are of good shape and substance; has few diseases. _moss roses_ . blanch moreau (perpetual). a pure, rich white; the buds, which are heavily mossed, borne in clusters. . white bath. the most familiar white moss rose, sometimes tinged with pink. open flowers are attractive as well as buds. . crested moss. rich pink, deeply mossed, each bud having a fringed crest; fragrant and full. . gracilis. an exquisite moss rose of fairylike construction, the deep pink buds being wrapped and fringed with moss. . common moss. a hardy pink variety, good only in the bud. the moss roses as a whole only bloom satisfactorily in june. _climbers_ . . english sweetbrier. single pink flowers of the wild-rose type. foliage of delicious fragrance, perfuming the garden after rain the season through. _penzance hybrid sweetbriers, having fragrant foliage and flowers of many beautiful colours_ . amy robsart. pink. . anne of geierstein. crimson. . minna. white. . rose bradwardine. deep rose. . . climbing jules margottin. rosy carmine, very fragrant and full, satisfactory for the pergola, but more so for a pillar, where in winter it can be protected from wind by branches or straw. . baltimore belle. the old-fashioned blush rose, with clean leaves and solid flowers of good shape. blooms after other varieties are over. trustworthy and satisfactory, though not fragrant in flower or leaf. . gem of the prairie. red flowers of large size, but rather flat when open. a seedling from queen of the prairie, and though not as free as its parent, it has the desirable quality of fragrance. . climbing belle siebrecht fragrant, vigorous, and of (hybrid tea). the same deep pink as the standard variety. grow on pillars. . gloire de dijon. colour an indescribable blending of rose, buff, and yellow, deliciously fragrant, double to the heart of crumpled, crêpelike petals. a tea rose and, as an outdoor climber, tender north of washington, yet it can be grown on a pillar by covering as described on page . _hybrid tea roses_ . la france. the fragrant silver-pink rose, with full, heavy flowers,--the combination of all a rose should be. in the open garden the sun changes its delicate colour quickly. should be gathered in the bud at evening or, better yet, early morning. very hardy if properly covered, and grows to a good-sized bush. . kaiserin augusta white, with a lemon tint in the victoria. folds; the fragrance is peculiar to itself, faintly suggesting the gardenia. . gruss an teplitz. one of the newer crimson roses, vigorous, with well-cupped flowers. good for decorative value in the garden, but not a rose of sentiment. . killarney. one of the newer roses that has made good. beautiful pointed buds of shell-pink, full and at the same time delicate. the foliage is very handsome. if well fed, will amply repay labour. . souvenir de malmaison. a bourbon rose that should be treated like a hybrid tea. shell-pink, fragrant flowers, that have much the same way of opening as gloire de dijon. a constant bloomer. . clothilde soupert. a polyantha or cluster rose of vigorous growth and glistening foliage, quite as hardy as the hybrid tea. it is of dwarf growth and suitable for edging beds of larger roses. the shell-pink flowers are of good form and very double; as they cluster very thickly on the ends of the stems, the buds should be thinned out, as they have an aggravating tendency to mildew before opening. . souvenir de president a charming rose with shadows of all carnot. the flesh tints, from white through blush to rose; sturdy and free. . caroline testout. very large, round flowers, of a delicate shell-pink, flushed with salmon; sturdy. _teas_ . bon silene. the old favourite, unsurpassed for fragrance as a button-hole flower, or table decoration when blended with ferns or fragrant foliage plants. colour "bon silene," tints of shaded pink and carmine, all its own. . papa gontier. a rose as vigorous as the hybrid teas, and one that may be easily wintered. pointed buds of deep rose shading to crimson and as fragrant as bon silene, of which it is a hybrid. flowers should be gathered in the bud. . safrano. a true "tea" rose of characteristic shades of buff and yellow, with the tea fragrance in all its perfection. best in the bud. vigorous and a fit companion for papa gontier and bon silene. . perle des jardins. an exquisite, fragrant double rose of light clear yellow, suggesting the marechal niel in form, but of paler colour. difficult to winter out of doors, but worth the trouble of lifting to cold pit or light cellar, or the expense of renewing annually. one of the lovable roses. . bride. the clear white rose, sometimes with lemon shadings used for forcing; clean, handsome foliage and good fragrance. very satisfactory in my garden when old plants are used, as described. . bridesmaid. the pink companion of the above with similar attributes. . etoille de lyon. a vigorous, deep yellow rose, full and sweet. almost as hardy as a hybrid tea and very satisfactory. . souvenir d'un ami. a deliciously fragrant light pink rose, with salmon shadings. very satisfactory and as hardy as some of the hybrid teas. _miscellaneous roses for the shrubbery_ . harrison's yellow. an austrian brier rose with clear yellow semi-double flowers. early and very hardy. should be grown on its own roots, as it will then spread into a thicket and make the rosary a mass of shimmering gold in early june. _damask roses_ should be grown on own root, when they will form shrubs five feet high. . madame hardy. pure white. very fragrant, well-cupped flower, time tried and sturdy. . rosa damascena rose colour. triginitipela. _rugosa_ the tribe of japanese origin, conspicuous as bushes of fine foliage and handsome shape, as well as for the large single blossoms that are followed by seed vessels of brilliant scarlet hues. . agnes emily carman. flowers in clusters, "jacqueminot" red, with long-fringed golden stamens. continuous bloomer. hardy and perfect. . rugosa alba. pure white, highly scented. . rugosa rubra. single crimson flowers of great beauty. . chedane guinoisseau. flowers, satin pink and very large. blooms all the summer. now, mary penrose, having made up your mind to have a rosary, cause garden line and shovel to be set in that side lawn of yours without hesitation. do not wait until autumn, because you cannot plant the hardy roses until then and do not wish to contemplate bare ground. this sight is frequently wholesome and provocative of good horticultural digestion. you need only begin with one-half of evan's plan, letting the pergola enclose the walk back of the house, and later on you can add the other wing. if the pergola itself is built during the summer, you can sit under it, and by going over your list and colour scheme locate each rose finally before its arrival. by the way, until the climbers are well started you may safely alternate them with vines of the white panicled clematis, that will be in bloom in august and can be easily kept from clutching its rose neighbours! by and by, when you have planted your roses, tucked them in their winter covers, and can sit down with a calm mind, i will lend you three precious rose books of mine. these are dean hole's _book about roses_, for both the wit and wisdom o't; _the amateur gardener's rose book_, rescued from the german by john weathers, f.r.h.s., for its common sense, well-arranged list of roses, and beautiful coloured plates, and h.b. ellwanger's little treatise on _the rose_, a competent chronology of the flower queen up to , written concisely and from the american standpoint. if i should send them now, you would be so bewildered by the enumeration of varieties, many unsuited to this climate, intoxicated by the descriptions of rose-garden possibilities, and carried away by the literary and horticultural enthusiasm of the one-time master of the deanery garden, rochester, that, like the child turned loose in the toy shop, you would lose the power of choosing. lavinia cortright lost nearly a year in beginning her rosary, owing to a similar condition of mind, and evan and i long ago decided that when we read we cannot work, and _vice versa_, so when the garden of outdoors is abed and asleep each year, we enter the garden of books with fresh delight. have you a man with quick wit and a straight eye to be the spade hand during the garden vacation? if not, make haste to find him, for, as you have had barney for five years, he is probably too set in his ways to work at innovations cheerfully! viii a midnight adventure (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _june ._ the rosary has been duly surveyed, staked according to the plan, and the border lines fixed with the garden line dipped in whitewash, so that if we only plant a bed at a time, our ambition will always be before us. but as yet no man cometh to dig. this process is of greater import than it may seem, because with the vigorous three-year-old sod thus obtained do we purpose to turf the edges of the beds for hardy and summer flowers that border the squares of the vegetable garden. these strips now crumble earth into the walks, and the slightest footfall is followed by a landslide. we had intended to use narrow boards for edging, but bart objects, like the old retainer in kipling's story of _an habitation enforced_, on the ground that they will deteriorate from the beginning and have to be renewed every few years, whereas the turf will improve, even if it is more trouble to care for. at present the necessity of permanence is one of the things that is impressing us both, for after us--the infant! until a year ago i had a positive dread of being so firmly fixed anywhere that to spread wings and fly here and there would be difficult, but now it seems the most delightful thing to be rooted like the old apple tree on the side hill, the last of the old orchard, that has leaned against the upland winds so many years that it is well-nigh bent double, yet the root anchors hold and it is still a thing of beauty, like rosy-cheeked old folk with snowy hair. i do not think that i ever realized this in its fulness until i left the house and came out, though but a short way, to live with and in it all. you were right in thinking that barney would not encourage innovations,--he does not! he says that turf lifted in summer always lies uneasy and breeds worms. this seems to be an age for the defiance of horticultural tradition, for we are finding out every day that you can "lift" almost anything of herbaceous growth at any time and make it live, if you are willing to take pains enough, though of course transplanting is done with less trouble and risk at the prescribed seasons. the man-with-the-shovel question is quite a serious one hereabouts at present, for the water company has engaged all the rough-and-ready labourers for a long season and that has raised both the prices and the noses of the wandering accommodators in the air. something will probably turn up. now we are transplanting hardy ferns; for though the tender tops break, there is yet plenty of time for a second growth and rooting before winter. [illustration: the last of the old orchard. copyright, , h. hendrickson.] meanwhile there is a leisurely old carpenter who recently turned up as heir of the opal farm, amos opie by name, who is thinking of living there, and has signified his willingness to undertake the pergola by hour's work, "if he is not hustled," as soon as the posts arrive. the past ten days have been full of marvellous discoveries for the "peculiar penroses," as maria maxwell heard us called down at the golf club, where she represented me at the mid-june tea, which i had wholly forgotten that i had promised to manage when i sent out those p.p.c. cards and stopped the clocks! it seems that the first impression was that financial disaster had overtaken us, when instead of vanishing in a touring car preceded by tooting and followed by a cloud of oil-soaked steam, we took to our own woods, followed by barney with our effects in a wheelbarrow. it is a very curious fact--this attributing of every action a bit out of the common to the stress of pocket hunger. it certainly proves that advanced as we are supposed to be to-day as links in the evolutionary chain, we have partially relapsed and certainly show strong evidences of sheep ancestry. haven't you noticed, mrs. evan, how seldom people are content to accept one's individual tastes or desire to do a thing without a good and sufficient reason therefor? it seems incomprehensible to them that any one should wish to do differently from his neighbour unless from financial incapacity; the frequency with which one is suspected of being in this condition strongly points to the likelihood that the critics themselves chronically live beyond their means and in constant danger of collapse. if this was thought of us a few weeks ago, it seems to have been sidetracked by maria maxwell's contribution to, and management of, the golf tea. she is said not only to have compounded viands that are ordinarily sold in exchange for many dollars by new york confectioners, but she certainly made more than a presentable appearance as "matron" of the receiving committee of young girls. certainly maria with a music roll, a plain dark suit, every hair tethered fast, and common-sense shoes, plodding about her vocation in snow and mud, and maria "let loose," as bart calls it, are a decided contrast. except that she has not parted with her sunny common-sense, she is quite a new person. of course i could not have objected to it, but i was afraid that she might take it into her head to instruct the infant in vocal music after the manner of the locustlike sounds that you hear coming over the lowered tops of school windows as soon as the weather grows warm, or else take to practising scales herself, for we had only known the technical part of her calling. in short, we feared that we should be do-re-mi-ou'd past endurance. instead of which, scraps of the gayest of ballads float over the knoll in the evening, and the infant's little shrill pipe is being inoculated with real music, _via_ mother goose melodies sung in a delightfully subdued contralto. from the third day after her arrival people began to call upon maria. i made such a positive declaration of surrender of all matters pertaining to the household, including curiosity, when maria took charge,--and she in return promised that we should not be bothered with anything not "of vital importance to our interests,"--that, unless she runs through the housekeeping money before the time, i haven't a ghost of an excuse for asking questions,--but i do wonder how she manages! also, to whom the shadows belong that cross the south piazza at night or intercept the rays of the dining-room lamp, our home beacon of dark nights. in addition to the usual and convenient modern shirt-waist-and-skirt endowment, maria had when she came but two gowns, one of black muslin and the other white, with improvised hats to match,--simple, graceful gowns, yet oversombre. but lo! she has blossomed forth like a spring seed catalogue, and bart insists that i watched the gate with his field-glass an hour the afternoon of the tea, to see her go out. i did no such thing; i was looking at an oriole's nest that hangs in the elm over the road, but i could not help seeing the lovely pink flower hat that she wore atilt, with just enough pink at the neck and streamers at the waist of her dress to harmonize. i visited the larder that evening for supper supplies,--yes, we have become so addicted to the freedom of outdoors that for the last few days bart has brought even the dinner up to camp, waiting upon me beautifully, for now we have entirely outgrown the feeling of the first few days that we were taking part in a comedy, and have found ourselves, as it were--in some ways, i think, for the first time. anastasia seemed consumed with a desire for a dish of gossip, but was not willing to take the initiative. she chuckled to herself and tried several perfectly transparent ways of attracting my attention, until i took pity on her, a very one-sided pity too, for, between ourselves, anastasia is the domestic salt and pepper that gives the garden vacation a flavour that i should sadly miss. "miss marie," she exclaimed, "do be the tastiest creaytur ever i set me eyes on." (she refused absolutely to call her maria; that name, she holds, is only fit for a settled old maid, "and that same it's not sure and fair to mark any woman wid being this side the grave.") then i knew that i only had to sit down and raise my eyes to anastasia's face in an attitude of attention, to open the word gates, and this i did. "well, fust off win she got the invite ter sing at the swarry that tops off the day's doings down to that golf club, she was that worried about hats you never seen the like! she wus over ter bridgeton, and barney swore he drove her ter every milliner in the place, and says she ter me, pleasant like, that evenin', when returned, in excuse fer havin' nothin' to show, 'oh, annie, annie, it would break yer heart to see the little whisp of flowers they ask five dollars for; to fix me hats a trifle would part me from a tin-dollar bill!'" (the sentiments i at once perceived might be maria's, but their translation anastasia's.) "now miss marie, she's savin' like,--not through meanness, but because she's got the good irish heart that boils against payin' rint, and she's hoardin' crown by shillin' till she kin buy her a cabin and to say a pertaty patch for a garden, somewhere out where it's green! faith! but she'll do it too; she's a manager! yez had orter see the illigant boned turkey she made out o' veal, stuck through with shrivelled black ground apples, she called 'puffles'! an glued it up foine wid jelly. sez i, 'they'll never know the difference,' but off she goes and lets it out and tells the makin' uv it ter every woman on the hill,--that's all i hev agin her. she's got a disease o' truth-telling when there's no need that would anguish the saints o' hiven theirselves! "'i kin make better 'n naturaler-lookin' hats fer nothin', here at home, than they keep in n' york,' she says after looking out the back window a piece. 'and who'll help yer?' says i, 'and where'll yer git the posies and what all?' "'i bought some bolts o' ribbon to-day,' says she, smilin'; 'and fer the rest, the garden, you, and i will manage it together, if you'll lend me a shelf all to meself in the cold closet whenever i need it!' sure fer a moment i wuz oneasy, fer i thought a wild streak run branchin' through all the boss's family!" (at the words garden, you, and i, there flashed through me the thought of some telepathic influence at work.) "'the garden's full o' growin' posies that outshames the flower-makers; watch out and see, anastasia!' "well and i did!! this mornin' early she picks a lot o' them sticky pink flowers by the stoop, the colour o' chiny shells, wid spokes in them like umbrellas, and the thick green leaves, and after leavin' 'em in water a spell, puts 'em in me cold closet, a small bit o' wet moss tied to each stem end wid green sewin' silk! a piece after dinner out she comes wid the hat that's covered with strong white lace, and she cocks it this way and pinches it that and sews the flowers to it quick wid a big thread and a great splashin' bow on behind, and into the cold box agin! "'that's fer this afternoon,' says she, and before she wore it off (a hat that eve, mother o' sin, and us all would envy), she'd another ready for the night! 'will it spoil now and give yer away, i wonder?' says i, anxious like. "'not fer two hours, at least; and it'll keep me from stayin' too long; if i do, it'll wither away and leave me all forlorn, like cinderella and her pumpkin coach!' she said a-smilin' kind uv to herself in me kitchen mirror, when she put the hat on. 'but i'm not insultin' god's flowers tryin' to pass them off for french ones, annie,' says she. 'i'm settin' a new garden fashion; let them follow who will!' and away wid her! that same other is in here now, and it's no sin to let yer peep, gin it's ye own posies and ye chest they're in." so, throwing open the door anastasia revealed the slate shelf covered by a sheet of white paper, while resting on an empty pickle jar, for a support, was the second hat, of loosely woven black straw braid, an ornamental wire edging the brim that would allow it to take a dozen shapes at will. it was garlanded by a close-set wreath of crimson peonies grading down to blush, all in half bud except one full-blown beauty high in front and one under the brim set well against the hair, while covering the wire, caught firm and close, were glossy, fragrant leaves of the wild sweetbrier made into a vine. ah, well, this is an unexpected development born of our experiment and a human sort of chronicle for the garden, you, and i. one of the most puzzling things in this living out-of-doors on our own place is the reversal of our ordinary viewpoints. never before did i realize how we look at the outdoor world from inside the house, where inanimate things force themselves into comparison. now we are seeing from outside and looking in at ourselves, so to speak, very much like the robin, who has his third nest, lop-sided disaster having overtaken the other two, in the old white lilac tree over my window. some of our doings, judged from the vantage point of the knoll, are very inconsistent. the spot occupied by the drying yard is the most suitable place for the new strawberry bed, and is in a direct line between the fence gap, where my fragrant things are to be, and the rose garden. several of the walks that have been laid out according to the plan, when seen from this height, curve around nothing and reach nowhere. we shall presently satisfy their empty embraces with shrubs and locate various other conspicuous objects at the terminals. also, the house is kept too much shut up; it looks inhospitable, seen through the trees, with branches always tossing wide to the breeze and sun. even if a room is unoccupied by people, it is no reason why the sun should be barred out, and at best we ourselves surely spend too much time in our houses in the season when every tree is a roof. we have decided not to move indoors again this summer, but to lodge here in the time between vacations and to annex the infant. oh, mrs. evan, dear! there is one thing in which _the man from everywhere_ reckoned without his host! stopping the clocks when we went in camp did not dislodge time from the premises; rather did it open the door to his entrance hours earlier than usual, when one of the chiefest luxuries we promised ourselves was late sleeping. stretched on our wire-springed, downy cots (there is positively no virtue in sleeping on hard beds, and bart considers it an absolute vice), there is a delicious period before sleep comes. bats flit about the rafters, and an occasional swallow twitters and shifts among the beams as the particular nest it guarded grew high and difficult to mount from the growth of the lusty brood within. the scuffle of little feet over the rough floor brings indolent, half-indifferent guessing as to which of the lesser four-foots they belonged. the whippoorwills down in the river woods call until they drop off, one by one, and the timid ditty of a singing mouse that lives under the floor by my cot is the last message the sandman sends to close our eyes before sleep. and such sleep! that first steel-blue starlit night in the open we said that we meant to sleep and sleep it out, even if we lost a whole day by it. it seemed but a moment after sleep had claimed us, when, struggling through the heavy darkness, came far-away light strands groping for our eyes, and soft, half-uttered music questioning the ear. returning i opened my eyes, and there was the sun struggling slowly through the screen of white birches in opie's wood lot, and scattering the night mists that bound down the opal farm with heavy strands; the air was tense with flitting wings, bird music rose, fell, and drifted with the mist, and it was only half-past four! you cannot kill time, you see, by stopping clocks--with nature day _is_, beyond all dispute. in two days, by obeying instead of opposing natural sun time, we had swung half round the clock, only now and then imitating the habits of our four-footed brothers that steal abroad in the security of twilight. [illustration: the screen of white birches. copyright, , h. hendrickson.] _june ._ amos opie, the carpenter, owner of opal farm, is now keeping widower's hall in the summer kitchen thereof. a thin thread of smoke comes idly from the chimney of the lean-to in the early morning, and at evening the old man sits in the well-house porch reading his paper so long as the light lasts, a hound of the ancient blue-spotted variety, with heavy black and tan markings, keeping him company. these two figures give the finishing touch to the picture that lies beyond us as we look from the sheltered corner of the camp, and strangely enough, though old opie is not of the direct line and has never lived in this part of new england before, he goes about with a sort of half-reminiscent air, as if picking up a clew long lost, while dave, the hound, at once assumed proprietary rights and shows an uncanny wisdom about the well-nigh fenceless boundaries. after his master has gone to bed, dave will often come over to visit us, after the calm fashion of a neighbour who esteems it a duty. at least that was his attitude at first; but after a while, when i had told him what a fine, melancholy face he had, that it was a mistake not to have christened him hamlet, and that altogether he was a good fellow, following up the conversation with a comforting plate of meat scraps (opie being evidently a vegetarian), dave began to develop a more youthful disposition. a week ago bart's long-promised, red setter pup arrived, a spirit of mischief on four clumsy legs. hardly had i taken him from his box (i wished to be the one to "first foot" him from captivity into the family, for that is a courtesy a dog never forgets) when we saw that dave was sitting just outside the doorless threshold watching solemnly. the puppy, with a gleeful bark, licked the veteran on the nose, whereat the expression of his face changed from one of uncertainty to a smile of indulgent if mature pleasure, and now he takes his young friend on a daily ramble down the pasture through the bit of marshy ground to the river, always bringing him back within a reasonable length of time, with an air of pride. evidently the hound was lonely. _the man from everywhere_, who prowls about even more than usual, using bart's den for his own meanwhile, says that the setter will be ruined, for the hound will be sure to trail him on fox and rabbit, and that in consequence he will never after keep true to birds, but somehow we do not care, this dog-friendship between the stranger and the pup is so interesting. by the way, we have financially persuaded opie to leave his straggling meadow, that carpets our vista to the river, for a wild garden this summer, instead of selling it as "standing grass," which the purchasers had usually mown carelessly and tossed into poor-grade hay, giving a pittance in exchange that went for taxes. so many flowers and vines have sprung up under shelter of the tumble-down fences that i was very anxious to see what pictures would paint themselves if the canvas, colour, and brushes were left free for the season through. already we have had our money's worth, so that everything beyond will be an extra dividend. the bit of marshy ground has been for weeks a lake of iris, its curving brink foamed with meadow rue and osmundas that have all the dignity of palms. now all the pasture edge is set with wild roses and wax-white blueberry flowers. sundrops are grouped here and there, with yellow thistles; the native sweetbrier arches over gray boulders that are tumbled together like the relic of some old dwelling; and the purple red calopogon of the orchid tribe adds a new colour to the tapestry, the cross-stitch filling being all of field daisies. truly this old farm is a well-nigh perfect wild garden, the strawberries dyeing the undergrass red, and the hedges bound together with grape-vines. it does not need rescuing, but letting alone, to be the delight of every one who wishes to enjoy. on being approached as to his future plans, amos opie merely sets his lips, brings his finger-tips together, and says, "i'm open to offers, but i'm not bound to set a price or hurry my decisions." meanwhile i am living in a double tremor, of delight at the present and fear lest some one may snap up the place and give us what the comic paper called a queen mary anne cottage and a stiff lawn surrounded by a gas-pipe fence to gaze upon. o for a pair of neighbours who would join us in comfortable vagabondage, leave the white birches to frame the meadows and the wild flowers in the grass! _june ._ we have been having some astonishing thunder-storms of nights lately, and i must say that upon one occasion i fled to the house. two nights ago, however, the sun set in an even sky of lead, there was no wind, no grumblings of thunder. we had passed a very active day and finished placing the stakes on the knoll in the locations to be occupied by shrubs and trees, all numbered according to the tagged specimens over in the reservoir woods. _the man from everywhere_ suggested this system, an adaptation, he says, from the usual one of numbering stones for a bit of masonry. it will prevent confusion, for the perspective will be different when the leaves have fallen, and as we lift the bushes, each one will go to its place, and we shall not lose a year's growth, or perhaps the shrub itself, by a second moving. our one serious handicap is the lack of a pair of extra hands, in this work as in the making of the rose bed, for our transplanting has developed upon a wholesale plan. barney does not approve of our passion for the wild; besides, between potatoes and corn to hoe, celery seedlings to have their first transplanting, vegetables to pick, turf grass to mow, and edges to keep trim, with a horse and cow to tend in addition, nothing more can be expected of him. i was half dozing, half listening, as usual, to the various little night sounds that constantly pique my curiosity, for no matter how long you may have lived in the country you are not wholly in touch with it until you have slept at least a few nights in the open,--when rain began to fall softly, an even, persevering, growing rain, entirely different from the lashing thunder-showers, and though making but half the fuss, was doubly penetrating. thinking how good it was for the ferns, and venturing remarks to bart about them, which, however, fell on sleep-deaf ears, i made sure that the pup was in his chosen place by my cot and drifted away to shadow land, glad that something more substantial than boughs covered me! i do not know how long it was before i wakened, but the first sound that formulated itself was the baying of dave, the hound, from the well-house porch, where he slept when his evening rambles kept him out until after amos opie had gone to bed. having freed his mind, dave presently stopped, but other nearer-by sounds made me again on the alert. the rain, that was falling with increasing power, held one key; the drip from the eaves and the irregular gush from a broken waterspout played separate tunes. i am well used to the night-time bravado of mice, who fight duels and sometimes pull shoes about, of the pranks of squirrels and other little wood beasts about the floor, but the noise that made me sit up in the cot and reach over until i could clutch bart by the arm belonged to neither of these. there was a swishing sound, as of water being wrung from something and dropping on the floor, and then a human exclamation, blended of a sigh, a wheeze, and a cough, at which the pup wakened with a growl entirely out of proportion to his age and inexperience. "i wonder, now, is that a dog or only uts growl ter sind me back in the wet fer luv av the laugh at me?" chirped a voice as hoarse as a buttery brogue would allow it to be. my clutch had brought bart to himself instantly, and at the words he turned the electric flashlight, that lodged under his pillow, full in the direction of the sound, where it developed a strange picture and printed it clearly on the opposite wall. in the middle of the circle of light was a little barefoot man, in trousers and shirt; a pair of sodden shoes lay at different angles where they had been kicked off, probably making the sound that had wakened me, and at the moment of the flash he was occupied in the wringing out of a coat that seemed strangely long for the short frame upon which it had hung. the face turned toward us was unmistakably irish, comical even, entirely unalarming, and with the expression, blended of terror and doubt, that it now wore, he might have slipped from the pages of a volume of lever that lay face down on the table. the nose turned up at the tip, as if asking questions of the eyes, that hid themselves between the half-shut lids in order to avoid answering. the skin was tanned, and yet you had a certain conviction that minus the tan the man would be very pale, while the iron-gray hair that topped the head crept down to form small mutton-chop whiskers and an old country throat thatch that was barely half an inch long. bart touched me to caution silence, and i, seeing at once that there was nothing to fear, waited developments. as soon as he could keep his eyes open against the sudden glare, the little man tried to grasp the column of light in his fingers, then darted out of it, and i thought he had bolted from the barn; but no, he was instantly back again, and dilapidated as he was, he did not look like a professional tramp. "no, yez don't fool larry mcmanus agin! yez are a mane, cold light with all yer blinkin', and no fire beneath to give 'im the good uv a cup o' tay or put a warm heart in 'im! two nights agone 'twas suspicion o' rats kep' me from shlapin', yesternight 'twas thought o' what wud become of poor oireland (mary rest her) had we schnakes there ter fill the drames o' nights loike they do here whin a man's a drap o'er full o' comfort. 'tis a good roof above! heth, thin, had i a whisp o' straw and a bite, wid this moonlight fer company, i'd not shog from out this the night to be king! "saints! but there's a dog beyant the bark!" he cried a minute after, as the pup crept over to him and began to be friendly,--"i wonder is a mon sinsible to go to trustin' the loight o' any moon that shines full on a pitch-black noight whin 'tis rainin'? och hone! but me stomach's that empty, gin i don't put on me shoes me lungs'll lake trou the soles o' me fate, and gin i do, me shoes they're that sopped, i'll cough them up--o-whurra-r-a! whurra-a! but will i iver see old oireland agin,--i don't know!" bart shut off the light, slipped on his shoes, and drawing a coat over his pajamas lighted the oil stable lantern, hung it with its back toward me, on a long hook that reached down from one of the rafters, and bore down upon larry, whose face was instantly wreathed in puckered smiles at the sight of a fellow-human who, though big, evidently had no intention of being aggressive. "well, larry mcmanus," said bart, cheerfully, "how came you in this barn so far away from oireland a night like this?" "seein' as yer another gintleman o' the road in the same ploice, what more loike than the misfortune's the same?" replied he, lengthening his lower lip and stretching his stubby chin, which he scratched cautiously. then, as he raised his eyes to bart's, he evidently read something in his general air, touselled and tanned as he was, that shifted his opinion at least one notch. "maybe, sor, you're an actor mon, sor, that didn't suit the folks in the town beyant, sor, but i'd take it as praise, so i would, for shure they're but pigs there,--i couldn't stop wid thim meself! thin agin, mayhap yer jest a plain gintleman, a bit belated, as it were,--a little belated on the way home, sor,--loike me, sor, that wus moinded to be in kildare, sor, come may-day, and blessed peter's day's nigh come about an' i'm here yit!" "you are getting on the right scent, larry," said bart, struggling with laughter, and yet, as he said after, not wishing possibly to huff this curious person. "i hope i'm a gentleman, but i'm not tramping about; this is my barn, in which my wife and i are sleeping, so if i were you, i wouldn't take off that shirt until i can find you a dry one!" the change that came over the man was comical. in a lightning flash he had fastened the few buttons in his blouse that it had taken his fumbling fingers several moments to unloose, and dropping one hand to his side, he held it there rigid as he saluted with two fingers at the brim of an imaginary hat; while his roving eye quickly took in the various motley articles of furniture of our camp,--a small kitchen table with oil-stove and tea outfit of plain white ware, some plates and bowls, a few saucepans, half a dozen chairs, no two alike, and the two cots huddled in the shadows,--his voice, that had been pitched in a confidential key, arose to a wail:-- "the saints luv yer honor, but do they be afther havin' bad landlords in meriky too, that evicted yer honor from yer house, sor? i thought here nigh every poor body owned their own bit, ground and roof, sor, let alone a foine man loike yerself that shows the breedin' down to his tin toes, sor. oi feel fer yer honor, fer there wuz i meself set out wid pig and cow both, sor (for thim bein' given kathy by her aunt fer her fortin could not be took), six years ago patrick's tide, sor, and hadn't she married mulqueen that same week, sor (he bein' gardener a long time to his riverence over in england, sor, and meetin' kathy only at his mother's wakin'), i'd maybe been lodged in a barn meself, sor! sure, hev ye the cow below ud let me down a drap o' milk?" then did bart laugh long and heartily, for this new point of view in regard to our doings amused him immensely. of all the local motives attributed to our garden vacation, none had been quite so naïve and unexpected as this! "but we haven't been evicted," said bart, unconsciously beginning to apologize to an unknown straggler. "i own this place and my home is yonder; we are camping here for our health and pleasure. come, it's time you gave an account of yourself, as you are trespassing." that the situation suddenly began to annoy bart was plain. ignoring the tail of the speech, larry saluted anew: "sure, sor, i knew ye at first fer gintleman and leddy, which this same last proves; a rale gintleman and his leddy can cut about doin' the loikes of which poor folks ud be damned fer! i mind well how lord kilmartin's youngest--she wid the wild red hair an' eyes that wud shame a doe--used to go barefoot through the dew down to biddie macks's cabin to drink fresh buttermilk, whin they turned gallons o' it from their own dairy. some said, underbreath, she was touched, and some wild loike, but none spoke loud but to wish her speed, fer that's what it is to be a leddy! "meself, is it? och, it's soon told. six years lived i there wid kathy and mulqueen, workin' in the garden, he keepin' before me, until one day his riverence come face agin me thruble. oh, yis, sor, that same, that bit sup that's too much for the stomick, sor, and so gets into the toes and tongue, sor! four times a year the spell's put on me, sor, and gin i shlape it over, i'm a good man in between, sor, but that one time, sor, mulqueen was sint to lunnon, sor, and i missed me shlape fer mischief. "well, thinks i, i'll go to meriky and see me johnny, me youngest; most loike they're more used to the shlapin' spells out there where all is free; but they wasn't! johnny's a sheriff and got money wid his woman, and she's no place in her house fit fer the old man resting the drap off. so he gives me money to go home first class, and says he'll sind another bit along to kathy fer me keepin'. "this was come easter, and bad cess, one o' me shlapes was due, and so i've footed it to get a job to take me back to kathy. if i could strike a port just right, hiven might get me home between times in a cattle boat. "i'm that well risted now i could do good work if i had full feed, maybe till michaelmas. hiven rest ye, sor, but have ye ever a job o' garden work now on yer estate, sor, that would kape me until i got the bit to cross to kathy?" as bart hesitated, i burst forth, "have you ever tended flowers, larry?" "flowers, me leddy?--that's what i did fer his riverence, indoors and out, and dressed them fer the shows, mem, and not few's the prize money we took. his riverence, he called a rose for kathy, that is to say kathleen; 'twas that big 'twould hide yer face. flowers, is it? well, i don't know!" bart, meanwhile, had made a plan, telling larry that he would draw a cup of tea and give him something to eat, while he thought the matter over. he soon had the poor fellow wrapped in an old blanket and snoring comfortably in the straw, while, as the rain had stopped and dawn began to show the outlines of opal farm, bart suggested that i had best go indoors and finish my broken sleep, while he had a chance to scrutinize larry by daylight before committing himself. when he rejoined me several hours later for an indoor breakfast, for it had turned to rain again and promised several days of the saturate weather that makes even a mountain camp utterly dreary, he brought me the news that larry was to work for me especially, beginning on the rose bed,--that he would lodge with amos opie and take his meals with anastasia, who thinks it likely that they are cousins on the mothers' side, as they are both of the same parish and name. the _exact_ way of our meeting with him need not be dwelt upon domestically, for the sake of discipline, as he will have more self-respect among his fellows in the combination clothes we provided, "until his baggage arrives." he is to be paid no money, and allowed to "shlape" if a spell unhappily arrives. when the season is over, bart agrees to see him on board ship with a prepaid passage straight to kathy, and whatever else is his due sent to her! meanwhile he promised to "fit the leddy with the tastiest garden off the old sod!" so here we are! this chronicle should have a penny-dreadful title, "their midnight adventure, or how it rained a rose gardener!" tell me about the ferns next time; we have only moved the glossy christmas and evergreen-crested wood ferns as yet, being sure of these. how about our fencing? ask evan. you remember that we have a picket-fence toward the road, but on three sides the boundary is only a tumble-down stone wall in which bird cherries have here and there found footing. we have a chance to sell the stones, and bart is thinking of it, as it will be too costly to rebuild on a good foundation. the old wall was merely a rough-laid pile. ix ferns, fences, and white birches (barbara campbell to mary penrose) _hemlock hills, july ._ for nearly a week we have been sauntering through this most entrancing hill country, practically a pedestrian trip, except that the feet that have taken the steps have been shod with steel instead of leather. your last chronicle has followed me, and was read in a region so pervaded by ferns that your questions concerning their transplanting would have answered themselves if you could have only perched on the rock beside me. there is a fern-lined ravine below, a fern-bordered road in front; and above a log cottage, set in a clearing in the hemlocks which has for its boundaries the tumble-down fence piled by the settlers a century or two ago, its crevices now filled by leaf-mould, has become at once a natural fernery and a barrier. why do you not use your old wall in a like manner? of course your stones may be too closely piled and lack the time-gathered leaf-mould, but a little discretion in removing or tipping a stone here and there, and a crowbar for making pockets, would work wonders. you might even exchange the surplus rocks for leaf-mould, load by load; at any rate large quantities of fern soil must be obtainable for the carting at the reservoir woods. imagine the effect, if you please, of that irregular line of rocks swathed in vines and sheltering great clumps of ferns, while it will afford an endless shelter for every sort of wild thing that you may pick up in your rambles. of course you need not plant it all at once, but having made the plan, develop it at leisure. you should never quite finish a country place unless you expect to leave it. the something more in garden life is the bale of hay before the horse's nose on the uphill road. last year, for almost a week, we thought our garden quite as finished as the material and surroundings would allow,--it was a strange, dismal, hollow sort of feeling. however, it was soon displaced by the desire that i have to collect my best roses in one spot, add to them, and gradually form a rosary where the garden queen and all her family may have the best of air, food, and lodgings. you see i feared that the knoll, hardy beds, and rose garden were not sufficient food for your mind to ruminate, so i add the fern fence as a sort of dessert! [illustration: an endless shelter for every sort of wild thing.] "where is the shade that ferns need?" i hear you ask, "for except under some old apple trees and where the bird cherries grow (and they, though beautiful at blooming time and leaf fall, attract tent caterpillars), the stone wall lies in the sun!" yes, but in one of the woodland homes of this region i have seen a screen placed by such a rustic stone fence that it not only served the purpose of giving light shade, but was a thing of beauty in itself, dividing the vista into many landscapes, the frame being long or upright according to the planter's fancy. do you remember the old saying "when away keep open thine eyes, and so pack thy trunk for the home-going?" on this drive of ours i've been cramming my trunk to overflowing, and yet the ideas are often the simplest possible, for the people of this region, with more inventive art than money, have the perfect gift of adapting that which lies nearest to hand. you spoke in your last chronicle of the screen of white birches through which you saw the sun rise over the meadows of opal farm. this birch springs up in waste lands almost everywhere. we have it in abundance in the wood lot on the side of our hill, and it is scattered through the wet woods below our wild walk, showing that all it needs is a foothold. because it is common and the wood rather weak and soft, landscape gardening has rather passed it by, turning a cold shoulder, yet the slender tree is very beautiful. true, it has not the length of life, the girth and strength of limb, of the silver-barked canoe birch, but the white birch will grow in a climate that fevers its northern cousin. in spite of its delicate qualities, it is not a trivial tree, for i have seen it with a bole of more than forty feet in length, measuring eighteen inches through at the ground. when you set it, you are not planting for posterity, perhaps, but will gain a speedy result; and the fertility of the tree, when once established, will take care of the future. what is more charming after a summer shower than a natural cluster of these picturesque birches, as they often chance to group themselves in threes, like the graces--the soft white of the trunks, with dark hieroglyphic shadows here and there disappearing in a drapery of glossy leaves, green above and reflecting the bark colour underneath, all a-quiver and more like live things poised upon the russet twigs than delicate pointed leaves! then, when the autumn comes, how they stand out in company with cedar bushes and sheep laurel on the hillsides to make beautiful the winter garden, and we stand in mute admiration when these white birches reach from a snowbank and pencil their frosty tracery against a wall of hemlocks. this is the simple material that has been used with such wonderful effect. in the gardens hereabout they have flanked their alleys with the birches, for even when fully grown their habit is more poplar-like than spreading, and many plants, like lilies, requiring partial shade flourish under them; while for fences and screens the trees are planted in small groups, with either stones and ferns, or shrubs set thick between, and the most beautiful winter fence that evan says he has ever seen in all his wanderings amid costly beauty was when, last winter, in being here to measure for some plans, he came suddenly upon an informal boundary and screen combined, over fifty feet in length, made of white birches,--the groups of twos and threes set eight or ten feet apart, the gaps being filled by japanese barberries laden with their scarlet fruit. even now this same screen is beautiful enough with its shaded greens, while the barberries in their blooming time, and the crimson leaf glow of autumn, give it four distinct seasons. the branches of the white birch being small and thickly set, they may be trimmed at will, and windows thus opened here and there without the look of artifice or stiffness. fences are always a moot question to the gardener, for if she has a pleasant neighbour, she does not like to raise an aggressive barrier or perhaps cut off the view, yet to a certain extent i like being walled in at least on two sides. a total lack of boundaries is too impersonal,--the eye travels on and on: there is nothing to rest it by comparison. also, where there are no fences or hedges,--and what are hedges but living fences,--there is nothing to break the ground draught in winter and early springtime. the ocean is much more beautiful and full of meaning when brought in contact with a slender bit of coast. the moon has far more majesty when but distancing the tree-tops than when rolling apparently at random through an empty sky. a vast estate may well boast of wide sweeps and open places, but the same effect is not gained, present fashion to the contrary, by throwing down the barriers between a dozen homes occupying only half as many acres. preferable is the cosey english walled villa of the middle class, even though it be a bit stuffy and suggestive of earwigs. the question should not be to fence or not to fence, but rather _how_ to fence usefully and artistically, and any one who has an old stone wall, such as you have, moss grown and tumble-down, with the beginnings of wildness already achieved, has no excuse for failure. we have seen other fences here where bushes, wire, and vines all take part, but they cannot compete with an old wall. with ferns, a topic opens as long and broad and deep as the glen below us, and of almost as uncertain climbing, for it is not so much what ferns may be dug up and, as individual plants, continue to grow in new surroundings, but how much of their haunt may be transplanted with them, that the fern may keep its characteristics. many people do not think of this, nor would they care if reminded. water lilies, floating among their pads in the still margin of a stream, with jewelled dragon-flies darting over, soft clouds above and the odour of wild grapes or swamp azalea wafting from the banks, are no more to them than half a dozen such lilies grown in a sunken tub or whitewashed basin in a backyard; rather are they less desirable because less easily controlled and encompassed. such people, and they are not a few, belong to the tribe of peter bell, who saw nothing more in the primrose by the river's brim than that it was a primrose, and consequently yellow. doubtless it would have looked precisely the same to him, or even more yellow, if it had bloomed in a tin can! we do not treat our native ferns with sufficient respect. homage is paid in literature to the palm, and it is an emblem of honour, but our new england ferns, many of them equally majestic, are tossed into heaps for hay and mown down by the ruthless scythe of the farmer every autumn when he shows his greatest agricultural energy by stripping the waysides of their beauty prior to the coming of the roadmender with his awful "turn-piking" process. if, by the way, the automobilists succeed in stopping this piking practice, we will print a nice little prayer for them and send it to saint peter, so that, though it won't help them in this world,--that would be dangerous,--it will by and by! in the woods the farmer allows the ferns to stand, for are they not one of the usual attributes of a picnic? stuck in the horses' bridle, they keep off flies; they serve to deck the tablecloth upon which the food is spread; gathered in armfuls, they somewhat ease the contact of the rheumatic with the rocks, upon which they must often sit on such occasions. they provide the young folks with a motive to seek something further in the woods, and give the acquisitive ladies who "press things" much loot to take home, and all without cost. this may not be respectful treatment, but it is not martyrdom; the fern is a generous plant, a thing of wiry root-stock and prehistoric tenacity; it has not forgotten that tree ferns are among its ancestors; when it is discouraged, it rests and grows again. but imagine the feelings of a mat of exquisite maidenhair rent from a shady slope with moss and partridge vine at its feet, and quivering elusive woodland shade above, on finding itself unceremoniously crowded into a bed, between cannas or red geraniums! or fancy the despair of either of the wide-spreading osmundas, lovers of stream borders opulent with leaf-mould, or wood hollows deep with moist richness, on finding themselves ranged in a row about the porch of a summer cottage, each one tied firmly to a stake like so many green parasols stuck in the dry loam point downward! it is not so much a question of how many species of native ferns can be domesticated, for given sufficient time and patience all things are possible, but how many varieties are either decorative, interesting, or useful away from their native haunts. for any one taking what may be called a botanical interest in ferns, a semi-artificial rockery, with one end in wet ground and the other reaching dry-wood conditions, is extremely interesting. in such a place, by obtaining some of the earth with each specimen and tagging it carefully, an out-of-door herbarium may be formed and something added to it every time an excursion is made into a new region. otherwise the ferns that are worth the trouble of transplanting and supplying with soil akin to that from which they came, are comparatively few. of decorative species the osmundas easily lead; being natives of swampy or at least moist ground, they should have a like situation, and yet so strong are their roots and crown of leaves that they will flourish for years after the moisture that has fed them has been drained and the shading overgrowth cut away, even though dwarfed in growth and coarsened in texture. thus people seeing them growing under these conditions in open fields and roadside banks mistake their necessities. the royal fern (_osmunda regalis_) positively demands moisture; it will waive the matter of shade in a great degree, but water it must have. the cinnamon fern, that encloses the spongelike, brown, fertile fronds in the circle of green ones, gains its greatest size of five feet in roadside runnels or in springy places between boulders in the river woods; yet so accommodating is it that you can use it at the base of your knoll if a convenient rock promises both reasonable dampness and shelter. the third of the family (_osmunda claytonia_) is known as the interrupted fern, because in may the fertile black leaflets appear in the middle of the fronds and interrupt the even greenness. this fern will thrive in merely moist soil and is very charming early in the season, but like the other two, out of its haunts, cannot be relied upon after august. as a fern for deep soil, where walking room can be allowed it, the common brake, or bracken (_pteris aquilina_) is unsurpassed. it will grow either in sandy woods or moist, and should have a certain amount of high shade, else its broad fronds, held high above the ground umbrella-wise, will curl, grow coarse, and lose the fernlike quality altogether. you can plant this safely in the bit of old orchard that you are giving over to wild asters, black-eyed susan, and sundrops, but mind you, be sure to take both larry and barney, together with a long post-hole spade, when you go out to dig brakes,--they are not things of shallow superficial roots, i can assure you. a few years ago evan, timothy saunders, and i went brake-hunting, i selecting the groups and the menkind digging great solid turfs a foot or more in depth, in order to be sure the things had native earth enough along to mother them into comfortable growth. proudly we loaded the big box wagon, for we had taken so much black peat (as the soil happened to be) that not a root hung below and success was certain. when, on reaching home, in unloading, one turf fell from the cart and crumbled into fragments, to my dismay i found that the long, tough stalk ran quite through the clod and we had no roots at all, but that (if inanimate things can laugh) they were all laughing at us back in the meadow and probably another foot underground. yet brakes are well worth the trouble of deep digging, for if once established, a waste bit, where little else will flourish, is given a graceful undergrowth that is able to stand erect even though the breeze plays with the little forest as it does with a field of grain. then, too, the brake patch is a treasury to be drawn from when arranging tall flowers like foxgloves, larkspurs, hollyhocks, and others that have little foliage of their own. the fact that the brake does not mature its seeds that lie under the leaf margin until late summer also insures it a long season of sightliness, and when ripeness finally draws nigh, it comes in a series of beautiful mellow shades, varying from straw through deep gold to russet, such as the beech tree chooses for its autumn cloak. another plant there is, a low-growing shrub, having long leaves with scalloped edges, giving a spicy odour when crushed or after rain, that i must beg you to plant with these brakes. it is called sweet-fern, merely by courtesy, from its fernlike appearance, for it is of the bayberry family and first cousin to sweet gale and waxberry. the digging of this also is a process quite as elusive as mining for brakes; but when once it sets foot in your orchard, and it will enjoy the drier places, you will have a liberal annex to your bed of sweet odours, and it may worthily join lemon balm, mignonette, southernwood, and lavender in the house, though in the garden it would be rather too pushing a companion. next, both decorative and useful, comes the silvery spleenwort, that is content with shade and good soil of any sort, so long as it is not rank with manure. it has a slender creeping root, but when it once takes hold, it flourishes mightily and after a year or so will wave silver-lined fronds three feet long proudly before you, a rival of osmunda! a sister spleenwort is the beautiful lady fern, whose lacelike fronds have party-coloured stems, varying from straw through pink and reddish to brown, giving an unusual touch of life and warmth to one of the cool green fern tribe. in autumn the entire leaf of this fern, in dying, oftentimes takes these same hues; it is decorative when growing and useful to blend with cut flowers. it naturally prefers woods, but will settle down comfortably in the angle of a house or under a fence, and will be a standby in your wall rockery. the ferns that seem really to prefer the open, one taking to dry and two to moist ground, are the hay-scented fern (_dicksonia punctilobula_), the new york fern (_dryopteris noveboracencis_), and the marsh shield-fern. dicksonia has a pretty leaf of fretwork, and will grow three feet in length, though it is usually much shorter. it is the fern universal here with us, it makes great swales running out from wood edges to pastures, and it rivals the bayberry in covering hillsides; it will grow in dense beds under tall laurels or rhododendrons, border your wild walk, or make a setting of cheerful light green to the stone wall; while if cut for house decoration, it keeps in condition for several days and almost rivals the maidenhair as a combination with sweet peas or roses. the new york fern, when of low stature, is one of the many bits of growing carpet of rich cool woods. if it is grown in deep shade, the leaves become too long and spindling for beauty. when in moist ground, quite in the open, or in reflected shade, the fresh young leaves of a foot and under add great variety to the grass and are a perfect setting for table decorations of small flowers. we have these ferns all through the dell. if they are mown down in june, july sees a fresh crop, and their spring green is held perpetual until frost. the marsh shield-fern of gentian meadows is the perfect small fern for a bit of wet ground, and is the green to be used with all wild flowers of like places. one day last autumn i had a bouquet of grass-of-parnassus, ladies' tresses, and gentian massed thickly with these ferns, and the posey lived for days on the sunny window shelf of the den (for gentians close their eyes in shade),--a bit of the september marshland brought indoors. the two beech-ferns, the long and the broad, you may grow on the knoll; give the long the dampest spots, and place the broad where it is quite dry. as the rootstocks of both these are somewhat frail, i would advise you to peg them down with hairpins and cover well with earth. by the way, i always use wire hairpins to hold down creeping rootstocks of every kind; it keeps them from springing up and drying before the rootlets have a chance to grasp the soil. the roots of maidenhair should always be treated in this way, as they dry out very quickly. this most distinctive of our new england ferns will grow between the rocks of your knoll, as well as in deep nooks in the fence. it seems to love rich side-hill woods and craves a rock behind its back, and if you are only careful about the soil, you can have miniature forests of it with little trouble. as for maidenhair, all its uses are beauty! give me a bouquet of perfect wild rosebuds within a deep fringe of maidenhair to set in a crystal jar where i may watch the deep pink petals unfold and show the golden stars within; let me breathe their first breath of perfume, and you may keep all the greenhouse orchids that are grown. though you can have a variety of ferns in other locations, those that will thrive best on the knoll and keep it ever green and in touch with laurel and hemlock, are but five,--the christmas fern, the marginal shield-fern, the common rock polypody, the ebony spleenwort, and the spinulose wood-fern. of the first pair it is impossible to have too many. the christmas fern, with its glistening leaves of holly green, has a stout, creeping rootstock, which must be firmly secured, a few stones being added temporarily to the hairpins to give weight. the evergreen wood-fern and ebony spleenwort, having short rootstocks, can be tucked into sufficiently deep holes between rocks or in the hollows left by small decayed stumps, while the transplanting of the rock polypody is an act where luck, recklessness, and a pinch of magic must all be combined. you will find vast mats of these leathery little polypodys growing with rock-selaginella on the great boulders of the river woods. as these are to be split up for masonry, the experiment of transferring the polypody is no sin, though it savours somewhat of the process of skin-grafting. evan and i have tried the experiment successfully, so that it is no fable. we had a bit of shady bank at home that proved by the mosses that grew on it that it was moistened from beneath the year through. the protecting shade was of tall hickories, and a rock ledge some twenty feet high shielded it from the south and east. we scraped the moss from a circle of about six feet and loosened the surface of the earth only, and very carefully. then we spread some moist leaf-mould on the rough but flat surface of a partly exposed rock. going to a near-by bit of woods that was being despoiled, as in your valley, we chose two great mats of polypody and moss that had no piercing twigs to break the fabric, and carefully peeled them from the rocks, as you would bark from a tree, the matted rootstocks weaving all together. moistening these thoroughly, we wrapped them in a horse blanket and hurried home. the earth and rock already prepared were sprinkled with water and the fern fabric applied and gently but firmly pressed down, that resting on the earth being held by the ever useful hairpin! the rock graft was more difficult, but after many failures by way of stones that rolled off, a coarse network of cords was put across and fastened to whatever twigs or roots came in the way. naturally a period of constant sprinkling followed, and for that season the rock graft seemed decidedly homesick, but the next spring resignation had set in, and two years later the polypodys had completely adopted the new location and were prepared to appropriate the whole of it. so you see that there are comparatively only a few ferns, after all, that are of great value to the garden, you, and i, and likewise there are but a few rules for their transplanting, viz.:-- don't bother about the tops, for new ones will grow, but look to the roots, and do not let them be exposed to the air or become dry in travel. examine the quality of soil from which you have taken the ferns, and if you have none like it nearer home, take some with you for a starter! never dig up more on one day than you can plant during the next, and above all remember that if a fern is worth tramping the countryside for, it is worth careful planting, and that the moral remarks made about the care in setting out of roses apply with double force to the handling of delicate wild flowers and ferns. good luck to your knoll, mary penrose, and to your fern fence, if that fancy pleases you. may the magic of fern seed fill your eyes and let you see visions, the goodly things of heart's desire, when, all being accomplished, you pause and look at the work of your hands. "and nimble fay and pranksome elf flash vaguely past at every turn, or, weird and wee, sits puck himself, with legs akimbo, on a fern!" x frankness,--gardening and otherwise (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _july ._--_midsummer night._ since the month came in, vacation time has been suspended, insomuch that bart goes to the office every day, saturdays excepted; but we have not returned to our indoor bedroom. once it seemed the definition of airy coolness, with its three wide windows, white matting, and muslin draperies, but now--i fully understand the relative feelings of a bird in a cage and a bird in the open. the air blows through the bars and the sun shines through them, but it is still a cage. in these warm, still nights we take down the slat screens that hang between the hand-hewn chestnut beams of the old barn, and with the open rafters of what was a hay-loft above us, we look out of the door-frame straight up at the stars and sometimes drag our cots out on the wide bank that tops the wall, overlooking the opal farm, and sleep wholly under the sky. these two weeks past we have had the infant with us at night, clad in a light woollen monkey-suit nighty with feet, her crib being, however, under cover. her open-eyed wonder has been a new phase of the vacation. knowing no fear, she has begun to develop a feeling of kinship with all the small animals, not only of the barn but dwellers on opal farm as well, and when she discovered a nest of small mice in an old tool-box under the eaves and proposed to take them, in their improvised house, to her very own room at the opposite end, this "room" being a square marked around her bed by small flower-pots, set upside down, i protested, as a matter of course, saying that mice were not things to handle, and besides they would die without their mother. the infant, still clutching the box, looked at me in round-eyed wonder: "i had dinah and the kittens to play with in the nursery, didn't i, mother?" "certainly!" "and when ann-stasia brought them up in her ap'n, dinah walked behind, didn't she?" "yes, i think so!" "ver-r-y well, the mouse mother will walk behind too, and i love mice better'n cats, for they have nicer hands; 'sides, mother, don't you know who mice really and truly are, and why they have to hide away? they are the horses that fairlies drive, and i'm going to have these for the fairlies in my village!" making a sweep of her arm toward the encampment of flower-pots; "if you want fairlies to stay close beside your bed, you must give them horses to drive, 'cause when it gets cold weather cobwebs gets too sharp for them to ride on and there isn't always fireflies 'n candle worms to show 'em the way,--'n it's true, 'cause larry says so!" she added, probably seeing the look of incredulity on my face. "larry knows fairlies and they're really trulies; if you're bad to them, you'll see the road and it won't be there, and so you'll get into hen'sy's bog! larry did,--and if you make houses for them like mine (pointing to the flower-pots) and give 'em drinks of milk and flower wine, they'll bring you _lots_ of childrens! they did to larry, so i'm trying to please 'em wif my houses, so's to have some to play wif!" larry's harmless folklore (for when he is quite himself, as he is in these days, he has a certain refinement and an endless fund of marvellous legends and stories), birds and little beasts for friends, dolls cut from paper with pansies fastened on for faces, morning-glories for cups in which to give the fairies drink, what could make a more blissful childhood for our little maid? that is the everlasting pity of a city childhood. creature comforts may be had and human friends, but where is the vista that reaches under the trees and through the long meadow-grass where the red-gold lily bells tinkle, up the brook bed to the great flat mossy rock, beneath which is the door to fairyland, the spotted turtle being warder. fairyland, the country of eternal youth and possibility! i wouldn't give up the fairies that i once knew and peopled the solemn woods with down in grandfather's virginia home for a fortune, and even now, any day, i can put my ear to the earth, like tommy-anne, and hear the grass grow. it occurred to me yesterday that the infant, in age, temperament, and heredity, is suited to be a companion for your richard. could you not bring him down with you before the summer is over? though, as the unlike sometimes agree best, ian and she might be more compatible, so bring them both and we will turn the trio loose in the meadows of opal farm with a mite of a shetland pony that _the man from everywhere_ has recently bestowed upon the infant--crazy, extravagant man! what we shall do with it in winter i do not know, as we cannot yet run into the expense of keeping such live stock. but why bother? it is only midsummer now, grazing is plentiful and seems to suit the needs of this spunky little beast, and the infant riding him "across country," as bart calls her wanderings about opal farm, is a spectacle too pretty to be denied us. yes, i know i'm silly, and that you have the twins to rhapsodize about, but girls are so much more picturesque in the clothes! what! thought she wore gingham bloomers! yes, but not all the time, for maria will frill her up and run her with ribbons of afternoons! * * * * * back to the house and garden! i'm wandering, but then i'm lady lazy this summer, as _the man from everywhere_ calls me, and naturally a bit inconsequent! as i said, bart is at the office daily, and will be for another week, but lady lazy has not returned to what maria maxwell calls "the tyranny of the three m's,"--the mending basket, the market book, and the money-box! i was willing, quite willing; in fact it is only fair that maria should have her time of irresponsibility, for i know that she has half a dozen invitations to go to pleasant places and meet people, one being from lavinia cortright to visit her shore cottage. i'm always hoping that maria may meet the "right man" some summer day, but that she surely will never do if she stays here. "i've everything systematized, and it's easier for me to go on than drop the needles for a fortnight or so and then find, on coming back, that you have been knitting a mitten when i had started the frame of a sock," maria said, laughing; "make flower hay while the crop is to be had for the gathering, my lady! another year you may not have such free hands!" then my protests grew weaker and weaker, for the establishment had thriven marvellously well without my daily interference. the jam closet shows rows of everything that might be made of strawberries, cherries, currants, and raspberries, and it suddenly struck me that possibly if domestic machinery is set going on a consistent basis, whether it is not a mistake to do too much oiling and tightening of a screw here and there, unless distinct symptoms of a halt render it absolutely necessary. "very well," i said, with a show of spunk, "give me one single task, that i may not feel as if i had no part in the homemaking. something as ornamental and frivolous as you choose, but that shall occupy me at least two hours a day!" maria paused a moment; we were then standing in front of the fireplace, where a jar of bayberry filled the place of logs between the andirons. first, casting her eyes through the doors of dining room, living room, and den, she fixed them on me with rather a mischievous twinkle, as she said, "you shall gather and arrange the flowers for the house; and always have plenty of them, but never a withered or dropsical blossom among them all. you shall also invent new ways for arranging them, new combinations, new effects, the only restriction being that you shall not put vases where the water will drip on books, or make the house look like the show window of a wholesale florist. i will give you a fresh mop, and you can have the back porch and table for your workshop, and if i'm not mistaken, you will find two hours a day little enough for the work!" she added with very much the air of some one engaging a new housemaid and presenting her with a broom! it has never taken me two hours to gather and arrange the flowers, and though of course we are only beginning to have much of a garden, we've always had flowers in the house,--quantities of sweet peas and such things, besides wild flowers. i began to protest, an injured feeling rising in my throat, that she, maria maxwell, music teacher, city bound for ten years, should think to instruct _me_ of recent outdoor experience. "yes, you've always had flowers, but did you pick the sweet peas or did barney? did you cram them haphazard into the first thing that came handy (probably that awful bowl decorated in ten discordant colours and evidently a wedding present, for such atrocities never find any other medium of circulation)? or did you separate them nicely, and arrange the pink and salmon peas with the lavender in that plain-coloured sevres vase that is unusually accommodating in the matter of water, then putting the gay colours in the blue-and-white delft bowl and the duller ones in cut glass to give them life? having plenty, did you change them every other day, or the moment the water began to look milky, or did you leave them until the flowers clung together in the first stages of mould? meanwhile, the ungathered flowers on the vines were seriously developing peas and shortening their stems to be better able to bear their weight. and, mary penrose,"--here maria positively glared at me as if i had been a primary pupil in the most undesirable school of her route who was both stone deaf and afflicted with catarrh, "did you wash out your jars and vases with a mop every time you changed the flowers, and wipe them on a towel separate from the ones used for the pantry glass? no, you never did! you tipped the water out over there at the end of the piazza by the honeysuckles, because you couldn't quite bring yourself to pouring it down the pantry sink, refilled the vases, and that was all!" in spite of a certain sense of annoyance that i felt at the way in which maria was giving me a lecture, and somehow when a person has taught for ten years she (particularly _she_) inevitably acquires a rather unpleasant way of imparting the truth that makes one wish to deny it, i stood convicted in my own eyes as well as in maria's. it had so often happened that when either barney had brought in the sweet peas and left them on the porch table, or bart had gathered a particularly beautiful wild bouquet in one of his tramps, i had lingered over a book or some bit of work upstairs until almost the time for the next meal, and then, seeing the half-withered look of reproach that flowers wear when they have been long out of water, i have jammed them helter-skelter into the first receptacle at hand. sometimes a little rough verbal handling stirs up the blood under a too-complacent cuticle. maria's preachment did me good, the more probably because the time was ripe for it, and therefore the past two weeks have been filled with new pleasures, for another thing that the month spent in the open has shown me is the wonderful setting the natural environment and foliage gives to a flower. at first the completeness appeals insensibly, and unless one is of the temperament that seeks the cause behind the effect, it might never be realized. the japanese have long since arrived at a method of arranging flowers which is quality and intrinsic value as opposed to miscellaneous quantity. the way of nature, however, it seems to me, is twofold, for there are flowers that depend for beauty, and this with nature that seems only another word for perpetuity, upon the strength of numbers, as well as those that make a more individual appeal. the composite flowers--daisies, asters, goldenrod--belong to the class that take naturally to massing, while the blue flag, meadow and wood lilies, together with the spiked orchises, are typical of the second. by the same process of comparison i have decided that jars and vases having floral decorations themselves are wholly unsuitable for holding flowers. they should be cherished as bric-a-brac, when they are worthy specimens of the art of potter and painter, but as receptacles for flowers they have no use beyond holding sprays of beautiful foliage or silver-green masses of ferns. porcelain, plain in tint and of carefully chosen colours, such as beef-blood, the old rose, and peach-blow hues, in which so many simple forms and inexpensive bits of japanese pottery may be bought, a peculiar creamy yellow, a dull green, gobelin, and delft blue and white, sacred to the jugs and bowls of our grandmothers, all do well. cut glass is a fine setting for flowers of strong colour, but kills the paler hues, and above and beyond all is the dark moss-green glass of substantial texture that is fashioned in an endless variety of shapes. by chance, gift, and purchase we have gathered about a dozen pieces of this, ranging from a cylinder almost the size of an umbrella-stand down through fluted, hat-shaped dishes, for roses or sweet peas, to some little troughs of conventional shapes in which pansies or other short-stemmed flowers may be arranged so as to give the look of an old-fashioned parterre to the dining table. i had always found these useful, but never quite realized to the full that green or brown is the only consistent undercolour for all field and grass-growing flowers until this summer. but during days that i have spent browsing in the river woods, while bart and barney, and more recently larry, have been digging the herbs that we have marked, i have realized the necessity of a certain combination of earth, bark, and dead-leaf browns in the receptacles for holding wood flowers and the vines that in their natural ascent clasp and cling to the trunks and limbs of trees. several years ago mother sent me some pretty flower-holders made of bamboos of different lengths, intended evidently to hang against door-jambs or in hallways. the pith was hollowed out here and there, and the hole plugged from beneath to make little water pockets. these did admirably for a season, but when the wood dried, it invariably split, and treacherous dripping followed, most ruinous to furniture. a few weeks back, when looking at some mossed and gnarled branches in the woods, an idea occurred to bart and me at the same moment. why could we not use such pieces as these, together with some trunks of your beloved white birch, to which i, _via_ the screen at opal farm, was becoming insensibly devoted at the very time that you wrote me? augur holes could be bored in them at various distances and angles, if not too acute; the thing was to find glass, in bottle or other forms, to fit in the openings. this difficulty was solved by _the man from everywhere_ on his reappearance the night before the fourth, after an absence of a whole week, laden with every manner of noise and fire making arrangement for the infant, though i presently found that bart had partly instigated the outfit, and the two overgrown boys revelled in fire-balloons and rockets under cover of the infant's enthusiasm, much as the grandpa goes to the circus as an apparent martyr to little tommy's desire! a large package that, from the extreme care of its handling, i judged must hold something highly explosive, on being opened divulged many dozens of the slender glass tubes, with a slight lip for holding cord or wire, such as, filled with roses or orchids, are hung in the garlands of asparagus vines and smilax in floral decorations of either houses or florists' windows. these tubes varied in length from four to six inches, the larger being three inches in diameter. "behold your leak-proof interiors!" he cried, holding one up. "now set your wits and bart's tool-box to work and we shall have some speedy results!" dear _man from everywhere_, he had bought a gross of the glasses, thereby reminding me of a generous but eccentric great-uncle of ours who had a passion for attending auctions, and once, by error, in buying, as he supposed, twelve yellow earthenware bowls, found himself confronted by twelve _dozen_. thus grandmother's storeroom literally had a golden lining, and my entire childhood was pervaded with these bowls, several finally falling into my possession for the mixing of mud pies! but between the durability of yellow bowls and blown-glass tubes there is little parallel, and already i have found the advantage of having a good supply in stock. our first natural flower-holder is a great success. having found a four-pronged silver birch, with a broken top, over in the abandoned gravel-pit (where, by the way, are a score of others to be had for the digging, and such easy digging too), larry sawed it off a bit below the ground, so as to give it an even base. the diameter of the four uprights was not quite a foot, all told, and these were sawn of unequal lengths of four, six, seven, and nine inches, care being taken not to "haggle," as larry calls it, the clean white bark in the process. then bart went to work with augur and round chisel, and bored and chipped out the holes for the glass tubes, incidentally breaking two glasses before we had comfortably settled the four, for they must fit snugly enough not to wiggle and tip, and yet not so tight as to bind and prevent removal for cleaning purposes. this little stand of natural wood was no sooner finished and mounted on the camp table than its possibilities began to crowd around it. ferns being the nearest at hand, i crawled over the crumbling bank wall into the opal farm meadow and gathered hay-scented, wood, and lady ferns from along the fence line and grouped them loosely in the stand. the effect was magical, a bit of its haunt following the fern indoors. next day i gathered in the hemlock woods a basket of the waxy, spotted-leaved pipsissewa, together with spikes and garlands of club moss. i had thought these perfect when steadied by bog moss in a flat, cut-glass dish, but in the birch stump they were entirely at home. if these midsummer wood flowers harmonize so well, how much more charming will be the blossoms of early spring, a season when the white birch is quite the most conspicuous tree in the landscape! picture dog-tooth violets, spring beauties, bellwort, quaker-ladies, and great tufts of violets, shading from white to deepest blue, in such a setting! or, of garden things, poets' narcissus and lilies-of-the-valley! other receptacles of a like kind we have in different stages of progress, made of the wood of sassafras, oak, beech, and hackberry, together with several irregular stumps of lichen-covered cedar. two long limbs with several short side branches bart has flattened on the back and arranged with picture-hooks, so that they can be bracketed against the frame of the living-room door, opposite the flower-greeting table that i have fashioned after yours. these are to be used for vines, and i shall try to keep this wide, open portal cheerfully garlanded. the first week of my flower wardenship was a most strenuous one. i use the word reluctantly, but having tried half a dozen others, no equivalent seemed to fit. i had flowers in every room in the house, bedchambers included, using in this connection the cleanest-breathed and longest-lived blossoms possible. late as was the sowing, the annuals remaining in the seed bed have begun to yield a glorious crop. the fireplaces were filled with black-eyed susans from the fields and hollyhocks from an old self-seeded colony at opal farm, and every available vase, bowl, and pitcher had something in it. how i laboured! i washed jars, sorted colours, and freshened still passable arrangements of the day before, and all the while i felt sure that maria was watching me, with an amused twinkle in the tail of her eye! one day, the middle of last week, the temperature dropped suddenly, and we fled from camp to the house for twenty-four hours, lighted the logs in the hall, and actually settled down to a serious game of whist in the evening, maria maxwell, _the man_, bart, and i. yes, i know how you detest the game, but i--though i am not exactly amused by it--rather like it, for it gives occupation at once for the hands and thoughts and a cover for studying the faces and moods of friends without the reproach of staring. by the way, _the man_ has hired half the house from amos opie--it was divided several years ago--and established helter-skelter bachelor quarters at opal farm. bart has told him, over and over again, how welcome he is to stay here, under any and all conditions, while he works in the vicinity, but he says that he needs a lot of room for his traps, muddy boots, etc., while opie, a curious jack-at-all-trades, gives him his breakfast. i'm wondering if _the man_ felt that he was intruding upon maria by staying here, or if she has any mrs. grundy ideas and was humpy to him, or even suggested that he would better move up the road. she is quite capable of it! however, he seems glad enough to drop in to dinner of an evening now, and the two are so delightfully cordial and unembarrassed in their talk, neither yielding a jot to the other, in the resolute spinster and bachelor fashion, that i must conclude that his going was probably a natural happening. this evening, while maria and i were waiting together for the men to finish toying with their coffee cups and match-boxes and emerge refreshed from the delightful indolence of the after-dinner smoke, the odour of the flowers--intensified both by dampness and the woodsmoke--was very manifest. "how do you like your employment?" asked maria. "i like the decorative and inventive part of it," i said, thinking into the fire, "but i believe"--and here i hesitated as a chain of peculiar green flame curled about the log and held my attention. "that it is quite as possible to overdo the house decoration with flowers as it is to spoil a nice bit of lawn with too many fantastic flower beds!" bart broke in quite unexpectedly, coming behind me and raising my face, one hand beneath my chin. "isn't that what you were thinking, my lady lazy?" "truly it was, only i never meant to let it pop out so suddenly and rudely," i was forced to confess. "in one way it would seem impossible to have too many flowers about, and yet in another it is unnatural, for are not nature's unconscious effects made by using colour as a central point, a focus that draws the eye from a more sombre and soothing setting?" "how could we enjoy a sunset that held the whole circle of the horizon at once?" chimed in _the man_, suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. "or twelve moons?" added bart, laughing. no, mrs. evan, i am convinced by so short a trial as two weeks that the art of arranging flowers for the house is first, your plan of having some to greet the guest as he enters, a bit of colour or coolness in each room where we pause to read or work or chat, and a table garnishing to render æsthetic the aspect and surroundings of the human animal at his feeding time; otherwise, except at special seasons of festivity, a surplus of flowers in the house makes for restlessness, not peace. two days ago i had thirty-odd vases and jars filled with flowers, and i felt, as i sat down to sew, as if i was trespassing in a bazaar! also, if there are too many jars of various flowers in one room, it is impossible that each should have its own individuality. to-day i began my new plan. i put away a part of my jars and vases and deliberately thought out what flowers i would use before gathering them. the day being overcast though not threatening, merely the trail, as it were, of the storm that had passed, and the den being on the north side of the house and finished in dark woodwork and furniture, i gathered nasturtiums in three shades for it, the deep crimson, orange-scarlet, and canary-yellow, but not too many--a blue-and-white jar of the chinese "ginger" pattern for one corner of the mantel-shelf, and for the japanese well buckets, that are suspended from the central hanging lamp by cords, a cascade of blossoms of the same colour still attached to their own fleshy vines and interspersed with the foliage. strange as it may seem, this little bit of pottery, though of a peculiar deep pink, harmonizes wonderfully well with the barbaric nasturtium colours. there seems to be a kind of magic blended with the form and colour of these buckets, plain and severe in shape, that swing so gracefully from their silken cords, for they give grace to every flower that touches them. when filled with stiff stalks of lilies-of-the-valley or tulips, they have an equally distinguished air as when hung with the bells of columbines or garlands of flowering honeysuckles twisted about the cords climbing quite up to the lamp. in the hall i placed my tallest green-glass jar upon the greeting table and filled it with long stalks of red and gold canada lilies from the very bottom of amos opie's field, where the damp meadow-grass begins to make way for tussocks and the marshy ground begins. the field now is as beautiful as a dream; the early grasses have ripened, and above them, literally by the hundreds,--rank, file, regiment, and platoon,--stand these lilies, some stalks holding twenty bells, ranged as regularly as if the will of man had set them there, and yet poised so gracefully that we know at once that no human touch has placed them. i wish that you could have stood with me in the doorway of the camp and looked across that field this morning. bart declared the sight to be the first extra dividend upon our payment to amos opie for leaving the grass uncut. i left the stalks of the lilies full three feet long and used only their own foliage, together with some broad-leaved grasses, to break the too abrupt edge of the glass. this is a point that must be remembered in arranging flowers, the keeping the relative height and habit of the plant in the mind's eye. these lilies, gathered with short stems and massed in a crowded bunch, at once lose their individuality and become mere little freckled yellow gamins of the flower world. a rather slender jar or vase also gives an added sense of height; long-stemmed flowers should never be put in a flat receptacle, no matter how adroitly they may be held in place. only last month i was called upon to admire a fine array of long-stemmed roses that were held in a flat dish by being stuck in wet sand, and even though this was covered by green moss, the whole thing had a painfully artificial and embalmed look, impossible to overcome. for the living room, which is in quiet green tones and chintz-upholstered wicker furniture, i gathered shirley poppies. they are not as large and perfectly developed as those i once saw in your garden from fall-sown seed, but they are so delicately tinted and the petals so gracefully winged that it seemed like picking handfuls of butterflies. maria maxwell has shown me how, by looking at the stamens, i can tell if the flower is newly opened, for by picking only such they will last two full days. how lasting are youthful impressions! she remembers all these things, though she has had no very own garden these ten years and more. will the infant remember creeping into my cot in these summer mornings, cuddling and being crooned to like a veritable nestling, until her father gains sufficient consciousness to take his turn and delight her by the whistled imitation of a few simple bird songs? yes, i think so, and i would rather give her this sort of safeguard to keep off harmful thoughts and influences than any worldly wisdom. the poppies i arranged in my smallest frosted-white and cut-glass vases in two rows on the mantel-shelf, before the quaint old oblong mirror, making it look like a miniature shrine. celia thaxter had this way of using them, if i remember rightly, the reflection in the glass doubling the beauty and making the frail things seem alive! for the library, where oak and blue are the prevailing tints, i filled a silver tankard with a big bunch of blue cornflowers, encircled by the leaves of "dusty miller," and placed it on the desk. the dining-room walls are of deep dark red that must be kept cool in summer. at all seasons i try to have the table decorations low enough not to oblige us to peer at one another through a green mist, and to-day i made a wreath of hay-scented ferns and ruby-spotted japan lilies (_speciosum rubrum_, the tag says--they were sent as extras with my seeds), by combining two half-moon dishes, and in the middle set a slender, finely cut, flaring vase holding two perfect stems, each bearing half a dozen lily buds and blossoms. these random bulbs are the first lilies of my own planting. there are a few stalks of the white madonna lilies in the grass of the old garden and a colony of tiger lilies and an upright red lily with different sort of leaves, all clustered at the root, following the tumble-down wall, the rockery to be. i am fascinated by these japanese lilies and desire more, each stalk is so sturdy, each flower so beautifully finished and set with jewels and then powdered with gold, as it were. pray tell me something about the rest of the family! do they come within my range and pocket, think you? the first cost of a fair-sized bed would be considerable, but if they are things that by care will endure, it is something to save up for, _when the rose bed is completed_--take note of that! when bart came home this afternoon, he walked through the rooms before going out and commented on the different flowers, entirely simple in arrangement, and lingered over them, touching and taking pleasure in them in a way wholly different from last week, when each room was a jungle and i was fairly suffering from flower surfeit. now i find myself taking note of happy combinations of colour in other people's gardens and along the highways for further experiments. i seem to remember looking over a list of flower combinations and suggestions in your garden book. will you lend it to me? by the way, opal effects seem to circle about the place this season--the sunsets, the farm-house windows, and finally that rainy night when we were playing whist, when _the man_, taking a pencil from his pocket, pulled out a little chamois bag that, being loose at one end, shed a shower of the unset stones upon the green cloth, where they lay winking and blinking like so many fiery coals. "are you a travelling jeweler's shop?" quizzed bart. "no," replied _the man_, watching the stones where they lay, but not attempting to pick them up; "the opal is my birth stone, and i've always had a fancy for picking them up at odd times and carrying them with me for luck!" "i thought that they are considered unlucky," said maria, holding one in the palm of her hand and watching the light play upon it. "that is as one reads them," said _the man_; "to me they are occasionally contradictory, that is all; otherwise they represent adaptation to circumstances, and inexpensive beauty, which must always be a consolation." then he gave us each one, "to start a collection," he said. i shall have mine set as a talisman for the infant. i like this new interpretation of the stone, for to divine beauty in simple things is a gift equal to genius. maria, however, insisted upon giving an old-fashioned threepenny bit, kept as a luck penny in the centre of her purse, in exchange. how can any woman be so devoid of even the little sentiment of gifts as she is? a moment later _the man from everywhere_ electrified us by saying, in the most casual manner, "now that we are on the subject of opals, did i tell you that, being in some strange manner drawn to the place, i have made opie an offer for the opal farm?" "good enough! but what for?" exclaimed bart, nearly exposing a very poor hand. "how splendid!" i cried, checking an impulse to throw my arms around his neck so suddenly that i shied my cards across the room--"then the meadow need never be cut again!" "what a preposterous idea! did he accept the offer?" jerked maria maxwell, with a certain eagerness. _the man's_ face, already of a healthy outdoor hue, took a deeper colour above the outline of his closely cropped black beard, which he declined to shave, in spite of prevailing custom. "i'm afraid my popularity as a neighbour is a minor quality, when even my lady lazy makes it evident that her enthusiasm is for meadow weeds and not myself!" "when would you live there?" asked practical bart. "all the time, when i'm not elsewhere!" said _the man_. "no, seriously, i want permanent headquarters, a house to keep my traps in, and it can easily be somewhat remodelled and made comfortable. i want to own a resting-place for the soles of my feet when they are tired, and is it strange that i should pitch my tent near two good friends?" it was a good deal for _the man_ to say, and instantly there was hand-shaking and back-clapping between bart and himself, and the game became hopelessly mixed. as for maria, she as nearly sniffed audibly at the idea as a well-bred woman could. it is strange, i had almost fancied during the course of the past month, and especially this evening, that _the man's_ glance, when toward her, held a special approval of a different variety than it carried to bart and me! if maria is going to worry him, she shall go back to her flat! i've often heard bart say that men's feelings are very woundable at forty, while at twenty-five a hurt closes up like water after a pebble has been dropped in it. * * * * * yes, maria _has_ been rude to _the man_, and in my house, too, where she represents me! anastasia told me! i suppose i really ought not to have listened, but it was all over before i realized what she was saying. "yes, mem, for all miss marie do be fixed out, so tasty and pleasant like to everybody, and so much chicked up by the country air, she's no notion o' beaus or of troubling wid the men!" "what do you mean, anastasia?" said i, in perfect innocence. "of course miss maria is not a young girl to go gadding about!" "it's not gadding i mean, mem, but here on the porch, one foine night, jest before the last time mister blake went off fer good, they was sat there some toime, so still that, says i to meself, 'when they do foind spach, it'll be something worth hearing!' "'do i annoy you by staying here? would you prefer i went elsewhere?' says he, and well i moind the words, for oi thought an offer was on the road, and as 'twas the nearest i'd been to wan, small wonder i got excoited! then miss marie spoke up, smooth as a knife cutting ice cream,--'to speak frankly,' says she, 'you do not exactly annoy me, but i'd much rather you went elsewhere!' och, but it broke me heart, the sound of it!" * * * * * list of flower combinations for the table from barbara's _garden boke_ heavily scented flowers, such as hyacinths, lemon and auratum lilies, polyanthus narcissus, magnolias, lilacs, and the like, should be avoided. snowdrops and pussy-willows. hepaticas and moss. spice-bush and shad-bush sprays. trailing arbutus and sweet, white garden violets. double daffodils and willow sprays. crocus buds and moss. blue garden scillas and wild white saxifrage. black-birch catkins and wind-flowers. plants of the various wild violets, according to season, arranged in an earthen pan with a moss or bark covering. old-fashioned myrtle, with its glossy leaves, and single narcissus, or english primroses. bleeding-heart and young ferns. english border primroses in small rose bowls. lilies-of-the-valley, with plenty of their own leaves, and poets' narcissus. tulip-tree flowers and leaves. the wild red-and-gold columbine with young white-birch sprays. pinxter flower and the new york or wood fern. jack-in-the-pulpit with its own leaves, in a bark or moss covered jar. pink moccasin-flowers with ferns, in bark-covered jar. pansies with ivy or laurel leaves, arranged in narrow dishes to form a parterre about a central mirror. iceland poppies with small ferns or grasses. may pinks and forget-me-nots. blue larkspurs and deutzia (always put white with blue flowers). peonies with evergreen ferns, in a central jar. sweet-william, arranged in separate colours for parterre effect or in a large blue-and-white bowl, with graceful sprays of honeysuckle flowers. wild roses with plenty of buds and foliage, in blue-and-white bowls. roses in large sprays with branches of the young leaves of copper beech--or masses of chinese honeysuckle. roses with short stems arranged with their own or _rugosa_ foliage in blue-and-white dishes that have coarse wire netting fitted to the top to keep the flowers in place. white field daisies, clover, and flowering grasses, in a large bowl or jar. mountain laurel with its own leaves, in central jar and parterre dishes. nasturtiums, in cut-glass bowl or vase, with the foliage of lemon verbena. sweet peas of five colours with a fringe of maiden-hair ferns, the deepest colour in a central jar, with other smaller bowls at corners, and small ferns laid around mirror and on cloth between. japan lilies, single flowers, in parterre dishes with ivy leaves, and sprays in central vase. balsams arranged in effect of set borders. asters in separate colours. spotted-leaved pipsissewa of the woods with fern border, in bark-covered dish. red and gold bell meadow lilies, in large jar, with field grasses. gladioli--the flowers separated from the stalks and arranged with various leaves for parterre effect, or stalks laid upon the cloth with evergreen ferns to separate the places at a formal meal. sweet sultan, in separate colours, in rose bowls, with fragrant geranium or lemon-verbena foliage. shirly poppies with grasses or green rye, in four slender vases about a larger centrepiece. margaret or picotee carnations with mignonette, arranged loosely in a cut-glass vase or bowl. green rye, wheat, or oats with the blue garden cornflower--or wild blue chickory. wild asters with heavy tasselled marsh-grasses. goldenrods with purple iron weed and vines of wild white clematis, arranged about a flat dish of peaches and pears. all through autumn place your central mirror on a mat made by laying freshly gathered coloured leaves upon the cloth. wallflowers and late pansies. white japanese anemonies and ferns. grass of parnassus, ladies tresses, and marsh shield ferns. garden chrysanthemums, in blue-and-white jars and bowls, on a large mat of brown magnolia leaves. sprays of yellow witch-hazel flowers and leaves of red oak. sprays of coral winterberry, from which leaves have been removed, and white-pine tassels. club-mosses, small evergreen ferns, and partridge vine with its red berries, in a bark-covered dish of earth. xi a seaside garden (barbara campbell to mary penrose) _gray rocks, july ._ your epistle upon the evils of an excess of flowers in the house found us here with the cortrights and bradfords, and i read it with lavinia and sylvia on either side, as the theme had many notes in it familiar to us all! there are certainly times and seasons when the impulse is overpowering to lay hold of every flower that comes in the way and gather it to one's self, to cram every possible nook and corner with this portable form of beauty and fairly indulge in a flower orgie. then sets in a reaction that shows, as in so many things, the middle path is the best for every day. also there are many enthusiastic gardeners, both among those who grow their own flowers and those who cause them to be grown, who spare neither pains nor money until the flowers are gathered; then their grip relaxes, and the house arrangement of the fruit of their labour is left to chance. in many cases, where a professional gardener is in charge, several baskets, containing a confused mass of blossoms, are deposited daily in porch or pantry, often at a time when the mistress is busy, and they are either overlooked or at the last moment crammed into the first receptacle that comes to hand, from their very inopportuneness creating almost a feeling of dislike. when once lodged, they are frequently left to their fate until they become fairly noisome, for is there anything more offensive to æsthetic taste than blackened and decaying flowers soaking in stagnant water? was it not auerbach, in his _poet and merchant_, who said, "the lovelier a thing is in its perfection, the more terrible it becomes through its corruption"? and certainly this applies to flowers. flowers, like all of the best and lasting pleasures, must be taken a little seriously from the sowing of the seed to the placing in the vase, that they may become the incense of home, and the most satisfactory way of choosing them for this use is to make a daily tour about the garden, or, if a change is desired, through the fields and highways, and, with the particular nook you wish to fill in mind, gather them yourself. even the woman with too wide a selection to gather from personally can in this way indicate what she wishes. in the vegetable garden the wise man thinks out his crop and arranges a variety for the table; no one wishes every vegetable known to the season every day, and why should not the eye be educated and nourished by an equal variety? we are all very much interested in your flower-holders of natural wood, and i will offer you an idea in exchange, after the truly coöperative garden, you, and i plan. in the flower season, instead of using your embroidered centrepieces for the table, which become easily stained and defaced by having flowers laid upon them, make several artistic table centres of looking-glass, bark, moss, or a combination of all three. lavinia cortright and i, as a beginning, have oval mirrors of about eighteen inches in length, with invisibly narrow nickel bindings. sometimes we use these with merely an edge of flowers or leaves and a crystal basket or other low arrangement of flowers in the centre. the glass is only a beginning, other combinations being a birch-bark mat, several inches wider than the glass, that may be used under it so that a wide border shows, or the mat by itself as a background for delicate wood flowers and ferns. a third mat i have made of stout cardboard and covered with lichens, reindeer moss, and bits of mossy bark, and i never go to the woods but what i see a score of things that fairly thrust themselves before me and offer to blend with one of these backgrounds, and by holding the eye help to render meal-times less "foody," as sukey latham puts it, though none the less nourishing. last night when we gathered at dinner, a few moments after our arrival and our first meeting at this cottage, i at once became aware that though host and hostess were the same delightful couple, we were not dining at meadow's end, their oaklands cottage, but at gray rocks, with silver sea instead of green grass below the windows. while the sea surroundings were brought indoors and on the centre of the dinner table the mirror was edged by a border of sea-sand, glistening pebbles and little shells were arranged as a background instead of mosses and lichens, and rich brown seaweeds still moist with the astringent tonic sea breath edged this frame, and the more delicate rose-coloured and pale green weeds seemed floating upon the glass, that held a giant periwinkle shell filled with the pink star-shaped sabbatia, or sea pink, of the near-by salt marshes. there was no effort, no strain after effect, but a consistent preparation of the eye for the simple meal of sea food that followed. in front of the cottage the rocks slope quickly to the beach, but on either side there is a stretch of sand pocketed among the rocks, and in the back a dune stops abruptly at the margin of wide salt meadows, creek-fed and unctuous, as befits the natural gardens of the sea. the other cottages lying to the eastward are gay in red-and-white striped awnings, and porch and window boxes painted red or green are filled with geraniums, nasturtiums, petunias,--any flowers, in short, that will thrive in the broiling sun, while some of the owners have planted buoy-like barrels at the four corners of their enclosures and filled them with the same assortment of foliage plants with which they would decorate a village lawn. this use of flowers seemed at once to draw the coolness from the easterly breeze and intensify the heat that vibrates from the sand. have you ever noticed that the sea in these latitudes has no affinity for the brightest colours, save as it is a mirror for the fleeting flames of sunrise and sunset? the sea-birds are blended tints of rock, sand, sky, and water, save the dash of coral in bill and foot of a few, just as the coral of the wild-rose hips blends with the tawny marsh-grasses. scarlet is a colour abhorred even by the marshes, until late in autumn the blaze of samphire consumes them with long spreading tongues of flame. how can people be so senseless as to come seaward to cool their bodies, and yet so surround themselves with scarlet that it is never out of range of the eye? lavinia cortright and the botanical bradfords, as evan calls them, because though equally lovers of flowers, they go further than some for the reason why that lies hid beneath the colour and perfume, have laid out and are still developing a sand garden that, while giving the cottage home the restful air that is a garden's first claim, has still the distinct identity of the sand and sea! to begin, with one single exception, they have drawn upon the wild for this garden, even as you are doing in the restoration of your knoll. back of the cottage a dozen yards is a sand ridge covering some fairly good, though mongrel, loam, for here, as along most of the coasts of sounds and bays, the sea, year by year, has bitten into the soil and at the same time strewn it with sand. considering this as the garden boundary, a windbreak of good-sized bayberry bushes has been placed there, not in a stiff line, but in blended groups, enclosing three sides, these bays being taken from a thicket of them farther toward the marshes. an alley from the back porch into this enclosure is bordered on either side by bushes of beach plum, that, when covered with feathery white bloom in may, before the leaves appear, gives the sandy shore the only orchard touch it knows. of course the flowering period is over when the usual shore season begins, though nowadays there is no off time--people go to shore and country when they are moved; yet the beach plum is a picturesque bush at any time, especially when, in september, it is loaded with the red purple fruit. in the two spaces on either side the alley the sand is filled with massed plants that, when a little more time has been given them for stretching and anchoring their roots, will straightway weave a flower mat upon the sand. down beyond the next point, one day last autumn, horace and sylvia found a plantation of our one new england cactus, the prickly pear (_opuntia opuntia_). we have it here and there in our rocky pasture; but in greater heat and with better underfeeding it seemed a bit of a tropical plain dropped on the eastern coast. do you know the thing? the leaves are shaped like the fans of a lobster's tail and sometimes are several-jointed, smooth except for occasional tufts of very treacherous spikes, and of a peculiar semitranslucent green; the half-double flowers set on the leaf edges are three inches across and of a brilliant sulphur-yellow, with tasselled stamens; the fruit is fleshy, somewhat fig-shaped, and of a dark red when ripe--altogether a very decorative plant, though extremely difficult to handle. after surveying the plantation on all sides, the tongs used by the oyster dredges suggested themselves to horace, and thus grasped, the prickly pears were safely moved and pegged in their new quarters with long pieces of bent wire, the giant equivalents of the useful hairpins that i recommended for pegging down your ferns. now the entire plot of several yards square, apparently untroubled by the removal, is in full bloom, and has been for well-nigh a month, they say, though the individual blossoms are but things of a day. close by, another yellow flower, smaller but more pickable, is just now waving, the rock rose or frostweed, bearing two sorts of flowers: the conspicuous yellow ones, somewhat resembling small evening primroses, while all the ground between is covered with an humble member of the rock rose family--the tufted beach heather with its intricate branches, reminding one more of a club-moss than a true flowering plant. not a scrap of sand in the enclosure is left uncovered, and the various plants are set closely, like the grasses and wild flowers of a meadow, the sand pinweed that we gather, together with sea lavender, for winter bouquets much resembling a flowering grass. the rabbit-foot clover takes kindly to the sandy soil, and, as it flowers from late may well into september, and holds its little furry tails like autumn pussy-willows until freezing weather, makes a very interesting sort of bed all by itself, and massed close to it, as if recognizing the family relationship, is the little creeping bush clover with its purplish flowers. next, set thickly in a mass representing a stout bush, comes the fleshy beach pea with rosy purple flowers. when it straggles along according to its sweet will, it has a poor and weedy look, but massed so that the somewhat difficult colour is concentrated, it is very decorative, and it serves as a trellis for the trailing wild bean, a sand lover that has a longer flowering season. a patch of a light lustrous purple, on closer view, proves to be a mass of the feathered spikes of blazing star or colic-root, first cousin of the gay-feather of the west, that sometimes grows six feet high and has been welcomed to our gardens. on the opposite side of the beach-plum alley, the bradfords have made preparations for autumn glory, such as we always drive down to the marsh lands from oaklands not only to see but to gather and take home. masses of the fleshy tufted seaside goldenrod, now just beginning to throw up its stout flowerstalks, flank a bed of wild asters twenty feet across. here are gathered all the asters that either love or will tolerate dry soil, a certain bid for their favour having been made by mixing several barrels of stiff loam with the top sand, as an encouragement until the roots find the hospitable mixture below. the late purple aster (_patens_) with its broad clasping leaves, the smooth aster (_lævis_) with its violet-blue flowers, are making good bushes and preparing for the pageant. here is the stiff white-heath aster, the familiar michaelmas daisy, that is so completely covered with snowy flowers that the foliage is obliterated, and proves its hold upon the affections by its long string of names,--frostweed, white rosemary, and farewell summer being among them,--and also the white-wreath aster, with the flowers ranged garland-wise among the rigid leaves, and the stiff little savory-leaved aster or sand starwort with pale violet rays. forming a broad, irregular border about the asters are stout dwarf bushes of the common wild rose (_humilis_), that bears its deep pink flowers in late spring and early summer and then wears large round hips that change slowly from green to deep glowing red, in time to make a frame of coral beads for the asters. outside the hedge of bays, where a trodden pathway leads to the boat landing, the weathered rocks, washed with soft tints blended of the breath of sea mist and sunset rays, break through the sand. in the lee of these, held in place by a line of stones, is a long, low bed of large-flowered portulaca, borrowed from inland gardens, and yet so in keeping with its surroundings as to seem a native flower of sea sands. the fleshy leaves at a little distance suggest the form of many plants of brackish marsh and creek edges, and even the glasswort itself. when the day is gray, the flowers furl close and disappear, as it were, but when the sun beats full upon the sand, a myriad upraised fleshy little arms stretch out, each holding a coloured bowl to catch the sunbeams, as if the heat made molten the sand of quartz and turned it into pottery in tints of rose, yellow, amber, scarlet, and carnation striped. it was a bold experiment, this garden in the sand, but already it is making good. then, too, what a refreshment to the eyes is it, when the unbroken expanse of sky and sea before the house tires, to turn them landward over the piece of flowers toward the cool green marshes ribboned with the pale pink camphor-scented fleabane, the almost intangible sea lavender, the great rose mallows and cat-tail flags of the wet ground, the false indigo that, in the distance, reminds one of the broom of scottish hills, the orange-fringed orchis, pink sabbatia, purple maritime gerardia, milkwort, the groundsel tree, that covers itself with feathers in autumn, until, far away beyond the upland meadows, the silver birches stand as outposts to the cool oak woods, in whose shade the splendid yellow gerardia, or downy false foxglove, nourishes. truly, while the land garden excels in length of season and profusion, the gardens of the sea appeal to the lighter fancies and add the charmed spice of variety to out-of-door life. one of the most interesting features of this cottage and its surroundings is the further transplanting of martin cortright from his city haunts. at meadow's end, though he works in the garden in a dilettante sort of way with lavinia, takes long walks with father, and occasionally ventures out for a day's fishing with either or both of my men, he is still the bookworm who dives into his library upon every opportunity and has never yet adapted his spine comfortably to the curves of a hammock! in short he seems to love flowers historically--more for the sake of those in the past who have loved and written of them than for their own sake. but here, even as i began to write to you, mary penrose, entrenched in a nook among the steep rocks between the cottage and the sea, a figure coming up the sand bar, that runs northward and at low water shows a smooth stretch a mile in length, caught my eye. laboriously but persistently it came along; next i saw by the legs that it was a man, a moment later that he was lugging a large basket and that a potato fork protruded from under one arm, and finally that it was none other than martin cortright, who had been hoeing diligently in the sand and mud for a couple of hours, that his guests might have the most delectable of all suppers,--steamed clams, fresh from the water, the condition alone under which they may be eaten _sans peur et sans reproche_! xii the transplanting of evergreens (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _woodridge, august ._ back again in our camp, we thought to pause awhile, rest on our oars, and drift comfortably with the gentle summer tide of things. we have transplanted all the ferns and wild herbs for which we have room, and as a matter of course trees and shrubs must wait until they have shed their leaves in october. that is, all the trees that _do_ shed. the exceptions are the evergreens, of which the river woods contain any number in the shape of hemlocks, spruces, and young white pines, the offspring, i take it, of a plantation back of the windom farm, for we have not found them anywhere else. the best authorities upon the subject of evergreens say that trees of small size should be transplanted either in april, before they have begun to put on their dressy spring plumes, or, if the season be not too hot and dry, or the distance considerable, in august, after this growth has matured, time thus being given for them to become settled in the ground before winter. we weighed the matter well. the _pros_ in favour of spring planting lay in the fact that rain is very likely to be plentiful in april, and given but half a chance, everything grows best in spring; the _cons_ being that the spring rush is usually overpowering, that in a late season the frost would not be fairly out of the knoll and ground by the fence, where we need a windbreak, before garden planting time, and that during the winter clearing that will take place in the river valley, leaf fires may be started by the workmen that will run up the banks and menace our treasure-trove of evergreens. the _pros_ for august consisted mainly of the pith of a proverb and a bit of mad ophelia's sanity: "there is no time like the present" and "we know what we are, but know not what we may be!" at present we have a good horse, larry, and plenty of time, the _con_ being, suppose we have a dry, hot autumn. the fact that we have a new water-barrel on wheels and several long-necked water-pots is only a partial solution of the difficulty, for the nearest well is an old-fashioned arrangement with a sweep, located above the bank wall at opal farm. this well is an extremely picturesque object in the landscape, but as a water-producer as inadequate as the shaving-mug with which the nervous gentleman, disturbed at his morning task, rushed out to aid in extinguishing a fire! various predictions as to the weather for the month have been lavished upon us, the first week having produced but one passing shower. amos opie foresees a muggy, rainless period. larry declares for much rain, as it rained at new moon and again at first quarter; but, as he says, as if to release himself from responsibility, "that's the way we read it in oireland, but maybe, as this is t'other side of the warld, it's all the other way round wid rain!" barney was noncommittal, but then his temperament is of the kind that usually regrets whatever is. for three or four days we remained undecided, and then _the man from everywhere_ brought about a swift decision for august transplanting, by the information that the general clearing of the woodlands would begin november first, the time for fulfilling the contract having been shortened by six months at the final settlement. we covet about fifty specimen pines and hemlocks for the knoll and fully two hundred little hemlocks for the windbreaks, so we at once began the work and are giving two days a week to the digging and transporting and the other four to watering. that is, bart and larry are doing this; i am looking on, making suggestions as to which side of a tree should be in front, nipping off broken twigs, and doing other equally light and pleasant trifles. our system of transplanting is this: we have any number of old burlap feed bags, which, having become frayed and past their usefulness, we bought at the village store for a song. these larry filled with the soft, elastic moss that florists use, of which there is any quantity in the low backwater meadows of the river. a good-sized tree (and we are not moving any of more than four or five feet in height; larger ones, it seems, are better moved in early winter with a ball of frozen earth) has a bag to itself, the roots, with some earth, being enveloped in the moss, the bag as securely bound about them as possible with heavy cord, and the whole thing left to soak at the river edge while the next one is being wrapped. of the small hemlocks for the windbreak,--and we are using none over two or three feet for this purpose, as we want to pinch them in and make them stocky,--the roots of three or four will often go into a bag. when enough for a day's planting is thus collected, we go home, stack them in the shade, and the next morning the resetting begins! the bags are not opened until they are by the hole in which the trees are to be placed, which, by the way, is always made and used after the directions you gave us for rose planting; and i'm coming to agree with you that the success in gardening lies more than half in the putting under ground, and that the proper spreading and securing of roots in earth thoroughly loosened to allow new roots to feel and find their way is one of the secrets of what is usually termed "luck"! this may sound like a very easy way of acquiring trees, but it sometimes takes an hour to loosen a sturdy pine of four feet. of course a relentless hand that stops at nothing, with a grub-axe and spade, could do it in fifteen minutes, but the roots would be cut or bruised and the pulling and tugging be so violent that not a bit of earth would cleave, and thus the fatal drying process set in almost before the digging was completed. larry first loosens the soil all about the tree with a crowbar, dislodging any binding surface stones in the meantime; then the roots are followed to the end and secured entire when possible, a bit of detective work more difficult than it sounds in a bank where forest trees of old growth have knit roots with saplings for mutual protection. setting-out day sees a procession of three water-carriers going indian file up one side of the knoll and down the other. bart declares that by the time his vacation is over he will be sufficiently trained to become captain of the local fire company, which consists of an antique engine, of about the capacity of one water-barrel, and a bucket brigade. this profuse use of water, upon the principle of imitation, has brought about another demand for it on the premises. the state of particularly clay-and-leaf-mouldy perspiration in which bart finds himself these days cries aloud for a shower-bath, nor is he or his boots and clothing in a suitable condition for tramping through the house and turning the family bath-tub into a trough wherein one would think flower-pots had been washed. with the aid of amos opie an oil-barrel has been trussed up like a miniature windmill tank in the end of the camp barn, one end of which rests on the ground, and being cellarless has an earth floor. around the supports of this tank is fastened an unbleached cotton curtain, and when standing within and pulling a cord attached to an improvised spray, the contents of the barrel descend upon bart's person with hygienic thoroughness, the only drawback being that twelve pails of water have to be carried up the short ladder that leads from floor to barrel top each time the shower is used. bart, however, seems to enjoy the process immensely, and larry, by the way in which he lingers about the place and grins, evidently has a secret desire to experiment with it himself. larry has been a great comfort up to now, but we both have an undefined idea that one of his periods of "rest" is approaching. he works with feverish haste, alternating with times of sitting and looking at the ground, that i fear bodes no good. he also seems to take a diabolic pleasure in tormenting amos opie as regards the general make-up and pedigree of his beloved hound david. david has human intelligence in a setting that it would be difficult to classify for a dog-show; a melancholy bloodhound strain certainly percolates thoroughly through him, and his long ears, dewlaps, and front legs, tending to bow, separate him from the fox "'ounds" of larry's experience. to amos opie david is the only type of hound worthy of the name; consequently there has been no little language upon the subject. that is, larry has done the talking, punctuated by contemptuous "huhs" and sniffs from amos, until day before yesterday. on this day david went on a hunting trip extending from five o'clock in the afternoon until the next morning, during which his voice, blending with two immature cries, told that he was ranging miles of country in company with a pair of thoroughbred fox-hound pups, owned by the postmaster, the training of which amos opie was superintending, and owing to an attack of rheumatism had delegated to david, whose reliability for this purpose could not be overestimated according to his master's way of thinking. for a place in some ways so near to civilization, the hills beyond the river woods abound in fox holes, and david has conducted some good runs on his own account, it seems; but this time alack! alack! he came limping slowly home, footsore and bedraggled, followed by his pupils and bearing a huge dead cat of the half-wild tribe that, born in a barn and having no owner, takes to a prowling life in the woods. i cannot quite appreciate the enormity of the offence, but doubtless dr. russell and your husband can, as they live in a fox-hunting country. it seems that a rabbit would have been bad enough, something however, to be condoned,--but not a cat! instantly amos fixed upon larry as the responsible cause of the calamity,--larry, who is so soaked in a species of folk-lore, blended of tradition, imagination, and high spirits that, after hearing him talk, it is easy to believe that he deals in magic by the aid of a black cat, and unfortunately the cat brought in by david was of this colour! then amos spoke, for david's honour was as his own, and larry heard a pronounced yankee's opinion, not only of all the inhabitants of the emerald isle, but of one in particular! after freeing his mind, he threatened to free his house of larry as a lodger, this being particularly unfortunate considering the near approach of one of that gentleman's times of retirement. last night i thought the sky had again cleared, for amos discovered that the postmaster did not suspect the cat episode, and as larry had no friends in the village through which it might leak out, the old man seemed much relieved; also, larry apparently is not a harbourer of grievances. within an hour, however, a second episode has further strained the relationship of lodger and host, and it has snapped. though still quite stiff in the joints, amos came over this morning to do some little tinkering in the barn camp, especially in strengthening the stays of the shower-bath tank, when, as he was on his knees fastening a brace to a post, in some inexplicable manner the string was pulled and the contents of the entire barrel of cold well-water were released, the first sprinkle so astonishing and bewildering poor amos that he remained where he was, and so received a complete drenching. bart and larry were up in the woods getting the day's load of hemlocks, and i, hearing the spluttering and groans, went to amos's rescue as well as i could, and together with maria maxwell got him to the kitchen, where hot tea and dry clothes should have completely revived him in spite of age. as, however, to-day, it seems, is the anniversary of a famous illness he acquired back in ' , on his return from the civil war, the peculiarities of which he has not yet ceased proclaiming, he is evidently determined to celebrate it forthwith, so he has taken to his bed, groaning with a stitch in his side. the doctor has been telephoned, and maria maxwell, as usual bursting with energy, which on this occasion takes a form between that of a dutiful daughter and a genuine country neighbour, has gone over to opal farm to tidy up a bit until the doctor gives his decision and some native woman, agreeable to amos's taste, can be found to look after the interesting yet aggravating crank. but this is not all. amos declines to allow larry to lodge in the house for another night, attributing the ducking to him, in spite of the fact that he was at least six miles away. in this both bart and i think amos right, for larry's eye had a most inquiring expression on his return, and i detected him slipping into the old barn at the first opportunity to see if the tank was empty, while bart says that he has been talking to himself in a gleeful mood all the morning, and so he has decided that, as larry has worked long enough to justify it, he will buy him a prepaid passage home to his daughter and see him off personally by to-morrow's steamer. as amos will have none of larry, to send the man into village lodgings would probably hasten his downfall. i did hope to keep him until autumn, for he has taught me not a little gardening in a genial and irresponsible sort of way, and the rose garden is laid out in a manner that would do credit to a trained man, larry having the rare combination of seeing a straight line and yet being able to turn a graceful curve. but even if amos had been willing to allow him to sleep over one of his attacks, it would have been a dubious example for barney, and in spite of the comfort he has been i now fully realize the limitations of so many of his race, at once witty, warm-hearted, soothing, and impossible; it is difficult not to believe what they say, even when you know they are lying, and this condition is equally demoralizing both to master and man. _august ._ anastasia wept behind her apron when larry left, but barney assumed a cheerfulness and interest in his work that he has never shown before. bart says that in spite of a discrepancy of twenty-odd years he thinks that larry, by his fund of stories and really wonderful jig dancing, was diverting anastasia's thoughts, and the comfortable savings attached, from barney, who, though doubtless a sober man and far more durable in many ways, is much less interesting an object for the daily contemplation of an emotional irishwoman. while bart was in town yesterday seeing larry started on his journey, maria and i, with the infant tucked between in the buggy, went for an outing under the gentle guidance of romeo, who through constant practice has become the most expert standing horse in the county. i'm only afraid that his owners on their return may not appreciate this accomplishment. being on what maria calls "a hunt for antiques," we drove in the direction of newham village, which you know is away from railroads and has any number of old-time farms. we were not looking for spinning-wheels and andirons, but old-fashioned roses and peonies, especially the early double deep crimson variety that looks like a great jack rose. we located a number of these in june and promised to return for our plunder in due season. last year i bought some peony roots in august, and they throve so well, blooming this spring, that i think it is the best time for moving them. in one of the houses where we bought pink-and-white peonies the woman said she had a bed, as big as the barn-door, of "june" lilies, and that, as they were going to build a hen-house next autumn on the spot where they grew, she was going to lift some into one of her raised mounds (an awful construction, being a cross between a gigantic dirt pie and a grave), and said that i might have all the spare lily bulbs that i wanted if i would give her what she termed a "hatching" of gladiolus bulbs. just at present the lilies have entirely disappeared, and nothing but bare earth is visible, but i think from the description that they must be the lovely madonna lilies of grandmother's virginia garden that made a procession from the tea-house quite down to the rose garden, like a bevy of slender young girls in confirmation array. if so, they do not take kindly to handling, and i have an indistinct remembrance of some rather unusual time of year when it must be done if necessary. please let me know about this, for i can be of little use in the moving of the evergreens and i want something to potter about in the garden. there are two places for a lily bed, but i am uncertain which is best until i hear from you. either will have to be thoroughly renovated in the matter of soil, so that i am anxious to start upon the right basis. one of these spots is in full sun, with a slope toward the orchard; in the other the sun is cut off after one o'clock, though there are no overhanging branches; there is also a third place, a squashy spot down in the bend of the old wall. on our return, toward evening, we met _the man from everywhere_ driving down from the reservoir ground toward opal farm, a pink-cheeked young fellow of about twenty sharing the road wagon with him. as he has again been away for a few days, we drew up to exchange greetings and _the man_ said, rather aside, "i'm almost sorry that larry fell from the skies to help out your gardening, for here is a young german who has come from a distance, with a note from a man i know well, applying for work at the quarry; but there will be nothing suitable for him there for several months, for he's rather above the average. he would have done very well for you, as, though he speaks little english, i make out that his father was an under-forester in the fatherland. as it is, i'm taking him to the farm with me for the night and will try to think of how i may help him on in the morning." instantly both maria and i began to tell of larry's defection in different keys, the young man meanwhile keeping up a deferential and most astonishing bowing and smiling. having secured the seal of bart's approval, meyer has been engaged, and after to-day we must accustom our ears to a change from larry's rich brogue to the juicy explosiveness of german; and worse yet, i must rack my brains for the mostly forgotten dialect of the schoolroom language that is learned with such pain and so quickly forgotten. i'm wondering very much about _the man's_ sudden return to opal farm and if it will interfere with maria maxwell's daily care of amos opie; for, as it turns out, he is really ill, the chill resulting from larry's prank having been the final straw, and no suitable woman having been found, who has volunteered to tend the old man in the emergency, but maria! that is, to the extent of taking him food and giving him medicines, for though in pain he is able to sit in an easy-chair. maria certainly is capable, but so stupid about _the man_. however, as the farm-house is now arranged as two dwellings, with the connecting door opening in the back hall and usually kept locked on amos's side, she cannot possibly feel that she is putting herself in _the man's_ way! xiii lilies and their whims (barbara campbell to mary penrose) _oaklands, august ._ as a suitable text for this chronicle, as well as an unanswerable argument for its carrying out, combined with a sort of premium, i'm sending you to-day, freight paid, a barrel of lily-of-the-valley roots, all vigorous and with many next year's flowering pips attached. no,--i hear your decorous protest,--i have not robbed myself, neither am i giving up the growing of this most exquisite of spring flowers, whose fragrance penetrates the innermost fastnesses of the memory, yet is never obtrusive. simply my long border was full to overflowing and last season some of the lily bells were growing smaller. when this happens, as it does every half a dozen years, i dig two eight-inch trenches down the bed's entire length, and taking out the matted roots, fill the gap with rich soil, adding the plants thus dispossessed to my purse of garden wampum, which this time falls into your lap entire. of the treatment of the little flower, that is erroneously supposed to feast only upon leaf-mould in the deep shade, you shall hear later. by all means begin your lily bed now, for the one season at which the madonna lily resents removal the least is during the august resting time. then, if you lift her gently while she sleeps, do not let the cool earth breath that surrounds her dry away, and bed her suitably, she will awaken and in a month put forth a leafy crown of promise to be fulfilled next june. madonna does not like the shifting and lifting that falls to the lot of so many garden bulbs owing to the modern requirements that make a single flower bed often a thing of three seasonal changes. many bulbs, many moods and whims. hyacinths and early tulips blossom their best the first spring after their autumn planting (always supposing that the bob-tailed meadow-mice, who travel in the mole tunnels, thereby giving them a bad reputation, have not feasted on the tender heart buds in the interval). the auratum lily of the gorgeous gold-banded and ruby-studded flower exults smilingly for a season or two and then degenerates sadly. madonna, if she be healthy on her coming, and is given healthy soil free from hot taint of manure, will live with you for years and love you and give you every season increasing yield of silver-white-crowned stalks, at the very time that you need them to blend with your royal blue delphiniums. but this will be only if you obey the warning of "hands and spade off." the three species of the well-known recurved japan lily--_speciosum roseum_, _s. rubrum_, and _s. album_--have the same love of permanence; likewise the lily-of-the-valley and all the tribe of border narcissi and daffodils; so if you wish to keep them at their best, you must not only give them bits of ground all of their own, but study their individual needs and idiosyncrasies. lilies as a comprehensive term,--the biblical grass of the field,--as far as concerns a novice or the garden, you, and i, may be made to cover the typical lilies themselves, tulips, narcissi (which are of the amaryllis flock), and lilies-of-the-valley, a tribe by itself. you will wish to include all of them in your garden, but you must limit yourself to the least whimsical varieties on account of your purse, the labor entailed, and the climate. of the pieces of ground that you describe, take that in partial shade for your madonna lilies and their kin, and that in the open sun for your lilies-of-the-valley, while i would keep an earth border free from silver birches, on the sunny side of your tumble-down stone-wall rockery, for late tulips and narcissi; and grape hyacinths, scillas, trilliums, the various solomon's seals, bellworts, etc., can be introduced in earth pockets between the rocks if, in case of the deeper-rooted kinds, connection be had with the earth below. it is much more satisfactory to plant spring bulbs in this way,--in groups, or irregular lines and masses, where they may bloom according to their own sweet will, and when they vanish for the summer rest, scatter a little portulaca or sweet alyssum seed upon the soil to prevent too great bareness,--than to set them in formal beds, from which they must either be removed when their blooming time is past, or else one runs the risk of spoiling them by planting deep-rooted plants among them. the piece of sunny ground in the angled dip of the old wall, which you call "decidedly squashy," interests me greatly, for it seems the very place for iris of the japanese type,--lilies that are not lilies in the exact sense, except by virtue of being built on the rule of three and having grasslike or parallel-veined leaves. but these closely allied plant families and their differences are a complex subject that we need not discuss, the whole matter being something akin to one of the dear old punch stories that adorn evan's patriotic scrap-book. a railway porter, puzzled as in what class of freight an immense tortoise shall be placed, as dogs are the only recognized standard, pauses, gazing at it as he scratches his head, and mutters, "cats is dogs and rabbits is dogs, but this 'ere hanimal's a hinsect!" the iris may be, in this respect, a "hinsect," but we will reckon it in with the lilies. the culture of this japan iris is very simple and well worth while, for the species comes into bloom in late june and early july, when the german and other kinds are through. i should dig the wet soil from the spot of which you speak, for all muck is not good for this iris, and after mixing it with some good loam and well-rotted cow manure replace it and plant the clumps of iris two feet apart, for they will spread wonderfully. in late autumn they should have a top dressing of manure and a covering of corn stalks, but, mind, water must not stand on your iris bed in winter; treating them as hardy plants does not warrant their being plunged into water ice. it is almost impossible, however, to give them too much water in june and july, when the great flowers of rainbow hues, spreading to a size that covers two open hands, cry for drink to sustain the exhaustion of their marvellous growth. so if your "squashy spot" is made so by spring rains, all is well; if not, it must be drained in some easy way, like running a length of clay pipe beneath, so that the overplus of water will flow off when the iris growth cannot absorb it. ah me! the very mention of this flower calls up endless visions of beauty. iris--the flower of mythology, history, and one might almost say science as well, since its outline points to the north on the face of the mariner's compass; the flower that in the dawn of recorded beauty antedates the rose, the fragments of the scattered rainbow of creation that rests upon the garden, not for a single hour or day or week, but for a long season. the early bulbous _iris histriodes_ begins the season in march, and the persian iris follows in april. in may comes the sturdy german iris of old gardens, of few species but every one worthy, and to be relied upon in mass of bloom and sturdy leafage to rival even the peony in decorative effect. next the meadows are ribboned by our own blue flags; and the english iris follows and in june and july meets the sumptuous iris of japan at its blooming season, for there seems to be no country so poor as to be without an iris. there are joyous flowers of gold and royal blue, the flower de luce (flower of louis) of regal france, and sombre flowers draped in deep green and black and dusky purple, "the widow" (_iris tuberosa_) and the chalcedonian iris (_iris susiana_), taking its name from the persian susa. _iris florentina_ by its powdered root yields the delicate violet perfume orris, a corruption doubtless of iris. many forms of root as well as blossom has the iris, tuberous, bulbous, fibrous, and if the rose may have a garden to itself, why may not the iris in combination with its sister lilies have one also? and when my eyes rest upon a bed of these flowers or upon a single blossom, i long to be a poet. * * * * * now to begin: will your shady place yield you a bed four feet in width by at least twenty in length? if so, set barney to work with pick and spade. the top, i take it, is old turf not good enough to use for edging, so after removing this have it broken into bits and put in a heap by itself. when the earth beneath is loosened, examine it carefully. if it is good old mellow loam without the pale yellow colour that denotes the sterile, undigested soil unworked by roots or earthworms, have it taken out to eighteen inches in depth and shovelled to one side. when the bad soil is reached, which will be soon, have it removed so that the pit will be three feet below the level. next, let barney collect any old broken bits of flower-pots, cobbles, or small stones of any kind, and fill up the hole for a foot, and let the broken turf come on top of this. if possible, beg or buy of amos opie a couple of good loads of the soil from the meadow bottom where the red bell-lilies grow, and mix this with the good loam, together with a scattering of bone, before replacing it. the bed should not only be full, but well rounded. grade it nicely with a rake and wait a week or until rain has settled it before planting. when setting these lilies, let there be six inches of soil above the bulb, and sprinkle the hole into which it goes with fresh-water sand mixed with powdered sulphur. this bed will be quite large enough for a beginning and will allow you four rows of twenty bulbs in a row, with room for them to spread naturally into a close mass, if so desired. or better yet, do not put them in stiff rows, but in groups, alternating the early-flowering with the late varieties. a row of german iris at the back of this bed will give solidity and the sturdy foliage make an excellent windbreak in the blooming season. if your friendly woman in the back country will give you two dozen of the madonna lily bulbs, group them in fours, leaving a short stake in the middle of each group that you may know its exact location, for the other lilies you cannot obtain before october, unless you chance to find them in the garden of some near-by florist or friend. these are-- _lilium speciosum album_--white recurved. _lilium speciosum rubrum_--spotted with ruby-red. _lilium speciosum roseum_--spotted with rose-pink. all three flower in august and september, _rubrum_ being the latest, and barring accidents increase in size and beauty with each year. in spite of the fact of their fickleness, i would buy a dozen or two of the auratum lilies, for even if they last but for a single year, they are so splendid that we can almost afford to treat them as a fleeting spectacle. as the _speciosum_ lilies (i wish some one would give them a more gracious name--we call them curved-shell lilies here among ourselves) do not finish flowering sometimes until late in september, the bulbs are not ripe in time to be sold through the stores, until there is danger of the ground being frozen at night. [illustration: speciosum lilies in the shade.] on the other hand, if purchased in spring, unless the bulbs have been wintered with the greatest care in damp, not wet, peat moss, or sand, they become so withered that their vitality is seriously impaired. there are several dealers who make a specialty of thus wintering lily bulbs,[a] and if you buy from one of these, i advise spring planting. if, however, for any reason you wish to finish your bed this fall, after planting and covering each bulb, press a four or five inch flower-pot lightly into the soil above it. this will act as a partial watershed to keep the drip of rain or snow water from settling in the crown of the bulb and decaying the bud. or if you have plenty of old boards about the place, they may be put on the bed and slightly raised in the centre, like a pitched roof, so as to form a more complete watershed, and the winter covering of leaves, salt, hay, or litter, free of manure, can be built upon this. crocuses, snowdrops, and scillas make a charming border for a lily bed and may be also put between the lilies themselves to lend colour early in the season. to cover your bed thoroughly, so that it will keep out cold and damp and not shut it in, is a _must be_ of successful lily culture. have you ever tried to grow our hardiest native lilies like the red-wood, turk's cap, and canada bell-lily in an open border where the porous earth, filled by ice crystal, was raised by the frost to the consistency of bread sponge? i did this not many years ago and the poor dears looked pinched and woebegone and wholly unlike their sturdy sisters of meadow and upland wood edges. afterward, in trying to dig some of these lilies from their native soil, i discovered why they were uncomfortable in the open borders; the garden, you, and i would have to work mighty hard to find a winter blanket for the lily bed to match the turf of wild grasses sometimes half a century old. many other beautiful and possible lilies there are besides these four, but these are to be taken as first steps in lily lore, as it were; for to make anything like a general collection of this flower is a matter of more serious expense and difficulty than to collect roses, owing to the frailness of the material and the different climatic conditions under which the rarer species, especially those from india and the sea islands, originated; but given anything japanese and a certain cosmopolitan intelligence seems bred in it that carries a reasonable hope of success under new conditions. we have half a dozen species of beautiful native lilies, but like some of our most exquisite ferns they depend much for their attractiveness upon the setting their natural haunts offer, and i do not like to see them caged, as it were, within strict garden boundaries. the red wood-lily should be met among the great brakes of a sandy wood edge, where white leafless wands of its cousin, star-grass, or colic root, wave above it, and the tall late meadow-rue and white angelica fringe the background. the canada bell-lily needs the setting of meadow grasses to veil its long, stiff stalks, while the turk's-cap lily seems the most at home of all in garden surroundings, but it only gains its greatest size in the deep meadows, where, without being wet, there is a certain moisture beneath the deep old turf, and this turf itself not only keeps out frost, but moderates the sun's rays in their transit to the ground. two lilies there are that, escaping from gardens, in many places have become half wild--the brick-red, black-spotted tiger lily with recurved flowerets, after the shape of the japanese _roseum_, _rubrum_, and _album_, being also a native of japan and china, and the tawny orange day lily, that is found in masses about old cellars and waysides, with its tubular flowers, held on leafless stems, springing from a matted bed of leaves. this day lily (_hemerocallis fulva_) is sister to the familiar and showy lemon lily of old gardens (_hemerocallis flava_). if you have plenty of room by your wall, i should lodge a few good bunches by it when you find some in a location where digging is possible. it is a decorative flower, but hardly worthy of good garden soil. the same may be said of the tiger lily, on account of the very inharmonious shade of red it wears; yet if you have a half-wild nook, somewhere that a dozen bulbs of it may be tucked in company with a bunch of the common tall white phlox that flowers at the same time, you will have a bit of colour that will care for itself. the lemon lily should have a place in the hardy border well toward the front row and be given enough room to spread into a comfortable circle after the manner of the white plantain lily (_funkia subcordata_). this last lily, another of japan's contributions to the hardy garden, blooms from august until frost and unlike most of the lily tribe is pleased if well-rotted manure is deeply dug into its resting-place. as with humanity the high and lowly born are subject to the same diseases, so is it with the lily tribe, and because you choose the sturdiest and consequently least expensive species for your garden, do not think that you may relax your vigilance. there is a form of fungous mould that attacks the bulbs of lilies without rhyme or reason and is the insidious tuberculosis of the race. _botrytis cinerea_ is its name and it seizes upon stalk and leaves in the form of spots that are at first yellow and then deepen in colour, until finally, having sapped the vitality of the plant, it succumbs. cold, damp, insufficient protection in winter, all serve to render the lily liable to its attacks, but the general opinion among the wise is that the universal overstimulation of lilies by fertilizers during late years, especially of the white lilies used for church and other decorative purposes, has undermined the racial constitution and made it prone to attacks of the enemy. therefore, if you please, mary penrose, sweet soil, sulphur, sand, and good winter covering, if you would not have your lily bed a consumptives' hospital! some lilies are also susceptible to sunstroke. when growing in the full light and heat of the sun, and the buds are ready to open, suddenly the flowers, leaves, and entire stalk will wither, as when in spring a tulip collapses and we find that a meadow-mouse has nipped it in the core. but with the lily the blight comes from above, and the only remedy is to plant in half shade. on the other hand the whims of the flower require that this be done carefully, for if the scorching sun is an evil, a soaking, sopping rain, coming at the height of the blooming season and dripping from overhanging boughs, is equally so. the gold-and-copper pollen turns to rusty tears that mar the petals of satin ivory or inlaid enamel, and a sickly transparency that bodes death comes to the crisp, translucent flower! "what a pother for a bed of flowers!" i hear you say, "draining, subsoiling, sulphuring, sanding, covering, humouring, and then sunstroke or consumption at the end!" so be it, but when success does come, it is something worth while, for to be successful with these lilies is "aiming the star" in garden experience. the plantain lilies and hemerocallis seem free from all of these whims and diseases, but it is when we come to the lily-of-the-valley that we have the compensation for our tribulations with the royal lilies of pure blood. the lily-of-the-valley asks deep, very rich soil in the open sun; if a wall or hedge protects it from the north, so much the better. i do not know why people preach dense shade for this flower; possibly because they prefer leaves to flowers, or else that they are of the sheeplike followers of tradition instead of practical gardeners of personal experience. one thing grows to perfection in the garden of this commuter's wife, and that is lilies-of-the-valley, and shade knows them not between eight in the morning and five at night, and we pick and pick steadily for two weeks, for as the main bed gives out, there are strips here and there in cooler locations that retard the early growth, but never any overhanging branches. in starting a wholly new bed, as you are doing, it is best to separate the tangled roots into small bunches, seeing to it that a few buds or "pips" remain with each, and plant in long rows a foot apart, three rows to a four-foot bed. be sure to bury a well-tarred plank a foot in width edgewise at the outer side of the bed, unless you wish, in a couple of years' time, to have this enterprising flower walk out and about the surrounding garden and take it for its own. be sure to press the roots in thoroughly and cover with three inches of soil. in december cover the bed with rotten _cow_ manure for several inches and rake off the coarser part in april, taking care not to break the pointed "pips" that will be starting, and you will have a forest of cool green leaves and such flowers as it takes much money to buy. not the first season, of course, but after that--forever, if you thin out and fertilize properly. in the back part of your lily-of-the-valley bed plant two or three rows of the lovely poets' narcissus (_poeticus_). it opens its white flowers of the "pheasant's eye" cup at the same time as the lilies bloom, it grows sufficiently tall to make a good upward gradation, and it likes to be let severely alone. but do not forget in covering in the fall to put leaves over the narcissi instead of manure. of other daffodils and narcissi that i have found very satisfactory, besides the good mixtures offered by reliable houses at only a dollar or a dollar and a quarter a hundred (the poets' narcissi only costing eighty cents a hundred for good bulbs), are trumpet major, incomparabilis, the old-fashioned "daffy," and the monster yellow trumpet narcissus, van sion. the polyanthus narcissi, carrying their many flowers in heads at the top of the stalk, are what is termed half hardy and they are more frequently seen in florists' windows than in gardens. i have found them hardy if planted in a sheltered spot, covered with slanted boards and leaves, which should not be removed before april, as the spring rain and winds, i am convinced, do more to kill the species than winter cold. the flowers are heavily fragrant, like gardenias, and are almost too sweet for the house; but they, together with violets, give the garden the opulence of odour before the lilacs are open, or the heliotropes that are to be perfumers-in-chief in summer have graduated from thumb pots in the forcing houses. [illustration: the poet's narcissus.] unless one has a large garden and a gardener who can plant and tend parterres of spring colour, i do not set much value upon outdoor hyacinths; they must be lifted each year and often replaced, as the large bulbs soon divide into several smaller ones with the flowers proportionately diminished. to me their mission is, to be grown in pots, shallow pans, or glasses on the window ledge, for winter and spring comforters, and i use the early tulips much in the same way, except for a cheerful line of them, planted about the foundation of the house, that when in bloom seems literally to lift home upon the spring wings of resurrection! all my tulip enthusiasm is centred in the late varieties, and chief among these come the fascinating and fantastic "parrots." when next i have my garden savings-bank well filled, i am going to make a collection of these tulips and guard them in a bed underlaid with stout-meshed wire netting, so that no mole may leave a tunnel for the wicked tulip-eating meadow-mouse. it is these late may-flowering tulips of long stalks, like wands of tall perennials, that you can gather in your arms and arrange in your largest jars with a sense at once combined of luxury and artistic joy. better begin as i did by buying them in mixture; the species you must choose are the bizarre, bybloems, parrots, breeders, darwin tulips, and the rose and white, together with a general mixture of late singles. five dollars will buy you fifty of each of the seven kinds, three hundred and fifty bulbs all told and enough for a fine display. the darwin tulips yield beautiful shades of violet, carmine, scarlet, and brown; the bizarres, many curious effects in stripes and flakes; the rose and white, delicate frettings and margins of pink on a white ground; but the parrots have petals fringed, twisted, beaked, poised curiously upon the stalks, splashed with reds, yellows, and green, and to come suddenly upon a mass of them in the garden is to think for a brief moment that a group of unknown birds blown from the tropics in a forced migration have alighted for rest upon the bending tulip stalks. [a] f.h. horsford of charlotte, vt., is very reliable in this matter. xiv fragrant flowers and leaves (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _woodridge, august ._ the heliotrope is in the perfection of bloom and seems to draw perfume from the intense heat of the august days only to release it again as the sun sets, while as long as daylight lasts butterflies of all sizes, shapes, and colours are fluttering about the flowers until the bed is like the transformation scene of a veritable dance of fairies! possibly you did not know that i have a heliotrope bed planted at the very last moment. i had never before seen a great mass of heliotrope growing all by itself until i visited your garden, and ever since i have wondered why more people have not discovered it. i think that i wrote you anent _hens_ that the ancient fowl-house of the place had been at the point where there was a gap in the old wall below the knoll, and that the wind swept up through it from the river, across the opal farm meadows, and into the windows of the dining room? the most impossible place for a fowl-house, but exactly the location, as _the man from everywhere_ suggested, for a bed of sweet odours. i expected to do nothing with it this season until one day larry, the departed, in a desire to use some of the domestic guano with which the rough cellar of the old building was filled, carted away part of it, and supplying its place with loam, dug over and straightened out the irregular space, which is quite six feet wide by thirty long. the same day, on going to a near-by florist's for celery plants, i found that he had a quantity of little heliotropes in excess of his needs, that had remained unpotted in the sand of the cutting house, where they had spindled into sickly-looking weeds. in a moment of the horticultural gambling that will seize one, i offered him a dollar for the lot, which he accepted readily, for it was the last of june and the poor things would probably have been thrown out in a day or two. i took them home and spent a whole morning in separating and cutting off the spindling tops to an even length of six inches. literally there seemed to be no end to the plants, and when i counted them i found that i had nearly a hundred and fifty heliotropes, which, after rejecting the absolutely hopeless, gave me six rows for the bed. for several weeks my speculation in heliotropes was a subject of much mirth between bart and myself, and the place was anything but a bed of sweet odours! the poor things lost the few leaves they had possessed and really looked as if they had been haunted by the ghosts of all the departed chickens that had gone from the fowl-house to the block. then we had some wet weather, followed by growing summer heat, and i did not visit the bed for perhaps a week or more, when i rubbed my eyes and pinched myself; for it was completely covered with a mass of vigorous green, riotous in its profusion, here and there showing flower buds, and ever since it is one of the places to which i go to feast my eyes and nose when in need of garden encouragement! another year i shall plant the heliotrope in one of the short cross-walk borders of the old garden, where we may also see it from the dining room, and use the larger bed for the more hardy sweet things, as i shall probably never be able to buy so many heliotrope plants again for so little money. now also i have a definite plan for a large border of fragrant flowers and leaves. i have been on a journey, and, having spent three whole days from home, i am able for once to tell you something instead of endlessly stringing questions together. we also have been to the cortrights' at gray rocks, and through a whiff of salt air, a touch of friendly hands, much conversation, and a drive to coningsby (a village back from the shore peopled by the descendants of seafarers who, having a little property, have turned mildly to farming), we have received fresh inspiration. you did not overestimate the originality of the cortrights' seaside garden, and even after your intimate description, it contained several surprises in the shape of masses of the milkweeds that flourish in sandy soil, especially the dull pink, and the orange, about which the brick-red monarch butterflies were hovering in great flocks. neither did you tell me of the thistles that flank the bayberry hedge. i never realized what a thing of beauty a thistle might be when encouraged and allowed room to develop. some of the plants of the common deep purple thistle, that one associates with the stunted growths of dusty roadsides, stood full five feet high, each bush as clear cut and erect as a candelabrum of fine metal work, while another group was composed of a pale yellow species with a tinge of pink in the centre set in very handsome silvery leaves. i had never before seen these yellow thistles, but lavinia cortright says that they are very plentiful in the dry ground back of the marshes, where the sand has been carried in drifts both by wind and tide. the table and house decorations the day that we arrived were of thistles blended with the deep yellow blossoms of the downy false foxglove or gerardia and the yellow false indigo that looks at a short distance like a dwarf bush pea. we drove to coningsby, as i supposed to see some gay little gardens, fantastic to the verge of awfulness, that had caught aunt lavinia's eye. in one the earth for the chief bed was contained in a surf-boat that had become unseaworthy from age, and not only was it filled to the brim, but vines of every description trailed over the sides. a neighbour opposite, probably a garden rival of the owner of the boat but lacking aquatic furniture, had utilized a single-seated cutter which, painted blue of the unmerciful shade that fights with everything it approaches, was set on an especially green bit of side lawn, surrounded by a heavy row of conch shells, and the box into which the seat had been turned, as well as the bottom of the sleigh itself, was filled with a jumble of magenta petunias and flame-coloured nasturtiums. after we had passed down a village street a quarter of a mile long, bordered on either side by floral combinations of this description, the sight began to pall, and i wondered how it was possible that any flowers well watered and cared for could produce such a feeling of positive aversion as well as eye-strained fatigue; also, if this was all that the cortrights had driven us many miles to see, when it was so much more interesting to lounge on either of the porches of their own cottage, the one commanding the sea and the other the sand garden, the low dunes, and the marsh meadows. "it is only half a mile farther on," said aunt lavinia, quick to feel that we were becoming bored, without our having apparently given any sign to that effect. "it! what is _it_?" asked bart, while i, without shame it is confessed, having a ravenous appetite, through outdoor living, hoped that _it_ was some quaint and neat little inn that "refreshed travellers," as it was expressed in old-time wording. "how singular!" ejaculated aunt lavinia; "i thought i told you last night when we were in the garden--well, it must have been in a dream instead. _it_ is the garden of mrs. marchant, wholly of fragrant things; it is on the little cross-road, beyond that strip of woods up there," and she waved toward a slight rise in the land that was regarded as a hill of considerable importance in this flat country. "it does not contain merely a single bed of sweet odours like barbara's and mine, but is a garden an acre in extent, where everything admitted has fragrance, either in flower or leaf. we chanced upon it quite by accident, martin and i, when driving ourselves down from oaklands, across country, as it were, to gray rocks, by keeping to shady lanes, byways, and pent roads, where it was often necessary to take down bars and sometimes verge on trespassing by going through farmyards in order to continue our way. "after traversing a wood road of unusual beauty, where everything broken and unsightly had been carefully removed that ferns and wild shrubs might have full chance of life, we came suddenly upon a white picket gate covered by an arched trellis, beyond which in the vista could be seen a modest house of the real colonial time, set in the midst of a garden. "at once we realized the fact that the lane was also a part of the garden in that it was evidently the daily walk of some one who loved nature, and we looked about for a way of retracing our steps. at the same moment two female figures approached the gate from the other side. at the distance at which we were i could only see that one was tall and slender, was dressed all in pure white, and crowned by a mass of hair to match, while the other woman was short and stocky, and the way in which she opened the gate and held it back told that whatever her age might be she was an attendant, though probably an intimate one. "in another moment they discovered us, and as martin alighted from the vehicle to apologize for our intrusion the tall figure immediately retreated to the garden, so quickly and without apparent motion that we were both startled, for the way of moving is peculiar to those whose feet do not really tread the earth after the manner of their fellows; and before we had quite recovered ourselves the stout woman had advanced and we saw by the pleasant smile her round face wore that she was not aggrieved at the intrusion but seemed pleased to meet human beings in that out-of-the-way place rather than rabbits, many of which had scampered away as we came down the lane. "martin explained our dilemma and asked if we might gain the highway without retracing our steps. the woman hesitated a moment, and then said, 'if you come through the gate and turn sharp to the right, you can go out across the apple orchard by taking down a single set of bars, only you'll have to lead your horse, sir, for the trees are set thick and are heavy laden. i'd let you cross the bit of grass to the drive by the back gate yonder but that it would grieve mrs. marchant to see the turf so much as pressed with a wheel; she'd feel and know it somehow, even if she didn't see it.' "'mrs. marchant! not mrs. chester marchant?' cried martin, while the far-away echo of something recalled by the name troubled the ears of my memory. "'yes, sir, the very same! did you know dr. marchant, sir? the minute i laid eyes on you two i thought you were of her kind!' replied the woman, pointing backward over her shoulder and settling herself against the shaft and side of brown tom, the horse, as if expecting and making ready for a comfortable chat. "as she stood thus i could take a full look at her without intrusiveness. apparently well over sixty years old, and her face lines telling of many troubles, yet she had not a gray hair in her head and her poise was of an independent landowner rather than an occupier of another's home. i also saw at a glance that whatever her present position might be, she had not been born in service, but was probably a native of local importance, who, for some reason perfectly satisfactory to herself, was 'accommodating.' "'dr. marchant, dr. russell, and i were college mates,' said martin, briefly, 'and after he and his son died so suddenly i was told that his widow was mentally ill and that none could see her, and later that she had died, or else the wording was so that i inferred as much,' and the very recollection seemed to set martin dreaming. and i did not wonder, for there had never been a more brilliant and devoted couple than abbie and chester marchant, and i still remember the shock of it when word came that both father and son had been killed by the same runaway accident, though it was nearly twenty years ago. "'she was ill, sir, was mrs. marchant; too ill to see anybody. for a long time she wouldn't believe that the accident had happened, and when she really sensed it, she was as good as dead for nigh five years. one day some of her people came to me--'twas the year after my own husband died--and asked if i would take a lady and her nurse here to live with me for the summer. they told me of her sickness and how she was always talking of some cottage in a garden of sweet-smelling flowers where she had lived one happy summer with her husband and her boy, and they placed the house as mine. "'her folks said the doctors thought if she could get back here for a time that it might help her. then i recollected that ten years before, when i went up to maine to visit my sister, i'd rented the place, just as it stood, to folks of the name of marchant, a fine couple that didn't look beyond each other unless 'twas at their son. in past times my grandmother had an old-country knack of raising healing herbs and all sorts of sweet-smelling things, along with farm truck, so that folks came from all about to buy them and doctors too, for such things weren't sold so much in shops in those days as they are now, and so this place came to be called the herb farm. after that it was sold off, little by little, until the garden, wood lane, and orchard is about all that's left. "'i was lonesome and liked the idea of company, and besides i was none too well fixed; yet i dreaded a mournful widow that wasn't all there anyway, according to what they said, but i thought i'd try. well, sir, she come, and that first week i thought i'd never stand it, she talked and wrung her hands so continual. but one day what do you think happened? i chanced to pick a nosegay, not so much fine flowers perhaps as good-smelling leaves and twigs, and put it in a little pitcher in her room. "'it was like witchcraft the way it worked; the smell of those things seemed to creep over her like some drugs might and she changed. she stopped moaning and went out into the garden and touched all the posies with her fingers, as if she was shaking hands, and all of a sudden it seemed, by her talk, as if her dead were back with her again; and on every other point she's been as clear and ladylike as possible ever since, and from that day she cast off her black clothes as if wearing 'em was all through a mistake. "'the doctors say it's something to do with the 'sociation of smells, for that season they spent in my cottage was the only vacation dr. marchant had taken in years, and they say it was the happiest time in her life, fussing about among my old-fashioned posies with him; and somehow in her mind he's got fixed there among those posies, and every year she plants more and more of them, and what friends of hers she ever speaks of she remembers by some flowers they wore or liked. "'well, as it turned out, her trustees have bought my place out and fixed it over, and here we live together, i may say, both fairly content! "'come in and see her, won't you? it'll do no harm. cortright, did you say your name was?' and before we could retreat, throwing brown tom's loose check-rein across the pickets of the gate, she led us to where the tall woman, dressed in pure white, stood under the trees, a look of perfectly calm expectancy in the wonderful dark eyes that made such a contrast to her coils of snow-white hair. "'cortright! martin cortright, is it not?' she said immediately, as her companion spoke the surname. 'and your wife? i had not heard that you were married, but i remember you well, lavinia dorman, and your city garden, and the musk-rose bush that ailed because of having too little sun. chester will be so sorry to miss you; he is seldom at home in the mornings, for he takes long walks with our son. he is having the first entire half year's vacation he has allowed himself since our marriage. but you will always find him in the garden in the afternoon; he is so fond of fragrant flowers, and he is making new studies of herbs and such things, for he believes that in spite of some great discoveries it will be proven that the old simples are the most enduring medicines.' "as she spoke she was leading the way, with that peculiar undulating progress, like a cloud blown over the earth's surface, that i had noticed at first. then we came out from under the shade of the trees into the garden enclosure and i saw borders and beds, but chiefly borders, stretching and curving everywhere, screening all the fences, approaching the house, and when almost there retreating in graceful lines into the shelter of the trees. the growth had the luxuriance of a jungle, and yet there was nothing weedy or awry about it, and as the breeze blew toward us the combination of many odours, both pungent and sweet, was almost overpowering. "'you very seldom wore a buttonhole flower, but when you did it was a safrano bud or else a white jasmine,' mrs. marchant said, wheeling suddenly and looking at martin with a gaze that did not stop where he stood, but went through and beyond him; 'it was dr. russell who always wore a pink! see! i have both here!' and going up to a tea-rose bush, grown to the size of a shrub and lightly fastened to the side of the house, she gathered a few shell-like buds and a moment later pulled down a spray of the jasmine vine that festooned a window, as we see it in england but never here, and carefully cut off a cluster of its white stars by aid of a pair of the long, slender flower-picking scissors that hung from her belt by a ribbon, twisted the stems together, and placed them in martin's buttonhole almost without touching it. "having done this, she seemed to forget us and drifted away among the flowers, touching some gently as she passed, snipping a dead leaf here and arranging a misplaced branch there. "we left almost immediately, but have been there many times since, and though as a whole the garden is too heavily fragrant, i thought that it might suggest possibilities to you." as aunt lavinia paused we were turning from the main road into the narrow but beautifully kept lane upon which the herb farm, as it was still called, was located, by one of those strange freaks that sometimes induces people to build in a strangely inaccessible spot, though quite near civilization. i know that you must have come upon many such places in your wanderings. of course my curiosity was piqued, and i felt, besides, as if i was about to step into the page of some strange psychological romance, nor was i disappointed. the first thing that i saw when we entered was a great strip of heliotrope that rivalled my own, and opposite it an equal mass of silvery lavender crowned by its own flowers, of the colour that we so frequently use as a term, but seldom correctly. there were no flagged or gravel walks, but closely shorn grass paths, the width of a lawn-mower, that followed the outline of the borders and made grateful footing. bounding the heliotrope and lavender on one side was a large bed of what i at first thought were margaret carnations, of every colour combination known to the flower, but a closer view showed that while those in the centre were margarets, those of the wide border were of a heavier quality both in build of plant, texture of leaf, and flower, which was like a compact greenhouse carnation, the edges of the petals being very smooth and round, while in addition to many rich, solid colours there were flowers of white-and-yellow ground, edged and striped and flaked with colour, and the fragrance delicious and reminiscent of the clove pinks of may. mrs. puffin, the companion, could tell us little about them except that the seed from which they were raised came from england and that, as she put it, they were fussy, troublesome things, as those sown one season had to be lifted and wintered in the cold pit and get just so much air every day, and be planted out in the border again in april. aunt lavinia recognized them as the same border carnations over which she had raved when she first saw them in the trim gardens of hampton court. can either you or evan tell me more of them and why we do not see them here? before long i shall go garden mad, i fear; for after grooming the place into a generally decorative and floriferous condition of trees, shrubs, vines, ferns, etc., will come the hunger for specialties that if completely satisfied will necessitate not only a rosary, a lily and wild garden, a garden--rather than simply a bed--of sweet odours, and lastly a garden wholly for the family of pinks or carnations, whichever is the senior title. i never thought of these last except as a garden incident until i saw their possibilities in mrs. marchant's space of fragrant leaves and flowers. [illustration: a bed of japan pinks.] the surrounding fences were entirely concealed by lilacs and syringas, interspersed with gigantic bushes of the fragrant, brown-flowered strawberry shrub; the four gates, two toward the road, one to the barn-yard, and one entering the wood lane, were arched high and covered by vines of wisteria, while similar arches seemed to bring certain beds together that would have looked scattered and meaningless without them. in fact next to the presence of fragrant things, the artistic use of vines as draperies appealed to me most. the border following the fence was divided, back of the house, by a vine-covered arbour, on the one side of which the medicinal herbs and simples were massed; on the other what might be classed as decorative or garden flowers, though some of the simples, such as tansy with its clusters of golden buttons, must be counted decorative. the plants were never set in straight lines, but in irregular groups that blended comfortably together. mrs. marchant was not feeling well, mrs. puffin said, and could not come out, greatly to my disappointment; but the latter was only too glad to do the honours, and the plant names slipped from her tongue with the ease of long familiarity. this patch of low growth with small heads of purple flowers was broad-leaved english thyme; that next, summer savory, used in cooking, she said. then followed common sage and its scarlet-flowered cousin that we know as salvia; next came rue and rosemary, ophelia's flower of remembrance, with stiff leaves. little known or grown, or rather capricious and tender here, i take it, for i find plants of it offered for sale in only one catalogue. marigolds were here also, why i do not know, as i should think they belonged with the more showy flowers; then inconspicuous pennyroyal and several kinds of mints--spearmint, peppermint, and some great plants of velvet-leaved catnip. borage i saw for the first time, also coriander of the aromatic seeds, and a companion of dill of vinegar fame; and strangely enough, in rotation of bible quotation, cumin and rue came next. caraway and a feathery mass of fennel took me back to grandmother's virginia garden; balm and arnica, especially when i bruised a leaf of the latter between my fingers, recalled the bottle from which i soothe the infant's childish bumps, the odour of it being also strongly reminiscent of my own childhood. angelica spoke of the sweet candied stalks, but when we reached a spot of basil, martin cortright's tongue was loosed and he began to recite from keats; and all at once i seemed to see isabella sitting among the shadows holding between her knees the flower-pot from which the strangely nourished plant of basil grew as she watered it with her tears. a hedge of tall sunflowers, from whose seeds, mrs. puffin said, a soothing and nourishing cough syrup may be made, antedating cod-liver oil, replaced the lilacs on this side, and with them blended boneset and horehound; while in a springy spot back toward the barn-yard the long leaves of sweet flag or calamus introduced a different class of foliage. on the garden side the border was broken every ten feet or so with great shrubs of our lemon verbena, called lemon balm by mrs. puffin. it seemed impossible that such large, heavily wooded plants could be lifted for winter protection in the cellar, yet such mrs. puffin assured us was the case. so i shall grow mine to this size if possible, for what one can do may be accomplished by another,--that is the tonic of seeing other gardens than one's own. between the lemon verbenas were fragrant-leaved geraniums of many flavours--rose, nutmeg, lemon, and one with a sharp peppermint odour, also a skeleton-leaved variety; while a low-growing plant with oval leaves and half-trailing habit and odd odour, mrs. puffin called apple geranium, though it does not seem to favour the family. do you know it? bee balm in a blaze of scarlet made glowing colour amid so much green, and strangely enough the bluish lavender of the taller-growing sister, wild bergamot, seems to harmonize with it; while farther down the line grew another member of this brave family of horsemints with almost pink, irregular flowers of great beauty. southernwood formed fernlike masses here and there; dwarf tansy made the edging, together with the low, yellow-flowered musk, which aunt lavinia, now quite up in such things, declared to be a "musk-scented mimulus!" whatever that may be! stocks, sweet sultan, and tall wands of evening primrose graded this border up to another shrubbery. of mignonette the garden boasts a half dozen species, running from one not more than six inches in height with cinnamon-red flowers to a tall variety with pointed flower spikes, something of the shape of the white flowers of the clethra bush or wands of culver's root that grow along the fence at opal farm. it is not so fragrant as the common mignonette, but would be most graceful to arrange with roses or sweet peas. aunt lavinia says that she thinks that it is sold under the name of miles spiral mignonette. close to the road, where the fence angle allows for a deep bed and the lilacs grade from the tall white of the height of trees down to the compact bushes of newer french varieties, lies the violet bed, now a mass of green leaves only, but by these aunt lavinia's eye read them out and found here the english sweet wild violet, as well as the deep purple double garden variety, the tiny white scented that comes with pussy-willows, the great single pansy violet of california, and the violets grown from the russian steppes that carpeted the ground under your "mother tree." from this bed the lilies-of-the-valley start and follow the entire length of the front fence, as you preach on the sunny side, the fence itself being hidden by a drapery of straw-coloured and pink chinese honeysuckle that we called at home june honeysuckle, though this is covered with flower sprays in late august, and must be therefore a sort of monthly-minded hybrid, after the fashion of the hybrid tea-rose. if i were to tell of the tea-roses grown here, they would fill a chronicle by itself, though only a few of the older kinds, such as safrano, bon silene, and perle, are favourites. mrs. puffin says that some of them, the great shrubs, are wintered out-of-doors, and others are lifted, like the lemon balms, and kept in the dry, light cellar in tubs. but oh! mrs. evan, you must go and see mrs. marchant's lilies! they are growing as freely as weeds among the uncut grass, and blooming as profusely as the bell-lilies in opal farm meadows! and all the spring bulbs are also grown in this grass that lies between the shorn grass paths, and in autumn when the tops are dead and gone it is carefully burned over and the turf is all the winter covering they have. does the grass look ragged and unsightly? no, because i think that it is cut lightly with a scythe after the spring bulbs are gone and that the patient woman, whose life the garden is, keeps the tallest seeded grasses hand trimmed from between the lily stalks! ah, but how that garden lingers with me, and the single glimpse i caught of the deep dark eyes of its mistress as they looked out of a vine-clad window toward the sky! i have made a list of the plants that are possible for my own permanent bed of fragrant flowers and leaves, that i may enjoy them, and that the infant may have fragrant memories to surround all her youth and bind her still more closely to the things of outdoor life. i chanced upon a verse of bourdillon's the other day. do you know it? "ah! full of purest influence on human mind and mood, of holiest joy to human sense are river, field, and wood; and better must all childhood be that knows a garden and a tree!" xv the pink family outdoors (barbara campbell to mary penrose) _oaklands, september ._ so you have been away and in going discovered the possibilities of growing certain pinks and carnations out-of-doors that, in america at least, are usually considered the winter specialties of a cool greenhouse! we too have been afield somewhat, having but now returned from a driving trip of ten days, nicely timed as to gardens and resting-places until the last night, when, making a false turn, ten o'clock found us we did not know where and with no prospect of getting our bearings. we had ample provisions for supper with us, including two bottles of ginger ale; no one knew that we were lost but ourselves and no one was expecting us anywhere, as we travel quite _con amore_ on these little near-by journeys of ours. the august moon was big and hot and late in rising; there was a rick of old hay in a clean-looking field by the roadside that had evidently been used as winter fodder for young cattle, for what remained of it was nibbled about the base, leaving a protruding, umbrella-like thatch, not very substantial, but sufficient shelter for a still night. then and there we decided to play gypsy and camp out, literally under the sky. evan unharnessed the horse, watered him at a convenient roadside puddle, and tethered him at the rear of the stack, where he could nibble the hay, but not us! then spreading the horse-blanket on some loose hay for a bed, with the well-tufted seat of the buggy for a pillow, and utilizing the lap robe for a cover against dew, we fell heavily asleep, though i had all the time a half-conscious feeling as if little creatures were scrambling about in the hay beneath the blanket and occasionally brushing my face or ears with a batlike wing, tiny paws, or whisking tail. when i awoke, and of course immediately stirred up evan, the moon was low on the opposite side of the stack, the stars were hidden, and there was a dull red glow among the heavy clouds of the eastern horizon like the reflection of a distant fire, while an owl hooted close by from a tree and then flew with a lurch across the meadow, evidently to the destruction of some small creature, for a squeal accompanied the swoop. a mysterious thing, this flight of the owl: the wings did not flap, there was no sound, merely the consciousness of displaced air. we were not, as it afterward proved, ten miles from home, and yet, as far as trace of humanity was concerned, we might have been the only created man and woman. do you remember the old gypsy song?--ben jonson's, i think-- "the owl is abroad, the bat, the toad, and so is the cat-a-mountain; the ant and the mole both sit in a hole, and frog peeps out o' the fountain; the dogs they bay and the timbrels play and the spindle now is turning; the moon it is red, and the stars are fled but all the sky is a-burning." but we were still more remote, for of beaters of timbrels and turners of spindles were there none! * * * * * your last chronicle interested us all. in the first place father remembers mrs. marchant perfectly, for he and the doctor used to exchange visits constantly during that long-ago summer when they lived on the old herb farm at coningsby. father had heard that she was hopelessly deranged, but nothing further, and the fact that she is living within driving distance in the midst of her garden of fragrance is a striking illustration both of the littleness of the earth and the social remoteness of its inhabitants. father says that mrs. marchant was always a very intellectual woman, and he remembers that in the old days she had almost a passion for fragrant flowers, and once wrote an essay upon the psychology of perfumes that attracted some attention in the medical journal in which it was published by her husband. that the perfume of flowers should now have drawn the shattered fragments of her mind together for their comfort and given her the foretaste of immortality, by the sign of the consciousness of personal presence and peace, is beautiful indeed. your declaration that henceforth one garden is not enough for your ambition, but that you crave several, amuses me greatly. for a mere novice i must say that you are making strides in seven-league horticultural boots, wherein you have arrived at the heart of the matter, viz.:--one may grow many beautiful and satisfactory flowers in a mixed garden such as falls to the lot of the average woman sufficiently lucky to own a garden at all, but to develop the best possibilities of any one family, like the rose, carnation, or lily, that is a bit whimsical about food and lodging, each one must have a garden of its own, so to speak, which, for the amateur, may be made to read as a special bed in a special location, and not necessarily a vast area. this need is always recognized in the english garden books, and the chapter headings, the rose garden,--hardy garden,--wall garden,--lily garden,--alpine garden, etc., lead one at first sight to think that it is a great estate alone that can be so treated; but it is merely a horticultural protest, born of long experience, against mixing races to their mutual hurt, and this precaution, together with the climate, makes of all england a gardener's paradise! what you say of the expansiveness of the list of fragrant flowers and leaves is also true, for taken in the literal sense there are really few plants without an individual odour of some sort in bark, leaf, or flower usually sufficient to identify them. in a recent book giving what purports to be a list of fragrant flowers and leaves, the chrysanthemum is included, as it gives out an aromatic perfume from its leaves! this is true, but so also does the garden marigold, and yet we should not include either among fragrant leaves in the real sense. hence to make the right selection of plants for the bed of sweet odours it is best, as in the case of choosing annuals, to adhere to a few tried and true worthies. but at your rhapsody on the bed of carnations, i am also tempted to launch forth in praise of all pinks in general and the annual flowering garden carnation, early marguerite, and picotee varieties in particular, especially when i think what results might be had from the same bits of ground that are often left to be overrun with straggling and unworthy annuals. for to have pinks to cut for the house, pinks for colour masses out-of-doors, and pinks to give away, is but a matter of understanding, a little patience, and the possession of a cold pit (which is but a deeper sort of frame like that used for a hotbed and sunken in the ground) against a sunny wall, for the safe wintering of a few of the tenderer species. in touching upon this numerous family, second only to the rose in importance, the embarrassment is, where to begin. is a carnation a pink, or a pink a carnation? i have often been asked. you may settle that as you please, since the family name of all, even the bearded sweet-william, is _dianthus_, the decisive title of linnæus, a word from the greek meaning "flower of jove," while the highly scented species and varieties of the more or less pungent clove breath remain under the old subtitle--_caryophyllus_. to go minutely into the differences and distinctions of the race would require a book all to itself, for in , more than three hundred years ago, gerarde wrote: "there are, under the name of _caryophyllus_, comprehended diuers and sundrie sorts of plants, of such variable colours and also severall shapes that a great and large volume would not suffice to write of euery one in particular." and when we realize that the pink was probably the first flower upon which, early in the eighteenth century, experiments in hybridization were tried, the intricacy will be fully understood. for the garden, you, and i, three superficial groups only are necessary: the truly hardy perennial pinks, that when once established remain for years; the half-hardy perennials that flower the second year after planting, and require protection; and the biennials that will flower the first year and may be treated as annuals. the margaret carnations, though biennials, are best treated as annuals, for they may be had in flower in three to four months after the sowing of the seed, and the english perennial border carnations, bizarres, and picotees will live for several years, but in this climate must be wintered in a _dry wooden_ cold pit, after the manner of the perennial varieties of wallflowers, tender roses, and the like. i emphasize the words _dry wooden_ in connection with a cold pit from my experience in seeking to make mine permanent by replacing the planks, with which it was built and which often decayed, by stone work, with most disastrous results, causing me to lose a fine lot of plants by mildew. the truly hardy pinks (_dianthus plumarius_), the fringed and clove-scented species both double and single of old-time gardens, that bloom in late spring and early summer, are called variously may and grass pinks. her majesty is a fine double white variety of this class, and if, in the case of double varieties, you wish to avoid the risk of getting single flowers, you would better start your stock with a few plants and subdivide. for myself, every three or four years, i sow the seed of these pinks in spring in the hardy seed bed, and transplant to their permanent bed early in september, covering the plants lightly in winter with evergreen boughs or corn stalks. leaf litter or any sort of covering that packs and holds water is deadly to pinks, so prone is the crown to decay. in the catalogues you will find these listed under the names of pheasant's eye, double scotch pinks (_scotius_), and perpetual pink (_semperflorens_). with this class belongs the sweet-william (_dianthus barbatus_), which should be sown and treated in a like manner. it is also a hardy perennial, but i find it best to renew it every few years, as the flowers of young plants are larger, and in spite of care, the most beautiful hybrids will often decay at the ground. there is no garden flower, excepting the dahlia, that gives us such a wealth of velvet bloom, and if you mean to make a specialty of pinks, i should advise you to buy a collection of sweet-williams in the separate colours, which range from white to deepest crimson with varied markings. directions for sowing the biennial chinese and japanese pinks were given in the chronicle concerning the hardy seed bed. these pinks are not really fragrant, though most of them have a pleasant apple odour that, together with their wonderful range of colour, makes them particularly suitable for table decoration. in addition to the mixed colours recommended for the general seed bed, the following japanese varieties are of special beauty, among the single pinks: queen of holland, pure white; eastern queen, enormous rose-pink flowers, crimson belle, dark red. among the double, fireball, an intense scarlet; the diadem pink, salmon queen, and the lovely oriental beauty with diversely marked petals of a crêpy texture. the double varieties of course are more solid and lasting, if they do not insist upon swelling so mightily that they burst the calyx and so have a dishevelled and one sided look; but for intrinsic beauty of colour and marking the single chinese and japanese pinks, particularly the latter, reign supreme. they have a quality of holding one akin to that of the human eye and possess much of the power of individual expression that belongs to pansies and single violets. by careful management and close clipping of withered flowers, a bed of these pinks may be had in bloom from june until december, the first flowers coming from the autumn-sown plants, which may be replaced in august by those sown in the seed bed in late may, which by this time will be well budded. "august is a kittle time for transplanting border things," i hear you say. to be sure; but with your water-barrel, the long-necked water-pots, and a judicious use of inverted flower-pots between ten a.m. and four p.m., there is no such word as fail in this as in many other cases. [illustration: single and double pinks.] upon the second and third classes you must depend for pinks of the taller growth ranging from one to two feet in height and flourishing long-stemmed clusters of deliciously clove-scented flowers. the hardy margarets might be wintered in the pit, if it were worth the while, but they are so easily raised from seed, and so prone literally to bloom themselves to death in the three months between midsummer and hard frost, that i prefer to sow them each year in late march and april and plant them out in may, as soon as their real leaves appear, and pull them up at the general autumnal garden clearance. upon the highly scented perpetual and picotee pinks or carnations (make your own choice of terms) you must depend for fragrance between the going of the may pinks and the coming of the margarets; not that they of necessity cease blooming when their more easily perfected sisters begin; quite the contrary, for the necessity of lifting them in the winter gives them a spring set-back that they do not have in england, where they are the universal hardy pink, alike of the gardens of great estates and the brick-edged cottage border. these are the carnations of mrs. marchant's garden that filled you with such admiration, and also awoke the spirit of emulation. lavinia cortright was correct in associating them with the lavish bloom of the gardens of hampton court, for if anything could make me permanently unpatriotic (which is impossible), it would be the roses and picotee pinks of the dear old stupid (human middle-class, and cold bedroom-wise), but florally adorable mother country! the method by which you may possess yourself of these crowning flowers of the garden, for _coro_nations is one of the words from which _car_nation is supposed but to be derived, is as follows:-- be sure of your seed. not long ago it was necessary to import it direct, but not now. you may buy from the oldest of american seed houses fifty varieties of carnations and picotees, in separate packets, for three dollars, or twenty-five sorts for one dollar and seventy-five cents, or twelve (enough for a novice) for one dollar, the same being undoubtedly english or holland grown, while a good english house asks five shillings, or a dollar and a quarter, for a single packet of mixed varieties! moral--it is not necessary that "made in england" should be stamped upon flower seeds to prove them of english origin! if you can spare hotbed room, the seeds may be sown in april, like the early margarets, and transplanted into some inconspicuous part of the vegetable garden, where the soil is deep and firm and there is a free circulation of air (not between tall peas and sweet corn), as for the first summer these pinks have no ornamental value, other than the pleasurable spectacle made by a healthy plant of any kind, by virtue of its future promise. before frost or not later than the second week in october the pinks should be put in long, narrow boxes or pots sufficiently large to hold all the roots comfortably, but with little space to spare, watered, and partly shaded, until they have recovered themselves, when they should be set in the lightest part of the cold pit. during the winter months they should have only enough water to keep the earth from going to dust, and as much light and air as possible without absolutely freezing hard, after the manner of treating lemon verbenas, geraniums, and wall-flowers. by the middle of april they may be planted in the bed where they are to bloom, and all the further care they need will be judicious watering and the careful staking of the flower stalks if they are weak and the buds top-heavy,--and by the way, as to the staking of flowers in general, a word with you later on. in the greenhouse, pinks are liable to many ailments, and several of these follow them out-of-doors, three having given me some trouble, the most fatal being of a fungoid order, due usually to unhealthy root conditions or an excess of moisture. _rust_ is one of these, its latin name being too long for the simple vocabulary of the garden, you, and i. it first shows itself in a brown spot that seems to have worked out from the inner part of the leaf. sometimes it can be conquered by snipping the infected leaves, but if it seizes an entire bed, the necessary evil of spraying with bordeaux mixture must be resorted to, as in the case of fungus-spotted hollyhocks. _thrip_, the little transparent, whitish fly, will sometimes bother border carnations in the same way as it does roses. if the flowers are only in bud, i sprinkle them with my brass rose-atomizer and powder slightly with helebore. but if the flowers are open, sprinkling and shaking alone may be resorted to. for the several kinds of underground worms that trouble pinks, of which the wireworm is the chief, i have found a liberal use of unslaked lime and bone-dust in the preparation of the soil before planting the best preventive. other ailments have appeared only occasionally. sometimes an apparently healthy, full-grown plant will suddenly wither away, or else swell up close to the ground and finally burst so that the sap leaks out and it dies like a punctured or girdled tree. the first trouble may come from the too close contact of fresh manure, which should be kept away from the main roots of carnations, as from contact with lily bulbs. as to the swelling called _gout_, there is no cure, so do not temporize. pull up the plant at once and disinfect the spot with unslaked lime and sulphur. thus, mary penrose, may you have either pinks in your garden or a garden of pinks, whichever way you may care to develop your idea. "a deal of trouble?" y-e-s; but then only think of the flowers that crown the work, and you might spend an equal amount of time in pricking cloth with a steel splinter and embroidering something, in the often taken-in-vain name of decorative art, that in the end is only an elaborated rag--without even the bone and the hank of hair! xvi the frame of the picture vines and shrubs (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _woodridge, september ._ your chronicle of the pink family found me by myself in camp, dreaming away as vigorously as if it was a necessary and practical occupation. after all, are we sure that it is not, in a way, both of these? this season my dreams of night have been so long that they have lingered into the things of day and _vice versa_, and yet neither the one nor the other have whispered of idleness, but the endless hope of work. bart's third instalment of vacation ends to-morrow, though we shall continue to sleep out of doors so long as good weather lasts; the remaining ten days we are saving until october, when the final transplanting of trees and shrubs is to be made; and in addition to those for the knoll we have marked some shapely dogwoods, hornbeams, and tulip trees for grouping in other parts of the home acres. there are also to be had for the digging good bushes of the early pink and clammy white azalea, mountain-laurel, several of the blueberry tribe, that have white flowers in summer and glorious crimson foliage in autumn, white-flowered elder, button-bush, groundsel tree, witchhazel, bayberry, the shining-leaved sumach, the white meadow-sweet, and pink steeplebush, besides a number of cornels and viburnums suitable for shrubberies. as i glance over the list of what the river and quarry woods have yielded us, it is like reading from the catalogue of a general dealer in hardy plants, and yet i suppose hundreds of people have as much almost at their doors, if they did but know it. the commercial side of a matter of this kind is not the one upon which to dwell the most, except upon the principle of the old black woman who said, "chillun, count yer marcies arter every spell o' pain!" and to-day, in assaying our mercies and the various advantages of our garden vacation, i computed that the trees, shrubs, ferns, herbaceous wild flowers, and vines (yes, we have included vines, of which i must tell you), if bought of the most reasonable of dealers, would have cost us at least three hundred dollars, without express or freight charges. the reason for my being by myself at this particular moment is that bart, mounted on solemn romeo, has taken the infant, astride her diminutive pony, by a long leader, for a long-promised ride up the river road, the same being the _finale_ of the celebration of his birthday, that began shortly after daylight. the infant, in order to be early enough to give him the first of his thirty-three kisses, came the night before, and though she has camped out with us at intervals all summer, the novelty has not worn off. she has a happy family of pets that, without being caged or in any way coerced or confined, linger about the old barn, seem to watch for her coming, and expect their daily rations, even though they do not care to be handled. punch and judy, the gray squirrels of the dovecote, perch upon her shoulders and pry into the pockets of her overalls for nuts or kernels of corn, all the while keeping a bright eye upon reddy, the setter pup, who, though he lies ever so sedately, nose between paws, they well know is not to be trusted. while as for birds, all the season we have had chipping-sparrows, catbirds, robins, and even a wood-thrush, leader of the twilight orchestra, all of whom the little witch has tempted in turn by a bark saucer spread with leaves and various grains and small fruits, from strawberries to mulberries, for which she has had a daily hunt through the opal farm land the season through. toward the english sparrow she positively declines to harden her heart, in spite of my having repeated the story of its encroachments and crimes. she listens and merely shakes her head, saying, "we 'vited them to come, didn't we, mother? when we 'vites people, we always feed 'em; 'sides, they're the only ones'll let me put them in my pocket," which is perfectly true, for having learned this warm abiding-place of much oats and cracked corn, they follow her in a flock, and a few confiding spirits allow themselves to be handled. at the birthday dinner party, arranged by the infant, a number of these guests were present. we must have looked a motley crew, in whose company old king cole himself would have been embarrassed, for bart wore a wreath of pink asters, while a gigantic sunflower made my head-dress, and the cake, made and garnished with red and white peppermints, an american and an irish flag, by anastasia, was mounted firmly upon a miscellaneous mass of flowers, with a superstructure of small yellow tomatoes, parsley, young carrots, and beets, the colour of these vegetables having caught the infant's eye. the pony, ginger, had a basket of second-crop clover flowers provided for him; reddy some corned-beef hash, his favourite dish, coaxed from anastasia; while for punch, judy, and as many of their children as would venture down from the rafters, the infant had compounded a wonderful salad of mixed nuts and corn. as the infant ordained that "the childrens shan't tum in 'til d'sert," we had the substantial part of our meal in peace; but the candles were no sooner blown out and the cake cut than ginger left his clover to nibble the young carrots, the squirrels got into the nut dish bodily and began sorting over the nuts to find those they liked best, with such vigour that the others flew in our faces, and reddy fell off the box upon which the infant had balanced him with difficulty, nearly carrying the table-cloth with him, while at this moment, the feast becoming decidedly crumby, we were surrounded by the entire flock of english sparrows! * * * * * now this is not at all what i started to tell you; quite the contrary. please forgive this domestic excursion into the land of maternal pride and happenings. what i meant to write of was my conviction, that came through sitting on the hay rafters and looking down upon the garden, that as a beautiful painting is improved by proper framing, so should the garden be enclosed at different points by frames, to focus the eye upon some central object. though the greater part of the garden is as yet only planned and merely enough set out in each part to fix special boundaries, as in the case of the rose bed, i realize that as a whole it is too open and lacks perspective. you see it all at once; there are no breaks. no matter in what corner scarlet salvia and vermilion nasturtiums may be planted, they are sure to get in range with the pink verbenas and magenta phlox in a teeth-on-edge way. from other viewpoints the result is no better. looking from the piazza that skirts two sides of the house, where we usually spend much time, three portions of the garden are in sight at once, and all on different planes, without proper separating frames; the rose garden is near at hand, the old borders leading to the sundial being at right angles with it. at the right, the lower end of the knoll and the gap with its bed of heliotrope are prominent, while between, at a third distance, is the proposed location of the white-birch screen, the old wall rockery, etc. the rockery and rose garden are in their proper relation, but the other portions should be given perspective by framing, and the result of my day-dreams is that this, according to nature, should be done by the grouping of shrubs and the drapery of vines. i now for the first time fully understand the uses of the pergola in landscape gardening, the open sides of which form a series of vine-draped frames. i had always before thought it a stiff and artificial sort of arrangement, as well as the tall clipped yews, laurel trees in tubs, and marble vases and columns that are parts of the usual framework of the more formal gardens. and while these things would be decidedly out of place in gardens of our class, and at best could only be indulged in via white-painted wooden imitations, the woman who is her own gardener may exercise endless skill in bringing about equally good results with the rustic material at hand and by following wild nature, who, after all, is the first model. [illustration: the silver maple by the lane gate.] i think i hear evan laughing at my preachment concerning his special art, but the comprehension of it has all come through looking at the natural landscape effects that have happened at opal farm owing to the fact that the hand of man has there been stayed these many years. on either side of the rough bars leading between our boundary wall and the meadow stands a dead cedar tree, from which the dry, moss-covered branches have been broken by the loads of hay that used to be gathered up at random and carted out this way. wild birds doubtless used these branches as perches of vantage from which they might view the country, both during feeding excursions and in migration, and thus have sown the seed of their provender, for lo and behold, around the old trees have grown vines of wild grapes, with flowers that perfume the entire meadow in june. here the woody, spiral-climbing waxwork holds aloft its clusters of berries that look like bunches of miniature lemons until on being ripe they open and show the coral fruit; virginia creeper of the five-pointed fingers, clinging tendrils, glorious autumn colour, and spreading clusters of purple blackberries, and wild white clematis, the "traveller's joy" of moist roadside copses, all blending together and stretching out hands, until this season being undisturbed, they have clasped to form a natural arch of surpassing beauty. having a great pile of cedar poles, in excess of the needs of all our other projects, my present problem is to place a series of simple arches constructed on this natural idea, that shall frame the different garden vistas from the best vantage-point. rustic pillars, after the plan of evan's that you sent me for the corners of the rose garden, will give the necessary formal touch, while groups of shrubs can be so placed as not only to screen colours that should not be seen in combination, but to make reasons for turns that would otherwise seem arbitrary. aunt lavinia has promised me any number of chinese honeysuckle vines from the little nursery bed of rooted cuttings that is martin cortright's special province, for she writes me that they began with this before having seed beds for either hardy plants or annuals, as they wished to have hedges of flowering shrubs in lieu of fences, and some fine old bushes on the place furnished ample cuttings of the old-fashioned varieties, which they have supplemented. aunt lavinia also says that the purple wisteria grows easily from the beanlike seed and blossoms in three years, and that she has a dozen of these two-year-old seedlings that she will send me as soon as i have place for them. remembering your habit of giving every old tree a vine to comfort its old age, and in particular the silver maple by the lane gate of your garden, with its woodpecker hole and swinging garniture of wisteria bloom, i have promised a similar cloak to a gnarled bird cherry that stands midway in the fence rockery, and yet another to an attenuated poplar, so stripped of branches as to be little more than a pole and still keeping a certain dignity. [illustration: a curtain to the side porch.] the honeysuckles i shall keep for panelling the piazza, they are such clean vines and easily controlled; while on the two-story portion under the guest-room windows some virginia creepers can be added to make a curtain to the side porch. as for other vines, we have many resources. festooned across the front stoop at opal farm is an old and gigantic vine of the scarlet-and-orange trumpet creeper, that has overrun the shed, climbed the side of the house, and followed round the rough edges of the eaves, while all through the grass of the front yard are seedling plants of the vine that, in spring, are blended with tufts of the white star of bethlehem and yellow daffies. in the river woods, brush and swamp lots, near by, we have found and marked for our own the mountain fringe with its feathery foliage and white flowers shaded with purple pink, that suggest both the bleeding heart of gardens and the woodland dutchman's breeches. it grows in great strings fourteen or fifteen feet in length and seems as trainable as smilax or the asparagus vine. here are also woody trailers of moonseed, with its minute white flowers in the axils of leaves that might pass at first glance for one of the many varieties of wild grapes; the hyacinth bean, with its deliciously fragrant chocolate flowers tinged with violet, that is so kind in covering the unsightly underbrush of damp places. and here, first, last, and always, come the wild grapes, showing so many types of leaf and fruit, from the early ripening summer grape of the high-climbing habit, having the most typical leaf and thin-skinned, purple berries, that have fathered so many cultivated varieties; the frost grape, with its coarsely-toothed, rather heart-shaped, pointed leaf and small black berries, that are uneatable until after frost (and rather horrid even then); to the riverside grape of the glossy leaf, fragrant blossoms and fruit. one thing must be remembered concerning wild grapes: they should be planted, if in the open sunlight, where they will be conspicuous up to late summer only, as soon after this time the leaves begin to grow rusty, while those in moist and partly-shady places hold their own. i think this contrast was borne in upon me by watching a mass of grape-vines upon a tumble-down wall that we pass on our way to the river woods. in august the leaves began to brown and curl at the edges, while similar vines in the cool lane shade were still green and growing. so you see, mrs. evan, that, in addition to our other treasure-trove, we are prepared to start a free vinery as well, and as our lucky star seems to be both of morning and evening and hangs a long while in the sky, meyer, larry's successor, we find, has enough of a labourer's skill at post setting and a carpenter's eye and hand at making an angled arch (this isn't the right term, but you know what i mean), so that we have not had to pause in our improvements owing to amos opie's rheumatic illness. not that i think the old man _very_ ill, and i believe he could get about more if he wished, for when i went down to see him this morning, he seemed to have something on his mind, and with but little urging he told me his dilemma. both _the man from everywhere_ and maria maxwell have made him good offers for his farm, _the man's_ being the first! now he had fully determined to sell to _the man_, when maria's kindness during his illness not only turned him in her favour, but gave him an attachment for the place, so that now he doesn't really wish to sell at all! it is this mental perturbation, in his very slow nature, that is, i believe, keeping him an invalid! _what_ maria wants of the farm neither bart nor i can imagine. she has a little property, a few thousand dollars, enough probably to buy the farm and put it in livable repair, but this money we thought she was saving for the so-called rainy day (which is much more apt to be a very dry period) of spinsterhood! of course she has some definite plan, but whether it is bees or boarders, jam or a kindergarten, we do not know, but we may be very sure that she is not jumping at random. only i'm a little afraid, much as i should like her for a next-door neighbour, that, with her practical head, she would insist upon making hay of the lily meadow! "straying away again from the horticultural to the domestic things," i hear you say. yes; but now that the days are shortening a bit, it seems natural to think more about people again. if i only knew whether maria means to give up her teaching this winter, i would ask her to stay with us and begin to train the infant's mind in the way it should think, for my head and hands will be full and my heart overflowing, i imagine. ah! this happy, blessed summer! yes, i know that you know, though i have never told you. that's what it means to have real friends. but to the shrubs. will you do me one more favour before even the suspicion of frost touches my enthusiasm, that i may have everything in order in my _garden boke_ against a planting season when time may again hold his remorseless sway. this list of eighteen or more shrubs is made from those i know and like, with selections from that aunt lavinia sent me. is it comprehensive, think you? of course we cannot go into novelties in this direction, any more than we may with the roses. there is the little pale pink, daphne mezereum, that flowers before its leaves come in april. i saw it at aunt lavinia's and mrs. marchant had a great circle of the bushes. then forsythias, with yellow flowers, the red and pink varieties of japanese quince, double-flowering almond and plum, the white spireas (they all have strange new names in the catalogue), the earliest being what mother used to call bridal-wreath (_prunifolia_), with its long wands covered with double flowers, like tiny white daisies, the st. peter's wreath (_van houttei_) with the clustered flowers like small white wild roses, two pink species, billardii and anthony waterer, beautiful if gathered before the flowers open, as the colour fades quickly, and a little dwarf bush, fortune's white spirea, that i have seen at the florist's. next the old-fashioned purple lilac, that seems to hold its own against all newcomers for garden use, the white tree lilac, the fragrant white mock orange or syringa (_coronarius_), the japanese barberry of yellow flowers and coral berries, the three deutzias, two being the tall _crenata_ and _scabra_ and the third the charming low-growing _gracilis_, the old-fashioned snowball or guelder rose (_viburnum opulus sterilis_), the weigelias, rose-pink and white, the white summer-flowering hydrangea (_paniculata grandiflora_), and the brown-flowered, sweet-scented strawberry shrub (_calycanthus floridus_). "truly a small slice from the loaf the catalogues offer," you say. yes; but you must remember that our wild nursery has a long chain to add to these. in looking over the list of shrubs, it seems to me that the majority of them, like the early wild flowers, are white, but then it is almost as impossible to have too many white flowers as too many green leaves. _september ._ i was prevented from finishing this until to-day, when i have a new domestic event to relate. maria, no longer a music mistress, has leased the opal farm, it seems, and will remain with me this winter pending the repairing of the house, which amos opie himself is to superintend. i wish i could fathom the ins and outs of the matter, which are not at present clear, but probably i shall know in time. meanwhile, i have maria for a winter companion, and a mystery to solve and puzzle about; is not this truly feminine bliss? xvii the ins and outs of the matter chronicled by the rays of light and sound waves upon the walls of the house at opal farm. people involved _the man from everywhere_, keeping bachelor's hall in the eastern half of the farm home. _amos opie_, living in the western half of the house, the separating door being locked on his side. _maria maxwell_, who, upon hearing opie is again ill, has dropped in to give him hot soup and medicine. amos opie was more than usually uncomfortable this particular september evening. it may have been either a rather sudden change in the weather or the fact that now that he was sufficiently well to get about the kitchen and sit in the well-house porch, of a sunny morning, maria maxwell had given up the habit of running over several times a day to give him his medicine and be sure that the kettle boiled and his tea was freshly drawn, instead of being what she called "stewed bitterness" that had stood on the leaves all day. whichever it was, he felt wretched in body and mind, and began to think himself neglected and was consequently aggrieved. he hesitated a few minutes before he opened the door leading to _the man's_ part of the house, took a few steps into the square hall, and called "mr. blake" in a quavering voice; but no answer came, as the bachelor had not yet returned from the reservoir. going back, he settled heavily into the rocking-chair and groaned,--it was not from real pain, simply he had relaxed his grip and was making himself miserable,--then he began to talk to himself. "_she_ doesn't come in so often now _he's_ come home, and _he_ fights shy o' the place, thinkin' mebbe _she's_ around, and they both wants to buy. _he's_ offered me thirty-five hundred cash, and _she's_ offered me thirty hundred cash, which is all the place's worth, for it'll take another ten hundred to straighten out the house, with new winder frames, floorin' 'nd plaster 'nd shingles, beams and sills all bein' sound,--when the truth is i don't wish ter sell nohow, yet can't afford to hold! i don't see light noway 'nd i'm feelin' another turn comin' when i was nigh ready ter git about agin to miss'ss penrose flower poles. o lordy! lordy! i wish i had some more o' that settling medicine maria maxwell brought me" (people very seldom spoke of that young woman except by her complete name). "if i had my wind, i'd yell over to her to come up! yes, i vow i would!" david, the hound, who had been lying asleep before the stove, in which the fire had died away, got up, stretched himself, and, going to his master, after gazing in his face for several minutes, licked his hands thoroughly and solemnly, in a way totally different from the careless and irresponsible licks of a joyous dog; then raising his head gave a long-drawn bay that finally broke from its melancholy music and degenerated into a howl. amos must have dozed in his chair, for it seemed only a moment when a knock sounded on the side door and, without waiting for a reply, maria maxwell entered, a cape thrown about her shoulders, a lantern in one hand, and in the other a covered pitcher from which steam was curling. "i heard david howling and i went to our gate to look; i saw that there wasn't a light in the farm-house and so knew that something was the matter. no fire in the stove and the room quite chilly! where is that neighbour of yours in the other half of the house? couldn't he have brought you in a few sticks?" "he isn't ter hum just now," replied amos, in tones that were unnecessarily feeble, while at the same time an idea entered his brain that almost made him chuckle; but the sound which was quenched in his throat only came to maria as an uncomfortable struggle for breath that hastened her exit to the woodpile by the side fence for the material to revive the fire. in going round the house, her arms laden with logs, she bumped into the figure of _the man_ leading his bicycle across the grass, which deadened his footfall, as the lantern she carried blinded her to all objects not within its direct rays. "maria maxwell! is opie ill again? you must not carry such a heavy load!" he exclaimed all in one breath, as he very quickly transferred the logs to his own arms, and was making the fire in the open stove almost before she had regained the porch, so that when she had lighted a lamp and drawn the turkey-red curtains, the reflections of the flames began to dance on the wall and cheerfulness suddenly replaced gloom. still amos sat in an attitude of dejection. thanking _the man_ for his aid, but taking no further notice of him, maria began to heat the broth which was contained in the pitcher, asking amos at the same time if he did not think that he would feel better in bed. "i dunno's place has much to do with it," he grumbled; "this can't go on no longer, it's doing for me, that it is!" maria, thinking that he referred to bodily illness, hastened the preparations for bed, and _the man_, feeling helpless as all men do when something active is being done in which they have no part, rose to go, and, with his hand on the latch of the porch door, said in a low voice: "if i might help you in any way, i should be very glad; i do not quite like leaving you alone with this old fellow,--you may need help in getting him to bed. tell me frankly, would you like me to stay?" "frankly i would rather you would not," said maria, yet in so cordial a tone that no offence could be gathered from it in any way. so the door opened and closed again and maria began the rather laborious task of coaxing the old man to bed. when once there, the medicine given, and the soup taken, which she could not but notice that he swallowed greedily, she seated herself before the fire, resolving that, if amos did not feel better by nine o'clock, she would have barney come over for the night, as of course she must return to be near the infant. as she sat there she pictured for the hundredth time how she would invest her little capital and rearrange her life, if amos consented to sell her the farm,--how best to restore the home without elaborating the care of it, and take one or two people to live with her who had been ill or needed rest in cheerful surroundings. not always the same two, for that is paralyzing after a time when the freshness of energetic influence wears off; but her experience among her friends told her that in a city's social life there was an endless supply of overwrought nerves and bodies. the having a home was the motive, the guests the necessity. then she closed her eyes again and saw the upper portion of the rich meadow land that had lain fallow so long turned into a flower farm wherein she would raise blossoms for a well-known city dealer who had, owing to his artistic skill, a market for his wares and decorative skill in all the cities of the eastern coast. she had consulted him and he approved her plan. the meadow was so sheltered that it would easily have a two weeks' lead over the surrounding country, and the desirability of her crop should lie in its perfection rather than rarity. single violets in frames, lilies-of-the-valley for easter and spring weddings, sweet peas, in separate colours, peonies, iris, gladioli, asters, and dahlias: three acres in all. upon these was her hope built, for with a market waiting, what lay between her and success but work? yes, work and the farm. then came the vision of human companionship, such as her cousin bartram and mary penrose shared. could flowers and a home make up for it? after all, what is home? her thoughts tangled and snapped abruptly, but of one thing she was sure. she could no longer endure teaching singing to assorted tone-deaf children, many of whom could no more keep on the key than a cow on the tight rope; and when she found a talented child and gave it appreciative attention, she was oftentimes officially accused of favouritism by some disgruntled parent with a political pull, for that was what contact with the public schools of a large city had taught her to expect. a log snapped--she looked at the clock. it was exactly nine! going to the window, she pulled back the curtain; the old moon, that has a fashion of working northward at this time, was rising from a location wholly new to her. she looked at amos; he was very still, evidently asleep, yet unnaturally so, for the regular breathing of unconsciousness was not there and the firelight shadows made him look pinched and strange. suddenly she felt alone and panic stricken; she forgot the tests so well known to her of pulse taking, and all the countryside tales of strokes and seizures came back to her. she did not hesitate a moment; a man was in the same house and she felt entirely outside of the strength of her own will. going to the separating door, she found it locked, on which side she could not be sure; but seeing a long key hanging by the clock she tried it, on general principles. it turned hard, and the lock finally yielded with a percussive snap. stepping into the hall, she saw a light in the front of the house, toward which she hurried. _the man_ was seated by a table that was strewn with books, papers, and draughting instruments; he was not working, but in his turn gazing at the flames from a smouldering hearth fire, though his coat was off and the window open, for it was not cold but merely chilly. hearing her step, he started, turned, and, as he saw her upon the threshold, made a grab for his coat and swung it into place. it is strange, this instinct in civilized man of not appearing coatless before a woman he respects. "amos opie is very ill, i'm afraid," she said gravely, without the least self-consciousness or thought of intrusion. "shall i go for the doctor?" said _the man_, reaching for his hat and at the same time opening the long cupboard by the chimney, from which he took a leather-covered flask. "no, not yet; please come and look at him. yes, i want you very much!" this in answer to a questioning look in his eyes. standing together by the bed, they saw the old man's eyelids quiver and then open narrowly. _the man_ poured whiskey from his flask into a glass, added water, and held it to amos's lips, where it was quickly and completely absorbed! next he put a finger on amos's pulse and after a minute closed his watch with a snap, but without comment. "you feel better now, opie?" he questioned presently in a tone that, to the old man at least, was significant. "what gave you this turn? is there anything on your mind? you might as well tell now, as you will have to sooner or later, and miss maxwell must go home presently. you'll have to put up with me for the rest of the night and a man isn't as cheerful a companion as a woman--is he, amos?" "no, yer right there, mr. blake, and it's the idee o' loneliness that's upsettin' me! come down ter facts, mr. blake, it's the offers i've had fer the farm--yourn and hern--and my wishin' ter favour both and yet not give it up myself, and the whole's too much fer me!" "hers! has miss maxwell made a bid for the farm? what do you want it for?" he said, turning quickly to maria, who coloured and then replied quietly--"to live in! which is exactly what you said when i asked you a similar question a couple of months ago!" "the p'int is," continued amos, quickly growing more wide awake, and addressing the ceiling as a neutral and impartial listener, "that mr. blake has offered me five hundred more than maria maxwell, and though i want ter favour her (in buyin', property goes to the highest bidder; it's only contract work that's fetched by the lowest, and i never did work by contract--it's too darned frettin'), i can't throw away good money, and neither of 'em yet knows that whichsomever of 'em buys it has got ter give me a life right ter live in the summer kitchen and fetch my drinkin' water from the well in the porch! a lone widder man's a sight helplesser 'n a widder, but yet he don't get no sympathy!" _the man from everywhere_ began to laugh, and catching maria's eye she joined him heartily. "how do you mean to manage?" he asked in a way that barred all thought of intrusion. "i'm going to have a flower farm and take in two invalids--no, not cranks or lunatics, but merely tired people," she added, a little catch coming in her voice. "then you had better begin with me, for i'm precious tired of taking care of myself, and here is amos also applying, so i do not see but what your establishment is already complete!" then, as he saw by her face that the subject was not one for jest, he said, in his hearty way that mary penrose likes, "why not let me buy the place, as mine was the first offer, put it in order, and then lease it to you for three years, with the privilege of buying if you find that your scheme succeeds? if the house is too small to allow two lone men a room each, i can add a lean-to to match opie's summer kitchen, for you know sometimes a woman finds it comfortable to have a man in the house!" maria did not answer at first, but was looking at the one uncurtained window, where the firelight again made opals of the panes. then turning, she said, "i will think over your offer, mr. blake, if everything may be upon a strictly business basis. but how about amos? he seems better, and i ought to be going. i do not know why i should have been so foolish, but for a moment he did not seem to breathe, and i thought it was a stroke." "i'm comin' too all in good time, now my mind's relieved," replied the old man, with a chuckle, "and i think i'll weather to-night fer the sake o' fixin' that deed termorrow, mr. blake, if you'll kindly give me jest a thimbleful more o' that old liquor o' yourn--i kin manage it fust rate without the water, thank 'ee!" _the man_ followed maria to the door and out into the night. he did not ask her if he might go with her--he simply walked by her side for once unquestioned. maria spoke first, and rather more quickly and nervously than usual: "i suppose you think that my scheme in wishing the farm is a madcap one, but i'm sure i could not see why you should wish to own it!" "yes and no! i can well understand why you should desire a broader, freer life than your vocation allows, but--well, as for reading women's motives, i have given that up long since; it often leads to trouble though i have never lost my interest in them. "i think amos opie will revive, now that his mind is settled" (if it had been sufficiently light, maria would have seen an expression upon _the man's_ face indicative of his belief that the recent attack of illness was not quite motiveless, even though he forgave the ruse). "in a few days, when the deeds are drawn, will you not, as my prospective tenant, come and look over the house by daylight and tell me what changes would best suit your purpose, so that i may make some plans? i imagine that amos revived will be able to do much of the work himself with a good assistant. "when would you like the lease to begin? in may? it is a pity that you could not be here in the interval to overlook it all, for the pasture should be ploughed at once for next year's gardening." "may will be late; best put it at the first of march. as to overseeing, i shall not be far away. i'm thinking of accepting cousin mary's offer to stay with her and teach the infant and a couple of other children this winter, which may be well for superintending the work, as i suppose you are off again with the swallows, as usual." "oh, no, you forget the reservoir and the tunnelling of three brothers for the aqueduct to bridgeton!" "then let it be march first!" said maria, after hesitating a moment, during which she stood looking back at opal farm lying at peace in the moonlight; "only, in making the improvements, please do them as if for any one else, and remember that it is to be a strictly business affair!" "and why should you think that i would deal otherwise by you?" _the man_ said quickly, stepping close, where he could see the expression of her face. maria, feeling herself cornered, did not answer immediately, and half turned her face away,--only for a moment, however. facing him, she said, "because men of your stamp are always good to women,--always doing them kindnesses both big and little (ask mary penrose),--and sometimes kindness hurts!" "well, then, the lease and all pertaining to it shall be strictly in the line of business until you yourself ask for a modification,--but be careful, i may be a hard landlord!" then, dropping his guard, he said suddenly, "why is it that you and i--man and woman--temperamentally alike, both interested in the same things, and of an age to know what in life is worth while, should stand so aloof? is there no more human basis upon which i can persuade you to come to opal farm when it is mine? give me a month, three months,--lessen the distance you always keep between us, and give me leave to convince you! why will you insist upon deliberately keeping up a barrier raised in the beginning when i was too stupidly at home in your cousin's house to see that i might embarrass you? frankly, do you dislike me?" maria began two different sentences, stumbled, and stopped short; then drawing herself up and looking _the man_ straight in the face, she said, "i have kept a barrier between us, and deliberately, as you say, but--" here she faltered--"it was because i found you too interesting; the barrier was to protect my own peace of mind more than to rebuff you." "then i may try to convince you that my plan is best?" "yes," said maria, with a glint of her mischievous smile, "if you have plenty of time to spare." "and you will give me no more encouragement than this? no good wish or omen?" "yes," said maria again, "i wish that you may succeed--" here she slipped her hand in the belt of her gown and drew out a little chamois bag attached to her watch, "and for an omen, here is the opal you gave me--you give it a happy interpretation and one is very apt to lose an unset stone, you know!" but as neither walls nor leaves have tongues, mary penrose never learned the real ins and outs of this matter. xviii the value of white flowers (barbara campbell to mary penrose) _oaklands, september ._ michaelmas. the birthdays of our commuters are not far apart. this being evan's festival, we have eaten the annual goose in his honour, together with several highly indigestible old-country dishes of martha corkle's construction, for she comes down from the cottage to preside over this annual feast. now the boys have challenged evan to a "golf walk" over the bluffs and back again, the rough-and-ready course extending that distance, and i, being "o'er weel dined," have curled up in the garden-overlook window of my room to write to you. it has been a good gardener's year, and i am sorry that the fall anemones and the blooming of the earliest chrysanthemums insist upon telling me that it is nearly over,--that is, as far as the reign of complete garden colour is concerned. and amid our vagrant summer wanderings among gardens of high or low degree, no one point has been so recurrent or interesting as the distribution of colour, and especially the dominance of white flowers in any landscape or garden in which they appear. in your last letter you speak of the preponderance of white among the flowering shrubs as well as the early blossoms of spring. that this is the case is one of the strong points in the decorative value of shrubs, and in listing seeds for the hardy or summer beds or sorting the bushes for the rosary, great care should be taken to have a liberal sprinkling of white, for the white in the flower kingdom is what the diamond is in the mineral world, necessary as a setting for all other colours, as well as for its own intrinsic worth. look at a well-cut sapphire of flawless tint. it is beautiful surely, but in some way its depth of colour needs illumination. surround it with evenly matched diamonds and at once life enters into it. fill a tall jar with spires of larkspur of the purest blue known to garden flowers. unless the sun shines fully on them they seem to swallow light; mingle with them some stalks of white foxgloves, canterbury bells, or surround them with madonna lilies, a fringe of spirea, or the slender _deutzia gracilis_, more frequently seen in florists' windows than in the garden, and a new meaning is given the blue flower; the black shadows disappear from its depth and sky reflections replace them. the blue-fringed gentian, growing deep among the dark grasses of low meadows, may be passed over without enthusiasm as a dull purplish flower by one to whom its possibilities are unknown; but come upon it backgrounded by michaelmas daisies or standing alone in a meadow thick strewn with the white stars of grass of parnassus or wands of crystal ladies' tresses, and all at once it becomes,-- "blue, blue, as if the sky let fall a flower from its cerulean wall!" the same white setting enhances the brighter colours, though in a less degree than blue, which is, next to magenta, one of the most difficult colours to place in the garden. in view of this fact it is not strange that it is a comparatively unusual hue in the flower world and a very rare one among our neighbourly eastern birds, the only three that wear it conspicuously being the bluebird, indigo bird, and the bluejay. it is this useful quality as a setting that gives value to many white flowers lacking intrinsic beauty, like sweet alyssum, candy-tuft, the yarrows, and the double feverfew. in buying seeds of flowers in mixed varieties, such as asters, verbenas, sweet-william, pansies, or any flower in short that has a white variety, it is always safe to buy a single packet of the latter, because i have often noticed that the usual mixtures, for some reason, are generally shy not only of the white but often of the very lightest tints as well. in selecting asters the average woman gardener may not be prepared to buy the eight or ten different types that please her fancy in as many separate colours; a mixture of each must suffice, but a packet of white of each type should be added if the best results are to be achieved. the same applies to sweet peas when planted in mixture; at least six ounces of either pure white or very light, and therefore quasi-neutral tints harmonizing with all darker colours, should be added. for it is in the lighter tints of this flower that its butterfly characteristics are developed. keats had not the heavy deep-hued or striped varieties in mind when he wrote of "... sweet peas on tiptoe for a flight, with wings of gentle flush: o'er delicate white, and taper fingers catching at all things to bind them all about with tiny rings." if you examine carefully the "flats" of pansies growing from mixed seed and sold in the market-places or at local florists', you will notice that in eight out of ten the majority of plants are of the darker colours. there are white varieties of almost every garden flower that blooms between the last frost of spring and winter ice. the snowdrop of course is white and the tiny little single english violet of brief though unsurpassing fragrance; we have white crocuses, white hyacinths, narcissus, lilies-of-the-valley, iris, white rock phlox, or moss-pink, madonna and japan lilies, gladiolus, white campanulas of many species, besides the well-known canterbury bells, white hollyhocks, larkspurs, sweet sultan, poppies, phloxes, and white annual as well as hardy chrysanthemums. almost all the bedding plants, like the geranium, begonia, ageratum, lobelia, etc., have white species. there are white pinks of all types, white roses, and wherever crimson rambler is seen madame plantier should be his bride; white stocks, hollyhocks, verbenas, zinnias, japanese anemones, arabis or rock cress, and white fraxinella; white lupins, nicotiana, evening primroses, pentstemons, portulaca, primulas, vincas, and even a whitish nasturtium, though its flame-coloured partner salvia declines to have her ardour so modified. among vines we have the white wisteria, several white clematis, the moon-flower, and other ipomeas, many climbing and trailing roses, the english polygonum, the star cucumber, etc., so that there is no lack of this harmonizing and modifying colour (that is not a colour after all) if we will but use it intelligently. aside from the setting of flower to flower, white has another and wider function. as applied to the broader landscape it is not only a maker of perspective, but it often indicates a picture and fairly pulls it from obscurity, giving the same lifelike roundness that the single white dot lends in portraiture to the correctly tinted but still lifeless eye. take for instance a wide field without groups of trees to divide and let it be covered only with grass, no matter how green and luxuriant, and there is a monotonous flatness, that disappears the moment the field is blooming with daisies or snowy wild asters. follow the meandering line of a brook through april meadows. where does the eye pause with the greatest sense of pleasure and restfulness? on the gold of the marsh marigolds edging the water? or on the silver-white plumes of shad-bush that wave and beckon across the marshes, as they stray from moist ground toward the light woods? could any gay colour whatsoever compete with the snow of may apple orchards?--the fact that the snow is often rose tinged only serving to accentuate the contrasting white. in the landscape all light tints that at a distance have the value of white are equally to the purpose, and can be used for hedges, boundaries, or what may be called punctuation points. german or english iris and peonies are two very useful plants for this purpose, flowering in may and june and for the rest of the season holding their substantial, well-set-up foliage. these two plants, if they receive even ordinary good treatment, may also be relied upon for masses of uniform bloom held well above the leaves; and while pure white peonies are a trifle monotonous and glaring unless blended with the blush, rose, salmon, and cream tints, there are any number of white iris both tall and dwarf with either self-toned flowers, or pencilled, feathered, or bordered with a variety of delicate tints, and others equally valuable of pale shades of lilac or yellow, the recurved falls being of a different tint. thus does nature paint her pictures and give us hints to follow, and yet a certain art phase proclaims nature's colour combinations crude and rudimentary forsooth! [illustration: an iris hedge.] nature is never crude except through an unsuccessful human attempt to reproduce the uncopyable. give one of these critics all the colour combinations of the evening sky and let him manipulate them with wires and what a scorched omelet he would make of the most simple and natural sunset! while nature does not locate the different colours on the palette to please the eye of man, but to carry out the various steps in the great plan of perpetuation, yet on that score it is all done with a sense of colour value, else why are the blossoms of deep woods, as well as the night-blooming flowers that must lure the moth and insect seekers through the gloom, white or light-coloured? in speaking of white or pale flowers there is one low shrub with evergreen leaves and bluish-white flowers that i saw blooming in masses for the first time not far from boston in early may. there was a slight hollow where the sun lay, that was well protected from the wind. this sloped gently upward toward some birches that margined a pond. the birches themselves were as yet but in tassel, the near-by grass was green in spots only, and yet here in the midst of the chill, reluctant promise of early spring was firmness of leaf and clustered flowers of almost hothouse texture and fragrance. not a single spray or a dozen, but hundreds of them, covered the bushes. this shrub is _daphne cneorum_, a sturdier evergreen cousin of _daphne mezereum_, that brave-hearted shrub that often by the south wall of my garden hangs its little pink flower clusters upon bare twigs as early as the tenth of march. put it on your list of desirables, for aside from any other situation it will do admirably to edge laurels or rhododendrons and so bring early colour of the rosy family hue to brighten their dark glossy leaves, for the sight and the scent thereof made me resolve to cover a certain nook with it, where the sun lodges first every spring. i am planting mine this autumn, which is necessary with things of such early spring vitality. another garden point akin to colour value in that it makes or mars has, i may say, run itself into my vision quite sharply and painfully this summer, and many a time have i rubbed my eyes and looked again in wonder that such things could be. this is the spoiling of a well-thought-out garden by the obtrusive staking of its plants. of course there are many tall and bushy flowers--hollyhocks, golden glow, cosmos--that have not sufficient strength of stem to stand alone when the weight of soaking rain is added to their flowers and the wind comes whirling to challenge them to a dizzy dance, which they cannot refuse, and it inevitably turns their heavy heads and leaves them prone. [illustration: daphne cneorum.] besides these there are the lower, slender, but top-heavy lilies, gladioli, carnations, and the like, that must not be allowed to soil their pretty faces in the mud. a little thinking must be done and stakes suitable to the height and girth of each plant chosen. if the purse allows, green-painted stakes of sizes varying from eighteen inches for carnations to six feet for dahlias are the most convenient; but lacking these, the natural bamboos, that may be bought in bundles by the hundred, in canes of eight feet or more, and afterward cut in lengths to suit, are very useful, being light, tough, and inconspicuous. in supporting a plant, remember that the object is as nearly as possible to supplement its natural stem. therefore cut the stake a little shorter than the top of the foliage and drive it firmly at the back of the plant, fastening the main stem to the stake by loosely woven florist's string. if, on the other hand, the plant to be supported is a maze of side branches, like the cosmos, or individual bushes blended so as to form a hedge, a row of stout poles, also a little lower than the bushes, should be set firmly behind them, the twine being woven carefully in and out among the larger branches, and then tightened carefully, so that the whole plant is gradually drawn back and yet the binding string is concealed. if it is possible to locate cosmos, hollyhocks, and dahlias (especially dahlias) in the same place for several successive years, a flanking trellis fence of light posts, with a single top and bottom rail and poultry wire of a three inch mesh between, will be found a good investment. against this the plants may be tethered in several places, and thus not only separate branches can be supported naturally, but individual flowers as well, in the case of the large exhibition dahlias. [illustration: a terrible example!] practicable as is the proper carrying out of the matter, in a score of otherwise admirable gardens we have seen the results of weeks and months of preparation either throttled and bound martyrlike to a stake or twisted and tethered, until the natural, habit of growth was wholly changed. in some cases the plants were so meshed in twine and choked that it seemed as if a spiteful fairy had woven a "cat's cradle" over them or that they had followed out the old proverb and, having been given enough rope, literally hanged themselves. in other gardens green stakes were set at intervals (i noticed it in the case of gladioli and carnations especially) and strings carried from one stake to the other, leaving each plant in the centre of a twine square, like chessmen imprisoned on the board. but the most terrible example of all was where either the owner or the gardener, for they were not one and the same, had purchased a quantity of half-inch pine strips at a lumber yard and proceeded to scatter them about his beds at random, regardless of height or suitability, very much as if some neighbouring fourth of july celebration had showered the place with rocket sticks. if your young german has time in the intervals of tree-planting and trellis-making, get him to trim some of the cedars of a diameter of two or three inches and stack them away for dahlia poles. next season you will become a victim of these gorgeous velvet flowers, i foresee, especially as i have fully a barrel of the "potatoes" of some very handsome varieties to bestow upon you. make the most of meyer, for he will probably grow melancholy as soon as cool weather sets in and he thinks of winter evenings and a sweetheart he has left in the fatherland! we have had several germans and they all had _lieber schatz_, for jealousy or the scorn of whom they had left home, were for the same reason loath to stay away from it, and at the same time, owing to contending emotions, were unable to work so that they might return. are you not thinking about returning to your indoor bed and board again? with warm weather i fly out of the door as a second nature, but with a smart promise of frost i turn about again and everything--furniture, pictures, books, and the dear people themselves--seems refreshingly new and wholly lovable! if you are thinking of making out a book list of your needs as an answer to your mother's or your "in-law's" query, "what do you want for christmas?" write at the beginning--bailey's _cyclopædia of american horticulture_, in red ink. lavinia and martin cortright gave it to us last christmas, the clearly printed first edition on substantial paper in four thick volumes, mind you, and it is the referee and court of appeals of the garden, you, and i in general and myself in particular. not only will it tell you everything that you wish or ought to know, but do it completely and truthfully. in short it is the perfect antidote to _garden goozle_! xix pandora's chest (mary penrose to barbara campbell) _woodridge, october _. nearly a month of pen silence on my part, during which i have felt many times as if i must go from one to another of our chosen trees in the river woods and shake the leaves down so that the transplanting might proceed forthwith, lest the early winter that amos opie predicts both by a goose bone and certain symptoms of his own shall overtake us. be this as it may, the leaves thus far prefer their airy quarters to huddling upon the damp ground. however, there is another reason for haste more urgent than the fear of frost--the melancholy vein that you predicted we should find in meyer is fast developing, and as we wish to have him leave us in a perfectly natural way, we think it best that his stay shall not be prolonged. at first he seemed not only absorbed by his work and to enjoy the garden and especially the river woods, but the trees and water rushing by. a week ago a change came over him; he became morose and silent, and yesterday when i was admiring, half aloud, the reflection of a beautiful scarlet oak mirrored in the still backwater of the river, he paused in the kneeling position in which he was loosening the grasp of a white flowering dogwood, and first throwing out his arms and then beating his chest with them, exclaimed--"other good have trees and water than for the eye to see; they can surely hang and drown the man the heart of whom holds much sorrow, and that man is i!" of course i knew that it was something a little out of the ordinary state of affairs that had sent a man of his capability to tramp about as a vagrant sort of labourer, but i had no previous idea that melancholy had taken such a grip upon him. much do i prefer larry, with periods of hilarity ending in peaceful "shlape." certain peoples have their peculiar racial characteristics, but after all, love of an occasional drink seems a more natural proposition than a tendency to suicide, while as to the relative value of the labour itself, that is always an individual not a racial matter. i too am feeling the domestic lure of cooler weather. all the day i wish to be in the open, but when the earlier twilight closes in, the house, with its lamps, hearth fires, and voices, weaves a new spell about me, though having once opened wide the door of outdoors it can never be closed. do you remember the _masque of pandora_, and the mysterious chest? "_pandora_ hast thou never lifted the lid? _epimetheus_ the oracle forbids. safely concealed there from all mortal eyes forever sleeps the secret of the gods. seek not to know what they have hidden from thee till they themselves reveal it." bart was reading it aloud to me last night. prose read aloud always frets me, because one's mind travels so much faster than the spoken words and arrives at the conclusion, even if not always the right one, long before the printed climax is reached; but with good poetry it is different--the thoughts are so crystallized that the sound of a melodious voice liberates them more swiftly. verily pandora's chest has been opened this season here in the garden; the gods were evidently not unwilling and turned the lock for me, though perhaps i have thrown back the cover too rashly, for out has flown, instead of dire disaster, ambition in a flock of winged ideals, hopes, and wishes masquerading cleverly as necessities, that will keep me alert in trying to overtake and capture them all my life long. last night, once again comfortably settled in the den, we took inventory of the season's doings, and unlike most ventures, find there is nothing to write upon the nether page that records loss. of the money set aside for the improvement of the knoll half yet remains, allowing for the finishing of the tree transplanting. into this remainder we are preparing to tuck the filling for the rose bed, a goodly store of lily bulbs, some flowering shrubs, an openwork wire fence to be a vine-covered screen betwixt us and the road, instead of the broken rattling pickets, a new harness for romeo to wear when he returns home, as a thank offering for his comfortable services (really the bridle of the old one is quite scratched to bits upon the various trees and rough fence rails to which he has been tethered), and last of all, what do you think? three guesses may be easily wasted without hitting the mark, for instead of, as we expected, tearing down the old barn, our summer camp, we are going to remodel it to be a permanent outdoor shelter. it is to have a wide chimney and fireplace at one end, before which our beds may be drawn campfire fashion if it is too cool, and adjustable shutters so that it may be either merely a roof or a fairly substantial cabin and at all possible seasons a study and playroom for us all. then too we shall overlook "maria maxwell's experiment," as bart calls her scheme of running the opal farm. we were heartily glad to know that she had leased and not bought it, but we were much surprised to learn, first through the village paper, and not the man and woman concerned, that "mr. ross blake, the engineer in charge of the construction of the new reservoir, believing in the future of the real-estate boom in woodridge (we didn't know there was one), has recently purchased the amos opie farm as an investment, the deed being to-day recorded in the town house. he has already leased it for a young ladies' seminary, pending its remodelling, for which he himself is drawing the plans." dear _man from everywhere!_ much as i like maria, i think he would be the more restful neighbour of the two. what a complete couple they might have made, but that is a bit of drift thought that i have put out of my head, for if any two people ever had a chance this summer to fall in love if they had the capacity, it was maria and _the man_, and the strange part of it is that as far as may be known neither is nourishing the sentiment of a melancholy past and no other present man or woman stands between; perhaps it is some uncanny opal spell that stays them. yet even as it is, in this farm restoration both are unconsciously preparing to take a peep into pandora's chest full of the unknown, so let us hope the gods are willing. _hallowe'en._ the infant and anastasia, her memories revived by larry's voluble and personally adapted folk-lore, are preparing all sorts of traps and feasts for good luck and fairies, while lady lazy is content to look at the log fire and plan for putting the garden to sleep. yesterday i finished taking up my collection of peonies, iris, and hardy chrysanthemums that had been "promised" at various farm gardens beyond the river woods, and duly cleared off my indebtednesses for the same with a varied assortment of articles ranging from gladioli bulbs, which seem to multiply by cube root here, to a pair of curling tongs, an article long coveted by a simple-minded woman of more than middle age, for the resuscitation of her sunday front locks, and which though willing to acquire by barter she, as a deacon's wife, had a prejudice against buying openly over the counter. meyer has gone, having relapsed into comparative cheerfulness a few days before his departure on the receipt of a bulky letter which, in spite of the wear and tear of travel, remained heavily scented, coupled with bart's assurance that he could remain in america another four weeks and still be at a certain baltic town of an unpronounceable name in time for christmas. in spite of heavy frosts my pansies are a daily cheer, but it is really of no use for even the flowers of very hardy plants to struggle on against nature's decree of a winter sleeping time; the wild animals all come more or less under its spell, and the dogs, the nearest creatures of all to man, as soon as snow covers the ground and they have their experience of ice-cut feet, drowse as near the fire as possible and in case of a stove almost under it. i wonder if nature did not intend that we also should have at least a half-drowsy brooding time, instead of making the cold season so often a period of stress and strain and short days stretched into long nights. if so, we have taken the responsibility of acting for ourselves, of flying in nature's face in this as in many other ways. does it ever seem to you strange that our contrariness began within the year of our legendary creation, when eve came to misery not by gazing in a bonnet shop, but when innocently wandering in her garden, the most beautiful of earth? by which we women gardeners should all take warning, for though the tree of life may be found in every garden, "yet sin and sorrow's pedigree spring from a garden and a tree." _december ._ snow a month earlier than last year, but we rejoice in it, for it will keep the winds from the roots of the trees not yet wholly settled and comfortable in their new homes. the young hemlocks are bewitching in their wreaths and garlands, and one or two older trees give warmth to the woods beyond the opal farm and sweep the low, snow-covered meadow, that looks like a crystal lake, with their feathery branches. the cedars were beautiful in the may woods and so are they now, where i see them through the gap standing sentinels against the white of the brush lot. it seems to me that we cannot have too many evergreens any more than we can have too much cheerfulness. [illustration: the low, snow-covered meadow that looks like a crystal lake. copyright, , h. hendrickson] there are no paths in the garden now, a hint that our feet must travel elsewhere for a time, and i confess that lady lazy has not yet redeemed herself, and at present likes her feet to fall upon soft rugs. the infant's gray squirrels, punch and judy, and the persistent sparrows have found their way to the house, taking their daily rations from the roof of the shed. punch, stuffed to repletion, has a _cache_ under the old syringa bushes, the sparrows seeming to escort him in his travels to and fro, but whether for companionship or in hope of gain, who can say? the plans for the remodelling of opal farm-house are really very attractive and yet it will be delightfully simple to care for. maria and _the man_ have agreed better about them than over anything i have ever heard them discuss; but then, as it is purely a business arrangement, i suppose that maria feels free from her usual pernickety restraint. we surmise that either she has much more laid by than we supposed or she is waxing extravagant, for she has had the opal, that _the man_ gave her once in exchange for an old coin, surrounded with very good diamonds and set as a ring! really i never before noticed what fine strong white hands she has. i shall ask father penrose for the _cyclopædia_--it has a substantial sound that may soften his suspicion that we are not practical and were not properly grieved over the loss of the hens! xx epilogue (dictated) _woodridge, january ._ in the face of circumstances that prevent my holding the pen in my own hand, i am resolved that the first chronicle of the new year shall be mine,--for by me it has sent the garden, you, and i a new member and our own garden a new tree, an oak we hope. the infant is exultant at the evident and direct result of her dealings with the fairies, and keeps a plate of astonishing goodies by the nursery hearth fire; these, if the fairies do not feast upon personally, are appreciated by their horses, the mice. his name is john bartram penrose, a good one to conjure with gardenwise, though he is no kin to the original. he has fresh-air lungs, and if he does not wax strong of limb and develop into a naturalist of some sort, he cannot blame his parents or their garden vacation. mary penrose, her [illustration: rose motif.] mark. [illustration: punch ... has a cache under the old syringa bushes.] for the hardy seed bed ====================+=========+========+=======+=======+==================== name |tender | | | | |or hardy | colour |height |season |remarks --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- aquilegia-columbine | h.p.* | | ft. |june |columbines are among | | | | |the most graceful chrysantha | |golden | | |and easily raised | |yellow | | |of hardy plants. coerulea | |rich | | |they will thrive in | |blue | | |open borders, but do glandulosa vera | |blue and| | |better in partial | |white | | |shade, after the | | | | |habit of our local | | | | |species, the "red | | | | |bells" of hillsides | | | | |and rocky wood. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- canterbury-bell | h.b.** | | ft. |june |old-fashioned plants campanula media | |blue, | | |of decorative value. | |white, | | |as with all | |pink | | |biennials, the plant | | | | |dies soon after | | | | |maturing seed; a new | | | | |sowing should be | | | | |made each spring and | | | | |seedlings | | | | |transplanted as soon | | | | |as the old plant | | | | |dies; this secures | | | | |strong growth before | | | | |winter. chimney bell-flower | h.p. |blue | - ft.|aug. |desirable because of | | | |to |of its late blooming campanula | | | |oct. |combined with its pyramadalis | | | | |striking appearance. | | | | |should be planted in | | | | |connection with the | | | | |tall white hardy | | | | |phlox. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- coreopsis | h.p. |yellow | - ft.|summer |a sturdy plant lanceolata | | | | |either for massing | | | | |or as a border to | | | | |sunny shrubberies. | | | | |flowers carried on | | | | |long stems suitable | | | | |for cutting. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- candytuft--iberis | h.p. | | ft. |summer |when transplanted | | | | |from seed bed, sempervirens | |white | | |plants should be | | | | |set eight inches | | | | |apart to make the | | | | |best effect, given | | | | |room, they make fine | | | | |compact bushes. the | | | | |foliage is | | | | |evergreen. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- delphinium-- | h.p. |blue, | - ft.|june, |our most satisfactory larkspur |flowering|all | |july, |blue flower, but |first |shades | |and |like all of this |year | |oct. |colour should have | | | | |a setting of white. | | | | |if plants are cut | | | | |down to the ground | | | | |as soon as the | | | | |blossoms fade, they | | | | |will give a second | | | | |crop in october. d. grandiflorum | |white | - ft.|summer |these flowers have chinensis | |and blue| | |a peculiar | | | | |brilliancy, and if siberian larkspur | | | | |set in a bed edged | | | | |by sweet alyssum, | | | | |are very | | | | |satisfactory. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- dianthus | h.p. | | ft. |may |there is nothing plumarius | | | |and |more suggestive of scotch clove pink | |various | |june |the old time gardens her majesty | |white | | " |of sweet flowers lord lyon | |pink | | " |than these fringed | | | | |pinks. if once | | | | |established in a | | | | |well-drained spot, | | | | |and not harassed, | | | | |they will sow | | | | |themselves and last | | | | |for years. her | | | | |majesty and lord | | | | |lyon are new | | | | |varieties, and as | | | | |double as | | | | |carnations. dianthus | h.p. |var. | in.- |summer |excellent for either chinensis | | | ft. | |bedding or edging. china pink |first | | | |have an apple | year | | | |fragrance. dianthus | h.p. |var. | in.- |summer |these summer pinks heddewigii | | | ft. | |are not grown in japan pink |first | | | |masses as freely as | year | | | |as they deserve. | | | | |they bloom with all | | | | |the profusion of | | | | |annuals without | | | | |their frailty. for a | | | | |succession the seed | | | | |should be sown every | | | | |year, as the old | | | | |plants bloom | | | | |earliest and the new | | | | |follow them. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- dianthus barbatus | h.p. |var. | ft. |june |an old-time sweet-william | | | | |favourite with | | | | |slightly fragrant | | | | |blossoms that will | | | | |keep a week in water | | | | |when cut. a bed when | | | | |once established | | | | |will last a long | | | | |time if a few of the | | | | |finest heads of | | | | |flowers are allowed | | | | |to go to seed, as | | | | |with many perennials | | | | |the younger plants | | | | |bloom more | | | | |vigorously than the | | | | |old. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- digitalis--foxglove | h.p. | | ft. |june |a dignified as well variety | |white, | | |as a poetic flower gloxinoides | |pink, | | |if given its | |purple, | | |natural, half-wild | |light | | |surroundings. it | |yellow | | |will thrive best | | | | |in partial shade if | | | | |the soil be good. | | | | |while if the stalks | | | | |of seeds are saved | | | | |and the contents | | | | |scattered along wild | | | | |walks or at the edge | | | | |of woods, surprising | | | | |results will follow. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- feverfew | h.p. | | - ft.|summer |a very useful, chrysanthemum |first |white | | |double-flowered parthenium, | year | | | |white composite, double | | | | |resembling a small | | | | |chrysanthemum. it | | | | |should be used | | | | |freely as a setting | | | | |for blue, pink, or | | | | |magenta flowers. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- forget-me-not | h.p. | | ft. |spring |well-known flowers myosotis alpestris | |blue | |and |that do best in victoria | | | |autumn |moist borders or | | | | |places where they | | | | |can be watered | | | | |freely. if cut down | | | | |after first | | | | |flowering, will | | | | |bloom again in | | | | |autumn. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- gaillardia | h.p. |yellow | ft. |until |brilliant and hardy cristata | first |and | |frost |plants for edging blanket flower | year |red | | |shrubbery or in | | | | |separate beds. | | | | |sprawl too much for | | | | |the mixed border. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- hollyhocks | h.p. | | |summer |of late years these double and single | |all | - ft.| |decorative plants | |colors | | |have suffered from a new hybrid hollyhock| |all | ft. | |blight that turns flowers first year | |colors | | |the leaves yellow from seed | | | | |and soon spreads to | | | | |the stalks. use | | | | |great care that the | | | | |soil be new and | | | | |well drained, | | | | |sprinkle powdered | | | | |sulphur and unslaked | | | | |lime on surface and | | | | |dig it in shortly | | | | |before setting out | | | | |the seedlings. | | | | |also spray young | | | | |plants well with | | | | |diluted bordeaux | | | | |mixture at intervals | | | | |before the flowers | | | | |show colour. | | | | |a large bed should | | | | |be given to this | | | | |flower, with either | | | | |a wall or hedge as a | | | | |background, and they | | | | |should be allowed to | | | | |seed themselves from | | | | |the best flowers. | | | | |thus a natural and | | | | |artistic effect is | | | | |produced unlike the | | | | |stiff lines of | | | | |tightly staked | | | | |plants. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- honesty | h.b. | | | |the old english lunaria biennis | |white | ft. |june |flower of colonial | | to | | |gardens. should be | | lilac | | |massed. the silvery | | | | |moons of its seed | | | | |vessels make unusual | | | | |winter bouquets. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- lupins | h.p. | | | |good for planting lupinus polyphyllus | |rich | ft. |june |before the white | | blue | | |flowering june | | | | |shrubs. flowers borne | | | | |erect upon long | | | | |spikes. very | | | | |difficult to | | | | |transplant unless | | | | |the long root is | | | | |kept intact. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- horsemint | h.p. | | - ft.|summer |sturdy and somewhat monada didyma-bee | |deep red| | |coarse plants, their balm or oswego tea | | | | |square stems telling monada fistulosa | | | | |the kinship with the wild bergamot | h.p. |lavender| - ft.|summer |familiar mints. of | | | | |good decorative | | | | |effect, should be | | | | |used as a background | | | | |in the bed of sweet | | | | |odours, as | | | | |especially after a | | | | |rain they yield the | | | | |garden a clean | | | | |fragrance of tonic | | | | |quality. the bergamot | | | | |grows wild in many | | | | |places and is easily | | | | |transplanted. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- primula | h.p. | | in. |may |the beautiful tufted english field | |primrose| | |primrose of the primrose | |yellow | | |english poets. grows | | | | |in this country best | | | | |on moist, grassy | | | | |banks under high or | | | | |in partial shade. | | | | |it has, during the | | | | |ten years that i | | | | |have grown it, | | | | |proved entirely | | | | |hardy. the seed may | | | | |be in the ground a | | | | |year before | | | | |germinating, but | | | | |once established the | | | | |plant cares for | | | | |itself. primula japonica | h.p. |yellows | in.- |may |the border primrose mixed border | |and reds| ft. | |so freely used in | | | | |england but rarely | | | | |seen in everyday | | | | |gardens here, where | | | | |i have found it | | | | |perfectly hardy. | | | | |makes a border of | | | | |rich colour for the | | | | |may garden. must be | | | | |watered freely in | | | | |hot, dry seasons. primula officinalis | h.p. |yellow | ft. |may |the english cowslip, cowslip | | | | |a charming garden | | | | |flower, but more at | | | | |home in nooks of | | | | |grassy banks, like | | | | |the primrose, or in | | | | |the open. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- poppy | h.p. |yellow | ft. |early |poppies are very { iceland poppy | |and | |summer |difficult to { p. nudicale | |white | | |transplant, owing to | | | | |their long, | | | | |sensitive roots, | | | | |though it can be | | | | |done. it is easier, | | | | |therefore, to sow | | | | |them thinly where | | | | |they are to remain | | | | |and weed them out. p. orientale | h.p. |dazzling| - ft.|june |a gorgeous flower, | | scarlet| | |subject to damping | | | | |off if heavy rains | | | | |come when it is in | | | | |full bloom. should | | | | |be used to fill in | | | | |between white | | | | |shrubs, as its | | | | |colour is impossible | | | | |near any of the | | | | |pink, purple, or | | | | |magenta june | | | | |flowers, and a | | | | |single plant | | | | |misplaced will ruin | | | | |your garden. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- phlox | h.p. |in | - ft.|july- |offshoots of these p. paniculata | |variety,| | oct. |hardy phloxes may be | |crimson,| |miss |usually obtained by | |purple, | |lingard|exchange from some | |salmon, | |in june|friend, as they | |carmine,| | |increase rapidly. | |and | | |but there is a charm | |white | | |in raising seedlings | |with | | |on the chance of | |colored | | |growing a new | |eye | | |species. these | | | | |phloxes are the | | | | |backbone of the | | | | |hardy garden from | | | | |july until frost, | | | | |while miss lingard, | | | | |a fine white | | | | |variety, blooms in | | | | |june to be a setting | | | | |for the blue | | | | |larkspurs. phlox subulata | h.p. |pink and| in. | |the dwarf phlox that moss pink | |white | | |hides its foliage | | | | |under sheets of pink | | | | |or white bloom and | | | | |makes the great mats | | | | |of colour seen among | | | | |rock work and on dry | | | | |banks in parks and | | | | |public gardens. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- pentstemon | h.p. | | ft. |summer |very fine border european | |many | | |plants, almost as varieties. mixed | | rich | | |decorative as | | colours| | |foxgloves, showing | | | | |tints of reds | | | | |through pink, white, | | | | |blue and white | | | | |cream, etc. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- pansies | h.b. |many | ft. |april |it is usual to sow in varieties | flowers | rich | | to |pansies in frames | first | colours| |dec. |during september | year | | | |and october, winter | | | | |them under cover, | | | | |and transplant to | | | | |beds the following | | | | |spring. | | | | |if pansies (well | | | | |soaked previously) | | | | |are sown in the seed | | | | |bed in late august | | | | |or early september, | | | | |they will be compact | | | | |little plants by | | | | |november, when they | | | | |may be transplanted | | | | |to their permanent | | | | |bed or else covered | | | | |where they stand, | | | | |protected by leaves | | | | |between the rows and | | | | |a few evergreen | | | | |boughs or a little | | | | |salt hay over them. | | | | |if an entire bed is | | | | |set apart set apart | | | | |for pansies and only | | | | |the finest flowers | | | | |allowed to seed, the | | | | |bed will keep itself | | | | |going for several | | | | |years by merely | | | | |thinning and | | | | |adjusting the | | | | |seedlings. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- day primrose | h.p. |golden | ft. |early |a day-flowering oenothera fruticosa | |yellow | |summer |member of the | | | | |evening-primrose | | | | |family, resembling | | | | |the golden sundrops | | | | |of our june meadows. | | | | |very fragrant, and | | | | |if once established, | | | | |will sow itself. evening primrose | h.b. |yellow | ft. |all |the exquisitely oenothera biennis | | | |summer |scented silver-gold | | | | |flower that unfurls | | | | |at twilight to give | | | | |a supper to the hawk | | | | |moths, upon whom it | | | | |depends for | | | | |fertilization. grows | | | | |in dry soil and | | | | |should be used in | | | | |masses to fill in | | | | |odd corners. --------------------+---------+--------+-------+-------+-------------------- violas | h.p. |purple, | in. |april |a race of plants tufted pansy-violets| |yellow, | |to oct.|closely resembling for bedding | |rose, | | |pansies, that fill | |mauve, | | |an important place | |white | | |in the gardens of | | | | |europe, but are as | | | | |yet little known | | | | |here, though they | | | | |are as hardy as the | | | | |primulas. as a | | | | |border for shrubs or | | | | |rose beds they are | | | | |excellent, but when | | | | |planted as a bed, | | | | |should be in partial | | | | |shade. ====================+=========+========+=======+=======+==================== *: hardy perennial. **: hardy biennial. some worthy annuals ====================+========+==========+========+========================== | tender | | | name |or hardy| colour | height | remarks --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- aster | h.a. |all shades| in. |asters are the standby of most reliable | |of blues, |- ft. |the late summer and autumn varieties-- | |purples, | |garden, and for this truffants | |and pink | |reason it is better to sow victoria | |up to deep| |them in the outdoor seed queen of market | |blue, also| |bed than to attempt (very early) | |white. | |forcing. they require comet | | | |light, rich soil, mixed (quaint and | | | |with old manure, as fresh artistic) | | | |manure breeds many aster emperor frederick | | | |ills. two enemies--lice at (best white) | | | |the root and black hohenzollern | | | |goldenrod beetles on the (new large | | | |flowers--must be guarded flowers.) | | | |against--the first by | | | |digging sulphur powder, | | | |unslaked lime, nitrate of | | | |soda, or wood ashes into | | | |the soil both before | | | |sowing the seed and again | | | |into the place where they | | | |are transplanted; the | | | |beetle must be dislodged | | | |by careful hand picking. | | | |cover the seeds with half | | | |an inch of soil, and in | | | |transplanting set the | | | |plants from a foot to | | | |eighteen inches apart, | | | |according to variety. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- sweet alyssum, | h.a. |white, | ft. |a cheerful little variety | | fragrant | |mustard-shaped flower maritimum | | | |borne in short, thick | | | |spikes, useful for edgings | | | |or to supply the white | | | |setting necessary to | | | |groups of party-coloured | | | |flowers. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- balsam | t.a. |white, | in. |a rapid-growing, tender camellia flowered | |peach, | |annual from india, and | |carmine, | |while rather stiff in form | |lavender, | |of growth, very decorative | |rose, | |for the summer borders | |scarlet, | |surrounding a sundial. | |spotted, | |the flowers, like | |and straw | |compact, double roses, are | | | |very useful for set table | | | |decorations and may be | | | |used in many ways. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- calendula--pot | h.a. |yellow | ft. |showy flowers for summer marigold | |and orange| |beds, not good for calendula | |white | |cutting, as they grow officinalis | | | |sleepy indoors and in grandiflora | | | |cloudy weather. calendula pongei. | | | | fl. pl. | | | | --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- candytuft | h.a. |white, | ft. |a sturdy white flower iberis coronaria | |fine | |useful for edgings in the rocket candytuft | |erect form| |same way as sweet alyssum. | | | |may be sown in fall for | | | |early flowering. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- cornflower | h.a. | | - ft.|one of the most centaurea | | | |satisfactory of the taller centaurea margaritæ,| | | |growing annuals, the fragrant | |white | |flowers having some of the sweet sultan | | | |qualities of an suaveolens | |yellow | |everlasting, and making moschata | |purple | |fine buttonhole flowers cyanus--emperor | | | |or house bouquets. the william | |deep blue | |sweet sultans are (rich blue | | | |delightfully fragrant, and cornflower) | | | |the cornflower one of the | | | |finest of our blue | | | |flowers. they should be | | | |sown in borders or large | | | |beds where they are to | | | |bloom and while the sweet | | | |sultans must be spring | | | |sown, the cornflower if | | | |sown in october will bloom | | | |in may. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- cosmos | h.a. |white | - ft. |a beautiful autumn flower giant fancy | |pink | |if they are on their best | |maroon | |behaviour and bloom on | | | |time, but like the little | | | |girl with the curl--when | | | |they are bad, they are | | | |horrid.--they take a | | | |great deal of room during | | | |a long season which can be | | | |often used to better | | | |advantage--planted with | | | |asters. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- dahlia | h.h.p. |various | - ft. |if sown either indoors or single and cactus, | | | |in a frame, these dahlias mixed varieties | | | |may be as cheaply raised | | | |as any common annual--with | | | |the chance of growing | | | |many beautiful and new | | | |varieties. the roots may | | | |be stored in sand in the | | | |cellar during winter like | | | |other bulbs. | | | |i class this seed with | | | |annuals from the fact that | | | |it must be sown in spring | | | |and cannot be left over | | | |winter in the hardy bed | | | |though it is a _half_ | | | |hardy perennial. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- gaillardia, called | h.a. |red and | ft. |fine daisy-shaped flower blanket flower from| |yellow | |for colour-masses or its habit of | | | |picking. may be sown in covering the ground| | | |in the borders after bulbs with bloom | | | |have died away, and will gaillardia, picta | | | |and will bloom until hard lorenziania | | | |frost. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- ipomæa | t.a. | | - |our most beautiful annual | | | ft. |vines. the common morning | | | |glories should be kept | | | |from seeding in flower or | | | |vegetable gardens, because | | | |before you know it the | | | |strong tendrils will have | | | |twined about vegetables | | | |and flowers alike and | | | |strangled them. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- ipomæa | t.a. | | |an early variety of the | | | |of the popular moonflower ipomæa, mexicana | |satiny | ft. | grandiflora | | white | | alba--large white | | | | moonflower | | | | ipomæa, northern | t.a. |pinkish | ft. | light | |heliotrope| | --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- imperial japanese | t.a. |white, | - |one of the most artistic morning-glories | |rose, | ft. |flowers of the modern | |crimson, | |garden, the seed must be | |all | |must be sown early, | |shades of | |preferably in a hotbed, | |purple | |and extra precautions | | | |taken to insure its | | | |germination, as the | | | |coverings are exceedingly | | | |hard. it is best to soak | | | |them over night in several | | | |changes of warm water or | | | |else very carefully notch | | | |the shell of the seed with | | | |a knife. this last | | | |performance is rather | | | |risky, if the knife slip | | | |ever so little, and it is | | | |best to trust to the | | | |soaking. for those who are | | | |in the country only from | | | |june to october and have | | | |little room for vines, | | | |these morning-glories | | | |will prove a new | | | |experience, for in flower | | | |and leaf they present an | | | |infinite variety of shape | | | |and marking. the flowers | | | |are both self-coloured as | | | |well as marbled, spotted, | | | |striped, margined, and | | | |fringed. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- mignonette | h.a. | | - ft. |these three species of miles spiral | |green | |mignonette i have found | | and white| |perfectly satisfactory. giant pyramidal | |green, | in. |if quantity is desired | | deep | |rather than quality, the parson's white | |white and | in. |seed may be sown thinly | | buff | |where it is to remain. but | | | |for specimen stalks to | | | |come up to catalogue | | | |descriptions, each plant | | | |must have individual | | | |treatment, like the | | | |asters. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- nasturtiums | h.a. |all shades| |a showy climbing or tall | |of reds | |trailing plant, useful for make your own | |and | |outdoor decorations and mixture by buying | |yellows, | |the clean-smelling flowers the twenty named | |chocolate,| |being equally valuable for colours offered and| |pink, and | |table decorations. blending them. | |salmon | |should be either planted | | | |on a bank, wall, or in | | | |front of a fence, stone or | | | |otherwise. if stone, a | | | |thick support of peabrush | | | |should be given, set | | | |slantwise toward the wall. | | | |be careful not to place | | | |nasturtiums where you will | | | |look over them toward beds | | | |containing pink or magenta | | | |flowers or where they will | | | |form a background for the | | | |same, as in spite of some | | | |beautiful tints of | | | |straw-colour and maroon, | | | |the general nasturtium | | | |colour is dazzling, | | | |uncompromising | | | |vermilion-orange. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- phlox drummondii | h.a. | | ½ ft. |a thoroughly satisfactory best colours in | | | |flower for the summer tall flowering class| | | |garden, whether sown | | | |broadcast to cover beds alba | |white | |left empty by spring bulbs coccinea | |scarlet | |or sown in a seed bed and isabellina | |light | |transplanted eight inches | | yellow | |to a foot apart, when if rosea | |pink | |the dead flowers are kept stella splendens | |crimson | |well picked off, they will atropurpurea | |purple | |make sturdy, compact | | | |bushes. drummond phlox | | | - ft. |the dwarf varieties make snowball | |white | |charming edges for hardy chamois rose | |pink | |rose beds or shrubberies. fireball | |flame | | surprise | |scarlet | | | |edged with| | | |white | | --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- poppies | h.a. | | ft. - |poppies are gorgeous | | | in. |flowers, but in our shirley, the most | |all shades| |changeable climate, as a satisfactory reds | |class, are too short-lived of poppies for | | | |to pay their way, except outdoor decoration | | | |in summer gardens where a or cutting | | | |brief period of bloom | | | |suffices, or in a garden | | | |so large that there need | | | |be no economy of space. | | | |shirley is sown in may and | | | |again in august for spring | | | |flowering. | | | |even under adverse | | | |conditions the shirley is | | | |always dainty and never | | | |makes a disagreeable, | | | |soppy exhibition after a | | | |rainy period like the | | | |carnation and peony | | | |flowered varieties. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- portulaca | t.a. |red, | - in. |a most useful "filler" for buy the separate | |white, | |sunny nooks,--rockwork,-- colours and mix | |pink, | |for covering bulb beds, them yourself, as | |crimson, | |and concealing mishaps in the commercial | |yellow | |and disappointments. mixtures both | | | |its fat, uninteresting scarlet and pink | | | |foliage, that makes mats appear in tints | | | |a foot broad and proclaims that set the teeth | | | |it first cousin to on edge | | | |"pusley," is covered | | | |during bright sunshine by | | | |a wealth of gay flowers | | | |two inches across and of | | | |satiny texture. | | | |heat, and plenty of it, is | | | |what portulaca craves, | | | |backyards agree with it, | | | |also dry banks, and even | | | |seashore sand if there is | | | |a foothold of loam | | | |beneath. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- salvia splendens-- | h.a. | | - ½ ft.|the familiar flower that flowering sage | | | |sends up its spikes of bonfire | |intense | |flame from august until | | flame | |frost--should be sown in | | | |seed beds and set out from | | | |one to two feet apart. | | | |watch out and do not put | | | |your salvia where it will | | | |come in competition with | | | |the crimson-hued hardy | | | |phlox tribe. scarlet | | | |geraniums and the crimson | | | |rambler rose in | | | |conjunction are not more | | | |painful. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- sweet peas, twelve | h.a. |various | ft. |if sweet peas are to be good colours | | | |grown in any quantity, | | | |they should be sown after apple blossom | |pink | |the manner of tall garden black knight | |maroon | |peas and the colours kept boreatton | |deep | |separate. this is a great | | crimson | |aid both to their coquette | |primrose | |gathering and artistic crown jewel | |cream, | |arrangement. | | violet | | | | veins | | duke of clarence | |claret | | firefly | |dazzling | | | | scarlet | | gorgeous | |orange and| | | | rose | | mrs. kenyon (very | |primrose- | | large) | | yellow | | king edward vii | |very fine | | | | crimson | | mrs. dugdale | |best | | | | rose-pink| | navy blue | |rich dark | | | | blue | | primrose | |light | | | | yellow | | senator | |white, | | | | purple, | | | | and | | | | maroon | | | | striped | | mont blanc, very | |white | ft. | early | | | | stella morse | |primrose | | | | flushed | | | | with pink| | --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- sunflowers | h.a. |all shades| - ft. |cheerful flowers to line henry wilde | |of yellow | |up against fences or at primrose-coloured | | | |the back of shrubberies, cucumerifolius | | | |whose seeds, if left to hybridus fl. pl., | | | |ripen, will secure the a fine mixture of | | | |company of many birds for new varieties, | | | |your garden through the decorative and | | | |autumn and early winter. good for cutting | | | | single russian (the | | | ft. | henyard sunflower),| | | | large head heavy | | | | with seeds | | | | --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- verbena | h.a. | | ½ ft. |the best summer-bedding defiance, scarlet | | | |plant that is raised from bedder | | | |seed, which must be well candidissima | | | |soaked before sowing. the auriculæflora, | | | |mammoth varieties are the various, with | | | |most satisfactory, and white eye | | | |among them are to be mammoth, mixed, | |red, | |found shaded tints of rose large flowers, often| |white, | |and lavender that have fragrant, of many | |blue, | |decided perfume. beautiful colours. | |purple, | | | |crimson, | | | |pink, | | | |striped | | --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- wallflower | h.a. |gold and | ½ ft. |while the most beautiful paris single annual | | brown | |species of wallflowers are | | | |in this climate so tender | | | |that they must be wintered | | | |in pits or cold frames, | | | |this single species, if | | | |sown in spring and | | | |transplanted, will bloom | | | |until christmas. | | | |it is one of the most | | | |valuable and | | | |characteristic plants of | | | |the bed of sweet odours | | | |and can be used to fill | | | |odd nooks, against stone | | | |walls, or the foundation | | | |of buildings. --------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------------------------- zinnia (crabbed age | h.a. | | - in.|bedding annual, of and youth) | | | |brilliant colours and salmon | | | |vigorous growth. if room snowball | | | |is lacking, the dwarf sulphur | | | |varieties are best unless golden | | | |the soil is very poor. it fireball | | | |is best to buy the seed in rose | | | |separate colours, and when | | | |transplanting from the | | | |seed bed, combine as | | | |required. | | | |avoid the purple and | | | |magenta shades, they are | | | |quite impossible. ====================+========+==========+========+========================== note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) trees, fruits and flowers of minnesota [illustration: monument erected in lobby of west hotel, minneapolis, place of annual meeting of the society, december to . height of monument, feet. number of bushels of apples used, twenty-five. enlarged seal of the society on its front.] embracing the transactions of the minnesota state horticultural society from december , , to december , , including the twelve numbers of "the minnesota horticulturist" for . edited by the secretary, a. w. latham, office and library, kasota block, minneapolis, minn. vol. xliv. [illustration: minnesota state horticultural society "perseverantia vincimus" organized .] minneapolis harrison & smith co., printers while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. january, no. president's greeting, annual meeting, . thos. e. cashman, president. this is the forty-ninth annual meeting of the minnesota state horticultural society. nearly half a century has elapsed since that little band of pioneers met in rochester and organized that they might work out a problem that had proven too difficult for any of them to handle single handed and alone. those men were all anxious to raise at least sufficient fruit for themselves and families. they had tried and failed. they were not willing to give up. they knew they could accomplish more by interchanging ideas, and, furthermore, if they were able to learn anything by experience they wanted to pass it on to their neighbors. those men built better than they knew. the foundation was properly laid, and the structure, while not finished, is an imposing one. a great many people believe that this structure has been completed, that we have reached our possibilities in fruit raising. this is only half true. we are still building on this splendid foundation erected by those few enthusiasts. none of those men are left to enjoy the benefits of their labor. the present generation and the generations to come are and will be the beneficiaries, and i believe as a tribute to their memory and the good that they have done that we should fittingly celebrate our fiftieth anniversary. at this time i can not suggest how this should be done; i simply make this suggestion in hopes that it may be worked out. i was in hopes that a home for this society might have been erected this year or at least made ready for the meeting. this would surely have been an occasion worthy of the anniversary which we hope to celebrate. the building committee appointed by the last meeting went before the legislature and tried with all the eloquence at their command to make the members of the legislature see the necessity of appropriating sufficient money to build a permanent home for this organization. the members saw the force of our argument, but we could not convince a majority of the appropriation committee that they should deviate from their plan of retrenchment which seemed to permeate their every act. we were disappointed but not disheartened. we were promised better success in the session. so we are living in hopes, and i firmly believe that if our efforts are renewed at that time that this and the auxiliary societies may have an opportunity of meeting and transacting business in a home that, while it will belong to the state, will be for the use of these organizations, and that we may be able to take up our abode in it not later than the winter meeting of . secretary latham has prepared an excellent program for you. many friends of this society are with us again, full of enthusiasm and vigor, and i know that we will have one of the most successful meetings ever enjoyed by this organization. owing to the fullness of the program, i should consider it an imposition on my part if i should attempt to make an extended address at this time and will hasten to call on the gentlemen who are to contribute to the success of this meeting. [illustration: new varieties of strawberries originated at the minnesota state fruit-breeding farm.] annual meeting, , minnesota state horticultural society. a. w. latham, secretary. did you attend the meeting of this association, held in the west hotel, minneapolis, four days, december - inclusive? of course as a member of the society you will get in cold print the substance of the papers and discussions that were presented at this meeting, but you will fail altogether in getting the wonderful inspiration that comes from contact with hundreds of persons deeply interested in the various phases of horticultural problems that are constantly passing in review during the succeeding sessions of the meeting. with such a varied program there is hardly any problem connected with horticulture that is not directly or indirectly touched upon at our annual gathering, and the present meeting was no exception to this. in all there were sixty-nine persons on the program, and with the exception of prof. whitten, whom we expected with us from the missouri state university, and whom sickness kept at home, and one other number, every person on the program was on hand to perform the part assigned to him. isn't this really a wonderful thing where so many are concerned, emphasizing as it does the large interest felt in the work of the society? the meeting was held in the same room in the west hotel which was used for the banquet two years ago. it seats comfortably , and was approximately filled at all of the sessions of the meeting. at the first session there were in attendance about when the meeting opened at ten o'clock tuesday morning. later in the morning the seats were practically all filled. making allowance for the change in the personnel of those in attendance at the various meetings, it is easily within the limit to say that between and were in attendance at these meetings. immediately adjoining the audience room on the same floor, and opening out of the spacious balcony, were the various rooms occupied by the fruit exhibit and the vegetable exhibit. the plant exhibit was in two alcoves on this balcony, and the cut flowers were displayed along either side of the balcony, making altogether a wonderful showing of nature's floral products. the accommodations for this meeting were almost ideal, and judging from the expressions of the members we have never been more happily situated than on this occasion. i have endeavored to draw a plan of the arrangements at this meeting and submit it to you, not for criticism, but to assist you in understanding the situation. we were greatly disappointed that prof. whitten was detained at home by illness, but others from abroad took up the time so that there was really no interim as a result of his absence. we were fortunate in having with us the last day and a part of thursday afternoon sen. h.m. dunlap and mrs. dunlap, and their parts on the program were listened to with intense interest, and i am sure much good was gained for our membership from the service they rendered the society, which it must be understood is a gratuitious one--indeed that applies to all of those whose names appear upon the program. that is one good thing about the horticulturist, he is willing to tell what he knows for the benefit of others. to hold any other view than this would be too narrow and selfish certainly for the true lover of horticulture. the exhibits were in every case in excess of what we anticipated. notwithstanding the light crop of apples in the larger portion of the state, there was really a fine showing, and quality was very high. of boxes of apples there were shown eleven, and of barrels of apples six, for each one of which exhibits some premium was paid, as besides the first, second and third premiums in each case there was also a sum to be divided pro rata. there were twenty-nine pecks of apples exhibited, for which premiums were also paid in the same way. four collections of top-worked apples were on the list. premiums were awarded to forty seedling apples, an exceedingly good showing for the season. as to the number of single plates shown the record is not easily available, but the accompanying list of awards will give information as far as they are concerned, there being of course many plates to which no awards were made. the vegetable exhibit was an extraordinarily fine one and filled comfortably the convenient room assigned for its use. it was excellently managed by mr. n.h. reeves, president of the minneapolis market gardeners' association. as to the flower exhibit under the fine management of w.h. bofferding, it was so much better than we anticipated that it is hard to find words suitably to express our thought in regard to it. besides the splendid collections of plants and the large display of cut flowers from the state, there was shown from several eastern parties rare flowers, many of them new productions, which had a great deal to do with the beautiful appearance of the balcony, where all of these flowers were shown. [illustration: sketch showing arrangement of hall and adjacent rooms, &c., used at annual meeting, in west hotel, minneapolis.] mention ought to be made of the monument erected in the center of the lobby on the ground floor of the west hotel, a structure ten feet high, containing at its base some dozen or fifteen single layer boxes of choice apples and on its sides something like twenty bushels of apples put on in varying shades of red and green with a handsome ornamental plant crowning the whole. the seal of the society decorated with national colors appears upon the front. the picture taken of this monument is shown as a frontispiece of this number. it is incomplete in that the photographer cut off both ends of it, which is unfortunate in results obtained. nevertheless it helped materially to advertise the meeting and was a distinct ornament in the lobby. as to subjects in which there was a special interest on our program, the only one to which i will here refer is that of "marketing," which received particular attention from a considerable number of those on the program or taking impromptu parts at the meeting. the ladies' federation assisted us splendidly on the woman's auxiliary program, one number, that by mrs. jennison, being beautifully illustrated by lantern slides. delegates from abroad as usual and visitors were with us in considerable number. prof. f. w. brodrick came from winnipeg, representing the manitoba society; prof. n. e. hansen, as usual, represented the south dakota society; mr. earl ferris, of hampton, ia., the northeastern iowa society; and mr. a. n. greaves, from sturgeon bay, wis., the wisconsin society. we were especially favored in having with us also on this occasion mr. n. a. rasmusson, president of the wisconsin horticultural society, and secretary frederick cranefield of the same society. if all the members of that society are as wide awake as these three the minnesota society will have to look to its laurels. i must not fail to mention mr. b. g. street, from hebron, ill., who was present throughout the meeting, an earnest brother, and gave us a practical talk on "marketing." our friend, chas. f. gardner, of osage, iowa, managed to get here friday morning after the close of the meeting of the iowa horticultural society, which he had been attending, and so spent the last day of the meeting with us. welcome, brother gardner! the meeting would certainly have been incomplete without the presence of those old veterans and long time attendants at our annual gatherings, geo. j. kellogg and a. j. philips, both from the wisconsin society. we need you, dear brothers, and hope you may long foregather with us. as to that war horse of horticulture, c. s. harrison, of york, nebr., what would our meeting be without the fireworks in language which he has provided now for many of these annual occasions. the wonderful life and sparkle of his message survives with us from year to year, and we look forward eagerly to his annual coming. there were three contestants who spoke from the platform in competition for the prizes offered from the gideon memorial fund as follows: first prize--g. a. nelson, university farm school, st. paul. second--a. w. aamodt, university farm school, st. paul. third--p. l. keene, university farm school, st. paul. their addresses were all of a practical character and will appear in our monthly. prof. richard wellington conducted a fruit judging contest, in connection with which there was a large interest, and prizes were awarded as follows: d. c. webster, la crescent, first $ . p. l. keene, university farm, st. paul, second . marshall hurtig, st. paul, third . at the annual election the old officers whose terms had expired were all re-elected without opposition, and later the secretary was re-elected by the executive board for the coming year, so that no change whatever was made in the management of the society. j. m. underwood, being absent in the south, was nevertheless re-elected by the board as its chairman for the coming year. a pleasant event of this gathering was the presentation of a handsome gold watch and chain to the secretary, a memento in connection with the termination of his twenty-fifth year as secretary of the society, which expression of appreciation on the part of the members it may well be believed was fully appreciated by the recipient. the hall was brilliantly decorated with the national colors, which had never been used before at any of our annual gatherings. what can be more beautiful than the stars and stripes entwined with the colors of foliage and flower. never has our place of meeting shown so brightly or been more enjoyed than in this favorable environment. during the meeting upon the recommendation of the executive board there were five names by the unanimous vote of the society placed upon the honorary life membership roll of the society, as follows: john bisbee, madelia; j. r. cummins, minneapolis; chas. haralson, excelsior; f. w. kimball, waltham, and s. h. drum, owatonna. the meeting closed with seventy-five members in the hall by actual count at : , and we certainly hated to say the parting word to those whom we earnestly hope to gather with again a year hence. what can we say about the crowning event of our meeting, the annual banquet? two hundred and two members sat down together and fraternized in a most congenial way. gov. w. s. hammond was the speaker of the evening and greatly enjoyed. all the other numbers on the program were on hand to perform their parts. here follows the program and you can judge for yourself. why don't you come and enjoy this most entertaining event of the meeting? program. prof. n.e. hansen, toastmaster. grace rev. j. kimball, duluth opening song trafford n. jayne, minneapolis why wake up the dreamers--aren't they getting their share? prof. e. g. cheyney, university farm, st. paul reading miss marie bon, minneapolis what joy in the garden, provided e. e. park, minneapolis every true horticulturist has a private rainbow with a pot of gold at the end mrs. t. a. hoverstad, minneapolis song s. grace updegraff bergen, minneapolis the joy of service gov. w. s. hammond what care i while i live in a garden a. g. long, minneapolis song trafford n. jayne, minneapolis never too late to mend--unless you are " ," a. j. philips, west salem, wis. reading miss marie bon right living and happiness--you can't have one without the other, t. e. archer, st. paul closing song trafford n. jayne, minneapolis * * * * * "don'ts" issued to prevent forest fires.-- . don't throw your match away until you are sure it is out. . don't drop cigarette or cigar butts until the glow is extinguished. . don't knock out your pipe ashes while hot or where they will fall into dry leaves or other inflammable material. . don't build a camp fire any larger than is absolutely necessary. . don't build a fire against a tree, a log, or a stump, or anywhere but on bare soil. . don't leave a fire until you are sure it is out; if necessary smother it with earth or water. . don't burn brush or refuse in or near the woods if there is any chance that the fire may spread beyond your control, or that the wind may carry sparks where they would start a new fire. . don't be any more careless with fire in the woods than you are with fire in your own home. . don't be idle when you discover a fire in the woods; if you can't put it out yourself, get help. where a forest guard, ranger or state fire warden can be reached, call him up on the nearest telephone you can find. . don't forget that human thoughtlessness and negligence are the causes of more than half of the forest fires in this country, and that the smallest spark may start a conflagration that will result in loss of life and destruction of timber and young growth valuable not only for lumber but for their influence in helping to prevent flood, erosion, and drought.--u.s. dept. agri., forest service. award of premiums, annual meeting, , minnesota state horticultural society. the list of awards following will give in full detail the awards made in connection with the fruit exhibit: vegetables. carrots chas. krause, merriam park second . celeriac " " third . cabbage j. t. olinger, hopkins second . carrots " " third . onions (red) " " second . onions (yellow) " " fourth . celeriac daniel gantzer, merriam park first . lettuce " " third . onions (red) " " third . onions (white) " " fourth . onions (yellow) " " second . onions (pklg) " " second . beets karl kochendorfer, so. park third . carrots c. e. warner, osseo first . onions (white) " " first . beets mrs. john gantzer. st. paul first . cabbages " " fourth . onions (red) " " first . onions (yellow) " " first . beets mrs. edw. haeg, minneapolis second . cabbages " " third . celeriac " " second . carrots alfred perkins, st. paul fourth . lettuce " " first . onions (red) " " fourth . onions (white) " " first . onions (yellow) " " third . onions (white) h. g. groat, anoka second . onions (pickling) " " fourth . beets chas. krause, merriam park fourth . cabbages " " first . lettuce mrs. edw. haeg, minneapolis second . onions (white pklg) " " third . onions (white) aug. sauter, excelsior third . globe onions (red) p. h. peterson, atwater first . salsify mrs. john gantzer, st. paul first . turnips (white) " " first . rutabagas " " fourth . parsley mrs. edw. haeg, minneapolis fourth . hubbard squash " " third . potatoes c. w. pudham, osseo fourth . hubbard squash " " fourth . potatoes frank dunning, anoka second . pie pumpkins " " first . hubbard squash " " second . turnips (white) alfred perkins, st. paul fourth . potatoes fred scherf, osseo first . rutabagas " " first . pie pumpkins " " fourth . parsley chas. krause. merriam park third . parsnips " " first . salsify chas. krause, merriam park second . turnips (white) " " second . parsnips j. t. olinger, hopkins third . turnips " " third . rutabagas " " second . parsley daniel gantzer second . parsnips " " second . pie pumpkins " " second . parsnips karl k. kochendorfer, so. park fourth . potatoes aug. bueholz, osseo third . hubbard squash " " first . rutabagas " " third . parsley frank l. gerten, so. st. paul first . pie pumpkins " " third . radishes " " first . e. o. ballard, judge. collection of apples. collection of apples p. clausen, albert lea $ . collection of apples henry husser, minneiska . collection of apples d. c. webster, la crescent . collection of apples p. h. perry, excelsior . collection of apples f. i. harris. la crescent . collection of apples w. s. widmoyer, la crescent . single plates of apples. yahnke f. i. harris, la crescent first $. utter w. s. widmoyer, la crescent first . n.w. greening " " first . malinda " " second . plumb's cider " " first . patten's greening f. w. powers, minneapolis first . duchess " " first . malinda f. i. harris, la crescent third . peerless " " first . wolf river " " second . wealthy " " second . antonovka " " second . fameuse " " second . gilbert " " first . duchess p. h. perry, excelsior third . yellow transparent " " first . tetofsky " " first . charlamoff " " third . yahnke " " second . evelyn " " first . lowland raspberry p. clausen, albert lea second . hibernal " " first . okabena francis willis, excelsior first . milwaukee " " first . patten's greening " " second . longfield " " second . university " " first . longfield p. h. perry, excelsior first . fameuse " " third . hibernal e. w. mayman, sauk rapids second . wealthy sil matzke, so. st. paul first . peerless " " second . n.w. greening " " second . mcmahon " " first . yellow transparent henry husser second . fameuse " " first . walbridge " " first . mcmahon d. c. webster, la crescent third . n.w. greening " " third . brett " " first . gideon " " first . superb " " first . okabena m. oleson, montevideo second . peerless " " third . hibernal " " third . longfield " " third . university " " second . charlamoff henry husser, minneiska second . mcmahon " " second . wolf river " " first . jewell's winter " " first . anisim p. clausen, albert lea first . jewell's winter " " second . antonovka " " first . iowa beauty " " first . yahnke " " third . borovinca " " first . patten's greening p. h. peterson, atwater third . malinda " " first . okabena " " third . lord's l. " " first . lowland raspberry " " first . charlamoff " " first . duchess " " second . tetofsky w. j. tingley, forest lake second . wealthy h. b. hawkes, excelsior third . grimes' golden p. h. peterson, atwater first . jno. p. andrews, judge. seedling apples. early winter--arnt johnson, viroqua, wis. $ . " " --w.s. widmoyer, la crescent . " " --j. flagstad & sons, sacred heart . " " --no. --henry rodenberg, mindora, wis. . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --dr. o. m. huestis, minneapolis . " " --jacob halvorson, delavan . " " --no. --henry rodenberg, mindora, wis. . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --h. h. pond, minneapolis . " " " . " " " . " " " . " " --henry husser, minneiska . " " --o. o.--m. oleson, montevideo . " " --o. k.-- " . " " --g. n.-- " . " " --g. s.-- " . " " --e. t.--m. oleson . " " --e. a. gross, la moille . " " -- " . " " -- " . " " --no. --arnt johnson, viroqua, wis. . late winter--no. --henry rodenberg, mindora, wis. . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " --no. -- " " . " " w. s. widmoyer, la crescent . " " --chas. ziseh, dresbach . " " --j. a. howard, hammond . " " " . " " --f. w. powers, excelsior . " " --j. flagstad & sons, sacred heart . " " henry husser, minneiska . " " --no. --henry rodenberg, mindora, wis. . clarence wedge, n. e. hansen, judges. collection of top-worked apples. collection of top-worked p. h. peterson, atwater . collection of top-worked p. clausen, albert lea . collection of top-worked henry husser, minneiska . collection of top-worked w. s. widmoyer, dresbach . dewain cook, judge. pecks of apples. n.w. greenings aug. sauter, excelsior . wealthy h .b. hawkes, excelsior . wealthy p. h. peterson, atwater . fameuse henry husser, minneiska . wolf river " " . peerless " " . n.w. greening " " . n.w. greening d. c. webster, la crescent . wealthy " " . bethel " " . scotts' winter " " . wealthy w. p. burow, la crescent . n.w. greening " " . wealthy e. w. mayman, sauk rapids . hibernal e. w. mayman, sauk rapids . wealthy francis willis, excelsior . duchess " " . okabena " " . milwaukee " " . wealthy p. h. perry, excelsior . fameuse " " . seedlings " " . peter " " . wealthy f. i. harris, la crescent . n.w. greening " " . seedlings t. e. perkins, red wing . n.w. greenings f. w. powers, minneapolis . wealthy " " . duchess r. e. olmstead, excelsior . geo. w. strand, judge. bushel boxes of apples. wealthy--h. b. hawkes, excelsior . wealthy--p. h. peterson, atwater . wealthy--henry husser, minneiska . wealthy--d. c. webster, la crescent first . n.w. greening--w. p. burow, la crescent . wealthy--p. h. perry, excelsior . wealthy--j. f. bartlett, excelsior third . wealthy--f. i. harris, la crescent second . n.w. greenings--f. w. powers, excelsior . wealthy--f. w. powers, excelsior . wealthy--s. h. drum, owatonna . w. g. brierley, judge. barrels of apples. h. b. hawkes, excelsior . henry husser, minneiska . d. c. webster, la crescent first . w. p. burow, la crescent . wealthy--p. h. perry, excelsior third . f. i. harris, la crescent second . w. g. brierley, judge. collection grapes. collection grapes--sil matzke, so. st. paul first . george w. strand, judge. nuts. walnuts henry husser, minneiska first . butternuts " " first . hickory nuts " " second . hickory nuts d. c. webster, la crescent first . h. j. ludlow, judge. plants. palms minneapolis floral co. first $ . ferns " " third . blooming plants " " third . ferns merriam park floral co. first . blooming plants " " first . palms l. s. donaldson co., mpls. second . ferns " " second . blooming plants " " second . cut flowers. carnations (pink) l. s. donaldson co., mpls. third . carnations (white) " " second . roses (red) minneapolis floral co. third . roses (white) " " third . roses (yellow) " " first . roses (red) n. neilson, mankato first . roses (pink) " " first . roses (white) " " first . roses (yellow) " " second . roses (pink) hans rosacker, minneapolis second . roses (red) " " second . roses (white) " " second . carnations (white) " " first . carnations (pink) " " second . carnations (red) " " first . carnations (red) minneapolis floral co. second . carnations (pink) " " first . carnations (white) " " third . chrysanthemums (yellow) john e. sten, red wing first . chrysanthemums (any color) " " first . chrysanthemums (any color) minneapolis floral co. second . chrysanthemums (yellow) l. s. donaldson co., mpls. second . chrysanthemums (any color) " " third . flowers. basket for effect minneapolis floral co. first $ . bridesmaid bouquet minneapolis floral co. first diploma corsage bouquet minneapolis floral co. first diploma bridal bouquet minneapolis floral co. first diploma o. j. olson, judge. judging contest of hennepin county high schools. (held at annual meeting, december , .) the contest consisted of the judging of three crops, apples, potatoes and corn. two varieties of each crop were used. each school was represented by a team of three men. each man was allowed as perfect score on each crop or a total perfect team score of points. two high schools entered the contest, namely central high, minneapolis, and wayzata high. central high, of minneapolis, won first with a total score of . . wayzata ranked second with a score of . minneapolis won on apples and potatoes, wayzata winning on the corn judging. chester groves, of wayzata, was high man of the contest. county adviser k. a. kirkpatrick, gives a banner to the winning school. judges of the contest were: apples, prof. t. m. mccall, crookston; potatoes, prof. r. wellington, a. w. aamodt; corn, prof. r. l. mackintosh. fruit judging contest. (at annual meeting, december, .) one of the important features of the wednesday afternoon program of the state horticultural society was the apple judging contest. this contest was open to all members of the society and students of the agricultural college. the contest consisted of the judging of four plates each of ten standard varieties. the total score of each contestant was considered by allowing per cent for identification of varieties, per cent for oral reasons and per cent for correct placings. the prizes offered were: first, $ . ; second, $ . ; third, $ . . d.c. webster of la crescent, ranked first; p.l. keene, university farm, second; and marshall hertig, third. score first--d. c. webster - / second--p. l. keene - / third--marshall hertig - / fourth--timber lake - / there were twelve men in the contest. judges: prof. t. m. mccall, crookston; frederick cranefield, wisconsin; prof. e. c. magill, wayzata. annual report, , collegeville trial station. rev. john b. katzner, supt. it is with pleasure and satisfaction that we are able to make a material correction of our estimate of this year's apple crop as noted in our midsummer report. we stated that apples would be about per cent of a normal crop, and now we are happy to say it was fully per cent. we picked twice as many apples as we anticipated. considering that, as prof. le roy cady informed us, the apple crop would be rather small farther south and that they would practically get no apples at the state farm, we may well be satisfied with our crop. in general, the apple crop was not so bad farther north as it was farther south in the state. this may have been due to the blossoms not being so far advanced here when the frost touched them as farther south. the best bearing varieties this year were the wealthy, charlamoff and duchess, in the order named. these three kinds gave us the bulk of the crop. the wealthy trees were not overloaded, and the apples were mostly fine, clean and large. the charlamoffs were bearing a heavy crop of beautiful, large-sized apples and were ahead of the duchess this year. the hibernals, too, were fairly good bearers. most other varieties had some fruit, but it was not perfect; it showed only too well the effect of frost. more than half of the blossoms were destroyed. many flowers were badly injured and though they were setting fruit the result of frost showed off plainly on the apples. while some had normal size and form, many of them were below size, gnarled, cracked or undeveloped and abnormal. most all of them had rough blotches or rings about the calix or around the body. malformed apples were picked not larger than a crab, with rough, cracked, leather-like skin, which looked more like a black walnut than an apple. of plums only some young trees gave us a good crop of nice, perfect fruit. the old trees have seen their best days and will have to give place to the new kinds as soon as they are tested. we have quite a variety of the new kinds on trial from the minnesota state fruit-breeding farm and wish to say that they are very vigorous growers. many of them made a growth of four feet and more. we expect that some will bear next year and we are only waiting to see what the fruit will be before making a selection for a new plum orchard. we have already selected no. for that purpose, as one tree was bearing most beautiful and excellent plums, of large size and superior quality, this year. they were one and three-fourths inches long by five and one-half inches in circumference and weighed two ounces each. they kept more than week before they got too soft for handling and are better than many a california plum. it seems to us if a man had ten acres of these plum trees, he could make a fortune out of them. we will propagate only the very best kinds for our own use and may have more to say about them another year. [illustration: cluster of alpha grapes from collegeville.] two or three of the imported pears bloomed again last spring, but the frost was too severe and they set no fruit. we have lost all interest in them and so, too, in our german seedling pears. the latter are now used as stocks and are being grafted with chinese and hybrid pears. of those already grafted this way some have made a growth of four and five feet. we have been successful in grafting the six varieties of hybrid pears obtained last spring from prof. n.e. hansen, of brookings, s. dak., and have trees of every variety growing. these, too, are very good growers, have fine large leaves and are promising. from the manner of growth in stem and leaf we would judge that at least two distinct asiatic varieties have been used in breeding. we have gathered a little grafting wood and next spring some more german seedlings will lose their tops. it is only from continued efforts that success may be obtained in growing pears in minnesota. who would have thought it possible that in spite of all the frost and cold rains we would get a pretty good crop of cherries? and yet this is a fact. we have four varieties, and among them is one originated by the late clem. schmidt, of springfield, minn., which was bearing a good crop of very fine cherries while the three other sorts did not do a thing. to get ahead of the many birds we picked the cherries a few days before they were ripe and put them up in thirty-two half-gallon jars. as the cherries become very soft when dead-ripe, it was of advantage to can them when they were still hard. these canned cherries are meaty and most delicious. we never tasted any better. it is only a pity that this seedling cherry is not quite hardy. as most everywhere in the state, our grapes were a complete failure. the early growth with its good showing of fruit having been frozen in may, it was well toward the end of june when the vines had recovered from the shock and were able to grow vigorously again. there were a few grapes on some of the vines, but they never got ripe. the alpha showed the most fruit, and a few bunches were just about getting ripe when the frost spoiled them. this may freeze was more severe than we thought it was. the wood of the old vines was not injured, but the one year old wood of young plants was killed to the ground. the lesson we learned from this is very important. it may be stated that vines full of sap and in growing condition can endure very little cold, but when the wood is ripe and dormant the vines will seldom be injured by sub-zero weather. this injury to vines from frost might have been averted at least in part by precautionary measures. in other countries people start smoldering fires, making much smoke in the vineyard so that the whole is covered with a cloud of smoke. this raises the temperature a few degrees and keeps the frost out. such preventive means might have been used here very well to save the grapes, but it was not done. our currants were not very good; they ripened unevenly and showed that they, too, were touched by frost. a few bushes were also attacked by the currant worm. we never cultivated any raspberries before. but last year we planted raspberry no. , sent to us from the fruit-breeding farm. this sort is a very vigorous grower; some canes grew over six feet high. it fruited this year; it is very prolific; the fruit is very large and of good quality. it would be quite satisfactory if it were a little hardier. not being protected more than half of the plants were lost last winter. but the everbearing strawberry no. received from the fruit-breeding farm is a complete success. they were properly planted and well taken care of. all flowers were removed up to july th and then left alone. in early august the first berries were picked, and we kept right on picking till the frost killed the fruit stalks. the growing of this strawberry will be continued. a new bed will be planted next spring with young plants that were not allowed to bear last season. the fruit was all that could be desired, fine, large and of very good quality. it seems to be of greater advantage to grow the everbearing than the june-bearing sorts. the everbearing planted in spring will grow a large crop in fall and bear again in june next year. from the first we get two crops in fifteen months, from the second two crops in three years. and to fruit any sort oftener than two seasons is not considered very profitable. most all trees of apples, pears, plums, evergreens and grafts which were planted last spring, have done very well, and we don't know of any that failed to grow. the hybrid plums received last spring are all alive. the same may be said of the norway pine obtained from the minnesota state forester, w. f. cox, not one failing to grow. if evergreens are handled right in transplanting they are just as sure to grow as any other trees. this year was especially favorable for transplanting on account of the many rains and cool weather. this, too, was the kind of weather which pleased our vegetable gardener. he found it scarcely ever necessary throughout the season to apply water to the growing plants for their best development. all grew fine and large. cabbage heads were grown that weighed thirty-five pounds; carrots, onions, beets, lettuce and in fact all the different varieties were first-class. yet there was something that did not please the gardener nor ourselves, namely, the tomatoes did not get ripe. we had a few early kinds all right, but the bulk, the large, fine varieties, were hanging on the vines still green when the first heavy frost touched them. it was too cool for them to ripen. the same may be said of the melons. not once did we have melons at table this year. they were too poor to be served. our floral plantings were a great success. the many artistic foliage designs developed wonderfully and were the admiration of all visitors. our peonies were a mass of exceedingly beautiful flowers, filling the air with fragrance as of roses. we are not surprised that these flowers have gained so much popularity of late, for their great beauty and ease of culture recommend them to all lovers of flowers. the dahlias, too, were very excellent; in fact, we never saw them better. they are quite ornamental in flower and plant. the newer varieties have exceptionally large flowers, but the plants do not show off so well and bend down from the weight of the flowers. for symmetry and uniformity of growth the old varieties are hard to be excelled. some of the roses were not so good as desired, the buds got too much rain at times and rotted away. the mock oranges, syringas and others were all very good, but the spireas suffered much when in flower from rains. as a whole, however, our lawns and grounds were beautiful and satisfactory and the new greenhouse has done good work. the growing of fruit this year has been a disappointment to many horticulturists. indeed, some got quite a showing of fruit in favored localities, but the majority got not much of a crop to be proud of. well, we cannot regulate the weather conditions, but we are pleased with the thought that such abnormal conditions are not of frequent occurrence in minnesota. yet there is one redeeming feature of the season and that is, the wonderful growth of plants and trees which gives promise that with the usual normal conditions our expectations for a better fruit crop will be realized. * * * * * storing cabbage in the field.--in choosing a site for a storage pit, select a ridge, well drained and as gravelly a soil as possible. the pit should be to inches deep, the length and width depending upon the amount to be stored. it is well to have it wide enough to accommodate to heads on the bottom row. in harvesting the heads, pull up by the roots. break off only the dead or diseased leaves, and fold the remaining leaves over the head as much as possible to protect them. overripe or cracked heads should not be stored. the heads are placed in the pit with their heads down and roots up. the second layer is also placed heads down between the roots of the first layer. it is well not to have more than two layers, on account of the weight having a tendency to crush the lower layer. when the cabbages are put in place they are covered with a layer of earth. when cold weather comes, straw or manure can be added. cabbages can often be kept better in pits than in common cellars.--e. f. mckune, colorado agricultural college, fort collins, colorado. wintering of bees. francis jager, apiarist, university farm, st. paul. the winter losses of bees in minnesota are great every year. bee keepers can reduce these losses by preparing bees for their winter-quarters. the chief known cause for winter losses are: queenlessness, smallness of number of bees in colonies, insufficient food, improper food, dampness, bad air, the breaking of the clusters, and low temperature. more colonies die from lack of food and from cold than from all other causes. in fact, most of the other causes can be traced to lack of food and cold. queenless colonies will certainly die in a few months. if the number of bees in a colony is small the clusters cannot generate enough heat or keep it generated and the bees will perish. to avoid this, small colonies should be united in the fall into one big colony. bees must have food in the winter in order to generate heat. about forty pounds of honey to the colony should be provided when the bees are put into winter-quarters. should the colony be short of honey of its own, finished frames may be supplied early in the fall or sugar syrup may be fed. bee keepers should keep about one well filled extracting frame out of every seven for feeding purposes. dark (not amber) honey is poor food for bees in winter. all black honey should be removed and combs of white honey should be substituted. experiments made by dr. phillips, in washington, d. c., have shown that bees consume least honey and winter best when the temperature inside the hive is degrees fahrenheit. dampness in a cellar causes the comb and frames of the hive walls and cover to get damp and mouldy, and the bees perish from wet and cold after exhausting their vitality in generating heat. bees need fresh air. foul air will cause excitement, causing an overheated condition; and the bees will scatter and die. any excitement among bees in winter is fatal. cellars on high ground, covered with straw over timbers, are best for wintering bees. if the bee cluster divides or splits up during the winter, the smaller clusters will perish from cold. the present style of hoffman frames divides the bee cluster into eleven divisions separated from each other by a sheet of wax comb, with no direct communication between different divisions except over, below or around the frames. if the bee cluster contracts during the winter on account of cold the divisions of the outside frames are sometimes left behind and die. some bee keepers perforate their frames to keep an easy passage for bees from one compartment to another. if kept warm, even weak colonies may pass over or around the frames without much difficulty. when cold, only the strongest will be able to accomplish this difficult task. wintering bees in division hives or in two story hives, which give them a horizontal bee space through the middle between the two divisions, is highly recommended for successful wintering. [illustration: francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul.] in long-continued severe cold the bee clusters will contract into a very small, compact mass. the tendency of this cluster is to move upward where the air is warmer. if enough honey is stored above them they will keep in contact with it. if the honey is stored at the side, the bees sometimes lose their contact with it and die of starvation and cold. this is another argument in favor of wintering in two story hives. often they will move towards one corner and die there, leaving the other corners filled with honey. if you must winter in one story hives give bees plenty of honey in the fall and place the cluster at one side of the hive so that they move necessarily toward the honey supply. bees should be kept in a cellar at a temperature of about degrees. the difference in the temperature between the outside and the inside of the hive will be between and degrees. very strong colonies, no matter where kept, will keep themselves warm and will survive any degree of cold, but there is no doubt that their vitality and ability to stand wintering will suffer a great deal thereby, causing dwindling in the spring. cellar wintering is at present general in minnesota. the bee cellar should be warm, dry, dark and ventilated. the bees should not be disturbed during their winter sleep by pounding, jarring, shaking and feeding. mice also may cause the bees to get excited and perish. a four to one inch wire screen in front of the entrance will prevent mice from getting inside. the fundamental principles to guide the bee keeper in wintering his bees are: first, strong colonies, at least six frames covered with bees when clustered; second, ample store, not less than forty pounds of honey; and third, a hive with not less than degrees inside temperature. this temperature may be maintained outside in a double walled hive or in a hive lined with flax or felt, now manufactured for that purpose, or by packing the hives in leaves, straw or shavings--or by putting them into a warm cellar. bees in our climate should be put into winter quarters about november and should not be put on their summer stands in the spring until soft maples are in bloom. by following these suggestions winter losses may be reduced to an insignificant percentage, and these mostly from accidents and causes unforseen, for bees respond wonderfully to proper treatment. the currant as a market garden product. b. wallner, jr., west st. paul. the currant is essentially a northern fruit, therefore does well in minnesota. i plant my currants on a clay loam as it retains moisture and coolness, which the currant prefers. their roots run somewhat shallow, and hence sandy or friable soils are not desirable. soils such as will prevent a stagnant condition during heavy rainfalls are essential. i plant my currants early in spring as soon as the frost leaves the ground and a proper preparation can be secured. i plant them five by five feet apart, as they require a thorough cultivation the first two years from planting. i plant mangels between the rows the first year; second year continued cultivation is practiced; third year i apply a mulch consisting of mushroom manure to a depth of from four to six inches, which answers a double purpose, to keep out weeds and to act as mulch at the same time. during a prolonged dry spell the soil is moist under this covering, and it makes it more pleasant for the picking, as it prevents the berries getting soiled after a rain during the picking season. you cannot fertilize the currant too abundantly, as it is a gross feeder and requires plenty of manure to get best results, as such fruit commands the best price on the market. i planted my currants on ground previously well fertilized with well decayed barnyard manure. i prefer strong well rooted two-year-old plants. the long straggling roots are shortened, and bruised portions cut off with a sharp knife. the tops are somewhat reduced, depending on the size of plants. i set them in a furrow, sufficiently deep to admit the roots to spread out in a natural position, fill in with surface soil and pack around the roots, so that when the earth is firmly settled the roots will not protrude out any place. in regard to pruning i find the best and largest fruit is produced on canes not over four years old, and if judicious cutting out of the old canes is followed nice, large, full clusters of fruit of excellent character will be obtained. this is a fact that i want to emphasize: if the market is glutted with currants, you can readily dispose of your product, providing they are qualified as extra large, which results can be attained by following these rules. pertaining to insects and diseases, i spray my currants twice for the currant worm with arsenate of lead at the rate of two pounds to fifty gallons of water. i also use hellebore (dry powdered form), especially valuable in destroying the worms when berries are almost ready for market, and on which it is dangerous to use arsenical poisons. i never was troubled with the currant worm cane borer. i attribute the absence of this dreaded insect to my keeping all old wood cut out, which is generally infested with it. as to varieties i planted the following: wilder, victoria, prince albert, red cross, diploma and white grape. the wilder is the best commercial berry, very productive and large, while the diploma is one of the largest fruited varieties in existence, its main drawback consisting of a straggling habit of growth which requires either tying up the branches or pruning back somewhat short. the prince albert is late and can be recommended for commercial use. victoria is a prolific bearer, fair size fruit and requires little pruning. red cross is large fruited, but shy bearer. the white grape meets with little demand as a market berry, fine to eat out of hand and an excellent table berry. i also planted a few black champion; have not grown it long enough to know definite results. the demand for black currants is limited, but the prices are fair. as to picking would say we pick them when not quite ripe, as the average housewife claims they jell better than when over-ripe. they must be picked by the stem and not stripped off--all defective, over-ripe and bruised berries should be eliminated at the picking. when the box is being filled a few gentle raps should be given to settle the clusters into place, as they shake down considerably. all the conveniences and same character of boxes and crates used in handling of other small fruits are equally adapted to the currant. * * * * * welcome the thrushes--these birds do the farmer little harm and much good.--that thrushes--the group of birds in which are included robins and bluebirds--do a great deal of good and very little harm to agriculture is the conclusion reached by investigators of the united states department of agriculture who have carefully studied the food habits of these birds. altogether there are within the limits of the united states eleven species of thrushes, five of which are commonly known as robins and bluebirds. the other six include the townsend solitaire, the wood, the veery, the gray-cheek, the olive-back, and the hermit thrushes.--u.s. dept. of agri. report of committee on examination of minnesota state fruit-breeding farm for the year . dr. o. m. huestis, minneapolis; frank h. gibbs, st. anthony park. on the morning of october , , your committee visited the state fruit-breeding farm, was met at the zumbra heights station, on the m. & st. louis r.r., by superintendent haralson and were very soon in the midst of a plat of over , everbearing strawberry plants all different--some plants with scores of ripe and green berries as well as blossoms, others with few berries and many runners. the superintendent had already made selections and marked some plants for propagation. in another plat of , varieties it was very apparent that no. , a cross between pan-american and dunlap, was the superior, although others were choice, both as plant makers and fruit-bearers. no doubt many excellent kinds will come from those selected. it certainly was encouraging to be able, even after the heavy frost of a week before, to pick three quarts of large, well ripened berries, a photo of which we obtained on reaching the city and will appear in the horticulturist. [illustration: field of no. june-bearing strawberries at state fruit-breeding farm.] of the june-bearing varieties no. , a cross between senator dunlap and pocomoke, would seem to surpass anything else we saw as to strength of plant and health of foliage. as to its fruiting ability, will refer to the display made at the last summer meeting of the society, which was so much admired. we have no doubt there is a great future for no. , as has been for its illustrious parent, the dunlap. next we went over to the raspberry field containing, it seemed, thousands of strong, straight, healthy plants, which would have to be seen to be appreciated and only then when in fruiting. no. took our special attention. the canes were especially clean, well branched and healthy--a cross between loudon and king. many others seem to be very promising. [illustration: everbearing strawberries, no. . minnesota state fruit-breeding farm. gathered october , .] next we were shown a variety of everbearing raspberry from which we indulged in ripe fruit of good size and flavor and which it is hoped will be as valuable as the everbearing strawberry. of the thousands of everbearing seedlings selections had been made of about which were fine looking plants, well cultivated and free from disease. we were then shown some hundreds of wild peach seedlings, seedlings of burbank plums, thousands of hybrid plums of all ages, and a plat of thousands of plum seedlings which will be disposed of to nurserymen this fall and bring a nice income to the state; also wild pears from manchuria with good prospects of being hardy and free from blight. we saw a number of nice plum trees, of which the superintendent told us the fruit would color before ripening and would stand long shipments, which so far promise well. several hundred beta grape seedlings probably even more hardy than the parent, many crosses in roses which if judged by the foliage must be seen in bloom to be appreciated, seedlings of compass cherry crossed with apricot; compass cherry crossed with nectarines; seedling currants, over , from which to select the best. over a hundred commercial varieties of apples from east and west, and over varieties of peaches from china and manchuria, walnuts, butternuts and many dwarf apple trees on paradise stocks, which fruit early. a good field of corn in shock, for feed for the horses. the old orchard on the place when bought, which had been top-worked to some extent, looked healthy everywhere. the farm seemed to be free from noxious woods, free from pocket gophers or moles and well cultivated, we thought, for the small number of men employed. machinery and tools were well housed. we were also pleased to be shown through the new home of the superintendent, not yet occupied, which seemed to be complete in all its appointments. we think the state has a great asset in the farm and recommend that as far as possible members of this society visit it during the coming summer and that the society use its influence with the board of regents that more land be procured as soon as possible in order that trial plants may remain longer to more definitely prove their worth and that a greater work may be done for the state. we notice in a report made just six years before, viz., october , , by brothers wedge, underwood and the then president of the society, prof. green, that even runnerless everbearing strawberries were represented and that they had the usual pleasure of picking strawberry blossoms in october. had they been with us they would have had a large dish of no. covered with rich cream and served at the hand of mrs. haralson. mr. c. s. harrison: mr. chairman, i think the slogan of this society should be "urbanize the country and ruralize the town." i see tremendous changes going on all the while. can you think of the possibilities of minnesota? about per cent of the land under cultivation and that half worked. by and by there is going to be a crop of boys who will raise seventy-five to bushels of corn to the acre where their dads raised twenty-five. you got to keep out of their way, you got to help them along. marketing fruit by association. a. n. gray, mgr. bay lake fruit growers' assn., deerwood. marketing fruit or any farm product by association is the modern farmer's insurance of results. a great deal might be said on this subject, but i shall tell you briefly what the bay lake fruit growers' association have accomplished. the first raspberry growing for market at bay lake was back in . nick newgard, one of our first settlers, sold quite a few berries that year. bay lake is seven miles from deerwood, the nearest railroad point, and at that time there was only a trail between these places, and it was necessary for mr. newgard to pack his berries in on his back. this same method was used in transporting supplies. [illustration: strawberry field on place of a. n. gray, at bay lake.] mr. newgard told me recently that he received a very good profit on his berries the first ten years, but each year the acreage increased and each year the growers' troubles increased in disposing of the crop. in there was an unusually large crop and, shipping individually, as we did at that time, it was a case of all shipments going to duluth one day, flooding the market, then the next day every one shipping to fargo and flooding that market, and at the end of the season when the growers received their final returns they found that they had received very small pay for their berries. in the fall of that year the growers around bay lake called a meeting to see if some organization could not be formed to handle their berries and look after the collections. the result of this meeting was the incorporation of the bay lake fruit growers' association. when the berry season opened in we had a manager, hired for the season, on a salary, who worked under a board of five managing directors. it was the manager's business to receive the berries at the station, find a market for them, make the collections and settlements with the growers. the result of this first year was so satisfactory to the members that the total membership increased that fall to almost . this new system had eliminated all the worry, and we received a good price for our berries after the expense of our manager had been deducted. we have just closed our sixth season, which by the way has been a very successful one, as the prices received have been above the average. we now have about members, and we have two shipping stations, deerwood and aitkin. we market strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, currants, gooseberries, plums, compass cherries, apples, sweet corn and celery. we have a nice trade worked up and have little trouble in finding a ready market for any of our products. it is our aim, as growers, to give our customers all a no. quality. during the berry season we have an inspector whose duty it is to inspect the berries as they arrive at the station and any found to be of poor quality we dispose of locally for canning. the grower of these berries receives a credit for the amount we realize. in this way we keep the standard of our berries up, and we have very few complaints from our customers on soft berries. as for losses on bad debts, we have thus far had very few. we usually get a credit rating from the prospective customer's bank and ship to him accordingly. our old customers file standing orders with us to ship them so many crates each day, and each year brings us new customers who have heard of the fine bay lake berries. in the association built a potato warehouse at a cost of about $ , , and we store the members' potatoes for them at a nominal cost. in the association decided to put in a stock of flour and feed and keep the manager the year around. our business in this line has been increasing all the time. it is very interesting to note that over per cent of our flour and feed customers are not members of the association. we are growing all the time and branching out. a few months ago we added a small stock of hardware and some groceries, and these have taken so well that we would not be at all surprised if eventually we find ourselves in the retail store business. evergreens for both utility and ornament. earl ferris, nurseryman, hampton, iowa. as far as horticulture is concerned, the only touch of color on the northwestern landscape during the coming winter will be furnished by the greens and blues of evergreens. did you ever pass a farm home in the winter that was protected by a good evergreen grove and notice how beautiful it looked? did you ever stop to think of the difference in temperature that an evergreen grove makes, to say nothing of the contrast in the appearance of the place to that of a home with no grove? [illustration: a shelter of old scotch pine at mr. earl ferris'.] when i was a small boy i was fortunate enough to be raised on a farm in butler county, iowa, that was well protected by a good norway spruce, white pine and scotch pine windbreak. the norway spruce and white pine are still there and if anything better than they were thirty years ago. at that time my father fed from one to five carloads of stock every winter back of this grove, and i honestly believe that he fed his steers at a cost of from $ to $ per steer less than a neighboring feeder who fed out on the open prairie with a few sheds to furnish the only winter protection. i shall never forget the remark a german made who was hauling corn to us one cold winter day. as he drove onto the scales back of this grove, he straightened up and said: "well, the evergreen grove feels like putting on a fur coat," and i never heard the difference in temperature described any better. our evergreen grove moved our feeding pens at least miles further south every winter, as far as the cold was concerned. [illustration: thrifty windbreak of norway spruce at mr. earl ferris' place, in hampton, ia.] near hampton, iowa, we have three or four of the best stock raisers in the united states. every one of them is feeding cattle back of a large evergreen grove. in recent years they have divided up some of their large farms into smaller places and made new feeding sheds, and the first improvement that they made on each and every one of these places was an evergreen grove. they buy the best trees that can be obtained that have been transplanted and root pruned, and most of them prefer the norway spruce in the two to three foot size. after planting, they take as good care of them as they do of any crop on the farm, for they fully realize that cultivation is an all important thing in getting a good evergreen grove started. several days ago, i talked with one of these feeders who has time and again topped the chicago market. he made the remark that the buildings on his farm cost thousands of dollars while his evergreen grove had only cost from $ to $ , but that he would rather have every building on the place destroyed than to lose that windbreak. as the price of land and feed increases, the farmers of the northwest are waking up to the fact that an evergreen grove is an absolute necessity, and that they cannot afford to plant any other. the maple, willow, box elder and other similar trees take so much land that they cannot afford them. they are a windbreak in the summer, but a joke in the winter. the time is not far distant when every up-to-date farmer in minnesota, iowa, nebraska and other northwest states will have a good evergreen grove which will be considered as much of a necessity as his barn, house or other outbuildings. [illustration: evergreens adorn old home of otto kankel, at fertile, minn., in red river valley.] late this fall, my wife and i left hampton for an automobile trip through minnesota, north dakota and into canada. it seemed to me on this trip that the most beautiful thing we saw about the farm buildings were the evergreen groves that many of the farmers now have all through minnesota and dakota. i was certainly very much surprised at some of these windbreaks and at some of the varieties of evergreens that were being grown successfully as far north as fargo. near fargo we found some extra good specimens of norway spruce, which i consider the best of all windbreak makers. we also found the scotch pine doing well miles northwest of fargo, and other varieties which were naturally to be expected being planted to a considerable extent. as far as usefulness is concerned, the farmer of the prairie states is bound to get more real value from an evergreen than any other person, but i am very glad to say that the homes of the wealthy in the cities each season are being improved more and more by the planting of the more ornamental evergreens. cities like detroit, cleveland, buffalo, boston, st. paul, minneapolis, and other large cities of the united states are using thousands of evergreens every season to beautify the homes, of not only the wealthy but of the laboring man also. the price of evergreens at the present time is within the reach of everyone owning a home, and there is no other improvement that can be placed upon a piece of ground at so little expense and so little labor that will add so many dollars in real value to that property as will the evergreen, either as a windbreak or in landscape work. annual report, , executive board. j. m. underwood, chairman the report of the executive board is necessarily brief from the fact that the machinery of our society is kept in such excellent condition by our secretary, that there is little left for our board to do. his monthly issues of the "horticulturist" keep the membership posted on all important items of interest and are a splendid examplification to the public of the value of our publications and of the meetings of our society. your executive board meets twice a year to verify the accounts of the secretary and treasurer and at other times when there is something of importance to attend to. we wish to call your attention to the fact that your board is practically self supporting. the members work for nothing and board themselves, which is a mighty good way to do. there is a work of very great importance for the _members_ of our society to do the coming year. that is to help in every legitimate way to _secure an appropriation_ by the next legislature with which to build for our society a _home_. we should have had it provided so that we could celebrate our semi-centennial a year from now in our own home. if we were a private society, we would have had a home years ago. we should be closely affiliated with the horticulture of the state university. our home should be located on the grounds of the agricultural college, where the building could be used for other purposes when not needed by our society. let every member of our society interview the senator and member of the house from his or her district next fall and secure their promise to support a bill to appropriate $ , for building us a home. annual report of treasurer, . geo. w. strand, taylors falls, treasurer. receipts. . dec. . balance on hand $ , . interest on certificate of deposit, six months, to november , . . mar. . semi-annual allowance , . apr. . interest on deposit, six months, to april . a. w. latham, receipts secretary's office, november , to june , , . sept. . state treasurer, semi-annual allowance , . dec. . a. w. latham, receipts secretary's office june , , to december , , . ---------- $ , . disbursements. . dec. . order , a .w. latham, revolving fund $ . dec. . order , premiums annual meeting . . mar. . order , a. w. latham, first quarter salary . apr. . a. w. latham, interest on deposit . june . order , a. w. latham, second quarter salary . june . order , a. w. latham, expenses secretary's office november to june , , . june . order , premiums summer meeting . sept. . order , a. w. latham, third quarter salary . dec. . order , a. w. latham, fourth quarter salary . dec. . order , a. w. latham, expenses secretary's office june , to december , , . ---------- $ , . dec. . balance on hand , . ---------- $ , . deposits, farmers & mechanics bank $ , . deposits, first & security national bank . ---------- $ , . annual meeting, , n.e. iowa horticultural society. c. e. snyder, preston, delegate your delegate arrived at decorah at nine-thirty, wednesday, november seventeenth. full accommodations offered by the winneshiek hotel made the trip complete and homelike to delegates and members. the convention was held in the old marsh hall, a very suitable place, offering ample room with all necessary accommodations for such a gathering. decorations showed much time and skill, resulting in a beautiful display of shrubbery-boughs, evergreen, etc. the area of a table about one hundred feet long and six feet wide, running through the center of the hall, contained a great variety of apples surprising for this season. many, including c.h. true, of clayton county, proved themselves successful orchardists. [illustration: mr. c. e. snyder, preston.] on various other tables large displays of agriculture, apiary, greenhouse and garden products completed the harmonizing of horticulture, floriculture and agriculture, including mentioned decorations appearing as a striking feature and an encouragement to the cause. the meeting was called to order shortly after ten o'clock by president geo. s. woodruff. the mingling of many instructive papers with humorous selections and music proved the program well arranged. same carried out very successfully held the interest of a not large but fair attendance throughout. a paper and address by wesley greene, of des moines, should have reached the ears of every iowa and minnesota citizen. a striking selection on "the tree," by j. a. nelson, was descriptive, instructive, humorous and poetic. a topic of great interest was the everbearing strawberry, which persistently bobbed up every now and then in interesting discussion. brother gardner, with his practical experience, was right at hand, a leader and authority on this fruit. clarence wedge, who always contended that the progressive was away ahead of all others, was endorsed by every man that grew them in this convention, by a vote on merit of varieties. reports from the different districts showed a heavy rainfall throughout the season, resulting in rust and scab. sprayed orchards showed better results than others. small fruits were abundant and good. shortly after four o'clock wednesday afternoon automobiles drew up and took delegates and members over beautiful decorah, stopping at symond's greenhouses, and on through the most beautiful park in this section, then to the palatial residence of john harter, where a very bountiful banquet was enjoyed. during convention secretary black's and treasurer true's reports showed the society in flourishing condition. all officers were re-elected, place of next meeting to be chosen later by the executive committee. * * * * * handling raspberries.--in the government investigators made comparative tests of the keeping qualities of carefully handled raspberries and commercially handled raspberries. several lots of each kind were held in an ice car for varying periods and then examined for the percentage of decay. other lots were held a day after being withdrawn from the refrigerator car and then examined. the results are most significant. after days in the ice car it was found that the carefully handled berries showed only . per cent. decay, while the commercially handled fruit had . per cent. after days in the car the difference was vastly greater. the carefully handled fruit showed only . per cent. decay, but with the commercially handled this percentage had risen to . , or more than one-quarter of the entire shipment. when the fruit was examined a day after it had been taken out of the ice car, the evidence was equally strong in favor of careful handling. carefully handled fruit that had remained days in the car was found a day after its withdrawal to show only per cent. of decay against . per cent. in commercially handled berries. carefully handled fruit left in the car days, and then held one day, showed only . per cent. of decay as against . per cent. in commercially handled fruit. the following year experiments were made with actual shipments instead of with the stationary refrigerator car, and the results confirmed previous conclusions. it was found, for example, that there was less decay in the carefully handled berries at the end of days than in the commercially handled berries at the end of . carefully handled fruit that was days in transit, and had then been held one day after withdrawal from the refrigerator car showed less than per cent of decay, whereas commercially handled berries subjected to the same test showed nearly per cent. orcharding in minnesota. richard wellington, asst. horticulturist, university farm, st. paul. this paper is purposely given a broad title so that it may cover any questions which come under the head of orcharding. many of you who have been pestered with an "orchard survey blank" can easily guess what subjects are to be taken up. thanks to many of the members of this society and other fruit growers for their hearty co-operation, a large amount of data has been collected from fifty-three counties, representing most of the districts within the state. as would be expected certain counties have contributed much more information than others, probably owing to their greater interest in orcharding. for example: thirty-one replies have already been received from hennepin county, seven from goodhue, six from renville, five each from houston, meeker and rice, four each from chippewa, dakota, mower, polk and wabasha, three each from blue earth, nicollet, ottertail, pine, ramsey, steele, washington and watonwan and one or two each from the remaining counties. perhaps if the right parties had been reached the low-standing counties would have a higher ranking. the best way to present the data is an enigma. if all the information was given at one time we would need a whole day instead of fifteen minutes. of course much of the material is a repetition, and a general summary will cover the main facts in most cases. nevertheless it is not feasible to take up all of the subject matter in this short period, and therefore the first two topics on the survey blank have been selected, namely, orchard sites and protective agencies. at a later date, if you are sufficiently interested in dry facts other subjects, as soils, dynamiting, orchard management, stock of fruit trees, methods of planting and pruning, varieties for various localities, etc., will be taken up. some of the subjects, like sites and soils, will be treated as state problems, while others must be considered as sectional. minnesota, as you all know, contains many different climatic conditions, and consequently its orchard practices and recommendations must vary accordingly. to meet this problem the writer, in consultation with prof. cady, divided the state into six sections, namely, the southeastern, east central, northeastern, northwestern, west central and southwestern. many counties are, of course, in an intermediate position and might be thrown into either of the adjoining sections, but an arbitrary line must be drawn somewhere. freeborn, waseca, rice, goodhue and all the counties east of them are placed in the southeastern section. nicollet, lesueur, sibley, mcleod, wright, isanti and the counties to the east are included in the central east, and pine, mille lacs, morrison and the counties to the north and east are placed in the northeastern section. beltrami, hubbard, ottertail and the counties to the west are placed in northwestern section; traverse, douglas, todd, stearns, meeker, renville, yellow medicine and the enclosed counties in the west central, and the remainder to the south and west are in the southwestern section. thus, when the various sections are mentioned, you will know what part of the state is being referred to. _site of orchard._ by site of orchard we refer to its location, that is, whether it is on rolling, level or hilly ground, and the direction of its slope, provided it has one. from past experience it is believed that an orchard situated on a north slope is ideally located for minnesota conditions, as its blossoming period is retarded and consequently the liability of injury from late frosts decreased. but all people who want orchards do not possess such a slope, so they set out their orchards on the most convenient location. a few growers have orchards sloping in all directions, and their opinion on the influence of slope on hardiness and retardation of the blooming period should be valuable. it is of interest to note that, out of reporting on the levelness of the orchard ground, only twelve had level ground, two level to nearly level, one level to decidedly rolling, twenty-nine nearly level, seven nearly level to slightly rolling, three nearly level to medium rolling, twenty-nine slightly rolling, four slightly rolling to medium rolling, eighteen rolling and three decidedly rolling. a glance at the figures shows that the majority of orchards are on nearly level to slightly rolling land. in addition to the numbers given thirteen reported a slight slope, one a slight slope to a medium slope, two a slight to a steep slope, sixteen a medium slope, one a medium to a steep slope, and five a steep slope--the emphasis being laid on the moderate rising ground. no grower reported an orchard location entirely at the base of a slope, but six reported orchards extending from the base to the top of the slope, two from the base to midway of the slope, twenty-five at midway of the slope, seven from midway to the top and twenty-two at the top of a slope--the high ground evidently being preferred for orchard sites. as a general rule, as would naturally be expected, those who reported their orchards on the top of the slope usually reported their ground as either high or medium. of ninety-six reports on the elevation of the orchards only four reported low land, and two of these were on top of a slope, two low and medium, one low and high, forty-six medium, fourteen medium and high, and twenty-seven high--the medium taking the lead. these figures have been given of the state as a whole, but when the sections are considered the southeastern and the west central take the lead in the highest percentage of high ground in comparison with the lower ground; the southeastern and east central, for the greatest amount of rolling land; and the southwestern, for the most level or nearly level land. [illustration: down the long row. view in well cared for orchard of j. m. barclay, madison lake.] as for the effect of direction of slope on hardiness, there were many varied opinions. thirty stated without question that the direction had an effect, thirty-one stated that it had no effect, and seventy-two admitted that they did not know. of those answering in the affirmative only seven had two or more distinctly different slopes, while fifteen of the negatives had two or more slopes for comparison. nine of those who stated they didn't know had two or more slopes upon which to base their judgment. in summing up the direction of sites preferred, seventy-seven recommended a northerly slope, nine had no preference, one preferred southeast, one west, one west and east, two east, one north and east, one northeast or east, and sixty-four expressed no opinion. two growers stated that the north slope prevented early bloom and thereby lessened liability to injury from late frosts, two growers stated that northern slopes decreased the loss of moisture, and one stated that the northeast slope gives the largest fruit and the west the best colored. as a brief summary of the reports on orchard sites, it may be stated that high ground, rolling or sloping to the north, is preferred by the majority of growers who filled out these orchard survey blanks. _protective agencies._ under this heading comes windbreaks of all kinds, whether hills, natural timber or planted trees, and bodies of water which ameliorate the climate. out of fifty-four replies from the central east section, sixteen reported that their orchards were favorably affected by lakes, the benefit coming in most cases from the prevention of early and late frosts. one grower attributed the cooling of the air during the summer as a benefit and two stated that the bodies of water furnished moisture. two growers in the southeast section received favorable influences from the mississippi river, and one in the southwestern and two in the west central sections thought they received beneficial effects from lakes. according to this data, orchards in the east central section, owing largely to the influence of lake minnetonka, are greatly benefited by the presence of water. windbreaks are a very important factor in successful orcharding in minnesota, even though one party in the southeast section and three parties in the central east noted no beneficial effects. according to reports from the central west and southwest sections they are of great benefit and in some cases indispensable to apple growing. as would be expected by any one who is acquainted with minnesota, the planted windbreaks are a more important factor in the prairie country than in the natural wooded and hilly regions. in the southeast section, five orchards were reported as protected by bluffs and hills, three by both hills and natural woods, two by natural woods, two by both natural and planted woods, and twenty-one by planted woods; in the central east section, one by a hill and a planted windbreak, one by a town, fifteen by natural timber, two by natural and planted timber, and nineteen by planted windbreaks; in the northeast section, two by natural and four by planted windbreaks; in the northwest section, three by natural and two by planted windbreaks; in the west central section, one by a hill and natural timber, five by natural timber, two by natural timber and planted windbreaks, and eighteen by planted windbreaks; and in the southwest section, one by a hill and natural woods, one by a hill and planted windbreak, two by natural timber, and fifteen by planted windbreaks. if meeker county, which has natural timber, was not included in the central west--and perhaps it should have been included in central east--this section would have only one orchard protected alone by natural timber; and if blue earth county was eliminated from the southwest, this section would have no orchard protected alone by natural timber. the beneficial effects from windbreaks may be summed up as follows: twenty-five reported that they prevented fruit from being blown off trees, nine that they prevented trees and limbs being broken by winds and storms, ten that they protected trees from injury by winds without specifying the kind of injury, four that they reduced injury from frosts, ten that they either prevented or reduced winter injury, four that they helped to retain moisture, five that they helped to hold snow, eight that they prevented snow drifting, five that they protected orchards from hot and dry winds, three that they permitted the growing of apples, and one that they supplied all advantages. the kinds of trees recommended for windbreaks and the methods of planting are numerous and variable and to discuss them at length would take too much time. however, the principal facts may be briefly enumerated. in eighty-five reports that listed set out windbreaks, it was found that fifty-seven growers had used evergreens, thirty-seven willows, twenty-nine box elders, twenty-five maples, seventeen cottonwoods, thirteen ashes, eleven elms, eight poplars, four oaks, four plums, three nuts and one apple. the evergreens consisted of thirteen scotch pine, eleven evergreens (not named), eight norway spruce, five spruce (not named), three balsam, three austrian pine, two white pine, one yellow pine, two cedar, two white spruce, two pine (variety not named), two fir, two jack pine, one black hills spruce, and one tamarack. in the willows were given twenty willows (variety not named), two laurel-leaved, seven white and eight golden; in the maples, sixteen soft maples, two hard maples, one silver-maple and six maples (kind not named); in the poplars, five norway, one carolina, two poplar (kind not named); and in the nuts, one black walnut, one butternut and one walnut. the major part of the box elders, cottonwoods, willows and ashes were noted in the central west and southwest sections. thirty-seven experienced growers of windbreaks, the most of them living in the southwest, west central and southeast sections, recommended the following trees for windbreaks in the given proportions, twenty-four evergreens, fifteen willows, seven maples, six poplars, five elms, five box elders, three elms, two plum, two cottonwood, three hedges, one oak, one hackberry and one black walnut. the evergreens are decidedly the most popular, and among the varieties mentioned norway spruce takes the lead for those recommended, and the scotch pine for those planted. there are about as many different systems of planting used as growers. the main point in all cases was to have a planting that would stop the wind and storms. a few growers advocated the use of a hedge or plum trees to fill in under the windbreak, while one grower desires a circulation of air under the branches of his trees. cultivation and intercropping of windbreaks are also recommended in a few cases. the distance of planting varies, of course, with the trees or shrubs used. for example: one grower recommends ft. x ft. for large deciduous trees, and another grower, ft. x ft. apart in rows and two rows, ft. apart. for scotch pine one grower advocates eight feet. in some cases a mixture of many kinds of trees is recommended, and then again only one kind. one very solid windbreak is made up of a lilac hedge, four rows of jack pine, four rows of norway poplar and one row of willow. another is one row willow, one of evergreen, one of willow and one of evergreen. various distances between windbreak and orchard were used and recommended. a large number of orchards were started at about twenty feet from the windbreak and a few as close as one rod, but these distances proved to be too close. one grower, however, recommended close planting and later the removal of a row of trees in the windbreak when more space was needed. the recommended distances for planting varied from thirty to feet, although seventy-five to was satisfactory in most cases. more details have been given in regard to orchard sites and windbreaks than many of you are probably interested in, but for one who is planning to set out an orchard they should prove of value and profit, as they are based upon the experiences of many of minnesota's best orchardists. my experience with a young orchard. roy viall, spring valley. about ten years ago we acquired some land three and one-half miles north of spring valley. this land is very rough and was originally covered with heavy timber, in fact, about one-third of our large orchard was cleared and grubbed out the fall before planting. when i became interested in fruit growing one of the first things i did was to join the horticultural society and to the knowledge obtained through this membership we owe in large measure what success has come to us. the eighteen acres selected for our main orchard slopes quite abruptly to the north and northeast. in fact, the slope is so steep that the ground, if kept under cultivation, would wash badly, and this was the real reason for seeding down our orchard at the time of planting. the orchard is now seven years old, and the trees have never had a particle of cultivation. part of this ground was in grain and seeded to alsike and timothy the year before; the balance was the new land referred to, which we had broken and immediately seeded down to alsike and timothy, with oats as a nurse crop. our first problem was what varieties to plant, in what proportion and where to buy them. in this we adopted the recommendation of this society at that time, choosing wealthy, duchess, patten greening and northwestern greening, with fifty malinda and fifty iowa beauty. we now have in addition two small orchards with nearly forty varieties altogether. the varieties, for the large orchard were divided as follows: duchess, patten greening, northwestern greening, , wealthy. were i to set another commercial orchard of the same size it would contain duchess and the balance wealthy. while the patten greening is an ideal tree and an early and prolific bearer, there is with us a much larger per cent of imperfect and diseased fruit than of any other variety. tree for tree, i believe the duchess will produce _more_ saleable _fruit_. where to buy our trees was decided for us in one of our first numbers of the horticulturist, viz., at the nearest reliable nursery. that this was good advice is evidenced by the fact that out of the , trees we have found but two that were not as ordered. our next problem was, at what distance to plant the trees. the more information we sought the less sure were we of the best plan. we were advised to plant all distances from feet by feet to feet by feet. we finally concluded to take about an average of them all and decided on feet by feet, and so far have had no reason to regret it. we have put up the alsike and timothy every year for hay with the usual machinery, and there has not been over a half dozen trees seriously damaged. our trees were nearly all three years old, to feet, and we find they do much better in sod than a smaller tree. having the orchard set out the next thing was to protect the trees from mice and rabbits. this we did by making protectors out of wire cloth, using different widths, from to inches, cutting it in strips inches wide and holding it about the trees by three pieces of stove pipe wire at the top, middle and bottom. not counting the time of making and putting them on these cost us from - / cents to - / cents each, and lasted from three to four years. we used a few made of galvanized wire cloth, which lasted much longer. three years ago we commenced replacing these protectors with a wash of white lead and raw linseed oil mixed to the consistency of separator cream. the first year we painted only fifty trees, the next year , the next , and this last year we painted every tree on the place. we can see no bad effects, and it certainly protects against mice and rabbits and, what is equally as important, against borers also, and the cost per tree, including labor, is much less. we have also used the lead and oil with splendid results in treating trees affected with canker. we had quite a number of wealthy so affected, and we cut out the affected bark and wood and then covered the wound with lead, and in almost every case it has proved a cure, that is, stopped the spread of the canker. the second year our orchard was set out we began to mulch the trees with grass cut in the orchard, clover straw, pea straw--anything we could get. we were unable to mulch the entire orchard that year, and before we got the balance mulched you could tell as far as you could see the orchard which trees were mulched and which were not. the former not only made a better growth, but had a healthier look. now i do not want you to get the idea that i am advocating the sod system except in locations similar to ours. were our orchard on more level ground i not only should have cultivated the first three years, as advocated by most authorities, but would have continued the cultivation in some degree at least. nevertheless, on account probably of the very favorable location, i think our orchard will compare favorably with any cultivated orchard of the same age. having the orchard set out, protected against mice and rabbits and mulched, we found that the real work of raising an orchard had just begun. first came the gray beetles the following june, and they ate the new growth off several hundred trees before we discovered them. at that time, not knowing what else to do, we hand picked every one we could find and destroyed them. these beetles we found came from oak groves on the south and west, and the next year we sprayed with arsenate of lead six or eight rows of trees on that side of the orchard, and as we have since then sprayed the entire orchard each year we have had no further trouble. next came pocket gophers, and before we learned how to stop them we had lost a number of trees by their chewing off the roots just beneath the surface of the ground. by opening their runways and placing well down in them a piece of carrot or potato in which has been placed a little strychnine we succeeded in getting rid of them entirely. next came the woodchucks. they were very destructive with us, chewing the bark above the protectors as well as the roots. trapping is the most successful method we have found, and by keeping a half dozen traps out all the time we held them in check. eternal vigilance must be the motto of the successful orchardist. in the year we picked our first crop of apples, that is, in sufficient quantity to be considered in a commercial way. our duchess we sold in barrels at $ . net. wealthy we packed in bushel boxes, making two sizes, the larger, three inches and over, we called no. , and they sold for $ . per box net. the balance or smaller ones were also sold in boxes and brought us $ . per box net. patten greenings brought us cents and northwestern greenings, cents per box. our neighbors, who sold to the local and transient buyers in bulk and in barrels, received cents to cents per hundred pounds, or $ . per barrel. the past year we had only about bushels of all kinds. with the exception of duchess and possibly patten's greening we shall certainly sell our next crop in bushel boxes. we are top-working about patten's greening to jonathan, delicious, mcintosh red and king david. as the work was only started a year ago last spring i cannot tell you of its success or failure. so far the best results seem to be with the jonathan. we also have about thirty varieties of plums, including many of prof. hansen's new hybrids. of these the opata seems to be the most hardy and prolific, but it is subject to brown rot, which, this past year was so bad that we lost more than half the fruit. we have it top-worked on several varieties of native plums, and it was similarly affected there also. this was the only variety in our orchard of trees that was so affected. we have fifteen surprise plums, set seven years, that have not yielded altogether a peck of plums. only lack of time kept me from grubbing them out last spring. this past season they were so heavily loaded that we had to prop the limbs and then thin out the fruit. we endeavor to spray all our trees twice with commercial lime-sulphur and arsenate of lead--the first time immediately after the blossoms fall, the second two weeks later. our spraying outfit consists of a morrill & morley hand pump, fitted in a -gallon tank, which we mounted on a small, one-horse truck. we operate it with three men, one to drive and pump and one for each line of hose, spraying two rows of trees at once. with this outfit we can spray to trees (of the size of ours) a day. * * * * * the national forests--besides being the american farmer's most valuable source of wood, which is the chief building material for rural purposes, are also his most valuable source of water, both for irrigation and domestic use. in the west, they afford him a protected grazing range for his stock; they are the best insurance against flood damage to his fields, his buildings, his bridges, his roads, and the fertility of his soil. the national forests cover the higher portions of the rocky mountain ranges, the cascades, the pacific coast ranges, and a large part of the forested coast and islands of alaska; some of the hilly regions in montana and in the dakotas, oklahoma, and arkansas, and limited areas in minnesota, michigan, florida, and porto rico. in addition, land is now being purchased for national forests in the white mountains of new england and in the southern appalachians. in regions so widely scattered, agricultural and forest conditions necessarily differ to a great degree, bringing about corresponding differences in the effect of the national forests on the agricultural interests of the various localities. wherever agriculture can be practiced, however, the farmer is directly benefited by the existence of national forests and by their proper management.--u.s. dept. of agri. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. some suggestions for the use of coal ashes-- this is the time of the year when the unsightly heaps of coal ashes are likely to appear in one's back yard--eyesores and apparently useless. yet there are several ways in which they can be used to advantage about the garden. they should first be sifted, using a quarter-inch wire mesh. the rough or coarser parts are well adapted for use on paths and driveways, forming a clean, firm surface with use. these paths are especially good in the garden, for weeds do not grow readily in them, and they dry off quickly after a rain. such parts of the ashes as will pass through an inch mesh will make a very good summer mulch about fruit trees and bushes that require such care. this mulch will conserve the moisture at the roots of the tree or plant at a time when it is very necessary to have it. about a pyramid of these coarse ashes one may plant anything that requires much water. the roots of the plants will run under the ashes and keep moist and cool. through a drought a little water poured upon the ashes will be distributed to the roots without loss. the fine sifted ashes will render the tougher hard soils more friable, their chief virtue being lightening it. in a very mild degree they are a fertilizer, though in no degree comparable in this respect to hardwood ashes. yet it has been proved that soil to which sifted coal ashes had been added grew plants of richer, darker foliage. they must be very well mixed with the soil by a thorough spading and forking. the following experiment was noted in the garden magazine: a soil was prepared as follows: one-eighth stable manure, one-eighth leaf mold, one-quarter garden soil (heavy), one-half sifted coal ashes. plants grown in this soil surpassed those grown in the garden soil next to them. coal ashes would not be advised for a light soil. * * * * * watch this page for announcement of garden flower society meetings. january th, public library, minneapolis, tenth and hennepin, directors' room, : p.m. subjects: hotbeds, coldframes, management and care of the young plants, mr. frank h. gibbs. the minnesota cypripediums. can they be successfully cultivated? miss clara leavitt. five-minute talks on "the best things of ." members are urged to bring their friends to this meeting. no one who contemplates having a garden this year can afford to miss it. let us be generous and share our good programs with as many as possible. each member is host or hostess for that day. secretary's corner annual meeting wisconsin state horticultural socy.--this meeting is to be held at madison, wis., on january - . mr. chas. haralson, superintendent of our state fruit-breeding farm, is to represent this society at that meeting. we may look for an interesting report from him in the february issue of our monthly. is your annual fee paid?--if not, won't you please send it in promptly, remitting by a $ . bill, which is a safe medium of payment, instead of using check unless you draw on a bank in one of the larger cities of the state. checks on country banks, as a rule, can only be collected here by a payment of ten cents, which the society can ill afford to pay for so many members. annual meeting s.d. hort. socy.--the annual gathering of this sister association will be held in huron, s.d., january - . quite a good many of our members live so near the state line that they may find it convenient to attend this meeting, which will certainly be a profitable one. prof. n. e. hansen is secretary. mr. wm. pfaender, jr., of new ulm, is to be the representative of this society at the south dakota meeting. annual meeting southern minnesota hort. socy.--this very wide-awake auxiliary of the state society will hold its annual meeting in austin, january th and th next. the program of the meeting is not yet at hand, but you may be sure that it will be an interesting and practical one. if the reader is living anywhere within convenient range of austin by all means attend this meeting and get inspiration and help for the work of another season. you are not forgotten.--this refers to members of the society who have paid their annual fee for and are wondering why they have not yet received the membership ticket. there is always a little unavoidable delay in sending out these tickets after the annual meeting. first the tickets must be printed, and then the society folder that goes out with them must be prepared, and the material making up this folder comes from quite a number of sources, and it takes more or less time to get all of these matters together and in shape. you need not be solicitous in regard to membership fees remitted, as the chance of loss in transmission is approximately nothing; hardly half a dozen instances of the kind have come up in the twenty-five years of service of the secretary. passing of michael bendel, sr.--this old member of our society and resident of madison has just been called away, december rd, at the age of seventy-nine years. while not an attendant at our meetings he was a most loyal member of the society, and especially conspicuous in the western part of the state, where he lived, as a successful experimenter in orcharding, in which work he had a large experience. his portrait and a brief sketch of his life appear in the volume of our report, on page . mr. bendel was for many years president of the lac qui parle county agricultural society, was always greatly interested in everything to improve the interests of his community, and especially those pertaining to farm life. he has left an enviable record. farmers and home makers week.--university farm, midway between minneapolis and st. paul, have prepared a royal program for all interested in agricultural work and life, including the needs of the household, filling all of next week, from january rd to th, inclusive. seventy-nine professors and instructors by count are on the program for the week, and it is so arranged that those attending pass from one lecture room to another, from hour to hour, selecting the subjects that they have a special interest in. horticulture, or subjects closely akin, have a place on this program monday afternoon, tuesday forenoon and afternoon, wednesday forenoon and thursday forenoon; thursday afternoon the horticultural program is devoted entirely to vegetables; friday forenoon and afternoon; and saturday forenoon altogether spraying. when this magazine is received it will be too late to send for a program, but not too late to attend the meetings, which we hope many of our members may have the opportunity to do. attendance at annual meeting.--the badge book, which is issued at every annual meeting, containing the list of those who notify the secretary of a purpose to attend the meeting, is a pretty good index of the attendance. this year the badge book contained names. of course not all of these were present at the meeting, but a great many who were there had not sent notice of attendance and whose names were not in the badge book, so that the figures given elsewhere in this magazine as to attendance, estimated at from to , are certainly not any too high. of this number not to exceed fifteen members, including vice presidents and superintendents of trial stations living at a distance, receive their railroad fare to and from the annual meeting, which is the only compensation they receive for their work in operating the trial stations and preparing the annual or semi-annual reports connected with their positions. this is not in fact any compensation for service but rather a recognition of the large obligation under which the society rests towards them for such gratuitous service. plant premiums for .--on the inside front cover page of this monthly will be found a list of the plant premiums offered to our membership the coming spring. this list is also published in the society folder, of which copies will be sent to each member and which can be supplied in any number desired by application to the secretary. the list of plant premiums includes a considerable variety of plants both ornamental and otherwise useful. those of special interest this year are the new fruits being sent out from the state fruit-breeding farm, including no. june-bearing strawberry, which gives promise of being a very valuable fruit for minnesota planters; no. everbearing strawberry, the kind which has been selected from thousands of varieties fruiting at the station, a good plant maker and also a prolific fruiter of high quality berries; no. raspberry, a variety of extraordinary vigor and hardiness, large fruited, and a prolific bearer; and several varieties of large fruited plums. every member of the society with facilities for growing fruits should be interested in trying these new varieties, which of course are still being sent out on trial, and we desire to hear from our membership as to their measure of success with them. [illustration: a. w. latham o. c. gregg chas. g. patten from photograph taken in front of administration building, at university farm, on the morning of january , just before presentation of certificates referred to on opposite page.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. february, no. open letter to members of the minnesota state horticultural society from its secretary. probably members of the society very generally noticed a few weeks since in the daily papers of the twin cities and elsewhere an announcement that "certificates of award for special meritorious services in the advancement of agriculture" would be made by the minnesota state university to mr. o. c. gregg, hon. w. g. leduc, mr. chas. g. patten and mr. a. w. latham. these certificates were awarded saturday, january th, , at the closing exercises of the farmers week at the university farm before an audience of twelve hundred people, gathered in the chapel in the administration building. appropriate exercises were conducted by the president, geo. e. vincent, and the dean of the university farm, a.f. woods, in the presence of hon. fred b. snyder, president of the board of regents of the state university, and other members of the board and a large representation of the professorship of university farm school, also occupying the platform. dean woods read a sketch of the life of each one of the recipients, and the certificates were formally presented to each in turn by the president of the state university. all the persons who were to receive this honor were in attendance except gen. leduc, who was probably unable to be present on account of his extreme age. when this matter was first called to my attention i felt that it would be entirely out of place, being its editor, that i should make reference to it in the society monthly, but as the fact has been widely published throughout the state, and whatever honor is connected with this presentation is to be shared with the members of the horticultural society, i have changed my view point in regard to this, and it seems to me now that the members of the society should be fully informed as to what has taken place. mr. o. c. gregg received this distinction on account of his connection with the farmers' institutes of the state, of which he was the pioneer, and in connection with which he remained as superintendent for some twenty-two years. gen. leduc was for a number of years commissioner of agriculture at washington and introduced many important reforms in the management of that department. mr. chas. g. patten is well known to our members of course as the originator of the patten's greening apple, although this is quite an infinitesimal part of the work that he has done in connection with the breeding of fruits, the results from which the public are to profit by largely, we believe, in the early future. at his advanced age of eighty-four we feel that this honor has been wisely placed. "mr. a. w. latham has been secretary of the minnesota state horticultural society for twenty-five years, during which period its membership has advanced from one or two hundred to thirty-four hundred, making it the largest horticultural society in the country, and probably," as stated by the dean in his address, "the largest in the world." while this distinction has been conferred upon the secretary of your society it is not to be considered as so much a personal tribute to him as a recognition of the splendid work done by the society as a whole, in which every member has had some share. to express fully my thought in this i will refer briefly to the organization of the society, just half a century ago, when a handful of earnest men united their efforts under the name of the minnesota state horticultural society in an endeavor to solve the difficult problems connected with fruit growing in this region. none of the men who at that time organized this society are now living, but others have taken their places, and the important service that was so well cared for by the earlier membership is being equally as well prosecuted by those who have succeeded them. my personal connection with the society began the third year of its existence, so that i had the high privilege of enjoying personal acquaintance with practically all those earlier workers in the society, and indeed most of them were still alive when i came into the secretaryship twenty-five years ago. it will not be out of place to speak here particularly of a few of those who are no longer with us: john s. harris, that staunch friend, one of the original twelve, whose medallion hangs on the wall of the horticultural classroom at university farm; peter m. gideon, whose self-sacrifice gave us the wealthy apple, now of worldwide planting--he in whose memory the gideon memorial fund was created; col. john h. stevens, that large hearted man of unquenchable public spirit; p.a. jewell, searcher for new fruits and founder of the jewell nursery company; truman m. smith, seven years president during many dark days; wyman elliot, one of the original twelve, well called by one "king of the horticultural society"--so recently taken from us. the institution of learning conferring this distinction upon us has contributed a full share of workers now no longer with us; w. w. pendergast, first principal of the university farm school, and for many years president of the society until stricken with a fatal illness; and prof. saml. b. green of blessed memory, whose loss we shall never cease to mourn. there are many others who did great service to the society that i should be glad to speak of here if space would permit. in the list of those who are still with us and have served with such self devotion and courage in advancing the interests of the society, and that for which it stands, are to be found the names of many men prominent in various walks of life in our state. it would be out of place for me to select from this list a few and give them special prominence where hundreds have contributed to the life and growth of the association all these many years until the present enviable place now occupied by the association has been attained. to the executive board of the society, most of whom have been members of the board for a long period of years, of course the success of the association is especially due. men of initiative in an ambitious and unselfish way working for the success of the association, they have had very much indeed to do with its progress. as i endeavor to recall the personality of those who have been of special service to us i find the list almost without limit. with what pleasure and satisfaction have i been permitted to serve with the members of this society! what willingness to perform the duties suggested has ever characterized the assistance that has been rendered by the membership of this society! it has been an exceedingly rare thing for any member to offer an objection to undertaking any service asked of him, and with such support as this so readily and heartily given, and often at large expense to the member, what can be expected other than such success as has come to our society. i wish i had the ability to express at this time the thought that is in my heart as i recall all of these helpful brothers and sisters to whom indeed belongs as much as to the writer any distinction that comes to the society as a result of these years of labor. notwithstanding the state university have seen fit to refer to this in a way to indicate that our society has reached some certain vantage ground, it must not be lost sight of that the real work of the society is still before it. whether to be carried on under the present management or under a changed management we have a right to look ahead and anticipate the definite and widely expanding results that are still to come from the services of the members of the society, which we are sure in the future, as in the past, will be heartily rendered. a. w. latham, secy. june-bearing strawberries. geo. j. kellogg, retired nurseryman, janesville, wis. any fool that knows enough can grow strawberries, which reminds me of the preacher in york state who both preached and farmed it. he was trying to bore a beetle head and could not hold it; a foolish boy came along and said, "why don't you put it in the hog trough?" "well! well!" the preacher said. "you can learn something from most any fool." the boy said, "that is just what father says when he hears you preach." i don't expect to tell you much that is new, but i want to emphasize the good things that others have said: _soils._ i once had twenty-one acres of heavy oak, hickory, crab apple and hazel brush, with one old indian corn field. i measured hazel brush twelve feet high, and some of the ground was a perfect network of hazel roots; the leaf mould had accumulated for ages. the first half acre i planted to turnips, the next spring i started in to make my fortune. i set out nineteen varieties of the best strawberries away back in the time of the wilson, than which we have never had its equal. the plants grew well and wintered well, but they did not bear worth a cent, while just over the fence i had a field on ground that had been worked twenty years without manure that gave me two hundred and sixty bushels to the acre. it took three years with other crops to reduce that loose soil before i could make strawberries pay. my fortune all vanished. last june while judging your strawberry show, i found a large collection of twenty-five kinds of the poorest strawberries i ever saw, grown on the college grounds. i visited the field, found over a hundred varieties, well tallied, well cultivated, on new oak opening soil. first crop, the soil seemed ideal, every thing good except the plants and the fruit. the foliage was defective and the fruit very poor. was it the new soil? i have always found good garden soil would produce good strawberries; the best beds were those that followed potatoes. cut worms and white grubs seldom follow two years of hoed crops. [illustration: mr. geo. j. kellogg ten years ago] _preparation._ preparation for the best strawberries should be started three years before planting. using soil from sand to clay, well drained, well manured, sowed to clover, take off the first cutting of clover, then more manure plowed under deep with the second crop of clover, as late as can before freezing up, to kill insects and make the soil friable and ready for a crop of potatoes the next spring. after harvesting bushels of potatoes to the acre use a heavy coat of well rotted manure without weed seed, plowed under late in fall. the following spring, as soon as the ground will work, thoroughly disk and harrow, and harrow twice more. then roll or plank it, mark both ways two by four feet, set by hand either with dibble or spade, no machine work. crown even with the surface, with best of plants from new beds, leaving on but two leaves, and if the roots are not fresh dug, trim them a little. firm them good. now start the weeder and go over the field every week till the runners start, then use the nine-tooth cultivator with the two outside teeth two inches shorter than the others. cultivate every week till the middle of october. use the hoe to keep out all weeds and hoe very lightly about the plants. weeds are a blessing to the lazy man, but i don't like to have it overdone. don't let the soil bake after a rain. keep the cultivator running. in garden work a steel tooth rake is a splendid garden tool. volume , page (an. report minn. state hort. society). mr. schwab gets an ideal strawberry bed, then kills it with twelve inches of mulch. if the ice and snow had not come perhaps the plants would have pulled through. volume , page . mr. wildhagen gives an ideal paper on strawberries, it will pay you to read it again and again. instead of one year's preparation, i would have three. _winter protection._ unless in an exposed place, marsh hay is the best and cleanest mulch, but high winds may roll it off. clean straw away from the tailings of the machine is next best. for small acreage if one inch can be put on as soon as the ground is frozen a half inch, it will save the many freezings and thawings before winter sets in. for large acreage it is not practical to cover till frost will hold up a loaded wagon. two inches of mulch, that covers the plants and paths from sight is enough, but i see you cover deeper, from four to twelve inches in minnesota, and often smother the plants. if we could have a snow blanket come early and stay on late in spring, that would protect the plants, but we want the mulch also to protect from drouth and keep the berries clean. a january thaw is liable to kill out any field that is not properly mulched. a two inch mulch will not hinder the plants coming through in spring; four inches will require part of the mulch raked into the paths; if plants don't get through readily loosen the mulch. i have known some successful growers to take off all the mulch from the paths in spring and cultivate lightly but thoroughly, then replace the mulch to protect from drouth and to keep the berries clean, but i don't think it pays. _weeds._ in the best fields and beds i ever saw there will come up an occasional weed in spring, and it pays to go over the ground with a spade or butcher knife and take out such weeds. we almost always get a drouth at picking time, better a drought than too much rain. a good straw mulch will usually carry us through. _irrigation._ if irrigation is attempted the fields must be prepared before planting to run water through between the rows. sprinkling will not do except at sundown. rain always comes in cloudy weather; you cannot wet foliage in sun in hot weather without damage. a good rainfall is one inch, which is a thousand barrels to the acre, so what can you do with a sprinkling cart? showers followed by bright sunshine damage the patch. if your plants are set too deep they rot, if too high they dry, if not well firmed they fail. when i have used a tobacco planter i have had to put my heel on every plant. of course you know that newly planted june varieties must have the blossom buds cut out, and everbears bearing must also till july. _picking._ the man who has acres to pick must secure his boxes the winter before and have at least part of them made up if they are to be tacked. i have found a boy can make up boxes as fast as thirty pickers can fill. if you use the folding box no tacks are needed. too many boxes made up ahead are liable to be damaged by the mice. _pickers._ engage your pickers ahead; agree on the price and that a part of the pay is to be kept back till the close of the season, which is forfeited if quitting before time. if pickers are too far away, transportation must be furnished--free boxes of berries are appreciated by the pickers. _marketing._ sometimes the marketing of the fruit is harder than the growing of it. if enough is grown form an association to sell it, get advice from a successful association how to form and how to run it. sometimes a well made wagon, a good team and a good man can sell from house to house in the country and city and make good returns. in this way you get back your crates and part of the boxes. i know a successful grower in iowa, who sold his crop of ten acres to the farmers and city people, they doing their own picking and furnishing their own boxes, at a given price. all the proprietor had to do was sit at the gate and take in the cash. it is worth a good deal to know how to grow the best of strawberries and often it is worth more to know how to turn them into cash. _what varieties?_ dunlap and warfield have a general reputation for profit, can be picked together and sell well; dark color, good canners and good shippers. if you want a third variety take lovett. some of your growers want nothing but bederwood, but it is too light and too soft to ship, though it is a good family berry. i expect minnesota no. will soon be the only variety you will want of the june kinds. _insects._ winter drouth often injures the roots and some lay it to insects. the winter of was the worst winter drouth i ever knew; it killed every thing. if you are troubled with the crown borer, root lice, leaf roller or rust, grow one crop and plow under, or move your fields a good distance from the old bed. what shall be done with the old bed? if you have insects or rust plow under and get the best place to start a new bed, and don't set any of your own plants if you have insects or rust--and be sure you buy of a reliable grower. _old beds._ if the first crop is big, plow under, if light and you have a good stand of plants, no insects or rust, you can mow and teddy up the mulch and in a high wind burn it over--a quick fire will do no harm. then you can plow two furrows between rows and drag it every way till not a plant is seen. soon, if the rows are left a foot wide, the plants will come through. then manure (better be manured before plowing), and you may get a good second crop. some mow and rake off and burn outside the bed, then with a two horse cultivator dig up the paths and cultivate and get the ground in condition. put on the manure and hoe out part of the old plants. i like the plan of wildhagen; mow, burn and then cover three inches deep with one hundred big loads of manure to the acre and don't go near the patch till picking time next year. he gets a nice early crop, and if berries are a little small it pays better than any other way. try it! i have known some fields carried to fourth crop, and amateur beds kept up for ten years. it takes lots of work to keep an old bed in good condition. j.m. smith, of green bay, wis., almost always took one crop and plowed under. if the first crop was injured by frost, he took a second crop. he raised four hundred bushels to the acre. wm. von baumbach, of wauwatosa, wis., raised from five acres less ten square rods seventeen hundred bushels big measure beside quantities given the pickers. i have had beds and fields where i have timed my boys picking a quart a minute. i had one small boy that picked quarts a day. but in all my sixty years growing strawberries i never properly prepared an acre of ground before planting. i could take a five acre patch now, as young as i am, and beat anything i have ever done. _mulch._--for mulch for small beds, if straw or marsh hay is not handy, use an inch of leaves, then cut your sweet corn and lay the stalks on three inches apart and your plants will come up between in spring and give you clean fruit. cut cornstalks are good for field covering, also shredded cornstalks. i have used the begass from the cane mill, but it is too heavy. evergreen boughs are very good if well put on for small beds. in my paper, vol. , page (minn. report), it should read five bushels to the square _rod, not acre_. who ever heard of five bushels an acre! _big yields._--you all know of friend wedge's - / quarts from one square rod of everbearers the season of planting. i believe that can be beaten. let our society put a few hundred dollars in premiums for best yield of square rod of everbearers and of june varieties, and of a quarter of an acre; also the best product of one hill, and the best product of one plant, and its runners fourteen months from planting. i believe one plant of everbearers can produce a quart the season of setting. i know of the five bushels to the square rod, and the other fellow had four and a half bushel of wilson. surprise plum a success. c. a. pfeiffer, winona. i realize at the outset that i am treading on delicate ground in undertaking to defend the surprise plum, on account of it having been discarded by our fruit list committee, but after seeing our young trees producing this year their third consecutive heavy crop i feel justified in taking exception to the action of the committee. my first experience with the surprise plum dates back to , when mr. o. m. lord, of minnesota city, probably the best authority on the plum in the state in his time, presented me with one tree, which at that time were being sold at $ . each, and i was cautioned against giving it too much care or i would kill the tree, and that is just what happened to it. [illustration: c. a. pfeiffer, winona.] the following year, , i bought twenty-five trees from mr. lord and planted them late in march, on very sandy land on a southerly slope, pruning the trees back almost to a stump. these trees were very slow in getting started but made a satisfactory growth before the season was over. they commenced to bear the third year after planting, and are still producing good crops, but it is my more recent experience with this variety that finally induced me to prepare this article. in the spring of , we set out plum trees, on rich, black, loamy soil on low land, nineteen of them being surprise, the other varieties being, according to numbers, terry, ocheeda, stoddard, hawkeye, bursota, wolf, omaha also a few jewell, desoto, forest garden, american and stella. the surprise trees bore a crop in , again in , and , making it to the present time not only the most productive but the most profitable variety on our place. while we did not keep an accurate record of the exact yield in and , some of the trees produced fully five quart cases in . a fair average would perhaps be about four cases per tree. in the crop was somewhat lighter, yielding an average of three cases per tree. this year we picked and sold eighty-five cases, which brought us a gross revenue of $ . . we lost part of the crop on account of continual rain in the picking season, or we would have had fully cases. nine of the trees being in a more sheltered location than the other ten held their fruit better during the growing season, and produced a relatively heavier crop than the ten that were exposed to our fierce winds all summer. we have never been able to supply the demand for them, at good prices, while other varieties went begging at any kind of a price. among their good qualities with us are productiveness, good size, extra fine quality and attractive color. they are delicious to eat out of hand just as they are ripe enough to drop from the tree. they are fine for canning, preserving or jelly. they are practically curculio proof, and have never been affected with brown rot as have some other varieties. aphis never bothers them, while terry and some other varieties nearly had the whole crop ruined by this pest in . the branches form good, strong shoulders at the trunk and do not split or break down in heavy storms or under their heavy loads of fruit, as the terry and forest garden do. the flower buds and fruit form as freely on the new growth as on the old spurs. the crop is therefore about evenly distributed all over the tree, and while we picked almost eight cases from one tree this year it did not appear to be overloaded, as some varieties frequently are, the surprise tree always being capable of maturing all the fruit that sets. we have shipped them miles by freight with perfect success, but we pick them from the tree before fully ripe. if allowed to ripen on the tree they drop badly, which bruises and damages them. the trees are thrifty, vigorous growers with beautiful glossy foliage that can be distinguished from all other varieties. you would note on examination of the buds that we have promise of another crop next year, but this will depend somewhat on the weather during the blooming season. we attribute one of the reasons for our success with the surprise plum to the fact that they are planted among and alongside of varieties that have the same season of blooming, and which undoubtedly are good pollenizers, namely the bursota, wolf, ocheeda and omaha. the bloom of surprise being almost sterile, they will not be a success planted alone. [illustration: a surprise plum tree growing on the place of prof. a.g. ruggles. it bore in four bushels, having been well sprayed with arsenate of lead and bordeaux mixture.] you will perhaps ask if there are no faults or diseases they are subject to, and we will state, for one thing, the fruit drops too easily when ripe, and you will either have to pick them before fully matured or find a good many of them on the ground. they are also occasionally subject to blossom blight, which was rather a benefit, as it thinned the crop out to about the proper proportion. we also had considerable plum pocket and fungous growth one season about ten years ago. such has been our experience with the surprise plum--and will again repeat that until the society finds a plum equally as good or better, instead of discarding it on account of unproductiveness and recommending such poor quality varieties as wolf, desoto and some others, our learned horticulturists should make a special study of this variety and ascertain the cause of its unproductiveness, and also to what localities in the state it may be adapted. mr. pfeiffer: right here i will say to those gentlemen who are looking for a cure for brown rot or curculio, they had better plant surprise plums. (applause.) pres. cashman: i am glad the surprise plum has at least one good friend in this audience. i think it has several. mr. ludlow: what has been your experience with the ocheeda? i see you mention it. mr. pfeiffer: the ocheeda at the present time, i am sorry to say, i am disappointed with. i planted some fifteen years ago, and they were nice large plums, as you have described, and they were on sandy soil. i have twenty ocheeda trees now, and they are quite badly subject to brown rot. their quality is very nice to eat from the tree out of hand, nice and sweet. mr. street: i want to second everything mr. pfeiffer has said. i joined this society about twelve years ago, and it was through studying the reports of this society that i got interested in the native plum. the surprise plum does very well with us in illinois. professor hansen is one of those that are responsible for my starting in with the surprise. it was years ago at our state meeting that he mentioned that as one of the good plums for northern illinois. well, i put it alongside of the wyant and the native plums that are of the same sort. i may state the conditions under which we grow them. we always cultivate before bloom, cultivate thoroughly. before the growth starts we give them a very thorough spraying with lime-sulphur spray; then just before the bloom, just before the blossoms open, as late as we can wait, we use about to or of the lime-sulphur solution, also put in three pounds of arsenate of lead. then after the blossoms fall we use the same spray again, perhaps two weeks after that again, and we keep that up for about four times. we have had abundant crops, and they have been very profitable. pres. cashman: i am very glad to know that the surprise plum has friends in illinois, and we are also pleased to know that mr. street is with us and we hope to hear from him later. the president of the wisconsin horticultural society, mr. rasmussen. mr. rasmussen: i will say the surprise plum has given just about the same results with us--it is the most profitable we have. mr. sauter: i was over to the anoka county fair; it was the first part of september, and all the other plums weren't ripe, all the stuff they had in was green. but all the surprise were ripe, so that certainly must be an early ripener. mr. pfeiffer: not especially early. mr. hall: i was certainly glad to hear mr. pfeiffer so ably defend the surprise plum. the surprise plum was the only one i got any good from. the desoto, wolf and stoddard and all those, the brown rot got them, but the surprise plum had perfect fruit. i am surprised that it has a black eye from the society. mr. pfeiffer: your location is where? mr. hall: sibley county. mr. kellogg: thirteen years ago i set out a root graft that made about five feet of growth and just as quick as it got big enough to bear it was loaded with surprise plums, but since then it hasn't been worth a cent. mr. miller: if mr. pfeiffer had been in my orchard he could not have given us a better description of it than he did, of the surprise plum. i set it out about fifteen years ago. i think i paid sixty cents for those seedlings, they stood about three and one-half feet. i never had brown rot in them. when i set them out i put them with other varieties and set them so the inside ones would fertilize the outside ones. afterwards i set these on the east side of the orchard, where they got protection from the west wind. they have borne almost every year, and this year they are the only ones we had a crop on. pres. cashman: i think we get as near to agreeing on this question as on most others. it is suggested that we find out how many have had success and how many have had failures with the surprise plum. all those who have been successful in raising surprise plums will please raise their hands. (certain hands raised.) now, hands down. those who have been unsuccessful will please raise their right hands. (other hands raised.) it seems there were more successes than failures. a member: it has been mentioned that the frost this year killed the plum crop. i noticed in my orchard previous to that frost when we had a snow storm, i noticed that the blossoms dried up and fell from the trees before that hard frost. i think the question of success or failure with the surprise, as with other plums, is sort of comparative. i don't know of any plum of the americana type that we have a success with every year any more than any other. so it is relative. i would like to ask if anyone had the same experience with the blossoms drying and falling off the trees before that frost. mr. crawford: perhaps the gentleman will recall the fact we had two nights in succession of quite severe frost. the first night it was almost a freeze, and the second we had the snow storm which is given credit for the plum failure. mr. anderson: the gentleman who read the paper, he is from winona, where he has a very much better location for any kind of fruit than the general run of the state. the other gentleman is from illinois. now, this good location near winona and the temperature down in illinois, does that favor the surprise plum, and has it anything to do with their success and our failure? pres. cashman: we will have to leave that to the audience. mr. s.d. richardson: down in winnebago i got three trees from the originator of the surprise plum, and while i was at the nursery i never saw any plums, but i propagated some from there and a man in our town has some surprise plums from it, and since i left the nursery i think the man has had some plums from them. i got them from mr. penning when they were first originated, but they never bore plums for me. i had no other plums around there. perhaps if they need pollen from other plums they didn't get it, and this man that has had the first success with them he had other plums near them. perhaps that is the secret. the tree is hardy and good, and if you can get a crop of plums by having something else to fertilize them, the surprise plum is all right. pres. cashman: i think mr. richardson has struck the keynote to a certain extent, we must put them near another variety to pollenize them. northeast demonstration farm and station. w. j. thompson, supt., duluth. last may the station orchard was set out, the same consisting of about apple trees with a fringe of cherries and plums. the apples consisted of year old stock (purchased the year preceding and set in nursery rows) and included these six varieties: duchess, patten's greening, okabena, wealthy, hibernal, anisim. good growth was made the past season and the stock went into winter quarters in good shape. however, per cent died, the loss being in this order: wealthy, anisim, hibernal, pattens' greening--okabena and duchess were tied for smallest loss. in addition to the above, we made a considerable planting of small fruits, principally currants and gooseberries, together with a limited quantity of blackberries and raspberries. twelve varieties of strawberries were set out, each including plants. all made a splendid growth this season. an interesting test is under way in the dynamiting work. alternate trees have been set in blasted holes, a stick about one and one-half inches long being sufficient to make a hole three feet in diameter and perhaps twenty inches in depth. it is yet too early to measure the results of this work, but owing to the nature of the subsoil in this region, we are looking for splendid results. with regard to the stock secured from the fruit farm, we have not been uniformly successful. much of the stock seems to be weak and dies readily from some cause unknown to us. next season we should be able to render a more complete report, as our work will then be fairly started. annual report, , west concord trial station. fred cowles, supt., west concord. [illustration: fred cowles at home.] of the new varieties of plums that i received from the fruit-breeding farm most all have done well. the only one that has borne is no. . this one had two plums on last season, and several this. they were a medium size red plum, very good flavor, and seem to come into bearing very young. no. is a very thrifty grower, but when it bears that will tell what it is worth. hansen's plums are doing well, but we believe they are more adapted to a better drained soil than we have here, as we are on a heavy prairie soil. but these varieties are very thrifty and bear so young. the grapes have all stood the winter with no protection and have not killed back any. we expect some fruit next season. the raspberries that we received have all done well. no. seems to take the lead for flavor and is a good grower. notwithstanding the cold season our strawberry crop was very good, and we are much impressed with no. , it is so strong and healthy; it is just the plant for the farmer, as it will thrive under most any condition. i believe it will fight its way with the weeds and come out ahead. we reported very favorably on the heritage when it was in bloom, but it does not set enough fruit to pay for its space. the berries are large but very few on my grounds. i will discard it. our apple crop was very good, especially duchess, wealthy and northwestern greening. we have been trying some of the tender varieties top-worked. northern spy gave us five nice apples on a two year graft. we also have jonathan, talman sweet and king david doing well. delicious grafted three years ago has not fruited yet. this has been a splendid summer for flowers, and they seemed to enjoy the damp, cool season, especially the dahlia. if you have not tried the countess of lonsdale you should; it is a cactus dahlia and a very free bloomer. everblooming roses did well--we had them in october. * * * * * plant lice on blossoms.--aphids infesting the apple buds appeared in serious numbers during the present season in the illinois university orchards when the buds began to swell. they were also observed in neighboring orchards. in , apple aphids caused serious damage in certain counties in illinois, and some damage was reported from many sections of the state. the aphids attack the opening buds, the young fruits, the growing shoots, and the leaves, sucking the plant juices from the succulent parts by means of long, very slender, tube-like beaks, which they thrust through the skins of the affected organs into the soft tissues beneath. they weaken the blossom buds by removing the sap; they dwarf and deform the apples so that varieties of ordinary size frequently fail to grow larger than small crab apples, and the fruits have a puckered appearance about the calyx end; they suck the juice from the growing shoots, dwarfing them; and they cause the leaves to curl, and if the insects are present in large numbers, to dry up and fall off. they are more injurious to the growth of young trees than of old trees. in old trees their chief injuries are on the fruit. this species of aphids are easily killed in the adult stage by certain contact sprays. winter applications of lime sulphur cannot be depended on to destroy eggs. poison sprays such as arsenate of lead are not eaten by this type of insect, and consequently are ineffective remedies for aphids. kerosene emulsion is effective but is uncertain in its effect on the foliage of the trees. the best available sprays are the tobacco decoctions, of which the one most widely in use is "black leaf ," a proprietary tobacco extract, made by the kentucky tobacco products company, louisville, kentucky. this material is used at the rate of one gallon in one thousand gallons of spray. it may be combined with lime sulphur, lime sulphur arsenate of lead, bordeaux, or bordeaux arsenate of lead, not with arsenate of lead alone. the ideal time to spray for these aphids is just as soon as all or nearly all the eggs appear to have hatched. observations made in the university orchards this season indicate that all the eggs hatched before the blossom buds began to separate. after the leaves expand somewhat and the blossom buds separate, the aphids are provided with more hiding places and are more difficult to hit with the spray. unfortunately, spraying at this time would require an extra application in addition to the cluster bud (first summer) spray (made for scab, curculio, bud moth, spring canker worms, etc.), and would thus add seriously to the cost of the season's operations. spraying for aphids at the time of the cluster bud spray is, however, highly effective, and in general it is advised that this method be followed. if, however, previous experience has shown serious losses from aphids, or if they are present in extremely large numbers, the extra application may be well worth while.--ill. agri. exp. station. annual report, , duluth trial station. c. e. rowe, supt., duluth. [illustration: a rosa rugosa hybrid rose grown by c. e. rowe, duluth.] although this was an off year for apples, results were probably as good here as in other sections of the state. the spring gave promise of an unusual crop, but the constant dropping of fruit during the summer months left us with about two-thirds as many apples as were harvested in . the quality was much poorer, owing to extremely cool weather and the presence of scab in many localities. the plum crop failed almost completely, and many trees were injured from aphis attacks. i have never known the aphis so hard to control as they were last summer. nearly all fruit trees made an excellent growth this season, and the new wood was well ripened when the freeze-up came. the fall rains provided plenty of moisture, and our trees should come through the winter in excellent shape. raspberries and currants produced about one-half the usual crop this year, probably owing to our may freeze. strawberries were almost a failure, largely due to winter-killing. last winter did more damage to perennial plants than any other winter within the recollection of the writer. the fall was rather dry, and our snow covering did not come until january. we received from supt. haralson for trial four plum trees, variety no. ; and fifty everbearing strawberry plants, variety no. . both plum trees and strawberry plants made a good growth. although the strawberries were set heavily with fruit, but little of it ripened before the heavy frosts came. the plant is very vigorous, and the berry is large and of excellent quality. annual report, , vice-president, tenth congressional district. m. h. hegerle, supt., st. bonifacius. on may th we had several inches of snow accompanied by a fierce northwest wind, and orchards without any shelter suffered seriously, and both apples and plums in such orchards were scarce and of a rather inferior quality. a few orchards had a fair crop, while a couple of others with a natural windbreak had a fairly good crop, but on an average it was the lightest apple and plum crop we have had for some time. mr. beiersdorf and mr. swichtenberg report a good crop of wealthy and peter. their orchards are close to a lake and are well protected on the north and west by a natural grove. of the twenty-four report blanks sent out, eleven were returned properly filled in, and they all report conditions about as above outlined. cherries and grapes suffered even more from the cold than the apples, and that crop was very light. my homer cherry trees look healthy and are growing fine, but the past two years had not enough fruit to supply the birds. raspberries and strawberries were a good crop and of exceptional fine quality, but the currants and gooseberries were a total failure in my garden as well as elsewhere, according to all reports received. there were not many fruit trees planted in this district the past year. for instance, at this station the deliveries last spring consisted principally of bundles containing one-half dozen or a dozen trees each, and the total number delivered in that way did not exceed trees and, according to all information, the planting throughout this district was very light. i know of only one new orchard started with four and five year old trees. about are wealthys and the balance patten greenings. the trees made a good start but were somewhat neglected during the summer, the field being planted to corn and some to barley, and all was handled rather rough. there was very little blight in this district the past year. i noticed just a little on two or three transcendents, and mr. jos. boll, who has about , bearing trees, reports no blight at all. i did no spraying this year, did not consider it worth while, as there was no fruit, and most others felt the same way. other years though a lot of spraying is done, and the more progressive ones spray two and three times. there is plenty of moisture in the soil, and the trees are going into winter quarters in good shape, therefore prospects for apple and plum crop the coming season are excellent. [illustration: residence of m. h. hegerle, st. bonifacius.] probably a hundred or more different kinds of apple and plum trees and berries of all kinds are grown here. farmers in the past usually bought what the salesman recommended, just to get rid of him; lately though they are taking more interest in the selection, and the wealthy, patten's or northwestern greenings, okabena, peter and perhaps a few duchess are about the only apple trees planted now. surprise plums, dunlap and everbearing strawberries are the leaders. ornamental shrubs are found here of all names and descriptions and colors, and they all seem to do well. * * * * * honey vinegar.--vinegar made from honey has an exceptionally fine flavor and is not expensive. a small amount of honey furnishes a large amount of vinegar. follow these directions: dissolve thoroughly in two gallons of warm, soft water one quart jar of extracted honey. give it air and keep it in a warm place, where it will ferment and make excellent vinegar.--missouri college of agriculture. thirty years in raspberries. gust johnson, retired fruit grower, minneapolis. of the growing of fruit, it may well be said, "experience is a good teacher, but a dear school." when i began fruit growing, some thirty years ago, i did not begin it merely as an experiment. i was interested in every branch of the work and, being very much in earnest about it, i felt confident of success. thinking that the failures and drawbacks sometimes experienced could be easily overcome by a thorough understanding of the work at hand, i began by getting all the information possible. i found that great books such as by downing, thomas, etc., were more suitable for the advanced fruit grower, but i studied all the pamphlets and books obtainable during the winter months and put this knowledge into practice during the summer. of course i could not put into practice all i had obtained from this reading, but i remembered distinctly the advice to all amateur fruit growers to start out slowly. this was particularly suited to my case, for the land was covered with timber, some of which i grubbed each summer, gradually adding acres as i cleared the land. my first venture was in planting raspberries, planting potatoes between the rows the first year. one delusion i had was in planting as many different and untested varieties as i could afford to buy and not confining myself to those that had been tried and had proven satisfactory. fortunately for me, the high cost of plants at this time did not warrant my buying as many different varieties as i desired, and i had to be contented with fewer plants. from the most promising of these, i saved all the plants possible. i had an idea that i could do better by sending to some of the eastern states for my plants, but here again i was mistaken, for the plants often did not arrive until late in may, and by the time they had reached their destination were practically all dried out. the warm weather then coming on, i lost the greater part of them, although i had carefully hoed and tended them in the hope that they would finally revive. here i might also mention that the express charges added considerably to the cost of these already expensive plants. as a beginner i put much unnecessary labor on these plants. while i do not wish to leave the impression that hoeing and caring for them is not all right, still there should be a happy medium which i later learned as i became more experienced along this line. i must admit, however, that this rich, new land thus cultivated certainly yielded some wonderful fruit. as time went by, i kept adding to my plantation, and owing to the large yield and the good demand for the black caps i took a fancy to raising them. when the palmer variety was first introduced, i planted quite a field of them. i shall never forget the way these berries ripened, and such a lot of them as there were. practically every one by this time having planted black caps, their great yield soon overstocked the market, and berries finally dropped as low as c or c a crate. having decided to dig up these black caps, i began paying closer attention to the red raspberry. i noticed that the raspberries growing wild on my place grew mostly in places where big trees had been cut down and young trees had grown up, thus partly shading the plants. having this fact in mind, i planted the raspberries as follows: i planted an orchard, having the trees in parallel rows, and between the trees in these same rows i planted the raspberries. by planting in this manner, the cultivation would benefit the trees as well as the smaller plants. of course after the trees began bearing heavily, the plants nearest the trees had to be removed, and later the other plants likewise were removed. as a beginner it was a puzzle to me which varieties i should plant. all varieties listed in the numerous catalogs were so highly recommended as being hardy, large yielders, good shippers, etc., that the selection of plants was not an easy matter. the speed with which a new variety of raspberry is sent out over the country and discarded is surprising. the most popular sort at this time was the "turner" variety. i did not, however, fancy this variety, for it suckered so immensely that it required continual hoeing to keep the new plants cut down. the berries were unusually soft and settled down in the boxes, which greatly detracted from their appearance in the crates. there were also at this time a few of the "philadelphia" variety being planted. they are a dark, soft variety and somewhat similar to the turner. just at this time there was being sent out a new variety, known as the cuthbert, or queen of the market, and queen it was indeed. this was a large, firm berry, and after ripening it would remain on the plant a long time without falling off. these plants grew up in remarkably long canes, but not knowing how to head them back they would often topple over during a heavy storm. this added another valuable lesson to my increasing experience, which resulted in my pinching of the new canes as soon as they had attained a height of from three to four feet. this made the plants more stocky and more able to support their load of berries without the aid of wire or stakes. next came the marlboro, plants of which sold at as much as a dollar apiece in the east. i then set out a bed of marlboro, which proved to be even better than the cuthbert, previously mentioned. they could be picked while still quite light in color, thus reaching the market while still firm and not over-ripe. there was only one possible drawback, and that was the fact that i had planted them on a southern exposure, while they were more adapted to a colder or northern exposure. this variety on a new field, as it was, practically bore itself to death. about this time, there originated in wisconsin a berry known as the loudon. a committee of nurserymen having gone to see this variety returned with the report that the half had not been told concerning this great berry. wanting to keep up with the times, i decided to plant some of this variety in the spring. the yield from these plants was immense, and the berries large, but unlike the marlboro already mentioned they could not be picked until very dark and real ripe. this variety was more subject to anthracnose than any i had seen, and served to give me a thorough understanding of the various raspberry diseases, which i had heretofore blamed to the drouth. the leaves would dry up and the berries become small and crumbly when affected by anthracnose. it might be said of this variety as regards public favor, that it went up like a rocket and came down equally fast. i next tried the thompson early as an experiment, but this variety proved a failure, or at least a disappointment. these berries ripened very slowly, just a few at a time, and did not compare favorably with either the marlboro or the loudon. a party close by had at this time planted out a large field of a variety of raspberry which i had not seen before. these plants produced a large berry, more like a blackberry in appearance. having by this time had experience with so many kinds of raspberries, i examined this new variety carefully, and all in all decided that this was the coming berry. here, too, i also noticed the first signs of disease. the plants had only begun to bear fruit, however, and judging from the strong, tall canes, they looked good for at least fifteen years. this disease, however, practically destroyed the entire field within two years. before too badly diseased, i had obtained and planted out a couple of acres of these plants and immediately began spraying them. the following spring i sprayed them again, and although the plants became perfectly healthy, i sprayed them once or twice during the summer, and it is needless to say the result was a berry which, considering all its good points, was certainly deserving of the name it bore, which was "king." in fact, i do not hope to see anything better in the raspberry line during the next thirty years, that is, any seedling having all its merits: a strong growth, hardiness of cane, an immense bearer and a good shipper. it's only fault is that the berries will drop from the plants when real ripe, but if you are on the job this can easily be averted. as far as anthracnose is concerned, i have found that there is not a variety of raspberry standing out in an open field, unsprayed or partly shaded, that will stand up under a heavy crop without being affected by this disease. after increasing my plantation, as i had by this time, i found i required more help. ability in managing my helpers was a necessity. my experience with them in the field was that when i set them to hoeing a newly set raspberry field if not watched they would destroy half the roots, loosening the little hold the struggling plants had, by cutting close and hoeing the soil away from the roots. i have seen supposedly intelligent men plowing alongside of the plants, thinking they were doing their work so much more thoroughly, but if they would dig up one plant before plowing and another after, they would readily see the results of their plowing. a born farmer assumes that everybody knows how to handle a hoe or a plow, but why should they, not having had practical experience? when put to work such as hoeing, they would make the most outlandish motions with the hoe, often destroying valuable plants, not being able to distinguish them from the weeds. though they may labor just as hard, they cannot possibly accomplish as much as the expert who can skillfully whirl a hoe around a plant in such a manner as to remove every weed and yet not injure the plant in the least. in other words, the best efforts of the novice cannot possibly bring the results so easily accomplished by the more skillful laborer. except in a few cases, i have found inexperienced help a discouragement. in hiring pickers who had to come quite far each morning, i found that if the morning had been wet and rainy, but had later turned out to be a nice day, they would not come at all. the sun coming out after these showers would cause the berries to become over-ripe and to drop from the bushes, or if still on the bush would be too ripe for shipping. these same pickers, when berries were scarce, would rush through the rows, merely picking the biggest and those most easily acquired. having tried pickers as mentioned, i decided that to get pickers from the city and board them would be the better plan. while they seemed to work more for the pleasure connected with life on the farm than with the idea of making money, yet after a little training and a few rules, most of them would make splendid pickers, and my berries being carefully picked and in first class condition, would readily sell to the best trade. leaving the subject of berries and berry picking, i will dwell briefly on my experience with the winter covering of the plants. at first i would cover the canes in an arch-like manner, which would require more than inches of soil to cover them, and it was necessary to shovel much by hand. in the spring i found it quite a task to remove all this soil and get it back in place between the rows. after i learned to cover them properly, that is flat on the ground, i found it required but a small amount of soil to cover them, and in the spring it was only necessary to use a fork to remove the covering, and with a little lift they were ready to start growth again. after getting more and more fruit, i found i could not dispose of it in the home market, and tending to the picking and packing of the fruit did not leave enough time to warrant my peddling it. i had been advised to ship my berries to two or three different commission houses in order to see where i could obtain the best results. i frequently divided my shipments into three parts: consequently some of my fruit would meet in competition with another lot of my fruit, and not only would one concern ask a higher or lower price than the other, but they would not know when to expect my shipments, which they would receive on alternate days. i finally came to the conclusion that i would send all my fruit to one party, and i found that it was not only more of an object to them, but people would come every day to buy some, knowing they were getting the same quality each time. although it has been my experience that the raspberry is never a failure, still i have found that it is a good policy not to depend entirely on the raspberry, but to extend the plantation in such a way as to have a continuous supply of fruits and vegetables in season, from the asparagus and pie plant of the early spring to the very latest variety of the grape and apple ripening just before the heavy frost of fall, when it is again time to tuck them all away for the winter. mr. ludlow: do i understand that you have to lay down and cover up those red raspberries? mr. johnson: yes, sir; otherwise you only get a few berries right at the top of the cane, and if you cover them the berries will be all along down the cane. the president: do you break off many canes by covering them? mr. johnson: no, it is the way you bend them. when you bend them down, make a kind of a twist and hold your hand right near them. you can bend them down as quick as a couple of men can shovel them down. mr. anderson: do you bend them north or south or any way? mr. johnson: i generally bend one row one way and the other the other way. where you want to cultivate, it is easier for cultivation; you don't have to go against the bend of those plants. that bend will never be straight again, and when you come to cultivate you are liable to rub them. mr. anderson: how far have you got yours planted apart? mr. johnson: about five feet. mr. sauter: what is your best raspberry? mr. johnson: i haven't seen anything better than the king. mr. sauter: do you cover the king? mr. johnson: yes. mr. sauter: we don't do it on the experimental station. i never covered mine, and i think i had the best all around berry last summer. mr. johnson: that might be all right when they are young, but i find it pays me. a member: don't they form new branches on the sides when you pinch off the ends? mr. johnson: yes, sir; then you pinch them off. a member: don't they break right off from the main stalk in laying down? mr. johnson: no, no. a member: we have a great deal of trouble with that. how do you get these bushy bushes to lie down? mr. johnson: i take three or four canes, and kind of twist them, give them a little twist, and lay them flat on the ground. mr. anderson: don't you take out any dirt on the sides? mr. johnson: no, sir; sometimes i might put a shovel of ground against them to bend the canes over. mr. rogers: do you plant in the hedge row or in the hill system? mr. johnson: in the hedge row. i think it is better because they protect one another. mr. ludlow: how far do you put them apart in the hedge row? mr. johnson: four feet. that is the trouble with the king, if you don't keep them down, your rows will get too wide. a member: i heard you say a while ago you covered these. do you plow them after you get them down or do you cover them with a shovel? mr. johnson: i cover mostly with a shovel. sometimes i take a small plow through. a member: don't you think in covering them with a plow you might disturb the roots? mr. johnson: that is the danger. a member: i saw a fellow covering up twelve acres of black caps and he plowed them shut. after i heard what you said i thought maybe that he was injuring his roots. mr. johnson: you know the black cap has a different root system from the reds. the roots of the reds will run out all over the road. mr. willard: how thick do you leave those canes set apart in the row, how many in a foot? mr. johnson: i generally try to leave them in hills four feet apart, not let them come in any between. about three or four in a hill. i generally try to cut out the weak ones. mr. willard: you pinch the end of the tops, i think? mr. johnson: yes, sir. a member: when do you cut those sucker canes? mr. johnson: i generally hoe them just before picking time and loosen the ground in the row. that is very important, to give them a hoeing, not hoe down deep, but just loosen that hard crust there and cut all the plants that you don't want, and then generally, after the berries commence to ripen, your suckers don't come so fast, and you keep on cultivating once in a while. mr. brackett: i have some king raspberries, and i never covered them up in ten years. i will change that. the first year i did cover a part of my patch, at least one-half of them, and that left the other half standing, and i couldn't see any difference. around excelsior there are very few people that cover up the king raspberry. but the king raspberry has run out; all of the old varieties have run out. we have at our experiment station the no. --you can get double the amount of fruit from the no. than from the king. the best way to grow the king raspberry or any other raspberry is to set them four feet apart and cultivate them. if you grow a matted row you are bound to get weeds and grass in there, you are bound to get them ridged up, but by planting in hills and cultivating each way you can keep your ground perfectly level. as far as clipping them back my experience has been it is very hard to handle them--they will spread out. it is a big job to cover the plants and then to uncover them again. i know it is not necessary with the no. ; that is hardy. that is what we want. hardiness is what we want in a berry, and you have it in the no. . mr. hall: i would like to ask you what you spray with and when you spray? mr. johnson: the bordeaux mixture. i spray them early in the spring and just before they start to ripen. mr. wick: with us the loudon raspberry seems to be the coming raspberry. mr. johnson: is it doing well now? mr. wick: yes, it is doing well. mr. ludlow: how many years is the planting of the king raspberry good for? mr. johnson: i think it would be good for fifteen years or more if they are handled as i do it. keep at the plant, hoeing and spraying them twice a year; trim out the old wood and keep them healthy. the president: you take out all the old wood every year? mr. johnson: yes, sir. mr. ludlow: when do you do that? mr. johnson: in the fall. i figure this way, every extra cane that you grow on the plant is a waste. if i see a cane a little higher than the others i just stop it, and it throws the sap back. mr. berry: do you fertilize and how and when? mr. johnson: i found i didn't need much fertilizer. i put on wood ashes and such things when i burn the trimming of the berries and such things. a member: when do you spray? mr. johnson: i generally spray in the spring after they get started and just before they are starting to ripen. i spray them sometimes when they are starting to ripen, and the berries would pick up in one day. a member: you mean to say you could grow them for fifteen years without fertilizing? mr. johnson: yes, sir. * * * * * knowledge of the temperature of the pantry and cellar is important, in order that one may make improvements in conditions. putrefaction will start at °, so that a pantry or closet where food is kept should have a temperature at least as low as that. cellars where canned goods are stored should have a temperature of ° or over. apples are frequently stored in outside cellars, where the temperature should be kept at ° or °; but apples may be kept satisfactorily at ° or °. when stored at the higher temperatures, the fruit should be placed there soon after being picked. annual report, , nevis trial station. jas. arrowood, supt., nevis. we would say that the station is in good condition; all trees and shrubbery have done well; no complaint as far as growth is concerned. this being an off year for fruit in this section, the fruit crop in general was light, the late frost and heavy rains destroying most all, both wild and tame fruits. the strawberries, raspberries and currants were fairly good; plums and apples were very light, except some seedlings, both apples and plums, which seemed to hold their fruit. most all the large apples were destroyed by the freeze, such as duchess, wealthy, greening and hibernal. there were some of the duchess seedlings that seemed to stand all kinds of freezing. [illustration: jas. arrowood in his trial orchard, at nevis, in northern minnesota.] now in regard to the fruits that were sent here from central station. the majority are doing fairly well, especially in regard to strawberry no. , which is doing splendidly and points to be the coming strawberry of northern minnesota. it is a good runner and has a large, dark foliage. plants that we left out last winter without covering came through in splendid condition and made a heavy crop. in regard to the fruit, it is of the best quality, large and firm and a good keeper. in regard to raspberries, nos. , and did very well, and stood the winter without laying down, and bore a good crop. in regard to the eighteen plum trees i received three years ago, nos. , , , , , and have done very well and have made a good growth, but have had no fruit so far. the sand cherry that was received the same year, no. , has done very well and bore some fruit this last year of a fair quality. hansen cherries are doing fairly well and bore some fruit this year. now in regard to plums that were received in nos. , , , , , , have all made a good growth. what was received in have all grown. the grapes that we received two years ago have made but little growth. there were no grapes in this section this year; they all froze off about twice. i received at the county fair about sixteen first prizes on apples and plums this year. we did considerable top-working, mostly on hibernals and native seedlings, which are doing very well. some of our seedling cherries are commencing to bear and show to be perfectly hardy. they are of the oregon strain of sweet cherry. in regard to gardens, they were fairly good throughout the section. corn crop a failure. in regard to the condition of the trees and shrubbery, this are going into their winter quarters with lots of moisture and with a large amount of fruit buds, with a good prospect for fruit next year. * * * * * destroying plant lice.--according to the results of experiments a per cent kerosene emulsion should prove effective against the green apple aphis. the kerosene emulsion made either with per cent stock, per cent, or with naphtha soap and cold water, seemed to kill all the green apple aphides. the per cent nicotine solution, with a dilution up to to , combined with soap, were likewise effective aphidicides. the kerosene emulsions under per cent were not satisfactory, neither were the soaps at the strengths tested, except that fish-oil soap, to , killed per cent of the aphides. laundry soap, to , was effective against the young aphides only. arsenate of lead alone, as was to be expected, had little or no effect upon the aphides. the combination of arsenate of calcium with kerosene emulsions is not a desirable one, since an insoluble calcium soap is formed, thereby releasing some free kerosene.--u.s. dpt. of agri. new fruits originated at minnesota fruit-breeding farm. chas. haralson, supt., excelsior. the subject on which i am to talk is rather difficult to present at this time, but i will mention a few of the most promising new varieties. [illustration: the new and valuable hardy raspberry no. , growing at state fruit-breeding farm.] we have developed several hundred new varieties of fruit since we started fruit-breeding at the state fruit farm. many of them are very promising, but it probably will take several years before we really know what we have that will be of value to the public. we have been growing thousands of seedlings of apples, plums, grapes, raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries and currants, from which valuable varieties have been selected. all of them have been put under propagation in a small way for testing at the fruit farm, trial stations and many other places. some very favorable reports from several places have been received during the last year from parties who have fruited these new creations. we also have some hybrid peach and apricot seedlings which have stood the test of the last two winters. some of them blossomed very freely last spring, but on account of the hard freeze in may they did not set any fruit. i hope to be able to report on these another year. [illustration: hybrid plum no. --at minnesota state fruit-breeding farm.] the results of breeding strawberries have given us one everbearing and one june-bearing variety, which have been tested in many places throughout the state. the june-bearing variety has been introduced as minnesota no. . the berries are almost identical with senator dunlap in color and shape, but somewhat larger and, i think, more productive. the plants are equal to dunlap in hardiness, or more so, a stronger plant, and a good plant-maker. the fruiting season is about a week earlier than dunlap. it is a firm berry and stands shipping a long distance. my belief is that this variety will make one of the best commercial berries for the northwest. the everbearing variety is known as no. . it is a large, round berry, dark red color, and is of the best quality. this variety is strong and vigorous and a good plant-maker when blossoms are picked off early in the season. it is also very productive. the blossoms and berries on a number of plants were counted in october, and we found all the way from to berries and blossoms on single plants. this is, of course, a little more than the average, but it shows what it will do under ordinary conditions. this variety has been growing next to progressive, on the same soil, with the same cultivation, and i think that persons who have seen it this summer will agree with me that it is far ahead of progressive in size and productiveness. i will say right here, if you expect to have a good crop of fruit in the fall, keep the most of the runners off. if you encourage them to make runners, or plants, you will have less fruit. the raspberries sent out as nos. , , , , , and , are all worthy of trial. the no. has fruited several years and gave the best showing so far. the fruit resembles the marlboro somewhat, but the color is darker. it is not one of very high quality, but the size of the berry and its appearance will more then make up for this. the canes and foliage are generally healthy and very hardy. this variety will be planted very extensively just as soon as enough stock can be supplied to fruit growers. the burbank crossed with wolf, hybrid plums. there have been several of these sent out to trial stations, and as premiums to members of the horticultural society. i will mention them in order as to size of fruit. no. , , , and will measure - / inch in diameter. nos. , , , , and no. are nearly as large. the kinds which have given best all around satisfaction up to the present time, are nos. , , , , , , and . one or two years more trial should give us an idea which ones will be worthy of general propagation. there are also several varieties of abundance and wolf crosses which have fruited for several years. the quality of the fruit of these hybrids is probably somewhat better than the burbank and wolf hybrids, but the fruit in most cases runs smaller. no. is probably one of the best; its fruit is about - / inch in diameter, colors up all over before it is ripe, and will stand shipping a long distance, as they can be picked quite green and still are colored up all over. there are several numbers equally, or nearly, as promising as no. . sand cherry x satsuma plum no. is in the same class as sapa. the color of the fruit is bluish black when ripe, the flesh purple, pit small and nearly freestone; fruit ripens first part of august. this tree is a strong grower and makes a large tree. we also have another plum, compass cherry x climax, about the only variety which fruited this year. the color of the skin is almost blue when fully ripe; the meat is green and of a very pleasant flavor. the pit is small and clingstone; size of fruit is about - / inches in diameter. the tree is a strong, upright grower. this variety has been propagated this summer. i will not try to describe any more as there are some , hybrid plums on the place and only a small per cent have fruited. [illustration: ornamental purple leaf plum, originated at state fruit-breeding farm.] in grapes we have several varieties worthy of propagation, but i will just mention two varieties. one is a red grape about the size of wyoming red. the bunches are large and very compact; the season for ripening is about with moore's early; the quality is good enough to make it a table grape. the vine is just as hardy as beta grape, of which it is a seedling. it has good foliage and the vine is a rank grower. the other variety is black when ripe, nearly as large as moore's early. the fruit is ripe first part of august; the vine is vigorous and hardy. strawberries and raspberries were a good crop this year, but all other fruit was a total failure on account of the killing frost and snowstorm on may th. apples were in full bloom at the time, and a good crop of plums had set on the trees, but all fell off a few days later. there were no currants or gooseberries and only a few grapes. mr. waldron: what do you think the male parent was of the red grape? mr. haralson: i couldn't say. we don't know what the cross is. mr. waldron: did you have any red grapes growing there? mr. haralson: i presume there were quite a number of varieties growing near by. in the beta seedlings we find a number of grapes that ripen green and also some black and a number red, but not a great many, i would say from five to seven per cent of the seedlings. mr. wellington: have you been able to cross the european plum with the japanese? mr. haralson: we have one or two varieties, but the fruit is very small, the fruit isn't very much larger than the compass cherry. the tree is a very strong grower and makes a large tree, but the fruit is not up to what it should be. mr. cook: what number do you hold that red grape under? mr. haralson: the red grape is no. . mr. sauter: which is the next best raspberry besides the no. ? mr. haralson: i couldn't tell you at present. i thought the no. , but from reports i have had from several places some think no. is better. no. is the best of them all so far. a member: i would like to ask which of those raspberries is the best quality. mr. haralson: they run very much the same, very little difference in the quality. the quality i should say compares very favorably with the king. the president: those of you who know of the wonderful work done by mr. haralson can not help but say, "well done, good and faithful servant." he has surely accomplished wonderful results out there, and the people of this state and adjoining states will all in time enjoy the fruits of his labor. (applause.) * * * * * kill wild onions in november.--the secret of the vitality of the wild onion lies in the two sorts of underground bulbs. each plant produces one large bulb, which germinates in the fall, and four or five small ones, which start growth in the spring. late fall plowing, followed by early spring plowing and planting the infested land to some clean cultivated crop destroys the wild onion pest by killing both sorts of bulbs as the growth from them appears and before they have a chance to multiply. the fall plowing should be deep, and care should be taken to completely bury all green tops of the onion. if very much top growth has been made, a harrow run before the plow will facilitate the thorough covering of the tops. another interesting and valuable point about the wild onion is that the spring bulbs rarely produce heads; consequently, if the infested land is plowed in the fall, a spring oat crop practically free of onions can always be secured. but for complete eradication of the onion, both fall and spring plowing is necessary, and november is the best time to do the fall work. annual meeting, , wisconsin horticultural society. chas. haralson, excelsior, minn., delegate. the meeting was held january , and , , in the assembly room of the state capitol in madison, wis. your delegate was present in time for the opening session and given a chance with other delegates to deliver the greetings of their societies. the opening address by governor phillip was very interesting. he told of the possibilities the state of wisconsin offered fruit growers in a commercial way with markets all around them. he advocated honest grading and packing to obtain the top prices for the fruit. he also urged every farmer to have a small orchard and fruit garden for home consumption. spraying and spray mixtures, illustrated, was ably presented by professor geo. f. potter, university of wisconsin. a speaking contest by ten students from university of wisconsin competed for prizes of $ . , $ . and $ . . this brought out almost every phase of horticulture and was one of the most interesting sessions. commercial orcharding in the middle west was shown with moving pictures and explanations by sen. dunlap, savoy, ill. these pictures illustrated spraying, cultivating, harvesting, grading, packing, caring for the fruit and marketing the same, and several other operations in connection with uptodate commercial orcharding. he also gave a talk on spraying and spraying materials. he said lime-sulphur is preferred in his locality. a half hour question and answer session was led by professor j.g. moore, university of wisconsin, on pruning. this brought out a very lively discussion about how to prune young orchards and what age of trees to plant for commercial orchards. this question was not settled, as some preferred one year old trees, while others would plant nothing but two year old trees. m. s. kellogg, janesville, wis., spoke of nurserymen's troubles. his paper was very interesting from a nurseryman's standpoint with all their troubles and what they have to go up against. c. o. ruste, blue mounds, wis., spoke about the farmer's orchard, what to plant and how to care for the same. the writer gave a paper, telling what is being done in the line of fruit-breeding at the minnesota fruit-breeding farm. the program was very full and interesting. the attendance, however, was not very large. a very good exhibit of apples was on display in the fruit room. the fruit was clean, well colored and up to size. many varieties, such as jonathan, fameuse, baldwin, windsor, talman sweet and wine sap were on display in great quantities. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. at the annual meeting the following officers and members of the executive committee were elected. officers--mrs. e. w. gould, president, humboldt ave. s., minneapolis; mrs. phelps wyman, vice-president, third ave. s., minneapolis; mrs. m.l. countryman, secretary-treasurer, s. avon st., st. paul. directors--mrs. f. h. gibbs, st. anthony park; mr. g. c. hawkins, minneapolis; miss elizabeth starr, minneapolis; mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul; mr. f. w. bell, wayzata; mr. f. f. farrar, white bear; mrs. r. p. boyington, nemadji; mrs. j. f. fairfax, minneapolis; mrs. h. b. tillotson, minneapolis. after a thorough discussion, it was unanimously agreed that more frequent meetings would be advisable. our program committee has, therefore, planned for a meeting each month, alternating between st. paul and minneapolis. it was, of course, impossible to set the dates for the three flower shows so early in the year, or to announce all of the speakers. the program in full for each month will appear on this page, and we hope to save our secretary a great deal of routine work as well as considerable postage to the society. so watch this page for announcements. we hope the following program will prove both interesting and profitable, and that our members will bring friends to each meeting, all of which will begin at : o'clock _promptly_. program for . february . wilder auditorium, : p.m., fifth and washington st., st. paul. soil fertility, prof. f. j. alway. birds as garden helpers. march . public library, minneapolis, : p.m. work of the state art commission, mr. maurice flagg. how can the garden flower society co-operate with it? our garden enemies. cultural directions for trial seeds. distribution of trial seeds. april . wilder auditorium, st. paul, : p.m. native plants in the garden. roadside planting. use and misuse of wild flowers. may. date to be announced. mazey floral co., s. th, minneapolis. informal spring flower show. what our spring gardens lack. good ground cover plants. june. date to be announced. university farm, st. paul, joint session with horticultural society. flower show. july. date to be announced. minneapolis rose gardens, lake harriet. picnic luncheon, : p.m. roses for the home garden. our insect helpers in the garden. august. date to be announced. holm and olson, : , w. fifth st., st. paul. informal flower show. how to grow dahlias. the gladiolus. september . public library, minneapolis, : p.m. fall work in the garden. vines. planting for fall and winter effect. october . wilder auditorium, st. paul, : p.m. what other garden clubs are doing. how my garden paid. reports on trial seeds. november. date to be announced. park board greenhouses, bryant ave. s. and th st., : p.m. chrysanthemum show. hardy chrysanthemums. december. annual meeting. {mrs. phelps wyman, program committee. {mrs. n. s. sawyer, {miss elizabeth starr, {mrs. e. w. gould, bee-keeper's column. conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. queen bees for breeding.--queen bees for breeding purposes will be sent to beekeepers of the state from university farm during the coming summer with instructions how to introduce them and how to re-queen the apiary. mostly all bees in the state at present are hybrids, which are hard to manage. in many localities bees have been inbred for years, making the introduction of new blood a necessity. all queens sent out are bred from the leather colored italian breeding queens of choicest stock obtainable. the price of queens will be fifty cents for one, and not more than three will be furnished to each beekeeper. orders with cash must be sent directed to the "cashier," university farm, st. paul, minnesota. the queens will be sent out in rotation as soon as they are ready and conditions are right. secretary's corner membership numbers change.--a good many members when sending in annual membership fee give the number of their membership for the previous year. members will please note that membership numbers change each year, as all members are numbered in the order of their coming upon the membership roll. the only number that we care about in the office, if for any reason it is necessary to give it, is the number for the current year. a word from prof. whitten.--prof. j. c. whitten, of the university of missouri, who was on the program at our annual meeting for three numbers, and at the last moment was taken ill and unable to be with us, has written describing the condition of his illness and expressing his deep regret at his enforced absence from our meeting, and a hope that at some other time he may have an opportunity to be with us. we shall look forward to having him on our program another year with eager anticipation. prof. whitten ranks as one of the most prominent of professional horticulturists of the country, and we are certainly fortunate in being able to secure his attendance, as we hope to do another year. members in florida.--quite a number of members of the horticultural society are spending the winter in florida. some of these the secretary knows about, but addresses of only two are at hand. j. m. underwood, chairman of the executive board of the society, and family are at miami, fla., for the winter. mr. oliver gibbs, at one time secretary of the society for a number of years, is at melbourne beach, on the east coast of florida, where he has been now for some ten winters--and some summers also. his health makes it necessary for him to live in so mild a climate. we have the pleasure of meeting him here often during the summer. now in his eighties he is nearly blind but otherwise in good health and always in cheerful spirits. new life members.--since the report of was printed, in which there will be found on page a list of life members of the society, there have been added to the life membership roll fifteen names; five of these were made honorary members by the unanimous vote of the association for valuable service rendered to the society, and were well deserving of this honor, as follows: chas. haralson, excelsior; s. h. drum, owatonna; f. w. kimball, waltham; j. r. cummins, minneapolis; john bisbee, madelia. to the paid life membership roll there have been added ten names as follows: e. g. zabel, lamoure, n.d.; roy e. mcconnell, st. cloud; o. f. krueger, minneapolis; l.a. gunderson, duluth; mr. and mrs. f. h. gibbs, st. anthony park; herman goebel, wildrose, n.d.; t. torgerson, estevan, sask.; law swanson, st. paul; rev. saml. johnson, princeton. don't you want your name added to this life roll? if you have already paid an annual membership fee for this year a further payment of $ . made any time during the year will be received as first payment for a life membership fee. that is, the amount of the annual fee already paid may be deducted from a life membership fee paid any time during the current year. send in a new member.--have you noticed the advertisement on the inside of the back cover page of this and also the january issues of our monthly? there never was such an opportunity to secure valuable new fruits as this presents to you and to your neighbor, many of whom we feel sure would gladly take advantage of the opportunity if it were presented to them. take an evening off and do yourself and your neighbors this good service--and the society as well. number three strawberry.--very few of those who have so far selected plant premiums for next spring's delivery have chosen minnesota no. june-bearing strawberry. our members will surely make a mistake if they do not secure for next spring's planting a quantity of this splendid new berry, which seems likely to supplant the senator dunlap as the june-bearing variety in the near future. it is a very vigorous grower, equally attractive, of good quality, holds up well and is a healthy, hardy plant. do not leave this out of your list of selection for plant premiums. apple seed of large value.--a considerable quantity of apple seed has been secured of mr. john bisbee, of madelia, minn., from his orchard, top-worked, as it is, with many varieties of long keeping apples, so that this seed is almost certainly crossed with something that will keep well as well as of high quality. it will be found especially valuable to plant for growing seedlings. it would be well to secure this seed soon, mix it with damp sand and leave out of doors where it will freeze, keeping the package which holds it covered from the air so that it may not dry out. every member should have a little corner in his garden for growing apple seedlings. it is an enticing experiment, and such seed as this is likely to give good results. we are still looking for the $ , apple. you may grow it from some of this seed. package of twenty-five seed at ten cents, to be secured of secy. latham. a favorable winter for fruits.--the ground was in good condition last fall, with a reasonable amount of moisture, fruits, both trees and plants, well ripened up, and now with a fairly good blanket of snow and no long continued severe weather, we have to this point in the winter a very certain assurance of a good yield of fruit the coming spring. to be sure the thermometer was down in the neighborhood of thirty degrees one night, but it was there so short a time that it scarcely seems possible that any harm could have been done by it. the horticulturist should be a natural optimist and always anticipate something good ahead, which is one pretty sure way of getting it. minnesota nurserymen give memberships.--a considerable number of the nurserymen of minnesota are again giving memberships this year as premiums to purchasers of nursery stock in quantity of $ . or upwards. this is a commendable enterprise, not only on account of its material assistance in building up the membership roll of the society but more especially because it brings in the kind of members who have, or should have, a large practical interest in the workings of the association, and we believe also that it is like "casting bread upon the waters;" those receiving these memberships will have a warm feeling for the nurserymen which present them. if you who read this are minnesota nurserymen and are not in the list of those who are doing this service for the society, don't you want to take advantage of an immediate opportunity to align yourself with those who are showing so large an interest in the welfare of the association? [illustration: gathering the apple crop in harold simmons' orchard--at howard lake.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. march, no. my orchard crop of from start to finish. harold simmons, orchardist, howard lake. in anticipation of a crop of apples for we commenced the season with the regular annual pruning in march. we begin pruning as soon after the th day of february as the weather is mild enough for us to work comfortably, as the pruning of fifteen hundred trees requires considerable time when one is obsessed with the idea that nothing short of a first class job will do, and that to be accomplished mainly by the efforts of one individual. we have endeavored to grow our trees so that they should all have from three to five or six main limbs, and any tendency of a limb to assume the leadership is suppressed. a tree grown upon this principle has the faculty of growing a great many laterals, necessitating an annual pruning. as far as possible we prune to prevent laterals from becoming too numerous, from growing so as to overtop or shade lower limbs, to let in light and sunshine, so as to get the maximum amount of color on the fruit and in a measure to help in thinning the fruit. having in view the idea of an annual crop instead of a biennial one, one essential point always in mind is that we want an open headed tree, and we also wish to insure our trees against blight, and so we eliminate all water sprouts. apparently, no minnesota orchard is immune against blight. some objections are raised to this type of tree, one criticism being that the tree is structurally weak from the fact that if one limb breaks off at the trunk the tree is about ruined. we offset the possibility of such a break by careful training and by wiring the trees, a plan i gathered some years ago from a mr. mason, at that time president of the flood river apple growers association. [illustration: young trees in full bloom in mr. simmons' orchard.] we use no. galvanized wire, a half inch galvanized harness ring, and screw-eyes with stout shanks and small eyes. locating up the main limbs what might be called the center of effort, or where the main pull would be when loaded with fruit, put in a good stout screw-eye in every main limb, eyes all pointing to the center of the tree, and then wire them all to the harness ring in the middle of the tree. when finished the ring and the wires are like the hub in a wheel with the spokes all around. we tried this first on our n.w. greening trees, and results were so satisfactory that we have applied it to a great number of other varieties with equal satisfaction. once put in a tree, it is good for the life of the tree. our objection to a tree with a central leader is that it is very difficult to create an open head, and if the blight strikes the leader it generally means the loss of the tree. low headed trees we have found by experience, are easiest cared for; they are the most economical for thinning, harvesting, spraying and pruning; they also shade the trunk and main limbs. after pruning all brush is removed from the orchard and burned. the next operation is spraying, and our first spraying was done when most of the petals were down, using a cushman power sprayer, running at two hundred pounds pressure, with two leads of hose and extension rods with two nozzles on each. spraying solution, six gallons of lime and sulphur, twelve pounds of arsenate of lead paste to each tank of water containing two hundred gallons. we aim to cover the tree thoroughly from top to bottom and spray twice each season. however, the past season half the orchard only was sprayed twice, the other half only once, the second spraying being applied about two weeks after the first, when we use lime and sulphur only, and then five gallons instead of six, in each tank of water. we use angle nozzles, the better to direct the spray into the calyxes. the orchard was mowed twice during the summer, early in june and the middle of july. a heavy growth of clover covers most of the orchard, and none is ever removed, all is left to decay just as it is left by the mowers. the next thing in line to take our attention is thinning the fruit. the past season we thinned the wealthy and top-worked varieties only; another season, we expect to carry this work to every tree in the orchard. the trees were gone over twice in the season, although the bulk of the work is done at the first operation. we use thinning shears made expressly for the purpose. by the end of july the trees in many instances were carrying maximum loads, and unless rendered assistance by propping in some way, the limbs, great numbers of them, must soon break. to get props to prop hundreds of trees, needing from five to six up to a dozen per tree, and apply them, looked like a big job. to purchase lumber for props the price was prohibitive; to get them from the woods was impossible. we finally solved the problem by purchasing bamboo fish poles, sixteen and twenty feet long, and by using no. wire, making one turn around the pole at the required height, turning up the end of the wire to hold it and making a hook out of the other end of the wire, using about seven or eight inches of wire for each. these made excellent props at small expense, the ringlike excresences on the pole preventing the wire from slipping. we propped as many as four and five limbs at different heights on one pole. this method carried the heavily loaded trees through the season in good shape. anyone afflicted with too many apples on their trees should try it. next in line came the harvesting of the crop. we use the "ideal bottomless bag" for a picking utensil, and almost all the fruit is picked from six foot step-ladders. we pack the apples in the orchard. fortunately we have had the same people pick our apples year after year, from the first crop until the last one of the past season. [illustration: apples by the carload at howard lake.] in packing we aim to use the kind of package the market demands. the crop this season was all barreled. the pickers have been on the job long enough so that they are as able to discriminate as to what should go into a barrel and what should not as i am myself. however, our system is to always have about twice as many barrels open ready for the apples as there are pickers. the barrels are all faced one layer at least, and two layers if we have the time, and as the pickers come in with approximately half a bushel of apples in the picking sack, they swing the sack over the barrel, lower it, release the catch and the apples are deposited without bruising in any way. the next picker puts his in the next barrel, and so on, so that each succeeding picker deposits his apples in the next succeeding barrel. in that way i personally have the opportunity to inspect every half bushel of apples, or, i might say, every apple, as a half bushel of apples in a barrel is shallow, making inspection a very simple matter. when the barrels are filled they are headed up, put in the packing shed until sufficient have accumulated, and when that point is reached they are loaded out, billed to minneapolis, where practically all our apples have been sold for years. all fruit up to date has been sold on a commission basis, the crop for the past season aggregating five carloads, or approximately barrels. we feel that we have worked out a fairly good method to handle both our trees and our apples, but we have not reached the conclusion that our methods in any way guarantee us a crop of apples, although in ten years, or since the orchard came into bearing, we have never had a season that we did not have a fair crop of apples. in we sold seven carloads, in four carloads, in five carloads, and the trees as far as they are concerned promise us a fair crop for . we are working as though this is assured, but in the final analysis it is up to the weather man. a member: i would like to ask mr. simmons in regard to his wiring. we are raising our trees in the same manner, the open-headed trees, and i wanted to ask him where the central ring is placed, in the crotch of the tree or where? mr. simmons: the ring is suspended by the wires in the center of the tree. it makes an excellent arrangement. you can stand on that wire and gather the apples from the topmost limbs of the trees. the screw-eyes should be put in at what might be termed the center of effort or pull, when the limb is heavily loaded. if not put in high enough, it causes a rather too acute angle where the screw-eye is inserted and the limb is likely to break. a member: we had considerable difficulty with broken branches. mr. ludlow: are the rings put on the outside or the inside of the trees? mr. simmons: on the inside, so that the screw eyes all point towards the center of the tree. after three or four years you can't see the screw eye, it grows right into the tree. mr. ludlow: i want to ask if you recommend the bamboo poles for general propping of trees? mr. simmons: yes, sir; most emphatically i would. it is the best and most economical prop you can use. of course, it is the general opinion among expert fruit growers that the crop should never be too heavy for the tree. the bamboo prop is the best we found. with reasonable care, bamboo poles will outlast common lumber. it is the general opinion among expert fruit growers that the tree should carry all fruit possible, but should not be permitted to be loaded so heavy as to need propping. mr. dyer: i have an orchard of acres and it would take a great many bamboo poles to prop that orchard. i use pieces of board, various lengths, inches wide and inch thick, of various lengths. i get them to feet long and sometimes i cut them in two. my trees are large, twenty-five and thirty and thirty-five years old, and that has been my most successful material to prop with. mr. simmons: what is the cost? mr. dyer: well, you know what the lumber is, i paid about $ . a thousand. mr. simmons: when i tried to buy the props from the lumber yard they would have cost me twenty cents each. i bought the twenty foot bamboo poles for $ . a hundred and the sixteen foot poles for $ . a hundred. a member: i didn't get where his orchard is located, and i would like to ask about the variety of apples he had the best success with. mr. simmons: the orchard is located at howard lake, forty-three miles west of minneapolis. we grow duchess, patten's greenings, hibernals and wealthys. mr. ludlow: what is your average cost per tree for thinning? mr. simmons: we have for years thinned the wealthy trees and our top-worked varieties, but i never kept any accurate account of the cost of thinning. mr. ludlow: how old are your wealthys? mr. simmons: fourteen years old. mr. huestis: mr. simmons stated that he used the wire and the ring and the screw-eyes. if he used that, why does he need props? i used the same thing this summer on some wealthys and thinned them besides, and i didn't need any props because i used the wire from the center ring to the branches. mr. simmons: well, the wire supports support the main limbs but there are a great many laterals. for instance, you have the main limb going up here at an angle of degrees and the limbs that come out of that are not supported. the props i use are supporting the laterals. mr. anderson: are your returns satisfactory shipping to the minneapolis market? mr. simmons: always have been very satisfactory; that has been my only market. * * * * * fighting moths with parasites.--over , , specimens of two parasites which prey on the gipsy moth and brown-tail moth were released in towns in maine, new hampshire, massachusetts and rhode island during the fall of and spring of , according to the annual report of the bureau of entomology, united states department of agriculture. as a result of the successful establishment of colonies of these and other parasites which feed on the gipsy and brown-tail moths, marked progress is being made in reducing these pests. effective co-operation is being afforded by the states, which carry on as much work as possible within the infested areas, thus allowing the federal authorities to carry on field work along the outer border of infestation, so as to retard the gipsy moth's spread.--u.s. dept. of agri. annual meeting. , s.d. state horticultural society. wm. pfaender, jr., new ulm, minn., delegate. arrived at huron, s.d., monday night, january , . the officers as well as the members gave me a very fine reception and, although i am a life member, i was made an honorary member of the society, and during my stay was entertained very agreeably. i attended all meetings. the society had three meetings each day, except thursday, the th, when there was no meeting held in the evening. on account of the very cold weather the attendance from outside was not as large as it should have been. some very interesting papers were read. mr. e. d. cowles, of vermillion, in his paper on "what to do when your grape vines freeze back," advocated to break off the shoots (do not cut them off) near the old wood, so that new shoots would start from the same bud or eye and would produce a crop. the papers by the president, rev. f. a. hassold, "relation of horticulture to home-making" at the meeting, and "community effort in rural life" at the banquet, were very fine and much appreciated by the audience. professor n. e. hansen in his paper, "new fruits," stated, among other things, that he had made a large number of crosses with chinese sand pears and other pears, and that he expects to get from the crosses varieties that will be blight proof, and that he intends to continue experiments along this line. two very able and much appreciated papers at the banquet were: "landscape gardening," by miss hazel j. kent, and "transforming a place into a home," by mrs. geo. h. whiting, both of yankton, s.d. governor byrney was present at the banquet and in his address congratulated the horticulturists of south dakota on what they have attained and encouraged them in their difficult undertakings. your delegate was asked to give notes on "minnesota fruit culture," which he did to the best of his ability. the discussions after each paper were interesting and instructive. the meeting was a very successful one and all present appreciated the fact that these gatherings assist in developing this great northwest in horticulture, forestry and many other ways. annual report, , sauk rapids trial station. mrs. jennie stager, supt. warm weather this last spring came quite early, and with bated breath we waited for the usual frost, but still it came not. the plum orchard became a wilderness of bloom; the buds of the apple trees began coyly to unfold their dainty loveliness; pussy willows flaunted their sweetness on the air--while the birds sang their love notes from trees and bushes. then frost came--not once, but night after night. thus our hopes, which had risen with every promise of a bountiful harvest, fell with the thermometer far below zero. when fall came both plum and apple orchards made so poor a showing, not only here but all around this part of the country, that we had hardly enough fruit for our own uses. [illustration: mrs. stager's grandchildren among the roses of one year's growth.] we had a great deal of rain, all through the spring and into the summer. strawberries, that generally do well in wet weather, did not bless us with their usual abundance. currants and gooseberries also left us in the lurch--but the snyder blackberries were loaded with luscious fruit, while raspberries--why the berries of the golden queen bent the stalks down with their weight. prof. hansen's sunbeams were covered with berries, as were all of the seedling raspberries sent from the breeding farm three years ago, nos. six and seven, of the red ones, bore the largest and firmest berries. i had quite a time keeping the blossoms off the everbearing strawberries sent here in the spring from the state breeding farm. although i had bought and planted three named--and very much extolled--other kinds of everbearers, none of them were as prolific in plants, and extra large berries, as those unnamed ones from the state breeding farm. we had our first berries from them in august. when we had our fair here, the last of september, i made quite a showing of them, from the size of a bean (green) to a crab apple (ripe), surrounded by leaves and blossoms. they were still covered with bloom when the hard frosts came. the two small hybrid plums sent did not make much growth. most vegetables that have always grown so well in other summers did very poorly this year. out of four hundred and seventy-five tomato plants, taken the best of care of by inez, my granddaughter, for the state tomato contest, we did not get one bushel of good ripe ones. lima and other table beans were planted three times (on account of rotting in the ground) and then did not ripen. no ripe corn. in fact, about all the vegetables that came to fruition were peas, cauliflower and cabbage. of flowers, sweet peas, pansies and early lilies were fine, although growing things were late. paeonies had very few flowers. however, roses were masses of bloom. moss roses did the best ever, also large bushes of rosa rugosa (you see this year, we had neither the ubiquitous potato bug, rose bug, caterpillar or any other varmint to war against); quite a number gave us blooms all summer. then most of them threw out strong new plants, as do the raspberries, from the roots. on the whole, with our bounteous harvest of grain and so forth in this blessed country, we can be thankful we are alive. * * * * * keep youth on the farm.--"what can we do to keep our young people free from the deceiving lure of the city and contented to remain on the farm?". the following was prepared by c. w. kneale, of niwot, colo., a student in civics in the colorado school of agriculture, as a part of his regular class work. young kneale, although a student, has some excellent ideas which "father" and "mother" might do well to ponder carefully: "get good books, magazines and farm papers for them to read. "have some kind of lodges for them to go to, such as the grange. "arrange it so they can have a party or entertainment once in a while. "go with them to church every sunday. "arrange it so they can have one or more picnics every year. "teach them how to do all kinds of farm work, by giving them a small tract of land to farm for themselves and showing them how to raise their crops, and have them help you with your work. "give them a horse which they can ride or drive when they haven't anything to do, or when they want to go anywhere. "teach them to love and be kind to animals." ravages of the buffalo tree hopper. "mr. latham recently sent me some twigs of apple tree very badly injured with what we call the buffalo tree hopper. these scars are made entirely by the female in the act of egg-laying. this process of egg-laying takes place from the last part of july until the leaves drop in the fall. the eggs hatch the following spring. the young forms do not feed at all upon the apple but get their nourishment by sucking the juices from the weeds and grasses in the immediate neighborhood of the orchard. [illustration: the buffalo tree hopper and its work] "the injury of this particular tree hopper is bad because the insect in egg-laying makes two slits, side by side, afterwards poking the eggs beneath the bark. as the tree continues to grow, the area between the slits dies, making a very rough appearance of the bark and an area into which spores of disease and bacteria may enter. the twig that is badly scarred very often dies, and sometimes young trees just set out are marked so badly that they succumb. "the only practical remedy against such a pest is clean cultivation of the orchard, as one can readily work out from knowing the life history. it is possible that some of the sprays like bordeaux mixture, or self-boiled lime-sulphur, sprayed and kept active on the trees during the month of august would deter these hoppers from laying eggs. however, we have had no practical experience along this line, although we do know that trees under clean cultivation are not affected."--a. g. ruggles, head of section of spraying and tree insects, university farm, st. paul. * * * * * minnesota no. strawberry.--a communication from peter jackson, cloquet, says: "i had my first trial of the minnesota no. strawberry last year and they did finely. i had one hundred twenty-five quarts from sixty plants." who can do better than that? growing tomatoes in northern minnesota. rev. geo. michael, walker, minn. sow seed in hotbed about april first, in rows five inches apart and five inches apart in each row. transplant in garden one week after danger of frost is past. the day before transplanting soak the hotbed thoroughly with warm water. in taking them up to transplant use a sharp butcher knife; the ground thus cut out will form a cube five inches in diameter. this block, should be set in a hole ten to twelve inches deep. the ground around the block must be made very firm. this block will be four to six inches below the surface. _fill the hole with warm rainwater_ and three or four hours later rake in loose dirt to fill the hole, being careful not to pack it in the least. _how to prepare the ground._ manure heavily; plow very deep; harrow thoroughly. then in forming the hills place two shovelfuls of fine manure and one-half shovelful of hen manure for each hill. spade this in from twelve to eighteen inches deep and eighteen to twenty inches wide. cultivate often. the plants should be staked at first to keep the wind storms from injuring them. when one and one-half feet high they should be trained over poles placed on each side of the row one and one-half feet from the ground. plant hills four feet apart, and _train each plant to four or five vines_, cutting off all side shoots and a few of the leaves. _never cut off_ the top of a vine to hasten the ripening. make the ground _as rich as possible, plough deep, plant deep, set deep and prune carefully_. if you do not use poles or a trellis the vines thus managed should spread over the ground as pumpkin vines grow, and instead of "going all to vines" the tendency will be to go all to tomatoes. _a big story._ over $ , per acre. in i had three rows each forty feet long and four feet apart, i.e., a row feet long, or square feet. more than $ . worth of ripe tomatoes were taken from these vines, the price never more nor less than five cents per pound. if square feet will produce $ . , , square feet would produce $ , . during the tomato season i was away from home when a neighbor gathered bushels which are not counted in the above figures, and our family used and gave away several bushels more. annual report, , vice-president, fourth congressional district. j. k. dixon, north st. paul, minn. the fourth district fruit crops--with the exception of strawberries and raspberries--were conspicuous by their absence this season of . a festive blizzard that came prancing our way the th of may effectually destroyed what promised to be a bumper crop of apples and plums. the trees were for the most part past the blossoming stage, and the fruit had started to develop. currants and grapes met the same disastrous fate. only in favored situations, adjacent to large bodies of water, were there any apples, plums, grapes or currants to speak of. [illustration: mr. j. k. dixon, north st. paul.] in my orchard, at north st. paul, we burned wet straw smudges every second row on the outside of the orchard, allowing the wind to drift the smoke through trees. this was done by adding the wet straw at intervals to the burning piles in order to create a continuous dense smoke. when daylight appeared we noticed the ground covered with a beautiful blanket of frost, and decided two men smoking pipes would have been as effective treatment as the smudge. in this, however, i have since concluded we were mistaken. as the season advanced we noticed the first three or four rows in from the smudges gave us our only apples, whereas the further one went in the fewer were found, until they finally disappeared entirely. question: if the above treatment had been given every second or third row throughout orchard, what would the results have been? strawberries and raspberries proved their superior ability to withstand the assaults of king boreas and jack frost. strawberries were in blossom and were saved from total loss by a two or three inch blanket of wet snow that fortunately preceded the frost. consequently they are reported as fair to good crop. raspberries, owing to the abundant and regular rainfall, are reported from all over the district as a fair crop. one grower having one-half acre of the st. regis everbearing red raspberry reports having ripe berries from the last week in june to the th day of october, when a big freeze-up put them out of commission. this one-half acre produced , pints, that sold for fancy prices. also the everbearing strawberries are reported as making good and proving their claim to recognition as an established institution in the fruit world. a few of the largest growers report spraying with lime-sulphur and arsenate of lead. however, the rainfall was too abundant at the right time (or wrong time) to get best results. very little blight is reported as present the past summer, and what little there was yielded readily to the pruning knife applied five or six inches below infected wood, being careful to sterilize tool in solution of corrosive sublimate. the most serious injury from blight is caused by its attacking tender sprout growths on trunks or large branches. the blight runs very rapidly down the tender wood, penetrating to the cambium layer, where it causes cankers, often girdling entire trunk and killing tree outright. this is especially true of the virginia crab and wealthy apple. trees and plants came through last winter in a condition as a consequence of a mild winter, and this fall they go into winter quarters with abundance of moisture and well ripened wood. considerable nursery stock was planted last spring with excellent results, due to plentiful supply of moisture from spring to fall. while fruit growing in minnesota is not so extensively engaged in as in some reputed fruit growers' paradises we read about, i wish to state that the south and east (to speak in the vernacular) "has nothing on us." i have reliable information that the same freeze that cleaned us out up here in the north did the same trick for growers at mobile, alabama. therefore, i advise members not to yield to discouragement. plant and care for varieties recommended in the society planting list and emulate the society motto, "perseverantia vincimus." from replies to letters sent out the following list of varieties appears to be in favor as the most desirable to plant in this district: apples: wealthy, okabena, duchess, patten's greening. crabs: florence, whitney, lyman's prolific. plums: desoto, hawkeye, wyant, wolf. raspberries: king, sunbeam, minnetonka ironclad. currants: perfection, prince albert, long bunch holland, wilder. gooseberries: carrie, houghton, downing. grapes: beta, concord, delaware. hardy shrubs: spirea van houtii, hydrangea p.g., snowball, syringa, tartarian honeysuckle, lilac, high-bush cranberry, barberry, sumac, elderberry, golden leaf elder, buckthorn for hedges. hardy perennials--flowers: delphinium, campanula, phlox, paeonies, iris, hermerocallis, tiger lilies. tender plants: dahlias, gladiolus. annual report, , mandan, n.d., trial station. w. a. peterson, supt., mandan, n.d. in the spring of a number of plums, grapes and raspberries were received from the minnesota fruit-breeding farm. the larger part of the plums were winter killed in - . those that survive after a few more winters may be considered as practically hardy. those remaining made a good growth in , but did not bear. the grapes lived through the winter in good shape, although they had been covered. these are all beta seedlings. the raspberries nos. , , and , were partly covered and partly left exposed--all three numbers died to the ground when not protected. no. was received in the spring of and made a good growth. strawberry no. was received in spring and bore heavily this fall but made only a very few runners. extensive experiments are being carried on in plant-breeding, pomology, vegetable gardening, arboriculture and ornamental horticulture, and in the course of time a lot of valuable information will be gathered. on the whole the season was backward in spring and the summer was abnormally cool. there was sufficient rainfall for all crops. fruit growing a successful industry in minnesota. a. w. richardson, fruit grower, howard lake, minn. it is now about eighteen years since i conceived the idea of fruit culture as a competency for old age, being then, as now, employed as representative for some concern and required to travel over this state, earning a livelihood for myself and family. the nature of my first work on the road necessitated my attendance (a large portion of the time) at minnesota farmers' institute meetings, where i came in contact with those gentlemen employed in that work, and among the number our friend clarence wedge, of albert lea, and other personal friends, such as o. c. gregg, the founder of the institute work, mr. greely, mr. trow and others. it was among these gentlemen i got my first desire for a piece of land, and was advised by them several times to get a piece of land, and if i could not afford to buy a large piece, to buy a small piece, which latter course i was compelled to adopt. i became imbued with a desire to grow fruit and was particularly interested in the subject of horticulture, and eagerly devoured all the literature obtainable on the subject, and listened very attentively to all discussions on the subject at these meetings. in i moved to howard lake and succeeded mr. e. j. cutts in the nursery and fruit growing business. mr. cutts was well known to a great many. he died just prior to my residence in howard lake, where i got in my first practical experience in the fruit-growing business. after conducting this business for about twelve months, i disposed of it and bought a home in another part of town and at once set out about apple trees and other small fruit. gradually i acquired more land and set out more trees, until today i have about , apple trees, about , of which are at bearing age. i made one grand mistake however, as a great many other growers have done and are still doing, i planted too many varieties. i used the list of tried and recommended sorts issued by the state horticultural society (long before i became a member) and planted accordingly and, like many other growers, have my quota of hibernals, minnesotas, marthas and other sorts which experience has demonstrated are not nearly as desirable as other varieties. i have demonstrated to my entire satisfaction that it is profitable and perfectly proper to grow also small fruits in a young orchard. in my second orchard, containing about trees, i planted the trees x feet and later the same season set out raspberries x feet, occupying all the space in the rows and between the rows, and for two successive seasons i grew a third crop between the raspberries, which plan works admirably. one mistake i made, however, was in planting a little too close to the apple trees, requiring more hoeing around the apple trees to keep the raspberries in subjection, which could have been obviated to a large extent by not planting so closely. i grew raspberries about seven years in this orchard. my returns after the second year brought me $ . to $ . annually, and i sold enough plants to more than pay me for all the labor expended on the orchard, to say nothing of corn, beans, cabbage, etc., raised the first two years between the raspberries. now the trees are about ten years old and all bearing. i have discontinued the cultivation and have seeded to clover, which we usually mow and allow to lie and rot. [illustration: residence of a. w. richardson, at howard lake.] i figure that outside the investment i have brought my orchard into bearing with practically no expense, having had a revenue every year since planting the trees, which are composed of patten greening, hibernal, duchess, wealthy, peerless, minnesota, virginia, okabena and whitney. my last orchard of trees consists principally of wealthy, and trees are set x , and i am following the same plan of growing a crop between. the year makes four crops taken from this young orchard, now four years old. about two more seasons will follow this year, and then about the time for bearing i will discontinue the planting of any crop and sow it to clover. i plant one or two year old trees trimmed to a whip, digging a much larger and deeper hole than is really necessary to accommodate the roots, but i am sure this plan gives the roots a much better start than if they are crowded into a small hole, and particularly if the ground is hardpan or similar soil. pinching off the buds the following year or two, when you commence shaping your trees to your liking, is good, thus eliminating severe pruning. i have endeavored to follow up this annual pruning when possible, often being compelled to hire additional help for this purpose, as the nature of my regular business keeps me from home when i should be pruning. i am sure you will agree with me so far that "fruit growing in minnesota is successful." four years ago or more i decided that in order to receive the top price for the products off my place i must produce a first class article, and so to that end i have worked. i bought a gasoline power sprayer, costing me about $ --by the way, the first one in howard lake, although two of us there each bought one the same spring, and now there are three power sprayers in our village. i have demonstrated that it is possible to get the top price of the market in more ways than one by furnishing a first class article. you will ask me how it is possible for me to do this and be away from home so much. i have been ably assisted by my wife, who sees that my general directions are carried out as i have outlined. this year we have marketed something over barrels and have received the top market price, netting me about $ . . i tried out a new plan this year, selling through a reliable commission firm. i have heretofore sold direct to the retailer with splendid results. was a bumper year and the market flooded everywhere with poor unsprayed stuff. i sold about barrels and received an average of $ . per barrel, f.o.b. howard lake, and in about the same amount was realized. there is always a good demand for a good article, carefully picked and honestly packed, discarding all bruised and scabby or wormy apples, or those undersized or less than - / inches in diameter. this season i sprayed my trees three times, the first time early in april, using what is known as a dormant spray, using commercial lime-sulphur solution degrees baume, gallons to a tank of gallons of water, or four times as strong as the two subsequent sprayings, after the blossoms fall, at which later time i use in addition arsenate of lead, pounds to a gallon tank of water, and work under pound pressure--and by doing thorough work can produce apples almost entirely free from any disease or worms. my last shipment of apples this year was october nd and consisted of barrels, one-third each of hibernals, patten greenings and wealthys, which brought top prices. [illustration: mr. a. w. richardson, howard lake.] i am a firm believer in co-operative marketing and think it is the only logical way to market any crop, but to conduct a successful marketing organization there should be stringent rules compelling all who join an association for marketing to spray thoroughly if nothing else, as i am firmly convinced that you cannot grow apples and compete with other localities without doing so, and doing so every year, whether a prospect for a good crop exists or not. i can prove this, as i only partly covered my entire orchard in with spraying. you could easily see which had been sprayed and which not. excessive rain at the vital time prevented my completion of the work. i am convinced by experience, too, that the dormant spray, usually neglected by most growers, is very necessary and am sure better and healthier foliage is obtained by this practice, and by it the scale can be controlled in a large degree. i had eight to ten patten's greening trees that had been attacked by a disease called by some "oyster scale." the trees abnormally lost their foliage early in the season, and i had about decided they were dead when, after a dormant spray the following spring, they entirely revived and are now as healthy as any trees on my place. i have practiced top-working to some extent and for the past three or four years have been able to put down in my cellar, several bushels of jonathan, grimes golden, delicious and other varieties. have now about jonathan trees top-worked on hibernals, and except for some blight they have done splendidly. there is no room for discussion, no room for argument in any way, why fruit-growing in minnesota is not a very successful business to be engaged in. i have demonstrated, i am sure, that if i can bring an orchard into bearing and hold down a good, fairly lucrative position at the same time and do so with very little expense, and others can do the some thing. now i am going to criticise some one and let the criticism fall where it belongs. there has been a great injustice done the commercial fruit grower, or those trying to grow fruit commercially, by advising, urging, or anything else you choose to call it, the farmer or small homekeeper to buy more fruit trees and plants than this class of individual needs for his own use. in order to receive some returns for this surplus, he rushes it into town and sells it to the best advantage, delivered in sacks, soap boxes, etc., carelessly handled and bumped into town in a lumber wagon. the merchant is loaded up with a lot of unsalable stuff and often finds himself overloaded and barrels up some and sends it to the commission row and expects some returns, which vary from nothing to a very small amount. why, last season i knew a large general merchandise concern in a town a little west of howard lake that thought they had struck a gold mine. they employed a packer or two, bought barrels, rented a building and bought this class of stuff right and left, offered at any old price, $ . per barrel to anything they could get, and sold clear up to the canadian line. i saw the stuff a great many times after it reached its destination, and it was hardly fit for sale at any price. this indiscriminate selling of nursery stock by eager salesmen and nurserymen is doing more to hurt the commercial fruit growing industry than any one thing. the only salvation for the grower making his living out of the business is to produce a better article, better picked, better packed and marketed through the proper channels. this matter just referred to i have often discussed by the hour, and during the past winter my views were thoroughly endorsed by prominent men in the extension work of our state. in conclusion will say, comparing the fruit industry in minnesota with that greatest of all industry, raising grain, it is so much easier (if ordinary care be exercised) to produce a finer article, more attractive in appearance, better packed and marketed properly, than the other fellow does, while in growing grain this is not the case, as all the grain is dumped into the hopper and bin, and the individuality of the grower is forever lost. the demand for the apple has increased wonderfully the last few years, and it is quite likely to be further increased owing to the european demand for american apples, which for the next fifteen or twenty years will increase by leaps and bounds, owing to the devastating of so many of the great orchard sections in parts of austria and northern france. this authentic information came through mr. h. w. collingwood, many years editor of the rural new yorker, and according to mr. collingwood's idea there has been no time in the history of the united states when the outlook for commercial orchards was so bright. he advises the widespread planting of commercial orchards to meet this new demand which has shown itself already in europe and will greatly increase after the war is over. [illustration: a two-acre field of dunlap strawberries on place of a. w. richardson, at howard lake.] mr. ludlow: i would like to know what you advise for that commercial orchard, what varieties? mr. richardson: wealthys, all the time. (applause.) mr. ludlow: i would like to ask for the comparative prices you received for the three apples you mentioned, wealthy, greening and hibernal. mr. richardson: the hibernal sold for around $ . a barrel and the wealthy sold for three something. mind you, i never sold apples at all until this year to minneapolis markets. i can sell all the apples i can grow myself without any trouble if i have the proper men to pick them and pack them at home. i had a son that was doing that until a few years ago, and he followed my instructions and would place nothing but first class stuff in the barrels and would sell my samples without any trouble and get the top market price. i run across down in my cellar some of last year's crop of northwest greenings, just two of them left, one of them partially decayed. something i never had known to happen before. they lay in the cellar just wrapped up. mr. ludlow: it wasn't embalmed? mr. richardson: no, sir. gentlemen, you need not be afraid of growing fruit in minnesota. mr. ludlow: what peculiar method have you for keeping those apples? mr. richardson: just wrapped in paper only. the president: what temperature do you keep in your cellar? mr. richardson: degrees about this time. the president: you have a heater in your cellar? mr. richardson: yes, sir, but this is shut off from that, though the pipes run through. a member: are your trees still as far apart as they were at first? mr. richardson: no, sir. i neglected to say that i sent east and got some roots, and i was advised to set them out between. i have part of my orchard set x , but that is too close together. a member: if you were going to do it again would you put them x ? mr. richardson: x , that is, wealthys, particularly. of course, for the hibernals, you got to put them farther apart. a member: you mentioned the delicious. what is your opinion of the delicious? mr. richardson: my experience has been so little with them. i have about jonathan trees coming on that will be all right. * * * * * marble pillar to famous mcintosh tree.--perhaps one of the most curious monuments in existence has recently been built in ontario by canadians. the farmers have just erected a marble pillar to mark the site on which grew a famous apple tree. more than a century ago a settler in canada named mcintosh, when clearing a space in which to make a home in the wilderness, discovered among a number of wild apple trees one which bore fruit so well that he cultivated it and named it mcintosh red. the apple became famous, and seeds and cuttings were distributed to all parts of canada, so that now the mcintosh red flourishes wherever apples grow in the great dominion. in the original tree from which this enormous family sprang was injured by fire, but it continued to bear fruit until five years ago. then, after years, it died, and the grateful farmers have raised a marble pillar in honor of the tree which has done so much for the fruit growing industry of their land. the story of this apple tree illustrates the african proverb that though you can count the apples on one tree, you can never count the trees in one apple.--january popular science monthly. report of committee on horticultural building. s. p. crosby, chairman, st. paul. as you know, at the last legislature there was a bill prepared and introduced asking for an appropriation of $ , to build a new home for this society. it was provided, that that home should be located on the grounds of university farm or upon the grounds of the state agricultural society, and that was to be left to the discretion of the executive board of this society. the bill is a very well drawn bill, and the committee appeared before the legislature some four or five times. we went before the committee of the senate and before the committee of the house and senate, and as a matter of fact the result was that the bill never came out of the committee. the cry last year, as it is every year, was that of retrenchment and low taxes. now, that is all right as a general proposition, but minnesota is not a poor state. in the cities of course we think we have all the taxes we ought to have, and we think they are pretty high; perhaps you gentlemen living in the country think you have as high taxes as you ought to have, but that the state, for instance, has over $ , , in the school fund, probably reaching up to fifty or sixty millions some day, with other figures which can be given here, shows that minnesota is not a poor state. on the other hand, it shows that minnesota is a rich state. certainly there is no good reason why it should not provide a good home for this society, which has earned it and is nearly fifty years old. now, ladies and gentlemen, i simply want to say one thing. don't depend upon the committee to do all this work. while we didn't get our bill through last year we came away full of courage, and just as sure as night follows the day we are going to have a new home for this society one of these days. (applause.) but i want it distinctly understood that every member of this society, men and women--and i certainly include the women because oftentimes they are the best politicians, and they know how to talk to people and get things--when the next legislature is elected must use his or her influence with the senators and representatives of the various districts of the state and make an impression upon them and get a promise out of them to vote for and support the bill. a bill will be introduced into the next legislature, and it will probably be this same bill, and if you don't forget this, but simply do your duty in seeing these representatives and taking the matter up, why there isn't very much doubt in my judgment but what we will be successful and have our bill passed. we have members, i think, in every county of the state, haven't we, president cashman? the president: yes. [illustration: mr. s. p. crosby, st. paul.] mr. crosby: if we only have two or three in some counties, if they would make an effort to see every representative and senator and talk the matter over, that is what is going to count. it is a year or something like that before the legislature meets again, but it don't want to be forgotten, and if every live member of this society will put his shoulder to the wheel, i don't think there is any possible doubt but what we will succeed and have the bill pass. we broke the ice last winter and got acquainted with some of the people. and another thing i want to say, and that is if that bill the next time is not reported favorably out of the committee i would be in favor for one of having it reported to the house or senate without any recommendation of the committee. i talked with probably fifteen or twenty, i should say, of the different members of the senate and house about that bill, and it had a great many friends both in the house and senate. some of them came to me and said: "crosby, why don't you put it in the house, and we will show you how we will vote." there was a whole lot of feeling that way, because if men investigate and find out what the society is standing for and what it has done they will know it is a perfectly meritorious bill. i think with a reasonable amount of work we will accomplish a great deal, and we shall succeed eventually in having the bill passed. another matter that is proper to speak of now is to see where the members of this organization stand. i am going to tell you something. i didn't hear it personally myself, but i did hear it from mr. yanish. he is a man of veracity and he told me. he said in the last legislature the hennepin delegation used all the strength they could against this bill. if it is a rivalry between the two cities, st. paul and minneapolis when we propose to put the building in neither minneapolis or st. paul, but practically midway between the two cities, if that rivalry can go to that extent, it seems to me mighty small business. we were very careful not to conflict in any way with the state university in getting any of those appropriations they were asking for. they wanted big sums of money. we didn't conflict with them, we didn't do anything against them. we made a gentlemanly campaign and put our case before the committee. there were a number of members who were favorable, but of course there were thousands of bills in there, and it didn't get out of the committees, as i said. we see more and more every year what great necessities there are for a home for this organization. we ought to have a building like as the plans given in mr. latham's last report, a building that would have a fine auditorium, a fine exhibit room, a place where we are at home instead of going from place to place and meeting at different places and not having the adequate facilities we ought to have. * * * * * store vegetables for the winter.--the basement is often the best place on the farm for storing vegetables, says r. s. gardner, of the university of missouri, college of agriculture. it must be properly built, and the temperature, moisture, and ventilation conditions kept right if the best results are to be obtained. if it is too warm the vegetables will dry and shrivel, and if the ventilation is poor, drops of water will form and the vegetables will be more likely to decay. if there is a furnace in the cellar, the storage room should be far enough away so that it can be kept cool, and during very cold weather the door may be opened to prevent freezing.--mo. exp. sta. tomatoes for the kitchen garden. c. w. purdham, market gardener, brooklyn center. the first and most important thing in raising tomatoes is good seed. to raise good tomatoes does not depend so much on the variety you have as it does on the seed. in the fall select your best tomatoes and save the seed. then about the first of april sow your seed. you can sow them in a box behind the stove, and as soon as they are up give them all the sunlight you can. when they are about two inches high, have some four-inch flower pots and transplant, giving them a good thorough wetting before removing them from the seed box to the flower pots. by this time it will be warm enough to have a cold frame, which may be prepared by nailing four boards together any size desired. one three by six feet will hold about plants. shelter it well from the north and slope it a little to the south with enough dirt in the frame to hold your pots. you can cover them with storm windows or cloth tacked onto frames. keep well covered nights and give all the sunlight possible through the day. after danger of frost is past, set them out. sandy loam is best, which must be well pulverized and fertilized. after you have removed the plant from the pot and set it in the ground, place the pot about two inches from the plant, also about two inches deep in the ground. then throw a small handful of dirt in each pot and fill with water as often as necessary. this is the best way of watering that i know. mr. sauter: what kind do you think is the best for an early variety? mr. purdham: well, the earliana is extensively raised and the dwarf champion. mr. sauter: what do you think of the red pear? mr. purdham: i don't know anything about that, but for a late variety of tomato the ponderosa is quite a tomato; it is a very large tomato. mr. sauter: how about the globe? mr. purdham: that is a good tomato. mr. sauter: what do you know of the paper cartons instead of flower pots? mr. purdham: i have never tried the cartons; i should think they would be all right. mr. miller: in saving your seed from year to year, is there any danger of the seed running out in time? mr. purdham: i don't think so. if you take your best tomatoes i think you will improve them. mr. miller: i should think the germination of that seed would run out? mr. purdham: that may be, i can't say as to that. there are people that make a specialty of studying that. annual report, , vice-president, first congressional district. f. i. harris, la crescent, minn. in making a report for the first congressional district, i will say at the beginning, that all my observations and interviews were taken in houston and winona counties, an especially favored locality this year, and i am well aware that the conditions and results are exceptional and do not form a just estimate for the district and are certainly very much above the average. the apple crop in the section named was a record breaker, and where trees were at all cared for and properly sprayed the quality and size of the fruit was very superior and remarkably free from insect pests and disease. [illustration: bridge on lakeside drive, at albert lea, in first congressional district.] the yield of several orchards in this vicinity was from , to , barrels of marketable fruit, an increase of nearly per cent above the largest previous crop. from this station twenty-one carload lots of apples, averaging barrels per car, were shipped, besides nearly as many more sold in the local markets of la crosse and winona and shipped in small lots by freight and express. the prices obtained were in all cases good, considering that the varieties grown are mostly summer and fall and had to be sold in competition with iowa and illinois fruit. while all markets were over-supplied, the demand for the quality of fruit grown here in the commercial orchards was greatly in excess of the supply and attracted buyers from chicago and the twin cities and has built a permanent market so long as the quality keeps up to this year's standard. at the same time, i am more than ever impressed with the necessity for some manner of utilizing the surplus and low grade fruit with which the local markets are flooded. it seems a great waste to have thousands of bushels of apples fed to hogs and left to rot on the ground which would be a large asset if converted into vinegar or canned. more than one-half the fruit brought from farms is only fit for such use and by being forced on the market serves to lower prices and demand for good fruit. i visited one farm orchard within twenty miles of here and saw at a low estimate bushels of apples lying on the ground, all of which could have been utilized in a factory, but not having been sprayed were not fit for barreling, and the owner had turned the hogs in to get rid of them. this is a condition that is sure to become worse in view of the many small orchards recently set, besides the commercial orchards that are just coming into bearing. from the reports received, in reply to circulars sent out, i gather that the crop varied from nothing to per cent and the quality in corresponding ratio, depending in most cases upon whether orchards were properly sprayed or neglected. scab and other diseases caused a large proportion of the fruit set to drop, and the remainder was unsalable in unsprayed orchards. considerable blight is reported in a number of orchards, especially where cultivated. trees growing in sod were noticeably free from it. practically nothing is being done to prevent its spreading. while cutting out the affected wood may in some cases check it, i am satisfied a better remedy will have to be found before it is wiped out. in my own orchard just a few trees located on low land and under cultivation were affected, and not a single case in sod. there is from all reports an abundance of moisture in the ground, and trees are in good condition to stand a hard winter, except that in some cases the buds started during the warm days of november. the crop of strawberries was generally a very light one on account of blossoms being injured by late frosts and winter killing, but a few correspondents report a full crop. other small fruits, including currants, raspberries and blackberries, were a practical failure and light crop. the crop of grapes was very light and in only a few favored localities ripened before killing frosts. plums, except in a few instances, were a failure, the exceptions being in case of the hansen hybrids. [illustration: residence of s.h. drum, owatonna, in first congressional district--a veteran member of the society] while more varieties of apples are successfully grown in this vicinity than elsewhere in the state, and some correspondents recommend a long list, my experience and advice is to set only a few varieties of known commercial value, and while far too many early apples are being grown, this condition is better than planting winter apples of unknown hardiness and quality. the northwestern greening is the most profitable winter apple here, but i understand it is not hardy in some localities in the state. * * * * * alaskan berry hybrids.--at the sitka experiment station in alaska a strain of hardy strawberries is in the making, the result of crosses between the native of the alaskan coast region and cultivated varieties. several thousand seedlings have been grown, all very vigorous and most of them productive and of high quality. the native variety of the interior of alaska is now to be used in similar crosses. the cuthbert raspberry has been crossed with its relatives, the native salmonberry (_rubus spectabilis_ pursh.) and the thimbleberry (_r. parviflorus_ nutt.). the only interesting fact so far developed is that the hybrids of the two species first named are almost entirely sterile. annual report, , vice-president, seventh congressional district. p. h. peterson, atwater, minn. from the answers received on blanks sent out i find there was a fair crop of apples raised throughout this district, with the trees in good condition for winter. wood is well ripened up, leaves all shed and plenty of moisture in the soil. [illustration: a productive strawberry field at p. h. peterson's atwater fruit farm.] all report none or very little blight this year. spraying is not done generally, but those few who do it are getting results. in our own orchard, which was sprayed twice last spring, we have not found one wormy apple. plums, none or a very few. mr. bjornberg, of willmar, reports the surprise plum a full crop, others a total failure. compass cherry bore a fair crop, but with me it rotted badly, as also did prof. hansen's plums, sapa and opata. grapes: not many are grown except the beta, which bore a heavy crop in spite of the late spring frosts. blackberries: nothing doing. raspberries and strawberries were a light crop. strawberries especially were badly damaged by late spring frosts--with me they were nearly a total failure except the everbearing, which gave us a good crop. and i want to add that they are here to stay for home use, and possibly as a market berry. plants are fully as hardy as the june-bearing sorts. no matter how many times the blossoms are frozen off in the spring they will come right out again and give us berries until it freezes up in the fall. currants and gooseberries were a fair crop. from the reports i gather that less nursery stock has been planted here than usual, but with good results, as the season has been favorable for plantings. the fruit list recommended by the state horticultural society can be relied on in this locality. there is a good deal of interest shown here in top-working the better quality winter apples onto hardy trees with good results, and the hibernal seems to be the best stock to use--it certainly ought not to be planted for any other purpose. the apple is a drug on the market, and those who planted largely of this variety find it difficult to dispose of the crop at any price. * * * * * studying fruits in illinois.--many seedling apples are being grown at the illinois experiment station. reciprocal hybridizations between standard orchard varieties and various species of the genus malus have been made, fifty-seven species and varieties which are not of commercial importance having been obtained from the arnold arboretum at boston. direct improvement through these violent crosses is not anticipated, but it is hoped to acquire valuable information regarding the affinities of the various species used, and also to produce material for use in back crossing. reciprocal crosses between standard orchard varieties are also being made in large numbers, while a difficult piece of work has been attempted in the reciprocal crossing of different strains of the same variety, and different individuals of the same strain. c.s. crandall writes: "this project has aimed at the selfing of particular individuals, and the use on trees here of pollen from trees of the same variety in orchards miles away and grown under quite different conditions. considerable effort has been expended in the prosecution of this project, but up to the present time we have recorded no successful pollinations. we have not as yet a very wide range of varieties, but as far as we have gone we have encountered complete sterility in the selfing within the individuals and in the attempt to use pollen of the same variety brought from a distance. the unfortunate feature about all the hybridizing work with apples is the mongrel character of the plants on which we work. we know nothing of the parentage of any of our varieties, and it seems quite useless to speculate on what the segregation of characters may be in crosses between different varieties. a further discouraging feature in apple breeding is the long period required to get results from any particular cross. effort is being made to shorten this period by grafting scions of hybrid seedlings on dwarf stocks and growing the plants in pots. this will help some, but at best the attainment of results is some distance in the future. we are endeavoring to maintain a reasonably complete record of every step that is taken so that a complete history may be available for those who may later continue the work. "in pursuing the projects as outlined above there are a number of minor problems that are receiving some attention: such as the retention of the vitality of pollen, the period of receptivity, the seed production in hybrid fruits, and the time for and percentage of the germination of seeds. on all of these points we are accumulating considerable information that it is hoped may be of some practical value."--journal of heredity. spraying the orchard. hon. h. m. dunlap, savoy, ills. i don't know whether i am out of place with this topic of mine or not with a minnesota audience, but i came through the exhibit rooms as i came up to the hall, and whether you spray or not you certainly need to, for i saw all sorts of fungous diseases upon your fruit. i presume that these are not the poorest specimens you have--very few people, you know, bring the poorest specimens they have to an exhibition place, mr. president, and i presume that if these are the best you have the poorest must be pretty bad in the way of fungous diseases. of course, people don't like to have their faults told them, but if we have anything the matter with us it is best for us to find out what the matter is and then get rid of it. it is better than to do as many did in the commercial fruit-growing states a number of years ago about the san jose scale, those that were interested in having that fact suppressed, or at least thought they were interested in having the fact suppressed that they had san jose scale within the confines of their state. they didn't want that information to get out, so they didn't discuss the matter of san jose scale in their societies. in illinois we took a different view of that proposition, and it was, that we had the san jose scale and we thought the thing to do was to stamp it out, to get after it. so we agitated that subject in our society and talked about it. we had the state entomologist canvass the entire state to find out where the san jose scale was doing its work and gave him authority to go in and spray those places or cut down the trees and get them out of the way. the effect of that work is very evident. the people of other states would point to us saying that they did not have the scale but that we had because we reported the fact, but i know they now have it a great deal worse than we do because of this neglect. in this matter of spraying and spraying materials, if we go back in history--we have to look for truth wherever we find it, whether it comes from low or high sources. as a matter of fact thieves and sheep ticks and ignorance are largely responsible for our spraying and the spraying materials of today. it doesn't sound very well in a scientific body to talk that way, but truth is truth wherever you find it, whether it comes from the university professor or from the farmer. if we recognize truth, from whatever source it comes, then we are open-minded and can take advantage of things that will be greatly to our benefit. in the matter of spraying materials: they were discovered through accident, in an effort to prevent thieving in the vineyards of bordeaux, france. it seems that workmen on the way to their places of employment were in the habit of foraging on the vineyards of the farmers along the way. to prevent that some of the fruit growers conceived the idea it would be a good thing in order to scare them to get blue vitriol and mix it with water and spray it on the fruit along the roadside. later in the season, very much to their surprise, they found that the grapes that were treated in that way were not affected with the brown rot. so they tried it again to see whether they were right about that being the cause, and it wasn't long before they used it for that purpose. they stopped the thieving, but they also discovered a scientific truth, that the bordeaux mixture was a fungicide and that fact has been of immense value to the world since then. when the san jose scale came into this country from the west, some man who had used sheep dip for sheep ticks, said: "if it is a good thing against sheep ticks, why isn't it good against this little vermin they call the san jose scale?" he tried it on the trees, and he found that it was an effective remedy for the san jose scale. so we have lime-sulphur today as one of the spray materials in very common use. among other things the scientists told us we couldn't use lime-sulphur and arsenate of lead together, that they would have to be sprayed over the orchard in separate sprays, that is, we would have to go over the orchard with lime-sulphur and then again with arsenate of lead, that when you combined the two the chemical combination was such that it deteriorated the lime-sulphur. some farmer who didn't know about that scientific proposition determined to put them both on together, and he found that it not only worked all right but that the two were really more effective when combined than if put on separately. so you see it was thieves, sheep ticks and ignorance that are responsible for three of our most successful ways of spraying at the present time. now, scientific men have come in and given us a great deal of information along various lines in regard to spraying, and i don't decry science in any sense at all. these men, while they were not scientifically educated, discovered scientific truths, and it is truths we want after all. just what your position on this spraying proposition is here in minnesota, whether you have commercial orchards up here or not, i have not been able to discover. i presume that your plantings here are very largely that of the farmer and amateur rather than the commercial orchardist. in illinois we have our large commercial orchards, and we have gotten beyond the question of whether it pays us to spray or not. for a man to be in the commercial apple business in illinois and not spray means that he doesn't accomplish very much and his product doesn't bring him any profit. now, whether you spray commercially or whether you spray for your family orchard in an amateur way, it doesn't matter so far as the spraying is concerned--you should spray in either case. if you have a community where you have few orchards and they are small, it behooves you to get together and buy a spraying outfit, combine with your neighbors and buy a good spraying outfit, and then have some man take that matter up who will do it thoroughly in that neighborhood and pay him for doing it. in that way, if you hire it done, it doesn't interfere with your farming operations and gets your spraying done on time. i have noticed this with stockmen and with grain farmers, men who are not directly interested in fruit but combine it with their regular business, that they consider fruit growing a side line and such a small part of their business that they usually neglect it altogether. in the matter of the spraying they keep putting it off until tomorrow. when the time arrives for spraying you must do it _today_ and not put it off until tomorrow. time is a very essential element in spraying. to give you an illustration: a few years ago, in spraying a willow twig orchard, consisting of eighteen rows of trees, i sprayed nine rows of those trees, or about half of the orchard, we will say, the first part of the week, the first two days. and then there came on a two or three days' rain, and the balance of those eighteen rows was sprayed the very last of the week or the first of the following week. the two following sprayings went on just at the right time for them, but when it came to the harvesting of that crop the trees that were sprayed first, that were sprayed immediately after the bloom fell, produced bushels of very fine no. fruit, free from scab, while the other nine rows, equal in every respect so far as the trees are concerned and the amount of bloom there was, produced seventeen bushels of no. fruit, no no. fruit at all. the willow twig is one of those varieties that is very susceptible to scab, and of course this is a marked illustration of what happens if you don't spray at the right time. notwithstanding the fact that the nine rows, the last ones, i speak of, were sprayed with the two following sprays at the same time that the other part of the orchard was sprayed, the results were entirely different because the first spraying, which was really the important one so far as the scab is concerned, was not put upon the tree at the right time. the scab fungus, which seems to appear on your apples out here, is one of the most insidious diseases we have in the whole fruit industry. i think that scab fungous disease is probably the one that affects you the most. now, scab fungus will not be noticed particularly in the spring of the year. the time that those spores are most prevalent, the period of their movement as spores in the atmosphere and the lodging upon the fruit, is right at the beginning, right about the time of the blossoming or immediately following. for a period of about two weeks at blooming time and after is the time that you have that condition. and the trouble is--it is just like typhoid fever. you let typhoid fever get into a family, and they do not think anything of it except to take care of the patient properly if he has it, but it doesn't scare the neighbors, it does not interest them. but let the smallpox break out in a community, and everybody is interested and scared to death for fear they are going to get the smallpox. well now, as compared with things of a fungous nature, the scab is a good deal like typhoid fever. the latter is insidious and it will destroy more--i take it there are more people die in the united states of typhoid fever every year than die of smallpox, ten to one. i haven't the statistics but i have that in mind, that it is a fact that they do, and yet there isn't half the fuss made about typhoid fever that there is about smallpox. now, that is so about the scab fungous disease. in illinois, to illustrate, we have what is called the bitter rot fungus in the southern part of the state. if any one has the bitter rot they are scared to death, they think they are suffering untold misfortune. the bitter rot attacks the apples when nearly grown. the ground is covered with the rotted apples, and you can see them in the trees, but this little bit of scab fungus, they do not seem to notice that. the reason is this, that scab comes from very minute spores that appear upon the apples in may or june, and as the summer advances they spread more and more. it depends, of course, upon the amount of moisture there is present, but it begins its work when the apples are very small. if it gets upon the stem of the apple it works around the stem and the apple drops off, and you have apples dropping from the time they are the size of peas until the very last of the fall, and while it looks in the month of june as if you are going to have a good crop of apples when it comes harvest time your crop has diminished greatly or to nothing, and you wonder where it has gone. with this scab fungus they just keep dropping, dropping, all through the season; whenever you have a little rain or wind these apples that are affected will drop off. you don't notice them very much because they go so gradually, one at a time or so, and you don't notice you are having any particular loss until it comes fall, and you find that your crop is very small. that is why i say, you should wake up to the fact that it is necessary for you to spray if you are going to have perfect fruit and plenty of it--and i doubt not you could increase the amount of fruit you have in the state of minnesota by ten times in one year by simply spraying your orchards thoroughly at the proper time with fungicide. to do this, as i said, you must have a spraying outfit, individually or collectively, in your neighborhood, and if you get one individually you can take the contract to spray your neighbor's trees, if you wish, and get back enough to pay you for the outlay. if you have only a few trees and you have some one who understands it, you could just as well spray a few other orchards in the neighborhood and get your spraying done for nothing in that way, charging them enough to cover the cost and enough for some profit. that is done in some sections and is a very satisfactory way. the only way, however, that i would do this, if i were you, would be to enter into a joint arrangement of not less than five years, because if you do it from year to year, if a man has good fruit one year, he may say, "i guess i don't want to go to that expense this year; i will drop that." you know how it is. if you make a contract for five years then you can make your plans accordingly and get your material and your spraying outfit and everything. i wouldn't trust to a one-year plan because they get "cold feet," as the saying is, after the first year, and perhaps they have not noticed any great advantage and they back out, but if they keep it up five years they wouldn't be without it. in a small way it isn't necessary to have a high power, high pressure engine to do this spraying with. a _good_ hand pump, as they make them now, has a very efficient force in applying this spray. it is not the force with which the spray material is applied that makes it effective, so much as it is the thoroughness with which it is done. you have to do a thorough job. in spraying you are providing insurance for your apple crop. that is just what it means, and not to spray is like doing without fire insurance on your buildings. you do that, not because you want fire, but you are doing it for protection, you are going to be on the safe side. you are doing like the darkey woman when she was about to be married. she had been working as cook, and the day came for her to be married. that morning she brought a roll of bills down to the boss. she said: "mr. johnson, i wish you would keep this money for me. i's gwine to be married." he said: "is that so? but why do you come to me with this? i should think having a husband you would have him take care of it for you." she said: "lord a' massy. do you think i was gwine to have that money around the house wid dat strange nigger there? no, sir." (laughter.) that lady was taking the precaution of being on the safe side, and that is what we do when we spray our orchards, we are going to be safe. there are a great many kinds of spraying materials. there is the bordeaux, one of our best fungicides, but we find in illinois that it also, while it is a good fungicide, has the effect sometimes of burning the fruit if the weather conditions are just right. if you have pretty fair weather conditions up here and don't have too much rain, you probably would not get your fruit affected too much, and if you are not growing it for market it doesn't matter so much because all it does is to russet the fruit. it doesn't do any particular harm except when the scab fungus is especially bad, for then it does injure the foliage more or less. on the whole, in illinois, we are using the lime-sulphur in preference to the bordeaux, and our commercial orchard growers there have completely abandoned the bordeaux except for bitter rot fungus or blotch fungus, which comes late in the season. the spray just before the bloom is a very important one for the scab fungus. after you can see the pink of the bloom on the trees as they begin to look pink, before the blossoms open, put on your lime-sulphur, or you can use bordeaux mixture at that time if you prefer it, without injury to your fruit. (to be continued in april no.) everbearing strawberries. geo. j. kellogg, janesville, wis. a few words about this new breed. progressive, superb and americus are the best three i have found in the last ten years--don't confound american with americus. pan-american was the mother of the whole tribe. this variety was found in a field of bismark, by s. cooper, new york, and exhibited all through the buffalo world's fair. there is where my first acquaintance with it was formed. from this one plant and its seedlings all the ten thousand everbearers have been grown. but pan-american don't make many plants. there are a great many good kinds in the ten thousand, and a great many of them worthless. so look out when and where you buy. i have great hopes of your no. , but kinds do not adapt themselves to all soils or climates. i have not found any success with the everbearers south of the ohio. i have tried them three years in texas. i sent plants to bro. loring, in california, and they failed to produce satisfactorily. missouri grows almost all aroma; california but two kinds commercially; texas only excelsior and klondike for shipment. i hope our no. minnesota june-bearing and our no. everbearing, will have as great a range as dunlap. friend gardener, of iowa, has a lot of "thousand dollar kinds." i hope some of them will do wonders. he sold , quarts of fruit after august . a firm at three rivers, mich., this season advertised , cases in september, but perhaps it was only , ; i have known printers to make mistakes. my boy's beds of superb, progressive and americus were loaded with ripe and green fruit and blossoms october st this year. most, if not all, know the fruit must be kept off the everbearers the season of planting till the plants get established, usually two or three months, then let them bear. if you want all fruit, keep off the runners; if all plants, keep off the fruit. beds kept over that have exhausted themselves will need rest till july to give big crops. beds kept over will fruit a week earlier than the june varieties, rest a few weeks, then give a fall crop, but don't expect too much unless you feed them. there are ten thousand kinds of new everbearers, so don't buy any that have not been tried and proven worthy. there are thousands that are worthless. friend haralson only got no. out of , sorts. he has now , new kinds, set out four feet apart each way, he is testing. from what many growers are doing this breed will pay commercially, but it will be by experts. i have not time to advocate cultivation in hills or hedge rows; if you want big berries this is the way to get them. be sure your straw mulch and manure mulch are free from noxious weed or clover and grass seeds. everbearers need the same winter care as june varieties and a good deal more manure. don't cover with asparagus tops unless free of seed. put manure either fresh or rotted on the old bed with a manure spreader or evenly by hand. there is a possibility of manuring too heavily. [illustration: a typical everbearing strawberry plant as it appears in september.] mr. durand: what is the best spray for leaf-spot and rust in strawberries? mr. kellogg: cut it out and burn it, but then there are some sprays with bordeaux mixture that will help you, but you have got to put it on before the rust shows itself. mr. miller: i would like to ask mr. kellogg if he advises covering the strawberries in the winter after snow has fallen and with what success? mr. kellogg: if the snow isn't too heavy you can do it just as well after the snow comes as before, but if your snow comes early and is a foot deep you have got to wait until the january thaw before you can successfully mulch them. that snow will protect them until it thaws off, until the ground commences to freeze. if the snow comes early and stays late it is all the mulch you need. mr. franklin: are oak leaves as they blow off from the trees on the strawberry beds, are they just as good to protect them as straw would be--when there are lots of oak leaves? mr. kellogg: if you don't put them on too thick. you don't want more than two inches of leaves. if you do they will mat down and smother your plants. mr. ludlow: have you had any experience with using cornstalks that have been fed off, just the stalk without the leaves. is that sufficient for a winter protection without the straw or leaves? i put on mine just to cover them. they are four inches apart one way and then across it the other way so as to hold it up and not get them smothered. mr. kellogg: that is all right. i have covered with cornstalks. mr. ludlow: would it be policy to leave that on and let the strawberries come up through, to keep them clean? mr. kellogg: if you get the stalks on one way and haven't them covered too thick the other way, leave them on; the strawberries will come through. mr. gowdy: i would like to ask mr. kellogg what he thinks of planting different varieties together. mr. kellogg: it is a good plan. i spoke of dunlap and warfield. the warfield is a pistillate. if you plant all warfields you get no fruit. if you plant all dunlap it will bear well but it will do better alongside of a pistillate, or it will do better alongside of some other perfect. it will do better to plant two or four kinds. they used to ask me what kinds of strawberries i wanted, and what was the best one kind. i told them i wanted six or eight in order to get the best kind. i want an early, and a medium, and a late, two of a kind. mr. gowdy: i planted one year three varieties with great success. mr. mcclelland: what time do you uncover your strawberries? mr. kellogg: i don't uncover them at all. if you got on four inches of mulch you want to take off enough so the plants can get through, but keep on enough mulch in the spring to keep your plants clean and protect from the drouth. mr. mcclelland: will they come through the mulch all right? m. kellogg: they will come through all right if it isn't more than two inches. if they shove up and raise the mulch open it up a little over the plants. mr. willard: i would like to ask the speaker, the way i understood him, why he couldn't raise as good strawberries on new ground as on old ground? mr. kellogg: the soil seems to be too loose. now, that twenty-one acres i had, it was full of leaf-mold. it was six inches deep and had been accumulating for ages. i couldn't account for it only that it was too loose, and i had to work it down with other crops before i could grow strawberries. mr. willard: so it would be better to plant on old ground or old breaking than new? mr. kellogg: yes, old ground that has been well manured, or old ground that has never been manured, will grow better strawberries than new soil, as far as i have tried it. new clover soil is a good soil. mr. wedge: it might add to the value of this discussion to state that mr. kellogg's soil at janesville is rather light soil anyhow. i am under the impression that if his soil at janesville which produced so poorly on new soil had been a heavy clay soil that the result would have been different. mr. kellogg: that twenty-one acres was clay after you got down to it and was in the woods; my other fields were out on the prairie. i don't think the light soil had anything to do with it, with my failure in the woods, i think it was the new soil. mr. sauter: can the everbearing and the common varieties be planted together? mr. kellogg: yes, if you are growing plants you want everything. mr. sauter: how far apart must they be planted? mr. kellogg: so their runners won't run together, and they won't mix. if the runners mix maybe you would get some crosses that are valuable. mr. clausen: i was just thinking it might interfere, that some one might not plant strawberries at all on account of new soil. i would say i have a neighbor, and he had entirely new soil. it was black oak and hickory--i have some of that myself. i never saw a better patch of strawberries than he had. i don't think i ever saw a better strawberry patch than he had of the everbearing kind, so i don't think it is just exactly the old soil. mr. willis: i have my strawberries on new ground, and they did very fine, couldn't be better. from a space of five feet square i got twenty-eight boxes, that is, of no. . mr. wedge: forest soil or prairie? mr. willis: it was light clay. i have got about an acre and a half on new soil now, and they look very fine. mr. glenzke: what would be the consequence of the berries being planted after tomatoes had been planted there the year before? what would be the consequence as to the white grub that follows the tomatoes, and other insects? mr. kellogg: that white grub don't follow tomatoes, if the ground was clear of white grubs before. it is a three year old grub, and it don't come excepting where the ground is a marsh or meadow, and doesn't follow in garden soil, hardly ever. if the ground has been cultivated two years, you don't have any white grub. mr. glenzke: part of this ground had been in red raspberries, and i found them there. this year i am going to put in tomatoes and prepare it for strawberries. will that be all right? mr. kellogg: you may get some white grubs after the raspberry bushes if your raspberries have been two or three years growing. potato ground is the best you can follow strawberries with. mr. rasmussen (wisconsin): what trouble have you experienced with overhead irrigation with the strawberries in the bright sunshine? mr. kellogg: everything is against it. you wet the foliage, and it is a damage to the plants. you can't sprinkle in the hot sun without damage. mr. rasmussen: i didn't mean in putting it on in that way, but where you use the regular spray system. we watered that way about seven years in the hottest sunshine without any difficulty, and i wondered if you ever put in a system and sprayed that way, as i think that is the only way to put water on. mr. kellogg: if you wait to spray after sundown it will be all right; the sun mustn't shine on the plants. mr. richardson: mr. yankee once said in this society if one man said anything another man would contradict it. so pay your money and take your choice. i sprinkle my strawberries in the hot sun, and i never had any damage done to the plants. his experience is different. ours is a heavy clay loam. mr. kellogg: tell the gentlemen about the peat soil, you had some experience with peat soil. mr. richardson: no, i never did. it wasn't peat, it was a heavy black clay and i had the best kind of strawberries, they came right through a tremendous drouth without any water at all. mr. kellogg: what did you use? mr. richardson: i used a common garden hoe. mr. willis: i heard some one talking about the grub worm. i read of somebody using fifty pounds of lime to the acre, slaked lime, and pounds of sulphur to the acre in a strawberry bed, and he killed the insects. mr. kellogg: i think that wouldn't kill the grub; he has a stomach that will stand most anything. the only thing i know is to cut his head off. (laughter.) mr. willis: would it improve the plants, fertilize the plants, this lime? mr. kellogg: lime and sulphur is all right, and the more lime you put on the better--if you don't get too much. (laughter.) mr. sauter: i am growing the minnesota no. , and also the no. as an everbearer. is there any kind better than those two? mr. kellogg: i don't believe there is anything yet that has been offered or brought out that i have examined thoroughly that is any better than june variety no. , as grown by haralson, and the no. of the everbearers. he had a number of everbearers that bore too much. there was no. and no. , i think, that i tried at lake mills, which bore themselves to death in spite of everything i could do. mr. simmons: the question has come up two or three times in regard to peat soil for growing strawberries. peat soil will grow strawberry plants first class, but the fruit is generally lacking. that is my experience. i grew some on peat soil for two or three seasons, and the plants grew prolific, but i didn't get any fruit. mr. ebler: i would like to ask mr. kellogg what treatment he would advise for a strawberry bed that through neglect has matted completely over, in which the rows have disappeared. mr. kellogg: plow out paths and rake out the plants and throw them away and work the bed over to rows about two feet wide. president cashman: i see you all appreciate expert advice. we have mr. kellogg well nigh tired. mr. kellogg: oh, no; i can stand it all day. mr. cashman: i am sure you all agree that it is a great privilege to listen to mr. kellogg on this subject. if you will follow his advice very closely it will save you a great many dollars, even to those who don't grow more than an ordinary family strawberry bed. he has had forty or fifty years of experience, and he has paid large sums of money for that experience and now turns it over to you free of charge, and i hope you will all profit by it. mr. kellogg: i have grown probably different varieties of strawberries, and the more kinds i grow the less money i make. (laughter.) mr. wedge: i would like to ask mr. kellogg and i think we would all be interested in knowing when he began growing strawberries? mr. kellogg: well, i don't hardly know. i didn't go into the business until , but i commenced picking strawberries in , and that was where the indians had planted them. my father commenced growing strawberries when i was a boy, but when i got to be a man i went at it myself in . (applause.) _in memoriam--mrs. melissa j. harris_ passed january , . mrs. melissa j. harris, widow of the late john s. harris, one of the charter members of our society and rightly called the godfather of the society, passed to her reward on january last, at the age of eighty-five years. since the death of her husband, which occurred in march, , mrs. harris has made her home with some one of her four surviving children, all of whom live in the southeastern part of the state, not far from la crescent, where mr. and mrs. harris resided from up to the time of mr. harris' death, some forty-five years. [illustration: mrs. melissa j. harris.] many of the older members of this society have enjoyed the hospitality of this kindly home, among them the writer, who passed a very pleasant day there, looking over the experimental orchards of mr. harris, some twenty years ago. no member of our society surpassed mr. harris in his zeal for its welfare, and he was ready to sacrifice anything apparently to advance its interests. if the card index of the reports of this society was examined it would be found that no member has begun to do the service for the society in the way of contributions to its program, reports on seedling fruits, experimental work, etc., that was done by him. his passing left a real void in the life of the association which has never really been filled. a splendid life size photo of mr. harris adorns the walls of this office; a reproduction from this in reduced size is opposite page , vol. of our annual reports. the funeral services of mrs. harris were conducted in the presbyterian church at la crescent, the same building in which services were held for her husband, at which there were present from our society as representatives mr. j.m. underwood, the late wyman elliot, and the writer. her body was laid to rest beside that of her husband in prospect hill cemetery at la crescent. mrs. harris is survived by four children, ten grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren. frank i. harris, one of the two sons, is well known to our membership who attend the annual meetings or the state fair; another son, eugene e., who is also a life member (mr. harris saw to it that both of his sons were made life members during his life time) has occasionally been with us. mr. d.c. webster, of la crescent, at present in charge of one of the society trial stations, is a grandson of mrs. harris. exhibitors at our meetings and at the state fair are all well acquainted with this valuable member of our organization.--secy. eat minnesota apples. contributed monthly by r. s. mackintosh, horticulturist, extension division, university farm, st. paul. fruit notes. early spring is the best time to prune apple trees. more and more attention is being given to the pruning of young and old trees in order that they may be able to support large loads of fruit. yet too many trees have been neglected and now look like brush heaps instead of fruit trees. neglected trees should have all dead and interlocking branches removed this year. next year a few more needless branches should be taken out and some of the others shortened. after this a little attention each year will keep the tree in good form. each year the agricultural extension division of the university of minnesota arranges for pruning and spraying demonstrations in different orchards of the state. communities wishing this kind of help, should at once send in petitions signed by fifteen or more persons interested in fruit growing. send applications to director, agricultural extension division, university farm, st. paul. pruning is a good subject for farmers' clubs to take up in march and april. look out for rabbit injury this spring. apple trees cost too much garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. _cypripedia_, by miss clara leavitt. the showy lady's slipper (c. hirsutum) is found in swamps and rich meadows. old settlers tell of gathering the pink and white "moccasin flower" by the bushel, to decorate for some special occasion. today we are trying to shield a few in their last hiding places. the draining of swamps and cutting of meadows has had much to do with their disappearance. the picking of the leafy stem by the ruthless "flower lover" cripples the plant for a season or more and frequently kills it outright. attempts to transfer it to the home garden have succeeded for a year or so but rarely longer, perhaps because its native habitat is very difficult to duplicate. the small yellow lady's slipper (c. parviflorum), found in bogs, and the large yellow (c. parviflorum var. pubescens), growing on hillsides and in rich woods, as well as in swamps, are the most widely distributed and best known of this genus. they have often been transferred from the wild to the home garden. where they have been given their native soil and environment the stock has increased and seedlings have developed. they have even been brought into conservatory or window garden and forced to flower in february. the crimson stemless lady's slipper (c. acaule) is found in drier woods and on the stump knolls of swamps in certain locations. it has with difficulty been established in a few gardens. the small white lady's slipper (c. candidum) occurs locally in boggy meadows. it is a very dainty plant. it grows in at least one wild garden. the ram's head lady slipper (c. arietinum) is very rare and local. it is a very delicate and pretty thing, purple and white in color. all of these species are to be seen in season in the wild garden of the minneapolis park system. * * * * * committee on the protection of cypripedia: mrs. phelps wyman, chairman; miss clara leavitt, miss m. g. fanning, mrs. c. e. c. hall, mrs. e. c. chatfield, mr. guy hawkins. * * * * * our plant exchange should be of great benefit to our members, such a fine beginning having been made last spring. send a list of the plants you have for exchange and those you would like to receive to our secretary. these will be posted upon the bulletin board at our meetings, where exchanges can be arranged between the members. * * * * * march . public library, minneapolis, : p.m. meeting of garden flower society. program: our garden enemies. cultural directions for trial seeds. distribution of trial seeds. minnesota cypripedia. have they responded to cultivation? bee-keeper's column conducted by frances jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. importance of good queens. the government census of gives the average of honey production per colony for the state of minnesota at five pounds per colony. allowing for mistakes which were made in making up this census, there is no doubt that the average amount of honey produced by a colony is not nearly as high as efficient beekeeping would make it. when some well known beekeepers will average year after year fifty, seventy and even a hundred pounds per colony, there must be something wrong with those who fall far below this amount. there are many causes responsible for this failure of honey crops. bad management, no management at all, antiquated or impossible equipment, locality, etc., are all factors contributing towards a shortage in the honey crop, but poor queens are the most universal cause of disappointment. the queen being the mother of the whole colony of bees, the hive will be what she is. if she is of a pure, industrious, gentle, hardy and prolific strain, the colony over which she presides will be uniform, hard working, easy to handle, easy to brave the inclemency of the weather and the severity of our winters, and populous in bees. the bees partake of the characteristics of the queen. the fact of the matter is, that more than % of our minnesota queens are either black germans or hybrids, neither of which lend themselves to pleasant and profitable beekeeping. having been inbred for years will make them still less valuable, and most of them have been inbred for generations. among many things in which the beekeepers of minnesota should begin to improve their beekeeping possibilities, the necessity of good queens comes first. with a new strain of pure, gentle, industrious, leather colored italian bees, their love for beekeeping should receive a new impetus, leading them to better equipment and better management. it was with this point in view that the university of minnesota has secured the best breeding queens obtainable from which to raise several thousands of queens for the use of beekeepers of the state. these queens will be sold each year during the months of june, july and august at a nominal price of fifty cents each, and not more than three to each beekeeper. the university is ready to book orders now. there is such a demand for these queens that last year only one-quarter of the orders could be filled. given three pure italian queens to start with, a beekeeper may easily re-queen his whole bee-yard in the course of a year. detailed printed instructions how to proceed will be sent out to all buyers of queens free of charge. time has come to start bee-keeping on a more profitable basis, and the first step towards better success should be a new strain of queens. entomological notes by f.l. washburn, professor of entomology, university of minnesota. rabbits; rabbit-proof fences; field mice. probably the thoughtful orchardist has before this date visited his orchard and trampled the deep snow down around his young fruit trees for a distance of two feet on all sides of each trunk, thus preventing rabbits from reaching the trunk above the protected part, or from eating the branches in the case of low-headed trees. even at this date, this should be done where the snow lies deep. frequent tramplings about the young trees also protects the trees from possible injury by field mice working beneath the snow. this leads us to speak of our experiences with so-called "rabbit-proof" fencing. in the summer time, when an abundance of food is everywhere offered, these small mesh fences are generally effective barriers, but, in the case of the low fences, drifting snow in winter permits an easy crossing, and in the case of the higher fences which have the narrow mesh at the bottom, gradually widening toward the top, it is possible for a rabbit to get his head and body through a surprisingly small space between the wires. the writer was astonished, late last autumn, previous to any snowfall, to see one of these pests, which had jumped from its "nest" in his (the writer's) covered strawberry-bed, run to the inclosing fence, which was provided with the long, narrow mesh above alluded to, raise himself on his hind feet and push his way through a space not more than three inches wide. it would seem, therefore, that one should accept with some reservation the assertion that these fences are actually "rabbit-proof." preparedness for (insect) war. however one may regard the agitation for or against preparing this country for (or against) war, we are doubtless of all one mind as to the desirability of being prepared to successfully cope with the various insect-pests which are sure to arrive during the coming spring and summer to attack shrubs, fruit trees, berry bushes, melons, cucumbers and practically all of our vegetables. the entomologist has every reason to be thankful that, early last spring, he laid in a supply of arsenate of lead, black leaf no. , commercial lime-sulphur, tree tanglefoot, tobacco dust, also providing himself with an abundance of air-slaked lime and a spraying outfit suitable for use in a small experiment garden and orchard at lake minnetonka. all gardeners, particularly those who cannot quickly purchase such things on account of distance from a supply, should take time by the forelock and obtain materials now, that they may be ready at hand when very much needed. an important discovery in entomology. an item of importance, and quite far-reaching in its significance is the fact (as reported at the recent meeting of entomologists at columbus) that the odor in stable manure which attracts house flies, has been "artificially" produced, if that expression may be used, by a combination of ammonia and a little butyric acid. a pan of this, covered by cotton, attracted hundreds of flies which deposited their eggs thereon. the possibilities of making use of this new-found fact are most promising, and the discovery is especially significant in that it opens an immense and practically an untried field in entomological work; that is, the making use of different odors to attract different species of insects. a series of experiments in this direction with the mediteranean fruit fly, also recently reported, have been most surprising but too extensive to permit of discussion here. * * * * * nurserymen intending to import currants or gooseberries from europe will be interested in learning that there is a possibility of a federal quarantine on shrubs of this genus grown abroad. state entomologist circular no. , issued in january, , and entitled the "red rose beetle," by s. marcovitch (illustrated), is available for distribution. application should be accompanied by one cent stamp. secretary's corner plant commercial orchards.--it is well established that in certain localities at least in the state commercial orcharding is on a safe basis, offering reasonable financial profits if managed by those who take pains to inform themselves on the subject, and are then thorough going enough to practice what they know. this spring will be a good time to plant such an orchard. orchard trees of suitable size were never more plentiful in the nurseries, and undoubtedly the sorts which you wish to plant can be readily purchased. ask some of your nearest nurseries for prices as to trees, either two or three years old, whichever you prefer. give your neighbor a chance too.--this means that you should not be satisfied simply in having secured something of value to yourself, but pass on to others the valuable opportunity which you yourself are enjoying. it is a well established principle of life that the greatest happiness consists in giving happiness to others. as any member can do his neighbor a favor, without any expense to himself, and indeed with profit, by putting his neighbor in touch with the valuable facilities offered by the horticultural society, there is evidently a double reason why he should do so. for the small membership fee charged you can put into his hands all the material referred to on the next page. read it over and lend your neighbor a helping hand. timely notes in our monthly.--there will be in our monthly magazine during most of the rest of the months of the year five pages devoted to timely topics. the experience of the past year or two in this direction encourages us to believe that this will prove to be the most valuable portion of our monthly. one page, as heretofore, will be operated in the interest of garden flowers, edited by mrs. e. w. gould; another page, prepared by prof. r.s. mackintosh, under the head of "fruit notes," which subject indicates clearly its purpose. prof. francis jager, the apiarist at university farm, will prepare another page, pertaining to the keeping of bees. prof. f.l. washburn, the state entomologist, will have a page devoted to insect life as interesting the horticulturist. the fifth page will be handled by profs. a.g. ruggles and e.c. stakman jointly devoted entirely to the subject of "spraying." each issue of the magazine will contain these notes as applying to the month just following. they will be found well worth studying. are you a life member?--of course if you are interested in the work of the horticultural society and likely to live ten years you ought to be a life member. experience with this roll for twenty-five years now as secretary of the society indicates that a life membership in the society is almost an assurance that you will prolong your days. a list of deaths in the life membership roll published year by year would indicate that our life members are going to be with us far beyond the average span of human life. since publishing a list of new life members in the february horticulturist, there have been added to this life list five names: tosten e. dybdal, elbow lake, minn.; gust carlson, excelsior; a.n. gray, deerwood; a.m. christianson, bismarck, n.d.; chas. h. lien, st. cloud. if you have already paid your annual fee for this year, send us $ . more and your name will be placed on the life roll with the balance of $ . to be paid one year from how--or send $ . , and that makes a full payment. [illustration: horticultural building (showing new greenhouses attached) at university farm, st. anthony park, minn.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. april, no. dwarf apple trees. dr. o.m. huestis, minneapolis. i have here a sample of mcintosh red grown on a standard tree--a beautiful apple and well colored. here i have the same variety grown on one of my dwarf trees, not quite as well colored. now, the dwarf tree that bore these apples has been planted two years; this is the second year of its growth in my own ground at mound, on lake minnetonka. i have sixty dwarf trees, five of which have been in eight years, and they have borne six crops of apples. the last ones i got two years ago, and they were two years old when i got them. i planted five of these dwarf trees at the same time that i planted forty standards. the dwarfs have borne more fruit than the standards up to date. of course, they have only been in eight years. the standards are wealthy, duchess, northwestern greening and one or two hibernal and some crabs; the dwarf stock is the doucin. it is not the paradise stock, which is grown in england largely and some in france and germany. my trees are a little higher than my head, and i keep them pruned in a certain way. one of my older trees the second year had ninety-six apples on it. it was a yellow transparent, and they came to maturity very well. several of my trees are about four feet high. i had from twenty-five to fifty apples on them, and they all ripened nicely. the red astrachan and the gravenstein and one alexander had a few apples on them, and i notice that they are well loaded with fruit buds for another year, which will be the third year planted. the care of these trees is probably a little more difficult than that of the standard tree, or, at least, i give them special care. i have attempted to bud into some of these, but in my experience they do not take the bud very well. i can take a bud from one of the dwarfs and put it on a standard, and it will grow all right, but i can't take a bud from a standard and put it on a dwarf as successfully. i judge it is because it isn't as rapid growing as the hibernal, for instance, would be. i notice the hibernal is the best to take a bud because it is a rapid growing tree and an excellent one on which to graft. if i wanted to plant an orchard of forty or fifty acres i would plant standard trees and would put the dwarf between the rows, probably twelve feet apart. mine are about ten feet apart, some of them a little more, but i have two rows eight feet apart each way, nine in each row, which forms a double hedge. i expect them to grow four feet high. i will prune them just as i wish to make a beautiful double hedge between two cottages. [illustration: residence of dr. huestis, at mound, lake minnetonka.] in pruning those that have been in eight years i have tried to use the renewal system as we use it on grapes sometimes. i take out some of the older branches and fruit spurs that have borne two or three years. they must be thinned out. i counted twenty apples on a branch a foot long. i let them grow until they are large enough to stew and then take some off and use them, when apple sauce is appreciated. i thin them every year and get a nice lot of good fruit each year. i have noticed for two years that i have about ninety-eight per cent. of perfect apples, not a blotch nor a worm. i spray them all, first the dormant spray and then just as the blossoms are falling, and then one other spraying in two weeks and another spray three weeks later. mr. ludlow: do you mulch the ground? dr. huestis: well, i dig up the ground a little in the spring. the roots are very near the surface, not very penetrating, and i cultivate around the roots, but i am careful not to cut them. every fall i put a good mulch of leaves and hay around them. i have been a little fearful they would winter-kill. i wouldn't lose one of them for ten dollars, and i think it well to mulch them, leaving a little space at the base. mr. andrews: are the roots exposed in some cases? dr. huestis: yes, i noticed on two of the older trees, those that have been in eight years and have borne six crops, you can see the roots on one side, the top is exposed a little, and i think it would be well to put a little dirt on those another year. the stock of these dwarf trees is slow growing with a rapid growing top, and that is what dwarfs them. i have transplanted one tree three times, which would make four plantings in eight years, and that tree bore almost as much fruit last year as any of them. in another case once transplanted i think the tree is better than the others that were left. [illustration: dwarf yellow transparent, bearing apples, third year from planting at dr. huestis'.] as i said before, if i was planting an orchard i would put dwarf trees between, and by the time they had borne three or four crops, and you were expecting a crop of fruit from the standard trees--about seven years from the time you put them in--i would put the dwarf trees as fillers, costing about forty cents apiece, and by the time they are bearing nicely your friends would have seen those, and i believe would want them at the time you want to take them out. i believe i could sell any of mine for three or four dollars apiece. i think that would be one way of disposing of them after you wanted to take them out of the standard orchard on account of room. that is just a thought of mine. when i got my first ones eight years ago i gave one to a man who lives in north minneapolis, at bryant avenue north. any one can see it who lives up in that section. the first year he had twenty-nine apples, and it has borne each year since. the one which i have transplanted and which bore last year is a bismarck. it is a little better apple, in my mind, than the duchess. it is a good deal like the duchess but is a better keeper and has a better flavor than the duchess. [illustration: dwarf bismarck, fourth year, at dr. huestis'] i would like to read a quotation to show that the dwarf tree is not a late thing. recommending dwarf trees for gardens, "corbett's english garden," published in , says: "i do hope if any gentleman makes a garden he will never suffer it to be disfigured by the folly of a standard tree, which the more vigorous its growth the more mischievous its growth to the garden." marshall says, "the fewer standard trees in the garden the better." also that the dwarfs are less trouble to keep in order and are generally more productive, and that "placed eight or nine feet distant, pruned and kept in easy manner, they make a fine appearance and produce good fruit." w.c. drury, highly regarded as a modern english authority, writing in says: "for the private garden or for market purposes the dwarf, or bush, apple tree is one of the best and most profitable forms that can be planted." he also says: "the bush is one of the best forms of all, as it is of a pleasing shape and as a rule bears good and regular crops." mr. clausen: don't you have trouble with the mice? dr. huestis: no, sir, have never seen any. mr. clausen: i had an experience a few years ago. my neighbor made a mistake; he was hauling straw around his apple trees, and he happened to take one row of mine. we had no fence between us--and he laid the straw around the trees. i found when i came to examine these trees in the spring they were all girdled around the bottom. i am afraid to mulch. dr. huestis: i never have taken any chances. ever troubled with the mice at your place, mr. weld? mr. weld: a little. dr. huestis: i have never had any trouble with the mice. i always put on a lot of old screen that i take from the cottages that is worn out and put a wire around it so the mice can't get through it. we must protect from mice and rabbits. mr. kellogg: how soon do your dwarf trees pay for themselves? dr. huestis: i don't know. i reckon these four have paid about twelve per cent. on fifteen or twenty dollars this year, and they have right along. they have paid me better so far during the eight years than the standards. that might not apply in eight more years, but for a city lot, a man who has fifty square feet, how many apple trees could he put in that seventeen feet apart? nine standard trees. in that same plot of fifty feet square he could put in sixty-four dwarfs, and it would be a nice little orchard. i think it is more adapted to the city man. the ordinary farmer would neglect them, and i should hate to see a farmer get them, but i would like to do anything for the man living in the city with only a small plat of land--my vocation being in the city, my avocation being in the country. mr. kellogg: are those honest representations of the different apples from the dwarf and the standard? dr. heustis: i don't know. those are a fair sample of those i found in a box on exhibit and are red mcintosh. they are better colored than mine, most of them are like this (indicating). i find the yellow transparent that i have budded on the standard better on the dwarf than on the standard. mr. kellogg: does it blight any? dr. huestis: no blight; there hasn't ever been a blight. i think that is one reason why i feel i could recommend them quite conscientiously. other trees have blighted when the conditions were favorable. * * * * * twenty-five by seventy foot plot will produce enough vegetables for a small family.--even the smallest back yard may be made to yield a supply of fresh vegetables for the family table at but slight expense if two or three crops are successively grown to keep the area occupied all the time, according to the garden specialists of the department. people who would discharge a clerk if he did not work the year round will often cultivate a garden at no little trouble and expense and then allow the soil to lie idle from the time the first crop matures until the end of the season. where a two or three crop system is used in connection with vegetables adapted to small areas, a space no larger than twenty-five by seventy feet will produce enough fresh vegetables for a small family. corn, melons, cucumbers, and potatoes and other crops which require a large area should not be grown in a garden of this size. half an acre properly cultivated with a careful crop rotation may easily produce $ worth of various garden crops in a year. plums that we already have and plums that are on the way. _the brown rot (monilia) a controlling factor._ dewain cook, fruit grower, jeffers. by the term "plums we already have" for the purpose of this paper we shall include only those varieties that have given general satisfaction over a large territory and for long term of years, and in the writer's opinion every one of such varieties are of full blooded, pure americana origin. the desoto takes the lead of them all. it undoubtedly has more good points to its credit than any other plum we have ever grown. the wyant and the freestone wolf are considered as being the next two most popular varieties. these were all wild varieties, found growing in the woods of wisconsin and iowa many years ago. there are a few other americana varieties that are nearly as good as are some of those enumerated, but at present we shall not attempt to name them. there are many otherwise fine varieties that are not included in this list of plums we already have, but because of a certain weakness of the blossom they require to be intermingled with other varieties, or the blossoms do not fertilize properly. they only bear well when conditions are very favorable. we class such varieties as being not productive enough. many attempts, with more or less--generally less--success have been made to improve our native plums through the growing of seedlings. mr. h.a. terry, of crescent, iowa, has done more of such work in his day than any other one man. his method was to plant the americana kinds, like the desoto, alongside of varieties of the hortulana type, like the miner, then growing seedlings from the best plums thus grown. from such cross bred seedlings mr. terry originated and introduced a great many very fine varieties. but where are they today? the hawkeye and the terry are about the only ones the general public knows very much about. i will venture this statement, that as far as i know there is no variety of native plum in which there is an intermingling of hortulana or chickasaw type that has proven productive enough to be generally profitable. the surprise plum belongs to this type, as also does the terry plum. the terry plum we want to keep a while longer, not because it is a mortgage lifter for the growers but because of the extraordinarily large size of its fruit, as well as for its fine quality. there are many injurious insects and fungous diseases that tend to make life a burden to the man who tries to grow plums in a commercial way. among the insects are the plum curculio and the plum tree borer, better known as the peach tree borer. the curculio sometimes destroys all of the fruit on the tree, and the borer very often will destroy the whole tree of any variety. among the fungous diseases are the shot hole fungus and the plum pocket fungus, but the worst of all is that terribly destructive disease of the plum known as the brown rot. this brown rot fungus sometimes destroys the whole crop of certain varieties, besides injuring the trees sometimes as well. this one disease has done more to make plum growing unpopular than all other causes combined. give us a cheap and efficient remedy, one that will destroy the rot fungus and not do injury to the foliage, buds or tree, and a long stride will have been made towards making plum growing popular as well as profitable. _japanese hybrid plums._--just now the japanese hybrid varieties are attracting considerable attention. one prominent minnetonka fruit grower said this to me about them: "mr. cook, what is the use of making all of this fuss about these new plums? plums are only used for the purposes of making jelly anyway, and we can usually get a dollar a bushel for our plums, and they would not pay any more than that, no matter how large and fine they are." this brought me up with a jerk, and i have concluded that no matter how advanced a place in horticulture these new hybrid plums may eventually take, that there will always be a place for our native varieties, even if only for the purpose of making jelly. it seems to the writer that in view of the fact that after many years' attempt to improve our native plum through the process of seed selection--and we have made no material advancement in that line--that the varieties of plums that are on the way must almost of necessity be the product of the americana and some of the foreign varieties of plums. mr. theo. williams, of nebraska, a few years ago originated a great many varieties of these hybrid plums. he claimed to have upward of , of them growing at one time. only a few of them, however, were ever sent out. of these the writer has been growing for quite a number of years the eureka, emerald, stella, omaha, b.a.q. and some others. as a class they are all reasonably hardy for my section. they grow rapidly, bear early, usually the season after they are planted or the top grafts set. they set fruit more freely and with greater regularity, as the seasons come, than do the best of our native varieties. the fruit is of larger size and of firmer flesh, while the quality of some of them, like the b.a.q., ranks rather low. the quality of others of them, like the emerald, is almost beyond comparison. one year ago in answer to a question by the writer as to why the people of iowa did not take more interest in the planting of these hybrid plums of mr. williams, mr. c.g. patten stated that it was because the plums rotted so badly on the trees. now, mr. patten stated the situation exactly--most of these fine varieties are notoriously bad rotters. the brown rot seems to be a disease of moist climate. nature's remedy is an abundance of sunshine and a dry atmosphere, but we cannot regulate the climate. prof. hansen has sent out a few varieties of these japanese americana hybrid plums, and our supt. haralson is doing a great work along this line. we can only hope--but cannot expect--that mr. hansen's hybrids or mr. haralson's hybrids as a class will prove more resistant to the brown rot than do those of mr. williams of the same class. we have hopes that from some of mr. c.g. patten's hybrids of the americana and domestica plum will come some varieties worthy of general planting, and also of prof. hansen's crosses of the americana plum and the chinese apricots. there is another class of hybrid plums that are something wonderful in their way, beginning to bear nearly as soon as they are planted, the very earliest of all plums to ripen its fruit, immensely productive and of finest quality. i refer to prof. hansen's sand cherry hybrid plums. my opinion is that prof. hansen has done all that man can do in the way of producing elegant varieties of this class of fruit. but there is the uncertainty, however, or perhaps i had better say the certainty, that the brown rot will take a good portion of the crop nearly every season--sometimes only a part of the crop, and other seasons it may take the entire crop of these fine sand cherry hybrid plums. bordeaux mixture has been the one remedy advertised for years for the control of this disease, and however well it may work in the hands of experts of the various university farms, it has not proved uniformly successful in the hands of the ordinary fruit grower. now, if some medicine should be invented, or some magic made, whereby the brown rot would be banished from our orchards then a great many of the fine varieties of hybrid plums would be transferred from the "plums that are on the way" to the list of "plums that we already have." the brown rot is a controlling factor. mr. kellogg: what do you know about the surprise? mr. cook: oh, i know a little more than i want to know about it. i have had the surprise a good many years. mr. kellogg: you have been surprised with it? mr. cook: yes, sir, i have been surprised quite a bit, but in the last two years since the plum crop failed there have been a few plums on the surprise trees, but for a great many years when other plums bore heavily we got nothing. mr. hansen: do you know of any plum that has never had brown rot? mr. cook: in my paper--as they only allowed me fifteen minutes i had to cut it short, and i didn't say very much about the brown rot. all the americana plums, and all varieties of plums i have ever grown, have in some way been susceptible to the brown rot, but some have been more resistant than others. now, that is one reason, i believe, why the desoto takes the lead. it is less subject to the brown rot. we have here a moist climate, and sunshine and dry atmosphere is the remedy, but some of these varieties have such a peculiar skin it is resistant to brown rot, and it seems certain, i don't know, if it is not on account of the thick skin. the wolf has a thick skin and is subject to brown rot, but the desoto is not subject to that so much but more subject to the curculio. the japanese hybrid plums, mr. williams said at one time--i saw in one of the reports--that he had japanese plums enough to grow fifty bushels of plums, but he generally only got a grape basket full. he didn't think very much of them. in these sand cherry hybrids, i think mr. hansen has done all that man could do. mr. ludlow: what is the difference between the brown rot and the plum pocket fungus? mr. cook: professor stakman will tell you that in a later paper, but it is an entirely different disease. the brown rot will work the season through. it will commence on some varieties and work on the small plums and work on the plums half-grown and on the full-grown. the plum pocket fungus, it works on the plums in the spring of the year and sometimes takes the whole crop. the terry plum, i think, a year ago, it took the whole crop. mr. kellogg: what is the best spray you know of, how often do you apply it and when? mr. cook: which is that for, for the brown rot? mr. kellogg: yes, for the plum generally. mr. cook: oh, i don't know of any. let me tell you something, the plum as a class is very susceptible to injury from sprays. i know when professor luger was entomologist there was some talk of spraying plums for curculio, and some tried it, and while it generally got the curculio it killed the trees, and professor luger said that the foliage of the plum was the more susceptible to injury from arsenical poisoning than that of any other fruit in minnesota. the japanese hybrid plums, i think, will take injury a little bit quicker than the native, and when you come to the sand cherry plums it is extremely dangerous to spray with anything stronger than rain water. prof. hansen: i want to talk about the lime-sulphur. we will probably have that in the next paper, only i want to say that seems to have taken the place of the bordeaux mixture. brown rot, that is something that affects the peach men too. in the state of ohio in one year the peach men lost a quarter of a million dollars from the brown rot, the same rot that takes our plums. we are not the only ones that suffer from the brown rot. well, they kept on raising peaches because they learned to control it, and if you are not going to spray i think you better give up. as to trying to get something that won't take the rot, it is something like getting a dog that won't take the fleas. (laughter.) mr. older: i had considerable experience in putting out seedling plums. when large enough to get to bearing there wasn't a good one in the whole lot. i got some plums, the finest i could pick out, and three years ago they first came into bearing, and one of my neighbors went over there when they were ripe and said they were the best plums he had seen, but since then i have had none. i got some emerald plums from mr. cook. they were nice plums, and when he came to see them he said, "i came to see plums, i didn't come to see apples," but the brown rot gets a good many of them. i had some last year, and just before they ripened the brown rot struck them, and it not only took all the fruit but got the small branches as well. i don't know what to do about the brown rot. mr. drum: i would say that my experience was something like mr. older's with the sand cherry crosses. they grew until they were large and i sprayed them with lime-sulphur. i couldn't see any injury from that until they were grown, nearly ripe, and then in spite of me in a single day they would turn and would mummy on the trees. i had a hanska and opata and the other crosses, and they bore well. they were right close to them, and the brown rot didn't affect them particularly. mr. ludlow: i would like to ask these experts what is the life of a plum tree. now, an apple tree, we have them that have been bearing for forty years, but my plum trees that were put out less than twenty years ago, they got to be a thicket and they don't bear any large plums at all. i introduced years ago, if you remember, the ocheeda plum, that come from seedlings that we found in the wild plum at ocheeda lake. it is a very fine plum. i had about twelve bushels this year, and i have never seen a bit of brown rot in that variety of plums, although the other varieties, if they bore at all, they were brown rotted all over. the ocheeda plum has a very thin skin, and when the rain comes at the right time and the sun comes out they all split open. that is its fault. but my orchard is getting old; it is twenty years old. i had a young man work for me, and he left me and bought a new place. i told him he could take up all the sprouts he wanted of those ocheeda plums. he did so and put out an orchard of them. i think that was about ten years ago. this year while my plums didn't average me, my ocheedas didn't average, over an inch or an inch and an eighth in diameter from that old orchard--he had sold out and gone to california--but from that orchard a man that never thinks of cultivating sold three wagon loads of the finest plums i ever saw. mr. kellogg: how large were the wagons? (laughter.) mr. ludlow: well, the ordinary wagon box. he hauled them and sold them in town. that was from an orchard that had been left without any cultivation. mr. philips: i have heard george kellogg say you could prove anything in the world in a horticultural meeting. i was glad to have mr. cook say a word in favor of the desoto. the first plum i ever bought was a desoto thirty-five years ago. i planted it and never saw any brown rot on it and had five bushels on it this year. george kellogg saw it; i can prove anything by him. (laughter.) talking about prof. hansen's sand cherry crosses, i have a number of his trees. i have two in particular that are nice trees. my wife the last three years has selected her plums from these trees for preserving and canning. i never saw any brown rot on them. they are nice trees, and i propose to stick by hansen as long as he furnishes as good stuff as that. the locality makes a great difference in this brown rot. some of the smaller varieties of prof. hansen the brown rot takes. as some one has said, it will take the plums and the twigs after the plums are gone. it may be that the locality has something to do with it. mr. cook: a year ago i was talking with some gentlemen in the lobby of this hotel here and among them was a gentleman from the iowa society, and i was trying to urge and tell them about the great value of some of those hybrid plums. mr. reeves said to me: "mr. cook, if you were going out into the woods to live and could only take one variety of plum with you, what variety would you take?" if he said five or six different varieties i would have made a different answer but he said only one variety, and i said it would be the desoto, and his answer was, "so would any other man that has right senses about him." mr. anderson: it was my pleasure some time ago, i think it was in , to set out a few plum trees, desotos, and those trees grew and grew until they bore plums, and i was very much pleased with them. it was also my fortune about that time to sell plums that another man had grown, such varieties as the ocheeda, the wolf and the wyant. they were such beautiful plums, and i obtained such beautiful prices for them, i was very much enthused over growing plums. i purchased a number of trees of that variety, but up to the present time i have never marketed a bushel of plums from any tree of that kind. the desotos bore plums until they died a natural death, which was last year. mr. goudy: i have one desoto in my orchard which is seven years old, never had a plum on it, never had a blossom on it. what shall i do? (laughter.) mr. ludlow: cut it out. spraying plums for brown rot. prof. e. c. stakman, minn. exp. station, university farm, st. paul. the brown rot of plum is without doubt one of the important limiting factors in plum-growing in minnesota. in seasons favorable to its development, losses of from twenty to fifty per cent. of the crop in individual orchards are not uncommon. experiments on the control of the disease have been carried on by the sections of "plant pathology and tree insects and spraying," of the minnesota experiment station, since . no accurate results could be obtained in and on account of crop failure in the orchards selected for experiment. results are available for the years , and . brown rot is caused by a fungus (_sclerotinia cinerea (bon.) wor._). every plum grower knows the signs of the disease on the fruit. blossoms, leaves and twigs may also be affected. the diseased blossoms become brown and dry, and fall from the tree; the diseased leaves become brown and may die. young twigs may also be killed. infection may occur at blossoming-time. the amount of blossom blight depends very largely on weather conditions; in fairly warm, moist weather there is usually more than in drier weather. the same is true of the rot on the fruit; during periods of muggy weather it may spread with amazing rapidity. the rot does not usually attack the fruit until it is nearly or quite ripe, although green plums may rot, especially if they have been injured. it is important to know that a large percentage of rotted plums have been injured by curculio. counts have shown that in many cases as much as eighty-five per cent. of the rot followed such injury. rotted plums should be destroyed for two reasons: ( ) the spores produced on them may live during the winter and cause infection in the spring; ( ) if the mummies fall to the ground, late in april or early in may of the second spring the cup fungus stage may develop on them. this cup fungus produces a crop of spores capable of causing infection. spraying experiments, the summarized results of which are given here, show that the disease can be fairly well controlled even in badly affected orchards. some of the experiments were carried on in the orchards at university farm and some in commercial orchards. there were from twelve to forty-five trees in each plot, and the trees on which counts were to be made were selected before the rot appeared. the percentages given below refer to fruit rot and do not include blossom or twig blight. the object was to determine the times for spraying and the most effective spray mixtures. details are for the most part omitted, and the results of various experiments are averaged. for convenience the times of spraying are designated as follows: . when buds are still dormant. . when blossom buds begin to show pink. . when fruit is size of a pea. . two weeks after third spraying. . when fruit begins to color. it did not pay to apply spray . in the plots on which applications , , and were made there was an average of . per cent. of rot, while in those from which spray was omitted there was an average of . per cent. rot, a difference so slight as to be negligible. neither did spray seem to pay, there being an average of . per cent. brown rot when it was applied and . per cent. when it was omitted. the schedule finally adopted was therefore the application of sprays , , and . spray is necessary to prevent blossom blight, although it has not always reduced the amount of rot on the fruit. spray is the most important in reducing the amount of rot. in all of the experiments during three years the average amount of rot in the sprayed plots which did not receive spray , was . per cent. on the plots which received spray , with or without the other sprays, the average amount of rot was . per cent., and the average on unsprayed plots was . per cent. excellent results were sometimes obtained by applying only spray , although this did not, of course, have any effect on blossom blight. in the amount of brown rot in one plot which received only spray was . per cent., while in the unsprayed plots it was . per cent. in the amount of rot was reduced from . per cent. in unsprayed plots to . per cent. in the plots to which spray was applied. possibly spray could be omitted without seriously interfering with results; success in controlling the rot with spray alone seems to indicate this. it was hoped to settle the matter during the past summer, but spring frosts spoiled the experiment. for the present it seems advisable to recommend the application of sprays , , and . in the first two, two and a half pounds of arsenate of lead paste, or one and one-fourth pounds of the powder should be added to each fifty gallons of spray mixture in order to kill the curculio. in the plots sprayed in this way in ninety-six per cent. of the fruit was perfect, while in the unsprayed plots only . per cent. was perfect, and in and the amount of brown rot was reduced from . per cent. to . per cent. several growers have reported excellent results from these three applications, and there is no reason why other growers should not duplicate them. [illustration: brown rot of plums showing the small, grayish brown tufts of spores. can be controlled by destroying mummies and thorough spraying.] the efficiency of various fungicides was tried. self-boiled lime-sulphur, - - ; commercial lime-sulphur, to ; - - and - - bordeaux; iron sulphide made up with to commercial lime-sulphur, and iron sulphide made up with - - self-boiled lime-sulphur were tried and all gave good results. commercial lime-sulphur, to , has been used in commercial orchards with excellent results, and it will probably be used more than the other spray mixtures because it is so easy to use. possibly weaker solutions of lime-sulphur would do just as well as to . this will be determined, if possible, during the summer of . good results were obtained only when a high pressure was maintained in spraying. there was a clearly observable difference between plots sprayed with low pressure and those sprayed with a pressure of more than pounds. for large orchards a power sprayer is desirable; for small orchards a barrel sprayer with an air-pressure tank attached is large enough. such an outfit can be bought for $ or $ and can do good work. the cost of spraying three times should not exceed fifteen cents a tree. the results from spraying orchards which contain a great deal of brown rot and have never before been sprayed will probably not be so good the first year as in better kept orchards, but by spraying regularly each season the disease can be well controlled. mr. cashman: please state what you mean by - - there. mr. stakman: - - bordeaux mixture means three pounds of bluestone or copper sulphate, four pounds of lime, and fifty gallons of water. the copper sulphate should be dissolved in twenty-five gallons of water, the best way being to put it into a sack and hang the sack in the water. the lime should be slaked and then enough water added to make twenty-five gallons of milk of lime. here is where the important part of making up the spray comes in. two people should work together and pour the milk of lime and the bluestone solution together so that the streams mix in pouring. it is very important that the mixing be thorough and the mixture should be used fresh. the president: do you add any paris green at any time or arsenate of lead? mr. stakman: always add arsenate of lead two times, when the buds are swelling and when the plums are the size of green peas. the president: how much? mr. stakman: i would rather leave that to professor ruggles. we used from - / to pounds and mr. ruggles, i think, found - / pounds was enough. the president: that is, - / pounds to gallons of water with the other ingredients? mr. stakman: yes. mr. dyer: i would like to ask if you have ever used arsenate of lead for spraying plums? mr. stakman: in the experiments which we conducted in co-operation with mr. ruggles, of the division of entomology, we always used arsenate of lead in the first two sprayings to kill the curculio. mr. dyer: i had quite an experience, so i want to know what your experience was. mr. stakman: we never had any trouble with it. mr. dyer: i have had an experience of thirty years, and i have never seen or had on my place any brown rot, and i never was troubled with any curculio, and i practically always used arsenate of lead. mr. cashman: isn't it a fact if you begin spraying your plum trees when they are young and spray them early, at the right time, you have very little trouble with the brown rot? and spray them every year? mr. stakman: yes, that is it. you might be disappointed the first year if the orchard had never been sprayed, but by spraying year after year you finally cut it down. mr. cashman: you said a pressure of pounds ought to be used? mr. stakman: yes, but it isn't necessary to get an expensive power sprayer to keep up that pressure. there are sprayers on the market that cost from $ to $ which have a pressure tank by which the pressure can be maintained at from to pounds without any great amount of trouble, that is, for a small orchard. if you have a big enough orchard for a power sprayer, of course get it. mr. m'clelland: this summer my plum trees, the leaves all turned brown and came off. what is the reason? mr. stakman: when did it happen? mr. m'clelland: along in august, i think; july or august. mr. stakman: what kind of soil were they on? mr. m'clelland: clay. mr. stakman: did you spray? mr. m'clelland: yes, sir, i sprayed. mr. stakman: what did you use? mr. m'clelland: lime-sulphur, i think. mr. stakman: did the whole leaf turn brown? mr. m'clelland: yes, sir, the whole leaf turned brown and came off. mr. stakman: how strong did you use the lime-sulphur? mr. m'clelland: not very strong. mr. stakman: if you use very strong lime-sulphur you sometimes get such an effect on both plums and apples. sometimes the leaves fall, and almost immediately you get a new crop of leaves. mr. m'clelland: this was in august. mr. stakman: there was a perfect crop of new leaves? mr. m'clelland: yes, sir. mr. stakman: my only suggestion would be that you used the lime-sulphur too strong. that might account for it. mr. sauter: i never sprayed until this year. i tried it this year and with good results. i sprayed my apple trees at the same time, and i sprayed the plums with the same thing i sprayed the apple trees with. i had nice plums and nice apples; last year i had hardly any. mr. stakman: what did you use? mr. sauter: lime-sulphur and some black leaf mixture. i used it on the plum trees and the apple trees, and afterwards i used arsenate of lead. mr. stakman: you didn't get any injury to the plum trees? mr. sauter: no, sir, we had nice plums. a member: i have seventeen plum trees, and i have only sprayed with kerosene emulsion and the second time put in some paris green, and i have never seen any of the brown rot, but there have been a good many of the black aphids on the plum trees, on the end of the branches. i cut them off and burned them. i didn't know whether that would be the end of it or not. mr. ruggles: why don't you use "black leaf ," / pint in gallons of the spray liquid. it can be used in combination with arsenate of lead and lime-sulphur or arsenate of lead and bordeaux mixture. if you wash them with black leaf it will kill all the aphids. i did that myself this summer. a member: please give us a little better explanation of what black leaf is. mr. ruggles: it is an extract of tobacco that is for sale by wholesale drug companies and stores, or you can get it from kentucky, from the tobacco products company, at louisville, ky., or grasseli chemical co., st. paul. i am not advertising, mr. president, but they will send you a small package for seventy-five cents, about half a pint. of course, that looks kind of expensive, but it will go a long way. i think possibly it is the best thing we have to combat lice. mr. stakman: plum pocket is caused by a fungus which is supposed to infect mostly when the flower buds are just beginning to swell, especially in cold, wet weather. plum pocket causes the fruit to overgrow and destroys the pit, and big bladder or sack-like fruits are produced instead of the normal fruit. the fungus that causes it gets into the twig and is supposed to live there year after year. therefore pathologists usually recommend cutting out and burning affected branches and even trees that bear pocketed plums several seasons in succession. our experiments with plum pocket have not extended far enough to enable me to say anything definite about it. mr. hall: with us in western minnesota this year this plum pocket got all the plums that the frost didn't get. if we were to cut off the twigs we would have to chop off the trees. mr. stakman: when a tree becomes so badly infected that practically all of the branches produce pocketed plums year after year you can't expect very much normal fruit. sometimes you might get some, but usually not very many. mr. graves (wisconsin): do you use your black leaf in conjunction with your bordeaux or lime-sulphur? mr. ruggles: yes, you can. mr. graves: doesn't it counteract the result? mr. ruggles: no, it does not. mr. stakman: i used this year lime-sulphur and black leaf together. mr. graves: you say you got the same results from black leaf in that mixture? mr. stakman: it killed the plant lice; that is all i wanted. mr. graves: we had some experiences that indicated that black leaf counteracted the other results. mr. stakman: yes, sir, i think that has been the impression, but i think there have been some experiments more recently to show that the black leaf can be used in conjunction with other sprays without counteracting their results. mr. richardson: did you ever know the plum pocket to come unless we had cold weather about the time of blossoming and lots of east wind? mr. stakman: yes, a little; i have seen it mostly when there was cold weather, however, and as i said before it usually isn't so serious unless there is cold, wet weather. mr. richardson: i settled out in martin county, minnesota, in , and in all my experience i never saw plum pocket unless we had the right kind of cold weather at the time of the blossoming. i had my plums all killed and destroyed one year and never did anything for it, and when we had the right kind of weather i never had any trouble. mr. stakman: when you have cold, wet weather, as i mentioned before, infection takes place much more rapidly than it does at other times. there is some evidence to show that the fungus lives in the twigs and that affected ones should be cut out. mr. richardson: yes, but these didn't bear any for four or five years, and when we got the right kind of weather i got good plums. mr. norwood: my experience is something like this man's. i have had my plums killed off as many as five years with the plum pocket and then had a good crop of plums. i sprayed with lime-sulphur. mr. stakman: when did you spray? mr. norwood: i spray just before the buds open. mr. stakman: the flower or leaf? mr. norwood: flower, and then i spray when the plums are well started, just before they begin to ripen. mr. stakman: were you spraying for the pocket or brown rot? mr. norwood: i used lime-sulphur and arsenate of lime. mr. stakman: of course, spraying after buds open wouldn't do any good for the plum pockets at all. mr. norwood: i spray mainly for the brown rot, and i have pretty good luck. mr. cashman: have you had any experience in using orchard heaters to save plums in cold nights? mr. stakman: i will ask mr. cady to answer that. mr. cady: no, i haven't tried to use them. mr. cashman: we tried it this year, and we saved our plum crop. we have tried it the last four years and saved our plum crop each year. we also sprayed each year and had a very good crop of plums when neighbors who had not sprayed had very few, and i am satisfied if we use the proper ingredients and spray properly at the right time, and occasionally use an orchard heater when there is any danger of freezing, that we will raise a good crop of most any plum that is hardy enough for this climate. a member: what kind of heaters do you use? mr. cashman: we use oil heaters. we use crude oil, the same oil we use in our tractor engine. a member: where do you buy your heaters? mr. cashman: we have them made at the hardware store, of sheet iron, with a cover. we put about two gallons of oil in this heater. there is a small piece of waste that is used as a wick, which we light from a torch. it will heat quite a large space sufficiently for two or three hours and prevent frost. mrs. glenzke: do you put a canvas over the tree or leave it uncovered? mr. cashman: we do not put anything over the tree. mr. stakman: what does your oil cost? mr. cashman: about eight or nine cents a gallon. prof. hansen: just a thought occurred to me that out west on the pacific coast where men have to get down to business in order to raise fruit they have these horticultural commissioners that have absolute police power to make orchard men clean up. they will come into your old orchard and pull it up and burn it and add it to your taxes, charge it up to you, if you don't clean up. the same sort of police power should prevail here. if a man has an old plum orchard that is diseased through and through, it won't do for him to tell his tale of woe year after year and not do anything. a county agent will come along and clean it up for him. after it is cleaned up it will be an easier proposition. if you are not going to keep up with the times and spray, then the county agent ought to have police power to burn the orchard. either spray or go out of the plum business. * * * * * to make concentrated apple cider on a commercial scale.--the specialists of the fruit and vegetable utilization laboratory of the department have completed arrangements for a commercial test of the recently discovered method of concentrating apple cider by freezing and centrifugal methods. as a result, a cider mill in the hood river valley, ore., will this fall undertake to manufacture and put on the retail market , gallons of concentrated cider, which will represent , gallons of ordinary apple cider with only the water removed. the new method, it is believed, makes possible the concentrating of cider in such a way that it will keep better than raw cider, and also be so reduced in bulk that it can be shipped profitably long distances from the apple growing regions. the old attempts to concentrate cider by boiling have been failures because heat destroys the delicate flavor of cider. under the new method nothing is taken from the cider but the water, and the resultant product is a thick liquid which contains all the apple-juice products and which can be restored to excellent sweet cider by the simple addition of four parts of water. the shippers and consumers, therefore, avoid paying freight on the water in ordinary cider. in addition, the product, when properly barreled, because of its higher amount of sugar, keeps better than raw cider, which quickly turns to vinegar. the process, as described by the department's specialists, consists of freezing ordinary cider solid. the cider ice is then crushed and put into centrifugal machines such as are used in making cane sugar. when the cider ice is whirled rapidly the concentrated juice is thrown off and collected. the water remains in the machine as ice. at ordinary household refrigerator temperatures this syrup-like cider will keep perfectly for a month or six weeks, and if kept at low temperatures in cold storage will keep for prolonged periods. at ordinary house temperatures it, of course, will keep a shorter time. to make the concentrated syrup, the cider mill must add to its equipment an ice-making machine and centrifugal machinery, so that the process is not practicable on a small scale. the specialists are hopeful, however, that the commercial test soon to be inaugurated in oregon will show that it will be possible for apple growers to concentrate their excess cider and ship it profitably to the far south or to other non-producing regions. the specialists also believe that it will enable apple producers to prolong the market for cider.--u.s. dept. of agri., oct., . how mr. mansfield grows tomatoes. mrs. jennie stager, sauk rapids. somewhere around mr. wm. mansfield, of johnsons creek, wis., commenced to apply what gov. hoard, of wisconsin, told him was "persevering intelligence," to the propagating and improving of the tomato, and he soon found out that the tomato was capable of almost unlimited improvement. he has made a specialty of the tree tomato, of which he says he has demonstrated to the world that in the mansfield tree tomato he has produced one of the greatest wonders of the age. all who have seen them, tasted or grown them, with even a small degree of good sense, are loud in their praise for their good qualities: wonderful growth of tree, beauty of fruit, smoothness, solidity, flavor, earliness, etc. in giving directions how to grow them he says you should remember that if your brightest child is raised among indians he is not likely to become president. neither will the tree tomato if thrown on a brush pile, or just stuck in a poor, dry place and left to care for itself, be ready to jump on your table, on the fourth of july, or any other month, a ripe, delicious, two-pound tomato. he says first get your seed of some reliable person, who can warrant it pure and all right. then at the proper time, which in this climate would be some time in march, get some rich old earth for boxes in your house, hotbeds or greenhouse. sow the seed, cover lightly, wet down every day and keep warm, with all the sun possible. when up ten days transplant to other boxes, six inches apart, and not less than four inches deep. keep wet and give all the light and sun you can, and by the time it is safe to set them outside they should stand from twelve to twenty-four inches in height, with bodies half an inch thick. _to prepare the ground._--first select a place as near water as possible, and also, if you can, let your rows run east and west. throw out dirt two spades deep, then put in three or four inches of night soil if you can get it, if not use hen manure and wood ashes, equal parts, or some other strong manure, in the bottom of trench. then fill up the trench with the best dirt you can get, mixed with well rotted stable manure, as no fresh manure must come near the roots or bark to rot them. now set out your plants without disturbing the dirt about the roots. set eighteen inches apart in the row and have the dirt in the trenches a little lower than at the sides. place a strong stake at each plant or a trellis and tie them to it as fast as set. then if it does not rain use hard, soft, cold or warm water and give plenty each day. as your plants commence to grow, just above each leaf will start a shoot. let only the top of the plant, and only one or two of the best branches grow, so as to have not over one or two of the best stems to run up. now the buds for blossoms show themselves on the tops of the vines, and a few inches below. just above each leaf, a shoot starts; nip off every one of these just as soon as they appear. as the lower leaves get brown and old pick them off. train the fruit as it grows to the sun. tie often and well. let no useless wood grow. give all the sun possible and water, water and then water. then you can take the cake on tomatoes. [illustration: wm. mansfield and his big tomatoes, casselton, n.d.] mr. mansfield's record twenty-six years ago, at johnsons creek, wis., was: height of tomato tree, eleven feet. weight of single tomato, two pounds six ounces. he says, since he has moved to north dakota, his tomato has in no wise deteriorated. annual report, , central trial station. profs. le roy cady and r. wellington, university farm. since the coming of prof. wellington to the station to take up the pomological and vegetable divisions the work of this station, has been divided, prof. wellington taking the fruit and vegetable experimental work, while prof. cady continues the work in ornamentals, and on that basis the reports will be made this year. _ornamentals._--the campus of university farm has been very much enlarged this year by the building of the gymnasium, and consequent parking about it, and the grading of an athletic field. this will call for considerable planting work next spring. the season has been exceptionally good for the growth of all ornamental stock. all came through last winter in good shape. a late frost killed many of the early flowering plants, and this prevented the forming of fruit on such plants as barberry and wahoo. about seedling paeonies flowered again this year. some of these are promising. an excellent block of aquilegia was flowered. a trial ground of some hundred or more annuals was maintained and proved very interesting. it is hoped that many more annual novelties may be tried out this year. the perennial garden established last year was added to and furnished something of interest the whole season. it will be the aim of the division to have in this garden all the annuals and perennials of value in this section. some new shrubs were added by purchase and through the bureau of plant industry. the hedges have proved an interesting exhibit again this year, and it is planned to add a number of new ones to the group next season. about seventy-five varieties of chrysanthemums were flowered this autumn and were much enjoyed by our visitors. _fruit._--this year has been a very poor fruit year owing to the freeze on may , when the thermometer dropped to degrees fahrenheit. at that time a very promising crop of apples was frozen on the trees. currants and gooseberries were also frozen on the bushes, and the young shoots were frozen on the grape vines. later the grape vines sent out secondary shoots which bore a small crop of late maturing fruit. regardless of the heavy freeze an apple was found here and there throughout the orchard, although no one variety seemed to be particularly favored. on one-year-old compass and dyehouse cherry trees a few fruits were borne, and a similar amount of fruit was produced on one-year-old sapa and skuya plums. the old plum seedling orchard, which is located to the south of the college buildings and is partially protected by a wooded hill to the north, gave about five per cent of a crop. the one-year-old raspberries and blackberries bore a small crop, and the new strawberry bed, containing over varieties, yielded a good crop. records were made on the blossoming dates of practically all the varieties grown at the station, and complete descriptions were made of all the strawberry flowers, fruits and plants. [illustration: class in propagation at work at minnesota state agricultural college.] plants were taken from the strawberry bed and used for setting out a new bed, which is located on level and uniform ground. by another year sufficient data should be at hand to report on the performance of the varieties tested. the aphids were very numerous and unfortunately caused the defoliation of all the currants with the exception of the blacks. a new sidewalk through the currant patch necessitated the transplanting of about one-half of the varieties, and so the prospect for a good currant crop next season is poor. the mildew attacked the poorman gooseberry very severely but did practically no damage to the native varieties, as the carrie and houghton. blight was a negligible factor, and what little appeared was removed as soon as noted. this year's rest, especially as it has been coupled with a good growing season, should be very favorable for an abundant crop in . in summing up the varieties at the trial station, it is of interest to note that the following number are under observation: apple, apricot, cherry, peach, pear, plum, blackberry, dewberry, red currant, black currant, white currant, gooseberry, grape, black raspberry, red raspberry, purple raspberry and strawberry. _vegetables._--the vegetable work has been concentrated on the bean, cucumber, lettuce, pea, onion, potato and tomato. the chief work with the bean and pea has been to isolate desirable canning types from the present varieties. selection has also been carried on with the lettuce, with the object of securing a head type which matures uniformly. onion bulbs of various types have self-fertilized, and desirable fixed strains will be separated if possible. incidentally, the inheritance of various types and colors of the onion is under observation. in the tomato the influence of crossing on yield and earliness has been studied. increases nearly as high as five tons have been obtained, and the prospects are very bright for securing valuable combinations for gardeners who use greenhouses and high-priced land. results of this work will probably soon be published in a station bulletin. [illustration: chrysanthemums in flower in university farm greenhouses.] a better type of greenhouse cucumber is being sought by combining the european and white spine varieties. from past experience the author knows that a uniform type that is well adapted to market purposes can be obtained, and the only question will be its productiveness. unfortunately hybridizing was not performed early enough in the season, and disease prevented the making of crosses. this coming season the work will be repeated. the main work of the year has been on the potato, and the chief problem has been on the determination of the cause of degeneracy. incidentally, many varieties have been tested, and the exchange of seed with the grand rapids, crookston and duluth stations has been started. if possible, the effect of varying climatic and soil conditions on the potato will be noted. a few vegetable varieties have been tested and among them the reading giant, a rust-proof asparagus, has proved promising. malcolm, the earliest canadian sweet corn, ripened very early and will be tested further. washington, a late sweet corn ripening between crosby and evergreen, made an exceptionally good showing and may prove of much value for market purposes. the alacrity tomato was found to be similar to the earliana and superior in no way. bonny best and john baer tomatoes produced smooth, desirable fruit and are deserving of a wide test. the much advertised "seed tape" was given a trial, and it proved satisfactory in most cases. for kitchen gardeners who are ignorant of planting distances, methods of planting and varieties, and who can afford to pay a higher price for their seed, the tape may prove of value, that is, if a high grade of seed is maintained. * * * * * a correction.--in o. w. moore's interesting article on "sexuality in plants," which appeared in the november ( ) number of the horticulturist, two errors were present. the first is merely typographical, as kaelreuter's name, page , should be spelled kolreuter. the second, however, is misleading, as it states that the process of fertilization is called "mendel's law." it is true that mendel's law is based upon fertilization, but it concerns simply the splitting up of certain characters into definite mathematical proportions. for example, mendel found that when he crossed a yellow and green pea the first generation produced only yellow peas. these peas when self-fertilized split up into practically three yellows to one green. by self-fertilizing the progeny of the second generation it was found that one-third of the yellows bred true for yellow, and two-thirds of the yellows broke up into yellow and green, showing that they were in a heterozygous condition, and that all the greens bred true for green. at the present time this method of segregation has been proved to hold for many easily differentiated characters in both the animal and plant kingdom, but much more experimental work will have to be done before it can be said to hold for all inheritable characters.--prof. richard wellington, university farm. rose culture. martin frydholm, albert lea, minn. (annual meeting, , so. minn. hort. society.) rose culture is one of the most fascinating occupations in the line of horticulture. but when you come to talking or writing about it you scarcely know where to begin or what to say, there passes before your eye an exhibition of such an amazing fragrance and beauty of varying colors. even now as i am writing these lines i can see with my mind's eye every rose in my garden, some in their full glory, filling the air with the sweet fragrance; others just opening; others in bud; and so on in an ever pleasing variety. i have taken special interest in roses for some ten or twelve years and have grown a good many different varieties of them with success, good, bad and indifferent. i have succeeded well with some of the hybrid perpetual roses. at the present time i have in my garden paul neyron, general jacquiminot, ulric brunner, black prince, etoile de france, frau karl droschky and marshall p. wilder, also others of which i have lost the names. of climbing roses i have crimson rambler, thousand beauties, prairie queen and dorothy perkins. all the above named are everbloomers, except the climbers, and all need careful winter protection. _how to grow them._--get two year old no. plants and prepare your soil just like you would for your vegetable garden. if your soil is not particularly rich, spade in a liberal quantity of well rotted manure and mix well with soil. set your plants and keep up clean cultivation all summer and give them plenty of water, and you will have an abundance of roses the first year. in the fall get some clean straw, bend your rose bushes over, put a fence post across on top of them to hold them down and then cover with straw to a depth of one foot. or if you have a number of them planted in one row, make a long box about two feet wide and about twenty inches deep, fill about half full of straw, then place along side of the row of plants, bend your plants down lengthwise the row, then tip the box over them, put some straw around sides of box and on the outside put some posts or boards on to hold it down, when you will have the best protection possible. right here i want to put in a word of warning, and that is, if you do not like to do extra work don't attempt to grow roses; in other words, if you are lazy they don't like you well enough to stay with you, for it means work and lots of it. we have, however, one class of roses which can be grown by every one who wants them, the hybrid rosa rugosa roses. of them we have such as blanche d. caubet, pure white of large size, a perpetual bloomer; sir thomas lipton, also white, a little smaller in blossom but perfectly double; conrad meyer, clear silvery pink, of large size, very double and of choicest fragrance, a continuous bloomer (needs some winter protection); new century, rosy pink, shading to almost red in the center, good size and double. one of the hardiest is hansa, deep violet red, very large, double and an exceedingly profuse and continuous bloomer, absolutely hardy. these five varieties can be considered as everybody's roses, because of the easiness and sureness with which they can be grown, taking into consideration the elimination of winter protection. planting, preparation of ground and cultivation are the same as for all other roses. do not imagine for a minute that they will do well in sod or grass. [illustration: martin frydholm in his rose garden, at albert lea.] another class of roses is the baby ramblers. for borders and bedding roses these i think surpass all others on account of the easiness by which they may be grown. and they are a perfect mass of blossoms from june till freezing. they need winter protection, but that is not difficult on account of the low growth and small size of plant. above all do not forget that all roses need rich soil and lots of water. when your rose bushes are three years old you must begin to give some attention to trimming. cut out some of the oldest wood before you lay them down in the fall, and if some of the shoots have grown very tall cut back about half, although these rank canes may give you the best roses the following season if you can protect them well enough so that they do not winter-kill. in this photograph which is shown here is one ulric brunner with one shoot extending two feet above my head and covered all along with the most magnificent roses i have ever had in my garden. the same thing i have done with the general jacquiminot. asparagus by the acre. e. w. record, market gardener, brooklyn center. first i am careful about selecting seed of a good variety. my choice is palmetto, because it is hardy and the best seller on our market. in starting a bed i sow my seed as early as possible in the spring in rows about eighteen inches apart, and when the plants are well up i thin out to about an inch, so the roots will not be so hard to separate when ready to transplant. my experience has been that plants two years old are more easily handled than those one or three, because the one year plants are not matured enough, while the roots of the three year old have become too matured, and when separated too many of the roots are broken off. in preparing the ground for asparagus i plow and then harrow it and mark it off so the rows will be five feet apart. i plow a furrow from fourteen to sixteen inches deep, throwing the dirt both ways. then with my cultivator i loosen up the bottom of the furrow. i place the plants in the furrow about eighteen inches apart, being careful to spread the roots evenly over the bottom of the furrow, putting a little dirt over them to hold them in place. with my cultivator i keep filling in the furrow, at the same time plowing out the middle to keep down the weeds. in fertilizing a bed of asparagus my experience has been that the best way is to plow a furrow between the rows, filling it with barnyard manure, then covering this with earth. spreading the manure broadcast makes too many of the stalks grow crooked. i never cut my asparagus for market until the third year, and then only for a short time. by the fifth year the bed is strong enough to cut the whole season. when the season is over i cultivate often enough to keep down the weeds. i never cut the old stalks off until spring, because after the first freeze the stalks are hollow, and this would allow the frost to run down into the roots. annual report, , vice-president, second congressional district. john bisbee, madelia. a summer remarkable in many respects has passed. many of our people have labored hard, and the rewards of that labor have been meager and unsatisfactory. horticulture with all the other labors on the land has been rewarded like the other cultivators of the soil in our section of the state. i sent out twenty-five of the circulars and twenty were filled out and returned. apple raisers report, four a good crop, the balance poor or none. plums: one fair, others poor or none. cherries: one good, all others poor. grapes: one good, balance poor to none. blackberries: one good, balance poor to none. other fruits all poor. nursery stock: one place reports one car load planted, the balance a few, all making good growth. strawberries: five report good crop, balance few to poor. blight: some reported but little efforts made to eradicate. fruit trees did not suffer much last winter ( - ). all report plenty of moisture in ground. varieties of apples doing best: wealthy, duchess, longfield, salome, spitzenberg, northwestern greening, anisim, malinda, hibernal, jonathan. spraying neglected very largely. i am doing all of the top-working i can get done every spring. am setting largely the salome. i find the tree hardy here; a moderate bearer; apples fine and handsome; a good keeper; tree does not blight and grows very thriftily. it grows on a great share of the stocks in which i have placed it. my next best apple is the spitzenberg. i am not placing many wealthy scions, as i have about all i want of them. i tried thinning the fruit on some of my heavy bearers last summer and like it much. i think the best way to do it is to cut out the fruit spurs, as that can be done in the winter. annual report, , vice-president, fifth congressional district. chas. h. ramsdell, minneapolis. the horticultural interests of the fifth congressional district (of which minneapolis is the largest part) comprise three lines of activity, the raising of fruit, vegetables and flowers for home supply and profit, ornamental horticulture for pleasure and the city marketing of the produce of this and every other region, furnishing whatever is demanded by a large metropolitan market. therefore, i will report along these lines. [illustration: chas. h. ramsdell.] judging from the reports of my correspondents throughout the country, the "freeze" in may was responsible for a rather complete absence of local fruit the past season. sheltered orchards and those on the south side of any lake bore a small crop. of apples, the wealthy and malinda are mentioned as bearing fairly well. plums were entirely a failure, cherries are not raised to any extent, grapes and small fruits were not enough to supply the market as a whole. raspberry and strawberry growing seems to be on the decline, owing to the prevalence of insect pests which do _not_ receive attention to keep them in check. the importance of this is all the more apparent, because with the shorter distances of this district being the rule, the danger from rapid spread is more pronounced. the growing conditions of the season have been of the best, and all stock goes into the winter in excellent shape with a good amount of soil moisture and a promise for better conditions next season. several market reports have been received which give valuable information. prices of fruit, vegetables and floral stock have been low in almost all cases. the public demand has been rather below normal, although it has been steady and fair in volume. there seems to be a good deal of complaint about the care of the railroads, etc., with fruit and perishable products, but, on the other hand, a good deal of local produce is not put up in good shape. the uniformly good packing of western fruit reveals the cause of its popularity on the local markets. certain kinds of fruit almost glutted the market this season, notably florida grape fruit, western box apples and peaches. i quote one market statement as very pertinent: if minnesota apple growers would gather their apples before they are too ripe, carefully grade and pack uniformly through the barrel, thus making it possible for the wholesaler to ship out on orders, they would undoubtedly realize more for their product than to market them themselves in the usual manner in which apples are marketed. ornamental horticulture in my district is making rapid progress. large lots of nursery stock are yearly put in with excellent results. the influence and interest of the "garden flower society" and of these horticultural meetings is nowhere more felt than in hennepin county. the gardens of the minneapolis park board, in loring park, at lyndale farmstead, and near the parade and armory, give the horticultural public much valuable information. even the wild flower garden in glenwood park is yearly receiving an increasing number of visitors. the increasing use of perennials is creating a new gardening enthusiasm. the perennial exhibit at the summer meeting of the horticultural society was worthy of much study. careful use of hardy evergreens is increasing also, adding value especially to our winter landscapes. this season has been very favorable to gardening work and steady has been the progress made. greater care with insect pests, and better methods of preparing fruit for market seem to be the two greatest needs of the horticulturists of the fifth district. * * * * * apple production and prices.--according to the best authority available, the apple crop in the united states for promises to be about , , barrels, says the niagara county, new york, farm bureau news. this will be the lightest crop in several years, the crop being the next lightest, when about , , barrels were produced. in comparison, the crop was about , , barrels and the crop about , , barrels. the above refers to the commercial crop that is marketed in closed packages, and should not be confounded with the recent estimate of the united states department of agriculture, which is understood to refer to the total production of apples, including those used for cider and shipped to the market in bulk. annual report, , vice-president, sixth congressional district. e. w. mayman, sauk rapids. [illustration: residence of e. w. mayman, at sauk rapids, minn.] this district comprises quite a large area, and a large amount of fruit of various kinds is raised. besides the reports received, i visited a good many places where fruit is being raised and intended visiting more except for unfavorable weather. from all sources the reports were that all fruit trees, vines and other plants came through the previous winter in good condition, and that all fruit trees budded and blossomed earlier than usual. april being such a warm month caused this condition--and indications were for a record-breaking crop. but this was all changed after the severe freeze of may th, which destroyed nearly all blossoms of apple and plum and what promise there was of cherry and grape. the frost again on june the th did great damage to raspberries and strawberries, currants and gooseberries. from all reports received and from my own observation at my place i can sum up briefly as follows: apples not more than five per cent. of crop; crab apples, no crop; plums, from ten to fifteen per cent. of a crop; cherries, very few planted except the compass and crop very light; grapes, not very extensively raised, collegeville having the largest collection so far as i know, and at that place while the new growth had been frozen off still a second growth of new wood was formed and gave a light crop of fruit. blackberries: no crop reported. raspberries: there is in this immediate vicinity upwards of twenty acres or more planted of several varieties, but the crop was very light, and from other places the reports received were the same. strawberries: there is also quite a large acreage planted in this vicinity, but the crop the past season was very poor, except for the everbearing variety planted for experimental purposes. this variety did well and continued to fruit to november st. currants and gooseberries: reports gave no crop to speak of, and at my place and in this vicinity while there is quite a large planting there was no fruit. this, of course, was owing to the frost as before stated. very little nursery stock has been planted except in small quantities here and there, yet there is great interest taken in fruit raising. in regard to blight, none to speak of according to reports, and everything indicates a good healthy growth. as to spraying there seems to be little done along that line, although some orchards have been sprayed. all trees and shrubs and perennial plants planted the past season, as well as those previously planted, made an exceptionally good growth, owing, i think, to the cool, moist spring and continued cool summer. and, all wood maturing early, everything, i think, has gone into winter quarters in very good condition, and other things being favorable we may expect a good crop of everything next season. * * * * * the following poisoned wash has proved highly satisfactory in the west and promises to be one of the most popular methods of protecting trees from rabbits: _poisoned tree wash._--dissolve one ounce of strychnine sulphate in three quarts of boiling water and add one-half pint of laundry starch, previously dissolved in one pint of cold water. boil this mixture until it becomes a clear paste. add one ounce of glycerin and stir thoroughly. when sufficiently cool, apply to the trunks of trees with a paint brush. rabbits that gnaw the bark will be killed before the tree is injured. annual report, , vice-president, ninth congressional district. mrs. h. e. weld, moorhead. the fruit crop in general throughout this district was not very good. the spring was late and cold with a heavy frost in june. where the fruit trees were protected by a natural windbreak, we find the best conditions. wilkin, becker, ottertail counties' reports indicate that the apple crop was small, but the fruit was of good quality. [illustration: residence of louie wentzel, crookston, life member and vice-president in ] the varieties that are grown in this district in order of their importance and hardiness are the following: hibernal, duchess, okabena, patten's greening and wealthy. the hardier varieties of crabs are growing here. the transcendent is the most popular crab. the hyslop, florence and whitney are also grown. but very little blight is reported in this district. in localities where the trees have the protection of a windbreak there was a small crop of plums. the desoto, forest garden and hansen hybrids are giving very good results. even the wild plums were few, as the blossoms were hurt by frost. where there was windbreak protection the compass cherry tree looks healthy and has given a fair crop. grapes have not been very generally planted. the beta is the hardiest variety. the concord does well where properly planted and cared for. raspberry bushes made a good growth and look healthy; although damaged by frost there was a fair crop. strawberries yielded fairly well where they were given attention. the senator dunlap, warfield and everbearing plants should be more generally grown. gooseberries and currants were just fair in some localities, in others the late frost destroyed all prospects of small fruits. the houghton and downing gooseberries, red dutch and white grape currants are some of the varieties planted. in ottertail, wilkin and beltrami counties a good deal of nursery stock has been planted and with very good success. very little has been done in the way of spraying orchards, as trees are young. all fruits are going into winter in good condition, with fair amount of moisture in the ground and trees full of fruit buds. the hardy ornamental shrubs, honeysuckle, lilac, mock-orange and spirea van houttii can be grown here. hardy perennial flowers that do well are peony, phlox, golden glow and bleeding heart. this northern section of the state is the land for the hardy perennials. nowhere else do we get such beautiful colorings and bloom. annual report, , madison trial station. m. soholt, supt. this season has been very good. we have had plenty of rain, so that all nursery stock set out this last spring has made a good growth. the first part of may a hard frost did quite a good deal of damage to small stock just planted or lined out in the nursery. this frost also damaged the blossoms on the fruit trees. the plum trees happened to be in full bloom when this frost came, so that froze them entirely, and so we did not get any plums to speak of. we also had a light crop of apples, especially of the early varieties. the northwestern and patten's greening bore a good crop. the grapes also froze. i expected to get some fruit off those grape seedlings i received from the state fruit-breeding farm three years ago, but they went with the rest of it. the plum trees i received this and two years ago are all doing well. they did not freeze back any when we had that hard frost; so far they seem to be hardy for this location. had a medium crop of raspberries, also a light crop of currants and gooseberries. we had a good crop of strawberries. seedling strawberry no. is doing very well. everbearing strawberries are doing nicely. we had a nice fall and plenty of rain, so that trees and shrubbery went into winter quarters in good condition. growing beans and sweet corn. p. b. marien, st. paul. since it is one thing to grow beans and sweet corn and another to make money on them, i think from a market gardener's point of view my heading should have been "growing beans and sweet corn at a profit." i will talk of beans first, because while the two are planted at about the same time, beans make their appearance on the market long before sweet corn. beans have a nitrogen gathering power and are therefore a soil-improving crop. they are to the gardener what clover is to the farmer. for early beans we have found that sandy soil well fertilized is by far the best. if possible it should be sloping toward the south, although we have had good success on level land well drained. one should have the best seed possible, and if you get hold of a good strain of seed that produces nice, velvety beans earlier than your neighbor, save as much of that seed as you can. of course now that the price of seed is $ . to $ . a bushel one cannot be too particular. [illustration: p. b. marien, st. paul.] too much stress cannot be laid on the fact that to make money on beans one must have them on the market within a week after the first ones make their appearance. to do this one must plant them at the right time. the practical gardener knows that as he sits near the stove with the ground still frozen and a cold march wind blowing he cannot say "i will plant my beans on april or on april ." it is impossible to set a date for planting. after the ground has been plowed and well tilled he must wait until it is well warmed. sometimes it pays to take a chance, but we always wait until the buds appear on the white oak trees. however there is nothing infallible about this rule, but it is the one we generally follow. as to kinds we have two wax beans which we have planted for many years: the davis, which does well in wet weather, and the wardwell kidney, which does well in dry weather. every variety of green beans we have ever grown has done well. rows three feet apart, with the hills about six inches apart, three or four seed in a hill, might take up too much room on a small scale, but where one uses horses to cultivate, i think it is about right. beans should be cultivated at least two or three times a week, and they should be hoed three times during the season. never cultivate your beans while the dew is on, as it has a tendency to rust them. while st. paul has not offered a very good market for medium and late string beans in the last few years, it is a good plan to have a patch come in about every ten days. because you happen to get from $ . to $ . a bushel for your first beans this year, do not resolve to put the whole farm into beans next year, for they might come three or four days later than your neighbor's, and your profits might be like ours were one day last summer. i came to market with forty-eight bushels of beans. they cost twenty cents for picking. i sold thirty-two bushels at thirty cents and offered the remaining sixteen bushels at twenty cents, but found no sale for them. i brought them back home and to my surprise found two extra bushels, making eighteen instead of sixteen bushels. i concluded that someone had despaired of selling them and perhaps had poor success in trying to give them away and so forced them on me. however we consider we did well on our beans, as the first two pickings brought from $ . to $ . per bushel. now a few words about sweet corn. along about the th to the th of july the truck gardener should load his first sweet corn. sweet corn is of american origin, having been developed from field corn, or maize. no large vegetable is so generally grown throughout the country, the markets of the cities taking large quantities, and immense areas being grown for canning purposes. seed that fails entirely is not often found, but when one has a good strain that produces early corn it is best to save some. we generally have sweet corn to sell every day from about the middle of july until the first frost. to do this we plant every ten days from about the th of april to the th of june. our early variety is the peep-o'day, which is planted about the same time as the early beans. we also plant the golden bantam at this time. this is followed by red cob cory, pocahontas and some more bantam. then about may th to th we plant early and late evergreen, bantam and country gentleman. [illustration: a load of vegetables at marien's ready for market.] soil well adapted to common field corn will produce good sweet corn, thriving best on well fertilized land. sandy soil is best for the early varieties. sweet corn is often grown in drills, but we prefer the hills three feet apart, as it is easier to get an even stand, and cultivating both ways will push the crop. it should be cultivated shallow and never deep enough to hurt the roots. it is well to hoe it once. sweet corn is one of the few vegetables which is quite free from serious injury from either insects or diseases. sweet corn may be divided into three classes: early, medium and late. it is very important that the various kinds come in as early as possible, as a few days make a lot of difference in price. so you see that to make a profit on beans and sweet corn, four things are needed: good seed, planting at the right time, in the right kind of soil, and plenty of elbow grease--or hard work. a member: how far apart do you plant your beans in the row? mr. marien: the rows three feet apart and the hills six inches, putting three or four seeds in a hill. a member: don't you recommend testing your seeds before you plant them? mr. marien: hardly the bean seeds. i don't remember of ever having found any poor bean seeds. a member: i mean seeds generally, corn, etc.? mr. marien: yes, sir, we do; we always test our seed. mr. goudy: what is your method of harvesting your beans? mr. marien: well, we generally employ pickers, boys and girls, and we pay them about twenty-five cents a bushel when they are above a dollar and a quarter, and then we keep going down; as the price goes down we go down too; but we have paid as much as thirty cents when the price of beans was high and it is important to get many on the market the next day. [illustration: harvesting the hay crop at marien's.] mr. anderson: what are your gross receipts per acre for beans? mr. marien: that is a hard question to answer, as sometimes it is very poor for the medium and late beans, and sometimes there aren't any receipts at all. (laughter.) but the early beans sometimes go as high as $ . an acre. mr. anderson: how late can you plant them and be sure of a crop? mr. marien: we have planted them as late as the th of june. a member: you mentioned davis as your first variety. what is the second one? mr. marien: the wardwell kidney. we always plant the two varieties at the same time because if we strike a wet season then the davis does well, and the wardwell won't do as well in wet weather but will do better in dry weather. mrs. glenzke: will you tell me the color of your beans? are they golden wax? mr. marien: yes, some golden wax and some green string beans. we haven't as good a market for the green ones. mrs. glenzke: have they a string on the back? mr. marien: some have and some have not. there is the bountiful, or the thousand to one; that is a small green string bean that hasn't any string. but they are very hard to pick; so we don't raise many of them. mrs. glenzke: have you ever tried golden pod? mr. marien: i think that is a wax bean? mrs. glenzke: yes. mr. marien: oh, we don't like them, at least not on the st. paul market, because they are hard to pick. i don't know how it is in the minneapolis market. a member: what is the best of the green kind? mr. marien: we find that the bountiful is a very good bean; and then there is also the red valentine. a member: did you ever grow any crusset wax? mr. marien: no, sir, i have not. of course, there are some kinds that are just the same, but they go under different names in different places. different catalogs will catalog the same seeds in a different way. * * * * * beware blight cures.--almost every year orchardists are persuaded to try some new, so-called "blight cure" or preventative, only to find later that they have wasted time and money in the experiment. government regulations regarding fake remedies of this character are more strict than formerly, but there are still some agents trying to dupe the public into buying their wares. blight, which is often referred to as apple blight, fire blight, or pear blight, is caused by bacteria which live in the sap of the tree, and the principle followed by the blight-doctor is to introduce something into the sap which will prevent the working of the bacteria. the remedies are applied in various ways. sometimes the trunk is painted with a mixture of some kind, or holes are bored into the trunk and these filled with a powder. the orchardist is sometimes furnished with a box of nails as the first "course" and instructed to drive these into the roots of the trees. it is evident that anything introduced into the sap that is strong enough to kill the bacteria living there will likewise damage the cell tissue of the tree, and result in more harm than benefit. one powder that has been brought to the attention of the experiment station, sells for $ . per pound, and is administered in teaspoonful "doses." such a preparation as this is probably harmless, but is a waste of time and money. it would have no effect on the tree or the blight. some of the agents not only claim that their remedies will cure blight, but, due to ignorance or other causes, they also claim that trees treated will be immune from attacks of certain insects. orchardists may rest assured that up to the present time, no real preventative or cure has been found for blight, and that the only way it can be controlled is by cutting it out.--colorado agricultural college. in memoriam--mrs. e. cross. mrs. erasmus cross, of sauk rapids, and a member of the minnesota state horticultural society since ( years), passed away at that place on tuesday, december th. on december th mrs. cross sustained a painful injury by falling on the floor and breaking her hip. owing to her advanced age, eighty-two years, the limb could not be set without the use of chloroform, which could not be given on account of weakness of the heart. death finally released her from her suffering. [illustration: the late mrs. e. cross, daughter and grandaughters.] mrs. jane cross was always very enthusiastic about the horticultural society and the good it was doing, not only for this but other states. the ills of her age had prevented her from attending the meetings these late years, though she often did so in earlier years, but she always sent her fee through the writer, and eagerly awaited her return from the meeting to hear of its stimulating success. mr. cross died about six years ago. two sons, james, of st. paul, and robert, of sauk rapids, and two daughters, mrs. annie nicholson, of hamline, and mrs. emma sovereign, of sauk rapids, mourn her loss. our society has lost a most loyal friend.--mrs. jennie stager, sauk rapids. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. notes from prof. alway's interesting and instructive talk on "maintaining the fertility of our gardens." requisites for proper plant growth are warmth, ventilation, root room, the absence of harmful alkalies or animals that destroy the beneficial bacteria in the soil, water and plant food. by far the most important requisite for growth is water. more plants and crops fail because of the lack of a proper amount of it than from any other cause. plenty of fresh air is needed by the plants, as they derive a portion of their food from it. they adapt themselves largely to conditions as to root-room, a plant thriving in a pot, but spreading to much greater root space when grown in the open with plenty of room. the more restricted the root space, the more food and water it will require. the fourth requisite for growth does not concern us as there are no alkali lands in the counties near the twin cities, and the harmful minute animals that destroy the beneficial bacteria in the soil are as a rule found only in greenhouses. the best fertilizer for the garden is the thorough use of the hose. each year stable manures become harder to obtain, but the fertility of the garden can be maintained by the use of commercial fertilizers, which are more concentrated foods and are much easier to work with. the perfect plant food consists of nitrogen, phosphorus and potash. we can obtain these in separate form and use as we need them. nitrogen comes in the form of a salt, called nitrate of soda, and in dried blood. the nitrate of soda is very soluble in water and is taken up at once by the plant. it can be scattered upon the ground near but not touching the plant, as in the latter case it would burn it. it can also be dissolved in water--a tablespoonful to a pail--and the ground, but not the plant, watered. dried blood is slower in action and requires warmth, so should not be used early in the season. nitrogen promotes quick and luxuriant growth of leaves and stems and is good to use when a green growth of any kind is wished. in bone meal we find the phosphorus necessary to aid in the development of fine and many flowers, to expand root growth and to hasten maturity. it works slowly, so can be applied to the ground about a plant early in the season, and will be available in the ground the following year if enough is used. equal parts of nitrate and bone meal can be used at the rate of one to two pounds to every one hundred square feet. potash is almost off the market, as a result of the war, the main supply being imported from germany. it can be obtained from hardwood ashes, and every bit of these should be saved for the garden and stored in a dry place where they will not become leached out by the action of water. _april spraying._--snowball bushes and others that have been troubled with aphides, or plant lice, the previous year should receive a thorough spraying of black leaf no. (an extract of forty per cent. nicotine) before the leaf buds expand. for this early spraying, two tablespoonsful of the extract can be used to every gallon of water. it will stick to the branches better if some soap is dissolved in it. this spray will kill most of the eggs of these pests, which will be found near the leaf buds. when the leaves open another spraying should be given to kill all those that escaped the first treatment. for spraying after the leaves open use one tablespoonful to each gallon of water. * * * * * meeting of the minnesota garden flower society, april th, st. paul, wilder auditorium, fifth and washington streets, : p.m. native plants in the garden shall we collect or grow our native plants? roadside planting. bee-keeper's column. conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. bees are kept both for profit and for pleasure. the old fashioned beekeeper with his hybrid bees, kept in immovable hives, logs or boxes, did not derive much profit from his bees. he kept them mostly for pastime. during the last fifteen years men with new methods of management and modern equipment have been rapidly superseding the picturesque old beekeepers. modern beekeeping courses are now taught in connection with our institutions of learning, and young men full of energy and ambition are beginning to realize that beekeeping is offering one of the few opportunities to make a comfortable living with a comparatively small expense. older beekeepers, both on the farm and professional men, also are beginning to study beekeeping. they attend short courses, subscribe to scientific bee papers and study bee literature. with increased study and knowledge the whole status of the beekeeping industry is just now undergoing a rapid change. professional beekeepers, men who devote their whole time to beekeeping, are increasing, and more amateurs are turning to professional beekeeping every year. organizations of beekeepers now exist in nearly every state. their object is to spread knowledge among their members and to secure better prices for their product by co-operative marketing. contrary to fears of more conservative beekeepers the demand for a first class article of honey is increasing more rapidly than the supply. a national organization of beekeepers and bee societies is taking up just now national problems in connection with their industry and has succeeded in making the government interested in this "infant industry." an appropriation of $ , has just been allowed by the agricultural committee of the congress to develop beekeeping in localities where help is needed. the state of minnesota allows an annual appropriation for beekeeping interests of $ , , divided among the following branches: bee inspection department, which takes charge of bee diseases, $ , ; state fair exhibits for premiums and maintenance of a bee and honey building in connection with our state fair, $ , . the division of bee culture at the university farm, which has charge of teaching, demonstration, extension work, research, queen rearing, correspondence, statistics and model apiaries, $ , . minnesota beekeepers should be grateful to those men who have helped them to raise their industry from a mere nothing, until we have become the acknowledged leaders in beekeeping among all the states of the union. they, however, are rapidly following, nearly all states now have efficient bee inspection laws, and twelve universities have followed our lead and have included beekeeping in their curriculum. but we must not be satisfied with what we have accomplished. out of $ , , worth of honey which this state produces (by figuring) only $ , , worth are gathered every year, and beekeeping in the state must grow to fourteen times its present proportions before it will be anywhere near its possibilities. orchard notes. conducted monthly by r. s. mackintosh, horticulturist, extension division, university farm, st. paul. minnesota orchardists are preparing for a full crop of apples this year. from the experiences of last year with apple scab and codling moth, more thorough spraying is to be done. senator dunlap stated an experience he had in spraying that should be carefully considered by all apple men. nine rows of trees were sprayed on monday or tuesday. owing to bad weather the other rows could not be sprayed until friday or saturday. what was the result? he had barrels of no. fruit from first part and only seventeen barrels of no. in rows sprayed later. some are planning their orchard work for the season along the following lines: _first: pruning._ to be done during the mild weather in march and april. thin out all dead wood, interlocking branches, water-sprouts and shorten others. pruning is to get the tree into better form to sustain a large load of fruit, to open the center to permit sunlight to get in to color fruit, and to permit of better spraying. there are too many trees in minnesota that have never been touched by knife or saw. such trees need attention, but the pruning should not be too severe at any one time. begin this year to do a little pruning; next year do more; the year after a little more; and after that very little attention will be needed to keep the tree in good condition. while pruning look out for rabbit and mouse injury. if good trees have been injured do some bridge grafting as soon as you can. this means connecting the healthy bark above the wound with the healthy bark below. small twigs cut from the same tree, that are long enough to span the wound, are cut wedge shaped on both ends, and these ends put under the healthy bark. if possible cover the wounded area with earth. if too high up tie the scions in place and cover all cut surfaces with grafting wax and cloth. several scions should be put in if the tree is large. _second: spraying._ three sprayings are needed on every bearing apple tree in minnesota. first spray: when the center of buds show pink. don't wait too long. second spray: when the petals have fallen. third spray: ten to fifteen days after the second. use lime-sulphur and arsenate of lead each time. it is important to do this at the right time, in the right way, and with the right materials. right is the word and not left-undone. further particulars will be found on the page devoted to spraying topics. _third: cultivation._ follow the plan that is best suited to location. this may mean sod, part sod and cultivation, cultivation and mulch, mulch only, or cultivation and cover crop. doubtless the last is the best in most instances. _fourth: thinning._ the thinning of apples in minnesota has not been received with as much consideration as its importance demands. more attention will be given to this topic in subsequent issues. home garden. what about the farm and home garden for ? is the garden to receive the undivided attention of one or more members of each family, so that all members and guests may share its fruits? let's make the home garden the best spot on every minnesota farm in . a conservative estimate of the actual value of the products from a half-acre garden is fifty dollars. in minnesota there are over , farms. this would mean a total value of over $ , , . this does not include the value of the products of the village and city gardens. careful estimates made in this state show that it costs about fifteen dollars for man and horse labor to take care of a garden of about three-fourths of an acre. now for a big garden movement this year--for all the year. not a big beginning kept up until the little weeds become big weeds. is anyone going to allow weeds to outdo him? notes on plant pests. prepared by section of insect pests, a. g. ruggles, and by section of plant diseases, e. c. stakman, university farm. buy spray materials as soon as possible. the orchardist will probably notice very little difference in the price of his spraying materials, like arsenate of lead and lime-sulphur, as compared with last year; but those who still think that paris green is the only good stomach insecticide, will be astounded by this year's price. at the present time, in one pound lots, the retailer cannot sell paris green for less than c per pound--over twice what it was last year. in large quantities, it is doubtful if it can be purchased for less than c per pound. fortunately arsenate of lead, a better stomach insecticide than paris green, has not advanced materially in price, the powdered form being obtained for about c per pound. one and one-half pounds of this powder is used in fifty gallons of spray mixture. in our experiments, we have found arsenate of lead superior to paris green as a remedy for potato bugs and all orchard insects. it is not necessary, therefore, to allow any injurious biting insect to live simply because paris green is high in price. arsenate of lead, if properly applied at the right time, will keep any of these insects in check. a dormant wash does little good in controlling scab. hence, on account of the high price of spraying compounds, do not spray when unnecessary. many diseases of nursery stock are controlled by spraying. begin spraying as soon as leaf buds unfold, with lime-sulphur - or bordeaux mixture - - . copper-sulphate has also advanced c or c per pound. lime-sulphur has not advanced materially; therefore, plan to use lime-sulphur or some of the made-up (paste) bordeaux instead of bordeaux mixture, whenever possible. _potatoes can not be sprayed with lime-sulphur._ the aphis problem is usually a very serious one, because they are such persistent little breeders. the trees or shrubs most affected are roses, snowball, currant, apple, plum and elm. the eggs of the plant lice pass the winter on the bark or buds of these plants and hatch as the buds begin to swell. spray with the lime-sulphur ( - ) at this time. as soon as the leaves appear, spray with nicotine-sulphate as per directions on the container. if plum pocket was bad last year, the trees should be thoroughly pruned. then spray with copper-sulphate, one pound to nine gallons of water, or lime-sulphur, one gallon with nine gallons of water, before the buds open. follow with one to forty lime-sulphur or other spray as for brown rot. control methods for plum pocket are not well worked out, so these methods cannot be depended upon entirely. be sure and look over the apple trees carefully; cut out and burn all cankers. black rot has been increasing in the state, and since a great deal of early infection may come from cankered limbs, it is important that cutting out and burning be resorted to. last year the spring canker worm was just as active in the state as the fall canker worm; therefore, just as soon as possible, trees affected last year should be banded with the tree tanglefoot. the moths come out of the soil the first two weeks in april and at that time attempt to crawl up the trunks of the trees to lay their eggs on the limbs. when raspberries are uncovered, be sure to cut out and burn all dead canes missed last fall. the gray bark disease and anthracnose, also snowy tree cricket and red-necked cane borer, are controlled in this way. plan to keep the young canes covered with a protective spray of resin-bordeaux mixture. try it on at least part of the patch. the benefit will not be apparent for a year. spray currants and gooseberries as soon as leaf buds begin to unfold, with either bordeaux mixture - - or lime-sulphur - , to prevent powdery mildew and leaf spots. for further information write to the section concerned. inquiries will receive prompt attention. secretary's corner annual meeting of american association of nurserymen.--information has reached this office to the effect that this national association will hold its annual meeting in milwaukee june th to th. this is so near by that it ought to bring a goodly number of minnesota nurserymen in attendance. for particulars in regard to the matter address john hill, granite bldg., rochester, n.y. passing of hans knudson.--mr. knudson, late of springfield, minn., was the originator of the compass cherry, which has been generally planted throughout the northwest these recent years. he grew this variety from a seed as a result of a handmade cross between the miner plum and the sand cherry. mr. knudson had other seedlings of similar origin which we thought might be of value, but nothing has been since heard from them. news of his passing early in january has just come to this office. the mcintosh red.--i think the mcintosh is quite hardy as a top-worked tree; there are two in my old orchard set in , and they have shown no signs of injury. they were grafted on crab whips, but they were planted on a knoll, that while clay was within twelve to fifteen inches of a deep bed of sand. they have been shy bearers, but i think on a clay subsoil, such as i now have, they might prove good bearers. i would not be afraid to risk them as to hardiness.--f. w. kimball, waltham, minn. reports for minneapolis members.--every member of the society is entitled to a copy of the annual report if desired. as there are not as many copies printed, however, as there are members, if every one asked for a copy we should be in trouble at once. copies are mailed as promptly as possible after receiving membership fee to all members except those living in minneapolis and those who come in as members of some auxiliary society. minneapolis members are requested to call at the society office and secure the copy to which they are entitled, which will then get into their hands in a good deal better shape than though it passed through the postoffice. members of auxiliary societies are entitled to a copy of the report, but only upon the prepayment of postage, which would be seven cents to points within miles of minneapolis and ten cents outside that limit. scions for top-working.--stark bros. nurseries, of louisiana, mo., have sent to us for use in testing on top-worked trees a quantity of scions of the following varieties: king david, jonathan, delicious, stayman winesap, york imperial and liveland raspberry. these scions are to be used primarily to fill orders for top-working from members who have selected them as one of the plant premiums, no. . there will, however, be a considerable surplus, we believe, and as far as they hold out we shall be glad to send them out to members of the society who have trees for top-working, and know how to graft properly, upon receipt of postage stamps to the amount of postage and packing, which would be approximately ten cents. we are not sure that we can supply all who may ask for them, but to a limited extent we can do so. i would suggest promptness in making application for these scions. address secy. latham. who is growing mcintosh red apple?--information from an interested member of the society is called for as to what success, if any, has been had in growing the mcintosh red top-worked on hardy trees here in minnesota. scions of this variety have been sent out several years by the society and probably some have already come into fruitage, or perhaps they have been secured from other sources. replies will be published. address secy. latham. no plant premiums after april st.--all members ordering plant premiums have undoubtedly noted this important condition that "all applications for plant premiums must be made prior to april st." this condition will be strictly adhered to, and those sending in selections for plant premiums after that date need not feel disappointed if they do not receive them. it is absolutely necessary to make a definite date beyond which no applications will be received in order to work out successfully the problem of distribution which faces us at that time. to members of auxiliary societies.--occasionally a member of an auxiliary society writes to this office asking for a copy of the annual volume of the society. members of auxiliary societies are entitled to this volume, but the state society does not pay postage on it, the amount received from auxiliary societies for memberships not permitting this expense. any member of any auxiliary society who wishes to have a copy of the annual volume mailed from this office should send with the application postage at the rate of seven cents if within one hundred fifty miles of minneapolis, and ten cents to points in the state more than one hundred fifty miles from minneapolis. buy nursery stock at home.--there are always more or less agents of foreign nurseries, that is nurseries located outside the state, canvassing for orders of nursery stock in our state, and many citizens are also tempted to reply to advertisements of outside nurseries who are trying to secure business in minnesota. it is not my purpose to condemn these outside nurseries nor their methods of doing business, which in most cases undoubtedly are honorable and straight forward. but there is a real advantage in buying nursery stock at home, that is, from nurserymen located in our own state, and especially from nurserymen who are in the immediate vicinity. there is no class of goods that one can buy in connection with which there is such opportunity for mistake and fraud as in nursery stock. it is impossible for any but an expert to tell by the appearance of a tree or plant of any kind what the variety is, and either through mistake or purposely it is no uncommon thing for those purchasing trees to be disappointed as to the names of varieties when they come into fruitage or flower. if the nurseries are in our own state, or in our vicinity, it is a very easy matter to get at them, and they will almost uniformly be found willing to make good such blunders, or if they don't and the matter is worth while they can be made to do so. don't place your orders outside of the state if the things you want can be purchased at home. you will find it a real advantage to act on this counsel. especially in the case of strawberry plants the element of distance is a very important one as on account of their leafy character they heat and spoil readily. a few plants near home are often worth more to the recipient than a large shipment from abroad. nurserymen of minnesota.--the secretary endeavors to keep a correct list of all those engaged in the nursery business in this state. as far as his personal acquaintance goes of course the list is known to be a correct one, but there are doubtless a number engaged in the nursery business in a small way of whom he does not know personally, and he would be glad to hear from any engaged in the nursery business who are not personally acquainted with him so that their names may be added to this list. the address of the secretary is always to be found on the front cover page of this magazine. the social element at our annual meeting.--those of our members who attended the last annual meeting could not have failed to note the large proportion of ladies in attendance at these meetings, not only at the one managed by the woman's auxiliary, but also at every other meeting during the four days session. you may be surprised to learn that approximately one-third of those who registered as purposing to attend the meeting belonged to the gentler sex, and the proportion in attendance was somewhere in that neighborhood. this is one of the delightful features of our annual gathering which is steadily increasing. more and more are the ladies attending our meetings, and in larger number are they becoming members of the association aside from any relation they may sustain as wives or daughters to those who are already members. this movement should be in every way encouraged, and we hope another year to be able to offer still more attractive accommodations in this direction. in planning for a new building for the society, this feature of our work should not by any means be lost sight of. i believe that very few organizations of this kind can boast so large an interest on the part of the ladies in the various branches of its work. did you select everbearing strawberries as your premium?--an altogether unexpected demand has been made upon us for the everbearing strawberries the society is offering as plant premiums to its members this spring. probably twice as many plants have been called for as can be furnished in the amount asked for. under the "right of substitution" which the society reserves in the matter of its plant premiums, probably plant premium no. will be substituted for nos. and if matters turn out as now appears, though the number of plants sent will be more than is offered under no. . as this everbearing strawberry, originated at the fruit-breeding farm, no. , is a very prolific plant maker, a dozen plants, if the runners are allowed to grow, will make plants enough to set out a bed of them next year, large enough in all probability for family use. in the matter of june-bearing strawberry no. , offered as premium, there is undoubtedly stock enough to fill all orders including those asked for for which money has been sent, and we are in hopes that orders for raspberry no. can be filled in their entirety, though it may be necessary to return money which has been sent for additional plants. in this distribution all members will be treated exactly alike and altogether in accordance with the conditions noted in connection with the list of premiums as found on page six of the society folder and on the inside front cover page of the magazine. [illustration: view in fruit-breeding greenhouse, state college, brookings, s.d. this is prof. n. e. hansen's laboratory, where he works out his problems in cross-breeding. (see opposite page.)] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. may, no. what is hardiness? prof. n. e. hansen, horticulturist, brookings, s.d. by the term hardiness is understood the capacity to resist against any special condition of environment. so in speaking of hardiness of the plant it may mean hardiness as to either cold, heat, drouth, fungus or insect trouble. in the present discussion hardiness against cold will be considered mainly, since that is the most difficult problem we have to meet in this horticultural field. it would be of great advantage could we determine by examination of the plant its power to resist cold. if we could determine by the looks of a new apple tree its power of resistance to our test winters, it would save us many thousands of dollars and much vexation of spirit. some years ago the iowa state horticultural society made a determined and praiseworthy effort to determine hardiness by some characteristic of the plant, especially in apple trees. a chemical test of the sap of hardy and tender varieties was made. the palisade cells of the leaf, and the cellular structure of the wood, were examined under high powers of the microscope to determine some means by which a tender variety could be distinguished from a hardy one, but no general rule or conclusion could be formulated. in a general way nurserymen and orchardists say that a variety that ripens its wood well in the fall shows it by the twigs being sturdy and not easily bent, while twigs that are not well ripened indicate lack of hardiness. the winter of - was preceded by a late, wet autumn that kept trees of all varieties growing very late, so that winter came before the wood was ripened. in all the literature on this subject, i have been unable to find any method by which a hardy variety could be distinguished from a tender one of the same species, or, in other words, there is no correlation between morphology and hardiness. although we do not know what determines hardiness, we may still go ahead with our experimental work. we do not really know what electricity is, but inventors in that line have enough of a theory on this subject so that they are able to work very successfully with this gigantic force of nature. we know there is a difference in hardiness between the red cedar of tennessee and the red cedar of minnesota, and that it is safest for us to plant the tree as it is found at the north. the same applies to many other trees that are found native over a wide area. at moscow, russia, the box elder as first imported was from st. louis, and it winter-killed. afterwards they got the box elder from manitoba, and it proved perfectly hardy. although botanically both are the same, yet there is a difference in hardiness. my way of securing hardiness is to work with plants that are already hardy. i like to work with native plums in my plant breeding experiments because there need be no concern about their hardiness. we know they are hardy, or they would not be here after thousands of years of natural selection in this climate. the other way of obtaining hardiness is by crossing a tender variety with a hardy one. when we cross the native plum with the japanese plum, we obtain seedlings that combine in a fair measure the hardiness of the native plum with the size and quality of the japanese plum. in many states of the union the question of varieties for commercial orchards has been to a large degree settled. there is always room for a new apple, but for commercial purposes the varieties already in cultivation are sufficiently satisfactory as to size, color and quality as well as in keeping and shipping capacity. so the main effort in their horticultural societies is along other lines, such questions as marketing, packing, spraying, insects, fungi and orchard management. but in this region the winter apple question is still a vital one. some promising winter apples have appeared recently, and it remains to be seen whether they will stand up under the next test winter. they are certainly satisfactory in size, color, quality and keeping capacity. the greatest question now presents itself in planting apple seed. what variety shall i choose? some pedigrees may be like a blind alley, they will lead us nowhere. the commercial apples of the east and of the pacific coast are the survivors of millions of apple seedlings raised by immigrants from western europe during the past three centuries. they survived because they were the best. from time to time very good varieties are super-ceded by new ones that appear. from the ashes of millions of seedlings will arise, phoenix-like, the creations that will dominate our future prairie pomology. here in the northwest thousands of farmers have already determined to a considerable extent what we may expect from planting the seed of certain standard varieties. [illustration: the waneta plum. a promising variety originated and introduced by prof. n. e. hansen.] wisconsin, minnesota and iowa are full of seedlings of the duchess. some of the best are okabena, peerless, patten's greening, milwaukee, dudley, pewaukee. a very large amount of wealthy seed has been planted, especially in minnesota. many of these give promise, but in none do we appear to have obtained the true winter-keeping capacity. the wealthy has given us the lord's l, evelyn, lyman sweet, perfect and many more, observed at minnesota state fairs from time to time. the malinda has given us in the perkins' seedlings a number of promising new varieties that evidently are true winter keepers. the fact that they appear hardy may come from the fact that the original orchard had hardy varieties, like the duchess, standing near the malinda. from the experience with these three varieties i would like to draw the conclusion that in order to get winter apples we should save the seed of winter apples, but it would not be safe to draw this conclusion without further experiments. there is an immense number of ben davis seedlings in missouri and adjoining states, but none appear to have come into extensive commercial notice except the black ben davis and gano. but as near as i can learn we cannot obtain real hardiness from this line of descent, unless the ben davis in the mother orchard is standing near varieties like the duchess. the seed of standard winter apples top-grafted on hardy stocks like hibernal should be carefully saved as nature may have smiled with indulgence upon your efforts and created the desired variety. i am watching with great interest a tree of very vigorous, smooth growth, from seed of talman sweet top-grafted on duchess. you would not expect to get anything hardy from seed of the talman sweet, but the entire hardiness so far of the young trees propagated from the original seedling, makes me impatient to see the fruit. a blend of talman sweet and duchess ought certainly to bring something good, but they will not all be hardy or all good. the fact that there are so many different lines of pedigree available to us in our apple work, makes it all the more necessary for us to divide the work. let us gather inspiration from the story of johnny apple-seed--one of the patron saints of american horticulture--who about one hundred and twenty-five years ago forced his way through the wilderness of indiana and ohio and planted many bushels of apple seed as he went along, so that when settlers came they found their orchards ready for them. the story of john chapman and his unselfish efforts in planting the seed of apples and other fruits in the american wilderness should give us courage and patience to give a little of our time to this work. make a record of what seeds you plant, and when the seedlings are one year of age plant them out in a row where they can be cultivated. select the best ones as they fruit and bring to the state fair or horticultural meeting. you may not win the grand prize, but you will have the satisfaction of having made some contribution to the common welfare. * * * * * in localities where cottontails are sufficiently abundant to be a continual menace, the safest and most nearly permanent method of securing immunity from their ravages is to fence against them. it has been found that woven wire netting of one and one-half inch mesh and thirty inches high will exclude rabbits, provided, that the lower border of the fence is buried five or six inches below the surface of the ground. in cases where a small number of trees are concerned, a cylinder of similar wire netting around each tree, if so fastened that it cannot be pushed up close against the tree, serves the purpose more economically. standardizing minnesota potatoes. a. w. aamodt, university farm, st. paul. (gideon memorial contest.) the potato is one of the large farm crops of the country, rating next to the cereals in importance. according to the census report of , united states produced , , bushels, and three-fourths of these were consumed in the states in which they were produced. the report also shows that the most extensive production was along the northern tier of states, from maine to minnesota. in the states ranked in production as follows: new york, michigan, wisconsin, maine, minnesota, pennsylvania, ohio, iowa, illinois and colorado. in the same year minnesota ranked fourth in surplus production, producing sixteen per cent. of the potatoes which entered into interstate commerce. wisconsin produced twenty per cent., michigan twenty-four per cent. and maine twenty-five per cent. [illustration: figure i. rural new yorker.] in minnesota the largest part of these potatoes are grown in certain districts of the state, and according to the census the counties rank in respective order, namely: hennepin, isanti, chisago, clay, anoka, sherburne, washington, ottertail, dakota, and mille lacs. this shows that the largest production is in the vicinity of st. paul and minneapolis, and the red river valley, especially in clay county. the following statement shows the per cent. of increase in acreage from to and that the older districts are being rapidly outdone by the counties towards the northern part of the state: clay, per cent.; sherburne, per cent.; polk, per cent.; todd, per cent.; hennepin, per cent.; anoka, per cent.; isanti, per cent.; chisago, per cent. from these reports it is also evident that the distribution of the surplus is entirely towards the southern states, either as table stock or as seed potatoes, which in turn varies with the different years because of differences in crop yields. but as a general rule maine, new york and michigan supply the states in the east, east central and southeastern part of the country, wisconsin the chicago market and minnesota the mississippi valley, especially nebraska and kansas. in addition minnesota ships seed potatoes to many of the southern states. [illustration: figure ii. burbank.] because of these markets, potato shippers maintain that competition is extremely keen between the potato growing sections of this country. there can be no doubt that the only way minnesota can meet her increase in yield and increase in demand is to determine whether or not she will expand her markets to the territory which is now being held by the other states. but before minnesota can get these markets and obtain the better prices, she must standardize her potatoes. that is, minnesota can obtain great improvement by adopting certain standards for the grading and sorting of potatoes. at a conference held in chicago, last february, of representatives from the growing, shipping and marketing interests, the following recommendations for greater uniformity in potato shipments were made: _size._--market stock of round white varieties shall be graded over a screen which measures - / inches in the clear. for long white varieties a screen of - / inches, in the clear, is recommended. _weight._--stock running over twelve ounces is undesirable and not over five per cent. of this maximum weight should be allowed in first class shipments. [illustration: figure iii. burbank russet.] _quality._--stock should be practically free from serious external imperfections, including late blight rot, common scab, sunburn, frost injury, bruises, knobbiness, second growth, etc. stock should be mature and clean. _varietal purity._--commercial potato shipments should be graded to one variety. all indications show that minnesota must grade and sort for commercial shipments of potatoes, and that a definite brand or grade designating a definite standard must be adopted in order to secure the highest prices. all inferior stock must be thrown out, and the best potatoes given a chance to make an attractive showing. the standing which minnesota potatoes will have in the market will be determined a great deal by the grading, which is usually the work of the dealer, although some farmers do their own grading by hand. ungraded potatoes injure the minnesota potato trade and reduce the profits, as the freight is the same on dirt, small and unsound potatoes as it is on the fine stock. as much as a ton of dirt and culls is sometimes found in a car on the chicago "team tracks" after the wholesale merchant has sacked all he is willing to accept. this freight, sorting charges and cost of disposing of refuse must be paid by some one. co-operating to improve the sorting done at loading stations is a means of establishing a grade to meet competition and to reach new markets. [illustration: figure iv. early ohio.] standardization also means grading to eliminate potatoes infected with disease, such as common scab and late blight, sunken discolorations or dry hard blisters, green, spongy and coarse stock. all of these defects tend to lower prices. in order to increase the value of the minnesota potato we must also supply the market with the variety which it demands, and, furthermore, this variety must be free from mixture. minnesota has already taken a step in this direction. the minnesota agricultural experiment station, minnesota crop improvement association and the minnesota potato growers' association have recommended the following varieties and types to be selected and grown. the rural new yorker, as shown in figure , is the leading round, white, late potato for minnesota. it is a good yielding and keeping variety, fine in quality, an excellent market sort and suitable for almost any soil. similar to the rural new yorker are the carman no. and sir walter raleigh. the green mountain is a desirable white late potato, similar to the rural new yorker, but more oblong and with squarer ends. it is better suited to rich heavy soils than the rural new yorker, as they are not so likely to grow hollow. [illustration: figure v. triumph.] other similar varieties are the carman no. , green mountain, jr., and state of maine. the burbank (fig. ii) is a long, white, late potato of excellent quality and suitable only for rich, loose, loam soils. thrives well upon new rich soils that are well supplied with humus. other inferior varieties confused with the burbank are the white chief, white star and pingree. the burbank russet (fig. iii) is a long, russet, late potato differing mainly from the burbank in its heavily russeted skin. very fine for baking. suitable for low, moist, friable and peaty soils. the early ohio (fig. iv) is the leading early potato in minnesota. the type is oval with a pinkish or flesh colored skin. it is particularly suited to the black, rich, friable soils. the triumph (fig. v) is a round, red, very early potato, valuable for southern seed trade. it suffers severely from drought, and, therefore, soils subject to this condition should be avoided. similar or identical varieties are red bliss, bliss, triumph and stray beauty. the irish cobbler is a promising white, early, roundish potato of good quality, although inferior to the early ohio. it has not been sufficiently tested out, but is promising for southern seed trade. similar variety is the extra early eureka. the king is a broad, oblong, reddish potato. very suitable for worn-out and sandy soils. similar or identical variety is the maggie murphy. in conclusion i would have you to remember the main points of this paper which may be summarized as follows: first. that minnesota is one of the leading potato producing states of the union. second. that minnesota must establish a reputation for a continuous supply of well graded stock practically free from diseases and blemishes. third. that minnesota must create a general interest in better seed, true to name and type. finally. minnesota must secure the co-operation of all agencies interested in the production, distribution and utilization of potatoes to get better production, better grading and better marketing. * * * * * insects help raise crop.--it is well known that most of our crop plants will not form fruit and seed unless the flowers are properly pollinated. the principal carriers of pollen are wind and insects. in some plants, such as the beet, both wind and insects play an important part in the spread of pollen. in all cereals and grasses, and in the potato, the pollen is carried mainly by wind. in most of our common plants of garden, field, and orchard, insects are the chief and most effective carriers of pollen. the following is a list of insect-pollinated plants: onions, asparagus, buckwheat, gooseberry, currant, cabbage, radish, turnip, raspberry, blackberry, strawberry, apple, pear, plum, cherry, peach, alfalfa, clover, melons, cucumbers and squashes. we are very dependent upon the bees and other insects for a good crop yield.--w. w. robbins, colorado agri. college. annual report, , vice-president, eighth congressional district. frank h. cutting, duluth. this district embraces within its limits a very large area having different characteristics from a horticultural standpoint. much of the land has a high elevation and is rolling or hilly, and much is low and comparatively level. a considerable portion is close to lake superior and other large bodies of water and, therefore, governed by conditions with respect to frost different from those controlling land not so situated. the quality or character of the soil is also varying. the foregoing considerations probably furnish the reason for the widely differing reports secured on the blanks distributed, and which were quite generally answered. this prompts the suggestion that before planting commercially or on a large scale one should personally conduct a series of experiments on land designed for use to test its adaptability for the fruits intended. we suffered a frost and hard freeze on the th day of may which greatly damaged the fruit buds; the temperature registered on that day at the united states weather office being °. the month of june was the coolest in forty-five years. the low temperature of the summer months and lack of sunshine resulted in a tardy development of fall fruits and a failure to mature them. even the beta grape and the compass cherry did not ripen their fruit. the opata plum, however, bore a large crop of ripe plums early in september. very little blight has been reported. the weather report shows a deficiency of precipitation up to december of . inches. however, the heavy rains in november immediately before the ground froze supplied sufficient moisture to enable trees and shrubs to stand the winter. the following list is suggested by the reports: apples: duchess, okabena, wealthy, patten's greening. crab apples: florence, early strawberry, virginia. plums: cheney, aitkin, compass, opata. grape: beta. cherries: reports generally unfavorable. blackberries: no kinds reported favorably. raspberry: minnetonka ironclad, king, cuthbert, older. strawberries: dunlap; everbearing--progressive and superb. currants: red dutch, perfection, wilder, white grape. gooseberries: carrie, houghton, downing. hardy perennial flowers: peonies, phlox, sweet william, delphinium, canterbury bells, foxglove, oriental poppies, iceland poppies. hardy shrubs: snowball, hydrangea, lilac, honeysuckle, high bush cranberry. annual report, , paynesville trial station. frank brown, supt. the summer of will long be remembered as the summer with no warm weather. there was a heavy frost the morning of june th. the season's rainfall was very heavy, but trees at the best made only a normal growth, and with many varieties, especially of forest trees, the growth was much less than the usual growth of even a dry season. some fruit trees blossomed quite early, and the young fruit formed during a warm spell, and these trees were heavily loaded with fruit. this was especially noticeable with wealthy, duchess, okabena and whitney no. apples, and with some of the hansen hybrid plums. other trees, fully as good bearers, blossomed a few days later and set no fruit at all, the frost killing the blossoms while not severe enough to harm the fruit already set. the cool weather of this past season has probably helped fruit growers more than it has hindered them, for had it been as hot as it usually is when we have such a tremendous rainfall, blight would most certainly have caused much trouble, but as it was we have had practically no blight at all. this season has again demonstrated very plainly the advantages of top-working, such trees making a better growth, and the fruit being more even, and less troubled with spots, scab, etc. the plums sent to this station the spring of bore no fruit at all this season, but the trees made a fair growth and all appear healthy except a few that froze back the winter of - . the plum trees sent from the central station the spring of made a very poor growth that season, owing undoubtedly to the fact that the roots were dry when reaching here, but this last season all but one made a splendid growth, and one no. , to my surprise, produced five plums that for beauty and eating qualities would place this variety in the front rank with the best in the state. we shall watch these trees with great interest and will report on their actions as they develop. the four trees of no. plum, sent here the spring of from the central station, made a splendid growth, each tree developing fruit buds in abundance. of the seven varieties of raspberries sent here the spring of , three made good this last season. no. bore a tremendous crop of very large fruit, in quality the best; no. bore heavily, an all around good berry and apparently a good shipper; no. produced a good crop, not quite as large as no. , but continued in bearing for a long period. further testing will be necessary for these berries, but so far they look good. there is little to say about grapes, except the growth has been good, and the amount of fruit buds started immense, but the frost and unsuitable weather told the tale--we won't repeat it. of strawberries we will say this: if the central station did nothing in five years except to produce the strawberry known as minnesota no. , they have still done well. it is hardy, a good shipper, it is delicious with cream and sugar, a good canner, in fact a great big senator dunlap with no green core, but ripens to the tip. it is also a good plant producer. the strawberry known as no. , planted last spring, did well. it is a wonderful plant producer, having a very heavy, dark green foliage, it seems to be a good bearer of large, dark red berries. with the wood on the fruit trees thoroughly ripened, and fruit buds in good condition, we may look ahead to the future with courage, believing that all things come to him that waits in minnesota, providing he hustles while he waits. * * * * * red rose beetle is easily killed.--did you ever wait patiently in the spring for your favorite japanese rose to bloom and find when the buds were ready to burst that it was scaly and spotted around punctures made by the red rose beetle? then did you vow once more to destroy the beetles when you saw the roses begin to wither from punctures made by the beetle in the stem? the destruction of the red rose beetle is simple, according to a circular recently issued by the minnesota state entomologist, university farm, st. paul. the method is to cultivate the ground around the rose bush early this spring and cultivate it again in the late fall. this will destroy many of the beetles, for they live in the soil in the winter. then a few of the pests can be hand-picked and destroyed. if they are still too thick, they may be removed next fall for safety to next year's blooms. the beetle lays its eggs in the hip of the rose. these can be seen after the rose is in full bloom as a black spot, covered over with no noticeable depression. the growing pests leave the old blossom by the middle of september and go into the soil until next spring. the bush should be examined in the latter part of august for any flower hips containing insect larvae and all found should be plucked and burned. a few hours' work will insure a beautifully blooming bush next year. annual report, , jeffers trial station. dewain cook, supt. the apple crop at this station was a complete failure, owing to the freezes of late may and early june. this apple failure, so far as i have been able to ascertain, was prevalent over the entire county of cottonwood, although we could hear of plenty of apples being grown only a short distance over the county line in all directions excepting to the west of us. [illustration: a windbreak at dewain cook's, mostly white willow.] the season has been one of cool weather and much rainfall, so much so that although we had no killing frosts this fall until october th, yet no corn or melons ripened in this vicinity. we quit spraying our fruit trees when the freeze came last spring and destroyed the apple crop, and the result has been that there was much scab on the foliage of many varieties of our apple trees. the antonovka and the hibernal seem to be about the healthiest in this respect. as to the fire blight there has been absolutely none at this station the season just passed. as for plums we got a few bushels in the final roundup, de sotos, wolfs and wyants mostly. of the japanese hybrids, we got a few specimens of the b.a.q. the emerald bore freely, but the fruit mostly either was destroyed by the brown rot or cracked badly just as they were getting ripe. the tokata, one of hansen's hybrids, gave us specimens of very fine fruit. of the apricot hybrids only the hanska made any pretense of trying to bear anything, but the curculio got away with about all of them. when i made the midsummer report most of hansen's sand cherry hybrids were promising a good crop, but with the exception of the enopa and kakeppa, from which we gathered a few quarts of fruits, we got nothing. the brown rot, assisted by the curculio, took them all. it sure looks as if we ever expect to make a general success with these sand cherry hybrids and with the japanese hybrids, we will have to be better educated along the line of controlling this disease that is so very destructive to the fruit of some varieties of plums, especially of those varieties that have sand cherry or japanese blood in them. [illustration: a veteran white spruce at mr. cook's place.] [illustration: specimen colorado blue spruce at dewain cook's.] we have to report a grand success with everbearing strawberry no. , sent to this station from our state fruit-breeding farm last spring. the season all through was favorable for that class of fruit. we kept all blossoms picked off till about the first of august, when we let everything grow, and there is a great number of new plants. these new plants, with a few exceptions, did not bear, but the old plants, the ones set last spring, we gathered from them, from about september till the first hard frost, october th, a liberal crop of surprisingly fine fruit. the americus, also an everbearing variety, treated exactly as we did minnesota , bore a great number of plants and some fruit in the fall. the berries were not so large as the nor so many of them. while it is a perfect flowering variety, most of the late blossoms blighted, which seems to be a weakness of this variety. on november th our strawberry beds were all given a mulching with loose oat straw for a winter protection. the several varieties of grape vines originating at the minnesota state farm on trial here have all made a vigorous growth. we have them all pruned and laid on the ground, and we intend to give them no other winter protection. they are in a sheltered location. in spite of the various freezes early in the season we got samples of fruit from most of the varieties. minnesota no. seems to be the earliest to ripen its fruit. the wild grape flavor is noticeable in all these varieties. the various varieties of plum trees sent here from the state farm made vigorous growth the past season and are looking healthy with the exception of minnesota no. . of the five trees of this variety each one has a great many galls on the body of the tree. it is probably what is termed black knot, only the galls have not turned black yet. they are apparently of too recent growth for that. it is probable that we will plant other trees in their places next spring. * * * * * painting of small tree wounds useless.--it has long been the custom for horticulturists to recommend, and fruit growers to use, dressings of various kinds on the wounds of trees when branches are removed in pruning. a few years ago the new york experiment station decided to conduct some experiments to determine whether such practice was really of any value or not. from results of this work, which have recently been published in bulletin form, it is concluded that the use of white lead, white zinc, yellow ochre, coal tar, shellac and avenarious carbolineum as coverings for wounds under five inches in diameter is not only useless, but usually detrimental to the tree. this is particularly true of peaches, and perhaps of some other stone fruits, which, according to recommendations, should never be treated at all. the substances mentioned often injure the cambium layer to such an extent that the healing of wounds is greatly retarded. of the substances experimented with, white lead proved to be the best and is recommended wherever anything is used. but it is not thought worth while to use even white lead for wounds two or three inches or less in diameter, though it may be advisable to use it on wounds where very large branches have been removed. on the larger wounds, where much surface is exposed to decay, the white lead will help to keep out moisture and the organisms which cause decay. the smaller wounds, however, heal so quickly that the evil effects of the covering may more than offset the benefits derived from its use.--r.a. mcginty, colorado agricultural college, fort collins, colorado. annual report, , montevideo trial station. lycurgus r. moyer, supt. about twenty-six years ago a plantation of white spruce was made at this station. the trees flourished for several years and bade fair to become a permanent success, but some six or eight years ago they began to fail and many of them have since died. the survivors are all in poor condition. it seems that this tree is not well adapted to prairie conditions, at least not to the prairies of southwestern minnesota. its native range is much further north. here it evidently suffers from heat and dryness. the black hills spruce is commonly regarded as belonging to the same species. it has not been tested nearly so long, but so far it seems to be entirely hardy. something like thirty years ago a few trees of black spruce, a few trees of european larch and a few trees of balsam fir were planted here. they have long since disappeared. white pine planted at about the same time disappeared with them. a single tree of scotch pine planted at about the same time, standing in the open, is gnarled and crooked and shows a great many dead branches. a forest plantation of several thousand scotch pine, made something like twenty-two years ago, is still in good condition. many of the trees are from twenty-five to thirty feet high. some of the smaller trees have been over-topped and smothered out, but generally the trees seem healthy. a few hundred of the black, or austrian, pine were set at the same time. they are about two-thirds of the height of the scotch pine, but they are as healthy and vigorous trees as one would care to see. some trees of rock, or bull, pine (pinus scopulorum) were set at the same time. they have grown at about the same rate as the black pine and are healthy, vigorous trees. norway spruce has done better here than white spruce, some old trees fruiting freely. the colorado blue spruce (picea pungens) seems to be our best spruce, and so far as tested the black hills spruce is a good second. douglas fir has been planted in a small way in the parks, but it is young yet. it seems probable that the scotch pines in the forestry plantation owe their comparatively good condition to the shelter they get from the hot winds from being planted close together, and from the fact that they are partly protected by the black pines planted to the west of them. the single tree of scotch pine above referred to has had garden cultivation for thirty years, but it seems likely that it was injured by the same hot winds that killed the white pine and the larch. the scotch pine is a native of northern europe, norway, sweden, denmark, scotland, normandy (near the ocean) and germany and russia around the baltic, and all these countries have a moist, cool climate. the black pine is a native of southern europe, growing all the way from southern spain to the taurus mountains in asia minor. in its native habitat it has become accustomed to the hot winds that often sweep across the mediteranean, the burning sirocco of the great sahara. the dwarf mountain pine, pinus montana, grows in the pyrenees, in the alps, in the carpathians and in the balkan mountains, so that it, too, often encounters the hot winds that come across from the african deserts. it is probable that the ability of the black pine, the dwarf mountain pine, the black hills spruce, and the rock pine to flourish on the prairies of southwestern minnesota is due to the fact that all these trees have become accustomed to resisting the hot, dry winds that often reach them in their native habitats. the norway spruce (picea excelsa) in its many varieties is native to almost the whole of europe, extending from north of the arctic circle to the pyrenees and balkan mountains in southern europe. we could then expect that trees from the pyrenees or from the balkans might be so well accustomed to the hot winds from africa as to make them resist, at least for some time, the hot winds of the prairies. and they do seem to stand better than the white spruce or the balsam fir or the white pine. some report should be made on the material sent out for trial from the state fruit-breeding farm. the strawberry, no. , made a fine growth, and promised a large crop of fruit in september, but a few days of quite dry weather, following a very wet spell, ruined the crop at ripening time. the raspberry, no. , is a great producer of sprouts and multiplies enormously, but it seems to be a rather shy fruiter, and the fruit is not of the highest quality. it is intermediate in season. no. is a much larger and better berry, although not quite so hardy. both came through the winter, without covering, in good condition. no. seems to resemble the old columbian. it does not sucker much. it is a large, late berry of good quality. it was covered, so its hardiness is untested. prof. hansen's oheta is a berry of much promise. it is of fine quality and fruits abundantly. the hybrid plums were sprayed with a commercial dust spray but not effectively enough, for the fruit all rotted. we shall try more thorough spraying next season. patten's greening, oldenburg, okabena and simbrish no. produced a good crop of apples. with us okabena is undersized, of poor flavor and an extremely poor keeper. the growing of vegetables for canning. m. h. hegerle, pres. canning factory, st. bonifacius. the state authorities, through the agricultural farm and other sources, are doing good work promoting and encouraging the growing of vegetables, but it seems more could be done towards the marketing and conservation of these vegetables after they are grown. the growing season for vegetables in this state is comparatively short, and although during that short period everybody eats vegetables, every grocer's show windows, and even the sidewalks, are used to display them, and a tremendous business is done, yet there are tons and tons of nice fresh vegetables go to waste, not only for the market or truck farmer but in every family garden--be the same ever so small, there is a steady waste going on, all of which could easily be conserved _by canning_. canning is simply putting the fresh vegetables in tin cans or glass jars (the latter are much more expensive, but no better), steaming and sealing them and setting aside until wanted. by doing this every truck farmer, and any one having ever so small a garden, could conserve enough which otherwise would go to waste to keep them in real fresh vegetables all winter. of course the thousands living in the cities having no garden can not do this and are therefore dependent on the canning factory for their fresh vegetables, and here is where my topic comes in, _the growing of vegetables for canning_. it is no trick to grow vegetables for home canning, any variety will do. you need not select a big lot of one kind, and you need not sort for size or color. just take the surplus as you find it in your garden from day to day. all it needs is, it must be fresh and it must be thoroughly clean--but growing for the canning factory is different. to line up fifty to growers to sow the same seed, to plant, harvest and bring to the factory just when in right condition, requires time and hard work. this really is the hardest problem the canning factory has to solve, and that is the reason why all successful canners grow at least part of their product. you must remember vegetables put in cans will come out just as you put them in. if you put in stale, tough, stringy beans you will be sure to find them there when you open the can, but if you put in fresh, tender beans, peas, corn or whatever else, you will find these exactly as you put them in, and it's immaterial whether you open this can the first, second or tenth year. we must not forget that vegetables properly sterilized and sealed will keep indefinitely, and they require no preservative of any kind. no canning factory uses any preservative, and no home cannery should use them. [illustration: upland farm, st. bonifacius, minn.] there was a time when canning was considered an art or a secret. i remember receiving circulars offering for sale the secrets of canning, and while in the grocery business some twelve years ago i sold thousands of packages of canning compound. these canning compounds, after a thorough examination by our state food department, were found not only worthless but harmful if put in canned foods. _remember_, to can vegetables successfully, it requires no canning compound or preservative of any kind, simply fresh and thoroughly clean vegetables. fresh vegetables are a good, healthy food, we all know this; and besides they are cheaper than meat; therefore should be on our tables two or three times a day. but mind you, they must be fresh, and while for some of us during the growing season it is comparatively easy to get them fresh, yet during the rest of the year, say eight to ten months, real fresh vegetables in bulk are hard to find and high in price. a lot of so-called fresh vegetables shipped in from a distance at best require several days to make the rounds through the grower, the shipper, the jobber, the retailer--to our tables and are really not fresh. they have become stale, and by coming in contact with different kinds of material have lost their delicate flavor. therefore to insure real fresh vegetables for our tables, at least during the winter months, we must take the canned article. all of us remember how most everything in the grocery line was handled in bulk, dried fruits, cereals of all kinds, coffee, tea, etc., was displayed on the counters, along the aisles and even outside along the sidewalk, handled and examined by any one and exposed to dust and flies. just about the same way are vegetables in bulk handled today. where is the grocer who would go back to those days, and where is the public that would patronize him? mrs. glenzke: what vegetables do you can? mr. hegerle: we can corn; beans, string and wax; apples, tomatoes, etc. mrs. glenzke: how do you manage to get the farmers to bring them in? in wisconsin it was a failure. as you say, they came when they got their work done, and the whole bunch came there at one time. mr. hegerle: that is the hardest work, to get the growers to bring the vegetables when they are in the right condition and when they should be canned. mrs. glenzke: there are five canning factories in that neighborhood now, and there isn't a one of them that allows the farmers to bring their stuff. they rent the farmers' land for themselves. for miles and miles you can't find a farmer that hasn't rented his farm. mr. hegerle: you have to have the vegetables at the right time. mrs. glenzke: they use the farmer's team and give him all the assistance they can. it does away with having them all at one time. i have seen twenty-five farmers come at one time. i don't see how you manage it. mr. hegerle: we have had a lot of trouble, and we are growing some of our vegetables. mrs. glenzke: you can raise four successive crops of peas on the same ground, and you can make that work all right. they used to can squash, corn, tomatoes, and they have got down to peas entirely. a member: doesn't most of that trouble arise from the low prices? mr. hegerle: no, not entirely. the price when contracted is satisfactory, and we find in our experience in growing our own vegetables we can grow them cheaper than what we pay to the growers. but we wouldn't grow any if we could get the growers to bring them in when they are in the right shape. when corn is at a certain stage to make a good canned article it has got to be brought in that day, and if the farmer don't bring it, if he has a state fair on or a wedding or a funeral or something and delays it a day or two, then it is all off; that corn is lost. mr. sauter: i would like to know which is the best beans for canning, the yellow or the green? mr. hegerle: well, we prefer the refugee, both in wax and green. we prefer them because they are the best in flavor we have. mr. sauter: which is the best, the flat or the round of the wax? mr. hegerle: round is preferred by the trade, by the grocers or jobbers. i have kept the flat wax beans for my own use of those that we can. mr. sauter: don't the flat ones bring a little more than the round ones? mr. hegerle: well, probably the first or second picking, but you can't pick them as often as the other variety. the refugee you can pick four or five or six times, and the flat beans can only be picked two times. mr. anderson: i would like to ask what you pay for beans for canning purposes? mr. hegerle: we pay from / of a cent up to cents a pound. sometimes a man brings in some that are almost too good to throw away, they are big and stringy, and rather than send them home we think we have got to take them and pay him something for them. we would rather not have them, and we usually dump them. starting from that we pay up to three and four cents. four cents for well sorted and mostly small beans. they have got to be graded, , , , and . number is the smallest, and they bring the best price. we pay in proportion to the number 's and 's in the load. mr. sauter: what tomato do you find the best for canning? mr. hegerle: well, the earliana. mr. sauter: do you have any trouble with those bursting the cans? mr. hegerle: no, sir. mr. sauter: we had that trouble in canning for our own use. they burst the can, they expanded. mr. hegerle: that is the fault of the man, not of the tomato. mr. sauter: they were picked and canned the same day. mr. hegerle: probably not sterilized enough. sterilizing fruit is the main thing. a tomato is really one of the easiest things to can. mr. sauter: in other tomatoes we don't have that trouble. it seems to hurt the sale of them to the women folks. mr. hegerle: sterilize them a little more. mr. sauter: about how long would you cook them? mr. hegerle: i am not the man at the wheel on that part. i don't know. we have a superintendent that handles that part of it. top-grafting. an exercise led by a. j. philips, west salem, wis., at annual meeting of the society. mr. philips: when i first talked top-working in minnesota, professor green and some of the knowing ones felt a little leary about it, but i kept right on just the same. the most i have got out of top-working is the pleasure i have had, doing the work and seeing the fruit grow. i inherited a love for top-working from my father. he used to top-work some, and after i began planting trees my old friend wilcox used to come and visit me, and he was strong on top-working on hardy roots. i used to make a little sport of the old man, but no more i guess than people have made of me for doing the same thing. he made me a proposition about forty years ago. he says, "you plant ten trees of a good variety to top-work on--i will pick them out for you--and then you top-work them with wealthy, and then plant ten wealthy trees right beside them on the same land and in the same rows, right together, and see which will do the best." at the end of ten years the wealthy on their own roots had borne good crops but they began to fail, while the top-worked ones (on virginia crab) were just at their best bearing at that time. professor green came and looked them over at the end of fifteen years. the first ten on their own roots were dead, and the others grafted on virginia bore apples until they were twenty-five years old. that convinced me that top-working in certain cases would pay if done on a hardy stock. i have seen a northwestern greening tree that was crotched, split apart and lay down when it was loaded with apples, in waupacca county, but when grafted onto a stock whose limbs grew out horizontal it will carry a load of fruit until it ripens without injury. i won a first prize at the omaha exposition. my apples were not much better, but they were top-worked and were a little larger. i have some specimens here that show the practical difference. these grew on my own land. i found in showing apples in milwaukee at their fairs that i could always get the best specimens from the top-worked trees. that convinced me that you could grow better fruit that way. mr. brackett: what age do you commence the grafting? mr. philips: i like to commence at two years old. i like to set a virginia crab and let it grow one year and then commence top-working, and top-work about half the first year and the balance the second. mr. brackett: is that in the nursery row? mr. philips: no, where i am going to have it grow. i have found the virginia--and the hibernal, too, either of them, very vigorous trees. the virginia is very vigorous. you dig up a virginia tree, and you find a great mass of roots; it has strength, and it grows fast. i have top-worked about forty varieties on the virginia and some on hibernal. mr. cady was there and looked it over, prof. green was there and mr. kellogg has been there a number of times--and i always ask them this question: if they found any trees where the top had outgrown the stock? i have never seen an instance where the top of the tree put onto a virginia crab outgrew the virginia. i have some in my garden now where the union is so perfect it takes a man with good eyesight to see where it is. [illustration: a.j. philips, west salem, wis. photo taken in his eighty-second year.] mr. brackett: if you had virginia trees twelve years old would you top-work them? mr. philips: yes, sir, out towards the end of the limbs. mr. brackett: suppose the limbs were too big on the stock you are going to top-work, how would you do then? mr. philips: i practice cutting off those larger limbs and letting young shoots grow. mr. dartt did a good deal of top-working, and he top-worked large limbs. i told him he was making an old fool of himself, but he wouldn't believe it. he would cut off limbs as large as three inches and put in four scions and at the end of two years they had only grown eight inches each. i have put in one scion in a virginia limb that was about / -inch in diameter, and had it that season grow eight feet and one inch. that is the best growth i ever had. the reason that my attention was called to the virginia as being vigorous was, when i attended the meeting of this society about thirty years ago--i think it was at rochester--mr. a. w. sias, who was an active nurseryman and one of the pioneers of this society, offered a premium of $ . for the best growth of a crab apple tree, and then, in order to win the money himself (which he did), he brought in some limbs of a virginia that were six feet long that grew in one season; and i figured then that a tree that could make that growth in one season was a vigorous tree, which it is. nothing can outgrow it, and that was one reason why i commenced using it. mr. brackett: i have one trouble in grafting the wealthy to the hibernal on account of its making that heavy growth. i lost some of them by blight on that account. mr. philips: which was blighted, the hibernal? mr. brackett: no, the wealthy made such a big growth that it blighted. i cut the top back and put grafts in, and they made a good growth, but they blighted. did you have any trouble like that? mr. philips: no, sir, i think my soil is different from yours. my soil is of a poor order, a heavy clay, and it don't make the growth. mr. brackett: how many of those large limbs could you cut off in one year and graft? mr. philips: cut about half of the growth of the tree if not too large, don't cut enough to weaken the tree too much. next year cut the balance off. mr. crosby: in grafting, suppose you get scions from an eastern state, what time would you get those scions, say, from maine; maine is on a parallel with minnesota? mr. philips: i prefer cutting scions in the fall before they freeze. mr. crosby: how would you keep those scions? mr. philips: i have tried a great many ways, in dirt and burying them in the ground, but the best way to keep them is to put them in boxes and put some leaves among them. leaves will preserve them all winter if you keep them moist enough, wet them a little once in ten days just to keep them damp. leaves are a more natural protection than anything else. don't you think so, mr. brackett? mr. brackett: yes, sir. mr. crosby: what kind of a graft do you usually make? mr. philips: i have put in some few whip-grafts but use the cleft-graft with the larger limbs. mr. wallace: is the patten greening a good tree to graft onto? mr. philips: it is better for that than most anything else where i live. it is hardy and makes a good growth. if i had patten greenings, many of them, i would top-work them. the apple is not a good seller where i live. mr. kellogg: what was the condition of that tree where dartt put in four scions? mr. philips: they grew eight inches each in two years, then died. those scions were too weak to take possession of the big limb. it is like putting an ox yoke onto a calf. they can't adapt themselves. they hadn't strength to take hold of that limb and grow. that was a good illustration. put a graft on a small limb, and it will assimilate and grow better than if you take a large one. mr. brackett: where you put in more than one scion in a limb, is it feasible to leave more than one to grow? mr. philips: no, not if they grow crotchy. i let them grow one year to get firmly established and then i take off the lower one. i have trees in my garden i have done that with, and you couldn't see the crotch. it grows right over. mr. brackett: i have seen a great many of them where both of them were growing. mr. philips: it makes a bad tree, as bad as a crotchy tree. mr. kellogg: isn't it better to dehorn it and get some new shoots to graft? mr. philips: yes, sir, and if they are _very old_ the best way is to set out new trees. mr. crosby: in getting scions are there any distinguishing marks between a vigorous scion and one not vigorous? mr. philips: nothing, only the general appearance. if i see a scion that looks deficient i pass it by. mr. erkel: would it be practical to use water shoots for scions? mr. philips: i should rather not. i have always had scions enough to avoid using water shoots. they are an unnatural growth; i wouldn't use them. take a good healthy scion. mr. kellogg: would scions from bearing trees with the blossom buds on do you any good? mr. philips: well, not with a blossom bud on; i wouldn't use such a scion. some people say if you cut your scions from a bearing tree they will bear quicker, but i never saw any difference. inasmuch as this question has been asked a great many times by people, what age to plant a tree, whether it is best to plant young trees or trees four or five years old, i will say i am in favor of young trees, and i am in favor of grafting a tree when it is young. mr. brackett: isn't that a general opinion in the west where they make a business of planting large orchards? mr. philips: i think so. i think that is the case. mrs. cadoo: can you graft onto a martha crab and have success with that? mr. philips: i never had very good success with the martha crab; it isn't vigorous enough. mrs. cadoo: we had a tree twelve years and got seven apples. mr. philips: well, i think i got eight. (laughter.) i believe with the martha crab if you will plant it where there are other crab trees around it you get a pretty good crop, but not if you isolate it. i have an idea it is not self-fertilizing. i think that is the trouble with the martha. it is a nice crab. mr. brackett: you showed the difference in size there, those top-worked and those not--don't you think that is because of cutting the top back? you throw a heavy growth in there, which makes the fruit that much larger? mr. philips: well, it might be. mr. street: have you had any experience in budding in august or first of september on those trees? mr. philips: yes, sir, i do a little budding every year. budding is a hard thing to do, that is, it is a particular thing to get the bud matured enough and still have sufficient sap to slip. mr. street: would you put it on the top or bottom side of the limb? mr. philips: i would put it on the upper side of the limb every time, but i would put it a little further from the trunk of the tree than i would to graft for the reason, if the bud fails you have two chances, and you have that same limb to cut off and graft next year. [illustration: winesap apples top-worked on peerless, grown at northfield, minn.] mr. johnson: i want to ask if it has a tendency to make the apple any earlier? virginia crab is an early bloomer, and would grafting it with wealthy make it bloom earlier? mr. philips: i hardly think so. i think it is a great deal as it was with the man that had the boots. some told him his boots would wear longer if he greased them, and some one else told him they would wear longer if he did not. so he greased one and not the other, and the one that he greased wore fifteen minutes longer than the other. (laughter.) i don't think it makes much difference. i tell you what it does do. you graft a mcmahon onto a virginia and instead of having the mcmahon its usual color, you will get a very nice blush on it. mr. erkel: is the duchess a good stock to graft onto? mr. philips: i haven't found it very good. it is hardly vigorous enough for a stock. mr. erkel: you mentioned patten's greening a few minutes ago. isn't that considered a rather short-lived tree? mr. philips: not with me it hasn't been. i set some thirty years ago. i never had a patten's greening injured with the cold. it is very hardy. mr. street: how about the brier's sweet crab? i grafted some last year and had a larger percentage of the scions live on those than on the hibernal. mr. philips: you wouldn't get as good a growth afterwards. the scions on the virginia would grow better and have a better top. i don't think the brier's sweet is as vigorous as virginia. mr. m'clelland: i grafted on hibernals this spring and got hardly one failure. mr. philips: you did good work. mr. m'clelland: made a growth of three to four feet, some of them. mr. philips: that is good. mr. m'clelland: have you anything as good? mr. philips: if i had hibernals i would graft them, but if i had to set something on purpose for grafting i would set virginias. i have had better success with that variety for stocks. mr. kellogg: too big a growth on the graft is liable to be injured in the winter, is it not? mr. philips: too vigorous a growth on the tree is liable to get injured in the winter anyway. i like to see a good growth. i like to see it grow and then pinch it back in the fall. you can pinch it back a good deal easier when it has made a good growth than to make it grow big enough. mr. street: i would like to know whether we should force all of the growth into the scion the first year where we graft on trees that have been set two years. mr. philips: one of the pleasures of doing top-working is to watch the growth of the grafts. i did a good deal of that on sunday. you might do worse than communing with nature. you watch them same as you watch the growth of anything else, and if you think the graft is growing too fast let some of the shoots on the stock grow to take part of the sap, but if you think it is growing too slow and these shoots are robbing it, cut them off. i like a good growth on grafts; it looks more like doing business. mr. street: but the second year would you keep all of the growth in the graft? mr. philips: yes, sir, the second year i would, and if it makes too large a growth pinch off the end. i put in some for a neighbor this season, and i go down and see to them every two weeks. if i thought they made too much growth in august i pinched them back so as to make them ripen up quicker. i don't like to have them grow too late; as mr. kellogg said, frost will get them. (applause.) spraying the orchard. hon. h. m. dunlap, savoy, ills. (continued from march no.) then just as soon as your bloom falls, just as soon as the blossom petals fall, then you want to spray again. you should use arsenate of lead along with your lime-sulphur in both sprayings, because your arsenate of lead will take care of a great many insects that injure the fruit. the first spraying, immediately before the bloom, with arsenate of lead is for the curculio, what is called the palmer worm, for canker worm--if you have any of them--the tent caterpillar, the leaf roller and various other insects that injure the fruit and the foliage. the spray just immediately after the bloom in addition to fungous is a codling moth spray. to get rid of the codling moth worm you use the arsenate of lead. the codling moth egg hatches shortly after the bloom falls, and the little worm instinctively goes into the blossom end of the apple, because that is the only place it can enter the apple at that particular time. just why it does not enter on the side of the apple i can not say, but there is a little fuzz on the outer side of the apple at that stage of growth that perhaps prevents their getting in, and that fuzz as the apple grows larger disappears, so a little later they can enter on the side or at any other part of the apple that they choose. [illustration: hon. h. m. dunlap, savoy, ills.] when the blossoms fall the apples stand upright on the tree, and the little pointed leaves that are on the blossom end of the apples, that we call the calyx, are all open, and at that time you can spray so as to get the arsenate of lead on the inside. within a week or ten days after the bloom falls these sepals, or little leaf points, gradually close together until they are all closed up tight, and after that you can't get your spray in there. after the worm hatches he gets between the little leaves of the calyx and goes on the inside of the apple and into its center. you want to have your poison ready for mr. worm when he enters the blossom end of the apple, and the more thoroughly and more effectively you spray the better are the results. it has been said that if you spray thoroughly at that time, that that is the only spray you really need for the codling moth worm. i don't agree with that, as there is always a second brood of worms. i use the arsenate of lead along with the lime-sulphur for all these sprays, before the bloom and after the bloom, and if you don't spray more than three times you will be doing yourself a good service, and it will well pay you. in some parts of the country they spray as high as seven or eight times in the commercial orchards, but i would say in a farmer's orchard three times would be enough, once before the bloom and twice later, and you will notice the good results. there are other sprays besides these, but none perhaps of any importance to you up here except the winter spray for the san jose scale, if you have that, and i noticed one or two specimens out there that seemed to have the scale upon them. that spray should be done either in the fall or early winter or late winter while the trees are dormant. that has to be put on of winter spray strength, using lime-sulphur or some of the other san jose scale sprays without the arsenate of lead, as you don't need to use the lead with this spray. now, as i stated to start with, these remarks ought to be appropriate to your needs and to make them so it would be a good deal better for me to give you the opportunity of asking questions or of discussing this question of spraying yourselves rather than for me to go into this subject any further and not know just exactly what you would like to listen to. if you have any questions to ask i would be glad to answer them if i can. mr. horton: what proportion of the lime-sulphur and arsenate of lead do you use? mr. dunlap: if we get the commercial brand of lime-sulphur we use it in the proportion of three gallons of that commercial mixture to gallons of water and for the arsenate of lead in the same spray tank at same time we use four pounds of arsenate of lead to the gallons. mr. horton: have you ever carried over lime-sulphur from one year to another? mr. dunlap: yes, sir, we often do that, carry it over until the next year. it wants to be kept where it will not freeze. mr. horton: is there much danger of evaporation so it would be too strong to use next year? mr. dunlap: your barrel should be kept bunged tight. mr. richardson: mr. dunlap fails to say anything about dormant sprays. don't you use dormant sprays? mr. dunlap: i was just speaking about the dormant or winter spray. when you spray in the winter time use lime-sulphur or scalicide. mr. richardson: another thing: i take a little exception to what mr. dunlap says in advocating buying a spraying machine collectively in the neighborhood, for the simple reason that it is necessary to spray at one particular time, at the vital time just before the blossoms fall and at the time they have fallen. we have found it almost impossible to do any spraying for anybody except ourselves at that time. we talked that matter over before we bought spraying machines. you said you wondered whether there were any apples grown here commercially. out of our town we shipped this year eight car-loads of apples. we have three power sprays in our orchard, and we talked that matter over before we bought them, about buying collectively, and we decided it was absolutely impossible to do it. i don't think it is feasible for a small grower to depend on that kind of thing because he may be disappointed. my theory is for each one to have his own sprayer, large or small. another thing, we find a pressure of pounds is better than spraying without that pressure; we get better results. mr. dunlap: the gentleman misunderstood me. i said where you have just small orchards you could do it collectively. of course, i do not advocate where a man has enough to have use for a spray machine for his own orchard that he get one collectively. that would be a great mistake, but where a man has only fifty trees in a neighborhood where there are no big orchards, it would be better for a dozen or more to combine. if you can get around with it in a week you will be all right but not longer than that. mr. richardson: i beg to differ with you just the same. i think if you want to spray you must spray at the time; it might rain the next day, and you might miss the whole season. mr. dunlap: there are a good many people who don't like to go to the expense of a spray machine just for fifty trees or trees. if they would combine with a few neighbors they would do some spraying work, otherwise they wouldn't do any at all. if a man will buy a machine and do his own spraying, why, that is certainly the best thing to do, but if he won't do that it is better to combine with his neighbors and do it than for none of them to do it. community spraying is the best thing to do if you have only small orchards. mr. dyer: what pressure would you recommend in spraying for codling moth where arsenate of lead is used? mr. dunlap: you can do effective spraying all the way from sixty pounds to pressure. my preference is about pounds. i have known instances where considerable injury was done by using too high pressure. we have sprayed at pounds, but we have given that up. it is not as good as from to pounds. mr. dyer: i would like to know about what quantity of arsenate of lead and lime-sulphur combined would you recommend? how much of each? mr. dunlap: in gallons of water we put three gallons of the concentrated solution of lime-sulphur, as we buy it commercially, three gallons to gallons of water, that is, for the summer spray, and for the arsenate of lead we use four pounds of arsenate of lead to the gallons. mr. dyer: in connection with that i would like to ask if you have used or would recommend pulverized lime-sulphur? mr. dunlap: i haven't used any. mr. dyer: do you know anything about it? mr. dunlap: i think it is a more expensive proposition. mr. dyer: i never used any myself. i thought perhaps that might work better in connection with the arsenate of lead than the liquid. mr. dunlap: i couldn't say, i have always followed the policy of never departing from well-established lines of work until i am satisfied that the new one is absolutely all right. i have seen in our state men destroy the fruit from a forty or eighty acre orchard by taking up some new thing that was highly advertised and looked very attractive. it is not the same proposition, of course, but they tell us the devil comes in very attractive form. he comes with a swallow-tail coat and a red necktie and a buttonhole bouquet, and he looks very attractive. so it is with a lot of these things advertised; they look attractive but for our own good we ought to stick to the things we know and let the state experiment station try them and report upon them. mr. huestis: does mr. dunlap attribute the general dropping of apples to the scab fungus? mr. dunlap: not entirely. mr. huestis: do you think that it weakens the stem of the apples? mr. dunlap: yes, sir, the droppings of the apple is largely due to the scab fungus. of course, some of the dropping occurs as the result of too much rain or too much dry weather, something of that kind, that is not attributable to scab fungus. mr. kellogg: does spraying injure the bees? mr. dunlap: i have never had anybody prove to me that the bees were especially injured by spraying in the bloom. we do not practise spraying in the bloom, that is, we spray when we have about one-third of the bloom left on the trees. i have never had any injury, and we have orchardists who have bees in their orchards, and they go on spraying the same way. i do not believe bees are poisoned by the spray. maybe i am mistaken about it, but i have never seen any conclusive proof of the bees being poisoned by the spray. it is possible they might collect it and carry it into the hives and might poison the brood in the hive. i don't know. i thank you. (applause.) the value of horticulture to the farm. mrs. clarence wedge, albert lea. it is pleasant to have a good roomy subject. e. s. martin said in harper's weekly as christmas time approached, "there are just two places in the world, and one of these is home." i will paraphrase it by saying, "there are only two places in the world, and one of these is the farm." so the value of horticulture to the farm is a large subject. i passed a farm last summer that i shall never forget. it was quite unattractive, i believe, so far as variety of contour was concerned--quite level and commonplace. right across the road from the house was a half-grown windbreak of golden willow. against that as a background blazed out row upon row of the most brilliant flowers, graduated down to the edge of the road, and extending as far as half a city block or more. think what a beautiful surprise for every one that turned that corner. i think the occupants of the house must have enjoyed sitting on their porch watching the people in the cars start with pleasure and turn to look as they flew past. that farmer (or his wife) knew something of the value of horticulture to the farm. perhaps it was a device of the farmer's wife to divert the gaze of the passer-by from the porch, for you know we do stare shamelessly when we are on a joy ride. at any rate, that farm would not be forgotten by any one that passed it. the advertising that beauty spot gave his place would exceed in value a column a week in the county paper, and not cost a tenth as much. lowell remarks, "nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare." and there she stands with arms extended, offering the farmer all the wealth and beauty he will put forth his hand to take. last fall i passed another farm down in iowa, whose owner had tried to make his place conspicuous by putting a concrete wall and gateway in front of his house, and making lavish use of white paint in decorating his buildings and grounds. he succeeded, but i cannot help thinking that if he had put the money that useless concrete work cost into shrubbery and vines, it would have made his place twice as attractive. i dislike pretentious adornments to the farm, especially where the rest of the place doesn't measure up to them. like senator blaine, who, at the time the queen anne style of architecture became popular, on being asked why he did not have his old fashioned house queen anned, replied that he did not like to see a queen anne front and a mary anne back. a farm home can be something better than a city park. one of the beautiful things that i shall always remember about berlin was a way they had of bordering their parks and the enclosures of public buildings. they take tree-roses trimmed up to the height of a fence with a hemispherical head. then they plant them around the edge of their grounds a rod or two apart, festoon chains from the top of one rose stalk to the top of the next, and where the chain touches the ground midway between them, they plant a little ivy which climbs up and conceals the chain and gives the appearance of festoons of vines between the rose trees. i thought them so lovely that when i married a nurseryman i thought i would persuade him to do something of that kind on our grounds, but he has convinced me that while that is all right for a city park, it would not be in good taste in a country place. it would look too artificial. the charm of a country place is its natural beauty. for the same reason we do not have any trimmed evergreens or hedges on our place. moreover, the man who makes his living from the soil finds the upkeep of those decorations too pottering, and if he had money to hire it done he would rather put it into his automobile or into other improvements. the natural beauty that can be set about the farm home will become it better. wild grape vines or woodbine draping the wire fences tempt the eye of the passer-by to linger, and they cost nothing. once planted, they are there for a life-time. a walnut tree in a fence corner will grow to a fair size in ten years, in twenty it becomes a land-mark. a catalpa of a hardy strain will do the same thing in about half the time in our part of the state. take an elder from your woods and plant it in an angle of your house, and it makes a luxurious growth that rivals the castor bean of the city park and does not need to be replaced the next spring. it certainly pays to go in for some kind of horticultural adornments for the farm. they are so easy and inexpensive to obtain and make such a happy difference to the farmer's family and to all who pass his way. when you have a specially prosperous year on the farm, save a little of the surplus for new trees or shrubs. but i remember passing another farm, all of twenty-five years ago, where horticulture may once have been of value to the farmer but had become a burden to him. there was a dense grove of willow down at one side, through which the drive leading to the barn was kept wet and muddy by the shade. on the other side rose a high grove of trees casting a gloomy shade on the house and poultry buildings, and a few odd shrubs straggled along the roadside and gave the place an unkempt look. of all things, have sunshine! city people often have to sacrifice it, but no farmer is too poor to have it in plenty. don't let your trees tyrannize over you. it is, perhaps, unnecessary to mention the value of a windbreak to a farm. if it has not been provided by nature it is an absolute necessity to plant one as a matter of economy. it saves fuel inside and gives comfort outside. the cows give more milk, and all the animals put on more fat, if they have a sheltered place to take their airing. it is also a good thing to set some bushes or small spruces along the foundation wall of the house on the windy side. they are ornamental in summer, and in winter they catch the snow and tuck the house in against the wind. when it comes to the garden, the "value of horticulture to the farm" depends largely upon the farmer's wife, for a garden needs mothering as well as fathering. few farmers have time to do more for a garden than the actual labor of plowing, planting, and cultivating, and digging the root vegetables in the fall. somebody must watch the garden, go through it nearly every day, poison the cabbage worms and potato bugs, keep the asparagus and cucumbers picked, watch for the maturing of peas and beans, and dispose of any surplus either by canning or sending to market. to visit the garden only when you wish to gather some particular vegetable is like milking the cow only when you happen to want some milk. a garden well tended puts the farm far ahead of the city home for luxuries of the table and cuts the cost of living in two. fresh vegetables and cream are expensive articles in the city, inaccessible to any but the well-to-do, but it does not take a very thrifty farmer to have them, providing he has a thrifty wife. but to be a real helpmeet she must have an overall skirt and a pair of rubber boots. then the dewy mornings will be as much of a pleasure to her as to her husband, and she can do her garden work in the cool of the day. a garden is especially valuable to a farm, because the farm is usually somewhat isolated and must depend more or less upon its own resources for freshness and variety of food. a good garden on the farm will almost abolish the tin can, and strike off a large part of the grocer's bill, to say nothing of making the farmer live like a king. the strawberry weevil. as strawberries are about to blossom, it would be well to keep a look-out for a shortage in the number of blossoms, for this is the first indication of the work of the strawberry weevil. because of the diminutive size of the insect, few are acquainted with it, so that the shortage of blossoms or failure of the crop is often attributed to frost, hail, climatic conditions or some other agency. upon close examination, the buds will be found to be severed from the stem, some lying beneath on the ground, others being still attached by a few shreds in a drooping manner. further examination around the buds may reveal a small snout beetle, which is the cause of the injury, it being about one-tenth inch long and marked with two dark spots on each wing cover. the females oviposit in the buds, and then cut them off when oviposition is completed, in order to protect the larva within, which later develops to the adult beetle. [illustration: showing beetle of strawberry weevil and the damage it inflicts.] the strawberry weevil has been especially injurious around the vicinity of hopkins the past summer. it was not uncommon to find fields with from forty to ninety per cent. of the buds cut, and as the earliest and most mature buds, which would be the first to ripen, are among those cut, the losses inflicted may be quite serious. the weevil not only injures the cultivated strawberry, but is found to attack the buds of the red raspberry, dewberry and wild strawberry. it is a singular fact that only the staminate varieties are injured, especially those which furnish considerable pollen, since this constitutes the chief food supply of both larvae and adults. _life history._--the weevil appears as soon as the buds begin to form and soon after deposits an egg within the bud. she then immediately crawls down the stem and proceeds to sever the bud. the eggs hatch within five or six days, and in about three or four weeks the footless grubs become full-grown, coming out as adults about five days later. this new brood, upon emerging, will attack the leaves, making numerous small holes on the under surface, soon after picking time. as early as august the beetles were found to go into hibernation last summer, within the strawberry fields, being found especially among the dead leaves. the older beds were found to be more seriously infested because of the fact that they wintered over in the small fields. _control._--since the weevils do not disperse readily, and since they hibernate within the fields, the one crop system and the plowing up of the beds immediately after picking would probably do away with the injury entirely. this one crop system could be followed for about two years, when it might be advisable to return to the two crop system if the weevils have disappeared. on april , , the weevils were located by the writer underneath the straw, and beginning to move about. from observations last year, it would be advisable to remove the straw from one or two rows in order to hasten the maturity of the buds, and keep the straw on the remainder of the patch in order to force the weevils to the uncovered row. they could then be destroyed either by plowing under or burning. some recent experiments by prof. headlee, state entomologist of new jersey, appear to have been successful against the strawberry weevil. a dust spray of a mixture of arsenate of lead one pound, and sulphur one pound, was used as a repellent, giving almost perfect protection. the material was applied twice, april th and may th. the writer will be glad to co-operate with the growers, if they find the presence of the weevil in their strawberry beds.--s. marcovitch, section of economic entomology, division of economic zoology, university farm. secretary's annual report, . a. w. latham, secretary. twenty-five years is a long time to look forward to, but it does not seem so long when you look back, and yet when i review the changes that have taken place in the horticultural society since i assumed the position of secretary twenty-five years ago the way seems long indeed. in the year very nearly all of the old members of the society, those who had contributed their time and money to bring it into existence and keep it alive for its first twenty-four years were still on the membership roll and doing loyal work for the association. as year by year passed these veterans of the association one by one dropped away until at the present time the number of those in that class who are still with us here are so few in number that it becomes almost a vanishing point. in the year a photograph was taken of "ten veterans of horticulture," a copy of which is hanging in the secretary's office, and of these ten the only one now with us is that loyal friend and supporter of the society, seth h. kenney, of waterville, now eighty years of age and too feeble to attend this meeting. going back to a date still earlier, covering the first few years of the association, the only working members of the society as far as the secretary recalls are j. m. underwood, c. m. loring and himself. this is the order of nature, and we should remember only with gratitude and affection those who have served before us and with us and passed on. at the close of this, the forty-ninth year of the society, we find the membership roll somewhat larger in number than at any previous period in its history, there being on the annual roll , members, and on the life roll members, of whom are honorary. there have been added to this roll the past year one honorary life member, mr. lycurgus r. moyer, of montevideo, and paid life members. the number of deaths appearing on this life roll during the past year is fortunately only two, mr. e. a. webb, editor and manager of "the farmer," who had been a member since , and v. a. neil, of minneapolis, whose death occurred prior to the annual meeting but had not been spoken of heretofore. as usual a considerable number of sources have contributed towards this large membership roll. the auxiliary societies, of which there are have brought upon this roll in all members. one new auxiliary society has been added to the number this year, organized in st. paul under the name of "horticultural, poultry and improvement association of west st. paul." an auxiliary society maintained at crookston for a number of years seems to be no longer in existence and should probably be taken from the list of auxiliaries. the farmers' institutes have not contributed as largely to the membership roll as some previous years, on account in part of the fact that the work heretofore done by farmers' institutes is being done in farmers' clubs and schoolhouse meetings of farmers, which does not offer as good an opportunity for securing memberships, though the service to the cause of horticulture is probably even better. through this source the society has received this year memberships. many of the nurserymen have contributed liberally to the membership this year, memberships that were given by them to their customers in accordance with an arrangement made with this office. in all from this source have come upon our roll memberships. the state fruit-breeding farm continues to be the object of permanent central interest in our association. unfortunately the frosts of last spring interfered with the fruiting of the thousands of trees which under other circumstances would have borne fruit, many of them for the first time, so that practically few advances have been made the past year in breeding new tree fruits except in preparation for the future. in small fruits it was different, and the list of these worthy of trial which are standing the climate well is a growing one. our membership are exceedingly interested in these new fruits as manifested by the large number called for through the distribution of plant premiums. in all there were sent out this year , lots of these plant premiums. there is a growing interest in top-grafting late-keeping varieties of apples as indicated by the large number of calls made on this office for scions for this purpose the past season. the seedling contests continue and the interest in growing seedlings continues as well, there having been a call during the past year from this office for a considerable number of packages of apple seeds by our membership. so far no apple seedling has appeared to which we could award the $ , prize offered by the society for a winter apple. referring to the seedling contest inaugurated some years ago, the first $ premium in connection with which should have been awarded three years ago, it appears that the time limit for the fruitage of these seedlings was made too short. the fourth premium comes due at this meeting, but no claimants have as yet come forward for any of these premiums. probably it will be thought a wise thing to do to continue these awards during later years when these seedling trees will come into bearing. the "acre orchard" contest entered into a year ago last spring in which there entries finally materialized into a smaller number than anticipated, reports having come into the office last year from contestants. the reports for the current year are now being received but not all at hand. the executive board provided conditions under which these orchards should be conducted and the prizes awarded, which conditions will be found published in the report of the society on page . trial stations are continuing their work and are being used principally now as far as new material is concerned in testing of fruits from the state fruit-breeding farm. to this list has been added the government station at mandan under the management of a. w. peterson, reports from which point will also be made to our association from time to time, as well as from the trial stations connected with university farm, all of which stations have been added also to our society list. arrangements are being perfected for the purpose of extending to our membership opportunity to use the books from the society library, which is now increased to about , volumes. this list has been published in the report of the society, and we shall be prepared early in the year to send out books to all who desire them according to the regulations, which will be published in an early number of our monthly. the society is maintaining its card indexes and adding year by year to the amount of material which they represent. one of these cards indexes contains the names and titles of all the articles published in the society's annual reports and is indexed also with the names of the writers, the index being prepared in this double manner. another card index contains the list of books in our library, and the third one, indexed by subjects, the bulletins on horticulture coming from the various state experiment stations and the u.s. department of agriculture. these indexes are invaluable for their various purposes and may be used by the membership at their volition. the society maintained an office at the late state fair, at which a considerable number of memberships were received and a large number of members met by the secretary and other officers of the society. we believe this was an excellent move and should be continued in the future. as to the horticultural exhibit at the state fair, while the secretary has no official connection with it, it should be spoken of as a very satisfactory exhibition indeed and well handled. the building as a whole, covering all branches of horticultural work, was a real credit to the various interests represented and well deserves all the time and expense lavished upon it. probably the most important event of the year with which the secretary was officially connected was the effort made to secure an appropriation from the state legislature in session last winter for the construction of a building for the uses of the horticultural society. the building committee, with which the secretary served, held a number of meetings with members of the board of regents and various committees at the state legislature, at which a considerable number of our membership besides those regularly on the committee were in attendance and took part in appeals in the interest of the building. the secretary's service in this connection was largely the effort made to enlist the co-operation of the membership in the way of getting them to write letters or talk personally with the members of the legislature upon the subject, and an appeal was sent out through the mails to all of our membership with this object in view. the response was a most liberal one, far beyond our expectations. some of the members of the legislature received over thirty letters from their constituents asking their support to this measure. there was not a single member of the legislature who did not receive some communications about this matter. in all there were sent in this manner to members of the legislature , letters. while our efforts to secure this building failed, it was, as we believe, largely on account of the prevailing and unusual sentiment for economy which permeated the legislature to an extraordinary degree, and we have reasonable assurance that a similar effort with the next legislature will bring us success. in regard to this matter the chairman of the building committee speaks more fully. the financial report follows and to this your attention is respectfully requested. secretary's financial report, . a. w. latham, secretary. receipts. balance $ . g. w. strand, treasurer . life membership fees . books sold . cuts sold . banquet tickets sold at c each . garden flower society, account premiums . annual fees, . annual fees, , . annual fees, . --------- $ , . disbursements. postage $ . office rent . telephone . premium books . office supplies . plant premiums . assistance in office . printing . expenses annual meeting, . expenses annual meeting, . expenses summer meeting, . banquet . reporting annual meeting . expenses vice-presidents . expenses superintendents, trial stations . assistance annual meeting . expenses delegates, etc., meeting, . expenses delegates to other societies . discounts, membership fees, auxiliary societies, etc. . examining officers' books . treasurers salary, . collecting checks . plans of horticultural building . officers' bonds, . forestry association . insurance on library sundries . sundries . balance . --------- $ , . general statement, december , . balance in hennepin county bank december , $ . interest in $ . --------- total $ . loring fund, including interest . balance with secretary . balance with treasurer , . --------- total $ , . summer meeting, . premium list, summer meeting, . no duplicating of varieties permitted. out-door roses. st d d th prem. prem. prem. prem. collection--three blooms of each named variety, to be shown in separate vases $ . $ . $ . $ . collection of named varieties--three blooms of each, in separate vases, amateurs only . . . . three named varieties, white--each variety in a separate vase, three blooms of each, each bloom on a separate stem . . . three named varieties, pink--each variety in a separate vase, three blooms of each, each bloom on a separate stem . . . three named varieties, red--each variety in a separate vase, three blooms of each, each bloom on a separate stem . . . collection of rugosa and rugosa hybrids--each variety (consisting of one cluster of blooms on a single stem) in a separate vase . . . most beautiful rose in vase . largest rose in vase . seedling rose to be shown by the originator. (not previously exhibited in competition.) bronze medal donated by the american rose society. basket of out-door roses and foliage, arranged for effect without ribbon, not to exceed twelve inches in diameter . . . the following named varieties of roses to be entered separately and shown in separate vases, three to five blooms in each vase. prince camile derohan, general jacqueminot, margaret dickson, m. p. wilder, jules margottin, magna charta, paul neyron, madam gabriel luizet, baroness rothschild, anna de diesbach, ulrich brunner, john hopper, rosa rugosa (pink and white), baron debonstetten, karl druski, madam plantier, grus an teplitz. each, st prem., cents; nd prem., cents; rd prem., cents. peonies. st d d th prem. prem. prem. prem. vase of festiva maxima, blooms $ . $ . $ . " " flesh or light pink " " " " " " " medium or dark pink " " " " " " " white " " " " " " " red " " " " " collection--three blooms of each named variety in separate vases $ . $ . $ . $ . collection--three blooms of each named variety in separate vases, amateurs only . . . . seedling peony, three blooms . . . . collection--one bloom of each variety, shown each in a separate vase; for amateurs owning no more than ten varieties . . . annuals and perennials. st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. vase of arabis $ . $ . $ . " " canterbury bells " " " " " dielytra " " " " " delphinium " " " " " evening primrose (oenothera) " " " " " forget-me-not " " " " " foxglove " " " " " gailardias " " " " " grass pinks " " " " " iceland poppies " " " " " iris " " " " " lilies " " " " " lupine " " " " " nasturtiums " " " " " oriental poppies " " " " " pansies " " " " " perennial coreopsis " " " " " pyrethrum " " " " " shasta daisies " " " " " sweet peas " " " " " sweet william " " " collection--named perennials, in separate vases $ . $ . $ . $ . collection of annuals and perennials in separate vases (not to exceed ) by amateurs who have never taken premiums on flowers . . . . vase of flowers grown and exhibited by child . . . vase of any kind of flowers not named in this list. (an exhibitor may make any number of entries desired under this head) . . . vase of flowers arranged for artistic effect . . . basket of outdoor-grown flowers, arranged by exhibitor . . . strawberries. one quart of each variety, to be shown on plate, not in box. st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. collection (not less than six varieties) $ . $ . $ . $ . collection of three named varieties . . . . the following varieties of strawberries to be entered separately: st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. bederwood, dunlap, crescent, splendid, clyde, warfield, lovett, enhance, glen mary, haverland, progressive, superb, americus, each $ . $ . $ . $ . best named variety not included in the above list . . . seedling, originated by exhibitor . . . garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. *notices of our may, june, july and august meetings will be mailed to members. being exhibition meetings, the dates will depend upon weather conditions. it is suggested that in cases where plants have not already been exchanged, the informal exhibition of spring flowers, our may meeting, be also "exchange day," and that plants for exchange be brought to that meeting. a shakespeare garden. so wide an interest in the commemoration of the tercentennial celebration of shakespeare's death has been awakened by the "drama league of america" that there will be many old english gardens planted in ,--gardens containing as many as possible of those flowers mentioned in his plays. not all of these many flowers and shrubs could be grown in our climate, some mentioned, such as nettles, burdocks, plantains and other weeds, would be entirely out of place in a garden, soon overrunning it. it must be remembered, too, that in shakespeare's time herbs and wild flowers were cultivated in most gardens, that many considered beautiful then are now almost forgotten, and that some have been so far surpassed by their improved hybrids, the originals would not now be cultivated. we have not attempted, therefore, to include all of the flowers so lovingly mentioned by the poet, but have used only those that will prove beautiful and hardy in minnesota, making a planting that will prove, with proper care, permanent. were each plant labeled with its proper quotation the garden would prove much more interesting, e.g., "there's rosemary, that's for remembrance--" hamlet, marking the plant of that name. _annuals._--gillyflowers (ten weeks' stocks); love in idleness (pansy, viola tricolor); mallow (lavatera splendens); marigold (calendula officinalis); poppy (somniferum, opium poppy). _trees._--hemlock, hawthorne. _vines._--honeysuckle, scarlet trumpet. _bulbs._--scilla nutans (hyacinthus nonscriptus); daffodils; saffron (crocus santious); crown imperial (frittilaria imperialis); lily, candidum, turk's cap (scarlet martagon), orange lily (croseum), spectabile, tigrinum. _herbs._--balm (lemon balm); camomile (anthemis); caraway; dian's bud (wormwood, artemisia absinthium); fennel (foeniculum officinalis); hyssop (hyssopus officinalis); lavender (lavendula vera); marjoram (origanum vulgare); mint; milfoil (yarrow); parsley; rosemary (rosmarinus officinalis); rue (ruta graveoleons); savory; thyme ( , thymus vulgaris, , thymus serpyllum). _perennials._--aconite (napellus); balm (bee-balm); brake; carnation (bizarre dianthus caryophyllus); clover (crimson trifolium incarnatus); columbine (aquilegia vulgaris); cowslip (primula veris); crowflower (ragged robin, lychnis floscuculi); cuckoo buds (butter cups, ranunculus acris); daisies (bellis perennis); eryngium m. (sea holly); flax; flower de luce (iris germanica, blue); fumitory (dicentra spectabilis; bleeding heart); harebell (campanula rotundifolia); larksheel (delphinium elatum, bee larkspur); peony; pinks (dianthus plumarius); violet (viola odorata). _roses._--brier (eglantine rose), provencal (cabbage rose), musk, damask, white provence, york and lancaster. for appropriate quotations to mark each flower the little book, "shakespeare's garden," by j.h. bloom, will be found very helpful. our other authorities have been biesley and l. grindon, all of which are in the public library. mrs. n. s. sawyer. mrs. e. w. gould. entomological notes by f. l. washburn, professor of entomology, university of minnesota. suggestions to parties planning to purchase nursery stock. it may be quite out of place to offer any suggestions along this line to readers of this magazine, and yet some buyers may find help in the following: for evident reasons it pays to buy minnesota stock where possible, stock which has been tried out and found to be hardy, rather than purchase new varieties, glowingly described in catalogues. always buy from an inspected nursery. for evident reasons it pays to buy from nurseries near at hand, so that the time elapsing from the shipping of the trees or shrubs and the planting is small. further, it is always desirable, if possible, to buy from the nurseryman himself, a responsible party, rather than from an agent. it is further very desirable to personally pick out your own stock in a visit to the nursery. when the goods are received, see that they bear an inspection certificate for the current year. the plants should be in good condition and show that the roots are protected from air and wrapped in moist packing material. the condition of the received goods indicates the carefulness of the nurseryman or the contrary. do not allow trees or shrubs to lie neglected after being received, where the roots will dry out. if you are not ready to plant they should be at once heeled in, first divesting them of their wrappings. if any injurious insects, like scales or fungus-looking growths, are found on the trees, the same should be reported to the experiment station. after planting the trees and shrubs, they should receive the best of care in regard to cultivation. finally, refuse to accept any raspberry or blackberry plants showing crown gall on roots or crowns. * * * * * crown gall on raspberries blackberries. all the nurserymen are able to recognize crown gall, and whatever we may think regarding its effect or lack of effect upon apple, we know by personal observation that it may and does cause the death of raspberries. this disease of course is, unfortunately, very common--almost universally present in our nurseries. the public, generally, are so well aware of its injurious effect upon canes that they are indignant when any such stock is received from nurseries. it behooves all nurserymen, therefore, for the sake of their own business interests if nothing else, to be extremely careful that no diseased stock of any kind is sent to patrons. * * * * * the destruction of a carload of diseased potatoes. the state entomologist, by virtue of being a collaborator with and agent for the united states horticultural board, supervised the destruction by burning of sacks of potatoes, seven per cent. of which, according to the testimony of our plant pathology division, were infested with powdery scab. the great northern railroad, which had brought the potatoes from canada, were given the choice by federal authorities, either to return the potatoes to canada or destroy them by burning, under our supervision. they chose the latter procedure and the use of the minneapolis crematory was secured for this purpose. ninety sacks of this same shipment which were illegally unloaded at casselton, n. dak., were buried by north dakota authorities. it is to be hoped that this disease does not find its way into the potato belt in the red river valley. notes on plant pests. prepared by section of insect pests, a. g. ruggles, and by section of plant diseases, e. c. stakman, university farm. the first real spraying of the apple orchard should be given just as the center bud of the flower cluster begins to show pink. the material to use in the spraying compound is lime-sulphur ( to ) plus arsenate of lead, - / pounds of the powder, or three pounds of the arsenate of paste to fifty gallons of the made-up lime-sulphur. if done properly this will get the scab of the apple, blossom blight or the brown rot in the plum, and is the most important spray for plum pocket. the arsenate of lead in the mixture will control the young of leaf eating insects and precocious plum curculios. the second most important spraying of the year is given within a week after the blossoms fall, the same spraying compound being used. this spraying kills many of the germinating spores of such things as apple scab and also is the important spray for codling worm as well as for the plum curculio and for leaf eating insects. watch carefully for the hatching of plant lice eggs. the ideal time to spray for these is just after hatching, and before the young lice become hidden in the bud scales or in the curl of the leaves. the spraying material to use at this time is a sulphate of nicotine. plow the plum orchard as soon as possible in order to turn under mummied plums, which are responsible for much of the primary infection of brown rot. plowing the apple orchard early to turn under the old leaves is also essential in preventing scab spreading to the flower stalks. cultivate the vineyard in order to turn under the mummies. practice clean cultivation from the very beginning in order to help control black rot and downy mildew. if the rot or mildew was very bad in the previous years, early spraying with the bordeaux mixture - - is very important. keep the radishes, cauliflowers, and cabbages covered with a poison spray from april to may to prevent the ravages of the cabbage maggot. this should be applied once a week in fair weather, and twice a week in rainy weather. the spray is made as follows: lead arsenate, three-fourths ounce; new orleans molasses, one-half pint; water, one gallon. look over the seedling cabbages carefully and destroy all which show any sign of wilting or rotting. cut out apple twigs badly injured by the buffalo tree hopper and burn them immediately. watch for plant lice on lettuce in cold frames. to combat the insects the plants should be sprayed with nicofume liquid, one teaspoonful to a gallon of water. bee-keeper's column conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. comb honey, extracted honey, and increase. the practical beekeeper must decide at the beginning of the honey season whether he wishes to produce extracted honey, comb honey or merely to increase the number of his colonies. the manner of management of his apiary will depend upon such decision. at any rate a modern outfit, pure bred colonies in modern ten or eight frame hives, is required for successful beekeeping no matter in what line of bee industry he may feel inclined to engage. for production of extracted honey the ten frame hive is to be preferred. bees are less inclined to swarm in a ten frame hive, and two ten frame supers as a rule will be required where three eight frame supers would otherwise be necessary. in successful extracted honey production swarming may be reduced to a minimum if during the dandelion and fruit trees honey flow, and in the beginning of white clover flow, once a week an empty drawn comb be inserted into the middle of the brood nest. as soon as the brood chamber has eight frames of brood the queen excluder is added and an extracting super added filled with white extracting combs. if the beekeeper does not care to raise his extracted honey in snow white combs only, the excluder may be omitted, but the result will be that the queen will lay eggs throughout the whole hive, thus rendering extracting difficult on account of brood present. when raising extracted honey on a large scale two extracting supers may suffice for each colony. when the one next to the brood chamber is filled it is extracted at once, the top one taking its place next to the brood. the extracted super when empty is then given back to the bees and placed on top. when the second super is filled the process is repeated. this process of extracting honey requires a period of four or five weeks. all supers are removed at the end of the honey flow. the last full super, however, should not be extracted but saved for the feeding of light colonies in the fall and spring. the easier way to produce extracted honey is to have enough supers, say three or four for each colony. the first is added during the dandelion or fruit blossom flow as soon as the colony is strong enough to readily enter into it. when this super is nearly full and the combs can be seen through the top bars to whiten, another super is added next to the brood chamber, and the partly filled super is raised. when this second super begins to get well filled, a third and a fourth super is added on top. in the latitude of minneapolis it is not advisable to insert a super next to brood chambers after july th, or two weeks before the end of the honey flow, because such procedure would result in a large amount of uncapped honey. comb honey should not be produced where the honey flow is slow and intermittent. weak colonies will not produce comb honey profitably. in making up supers only a sections should be used, with full sheets of extra thin foundation and three-eighths inch bottom starters of thin foundation. care should be taken to fasten the foundation very solidly, else heat and weight of bees will cause it to drop. one or more bait sections should be used in the first comb honey super to induce the bees to enter into it more readily. bait sections are the half finished, unmarketable sections of the previous season. one to four are used near the center of each super. (to be continued in june no.) [illustration: the home of the lady slipper--moccasin flower. the minnesota state flower.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. june, no. the state flower and state flag of minnesota. e. a. smith, vice pres. jewell nurs. co., lake city. the material in this paper has been gathered from several sources, part of which has never before been published. it is presented not so much in the spirit of criticism as it is in the spirit of making the best of a mistake which the writer believes occurred when the moccasin flower was designated as the state flower of minnesota. last spring an acquaintance of mine was rambling through the woods and came across the cypripedium, or the moccasin flower, or the lady slipper, the state flower of minnesota. he sent me a few specimens. although i had lived in the state of minnesota for a number of years, this was the first time that i had ever seen the state flower or known anything about it. the incident set me to thinking, and i went to work to find out what i could about this flower. i herewith present that information as briefly as possible. there are forty-one states in the union that have a state flower. other states have the matter under consideration. this fact alone would indicate that a state flower is of some importance as an emblem, or it would not be so generally considered by the various states. in most instances the flower was selected by a vote of the public school scholars of the respective states. the vote was then submitted to the state legislature and a resolution adopted making the state flower legal. i submit to you the question: are school children qualified to choose a flower as an emblem of the state? do they understand the conditions required in the state and the purpose of the selection sufficiently well to enable them to select intelligently? do the children in your school know what flower is common in the northern part of the state as well as in the southern part of the state? in minnesota, however, the state flower was not chosen by the school children of the state, but upon petition of the woman's auxiliary board of world's fair managers a resolution was introduced into the senate february th, , by the late senator w.b. dean, providing that the wild lady slipper, or the moccasin flower, cypripedium calceolus, be accepted and the same designated and adopted as the state flower, or the floral emblem of the state of minnesota. this resolution was also adopted in the house the same day. a few years later upon petition of the nature club of minneapolis the variety was changed to the reginae or spectabile, variety. [illustration: the lady slipper--minnesota state flower. somewhat under size.] the mystery of the selection in this state is, why was a flower chosen which is not common to any part of the state? we therefore have a state flower, beautiful in itself, but without special appeal to the people because it is comparatively unknown. there are about forty species of the cypripedium belonging to the north temperate zone. several of these species occur in the northern united states and canada, east of the rocky mountains, which are found in the state of minnesota. it is called the moccasin flower because it resembles the indian shoe. this plant grows preferably in cool and moist woods or in bogs. it flowers principally during the months of may and june. the varieties differ in color, being deep red, pink, yellow, white and variegated. all of the species, however, are very beautiful. the varieties more commonly found in minnesota are, acaule, rose purple; candidum, small white; arietinum, red and white; parviflorum, small yellow; pubescens, large yellow; and spectabile, description of which is as follows: plants stout, leaves oval, acute; sepals, roundish, white; petals, oblong, white; labellum, white or pale pink purple. very showy. it is unfortunate that the minnesota state flower does not take kindly to civilization and cultivation, as it is very difficult to transplant. about ten years ago at lake city, minnesota, we tried to propagate the moccasin flower. we dug the roots and transplanted them in ground especially prepared in a nearby grove where we could watch their development, but the plants were a failure. a state flower should be one of the common flowers of the state, so familiar to all, that its name would suggest a picture of the flower itself. probably not per cent of the people of the state have ever seen it. on this account it is to be regretted that this variety was chosen as the flower emblem of the state. a state flower, like the state flag, should be accessible and familiar to everyone, and yet, probably, the state flag of minnesota is a stranger to many residents of the state, for minnesota did not have a state flag until . an emblem should mean something to the individual. the family coat of arms and the iron cross are distinctive emblems. the shamrock in sentiment is as dear to an irishman as his native land. if an emblem means something to the individual, how much more it ought to mean to the state and nation. the flag is an emblem of loyalty and patriotism. men fight for it. they lay down their lives for it because it stands for home and country. i fancy if men did not know what the flag looked like, the fight would not be a very fierce one. do you know what the state flag of minnesota looks like? a description of it can be found in the legislative manual for . this flag bears a wreath of white moccasin flowers (spectabile) upon a blue background, in the center of which is the state seal. the design was chosen by a committee of six ladies. it is appropriate and beautiful, and was designed by mrs. edward h. center, of minneapolis. the state should furnish an attractive picture of the state flower and the state flag to every high school in the state, free of charge. the influence would be good, creating a deeper loyalty to the state. wisconsin state horticultural society. remarks at annual meeting by secy. f. cranefield, madison, wis. president cashman: we have with us today, prof. cranefield, secretary of the wisconsin society. i am sure everybody will be pleased to hear from him. mr. cranefield: mr. president, ladies and gentlemen: i thank you, mr. president, for your very kind introduction. i know you meant well when you introduced me as professor, but i really must plead "not guilty" to the charge. there was a time, long ago, when i was connected with our agricultural college, in a minor relation, that i was not in a position to resent it, but i have reformed since, and as secretary of the wisconsin horticultural society i am trying to live down the past. it goes without saying that i am glad to be here. i want to come as long as you will let me come. we of the wisconsin society are watching you closely to see if we can by any means learn the secret of your success, and to that end we are here in considerable force. our president is here, and the managers of two of our largest co-operative fruit shippers associations also. frankly, we want to beat you if we can. you have the biggest and the best society in the country, and we have the second biggest and next best, and we are striving for first place. having now disposed of the usual compliments befitting the occasion i will aim to tell you of a few things we are trying to do in the wisconsin society. the efforts of our society during the past ten years have been directed quite largely to the development of commercial fruit-growing in the state. while we have not overlooked nor forgotten the home owner we have been working to take commercial orcharding out of the hands of the farmer and put it in the hands of specialists, and we are succeeding. we have today about thirty thousand acres of purely commercial orchards in wisconsin and more coming. we discourage by every means at command the planting of fruit trees by the man who is engaged in general farming except sufficient for his own use. further, in this campaign we aim to concentrate our efforts on certain districts so as to build up fruit centers. for instance we have in door county, that narrow little neck of land between green bay and lake michigan, over seven thousand five hundred acres of orchards, apple and cherry. along the bayfield shore line we have another splendid fruit district almost, if not quite, as well known as hood river and worth vastly more. in the southwestern corner of the state along the valley of the kickapoo river, on the high bluffs on either side of the river, have been planted a thousand acres of apples and cherries in the past five years. while not all of this development is directly due to the horticultural society, ours has been the moving spirit. the kickapoo development is due wholly to the work of the society. in this way we are establishing an industry that will be a tremendous asset to the state. there was a time when dairying was but a feeble industry in wisconsin, and now we lead. our society also aids in the development of marketing associations. in doing these things we also aid the farmer and home owner, for whatever is best in the commercial orchard is best in the home orchard. spraying, pruning and cultivation as practiced by the expert serve as models for the farmer who has but two dozen trees. the other activities of our society are similar to yours. we publish a magazine, as you do; we hold two conventions, as you do; in fact our work, and no less our interests, are the same as yours, and i most sincerely hope that the very pleasant relations that have existed between the societies may continue for all time. marketing fruit direct. h. g. street, hebron, ill. in studying this subject, the direct marketing of fruit, let us first see how much it includes. does it include simply marketing alone? or does the success of it depend principally upon the varieties of fruit set out together with the after cultivation, pruning and spraying? first of all you must interest people in your work by producing something that they really want, and half of your problem will then be solved. there are any number of places in the northwest where the demand far exceeds the supply. i do not mean for the common run of fruit full of worms and covered with scab, but, instead, strictly no. fruit of the very best varieties. about , through the advice of my uncle, dr. a. h. street, of albert lea, i joined your society, and through the experience of your members i learned many valuable lessons. perhaps the one that impressed me the most was that of grafting our choicest varieties upon hardy crab stocks so as to make them hardy enough to withstand our hardest winters, and by so doing it nearly insures us against total failures in the fruit crop and especially against losing the trees outright. [illustration: mr. h. g. street, of hebron, ills.] this top-working of course will not do all; we still have to assist nature by proper spraying, pruning, cultivating, etc. doing all in your power to secure a crop each year to supply the trade you have already worked up is a big item in holding it. while studying your conditions, together with those of wisconsin and illinois, i became very much interested in the native plums as well as in the apple industry. therefore i also set out some three acres of the following varieties: surprise, terry, wyant, hammer and hawkeye, also some of the emerald and lombard. as this was then new business to me, i had fallen into no deep ruts, and of course i took it for granted that all horticulturists practiced what they preached. therefore i pruned, sprayed, etc., according to directions, and in due time the fruits of my labor commenced to show up, and they certainly were attractive to the eye as well as to the taste. [illustration: wolf river apple tree twelve years old, bearing eighteen bushels, in h. g. street's orchard.] as our supply increased our demand increased also, so that for the past five years our average plum crop has been around , baskets (the -lb. grape basket) and all sold readily at to cents retail. we are located at hebron, illinois, eight miles south of lake geneva, wis., on the chicago & lake geneva railway, which makes an ideal location for a fancy trade. during plum harvest it is nothing uncommon to have fifty to visitors a day. these customers include all classes, from the chicago millionaires to the common laborers, and all receive the same cordial reception. we make it a point never to allow them to think that we are close with our fruit--not even the neighborhood boys, as they are our best friends. what they buy we charge them a good fair price for and never fail to give all new customers a few choice samples of best varieties. by the latter part of the plum season our big red wolf river apples commence to show up and cook well; also wealthy and mcintosh commence to get ripe enough to eat, and the demand each year has far exceeded the supply. so far we have had very few poor apples, but we always sort them into three grades, the third grade being made up into cider to sell while sweet. the second grade we sell as such for immediate use. the firsts of the mcintosh we have sold at $ . to $ . per bushel, wealthy, jonathan and grimes at $ . to $ . , while wolf, n. w. greening, salome, winesap, milwaukee, etc., have averaged us $ . per bushel. we are always very careful not to have any bruised, diseased or ill shaped specimens in our first grade. the president: can you tell us something more about your experience in marketing direct? do you sell all the fruit you raise on the place? mr. street: we sell about all the fruit that we raise direct to the consumer. when we first started we started with strawberries, and about half of our crop went to the merchants, and he would retail it for per cent, but to any one that came there for it we would charge the full retail price, same as he had to charge, and we never had any trouble with any of the stores that we dealt with. if we have any seconds or anything we don't like to put out to the stores we sell them to our customers and charge them whatever we think would be right for them. as to plums, about two-thirds of those would sell right direct to customers coming there, the rest we supplied to the stores at per cent discount so that they could retail them at the same price that we retail them for. since the apples have begun to bear it seems that two-thirds of the people want the mcintosh, and almost everyone is satisfied with its flavor. they average a little larger with us than the wealthy, and some of them you can hardly tell from the wealthy unless you know just about what the fruit is. last year we kept them until about february or possibly later, but an apple with as good a flavor as that you cannot keep from being eaten up. the president: i suppose that is automobile trade? mr. street: a great deal of it is. the president: how did you get it? by advertising? mr. street: no, by doing something so much different from what anybody else is doing you get people to talking. i think the wolf river apple together with the terry and surprise plums have been the cause of getting started. of course, the mcintosh now is helping out, too. you give a person a few wolf river, not for eating but for cooking, and then give him a wealthy or something like that to eat--they will be looking at the big wolf river and eating the other and seem to be well satisfied and always come back. whenever we sell to the stores we always gauge our prices so that the majority of their customers will take our fruit before taking the shipped in fruit from chicago. we find with grapes we can charge about five cents a basket more than they retail the michigan grapes for. [illustration: view in eleven year old orchard of h. g. street.] for native plums we get more than they do for the michigan fruit. we have had quite a good many of the burbank plums, but we cannot sell over one-third as many as we do of the natives. a member: you don't ship them, so don't consider the packing? mr. street: the only ones we ship are those ordered by people coming there or by letter. if they want a bushel we pack them in a bushel box. if they want three or six bushels then we pack them in barrels. mr. anderson: where are you located? mr. street: just south of the wisconsin state line. mr. anderson: i am located miles west of here, and i shipped out bushels of apples to the dakotas last year direct. mr. richardson: how many growers are there in your neighborhood growing fruit commercially? mr. street: i do not know of any who spray, cultivate and prune according to the best methods within about miles. we always make it a point to give our customers good fruit, so that we are not afraid to recommend it. then there is another advantage. if they come right there, and we have any seconds we can tell them just what they are, and if they want them we can sell them for what they are worth, but if we are putting them into a store, i prefer not to put in seconds. mr. kochendorfer: i think that is the advantage of disposing on a public market. you have a chance to sell the inferior goods without any coming back. mr. street: the main thing is to use improved methods and try to outdo the other fellow. cultivate a little more thoroughly, put in your cover crop, not over-fertilize but all you possibly can; give the dormant spray; spray before bloom very thoroughly and again after bloom; two weeks after that again, about july th. mr. richardson: how many apple trees have you? mr. street: we now have ten acres in apples, but most of them are young, about three acres in bearing. mr. richardson: i would like to ask the gentleman if in a small place that way he hasn't a better local market than we have here in the larger cities. around lake minnetonka they raise grapes, but we get most of our grapes from ohio and indiana. i have wondered why it is that these grapes go to another market when they can just as well go to the minneapolis market. you know as well as i do anyone buying fruit in the twin cities always buy fruit grown in ohio or indiana. mr. street: i do not know why it is, but so far we haven't realized that we have any competition. we charge for our best eating apples fully as much as the stores have to charge for the western fancy packed fruit. there is not a worm hole or speck of disease on the no. , and really i can't see how they can compete after raising the fruit in the west and packing and shipping it to chicago and then out there. the price they would have to charge there would make us a good fair price; in fact, a good big price. a satisfactory marketing system. g. a. anderson, renville. i have marketed this fall some over barrels of apples, mostly wealthy, duchess and northwestern greening. three hundred barrels of these were shipped direct to local merchants in dakota and western minnesota towns in small shipments of a few barrels at a time or as fast as they could sell them. i started this way of marketing during the big crop of and this year again, getting nearly all of my old customers back and many new ones. i secured satisfactory prices, and for my location i believe i have solved the marketing problem. one does not pay much attention to the marketing as long as enough only for local demand is produced, but when one has a surplus to dispose of the marketing problem looms rather large. i have tried several times shipping to commission firms, but have never received satisfactory returns. a successful cold storage for apples. h. f. hansen, orchardist, albert lea. mr. clarence wedge: i want to preface this short paper with the statement that mr. hansen is a man who has worked himself up from the very bottom of the horticultural ladder. he came to albert lea a very poor man, and i think supported himself for some time by trapping and fishing and such work as he was able to do. he is a man with a great tendency to investigate and to work out problems for himself. by his thrift and persevering investigations he has brought himself into a fine property and great success. he is the market gardener in our part of the country and a credit to his kind. (mr. wedge reads the paper.) when my orchard, near the city of albert lea, began to bear heavy crops of fruit, i found it very desirable to hold the wealthy and other kinds that ripen at the same time until after the farmers had marketed their fruit. we have a very good cold storage in albert lea that is open to the public, but the price they charge is sixty cents per barrel for two months' storage, which is more than the fruit will bear, and so i began to think of putting up a cold storage of my own. my first one was built underground with pipes for ice and salt to cool it, something like the system that i am now using. but i found out in the first season that it takes a great deal of ice to offset the heat that is coming in from the ground at the sides and bottom of the cellar. and so i built the storage which i am now using entirely above ground, using the basement under it for storing cabbage and vegetables. i built this in , the size x feet, using cement blocks for the basement, where the cabbages are stored. the cold storage above this is built as follows: first, an ordinary frame building with x inch studdings sheathed on the outside with drop siding with no. flooring. inside of this sheathing x inch studs placed flatwise, sheathed on the inside with no. flooring, and the six-inch space back of the studs filled with sawdust. on the outside of this firing strips one-half foot are nailed, which are covered with linofelt. one-half foot firing strips are nailed inside of this, and these also covered with linofelt. to this again one-half foot firing strips are added, to which are nailed metal lath, and the whole is plastered with cement. the floor both above and below is made of Ã� joists, with no. flooring nailed below the joints, the space between which is then filled with ten inches of saw dust, leaving an air space of two inches at the upper edge of the joists. the joists are then covered with linofelt and then the linofelt covered with no. flooring. on the north and west sides i found it necessary to add one more waterproof coat of linofelt in order to make sure of keeping out the frost. i have so far only finished up for cold storage one-half of the room, using the other half for a packing room, so that my present facilities are only Ã� feet. this room is cooled by eight inch pipes of galvanized iron, extending from the attic above to troughs near the floor, that are sloping so as to carry off the melted ice. these pipes are on both sides about two feet apart. the ice is pulled up into the attic by horsepower and broken up small enough into pieces to feed the pipes. the amount of salt used with the ice depends upon how fast we want the ice to melt. a large quantity of salt cools the storage down quicker. in practice i find that it takes one hour for a man to elevate a ton of ice, chop it up and fill the pipes. they hold something over a ton and must be filled every other day in ordinary september weather. it will not do to let the pipes remain less than one-half full. when the ice gets down that far, we have to fill again. the total cost of my storage when it is entirely furnished up and the present capacity doubled will be about $ , . . at present it holds , standard size apple boxes. i find that it only pays to put in good fruit that in ordinary seasons will keep until the first of march and hold its flavor well and give good satisfaction on the market. icing stops about the middle of november. the cost per box for storage is as follows: ice and salt, ten cents. interest on investment, six cents. i have figured out carefully the entire cost of growing and storing apples, and find out that leaving out the interest on the value of the land, it will approximate forty-eight cents per bushel. this includes cultivation, spraying, packing, and picking. the question which now interests me is whether we can grow fruit good enough and stand the expense and compete with apples grown in the other good fruit sections of the country. mr. older: i had the pleasure of visiting this plant with mr. wedge, and this man had quite a good many boxes of as fine apples as you would wish to see. this was along the latter part of february, and they were in fine condition. he had a lot of jonathans and yankees and some other varieties i don't remember, grown on top-worked trees there. the plum curculio. edward a. nelson, university farm, st. paul. (prize winner at gideon memorial contest.) the small crescent-shaped punctures, so common on apples, plums, peaches and other fruits, are made by a small snout-beetle known as the plum curculio. the beetles issue from their winter quarters at about the time the trees are in full bloom and feed on the tender foliage, buds and blossoms. later they attack the newly set fruit, cutting small circular holes through the skin in feeding, while the females, in the operation of egg-laying, make the crescentic cuts so characteristic of this species. the egg, deposited under the skin of the fruit, soon hatches into a very small whitish larva or grub, which makes its way into the flesh of the fruit. here it feeds greedily and grows rapidly, becoming, in the course of two weeks, the fat, dirty white "worm" so well known among fruit growers. the curculio is a native of north america and for more than years has been known as an enemy of fruits. our early horticultural literature abounds with reference to its depredations. in more recent times the great increase in planting of fruits, brought about to supply the increased demand, has permitted it to become much more abundant than formerly, and the plum curculio constitutes at the present time one of the most serious insect enemies of orchard fruits. statistics gathered of its depredations show that it is distributed over much of the area of the united states. its western limit is, roughly, a line drawn through the centers of north dakota, south dakota, nebraska, kansas, oklahoma and texas. east of this line the entire united states is infested except the southern third of florida and the northern half of maine. is the plum curculio causing much damage to the fruit growing industry of this country? that it is is shown by the national conservation committee in its report in volume iii, page , where it states that the average annual loss in late years to only three fruits is as follows: apples $ , , peaches , , plums , , ---------- grand total $ , , just think of it! a total loss each year to only three fruits of over $ , , . this amount is a heavy drain upon the fruit growing industry of this country. during the past twenty-five or thirty years the total damage caused by this insect, to the various fruits which it attacks, would, on a conservative estimate, probably be not less than $ , , . these figures show the absolute need of the adoption of effective remedial measures against this insect so as to lessen this loss. but before we can hope to combat this insect systematically and successfully it is necessary to know its life history and habits. [illustration: the curculio in its stages of growth, and its fruit injury.] there are four distinct stages in its life cycle: ( ) the egg, ( ) the larva, or "worm," ( ) the pupa, and ( ) the adult, or beetle. the curculio passes the winter in the adult stage under accumulations of partly decayed leaves, among the closely-packed dried grass of sod-covered orchards, and probably wherever suitable protection from the winter may be found. its depredations are usually worse near woods, so it probably finds here very suitable places for wintering. in the spring, when the fruit buds are unfolding, the beetles begin to emerge from their winter quarters and feed to some extent on the blossoms and tender leaves of the fruit trees. mating soon begins, and by the time the fruit is well set the beetles make this fruit the chief object of their attention. the circular punctures in the skin are feeding punctures, while the crescent-shaped ones are egg-laying punctures. a single egg is deposited in a puncture, although several may be placed in a single fruit. from one to eight eggs may be deposited daily by an individual female, which may be continued for several months. the great majority of the eggs, however, are deposited by the end of eight weeks. these eggs hatch in from three to seven days, being influenced greatly by the weather. the egg hatches into a larva, or "worm," which bores into the fruit. it becomes full-grown in from twelve to twenty days and bores out of the fruit. it enters the soil, burrows to a depth of one-half to two inches, and forms an earthern cell in which to pupate. in three or four weeks it emerges as a full grown beetle and attacks the ungathered fruit and the foliage. on the approach of cold weather the beetle seeks a protected place in which to pass the winter. the character of the injury is very nearly alike in all fruits. in the plum the fruit often falls to the ground before mature. in seasons of short crops very little fruit may remain to ripen. the punctures cause the fruit to become mis-shaped and to exude masses of gum. the ripe fruit becomes "wormy." the late varieties may be seriously injured by the new generation of adults. in the apple the injury to the fruit is about the same as in the plum, except that the infested fruit is not so likely to fall to the ground and that the egg rarely hatches into the grub there. the fruit becomes knotted and pitted. the late varieties may also be injured by the new generation of adults. in the peach, cherry and other stone fruits, the injury closely resembles that of the plum. although the plum curculio has some natural enemies that tend to reduce its numbers somewhat, yet they are not important enough to be considered as effective means of control. some of these natural enemies are parasites of various kinds, birds, chickens and the like. there are several remedial measures practiced, varying in their degree of effectiveness. away back in the early days of horticulture in this country, when the curculio became very abundant rewards were offered for an effective method of combating it. several were proposed, but only a few were at all effective. the best of these methods is what is called "jarring." the curculio has the habit of falling to the ground and "playing 'possum" when disturbed. this led to the practice of holding or spreading sheets beneath the tree and then striking the tree a sudden, forcible blow with a padded pole or mallet in order to dislodge the beetles. the trees were jarred daily from the time the calyx or "shuck" began to slip from the newly set fruit until the beetles had disappeared, or for at least four or five weeks. this was practiced to quite an extent, but it takes too much time and is too expensive. a still better remedy is clean cultivation. experiments have shown that as high as . per cent. of the pupae may be destroyed by means of thorough cultivation. the mere breaking of the pupal cell, leaving the earth in contact with the body of the pupa, is fatal to many. others are killed by the crushing action of the earth as it is stirred. others are exposed to the elements and subject to the attacks of their enemies, such as ants and birds. sunlight is quickly fatal to them, and exposure to the air on a warm day in the shade is also fatal to them. observations show that the insect is in the pupal condition in the ground in from fifty to sixty-five days after the falling of the blossoms of such fruit as apples and plums. data have been presented to show that the minimum time spent in the ground is about twenty days. shallow cultivation should begin, therefore, in about eight or nine weeks after blossoming. it is best to cultivate every week or oftener for six or seven weeks. it is very necessary that this cultivation should reach immediately beneath the spread of the limbs, as most of the curculios are found here, having dropped from the fruit above and burrowed into the soil where they fell. the third method of combating the curculio, the method most commonly used and most generally recommended, is spraying with arsenical poisons. the spray most generally used is arsenate of lead. the most economical and effective way is to add arsenate of lead to bordeaux mixture. the bordeaux is mixed in the following proportions: three pounds of copper sulphate (blue vitriol), four pounds of lime, and fifty gallons of water. to this amount of bordeaux mixture three pounds of arsenate of lead are added. in place of bordeaux mixture lime-sulphur may be used. if the insecticide is used alone, three pounds of arsenate of lead in fifty gallons of water make an effective spray. it is best to spray three times, the first spraying coming just before the blossoms open, the second coming ten days later, and the third another ten days later. the cost is from ten to fifteen cents per tree for the three sprayings. this cost is lessened when combined with other sprays. while spraying greatly reduces the injuries inflicted, yet it is apparent that account must be taken of other factors, such as the relative abundance of insects as compared with the amount of fruit present on the trees. with a small fruit crop and an abundance of curculios, the most thorough spraying in the world will not serve to bring through a satisfactory amount of sound fruit. while spraying is undoubtedly the most important aid and, if persisted in from year to year, may answer for its control, as its effects are cumulative, yet it is clear that other control measures should also be employed. in all cases which have come under observation the insects have always been found most abundant in orchards which are in sod or are poorly cared for and allowed to grow up more or less in weeds and trash. also, orchards near woods always suffer severely, especially along the border. as opposed to this condition is the notably less injury in orchards kept free from weeds and trash. in such cases spraying usually given for other insects, as the codling moth, serves to keep the curculio well under control. in fact, it may be said as a general statement that the curculio will never become seriously troublesome in orchards given the usual routine attention in cultivation, spraying and pruning now considered essential in successful fruit growing. serious losses from the curculio are almost conclusive evidence of neglect, which is best and most quickly corrected by the adoption of proper orchard practice. * * * * * an antidote for wasp stings.--it not infrequently happens that persons biting unguardedly into fruit in which a wasp is concealed receive stings in the mouth or throat. such stings may be exceedingly dangerous and even fatal since the affected tissues swell rapidly and this is liable to cause difficulty in swallowing and breathing. an effective antidote is employed in switzerland. the sting is rubbed vigorously with garlic, or, if it is too deep in the throat for this treatment, a few drops of the juice from bruised garlic are swallowed. if garlic is not to be obtained onion may take its place, but is a less active agent. the efficacy of this simple remedy was verified by a swiss specialist, who found it important enough to be presented at a session of the vaudois society of medicine. increasing the fertility of the land. prof. f. j. alway, division of soils, university farm, st. paul. i have been asked to speak on "increasing the fertility of the land." to speak on such a subject is sometimes a rather delicate matter because some people consider they have a soil so good that you can't increase its fertility. with some of the prairie soils, when they were first plowed up that wouldn't have been so very far amiss. take those black prairie soils with the grayish yellow clay subsoil, with an abundance of lime in it, which you find in a large part of the state, including a large part of hennepin county, and you have as good a soil as you may expect to find anywhere on the earth's surface. but you can't keep a soil up to its full limit of fertility, no matter how good it is, unless you frequently treat it with something. [illustration: prof. f. j. alway.] when a soil is well supplied with lime there are three things that are liable to be deficient. if it is not well supplied with lime there may be four, but the bulk of your soils are good enough so far as lime is concerned. those three are potash, which is abundant and will be abundant years from now, phosphoric acid, or phosphorus, with which our soils are fairly well supplied, and nitrogen, which comes from the vegetable matter. in nitrogen our prairie soils are remarkably rich when first plowed up. the phosphoric acid and the potash you can not lose unless they are taken away in the form of crops, but the nitrogen may be lost without even taking off crops. all you have to do is to cultivate your soil, when part of the nitrogen becomes soluble in water and is carried down by the rain into the water-table unless you have plants growing with roots to take it up; a large part escapes into the air. so when your black prairie soil has been under cultivation for twenty years, as an orchard, usually from one-half to one-third of the original nitrogen has escaped, most of it into the air, only the smaller part being carried off in the crops. that is the one thing that orchardists and horticulturists have to concern themselves about first of all, so far as soil fertility is concerned. i see that the first of the questions for me to answer deals with that. "what crop do you consider the best green manure?" there are two kinds of green manures. one is represented by rye. rye takes up the nitrogen that is in the soil, and when it dies leaves behind what it took out of the soil; the next crop can get this. by plowing under the rye crop you do not increase the amount of nitrogen, the most important element of fertility in the soil. we have a better green manure than that, better than rye or oats or barley or any of those plants that properly belong to the grass family; namely, the members of the clover, bean or pea family--all of these plants which are called legumes, which have pods and which have flowers shaped like butterflies. as these grow they take up nitrogen from the air; the bacteria which make their home on the roots of those plants take the nitrogen from the air and give it to their host plants. the plants receive this nitrogen, store it in themselves, and when the crop is plowed under you have a great amount of nitrogen added to the soil. now, a clover crop of an acre growing from spring until the freeze-up in the fall may take out of the air as much as pounds of nitrogen. one hundred and twenty pounds of nitrogen, bought in the form of commercial fertilizer from swift & company, or northrup, king & company, would cost you $ . . the clover has taken that much out of the air. if the crop were pastured off, the greater part of this nitrogen would be returned to the soil; when you plow the clover under still more nitrogen is taken from the air by bacteria that live upon the decaying plant material, and you may have $ . worth of nitrogen per acre added to the soil by simply growing clover for one year. any kind of green manure crop that bears pods is good. vetches are good, and soy beans are among the best for orchards. clover, if you give it time to make a good growth, is as good as anything. the next question is--"should apple raisers use commercial fertilizers?" now, the apple tree, when it is growing on good soil, makes such a vigorous root development that it is hard to get any commercial fertilizer to help it. on poor soils it, like any other kind of plant, will respond to fertilizers. some of the eastern experimental stations have been carrying on investigations with commercial fertilizers for a great many years to see whether in apple orchards these will cause an increase in the yield or an improvement in the quality of the fruit. on good soils, even after ten or twelve years' fertilization they have been found to have no effect except in the case of nitrogen, and this can be better supplied in the form of a green manure plowed under than in any other way. that is to say, keep your orchard clean until the last of july or first of august, sow your green manure crop, let it grow until freeze-up and stay there during the winter time. it holds the snow and so affords some winter protection. in the spring plow it under, and you plow under all the nitrogen that the plants had collected the previous year. then keep your orchard clean during the summer time, until in july or august you again sow the green manure crop. [illustration: applying ground limestone to an acid soil to determine whether liming will be profitable. half of the field is left unlimed.] the fertilizers that i get more inquiries about than any others are the phosphates--bone meal, acid phosphate and rock phosphate. horticulturists have read that striking results are being obtained with these on certain crops in the eastern and central states, and they want to know whether the same fertilizers will pay here. some inquire about potash fertilizers. with the latter there is no doubt but that the results we would obtain would, even under ordinary circumstances, not pay. at the present time potash costs about ten times what it does in times of peace. sulphate of potash, which ordinarily brings $ . per ton, is now quoted at $ . this puts its use out of the question. the phosphoric acid fertilizers are no higher now than usual. they cost, according to the kind, from $ . to $ . per ton. some of them are produced near here--in south st. paul. with tree crops, apple, plum and pear, we need expect no increased yield from the use of phosphates, unless it be on our very poorest soils. on certain crops, like the bush fruits--the currants and the raspberries, we might get a distinct benefit. i cannot give a definite answer to that. i can tell you what results they have obtained in new york state, what they have obtained in pennsylvania or illinois or maine, but what results we would get in minnesota we do not know. we can't apply their results to our conditions. the only thing we can do is to carry on such experiments here, and they have not yet been started. that brings me to a third question i have here. "what experiments are being conducted by the university of minnesota with orchard and other horticultural crops?" we realized the importance of this matter and plans were prepared. then, as you know the last legislature was economical. it decided that one of the best places to make a cut would be in the funds for experimental work; when these funds were reduced we not only could start no new experiments but even had to cut off some of the old ones. for that reason these fertilizer experiments have to wait until the next legislature or the one after. i hope the next legislature will make such an appropriation that they may be begun. now, for the next question. a man states that he can secure at a very low rate limestone from one of the minneapolis companies producing crushed limestone for road-making purposes and wants to know whether it will pay him to haul it to his farm. well, if you do not have any other work for your teams it may pay you. however, if your time is valuable, you had better take some samples of the soil and send them in to the experiment station. just address them to the soils department or soils division. then we can decide whether it is worth while trying some of the limestone. we cannot tell you whether it will pay; we can tell you whether it is likely to pay, or whether it is likely to be a waste of energy, or whether it is so doubtful that you ought to give it a fair trial. on perhaps two-thirds of the fields in hennepin county it would be a waste of money and energy; on about half of the others, we may say, it is almost certain to be a good investment at a dollar a ton. on the remaining portion we simply can't say. on these, chances are even whether it would pay. no crops are injured by limestone, so you are safe in putting it on. practically all crops are benefited by it on sour soils and especially the vegetable crops. the next question is--"are the black peat or muck soils first class? do they need anything besides drainage?" some of them, a very few, produce really good crops when they are drained, plowed and brought under ordinary cultivation without fertilization, but only a few. nearly all of them need commercial fertilizer, and until a bog covered with peat soil has been carefully examined to ascertain the depth of the peat, the difficulty of drainage, and the character of the peat (because peats differ greatly within a few miles of each other) it is unwise to attempt to reclaim it. within three miles of the experiment station we have three bogs very different in character. one, about half a mile from the buildings, is heavily charged with lime. another has an exceedingly small quantity of lime so that profitable crop production of any kind would be out of the question without a heavy application of ground limestone or quicklime. still another one stands between these two. one of them can be reclaimed without any great expense, but with the one it would be a very expensive matter to fertilize and treat with lime after it had been drained. those are the questions that have been given me. are there any other questions? mr. mccall: what is peat lacking in? mr. alway: practically all peats are lacking in potash. if the peat layer be very shallow, six inches, twelve inches, sometimes even twenty-four inches, the plants are able to get their roots down through the peat and get their potash from the underlying clay or loam. in that case no fertilizer is needed. some of the peats lack lime, some of them lack lime, potash and phosphoric acid, and some these three and nitrogen also, so that you either have to apply some commercial form of nitrogen or grow legumes as green manures. mr. kellogg: what was the trouble where i couldn't raise strawberries on new wood soil? mr. alway: i couldn't answer that. mr. kellogg: the leaf mold was six or eight inches deep. mr. alway: was it any deeper than that? mr. kellogg: i don't know, it may have been down a foot, and the leaf mold had been accumulating there for ages. mr. alway: in some cases the peat is so thoroughly decayed that it looks like leaf mold and it may be a foot or two feet deep. mr. kellogg: this was no peat, it was just wood soil. i could not raise anything-- mr. alway: did the plants grow? mr. kellogg: yes, the plants grew and wintered well but didn't bear worth a cent. mr. alway: did they make lots of runners? mr. kellogg: oh, fairly good, but right over the fence in the next field that had been worked for twenty-five years i got bushels of strawberries to the acre; never had any manure on it. mr. alway: the more leaf mold the more nitrogen; if you have too much nitrogen it may develop the vine and fail to form fruit or seed. mr. ludlow: on heavy black prairie soil, three feet deep, where i am growing eighty bushels of corn to the acre, i want to put in strawberries, and i have a lot of wood ashes, dry wood ashes, not leached ashes, but dry wood ashes. would it be worth while to put that on or would that overdo the thing? would it be policy to put that on? mr. alway: it is not likely to do any harm, and it is likely to do some good. wood ashes contain chiefly lime and potash. the potash will be a distinct benefit. the lime isn't of any particular benefit to this crop on most soils. for strawberries it is slightly harmful on our ordinary soils that are originally well supplied with lime. mr. ludlow: on another piece a ways from that i put out a young orchard, and in order to start the trees well i had covered the ground half an inch deep with wood ashes around those trees. i noticed that the weeds grew there twice as quick as they did when i got away from the wood ashes. mr. alway: there you have the benefit of the potash and the lime. if you put lime in the orchards it will make the clover and most of the other green manure crops grow better, and thus you gain in nitrogen from the lime; you gain in potash as it comes from the wood ashes. mr. brackett: have you ever found any ground with too much leaf mold on it to grow good strawberries? mr. alway: i have not. mr. brackett: i remember when i broke out my place where i am living now i had a place where the leaves had collected and rotted until i would say there was eight or ten inches of leaf mold. when you went across it you would sink in almost to your shoe tops. on that piece of ground i grew , quarts of strawberries to the acre in a year, the largest yield i had ever grown on that leaf mold. you can never get too much leaf mold. there must have been something else besides the leaf mold. mr. alway: in case a crop does not give a satisfactory yield it may be due to other things than the soil, and until we eliminate the other possible causes we can't safely blame it to the soil. mr. moyer: what do those black soils in the western part of the state need? they have a whitish deposit on top. mr. alway: drainage. that is alkali. mr. kochendorfer: i have a ten-year apple orchard that i disked last year and kept it tolerably clean this spring. there were a lot of dandelions sprung up that i mowed down the middle of july, and since then they have grown up again. will they take nitrogen the same as clover? mr. alway: they won't take any from the air. they will act like so much rye, but when they die and decay nitrogen will be gathered from the air and added to the soil by bacteria that live upon the decaying vegetable matter. mr. kellogg: did you ever hear of them dying? mr. alway: dandelions? if they are plowed under. a member: is it practicable to grow soy beans in this soil? can they be gotten at a reasonable price, and can we mature them here? mr. alway: they mature here without any serious difficulty. there are a great many different varieties. if you order them from a distant seed house you may get a variety that will mature in louisiana but not in minnesota. a member: how about cowpeas? mr. alway: cowpeas are disappointing thus far north. in minnesota they are not nearly as satisfactory as the soy bean. in an unusually warm summer they are satisfactory. a member: with the soy bean do you have to plow in the whole of it? mr. alway: yes. the whole plant ought to be plowed under. a member: would it be practicable to feed soy beans in an orchard? mr. alway: yes. you don't get quite the same benefit from the green manure when you pasture as when you plow under. a member: how about the hairy vetch? does it grow here? mr. alway: yes. it grows here. it is not a bad crop at all. * * * * * poisoning tree scale.--we take the following from _scientific american_ as worth consideration by the owners of orchards and lawns: a correspondent in _science_ relates the following rather startling experiment in killing tree scale by poisoning the sap of the tree. he says: "i have in my ground a plant of spanish broom about a dozen years old and with a trunk about four inches in diameter which has for several years been seriously infested by cottony cushion scale (_icerya purchasi_). i have tried various sprays, have put scale-eating beetles on the tree, and at one time cut all the branches off and sprayed the trunk several times in the attempt to get permanently rid of this scale, but up to last winter it seemed that all attempts were in vain. in february of this year, when the broom was very thickly covered with the scale, i bored a three-eighths inch hole in the trunk to a depth of about three inches, filled the hole nearly full of crystals of potassic cyanide, and plugged it up. in two days the scale began to fall from the tree and in a few days all appeared dead. others hatched and attacked the tree, but lasted only a short time, and the tree has since been free from scale and very vigorous." notice of summer meeting, a joint session of the minnesota state horticultural society and its auxiliaries, the minnesota state garden flower society, the minnesota state bee keepers society and the minnesota state florists society. will be held friday, june rd, , in the gymnasium, at university farm, st. paul. the gymnasium building in which this meeting is to be held has recently been constructed and only finished suitable for the uses of this gathering within the past year. the grounds about it are still in part in an unfinished condition. directly south of this building are the football grounds, originally a marshy tract, now filled in and leveled off, with hillsides sloping upwards some thirty to forty feet on either side, well shaded. these slopes would be excellent places for the picnic dinner and the afternoon session except for the fact that they have recently been seeded and are not yet in condition for use. the main room in the gymnasium building, which is a very large room--at least three times as large as the one occupied by our exhibit last year--will be used for the fruit and flower display, and exhibitors can have access to this hall early in the forenoon, though visitors will be barred from the exhibition hall until : m. to give ample opportunity for placing and judging the display. the exhibition will remain in place undisturbed until : o'clock p.m. the flowers will be distributed to the various hospitals in the twin cities. the premium list accompanying this notice is practically the same as last year, there being only a few minor changes, to which it will not be necessary to refer here. the season, up to the time of writing this notice at least, having been a favorable one we are anticipating a large display of flowers, probably the finest ever shown at any of our summer gatherings, and as the weather is always pleasant on the occasion of our summer meeting a large gathering of members and visitors is also assured. demonstrations.--there will be a number of demonstrations at the farm, one by prof. francis jager, the apiculturist, at : o'clock, at the apiary building. no special subject has been announced for this, but it is certain to be a profitable occasion for those interested in bee culture. professors connected with the entomological and pathological departments will conduct experiments in spraying at some point near the main building. undoubtedly there will be other demonstrations, which may be announced before the meeting or in regard to which announcements will be found posted at the gymnasium. guides to the grounds.--guides will be in attendance to escort visitors about the grounds to various points of interest. these guides will be prepared to answer questions pertaining to the various branches of educational work at the farm. those who wish to take advantage of this service will meet the guides at the gymnasium at : a.m. and : p.m. the guides will wear suitable badges. picnic dinner.--in regard to the picnic dinner, which will occupy the time between noon and : o'clock, we are not quite sure as to where it will be held, but probably near the dining hall. should the weather be unfavorable of course there is plenty of room inside the gymnasium building. lemonade, ice cold, will be provided in quantity at the gymnasium building to meet the needs of the picnickers. afternoon meeting.--at : p.m. the afternoon session of the meeting will be held at some point in or around the gymnasium building, depending on the weather at that time and somewhat also on the weather between now and then as to the condition the grounds may be in. reaching the grounds.--take the como-harriet or como-hopkins car in either st. paul or minneapolis, get off at doswell avenue, and a walk of approximately one-half mile will bring you to university farm grounds. to reach the gymnasium go north on cleveland avenue, which is the avenue running along the west side of university farm, past the university farm buildings until you come to the last building, which you will recognize as the gymnasium by its size. the grounds between cleveland avenue and the gymnasium are in an unfinished condition, but visitors will readily find their way across. if you prefer to ride all the way to the grounds get off at eustis avenue, which the conductor will point out to you. from that place cars run every fifteen minutes into the farm grounds, an extra fare of five cents being charged. ask the conductor to let you off at the gymnasium building, which you will reach from the street car after a short walk over ground still ungraded and where no special path has been provided. getting off at that point, however, saves a long walk from the terminal station. if in doubt as to the way, follow the sign of the arrow. visit to state fruit-breeding farm.--this farm is located at zumbra heights, twenty-two miles west of minneapolis on the minneapolis and st. louis railroad. the train leaves depot at : a.m. return can be made by way of zumbra heights landing on lake minnetonka and the lake steamers via trolley line to minneapolis, or by waiting until mid-afternoon a train can be secured returning to the city on the railroad. one or more of the professors will go out saturday morning, june th, to accompany any who may desire to take advantage of this opportunity to visit the fruit breeding farm in a body. there are many things of interest there, the special timely feature at this season being the fruiting of a large field of no. strawberries, which variety gives promise of being the coming commercial berry of the northwest. entries.--all entries must be received by the secretary not later than monday, june th. no entries whatever will be received at the meeting. the exhibitors are urged to send in their entries at as early a date as possible, under no circumstances later than the date noted above. entry blanks will be furnished by the secretary on application. exhibits.--all exhibits must be in place and properly labeled by : a.m. to compete for premiums. the exhibitors must be members of the society and growers of the articles exhibited. any one may become a member upon payment of the annual fee of $ . . fruits and flowers shown become the property of the association. premium list, summer meeting, . no duplicating of varieties permitted. out-door roses. st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. collection--three blooms of each named variety, to be shown in separate vases $ . $ . $ . $ . collection of named varieties--three blooms of each, in separate vases, amateurs only . . . . three named varieties, white--each variety in a separate vase, three blooms of each, each bloom on a separate stem . . . three named varieties, pink--each variety in a separate vase, three blooms of each, each bloom on a separate stem . . . three named varieties, red--each variety in a separate vase, three blooms of each, each bloom on a separate stem . . . collection of rugosa and rugosa hybrids--each variety (consisting of one cluster of blooms on a single stem) in a separate vase . . . most beautiful rose in vase . largest rose in vase . seedling rose to be shown by the originator. (not previously exhibited in competition.) bronze medal donated by the american rose society. basket of out-door roses and foliage, arranged for effect without ribbon, not to exceed twelve inches in diameter . . . the following named varieties of roses to be entered separately and shown in separate vases, three to five blooms in each vase. prince camile derohan, general jacqueminot, margaret dickson, m.p. wilder, jules margottin, magna charta, paul neyron, madam gabriel luizet, baroness rothschild, anna de diesbach, ulrich brunner, john hopper, rosa rugosa (pink and white), baron debonstetten, karl druski, madam plantier, grus an teplitz. each, st prem., cents; nd prem., cents; rd prem., cents. peonies. st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. vase of festiva maxima. blooms $ . $ . $ . " " flesh or light pink " " " " " " " medium or dark pink " " " " " " " white " " " " " " " red " " " " " collection--three blooms of each named variety in separate vases $ . $ . $ . $ . collection--three blooms of each named variety in separate vases, amateurs only . . . . seedling peony, three blooms . . . . collection--one bloom of each variety, shown each in a separate vase; for amateurs owning no more than ten varieties . . . annuals and perennials. vase of arabis $ . $ . $ . " " canterbury bells " " " " " dielytra " " " " " delphinium " " " " " evening primrose (oenothera) " " " " " forget-me-not " " " " " foxglove " " " " " gailardias " " " " " grass pinks " " " " " iceland poppies " " " " " iris " " " " " lillies " " " " " lupine " " " " " nasturtiums " " " " " oriental poppies " " " " " pansies " " " " " perennial coreopsis " " " " " pyrethrum " " " " " shasta daisies " " " " " sweet peas " " " " " sweet william " " " collection--named perennials, in separate vases $ . $ . $ . $ . collection of annuals and perennials in separate vases (not to exceed ) by amateurs who have never taken premiums on flowers . . . . vase of flowers grown and exhibited by child . . . vase of any kind of flowers not named in this list. (an exhibitor may make any number of entries desired under this head) . . . vase of flowers arranged for artistic effect . . . basket of outdoor-grown flowers, arranged by exhibitor . . . strawberries. one quart of each variety to be shown on plate, not in box. st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. collection (not less than six varieties) $ . $ . $ . $ . collection of three named varieties . . . . the following varieties of strawberries to be entered separately: st prem. d prem. d prem. th prem. bederwood, dunlap, cresent, splendid, clyde, warfield, lovett, enhance, glen mary, haverland, progressive, superb, americus, each . $ . $ . $ . best named variety not included in the above list . . . seedling's, originated by exhibitor . . . garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. _photographic contest_--open to all members of the garden flower society. class i. photograph showing best garden arrangement or planting effect. list of flowers and shrubs to accompany picture. first prize--twenty-five perennial plants. second prize--twelve iris. class ii. photograph showing individual plant in bloom. a growing plant in bloom will be preferred to one in a vase. first prize--twenty-five perennial plants. second prize--twelve iris. class iii. photograph showing wild flower in bloom. directions governing class ii to be followed. first prize--twenty-five perennial plants. second prize--twelve dahlia tubers. any number of pictures may be entered in each class, but only one prize in each class will be given an exhibitor. when possible have photographs x inches or x inches, although size will not bar an otherwise meritorious picture. photographs in classes i and ii should be confined to the garden of the exhibitor. all pictures are to be in the hands of our secretary by november first, and are to become the property of the society. the prizes will be delivered the following spring. the pictures will be on exhibition at our annual meeting in december. * * * * * these directions in the garden magazine are so good they are quoted verbatim: next to seed planting the most important part of the gardener's work is skill in the technique of transplanting. how often do you hear concerning some gardener, that if he "only touches a thing, it is bound to live?" there is no "king's touch" in the garden game. people who "love" plants are more successful with them, merely because such persons take greater care in handling them. the first essential in transplanting is to have good plants. they should be well hardened off (see march reminder, covering cold-frames); this applies to plants in flats and in pots even more than to those growing in frames. in buying plants, select stocky, compact, dark colored ones in preference to very large ones. prepare the soil as carefully as though you intended to sow seeds. mark out the rows, and if fertilizer is to be used, mix it thoroughly with the soil before beginning transplanting. then prepare the plants carefully. unless they are very small, cut back the largest leaves about one-half with an old pair of scissors. with a small trowel or an old knife, cut them out of the frame or flat in which they are growing, keeping as much soil as possible with each. (if not in flats, cut them out as you use them in the garden.) if they are in pots, knock them out carefully and pack into flat for convenience in handling. paper pots, which produce the best plants, are not removed before planting. water thoroughly the day before planting, so that the soil will be in the best condition for handling; but for several days before planting, it is well to keep the plants "on the dry side," as they will then re-establish themselves more quickly when set out. (to be continued) entomological notes by f. l. washburn, professor of entomology. university of minnesota. a silver prune in bloom at minnetonka. may , .--the writer has a small silver prune grafted on hardy root, which he obtained from mr. arrowood, nevis, minn., now in bloom at his experimental garden at minnetonka--not many flowers, it is true, but in bloom just the same. this tree is not more than two feet high, and was somewhat protected by a rabbit protector and high snow. other plums in the entomologist's orchard, (one acre) are now nearly full of bloom: hanska, skuya, opata and other hansen hybrids, as well as trial plums from the university fruit breeding farm. we have top worked this spring hibernals, and patten's greenings with stark's delicious, grimes golden, king david and johnathan. one-half of this land slopes sharply to the north and the other half more gently to the south, clay, loam with clay subsoil, offering favorable conditions for orchard work as well as work with grapes, small fruits and vegetables. of grapes we have started concord, worden, moore's early, agawam, brighton, iona, lindley, salem, barry, herbert, isabella, green mountain, and others. we have even had the temerity to try loganberries from the pacific coast, and have some in fruit at present. a heavy covering of soil next winter will possibly protect these plants during the cold weather. the white pine blister rust in minnesota. this disease has just been found on a few white pines in two minnesota nurseries. the trees in one of these nurseries came from wisconsin, shipped into that state from the east. absolute identification has been furnished by the plant pathology division of the agricultural college. the state entomologist has already in the field a force of men who will inspect every nursery in the state where white pines are grown. the english sparrow pest. we have experienced some success in the use of a sparrow trap, catching from to in half a day. it must be noted, however, that this does not occur every day, and further, that the young birds are most easily caught. both old and young evidently learn to avoid the trap. another party who has used this trap also reports success even greater than ours. other parties report an average catch of ten birds a day for nearly four months. one can also, if on a farm, resort to shooting them singly, or, better, when gathered together feeding. in fact, they may be baited with grain for a few days (preferably in the fall or winter) and previous to the use of the shotgun. this accustoms them to gathering in a close flock. eggs and nests may be repeatedly destroyed, if placed within reach. a well-directed stream of water from a hose is helpful in making them desert their roosts, at least for a while. dearborn (farmers' bulletin no. , u.s. dept. of agr.) describes a nest-box trap. sparrows may also be poisoned, but this calls for extreme care. in this case it is interesting to learn that one experimenter fed a large number of sparrows killed by poisoning to a pet cat with no ill effects to the latter. we have picked them from cornices upon our house at dusk with the aid of a small collecting gun or pistol, firing a very light charge of shot, but found that the shot marred the house, and were therefore obliged to discontinue the practice. in addition to trapping sparrows with approved sparrow traps the following recipe has recently come to our notice: "feed good cracked corn a few days; then substitute poisoned cracked corn made as follows: soak one quart of cracked corn in water; take it out and let it get about half dry. dissolve one ounce of strychnia in hot water. soak corn in this until it swells and then dry completely." bee-keeper's column. conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. comb honey, extracted honey, and increase. (continued from may no.) colonies run for comb honey are very much inclined to swarm. swarming with the resulting division of forces is incompatible with profitable comb honey production. the colony must be kept together for best results. the following methods are used by well known beekeepers. . at the beginning of the honey flow let the colony cast a natural swarm. after hiving the bees on starters or full sheets of foundation and giving them a little brood to prevent them from swarming out again, the swarm is put in the place of the parent colony, which is removed to one side two or three feet. the seventh day the old colony is moved over to the opposite side of the swarm two or three feet. two weeks after, all the bees are shaken in front of the swarm, and the hive with wax and honey removed. thus the desire of bees for swarming has been satisfied, and the colony is still working together. . make a shaken swarm. during the dandelion honey flow add an extracting super to your comb raising colony to give bees room to store. at the beginning of the honey flow set the whole hive a little aside and put a new bottom board on the place thus vacated. on this bottom board place the extracting super from your colony. find the frame with the queen and put it in the middle of this new brood chamber, bees and all. then shake all the bees from the old brood chamber into the new. the brood in the old hive thus left orphans may be piled up on top of some weaker colony in your yard who will take care of it. five such supers with brood may be piled on top of one such colony, and they will be the strongest in the yard for storing extracted honey during the basswood or other late honey flow. this honey will be very handy for feeding your bees in the fall and spring. now add a comb honey super to your shaken swarm. add more supers when necessary, below before july th, on top after that date. remove all comb honey supers at once at the end of the honey flow to have them white and clean. . when your colony is very strong at the beginning of the honey flow--about june th--remove the queen, either by killing her or by starting a new colony with her with two frames of brood. the seventh day cut out all queen cells but one--be sure not to leave two. this will re-queen your apiary, will prevent swarming for that season, will put a large number of bees into the field--there being no larvae to feed, will prevent thousands of bees from being hatched after they are of no use as gatherers of honey, and the honey needed for raising those bees will go into the supers. (continued in july no.) secretary's corner notice of summer meeting will be found on pages - of this magazine. don't overlook it--and be sure to come. great show of flowers and a fine day is assured--that is our record to date. the secretary's office during the summer month, will be open as usual except saturday afternoon, but the secretary will be in regularly only on mondays, wednesdays and fridays. the state entomologists report on nursery inspection in has been issued as circular no. . it contains a list of all inspected nurseries in the state; and also six full page photographs illustrating the nursery industry in minnesota. copies can be obtained by writing f.l. washburn, st. anthony park, minn. a good yield of everbearing strawberry plants.--mr. j. j. kunkel, of kimball, minn., writes under date of may th: "the three everbearing strawberry plants i received of you in made about young plants, of which i replanted this spring about . we had a few berries, but did not expect berries as we let all runners grow." who has done better than that in growing no. everbearing strawberry plants? a farmer on the board of regents.--we are much pleased to note the appointment of a real farmer in the person of c. w. glotfelter, of waterville, as a member of the board of regents of the minnesota state university. mr. glotfelter is well known throughout the state as late president of the minnesota state agricultural society, and is at present occupying the same position with the minnesota crop breeders' association. he is a farmer in every sense, as he lives upon a farm which he has himself worked personally a great many years. we feel that the horticultural and agricultural interests of the state are especially well cared for by this board in having mr. glotfelter in its membership. wyman elliot's contribution to the library.--a short time since mrs. elliot, widow of the late wyman elliot, sent to this office as a contribution to our library all of the horticultural and agricultural books which belonged to mr. elliot. there were in all volumes, nearly all of them bound in cloth. the larger portion of these were reports of other horticultural and agricultural societies, most of which the horticultural society already had in the library. there were, however, some forty or fifty very valuable reference books, or books on specific subjects of a horticultural character, and a considerable number of reports of other societies which we did not have, in all amounting to seventy-seven volumes. these have been placed mostly in two cases by themselves which will be marked with mr. elliot's name, and, of course, each one of these volumes has an inscription of similar character on the fly leaf. the remainder of these books, in number, are being sent to university farm library for use there as far as they need them, and they will be likely to know where to place to advantage any that they have no personal use for. there are plenty of libraries in the state that would be glad indeed to receive some of these volumes, and we hope that in this way mr. elliot's name will appear in the catalog of many of our public libraries. new life members.--there have been quite a number of names added to the life membership roll of the society during the year and since the last public record was made of this sort. the names of the following persons have now been added to the permanent roll of the society: ludvig lima, montevideo; mrs. florence burlingame, grand rapids; a.l. negstad, arlington, s.d.; c. p. bratnober, harmon place, minneapolis; miss anna m. johnson, lafayette; h. j. appleby, minneiska; hans m. johnson, pipestone; christ effertz, norwood; o.j. oyen, watson; f.e. older, california state normal school, los angeles, cal.; erick sparre, elk river; e. h. mazey, ewing so., minneapolis. there is still room in this list for others, and why not instead of paying annual membership year after year make one payment and have done with it? resolution about state flower.--the following resolution was unanimously adopted at a meeting of the minnesota garden flower society, held during the annual session of the state horticultural society, in december last. resolved, that whereas, the state of minnesota has adopted a state flower, which, on account of its being a native of the woods and bogs, is not generally known or recognized, and whereas, the state of minnesota in adopted by legislative vote a state flag, which emblem is not generally known to the residents of the state, and believing that familiarity with the state flower and the state flag will do good and create loyalty to the state and union; be it resolved, that we, the minnesota state horticultural society, do hereby petition and pray the state legislature of minnesota, to have printed an attractive picture of the state flower and the state flag, properly framed, and present it to the high schools of the state, with the request that it be placed upon the wall of their assembly room. also, that it be furnished free of cost, to such other public buildings as may be deemed advisable. program, "farmers' week."--during "farmers' week" at university farm, january - , , there will be scheduled several conferences which fruit and vegetable growers should find of value to them in their work. these conferences deal with all of the problems of the grower, but special afternoons are given to the small fruits, the tree fruits, and vegetables. next january will be the third conference of the fruit growers, the second for the vegetable growers, and the first for the small fruit growers as a separate branch of the fruit work. mr. w. g. brierly, chairman of the division of horticulture, university farm, is working on programs for these conferences for next january. he will be very glad to have any one interested write to him for information or to suggest topics for discussion. the program for the vegetable growers' conference will be drawn up by a joint committee from the st. paul and minneapolis vegetable growers, working with mr. brierly. the committee is planning to meet at the time of the summer meeting of the horticultural society and will, of course, welcome any suggestions as to topics and speakers. these conferences are for all growers interested and are free to all. there has been some difficulty heretofore in that very few suggestions as to program have been offered by the growers themselves. if you have any problems or matters which you would like to have discussed at these conferences, now is the time to make your suggestions. [illustration: south end of exhibition hall at late summer meeting. the flower exhibit is mostly in north end of hall, and not showing in this picture.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. july, no. my neighbor's roses the roses red upon my neighbor's vine are owned by him, but they are also mine, his was the cost, and his the labor, too, but mine, as well as his, the joy their loveliness to view. they bloom for me, and are to me as fair as for the man who gives them all his care. thus i am rich, because a good man grew a rose-clad vine for all his neighbors' view. i know from this that others plant for me, and what they own, my joy may also be. so why be selfish, when so much that's fine is grown for you, upon your neighbor s vine! --_anon_ summer meeting, . minnesota state horticultural society a joint session with its auxiliaries, the minnesota state garden flower society, the minnesota state bee-keepers society and the minnesota state florists society. a. w. latham, secy. there seems to be something almost uncanny in the unbroken sequence of pleasant days that have greeted the annual summer meeting of the horticultural society in the last quarter of a century. for days before this meeting it seemed assured that we should this year at least have an unpleasant day for our gathering, and even the day before and night before were most unfavorable. friday morning, june rd, however, opened up bright and beautiful, warm and pleasant, as nature can smile, and continued so throughout the day. the meeting was in accord with these favorable circumstances, and i believe brought out more and better flowers and more, though no better, people, both as exhibitors and in attendance, than any previous similar gathering the association has held. the exhibition was installed in the new gymnasium at university farm, a room sufficiently large so that it not only accommodated the exhibition with wide aisle space, but also found plenty of room for the placing of chairs for the afternoon meeting. tables were arranged around three sides of the hall, which were used for the displays of perennials and roses. the peonies were shown on several tables in the north center of the hall and besides these there were exhibits of some of the choicest of the peonies made upon the floor, so arranged that visitors could walk amongst them and look down upon them and see them at their best. one table was occupied with the strawberry exhibit, which, however, was a small one on account of the lateness of the season, though the fruit-breeding farm showed some forty or fifty plates of no. , the new june-bearing berry of such large popularity, and a few everbearers. the number of entries was, i believe, in excess of any previous meeting, amounting altogether to . most of the old exhibitors at our summer meeting were present and some few of the newer ones. the effort which was made this year to secure a completed exhibit at : proved to be a success, and by the lunch hour the judges had gotten well along with their work and the hall was opened to the public to inspect the display. at : o'clock or thereabouts the members and their friends gathered upon the lawn near the station dining hall, where there were plenty of trees and green grass, and partook of the noon repast, for which purpose the station provided coffee and also lemonade, the latter a new feature in our bill of fare. the regular afternoon meeting was held at : o'clock in the same hall in which the exhibit was placed. this was largely attended, some two or three hundred taking advantage of the opportunity to listen to those who found place on this extempore program. our society reporter took some notes of what transpired at the meeting, but they were only partial notes, and what here follows in regard to what took place is only in the nature of extracts. president cashman was in the chair as usual and in a few words extended greeting to the society saying, amongst other things: "this occasion is always looked forward to with a great deal of pleasure. we meet those engaged in similar lines of work, we discuss the problems with which we have to contend, our joys and our sorrows. we come here to meet our friends--and my experience has been that there are no truer or more loyal friends than those found amongst the horticulturists. the true horticulturist is a lover of nature, a lover of the beautiful and all that goes with it. he looks for nothing except the best that can be found in human kind. such are the men and women that belong to the horticultural society." as representing the university farm, whose hospitality in a large sense the society was enjoying, dean woods gave us a hearty welcome in his happy way, and what follows is typical of the kindly things he said: "we always have pleasant days and pleasant memories because those who study flowers and fruits and the beauties of nature are the ones from whom one can get inspiration to understand and to know what nature means. any one who can listen to the sounds of nature, any one who can see in flowers the spirit of life struggling upwards has the true spirit of the horticulturist and is always welcome here." mr. a. brackett, of excelsior, being called upon, had something to say about strawberry culture, and in the course of his remarks showed several plates of different varieties of strawberries. what follows is the substance of his talk on this subject. "we have here what we call the no. strawberry produced at the experimental farm. i believe from my experience that it is going to take the place of all of our common june-bearing strawberries. it is a deep rooter, fine large plant and a nice, solid berry, and i have never seen any blight or rust on the plants. i think that it will pay for all the expense that has ever been paid out for the farm, that one berry will pay for it, it will be of that much value to the people of minnesota. the everbearing strawberry has come to stay, and for private use you do not need to plant any other variety. the everbearing strawberry will ripen its fruit at least a week ahead of almost any other berry we have, and then it will continue bearing until the frost kills it. i had at least twenty bushels of fruit from my plants last year, and i secured from one-quarter acre fifty-three cases and sold them at $ . a case. they talk about what they can raise in california, but we can do better here, and i believe if you will stick to these three varieties, the americus, superb and progressive, you will not need to plant any other variety. the americus has the best flavor but it isn't as large. of the superb nearly all of the berries are large, very few small ones, but they haven't got the flavor. "there is one thing about this new strawberry, it can not bear the year around, that is, during the summer, unless the ground is very rich. i think i put on one-half acre of the everbearing strawberries twenty-five loads of fertilizer. you have got to make the ground rich to carry these plants through and produce the berries. i use a narrow row on the hill system. i cut my rows down in the spring, dig up the plants and leave the row four inches wide and plants six inches apart. this brings more berries and better plants." prof. c. b. waldron, of fargo, n.d., horticulturist at the fargo agricultural college for a quarter century, who has rarely missed being with us at any summer gathering, being called upon, among other things said: "there are a good many things that affiliate people together in groups of one kind or another. it used to be that if people had the same belief about eternal punishment, etc., that they would group themselves together, but nowadays we find people grouping themselves according to more natural methods. i think people grouping themselves together for a common love of trees, fruits and flowers makes a more natural bond of affiliation, and when i find a man that knows the names of many of our beautiful flowers i feel drawn to him at once. i can't seem to tire of that person's company, no matter what political party he belongs to. these things that i speak of seem to be a more natural and harmonious relationship to build our friendship upon than almost anything else. i know that i always look forward days and weeks ahead to meetings like this, where i can meet with people who love and admire and cherish the things that i find my greatest delight in." the superintendent of the fruit-breeding farm, mr. chas. haralson, spoke briefly of the work at the fruit-breeding farm, which he is conducting with such distinguished success. his statement was altogether too brief when one knows the vast amount of detail work that is being done there in development of new fruits: "the work at the fruit-breeding farm is carried on just the same as usual. we are working on strawberries, plums, apples, grapes somewhat and several other fruits like gooseberries and currants. the best success we have had so far in the new varieties is with strawberries, raspberries and plums. it takes only a few years to run through a generation of these, and we can get them selected quicker than apples. the plum crop is very light this year, especially on the hybrid plums, on account of winter-killing, that is, the buds killed during the winter. they never did that before, but this year they have done it to a great extent. the strawberry crop is very good and so are the raspberries now coming on. probably as many as , apple seedling trees are bearing this year, so we will have a little chance for selection in the line of apples. in grapes we are working with most of the seedlings from the beta and some hybrids, and we have a few of the beta seedlings that are very good. one red variety compares favorably with any of the cultivated varieties. it is perfectly hardy so far. and we have two or three varieties of black nearly as large as moore's early or concord. "we also have a number of seedlings of pears, but we are not very far advanced with them yet. pears stand the winter fairly well, although they winter-kill to a certain extent. when they are weakened through the winter and growth starts in the spring they blight. blight is the worst part of our work with pears." prof. r. s. mackintosh, of university farm, was caught on the floor, and as usual took opportunity to tell people they ought to eat more apples and something about how to get them. this seems to be a subject that is ever in his mind and which he is persistently working to good advantage. "you folks that are hungry and want apples or apple pie want to get busy about the middle of august and eat up your surplus apples in minnesota. it is a shame that farmers, fruit growers, etc., have spent years trying to grow apples in minnesota and then we cannot get enough people to eat the apples. we are going to carry on the clearing house as we did last year, and if you want apples let us know. we can grow apples the same as we can grow peonies and strawberries, but it is a little hard to get them distributed properly." mr. a. m. brand, of faribault, who had an extraordinary exhibit of seedling peonies at the meeting, pronounced by our peony expert, mr. c.s. harrison, "second to none in the world," was introduced and talked briefly along the line of seedling peony production, as follows: "there is a great deal of encouragement in what we have been able to accomplish down there at faribault along the line of producing something fine in peonies. sixteen years ago we started out with the idea of improving upon the stock that we already have. we had a little red peony, a very nice peony, originated by mr. terry down in iowa, called rachel, and starting out with that as a mother plant we have produced some of the finest roots that there are in cultivation. by using lots of the seed of rachel we have been able to produce this mary brand, considered by many of the peony growers as one of the finest red peonies in the world. a great many people that raise nice peonies think they have to go to the trouble of hand fertilization. that isn't necessary. we started out with such varieties as rachel, and by letting the bees and the elements do the fertilizing for us we were able to produce varieties like this. here is the new seedling that we brought out this year and named ruth--a pink peony. as a rule we plant about a peck of seed every year, and out of that peck of seed it probably brings us , seedlings, and out of this , we get one good seedling, and this is the only good seedling that we have produced this year. this is a seedling that comes from rosa fragrans. when we picked this seedling from the bed of seedlings we considered this the finest seedling that we had, and it has never come good from that time to this, and it is ten years since we have been trying this seedling, which will show you when you are growing seedlings that the first time a seedling blossoms and comes splendid you mustn't be too enthusiastic about it. the next year it may be worth nothing. you have got to try a seedling in every way to find out whether it is worth sending out. as a rule it takes us ten years from the time that a seedling first blossoms until we send it out. ninety per cent of all the peony seedlings that you grow will be singles, one out of , seedlings will be fair and one out of , seedlings will be extra good--so you see that those which we have produced give us some encouragement. i wouldn't advise many of you to go into the seedling business, although you might produce one good seedling out of a handful of seed. "if you plant a peony on the lawn you have to fertilize it heavily. you can't have your lawn right up to the stalks of the peony. if you want a peony on the lawn you must give it two feet of ground. most of the peonies that are brought here are taken out of fields that are cultivated with a horse cultivator. if you want your flowers on the lawn and don't want to cultivate them you have to use lots of fertilizer. you must not use too much. fertilize heavy about once in three years. don't fertilize every fall. fertilize in the fall, and the next spring spade the manure in and then don't use any manure for three or four years. plant peonies any time from the first of september until the time it freezes up and plant any time in the spring until the growth starts on the plants. if you plant in the spring you are just six months ahead of planting in the following september, though september is really the best time to plant. if a peony clump becomes old, as large around as a tub, and you still want it to stand in the same place i would cut out half of the stalks as they come up, and then to get still larger blossoms after the stalks have come up i would pinch the side buds also." [illustration: a fringe of peonies at the summer exhibit.] mrs. crawford, of indiana, a peony grower of much experience there, who came to minneapolis for the purpose of attending our flower meeting, we understand, told us something about how peonies are grown in her section, an interesting and practical talk, part of which follows: "in indiana we have a sour, black clay soil. we fertilize with crushed limestone and leaves. i fertilize with the leaves that fall in the autumn after the leaves have begun to rot. i cover them without cutting the tops. then in the spring when they begin to bud we go over them on our knees and work the leaves all in with a trowel. i have , plants, but with the assistance of the men we have we get it done, and grow fine peonies. in regard to manure, i never feel that i can put any fertilizer within two feet. the rows are from three to four feet apart. we never use any fertilizer that will come in contact with the stems, as when the flowers are cut off it leaves the stem hollow, and if the manure gets in the stem it works down the stem into the roots and leaves a hollow root in time. we never use in our part of the state any fertilizer that will come in contact with the stems except leaves. when the streets are cleaned in the fall i pile the leaves on the back lot. i have fourteen or fifteen loads hauled in. this is scattered over the peonies. i want to compliment you on having very fine peonies, some of them finer than i have ever seen, and i hope you will all be as enthusiastic about raising peonies as i am. is it necessary to burn the tops when they are cut off? i consider that the ashes from the tops aid in fertilizing. i pile them up in little piles and burn them and sprinkle the ashes over the peonies. frequently when i dig around a peony and i feel that the soil has become exhausted i throw in a handful of garden peas, and when they get about a foot high i spade them under for fertilizer." mr. d. w. c. ruff, of st. paul, had a wonderful showing of peonies of named varieties, most of them very expensive from a money standpoint, they having cost him prices varying from $ . to $ . a root, and judging by the character of the flowers which he held up for the audience while he talked about them they were well worth the money. i regret that we are unable to give a verbatim report of his talk, with the names of the varieties, but this information must be secured from him at some later time. in part he said: "i have spent the last fifteen years in making a good collection of peonies. i have gone all over the world for peonies and have brought together some of the finest peonies from all the noted growers and horticulturists. in my collection i have over hundred varieties, that is, what i am growing at my home. i have brought here today of course a great many peonies of the later varieties. i have brought these here from an educational standpoint so that the people might see some of the rare ones that they might have heard about or read about and see them and know of these varieties. last year i made an exhibit and showed hundreds of them. this year i have brought just a few choice things." rev. c. s. harrison spoke in his usual inspiring way, but with such force and speed that our stenographer was unable to pick him up, which we sincerely regret. we all know mr. harrison as an enthusiast in flowers. he has met with us year after year at both annual gatherings. while he is eighty-three years old yet what he has to say and the way he says it still have the ring and inspiration of youth. he proposed the organization of a peony society for the northwest, and a show of hands indicating there was material present to perfect such an organization the plans were laid therefor. our reporter got this far: "i have attended the national peony shows of boston and new york, and they cannot hold a candle to your peonies, mark that! there is something in your soil and in your climate which brings them to the front." prof. f. l. washburn was to tell us something about the white pine blister rust, but he failed to inflict upon us a long technical talk, and from what he said all the reporter got was this, from which however one could well judge what was in his thought. "we have found in minnesota a disease on the white pine called the 'white pine blister rust.' one stage of this disease is on the gooseberry or currant, that is, we find it now on the white pine and going to the gooseberry or currant. we went to the governor, state treasurer and state auditor and obtained $ , for use in fighting this besides our regular appropriation." mr. j. m. underwood, of lake city, without whom the program would be incomplete, spoke a few closing words as follows: "we have had such a splendid program, and i know you are anxious to look at these beautiful flowers, and all i have time to say, and a disposition to say, is that i think we owe a great obligation to the garden flower society, a splendid organization auxiliary to the state horticultural society. i think you ought to all be members of that garden flower society. it is a wonderful working organization, and i think the ladies that are in charge of it deserve a great deal of credit and should be complimented as being foremost on the program. there is a great deal that i could say, but i know there isn't time for it, and i thank you." in the meantime many more visitors had come into the hall to view the display, which continued on exhibition until : o'clock in the evening. prof. cady, who had general charge of the arrangements at the meeting, reports that at least one thousand people saw the display, and we think that it was well worth while to have kept it open until that hour. representatives from a number of the hospitals were present after the meeting and took the flowers away to be used to cheer the sick in both minneapolis and st. paul. the total amount of awards at this meeting were $ . . a list of these awards with the names of the judges follows in a separate article. no one person took any large amount of premiums, they were well distributed amongst a dozen and a number of others who received smaller amounts. mrs. h.b. tillotson, who has a wonderful flower garden near eureka, lake minnetonka, received premiums of $ . , which is the largest amount paid to any one person, although there were a number of others who received slightly smaller amounts. award of premiums, summer meeting, . roses. collection, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, fourth premium, $ . . collection named varieties, amateurs, thos. redpath, wayzata, second premium, $ . . collection named varieties, amateurs, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, first premium, $ . . collection named varieties, amateurs, mrs. d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, third premium, $ . . three named varieties, white, thos. redpath, wayzata, first premium, $ . . three named varieties, pink, thos. redpath, wayzata, first premium, $ . . collection rugosa and r. hy., b. t. hoyt, st. paul, first premium, $ . . most beautiful rose, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, first premium, $ . . largest rose, mrs. d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, first premium, $ . . seedling, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, first premium, bronze medal donated by american rose society. basket outdoor roses arranged for effect, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, first premium, $ . . basket outdoor roses arranged for effect, mrs. d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, second premium, $ . . basket outdoor roses arranged for effect, mrs. john gantzer, st. paul, third premium, $ . . mdm. plantier, thos. redpath, wayzata, first premium, $ . . gen. jack, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, first premium, $ . . gen. jack, mrs. g. t. brown, st. paul, second premium, $ . . magna charta, mrs. g. t. brown, st. paul, first premium, $ . . ulrich brunner, mrs. g. t. brown, st. paul, first premium, $ . . baroness rothschild, mrs. g. t. brown, st. paul, first premium. $ . . mdm. plantier, mrs. g. t. brown, st. paul, second premium, $ . . aug. s. swanson, judge. peonies. flesh or light pink, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, third premium, $ . . medium or dark pink, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, third premium, $ . . white, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, second premium, $ . . festiva maxima, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, second premium, $ . . medium or dark pink, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, second premium, $ . . festiva maxima, john e. stryker, st. paul, first premium, $ . . light pink, john e. stryker, st. paul, second premium, $ . . dark pink, john e. stryker, st. paul, first premium, $ . . red, john e. stryker, st. paul, second premium, $ . . flesh or light pink, d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, first premium, $ . . white, d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, first premium, $ . . red, d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, first premium, $ . . collection, blooms, professional, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, first premium, $ . . a. m. brand, c. j. traxler, judges. collection, three blooms, amateur, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, fourth premium, $ . . collection, three blooms, amateur, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, third premium, $ . . collection, three blooms, amateur, john e. stryker, st. paul, first premium, $ . . collection, three blooms, amateur, mrs. e. w. d. holway, excelsior, second premium, $ . . olaf j. olson, judge. seedling, b. t. hoyt, st. paul, fourth premium, $ . . seedling, crimson no. , , a. m. brand, faribault, third premium, $ . . seedling, ruth, a. m. brand, faribault, first premium, $ . . seedling, no. , a. m. brand, faribault, second premium, $ . . d. w. c. ruff, judge. annuals and perennials. dielytra, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, third premium, $ . . forget-me-nots, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . gailardias, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, third premium, $ . . grass pinks, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . iceland poppies, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . dielytra, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, first premium, $ . . delphinium, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, third premium, $ . . foxgloves, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, second premium, $ . . grass pinks, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, first premium, $ . . delphinium, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, second premium, $ . . foxgloves, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, third premium, $ . . iris, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, third premium, $ . . gailardias, guy c. hawkins, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . dielytra, anna e. rittle, st. paul, second premium, $ . . iceland poppies, mrs. e. w. gould, minneapolis, third premium, $ . . gailardia, e. a. farmer, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . foxgloves, mrs. j. f. fairfax, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . iceland poppies, mrs. j. f. fairfax, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . iris, mrs. e. w. d. holway, excelsior, first premium, $ . . delphinium, mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul, first premium, $ . . forget-me-nots, mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul, third premium, $ . . iris, john s. crooks, st. paul, second premium, $ . . canterbury bells, mrs. chas. krause, merriam park, second premium, $ . . grass pinks, mrs. chas. krause, merriam park, third premium, $ . . canterbury bells, j. a. weber, excelsior, first premium, $ . . forget-me-nots, vera p. l. stebbins, second premium, $ . . oriental poppies, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . pansies, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . pyrethrum, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . sweet peas, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . sweet william, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . shasta daisies, elizabeth starr, excelsior, third premium, $ . . lilies, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, third premium, $ . . oriental poppies, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, second premium, $ . . pansies, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, second premium, $ . . lilies, guy c. hawkins, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . perennial coreopsis, guy c. hawkins, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . pyrethrum, guy c. hawkins, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . lupine, mrs. e. w. gould, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . shasta daisies, mrs. g. t. brown, st. paul, second premium, $ . . sweet william, mrs. j. f. fairfax, minneapolis, third premium, $ . . lupine, mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul, third premium, $ . . oriental poppies, mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul, third premium, $ . . pyrethrum, mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul, third premium, $ . . shasta daisies, miss flora moeser, st. louis park, first premium, $ . . lilies, mrs. chas. krause, merriam park, second premium, $ . . pansies, mrs. chas. krause, merriam park, third premium, $ . . lupine, miss marion prest, st. paul, second premium, $ . . sweet william, j. a. weber, excelsior, first premium, $ . . john hawkins, john a. jansen, judges. collection named perennials, j. a. weber, excelsior, first premium, $ . . collection named perennials, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . collection named perennials, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, third premium, $ . . mrs. h. a. boardman, mrs. wm. crawford, judges. vase of flowers by child, mrs. f. e. kidd, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . vase of flowers by child, matilda gantzer, st. paul, second premium, $ . . martha a. wyman, judge. vase of any kind flowers, mrs. frank moris, lake elmo, second premium, $ . . vase any kind flowers, miss marjorie knowles, st. paul, first premium, $ . . vase any kind flowers, miss flora moeser, st. louis park, third premium, $ . . j. a. boies, judge. vase of flowers arranged for artistic effect, mrs. f. e. kidd, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . vase of flowers arranged for artistic effect, mrs. s. a. gile, minneapolis, first premium, $ . . vase of flowers arranged for artistic effect, f. h. ellison, minneapolis, third premium, $ . . basket outdoor grown, elizabeth starr, excelsior, third premium, $ . . basket outdoor grown, mrs. s. a. gile, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . basket outdoor grown, mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul, first premium, $ . . m. emma roberts, carrie l. wilkerson, judges. strawberries. collection, six varieties, h. g. groat, anoka, first premium, $ . . collection, three named varieties, h. g. groat, anoka, first premium, $ . . collection, three named varieties, e. a. farmer, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . progressive, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, first premium, $ . . bederwood, h. g. groat, anoka, first premium, $ . . dunlap, h. g. groat, anoka, second premium, $ . . crescent, h. g. groat, anoka, first premium, $ . . warfield, h. g. groat, anoka, first premium, $ . . warfield, mrs. m. a. rohan, minneapolis, second premium, $ . . senator dunlap, j. f. bartlett, excelsior, first premium, $ . . minnesota no. , j. f. bartlett, excelsior, first premium, $ . . minnesota no. , a. brackett, excelsior, second premium, $ . . americus, a. brackett, excelsior, first premium, $ . . progressive, a. brackett, excelsior, second premium, $ . . superb, a. brackett, excelsior, first premium, $ . . best named variety, mrs. h. b. tillotson, excelsior, first premium, $ . . best named variety, h. g. groat, anoka, second premium, $ . . best named variety, mrs. john gantzer, st. paul, third premium, $ . . seedling, a. brackett, excelsior, first premium, $ . . thomas redpath, judge. experiment work of chas. g. patten, charles city, ia. geo. j. kellogg, lake mills, wis. june .--i have just spent four days with our friend patten. he has , surprises on seventeen acres of experiment orchard dating back to --every tree of the , has a history. for twenty-eight years he has been working on the chinese sand pear and has brought out a race that is blight-proof, perfectly hardy and of good size and quality. he is not yet satisfied, but has , cross-bred seedlings of many crosses that are about three feet high, ready for transplanting in orchard rows next spring--and he has not room to set them. the state of iowa does not appreciate his labor or value the work he has done and is doing; they are not giving him the money or men to carry on this work. beside the pear experiments he has hundreds of crosses of apples that are very promising and just coming into bearing. these are scattered all through that orchard of , trees, with the pears, and nearly as many plum crosses. some plums are heavily loaded this year that are of wonderful value, and one of the great points is that they have escaped the bad weather in blooming time, while all our standard varieties failed--and i believe the hardiness of bloom will insure fruit on his best kinds when others fail in bad weather. he is breeding form of tree in all these fruits--see his paper in the last volume of iowa hort. report. his crop of apples is light, but many crosses show some fruit. some pears and plums are loaded. eugene secor says, "patten is greater than burbank." * * * * * windbreaks on farm pay dividends.--windbreaks are usually more or less ornamental on a farm, and add to the contentment of the owner. but it is not generally known that windbreaks actually pay dividends. at least studies made a few years ago in nebraska and kansas indicate that windbreaks are profitable. the state forester will soon study their influence in this state. it must be admitted that windbreaks occupy space that could be profitably devoted to agricultural crops, and that the roots of the trees and their shade render a strip of ground on either side of the windbreak relatively unproductive. yet in spite of these drawbacks, efficient windbreaks undoubtedly do more good than evil. the windbreak reduces the velocity of the wind, and, consequently, the loss of soil water from evaporation from the soil surface and from the field crops. this is equivalent to additional rainfall, just as "a dollar saved is a dollar made." it seems from investigations made by the united states forest service that the greater yield of field crops and apples behind the protection of a good windbreak is enough to warrant every farmer in the prairie states in planting windbreaks.--w.j. morrill, colo. agri. college. midsummer reports, . collegeville trial station. rev. john b. katzner, supt. the weather conditions of last winter were not any too favorable for plants and fruit trees. in fact the cold was at times severe and long continued, reaching its maximum with degrees below for one day. the total subzero weather for the winter amounts to degrees, of which january figures with and february with degrees below. this is some cold, no doubt, and yet our hardy fruit trees did not suffer. but other trees not quite hardy suffered more than usual. this is particularly noticeable on my german pear seedlings. the wood of the branches as well as of the stem had turned black down to the ground. all the imported european varieties of pears are dead and ready for the brush pile. prof. n.e. hanson's hybrid pears have suffered just a little. this, however, may be due to the unripe condition of the wood rather than to cold. they had been grafted on strong german pear stock, made a vigorous growth and were still growing when the frost touched them. another season they may be all right. all our cherry trees, too, are almost dead and will be removed and their place used for a trial orchard. it was of great advantage to plants and trees that we had much snow, giving them good protection in root and stem two feet up. but this deep snow helped the rabbits also in reaching the lower branches of the apple trees. they were very active during the winter months and did much damage by biting off the buds and smaller twigs from those branches, but did no injury to the bark of trees otherwise. spring was rather cold and late. up to the middle of may there was not much growth of any kind. but we started work at the station as soon as the ground could be worked. apple and plum grafts made last winter were set out. the orchard was gone over and trees pruned where needed. the grape vines were uncovered and tied up on the trellis. a liberal dressing of manure was worked in around vines growing on poor soil. more than a hundred alpha grape vines were planted along a students' walk for their future benefit. the everbearing strawberries were looked after and a new bed was started. some apple trees were planted in the orchard to replace others. quite a number of german pear seedlings were grafted with hardy varieties an inch below ground. we expect this will give us healthy and hardy trees and fruit in due time. [illustration: patten's no. in blossom at collegeville station.] a friend of mine sent me from los angeles, cal., four fine large cherry trees: the tartarian, napoleon bigarreau and early richmond. these are one year old budded trees; they have made in the congenial climate of california a growth of about eight feet and are an inch through the stem. they arrived the first week in march. it was cold yet and the ground covered with a foot of snow. as we could not plant them, we applied water to the roots and kept the trees unpacked in the cool root cellar till planting time. they are growing now, but next spring we expect to see their finish. another variety of sweet cherries was sent to the trial station from the mountains of pennsylvania and planted in the nursery, but we expect that will meet the same fate. from the u.s. dept. of agriculture we have obtained scions of a pear, no. , which were used in budding some german pear seedlings, as also ten plants of prunus tomentosa no. . this is a chinese bush cherry, and though the fruit is of little value, yet the plant is said to be quite ornamental. in forestry work arbor vitae were set out, more for ornamental effect, and in open places of the woods several thousand scotch pine were planted. this planting was also extended partly around the opposite lake shore to improve the landscape during the winter months, when everything looks bleak and dreary. this station has received quite a liberal supply of new stock for trial from the minn. state fruit-breeding farm, viz.: june bearing strawberry no. , everbearing kind no. , raspberry no. and everbearing sorts nos. and ; of plums, nos. , , , , and sand cherry crossed with climax; of apples, six malindas, nos. , , , , and . they are fine large trees and were planted in the trial orchard. ten smaller apple trees which we received were set out in the nursery and after a year or two will find their place in the orchard. these trees are labeled: gilbert, winesap, russet seedling, then nos. , , , , and a . all of this stock has been carefully planted and is now doing well. the only variety of fruit trees which bloomed before the th of may was the akin plum. most all other trees were getting ready to bloom, but it was really too cold for them to open their flowers. from that time on the blooming became more general among the plums and later among the apples. the trees which did not bear last year were full of flowers. some of the new plums, too, had quite a number of blossoms, and we are watching with great interest what the fruit will be, as we intend to propagate the best ones in a small way for home use. of small fruits we have now on trial five varieties of raspberries and also three sorts of strawberries, nos. , and progressive. this will give us a good chance to judge of their relative value as to hardiness, quality and quantity of fruit. the truck garden is taken care of as usual, but is far behind other years in growth and development of vegetables on account of the cold spring. if it were not for our greenhouse and hotbeds, i think we would yet be without radishes and lettuce. the same may be said in regard to the planting of our lawns. the plants were all ready in the greenhouse, but the planting had to be deferred as long as there was danger of frost. the flower beds on the lawns were finally planted, the designs are very good, but it will take some time yet till their beauty can be seen and enjoyed. judging from present conditions, we may get a pretty good crop of fruits. the time for the late spring frosts passed by without doing any harm. the weather during blooming was favorable for setting a good crop of apples and plums. the grapes, too, show up well and promise a good crop, and the strawberries and currants are doing splendidly. jeffers trial station. dewain cook, supt. june .--_plums_--much rainy weather during the blooming period was undoubtedly the main reason why the plum crop of will not amount to very much. only a few of the americana have set any fruit whatever. however, the terry and the wyants carry considerable fruit. of the japanese hybrids the b.a.q. and emerald have set some fruit--also the stella. of the hybrid plums originating at the minnesota state fruit-breeding farm there are only a few scattering specimens on any of them. most of them have set no fruit whatever. minn. no. , one tree, is in a dying condition from winter-killing. hansen's hybrids have mostly set some fruit, but not freely. the hanska, toka, opata and wohanka are among those varieties making the best showing of fruit. while in a general way we consider the rains during the blooming period responsible for the almost failure of the plum crop, but, to be a little more specific, the blight of the plum bloom, or rather the brown rot fungus, was more generally prevalent and more generally destructive than at any previous season. as for the fungous disease known as plum pocket, we have not seen one this season. it has been entirely absent. as for spraying to control the brown rot fungus, we have and are doing the best we know. with the exception of about twenty-five large plum trees that we have made into a hog pasture and could not get at very well with our gasoline spraying outfit, we sprayed about all our plum trees (and other fruit trees as well) twice before blooming, once just as the fruit buds began to swell and again just before they bloomed, with lime-sulphur solution. we are now spraying the third time, adding arsenate of lead to the lime-sulphur. of grapes sent me from our state fruit-breeding farm all varieties are looking fine. the beta we gave no winter protection, but all of the others we covered with strawy manure. we did this as all the other varieties winter-killed the first winter after planting, and we did not like to take any chances with them. minn. no. strawberry is doing itself proud. we consider it the best all round variety we have ever grown and are planting almost exclusively on our own farm. the everbearing minn. continues to hold place as first best. we set out some plants of this variety this spring, and they are making runners freely. judging from last season, we expect a large crop of fine fruit from them next september, as well as a great quantity of new plants. apples are in a very satisfactory condition. i need to say but little about varieties. all kinds of bearing size bloomed full, and most kinds have set full of fruit. of such kinds as okabena, duchess and wealthy, it looks as though practically every blossom turned into an apple. we received several seedling apple trees from mr. chas. haralson, of the state fruit-breeding farm. they were all set out, and all are growing. la crescent trial station. d. c. webster, supt. june , .--we received this spring, from the fruit-breeding farm, plants for trial as follows: malinda nos. , , , , , , russett seedling, gilbert winesap, nos. , no. , no. ----, no. a , everbearing raspberry nos. , , and strawberry no. . we also received from other sources waneta and lokota plum. everything received for trial this year lived and is growing well. of the plums received in , no. died last winter. those remaining about all bloomed, but only a very little fruit set on the following: nos. , , , , , . native plums have set no fruit this year. apple trees top-worked last year did poorly. the trees worked two years ago did finely and already have quite the appearance of real apple trees. some are setting fruit this year, and we anticipate a few fine specimens of jonathan and delicious this fall from them. in the orchard which blighted so badly two years ago, several trees died from that cause. a great many are in a ragged condition from the pruning necessary, and we note with considerable anxiety the occasional appearance of that dreaded enemy a few days ago. last year we had what might be called a full crop of apples, and consequently did not expect them to do much this year. however, they had a fairly good bloom, and about one-half of the trees have set a fair crop. we sprayed twice with so far satisfactory results. strawberries in this vicinity were badly injured by ice in winter where not covered. ours were covered and now promise a good yield. began picking the th inst. we set quite a patch of everbearers no. this spring. they bore last fall but chickens picked most of the berries. superb were unsatisfactory and winter-killed where not covered. carrie gooseberry has set full of berries and plants look fine. all other trees and shrubbery in general at this station are in good condition. mandan, n.d., trial station. (northern great plains field station.) w.a. peterson, supt. all plants at this station went into the winter with favorable soil moisture conditions. many plants, however, made a late growth and were still in growing condition late in september. the winter was a long and severe one, although there was more snow than usual. the early spring was severe, being both windy, cold and dry. up to date (june th) there have been very few calm days. three or four very severe dust storms did considerable damage by blowing out seeds and blighting the tender new growth of many plants. the winter of - in this section can be called a test winter, as much winter-killing both in root and top has resulted. a large proportion of the apple and plum orchard ( % to %) killed out. there was no mulch or protection in these orchards. practically all grapes killed out, even though protected. a few beta are alive at the crown. asparagus (unprotected) suffered severely. all raspberries had been covered with dirt. they came through perfectly and promise a good crop. strawberries wintered successfully. the south dakota variety came through perfectly, even when not mulched. all are in full bloom now. practically all of prof. hansen's plum hybrids killed out entirely, or are dead to trunk or crown. a large number of seedlings of chinese apricot, chinese peach, native grapes, juneberries and bullberries passed through the winter with little or no injury. about , beta seedlings, lined out as one year seedlings in the spring of , winter-killed, with the exception of about seven or eight plants. paradise apple stocks wintered safely. soft maples that winter-killed to the ground in the preceding year are good to the tips this spring, even though they had made four to six feet of new growth last summer. many new plantings have been made this spring, especially along plant-breeding lines. extensive experiments have also been started with fruit trees, shelter-belt trees, ornamental shrubs and perennial flowering plants to determine the factors that influence the hardiness of plants. strawberry no. , from the minnesota fruit-breeding farm, made an excellent showing in , and all plants bore some fruit. only a few runners were made, however. all plants were potted in fall, so no data has been secured on their hardiness. several hundred more plants of this variety were set out this spring and they made an excellent stand. montevideo trial station. lycurgus r. moyer, supt. _syringa japonica._--the japanese tree lilac has often been recommended by this station, but last winter was unusually severe, and an old tree obtained from prof. budd, nearly thirty years ago, now shows several damaged branches. younger trees on our grounds and in the city parks show no injury. perhaps this tree cannot be expected to live to be much more than thirty years of age nor attain a much greater height than thirty feet. the old tree is throwing up new stems from its roots and may rejuvenate itself. _caragana._--the small shrubby caragana (caragana pygmaea) was unusually fine this spring when in full bloom. we received it from prof. budd many years ago. it does finely in the clay banks of lincoln parkway in this city, but it is seldom offered by nurserymen. caragana frutex, formerly called caragana frutescens, is a somewhat taller shrub and not quite so floriferous. it makes a fine screen. both of these shrubs are addicted to root sprouting, and might not please those who care for a stiff, formal garden. both may be readily propagated from root cuttings. _roses._--hansen's tetonkeha rose at this writing is in full bloom and is a very striking object. it grows to the height of about four feet and needs no protection. the flowers are large and of a deep pink color. it seems to be as hardy as the old yellow rose of our gardens, that rose being now, too, at its best. among other garden roses paul neyron is in a rather weak condition, ulrich brunner is doing a little better, while mme. georges bruant is doing still better. rosa pratincola grows on our grounds naturally, and we have brought in from the edges of the timber rosa engelmanni and rosa maximilliani. a friend in duluth has sent us rosa sayi, and we obtained rosa macounii from the bad lands of north dakota. these roses, as well as the more common rosa blanda, make an interesting addition to the hardy border. _delphinium formosum._--we obtained a plant or two of the old tall larkspur almost thirty years ago. the old plants persisted several years, and seedlings have grown up from self-sown seed, and the plantation is now as attractive as ever. _chrysanthemum uliginosum._--the giant daisy has been here for a long time and needs but little attention. the clumps should be taken up and divided occasionally. it is one of our best late fall flowers. _philadelphus._--philadelphus pubescens came through the winter without injury. philadelphus zeyheri suffered a little. philadelphus coronarius came through in fair condition in a rather protected border, but philadelphus lemoinei was frozen back nearly to the ground. [illustration: giant daisy, or chrysanthemum uliginosum.] _physocarpus._--physocarpus opulifolius came through the winter with no more than its ordinary injury. _lonicera._--the old climbing honeysuckle (lonicera sempervirens) came through the winter very much damaged, but our native honeysuckle is in fine condition. the bush honeysuckles are all hardy. the one known as lonicera bella alba does not differ very much from the common white form of the tartarian honeysuckle. _prunus triloba._--the double flowering plum has always been hardy with us, and usually has been a splendid bloomer in the latter part of april, but last winter was so severe that it did not bloom at all this spring. _catalpa._--another strange feature of the winter was that catalpa speciosa came through entirely uninjured. _viburnum._--viburnum pekinensis came through in fine condition as well as its close relative, the high bush cranberry. the common snowball did not suffer so much from aphis this year as usual. viburnum lentago, which grows in the river valleys here naturally, is doing finely. _syringa._--among the bushy lilacs syringa ligustrina, syringa chinensis, syringa josikea and syringa villosa all bloomed fully. the varieties of the common lilac, known as ludwig spaeth, charles x, senator vollard and the one that prof. budd brought from russia and called by him russian lilac, were all very satisfactory. this last variety has pink flowers and is a very choice variety of syringa vulgaria. _amelanchier._--the large juneberry, probably amelanchier canadensis, was a very attractive object in april, when its purple-colored young leaves contrasted with its white bloom. the dwarf juneberry, with their villous young leaves and white flowers, are very attractive in april and should receive more attention from our planters. _dictamnus._--the gas plant (dictamnus fraxinilla) becomes more attractive from year to year. it is one of the hardy plants which needs scarcely any attention to keep the weeds away. the pink form is very showy when in flower, and the plant is very attractive after the flower is gone. _iris._--a rather large collection of siberian iris is very attractive just now. the city has found it a very desirable, hardy plant to set in the park. _apples._--a very good tree for park planting seems to be the crabapple, known as malus seboldii. it is very attractive when in bloom, and the fruit as it ripens takes on a rich warm color that is very interesting. okabena is promising a light crop, which may be advantageous, as when this variety bears freely the apples are apt to be undersized. a thompson seedling is promising a full crop as well as most of the other common varieties. the wealthy on malus baccata is bearing a full crop. _hybrid plums._--the common varieties of plums are promising a very good crop, except surprise, which is not bearing at all this year. minnesota no. is the only one of the new seedlings bearing a full crop. no. has a light crop. no. is thrifty and promising and so is no. . no. suffered from the winter. plums no. and are both promising. plum no. was injured by the rabbits. hansen's no. , sansota, is bearing a light crop. _raspberries._--raspberry no. is promising a full crop. it is a very late variety. hansen's oheta is one of our best berries. _gooseberries._--western minnesota is not well adapted to the cultivation of gooseberries, nor do currants do very well. the carrie gooseberry is promising a full crop, and some of the older varieties are doing better than usual, perhaps on account of the unusually cool season. nevis trial station. jas. arrowood, supt. june , .--apples came through the past winter in fairly good shape, especially the stock we have grown at this place. there has been some loss with stock that has been brought from outside nurseries from top killing, and there have been some sun scalds where trees have been exposed to the southwest sun, mostly among the limbs and crotches. there will be a fair crop of apples, as they seem to be setting fairly good. there has been considerable top-working done this spring with fair success. [illustration: mr. james arrowood alongside a seedling of the transcendent in early bloom.] our native plums have all come through the winter in good shape, with only a small setting of plums, on account of so much rain. in regard to the plums we received from the breeding station in : the number of plums was eighteen; all grew except two, and those killed back each year. they were no. . all the rest have grown, but no fruit up to date except on no. . that fruited last year and also is loaded with fruit at this date. the trees received in all grew except two. they all made a fair growth but haven't yet set any fruit. the dozen trees that were sent me in have all made a good growth this last year. two dozen grapes that were sent to me three years ago have not set fruit but have made a slow growth. now in regard to small fruit, such as strawberries, we wish to say that no. heads everything in the strawberry line for growth and berries. its equal is not found in this section of the country. in regard to the everbearing we cannot say that they have done as well as we expected them to. the raspberries that we received three years ago have all done very well. no. and no. have done the best. those berries have all stood out without covering through the winter. we have one acre of them now. they have not killed back at all and promise a big crop. we received this spring about one dozen apple trees which we will report on later. currants and gooseberries promise a good crop. in regard to the shade trees and the evergreens they have all done remarkably well. we have more faith in the seedling fruits, such as apples and plums, for this section of the country. we believe our only hope will be through the seedlings. this was the late prof. green's prediction to me just before his death. every year brings to mind his saying, that we must plant our own apple and plum seed if we ever expect any good results in northern minnesota. in regard to the hansen plums--all seem to be doing well and are set full of fruit. we would also mention the hansen sweet alfalfa, which is a wonder. it grows and spreads equal to quack-grass. four years ago we received fifty plants, which were planted according to directions of the professor to set two feet apart and cultivate the first year. during these four years it does not appear that there has been a single plant killed out. it has spread from the seed and roots over two rods wide and six rods long and as thick as it can stand. owatonna trial station. thos. e. cashman, supt. there is but little to report from the owatonna station at this time. trees and plants came through the winter in good condition. the apple trees, haralson's plum seedlings, no. everbearing strawberry, no. raspberry and beta grape seedlings came through the winter without injury. trees that are old enough have blossomed well and are carrying a fair crop of fruit. a new lot of seedlings originated by mr. haralson at the fruit-breeding station have been planted this year, and the station this year put in the following: malinda nos. , , , , , , , , , , , , w. ; malinda seedling, w. ; hilbut, winesap, w. , no. , no. , w. , w. , w. , no. , w. g., no. ; no. everbearing raspberries, russet selly, w. , w. , no. . they are starting off in good shape and will all make a good showing for the first year. we have done the usual spraying, first with lime-sulphur and a small portion of arsenate of lead while the trees were dormant, and just lately a good dose of arsenate of lead. the foliage of the trees is perfect, and bugs of all kinds are conspicuous by their absence. people who have not sprayed find their trees badly stripped of foliage. i am afraid of severe losses unless they get busy very soon. spraying costs but little and must be done if we are to raise fruit. paynesville trial station. frank brown, supt. the plums sent to this station the spring of wintered very nicely, blossomed very full and have set considerable fruit. the new growth on these trees is very satisfactory, and they seem to be healthy in all ways. no. plum trees sent here last spring froze back quite badly, but as many other supposedly hardy trees did the same we are still in hopes that this was only an incident in a hard winter. [illustration: a corner of the home orchard at the paynesville station.] no. raspberry is still a favorite here; it winters perfectly, is a strong grower, and a good all around berry, both as a home berry, and as a shipper. raspberries nos. and are both good, but no. lacks a little in hardiness, and we wish to test no. more fully before reporting. the other raspberries, nos. , , and , are no good here. if i knew how to say more in favor of that grand strawberry minn. no. i should say it; with us it is the best of all the june-bearing berries, hardy, productive, a good canner and a good shipper. the spring of we received from the central station fifty plants labeled minn. no. . we considered it our duty to test these in all ways, so kept all berries picked off until july st, then allowed fruit and plants to form as they would, and the result was an immense crop of dark red fruit, of the finest quality, and over strong, sturdy plants. these were transplanted this spring without the loss of a single plant, and at this date are certainly a fine looking bunch. the apple trees received this spring from the central station are all doing well. the trees and plants from that station certainly speak volumes for the work being done by supt. haralson. some trees and shrubs killed back quite badly the past winter, especially spirea van houtti was badly hurt. fruit prospects are good, the cold backward spring held the fruit buds back until all danger of frost was over. strawberries are especially fine this season, and bid fair to be a record crop. in fact, the horticulturists in this part of our state have much to be thankful for. sauk rapids trial station. mrs. jennie stager, supt. june --starting with a late spring, which saved all sorts of blossoms from the frost, now in june we have promise of an unlimited amount of fruit. but with heavy rains almost every night, we cannot effect much with spraying. one spraying eliminated all worms so far from not only the currants and gooseberries, but the roses also, and once going through the orchards has done away with the few tent caterpillars that had started in their work. so on the whole we have hopes of a full harvest of not only tree but small fruits. most vegetables are backward, as also flowers from seeds, but with so much to be thankful for how can any of us complain. * * * * * alleged pear blight cures are worthless--organism of disease lives underneath bark out of reach of "cure."--fruit growers should not allow themselves to be induced to purchase and use worthless pear blight cures. every year we hear of cures for pear blight being sold to fruit growers, but to the present time the experiment stations of the country have hunted in vain for any practical remedy that may be sprayed upon trees or used in any way for the cure of this typo for disease. the organism lives underneath the bark entirely out of reach of remedies that may be applied to the surface of the tree. i would strongly recommend to fruit growers that they do not spend any money for pear blight until they are able to learn through experiment stations, or the department of agriculture at washington, d.c., that there is a remedy that can be used for the control of this disease.--c. p. gillette, colorado agricultural experiment station. west concord trial station. fred cowles, supt. june .--the past winter was long and severe. besides the severe cold, a heavy coat of ice remained a long time on trees of all kinds, causing much anxiety, but when the time came trees of all kinds were full of bloom and beauty. most varieties of apples have set a full crop of fruit. some trees which bore a heavy crop last year have little or none this year, but the general crop of apples will be heavy if it matures. our trees top-worked to jonathan and northern spy are bearing good this year; they show no signs of winter-killing. [illustration: side view of mr. cowles' home grounds.] plums were full of bloom as usual, but have set little fruit. some varieties--sansota and wyant--have a few scattering plums. seedling no. also has a few. the new seedlings from the station are all growing good. the native plums in a thicket have more fruit than the named varieties. strawberries have wintered well and give promise of a full crop. some garden patches in the vicinity winter-killed badly. minnesota seedling no. promises to be a good berry; the strong fruit stems keep the berries from the ground. the progressive and superb, of the everbearing type, are no longer an experiment, but are a success, and many farmers are planting them. raspberries winter-killed some. the herbert seems as hardy as any. seedling no. is also hardy. gooseberries and currants are bearing as usual. grapes have started rather late and will have a short season to mature. the early flowering shrubs bloomed very full this spring. lilacs did extra well. the persian lilac was very full and lasted a long time. chas. x, madam chereau and alphonse la valle were fine. villosa is just coming out; this is a beautiful variety. the tree lilac received from china a few years ago is going to bloom for the first time. the iris is just in full bloom, and the delicate colorings always please. peonies are late this year, none being out at this time. a few rugosas are the only roses out at this time, but they look promising for a little later. orcharding in minnesota. discussion led by prof. richard wellington, university farm. mr. sauter: i want to set out trees; what kind shall i set out? i live at zumbra heights. mr. wellington: i would prefer some of the more experienced growers to speak on that question, but going over the recommendations of over growers the wealthy is recommended in practically all cases in preference to the other varieties. we know, however, that the wealthy needs pollen from other varieties for fertilization of the blossom, so it would be foolish to put out wealthys. it is better to mix in some of the other varieties. if i was planting an orchard, probably seventy-five per cent. of the apples would be wealthys. mr. sauter: and what next? mr. wellington: well, that depends altogether on your market. if you can handle the duchess apple, work the duchess in; or if you wanted a few late apples, work in some of the other varieties. mr. sauter: isn't the okabena better than the duchess? mr. wellington: it is a little later. mr. richardson: four days later. mr. wellington: that would be my recommendation. i would put in the majority of the trees wealthys and then work in some other varieties according to your market. mr. sauter: isn't the malinda and the northwest greening all right? mr. wellington: the northwest greening seems to be especially valuable in certain parts of the state. in some parts they winter injure, but it is a good late variety. mr. sauter: how is the malinda? mr. wellington: malinda is all right excepting in quality. it is lacking in quality. mr. sauter: is it a good seller? mr. wellington: i couldn't tell you about that. some of these other gentlemen could give you information on that point. it tastes more like cork than anything else, but after the other apples are gone we are not so particular about it. mr. dunlap: the speaker brought out one point that we tested out a great many years ago in illinois, and i suppose it is really an important one here, and that is the protection against the winds with shelter-belts. now, at the university of illinois they planted out some forty acres to test that with all the varieties they could get together, and they planted spruce trees not only on the outside of the orchard but they planted them in through the orchard, dividing the orchards up into ten acre plots. quite a number of the early planters of apples in illinois also put windbreaks around their orchards with considerable detriment to their orchards. we find that we need air drainage there just as much as we need protection against the wind. if i were in minnesota i might change my mind after studying the conditions, but if i was going to plant in minnesota and i should plant evergreens i certainly would trim them up from the bottom so as to get air drainage. i have known of instances where orchards were protected and where there was air drainage they were all right, but where they were closely protected by the trees they were injured by the frosts by their starting too early in the spring. if you get a warm atmosphere around the trees you start your buds pretty early, several days earlier than they would if they had the right kind of air drainage, and it does seem to me that the experience we have had would be against close planting around an orchard for protection from frost, though you do want to protect them against winds, but air drainage, it seems, is not a detriment to orchards. (applause.) mr. richardson: i wish to say that in my observation and my experience if i was putting in a windbreak i would put it on the south and west sides; i wouldn't have any on the north and east. mr. brackett: our prevailing winds are from the south and west during the summer, and the wealthy is an apple that is bad for falling off when it gets to a certain stage, and i think it is very necessary for us to have a windbreak on the south and west if we are going to protect our orchards here. mr. ludlow: the wind comes from the northwest generally in the winter, when we have storms, and if snow falls and it comes from the northwest, and the orchard is protected on that side by a windbreak, the windbreak will catch the snow and it will pile on top of the orchard, and i have known at least a dozen trees to be broken down by the storms of winter getting in that way. a member: i think crab apple trees make a good windbreak, if they are set twice as close together as trees in the orchard. a member: i think location has more to do with it than anything else. i have two or three orchards in mind where five years ago, when we had that hard frost, they had an abundance of apples, and it was protected from the northwest. i have another orchard in mind that was protected from the north and northwest, and this year they had over , bushels of wealthy apples. mine wasn't protected particularly from the north, and i had no apples, but back of the buildings, there is where i had my apples. i tell you location has more to do with it than a windbreak in such a case. mr. drum: you all remember some ten or more years ago when the apple trees were in blossom, and we had a terrible snow storm and blizzard and freeze. my orchard was protected both from the southwest and the northwest and the north, and following that freeze my trees had the only apples that were left in that country. i think that protection from the north and northwest is just as essential, especially in a position where the winds have a wide sweep. my house and my orchard slope off to the northwest, and i have a full sweep of the northwest wind there for miles. the house was set as it were on a pinnacle. i think the protection from the northwest is fully as essential in such a position as any other. mr. whiting: this windbreak proposition is a question of locality. in the western part of the state, as well as in south dakota--especially in south dakota--we say that the south windbreak is decidedly the most important of any we can put in. we have more hot winds than you do here in the eastern part of minnesota. you don't have that trouble, but in western minnesota you are very much like we are in south dakota. mr. ludlow knows the conditions, and i say you must take that into consideration. if you are in that locality the south windbreak is decidedly the most important of any. then i would say the windbreak on the south, west and north are all of considerable importance. of course, you can overdo it, you can smother your orchard. you must guard against that, but we have too much air drainage. in regard to the variety proposition, isn't it true that you are growing too many perishable apples in minnesota? i know it is so in south dakota. we are growing too many of these early varieties; we ought to grow more winter varieties. if you want to build up a large commercial apple business you have got to raise more keepers. you are planting too many early varieties. mr. dowds: i have been setting out apple trees more or less in different states for sixty years. if i was going to set out another orchard i would put windbreaks all around it, north, south, east and west, and the windbreak that i would use would be the yellow willow. it grows quick, it gives you a circulation of air, and it protects your trees. my experience in the last fifteen years has been that the yellow willow was the best windbreak that you can have around the house. mr. brackett: mr. whiting says, grow winter apples. i want to know what winter apples will bring the money that wealthy bring. mr. whiting: that is a hard question, but isn't it a fact that you grow too many wealthys? don't you glut the market unless you have cold storage? you ought to work to that end just as much as possible; you ought to have more good keepers, better winter varieties. the society library. books may be taken from the library of the minnesota state horticultural society by any member of the society on the following terms: . only one book can be taken at a time. . books with a star (*) before the title, as found in the published library list, are reference books and not to be taken from the library. . in ordering books give besides the name also the case and book numbers, to be found in the same line as the title. . books will be sent by parcel post when requested. . when taking out, or sending for a book, a charge of ten cents is made to cover expense of recording, transmission, etc. . books are mailed to members only in minnesota and states immediately adjoining. when sent to points outside the state a charge of fifteen cents is made. . a book can be kept two weeks: if kept longer a charge of two cents per day will be made. . the library list, to december , , is published in the annual volume of the society. additions to this list will be published year by year in the succeeding annual volumes. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. mr. h. h. whetzel, of the plant disease survey, u.s. department of agriculture, stationed at cornell university, where the american peony society has its test grounds, has made a study of the stem-rot disease of the peony and has set forth the results in an address before the massachusetts horticultural society, from which the following has been culled: "the botrytis blight is by far the most common and destructive disease of the peony so far as known at present. this disease is frequently epidemic, especially during wet springs. it occurs wherever peonies are grown, apparently the world over. "this disease usually makes its appearance early in the spring when the stalks are coming up. shoots will suddenly wilt and fall. examination will show they have rotted at the base or just below the surface of the ground. the rotted portion will soon become covered with a brown coat of spores--much like felt. generally it is the young stalks that are affected, though sometimes stalks with buds just opening will suddenly wilt and fall. it is thought the spores are carried through the winter on the old stubble, after the tops have been cut off. they are in the best position to give rise to a new crop of spores in the spring, and the new shoots become infected as they appear. "to eradicate this disease the old stubble should be carefully removed in the fall or early spring by removing first the soil from the crown so as not to injure the buds, and cutting off the old stalks. these should be burned and the soil replaced with clean soil or preferably sand. whenever a shoot shows sign of the disease it should be cut off and burned. the buds must also be watched and any that begin to turn brown or black and die must also be cut off and burned, as spores will be found upon them, and these will be spread by the wind and insects. spotted leaves should also be picked off. in wet seasons the peonies should be closely watched. for the small garden, with comparatively few clumps of peonies, this treatment will be entirely practical and effective." bulbs should be ordered this month if you wish the pick of the new crop. there are two fall blooming bulbs that would add to our september and october gardens. one is the sternbergia, or autumn daffodil, and the other is the autumn crocus. the bulbs should be planted in august and will blossom the same season. the daffodil is a clear yellow and is good for cutting. these bulbs must be ordered as early as possible. lady bugs are our garden friends, destroying multitudes of aphides. they should never be killed. have you the following all ready for use? for insects, bugs or worms that chew--or eat portions of plants--arsenate of lead, paris green or hellebore. for sucking insects, nicotine or kerosene emulsion. for diseases, bordeaux mixture or ammoniacal copper carbonate solution. a good sprayer. * * * * * _remember_ our photographic contest. bee-keeper's column conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. increasing colonies (continued from june no.) [illustration: prof. francis jager's apiary at st. bonifacius.] to increase you must first make your colonies strong. one or more of your best colonies must be selected to raise queens for your increase unless you wish to buy your queen. stimulate your queen raising colonies by feeding and not giving them any supers. the crowded condition will bring on an early swarming impulse, under which they will raise from twelve to twenty large, well developed queen cells each. the queens of your queen raising colonies should be clipped. when in due time a queen raising colony swarms, catch the queen and remove her and let the swarm return. immediately after this swarm you may proceed to divide your other colonies from which you wish to increase. put down on a permanent location as many empty hives as you have available queen cells in your colony that swarmed. into one of these you put your removed breeding queen with two frames of brood and bees. into each of the rest of the empty hives put two frames of brood with all adhering bees from your colonies you wish to increase. be sure to leave the queens in the old hive after brood for increase with adhering bees has been removed. thus you have now a number of new colonies with bees and two frames of brood but no queen. the rest of the hive may be filled with drawn comb or sheets of foundation. to prevent the bees from returning to the old home, stuff the entrance of the hive solidly with grass. in two days the grass will wilt and dry and the bees will come out automatically and stay in the new location--at least most of them. in the meantime being queenless they will be busy with raising queen cells on the two frames of brood. this occupation will make them contented, then on the seventh day cut out every one of their queen cells and give them a cell from your breeder colony. your queen breeding colony on the seventh day after swarming will have ripe queen cells ready to hatch, with one queen probably out. if by listening in the evening you hear her "sing" and "peep" go next morning and remove all queen cells and give one to each of your newly formed colonies. they will be readily accepted, will hatch immediately, sometimes whilst you are removing them, but certainly the same or next day and begin laying in due time. from such colonies you may not expect any surplus honey, but they will build up rapidly and will be strong colonies to put away next fall. [illustration: administration building (main building), university farm, st. anthony park, minn.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. august, no. how may university farm and the minnesota state horticultural society be mutually helpful in developing the farms and homes of the northwest? a. f. woods, dean and director, dept. of agri., university of minn., st. paul. the farm without its windbreaks, shade trees, fruits, flowers and garden, if it can be called a home at all is certainly one that needs developing and improving. there are many abiding places in the northwest, as in every other part of the united states, that lack some essential part of them. the first and most important step with a view to correcting these conditions is to bring together those interested in home improvement to talk over problems and difficulties and to plan how to correct them and to interest others in the movement. this is what this great society with its auxiliary societies has been and is now doing most successfully. it is true that your work has been more particularly from the horticultural view point, but, as i said in the beginning, fruits and flowers are civilizing and home making influences. there should be more horticulturally interested people from the farms affiliated with this society. each farmers' club should have a horticultural committee. there are now about nine hundred farmers' clubs in the state, and the number is increasing constantly. these clubs represent the communities in which the members live. they include men, women and children, farmers, preachers, teachers, every member of the community willing to cooperate. they start things in the community interest and follow them up. the agricultural extension service of the university is in close touch with these clubs. the horticulturists of the service especially might help to arouse the interest of the clubs in this movement. this society might offer some prizes especially designed to interest the boys and girls of the farmers' clubs. each club horticultural committee should have representation in this society. some of the prizes might be memberships or trips to the annual meeting. many members of this society are members of such clubs. they could take the lead in the movement. in this way the society would keep in touch with the homes and communities of the state, and all would grow together in horticultural grace--and the other graces that go with it. [illustration: a minnesota farm home with handsome grounds and modern conveniences.] the gospel of better homes is like every other gospel. it must be taken to those who need it and who know it not or are not interested. the extension service of the university is organized to carry the message of better homes, better farms, better social and business relations to the people who need it. farmers' institutes, short courses, lectures, demonstration, farm supervision, judging at county fairs, boys' and girls' club work, institute trains, county agent service, indicate some of the kinds of work in progress. the press is also a powerful factor in this work. the minnesota farmers' library, which is made up of timely publications on all matters of rural interest, has a mailing list of fifty-five thousand farmers. from six to twelve of these publications are issued each year. "university farm press news" reaches regularly six hundred papers in the state. "rural school agriculture," containing material especially adapted to the needs of the consolidated and rural schools, reaches practically every rural and consolidated school in the state each month. "the visitor" is a special publication prepared for the use of the teachers of agriculture in the high schools of the state. the "farmers' institute annual" is a manual of three hundred pages published each year in editions of fifty thousand and contains material of interest to every farmer. many special articles are prepared for farm papers. every department of the extension service and college and station is in touch with the farm homes of the state through correspondence, and much valuable work is accomplished in this way. the aim is always to work from the home as the center, and from that to the group of homes constituting the community, the township, the county and the state, in an ever-enlarging circle. [illustration: a typical minnesota consolidated school building.] the greatest opportunity for better homes and better farms and a better country life is in enlisting the children of the country in the movement. when i say the children of the country, i do not mean to exclude the children of the villages and towns whose tastes may lead them countryward. we should never stop or attempt to stop the free movement between the country and the city. it is good for both. the children of today will be the farmers and farm home makers and the business men and women of tomorrow. are the children of the farmers looking forward with interest to farming as a business, and life in the country as attractive? the movement to the city in ever-increasing numbers is the answer, but it is the answer to what has been and now is, rather than to what is to be. a new day is dawning, in which the brightest minds and the choicest spirits will again choose to live in the open country and make there the ideal homes from which shall continue to come the life and vigor of the nation. but if it is to be so, the schools of the country must furnish real intelligent leadership and the country church must come again to spiritual leadership. we must all help to bring this about. minnesota has a plan to accomplish this, and it is working out even better than we dared hope. experience has shown that by consolidation or the cooperation of several districts, good results may be secured at no greater cost than the same type of school costs in town. the small school of today is expensive because it is inefficient. the consolidated school is giving the children of the country the education that they need and is doing it better than it can be done anywhere else. the consolidated school is becoming the rural community center. an important feature which has been adopted by many of the consolidated districts is the building of a home for the teachers in connection with the school. this home may be made typical of what the modern home should be, not expensive but substantial, artistic, convenient and sanitary. the grounds should be suitably planted with trees, shrubs and flowers, and there should be a garden. the school building is also made to fit the needs of the community. the larger rooms may be used for entertainments, farmers' club meetings, lectures, etc. there should be facilities for testing milk and other agricultural products, examining soils, etc. there should be a shop for wood and iron work, or at least a work bench and an anvil. there should be a library of good reading and a place to cook and bake and sew. there should be a typewriter, a piano or an organ, and such other conveniences for teaching and social center work as the community may wish and be able to secure, and, best of all, teachers living at the school who know how to operate the plant in every detail and to make it useful to the community. [illustration: an ideal plan for consolidated school grounds.] there were nine of these schools five years ago in minnesota. according to the last report of the department of public instruction, there are now, and the number is increasing constantly. the state as a state is behind the movement and is giving substantial aid, direction and supervision to these schools. when the forward movement was planned, plans were also made to train teachers and to give the teachers already in the service special work that would fit them to adjust themselves to the new needs. the normal schools and the high schools teaching agriculture, manual training and home economics have adjusted their courses to meet this new demand. six years ago the work had hardly begun. today there are high and graded schools teaching home economics, teaching agriculture, teaching manual training, and of these are preparing teachers especially for the rural schools. the college of agriculture and home economics of the university of minnesota is training the teachers in these subjects for the high schools and normal schools, and, in cooperation with the state superintendent of public instruction, the department of agriculture has been conducting a summer school for rural teachers, where those already teaching and those planning to teach can get the training required to meet the new conditions and demands. similar summer schools have been conducted in cooperation with the agricultural schools at crookston and morris. all together each year there are between , and , teachers taking these special courses. every effort is made to bring to these teachers the view point of the new country life movement. this society and the members individually in their home communities should stand squarely behind this movement. they should become thoroughly informed regarding it. it is the cornerstone of the new country life. finally i wish to call your attention again to the great educational opportunity which you are missing. if you could come into vital contact each year with more than , young men and women who are seeking for everything that will help them to be more useful citizens, would you do it? you could exert in that way an exceedingly great influence on the homes and future welfare of this state and nation. you can do it if you will come out and live with us the year round at university farm. we should have a building there suited to your needs that we could all use as a great horticultural center, open the year round. you have already taken steps in this direction. i hope that conditions will be such that we can join hands to get it very soon. * * * * * san jose scale requires prompt action--orchard should either be destroyed or sprayed before buds open.--there are a few orchards in colorado that are found to be infested with the san jose scale. owners of these orchards should determine upon one of two courses to pursue. the orchard should either be promptly cut down and destroyed, or the trees should be thoroughly treated with lime-sulphur solution or a good quality of miscible oil for the destruction of the scale before the buds open in the spring. if lime-sulphur is determined upon, the home-made article may be used, or the commercial lime-sulphur solutions may be used, in which case they should be diluted with water, in the proportion of one gallon of the commercial lime-sulphur to not more than ten gallons of water. the application should be made thoroughly, so that every bit of the bark of trunk and limbs is covered with the spray. if miscible oil is used, i would recommend using one gallon of the oil to each nineteen gallons of water. hard or alkaline waters should be avoided, as sometimes the oil will not make a good emulsion with them. use soft water, if possible.--c.p. gillette, colorado agricultural experiment station. the horticulturist as king. c. s. harrison, nurseryman, york, neb. some of the promises regarding our future stagger us with their vastness. "to him that overcometh will i grant to sit with me on my throne." but how is it down here? thou "crownest him with riches and honor." thou hast "put all things under his feet." unto fields where feet of angels come not we are chosen as partners of the heavenly father to make this a more fruitful and beautiful world. in our life work much depends on our attitude regarding our calling. we can plod like an ox, or like markham's semi-brute man with the hoe, and make that the badge of servitude to toil, or we can make it a wand in a magician's hand to call forth radiant forms of beauty from the somber earth to smile upon us and load the air with fragrance. we can live down in the basement of horticulture or in the upper story. man is coming to his own. the savage trembled at the lightning stroke which shivered the mighty oak. little knew he that here was a giant at play waiting to be tamed and harnessed so he could be the most obedient servant--ready at the master's beck to leap a continent, dive under the ocean, draw heavy trains, and run acres of machinery. man reaches out his wand, and steam, gas, and oil rise up to do his will. if, with the advance of civilization, he wants beautiful things to adorn person or home, he finds subterranean gardens of precious gems almost priceless in value--gems that are immortals, flowers that never fade, prophets all of the "glory to be revealed." you have heard of the marvelous persian garden of gems--four hundred feet in length and ninety feet wide--made to imitate the most beautiful blooms of earth. it cost millions upon millions. do you know that it is in your power, with the advance of floriculture, to create gardens far more resplendent in beauty--great gardens of delight fit for the touch of angel's feet, while the whole is flooded with billows of sweetest perfume? three years ago that was a patch of barren earth; now you have pulled down a section of paradise upon it and condensed there the tints of the morning, the splendors of the evening, the beauty of the rainbow, and the effulgence which flames in the mantles of the suns. i love to think of nature as a person--first born daughter of god--her head white with the snows of the centuries, her cheeks radiant with the flush of recurrent springtime, emblems of eternal youth. she takes you by the hand, leads you into the forests, talks to you of the soul of the tree, tells you how intelligent it is. there is one standing in the open. it has performed a feat no civil engineer can emulate. think of those roots so busily scurrying around in the earth, gathering food to send up the cambium highway to nourish the trees. see the taut cords thrown out to anchor it against the storms. look at those trees on the outskirts. among wild animals the strongest are on guard on the outside to protect the herd. so these sentinel trees guard their wards against the storms. fool man cuts down the guards and the wards fall before the sweep of the storm. mother nature--dear, friendly soul--takes you into her holy of holies and reveals her mysteries. she makes a confident of you. she throws open her doors and shows you the wide vistas of a new land you may enter and glorify. follow her direction, and what a friend you have! cross her, thinking you know more than she does, and she laughs at you. she takes you into the garden and the nursery and discloses her wonders and helps you to work miracles. you plant seeds and bulbs, and beauty rises to greet you. did you ever think of the royal position of the florist and horticulturist? the sacred poet speaks of the "labor of the olive." what a flood of light that opens upon us. "all things are yours." let us go out into the grove you have planted. i once took off my hat to myself. while living in the republican valley, near the th meridian, i planted some bull pine seed. when the little trees were large enough, i transplanted them in rows six feet apart and started a miniature forest. twenty-five years after i went to see them. the rows were straight. the trees had fine bodies six inches through. they were miniature columns in a temple, holding up a canopy of green. the ground was covered with a thick carpet of needles. it was one of the most pleasing sights i ever saw. then i thought, "what if i had planted forty acres?" i would have had a mecca to which horticultural pilgrims would have flocked from hundreds of miles. i planted the trees, and the faithful servants kept on working day and night, and that beautiful grove was the result. every tree you plant is your servant, and how faithful it is--no shirking, always at it whether you are looking or not. look at that cherry tree. how the tiny rootlets scurry through the soil--faithful children gathering food to send up to their mother. look at that flood of bloom. then the fruit grows till a mass of red gleams from the leafy coverts. there is a great difference between a patch of brown earth and your faithful jonathan. what a marvel that little patch of soil, absolutely milked by those busy foragers, and the extracts of it glowing in red beauty on the tree. talk of chemists! those quiet rootlets surpass them all. [illustration: albert victor iris, from mr. harrison's garden--about one-third size.] if you want to be in the realm of miracles, lay down your hoe awhile and sit among your flowers. your brain devised the plan, your hand planted the seeds and bulbs. "behold the lilies, how they grow." now sit there and think it out. at your feet are artists no human skill may imitate. two peonies grow side by side. golden harvest opens with yellow petals fading to purest white. in the center is a miniature festiva maxima--blood drops and all. how can those roots send up the golden tints, the snowy white and the red, and never have the colors mixed? close by is a plutarch, deep brilliant red. the roots intermingle. how is it possible to pick out of the dull soil, nature's eternal drab, that brilliant color for your peony? there are your iris, the new sorts absolutely undescribable. there are a dozen different shades in a single bloom. but those blind artists at work in their subterranean studios never make a mistake. the standards must have just such colors, the falls just such tints, and where did they get that dazzling radiant reflex such as you see on perfection, monsignor and black knight? but it is always there shimmering in the sunlight. there is a fairy--a pure snowy queen. how was that sweetness and purity ever extracted from the scentless soil? every bloom uncorks a vial of perfume which has the odor of the peach blossom. did you ever sit down in your kingdom and see what a royal throne you occupied? what a reception your flowers give you! the ambrosia and nectar of the feasts of the deities of fable are overshadowed by the fragrance and sweetness of your worshippers. it would seem that every flower, like a royal subject, was bent on rendering the most exalted honor to her king. no company of maidens preparing for nuptials were ever arrayed like these. each one is striving to do her best. the highest art ever displayed in the palaces of kings is no comparison to the beauty and splendor of your reception. by divine right you are supreme. the fertile soil puts her tributes at your feet; for you all the viewless influences of nature are at work; for you the sun shines and the showers fall. so brothers, don't creep but mount up as on eagle's wings. invoice yourself and see how great you are! don't live all the while in the basement--spend some time in the upper story of your calling! you are not making the earth weep blood. you are not spreading on the fields a carpet of mangled forms. you are not dropping ruin and death from the skies or polluting god's pure waters with submarines. you are not turning all your energies into the work of destruction, despoiling the treasures of art and the pride of the ages and turning the fairest portions of the earth into desolations. you are not changing yourselves into demons to gloat over starvation and ruin. you are soldiers of peace. behind you was the somber earth. you touched it with the wand of your power, and beauty, health and pleasure sprang up to bless you. see what you have done! you have clothed the barrenness of the dreary plain with gardens, orchards and forests. you have been at work with god and glorified a vast empire, and now he has blessed the work of your hands. instead of the air sodden with tears and tremulous with the wail of widows and orphans, you are welcomed with the joy of children and the delight of mothers. all along the lines of progress you receive the most cordial ovations, and when you pass on to the land where "everlasting spring abides", may you receive the royal welcome, "well done, good and faithful servant." the newer fruits in and how secured. prof. n. e. hansen, state college, brookings, south dakota. mr. hansen: mr. president and fellow members: this subject is not an entirely satisfactory one this year owing to the fact that we lost about three sets of tomato plants from frost, the last frost coming the ninth of june. these conditions, of course, are unusual, but it prevented the fruiting of a lot of new fruit seedlings which appeared promising. however, i decided to propagate two new plums because they had borne several excellent crops. one of these is a very late plum of good quality, with flesh of peculiar crisp texture, which ripens after all the other plums, about a week before frost. it is a combination of the wolf plum with the kansas sand plum (_prunus watsoni_). the tree is of late dwarf habit but very productive, and its late season may give it a place. another plum which i decided to place in propagation is a hybrid of the wild plum of manitoba with the japanese plum. the mother tree was raised from wild plum pits received from manitoba a few years ago. these bear very freely and are the earliest of the native plums. the tree is of low, dwarf habit. the fruit is not as large as my waneta, which is a hybrid of the largest native plum, the terry, (_prunus americana_), with the apple, one of the best of burbank's japanese plums. but since the range of the plum manitoba is so far north, it may give greater hardiness where that is needed. at any rate, it is of interest to know that the manitoba native plum can be mated with the japanese plum. pears constitute my favorite line at present. "what can i do for hardy pears?" is a question i have been asked many times. the prairie northwest cannot raise pears owing to the cold or the blight. in my travels in asia, including four tours of exploration in siberia, i made a business of buying up basketfuls of pears in manchuria, mongolia, western china and eastern siberia and saving the seed, giving the flesh away to the coolies, who were glad always to get the fruit. these have raised me many seedlings. in addition i have imported a lot of pears from russia. [illustration: pyrus simoni the hardy, blight-proof sand pear used by prof. n.e. hansen in breeding pears for the northwest. a careful study of our eastern arctic pears has been made recently by mr. alfred rehder, botanist at arnold arboretum, and this form of sand pear is now called pyrus ovoidea instead of pyrus sinensis, or pyrus simoni.] the pears of northern china and eastern siberia are usually called the chinese sand pear and have been given various names, _pyrus sinensis_, _pyrus ussuriensis_, _pyrus simoni_. the form i am working with mainly was received in the spring of at the south dakota station under the name of _pyrus simoni_, from dr. c.s. sargent, director of the arnold arboretum, boston, massachusetts. since the publication of bulletin , of the south dakota experiment station, april, , in which i give a brief outline of this work, the pears of this region have been studied by dr. alfred rehder of the arnold arboretum, and it now appears that the true name of _pyrus simonii_ should be _pyrus ovoidea_. these trees have proved perfectly hardy at brookings and have never suffered from blight. varieties of other pears have been top-grafted on this tree, and they have blighted, but the blight did not affect the rest of the tree. mr. charles g. patten, charles city, iowa, also has a form of the chinese sand pear which has proven immune to blight. in other places sand pears have been under trial which have suffered from winter-killing. however, i understand that the pear mr. patten has tapers toward the stem, while the pear received by me as _pyrus simonii_ tapers toward the blossom end. the actual source of seed is really of greater importance than the botanical name, as it is possible to get the seed from too far south, whereas we should plant only the northern form of the species. the fruits of _pyrus ovoidea_ correspond in size to the ordinary pear much like the whitney crab-apple does to the apple. it is a real pear, juicy and sweet, but not high flavored. other varieties of pears have been top-grafted on this tree and have blighted, but the blight did not affect the rest of the tree. during the many seasons i have had this pear the tip of one twig only showed a very slight trace the past season, but i did not determine it was really blight. it is practically immune. i have also worked the birch-leaved pear, _pyrus betulifolia_, bunge, a native of northern china, and a choice ornamental tree. trees of this species were received from a nursery in germany in the fall of and have proven perfectly hardy and quite resistant to blight. the fruit is quite small, usually less than one-half inch in diameter, covered with thick russet. _betulifolia_ means birch-leaved, alluding to the shape of the leaf. now, the pear is a difficult thing to work with on account of blight. what is blight? it is an american bacterial disease, not found in the home of the pear, asia or europe, so that during the , years of its cultivation of recorded history the pear has never had to meet the bacterial enemy known as blight. that is one of the reasons, i presume, why they have such strict quarantine in europe against american trees. the question with pears is, will they stand blight or not? they are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in california to keep out blight. blight is a native of the northeast united states, and they are keeping it down on the pacific slope, but they are always on the edge of the precipice. the whole pear culture of america is in an unsatisfactory state, owing to this danger. with these two northern pears as a foundation, i have endeavored to secure seedlings with fruit of large size and choice quality by hybridizing them with many of the best cultivated pears from germany, france, england, central russia and finland, as well as with some of the best varieties from the eastern pear-growing regions of the united states. the work has been done mostly under glass in our fruit-breeding greenhouse. some of these fruits weighed one and one-fourth pounds. some of the resulting seedlings are subject to blight, while many have thus far shown immunity. since it is impossible to determine their relative immunity to blight except by distributing them for trial elsewhere, i sent out scions in the spring of of thirty-nine of these new seedlings to twenty-four men in several states. these varieties are under restrictions until fruited and deemed worthy of further propagation. [illustration: crossing work in pears--view in prof. n. e. hansen's fruit-breeding greenhouse, state college, brookings, s.d.] i did not know whether immunity to blight is a possibility or only an iridescent dream, so i made no charge for these scions. the only test of a pear seedling, the same as with the apple, is that of propagation. furthermore, if you have but the one seedling tree you may lose it by accident; whereas, if you send it out to a number of good men, you cannot lose it. it should be distinctly understood that none of these new seedlings have borne fruit, but by what may be termed the projective efficiency of the pedigree i am satisfied that some of them will be valuable. in like manner, a horse-breeder depends so much on the pedigree in his colts that he is willing to enter them in a race. i believe something of value will come from this line of work. i do know that my _pyrus ovoidea_ is a pretty good, juicy little pear, a whole lot better than no pear at all. i hope these seedlings will keep up their immunity to blight. the original seedling trees certainly have had every chance to become affected by blight, as they were surrounded by blighting apple trees, crab-apple trees and pear trees, and no blight was cut out. i thought this was the best way, since that is the test they will have in the farmers' orchards when they go out from the nursery. _hardy pear stocks._--now we are up against the problem of stocks for these hardy pears. the quince is a standard dwarf stock, but it is not hardy enough for us. last spring i planted , seedlings of the various commercial pear stocks, including imported french pear seedlings, american grown french pear seedlings, kieffer pear seedlings and japan pear seedlings. from one season's experience i like the japan pear the best. the french pear seedlings, especially, did not do well. the japan pear stock is coming into high favor in recent years on our pacific slope, where it is sometimes called the chinese blight-proof stock. the french pear stock is not in favor on our pacific slope owing to their liability to blight. we may also expect from the french pear stock a decided lack of hardiness. the japan pear stock is probably some form of the chinese sand pear. the seed may come from too far south, whereas we should plant only the northern form of the species. this varying degree of hardiness in the japan pear seedling of commerce i find discussed in a german horticultural paper. i have tried to establish a regular source of supply by importing the seed, but it is difficult indeed to do this. to avoid root-killing at the north we should mulch these japan pear seedlings heavily until we get enough orchards of this truly hardy form, _pyrus ovoidea_, planted so we can raise our own stocks. i firmly believe we will extend pear culture on the north american continent clear to the arctic circle if we wish. for pear stocks i am going to try everything i can think of. some years ago i worked pears on juneberry stock from a hint given me many years ago by professor j.l. budd. these grew well and were in full bloom when five feet high, but were lost in clearing off a block of trees. i hope to try this again on a larger scale. the mountain ash and hawthorn are sometimes used, but both will be expensive and perhaps short-lived. the quince is the dwarf stock of commerce but would need to be very heavily mulched to prevent root-killing. such dwarf pears are splendid in the back yard, or for training up against the side of the house; the fruit is fine and large, and the trees fruit the second year. the pear will root in nursery by grafting with a long scion on apple seedlings. i hope there will be much work done along this line. to sum up the question, i think there is a hardy pear in sight. we have the requisite pedigree back of it, and it seems that the quality we call immunity to blight is in some of these chinese or siberian pears. if we can combine the hardiness and blight-resistance of this siberian pear with the large size and high quality of fruit of the european pear, with thousands of years of cultivation back of it, then we have the solution of the pear question in sight. millions and millions of people are watching for a good hardy pear. (applause.) * * * * * warning to mushroom growers.--as the result of a serious case of mushroom poisoning in a mushroom grower's family recently, the mushroom specialists of the u.s. department of agriculture have issued a warning to commercial and other growers of mushrooms to regard with suspicion any abnormal mushrooms which appear in their beds. it seems that occasionally sporadic forms appear in mushroom beds, persist for a day or two, and then disappear. these are generally manure-inhabiting species and may be observed shortly after the beds have been cased. in the instance cited, however, these fungi appeared in considerable numbers at the time the edible _agaricus campestris_ should have been ready for the market, and the dealer supposed it was probably a new brown variety and tried it in his own family. as a result, five persons were rendered absolutely helpless and were saved after several hours only through the assistance of a second physician who had had experience with this type of poisoning. in the opinion of the department, this case is peculiarly significant and demonstrates that the grower must be able to distinguish _agaricus campestris_ from any of the wild forms of mushrooms that may appear in the beds. under the circumstances, the department strongly urges every grower to make himself thoroughly familiar with the cultivated species. complete descriptions, with pictures of poisonous and cultivated species, are contained in department bulletin , "mushrooms and other common fungi," which can be purchased for cents from the superintendent of documents, government printing office, washington, d.c. manufacture of cider vinegar from minnesota apples. prof. w. g. brierly, hort. dept., university farm, st. paul. cider making is an old process, carried on in a small way on the farm or more extensively in the commercial "quick process." from apple cider many different products are obtained, chief of these being vinegar and others being bottled cider, boiled cider, apple butter and, more recently, concentrated cider and cider syrup. this discussion will consider only the manufacture of vinegar. as a farm process, the making of cider vinegar utilizes an otherwise waste product, the culls or unmarketable varieties. it can be done on rainy days or when other work is slack. for the best results, however, as in any form of marketing, some vinegar should be made each year so that the market may be supplied regularly, and, further, to give the necessary experience which will mean a better quality of vinegar. as a commercial process we find the making of cider is a regularly conducted manufacturing enterprise in which a considerable amount of capital is needed. expert knowledge of vinegar making, especially of the "quick process," is essential. on this basis it is not open to the apple grower and is a doubtful venture on a co-operative plan without the help of experts. where a vinegar factory is established, however, it gives to the orchardist a means to dispose of his cull apples. considering the process as it can be carried on on the farm, there are a number of distinct steps, all of which are important. the first step is to prepare for the work. get a good machine, as it will pay for itself in the added extract of juice. a good machine need not cost more than $ and may be had for less. casks must be obtained and sterilized with live steam or sulphur fumes, washed thoroughly, and kept in a convenient place where they will not dry. it is best as well to have the convenience of running water to wash the apples if dirty and to clean up the machine occasionally. cleanliness should be provided for and insisted upon, as dirty and decaying apples not only give undesirable flavors, but the bacteria and molds feed upon the sugar in the cider and greatly reduce the strength of the vinegar. this is one reason why a rainy day is a good time for cider making, as dust and flies are less and molds are not so abundantly "planted" in the cider. the next step is the grinding and pressing and is very simple. with an efficient machine the cider is quickly ready for the casks. then follows the first fermentation, which very frequently is not properly managed, and poor vinegar results. the casks should be filled only two-thirds full, the bung left open but screened with cheesecloth or lightly fitted with a plug of cotton to admit air. compressed yeast generally should be added, at the rate of one cake to each five gallons, first mixing the yeast in lukewarm water. if the cask is then placed in a warm place, at least sixty degrees--seventy degrees or more being better--we have the three requirements of proper fermentation, namely, air, warmth and yeast. this will give rapid fermentation, which will reduce the loss of sugars to a minimum. this fermentation should be allowed to go on until completed. if vinegar starts to form it will usually leave a residue of sugar and give a weaker vinegar. it will require from two weeks to a year to change all the sugars into alcohol, depending upon the management of the work. when finished the clear juice is "racked" or siphoned into a clean cask, through a straining cloth to insure the removal of all pomace or sediment. [illustration: prof. w. g. brierly, horticultural dept., university farm, st. paul, minn.] then follows the fermentation to produce the acetic acid and finish the vinegar. a "starter" of "mother" can be used, but it is best to take out a gallon or more of the cider when "racking" and add a pint to a quart of a good grade cider vinegar. let it stand in a warm place, well covered with cheesecloth, and in from four to ten days a granular, brownish cake should begin to form. this starter can then be put directly into the casks, a pint or more to each cask. if the starter develops a white, slimy coat, throw it out and start again. for all of this second stage of fermentation follow the same plan as at first. fill the barrels not over two-thirds full, use a cotton plug or cheesecloth screen at the bung and keep at a warm temperature. the essentials again are air and warmth, with a good vinegar starter. under these conditions the vinegar may be ready in from two to ten months. if the usual plan of "natural" fermentation is followed, and the cask is kept at a low temperature, it may be three years before the vinegar is ready. when the vinegar seems to be completed, send a sample to the state dairy and food commission at the capitol for analysis. if they say it is completed, "rack" off and strain again into clean barrels, this time filling full and driving in the bung. this will prevent loss from evaporation, and the vinegar can be sold at any time. the state law requires that cider vinegars sold in the state measure up to a certain standard--namely, four per cent. of acetic acid, . grams per cc. of solids, and . grams per cc. of ash. so much for vinegar making in general. for minnesota conditions little is known about the definite behavior of any apple varieties. this has led to the study of vinegar making as a problem for the experiment station. the division of horticulture is carrying on variety tests to determine the yields of juice at different stages of maturity, the efficiency of types of presses, labor costs per gallon, and the production of vinegar from each variety to determine its value. the division of agricultural chemistry makes analyses of the sweet cider to determine the composition and vinegar prospects, and also analyzes the vinegars at various stages. the work has been carried on for two seasons and is showing some interesting facts. these must, however, be checked with further work before definite statements can be published. as to machines, our results show that the press with press cloths will outyield nearly two to one the press with the barrel or drum. however, a strong grain sack used to catch the pomace and used to confine it in the drum will give a very satisfactory yield, but it requires a considerable amount of labor to do this. as to labor costs per gallon, we have as yet no definite figures except that one man can grind and press a minimum of eight to nine gallons an hour. two men can raise the output to at least thirteen gallons. at cents per hour the cost per gallon on this basis varies between two and four cents. as the apples are of little value, and the labor generally "rainy day" labor, this seems to give an inexpensive product. our vinegars are as yet incomplete. the run of was very limited and of necessity stored in a cold cellar. it now tests two per cent. acetic acid, so is only half finished. as to variety yields, the results of the work of two seasons compare very closely and show generally that there is a variation from a minimum of a scant two gallons up to more than a pint over three gallons from forty pounds of each variety. the forty-pound quantity is taken as representative of the bushel by measure. the varieties leading cider production are--the hibernal and wealthy, which generally have given us about three gallons per forty pounds, the duchess and patten running slightly lower in cider yield. the longfield, lowland raspberry, charlamoff and whitney rank in a third group, according to our trials. this does not mean, however, that those in the latter group are not usable, as the charlamoff and whitney are among the highest in sugar content. these figures are greatly modified if the apples have been in storage or are over-ripe. the chemical analyses of the ciders show that, in general, minnesota apples do not contain relatively high percentages of sugars. this varies with the season and increases with maturity. the highest total sugar content in ripe apples has been found in the charlamoff at . per cent., followed in order by whitney, . per cent., wealthy . per cent., duchess . per cent., patten . per cent., hibernal . per cent., and longfield at . per cent. the significance of these figures is seen when the statement is made that it usually takes two per cent. sugars to make one per cent. of acetic acid. with the majority of our apples we must work carefully, or the vinegar will not meet the state standard of four per cent. acetic acid. this is further substantiated by the report of the state dairy and food commission that the vinegar samples sent to them rarely come up to the standard. from the data as we now have it we cannot draw definite conclusions, but in general it is safe to say that the making of vinegar from minnesota apples is done on a close margin. this will mean careful work to get the most out of the fermentation, the use of yeast, warm cellars or store rooms and proper management of the casks as to filling and the entrance of air. the work is not expensive. there is a good demand for really good vinegar, and a market is provided for fruit which could not readily be sold in any other form. a summer in our garden. mrs. gertrude ellis skinner, austin. summer in our garden begins with the arrival of the first seed catalogue in january, and closes the day before its arrival the next january. we may be short on flowers in our garden, but we are long on seed catalogues in our library. we do not believe in catalogue houses excepting seed catalogues. we find them more marvelous than the arabian nights, more imaginative than baron manchausen, and more alluring than a circus poster. we care not who steals the mona lisa so long as salzer sends us pictures of his cabbages. the art gallery of the louvre may be robbed of its masterpiece without awakening a pang in our breasts, if dreer will only send us the pictures of those roses that bloom in the paint-shops of philadelphia. morgan may purchase the choicest collections of paintings in europe and hide them from the public in his new york mansion, if may will send us pictures of watermelons, such as were never imagined by raphael, michael angelo or correggio. while the world watches the struggle for the ownership of some great railway system, the control of some big trust, the development of some enormous enterprise, we watch for the arrival of the seed catalogue to see which artist can get the most cabbages in a field, the most melons on a cart, or make the corn look most like the big trees of yosemite. don't talk to us of the pleasures of bridge whist, it is not to be compared with the seed catalogue habit. in the seed catalogue we mark all the things we are going to buy, we mark all the new things. there is the wonderberry, sweeter than the blueberry, with the fragrance of the pineapple and the lusciousness of the strawberry! we mark the himalaya-berry--which grows thirty feet, sometimes sixty feet in a single season. why, one catalogue told of a man who picked , - / pounds of berries from a single vine, beside what his children ate. our himalaya vine grew four inches the first season and died the first winter. we were glad it did. we did not want such a monster running over our garden. we wanted to raise other things. but we did not lose faith in our catalogues. we believe what they say just as the small boy believes he will see a lion eat a man at the circus, because the billboard pictures him doing it. if we ordered all the seeds we mark in the catalogue in january, we would require a township for a garden, a rockefeller to finance it and an army to hoe it. we did not understand the purpose of a catalogue for a long time. a catalogue is a stimulus. it's like an oyster cocktail before a dinner, a scotch high-ball before the banquet and the singing before the sermon. salzer knows no one ever raised such a crop of cabbages as he pictures or the world would be drowned in sauer kraut. if the himalaya-berry bore as the catalogues say it does we should all be buried in jam. you horticulturists never expect to raise such an apple as lindsay describes; if you did, they would be more valuable than the golden apples of hesperides. but when we get a catalogue we just naturally dream that what we shall raise will not only be as good but will excel the pictures. alas, of such stuff are dreams made! we could not do our gardening without catalogues, but they are not true to life as we find it in our garden. we never got a catalogue that showed the striped bug on the cucumber, the slug on the rose bush, the louse on the aster, the cut worm on the phlox, the black bug on the syringa, the thousand and one pests, including the great american hen, the queen of the barnyard, but the goth and vandal of the garden. but the best part of summer in our garden is the work we do in winter. then it is that our garden is most beautiful, for we work in the garden of imagination, where drouth does not blight, nor storms devastate, where the worm never cuts nor the bugs destroy. no dog ever uproots in the garden of imagination, nor doth the hen scratch. this is the perfect garden. our golden glow blossoms in all of its auriferous splendor, the oriental poppy is a barbaric blaze of glory, our roses are as fair as the tints of aurora, the larkspur vies with the azure of heaven, the gladioli are like a galaxy of butterflies and our lilies like those which put solomon in the shade. every flower is in its proper place to make harmony complete. there is not a jarring note of color in our garden in the winter time. then comes the spring in our garden, a time of faith, vigilance and hard work. faith that the seed will grow, vigilance that it is planted deep enough and has the right conditions in which to grow. vigilance against frost, weeds and insects. planting, sowing, hoeing, transplanting, coaxing, hoping, expecting, working--we never do half that we planned to do in the springtime--there are not enough days, and the days we have are too short. then comes summer, real summer in our garden. then flowers begin to bloom, and our friends tell us they are lovely. but we see the flaws and errors. we feel almost guilty to have our garden praised, so many glaring faults and shortcomings has it. the color scheme is wrong, there are false notes here and there. there are tall plants where short plants should be. there are spaces and breaks and again spots over-crowded. we water and hoe, train vines, prop plants, and kill the bugs, but we know the weak spots in our garden and vow that next summer we shall remedy every mistake. [illustration: mrs. gertrude ellis skinner among her gladoli.] then "summer in our garden" has an autumn. the garden is never so beautiful as when the first frost strikes it. pillow-cases, sheets, shawls, aprons, coats and newspapers may for a brief time hold at bay the frost king, but he soon laughs at our efforts, crawls under the edges of the unsightly garments with which we protect our flowers, nips their petals, wilts their stems and blackens their leaves. we find them some morning hopelessly frozen. but the earth has ceased to give forth its aroma, the birds are winging southward, the waters of the brook run clear and cold, and the voice of the last cricket sounds lonesome in the land. we say to nature, "work your will with our garden; the summer is over, and we are ready to plan for another season." and what have we learned from the "summer in our garden?" that no one can be happy in his garden unless he works for the joy of the working. he who loves his work loves nature. to him his garden is a great cathedral, boundless as his wonder, a place of worship. above him the dome ever changing in color and design, beautiful in sunshine or storm and thrice beautiful when studded with the eternal lamps of night. the walls are the trees, the vines and the shrubs, waving in the distant horizon and flinging their branches on the sky line, or close at hand where we hear the voice of the wind among the leaves. a wondrous floor is the garden's cathedral of emerald green in the summer, sprinkled with flowers, of ermine whiteness in the winter, sparkling with the diamonds of frost. its choir is the winds, the singing birds and the hum of insects. its builder and maker is god. man goeth to his garden in the springtime, and, behold, all is mystery. there is the mystery of life about him, in the flowing sap in the trees, the springing of the green grass, the awakening of the insect world, the hatching of the worm from the egg, the changing of the worm into the butterfly. the seed the gardener holds in his hand is a mystery. he knows what it will produce, but why one phlox seed will produce a red blossom and another a white is to him a miracle. he wonders at the prodigality of nature. in her economy, what is one or ten thousand seeds! she scatters them with lavish hand from ragweed, thistle or oak. if man could make but the single seed of the ragweed, he could make a world. the distance between a pansy and a planet is no greater than between man and a pansy. the gardener sees the same infinite care bestowed upon the lowest as upon the highest form of life, and he wonders at it. he looks into the face of a flower, scans the butterfly and notes the toadstool and sees that each is wonderful. from the time he enters his garden in the springtime until he leaves it in the autumn, he will find a place and a time to worship in his cathedral. he enters it with the seed in his hand in the spring, and as he rakes away the ripened plants in the autumn he finds something still of the mystery of life. a puff-ball is before him, and he muses on its forming. the little puff-ball stands at one end of the scale of life and he, man, at the other, "close to the realm where angels have their birth, just on the boundary of the spirit land." from the things visible in our garden we learn of the things invisible, and strong the faith of him who kneeling in adoration of the growing plant looks from nature to nature's god and finds the peace which passeth understanding. bringing the producer and consumer together. r. s. mackintosh, horticultural specialist, agricultural extension division, university farm, st. paul. the introduction of mr. producer to mr. consumer directly, and not by proxy, is the chief desire of the present time. the fact remains, however, that in the vast majority of cases messrs. proxy & co. is brought in and breaks up the direct personal contact. the development of complex marketing means specialization and in a large degree sets it apart from production. when specialization becomes dominant, then standardization becomes necessary. each producer is unable to keep in touch with all such movements and consequently finds it hard to keep abreast of the times. in this age of rapid transit, specialization, scientific discoveries, and the improvements resulting therefrom, seem somewhat out of place when compared with our present marketing systems. this does not mean that our marketing is entirely out of joint, but it does mean that there is something the matter or so many would not be discussing it. the consumer hears what the producer received, the producer hears what the consumer paid, and then somebody gets to thinking and talking. discussions lead to investigations, and investigations lead to conferences. just lately a large conference was held in chicago, and certain plans were formulated to attempt to unravel some of the evils that exist in marketing. so much has been said that the u.s. department of agriculture has begun certain investigations, and we hope that the workers will find ways to solve some of the troubles in a logical and, we hope, sane way. a year ago your committee on marketing reported that there were certain things needed, and an ideal system was suggested to correct these faults. one of the basic factors emphasized was standardization. another committee reported on changes needed in the statutes regarding the weight of a bushel of apples. congress has enacted a law which specifies the size of a barrel for apples. new york, massachusetts and other states have enacted grading laws. some states require that the fruit be free of certain insect and disease injuries. several states have laws regulating commission men. most states have laws which do not allow the sale of food products that are decayed. these are all steps toward the standardization that is so necessary. in other words, the several laws have been passed to correct some of the troubles which have come up when so many hands handle the products. these laws were not needed in olden times when the consumer went directly to the producer's door and there bargained for his wares. minnesota is a state noted for co-operative enterprises. there are over two thousand such organizations doing more than $ , , . worth of business yearly. we know full well the value of the co-operative creameries and how butter has been brought up to a high standard. as citizens, we rejoice; as horticulturists, and citizens as well, we want our products to stand high in the estimation of others. i was much pained this summer while discussing the marketing of apples with several commission men to hear them say that they did not like to take local shipments. the reason was that the goods were usually below grade, and the returns did not always please the growers. it is evident that we must improve our methods in ways which will remove this stigma. many of the commission men try to induce good grading and packing. they like to handle "top notch" goods, for it is cheaper to handle goods that move quickly than those that are a drag and require too much handling. the agricultural extension division of the college of agriculture is organized to give help, where help is needed, along a large number of agricultural lines. realizing these facts, we have been trying to get the ear of the producer and consumer in an effort to get them to do certain things. on the one hand, we want to have good varieties, and to help this lectures and demonstrations are given in the care of the orchard, pruning, spraying, thinning, picking, grading, packing and marketing. on the other hand we want more people to eat minnesota apples. it is a campaign of education and publicity. if one wishes to sell anything, he finds that he must advertise. he must advertise so much and in so many ways that people cannot help buying his wares. there are certain widely advertised articles that you must know, whether you are interested or not. one of these runs along the highways so often that you are shaken, even against your will, into consciousness of its existence, so that you cannot get along without having one, or at least seeing one. the latest edition seems to have put on feathers in the form of a white dove of peace. may it succeed. advertising minnesota apples has been attempted this past year. it was found necessary to provide a standard by which the buyer and seller could agree on apple grades. after consulting several persons, it was decided to adopt the following grades: "a" grade.--hand picked, normal shape, good color (at least one-third colored), free from dirt, disease and insect injuries, and well packed. limit of defects allowed: not more than % of all kinds nor % of any one kind. [illustration: prof. r. s. mackintosh--horticulturist connected with extension division, university farm, st. paul.] "b" grade.--hand picked, practically normal shape, practically free from dirt, disease and insect injuries, and properly packed. limit of defects allowed: not more than % of all nor % of any one kind. only one variety and grade should be put in a package. in the grade specifications given, normal shape refers to the general form of well-grown specimens of the variety in question. for instance: the wealthy is regular in outline and nearly round, while the hibernal is somewhat flat and often irregular. in like manner the color must be typical of the variety, whether green, yellow or red. red apples usually sell better than green or yellow varieties, although the quality may be even poorer. fruit showing insect or disease injuries cannot be classed as well grown. grading to size is very important. this is not specified because it depends upon the variety and season. only apples above a selected minimum size, as - / inches, the diameter at right angles to stem, should be placed in the same package. defects refer to apples not up to grade in size, color or shape and having bruises, punctures, disease or insect injuries. _fancy._--for persons having extra choice fruit, a fancy grade can be used. well-grown specimens, hand picked, of normal shape, at least two-thirds colored, free from dirt, diseases and insect injuries and properly packed. not more than % of combined defects allowed, of which only % can be of the same kind. hundreds of letters were sent to persons in the state, telling them that we would maintain an information bureau or clearing house to help them in finding markets for their apples. several growers replied, and the names of persons who were anxious to buy apples were given them. nine farmers' clubs asked for information as to where minnesota apples could be bought. this is a beginning, and it shows that there is need for some sort of an organization that can find out where apples are and who wants them. the intention has not been to interfere with the regular trade routes, but to give the growers information as to who wants apples. as you will notice, this does not bring the producer directly to the door of the consumer. there must be some one to act as a go-between in most cases. it was just stated that minnesota is a state having a very large number of co-operative business organizations. among these are about two hundred live stock shipping associations having a very simple form of organization. a number of persons in a community, having considerable stock to ship, come together, adopt a simple set of by-laws which provide for the selection of a manager, his compensation--usually a certain percentage on the gross receipts--and a small amount for losses which may occur. no capital stock is required--only the actual living stock. the manager ships the stock at certain times, and when the returns come in deducts the amounts provided for expenses and then returns to each shipper his proportionate amount. in this way the stock is sold at the terminal yards the same day and with other stock from many sections. it is a very simple, satisfactory way of marketing. the more i study and think of our apple situation, the more i am of the opinion that a very large part of our fruit could be marketed in a similar way. some of our la crescent friends ship together in carlots successfully. why not others? this is the very best way to begin co-operation in a successful way. as mr. collingwood says: "co-operation, like charity, should begin at home and be well nurtured." in other words, begin to co-operate at home in a small way and let the future large organizations take care of themselves. to be specific, let the growers in a community meet and form a fruit-shipping association with by-laws patterned after the successful stock-shipping associations. then the fruit should be well grown, picked in time, graded thoroughly and honestly packed and marked. haul at once to car. the manager will take charge and ship as he thinks best. each package must have the customary identification marks, so the manager can keep an accurate record of all transactions. if, by chance, trouble comes up, the shippers can pool their interests, and send a representative to find out the trouble. thus they can do together what each cannot do alone. even this does not bring the consumers directly in contact with the producers. it is, however, a step nearer. the public auctions started in new york this season seem to have been successful, and it may mean an innovation which will improve marketing conditions in general. these auctions are held under the recently formed department of foods and markets. the department has contracted with a large auction company which advances the freight, conducts the sales, guarantees the accounts, and advances the net returns for the goods daily. the producer is able to get returns within two days. the total cost is % on the gross sales; % for the auction company and % for the department of markets for the advertising and for other overhead expenses. posters have been issued to advertise new york state apples. as this department has been working only for a short time, it is too early to tell whether it is a success in every way. we earnestly ask your co-operation in trying to solve the question of marketing minnesota apples. all interested must assist in this important subject. * * * * * world's tallest trees.--the tallest trees are the australian eucalyptus, which attain a height of feet. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. hardy chrysanthemums. the new type of hardy chrysanthemums called "early-flowering" has been largely developed by a frenchman named august nonin, of paris, who has devoted much of his life to perfecting this strain from seedlings of the old-fashioned "mums" of our grandmothers' gardens. it is considered by far the most satisfactory kind to grow out of doors, blossoming earlier than the pompons. a few of the best of these early-flowering types are: white--crawford white, dorothy, milka and normandie; yellow--e'toile d'or, carrie, october gold; pink--beaurepaire, eden, le danube; red and bronze shades--harvest home, firelight, a. barham and billancourt. these are the earliest bloomers of this type. hardy pompons are still most largely grown for outdoor flowering, but of these there is also a choice, as the earliest bloomers are the most desirable to use. lilian doty, a large-flowered, clear, bright pink, is considered the very best of these. donald and minta are other good pinks. the earliest whites are queen of the whites, waco, grace and myer's perfection. jeanette, wm. sabey, golden climax and zenobia are the best yellows, and julia lagravere, urith and tiber the best crimson and bronze shades. there are many other beautiful pompons, but they bloom too late for practical out-of-door use. the single mums have of late been used successfully out-of-doors when early blooming varieties have been chosen. of these elsa, gladys duckham and mensa are the earliest whites: ivor grant, mrs. southbridge and mrs. buckingham the earliest pinks; josephine, golden mensa and marion sutherland the earliest yellows; and silvia slade, ceddie mason and brightness the earliest crimson and bronze shades. as soon as it is warm enough in the spring the plants should be set out about twelve inches apart in rich garden soil, and kept pinched back during may and june to insure a stocky growth. if one has old clumps in the garden, they should be taken up and divided and set in new earth just as any old perennial plant would be treated. during the hot summer weather they should be well watered once a week and sprayed in the cool of the evening. this will keep down the black and green aphis, the worst enemies of mums. in case these pests become a menace a spray of tobacco water will end the trouble. a little bone meal or well rotted manure dug about the plants in august will help to produce fine blooms. a gardener who has never yet lost a plant through winter-killing treats them as follows: after they have finished blooming he cuts them down to about eight inches above the ground and lets the leaves blow in on the bed, covering to a depth of six or eight inches. then he lays pine branches over the beds to prevent the leaves from blowing away. so treated, the plants will remain frozen all winter. they should in all cases be set in a well drained position, as they will not stand "wet feet." uncover with the other perennials in the spring.--mrs. e. w. gould. bee-keeper's column. conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. the minnesota honey crop of will probably be a record breaker. this brings up the question of how to market this crop to the best advantage. let me state at once that the greatest obstacle to free and easy selling of honey is the careless, untidy, sometimes unsanitary way some bee-keepers put up their honey for the market--spoiling the appetite of the public for this most delicious of nature's foods not only for themselves but also for progressive and up-to-date bee-keepers. the result of this big honey crop will be to eliminate the no. and no. bee-keeper and his honey from the market until no. has sold out his product. a short article like this cannot make a good bee-keeper out of a poor one, it can only serve as a reminder to those who know how "lest they forget." moreover, the most careless and backward bee-keepers imagine that they are crackerjacks at their trade, thus putting themselves beyond the possibility of becoming anything. it takes a thousand hammer-blows to drive home a truth or a useful idea. if comb honey is your specialty observe the national grading and packing rules. they are printed in all bee papers and magazines, and have been given all possible publication to reach you. to obtain fancy comb honey your sections must have been made over strong colonies in no. white, new sections with extra thin top and bottom starters. after the honey flow is over in your locality (which you can detect by the tendency of bees to rob and be cross) remove your comb honey at once. by leaving it on, travel stained and propolis spotted sections will result. the snow white finish of the comb will be discolored, the wood will assume that "used and handled" appearance which is not attractive to the buyer. the sections must be graded fancy, no. and no. . every section must be scraped around the edges and all propolis removed. some bee-keepers even polish the wood of the section until it looks as clean as if it just came from the factory. after cleaning and grading put up your honey into standard shipping cases. do not ship it in the super where it was raised nor in a soap box. if shipped to a distant market by freight or express, eight shipping cases must be packed together into one honey crate provided with handles. the tendency of late is to put up each comb in a separate paper box with transparent front to keep the honey free from flies and finger-marks. this practice deserves universal adoption. if you produce extracted honey you may leave your honey with bees for a week or two after the honey flow is over. extracting should be done in hot weather, during august or early part of september. a modern hand or power extractor is an absolute necessity. there are still a few old timers who "butcher" their bees late in the fall, and render the honey by the "hand mash and sheet strain" method, but they are only relics of a poetical past and going fast. honey to be extracted must be well capped over. if extracted too thin it will ferment and get sour. if left with bees too long it will be too thick and hard to extract. extracting ought to be done in a bee-tight room to keep out robber bees. extracted supers may be returned to the bees in the evening or piled up at a distance in a safe place for bees to clean out. extracted honey must be left to stand in a settling tank for about a week, or until all air bubbles and wax particles have risen to the top. it should be put up into five gallon cans or barrels for wholesale trade. for retail trade it should be bottled when needed, else it will candy in the glass. bottling it hot or heating it after bottling will delay crystallization for a considerable period. the bottles ought to be white, clean and labeled with your name. each kind of container should be well packed in a wooden shipping case. do not make it a practice to sell a large amount to a customer at once, sell rather smaller amounts at frequent intervals. orchard notes. conducted monthly by r. s. mackintosh, horticulturist, extension division, university farm, st. paul. once in a while it is well to pause for a few moments to consider some of the results of past efforts. we have been growing apples in minnesota in large quantities. insects and diseases are causing more damage each year, and this has lead us to pay more attention to the prevention of these pests. a regular spraying program has been outlined, and many persons have adopted it. what are the results? it seems to us that the results of spraying at west concord, minn., should be made known to the readers of the minnesota horticulturist. it indicates very clearly the value of spraying and how someone in a community can take charge and diligently push for better methods. in this case the instructor in agriculture, with the aid of his superintendent and board of education, secured a power sprayer and began to spray the orchards in the vicinity. at first it was necessary to ask the owners if they might spray their trees. after three years, however, the owners appealed to prof. updegraff to have their trees sprayed. this year he had more work than he could manage. demonstrations of this kind show the value of the work so vividly that the most skeptical gradually becomes convinced of its value. several schools have purchased spraying outfits. we hope that we shall hear from more of them in the future. in many cases the spraying outfit is used for whitewashing the interior of barns and other buildings. reports that come to the agricultural extension division indicate that there will be a surplus of apples in some sections this year. we want to assist in the distribution of the surplus and shall continue the apple clearing house again this year. if you have more apples than you can sell locally please let the division know what you have to sell. address the agricultural extension division, university farm, st. paul. apples for market must be graded and packed properly if they are to be sold through the regular trade routes. the barrel is the standard package in most parts of the country. the bushel basket is being used for early fruit in some markets. all fruit for sale should be _hand picked from the tree_ (not from the ground) and allowed to cool. grade according to size and freedom from insect and other injuries. pack carefully so as to avoid bruising. when cover is put on press firmly in place. do not allow fruit to shake about while in transit. pick early maturing fruit while more or less green. ripe fruit will not keep well during hot weather. (see page of this number.) late august and september is the time when practically all our county fairs are held. it is hoped that the exhibits of fruits, vegetables and flowers will be large and of good quality. follow the premium list very carefully. put on the plate the right number of specimens. pick apples so as to leave stems attached. quality means specimens of perfect shape for the variety, free of insect or disease injuries, without bruises and well colored. vegetables should be well selected in every particular. select the specimens that you would like to use. the overgrown specimens are not always the best. [illustration: a valley lawn with shrubbery on border of woods. formerly occupied by henhouse and yards. view on same grounds with garden pergola shown on page .] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. september, no. the pergola--its use and misuse, convenience and expense. chas. h. ramsdell, landscape architect, minneapolis. let me take you by a brief word picture to italy, the first home of the pergola as we see it hereabouts today. on the hills and vineyards above the sea, in that sunny land, i can see a beautiful home or villa, seemingly about to tumble off the rocky point on which it rests. indeed, so scant is the space about the building that none is left for trees to shade the white house from the heat of the tropic sun. but shade must be had to break the glare of the noonday. the vine and the grape thrive amazingly near the sea, and this necessity evolved the pergola. it was compact, could be made straight or curving, short or long, usually narrow but still supporting to some height the delicate leaves and fruit of the grape. thus, the italian secured his shade and made an interesting walk or approach. because of its open work and light proportions the views of the beautiful italian sea and sunset were not blocked but thereby improved, each view framed in by the pergola pillars, with the picturesque tracery of the vine clinging to them. here was its home, and here it was perfect in its setting. we americans, in our zeal to secure all that's good, have brought it bodily to our homes. but like much else that's transplanted, we do not always look well to the new conditions as comparable to the old. the pergola is, however, too valuable a garden feature to do without. our greater care should be to study our need, use the pergola when advisable for some other feature, like one of those illustrated on this sheet, when more appropriate. in construction the pergola is usually made of materials to match the house, sometimes masonry or stone pillars as well as those of wood. the rafters and lighter beams should be made of the most durable wood, preferably cypress, and carefully painted. the pillars may be of classic design or of more modern lines, but if they are of a thickness greater than one-seventh of their height, they are not proportionate to the light load they carry. preferably, the columns rest on and are anchored to concrete or stone footings in the ground. the supporting rafters from pillar to pillar are the heavier construction, the cross beams, etc., the lighter. [illustration: pergola over garden gate, with planting to screen kitchen garden, in minneapolis.] the surface of the ground beneath the pergola should be made of weather proof brick or tile floors. they shed the surface water and make it useable in damp weather, not possible with the turf. the cost of these structures is largely optional with the builder. one clever with carpenter's tools can build one at the cost of his time and lumber. the other limit cannot be set. masonry pillars, cypress lumber, pavement of the floor, the size, cost of design, etc., will, upon occasion, bring up this cost to that of a small house. i have found a firm in chicago who will ship one complete, ready to set up, following one's own design, or, after submitting standard designs and photographs of their work. they sell one feet long, feet inches wide and feet inches high with -inch columns for $ . , each additional -foot section $ . , f.o.b., chicago. the pictures shown of such a pergola are highly attractive. from this figure the cost runs up to $ . and even $ , . for circular construction eight-four long and correspondingly heavy. of course, one can secure low figures from any local millwork company if a good detailed design is available. in this way good distinctive work is possible. its uses are infinite. it may serve to connect the architectural lines of the house with garage or other smaller building. it may lead from house to garden, or along an overlook walk along the river or lake. it may encircle a garden pool or an important statue. it can be made an approach to a band stand, or other park building. it will make part of the garden background, but should not be depended upon without the higher foliage so eminently desirable. [illustration: a garden pergola erected last summer on clients' grounds south of lake harriet, minneapolis--covering walk from house to garden, sixty five feet long.] do not make the mistake of expecting a pergola to serve as a porch or outdoor place to sit or sleep. one needs the roof of a tea house to keep off the evening dews or occasional shower. it cannot be made a large feature of the grounds like a garden. it is not important enough. it will not, without trees and high shrubs behind it, make any background as will a garden wall or lattice. it is no barrier along a street or of any use as a fence or division line. and sometimes the lines of a house or building may be better carried by a rose arch or vine arch without the expense of a pergola. thus you see it has its limited place, and its use must be decided upon with good taste and judgment. the pergola is almost incomplete without the growing vines on it. a four years' growth of beta or janesville grapes (which we don't have to lay down for winter), will give one a beautiful showing of the hanging fall fruit. the bittersweet is also good with yellow fall fruit. the several varieties of clematis are desirable if combined with the heavier growing grape or woodbine. the woodbine is good for its fall color, although weedy in growth. the minnesota honeysuckle should be mentioned, also the dutchman's pipe and the solanum, all good in a limited way. the climbing roses are all right to use, although they lack foliage background and have to be laid down every winter. however, i like to believe the man who designed the first pergola had the grape vine in his mind in so doing, for the two fit conditions like hand and glove. it is a structure of charming possibilities. its lines curve as well as any other feature. its proportions should be always light and graceful. it adds much to almost any garden or home grounds when carefully used. its open work overhead typifies the freedom of the outdoors. it also recalls the vine and its growth to the light. and if we temper our enthusiasm with good sense, its use will be fortunate and the result a happy one. packing and marketing apples. h. m. dunlap, pres. ill. orchard co., savoy, ills. the growing of apples is one problem, the marketing is another. the two are intimately related but entirely different. it is essential in obtaining the best results to first grow good apples for the market. this, like the darkey's receipt for rabbit soup, comes first. the darkey says, "first kotch your rabbit." many a grower who understands fairly well how to produce good fruit is lost when it comes to selling it to an advantage to himself. you notice that i said "to himself." it is often done to the advantage of the buyer. like most inventors the apple grower usually needs assistance in selling what he has produced. the grower who connects up with the best methods in this particular gets best results. no one can long be successful whose methods are not careful and honest in the packing of apples. _equipment for harvesting the apple crop._--there are some who insist that the only way to pick apples is to use a basket lined with cloth. these insist that the use of the basket in picking is the most careful method and that the bruising of the apples is reduced to a minimum. i have, however, seen apples handled very roughly in baskets. the picker hangs the basket on the tree, on the ladder rung, or sets it on the ground and then proceeds to shoot the apples into the basket from distances of one foot or six or eight feet away. the bottomless picking sack, with broad straps across the shoulders, has come into use within the past few years in many commercial orchards. my experience is that either the basket or sack is good if rightly handled, and either may be objectionable if care is not exercised. my own experience after using both is in favor of the sack. if care is used no more bruising will be done than with the basket, and it is far more expeditious. both hands are at liberty for use in the picking. the sack should not be shifted about, and the picker should not be allowed to lean against the rungs of the ladder with the filled sack between. the sack should be lowered into the picking crate so that the apples have no drop in emptying the sack. pointed ladders are the best for tall trees and less liable to injure the tree or turn turtle and upset the picker. a packing house is essential if best results are to be obtained, but many growers use the canvas-covered table in the orchard, picking and packing the product from sixteen to thirty-six trees at a sitting, and then moving the table to the next center, and in this way the entire orchard. in good weather this is not so bad as might seem, but at times the sun is very hot, or sudden showers saturate everything, and in the late fall the weather is too cold and frosty for comfort. on the whole, therefore, a good sized packing house or shed built at a convenient place in or near the orchard is the more desirable method of handling the crop. this building must be large enough to give room for a sorting table three feet wide by sixteen or more feet in length, or, better still, room for an apple grading machine of best pattern, which will occupy about three feet by twenty feet. there should be a space on one side or end of the building for unloading the bushel crates with which all well regulated orchards should be equipped, when they come from the orchard. these crates can be stacked up four or five deep, and there should be adequate room for these based on necessities. there should be room for at least a day's supply of apple barrels and a place to cooper them up by driving the hoops and nailing same. there should be enough room to face and fill barrels and head them up and to stack up enough for half a day's hauling ahead. the size of this building will depend upon whether you are barreling barrels per day or , barrels. for the former a building x feet will answer very well. for the latter amount x feet would be none too large. this building should have skylights in the roof. i build these of ordinary greenhouse sash about x feet, usually putting in two of these in each building on the north or east side of the roof, according to the slope, and directly over the sorting end of the table. this will give you light an average of thirty minutes more each day and prolong the day's work that much, or at least make it possible to do better work on cloudy days and in the evenings. the building should be approachable on all four sides with the wagon, and doors either sliding or hinged should open at least ten feet wide for taking apples in and out. for example, i have my sheds arranged to take the fruit as it comes from the orchard on one side of the building. the number one apples go out one door, and in case i use a grader the number two go out another side. the cider apples also take their route. the fourth side is used for supplying empty barrels as needed. thus you see the necessity for getting to all four sides. on the side where the filled barrels are loaded onto the wagon there should be a raised platform so that the loading can be carefully and easily done. a bin for the cider or vinegar apples should be built with a roof on same. low-wheeled, platform wagons are needed to haul fruit from the orchard to the packing house. _the standard barrel of three bushels_ capacity is used generally by the commercial orchardist in preference to the box. good hoops are growing scarcer every year, and some, including myself, are using two or four of the six hoops required of the twisted splice steel wire variety as being both safer and more economical. in transit or in storage they hold better and do not break and scatter the contents of the barrel over the car floor or storage warehouse. the best floor for the apple house is concrete. the next best is to cover the ground with coal cinders and lay x flat on the cinders, filling between them with cinders to a level and nailing the floor boards to these x . this gives a good solid floor at little expense. the walls are of x uprights, about eight feet apart, resting on Ã� Ã� concrete blocks with a half inch iron rod imbedded in the concrete and countersunk in lower end of upright Ã� to keep the latter in place. nail ties of Ã� are used, and to these are nailed common lumber surfaced. the roof consists of Ã� or Ã� rafters, usually three feet apart, with Ã� boards spaced about three feet apart as sheeting. the covering in this case is of galvanized corrugated iron, suitable length, of no. gauge. the doors of this building should be on rollers, and with two or more double doors on each of the four sides to give plenty of light and easy access to and from the building. the roof and dry floor are the important parts of such a building, and you only need the walls as a support and occasionally to break off the wind when weather becomes chilly. what you should avoid in a packing house is narrow doors, dark interior and access from only one or two sides. _picking._--i have found it most satisfactory to pick by the bushel, keeping a foreman in the orchard to see that crates are filled full, ladders and apples carefully handled. each picker is provided with tickets of a certain number which corresponds to the one opposite his name on the sheet tacked to a small board or clip carried by the foreman. each picker is assigned a tree, and his empty boxes are distributed to him from the wagon. when filled the number is tabulated by the foreman and loaded onto the wagon and hauled to the packing shed. here they are stacked up and afterwards emptied onto the sorting tables or machine grader, and from thence into the barrels. _hauling to market._--the barrels when filled are not allowed to lie around, but are hauled immediately to the car or storage. failure of winter apples to keep in storage may often be traced to the packing shed, where the apples stand in the crates or lie in the barrels for a number of days, perhaps a week or two in warm weather, before they are forwarded to storage. sometimes delays occur at the storage owing to rush, and apples remain sometimes for a week or ten days in cars before they are unloaded. it behooves the grower not only to watch his own packing house for delays, but the storage company also. in one instance i lost $ , on five cars of apples that were without refrigeration five weeks owing to the storage warehouse not being completed. i knew nothing about this until two years afterwards. hauling to the station is done on wagons or motor trucks equipped with a rack that permits the barrels being carried lying down, but supported at each end of the barrel so that the weight of the barrel does not come upon the bilge. they can be so racked up that one wagon will carry fifty-five barrels. a three-ton truck will carry forty barrels of apples and haul forty more on trailer. such an outfit in one of my orchards makes five trips in one day a distance of four miles, traversing forty miles and carrying barrels of apples. one and one-half miles of this is over a well-graded dirt road, and two and one-half over brick and concrete pavement. in our clay county, illinois, orchards we have two - gasoline tractors that are used for cultivating during the summer and for hauling apples in the fall. these machines easily haul barrels of apples on two wagons and make two trips a distance of five miles from orchard to town. _loading cars._--i am surprised at the lack of knowledge of how to properly load barreled apples into cars. over half the cars going to market are improperly loaded. the best way is to place all the barrels crosswise of the cars with lower tier to the right side of the car, and the second tier the left of the car with the bilge lying in the hollows of the lower tier. the third tier should be at the right side again directly over the lower tier. if a fourth tier is added they should be at the left and directly over the second tier. in this way your apples are loaded to carry with the least injury to the apples. being uniformly loaded they are easily counted from the top after they are in the car, and your loader can verify his wagon load count after the apples are all in and thus prevent mistakes. _packing apples._--the packing season is a busy one. often the grower finds himself short of help, and when this is hard to get he is sure up against it if he wants to do a good job of packing. first make your estimate of the crop you have to harvest. if inexperienced, get an experienced man to help you. you need this estimate for two reasons. you must determine the number of packages you need, which must be contracted for in advance, and you need to know how much labor you need to get the crop in within the time limit. you should not begin harvesting too early, for immature fruit, poorly colored, brings a lower price, and you do not want to be so late that the fruit mellows up or drops from the trees before it is gathered or is caught by a freeze. i will relate a little experience of mine in the latter connection. in the autumn of i had a heavy crop on a hundred and twenty acre orchard. the season was rainy, and we lost six days during october, which put us across the line into november with our picking. the last days of october or first of november brought a severe freeze when the mercury went to twenty, or twelve below freezing. this lasted two nights and one day. the apples were frozen absolutely solid through and through on the trees. as i had over , bushels, all willow twigs, unharvested, it was an anxious time for me. the second day was cloudy with the temperature at thirty-four degrees, just freezing, and the following night it remained at the same point, for we were enough interested to note the temperature. this continued up until noon of the third day, when the frost was out of the apples and we proceeded with our picking. these apples kept perfectly and were sold the next may at $ . per barrel. there was no perceptible difference between the apples picked before or after the freeze. two years later my experience was different. we were caught with , bushels on the trees by an equally severe freeze. the sun came out bright the following morning, and by noon the temperature was up to fifty degrees. the apples turned brown and looked like they had been baked. they were good only for vinegar. the variety in both cases was willow. in packing apples it is a good plan to use a corrugated paper cap on both ends of the barrel, in addition to a waxed paper next to the apples on the face end, stenciled with the name of the grower and his postoffice address. use uniform sized apples for the face as much as possible, and of good color. the face is permitted to be per cent. better than the contents. drop facing i consider best for the second layer rather than double facing, as it holds the face apple in position better and presents a more solid face to the buyer when opened. the barrels should be filled uniformly from bottom to top with an even grade of fruit. no reputable packer will attempt any fraud upon the purchaser in this respect. in tailing off the barrel preparatory to putting in the head, the better way is to face the apples on their side in concentric rings with the color side of the apple up. i would not select these apples as to size or color, but let them correctly represent both as they run through the barrel. there can be no objection, however, to your putting the colored side of the apple up. we should always look as well as we can, and first impressions if good, while not always lasting, are desirable in the apple business of inspecting packages. in filling the barrel care must be taken to gently settle the apples into place by shaking the barrel from time to time as it is filled. after the bottom is faced off the corrugated cap is placed on the apples, with the smooth side next to the apples, and the head pressed into place. it is well to use headliners to secure the heads and not trust to the use of nails alone. have some regard for the man who has to open these heads in storage or the salesroom. try a few yourself if you never have, and you will use headliners for him who comes after if for no other reason. mr. kellogg: how do you get rid of the waste apples that would rot in the orchard? mr. dunlap: we have a large vinegar plant, and we convert the cider into vinegar and sell it as cider vinegar. we have sometimes shipped the fresh product of the cider mill to factories, where it is made into vinegar. then there are evaporators for evaporating them. take a certain grade of apples not good to grind up into cider, and they evaporate this grade of apples. then there are canning factories that also take them. the cider mill is a very good way to work up your culls and then sell as vinegar. a member: what do these apple graders cost? mr. dunlap: from $ . to $ . . the price usually depends upon the equipment. a member: do you use clear cider for vinegar? mr. dunlap: i use clear cider for making vinegar, and if it is too strong to meet the requirements of the law we dilute it when we sell it. a member: i would like to ask if you have any difficulty in getting your cider vinegar up to the requirements of the law? mr. dunlap: we do not have any trouble about that, except that made from summer apples. any cider that will grade or with the saccharimeter in the fall of the year, when it is made, will make good vinegar. a member: do you pack all one-size of apples in a barrel? mr. dunlap: no. a member: do you use very nearly the same size apples in a barrel, or do you put large ones at the top and bottom? mr. dunlap: i have heard of growers doing that, but the only way to pack a barrel honestly is to select your facers--the law permits that they may have per cent. advantage of the rest of the barrel. the rest of the barrel ought to be graded uniformly throughout. i don't mean by that they should all be apples of three or four inches diameter, but that they run above a certain figure with a minimum of - / or - / , depending upon the variety you are packing. in running them over graders, which sizes them, all over that size go over the apron and into the barrel. a member: do you face both ends of the barrel? mr. dunlap: yes, sir, we do. we do not undertake to select for the bottom or tail of the barrel apples as to size or color, but we do this--we lay those apples around in concentric rings and turn the color side or best looking side of the apple up and as nearly level as may be across the top and just the right height, so that when they are pressed into the barrel the barrel will be tight enough so as not to have the apples loose, and yet not have them bruised in the heading. it takes practice to do that just at the right height. the barrel should be shaken as it is being filled. if you do not shake often when being filled and settle the apples down so they reach the place where they belong, no matter how tight you make your barrel, when it gets into the car and on the train and in motion that constant shaking and jar will loosen the apples, and you will have a slack barrel. a member: what sort of apples go to the canneries? mr. dunlap: that, of course, depends upon the season. if the season is such that the no. apples are not worth any great amount of money, they will buy everything except cull stock below the strictly no. apple and use them in the canning factory. if the price is high they will probably take the drops, those dropped in picking, or good sound drops. we usually make a practice of cleaning up our drops once a week off the ground in picking time. before we begin picking we clean the ground entirely and run that through the vinegar factory, into the cider mill, and after that is done any apples that drop in picking they are disposed of in various ways, sometimes to the evaporator, sometimes to the canning factory and sometimes they are shipped in bulk if they are good sound apples and not injured in any way except perhaps for a few bruises. a member: in debating the question of the grower and the cannery we are anxious to know just how far it is practical to use apples--what apples we can use after grading them, say, for instance, into nos. and ? can we use a deformed apple? for instance, do the canners in your country buy deformed apples--i mean lacking in roundness? mr. dunlap: they can use them; they are a little more expensive to handle when you put them on the fork to peel them. of course, they have to use the knife on them afterwards in those places where they are not perfect, cutting out any imperfect spots on them. but as a rule they require pretty fair quality of apple for cannery and above a certain size. they wouldn't want to use anything less than two inches in diameter, and from that on, and they get as good apples as they possibly can. they have to limit themselves as to prices according to how much they can get for their product. a member: what grader do you recommend? mr. dunlap: well, i don't think that i care to advertise any grader. i am not interested in any. a member: you are a long way from home, and it might enlighten the rest of us. mr. dunlap: there are several graders on the market, and for all i know, giving good service. i am using the trescott, made in new york. a member: what is the matter with the hardy? mr. dunlap: i never used the hardy--i don't know about that. some of them will bruise the apples more than others. mr. sauter: what form of packing for apples will bring the best prices? mr. dunlap: i investigated that. i have packed as high as a couple of thousand boxes of apples, and i have taken the very best i had and barreled. i picked out the extra selects and boxed them. then i took a no. grade from those that that were left and the no. grade, and my no. grade in barrels were disposed of before i could sell my boxes at all in the market. the boxes were the last thing i could dispose of. considering the extra cost of boxing i was out of pocket in selling them in boxes. bushel baskets are all right, you can pack the basket with no more expense than packing a barrel. mr. brackett: what can a cannery afford to pay for apples? mr. dunlap: i have never been in the cannery business, i could not tell. mr. brackett: they are talking of starting a cannery where i live and i wondered what they can afford to pay. mr. dunlap: some five or six years ago i sold a number of hundred bushels to canneries at cents per hundred pounds. whether they can afford to pay that or not i don't know. i haven't sold any to them for several years now. in fact, i should judge they couldn't afford to pay that for them because they went out of business. mr. brackett: in other words, they can't pay over or cents a bushel? mr. dunlap: i don't know what they can afford to pay. a member: we had a canning factory that paid cents a bushel of pounds, that would be cents a hundred. mr. brackett: are they still in business? a member: yes, sir. mr. sauter: we had one that paid cents a bushel. mr. dunlap: if they were to can these apples in illinois and ship them up here they have got to pay freight to come in competition with your apples. mr. sauter: i sprayed last spring first with lime-sulphur, and my sprayer worked fine. i had a hand sprayer, but when i mixed the lime-sulphur and the arsenate of lead it almost stopped up. what was the matter, was it the mixture or the sprayer? mr. dunlap: most all of these mixtures when you put them together ought to be more or less diluted. mr. sauter: how long must they stand dissolved? mr. dunlap: the lime-sulphur is in solution, and if you have that in your water tank the best way is to put your arsenate of lead in in the form of a paste and dilute it until you get it so that there is about two pounds of arsenate of lead to a gallon of water, and with that you can pour it into your tank and if you have an agitator in there you won't have any difficulty with it. in the early days of spraying when we used blue vitriol with lime, we tried a concentrated solution of the blue vitriol and lime and found we couldn't get it through the strainer, but by diluting it, putting our blue vitriol in one tank, and putting half of our water that we intended putting in the sprayer in that, and taking another tank and putting half the water and the lime in that and then putting the two together in this diluted solution, we didn't have any trouble, but in putting in the concentrated solutions together we had a sticky mess and all sorts of trouble. it would not go through the strainer. mr. sauter: how does the powdered arsenate compare with the paste? mr. dunlap: i haven't had any personal experience with the powder and i would have to refer you to the experiment station. mr. sauter: powder mixes a great deal easier. mr. dunlap: yes, sir. i had this experience with hydrated lime. the hydrated lime, as you know, comes in sacks and in the form of flour, and all you have to do is just to pour that into the water, and there is no trouble about mixing it at all. with lime from barrels that we used for making bordeaux, we would slake it and run it off into barrels, and there we diluted it so that we got two pounds to every gallon of water, our stock solution. but with the hydrated lime we can take so much out, so much by weight, and put it into the tank, and it dissolves right in the water. but we found this difficulty as between slaked lime and the hydrated lime. while the hydrated is very nice to use it did not possess the adhesive quality that the regular slaked lime did, and it would wash off the trees and take the vitriol solution with it, and we discontinued its use. mr. sauter: you think it best for anybody with a small orchard to make his own lime-sulphur solution? mr. dunlap: that depends on how he is equipped. it costs a great deal less to make your own solution than it does to buy it. whether you could afford to do it or not depends upon the amount you spray and your equipment. you really ought to have, in making your own lime-sulphur, a steam boiler, although you can make it in an ordinary farm feed boiler. you can boil it right in that and turn it out after it is made, stirring it with a wooden paddle while cooking. i find that if we are equipped for it we will make a product that is equal to the imported product, but we ought to have a little more equipment. we ought to have steam and run this steam into our cooking vat to keep it boiling at the right temperature right along, and boil it for an hour, and then have a mechanical agitator in the bottom of the tub that keeps it stirred up, and keep the cover closed down as nearly tight as possible so as to exclude the air as much as possible, letting the surplus steam escape, and in that way we get a product as good as anything we are able to buy, at less than half the price. if one is using a great quantity that is the way to do it, but in small quantities i don't think it would pay to bother with it. (applause.) marketing fruit at mankato. p. l. keene, university farm, st. paul. (gideon memorial contest.) mankato has a population of about twelve thousand and is just about within the car-lot market. in seasons of low production it can easily use all the fruit grown in the vicinity, but in seasons of good production some must be shipped out. this irregular supply makes it difficult to obtain a satisfactory method of marketing the fruit. nearly all kinds of fruit are grown here. apples, strawberries and raspberries are grown to the greatest extent. there are several orchards having from five hundred to a thousand trees, while many small fruit growers have several acres of strawberries and raspberries. plums, blackberries, currants and gooseberries are grown on a smaller scale, so that there is seldom enough produced to make it necessary to ship them. the number of varieties grown is very great, as it is in almost every locality where the industry is relatively young. there are over forty varieties of apples grown on a more or less large scale. this makes the marketing problem still more difficult. many of the growers are beginning to specialize in two or three varieties, such as wealthy, patten, northwestern and malinda. last year some of the growers produced as many as five carloads. small fruits are brought in by the wagon load during the heaviest part of the season, making it possible for the fruit houses to load a car in a day. the commercial growers use good, practical methods of culture, keeping the land well cultivated and using cover crops and mulch; but many of the small growers of half-way fruit men--those who do not specialize in fruit growing--neglect their orchards. most growers properly prune and thin their trees and bushes, while many are beginning to spray. in the picking, grading and packing of the fruit is where the great majority fail. after they have grown the fruit carefully and successfully, they fail to properly harvest and dispose of it. this fault lies in the fact that they have specialized in the production of their product and have given little time or attention to the marketing of it. they realize, though, that success in fruit growing depends as largely upon proper marketing as upon proper growing. the first step in marketing is the picking of the fruit. fruit, as any other product, should be picked at a certain time; and the grower who allows his fruit to remain on the tree or bush too long, as is often done with the apple, until his work is caught up, is the grower who receives unsatisfactory prices for his product. many farmers bring windfalls and bruised apples mixed with the hand picked ones and expect as much as the grower who carefully picks his apples. the picking utensils are also often a cause of injury. tin pails, wooden buckets and boxes are used to too great an extent. these naturally bruise more or less of the apples as they are put into the pails, especially if extreme care is not used. the pouring of the fruit from one receptacle into another is still another source of injury. the small fruit grower usually handles his fruit with greater care than the apple grower does, for the simple reason that improper handling of these fruits soon shows itself, and the grower may find that he is unable to dispose of his fruit. the most common cause of injury to small fruit is over-ripeness. [illustration: p. l. keene.] the improper sorting and grading of fruit is another cause of unprofitable returns. all bruised, wormy or injured apples should be discarded at picking time. the presence of only a few inferior fruits in a lot will bring the price down considerably. the same holds true with berries, and is even more important, for if one berry rots it soon spreads disease to the other berries. for this reason the sorting out of all inferior fruit is essential, even more so than grading. the grading aids in getting better prices but is not necessary for profitable results. if small fruit is well sorted, the growers claim that it is not necessary to grade it, for the fruit will then be fairly uniform. with apples, grading is distinctly beneficial. many marketable apples may be blemished so that their appearance is hurt, while their keeping and shipping qualities are but slightly injured. the best grade must contain apples uniform in size, shape and color, and free from all blemishes. hence it is readily seen why at least two grades are essential. the growers at mankato do not grade their apples to more than one grade and this amounts only to sorting. the best of the commercial apple growers carefully sort out the small and injured fruits, but a large portion of the growers even neglect this to some extent. the method of packing the fruit is very variable, and in fact a large part of it is not packed at all. most of the small fruit growers use the sixteen quart crate, while the apple, if it is packed at all, is packed in barrels. one requirement of a package is that it be clean, and if it must be clean a secondhand package cannot be used. many fall down here by using secondhand, odd sized and dirty crates or barrels. the shipping crate should be kept out of the field and off of the ground. the place for it is in the packing house. the apple growers often take their barrels into the field to fill them and thus more or less soil them. this is not done to any great extent at mankato, for most of the barrel packing is done at the fruit houses, the growers bringing in the apples loose in a wagonbox. this is a good system as the apples are only handled three times: from the tree to the picking basket, from the picking basket to the wagonbox, and from here into barrels. by this method the apples are sorted both at the picking and barreling time. if the apples are to be graded or packed at the farm, a packing house should be provided at or near the orchard. it is needless to speak of the slack and inefficient method of marketing apples in sacks, salt barrels and odd boxes; but this is still done by some half-way growers. they often have to either take the fruit back and feed it to the pigs or give it away. even when they are able to sell it, they barely cover expense of picking and marketing. several methods of selling their fruit are available to the growers around mankato. the different methods used are ( ) selling direct to consumer, ( ) selling to stores, ( ) selling to wholesale houses, ( ) selling to commission men. the amount handled in the "direct to the consumer" way is rather large in the case of small fruit, but there is very little so-called "apple peddling" done. some growers have regular customers whom they supply yearly with a barrel or more of apples, but this is usually some friend or relative. some growers peddle out their summer apples by driving through the residence sections of the city and selling to anyone who wants to buy and in such quantities as they desire, but not all growers care to follow this plan. sales are always made for cash, except perhaps where a person is a regular customer. this method is too unsatisfactory to be used for winter apples but is often advantageous in disposing of a large crop of summer apples. the fruit is not usually in very good shape, and is often that which the fruit dealers have rejected. the fruit is marketed in any package that happens to be handy, or loose, in the box, and is measured out usually in small quantities to the buyer. [illustration: a load of apples from p.l. keene's orchard, near mankato] the handling of berries direct to consumer is much more systematized and therefore proves more satisfactory to both parties concerned. the majority of growers sell a considerable quantity in this way. they pack in sixteen quart crates, and usually will not divide a crate. the berries are for the most part delivered on order of the customer, for cash. each grower has his regular customers, and some advertise to a limited extent. this method is usually satisfactory to the grower for he sells at a fixed price, and over that which he could get at the stores. he finds that it pays him to furnish good berries, for if he delivers a poor crate the lady receiving that crate is sure to make it known to her neighbors, while a good crate will add to his reputation. therefore, the grower will take particular pains to have the boxes well filled with good berries and delivered promptly, in order to hold this trade. in compensation he receives a good price, regular customers and a sure market for his product. the amount handled through the stores is about equal to that handled direct to the consumer, but in some seasons it is not as great. the grower demands cash, for he can get it at the other places, while most of the stores prefer cash rather than a trade basis, on account of the bother of handling the trade checks. some stores, by offering a higher trade price, try to draw trade, but this does not attract the commercial grower. it may, however, attract the half-way grower. most stores do not try to handle more than they can dispose of themselves. it is the small grower who sells to the stores. the large grower cannot get the prices that will pay him to bother with the store trade, while the fruit houses do not want to handle the small fruit grower's product, for it is usually of inferior quality. hence, the store trade is a necessity under present conditions, even though it is not a very satisfactory method. the apples are brought to the stores in the same packages as to the consumer direct. the berries are handled in the same packages, but the condition and quality are more apt to be inferior than with those sold to the consumer. the stores usually re-sort the fruit before they sell it. they very seldom ship fruit. in case they get more on their hands than they can sell, they either store it for a few days, or sell to the wholesale fruit houses. there is more fruit handled by either one of the two wholesale fruit houses than by any other single way in mankato. they handle the bulk of the apple crop grown commercially but will not take inferior fruit. the small fruit growers market a considerable portion of their crops through them, especially in years when they have more than they can dispose of to consumers. the wholesale houses offer no fixed price, except it be in a contract with some individual grower whom they know will bring in good fruit. when a load comes in they look it over and bid on it. if the grower is satisfied with the price, he sells, and if not he tries the other house or the stores. the commercial growers usually bring in their apples loose in the wagon-box, and the apples are packed into barrels here. this insures a clean barrel, properly packed. it enables the buyer to look over the load as it is being unloaded. one or two growers have a reputation good enough that the houses will buy their fruit barreled. all small fruits are handled in the sixteen quart crates and are not repacked. the grower delivers them as up to grade on his reputation, which will not last long if he does not furnish good berries. the grower usually tells the wholesaler when they were picked and the condition they are in. they do a cash business only. very little has been handled through the commission men of other cities. a few carloads have been shipped to minneapolis, but returns were not as satisfactory as when sold to the wholesale houses. in shipping the grower has to take more risk and do more work, such as packing and loading the car, than when he sells to the wholesaler. most growers prefer to sell to the houses than to do this extra work, which they are neither used to, nor capable of handling. besides this, most growers do not have enough fruit at any one time to load a car. there is no co-operative association at the present time, but the growers were trying to organize one last winter. in a certain way there is an agreement among the small fruit growers, in that nearly all of them agree to market their fruit in the sixteen quart crate and stick to certain prices as far as possible, and not to cut prices under other growers. this applies especially to the "direct to the consumer" trade. there are no street venders to whom the growers can sell nor with whom they would have to compete, and there is no city market at mankato. storage conditions have not been developed. the wholesale houses have small storage rooms of their own, but do little storing of home grown products, as they ship them out as soon as they get a carload. the stores store a few days in case they get an over-supply on hand. the growers store apples in their own cellars, often keeping them until the following spring. a few city people buy apples in the fall and store for winter use, but it is not very satisfactory for the storage houses do not regulate the temperature accurately enough. * * * * * pruning of currants and gooseberries.--the main reason that currant and gooseberry bushes do not yield satisfactory crops from year to year is due to the lack of proper pruning. both currants and gooseberries produce their fruit on canes that are at least two years old, the first season being generally utilized for the growing of the canes, the second for the formation of fruit buds or spurs, and the third a full crop may be expected. these canes will bear for two and even three years, but each year after the third they begin to show a decided decline--the fruit becomes smaller and less valuable. in order to keep the production up to the standard, the bush should be placed on the rotation basis, that is, each year a few new, strong shoots should be permitted to grow. all the rest should be cut out, and also each spring a like number of the oldest canes should be removed. in other words, we should grow the same number of new canes that we take out in old canes. in this way, we eliminate the old and exhausted canes and keep the bushes in strong, vigorous growth. further, as the season progresses, all shoots beyond those that we wish to use for fruiting later on should be removed and not permitted to utilize the food supply that should go to the fruiting canes.--e.p. sandsten, col. agri. college. support for an overloaded fruit tree. miss nellie b. pendergast, duluth. some years ago the writer wearied of the many objectionable features connected with propping overloaded apple trees, and found relief in a new application of the maxim of modern charity--"help people to help themselves." the average apple tree is quite capable of supporting its load of fruit, with a little assistance in applying its strength. this is satisfactorily given by overhead supports. my method is as follows: take a piece of gas pipe, the diameter depending on the size of the tree and consequent weight of the load, and long enough to extend some two or three feet above the tree. the required height would be governed by the spread of the branches and the distance between the trunk of the tree and the proper point for support of the limbs. the pipe is placed against the trunk of the tree, pushed a few inches into the ground, and tied in several places tightly to the tree. on the top (which must be screw-threaded) is screwed an ordinary gas pipe end. heavy cords are then run through holes in the top piece and tied to the branches wherever needed--the same cord often being made to tie several branches which are in line perpendicularly. [illustration: view of apple tree with fruit laden branches supported by pipe or wire.] the branches should be wrapped with a bit of burlap or other suitable padding under the cord, as otherwise the friction resulting from the inevitable swaying of the heavy limbs on windy days would result in rubbing the bark off and possibly entirely girdling the branch. pads should also be placed between the gas pipe and the tree trunk wherever there is contact, and under the rope where tied. what frisky is telling the veteran horticulturist. chas. f. gardner, osage, iowa. i am your cunning little squirrel, and as you have named me frisky and have adopted me as a regular member of your family, i will tell you some little things i know about horticulture, or more properly, forest tree planting. [illustration: our squirrel.] my ancestors from way back through geological ages have all been lovers of nut trees and especially conifers. if you knew of the great districts covered with valuable timber that have come into existence by reason of our planting of nuts and conifer seed, you would be very much surprised. while we gather large quantities of seed for use as food during the long, cold winter months, each one of us secretes several thousand seed annually, widely scattered, in good places for trees to grow. the most of these scattered seeds remain in the ground and germinate where they were planted. my grandfather on my mother's side has told me that some of his relatives in scotland were once accused of doing considerable injury to plantations of firs and pines by gnawing off the top shoots, which you know make pretty good eating for a hungry little squirrel. wasn't that a great thing to make a fuss about? i believe my grandpa knew as much as you do about the real existence and natural history of the mastodon, the megatherium, the paleotherium and the pterodactyl. in the planting of forest trees we were assisted by birds. i will name a few who helped us the most in this northern latitude, or, as you call it, "the blizzard belt." you showed me the other day two beautiful oak trees, on your grounds that were planted by crows. bluejays are great seed planters, also mourning doves; and the wild pigeons, now extinct, were great planters of many nut trees. almost every variety of birds has assisted us in the planting of the seeds of trees, bushes and, in fact, all plants that bear valuable fruits or nutritious seeds. [illustration: chas. f. gardner at his best.] while i think of it, i will tell you that i was born in a beautiful nest, made of moss, twigs and dry leaves curiously interwoven in the fork of a tree at a considerable height from the ground. i had four little brothers and sisters. we loved each other dearly and had a good time all cuddled up in our sweet little home. i wish you would let me go and visit them sometime this summer. now if you have no objection i will take a little nap.--frisky. top-working. o. w. moore, veteran horticulturist, spring valley. from my experience in fruit growing i have come to the conclusion that the best method to apply in starting a commercial orchard in this section of country would be to gather apple seed from duchess and hibernal apples and plant them, in order that we might grow hardy seedling roots to be used in making root-grafts. after growing these apple seedlings one year i would graft short pieces of their roots to long hibernal scions, plant them out in the nursery row and grow them the first year as a whip or single shoot. the second year before growth starts in the spring i would cut those whips back to the height where i wanted to start the head of the tree. after growth starts rub off all the buds except from four to six at the top, these being left to form the head of the tree. the trunk of the tree below these buds should be kept clear of all growth at all times. by this method we get uniform trees, as the heads, or tops, are all of an equal distance from the ground and all run very nearly the same size. now we have those trees two years old in the nursery row, and as a foundation for hardiness we have done our best. we have taken seed from our hardiest apples to grow our seedling roots; we have grafted hibernal scions onto those roots, which is supposed to be the hardiest apple wood that we have. still there is one point that has not been touched upon, and that is, that it is not to be supposed that all of those seedling roots from the seed of our hardiest apples will be hardy. you may ask why? well, because mother nature does not do business that way. we hear now and then the remark, "he is a good mixer." well, if any man or set of men can beat mother nature at mixing they will have to do better in the future than they have done in the past. but remember that we have the hibernal as a scion above those roots, and that is the best apple wood to root from the scion that i know of. some may ask, why not use the virginia crab? i answer, for the reasons above stated, as i have tried both. our trees are two years old now and are ready to be planted in the orchard where they are to remain. grow them in orchards one year. but if from drouth or some other cause they do not make a satisfactory growth, grow them two years. then top-work their four or six limbs about six inches from their forks to any kind of apple that you wish to produce in a commercial way--but leave all small growth below those unions the first year. the second year cut everything away but the scions. if the planter will follow the above methods i am willing to stake my reputation as a fruit grower that he will have an orchard that will stay with him and give satisfaction. very many apple trees, especially seedlings, when they come to bearing age are found to be worthless or nearly so. if those trees are taken in hand at any time under ten years old they can be readily top-worked to some good apple and completely changed in two years' time. the first year work center limbs or leaders, leaving the lower growth to be worked the second year. the third year by cutting everything away but the growth of the scions we have the tree changed over to a better variety of fruit. as to the size of limbs to graft i have always made it a point to never work limbs over one inch in diameter. but from one inch down to whip-grafting size, limbs from three-quarters to one inch, we set two scions. the wound heals sooner with two scions than with one. if there is too much growth in a year or two, cut a part of it away just above the union. evergreens. jens a. jensen, rose creek. why not grow evergreens in the place of willows? when i came to mower county if there were any trees planted they were willows, a few lombardy poplars and balm of gilead. since there has been a great deal of planting of evergreens, especially around austin and rose creek. some people think it hard to grow evergreens. one mistake they make is in planting too large trees. another is in planting them in june grass sod, a sod that will not wet down one inch in a rain that lasts twenty-four hours. evergreens should be planted in cultivated land, and then they will grow surprisingly fast. plant trees from one to two feet. if wanted for a windbreak, plant eight feet apart; if two rows are wanted, plant trees sixteen feet apart, in rows four feet apart, the trees planted alternately. norway, white and black hills spruce, also white, scotch and jack pine are doing well here. in memoriam--ezra f. pabody ezra f. pabody was born in vernon, indiana, july th, . his father's name was ezra f. pabody, and his mother's maiden name was mabel butler. comrade pabody was married in oxford, ohio, october th, , to emma a. brown. [illustration: portrait of the late ezra f. pabody, from a photograph taken ten years ago.] his education was acquired by attending, first, the common schools at vernon, indiana, until he was sixteen years of age; and in september, , he entered hanover college, where he spent five years. in , he entered miami university, oxford, ohio, and graduated from that university in june, . in september of that same year he entered princeton theological seminary, where he studied for one year with a view to entering the ministry, but the condition of his health interfered with his carrying out this purpose. in , having come to minnesota, and as volunteers were being enlisted to crush the rebellion, which threatened our country with destruction, his spirit of patriotism impelled him to offer his services to aid in maintaining the government. accordingly he enlisted at fort snelling, september th, , and was enrolled in company "a," third minnesota volunteers. in november of that year he was appointed hospital steward of the regiment, but he was unable long to endure the activities of the service, and on july th, , was discharged on account of disability. however, his loyal spirit would not allow him to rest if there was a place where he might serve effectively, and accordingly, on august th, , he enlisted again,--this time in the th indiana volunteer infantry, and was assigned to duty as hospital steward, in which office he continued until discharged for disability december th, . after his army service, he engaged in the drug business at vernon, indiana. in he removed to minneapolis and here followed the same line of business until . in august, , he was prevailed upon to take up city mission work in connection with westminster church, and was ordained to the gospel ministry in . retiring from the active work of the ministry in , he passed the remaining years of his life in his quiet home at zumbra heights, lake minnetonka, where the death angel found him september st, , after a long period of illness. his memory will be lastingly perpetuated by the development of his city mission work, known as "riverside mission," a neglected portion of minneapolis, embracing what is known as "the river flats," where the inhabitants, mostly foreigners, and in need of religious instruction, were taught by this faithful missionary and his estimable and consecrated wife to speak and sing the language of heaven. the faithful wife and co-laborer, one son, e. fitch pabody, and one daughter, eleanor (mrs. ward h. benton), all of minneapolis, survive him. mr. pabody is, of course, best known to the members of this society on account of his service with it in the past thirteen years. while not one of the oldest members of the society from a point of years in his connection with the society, in point of service he ranks very high, for during all the period of his service he was always finding something to do for the association. several times he was on the program, in a number of official capacities he served the society, and especially as a member of the reception committee during a number of our annual meetings was he of largest use to the association, and his courteous and kindly ways we especially remember. mr. pabody was very near to the writer personally, and his taking away is largely in the nature of a personal loss. mr. pabody had a great love for horticultural pursuits. his garden and orchard occupied very much of his thoughts during the later years of his life, when he lived on the shores of lake minnetonka. it is hard to part with these old members who have so much endeared themselves to us in these many thoughtful ways.--secy. bread cast upon the waters. c. s. harrison, york, neb. the instance recited below has nothing particularly to do with horticulture but a good deal to do with a "horticulturist," c. s. harrison, of york, neb., that picturesque veteran in horticulture, who has been an attendant at our meetings now for so many years, adding such a strong interest to our annual gatherings. mr. harrison recited at our late meeting the incident referred to here--without the denouement, which came to him in california this winter, where he met mr. lindbergh, one of minnesota congressmen. as a result of this incident we had mr. harrison with again at our late summer meeting.--secy. in i was living in sauk center, minn., where i preached the first sermon. i had a tract of country under my care miles in extent and had all sorts of work to do. ten miles from sauk center there was a sturdy swede who was at one time speaker in one branch of the swedish parliament and for a while secretary to the king. he moved to minnesota about the year ' . it seems he had not learned the art of graft, and he was poor. he took up a preemption and built him a little log house Ã� . one day he took a load of logs to the mill and, stumbling, fell on the saw. this caught him in the back and split it open, and also took a stab at his right arm. it was hot weather and no surgeon within fifty miles. i followed him to his home; we did not think he could live. i picked out the sawdust and rags from his back and kept the wounded arm wrapped in cold water, and now for a surgeon i got a horse from a neighbor and a man to ride him. i said, "don't hurt the horse but go as fast as it is safe." twenty miles ahead i knew another man with whom he could exchange horses, and then another relay brought him to the doctor. dr. hunter proved to be a good surgeon. we had kept the patient with such care that with his clean habits and robust constitution he underwent the operation all right. i helped the doctor, and we took off the arm near the shoulder. i had a busy time until the surgeon came. i stayed with the man all day, then drove home ten miles and was by his side early. it took the doctor about three days to get there. the horses were poor, and the auto did not exist even in a dream. by the next december the old hero was out chopping rails with his left hand. how poor the people were! every dollar had a big task before it. the good doctor only charged $ . i rode quite a distance--got a little here and there and paid the bill. a son of the old man, c. a. lindbergh, is now representative in congress from the th district of minnesota. we discovered each other this winter. i have kept up a pleasant correspondence. his daughter, eva, who helps her father, has just written me that she is going to be married in minneapolis in june, and she wants me to perform the ceremony. all the friends and relatives will be there, and she wants the man who saved her grandpa. thus, after fifty-five years, stirring memories of the past are awakened and happy anticipations of the future.--c. s. harrison. secretary's corner more everbearing strawberries.--mr. walter ferguson, of mankato, has pretty near the record number of strawberry plants raised last year. from four plants of no. everbearing strawberries he reports having raised several over six hundred. he says he reset twelve new plants in july and they produced over three hundred. advance premium list, annual meeting, .--elsewhere in this number will be found an advance list of premiums to be offered on vegetables and apples at the coming annual meeting of the society. there will be practically no change from this list, though there may be slight additions to it. possible exhibitors may feel safe to save material for exhibition in accordance with the premiums therein offered. passing of j.f. benjamin.--members of the society who have attended our annual meetings for the last ten or more years will readily recall the face and figure of this very loyal member of the society, who was always at hand to serve in any capacity as opportunity came to him. mr. benjamin was a successful fruit grower, not only from a financial standpoint but from his love of the art. we hope to publish a suitable sketch of his life at some later date. municipal camps in national forests.--the city of fresno, california, has established a fifteen-acre camp in an adjoining national forest, providing low cost outings for the school children of that city and their parents. los angeles is doing something similar on even a larger scale, and other municipalities are following suit. minnesota has splendid national forests, and the time may come when the state or some of the municipalities of the state may be able to make similar use of these forests for the benefit of our people who are not able to go to larger expense to secure needed summer outing. the apple crop.--the department of agriculture in its august st report forecasts an apple crop of seventy-one million barrels against seventy-six million last year and a yearly average for the past five years of sixty-six million. the favored regions in apple growing this year are in the new england states and the pacific states, the central states showing a very large falling off in the apple crop, anywhere from four-fifths to one-fourth of previous years. national vegetable growers' association.--it seems there is an association of this character, called "vegetable growers' association of america," and it will hold its next annual meeting in lasalle hotel, chicago, september - . representatives of local vegetable growers' associations' will probably do well to get in touch with this national gathering. if any go from this state the secretary will be glad to receive from them a report of the meeting. marketing, soil fertility, heating, packing, spraying and other subjects will be covered on the program. for further information address james b. foley, secretary, south spaulding avenue, chicago. apple trees as a windbreak.--john w. maher, of devils lake, n.d., in correspondence has spoken at two different times of the use of apple trees as one feature of windbreaks in his vicinity, using such varieties as duchess, patten's greening, hibernal, etc. in this connection he says "probably it is only the amateur horticulturist who sets a row of young apple trees in the stubble fields as a windbreak for apple grafts, but this has been done here and the windbreak is satisfactory. i believe that the apple is more hardy in this kind of soil than it is generally considered to be. if the apple tree is properly limbed so as to shade its trunk and larger limbs it is a real success." horticultural society periodicals.--february, , the first number of the monthly issued by this society was published and sent out to its members. publishing the report in this way as a monthly was an experiment, which has proved to be a very successful one indeed, and this method of publication has now for a long time been a permanent feature of the work of this society. in the society had about six hundred members. the increase in the membership of the association since that period has brought the roll to high water mark this year at , . at that time as far as we know no other horticultural society was publishing its report as a monthly. quite a number of state societies are now doing something of this sort, though not exactly following the same plan as the minnesota society, our report appearing as a monthly magazine and being bound up later with list of members, index, etc., making altogether the annual report. the only association that has exactly followed our plan is the manitoba society. wisconsin, kansas, nebraska, virginia and other associations not now recalled are sending out a monthly to their membership. illinois and perhaps some others are publishing a quarterly. some of the state boards of horticulture are publishing a monthly, notably the california board, and in some cases the state boards of agriculture are doing this also. the plan inaugurated by this society is being slowly popularized and will undoubtedly continue to be made use of more and more as the study and practice of horticulture develops in our country. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. garden helps for september. _september meeting of the garden flower society_ will be held on the twenty-first, at : p.m., at the minneapolis public library. _topics_, "fall work in the garden." "planting for fall and winter effects." "vines and their uses." have you taken any photographs of your garden, its individual flowers, or wild flowers for our photographic contest? it is not too late yet to get good pictures. every member is urged to enter this competition. _plant peonies this month._ old clumps of hardy perennials may be divided and reset early this month. flowering bulbs intended to be in bloom at christmas should be potted now. grass seed for new lawns or bad places in old ones can be sown this month. the daffodil makes an early growth and should be planted this month. after the first killing frosts the tender roots, like cannas, gladioli, elephant's ears, and dahlias, can be lifted with a fork and spread out under cover to dry, then stored in a cool cellar, free from frost. do not cultivate the soil after september first. all newly set plants should be mulched lightly. all litter about the garden can be cleared away. any plants that have been infested with insects or diseased should be burned. leave no harbors for the eggs of insects, such as old weeds, grasses or litter of any kind. seeds of native plants which you wish to naturalize should be gathered and sowed immediately in a shaded, well drained location, where the soil has some humus. lily-of-the-valley should be planted this month. try planting a few sweet peas late in september or early october. important september blooming flowers are phlox, japanese anemones; perennial asters, or michaelmas daisy, so-called because they are supposed to be at their best on michaelmas day, september th; helleniums, helianthus, hardy chrysanthemum, pyrethrum uliginosum, boltonia. if you have not these flowers, try and visit some garden where they are blooming in order to know what kinds to grow. poppies for next june's blooming can be sown this month. be prepared for the first early frosts, having ready to use some light covering, such as cheesecloth. the garden can be prolonged from two to six weeks by this slight protection. orchard notes. conducted monthly by r. s. mackintosh, horticulturalist, extension division, university farm, st. paul. a conference of horticultural extension workers. a conference of the horticultural extension leaders of wisconsin, kansas, nebraska, south dakota, iowa and minnesota was held early in august at the iowa state college, at ames. the subject of apple and potato clearing houses was the chief question discussed. the work of this kind was started by professor greene in kansas when they had the big apple crop in . later iowa and minnesota undertook similar work. it is expected that a co-operative plan will be formulated which will be of greater value than when each state works alone. the visiting members were very glad to have president pearson discuss co-operation as he saw it while visiting a dozen or more countries in europe. one hour was spent in an automobile tour of the grounds and farms. considerable land from one to three miles from the main campus is now used for experimental work. one of the latest additions to the horticultural equipment is a cold storage plant and range of greenhouses, costing over sixty thousand dollars. horticultural tour in western iowa and eastern nebraska. the horticultural societies of iowa and nebraska joined in an automobile tour of the orchards, vineyards, nurseries, and truck farms august to . the first day was spent in and around council bluffs. interest centered around the large co-operative grape growers' association. a grand picnic dinner was served by the ladies. this association has been in active operation for fifteen years. professor beach emphasized the value of the work that is being done, and especially the value of having a contented lot of people in a community mutually interested in one kind of work. on the return trip a stop was made at the experimental apple orchard that is conducted by the horticultural department of the iowa state college. this orchard of trees was leased in for ten years to determine if an old orchard that has been unprofitable could be made profitable. careful records have been kept of expenses and of the size and grade of all fruits produced under the several soil treatments. to date six crops have been harvested from the trees under experiment. the lowest was , bushels in and the largest was , bushels in . it is estimated that there is about thirty per cent. of a crop on the trees this year. demonstrations were given in spraying, dynamiting trees, treating trees affected with blister canker, and grading apples with a large grading machine. the second day was spent in orchards near omaha. some excellent orchards that have been very profitable were visited. it had been very dry in that region, consequently the fruit was undersized. the third day was spent in southwestern iowa, from hamburg to glenwood. it is impossible to tell about all the good things seen on this trip. we saw all kinds of pruning, cultivated and "sod cultivated" orchards and, above all, corn, corn and more corn. at shenandoah the nurserymen and seedsmen took charge of the party and entertained all in a very hospitable manner. there were ninety at the noon banquet. in the afternoon they showed us the large nurseries and seed warehouse. toward the end of the trip we stopped at a -acre orchard, mostly grimes golden. a hailstorm had injured the fruit very much. one of the great lessons gained from the -mile automobile tour was the fact that _spraying_ is _one_ of the _most important orchard operations_. it was interesting to hear what some of the older orchardists would say when they saw fruit injured by scab. it is an important matter with them, because it means dollars to have disease-free fruit to market. [illustration: veteran douglas fir, standing miles out from the protecting mountain, exposed to all the fierce winds of the plains.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. october, no. camping on the yellowstone trail. clarence wedge, nurseryman, albert lea, minn. i suppose that civilization is the correct thing for mortals to aspire to. as a boy, while i hated it with a bitter hatred, i accepted it as inevitable because my elders approved it and because it seemed indissolubly linked to the school, the church and the things of good repute. as i grow older the yoke sits easier on my shoulders, but doubts have increased as to its necessary connection with the good, the true and the beautiful. it surely kills the sweet virtue of hospitality. in my home church lately there was a call for volunteers to entertain a visiting delegation, and i was interested in observing how perfectly the number that might be accommodated in any home was in inverse ratio to the size and furnishings of the house. high heeled shoes and hobble skirts, two-story starched collars and tile hats are fashion signs of civilization, but i cannot see why a ring in the nose and a tattooed arm might not have answered just as well. i am getting harder to convince that a broad foot, shaped on the lines laid down by the creator, is less beautiful or desirable than the one-toe pointed shoe, decreed just now by our particular brand of culture, and today i would as lief defend the cult of the simple red man as the savagery that disgraces the lands across the water. whatever the merits of the matter, for one month of the year we and our tent and automobile abandon ourselves to barbarism, and live as we please. this year we chose to spend our month on the yellowstone trail, the road that leads from the twin cities to the yellowstone national park, and which is different from other roads leading in the same direction mainly by its yellow mark, faithfully directing the traveler on his way and preventing the loss of time in getting directions at doubtful cross roads. our party consisted of a young botanist, and his wife, my wife, myself and our small boy alan. our equipment consisted of a tent, x ft., weighing, stakes, poles, partition and all, - / lbs.; a trunk on the running board made to hold bedding and grub box, and an oil cloth to use as a tent floor. like the indians we go light, and live the simple life while on the trail. we get off at six o'clock in the morning, eating our breakfast on the move as we get hungry; lunch at noon by the roadside, and camp early, seeking the most interesting spot, from the top of a butte to a pleasant river valley--and cooking the one square meal of the day by such a brushwood fire as we are able to gather. [illustration: "us" and some others at a mountain cabin.] for the first few days we try to provide some straw to temper the hard earth, but as the days go by, and we get used to roughing it, we sleep soundly with nothing but a blanket and oil cloth between us and mother earth. we pin back the tent door, and with the night wind fanning our faces, close our eyes to the stars and flickering campfire. some who have never camped are afraid of bugs, snakes and wild animals. we have spent our vacation month this way for twenty-five years, have camped in most of the counties of minnesota, and in iowa, the dakotas and montana, and have never had but one unpleasant experience of the kind. that was one night when we pitched our tent after dark on the bottoms below fort snelling, and did not know till we had laid ourselves down that a colony of ants had pre-empted the spot before us. we did not get much sleep, but we had the comfort of feeling that they were nice, clean, self-respecting, self-defending ants. would that our experience in hotels had been equally fortunate! [illustration: a young douglas fir.] leaving the western boundary of the forests of minnesota near glencoe and going across the prairie and plains to the mountain forests of montana is an interesting experience. the only trees in western minnesota and the dakotas are those found along the lakes and water courses, and west of the missouri the trees and shrubby growth, even in such places, becomes very scanty or entirely disappears, giving a weird appearance to one who has always associated water and trees together in his mind. as we draw near the montana line, trees begin to appear on the tops of the buttes and high bluffs on the distant horizon. traveling on the railroad i have wondered what they were. with our own private car we satisfied our curiosity by zig-zagging our way up to a camping place among them, the first night they came in sight. of course they were our old friends, the ponderosa pine, whose name will always be associated with our grand old man from nebraska. they ought to be renamed the harrison pine. how they endure the drouth and cold in a soil so poor that grass withers and dies out, and how they stand erect where every other living thing bows to the bleak winds and blizzards of the prairies, is one of the mysteries of plant life. what a splendid bonfire we made of their boughs that night, flaring as a beacon out over the ocean of prairie about us! the day before we had passed by hundreds of clumps of a beautiful blue lupine with finely cut foliage and profusion of color that rivaled any flower of its shade i have seen in cultivation. on the way home we gathered a handful of seed from which we shall hope to grow some plants at home. we tried to dig a few to transplant, but their roots seemed to go down, down, till with my short handled shovel, i got discouraged. the herbage of the plains has learned to dig deep for water. [illustration: a camp by the red river of the north, mrs. wedge sitting by a giant cottonwood. our lb. tent at the right.] leaving the yellowstone at big timber and striking across the plains to the snowy mountains, we found the ponderosa pine, and soon the flexilis pine, wherever a rocky ridge is lifted above the level of the plains, so that these trees were in sight a large share of the time, even far away from large rivers and groups of mountains. if a homestead anywhere in that state is not cozily protected by bright colored evergreens it is not because there is any difficulty in getting trees that will thrive in that soil. [illustration: a young ponderosa pine.] the snowy mountains are in the center of montana, quite unsheltered from the other ranges of the rockies. it is the meeting place of the flora of the mountains and the plains. i think it is the eastern limit of that peerless tree of the rockies, the douglas fir. i gave my impressions of this tree to the society a year or two ago. i am still more in love with it from what i again saw last august in its native snowy mountains, and from the bright, sturdy little trees that have been growing at my home in minnesota for two years past, giving assurance of their willingness to be transplanted to our moister air. it is the coming evergreen for the prairies, and it will be a happy day for all who plant an evergreen west of the natural timber when the douglas fir has displaced the trees that come from the cool, moist forests of europe and the sheltered woods of our own lake regions. i think the snowys are also about the eastern limit of the little broad-leaved evergreen called the oregon grape, that i believe every one in minnesota can grow for christmas greens. from my first acquaintance with it i got the impression that it required shade, but this time i noted that it was growing all over the bare ridges that radiate from the mountains, wherever it was possible for a little snow to lodge. we can substitute a light sprinkling of straw when snow is lacking. it certainly does not require shade. the mariposa lily is a unique flower that springs up in open places and produces a white blossom about the size and shape of the wild morning glory. it grows about a foot high and produces one or two flowers on each stalk. it must have a long period of bloom for ripe seed pods, and blooming plants were common at the same time in august. the canadian buffalo berry and a dwarfish birch are two mountain plants of no small ornamental value for the plains. they may not endure the moister air near the mississippi, but there we have already many useful natives, like the black haw and thorn apple, that are as yet almost unnoticed. [illustration: group of douglas fir on the mountainside. thirteen trees in a space of only two square rods. none less than two feet in diameter.] one of the principal charms about the great country traversed by the yellowstone trail is its newness and freshness. millions of acres just as the indian, the buffalo and the coyote left them--broad stretches as far as eye can reach without a sign of human habitation. but this is fast passing away. out among the sage brush in land as poor and desert-like as could well be imagined, homes are being mapped out by the thousand, and crops of grain were grown this year that rival the best yield in any of the older states. the time is close at hand when the main highways will be built up and made so hard and smooth that two hundred and fifty miles will be made as easily as our average runs of one hundred and fifty. the way will be safer and speedier, but it will lack some of the spice of adventure, and it will be harder to realize the simple life about the camp fire that now seems to harmonize so well with the wildness of the plains. the minnesota orchard. a question and answer exercise led by j. p. andrews, nurseryman, faribault. mr. andrews: this is a very important subject. we have been talking about it a long, long time, and we have advanced a little, ought to have advanced quite a little more, and this exercise is along the road of improvement in that line. anything that is bothering us, anything that is in the way of our success with the apple orchard, ask what questions you can, not that i can answer them all, but there are some good orchardists around here that i know i can call on, in case i can not. in this exercise the questions come first, and it is for you fellows to start the ball rolling. there is one thing we are lacking, that is winter apples. we have enough of fall apples, seems to me, so we can get along very well, but we are looking for something a little better quality than malinda and that will keep somewhere near as long. all these new seedlings that have been introduced in the past and big premiums offered, they seem to have stopped right there and we are not getting the benefit of but one or two. if they had been adapted to the north, as they should have been, we undoubtedly could have had several good varieties of apples that we could recommend for planting a considerable ways north of here that are good. as it is now we are really looking in this southern part of the country for keeping apples. i should think if we could get these new varieties of seedlings that are keeping well introduced into the fruit-breeding farm and let supt. haralson handle them under number and send them off to the north of us a good ways, we could have them tested. those that have exhibited these new seedlings and got premiums for them, they ought to be a little more free to get them in some shape so that they will be tested and we will learn their worth. they have their premiums, they got those simply because they are good keepers. well, now, that isn't anything in their favor for minnesota planting, not very much. of course, good keepers, that is a good thing, good quality is another thing, but the first thing is hardiness, and the people who have been drawing these premiums have been seemingly backward in getting them in shape to test. they are afraid to put them out for fear somebody might steal them, but if mr. haralson had the handling of them under number nobody could steal them. you have got title to them and control them just as well as when you keep them right on your place where they haven't a chance to show whether they are hardy or not. there is the weak point in this seedling business for minnesota, i think. but the apple orchards of minnesota, if you are not all getting the good results that you want from your orchards, if you are not all getting a full crop, what is the reason? the last year and this year we have failed of getting a good crop of apples or almost any crop, whereas before, ever since the old orchard was planted in , why, we have regarded the apple crop as really a very much surer crop than almost any of the farm crops, but the last two years we have failed to get a crop. i attribute the poor crop a year ago to such an excessive crop as we had the year before that. two years ago everything was loaded, breaking down, because we didn't thin them as we ought to, and we could hardly expect very much the next year. this last year, you know we had frosts quite frequent up to about the th of june, i think that was the reason we had such a failure this year. our own orchard is on ground that is about feet above faribault, so we have got air drainage, and we would expect to escape frosts on that account and have as good a crop as anybody else would in that neighborhood. but that wasn't the case. we didn't get any apples, and yet during county fair why there was quite a nice show of nice fruit that they had picked up a few here and a few there, where really their location seems to me could not have been any better than ours. i don't know what the reason was, but it was very patchy, and i didn't dream we would have such a good show of fruit as we did, and i couldn't tell where it came from. mr. philips: i think when the trees are loaded so heavily, if you would pick off a third of them you would get more out of the balance of the crop. mr. andrews: yes, i think that. the question is, if we pick off a third of a heavy crop, if we have a heavy crop, if that wouldn't help the next crop. it surely would. mr. philips: help that crop, too, in the price. mr. andrews: yes, sir, it will pay that year besides paying the next year, too; it will pay double. mr. philips: it is a good plan any year. mr. andrews: yes, we ought to do that, we are lacking in that work of thinning the fruit. we sometimes have a late frost that will take off part of them, thin them that way, or wind, or something of that kind, and we rather depend on that feature of it. then in that time of the year we are very busy and liable to have some things neglected, and that seems to be the one that is almost always neglected. mr. brackett: would you advocate the extensive planting of apples in this climate? mr. andrews: i would not. at the same time you take it in the southern part of the state i presume they can grow them there. they can grow there many things we can't think of growing in this part of the state unless it be along lake minnetonka. mr. older: where you have an orchard ten years old, is it best to seed it down or still continue to cultivate it? in the west they have to cultivate. what is the best in this country? i know one man says it is best to keep on cultivating while it is growing, and another man says that that will kill the trees. i want to know which is the best. mr. andrews: i think cultivation is the thing that ought to be done until the trees get well to bearing, anyway, and then it furnishes nitrogen to the soil to seed it down to clover. if we don't do that we are very liable to neglect that element in the soil. the better way to my mind is to cultivate for eight or ten years, and then i do think it is all right perhaps, for farmers, i mean, who will neglect the cultivation if they depend on it. that is, if they make up their minds it is better to cultivate than it is to seed down, their trees are more apt to be neglected. during the busy part of the season they won't cultivate as constantly as they ought to. if they would do that i have not much doubt but what cultivation would be all right right along, if you will furnish that nitrogen that ought to be in the soil for the protection of the crop. clover is the easiest way to get that, and the trees will be more sure to have the benefit of that if you sow to clover and grow a crop of hay and turn it under, possibly let it be into clover two years, but turn that under and cultivate for two or three years and then put into clover again. i think that would be preferable for the farmer, for the farmer especially, than it would to undertake to either cultivate all the time or seed down all the time. i don't believe it is a good thing to seed down where there are young trees growing and while the orchard is young. if you will plant your potatoes in that orchard between the rows and cultivate it, you will do the cultivating. i haven't got very much faith in the average farmer--i don't mean you horticulturists--but the average farmer. if he will plant trees and you advise him to cultivate them while they are young, they will be neglected after the first year or so. he may while the fever is on, he may cultivate them one year and the next year about half cultivate them, and the following years they will grow up to grass and weeds. whereas, if he plants potatoes he gets just the right cultivation for the trees if he cultivates the ground enough to get a good crop of potatoes. then in the fall when he digs the potatoes he loosens up the ground, and it takes up the moisture, and after the fall rains they go into winter quarters in good shape. it seems to me that is as near right as i could recommend. mr. hansen: what distance apart ought those apple trees to be? mr. older: another question along that line. suppose we concede that a young orchard ought to be cultivated until it gets eight or ten years old, then which is the best when you seed it to clover to cut the clover and throw the hay around the trees for a mulch or just take the hay away, or what? mr. andrews: i think it would be better to put the hay around the trees for mulching. if the hay is used and the barnyard manure is taken to the orchard that would fill the bill pretty well. now, the distance apart? grown trees really need about thirty feet apart each way. if you run the rows north and south and put them thirty feet apart, and sixteen feet or a rod apart in the row, with a view to taking out every other tree, you might have to go under bonds to take them out when they are needed to come out (laughter), or else you would leave them there until you hurt your other trees. if you would take out every other tree when they get to interfering after several years, eight or ten years, you can grow a double crop of apples in your orchard, but if you do the way you probably will do, leave them right there until they get too close, you will-- mr. hansen: spoil all of them? mr. andrews: yes. then you better put them out a little farther apart, and, as i said, two rods apart each way i don't believe is too far. our old orchard that we put out in is just on its last legs now. at that time, you know, we didn't know anything about what varieties to plant, we didn't have as many as we have now. the old orchard only had the duchess and wealthy for standards, and half of the orchard was into crabs, because i thought at that time crabs was the only thing that would be any ways sure of staying by us. well, those trees are about through their usefulness now, the standards. they have borne well until the last two years, generally loaded, and they were put out at that time fourteen feet apart each way, breaking joints so that they didn't come directly opposite. and when they got to be twelve or fifteen years old, it was difficult to get through there with a team or with any satisfaction, it was rubbing the limbs too much. then the next orchard we put out on the farm was twenty-four feet by fifteen or sixteen feet in the row, the rows twenty-four feet apart. i wish they were a little farther apart, although that hasn't bothered very much about getting through between the rows, but it shows that a tree that is any ways spreading in its habit really needs about two rods each way. are there any other questions? mr. brackett: do you think a wealthy orchard under thorough cultivation, making a rank growth, do you think it is as hardy as an orchard seeded down, and do you think that a wealthy orchard would blight more than other kinds? mr. andrews: if the ground is rich and under thorough cultivation it does tend to cause fire blight. i haven't followed it on anything but young orchards. when they have commenced to bear then we have generally seeded down and turned in the hogs, and we have rather neglected the cultivation after that. i do think that if we had cultivated a little more often it would have been better. mr. older: what do you consider the best to seed down with, clover or alfalfa? mr. andrews: i have never tried alfalfa. i don't see why it wouldn't be all right, if you don't try to keep it too long. it would furnish the nitrogen all right. mr. older: which kind of seeding down would you prefer, what kind of clover? would you want the alsike clover or sweet clover for an apple orchard? mr. andrews: i haven't tried anything but the medium clover. the sweet clover i think would be rather a rank grower. mr. older: if you are going to mow it, why not mow the sweet clover same as the other? mr. andrews: that would be all right. if you were going to use it for mulching, i think it would be the thing, because it would be better for mulching than for feeding. mr. ludlow: i would like to give a little experience in putting in alfalfa in an orchard. we got the seed, the grimm alfalfa, i think, is the name of it, and i got a good stand. we got seed from it the first year, and i sowed more, but there seemed to be something about the alfalfa that would draw the pocket-gophers from two miles around. the second year i think i had nineteen of my thriftiest apple tree roots all eaten off. i didn't know there was one in the field because there were no mounds at all. in the spring i found where they were at work, and i catch on an average of twenty pocket-gophers out of that mound every year. talk about cultivating, the pocket-gophers will cultivate it, and the alfalfa is pretty much all eaten out and it has come into bluegrass. mr. harrison: that question as to alfalfa; the experience is always that the roots go too deep so it hurts the apple trees. red clover seems to be the clover that is favored by most people. mr. andrews: mr. ludlow spoke of the pocket-gopher favoring alfalfa. we have a patch of alfalfa right near the apple trees. i don't remember that i have noticed any pocket-gophers work in that piece at all. on the opposite side of the road, where it is clover and timothy, why, they work there tremendously. i know brother ludlow was telling us a little while ago at dinner about pocket-gophers working on his place, and i wouldn't wonder if he is blessed with an extra colony of them there. mr. ludlow: i try to catch them all out every year. i catch out on an average about eighteen to twenty every fall, so as to catch them before they increase early in the spring. it seems as though they came from a distance. i know one came into my garden this year. i didn't know there was a gopher within a mile, and in one night he made four mounds in the middle of my strawberry bed. mrs. glenzke: did you ever try poisoning them? mr. ludlow: no, i never did. i am most successful in catching them in a trap. mr. brackett: have you got any pocket-gophers that do not make mounds? do you understand that? mr. ludlow: no, sir, i don't understand that, but when they came in and killed the nineteen trees in the fall i hadn't seen a mound there. in the spring i found where they were at work, and then i went after them. city "foresters" and municipal forests. prof. e. g. cheney, university farm, st. paul. several cities in the state have appointed "city foresters." this is a step in the right direction, if it is a precursor to the establishment of municipal forests for these men to manage; otherwise it is a misnomer and can only be misleading to the people. the city governments, in an endeavor to create a complete park organization, have so far adopted this title from european practice without much regard to the duties of the officer. a forester handles trees in mass formations,--sometimes for timber production, sometimes for the protection of water-sheds, sometimes for aesthetic effect or park purposes,--but always in the mass. the handling of shade trees such as we have in our city streets is the work of an arborist. the planting of large ornamental trees, the pruning of the individual for formal effect, the filling of cavities and the bracing of weak parts, are no part of a forester's work; nor do they necessarily fall within his knowledge. an expert should undoubtedly be in charge of the work, but an expert arborist, not a forester. the title is, therefore, when combined with the present duties, unfortunate, because it gives the people--still struggling with a hazy conception of forestry--a wrong idea of the true character of the real forester's work. two very obvious ways of avoiding the difficulty present themselves,--either to change the title or to change the duties. the former would probably be much easier of accomplishment, but the latter is without question the course which the city ought to pursue. since the cities have adopted the title of "city forester," and so obtained a more complete park organization on paper, why not make the improvement real by adopting the rest of the european practice and creating city forests for these new officers to handle? that would indeed be a real improvement, and one without which any city park system is lamentably lame. nearly every large city has some large park within in limits kept in a more or less natural condition as a recreation ground for its people, thus recognizing its influence for health and social betterment. how much it would increase this influence if there were a considerable tract of forest within easy reach of the city! how much better approach it would make to the city than the unsightly waste places so often encountered! how much better setting it would make for the suburban residence sections! such a municipal forest is not a utopian dream, but a practical thing well within the reach of almost any city. the law passed by the last legislature makes it possible for a city to purchase land for such a purpose either within or without the city limits. the activities of the present park boards show that money can be obtained to carry out such plans. the establishment of the forests would be less expensive than is generally imagined. the amount of money expended on the gateway park in minneapolis would buy hundreds of acres of city land within fifteen miles of the city. with the aid of a municipal nursery, such as every park system should have, this land could be planted up at a total expense, for stock and labor, of six to eight dollars per acre. the cost of maintenance would be limited to the patrol of the tract to prevent fire and trespass. of course, there might be no money revenue from the forest for many years, but in a comparatively short time it would begin to fulfill its purpose as a park, and once the timber is mature, there would be a continuous net annual income of from five to ten dollars per acre. suppose that the city had , acres of such forest paying a net annual revenue--in addition to its full services as a park--of from $ , to $ , toward the maintenance of the other city parks, and it must be remembered that for every dollar of net revenue the forest would pay an additional dollar or more in wages to swell the coffers of the city;--certainly that would be something very much better than anything that the city has at present. st. paul, with the bottom lands and cliffs on either side of the river between hastings and minneapolis, could make a beautiful and profitable park of what now threatens to develop into a monumental waste. duluth could make a forest which would be unsurpassed in beauty and usefulness by any in the world out of the brushy, unoccupied, rock-bound hills as far west as thompson. mankato has a glorious chance for the same work along the minnesota valley. virginia and hibbing could do nothing better than make such use of the rocky, mine-scarred hills in their vicinity. and so opportunity might be cited for almost any city in the state. for the municipal forest need not be confined to the big cities. in fact, in some respects the smaller city has an advantage over the larger place. suitable land can usually be obtained near the city at a much more reasonable price and the revenue obtained bear a much larger ratio to the total expenses of the town. there are some small towns in germany where the entire running expenses are paid by the revenues of the town forest, and one or two where the forest not only pays all of the taxes but also pays a cash pension to a number of the older inhabitants. certainly our towns, looking forward to an endless and progressive existence, cannot afford to neglect this opportunity to develop a useful park, to provide a source of cheap wood and lumber for future generations and a substantial revenue for the city. expert advice need not be employed until the size and revenue of the forest warrants it, for the state forest service stands ready to help--by the selection of land, the formulation of plans, and consultation--any city that is wise enough to take advantage of this law. the "city forester" can then be a forester indeed, and one of the good points of the european city government will have been adopted in fact as well as in name. the salome apple. h. w. harrison, rochester, minn. so. minn. hort. society. the salome apple is named after one of the faithful bible characters, salome, who was associated with martha and mary while our savior was on earth and was also a witness of his crucifixion. thus the name alone commands respect. it was originated in eastern canada, and it was introduced here some twenty-five years ago by the princeton nursery company of illinois and has proven to be very hardy on different soils and locations. it is grown in the southern tier of counties of minnesota and as far north as new ulm. like all good things it has had a hard fight to overcome its opponents. at the time it was introduced here there were ben davis and other tender varieties delivered in its place in certain localities. these not being hardy of course gave the salome a black eye. nevertheless it is an apple that should be grown extensively because of its hardiness, its clean appearance and upright growth, spreading just enough to admit air and light. its fruit will keep in ordinary cellars until may or june. it is medium in size and color, red streaked with green and yellow. flesh is yellow and sub acid. like all winter varieties it is slow to come in bearing but yielding heavily when it does bear, whenever other varieties do. let us not lose sight of this excellent fruit in our desire to produce something new and original. how may the state university and the horticultural society best co-operate? geo. e. vincent, president minn. state university, minneapolis. now, so far as i can understand, the only excuse for interpolating me in a program of this kind is that you are giving so much attention to technical subjects, you are working so hard, you need from time to time relief in order that you may not suffer from brain fever or any of the ailments of overstudy. i am confident from this point of view anything i may have to say will meet that need completely. the relationship between this society and the university strikes me as typically american. there are two ways of doing things--leaving public undertakings entirely to private initiative, to individuals, to voluntary groups; that is one plan. there is another plan which consists in putting everything into the hands of the state. constituted authority takes charge of the whole life of the citizen's, all the activities and enterprise are made public, state affairs. those are the two extremes. the dangers of those two methods are very obvious. many enterprises left to private initiative will be done in haphazard fashion; there will be duplication and waste. when the state undertakes all these enterprises it changes the whole aspect. public management may make for a certain efficiency, but it sooner or later undermines the initiative, the feeling of responsibility of the individual. we are a practical people, we compromise and combine the various methods of doing things. it is the typical american way to combine private initiative with a certain measure of state co-operation. the work for horticulture in the state of minnesota has been developed under exactly these conditions. if i remember rightly, this society was organized in . it has assumed a definite leadership in the development of horticulture in the state of minnesota; the university has gradually been adapting itself, so to speak, to the work of this society. the society and the university have officially been in close relationship. i believe that in the early days the secretary was at the same time a university officer and for the last twenty-five years, i am told that at least one expert of the university staff has always been a member of the executive board of this society. this has made a personal bond. then the society has done a great many important things. you have stood by at times when people were not perfectly certain about the importance of various kinds of scientific work. you have been steadfast. sometimes it required courage to stand for the scientific ideals which the university was attempting to carry out in important work that had a bearing upon horticulture. and you have, of course, the chief responsibility and distinction of having seen to it that our fruit-breeding farm should be established. i believe you were also kind enough to pick out the site, although none of you were personally interested in the particular real estate ultimately purchased. so that we feel--we of the university feel--that the work of horticulture in this state is distinctly a co-operative undertaking, and that the leadership and enterprise and vision of this society have been the chief things that developed horticulture in minnesota to the point it has reached. but we do believe that the co-operation of your university is an important and, we hope, from now on will be an increasingly important thing. certain work is going on constantly at the university in the various departments, and that work is of distinct benefit because you recognize it. we had a good illustration a few minutes ago. the professor of soils was having his brains picked, as he had a perfect right to have, by you. you were asking him questions, and i noticed once or twice he said he didn't know. that must have inspired confidence in him; i have a good deal of faith in people who don't know it all. that shows two things--they have a sense of humor, and they expect to find out. there is something pathetic in a person who knows it all; it is a case of arrested development. so out of the department of soils you expect to get the result of careful and scientific study of the nature of soils. from the department of plant pathology you expect to learn about the various forms of plant diseases and the way in which these may be eliminated. from the department of entomology you expect to learn something about the troublesome insects, which are so universal an annoyance. i think they simply exist to test our character, to see whether we have courage to go on, bugs or no bugs. we do the best we can to become familiar with the habits of these nefarious creatures and let you know what we know. so i might call attention to one or two other departments--but you know how much is being accomplished. you get regular reports. you have a committee to visit and investigate our fruit-breeding farms. if i may judge from the reports which your committee makes--i don't know whether it is because it is one of your children and you are indulgent--your committee seems to think good things are being done and distinct progress recorded at the fruit-breeding farm. with your support and confidence we are enlarging the work there. it seems we should have more land in the early future, and we may ask for your co-operation in convincing the powers that be that such increase of territory is necessary. how many members have you? , members, i believe. perhaps you have more since that number was given this morning. at any rate, there is a good number, and when you think of all the wisdom and all the experience that those , people have, it seems a great pity not to get it organized in better form. come and pick some more brains while these brains are still available and organize this great mass of knowledge. here is the next problem. who are the people that are going to take your places? who is to have a gold watch given him fifty years from now--or given to her fifty years from now? this thing is to go on, and how? it goes on by discovering in minnesota the horticulturally-minded people in the state; you must always be on the lookout for people who are to do the big things. the great european governments are considering how they are going to keep their armies recruited, how the next generation is to be brought in and organized. that is the same problem in every nation. it is extremely necessary to put out dragnets for specialists. there are probably thousands of men in minnesota who are horticulturists, they are dormant horticulturists, and your business and ours is to try to discover them. so the problem with us is how to get out the dragnet. you know there is a great biological principle that is illustrated in the lower types of animals. millions of fish eggs are produced for every hundred that actually fertilize and amount to anything. so when you are looking for results in a great subject, when you are trying to discover people, when you are putting out a dragnet, you have to try a very large number with the hope of discovering the relatively few who really show the divine spark, who are really the men that you are looking for. it is a very interesting thing when you come to think about it, all the while we are looking for special ability in modern activities we do it by fashion. fashion is something that victimizes the ladies. they do not care for fashion itself, it is thrust upon them from the outside. most women conform to fashion on the principle of protective coloring; they do not care for it themselves, but they do not want to be conspicuous by not conforming; so they protect themselves that way. i consider fashion is a beneficial thing when you look at it the right way. by fashion all kinds of new things are started throughout the country, and you discover certain people who have a special aptitude. it becomes the fashion to do various things, and in many cases people become interested and develop their own special tastes and faculties. i am tremendously interested just now in rural education. we want a rural school that will be attractive. we are interested in getting houses for the teachers to be built right alongside the school house. then there will be the garden in connection with the house, the flower garden and the tree planting. some of us are looking forward to the time when the rural school will be the most charming spot in all the countryside, not a place from which the teacher escapes at the earliest possible moment on friday to return reluctantly on monday morning, but a place where she wants to remain, where the rural school will be the center of the community and community life. it will be an attractive place for the best kind of teacher. when we can get to that point we shall be able to establish in the rural regions an institution that will be a vital part of the whole community and a thing of joy and of beauty. that gospel might be extended to the tree planting on the farmstead. you know what the state art society had been doing. there is another dragnet. you have seen the minnesota art journal, which is dealing with the problems in tree planting of the farm, planting around the farm house; that in connection with the modern farm house that has been suggested, these things have a very important bearing upon problems in which both you and the university are interested. and then we can look forward to the time when you will have your permanent home, if not on the farm grounds themselves at least near there, where we could co-operate and use the same building, so that while it would be yours you will feel that it is being utilized throughout the year in such a way that the expenditure of the money would be justified. there is a fine vista ahead of us, a vista of the things to be, accomplished by means of this american combination of private initiative and enterprise and idealism and the support of the state for certain details of work which can be best accomplished in that way. the shelter belt for orchard and home grounds. a discussion led by john w. maher, nurseryman, devils lake, n. dak. mr. maher: the subject this morning is to be on "shelter-belt for orchard and home grounds." i am satisfied, provided the "home grounds" include the whole farm. the entire farm needs shelter, particularly from the hot, drying winds and other destructive winds that uncover and cut down crops in springtime and carry away the fertile top soil; and the summer winds, hot winds, of course, that eat up the moisture; and those destructive winds that sometimes harvest our barley and other crops before they are cut. we need protection from all these winds, and in this latitude these winds blow uniformly from the southwest. so every farm should be protected from them by a substantial shelter-belt on the west and south sides, which can also be the farm wood-lot. [illustration: apple tree windbreak at devil's lake nursery. hibernal in the foreground. patten's greening in the distance.] there is another phase of protection that has been emphasized this year very much, and that is, protection against summer frosts and late spring frosts. a gentleman living at mcintosh, near crookston, in this state, told me that corn matured up there wherever it was protected from the north wind. at the devils lake nursery we had a -bushel per acre potato crop protected only by the blocks of nursery stock, whereas the yield in the vicinity was from nothing to fifty bushels per acre--and i believe if mr. andrews will inquire into the location of the good apple crops about faribault he will probably find they were saved by similar shelter protection, or the natural lay of the land. mr. kellogg: what is your best windbreak? mr. maher: the evergreen is the best windbreak for the reason that it gives more shelter, retains its leaves in the winter and fewer rows of trees will make a good shelter-belt. the variety--that is, west of the timber line in minnesota--i should say the best would be the ponderosa pine, or bull pine, after that the jack pine may be, or else the colorado blue spruce and the black hills spruce. mr. kellogg: colorado spruce is too expensive to set out as a windbreak. mr. maher: well, the green varieties. i don't see why they should be any more costly than the others. of course, they are held at a higher price, but they make a good windbreak because they are easily grown and are perfectly hardy to stand the dry atmosphere and the hot winds. [illustration: american elm windbreak at devil's lake, n.d.] mr. kellogg: what is the reason there are so few of them really blue? mr. maher: i don't know. there is only a small percentage, probably per cent., that are blue. i think the dryer atmosphere produces more blue than the more humid atmosphere. we have more blues in north dakota than you will find even here. i believe it is the dry atmosphere and the intense sunlight that causes the blue, because the red cedar in north dakota, the native red cedar, is really a silver cedar and has a blue sheen, or rather, a silver sheen. a member: how large do the trees have to be to be of benefit? mr. maher: i have a friend out of devils lake who had acres of flax destroyed by a spring wind that hits the earth at such an angle. it picked up the earth and cut the flax off, by reason of the clay hitting the little plant, except about a hundred foot strip along the west side, and that was protected by a growth of grass and weeds not to exceed a foot in height. so it depends on the kind of wind a great deal and the angle at which the wind strikes the grounds. now, the distance that a windbreak will protect a field has been studied out and measured and demonstrated by a great number of men. mr. mcgee, at indian head, gave a great deal of thought and study to the windbreak proposition and measured the distances that the shelter-belt would shelter the crops, and he came to the conclusion that for every foot in height there would be an absolute protection for a rod in distance, and outside of that actual protection there would be a long distance that would be partially protected. the same study was made by a gentleman in iowa--i can't call his name just now--and he came to practically the same conclusion as to the distance that the protection reached in proportion to the height of shelter-belt. [illustration: mountain ash windbreak at devil's lake, n.d.] a member: i want a shelter mostly for apple trees. would it be five or six years before i receive any benefit, or seven or eight years? mr. maher: plant your protection when you plant your apple trees, and you will have your protection sooner than you have your apples. if you are going to do that, don't put the shelter too close to the apple trees, which is a very common fault. a member: how much distance would you allow for the roots? [illustration: white willow windbreak at devil's lake, n.d.] mr. maher: i should say not less than feet, anyway. mr. moyer: i live in southwestern minnesota, about thirty miles from the south dakota line, and i think it is a mistake to recommend the white spruce for planting out there. the white spruce naturally grows towards the north pole, it extends even up to the arctic circle. twenty-four years ago i purchased a dozen white spruce from robert douglas, who was then alive, and planted them northwest of my house. about five years ago they began to fail, and now only two or three are alive, and they are covered with dead branches. i feel sure that the white spruce have been injured by the hot winds that come across the prairies from the southwest. i don't think they can stand it. there is a variety of white spruce that grows in the black hills, which i think will be decided to be a different species when botanists come to study it, that will stand our prairies. another tree that we like is the colorado blue spruce; it is hardy and grows excellently. about twenty-three years ago, when professor verner was at the head of the forestry department at washington he sent me , evergreens, and i set them out. they were bull pine and the scotch pine and austrian pine. i was over to look at them the other day. the scotch pine, which have been set now twenty-three years, are over thirty feet high, the austrian pine about two-thirds as high, and the bull pine, ponderosa, is about as high as the austrian pine. he told me to set these trees about two feet apart each way. i thought that too thick, so i set them in rows six feet apart and about two or three feet apart in the rows. he wished me to alternate the planting with deciduous trees. he recommended that i add a few deciduous trees, green ash and box elder and a few elm, and i set them as far as they would go, but they didn't go very far in setting the , evergreens. then i thought it would be a good idea to use the wolfberry that grows wild on the prairies. i set them alternately with some of the evergreens, but as they have a very liberal root system it was hard to get them out. the finest tree in the plantation is the austrian pine, and if it continues to do as well as it has the last three or four years i think the austrian pine is going to be a very valuable pine for shelter-belt. mr. kellogg: have you tested the douglas spruce? mr. moyer: not to a great extent. it does well in some localities. [illustration: soft, or silver, maple windbreak--to be succeeded by permanent windbreak of bur oak--shown growing between man and boy.] mr. maher: i think the real test is to get them as near native to your place as you can. the area over which the white spruce grows is greater than that of any other spruce, possibly greater than any other evergreen, especially through the northern latitudes. i don't think there is any question about the black hills spruce being the white spruce that was left there growing when the other timber was destroyed, if we can adopt that theory. the white spruce from seed from the northwest, from the british columbia countries especially, is perfectly hardy with you. it is perfectly hardy with us at devils lake, which is a very much more severe test, whereas the white spruce from its southern limits may not be hardy even here. i think the black hills spruce is perfectly hardy. the distance north and south relatively is not so important with reference to growing trees as to get them from too far in the humid district. the white spruce that i would be afraid of would be the seed from new england and from the farther east limits of its growth, where the conditions are so much more humid. mr. kellogg: do you find any trouble with too much protection for orchards? mr. maher: where the protection is too close to the orchards i think it is very bad. it destroys the air drainage-- mr. kellogg: that is why they are liable to blight. mr. maher: and they blight also. the air drainage is interfered with, and you get blight, and you also smother the orchard. i don't know but what the apple and the americana plum are about as hardy trees as we have anywhere. i don't make any attempt to protect them specially except from the south and west. i don't put any northern windbreak around any orchards i set out. of course, we may lose a crop with a spring frost all right when northern protection might save it, but with us up in our country if we have a good spring frost it is usually heavy enough to catch them anyway. [illustration: norway poplar windbreak at devil's lake, n.d.] i have a question here: how long should a shelter-belt be cultivated? now, that is a point on which i think too much emphasis is placed. if you set out your trees as judge moyer did his, close together, inside of a few years they will take care of themselves, they will form forest conditions very quickly, and cultivation is not necessary any more. of course, if you set your trees a great distance apart where there is nothing to protect them from the burning sun, and the ground bakes and dries, then you must cultivate or mulch, but i think cultivation much better than mulching. another question: how many rows of trees make a good windbreak? my idea is that it takes twenty rows to make a good one--of deciduous trees, of course. two or three rows of evergreens, planted not further than eight feet apart and with joints broken, probably makes as good a windbreak as the twenty rows of deciduous trees and take less ground. mr. horton: wouldn't you have an open space in those trees? you wouldn't put them all together? mr. maher: if i had twenty rows of trees i would put them together. mr. horton: would you have an open space outside of those twenty trees for the snow to lodge in? [illustration: ponderosa pine windbreak--at devil's lake (n.d.) nursery.] mr. maher: i have never known the snow to do any hurt in a twenty row windbreak. it distributes itself in there, and the more comes the better. mr. horton: i have seen them broken badly with the snow. mr. maher: that would be probably the poplars and trees that break easily. mr. horton: on my farm i put out a row of twenty trees. outside of that i left a space on the north and west six rods wide, and i put out some golden willows outside of that, and that made an open space for the snow to fall in. mr. maher: that is a very good plan, to have a row of willows back of your shelter-belt, especially around the home and orchard and barn ground, to hold the snow back. mr. moyer: i found that the snow drifted into my evergreens but didn't break them. i used lilac bushes; i planted a long row. lilacs are very common, and i got enough to plant a long row. they are now ten feet high, and it is a magnificent sight in summer. mr. maher: i know the lilac is a splendid thing, better than the golden willow, because they last longer. they are more hardy, and they make a better protection, and as far as wood goes from the golden willows you get nothing except branches unless it is the white willow. i have another question here: what would you plant around the garden? for a windbreak around the garden orchard, that should have an inside protection, and the shelter-belt itself should be too far away from the garden to be sufficient protection. around the garden i would plant juneberry or dogwood or any of those common native berry plants. they will afford the very best kind of protection, just as good as the lilacs and just as hardy, and at the same time will produce food for the birds and bring them about your garden and keep them with you and shelter them. mr. kellogg: the barberry-- mr. mahler: the barberry would be all right, but i prefer the juneberry and the mulberry and the dogwood, because they come up a little higher. the barberry is all right. mr. kellogg: i had barberry, and i dug it all up. mr. maher: it spread too much? mr. richardson: i like the russian mulberry. mr. maher: yes, sir. mr. richardson: is the mulberry hardy with you? mr. maher: no, sir. mr. moyer: the buckthorn makes a very good protection. mr. maher: yes, sir. mr. huestis: how would the golden elder do as a hedge? mr. maher: it would be a protection, but it is liable to spread too much. mr. huestis: do you know whether the mulberry is hardy in minnesota or not? mr. maher: i think from here south it is hardy, especially southeast. mr. moyer: it occurs to me that the tartarian honeysuckle is about as good as any thing you can plant for birds. it is perfectly hardy on the prairies and grows up ten or fifteen feet high. mr. maher: the tartarian honeysuckle and several varieties of the bush honeysuckles are splendid, and they are hardy and will grow anywhere. a member: did i understand some one to say that the mulberry was not hardy? mr. maher: it was stated that it wasn't hardy in north dakota. a member: i put mulberry trees in my garden yard that have been bearing mulberries for years and years. mr. maher: i think the mulberry is hardy from here south and especially southeast. i don't think it would grow out on the prairie very far. mr. richardson: it grows on the prairies southwest of here. my color scheme. mrs. r. p. boyington, nemadji. "oh, my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, with its soft caressing coloring, breathing peace to all who view." our garden color scheme this year was a number of red, white and blue pictures, these pictures being supported, on the different sides, by brilliant, oriental color effects. the first picture had for its north side the south side of the cottage, which was covered with climbing roses (american pillars and crimson rambler). a bed of petunias, six feet wide and as long as the cottage, came next, and was separated from about four hundred delphiniums (belladonna) by a walk which was bordered on both sides by a row of candytuft and a row of forget-me-nots, blue as a baby's eye. to the south of the delphiniums was a great bank of bridal wreath chrysanthemums, white as the driven snow. a walk on the east had the same--candytuft and forget-me-not border. to the south and west of this picture were irises and oriental poppies in all the gorgeous coloring of the orient, with a small space on the west where hundreds of pansies nodded their lovely faces to the stately blue larkspurs. are we sure, as has been said, that god forgot to put a soul in flowers? to the east, beyond the walk, is another picture--shasta daisies and blue cornflowers. on the north side is a brilliant hedge of red sweet peas. on the east and south of this most exquisite picture are iceland poppies, red pyrethrums, and here and there are clumps of dark red sweet william. in the early morn, just after the "morning stars have sung together," and the forces of day are slowly coming into action, this is a wonderous picture. on the north side of the cottage is a screened-in porch. here cardinal climber gives its myriads of cheerful bloom, while blue lobelia and white anemones, with the porch boxes filled with vinca atmosphere of beauty and cheer to those who come and take the social cup that truly cheers. the broad lawn slopes north to the driveway. to the east, separating the lawn from the walk, which is west of the canna beds, is a border of dusty miller next the grass and one row each of blue anchusa and red snapdragon. the silver leaved poplars in the distance give a soft sheen to the whole picture. away to the west is a spruce hedge and inside the hedge red hollyhocks and phlox with a great row of crimson poppies. a simple garden made of simple things, and yet as we go through it to our peony bed, that gorgeous flower, standing alone in its regal, queenly beauty, we do not wonder that when one of old walked with god it was in the cool of the evening and in a garden. "where in all the dim resplendent spaces, the mazy stars drift through to my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew." my experience in grape culture. joseph tucker, austin. so. minn. hort. society during fifteen years i have had in my garden several varieties of grapes, namely, the concord, worden, moore's early and a green grape (not certain of its name). all have done remarkably well whenever the season was reasonably favorable. i mean by that the absence of the late spring and the early fall frosts, which are the greatest drawbacks to grape culture. for that reason i would not advise anyone to undertake it as a business venture on a large scale. on the other hand, where it is desired to supply the family table with fresh fruit as long as it will keep, also to add a variety of jellies and preserves for the winter, a dozen of vines will supply an ordinary family with grapes whose flavor i have never seen surpassed. you who do not always expect money to grow on everything you touch, you who admire and love a plant or vine and feel well repaid for your labor to see it grow and bear fruit, you who have a vacant corner in your garden well adapted to that purpose, i urge you most earnestly to plant some grape vines, and i assure you that with some knowledge of their care and a determination not to fail you will succeed, and you will eventually be able to see a pretty sight--for, to my mind, nothing is handsomer than a well trimmed grape row with the ripening fruit. the soil that will grow corn will produce good grapes. my advice is to select early ripening varieties, for then you will only have the possible spring frost to contend with, and that is easy to guard against. do not fail to adopt some system of pruning, for that is the most essential part of the secret to grow good grapes. other necessary information will no doubt be furnished by any reliable nurseryman with whom you are dealing. i wish to say in conclusion that so far i have had no trouble from any insects attacking the vines or fruit, and i have always been able to produce fruit that commands the first premium wherever exhibited. protect the garden against winter weather. u.s. dept. of agriculture. at this season many inquiries come to the united states department of agriculture regarding the protection of garden plants and shrubs during the winter. such flowers as peonies and hollyhocks will come up again the following year if they are properly protected during the winter, while others, like cannas and dahlias, which are more accustomed to warm climes, must have their roots or bulbs dug up and stored in a cellar. the department's specialists give the following suggestions for "putting the garden to bed": _hardy perennials._--cover hardy perennials, such as peonies, larkspur, hollyhocks, columbines, iris, platycodons and perennial poppies, with a good coating of manure or other litter to a depth of or inches. in more southern localities this will hold the frost in the ground and keep the plant from alternately freezing and thawing; in more northern regions the manure will protect the plant from freezing to a depth that will cut off its water supply. _cannas and dahlias._--as soon as the tops of cannas, dahlias, gladiolus, caladiums and similar plants are killed by frost, dig up the roots or bulbs and store them in a cellar where the temperature will remain at degrees, and should never go below or above degrees. do not shake any more earth from the clumps of cannas and dahlias than is necessary in removing them from the ground. place the plants on racks or in slat boxes so the air may circulate freely through them. no frost must reach the roots nor must they become too warm or dry. _shrubs._--as a rule shrubs should not be trimmed in the fall. this process is timely immediately after the blooming period, if this is in the spring, as in the case of the snowball. if the shrubs bloom in the fall, as do some hydrangeas, the rose of sharon, and some lilacs, they should not be cut directly after blooming but in the spring of the following year. lilacs, snowballs and mock orange should be let alone during the winter, being neither trimmed nor covered with straw and manure. _roses._--almost all kinds of roses are hardy in the vicinities of washington, d.c., and st. louis and to the south of a line drawn between these points. from washington northward local conditions influence the successful cultivation of certain varieties. some roses, as the brier and rugosa, need no protection, but other varieties, such as the hybrid perpetuals, teas and hybrid-teas, need special care, particularly north of the fortieth parallel. teas and hybrid teas hardly succeed in chicago, although the hybrid-perpetuals grow as far north as canada. all these classes do well on long island and in boston near the sea when proper care is given them. these varieties in the vicinity of washington need merely a little manure on the ground to prevent alternate freezing and thawing. farther north, however, they should be treated as follows: cut the tops to within inches of the ground. cover the roots with coarse manure or leaves or similar litter. hold this in place by evergreen boughs which also acts as a protection. brush from deciduous trees or shrubs may be substituted for the evergreen boughs except in the most northern regions. mounds of earth about six or eight inches in height should be drawn about the base of the rose bushes to keep them from mice. as an added protection against mice, permit the ground to freeze slightly before winter protection is supplied. in fact, roses should not be protected until after the first light freeze, which may be expected in washington, d.c., about the first of december, but earlier farther north. (tops must be protected in minnesota.--sec.) _climbing roses._--in the latitude of philadelphia and farther south climbing roses usually need no protection during the winter unless they are a particularly tender variety. farther north these roses need protection similar to that given to the tea and hybrid tea roses. where it is possible to do so, remove climbing roses from their supports, and cover the branches with a little dirt. a little fall trimming might be desirable to lessen the space occupied by the branches on the ground. such side branches as are not to be needed for next season's blooming may be cut off. such cutting off and shortening of the ends as would otherwise be done in the spring may be done in the fall before covering, merely for convenience. growing asparagus. a discussion led by e. w. record, market gardener, brooklyn center. a member: i want to ask if many put salt on asparagus? mr. record: salt is very good, but i think only for the reason that it makes the plant tender and keeps down insects. but if i was to use anything to keep insects down i should use paris green. shorts or bran, that is the best for cutworms. everybody knows that with the least scratch or mar on the side of the asparagus it will grow crooked, and then it is a pretty hard proposition to get it into the bunch ready for market in any kind of shape. a member: some have the idea that salt helps the growth of the plant. mr. record: well, i never found it did. mr. baldwin: i would like to know how to control rust on the stems in the summer time. mr. record: well, i can't answer, but i find that the palmetto has less rust on it than any other variety. i have never been bothered with asparagus rust yet. mr. baldwin: after the bed gets to be a few years old the grass and weeds commence to come up. after you get through cutting, it is pretty hard work to get in there and clean them out. do you find it the best way to hoe them after you get through cutting? mr. record: i will tell you. i cultivate right over the tops of the rows and keep on cultivating until the asparagus comes up and begins to sprout. by the time the weeds come up the second time, it is time to quit cutting. mr. baldwin: how deep do you put the plant below the surface in transplanting? mr. record: from twelve to fourteen inches. in the east they are growing asparagus, and they set out their plants, and they fill in and wait until the asparagus comes up and then they fill with rotted manure and never fertilize any more, but here there are very few that do that. i never did, but i find in putting on manure broadcast a year afterwards the shoots were very crooked. i did that one year only. after i put it on i thought i would have something good, and i didn't have anything. as soon as it comes up it starts to get crooked. mr. baldwin: you mean to say that putting manure on top makes the asparagus crooked? mr. record: that was my experience. mr. baldwin: i have always practiced that. i think what makes it crooked is cultivating the top and cutting the crowns off. a member: when the weeds come in we disk it. mr. record: i never like to disk it. if your bed is very old you are liable to cut some of your crowns rather than to keep the weeds out. a member: your manure would be all gone then? mr. record: i know there was a man right adjoining me who had an asparagus bed, and he used a lot of rotten manure the summer before, and he got very little asparagus that was marketable. i asked him what the trouble was, and he said he didn't know. this year he had a good crop. i can't say it was the manure that did that, only it looks that way. a member: how would you start a new planting? mr. record: i would plow my ground thoroughly and get it in good shape. a member: wouldn't fertilize the first season? mr. record: i would. i would fertilize my asparagus ground two years. a member: i mean in preparing your patch for the new planting? mr. record: i would first plow and harrow and then fertilize. plow both ways from fourteen to sixteen inches deep and with a fine cultivator loosen up the bottom of furrow and put in the plants and cover with a little earth. then with the horse keep filling in the furrow. i saw this summer several men with hoes working. that is all right, but it takes a long time, especially with the proposition we are up against about hired help. i can do it just as well with the horse and four times as fast. the second year you can harrow it any way you want to. a member: common corn land, is that fit for raising asparagus? mr. record: yes, sir, asparagus will grow on poor ground better than many other vegetables will. a member: will it improve that land by fertilizing with top dressing? mr. record: i think so. a member: the heavy land i suppose wouldn't be good for it? mr. record: they raise good asparagus on clay land, but i don't think it will grow as good as on sandy soil. it is not quite so warm; it packs harder and i think more liable to grow crooked. a member: i was called out to see a man's asparagus bed. he asked me what kind of ground i thought it must be, and i said a light soil. this man had a heavy clay, and it rained on it, and then the sun came out very hot and the top cooked, and when the little shoots were to come up they turned back. that ground wasn't good for asparagus. mr. record: it should have been harrowed well after that rain. a member: you see he couldn't get in there. a member: what fertilizer is good? is bone meal good? mr. record: any commercial fertilizer is good, i think. bone meal is good. mr. crawford: can you raise asparagus successfully in the shade or a partial shade? mr. record: well, i wouldn't want too much. i have shade on both sides of mine; it is a hedge. i notice it isn't near so good next to the hedge as it is out in the middle of the bed, although shade on both sides protects it from the wind and makes it hotter. the hotter it is, the faster it will grow. mr. crawford: i asked the question because i have a west line shade several years old, trees are willow and box elder. considerable of the ground is a loss to me, practically so, from that shade. mr. record: i don't think it is a very good place for asparagus. a member: i would like to ask if a person on clay soil could use sawdust to work in? mr. record: horse manure with sawdust, we use a great deal of that, that is, planing mill shavings. that is all right. that will loosen up the ground some, but when it is turned over, of course, it will harden up again if there comes a good hard rain on it. a member: how many years have you maintained a bed? mr. record: why, it will go from twelve to fourteen years, although the place that i am on now, i know that was good for twenty-five or twenty-six. it is practically gone now, but for twenty years it was good. but of late years it won't run over twelve to fifteen. mr. willard: i would like to ask something about changing an old asparagus bed to a new position. mr. record: i wouldn't advise you to use the old roots. you get a bed quicker by using plants that are two years old, and of course there are some plants better than others. i bought my plants in the east. now they have good plants here, a good many of them, too, but i have never seen anything as good as i got for my last bed. the best way if i was going into it, being a market gardener, would be to go to some neighbor that had a good straight bed and get my own seed. it is very easy to save, and most anyone would give a man all he wanted and charge him nothing. all he would do would be to gather it up. mr. miller: i would like to ask--i only grow for kitchen garden and i presume most of us are in the same boat--we were told to plow a furrow deeply and fill it with good manure and to plant the roots with the crowns about four inches below the surface of the bed. mr record: well, i wouldn't fertilize it first. i would, as i say, plow my furrow and loosen up the bottom of it, so that the plants will get a chance to get started. you know if you are plowing it out or shoveling it out it will get down to hard ground. that isn't so good. you loosen up the bottom and put your plants evenly over the ground and put in a little dirt, and if you have it a little barnyard manure. mr. miller: i suppose the idea of putting that in the bottom is that it is so hard to cultivate the manure on the top without doing as you mentioned? the running out of varieties. prof. c. b. waldron, horticulturist, agri. college, n.d. there is no fact more familiar to gardeners, orchardists and farmers than the "running out" of varieties, and no question that is more obscure as to its causes. the possibility of deterioration of varieties is noted to a greater or less extent in all field and garden crops, particularly with those that are most highly developed, or which represent the greatest departure from the original species. it is evident that the cause must lie either in the environment which surrounds the variety or in the selection which it has received, or in a combination of the two. it is held also by some that aside from the influence of soil and climate, and in spite of the most rigid selection, there is an inherent tendency in varieties to depart in a more or less marked degree from the type in which they first appeared. this is particularly true of new varieties that have not yet become established. almost before the plant breeder can determine their type they have broken up into so many distinct forms that it is impossible to get any further than the first generation. this has been noted several times with new varieties of squashes and other cucurbits, and to a similar but less marked degree with tomatoes and some other garden crops. these might well be termed evanescent varieties, and since they never become fixed or find their way into cultivation they are of interest only to the plant breeder. the influence of environment, particularly soil and climate, upon the size, quality and productiveness of certain garden crops is well known, though just what effect this may have in determining the hereditary character of a variety has never been very well worked out and is still a matter of much doubt. we know, for instance, that there is a tendency for corn grown in the middle or southern latitude to attain to a larger size and require a longer period for maturity than the same corn grown in the north. this tendency is shown in the first generation, but whether it appears as a constant hereditary character or not is still open to discussion. there are those who maintain that it is just as practical to develop a dwarf, early variety of corn in the middle latitudes with careful selection as it is to develop a variety of equal earliness when the planting is done in the north. these maintain that the reason the dwarf, early varieties of corn are not normally developed in the middle latitudes is because the selection in those places is usually made from the large plants which yield well, instead of from the small, early plants, such as would be naturally selected at the north. by the same reasoning it is held that the constant growing of any species or variety in the northern latitudes does not increase hardiness but only enables us to determine which is hardy, thereby enabling us by selection to increase the hardiness of our varieties. [illustration: cat-leaf weeping birch and shrubbery on campus of agricultural college at fargo, n.d.] we must admit that this reasoning has a sound scientific basis, its principal weakness at the present time being that there has not been enough experimental work done to determine how general and constant its application is. however true it may be as a scientific principle, we have on the other hand the undoubted fact that varieties of certain plants, like the cauliflower, are so strongly modified by environment that the varieties disappear altogether as such unless the breeding plants are grown under very definite conditions. it is well known that cauliflower seed can be grown, for instance, only in certain parts of europe around the north sea and to a limited extent in the vicinity of seattle, and that cauliflower seed from any other region produces plants which not only lose all varietal characteristics but which scarcely resemble cauliflower at all. as an illustration of this same principle millet affords an excellent example. grown at the north for a number of years, without change of seed, it becomes short with stiff straw and very large heads, yielding a large quantity of seed. when grown as far south as tennessee for a period of five years only, it assumes a very different character, being tall and leafy with small heads and not very productive of seed. it might be possible by very rigid selection to develop a variety of millet that would tend to be tall and leafy even in the north, but it is doubtful if it would remain so, and the difficulty of keeping it up to type would be too great to make it profitable. all this is equivalent to saying that there are certain unstable varieties that are so influenced by climate that it is not good practice to try and keep them up to any given standard except when they are grown in regions which naturally develop the type that we are seeking to maintain. the more striking examples coming under this class are cauliflower, millet, onions, tobacco and some of the flowering plants. a few years ago it was supposed that the running out of varieties of celery was due to a similar cause, that is, to unfavorable environment. to this was ascribed the pithy quality that characterized some of the varieties. upon further investigations, however, it was found that this pithy condition came about through carelessness in seed selection. there is a more or less inherent tendency in all celery to become pithy, and unless these plants are carefully excluded, the varieties will run out from that cause. the different varieties of tomatoes, egg plant and the cucurbits do not seem to be especially affected by soil and climate, and in such instances the varieties can be kept up only by rigid selection, no matter how favorable that environment is under which they are grown. with these plants there is always the inherent tendency to go back more or less to the wild state, and lapse of care in seed selection for a period of only a few years will result in a variety very different from the one which we had in the beginning. it will be seen from this that in some instances the best plan is for each farmer or gardener to develop his own strains of crops that he grows, while in other cases it is best to leave the selection to those that are working in a more favored environment so far as those varieties are concerned. there still remains to be considered the plants that are propagated asexually, like potatoes and all our cultivated fruits. from the fact that a number of our standard varieties of apples and some other fruits date back one hundred years or more, and are still as productive as at the beginning, it is evident that some asexually propagated varieties may be considered almost fixed or permanent. [illustration: niobe willow (salix vitellina, var. pendula nova), on campus n.d. agri. college, fargo.] the buds or scions from which new trees are started are taken indiscriminately from the bearing trees, and since there is no great variation in them the varieties do not tend to change. whether they could be improved by taking scions from only the most productive trees is still a question. there are some who consider this possible, but we do not yet have enough experimental evidence to establish it as a fact. so far it would seem that about the only crop which is propagated asexually that is likely to deteriorate, or is capable of improvement, is one that is directly modified by soil and climate. the potato is the most striking example of this class of crops. it is well known that the potato responds very readily in the matter of size, yield and quality to certain types of soil and climatic conditions. it is also known that the qualities thus acquired seem to be more or less permanent; that is, that potatoes brought from the north, especially those which have been grown in heavy soil, will produce a crop some ten days earlier and thirty per cent larger than a crop grown from seed produced in a region six hundred miles farther south. early ohio potatoes grown in north dakota, when used for seed in southern iowa, give a much larger and somewhat earlier crop than the native grown seed. this would indicate that the potato is bound to run out in a measure if grown continually in southern latitudes, and in this instance a change of seed, using always the seed from the northern latitudes and the heavier soil, is necessary, in order to keep the variety up to standard. [illustration: carnege library and flower beds at n.d. agricultural college, fargo.] it will be seen that while there is no question as to the fact of varieties running out, that they differ a great deal in this respect, and it is only through a knowledge of the facts covering each variety, or at least the varieties of each species, that would enable a grower to know what to do in order to keep a variety up to the highest standard. mr. kellogg: what is the matter with the old wilson strawberry? mr. waldron: i think people forgot about it and began growing better varieties. i know there is an impression among strawberry growers that the wilson strawberry has run out. i don't know. i know it has been supplanted by other varieties, and the general impression of most men is that it is because other varieties, better varieties, came in and that variety was neglected. mr. kellogg: it can be found in eastern catalogs now. mr. waldron: isn't it as good now as it was? mr. kellogg: that is what i want to know. mr. waldron: i understand that it is from the people that have grown them. i don't know of any strawberry in my career from the first time that i have been working in strawberries that seems to be any poorer now than it was twenty-five or thirty years ago. the wilson might be an exception. i know that has been referred to as an instance of deterioration of variety. the strawberry might be so dependent on climatic and soil conditions that it might be classed with the potatoes and not be in a class with the apples, which don't seem to deteriorate. mr. kellogg: is there such a thing as a pedigreed strawberry plant that is taken from runners? mr. waldron: we have experiments going on at the agricultural college now. we set out a number of plants from strawberry growers that advertise a pedigreed strawberry, and beside those we have strawberry plants from growers who don't advertise them as pedigreed. this year we ought to get some returns on that; last year the patch was flooded out--we had very heavy june rains. we have about ten varieties from a large number of different growers, some supposed to be perfect and some not. we are going to have some report of them at the next horticultural meeting. i don't believe there is anything much in pedigreed strawberries. the president: in the state of north dakota our friend here who has just spoken occupies the same position in the hearts and minds of the people of his state as do our friends haralson, hansen and patten in this section. his work is along a little different line, his being almost purely an agricultural section, but he is a very practical man and is doing splendid work up there. mr. doty: i wish to say a word on this strawberry question. some years ago the postmaster at monticello wanted to know of me what kind of strawberries to set out; i was handling nursery goods at that time. i told him i would recommend to him the wilson, the warfield and the haverland. the wilson i would set in the center. he had six square rods. he set them out. the second year he invited me up to his patch and asked me to guess on how many strawberries he had raised on that patch. i said: "six bushels"--i thought i would put it high. but he said: "i have picked twelve bushels from that patch." i said: "it can't be possible," and he said: "come right into my shop here. i have a paper here and i put down every single quart of strawberries that i have sold here." i figured it up and found that he had twelve bushels out of that patch. i told him to set the wilson in the center, the warfield on one side and the haverland on the other. he did so and that was the result, the best result that i have ever known. the president: how many years ago? mr. doty: well, it was about fifteen years ago. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. october is one of the best months in which to plant shrubs. after the leaves show them to be dormant they can be safely moved and will become established before very cold weather. each year we are learning that _more_ planting can be done in the fall if done early enough, and by so doing one escapes a part of the rush that comes in the spring. "anything that is hardy can be moved in the fall," an old nurseryman once said to me, and it has been a safe rule to follow. but note the word "hardy" in his advice. all stock, either shrubbery or perennials, that are planted in the fall should be well mulched. the bulbs for the spring garden, except those that require early planting, will also need to be put in this month in order to make a good root growth before frost overtakes them. here we are able to achieve exact results as they very seldom disappoint us as to color or time of blooming as some other plants do. have you tried planting your bulbs with any of the ground cover plants that will take away the bare look that most bulb beds have? the arabis with its snowy blossoms is beautiful beneath the early tulips. the violas--with such a wide range of color--make lovely backgrounds for the later tulips, as also do the creeping phlox and the native lavender blue divaricata phlox. a bed of this beneath pale pink darwin tulips is one of the lovely memories of last spring's garden. another snowy white flower is the perennial candytuft, iberis. blooming at the same time and remaining lovely for a long period it combines well with any of the tall tulips or narcissi or daffodils. alyssum saxatile, with its sheet of gold, and the dear forget-me-nots, both grow well beneath the tulips. the fine lacey tufts of meadow rue are lovely among the pink and white and rose tulips. surely the bulb beds need not be bare. the very early blossoms are always the most welcome. so plant some bulbs, at least twenty-five, of scillas, snowdrops, snowflakes (leucojum vernum). these, if left undisturbed, will increase greatly. the chionodoxas, grape hyacinths and crocuses are all well worth planting, but do not put the latter in the grass as they will not do well there in our climate. for our rose growers. members of the american rose society have been raising money to employ a trained plant pathologist to study diseases of roses. the work has been begun under dr. l. m. massey, of the new york state college of agriculture, cornell university, ithaca, n.y. by co-operating with dr. massey all growers of roses will greatly increase the efficiency of the investigations. a rose disease survey will first be made. it is here that all rose growers can help by sending specimens of diseased plants, with a statement regarding varieties affected, nature and extent of the injury, time of appearance of the disease and any other things that have been noticed regarding it. information for the control of the disease will be given by dr. massey. the following directions are given to those sending specimens: "the material sent should be freshly collected and should show various stages of the development of the disease. where roots are sent it will usually be undesirable to enclose any soil. where convenient specimens should be mailed so as to reach ithaca the latter part of the week. place leaves, buds, etc., between the leaves of an old newspaper, a few between each two sheets. then roll into a tight bundle and wrap in stout paper. attach one of the franked tags (which may be had upon request), on which you have written your name and address, and mail. it will go postage free--h.h. whetzel, head of the department of plant pathology, new york state college of agriculture, cornell university, ithaca." * * * * * meeting of garden flower society, st. paul, wilder building, : p.m., october . topics: "how i made my garden pay" and "work of garden clubs." reports of seed trials. [illustration: distant view of a field of three year old seedling peonies on the grounds of brand nursery co., at faribault, minn.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. november, no. peonies--old and new. a.m. brand, nurseryman, faribault. about the first thing i can remember, as i look back over the years that are past, is my father's field of peonies, and of a man standing at a table with a large peony clump before him cutting it up into divisions. i remember wondering how such beautiful flowers could come out of such an ugly, dirty root. the bright little eyes, some red, some white and others pink interested me, and boy fashion i put many questions to the man about them. and then my father came by and noticing my interest in the matter, though a busy man, stopped and explained to me the process of dividing the roots. that was forty years ago, but from that day to this i have watched with ever increasing interest the growth and handling of peonies. i was but a small boy then, but i remember my father gave me his big pruning knife, and under his guidance i divided my first peony. and i thought i had done fairly well, for he patted me on the head and said it was well done and that some day i would make a nurseryman. the peony industry as far as the west was concerned was in its infancy then. we had few varieties--peony buyers had not yet become critical. i can remember of but four sorts: the white variety, whitleyii, now called queen victoria; the red pottsii and the two pinks, fragrans and humeii. peonies were then sold as red peonies, white peonies and pink peonies, and that was all there was to it, and the customer felt very lucky if he got the color he ordered. but a wonderful change came over the industry along in the nineties. some of the better varieties had worked west in different ways, and people began to waken to the fact that there were more than simply red peonies, white peonies and pink peonies. such varieties as festiva maxima, edulis superba, marie lemoine, eugene verdier and the like came to us. flower lovers slowly began to realize that the old, despised "piny" of mother's garden was a thing of the past, and that here in its stead we had a glorious and beautiful flower. and as the better varieties have continued to come from year to year, the interest in the flower has continued to increase until now i think i am safe in saying that in the colder portion of our country at least, and in our own state in particular, the interest manifested in the peony is greater than that taken in any other flower. and it is of this modern peony that i am asked to tell you--of its cultivation and care, how it is multiplied and how the new sorts are produced. right here at the start i wish to correct an erroneous impression about the peony that has been spread broadcast throughout the land by means of not too carefully edited catalogues and misinformed salesmen. we often hear an agent say or we read in some catalogue, "when you have the peony planted all is done." now this is not true. it comes a long ways from being true. i think the very results which the following out of this belief have brought about are accountable for the production of more poor peonies than all other causes put together. the peony, it is true, will stand more abuse than any other flower you can name and still give fairly good results, but if you want good peonies you must take good care of them. the planting season opens about the first of september in minnesota--probably the middle of the month is safer--and it continues right up to the freeze-up in the fall and up to the middle of may in the spring. we have lifted peonies that have grown a foot in the spring, packed them carefully, shipped them to middle wisconsin, and in the fall had the shipment reported as having done splendidly. september planted roots will bloom the following season. after that there is little choice between fall and spring planting. the peony root will stand lots of abuse after being thoroughly ripe, but still it is best to handle it with care. keep it fresh and plump until planted. if accidentally it becomes shriveled, immerse for twenty-four hours in a pail of water. this will revive it. remove from the water and plant immediately. the roots should be planted with the tops of the buds from two to three inches below the surface--not more than three inches at the most. many times you will notice that you have a nice, thrifty looking plant, but that it does not bloom. nine times out of ten if you examine into the matter you will find that your plant was set from six to eight inches deep--and this is why it didn't bloom. another cause of peonies not blooming is their being planted in lawns where the soil is impoverished by the roots of large trees. the common method of propagation of established varieties is by division. grafting is resorted to by professionals in some instances, but that does not interest us here. the peony will do well in any well drained soil, though a rich sandy loam is the best. it will give splendid results in heavy clay if well cultivated and if at the blooming season in case of drouth the plants are well watered. of all soils a sandy one is the poorest for the production of bloom, although, on the contrary, for the rapid production of roots the lighter soils are ideal. such soils not only produce roots much more rapidly than the heavier soils, but produce a root that divides easier and to better advantage. but it is with the cultivation of the plant that we are most interested. as i have said before, no plant will stand more abuse than the peony and still give fairly good results, but if given a good soil and then good cultivation we have no flower that will give us more satisfaction for the care we give it. when grown in large numbers peonies should be planted, if possible, so that the plants can be cultivated with a horse. deep cultivation seems to bring the best flowers. where we can give horse cultivation we start the cultivator just as early in the spring as we can. as a rule we start by the middle of april and keep it going through the plants once a week at least, and oftener if necessary, right up to the time when the buds start to open. cultivation here ceases until the blooming season is over and is then resumed often enough to destroy all weeds up to the first of august. we use one and two-horse cultivators and run the shovels to within three or four inches of the plants and two to three inches deep. but few of us can cultivate in this way. field cultivating methods are hard to apply to the lawn and garden. but we may get the same results in other ways. clumps of peonies on the lawn should be so planted that a cultivated space encircling the plant at least a foot wide is left. this space should be covered in the fall with a mulch of well rotted barnyard manure which should be forked or spaded into the soil in the spring. and the soil about the plant should be thoroughly forked over, to a depth of two to four inches, three or four times before the blooming season. where the plants are planted in borders and beds in the garden, mulch and cultivate in the same way, stirring the soil all about and between the plants. care should be taken in applying the manure mulch not to get it directly over the plant if the tops have been cut back. the stems are hollow as they die out in the fall, and thawing snow and occasional rains of winter leach the strength out of the manure, and this filters down through these hollow stems and comes in contact with the roots and rots them. for the sake of protection the peony needs no winter mulch. for this latitude it is perfectly hardy. after the blooming season cut all the blossom stems back to the leaves for looks. do not cut the leaf stalk back until about the middle of september. by that time the plant is dormant, and all top growth can be removed with perfect safety. most of us are willing to spend this time and labor if we get results and to get the best results with peonies we must have good varieties. of named peonies there are somewhere in the neighborhood of , varieties. large collections now catalogue all the way from to sorts. from such collections it is hard for those not thoroughly familiar with the merits of the varieties to make an intelligent selection of moderate priced peonies for a small planting. for people so situated i make the following suggestion of varieties: _white_: candissima, festiva maxima, duchess de nemours, duke of wellington, couronne d'or, queen victoria, avalanche, madam de verneville, mons dupont, marie lemoine. _pink_: edulis superba, model de perfection, monsieur jules elie, livingston, mathilde de roseneck, alexander dumas. _light pink_: eugene verdier, delicatissima, marguerite gerard, dorchester eugene verdier. _red_: richard carvel, felix crousse, meissonier, rachel, delachii, purpurea superba and rubra superba. so much for the old peonies. now to the new ones. and the question naturally comes, why any new ones? with over , varieties shouldn't we be satisfied? no! many of the varieties catalogued might be eliminated, and we should be the gainer thereby. i believe i am safe in saying that if the present list were cut down to sorts it would cover all the varieties worth while. and there is such a great chance for improvement! so many beautiful varieties coming to us of late years beckon us on. crousse, dessert and lemoine have set the pace, and we of america will not be left behind. [illustration: looking up the rows of a bed of our seedlings three years after transplanting. the white variety in the centre of the picture is frances willard, considered by us one of the world's best whites. at the time this picture was taken, the flowers were just opening, so one gets no idea of the size of the blooms after they open.] either eighteen or nineteen years ago my father definitely set about the bringing forth of a line of new peonies. for years he had been experimenting with seedling apples. his immense collection of peonies gave him the idea of producing something better along that line. a great bed was planted out from which to collect seed. hundreds of the best varieties obtainable were planted in this bed, two of each variety, with a very liberal use of the three varieties, edulis superba, fragrans and triumph de l'ex. de lille. some twelve varieties of the most vigorous singles of all colors were also used. bees and the elements were allowed to do the cross-fertilizing. in the fall of the first seed, amounting in all to about a peck, was harvested and planted. this seed was allowed to dry and was planted just before it froze up, directly into the field where the plants were to remain and bloom. the seed was planted about two inches deep, in rows two feet apart, with the seeds six inches apart in the row. immediately after the ground froze a two-inch mulch of coarse slough hay was spread all over the field. this was removed in the spring and the field kept perfectly clean that season by hand weeding, as cultivation could not be practiced. no seed germinated that year. that fall the ground was again mulched, and this mulch removed early the next, or second, spring. this second season just as soon as nature began to quicken the little peonies began to pierce the soil. standing at one end of the field and looking down the rows one could fairly see the little fellows burst forth from their long confinement and thrust their little red heads in serried ranks through the brown earth. they reminded one of line upon line of miniature red-coated soldiers on parade. a fourteen-tooth planet jr. horse cultivator was immediately started amongst them, and intense cultivation given the bed that season. by the end of the growing season the little plants were from two to four inches high. the next spring, the third from the planting of the seed, the young plants burst through the ground strong and robust. cultivation was started immediately, as during the season before, and the plants made rapid growth. by the middle of may, most of them were eight inches high with an abundance of foliage. we noticed a few buds appear this season. the strong, vigorous development of the buds, of one plant in particular, continued to claim our attention, and we watched it with intense interest. day by day the buds grew larger, and then finally a day came when the first petal lifted, and the next morning the petals spread forth in all their glory. it was a gem, we realized we had something first class. my father said after he had studied it a while, "it pays me for all my time, and money, and work. if i never get another as good i shall be satisfied." it was a beautiful dark red, very early, as good a red as terry's rachel. we named it richard carvel. six other plants bloomed that season. one was of the japanese type. the others singles. by the next spring the small plants were well established, and we knew by their vigorous growth that we might expect the most of them to bloom that season. thorough cultivation was given from the start, and by the middle of may the bed was covered with a mass of buds. june came. the blooming season was at hand. slowly the buds began to show color. here and there over the field a petal began to lift. a short space of anxious waiting, and then a day came when it seemed as if the bed had been touched by a hand of magic, for from one end to the other it was one solid blaze of color. before us were thousands upon thousands of flowers and no two alike. as quick as the flowers began to open we started to grade and mark them. it took two men working steadily for a week to inspect and mark this bed. everything that looked choice was marked no. . everything that looked as though it stood a chance of coming choice, if given a better chance, was marked no. . all other doubles were marked double with their color. and all singles were marked single with their color. when the digging season came those marked nos. and were lifted and divided and each planted in a bed specially prepared for them. each sort was staked. these plants were set in rows three and one-half feet apart and three feet apart in the row. intense cultivation was given them for three years. the performance of each sort was recorded for each year. at the end of the third year those sorts which had come good two years out of the three were again lifted and planted in another soil and watched closely for another period of three years. this gave us a pretty definite knowledge of their behavior, made us acquainted with them. it toned down, as i might say, the enthusiasm with which we first selected them, allowed of our making careful comparison with the best sorts, and finally enabled us to keep what were really choice. we did not have any need for the others. of the ones first selected as no. from the seed bed, about thirty-five in number, we finally kept eight; of those marked no. , about sixty. we afterwards selected two as first class. those plants simply marked double in the seed bed were planted in a regular field bed by themselves. each plant was divided and staked. this bed was allowed to stand three years and the plants were carefully noted each year as they bloomed for varieties that we might have accidentally overlooked in the seed bed. among these thousands of plants we found two sorts which we called first class. one of these, though it is sixteen years since the seed was planted, we are just about to send out. i have given you the history of this single bed because it shows about how the seedling peony must be handled. we have since varied our method in handling in a single respect. we no longer plant our seed direct in the field. we find it much better to plant broadcast in seed beds. these are much more economical to keep clean the first year. after the little seedlings are one year old or, better, after they are two years old, we lift them in september and plant them in a permanent bed. [illustration: our seedling harriet farnsley, a very late all one color pink. this variety is in bloom at the same time as richardson's rubra grandiflora, at a time when most good peonies are gone. the flower from which this photo was taken measured seven inches across.] now if any of you are tempted to grow peonies from seed let me warn you not to get too enthusiastic in anticipating results. the chances are that out of every , will have to be discarded. test thoroughly before you decide to keep. the flower my father and i both decided our best when it first bloomed we no longer keep. our best flower is one we took no particular notice of the first two years it blossomed. but do not let me discourage you. though eight or ten choice varieties may seem small returns, still there is a pleasure in the work that you cannot fail but feel. and when you go forth into your fields after your stocks of better sorts have increased so that you can have each kind blooming about you in long rows, and as you see first this beautiful variety and then that come into bloom, you feel well repaid for the years of waiting and the labor you have bestowed upon them. mr. brand: a great many people ask the question whether just as soon as the peony has blossomed they cannot cut the top off. it would be a great mistake to do so. your peony growth does not complete its development until about the middle of september, and if you cut the top off just as soon as the plant has blossomed you are going to have a great many of them rot. we had a very striking illustration of this two years ago. just as our peony season was closing we had a severe hailstorm which cut our peony beds right off down to the ground. we couldn't save the tops if we had wanted to. that fall when we dug our roots it was almost impossible to fill our orders, because the roots were in such terrible shape. the tops were removed before they ought to have been. talking about disappointments with peonies, i think the peony i was most impressed with of all the seedlings we have had came good but once. that was eleven or twelve years ago. as i look back upon it i think this was the most beautiful flower we ever grew, but it never came good but that once. i was so impressed with its beauty that i took it from where it bloomed in the seedbed and planted it at my house in the garden. when it came on to bloom, it was a disappointment and has been such ever since. i still keep it, hoping that some year it may bloom again as it did that first year. mr. harrison: not a bit of it. they are the most lying vegetable on the face of the earth. may i ask if mr. peterson, of chicago, is here? he is an expert peony man. i presume we will all like to hear from him. mr. peterson: i haven't anything to add; if you want to ask questions i will be glad to answer them. the president: ladies and gentlemen, you probably know that mr. peterson is one of the expert peony men of the united states. in fact, as far as fifteen years back we were able to get some of the newer and better varieties from this gentleman. i never had the pleasure of meeting him, but we want to meet you, mr. peterson. you have all heard of mr. peterson, the peony man of chicago and a life member of this society. (applause.) mr. peterson: i have nothing to add. i have been in the game a good many years. we have systematically kept track of over three hundred varieties since , so that it may be if you have any questions to ask i might be able to answer them, and i would be glad to. the proposition that mr. brand has stated is actually within the facts. we have raised thousands of seedlings, and not one of them do we now grow. you see some of the peterson seedlings listed in other people's catalogues, but i don't have one myself. a member: what kind of varieties would you suggest for the ordinary home garden, best dozen varieties? mr. peterson: i would name for the white peonies, the madam de verneville, avalanche, couronnes d'or; of the pale pink, delicatissima, marie crousse, grandiflora; of the red, monsieur martin cohuzac, monsieur krelage, felix crousse; of the deep pink, modeste guerin, m. jules elie and claire dubois. i do think that mr. brand has some of exceptional merit that will probably be put in the red class. i don't know his others, but felix crousse is undoubtedly the best of its type in the red. a member: have you tried out the baroness schroeder? mr. peterson: i surely have. it is very fine, but it is a little changeable, not only in its habits but in its shade. if you want a perfect white, it isn't that, it is a nearly flesh white. i would say that the madame emile lemoine is finer. a member: do you advise spraying for them? mr. peterson: no, but i tell you what was asked of me today, which is the secret of having no disease in our plants. any two-year-old plant in our field that doesn't bloom, we dig it up and throw it away, and that will nip any trouble in the bud, and then you will not get any strain that is not blooming. if we see any other defect, any that won't head good, we take it up and throw it away. that one point i think all of you can well follow, and that is, to dig up every two-year-old plant that doesn't bloom and throw it away, that is, during the blooming season. mr. harrison: some varieties will bloom and some won't. you have got to punish the whole on account of the few? mr. peterson: i do that. if i have a two-year-old plant that is blooming in a section i keep it and follow it up. mr. harrison: any special rule about multiplying or dividing? mr. peterson: no, except to divide in september, even possibly the last week of august, and the earlier they are divided at that time when the eyes are large, the better it is. * * * * * can fruit without sugar.--_canning specialists say boiling water may be used instead of sirup._ fruit for use in pies or salads or as stewed fruit can be put up or canned without the use of any sugar at all, according to the canning specialists of the department. they, therefore, advise those who, because of the high price of sugar, have been thinking of reducing the amount of fruit they put up to can as much of their surplus as possible by the use of boiling water when sugar sirup is beyond their means. any fruit, they say, may be successfully sterilized and retained in the pack by simply adding boiling water instead of the hot sirup. the use of sugar, of course, is desirable in the canning of all kinds of fruits and makes a better and ready sweetened product. moreover, most of the fruits when canned in water alone do not retain their natural flavor, texture and color as well as fruit put up in sirup. fruit canned without sugar to be used for sauces or desserts must be sweetened. fruit retail methods and costs. clarence w. moomaw and m.m. stewart, fruit and produce marketers, portland, oregon. on studying the various phases of city apple marketing, special attention was given to retail methods and costs. the purpose of this study was chiefly to learn whether the wholesale supply controls the price. the cost of operation as a factor in determining retail prices also was investigated as far as possible. retail apple distributors may be classed as follows: (a) fruit-stand vendors. (b) fancy grocers, fruiterers, etc., catering almost exclusively to high-class or fashionable trade and doing a very extensive credit business. (c) grocers catering to a cheaper class of trade, largely upon a cash basis. (d) hucksters or street peddlers. relatively high prices were charged for apples purchased at fruit stands. extra fancy northwestern and colorado jonathans were sold to the dealers during october and november at prices ranging from $ to $ . per box. apples which grade to the box retailed at two for five cents, or $ . per box. this meant a gross profit of about per cent. in the ninety-six size, extra fancy jonathans sold at three for ten cents, or $ . per box, showing a gross profit of about per cent. in the east side tenement section of new york city it was learned that by reason of the cheap prices prevailing and the heavy supply of apples arriving the peddlers were operating to the detriment of fruit stands. the fruit-stand dealers were selling only about one-third to one-half the quantity of fruit handled in former seasons. the pushcart and wagon peddlers as a rule buy packed or loose fruit cheap and go direct to the homes of the residents, selling at prices considerably below the fruit-stand men. the peddlers handle a large quantity, make quick cash sales, and pay no rents. other dealers incur heavy operating expenses and generally sell not for the purpose of moving a large quantity, but for the highest price obtainable. consequently, the movement is restricted. the largest profits were found usually in barreled apples. for instance, new york b grade, two inches minimum, approximately apples to the barrel, sold for a cent each or $ per barrel. these apples cost the retail dealer not over $ per barrel delivered to his store, allowance being made for jobber's profit and drayage. the investigator saw "a grade" fruit, - / inches minimum, averaging about apples per barrel, which cost the retailer not over $ , being displayed for sale at two for five cents, or $ . per barrel. such prices prevailed at no less than twenty-five retail stores visited in one day. apples were being offered for sale at retail all over new york city at prices ranging from one cent each at the cheap corner fruit stands, to fifty cents and eighty cents per dozen at the fanciest fruit stores. in general, it may be said that the gross profits of fruit-stand vendors range from to per cent. operating expenses other than rent in most cities except new york are not relatively high and all sales are on a strictly cash basis; hence the net profits on good fruit are large. grocers catering to high-class trade buy only the best apples. extra fancy jonathans, grimes, etc., preferably 's and 's size, were purchased at $ to $ . per box. these apples were taken from the box and repacked in small splint trays similar to the peach basket used in a six-basket carrier. each box of apples filled approximately ten trays. each tray sold for thirty cents; hence the box brought $ , representing a gross profit of about $ . . extra fancy delicious and winter banana, 's size, purchased at $ per box, retailed at five cents each, or $ . per box. other sizes and varieties brought corresponding prices. no attempt was made by this class of grocers to stimulate consumption by temporarily reducing prices. the retail prices quoted above were maintained consistently throughout the season, regardless of prevailing jobbing prices. the large margins charged by the retailers, for the most part, were due apparently to the small amount of business handled, the perishable nature of the commodity, and the cost of operation. an elaborate and efficient delivery service must be maintained by the grocers, and many small deliveries are made each day at an actual loss to the dealer. a large proportion of the grocery-store patrons buy on credit and pay when it becomes convenient. many of these accounts are never paid. hence it becomes apparent that the good customer who pays his bill regularly each week, or who pays cash, must suffer for the shortcomings of others. however, there can be little doubt that reducing prices would materially increase consumption and in the end result in equally good profits for the dealers. reduced prices and better business practice should prove to be very beneficial to grower, dealer and consumer. the profits derived from the sale of cheaper grades of apples to the poorer class of consumers are not so large. it was learned that those catering to such trade operated on a margin of to per cent. of the purchase price. raspberries. f. c. erkel, fruit grower, rockford. raspberries are so easily grown it is surprising we do not find more farmers and back lot gardeners in the city giving them attention. i believe more people would raise raspberries if they could be made to realize what great returns they would receive for a little work and care. as a commercial proposition raspberries are the poor man's friend, yielding large returns with very small investment and requiring but little land. i will attempt to give a few essentials in raspberry culture without going into detail, with the hopes that at least a few more patches of raspberries may be planted as a result of my effort. with the main points of raspberry culture given, there is no reason why any one with ordinary intelligence can not solve the details and meet with success. raspberries have a little advantage over strawberries with the man who is not greatly enthused over small fruit culture. when once established the plantings do not have to be renewed annually but with ordinary care will last several years, in fact they will stand more junegrass sod and weeds and general neglect and still produce results than anything else i know of unless it is apple trees. another point in favor of raspberries over strawberries is that it is not quite so hard on the back to pick them, and when large quantities are grown it is easier to get pickers. red raspberries will succeed on most any kind of soil so long as it is kept reasonably well fertilized and supplied with humus. they prefer a moist loam, and a northern slope is preferable to a southern slope because not so quickly affected by drought. good drainage is necessary, and if planted on low ground where water is liable to stand at any time the ground should be tiled or otherwise drained. raspberries may be planted either in the fall or spring, or the plants may be dug in the fall, heeled in outside, covered with mulch, or they may be stored in the cellar and planted in spring. plants bought from a nursery in the spring should be unpacked immediately on arrival, the roots dipped in thin mud, then heeled in until permanently planted, even if the delay is but a day or two. the tops of the plants should be cut, leaving but a few inches, and if any blossoms appear the first season it would be better to remove them to prevent fruiting. it would be expecting too much of a newly transplanted plant to make much of any growth and produce fruit the same season. if allowed to fruit the first season but little fruit could be expected at best, and it would leave the plant dwarfed if indeed it were not killed outright. the suckers that come up the first season will produce the next season's crop, after which they die down and should be removed, other suckers taking their places annually. not over two or three suckers should be allowed to each plant the first year; after the first year leave five to eight in each hill, depending on the kind of soil, fertility, etc. when plants are cheap and plentiful it is customary to use two in each hill to insure a good stand the first year, but it is reasonable to expect, however, where there are two root systems in each hill instead of one that in after years there would be more troublesome suckers to remove than if there was but one root in each hill, and this is no small matter with some varieties. to obtain planting stock large clusters of roots may be divided to propagate from, but these usually have but few fibrous roots and are not as good as first year's growth suckers, springing from roots near the parent plant. red raspberries may also be propagated from root cuttings or even from seeds, the latter not coming true to variety, however. plantings should preferably be made on ground plowed the fall previous, but spring plowed ground will answer if thoroughly disced, harrowed and planked and then repeated, to make the ground firm. if the ground is poor add a liberal dressing of well decayed barnyard dressing before plowing, or if not well decayed wait until after planting to apply the manure. future cultivations will mix the dressing with the surface soil where the roots will be able to reach it, since raspberry plants are close surface feeders, and for this reason all cultivations should be shallow after the root system has formed. when the matted row system of planting is adopted, the late prof. green advised using a heavy mulch for two feet on each side of the rows to preserve moisture and discourage weed growth close to the plants, cultivating only a strip through the middle. raspberries may be planted in rows five or six feet apart to allow cultivation both ways, or in rows seven feet apart with plants two or three feet apart in the rows with the idea of allowing a matted row and cultivating but one way after the first season. the matted row is hardly to be recommended unless one is willing to use a hoe rather freely to keep the plants free from weeds where the cultivator can not reach them, or unless he can provide a good, deep mulch to discourage weed growth. rows should preferably run north and south, so the fruit will be shaded during the middle of the day, but this is not absolutely necessary. in setting the plants place them just a little deeper than they grew originally, carry them to the field in pails of water or thin mud, avoiding exposure of the roots to the air unprotected, but do not use water in the holes unless the ground is extremely dry. firm the ground well close to the plant, and cultivate between rows all summer to preserve moisture, whether weeds are troublesome or not, up to september st and be sure to cultivate shallow after the roots begin to occupy the ground. hills that grow exceedingly tall and rank may be cut back to about two and a half feet in height in the spring, or if one is willing to take the trouble to pinch off the end of the plants at this height during the growing season they will get bushy plants better able to hold up a load of fruit--besides cutting back has a tendency to produce larger fruit. we only grow two varieties of red raspberries, both of which are perfectly hardy without winter covering, so we have no suggestions to make or experiences to relate regarding winter protection. i am afraid i would be tempted to quit the business if i had to cover our raspberry bushes for winter protection. i think it would be as big a task as all the rest of the work combined except picking, and i let some one else do that part. for a home garden it is even more desirable to select a variety that is hardy without winter covering than when grown in a commercial way, for this is one of the tasks that is liable to be neglected unless one makes a business of it. in choosing a variety the other qualities to look for besides hardiness without winter covering are size, color, flavor, prolificacy and good shipping qualities. we are located only twenty-five miles northwest of minneapolis, and one would naturally suppose we would market our berries there, but we get better prices in towns along the soo railroad in western minnesota and the dakotas. although our berries are a variety that crumble unless left on the bushes until ripe they do not spoil readily, which is probably due to the fact they are quite acid, and we ship to points in north dakota nearly as far west as chicago is east of us with very little loss. wherever our berries have been introduced they have made friends, and there is hardly ever a time that we do not have standing orders for two or three times as many berries as we can furnish. we usually ship in flat cases, two boxes deep, twenty-four pints to a crate, which brought us $ . , $ . and $ . per crate net, f.o.b. shipping point. there is but one other berry grower near us, so we do not have much difficulty in getting pickers. the first year we built a couple of small cottages to accommodate people from the city who might care to combine berry picking with a few days' outing, and it was surprising what a good class this proposition appealed to, but we now have enough local pickers to care for our crop. the profits in raspberry culture vary all the way from little or nothing above cost of production up to several hundred dollars per acre, depending on the season and how well cared for. whether raspberry culture is a money making proposition or not in a commercial way, there certainly is no good reason why every farm or city garden should not have at least a few hills of raspberries for home use. even leaving the matter of cost out of the question, there is a difference between fruit just off the bushes and that which has stood around in hot, dusty places several hours or longer waiting for a purchaser. try it and be convinced! * * * * * to inoculate seed.--coating the seed of legumes with inoculated soil before planting is a simple method of insuring soil inoculation at slight cost. county agents in illinois have found ordinary furniture glue effective in holding particles of inoculated soil to the seeds. this method gives each individual seed some of the particles of inoculated soil, which it carries with it when it is planted. the scheme requires but a small amount of inoculated soil and costs but a few cents an acre. the method is described in farmers' bulletin of the u.s. department of agriculture. dissolve two handfuls of furniture glue for every gallon of boiling water and allow the solution to cool. put the seed in a washtub and then sprinkle enough of the solution on the seed to moisten but not to wet it (one quart per bushel is sufficient) and stir the mixture thoroughly until all the seed are moistened. secure the inoculated soil from a place where the same kind of plants as the seed are growing, making sure that the roots have a vigorous development of nodules. dry the soil in the shade, preferably in the barn or basement, and pulverize it thoroughly into a dust. scatter this dust over the moistened seed, using from one half to one gallon of dirt for each bushel of seed, mixing thoroughly until the seed no longer stick together. the seed are then ready to sow. the flower garden. (an exercise led by g. c. hawkins, florist, minneapolis, at the annual meeting.) mr. hawkins: we have a question box and i would be glad to have any one use it or rise and state their question. i will answer, giving my experience. the first question i will read is--"what would you advise about covering in the garden in a season like this?" there are now two questions to be answered. first, what kind of covering? second, how much? the first question can be answered this way. every garden is benefited by a good covering of well decayed manure. second. any light covering of straw or horse manure with plenty of straw in it is very good. leaves make a good covering if they can be kept dry, but leaves when not covered get wet, pack down over a plant and too often do more damage than good. the advantage of covering, or mulching, is to prevent thawing and freezing. to keep plants frozen from fall until spring would be ideal. the ideal winter is one when the snow falls early and stays on during the winter. we should cover lightly the plants that need protection, and when the snow falls, as a warm blanket, the plants will come through the winter in perfect shape. mr. hawkins: we have a question box and would be glad to have any one use it, or rise and ask your question, and we will endeavor to answer it and give our experience along that line. mr. horton: what would you advise for plants that are infected with aphis? mr. hawkins: spraying is one of the best things and for that we use a weak tobacco solution, so as to moisten the plants, a light mist will do the work. i want to tell a little experience in growing peonies. last year i tried the experiment of using ground bone around them, which is one of the best fertilizers we have. it contains nearly all the elements of a perfect fertilizer. just as soon as the little joints come out of the ground, dig a trench about three inches from the main bush, about two inches deep and fill with ground bone and watch the result. i carried this plan out with wonderful success, getting perfect blossoms on twenty-five bushes. it takes bone about thirty days to commence to dissolve. the day of the automobile has brought need for a new fertilizer, and we must carefully select the best that can be had. we must turn back again to the green crops and the artificial fertilizers. this also works well with roses. mr. reckstrom: would bone do that was bought for the chickens? mr. hawkins: yes. you understand the finer the particles the quicker it commences to dissolve. a member: where can ground bone be obtained? mr. hawkins: all first class seedsmen have it from small packages of ten pounds to pound sacks. mr. bell: i tried hardwood ashes, and that seemed to be the best thing i struck. there were some shrub lilacs that didn't blossom. one winter i just put the ashes right on, probably a bushel around the one large bush. after that i had plenty of blossoms. on peonies and roses the result seems to be very good. [illustration: residence of g. c. hawkins, fremont avenue south, minneapolis.] mr. hawkins: no question but what ashes are very fine, for the simple reason the potash in hardwood ashes is a very good fertilizer. i would like to ask some one to give his experience in regard to rust on the tiger lily and the phlox. the perennial phlox is one of the most beautiful flowers we have, and there has been considerable trouble this year with a rust which takes all the leaves off the stalk and is injurious to the blossoms. i did not find any successful remedy for it, and i would be very glad if some member would give his experience. mrs. sawyer: i think you will find bordeaux mixture is good as anything for the rust on phlox. there is another mixture given for use in the english gardens, but their conditions are not the same as ours. it seems that changing the location of the phlox may do it good. phlox is a plant that wants free circulation of air. sometimes they get crowded in the garden, and a combination of heat and moisture produces the rust. by changing them to some other ground sometimes it entirely disappears. mr. hawkins: mrs. sawyer thinks this would be a remedy, as they require a circulation of fresh air and keep down moisture. we know this, phlox should be divided every third year. if you lift some you will find in the middle a woody dry substance absolutely detrimental to a large, healthy growing phlox. if you take off the little plants that come at the outside of this and replant them you will find your flowers will be much larger the next year. if we leave bunches of phlox in the same place successive years they become small. if you separate them it will add vigor to your plant, and the flowers will do better. i would like to ask what success you have had with growing tritoma, the flame flower? have you had any difficulty in raising them? mrs. tillotson: i have one blossom that seemed to take such a long time to get above the ground i wondered what was the matter with it. mr. hawkins: mrs. gould, can you give us any enlightenment? mrs. gould: i never raised them, i got some bulbs this year. i know you have to take them up in the winter and store them like gladiolus, and they do not require very heavy soil. mrs. countryman: will yucca filamentosa ever blossom in a garden in st. paul? mrs. sawyer: it will, but it doesn't always. it does blossom in minnesota, but i know that people have a great deal of difficulty getting blossoms. mrs. countryman: i have five plants growing four years and have never seen a blossom yet. mr. hawkins: i have had two growing three years, and i never have seen the color of a blossom yet. a member: what kind is that? mr. hawkins: it is the yucca filamentosa. it is an evergreen. it should throw up a tall stalk with large branches and plenty of white flowers, i think hundreds of flowers--that is the description. it is a beautiful thing in the garden anyway. mrs. countryman: i have seen them in blossom in california. mr. richardson: i have seen them blossom many times in winnebago. mrs. countryman: give us the culture instructions. mr. richardson: i grew in nursery rows some odd stuff, had the same culture that the nursery had. but when it blossomed one year i have been told on good authority it would be five years before that stalk would blossom again, only blossoms once in five years, but by having many stalks they don't all blossom at the same time. i have had them two or three years in succession but not on the same stalk. mrs. countryman: do you cover them winters? mr. richardson: never. mr. hawkins: i think the only reason why the yucca filamentosa doesn't do well is because it is a plant of the southwest and grows in a warmer climate. mrs. sawyer: i had a varied experience in growing those plants, and i took a great deal of pains to learn all i could from different sources and different people, and i believe our trouble is our late frosts, i think that is conceded by people who have really gone into the question thoroughly. our late frosts injure them more than anything else. a little protection in the spring is what they need more than protection in winter, and we know that they don't want a wet place. mr. hawkins: i want to recommend a flower that should be very popular. it is perfectly hardy, blossoms for years, the hardy pyrethrum. it is a daisy-like flower, absolutely free from insects and a sure bloomer. we have plants in the garden that have bloomed six years. it comes in many shades, from white to deep crimson, blooms from the th of may to the st of july and makes a beautiful showing. in regard to iris, did any one have any trouble with their iris coming a little ahead of time last year and being frozen? mrs. sawyer: i guess they all froze off. i don't think it was because they were ahead of time; it was because of the frost. mr. hawkins: what would you recommend? mrs. sawyer: i don't think there is anything to do in weather like last spring, you can't cover anything away from a hard black frost like that was. [illustration: g. c. hawkins, of minneapolis.] mr. hawkins: we have several hundred plants on a southern slope, and i thought perhaps the sun beating against the southern slope is what started them earlier. mrs. sawyer: ours weren't on a southern slope, pretty near level, rather north than anything else, and they got frozen. a member: what causes the rot in the iris? mr. hawkins: that depends upon the kind of iris. with the bulbous rooted iris, the bulb is filled full of water during the heavy rains, and if you add more water to it it simply decays. the siberian and many of the fibrous rooted iris will stand a great deal of water. a member: does the german? mr. hawkins: the german is a bulbous root. as i said, it takes all the moisture it needs. that is one reason why iris never wilts down in a dry spell. it always looks fresh and green. a member: i would like to say it is well not to plant the iris deep. the natural iris will lie almost on top of the ground, and they like to have the sun beat down on them. the iris likes to bask in the sun. mr. hawkins: this would prove to you that the bulb takes enough water to support it and doesn't need any more because it rests on the top and basks in the sun. has any one tried anything new in the garden that will stand our climate? mrs. norton: i would suggest that hardy alum-root, or heuchera. it is a perfectly hardy perennial, can stand our worst winters without any covering, and it grows about so high from the ground (indicating two or three feet), with its geranium-like leaves, and the flower grows about three feet high, all covered with pink bells on the stems. it is a very decorative plant and perfectly hardy. i think it has been much neglected in the northwest because it is so perfectly hardy and it increases very rapidly. i have over one hundred. mr. hawkins: i would like mrs. gibbs to say a word. mrs. gibbs: the only thing i can say is that i enjoy being around among other people's gardens. i think that is one of the best places to find out things that we want; so many times we buy something that sounds well, but when we have it planted it doesn't look as well. i think one of the best ways is to visit gardens and especially those that use labels. a member: i would like to ask about the trollius. mr. hawkins: has any one had experience in raising trollius? mrs. gould: i have had experience in not raising them. i planted three years, and after getting the seeds from all the seedsmen i discovered in a book on plants that the seed would have to be in the ground two years in order to germinate. i didn't know that and left them in only a few months. i think the only way is to buy the plants. it is a very beautiful plant, yellow and shaped like golden glow, belongs to the same family as the buttercup. a member: i would like to ask about the hollyhocks. i saw such beautiful hollyhocks around lake minnetonka and i have never been able to make them winter. i would like to ask about that. mr. hawkins: we have three plants, hollyhocks, digitalis and canterbury bells, and nearly all have the same trouble with them. if we mulch them we are liable to have the center decay and the plants practically useless. it is a question of mulching them too much or not mulching them. i would like to have you speak up and tell us your experience. i have in mind a gentleman who raises splendid hollyhocks in the neighborhood of the lakes. takes no care of them, and yet he had one this year seventeen feet high, which took care of itself and had any amount of blossoms. i tried that experiment several years myself of mulching them, and the crown rotted. these are three of the best flowers of the garden, and we ought to have some certain way of keeping them. a member: have you ever tried mulching them with corn stalks? mr. hawkins: yes, i have tried it but lost them. a member: i had very good luck with them that way. a member: it is more a question of drainage than of mulching. mr. hawkins: that might be. mrs. gould: i wish simply to say that the trouble with winter grown hollyhocks and canterbury bells is that they will head so tall and must be kept dry. i always cover the hollyhocks and if i had the others i think i would cover them. i uncover mine early in the spring, and if it gets cold put on a little more straw. you are almost sure to uncover them the wrong time. with foxgloves i think it is almost unnecessary to cover them. mr. hawkins: in our gardens the hollyhocks form one of the best backgrounds we can have, beautiful, tall, stately stalks, and the canterbury bells, certainly nothing more beautiful than they. then we come to the other, the digitalis, which is equally as beautiful. we must give our attention to the protection and growth of these in years to come because they are three of the beautiful things of the garden. it has been suggested that digitalis be potted and put inside the cold frame and leaves put over them. i think leaves are a splendid protection if you can keep them dry. if i were using them as a mulch i would keep out the water by covering with roofing paper to keep them dry. mrs. countryman: i am told on good authority that the hollyhock is a true perennial and not a biennial. mrs. white: it is listed in the foreign catalogs as both a perennial and a biennial. mrs. countryman: wouldn't the hollyhock come under the heading of being perennial but not a permanent perennial? mr. hawkins: it might be classed that way. there seems to be a difference of opinion as to just what it is. i have known them to come six or seven years in the same spot. * * * * * tie trap for rabbits.--an inexpensive and permanent sewer tile trap for cottontail rabbits has proved very effective in kansas. to make the trap, proceed as follows: "set a by -inch 't' sewer tile with the long end downward, and bury it so that the -inch opening at the side is below the surface of the ground. connect two lengths of -inch sewer pipe horizontally with the side opening. second grade or even broken tile will do. cover the joints with soil so as to exclude light. provide a tight removable cover, such as an old harrow disk, for the top of the large tile. the projecting end of the small tile is then surrounded with rocks, brush, or wood, so as to make the hole look inviting to rabbits and encourage them to frequent the den. rabbits, of course, are free to go in or out of these dens, which should be constructed in promising spots on the farm and in the orchard. a trained dog will locate inhabited dens. the outlet is closed with a disk of wood on a stake, or the dog guards the opening. the cover is lifted and the rabbits captured by hand. "these traps are especially suitable for open lands and prairies, where rabbits cannot find natural hiding places. they are permanent and cost nothing for repairs from year to year. if it is desired to poison rabbits, the baits may be placed inside these traps, out of the way of domestic animals or birds. this trap also furnishes an excellent means of obtaining rabbits for the table, or even for market."--u.s. dept. of agri. blueberry culture. u.s. dept. of agriculture. blueberries thrive best on soils which are so acid that they are usually considered almost worthless for ordinary agricultural purposes. blueberry culture, therefore, offers possibilities of profit to individual land-owners in districts in which the general conditions are especially hard and unpromising. blueberries can not be grown in ordinary fertile soils. although frequently confused, especially in the south and in the middle west, blueberries and huckleberries are quite distinct. in new england the name "huckleberry" is restricted to berries which contain large seeds with bony coverings like minute peach pits which crackle between the teeth, while the name "blueberry" is applied to various species of berries containing many but very small seeds. it is the latter, not the large-seeded huckleberry, which offers possibilities for profitable culture. at the present stage of the blueberry industry it is best to begin by transplanting the most promising wild bushes, selecting them for the size, flavor, color and earliness of the berry as well as for the vigor and productiveness of the bush. these plants can be propagated in various ways, which are described in detail in a professional paper of the department, bulletin no. , by frederick v. coville. the aim of the cultivator should be to secure bushes which will produce large berries. these cost less to pick than small ones and bring a higher price on the market. a berry eleven-sixteenths of an inch in diameter has already been produced under field culture. the three fundamental requirements for successful blueberry culture are: ( ) an acid soil, especially one composed of peat and sand; ( ) good drainage and thorough aeration of the surface soil; and ( ) permanent but moderate soil moisture. next in importance to these essentials is a location such that the berries may reach the market without delay. the best prices are obtained about the beginning of the wild blueberry season. the main crop of wild blueberries comes from northern new england, canada and northern michigan. a location to the south of these areas where the berries will mature earlier is, therefore, to be desired for the commercial cultivator. one of the most promising districts now known is the cranberry region of new jersey, where berries mature early and the shipping facilities to the market in philadelphia, new york and boston are good. another important factor to be considered in selecting a location for a blueberry patch is the possibility of late spring freezes. for this reason the bottoms of valleys should be avoided. freezing seldom injures the blueberry plant itself, but the fruit crop is often destroyed in this way. from past observations it appears that wild blueberries growing in or around bodies of water frequently escape the injurious effects of late spring freezes, and it seems, therefore, that a flooding equipment for blueberry plantations similar to those used for cranberry bogs may, under certain circumstances, prove commercially advantageous. at the present time, however, only a beginning has been made in blueberry culture. the yield and profits in field plantations from improved bushes have not as yet been ascertained. there is, however, one small planting in indiana where complete records have been maintained for the past six years. this plantation was started in in a natural blueberry bog, which was first drained and then set with wild blueberry bushes transplanted without selection for individual productiveness or size of berries. on this plantation the yield per acre has averaged , quarts for the past six years. this average would have been somewhat higher except for the almost total failure of the crop in , due to late spring freezes. an average of - / cents a quart has been received for the berries and the net profit per acre is estimated at $ a year. in this estimate allowance has been made for interest, taxes and depreciation. the expense for weeding, cultivation, and irrigation is placed at $ an acre and the cost of picking at five cents a quart. * * * * * homemade fireless cooker.--a wooden or tin pail, lined with two thicknesses of paper and provided with a close-fitting cover, may be used for the outside container of the cooker. allow for three inches of packing on all sides and at the bottom of the pail. a gallon oyster can will serve very well for the nest, which should be wrapped on the outside next to the packing with asbestos and a piece of asbestos placed under the bottom to prevent the scorching of the packing when hot soapstones are used. shredded newspaper and excelsior make a good packing. pack this very tightly around and to the top of the nest, the top of which should be about three inches below the lid of the outside container. a piece of cardboard cut to fit inside the lard can with a circle cut out of the center around the top of the oyster can or nest will hide the packing and make a neat finish. place a three-inch cushion of unbleached muslin, stuffed tightly with excelsior, on top of the lid of the nest. when the top of the outside container is placed on and hooked down, it will be tight enough to cause a pressure. if a tin pail is used for the outside container, it may be enameled white, or a wooden pail stained brown, making a neat-looking appliance for any kitchen. regular aluminum fireless-cooker utensils may be used for cooking the food in the nest, but any kind of a vessel with a close-fitting top and one that fits closely in the nest is suitable.--u.s. dept. agri. hardy perennials. miss grace e. kimball, waltham. there has been very little in my work with hardy perennials that seems worth relating. for many years, in austin, we had iris, peonies and phlox in our garden. while my love for flowers and outdoor work led me to spend all my time, outside of office hours, in the garden, the iris and peonies, especially, never gave any trouble but grew and blossomed in the most approved fashion. with the phlox we have had more trouble, sometimes in dry seasons not getting the bloom we should, and finally, the last year we were there, losing nearly all the roots we had. i am now inclined to think that had we divided and transplanted them some years before, we would not have lost them. it was only a few years ago that i began to realize that herbaceous perennials could, with success, be planted in the fall in our climate, and it was not until two years ago that i made any attempt at fall planting. that year i was quite successful, but last year, wishing to divide as close as possible, especially with the iris, i evidently overdid the matter, with the result that i lost many of my plants. however, i learned my lesson, and this year they were not divided so closely, and i am hoping that they will come through the winter all right. with the hardy perennials easily raised from seed my first experience was with the oriental poppy. i had greatly desired to have some in the garden and, not knowing that the fall was the time to plant them, ordered some one spring. they failed to grow, so the next year i attempted to raise them from seed, starting them in the house as i did my pansy seed. but i was far from successful in that way, and having read some articles on the difficulty of raising them from seed, also learning that they should be set out in the fall, i made up my mind they were not worth bothering with. however, father suggested i might succeed by planting the seed in the shade out of doors, and even though it was quite late in the summer i got more seed and sowed it broadcast in a hedge of lilacs, syringas and so forth, kept the ground moist, and in a short time had many plants coming up. i also had ordered a few to be shipped me in the fall. by fall my seedlings were large enough to be transplanted into boxes, to be moved as we were moving from austin to waltham. with those i had ordered for fall delivery, they were moved to our new place, the boxes sunk in the ground, and the next spring put into a hedge with other plants--for while they do not stand transportation very well in the spring, i have been successful in transplanting them from one part of our grounds to another at that season. since coming to waltham i have started the seeds of the poppy, larkspur, columbine and gaillardia in a grove near the house, where they are easily kept moist. if i get the seed in early in the spring, the plants are often large enough to transplant in the fall. however i like better to plant the seed later, about the time the first blossoms from each variety have ripened their seed. the seedlings will then be large enough to withstand the winter with a little protection and ready for spring transplanting. with a comparatively small amount of work, and very ordinary care, once the plants are set out anyone can have continuous bloom from early spring until frosts come, by setting iris, peonies, phlox, columbine, poppies, larkspur, gaillardia, giant daisy and painted daisy. such a selection would make a big variety of color and form in the garden, and all but the first three kinds can be very easily raised from seed. or not wishing so many kinds, one can have flowers all summer by a careful selection of several varieties of iris, peonies and phlox. why should we grow seedling apples? isaac johnson, west union, ia. there is no work in fruit growing that has more taken my attention and given me more pleasure than the growing of seedling apples. for many years i have been of the opinion that apples for this severe climate must be grown from seed. if we succeed in growing hardy, productive and good keeping varieties, they must be native, or raised at home. by experimental work along in this line of growing fruit we have come to this conclusion that fruit trees do best grow at home. in looking over the list of apples we grow this far north, we all know that the hardiest and the most productive kind are seedlings, either from minnesota, iowa or wisconsin. minnesota has the wealthy, the banner apple; for early and late fall apple it has no equal. wisconsin has the northwestern greening and the wolf river, which are very large, showy and good market apples. we all know what mr. patten has done along in this line of growing seedlings. at the state horticultural meeting in des moines, december last, was exhibited one hundred varieties of seedlings and a large number of those, to my judgment, were good keepers and fine looking apples. hundreds and hundreds of varieties of apples have been imported from russia, and i for one have tested fifty or sixty of those russian varieties, but at the state meeting, where i exhibited seventy-seven varieties, i was able to show only three russian varieties, longfield, antinovka and volga cross. i think i have reason to ask what would we have for apples today if there had not been any seedlings raised? why does the state of minnesota offer one thousand dollars for a seedling apple tree that is as hardy as the duchess with fruit as good as the wealthy and that keeps as well as the malinda? because to get such a variety it must come from seed. planting for color effects in the garden. mrs. h. b. tillotson, minneapolis. the most attractive flower bed in my garden this year has been the one planted for a blue and white effect. from earliest spring, soon after the snow had gone, until now, october th, there has been something interesting and beautiful blooming there. in the middle of the summer it was one tangled mass of lilies, delphinium, phlox and gypsophila, their perfume filling the whole garden. as the lilies faded and the delphinium grew old and went to seed, the old stalks were cut away. the phlox and delphinium bloomed again in a little while, and in september the candidum lilies began to come through the ground, getting ready for next year. the bed is three feet wide by thirty long, and was covered last winter with loose straw and leaves, with a few cornstalks to hold them in place. early in april this was raked off and the edges of the bed made straight, for the grass always grows in a little each year. the warm sunshine soon brought out the scilla and crocus, almost carpeting the whole bed. one would not think of the other things hiding under their leaves. the forget-me-nots began to look green along the edge, and up through the fading crocus and scilla came a few straggling grape hyacinths, blue and white, and one lonely plant of the virginia cowslip (mertensia)--more could have been used with good effect, for they too disappear after awhile. the virginia cowslip staid in bloom until the forget-me-nots were a mass of blossoms, and the blue darwin tulips (pink, really, with a blue spot in the bottom of the cup, just back of them) were in all their glory. in the middle of the bed the madonna lilies, and belladona delphinium had covered the ground with green. in spots the wild violets were in blossom--they had crept in some way from the dirt--i think it had been taken from the woods near by. watching each day, for the friends i knew would soon be coming, i found the first shoots of the hardy phlox, which i knew to be g. von losburg and miss lingard. double blue bachelor buttons, self sown, were there, some transplanted to fill in the bare spots, and poppies; i didn't know what color they would be, for the wind and the birds had sown the seed; but the leaves were a beautiful grey-green, and i let them grow. i had almost given up the double baby breath (gypsophila paniculata, fl. pl.), but finally it came all the way down the bed, about every five or six feet, between the delphinium and the phlox. there were perhaps a dozen plants of phlox, a dozen of belladona delphinium and six baby breath through the middle of the bed, and on each side a row of the intense blue chinese delphinium. just outside these, and next to the forget-me-nots and tulips, are the bachelor buttons, and, coming through it all, a hundred candidum lilies, their waxy white blossoms glistening in the sunshine, and the perfume so heavy you knew they were there long before you could see them. the poppies, too, were there; they were double, like a peony, rose-pink with a white edge. i was glad i let them grow, for i don't think i ever saw a more beautiful sight. i let it all grow and bloom as long as it would, hating to touch it for fear of spoiling all. finally i was obliged to clear away the old stalks, and it looked rather bare for a time. but i brought some white asters from the reserve garden. the baron hulot gladoli were soon in bloom. the phlox sent up tiny shoots for new bloom from the base of each leaf, and the second crop of bachelor buttons came along. white schizanthus along the edge, covered up the old forget-me-nots, and funkia lilies (subcordata) threw up their buds. the delphinium all began to bloom again, the grey-green leaves of the baby breath was still there, and soon my bed was all abloom again and staid so the rest of the summer. but never did it equal the glory of those first ten days of july. the fall-bearing strawberries. charles f. gardner, nurseryman, osage, ia. (so. minn. hort. society.) there are now such excellent varieties of fall bearing strawberries on the market that a person can have no good excuse for not planting some in his garden. select the ground for the bed where you will get the whole benefit from the rays of the sun. i want no trees, bushes, or tall growing plants of any kind near the bed. the farther away, the better. the earth should be made quite rich with well rotted compost. i like the plan of preparing the bed a long time before you get ready to set your plants. you can then work the soil over, time after time, and every time kill a crop of weeds. more plants are set in the spring than any other time, but they will grow and do well if set in midsummer or any time after that up to the middle of october. get through setting in september if you can. if you set later, in october, cover the plants with a slight covering of straw as soon as planted. then afterwards, when you make a business of covering put on a little more, cover them nicely--but you are liable to kill them if you put on too much. two inches deep i find to be about the right depth to go through our ordinary winters. i mean two inches after the straw has settled. i think many persons spoil their plants, or at least injure them severely, by putting on too heavy a coat of covering. i will also tell you to beware of using horse-manure as a covering for strawberries. clean straw or hay is the best of covering. (fall planting of strawberries not advisable in minnesota.--secy.) most people do not trim the plants enough before they are set. all fruit stems should be cut off, if there are any, and the most of the old leaves removed, two or three of the youngest leaves on the plant is all that should be left. these will start right off into a vigorous growth, and you will soon have strong, healthy plants. i think it pays to put a small handful of tobacco dust on and around each hill. you can generally get it at your nearest greenhouse--or you can find out there where to send for it. get enough to put it on two or three times during the early and latter part of summer. do not select ground for your new bed that has been in strawberries; take ground that has never had strawberries on, or at least that two or three crops of some kind have been taken from it since it was covered with strawberry vines. after the plants are set, they should be well firmed; it is absolutely necessary that they should be very solid in the earth. they should not be too deep nor too shallow, one is as bad as the other. the crown buds should be in plain sight, after the ground is firmed and leveled, just in sight and no more. a little temporary hilling will do no harm, but the ground should be kept as level as possible. all cultivation should be shallow so as to not disturb the roots of the plants. this is also a very important item. just remember that every plant loosened after it is set means death to the plant if it is not reset at once. cultivate often when the ground is not too wet. keep your bed entirely free of grass and weeds. this is easily done if all work is done when it should be. the time to kill weeds is when the seed first sprouts; don't wait until the weed plants are an inch or more high; if you do you will never keep them clean, and then you will never have success in your work. [illustration: chas. f. gardner at work in his everbearing strawberry experiment grounds.] cut all fruit stems off as fast as they appear, until your plants get well rooted, and then let them bear as much as they want to. but if some plants set an unusually large number it is well to cut out part of the fruit. if rightly thinned you will increase the yield in quarts. if fruit is the main object, after the plants are well located and begin to set fruit for your main crop, they can be mulched with clean straw or hay, carefully tucked up around each hill. this will keep the fruit clean and conserve the moisture in the soil, and you can stop cultivating. if plants are the main object, then you can not use the mulching, but must keep the cultivator going between the rows. well informed growers of the strawberry plant generally have beds on purpose for fruit in one place, and in another place one to grow plants. no one will make a success in growing strawberries unless he can learn to detect the rogues that appear from time to time in strawberry patches or in the fields. these rogues are generally plants that have come up from the seed that has been scattered in one way and another over the bed. berries are stepped on and mashed, other berries are overlooked and rot on the ground, but the seed remain and germinate when the time comes for it in the spring, and some of these plants are not destroyed by cultivation or by hoeing, and soon make trouble for the grower. no seedling will be like the original plants that were first set, and many of them will be strong growing plants, good runners but worthless for fruit. when you set a new lot of plants you get some of these seedlings, and that is how the mixture comes in. i have counted one hundred and fifty seedling plants around one old plant in the spring. of course the most of these where good tillage is practised are destroyed, but some remain in spite of all you can do unless you pay the very closest attention and learn to distinguish rogues from the true named varieties. all rogues must be kept out if you keep the variety true to name. of course once in a while a rogue will prove to be a valuable variety, as was the case when mr. cooper found the pan american eighteen years ago, from which our fall varieties owe their parentage. if you want to be successful remember to keep in mind the value of constant selection and keeping your parent stock true to name. when you first set out your plants, go over them and examine them closely and see that everything is right. then remember that the first sign of a good fall bearing variety is to see it throw out fruit stalks. you can cut these off, so that the stub of the fruit stem will show that it has sent up a flower stalk. you can see the stub. in this way in a small patch you can easily keep track of them. if some plants do not throw out fruit stems, mark them so you can tell them, and if they pass the season without trying to fruit, you must refrain from setting out any of the runners that appear, or there is liability of trouble. let such plants alone for another year's trial. then if they do no better, dig them up and destroy them. once in a while they prove to be all right, but often they are worthless. learn to tell a variety by a careful examination of the plant at different times during the season. fix the general color of the leaf in your mind, its shape and size. notice whether the fruit stems are long or short, whether the blossoms are above the leaves, in plain sight, or are hidden below. are there many fruit buds to the stalk, or but few? are the blossoms pistillate or staminate? are the petals large or small? are the stamens long or short? are the anthers well or poorly formed? they should be plump and well filled before they are ready to open. is the receptacle on which the pistils sit well formed and capable of being developed into a perfect berry, or do they look ungainly in shape? are the petals pure white or slightly crimson? are there many runners, or few, or none? do the new runners bear blossoms and fruit? if so, when do they commence to bud and bloom? when do the berries begin to ripen? notice the size and shape of the fruit, also the color. you can tell much from the taste of the berry. no two varieties taste exactly alike. some are real sweet and some kinds real sour. then there are all grades between. the perfume, or fragrance, of the fruit of the common strawberry when fully ripened under proper conditions of sunlight and moisture has long been esteemed and highly appreciated by mankind in general, and in this respect the fall-bearing strawberry varies greatly. the most of the varieties excel all common kinds as to perfume and that delicate strawberry flavor which nearly everybody loves so well. once in a while a musk-scented variety is developed, like the milo on our grounds, which as yet has never been sent out. by paying close attention to these things you can soon learn to distinguish many varieties at any time during the growing season. in mr. cooper found his seedling which he called the pan american. from that small beginning there are now many varieties, perhaps thousands, that excel the parent plant, and perhaps a hundred varieties of great value. some varieties have very superior merit. i will mention a few: progressive, peerless, advance, danville, forward, prince, will, milo, nathaniel, , and there are others which might be mentioned. good reports have reached me of kinds produced at your horticultural experiment farm by prof. haralson, but i have never tried them. my private opinion is that several kinds i have not mentioned will very soon take a back seat, as the saying is. the best varieties are bound to come to the front. the best advertisement one can have is the ability to ship thousands of quarts during the whole autumn. this season we shipped , quarts, mostly sold in pint boxes. they netted us from - / to cents per pint. at home we kept them on the market during the whole season at cents per quart. we lost as many as , quarts by violent storms during the season. it was a fair season for growing plants, but there was too much water to grow the best of fruit. heredity in gladioli. g. d. black, gladiolus specialist, independence, ia. (so. minn. hort. society.) as heredity is a comparatively new word, it may be well to define it at the beginning of this paper. webster says "it is the transmission of mental or physical characteristics or qualities from parent to offspring, the tendency of an organism to reproduce the characteristics of the progenitor." most of the species of gladioli are native in the temperate zone of southern africa, where they have grown for so long a time that they will reproduce themselves in a marked degree from seeds. some have grown in the moist soils of the valleys for so many generations that they have become adapted to these conditions and will not thrive on the elevated plateaus and mountain slopes. those which are native in the higher and cooler altitudes will not grow well in the lower lands. a species or variety becomes acclimated when it is grown in one locality for several successive generations, because it is one of nature's laws that it takes on new characteristics that improve it for existence there. these characters are changing more or less during each generation on account of environment. we can not aid nature in strengthening and improving the desirable qualities unless we follow nature's laws. by crossing two varieties that have certain desirable characters in common we may be able to make these characteristics more dominant. much of the crossbreeding of the gladiolus has been done in such an unscientific manner that it is surprising that so much improvement has been made. this improvement is mostly the result of extra care and cultivation, and the selection of the best each generation. in order to retain the benefit of any extra care and cultivation it has to pass on as a heritage to the succeeding generation and is there incorporated among its characteristics. each generation should be an advance toward the desired ideal. there is no doubt in my mind that the ruffling and doubling of the petals in flowers that have been under cultivation for several generations is caused by the extra feeding and care that they have received. most species of gladioli in their wild state are small and lacking in beauty. abnormal or freak varieties should not be selected as the best for breeding, because they are usually the result of a violent cross, and are nearly always weak as propagators and sometimes entirely sterile. princeps has a very large flower, but the spike is short and only two or three blooms are open at one time. it was originated by dr. van fleet by crossing mrs. beecher and cruentus. burbank crossed princeps and america, and quite a number of the seedlings show the markings of mrs. beecher, one of their grandparents, but with shorter spikes. in this cross princeps transmits the undesirable character of short spikes but leaves out the abnormal size of flower, and the best characters of america are lacking. the parentage of america is very much in doubt, as three prominent gladiolus breeders claim the honor of originating it. there are many characteristics to be considered when making selections for breeding besides the color and size of the flower. the bulbs of some varieties will stand considerable freezing while other varieties will not. this same characteristic is noticed in the foliage. the severe frost that killed our corn crop on august th so impaired panama, hiawatha and some others that very few blooms of these varieties opened afterwards. the foliage of some varieties remained green after a temperature of twelve degrees below freezing. a representative of a holland bulb growing firm who called on me a few days ago says that niagara is a very weak grower in holland and panama is a very vigorous grower. my experience with these varieties is just the reverse. this seems to show that sometimes the difference in climate may cause certain characters in the plant to act differently--if the hollander is not mistaken. a few varieties are sometimes subject to blight and rust. some are only slightly affected, and many others are entirely blight proof. there are so many characteristics to be considered by the scientific breeder that it is almost impossible to enumerate them all in this paper. there is yet a great work to be done in breeding out the undesirable traits and incorporating the improvements which we desire. civic improvement. mrs. albertson, pres. civic improvement league, austin. this is a subject so broad and so closely connected with "the city beautiful" one can hardly find a starting point, but we might begin with the one word--civic--which has drawn to itself many minds, much sober thought and from some much hard work. the fear was widespread that woman would work havoc if she attempted to spell the task, but how needless, for the word civic can be spelled with accuracy from whichever end approached. what was the beginning of the civic league and the city beautiful? it began at home, where most women's work begins. to have a beautiful home one must have the right kind of house. to have the beautiful house to make the beautiful home the setting must be made to correspond--so after the house, the lawn; after the lawn, the boulevard. then the work spread. streets needed cleaning, unsightly billboards had to be removed, perhaps an adjoining vacant lot had a careless owner whose pride needed pricking. so the need of a civic league grew, and now it has become a vital spark in many cities all over the union. minnesota has over thirty civic clubs doing specific work. is it entirely the work for women? no. is it entirely the work for men? no. it is a work for both. it is a work that is very contagious and a contagion that needs no quarantine. civic league work envelopes many lines of improvement. streets and alleys sometimes need to be reported to the proper committee of the city council; the disposal of rubbish and garbage has confronted many civic societies. there is nothing so conducive to unsanitary conditions and so disfiguring to a beautiful street as glimpses and often broad views of alleys and back yards that have become dump piles and garbage receivers. besides the effect on one's love for cleanliness and beauty, it breeds disease--and so public sanitation was added to the civic league work. in some cities the societies are taking up the work of smoke abatement. i might say that we have a few offending chimneys in our own city beautiful. every member of the city council should be a member of the civic league, for much more could be done by co-operation. there is great need of the civic improvement league and park board working together, for their aim is one--to make the city beautiful. the work that gives the most beauty to the city after the good foundation of cleanliness, public sanitation and removal of public nuisances is that done in the parks. i am glad cities are making larger appropriations for parks, and i hope our city will have more in the future, for there are great possibilities of making our city not only a city beautiful, but a most beautiful city. parks should be well lighted, playgrounds for children are almost a necessity, the river banks should be kept clean--but most of all the natural beauties of a place must be preserved and trees should be planted. shade is needed as a good background. there is nothing that will enhance a beautiful statue, fountain or other park ornament like a setting of good trees. if possible to have it there is no more attractive spot in a park than a lily pool. the old idea of laying out parks according to some geometrical pattern is giving way to the development of walk lines of practical use, recognizing both traffic requirements and the desirability of location for numerous park benches. what will lend more charm to a park than a beautiful drive bordered with noble trees leading up to some focal point or opening a way to some particular vista that would otherwise be lost! the park board should not limit its work to parks alone, but wherever there is a spot, triangle corner or any other kind of available place, there should be planted shrubs or flower beds. they soon become a public pride and cheer many passersby. we have a number of bright spots in our city, beginning in the spring with a beautiful bed of tulips. may another year bring us many more! one forgets the mud and the disagreeable days of spring in watching the bulbs thrust their little pointed noses through the cold earth and the development of the buds until they burst open into a blaze of color, flaunting their gorgeous heads in a farewell to old winter and giving a cheery welcome to the coming summer. bee-keeper's column. conducted by francis jager, professor of apiculture, university farm, st. paul. if not already done the beekeeper should at once make his final preparations towards a successful wintering of bees. there are several conditions under which the bees winter well, all of which are more or less understood. the chief of these are a strong colony of young bees, sufficient amount of good stores, and the proper place to keep the bees. bees that were queenless late in the fall or bees that had an old queen who stopped laying very early in the season, will have only few and old bees for wintering and will not have vitality enough to survive. such colonies should be united with some other good colony or if too far gone they should be destroyed. weak colonies should be united until they are strong enough to occupy and fill when clustered at least six frames. the best stores to winter bees on is pure honey capped over. honey dew will kill the bees in winter. if you have any black honey in your hives you had better remove it and replace with white honey. a ten frame hive ready for winter ought to contain from to pounds of honey. a complete hive if put on a scale should weigh not less than from to pounds. the best way to supply food to the bees is to remove the dry combs and insert next to the cluster full combs of honey. feeding sugar is a dangerous undertaking, and it should not be resorted to unless necessity compels one to do it, and then feeding should be done early in the season to allow the bees to invert the sugar, cap it over and consume such stores which are not capped over before winter. the hives that winter best are those which contain no uncapped honey in the frames. for the bulk of beekeepers cellar wintering in minnesota is to be recommended. the things to be looked after in cellar wintering are: first, that the temperature of the cellar does not go much below degrees, at least not for any length of time. second, that the entrances are kept open and clear of dead bees and are guarded with four to the inch wire screen against mice. third, that the moisture generated by the bees does not accumulate on the walls and covers of the hives. this is most essential. moisture absorbing material should be used in place of a wooden cover, for instance flax board or gunnysacks, or a super filled with shavings over a queen excluder. the bees must have free passage over the top of the frames. we wintered the bees at university farm without loss by using nothing else but the one inch flax board on top of the hive, which kept the hive positively dry all winter. your cellar should be dark, should have some ventilation, and the bees should never be disturbed during their winter sleep. by following these recommendations, you will be delighted to find your bees in the spring in a most flourishing condition for next summer's work. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. after the frosts have killed the _dahlia_ foliage the tubers should be dug and stored before the cold becomes so great. they may be injured by it. the stems should be cut to about three or four inches of the roots, using a sharp knife, so as to make a clean cut. to the stems attach the label firmly. loosen the earth about each clump before attempting to lift it, then run the spade or fork as far under it as possible and pry it gently out. in this way the tubes will not be broken or injured where they join the stem, which is the only place where they can make the next season's growth. most of the soil will drop off as they dry. lay the roots so that water will not have a chance to collect in the soft hollow stems, or crown rot may trouble you. a cool, dry shed is a good place in which to cure the roots. lay them on boards and turn them occasionally so they will dry evenly. in a week's time they should be ready to store for winter, the best place being a frost-proof cellar. unless this is very dry, it is best to have boards raised a few inches above the floor on which to lay them. this will allow a current of air to pass under them. if a damp cellar must be used, air slaked lime sprinkled under the boards will help to keep them dry. cover them a little with dry sand. the best temperature is degrees. _cannas_ can be lifted and stored at once. cut the stems off short, leaving enough to attach the labels to. they keep best if lifted with as much soil about them as possible. the clumps can be set close together, on boards arranged in the same way as for dahlias. they will stand a slightly warmer temperature than dahlias. _tuberous begonias_, unlike dahlias and cannas, should be lifted without cutting the stems. they should be cured in the sun for at least two weeks and during that time turned to dry evenly and kept perfectly dry. a cold frame is a good place in which to do this. when the stems part readily from the bulbs, the latter can be packed in boxes and stored in any dry place where the temperature will not fall below degrees. these are among the tenderest bulbs and should be the first to be lifted. _gladioli_ should be lifted with their stems intact, tied in bundles and hung in a dry shed to dry. when thoroughly dry, the stems can be cut off and the bulbs packed in boxes and stored the same as the begonias. they are especially sensitive to heat, and if the air is too dry the bulbs will shrivel and lose much of their vitality. _montbretias_ should be lifted out and stored in the same way as the gladioli. _tuberoses_ should be lifted with the stems intact and spread out to dry or hung in a dry place. when thoroughly cured, cut off the stems close to the bulb and store in the same way as gladioli. _caladium, or elephant's ears_, should be lifted without disturbing the stem or leaves. as the leaves dry they can be removed, but the stem should not be cut near the bulb, as this is the point of growth the following year. they can be stored with the dahlias and cannas and are not apt to shrivel, as the bulb is so large and fleshy. _zephyrunthes, summer blooming hyacinths, tritomas, and tigridias_ should be lifted, cured, and stored in the same manner as gladioli. all of these are subject to rot, so it is well to examine them occasionally. if any rot is found, remove the affected bulbs, and if those remaining appear damp, dust lightly with air-slaked lime. flowers of sulphur can also be used to dust them with to prevent this trouble. should the bulbs be getting too dry, cover with sand. in our climate of extremes, it is necessary to examine them at intervals, and be prompt in the use of a remedy if any of these adverse conditions are discovered. * * * * * notice. the november meeting of the garden flower society will be held in the minneapolis park board greenhouses, thirty-eighth street and bryant avenue, november , : p.m. take monroe and bryant car. st. paul members will transfer from the selby-lake at bryant avenue. this will be a chrysanthemum show, and a talk on hardy chrysanthemums will be given. secretary's corner minnesota crop improvement association.--will hold its annual meeting this year at fairmont on feb. - - . the seed growers of minnesota would be especially interested in this meeting, at which there are to be a number of seed contests, particulars in regard to which are not at hand. they may be secured by addressing the secretary, prof. c. p. bull, university farm, st. paul, minn. the vegetable growers convention.--this convention, which is i understand an annual gathering of the vegetable growers of america, was largely attended in chicago the last week in september. a report received of the meeting indicates an attendance of eight hundred vegetable growers, including two hundred fifty from the vicinity of chicago. the city entertained them with an inspection trip, throughout cook county and later a party of them went to racine and visited the experimental gardens operated by prof. r. l. jones, of the wisconsin university. perhaps we may have a fuller report of this meeting from some of our minnesota growers who were in attendance. the social element at our annual meeting.--making the west hotel the headquarters of the society at the same time that the meeting is held in the building gives an especially good opportunity for renewing and cultivating acquaintance amongst the members in attendance. this was particularly noticeable last year, and without doubt one of the most enjoyable features of the gathering. placing emphasis upon this, an additional room has been engaged for the coming meeting on the same floor and adjoining the rooms occupied last year, which will be fitted up especially for a reception room where members and their friends may gather and rest as they visit and talk of the many things of interest connected with our society and its work. a suitable sign will direct members to this reception room, and we anticipate that it will be made use of largely. the prize winner in the garden and canning contest.--the horticultural society is offering $ . to pay railroad fare and traveling expenses to attend the annual meeting of our society by the boy or girl making the best record in the state in the "garden and canning contest" carried on by the minnesota extension division. the successful contestant will tell in his or her way how it was that success was secured in the contest. besides this prize of $ . each of the ten boys or girls scoring next highest in this contest will receive an annual membership for in the state horticultural society. the name of the successful contestant is not yet announced. delegates from sister societies.--several delegates have been appointed from horticultural societies in adjoining states, notices of which have reached this office. mr. d. e. bingham, of sturgeon bay, wis., is to represent the wisconsin state horticultural society. mr. bingham has made fruit growing his life work, a man of large experience, whose services are in demand in that state also as an institute lecturer. we shall have an opportunity to profit by his experience at our meeting, as you will note by consulting the program. mr. g. d. black, of independence, ia., is to represent the northeast iowa society. mr. black has been with us before and he will find many who recall his presence here in previous years. he is to give us on the program his later experience in connection with the growing of the gladioli, a work to which he has given large attention for many years. from south dakota is coming the president of that society, rev. s. a. hassold, from kimball, s.d. other visitors from iowa not officially sent to us who have signified an intention to be present are: chas. f. gardner, osage, ia.; e. m. reeves, waverly. prof. s. a. beach is also to spend the last two days of the annual meeting with us and his name will be found upon our program on several topics. no professional horticulturist in america is better or more favorably known than prof. beach, and our membership who are interested in orcharding should not fail to hear what he has to say on the subjects he presents. mr. n. a. rasmussen, of oshkosh, wis., is also to be with us and will be found several times on the program. being an expert in market gardening we are going to work him to the limit while he is with us. we anticipate that secretary cranefield of the wisconsin society, will also spend the week with us. prof. c.b. waldron will be here as representative of the north dakota society, and also prof. f.w. broderick of winnipeg as representing the winnipeg horticultural society--and of course our prof. n.e. hansen, of south dakota. all of these friends will be found on the program. there may be others, but this will do for a start. [illustration: view over vegetable table and across fruit exhibit at minnesota state fair. mr. thos. redpath, supt. fruit exhibit.] while it is not the intention to publish anything in this magazine that is misleading or unreliable, yet it must be remembered that the articles published herein recite the experience and opinions of their writers, and this fact must always be noted in estimating their practical value. the minnesota horticulturist vol. december, no. perennial garden at carmarken, white bear. j. w. taylor, st. paul. we have had so many inquiries about our garden as to how we make things grow, and as to the best plants to use, that we take pleasure in answering through the horticulturist and giving the result of our experience in making an attractive perennial garden. our soil is sandy loam, very quick and warm, except in one place where it is low and there is a heavy black soil over clay. it has been well enriched with well rotted manure and cultivated as much as possible every spring, where it could be done without disturbing plants and bulbs. the arrangement of flowers as regards the blending and careful selection so that one bloom does not kill another is the secret of a beautiful garden. acres of flowers placed without any regard to color, no matter how expensive individual plants may be, is not pleasing to the eye. it is like a crowd of mixed people, and we know crowds are never beautiful. there is incompatibility among flowers as there is among people, and the compatible must be associated or there is no harmony. what do we raise and how do we do it? we will, in the space allowed, answer this as best we can. it is not necessary to spend a great lot of money if one uses good judgment and knows where to buy. take that grand flower, the peony. one can spend as much money as one pleases on these. there is just now a fad regarding these flowers, and some rich people are paying as high as $ . a root for certain kinds, but it is not necessary. the most really lovely gardens i have seen in the east and west have not been filled with plants bought at fancy prices. we have some that originally cost us a good deal of money and which are now cheap, as for instance, the henryii lily. we bought the first we heard of at one dollar and one-half each. now they can be bought for thirty cents. in peonies, baroness schroeder, an ivory white, is selling for three dollars a root, while the most beautiful of all the whites according to my taste, festiva maxima, can be bought for fifty cents. the kelways are all fine. the best cost about one dollar each. in our garden, among others, the pallas, edulis superba, golden harvest, madame crousse and queen victoria, all fine, cost us fifty cents each. we have a row all around our garden of these splendid flowers, many varieties, some very rare, and nothing could be more gorgeous in color or more effective than this border. hundreds of people came to see this peony show this year and were extravagant in their praise. the perfect harmony of arrangement was what pleased. we made many friends happy with armfuls of them to take home. that is the pleasure of your garden, the enjoyment one gets from making others happy. we especially notice how pleased the children were, the girls more so than the boys, perhaps, as they wandered along the paths fondling this or that bloom with loving fingers. with such an amount of bloom it is easy to send bouquets to the childrens' hospitals and to sick friends. we plant the peonies with the crown just under the earth, two feet apart. in the fall we cut off the old stalks and replace them over the plants after putting a good dressing of rotted manure on the beds. another flower, which is very attractive, is the larkspur belladonna, turquoise blue. it shows from a great distance as its heavenly blue meets the eye. when arranged in a vase with white flowers it makes the most beautiful, choice and refined bouquet we know of. the formosum is a lovely dark blue and very striking. give them plenty of water and some wood ashes to keep off the slugs. cut off the stalks after blooming, about august first, and they will bloom again in autumn. we had this year a large clump of madonna lilies and next to them a large bunch of larkspur. the effect was stunning. just before the larkspur came the whole north end of the garden was aflame with oriental poppies, hundreds of them. no other flower produces the effect upon one that this great proud, wonderful flower does. it is the queen of the show. we transplant this in september in ordinary soil. or we sow the seeds in august and transplant the seedlings as soon as up. they need no protection, but we protect everything with straw and branches. the branches to keep the straw from packing too hard and keeping the air out. protection of roses is necessary, of course. we had a great collection this season. our plan is to cut them back to within a foot of the ground then fill a box with leaves and turn over them. we never lose a rose thus protected. neither sun nor mice injure them. another grand flower is digitalis, or foxglove. these gladden your heart as the medicine made from them strengthens it. get the mixed plants or seed, gloxinia flora. when in bloom, look into their little gloves and note the wonder of nature's coloring. with us they grow six feet tall in black, heavy soil. they self-sow, and the plants of the present year bloom the next. a bed of these make a most gorgeous, dignified group in your garden. they are hardy with a very slight covering. many with us self-sow and live through the winter without any protection. we made up a bed of these self-sowed in fall of . they were a glory this summer. a few years ago every one said, don't waste your time on japanese iris. they thrive with us and bear blooms fully as large as a tea plate and of most exquisite beauty. we divide them every third year and in the spring cover them with old fertilizer and water them well. they grow in a heavy soil with some sand worked in. our best varieties are oriole, distinction, alice kiernga, beauty of japan and blue flag. the gladiolus is another bright and interesting addition to our floral family. the best we have are marie de ruyter, a pretty blue; badenia, lavender; golden king, a magnificent yellow; florence, lilac blotched; mazie, corn color; and dawn, shell pink. plant these bulbs in succession, three weeks apart, from april first, six inches deep, so they will stand up, and eighteen inches between rows. in this way you will have them until frost. for the house cut them when first bud comes out, and they will all blossom in water. a flower which attracts much attention with us is the canterbury bell, cup and saucer variety, in different colors. very showy. this is not a perennial but a biennial. we plant our seeds in july and transplant in september or october. the persicifolia in white and blue is a hardy perennial and grows on stalks two to three feet high, a great favorite among white flowers. in some soils they do not do well, but with us grow rampant. we prefer the white. we cut over two thousand stalks this summer from one hundred fifty plants. of tulips, which are so welcome in early spring, the darwin leads all. we love them as we do the stars of bethlehem, the hyacinths, narcissi and the darling little blue flowers, scilla siberica, that come with the snowdrops and crocuses before the snow is gone. we thus have bloom from snow to snow. always something bright, and that is another strong reason for a perennial garden. we have many calls from persons wishing to buy plants or seeds. we do not sell either, but gladly give away our surplus. we have furnished many gardens in this way all about us and thus added to the beauty of the surrounding country and made ourselves and others happy. our collection of lilies, auratums, speciosums, tigers, madonnas, are all planted six to eight inches deep and, after spreading manure are covered with straw, after frost. we cover all bulb beds with manure in the fall. among lilies all but the auratums last years, but these lose their vitality in two or three seasons. plant all lilies in fall except madonnas, which should be put in in august. two fine flowers we would recommend to flower lovers: the amaryllis hallii, or, as we call it, the wonder flower, which grows a large bunch of leaves in spring and in june they all die down. in august there springs up a single stalk from the apparently dead plant, bearing a lily-like bunch of flowers of charming colors. it is as hardy as an oak. the other is the dictamnus, or gas plant. most beautiful and very hardy. get one white and one pink and plant near each other. they are fine. of course we have named but a small part of our collection, but will be glad to give any further information to our horticulturist readers and will be glad to welcome them at our grounds any time. * * * * * canning fruits without sirup.--can the product the same day it is picked. cull, stem, or seed, and clean the fruit by placing it in a strainer and pouring water over it until it is clean. pack the product thoroughly in glass jars or tin cans until they are full; use the handle of a tablespoon, wooden ladle, or table knife for packing purposes. pour over the fruit boiling water from a kettle, place rubbers and caps in position, partially seal if using glass jars, seal completely if using tin cans. place the containers in a sterilizing vat, such as a wash boiler with false bottom, or other receptacle improvised for the purpose. if using a hot-water bath outfit, process for minutes; count time after the water has reached the boiling point; the water must cover the highest jar in container. after sterilizing seal glass jars, wrap in paper to prevent bleaching, and store in a dry, cool place. if you are canning in tin cans it will improve the product to plunge the cans quickly into cold water immediately after sterilization. when using a steam pressure canner instead of the hot-water bath, sterilize for minutes with pounds of steam pressure. never allow the pressure to go over pounds. the minnesota state fruit-breeding farm. chas. haralson, supt., excelsior. the minnesota state fruit-breeding farm was established eight years ago, principally for breeding new varieties of fruit adapted to our climate and conditions. the aim of this work is to assist the people in getting better commercial varieties of the various fruits grown in the state, so that better returns could be secured for the people engaged in the various lines of fruit growing. some of the plant-breeding work is beginning to show results, a few varieties of fruit are being distributed in a small way for trial in different localities. a great deal of work has been done with apples. seedlings have been grown by the thousands every year with the idea of selecting some desirable varieties when the trees come into fruiting. hardiness of tree, long keeping and good quality of fruit are the most desirable points we are looking for in our selections. a great deal of crossing under glass is being done with apples; a number of seedlings, the results of this crossing work, are planted every spring. some of the six thousand malinda apple seedlings planted seven years ago have fruited to some extent for the last three years. these show a great variation in fruit, both in color, quality and long keeping. some of the fruit ripens with the duchess, while others will keep until spring in good condition. there is a chance for some desirable varieties out of this lot, but it will take several years to determine whether we have anything better than the wealthy. the wealthy is by far our best commercial variety, but we are looking for something that will keep until spring. gooseberries and currants are easily raised and are perfectly hardy with us, but we are working to get some improvement on these varieties. many thousand seedlings are being grown for this purpose. our native gooseberries are used in breeding work with the cultivated varieties to a great extent, as they are hardy, strong growers and resistant to mildew. as to cherries, we have none that are satisfactory. some work has been carried on for several years, but we have not obtained anything of special value so far. the most promising combinations are compass cherry crossed with the cultivated varieties. none of these have fruited, but we have some hope for a hardy cherry from these seedlings. peaches and apricots are not hardy in minnesota, and consequently nobody thinks of planting them. some years ago we started crossing the sand cherry with peaches and apricots. the results were a number of seedlings, but all turned out to be worthless; the trees after several years growth were small, or grew mostly in bush form. they blossomed every spring but never set any fruit on account of some imperfection in the flowers. four years ago we started to use the compass cherry as the male parent, and this combination is more promising. the seedlings make a good growth and a fairly good sized tree, practically as hardy as the compass cherry. the seedlings resemble the apricots and peaches in blossom, tree and foliage. this fruit will not be exactly an apricot or a peach, but may take the place of these fruits in a small way. [illustration: no. hybrid seedling plum--from minnesota state fruit-breeding farm, at zumbra heights.] the compass cherry crossed with prunus pissardi, or purple leaf plum, is a very interesting combination. we have about fifty seedlings growing. most of them have the purple foliage and bark, are very ornamental and can be used with effect for lawns and landscape planting where large shrubs are wanted. the grapes. the vitis labrusca, such as concord, worden, moore's early and many other varieties, are not hardy unless protected during winter. there is a demand for hardy grapes that do not need any winter protection. at the fruit-breeding farm this problem has been taken up on a large scale. the beta grape is hardy but lacks in size and quality. this variety has been used to grow many thousands of seedlings from, and also used in cross-breeding with the better varieties. a large percent of beta seedlings come true to seed or nearly so. this gives us several hundred varieties equal to beta, and some of them are quite an improvement in size and quality over the parent and practically as hardy as the wild grape. many of these are worthy of propagation where hardiness is the main object. very few of the hybrid grape seedlings have fruited, but indications are that in a few years we will have grapes equal in size and quality to any of our commercial varieties. experiments are being carried on in a small way with pears, roses and nuts. our native hazelnuts can be improved by selection and crossing with the filberts. the same is true with the rosa rugosa and our native roses. in breeding strawberries we probably have had better success than with any other fruit we have attempted to improve. the breeding work was done in the greenhouse during winter and early spring and seed planted as soon as berries were ripe. the plants were transplanted to flats and later planted out in the field, where they remained until fruiting, when the selections were made. we have fruited approximately , seedlings. these have been weeded out so there are about left, and these will be cut down to a few of the best varieties. at present we have one everbearing and one june-bearing variety which have proven to be very productive, of good size, good quality and good plantmakers. these plants have been sent out as premiums to members of the state horticultural society for the last two years and will be distributed the same way next spring. in raspberries we have several varieties which are promising. king x loudan, no. , is a variety that has been sent out as premium the last three years. this variety is amongst the hardiest, the berries are dark red, very large and the most productive of all the varieties growing on the place. this has also been sent out as premium through the horticultural society. in plums we probably have had the best success. some of the first breeding work was with burbank x (crossed with) wolf and abundance x wolf. we have twenty-eight seedlings of burbank x wolf and forty-five abundance x wolf which have fruited several years. we have varying degrees of hardiness in these seedlings. most of them have withstood our winters at the fruit farm without injury, as well as in most of the southern half of the state. among the abundance x wolf hybrids eight of the seedlings are only partly hardy, while of the burbank x wolf only one or two have shown themselves to be particularly weak in this respect. type of fruit. in general the burbank type of fruit is dominant. the flesh of these hybrids runs quite uniformly yellow, varying in degrees, however, from a deep yellow to a yellowish green. some of them have a yellow skin with a blush or a streak of red, while others are a deep red even before ripe. the fruit in size varies from both smaller and larger than the parents. firmness characterises most of the hybrids. we are also getting good shipping quality, and in burbank x wolf no. we have a plum measuring one and three-quarters inches and more in diameter and a perfect freestone. this plum will be used extensively in further plant-breeding. in shape of tree the two hybrids differ materially. the burbank x wolf hybrids make spreading trees more or less, while the abundance x wolf grows more upright and does not need quite as much room. * * * * * tent caterpillar.--as soon as small nests are detected, they should be destroyed. when in convenient reach, the nests may be torn out with a brush, with gloved hand, or otherwise, and the larvae crushed on the ground, care being taken to destroy any caterpillars which have remained on the tree. the use of a torch to burn out the nests will be found convenient when they occur in the higher parts of the trees. in using the torch great care is necessary that no important injury be done to the tree; it should not be used in burning out nests except in the smaller branches and twigs, the killing of which would be of no special importance. nests in the larger limbs should be destroyed by hand, as the use of the torch may kill the bark, resulting in permanent injury. tent caterpillars are readily destroyed by arsenicals sprayed on the foliage of trees infested by them. any of the arsenical insecticides may be used, as paris green, scheele's green, arsenate of lead, etc. the first two are used at the rate of one-half pound to gallons of water. the milk of lime made from to pounds of stone lime should be added to neutralize any caustic effect of the arsenical on the foliage. arsenate of lead is used at the rate of pounds to each gallons of water. on stone fruits, such as cherry, peach, and plum, arsenicals are likely to cause injury to foliage and must be used with caution if at all. on such trees the arsenate of lead is preferable, as it is less injurious to foliage, and on all trees sticks much better. in spraying for the tent caterpillar only, applications should be made while the caterpillars are yet small, as they then succumb more quickly to poisons than when more nearly full grown, and prompt treatment stops further defoliation of the trees.--u. s. dept. agri. color combinations in the garden. miss elizabeth starr, fremont so., minneapolis. english books on gardening set forth two principal methods of making a garden: first, to have each part perfect for a short time each year and then let it melt into the background for the rest of the season; second, to have every part of the garden showing some flowers all through the summer. these two methods suggest the impressionistic and miniature schools of painting. with the first method it is possible to get great masses of color and brilliant effects to be viewed at a distance, but it requires a great deal of space, with a perennial garden at least, for unfortunately most of our perennials are in their greatest glory for only a few weeks at a time. the second method fills more nearly the needs of the small garden, where the vistas are short and the individual plant is under close inspection. the greatest difficulty is this, that the amateur cannot resist the lure of a great variety of plants, and unless a vigorous thinning out is faithfully practiced and the habit of growth, the period of blooming, the height and color of each individual is carefully studied, the effect of the whole is very apt to be mussy and distracting to the eye, whereas the ideal garden is soothing in effect. i have only been studying the problem for the last five or six years, so that i am still decidedly an amateur, but i have kept a faithful record of the time of flowering of each variety i have grown in my garden and have discovered that the time of blooming does not vary more than five days for each plant no matter whether the season be wet or dry. with this record at hand i can arrange each part of my garden with a view to the succession of bloom throughout the summer. i can place plants with clashing colors side by side with the calm assurance that they will not clash because their periods of blooming do not overlap. in this way i can completely change the color of certain parts of my garden during the summer if i so desire. in studying combinations for the garden we must take into consideration the harmony and contrast of color, texture, form, height and the succession of bloom. we must also see that plants requiring the same soil and the same care are put together. in my garden i use both annuals and perennials but am limited in choice to those plants that are perfectly hardy, that will stand infinite neglect, drought, much wind, a stiff soil, that do not require especial protection in the winter, that will be in bloom all summer long and be beautiful. this, as i have found, is a rather difficult task. [illustration: perennial border. edging of pinks and shasta daisies, pink canterbury bells and festiva maxima peony. behind, pyrethrum, uliginosum and hollyhocks. blue flowering flax adds depth to the pink and white.] there is a great diversity of opinion as to how to set out plants. some say, "give each plant plenty of room; let it expand as much as it will." others say, "each six inches of ground should have its plant; set them so closely that no dirt will show between; in this way each individual plant will be finer than when set out singly and the leaves will form a shade for the ground." i have used the latter method, for, since we have no means of watering, the conservation of moisture is an important item. the chief objection is that there is a constant danger of overcrowding, and it requires a frequent resetting of plants as they increase in size from year to year. [illustration: yellow iris against the blue of distant hills.] i have a border on the north side of my garden that is six feet wide and about seventy feet long. it is my aim to keep this in bloom all through the summer long. there is a background of purple and white lilacs and cut-leaf spirea. the first thing that comes in the spring is poet's narcissus, then groups of darwin tulips; both of these are naturalized and remain in the ground from year to year. next comes the perennial blue flax, a half dozen plants set at intervals down the border, that every morning from mid-april until august are a mass of blue. clumps of may-flowering iris and then june-flowering iris and four large peony plants make the border bright until the latter part of june, when alternating groups of field daisies and pink and red sweet williams are in full bloom at one end of the border, and summer-flowering cosmos holds sway at the other end, while the flax, bachelor's buttons and daisies fill the center with blue and white. by the middle of july the calendulas, coreopsis and annual larkspur make a vivid display where the narcissus was before. these four make a very good combination, for if the bed is well made and the narcissus planted deep, the coreopsis and larkspur seed themselves, and with the exception of a deep raking in the late fall the bed needs no attention except thinning out for three years, and it is in bloom for at least four months of the season. [illustration: pink and white pinks, field and shasta daisies, canterbury bells and hollyhocks.] in this border i have at last found a place for the magenta phlox that usually fights with the whole garden. i put it in front of a single row of pink and white cosmos, flank it on one side with pink and white verbenas, on the other with mixed scabiosas and in front of all a single row of shasta daisies. this combination pleases the family as well as the phlox. on the south side of the garden, against a low buckthorn hedge is a narrower border of sky-blue belladonna, delphinium, buttercups and achillea, with an edging of chinese pinks. i had thought the complementary colors of the delphinium and buttercups would set each other off, but it is a very poor combination, for the foliage is so much alike that there is no contrast there, and when the plants are not in bloom it is almost impossible to tell which is which so as to take out the buttercups, whose yellow is too bright. shasta daisies set off the delphiniums to perfection with the wonderful purity of their white and yellow and pleasing contrast of form, foliage and height. with emperor narcissus bulbs set between the plants, there are flowers in the border the whole season. another very poor combination that is in my garden, much to my sorrow, is hemerocallis and siberica iris. they started out about three feet from each other, but the hemerocallis spreads so quickly that now they form a mass that is almost impossible to break apart. another mistake i made was to put shasta daisies and field daisies near together. it is unfair to the smaller daisies, for although they are fully two inches in diameter, yet they appear dwarfed beside the giants. there is one point in my garden that is vivid throughout the summer. first comes the orange lilium elegans, then scarlet lychnis and later, tiger lilies. another bit is gorgeous from the first of august until frost; it is made up of blue and white campanula pyramidalis, that grow quite five feet high, and mrs. francis king gladioli. an important thing to think of is the line of vision from each point of vantage of the house--the endwise view of a multicolored bed of fairy columbines against a light green willow from the sewing room window, from the library the blue of a juniata iris swaying four feet up in the air in front of a sweet briar, from the front porch pale yellow flavescens iris through a mist of purple sweet rockets. the garden is in its glory during the iris season. at a conservative estimate we have about twenty-five hundred of them in our little garden, ranging through all the colors of the rainbow and blooming from april until late june. they may easily make such an increase that it is baffling to cope with, but they are so beautiful and so amenable to the experimenting of an amateur that we feel as though we couldn't get enough of them. last summer a wonderful effect was achieved by putting dark blue and mahogany-colored pansies beside jacquesiana and othello iris, this repeating the color and texture in different plants. [illustration: rocky mountain columbine against the willow hedge, with perennial candytuft as edging.] we leave the garden through a wooden arch. climbing over one side of this is a thousandschon rose, and on the other side a dr. van fleet grows rank. a wild clematis is planted beside each rose and fills the top of the arch. i am rather dubious about the combination, for i fear the clematis may grow so heavy that it will choke out the roses, but this summer at least it was beautiful, and another summer will come to try other combinations. truck crop and garden insects. an exercise led by prof. wm. moore, entomological department, university farm, st. paul. there is one insect that probably all those who are in the market garden business are very much interested in, and that is the cabbage maggot. as you all know, in the spring of the year, after cabbages are put out, frequently you will find the cabbages slowly dying, one dying one day and two or three the next day, and so on until sometimes fifty per cent or more of the cabbages die. at first it is not exactly apparent what is killing the cabbages, but when one is pulled up it will be noticed that a little maggot is working in the root of the cabbage. this insect is commonly known as the cabbage maggot. for a number of years work has been carried on with the cabbage maggot, and all sorts of treatments have been tried, many without any great success. the unfortunate part is that usually the market gardener don't take much thought of this maggot until it is actually doing the injury, and at that time they are mighty difficult to handle. there have been several different treatments advised, one of which is fresh hellebore, about two ounces steeped in a quart of boiling water and then diluted to a gallon and poured upon the base of the plant. it will destroy the maggots, but hellebore is very expensive and, as probably most of you know, there isn't a great amount of profit in cabbage; so any treatment will have to be a cheap treatment, or you will use up your profit. during the last two years i have been working along a line which is entirely different from the treatment of the maggot, and that is based upon the fact that the fly which lays the egg which produces the maggot in the cabbage comes out early in the spring and flies about the field for probably a week or ten days or two weeks before it lays its eggs, and during that period it eats any sweet material which happens to be on hand. with this as a basis we thought we might be able to poison the flies and thus prevent injury from the maggots, and we have tried several different spray mixtures along that line. one mixture which we use is a mixture which is normally used against the fruit flies which are oftentimes injurious to fruit, particularly in the east and in tropical countries. this contains three ounces of arsenate of lead, two and half pounds of brown sugar and four gallons of water. the idea is to spray this in the field, spraying it on the plants as soon as the plants are put out in the field. we have more or less definite dates for the appearance of the flies in the field and for their disappearance again. but, as you know, the season varies, and the result is somewhat uncertain. so probably the best method is to base it upon the time you plant out your cabbage. in the early seasons you will plant your cabbages early, and in the late seasons later. so plant out your cabbage and then spray them every week until the th of may. you should spray them, not to cover the leaves with the poison, but merely sufficient so that there are a few drops of this poisoned material on the leaves so that the flies can eat it. flies will come there and feed upon this mixture and die. it is rather peculiar that we started work here about the same time on the cabbage maggot that they started work on the onion maggot along similar lines in wisconsin. i don't think that either knew that the other was working towards that end. they used a different mixture, one-fifth ounce of sodium arsenite, one-half pint of new orleans molasses and one gallon of water. this was sprayed over the onions and was very successful in controlling the onion maggot. i tried their mixture this last year. they published some of their results last year, so it gave me an opportunity to watch their mixture in comparison with the lead arsenate. they claimed the lead arsenate did not act as quickly as the sodium arsenite. that is true, but when you have a ten-day period to kill the fly it don't make much difference whether it dies in ten hours or twenty-four. the flies are not doing any injury. if you take the lead arsenate and sugar and water and put it in a jar, the arsenate always sinks to the bottom, and if you were to test it that way, the fly would feed on the top and you might not get a quick result. but if you spray it on, the lead arsenate will kill as quickly as the sodium arsenite. there is an objection to the use of arsenite in that sodium arsenite is a soluble poison and will burn the leaves of the cabbage. of course, that is not particularly serious as those are the first leaves the cabbages have and the cabbage soon gets over any slight injury, but many truck gardeners probably would object to that. in the onion you have a different shaped leaf, and the injury is not so apparent. last summer i found that new orleans molasses would give you a little bit better result than the sugar, and it is cheaper. the objection to the new orleans molasses is the sticky nature of the material in handling. i might mention in regard to opening cans of new orleans molasses. if you never opened one and try this treatment, be careful about opening the can. the lid is pushed down tight and under warm conditions, or if the molasses has been in a warm room there is a certain amount of fermentation and gas under pressure, and if you pry it open quickly you find the lid flies up in the air and you will probably be smeared over with molasses. i employed my spray, that is, one ounce of lead arsenate, one-half pint of new orleans molasses and one gallon of water last season. the check plots had cabbages attacked by the maggots, probably or per cent of the plants dying from the attack. last year was a very good season, that is, many of the plants seriously attacked put out roots again, and those were able to grow again in the sprayed plots. the infestation of the sprayed plots was probably about to per cent. of the plants, but they only contained probably one maggot each, which is very slight and not sufficient to do any damage. there is one market gardener whose cabbage patch we sprayed, i think, only a part of two rows, and we thought we would leave the rest of his patch as a control. apparently the amount of material we put on there was sufficient to attract the flies from the whole field. not a single cabbage died, and he was pleased with the result of the spray. mr. miller: what do you do for root aphis? mr. moore: root aphis can very easily be controlled with tobacco extract. it is put upon the root of any plant that is affected, a tablespoonful to a gallon of water. there are a number of different tobacco extracts on the market. some of them contain per cent. of nicotine, some contain , some and some , and i think there is one brand that contains per cent. you will find that the brands that contain the most nicotine are the most expensive, but in proportion you use less material. thus per cent. tobacco extract would take two tablespoonfuls to the gallon, while per cent. would take only one. it is the nicotine which is the working portion of it. mr. miller: then you can use the black leaf forty? mr. moore: it is very good, it is per cent. nicotine. there is another product put out by the same company, a black leaf, only or per cent. this is cheaper, but you have to use more of it. if anything probably the more expensive would be the cheaper in the long run. mr. wintersteen: the maggots that attack the radishes and turnips are the same as the cabbage maggot? mr. moore: yes, sir. mr. wintersteen: why is it i have no trouble with the cabbages, and yet i can raise no radishes or turnips in the same ground? mr. moore: the radishes and turnips are attacked and the cabbages are not? mr. wintersteen: yes, sir. mr. moore: which do you raise, early cabbages? mr. wintersteen: yes, sir. mr. moore: what variety do you raise? mr. wintersteen: the wakefield, generally. mr. moore: some varieties of cabbages are not nearly so severely attacked as others. i think of the two that they would prefer radishes probably. growing them side by side you find they infest the radishes. that was my experience last year. i grew the first generation of cabbages, and the second generation i took over into the radishes because i wanted to treat them there. mr. rasmussen: did you say the same fly attacks the onion and the cabbage? mr. moore: the onion has two different flies, one which is black in color, with light colored bands across the wings, and that one passes the winter as a larva in the old onions left in the field. it is an injurious practice to leave old onions there to breed these maggots. if they were taken out and destroyed you could do away with that one. the cabbage fly is different. when you use the spray it would probably be all right to use the sodium arsenite for the onion and the lead arsenate for the cabbage. the type of leaf is entirely different, and on the cabbage you are apt to burn them with the sodium arsenite while the lead arsenate will give you practically the same result. mr. goudy: the cabbage butterfly, does that come from the same maggot? mr. moore: no; this maggot is on the root, the cabbage butterfly lays its eggs on the leaf. you get the cabbage worm from the cabbage butterfly. mr. goudy: what do you do for that? mr. moore: paris green is used to a great extent, but many people have a horror of using paris green. last year, i think it was, i was called up on the phone by some one and i advised him to use paris green. he said that he was afraid it might poison everybody. i explained to him there was no danger from it, as you know the cabbage leaves grow from the inside, not from the outside, and the spray would be on the outside leaves. besides that, we usually spray early for the cabbage worm while the heads come on later. mr. goudy: did you ever try capsicum, sprinkling that on the heads? mr. moore: no, sir. mr. goudy: i saved my cabbages one year by using that. mr. moore: some people claim salt is good. one of the students mentioned it to me. one applied it by putting a spoonful around over the head, another dissolved a tablespoonful in about ten quarts of water and sprayed it on. salt is rather injurious to vegetation as a rule. of course, they only put it on the leaves, and the cabbage is a hardy plant. air slaked lime is also good, but would have to be applied several times. with the arsenate you apply it once and kill all the brood. mr. ludlow: we took them all off of mine one year by using boiling hot water. mr. moore: yes, sir; water is very good. the objection is, on a large scale it is not feasible. mr. miller: slug shot is very good. mr. moore: yes, sir; it doesn't contain very much poison, but it is sufficient to kill the cabbage worm. mr. cadoo: i used just simply wood ashes. mr. moore: the cabbage worm is one that is very easy to handle. a member: i have always used salt. i think it makes a more firm and solid head, that is my theory, i don't know whether i am right or not. i have been doing that for years. mr. moore: i don't know. i never heard of the treatment with salt until two or three days ago when several students mentioned that they used salt. some people won't use paris green. there was one case a man said his wife wouldn't let him do it even if she knew it wasn't poison; she didn't like the idea of paris green on cabbage. mr. ingersoll: is there anything you can suggest to control the yellows in asters? mr. moore: the yellows in asters has been a problem which has been very amusing there at the farm. a man sends in an aster to the entomological department, we examine it and can't find anything that belongs to our department, and we send it to the plant pathological department, and they send it back to us. last year we made a point in every case of yellows in asters to send some one to investigate and find out what was going on to produce it. in some cases it seemed to be a fungous disease. one case i know turned out to be a fungous disease, the very next one was due to plant lice on the roots of the asters. in that case i don't think you get quite the distinct yellows of the asters, but rather the plants wilt and become weak and finally die. that can very easily be controlled with tobacco extract, pouring it upon the buds of the plants. we do not know definitely about the yellows. we think it is more or less of a physiological disease of the plant, not due to an insect. this last year we have not found any what we would call the true yellows. there is an insect that produces similar trouble on other plants, a plant bug, which is hard to secure because it flies away. that is the reason we have been sending out to see exactly what is going on in the field, and we didn't see any evidence of their work this year. another thing, it seems to be a year in which the asters did fairly well, and there was very little yellows. mr. ingersoll: you think that irregular watering might make any difference or very solid rooting? mr. moore: it might do something of the sort. the most we heard of the yellows was the year before last, and we were held up at the time with other work and could not investigate properly. any one here that has yellows in asters next year, we would be very glad to hear from him and send some one out to find the cause. it wouldn't surprise me that it was something in the treatment of the aster. mr. cadoo: do angleworms hurt house plants? mr. moore: not as a rule. they do eat a small amount of vegetation, but ordinarily in a house plant, if you have, say, a worm in a pot, i think it is rather beneficial than injurious, because it keeps the soil stirred up. mr. rasmussen: what is the spray for the cabbage and onion maggot? mr. moore: unfortunately i am a very poor person to remember figures, and i carry this around with me. one spray is three ounces of lead arsenate, two and a half pounds of brown sugar to four gallons of water, but we found that probably a little better spray was to use the new orleans molasses instead of the sugar and the formula is: one ounce of lead arsenate, one-half pint of new orleans molasses and one gallon of water. the spray that was used for the onion maggot and was devised over in wisconsin is: one-fifth ounce of sodium arsenite, one-half pint of new orleans molasses and one gallon of water. mr. rasmussen: the wisconsin spray is what i used to spray my place several years, and i was wondering if it was the same. mr. moore: it was peculiar that they started to work on the onion maggot in wisconsin at the same time we started on the cabbage maggot here. mr. rasmussen: we have controlled the onion maggots almost entirely, but the cabbage maggots are very difficult. mr. moore: in our control plots it controlled it very well. our plants were infested only with a few maggots, but not sufficient to do any injury. the wealthy apple. f. h. ballou. (the opinion of an ohio apple grower--from a bulletin issued by ohio state horticultural society.) the value of a variety of apple commercially usually decides its place in the estimation of growers. naturally the later maturing, longer keeping or winter varieties are generally accorded this preference. orchardists in the southern part of ohio doubtless would elect rome beauty queen of money makers, were the question put to a vote. apple producers of northern ohio or western new york would as surely vote for baldwin. but what variety would you--mr. lover-of-apples-and-apple products--vote for and plant if but a single variety and space for but a single tree were available? after twenty years observation and enjoyment of apple precocity, apple dependability and all-around apple excellence throughout a long season, the writer continues annually to cast his ballot for wealthy. [illustration: mr. rolla sfubbs, of bederwood, lake minnetonka, under his favorite tree, the wealthy.] true the wealthy has its faults--so have all the other varieties of apples of individual choice--and so have we--the growers; but for early fruitage, prolificacy, excellence for culinary use, extended period of usefulness, richness and delicacy of flavor when ripened in a cool cellar and good keeping qualities when under proper conditions it is placed in cold storage, there are few if any varieties other than this that combine so many splendid and desirable characteristics. from mid-july to mid-september of the present year we have been using wealthy for culinary purposes with steadily increasing enjoyment as their quality has gradually become finer and finer. at this writing, september , we have in the cellar attractively colored, well ripened, pink-and-white-fleshed wealthy delightful for dessert use; and there are yet wealthy--firm and crisp--on the trees for later autumn use if kept in the cellar, or early winter and holiday use if placed in cold storage. if we could have but one apple tree that tree would be a wealthy. this statement is made with full knowledge and appreciation of the many other excellent varieties of various seasons, including grimes, jonathan, stayman and delicious. law fixes standards for containers for fruits, berries and vegetables in interstate commerce. (taken from "wisconsin horticulture," the organ of wis. state horticultural society.) standards for climax baskets for grapes, other fruits and vegetables, and other types of baskets and containers used for small fruits, berries, and vegetables in interstate commerce, are fixed by an act approved by the president august , . the law will become effective november , . the effect of the act will be to require the use of the standards in manufacturing, sale, or shipment for all interstate commerce, whether the containers are filled or unfilled. a large part of the traffic in fruits and vegetables in this country enters interstate commerce. the law relates only to the containers and will not affect local regulations in regard to heaped measure or other method of filling. a special exemption from the operations of the law is made for all containers manufactured, sold, or shipped, when intended for export to foreign countries, and when such containers accord with the specifications of the foreign purchasers, or comply with the laws of the country to which the shipment is destined. standards of three capacities are fixed for climax baskets-- , and quarts, dry measure. these containers, often known as "grape baskets," have relatively narrow, flat bottoms, rounded at each end, and thin sides flaring slightly from the perpendicular. the handle is hooped over at the middle from side to side. in addition to fixing the capacities of these standard baskets of this type, the law also prescribes their dimensions. the other standards are for "baskets or other containers for small fruits, berries, and vegetables." they are to have capacities only of one-half pint, pint, quart, or multiples of quart, dry measure. such containers may be of any shape so long as their capacities accurately accord with the standard requirements. the examination and test of containers to determine whether they comply with the provisions of the act are made duties of the department, and the secretary of agriculture is empowered to establish and promulgate rules and regulations allowing such reasonable tolerances and variations as may be found necessary. penalties are provided by the act for the manufacture for shipment, sale for shipment, or shipment in interstate commerce of climax baskets, and containers for small fruits, berries, and vegetables, not in accord with the standards. it is provided, however: that no dealer shall be prosecuted under the provisions of this act when he can establish a guaranty signed by the manufacturer, wholesaler, jobber, or other party residing within the united states from whom such climax baskets, baskets, or other containers, as defined in this act, were purchased, to the effect that said climax baskets, baskets, or other containers are correct within the meaning of this act. said guaranty, to afford protection, shall contain the name and address of the party or parties making the sale of climax baskets, baskets, or other containers, to such dealer, and in such case said party or parties shall be amenable to the prosecutions, fines, and other penalties which would attach in due course to the dealer under the provisions of this act.--department of agriculture. [illustration: a plant-chimera: two varieties of apple in one. golden russet and boston stripe combined in the same fruit, as the result of a graft. trees producing these apples bear only a few fruits of this combination; the rest of the crop belongs entirely to one or other of the two varieties concerned. the explanation of these chimeras is that the original buds of the scion failed to grow, after the graft was made, but an adventitious bud arose exactly at the juncture of stock and scion, and included cells derived from both. these cells grow side by side but remain quite distinct in the same stem, each kind of cell reproducing its own sort. from "journal of heredity," may, . published by the "american genetic association," washington, d. c.] the rhubarb plant. ludvig mosbaek, askov. rhubarb, or pieplant, as it is more commonly called, is one of the hardiest and at the same time a most delicious fruit. when the stalks are used at the right stage and given the proper care by the cook, they are almost equal to fresh peaches. rhubarb can be transplanted every month in the year, but the best time is early spring or august. there are especially two things rhubarb will not stand, "wet feet and deep planting." most beneficial is good natural or artificial drainage and rich soil, made so by a good coat of manure, plowed or spaded in, and a liberal top dressing every fall, cultivated or hoed in on the top soil the next spring. fifty plants or divisions of a good tender variety planted to feet apart will supply an average household with more delicious fresh fruit and juice for six months of the year than five times the space of ground devoted to currants, gooseberries or any other fruit, and if you have from to plants you can afford to pick the first stalk that sprouts up in april and still figure on having an abundance to keep you well supplied all summer. do you really know what a delicious beverage can be made from the juice of rhubarb mixed in cool water? take it along in the hayfield a hot summer day. and even if you can not keep it cool the acid contained in the juice still makes it a delicious and stimulating drink where you would loathe the taste of a stale beer. there are about a hundred other ways to prepare rhubarb, not forgetting a well cooled rhubarb mush served with cool milk in the evening or for that matter three times a day; nothing cheaper, nor healthier. the fresh acid contained in the rhubarb purifies the blood and puts new vigor in your body and soul, is better and cheaper than any patent medicines, and from the growth of to plants you can eat every day for six months and preserve enough in fresh, cool water in airtight jars to last you all winter. but you can do still better with your rhubarb. you can add three months more and make it nine months of the year for fresh, crisp, delicious fruit. i will tell you how. when your rhubarb gets - years old and very big and strong clumps of roots, divide some of the best and make a new planting and dig some of the balance before frost in the fall. leave them on top of the ground until they have had a good freeze--this is very essential to success--then place the roots as you dug them in a dark corner in your cellar or in a barrel in your cellar, exclude all light, keep the soil moderately wet and after christmas and until spring you will have an abundance of brittle, fine flavored stalks that are fully equal to and perhaps more tender than the outdoor grown. years ago in chicago i grew rhubarb in a dark house � ft., built for that purpose, and the stalks generally commanded a price of to c a pound in the right market in january, february and march. it is better not to pull any stalks the summer you transplant, at least not until september. next year in may and june you can have stalks from / to pound and over. when you pull stalks don't take the outer two or three leaves but only the tender ones, and strip them off in succession so you do not come back to the same plants to pull for four to six weeks or more. just as quick as the plant shows flower stems cut them off close to the ground and keep them off, never allow them to show their heads. i have grown rhubarb for market and for domestic use for about forty years, having one time as much as five acres, and i will assure you if you will follow directions you will appreciate rhubarb more than before and get out of it all it is worth. * * * * * trees planted by machine.--a machine which plants from ten to fifteen thousand forest trees seedlings a day is now being used at the letchworth park forest and arboretum, in wyoming county, n. y., according to officials of the forest service who are acting as advisers in the work. previously the planting had been done by hand at the rate of , to , trees each day per man. the machine was designed to set out cabbage and tomato plants, but works equally well with trees. it is about the size of an ordinary mowing machine and is operated by three men and two horses. one man drives the team while the other two handle the seedlings. the machine makes a furrow in which the trees are set at any desired distance, and an automatic device indicates where they should be dropped. two metal-tired wheels push and roll the dirt firmly down around the roots. this is a very desirable feature, it is said, because the trees are apt to die if this is not well done. two attachments make it possible to place water and fertilizer at the roots of each seedling. another attachment marks the line on which the next row of trees is to be planted. no cost figures are available yet, but officials say that the cost will be much less than when the planting is done by hand. it is stated that the machine can be used on any land which has been cleared and is not too rough to plow and harrow.--u. s. dept. agri. the greenhouse versus hotbeds. frank h. gibbs, market gardener, st. anthony park. in discussing the subject assigned me, i will only speak of hotbeds and hothouses as used for the purpose of growing vegetables and early vegetable plants. the hotbed is still very desirable where it is wanted on a small scale to grow early vegetables for the home or market, as the small cost for an outfit is very small as compared to hothouses. sash � ft., which is the favorite size with market gardeners, can be purchased for about $ . each glazed, and a box � ft. to hold four sash can be made for $ . , making an outlay less than $ . for sq. ft. of bed. with good care sash and boxes will last eight years. where the beds are put down in early february two crops of lettuce and one crop of cucumbers can be grown, and when the spring is late three crops of lettuce before outdoor lettuce appears on the market, when the beds are given over entirely to the cucumber crop. lettuce at that time generally sells for c per dozen, and cucumbers from c down to c per dozen, according to the season. from three to five hundred cabbage, cauliflower or lettuce plants can be grown under each sash, or from to tomatoes, peppers or egg plants can likewise be grown under each sash, or where lettuce is grown to maturity six dozen per sash. the cost of the horse manure for the beds varies greatly, as some are situated where it can be secured very reasonably, while with others the cost would be prohibitive. the amount required also varies according to the season they are put down. when the beds are put down early in february, three cords of manure are necessary for each box. when they are put down march st, one-half that amount is needed. where there is no desire to get the early market, and the beds are put down march th, one cord is plenty for each box. i have never tried to figure out just what the cost of putting down each box is, or what is the cost of ventilating and watering; but if they are neglected and the plants get burned or frozen, the cost is much more than if they were given proper attention, and, besides, much time is lost in getting another start, as they are generally left several days to see if the plants will recover, which they seldom do. the cost of hothouses varies so greatly for the size of the house that it is hard to draw a comparison. a modern steel frame house containing , sq. ft. of glass can be built for about $ , . , or a house one-half that size can be built for $ , . and is no better than its cheaper rival. a small house say � ft., heated with a brick furnace and flue and hot water coil can be built for from $ . to $ . , where one does not have to hire skilled labor. a hothouse of any size is very satisfactory, as in cold, stormy weather, when we can't even look into a hotbed, plants can be kept growing and there is always something we can do and be comfortable while we are doing it. it is impossible to use a hotbed all winter, as no matter how much manure is put into it in the fall it will cool out and be worthless long before spring. [illustration: showing hotbeds and greenhouse at f. h. gibbs' market gardens.] with a good hothouse four crops of lettuce can be raised during the fall and winter, and a crop of cucumbers in the spring and early summer. each crop of lettuce sells for from c to c per dozen; the plants are set six inches apart each way, making about four per square foot of bench room. the cucumber crop generally pays as well as two crops of lettuce and is usually planted to come into bearing early in june and kept bearing through july, or until the outdoor cucumbers are on the market. in the so-called summer just passed ( ), there were no outdoor cucumbers, and they were kept bearing through august and september. cucumbers grown in hotbeds cannot be kept in bearing more than six weeks before the vines go to pieces and will not sell for as high a price as hothouse grown. with favorable weather i have always thought i could grow a crop of lettuce in less time in a hotbed than in a hothouse, but with cold, cloudy weather the advantage is on the side of the hothouse. much less time is required to do the ventilating and watering in a hothouse than with beds, and the soil must be in the highest state of fertility for either one. while hotbeds will always be desirable in many localities on account of the small first cost, the days of the large commercial hotbed yard is passed, and there are now around minneapolis , hotbed sash that will not be put down next spring, or if put down, used only on cold frames, all owing to the scarcity of fresh horse manure. while it is a great satisfaction to have a hothouse or hotbeds and grow vegetables in winter, the life of the market gardener is not one continuous round of pleasure, as lice, white fly, red spider and thrip, mildew and fungous rot are always ready for a fight, and the gardener must always be on his guard and beat them to it at their first appearance, or the labor of weeks will be lost. an ideal flower garden for a country home. m. h. wetherbee, florist, charles city, iowa. in laying out grounds for country homes or remodeling them, space should be of the first importance, and where space permits there is no better arrangement than a fine border on one side of the lawn with a driveway between the lawn and the border, leading from the street to the house and barns. the border should be wide enough to have a nice variety of shrubs for a background, and there should be space for the hardy perennials and bulbs, which should not be planted solidly but placed in clumps and arranged according to height and blooming season and as to color effect. i will mention a few of the hardy shrubs and plants that we can all grow with success. while the catalogues are filled with a large list of so-called hardy stock, we must remember that we live in a good sized country and what would be hardy in southern iowa, missouri and illinois, would not stand the winters of northern iowa or of minnesota or other localities of the same latitude. in shrubs we can be sure of a variety of lilacs, snowballs, and hydrangea paniculata. some of the newer varieties are fine and bloom in august, when few other shrubs are flowering. spirea van houttii, best known as bridal wreath, we might include and a few of the hardy vines if a trellis or other support was given for them, such as clematis paniculata, coccinea and jackmani, the large purple and white honeysuckle, chinese matrimony vine, etc. among hardy roses, which are called the queen of all flowers, are the rugosa type, which will stand the winters with no protection and continue to flower all summer. while the flowers of that type are single or semi-double, the bushes would be handsome without any flowers. this type also produces hips, which adds to their attractiveness, and these may be made into jelly in the fall if so desired. i would advise to plant some of the most hardy of the hybrid perpetual roses, such as general jacqueminot, magna charta, mrs. chas. wood, mrs. john lang, mad. plantier, with some of the climbers, such as the rambler in variety, prairie queen, baltimore belle and, perhaps, some others, with the understanding that the hybrids and climbers should have protection in some form for the winter months. then in hardy perennials there is such a variety to select from that one hardly knows where to begin or when to stop. of course everyone wants a few peonies, and some of the hardy phlox, in such a variety of color. then the delphinium, or hardy larkspurs, are fine bloomers. the blue and white platycodon are sure to flower, while the german iris are good and the japan iris are fine flowers, but have to have good protection to stand our winters. for fine white flowers we have the showy achilleas in variety and gypsophila paniculata, called baby breath as a common name. then we must have plenty of space for a variety of annuals, such as sweet peas, cosmos, pansies, verbenas, etc. also, we would grow geraniums in variety, a few summer carnations, and the selection can be large or small, but almost every one will want some dahlia and gladiolus bulbs. those that like yellow, or lemon, lilies can plant them and have a mass of flowers during june. the japan lilies, especially the rubrum variety, are good bloomers and quite hardy. the planting and care of hardy perennials. miss grace e. kimball, waltham. (so. minn. hort. society.) the most important essential in the planting of hardy perennials is the preparation of the ground. it must be deeply spaded or plowed and thoroughly pulverized. while most kinds of plants will do well in any good garden soil, most gardens need more or less fertilizer to make the ground good garden soil. so it is well at the time of spading or plowing to see that enough fertilizer is applied to insure good growth and blossom. but care must be used that no fresh stable manure comes in contact with the roots. if it must be used see that it is put in the bottom of the hole or trench dug for the plants, and covered several inches with earth. when the ground is well prepared and properly fertilized comes the planting, and as many plants need somewhat different handling, it is well for one starting a garden to understand just how each kind should be set. the iris, for instance, likes to be very near the surface of the ground. in fact it seems to delight in pushing the earth off the fleshy part of the root and basking in the sun, while the small roots lie very close to the surface. the oriental poppy must be planted with the crown well above the ground, or else when any moisture settles on it the crown will rot, and the plant die. the gaillardia, larkspur and columbine should be planted about as the oriental poppy with the crowns perhaps not quite as much above the ground, while the peony should be set so that the bud is covered two or three inches. since fall planting of herbaceous perennials has come into prominence one can choose either spring or fall for most of their planting, as most plants do well set at either time. but the oriental poppy does not ship nor transplant well in the spring. it dies down after blossoming--one may think they have lost their plants then--and starts up again in august or september. just as it is starting then seems to be the safest time to plant. august and september are considered the best months to do fall planting, although some advocate setting peonies until it freezes. still i think it safer to plant earlier than that. if i were beginning a hardy garden, one that i could add to from time to time, i would try to set out in the fall plants that bloom in the spring or early summer, and in the spring those that bloom in the fall. nothing is gained by setting iris or peonies in the spring, for nine times out of ten they will not bloom the same season they are set, while if set in the fall nearly all varieties of either the iris or peony will bloom the next year. on the other hand, phlox set in the spring scarcely ever fails to bloom in the late summer or early fall, and keeps it up until freezing weather. the phlox, however, should be taken up and divided every two or three years to obtain the best results. after planting comes the cultivating, which should be kept up all summer. especially after a rain should the ground be stirred to keep it from baking. in exceedingly dry seasons by keeping a dust mulch around the plants one can avoid having to do much watering--for unless you water thoroughly at such a time it is better not to water at all. however, if it finally becomes necessary to apply water, the dust mulch has kept the ground in condition to absorb all the water that is used. in the fall after the ground has frozen a light covering of some kind should be thrown over the plants. this is to protect them from the thawing and freezing that takes place from time to time during the winter and early spring. after the first year, when the foliage has increased so as to be some protection, it is not as necessary to cover, although no doubt a little more covering would be beneficial. some growers of the peony, however, advocate cutting off the leaves in the fall, and in such a case a covering would be necessary. we found a very satisfactory way for both covering and fertilizing was to throw a fork full of dressing around each plant in the fall and work it into the ground in the spring. in memoriam--j. f. benjamin. passed july , . aged years. "john franklin benjamin was born at belvidere, illinois, may , . that same year his parents moved to hutchinson and he, at the age of five years, was one of the two score of little children who spent hours of terror in the stockade when it was attacked by the indians on september , . as he grew up he attended the hutchinson school, his boyhood being spent on the farm. he was married in october, , to minnie l. walker. the following year they moved to pierce county, neb., where mr. benjamin purchased and for ten years managed a large ranch. in they returned to hutchinson and proceeded to open and improve highland home fruit farm, which was thenceforth mr. benjamin's abiding place until the summons came that ended all his earthly hopes and plans. "he was an active factor in farmers' co-operative society affairs and supported all movements for the moral and educational uplift of the community. he had been for many years a member of the m. e. church and of the woodmen's and royal neighbors' camps and a valued and active member of each of these societies. [illustration: john franklin benjamin.] "mr. benjamin left no children, and the wife who has been his devoted helpmate for twenty-seven years survives to face the coming years of bereavement alone. "his had been a useful life, a life of ceaseless and honorable toil, and that beautiful and valuable property, highland home fruit farm, largely the product of the work of his own hands, is a monument to his memory which will long endure to be admired and enjoyed by others as one of the model rural places of minnesota. few men in the space of twenty-five years have accomplished more than did j. f. benjamin in establishing the fine, modern home, the large orchard and small fruit and flower gardens and well stocked farm, all of which he had tended with loving hands." mr. benjamin was well known by the members of this society who have attended its annual meetings within the last ten or fifteen years. during this period he has been an active member of the society, often serving on the program or in some other way as opportunity came to him. he was one of the most loyal members of the association, practicing what he preached, and doing all within his power to extend the usefulness of the society. i had a close personal acquaintance with mr. benjamin and the highest respect for his character and attainments. as a comparatively young man we anticipated his presence with us for a long period of time, but in this we are sadly disappointed. his wife in a recent letter says, "one of his greatest pleasures was cultivating and taking care of the flowers which surrounded his home. after a hard day's work in the field, he would labor with his flowers and shrubbery until far into the night. he enjoyed taking or sending flowers to the sick, and many bouquets of his choicest blossoms he gave his friends as they drove past or called to admire his beautiful grounds." in this spirit mr. benjamin labored to reach others and widen the wholesome influence of his life.--sec'y. program th annual meeting our semi-centennial anniversary minnesota state horticultural society, to be held in the west hotel, minneapolis, december , , , , . a great program. study this program carefully and select such features as you especially desire to participate in--but you are more than welcome to all. discussion follows each topic. discussions are "free for all," whether members or not. ask questions or express opinions freely. demonstrations. these demonstrations will be given between : and : each day of the meeting in rooms adjoining the hall in which the meeting is held. they will be conducted by those whose names are here given, both of whom are connected with the horticultural department at university farm. grafting, fred haralson, hort. foreman. pruning, frank daniels, instructor in hort. important. all participants on this program are limited to fifteen minutes except where a longer period is specifically mentioned. time for discussion is allowed after each number. notice of bee-keepers' meeting. the minnesota state bee-keepers' society will hold its annual meeting in the "moorish room," west hotel, minneapolis, on tuesday and wednesday, dec. and , . program can be had of l. v. france, university farm, st. paul. notice.--a bell will be rung five minutes before the exercises begin in the audience room. persons entering the audience room when any one is addressing the meeting from the platform are requested to take seats in the rear of the room, going forward only after the speaker has concluded--and thus avoid much confusion. tuesday morning session. : o'clock. every member attending should not fail to be in his seat promptly when this session opens. invocation rev. c. s. harrison, york, neb. song mr. trafford n. jayne, minneapolis president's annual greeting thos. e. cashman, owatonna top-working young apple trees. e. g. lee, st. paul. evergreens. c. s. harrison, york, neb. preparing and handling the apple crop. e. a. smith, lake city. my prize orchard. . henry dunsmore, olivia. . e. w. mayman, sauk rapids. appointment of committees on award of premiums. tuesday afternoon session. : o'clock. a half hour "question and answer exercise" on "bees in the garden and orchard," led by j. kimball, of duluth. o'clock. president cashman in the chair. reception of delegates. fruits. strawberry culture with irrigation. n. a. rasmussen, oskosh, wis., president wisconsin state hort. society. raspberry culture. a. o. hawkins, wayzata. raspberry diseases in minnesota. g. r. hoerner, asst. in plant pathology, university farm, st. paul. everbearing strawberry field. a. brackett, excelsior. everbearing strawberries at osage, ia., in . chas. f. gardner, osage, ia. opening up the fruit farm. d. e. bingham, delegate wisconsin state hort. society, sturgeon bay, wis. the native plum, its hybrids and their improvement. dewain cook, jeffers. winter injury to plums in - . m. j. dorsey, section of fruit breeding, university farm. lantern talks. . snapshots on the road. nurseries; top-working; blister rust. prof. f. l. washburn, state entomologist, university farm. . nature of plant diseases. g. r. bisby, asst. plant pathologist, university farm. tuesday evening session. : o'clock. minnesota state florists' society. prof. leroy cady, president, in the chair. program: storing and handling gladiolus bulbs. g. d. black, delegate, n. e. ia. state horticultural society, independence, ia. resources of present-day florists. w. e. tricker, st. paul. greenhouse management. prof. wm. moore, university farm. some native shrubs and their uses. e. meyer, minneapolis. wednesday forenoon session. : o'clock. a half hour question and answer exercise on "the vegetable garden," led by alfred perkins, market gardener, st. paul. : o'clock. n. h. reeves, pres. minneapolis market gardeners' society, presiding. the vegetable garden. a successful cabbage field. e. c. willard, mankato. hotbeds and cold frames nine months in the year. ( min.) n. a. rasmussen. pres. wisconsin state hort. society, sturgeon bay, wis. improvement of vegetable varieties by selection. richard wellington, horticulturist, university farm. some phases of onion growing. w. t. tapley, asst. in horticulture, university farm. irrigation in the market garden. c. e. warner, osseo. the cultivation of cabbages. nic lebens, minneapolis. growing radishes. chas. hoffman, white bear. a winter garden in the cellar. n. a. rasmussen, sturgeon bay, wis. home canning. mrs. louis m. glenzke, hopkins. wednesday afternoon session. : o'clock. the question and answer exercise to occupy this half-hour will be on "the flower garden," and led by mrs. h. a. boardman, st. paul. : o'clock. president cashman in the chair. my spraying experience--four five-minute paper. . harold simmons, howard lake. . e. yanish, st. paul. . a. h. reed, glencoe. . j. j. dobbin, excelsior. orchard pests in minnesota during . . diseases. prof. e. c. stakman. head of section plant pathology, university farm. . insects. a. g. ruggles, asst. entomologist, university farm. : o'clock. minn. garden flower society. mrs. e. w. gould, pres., minneapolis. some new plants at home and abroad. professor n. e. hansen, brookings, s. d. the home setting as the architect sees it. mr. harry w. jones, minneapolis. a composite on composites--useful plants for fall bloom. mrs. phelps wyman, minneapolis. lantern talk by e. g. cheyney, prof. of forestry, state university. illustrated with many views from the forest regions of northern minnesota. wednesday evening session. : o'clock, dec. , . n. w. peony and iris society. fifteen-minute musical program by orchestra. the modern iris. mr. c. s. harrison, york, neb. peonies, their care and culture. mr. john e. stryker, st. paul, minn. peonies for pleasure. mr. lee bonnewitz, van wert, ohio. peonies for profit. mrs. wm. crawford, la porte, ind. peonies and their possibilities. mr. d. w. c. ruff, st. paul, minn. music. selection by orchestra. general discussion. thursday forenoon session. : o'clock. a thirty-minute "question and answer" exercise on "success in orcharding," led by j. f. harrison, a successful orchardist, excelsior. : o'clock. president cashman in the chair. evergreens for prairie homes. m. soholt, madison. windbreaks by the mile. t. a. hoverstad, minneapolis. arrangement of farm buildings and grounds for convenience and artistic effect. e. m. reeves, waverly, ia. report of committee on fruit list. j. p. andrews, g. w. strand, t. e. cashman. adoption of fruit list. annual reports. report of executive board, j. m. underwood, chairman, lake city. report of secretary, a. w. latham. report of treasurer, geo. w. strand, taylors falls. on account of the very full program the annual reports of the vice-presidents, superintendents of trial stations and auxiliary societies, will be filed with the secretary for publication without reading. (see list on page .) the successful orchard. ( min.) s. a. beach, prof. of horticulture, iowa state agricultural college, ames, ia. development of horticulture in western canada. prof. f. w. brodrick, horticulturist, manitoba agricultural college. contestants, gideon memorial fund--by students at university farm school. thursday afternoon session. : o'clock. discuss these subjects. "ornamentation of home grounds" will be the subject of the half-hour "question and answer exercise," led by c. h. ramsdell, landscape architect, minneapolis. : o'clock. president cashman in the chair. horticultural work with the boys' and girls' clubs in minnesota. t. a. erickson, state club leader, university farm. boy or girl prize winner in the state-wide garden and canning contest. compulsory spraying for fruit insects and diseases. k. a. kirkpatrick, agricultural agent, hennepin county, wayzata. annual election of officers. : o'clock. semi-centennial anniversary session. j. m. underwood, lake city, presiding. song. trafford n. jayne. some history. a. w. latham, secretary. the heroes of minnesota horticulture. clarence wedge, albert lea. personal recollections. a. j. philips, west salem, wis. the ladies of the society. mrs. jennie stager, sauk rapids. greeting from university farm. a. f. woods, dean. the minnesota society and the northwest. prof. c. b. waldron, agri. college, n. d. looking ahead. c. s. harrison, york, neb. to conclude with a lantern slide talk, "veterans of minnesota horticulture." slides prepared by prof. leroy cady. friday forenoon session. : o'clock. a thirty-minute "question and answer exercise" on the general subject of "birds a factor in horticulture," led by r. e. olmstead, excelsior. : o'clock. president in the chair. potato selection. p. e. clement, moorhead. vinegar a by-product of the minnesota orchard. w. g. brierley, horticulturist, university farm. our horticultural building. a consultation. plant breeders' auxiliary. clarence wedge, president, in the chair. annual report, , minn. fruit breeding farm. chas. haralson, supt., excelsior. report of committee on fruit breeding farm. s. a. stockwell, minneapolis. c. s. harrison, excelsior. fruit breeding. prof. s. a. beach, horticulturist, ames, iowa. pedigree in plants. prof. c. b. waldron, agricultural college, n. d. origin and development of hardy, blight resisting pears. chas. g. patten, charles city, ia. new creations in horticulture for . prof. n. e. hansen, brookings, s. d. friday afternoon. : o'clock. the "question and answer" half hour will be occupied with this subject, "the home orchard," led by henry husser, minneapolis. : o'clock. the minnesota orchard. j. f. bartlett, excelsior. the new farmers fruit. freeman thorp, hubert. ( min.) the unfruitful tree and how to correct it. ( min.) prof. s. a. beach, ames, ia. orcharding in minnesota. richard wellington, horticulturist, university farm. the minnesota apple crop in . r. s. mackintosh, horticulturist, extension division, university farm. : o'clock. two-minute speeches by members. : o'clock. closing remarks by the president. premium list, annual meeting, . thos. redpath, general supt. geo. w. strand, clerk. floral display. w. h. bofferding, no. nd st., minneapolis, supt. plants. to be staged monday p.m., dec. , . st. nd. rd. collection of specimen palms $ . $ . $ . collection of specimen ferns . . . collection of specimen blooming plants . . . (covering square feet.) cut flowers. to be staged before : a.m., tuesday, dec. . st. nd. rd. roses, red, any variety $ . $ . $ . roses, pink, any variety . . . roses, white, any variety . . . roses, yellow, any var'ty . . . to be staged before : a.m., wednesday, dec. . st. nd. rd. chrysanthemums, yellow $ . $ . $ . chrysanthemums, any other color . . . carnations, red, any variety . . . carnations, pink, any variety . . . carnations, white, any variety . . . to be staged before : a.m., thursday, dec. . st. nd. rd. basket arranged for effect, diameter not to exceed inches $ . $ . $ . best bridal bouquet--diploma. best corsage bouquet--diploma. best bridesmaid's bouquet--diploma. vegetables. entries to be made by tuesday, nov. . n. h. reeves, mpls., supt. st. nd. rd. th. beets, peck $ . $ . $ . $ . cabbages, heads . . . . carrots, peck . . . . celery, doz. stalks . . . . celeriac, doz. roots . . . . lettuce, doz. heads . . . . onions, peck red . . . . onions, peck white . . . . onions, pk. yellow . . . . onions, peck white pickling . . . . parsley, doz. bnhs. . . . . parsnips, / bushel . . . . potatoes, bu. early variety . . . . pie pumpkins, three specimens . . . . radish, fresh, doz. bunches . . . . salsify, doz. bnchs. . . . . hubbard squash, specimens . . . . white turnips, pk . . . . rutabagas, / bu . . . . early winter seedling.--the fruit shown must not have been kept in cold storage. premium $ . , to be divided pro rata. late winter seedling.--same conditions as for early winter seedlings except that if found necessary the fruit shown may be retained and final decision reserved until later in the winter. premium $ . to be divided pro rata. in each of the above two classes the varieties receiving the three highest awards will be designated as having received the first, second and third premium respectively. apples (not including crabs). no inferior fruit can be shown. st. nd. rd. each variety (may or may not have been in cold storage) included in the fruit list of the society, or in the premium list of the minnesota state fair $ . $ . $ . collection, not to exceed ten nor less than six varieties $ . to be divided pro rata pecks of apples. peck of any variety of apples, the fruit exhibited to be at the disposal of the society. an exhibitor may enter a peck of each of as many different kinds as he pleases. $ . to be divided pro rata. top-worked apples. collection of named varieties grown on scions top-grafted on other trees. accompanying the name of each variety, shown on the same label (to be furnished by the management), must be noted the name of the variety on which it is top-worked. $ . , to be divided pro rata. boxes and barrels of apples. must have been packed by the exhibitor. only one variety (not less than - / in. in diameter) can be shown in a box. bushel boxes of the standard size must be used. awards will be based on the quality of the fruit, packing, etc. single box of any variety of apples, including seedlings, $ . , to be divided pro rata. also st $ . , nd $ . , rd $ . . st. nd. rd. th. barrel of apples, any variety, $ . , to be divided pro rata. also $ . $ . $ . $ . grapes. st. nd. rd. collection, not more than nor less than varieties $ . $ . $ . $ seedling apple prize. the fifth prize of $ . will be awarded this season "for the best late winter seedling apple keeping till march st under ordinary cellar conditions" under the offer made first in , restricted, of course, to the contestants who have duly registered. nuts. st. nd. rd. th. each variety of edible nuts, one quart $ . $ . $ . $ . * * * * * program notes: you can become a life member of the state horticultural society by payment of $ . , in two annual payments of $ . each if you prefer. this will entitle you to a file of our bound reports, a library in itself. the annual business meeting of the minn. garden flower society will be held wednesday morning at : o'clock in an adjoining room. are you a member of the garden flower society? if you are growing flowers you should join it at once. consult the secretary, mrs. m. l. countryman. membership fees to be paid to the assistant secretary in the hallway. garden helps conducted by minnesota garden flower society edited by mrs. e. w. gould, humboldt avenue so. minneapolis. the garden flower society will have an all-day meeting at the agricultural college the first friday in january next. this meeting is to be held with the session of the farmers' short course in room , horticultural building. arrangements will be made so that lunches may be had on the grounds, probably at the dining hall. the program covers a wide range of subjects, and as time will be given for discussion and answering of questions brought up, this will prove a most helpful meeting to all of our members. our own annual meeting will be held on wednesday, december sixth. the business meeting and election of officers being held in the morning, the program in the afternoon--at the west hotel--in connection with the horticultural society. will not each member make an especial effort to bring in a new member at that time or before? the only reason we have not a thousand members is because we and our work are so little known. if you will tell your friends who have gardens what we are doing, you will have no difficulty in helping us add to our membership. since last january we have received sixty-six new members. can't we make it an even hundred for this year? with _your help_, we _can_. the program for our annual meeting will be found in the official program, printed elsewhere in this number. here is the program for the meeting at the agricultural college, friday, january th. come and bring your garden problems with you. * * * * * (program for meeting, january , , a.m., agricultural college.) . perennials for busy people mrs. h. b. tillotson . perennials from seed to seed mr. e. meyer . native perennials for garden use miss m. fanning . best hardy vines and their use mrs. e. w. gould . best annuals mrs. h. a. boardman : p.m. . fruits for ornamental planting mr. phelps wyman . native shrubs for the home grounds mr. paul mueller . proper preparation of the garden soil professor f. j. alway . a watering system for the garden mrs. c. e. warner . growing bedding plants for the market mrs. f. h. gibbs . growing cut flowers for the market {miss sabra ellison {mr. f. h. ellison . special purpose plants-- honey plants prof. oswald medicinal plants dr. newcomb question box. secretary's corner this is your vacation.--if you are a fruit grower or a flower grower or vegetable grower or interested in home life or in any of the varied matters directly or indirectly connected with horticulture, the annual meeting is just the place for you. _make it a real winter vacation._ bring your wife and others of the family if possible and stay with us at the west hotel for the four days of the meeting. it will be one of the bright spots in your life, as you recall the pleasures of this great and fruitful gathering. annual society banquet.--special pains have been taken in preparing the program for this banquet on account of the fact that this is our anniversary session in part, and you will not be disappointed if you anticipate a rich treat, with two or three hundred of the most congenial people on earth, who will sit down to supper together at the west hotel at : p. m., thursday, december th,--a wholesome repast and an intellectual feast, don't miss it. you will feel that you really belong to the brotherhood after dining with us. delegates to the annual meeting.--besides the delegates at our annual meeting from abroad referred to in the november number, there is to be with us also as representative of the iowa state horticultural society, mr. p. f. kinne, of storm lake, iowa. we have pretty good assurance also that secy. greene, of the iowa society, will visit with us at some time during the meeting, and we don't know how many more of the good iowa people will find their way here. a late note from chas. g. patten assures us of his attendance at the meeting, when he will give us a full report of his experimental work in growing seedling pears at his station at charles city, iowa. we are looking forward confidently to something of large practical value from his work. program of annual meeting.--the program of the coming annual meeting of the society will be found in an abbreviated form in this number of our magazine. it has been sent, however, in all its completeness, in a separate enclosure to all the members of the society, accompanied by a blank form to be filled out by members who purpose to attend and desire to have their names in the badge book, and also for those who renew their memberships. quite a number of questions are asked on this blank form, and it is important that they should all be answered. it is especially important that the names of friends whom you would like to see members of the society should be given to the secretary on these blanks and at an early date so that copies of the program can be sent them in good season. the program, as you will note, is an exceedingly diversified one, special emphasis being laid on orcharding, vegetable growing and ornamental horticulture. an increasing interest in flower growing is emphasized by the programs of three auxiliary societies devoted to these branches of horticulture. _aren't you coming to this splendid meeting?_ study the program and consider the advantages of intercourse and companionship with those who have so much in common as the members of the horticultural society. don't fail to _attend promptly the first session_, which is always a full one, right on the minute. journal of annual meeting, minnesota state horticultural society held on second floor of the west hotel, minneapolis, december , , and , . tuesday morning session, o'clock. meeting was opened at o'clock a.m., december , , by president thomas e. cashman. invocation was made by rev. c. s. harrison, of york, nebraska, which was followed by a song by mr. trafford n. jayne, of minneapolis. the president then read his annual greeting. (see index.) president cashman: how may university farm and the minnesota state horticultural society be mutually helpful in developing the farms and homes of the northwest? by our good friend, the dean of agriculture of this state, mr. a. f. woods. (applause.) (see index.) discussion. president cashman: anything further before we pass to the next subject? if not, we will now call on one of our oldest members and one of our best friends, mr. george j. kellogg, of wisconsin, who will tell us something about the strawberry business. (see index.) discussion. president cashman: i am sure we are all very much indebted to mr. kellogg. now, we have another very good friend with us from nebraska. he is going to tell us about "the nurseryman as king." mr. c. s. harrison, of york, nebraska. (see index.) president cashman: this morning we heard from our good friend, dean woods, then we heard from wisconsin and later from nebraska. we have enjoyed all three, all very instructive and very entertaining, and we hope to hear from them again. we hope later to hear from another wisconsin man, mr. philips. those three men have always contributed a great deal to the success of our meetings. i understand that wisconsin has sent another representative, mr. a. c. graves, of sturgeon bay. it has been announced that he is with us. if so, we will be pleased to have him come forward and have a word of greeting from him, representing the wisconsin horticultural society. mr. graves: mr. president and members of the minnesota horticultural society: i am very pleased to be here this morning and listen to this program and these deliberations. i expect to spend some enjoyable days with you, and on behalf of the wisconsin horticultural society i am pleased to bring to you their greetings on this occasion. thank you. (applause.) president cashman: we hope to hear from you later, mr. graves, and would be pleased to have you take part in our deliberations. i presume that there are other delegates here, but if so they have not been announced. if there are others i hope they will hand their credentials to the secretary so we may call on them later. meeting adjourned until : p.m. december , , afternoon session. _the minnesota orchard._ discussion led by j. p. andrews, faribault, minn. (see index.) the president: ladies and gentlemen, the time has now arrived to continue with the regular proceedings of the society. mr. rasmussen, president of the wisconsin state horticultural society, is with us and will be on the program later, but we will have a few words from him now. (applause.). mr. rasmussen (wisconsin): mr. president and members of the minnesota horticultural society: i didn't expect to be caught this way. i was going to be real shrewd, i was not going to let you know i was coming. i told the secretary of our society not to let you know i was coming, but he notified your secretary that i was coming and that is the way they happened to get me on the program. i was going to sneak in and get all the good out of it and was not going to give anything back; i will admit that is not a fair game. i feel about like a fellow who had to make a talk at a banquet. he said he was not a speaker, but they insisted. they would not let him back out. so he got up and feeling kind of shaky, like i am now, he reached his hand down to get hold of his chair, as he thought, but touched his wife's shoulder, and she got up. she thought she had to. he started, "ladies and gentlemen, this thing was forced on me. (laughter.)" so this was kind of forced upon me. i know that your program is full so i will not detain you any longer. my time is tomorrow, and i will take you through my garden tomorrow. (applause.) the president: we are all pleased to have mr. rasmussen with us, and we hope we will hear from him often during the deliberations of the meeting. i was pleased indeed to see so many present this forenoon. secretary latham thought he had plenty of room for all who might attend, but i don't think there was a vacant chair here this forenoon. i was pleased indeed to note so many new faces, so many young men present. you are the people we want to see. the older men have always contributed and done their part and have made these meetings a grand success, but it will soon devolve upon the younger men of this society to take their places. we want you to help them at these meetings, and i was glad that you did so this forenoon. we hope that the young men will feel at home and that they will continue to take part, that they will ask questions and tell us about their successes and their failures, and i hope the older members will help make it pleasant for these young men. we will take up the subject of fruits this afternoon, and i am now going to call on a plum specialist, a man that we look to to tell us about the plum troubles in this state, mr. dewain cook, who will tell us about the "plums we already have and plums that are on the way--the brown rot a controlling factor," mr. dewain cook, of jeffers, minnesota. (see index.) discussion. the president: we have heard of some of the troubles of those that plant plum trees. the next speaker will probably tell us how to meet those troubles, how to combat the plum pocket fungus. we are fortunate to have with us a scientific man that makes a study of these subjects. i refer to professor stakman, of the university farm, st. paul. "the control and cure of brown rot, etc.," by prof. e. c. stakman. (see index.) discussion. the president: i will now call on mr. c. a. pfeiffer, of winona, to talk to us on "the surprise plum a success." (see index.) discussion. the president: "thirty years in raspberries," by a gentleman that knows how to make money by the raising of raspberries, mr. gust. johnson, of minneapolis. (see index.) discussion. the president: we will now call upon mr. simmons to tell us about "my orchard crop of --from start to finish." (see index.) the president: as you know, mr. simmons is one of the most successful orchardists in minnesota. do you wish to ask him any questions? discussion. mr. cashman: we are very much indebted to mr. simmons for this splendid paper and for his advice. we must hurry on to the next subject, which is "fruit growing a successful industry in minnesota," by a. w. richardson, howard lake, minn. (see index.) the president: i am sure you will all agree this was a very instructive and interesting paper. we have about three minutes in which to discuss it. discussion. two lantern talks followed--one by earl ferris of hampton, ia., on "evergreens," and one by a. g. tolaas on "diseases of the potato." december , , morning session. discussion on "the vegetable garden," led by h. j. baldwin, northfield, minn. (see index.) n. h. reeves, president minneapolis market gardeners' association, in the chair. president reeves: we will now have a paper on "growing beans and sweet corn," by p. b. marien, of st. paul. (see index.) discussion. the president: we will now listen to a paper on "growing vegetables for canning," by mr. m. h. hegerle, president of canning company, st. bonifacius. mr. hegerle not being present, we will ask mr. rasmussen, president of the wisconsin horticultural society, to tell us "how we grow vegetables in oshkosh, wisconsin." (applause.) (see index.) president reeves: is mr. hegerle in the room? mr. hegerle: yes. president reeves: then we will listen to mr. hegerle's talk on "growing vegetables for canning." (see index.) discussion. president reeves: "greenhouse vs. hotbeds, investment, care and result compared," by mr. f. h. gibbs. (see index.) president reeves: "growing the tomato," by c. w. purdham, market gardener, brooklyn center. (see index.) discussion. president reeves: we will now listen to a paper by e. w. record on "asparagus by the acre." (see index.) president reeves: you will be entertained with a demonstration of the coldpack method of canning fruits and vegetables by professor r. s. mackintosh and miss mary l. bull. after the demonstration the session adjourned until : o'clock p.m. december , , afternoon session. question and answer exercise on "the flower garden," led by mr. g. c. hawkins, of minneapolis. the president: i regret to have to announce that one of the big guns who was to be with us on this afternoon's program, professor j. c. whitten, of missouri, is unable to be with us on account of sickness. secretary latham received a letter from him just a short time ago, stating that he was sick abed and the doctor would not permit him to leave. we have another very able gentleman whom i will call upon at this time to take mr. whitten's place. his name is h. g. street, of hebron, ill., who will tell us about "marketing fruit direct." (applause.) (see index.) discussion. the president: we appreciate very much this fine paper by mr. street. we have another very important subject this afternoon. we will have a paper by mr. w. g. brierly, assistant horticulturist at the university farm, on "the manufacture of cider vinegar on the farm." (applause.) (see index.) reading by miss mary bonn. the president: we will now turn the meeting over to the garden flower society and request the president, mrs. ruff, to take the chair. (in the absence of mrs. ruff, mrs. e. w. gould presided.) mrs. gould: our first number will be a paper on the minnesota state flower, by mr. e. a. smith, of lake city. (applause.) mr. smith: i wish to add one word to the name of my paper and that is "flag," so that it will read "minnesota state flower and state flag." i have the two subjects so closely associated that i can not separate them. (see index.) discussion. mr. smith: i now come to the point in my paper. i move you, madam president, that the minnesota state horticultural society and its auxiliary societies through its secretary present the following resolution to the next legislature of the state for adoption at that time: resolved, that, whereas the state of minnesota has adopted a state flower which, on account of its being a native of the woods and bogs, is not generally known or recognized and, whereas, the state of minnesota in adopted by legislative vote a state flag, which emblem is not generally known to the residents of the state, and believing that familiarity with the state flower and the state flag will do good and create loyalty to the state and union, be it resolved, that we, the minnesota state horticultural society and auxiliary societies, do hereby petition and pray the state legislature of minnesota to have printed an attractive picture of the state flower and the state flag, properly framed, and present a copy of it to each public school of the state with the request that it be placed upon the walls of the school room, also that it be furnished free of cost to such other public buildings as may be deemed advisable. i trust, madam president, that this resolution will not only be seconded but it will meet with the unanimous approval of the society. mr. hawkins: i second the motion. mrs. gould: i do not know that we could vote with the horticultural society. this is not a meeting of that society but simply a meeting of the flower society. will some one enlighten me? miss white: madam president, if we could not vote as a society, could we not vote to recommend this resolution to the horticultural society? a member: yes, or to the two societies to be taken up at their business meeting, perhaps. miss white: recommend it be passed by the parent society. a member: madam president, why should it not be the flag itself and not a picture of the flag? mrs. gould: will you make that motion? miss white: i move that the resolution as presented by mr. smith be endorsed by this garden flower society and referred to the parent society for their adoption. i will offer that as a substitute. a member: i second the motion. motion was carried. mrs. gould: our next subject is "the pergola, its use and misuse, its convenience and expense," by charles h. ramsdell, of minneapolis. (see index.) mrs. gould: our next paper is "hardy perennials," by miss grace e. kimball, of waltham. (see index.) mrs. gould: this spring our president, mrs. ruff, offered prizes for the best papers on planting for color effect. the judges after reading these papers carefully selected three. miss starr is first, mrs. tillotson second and mrs. boyington third. these papers will now be read, miss starr giving the first one. (see index.) mrs. gould: mrs. tillotson will follow with her paper. (see index.) mrs. gould: mrs. wyman will read mrs. boyington's paper. mrs. boyington was unable to be with us today. (see index.) mrs. gould: mrs. countryman will read a paper written by mr. swanson on the judging of flowers. (see index.) mrs. gould: our meeting will close with professor washburn's talk on "bird conservation," which will be given with slides and music. professor washburn gives lantern talk. december , , morning session. half hour question and answer exercise on "truck crop and garden insects," led by professor wm. moore. (see index.) the president: the committee on fruit list has been working very hard trying to determine why we have particular varieties on the list and the changes, if any, that should be made. mr. j. p. andrews, the chairman of the committee, is the man who has been doing most of this work, and we will be glad to hear from him at this time. he is quite radical and in favor of many changes as you will note when he reads his report. mr. andrews: there are very few changes, and you know it has been the policy of this society rather to be conservative and not jump at anything until we know what it is. (reads new fruit list.) mr. andrews: i move its adoption. motion was seconded and carried unanimously. mr. andrews: i would like to call attention to the fact that a great many criticize that we do not change the list from time to time. i have thought that for a long time. two or three years ago there was a little move towards making it so we could change it. we are putting up some nice, big premiums for late winter apples and early winter apples, and there are undoubtedly some seedlings that would be all right to put upon the list if we knew more about them. it seems to me it is foolish to pay those premiums and then drop it right there. we do not know any more about whether they are hardy or not than if they had been grown in missouri. they may have grown well through some protection or favorable location, but when you commence grafting from a seedling it does not give satisfaction as a grafted tree and in different localities of the country. we want to know whether the new seedlings are hardy enough for this climate, not that they are simply of good quality to eat and perhaps will keep. we find that out here, but we do not find out anything about the hardiness. i think we ought to require a person who has produced a good seedling and gotten a good premium for it to send some of its scions to the superintendent of the fruit-breeding farm for testing and let him send it out to points north of here, between here and the northern part of the state, to see how much hardiness it has. hardiness is the quality we want more than anything else. we have gotten along so far with the hibernal, and we ought not to be so particular about quality as about hardiness. they ought to be required to give mr. haralson a few of the scions or buds so that he could try them there at the fruit-breeding farm and send them out to more northern locations under number, so that the originator will be just as well protected, and it will add so much to the value of the new seedling that he ought to be anxious to do it instead of holding it back as is now done. i move you that we have some arrangement whereby those drawing the premiums for the first and second qualities, keeping qualities and eating qualities, etc., shall be obliged to give to mr. haralson something to work on, either scions or buds of those varieties, so that they can be tested in that way and we know what they are, otherwise it leaves it for any one to introduce a new variety just about on the same ground that some other varieties have been introduced in the state, made a nice, large thing for the man that introduced them to the public and sold them but afterwards proved a great disappointment to almost every man who ever planted them. i move that we make such an arrangement, and we recommend that the state fair do the same. mr. horton: i second the motion. the president: it is moved and seconded that some arrangement be made requiring people who enter seedling apples for prizes at the horticultural meeting and the state fair to furnish scions or buds of such varieties to the central station to superintendent charles haralson that he may determine whether the trees are hardy and suitable for this climate or not. mr. andrews: we need this provision so that superintendent haralson could visit those trees and see what they looked like. mr. latham: i move that this matter be referred to the executive board to develop a workable plan to secure the purposes which mr. andrews has in view. the president: do you accept that as a substitute? mr. andrews: i would if it wasn't for this one thing. it was left that way a year or two ago, and it hasn't amounted to a thing. i do not care if it is left to the executive committee if mr. latham will vouch for its being put through. mr. latham: don't you remember as the result of that action we prepared forms to be used by those who examined the seedlings and decided what seedlings should be further tested and all that sort of thing. we have those forms for use if the committee wants to use them. mr. andrews: those ought to be so as to hold the premium money back until we get some material to test. mr. latham: i will say a few words. it is not such a simple matter as it seems. here come perhaps fifty people who have grown seedlings. we tell them we are very desirous that all the seedlings in the state that have promise of merit be shown. in the division of the premium money they do not get more than four or five dollars apiece, the best of them do not get more than eight or ten dollars. then here comes a resolution which says, "before you draw this money you have to furnish scions to the state fruit-breeding farm with the privilege of sending out to other stations in the state for testing." the average man who owns a seedling that is really a good thing begins to think about it, and we will not get what we want. if a man has a seedling that is better than the duchess and wealthy and has hardiness as well there are lots of buyers around here that have their eyes open. there has been a half a dozen i know of picked up in the last few years really first class, fine and hardy. those trees are being tested out. it would be a splendid thing if we could get a really good seedling, as mr. andrews says, but a resolution of this kind will not result in doing what we want to do. i would like to have it referred to the executive board so they can work out a practical plan. mr. andrews is a member of the board. i renew my motion. motion is seconded. the president: the original motion as given by mr. andrews is that those people offering seedlings for prizes, before they receive premiums-- mr. andrews: the first or second premiums, i said, because that would shut out all of the others. the president:--before receiving the first or second premiums, that they be required or that they will agree to furnish scions or buds for experimental purposes, these scions or buds to be sent to the central station to mr. haralson for the purpose of testing them out as to hardiness, under number. now, the amendment made by mr. latham is to the effect that this matter be referred to the executive committee. we will first put the amendment that it be referred to the executive committee to work out a practical plan. mr. heustis: and report next year. the president: that they work out a practical plan and put it in operation. was it your idea that we report next year or that the plan be put in operation? mr. latham: no objection to reporting next year. if they can work out a plan they can also put it in practical operation. mr. andrews: i do not think that i am after this now, gentlemen, any more than every one of you ought to be after it. we ought to know more about the hardiness of these trees. this list has stood almost identically the same list for eight or nine years, pretty nearly the same, and we are not getting ahead at all. we do not know any more about the hardiness of these trees we have been putting out than we did before. the amendment was carried. the president: this matter will therefore be referred to the executive board. the next in order is the annual report of the executive board, mr. j. m. underwood, of lake city, chairman. mr. underwood is sojourning in the sunny south. he has sent a report, however, to secretary latham, and mr. latham has requested me to read it. this was written at st. augustine, florida. (see index.) the president: any one wish to make any comments on this report? if not, we will pass to the report of the secretary, mr. latham. mr. latham: do you wish to have the report read or have it published later? it will be published anyway. mr. miller: let it be considered as read and approved and filed for publication. (see index.) motion is seconded and carried. the president: we will now have the report of george w. strand, treasurer. (see index.) the president: what will you do with the report of the treasurer? you have heard the reading of it. upon motion the report was adopted and filed. the president: the next order of business would be the paper by professor j. c. whitten but mr. whitten is not present, i am sorry to say, and i am now going to call on mr. o. m. heustis as he is present to tell us about his "dwarf apple trees." (see index.) the president: we are very much indebted to the doctor for his interesting talk. is professor mackintosh in the room? i was going to ask him to read a paper on "successful cold storage plant for apples," sent in by mr. hanson. i am sorry that mr. hanson is not able to be present, he is ill at home. professor mackintosh not being present, paper was read by mr. clarence wedge. the president: mr. wedge will have a word for us at this time. he has a suggestion to make. mr. wedge: ladies and gentlemen, fellow members: once a year our society has been in the habit of bestowing the highest honor within its gift upon some of the members that have honored the society for so many years with their services and have made themselves in that way so valuable to the public that we feel that they deserve the highest recognition which we are able to give them as a society. it becomes my great pleasure at this time, standing in the place of my friend, mr. underwood, who is absent, to propose the following names to you which have been recommended by the executive board for this honor. there are five of them, the names are: john bisbee, of madelia; charles haralson, our superintendent at excelsior; mr. f. w. kimball, of waltham; mr. john r. cummins, of minneapolis, and mr. s. h. drum, of owatonna. mr. bisbee has undertaken and is carrying on one of the largest experiments in seedling apples in the northwest. he seems to be a very quiet member among us, but he is one of the working members who are doing the things that the society most needs. i do not need to tell you anything about the work of charles haralson, the superintendent of our fruit-breeding farm at zumbra heights. his work has approved itself to us all so much that i think he really deserves the statement that was made by one of our older members that he has outdone burbank. he certainly has for this part of the country. mr. f. w. kimball, a very dear personal friend of mine, has been carrying on experiments in orcharding for the past twenty-five years about, in the neighborhood of austin, minnesota, and has now removed to waltham. his experiments there in top-working have been among the most useful and among the largest that have been undertaken in any part of the state. he perhaps deserve the same reputation in our state that our friend, mr. philips, has in wisconsin. i do not want to say this to disparage anybody else, but he has certainly made a very large and very valuable addition to our knowledge of the value of top-working. mr. john r. cummins, of minneapolis, whom we have with us this morning, is one who has been a very persistent experimenter in all lines. i remember particularly going to his place some ten or fifteen years ago and going over the remarkable collection of ornamental trees and plants that he was growing, many of which i did not think it was possible to grow at albert lea, and there he was succeeding with them and developing them at a point miles north of us. we certainly owe him a deal of credit for his perseverance and his enterprise. we are glad that he is with us today. mr. s. h. drum, of owatonna, is one who has also been one of our most faithful members, whose experiments have been in fruits, and he has brought great encouragement to us in the southern part of minnesota. he has now moved to owatonna and, not being content with the best, he has started out with a new plantation with two kinds of fruit, and i think he is topping the market with the very best. mr. president, i move that these names be added to the list of honorary life members of the minnesota horticultural society. there are several seconds to the motion. the president: a very fitting tribute, i am sure. are there any remarks? the name of mr. cummins calls my attention to the fact that about twelve years ago he presented this society with the gavel that i hold in my hand. this gavel is made of black walnut grown by mr. cummins on his own place. i do not suppose that he made the gavel himself, but it is made of material raised on his own farm, and when this gavel comes down good and hard i want you to think of mr. cummins. are you ready for the question, that those gentlemen suggested be made honorary life members? motion is carried unanimously. the president: i am now going to call on the young men from the university farm who are contestants for the gideon memorial fund. (see index.) contestants thereupon read their essays. the president: i will now ask the judges to retire and decide which of these young men is entitled to this prize money. for the benefit of some of the newer members who may not understand the situation i will say that some years ago a number of the members of this society believed that we should commemorate the good work done by peter m. gideon. a sum of money was raised to be known as the gideon memorial fund. it was decided that that money be placed at interest and that the interest derived therefrom be offered as prizes to young men attending our agricultural school or college. they were to deliver addresses at the meetings of the minnesota horticultural society, and the young men preparing the best papers and making the best talks would be awarded this prize money, the accrued interest from this fund. so we have annually three young men from the agricultural college that present papers or make addresses on subjects that are of importance to this society. this is a memorial for peter m. gideon, who has done such splendid work for the fruit raisers of the northwest. while we are waiting for the report of the judges i will ask mr. ludlow to come forward and tell us about a letter that he received from peter m. gideon, november , , and which was accompanied by mr. gideon's last catalog. judges announce their decision. (applause.) _premiums awarded to gideon memorial contestants_: . the plum curculio--edward a. nelson. . standardizing the potato--a. w. aamodt. . marketing fruit at mankato--p. l. keene. the president: i am now going to call on some of the delegates to this meeting. mr. george h. whiting, representing the south dakota horticultural society, we will ask him to come forward and say a word. mr. whiting: mr. president, ladies and gentlemen: i do not know why mr. cashman should ask me to come forward. i have not very much to say and could have said it back there just as well. perhaps you will wish i had stayed back there. i will say it is a pleasure to me to be with the minnesota horticulturists again. i have met with you quite a number of years but not in the capacity of delegate. i did not expect to be a delegate this time, thought i would leave the place for some younger man, but there seemed to be no other present, and so i had to accept. i rather felt as though i was not competent or did not care to take the responsibility of making a report. i am getting old and a little tired, and i do not like to do so much of that kind of work as i used to. however, i presume i will have to do the best i can and let it go at that. i will say you have a wonderful society here. it is a wonder to me sometimes how you keep up the interest, how to keep up so much interest in this work. there is no other state in the union that has such a good, live society. i attended a great many of the state societies last year. i had the pleasure of attending the missouri state society. i can say that you discount them and then some. an old state like missouri and a fruit state, you might say, it is supposed to be in the fruit belt, and still you fellows up north here have all the vim and the snap and determination to do things that those fellows do not do at all. it is more in the man, i think sometimes, than it is in the location. it used to be said that minnesota was not a fruit state, you could not grow apples in minnesota. well, i believe mr. gideon said that if he could not grow apples in minnesota he would not live there, something to that effect, and he did not intend to leave the state either. now, you all know what success he made, and you that follow have a great deal to be thankful for the work he did, and you are hoping--and i presume you will be successful--to obtain an apple that is even better than the wealthy. i am glad that you take so much interest in this matter of new seedlings. it will surely develop something some day, there is no question about it. of course, you cannot tell when, and you cannot tell who will be the lucky man to get the thousand dollars, but undoubtedly there is more at stake than the thousand dollars; that is a very small item. i think i will not take up your time. it is getting on, and i have not thought of making any talk, have nothing prepared and nothing in my head. i thank you for your attention. (applause.) the president: i am going to call on our good friend, professor hansen, secretary of the south dakota horticultural society, who has done so much for us. mr. wedge: mr. hansen is not here. i just want to say a word that might interest some of the younger members of the society in regard to our friend who has just left the floor, mr. whiting, of yankton. he is the original dakota nurseryman, who went out in the days of the pioneers before i think there was any such thing as south dakota, and he has stayed on the job ever since. that is not so wonderful, for others, lots of people, have stayed on the job, but he has made money out of the business and got rich. i think he deserves some very special praise. (applause.) the president: is professor waldron in the room? here he comes. he is the leading light of north dakota and a gentleman who has been with us before. (applause.) mr. waldron: these people will think north dakota is a dark place if this is a leading light. what is the occasion of this? the president: tell us your troubles. mr. waldron: when we had a good wheat crop we did not have any troubles. we forget our other troubles whenever we can get something like million bushels of wheat. our horticultural troubles have been quite numerous. we had a frost every year, including july. we started in on the ninth day of june with a frost that killed everything in sight except a few cottonwood trees and things like that, but all of our tomatoes, which were in blossom by the way at that time because we had a favorable spring, and plums and apples went the same way. i think a few of the late blooming plums managed to survive. the frost in july did not hurt very much but the frost in august certainly finished us. mr. latham: the reporter is taking all that. mr. waldron: our reputation is so good, we can own up to calamity once in a while. of course, if our reputation was not better than others we would have to keep it dark, but inasmuch as nature favors us so continuously we can own up when we get bumped. the august frost put our corn out of business, so we are around with long fingers trying to steal seed corn. however, a great many of the people of the state are looking forward to the matter of planting trees as never before, and our farmers and citizens are taking more interest in general tree planting and beautifying the homes than in previous years. i had this term a large class of students in landscape gardening. they will go out to the places where they live and encourage the planting of trees and landscape gardening there. in this matter of general ornamentation the frosts or other calamities have not discouraged us. i think there were more trees grown and more ornamental work done this year than in any two previous years because the men have the money and are willing to spend it. i was out on a farm last week where a man insisted on buying a thousand evergreen trees. the nurseryman tried to sell him only five hundred, but he would not have it that way. he wanted a thousand. he said he had the money and was going to pay for them; so he planted the thousand trees. we do not recommend such rashness on the part of our farmers, but it shows when a farmer insists on having a thousand trees he is taking the beautifying of his grounds seriously. this is perhaps an extreme case, but we have others working along the same line. i certainly enjoy the privilege of being with you people here again as i have for the last quarter of a century, twenty-five years ago, when i was made an honorary member of this society, and i do not know of any prouder moment in my whole career than when you saw fit to honor me in that manner. i certainly would never forgive myself for the balance of the year if i failed to attend these meetings. (applause.) mr. philips: waldron is too modest. he has not told the best thing he ever did in north dakota, so i shall. i visited him a good many years ago, and he had some interesting boys there, especially the oldest one, and i told him that if he was going to keep ahead of that boy he would have to hustle, and now that boy at nineteen has the ability to go to one of the southern states as a professor. so he didn't tell us the greatest thing he ever did. maybe some of the credit is due to his wife; that is the way it is at my house. (applause.) mr. waldron: i am so far behind that boy i am sort of jealous. i do not mention it. the president: the secretary of the wisconsin horticultural society is with us, professor cranefield. is he in the room? mr. cranefield: mr. graves, of sturgeon bay, is the duly accredited delegate to the society and probably you want to hear from him. the president: we heard from him two or three days ago, and we will hear from him again, but just now we want you to give us a few words. this is professor cranefield, who has contributed on previous occasions to the success of our meetings. (applause.) (see index.) the president: i will now call on professor mackintosh, who is going to read a paper at this time. mr. mackintosh: yesterday i had to start the ball rolling as a substitute for a man from washington, and with the assistance of miss bull we kept most of you here until after o'clock. today i am put ahead of the program, so you won't hear me tomorrow afternoon. the subject is, "bringing the producer and consumer together." mr. mackintosh reads paper. (applause.) the president: i regret very much that time will not permit us to discuss this very able paper. secretary latham has just called my attention to the fact that there has been but very few tickets bought for the banquet this evening. you understand it takes time to prepare food, and he has to announce just how many people would be present, and i sincerely hope that those of you who intend to attend the banquet (and i trust that will be every one present) will get your tickets immediately. it is the very best part of our program. please get your tickets so that secretary latham may know how to prepare for you. at this time recess was taken until : o'clock p.m. december , , afternoon session. discussion on "the topworked orchard," led by a. j. philips, wisconsin. (see index.) the president: the next order of business will be the election of officers for the coming year. the secretary just handed me this slip which gives you an idea of the requirements in order to be eligible to vote for officers. (reads extracts from constitution.) the first will be the selection of a president for the coming year. nominations are in order. mr. bradley: mr. president, it is said that republics are ungrateful, but it is not necessary for horticultural societies to be ungrateful. it has been, i think, in the past, and i hope it may continue to be in the future, the policy of this society to recognize the services of its officers and so we, i think, are justified in recognizing the distinguished and efficient services of our present presiding officer. i take great pleasure in placing in nomination for president of this society the honorable thomas e. cashman. (applause.) nomination is duly seconded and there are no other nominations. mr. crosby: i move that the secretary be instructed to cast the unanimous ballot of this society for thomas e. cashman as president of this society. motion is seconded and carried. mr. cashman: friends, i deeply appreciate this honor that you have conferred upon me. i am always ready to contribute my mite towards the service of the people, but i am never happy unless i am convinced that i am able to give all that the position demands. your selection of me as your presiding officer for the sixth time convinces me that you are at least satisfied with what i have been able to do for you and this, i assure you, makes me extremely happy. i will endeavor to show my appreciation by doing all that is within my power to further the interests of this society made up of men and women that cannot be excelled for intelligence, cleanliness of habits and honorable and right living. i know a great many horticulturists, not only of this state but of other states, and they, i assure you--and you know it yourselves--are far above the average. i therefore deem it a great honor to be known as the president of one of the best organizations, i do not care whether it is horticultural or otherwise, in this country today. i thank you. (applause.) the president: i find there are two members of the executive board to be elected at this time, one to succeed professor leroy cady and another mr. r. a. wright, whose terms of office expire at this time. mr. cady and mr. wright are nominated to succeed themselves, nominations are seconded and upon motion the secretary cast the unanimous ballot of the society for mr. cady and mr. wright as members of the executive board for the coming three years. the president: the next will be the selection of a treasurer. mr. george strand is renominated, nomination is seconded and on motion the secretary cast the ballot of the society for mr. george w. strand for treasurer. the president: the secretary places in nomination the following men, as vice presidents of this organization. i will ask him to name the list. vice-presidents: c. e. snyder, st cong. dist., preston; s. d. richardson, nd cong. dist., winnebago; j. k. andrews, rd cong. dist., faribault; b. wallner, jr., th cong. dist., st. paul; f. h. nutter, th cong. dist., minneapolis; matt. tschida, th cong. dist., st. cloud; g. a. anderson, th cong. dist., renville; j. kimball, th cong. dist., duluth; a. l. hanson, th cong. dist., ada; a. w. richardson, th cong. dist., howard lake. secretary latham reads names of nominees for vice presidents and places them in nomination. nomination is seconded and upon motion the secretary is instructed to cast the ballot of the society for the persons named as vice-presidents. the president: the next number will be a speech by mr. s. p. crosby, chairman of the committee that was selected by this association to go before the legislature at the last session and try to secure an appropriation sufficient to build a home for this society. (see index.) the next gentleman on the program is our friend clarence wedge, who is going to tell us of his trip out to yellowstone park. (see index.) mr. wedge: not exactly to yellowstone park. we came within a day's drive of the yellowstone, but our interest and enthusiasm went in another direction this year. mr. wedge reads paper. the president: "peonies new and old," by mr. a. m. brand, of faribault, one of the best peony specialists in the state. a member: and of the world. (applause.) (see index.) discussion. the president: we have another noted horticulturist with us today from illinois. you have all heard of the senator dunlap strawberry. the originator is with us today, senator dunlap, of savoy, illinois. he will be on the program tomorrow. i will be pleased to have the senator come forward and give us a word of greeting. mr. dunlap: i hardly think it is necessary for me to come forward. i will be on the program a couple of times, and you will hear all that you care to from me. i am very glad to be here with you. it has been some time since i met with your society, but i remember well the very pleasant time i had at that time. i came this week from the michigan horticultural society, in session at grand rapids, and i was very loath to leave such an interesting meeting, but i knew when i came to minneapolis i would be in just as interesting a meeting. i wish to disabuse your minds of the statements made by your honorable chairman through an error. i am not the originator of the senator dunlap strawberry. the reverend mr. reisenour (?) is the originator of the strawberry, and he thought it was a thrifty, strong, healthy plant and would stand the name of dunlap, so he gave it to the strawberry. (laughter and applause.) the president: i stand corrected. i have been misinformed, although i think you carry the honor. our time is up. i have been requested to announce that the lantern talk given by mrs. james jennison will take place at the close of the woman's auxiliary meeting. some very talented ladies are to speak this afternoon, and i hope you will all stay and listen to them. i will now turn the meeting over to the women's auxiliary and request mrs. f. m. powers, who will preside, to take the chair. mrs. powers: just a continuation, i hope, of our good program that was begun this afternoon, and we will now listen to mrs. clarence wedge, of albert lea, on the "value of horticulture to the farm." mrs. wedge is not a stranger to horticulture nor to this society. (see index.) mrs. powers: some one has said that the enemy of art is the enemy of nature, and art is nothing more than the highest sagacity and attainment of human nature. we have with us mrs. cyrus w. wells, who has had considerable experience in this line and will give us the practical side. mrs. wells spoke on "art made practical." mrs. powers: "the day's work," by mrs. john b. irwin. mrs. powers: according to our program we were to have one speaker tomorrow morning because we thought she could not be here at this time, but mrs. dunlap is here and will favor us now, if you please. talk by mrs. a. m. dunlap on "better methods in the home." mrs. powers: the last number on our program will be "the highway beautiful," by mrs. jennison. mrs. jennison gave a lantern talk. president cashman: we have a very important question to be considered this afternoon, and, fortunately for us, it is going to be taken care of by one of our best men--"breeding for hardiness"--something this gentleman has been doing all his life. he has met with a great deal of success, and we are profiting by it. that gentleman is professor n. e. hansen, of brookings, south dakota. (applause.) (see index.) the president: mr. c. e. older has some suggestions to make, and we will give him an opportunity to talk at this time. mr. older: mr. president, and ladies and gentlemen: in a meeting of some of the leading exhibitors of the state fair yesterday they expressed quite a bit of dissatisfaction with the present manner of awarding premiums on commercial apples, that is, boxes of apples and one-layer boxes. the point was that it would be a good thing if the state could be divided so that the sections which are more favorable for the development of the apple would be in a section by themselves, and the balance of the state compete by itself. the following resolution was formulated to bring before this society, asking for their opinion oh the subject and discussion: resolved, that we ask the state fair board that the state be divided into two sections for the purpose of exhibit at the state fair, making two classes, one being the wealthy apple and the other class comprising all other varieties of box and one layer apples, the state to be divided as follows: beginning at the mississippi river on the north line of goodhue county and running west on the north line of goodhue, rice, le sueur and nicollet counties, thence running south on the west line of nicollet, blue earth and faribault. all those counties lying east and south of these lines are to constitute the first district, the balance of the state being known as the second district. we also ask the state fair board that first, second, third, fourth and fifth premiums be offered on all apples, and on all the next ten lower exhibits a certain premium be paid to all deserving exhibits. and we ask that premiums be offered on everbearing strawberries showing both bearing plants and fruit of the progressive, superb, and any other varieties. we also ask the state fair board that they make some practical arrangements to get the horticultural exhibits moved to the state fair from the depots in a more satisfactory and cheaper manner than the present arrangements. i move you that this resolution be adopted. motion was seconded and carried unanimously. meeting adjourned. december , , morning session. the president: we are to have a talk on "spraying the orchard," by senator dunlap, of illinois, this morning. (see index.) discussion. mr. crosby: we thank senator dunlap for his able talk. i think that is the way to progress. if we do not do things right up-to-date we can learn how to do better from a competent man. the president: we all enjoyed the able talk of senator dunlap. he is president of the orchard association of illinois. he is considered one of the most practical men down there, and we are very fortunate in having him with us and to listen to his valuable talk and experience. (applause.) we will now listen to professor richard wellington, who will tell us about "orcharding in minnesota." (applause.) (see index.) discussion. the president: i am going to suggest a little matter at this time which i am sure you will all approve of. it has been said by hundreds of men and women attending these meetings who have had an opportunity of enjoying the talks and papers and splendid program given here that we had the greatest horticultural society in the world. it is true that we have the largest membership of any horticultural society in the united states and, i presume, of the world. you will all agree with me that is due to the efforts of one man to a large extent. that man has been in our service and looked after our interests for twenty-five years. he is at his best all the time, cordial, kind, using good judgment, prevents friction among us, always working for the best interests of everybody belonging to the society and the interests of the state. as i said before, he has served us twenty-five years, and i think it only fitting at this time that we should show our appreciation in a way that will appeal better than words. it has been suggested that we purchase some little token and present it this afternoon. it is up to you as to how much you want to give or whether you want to give anything or not, but mr. crosby and mr. brackett will be at the door as you pass out this noon, and they will probably have a hat there and you can drop in what you want to, and we will buy something for him and present it this afternoon. (great applause.) the president: now we will turn the meeting over to the plant breeders' auxiliary. i regret very much to have to announce that our good friend, clarence wedge, president of this auxiliary, is ill this afternoon and unable to occupy the chair. i understand there is no vice-president of the auxiliary, and i have been requested to continue as chairman during this meeting. we have a very important program, one of the very best we have had. some of our best men are on this program and i hope you will all stay and attend the balance of this meeting. i am going to call on our good friend, charles haralson, superintendent of the zumbra heights farm, to tell us about "new fruits originated at the state fruit-breeding farm." (applause.) (see index.) the president: professor c. b. waldron, of north dakota, finds it necessary to leave in a very short time, and he will therefore address you at this time instead of this afternoon. he will tell us about "running out of varieties." (see index.) we will now listen to the report of the committee on examination of the minnesota state fruit-breeding farm, dr. o. m. huestis, chairman. (see index.) the president: the next speaker needs no introduction to a minnesota audience, as the word "hansen" is a household word and particularly in every agricultural community within the state, and the hansen hybrids are eagerly sought for by practically everybody who plants trees. professor hansen has done a good work and is still accomplishing things. he will tell us what he has done during . i regret the time is so short, but we will get mr. hansen to tell us more about his work. "newer fruits," prof. n. e. hansen, brookings, s. d. afternoon session, at : . half-hour exercise, questions and answers on "increasing the fertility of the land," led by dr. f. j. alway. (see index.) the president: mr. crosby has a word for us, and before continuing with the regular program i will ask him to come forward at this time. mr. crosby: gentlemen of the horticultural society: mr. latham, please come this way. i have the honor, in behalf of the society, to inform you, as you probably know, that this is your silver wedding, but we are going it one better and make it a golden wedding for you today. we have come to the conclusion, you have been with this society for twenty-five years, and we think it is best that you be watched and chained. i have the honor of presenting to you, in behalf of the society, a gold watch and chain. that is all i have to say. (applause.) mr. philips: now for a speech. mr. latham: wait a moment, i will see if it is worth it. (laughter.) i hate to part with this old turnip. i have carried it forty-five years now, never broke a crystal on it, even. it is a good faithful companion. i do not know what i will do with this now unless i put it away in a safety vault somewhere. i do not think the horticultural society expects me to make a speech; they know i am not a talker. i could say something if the room were smaller, but my voice does not seem to carry very well. i am a good deal in the fix of the steamboat that carried passengers on the river up and down to the camp meeting there. they had a whistle on that boat that made a tremendous noise but when they blew it the boat had to stop. (laughter.) if i talk loud enough to be heard here, my thinking works do not operate. (laughter.) i hardly know how to express my appreciation of this gift, as showing the sentiment of the society towards me. of course, i have tried to do what i could for the society. sometimes, perhaps, i have gone a little too far, something like the man who was appointed in charge of a flag station. he had never done any such service as that, but he understood the business of a flagman was to stop trains. the first train that came along was a heavy express train, eight or ten or a dozen coaches, and he rushed out and flagged the train. the conductor got off, all in a hurry, and looked around. he did not see anybody but the flagman. he said: "where are your passengers?" "well," he says, "there ain't any passengers to get on, but i didn't know but somebody would like to get off." (laughter.) sometimes, perhaps, i have overreached myself here. twenty-five years is quite a while to look back, and as i look over the faces of those present i can scarcely see one that was a member of the society twenty-five years ago when i became secretary. mr. long in his address before you at the banquet last night spoke of the meeting that he first attended of the horticultural society, held in what is now the metropolitan life, on the ground floor, and he spoke of the surroundings there. no fruit on exhibition. if a man had two or three apples in his pocket, he showed them around on the sly as though it was a crime to let people know there was such a thing and that he had a few at home he could eat. quite a remarkable thing! that was the meeting of the horticultural society in which i was first elected secretary, and i recall well all the circumstances connected with it. so many of our members that i thought so much of in those days are gone. of those who were present at that meeting, the only person left that i recall is mr. underwood. i had forgotten mr. long was there; i think he reported the meeting; i guess the first of our meetings that he reported, too. i am not going to make any more of an address. president vincent is here and will address you. i thank you very much indeed. (applause.) mr. vincent: i am very glad that i got in in time to be a witness to this delightful and gratifying little ceremony which has just taken place. i can not imagine anything more satisfying to a man who, in spite of all his modesty, knows he has done for twenty-five years good, genuine, valuable work than to have other people intimate in so pleasant a way that they are not entirely oblivious to what he has done. it always does one good to see efficient work recognized, and, while i cannot own, i am sorry to say, to an intimate personal acquaintance with mr. latham, i have come into association with him often enough to be able to share a little what you feel toward him and toward what he has done. the president: i am sure you will all be delighted to hear from the very popular president of one of the greatest universities in the united states, president george e. vincent of minnesota state university, who will now address you. (see index.) the president: i am sure we are very much indebted to president vincent for this most scholarly and delightful speech. we hope he can continue with us during the afternoon. owing to the fullness of our program this forenoon we are unable to discuss one of our most important subjects, and that was "the elements of hardiness," by prof. m. j. dorsey, member of the fruit breeding section, of the university farm. he will discuss that question at this time. (applause.) (see index.) the president: senator dunlap, who so delightfully entertained us this morning and instructed us on the subject of "spraying" will now speak to us on the subject of "packing and marketing apples." (see index.) discussion. the president: i am now going to call on a gentleman that hasn't said a word during our discussions and that is mr. weld, and request him to recite his favorite poem. mr. weld recites "the three warnings." the president: we have had a very interesting session, had a good time, everything has gone very nicely, but somehow there has been one thing lacking. the old friends from iowa have not been with us with one exception, mr. ferris, who gave us the lantern talk on tuesday, but friend gardner, patten, sherman and several others (i believe sherman has been in town, but we have not seen him here) have been absent. the reason for it is that the iowa people have been holding their annual meeting. but i am very glad that mr. gardner is with us this afternoon, and i am now going to call upon mr. charles f. gardner, of osage, iowa. (applause.) mr. gardner: mr. president, ladies and gentlemen: i have attended your meetings so long that when i appear here before you i feel as though i had got home. i have attended every meeting of this society except two since this society held its annual meeting at lake city the last time. that is when i joined the society, and since that time a great many things have taken place. think it is seventeen or eighteen years ago, in that neighborhood. i was absent two years. i went to new mexico, i went there to die, but luckily i escaped and came back home. i want to say this, that when i got back to this part of the country, if there was anything i thanked god for it was that i was spared to get back. i think there is no necessity of emigrating either from minnesota or iowa, and people that have traveled over the west and made a tour extending along the pacific coast and finally get back into this country, this latitude, are generally pretty well satisfied and stay here. that is, providing they didn't spend all their money and can not get back here. some of our citizens are now stranded out there and will come home whenever they can. in regard to the progress of horticulture in this length of time, i know you are very much interested in the work of mr. patten and a good many of you have trees that he originated. i want to say that the people of our state of iowa have not really gotten their eyes open yet in horticultural ways. they only appropriated for our use $ , . we have five societies, the state society--and then the state is divided into four sections. in the last few years our state society has appropriated to carry on, to help mr. patten carry on his work, we have appropriated and used $ , . before that time our society allowed $ . a year for station fees for quite a little while, then before that $ . a year. last year we appeared before the legislature and tried to get some help to keep up that work and informed them that our money was getting short and that unless it was done we could not carry on that work. the legislature hardly winked an eye at our request. no money was appropriated, and of all the things that i ever hated to help do last week was to discontinue the charles city station. for fear that some one might think we had gone back on mr. patten and that the work he has done will be lost to the world, i will say there is nothing of that kind. there is not a member of our society but would do anything in the world for mr. patten, to help him. it is just simply a fact that the money of our society is so nearly exhausted we had hardly enough to pay for the expenses of our meeting last week. we had a splendid meeting and never had such an exhibit of apples before. perhaps we may have had as many apples on exhibit but not so many perfect ones. on the first opportunity we have we are going to see that mr. patten does not suffer. i would say that they are in pretty good shape to take care of mr. patten down there for a year or two, and we will not lose the valuable work he has done. as the meeting is drawing to a close i want to say in closing that if there is anything that does me good it is to come up here and look into your faces once a year, and i wish that i could see more of you. there is a kind of bond of brotherhood and a feeling that when i am here i am among friends and i have found that to be the case for almost twenty years. thank you. (applause.) the president: i have just discovered a question here that should be answered, if there is anyone here that can do so. "in my locality the basswood and box elders are infested with a scale-like substance that looks like cotton. most of the trees of the varieties named are infested. what is it and is there a remedy?" mr. kellogg: that is no doubt the cottonwood bug that infects the soft maple. they come and work for about three years and then some insect comes in and cleans them out. the president: what is the remedy, mr. kellogg? mr. kellogg: you can use any spray for this bug. on forest trees it is out of reach, but arsenical spray will get them if you can reach them. mr. warner: cotton maple scale. professor waldron recommends to spray with crude oil when the trees are dormant. we find it best to cut it back. the cottony appearance does not show until the second year and then the scale has really done its injury. the time to cut it, you will find a lot of small scales on the young twigs, and if they are cut off and a new growth forced you get rid of it. the president: i understand prof. broderick of the college of winnipeg has been here. if he is here i wish he would come forward and give us a word. i understand he is the delegate from winnipeg. (applause.) mr. broderick: mr. president, ladies and gentlemen: before going away, i would like, as a member of the manitoba society to express to you my great pleasure at being here and taking part in your excellent meeting. i had planned for a number of years to come down but circumstances have been such that i have been unable to be here. i might say that we in manitoba, about miles north of here, are interested in horticulture as well as you people in minnesota. we have a fraternal interest in the work you are doing. a number of our members, i might say, are members of your society, and we are getting your excellent publication and following the work you are doing. our problems up there are very similar to yours, and we feel that you can give us greater information than we can obtain from any other source. we appreciate the excellent work you are doing, and it has been of great interest to me to see the wide range of subjects you are covering. i was particularly interested this morning in the session of the plant breeders, as that is a line of work that we feel up in manitoba has some possibilities for us. in a horticultural line we are confined very largely to the hardy varieties. we are working on improving the hardiness of our varieties, and the fruit growing as it is carried on with us very largely in a small way by the farmers and others interested through our province. we feel, however, that there are possibilities, and we are only too glad to get any information from you as to the work and progress that is being made in the matter of hardy fruits. we have been endeavoring to improve our native plums. i have had the station there at winnipeg, and in connection with one of our nurserymen, mr. buchanan, we have been selecting hardy plums for a number of years, and we hope from that stock in crossing with the japanese plums, as professor hansen suggested this morning, to prove that there are possibilities even as far north as manitoba. i have heard mr. buchanan say on several occasions that he thought the possibilities of plum growing were fairly good in manitoba. in small fruits we have possibilities. the currants and raspberries grow very well. we have not done so much in strawberries, but i know there are a number of growers in parts of the province that are making some very successful experiments in strawberries, and we hope in a few years to produce strawberries of a fairly good quality. the president: how is your wild strawberry? mr. broderick: i find that the wild strawberry does very well. we have around winnipeg, where the college is located, a wild strawberry that does very well, and it is possible that we can do some work on improving the wild strawberry. we are looking to our hardy native fruits and the hardy importations we are making to establish varieties which are hardy and suited to our conditions. we are interested also in the work done in tree planting, and i followed with interest the discussion this morning as to windbreak protection. that has been a problem with us. the government of the dominion has taken it over, and we find it is working out all right. our forestry station at indian head sends out lots of trees free each year. these are planted, and they have a system of inspection. certain requirements are made in regard to the preparation of the soil, methods of planting and caring for the plantation afterwards. a member: what are the majority of your forest trees? mr. broderick: forest trees are largely deciduous, the manitoba maple, the ash, the elm and the willows. i was pleased to hear some one this morning mention the golden willow. that is one of the best trees we have. the manitoba maple, of course grows all over that northern country, but we find that during recent years it has been becoming seriously infected with various kinds of pests. this year the aphis were serious. we are discouraging to a certain extent the manitoba maple and planting other trees and are getting better results. the ash, the elm and willow are doing well. with the conifer trees, the scotch pine, the white spruce, the balsam fir and the ridgepole pine are those which are growing. the improving of home grounds is another question that is interesting us. i do not think there is anything in this western country that is going to do more to make homes than this. so we are interested in all the work you are carrying on, and we appreciate the opportunity of coming here and meeting with you and listening to the excellent discussions you have. i might say that our annual meeting is held in february and if any of you happen to stray up there we would be only too glad to have you join with us. i thank you very much for the many courtesies extended to me on behalf of the manitoba society. (applause.) (time was now taken up by two minute speeches of different members, after which the meeting was declared closed.) records of executive board for . record of meeting held in secretary's office : p.m. tuesday, dec. , . there were present thos. e. cashman, leroy cady, clarence wedge, j. p. andrews, r. a. wright and a. w. latham. in the absence of the chairman of the board, mr. j. m. underwood, clarence wedge was elected chairman pro tem. the following accounts were examined and approved and orders drawn in payment therefor. geo. w. strand, treasurer, premiums annual meeting, , $ . . geo. w. strand, treasurer, premiums summer meeting, , $ . . a. w. latham, expenses secretary's office from june , , to dec. , , $ , . . it was decided to present to the annual meeting of the society for action the following named persons for honorary life membership: john bisbee, madelia; j. r. cummins, minneapolis; s. h. drum, owatonna; f. w. kimball, waltham; chas. haralson, excelsior. an appropriation of fifty-three dollars and - ($ . ) was made for the benefit of the minnesota forestry association. adjourned sine die, clarence wedge, chairman, pro tem. a. w. latham, secretary. * * * * * record of meeting of the board held in west hotel : p.m. friday, dec. , . there were present at this meeting thos. e. cashman, leroy cady, clarence wedge, j. p. andrews, r. a. wright and a. w. latham. thos. e. cashman was elected chairman pro tem. j. m. underwood was elected chairman of the board for , and a. w. latham was elected secretary at a salary of eighteen hundred dollars ($ , . ) per annum. the salary of the treasurer was fixed at twenty-five dollars ($ . ) per annum. the board having under consideration the recommendation of grades of apples for use in packing for market, a committee consisting of clarence wedge, j. p. andrews and r. a. wright was appointed to take the question under consideration with authority to act for the board. the sum of eight hundred dollars ($ . ) was appropriated as a revolving fund for the use of the secretary of the society during the year . the following resolution was presented by clarence wedge and unanimously adopted by the board. "resolved: that the board favors the exclusive distribution of new varieties of fruits of probable commercial value originating at the state fruit-breeding farm to members of the society and the trial stations of the state as at present practiced. "resolved further--that when a variety of fruits originating at the fruit breeding farm has been sufficiently tested to establish its commercial value in the state, it shall be given a name and the state fruit-breeding farm shall cease to propagate it for distribution." adjourned sine die, thos. e. cashman, chairman, pro tem. a. w. latham, secretary. * * * * * record of meeting held in the secretary's office june , . all members of the board were present except r. a. wright. mr. john p. andrews was elected by the board as its representative in connection with the assessment of damages on account of nursery stock to be destroyed in certain minnesota nurseries to protect from injury threatened by a disease called "white pine blister rust." having under consideration the trial stations connected with the society it was decided to discontinue the station located at madison, minn., and locate a station at new auburn, minn., r. f. hall, supt., and another at deerwood, minn., l. p. hall, supt. the following resolution pertaining to farmers' institutes was unanimously adopted. "resolved: that in our judgment the carrying out of the spirit and purpose of the motion adopted by the farmers' institute board, sept. , , pertaining to 'the horticultural work on each institute corps'--to quite literally--cannot be fully performed except by providing for each institute corps some one who should in whole or in part represent horticulture, and who should be interested and willing to serve the horticultural society as indicated in said motion; and further, that reasonable opportunity for such service should be allowed at each place where an institute corps may be working." it was decided to appropriate $ . to be applied to the uses of the minnesota state forestry association. the accounts of the secretary from nov. , , to june , , amounting to $ , . , were examined and approved, and an order drawn for the payment of that amount from the treasury, an equal amount to be covered into the treasury from the hands of the secretary. adjourned sine die, j. m. underwood, chairman executive board. a. w. latham, secretary. additions to society library, . (for preceding list see page , report ). case. no. am. pomological socy., an. rep., am. pomological socy., an. rep., am. pomological socy., an. rep., *cyclopedia of american agri., bailey. vol. *cyclopedia of american agri., bailey. vol. *cyclopedia of american agri., bailey. vol. *cyclopedia of american agri., bailey. vol. *cyclopedia of practical hort., lowther, . vol. *cyclopedia of practical hort., lowther, . vol. *cyclopedia of practical hort., lowther, . vol. *cyclopedia of practical hort., lowther, . vol. *plums of new york, hedrick, *grapes of new york, hedrick, from library of wyman elliot: bureau of ethnology. j. w. powell minn. state hort. socy., an. rep., *american agriculturist. vol. report of secretary of agriculture, department of agriculture. report, architecture of country houses. downing american farmers encyclopedia. emerson michigan hort. socy., an. rep., department of agriculture, report, yearbook of argiculture, american forestry association, report, department of agriculture, report, - food for plants. harris and meyers western farmer. vol. western farmer. vol. western farmer. vol. minnesota state horticultural society, report, state entomologist, an. rep., - american pomological society, an. rep., american pomological society, an. rep., wisconsin state hort. socy., an. rep., wisconsin state hort. society, an. rep., wisconsin state hort. socy., an. rep., state experiment station, rep., bulletins illinois hort. socy., an. rep., state entomologist, report, indiana state hort. socy., report, minnesota farmers institute annual, minnesota farmers institute annual, minnesota farmers institute annual, western n. y. hort. socy., report, making horticulture pay. m. g. kains young farmers manual. s. e. todd home for all. o. s. fowler american weeds and useful plants. wm. darlington how to grow and show potatoes. jas. pink how to build hot houses. r. b. leucars field book of manures. d. j. browne woodwards country homes. g. e. & f. w. woodward grape growers guide. wm. charlton botanical ready reference. j. m. nickells landscape gardening. chas. h. j. smith cranberry culture. b. eastwood book of roses. francis parkman elements of agriculture, chemistry and geology. j. f. w. johnston american farm book. r. l. allan flower garden. jos. beck handbook of tree planting. n. h. egleston bulbs. e. s. rand, jr. how to cooperate. herbert myrick suburban home grounds. f. j. scott trees of america. d. j. browne california fruits. e. j. wickson ill. state hort. socy., an. rep., farmers universal handbook *johnsons dictionary of gardening. david landreth flowers for the parlor and garden. e. s. rand, jr. hedges and evergreens. john a. warder the farmers miscellany. geo. w. marshall the western fruit book. f. r. elliott the strawberry culture. r. g. pardee use of the national forests. gifford pinchot ladies companion to flower gardening. downing map of minnesota, vegetable plants. i. f. tillinghast mysteries of bee-keeping explained. m. quinby grape culturist. a. s. fuller rural economy. boursingault's, by geo. law barn plans and out buildings new creations in plant life. w. s. harwood the farmers side. w. a. peffer villes' chemical manures. a. a. fesquet johnsons agriculture chemistry. jas. f. w. johnston a. b. c. of agriculture. m. c. weld land drainage. j. p. clipper peat and its use. s. w. johnson forestry tree culturist. a. s. fuller american poultry yard. d. j. browne how crops grow. s. w. johnson n. j. hort. socy., an. rep., royal hort. socy., journal of, december, society of american florists, wyoming state bd. of hort., an. rep., man. hortl. and forestry assn., an. rep., kentucky hort. socy., an. rep., markets for oregon fruits, vermont state hort. socy., report, fruit growers assn. of nova scotia, report, illinois state hort. socy., an. rep., ontario vegetable growers assn., an. rep., the american rose manual. j. harris mcfarland, horticultural societies of ontario, an. rep., georgia state hort. socy., an. rep., peninsula horticultural socy., an. rep., mass. hort. socy., part , nebraska hort. socy., an. rep., virginia state hort. socy., an. rep., northern nut growers assn., an. rep., s. d. state hort. socy., an. rep., western n. y. hort. socy., an. rep., yearbook, dept. of agri., plant propagation. m. g. kains productive vegetable growing. j. w. lloyd backyard farmer. j. w. bolte the well considered garden. mrs. francis king planning and planting home grounds. warren h. manning birds of town and country, national geographic socy *fruit industry in new york. part *fruit industry in new york. part kansas state hort. socy. and ont. entomological socy., an. rep., pomological & fruit growers socy. of quebec, an. rep., md. state hort. socy., an. rep., oregon state hort. socy., an. rep., royal hort. socy., journal of, may, state hort. assn. of pa., an. rep., iowa hort. socy., an. report, ala. state hort. socy., an. rep., mass. hort. socy., an. rep., part , mass. fruit growers assn., an. rep., n. y. state fruit growers assn., an. rep., washington state hort. assn., an. rep., ohio state hort. socy., an. rep., * * * * * conditions under which books may be taken from the society library. books may be taken from the library of the minnesota state horticultural society by any member of the society on the following terms: . not more than two books can be taken at a time. . books with a star (*) before the title, as found in the published library lists, are reference books and not to be taken from the library. . in ordering books give besides the name also the case and book numbers, to be found in the same line as the title. . books will be sent by parcel post when requested. . when taking out, or sending for a book, a charge of ten cents (to be paid in advance) is made to cover expense of recording, transmission, etc. . books are mailed to members only in minnesota and states immediately adjoining. when sent to points outside the state a charge of fifteen cents is made. . a book can be kept two weeks: if kept longer a charge of two cents per day will be made. . the library list, to december , , is published in the annual volume of the society. additions to this list will be published year by year in the succeeding annual volumes. membership, annual members. aarrestad n. o hanley falls, r. i. aase, martin kenyon abel, nick evansville abbott, geo. newport abbott, t. a. ashland, st. paul abeler, wm. j. griggs st., st. paul abeler, geo. l. dayton ave., st. paul aberg, c. wenonah place, mpls. abbott, mrs. a. w. clifton ave., mpls. abrahamson, e. o. lafayette academy of our lady of good counsel mankato ackerknecht, w. e. white bear ave., st. paul ademmer, b., jr. new prague adams, chas. w. minnehaha ave., mpls. adams, d. albert hutchinson adams, robt. morris adams, w. s. jefferson st., duluth aelzant, louie brevator affleck, c. a. willmar ahlsten, mrs. mary dent aiton, geo. b. grand rapids akers, mary d. w. minnehaha, st. paul alexander, alfred dawson almquist, c. a. capas alme, o. t. ulen allen, edgar new auburn allison, prof. j. h. univ. farm, st. paul albertson, a. r. paynesville alden, e. m. deer river albrecht, o. e. th & minnesota sts., st. paul allis, w. h., sec aitkin allen, wilber r. wells albinson, oscar th ave. s., mpls. alm, arthur ivy st., st. paul aldrich, malcolm henn. ave., mpls. albert, henry so. st. paul alford, e. f. woodland ave., duluth allen, john s. grand ave., mpls. allen, p. l. rd ave. s., mpls. amborn, elmer box , bangor, wis. ames, mrs. frank sta. f., mpls. ammand, ernest polk. st., mpls. amundson, c. e. henn. ave., mpls. ambauen, rev. jos. freeport amundson, p. c. amery, wis. anderson, louis r. , gladstone anderson, j. c. b. portland ave., st. paul anderson, alex. p. everett ave., chicago andrew, harry s. lyndale, mpls. anderson, richard r. , northfield anderson, j. e. r. , box , hector anderson, a. m. gran marais anderson, andy cherokee ave., st. paul anderson, j. w. mitchell, s. d. anderson, henning s. th st., st. peter anderson, mrs. andrew, s. elm st., owatonna andrews, theo. s. bemidji anvid, olof blackduck anderson, axel hotel leamington, mpls. andrews, gen. c. c. capitol, st. paul anderson, miss deborah e. th st., mpls. anderson, john w. r. , cokato anderson, a. j. e. cook st., st. paul anderson, david aldrich s., mpls. andrews, mrs. w. e. lake wood, white bear anderson, carl vesta anstett, jake preston anderson, fred rush city anderson, wm. r. , isanti andrews, j. p. faribault anderson, s. a. dupont n., mpls anderson, c. g. w. lake st., mpls. anderson, g. f. w. side sta., r. , st. paul anderson, j. f. lake city anderson, frank h. fremont s., mpls. anderson, john girard n., mpls. anderson, andrew bidwell st., st. paul anderson, mrs. john r. , box , isanti anderson, ernest cove anderson, john a. normal ave., valley city, n.d. andrews, w. a. walhalla, n. d. anderson, l.p. bemidji anderson, axel dunnell anderson, henry lake wilson anderson,, alfred o. st. olaf ave., northfield anderson, wm. kirkwin ave., st. paul andreas, reuben w. melbourne ave., mpls. anderson, j. l. clarkfield anitzberger, phil. livingston ave., w. st. paul anderson, peter eastwood anderson, victor hastings hotel, mpls. anfield, e. n. clinton anderson, b. e. elbow lake armitage, c. w. canby arrowood, jas. nevis arness, a. g. benson arkens, edw. j. park rapids archer, t. e. raymond ave., st. paul archer, mrs. marian raymond ave., st. paul arneson, m. shelly arctander, ludwig n. y. life bldg., mpls. aronson, geo. box , south park asp, arthur e. r. , milaca asplund, chas. r. , hopkins ash, h. c. carlyle ave., duluth asperstrand, aug. amery, wis. atwood, h. j. hunters park, duluth atcheson, jas. mapleton atherton, mrs. isabella newport aune, olaf underwood austin, miss mary j. sellwood bldg., duluth austin, o. a. mcville, n. d. aune, theo. glenwood avery, carlos state capitol, st. paul ayers, h. b. kimberly ayers, c. o. th ave. s., st. cloud ayers, ellsworth d. pine city badrann, peter harvey, n. d. bailey, j. vincent dayton bluff sta., st. paul baillif, r. l. sta. f, r. , mpls. baalson, h. e. brooten baglien, hans h. rothsay baillif, c. e. sta. f, r. , mpls. backus, mrs. c. h. holly ave., st. paul bagley, mrs. horace towner, n. d. bailey, victor river falls, wis. bailey, phoebe d. th ave. s. e., mpls. bahe, h. g. hastings babcock, mrs. j. b. belgrade baker, h. p. n. y. state col. of for., syracuse, n.y. beath, p. a. drake, n. d. belker, jake maple plain beise, dr. h. c. windom becker, ernest northland baldwin, h. j. northfield baker, h. f. lake harriet blvd., mpls. baney, j. w. blackduck baldwin, miss l. o. cham. of com., mpls. ballou, herb th ave. s., mpls. baker, john w. r. , maynard baker, w. h. reading bannister, i. c. stillwater balfour, donald c. rochester banning, mrs. j. f. juamba baker, bert hoosick falls, n. y. bamford, geo. j. sheridan ave., st. paul baker, miss ida a. lake harriet blvd., mpls. balcarek, v. l. hyannis, neb. baldus, jos. l. montrose baldwin, e. b. care of western electric co., st. paul baker, m. j. deer river bartram, mrs. c. s. r. , white bear barclay, j. m. madison lake barnstad, ole willmar barnes, j. u. oneida blk., mpls. barnard, a. h. lbr. exchange, mpls. barott, j. e. tamarack barker, mrs. s. e. r. , excelsior bartlett, j. f. excelsior, minn. barrows, walter a. brainerd bartholomew, o. a., jr. so. th st., mpls. barnes, fred northfield bartlett, mrs. e. a. r. , hopkins bartsch, chas. g. r. , mankato bartholomew, r. l. sta. f, r. , nic. ave., mpls. barton, bert republic, mich. barrett, miss alice humboldt ave. and th st., mpls. bardwell, fred l. excelsior barthelemy, ed st. cloud barnes, david dunedin ave., st. paul barker, geo. h. owen st., stillwater barrows, walter a., jr. brainerd bates, w. k. stockton batho, geo. maryland st., winnipeg, man. baxter, hector park blvd., mpls. baumgartner, joe robbinsdale bassett, mrs. h. s. preston bazille, e. w. carroll, st. paul bawman, f. j. edmond ave. s. st. paul bauer, geo. deerwood bawman, mrs. j. n. bricelyn bawman, wm. hayfield bathke, fred aurora ave., st. paul bass, mrs. g. willis bryant no., mpls. bayle, p. j. grand marais bell, f. w. hopkins becker, e. w. excelsior becker, j. c. adrian bell, f. j. winona beatty, l. r. orr beaver, h. m. lake park bemis, v. e. inkster, n. d. beise, geo. w. morris beckman, j. f. webster ave., st. paul behrems, w. f. new richmond, wis. bena, lincoln a. r. , hopkins bell, j. f. wayzata bechtel, esler e. cedar st., hibbing beck, c. j. high forest st., winona belzer, f. l. glasgow, mont. benjamin, j. f. hutchinson berger, geo. arlington berry, frank stillwater berthelsen, christ albert lea berglund, robt. kensington berg, h. s. clarkfield benson, a. o. forest service, mont. benton, henry w. sec. bk. bldg., mpls. berghold, rev. alexander mooskirchen steiermarck, austria bennett, c. a. granite falls bernhardt, thos. j. fidelity bldg., duluth bend, c. m. commerce bldg., st. paul benson, harry rd ave. so., mpls. bergh, otto i. grand rapids benner, t. w. no. st. paul bergstrand, h. e. lawson st., st. paul bernardy, peter taunton berg, arthur, german ave., w. st. paul bergstrom, n. a. so. th ave., e. duluth benson, andrew jackson benson, frank stephen bennett, s. m. drake, n. d. bergreen, leslie clarkfield bethke, h. franklin betchwars, frank jordan bessette, f. w. orr betzold, r. a. r. , st. paul best, h. g. faribault bayard, p. c. carter ave., st. paul baumhofer, earl f. r. , box , hopkins bates, j. h. somerset blk., winnipeg, man. bawden, mrs. j. w. th st., duluth bauer, edward cove bayly, mrs. j. w. e. nd st., duluth benke, albert dent berlin, a. n. crystal lake, ill. berkner, alfred sleepy eye, ill. bender, louis wheaton berstrand, dr. j. g. menahga bergman, mrs. wm. comfrey berdahl, a. a. gernmell biermann, henry glencoe bisanz, rudolph e. th st., mpls. bickert, w. j. washburn, n. d. biggs, s. elizabeth fairmount, n. d. bisbee, clinton west sumner, me. bierwirth, paul winslow ave., w. st. paul billings, h. h. pine island bixly, henry n. richville bimebsero, w. a. hinton, ia. bittner, geo. j. r. , winona bill, ambrose gorman ave., w. st. paul bjornlie, thorwald madison bjornberg, g. j. willmar bjeldanes, n. h. madison blaker, rev. c. d. grimes ave., mpls. blakestad, l lyle blackmore, hon. j. c. christchurch, n. z. bluhm, a. g. biscay blessing, david s. n. court st., harrisburg, pa. black, g. d. independence, ia. blomberg, fred crosby blair, d. l. winnebago blodgett, mrs. h. a. fairmount ave., st. paul bloomer, ed sherburn blombeck, alfred eagle bend blodgett, mrs. f. s. w. rd st., st. paul blase, fred so. st. paul blackstad, rudolph st. james blaker, m. h. palmyra, n. y. blood, oscar f. worthington bly, c. w. osakis blair, frank d. court house, mpls. blodgett, p. l. emerson so., mpls. blazing, g. m. deer river bjork, fred buffalo bjorge, henry o. lake park bjordal, einar wild rice, n. d. bosshard, herman moorhead boardman, mrs. h. a river blvd., st. paul bollmann, paul balaton boline, j. a. clarissa boelk, ferd lansing bock, john wabasso born, otto g. so. st. paul bongie, louis bradley st. sta., st. paul bofferding, w. h. n. emerson, mpls. boeglin, louis park greenhouses, th & bryant, mpls. borland, robt. excelsior boll, jos. st. bonifacius bondeson, wm. walnut grove bodreen, chas. j. stillwater, r. , box bottenmiller, l. h. bertha bondhus, thos. storden bothun, b. e. thief river falls borreseh, rev. father caledonia borning, b. j. echo, r. borgendale, h. l. madison boman, a. w. supr. st., duluth boone, c. l. care of chase bros. co., rochester, n.y. borchardt, a. w. bellingham booth, wm. eagle bend bosin, mrs. f. w. rapidan borgerding, john freeport boraas, julius e. franklin, mpls. boche, herman h. sunfish rd. and butler ave., w. st. paul botsford, f. p. gilbert boerger, wm. a. st. cloud bowman, dr. f. c. th ave. w., duluth boyington, mrs. r. p. nemadji bove, peter st. f, r. , mpls. boyd, j. b. willmar bowen, walter s. wabasha st., st. paul boysen, p. b. steen bozja, rev. vincent morgan boyd, montelle m. stephen boyum, iver a. northfield bourduas, frank so. robert st., w. st. paul bowman, mary rothsay boxlang, mrs. b. j. kenyon boysen, dr. pelican rapids boyd, byron long prairie bovay, arthur g. lakefield boswell, l. r. mpls. paper co., mpls. brandt, p. c. morris brandt, p. a. erskine brand, a. m. faribault bradrud, albert spring valley braden, mrs. chas. e. mcknight bldg., mpls. brakke, albert wild rice, n.d. bradley, geo. j. norwood bradbury, w. w. e. rd st., duluth brander, mrs. j. r. , hopkins brabetz, n. f. rd ave. so., mpls. brawnell, t. g. grand meadow bratan, f. m. grand meadow bray, n. j. hovland bradford, f. h. farmington bradley, wm. montpelier, n. d. brainard, harold turtle river bradley, wilson deerwood brevig, a. l. starbuck briggs, h. w. sanborn briggs, geo. a. st. peter bremer, john lake city bringmeier, fred j. cass lake brevig, c. l. starbuck breyer, p. p. th st. no., mpls. brierley, prof. w. d. univ. farm, st. paul bren, daniel hopkins bredvold, martin greenbush bren, rev. jos. hopkins brinkmann, henry w. glencoe breening, h. c. balaton bremer, leslie cannon falls brimeyer, h. slayton brewer, i. c. st. charles bren, adolph hopkins brewer, w. w. orisko, n. d. bren, geo. j. hopkins bren, jos. s. hopkins bren, frank e. hopkins brinkman, wm. erie st., st. paul breide, fred deer river brown, frank paynesville brown, mrs. g. t. hague ave., st. paul broberg, peter new london broman, aug. atwater brunkow, chas. a. delano brown, aug. winthrop broden, gust a. murdock brown, h. a. brownsdale brown, john a. windom brummer, henry w. renville bruns, henry excelsior brooks, w. w. long prairie brogren, olof willmar brownlie, j. roy care of flathead natl. bk., kalispell, mont. brodalen, h. a. pelican rapids brown, a. f. como ave., w. st. paul brown, clarence z. n. y. life, mpls. brown, mrs. g. w. st. louis park brown, chas. g. paynesville broman, axel milaca broker, mrs. h. a. collegeville brodalen, g. a. ottosen, iowa brumpton, wm. shevlin bugbie, a. e. paynesville buchanan, d. p. shoshone, cal. buhler, e. o. capitol, st. paul bue, thos. nd ave. s., mpls. buehler, john g. main st. n. e., mpls. buchloz, aug. osseo bull, m. royal crown soap co., winnipeg, man. bull, geo. n. th st. w., calgary, alta. bullard, w. h. e. th st., st. paul buol, peter wabasha buckeye, j. lakefield bunn, t. h. pine island brombach, jos. th ave. so., mpls. brown, r. a. lakefield brown, rev. geo. w. wilson, wis. brown, clarence j. sec. bk. bldg., mpls. brown, mrs. j. f. garfield, so., mpls. brooker, h. w. sauk center burkee, john a. roseau burnette, w. j. como ave. s. e., mpls. burow, w. p. la crescent burns, mark. cass lake burfield, geo. e. shevlin burns, chris cass lake burke, t. j. bemidji burrows, mrs. a. l., box , white bear burbeck, e. w. e. winona st., duluth burquist, a. e. lindstrom burnett, john torrey bldg., duluth burns, john j. hopkins burkhard, miss l. s. white bear lake burness, b. security bk. bldg., mpls. burch, edward p. james so., mpls. burch, frank e. linwood place, st. paul busch, fred lyndale ave. s. and th st., mpls. bussey, l. m. hamline ave. s. e., mpls. buttrud, mrs. j. h. luverne ave., mpls. busch, bernh. lyndale ave. s. and th st., mpls. buth & co., w. f. univ. ave., st. paul butterfield, f. j. long lake bussey, w. h. beacon st., mpls. bute, chas m. r. , jackson bush, o. d. barron, wis. byrnes, dr. w. j. masonic temple, mpls. bye, c. m. new brighton bye, j. t. r. , new brighton byrne, mrs. m. e. fafayette ave., chicago cairns, miss gertrude m. ellsworth, wis. cant, w. a. duluth campbell, e. r. excelsior carniff, mrs. laura j. w. brompton st., w. st. paul canning, richard orchard gardens, mpls. cadoo, h.t. gorman ave., w. st. paul campbell, mrs. b. b. sta. f., mpls. cadwell, b. d. hastings, box callahan, john st. charles campbell, h. e. h. willmar cameron, john a. lyndale no., mpls. campbell, d. g. th ave. n.e., mpls. cady, e. n. lewiston cannon, mrs. newton superior, wis., john ave. campbell, mrs. h. a. e. th st., st. paul carlson, c. h. fertile carmen, c. a. hankinson, n. d. carruthers, j. t. willmar carlson, and. grandy carey, geo. w. lidgerwood, n.d. carlson, c. w. mound carpenter, f. h. w. franklin, mpls. carlson, john care of carlson & hasslen, ortonville carnahan, e. j. longville carter, a. n. howard lake carlson, mrs. wm. london r., duluth carpenter, m. b. hotel aberdeen, st. paul carlson, peter mohall, n. d. carlson, j. a. th ave. s., mpls. carlson, rev. c. w. th ave. so., mpls. carlson, john kimball carlson, oscar th ave. s., mpls. carlson, axel manhattan bldg., fergus falls carll, norman waltham carlson, g. d. r. , buffalo carlson, janas r. , esmond, n. d. cary, h. e. jenkins carey, mrs. f. r. r. , robbinsdale carr, m. j. stryker ave., st. paul carver, j. th ave. so., mpls. carlson, mrs. jno. r. , hopkins carribou, farris twig carlson, g. c. tower carlson, j. cedar ave so., mpls. catlin, t. j., m.d. palisade cash, w. h. h. new lisbon, wis. case, l. s. merc. natl. bank bldg., st. paul cedergren. e. a. lindstrom cecil, r. e. gen. del., mckeesport, pa. cecka, john lonsdale charlson, s. dennison chamberlain, v. m. spring valley chalberg, chas. kandiyohi chapman, c. p. dent chatfield, mrs. e. c. mound chase, jas. j. farmington chamberlain, w. d. albert lea chapman, ed. a. redwood falls chamberlain, louis m. th st. and pillsbury, mpls. charlton, r. robinson, regina, sask. chapman, sidney e. haskel st., w. st. paul charvat, frank brocket, n. d. chapman, r. w. plainview chase, mrs. a. g. faribault chaffee, h. l. amenia, n. d. chamber of commerce brainerd cheney, w. h. olivia christopherson, k. o. zumbrota christopherson, chris camden place, mpls. cherney, j. w. winslow and arion sts., w. st. paul chrystoph, john d st., hudson, wis. chrudinsky, mrs. robt. j. lakewood chinn, w. p. care ella mine, gilbert chinlund, h. a. th & s. park st., red wing cheyney, prof. e. g. univ. farm, st. paul chute, l. p. chute bldg., mpls. cheney, mrs. w. b. washburn ave., mpls. christman, w. f. th ave. s., mpls. christiansen, peder c. dagoner, mont. christenson, chris r. , box , albert lea chradle, mrs. w. e. cleveland chermack, w. r. hopkins christie, r. g. canby cherveny, john j. zimmerman chelmen, b. e. georgeville christenson, abraham deerwood christenson, c. g. deerwood christopherson, chas. g. th ave. s., mpls. cherveny, joe zimmerman christenson, miss nancy mandan, n. d. chemak, otto r. , hopkins christian, jas. sherburn christensen, m. goff ave., w. st. paul christensen, aug. little falls cherry, m. m. n. st. paul cinkl, albert blooming prairie child, f. s. r. , hopkins christy color printing eng., inc. st. paul st., rochester, n.y. clemons, l. a. storm lake, ia. clarkson, stewart f. st. charles clausen, p. albert lea cleator, frederic w. forest service, republic, wash. cleator, w. p. wash. ave. n., mpls. clark, mrs. a. y. box , white bear clague, frank redwood falls clark, r. j. eden prairie clementsen, nels fertile clausen, t. a. lakeshore greenhouses, albert lea clark, geo. s. th ave. s., st. cloud clement, c. c. mosier, oregon clapp, edw. s. hamline ave., n. st. paul clark, jas. williams clark, newell e. emerson s., mpls. clark, e. e. eden prairie clark, h. b. pine island clausen, hans sleepy eye clum, miss k. m. r. , st. paul clark, d. f. bryant s., mpls. cleveland, henry th ave. e., duluth colling, jas. h. inkster, n. d. coffin, w. f. homer converse, t. r. stillwater constance, wm. hopkins colburn, otis l. excelsior congdon, john s. r. , box fort collins, colo. colb, john f. th ave. s., mpls. coffin, e. c. garfield ave., mpls. colban, walter h. th ave., pittsburgh, pa. coffman, g. w. wadena conrad, maud a. montevideo congdon, j. w. blaisdell, mpls. colburn, g. b. r. , st. cloud conklin, marion jamestown, n. d. coffron, geo. box , biwabik cole, geo. penturen conners, j. b. hibbing collins, j. c. mound cocker, walter lanesboro colby, f. l. enfield, n. h. conrad, emil r.r., collis commandros, tom golden rule floral dept., st. paul colman, i. w. th ave. s.e., mpls. coleman, d. a. r. , aitkin constance, geo. i. cumberland, wis. coffey, mrs. j. a. jamestown, n. d. cobb, e. r. e. winona st., duluth cook, a. d. kasota blk., mpls. corser, fred james n., mpls. cornwell, e. c. minnesota city cornell, t. h. fidelity bldg., duluth cornetinson, c. o. watson cook, geo. menahga cooper, mrs. d. h. winnipeg, man. cook, geo. h. care golden rule, red wing cook, e. w. cleveland corwin, ellis cove cornwell, l. l. pine island cornell univ. library ithaca, n.y. crowe, w. h. osakis crowell, dr. i. g. shell lake, wis. cramer, dr. geo. p. syndicate bldg., mpls. cross, mrs. jane sauk rapids crooks, mrs. john s. commerce bldg., st. paul crooks, john s. commerce bldg., st. paul crocker, f. e. morgan crossett, c. n. faribault cuzner, e. a. univ. ave. & th st. s.e., mpls. cutting, s. carnegie, man. cummings, geo. w. r. , box , mpls. currie, w. a. summit ave., mpls. cutler, w. r. claremont, s. d. cutler, john glencoe custer, c. c. howard lake custer, orrin o. cokato curtis, j. w. g. globe bldg., st. paul cummins, miss beatrice barnum cutting, m. c. care "the farmer," st. paul curran, dr. f. th ave. s., mpls. cushing, luther s. osceola, wis. cowles, f. j. west concord coultas, r. w. worthington cote, l. grasston covington, thos. e. ashland ave., st. paul countryman, a. d. appleton countryman, mrs. m. l. s. avon st., st. paul coy, sherman l. cloquet cox, wm. t. capitol, st. paul cowling, c. n. w. robie st., st. paul courtney, m. j. glencoe cowling, mrs. chas. n. w. robie st., st. paul cox, l. a. syndicate blk., mpls. cox, hanford ely court, harry warroad crassweller, arthur e. superior st., duluth cramer, fred mapleton crane, r. e. grand meadow crafts, robt. h. mound crane, w. i. buch st., new york crabtree, mack h. mott, n. d. crewe, percy s. mohall, n. d. crandall, h. h. morristown crane, benj. w. spring valley dahl, louis d. atwater dablen, o. e. albert lea dahl, f. a. chisago city danielson, solomon rothsay dale, o. g. madison dahlheimer, frank anoka dahl, h. p. isanti dalzell, w. e. hinckley daily, d. th ave. s., mpls. daniel, t. w. care m. thorson, r. , wayzata dahl, h. m. central ave., red wing dahlquist, c. a. popple dalberg, mrs. a. o. amery, wis. dangers, fred sleepy eye dahl, mrs. a. o. w. th st., superior, wis. daigle, a. a. forest lake danzl, jos. j. melrose day, stephen northfield davison, a. h. state house, des moines, ia. darling, dr. c. h. endicott arcade, st. paul davis, l. g. sleepy eye davis, h. h. placeville, cal. davis & ferree waukee, iowa darrow, geo. m. bureau of plant industry, washington, d.c. davenport, w. r. dennison davis, t. a. esmond, n. d. dasher, c. a. buffalo lake deline, w. f. cannon falls decker, j. s. austin delong, t. r. halliday deforest, geo. owatonna decamp, j. l. eureka deighton, c. h. wolvin bldg., duluth denson, w. a. hasty deatharage, mrs. robt. portland ave., mpls. deebach, herman maple st., st. paul deebach, e. a. dayton bluff sta., st. paul delameter, mrs. j. morgan ave. n., mpls. dempsey, thos. st. peter dean, harold care thorpe bros., andrus bldg., mpls. desmidt, a. a. battle lake desmond, w. portland ave., mpls. derickson, g. p. w. franklin ave., mpls. depuy, a. c. park rapids dewolf, mrs. d. f. hague ave., st. paul dexter, mrs. w. k. mound devore, f. j. s. robert st., st. paul deplages, n. j. r. , york, n.d. dept. of agric. ottawa, out. diethelm, m. victoria dittbenner, r. c. sleepy eye dickenson, w. c. anoka dixon, jas. k. box , north st. paul dille, peter o. dassel dike, henry b. hotel berkeley, mpls. dill, joe victoria distad, o. o. hayfield dickinson, sherman th ave. s., mpls. dittmer, gus augusta, wis. dillman, a. c. newell, s. d. dispatch prtg. co., c. f. blandin, mgr., st. paul dickey, mrs. agnes t. esmond, n. d. dixon, dr. frank mora district insp. of forest reserve winnipeg, man. dill, albert st. bonifacius dobbin, j. j. excelsior doll, p. j. bryant ave. n., mpls. dockham, a. t. eagle bend dodge, clayton j. moose lake dobbin, w. j. excelsior dodge, e. j. hector doerfler, jos. fillmore st. n.e., mpls. dodgson, sam clearwater dobble, mrs. edwin raymond ave., st. paul dodge, ben mankato dobbs, david e. indus donaldson, mrs. w. n. palmett ave., duluth dodson, t. r. nashwauk dominican fathers th ave. and th st., mpls. doring, rev. f. m. rogers dowler, w. a. fort williams, ont. dorr, w. f. lbr. ex., mpls. doyle, w. j. fern ave. and lake st., st. louis park dorland, w. h. dayton bluff sta., r. , st. paul downing, w. j. ronneby, r. downing, lloyd st. charles doories, mrs. a. fridley down, j. j. medical blk., mpls. douglas, w. b. commerce bldg., st. paul drake, mrs. h. t. portland ave., st. paul drisko, mrs. e. m. garfield, mpls. dreuttel, albert cleveland drebert, alexander f. iglehart ave., st. paul dtessely, l. j. gatzke durand, albert waseca dunn, john w. g. lincoln ave., st. paul dunn, w. w. princeton ave., st. paul dubbelis, joe lincoln dunning, dr. a. w. lowry bldg., st. paul dunning, frank anoka dunsmore, dr. f. a. andrus bldg, mpls. duel, robt. sauk center duesterhoeft, adolph hall ave., w. st. paul dunn, a. c. duluth duncan, alvin redwood falls dvorak, john hopkins dubbels, chas. w. viola dunbar, s. j. elkhorn, wis. dunlop, w. b. waverly ave., duluth dvorak, frank montgomery dunsmore, thos. danube dvorak, alley hopkins, r. duerr, dr. w. p. lake city durham, sabin grygla dybig, nursery colton, n. d. dysinger, s. d. w. th st., st. paul dykema, ben raymond dyer, c. h. th ave. s., mpls. eastgate, j. e. larimore, n. d. earle, c. e. park rapids earney, andrew western ave., seattle, wash. eberhart, a. l. austin ebersperger, mrs. girard n., mpls. eckenbeck, s. c. appleton eckberg, aug. winthrop edlund, e. detroit eddy, c. t. r. , willmar edson, w. d. libby eddy, vernon hyland sta. n., mpls. edwards, frank gilbert edden, g. st. croix falls, wis. edgerton, mrs. e. a. bryant so., mpls. edwards, o. t. grand meadow edny, f. s. goodthunder effertz, peter norwood egnell, a. howard lake eisengraler, dr. g. a. granite falls eidem, p. c. clarkfield eisenach, w. l. aitkin eklund, p. a. willmar ekelund, c. a. hopkins ellison, f. h. linden falls, r. , mpls. elliott, w. j. albertville ellingson, s. sta. f., r. , mpls. elstrom, f. o. atwater elliott, p. p. grand rapids elwell, j. t. th s.e., mpls. elliott, miss martha r. stillwater, r. no. ellison, miss sabra sta. f, r. , linden falls, mpls. elliott, h. j. hopkins, r. elofson, j. s. hasty elsenpeter, h. j. buffalo elgren, mrs. harry red top ely, dr. jas. o. winnetka, ill. eliason, alfred j. corrall, r. ellingson, g. t. w. th st., duluth ellis, g. c. west salem, wis. ehler, geo. euclid st., st. paul emmans, n. h. james ave. s., mpls. emberland, john selby ave., st. paul empy, clarence l. eureka emerson, byron t. grimes ave., mpls. emerson, john h. argyle st., st. paul endsley, p. m. minneapolis engel, rev. peter leland ave., chicago, ill. engel, rev. peter collegeville engleson, i. j. montevideo engman, a. e. hallock, r. , box englestad, louisa thief river falls, r. english, mrs. c. e. lake of isles blvd., mpls. engen, gilbert a. finley, n. d., r. emerson, a. f. grand portage engel, a. w. esmond, n. d. enroth, a. l. orr erwin, d. a. waseca erkel, f. c. rockford erickson, oliver atwater erne, f. x. goff ave., st. paul erikson, e. d. wegdahl erikson, john w. aitkin erikson, c. o. watson, box erb, e. c. red wing erling, frank, jr. w. belvidere st., w. st. paul essig, aug. sanborn essene, mrs. anna longfellow ave., mpls. eshelby, e. c. shubert bldg., st. paul escher, sam'l c. slayton erickson, a. b. mill st., n., fergus falls erickson, chas. northland erickson, wm. m. courthouse, red wing erickson, emil h. r. , maynard erickson, l. w. th ave. s., mpls. erickson, oscar dalton erickson, k. a. pequot erickson, may th ave. s., mpls. evans, john l. nd ave. e., duluth everett, mrs. g. w. waseca ewing, a. l. river falls, wis. ewald, julius cumberland, wis. ewing, prof. jas. northfield cecil, e. e. mckeesport, pa., gen. del. fairfax, mrs. j. f. s. aldrich, mpls. faehn, f. j. wallace, s. d. fagerlie, i. f. clarkfield fabian, edwin jefferson ave., st. paul fabian, norman j. st. paul park fairchild, d. l. lonsdale bldg., duluth fabel, p. h. buffalo lake fairchild, mrs. d. l. tamarack fairfield, chas. r. th ave. s., mpls. fairchild. l. g. shevlin farrar, f. f. white bear farmer, c. r. ada fanning, miss mary e. th st., st. paul farmer, e. a. sta. f., r. , mpls. farrell, d. h. new london, r. farel, chas. a. buffalo farcier, peter buffalo lake farcier, v. e. stewart faurat, f. s. th ave. s.e., mpls. farnham, jas. m. st. cloud, st. german st. farrar, o. r. albert lea, r. , box featherston, s. t. red wing ferodowill, f. x. wayzata felland, prof. o. g. northfield feleen, nels n. willmar fergerson, w. c. litchfield feesl, vinz. cor. winslow & arion, st. paul fell, henry janesville, r. fesenbeck, j. a. cloquet featherstone, j. s. hastings fieske, c. a. sleepy eye finch, mrs. mary care duluth-news tribune, duluth fisher, thos. a. waverly hotel, mpls. fitzer, chas. robbinsdale fink, christian waconia fisher, geo. a. st st. n., mpls. finke, e. h. spring valley finkle, miss kate w. river blvd., mpls. finke, e. r. waterville fischer, w. c. linden hills sta., r. , mpls. fitzer, h. luverne fish, l. l. wayzata, r. finstad, jos. edgerston st., st. paul fiedler, mike j. dent fisher, walter i. girard so., mpls. fisher, f. j. buffalo lake finnegan, pat thorp, wis. fjelde, g. j. madison flint, h. r. dubois, wyo. flagstad, j. sacred heart flint, henry w. r. , box , tacoma, wash. flood, e. j. newman grove, neb. floreen, swan constance flygare, hans h. atwater flynn, a. e. allen ave., st. paul flath, jos. a. r. , plymouth, wis. fletcher, mrs. f. s. irving so., mpls. flyen, henry dawson flint, p. p. osakis ford, f. h. maple plain, r. no. ford, a. j. new rockford, n. d. folden, p. rollag, r. no. foss, elizabeth h. e. river blvd., mpls. forest supervisor ely forest supervisor cass lake foerster, fred e. rondo st., st. paul foley, t. h. manchester folske, otto h. w. lucy st., w. st. paul fordyce, g. w. newport foster, i. d. sandsone fox, o. a. lincoln ave., st. paul foster, mrs. mary d. foley forsam, albert madison forbes, b. w. w. winona st., duluth fritcher, c. e. hancock frye, p. h. willmar freeman, gust e. red wing freeman, c. h. zumbrota frydholm, martin albert lea fredrickson, wm. perley frank, albert d. wood lake frederickson, c. a. elk river, r. , box freese, f. m. bemidji froshaug, david albee, s. d. freeman, mrs. h. g. st. louis park france, l. v. priscello sta., st. paul frazier, t. f. cloquet, cloquet ave. fryer, willis e. mantorville franzel bros. laurel ave., st. paul franklin, mrs. anna j. r. , box , fridley frey, math. taunton frey, frank taunton fratke, julius pemberton french, w. l. austin freeman, nels scanlon fraling, rev. j. stephen froslan, peder h. flaxville, mont. frederickson, p. b. davenport, n. d. fruske, k. a. brooten freeman, edmund park rapids frazer, p. c. pelican rapids frazer, h. e. pelican rapids frey, mrs. frank st. peter frink, mrs. e. l. faribault frey, aug. j. e. nd st., duluth fraund, mrs. s. western ave. n., st. paul fuller, e. d. longfellow s., mpls. fuller, f. e. deerwood fuller, h. m. deerwood fulcrut, s. g. goodhue, r. , st. paul fuhrman, john albany fuller, e. e. w. winona st., duluth fuller, mrs. c. a. hopkins, r. fyfe, h. l. drake, n. d. galloway, j. e. austin gammell, dr. h. w. madison galle, a. c. madison galletin, john m. gorman ave. w., st. paul gaida, n. a. holdingford gafke, r. j. woodstock, ill. gallagher, john amery, wis. gallion, orville opstead gastfield, a. f. victor, mont., r. , box garlick, eva e. janesville gaspard, j. p. caledonia gates, l. d. winnebago garlough, a. l. white bear, r. gaylord, l. e. pacific ave., st. paul ganzer, mrs. john como phelan, st. paul garvey, chas. h. lyndale so., mpls. gardner, franc e. humboldt bldg., chicago, ill. garrott, jane bald eagle, white bear, care d. keefe gates, stephen hopkins, r. no. gantzer, daniel merriam park, r. garber, m. j. dent garand, dr. j. h. dayton gates, j. m. pickwick gesner, frank brimhall st., st. paul gerdsen, henry waconia gearty, t. g. robbinsdale gessner, oscar forest lake, r. george, e. s. graetlinger, ia. germond, miss m. exchange bldg., duluth gerten, frank l. south st. paul gerlach, mrs. a. f. dayton, st. paul gerber, a. h. portland ave., st. paul gerrish, harry e. plymouth bldg., mpls. gerhard, ray c. so. bryant, mpls. gembo, elmer j. wayzata gerdes, chas. dupont so., mpls. gerhard, gergen cannon falls george, r. r. hopkins germond, w. h. nic. ave., mpls. gertsmann, frank morgan getty, d. c. mapleton gibbs, miss ida w. merriam park, r. no. , box gibbs, a. b. tower gibbs, m. l. echo, r. no. gibson, thos. waverly ave., duluth gimmestad, m. o. belview gippe, miss louise watson gile, mrs. s. a. irving s., mpls. ginter, e. w. stewartville gillespie, may e. r. , linden hills, mpls. gilby, jas. th ave. s., mpls. gillespie, miss anna th ave. s., mpls. gillespie, i. h. r. , box , anoka gipson, e. h. faribault gjerset, oluf montevideo glyer, alfred forest lake glaspell, bernard jamestown, n. d. glessner, mrs. frank sheridan ave. s., mpls. glenzke, louis m. glen lake via hopkins glass, walter river falls, wis. goodman, d. e. faribault goldsmith, mrs. h. cleveland goelz, mike brooten goltz, john havana, n. d. goldberg, b. m. e. rd st., duluth gooch, h. i. woodland ave., duluth goetz, edgar a. doswell ave., st. paul gould, mrs. edward humboldt s., mpls. gormley, j. taylor st. n.e., mpls. gordon, w. a. nd ave. s., mpls. gowdy, louis aldrich s., mpls. gough, e. estevan, sask. gordon, c. h. owatonna goltz, a. l. balaton gotts, oscar maple plain gowdy, miss chestine faribault goss, sam atlantic, ia. grant, l. r. battle lake gray, elmer w. pleasant ave., mpls. grandahl, r. l. red wing graves, d. n. faribault grasselli chemical co. st. paul granger, a. h. correll graff, fred rd ave. s., mpls. grant, harry c. faribault graham, l. g. doswell ave., st. paul granquist, chas. w. abbott st., stillwater gray, n. h. fergus falls greaza, a. e. r. , st. paul gregory, h. jordan green, wm. morgan greening. c. f. grand meadow greene, dr. chas. l. summit ave., st. paul greene, michael e. warrent st., st. paul green, f. m. menahga greene, alfred grand meadow grettum, wm. th ave. e., duluth green, john c. london rd., duluth gregg, kenneth lbr. exch., mpls. groat, h. g. anoka grimm, ben e. th st., duluth griswold, a. a. long lake grosse, e. a. la moille grover, gust. a. glyndon grunig, a. c. cloquet griesgraber, jos. w. morton, w. st. paul groff, n. s. west side sta., r. , w. st. paul griese, e. t. hibbing griffith, edith th ave. s., mpls. gruhlke, wm. h. jackson grier, hazelton robbyn ave., merriam park gronna, a. t. waterville, ia. gruber, john lakefield grindeland, a. warren gryte, e. k. ruthton grunig, w. r. av. c, cloquet gunderman, h. wabasha gustafson, alfred long prairie gundlach, miss carrie m. white bear gustafson, w. h. montevideo gunn, d. m. grand rapids gustafson, frank a. warman gustner, e. r. , hopkins guthnecht, b. oakdale ave. w., st. paul gullette, albert fillmore st. n.e., mpls. gustafson, chas. r. , duluth gunderson, g. box , webster, s. d. gulbranson, r. thief river falls guthunz, mrs. w. m. hague ave., st. paul hakel, adolph silver lake hadley, emerson farrington, st. paul hagen, l. e. fountain haack, chas. e. mound haakenson, hjalmer boyd hagen, f. a. lake city hage, paul j. hanska haecker, prof. f. l. exp. sta., st. paul haas, rev. l. th st., st. paul haines, m. t. woodland ave., fairmont hager, john van buren, st. paul haeg, mrs. e. h. r. , sta. f, mpls. hackett, j. e. malcolm ave. s.e., mpls. hahn, m. d. amiret haglund, o. n. eastwood hagen, severt waseca hagnie, donald fairmount ave., st. paul haining, john. a. brookston haering, j. j. jordan haglund, mrs. aug. red top haglund, gust. red top halverson, alfred spring grove hall, r. f. new auburn hallstrom, c. o. box , red wing hall, l. p. deerwood hall, mrs. c. e. c. portland ave., mpls. hall, t. w. cham. of com., mpls. halden, f. e. mound halbert, c. w. dispatch bldg., st. paul halverson, l. shevlin halverson, jacob delavan halvorsen, a. s. albert lea halvorson, h. s. brooten hall, s. o. erie st. s. e., mpls. halverson, m. j. medina, n. d. hale, w. h. mcknight bldg., mpls. hall, stanley grygla hammer, f. o. princeton st., st. paul hanselman, jos. adrian st., st. paul hanger, jacob wyoming hanson, n. p. hutchinson hansen, geo. w. doud ave., bemidji hanson, henry graceville hanson, albert t. r. , fergus falls hanson, m. c. clarkfield hanson, frank w. box , litchfield hanover, r. f. winona hammer, e. a. st. charles hansen, peter r. , box , s. st. paul hanus, adolph r. , hopkins hanlos, augusta donaldson, wis. hanson, r. b. ladysmith, wis. hanna, m. m. d. & i. r. ry., duluth hamustrom, c. j. new brighton handy, a. m. granada hansen, h. f. albert lea hansen, chris albert lea hanson, simon j. dawson hanson, jas. f. fertile hanson, c. l. fertile hammer, m. e. heiberg hanson, l. o. r. , box , red wing hanson, a. l. ada ham, geo. s. r. , aitkin hanson, h. c. barnum hansen, phil capitol, st. paul hanson, o. w. new richland hanson, o. m. r. , ulen hanson, ivan clarissa hanford, arthur woodland ave., duluth harrison, f. m. glenwood harrison, h. w. r. , rochester hartman, frank iona harold, geo. e. maiden rock, wis. harper, j. l. lock box , mpls. hartwick, ole granite falls harris, a. w. sleepy eye harseim, louis b. aitkin hartig, wm. hopkins harris, w. s. pillsbury ave., mpls. harnden, c. h. fairmont hardwick, mrs. b. g. fremont s., mpls. hastings, c. c. buffalo habison, e. h. anoka st., duluth harris, mrs. john e. th st., mpls. hart, frank cleveland harder, fred winslow ave., w. st. paul hart, frank w. laporte harris, earl litchfield haskins, geo. burtrum haseltine, mrs. e. r. excelsior harper, stanley j. box , mpls. harris, l. e. atwater harris, van v. e. th st., duluth hawkins, mrs. alice m. fremont n., mpls. hathaway, c. e. northfield hawkins, j. s. fremont n., mpls. hawkins, john box , mpls. hawkins, mrs. j. c. austin hawkes, a. s. waseca hatcher, frank wayzata hatledal, ole o. benson hawkes, chas. b. e. rd st., st. paul hawkins, g. c. fremont s., mpls. hawkes, h. b. excelsior haupt, c. f. concord st., st. paul hattenberger, tony shakopee hayden, chas. blackduck hatcher, amos delano hawkins, mrs. g. c. s. fremont, mpls. hatcher, lloyd f. wayzata hauenstein, mrs. regina aldrich s., mpls. hayes, chas. h. clarissa hazelton, d. c. cutler haven, g. a. chatfield hayes, dr. e. w. browns valley heinemann, r. e. montevideo hegerle, m. h. st. bonifacius heltemez, john sauk rapids helger, wm. c. portland ave., st. paul hegland, a. w. superior st., duluth helgeson, c. t. albert lea hellyar, a. b. chicago ave., mpls. heckle, jos. bellows st., w. st. paul heller bros. albee, s. d. heinsohn, aug. lesueur heck, geo. j. rice st., st. paul heier, herman r. , bertha headman, p. w. henning hellerman, gerhard melrose hellerman, herman melrose heinrum, mrs. hawkon lake park hector, chas. j. e. nd st., duluth heins, geo. n. box , sleepy eye headline, francis r. , west concord helland, b. j. clearbrook heagy, ralph w. minnehaha st., st. paul healy, mrs. reginald j. irving s., mpls. heikkila, oscar ely henze, jake lewiston henjum, nels frost henderson, h. g. lime springs, ia. hendrickson, m. p. montevideo henry, p. albert lea henry, henley & son concord st., st. paul henke, gust. buffalo lake henkel, peter watkins henderson, r. l. brady, mont. hennemann, dr. h. f. sauk center henningsen, walter c. chicago avs., mpls. henjum, ole saum hener, willie leonard, n. d. hemphill, henry pillager hendrickson, ernest mahtomedi hendrickson, henry kratka henry, mrs. m. j. iglehart ave., st. paul hesselgrave, r. v. winnebago hershaug, ed. kenyon hewitt, cameron fond du lac herman, a. c. van buren st., st. paul herscher, laurence renville hewitt, adelaide r. , hopkins heritage, wm. ely herman, jos. r. , box , w. st. paul herds, john w. lonsdale hetle, e. northfield heuring, mat. rogers hilborn, e. c. valley city, n. d. hicks, wm. c. cedar hidde, fred herman hillger, rev. aug. rich valley hill, w. w. w. th st., mpls. hill, f. c. albert lea higbie, w. s. eden prairie highby, l. p. h. albert lea hillman, wm. o. dewey ave., st. paul hiller, aric excelsior hibbard, mrs. c. j. sheridan s., mpls. hill, g. e. r. , white bear hildebrand, e. w. galvin ave., w. st. paul hicks, fred c. court merrill, mitchell, s. d. hillig, john morgan hidershide, dr. geo. n. arcadia, wis. hintermister, j. h. dispatch bldg., st. paul hinckley, c. n. r. , osseo hines, ed., lbr. co. chicago, ill. hitchcock, f. e. com. bldg., st. paul hinkle, b. j. little falls hinckley, c. s. elbow lake hinras, m. sleepy eye hislop, walter sunfish rd., w. st. paul hirt, john h. th ave. s., mpls. hjermstad, c. f. red wing hjermstad, h. l. red wing hobart, w. p. dupont s., mpls. hofmann, e. l. janesville hoffman, rev. c. bruno, sask. hoff, j. m. hennepin ave., mpls. hofenmeister, alfons new ulm hoffman, herman dent hoffman, g. henderson hoffman, l. j. buffalo hoffman, h. r. th ave. s., wausau, wis. hoffman, mrs. c. s. langdon, st. paul hoaglund, hildur th st. s., willmar hoffman, geo. j. long lake hobbs, arnold n. y. life bldg., mpls. holmberg, j. e. avoca holt, john e. carver holmgren, p. o. hoffman holten, john fertile holmberg, j. a. edgerton st., st. paul holm, e. p. w. th st., st. paul holmes, mrs. jos. t. r. , box , northfield holt, john wolverton hollingsworth, ralph th ave. s.e., mpls. holland, ozra s. r. , winona holl, dr. p. m. chicago ave., mpls. holtimier, john excelsior homan, frank r. , sauk rapids holasek, winslow hopkins holmberg, a. r. renville homola, frank j. r. , hopkins holstad, hans st. olaf ave., northfield holm, h. e. opstead how, h. esmond, n. d. holst, john r. , s. st. paul holbrook, miss eleanor b. penn ave. s., mpls. horton, w. h. alexandria hornly, h. c. cloquet hostetter, a. b. duluth hoverstad, a. t. maynard howland, clinton j. northfield howland, mrs. eleanor r. , sta. f, care e. landis, mpls. hoss, mrs. nick new ulm hoyt, b. t. hamline & hoyt aves., st. paul hove, john i. northwood, ia. houghtelin, j. m. chatfield howard, geo. f. raymond ave., st. paul hoyt, edward scotch grove, ia. howe, peter kellogg houghton, jas. g. clinton ave., mpls. howlett, mrs. d. d. r. , oshkosh, wis. horton, mrs. f. w. r. , white bear hosmer, ralph s. cornell univ., ithaca, n.y. horton, g. l. litchfield hostager, n. a. zumbrota hoslicker, f. s. tappen, n. d. hough, j. s. northern crown bk. bld., winnipeg, m. howe, t. j. clark, s. d. hoppert, walter o. r. , bx. , w. st. paul hromatka, joseph hopkins hoover, j. l. r. , kensal, n. d. hoyard, w. e. henderson horn, chas. lewis st., duluth house, susan m. w. faribault st., duluth houston, geo. s. thomas ave., mpls. hoyt, l. h. fridley hoyt, arthur fridley hoyt, r. a. lake city huestis, dr. o. m. central ave., mpls. huff, theo. a. fergus falls huber, frank shakopee hull, f. h. brookpark hubbell, c. h. marquette ave., mpls. hubacheck, mrs. f. r. long lake huffman, mrs. e. j. nemadji huckfield, b. e. queen ave. s., mpls. huber, rev. a. t. elbow lake hughes, h. j. care farm, stock & home, mpls. hughart, h. f. hamel huff, n. l. th st. s.e., mpls. hulbert, a. m. elk river huey, w. g. th ave. n., fargo, n. d. huff, b. j. yola hultquist, esther m. care gowan-lenning-brown, duluth hubbard, w. a. lake city huldal, h. t. r. , wilton husser, henry minneiska hummel, prof. j. a. commonwealth, st. paul hurtt, wm. hoople, n. d. hundt, g. tintah humphrey, d. a. blaisdell, mpls. hushka, joseph felton hurd, burton s. smith ave., st. paul huyck, e. j. th & central aves., mpls. huttner, miss r. , glen lake, hopkins hybergh, s. hamel, minn. hynes, john f. r. , moose lake innes, j. c. luverne ingebrigtsen, iver j. fertile ingmundson, c. p. nd ave. s., jamestown, n. d. ikier, wm. vernon center ingram, carrie e. sandstone isaacson, o. a. madison innis, geo. s. hewitt ave., st. paul ihfe, fred w. brompton st., w. st. paul isensee, a. r. , annandale isidore, mother m. mankato imlach, h. e. estevan, sask. ingleston, r. f. e. nebr. ave., st. paul imdicke, ben brooten irish, mrs. addie detroit irving, john n. s. park, st. paul ireland, john shell lake, wis. ingalk, boyd newport ingales, boyd newport jackson, p. t. summit ave., st. paul janzen, abr. mt. lake jackson, peter cloquet jacobson, p. g. madison jaquith, o. o. box , pillager jacobson, j. f. madison jager, rev. francis. st. bonifacius jacobson, nels wayzata jackson, jas. woodstock jacobs, dr. j. c. willmar jacobson, fred rushford jasmer, paul a. winona james, dr. a. c. springfield, ill. jahren, rev. h. c. m. grand meadow jaycox, l. i. woodstock jacobson, j. l. madison jarshaw, sam madison jacobson, j. m. hills jacobson, t. m. hills jaeger, jos. r. , st. cloud james, j. willis lincoln ave., st. paul jackman, c. f. r. , box , esterville, ia. jackson, geo. r. manchester, n. h. jamison, robt. excelsior jansen, d. e. rogers jackson, j. f. lbr. exch., mpls. jackson, miss emma a. drexel blvd., chicago, ill. jensen, a. p. box , askov jerabek, mrs. mary excelsior jensen, jens a. rose creek jensen, adolph th ave. s., mpls. jensen, j. p. morgan jensen, c. m. albert lea jedlicka, henry r. , eagle bend jensen, anton mcintosh jenson, jens h. box , hudson, wis. jenswald, john duluth jennison, mrs. jas. fremont s., mpls. jenson, j. a. new london jenson, n. a. willmar jensen, j. l. menomonie, wis. jernberg, j. c. th ave. s., mpls. jensen, l. clearbrook jenson, w. f. mankato jepson, mrs. j. h. fremont n., mpls. johnson, j. p. miami, fla. johnson, gust j. clarissa johnson, p. g. elliot, mpls. johnson, dr. a. e. cloquet johnson, e. a. maple plain johnson, fred jarretts johnson, l. t. spring grove johnson, o. b. new richland johnson, p. e. north branch johnson, arnt r. , viroqua, wis. johnson, henry v. e. lawson st., st. paul johnson, a. w. pleasant, mpls. johnston, fred l. laurel ave., st. paul johnson, jos. t. jessie st., st. paul johnson, j. h. doon, ia. johnson, c. a. r. , box , ogilvie johnson, clyde bergville johnson, carl g. little falls johnson, isaac west union, ia. johnson, o. w. hawley johnson, lewis box , albert lea johnson, a. n. drew ave., mpls. johnson, f. w. breckenridge johnson, l. f. bemidji ave., bemidji johnson, g. g. e. th st., duluth johnson, o. h. r. , box , willmar johnson, chas. eugene u. of m., mpls. johnson, p. j. van buren st. n.e., mpls. johnson, j. c. fillmore st., mpls. johnson, w. w. detroit johnson, c. j. box , cushing johnston, rodney maple plain johnson, l. h. maynard johnston, wm. eden prairie johnson, selmer w. college st., rochester johnson, f. w. r. , braham johnson, a. w. . hague ave., st. paul johnson, miss carolyn linwood place, st. paul johnson, andrew r. , box , arnold johnson, henry l. r. , fergus falls johnson, alphonse e. r. , stephen johnson, mrs. charley amery, wis. johnson, john j. box , naples, s. d. johnson, peter box , naples, s. d. johnson, l. o. e. butler ave., st. paul johnson, roy r. , box , brandon johnson, jos. fridley johnson, s. l. r. , hopkins johnson, geo. millarton, n. d. johnson, geo. grygla johnson, n. c. south side farm, white bear lake jones, a. c. duluth jorgensen, i. b. hutchinson jones, thos. c. russell jordin, aug. new london jones, j. frank redwood falls jordan, j. j. shakopee jones, g. p. bagley jorgenson, bros. clarkfield jones, j. s. madison jones, s. j. oakland ave., mpls. jordin, john a. r. , litchfield jordan, wm. merriam pk. sta., st. paul jungbauer, frank winslow ave., st. paul justin, edw. j. excelsior juen, louis gorman ave., w. st. paul katzner, rev. jno. b. collegeville kalbakken, theo. st. joseph, wis. kapler, geo. r. perham kasper, hans grand marais kangas, henry floodwood kaiser, max merriam park floral co., st. paul kates, mrs. rose litchfield kalmbach, w. a. wolvin bldg., duluth kaminsky, jos. box , hopkins kansal, john minnehaha ave., mpls. kallock, h. h. oslo kallberg, jens red top karpisek, jos. harrison st., bellaire, ohio kallestad, c. a. ruthton karsten, miss ida c. adams n.e., mpls. keasling, f. j. zimmerman keith, john a. cass lake kelley, elmer sta. f., r. , mpls. kelly, w. j. claremont, s. d. keene, p. l. mankato kelley, clark w. devils lake, n. d. kees, a. a. sta. f, r. , mpls. kelley, c. e. e. belvidere st., st. paul keiper, chas. haskell st., w. st. paul keller, henry newport keist, m. j. conway st., st. paul kelley, frank w. r. , menomonie, wis. ketchum, c. s. middlefield, ohio keyes, e. a. excelsior kenyon, j. m. lamberton kempe, peter red wing kenney, dr. d. j. newton ave. s., mpls. keyes, dr. c. r. n. th ave. w., west duluth kenning, t. a. th ave. n., mpls. kenety, w. h. cloquet forest & exp. sta., cloquet kerker, mrs. thos. aurora ave., st. paul kendrick, j. w. iglehart ave., st. paul kerns, john olivia kendall, r. s. loraine, wis. kimball, rev. j. r. , duluth kinkade, w. s. sioux falls, s. d. kinney, s. g. faribault kirk, loren o. th ave. s., mpls. kirk, e. b. laurel ave., st. paul kittson, norman dayton ave., st. paul kingsley, a. w. bricelyn kinsman, a. n. austin killmer, r. e. pine city kimball, e. l. st natl. bank bldg., duluth kidd, mrs. f. e. nd ave. n., mpls. kirkpatrick, k. a. wayzata kirchner & renich s. th st., mpls. kittleson, a. j. madison kirk sisters clearwater king, j. c. drexel bldg., philadelphia, pa. kinsman, c. d. austin kirby, mrs. c. a. heron lake kimball, miss grace e. waltham kidder, e. d. marshall kind, wm. melrose kiger, h. e. wheaton kirkwood, w. p. grantham st., st. paul klaksirk, iver s. underwood klebs, j. c. bertha klebs, f. w. eagle bend klabunde, carl spillville, ia. klodt, frank r. , staples klunschmidt, wm. f. morgan klucas, j. a. buffalo lake klindt, henry litchfield klein, m. h. caledonia klein, albert r. , so. st. paul knight, e. w., n. th st. estherville, ia. knowles, mrs. m. a. sawtelle, cal. knoblauch, w. excelsior knatvold, h. albert lea knowles, miss marjorie lincoln ave., st. paul knutson, fred albert lea knudson, jacob taopi knapp, g. a. deerwood knapp, a. w. mound knutson, a. r. pelican rapids knudtson, andrew brandon kruggel, miss emma l. fremont so., mpls. kraut, emil lester prarie krause, chas. merriam park krekelberg, henry j. dent krogh, h. p. hythe st., st. paul kremer, geo. f. grand rapids kroehler, t. j. houston kresta, matt. eden, s. d. kraus, geo. mcgrath korth, albert rothsay kovar, wansel owatonna kolisch, aug. st. louis park kotouc, rev. a. st. leo koenig, g. a. howard lake korth, aug. rothsay koehler, d. hector kortsad, a. newfolden kochendorfer, k. k. south park kohler, chas. winona krueger, john r. , stillwater krause, mrs. chas. r. , merriam park kropp, chas. o. wadena krueger, b. f. niagara, n. d. kroll, john lake benton kreiziger, frank cole st., watertown, wis. krincke, henry w. gessemini, st. paul kruger, walter paynesville kunkel, jos. j. kimball kullander, f. q. kensington kuhns, a. m. main & plum, red wing kuefler, mrs. anton belgrade kuyper, mrs. john r. , mondovie, wis. kueffner, otto no. milton, st. paul kyrklund, c. h. winthrop koza, jos. bellows st., w. st. paul koester, john v. iron exchange, mpls. koelruck, gustav stewart kozial, miss justine m. r. , little falls koher, a. w. lucy, w. st. paul koutek, jos. butler & stryker, w. st. paul kolbe, ed sleepy eye koerner, olga grantham, st. paul lamb, c. sr. baker lumberson, l. warren lahn, mrs. geo. rogers lammers, henry p., jr. lafond, st. paul lagerquist, john f. cushing lagerquist, f. w. elmwood no., mpls. lamson, w. h. hinckley lake, a. f. shenandoah, ia. lafrance, h. clifton, mpls. lahiff, arthur th ave. so., mpls isadone, rasmus box , cloquet lake, homer homer lambert, edward v. buffalo lake lamphere, mrs. chas. frazee laflin, j. c. williams lade, halstein fosston lake, shores hubbard lacroix, wm. deer river langholz, j. a. newport landeen, a. f. eagle bend larkin, t. h. ford bldg., great falls, mont. larson, emil v. eagle bend laurin, john renville lange, marie r. willmar larson, j. p. th st. e., willmar landscape architect, dept. pub. wks. regina, sask. larsen, raymond m. providence bldg., duluth langlund, nils cedarbend larson, c. f. morgan larson, l. u. lowry larson, peter box , albert lea larson, l. r. , st. james lane, j. w. anoka langseth, c. c. worthington larson, john box , r. , lafayette langford, h. a. blackduck larson, w. e. madison, wis. landahl, h. little falls landeene, w. e. elbow lake larson, ole h. hisega, s. d. lanes, john o. dawson larson, l. b. st. louis park lange, l. m. cass lake lange, g. h. lake city langmaid, abbie b. granite falls larson, g. winslow ave., st. paul lauritson, a. warrendale greenhouse, como park, st. p. law, k. b. doswell, st. paul lawson, f. e. goodhue latsch, john a. winona lawson, m. h. ellendale lawson, f. l. welch lawrence, alfred box , eldridge, n. d. lawson, l. p. isle lawton, chas. dayton ave., st. paul lawrence, mrs. w. w. woodland ave., duluth latourelle, j. r. , centuria. wis. lawrie, jas. a. wolvin bldg., duluth leiner, dan'l morris lee, geo. f. hanska leath, fred cleveland leavitt, miss clara james so., mpls. leary, d. j. brown's valley lee, e. g. dayton ave., st. paul lee, ole n. hayfield lee, iver a. neilsville leake, mrs. c. w. no. st. paul lehnerts, prof. e. h. "u. of m.," mpls. ledue, a. c. no. th ave., duluth leach, a. r. faribault lemieux, mrs. m. a. nebr. & adams st., st. paul lee, prof. olav st. olaf ave., northfield leitch, wm. columbia heights, mpls. leath, mrs. eleanor okipee farm, linden hills leasman, geo. w. hector lee, t. k. benson lee, j. a. benson ledvina, joseph pine city lee, eddie st. cloud, minn., r. le fevre, a. emerson ave., w. st. paul leonard, dr. l. d. syndicate blk., mpls. lenz, rudolph adrian lerol, john a. whalen lewis, a. f. leroy lewis, chas. l., jr. shell lake, wis. lewis, meyer box , mpls. leslie, a. w. fremont so., mpls. lenander, edwin buffalo lake lewis, bert caledonia leyde, h. g. newport leyde, g. f. hewitt leonard, dr. w. e., donaldson bldg., mpls. lerch, bernard, secy. carpenters farmers' club, togo linden, harry belgrade lippman, j. c. hythe st., st. paul lietze, f. w. mound lieske, robt. pequot lien, ole l. willmar lindgren, a. w. kennilworth ave., duluth lisler, mrs. a. m. grand rapids lippert, a. o. bertha lindsay, j. m. austin lightner, mrs. w. h. summit ave., st. paul lindstrom, john a. j. lindstrom linton, robt. everett court, st. anthony park lindsey, geo. f. mer. natl. bk. bldg., st. paul linder, e. a. warroad lieberg, c. f. clarkfield limperich, henry j. th ave. no., st. cloud lindahl, j. a. harris lien, andy beaudette lichtscheidl, john univ. ave., st. paul lien, g. e. maynard lindholm, j. a. e. glen lake, hopkins linnell, mr. j. e. maple plain lindhe, h. e. deer river lindstam, s. f. st. louis park, r. no. . libby, merton r. hopkins, r. no. lien, thos. leroy livingston, c. b. bryant no., mpls. linderholm, a. belgrade lindgren, oscar princeton, r. lippincott, miss c. h. hen. ave., mpls. lindholm, c. j. nd ave. n., mpls. light, c. w. st. john st., regina, sask. lilleskov, leonard byron lievere, b. a. johnson st. ne., mpls. lowe, m. f. buffalo loegering, aug. long prairie lovold, e. j. st ave. s., mpls. loop, leeman dent loftman, oscar fertile lomis, c. p. st. peter logstrom, reinhold atwater loegering, a. j. st. peter loye, c. c. th ave. s., mpls. lomen, o. o. decorah, ia., r. no. loss, bj. lake city loudenback, f. m. bagley lowell, o. s. buffalo lott, k. f. e. th st., st. paul lorenz, otto dale, st. paul lorentz, r. h. howard lake long, miss avie penn ave., mpls. lonsdale, miss persis g. sauk rapids lobsinger, anton cromwell ave., st. paul lorenzen, gust. bagley, r. losleben, rev. a. j. norwood long, jesse l. th ave. n., mpls. lock, frank osseo, r. lofgren, erick red top lofgren, a. h. tower logan, frank kenwood pkway, mpls. lov, chas. r. , hopkins lovering, thos. campbell loucks, chas. h. mankato luchan, h. j. fertile ludlow, h. j. worthington lundholm, dr. e. m. univ. ave., st. paul lundborg, theo. a. nisswa lund, geo. excelsior luitjens, a. clara city lucas, dr. h. e. champlin lubich, franz river falls, wis. luitjens, d. g. hopkins, r. no. , care of chas. asplund lucas, geo. a. s. th st., mpls. lufi, o. c. la crescent lundberg, s. l. red wing, no. lund, peter stillwater, park place luhman, henry howard lake ludwig, mrs. frank iglehart ave., st. paul luedloff, herman cologne luther, otto hills lunden, h. o. slayton lund, c. f. maple plain luhmann, j. c. w. wabasha st., winona lusk, w. f. hythe st., st. paul lyness, chas. e. new richmond lysen, aug. o. lowry magnuson, j. e. st st. se., st. cloud madison, geo. c. newport mander, frank c. hastings ave., st. paul manuel, dr. k. janie masonic temple, mpls. mace, florence duluth mace, clarissa e. duluth maass, win. h. waconia mahlman, h. w. plato maclennan, r. grand rapids manchester, edwin v. hopkins mansfield, miss c. mankato mace, r. e. e. rd st., duluth maney, peter, jr. grygla manz, f. w. paynesville magnuson, swen templeton, cal. malmsten, f. w. western ave., mpls. malmberg, e. w. lafayette mahler, adolph waseca malmquist, g. wayzata malitor, martin st. cloud malberg, p. b. thief river falls mahler, c. fairmont, n. d. magnuson, i. e. willmar maddy, mrs. emma annandale macnab, j. c. lombard st., winnipeg, can. mann, r. t. excelsior, r. malmberg, chas. a. lindstrom manley, l. b. torrey bldg., duluth maher, howard devils lake, n. d. maine, m. f. met. life bldg., mpls. magie, mrs. frank london rd., duluth macdonough, mary emerson, n. d. mains, t. u. th ave. s., mpls. mailand, c. h. newport manthun, reinhold dent manuel, r. w. orlin ave. se., mpls. majerns, math. brooten magnuson, o. j. isanti mareck, titus ridgewood ave., mpls. marshall, mrs. l. emogene irving so., mpls. martin, f. j. excelsior martens, john bloomington ave. s., mpls. martin, john h. n. th st., mpls. marsh, v. p. big falls mariem, p. b. daytons bluff, sta. f, r. , st. paul marthaler, henry south st. paul martenson, alfred maynard, r. maruska, john a. new prague, r. , box martin, grant redwood falls mathews, mrs. jas. h. larimore, n. d. mathisen, geo. w. windom massee, a. w. albert lea mayo, e. d. s. fremont, mpls. maust, s. h. canton mayman, e. w. sauk rapids matzke, sil. so. st. paul mayland, a. w. albert lea mathison, thoger st. paul park mattison, dr. c. w. swea city, ia., box mathes, e. h. excelsior mayman, hattie a. sauk rapids mattson, f. terrace, b. c. mayne, prof. d. d. univ. farm, st. paul mason, joe long lake mather, o. l. s. st ave. e., duluth may, bernard stewart matzke, h. c. jefferson st., duluth may, prof. j. h. river falls, wis. masson, e. deerwood mathews, oscar r. newell, s. d. mathews, miss harriet w. college st., rochester mattocks, brewer jr. woodland ave., duluth mawin, geo. g. warroad mellinger, t. s. pine island merrill, geo. e. washburn so., mpls. mense, f. g. aldrich s. mpls. meeker, mary k. clinton ave., mpls. meeds, a. d. harriet ave., mpls. meadow lawn farm st. peter, r. no. meginess, fred j. winona merritt, mrs. john e. aitkin meisinger, engelb. stryker ave., w. st. paul meelker, ben raymond mendenhall, w. j. th ave. ne., mpls. mead, p. h. white bear lake melson, john deerwood merritt, c. h. woodland ave., duluth merritt, neal r. hinckley meyer, henry blue earth meyer, j. h. austin meyer, c. h. west ave., red wing meyer, frank excelsior, r. no. mesenbring, otto clayton, wis., care louis schmidt meyenburg, h. c. montvideo meyer, e. st. louis park, r. no. meyers, rev. j. st. james miller, w. l. e. th st., st. paul metcalf, dr. f. w. winton meyers, j. e. n. th st., mpls. mills, d. l. lake city miks, rev. a. st. michael mpls. public library mpls. miller e. b. mpls., r. , sta. f. milne, h. a. elmerado, n. d., r. no. mighton, s. r. winnipeg, man., box miller, h. j. cologne miner, h. p. dupont so., mpls. mix, h. p. lidgewood, n. d. miller, warren verdi mitchell, d.m. owatonna mitchell, w. b. st ave. s., st. cloud minder, emma ortonville michelson, nels austin miller, elbert w. r. , anoka mills, l. d. garden city miller, hans f. p. n. greeley, stillwater middleton, e. c. baudette miller, t. e. ely mpls. real estate bd. andrus bldg., mpls. miller w. l. e. th st., st. paul miller, o. a. rainbow hotel, great falls, mont. miller, s. j. briarcombe farm, winona mitchell, mrs. harry halma minn. northern nurs. co. raymond ave., st. paul miller, joseph hopkins miller, chas. morgan no., mpls. miller, wm. j. warroad, box miller, hjalmar s. lindstrom miller, e. amery, wis. mielke, geo. sidney, mont. miller, henry c. sauk center mpls. architectural club nic. ave., mpls. miller, sarah a. sauk rapids moehring, otto montevideo moore, w. m. forest service, santa barbara, cal. moeser, ed st. louis park moore, mrs. c. f. worthington moberg, aron lowry moline, e. j. henn. ave., mpls. monson, n. l. buffalo lake mondeng, chas. newton ave. n. mpls. moeser, ernest st. louis park montgomery, katherine a. bradley st. sta., st. paul, r. , bx. montgomery, w. c. excelsior, r. no. moore, john e. louisville moede, h. f. buffalo lake moody, geo. w. amery, wis. moeser, miss flora st. louis park molander, a. l. bemidji moline, geo. woodstock molenar, john raymond, r. monk, b. b. minot, n. d. moen, a. a. bemidji, r. mojha, joseph r. no. , lonsdale moore, e. v. eagle bend moen, albert o. smithport moberg, oscar lowry moe, p. c. mentor morrison, rev. j. d. e. supr. st., duluth moran, c. b. newport morey, geo. w. van buren st. ne., mpls. moris, mrs. f. rondo st., st. paul morris, john r. beaudette morgan, benj. h. so. th st., leavensworth, kan. morrill, e. w. hopkins, r. morton, mrs. e. h. st. louis park mortz, aug. stewart morlan, ogden c. colfax s., mpls. mortenson, j. p. new richland moritz, isaac hector morrison, mrs. eugenia excelsior morley, jas. wahpeton, n. d. morse, john h. washburn ave. s., mpls. morgan, r. m. howard lake moen, albert o. terrace, r. , box molsted, c. e. valley city, n. d. moffitt, mrs. f. l. univ. ave. se., mpls. moses, mrs. w. s. wahkon motter, j. p. lamberton mousel, henry canby moss, w. f. worthington mosbjerg, chr. th st. n., mpls. moulton, h. r. windom mott, f. r. hibbing moses, j. b. jackson munch, mrs. e. w. crookston mullen, a. j. custom house, mpls. mudd, mrs. neva sandstone munson, nels cokato mulqueeneg, mrs. jas. buffalo munn, mrs. m. d. forest lake mundt, fred sunfish rd., r. , w. st. paul mullen, john t. litchfield munsterteiger, arthur buffalo mulroy, m. f. brown's valley murray, j. w. excelsior murray, d. l. blooming prairie murray, chas. m. princeton musser, r. d. little falls musser, c. r. mer. state bk. bldg., muscatine, ia. murphy, frederick p. central lake murdock, h. e. queen ave. s, st. paul murray, mrs. h. j. osceola ave., st. paul mutny, john s. gregory, s. d. musil, f. j. hector musil, rudolph hector murdock, e. c. scheffman bldg., st. paul myrah, e. g. spring grove mcbroom, j. k. excelsior mcbride, a. f. marshall ave., st. paul mcallister, geo. e. emerson n., mpls. mccullough, francis mound mccabe, mrs. m. sta. f., mpls. mcconachie, n. perham mccallum, john clinton, r. no. mccoy, dr. mary w. supr. st., duluth mccabe, w. j. abbotsford ave., duluth mccullach, jas. t. washburn, n. d. mcclintock, r. g. willmar mccaleb, seth eyota mccathy, t. caledonia mccabe, m. m. roslyn ave., duluth mccall, geo. w. fort williams, ont. mccarthy, f. f. e. th st., duluth mccormick, miss care geo. h. rogers, blaisdell ave., mpls. mcelroy white bear, bx mcduffee, herbert s. d ave. s., mpls. mcfadden, dr. c. a. tioga st., duluth mcguire, a. j. univ. farm, st. paul mcguire, s. h. annandale mcgonagle, mrs. w. a. hunter's park, duluth mcgolerick, bishop, jas. duluth mckusick, miss florence m. stillwater mckee, maude l. hotel waverly, mpls. mcmillan, f. g. no. , th st., se., mpls. mcleod, neil a. d ave. se., mpls. mcmahon, j. a. arago mclaughlin, peter hunter, n. d. mclarty, jas. neche, n. d., r. mclean, robt. c. palace bldg., mpls. mcnair, c. i. cloquet mcneil, mrs. alex dayton mcquoid, jas. pipestone mcquire, mrs. d. f. hopkins mcpherson, a. k. walker mcphail, a. j. hibbing naslund, adolph tower, bx neils, julius cass lake neinabor, chas. round lake neal, j. a. p. st nat. bk. bldg., duluth neilson, a. mankato nelson, c. n. storden nelson, oscar w. aitken, r. nelson, chas. f. hythe st., st. anthony park nelson, c. g. lindstrom nelson, f. a. atwater nelson, hans fergus falls nelson, jacob beltrami nelson, hans twin valley nelson, c. a. a. park rapids, bx. nelson, peter e. montevideo nelson, anton grasston nelson, mrs. sim. westbrook nelson, mrs. v. d. th st. s., mpls. nelson, c. j. willmar nelson, hugo c. hibbing nelson, mrs. wm. box , spooner nelson, p. j. clarissa nelson, chas. j. r. , eagle bend nelson, s. r. owatonna nelson, a. n. r. , box , hopkins nelson, e. s. robert st., w. st. paul nelson, hon. e. m. fairmount, n. d. nelson, e. v. box , alta dens, cal. nelson, m. o. harriet ave., mpls. nelson, andrew northland nelson, martin r. , hopkins nellermoe, f. g. buffalo lake ness, h. h. wash. n., mpls. newland, h. custom house, mpls. newberg, a. excelsior newell, wilfred mayo farm, rochester newmann, a. h. sta. f., r. , mpls. n.y. state col. of for. syracuse, n. y. nesbitt, mrs. victoria k. th ave. e., duluth neske, mrs. albert waseca neudecker, a. s. clements nesdahl, ole box , shevlin nettleton, c. h. stockton newhall, mrs. h. f. humboldt s., mpls. ness, gabriel hannaford, n. d. n.y. state ranger school wanakena, n. y. nesbitt, mrs. w. l. fremont s., mpls. nelson, henry oslo nelson, alfred m. hector nelson, a. m. elliot ave. s., mpls. nelson, a. e. r. , box , felton nelson, geo. h. hope, minn., via owatonna nelson, walter r. , oslo nelson, l. m. th ave. s., mpls. nelson, e. m. fairmount, n. d. nelson, fred s. maple plain nelson, s. c. alexandria nelsen, leslie goff ave., w. st. paul nelson, carl a. cokato nelson, john baudette nieman, chas. hamburg, wis. niemeyer, c., w. calif. st., pasadena, calif. nichols, s. s. cham. of com., mpls. nichols, mrs. c. h. palace st., st. paul nielsen, n. mankato nickel, geo. reading nicol, henry c. mail carrier , st. paul nicholson, mrs. sam'l j. nic. ave., mpls. noble, a. s. dent norderhus, paul s. murdock nolte, henry duluth nordby, ed. j. renville norval, wm. elk river nordbye, o. w. granite falls northern pine mfgrs. assn., lumber ex. minneapolis norin, dr. frans l. roseau nousse, john western no., w. st. paul nordine, john lake city. noble, fred e. lucy st., st. paul nowlen, b. e. chilcombe ave., st. paul nordquist, e. d. evansville novak, frank lonsdale nohava, mathias lonsdale norton, john lonsdale norberg, mrs. c. eastwood noehl, nicholas r. , dassel norton, a. w. cumberland, wis. n.w. nat. bk. information & pub. dept., minneapolis nutter, f. h. sykes blk., mpls. nydahl, j. l. st ave. so., mpls. nygaard, thos. th ave s.e., mpls. nyman, col. m. r. st ave. so., mpls. nystrom, o. eastwood nysoeu, c. o. pelican rapids o'brien pat renville o'connor, jas., jr. granite falls oberleiter, john pequot oberleiter, mrs. maria pequot oberg, alma mayer olson, s. j. grand meadow olson, oscar a. truman olson, wm. c. r. , maynard olson, ova boyd olson, john a. boyd olson, chas. r. , lindstrom olson, miss julia aitkin olson, geo. w. carver olmstead, mrs. e. w., lake of isles blvd., mpls. olsen, chesta central olsen, peter eastwood olson, paul taylor st. n.e., mpls. olin, miss signe j., no. th ave. w. duluth olson, j. j. central lakes odell, mrs. r. r. irwing so., mpls. oehring, c. c. elkader, ia. oesch, fred winona o'hara, dr. p. waverly ohr, e. j. sta. f, r. , mpls. ogren, g. c. cambridge oehler, mrs. ira c., st. claire st. st. paul ogaard, arthur j. hettinger, n. d. ogroskie, paul deer river olson, lewis r. , kalispell, mont. oldenburg, henry c. carlton olsen, h. p. r. , st. louis park olson, aug. r. kennedy olson, j. b. willmar oleson, michael montevideo olson, mrs. d. w. white bear olson, peter m. r. , zumbrota olmstead, rett e. excelsior olson, o. e. r. , bx. , braham olney, will knox, n. d. olson, o. j. w. th st., st. paul olson, edwin o. r. , dent olson, o. g. porter olson, c. h. beltrami olds, l. pequot ollinger, j. f. hopkins oldenberg, c. j. r. , belle plain olson, wm. g. dunnel olson, oluf burtrum olson, hjalmer c. bx. , ironwood, mich. olson, mrs. otto w. eagle bend olson, oscar orr old, mrs. w. a., washburn ave. s. minneapolis olson, a. h. w. robert st., st. paul olson, miss margaret wyoming olson, martin lake city olson, c. e. underwood oleson, cris cushing, wis. old, mrs. m. e., w. minnehaha st. st. paul oredalen, ole kenyon o'neill, o. h. globe bldg., st. paul opsata, c. bemidji omland, erik mcintosh orr, grier m. laurel ave., st. paul o'neil, wm. cass lake orwell, c. s. clarkfield o'neill, jas. m. woodstock oram, martin th ave. s., mpls. orr, mrs. g. m. laurel ave., st. paul ordway, mrs. l. p. portland ave., st. paul o'meara, steve lesueur center omann, m. e. stewart octhoudt, geo. eden prairie oppegaard, e. o. sacred heart oregon agri. col. library corvallis, ore. orde, g. s. riverdale ave., calgary, can. osborn, john dassel ostern, l. n. montevideo osborne, e. w. b. p. bldg., st. paul ottis, frank j. forest, st. paul osborn, l. m. sheridan s., mpls. orsborn, h. e. rd ave. s., mpls. osgood, h. e. st. paul otte, e. w. s. wabasha st. w. st. paul ostergren, e. a. n. st. paul ostrom, mrs. c. j. winthrop otosa, a. l. r. , st. james osborn, frank h. r. , albert lea otto, w. h. s. robert st., w. st. paul oswald, wm. k. th st., cloquet ott, adolph r. , granite falls overgaard, p. h. albert lea ouellette, c. a. arkwright st., st. paul owens, john xerxes ave. s., mpls. overn, a. v. albert lea owens, john cook pabody, mrs. e. f. th st. s., mpls. palzer, casper mazeppa paine, f. w. sellwood bldg., duluth palmer, ezra paynesville palmer, s. e. browerville palke, stephan bryant, wis. parman, e. a. hudson, wis. partridge, h. c. owatonna parker, c. w. valley river, man. parsons, john b. fergus falls parks, w. s. thorp, wis. parsons, frank maple plain parker, percy w. dispatch bldg., st. paul partridge, van b. owatonna parks, mrs. walter airlie parker, vern pine island parks, robt. shell lake, wis. parker, f. m. garden city parker, ira j. waverly hotel, mpls. patten, j. w. long lake patience, j. c. little falls passmore, miss c. w. r. , box , hopkins paup, f. o. sherburn paterson, j. f. south shore, white bear patterson, m. t. ellendale patterson, mrs. j. o. james ave. n., mpls. passehl, fred r. , montrose peerless rubber mfg. co. pierce bldg., st. louis, mo. peck, mrs. e. w. orchard gardens, savage pentney, e. h. manitou peabody, lloyd delavan ave., st. paul peck, c. w. redwood falls perl, h. j. iglehart st., st. paul pearce, g. a. allendale ave., duluth peabody, f. c. merrifield peck, harold j. deer river perry, mrs. gentz amery, wis. perkins, t. l. r. , red wing pervogal, h. j. s. clintworth st., st. paul pegenholf, edward maple plain pegenholf, john maple plain peil, l. l. n. p. bldg., st. paul perkins, paul h. th ave. n., mpls. peck, chas. washburn, wis. peiffer, n. j. al. eden valley penney, john cushing, wis. penning, martin new ulm pederson, p. a. beardsley pengilly, jas. r. , osseo perry, p. h. excelsior perkins, thos. race track, mont. peek, c. m. eureka pedersen, a. w. comfrey pellet, f. a. akeley peachy, mrs. chas. austin pearson, hjalmer r. , welch perkins, alfred wakefield ave., st. paul penney, a. w. stacyville, ia. peavey, l. j. r. , osseo pennington, e. nd ave. s., mpls. peake, g. w. univ. farm, st. paul perkins, mrs. w. f. crystal lake ave., mpls. peck, c. c. munsing, mich. pevy, e. p. clearbrook pederson, f. w. lincoln ave., st. paul peterson, alvin astoria, s. d. peterson, jos. lake crystal peterson, p. h. atwater peterson, c. o. willmar peterson, carl f. storden peterson, f. j. waconia peterson, o. m. albert lea peterson, r. waldo canby pew, fremont c. r. , mankato peterson, hans van buren st. n.e., mpls. peterson, fred albert lea peterson, l. e. r. , stanchfield peter, justus cor. smith ave. & annapolis st., st. paul peterson, jas. blooming prairie peterson, aug. w. maple st., stillwater peterson, john p. aldrich peterson, chas. j. r. . burtrum peterson, linder box , bessemer, mich. peterson, mrs. c. a. everett ave., everett, wash. peterson, axel excelsior peterson, f. w. th ave. s. e., mpls. peterson, peter ruthton peterriens, j. p. echo peterson, oscar buffalo petry, arthur c. pacific st., st. paul peterson, mrs. martin r. , kintyre, n. d. peterson, j. gorman ave., w. st. paul peterson, a. e. th ave. s., mpls. peterson, j. h. r. , holdingford pettengell, ben saum peterson, chas. j. maynard peterson, j. h. fort ripley peterson, hjalmar box , buffalo peterson, spurgeon hayfield peterson, mrs. victoria eastwood peterson, h. c. sleepy eye peterson, thos. e. rd st., duluth pfister, j. m. marietta pfaender, wm., j. new ulm pfeiffer, c. a. r. , winona pfeiffer, fred morton pfaender, walter c. new ulm pfeiffer, mrs. c. e. winona phillips, h. fort williams, west ont. pineo, dr. w. b. pillsbury bldg., mpls. pimley, a. e. park rapids pinkerton, s. w. capitol ave. st. paul pischner, august r. , mankato pickatta, martin stewart pierce, e. b. seymour ave. s.e., mpls. piringer, frank w. bernard st., w. st. paul picha, john l. new prague pickle, julia l. st. croix falls, wis. pierce, mrs. baxter ashland, mont. pierce, p. p. delaware st., mpls. peterson, peter deer river peters, h. p. glenwood platten, will j. oakland ave., green bay, wis. pladsen, emil milaca plank, mrs. josephine hopkins plan, chas. enver grove plotner, oscar saum platten, h. j. dousman st., green bay, wis. plainview public library plainview pond, e. r. r. , mpls. poppler, john frazee pond, d. s. sta. f, r. , mpls. porter, j. n. girard n., mpls. popelka, j. j. ogilvie porter, amos lake benton potts, chas. w. deerwood poole, w. a. forest river, n. d. poore, hamlin v. bird island pommer, mrs. geo. garfield ave. s., mpls. poirier, l. s. lewis st., duluth pollack, mrs. robt. avondale st., duluth pomije, rev. h. d. olivia potter, a. h. irving ave. s., mpls. poussin, g. w. onigum powers, frank w. garfield ave., mpls. powell, f. w. willmar posz, l. a. winona potter, n. c. hector powell, j. l. pillager poseley, h. e. cove powers, prof. wm. h. agri. college, brookings, s.d. potter, b. f. s. nokomis ave., mpls. poucher, thos. s. n. st. paul potter, w. l. raymond posivis, john sherburne prentice, chas. d. r. , highwood, st. paul prosser, l. w. leroy prentice, s. l. winona pratt, dr. c. c. imanuel hospital, mankato price, mrs. w. l. excelsior preston, c. a. hastings pruett, elmer w. ely premo, alex e. annapolis, w. st. paul primus, john melrose pritchard, robt. m. box , hibbing prohl, john traverse, duluth prinzing, d. s. rushford prime, f. g. r. , wayzata prest, miss marion summit ave., st. paul prodoehl, h. r. olivia probstfield, mrs. edmund moorhead prova, mrs. harry kelliher probett, miss ida stevens ave., mpls. prescott, mrs. e. e. jessamine st., st. paul preisler, o. s. s. st. paul ptacek, c. j. long prairie putnam, s. t. battle lake public library st. paul public library winnipeg, man. purdy, c. e. lake st. w. & excelsior ave., mpls. purdham, c. w. r. , osseo puffer, h. m. th st. & nd ave. s., mpls. putnam, r. w. care bank pierce-simmons, red wing punderson, j. m. northfield pumper, thos. a. lonsdale pudil, jas. hopkins pugh, mrs. dana v. howell st., duluth putman, w. l. pelican rapids quale, g. e. willmar quam, o. t. nerstrand quinn, mrs. j. j. wentworth ave. s., mpls. quist, wm. r. , red wing quinn, j. h. delano quady. wm. blue earth quast, john buffalo lake quigly, d. j. litchfield quandt, wm. buffalo lake quinlan, m. new prague quinn, j. a. tower rains, dr. j. m. willmar rankin, prof. a. w. th st. s.e., mpls. ramsdell, chas. h. n.y. life bldg., mpls. rafelson, anton montevideo ramey, e. w. redwood falls ray, f. w. th ave. n.e., mpls. ralston, dr. j. f. cavalier, n. d. ramm, e. a. winona raths & seavolt wabasha st., st. paul rand, b. r. frazee rauscher, john bidwell st., st. paul raub, clark winnebago sahlfing, w. m. cleveland rarig, prof. f. m. barton ave. s.e., mpls. rauen, mrs. p. j. white bear raddatz, arthur pine island rathlisberger, chas. slayton ranney, h. f. benson raftery, w. h. garrison, n. d. reeder, g. s. sauk rapids reed, john a. cham. of com., mpls. rees, s. b., jr. linden hills, r. , mpls. reeves, n. h. nd st. n., mpls. reeves, mrs. john nemadji reed, calvin care m. j. johnson, manning, n. d. reese, l. a. cumberland, wis. redpath, geo. a. big sandy, mont. rector, s. m. deer creek reeves, e. m. waverly, ia. regnier, e. montreal, st. paul ree, selmer s. r. , zumbrota reeves, mrs. h. g. nemadji reamer, j. l. greysolon rd., duluth reed, m. h. hastings rehbein, ed r. , duluth reinking, wm. osseo rekedal, s. e. lucan reichert, john e. th st., red wing reno, nils excelsior revord, t. a. austin renner, max st. louis park, minn. remel, casper menomonie, wis. reynolds, m. n. turtle river reif, geo. h. white bear remsker, rev. peter canby reiland, wm. r. , box , w. st. paul rempel, henry d. mountain lake renney, s. e. pillsbury, mpls. reinhardt, s. h. r. , merriam park reynolds, j. w. kelliher reiten, lars s. hastings, n. d. reynolds, virginia a. w. franklin, mpls. rekkedal, ole minneota reynolds, john crystal bay reithner, c. w. deer river rhodes, clarence h. the pioneer co., rd & minn. st., st. paul richardson, ira e. new brighton richardson, l. p. comfrey riehl, frank belle plaine richardson, a. w. howard lake rieke, adolph fairfax rice, f. c. northfield rice, l. h. park rapids rice, c. f. n. th st., mpls. rice, millard box no. , berg, n. d. richardson, jerry hastings rice, mrs. e. v. dayton riden, t. e. shevlin rieger, rev. m. hinckley richardson, a. o. menahga riegel, j. m. care dispatch ptg. co., st. paul richards, j. w. london rd., duluth richardson, h. c. e. th st., duluth rice, h. j. benson richards, mrs. frank a. dayton ave., st. paul richardson, w. d. care swift & co., chicago rink, mrs. m. hastings ave., st. paul risser, h. a. r. , hopkins rittle, miss anna e. marshall ave., st. paul rittmaster, harry allen st. w. st. paul ritchell, wm. sta. a., minneapolis ritchell, mrs. frank h. hayes st. n.e., mpls. rising, marion s. laurel ave., st. paul risch, john elkton, s. d. ritchie, j. h. r. , white bear lake rimstad, ludvik dawson rindahl, c. l. oklee ritt, a. sinnen st., st. paul risk, miss mary m. r. , adams, wis. risdale, p. s. am. for. assn., washington, d. c. robinson, geo. w. n. snelling ave., st. paul robinson, chas. a. s. xerxes ave., mpls. robbins, h. m. excelsior robson, c. a. red wing robertson, john hot springs, s. d. roads & forests majestic bldg., detroit roberts, c. m. w. th st., minneapolis roberts, miss emma m. e. st st., mpls. rogers, c. r. st. anthony falls sta., mpls. rodgers, dr. emma white bear roe, c. e. providence bldg., duluth rodecker, l. v. gladstone rohan, mrs. m. a. nicollet ave., mpls. rockhill, harlow conrad, ia. rognlie, p. b. esmond, n. d. rogers, mrs. geo. n., e. king st., winona roke, rev. w. e. verndale roe, fredrik madison rogers, t. c. hennepin ave., mpls. rodenberg, henry mindora, wis. rogers, h. n. farmington rojina, frank univ. farm, st. paul rockhill, oscar larchwood, ia. roche, wm. inkster, n. d. rowell, h. h. s. box lewiston, idaho ross, norman m. indian head, sask. rosenwald, j. f. madison rosander, j. w. wayzata rosacker, hans th ave. and h. st. n. e. mpls. rolin, john breckenridge rowe, john verndale rosenquist, mrs. j. o. blaisdell ave., mpls. rosenquist, edwin eagle bend ronnigen, otto madison rossacker, hans stinson blvd., mpls. rowley, j. a. blooming prairie rokes, g. b. woodstock rosenberger, peter stryker ave, st. paul rowe, dr. a. t. larimore, n. d. rotty, mrs. clara r. , hastings rotty, john sr. r. , hastings rowse, and. simpson rolvaag, prof. o. e. manitou ave., northfield rosengren, carl sacred heart rovang, o. n. dalton rowe, w. h. st. james rosholt, mrs. julius penn ave., mpls. rosenstein, david washington ave., mpls. rowell, w. w. nd ave. s., mpls. rose, logan mankato runals, maj. d. e. edgerton ruff, mrs. d. w. c. bald eagle lake rupley, geo. lyceum bldg., duluth russell, dr. e. b. excelsior ruble, c. h. albert lea russell, s. b. rochester reudlinger, c. n. aldrich ave., mpls. rucker, i. w. aitkin russell, dr. thos. grand rapids running, alvin montevideo rutherford, geo. clara city rusten, erland j. box , r. , beresford, s. d. ruble, harry e. albert lea russell, hans warroad rush, john h. buffalo lake rue, e. b. lakefield rue, b. o. lakefield ruttger, jos. deerwood rustin, j. o. kelliher ruenitz, nis sleepy eye rude, t. a. rd ave. s., st. paul ruth, s. s. deer river rust, c. r. e. superior st., duluth ryan, timothy hopkins rysgaard, jens orchard gardens, savage ryan, geo. l. north st. paul ryden, p. cambridge salzer, geo. plymouth bldg., minneapolis salbach, f. c. th st. n., great falls, mont. sampson, l. f. excelsior saam, john e. th st., st. paul salveson, rev. adolph toronto, s. d. salander, g. donaldson's greenhouse, mpls. saltnass, a. m. th ave. s., mpls. sabin, bert mission samuelson, h. r. box , r. , lafayette sahlin, peter red top samuelson, fred eastwood sampson, richard excelsior sand, ole o. elbow lake sawyer mrs. n. s. excelsior sandrock, wm. houston sayre, r. e. st st. sta., chicago, ill. sartell, mrs. jos. st. cloud sandboe, i. a. wegdahl sane, peter p. r. , montevideo salter, lewis morris sandberg, c. m. lake city sauter, a. excelsior sands, louis agri. school, st. paul sawyer, c. w. wash. ave. n., mpls. sanford, mort faribault sanborn, louis lumber exchange, mpls. sanderson, oscar albert lea satrang, i. i. waterville, ia. sanders, j. h. buffalo lake sanby, e. elbow lake sanborn, edward a. marshall ave., st. paul saunders, mrs. wm. robbinsdale sawyer, l. e. fillmore st. n. e., mpls. saxson, c. r. worthington sandberg, john h. pequot saueressig, w. a. drake, n. d. sanford, m. w. faribault scott, wm. g. r. , winnipeg, man. schlemmer, a. chisago city schotzko, f. e. springfield schwerin, henry echo scherber, j. d. rogers schreiner, francis x. r. , w. st. paul schmidt, edward r. , mankato schiffrer, rev. val. madison schmitz, jacob shakopee schrooten, j. fairmont schumann, carl round lake scott, z. d. scott-graff lbr. co., duluth schulcz, peter wells schlemmer, c. h. hague ave., st. paul schnathorst, wm. frazee schultz, l. s. excelsior schriber, fred h. white bear lake scott, miss zaidee a. mcknight bldg., mpls. scone, mrs j. a. girard ave. n., mpls. schumaker, r. h. bemidji schroedel, john sherburn schumacher, albert g. fairfax schultz, wm. g. elgin schaffer, arthur r. , windom scott, w. c. doswell, st. paul schlegel, f. t. chokio schmickle, c. w. south haven schmitt, adrian nd st. n. e., mpls. scobie, frank sleepy eye schmitt, jos. e. stryker and butler st., w. st. paul schleusner, ernest r. , menomonie, wis. schulz, joseph lester prairie scobie, bertha c., eddy st., chicago, ill. schultz, mrs. o. w., st ave. s., mpls. scherf, fred osseo schlomkey, chas. newport scott, john t. hythe st., st. paul score, john j. wolf butte, n. d. schuneman, wesley schuneman & evans, st. paul schulz, carl melrose schroeder, c. a. mankato schaefer, mrs. henry sta. f, r. , mpls. schuneman, carl t. schuneman & evans, st. paul scott, e. b. laporte schweizer, myron, hague ave., st. paul schechter, j. r. , worthington scott, c. g., gowan lenning brown, duluth schnidt, rev. otto e. decorah, ia. scanlan, john s. long prairie schultz, theo. r. , monticello scheffold, rev. geo. wayzata schoeneman, wm. f. goff ave., w. st. paul schneider, j. j. renville schwarg, mrs. p. j. dodge center schneider, rudolph c. osceola ave., st. paul schmidt, alois hugo sell, chas. delano selvig, c. c. willmar seiler, j. m. excelsior secor, eugene forest city, ia. searles, robt. hammond, wis. seifert, frank l. new ulm segrin, frank sauk center seines, o. e. windom seidl, john n. goff ave., w. st. paul selby, j. s. la crescent secor, a. j. pipestone sederstrom, alfred r. , montevideo sebbe, nels box , esmond, n. d. seitz, w. a. laurel, mont. severson, f. l. stewartville setterholm, l. w. dale severa, emil vincent ave. n., mpls. senecal, j. w., yale place, apt. , mpls. seymore, mrs. m. t., w. rd st., duluth seward, fred central lake shannon, r. annandale shepley, mrs. e. l. summit court, st. paul shave, alfred s. hawley shattuck, g. w. whalan shaw, robt. finkley shelley, t. e. hanska shenahan, f. c., univ. of minn., minneapolis sherwood, geo. e. kimball shelland, miss ann dept. public inst., capitol, st. paul sherwood, w. c. woodland ave., duluth sherman nursery co. charles city, ia. sharpless. rev. s. f. fergus falls shenk, wm. j., oakland ave., w. st. paul shenandoah nurseries shenandoah, iowa shepherd, a. k., ashland ave., st. paul shane, danl. west salem, wis. sharp, a. b. lincoln shaw, dr. a. w. buhl sherman, e. d. morgan sherwood, m. w. chatfield shellum, jacob goodthunder sharpsteen, mr. cecil st. s.e., mpls. sheppard, f. j., e. lake st. minneapolis sheer, otto maple plain shaw botanical gardens st. louis, mo. sheldrew, geo. grygla shaw, daniel thief river falls shirley, h. l. breckenridge short, mrs. john wayzata shoen, mrs. mary comfrey shivley, lloyd r. tower shields, miss box , shields, pa. shields, martin m. faribault shoaff, t. h. grand rapids shoquist, isaac clinton simmons, w. a. so. spring ave., sioux falls, s. d. simpson, hon. david, n.y. life bldg., mpls. sipher, mrs. a. j. aitkin simmons, w. a. s. spring ave., sioux fals, s. d. siehl, c. d. beard ave. s., mpls. simmons, irwin glenwood sims, s. a. excelsior siegle, simon carver sill, j. w. belgrade simison, dr. c. w. hawley simon, otto goff ave., w. st. paul sikes, s. r. wash. ave. so., mpls. silliman, a. p. hibbing singer, edw. erie signs, mrs. c. e. ottawa st., st. paul sinclair, c. e. kasota blk., mpls. silbernagel, peter, jr. dent simons, orlando glencoe simek, alois l. state ave., owatonna sigl, cyrill m. hopp, mont. sinclair, mrs. e. l. so. prospect, rochester simmons, a. w. forest lake sisler, a. m. grand rapids sincock, w. j. central ave., virginia simmons, l. l. grand marais sjoquist, john a. st. james skytte, c. j. fisher and autumn st., st. paul skinner, j. w. saum skinnemoen, ole wendell skoog, a. l. carver skorpen, jens valley city, n. d. skrivseth, b. l. buxton, n. d. skogland, clarence e. ave., red wing skinner, j. h. austin skretting, rasmus red top skaurud, h. o. r. , twin valley sloan, f. g. ellendale slinner, l. burtrum sloan, mrs. j. b. laurel ave., st. paul slack, h. w. princeton ave., st. paul smith, c. h. faribault smith, f. c. plumb city, wis. smith, mrs. w. s. portland ave., st. paul smith, e. d. phoenix bldg., mpls. smith, s. d. stanton smith, c. l. hawthorn ave., mpls. smith, t. c. lakeville smith, a. d. redwood falls smith, l. z. mankato smith, d. d. st. paul smith, fred w. bottineau, n. d. smiley, r. w. e. nd. st., duluth smith, b. w. e. lake st., mpls. smith, w. f. sturgeon lake smith, mrs. geo. w. dent smith, geo. d. faribault smith, rev. f. j. st. francis smith, h. w. r. , richville smith, wm. richville smith, theo. richville smith, e. e. r. , south haven smith, c. w. lakeville smith, joe j. agri. college, n. d. emith, a. c. commonwealth ave., st. paul smith, mrs. jessie e. thief river falls smith, geo. o. minn. ave., duluth simer, jerome spring park snyder, c. e. preston snell, h. d. chilcomb ave., st. paul snoke, guy wayzata sorenson, s. anoka solem, o. a. th. halstad solseth, ed. a. box , watson sorenson, otto a. albert lea soderlund, nels box , alvarado sommerfeld, f. w. echo solem, peter thief river falls soderholm, ellis atwater sommers, benj. th and wacouta st., st. paul soderholm, c. reading soule, h. e. plymouth bldg., mpls. southall, john berlin, n. d. solberg, a. j. winger sonnesyn, e. c. th ave. so., mpls. sorby, h. montevideo sovereign, mrs. emma sauk rapids souther, moses f. hector sorenson, jens alb. armstrong soesch, m. c. r. , kimball spates, s. r. wayzata sperr, fred donnelly spadino, fred st. paul park spiten, o. g. hayfield sprague, clifford madelia speelman, mrs. s. a. turtle river spencer, g. h. hawthorn rd., duluth sperl, john b. box , r. , w. st. paul spicer, w. a. r. , bagley sprague, mrs. jas. w., irving s., mpls. sperbeck, frank r. , winona spielman, e. f. r. , worthington stai, chas. r. torrey bldg., duluth starr, miss elizabeth minneapolis state reformatory st. cloud stahl, h. h. minot, n. d. stakman, prof. e. c. univ. farm, st. paul staar, john grasston stanley, t. w. baudette stassen, win. a. charlton germs, st. paul stahl, chas. laporte staley, g. m. grand rapids stahl, f. j. cottage park, white bear steller, g. f. excelsior stevenson, a. p. morden, man. steiner, john iona stewart, prof. john st. anthony park stelter, a. l. rosemount stemsrud, m. a. madison stebbins, vera oak grove st., mpls. stemple, aug. st. peter stevens, h. g. cloquet steele, wm. m. mound stewart, r. g. reaney st., st. paul steere, w. s. r. , savage stevens, w. c. thomas ave. so., mpls. sten, john red wing stennes, e. j. r. , montevideo steckel, rev. l. w. albert lea steene, peter lancaster stephens, p. j. estevan, sask. steenerson van hook, n. d. stender, mrs. chas. dent stenlyem, peter o. esmond, n. d. stevins, w. c. south haven stevens, s. geo. fond du lac stepanek, fred ogilvie stepanek, mrs. joe ogilvie stevens, mrs. j. w. holly ave., st. paul stevenson, miss isabel delhi steele, w. r. big fork stockwell, s. a. andrus bldg., mpls. stork, w. e., s. cleveland ave., st. paul street, h. g. hebron, ill. strader, w. m. r. , mankato stowe, j. m. hibbing stryker, mrs. j. e. pioneer press bldg., st. paul stoa, martin albert lea stromsedt, o. n. willmar strand, a. k. twin valley stryker, john d. woodland ave., hunters park, duluth stillwell, john a. arago stocker, ben sanborn stull, l. b. mazeppa strate, e. b. plum st., st. paul storeim, albert s. ortonville stone, a. l. benson stubbs, milton long lake strable, karl blaisdell ave., mpls. stickney, l. a. minnesota city stranden, ole g. swift stob, c. t. r. , svea stone, w. m. so. rd st., mpls. stoleson, theo. r. , viroqua, wis. stromnar, j. a. rollag stob, g. raymond strachaners, clarence syndicate bldg., mpls. strissel, h. e. fergus falls stowe, a. w. laurel, mont. strauss, mrs. minnie ohio st., st. paul strong, mrs. saml. hopkins stromstad, torval m. shelly strathern, john rich valley stewart, mrs. nina northfield strey, a. c. montrose stocking, wm. st. peter stockton, mrs. c. m. faribault stromme, c. k. hannaford, n. d. strong, j. p. excelsior stone, e. e. downing, wis. strandli, erick big falls stryker, john e. globe bldg., st. paul sundberg, chas. a. worthington sucker, adolph lewisville sundheim, a. m. park ave., mpls. sundt, ole m. willmar summerfield, isaac goodrich ave., st. paul summers, mrs. l. box -b, r. , mansfield, wash. sullwold, h. a. summit ave., st. paul sullivan, john iglehart, st. paul svaboda, frank canby svaboda, j. browerville swanson, albert r. , st. croix falls, wis. swann, j. r. madison swanson, chas. r. , no. st. paul swedberg, j. e. r. , battle lake swanson, c. w. box , r. , lafayette swanson, alfred boxrud ave., red wing swan, mrs. t. p. mendota swanson, henry a. cushing, wis. swanson, a. p. box stevensville, mont. swedberg, p. w. moose lake sweet, w. h. chicago ave., mpls. swensson, john box , r. , maynard swart, j. w. linden hills blvd., mpls. swenson, gunder r. , new london swenson, h. e. r. , center city swedberg, j. i. madison syrdal, r. r. shelly st. john, a. m. lakefield st. john, p. r. humboldt so., mpls. st. clair, h. estevan, sask. swanson, john w. stephen swanson, wm. dent swedenberg, m. f. lyndale sta., mpls. swenson, ed spring valley swanson, mrs. j. m. r. , eagle bend swanson, f. m. crete, n. d. swedberg, martin tappan, n. d. swenson, emil lafayette swanson, chas. s. w. litchfield swain, f. o. lincoln swanson, mrs. marie e. r. , st. croix falls, wis. swan, frank woodlake sweet, orla alexandria taylor, m. f. anoka talcott, mrs. a. l. westbrook taylor, john w. globe bldg., st. paul tallant, f. e. plymouth bldg., mpls. tallafson, h. s. r. , willmar taylor, thos. w. eagle bend taylor, j. g. nicollet ave., mpls. tavener, mark esmond, n.d. taylor, j. b. ipswich, s.d. tavis, fred albert lea tappe, chas. box , r. , sebeka taylor, g. f. excelsior tauscheck, jos. allen ave., w. st. paul tanner, f. o. brownsdale tappan, w. m. hibbing taylor, rev. wm. litchfield taner, geo. m. new ulm taylor, e. e. merrifield talland, g. m. woodland ave., duluth taylor, mrs. e. a. box , faribault taylor, wm. faribault terry, l. w. howard lake teisberg, o. t. zumbrota tewes, fred mazeppa teeple, david p. r. no. , wells tereau, mrs. f. iglehart ave., st. paul templeton, a. e. oneida bldg., mpls. tenter, henry dent tenter, wm. dent temple, lyle morristown tellin, mattie deer river thompson, f. s. sec. bldg., mpls. theilmann, geo. excelsior thunstedt, john willmar thiebaut, rev. c. browns valley thompson, torkel louisburg thorp, col. freeman hubert thomas, chas. j. frazee thompson, dr. c. s. w. - / main st., helena, mont. throolin, p. j. van buren st., ne, mpls. thomas, e. l. vergas thornton, m. j. deer river thorpe, ralph central ne., mpls. thornton, f. c. benson thornton, m. p. worthington thompson, robt. r. no. , willmar thompson, fred. m bricelyn thompson, w. j. pitt thompson, r. c. oneida blk., mpls. thor, herman mound thompson, m. j. supt. exp. farm, duluth thompson, harold care of lake shore greenhouses, albert lea theilen, chas. g. morgan ave. n., mpls. thompson, o. a. murdock thielman, p. r. st. cloud tharen, j. a. hills thener, john m. adrian thierschaefer, jos. r. , sauk center thomson, c. jean n. th ave. e., duluth thompson, thorwold oslo thomson, m. a. kennilworth ave., duluth thompson, l. c. ruthton thomson, w. j. shaunavon, sask. thorn, geo. r. , prescott, wis. tingley, w. j. forest lake tillotson, mrs. h. b. th st. se, mpls. tillisch, j. f. f. renville titus, s. l. endicott arcade, st. paul tillisch, mary a. washburn home, mpls. tiedt, mrs. fred argyle tilden, miss m. b. sta. f, mpls. tisdale, mrs. g. e. irving s., mpls. timmerman, mrs. wm. e. cook st., st. paul tjosvold, l. a. willmar torgerson, h. p. astoria, s.d. tomalin, w. h. bx. , regina, sask. totusek, frank j. silver lake towler, robt. s. r. , exceisior torfin, iver wannaska tollefson, hogen r. no. , clearbrook tomlinson, w. h. lesueur tolberg, o. edwin winner todd, j. e. dept. of prov. secy., toronto, ont. todji, rev. jos. searles tomlin, g. c. edgeley, n.d. tome, g. h. pine island townsend, mrs. eddie pine island tormanen, peter r. , cokato torgrim, j. r. w. rd ave., mitchell, s.d. todd, j. a. victoria st., duluth tostenson, e. jackson torguson, g. c. gleenwood trumble, h. w. sherburn trabert, chas. l., secy. elmwood ave., berkeley, sal. tripps, o. a. r. no. , st. cloud train, g. l. chisholm trafton, gilbert h. mankato trask, ebert saum trethewey, j. h. virginia trybe, thos. eagle bend trautz, geo. carroll ave., st. paul trotler, a. spruce st., virginia tschieda, matt st. cloud turner, h. h. northfield tuskind, c. o. davenport, n.d. turner, john shakopee tufte, theo. t. northwood, n.d. tucker, joe austin tull, w. h. padus, wis. tyacke, geo. proctor unze, geo. shakopee unumb, p. o. alexandria ueland, m. k. shelly univ. of wash. seattle, wash. uptagraft, leroy west concord unkenholz, s. w. mandan, n.d. utsch, herman little falls univ. of mo. genl. lib. columbia, mo. unumb, e. o. alexandria umbstaetter, mrs. shields, pa. ulschmit, john frazee uelander, t. l. crystal bay univ. of ill. library chicago, ill. vangen, peter o. box , r. , climax vande bogart, w. s. zumbrota van vick, john spiritwood, n.d. vandermarck, mrs. c. w. albert st., crookston vanstrum, john a. clarkfield vance, f. l. popple vander veer, geo. h. center city van duzee, e. m. white bear lake vanbeck, henry quincy st. ne., mpls. van loon, john r. , la crosse, wis. varden, archie care of frank bovey, wayzata van doom, j. c. sec. bldg., mpls. van stone, i. m. park ave., mpls. vacinek, vaclav r. , pine city veit, fred fergus falls verplank, e. e. r. , new richland velie, chas. d. clifton ave., mpls. vestre, lars boyd velde, g. t. granite falls vine, w. w. r. . elgin vinquist, alfred b. box , r. , red wing vibert, f. d. the pine knot, cloquet viall, roy spring valley vierling, ed. j. shakopee vine, p. o. porter va. & rainy lake co. virginia viel, raymond st. laurent, man. vierling, m. a. hall ave., st. paul vikse, ole ostrander vibert, percy cloquet vincent, g. e. univ. of minn., mpls. vincent, v. d. commercial club, duluth vikla, john p. lonsdale vikla, wencel j. lonsdale vikla, martin j. lonsdale vikla, mathias r. lonsdale villaume, eugene w. isabel, st. paul volkmer, henry holdingford vollenweider, henry la crescent vogt, c. f. st. paul von herff, b. mccormick bldg., chicago, ill. voyler, henry vergas vodden, john argusville, n.d. vorlicky, jos. thief river palls, wis. vosejpka, john m. lonsdale voehl, h. w. lakefield vraspir, frank r. , hopkins wade, r. h. odin wachlin, wm. faribault wakefield, w., m. d. lake benton wagner, ed. r. charles st., st. paul waas, p. h. dresbach waite, geo. moorhead wach, v. n. lake crystal lake, ill. waite, jas. f. eureka wagner, c. d. w. winona st., duluth wang, albert garfield ave., duluth wands, robt. w. little falls walgren, swan j. th ave. s., mpls. walden, j. m. northfield wallner, berthold jr. dodd rd., st. paul waldholm, mrs. geo. tintah wallace, h. l. grasston walsh, w. p. murdock walz, fred f. egeland, n.d. walters, j. j. dupree, s.d. walz, theo. watkins walkup, j. e. sheridan so., mpls. walton, louis snively rd., duluth waldal, marius plummer waller, l. s. waubun wallin, o. red top walters, wm. grand portage walker, roy sauk rapids wallace, john g. solway watt, john leonard, n.d. wampler, a. j. e. th st., st. paul washburn, w. o. so. robert st., st. paul wattner, a. a. canby washburn, prof. f. l. st. anthony park wanous, frank r. glencoe warren, mrs. geo. h. irving s., mpls. wanlass, jos. jr. bangor, wis. warner, frank snow ball watts, arthur th ave. s., mpls. watt, wm. swift warner, a. l. duluth washburn, c. o. edgeley, n.d. warren, a. a. r. , st. cloud warner, c. e. r. , osseo warner, mrs. c. e. box , r. , osseo wayne, jens r. , ellendale wandrie, otto frazee watson, jas. t. th ave. e. and gilbert st., duluth warnock, r. w. independence, mo. watson, dwight h. box , white bear lake warner, mrs. e. c. w. calhoun blvd., mpls. warren, mrs. clyde w. sauk rapids warwick, andrew th ave. s., mpls. watson, mrs. j. l. ashland ave., st. paul wardian, math. holdingford ward, wesley mapleton wasserzieher, edward deerwood watzke, chas. belgrade ware, mrs. elizabeth - / knox ave., mpls. watson, geo. p. international falls weld, j. o. fremont n., mpls. welke, sam fall creek, wis. wedge, robt. c. albert lea weld, mrs. h. e. moorhead weinhagen, chas. bates ave., st. paul webster, j. k. st. james wedge, a.g. jr. bemidji wedge, l. p. albert lea wenz, chas. hector weflen, chris montevideo weed, ben b. care of weed, parker & co., st. paul wegmann, theo. lake itasca wendt, chas. h. blue earth webber, mrs. c. c. crystal bay webster, a. e. dresbach wellman, c. w. dauphin, man. welke, fritz r. , eau claire, wis. wentworth, r. j. r. , robbinsdale weber, j. a. care of c. g. goodrich, excelsior welp, rev. francis alexandria webber, c. c. crystal bay weikert, henry i. st. paul wenholz, henry buffalo lake wendelschafer, t. g. cleveland wenz, ludwig b. hector weiler, nick univ. ave., st. paul westergaard, c. buffalo, n.d. westergaard, p. j. belgrade weyerhaeuser, f. e. mer. natl. bank bldg., st. paul westfield, kasper canby west central school of agri. morris wetzel, aug. r. , st. ignatius, mont. weyerhauser, c. a. little falls wetherbee, m. h. charles city, ia. west, j. p. rockford west, w. j. hibbing west, wm. l. s. st. albans st., st. paul werner, h. o. agri. college, n.d. wetzel, mrs. paul k. deerwood westcott, geo. e. s. robert st., st. paul westerfield, e. o. fort atkinson, wis. weum, c. o. lincoln wesiphall, c. d. r. , romely weston, frank clitheral weum, mrs. t. a. kenyon wessels, percy neche, n.d. wetteland, t. sunfish rd. and butler st., w. st. paul wermerskirchen, rev. father a. hokah wheeler, miss gerda bruno whetstone, dr. mary s. e. th st., mpls. wheeler, olin d.n.p.r.r. office, st. paul wheeler, jesse excelsior wein, rev. h. j. caledonia week, f. d. slayton wenzel, orrin j. taylor ave., st. paul whiting, geo. h. yankton, s.d. whitney, geo. g. germania life, st. paul white, mrs. emma v. s. aldrich, mpls. whiting, d. j. northfield whyte, a. central ave., st. paul white, j. u. brainerd whitten, thos. s. winton whipple, g. m. st. louis park white, h. h. minnesota transfer, mpls. whitney, frank h. truman whittemore, dr. m. k. cloquet whitney, n. j. albert lea whiting, mrs. geo. h. yankton, s.d. whitchill, n. e. th st., mpls. whitney, e. h. granada white, mrs. wm. g. goodrich ave., st. paul white, mrs. grace w. wabasha, duluth whorton, r. d. huron, s. d. white, henry r. brainerd whipple, mrs. estelle grand rapids wickland, john atwater wiegel, h. a. magnolia widmoyer, w. s. la crescent wichman, frank first natl. bank bldg., st. paul wick, oscar east grand forks wickstrom, a. e. r. , anoka width, a. b. w. superior st., duluth wicklund, lawrence r. , atwater wiggins, earl l. baudette wiffler, fred arcadia, wis. wier, john campbell wiggin, g. h. cloquet wieschmann, albert bertha wilen, chas. r. , argyle wilson, oscar underwood willis, rev. francis excelsior wilbur, d. floyd, ia. wille, f. w. wakefield ave., st. paul williams, m. staples will, o. h. bismarck, n. d. wilder, c. b. floodwood wilder, mark l. r. , kasota wilwerding, nick box , r. , st. cloud willius, f laurel ave., st. paul willard, d. e n. p. r. r., st. paul will, wm. beltrami wilson, j. f. cloquet willard, e. c. mankato williams, niles l. dayton bluff sta., st. paul wildung, w. h. howard lake will, hugh box , mpls. wilkelmi, f. w. cloquet willis, robt. marietta willus, chas. h. nd ave. s., mpls. wilson, john rockford wilcox, mrs. estelle raymond, st. paul wild floral co., frank sarcoxie, mo. wilwerding, a. j. freeport williams, j. r. elgin willis, w. j. y. m. c. a., washington, d. c. wilson, f. k. r. , hopkins wilson, donald mantorville williams, rev. e. m northfield wirth, theo. bryant so., mpls. witte, h. l. f. r. , hopkins wise, h. appleton wingate, mrs. w. s. excelsior winkley, f. c. minn. loan & trust, mpls. wintersteen, c. b. th ave. so., mpls. wise, h. r. brainerd winget & keeler chokio winslow, h. h. northome winjum, g. k. albert lea winter, e. f. fergus falls winkler, mrs. mary brooten wister, john c germantown, phila., pa. windmiller, miss pauline mankato windhorst, geo. w. olivia wolner, rev. h. j. virginia wolfram, a. c. belle plain wolner, dr. o. h. gilbert wodny, jas. th st., cloquet wolters, john w. bernard st., w. st. paul wolfinger, jos. so. st. paul woestehoff, j. c. blakeley wolf, chas. cohasset wilson, h. m. harrison st., superior, wis. willis, f. d. e. sycamore st., st. paul wilcox, j. p. r. , excelsior willis, r. j. grand ave., st. paul wilkus, a. j. winslow ave., w. st. paul williams, l. a. pelican rapids wille, otto l. bates ave. st. paul wilson, e. b. emerson no., mpls. williams, e. e. . w. nd st., duluth williams, dr. j. p. e. lake st., mpls. wilkinson, f. l. white bear wilkinson, mrs. r. j. stillwater wilhalm, henry jackson wilwerding, j. m. caledonia wilson, john homer wilson, mrs. mary c. r. , sta. f., mpls. woodruff, c. o. excelsior woodel, c. f. austin woodworth, w. d. little falls wortman, h. j. watkins woods, prof. geo. b. northfield works, r. m. fremont so., mpls. woodward, philip m. r. , onamia woodman, m. h. sutherland, neb. worden, mrs. lillian farrington, st. paul woods, w. a. inverness, mont. woodland & roadside joy st., boston, mass. woods, roy e. new effington, s. d. woods, j. h. calgary, can. willis, katon deer river wright, a. v. mine center, ont. wright, w. h. r. , minneapolis wright, edward woodland ave., duluth wunderlich, miss susie burns, sask. wulfsberg, einar elbow lake wyman, mrs. a. phelps rd ave. s., mpls wyse, oliver onamia wygart, wm. s. newport yahnke, w. a. winona yegge, c. m. alpena, s. d. yale forest school new haven, conn. young, mrs. j. onamia youngstrom, o. j. litchfield young, j. c. wash. st. n. e., mpls. york, r. a. sandwich, ill. yort, a. s. box , hopkins young, a. f lake city young, max m. marshall ave., st. paul zuercher, f. excelsior zrust, anthony silver lake zachritz, geo. p. excelsior ziemer, ernest st. bonifacius zisch, chas. dresbach zimmerman, eli w. superior st., duluth zumwinkle, wm. morton zimbinski, geo. hewitt ave., st. paul life members. adams, mrs. louisa j. irving n., mpls. ahneman, geo. f. mazeppa alin, alex. fullerton, n. d. anderson, g. a. renville anderson, rev. j. w. minot, n. d. andrews, c. h. faribault arneson, a. n. wagdahl arnold, l. b. butte ave., duluth aspden, h. h. excelsior andrews, john k. faribault anderson, mrs. e. lake park, r. andresen, a. s. e. fifth st., duluth aamodt, a. w. univ. farm, st. paul appleby, h. j. minneiska bailey, e. g. r. , excelsior care w. c. rockwood baker, geo. a. janesville barsness, j. a. kenyon bassett, a. k. baraboo, wis. beebe, h. u. lake city benham, r. h. palace bldg., mpls. benson, edwin jackson berrisford, e. f. robert st., st. paul blain, h. j. maple plain boler, jno. care eli larson, sawyer, wis. boughen, w. j. valley river, man. bouska, frank biscay brady, t. d. medford briard, f. w. gaylord briggs, a. g. g. n. ry., st. paul brink, c. c. west union, ia. burton, miss hazel deephaven bacheller, t. t. seney, mich. binger, herman renville brush, geo. h. r. owatonna bergstrom, a. g. maple plain boucher, c. p. e. th st., st. paul black, robt h. albert lea burlingame, florence grand rapids bratnober, c. p. harmon pl., mpls. cady, prof. leroy univ. farm, st. paul carlisle, s. a. wyoming cashman, m. r. owatonna cashman, t. e. owatonna chambers, rev. r. f. jackson cheney, john morton chrisman, chas. e. ortonville christensen, p. c. fairmount clarke, fred h. avoca cline, wm. bertha cooper, madison calcium, n. y. crosby, s. p. miss. river blvd., st. paul cutting, f. e. byron christianson, p. a. hinckley conard, henry s. grinnell, ia. cutting, frank h. city hall, duluth connor, e. m. excelsior carlson, john a box , thief river falls carlson, gust. box , r. , excelsior care john washburn christianson, a. m. bismarck, n. d. danforth, wm. randolph, minn. daniels, r. l. davey, dr. flora m. e. grant st., mpls. dickerson, wm. elk point, s. d. doerfler, rev. bruno muenster, sask. doughty, j. cole lake city dressler, otto russell n., mpls. drew, prof. j. m. univ. farm, st. paul dunsmore, henry olivia durbahn, a. sleepy eye daniels, frank p. kenwood pkwy., mpls. degraff, miss marie i. anoka dybdal, tosten e. elbow lake, minn. eddy, w. h. howard lake ekloff, john cokato eliason, m. a. r. , appleton engman, nels d st. e. mpls. evans, sheldon j. la crescent effertz, christ norwood flannery, geo. p. blaisdell, mpls. fletcher, f. f. w. th st., mpls. fossum, g. cottonwood foster, wesley s. th st. s. e., mpls. fournelle, peter white bear lake franklin, a. b. st. f, r. , mpls. fuller, f. c. madison, s. d. fulton, t. c. white bear lake funke, j. l. wabasha fredine, j. o. winthrop fiebring, j. h. milwaukee, wis. care fiebring chemical co. ferguson, walker woodland ave., mankato gale, ed. c. security bldg., mpls. gates, a. h. rice geiger, wm. c. w. van buren st., chicago, ill. gjemse, l. j. cannon falls gjestrum, m. l. rhinelander, wis. glaeser, mrs. imelda owatonna gilbertson, g. g. ruthton galbraith, raymond h. care butler bros., mpls. guerney, d. b. yankton, s. d. gibbs, f. h. st. anthony park gibbs, mrs. f. h. st. anthony park gunderson, lawrence a. e. superior st., duluth goebel, herman wildrose, n. d. gray, a. n. deerwood graeve, rev. mathias lismore haatvedt, a. a. r. , hoffman hagen, o. w. sleepy eye halbert, geo. t. sec. bldg., mpls. hall, d. s. olivia halvorson, halvor hills hannah, robt. fergus falls harris, geo. w. mchugh harris, e. e. onlaska, wis. harris, f. i. la crescent harrison, c. s. york ave., york, neb. harrison, j. f. excelsior hart, w. h. owatonna hartman, m. b. plum st., st. paul hawkinson, chas. wayzata hawley, t. c. e. elm st., lodi, cal. hermanson, herman hopkins herrick, u. g. traffic station, mpls. hilstad, o. c. nicollet hobart, a. w. w. th st., mpls. hoverstad, t. a. care soo ry., mpls. howard, j. a. hammond hunter, c. c. nicollet ave., mpls. hendrickson, n. audubon holway, e. w. d. excelsior hjeltnes, k. ulvik, hardanger, norway heins, c. a. olivia haralson, fred th ave. s. e., mpls. irish, prof. h. c. childress ave. st. louis, mo. jager, john upton ave. s., mpls. jerabek, j. s. hutchinson jewell, mrs. b. randall, wis. johannesson, l. beltrami johnson, a. a. winnebago johnson, gust e. nd st., mpls. johnson, rev. saml. princeton johnson, miss anna m. r. , lafayette johnson, hans m. pipestone kennedy, j. h. sheyenne, n. d. kerns, g. f. fairmont klingel, rev. clement st. anthony, ind. knight, h. g. leroy korista, j. s. box , hopkins krier, t. n. farmer, s. d. kueker, wm. faribault kurth, wm. a. r. , rochester krog, johan, jr. pleasant grove farm, lake benton kugler, f. j. grand portage, minn. king, e. c. neshkors, wis. knutesen, clarence r. , box , hopkins krueger, o. f. cedar ave., mpls. larson, c. l. winthrop larson, louis m. st. louis park larson, lars m. faribault lien, thos. j. delavan lingen, carl starbuck loftness, a. g. thief river falls longyear, e. j. excelsior luce, e. c. luverne loring, a. c. clifton ave., mpls. loring, mrs. c. m. river side, cal. lowe, j. w. fairmont ludescher, j. l. frazee lund, i. e. hopkins lundgren, miss e. e. olive st. st. paul lyman, a. b. excelsior lyndgaard, jorgen lake benton lyon, jay f. elkhorn, wis. leding, edward r. , box , gary lawrence, jas. g. wabasha lafot, ed. w. lakefield lien, chas. h. r. , st. cloud lima, ludvig montevideo macauley, t. b. montreal, can. mackintosh, prof. r. s. doswell, st. paul maher, john devils lake, n. d. manda, w. a. short hills, n. j. mann, w. p. dodge center manner, c. j. jerome, idaho manning, warren h. n. billerica, mass. marshall, f. f. r. , grove city marso, j. p. canby mayo, dr. c. h. rochester melgaard, h. l. argyle melinat, rev. max. odessa miller, albert r. , box , cannon falls mohr, c. j. rapidan mo, hans sleepy eye moorhead, w. w. bethany, mo. mosbaek, ludvig askov moyer, l. r. montevideo mueller, paul l. bryant s., mpls. mazey, e. h. ewing ave., mpls. mccomb, richard antler, sask. mcculley, preston maple plain mckibben, a. t. ramey mckisson, g. d. fairmont mckusick, john c. marble mcleague, rev. p. stewart mcveety, j. a. howard lake mcclelland, l. e. r. , hopkins mckesson, j. h. s. lyndale ave., mpls. mccall, prof. thos. m. crookston mcconnell, roy e. st. cloud nehring, edward stillwater nelson, a. a., jr. th ave. s., mpls. nelson, b. f. th st. s. e., mpls. nelson, john a. r. , maynard noren, geo. chisago city norwood, f. f. balaton nussbaumer, fred st. paul nelson, iver cottonwood newman, g. a. w. olive st., stillwater norling, a. l. elbow lake negstad, a. l. r. , arlington, s. d. o'connor, patrick h. th ave. n., mpls. older, c. e. luverne onstine, frank a. harmony ortmann, rev. anselm richmond orton, c. j. marietta o'callaghan, j. eden valley oyen, o. j. watson older, f. e. n. alexandria ave., los angeles, cal. pattridge, c. a. comfrey paulson, johannes sta. f, richfield, mpls. pederson, j. s. walnut grove peet, wm. boston blk., mpls. peterson, geo. a. canby peterson, j. g. kensington peterson, k. k. rothsay peterson, r. m., office of markets dept. of agri., washington, d. c. peterson, w. a. mandan, n. d. peterson, wm. a. peterson ave., chicago, ill. pfaender, max mandan, n. d. pond, h. h. sta. f, r. , mpls. pond, i. w. madelia poore, hamlin v. th ave. s. e., mpls. pracna, frank delmas ave., san jose, cal. prosser, e. m. gully perry, a. g. care butler bros., mpls. quammen, ole s. lemmon, s. d. randall, e. w. commerce bldg., st. paul rennacker, c. j. detroit regeimbal, l. o. roberts, dr. t. s. pleasant ave. s., mpls. rood, a. j. spring grove rowe, chas. r. , excelsior ruff, d. w. c. globe bldg., st. paul rydeen, arthur r. marietta rice, j. a. renville rolf, rev. w. f. r. , sturgis, mich. reil, john h. brownton raymond, e. a. wayzata robinson, s. roe colfax ave. s., mpls. saunders, wm. robbinsdale savage, m. w. international bldg., mpls. savs, rev. mathias delano sayre, a. m. hills schaupp, chas. f. rushford schenck, a. a. farnham st., omaha, neb. schell, otto new ulm schuster, ed. w. crookston schmidt, dr. g. lake city scott, rev. w. t. black river falls, wis. scranton, ellsworth montrose sebenius, john uno wolvin bldg., duluth shellman, a. m. hanska sherman, e. m. charles city, ia. siverts, peter canby skaar, n. o. zumbrota slingerland, t. s. kasson slocum, a. m. excelsior smiley, daniel mohonk lake, n. y. smith, e. a. lake city snyder, harry summit ave., mpls. snyder, s. w. center point, ia. soholt, martin madison speechly, dr. h. m. pilot mound, man. spencer, n. v. park rapids stacy, f. n. s. e. th, mpls. stager, mrs. jennie sauk rapids stensrud, hans watson st. john, b. e. bruce, wis. strand, g. w. taylors falls swanson, aug. s. wayzata swanson, j. h. r. , st. james swennes, knute minneota skotterud, e. o. dawson stevenson, m. j. morris, man. sanders, t. a. care butler bros., mpls. scherf, f. a. court house, red wing swanson, law maria ave., st. paul sparre, erik elk river shogren, fred m. popple tanner, wm. cannon falls teigen, geo. dooley, mont. teigland, j. l. minneota terry, alfred slayton thomas, a. a. sleepy eye thompson, mrs. ida hewitt ave., st. paul todd, fred g. phillips place, montreal, p. q. trefethren, f. g. stony butte, mont. treinen, j. p. miller, mont. trow, a. w. glenville true, fred o. r. , good thunder turngren, l. e. montrose tonder, sam r. , wabasha torgerson, t. care prairie nurseries, estevan, sask. underwood, mrs. anna b. lake city underwood, roy d. lake city van antwerp, edward dent van nest, r. a. windom voight, l. h. hastings volstad, hon. a. j. granite falls wagner, j. f. box , california, mo. waldron, l. r. agri. college, n. d. warren, geo. h. irving s., mpls. warren, w. t. slayton webster, mrs. w. f. s. e. th st., mpls. wendlandt, wm. r. , owatonna wentzel, a. e. crookston wentzel, louie crookston wentzel, wm. f. crookston weston, w. s. faribault wheeler, c. f. excelsior white, j. c. mabel williams, j. g. endicott st., duluth williams, m. m. little falls wison, harold s. box , monroe, n. y. wise, geo. a. minneapolis wright, r. a. excelsior webster, d. c. la crescent wiehe, c. f. jackson blvd., chicago wyman, willis l. park rapids woods, a. f. u. farm, st. paul wellington, r. u. farm, st. paul wales, c. e. n. w. natl. bank, mpls. ward, f. a. th ave. s., st. cloud wittig, w. w. wyoming weiss, freeman n. fremont, mpls. warren, o. b. hibbing yanish, edward box , st. paul yost, john l. murdock zeimetz, thos. h. wabasha zabel, e. g. la moure, n. d. honorary life members. bowen, mrs. jas. beacon st., mpls. brackett, a. excelsior brand, o. f. pomona, cal. bush, a. k. se., th st., mpls. cook, dewain jeffers corp, sidney hammond cummins, j. r. second ave., mpls. drum, s. h. owatonna gibbs, oliver melbourne beach, fla. gardner, chas. f. osage, ia. hansen, prof. n. e. brookings, s. d. haralson, chas. excelsior henry, forest dover kellogg, geo. j. janesville, minn. kenney, s. h. waterville kimball, f. w. waltham lacey, chas. y. w. ocean ave., long beach, cal. latham, a. w. dupont s., mpls. long, a. g. scott terrace, morningside, mpls. loring, chas. m. riverside, cal. moore, o. w. spring valley moyer, l. r. montevideo patten, chas. g. charles city, ia. perkins, t. e. red wing philips, a. j. west salem, wis. redpath, thos. wayzata reed, a. h. glencoe richardson, s. d. winnebago schutz, r. a. leroy smith, c. l. e. lincoln, portland, ore. tilson, mrs. ida e. west salem, wis. underwood, j. m. lake city wedge, clarence albert lea wheaton, d. t. morris honorary members for . rasmussen, n. a. oshkosh, wis. bisbee, john madelia broderick, prof. f. w. agri. college, man. dunlap, h. m. savoy, ill. ferris, earl hampton, ia. waldron, prof. c. b. agri. college, n. d. street, h. g. hebron, ill. lundberg, gottfred kennedy index a aamodt, a. w., standardizing minnesota potatoes; albertson, mrs., civic improvement; alway, prof. f. j., increasing the fertility of the land; anderson, g. a., a satisfactory marketing system; andrews, j. p., the minnesota orchard; annual members, ; annual meeting, , a. w. latham; arrowood, jas., supt., annual report, , nevis trial station; arrowood, jas., mid. rep., nevis trial station; asparagus by the acre, e. w. record; asparagus, growing, a discussion; award of premiums, annual meeting, ; award of premiums, summer meeting, ; b ballou, f. h., wealthy apples; beans and sweet corn, growing, pierre b. marien; bee-keepers column, prof. francis jager; , , , , , , , bees, wintering of, prof. francis jager; benjamin, j. f., biography of; bisbee, john, annual report, , vice-pres. nd cong. dist.; black, g. d., heredity in gladioli; blueberry culture, u. s. department of agriculture; boyington, mrs. r. p., my color scheme; brand, a. m., peonies old and new; bread cast upon the waters, c. s. harrison; brierley, prof. w. g., manufacture of cider vinegar from minnesota apples; brown, frank, annual report, , paynesville trial station; brown, frank, midsummer report, , paynesville trial station; brown rot, spraying plums for, prof. e. c. stakman; buffalo tree hopper, ravages of, prof. a. g. ruggles; c cady, prof. leroy, annual report, , central trial station; camping on the yellowstone trail, clarence wedge; canning, the growing of vegetables for, m. h. hegerle; cashman, thos. e., mid. rep., owatonna trial station; cashman, thos. e., president's greeting; central trial station, annual report, , profs. leroy cady and r. wellington; cheney, prof. e. c., city "foresters" and municipal forests; cider, apple, concentrated, department of agriculture; city "foresters" and municipal forests, prof. e. g. cheney; color effects in the garden, planting for, mrs. h. b. tillotson; color combinations in the garden, miss elizabeth starr; collegeville trial station, mid. rep., rev. jno. b. katzner; collegeville trial station, annual report, , rev. j. b. katzner; cold storage for apples, a successful, h. f. hansen; color scheme, my, mrs. r. p. boyington; cook, dewain, plums we already have and plums on the way; cook, dewain, jeffers trial station, annual report, ; cook, dewain, mid. report, jeffers trial station; cowles, fred, supt., annual report, west concord trial station; cowles, fred, mid. report, west concord trial station; cranefield, f., secretary, wisconsin state horticultural society; crosby, s. p. report of committee on horticultural building; cross, mrs. e., in memoriam; curculio, the plum, ed. a. nelson; currants as a market garden product, b. wollner, jr.; cutting, frank h., annual report, , vice-pres., th cong. dist.; d dixon, j. k., vice-pres., report, , th cong. dist.; duluth trial station, annual report, c. e. roe, supt.; dunlap, h. m., packing and marketing apples; dunlap, hon. h. m., spraying the orchard; dunlap, hon. h. m., spraying the orchard, continued; dwarf apple trees, dr. o. m. huestis; e eat minnesota apples, prof. r. s. mackintosh; entomological notes, prof. f. l. washburn; , , erkel, f. c., raspberries; everbearing strawberries, geo. j. kellogg; evergreens for both utility and ornament, earl ferris; evergreens, jens a. jensen; executive board, annual report, , j. m. underwood; f farm, the value of horticulture to the, mrs. clarence wedge; ferris, earl, evergreens for both utility and ornament; fertility of the land, increasing the, prof. f. j. alway; flower garden for a country home, m. h. wetherbee; flower garden--a discussion, g. c. hawkins; fruit-breeding farm, report of committee on state, dr. o. m. huestis and f. h. gibbs; fruit-breeding farm, new fruits originated at minnesota, chas. haralson, supt.; fruit-breeding farm, minnesota state, chas. haralson; fruit judging contest; fruit growing a successful industry in minnesota, a. w. richardson; fruit retail methods and costs, c. w. moomaw; frydholm, martin, rose culture; g garden, my summer in a, mrs. gertrude ellis skinner; garden helps, mrs. e. w. gould; , , , , , , , , , , , gardner, chas. f., the fall-bearing strawberries; gardner, chas. f., what frisky is telling the veteran horticulturist; gibbs, f. h., greenhouse versus hotbeds; gibbs, f. h., report of committee on state fruit-breeding farm; gladioli, heredity in, g. d. black; gould, mrs. e. w., garden helps; , , , , , , , , , , , grape culture, my experience in, jos. tucker; gray, a. n., marketing fruit by association; h hansen, prof. n. e., what is hardiness?; hansen, prof. n. e., newer fruits in , how secured; hansen, h. f., a successful cold storage for apples; haralson, chas., supt., new fruits originated at minnesota fruit-breeding farm; haralson, chas., delegate, annual meeting, , wis. hort. society; haralson, chas., minnesota state fruit-breeding farm; harris, f. i., vice-president report, , st cong. district; harris, mrs. melissa j., in memoriam; harrison, c. s., bread cast upon the waters; harrison, c. s., horticulturist as king; harrison, h. w., the salome apple; hawkins, g. c., flower garden--a discussion; hardiness, what is? prof. n. e. hansen; hegerle, m. h., annual report, , vice-pres., th cong. dist.; hegerle, m. h., the growing of vegetables for canning; horticultural building, report of committee on, s. p. crosby; horticulturist as king, c. s. harrison; how may state university and the horticultural society best co-operate, geo. e. vincent; huestis, dr. o. m., dwarf apple trees; huestis, dr. o. m., report of committee on state fruit-breeding farm; i improvement, civic, mrs. albertson; in memoriam, mrs. e. cross; in memoriam, mrs. melissa j. harris; insects, truck crop and garden, prof. wm. moore; j jager, prof. francis, bee-keeper's column; , , , , , , , jager, prof. francis, wintering of bees; jeffers trial station, annual report, , dewain cook; jeffers trial station, mid. report, dewain cook; jensen, jens a., evergreens; johnson, gust, thirty years in raspberries; journal, annual meeting, ; k katzner, rev. jno. b., mid. report, collegeville trial station; katzner, rev. j. b., annual report, , collegeville trial station; keene, p. l., marketing fruit at mankato; kellogg, geo. j., everbearing strawberries; kellogg, geo. j., experiment work of chas. g. patten; kellogg, geo. j., june bearing strawberries; kimball, miss grace e., planting and care of hardy perennials; kimball, miss grace e., hardy perennials; l la crescent trial station, d. c. webster; latham, a. w., annual meeting, ; latham, a. w., letters to members from secretary; latham, a. w., secretary's annual report, ; latham, a. w., secretary's financial report, ; latham, a. w., secretary's corner; , , , , , , , latham, a. w., summer meeting, ; letter to members from secretary a. w. latham; library, the society; lice, plant, on blossoms; library, additions to, ; library, conditions about taking books from; life members; m mackintosh, prof. r. s., bringing the producer and consumer together; mackintosh, prof. r. s., eat minnesota apples; mackintosh, prof. r. s., orchard notes; , , madison trial station, annual report, , m. soholt; mandan, n. d., trial station, annual report, , w. a. peterson, supt.; mandan, n. d., trial station, w. a. peterson; marcovitch, s., strawberry weevil; marketing fruit direct, h. g. street; marketing fruit by association, a. n. gray; marketing fruit at mankato, p. l. keene; marketing system, a satisfactory, g. a. anderson; marien, pierre b., growing beans and sweet corn; mayman, e. w., annual report, , vice-pres., th cong. dist.; mid-summer reports, trial stations; michael, rev. geo., growing tomatoes in northern minnesota; minnesota orchard, the, j. p. andrews; montevideo trial station, mid. report, l. r. moyer; montevideo trial station, annual report, , l. r. moyer; moomaw, c. w., fruit retail methods and costs; moore, prof. wm., truck crop and garden insects; moore, o. w., top-working; mosbaek, ludvig, rhubarb plant; moyer, l. r., annual report, , montevideo trial station; moyer, l. r., mid. report, montevideo trial station; my neighbor's roses; n nelson, ed. a., the plum curculio; nevis trial station, annual report, , jas. arrowood, supt.; nevis trial station, mid. report, jas. arrowood; newer fruits in , how secured, prof. n. e. hansen; n. e. demonstration farm, w. j. thompson, supt.; n. e. iowa horticultural society, annual meeting, , c. e. snyder; notes on plant pests, a. g. ruggles and e. c. stakman; , o orchard crop of , my, harold simmons; orchard, my experience with a young, roy vial; orchard notes, prof. r. s. mackintosh; , , orcharding in minnesota, a discussion, prof. richard wellington; orcharding in minnesota, prof. richard wellington; owatonna trial station, thos. e. cashman; p pabody, ezra f., in memoriam; packing and marketing apples, h. m. dunlap; paynesville trial station, annual report, , frank brown; paynesville trial station, mid. rep., frank brown; pendergast, miss nellie b., support for overloaded fruit tree; pergola, its use and misuse, chas. h. ramsdell; perennials, hardy, miss grace e. kimball; peterson, p. h., vice-pres. rep., , th cong. dist.; peterson, w. a., mid. rep., mandan, n. d., trial station; peterson, w. a., supt., an. rep., , mandan, n. d., trial station; pfaender, wm., jr., an. meeting, , s. d. state hort. socy.; pfeiffer, c. a., surprise plum a success; philips, a. j., top-grafting; plant chimera; plums we already have and plums on the way, dewain cook; potatoes, standardizing minnesota, a. a. aamodt; premium list, summer meeting, ; president's greeting, thos. e. cashman; program, annual meeting, ; protect the garden against winter weather; purdham, c. w., tomatoes for the kitchen garden; patten, chas. g., experiment work of, geo. j. kellogg; peonies, old and new, a. m. brand; perennial garden at carmarken, white bear, j. w. taylor; perennials, planting and care of hardy, miss grace e. kimball; premium list, summer meeting, ; producer and consumer together, bringing the, prof. r. s. mackintosh; r ramsdell, chas. h., pergola, its use and misuse; ramsdell, chas. h., an. rep., , vice-pres., th cong. dist.; raspberries, f. c. erkel; raspberries, thirty years in, gust johnson; record, e. w., asparagus by the acre; records of executive board, ; rhubarb plant, ludvig mosbaek; richardson, a. w., fruit growing a successful industry in minn.; roe, c. e., supt., annual report, duluth trial station; rose culture, martin frydholm; ruggles, prof. a. g., notes on plant pests; , ruggles, prof. a. g., ravages of buffalo tree hopper; running out of varieties, the, prof. c. b. waldron; s salome apple, the, h. w. harrison; sauk rapids trial station, annual report, , mrs. jennie stager; sauk rapids trial station, mid. rep., mrs. jennie stager; secretary's annual report, , a. w. latham; secretary's corner; , , , , , , , secretary's financial report, , a. w. latham; shelter belt for orchard and home grounds, a discussion; simmons, harold, my orchard crop of ; skinner, mrs. gertrude ellis, my summer in a garden; smith, e. a. state flower and state flag of minnesota; snyder, c. e., an. meeting, , n. e. iowa hort. socy.; soholt, m., an. rep., , madison trial station; south dakota state horticultural society, annual meeting, , wm. pfaender, jr.; spraying the orchard, h. m. dunlap; spraying the orchard, hon. h. m. dunlap; stager, mrs. jennie, an. rep., , sauk rapids trial station; stager, mrs. jennie, how mr. mansfield grows tomatoes; stager, mrs. jennie, mid. rep., sauk rapids trial station; stakman, prof. e. c., notes on plant pests; , stakman, prof. e. c., spraying plums for brown rot; standards for containers for fruits, etc., dept. of agri.; starr, miss elizabeth, color combinations in the garden; state flower and state flag of minnesota, e. a. smith; strand, geo. w., treasurer's annual report; strawberry, the fall-bearing, chas. f. gardner; strawberry weevil, s. marcovitch; strawberries, june bearing, geo. j. kellogg; street, h. g., marketing fruit direct; summer meeting, , notice of; summer meeting, , a. w. latham; support for overloaded fruit tree, miss nellie b. pendergast; surprise plum a success, c. a. pfeiffer; t taylor, j. w., perennial garden at carmarken, white bear; thompson, w. j., supt., n. e. demonstration farm; tillotson, mrs. h. b., planting for color effects in the garden; tomatoes for the kitchen garden, c. w. purdham; tomatoes, how mr. mansfield grows, mrs. jennie stager; tomatoes in northern minnesota, growing, rev. geo. michael; top-grafting, a. j. philips; top-working, o. w. moore; treasurer, annual report of, , geo. w. strand; tucker, jas., my experience in grape culture; u underwood, j. m., annual report, , executive board; university farm and hort. society, a. f. woods; v vial, roy, my experience with a young orchard; vice-president's report, , st congressional district, f. i. harris; vice-president, nd congressional district, annual report, , john bisbee; vice-president's report, , th congressional district, j. k. dixon; vice-president, th congressional district, annual report, , chas. h. ramsdell; vice-president, th congressional district, annual report, , e. w. mayman; vice-president's report, , th congressional district, p. h. peterson; vice-president, th congressional district, annual report, , frank h. cutting; vice-president, th congressional district, annual report, , mrs. h. e. weld; vice-president, th congressional district, annual report, , m. h. hegerle; vincent, geo. e., how may state university and horticultural society best cooperate; vinegar from minnesota apples, manufacture of cider, prof. w. g. brierley; w waldron, prof. c. b., the running out of varieties; washburn, prof. f. l., entomologist column; wealthy apples, f. h. ballou; webster, d. c., mid. rep., la crescent trial station; wedge, clarence, camping on the yellowstone trail; wedge, mrs. clarence, the value of horticulture to the farm; weld, mrs. h. e., an. rep., , vice-pres., th cong. dist.; wellington, prof. richard, an. rep., , central trial station; wellington, prof. richard, orcharding in minnesota, a discussion; wellington, prof. richard, orcharding in minnesota; west concord trial station, annual report, fred cowles, supt.; west concord trial station, fred cowles; wetherbee, m. h., flower garden for a country home; what frisky is telling the veteran horticulturist, chas. f. gardner; wisconsin horticultural society, annual meeting, , chas. haralson, delegate; wisconsin state horticultural society, f. cranefield, secretary; wollner, b., jr., currants as a market garden product; woods, a. f., university farm and horticultural society--mutually helpful in developing homes of the northwest; * * * * * transcriber's note: minor, obvious typos corrected. antony gray,--gardener by leslie moore author of "the peacock feather," "the jester," "the wiser folly," etc. g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press ---------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, by leslie moore the knickerbocker press, new york ---------------------------------------------------------------------- to mrs. barton ---------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page prologue i. the letter ii. memories iii. quod scriptum est iv. the lady of the blue book v. a friendship vi. at teneriffe vii. england viii. the amazing conditions ix. the decision x. an english cottage xi. doubts xii. concerning michael field xiii. a discovery xiv. honor vincit xv. in the garden xvi. a meeting xvii. at the manor house xviii. a dream and other things xix. trix on the scene xx. moonlight and theories xxi. on the moorland xxii. an old man in a library xxiii. antony finds a glove xxiv. an interest in life xxv. prickles xxvi. an offer and a refusal xxvii. letters and mrs. arbuthnot xxviii. for the day alone xxix. in the church porch xxx. a question of importance xxxi. midnight reflections xxxii. sunlight and happiness xxxiii. trix seeks advice xxxiv. an amazing suggestion xxxv. trix triumphant xxxvi. an old man tells his story xxxvii. the importance of trifles xxxviii. a footstep on the path xxxix. on the old foundation epilogue ---------------------------------------------------------------------- antony gray,--gardener prologue march had come in like a lion, raging, turbulent. throughout the day the wind had torn spitefully at the yet bare branches of the great elms in the park; it had rushed in insensate fury round the walls of the big grey house; it had driven the rain lashing against the windows. it had sent the few remaining leaves of the old year scudding up the drive; it had littered the lawns with fragments of broken twigs; it had beaten yellow and purple crocuses prostrate to the brown earth. against the distant rocky coast the sea had boomed like the muffled thunder of guns; it had flung itself upon the beach, dragging the stones back with it in each receding wave, their grinding adding to the crash of the waters. nature had been in her wildest mood, a thing of mad fury. with sundown a calm had fallen. the wind, tired of its onslaught, had sunk suddenly to rest. only the sea beat and moaned sullenly against the cliffs, as if unwilling to subdue its anger. yet, for all that, a note of fatigue had entered its voice. * * * * * an old man was sitting in the library of the big grey house. a shaded reading lamp stood on a small table near his elbow. the light was thrown upon an open book lying near it, and on the carved arms of the oak chair in which the man was sitting. it shone clearly on his bloodless old hands, on his parchment-like face, and white hair. a log fire was burning in a great open hearth on his right. for the rest, the room was a place of shadows, deepening to gloom in the distant corners, a gloom emphasized by the one small circle of brilliant light, and the red glow of the fire. book-cases reached from floor to ceiling the whole length of two walls, and between the three thickly curtained windows of the third. in the fourth wall were the fireplace and the door. there was no sound to break the silence. the figure in the oak chair sat motionless. he might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of life he gave. he looked like stone,--white and black marble very finely sculptured,--white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercing eyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. even his eyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space. to those perceptive of "atmosphere" there is a subtle difference in silence. there is the silence of woods, the silence of plains, the silence of death, the silence of sleep, and the silence of wakefulness. this silence was the last named. it was a silence alert, alive, yet very still. a slight movement in the room, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, roused him to the present. life sprang to his eyes, puzzled, questioning; his body motionless, they turned towards the middle window of the three, from whence the movement appeared to have come. it was not repeated. the old utter silence lay upon the place; yet nicholas danver kept his eyes upon the curtain. the minutes passed. then once more came that almost imperceptible movement. nicholas danver's well-bred old voice broke the silence. "why not come into the room?" it suggested quietly. there was a gleam of ironical humour in his eyes. the curtains swung apart, and a man came from between them. he stood blinking towards the light. "how did you know i was there, sir?" came the gruff inquiry. "i didn't know," said nicholas, accurately truthful. "i merely guessed." there was a pause. "well?" said nicholas watching the man keenly. "by the way, i suppose you know i am entirely at your mercy. i could ring this bell," he indicated an electric button attached to the arm of his chair, "but i suppose it would be at least three minutes before any one came. yes," he continued thoughtfully, "allowing for the distance from the servants' quarters, i should say it would be at least three minutes. you could get through a fair amount of business in three minutes. was it the candlesticks you wanted?" he looked towards a pair of solid silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece. "they are cumbersome, you know. or the miniatures? there are three cosways and four engleharts. i should recommend the miniatures." "i wanted to see you," said the man bluntly. "indeed!" nicholas's white eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch above his keen old eyes. "an unusual hour for a visit, and--an unusual entrance, if i might make the suggestion." "there'd never have been a chance of seeing you if i had come any other way." there was a hint of bitterness in the words. nicholas looked straight at him. "who are you?" he asked. "job grantley," was the reply. "i live down by the lower acre." "ah! one of my tenants." "yes, sir, one of your tenants." "and--?" suggested nicholas urbanely. "i'm to turn out of my cottage to-morrow," said the man briefly. "indeed!" the pupils of nicholas's eyes contracted. "may i ask why that information should be of interest to me?" "it's of no interest to you, sir, and we know it. you never hear a word of what happens outside this house." "mr. spencer curtis conducts my business," said nicholas politely. "we know that too, sir, and we know the way it is conducted. it's an iron hand, and a heart like flint. it's pay or go, and not an hour's grace." "you can hardly expect him to give you my cottages rent free," suggested nicholas suavely. the man winced. "no, sir. but where a few weeks would make all the difference to a man, where it's a matter of a few shillings standing between home and the roadside--" he broke off. nicholas was silent. "i thought perhaps a word to you, sir," went on the man half wistfully. "we're to go to-morrow if i can't pay, and i can't. a couple of weeks might have made all the difference. it was for the wife i came, sneaking up here like a thief. she's lost two little ones; they never but opened their eyes on the world to shut them again. i'm glad on it now. but women aren't made that way. there's another coming. she's not strong. i doubt but the shock'll not take her and the little one too. better for them both if it does. a man can face odds, and remake his life if he is a man--" he stopped. still there was silence. "i was a fool to come," said the man drearily. "'twas the weather did it in the end. i'd gone mad-like listening to the wind and rain, and thinking of her and the child that was to be--" again he stopped. nicholas was watching him from under the penthouse of his eyebrows. suddenly he spoke. "how soon could you pay your rent?" he demanded. "in a fortnight most like, sir. three weeks for certain." "have you told mr. curtis that?" "i have, sir. but it's the tick of time, or out you go." "have you ever been behindhand before?" "no, sir." "how has it happened now?" the questions came short, incisive. the man flushed. "how has it happened now?" repeated nicholas distinctly. "i lent a bit, sir." "to whom?" "widow thisby. she's an old woman, sir." "tell me the whole story," said nicholas curtly. again the flush rose to the man's face. "her son got into a bit of trouble, sir. it was a matter of a sovereign or going to gaol. he's only a youngster, and the prison smell sticks. trust folk for nosing it out. he's got a chance now, and will be sending his mother a trifle presently." "then i suppose she'll repay you?" job fidgeted with his cap. "well, sir, i don't suppose it'll be more'n a trifle he'll send; and she's got her work cut out to make both ends meet." "then i suppose you _gave_ her the money?" job shifted his feet uneasily. "how did you intend to raise the money due for your rent, then?" demanded nicholas less curtly. job left off fidgeting. he felt on safer ground here. "it just meant a bit extra saved from each week," he said eagerly. "you can do it if you've time. boiling water poured into the morning teapot for evenings, and knock off your bit of bacon, and--well, there's lots of ways, sir, and women is wonderful folk for managing, the best ones. where it's thought and trouble they'll do it, and they'd be using strength too if they'd got it, but some of them hasn't." "hmm," said nicholas. he put up his hand to his mouth. "so you _gave_ money you knew would never be repaid, knowing, too, that it meant possible homelessness." "you'd have done it yourself if you'd been in my place," said the man bluntly. "should i?" said nicholas half ironically. "i very much doubt it. also what right had you to gamble with your wife's happiness? you knew the risk you ran. you knew the--er, the rule regarding the rents. job grantley, you were a fool." again the colour rushed to the man's face. "may be, sir. i'll allow it sounds foolishness, but--oh lord, sir, where's the use o' back-thinking now. i reckon you'd never do a hand's turn for nobody if you spent your time looking backward and forrard at your jobs." he stopped, his chin quivering. "job grantley, you were a fool." nicholas repeated the words with even deliberation. the man moved silently towards the window. there was a clumsy dignity about his figure. "stop," said nicholas. "job grantley, you _are_ a fool." the man turned round. "go to that drawer," ordered nicholas, "and bring me a pocket-book you will find there." mechanically the man did as he was bidden. nicholas took the book. "now then," he said opening it, "how much will put you right?" the man stared. "i--oh, sir." "how much will put you right?" demanded nicholas. "a pound, sir. the month's rent is due to-morrow." nicholas raised his eyebrows. "humph. not much to stand between you and--hell. i've no doubt you did consider it hell. we each have our own interpretation of that cheerful abode." he turned the papers carefully. "now look here," he said suddenly, "there's five pounds. it's for yourselves, mind. no more indiscriminate bestowal of charity, you understand. you begin your charity at home. do you follow me?" the man took the money in a dazed fashion. he was more than half bewildered at the sudden turn in events. "i'll repay you faithfully, sir. i'll----" "damn you," broke in nicholas softly, "who talked about repayment? can't i make a present as well as you, if i like? besides i owe you something for this ten minutes. they have been interesting. i don't get too many excitements. that'll do. i don't want any thanks. be off with you. better go by the window. there might be a need of explanations if you tried a more conventional mode of exit now. that'll do, that'll do. go, man." two minutes later nicholas was looking again towards the curtains behind which job grantley had vanished. "now, was i the greater fool?" he said aloud. there was an odd, mocking expression in his eyes. * * * * * ten minutes later he pressed the electric button attached to the arm of his chair. his eyes were on his watch which he held in his hand. as the library door opened, he replaced it in his pocket. "right to the second," he laughed. "ah, jessop." the man who entered was about fifty years of age, or thereabouts, grey-haired, clean-shaven. his face was cast in the rigid lines peculiar to his calling. possibly they relaxed when with his own kind, but one could not feel certain of the fact. "ah, jessop, do you know job grantley by sight?" for one brief second jessop stared, amazement fallen upon him. then the mask of impenetrability was on again. "job grantley, yes, sir." "what is he like?" "tallish man, sir; wears corduroys. dark hair and eyes; looks straight at you, sir." "hmm. very good. perhaps i wasn't a fool," he was thinking. "do you know mr. curtis?" he demanded. "yes, sir." this came very shortly. "should you call him--er, a hard man?" asked nicholas smoothly. again amazement fell on jessop's soul, revealing itself momentarily in his features. and again the amazement was concealed. "he's a good business man, sir," came the cautious reply. "you mean--?" suggested nicholas. "a good business man isn't ordinarily what you'd call tender-like," said jessop grimly. nicholas flashed a glance of amusement at him. "i suppose not," he replied dryly. there was a pause. "do the tenants ever ask to see me?" demanded nicholas. "they used to, sir. now they save their shoe-leather coming up the drive." "ah, you told them--?" "your orders, sir. you saw no one." "i see." nicholas's fingers were beating a light tattoo on the arm of his chair. "well, those are my orders. that will do. you needn't come again till i ring." jessop turned towards the door. "oh, by the way," nicholas's voice arrested him on the threshold, "i fancy the middle window is unlatched." jessop returned and went behind the curtains. "it was, wasn't it?" asked nicholas as he emerged. "yes, sir." jessop left the room. "now how on earth did he know that?" he queried as he walked across the hall. the curtains had been drawn when nicholas had been carried into the room. the knowledge, for a man unable to move from his chair, seemed little short of uncanny. "_a man can face odds if he is a man, and remake his life._" the words repeated themselves in nicholas's brain. each syllable was like the incisive tap of a hammer. they fell on a wound lately dealt. a little scene, barely ten days old, reconstructed itself in his memory. the stage was the one he now occupied; the position the same. but another actor was present, a big rugged man, clad in a shabby overcoat,--a man with keen eyes, a grim mouth, and flexible sensitive hands. "i regret to tell you that, humanly speaking, you have no more than a year to live." the man had looked past him as he spoke the words. he had had his back to the light, but nicholas had seen something almost inscrutable in his expression. nicholas's voice had followed close upon the words, politely ironical. "personally i should have considered it a matter for congratulation rather than regret," he had suggested. there had been the fraction of a pause. then the man's voice had broken the silence. "do you?" "i do. what has my life been for fifteen years?" nicholas had demanded. "what you have made of it," had been the answer. "what god or the devil has made of it, aided by baccarat--poor beast," nicholas had retorted savagely. "the devil, possibly," the man had replied, "but aided and abetted by yourself." "confound you, what are you talking about?" nicholas had cried. the man had still looked towards the book-cases. "listen," he had said. "for fifteen years you have lived the life of a recluse--a useless recluse, mind you. and why? because of pride,--sheer pride. those who had known you in the strength of your manhood, those who had known you as nick the dare-devil, should never see the broken cripple. pride forbade it. you preferred to run to cover, to lie hidden there like a wounded beast, rather than face, like a man, the odds that were against you,--heavy odds, i'll allow." nicholas's eyes had blazed. "how dare you!" he had shouted. "you've a year left," went on the man calmly. "i should advise you to see what use you can make of it." "the first use i'll make of it is to order you from the house. you can go at once." nicholas had pointed towards the door. the man had got up. "all right," he had said, looking at him for the first time in the last ten minutes. "but don't forget. you've got the year, you know." "to hell with the year," said nicholas curtly. "damn the fellow," he had said as the door had closed behind him. but the very truth of the words had left a wound,--a clean-cut wound however. there was never any bungling where doctor hilary was concerned. and now incisive, sharp, came the taps of the hammer on it, taps dealt by job grantley's chance words. "confound both the men," he muttered. "but the fellow deserved the five pounds. it was the first interest i've had for fifteen years. the kind of entrance i'd have made myself, too; or perhaps mine would have been even a bit more unusual, eh, nick the dare-devil!" it was the old name again. he had never earned it through the least malice, however. fool-hardiness perhaps, added to indomitable high spirits and good health, but malice, never. how father o'brady had chuckled over the prank that had first earned him the title,--the holding up of the coach that ran between byestry and kingsleigh, nick at the head of a band of half a dozen young scapegraces clad in black masks and huge hats, and armed with old pistols purloined from the historic gun-room of the old hall! it had been a leaf from the book of claude duval with a slight difference. nick had re-acted the scene for him. he was an inimitable mimic. he had taken off old lady fanshawe's cackling fright to the life. as the stoutest and oldest dowager of the lot he had obliged her to dance a minuet with him, the terrified coachman, postilion, and solitary male passenger covered by his companions' pistols the while. the fluttered younger occupants of the coach had frankly envied the terrified dowager, yet nick had bestowed but the most perfunctory of glances upon them, and that for a reason best known to himself. later the truth of the affair had leaked out, and lady fanshawe could never chaperon one of her numerous nieces to a ball, without being besieged by young men imploring the favour of a dance. being a sporting old lady--when not out of her wits with terror--she had taken it all in good part. once, even, she had danced the very same minuet with nick, the whole ballroom looking on and applauding. it had been the first of a series of pranks each madder than the last, but each equally light-hearted and gay. that is till cecilia lester married basil percy. the world, namely the small circle in which cecilia and nick moved, had heard of the marriage with amazement. if nick was amazed he did not show it, but his pranks held less of gaiety, more of a grim foolhardiness. father o'brady no longer chuckled over their recitation. maybe because they mainly reached his ears from outside sources. nick, who was not of his fold, seldom sought his society in these days. later he heard them not at all, being removed to another mission. and then, at last, came the day when nick played his final prank in the hunting field,--his maddest prank, in which baccarat failed him. the horse was shot where he lay. his rider was carried home half dead; and half dead, literally, he had been for fifteen years. and there was yet one more year left to him. * * * * * nicholas sat gazing at the fire. his brain was extraordinarily alert. there was a dawning humour waking in his eyes, a hint of the bygone years' devil-may-careness. the old nick was stirring within him, roused by the little blows of that sentence. suddenly a flash of laughter illuminated his whole face. he brought his hand down on the arm of his chair. "by gad, i've got it, and hilary's the man to help me." it was characteristic of nicholas to forget his own share in that little ten-day-old scene. also it may be safely averred that doctor hilary would be equally forgetful. nicholas still sat gazing into the fire, chuckling every now and then to himself. it was midnight before he rang for jessop. the ringing had been preceded by one short sentence. "by gad, nick the dare-devil, the scheme's worthy of the old days." chapter i the letter antony was sitting on the stoep of his bungalow. the african sun was bathing the landscape in a golden glory. before him lay his garden, a medley of brilliant colour. just beyond it was a field of green indian corn, scintillating to silver as a little breeze swept its surface. beyond it again lay the vineyard, and the thatched roof of an old dutch farmhouse half hidden among trees. farther off still rose the mountains, golden in the sunlight. it was the middle of the afternoon. silence reigned around, broken only by the occasional chirp of a grasshopper, the muffled note of a frog, the twitter of the canaries among the cosmos, or the rustle of the reed curtain which veiled the end of the stoep. the reed curtain veiled the bathroom, a primitive affair, the bath consisting of half an old wine vat, filled with velvety mountain water, conducted thither by means of a piece of hose-piping attached to the solitary water tap the estate possessed. it was emptied by means of a bung fixed in the lower part of the vat, the water affording irrigation for the garden. antony sat very still. his coat lay beside him on the stoep. a small wire-haired puppy named josephus mounted guard upon it. woe betide the person other than antony's self who ventured to lay finger on the garment. there would be a bristling of short wiry white hair, a showing of baby white teeth, and a series of almost incredibly vicious growls. josephus permitted no man to take liberties with his master's property, nor indeed with his ridiculously dignified small self. antony was the sole exception to his rule. but then was not he a king among men, a person whose word was law, whose caress a benediction, whose blow a thing for which to demand mute pardon? you knew it was deserved, though the knowledge might possibly at times be vague, since your wisdom was as yet but puppy wisdom. now and again josephus hung out a pink tongue, a tongue which demanded milk in a saucer. he knew tea-time to the second,--ordinarily speaking that is to say. he could not accustom himself to that extra half-hour's delay which occurred on mail days, a delay caused by riffle, the coloured boy, having to walk to the village to fetch the post. the walk was seldom entirely fruitless. generally there was a newspaper of sorts; occasionally--very occasionally--a letter. josephus knew that the click of the garden gate heralded the swift arrival of tea, but it was not always easy to realize on which days that click was to be expected. antony gazed at the scintillating field of corn. the sight pleased him. there is always a glory in creation, even if it be creation by proxy, so to speak. at all events he had been the human agent in the matter. he had ploughed the brown earth; he had cast the yellow seed, trudging the furrows with swinging arm; he had dug the little trenches through which the limpid mountain water should flow to the parched earth; he had watched the first hint of green spreading like a light veil; he had seen it thicken, carpeting the field; and now he saw the full fruit of his labours. strong and healthy it stood before him, the soft wind rippling across its surface, silvering the green. the click of the garden gate roused him from his contemplation. josephus cocked one ear, his small body pleasurably alert. antony turned his head. mail day always held possibilities, however improbable, an expectation unknown to those to whom the sound of the postman's knock comes in the ordinary course of events. riffle appeared round the corner of the stoep. had you seen him anywhere but in africa, you would have vowed he was a good-looking italian. a cape coloured boy he was truly, and that, mark you, is a very different thing from kaffir. "the paper, master, and a letter," he announced with some importance. then he disappeared to prepare the tea for which josephus's doggy soul was longing. antony turned the letter in his hands. it must be confessed it was a disappointment. it was obviously a business communication. both envelope and clerkly writing made that fact apparent. it was a drop to earth after the first leap of joy that had heralded riffle's announcement. it was like putting out your hand to greet a friend, and meeting--a commercial traveller. antony smiled ruefully. yet, after all, it was an english commercial traveller. that fact stood for something. it was, at all events, a faint breath of the old country. in england the letter had been penned, in england it had been posted, from england it had come to him. yet who on earth had business affairs to communicate to him! he broke the seal. amazement fell upon him with the first words he read. by the end of the perusal his brain was whirling. it was incredible, astounding. he stared out into the sunshine. surely he was dreaming. it must be a joke of sorts, a laughable hoax. yet there was no hint of joking in the concise communication, in the small clerkly handwriting, in the business-like letter-paper, a letter-paper headed by the name of a most respectable firm of solicitors. "well, i'm jiggered," declared antony to the sunshine. and he fell to a second perusal of the letter. here is what he read: "dear sir, "we beg to inform you that under the terms of the will of the late mr. nicholas danver of chorley old hall, byestry, in the county of devon, you are left sole legatee of his estate and personal effects estimated at an income of some twelve thousand pounds per annum, subject, however, to certain conditions, which are to be communicated verbally to you by us. "in order that you may be enabled to hear the conditions without undue inconvenience to yourself, we have been authorized to defray any expenses you may incur either directly or indirectly through your journey to england, and--should you so desire--your return journey. we enclose herewith cheque for one hundred pounds on account. "as the property is yours only upon conditions, we must beg that you will make no mention of this communication to any person whatsoever until such time as you have been made acquainted with the said conditions. we should be obliged if you would cable to us your decision whether or no you intend to hear them, and--should the answer be in the affirmative--the approximate date we may expect you in england. "yours obediently, "henry parsons." and the paper was headed, parsons & glieve, solicitors. nicholas danver. where had he heard that name before? what faint cord of memory did it strike? he sought in vain for the answer. yet somehow, at sometime, surely he had heard it! again and again he seemed on the verge of discovering the clue, and again and again it escaped him, slipping elusive from him. it was tantalizing, annoying. with a slight mental effort he abandoned the search. unpursued, the clue might presently return to him. riffle reappeared on the stoep bearing a tea-tray. josephus sat erect. for full ten minutes his brown eyes gazed ardently towards the table. what had happened? what untoward event had occurred? antony was oblivious of his very existence. munching bread and butter, drinking hot tea himself, he appeared entirely to have forgotten that a thirsty and bewilderedly disappointed puppy was gazing at him from the harbourage of his old coat. at length the neglect became a thing not to be borne. waving a deprecating paw, josephus gave vent to a pitiful whine. antony turned. then realization dawned on him. he grasped the milk jug. "you poor little beggar," he laughed. "it's not often you get neglected. but it's not often that bombshells in the shape of ordinary, simple, harmless-looking letters fall from the skies, scattering extraordinary contents and my wits along with them. here you are, you morsel of injured patience." josephus lapped, greedily, thirstily, till the empty saucer circled on the stoep under the onslaughts of his small pink tongue. antony had again sunk into a reverie, a reverie which lasted for another fifteen minutes or so. at last he roused himself. "josephus, my son," he announced solemnly, "there are jobs to be done, and in spite of bombshells we'd better do them, and leave arabian night wonders for further contemplation this evening." chapter ii memories some four hours later, antony, once more in his deck-chair on the stoep, set himself to review the situation. shorn of its first bewilderment it resolved itself into the fact that he, antony gray, owner of a small farm on the african veldt, which farm brought him in a couple of hundred a year or thereabouts, was about to become the proprietor of an estate valued at a yearly income of twelve thousand,--subject, however, to certain conditions. and in that last clause lay the possible fly in the ointment. what conditions? antony turned the possibilities in his mind. matrimony with some lady of nicholas danver's own choosing? he dismissed the idea. it savoured too much of early victorian melodrama for the prosaic twentieth century. the support of some antediluvian servant or pet? possibly. but then it would hardly be necessary to require verbal communication of such a condition; a brief written statement to the effect would have sufficed. the house ghost-haunted; a yearly exorcising of the restless spirit demanded? again too melodramatic. a promise to live on the estate, and on the estate alone? far more probable. well, he'd give that fast enough. the veldt-desire had never gripped him as it is declared to grip those who have found a home in africa. behind the splendour, the pageantry, the vastness, he had always felt a hint of something sinister, something cruel; a spirit, perhaps of evil, ever wakeful, ever watching. now and again a sound, a scent would make him sick with longing, with longing for an english meadow, for the clean breath of new-mown hay, for the fragrance of june roses, for the song of the thrush, and the sweet piping of the blackbird. he had crushed down the longing as sentimental. having set out on a path he would walk it, till such time as fate should clearly indicate another signpost. he saw her finger now, and welcomed the direction of its pointing. at all events he might make venture of the new route,--an arabian night's path truly, gold-paved, mysterious. if, after making some steps along it, he should discover a barrier other than he had a mind to surmount, he could always return to the old road. fate might point, but she should never push him against his will. thus he argued, confident within his soul. he had the optimism, the trust of youth to his balance. he had not yet learned the deepest of fate's subtleties, the apparent candour which conceals her tricks. he gazed out into the night, ruminative, speculative. the breeze which had rippled across the indian corn during the day had sunk to rest. the darkened field lay tranquil under the stars big and luminous. from far across the veldt came the occasional beating of a buzzard's wings, like the beating of muffled drums. a patch of gum trees to the right, beyond the garden, stood out black against the sky. nicholas danver. the name repeated itself within his brain, and then, with it, came a sudden flash of lucid memory lighting up a long forgotten scene. he saw a small boy, a very small boy, tugging, pulling, and twisting at a tough gorse stick on a moorland. he felt the clenching of small teeth, the bruised ache of small hands, the heat of the small body, the obstinate determination of soul. a slight sound had caused the boy to turn, and he had seen a man on a big black horse, watching him with laughing eyes. "you'll never break that," the man had remarked amused. "i've got to. i've begun," had been the small boy's retort. and he had returned to the onslaught, regardless of the watching man. ten minutes had ended in an exceedingly heated triumph. the boy had sunk upon the grass, sucking a wounded finger. the mood of determination had passed with the victory. he had been too shy to look at the rider on the black horse. but the gorse stick had lain on the ground beside him. "shake hands," the man had said. and the boy had scrambled to his feet to extend a grubby paw. "what's your name?" the man had demanded. "antony gray." "not richard gray's son?" "yes." the man had burst into a shout of laughter. "where is your father?" "in london." "well, tell him his son is a chip of the old block, and nicholas danver says so. ask him if he remembers the coach road from byestry to kingsleigh. good-bye, youngster." and nicholas had ridden away. it was astonishing in what detail the scene came back to him. he could smell the hot aromatic scent of the gorse and wild thyme. he could hear the humming of the bees above the heather. he could see the figure on the black horse growing speck-like in the distance as he had gazed after it. the whole thing pieced itself together. he remembered that he had gone to that cottage on the moorland with his nurse to recover after measles. he remembered that his father had said that the air of the place would make a new boy of him. he remembered his father's laugh, when, later, the tale of the meeting had been recounted to him. "good old nick," he had said. "one loses sight of the friends of one's boyhood as one grows older, more's the pity. i must write to old nick." there the incident had closed. yet clearly as the day on which it had occurred, a day now twenty-five years old, it repainted itself on antony's brain, as he sat on the stoep, gazing out into the african night. it never occurred to him to wonder why nicholas should have left him his money and property. that he had done so was marvellous, truly; his reasons for doing so were not even speculated upon. antony had a childlike faculty for accepting facts as they presented themselves to him, with wonderment, pleasure, frank disapprobation, or stoicism, as the case might be. the side issues, which led to the presentation of the facts, were, generally speaking, the affair of others rather than his own; and, as such, were no concern of his. it was not that he deliberately refused to consider them, but merely that being no concern of his, it never occurred to him to do so. he walked his own route, sometimes singing, sometimes dreaming, sometimes amusedly silent, and always working. work had been of necessity from the day his father's death had summoned him hurriedly from college. a quixotic, and, it is to be feared, culpable generosity on richard gray's part had left his son penniless. antony had accepted the fact stoically, and even cheerfully. he had looked straight at the generosity, denying the culpability, thereby preserving what he valued infinitely more than lands or gold--his father's memory, thus proving himself in very truth his son. he had no ties to bind him; he was an only child, and his mother was long since dead. he set out on his own route, a route which had led him far, and finally had landed him, some five years previously, on the african veldt, where he had become the owner of the small farm he now occupied. after all, there had been compensations in the life. all unconsciously he had taken for his watch-word the cry: "i will succeed in spite of ..." rather than the usual old lament: "i could succeed if...." naturally there had been difficulties. he had considered them grave-eyed and silent; he had tackled them smiling and singing. inwardly he was the same antony who had conquered the gorse-stick on the moorland; outwardly--well, he didn't make the fight so obvious. that was all the difference. and now, sitting on the stoep with the silence of the african night around him, he tried to shape his plans, to bring them forth from the glamour of the marvellous which had enshrouded them, to marshal them up into coherent everyday form. but the glamour refused to be dispelled. everything, the smallest and most prosaic detail, stood before him bathed in its light. it was all so gorgeously unexpected, so--so stupendously mysterious. and through all the glamour, the unexpectedness, and the mystery, there was sounding an ever-repeated chord of music, composed of the notes of youth, happiness, memory, desire, and expectation. and, thus combined, they struck the one word--england. chapter iii quod scriptum est the _fort salisbury_ was cutting her way through the translucent green water. cape town, with table mountain and the lion's head beyond it, was vanishing into the increasing distance. antony had taken his passage on the _fort salisbury_ for three reasons: number one, she was the first boat sailing from cape town after he had dispatched his momentous cablegram; number two, he had a certain diffidence regarding the expenditure of other people's money, and his passage on the _fort salisbury_ would certainly be lower than on a mail boat; number three, a curious and altogether unaccountable impulse had impelled him to the choice. this reason had, perhaps unconsciously, weighed with him considerably more than the other two. he often found instinct throwing itself into the balance for or against the motives of mere reason. when it was against mere reason, matters occasionally complicated themselves in his mind. it had been a comfort to find, in this case, reason on the same side of the scale as instinct. antony, leaning on the rail of the upper deck, was content, blissfully content. the sole speck that marred his entire enjoyment was the fact that the rules of the boat had separated him, _pro tem_, from an exceedingly perplexed and distressed puppy. it was the perplexity and distress of the said puppy that caused the speck, rather than the separation. antony, with the vaster wisdom vouchsafed to humans, knew the present separation to be of comparatively short duration, and to be endured in the avoidance of a possibly infinitely longer one. not so josephus. he suffered in silence, since his deity had commanded the silence, but the perplexed grief in his puppy heart found an echo in antony's. it was a faint echo, however. time and a daily visit would bring consolation to josephus; and, for himself, the present adventure--it was an adventure--was all-absorbing and delicious. he revelled in it like a schoolboy on a holiday. he watched the sparkling water, the tiny rippling waves; he felt the freshness of the sea breeze, and the throb of the engine like a great living heart in the body of the boat. the fact that there were other people on her decks concerned him not at all. those who have travelled a good deal become, generally speaking, one of two types,--the type that is quite enormously interested in everyone, and the type that is entirely indifferent to any one. antony was of this last type. he had acquired a faculty for shutting his mental, and to a great degree, his physical eyes to his human fellows, except in so far as sheer necessity compelled. naturally this did not make for popularity; but, then, antony did not care much for popularity. the winning of it would have been too great an effort for his nature; the retaining of it, even more strenuous. of course the whole thing is entirely a question of temperament. a few of the other passengers looked somewhat curiously at the tall lean man gazing out to sea; but, as he was so obviously oblivious of their very existence, so entirely absorbed in his contemplation of the ocean, they left him undisturbed. it was not till the dressing bugle sounded that he roused himself, and descended to his cabin. it was a matter for his fervent thanksgiving that he had found himself the sole occupant of the tiny two-berthed apartment. he arrayed himself with scrupulous care. only the most stringent exigencies of time and place--though they for a while had been frequent--had ever caused him to forego the ceremonial of donning dress clothes for dinner, though no eyes but his own should behold him. latterly there had been riffle and then josephus to behold, and the former to marvel. josephus took it, puppy-like, as a matter of course. there were not a vast number of passengers on the boat. of the four tables in the dining saloon, antony found only two fully laid, and a third partially so. his own place was some three seats from the captain's left. the chair on the captain's right was, as yet, unoccupied. for the rest, with but one or two exceptions at the other tables, the passengers had already put in an appearance. the almost entire absence of wind, the smoothness of the ocean, had given courage even to those the most susceptible to the sea's malady. it would have required a really vivid imagination to have perceived any motion in the boat other than the throbbing of her engines. antony slipped into his seat, and a steward placed a plate of clear soup before him. in the act of taking his first spoonful, he paused, his eyes arrested by the sight of a woman advancing towards the chair on the captain's right. at the first glance, antony saw that she was a tall woman, dressed in black unrelieved save for ruffles of soft creamy lace at her throat and wrists. presently he took in further details, the dark chestnut of her hair, the warm ivory of her skin, the curious steady gravity of her eyes--grey or violet, he was not sure which,--the straight line of her eyebrows, the delicate chiselling of her nose, and the red-rose of her mouth. and yet, in spite of seeing the details, they were submerged in the personality which had first arrested him. something within him told him as clearly as spoken words, that here, in her presence, lay the explanation of the instinct which had prompted him to take his passage on this boat. an odd little thrill of unaccountable excitement ran through him. he felt like a man who had been shown a page in his own life-book, and who found the words written thereon extraordinarily and amazingly interesting. he found himself longing, half-inarticulately, to turn the leaf; and, yet, he knew that time's hand alone could do this. he could only read as far as the end of the open page before him. and that page but recorded the fact of her presence. once, during the repast, her eyes met his, steady, grave, and yet with a little note of half interrogation in them. again antony felt that odd little thrill run through him, this time intensified, while his heart beat and pounded under his immaculate white shirt-front. perhaps it is a mercy that shirt-fronts, to say nothing of other things, do hide the vagaries of our hearts. it would be a sorry thing for us if the world at large could perceive them,--the joy, the anguish, the remorse, and the bitter little disappointments. yes, above all, the bitter little disappointments, the cause possibly so trivial, so childish almost, yet the hurt, the wound, so very real, the pain so horribly poignant. it is the little stab which smarts the most; the blow which accompanies the deeper wound, numbs in its very delivery. * * * * * later, in the moonlit darkness, antony found himself again on deck, and again leaning by the rail. yet this time he had that page from his life-book for company; and, marvelling, he perused the written words thereon. it was extraordinary that they should hold such significance for him. and why for him alone? he queried. might not another, others even, have read the selfsame words? with the thought came a pang of something akin to jealousy at his heart. he wanted the words for himself, written for him alone. and yet it was entirely obvious, considering the number at the table, that they must have been recorded for others also, since, as already mentioned, they but recorded the fact of her presence. but did they hold the same significance for the others? there was the question, and there possibly, nay probably, lay the comfort. also, what lay on the other side of the page? unanswerable at the moment. he looked down at the gliding water, alive, alight with brilliant phosphorus. a step behind him made his heart leap. he did not turn, but he was conscious of a figure on his right, also looking down upon the water. suddenly there was a faint flutter of drapery, and the breeze sent a trail of something soft and silky across his eyes. "oh, i am sorry," said a voice in the darkness. antony turned. "the wind caught it," she explained apologetically, tucking the chiffon streamer within her cloak. now, it is quite certain that antony had here an opportunity to make one of those little ordinary pleasant remarks that invariably lead to a conversation, but none presented itself to his mind. he could do nothing but utter the merest formal, though of course polite, acknowledgment of her apology, his brain seeking wildly for further words the while. it found none. she gave him a little bow, courteous and not at all unfriendly, and moved away across the deck. antony looked after her figure receding in the darkness. "oh, you idiot," he groaned within his heart, "you utter and double-dyed idiot." he looked despairingly down at the water, and from it to the moonlit sky. fate, so he mused ruefully, writes certain sentences in our life-book, truly; but it behoves each one of us to fill in between the lines. and he had filled in--nothing. an hour or so later he descended dejectedly to his cabin. chapter iv the lady of the blue book he saw her at breakfast the next morning; and again, later, sitting on a deck-chair, with a book. once more he cursed his folly of the previous evening. a word or two then, no matter how trivial their utterance, and the barriers of convention would have been passed. even should fate throw a like opportunity in his path again, it was entirely improbable that she would choose the same hour. she is ever chary of exact repetitions. and, if his stammering tongue failed in speech with the soft darkness to cover its shyness, how was it likely it would find utterance in the broad light of day? the moment--he spelled it with a capital--had passed, and would never again recur. therefore he seated himself on his own deck-chair, some twenty paces from her, and began to fill his pipe, gloomily enough. yet, in spite of gloom, he watched her,--surreptitiously of course. there was no ill-bred staring in his survey. she was again dressed in black, but this time the lace ruffles had given place to soft white muslin cuffs and collar. her dark hair was covered by a broad-brimmed black hat. she was leaning back in her chair as she read, the book lying on her lap. suddenly the gravity of her face relaxed. a smile rippled across it like a little breeze across the surface of some lake. the smile broke into silent laughter. antony found himself smiling in response. she looked up from her book, and out over the sun-kissed water, the amusement still trembling on her lips and dancing in her eyes. "i wonder," reflected antony watching her, "what she has been reading." for some ten minutes she sat gazing at the sunshine. then she rose from her chair, placed her book upon it, and went towards the stairway which led to the lower deck. antony looked at the empty chair--empty, that is, except for a pale blue cushion and a deeper blue book. on the back of the chair, certain letters were painted,--p. di d. antony surveyed them gravely. the first letter really engrossed his attention. the last was merely an adjunct. the first would represent--or should represent--the real woman. he marshalled every possibility before him, merely to dismiss them: patience, phyllis, prudence, priscilla, perpetua, penelope, persis, phoebe, pauline,--none were to his mind. the last appeared to him the most possible, and yet it did not truly belong. so he summed up its fitness. yet, for the life of him, he could find no other. he had run through the whole gamut attached to the initial, so he told himself. curiosity, or interest, call it what you will, fell back baffled. he got up from his chair, and began to pace the deck. passing her chair, he gazed again upon the letters painted thereon, as if challenging them to disclose the secret. inscrutable, they stared back blankly at him. turning for the third time, he perceived that she had returned on deck. she was carrying a small bag of old gold brocade. she was in the chair once more as he came alongside of her; but the blue book had slipped to the ground. he bent to pick it up, involuntarily glancing at the title as he handed it to her. _dream days_. it fitted into his imaginings of her. "do you know it?" she queried, noticing his glance. "no," replied antony, turning the book in his hands. "oh, but you should," she smiled back at him. "that is if you have the smallest memory of your own childhood. i was just laughing over 'death letters' ten minutes ago." "death letters?" queried antony perplexed, the while his heart was singing a little pæan of joy at the vagaries of fate's methods. "yes; a will or testament. but a death letter is so infinitely more explanatory. don't you think, so?" antony laughed. "of course," he agreed, light breaking in upon him. "take the book if you care to," she said. "i know it nearly by heart. but i had it by me, and brought it on deck to look at it again. i didn't want to get absorbed in anything entirely new. it takes one's mind from all this, and seems a loss." a little gesture indicated sunshine, sea, and sky. "yes," agreed antony, "it's waste of time to read in the open." and then he stopped. "oh, i didn't mean--" he stammered, glancing down at the book, and perceiving ungraciousness in his words. "oh, yes, you did," she assured him smiling, "and it was quite true, and not in the least rude. read it in your berth some time; you can do it there with an easy conscience." she gave him a little nod, which might have been considered dismissal or a hint of emphasis. antony, being of course aware that she could not possibly find it the same pleasure to talk to him as he found it to talk to her, took it as dismissal. with a word of thanks he moved off down the deck, the blue book in his hands. he found a retired spot forward on the boat. a curious shyness prevented him from returning to his own deck-chair, and reading the book within sight of her. in spite of his little remark against reading in the open, he was longing to make himself acquainted with the contents immediately. had it not been her recommendation? death letters! he laughed softly and joyously. he had never even given the things a thought before, and here, twice within ten days, they had been brought to his notice in a fashion that, to his mind, fell little short of the miraculous. and it is not at all certain that he did not consider their second queer little entry on the scene the more miraculous of the two. he opened the book, and there, facing him from the fly-leaf, was the answer to the question he had erstwhile sought to fathom,--pia di donatello. his lips formed the syllables, dwelling with pleasure on the first three little letters--pia. oh, it was right, it was utterly and entirely right. every other possibility vanished before it into the remotest background, unthinkable in the face of what was. pia di donatello! again he repeated the musical syllables. and yet--and yet--he'd have sworn she was english. there wasn't the faintest trace of a foreign accent in her speech. if anything, there was a hint of irish,--the soft intonation of the emerald isle. her colouring, too, was irish, the blue-black hair, the dark violet eyes--he had discovered that they were violet; looking, for all the world, as if they had been put in with a smutty finger, as the saying goes. he revolved the problem in his mind, and a moment later came upon the solution, so he told himself. an irish mother, and an italian father, so he decreed, metaphorically patting himself on the back the while for his perspicacity. the problem settled, he turned himself to the contents of the book as set forth by the author thereof, rather than the three words inscribed on the fly-leaf by the owner. they were not hard of digestion. the print was large, the matter light. anon he came to mutabile semper and the death letters, and, having read them, and laughed in concord with the erstwhile laugh of the book's owner, he closed the pages, and gazed out upon the sunshine and the water. chapter v a friendship emerson has written a discourse on friendship. it is beautifully worded, truly; it is full of a noble and high-minded philosophy. doubtless it will appeal quite distinctly to those souls who, although yet on this earth-plane, have already partly cast off the mantle of flesh, and have found their paths to lie in the realm of spirit. even to those, and it is by far the greater majority, who yet walk humdrumly along the world's great highway, the kingdom of the spirit perceived by them as in a glass darkly rather than by actual light shed upon them from its realm, it may bring some consolation during the absence of a friend. but for the general run of mankind it is set on too lofty a level. it lacks the warmth for which they crave, the personality and intercourse. "i do then, with my friends as i do with my books," he says. "i would have them where i can find them, but i seldom use them." now, it is very certain that, for the majority of human beings, the friendliest books are worn with much handling. if we picture for a moment the bookshelves belonging to our childish days, we shall at once mentally discover our old favourites. they have been used so often. they have been worn in our service. no matter how well we know the contents, we turn to them again and again; there is a very joy in knowing what to expect. time does not age nor custom stale the infinite variety. thus it is in our childish days. and are not the majority of us still children? should our favourite books be placed out of our reach, should it be impossible for us to turn their pages, it is certain that we would feel a loss, a gap. were we old enough to comprehend emerson's philosophy, we might endeavour to buoy ourselves up with the thought that thus we were at one with him in his nobility and loftiness of sentiment. and yet there would be something childish and pathetic in the endeavour, by reason of its very unreality. certainly if providence should, either directly or indirectly, separate us from our friends, by all means let us accept the separation bravely. it cannot destroy our friendship. but seldom to use our friends, from the apparently epicurean point of view of emerson, would be a forced and unnatural doctrine to the majority, as unnatural as if a child should bury hans andersen's fairy tales for fear of tiring of them. it would savour more of present and actual distaste, than the love which fears its approach. there is the familiarity which breeds contempt, truly; but there is also the familiarity which daily ties closer bonds, draws to closer union. antony had established a friendship with the lady of the blue book. the book had been responsible for its beginning. with emerson's definition of friendship he would probably have been largely in harmony; not so in his treatment of it. with the following, he would have been at one, with the exception of a word or so:--"i must feel pride in my friend's accomplishments as if they were mine,--wild, delicate, throbbing property in his virtues. i feel as warmly when he is praised, as the lover when he hears applause of his engaged maiden. we over-estimate the conscience of our friend. his goodness seems better than our goodness, his nature finer, his temptations less. everything that is his, his name, his form, his dress, books, and instruments, fancy enhances. our own thought sounds new and larger from his mouth." most true, antony would have declared, if you will eliminate "over-estimate," and substitute "is" for "seems." unlike emerson, he made no attempt to analyse his friendship. he accepted it as a gift from the gods. maybe somewhere in his inner consciousness, barely articulate even to his own heart, he dreamt of it as a foundation to something further. yet for the present, the foundation sufficed. death-letters--he laughed joyously at the coincidence--had laid the first stone, and each day placed others in firm and secure position round it. the building was largely unconscious. it is the way with true friendship. the life, also, conduced to it. there are fewer barriers of convention on board ship than in any other mode of living. mrs. grundy, it is to be supposed, suffers from sea-sickness, and does not care for this method of travelling. in fact, it would appear that she seldom does travel, but chooses by preference small country towns, mainly english ones, for her place of residence. the days were days of sunshine and colour, the changing colour of sea and sky; the nights were nights of mystery, veiled in purple, star-embroidered. one day pia made clear to him the explanation of her irish colouring and her italian surname. her mother, she told him, was irish; her father, english. her baptismal name had been chosen by an italian godmother. she was eighteen when she married the duc di donatello. on their wedding day, when driving from the church, the horses had bolted. she had been uninjured; he had received serious injuries to his head and spine. he had lived for seven years as a complete invalid, totally paralysed, but fully conscious. during those seven years, she had never left him. two years previously he had died, and she had gone to live at her old home in england,--the manor house, woodleigh, which had been in the hands of caretakers since her parents' death. her husband's property had passed to his brother. the last six months she had been staying with a friend at wynberg. she told the little tale extremely simply. it never occurred to her to expect sympathy on account of the tragedy which had marred her youth, and by reason of which she had spent seven years of her life in almost utter seclusion. the fact was merely mentioned in necessary explanation of her story. antony, too, had held silence. sympathy on his part would have been somehow an intrusion, an impertinence. but he understood now, in part at least, the steady gravity, the hint of sadness in her eyes. the name of woodleigh awoke vague memories in his mind, but they were too vague to be noteworthy. possibly, most probably, he told himself, he had merely read of the place at some time. she mentioned that it was in devonshire, but curiously enough, and this was an omission which he noted later with some surprise, he never questioned her as to its exact locality. on his side, he told her of his life on the veldt, and mentioned that he was returning to england on business. on the outcome of that same business would depend the question whether he remained in england, or whether he returned to the veldt. having the solicitor's injunction in view, he naturally did not volunteer further information. such details, too, sank into insignificance before the more absorbing interest of personality. they are, after all, in a sense, mere accidents, and have no more to do with the real man than the clothes he wears. true, the manner in which one dons one's clothes, as the manner in which one deals with the accidental facts of life, affords a certain index to the true man; but the clothes themselves, and the accidental facts, appear, at all events, to be matters of fate. and if you can obtain knowledge of a man through actual contact with his personality, you do not trouble to draw conclusions from his method of donning his clothes. you may speculate in this fashion with regard to strangers, or mere acquaintances. you have a surer, and infinitely more interesting, fashion with your friends. life around them moved on in the leisurely, almost indolent manner in which it does move on board a passenger ship. the younger members played quoits, cricket on the lower deck, and inaugurated concerts, supported by a gramaphone, the property of the chief officer, and banjo solos by the captain. the older members read magazines, played bridge, or knitted woollen articles, according to the promptings of their sex and their various natures, and formed audiences at the aforementioned concerts. antony and the duchessa di donatello alone seemed somewhat aloof from them. they formed part of the concert audiences, it is true; but they neither played bridge, quoits, nor cricket, nor knitted woollen articles, nor read magazines. the duchessa employed her time with a piece of fine lace work, when she was not merely luxuriating in the sunshine, or conversing with antony. antony either conversed with the duchessa, or sat in his deck chair, smoking and thinking about her. there was certainly a distinct sameness about the young man's occupation, which, however, he found not in the smallest degree boring. on the contrary, it was all-absorbing and fascinating. the very hours of the day were timed by the duchessa's movements, rather than by the mere minute portions of steel attached to the face of a commonplace watch. thus:-- dawn. he realizes the duchessa's existence when he wakes. (his dreams had been coloured by her, but that's beside the mark.) daybreak. the duchessa ascends on deck and smiles at him. breakfast time. the duchessa sits opposite to him. the sunny morning hours. the duchessa sews fine lace; she talks, she smiles,--the smile that radiates through the sadness of her eyes. and so on, throughout the day, till the evening gloaming brings a hint of further intimacy into their conversation, and night falls as she wishes him pleasant dreams before descending to her cabin. he dwelt then, for the moment, solely in her friendship, but vaguely the half articulate thought of the future began to stir within him, pulsing with a secret possibility of joy he barely dared to contemplate. chapter vi at teneriffe it was about ten o'clock of a sunny morning that the _fort salisbury_ cast anchor off teneriffe, preparatory to undergoing the process known as coaling. antony, from her decks, gazed towards the shore and the buildings lying in the sunlight. minute doll-like figures were busy on the land; mules, with various burdens, were ascending the steep street. boats were already putting out to the ship, to carry ashore such passengers as desired to spend a few hours on land. the whole scene was one of movement, light, and colour. the sea, sky, and earth were singing the benedicite, and antony's heart echoed the blessings. it was all so astonishingly good and pleasant,--the clean, fresh morning, the blue blue of the sky, the green blue of the water, and the possibilities of the unknown mountain land lying before him. there is an extraordinary fascination in exploring an unknown land, even if the exploration is to be of somewhat limited duration. the ship by which antony had travelled to the cape, had sailed straight out; it had passed the peak of teneriffe at a distance. antony had looked at it as it rose from the sea, like a great purple amethyst half veiled in cloud. he had wondered then, idly enough, whether it would ever be his lot to set foot upon its shores. never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined under what actual circumstances that lot would be his. how could he have guessed at what the fates were holding in store for him? they had held their secret close, giving him no smallest inkling of it. if we dream of paradise, our dream is modelled on the greatest happiness we have known; therefore, since our happiness is, doubtless, but a rushlight as compared to the sunshine of paradise, our dreams must necessarily fall exceedingly far short of the reality. hitherto antony's happiness had been largely monochrome, flecked with tiny specks of radiance. he might indeed have dreamed of something a trifle brighter, but how was it possible for him to have formed from them the smallest conception of the happiness that was awaiting him? "it is really perfect," said a voice behind him, echoing his thoughts. antony turned. the duchessa had come on deck, spurred and gauntleted for their adventure,--in other words, attired in a soft, black dress, a shady black hat on her head, crinkly black gloves, which reached to the elbow, on her hands, and carrying a blue sunshade. "it is really perfect," she repeated, gazing towards the mountainous land before them, the doll-like figures on the shore, the boats cleaving the sparkling waters. "absolutely," declared antony, his eyes wrinkling at the corners in sheer delight. "the gods have favoured us." "is there a boat ready?" she demanded, eager as a child to start on the adventure. "a boat," said antony, looking over the ship's side, "will be with us in a couple of moments i should say, to judge by the strength of the rower's arms. he has been racing the other fellows, and will be first at his goal." "then come," she said. "let us be first too. i don't want to lose a minute." antony followed in her wake. her sentiments most assuredly were his. it was not a day of which to squander one iota. ten minutes later they were on their way to the shore. behind them the _fort salisbury_ loomed up large and black from the limpid water; before them lay the land of possibilities. the other passengers in the boat kept up a running fire of comments. a stout gentleman in a sun-helmet, which he considered _de rigeur_ as long as he was anywhere at all near the regions of africa, gazed towards the shore through a pair of field-glasses. at intervals he made known such objects of interest as he observed, in loud husky asides to his wife, a small meek woman, who clung to him, metaphorically speaking, as the ivy to the oak. her vision being unaided by field-glasses, she was unable to follow his observations with the degree of intelligence he demanded. "i don't think i quite--" she remarked anxiously now and again, blinking in the same direction as her spouse. "to the left, my dear, among the trees," he would reply. or, "half-way up the street. _now_ don't you see?" or, removing the field-glasses for a moment to observe the direction of her anxious blinking, "why, bless my soul, you aren't looking the right way _at all_. get it in a line with that chimney over there, and the yellow house. the _yellow_ house. you're looking straight at the pink one. bless my soul, tut, tut." and so forth. a small boy, leaning far over the side of the boat, gazed rapturously into the water, announcing in shrill tones that he could see to the very bottom, an anxious elder sister grasping the back of his jersey meanwhile. a girl with a pigtail jumped about in a manner calculated to bring an abrupt and watery conclusion to the passage, till forcibly restrained by her melancholy-looking father. a young man announced that it was going to be, "deuced hot on shore, what?" and a gushing young thing of some forty summers appealed to everyone at intervals to know the hour to the very second it would be necessary to return, since it really would be a sin to keep the ship waiting. while the remarks from an elderly and cynical gentleman, that, in the event of unpunctuality on her part, it would be more probable that she would find herself waiting indefinitely at teneriffe, caused her to giggle hysterically, and label him a naughty man. "it is a matter for devout thankfulness," said the duchessa some ten minutes later, as she and antony were walking across the square, "that the _fort salisbury_ is large enough to permit of a certain separation from one's fellow humans. i do not wish to be uncharitable, but their proximity does not always appeal to me." antony laughed, and tossed some coppers to a small brown-faced girl, who, clasping an infant nearly as large as herself, jabbered at him in an unknown but wholly understandable language. "you'll be besieged and bankrupt before you see the ship again, if you begin that," warned the duchessa. "quite possible," returned antony smiling. the duchessa shook her head. "oh, if you are in that mood, warnings are waste of breath," she announced. "quite," agreed antony, still smiling. he was radiantly, idiotically happy. the joy of the morning, the brilliance of the sunshine, and the fact that the duchessa was walking by his side, had gone to his head like wine. if the expenditure of coppers could impart one tenth of his happiness to others, he would fling them broadcast, he would be a very spendthrift with his gladness. at the church to the left of the square, the duchessa paused. "in here first," she said. and antony followed her up the steps. they made their way through a swarm of grubby children, and entered the porch. it was cool and dark in the church in contrast to the heat and sunshine without. here and there antony descried a kneeling figure,--women with handkerchiefs on their heads, and a big basket beside them; an old man or two; a girl telling her beads before the lady altar; and a small dark-haired child, who gazed stolidly at the duchessa. votive candles burned before the various shrines. the ruby lamp made a spot of light in the shadows above the high altar. the duchessa dropped on one knee, and then knelt for a few moments at one of the _prie-dieux_. antony watched her. he was sensible that she was not a mere sight-seer. the church held an element of home for her. two of the passengers--the young man and the cynical elderly gentleman, who had been in the boat with them--strolled in behind him. they gazed curiously about, remarking in loudish whispers on what they saw. antony felt suddenly, and quite unreasonably, annoyed at their entry. somehow they detracted from the harmony and peace of the building. "i didn't know you were a catholic," he said five minutes later, as he and the duchessa emerged once more into the sunlight. "you never asked me," she returned smiling. "no," agreed antony. and then he added simply, as an afterthought, "it didn't occur to me to ask you." "it wouldn't," responded the duchessa, a little twinkle in her eyes. "no," agreed antony again. "i wish those people hadn't come in," he added somewhat irrelevantly. "what people?" demanded the duchessa. "oh, you mean those two men. why not? most tourists visit the church." "i dare say," returned antony. "but--well, they didn't belong." "no?" queried the duchessa innocently. antony reddened. "you mean i didn't," he said a little stiffly. "ah, forgive me." the duchessa's voice held a note of quick contrition. "i didn't mean to hurt you. somehow we catholics get used to protestants regarding our churches merely as a sight to be seen, and for the moment i smiled to think that _you_ should be the one whom it irritated. but i do know what you mean, of course. and--i'm _glad_ you felt it." "thank you," he returned smiling. the little cloud, which had momentarily dimmed the brightness of his sun, was dispelled. the merest inflection in the duchessa's voice had the power of casting him down to depths of heart-searching despair, or lifting him to realms of intoxicating joy. and it must be confessed that the past fortnight had been spent almost continuously in these realms. also, if he had sunk to the depths of despair, it was rather by reason of an ultra-sensitive imagination on his own part than by any fault of the duchessa's. but then, as antony would have declared, the position of a subject to his sovereign is a very different matter from the position of the sovereign to the subject. the duchessa could be certain of his loyalty. it was for her to give or withhold favours as it pleased her. it was a different matter for him. it is not easy for a man, who has lived a very lonely life, to believe in a reciprocal friendship where he himself is concerned. a curious admixture of shyness and diffidence, the outcome of his lonely life, prevented him from imagining that the duchessa could desire his friendship in the smallest degree as he desired hers. to him, the friendship she had accorded him had become the most vital thing in his existence, quite apart from that vague and intoxicating dream, which he scarcely dared to confess in the faintest whisper to his heart. he knew that her friendship appeared essential to his very life. but how could he for one moment imagine that his friendship was essential to her? it could not be, though he would cheerfully have laid down his life for her, have undergone torture for her sake. knowing, therefore, that his friendship was not essential to her happiness, yet knowing what her friendship meant to him, he was as ultra-sensitive as a lonely child. his soul sprang forward to receive her gifts, but the merest imagined hint of a rebuff would have sent him back to that loneliness he had learned to look upon as his birthright. not that he would have gone back to that loneliness with a hurt sense of injury. that must be clearly understood to understand antony. to have felt injury, would have been tantamount to saying that he had had a right to the friendship, and it was just this very right that antony could not realize as in the least existent. he would have gone back with an ache, it is true, but with a brave face, and an overwhelming and life-long gratitude for the temporary joy. that is at the present moment; of later, one cannot feel so certain. to-day, however, loneliness seemed a thing unthinkable, unimaginable, with the duchessa by his side, and the golden day ahead of him. by skilled manoeuvring, and avoiding the recognized hours of meal-time, they managed to escape further contact with their fellow passengers. an exceedingly late luncheon hour found them the sole occupants of a small courtyard at the back of an hotel,--a courtyard set with round tables, and orange trees in green tubs. over the roofs of the houses, and far below them, they could see the shining water, and the _fort salisbury_, lying like a dark blob on its surface. boats bearing coal were still putting out to her, and men were busy hauling it over her sides. the duchessa looked down on the ship and the water. "it is queer to think," said she smiling, "that little more than a week hence, i shall be in scotland, and, probably, shivering in furs. it can be exceedingly chilly up there, even as late as may." "i thought you were going to your old home," said antony. "so i am," she replied, "but not till nearly the end of june. i am going to stay with friends in edinburgh first. where are you going?" antony lifted his shoulders in the merest suspicion of a shrug. "london first," he responded. "after that--well, it's on the knees of the gods." "are you likely to stay in england long?" she asked. and then she added quickly, "you don't think the question an impertinence, i hope." "why should i?" he answered smiling. "but i really don't know yet myself. it will depend on various things." there was a little silence. "in any case, i shall see you before i leave england again, if i may," he said. "that is, if i do leave." the duchessa was still looking at the water. "i hope you will," she replied. and then she turned towards him. "i don't want our friendship to end completely with the voyage." antony's heart gave a little leap. "it--it really is a friendship?" he asked. "hasn't it been?" she asked him. antony looked at her. "for me, yes," he replied steadily. "can a friendship be one-sided?" she demanded. she emphasised the word a little. "i don't know," said antony whimsically. "i don't know much about them. i haven't ever wanted one before." again there was a little silence. then: "thank you," said the duchessa. antony drew a long breath. they were such simple little words; and yet, to him, they meant more than the longest and most flowery of speeches. there was so infinitely more conveyed in them. and he knew that, if they had not been meant, they would not have been spoken. she did think his friendship worth while, and she had given him hers. it was all his heart dared ask at the moment, yet, deep within it, his secret hope stirred to fuller life. and then, suddenly, prompted by some instinct, quite unexplainable at the moment, he put a question. "what is the foundation of friendship?" he asked. "trust," she responded quickly, her eyes meeting his for a moment. "and here," she said, looking towards the hotel, "comes our lunch." it was sunset before the _fort salisbury_ was once more cleaving her way through the water. antony, from her decks, looked once more at the receding land. again he saw it rising, like a purple amethyst, from the sea, but this time it was veiled in the rose-coloured light of the sinking sun. he looked towards that portion of the amethyst where the little courtyard with the orange trees in green tubs was situated. once more he heard his question and the duchessa's answer. it was a memory which was to remain with him for many a month. chapter vii england a week later, antony was sitting in a first-class carriage on his way from plymouth to waterloo. he gazed through the window, his mind filled with various emotions. uppermost was the memory of the voyage and the duchessa. the memory already appeared to him almost as a vivid and extraordinarily beautiful dream, though reason assured him to the contrary. the whole events of the last month, and even his present position in the train, appeared to him intangible and unreal. it seemed a dream self, rather than the real antony, who was gazing from the window at the landscape which was slipping past him; who was looking out on the english fields, the english woods, and the english cottages past which the train was tearing. he saw gardens ablaze with flowers; bushes snowy with hawthorn; horses and cows standing idly in the shadow of the trees; and, now and again, small, trimly-kept country stations, looking for all the world like prim schoolgirls in gay print dresses. he glanced from the window to the rack opposite to him, where his portmanteau was lying. that, at all events, was tangible, real, and familiar. it struck the sole familiar note in the extraordinary unfamiliarity of everything around him. he looked at his own initials painted on it, slowly tracing them in his mind. he pulled out his pocket-book, and took from it the letter which had altered the whole perspective of his life. he could almost see the african stoep as he looked at it, feel the heat of the african sun, hear the occasional chirping of the grasshoppers. age-old the memory appeared, caught from bygone centuries. and it was only a month ago. replacing it in the book, his eye fell upon a small piece of pasteboard. the duchessa had given it to him that morning. her name was printed on it, and below she had written a few pencilled words,--her address in scotland. she was remaining in plymouth for a day or so, before going north. he was to write to her at the scotland address, and let her know where she could acquaint him with her further movements, and the actual date of her return to the manor house. that, too, was tangible and real,--that small piece of white pasteboard. and, then, a little movement beside him, and a long quivering sigh of content brought back to him the most tangible thing of all--josephus. josephus, who was sleeping the sleep of the contented, just after a frenzied and rapturous reunion with his deity. oh, of course it was all real, and it was he, antony, his very self, who was sitting in the train, the train which was rushing through the good old english country, carrying him towards london and the answer to the riddle contained in that most amazing of letters. "it isn't a dream, josephus," he assured the sleepy puppy. "i am real, you are real, the train is real, england is real, and heaven be praised--the duchessa is real." after which act of assurance he turned his attention once more to the window. and now, the dream sense dispelled, he found long-forgotten memories awaken within him, memories of early boyhood, aroused by the sight of some old church tower, of some wood lying on a hillside, of some amber stream rippling past rush-grown banks. he hugged the memories to his soul, rejoicing in them. they brought a dozen trivial little incidents to his mind. he could hear his old nurse's voice warning him not to lean against the door of the carriage. he could feel his small nose pressed against the window-pane, his small hand rubbing the glass where it had been dimmed by his breath. he could hear the crackle of paper bags, as sandwiches and buns were produced for his refreshment; he could taste the ham between the pieces of bread and butter; and he could see a small boy, with one eye on his nurse, pushing a piece of fat between the cushions of the seat and the side of the carriage. this last memory evoked a little chuckle of laughter. that nurse had been a strong disciplinarian. the memories linked together, forming a more connected whole. he recalled places farther afield than those caught sight of from the window of the train. he remembered a copse yellow with primroses, a pond where he had fished for sticklebacks, a bank with a robin's nest in it. he remembered a later visit with an aunt. he must then have been fourteen or thereabouts. there had been a small girl, staying with her aunt at a neighbouring farm, who had accompanied him on his rambles. despite her tender age--she couldn't have been more than five years old--she had been the inventor of their worst escapades. it was she who had egged him on to the attempt to cross the pond on a log of wood, racing round it to shout encouragement from the opposite side. the timely advent of one of the farm-labourers alone had saved him from a watery grave. it was she who had invented the bows and arrows with which he had accidentally shot the prize bantam, and it was she who had insisted on his going with her to search for pheasants' eggs, a crime for which he barely escaped the penalty of the law. he remembered her as a fragile fair-haired child, with a wide-eyed innocence of expression, utterly at variance with her true character. in spite of her nobly shouldering her full share of the blame, he had invariably been considered sole culprit, which he most assuredly was not, though weight of years should have taught him better. but then, one could hardly expect the olympians to lay any measure of such crimes at the door of a grey-eyed, fair-haired angel. and that was what she had appeared to mere superficial observation. it required extreme perspicacity of vision, or great intimacy, to arrive at anything a trifle nearer the truth. he sought in the recesses of his memory for her name. that it had suited her admirably, and that it was monosyllabic, was all he could remember. after a few minutes fruitless search, he abandoned it as hopeless, and pulled pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. presently he saw the square tower and pinnacles of exeter cathedral above some trees, and the train ran into the station. antony watched the people on the platform with interest. they were english, and it was thirteen years since he had been in england. he listened to the fragmentary english sentences he heard, finding pleasure in the sound. he marvelled idly at the lack of colour in the scene before him. the posters on the walls alone struck a flamboyant note. yet there was something restful in the monochrome of the dresses, the dull smoke-griminess of the station. at all events it was a contrast to the vivid colouring of the african veldt. despite his interest in his fellow humans, however, he found himself devoutly trusting his privacy would remain undisturbed, and it was with a sense of relief that he felt the train glide slowly out of the station, leaving him the sole occupant of his compartment. later, he saw the spire of salisbury cathedral. again fortune favoured him in the matter of privacy, and presently drowsiness descended on his eyelids, which was not fully dispelled till the train ran into the gloom of waterloo station. chapter viii the amazing conditions the offices of messrs. parsons and glieve, solicitors, are situated off the strand, and within seven minutes' walk of covent garden. it is an old-established and exceedingly respectable firm. its respectability is emphasized by the massiveness of its furniture and the age of its office boy. he is fifty, if he is a day. an exceeding slowness of brain prevented him from rising to a more exalted position, a position to which his quite extraordinary conscientiousness and honesty would have entitled him. that same conscientiousness and honesty prevented him from being superseded by a more juvenile individual, when his age had passed the limit usually accorded to office boys. imperceptibly almost, he became part and parcel of the firm, a thing no more to be dispensed with than the brass plate outside the office. he appeared now as an elderly and exceedingly reputable butler, and his appearance quite enormously increased the respectability of the firm. nominally james glieve and henry parsons were partners of equal standing, neither claiming seniority to the other; virtually james glieve was the voice, henry parsons the echo. in matters of great importance, they received clients in company, henry parsons playing the part of greek chorus to james glieve's lead. in matters of less importance, they each had their own particular clients; but it is very certain that, even thus, henry parsons invariably echoed the voice. it merely meant that the voice had sounded in private, while the echo was heard in public. when george, the office-boy-butler, presented james glieve with a small piece of pasteboard, on the morning following antony's arrival in town, with the statement that the gentleman was in the waiting-room, james glieve requested the instant presence of henry parsons, prior to the introduction of antony. from which token it will be justly observed that the matter in hand was of importance. in james glieve's eyes it was of extreme importance, and that by reason of its being extremely unusual. some six weeks previously an unknown client had made his appearance in the person of a big clean-shaven man, by name doctor hilary st. john. henry parsons happened, this time quite by accident, to be present at the interview. the big man had made certain statements in an exceedingly business-like manner, and had then requested messrs. parsons and glieve to act on his behalf, or, rather, on behalf of the person for whom he was emissary. "but, bless my soul," james glieve had boomed amazed, on the conclusion of the request, "i never heard such a thing in my life. it--i am not at all sure that it is legal." "not at all sure that it is legal," henry parsons had echoed. the big man had laughed, recapitulated his statements, and urged his point. "i don't see how it can be done," james glieve had responded obstinately. "it can't be done," the echo had repeated with even greater assurance than the voice. "oh, yes, it can," doctor hilary had replied with greater assurance still. "see here--" and he had begun all over again. "tut, tut," james glieve had clucked on the conclusion of the third recital. "you've said all that before. i tell you, man, the whole business is too unusual. it--i'm sure it isn't legal. and anyhow it's mad. what's the name of your--er, your deceased friend?" "the name?" piped henry parsons. "nicholas danver," had been the brief response. "nicholas danver!" james glieve had almost shouted the words. "nicholas danver! god bless my soul!" and he had leant back in his chair and shaken with laughter. henry parsons, true to his rôle, had chuckled at intervals, but feebly. for the life of him he could see no cause for mirth. "oh, nick, nick," sighed james glieve, wiping his eyes after a few minutes, "i always vowed you'd be the death of me. to think of you turning up in the life of a staid elderly solicitor at this hour." henry parsons stared. and this time his voice found no echo. "well, doctor," said james glieve, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, "i suppose i--" he broke off. "this is a most respectable firm of solicitors," he remarked suddenly and almost fiercely. "we'd never dream of stooping to anything approaching fraud." "not dream of it," echoed henry. "of course not," said doctor hilary heartily. "but this----" "oh, yes, i daresay, i daresay. now then, what are your propositions?" "your propositions?" echoed henry. and a fourth time doctor hilary repeated them. at the end of a lengthy interview, james glieve opened the door of his sanctum to show doctor hilary out. "you might give my kindest remembrances--" he stopped. "bless my soul, i was just going to send my remembrances to old nick, and we've been spending the last hour settling up his will. where's my memory going! i shall probably run down in a few days, and go through matters with you on the spot. a--er, a melancholy pleasure to see the old place again. what?" henry parsons, within the room, lost this last speech; therefore it found no echo. when antony entered the private sanctum of james glieve, he saw a stout red-faced man, with a suspicion of side whiskers and a slight appearance of ferocity, seated at a desk. on his right, and insignificant by comparison, was a small grey-haired and rather dried-up man. "mr. antony gray?" queried the red-faced man, looking at antony over his spectacles. antony bowed. "you come in answer to our communication regarding the will of the--er, late mr. nicholas danver?" asked james glieve. "i do," responded antony. and he drew the said communication from his pocket, and laid it on the table. james glieve glanced at it. then he leant back in his chair, put his elbows on its arms, and placed the tips of his fingers together. "the--er, the conditions of the will are somewhat unusual," he announced. "it is my duty to set them plainly before you. should you refuse them, we are to see that you are fully recompensed for any expense and inconvenience your journey will have entailed. should you, on the other hand, accept them, it is understood that as a man of honour you will fulfil the conditions exactly, not only in the letter, but in the spirit." "in the spirit," echoed henry parsons. antony bowed in silence. "of course, should you fail in your contract," went on james glieve, "the will becomes null and void. but it would be quite possible for you to keep to the contract in the letter, while breaking it merely in the spirit, in which case probably no one but yourself would be aware that it had been so broken. you will not be asked to sign any promise in the matter. you will only be asked to give your word." "to give your word," said henry parsons, looking solemnly at antony. "yes," said antony quietly. james glieve pulled a paper towards him. "the conditions," he announced, "are as follows. i am about to read what the--er, late mr. nicholas danver has himself written regarding the matter." he cleared his throat, and pushed his spectacles back on his nose. antony looked directly at him. in spite of the business-like appearance of the room, the business-like attitude of the two men opposite to him, he still felt that odd arabian nights' entertainment sensation. the room and its occupants seemed to be masquerading under a business garb; it seemed to need but one word--if he could have found it--to metamorphose the whole thing back to its original and true conditions, to change the room into an aladdin's cave, and the two men into a friendly giant and an attendant dwarf. the only thing he could not see metamorphosed was george, the office-boy-butler. he retained his own appearance and personality. he appeared to have been brought--as a human boy, possibly--into the entertainment, and to have grown up imperturbably in it. though quite probably, under his present respectable demeanour, he was well aware of the true state of affairs, and was laughing inwardly at it. james glieve cleared his throat a second time, and began. "the conditions under which i make the aforesaid antony gray my heir," he read, "are as follows. he will not enter into possession of either property or money for one year precisely from the day of hearing these conditions. he shall give his word of honour to make known to no person whatsoever that he is my heir. he shall live, during the said year, in a furnished cottage on the estate, the cottage to be designated to him by my friend doctor hilary st. john. he will undertake that he lives in that cottage and nowhere else, not even for a day. he will live as an ordinary labourer. that this may be facilitated he will have a post as one of the under-gardeners in the gardens of chorley old hall. golding, the head-gardener, will instruct him in his duties. he will be paid one pound sterling per week as wage, and he shall pay a rent of five shillings per week for the cottage. he will undertake to use no income or capital of his own during the said year, nor receive any help or money from friends. briefly, he will undertake to make the one pound per week, which he will earn as wage, suffice for his needs. he will take the name of michael field for one year, and neither directly nor indirectly will he acquaint any one whomsoever with the fact that it is a pseudonym. in short, he will do all in his power to give the impression to everyone that he is simply and solely michael field, working-man, and under-gardener at chorley old hall. "he will make his decision in the matter within twenty-four hours, and, should his decision be in the affirmative, he will bind himself, as a man of honour to abide by it. and, further, he will proceed to byestry within one week of the decision, to take up his duties, and his residence in the aforesaid cottage. "nicholas danver. "the fifth day of march, nineteen hundred and eleven." james glieve stopped. he did not look at antony, but at the paper, which he placed on the desk in front of him. "hmm," said antony quietly and ruminatively. "you have twenty-four hours in which to make your decision," said james glieve. "twenty-four hours," said henry parsons. "i think that's as well," returned antony. he was still feeling the quite absurd desire to find the word which should metamorphose the scene before him to its true conditions. "i told you the terms of the will were unusual," said james glieve. "very unusual," emphasized henry parsons. "they are," said antony dryly. then he got up from his chair. he looked at his watch. "well, mr. glieve, it is twelve o'clock. i will let you know my decision by eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. that, i believe, will entirely fulfil the conditions?" "entirely," said james glieve. "entirely," echoed henry parsons. chapter ix the decision as soon as antony left the office, he walked down into the strand, where he took an omnibus as far as pimlico. there he dismounted, and made his way to the embankment, intending to walk back to his rooms in chelsea. he had spent the previous evening hunting for rooms solely on josephus's account. dogs, and more especially puppies, are not welcomed at hotels; also, antony considered the terms demanded for this special puppy's housing and maintenance entirely disproportionate to josephus's size and requirements. as he walked along the embankment he reviewed the situation and conditions recently placed before him. at first sight they appeared almost amusing and absurd. the whole thing presented itself to the mind in the light of some huge joke; and yet, behind the joke, lay a curious sense of inexorableness. at first he did not in the least realize what caused this sense, he was merely oddly aware of its existence. he walked with his eyes on the river, watching a couple of slowly moving barges. it was a still, sunny day. the trees on the embankment were in full leaf. scarlet and yellow tulips bedecked the window-boxes in the houses on his right. an occasional group of somewhat grubby children, generally accompanied by an elder sister and a baby in a perambulator, now and again occupied a seat. a threadbare and melancholy-looking man flung pieces of bread to a horde of sea-gulls. antony watched them screaming and whirling as they snatched at the food. they brought the _fort salisbury_ to his mind. and then, in a sudden flash of illumination, he saw precisely wherein that sense of inexorableness lay. with the realization his heart stood still; and, with it, for the same brief second, his feet. the next instant he had quickened his steps, fighting out the new idea which had come to him. it was not till he had reached his rooms, and partaken of a lunch of cold meat and salad, that he had reduced it to an entirely business-like statement. then, in the depths of an armchair, and fortified by a pipe, he marshalled it in its somewhat crude form before his brain. briefly, it reduced itself to the following:-- should he refuse the conditions attached to the will, he remained in exactly the same position in which he had found himself some four or five weeks previously; namely, in the position of owner of a small farm on the african veldt, which farm brought him in an income of some two hundred a year. in that position the dream, which had dawned within his heart on the _fort salisbury_, would be impossible of fulfilment. his life and that of the duchessa di donatello must lie miles apart, separated both by lack of money and the ocean. if, on the other hand, he accepted the conditions, a year must elapse before he made that dream known to her; and--and here lay the meaning of that sense of inexorableness he had experienced--he could give her no explanation of the extraordinary situation in which he would find himself, a situation truly calculated to create any amount of misunderstanding. to all appearances the adventure on which he had started out had brought him to an impasse, a blind alley, from which there was no favourable issue of any kind. "the whole thing is a deuced muddle," he announced gloomily, addressing himself to josephus. josephus put his paws on antony's knees, and licked the hand which was not holding the pipe. "to refuse the conditions," went on antony aloud, and still gloomily, and stroking josephus's head, "is to bring matters to an absolute deadlock, one from which i can never by the remotest atom of chance extricate myself. to accept them--well, i don't see much better chance there. how on earth am i to explain the situation to her? how on earth will she understand the fact that i remain in england, and make no attempt to see her for a year? i can't even hint at the situation. oh, it's preposterous! but to accept gives me the only possible faintest hope." and then, suddenly, a memory sprang to life within his soul. he saw again a courtyard set with small round tables and orange trees in green tubs. he heard his own voice putting a question. "what is the foundation of friendship?" it asked. "trust," came the reply, in the duchessa's voice. yet, was her friendship strong enough to trust him in such a matter? strong enough not to misunderstand his silence, his--his oddness in the whole business? and yet, was it not something like a confession of weakness of friendship on his own part, to question the endurance of hers? she had said they were friends. perhaps the very test of the strength of his own friendship was to lie in his trust of the strength of hers. and, at all events, he could write her some kind of a letter, something that would tell her of his utter inability to see her, even though he might not give the smallest hint of what that inability was. at least he could let her perceive it was by no wish of his own that he stayed away. hope revived within his heart. on the one hand there would be temporary banishment, truly. but it would be infinitely preferable to life-long exile. a year, after all, was only a year. to him the moments might, nay would, drag on leaden feet; but to her it would be but as other years, and, ordinarily speaking, they speed by at an astonishing rate. he must look to that assurance for comfort. a little odd smile twisted his lips. what, after all, did a grey year signify to him, as long as its greyness did not touch her. and why should it? the fact of his absence could not possibly bring the same blank to her as it would to him. she might wonder a little, she might even question. but had not she herself spoken of trust? with the memory of that one word for his encouragement, he took his resolution in both hands and made his decision. * * * * * perhaps, if antony had attempted to pen his letter to the duchessa before making his decision, he might have hesitated regarding making it. it was, however, not till the evening before he left town to take up his new life, that he attempted to write to her. then he discovered the extraordinary difficulty of putting into anything like coherent and convincing words the statement he had to make. he drafted at least a dozen attempts, each, to his mind, more unsatisfactory than the last. finally he wrote as follows: "dear duchessa: "since i said good-bye to you at plymouth, my affairs have undergone unexpected and quite unforeseen changes. as matters stand at present, i shall be remaining in england for some time. i had hoped to see you when you returned from scotland, but find, deeply to my regret, that i will be unable to do so, for a considerable time at all events. need i tell you that this is a great disappointment to me? i had been looking forward to seeing you again, and now fate has taken matters out of my hands. when the time comes that i am able to see you, i will write and let you know; and perhaps, if by then you have not forgotten me, you will allow me to do so. "i would like to thank you for your kindness and comradeship to me during the voyage. those days will ever remain as a golden memory to me. "having in mind your words when we lunched together in the garden of that little hotel at teneriffe, i dare to inscribe myself, "always your friend, "antony gray." it was not the letter he longed to write, yet he dared not write more explicitly. honour forbade the smallest hint at the strange position in which he found himself; diffidence held him back from writing the words his heart was crying to her. bald and flat as he felt the letter to be, he could do no better. it must go as it stood. he headed it with the address of his present rooms, giving his landlady instructions to forward all letters to the post office at byestry. one letter, bearing a scottish postmark, alone came for him after his departure. it remained for close on two months on the table of the dingy little hall. then, fearing lest antony's receipt of it should betray her own carelessness, mrs. dobbin consigned it unopened to the kitchen fire. chapter x an english cottage kingsleigh is the station for byestry, which is eight miles from it. it is a small town, not much larger than a mere village, lying, as its name designates, on the shores of the estuary, which runs from the sea up to kingsleigh. chorley old hall stands on high wooded land, about a mile from the coast, having a view across the estuary, and out to the sea itself. it was a grey day, with a fine mist of a rain descending, when antony, with josephus at his heels, stepped on to kingsleigh platform. in the road beyond the station, a number of carts and carriages, and a couple of closed buses, were collected. the drivers of the said vehicles stood by the gate through which the passengers must pass, ready to accost those by whom they had been already ordered, or pounce upon likely fares. "be yü michael field?" demanded a short wiry man, as antony, carrying an old portmanteau, and followed by josephus, emerged through the gate. for a moment antony stared, amazed. then he remembered. "i am," he replied. "that's güd," responded the man cheerfully. "'it the first nail, so to speak. t'doctor sent i wi' t'trap. coom along. got any more baggage?" antony replied in the negative. three minutes later he was seated in the trap, josephus at his feet. he turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and pulled down his tweed cap over his eyes. "bit moist-like," said the man cheerfully, whipping up his horse. antony assented. he was feeling an amazing sense of amusement. the adventurous side of the affair had sprung again to the fore, after a week of business-like detail,--writing letters of instruction to riffle to carry on with the farm till further notice, an office he was fully qualified to fulfil; making certain arrangements with lloyd's bank regarding monies to be sent out to him; buying garments suitable for the part he himself was about to play; and having one or two further interviews with messrs. parsons and glieve, in which the absolute necessity of his playing up to his rôle in every way was further impressed upon him. the one difficulty that had presented itself to his mind, was his speech. he spent several half hours conversing with himself in broadest devonshire, but finally decided that, it being the speech of the natives, he might sooner or later betray himself by some inadvertent lapse. next he attempted a colonial accent. james glieve, however, being consulted on the subject, it was firmly negatived as likely to prove unpopular. in the end he fell back on a strong irish accent. it came to him readily enough, the nurse of his childhood having hailed from the emerald isle. possibly his actual phraseology would not prove all it might be, but the devonians were not likely to be much the wiser. anyhow antony admired his own prowess in the tongue quite immensely. "sure, 'tis the foine country ye have here," quoth he presently, as, mounting a hill, they came out upon a road crossing an expanse of moorland. gorse bushes bloomed golden against a background of grey sky and atmosphere, seen through a fine veil of rain. "'tis güd enuff," said the man laconically. and antony perceived that the beauties of nature held no particular interest for him. he looked out at the wide expanses around him. mist covered the farther distances, but through it, afar off, he fancied he could descry the grey line of the sea. to the right the moorland gave place to a distant stone wall, beyond which was a wheat field; to the left it stretched away into the mist, through which he saw the dim shapes of trees. the man jerked his head to the left. "'tis over yonder is t'old hall. yü'm to be under-gardener there i heerd t'doctor say. what they'll want wi' keeping up t'gardens now i doant knoaw, and t'old squire gone. carried off mighty suddint 'e was. us said as t'journey tü lunnon ud be the death o' he. never outside t'doors these fifteen year and more, and then one fine day doctor takes he oop to lunnon to see one o' they chaps un calls a speshulist. why t'speshulist didn't come to he us can't tell. carried on a stretcher he was from t'carriage to t'train, for all the world like a covered corpse. next thing doctor coom home alone, and us hears as t'old squire be dead. i doant rightly knoaw as who 'twas was the first to tell we, for doctor, 'e doant like talking o' the business. but there 'tis, and t'lord only knows who'll have t'old place now, seeing as 'ow 'e never 'ad no wife to bear un a son. us _heerd_ as 'twould be a chap from foreign parts. 'twas jane ellen from doctor's as put that around, but us thinks her got the notion in a way her shouldn't, for her's backed out o' the sayin' o't now. says her never said nowt o' the kind. but her did. 'twas jim morris's wife her told. s'pose mr. curtis'll run t'show till t'heir turns oop. 'twont make much difference to we. he's run it the last ten year and more, and run it _hard_, i tell 'ee that. doant yü go for to get the wrong side o' spencer curtis, i warns 'ee. george standing afore 'e worn't much to boast on, but spencer curtis be a fair flint." "will he be the agent?" demanded antony, as the man paused. "'tis what 'e's _called_. 'tis master he _is_. t'old squire oughtn't never to have got a chap like 'e to do 'is jobs. 'tis cast iron 'e is. and 'twasn't never no use going to squire for to stand between him and we. 'e'd never set eyes on nobody, 'e wouldn't. if i'd my way i'd give every gentry what owns property a taste o' livin' on it same's we. 'e'd know a bit more aboot the fair runnin' o' it then." antony started. an idea, quick-born, presented itself before him. was it possible, was it conceivable, that this very thought had been in the old squire's mind when he drew up those extraordinary conditions? antony nearly laughed aloud. verily it was an absurdity, though one that nicholas danver most assuredly could not have guessed. yet that he--antony--should require a further year's enlightenment as to the shifts to which the poor were put to make both ends meet, as to the iron hand of agents and over-seers! truly it was laughable! he'd had experience enough and to spare,--he smiled grimly to himself,--experience such as an english farm-labourer earning a pound a week, even with a wife and children to keep, and all odds against him, could never in the remotest degree aided by the wildest flights of imagination, conceive. in england water at least is always obtainable. antony had visions of the jealous husbanding of a few drops of hot moisture in a sunbaked leather bottle. in england the law at least protects you from bodily ill-treatment at the hands of agent or overseer. antony had visions--but he dismissed them. there was a chapter or two in his life which it was not good to recall. they were descending now, driving between the high banks and hedges of a true devonshire lane. primroses starred the banks, though in less profusion than they had been a fortnight earlier; bluebells and pink campion grew among them, and the feathery blossom of the cow-parsley. turning to the left at the foot of the lane, the hedge on the right was lower. over it, and across an expanse of sloping fields dotted here and there with snow-white hawthorn bushes, antony saw the roofs of houses and cottages, and, beyond them, the sea. it lay grey and tranquil under an equally grey sky. a solitary fishing smack, red-sailed, made a note of colour in the neutral atmosphere of sea and sky. to the right was a gorse-crowned cliff; to the left, and across the estuary, a headland ran far out into the water. "byestry," said the man, nodding in the direction of the roofs. "us doant go down into t'place. yü'm to have widow jenkins's cottage, her as died back tü christmas. 'tis a quarter o'mile or so from t'town, and 'twill be that mooch nearer t'old hall. yü see yon chimbleys by they three elms yonder? 'tis doctor's house. yü'm tü go there this evenin' aboot seven o'clock 'e bid me tell 'ee. where was yü working tü last?" the question came abruptly. for one brief second antony was non-plussed. then he recovered himself. "'tis london i've just come from," he replied airily enough. "i've been doing a bit on my own account lately." "hmm," replied the man. "i reckon if i'd been workin' my own jobs, i'd not take an under post in a hurry. but yü knoaws your own business best. t'last chap as was underest gardener oop tü t'hall got took on by folks living over exeter way. he boarded wi' t'blacksmith and his wife. maybe yü'm a married man?" "i am not," said antony smiling. "not got a maid at all?" queried the other. antony shook his head. the man opened his eyes. "lord love 'ee, what do un want wi' a cottage, then! yü'd best be takin' oop wi' a wife. there's a sight of vitty maids tü byestry, and 'tis lonesome like comin' home to an empty hearth and no supper. there's rose darell, her's a güd maid, and has a bit o' money; or jenny horswell, her's a bit o' a squint, but is a fair vitty maid tü t'cleanin'; or vicky mathers, her's as pretty as a picter, but her's not the money nor the house ways o' rose or jenny," he ended with thoughtful consideration. antony laughed, despite the fact that inwardly he was not a trifle dismayed. he had no mind to have the belles of byestry thus paraded for his choice. work, he had accepted with the conditions, but a wife was a very different matter. "sure, i'm not a marryin' man at all, i am not," he responded, a hypocritical sigh succeeding to the laugh. "crossed?" queried the man. "ah, well, doan't 'ee go for to get down on your luck for one maid. there's as güd blackberries hangin' on t'bushes as ever was plucked from them. and yü'm tü young a chap tü be thinkin' o' yürself as a sallybat, and so i tells 'ee." antony smothered a spasm of laughter. "it's not women folk i'm wanting in my life," responded he, still with hypocritical gloom. "tis kittle cattle they be, and that's sartain, sure," replied the other, shaking his head. "but 'twas a rib out o' the side o' adam the first woman was, so t'scripture do tell we, and i reckon us men folk do feel the lack o' that rib nowadays, till us gets us a wife." antony was spared an answer, a fact for which he sent up devout thanks. they had made another leftward turn by now, and come upon a cottage set a little way back from the road,--a cottage with a wicket gate between two hedges, and a flagged path leading up to a small porch, thatched, as was the cottage. "here us be," said the man. antony's heart gave a sudden big throb of pleasure. the little place was so extraordinarily english, so primitive and quaint. true, the garden was a bit dilapidated looking, the apple trees in the tiny orchard to the left of the cottage quite amazingly old and lichen grown; but it spelled england for him, and that more emphatically than any other thing had done since his arrival in the old country. antony dismounted from the trap, then lifted josephus and his bag to the ground. this done, he began to feel in his pocket for some coins. the man saw the movement. "that bain't for yü," he replied shortly, "t' doctor will settle wi' i." and antony withdrew his hand quickly, feeling he had been on the verge of a lapse. "here's t'key," remarked the man. "and if yü feel like a pipe one o' these evenin's, yü might coom down tü t'village. my place is over opposite t'post office. i be t'saddler. yü'll see t'name allbut george over t'shop." antony thanked mr. albert george, and then watched the patriotically named gentleman turn his horse, and drive off in the direction of the coast. when the trap had vanished from sight, he heaved a sigh of relief. "josephus," he remarked, "it will need careful practice and wary walking, but i fancy i did pretty well." and then he opened the garden gate. he walked up the little path, and fitted the key with which allbut george had provided him, into the lock. he turned it, and pushed open the door. it gave at once into a small but cheerful room, brick-floored, with a big fireplace at one side. an oak settle stood by the fireplace; a low seat, covered with a somewhat faded dimity, was before the window; there was a basket-chair, two wooden chairs, a round table, a dresser with some highly coloured earthenware crockery on it, a corner cupboard, and a grandfather's clock. there was a door behind the settle to the right of the fireplace, and, in the opposite corner, stairs leading to a room or rooms above. antony put his bag down on the table and went to investigate the door. it led into a tiny scullery or kitchen, provided solely with a small range, a deal table, a chair, a sink, and a pump. in one corner was a box containing some pieces of wood. in another corner was a galvanized bucket, a broom, and a scrubbing-brush. he glanced around, then came back into the sitting-room, and made his way to the stairs. they led direct into a bedroom, a place furnished with a camp bed covered with a red and brown striped blanket; a small, somewhat rickety oak chest of drawers, a rush-bottomed chair, a small table, a corner washstand, and a curtain, which hid pegs driven into the wall. a door led into a small inner room over the kitchen scullery. antony opened the door. the room was empty. widow jenkins had had no use for it, it would appear. or, so antony suddenly thought, perhaps all widow jenkins's furniture had been removed, and what at present occupied the place had been put there solely on his account. he crossed to the window, and pushed it back. it looked on to a tiny vegetable garden, in much the same state of neglect as the front garden, and was separated from a field yellow with buttercups by a low hawthorn hedge. beyond the field was a tiny brook; and, beyond that again, a copse. there was not a sound to break the silence, save the dripping of the rain from the roof of the cottage, and, in the distance, the low sighing note of the sea. the silence was emphasized by the fact that for the last week antony had had the hum of traffic in his ears, and had but this moment come from the noise of trains and the rattle of a shaky dog-cart. he still leaned there looking out. it was even more silent than the veldt. there were no little strange animal noises to break the silence. nothing but that drip, drip of the rain, and that soft distant sighing of the sea. a curious sense of loneliness fell upon him, a loneliness altogether at variance with the loneliness of the veldt. he could not have defined wherein the difference lay, yet he was well aware that there was a difference. it was one of those subtle differences, exceedingly apparent to the inner consciousness, yet entirely impossible to translate into terms of speech. the nearest approach he could get to anything like a definition of it, was that it was less big, but more definitely poignant. beyond that he did not, or could not, go. for some five minutes or so he leant at the little casement window, gazing at the gold of the buttercups seen through a blurred mist of rain. then he pulled the window to, and came down into the parlour. the hands of the grandfather's clock pointed to ten minutes to five. antony, remembering the box of wood in the scullery, bethought himself of a cup of tea. his bag contained all the requirements. long practice had taught him to provide himself with necessities, and also, on occasions, to substitute lemon for milk, as a complement to tea. he was just about to go and fetch a handful of sticks, preparatory to lighting a fire, when he heard the click of his garden gate. turning, and looking through the window, he saw a big man coming up the path. chapter xi doubts doctor hilary was returning from his rounds. his state of mind was nearly as grey as the atmosphere. it is one thing to agree to a mad-brained scheme in the first amused interest of its propounding, even to mould it further, and bring it into shape. it is quite another to be actually confronted with the finished scheme, to realize that, though you may not be its veritable parent, you have at all events foster-fathered it quite considerably, and that, moreover, you cannot now, in conscience, cast off responsibility in its behalf. the fact that you had excellent reasons for adopting the scheme in the first place, will doubtless be of comfort to your soul, but that particular species of comfort and ordinary everyday common sense are not always as closely united as you might desire. in fact they are occasionally apt to pull in entirely opposite directions, a method of procedure which is far from consoling. doctor hilary found it far from consoling. conscience told him quite plainly that his real and innermost reason for foster-fathering the scheme was simply and solely for the sake of snatching at any mortal thing that would, or could, bring interest into an old man's life. common sense demanded why on earth he had not suggested an alternative idea, something a trifle less mad. and it was mad. there did not now appear one single reasonable point in it, though very assuredly there were quite a vast number of unreasonable ones. in the first place, and it seemed to him nearly, if not quite, the most unreasonable point, nicholas had known nothing whatever about the young man he had elected to make his heir,--nothing, that is, beyond the fact that he had known the young man's father, and had once seen antony himself when antony was a child. there had even been very considerable difficulty in obtaining knowledge of his whereabouts. in the second place, it appeared quite absurd to appoint the young man to the position of under-gardener at the hall. it was more than probable that he knew nothing whatever about gardening. it was true that, if he did not, he could learn. but then golding, the head gardener, might not unreasonably find matter for amazement and comment in the fact that a young and ignorant man, who was paid a pound a week and allowed to rent a furnished cottage, should be thrust upon him, rather than an experienced man, or an ignorant boy who would have received at the most eight shillings a week, and have lived at his own home. amazement and comment were to be avoided, that had been nicholas's idea, and yet, to doctor hilary's mind they ran the risk of being courted from the outset. in the third place, how was it likely that a man of education--and it had been ascertained that antony was a university man--could comport himself like a labourer in any position,--gardener, farm-hand, or chauffeur? the conditions had stated that he was to do so. but could he? there was the point. the more doctor hilary thought about the conditions, the madder they appeared to him. yet, having undertaken the job of carrying the mad scheme through, he could not possibly back out at the eleventh hour. he could only hope for the best, but it must be confessed that he was not exceedingly optimistic about that best. and further, he was not exceedingly optimistic about the young man. he could imagine himself, in a like situation, consigning nick and his conditions to the nether regions; certainly not submitting meekly to a year's effacement of his personality for the sake of money. such conditions would have enraged him. no; he was not optimistic regarding the man. he pictured him as either a bit of a fawner, who would cringe through the year, or a keen-headed business man, who would go through it with a steel-trap mouth, and an eye to every weakness in his fellow-workers. certainly neither type he pictured appealed to him. yet he felt confident he would find one of the two, and had already conceived a strong prejudice against antony gray. from which regrettable fact it will be seen that he was committing the sin of rash judgment. it was not altogether surprising, therefore, that his mood was nearly as grey as the atmosphere. he sighed heavily, and shook his head, somewhat after the fashion of a big dog. reasons, partly mental, partly physical were responsible for the shake. in the first place it was an attempt to dispel mental depression; in the second place it was to free his eyebrows and eyelashes from the rain drops clinging to them, since the rain was descending in a grey misty veil. with the shake, an idea struck him. why not confront the embodied scheme at once? why not interview this preposterous young man without delay, and be done with it? he gave a brief direction to his coachman. five minutes later saw him standing at the gate of copse cottage, his dog-cart driving away down the lane. it had been his own doing. he had said he would walk home. an idiotic idea! what on earth had suggested it to him? however, it was done now. he pushed open the gate, and walked up the little flagged path. chapter xii concerning michael field antony, having seen a figure approaching the door, opened it, and confronted a big, rugged-faced man, who looked at him somewhat grimly. "michael field?" demanded the big man briefly. "sure, 'tis my name," he replied cheerfully. "you'll be doctor hilary, i'm thinking. won't you be coming in out of the wet." he flung wide the door on the words. "george found you all right?" queried doctor hilary stepping across the threshold. he appeared totally oblivious of the fact that antony's presence made the success of george's search fairly obvious. "he did that," returned antony pushing forward a chair, but making no attempt to sit down himself. the impulse had been upon him. memory had awakened just in time. doctor hilary was silent. the reality was so entirely different from his preconceived notions. the cheerful, clean-shaven young man, with the irish accent, standing before him in an attitude of quite respectful, but not in the least subservient attention, was at such complete variance with either of his two imaginary types, that he found his attitude of grimness insensibly relaxing. "did george speak to you regarding your work?" he demanded suddenly. he couldn't for the life of him, think of anything else to say. "well," returned antony thoughtfully considering, "he asked me about my last place, and i told him i'd been working on my own account. thereupon he expressed surprise that i should now be taking an under post, but remarked with vast wisdom that every man knew his own business best." "hmm," said doctor hilary. "he also," continued antony, his eyes twinkling, "was for giving me advice on matrimony, and mentioned three 'vitty maids' he could produce for my inspection. i told him," continued antony solemnly, though his eyes were still twinkling, "that i was not a marrying man at all." doctor hilary found the twinkle in antony's eyes gaining response in his own. he was such a remarkably cheerful young man, and so confiding. "hmm," he remarked again. "he said nothing else i suppose? expressed no surprise at your being chosen for the post, instead of a local man?" "he did not," responded antony, replying to the last question. "it would seem that he thought any appointment to the post unnecessary, in view of the fact that the hall was at present untenanted." "and you replied--?" asked doctor hilary. "sure, i had no opinion to offer," said antony. "it was not my affair at all. he talked, but i said little." "a good principle," remarked doctor hilary approvingly, "and one i should advise you to adhere to. your accent is all right, but your--your speech is a trifle fluent, if i may make the suggestion." antony laughed pleasantly. he was now made sure of the fact of which he had been already tolerably certain, namely, that this big, rugged-faced man was fully aware of the conditions of the will, and his own identity. "sure, 'tis we irish have the gift o' the gab," he returned apologetically, "but i'll be remembering your advice." there was a little silence. it was broken by antony. "i was for making a cup of tea when you came up the path, sor. will you be having one with me? it'll not take beyont ten minutes or so to get a fire going, and the water boiling. that is, if you'll be doing me the honour, sor," he concluded gravely. doctor hilary laughed outright. he watched antony disappear into the scullery, to reappear with a bundle of sticks and a log. he watched him kneeling by the fire, manipulating them deftly. he watched him fill a kettle with water, and put it on the fire, set cups on the table, then open his bag, and produce bread, butter, a packet of tea, and a lemon. it was extraordinary what an alteration his sentiments had undergone since entering copse cottage. every trace of prejudice had vanished. there was, in his mind, something pathetic in the skill, evidently born of long practice, with which this tall lean man made his preparations for the little meal. from watching the man, doctor hilary turned his attention to the room. it was fairly comfortable, at all events, if not in the least luxurious. but the inevitable loneliness of the life that would be led within its walls, struck him with a curious forcefulness. "do you know anything of gardening?" he demanded suddenly, breaking the silence. "sure, it's little i don't know," returned antony. "'twas a bit of wild earth my garden was before i took it in hand. now there's peach trees, and nectarines, and plum trees in it, and all the vegetables any man could be wanting, and flowers fit for a queen's drawing-room. there's roses as big as your fist. oh, 'tis a fine garden it is out on--" he broke off, "out beyont," he concluded. "on the veldt," suggested doctor hilary quietly. "'twas the veldt i was after meaning," responded antony smiling, "but i thought 'twould be as well to get my tongue used to forgetting the sound of the word, lest it should slip out some fine day, when i wasn't meaning it to at all." "wise, anyhow," agreed doctor hilary, and he too smiled. "but you understand that i--well, i happen to know all the circumstances of this arrangement." antony laughed. "i was thinking as much," he confessed. "i wonder--" began doctor hilary. and then he stopped. he had been about to wonder aloud as to why on earth antony should have accepted the conditions, why he should have exchanged the freedom and untrammelled spaces of the veldt for the conventional life of england, even with the hall and a goodly income, at the end of the year, to the balance. he knew most assuredly that nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand would have done so, and he knew that he himself was the thousandth who would not. his exceedingly brief acquaintance with antony had given him the impression that he, also, was a thousandth man. "you wonder--?" queried antony. "i wonder how you'll like the life," said doctor hilary, though it was not precisely what he had originally intended to say. "'tis england," said antony briefly. "is that your sole reason for accepting the life?" asked doctor hilary curiously. antony looked him full in the eyes. "it is not," he replied smiling. and then he turned to the kettle, which was on the point of boiling over. of course it was a rebuff. but it was a perfectly polite one. and oddly--or, perhaps, not oddly--doctor hilary did not resent it in the least. on the contrary, he respected the man who had administered it. "there's no milk," said antony presently, pouring tea into two cups. "can you be putting up with a lemon?" "i like it," doctor hilary assured him. after the meal they smoked together, making remarks now and again, interspersed with little odd silences, which, however, appeared quite natural and friendly. josephus, who at the outset had viewed the entry of the big man on the scene with something akin to disapproval, now walked solemnly over to him, stood on his hind legs, and put his fore paws on doctor hilary's knees. "a token of approval," said antony. and then another of the odd little silences fell. "you will report yourself to golding at half-past seven on monday morning," said doctor hilary some quarter of an hour later, as he rose to take his leave. "he lives at the lodge about five minutes' walk up the road. you'll find the place all right. you will take all instructions as to your work from him. if you should wish to see me personally at any time regarding anything, you will usually find me at home in the evening." antony touched his forehead in the most approved style. "i thank you, sor," he responded. doctor hilary smiled. "well, good luck to you. it will be better--of course, from now onward, we must remember that you are michael field, under-gardener at the hall." "'tis a good name," said antony solemnly. "sure, i'm downright obliged to me godfathers and godmothers for giving me such a one." again doctor hilary smiled. "oh, and by the way," he said, "how about money." antony felt in his pockets. he produced two florins, a sixpence, and a halfpenny. he looked at them lying in the palm of his hand. then he looked whimsically at the doctor. "i don't know whether the possession of these coins breaks the spirit of the contract. i'm thinking 'twill hardly break the letter. 'tis all i have." the doctor laughed. "i fancy not," he replied. "i'd better give you your first week's wage in advance. you'll need to lay in provisions. there's a general store in byestry. perhaps you'll want to do a little in the purchasing line. remember, to-morrow is sunday." he laid a sovereign on the table, and a moment later the garden gate clicked to behind him. antony went back into the little parlour. chapter xiii a discovery the morning broke as fair, as blue-skied, as sunny, as the previous day had been gloomy, grey-skied, and wet. the song of a golden-throated lark was the first sound that antony heard, as he woke to find the early morning sunshine pouring through the open casement window. he lay very still, listening to the flood of liquid notes, and looking at the square of blue sky, seen through the window. now and again an ivy leaf tapped gently at the pane, stirred by a little breeze blowing from the sea, and sweeping softly across buttercupped meadow and gorse-grown moorland. once a flight of rooks passed across the square blue patch, and once a pigeon lighted for an instant on the windowsill, to fly off again on swift, strong wings. he lay there, drowsily content. for that day at least, there was a pleasant idleness ahead of him, nothing but his own wants to attend to. the morrow would see him armed with spade and rake, probably wrestling with weeds, digging deep in the good brown earth, possibly mowing the grass, and such like jobs as fall to the lot of an under-gardener. antony smiled to himself. well, it would all come in the day's work, and the day's work would be no novel master to him. the open air, whether under cloud or sunshine, was good. after all, his lot for the year would not be such a bad one. he was in the mood to echo the praises of that brown-feathered morsel pouring forth its lauds somewhere aloft in the blue. suddenly the song ceased. the bird had come to earth. for a moment or so longer antony lay very still, listening to the silence. then he flung back the bed-clothes, went to the window, and looked out. he looked across the tiny garden, and the lane, to a wild-rose hedge; fragile pink blossoms swayed gently in the breeze. beyond the hedge was a field of close-cropped grass, dotted here and there with sheep. to the left a turn in the lane, and the high banks and hedges, shut further view from sight. to the right, and far below the cottage, across meadows and the hidden village of byestry, lay the sea. it lay blue and sparkling, flecked with a myriad moving specks of gold, as the sunshine fell on the dancing water. he had seen it at close quarters last night, from the little quay, seen it smooth and grey, its breast heaving now and then as if in gentle sleep. to-day it was awake, alive, and buoyant. he must get down to it again. it was inviting him, smiling, dimpling, alluring. he made a quick but exceedingly careful toilet. antony was fastidious to a degree in the matter of cleanliness. earth dirt he had no objection to; slovenly dirt was as abhorrent to him as vice. josephus, who had slept in the parlour, accorded him a hearty welcome on his descent of the narrow steep little stairs, intimating that he was every whit as ready to be up and doing as was his master. the sunshine, the blithesomeness of the morning was infectious. you felt yourself smiling in accord with its smiles. antony flung wide the cottage door. a scent of rosemary, southernwood, and verbena was wafted to him from the little garden,--clean, old-fashioned scents, english in their very essence. anon he had more commonplace scents mingling with them,--the appetizing smell of fried sausages, the aromatic odour of freshly made coffee. josephus found himself in two minds as to the respective merits of the attractions without, and the alluring odours within. finally, after one scamper round the garden, he compromised by seating himself on the doorstep, for the most part facing the sunshine, but now and again turning a wet black nose in the direction of the breakfast table and frying-pan. an hour or so later he was giving himself wholeheartedly to the grassy and rabbitty scents dear to a doggy soul, as he scampered in the direction of byestry with his master. occasionally he made side tracks into hedges and down rabbit holes, whence at a whistle from antony, he would emerge innocent in expression, but utterly condemned by traces of red earth on his black nose and white back. there was a lazy sundayish atmosphere about the village as antony passed through it, with josephus now at his heels. men lounged by cottage doors, women gossiped across garden fences. the only beings with an object in view appeared to be children,--crimp-haired little girls, and stiffly-suited small boys, who walked in chattering groups in the direction of a building he rightly judged to be a sunday-school. a little farther on, a priest was standing by the door of a small barn-like-looking place with a cross at one end. antony vaguely supposed it to be a church, and thought, also vaguely, that it was the oddest-looking one he had ever seen. he concluded that byestry was too small to boast a larger edifice. on reaching the quay he turned to the right, walking along a cobbled pavement, which presently sloped down to the beach and a narrow stretch of firm smooth sand, bordered by brown rocks and the sea on one side, and a towering cliff on the other. the tide was going down, leaving the brown rocks uncovered. among them were small crystal pools, reflecting the blue of the sky as in a mirror. sea spleenwort and masses of samphire grew on the cliffs to his right. no danger here to the would-be samphire gatherer; it could be plucked from the safety of solid earth, with as great ease as picking up shells from the beach. after some half hour's walking, antony turned a corner, bringing him to a yet lonelier beach. looking back, he found byestry shut from his view,--the cliffs behind him, the sea before him, the sky above him, stretches of sand around him, and himself alone, save for josephus, and sea-gulls which dipped to the water or circled in the blue, and jackdaws which cried harshly from the cliffs. he sat down on the sand, and began to fill his pipe. it was extraordinarily lonely, extraordinarily peaceful. there was no sinister note in the loneliness such as he had experienced in the vast spaces of the african veldt, but a reposefulness, a quiet rest which appealed to him. the very blueness of the sky and sparkle of the sunshine was tender after the brazen glitter of the african sun. turning to look behind him, he saw that here the cliff was grass-covered, sloping almost to the beach, and among the grass, hiding its green, were countless bluebells, a sheet of shimmering colour. two lines of tennyson's came suddenly into his mind. and the whole isle side flashing down with never a tree swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea. the island of flowers and the island of silence in one, he felt the place to be, and no fear of fighting, with himself as sole inhabitant. so might the islands have been after maeldune had renounced his purpose of revenge, after he had returned from the isle of the saint who had spoken words of peace. he lost count of time. a pleasant waking drowsiness fell upon him, till at length, seeing that the sun had reached its zenith, he realized that it must be noon, and began to consider the advisability of retracing his steps. he got to his feet, whistling to a white speck in the distance, which he rightly judged to be josephus, and set out on his homeward route. * * * * * the village appeared deserted, as he once more reached it. doubtless the sunday dinner, which accounts so largely for sunday sleepiness, was in progress. coming to the small barn-like-looking building which he had noticed earlier in the morning, and seeing that the door was open, he looked in. the air was heavy with the scent of incense. it needed only a moment's observation to tell him that he was in a catholic church. a curtained tabernacle stood on the little altar, before which hung a ruby lamp. the building was too small to allow of two altars, but at one side was a statue of our lady, the base surrounded with flowers, since it was the month of may. near the porch was a statue of st. peter. antony looked curiously around. it was the third time only that he had entered a catholic church, the second time being at teneriffe with the duchessa. ordering josephus to stay without, he walked up the little aisle, and sat down in one of the rush-seated chairs near the sanctuary. he hadn't a notion what prompted the impulse, but he knew that some impulse was at work. he looked towards the sanctuary. mass had been said not long since, and the chalice covered with the veil and burse was still on the altar. antony hadn't a notion of even the first principles of the catholic faith, not as much as the smallest catholic child; but he felt here, in a measure, the same sense of home as he knew the duchessa to have felt in the church at teneriffe. oddly enough he did not feel himself the least an intruder. there was almost a sense of welcome. from looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblong pieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. he looked down at the piece which denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. and then he found himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. on the pasteboard four words were written,--the duchessa di donatello. he gazed at the words hardly able to believe the sight of his own eyes. what odd coincidence, what odd impulse had brought him to her very chair? it was extraordinary, unbelievable almost. and then another thought flashed into his brain, making his heart stand still. a door to the left opened, and a priest came out. he looked momentarily at antony, then went into the sanctuary, genuflected, took the covered chalice from the altar, genuflected again, and went back into the sacristy, leaving the door partly open. antony got suddenly to his feet. he went towards the sacristy. the priest, hearing the sound of steps, opened the door wide. "excuse me," said antony, "but can you tell me where woodleigh is?" his irish brogue was forgotten. "certainly," replied the priest. "it is about two miles from here, inland." he looked rather curiously at the man, who, though labourer by his dress, yet spoke in an obviously refined voice. he waited, perhaps expecting some further question. "that was all i wanted to know," said antony. "thank you." he turned back into the church. father dormer looked after him. there was a puzzled look in his eye. antony came out of the church and into the sunlight. he called to josephus, who was busy with the investigation of a distant smithy, and turned up the street, walking rather quickly. chapter xiv honor vincit his brain was working rapidly, the while he felt a curious leaden sensation at his heart. he had never even contemplated the possibility of the duchessa living in the neighbourhood, though he now marvelled why he had never happened to question her as to the exact locality of woodleigh. of course he knew, and assured himself that he knew, that the chances were all against any probability of their meeting. how was it likely they should meet, seeing that she was a _grande dame_, and he merely an under-gardener at the hall? of course it was not probable. nevertheless there was just the faintest chance. he couldn't deny that remote chance. and if they did meet, and she should recognize him?--there was the question. explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. and what would she think? wouldn't it be conceivable, nay, wouldn't it be natural that she should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to her friendship a man, who, to her eyes, would appear one of inferior birth? wouldn't his behaviour on the _fort salisbury_ appear to her in the light of a fraud? wouldn't his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterous presumption on his part? how could it be expected that she should see beneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddle of appearances? it was such an inconceivable situation, such an altogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren't for the vague possibility of the--to him--tragedy he now saw involved in it. it was this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leaden sensation at his heart. he tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran no possible risk of coming face to face with the duchessa, in spite of the fact that the manor house woodleigh lay but two miles distant. but the assurances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towards cheering it. and yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almost indefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note of exultation. though he had no smallest desire for her to set eyes on him, might not he set eyes on her? and yet, if he did, would the joy in the sight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in the knowledge that word with her was forbidden. he realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what her advent into his life meant to him. bodily separation for a year had been possible to contemplate. even should it extend to a lifetime, he would still have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. but should mental separation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in her eyes, he felt that his very soul would die. even memory would be lost to him, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. and then, with the characteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confront contingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to face with a temptation. should the emergency he contemplated arise, was there not a simple solution of it? she was quick-witted, she might quite conceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. would not the tiniest hint suffice for her? the merest possible inflection of his voice? * * * * * he had reached his cottage by now. he went in and shut the door. he sat down on the oak settle, staring at the little casement window opposite to him, without seeing it. it appeared to him that there were voices talking within his brain or soul,--he didn't know which,--while he himself was answering one of them--the loudest. the loudest voice spoke quite cheerfully, and was full of common sense. it urged him to abandon the consideration of the whole matter for the present; it told him that the probability of his meeting the duchessa was so extraordinarily remote, that it was not worth while torturing his mind with considerations of what line of action he would take should the emergency arise. should it do so, he could act then as his conscience prompted. he found himself replying to this voice, speaking almost stubbornly. he had got to fight the matter out now, he declared. he had got to decide absolutely definitely what course of action he intended to pursue, should the emergency he feared arise. he was not going to leave matters to chance and be surprised into saying or doing something he might either way afterwards regret. he knew the danger of not making up his mind beforehand. to which the loud voice responded with something like a sneer, telling him to have it his own way. and then it remained mockingly silent, while another and more insidious voice began to speak. the insidious voice told him quite gently that this emergency might indeed arise; it pointed out to him the quite conceivable events that might occur from it; it assured him that it had no possible desire that he should break his promise in any way. he was not to dream of giving any explanation to the duchessa, but that he would owe it to himself, _and to her_, to give her the faintest hint that at a future date he _could_ give her an explanation. that was all. there would be no breaking of his promise. she could not possibly even guess at what that explanation might be. she would merely realize that _something_ underlay the present appearances. the proposition sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly just. his own common sense told him that there could be no harm in it. it was the rightful solution of the difficulty, arrived at by silencing that first loud voice,--the voice which had clearly wished him to abandon all consideration of the matter, that he might be surprised into giving a full explanation of the situation. antony drew a long breath of relief. after all, he had been torturing himself needlessly. she herself had spoken of trust. should that trust totter for an instant, would not the faintest possible hint be sufficient to re-establish it on a firm basis? with the thought, the little square of casement window came back once more to his vision. he saw through it an old-fashioned rose bush of crimson roses in the garden; he heard a bird twitter, and call to its mate. the abnormal had vanished, reduced itself once more to plain wholesome common sense. and then suddenly, and without warning, a sentence flashed through his brain. * * * * * antony sat up, clenching his hands furiously between his knees. it was absurd, preposterous. there was no smallest occasion to take those words in such a desperately literal sense. "in short, he will do all in his power to give the impression that he is simply and solely michael field, working-man, and under-gardener at chorley old hall." the words rang as clearly in his brain as if there were someone in the room speaking them aloud. once more the window vanished. there were no voices speaking now; there was only a curious and rather horrible silence, in which there was no need for voices. the faintest little whine from josephus aroused him. it was long past the dinner hour, and racing the sands is exceedingly hungry work. antony's eyes came back from the window. his face was rather white, and his mouth set in a straight line. but there was an oddly triumphant look in his eyes. "i think a meal will do us both good, old man," he said with a little whimsical smile. and he began getting down plates from the dresser. chapter xv in the garden some fifteen or more years ago, the gardens of chorley old hall were famous for their beauty. they still deserved to be famous, and the reason that they were so no longer, arose merely from the fact that they had become unknown, had sunk into obscurity, since no one but the actual inmates of the hall, doctor hilary, and the gardeners themselves ever set eyes on them. yet golding, being an artist at heart, cared for them for pure love of the work, rather than for any kudos such care might bring him. had he read poetry with as great diligence as he read works on horticulture, he would possibly have declared his doctrine to be found in the words:-- work thou for pleasure, paint, or sing or carve the thing thou lovest, though the body starve. who works for glory misses oft the goal, who works for money coins his very soul. work for the work's sake, and it may be that these things shall be added unto thee. certain it is that the gardens under his care were as beautiful as gardens may be. where trimness was desirable, they were as neat, as well-ordered, as stately as some old-world lady; where nature was allowed fuller sway, they luxuriated in a very riot of mad colour,--pagan, bacchanalian almost, yet in completest harmony, despite the freedom permitted. before the house, beyond a rose-embowered terrace, a wide lawn, soft as thickest velvet, terminated in two great yews, set far apart, a sundial between them, and backgrounded by the sea and sky. to right and left were flower borders brilliant in colour, against yew hedges. still farther to the right was the tangle garden, where climbing roses, honeysuckle, and clematis roamed over pergolas and old tree stumps at their own sweet will and fancy. beyond the yew hedge on the left was another garden of yews, and firs, and hollies. a long avenue ran its full length while white marble statues, set on either side, gleamed among the darkness of the trees. the end of the avenue formed a frame for an expanse of billowing moorland, range upon range of hills, melting from purple into pale lavender against the distant sky. behind the house was another and smaller lawn, broken in the middle by a great marble basin filled with crystal water, whereon rested the smooth flat leaves of water-lilies, and, in their time, the big white blossoms of the chalice-like flowers themselves. a little fountain sprang from the marble basin, making melodious music as the ascending silver stream fell back once more towards its source. fantailed pigeons preened themselves on the edge of the basin, and peacocks strutted the velvet grass, spreading gorgeous tails of waking eyes to the sun. beyond the lawn, and separated from it by an old box hedge, was an orchard, where, in the early spring, masses of daffodils danced among the rough grass, and where, later, the trees were covered with a sheet of snowy blossoms--pear, cherry, plum, and apple. a mellow brick wall enclosed the orchard, a wall beautified by small green ferns, by pink and red valerian, and yellow toadflax. behind the wall lay the kitchen gardens and glass houses, which ended in another wall separating them from a wood crowning the heights on which chorley old hall was situated. had antony had a free choice of english gardens in which to work, it is quite conceivable that he had chosen these very ones in which fate, or nicholas danver's conditions, had placed him. in an astonishingly short space of time he was taking as great a pride in them as golding himself. it is not to be supposed, however, that, at the outset, golding was over-pleased to welcome a young man, who had been thrust upon him from the unknown without so much as a by your leave to him. for the first week or so, he eyed the cheerfully self-contained young gardener with something very akin to suspicion, merely allotting to him the heavy and commonplace tasks which antony had foreseen as his. antony made no attempt to impress golding with the fact that his knowledge of fruit growing, if not of floriculture, was certainly on a level with his own. it was mere chance that brought the fact to light,--the question of a somewhat unusual blight that had appeared on a fruit tree. antony happened to be in the vicinity of the peach tree when golding was remarking on it to another gardener. five minutes later, the second gardener having departed, antony approached golding. he respectfully mentioned the nature of the blight, and suggested a remedy. it led to a conversation, in which golding's eyes were very considerably opened. he was not a man to continue to indulge in prejudice merely because it had formerly existed in his mind. he realized all at once that he had found a kindred spirit in antony, and a kind of friendship between the two, having its basis on horticulture, was the result. not that he showed him the smallest favouritism, however. that would have been altogether outside his sense of the fitness of things. there were moments when antony found the situation extraordinarily amusing. leaning on his spade, he would look up from some freshly turned patch of earth towards the old grey house, a light of humorous laughter in his eyes. virtually speaking the place was his own already. the months ahead, till he should enter into possession, were but an accidental interlude, in a manner of speaking. he was already planning a little drama in his own mind. he saw himself sauntering into the garden one fine morning, with josephus at his heels. "ah, by the way, golding," he would say, "i'm thinking we might have a bed of cosmos in the southern corner of the tangle garden." it would do as well as any other remark for a beginning, and he _would_ like a bed of cosmos. he could picture golding's stare of dignified amazement. "are you giving orders?" he could imagine his querying with dry sarcasm. "if you don't mind," antony heard himself answering. "though if you _have_ any objection to the cosmos--" and he would pause. golding would naturally think that he had taken leave of his senses. "under the impression you're master here, perhaps?" golding might say. anyhow those were the words antony put into his mouth. "i just happen to have that notion," antony would reply pleasantly. "since when?" golding ought to ask. "the _notion_," antony would reply slowly, "has been more or less in my mind since a year ago last march. i am not sure whether the _fact_ dated from that month, or came into actuality this morning." there his imagination would fail him. there would be an interim. then the scene would conclude by their having a drink together, golding looking at antony over his glass to utter at slow intervals. "well, i'm jiggered." it was so possible a little drama, so even probable a little drama, it is small wonder that antony found himself chuckling quietly every now and then as he considered it. the only thing was, that he wanted it to hurry up, and that not solely for his own sake, nor for the sake of his secret hopes, nor for the sake of watching golding's amazed face during the enactment of the little drama, but quite largely for the sake of the big grey house, which lay before him. it looked so terribly lonely; it looked dead. it was like a flower-surrounded corpse. that there actually was life within it, he was aware, since he had once seen a white-haired man at a window, who, so a fellow-gardener had informed him on being questioned later, must have been the old butler. he and his wife had been left in charge as caretakers. all the other indoor servants had been dismissed by doctor hilary on his return from that fateful journey from london. somehow the man's presence at the window had seemed but to emphasize the loneliness, the odd corpse-like atmosphere of the house. it was as if a face had looked out from a coffin. antony never had nearer view of either the butler or his wife. tradespeople called for orders, he believed; but, if either the man or woman ever sought the fresh air, it must be after the work in the gardens was over for the day. antony liked to picture himself restoring life to the old place. now and again he allowed himself to see a woman aiding him in the pleasant task. he would picture her standing by the sundial, looking out towards the sparkling water; standing by the marble basin with white pigeons alighted at her feet, and peacocks strutting near her; walking among the marble statues, with a book; passing up the wide steps of the solitary house, taking with her the sunshine of the garden to cheer its gloom. his heart still held hope as its guest. he had put the thought of that possible emergency from him on the same afternoon as he had decided on his course of action, should it arise. he never crossed bridges before he came to them, as the saying is. he might recognize their possible existence, he might recognize the possibility of being called upon to cross them, even recognize to the full all the unpleasantness he would find on the other side. having done so, he resolutely refused to approach them till driven thereto by fate. he found a delight, too, in his little english cottage, in his tiny orchard, and tinier garden. each evening saw him at work in it, first clearing the place of weeds, reducing it to something like order; later, putting in plants, and sowing seeds. each sunday morning saw him walking the lonely beach with josephus, and, when mass was over, seeking the little church where the duchessa had formerly worshipped, and would worship again. added to the quite extraordinary pleasure he felt in sitting in her very chair, was strange sense of peace in the little building. father dormer became quite accustomed to seeing the solitary figure in the church. of course later, antony knew, it might be desirable that these visits should cease, but till the end of june, at all events, he was safe. on saturday and sunday afternoons and evenings he took long walks inland, exploring moorland, wood, and stream, and recalling many a childish memory. he found the pond where he had endangered his life at the instigation of the fair-haired angel, whose name he could not yet recall. the pond had not shrunk in size as is usual with childhood's recollections; on the contrary it was quite a large pond, a deep pond, and he found himself marvelling that he had ever had the temerity to attempt to cross it on so insecure a bark as a mere log of wood. possibly the angel had been particularly insistent, and, despite the fact that he was a good many years her senior, he had feared her scorn. he found the wood where he and she had been caught kneeling by the pheasant's nests. it had been well for him that the contents had not already been transferred to his pockets. the crime had been in embryo, so to speak, performed, by good chance, merely in intention rather than in deed. now the wood was a mass of shimmering bluebells, and alive with the notes of song birds. antony would lie at full length on the moss, listening to the various notes, dreamily content as his body luxuriated in temporary idleness. as the afternoon passed into evening the sound of a church bell would float up to him from the hidden village. he had discovered by now another church, on the outskirts of the village, an old stone edifice dating from long before the times of the so-called reformation. it never claimed him as a visitor, however: it held no attraction for him as did the little barn-like building on the quay. the sound of the bell would rouse him to matters present, and he would return to his cottage to prepare his evening meal, after which he sat in the little parlour with pipe and book. thus quietly the days passed by. may gave place to june, with meadows waist high in perfumed grass, and hedges fragrant with honeysuckle, while antony's thoughts went more frequently out to woodleigh and the duchessa's return. he had seen the little place from the moorland, looking down into it where it lay in a hollow among the trees. he had seen the one big house it boasted, white-walled and thatch-roofed, half-hidden by climbing roses. before many days were passed the duchessa would be once more within it. chapter xvi a meeting and as the end of june drew nearer, antony found himself once more contemplating a possible meeting with the duchessa, contemplating, also, the worst that meeting might hold in store. an odd, indefinable restlessness was upon him. he told himself quite plainly that, in all probability before many weeks, many days even, were passed, there would be a severance of that friendship which meant so much to him. he forced himself to realize it, to dwell upon it, to bring consciously home to his soul the blankness the severance would bring with it. there was a certain relief in facing the worst; yet he could not always face it. there was the trouble. now and then a hope, which he told himself was futile, would spring unbidden to his heart, establish itself as a radiant guest. yet presently it would depart, mocking him; or fade into nothingness leaving a blank greyness in its stead. uncertainty--though reason told him none was existent--tantalized, tormented him. and then, when certainty came nearest home to him, he knew he had still to learn the final and definite manner of its coming. that it must inevitably be preceded by moments of soul torture he was aware. yet what precise form would that soul torture take? he put the query aside. he dared not face it. once, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, gazing through the small square of his window at the star-powdered sky without, an odd smile had twisted his lips. pain, bodily pain, had at one time been his close companion for weeks, he had then fancied he had known once and for all the worst of her torments. he knew now that her dealings with the body are quite extraordinarily light in comparison to her dealings with the mind. and this was only anticipation. * * * * * one saturday afternoon he started off for a walk on a hitherto untried route. it was in a direction entirely opposite to woodleigh, which he now wished to avoid. half an hour's walking brought him to a wide expanse of moorland, as lonely a spot as can well be imagined. behind him lay byestry and the sea; to his left, also, lay the sea, since the coast took a deep turn northwards about three miles or so to the west of byestry; to the right, and far distant, lay woodleigh. before him was the moorland, covered with heather and gorse bushes. about half a mile distant it descended in a gentle decline, possibly to some hidden village below, since a broadish grass path, or species of roadway bearing wheel tracts, showed that, despite its present loneliness, it was at times traversed by human beings. antony sat down by a gorse bush, whose golden flowers were scenting the air with a sweet aromatic scent. mingling with their scent was the scent of thyme and heather, and the hot scent of the sunbaked earth. bees boomed lazily in the still air, and far off was the faint melodious note of the ever-moving sea. the sun was hot and the droning of the bees drowsy in its insistence. after a few moments antony stretched himself comfortably on the heather, and slept. a slight sound roused him, and he sat up, for the first moment barely realizing his whereabouts. then he saw the source of the sound which had awakened him. coming along the grass path, and not fifty paces from him, was a small pony and trap, driven by a woman. antony looked towards it, and, as he looked, he felt his heart jump, leap, and set off pounding at a terrible rate. in two minutes the trap was abreast him, and the little dartmoor pony was brought to a sudden standstill. antony had got to his feet. "mr. gray," exclaimed an astonished voice, though very assuredly there was a note of keen delight mingled with the astonishment. antony pulled off his cap. "fancy meeting you here!" cried the duchessa di donatello. "why ever didn't you let me know that you were in these parts? or, perhaps you have only just arrived, and were going to come and see me?" there was the fraction of a pause. then, "i've been at byestry since the beginning of may," said antony. "at byestry," exclaimed the duchessa. "but why ever didn't you tell me when you wrote, instead of saying it was impossible to come and see me?" "i didn't know then that woodleigh and byestry lay so near together," said antony. and then he stopped. what on earth was he to say next? the duchessa looked at him. there was an oddness in his manner she could not understand. he seemed entirely different from the man she had known on the _fort salisbury_. yet--well, perhaps it was only fancy. "you know now, anyhow," she responded gaily. "and you must come and see me." then her glance fell upon his clothes. involuntarily a little puzzlement crept into her eyes, a little amazed query. "what are you doing at byestry?" she asked. the question had come. antony's hand clenched on the side of the pony-trap. "oh, i'm one of the under-gardeners at chorley old hall," he responded cheerfully, and as if it were the most entirely natural thing in the world, though his heart was as heavy as lead. "what do you mean?" queried the duchessa bewildered. "just that," said antony, still cheerfully, "under-gardener at chorley old hall." "but why?" demanded the duchessa, the tiniest frown between her eyebrows. "because it is my work," said antony briefly. there was a moment's silence. "but i don't quite understand," said the duchessa slowly. "you--you aren't a labourer." antony drew a deep breath. "that happens to be exactly what i am," he responded. "what do you mean, mr. gray?" there was bewilderment in the words. "exactly what i have said," returned antony almost stubbornly. "i am under-gardener at chorley old hall, or, in other words, a labourer. i get a pound a week wage, and a furnished cottage, for which i pay five shillings a week rent. my name, by the way, is michael field." the duchessa looked straight at him. "then on the ship you pretended to be someone you were not?" she asked slowly. antony shrugged his shoulders. "that was the reason you wrote and said you couldn't see me?" again antony shrugged his shoulders. the duchessa's face was white. "why did you pretend to be other than you were?" she demanded. antony was silent. "i suppose," she said slowly, "that, for all your talk of friendship, you did not trust me sufficiently. you did not trust my friendship had i known, and therefore you deliberately deceived me all the time." still antony was silent. "you really meant to deceive me?" there was an odd note of appeal in her voice. "if you like to call it that," replied antony steadily. "what else can i call it?" she flashed. there was a long silence. "i should be grateful if you would not mention having known me as antony gray," said antony suddenly. "i certainly do not intend to refer to that unfortunate episode again," she replied icily. "as far as i am concerned it will be blotted from my memory as completely as i can wipe out so disagreeable an incident. will you, please, take your hand off my trap." antony withdrew his hand as if the trap had stung him. the duchessa touched the pony with her whip, antony stood looking after them. when, once more, the moorland was deserted, he sat down again on the heather. josephus, returning from a rabbit hunt more than an hour later, found him still there in the same position. disturbed by something queer in his deity's mood, he thrust a wet black nose into his hand. the touch roused antony. he looked up, half dazed. then he saw josephus. "i've done it now, old man," he said. and there was a queer little catch in his voice. chapter xvii at the manor house the duchessa di donatello was sitting at dinner. silver and roses gleamed on the white damask of the table-cloth. the french windows stood wide open, letting in the soft air of the warm june evening. through the windows she could see the lawn surrounded by elms, limes, and walnut trees. the sun was slanting low behind them, throwing long blue shadows on the grass. a thrush sang in one of the elm trees, a brown songster carolling his vespers from a topmost branch. at the other end of the table sat a kindly-faced middle-aged woman, in a grey dress and a lace fichu fastened with a large cameo brooch. she was miss esther tibbutt, the duchessa's present companion, and one-time governess. now and then she looked across the table towards the duchessa, with a little hint of anxiety in her eyes, but her conversation was as brisk and unflagging as usual. "i hope you had a nice drive this afternoon, my dear. and did clinker go well?" clinker was the dartmoor pony. the duchessa roused herself. she was evidently preoccupied about something, thought miss tibbutt. "oh, yes, very well. and he has quite got over objecting to the little stream by crossways." miss tibbutt nodded approvingly. "i thought he would in time. so you went right over the crossways. which way did you come home?" "over stagmoor," said the duchessa briefly. "stagmoor," echoed miss tibbutt. "my dear, that _is_ such a lonely road. i should have been quite anxious had i known. supposing you had an accident it might be hours before any one found you. i suppose you didn't see a soul?" "oh, just one man," returned the duchessa carelessly. "a labourer i suppose," queried miss tibbutt. "yes, only a labourer," responded the duchessa quietly. miss tibbutt was silent. she had a vague feeling of uneasiness, and yet she did not know why she had it. she was perfectly certain that something was wrong; and, whatever that something was, it had occurred between the time pia had set off in the pony-cart with clinker after lunch, and her return, very late for tea, in the evening. also, pia had said she didn't want any tea, but had gone straight to her room. and that was unlike her,--certainly unlike her. it would have been far more natural for her to have ordered a fresh supply, and insisted on miss tibbutt sharing it with her, quite oblivious of the fact that she had already had all the tea she wanted, and was going to eat again at a quarter to eight. "i walked over to byestry," said miss tibbutt presently. "yes, i know it was very hot, but i walked slowly, and took my largest sunshade. i wanted to get some black silk to mend one of my dresses. i saw father dormer. he was very glad to hear that you were back. i told him you had only arrived on thursday, and i had come on the tuesday to get things ready for you. my dear, he told me mr. danver is dead." "mr. danver," exclaimed the duchessa, her preoccupation for the moment forgotten. "yes. i wonder none of the servants happened to mention it. but i suppose they forgot we didn't know, and probably they have forgotten all about the poor man by now. it's sad to think how soon one _is_ forgotten. it appears he went to london in march with doctor hilary to consult a specialist and died the day after his arrival in town. perhaps the journey was too much for him. i should think it might have been, but doctor hilary would know best, or perhaps mr. danver insisted on going. anyhow the place is in the hands of caretakers now; the butler and his wife are looking after it till the heir turns up, whoever he may be. there's a rumour that he is an american, but no one seems to know for certain. but they must be keeping the garden in good order. golding is staying on, and the other men, and they've just got another under-gardener." she paused. "have they?" said the duchessa carelessly, and a trifle coldly. nevertheless a little colour had flushed into her cheeks. "i'm afraid you think i'm a terrible gossip," said miss tibbutt apologetically. "i really don't mean to be. but in a little place, little things interest one. i am afraid i did ask father dormer a good many questions. i hope he didn't--" and she broke off anxiously. "you dear old tibby," smiled the duchessa, "i'm sure he didn't. nobody thinks you're a gossip. gossiping is talking about things people don't want known, and generally things that are rather unkind, to say the least of it. you're the soul of honour and charity, and father dormer knows that as well as everyone else." "oh, my dear!" expostulated miss tibbutt. "but i'm glad you think he didn't----" the duchessa got up from the table. "of course he didn't. let us go into the garden, and have coffee out there. the fresh air will blow away the cobwebs." miss tibbutt followed the duchessa through the french window and across the wide gravel path, on to the lawn. the duchessa led the way to a seat beneath the lime trees. the bees were droning among the hanging flowers. "have you any cobwebs in your mind, my dear?" asked miss tibbutt as they sat down. "why do you ask?" queried the duchessa. "oh, my dear! i don't know. you said that about cobwebs, you see. and i thought you seemed--well, just a little preoccupied at dinner." there was a little silence. "tell me," said miss tibbutt. "there's nothing to tell," said the duchessa lightly. "a rather pretty soap-bubble burst and turned into an unpleasant cobweb, that's all. so--well, i've just been brushing my mind clear of both the cobweb and the memory of the soap-bubble." "you're certain it--the cobweb--isn't worrying you now?" asked miss tibbutt. "my dear tibby, it has ceased to exist," laughed the duchessa. it was a very reassuring little laugh. miss tibbutt knew it to be quite absurd that, in spite of it, she still could not entirely dispel that vague sense of uneasiness. it spoilt the keen pleasure she ordinarily took in the garden, especially in the evening and most particularly in the month of june. she had a real sentiment about the month of june. from the first day to the last she held the hours tenderly, lingeringly, loath to let them slip between her fingers. there were only three more days left, and now there was this tiny uneasiness, which prevented her mind from entirely concentrating on the happiness of these remaining hours. and then she gave herself a little mental shake. it was, after all, a selfish consideration on her part. if there were cause for uneasiness, she ought to be thinking of pia rather than herself, and if there were no cause--and pia had just declared there was not--she was being thoroughly absurd. she gave herself a second mental shake, and looked towards the house, whence a young footman was just emerging with a tray on which were two coffee cups and a sugar basin. he put the tray down on a small rustic table near them, and went back the way he had come, his step making no sound on the soft grass. "i wonder what it feels like to be a servant, and have to do everything to time," she said suddenly. "it must be trying to have to be invariably punctual." now, as a matter of fact, miss tibbutt was exceedingly punctual, but then it was by no means absolutely incumbent upon her to be so; she could quite well have absented herself entirely from a meal if she desired. that, of course, made all the difference. "you are punctual," said the duchessa laughing. "i know. but it wouldn't in the least matter if i were not. you could go on without me. you couldn't very well go on if dale had forgotten to lay the table, or if morris had felt disinclined to cook the food." "no," agreed the duchessa. and then, after a moment, she said, "anyhow there are some things we have to do to time--mass on sundays and days of obligation, for instance." miss tibbutt nodded. "oh, of course. but that's generally only once a week. besides that's different. it's a big voice that tells one to do that--the voice of the church. the other is a little human voice giving the orders. i know, in a sense, one ought to hear the big voice behind it all; but sometimes one would forget to listen for it. at least, i know i should. and then i should simply hate the routine, and doing things--little ordinary everyday things--to time. i'd just love to say, if i were cook, that there shouldn't be any meals to-day, or that they should be an hour later, or an hour earlier, to suit my fancy." the duchessa laughed again. "my dear tibby, it's quite obvious that your vocation is not to the religious life. fancy you in a convent! i can imagine you suggesting to the reverend mother that a change in the time of saying divine office would be desirable, or at all events that it should be varied on alternate days; and i can see you going off for long and rampageous days in the country, just for a change." miss tibbutt shook her head. "oh, no!" she said gravely. "i should hear the big voice there." "you'd hear it speak through quite a number of human voices, anyhow," returned the duchessa. there was a silence. she wondered what odd coincidence had led tibby to such a subject. if it were not a coincidence, it must be a kind of thought transference. almost unconsciously she had been seeing a tall, thin, brown-faced man marching off in the early morning hours to his work in a garden. she had seen him busy with hoe and spade, till the bell over the stables at the hall announced the dinner hour. she had seen him again take up his implements at the summons of the same bell, working through the sunshine or the rain, as the case might be, till its final evening dismissal. above all, she had seen him taking his orders from golding, a well-meaning man truly, and an exceedingly capable gardener, but--well, she pictured antony as she had seen him in evening dress on the _fort salisbury_, as she had seen him throwing coppers to the brown-faced girl outside the cathedral at teneriffe, as she had seen him sitting in the little courtyard with the orange trees in green tubs, and the idea of his receiving and taking orders from golding seemed to her quite extraordinarily incongruous. yet until miss tibbutt had introduced the subject, she had been more or less unaware of these mental pictures. "besides," she remarked suddenly, and quite obviously in continuation of her last remark, "it entirely depends on what you have been brought up to, i mean, of course as regards the question of being a servant. the question of a religious is entirely different." "oh, entirely," agreed miss tibbutt promptly. "you can always get another place as a servant if you happen to dislike the one you are in." "yes," said the duchessa, slowly and thoughtfully. a sudden little anxious pang had all at once stabbed her somewhere near the region of the heart. would that be the effect of that afternoon's meeting? most assuredly she hoped it would not be, and equally assuredly she had no idea she was hoping it; verily, her feeling towards antony was one of mingled anger, indignation, and mortified pride. once more there was a silence,--a silence in which miss tibbutt sat stirring her coffee, and looking towards the reflection of the sunset sky seen through the branches of the trees opposite. suddenly she spoke, dismayed apology in her voice. "oh, my dear, i'm so sorry, i quite forgot. a letter came for you this afternoon. i put it down on the little round table in the drawing-room window, meaning to give it to you when you came in. but you went straight to your room, and so i forgot it. i will get it at once." "nonsense," said the duchessa lightly, "i will get it. i don't suppose for an instant that it is important." she got up and went across the lawn. in a minute or two she returned, an open letter in her hand. "it's from trix," she announced as she sat down again, "she wants to know if she can come down here at the beginning of august." miss tibbutt literally beamed. "how delightful!" she exclaimed. "trix has never stayed with you here. you will like having her." "dear trix," said the duchessa. "i do so enjoy trix," remarked miss tibbutt fervently. "so do most people," smiled the duchessa. chapter xviii a dream and other things it is perfectly amazing to what a degree the physical conditions of the atmosphere appear to be bound up with one's own mental atmosphere. in the more ordinary nature of things, the physical conditions will act on the mental, sending your mind up to the point marked gaiety when the sun shines, dropping it down to despair--or, at any rate, down to dulness--when the skies are leaden. also, in more extreme cases, the mental conditions will act on the physical, if not actually, at least with so good a show of reality as to appear genuine. if you are thoroughly unhappy--no mere, light, passing depression, mind you--it matters not at all how brilliant the sunshine may be, it is nothing but grey fog for all you see of it. if, on the other hand, you are in the seventh heaven of joy, the grey clouds are suffused with a golden light of radiance. but these are extreme cases. it was an extreme case with antony. despite the sunshine which lay upon the earth, despite the singing of the birds in the early morning, and at evening, despite the flowers which displayed their colours and lavished their scents around him as he worked, the world might have been bathed in fog for all he saw of its brightness. hope had taken unto herself wings and fled from him, and with her joy had departed. he felt a queer bitterness towards his work, a bitterness towards the garden and the big grey house, and most particularly towards the man who had lived in it, and who was responsible for his present unhappiness. he had none towards the duchessa. but then, after all, he appeared in her eyes as a fraud, the thing of all others he himself most detested. he could not possibly blame her for her attitude in the matter. yet all the time, he had a queer feeling of something like remorse for his present bitterness; it was almost as if the garden and the very flowers themselves were reproaching him for it, reminding him that they were not to blame. and then a little incident suddenly served to dispel his gloom, at all events in a great measure. it was a slight incident, a trivial incident, merely an odd dream. nevertheless, having in view its oddness, and--unlike most dreams--its curious connectedness, also its effect on antony's spirit, it may be well to record it. he dreamt he was walking in a garden. he knew it was the garden of chorley old hall, though there was something curiously unlike about it, as there often is in dreams. the garden was full of flowers, and he could smell their strong, sweet scent. at one side of the garden--and this, in spite of that curious unlikeness, was the only distinctly unlike thing about it--was a gate of twisted iron. he was standing a long way from the gate, and he was conscious of two distinct moods within himself,--an impulse which urged him towards the gate, and something which held him back from approaching it. suddenly, from another direction, he saw a woman coming towards him. recognition and amazement fell upon him. she was the same small girl he had played with in his boyhood, and whose name he could not remember, but grown to womanhood. she came towards him, her fair hair uncovered, and shining in the sunshine. as she reached him she stood still. "antony," she cried in her old imperious way, "why don't you go to the gate at once? she is waiting to be let in." "who is waiting?" he demanded. "go and see," she retorted. and she went off among the flowers, turning once to laugh back at him over her shoulder. antony stood looking after her, till she disappeared in the distance. then he went slowly towards the gate. as he came near it, he saw a figure standing outside. but he could not see it distinctly, because, curiously enough, though the garden was full of sunshine, it was dark outside the gate, as if it were night. "who are you?" asked antony. the figure made no reply. "what do you want?" he asked. still the figure made no reply. antony felt his heart beating quickly, madly. and then, suddenly from a distance behind him, he heard a gay mocking voice. "why don't you open the gate, silly? can't you hear her knocking?" still antony stood irresolute, though he heard little taps falling on the iron. "open it, open it," came the sweet mocking voice, this time with a suspicion of pleading in it. antony went towards the gate. a great key was sticking in the iron lock. he took hold of it and found it needed the strength of both his hands to turn. then he flung the gate wide open. the figure moved slowly through the gate, and into the full sunshine. "antony," she said smiling. "you! you at last!" he cried. and he woke, to find he had cried the words aloud. he sat up in bed. a white pigeon was on the sill outside his window, tapping with its beak on the glass. of course it was an entirely trifling incident, and probably he was superstitious to attach any real importance to it. nevertheless it had a very marked influence on his spirits. doubtless it was as well it had, since about this time a certain happening occurred, which, though it did not precisely depress him, most assuredly caused him considerable anger and indignation. in spite of the somewhat hermit-like life he led, he nevertheless had something of an acquaintance with his fellow-creatures. among these fellow-creatures there was one, job grantley, a labourer on the home farm, possessed of a pretty, rather fragile wife, and a baby of about three months old. antony had a kindly feeling for the fellow, and often they exchanged the time of day when meeting on the road, or when job chanced to pass antony's garden in the evening. one evening antony, busy weeding his small flagged path, saw job in the road. "good evening," said antony; and then he perceived by the other's face, that matters were not as they might be. "sure, what's amiss with the world at all?" demanded antony, going down towards the gate. "it's that fellow curtis," said job briefly, leaning on the gate. "and what'll he have been up to now?" asked antony. it would not be the first time he had heard tales of the agent. job kicked the gate. "says he's wanting my cottage for a chauffeur he's getting down from bristol, and i'm to turn out at the end of august." "devil take the man!" cried antony. "why can't his new chauffeur be living in the room above the garage, like the old one?" job grunted. "because this one's a married man." "and where are you to go at all?" demanded a wrathful antony. "he says i can have the cottage over to crossways," said job. "he knows 'tis three mile farther from my work. but that's not all. 'tis double the rent, and i can't afford it. and that's the long and short of it." antony dug his hoe savagely into the earth. "why can't he be putting his own chauffeur there, and be paying him wage enough for the higher rent?" he asked. "why can't he?" said job bitterly. "because he won't. he's had his knife into me ever since march last, when i paid up my rent which he thought i couldn't do. i'd been asking him for time; then the last day--well, i got the money. i wasn't going to tell him how i got it, and he thought i'd been crying off with no reason. see? now he thinks he can force me to the higher rent. 'tis a bigger cottage, but 'tis so far off, even well-to-do folk fight shy of the extra walk, and so it's stood empty a year and more. now he's thinking he'll force my hand." antony frowned. "what'll you do?" he demanded. "the lord knows," returned job gloomily. "if i chuck up my work here, how do i know i'll get a job elsewhere? if i go to the other place i'll be behind with my rent for dead certain, and get kicked out of that, and be at the loss of ten shillings or so for the move. i've not told the wife yet. but i can see nought for it but to look out for a job elsewhere. wish i'd never set foot in this blasted little devonshire village. wish i'd stayed in my own parts." antony was making a mental survey of affairs, a survey at once detailed yet rapid. "look here," said he, "i'd give a pretty good deal to get even with that old skinflint, i would that. you and your wife just shift up along with me. there's an extra room upstairs with nothing in it at all. we'll manage top hole. sure, 'twill be fine havin' me cooking done for me. you can be giving me the matter of a shilling a week, and let the cooking go for the rest of the rent. what'll you be thinking at all?" now, the offer was prompted by sheer impulsive kind-heartedness, wedded to a keen indignation at injustice. yet it must be confessed that a sensation exceeding akin to dismay followed close on its heels. of his own free will he was flinging his privacy from him, and hugging intrusion to his heart. job shook his head. "you'll not stand it," said he briefly. "we don't say anything, but we know right enough you're a come down. you didn't start in the same mould as the rest of us." "rubbish," retorted antony on a note of half-anger and wholly aghast at the other's perspicacity. "i'm the same clay as yourself." "a duke's that," declared job, "but the mould's different." "saints alive!" cried antony, "it's no matter what the mould may be. sure, it's just a question of what it's been used for at all. my mould has been used for labour since i was little more than a boy, and stiffer labour than this little smiling village has dreamt of, that's sure. besides, think of your wife and child, man." job hesitated, debated within his soul. "it's them i am thinking of," he said; "i could fend for myself well enough, and snap my fingers at curtis and his like." "then, 'tis settled," said antony with amazing cheerfulness. there was a silence. "well," said job at last, "if you're in the same mind a week hence, but don't you go for doing things in a hurry-like, that you'll repent later." "'tis settled now," said antony. "tell your wife, and snap your fingers at that old curmudgeon." nevertheless despite his cheery assurance, he had a very bitter qualm at his heart as, an hour or so later, he looked round his little cottage, and realized, even more forcibly, precisely what he had done. "never mind," he told himself and josephus with a good show of bravery, "it's not for a lifetime. and, hang it all, a man's mere comfort ought to give way before injustice of that kind." thus he buoyed himself up. and then another aspect of affairs arose. no one knew how the matter of the intended arrangement leaked out. job vowed he'd mentioned it to no one but his wife; his wife vowed she mentioned it to no one but job. perhaps they spoke too near an open window. be that as it may, antony, again at work in his garden one evening, became aware of mr. curtis looking at him over the little hedge. "good evening," said mr. curtis smoothly. "good evening," returned antony equally smoothly, and going on with his work. "i hear you're thinking of taking in lodgers," said mr. curtis blandly. "sure now, that's interesting hearing," returned antony pleasantly, and wondering who on earth had babbled. "perhaps," said mr. curtis, still blandly, "i was misinformed. i heard the grantleys were moving up here. i daresay it was merely an idle rumour." "sure it may have been," returned antony nonchalantly, and sticking his spade into the ground. "it must have been," said mr. curtis thoughtfully. "all lodging houses are rented at ten shillings a week, even unfurnished small ones, not five shillings. besides grantley is only getting a pound a week wage. he can't afford to live in apartments, unless he's come in for a fortune. if he has i must look out for another man. men with fortunes get a trifle above themselves, you know. besides he'd naturally not wish to stay on. but of course the whole thing's merely a rumour. i'd contradict it if i were you. good evening." he walked up the lane smiling. "you bounder," said antony softly, looking after him. "just you wait till next march, my friend." he left his spade stuck into the earth, and went back into the cottage. half an hour later, he was walking quickly in the direction of byestry. * * * * * doctor hilary was in his surgery, when he was told that michael field had asked if he could see him. he went at once to the little waiting-room. antony rose at his entrance. "good evening, sor," he said, touching his forehead. "can you be sparing me five minutes' talk?" "by all means," said doctor hilary. "sit down." antony sat down. in a few brief words he put the grantley affair before him. "well?" said doctor hilary, as he finished. "well," queried antony, "can nothing be done?" doctor hilary shook his head. "i am not the agent. i have no voice in the management of the estate." "then you can do nothing?" "i am afraid not." "thank you," said antony, "that's all i wanted to know." he got up. "sit down again," said doctor hilary. antony sat down. "what do you mean to do?" asked doctor hilary quietly. antony looked directly at him. "the only thing i can do. i'll get that extra rent to job somehow. he mustn't know it comes from me; i must think out how to manage. but, of course, that's merely a make-shift in the business. i wanted the injustice put straight." doctor hilary looked through the window behind antony. "let me advise you," said he, "to do nothing of the kind." "why not?" the words came short and rather quick. "because mr. curtis means to get rid of grantley. he has got his knife into him, as grantley said. your action would merely postpone the evil day, and make it worse in the postponement. job grantley had better go." "and how about another job?" demanded antony. doctor hilary shrugged his shoulders. "he must see what he can find." "well of all the--" began antony. and then he stopped. after all, he'd seen enough injustice in his time, to be used to it. "you're honest in saying i would make it worse for job if i tried to help him?" he asked. "perfectly honest," said doctor hilary with an odd little smile. antony again got up from his chair. "all right," and his voice was constrained. "i'll not be keeping you any longer, sor." doctor hilary went with him to the door. "i'm sorry about this business," he said. "are you?" said antony indifferently. doctor hilary went back to his surgery. "he didn't believe me," he said to himself, "small wonder." he pulled out his note-book and made a note in it. then he shut the book and put it in his pocket. "anyhow," he said, "it's the kind of thing we wanted." the memorandum he had entered, ran:-- "write sinclair _re_ grantley." chapter xix trix on the scene "tibby, angel, what's the matter with pia?" trix devereux was sitting on the little rustic table beneath the lime trees, smoking a cigarette. miss tibbutt was sitting on the rustic seat, knitting some fine lace. the ball of knitting cotton was in a black satin bag on her lap. trix had arrived at woodleigh the previous day, two days earlier than she had been expected. a telegram had preceded her appearance. it was a lengthy telegram, an explicit telegram. it set forth various facts in a manner entirely characteristic of trix. firstly, it announced her almost immediate arrival; secondly, it remarked on the extraordinary heat in london; and thirdly it stated quite clearly her own overwhelming and instant desire for the nice, fresh, cool, clean, country. "trix is coming to-day," the duchessa had said as she read it. "how delightful!" miss tibbutt had replied instantly. and then, after a moment's pause, "there will be plenty of food because father dormer is dining here to-night." the duchessa had laughed. it was so entirely like tibby to think of food the first thing. "i know," she had replied. and then reflectively, "i think it might be desirable to telephone to doctor hilary and ask him to come too. it really is not fair to ask father dormer to meet three solitary females." a second time miss tibbutt had momentarily and mentally surveyed the contents of the larder, and almost immediately had nodded her entire approval of the idea. she most thoroughly enjoyed the mild excitement of a little dinner party. "tibby, angel, what's the matter with pia?" the question fell rather like a bomb, though quite a small bomb, into the sunshine. "matter with pia," echoed miss tibbutt. "what do you think, my dear?" "that," said trix wisely, "is precisely what i am asking you?" miss tibbutt laid down her knitting. "but do you think anything _is_ the matter?" she questioned anxiously. "i don't think, i know," remarked trix succinctly. miss tibbutt took off her spectacles. "but she is so bright," she said. trix nodded emphatically. "that's just it. she's too bright. oh, one can overdo the merry light-hearted rôle, i assure you. and then, to a new-comer at all events, the cloak becomes apparent. but haven't you the smallest idea?" miss tibbutt shook her head. "not the least," she announced. "i fancied one evening shortly after she returned here, that something was a little wrong. i remember i asked her. she talked about soap-bubbles and cobwebs but said there weren't any left." "of which," smiled trix. "soap-bubbles or cobwebs?" "oh, cobwebs," said miss tibbutt earnestly. "or was it both? she said,--yes, i remember now just what she did say--she said that a pretty bubble had burst and become a cobweb. and when i asked her if the cobweb were bothering her, she said both it and the bubble had vanished. so, you see!" this last on a note of triumph. "hmm," said trix ruminative, dubious. "bubbles have a way of taking up more space than one would imagine, and their bursting sometimes leaves an unpleasant gap. the bursting of this one has left a gap in pia's life. you haven't, by any chance, the remotest notion of its colour?" "its colour?" queried miss tibbutt. trix laughed. "nonsense, tibby, angel, nonsense pure and simple. but all the same, i wish i knew for dead certain." "so do i," said miss tibbutt anxiously, though she hadn't the smallest notion what advantage a knowledge of the colour would be to either one of them. trix dabbed the stump of her cigarette on the table. "well, don't let her know we think there's anything wrong. if you want to remain wrapped up in the light-hearted cloak, nothing is more annoying than having any one prying to see what's underneath,--unless it's the right person, of course. and we're not sure that we are--yet. we must just wait till she feels like giving us a peep, if she ever does." a silence fell. miss tibbutt took up her knitting again. trix hummed a little air from a popular opera. presently miss tibbutt sighed. trix left off humming. "what's the matter, tibby?" miss tibbutt sighed more deeply. "i'm afraid it's my fault," she said. "what's your fault?" demanded trix. "i've not noticed pia. i thought everything was all right after what she said. i ought to have noticed. i've been too wrapped up in my own affairs. perhaps if i'd been more sympathetic i should have found out what was the matter." trix laughed, a happy amused, comfortable little laugh. "oh, tibby, you angel, that's so like you. you always want to shoulder the blame for every speck of wrong-doing or depression that appears in your little universe. women like you always do. it's an odd sort of responsible unselfishness. that doesn't in the very least express to any one else what i mean, but it does to myself. you never allow that any one else has any responsibility when things go wrong, and you never take the smallest share of the responsibility--or the praise, rather--when things go right." miss tibbutt laughed. in spite of her queer earnestness over what seemed--at all events to others--very little things, and her quite extraordinary conscientiousness--some people indeed might have called it scrupulosity--she had really a keen sense of humour. she was always ready to laugh at her own earnestness as soon as she perceived it. she was not, however, always ready to abandon it, unless it were quite, quite obvious that she had really better do so. and then she did it with a quick mental shake, and put an odd little mocking humour in its place. "but, my dear, one generally is responsible, and that just because my universe is so small, as you justly pointed out. but i always believe literally what any one says. i don't in the least mean that pia said what was not true. of course she thought she had swept away the cobweb and the bubble, and i've no doubt she did. but it left a gap, as you said. i ought to have seen the gap and tried to fill it." trix shook her head. "you couldn't, tibby, if the bubble were the colour i fancy. only the bubble itself, consolidated, could do that." "oh, my dear, you mean--?" said miss tibbutt. "just that," nodded trix. "it was bound to happen some time. pia is made to give and receive love. she was too young when she married to know what it really meant. and, well, think of those years of her married life." "i thought of them for seven years," said miss tibbutt quietly. "you don't think i've forgotten them now?" trix's eyes filled with quick tears. "of course you haven't. i didn't mean that. what i do mean is that i suppose she thought she had got the real thing then, and all the young happiness in it was destroyed in a moment. then came those seven terrible years. for an older woman perhaps there would have been a self-sacrificing joy in them; for pia, there was just the brave facing of an obvious duty. she was splendid, of course she was splendid, but no one could call it joy. now, somehow, she's had a glimpse of what real joy might be. and it has vanished again. i don't know how i know, but it's true. i feel it in my bones." again there was a silence. then: "what can we do?" asked miss tibbutt simply. trix laughed, though her eyes were grave. "you, angel, can pray. of course i shall, too. but i'm going to do quite a lot of thinking, and keeping my eyes open as well. and now i am going right round this perfectly heavenly garden once more, and then, i suppose, it will be time to dress for dinner." swinging herself off the table, she departed waving her hand to miss tibbutt before she turned a corner by a yew hedge. "dear trix," murmured miss tibbutt. chapter xx moonlight and theories the little party of two men and two women were assembled in the drawing-room. trix had not yet put in an appearance. but, then, the dinner gong had not sounded. trix invariably saved her reputation for punctuality by appearing on the last stroke. miss tibbutt and father dormer were sitting on the sofa; pia was in an armchair near the open window, and doctor hilary was standing on the hearthrug. his dress clothes seemed to increase his size, and he did not look perfectly at home in them; or, perhaps, it was merely the fact that he was so seldom seen in them. doctor hilary in a shabby overcoat or loose tweeds, was the usual sight. father dormer was a tallish thin man, with very aquiline features, and dark hair going grey on his temples. at the moment he and miss tibbutt were deep in a discussion on rose growing, a favourite hobby of his. deeply engrossed, they were weighing the advantages of the scent of the more old-fashioned kinds, against the shape and colour of the newer varieties, with the solemnity of two judges. "they're pretty equally balanced in my garden," said father dormer. "i can't do without the old-fashioned ones, despite the beauty of the newer sorts. i've two bushes of the red and white--the york and lancaster rose. i was a lancashire lad, you know." and then the first soft notes of the gong sounded from the hall, rising to a full boom beneath the footman's accomplished stroke. there was a sound of running steps descending the stairs, and a final jump. "keep it going, dale," said a voice without. and then trix entered the room, slightly flushed by her rapid descent of the stairs, but with an assumption of leisurely dignity. "i'm not late," she announced with great innocence. "the gong hasn't stopped." doctor hilary, who was facing the door, looked at her. he saw a small, elf-like girl in a very shimmery green frock. the green enhanced her elf-like appearance. "deceiver," laughed pia. "we heard you quite, quite distinctly." obviously caught, trix echoed the laugh. "well, anyhow i'd have been in before the echo stopped," she announced. they went informally into the dining-room, where the light of shaded wax candles on the table mingled with the departing daylight, for the curtains were still undrawn. "i like this kind of light," remarked trix, as she seated herself. trix almost always thought aloud. it meant that conversation in her presence seldom flagged, since her brain was rarely idle; though she could be really marvellously silent when she perceived that silence was desirable. "do you know this garden?" she said, addressing herself to doctor hilary, by whom she was seated. he assented. "well, isn't it lovely? that's what made me nearly late,--going round it again. i've been round five times since yesterday. it's just heavenly after london. roses _versus_ petrol, you know." she wrinkled up her nose as she spoke. "you ought to see the gardens of chorley old hall, miss devereux," said father dormer. "not that i mean any invidious comparison between them and this garden," he added, with a little smile towards the duchessa. "chorley old hall," remarked trix. "i used to go there when i was a tiny child. there was a man lived there, who used to terrify me out of my wits, his eyes were so black. but i liked him, when i got over my first fright. what has become of him?" "he died a short time ago," said the duchessa quietly. "oh," said trix regretfully. possibly she had contemplated a renewal of the acquaintanceship. "he'd been an invalid for a long time," explained the duchessa. she was a little, just a trifle anxious as to whether the conversation might not prove embarrassing for doctor hilary. there was a feeling in the village that the journey, which doctor hilary had permitted--some, indeed, said advocated--had been entirely responsible for the death. but doctor hilary was eating his dinner, apparently utterly and completely at his ease. "anyhow the gardens aren't being neglected," said father dormer. "they've got a new under-gardener there who is proving rather a marvel in his line. in fact golding confesses that he'll have to look out for his own laurels. he's a nice looking fellow, this new man, and a cut above the ordinary type, i should say. i used to see him in church after mass on sundays at one time. but he has given up coming lately." "really," said the duchessa. trix looked up quickly, surprised at the intonation of her voice. "oh, he isn't a catholic," smiled father dormer. "perhaps curiosity brought him in the beginning, and now it has worn off." trix was still looking at the duchessa. she couldn't make out the odd intonation of her voice. it had been indifferent enough to be almost rude. but, if it were intended for a snub, father dormer had evidently not taken it as such. yet there was a little pause on the conclusion of his remark, almost as if doctor hilary and miss tibbutt had had the same idea as herself. at least, that was what trix felt the little pause to mean. and then she was suddenly annoyed with herself for having felt it. of course it was quite absurd. she looked down at her plate of clear soup. it had letters of a white edible substance floating in it. "i've got an a and two s's in my soup," she remarked pathetically. "i don't think it is quite tactful of the cook." there was an instant lowering of eyes towards soup plates, an announcing of the various letters seen therein. trix had an application for each, making the letters stand as the initials for words. "c. s.," said miss tibbutt presently, entering into the spirit of the game. "sure there isn't a t?" asked trix. "no," said miss tibbutt peering closer, "i mean there isn't one." "well then, it can't be catholic truth society. my imagination has given out. i can only think of christian science. i don't think it's quite right of you, tibby dear." miss tibbutt blinked good-humouredly. "aren't they the people who think that the bible dropped down straight from heaven in a shiny black cover with s. p. g. printed on it?" she asked. trix shook her head. "no," she declared solemnly, "they're bible christians. the christian science people are the ones who think we haven't got any bodies." "no bodies!" ejaculated miss tibbutt. "well," said trix, "anyhow they think bodies are a false--false something or other." "false claim," suggested father dormer. "that's it," cried trix, immensely delighted. "how clever of you to have thought of it. only i'm not sure if it's the bodies are a false claim, or the aches attached to the bodies. perhaps it's both." "i thought that was the new thought idea," said pia. trix shook her head. "oh no, the new thought people think a lot about one's body. they give us lots of bodies." "really?" queried doctor hilary doubtfully. "oh yes," responded trix. "i once went to one of their lectures." "my dear trix!" ejaculated miss tibbutt flustered. "it was quite an accident," said trix reassuringly. "a friend of mine, sybil martin, was coming up to town and wanted me to meet her. she suggested i should meet her at paddington, and then go to a lecture on psychometry with her, and tea afterwards. i hadn't the faintest notion what psychometry was, but i supposed it might be first cousin to trigonometry, and quite as dull. but she wanted me, so i went. it _was_ funny," gurgled trix. doctor hilary was watching her. "you'd better disburden your mind," he said. trix crumbled her bread, still smiling at the recollection. "well, the lecture was held in a biggish room, and there were a lot of odd people present. but the oddest of all was the lecturer. she wore a kind of purple velvet tea-gown, though it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. she talked for a long time about vibrations, and things that bored me awfully, and people kept interrupting with questions. one man interrupted particularly often. he kept saying, 'excuse me, but am i right in thinking--' and then he would give a little lecture on his own account, and look around for the approval of the audience. i should have flung things at him if i had been the purple velvet lady. it was so obvious that he was not desiring _her_ information, but merely wishful to air his own. there was a text on the wall which said, 'we talk abundance here,' and when i pointed out to sybil how true it was, she wasn't a bit pleased, and said it didn't mean what i thought _in the least_. but she wouldn't explain what it did mean. after the lecture, the purple velvet lady held things--jewelry chiefly--that people in the audience sent up to her, and described their owners, and where they'd got the things from. there was quite a lot of family history, and people's characteristics and virtues and failings, and very, _very_ private things made public, but no one seemed to mind." "that's the odd thing about those people," said doctor hilary thoughtfully. "disclosing their innermost thoughts, feelings, and so-called experiences, seems an absolute mania with them. and the more public the disclosure the better they are pleased. but go on, miss devereux." "well," said trix, "at last she began describing a sort of cleopatra lady, and--and rather vivid love scenes, and--and things like that. when she'd ended, the bracelet turned out to belong to a little dowdy woman looking like a meek mouse. i thought the purple velvet lady would have been really upset and mortified at her mistake. but she wasn't in the least. she just smiled sweetly, and returned the bracelet to the owner, and said that the dowdy little woman had been cleopatra in a former incarnation. of course when she began on _that_ tack, i saw the kind of lecture i'd really let myself in for, and i knew i'd no business to be in the place at all, so i made sybil take me away. it was nearly the end, and she didn't mind, because she missed the silver collection. but she talked to me about it the whole of tea-time, and she really believed it all," sighed trix pathetically. miss tibbutt looked quite shocked. "oh, but, my dear, she couldn't really." "she did," nodded trix. miss tibbutt appealed helplessly to father dormer. "why do people believe such extraordinary things?" she demanded almost wrathfully. father dormer laughed. "that's a question i cannot pretend to answer. but i suppose that if people reject the truth, and yet want to believe something beyond mere physical facts, they can invent anything, that is if they happen to be endowed with sufficient imagination." "then the devil must help them invent," said miss tibbutt with exceeding firmness. after dinner they had coffee in the garden. a big moon was coming up in the dusk behind the trees, its light throwing the shadows dark and soft on the grass. "it's so astonishingly silent after london," said trix, gazing at the blue-grey velvet of the sky. she looked more than ever elfin-like, with the moonlight falling on her fair hair and pointed oval face, and the shimmering green of her dress. "i wonder why we ever go to bed on moonlight nights," she pursued. "brilliant sunshine always tempts us to do something--a long walk, a drive, or boating on a river. over and over again we say, 'now, the very next fine day we'll do--so and so.' but no one ever dreams of saying, 'now, the next moonlight night we'll have a picnic.' i wonder why not?" "because," said doctor hilary smiling, and watching her, "the old and staid folk have no desire to lose their sleep, and--well, the conventions are apt to stand in the way of the young and romantic." "conventions," sighed trix, "are the bane of one's existence. they hamper all one's most cherished desires until one is of an age when the desires become non-existent. my aunt lilla is always saying to me, 'when you're a much older woman, dearest.' and i reply, 'but, aunt lilla, _now_ is the moment.' i know, by experience, later is no good. when i was a tiny child my greatest desire was to play with all the grubbiest children in the parks. of course i was dragged past them by a haughty and righteous nurse. i can talk to them now if i want to, and even wheel their perambulators. but it would have been so infinitely nicer to wheel a very dirty baby in a very ramshackle perambulator when i was eight. conventions are responsible for an enormous lot of lost opportunities." "mightn't they be well lost?" suggested father dormer. trix looked across at him. "serious or nonsense?" she demanded. "whichever you like," he replied, a little twinkle in his eyes. "oh, serious," interpolated miss tibbutt. trix leant a little forward, resting her chin on her hands. "well, seriously then, conventions--those that are merely conventions for their own sake,--are detestable, and responsible for an enormous lot of unhappiness. 'my dear (mimicked trix), you can be quite polite to so and so, but i cannot have you becoming friendly with them, you know they are not _quite_.' i've heard that said over and over again. it's hateful. i'm not a socialist, not one little bit, but i do think if you like a person you ought to be able to be friends, even if you happen to be a duchess and he's a chimney-sweep. the motto of the present-day world is, 'what will people think?' people!" snorted trix wrathfully, warming to her theme, "what people? and is their opinion worth twopence halfpenny? fancy them associating with st. peter if he appeared now among them as he used to be, with only his goodness and his character and his fisherman's clothes, instead of his halo and his keys, as they see him in the churches." the two men laughed. miss tibbutt made a little murmur of something like query. the duchessa's face looked rather white, but perhaps it was only the effect of the moonlight. "but, miss devereux," said doctor hilary, "even now the world--people, as you call them, are quite ready to recognize genius despite the fact that it may have risen from the slums." "yes," contended trix eagerly, "but it's not the person they recognize really, it's merely their adjunct." "what do you mean?" asked miss tibbutt. father dormer smiled comprehendingly. "i mean," said trix slowly, "they recognize the thing that makes the show, and the person because of that thing, not for the person's own self. let me try and explain better. a man, born in the slums, has a marvellous voice. he becomes a noted singer. he's received everywhere and fêted. but it's really his voice that is fêted, because it is the fashion to fête it. let him lose his voice, and he drops out of existence. people don't recognize him himself, the self which gave expression to the voice, and which still _is_, even after the voice is dumb." father dormer nodded. "well," went on trix, "i maintain that that man is every bit as well worth knowing afterwards,--after he has lost his voice. and even if he'd never been able to give expression to himself by singing, he might have been just as well worth knowing. but the world never looks for inside things, but only for external things that make a show. so if mrs. b. hasn't an atom of anything congenial to me in her composition, but has a magnificent house and heaps of money, it's quite right and fitting i should know her, so people would say, and encourage me to do so. but it's against all the conventions that i should be friendly with little miss f. who lives over the tobacconist's at the corner of such and such a street, though she _is_ thoroughly congenial to me, and i love her plucky and cheery outlook on life." she stopped. "go on," encouraged doctor hilary. "well," laughed trix, "take a more extreme case. sir a. c. is--well, not a bad man, but not the least the kind of man i care about, but he may take me in to dinner, and, on the strength of that brief acquaintance, to a theatre if he wants, provided i have some other woman with me as a sort of chaperon, and he can talk to me by the hour, and that all on account of his money and title. mr. z. is a really white man, but he's a 'come-down,' through no fault of his own, and a bus-conductor. i happen to have spoken to him once or twice; and like him. but i mightn't even walk for half an hour with him in the park, if i'd fifty authorized chaperons attending on me. that's what i mean about conventions that are conventions for their own sake." she stopped again. "and what do you suggest as a remedy?" asked father dormer, smiling. "there isn't one," sighed trix. "at least not one you can apply universally. everybody must just apply it for themselves, and not exactly by defying conventions, but by treating them as simply non-existent." the duchessa made a little movement in the moonlight. "which," she said quietly, "comes to exactly the same thing as defying them, and it won't work." "why not?" demanded trix. "you'd find yourself curiously lonely after a time if you did." "you mean my friends--no, my acquaintances--would desert me?" "probably." "well, i'd have the one i'd chanced it all for." "yes," said the duchessa slowly and deliberately, "but you'd have to be very sure, not only that the friend was worth it, but that you were worth it to the friend." there was rather a blank silence. trix gave a little gasp. it was not so much the words that hurt, as the tone in which they had been spoken. it was a repetition of the little scene at dinner, but this time intensified. and it was so utterly, so entirely unlike pia. trix felt miserably squashed. she had been talking a good deal too, perhaps, indeed, rather foolishly, that was the worst of it. no doubt she _had_ made rather an idiot of herself. she swallowed a little lump in her throat. well, anyhow that inflection in pia's tone must be covered at once. that was the first, indeed the only, consideration. "i never thought of all those contingencies," she laughed. there was the faintest suspicion of a quiver in her voice. "let's talk about the moonlight. but it was the moonlight began it all." * * * * * two hours later the garden lay deserted in the same moonlight. a woman was sitting by an open window, looking out into the garden. she had been sitting there quite a long time. suddenly her eyes filled with tears. "oh, trix, trix," she said half aloud, "if only it would work. but it won't. and it was the moonlight that began it all." chapter xxi on the moorland trix was walking over the moorland. the duchessa and miss tibbutt had departed to what promised to be an exceedingly dull garden party some five miles distant. it had been decreed that it was entirely unnecessary to inflict the same probable dulness on trix, therefore she had been left to freedom and her own devices for the afternoon. trix was playing the game of "i remember." it can be a quite extraordinarily fascinating game, or an exceedingly painful one. trix was finding it extraordinarily fascinating. it was so gorgeously delightful to find that nothing had shrunk, nothing lessened in beauty or mystery. a larch copse was every bit as much a haunt of the little people as formerly; the moss every bit as much a cool green carpet for their tripping feet. a few belated foxglove stems added to the old-time enchantment of the place. even a little stream rippling through the wood, was a veritable stream, and not merely a watery ditch, as it might quite well have proved. then there was the view from the gate, through a frame of beech trees out towards the sea. it was still as entrancing an ocean, sun-flecked and radiant. there were still as infinite possibilities in the unknown beyond, could one have chartered a white-winged boat, and have sailed to where land and water meet. there was a pond, too, surrounded by blackberry bushes and great spear-like rushes, perhaps not quite the enormous lake of one's childhood, but a reasonably large pond enough, and there were still the blackberry bushes and the spear-like rushes. and, finally, there was the moorland, glowing with more radiant crimson lakes and madders than the most wonderful paint box ever held, and stretching up and down, and up again, till it melted in far away purples and lavenders. trix's heart sang in accord with the laughing sun-kissed earth around her. it was all so gorgeous, so free and untrammelled. she lay upon the hot springy heather, and crushed the tiny purple flowers of the wild thyme between her fingers, raising the bruised petals to her face to drink in their strong sweet scent. from far off she could hear the tinkle of a goat bell, and the occasional short bark of a sheep dog. all else was silence, save for the humming of the bees above the heather. tiny insects floated in the still air, looking like specks of thistle-down as the sun caught and silvered their minute wings. little blue butterflies flitted hither and thither like radiant animated flowers. for a long time trix sat very still, body and soul bathed in the beauty around her. at last she got to her feet, and made her way across the heather, ignoring the small beaten tracks despite the prickliness of her chosen route. after some half-hour's walking she came to a stone wall bordering a hilly field, a low wall, a battered wall, where tiny ferns grew in the crevices, and the stones themselves were patched with orange-coloured lichen. trix climbed the wall, and walked across the soft grass. a good way to the right was a fence, and beyond the fence a wood. trix made her way slowly towards it. thistles grew among the grass,--carding thistles, and thistles with small drooping heads. she looked at them idly as she walked. suddenly a slight sound behind her made her turn, and with the turning her heart leapt to her throat. from over the brow of the hilly field behind her, quite a number of cattle were coming at a fair pace towards her. now trix hated cows in any shape or form, and these were the unpleasant white-faced, brown cattle, whose very appearance is against them. they were moving quickly too, quite alarmingly quickly. trix cast one terrified and pathetic glance over her shoulder. the glance was all-sufficient. she ran,--ran straight for the wood, the cattle after her. doubtless curiosity, mere enquiry maybe, prompted their pursuit. trix concerned herself not at all with the motive, the fact was all-sufficient. fear lent wings to her feet, and with the horned and horrid beasts still some ten yards behind her, she precipitated herself across the fence to fall in an undignified but wholly relieved heap among a mass of bracken and whortleberry bushes. the briefest of moments saw her once more on her feet, struggling, fighting her way through shoulder-high bracken. five minutes brought her to an open space beyond. trembling, breathless, and most suspiciously near tears, she sank upon the ground. "the beasts!" ejaculated trix opprobriously, and not as the mere statement of an obvious fact. she took off her hat, which flight had flung to a somewhat rakish angle, and blinked vigorously towards the trees. she was _not_ going to cry. presently fright gave place to interest. she gazed around, curious, speculative. it was an unusual wood, a strange wood, a wood of holly trees, with a scattered sprinkling of beech trees. the grey twisted trunks of the hollies gleamed among the dark foliage, giving an eerie and almost uncanny atmosphere to the place. it was extraordinarily silent, too; and infinitely lonelier than the deserted moorland. it gave trix an odd feeling of unpleasant mystery. yet there was nothing for it but to face the mystery, to see if she could not find some way out further adown the wood. not for untold gold would she again have faced those horned beasts behind her. a tiny narrow path led downhill from the cleared space. trix set off down it, swinging her hat airily by the brim the while. presently the sense of uncanniness abated somewhat; the elfin in her went out to meet the weirdness of the wood. now and again she stopped to pick and eat whortleberries from the massed bushes beneath the trees. she did not particularly like them, truly; nevertheless she was still young enough to pick and eat what nature had provided for picking and eating, and that for the mere pleasure of being able to do so. also, at this juncture the action brought confidence in its train. presently, through the trees facing her, she saw a wall, a high wall, a brick wall, and quite evidently bordering civilization. "it can't go on for ever," considered trix. "it must come to an end some time, either right, or left. and i'm not going back." this last exceedingly firmly. she went forward, scrutinizing, anxious. and then,--joyful and welcome sight!--a door, an open door came into view. a mound of half-carted leaf mould just without showed, to any one endowed with even the meanest powers of deduction, that someone--some man, probably--was busy in the neighbourhood. trix made hastily for the door. the next moment she was through it, to find herself face to face with a man and a wheelbarrow. trix came to a standstill, a standstill at once sudden and unpremeditated. the man dropped the wheelbarrow. they stared blankly at each other. and trix was far too flustered to realize that his stare was infinitely more amazed than her own. "you can't come through this way," said the man, decisive though bewildered. his orders regarding the non-entrance of strangers had been of the emphatic kind. trix's brain worked rapidly. the route before her must lead to safety, and nothing, no power on earth, would take her back through the field atop the wood. she was genuinely, quite genuinely too frightened. this is by way of excuse, since here a regrettable fact must be recorded. trix gave vent to a sound closely resembling a sneeze. it was followed by one brief sentence. "there's someone at the gate," was what the man heard. again amazement was written on his face. he turned towards the gate. trix fled past him. "i couldn't go back," she insisted to herself, as she vanished round the corner of a big green-house. "and i _did_ say 'isn't there' even if it was mixed up with a sneeze. and wherever have i seen that man's face before?" she whisked round another corner of the green-house, attempting no answer to her query at the moment, ran down a long cinder path bordered by cabbages and gooseberry bushes, and bolted through another door in another wall. and here trix found herself in an orchard, at the bottom of which was a yew hedge wherein she espied a wicket gate. she made rapid way towards it. and now she saw a big grey house facing her. there was no mistaking it. childhood's memories rushed upon her. it was chorley old hall. trix came through the wicket gate, and out upon a lawn, in the middle of which was a great marble basin full of crystal water, from which rose a little silver fountain. before her was the big grey house, melancholy, deserted-looking. the blinds were drawn down in most of the windows. it had the appearance of a house in which death was present. and then a spirit of curiosity fell upon her, a sudden strong desire to see within the house, to go once more into the rooms where she had stood in the old days, a small and somewhat frightened child. there was not a soul in sight. probably the man with the wheelbarrow had not thought it worth while to pursue her. the garden appeared as deserted as the house. trix tip-toed cautiously towards it. she looked like a kitten or a canary approaching a dead elephant. to her left was a door. quite probably it was locked; but then, by the favour of fortune, it might not be. of course she ran a risk, a considerable risk of meeting some caretaker or other, and her presence would not be particularly easy to explain. curiosity and prudence wavered momentarily in the balance. curiosity turned the scale. she tried the door. vastly to her delight it yielded at her push. she slipped inside the house, closing it softly behind her. she found herself in a long carpeted passage, sporting prints adorning the walls. she tip-toed down it, her step making no smallest sound on the soft carpet. the end of the passage brought her into a big square hall. to her right were wide deep stairs; opposite them was a door, in all probability the front door; to her left was another door. trix recalled the past, rapidly, and in detail. the door to the left must lead to the library,--that is, if her memory did not play her false. she remembered the big room, the book-cases reaching from floor to ceiling, and the man with the black eyes, who had terrified her. something, some fleeting shadow, of her old childish fear was upon her now, as she turned the door handle. the door yielded easily. she pushed it wide open. the room was shadowed, gloomy almost. the heavy curtains were drawn back from the windows, but other curtains of some thinnish green material hung before them, curtains which effectually blotted out any view from the window, or view into the room from without. before her were the old remembered book-cases, filled with dark, rather fusty books. trix pushed the door to behind her, and turned, nonchalantly, to look around the room. as she looked her heart jumped, leapt, and then stood still. chapter xxii an old man in a library a white-haired man was watching her. he was sitting in a big oak chair, his hands resting on the arms. "oh!" ejaculated trix. and further expression failed her. "please don't let me disturb you," came a suave, courteous old voice. "you were looking for something perhaps?" "i only wanted to see the library," stuttered trix, flabbergasted, dismayed. "well, this is the library. may i ask how you found your way in?" "through a door," responded trix, voicing the obvious. "ah! i did not know visitors were being admitted to the house?" this on a note of interrogation, flavoured with the faintest hint of irony, though the courtesy was still not lacking. trix coloured. "i wasn't admitted," she owned. "i just came." "ah, i see," said the white-haired man still courteously. "you perhaps were not aware that your presence might be an--er, an intrusion." again trix coloured. "a man did tell me i couldn't come through this way," she confessed. "yet he allowed you to do so?" there was a queer note beneath the courtesy. trix's ear, catching the note, found it almost repellant. "it wasn't his fault," she declared. "i came. i said, 'isn't there someone at the gate?' and while he turned to look, i ran. at least,--" a gleam of laughter sprang to her eyes--"i sneezed first, so it sounded like 'there's somebody at the gate.' so he thought there was really. it--it was rather mean of me." "what you might call an acted lie," suggested the man. trix looked conscience-stricken, contrite. "i suppose it was," she admitted in a very small voice. "but it was the cows. only i think they were bulls. i _am_ so frightened of cows. i couldn't go back. and he wasn't going to let me through. it wasn't his fault a bit, it wasn't really. i know i told a--a kind of lie." she sighed heavily. "you did," said the man. again trix sighed. "i'd never make a martyr, would i? only"--a degree more hopefully--"a sneeze isn't quite like denying real things, things that matter, is it?" this last was spoken distinctly appealingly. "i'm not a theologian," said the man dryly. trix looked at him. a sudden light of illumination passed over her face, giving place to absolute amazement. "aren't you mr. danver?" she ejaculated. "i never heard of his being a theologian," was the retort. "but mr. danver is dead!" gasped trix. "is he?" "well," said trix dazed, bewildered, "he evidently isn't. but why on earth did you--" she broke off. "did i what?" he demanded with a queer smile. "say you were dead?" asked trix. "dead men, my dear young lady, tell no tales, nor have i ever heard of a living one proclaiming his own demise." trix laughed involuntarily. "anyhow you've let other people say you are," she retorted. the man shrugged his shoulders. "why did you let them?" asked trix. again the man shrugged his shoulders. "i have no responsibility in the matter." "doctor hilary has, then," she flashed out. "has he?" was the quiet response. "he has told people you were dead." "are you sure of that?" "well, he's let them think so anyway. why has he?" demanded trix. "you ask a good many questions for an--er--an intruder," remarked the man. trix's chin went up. "i'm sorry. i apologize. i'll go." "no, don't," said the man. "sit down." trix sat down near a table. she looked straight at him. "well," she asked, "what do you want to say to me?" "i am nicholas danver," he said. "i was quite sure of that," nodded trix. she was recovering her self-possession. "i had an excellent reason for allowing people to imagine i was dead," he remarked, "as excellent a one, perhaps, as yours for your--your unexpected appearance." "i'm glad you didn't say 'intrusion' again," said trix thoughtfully. nicholas gave a short laugh. there was a little silence. "doctor hilary must have told a dreadful lot of lies," said trix slowly and not a little regretfully. "on the contrary," said nicholas, "he told none." trix looked up quickly. "listen," said nicholas, "it's quite an interesting little history in its way. you can stop me if i bore you.... doctor hilary says, in the hearing of a housemaid, that it might be a good plan to consult a specialist. it is announced in the village that the squire is going to consult a specialist. doctor hilary travels up to town with an empty litter. the village announces that he has taken the squire to the specialist. he returns alone. the station-master asks him when the squire will return from london. he is briefly told, never. the village announces the squire's demise. i don't say that certain little further incidents did not lend colour to the idea, such as the squire confining himself entirely to two rooms, and allowing the butler alone of the servants to see him; doctor hilary's dismissal of the other indoor servants on his return to town; the deserted appearance of the house. but from first to last there was less actual direct lying in the matter, than in--shall i say, than in a simple sneeze." a third time the colour mounted in trix's cheeks. "you'll not let me forget _that_," she said pathetically. "but why ever did you want everyone to think you were dead?" nicholas looked towards the window thoughtfully, ruminatively. "that, my dear young lady, is my own affair." "i beg your pardon," said trix quickly. she lapsed into silence. suddenly she looked up, an elfin smile of pure mischief dancing in her eyes. "and now i know you're not dead," she remarked. "exactly," said nicholas. "you know i'm not dead." "well?" demanded trix. "well, of course you can go and publish the news to the world," he remarked smoothly. "and equally of course," retorted trix, "i shall do nothing of the kind. quite possibly you mayn't trust me, because--because i _did_ sneeze. but honestly i didn't have time to think properly then, at least, only time to think how to get out of the difficulty, and not time to think about fairness or anything. i truly don't tell lies generally. and to tell about you would be like telling what was in a private letter if you'd read it by accident, so _of course_ i shan't say a word." nicholas held out his hand without speaking. trix got up from her chair, and put her own warm hand into his cold one. "all right," he said in an oddly gentle voice. "and you can speak to doctor hilary about it if you like. you'll no doubt need a safety valve." he looked again at her, still holding her hand. "haven't i seen you before?" he asked. trix nodded. "when i was a tiny child. my name is trix devereux. i used to come here with my father." "what!" exclaimed nicholas, "jack devereux's daughter! how is the old fellow?" "he died five years ago," said trix softly. nicholas dropped her hand. "and i live on," he said grimly. "it's a queer world." he looked down at the black dressing gown which hid his useless legs. "bah, where's the use of sentiment at this time of day. anyhow it's a pleasure to meet you, even though your entrance was a bit of----" "an intrusion," smiled trix. "i was going to say a surprise," said nicholas courteously. "and now you must allow me to give you some tea." trix hesitated. "oh, but," she demurred, "the butler will see me." "and a very pleasant sight for him," responded nicholas, "if you will permit an old man to pay you a compliment. besides jessop is used to holding his tongue." trix laughed. "that," she said, "i can quite well imagine." nicholas pressed the electric button attached to the arm of his chair. he watched the door, a curious amusement in his eyes. trix attempted an appearance of utter unconcern, nevertheless she could not avoid a reflection or two regarding the butler's possible views on her presence. during the few seconds of waiting, she surveyed the room. it was extraordinarily familiar. nothing was altered from her childish days. the very position of the furniture was the same. there were the same heavy brocaded curtains to the windows, the same morocco-covered chairs, the same thick aubusson carpet, the same book-cases lined with rather fusty books, the same great dogs in the fireplace. nicholas looked at her, observing her survey. "well?" he queried. "it's all so exactly the same," responded trix. "i never cared for change," said nicholas shortly. and then the door opened. "jessop," said nicholas smooth-voiced, "will you kindly bring tea for me and this young lady." a flicker, a very faint flicker of amazement passed over the man's face. "yes, sir," he responded, and turned from the room. "an excellent servant," remarked nicholas. "i wonder," said trix reflectively, "how they manage to see everything, and look as if they saw nothing. when i see things it's perfectly obvious to everyone else i am seeing them. i--i _look_." "so do most people," returned nicholas. * * * * * when, some half-hour later, trix rose to take leave, nicholas again held out his hand. "i believe i'd ask you to come and pay me another visit," he said, "but it would be wiser not. it is not easy for--er, dead men to receive visitors." "i wish you hadn't--died," said trix impulsively. "do you mean that?" asked nicholas curiously. trix nodded. there was an odd lump in her throat, a lump that for the moment prevented her from speaking. "you're a queer child," smiled nicholas. the tears welled up suddenly in trix's eyes. "it's so lonely," she said, with a half-sob. "my own doing," responded nicholas. "that doesn't make it nicer, but worse," gulped trix. nicholas held her hand tighter. "on the contrary, it's better. it's my own choice." he emphasized the last word a little. trix was silent. nicholas let go her hand. "let yourself out the front way," he said. "i am sorry i am unable to accompany you." trix went slowly to the library door. at the door she turned. "it mayn't be right of me," she announced, "but i'm glad, really glad i did sneeze." nicholas laughed. "to be perfectly candid," he remarked, "so am i." chapter xxiii antony finds a glove trix's appearance at the door in the wall had fairly dumbfounded antony. he had recognized her instantly. and the amazing thing was that she was exactly as he had seen her in his dream. her announcement had carried the dream sense further, and it was with a queer feeling of intense disappointment that he found no one standing outside the gate. there was nothing but the silent deserted wood and the mound of leaf-mould. for a moment or so he stood listening, almost expecting to hear a footstep among the trees. nothing but silence greeted him, however, broken only by the faint rustling of the leaves. he turned back to the garden. it was empty. there was nothing, nothing on earth to prove that the whole thing had not been an extraordinarily vivid waking dream. and if it were a dream, surely it was calculated to dispel the relief the first dream had brought him. yet was it a dream? could it have been? wasn't he entirely awake, and in the possession of his right senses? demanding thus of his soul, solemn, bewildered, and reflective, he turned once more to his wheelbarrow. ten minutes later, trundling it down a cinder path, his eye fell on an object lying beneath a gooseberry bush. he dropped the barrow, and picked up the object. it was a long soft doe-skin glove. "it wasn't a dream," said antony triumphantly. "but where in the name of all that's wonderful did she come from? and where did she vanish to?" he put the glove into his pocket, and resumed his work. "i am afraid," he remarked to himself as he heaved the leaf-mould out of the barrow, "that she knew perfectly well there was no one at the gate. i wonder why she said there was, and why, above all, she made such an extraordinarily unexpected appearance." these considerations engrossed his mind for at least the next half-hour, when, the leaf-mould having been transported from the wood, he went round to the front of the house to trim the edges of the lawn. he was on his knees on the gravel path, busily engaged with a pair of shears, when he heard the amazing sound of the front door opening and shutting. he looked round over his shoulder, to see the same apparition that had appeared to him from the wood, walking calmly down the steps and in the direction of the drive. apparently she was too engrossed with her own thoughts to observe him where he was kneeling at a little distance to the eastward of the front door. "well!" ejaculated antony bewildered. and he gazed after her. it was not till her white dress had become a speck in the distance, that antony remembered the long soft glove reposing in his pocket. he dropped his shears, and bolted after her. trix was half-way down the drive, when she heard rapid steps behind her. she looked back, to see that she was being pursued by the young man who had formerly been trundling a wheelbarrow. her first instinct was one of flight. her second, conscious that the owner of the property had condoned her intrusion, and also having in view the fact that there was nowhere but straight ahead to run, and he was in all probability fleeter of foot than she, was to stand her ground, and that as unconcernedly as possible. "yes?" queried trix with studied calmness, as he came up to her. "excuse me, miss, but you dropped this in the kitchen garden." antony held out the long soft glove. "oh, thank you," said trix, infinitely relieved that his rapid approach had signified nothing worse than the restoration of her own lost property. and then she looked at him. where on earth had she seen him before? "there wasn't any one at the gate, miss," said antony suddenly. trix flushed. "oh, wasn't there? i--" she broke off. then she looked straight at him. "i knew there wasn't," she confessed. "but i was afraid to go back, so i had to make you look away while i ran. it was the cows." she sighed. she felt she had been making bovine explanations during the greater part of the afternoon. "cows, miss?" queried antony, a twinkle in his eyes. trix nodded. "yes; awful beasts with white faces, in the field above the wood. i'm not sure they weren't bulls." antony laughed. "sure, and why weren't you telling me, then? i'd have tackled them for you." trix smiled. "i never thought of that way out of the difficulty," she owned. "but it will be all right, i ex--" she broke off. she had been within an ace of saying she had explained matters to mr. danver. she really must be careful. "i expect--i'm sure you won't get into trouble about it," she stuttered. "sure, that's all right," he said, a trifle puzzled. there was a queer pleasure in this little renewal of the acquaintanceship of the bygone days, despite the fact of its being an entirely one-sided renewal. he'd have known her anywhere. it was the same small vivacious face, the same odd little upward tilt to the chin, the same varied inflection of voice, the same little quick gestures. he would have liked to keep her standing there while he recalled the small imperious child in the elfin-like figure before him. but, her property having been restored, there was nothing on earth further he could say, no possible reason for prolonging the conversation. he waited, however, for trix to give the dismissal. trix was looking at him, a queer puzzlement in her eyes. why _was_ his face so oddly familiar? it was utterly impossible that she should have met him before, at all events on the intimate footing the familiarity of his face suggested. it must be merely an extraordinary likeness to someone to whom she could not at the moment put a name. quite suddenly she realized that they were scrutinizing each other in a way that certainly cannot be termed exactly orthodox. she pulled herself together. "thank you for restoring my glove," said she with a fine resumption of dignity; and she turned off once more down the drive. antony went slowly back to his shears. chapter xxiv an interest in life doctor hilary was walking down the lane in a somewhat preoccupied frame of mind. he had been oddly preoccupied the last day or so, lapsing into prolonged meditations from which he would emerge with a sudden and almost guilty start. coming opposite the drive gates of chorley old hall, he was brought to a sense of his surroundings by a figure, which emerged suddenly from them and came to a dead stop. "oh!" ejaculated doctor hilary. "good afternoon." and he took off his cap. "good afternoon," responded trix. she turned along the lane beside him. "have you been interviewing the gardens?" he asked. she fancied there was the faintest trace of anxiety in his voice. a sudden spirit of mischief took possession of trix. she had been given leave. it was really too good an opportunity to be lost. "oh no," she responded, dove-like innocence in her voice, "i've just been having tea with mr. danver." if she wanted to see amazement written on his face, she had her desire. it spread itself large over his countenance, finding verbal expression in an utterly astounded gasp. "he seems very well," said trix demurely. "miss devereux!" ejaculated doctor hilary. "yes?" asked trix sweetly. "have you known all the time?" he demanded. trix shook her head, laughter dancing in her eyes. it found its way to her lips. "oh, you looked so surprised," she gurgled. "i hadn't the tiniest bit of an idea. how could i? i was never so flummuxed in all my life as when i realized who was talking to me." doctor hilary was silent. trix put her hand on his arm, half timidly. "don't be angry," she said. "he wasn't. and i've promised faithfully not to tell." doctor hilary glanced down at the hand on his arm. "i'm not angry," he said with a queer smile, "i'm only--" he stopped. "flummuxed, like i was," nodded trix, removing her hand. "it's quite the amazingest thing i ever knew." she gave another little gurgle of laughter, looking up at the very blue sky as if inviting it to share her pleasure. "how much did he tell you?" asked doctor hilary. trix lowered her chin, and considered briefly. "just nothing, now i come to think of it, beyond the fact that he was mr. danver. but then i'd really been the first to volunteer that piece of information. i haven't the faintest notion why there's all this mystery, and why he has pretended to be dead. he didn't want me to know that. so please don't say anything that could tell me. he said i could talk to you." "i won't," smiled doctor hilary answering the request. they walked on a few steps in silence. "but what i should like to know," he said after a minute, "is how you managed to get inside the house at all?" "oh dear!" sighed trix twisting her glove round her wrist. doctor hilary looked rather surprised. "don't say if you'd rather not," he remarked quickly. trix sighed again. "oh, i may as well. it will only be the third time i've had to own up." and she proceeded with a careful recapitulation of the events of the afternoon. "you must have been very frightened," said he as she ended. "i was," owned trix. "ah, well; it's all over now," he comforted her. "y-yes," said trix doubtfully. "what's troubling you?" he demanded. "the sneeze," confessed trix in a very small voice. doctor hilary stifled a sudden spasm of laughter. she was so utterly and entirely in earnest. "i wouldn't worry over a little thing like that, if i were you," said he consolingly. once more trix sighed. "of course it's absurd," she said. "i know it's absurd. but, somehow, little things do worry me, even when i know they're silly. and there's just enough that's not silliness in this to let it be a real worry." "a genuine midge bite," he suggested. "but, you know, rubbing it only makes it worse." she laughed a trifle shakily. "and honestly," he pursued, "though i do understand your--your conscience in the matter, i'm really very glad you've seen mr. danver." "well, so was i," owned trix. again there was a silence. they were walking down a narrow lane bordered on either side with high banks and hedges. the dust lay rather thick on the grass and leaves. it had already covered their shoes with its grey powder. doctor hilary was turning certain matters in his mind. presently he gave voice to them. "it is exceedingly good for him that someone besides myself and the butler and his wife should know that he is alive, and that he should know they do know it. i agreed to this mad business because i believed it would give him an interest in living, eccentric though the interest might be." trix gurgled. "it sounds so odd," she explained, "to hear you say that pretending to be dead could give any one an interest in life." and she gurgled again. trix's gurgling was peculiarly infectious. "odd!" laughed doctor hilary. "it's the oddest thing imaginable. no one but nick could have conceived the whole business, or found the smallest interest in it. but he did find an interest, and that was enough for me. he is lonely now, i grant. but before this--this invention, he was stagnant as well as lonely. his mind, and seemingly his soul with it, had become practically atrophied. his mind has now been roused to interest, though the most extraordinarily eccentric interest." "and his soul?" queried trix simply. doctor hilary shook his head. "ah, that i don't know," he said. they parted company at the door of doctor hilary's house. trix went on slowly down the road. she paused opposite the presbytery, before turning to the left in the direction of woodleigh. she rang the bell, and asked to see father dormer. he came to her in the little parlour. "oh," said trix, getting up as he entered, "i only came to ask you to say a mass for my intention. and, please, will you say one every week till i ask you to stop?" "by all means," he responded. "thank you," said trix. then she glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece. "i had no idea it was so late," she said. she walked home at a fair pace. the midge bite had ceased to worry her. but then, at doctor hilary's suggestion, she had ceased to rub it. she was thinking of only one thing now, of a solitary old figure in a large and gloomy library. she sighed heavily once or twice. well, at all events she had asked for masses for him. chapter xxv prickles if you happen to have anything on your mind, it is impossible--or practically impossible--to avoid thinking about it. which, doubtless, is so obvious a fact, it is barely worth stating. the duchessa di donatello had something on her mind; it possessed her waking thoughts, it coloured her dreams. and what that something was, is also, perhaps, entirely obvious. again and again she told herself that she would not dwell on the subject; but she might as well have tried to dam a river with a piece of tissue paper, as prevent the thought from filling her mind; and that probably because--with true feminine inconsistency--she welcomed it quite as much as she tried to dispel it. occasionally she allowed it free entry, regarded it, summed it up as unsatisfactory, and sternly dismissed it. in three minutes it was welling up again, perhaps in the same old route, perhaps choosing a different course. "why can't i put the man and everything concerning him out of my mind for good and all?" she asked herself more than once. and, whatever the reply to her query, the fact remained that she couldn't; the thought had become something of an obsession. now, when a thought has become an obsession, there is practically only one way to free oneself from it, and that is by speech. speech has a way of clearing the clogged channels of the mind, and allowing the thought to flow outwards, and possibly to disappear altogether; whereas, without this clearance, the thought of necessity returns to its source, gathering in volume with each recoil. but speech is frequently not at all easy, and that not only because there is often a difficulty in finding the right confidant, but because, with the channels thus clogged, it is a distinct effort to clear them. also, though subconsciously you may realize its desirability, it is often merely subconsciously, and reason and common sense,--or, rather, what you at the moment quite erroneously believe to be reason and common sense--will urge a hundred motives upon you in favour of silence. maybe that most subtle person the devil is the suggester of these motives. if he can't get much of a look in by direct means, he'll try indirect ones, and depression is one of his favourite indirect methods. at all events so the old spiritual writers tell us, and doubtless they knew what they were talking about. now, trix was perfectly well aware that pia had something on her mind; she was also perfectly well aware that it was something she would have an enormous difficulty in talking about. and the question was, how to give her even the tiniest lead. trix had stated that she had guessed the colour of the soap-bubble; but she hadn't the faintest notion where it had come into existence, nor where and how it had burst. nor had pia given her directly the smallest hint of its having ever existed. all of which facts made it exceedingly difficult for her even to hint at soap-bubbles--figuratively speaking of course--as a subject of conversation. and pia was slightly irritable too. of course it was entirely because she was unhappy, but it didn't conduce to intimate conversation. prickles would suddenly appear among the most innocent looking of flowers, in a way that was entirely disconcerting and utterly unpleasant. and the worst of it was, that there was no avoiding them. they darted out and pricked you before you were even aware of their presence. it was so utterly unlike pia too, and so--trix winked back a tear as she thought of it--so hurting. at last she came to a decision. the prickles simply must be handled and extracted if possible. of course she might get quite unpleasantly stabbed in the process, but at all events she'd be prepared for the risk, and anything would be better than the little darts appearing at quite unexpected moments and places. "the next time i'm pricked," said trix to herself firmly, "i'll seize hold of the prickle, and then perhaps we'll see where we are." and, as a result perhaps of this resolution, the prickles suddenly disappeared. trix was immeasurably relieved in one sense, but not entirely easy. she fancied the prickles to be hidden rather than extracted. however, they'd ceased to wound for the time being, and that certainly was an enormous comfort. miss tibbutt, with greater optimism than trix, believed all to be entirely well once more, and rejoiced accordingly. * * * * * "doctor hilary has been over here rather often lately," remarked miss tibbutt one afternoon. pia and she were sitting in the garden together. "old mrs. mosely is ill," returned pia smiling oracularly. "but only a very little ill," said miss tibbutt reflectively. "her daughter told me only yesterday--i'm afraid it wasn't very grateful of her--that the doctor had been 'moidering around like 'sif mother was on her dying bed, and her wi' naught but a bit o' cold to her chest, what's gone to her head now, and a glass or two o' hot cider, and ginger, and allspice, and rosemary will be puttin' right sooner nor you can flick a fly off a sugar basin.'" pia laughed. "my dear tibby, he doesn't come to see mrs. mosely." miss tibbutt looked up in perplexed query. "he comes on here to tea, doesn't he?" asked pia, kindly, after the manner of one giving a lead. "certainly," returned miss tibbutt, still perplexed. "he would naturally do so, since he is in woodleigh just at tea time." pia leant back in her seat, and looked at miss tibbutt. "tibby dear, you're amazingly slow at the uptake." miss tibbutt blinked at pia over her spectacles. "please explain," said she meekly. pia laughed. "haven't you discovered, tibby dear, that it's trix he comes to see?" "trix!" ejaculated miss tibbutt. "yes; and she is quite as unaware of the fact as you are, so don't, for all the world, enlighten her. leave that to him, if he means to." miss tibbutt had let her work fall, and was gazing round-eyed at pia. "but, my dear pia, he's years older than trix." "oh, not so very many," said pia reassuringly. "fifteen or sixteen, perhaps. trix is twenty-four, you know." "and trix is leaving here the day after to-morrow," said miss tibbutt regretfully. "london isn't the antipodes," declared pia. "she can come here again, or business may take doctor hilary to london. there are trains." "well, well," said miss tibbutt. trix appeared at the open drawing-room window and came out on to the terrace. she paused for a moment to pick a dead rose off a bush growing near the house. then she saw the two under the lime tree. she came towards them. "doctor hilary has just driven up through the plantation gate," she said. "i suppose he's coming to tea. his man was evidently going to put up the horse." the duchessa glanced at a gold bracelet watch on her wrist. "it's four o'clock," she said. "he takes tea quite for granted," smiled trix. "i suppose," responded the duchessa, "that he considers five almost consecutive invitations equivalent to one standing one." "well, anyhow i should," nodded trix. "what are you looking so wise about, tibby angel?" miss tibbutt started. "was i looking wise? i didn't know." trix perched herself on the table. "dale will clear me off in a minute," she announced. "i suppose you'll have tea out here as usual. till then it's the nicest seat. oh dear, i wish i wasn't going home to-morrow. that's not a hint to you to ask me to stay longer. i shouldn't hint, i'd speak straight out. but i must join aunt lilla at her hydro place. she's getting lonely. she wants an audience to which to relate her partner's idiocy at bridge, and someone to help carry her photographic apparatus. also someone to whom she can keep up a perpetual flow of conversation. that's not the least uncharitable, as you'd know if you knew aunt lilla. i think she must have been born talking. but i love her all the same." trix tilted back her head and looked up at the sky through the branches of the trees. "i wonder why space is blue," she said, "and why it's so much bluer some days than others, even when there aren't any clouds." a step on the terrace behind her put an end to her wondering. doctor hilary came round the corner of the house. "i've taken your invitation for granted, duchessa, as i happened to be out this way," said he as he shook hands. "is old mrs. mosely still so ill?" asked trix, sympathy in her voice. miss tibbutt kept her eyes almost guiltily on her knitting. pia, glancing at her, laughed inwardly. "she's better to-day," responded doctor hilary cheerfully. and then he sat down. trix had descended from the table, and seated herself in a basket chair. dale brought out the tea in a few minutes, and put it on the table trix had vacated. the conversation was trivial and desultory, even more trivial and desultory than most tea-time conversation. miss tibbutt was too occupied with pia's recent revelation to have much thought for speech, doctor hilary was never a man of many words, the duchessa had been marvellously lacking in conversation of late, and trix's occasional remarks were mainly outspoken reflections on the sunshine and the flowers, which required no particular response. nevertheless she was conscious of a certain flatness in her companions, and wondered vaguely what had caused it. "i'm going to llandrindod wells to-morrow," said she presently. doctor hilary looked up quickly. "then your visit here has come to an end?" he queried. trix nodded. "alas, yes," she sighed, regret, half genuine, half mocking, in her voice. "but most certainly i shall come down again if the duchessa will let me come. i had forgotten, absolutely forgotten, what a perfectly heavenly place this was. and that doesn't in the least mean that i am coming solely for the place, and not to see her, though i am aware it did not sound entirely tactful." "and when do you suppose you will be coming again?" asked doctor hilary with a fine assumption of carelessness, not in the least lost upon the duchessa. "before christmas i hope," replied she in trix's stead. "or, indeed, at any time or moment she chooses." doctor hilary looked thoughtful, grave. a little frown wrinkled between his eyebrows. he pulled silently at his pipe. the duchessa was watching him. "alas, poor man!" thought she whimsically. "he was about to seize opportunity, and behold, fate snatches opportunity from him. oh, cruel fate!" and then she beheld his brow clearing. he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and began feeling in his pocket for his pouch to refill it. "he's relieved," declared the duchessa inwardly, and somewhat astounded. "he's so amazingly diffident, and yet so utterly in love, he's relieved." of course she was right, she knew perfectly well she was right. well, perhaps courage would grow with trix's absence. for his own sake it was to be devoutly trusted that it would. doctor hilary took his tobacco pouch from his pocket, and with it a small piece of paper. he looked at the paper. "the name of a new rose," he said. "michael field, the new under-gardener at the hall, gave it to me. he tells me it is a very free flowerer, and has a lovely scent. do you care to have the name, duchessa?" he held the slip of paper towards her. the duchessa looked carelessly at it. trix was looking at the duchessa. "no, thank you," she replied. "we have plenty of roses here, and thornby can no doubt give me the name of any new kinds i shall want." now it was not merely an entirely unnecessary refusal, but the tone of the speech was nearly, if not quite, deliberately rude. it was a terribly big prickle, and showed itself perfectly distinctly. there wasn't even the smallest semblance of disguise about it. doctor hilary put the paper and his tobacco pouch back into his pocket. "i must be off," he said in an oddly quiet voice. "i've one or two other calls to make." miss tibbutt walked towards the house with him,--to fetch some more knitting, so she announced. trix suspected a little mental stroking. "what's the matter, pia?" asked trix calmly, leaning back in her chair. "the matter?" said pia, the faintest suspicion of a flush in her cheeks. "you were very--very _snubbing_ to doctor hilary," announced trix, still calmly. inwardly she was not so calm. in fact, her heart was thumping quite loudly. "my dear trix," replied the duchessa coldly, "i have an excellent gardener. i do not care for recommendations emanating from a complete stranger." "there was no smallest need to snub doctor hilary, though," said trix quietly. the queer surprise on his face had caused a little stab at her heart. the duchessa made no reply. "pia, what _is_ the matter?" asked trix again. "i have told you, nothing," responded the duchessa. trix shook her head. "yes; there is. you're unhappy. you've been--you can tell me to mind my own business, if you like--you've been horribly prickly lately. you've tried to hurt my feelings, and tibby's, and now you've tried to hurt doctor hilary's. and he didn't deserve it in the least, but he thought, for a moment, he did. and it isn't like you, pia. it isn't one bit. do tell me what's the matter?" "nothing," said pia again. "darling, that's a--a white lie at all events." pia coloured. "anyhow it's not worth talking about," she said. "are you sure it isn't?" urged trix. "couldn't i help the weeniest bit?" the duchessa shook her head. "darling," said trix again, and she slipped her arm through pia's. "i'm all one big bruise," said pia suddenly. trix stroked her hand. "it is entirely foolish of me to care," said the duchessa slowly. "but i happen to have trusted someone rather implicitly. i never dreamed it possible the person could stoop to act a lie. i would not have minded the thing itself,--it would have been absurd for me to have done so. but it hurt rather considerably that the person should have deceived me in the matter, in fact have acted a deliberate lie about it. i am honestly doing my best to forget the whole thing, but i am being constantly reminded of it." trix sat up very straight. so that was it, she told herself. how idiotic of her not to have guessed at once,--days ago, that is,--when she herself had made her marvellous discovery. it was now quite plain to her mind that pia must have made it too. it was doctor hilary whom she believed to be the fraud, the friend whom she had trusted, and who had acted a lie. the whole oddness of pia's behaviour became suddenly perfectly clear to her. tibby had told her that it had begun on her return to woodleigh. well, that must have been when she first found out. how she'd found out, trix didn't know. but that was beside the mark. she evidently had found out. trix's mind ran back over various little incidents. she remembered the snub administered to father dormer the evening after her arrival. the new under-gardener had been the subject of conversation then, of course reminding pia of the hall. and she had snubbed father dormer, as she had snubbed doctor hilary a few minutes ago. all pia's snubs and sudden prickles came back to her mind. they all had their origin in some inadvertent remark regarding the hall. yes; everything was as clear as daylight now. pia had learnt of this business in some roundabout way that did not allow of her speaking openly to doctor hilary on the subject, so she saw merely the fraud, and had no idea that it was, in all probability, an entirely justifiable one, and that at all events no one had told any deliberate lie. of course pia was disturbed and upset. wouldn't she have been herself, in pia's place? and hadn't she felt quite unreasonably unhappy till mr. danver had assured her that doctor hilary had not spoken a single word of actual untruth? oh, poor pia! now, it was not in the least astonishing that trix's mind should have leapt to this entirely erroneous conclusion. for the last fortnight it had been full of her discovery. the smallest thing that seemed to bear on it, instantly appeared actually to do so. and everything in her present train of thought fitted in with astonishing accuracy. each little incident in pia's late behaviour fell into place with it. she did not stop to consider that, if this were the sole cause of pia's trouble, she--pia--was unquestionably taking a very exaggerated view of it. it never occurred to trix to do so. if she had considered the matter at all, it would have been merely to realize that pia's attitude towards it was remarkably like what her own would have been. she would have known, had she attempted analysis of the subject, that she herself was frequently troubled about trifles, or what at any rate would have appeared to others as trifles, where any friend of hers was concerned. her friends' actions and her own, in what are ordinarily termed little things, mattered quite supremely to her, most particularly in any question regarding honour. the smallest infringement of it would be enough to cause her sleepless nights and anxious days. therefore, without attempting any analysis, she could perfectly well understand what she believed pia's point of view to be. and her present distress was, that, in view of her promise, she could do nothing definite to help her. she could not show her doctor hilary's standpoint in the matter, since it was not permissible for her to give the smallest hint that she was acquainted either with it, or with the whole business at all. she could not even hint that she believed doctor hilary to be the person concerning whom pia was troubled. she could only take refuge in generalities, which, with a definite case before her, she felt to be a peculiarly unsatisfactory proceeding. yet there was nothing else to be done. it was more than probable that pia was in the same kind of cleft stick as herself, and that therefore direct discussion of the matter was out of the question. still stroking pia's hand, trix spoke slowly. "pia, darling, what i am going to say will sound very poor comfort, i know. but it's this. isn't it just possible that you could give the--the person concerned the benefit of a doubt? even if it seems to you that he has acted a lie, and therefore been something of a fraud, mayn't there be some extraordinarily good reason, behind it all, that circumstances are preventing him from explaining? such queer things do happen, and sometimes people have to appear to others as frauds, when they really aren't a bit. if you were ever really friends with the person--and you must have been, or you wouldn't care--i'd just say to myself that i would trust him in spite of every appearance to the contrary. perhaps some day you'll be most awfully sorry if you don't. and isn't it a million times better to be even mistaken in trust where a friend is concerned, than give way to the smallest doubt which may afterwards be proved to be a wrong doubt?" pia was silent. then she said in an oddly even voice, "trix do you _know_ anything?" trix flushed to the roots of her hair. pia turned to look at her. "trix!" she said amazed. "pia," implored trix, "you mustn't ask me a single question, because i can't answer you. but do, do, trust." pia drew a long breath. "trix, you're the uncanniest little mortal that ever lived, and i can't imagine how you could have guessed, or what exactly it is you really do know. but i believe i am going to take your advice." chapter xxvi an offer and a refusal antony was working in his front garden. it was a saturday afternoon, and a blazingly hot one. every now and then he paused to lean on his spade, and look out to where the blue sea lay shining and glistening in the sunlight. it was amazingly blue, almost as blue as the sea depicted on the posters of famous seaside resorts, posters in which a bare-legged child with a bucket and spade, and the widest of wide smiles is invariably seen in the foreground. certainly the designers of these posters are not students of child nature. if they were, they would know that a really absorbed and happy child is almost portentously solemn. it hasn't the time to waste on smiles; the building of sand castles and fortresses is infinitely too engrossing an occupation. a smile will greet the anticipation; it is lost in the stupendous joy of the fact. but as smiles are evidently considered _de rigueur_ by the designers of posters, and as the mere anticipation will not allow of the portrayal of the rickett's blue sea, destined to hit the eye of the beholder, smiles and sea have--rightly or wrongly--to be combined. antony gazed at the sea, if not quite as blue as a poster sea, yet--as already stated--amazingly blue. josephus lay on a bit of hot earth watching him, his nose between his forepaws, and quite exhausted after a mad and wholly objectless ten minutes' race round the garden. antony turned from his contemplation of the sea, and once more grasped his spade. presently he turned up a small flat round object, which at first sight he took to be a penny. he picked it up, and rubbed the dirt off it. it proved to be merely a small lead disk, utterly useless and valueless; he didn't even know what it could have been used for. he threw it on the earth again, and went on with his digging. but it, or his action of tossing it on to the earth, had started a train of thought. it is extraordinary what trifles will serve to start a lengthy and connected train of thought. sometimes it is quite interesting, arriving at a certain point, to trace one's imaginings backwards, and see from whence they started. the disk reminded antony of the coppers he had tossed to the child at teneriffe. from it he quite unconsciously found himself reviewing all the subsequent happenings. they linked on one to the other without a break. he hardly knew he was reviewing them, though they so absorbed his mind that he was totally unconscious of his surroundings, and even of the fact that he was digging. his employment had become quite mechanical. he was so engrossed that he did not hear a step in the road behind him. josephus heard it, however, and gave vent to a faint whine, raising his head from between his paws. the sound roused antony, and he turned. his face went suddenly white beneath its bronze. the duchessa di donatello was standing at the gate, looking over into the garden. "might i come in and rest a moment?" she asked. "the sun is so hot." antony could hardly believe his ears. surely he could not have heard aright? but there she was, standing at the gate, most evidently waiting his permission to enter. he left his spade sticking in the earth, and went to unfasten the gate. without speaking, he led the way up the little flagged path, and into the parlour. the duchessa crossed to the oak settle and sat down. slowly she began to pull off her long crinkly doe-skin gloves. antony watched her. he saw the gleam of a diamond ring on her hand. it was a ring he had often noticed. a picture of the duchessa sitting at a little round table among orange trees in green tubs flashed suddenly and very vividly into his mind. "it is very hot," said the duchessa looking up at him. "yes," said antony mechanically. "am i interrupting your work?" asked the duchessa. antony started. "oh, no," he replied. and he sat down by the table, leaning slightly forward with his arms upon it. "do you mind my coming here?" she asked. "i don't think so," said antony reflectively. a gleam of a smile flashed across the duchessa's face. the reply was so antonian. there was quite a long silence. suddenly antony roused himself. "you'll let me get you some tea, madam," he said. awaiting no reply, he went into the little scullery, where the fire by which he had cooked his midday meal was still alight. the kettle filled with water and placed on the stove, he stood by it, in a measure wishful, yet oddly reluctant to return to the parlour. reluctance won the day. he remained by the kettle, gazing at it. left alone, the duchessa looked round the parlour. it was exceedingly primitive, yet, to her mind, curiously interesting. of course in reality it was not unlike dozens of other cottage parlours, but it held a personality of its own for her. it was the room where antony gray lived. she pictured him at his lonely meals, sitting at the table where he had sat a moment or so agone; sitting on the settle where she was now sitting, certainly smoking, and possibly reading. she found herself wondering what he thought about. did he ever think of the _fort salisbury_, she wondered? or had he blotted it from his mind, as she had endeavoured--ineffectually--to do? and then, with that thought, with the possibility that he had done so, her presence in the room seemed quite suddenly an intrusion. what on earth would he think of her for coming? and what on earth did she mean to say to him now she had come? the impulse which had led her down the lane, which had caused her to pause at the gate and speak to him, all at once seemed to her perfectly idiotic, and, worse still, intrusive and impertinent. what possible excuse was she going to give for it, in the face of her behaviour to him that afternoon on the moorland? merely to have asked for shelter on account of the heat, appeared to her now as the flimsiest of excuses, and would appear to him as an excuse simply to pry upon him, to see his mode of living. he had not returned to the parlour. doubtless his absence was a silent rebuke to her. she had thrust the necessity of hospitality upon him, but he intended to show her plainly that it was entirely of necessity he had offered it. her cheeks burned at the thought. she looked quickly round. anyhow there was still time for flight. she picked up her gloves from where she had laid them on the settle, and got to her feet. "the water won't be long in boiling, madam," said antony's voice. he had come back quietly into the room. for a moment he glanced in half surprise to see the duchessa standing by the settle. then he crossed to the dresser, and began taking down a cup, a saucer, and a plate. the duchessa sat down again, drawing her hand nervously along her gloves. she looked at him getting down the things and setting them on the table. she watched his neat, deft movements. antony took no notice of her; she might have been part of the settle itself for all the attention he paid her. his preparations made, he returned momentarily to the scullery to fill the teapot. coming back with it he placed it on the table. "everything is ready, madam," he said. dale himself could not have been more distantly respectful. the duchessa looked at the one cup, the one saucer, and the one plate. "aren't you going to have some tea, too?" she asked. "servants do not sit down with their superiors," said antony. the colour rose hotly in the duchessa's face. "why do you say that?" she demanded. antony lifted his shoulders, the merest suspicion of a shrug. "i merely state a fact," he replied. "i wish you to," she said quickly. "is that a command?" asked antony. "if you like to take it so," she replied. antony turned to the dresser. he took down another cup and plate and put them on the table. then he stood by it, waiting for her to be seated. "sugar?" asked the duchessa. she was making a brave endeavour to steady the trembling of her voice. "if you please, madam," said antony gravely. the meal proceeded in dead silence. "mr. gray," said the duchessa suddenly. "my name," said antony respectfully, "is michael field." the duchessa gave a little shaky laugh. "well, michael field," she said. "i was not very kind that day i met you on the moorland." antony kept his eyes fixed on his plate. "there was no reason that you should be kind," he replied quietly. "there was," flashed the duchessa. "i think not," replied antony, calmly. "ladies in your position are under no obligation to be kind to servants, except to those of their own household. even then, it is more or less of a condescension on their part." "you were not always a servant," said the duchessa. there was the fraction of a pause. "i did not happen to be actually in a situation when i was on the _fort salisbury_, if that is what you mean, madam," returned antony. "i mean more than that," retorted the duchessa. "i mean that by your up-bringing you are not a servant." antony laughed shortly. "i happen to have had a better education than falls to the lot of most men who have been in the positions i have been in, and who are in positions like my present one. but most assuredly i am a servant." "what positions have you been in?" demanded the duchessa. a very faint smile showed itself on antony's face. "i have been a sort of miner's boy," he replied slowly. "i have been a farm hand, mainly used for cleaning out pigsties, and that kind of work. i have been servant in a gambling saloon; odd man on a cattle boat. i have worked on a farm again. and now i am an under-gardener. very assuredly i have been, and am, a servant." the duchessa's brows wrinkled. "yet you speak like a gentleman, and--and you wore dress clothes as if you were used to them." again a faint smile showed itself on antony's face. "i told you i happen to have had a decent education in my youth. also, i would suggest, that even butlers and waiters wear dress clothes as if they were used to them." once more there was a silence. a rather long silence this time. it was broken by the duchessa's voice. "some months ago," she said, "i offered my friendship to antony gray; i now offer that same friendship to michael field." antony gave a little laugh. there was an odd gleam in his eyes. "michael field regrets that he must decline the honour." the duchessa's face went dead white. antony got to his feet. "please don't misunderstand me," he said. "i fully appreciate the honour you have done me, but--" he shrugged his shoulders--"it is quite impossible to accept it. it--you must see that for yourself--would be a rather ridiculous situation. the duchessa di donatello and a friendship with an under-gardener! i don't fancy either of us would care to be made a mock of, even by the extremely small world in which we happen to live." he stopped. the duchessa rose too. her eyes were steely. "thank you for reminding me," she said. "in a moment of absurd impulsiveness i had overlooked that fact. also, thank you for--for your hospitality." she moved to the door without looking at him. antony was before her, and had it open. he followed her down the path and unfastened the wicket gate. she passed through it without turning her head, and walked rather deliberately down the lane. antony went back into the cottage. for a moment he stood looking at the table, his throat contracted. then slowly, and with oddly unseeing eyes, he began clearing away the débris of the meal. chapter xxvii letters and mrs. arbuthnot trix was sitting in a summer-house in the garden of an hotel at llandrindod wells. she was reading a letter, a not altogether satisfactory letter to judge by the wrinkling of her brows, and the gravity of her eyes. the letter was from the duchessa di donatello, and ran as follows: "my dear trix: "i am glad you had a comfortable journey, and that mrs. arbuthnot had not been pining for you too deeply. it is a pity her letters gave you the impression that she was feeling your absence so acutely. possibly it is always wiser to subtract at least half of the impression conveyed in both written and spoken words. please understand that i am speaking in generalities when i say that we are exceedingly apt to exaggerate our own importance to others, and their importance to us. "talking of exaggeration, will you forget our conversation on your last evening here? i exaggerated my own trouble and its cause. rather foolishly i let your remarks influence me, and sought an explanation, or rather, attempted to ignore appearances, and return to the old footing. the result being that not only did i find that there was no explanation to be given, but that i got rather badly snubbed. as you, of course, will know who administered the snub, you can understand that it was peculiarly unpleasant. i had endeavoured to ignore the fact that he was my social inferior, but he reminded me of it in a way it was impossible to overlook, and showed me that he deeply resented what he evidently looked upon as a somewhat impertinent condescension on my part. "the theories, my dear trix, which you set forth in the moonlight under the lime trees, simply won't hold water. for your own sake i advise you to abandon them forthwith. blood will always tell; and sooner or later, if we attempt intimacy with those not of our own station in life, we shall get a glimpse of the hairy hoof. i know the theories sound all right, and quite beautifully christian--as set forth in the moonlight,--but they don't work in this twentieth century, as i have found to my cost. you had better make up your mind to that fact before you, too, get a slap in the face. i assure you you don't feel like turning the other cheek. however, that will do. but as it was mainly through following out your theories and advice that i found my pride not only in the mud, but rubbed rather heavily in it, i thought you might as well have a word of warning. please now consider the matter closed, and never make the smallest reference to that rather idiotic conversation. "doctor hilary was over here again yesterday. he enquired after you, and asked to be very kindly remembered to you. i should like doctor hilary to attend me in any illness. he gives one such a feeling of strength and reliance. there's absolutely no humbug about him. "much love, my dear trix, "yours affectionately, "pia di donatello." trix read the letter through very carefully, and then dropped it on her lap. "it wasn't doctor hilary!" she ejaculated. "so who on earth was it?" she sat gazing through the opening of the summer-house towards the garden. it was the oddest _puzzle_ she had ever encountered. who on earth could it have been? and why--since it wasn't doctor hilary--had pia jumped to the conclusion that she--trix--knew who it was? it wasn't mr. danver, that was very certain. "social inferior" put that fact out of the question. but then, what social inferior had been mixed up in the business? or--trix's brain leapt from point to point--had pia's trouble nothing whatever to do with the mad business at the hall? had she and pia simply been playing a quite amazing game of cross-purposes that evening? it would seem that must have been the case. yet the recognition of that fact didn't bring her in the smallest degree nearer the solution of the riddle. again, who on earth was it? what social inferior was there, could there possibly be, at woodleigh, to cause pia a moment's trouble? every preconceived notion on trix's part, including the colour of the soap-bubble, vanished into thin air, and left her contemplating an inexplicable mystery. whatever it was, it had affected pia pretty deeply. it was absurd for her to say the incident was closed. externally it might be, in the matter of not referring to it again. interiorly it had left a wound, and one which was very far from being easily healed, to judge by pia's letter. it had not been written by pia at all, but by a very bitter woman, who had merely a superficial likeness to pia. that fact, and that fact alone, caused trix to imagine that she had been right when she told tibby--if not in so many words, at least virtually speaking--that love had come into pia's life. love embittered alone could have inflicted the wound she felt pia to be enduring. and yet the wording of her letter would appear to put that surmise out of the question. truly it was an insolvable riddle. once more she re-read the letter, but it didn't help her in the smallest degree. there was only one small ounce of comfort in it. it wasn't doctor hilary who had caused the wound. pia had merely tried to pick a quarrel with him, as she had frequently tried to pick one with herself and tibby, because she was unhappy. if only trix knew what had caused the unhappiness. and pia thought she did know. if she wrote and told her now that she hadn't the smallest conception of what she was talking about, it would in all probability rouse conjectures in pia's mind as to what trix _had_ thought. that, having in view her promise, had certainly better be avoided. should she, then, ignore pia's letter, or should she reply to it? she weighed the pros and cons of this question for the next ten minutes, and finally decided she would write, and at once. returning, therefore, to the hotel, she indited the following brief missive: "my dear pia,-- "the incident is closed so far as i am concerned. but i don't mean to give up seeking my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. i dare say most people would call it an imaginary quest. well then, i like an imaginary quest. it helps to make me forget much that is prosaic, and a good deal that is sordid in this work-a-day world. "please remember me to doctor hilary when you see him. best love, pia darling, "trix." three days later pia wrote: "my dear trix, "the rainbow vanishes, and the sordidness and the prosaicness become rather horribly apparent, especially when one finds oneself obliged to look at them after having steadily ignored their existence. "yours affectionately, "pia." to which trix replied: "my dear pia, "my rainbow shines after every shower, and is brightest against the darkest clouds. when i look towards the darkest clouds i wait for the rainbow. "yours, "trix." and pia wrote: "my dear trix, "what happens when there is no longer any sun to form a rainbow? "yours affectionately, "pia." and trix wrote: "wait till the clouds roll by, jenny, wait till the clouds roll by." and pia wrote: "my dear trix, "some people wait a lifetime in vain, "yours affectionately, "pia." and trix wrote: "darling pia, "you're twenty-eight. trix." after which there was a cessation of correspondence for a time, neither having anything further to say on the subject, or at all events, nothing further they felt disposed to set down in writing. trix spent her mornings, and the afternoons, till tea time, in her aunt's company. after that, mrs. arbuthnot being engrossed in bridge till bedtime, trix was free to do exactly as she liked. what she liked was walking till it was time to dress for dinner, and spending the evenings in the garden. even before her father's death, trix had stayed frequently with her aunt. her mother had died when trix was three years old and mrs. arbuthnot, a widow with no children of her own, would have been quite ready to adopt trix. but neither mr. devereux, nor, for that matter, trix herself, were in the least disposed to fall in with her plans. trix was merely lent to her for fairly lengthy periods, and it had been during one of these periods that mrs. arbuthnot had taken her to a farm near byestry, in which place mr. devereux had spent most of his early years. in those days mrs. arbuthnot's one hobby had been photography. people used to say, of course unjustly, that she never beheld any view with the naked eye, but merely in the reflector of a photographic apparatus. yet it is entirely obvious that she must first have regarded it in the ordinary way to judge of its photographic merits. anyhow it is true that quite a good deal of her time was spent beneath the folds of a black cloth (she never condescended to anything so amateurish as a mere kodak), or in the seclusion of a dark room. veritable dark rooms being seldom procurable on her travels, she invariably carried with her two or three curtains of thick red serge, several rolls of brown paper, and a bottle of stickphast. the two last mentioned were employed for covering chinks in doors, etc. it cannot be said that it was entirely beneficial to the doors, but hotel proprietors and landladies seldom made any complaint after the first remonstrance, as mrs. arbuthnot was always ready to make handsome compensation for any damage caused. it is to be feared that at times her generosity was largely imposed upon. in addition to the red curtains, the brown paper, and the stickphast, two large boxes were included in her luggage, one containing all her photographic necessaries, and they were not few, the other containing several dozen albums of prints. of late years bridge had taken quite as large a place in her affections as photography. not that she felt any rivalry between the two; her pleasure in both pastimes was quite equally balanced. her mornings and early afternoons were given to photography. the late afternoons and evenings mrs. arbuthnot devoted to bridge. * * * * * one exceedingly wet afternoon, tea being recently concluded, trix in her bedroom was surveying the weather from the window. she was debating within her mind whether to don mackintosh and souwester and face the elements, or whether to retire to a far corner of the drawing-room with a novel, as much as possible out of earshot of the bridge players. she was still in two minds as to which prospect most appealed to her mood, when mrs. arbuthnot tapped on her door, and immediately after sailed into the room. it is the only word applicable to mrs. arbuthnot's entry into any room. she was a large fair woman, very distinctly inclined to stoutness. in her youth she had been both slender, and quick in her movements; but recognizing, and rightly, that quickness means a certain loss of dignity in the stout, she had trained herself to be exceedingly deliberate in her actions. there was an element of consciousness in her deliberation, therefore, which gave the impression of a rather large sailing vessel under weigh. "trix, dearest," she began. and then she perceived that trix had been observing the weather. "you were not going out, were you, dearest? i really think it would hardly be wise. it is blowing quite furiously. i know it is rather dull for you as you don't play bridge. such a pity, too, as you understand it so well. but i have a suggestion to make. will you paste some of my newest prints into the latest album? there is a table in the window in my room, and a fresh bottle of stickphast. not in the window, i don't mean that, but in my trunk. and maunder can find it for you." maunder was mrs. arbuthnot's maid. trix turned from the window. of course mrs. arbuthnot's request settled the question of a walk. she had really been in two minds about it. "why, of course," she said. "where are the prints?" mrs. arbuthnot brightened visibly. "they're inside a green envelope on the writing-table. you'll find a small pair of very sharp scissors there too. the dark edges are so unsightly if not trimmed. you're sure you don't mind, dearest? it really will be quite a pleasant occupation. it is so dreadfully wet. and maunder will give you the stickphast. there is clean blotting-paper on the writing-table too, and maunder can find you anything else you want. well, that's all right. maunder is in my room now. she will be going to her tea in ten minutes, so perhaps you might go to her at once. and she is sure to be downstairs for at least an hour and a half, if not longer. servants always have so much to talk about, and take so long saying it. why, i can't imagine. it always seems to me so much better not to waste words unnecessarily. so you will have the room to yourself, till she comes to put out my evening things. and i must go back to the drawing-room at once, or they will be waiting bridge for me. and lady fortescue hates being kept waiting. it puts her in a bad temper, and when she's in a bad temper she is extraordinarily erratic as to her declarations. though, for that matter, she is seldom anything else. i don't mean bad-tempered, but seldom anything but erratic. so, dearest, i mustn't let you keep me any longer. don't forget to ask maunder for the stickphast, and anything else you want. and the prints and the scissors----" "yes, i know," nodded trix cheerfully, "on the writing table. hurry, aunt lilla, or they'll all be swearing." "oh, my dearest, i trust not. though perhaps interiorly. and even that is a sin. i remember----" trix propelled her gently but firmly from the room. doubtless mrs. arbuthnot continued her remembrances "interiorly" as she went down the passage and descended the stairs. ten minutes later, trix, provided with the stickphast, the green envelope, the scissors, and the clean blotting-paper, and having a very large album spread open before her on a table, was busily engaged with the prints. they were mainly views of llandrindod wells, though there were quite a good many groups among them, as well as a fair number of single figures. trix herself appeared chiefly in these last,--trix in a hat, trix without a hat, trix smiling, serious, standing, or sitting. for half an hour or so trix worked industriously, indefatigably. she trimmed off dark edges, she applied stickphast, she adjusted the prints in careful positions, she smoothed them down neatly with the clean blotting-paper. at the end of that time, she paused to let the paste dry somewhat before turning the page. with a view to whiling away the interval, she possessed herself of a sister album, one of the many relations stacked against a wall, choosing it haphazard from among the number. there is a distinct fascination in photographs which recall early memories. trix fell promptly under the spell of this fascination. the minutes passed, finding her engrossed, absorbed. turning a page she came upon views of byestry, herself--a white-robed, short-skirted small person--appearing in the foreground of many. trix smiled at the representations. it really was rather an adorable small person. it was so slim-legged, mop-haired, and elfin-smiled. it was seen, for the most part, lavishing blandishments on a somewhat ungainly puppy. one photograph, however, represented the small person in company with a boy. trix looked at this photograph, and suddenly amazement fell full upon her. she looked, she leant back in her chair and shut her eyes, and then she looked again. yes; there was no mistake, no shadow of a mistake. the boy in the photograph was the man with the wheelbarrow, or the other way about, which possibly might be the more correct method of expressing the matter. but, whichever the method, the fact remained the same. trix stared harder at the photograph, cogitating, bewildered. below it was written in mrs. arbuthnot's rather sprawling handwriting, "t. d., aged five. a. g., aged fourteen. byestry, ." who on earth was a. g.? trix searched the recesses of her mind. and then suddenly, welling up like a bubbling spring, came memory. why, of course a. g. was the boy she used to play with, the boy--she began to remember things clearly now--who had tried to sail across the pond, and with whom she had gone to search for pheasants' eggs. a dozen little details came back to her mind, even the sound of the boy's voice, and his laugh, a curiously infectious laugh. oh, she remembered him distinctly, vividly. but, what--and there lay the puzzlement, the bewilderment--was the boy, now grown to manhood, doing with a wheelbarrow in the grounds of chorley old hall, and, moreover, dressed as a gardener, working as a gardener, and speaking--well, at any rate speaking after the manner of a gardener? perhaps to have said, speaking as though he were on a different social footing from trix, would have better expressed trix's meaning. but she chose her own phraseology, and doubtless it conveyed to her exactly what she did mean. anyhow, it was an amazing riddle, an insoluble riddle. trix stared at the photograph, finding no answer to it. finding no answer she left the book open at the page, and returned to the sticking in of prints. but every now and then her eyes wandered to the big volume at the other end of the table, wonderment and query possessing her soul. maunder appeared just as trix had finished her task. helpful, business-like, she approached the table, a gleam spelling order and tidiness in her eye. "leave that album, please," said trix, seeing the helpful maunder about to shut and bear away the book containing the boy's photograph. maunder hesitated, sighed conspicuously, and left the book, occupying herself instead with putting away the stickphast, the scissors, the now not as clean blotting-paper, and somewhat resignedly picking up small shreds of paper which were scattered upon the table-cloth and carpet. in the midst of these occupations the dressing-gong sounded. maunder pricked up her ears, actually almost, as well as figuratively. ten minutes elapsed. then mrs. arbuthnot appeared. "what, finished, dearest!" she exclaimed as she opened the door. "splendid! how quick you've been. and i am sure the time flew on--not leaden feet, but just the opposite. it always does when one is pleasantly occupied. developing photographs or a rubber of bridge, it's just the same, the hands of the clock spin round. and i've won six shillings, and it would have been more if it had not been for lady fortescue's last declaration. four hearts, my dearest, and the knave as her highest card. they doubled us, and of course we went down. i had only two small ones. i had shown her my own weakness by not supporting her declaration. of course at my first lead i led her a heart, and it was won by the queen on my left. a heart was returned, and lady fortescue played the nine. it was covered by the ten which won the trick. she didn't make a single trick in her own suit. it is quite impossible to understand lady fortescue's declarations. and did you put in all the prints? they will have nearly filled the last pages. i must send for another album. are these they?" she crossed to the open volume. "no," said trix, "that's an old volume. i was looking at it. who's the boy in the photograph, aunt lilla?" mrs. arbuthnot bent towards the page. "'a. g., aged fourteen.' let me see. why, of course that was antony gray, richard gray's son. but i never knew his father. he--i mean the boy--was staying in rooms with his aunt, mrs. stanley. she was his father's sister, and married george stanley. something to do with the stock exchange, and quite a wealthy man, though a bad temper. and his wife was not a happy woman, as you can guess. temper means such endless friction when it's bad, especially with regard to things like interfering with the servants, and wanting to order the kitchen dinner. so absurd, as well as annoying. there's a place for a man and a place for a woman, and the man's place is not the kitchen, even if his entry is only figurative. by which i mean that mr. stanley did not actually go to the kitchen, but gave orders from his study, on a sort of telephone business he had had fixed up and communicating with the kitchen. so trying for the cook's nerves, especially when making omelettes, or anything that required particular attention. she never knew when his voice wouldn't shout at her from the wall. a small black thing like a hollow handle fixed close to the kitchen range. quite uncomfortably near her ear. worse than if he himself had appeared at the kitchen door, which would have been normal, though trying. and mr. stanley never lowered his voice. he always spoke as if one were deaf, especially to foreigners who spoke english every bit as well as himself. mrs. stanley gave excellent wages, and even bonuses out of her dress money to try and keep cooks. but they all said the voice from the wall got on their nerves. and no wonder. and then unpleasantness when the cooks left. as if it were poor mrs. stanley's fault, and not his own. she once suggested they should give up their house and live in an hotel. he couldn't have a telephone arrangement to the kitchen there. but he was more unpleasant still. almost violent. and he died at last of an attack of apoplexy. such a relief to mrs. stanley. not the dying of apoplexy, which was a grief. but the quiet, and the being able to keep a cook when he had gone." mrs. arbuthnot paused a moment to take breath. "do you know what became of the boy?" asked trix. mrs. arbuthnot considered for an instant. "i believe he went abroad. yes; i remember now, hearing from mrs. stanley just before she died herself, poor soul--ptomaine poisoning and a dirty cook, some people seem pursued by cooks, figuratively speaking, of course,--that her brother had lost all his money and died, and that antony had gone abroad. we are told not to judge, and i don't, but it did seem to me that mrs. stanley ought to have made him some provision, if not before her death, at least after it. by will, of course i mean by 'after'! which in a sense would have been before death. but you understand. instead of which she left all her money to a deaf and dumb asylum. no doubt good in its way, but not like anything religious, which would have been more justifiable, though she was a protestant. and teaching dumb people to speak is always a doubtful blessing. they have such an odd way of talking. scarcely understandable. but perhaps better than nothing for themselves, though not for others. though with a penniless nephew and all that money i _do_ think--but, as i said, we are told not to judge." "and you don't know what became of him after that?" asked trix. mrs. arbuthnot looked almost reproachful. "my dearest, how could i? mrs. stanley in the family grave with her brother,--she mentioned that particularly in her will, and not with her husband, i suppose she could not have had much affection for him,--i could not possibly hear any more of the young man. there were no other relations, and i did not even know what part of the world he was in. nor should i have thought it advisable to write to him if i had, unless it had been a brief letter of consolation as from a much older woman, which i was. but even with age i do not think a correspondence between men and women desirable, unless they are related, especially with mrs. barclay's novels so widely read. not for my own sake, of course, as i do not think i am easily given to absurd notions. but one never knows what ideas a young man may not get into his head. and now, dear child, i must dress. maunder has been sighing for the last ten minutes, and i know what that means. and you'll be late yourself, if you don't go." much later in the evening, trix, in a far corner of the drawing-room with a novel, found herself again pondering deeply on her discovery. she was absolutely and entirely certain that the man with the wheelbarrow was none other than antony gray, the boy with whom she had played in her childhood. she remembered now that his face had been oddly familiar to her at the time, though, being unable to put any name to him, she had looked upon it merely as a chance likeness. but since he was antony gray, what was he doing at chorley old hall? her first impulse had been to write to the duchessa, tell her of her certainty, and ask her to find out any particulars she could regarding the man. she had abandoned that idea, in view of the fact that she would have to say where she had met him, which would very probably lead to questions difficult to answer. one thing she would do, however, and she gave a little inward laugh at the thought, when she was next at byestry, if she saw him again, she would ask him if he remembered the pond and the pheasants' eggs. it would be amusing to see his amazed face. chapter xxviii for the day alone probably there are times in the life of every human being, when the only possible method of living at all, would seem to be by living in the day--nay, in the moment--alone, resolutely shutting one's eyes to the mistakes behind one, refusing to look at the blankness ahead. and this is more especially the case when the mistakes and the blankness have been caused by our own actions. there is not even stolid philosophy to come to our aid, a shrugging of the shoulders, a foisting of the blame on to fate. it may be that the majority of the incidents have been forced upon us, that we have not been free agents in the matter, but if we must of honesty say,--here or there was the mistake which led to them, and i made that mistake of my own free will,--we cannot turn to philosophy regarding fate for our comfort. to antony's mind he had made a big mistake. fate had been responsible for his receipt of that letter, it had had nothing to do with himself; he might even consider that, having received it, fate was largely responsible for his journey to england and his meeting with the duchessa, but he could not possibly accuse fate of his acceptance of those mad conditions attached to the will. he had been an entirely free agent so far as they were concerned; they had been put before him for him to accept or reject them as he chose, and he had accepted them. it had been a huge blunder on his part, and one for which he alone had been responsible. of course he might quite justly declare that he could not possibly have foreseen all the other moves fate had up her sleeve; but then no living being could have foreseen them. fate never does show her subsequent moves. she puts decisions before us in such a way, that she leaves us to imagine we can shape our succeeding actions to our own mind and according to the decision made. she leaves us to imagine it is simply a question whether we will reach our goal by a road bearing slightly to the right or to the left, by a road which may take a long time to traverse and be a fairly smooth road, or a road which will take a short time to traverse and be a rough one. or, even, as in antony's case, she will leave us to imagine there is one route and one route only by which we may reach our goal. and then, whatever our choice, she may suddenly plant a huge barrier across the path, labelled,--no thoroughfare to your goal in this direction. sometimes it is possible to defy fate, retrace our steps, and start anew towards the goal. occasionally we will find that we have burnt our bridges behind us; we are up against an obstacle, and there we are bound to remain helpless. and here fate appears at her worst trickery. and even supposing we are minded to call it not fate, but providence, who does these things, it will be of remarkably little comfort to us when we are aware of our own blunders in the background. a hundred times antony reviewed the past; a hundred times he blamed himself for the part he had chosen. it is true that, so far as he could see, none other would have had the smallest chance of leading him to his desired goal, yet any other could not have raised the enormous barrier he now saw before him. he had angered her: she despised him. to his mind nothing, no subsequent happening, could alter that fact. there was the thought he had to face, and behind him lay his own irredeemable blunder. well, the only thing now left for him was to live his life as it was, minus one spark of brightness. certainly he didn't feel like singing, but whining was no earthly good. and since he could not sing, and would not whine, silence alone was left him. he would work as best he could till the year was out. he had no intention of going back on his bargain, despite the uselessness of it. at the end of the year, the hall being his own property, he would sell the place, and travel. perhaps he would go off shooting big game, or perhaps he would go round the world. it did not much matter which, so long as it prevented him from whining. and quite possibly, though he would never have any heart for singing, the day might come when he would again be able to whistle. chapter xxix in the church porch it was somewhere about the second week in december that trix became the recipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, and extraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house at llandrindod wells. they had returned to london in october. the letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nine o'clock. mrs. arbuthnot had gone out to a bridge party. trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazing fire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful state of well-being. barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put out her hand and took the letter from the tray. it was not till she had come to the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. then she saw that the writing was miss tibbutt's. now, a letter from miss tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrence that trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that pia must be ill. it was therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal. this is what she read: "my dear trix,-- "i have made rather an astounding discovery. at least i feel sure i've made it, i mean that i am right in what i think. i have no one in whom i can confide, as it certainly would not do to speak to pia on the subject,--i feel sure she would rather i didn't, so i am writing to you as i feel i must tell someone. my dear, it sounds too extraordinary for anything, and i can't understand it myself, but it is this. pia knows the under-gardener at the hall, really knows him i mean, not merely who he is, and that he is one of the gardeners, and that he came to these parts last march, which, of course, we all know. "i found this out quite by accident, and will explain the incident to you. you must forgive me if i am lengthy; but i can only write in my own way, dear trix, and perhaps that will be a little long-winded. "yesterday afternoon, which was saturday, pia and i motored into byestry, as she wanted to see father dormer about something. i went into the church, while she went to the presbytery. i noticed a man in the church as i went in, a man in workman's clothes, but of course i did not pay any particular attention to him. i knelt down by one of the chairs near the door, and just beyond st. peter's statue. i suppose i must have been kneeling there about ten minutes when the man got up. he didn't genuflect, and i glanced involuntarily at him. he didn't notice me, because i was partly hidden by st. peter's statue. then i saw it was the under-gardener,--michael field, i believe his name is. "my dear, the man looked dreadfully ill, and so sad. it was the face of a man who had lost something or someone very dear to him. he went towards the porch, and just before he reached it, i heard the door open. whoever was coming in must have met him just inside the church. there was a sound of steps as if the person had turned back into the porch with him. then i heard pia's voice, speaking impulsively and almost involuntarily. at least i felt sure it was involuntarily. it sounded exactly as if she couldn't help speaking. "'oh,' she said, 'you've been ill.' "'nothing of any consequence, madam,' i heard the man's voice answer. "'but it must have been of consequence,' i heard pia say. 'have you seen a doctor?' "'there was no need,' returned the man. "then i heard pia's voice, impulsive and a little bit impatient. she evidently had not seen me in the church, and thought no one was there. "'but there is need. why don't you go and see doctor hilary?' "'i am not ill enough to need doctors, madam,' returned the man. "'but you are,' returned pia, in the way that she insists when she is very anxious about anything. "i heard the man give a little laugh." "'it is exceedingly good of you to trouble concerning me,' he said, 'and i really don't know why you should.' "'oh,' said pia quickly, 'you need not be afraid that i, personally, wish to interfere with you again. you made it quite plain to me months ago that you had no smallest wish for me to do so. but, speaking simply as one human being to another, as complete and entire strangers, even, i do ask you to see a doctor.' "then there was a moment's silence." "'i think not,' i heard the man say presently. 'i am really not sufficiently interested in myself. though--' and then, trix dear, he half stopped, and his voice altered in the queerest way,--'the fact that you have shown interest enough to ask me to do so, has, curiously enough, made me feel quite a good deal more important in my own eyes.' "'you refused my friendship,' i heard pia say, and her voice shook a little. "'i did,' said the man in rather a stern voice. "again, trix dear, there was a little silence. then pia said: "'i don't intend again to offer a thing that has once been rejected. i shall _never_ do that. but because we once were friends, or at all events, fancied ourselves friends, i do ask you to see doctor hilary. that is all.' "she must have turned from him at once, because she came into the church, and went up the aisle to her own chair. she knelt down, and put her hands over her eyes; and, trix dearest, she was crying. i am crying now when i think about it, so forgive the blots on the paper. a minute later i heard the door open and shut again, so i knew the man had gone. i got up as softly as i could, and slipped out of the church. it would never have done for pia to see me, and i was so thankful to st. peter for hiding me. "well, my dear trix, wasn't it amazing? and one of the most amazing things was that the man's voice and way of speaking was quite educated, not the least as one would suppose a gardener would speak. "i went to the post-office and bought some stamps, though i really had plenty at home, and loitered about for nearly a quarter of an hour. then i thought i had better go and find pia. i met her coming out of the church. she was very pale; but she smiled, and wanted to know where i'd been, and i told her to the post-office. and then we drove home together. pia laughed and chatted all the way, while my heart was in a big lump in my throat, and i could hardly keep from crying, like the foolish old woman that i am. i ought to have been talking, and helping pia to pretend. "she has been quite gay all to-day, and oddly gentle too. but you know the kind of gayness. and to-night my heart feels like breaking for her, for there is some sad mystery i can't fathom. so, trix dearest, i have written to you, because i cannot keep it all to myself. and i am crying again now, though i know i oughtn't to. so i am going to leave off, and say the rosary instead. "good night, my dear trix. "your affectionate old friend, "esther tibbutt. p.s. i wish you could come down here again. can't you?" trix leant back in her chair, and drew a long breath. the novel was utterly and entirely forgotten. so _that_ was what pia's letter had meant. it was this man she had been thinking of all the time. a dozen little unanswered questions were answered now, a dozen queer little riddles solved. trix slid down off her chair on to the bear-skin rug in front of the fire. she leant her arms sideways on the chair, resting her chin upon them. most assuredly she must place the whole matter clearly before her mind, in so far as possible. she gazed steadily at the glowing coals, ruminative, reflective. and firstly it was presented to her mind as the paramount fact, that it was the mention of this man--this michael field, so-called--that had been the direct cause of pia's odd irritability, and not the indirect cause, as she most erroneously had imagined. somehow, in some way, he had caused her such pain that the mere mention of his name had been like laying a hand roughly on a wound. secondly, though trix most promptly dismissed the memory, there was pia's hurting little speech, the speech which had followed on her--trix's--theories promulgated beneath the lime trees. in the light of miss tibbutt's letter that speech was easy enough of explanation. had not pia had practical proof of the unworkableness of those theories? proof which must have hurt her quite considerably. how utterly and entirely childish her words must have seemed to pia,--pia who _knew_, while she truly was merely surmising, setting forth ideas which assuredly she had never attempted to put into practice. thirdly--trix ticked off the facts on her fingers--there was the amazing little game of cross-questions. that too was entirely explained. how precisely it was explained she did not attempt to put into actual formulated words. nevertheless she perceived quite clearly that it was explained. and lastly there was pia's letter to her, the letter which had vainly tried to hide the bitterness which had prompted it. clear as daylight now was the explanation of that letter. buoyed up by trix's advice, by trix's eloquence, she had once more attempted to put the high-sounding theories into practice. and it had proved a failure, an utter and complete failure. all these things fell at once into place, fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, an unfinished puzzle, nevertheless. the largest pieces were still scattered haphazard on the board, and there seemed extremely little prospect of fitting them into the rest. how had pia ever met the man? what was he doing at chorley old hall? and why was he pretending to be michael field, when she--trix--now knew him to be antony gray? the last two proved the greatest difficulty, nor could trix, for all her gazing into the fire, find the place they ought to occupy. she remembered, too, her own idea regarding the colour of that bubble. was it possible that she had been right in her idea? verily, if she had been, in the face of this new discovery, it opened up a yet more astounding problem. pia actually and verily in love with the man, a man she believed to be under-gardener at the hall,--pia, the distant, the proud, the reserved pia! it was amazing, unthinkable! trix heaved a sigh; it was all quite beyond her. one thing alone was obvious; she must go down to woodleigh again as soon as possible. certainly she had no very clear notion as to what precise good she could do by going, nevertheless she was entirely convinced that go she must. and then, having reached this point in her reflections, she returned once more to the beginning, and began all over again. and suddenly another idea struck her, one which had been entirely omitted from her former train of thought. was it possible that mr. danver knew of the identity of this michael field? was it possible, was it conceivable that he held the key to those greatest riddles? truly it would seem possible. his one big action had been so extraordinary, so mad even, that it would be quite justifiable to believe, or at least conjecture, that minor extraordinary actions might be mixed up with it. and then, from that, trix turned to a somewhat more detailed consideration of pia's position. one point presented itself quite definitely and clearly to her. it was certainly evident from that memorable letter of pia's, that she _did_ regard this man as a social inferior, from which fact it was entirely plain that she had no smallest notion of his real identity. trix clasped her hands beneath her chin, shut her eyes, and plunged yet deeper into her reflections. they were becoming even more intricate. now, would it be a comfort to pia to know that this man was by birth her social equal, or would it, in view of the fact that he had in some way shown her what she had called "a glimpse of the hairy hoof," appear to her an added insult. trix pondered the question deeply, turning it in her mind, and sighing prodigiously more than once in the process. and then, all at once, she opened her eyes. where, after all, was the use of troubling her head on that score. comfort or not, who was to tell pia? most assuredly trix couldn't. she had considered that question already, weeks ago in fact, and answered it in the negative. of course it was quite possible that she was being somewhat over-sensitive and ultra-scrupulous on the subject. but there it was. it was the way she regarded matters. trix sighed deeply. it was all terribly perplexing, and tibby's letter was quite horribly pathetic. anyhow she would go down to woodleigh as soon as she possibly could. she had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she had quite forgotten the passing of time. it was with a start of surprise, therefore, that she heard the door open. at the selfsame moment the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. trix got to her feet. "my dearest," exclaimed mrs. arbuthnot, "not gone to bed yet! and all the beauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. not that you need it except in the way of preservation, dearest. for i always did tell you, regardless of making you conceited which i do not think i do do, that i have admired you from the time you were in your cradle. well, food is the next best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. i am famished, positively famished. and i ate an excellent dinner, i know; but bridge is always hungry work. bring the tray to the fire, dearest. i see james has put it all ready. and ham, which i adore. it may be indigestible, though i never believe it with things i like. not merely because i like to think so, but because it is true. nature knows best, as she knew when i was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which always upset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are crying up tremendously nowadays." mrs. arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. trix brought the tray to a small table near her. "and how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? not dull, i hope? but the fire and a book are always the best of companions i think, to say nothing of one's own thoughts, though some people do consider day-dreaming waste of time. so narrow-minded. they read novels which are only other people's day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as saving library subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certain superiority in feeling they are your own. on the whole more satisfactory, too. even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always be arranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. though for my part it should always be happy. if you're happy you want it happy, and if you're not, you still want it to make you. if it weren't for the difficulty of dividing into chapters, i'd write my own day-dreams, and no doubt have a big sale. but publishers have an absurd prejudice in favour of chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty titles. quite brain-racking. a dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she always thought the title the most difficult part of a book." she helped herself to a glass of sherry and two sandwiches as she concluded her speech. "and did you really have a pleasant evening?" said trix, politely interrogative. mrs. arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively. "well, dearest, on the whole, yes. but unfortunately mrs. townsend was there. an excellent bridge player, and i am always pleased to see her myself, but some people are so odd in their manner towards her. quite embarrassing really, in fact awkward at times. absurd, too, with so good a player. and though her father was a grocer it was in the wholesale line, which is different from the retail. besides, she married well, and doesn't drop her aitches." trix's chin went up. "i hate class distinctions being made so horribly obvious," said she with fine scorn. mrs. arbuthnot looked thoughtful. "well, dearest, in mrs. townsend's case, perhaps. but not always. i remember a girl i knew married a farmer. most foolish." "but why, if he was nice?" demanded trix, exceedingly firmly. "oh, but dearest," ejaculated mrs. arbuthnot, "it was so unsuitable. he wasn't even a gentleman farmer. he had been a labourer." "he might have been a nice labourer," contended trix. mrs. arbuthnot sighed. "in himself, possibly. but it wouldn't do. the irritation afterwards. we are told to avoid occasions of sin, and it would not be avoiding occasions of ill-temper if you married a man like that. beer and muddy boots, to say nothing of inferior tobacco. the glamour passed, though for my part i cannot see how there ever would be any glamour, probably infatuation, the boots--you know the kind, dearest, great nails and smelling of leather--the beer and the tobacco would be so terribly obvious. no, dearest, it doesn't do." trix was silent. after all wasn't she again arguing on a point regarding which she had had no real experience? pia had tried the experiment, and declared it didn't work; and that, in the case of a man who _was_ of gentle birth, though posing as a labourer. in her own mind she felt it ought to work,--of course under certain circumstances. it was not the birth, but the mind that mattered. and, if there were the right kind of mind, there most certainly would not be the boots, the beer, and the tobacco. trix was perfectly sure there wouldn't be. but it evidently was no atom of good trying to explain to other people what she meant, because they entirely failed to understand, and she was not certain that she could explain very well to herself even what she did mean. it was not in the least that she had ever had the smallest desire to run counter to these conventions in any really important way, but she did hate hard and fast rules. why should people lay down laws, as rigid as the laws of the medes and persians on matters that did not involve actual questions of right and wrong! there were enough of those to observe, without inventing others which were not in the least necessary. it was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. she finished her sandwich and glass of sherry, swallowing a little lump in her throat at the same time. then she spoke. "aunt lilla," she said impulsively, "i want to go down to woodleigh." mrs. arbuthnot looked up. "woodleigh, dearest. you were there only a little time ago, weren't you?" "it was in august," said trix. "and, anyhow, i want to go again. you don't mind, do you?" mrs. arbuthnot took another sandwich. "that's the fifth," she said. "disgraceful, but all the fault of bridge. why, of course not, if you want to go. but what made you think of it to-night?" trix leant back in her chair. "i had a letter from miss tibbutt," she said. mrs. arbuthnot laid down her sandwich. she regarded trix with anxious and almost reproachful eyes. "oh, my dearest, nothing wrong i hope? so inconsiderate of me to talk of bridge. i saw a letter in your hand, but no black edge. unless there is a black edge, one does not readily imagine bad news. not like telegrams. they send my heart to my mouth, and generally nothing but a bridge postponement. so trivial. but it is the colour of the envelope, and the possibility. ill news flies apace, and telegrams the quickest mode of communicating it. except the telephone. and that is expensive at any distance." mrs. arbuthnot paused, and took up her sandwich once more. "oh, no," responded trix, answering the first sentence of the speech. experience, long experience had taught her to seize upon the first half-dozen words of her aunt's discourses, and cling to them, allowing the remainder to float harmlessly into thin air. later there might be the necessity to clutch at a few more, but generally the first half-dozen sufficed. "oh, no; no bad news. but miss tibbutt is not quite satisfied about pia." that was true, at all events. mrs. arbuthnot made a little clicking sound with her tongue, expressive of sympathy. "oh, my dearest, i know that term 'not quite satisfied.' so vague. it may mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal. and we always think it means a good deal, when it is probably only influenza. depressing, but not at all serious if taken in time. and ammoniated quinine the best thing possible. not bitter, either, if taken in capsule form. but i quite feel with you, and go-by all means if you wish. and take eucalyptus, with you to avoid catching it yourself. so infectious, they say, but not to be shirked if one is needed. i would never stand in the light of duty. the corporal works of mercy, inconvenient at times, and i have never been to see a prisoner in my life, but perhaps easier than the spiritual, except the three last. you always run the risk of interference with the first of the spiritual, so wiser to leave them entirely to priests. when do you want to go, dearest?" trix came to herself with a little start. she had lost the thread of mrs. arbuthnot's discourse. "the day after to-morrow, i think," she said, reflectively. "i can wire to-morrow and get a reply." mrs. arbuthnot got up. "then that's settled. don't look anxious, dearest, because there is probably no cause for it. though i know how easy it is to give advice, and how difficult to take it, even when it is oneself. though perhaps that is really harder, being often half-hearted. and now we will go to bed, and things will look brighter in the morning, especially if it is fine. and the glass going up as i came through the hall. quite time it did. i always had sympathy with the boy in the poem--jane and anne taylor, wasn't it?--who smashed the glass in the holidays because it wouldn't go up. it always seems as if it were its fault. though i know it's foolish to think so. and there is the clock striking one, and i shall eat more sandwiches if i stay, so let us put out the light, and go to bed." chapter xxx a question of importance it had been chance pure and simple which happened to take doctor hilary to woodleigh on the day the duchessa received trix's telegram, but it cannot be equally said that it was chance which took him to exeter on the following day, and which made him travel down again to kingsleigh by the four o'clock train. also it was certainly not chance which induced him to be on the platform at least a quarter of an hour before the train was due at the station, ready to keep a careful lookout on all the passengers in it. * * * * * trix had had an uneasy journey from london. she had re-read miss tibbutt's letter at least a dozen times. at first she had allowed herself to be almost unreasonably depressed by it; afterwards she had been almost more unreasonably depressed because she had allowed herself to be depressed in the first instance. quite possibly it was all a storm in a tea-cup, and this man had nothing whatever to do with pia's unhappiness. of course the chance meeting and the overheard conversation had fitted in so neatly as to make miss tibbutt think it had, and she had easily communicated the same idea to trix. but quite probably it had nothing more to do with it than her own surmise regarding doctor hilary had had. and that had proved entirely erroneous, though at the time it had appeared the most sane of conclusions. also miss tibbutt might quite conceivably be wrong as to pia's being now unhappy at all, whatever she had seemed to be in the summer. trix's visit began to appear to her somewhat in the light of a wild-goose chase. anyhow she had not given pia the smallest hint as to why she was coming. naturally she could not possibly have done that. she had still to invent some tangible excuse for her sudden desire to visit woodleigh again. sick of london greyness would be quite good enough, though certainly not entirely true. but possibly a slight deviation from truth would be excusable under the circumstances. and she _was_ sick of london greyness. the fog yesterday had got on her nerves altogether, though quite probably it would not have done so if it had not been for miss tibbutt's letter, which had made her feel so horribly restless. but then there was no need to say why the fog had got on her nerves. yes; the fog would be excuse enough. and it was not an atom of good worrying herself as to whether miss tibbutt had been right or wrong regarding the idea communicated in her letter. if she were right it made trix unhappy to think about it, and if she were wrong it made trix cross to think she _had_ thought about it. so the wisest course was not to think about it at all. but the difficulty was not to think about it. trix knew perfectly well that absurd little things had this power of depressing her, and she wished they had not. she knew, also, that other quite little things had the power of cheering her in equal proportion, and she wished that one of these other things would happen now. but that was not particularly likely. the depression had been at its lowest ebb as they ran into bath. it was, however, slightly on the mend by the time trix reached exeter, though she was still feeling that her journey had probably, if not certainly, been a piece of pure foolishness on her part. the carriage she was in was up in the front of the train. she was the sole occupant thereof. she now put up something akin to a prayer that she might remain in undisturbed possession. apparently, however, the prayer was not to be granted. a tall figure, masculine in character, suddenly blocked the light from the window. trix heaved a small sigh of patient resignation. "good afternoon, miss devereux," said a voice. trix looked up. her resignation took to itself wings and fled. "doctor hilary!" she exclaimed. doctor hilary heaved his big form into the carriage, and turned to take a tea-basket from a porter just behind him. first tipping the said porter, he put the basket carefully on the seat. "i've been on the lookout for you," he remarked calmly. "oh," said trix, a trifle surprised. doctor hilary sat down, keeping, however, one eye towards the platform. "yes," he continued, still calmly. "the duchessa happened to tell me yesterday that you were coming, and as i happened to be in exeter to-day i thought we might as well do this bit of the journey together." "i see," said trix. doctor hilary looked up. "you don't mind, do you?" he asked quickly. "mind!" echoed trix, "i am quite delighted. i've been so bored, and rather tired, and--yes, i think quite depressed." doctor hilary looked concerned. "you poor little thing," he said. "and i suppose you have had one sandwich, and no tea. men turn to food when they're depressed, and women think they can't eat. honestly, there's nothing like a good meal for helping one to look on the brighter side of things." trix smiled first at him, and then at the tea-basket. "anyhow i'm to be fed now, it seems." the train began to move slowly out of the station. doctor hilary gave vent to an ill-supressed sigh of relief. the train was non-stop to brent. he began pulling at the straps of the tea-basket. tea and doctor hilary's company had a really marvellous effect on trix's spirits. the little pleasant occurrence _had_ happened, and quite unexpectedly. "i'm glad you're coming down to woodleigh," said doctor hilary presently. "the duchessa has seemed out of sorts lately, and i fancy your coming will cheer her." "oh," said trix, "you think so, too." and then she stopped. "who else thinks so?" queried doctor hilary. "well, miss tibbutt didn't seem quite satisfied about her," owned trix. "it was a letter from her made me come. and then i thought perhaps she'd been mistaken, and i'd been silly to think there was any need of me, and that--well, that i'd been a little officious. it's a depressing sensation," sighed trix. doctor hilary laughed. "so that was the cause of the depression," quoth he. trix nodded. "it was rather silly, wasn't it?" she asked. "i am not sure," he said. "it was such an idiotic little thing to worry about," said trix doctor hilary looked thoughtful. "perhaps. but isn't it just the little things we _do_ worry over? they are so small, you know, it's difficult to handle them. it is far easier not to worry over a thing you can get a real grasp of." trix smiled gratefully. "i am so glad you understand," she said. "i am always doing things on impulse. i fancy i am indispensable, i suppose, and then all at once i think what a little donkey i am to have interfered. it is so easy to think oneself important to other people's welfare when one isn't a bit." "aren't you?" said doctor hilary quietly. "of course not," replied trix. there was a hint of indignation in her voice. "and please don't say i am, or else it will make me feel that you think i said what i did say just in order that you might contradict me. like fishing for a compliment, you know. and i didn't mean that in the least, i didn't truly." doctor hilary smiled, a queer little smile. "i know you didn't mean that. but all the same i am going to contradict you." trix looked up. "oh well," she began, laughing and half resignedly. and then something in doctor hilary's face made her stop suddenly, her heart beating at a mad pace. "you have become very important in my life," he said quietly. "i did not realize how important, till you went away." trix was silent. "i am not very good at making pretty speeches," said doctor hilary steadily, "but i hope you understand exactly what i mean. you have become so important to my welfare that i should find it exceedingly difficult to go on living without you. i suppose i should do it somehow if i must, but probably i should make a very poor job of it." he stopped. trix gave a sudden little intake of her breath. for a moment there was a dead silence. then:-- "will you always feed me when i am depressed?" she asked. and there was a little quiver half of laughter, half of tears, in her voice. chapter xxxi midnight reflections "yes, tibby angel, you were quite right." it was the sixth time trix had made the same remark in the last half hour, and she had made it each time with the same attentive deliberation as if the words were being only once spoken, though she knew she would probably have to say them at least six times more. she was sitting in front of her bedroom fire clad in a blue dressing-gown. miss tibbutt was sitting in an armchair opposite to her. she had come into the room presumably for two minutes only, to see that trix had all she wanted, but after she had fluttered for full ten minutes from dressing-table to bed, and back to dressing-table again, talking all the time, trix had firmly pushed her into an armchair. miss tibbutt took off her spectacles, and polished them slowly. "and what is to be done, trix dear?" trix looked thoughtful. "i really don't know just at the moment. you see, though we are pretty certain, we are not quite certain. i know i thought last august that pia was in love with someone, and now you say you are certain it is this man, and of course, as you say--" trix hesitated a moment, feeling slightly hypocritical,--"it does seem odd when he is only a gardener, and one wonders how she could have met him, and all that. but, you know, you are not _quite_ certain that you are right; or, even supposing that you are, that pia will want any interference on our part. we must just wait a day or two and think matters over." miss tibbutt sighed. "but you _do_ think i was right to let you know?" she asked. and a seventh time trix replied with careful deliberation, "yes, tibby angel, you were quite right." "you see," said miss tibbutt, "i thought--" and she related exactly what she had thought, all over again. trix listened exceedingly patiently. she did not even know she was being patient. she only knew the enormous relief it was to miss tibbutt to repeat herself. with each repetition the thought which had choked her mind, so to speak, for the last five days, was further cleared from her brain. it was quite possible that miss tibbutt might sleep a very great deal better that night than she had done lately. at last she stopped speaking, and looked towards the clock. "my dear, i had no idea it was so late. you must be tired after your journey, and here have i been thinking only of myself again, and of my own anxiety, and not of you at all. i am not going to keep you up a moment longer. and if i am late for breakfast, please tell pia i have gone to mass. the walk won't hurt me, and telling our dear lord all about it will be the best way to help pia. so good night, dear. and you are really not looking very tired in spite of your journey, and my having kept you up so late." trix went with her to the door, and then returned to her chair by the fire. she was not in the least sleepy, and bed would do quite well enough later. just now she wanted to think. there were two distinct trends of thought in which she wished to indulge; the one certainly contained cause for a little anxiety, the other was quite extraordinarily delicious. she must take the anxious trend first. she had been considering matters exceedingly earnestly all the while miss tibbutt had been talking to her, and she had come to one very definite conclusion. she felt perfectly certain now, that it _would_ ease the situation considerably if pia knew who this michael field really was. it had come to her in an illuminating flash, that the same reason which had caused him to hide his identity, was responsible for his odd behaviour towards pia. now, of course, if pia could see some even possible reason and excuse for the oddness of his behaviour, it must be a great comfort to her. but the question was, could she--trix--tell her? would not the telling probably involve her in the untruth her soul loathed? or, if she was firm not to tell lies, would it not somehow involve a breaking of her promise to nicholas? again she saw, or thought she saw, all the questions which must ensue if she said where she had met the man; and if she did not say where she had met him, it would probably mean saying something which, virtually speaking at least, would not be true. if only she had not met him in the grounds of chorley old hall. it was the same old problem which had presented itself to her mind twice already, and the same possible over-scrupulosity was perplexing her now. however, she must stop thinking about it for to-night. she had come to an end of these thoughts so far as she could muster them into shape, and it was not the least particle of use going over them again. her brain would run round like a squirrel in a cage, if she did. and tibby was not with her to open the cage door, as she had opened it for tibby. besides, there was the other trend now. she settled herself back among the cushions, and gazed at the dancing flames. it was all so wonderful, so gorgeously unexpected, and yet it was one of those things which just had to be. she was so sure of that, it made the happening doubly sweet. it was exactly as if she had been walking all her life through a quiet wood, a wood where the sunshine flickered through the trees overhead just sufficiently to make her feel quite certain of the existence of the sunshine, and then suddenly she had come out into its full warmth and beauty to behold a perfect landscape. and she knew that no single other path could have led her to this place, also that there could be no other prospect as beautiful for her. "when did you first know?" she had asked him. the question millions of women have asked in their time, and that will be asked by millions more. "i think," he had answered smiling, "it was the very first moment you came into the room, looking like a woodland elf in your green frock. anyhow i am quite certain it was when you were--shall we say a trifle snubbed in the moonlight." "ah, poor pia," said trix. and then they had told each other countless little trivial things, things of no earthly importance to any one but their two selves, things rendered sweet, not so much by the words, as by the tone in which they were spoken. it had been the old, old story, the story which began in all its first beauty in the garden of eden, before the devil had entered therein with his wiles, a story which even now ofttimes holds much of that age-old wonderful beauty. and the stuffy, fusty railway carriage had not in the least diminished the joy of the telling. trix smiled to herself, a soft little radiant smile. to-morrow she must tell pia. she gave a little sigh. it would seem almost cruel to let her know of their happiness. for trix's own happiness to be without flaw, it was invariably necessary that others should be in practically the same state of bliss. chapter xxxii sunlight and happiness sleep, they say, brings counsel. most certainly it brought counsel to trix, and really such simple counsel she marvelled that she had not thought of it before. after all, the question as to whether she should or should not disclose antony gray's identity to pia, and thereby run the risk either of untruth or of breaking a promise, was purely a question of conscience. now, in a question of conscience, if you cannot decide for yourself, it is always safe to consult a priest. she would therefore walk over to byestry after breakfast--after she had told pia her own particular and wonderful news--and consult father dormer. it would be quite easy to explain matters to him without mentioning names. trix began formulating her query in her mind as she dressed. by the time this process was completed, however, she had come to the conclusion that she was not altogether sure whether it would be so easy. she found herself getting wound up into rather extraordinary knots. well, anyhow she would explain somehow, and no doubt words would come when she was actually confronted with him. besides, it was never the smallest use arranging conversations beforehand, like a french conversation book, because people never gave the right answers to your questions, and never put the questions to which you had the answers ready. trix crossed slowly to the window. there had been a frost in the night, and the lower part of the window-pane was covered with magic fern fronds, while lawn and shrubs were clothed with a light white veil. suddenly the sun came up behind the distant hills, a glowing ball of fire, sending forth his ruddy beams till they struck clean through the window, turning the fern fronds to ruby jewels, and making of the frost veil without a web of diamonds. "that," breathed trix softly, "is what happened to us yesterday." and she knelt down quite suddenly by the window. * * * * * the breakfast hour at the manor house was, ordinarily speaking, most punctually at nine o'clock, but owing, doubtless, to some slight hitch in the lower regions, the gong that morning did not sound till a quarter past the hour. this delay gave miss tibbutt time to put in an appearance not more than two minutes late, and saved any necessary explanation regarding her early walk to byestry. as it was really on pia's account that she had gone to mass, she wished to avoid mentioning that she had been. of course pia could not possibly have guessed the real motive, but miss tibbutt had a feeling, which reason told her to be quite foolish, that in some odd way she might guess. and she did not want her to guess. "what is the plan of campaign to-day?" asked the duchessa, as they assembled in the morning room after breakfast. trix examined an ornament on the mantelpiece with rather studied care. "i was thinking of walking over to byestry, this morning," she remarked. "all right," agreed the duchessa, "and after lunch we will have the car. it is cold, but too good a day to be wasted." trix had a moment's anxiety. "we shan't be late for tea?" she queried. "i don't think so," responded pia. "the days are too short now. but why?" trix put down the ornament she was examining. "doctor hilary is coming to tea," she announced carelessly, though she knew perfectly well that the colour was rising in her cheeks. pia looked at her. "trix!" she said. "yes, darling," nodded trix, "just that." "oh, my trix!" cried pia delighted, putting her arms round her. miss tibbutt looked a trifle bewildered. "what is it?" she demanded pia laughed. "these two," she said, "trix and doctor hilary. i told you, you remember, and said there _were_ trains, though i never dreamed they would be utilized quite so literally. of course it _was_ yesterday?" "yes," nodded trix again. and then with a huge sigh, "oh, pia, i am so happy." pia turned her round towards miss tibbutt. "tibby, look at her face, and then she tells us she is happy, as though it were necessary to advertise the fact to our slow intelligences." trix laughed, though the tears were in her eyes. laughter and tears are amazingly close together at times. "and is it quite necessary to walk to byestry this morning?" teased pia. "he will probably be on his rounds, you know." again trix laughed, this time without the tears. "i am not proposing to sit in his pocket," she remarked. "he did not happen to suggest that i should, and it certainly never occurred to me to suggest it." chapter xxxiii trix seeks advice trix walked along the road from woodleigh to byestry in infinitely too happy a state of mind to think consistently of any one thing. she did not even think precisely definitely of the man who had caused this happiness. she knew only that the happiness was there. the hoar frost still lay thickly on the hedges and the grass by the roadside. the frost finger had outlined the twigs, the blades of grass, the veins of dried leaves with the delicate precision nature alone can achieve. at one spot a tiny rivulet, arrested by the ice-king in its course from a field and down a bank, hung in long glistening icicles from jutting stones and frozen earth. now and again her own footfall struck sharp and metallic on the hard road. the sky was cloudless, a clear, cold blue. a robin trilled its sweet, sad song to her from a frosted bough. it was all amazingly like a frosted christmas card, thought trix, those christmas cards her soul had adored in her childish days, and yet which, oddly enough, always brought with them a sentimental touch of sadness. many things had brought this odd happy sadness to trix as a child,--the sound of church bells across water, fire-light gleaming in the darkness from the uncurtained windows of some house, the moon shining on snow, a solitary tree backgrounded by a grey sky, or a flight of rooks at sunset. it was a quarter to eleven or thereabouts when she reached byestry, and she made her way at once to the little white-washed, thatched presbytery, separated from the road by a small front garden. trix walked up the path, and rang the bell. father dormer was at home, so his housekeeper announced, and she was shown into a small square room with a round table in the centre, and a vase of bronze chrysanthemums on the table. trix sat down and began to try and arrange her ideas. she was by now perfectly well aware that they were not only rather difficult to arrange, but would be infinitely more difficult to express. she sighed once or twice rather heavily, gazing thoughtfully at the bronze chrysanthemums the while, as if seeking inspiration from their feathery brown faces. and then the door opened and father dormer came in in his cassock, which he always wore in the morning. "it is an unexpected pleasure to see you, miss devereux," he said. "please sit down again." trix sat down, and so did father dormer. "i only arrived yesterday," said trix, "and i came over to see you this morning because i wanted to ask you something rather particular." trix was feeling just a little nervous, she was also feeling that if she did not open the subject immediately, it was quite possible that she might leave the presbytery without having done so, despite all her preconceived intentions. "yes," smiled father dormer. he was perfectly well aware that she was feeling a trifle nervous. "well," said trix, "it isn't going to be quite easy to explain, because i can't mention names. but as it is a thing i can't make up my mind about,--about the right or wrong of doing it, i mean,--i thought i'd ask your advice." "that is always at your service," he assured her as she stopped. trix heaved a little sigh. she leant forward in her chair, and rested her hands on the table. "well then, father, it's like this. i know something about someone which another person doesn't know, and i think it is rather important that they should know it. the first person doesn't know i know it, and mightn't quite like it if they knew i knew it. also i am pretty sure that they don't want any one else to know it. but under the circumstances i think i'm justified in telling the second person, because it isn't a thing like a scandal, or anything like that. but the difficulty is, that in telling the second person about the first person, i may either have to tell lies, or disclose a secret about a third person, and that is a secret i have promised not to tell. do you think i ought to take the risk?" father dormer listened attentively. "do you mind saying it again," he asked politely as she ended. there was just the faintest possible twinkle in his eyes. trix laughed outright. "oh, father, don't try to be polite," she urged. "i know it is the muddliest kind of explanation that ever existed. can't you suggest some way of making it clearer?" "supposing," he said, "you call the first person a, the second b, and the third one c. and let me know first exactly your position towards a." "all right," agreed trix cheerfully. "and even supposing you guess the tiniest bit what i am talking about, you won't let yourself guess, will you?" father dormer assured her that he would not. he certainly felt she need have no smallest anxiety on that score, having in view her own method of explanation, but he tactfully refrained from saying so. "well," began trix again, and rather slowly, "a has a secret. he doesn't know i know it, and i found it out quite by accident. he hasn't said it is a secret, but i know it is, because nobody else knows about it. well, b knows a, but doesn't know a's secret, and because she doesn't know a's secret she is unhappy about a's conduct, whereas if she knew the secret i am pretty sure she wouldn't be so unhappy. and a need never know b does know, even if i tell her. and i feel sure from a's point of view it would not matter telling b, while it _would_ be a good thing for b to know. but, in order to tell her, i may have to let her know how i learnt a's secret, and in doing that i should possibly have to tell lies, or let her know c's secret, which i promised not to tell. because it was in meeting a that i found it out. of course i may not have to do either, but there is the risk. do you think i can take it? and is the matter quite clear now?" father dormer smiled. "i think i have grasped it," he said. "well, in the first place, it isn't a matter of life and death, is it?" "oh no," said trix. "then if i were you, i wouldn't take any risk about telling lies." "no," said trix relieved, "i thought i had better not. but then there is c's secret." "let us take a's secret first," suggested father dormer. "you feel quite sure it is important to let b know it, and that you are justified in disclosing it?" trix reflected. "i feel quite sure it is important b should know," she said. "and i feel pretty sure i am justified in disclosing it. at first i thought perhaps i ought not to do so. but i know b won't tell any one else, so it can't matter her knowing as well as me. no; i am sure it can't," ended trix decidedly. "then," said father dormer, "your best plan will be to ask c to release you from your promise." trix started. "oh, but--" she began. she shook her head. "i don't believe he would ever release me," she said. "you could ask him, anyhow," said father dormer. "yes, i could," replied trix doubtfully. "try that first," he suggested. "it is the simplest plan." "yes," said trix still doubtfully. of course it sounded the simplest plan to father dormer, but then he had not the remotest idea of what the secret was, nor whom it concerned. "you see," said trix thoughtfully, "he knows a's secret too; at least, i feel sure he does." "perhaps," smiled father dormer, "it is not quite such a secret as you imagine." "oh, yes, it is," nodded trix. "it is the most complicated affair that ever was, and the most extraordinary. nobody would believe it if they didn't know." she sighed. father dormer watched her. he saw that she evidently did consider it a complicated situation, though, in spite of her rather complicated explanation it had appeared quite simple to him. at all events, the solution had. it had not even--as soon as he had grasped the question she had come to ask--appeared to involve much difficulty of answering. it was quite obvious she ought not to run the risk of telling lies (he could guess that her honesty would make it exceedingly difficult for her to evade any awkward questions without telling them), mainly because it was never right to tell lies, but also because the smallest white one--so-called--would appear extremely black to trix. "is that settled now?" he asked. "oh, yes," said trix. she looked at her watch. "i've two hours; i had better do it at once." then she stopped suddenly. "oh, father!" she exclaimed. "well?" he queried. "you didn't guess, did you?" "how could i?" he asked smiling. "oh, because saying that told you that c lived here." he laughed. "my dear child, when you arrive at woodleigh one day, and ask me a rather complicated question the next, it is perfectly obvious it is one which has to be settled in this neighbourhood, and at once. i could hardly imagine you have travelled down here on purpose to consult me; or that, if it were a question to be settled in town, you would not wait till your return to consult some other priest on the subject." trix smiled. "i never thought of that," she owned. "but, of course, it is quite obvious. only i am so afraid of breaking my promise." she had risen to her feet by now. he held out his hand. "i would not worry about that, if i were you. you have not broken it in the smallest degree. but now go and get leave to break it, if you can, and set your mind at rest." chapter xxxiv an amazing suggestion the avenue and garden were quite deserted as trix approached chorley old hall. the lawn was one great sheet of unbroken whiteness, flanked by frosted yew hedges, and very desolate. she passed quickly along the terrace towards the front door, feeling almost as if spying eyes were watching her from behind the curtained windows. she took hold of the hanging iron bell-handle and pulled it, its coldness striking through her glove with an icy chill. she heard its clang in some far-off region, yet oddly loud in the dead silence. involuntarily she shivered, partly with the cold, and partly with a sudden sense of nervousness. a second or two passed. trix stared hard at the brass knocker on the door, trying to still the nervousness which possessed her. there came a sound of steps in the hall, and the door was opened. "can i see mr. danver?" asked trix. jessop stared, visibly startled. "it is all right," said trix quickly. "don't you remember i had tea here last august?" jessop's face relaxed, but he looked a trifle dubious. "i don't think--" he began. trix raised her chin. "go and ask him," she said with slight authority. "i will wait in the hall." jessop departed, to return after a minute. "will you come this way, please, madam." * * * * * nicholas danver looked at her as she entered, an odd expression on his face. he might never have moved from his chair since the day she had last seen him, thought trix. the only difference in the surroundings was a crackling wood fire now burning on the big hearth. "well, miss devereux," he said, holding out his hand. "you don't mind my having come?" queried trix. "no one saw me." a slight look of relief passed over nicholas's face. "i think i am glad you've come," he said. "sit down, please." trix sat down. her hands were tightly clasped within her muff. she was still beating back that quite unaccountable nervousness. "you had a particular reason for coming to see me?" suggested nicholas. trix nodded. "yes; i am in rather a difficulty. you are the only person who can help me." nicholas laughed shortly. "it is an odd experience to be told that i can be of service to any one," he said. "what is it?" trix drew a long breath. "mr. danver, i want you to release me from my promise." nicholas's eyes narrowed suddenly. a little gleam, like the spark from iron striking flint, flashed from them. "what do you mean?" he asked coldly. trix's heart chilled at the tone. "i must try and explain," she said. "in the first place, of course you know who your under-gardener really is?" nicholas stared at her. "may i ask what that has got to do with you?" "well, i know too, you see," said trix, feeling her heart beginning to beat still more quickly. "how do you know? what questions have you been asking?" trix flushed. "i haven't asked any questions," she said quickly. "i saw him the day i came here before. i knew his face then, but i couldn't remember who he was. afterwards i remembered i used to play with him when i was a child." "well?" queried nicholas briefly. "well," echoed trix desperately, "i want to be able to tell someone he is antony gray, and not michael field. it is really very important that they should know, important for their happiness. but if i tell, they may want to know where i saw him, and ask questions which might lead to my either having to tell lies or betray your secret. if it becomes necessary, may i betray your secret? will you release me from my promise?" nicholas's hand clenched tightly on the arm of his chair. "most certainly not," he replied shortly. the tone was utterly final. trix felt the old childish fear of him surging over her. it was quite different from the nervousness she had just been experiencing, and, oddly enough, it gave her a kind of desperate courage. she had no intention of accepting his refusal without a struggle. "i wouldn't tell unless it became absolutely necessary," she urged. "it never can be absolutely necessary," he retorted. "it would be no more dishonourable to tell a lie than break a promise." trix went scarlet. "i never had the smallest intention of doing either," she replied. "if i had, i need not have troubled to come up here and ask you to release me from my promise." nicholas drummed his fingers on a small table near him. "well, you've had my answer," he said. his voice was perfectly adamantine. trix felt as if she were up against a piece of rock. she knew it was useless to pursue the subject further, yet for pia's sake she tried again. "mr. danver, why do you want everyone to think you're dead?" there was something almost childish in the way she put the question. nicholas laughed. "partly, my dear young lady, for my own amusement, but largely for a scheme i have on hand." trix leant forward. "is the scheme really important?" she queried, her eyes on his face. "i don't know," he replied, watching her. "but my amusement is." "amusement," said trix slowly. "yes, my amusement," he repeated mockingly. "i've had none for fifteen years. for fifteen years i have lived here like a log, alone, solitary. now i've got a little amusement in pretending to be dead." trix shook her head. it sounded quite mad. then she remembered doctor hilary's words to her when she had met him at the gates of chorley old hall last august. he knew it was mad, but it was saving nicholas from being atrophied, so he had said. to trix's mind at least a dozen more satisfactory ways might have been found to accomplish that end. but every man to his own taste. also it was quite possible that a brain which had been atrophied, or practically atrophied for fifteen years, was not particularly capable of conceiving anything more enlivening. "but you needn't have been a log for fifteen years," she said suddenly. "needn't i?" he retorted. "look at me." he made a gesture towards his helpless legs. "i wasn't thinking of your body," said trix calmly. "i was thinking of your mind." nicholas's face hardened. "and so was i," he replied, "when i preferred to sit here like a log, rather than face the prying sympathy of my fellow-humans." "oh!" said trix softly, a light of illumination breaking in upon her. "but, mr. danver, sympathy isn't always prying." "bah!" he retorted. "prying or not, i didn't want it. staring eyes, condoling words, and mockery in their hearts! 'he got what he deserved for his madness,' they'd have said." trix leant forward, putting her hands on the table. "mr. danver," she said thoughtfully, "if you were a younger man, or i were an older woman, i'd say you were--well, quite remarkably foolish." nicholas chuckled. he liked this. "you might forget our respective ages for a few moments," he suggested, "that is, if you have anything enlivening to say." "i don't know about it being enlivening," remarked trix calmly, "but i have got quite a good deal to say." "say it then," chuckled nicholas. trix drew a deep breath. "mr. danver, did you ever care for any one?" nicholas's eyes blazed suddenly. "what the devil--" he began. "i beg your pardon. i gave you leave to speak." trix waved her hand. "i was talking about men," she said, "men pals. were there any you ever cared about?" nicholas laughed shortly. "your father, my dear young lady, and richard gray, father of the man who has led to this interesting discussion." "they were really your friends?" queried trix. "the best fellows that ever stepped," said nicholas with unwonted enthusiasm. trix nodded. her eyes were shining. she was thinking of her aunt's disclosure regarding this richard gray. "and i suppose," she said coolly, "you rejoiced when richard gray lost his money? you laughed at him for a fool?" nicholas stared at her. "what on earth do you mean?" he asked. "i never knew he had lost money. i would have given my right hand to help him if i had known." "he did lose money," said trix. "but that's beside the point. you'd have helped him if you could? you wouldn't have jeered at him?" "what do you take me for?" asked nicholas half angrily. trix looked very straight at him. "only what you take others for, mr. danver." there was a dead silence. "listen," said trix suddenly. "you would have been generous to him, because you cared for him. do you really think you are the only generous friend?" nicholas looked at her. there was a gleam of laughter in his eyes. "it strikes me you are a very shrewd young woman," he said. "it's only logical common sense," declared trix stoutly. once more there fell a silence, a silence in which nicholas was watching the girl opposite to him. "mr. danver, will you tell me exactly what amusement you found in all this? what originated the idea in your mind?" her voice was pleading. for a moment nicholas was silent. "yes," he said suddenly, "i will tell you." it was not a long story, and to trix it was oddly pathetic. it was the mixture partly of regret, partly the desire of justice to be administered to his property after his death, and partly the queer mad love of pranks which had been the keynote of his nature, and which had stirred again within the half-dead body. he told it all very simply, baldly almost, and yet he could not quite hide a certain queer wistfulness underlying it, the wistfulness of pride which has built barriers too strong for it, and yet from which it longs to escape. "i thought antony gray could have a taste of living as one of the people," he ended. "perhaps it would make him a better master than i had been. and then the scheme took shape." "i see," said trix slowly and thoughtfully. "well?" queried nicholas. trix looked up at him. her lips were smiling, but there were tears in her eyes. "i understand," she said. "perhaps i understand ever so much better than you think. but--but has it been worth it?" nicholas looked towards the fire. "after the first planning, i don't honestly know that it has," he said. "a thing falls flat with no one to share it with you. and hilary never really approved." again there was a silence, and again the odd pathos, the childishness of the whole thing stirred trix's heart. she said she understood, and she did understand more profoundly than nicholas could possibly have conceived. in the few seconds of silence which followed, she reviewed those solitary years in an amazingly quick mental process. she saw first the pride which had built the barrier, and then the slow stagnation behind it. she realized the two sentences which had penetrated the barrier (he had been perfectly candid in his story) without being able to destroy it, and then the faint stirrings of life within the almost stagnant mind. and the result had been this perfectly mad scheme,--the thought of a foolish boy conceived and carried out by the obstinate mind of a man; a scheme childish, foolish, mad, and of value only in so far as it had roused to faint life the mind of the lonely man who had conceived it. and now he had tired of it. it had become to him as valueless as a flimsy toy; and yet he clung to it rather than leave himself with empty hands. without it, he had absolutely nothing to interest him,--a past on which it hurt him to dwell by reason of its contrast with the present; a present as lonely almost as that of a prisoner in solitary confinement; and a future which to him was a mere blank, a grey nothingness. trix shivered involuntarily. "and the fact remains, that i am dead," said nicholas with a grim smile. trix turned suddenly towards him. "unless you have a sort of resurrection," she said. nicholas stared. "listen," said trix. chapter xxxv trix triumphant it was more than an hour before trix departed, exultant, rejoicing. nicholas sat staring at the chair she had just vacated. he had been bewitched, utterly bewitched, and he knew it. her vitality, her insistence had carried him with her despite himself,--that and an odd under-current of something he could not entirely explain. he might have called it faith, only it was not faith as he had been accustomed to think of it, when he thought at all. it was so infinitely more alive and personal. and yet she had only once touched on what he would have termed religion. "you've wandered entirely from the object of your visit," he had remarked at one point in the conversation, "and i can't for the life of me see why you are taking this extraordinary interest in what you consider my welfare. what on earth can it matter to any one else, how i choose to live my life?" "ah, but it does matter," she had answered earnestly, "it matters quite supremely. i know we often pretend to ourselves that it doesn't in the least matter how we live our lives so long as we don't commit actual sin; but we can't isolate ourselves from others without loss to them and to ourselves." "how about monks and nuns, who shut themselves up, and never see their fellow-creatures at all?" he had retorted, greatly pleased with himself for the retort. trix had opened eyes of wonder. "the contemplative orders! why, mr. danver, they're the cog-wheels of the whole machinery. they only keep their bodies apart that their minds may be more free. nobody has the good of mankind so much at heart as a contemplative. they are keeping the machinery going by prayer the whole time." the utter conviction in her words was unmistakable. for an odd flashing moment he had had something like a mental vision of an irresistible force pouring forth from those closed houses, a force like the force of a great river, carrying all things with it, and with healing virtue in its waters. the thought was utterly foreign to him. but it had been there. "i am not much of a believer in prayer," he had said dryly. he had expected her to ask if he had ever tried it. she had not done so. "most of us do it so badly," she had said with a little sigh, "but they don't." and then she had flashed a glance of amusement at him. "did you ever hear of the story of the old lady who said she was going to pray one night with entire faith that the hill beyond her garden might be removed? in the morning she found it still there. 'i knew it would be!' said the old lady triumphantly." nicholas joined in her laugh, but somewhat grimly. "we're all like that," he said. trix shook her head. "not all, mercifully; but a good many." and then she had returned to her former charge. well, she had ended by bewitching him, and the queer thing was he was quite glad of the bewitchment. now and again he pulled himself up with a jerk and a muttered word or two of irritation; but it was all a pretence, and he knew it. there was an odd excitement pulsing at his heart; despite his age and crippled state, he was feeling boyishly, absurdly young. for the first time for fifteen years he was looking forward to the morrow with pleasure. he began to consider his programme. it was entirely simple. first there was antony gray to be interviewed. she had insisted on that. it was due to him to be given an entire, full, and detailed account of the whole business, so she had decreed. nicholas shrugged his shoulders at the thought. there was just a question in his mind as to how the young man might regard the matter. secondly, there was to be a tea-party in the library, at which trix, the duchessa, miss tibbutt, antony, and doctor hilary were to be present. after that--well, events might take their own course. the villagers get to hear? let them. any amount of gossip? of course, what did he expect? anyhow he'd be a benefactor to mankind in giving poor, dull little byestry something more interesting to talk about than the latest baby's first tooth, or the last injustice of mr. curtis. yes; she meant it. mr. curtis was unjust, and the sooner mr. danver got rid of him and put antony gray in his place the better it would be for everyone concerned. and if he wanted a really dramatic moment he had better have mr. curtis up, and inform him that his services were no longer needed, and introduce him to the new agent at the same time. trix only wished she could be present at the interview, but mr. danver would have to describe it to her in the minutest detail. it is not at all certain that the thought of this interview, suggested before trix had wrung the final promise from him, did not go a remarkably long way towards extracting that promise. the idea appealed to nicholas. in the first place there would be the agent's profound amazement at the fact that nicholas was not lying, as he had supposed, in the tomb of his ancestors; in the second place there would be his discomfiture in realizing that nicholas had been entirely aware of his own movements, and the small act of petty spite towards job grantley and antony; and in the third place there would be his amazement and discomfiture combined when he found that nicholas was not the doddering old ass he had taken him for, but a man prepared to take matters into his own hands, and put a stop once and for all to a long system of tyranny. "yes sir, a man, and not the crippled fool you have taken me for," nicholas heard himself saying. he chuckled at the thought. and then he sat upright. what need to wait till the morrow for that interview? it was barely lunch time. a message to antony requesting his presence at two o'clock, another to mr. curtis requesting his an hour later, and the game could be begun immediately. once more nicholas chuckled. then he pressed the electric button attached to the arm of his chair. * * * * * for once, and once only, in the long course of his butlership did the placid and unmoved calm of his manner entirely desert jessop. the occasion was the present one. he was in the pantry cleaning silver, when the whirr of the electric bell just above his head broke the silence. he put down the spoon he was polishing, discarded his green baize apron, donned his coat, and made his dignified way to the library. nicholas looked up at his entrance. accustomed to note every slightest variance in his master's moods, jessop was at once aware of something unusual in his bearing. there was an odd, suppressed excitement; the nonchalance of his manner was unquestionably assumed. "ah, jessop, i rang." "yessir," said jessop, imperturbably, as who should say, "naturally, since i have answered the summons." nicholas cleared his throat. "er--jessop, you can bring michael field here at two o'clock this afternoon, when he returns from his dinner. you can also let mr. curtis know that he is to be here at three o'clock. you had better go to byestry and give the message yourself. if he wishes to know by whose orders, you need mention no names, but merely say that orders have been given you to that effect. i fancy curiosity will bring him, even if he resents the non-mention of actual authority." jessop stared, actually stared, a prolonged, amazed survey of his master's face. "you are seeing them, sir!" he gasped. for a moment testiness swung to the fore at the question. then the amazement on jessop's face unloosed his sense of humour. "yes," said nicholas quietly. "but--" began jessop. his mind was in a chaos. the order was so utterly unexpected. there were at least a million things he wished to point out, but the only one on which his brain would focus was the fact that if these men saw nicholas, they would no longer imagine him to be dead. and yet that fact was so obvious, it was evident it must have occurred to nicholas's own mind. "don't try to think," remarked nicholas grimly, "merely obey orders." the words pricked, restoring jessop's balance. he drew himself to rigid attention, the mask suddenly resumed. "very good, sir," and jessop left the room. "what the blue blazes!" he muttered, as he returned, almost stumbling, towards the pantry. the expression had belonged to the youthful nicholas. jessop borrowed it only at moments of the severest stress. it was borrowed now. chapter xxxvi an old man tells his story antony did not in the least understand jessop's request to follow him to the library, when he returned from his midday meal. he imagined that there was some job which required doing, and that jessop was regarding him in the light of a handy man. anyhow antony followed him good-humouredly enough, and not without a certain degree of curiosity. the big, silent house had always exercised an odd fascination over him, and he had more than once had a strong desire to set foot within its walls. he experienced an almost unconscious excitement in complying with the order. he followed jessop up the steps, and through the big door. facing him were wide shallow oak stairs, uncovered and polished. great turkish rugs lay on the hall floor; two huge palms in big oriental pots stood at either side of the stairs; hunting crops and antlers adorned the walls. jessop opened a door on the right. almost before antony had realized what was happening, the butler had withdrawn and closed the door behind him. antony half turned in amazement towards the door. "ahem!" with a start antony turned back into the room. it was not empty, as he had imagined it to be. a white-haired, black-eyed man was sitting in a big oak chair, his colourless hands resting on the arms. "well?" said the man. memory surged over antony in a flood. alteration there unquestionably was in the crippled form before him, but the black piercing eyes were unchanged. the suddenness of his surprise made his brain reel. he put out his hand towards the back of a chair to steady himself. "so you know me, antony gray," came the mocking old voice. "nicholas danver," antony heard himself saying, though he hardly realized he was speaking the words. "exactly," smiled nicholas, "not dead, but very much alive, though not--" he glanced down at his helpless legs,--"precisely what you might term kicking." antony drew a deep breath. what in the name of wonder did this astounding drama portend? "sit down," said nicholas shortly, pointing to a chair. "i have a good deal to say to you. you would be tired of standing before i have done." antony sat down. the arabian nights entertainment sensation he had formerly experienced in the offices of messrs. parsons and glieve, rushed upon him with an even fuller force; yet here the lighter and almost humorous note was lacking. something tinged with resentment had taken its place. he felt himself to have been trapped, befooled, though he had not yet fully grasped the manner of the befooling. "i was a friend of your father," said nicholas abruptly. the story would not be told exactly as he had told it to trix, though the difference in the telling would be largely unconscious. it would deal more with the surface of things, and less with the inner trend of thought, the telling of which had been drawn from him by her unspoken sympathy. "i know," said antony quietly, in answer to the remark. "also i met you once," said nicholas, a little reminiscent smile dawning in his eyes. it had an oddly softening effect upon his rather carven face. for the moment he looked almost youthful. "i remember," replied antony gravely. "do you?" said nicholas, the smile finding its way to his lips. "what a determined youngster you were! 'i've got to. i've begun!'" nicholas threw back his head with a laugh. "it appealed to me, did that sentiment. i saw the bulldog grip in it. but there was no viciousness in the statement. jove! you weren't even angry. you were as cool as a cucumber in your mind, though your cheeks were crimson with the effort. you succeeded, too. i had forgotten the whole business till last march. then it came back to me. i've got to tell you the story to explain matters. it is only fair that you should know the ins and outs of this business. i have no doubt it seems pretty queer to you?" nicholas paused. "i confess i am somewhat at a loss regarding it," returned antony dryly. "not over-pleased," muttered nicholas inwardly. aloud he said, "i've no doubt you will think it all a sort of fool show, and i am by no means sure that i don't regard it in something that fashion myself now. however--" nicholas cleared his throat. "since my accident on the hunting field i have seen no one. i had no desire to have a lot of gossipping women and old fool men around. i hate their cackle. i left the management of the estate to standing, my agent. when he left--he got the offer of a post on lord sinclair's estate--spencer curtis took his place. he had to report to me, and i saw that he kept things going all right. he was not an easy man to the tenants, but i did not particularly want a softling, you understand. last march one of the tenants--job grantley, you know him--sneaked up here. it had been a vile day. he was in difficulties as to his rent, and curtis was putting the pressure on. he had a fancy for squeezing those who couldn't retaliate, i suppose. dirty hound!" antony made a little sound indicative of entire assent. he was becoming interested in the recital. "i learnt a little more about him," went on nicholas smiling thoughtfully, "though he never guessed i made any enquiries. that was later. at the moment job grantley's tale was enough for me,--that, and something else he chanced to say. after he had gone i sat thinking, first of past days, then of the future. a distant cousin was heir to the property, a fellow to whom curtis would have been a man after his own heart. i'd never had what you might precisely term a feeling of bosom friendship towards william gateley. oddly enough, you came into my mind at the moment. i remembered the whole scene on the moorland. i could not get away from the memory. then the thought flashed into my mind to make you my heir. it seemed absurd, but it remained a fixture, nevertheless. the main thoroughly reasonable objection was that i knew exceedingly little about you. the child is not always father to the man. fate takes a hand in the after moulding at times. yet if it were not you it would be gateley. that, at all events, was my decision. then i conceived the notion of making you live as one of the labourers on the estate, in short of giving you some first-hand knowledge of a labourer's method of living, and incidentally of the tenderness of curtis. do you follow me?" antony nodded, an odd smile on his lips. he remembered his own conjecture, suggested by mr. albert george's discourse. the education was absolutely unnecessary. "i fancied," went on nicholas, "that it might teach you to be more considerate if you had any tendencies in an opposite direction. but--" he paused a moment, then smiled grimly,--"well, you may as well have the truth even if it is slightly unpalatable, and you can remember that i did not know you as a man. i was not sure of you. if you had known i was up here, and you had got an inkling of the game i was playing, what was to prevent you from playing your own game for the year, i argued, in fact pretending to a sympathy with the tenants which you did not feel. i have never had the highest opinion of human nature. on that account i conceived the idea of dying. it was easily carried out. the folk around were amazingly gullible; the report spread like wild-fire,--through the village, that is to say. i don't for a moment suppose it went much beyond it. the solicitors were in our confidence, and no obituary notice appeared in the papers. the villagers were not likely to notice the omission. gateley is in australia. yes; it was easy enough to manage. but i see the weakness in the business now. you might quite well have imagined hilary to be the watch-dog, and have played your game to him, and if i'd died suddenly before the year was up, and you had disclosed your true hand, matters would not have been as i had intended them to be. it was a mad idea, i have no doubt, though on the whole i am not sure that it wasn't its very madness that most appealed to me." he stopped. "and what," said antony, "is to be the outcome of this confidence now?" there was a certain stiffness in the question. the odd feeling of resentment was returning. he suddenly saw the whole business as a stupid child's game, a game in which he had given his word of honour with no smallest advantage to any single human being, and with quite enormous disadvantages to himself. "the main outcome," said nicholas, "is that i wish to offer you--antony gray--the post of agent on my estate for the remainder of my lifetime. at my death the will i have already drawn up holds good. the year's probation for you therein mentioned is not likely to be long exceeded, even if it is exceeded at all. at least such is doctor hilary's opinion." there was a silence. nicholas was watching antony from under his shaggy eyebrows. the man was actually hesitating, debating! what in the name of wonder did the hesitation mean? surely the offer of the post of agent was infinitely preferable to that of under-gardener? if the latter had been accepted, why on earth should there be hesitation regarding the former? so marvelled nicholas, having, of course, no clue to the inner workings of antony's mind. and even if he had had, the workings would have appeared to him illogical and unreasonable. it is truly not fully certain whether antony understood them himself. he only knew that whereas it would be possible, though difficult, for him to remain in the neighbourhood of the duchessa as michael field, gardener, to remain as antony gray, gentleman, appeared to him to be impossible; though precisely why it should be, he could not well have explained to himself. "i should prefer to decline the offer," replied antony quietly. nicholas's face fell. he was blankly disappointed, as blankly disappointed as a child at the sudden frustration of some cherished scheme. in twenty minutes spencer curtis, agent, would be blandly entering the library, and there would be no _coup de théâtre_, such as nicholas had pictured, to confront him. "may i ask the reason for your refusal?" questioned nicholas, his utter disappointment lending a flat hardness to his voice. antony shrugged his shoulders. "merely that i prefer to refuse," he answered. nicholas's mouth set in grim lines. his temper, never a very equable commodity, got the better of his diplomacy. "it is always possible for me to alter my will," he remarked suavely. antony flashed round on him. "for god's sake alter it, then," he cried. "the most fool thing i ever did in my life was to fall in with your mad scheme. write to your solicitors at once." he made for the door. "stop," said nicholas. antony halted on the threshold. he was furious at the situation. "i have no intention of altering my will," said nicholas, "i should like you clearly to understand that. i intend to abide by my part of the contract whether you do or do not now see fit to abide by your own." antony hesitated. the statement had taken him somewhat by surprise. "what do you mean?" he demanded. "precisely what i say," retorted nicholas. "i have made you my heir, and i have no intention of revoking that decision. you agreed to work for me for a year. you can break your contract if you choose. i shall not break mine." "i can refuse the inheritance," said antony. nicholas laughed. "if you choose to shirk responsibility and see the tenants remain the victims of curtis's tenderness, you can do so. you have had experience of his ideas of fair play, and let me tell you that your experience has been of a remarkably mild order." "you can choose another agent," said antony shortly. "i can," said nicholas, with emphasis on the first word. "but i fancy william gateley will find a twin to curtis on my demise if you refuse the inheritance." once more antony hesitated. "find another heir, then," he announced after a moment. nicholas shook his head. "you hardly encourage me to do so. my present failure appears so palpable, i am not very likely to make a second attempt in that direction." again there was a silence. antony moved further back into the room. "you rather force my hand," he said coldly. "you mean you accept the inheritance?" asked nicholas eagerly. his eagerness was almost too blatant. "i will accept it," replied antony dispassionately, "and will see justice done to your tenants. it will not be incumbent on me to make personal use of your money." nicholas let that pass. "and for the present?" he asked. "concerning the matter of the contract," said antony stiffly, "i would point out to you that i undertook to work for you for a year as michael field, gardener. well, i will abide by that contract, and prolong it if necessary." he did not say till the day of nicholas's death. but nicholas understood his meaning. "i trust you consider that i am now treating you fairly," said antony still stiffly, and after a slight pause. nicholas bowed his head. "fairly, yes," he said in an odd, almost pathetic voice, "but hardly--shall we call it--as a friend." antony looked suddenly amazed. "what do you mean?" he demanded. "i wanted you to help me to get even with curtis," he replied regretfully. his tone was somewhat reminiscent of a rueful schoolboy. despite himself antony smiled. "i ordered him to come here at three o'clock," went on nicholas, glancing at the clock which wanted only five minutes of the hour. "i wanted to give him his _congé_, and introduce him to the new agent at the same moment. he believes firmly in my demise, by the way, which would certainly have added zest to the business. and now--well, it will be a pretty flat sort of compromise, that's all." antony laughed aloud. for the life of him he could not help it. and then, as he laughed, he realized in a sudden flash, almost as trix had realized, the odd pathos, the utter loneliness which could find interest in the mad business he--nicholas--had invented. suddenly antony spoke. "you may as well carry out your original programme," he said, and almost good-humouredly annoyed at his own swift change of mood. the library door opened. "mr. spencer curtis," announced jessop on a note of solemn gloom. chapter xxxvii the importance of trifles it was not till a good many hours later that the anticlimax of the recent situation struck trix. excitement had prevented her from realizing it at first. in the excitement of what the thing stood for, she had overlooked the utter triviality of the thing itself. when, later, the two separated themselves in a measure, and she looked at the thing as apart from what it indicated, the ludicrousness of it struck her with astounding force. nicholas danver would give a tea-party. and it was this, this small commonplace statement, which had kept the duchessa, miss tibbutt, doctor hilary, and herself in solemn and amazed confabulation for at least two hours. it was infinitely more amazing even than the whole story of the past months, and trix had given that in fairly detailed fashion, avoiding the duchessa's eyes, however, whenever she mentioned antony's name. yes; it was what the tiny fact stood for that had astounded them; though now, with the fact in a measure separated from its meaning, trix saw the almost absurdity of it. fifteen years of a living death to terminate in a tea-party! it was an anticlimax which made her almost hysterical to contemplate. she felt that the affair ought to have wound up in some great movement, in some dignified action or fine speech, and it had descended to the merely ludicrous, or what, in view of those fifteen years, appeared the merely ludicrous. and she had been the instigator of it, and doctor hilary had called it a miracle. which it truly was. and yet, banishing the ludicrous from her mind, it was so entirely simple. there was not the faintest blare of trumpets, not a whisper even of an announcing voice, merely the fact that a solitary man would once more welcome friends beneath his roof. the only real touch of excitement about the business would be when antony gray learnt the news, and he and the duchessa met. and yet even that somehow lost its significance before the absorbing yet quiet fact of nicholas's own resurrection. "he is looking forward to it like a child," trix had said. and miss tibbutt had suddenly taken off her spectacles and wiped them. "it's an odd little thing to feel choky about," she had said with a shaky laugh. presently she had left the room. a few moments later doctor hilary had also taken his leave. trix and the duchessa had been left alone. suddenly the duchessa had looked across at trix. "what made you do it?" she had asked. trix understood the question, and the colour had rushed to her face. "what made you do it?" the duchessa had repeated. "for you," trix had replied in a very small voice. "you guessed?" the duchessa had asked quietly. trix nodded. it _had_ been largely guesswork. there was no need, at the moment at all events, to speak of miss tibbutt's share in the matter. that was for tibby herself to do if she wished. the duchessa had got up from her chair. she had gone quietly over to trix and kissed her. then she, too, had left the room. trix stared thoughtfully into the fire. its light was playing on the silver-backed brushes on her dressing-table, gleaming on the edges of gilt frames, and throwing her shadow big and dancing on the wall behind her. the curtains were undrawn, and without the trees stood ghostly and bare against the pale grey sky. there was the dead silence in the atmosphere which tells of frost. it was just that,--the oddness of little things, and their immense importance in life, and simply because of the influence they have on the human soul. it was this that made the fact of nicholas danver giving a tea-party of such extraordinary importance, though, viewed apart from its meaning, it was the most trivial and commonplace thing in the world. trix got up from her chair, and went over to the window. not a twig of the bare trees was stirring. the earth lay quiet in the grip of the frost king; a faint pink light still lingered in the western sky. she looked at the rustic seat and the table beneath the lime trees. how amazingly long ago the day seemed when she had sat there with pia, and heard the little tale of wounded pride. how amazingly long ago that very morning seemed, when she had seen the sunlight flood her window-pane with ruby jewels. even her interview with father dormer seemed to belong to another life. it had been another trix, and not she herself who had propounded her difficulty to him, a difficulty so astoundingly simple of solution. she heaved a little sigh of intense satisfaction, and then she caught sight of a figure crossing the grass. the duchessa had come out of the house and was going towards the garden gate. chapter xxxviii a footstep on the path antony was sitting in his cottage. it was quite dusk in the little room, but he had not troubled to light the lamp. a mood of utter depression was upon him, though for the life of him he could not tell fully what was causing it. that very fact increased the depression. there was nothing definite he could get a grip on, and combat. he was in no worse situation than he had been in three hours previously, in fact it might be considered that he was in an infinitely better one, and yet this mood was less than three hours old. of course the thought of the duchessa was at the root of the depression. but why? if he met her again--and all things now considered, the meeting was even more than probable--what earthly difference would it make whether he met her in his rôle of michael field, gardener, or as antony gray, agent? and yet he knew that it would make a difference. between the duchessa di donatello and michael field there was fixed a great social gulf. he himself had assured her of that fact. keeping that fact in view, he could deceive himself into the belief that it alone would be accountable for the aloofness of her bearing, for the frigidity of her manner should they again meet. oh, he'd pictured the meetings often enough; pictured, too, and schooled himself to endure, the aloofness, the frigidity. "i rubbed it well in that i am only a gardener, a mere labourer," he would assure his soul, with these imaginary meetings in mind. of course he had known perfectly well that he was deceiving himself, yet even that knowledge had been better than facing the pain of truth. but now the truth had got to be faced. there would be the aloofness, sure enough, but there would no longer be that great social gulf to account for it. the true cause would have to be acknowledged. she scorned him, firstly on account of his fraud, and secondly because he had wounded her pride by his quiet deliberate snubbing of her friendship. whatever justification she might presently see for the first offence, it never for an instant occurred to his mind that she might overlook the second. he had deliberately put a barrier between them, and it appeared to him now, as it had appeared at the moment of its placing, utterly and entirely unsurmountable. she would be civil, of course; there would not be the slightest chances of her forgetting her manners, but--his mind swung to the little hotel courtyard, to the orange trees in green tubs, to the golden sunshine and the sparkle of the blue water, to the woman then sitting by his side. memory can become a sheer physical pain at times. antony got up from the settle, and moved to the window. despite the dusk within the room, there was still a faint reflection of the sunset in the sky, a soft pink glow. one thing was certain--nothing, no power on earth, should ever drag him back to teneriffe again. if only he could control the action of his memory as easily as he could control the actions of his body. at all events he'd make a fight for it. and yet, if only--the phrase summed up every atom of regret for his mad decision, his falling in with that idiotic plan of nicholas's. and, after all, had it been so idiotic? mad, certainly; but wasn't there a certain justification in the madness? it was a madness the villagers would unquestionably bless. his thoughts turned to the recent interview. it had fully borne out all nicholas's expectations. bland, self-confident, curtis had entered the library. antony had had no faintest notion whom he had expected to see therein, but most assuredly it was not the two figures who had confronted him. bewilderment had passed over his face, and an odd undernote of fear. it was just possible he had taken nicholas for a ghost. the reassurance on that point had set him fairly at his ease. he had been subservient to nicholas, extravagantly amused to learn of the trick that had been played. he had been insolently oblivious of antony's presence. antony had enjoyed the insolence. when he learnt that his services were no longer required, he had first appeared slightly discomfited. then he had plucked up heart of grace. "going to take matters into your own hands?" he had said to nicholas. "excellent, my dear sir, excellent." nicholas had glanced down at the said hands. "i think," he had said slowly, "that they are rather old. no; i have other plans in view." "yes?" curtis had queried. "i wish to try a new _régime_," nicholas had said calmly. "i should like to introduce you to my new agent." he had waved his hand towards antony. black as murder is a well-worn and somewhat trite expression, nevertheless it alone adequately described the old agent's expression. and then, with a palpable effort, he had recovered himself. "a really excellent plan," he had said, with scarcely veiled insolence. "i congratulate you on your new _régime_. they say 'set a thief to catch a thief'; no doubt 'set a hind to rule a hind' will prove equally efficacious." he had laughed. "on the contrary," nicholas's voice, suave and calm, had broken in upon the laugh, "that is the very _régime_ i am now abolishing. 'set a gentleman to rule a hind' is the one i am about to establish, that is why i have offered the post of agent to mr. antony gray, son of a very old friend of mine." for one brief instant curtis had been entirely non-plussed, the cut in the speech was lost in amazement; then bluster had come to his rescue. "so you have had recourse to a system of spying," he had said with a sneer that certainly did not in the least disguise his fury. "personally i have never looked upon it as a gentleman's profession." "the question of a gentleman's profession is not one in which i should readily take your advice, mr. curtis," nicholas had replied, smiling gently. curtis had turned to the door. "i did not come here to be insulted," he had said. "neither," nicholas had retorted sternly, "have i paid you to insult my tenants. you have accused me of a system of spying. you yourself best know whether such a system was justified by the need. though i can assure you that mr. gray was no spy. he believed in my death as fully as you did." there had been some further conversation,--remarks it might better be termed. the upshot had been that curtis was leaving byestry of his own accord on the morrow; antony took over his new post immediately. it had not been till curtis had left that nicholas had broached the subject of the tea-party the following day, and had requested antony's presence. the request had been firmly declined, nor could all nicholas's persuasions move antony from his resolution. "i am utterly unsociable," antony had declared. nicholas smiled grimly. "so am i, or, at any rate, so i was till miss devereux took me in hand." "miss devereux!" antony had echoed. "yes, she's at the bottom of this business," nicholas had assured him, "though what further plot she has up her sleeve i don't know. why, if it hadn't been--" and then, on the very verge of declaring that antony himself had been the real foundation of the whole business, he had stopped short. never in his life had nicholas betrayed a lady's secret or what might have been a lady's secret. they were pretty much one and the same thing as far as his silence on the matter was concerned. well, the long and the short of the whole business was that the tenants of the chorley estate were about to receive fair play, and nicholas was about to emerge from the chrysalis-like existence in which he had shrouded himself for fifteen years,--an advantage, certainly, in both instances. only so far as antony's own self was concerned there didn't seem the least atom of an advantage anywhere. of course he was fully aware that he ought to see immense advantages. but he didn't. "it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," says one of the poets. was it tennyson? but then that depends very largely on the manner of the losing. and in this case! antony crossed to the dresser and lighted the small lamp. he had just set it in the middle of the table when he heard the click of his garden gate, and a footstep on his little flagged path. chapter xxxix on the old foundation antony stood very still by the table. once before he had heard that same footfall on his path,--a light resolute step. his face had gone quite white beneath its tan. there was a knock on the door. for one brief second he paused. then he crossed the room, and opened the door wide. "may i come in?" asked the duchessa. he moved aside, and she came into the room, standing in the lamplight. he stood near her, words, conventional words, driven from his lips by the mad pounding and beating of his heart. "might i sit down?" asked the duchessa a little breathlessly. and she crossed to the settle. her face was in shadow here, but antony had seen that it was strangely white. still antony had not spoken. the duchessa looked up at him. "i am nervous," said she, an odd little tremor in her voice. "nervous!" echoed antony, surprise lending speech to his tongue. "nervous," she replied, the odd little tremor still in her voice. "i owe you an apology, oh, the very deepest apology, and i don't know how to begin." "don't begin at all," said antony hoarsely, sternly almost. "ah, but i must. think how i spoke to you. you--we had agreed that trust was the very foundation of friendship, and i destroyed the foundation at the outset." "it was not likely you could understand," said antony. she caught her breath, a little quick intake. "would you say the same if it had been the other way about? would _you_ have destroyed the foundation?" antony was silent. "would you?" she insisted. "i--i hope not," he stammered. "and yet you appear to think it reasonable that i should have done so." he could not quite understand the tone of her words. "i think it reasonable you did not understand," he declared. "how could you? nobody could have understood. it was the maddest, the most inconceivable situation." "possibly. yet if the positions had been reversed, if it had been you who had failed to understand my actions, would you not still have trusted?" "yes," said antony, conviction in the syllable. he did not think to ask her how it was that she understood now. the simple fact that she did understand swept aside, made trivial every other consideration. "you mean that a man's trust holds good under any circumstances, whereas a woman's trust will obviously fail before the first difficulty?" she demanded. "i did not mean that," cried antony hotly. "no?" she queried mockingly. "it was not, on my part, a question of _trust_ alone," said antony deliberately. he looked straight at her as he spoke the words. the duchessa dropped her eyes. a crimson colour tinged her cheeks, crept upwards to her forehead. there was a dead silence. then---- "will you help me to re-build the foundation?" asked the duchessa. "it was never destroyed," said antony. "mine was," she replied steadily. "will you forgive me?" "there can be no question of forgiveness," he replied hoarsely. her face went to white. "you refuse?" "there is nothing to forgive," he said. again she drew a quick breath. "there is," she said. "i think not," he replied. the duchessa looked towards the fire. "why do you say that?" "because," he replied slowly, "between you and me there can be no question of forgiveness. to forgive, one must acknowledge a wrong done to one. i acknowledge none." she turned towards him. "you cared so little, you felt none?" "no," responded antony, the words leaping to his lips, "i cared so much i felt none." "ah," she breathed, and stopped. "then you will go back to the old footing?" she asked. antony's heart beat furiously. "i cannot," he replied. "why?" she demanded, speaking very low. antony drew a deep breath. "because i love you," he said quietly. again there was a dead silence. at last antony spoke quietly. "of course i have no right to tell you that," he said. "but you may as well know the whole truth now. it was because of that love that i agreed to this business. i had nothing to offer you. here was my chance to obtain something. i had no notion then that you lived in this neighbourhood. when i found out, i was tempted to let you infer that there was a mystery, some possible explanation of my conduct. it would have been breaking my contract in the spirit, though not actually in the letter. well, i didn't break it at all, and of course you did not understand. in order to keep my contract i had to deceive you, or at all events to allow you to believe an untruth. naturally you scorned my deceit, as it appeared to you. it was that that mattered of course, not the social position. i understood that completely. later, you offered me your friendship. you were ready to trust without understanding. i could not accept your trust. a friendship between us must have led others to suspect that i was not what i appeared to be. that was to be avoided. it had to be avoided. i hurt you then, knowing what i did." he stopped. "i think you hurt yourself too," she suggested quietly. the muscles in antony's throat contracted. "come here," said the duchessa. antony crossed to the hearth. he stood looking down at her. "kneel down," said the duchessa. obediently he knelt. "you are so blind," said the duchessa pathetically, "that you need to look very close to see things clearly. look right into my eyes. can't you see something there that will heal that hurt?" a great sob broke from antony's throat. "ah, don't, dear heart, don't," cried the duchessa, drawing his head against her breast. * * * * * "will the new agent agree to live at the manor house?" asked the duchessa, after a long, long interval composed of many silences though some few words. "will his pride allow him to accept a small material benefit for a short time, seeing what a great amount of material benefit will be his to bestow in the future?" antony laughed. "i told mr. danver i wouldn't use a penny of his money for myself," he said. "oh!" she raised her eyebrows in half comical dismay, which hid, however, a hint of real anxiety. would his pride accept where it did not bestow in like kind? for other reason than this the bestowal would signify not at all. "you mind?" he asked smiling. she looked straight at him. "not the smallest atom," she declared, utterly relieved, since there was no shadow of false pride in the laughing eyes which met her own. "ah, but," said antony slowly, and very, very deliberately, "i never said i would not use it for my wife." epilogue an old man was sitting in the library of the big grey house. a shaded reading-lamp stood on a small table near his elbow. its light was thrown on an open book lying near it, and on the carved arms of the oak chair in which the man was sitting. it shone clearly on his bloodless old hands, on his parchment-like face and white hair. a log fire was burning in a great open hearth on his right. for the rest, the room was a place of shadows, deepening to gloom in the distant corners, a gloom emphasized by the one small circle of brilliant light, and the red glow of the fire. book-cases reached from floor to ceiling the whole length of two walls, and between the thickly curtained windows of the third. in the fourth wall was the fireplace and the door. there was no sound to break the silence. the figure in the oak chair sat motionless. he might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of life he gave. he looked like stone,--white and black marble very finely sculptured,--white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercing eyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. even his eyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space. the big room was very still. an hour ago it had been full of voices and laughter, amazed questions, and half-mocking explanations. later the front door had banged. there had been the sound of steps on the frosty drive, receding in the distance. then silence. nicholas's eyes turned towards the middle window of the three, surveying the heavy hanging curtain. a whimsical smile lighted up his grim old mouth. "after all, it wasn't a wasted year," he said aloud. then he turned and looked round the empty room. it seemed curiously deserted now. "and the year is not yet ended," he added. he was amazed at the pleasure the thought gave him. the end. [frontispiece: he was quite angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him.] [illustration: title page] peter pan in kensington gardens from the little white bird by j. m. barrie a new edition illustrated by arthur rackham london hodder & stoughton to sylvia and arthur llewelyn davies and their boys (my boys) [illustration: headpiece to table of contents] contents chapter i the grand tour of the gardens chapter ii peter pan chapter iii the thrush's nest chapter iv lock-out time chapter v the little house chapter vi peter's goat [illustration: the kensington gardens are in london, where the king lives] [illustration: david] coloured illustrations . he was quite angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him ... _frontispiece_ . the kensington gardens are in london, where the king lives (missing from book) . the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside . in the broad walk you meet all the people who are worth knowing . the hump, which is the part of the broad walk where all the big races are run . there is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf (missing from book) . the serpentine is a lovely lake, and there is a drowned forest at the bottom of it. if you peer over the edge you can see the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night there are also drowned stars in it . the island on which all the birds are born that become baby boys and girls (missing from book) . old mr. salford was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered all day in the gardens . away he flew, right over the houses to the gardens . the fairies have their tiffs with the birds . when he heard peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip . a band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them . put his strange case before old solomon caw (missing from book) . peter screamed out, 'do it again!' and with great good-nature they did it several times . a hundred flew off with the string, and peter clung to the tail . after this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise . 'preposterous!' cried solomon in a rage . for years he had been quietly filling his stocking . when you meet grown-up people in the gardens who puff and blow as if they thought themselves bigger than they are . he passed under the bridge and came within full sight of the delectable gardens . there now arose a mighty storm, and he was tossed this way and that (missing from book) . fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk . when they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively (missing from book) . but if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quite still pretending to be flowers (missing from book) . the fairies are exquisite dancers . these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night . linkmen running in front carrying winter cherries . when her majesty wants to know the time . the fairies sit round on mushrooms, and at first they are well behaved . butter is got from the roots of old trees (missing from book) . wallflower juice is good for reviving dancers who fall to the ground in a fit . peter pan is the fairies' orchestra . they all tickled him on the shoulder (missing from book) . one day they were overheard by a fairy . the little people weave their summer curtains from skeleton leaves . an afternoon when the gardens were white with snow . she ran to st. govor's well and hid . an elderberry hobbled across the walk, and stood chatting with some young quinces . a chrysanthemum heard her, and said pointedly, 'hoity-toity, what is this?' . they warned her . queen mab, who rules in the gardens . shook his bald head and murmured, 'cold, quite cold' . fairies never say, 'we feel happy': what they say is, 'we feel _dancey_' . looking very undancey indeed [illustration: the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside] . 'my lord duke,' said the physician elatedly, 'i have the honour to inform your excellency that your grace is in love' . building the house for maimie . if the bad ones among the fairies happen to be out (missing from book) . they will certainly mischief you (missing from book) . i think that quite the most touching sight in the gardens is the two tombstones of walter stephen matthews and phoebe phelps illustrations in the text david kensington gardens headpiece to 'the grand tour of the gardens' porthos one of the paths that have made themselves tailpiece to 'the grand tour of the gardens' headpiece to 'peter pan' the birds on the island never got used to him. his oddities tickled them every day tailpiece to 'peter pan' headpiece to 'the thrush's nest' tailpiece to 'the thrush's nest' headpiece to 'lock-out time' they are so cunning a fairy ring tailpiece to 'lock-out time' headpiece to 'the little house' there was a good deal going on in the baby walk she escorted them up the baby walk and back again tailpiece to 'the little house' headpiece to 'peter's goat' tailpiece to 'peter's goat' [illustration: kensington gardens] [illustration: in the broad walk you meet all the people who are worth knowing] [illustration: headpiece to 'the grand tour of the gardens'] i the grand tour of the gardens you must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow peter pan's adventures unless you are familiar with the kensington gardens. they are in london, where the king lives, and i used to take david there nearly every day unless he was looking decidedly flushed. no child has ever been in the whole of the gardens, because it is so soon time to turn back. the reason it is soon time to turn back is that, if you are as small as david, you sleep from twelve to one. if your mother was not so sure that you sleep from twelve to one, you could most likely see the whole of them. the gardens are bounded on one side by a never-ending line of omnibuses, over which your nurse has such authority that if she holds up her finger to any one of them it stops immediately. she then crosses with you in safety to the other side. there are more gates to the gardens than one gate, but that is the one you go in at, and before you go in you speak to the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside. this is as near to being inside as she may venture, because, if she were to let go her hold of the railings for one moment, the balloons would lift her up, and she would be flown away. she sits very squat, for the balloons are always tugging at her, and the strain has given her quite a red face. once she was a new one, because the old one had let go, and david was very sorry for the old one, but as she did let go, he wished he had been there to see. [illustration: the hump, which is the part of the broad walk where all the big races are run] the gardens are a tremendous big place, with millions and hundreds of trees; and first you come to the figs, but you scorn to loiter there, for the figs is the resort of superior little persons, who are forbidden to mix with the commonalty, and is so named, according to legend, because they dress in full fig. these dainty ones are themselves contemptuously called figs by david and other heroes, and you have a key to the manners and customs of this dandiacal section of the gardens when i tell you that cricket is called crickets here. occasionally a rebel fig climbs over the fence into the world, and such a one was miss mabel grey, of whom i shall tell you when we come to miss mabel grey's gate. she was the only really celebrated fig. we are now in the broad walk, and it is as much bigger than the other walks as your father is bigger than you. david wondered if it began little, and grew and grew, until it was quite grown up, and whether the other walks are its babies, and he drew a picture, which diverted him very much, of the broad walk giving a tiny walk an airing in a perambulator. in the broad walk you meet all the people who are worth knowing, and there is usually a grown-up with them to prevent them going on the damp grass, and to make them stand disgraced at the corner of a seat if they have been mad-dog or mary-annish. to be mary-annish is to behave like a girl, whimpering because nurse won't carry you, or simpering with your thumb in your mouth, and it is a hateful quality; but to be mad-dog is to kick out at everything, and there is some satisfaction in that. if i were to point out all the notable places as we pass up the broad walk, it would be time to turn back before we reach them, and i simply wave my stick at cecco hewlett's tree, that memorable spot where a boy called cecco lost his penny, and, looking for it, found twopence. there has been a good deal of excavation going on there ever since. farther up the walk is the little wooden house in which marmaduke perry hid. there is no more awful story of the gardens than this of marmaduke perry, who had been mary-annish three days in succession, and was sentenced to appear in the broad walk dressed in his sister's clothes. he hid in the little wooden house, and refused to emerge until they brought him knickerbockers with pockets. you now try to go to the round pond, but nurses hate it, because they are not really manly, and they make you look the other way, at the big penny and the baby's palace. she was the most celebrated baby of the gardens, and lived in the palace all alone, with ever so many dolls, so people rang the bell, and up she got out of her bed, though it was past six o'clock, and she lighted a candle and opened the door in her nighty, and then they all cried with great rejoicings, 'hail, queen of england!' what puzzled david most was how she knew where the matches were kept. the big penny is a statue about her. next we come to the hump, which is the part of the broad walk where all the big races are run; and even though you had no intention of running you do run when you come to the hump, it is such a fascinating, slide-down kind of place. often you stop when you have run about half-way down it, and then you are lost; but there is another little wooden house near here, called the lost house, and so you tell the man that you are lost and then he finds you. it is glorious fun racing down the hump, but you can't do it on windy days because then you are not there, but the fallen leaves do it instead of you. there is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf. from the hump we can see the gate that is called after miss mabel grey, the fig i promised to tell you about. there were always two nurses with her, or else one mother and one nurse, and for a long time she was a pattern-child who always coughed off the table and said, 'how do you do?' to the other figs, and the only game she played at was flinging a ball gracefully and letting the nurse bring it back to her. then one day she tired of it all and went mad-dog, and, first, to show that she really was mad-dog, she unloosened both her boot-laces and put out her tongue east, west, north, and south. she then flung her sash into a puddle and danced on it till dirty water was squirted over her frock, after which she climbed the fence and had a series of incredible adventures, one of the least of which was that she kicked off both her boots. at last she came to the gate that is now called after her, out of which she ran into streets david and i have never been in though we have heard them roaring, and still she ran on and would never again have been heard of had not her mother jumped into a 'bus and thus overtaken her. it all happened, i should say, long ago, and this is not the mabel grey whom david knows. [illustration: there is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf (missing from book)] returning up the broad walk we have on our right the baby walk, which is so full of perambulators that you could cross from side to side stepping on babies, but the nurses won't let you do it. from this walk a passage called bunting's thumb, because it is that length, leads into picnic street, where there are real kettles, and chestnut-blossom falls into your mug as you are drinking. quite common children picnic here also, and the blossom falls into their mugs just the same. next comes st. govor's well, which was full of water when malcolm the bold fell into it. he was his mother's favourite, and he let her put her arm round his neck in public because she was a widow; but he was also partial to adventures, and liked to play with a chimney-sweep who had killed a good many bears. the sweep's name was sooty, and one day, when they were playing near the well, malcolm fell in and would have been drowned had not sooty dived in and rescued him; and the water had washed sooty clean, and he now stood revealed as malcolm's long-lost father. so malcolm would not let his mother put her arm round his neck any more. between the well and the round pond are the cricket pitches, and frequently the choosing of sides exhausts so much time that there is scarcely any cricket. everybody wants to bat first, and as soon as he is out he bowls unless you are the better wrestler, and while you are wrestling with him the fielders have scattered to play at something else. the gardens are noted for two kinds of cricket: boy cricket, which is real cricket with a bat, and girl cricket, which is with a racquet and the governess. girls can't really play cricket, and when you are watching their futile efforts you make funny sounds at them. nevertheless, there was a very disagreeable incident one day when some forward girls challenged david's team, and a disturbing creature called angela clare sent down so many yorkers that--however, instead of telling you the result of that regrettable match i shall pass on hurriedly to the round pond, which is the wheel that keeps all the gardens going. [illustration: the serpentine is a lovely lake, and there is a drowned forest at the bottom of it. if you peer over the edge you can see the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night there are also drowned stars in it] it is round because it is in the very middle of the gardens, and when you are come to it you never want to go any farther. you can't be good all the time at the round pond, however much you try. you can be good in the broad walk all the time, but not at the round pond, and the reason is that you forget, and, when you remember, you are so wet that you may as well be wetter. there are men who sail boats on the round pond, such big boats that they bring them in barrows, and sometimes in perambulators, and then the baby has to walk. the bow-legged children in the gardens are those who had to walk too soon because their father needed the perambulator. you always want to have a yacht to sail on the round pond, and in the end your uncle gives you one; and to carry it to the pond the first day is splendid, also to talk about it to boys who have no uncle is splendid, but soon you like to leave it at home. for the sweetest craft that slips her moorings in the round pond is what is called a stick-boat, because she is rather like a stick until she is in the water and you are holding the string. then as you walk round, pulling her, you see little men running about her deck, and sails rise magically and catch the breeze, and you put in on dirty nights at snug harbours which are unknown to the lordly yachts. night passes in a twink, and again your rakish craft noses for the wind, whales spout, you glide over buried cities, and have brushes with pirates, and cast anchor on coral isles. you are a solitary boy while all this is taking place, for two boys together cannot adventure far upon the round pond, and though you may talk to yourself throughout the voyage, giving orders and executing them with despatch, you know not, when it is time to go home, where you have been or what swelled your sails; your treasure-trove is all locked away in your hold, so to speak, which will be opened, perhaps, by another little boy many years afterwards. but those yachts have nothing in their hold. does any one return to this haunt of his youth because of the yachts that used to sail it? oh no. it is the stick-boat that is freighted with memories. the yachts are toys, their owner a fresh-water mariner; they can cross and recross a pond only while the stick-boat goes to sea. you yachtsmen with your wands, who think we are all there to gaze on you, your ships are only accidents of this place, and were they all to be boarded and sunk by the ducks, the real business of the round pond would be carried on as usual. [illustration: the island on which all the birds are born that become baby boys and girls (missing from book)] paths from everywhere crowd like children to the pond. some of them are ordinary paths, which have a rail on each side, and are made by men with their coats off, but others are vagrants, wide at one spot, and at another so narrow that you can stand astride them. they are called paths that have made themselves, and david did wish he could see them doing it. but, like all the most wonderful things that happen in the gardens, it is done, we concluded, at night after the gates are closed. we have also decided that the paths make themselves because it is their only chance of getting to the round pond. one of these gypsy paths comes from the place where the sheep get their hair cut. when david shed his curls at the hairdresser's, i am told, he said good-bye to them without a tremor, though his mother has never been quite the same bright creature since; so he despises the sheep as they run from their shearer, and calls out tauntingly, 'cowardly, cowardly custard!' but when the man grips them between his legs david shakes a fist at him for using such big scissors. another startling moment is when the man turns back the grimy wool from the sheep's shoulders and they look suddenly like ladies in the stalls of a theatre. the sheep are so frightened by the shearing that it makes them quite white and thin, and as soon as they are set free they begin to nibble the grass at once, quite anxiously, as if they feared that they would never be worth eating. david wonders whether they know each other, now that they are so different, and if it makes them fight with the wrong ones. they are great fighters, and thus so unlike country sheep that every year they give my st. bernard dog, porthos, a shock. he can make a field of country sheep fly by merely announcing his approach, but these town sheep come toward him with no promise of gentle entertainment, and then a light from last year breaks upon porthos. he cannot with dignity retreat, but he stops and looks about him as if lost in admiration of the scenery, and presently he strolls away with a fine indifference and a glint at me from the corner of his eye. [illustration: porthos] the serpentine begins near here. it is a lovely lake, and there is a drowned forest at the bottom of it. if you peer over the edge you can see the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night there are also drowned stars in it. if so, peter pan sees them when he is sailing across the lake in the thrush's nest. a small part only of the serpentine is in the gardens, for soon it passes beneath a bridge to far away where the island is on which all the birds are born that become baby boys and girls. no one who is human, except peter pan (and he is only half human), can land on the island, but you may write what you want (boy or girl, dark or fair) on a piece of paper, and then twist it into the shape of a boat and slip it into the water, and it reaches peter pan's island after dark. [illustration: one of the paths that have made themselves] we are on the way home now, though of course, it is all pretence that we can go to so many of the places in one day. i should have had to be carrying david long ago, and resting on every seat like old mr. salford. that was what we called him, because he always talked to us of a lovely place called salford where he had been born. he was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered all day in the gardens from seat to seat trying to fall in with somebody who was acquainted with the town of salford, and when we had known him for a year or more we actually did meet another aged solitary who had once spent saturday to monday in salford. he was meek and timid, and carried his address inside his hat, and whatever part of london he was in search of he always went to westminster abbey first as a starting-point. him we carried in triumph to our other friend, with the story of that saturday to monday, and never shall i forget the gloating joy with which mr. salford leapt at him. they have been cronies ever since, and i notice that mr. salford, who naturally does most of the talking, keeps tight grip of the other old man's coat. [illustration: old mr. salford was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered all day in the gardens] [illustration: away he flew, right over the houses to the gardens] the two last places before you come to our gate are the dogs' cemetery and the chaffinch's nest, but we pretend not to know what the dogs' cemetery is, as porthos is always with us. the nest is very sad. it is quite white, and the way we found it was wonderful. we were having another look among the bushes for david's lost worsted ball, and instead of the ball we found a lovely nest made of the worsted, and containing four eggs, with scratches on them very like david's handwriting, so we think they must have been the mother's love-letters to the little ones inside. every day we were in the gardens we paid a call at the nest, taking care that no cruel boy should see us, and we dropped crumbs, and soon the bird knew us as friends, and sat in the nest looking at us kindly with her shoulders hunched up. but one day when we went there were only two eggs in the nest, and the next time there were none. the saddest part of it was that the poor little chaffinch fluttered about the bushes, looking so reproachfully at us that we knew she thought we had done it; and though david tried to explain to her, it was so long since he had spoken the bird language that i fear she did not understand. he and i left the gardens that day with our knuckles in our eyes. [illustration: tailpiece to 'the grand tour of the gardens'] [illustration: headpiece to 'peter pan'] ii peter pan if you ask your mother whether she knew about peter pan when she was a little girl, she will say, 'why, of course i did, child'; and if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days, she will say, 'what a foolish question to ask; certainly he did.' then if you ask your grandmother whether she knew about peter pan when she was a girl, she also says, 'why, of course i did, child,' but if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having a goat. perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your name and calls you mildred, which is your mother's name. still, she could hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. therefore there was no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. this shows that, in telling the story of peter pan, to begin with the goat (as most people do) is as silly as to put on your jacket before your vest. of course, it also shows that peter is ever so old, but he is really always the same age, so that does not matter in the least. his age is one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had a birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one. the reason is that he escaped from being a human when he was seven days old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the kensington gardens. if you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it shows how completely you have forgotten your own young days. when david heard this story first he was quite certain that he had never tried to escape, but i told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his temples, and when he had done this hard, and even harder, he distinctly remembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with that memory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape as soon as his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way up the chimney. all children could have such recollections if they would press their hands hard to their temples, for, having been birds before they were human, they are naturally a little wild during the first few weeks, and very itchy at the shoulders, where their wings used to be. so david tells me. [illustration: the fairies have their tiffs with the birds] i ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story: first i tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the understanding being that it is quite a different story; and then i retell it with his additions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is more his story or mine. in this story of peter pan, for instance, the bald narrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not all, for this boy can be a stern moralist; but the interesting bits about the ways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscences of david's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples and thinking hard. well, peter pan got out by the window, which had no bars. standing on the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless the kensington gardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot that he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over the houses to the gardens. it is wonderful that he could fly without wings, but the place itched tremendously, and--and--perhaps we could all fly if we were as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was bold peter pan that evening. he alighted gaily on the open sward, between the baby's palace and the serpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie on his back and kick. he was quite unaware already that he had ever been human, and thought he was a bird, even in appearance, just the same as in his early days, and when he tried to catch a fly he did not understand that the reason he missed it was because he had attempted to seize it with his hand, which, of course, a bird never does. he saw, however, that it must be past lock-out time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too busy to notice him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking their cows, drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made him thirsty, so he flew over to the round pond to have a drink. he stooped and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was his beak, but, of course, it was only his nose, and therefore, very little water came up, and that not so refreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle and he fell flop into it. when a real bird falls in flop, he spreads out his feathers and pecks them dry, but peter could not remember what was the thing to do, and he decided rather sulkily to go to sleep on the weeping-beech in the baby walk. at first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a branch, but presently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. he awoke long before morning, shivering, and saying to himself, 'i never was out on such a cold night'; he had really been out on colder nights when he was a bird, but, of course, as everybody knows, what seems a warm night to a bird is a cold night to a boy in a nightgown. peter also felt strangely uncomfortable, as if his head was stuffy; he heard loud noises that made him look round sharply, though they were really himself sneezing. there was something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted it, he could not think what it was. what he wanted so much was his mother to blow his nose, but that never struck him, so he decided to appeal to the fairies for enlightenment. they are reputed to know a good deal. [illustration: when he heard peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip] there were two of them strolling along the baby walk, with their arms round each other's waists, and he hopped down to address them. the fairies have their tiffs with the birds, but they usually give a civil answer to a civil question, and he was quite angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him. another was lolling on a garden chair, reading a postage-stamp which some human had let fall, and when he heard peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip. to peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met fled from him. a band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them. a milkmaid turned her pail upside down and hid in it. soon the gardens were in an uproar. crowds of fairies were running this way and that, asking each other stoutly who was afraid; lights were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the grounds of queen mab's palace came the rub-a-dub of drums, showing that the royal guard had been called out. a regiment of lancers came charging down the broad walk, armed with holly-leaves, with which they jag the enemy horribly in passing. peter heard the little people crying everywhere that there was a human in the gardens after lock-out time, but he never thought for a moment that he was the human. he was feeling stuffier and stuffier, and more and more wistful to learn what he wanted done to his nose, but he pursued them with the vital question in vain; the timid creatures ran from him, and even the lancers, when he approached them up the hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the pretence that they saw him there. [illustration: a band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them] despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but now he remembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on the weeping-beech had flown away when he alighted on it, and though this had not troubled him at the time, he saw its meaning now. every living thing was shunning him. poor little peter pan! he sat down and cried, and even then he did not know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. it is a blessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith in his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it. the reason birds can fly and we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings. now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the serpentine, for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there, and there are stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each of which a bird-sentinel sits by day and night. it was to the island that peter now flew to put his strange case before old solomon caw, and he alighted on it with relief, much heartened to find himself at last at home, as the birds call the island. all of them were asleep, including the sentinels, except solomon, who was wide awake on one side, and he listened quietly to peter's adventures, and then told him their true meaning. 'look at your nightgown, if you don't believe me,' solomon said; and with staring eyes peter looked at his nightgown, and then at the sleeping birds. not one of them wore anything. 'how many of your toes are thumbs?' said solomon a little cruelly, and peter saw, to his consternation, that all his toes were fingers. the shock was so great that it drove away his cold. 'ruffle your feathers,' said that grim old solomon, and peter tried most desperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had none. then he rose up, quaking, and for the first time since he stood on the window ledge, he remembered a lady who had been very fond of him. [illustration: put his strange case before old solomon caw (missing from book)] 'i think i shall go back to mother,' he said, timidly. 'good-bye,' replied solomon caw with a queer look. but peter hesitated. 'why don't you go?' the old one asked politely. 'i suppose,' said peter huskily, 'i suppose i can still fly?' you see he had lost faith. 'poor little half-and-half!' said solomon, who was not really hard-hearted, 'you will never be able to fly again, not even on windy days. you must live here on the island always.' 'and never even go to the kensington gardens?' peter asked tragically. 'how could you get across?' said solomon. he promised very kindly, however, to teach peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned by one of such an awkward shape. 'then i shan't be exactly a human?' peter asked. 'no.' 'nor exactly a bird?' 'no.' 'what shall i be?' 'you will be a betwixt-and-between,' solomon said, and certainly he was a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out. the birds on the island never got used to him. his oddities tickled them every day, as if they were quite new, though it was really the birds that were new. they came out of the eggs daily, and laughed at him at once; then off they soon flew to be humans, and other birds came out of other eggs; and so it went on for ever. the crafty mother-birds, when they tired of sitting on their eggs, used to get the young ones to break their shells a day before the right time by whispering to them that now was their chance to see peter washing or drinking or eating. thousands gathered round him daily to watch him do these things, just as you watch the peacocks, and they screamed with delight when he lifted the crusts they flung him with his hands instead of in the usual way with the mouth. all his food was brought to him from the gardens at solomon's orders by the birds. he would not eat worms or insects (which they thought very silly of him), so they brought him bread in their beaks. thus, when you cry out, 'greedy! greedy!' to the bird that flies away with the big crust, you know now that you ought not to do this, for he is very likely taking it to peter pan. [illustration: the birds on the island never got used to him. his oddities tickled them every day] peter wore no nightgown now. you see, the birds were always begging him for bits of it to line their nests with, and, being very good-natured, he could not refuse, so by solomon's advice he had hidden what was left of it. but, though he was now quite naked, you must not think that he was cold or unhappy. he was usually very happy and gay, and the reason was that solomon had kept his promise and taught him many of the bird ways. to be easily pleased, for instance, and always to be really doing something, and to think that whatever he was doing was a thing of vast importance. peter became very clever at helping the birds to build their nests; soon he could build better than a wood-pigeon, and nearly as well as a blackbird, though never did he satisfy the finches, and he made nice little water-troughs near the nests and dug up worms for the young ones with his fingers. he also became very learned in bird-lore, and knew an east wind from a west wind by its smell, and he could see the grass growing and hear the insects walking about inside the tree-trunks. but the best thing solomon had done was to teach him to have a glad heart. all birds have glad hearts unless you rob their nests, and so, as they were the only kind of heart solomon knew about, it was easy to him to teach peter how to have one. [illustration: peter screamed out, 'do it again!' and with great good-nature they did it several times] peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day long, just as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human, he needed an instrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used to sit by the shore of the island of an evening, practising the sough of the wind and the ripple of the water, and catching handfuls of the shine of the moon, and he put them all in his pipe and played them so beautifully that even the birds were deceived, and they would say to each other, 'was that a fish leaping in the water or was it peter playing leaping fish on his pipe?' and sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the mothers would turn round in their nests to see whether they had laid an egg. if you are a child of the gardens you must know the chestnut-tree near the bridge, which comes out in flower first of all the chestnuts, but perhaps you have not heard why this tree leads the way. it is because peter wearies for summer and plays that it has come, and the chestnut being so near, hears him and is cheated. [illustration: a hundred flew off with the string, and peter clung to the tail] but as peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he sometimes fell into sad thoughts, and then the music became sad also, and the reason of all this sadness was that he could not reach the gardens, though he could see them through the arch of the bridge. he knew he could never be a real human again, and scarcely wanted to be one, but oh! how he longed to play as other children play, and of course there is no such lovely place to play in as the gardens. the birds brought him news of how boys and girls play, and wistful tears started in peter's eyes. perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. the reason was that he could not swim. he wanted to know how to swim, but no one on the island knew the way except the ducks, and they are so stupid. they were quite willing to teach him, but all they could say about it was, 'you sit down on the top of the water in this way, and then you kick out like that.' peter tried it often, but always before he could kick out he sank. what he really needed to know was how you sit on the water without sinking, and they said it was quite impossible to explain such an easy thing as that. occasionally swans touched on the island, and he would give them all his day's food and then ask them how they sat on the water, but as soon as he had no more to give them the hateful things hissed at him and sailed away. once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching the gardens. a wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper, floated high over the island and then tumbled, rolling over and over after the manner of a bird that has broken its wing. peter was so frightened that he hid, but the birds told him it was only a kite, and what a kite is, and that it must have tugged its string out of a boy's hand, and soared away. after that they laughed at peter for being so fond of the kite; he loved it so much that he even slept with one hand on it, and i think this was pathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because it had belonged to a real boy. [illustration: after this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise] to the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones felt grateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number of fledglings through the german measles, and they offered to show him how birds fly a kite. so six of them took the end of the string in their beaks and flew away with it; and to his amazement it flew after them and went even higher than they. peter screamed out, 'do it again!' and with great good-nature they did it several times, and always instead of thanking them he cried, 'do it again!' which shows that even now he had not quite forgotten what it was to be a boy. at last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart, he begged them to do it once more with him clinging to the tail, and now a hundred flew off with the string, and peter clung to the tail, meaning to drop off when he was over the gardens. but the kite broke to pieces in the air, and he would have been drowned in the serpentine had he not caught hold of two indignant swans and made them carry him to the island. after this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise. nevertheless, peter did reach the gardens at last by the help of shelley's boat, as i am now to tell you. [illustration: tailpiece to 'peter pan'] [illustration: headpiece to 'the thrush's nest'] iii the thrush's nest shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever expect to be. he was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. they are people who despise money except what you need for to-day, and he had all that and five pounds over. so, when he was walking in the kensington gardens, he made a paper boat of his bank-note, and sent it sailing on the serpentine. it reached the island at night; and the look-out brought it to solomon caw, who thought at first that it was the usual thing, a message from a lady, saying she would be obliged if he could let her have a good one. they always ask for the best one he has, and if he likes the letter he sends one from class a, but if it ruffles him he sends very funny ones indeed. sometimes he sends none at all, and at another time he sends a nestful; it all depends on the mood you catch him in. he likes you to leave it all to him, and if you mention particularly that you hope he will see his way to making it _a boy this time_, he is almost sure to send another girl. and whether you are a lady or only a little boy who wants a baby-sister, always take pains to write your address clearly. you can't think what a lot of babies solomon has sent to the wrong house. shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled solomon, and he took counsel of his assistants, who having walked over it twice, first with their toes pointed out, and then with their toes pointed in, decided that it came from some greedy person who wanted five. they thought this because there was a large five printed on it. 'preposterous!' cried solomon in a rage, and he presented it to peter; anything useless which drifted upon the island was usually given to peter as a plaything. but he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew what it was at once, having been very observant during the week when he was an ordinary boy. with so much money, he reflected, he could surely at last contrive to reach the gardens, and he considered all the possible ways, and decided (wisely, i think) to choose the best way. but, first, he had to tell the birds of the value of shelley's boat; and though they were too honest to demand it back, he saw that they were galled, and they cast such black looks at solomon, who was rather vain of his cleverness, that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat there very depressed with his head buried in his wings. now peter knew that unless solomon was on your side, you never got anything done for you in the island, so he followed him and tried to hearten him. [illustration: 'preposterous!' cried solomon in a rage] nor was this all that peter did to gain the powerful old fellow's good-will. you must know that solomon had no intention of remaining in office all his life. he looked forward to retiring by and by, and devoting his green old age to a life of pleasure on a certain yew-stump in the figs which had taken his fancy, and for years he had been quietly filling his stocking. it was a stocking belonging to some bathing person which had been cast upon the island, and at the time i speak of it contained a hundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four nuts, sixteen crusts, a pen-wiper, and a boot-lace. when his stocking was full, solomon calculated that he would be able to retire on a competency. peter now gave him a pound. he cut it off his bank-note with a sharp stick. this made solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had consulted together they called a meeting of the thrushes. you will see presently why thrushes only were invited. the scheme to be put before them was really peter's, but solomon did most of the talking, because he soon became irritable if other people talked. he began by saying that he had been much impressed by the superior ingenuity shown by the thrushes in nest-building, and this put them into good-humour at once, as it was meant to do; for all the quarrels between birds are about the best way of building nests. other birds, said solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and as a result they did not hold water. here he cocked his head as if he had used an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a mrs. finch had come to the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, 'we don't build nests to hold water, but to hold eggs,' and then the thrushes stopped cheering, and solomon was so perplexed that he took several sips of water. 'consider,' he said at last, 'how warm the mud makes the nest.' 'consider,' cried mrs. finch, 'that when water gets into the nest it remains there and your little ones are drowned.' the thrushes begged solomon with a look to say something crushing in reply to this, but again he was perplexed. 'try another drink,' suggested mrs. finch pertly. kate was her name, and all kates are saucy. [illustration: for years he had been quietly filling his stocking] solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. 'if,' said he, 'a finch's nest is placed on the serpentine it fills and breaks to pieces, but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the cup of a swan's back.' how the thrushes applauded! now they knew why they lined their nests with mud, and when mrs. finch called out, 'we don't place our nests on the serpentine,' they did what they should have done at first--chased her from the meeting. after this it was most orderly. what they had been brought together to hear, said solomon, was this: their young friend, peter pan, as they well knew, wanted very much to be able to cross to the gardens, and he now proposed, with their help, to build a boat. at this the thrushes began to fidget, which made peter tremble for his scheme. solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of the cumbrous boats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be simply a thrush's nest large enough to hold peter. but still, to peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. 'we are very busy people,' they grumbled, 'and this would be a big job.' 'quite so,' said solomon, 'and, of course, peter would not allow you to work for nothing. you must remember that he is now in comfortable circumstances, and he will pay you such wages as you have never been paid before. peter pan authorises me to say that you shall all be paid sixpence a day.' then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was begun the celebrated building of the boat. all their ordinary business fell into arrears. it was the time of the year when they should have been pairing, but not a thrush's nest was built except this big one, and so solomon soon ran short of thrushes with which to supply the demand from the mainland. the stout, rather greedy children, who look so well in perambulators but get puffed easily when they walk, were all young thrushes once, and ladies often ask specially for them. what do you think solomon did? he sent over to the house-tops for a lot of sparrows and ordered them to lay their eggs in old thrushes' nests, and sent their young to the ladies and swore they were all thrushes! it was known afterwards on the island as the sparrows' year; and so, when you meet grown-up people in the gardens who puff and blow as if they thought themselves bigger than they are, very likely they belong to that year. you ask them. [illustration: when you meet grown-up people in the gardens who puff and blow as if they thought themselves bigger than they are] peter was a just master, and paid his work-people every evening. they stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the paper sixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, and then each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got sixpence. it must have been a fine sight. and at last, after months of labour, the boat was finished. o the glory of peter as he saw it growing more and more like a great thrush's nest! from the very beginning of the building of it he slept by its side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it was lined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. he sleeps in his nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round in it, for it is just large enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round like a kitten. it is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly green, being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or snap the walls are thatched afresh. there are also a few feathers here and there, which came off the thrushes while they were building. the other birds were extremely jealous, and said that the boat would not balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they said the water would come into it, but no water came into it. next they said that peter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look at each other in dismay; but peter replied that he had no need of oars, for he had a sail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced a sail which he had fashioned out of his nightgown, and though it was still rather like a nightgown it made a lovely sail. and that night, the moon being full, and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle (as master francis pretty would have said) and depart out of the island. and first, he knew not why, he looked upward, with his hands clasped, and from that moment his eyes were pinned to the west. he had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with them as his guides, but far away he saw the kensington gardens beckoning to him beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. his face was flushed, but he never looked back; there was an exultation in his little breast that drove out fear. was peter the least gallant of the english mariners who have sailed westward to meet the unknown? at first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to the place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, by removing one of the sleeves, and was forthwith carried backwards by a contrary breeze, to his no small peril. he now let go the sail, with the result that he was drifted towards the far shore, where are black shadows he knew not the dangers of, but suspected them, and so once more hoisted his nightgown and went roomer of the shadows until he caught a favouring wind, which bore him westward, but at so great a speed that he was like to be broke against the bridge. which, having avoided, he passed under the bridge and came, to his great rejoicing, within full sight of the delectable gardens. but having tried to cast anchor, which was a stone at the end of a piece of the kite-string, he found no bottom, and was fain to hold off, seeking for moorage; and, feeling his way, he buffeted against a sunken reef that cast him overboard by the greatness of the shock, and he was near to being drowned, but clambered back into the vessel. there now arose a mighty storm, accompanied by roaring of waters, such as he had never heard the like, and he was tossed this way and that, and his hands so numbed with the cold that he could not close them. having escaped the danger of which, he was mercifully carried into a small bay, where his boat rode at peace. nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to disembark, he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the shore to contest his landing, and shouting shrilly to him to be off, for it was long past lock-out time. this, with much brandishing of their holly-leaves; and also a company of them carried an arrow which some boy had left in the gardens, and this they were prepared to use as a battering-ram. then peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he was not an ordinary human and had no desire to do them displeasure, but to be their friend; nevertheless, having found a jolly harbour, he was in no temper to draw off therefrom, and he warned them if they sought to mischief him to stand to their harms. so saying, he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around him with intent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry among the women, and it was because they had now observed that his sail was a baby's nightgown. whereupon, they straightway loved him, and grieved that their laps were too small, the which i cannot explain, except by saying that such is the way of women. the men-fairies now sheathed their weapons on observing the behaviour of their women, on whose intelligence they set great store, and they led him civilly to their queen, who conferred upon him the courtesy of the gardens after lock-out time, and henceforth peter could go whither he chose, and the fairies had orders to put him in comfort. [illustration: he passed under the bridge and came within full sight of the delectable gardens] such was his first voyage to the gardens, and you may gather from the antiquity of the language that it took place a long time ago. but peter never grows any older, and if we could be watching for him under the bridge to-night (but, of course, we can't), i dare say we should see him hoisting his nightgown and sailing or paddling towards us in the thrush's nest. when he sails, he sits down, but he stands up to paddle. i shall tell you presently how he got his paddle. long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he steals back to the island, for people must not see him (he is not so human as all that), but this gives him hours for play, and he plays exactly as real children play. at least he thinks so, and it is one of the pathetic things about him that he often plays quite wrongly. you see, he had no one to tell him how children really play, for the fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk, and so know nothing, and though the birds pretended that they could tell him a great deal, when the time for telling came, it was wonderful how little they really knew. they told him the truth about hide-and-seek, and he often plays it by himself, but even the ducks on the round pond could not explain to him what it is that makes the pond so fascinating to boys. every night the ducks have forgotten all the events of the day, except the number of pieces of cake thrown to them. they are gloomy creatures, and say that cake is not what it was in their young days. so peter had to find out many things for himself. he often played ships at the round pond, but his ship was only a hoop which he had found on the grass. of course, he had never seen a hoop, and he wondered what you play at with them, and decided that you play at pretending they are boats. this hoop always sank at once, but he waded in for it, and sometimes he dragged it gleefully round the rim of the pond, and he was quite proud to think that he had discovered what boys do with hoops. [illustration: there now arose a mighty storm, and he was tossed this way and that (missing from book)] another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was for sitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely get out of it. also he found a balloon. it was bobbing about on the hump, quite as if it was having a game by itself, and he caught it after an exciting chase. but he thought it was a ball, and jenny wren had told him that boys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not find it anywhere. perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. it was under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the fairy queen's winter palace (which is within the circle of the seven spanish chestnuts), and peter approached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such things to him. lest it was alive, he addressed it politely; and then, as it gave no answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. he gave it a little push, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive after all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. so he stretched out his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at him, and he was so alarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away to his boat. you must not think, however, that he was a coward, for he came back next night with a crust in one hand and a stick in the other, but the perambulator had gone, and he never saw any other one. i have promised to tell you also about his paddle. it was a child's spade which he had found near st. govor's well, and he thought it was a paddle. do you pity peter pan for making these mistakes? if so, i think it rather silly of you. what i mean is that, of course, one must pity him now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. he thought he had the most splendid time in the gardens, and to think you have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. he played without ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or mary-annish. he could be neither of these things, for he had never heard of them, but do you think he is to be pitied for that? oh, he was merry! he was as much merrier than you, for instance, as you are merrier than your father. sometimes he fell, like a spinning-top, from sheer merriment. have you seen a greyhound leaping the fences of the gardens? that is how peter leaps them. [illustration: fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk] and think of the music of his pipe. gentlemen who walk home at night write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the gardens, but it is really peter's pipe they hear. of course, he had no mother--at least, what use was she to him? you can be sorry for him for that, but don't be too sorry, for the next thing i mean to tell you is how he revisited her. it was the fairies who gave him the chance. [illustration: tailpiece to 'the thrush's nest'] [illustration: headpiece to 'lock-out time'] iv lock-out time it is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing known for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children. long ago children were forbidden the gardens, and at that time there was not a fairy in the place; then the children were admitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. they can't resist following the children, but you seldom see them, partly because they live in the daytime behind the railings, where you are not allowed to go, and also partly because they are so cunning. they are not a bit cunning after lock-out, but until lock-out, my word! [illustration: they are so cunning] [illustration: when they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively (missing from book)] when you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and you remember a good deal about them in your babyhood, which it is a great pity you can't write down, for gradually you forget, and i have heard of children who declared that they had never once seen a fairy. very likely if they said this in the kensington gardens, they were standing looking at a fairy all the time. the reason they were cheated was that she pretended to be something else. this is one of their best tricks. they usually pretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the fairies' basin, and there are so many flowers there, and all along the baby walk, that a flower is the thing least likely to attract attention. they dress exactly like flowers, and change with the seasons, putting on white when lilies are in and blue for bluebells, and so on. they like crocus and hyacinth time best of all, as they are partial to a bit of colour, but tulips (except white ones, which are the fairy cradles) they consider garish, and they sometimes put off dressing like tulips for days, so that the beginning of the tulip weeks is almost the best time to catch them. when they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively, but if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quite still pretending to be flowers. then, after you have passed without knowing that they were fairies, they rush home and tell their mothers they have had such an adventure. the fairy basin, you remember, is all covered with ground-ivy (from which they make their castor-oil), with flowers growing in it here and there. most of them really are flowers, but some of them are fairies. you never can be sure of them, but a good plan is to walk by looking the other way, and then turn round sharply. another good plan, which david and i sometimes follow, is to stare them down. after a long time they can't help winking, and then you know for certain that they are fairies. [illustration: but if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quite still pretending to be flowers (missing from book)] there are also numbers of them along the baby walk, which is a famous gentle place, as spots frequented by fairies are called. once twenty-four of them had an extraordinary adventure. they were a girls' school out for a walk with the governess, and all wearing hyacinth gowns, when she suddenly put her finger to her mouth, and then they all stood still on an empty bed and pretended to be hyacinths. unfortunately what the governess had heard was two gardeners coming to plant new flowers in that very bed. they were wheeling a hand-cart with the flowers in it, and were quite surprised to find the bed occupied. 'pity to lift them hyacinths,' said the one man. 'duke's orders,' replied the other, and, having emptied the cart, they dug up the boarding-school and put the poor, terrified things in it in five rows. of course, neither the governess nor the girls dare let on that they were fairies, so they were carted far away to a potting-shed, out of which they escaped in the night without their shoes, but there was a great row about it among the parents, and the school was ruined. as for their houses, it is no use looking for them, because they are the exact opposite of our houses. you can see our houses by day but you can't see them by dark. well, you can see their houses by dark, but you can't see them by day, for they are the colour of night, and i never heard of any one yet who could see night in the daytime. this does not mean that they are black, for night has its colours just as day has, but ever so much brighter. their blues and reds and greens are like ours with a light behind them. the palace is entirely built of many-coloured glasses, and it is quite the loveliest of all royal residences, but the queen sometimes complains because the common people will peep in to see what she is doing. they are very inquisitive folk, and press quite hard against the glass, and that is why their noses are mostly snubby. the streets are miles long and very twisty, and have paths on each side made of bright worsted. the birds used to steal the worsted for their nests, but a policeman has been appointed to hold on at the other end. [illustration: the fairies are exquisite dancers] one of the great differences between the fairies and us is that they never do anything useful. when the first baby laughed for the first time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skipping about. that was the beginning of fairies. they look tremendously busy, you know, as if they had not a moment to spare, but if you were to ask them what they are doing, they could not tell you in the least. they are frightfully ignorant, and everything they do is make-believe. they have a postman, but he never calls except at christmas with his little box, and though they have beautiful schools, nothing is taught in them; the youngest child being chief person is always elected mistress, and when she has called the roll, they all go out for a walk and never come back. it is a very noticeable thing that, in fairy families, the youngest is always chief person, and usually becomes a prince or princess; and children remember this, and think it must be so among humans also, and that is why they are often made uneasy when they come upon their mother furtively putting new frills on the basinette. you have probably observed that your baby-sister wants to do all sorts of things that your mother and her nurse want her not to do--to stand up at sitting-down time, and to sit down at stand-up time, for instance, or to wake up when she should fall asleep, or to crawl on the floor when she is wearing her best frock, and so on, and perhaps you put this down to naughtiness. but it is not; it simply means that she is doing as she has seen the fairies do; she begins by following their ways, and it takes about two years to get her into the human ways. her fits of passion, which are awful to behold, and are usually called teething, are no such thing; they are her natural exasperation, because we don't understand her, though she is talking an intelligible language. she is talking fairy. the reason mothers and nurses know what her remarks mean, before other people know, as that 'guch' means 'give it to me at once,' while 'wa' is 'why do you wear such a funny hat?' is because, mixing so much with babies, they have picked up a little of the fairy language. [illustration: a fairy ring] of late david has been thinking back hard about the fairy tongue, with his hands clutching his temples, and he has remembered a number of their phrases which i shall tell you some day if i don't forget. he had heard them in the days when he was a thrush, and though i suggested to him that perhaps it is really bird language he is remembering, he says not, for these phrases are about fun and adventures, and the birds talked of nothing but nest-building. he distinctly remembers that the birds used to go from spot to spot like ladies at shop windows, looking at the different nests and saying, 'not my colour, my dear,' and 'how would that do with a soft lining?' and 'but will it wear?' and 'what hideous trimming!' and so on. [illustration: these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night] the fairies are exquisite dancers, and that is why one of the first things the baby does is to sign to you to dance to him and then to cry when you do it. they hold their great balls in the open air, in what is called a fairy ring. for weeks afterwards you can see the ring on the grass. it is not there when they begin, but they make it by waltzing round and round. sometimes you will find mushrooms inside the ring, and these are fairy chairs that the servants have forgotten to clear away. the chairs and the rings are the only tell-tale marks these little people leave behind them, and they would remove even these were they not so fond of dancing that they toe it till the very moment of the opening of the gates. david and i once found a fairy ring quite warm. but there is also a way of finding out about the ball before it takes place. you know the boards which tell at what time the gardens are to close to-day. well, these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night, so that it says the gardens are to close at six-thirty, for instance, instead of at seven. this enables them to get begun half an hour earlier. if on such a night we could remain behind in the gardens, as the famous maimie mannering did, we might see delicious sights; hundreds of lovely fairies hastening to the ball, the married ones wearing their wedding rings round their waists; the gentlemen, all in uniform, holding up the ladies' trains, and linkmen running in front carrying winter cherries, which are the fairy-lanterns; the cloakroom where they put on their silver slippers and get a ticket for their wraps; the flowers streaming up from the baby walk to look on, and always welcome because they can lend a pin; the supper-table, with queen mab at the head of it, and behind her chair the lord chamberlain, who carries a dandelion on which he blows when her majesty wants to know the time. [illustration: linkmen running in front carrying winter cherries] the table-cloth varies according to the seasons, and in may it is made of chestnut blossom. the way the fairy servants do is this: the men, scores of them, climb up the trees and shake the branches, and the blossom falls like snow. then the lady servants sweep it together by whisking their skirts until it is exactly like a tablecloth, and that is how they get their tablecloth. they have real glasses and real wine of three kinds, namely, blackthorn wine, berberris wine, and cowslip wine, and the queen pours out, but the bottles are so heavy that she just pretends to pour out. there is bread-and-butter to begin with, of the size of a threepenny bit; and cakes to end with, and they are so small that they have no crumbs. the fairies sit round on mushrooms, and at first they are well-behaved and always cough off the table, and so on, but after a bit they are not so well-behaved and stick their fingers into the butter, which is got from the roots of old trees, and the really horrid ones crawl over the tablecloth chasing sugar or other delicacies with their tongues. when the queen sees them doing this she signs to the servants to wash up and put away, and then everybody adjourns to the dance, the queen walking in front while the lord chamberlain walks behind her, carrying two little pots, one of which contains the juice of wallflower and the other the juice of solomon's seal. wallflower juice is good for reviving dancers who fall to the ground in a fit, and solomon's seal juice is for bruises. they bruise very easily, and when peter plays faster and faster they foot it till they fall down in fits. for, as you know without my telling you, peter pan is the fairies' orchestra. he sits in the middle of the ring, and they would never dream of having a smart dance nowadays without him. 'p. p.' is written on the corner of the invitation-cards sent out by all really good families. they are grateful little people, too, and at the princess's coming-of-age ball (they come of age on their second birthday and have a birthday every month) they gave him the wish of his heart. [illustration: when her majesty wants to know the time] the way it was done was this. the queen ordered him to kneel, and then said that for playing so beautifully she would give him the wish of his heart. then they all gathered round peter to hear what was the wish of his heart, but for a long time he hesitated, not being certain what it was himself. 'if i chose to go back to mother,' he asked at last, 'could you give me that wish?' now this question vexed them, for were he to return to his mother they should lose his music, so the queen tilted her nose contemptuously and said, 'pooh! ask for a much bigger wish than that.' 'is that quite a little wish?' he inquired. 'as little as this,' the queen answered, putting her hands near each other. 'what size is a big wish?' he asked. she measured it off on her skirt and it was a very handsome length. then peter reflected and said, 'well, then, i think i shall have two little wishes instead of one big one.' of course, the fairies had to agree, though his cleverness rather shocked them, and he said that his first wish was to go to his mother, but with the right to return to the gardens if he found her disappointing. his second wish he would hold in reserve. they tried to dissuade him, and even put obstacles in the way. 'i can give you the power to fly to her house,' the queen said, 'but i can't open the door for you.' 'the window i flew out at will be open,' peter said confidently. 'mother always keeps it open in the hope that i may fly back.' 'how do you know?' they asked, quite surprised, and, really, peter could not explain how he knew. 'i just do know,' he said. so as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. the way they gave him power to fly was this: they all tickled him on the shoulder, and soon he felt a funny itching in that part, and then up he rose higher and higher, and flew away out of the gardens and over the housetops. it was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his own home he skimmed away over st. paul's to the crystal palace and back by the river and regent's park, and by the time he reached his mother's window he had quite made up his mind that his second wish should be to become a bird. the window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in he fluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep. peter alighted softly on the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and had a good look at her. she lay with her head on her hand, and the hollow in the pillow was like a nest lined with her brown wavy hair. he remembered, though he had long forgotten it, that she always gave her hair a holiday at night. how sweet the frills of her nightgown were! he was very glad she was such a pretty mother. but she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. one of her arms moved as if it wanted to go round something, and he knew what it wanted to go round. 'o mother!' said peter to himself, 'if you just knew who is sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed.' very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made, and he could see by her face that she liked it. he knew he had but to say 'mother' ever so softly, and she would wake up. they always wake up at once if it is you that says their name. then she would give such a joyous cry and squeeze him tight. how nice that would be to him, but oh! how exquisitely delicious it would be to her. that, i am afraid, is how peter regarded it. in returning to his mother he never doubted that he was giving her the greatest treat a woman can have. nothing can be more splendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your own. how proud of him they are! and very right and proper, too. [illustration: the fairies sit round on mushrooms, and at first they are well behaved] but why does peter sit so long on the rail; why does he not tell his mother that he has come back? i quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two minds. sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he looked longingly at the window. certainly it would be pleasant to be her boy again, but on the other hand, what times those had been in the gardens! was he so sure that he should enjoy wearing clothes again? he popped off the bed and opened some drawers to have a look at his old garments. they were still there, but he could not remember how you put them on. the socks, for instance, were they worn on the hands or on the feet? he was about to try one of them on his hand, when he had a great adventure. perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any rate, his mother woke up, for he heard her say 'peter,' as if it was the most lovely word in the language. he remained sitting on the floor and held his breath, wondering how she knew that he had come back. if she said 'peter' again, he meant to cry 'mother' and run to her. but she spoke no more, she made little moans only, and when he next peeped at her she was once more asleep, with tears on her face. it made peter very miserable, and what do you think was the first thing he did? sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed, he played a beautiful lullaby to his mother on his pipe. he had made it up himself out of the way she said 'peter,' and he never stopped playing until she looked happy. he thought this so clever of him that he could scarcely resist wakening her to hear her say, 'o peter, how exquisitely you play!' however, as she now seemed comfortable, he again cast looks at the window. you must not think that he meditated flying away and never coming back. he had quite decided to be his mother's boy, but hesitated about beginning to-night. it was the second wish which troubled him. he no longer meant to make it a wish to be a bird, but not to ask for a second wish seemed wasteful, and, of course, he could not ask for it without returning to the fairies. also, if he put off asking for his wish too long it might go bad. he asked himself if he had not been hard-hearted to fly away without saying good-bye to solomon. 'i should like awfully to sail in my boat just once more,' he said wistfully to his sleeping mother. he quite argued with her as if she could hear him. 'it would be so splendid to tell the birds of this adventure,' he said coaxingly. 'i promise to come back,' he said solemnly, and meant it, too. [illustration: butter is got from the roots of old trees (missing from book)] and in the end, you know, he flew away. twice he came back from the window, wanting to kiss his mother, but he feared the delight of it might waken her, so at last he played her a lovely kiss on his pipe, and then he flew back to the gardens. many nights, and even months, passed before he asked the fairies for his second wish; and i am not sure that i quite know why he delayed so long. one reason was that he had so many good-byes to say, not only to his particular friends, but to a hundred favourite spots. then he had his last sail, and his very last sail, and his last sail of all, and so on. again, a number of farewell feasts were given in his honour; and another comfortable reason was that, after all, there was no hurry, for his mother would never weary of waiting for him. this last reason displeased old solomon, for it was an encouragement to the birds to procrastinate. solomon had several excellent mottoes for keeping them at their work, such as 'never put off laying to-day because you can lay to-morrow,' and 'in this world there are no second chances,' and yet here was peter gaily putting off and none the worse for it. the birds pointed this out to each other, and fell into lazy habits. but, mind you, though peter was so slow in going back to his mother, he was quite decided to go back. the best proof of this was his caution with the fairies. they were most anxious that he should remain in the gardens to play to them, and to bring this to pass they tried to trick him into making such a remark as 'i wish the grass was not so wet,' and some of them danced out of time in the hope that he might cry, 'i do wish you would keep time!' then they would have said that this was his second wish. but he smoked their design, and though on occasions he began, 'i wish----' he always stopped in time. so when at last he said to them bravely, 'i wish now to go back to mother for ever and always,' they had to tickle his shoulders and let him go. he went in a hurry in the end, because he had dreamt that his mother was crying, and he knew what was the great thing she cried for, and that a hug from her splendid peter would quickly make her to smile. oh! he felt sure of it, and so eager was he to be nestling in her arms that this time he flew straight to the window, which was always to be open for him. [illustration: wallflower juice is good for reviving dancers who fall to the ground in a fit] but the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it, and peering inside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with her arm round another little boy. peter called, 'mother! mother!' but she heard him not; in vain he beat his little limbs against the iron bars. he had to fly back, sobbing, to the gardens, and he never saw his dear again. what a glorious boy he had meant to be to her! ah, peter! we who have made the great mistake, how differently we should all act at the second chance. but solomon was right--there is no second chance, not for most of us. when we reach the window it is lock-out time. the iron bars are up for life. [illustration: tailpiece to 'lock-out time'] [illustration: headpiece to 'the little house'] v the little house everybody has heard of the little house in the kensington gardens, which is the only house in the whole world that the fairies have built for humans. but no one has really seen it, except just three or four, and they have not only seen it but slept in it, and unless you sleep in it you never see it. this is because it is not there when you lie down, but it is there when you wake up and step outside. in a kind of way every one may see it, but what you see is not really it, but only the light in the windows. you see the light after lock-out time. david, for instance, saw it quite distinctly far away among the trees as we were going home from the pantomime, and oliver bailey saw it the night he stayed so late at the temple, which is the name of his father's office. angela clare, who loves to have a tooth extracted because then she is treated to tea in a shop, saw more than one light, she saw hundreds of them all together; and this must have been the fairies building the house, for they build it every night, and always in a different part of the gardens. she thought one of the lights was bigger than the others, though she was not quite sure, for they jumped about so, and it might have been another one that was bigger. but if it was the same one, it was peter pan's light. heaps of children have seen the light, so that is nothing. but maimie mannering was the famous one for whom the house was first built. maimie was always rather a strange girl, and it was at night that she was strange. she was four years of age, and in the daytime she was the ordinary kind. she was pleased when her brother tony, who was a magnificent fellow of six, took notice of her, and she looked up to him in the right way, and tried in vain to imitate him, and was flattered rather than annoyed when he shoved her about. also, when she was batting, she would pause though the ball was in the air to point out to you that she was wearing new shoes. she was quite the ordinary kind in the daytime. [illustration: peter pan is the fairies' orchestra] but as the shades of night fell, tony, the swaggerer, lost his contempt for maimie and eyed her fearfully; and no wonder, for with dark there came into her face a look that i can describe only as a leary look. it was also a serene look that contrasted grandly with tony's uneasy glances. then he would make her presents of his favourite toys (which he always took away from her next morning), and she accepted them with a disturbing smile. the reason he was now become so wheedling and she so mysterious was (in brief) that they knew they were about to be sent to bed. it was then that maimie was terrible. tony entreated her not to do it to-night, and the mother and their coloured nurse threatened her, but maimie merely smiled her agitating smile. and by and by when they were alone with their night-light she would start up in bed crying 'hsh! what was that?' tony beseeches her, 'it was nothing--don't, maimie, don't!' and pulls the sheet over his head. 'it is coming nearer!' she cries. 'oh, look at it, tony! it is feeling your bed with its horns--it is boring for you, o tony, oh!' and she desists not until he rushes downstairs in his combinations, screeching. when they came up to whip maimie they usually found her sleeping tranquilly--not shamming, you know, but really sleeping, and looking like the sweetest little angel, which seems to me to make it almost worse. but of course it was daytime when they were in the gardens, and then tony did most of the talking. you could gather from his talk that he was a very brave boy, and no one was so proud of it as maimie. she would have loved to have a ticket on her saying that she was his sister. and at no time did she admire him more than when he told her, as he often did with splendid firmness, that one day he meant to remain behind in the gardens after the gates were closed. 'o tony,' she would say with awful respect, 'but the fairies will be so angry!' 'i dare say,' replied tony carelessly. 'perhaps,' she said, thrilling, 'peter pan will give you a sail in his boat!' 'i shall make him,' replied tony; no wonder she was proud of him. [illustration: they all tickled him on the shoulder (missing from book)] but they should not have talked so loudly, for one day they were overheard by a fairy who had been gathering skeleton leaves, from which the little people weave their summer curtains, and after that tony was a marked boy. they loosened the rails before he sat on them, so that down he came on the back of his head; they tripped him up by catching his bootlace, and bribed the ducks to sink his boat. nearly all the nasty accidents you meet with in the gardens occur because the fairies have taken an ill-will to you, and so it behoves you to be careful what you say about them. maimie was one of the kind who like to fix a day for doing things, but tony was not that kind, and when she asked him which day he was to remain behind in the gardens after lock-out he merely replied, 'just some day'; he was quite vague about which day except when she asked, 'will it be to-day?' and then he could always say for certain that it would not be to-day. so she saw that he was waiting for a real good chance. this brings us to an afternoon when the gardens were white with snow, and there was ice on the round pond; not thick enough to skate on, but at least you could spoil it for to-morrow by flinging stones, and many bright little boys and girls were doing that. when tony and his sister arrived they wanted to go straight to the pond, but their ayah said they must take a sharp walk first, and as she said this she glanced at the time-board to see when the gardens closed that night. it read half-past five. poor ayah! she is the one who laughs continuously because there are so many white children in the world, but she was not to laugh much more that day. well, they went up the baby walk and back, and when they returned to the time-board she was surprised to see that it now read five o'clock for closing-time. but she was unacquainted with the tricky ways of the fairies, and so did not see (as maimie and tony saw at once) that they had changed the hour because there was to be a ball to-night. she said there was only time now to walk to the top of the hump and back, and as they trotted along with her she little guessed what was thrilling their little breasts. you see the chance had come of seeing a fairy ball. never, tony felt, could he hope for a better chance. [illustration: one day they were overheard by a fairy] he had to feel this, for maimie so plainly felt it for him. her eager eyes asked the question, 'is it to-day?' and he gasped and then nodded. maimie slipped her hand into tony's, and hers was hot, but his was cold. she did a very kind thing; she took off her scarf and gave it to him. 'in case you should feel cold,' she whispered. her face was aglow, but tony's was very gloomy. as they turned on the top of the hump he whispered to her, 'i'm afraid nurse would see me, so i shan't be able to do it.' maimie admired him more than ever for being afraid of nothing but their ayah, when there were so many unknown terrors to fear, and she said aloud, 'tony, i shall race you to the gate,' and in a whisper, 'then you can hide,' and off they ran. tony could always outdistance her easily, but never had she known him speed away so quickly as now, and she was sure he hurried that he might have more time to hide. 'brave, brave!' her doting eyes were crying when she got a dreadful shock; instead of hiding, her hero had run out at the gate! at this bitter sight maimie stopped blankly, as if all her lapful of darling treasures were suddenly spilled, and then for very disdain she could not sob; in a swell of protest against all puling cowards she ran to st. govor's well and hid in tony's stead. when the ayah reached the gate and saw tony far in front she thought her other charge was with him and passed out. twilight crept over the gardens, and hundreds of people passed out, including the last one, who always has to run for it, but maimie saw them not. she had shut her eyes tight and glued them with passionate tears. when she opened them something very cold ran up her legs and up her arms and dropped into her heart. it was the stillness of the gardens. then she heard _clang_, then from another part _clang_, then _clang, clang_ far away. it was the closing of the gates. immediately the last clang had died away maimie distinctly heard a voice say, 'so that's all right.' it had a wooden sound and seemed to come from above, and she looked up in time to see an elm-tree stretching out its arms and yawning. [illustration: the little people weave their summer curtains from skeleton leaves] she was about to say, 'i never knew you could speak!' when a metallic voice that seemed to come from the ladle at the well remarked to the elm, 'i suppose it is a bit coldish up there?' and the elm replied, 'not particularly, but you do get numb standing so long on one leg,' and he flapped his arms vigorously just as the cabmen do before they drive off. maimie was quite surprised to see that a number of other tall trees were doing the same sort of thing, and she stole away to the baby walk and crouched observantly under a minorca holly which shrugged its shoulders but did not seem to mind her. she was not in the least cold. she was wearing a russet-coloured pelisse and had the hood over her head, so that nothing of her showed except her dear little face and her curls. the rest of her real self was hidden far away inside so many warm garments that in shape she seemed rather like a ball. she was about forty round the waist. there was a good deal going on in the baby walk, where maimie arrived in time to see a magnolia and a persian lilac step over the railing and set off for a smart walk. they moved in a jerky sort of way certainly, but that was because they used crutches. an elderberry hobbled across the walk, and stood chatting with some young quinces, and they all had crutches. the crutches were the sticks that are tied to young trees and shrubs. they were quite familiar objects to maimie, but she had never known what they were for until to-night. [illustration: there was a good deal going on in the baby walk] she peeped up the walk and saw her first fairy. he was a street boy fairy who was running up the walk closing the weeping trees. the way he did it was this: he pressed a spring in the trunks and they shut like umbrellas, deluging the little plants beneath with snow. 'o you naughty, naughty child!' maimie cried indignantly, for she knew what it was to have a dripping umbrella about your ears. fortunately the mischievous fellow was out of earshot, but a chrysanthemum heard her, and said so pointedly, 'hoity-toity, what is this?' that she had to come out and show herself. then the whole vegetable kingdom was rather puzzled what to do. [illustration: an afternoon when the gardens were white with snow] 'of course it is no affair of ours,' a spindle-tree said after they had whispered together, 'but you know quite well you ought not to be here, and perhaps our duty is to report you to the fairies; what do you think yourself?' 'i think you should not,' maimie replied, which so perplexed them that they said petulantly there was no arguing with her. 'i wouldn't ask it of you,' she assured them, 'if i thought it was wrong,' and of course after this they could not well carry tales. they then said, 'well-a-day,' and 'such is life,' for they can be frightfully sarcastic; but she felt sorry for those of them who had no crutches, and she said good-naturedly, 'before i go to the fairies' ball, i should like to take you for a walk one at a time; you can lean on me, you know.' at this they clapped their hands, and she escorted them up the baby walk and back again, one at a time, putting an arm or a finger round the very frail, setting their leg right when it got too ridiculous, and treating the foreign ones quite as courteously as the english, though she could not understand a word they said. they behaved well on the whole, though some whimpered that she had not taken them as far as she took nancy or grace or dorothy, and others jagged her, but it was quite unintentional, and she was too much of a lady to cry out. so much walking tired her, and she was anxious to be off to the ball, but she no longer felt afraid. the reason she felt no more fear was that it was now night-time, and in the dark, you remember, maimie was always rather strange. they were now loth to let her go, for, 'if the fairies see you,' they warned her, 'they will mischief you--stab you to death, or compel you to nurse their children, or turn you into something tedious, like an evergreen oak.' as they said this they looked with affected pity at an evergreen oak, for in winter they are very envious of the evergreens. 'oh, la!' replied the oak bitingly, 'how deliciously cosy it is to stand here buttoned to the neck and watch you poor naked creatures shivering.' this made them sulky, though they had really brought it on themselves, and they drew for maimie a very gloomy picture of the perils that would face her if she insisted on going to the ball. [illustration: she ran to st. govor's well and hid] she learned from a purple filbert that the court was not in its usual good temper at present, the cause being the tantalising heart of the duke of christmas daisies. he was an oriental fairy, very poorly of a dreadful complaint, namely, inability to love, and though he had tried many ladies in many lands he could not fall in love with one of them. queen mab, who rules in the gardens, had been confident that her girls would bewitch him, but alas! his heart, the doctor said, remained cold. this rather irritating doctor, who was his private physician, felt the duke's heart immediately after any lady was presented, and then always shook his bald head and murmured, 'cold, quite cold.' naturally queen mab felt disgraced, and first she tried the effect of ordering the court into tears for nine minutes, and then she blamed the cupids and decreed that they should wear fools' caps until they thawed the duke's frozen heart. 'how i should love to see the cupids in their dear little fools' caps!' maimie cried, and away she ran to look for them very recklessly, for the cupids hate to be laughed at. it is always easy to discover where a fairies' ball is being held, as ribbons are stretched between it and all the populous parts of the gardens, on which those invited may walk to the dance without wetting their pumps. this night the ribbons were red, and looked very pretty on the snow. [illustration: she escorted them up the baby walk and back again] maimie walked alongside one of them for some distance without meeting anybody, but at last she saw a fairy cavalcade approaching. to her surprise they seemed to be returning from the ball, and she had just time to hide from them by bending her knees and holding out her arms and pretending to be a garden chair. there were six horsemen in front and six behind; in the middle walked a prim lady wearing a long train held up by two pages, and on the train, as if it were a couch, reclined a lovely girl, for in this way do aristocratic fairies travel about. she was dressed in golden rain, but the most enviable part of her was her neck, which was blue in colour and of a velvet texture, and of course showed off her diamond necklace as no white throat could have glorified it. the high-born fairies obtain this admired effect by pricking their skin, which lets the blue blood come through and dye them, and you cannot imagine anything so dazzling unless you have seen the ladies' busts in the jewellers' windows. maimie also noticed that the whole cavalcade seemed to be in a passion, tilting their noses higher than it can be safe for even fairies to tilt them, and she concluded that this must be another case in which the doctor had said, 'cold, quite cold.' [illustration: an elderberry hobbled across the walk, and stood chatting with some young quinces] well, she followed the ribbon to a place where it became a bridge over a dry puddle into which another fairy had fallen and been unable to climb out. at first this little damsel was afraid of maimie, who most kindly went to her aid, but soon she sat in her hand chatting gaily and explaining that her name was brownie, and that though only a poor street singer she was on her way to the ball to see if the duke would have her. 'of course,' she said, 'i am rather plain,' and this made maimie uncomfortable, for indeed the simple little creature was almost quite plain for a fairy. it was difficult to know what to reply. 'i see you think i have no chance,' brownie said falteringly. 'i don't say that,' maimie answered politely; 'of course your face is just a tiny bit homely, but----' really it was quite awkward for her. fortunately she remembered about her father and the bazaar. he had gone to a fashionable bazaar where all the most beautiful ladies in london were on view for half a crown the second day, but on his return home, instead of being dissatisfied with maimie's mother, he had said, 'you can't think, my dear, what a relief it is to see a homely face again.' maimie repeated this story, and it fortified brownie tremendously, indeed she had no longer the slightest doubt that the duke would choose her. so she scudded away up the ribbon, calling out to maimie not to follow lest the queen should mischief her. but maimie's curiosity tugged her forward, and presently at the seven spanish chestnuts she saw a wonderful light. she crept forward until she was quite near it, and then she peeped from behind a tree. [illustration: a chrysanthemum heard her, and said pointedly, 'hoity-toity, what is this?'] the light, which was as high as your head above the ground, was composed of myriads of glow-worms all holding on to each other, and so forming a dazzling canopy over the fairy ring. there were thousands of little people looking on, but they were in shadow and drab in colour compared to the glorious creatures within that luminous circle, who were so bewilderingly bright that maimie had to wink hard all the time she looked at them. it was amazing and even irritating to her that the duke of christmas daisies should be able to keep out of love for a moment: yet out of love his dusky grace still was: you could see it by the shamed looks of the queen and court (though they pretended not to care), by the way darling ladies brought forward for his approval burst into tears as they were told to pass on, and by his own most dreary face. maimie could also see the pompous doctor feeling the duke's heart and hear him give utterance to his parrot cry, and she was particularly sorry for the cupids, who stood in their fools' caps in obscure places and, every time they heard that 'cold, quite cold,' bowed their disgraced little heads. she was disappointed not to see peter pan, and i may as well tell you now why he was so late that night. it was because his boat had got wedged on the serpentine between fields of floating ice, through which he had to break a perilous passage with his trusty paddle. the fairies had as yet scarcely missed him, for they could not dance, so heavy were their hearts. they forget all the steps when they are sad, and remember them again when they are merry. david tells me that fairies never say, 'we feel happy': what they say is, 'we feel _dancey_.' well, they were looking very undancey indeed, when sudden laughter broke out among the onlookers, caused by brownie, who had just arrived and was insisting on her right to be presented to the duke. maimie craned forward eagerly to see how her friend fared, though she had really no hope; no one seemed to have the least hope except brownie herself, who, however, was absolutely confident. she was led before his grace, and the doctor putting a finger carelessly on the ducal heart, which for convenience' sake was reached by a little trap-door in his diamond shirt, had begun to say mechanically, 'cold, qui--,' when he stopped abruptly. 'what's this?' he cried, and first he shook the heart like a watch, and then he put his ear to it. 'bless my soul!' cried the doctor, and by this time of course the excitement among the spectators was tremendous, fairies fainting right and left. [illustration: they warned her] everybody stared breathlessly at the duke, who was very much startled, and looked as if he would like to run away. 'good gracious me!' the doctor was heard muttering, and now the heart was evidently on fire, for he had to jerk his fingers away from it and put them in his mouth. the suspense was awful. then in a loud voice, and bowing low, 'my lord duke,' said the physician elatedly, 'i have the honour to inform your excellency that your grace is in love.' you can't conceive the effect of it. brownie held out her arms to the duke and he flung himself into them, the queen leapt into the arms of the lord chamberlain, and the ladies of the court leapt into the arms of her gentlemen, for it is etiquette to follow her example in everything. thus in a single moment about fifty marriages took place, for if you leap into each other's arms it is a fairy wedding. of course a clergyman has to be present. how the crowd cheered and leapt! trumpets brayed, the moon came out, and immediately a thousand couples seized hold of its rays as if they were ribbons in a may dance and waltzed in wild abandon round the fairy ring. most gladsome sight of all, the cupids plucked the hated fools' caps from their heads and cast them high in the air. and then maimie went and spoiled everything. she couldn't help it. she was crazy with delight over her little friend's good fortune, so she took several steps forward and cried in an ecstasy, 'o brownie, how splendid!' everybody stood still, the music ceased, the lights went out, and all in the time you may take to say, 'oh dear!' an awful sense of her peril came upon maimie; too late she remembered that she was a lost child in a place where no human must be between the locking and the opening of the gates; she heard the murmur of an angry multitude; she saw a thousand swords flashing for her blood, and she uttered a cry of terror and fled. how she ran! and all the time her eyes were starting out of her head. many times she lay down, and then quickly jumped up and ran on again. her little mind was so entangled in terrors that she no longer knew she was in the gardens. the one thing she was sure of was that she must never cease to run, and she thought she was still running long after she had dropped in the figs and gone to sleep. she thought the snowflakes falling on her face were her mother kissing her good-night. she thought her coverlet of snow was a warm blanket, and tried to pull it over her head. and when she heard talking through her dreams she thought it was mother bringing father to the nursery door to look at her as she slept. but it was the fairies. i am very glad to be able to say that they no longer desired to mischief her. when she rushed away they had rent the air with such cries as 'slay her!' 'turn her into something extremely unpleasant!' and so on, but the pursuit was delayed while they discussed who should march in front, and this gave duchess brownie time to cast herself before the queen and demand a boon. every bride has a right to a boon, and what she asked for was maimie's life. 'anything except that,' replied queen mab sternly, and all the fairies echoed, 'anything except that.' but when they learned how maimie had befriended brownie and so enabled her to attend the ball to their great glory and renown, they gave three huzzas for the little human, and set off, like an army, to thank her, the court advancing in front and the canopy keeping step with it. they traced maimie easily by her footprints in the snow. but though they found her deep in snow in the figs, it seemed impossible to thank maimie, for they could not waken her. they went through the form of thanking her--that is to say, the new king stood on her body and read her a long address of welcome, but she heard not a word of it. they also cleared the snow off her, but soon she was covered again, and they saw she was in danger of perishing of cold. 'turn her into something that does not mind the cold,' seemed a good suggestion of the doctor's, but the only thing they could think of that does not mind cold was a snowflake. 'and it might melt,' the queen pointed out, so that idea had to be given up. a magnificent attempt was made to carry her to a sheltered spot, but though there were so many of them she was too heavy. by this time all the ladies were crying in their handkerchiefs, but presently the cupids had a lovely idea. 'build a house round her,' they cried, and at once everybody perceived that this was the thing to do; in a moment a hundred fairy sawyers were among the branches, architects were running round maimie, measuring her; a bricklayer's yard sprang up at her feet, seventy-five masons rushed up with the foundation-stone, and the queen laid it, overseers were appointed to keep the boys off, scaffoldings were run up, the whole place rang with hammers and chisels and turning-lathes, and by this time the roof was on and the glaziers were putting in the windows. [illustration: queen mab, who rules in the gardens] the house was exactly the size of maimie, and perfectly lovely. one of her arms was extended, and this had bothered them for a second, but they built a verandah round it leading to the front door. the windows were the size of a coloured picture-book and the door rather smaller, but it would be easy for her to get out by taking off the roof. the fairies, as is their custom, clapped their hands with delight over their cleverness, and they were so madly in love with the little house that they could not bear to think they had finished it. so they gave it ever so many little extra touches, and even then they added more extra touches. for instance, two of them ran up a ladder and put on a chimney. 'now we fear it is quite finished,' they sighed. but no, for another two ran up the ladder, and tied some smoke to the chimney. 'that certainly finishes it,' they said reluctantly. 'not at all,' cried a glow-worm; 'if she were to wake without seeing a night-light she might be frightened, so i shall be her night-light.' 'wait one moment,' said a china merchant, 'and i shall make you a saucer.' now, alas! it was absolutely finished. oh, dear no! 'gracious me!' cried a brass manufacturer, 'there's no handle on the door,' and he put one on. an ironmonger added a scraper, and an old lady ran up with a door-mat. carpenters arrived with a water-butt, and the painters insisted on painting it. finished at last! 'finished! how can it be finished,' the plumber demanded scornfully, 'before hot and cold are put in?' and he put in hot and cold. then an army of gardeners arrived with fairy carts and spades and seeds and bulbs and forcing-houses, and soon they had a flower-garden to the right of the verandah, and a vegetable garden to the left, and roses and clematis on the walls of the house, and in less time than five minutes all these dear things were in full bloom. [illustration: shook his bald head and murmured, 'cold, quite cold'] oh, how beautiful the little house was now! but it was at last finished true as true, and they had to leave it and return to the dance. they all kissed their hands to it as they went away, and the last to go was brownie. she stayed a moment behind the others to drop a pleasant dream down the chimney. all through the night the exquisite little house stood there in the figs taking care of maimie, and she never knew. she slept until the dream was quite finished, and woke feeling deliciously cosy just as morning was breaking from its egg, and then she almost fell asleep again, and then she called out, 'tony,' for she thought she was at home in the nursery. as tony made no answer, she sat up, whereupon her head hit the roof, and it opened like the lid of a box, and to her bewilderment she saw all around her the kensington gardens lying deep in snow. as she was not in the nursery she wondered whether this was really herself, so she pinched her cheeks, and then she knew it was herself, and this reminded her that she was in the middle of a great adventure. she remembered now everything that had happened to her from the closing of the gates up to her running away from the fairies, but how ever, she asked herself, had she got into this funny place? she stepped out by the roof, right over the garden, and then she saw the dear house in which she had passed the night. it so entranced her that she could think of nothing else. 'o you darling! o you sweet! o you love!' she cried. perhaps a human voice frightened the little house, or maybe it now knew that its work was done, for no sooner had maimie spoken than it began to grow smaller; it shrank so slowly that she could scarce believe it was shrinking, yet she soon knew that it could not contain her now. it always remained as complete as ever, but it became smaller and smaller, and the garden dwindled at the same time, and the snow crept closer, lapping house and garden up. now the house was the size of a little dog's kennel, and now of a noah's ark, but still you could see the smoke and the door-handle and the roses on the wall, every one complete. the glow-worm light was waning too, but it was still there. 'darling, loveliest, don't go!' maimie cried, falling on her knees, for the little house was now the size of a reel of thread, but still quite complete. but as she stretched out her arms imploringly the snow crept up on all sides until it met itself, and where the little house had been was now one unbroken expanse of snow. [illustration: fairies never say, 'we feel happy': what they say is, 'we feel _dancey_'] maimie stamped her foot naughtily, and was putting her fingers to her eyes, when she heard a kind voice say, 'don't cry, pretty human, don't cry,' and then she turned round and saw a beautiful little naked boy regarding her wistfully. she knew at once that he must be peter pan. [illustration: tailpiece to 'the little house'] [illustration: headpiece to 'peter's goat'] vi peter's goat maimie felt quite shy, but peter knew not what shy was. 'i hope you have had a good night,' he said earnestly. 'thank you,' she replied, 'i was so cosy and warm. but you'--and she looked at his nakedness awkwardly--'don't you feel the least bit cold?' now cold was another word peter had forgotten, so he answered, 'i think not, but i may be wrong: you see i am rather ignorant. i am not exactly a boy; solomon says i am a betwixt-and-between.' 'so that is what it is called,' said maimie thoughtfully. 'that's not my name,' he explained, 'my name is peter pan.' 'yes, of course,' she said, 'i know, everybody knows.' you can't think how pleased peter was to learn that all the people outside the gates knew about him. he begged maimie to tell him what they knew and what they said, and she did so. they were sitting by this time on a fallen tree; peter had cleared off the snow for maimie, but he sat on a snowy bit himself. 'squeeze closer,' maimie said. 'what is that?' he asked, and she showed him, and then he did it. they talked together and he found that people knew a great deal about him, but not everything, not that he had gone back to his mother and been barred out, for instance, and he said nothing of this to maimie, for it still humiliated him. 'do they know that i play games exactly like real boys?' he asked very proudly. 'o maimie, please tell them!' but when he revealed how he played, by sailing his hoop on the round pond, and so on, she was simply horrified. 'all your ways of playing,' she said with her big eyes on him, 'are quite, quite wrong, and not in the least like how boys play.' poor peter uttered a little moan at this, and he cried for the first time for i know not how long. maimie was extremely sorry for him, and lent him her handkerchief, but he didn't know in the least what to do with it, so she showed him, that is to say, she wiped her eyes, and then gave it back to him, saying, 'now you do it,' but instead of wiping his own eyes he wiped hers, and she thought it best to pretend that this was what she had meant. [illustration: looking very undancey indeed] she said out of pity for him, 'i shall give you a kiss if you like,' but though he once knew, he had long forgotten what kisses are, and he replied, 'thank you,' and held out his hand, thinking she had offered to put something into it. this was a great shock to her, but she felt she could not explain without shaming him, so with charming delicacy she gave peter a thimble which happened to be in her pocket, and pretended that it was a kiss. poor little boy! he quite believed her, and to this day he wears it on his finger, though there can be scarcely any one who needs a thimble so little. you see, though still a tiny child, it was really years and years since he had seen his mother, and i dare say the baby who had supplanted him was now a man with whiskers. but you must not think that peter pan was a boy to pity rather than to admire; if maimie began by thinking this, she soon found she was very much mistaken. her eyes glistened with admiration when he told her of his adventures, especially of how he went to and fro between the island and the gardens in the thrush's nest. 'how romantic!' maimie exclaimed, but this was another unknown word, and he hung his head thinking she was despising him. 'i suppose tony would not have done that?' he said very humbly. 'never, never!' she answered with conviction, 'he would have been afraid.' 'what is afraid?' asked peter longingly. he thought it must be some splendid thing. 'i do wish you would teach me how to be afraid, maimie,' he said. 'i believe no one could teach that to you,' she answered adoringly, but peter thought she meant that he was stupid. she had told him about tony and of the wicked thing she did in the dark to frighten him (she knew quite well that it was wicked), but peter misunderstood her meaning and said, 'oh, how i wish i was as brave as tony!' it quite irritated her. 'you are twenty thousand times braver than tony,' she said; 'you are ever so much the bravest boy i ever knew.' he could scarcely believe she meant it, but when he did believe he screamed with joy. 'and if you want very much to give me a kiss,' maimie said, 'you can do it.' very reluctantly peter began to take the thimble off his finger. he thought she wanted it back. 'i don't mean a kiss,' she said hurriedly, 'i mean a thimble.' 'what's that?' peter asked. 'it's like this,' she said, and kissed him. 'i should love to give you a thimble,' peter said gravely, so he gave her one. he gave her quite a number of thimbles, and then a delightful idea came into his head. 'maimie,' he said, 'will you marry me?' [illustration: 'my lord duke,' said the physician elatedly, 'i have the honour to inform your excellency that your grace is in love'] now, strange to tell, the same idea had come at exactly the same time into maimie's head. 'i should like to,' she answered, 'but will there be room in your boat for two?' 'if you squeeze close,' he said eagerly. 'perhaps the birds would be angry?' he assured her that the birds would love to have her, though i am not so certain of it myself. also that there were very few birds in winter. 'of course they might want your clothes,' he had to admit rather falteringly. she was somewhat indignant at this. 'they are always thinking of their nests,' he said apologetically, 'and there are some bits of you'--he stroked the fur on her pelisse--'that would excite them very much.' 'they shan't have my fur,' she said sharply. 'no,' he said, still fondling it, however, 'no. o maimie,' he said rapturously, 'do you know why i love you? it is because you are like a beautiful nest.' somehow this made her uneasy. 'i think you are speaking more like a bird than a boy now,' she said, holding back, and indeed he was even looking rather like a bird. 'after all,' she said, 'you are only a betwixt-and-between.' but it hurt him so much that she immediately added, 'it must be a delicious thing to be.' 'come and be one, then, dear maimie,' he implored her, and they set off for the boat, for it was now very near open-gate time. 'and you are not a bit like a nest,' he whispered to please her. 'but i think it is rather nice to be like one,' she said in a woman's contradictory way. 'and, peter, dear, though i can't give them my fur, i wouldn't mind their building in it. fancy a nest in my neck with little spotty eggs in it! o peter, how perfectly lovely!' [illustration: building the house for maimie] but as they drew near the serpentine, she shivered a little, and said, 'of course i shall go and see mother often, quite often. it is not as if i was saying good-bye for ever to mother, it is not in the least like that.' 'oh no,' answered peter, but in his heart he knew it was very like that, and he would have told her so had he not been in a quaking fear of losing her. he was so fond of her, he felt he could not live without her. 'she will forget her mother in time, and be happy with me,' he kept saying to himself, and he hurried her on, giving her thimbles by the way. but even when she had seen the boat and exclaimed ecstatically over its loveliness, she still talked tremblingly about her mother. 'you know quite well, peter, don't you,' she said, 'that i wouldn't come unless i knew for certain i could go back to mother whenever i want to? peter, say it.' he said it, but he could no longer look her in the face. 'if you are sure your mother will always want you,' he added rather sourly. 'the idea of mother's not always wanting me!' maimie cried, and her face glistened. 'if she doesn't bar you out,' said peter huskily. 'the door,' replied maimie, 'will always, always be open, and mother will always be waiting at it for me.' 'then,' said peter, not without grimness, 'step in, if you feel so sure of her,' and he helped maimie into the thrush's nest. 'but why don't you look at me?' she asked, taking him by the arm. peter tried hard not to look, he tried to push off, then he gave a great gulp and jumped ashore and sat down miserably in the snow. she went to him. 'what is it, dear, dear peter?' she said, wondering. 'o maimie,' he cried, 'it isn't fair to take you with me if you think you can go back! your mother'--he gulped again--'you don't know them as well as i do.' and then he told her the woeful story of how he had been barred out, and she gasped all the time. 'but my mother,' she said, '_my_ mother----' 'yes, she would,' said peter, 'they are all the same. i dare say she is looking for another one already.' maimie said aghast, 'i can't believe it. you see, when you went away your mother had none, but my mother has tony, and surely they are satisfied when they have one.' peter replied bitterly, 'you should see the letters solomon gets from ladies who have six.' just then they heard a grating _creak_, followed by _creak, creak_, all round the gardens. it was the opening of the gates, and peter jumped nervously into his boat. he knew maimie would not come with him now, and he was trying bravely not to cry. but maimie was sobbing painfully. 'if i should be too late,' she said in agony, 'o peter, if she has got another one already!' again he sprang ashore as if she had called him back. 'i shall come and look for you to-night,' he said, squeezing close, 'but if you hurry away i think you will be in time.' then he pressed a last thimble on her sweet little mouth, and covered his face with his hands so that he might not see her go. 'dear peter!' she cried. 'dear maimie!' cried the tragic boy. she leapt into his arms, so that it was a sort of fairy wedding, and then she hurried away. oh, how she hastened to the gates! peter, you may be sure, was back in the gardens that night as soon as lock-out sounded, but he found no maimie, and so he knew she had been in time. for long he hoped that some night she would come back to him; often he thought he saw her waiting for him by the shore of the serpentine as his bark drew to land, but maimie never went back. she wanted to, but she was afraid that if she saw her dear betwixt-and-between again she would linger with him too long, and besides the ayah now kept a sharp eye on her. but she often talked lovingly of peter, and she knitted a kettle-holder for him, and one day when she was wondering what easter present he would like, her mother made a suggestion. [illustration: if the bad ones among the fairies happen to be out (missing from book)] 'nothing,' she said thoughtfully, 'would be so useful to him as a goat.' 'he could ride on it,' cried maimie, 'and play on his pipe at the same time.' 'then,' her mother asked, 'won't you give him your goat, the one you frighten tony with at night?' 'but it isn't a real goat,' maimie said. 'it seems very real to tony,' replied her mother. 'it seems frightfully real to me too,' maimie admitted, 'but how could i give it to peter?' her mother knew a way, and next day, accompanied by tony (who was really quite a nice boy, though of course he could not compare), they went to the gardens, and maimie stood alone within a fairy ring, and then her mother, who was a rather gifted lady, said-- _'my daughter, tell me, if you can, what have you got for peter pan?'_ to which maimie replied-- _'i have a goat for him to ride, observe me cast it far and wide.'_ she then flung her arms about as if she were sowing seed, and turned round three times. next tony said-- _'if p. doth find it waiting here, wilt ne'er again make me to fear?'_ and maimie answered-- _'by dark or light i fondly swear never to see goats anywhere.'_ she also left a letter to peter in a likely place, explaining what she had done, and begging him to ask the fairies to turn the goat into one convenient for riding on. well, it all happened just as she hoped, for peter found the letter, and of course nothing could be easier for the fairies than to turn the goat into a real one, and so that is how peter got the goat on which he now rides round the gardens every night playing sublimely on his pipe. and maimie kept her promise, and never frightened tony with a goat again, though i have heard that she created another animal. until she was quite a big girl she continued to leave presents for peter in the gardens (with letters explaining how humans play with them), and she is not the only one who has done this. david does it, for instance, and he and i know the likeliest place for leaving them in, and we shall tell you if you like, but for mercy's sake don't ask us before porthos, for he is so fond of toys that, were he to find out the place, he would take every one of them. [illustration: they will certainly mischief you (missing from book)] though peter still remembers maimie he is become as gay as ever, and often in sheer happiness he jumps off his goat and lies kicking merrily on the grass. oh, he has a joyful time! but he has still a vague memory that he was a human once, and it makes him especially kind to the house-swallows when they visit the island, for house-swallows are the spirits of little children who have died. they always build in the eaves of the houses where they lived when they were humans, and sometimes they try to fly in at a nursery window, and perhaps that is why peter loves them best of all the birds. and the little house? every lawful night (that is to say, every night except ball nights) the fairies now build the little house lest there should be a human child lost in the gardens, and peter rides the marches looking for lost ones, and if he finds them he carries them on his goat to the little house, and when they wake up they are in it, and when they step out they see it. the fairies build the house merely because it is so pretty, but peter rides round in memory of maimie, and because he still loves to do just as he believes real boys would do. but you must not think that, because somewhere among the trees the little house is twinkling, it is a safe thing to remain in the gardens after lock-out time. if the bad ones among the fairies happen to be out that night they will certainly mischief you, and even though they are not, you may perish of cold and dark before peter pan comes round. he has been too late several times, and when he sees he is too late he runs back to the thrush's nest for his paddle, of which maimie had told him the true use, and he digs a grave for the child and erects a little tombstone, and carves the poor thing's initials on it. he does this at once because he thinks it is what real boys would do, and you must have noticed the little stones, and that there are always two together. he puts them in twos because they seem less lonely. i think that quite the most touching sight in the gardens is the two tombstones of walter stephen matthews and phoebe phelps. they stand together at the spot where the parish of westminster st. mary's is said to meet the parish of paddington. here peter found the two babes, who had fallen unnoticed from their perambulators, phoebe aged thirteen months and walter probably still younger, for peter seems to have felt a delicacy about putting any age on his stone. they lie side by side, and the simple inscriptions read-- +---------+ +---------+ | w. | | a | | st. m. | and | p. p. | | | | . | +---------+ +---------+ david sometimes places white flowers on these two innocent graves. [illustration: i think that quite the most touching sight in the gardens is the two tombstones of walter stephen matthews and phoebe phelps] but how strange for parents, when they hurry into the gardens at the opening of the gates looking for their lost one, to find the sweetest little tombstone instead. i do hope that peter is not too ready with his spade. it is all rather sad. [illustration: tailpiece to 'peter's goat'] printed by t. and a. constable, printers to his majesty at the edinburgh university press [illustration: aunt hannah and seth a story of some people and a dog. by james otis] [illustration: "'hi, limpy!' a shrill voice cried."] [illustration: _aunt hannah and seth by james otis author of "how tommy saved the barn" etc. new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers_] copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. contents. chapter page i.--an advertisement, ii.--the country, iii.--aunt hannah, iv.--the flight, v.--an accident, vi.--sunshine, aunt hannah. chapter i. an advertisement. a small boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the new york approach to the brooklyn bridge on a certain june morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. seth barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as limpy seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "hi, limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "goin' to give up business?" "i got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' snip a chance to run in the park. the poor little duffer don't have much fun down at mother hyde's while i'm workin'." "you might sell him for a pile of money, limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "teddy dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "look here, tim, do you think i'd sell snip, no matter how much money i might get for him? why, he's the only relation i've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "it costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "what of that? he thinks a heap of me, snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as i would if anything happened to one of us." "yes, i reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! it's a pity, limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "snip has what milk he needs----" "an' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "what of that?" seth cried sharply. "don't i tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! i'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why i couldn't feed him." "a dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. i ain't countin' but that snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as teddy dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "he's a heap better'n i am, tim chandler! snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." as if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "there, look at that! if you didn't have any folks, tim chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "he ain't really yours," tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "what's the reason he ain't? didn't i find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't i kept him in good shape ever since? of course he wasn't mine at first; but i'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! if you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like snip. you ought'er see him when i come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! it seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! i tell you, tim, snip loves me just like i was his mother!" master chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "there's pip smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "he's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. he allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." seth gave more attention to the caresses snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "he's yellin' for you, seth! what's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" perhaps tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had master smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "what kind of a game have you been up to, limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "anything gone wrong?" tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "i don't know what he means," seth replied, and pip shouted wildly: "listen to him! you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all i can find out!" "who?" seth demanded, grown restive under pip's accusing gaze. "you, of course!" "but i haven't been up to any game." "you can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause i've got it down here in black an' white." "got what down?" tim asked impatiently. "if there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "seth barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "listen to this, tim chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game limpy's been playin'!" then, with a tragical air, master smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "information wanted of a boy calling himself seth barrows. said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in jersey city three years ago. he then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one richard genet. a liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. address symonds & symonds, attorneys-at-law." as he ceased reading, master smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met seth's bewildered gaze. "sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "but i don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "what does it mean?" seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at tim and pip. "mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "i reckon you can answer that better'n we could. when the bank on broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for i saw it with my own eyes." "but i haven't been breakin' into any bank!" seth wailed, hugging snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "then what's that advertisement there for?" and master smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "how do i know?" now it was tim's turn to gaze at seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that snip's master had committed some terrible crime. the lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. he knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. there was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of new york would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. the number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until seth and snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. when little snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. a blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "see here, seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. if you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "i haven't done a thing, an' you know it, tim chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "then what's the notice about?" tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "i don't know any more'n you do." "where's the lead nickel mickey dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" teddy dixon asked sharply. seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "it's gone!" seth cried shrilly. "it's gone; but i'll cross my throat if i knew i was passin' it!" snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "that settles the whole business," teddy dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "you shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. from that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "you've got to skip mighty quick," tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "where'll i go?" seth cried tearfully. "they know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "you can bet i wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "if we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, i don't see how anybody could find you!" "but where'd i go?" seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "anywhere. here's snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. they held a hurried consultation, while seth stood caressing snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then teddy and tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of broadway, tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "you fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. wait here, an' me an' teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of seth." this injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "you'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "it can't be helped," teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "we ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. keep your eye on snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." even if seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. tim and teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and snip were being forced. he understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, teddy paid the passage money, and seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "the minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," teddy said impressively, clutching seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "we'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "but what am i to do afterward?" seth asked helplessly. "there ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. you're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "snip an' i will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while i'm hidin'?" "how much have you got now?" "'bout fifty cents." tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "you'll need it all, an' i can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to seth's expostulations, save as he said: "we're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. if you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way i reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' i stand ready to do all i can towards keepin' you away from him." "look here, fellers," seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "i don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. where can snip an' i go? we've got to earn our livin', an' i don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "that's easy enough," and tim spoke hopefully. "the city is a fool alongside the country, an' i'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. when we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. pip smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' i've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." seth shook his head doubtfully. although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by pip smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "you'll strike it rich somewhere," teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. i'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps i'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." the conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and seth, with snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from new york that the detectives can't find you," tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. tim and teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "i wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." and tim replied sadly: "if a feller stuck me with a counterfeit i'd think i had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape i'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' i ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if pip smith does think it's sich a soft snap." then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how seth had fared at the outset of his flight. chapter ii. the country. seth had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. if it had been possible for snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. the little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "i don't dare to stop yet a while, snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when i'm locked up in jail." a big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here seth halted irresolutely. he had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. he was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." no person could be seen in either direction, and seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. for the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "you must wait a spell longer, snippey dear," he muttered. "we may have to run for it, an' i mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. it would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' i'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows i wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." then seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "how many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. she looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "i don't know the price of them. this shop isn't mine; i'm tendin' it for a friend." "then you can't sell things?" and seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "oh, dear, yes, that's what i'm here for; but i never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth i don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. do you know what they are worth?" "the bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." the lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "it seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "have you got anything else to eat?" "that candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "i'll take five cents' worth of cakes," seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. the amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "what a dear little dog! did he come with you?" "yes, ma'am," seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress snip: "we're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes i'll thank you." "dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "how far are you going?" "i don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "got friends out this way, i take it?" "well,--yes--no--that is, i don't know. won't you please hurry?" the woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. his first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "they haven't caught up with us yet, snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "if they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "we can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. it was not difficult for a boy tired as was seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. it was most refreshing to seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. then snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. there was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. the birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. the sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "it's almost sunset, snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. it's fine, i know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but i don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. besides, who knows but there are bears? we must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as pip smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." the fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of tim and teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. he had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. after a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "we'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. he did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to snippey's alarm, and seth hurried on at full speed. "that wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "we'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "if pip smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." master snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. he began to fear that he might get himself and snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. no light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to seth than any he had seen. "if the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. it can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." the barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. he could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. the fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. many hours later the shrill barking of snip awakened seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. the rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny snip. "is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to seth, painful pause. "who--what animal? oh, you mean snip? why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. he always barks when strange folks come near where i am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. do you own this barn?" "yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the morses, an' there are none left now except gladys an' me." "i hope you won't be mad 'cause i came in here last night. i counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder i kept right on sleepin'." "have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "i didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. well, to tell the truth, i was afraid i'd be driven away, same's i had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "aunt hannah! aunt hannah!" it was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at snip: "i wish you would hold your dog, little boy. that is gladys, an' she's so reckless that i'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a june wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "oh, aunt hannah! why, where in the world did that little boy--what a perfectly lovely dog! oh, you dear!" this last exclamation was called forth by master snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "don't, gladys! you mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." the warning came too late. gladys already had snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "you poor, foolish aunt hannah! to think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! isn't he a perfect beauty? i never saw such a dear!" the little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. she feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. there was just a tinge of jealousy in seth's heart as he gazed at snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. it seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of aunt hannah's anxiety. she admired snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into seth's possession. the boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," seth said, without replying to her question. then snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. he sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to seth, and by this time aunt hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while i am milking." then it was that seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing snip's note of defiance and warning. gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while aunt hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "there's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "don't you think snippey would like some milk?" "i'm certain he would," seth replied promptly. "he hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." a moment later master snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. the fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. the walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. the floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. a large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "well, if this is a farmer's house i wouldn't wonder if a good bit of pip smith's yarn was true," seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. he was alone in the kitchen. snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "folks that live like this must be mighty rich," seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "it ain't likely snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' i expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. i reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. i wonder if that little bit of a woman expects i'll pay for breakfast?" chapter iii. aunt hannah. with a broken comb, which he used upon snip's hair as well as his own, seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. on either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. the little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then pip smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "it must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," seth said to himself. "it would please snip way down to the ground; but i mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." then aunt hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "bless your heart, my child, i ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that i've done as much or more every day since i was gladys's age." "but that's no reason why i shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause snip an' me slept in the barn. besides, i'd like to say to the fellers that i'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if i ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "then you came from the city?" "yes, an' i never got so far out in the country before. say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" and as aunt hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. after placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to gladys: "it's time white-face was taken to pasture, child." "do you mean the cow?" seth asked. "yes, dear." "why can't i take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. it's only across the road over yonder." seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which aunt hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. only once before had seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and pip smith had travelled over to the erie yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. it surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. she shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as aunt hannah had been of snip. once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from snip, who probably fancied seth stood in need of his protection. "why did you jump so?" gladys asked merrily. seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "i reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "and you are really afraid of poor old white-face? why, she's as gentle as snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." then gladys stepped boldly forward, and snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "now, you are just as foolish as your master," gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. then it was that snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "i want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but i never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. i s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "some cows are ugly, i suppose," gladys replied reflectively, taking snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when white-face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but aunt hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. she's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. there, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. by the time we get back breakfast will be ready. did you walk all the way from the city?" there was no necessity for seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. the morning meal was prepared, and as gladys drew out a chair to show seth where he should sit, aunt hannah asked anxiously: "what does the dog do while you are eating?" "you'll see how well he can behave himself," snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. much to seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. it caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "where are you going, my boy?" "that's what i don't just know," seth replied, after a short pause. "pip smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when snip an' i had to come away, i thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "haven't you any parents, or a home?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "i don't s'pose i have. i did live over to mr. genet's in jersey city; but he died, an' i had to hustle for myself." "had to what?" aunt hannah asked. "why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. there ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' i don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause i can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "well, sometimes. you see i ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' snip an' i had a room down to mother hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. we could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "i suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. perhaps some time i could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then i'd been all right, you know." "why did you come into the country?" "you see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left new york so unceremoniously. perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. aunt hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "i don't know anything about it, 'cause you see i never was in the country before," seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "pip smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. if i could always have such a bed as i got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "but you slept in the barn!" gladys cried. "yes; it was nicer than any room mother hyde's got. don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "the farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but i don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "i might strike something," seth said reflectively. "at any rate, snip an' i'll have to keep movin'." "then you have no idea where you're going?" and aunt hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "i wish i did," seth replied with a sigh, and gladys said quickly: "you can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "perhaps i might come across a barn, same's i did last night." "and grow to be a regular tramp?" "i wouldn't be one if i was willin' to work, would i? that's all snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." aunt hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. gladys began removing the dishes from the table, aunt hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts seth managed to ask: "how much will i have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "why, bless your heart, my boy, i wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "but we must pay our way, you know, though i ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. i don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "you needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. gladys an' i aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as i would like to see it." seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. it was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when aunt hannah and gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. it is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. it was aunt hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from gladys: "it is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. but how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "i am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, aunt hannah. with three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "he can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as i see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. i have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "i believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, i'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time i hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. there was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. he stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "a feller who would bother a good woman like aunt hannah deserves to be kicked. she's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but i ain't goin' to play mean with her. it's lucky i happened to hear what was said, else i'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me i might." at that moment snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "it's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "how would it be if i should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? i ought'er do it, snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family i've got. an' that's where i'm mighty mean! you'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "i can't do it, little man, i can't do it! you must stick to me, else i'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. we'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. it must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by aunt hannah, and snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "i'll take good care of him," she called to seth, as snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "i'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but i believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat gladys laughed merrily. then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when aunt hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "it looks very neat," she said approvingly. "i never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! last spring i hired william dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "have i earned the breakfast snip and i ate?" seth asked, pleased with her praise. "indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. when we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' i don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "it was the very nicest breakfast i ever had, miss--miss----" "you may call me 'aunt hannah,' for i'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "indeed i would!" was the emphatic reply, and then seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "that is, i would if i could; but snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." aunt hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "you an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what i'm not able to attend to now i've grown so old. why did you leave the city, my child?" had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "i'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which aunt hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "i'd like to tell you, but i can't," he repeated. "i don't believe you are a bad boy, seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. the lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. gladys declares, an' i've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. i don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and snip as members of the family." seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "would you rather go away?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "no, i wouldn't!" seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "i'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, snip an' i can't stay to bother you. we'll leave when he comes back." "listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. we will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after i have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." then gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and aunt hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "i never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" chapter iv. the flight. neither gladys nor snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that aunt hannah had said. a very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. it seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. as the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left new york was first told; and once aunt hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. he believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. so long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "i'll come back when i'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe i didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when i passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "it would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time snip could have!" then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "i'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "i reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but i couldn't get along without him!" gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. she and snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "if you jump like that i shall begin to think you are as nervous as aunt hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "she insists that between snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, seth, that i've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. i had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two dean boys and malvinia stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "i believe snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," seth replied gloomily. "i never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. if i wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "of course he'll stay," gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "aunt hannah and i have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. you two are to live here; snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of new york. what do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "i'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." and seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet miss gladys' startled gaze. "wait till you've talked with aunt hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "we've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "i have talked with her," seth replied gloomily. "we'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "i'd like to know why"; and now gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "neither you nor snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much i know to a certainty." "i believe you, but it can't be done." and the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. during the remainder of the forenoon neither aunt hannah, gladys, nor snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to aunt hannah's instructions. this time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her heavenly father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. aunt hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left new york, seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. then aunt hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. immediately after the meal had been brought to a close seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. when she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and snip were fugitives. some of the neighbors called upon aunt hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that gladys and snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. his hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then aunt hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "i declare you have done as well as any man i could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "william dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. you have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "i'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "of course i could do such work quicker after i'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "i didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. we'll see to that in the morning. i must go after white-face now, or we shall have a late supper. have you seen anything of gladys?" "she hasn't been here. say, why can't i get the cow?" "i suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "i reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." and seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that aunt hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. it did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. he led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as aunt hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "you've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. we poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "don't you think i could do that?" he asked timidly. "i dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "would you be willin' to let me try?" "of course you shall," and aunt hannah got up quickly from the stool. "be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although white-face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. then aunt hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as gladys and snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again aunt hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. while they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "you are to stay here until morning, seth, and then we will have another talk. i'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. you are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper i guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, seth took snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "you've been mighty good to us, miss--aunt hannah, an' i hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "you've done that this afternoon," gladys cried laughingly. "aunt hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. all hands, including snip, will have a share in the planting, and i wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed aunt hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "you won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. after undressing, and when snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. there was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "i hope aunt hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! there were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. the chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. weary, as seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as aunt hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. it is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. more than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell aunt hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. to his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. and then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking snip in his arms. the dog was sleeping soundly, and seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "it's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. you'll be sorry not to see gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as i shall, 'cause i know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." then he opened the door softly, still holding snip in his arms. not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. it was as if he and snip were the only occupants of the house. seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since aunt hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. with his hand on snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both aunt hannah and gladys must be aroused. in trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. he was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. the descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. the key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. the moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from new york; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. he saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. a cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than aunt hannah. seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. he had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "where are you going, seth dear?" "i wasn't--i had to run away, aunt hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "i was afraid you and gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps i couldn't stick to what i'd agreed on." "do you really want to leave us, seth?" "indeed i don't, aunt hannah! i'd give anything in this world if i could stay, for this is the very nicest place i ever was in. oh, indeed, i don't want to go away!" "then why not stay?" "i can't! i can't, 'cause i'd have to tell----" seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in snip's silky hair. "is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" and the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "then go right back to bed. you shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile i will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." chapter v. an accident. filled with shame and confusion, seth made no resistance when aunt hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. he was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. he could only realize that aunt hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. he wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "of course she'll tell gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe i'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. seth was awakened next morning by aunt hannah's voice, as she called gently: "it's time to get up, my dear. the sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and seth heard the little woman say to him: "i really believe gladys was in the right when she said i would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. do you want a saucer of milk?" "she won't talk so pleasantly when i get there," seth said to himself. "i'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if i was a thief!" the lad soon came to know aunt hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. when he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "you see i'm beginning to depend on you already, seth. gladys isn't up yet, and i've left white-face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. the grass is wet with dew, an' i'm gettin' so old that i don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. when the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. his one desire was to avoid coming face to face with aunt hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work gladys came out in search of snip. seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. just then snip was of far more importance in the eyes of aunt hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "come in an' wash your face, my dear. breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. aunt hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. the little woman asked that her father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. when the morning meal had come to an end gladys was eager seth should join her and snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "we've only to plant the garden," aunt hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. until noon the three, with snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as aunt hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." seth did not join gladys and snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from new york, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "i couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. there was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. during three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. he had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "it's no use, snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "i can't stay an' not tell aunt hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. if i could talk to her in the dark, when i couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. we must have it out mighty soon, for i can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." he was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade aunt hannah and gladys good-night. the moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. having repeated to snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, snip following close behind, barking shrilly. once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. the room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay aunt hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. it needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when dud wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. he pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "don't get scared! we can't put the fire out with water; but i'll soon smother it." "you needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! it would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "i'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "there is no fire here now." and aunt hannah threw back the rugs, despite seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "for mercy's sake, save the house! it's the only home i ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if i lost it!" before she had ceased speaking seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for aunt hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. the little woman remained upon the floor where seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "never mind me until the fire is out." "there is no more fire, an' i'm bound to mind you! are you hurt?" "it doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet i can't use either ankle or wrist. of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why gladys did not make her appearance. the first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "what can i do? oh, what can i do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for gladys. "don't waken her!" aunt hannah cried warningly. "if you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "ain't she in the house?" seth asked nervously. he feared aunt hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. he failed to observe that snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "you mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," aunt hannah said soothingly. "but for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "but you can't get up!" seth wailed. "that wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if i never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "but i'm not going to lie here. surely you can help me on to the couch." "tell me how to do it," seth cried eagerly, and at that moment gladys appeared in the doorway. "lean over so that i may put my arms around your neck," aunt hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "she fell an' hurt herself," seth said hurriedly to gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. and then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "if you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. aunt hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. then gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, aunt hannah had been grievously burned. "yes, i'm in some pain," she said in reply to seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved i have no right to complain. get some flour, gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps seth will run over to mrs. dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "where does mis' dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when gladys replied: "it's the first house past the grove where snip and i went this afternoon!" seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay aunt hannah for having given shelter to him and snip, lending speed to his feet. the dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, seth ran back to help gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. aunt hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "mis' dean is comin' right away. what can i do?" "nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "you have been of such great service to me this night that i can never repay you." "please don't say that, aunt hannah," seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "if i could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think i was so awful bad." "i believe you to be a good boy, seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. even then," she added with a smile, "i fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." the arrival of mrs. dean put an end to any further conversation, and seth was called upon to aid in carrying aunt hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "i am as well off in my own bed, sarah dean. don't treat me as if i was a child who didn't know what was best." "you are goin' into the foreroom, hannah morse, an' that's all there is about it. that bed hasn't been used since the year your brother benjamin was at home, an' i've always said that if anything happened to you, an' i had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. we'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "you can bet she does!" seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from mrs. dean's mouth. when the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and snip was ordered into the shed. aunt hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to gladys' chamber, and then mrs. dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by mr. dean, and here gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "how is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "her hands and arms are burned very badly. why, seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and mrs. dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "that's 'cause she's so good. if i was like her i needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after i died. it would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see aunt hannah!" "she'd have burned to death but for you." "that ain't so, gladys. i didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "she's just been telling mrs. dean that you saved her life, and the house." "did she really?" seth cried excitedly. "did she say it in them very same words?" "aunt hannah made it sound a good deal better than i can. she said god sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" seth asked quickly. "i've heard mother hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "aunt hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for i never heard a thing till snippey came into my room barking." "i hope i did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "and since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "i hope so." "why, seth barrows, how wicked you are!" "no, no, gladys, i didn't mean i hoped she'd have burned to death; but i hoped i really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when i tell her." "tell her what?" "why snip an' i had to run away from new york." "is it something you're ashamed of?" gladys asked quickly and in surprise. seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "i don't believe it. aunt hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "did aunt hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" and seth rose to his feet excitedly. "i hope you don't think i'd tell a lie?" "of course i don't, gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--aunt hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder i had hard work to believe it." "she said to me those very same words----" "what ones?" "that you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." then, suddenly, to gladys' intense surprise, seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. chapter vi. sunshine. mrs. dean had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that gladys and seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. at midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that aunt hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, gladys, in obedience to mrs. dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "somethin' that i could do might turn up, an' i count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "snip an' i'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" so eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve aunt hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. with the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when mrs. dean came out from the foreroom. "well, i do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "hannah morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n i expected. i wish my william could take a few lessons from you." "i didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "if the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "you're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when i tell hannah morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." seth did not venture to look up lest mrs. dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "is aunt hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "i allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. at first i was afraid she'd broken some bones; but mrs. stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. it seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. the wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." then mrs. dean questioned seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. then gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. mr. dean came over to milk white-face, and seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if aunt hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as mrs. dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. the old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that mr. dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. very proud was seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and gladys ran to tell aunt hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. during the next two days either mrs. dean or mrs. stubbs ruled over the morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that aunt hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. the neighbors sent newspapers and books for gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as aunt hannah herself would have done. then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. he had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. it was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to seth: "aunt hannah thinks i ought to run out of doors a little while because i have stayed in the house so long. there isn't the least bit of need; but i must go, else she'll worry herself sick. she says you can sit with her, an' i'll take snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than i am." just for a moment seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that aunt hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. with snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. aunt hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. the bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "i knew you would be forced to come when gladys went out, and that was why i sent her. we two--you an' i--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed aunt hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave new york, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "i ought'er----" he stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "you have saved the old home, an' my life as well, seth. even if i had hesitated at making you one of the family, i could not do so now, after owing you so much." "don't talk like that, aunt hannah! don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" seth cried tearfully. "it's the other way, an' snip an' i are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "ever since you got hurt i've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' i promised snip an' myself that i'd do it the very first chance. if it----" "there is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. i have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "we shall have to go; but i'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause i know you think i was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what i've done." "my dear boy," and aunt hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "i never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "an' that's jest the truth. now don't say a word till i've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by teddy and tim. "i didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but i reckon i'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause i couldn't afford to lose so much money. of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if i should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let gladys take care of poor little snippey?" "come here an' kiss me, seth," aunt hannah said softly. "i wish i could put my hand on your head! and you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "you poor little child! if you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. the good book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from god. but i'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. do you know, gladys read your story in the paper before i sent her for a walk, and that is why i wanted to be alone with you." seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and aunt hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "take up the newspaper lying on the table. i told gladys to fold it so you might find the article i wanted you to read." seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "can you read, dear?" "not very well, 'cause i have to spell out the big words." "hold it before my eyes while i make the attempt. there isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, i hope." seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: messrs. symonds & symonds, the well-known attorneys of pine street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in san francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one seth barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. all the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in jersey city, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. his age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "it is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in new york city; but messrs. symonds & symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. as has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. the boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. the moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." it was not until aunt hannah had concluded that seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "do you suppose the seth barrows told about there can be me?" "of course, my dear. isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "but there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, aunt hannah! there's a big mistake somewhere." "do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in california?" "indeed i don't. i thought snip was all the relation i had in the world." "why did the man in jersey city allow you to live with him?" "i don't know. i had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause i was too small." "well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "i don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but i'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from new york because of an advertisement. the money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "i wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. i'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. i've sent for nathan dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." then mrs. dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "what did aunt hannah say to you?" "why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "because i read that story in the newspaper. then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said i'd better ask mr. dean to come over this afternoon. i couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because mrs. dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. did you tell her why you and snippey ran away?" "of course i did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance i had to speak with her alone, though i made sure she'd send me away." then seth repeated that which he had told aunt hannah, and while he was thus engaged mr. dean entered the house. during the two days which followed, gladys and seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when aunt hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. then it was that mr. dean returned from new york, and came to make his report. there was no longer any question but that it was really seth's uncle who had lately died in san francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. it appeared, according to mr. dean's story, as learned from messrs. symonds & symonds, that daniel barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying richard genet of jersey city a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. mr. genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. there were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. aunt hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end mr. dean had several conferences with symonds & symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. there is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell aunt hannah, seth, gladys, and snip after the inheritance was paid. that they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in aunt hannah's home? and in the days to come, when father time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. the end. file was produced from images produced by core historical literature in agriculture (chla), cornell university) your plants. plain and practical directions for the treatment of tender and hardy plants in the house and in the garden. by james sheehan. new york: orange judd company, entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by the orange judd company, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. * * * * * contents. page. chapter i. how to make a lawn chapter ii. soil for potting--artificial fertilizers chapter iii. selecting and sowing seeds chapter iv. making and planting flower beds chapter v. watering plants--is cold water injurious? chapter vi. atmosphere and temperature.--insects chapter vii. wintering plants in cellars chapter viii. the law of color in flowers chapter ix. the relation of plants to health chapter x. layering chapter xi. propagation of plants from cuttings chapter xii. grafting chapter xiii. hanging baskets, wardian cases and jardinieres chapter xiv. aquatics--water lilies chapter xv. hardy climbing vines.--ivies chapter xvi. annual flowering plants--pansy culture chapter xvii. fall or holland bulbs chapter xviii. tropical bulbs.--tuberoses chapter xix. roses, cultivation, and propagating chapter xx. japan and other lilies.--calla lilies chapter xxi. geraniums, the best twelve sorts chapter xxii. azaleas; how to cultivate them chapter xxiii. camellias.--orange and lemon trees chapter xxiv. fuchsias, training and management chapter xxv. cactuses--night blooming cereus.--rex begonias chapter xxvi. rockeries--how to make them chapter xxvii. budding chapter xxviii. pruning chapter xxix. miscellaneous notes chapter xxx. sentiment and language of flowers introduction. in the winter of the year , while the author was in attendance upon a large horticultural meeting in a neighboring city, which was attended by nearly all the leading florists and nurserymen in western new york, the idea of writing this work was first suggested to him. an intelligent lady, present at that meeting, widely known for her skill and success as an amateur florist, in conversation with the writer made the following remarks: "i have in my library at least a dozen different works on floriculture, some of them costly, all of which i have read over and over again, often having to pore over a large volume of almost useless matter, in order to find information on some points i was looking for. "it has occurred to me that some one ought to write a work on flowers, for the use of amateurs, that would contain in a brief space all the requisite information ordinarily needed by those who cultivate flowers in and about their homes. i predict that such a work could not fail to meet and merit a general demand." in writing this little volume, i have earnestly endeavored to carry out, as near as i could, the above suggestions. how far i have succeeded in accomplishing this end, my readers must judge. i trust that "your plants" will be useful and instructive in the field it was designed to occupy--that of a help to amateurs in the successful cultivation of plants and flowers in the house and garden. james sheehan. _geneva, n. y., october, ._ your plants. chapter i. how to make a lawn. a smooth lawn is a great attraction of itself, even if there is not a tree or shrub upon it. when it is once made, a lawn is easily kept in order, yet we seldom see a good one. there are three things to be taken into consideration in securing a fine lawn. first, location; second, quality of the soil; third, the kinds of seed to be sown. location. this is the most important matter relating to a good lawn. in selecting a site upon which to build, not the least consideration should be the possibility of having a fine lawn, one that will cost as little as possible to keep in a nice and attractive condition. the nearer level the land is, the better. if a house is built on an elevation back from the road, a sloping lawn has a good effect. where the land is rolling and hilly, it should be graded into successive terraces, which, though rather expensive, will look well. low lands should be avoided as much as possible in selecting a site on which it is intended to make a good lawn. low land can be improved by thorough under-drainage. if the land is wet on which we design making a lawn, we should first thoroughly underdrain it by laying tiles two rods apart, and two feet below the surface. large-growing trees should never be planted on the lawn, grass will not thrive under them. fruit trees, like the apple, cherry, and peach, are exceedingly out of place on a fine lawn. the finest yard we ever saw had not a tree on it that exceeded ten feet in hight. flowering shrubs, low-growing evergreens, a few weeping and deciduous trees of moderate size, with flower-beds neatly planted, make an attractive door-yard. soil. this is the mother of all vegetation. nothing, not even grass, will flourish on a poor soil. the quality of the soil varies in different localities. we often find a fine sward on a stiff clay soil, and also on a light gravelly one. the soil best adapted to the growth of a good sward, is a sandy loam with a gravelly bottom. in making new lawns, there is sometimes more or less grading to be done, and often where a knoll has been cut off the sub-soil is exposed, and it will not do to sow the seed upon these patches until the spots have been thoroughly covered with manure which is to be worked in. if a new lawn of any extent is to be made, it should first be plowed deep, and if uneven and hilly, grade it to a level surface. the surface should have a heavy dressing of manure, which should be lightly plowed under, and then the surface should be dragged several times until fine, and then rolled with a heavy roller. the seed may now be sown, after which it should be rolled again. the spring is the best time to do this work, although if the fall be dry, it will answer nearly as well to do it at that time. the dryer the ground in preparing it for the seed, and for the sowing of the same, the better. in preparing a small plot of ground for a lawn, the spade, hand-rake, and small roller may be used in place of the larger implements. seed. much difficulty is often experienced in obtaining a good mixture of grass seed for the lawn, and different mixtures are recommended and sold for sowing lawns, some of which are entirely worthless. great pains should be taken to have nothing but first-class seeds, which should be obtained direct of some responsible dealer. the finest sward we ever saw was made from the following mixture: quarts rhode island bent-grass. " white clover. " kentucky blue-grass. " red-top grass. sow at the rate of six bushels to the acre. grass seed can be sown in the fall any time from the first of october to the first of december. if the seed be sound, a good sward may be expected the following summer, and a good turf may be expected from spring sown seeds if the season is not too dry. the dryer the ground is when the seeds are sown, the better. to keep the lawn in a flourishing condition, fresh and green all summer, it will need a top-dressing of well-rotted manure applied in the fall, at least once every two years. grass roots derive their nourishment close to the surface, hence the great advantage of top-dressing. in some localities where the frost "heaves" the sod to any extent during the winter, it will be advantageous to roll it down in the spring with a heavy roller, doing it just after a heavy rain. when the ground is soft and pliable, this will make the surface smooth, and in proper condition for the lawn-mower to pass over it. frequent mowing will thicken the sward. it is not necessary to sow oats, as some do, to shade the ground until the seeds have started, that is an "old fogy" notion, and is now obsolete. chapter ii. soil for potting.--artificial fertilizers. good, fresh, rich soil, is an element that is indispensable to the growth of healthy, vigorous plants. a plant cannot be thrifty if grown in soil that has become musty and stale with long continued use; it must have fresh soil, at least once a year. perhaps the best soil for general potting purposes, and the kind most extensively used by florists, is a mixture of equal parts of decayed sods, and well-rotted stable manure, and occasionally, especially if the sod is clayey, a little sand is added. the sods for this purpose may be obtained from along the road-side, almost anywhere, while good stable manure is always readily obtainable. select some out-of-the-way place in the lot, or garden, and gather the sods in quantity proportioned to the amount of potting to be done. lay down a course of the sods, and on top of this, an equal course of well-rotted manure, and so on, alternately, until the heap is finished; the last layer being sod. this heap should be turned over carefully, two or three times a year, breaking up the sods finely with a spade, or fork. the whole mass will become thoroughly mixed, rotted, and fit for use in a year from the time the heap was made. for those who have a large number of plants, we think it will pay to adopt this method of preparing soil for them, instead of purchasing it of the florist at twenty-five cents or more per bushel. some florists sport a great variety of different soils, which are used in the growing of plants of different natures, requiring, as they claim, particular kinds of soil. whatever of truth, if any, there is in this view, it has never been demonstrated to our mind. all kinds of plants have a common requirement in respect to soil, and the differences in growth of various species is attributable to climate and other causes than that of soil. at least that has been our experience. artificial fertilizers. this question is frequently asked! do you recommend the use of artificial fertilizers for house plants, and does it benefit them? i invariably answer yes, if used judiciously. the use of good special fertilizers will help the growth of some kinds of plants, which, without such aid, would scarcely meet our expectations. the term artificial fertilizers, applies to all manurial applications, save those produced by domestic animals. i have always believed, however, that when any fertilizer is needed, good, well-rotted stable-manure should have the preference over all artificial fertilizers. where this manure cannot be readily obtained, or used conveniently, then special fertilizers can be employed as substitutes with good results. in applying manure in the liquid form to plants, use an ounce of guano to every gallon of water, and apply it to those plants that are in a healthy growing condition, about once every two weeks. it is a mistake to try to stimulate into growth, by the use of fertilizers, those plants which give every indication of being sickly or stunted; they will make such a plant sicker, if they do not kill it outright. if guano is used in potting soil, it should be in the proportion of one pound to every bushel of soil. chapter iii. selecting and sowing seeds. all individuals of the vegetable world are so created as to reproduce themselves from seed or its equivalent. every plant that grows seems to possess the power to perpetuate its kind. all kinds of flowering plants can be grown from the seed, providing good, sound seeds are obtained, and they are placed under the proper influences to make them germinate and grow. the amateur cultivator has many difficulties to contend with in raising plants from seed. some times it is difficult to obtain pure, sound seeds, but these should always be secured if possible, taking great pains in selecting varieties, and in obtaining them of some reliable dealer. if we sow seeds, and they fail to germinate, our first thought is to censure the dealer or raiser of the seed for lack of integrity in his business, while in reality the fault may be our own, and due to careless sowing. those who raise seed for the market take great pains to produce none but good, sound seeds, and in nine cases out of ten, where seeds fail to germinate and grow, the fault is with those who sow them, and not on account of poor quality of seed. this we know from experience. three things are absolutely essential in the sowing of seeds, in order to have that success which we all desire to attain: first; care should be taken to obtain fresh, pure seeds, without which all our after work with them will be in vain. second; the soil in which to sow them should be a fine, mellow loam, free from stones and other coarse materials. thirdly; sowing the seed. the general custom is to sow in drills. the depth at which seeds should be sown must of course be regulated according to their fineness, or coarseness. seeds that are exceptionally fine, like those of lobelias, petunias, ferns, and other very tiny seeds, ought never to be covered deeper than the sixteenth of an inch, with very fine soil sifted on them through a fine sieve; the soil should then be lightly patted down with the back of a shovel. this will prevent the seeds from shriveling before they start to germinate. seeds like those of the pansy, verbena, etc., require a covering of a quarter to a half inch of soil, while those like the nasturtium, ricinus, etc., may be covered to the depth of an inch. the regular florist has facilities for raising plants from seed that most amateurs do not possess, but we will give a few suggestions that will enable those who desire to start their own plants, to do it successfully by the aid of the directions here given. a cheap and simple method is, to take four plain boards, of an equal length, say three feet long, and ten inches deep, and nail together to form a square frame. then place this frame upon a bed of rich soil, prepared for the purpose in some sheltered, warm spot. the bed should be just wide enough to be enclosed within the frame. within this enclosure sow your seeds, and cover with a glass sash. seeds can be started in march in this frame, and afford plants for setting out in april and may. a bank of earth, or manure, may be thrown around the outside of the frame to keep it snug and warm. after sowing the seed in this frame, shade it for four or five days by placing a cloth over the sash, this will prevent too much heat and light until the seeds have commenced to germinate, after which it can be removed without injury. chapter iv. making and planting flower-beds. people of the present day can scarcely be contented with tall, waving timothy in the front door-yard, and the rickety board-fence that enclosed a scene of almost primitive rusticity--the state of things in our "forefathers' days." in place of the timothy growing to hay in the front yard, we now see fine, smoothly-cut lawns of refreshing greenness; and fences of pickets, wire, and rustic iron, have supplanted the ancient board fences. in place of the tall-growing sunflower and hollyhock that sprung up here and there at random, we now see beds of choice and beautiful flowers artistically arranged and carefully cultivated by loving hands. all is system now about the door-yard and premises, where once were neglect and confusion. every home should have one or more beds planted with attractive flowers. it would be a difficult matter to give specific instructions as to planting these beds, as every one has his own peculiar tastes in such matters, which is sometimes governed by surroundings, locality, etc. there are some general rules however, observed by gardeners in planting flower-beds that it would be well to observe. the following notes on planting flower-beds were handed us some time ago. we do not know the name of the writer, but have strong reason to believe them to be from the pen of the late james vick. "there are a great variety of opinions as regards the most effective way of planting flower-beds. some prefer to mix plants of different colors and varieties, others prefer the ribbon-style of planting, now so generally in use in europe. if the promiscuous style is adopted, care should be taken to dispose the plants in the beds, so that the tallest will be at the back of the bed; if the leader is against a wall or background of shrubbery, the others should graduate to the front, according to the hight. in open beds, on the lawn, the tallest plants should be in the centre, the others grading down to the front, on all sides, interspersing the colors so as to form the most effective contrast in shades. "but for grand effect, nothing, in our estimation, can ever be obtained in promiscuous planting, to equal that resulting from planting in masses, or ribbon lines. in europe lawns are cut so as to resemble rich, green velvet; on these the flower-beds are laid out in every style one can conceive of; some are planted in masses of blue, yellow, crimson, white, etc., separate beds of each harmoniously blended on the carpeting of green. "then again, the ribbon-style is used in large beds, in forms so various that allusion can here be made to only a few of the most conspicuous. in a circular bed, say twenty feet in diameter, the bordering can be made of blue lobelia, attaining a hight of six inches; next plant mrs. pollock geranium, or bijou zonal geraniums, growing about nine inches high. if you plant mrs. pollock, on the next row to it plant mountain of snow (silvered-leaved geranium), next a circle of red achyranthes; there are several varieties of this plant. next centaurea candidissima (dusty miller); the centre being a mound of scarlet salvias. "narrow beds along the margins of walks can be formed of low-growing plants, such as the white lobelia, gypsophila, or silvered alyssum, for the front line, followed next by the tom thumb tropæolum; then as a centre, or third line, fuchsia golden fleece; as a second margined-line on the other side, silver-leaved geraniums with scarlet flowers, followed by a line of blue lobelia. "shaded stars have a fine effect on a lawn; cut a star and plant it with either verbenas, petunias, phlox drummondii, or portulaca. the ends of the stars should be white, and shaded to the centre." a whole volume might be written on the subject of gardening, without exhausting its variety or interest, but we take it for granted that our readers will exercise their own tastes, or call on some competent gardener to give advice in the premises. chapter v. watering plants.--is cold water injurious? probably the most important matter to be observed in growing house-plants is that of watering them. the cultivator should know just when to water, and to give it where it will do the most good. amateur florists often exhibit much poor judgment in watering. it is the habit of some to keep the soil about their plants constantly soaked with water, and they wonder why they are not thrifty or healthy. these cultivators do not stop to consider that such treatment is unnatural, and will have an effect contrary to what is desired. there are those who resort to the opposite extreme, and keep their plants all the time in a perishing condition of dryness, which is even worse than if they were watered to death. if we will observe how judiciously nature distributes the sunshine and shadow, the periodical rains, and the refreshing dews, we will learn an important lesson. a pot, or other receptacle in which plants are grown, should be porous; glazed, or painted pots, ought never to be used, where plain, unglazed pots can be obtained; all non-porous pots of tin and similar material, should be discarded. plants growing in them can never compare in health with those that have the advantage of plain porous pots. there should be a hole of sufficient size in the bottom of each pot, to allow the water to drain off, and to pass away as soon as possible. placing a few pieces of broken crocks, or charcoal, in the bottom of the pots will facilitate a rapid drainage, as good drainage is essential to the growth of strong, and healthy plants. when plants require water, it will be indicated by a light, dry appearance of the top of the soil, and if watered when in this condition, it will do the most good. give water only when in this condition, and then copiously, giving them all they will soak up at the time, then withhold water until the same indication of their want of it again appears, then apply it freely. unless plants are in a very dry atmosphere, as in a warm parlor in winter, they will seldom require watering. in summer they should be closely watched, and if exposed to wind and sun, they will require daily watering, to keep them in a flourishing state. when plants are suffering from drouth, it will be indicated by the drooping of the leaves, and they will frequently turn yellow, and drop off prematurely; this can be avoided by timely attention each day. in summer, watering in the cool of the evening will be followed by the best results, for it will give the plants time to take up and assimilate the moisture necessary to their life, and being completely charged with water, they will be prepared for the hot sun and drying winds of the following day. is cold water injurious to plants? those who study works on horticulture by different writers, will discover many opposing views in respect to the modes of caring for, and the treatment of plants. the proper temperature for water when applied to plants, has been frequently discussed by different writers; some contend that cool water, just drawn from a well or cistern, should never be showered upon plants, but that it should first be heated to the temperature of the room in which the plants are standing. others, with equal zeal, claim that cold water will not injure the plants in the least, contending that the water will assume the right temperature before injury is done the plant. now which is right? we have experimented in this matter to a considerable extent, in order to satisfy ourselves as to which of these two views is correct. in the month of december i took from my collection twelve large geraniums and placed them by themselves in the conservatory; six of these i watered with cold water, drawn from a hydrant pipe at the temperature of °, and the other six were supplied with water from a barrel standing in the conservatory, and was of the same temperature of the house, that is from ° to °. the plants watered with the cold water gave little if any bloom throughout the winter, while the six watered from the barrel grew finely, and bloomed profusely. always water your plants in winter time with lukewarm water, if you would have a profusion of flowers, and thrifty-growing plants. the water should be of the same temperature as the room or place where the plants are. there is no theory about it, it is a practical fact, all talk to the contrary notwithstanding. chapter vi. atmosphere and temperature.--insects. the proper regulation of the atmosphere as to moisture and temperature, is one of the most important points to be observed in cultivating plants in the parlor, or window-garden. plants will not flourish, bloom, and be healthy, in a dry, dusty atmosphere, even though the best of care otherwise may be bestowed upon them; hence it is that those who attempt to raise plants in their dwellings meet with so little success. there is an immense contrast between the atmosphere of a well regulated green-house and that of an ordinary dwelling. in the green-house, the atmosphere is moist and well-tempered to the healthful growth of plants; while that of the parlor or sitting-room is invariably dry and dusty, and plants will not flourish in it as they would in the conservatory. if the dwelling be heated by coal, there is more or less gas constantly discharged into the air of the room, which is of itself enough to destroy vegetation, or make it sickly. houses heated by steam, are better adapted to the cultivation of plants. all plants will not flourish in the common temperature of a living-room; some require a low temperature, and others need a warmer one. the following plants require a temperature of from ° to ° in the day-time, and ° to ° at night begonias, coleuses, calceolarias, bouvardias, ferns (tropical), hibiscuses, poinsettias, tuberoses, heliotropes, crotons, hoyas, cactuses, all kinds, caladiums, cannas, palms, orange and lemon trees, geraniums, etc. the following will do well in an atmosphere ranging from ° to ° by day, and ° to ° by night: camellias, azaleas, oleanders, roses, carnations, callas, ivies, abutilons, jessamines, holland-bulbs, lily-of-the-valley, primroses, violets, verbenas, chrysanthemums, etc. plants will flourish better in the kitchen, where the steam and moisture from cooking are constantly arising, and tempering the atmosphere, than in a dry, dusty sitting-room; hence it is that we find "bridget" sometimes cultivating a few plants in her kitchen window, that are envied by the mistress of the house, because they are so much finer than those in her parlor or sitting-room. if a pan of water is set upon a stove in a room where plants are growing, it will help to materially relieve the dryness of the atmosphere. but most all kinds of house-plants will do fairly in a uniform temperature, from ° by day to ° by night. careful observation of the habits and requirements of different kinds of plants, as they come under our care, will greatly assist the cultivator, and in a short time he will be so conversant with their various habits as to know just how to properly treat each and every plant in his collection. insects upon plants. the little green insects so frequently seen on house-plants, are called aphis (plural aphides), plant-lice, or green-fly. they feed upon the tender growth of plants, especially the new leaves, and will rapidly sap and destroy the life of any plant if allowed to remain undisturbed. in the spring these insects abound in great numbers on the plants in green-houses and parlors, or wherever they may be growing, and the remedy should be promptly applied. the greatest enemy to the green-fly is tobacco smoke, made by burning the stems, the refuse of the cigar-maker's shops; allowing the smoke to circulate among the leaves to which the insects are attached, will readily exterminate them. place the infested plant under a barrel, an ordinary cracker barrel will do, and put under it a pan of burning tobacco, slightly moistened with water. leave the plant in the smoke for fifteen or twenty minutes, after which remove it. if one "smoking" fails to destroy the insects, repeat the dose three or four times, once each day, until they are completely exterminated. a strong solution, or "tea," made from soaking tobacco stems in water, and syringing the same over the plants, will effectually destroy the little pests, and not injure the plant in the operation. chapter vii. wintering plants in cellars. many plants, such as agaves (century plants), oleanders, large cactuses, etc., that have grown too large to be accommodated in the sitting-room or conservatory; can be successfully wintered in any moderately dry, frost-proof cellar. after placing these large plants in the cellar, it will not be necessary to give them any water, the object being to keep them dormant all winter, which can be done by keeping the soil as dry as possible, but not so dry as to allow the plants to shrivel, or become withered. large plants of the kinds mentioned, often form desirable ornaments during the summer time, but it is impracticable, in most cases, to bring them into the house in winter, but they can be kept for years by cellaring through the winter as stated. large geraniums, salvia and heliotrope roots, and even tea roses, and carnations, can be kept moderately well in the cellar by trenching them in dry, or moderately moist sand. thus many choice specimens of these plants that we are loth to pull up and threw away when winter approaches, can be successfully kept over until the next season. it is a needless expense to purchase a stock of new plants for the garden every year, when we can winter many of the old ones in this simple and inexpensive manner. the leaves of all deciduous plants should be removed before they are put away in this manner. the foliage should remain on the oleanders and carnations. chapter viii. the law of color in flowers. the public are so often duped by a set of travelling frauds, who make it their business to represent themselves as being the sole proprietor or agent of some "wonderful" kinds of plants, bulbs, or seeds, which possess the virtue of being remarkably distinct from anything ever seen or heard of before, that many over-credulous ladies or gentlemen fall victims to the unprincipled sharks. did you ever see any one who could sell rose bushes that would certainly bear blue roses, or plants of the verbena that produce yellow blossoms, or tuberose bulbs bearing scarlet flowers? if you have not, you have something to learn, and many have paid dearly for experiences of this kind. there is a natural law of color in flowers, that the varieties of a species invariably present a certain range of colors. to attempt to introduce a new and distinct color, as for example a blue rose, into a family where the colors are always white, red, and yellow, is an impossibility, and any one who claims to do this, may be set down as a swindler. much credit is due mr. peter henderson, an eminent florist and seedsman of new york city, for the vigorous methods employed by him in exposing frauds of this kind, whenever his attention has been called to them. we quote from an article written by mr. henderson on this subject, some years ago: "it has long been known among the best observers of such matters, that in certain families of plants, particular colors prevail, and that in no single instance can we ever expect to see blue, yellow, and scarlet colors in varieties of the same species. if any one at all conversant with plants, will bring any family of them to mind, it will at once be seen how undeviating is this law. in the dahlia we have scarlet and yellow, but no approach to the blue, so in the rose, hollyhock, etc. again in the verbena and salvia, we have scarlet and blue, but no yellow. if we reflect, it will be seen that there is nothing out of the order of nature in this arrangement; why then should we expect nature to step outside of what seems to be her fixed laws, and give us a blue rose, etc." a word to the wise, we take it, is sufficient in view of the foregoing facts. chapter ix. the relation of plants to health. plants at present are more generally cultivated in-doors than formerly, and they may be seen in almost every home. the cultivation of plants in dwellings is decidedly a modern custom--at least to the extent to which it is now practised. one who now contemplates building a dwelling house, plans to have included with the other conveniences of a first-class home, a suitable window for house plants. as the cultivation of plants in dwelling houses increases, the question is raised by some: "are not plants injurious to health, if growing in the apartments in which we live and sleep?" we know of persons who would not sleep in a room in which a number of plants were growing, giving as the reason that the amount of carbonic acid gas given off by the plants, is detrimental to health. now this view is either true or it is not true. we have made a particular study of this matter, and speak from experience. over ten years of my life had been spent in the green-house, among all kinds of plants; i have frequently slept all night among them, and i have never observed it to be in any way detrimental to my health, but, on the contrary, i have never felt better than when among plants. gardeners, as a class, those who have spent their lives among plants, show, so far as we have observed, a longevity equal to, if not exceeding that of any other class who are engaged in any of the vocations usually regarded as healthy. we must admit, however, that we have never known of a case of chronic rheumatism to be benefited in the least by working in hot-houses, on account of the perpetual dampness of the air. on the other hand, we know of a number of persons afflicted with various other diseases, who have been noticeably benefited by working among plants: perhaps it was owing to the health-giving bodily exercise required by the work, rather than the supposed health-giving effects of the plants themselves; we think the result was due to both. an eminent physician cites a case in which his sister, aged fifty years, was afflicted with tubercular consumption, her death, as the natural result of such a terrible disease being expected at any time, but being an ardent lover of plants and flowers, she was daily accustomed to move among her plants, of which she possessed a large number, in her sleeping room as well as many others in beds outside. her friends reproved her for sleeping in the same room with her plants; but the years came and went, and she was still found moving among her flowers in her eightieth year, surviving those, who many years before predicted her immediate demise, as the result of her imprudence. who will say but what the exhalation from her numerous plants increasing the humidity of the atmosphere in which she lived, prolonged her life? the above is but one of many cases, in which tubercular consumption has been arrested and sometimes wholly cured by the sanitary effects produced by working among plants for a considerable time. we know of cases in which druggists, ministers, and students from school, compelled to relinquish their chosen vocations on account of failing health, have resorted to the nursery or hot-house. in almost every case restoration to vigorous health was the result. we contend, therefore, that this old superstition that house plants are injurious to health, is nothing but a myth. the amount of carbonic acid gas at night discharged from two dozen large plants, will not equal that exhaled by one infant sleeper, as has been demonstrated by scientific men. because a few old cronies stick to the absurdity that "plants are awful sickenin' things," it is no reason why sensible people should be at all alarmed by it. chapter x. layering. layering is a simple method by which plants may be multiplied. moss roses, nearly all kinds of hardy vines, like the wistaria, clematis, honeysuckle, ivy, and many others, are easily multiplied in this manner, together with most of our hardy shrubs. many of our tenderer plants like chrysanthemums, verbenas, heliotropes, etc., layer finely, by first bending the branches down to the ground, and partially covering them with sand or soil. pots may be plunged in the ground so that the limbs will not require to be bent much in layering them. in layering hard-wooded plants like the rose or clematis, it is customary to cut a slight gash on the underside of each limb to be laid down, just cutting inside of the bark; this will arrest the flow of sap, and new roots will form at this point. where vines are layered, such as the grape, a simple twisting of the vine until the bark is cracked, will answer in place of cutting, and we believe it is just as well. it should be understood, however, that in layering, the entire shoot is not to be covered; a good portion of the tip of the shoot should be in sight, and only the middle of the branch be under ground, and securely fastened down by means of a peg. all layering should be done while the wood is young; just ripe enough to bend without snapping off, and all hardy vines and shrubs are in condition to layer from the first to the middle of june. for tender plants any month during the summer will answer for the operation. most tender plants will root in a month or six weeks. examine the layers in the fall, and if rooted, remove them; if not, they should remain undisturbed for another season. chapter xi. propagation of plants from cuttings. in the propagation of plants from cuttings or otherwise, the amateur, with limited facilities, of course cannot compete with the trained and experienced propagator, who makes the rearing of plants his business, devoting his whole attention to that special branch. many men have devoted the greater part of a lifetime to experiment and study, as to the best and most practicable methods for the successful propagation of plants. there are, however, common and ordinary methods for propagating plants from cuttings, that the most inexperienced can practice with a measure of success. all florists root their cuttings in sand, and that obtained from the beach of some fresh water lake is the best for the purpose, being free from gravel and clay, and will not hold water long. if lake sand cannot be easily obtained, common building sand will answer by thoroughly washing it with several waters to free it from clay, etc. i can recommend to the reader no more simple and practical method of propagating plants on a small scale, than the following, from the pen of an experienced florist, which expresses my own views exactly: "take a pan, or dish, at least three inches deep--the circumference of which may be as large as you wish, fill to within one half inch of the top with sand. the cuttings are to be inserted in the sand, which is made very wet, of the consistency of mud. the pan should then be placed on the window case, where it will receive the full light of the sun, which will not injure the cuttings in the least, providing the sand is kept constantly wet, being careful to never allow it to become dry for a moment, otherwise the plants will be lost. "'is there no drainage from the pan necessary?' none, the atmosphere will evaporate the water fast enough to prevent any stagnation during the brief time required for the cuttings to take root." success in propagating in this way, depends altogether upon keeping the sand wet like mud until the cuttings in it are "struck" or rooted, and this may be easily determined--with the hand gently try to lift the cutting, you will know if it is rooted by the hold maintained on the sand, if not, it will come out. a little experience in feeling with the hand in this way, will enable you to readily determine whether the cutting is rooted or not. i have no doubt that the following table, which i have carefully prepared from my own extensive experience in regard to length of time required by different plants to take root from cuttings, will be of interest to all who desire to propagate plants in this manner. i am supposing now, in the following table, that all the conditions and facilities are such as are generally found in a first-class propagating house, with bottom heat, etc.: _days._ ageratums to amaranthus " alyssum " abutilon " azalea " begonias " bouvardias " clematis " carnations " cuphea (cigar plant) " chrysanthemums " centaurea " coleus (all kinds) " dahlias " eupatoriums " echeverias " geraniums " hibiscus " heliotrope " lobelia " lantanas " lavender " mignonette " myosotis " nasturtium " primroses " pyrethrums " poinsettia " petunias " roses " oleander " verbenas " vinca " all hardy shrubs, taken when the wood is green and young, may be propagated in like manner. the summer is the time to take off the wood for such cuttings. chapter xii. grafting. grafting is a simple art, that both old and young should become acquainted with and be able to perform. in my garden there had stood, for a number of years, away in a corner by itself, a wild apple tree, which had sprung up from the seed; it always bore fruit, but of a worthless character, so sour and insipid that even the swine refused to devour it when it was thrown to them. i became tired of seeing this tree, and resolved to change its nature. i went to work, being a nurseryman, and procured cions of ten or a dozen different sorts of apple trees, and took the first favorable opportunity in the spring to graft my old and useless apple tree. when i had finished grafting, i found that i had inserted here and there on the different branches, fifty cions, all of which, with the exception of three, lived, grew, bore fruit, each "after its own kind," baldwins, greenings, gravensteins, spitzenbergs, etc., and it is now the most desirable tree in the garden; i completely transformed the nature of the tree. any one who understands grafting can do the same thing. apple, pear, plum, and cherry trees can be successfully top-grafted in the manner spoken of above, and the month of april is the best time to perform the operation. the outfit necessary to perform the operation of grafting is a small hand-saw, a hatchet, a wedge, grafting-knife, and wax to cover the wound. if the tree be a large one, and you wish to change the sort entirely, begin by sawing off all those limbs that, being removed, will leave enough to graft upon, and not spoil the symmetry of the tree. with the hand-saw saw off the limbs to be grafted about midway, then with the hatchet or wedge, cleave an opening in the remaining end of the limb, and entirely across, and deep enough to receive the cion; insert an iron in the cut to hold it open until the cion is placed, then withdraw the iron, and the graft will be held fast. the cions to be inserted should be cut before ascending the tree to graft, and, together with the wax, can be carried in a small basket for the purpose. if the diameter of the limb to be grafted is more than an inch, it is best to insert two grafts, placed so that each cion will stand near the edge of the cut, in juxtaposition with the bark of the limb. immediately after setting the graft, plaster the cut over with a heavy coat of wax, being careful to leave no crack or crevice open through which it would be possible for air or water to enter. each cion, in wedge-grafting, is cut in the shape of a wedge; the whole cion need not be over three to four inches in length. the following is a good receipe for making grafting-wax: one and a half pound of bees-wax, six pounds of resin, and one and a half pound rough beef tallow; put all into a pot, and boil one half hour, keeping it stirred; pour it out into a tub of cold water, and when it is sufficiently stiff it should be gathered into balls. when wanted for use the balls should be laid in warm water, which will readily soften the wax; work the wax with the hands thoroughly before using. wedge-grafting is by no means the only way to graft, although it is about the only method of grafting large trees. there are from ten to twenty other modes of grafting, the difference being in the manner of cutting the cion, and in fitting it to the stock. to go into detail in regard to them would occupy too much space in these limited pages. any one, with a little practice, can learn to cut a cion, and to graft with success. chapter xiii. hanging baskets.--wardian cases and jardinieres. hanging baskets for plants are made of different materials, and in a great variety of forms. some are made of wire, others of clay, and ornamented with fancy mouldings, etc. very pretty baskets in rustic style are made by covering the outside of a wooden bowl with fantastic knots and roots; this makes a pleasing basket, but we know of none so desirable as the old style semi-globular wire basket, when properly filled. directions for filling hanging baskets. to fill a wire basket, first obtain some of the green moss to be found on the lower portion of the trunks of trees in almost any shady piece of woods. this is to be used as a lining to the basket, turning the green side out, and entirely covering the inside of the wire form with the moss. before filling the basket with soil, place a handful of charcoal or gravel in the bottom, which will hold the moisture. fill the basket with rich, loose loam, such as will not harden by frequent waterings. plants that are peculiarly suitable for hanging baskets are quite numerous, and from them a selection may be made that will please the most exacting taste. it is a mistake to crowd too many plants into a basket, if they grow they will soon become root-bound, stunted, and look sickly. if the hanging basket be of the ordinary size, one large and choice plant placed in the centre with a few graceful vines to droop over the edges, will have a better effect when established and growing, than if it were crowded with plants at the time of filling. hanging baskets being constantly suspended, they are exposed to draughts of air from all sides, and the soil is soon dried out, hence careful watching is necessary in order to prevent the contents from becoming too dry. if the moss appears to be dry, take the basket down and dip it once or twice in a pail of water, this is better than sprinkling from a watering-pot. in filling hanging baskets, or vases of any kind, we invariably cover the surface of the soil with the same green moss used for lining, which, while it adds materially to the pleasing appearance of the whole, at the same time prevents the soil from drying out or becoming baked on the surface. the following is a list of choice plants suitable for hanging-baskets. those marked thus (+) are fine for the centre, those marked thus (*) have handsome foliage, and this mark (**) indicates that the plants have flowers in addition to handsome foliage: **begonia glaucophylla scandens. +oxalis. **begonia rex, very fine. *fittonia +cuphea platycentra (cigar plant). +pandanus (screw pine). +dracæna (young's). +neirembergia. +centaurea gymnocarpa. **geraniums, mrs. pollock and happy thought. *tradescantia discolor. *peperomias. **gloxinias. *fancy ferns. +ageratum (john douglass, blue). +achyranthes. **variegated hydrangea. *ficus parcelli. **gesnerias. *variegated grasses, etc., etc. trailing plants. **fuchsia, microphylla. sedum (stone crop). **ivy-leaved geraniums. german ivy. indian strawberry vine. kenilworth ivy. lycopodium. moneywort. **trailing blue lobelia. *cissus discolor. **lysimachia (moneywort). **tropæolums. **torrenia asiatica. **mesembryanthemums (ice plant). **cobæa scandens. **pilogyne suavis. +lygodium scandens (climbing fern). wardian cases--jardinieres, etc. a wardian case consists of a base, which is generally an oblong box, covered with a square glass frame, under which certain plants can be successfully grown. this is now considered by many to be a desirable ornament in the window-garden during the winter months. when neatly and artistically filled with suitable plants, a wardian case becomes a thing of beauty. these cases can be easily and cheaply made by any one possessed of ordinary mechanical skill. the base or box should be oblong in shape, at least eight inches deep, and lined inside with zinc or tin-plate, securely soldered to prevent the water and soil from staining the wood. a case made in this manner will endure a number of years without decaying. over the case a square glass frame should be made to fit snugly; it should be from eighteen inches to two feet high, so as to allow the plants that are to grow under it plenty of room. when the case and frame are finished, the whole should be mounted upon a stand, or legs can be made with the case, under which are casters, by which to move it about easily. before planting, make a small funnel hole through the bottom of the box, to allow the surplus water to escape rapidly, and before putting in the soil, cover the bottom of the box two inches deep with broken crocks or charcoal, or even gravel, to facilitate a rapid drainage, a matter absolutely essential to the healthy growth of the plants. fill the box within an inch of the top with fine, rich, peaty loam, and all will be ready to receive the plants. those suitable for growing in a case of this kind, should be such as will live and thrive in a moist, still atmosphere, and are of slow growth; all rampant, rank-growers must be discarded as being wholly unsuitable, as they would soon become of such proportions that they could not be confined in so limited a space. the following plants are eminently suited for wardian cases, jardinieres, etc.; fittonias (gymnostachyum), fancy caladiums, tradescantias, cissus discolor, gesnerias, some varieties of crotons, dwarf-growing begonias, fancy ferns, lycopods, etc., etc., are very suitable for this purpose. in arranging the plants in the case, particular care should be taken to have them so placed that the tallest-growing ones will be in the centre, and grading downward, according to size, the lycopods being on the bottom. the whole surface of the soil may be covered with the trailing lycopodium; by placing small pieces here and there, it will soon spread over the entire surface, making a beautiful ground work of purplish-green. small, highly-colored sea-shells, and beautifully-colored pebbles, are scattered about among the plants, to enhance the beauty of the whole. after the case has been filled the soil should be thoroughly soaked with lukewarm water. remove the case to a shady place for three or four days, to allow the plants to recuperate, after which it can be placed in the full light with safety. the lid or top should be lifted whenever there is excessive moisture on the inside, which will be indicated by the moisture trickling down on the inside of the glass. as a rule the plants should have fresh air, by lifting the lid for a few minutes each day, but beware of all cold draughts, or too much exposure to chilly atmospheres. ordinarily, once a month is often enough to water, this must be governed by the circumstances, but they should never be allowed to become dry, remembering that as warmth, moisture, and a still atmosphere are secured, success will be certain. chapter xiv. aquatics--water lilies. the native water lilies that abound in many of our lakes, ponds, and rivers, are more or less familiar to all. they grow up year after year through the placid waters, unfolding their blossoms of spotless purity to the silent stars, and after a short while, disappear, to return at another favorable season. the american water lily, _nymphæa odorata_, has flowers of a yellowish-white, and an odor that is peculiar and pleasant. the size of the flowers averages three to four inches across. this is by no means the only aquatic lily, for we have in cultivation quite a number of other choice and striking species quite different in leaf and flower from _n. odorata_. among the most noticeable of these is, _n. rubra_, a native of india, which has flowers of a rosy-red, measuring from eight to ten inches in diameter, with scarlet stamens; the large leaves of this water lily turn to a gorgeous crimson color in the fall. there are also _n. devonensis_, bearing flowers of a brilliant red, which often measure from twelve to fourteen inches across, are star-shaped, and very beautiful. _n. cærulea_, a native of egypt, has light blue flowers, and light green leaves; the flowers are very fragrant. _n. flava_ has yellowish flowers, sometimes beautifully variegated with brown. there is quite a number of other interesting species, but those already mentioned are the best. the cultivation of water lilies is very simple, they can be grown with success in tubs or tanks, or in little artificial ponds, constructed to accommodate them. a hogshead sunk in the ground in the open air, in some sunny location, will answer to grow them in. fill a hogshead half full of the compost recommended for aquatics, then set the plants in the compost, press down firmly, and fill the cask with pure water. if possible connect a flow and waste pipe with the barrel, to keep the water fresh, as this is highly essential in growing these plants in this manner. a mr. sturtevant, we believe, now of burlington co., n. j., is an enthusiast on the cultivation of water lilies, and no doubt an excellent authority, he has written some valuable hints on the culture of aquatics, from which we are tempted to quote. he says, "i will add here a few words on the possibilities of aquatic gardening. one argument in favor of cultivating tropical lilies in the open air is, that larger leaves and flowers are obtained, and in case of the colored kinds, greater depth of color than when under glass." and again, "let us suppose that you wish to have an aquatic garden, fifty, sixty, or a hundred feet in diameter. we will not build it in the stiff form of a circle or oval. there is a small bay, across which we will throw a rustic bridge to a peninsula: somewhere on the margin we will build a rustic summer-house." * * * * * "now let us suppose that all has been planted, and come to mid-summer perfection. some morning, before the night-blooming lilies (there are varieties that bloom only in the night), have taken their mid-day sleep, let us ascend the tower, and take a view of the picture." he graphically describes the beauty of this miniature eden, with all its rare and beautiful tropical plants, which certainly must be enchanting for any who love the beautiful. it is surprising that many people of ample means, and with good facilities for growing aquatics, and who have a taste for flowers, do not take more interest in domesticating these plants. any one who keeps a gardener can have a very fine show of these beautiful flowers, and a comparatively small outlay will bring good results in a short time. let those who can, try it. soil for growing aquatic plants. the best soil for growing aquatics, is that obtained from the bed of a pond, or a slow, swampy stream, but when this is not readily obtainable, a mixture of equal parts of good, rich garden loam and stable manure will be almost as good. some use a mixture of muck and bog peat, from which they claim very satisfactory results in growing aquatics; either we think can be used with good success. chapter xv. hardy climbing vines.--ivies. hardy climbing vines seem to be in large demand in different sections of the country, either for training upon trellises as single specimens, or for training upon the side of the building, piazza, portico, or to screen unsightly places, etc. we select from a large number of hardy climbing vines the following sorts, which we think are the most desirable: wistaria, chinese (blue and white). honeysuckles, belgian. clematis jackman's (purple). clematis henry's (pure white). clematis, _viticella rubra grandiflora_ (red). virginia creeper, _ampelopsis quinquefolia_ (strong grower). japan creeper, _ampelopsis tricuspidata_, or _veitchii_, of most catalogues. bignonia, trumpet-flower. rose, baltimore belle (white). rose, queen of the prairies (pink). all of the above named vines are strong, vigorous growers, perfectly hardy, and with the exception of the two creepers, are handsome bloomers. ivies--growing and training. "a dainty plant is the ivy green, that creepeth o'er ruins old."--boz. the ivy is one of the oldest and most venerable of all climbing shrubs, and is preëminently the poet's vine. in some of the older countries, especially in england, where the climate is particularly favorable to its growth, the ivy is very attractive, and is said to reach the greatest perfection there. travellers who have journeyed through that country, describe the old ivy as clinging closely to, and completely covering the walls of ancient castles, and churches, and often it runs rampant over the fields, mounting stone walls, clinging to trees, etc. the ivy in our climate is entirely hardy, enduring the severest winters without any protection. if the vine is allowed to grow over the walls of a dwelling, either on the inside, in a living-room, or on the outer walls of the building, is not only beautiful as an ornament of the home, but beneficial; in a sanitary point of view it is regarded as useful. some plants of ivy growing in the living and sleeping rooms, will do more to keep the atmosphere of the apartments pure and wholesome, than anything we can possibly imagine, and i recommend their more extensive cultivation in malarial localities. the ivy may be easily cultivated from slips or layers. in soil, sand, or even in pure water, cuttings will root, and they will take up with almost any kind of soil, but that which can be easily kept loose, is preferable. the ivy is partial to shade, and if it never saw the sun it would make no difference, as it would grow and flourish just the same. there is no sight more attractive in a window-garden than a fine ivy vine trained up the casement, over the wall and ceiling; its dark, rich, glossy leaves, and thrifty look, make it an object to be admired. if grown in pots in the house, the soil will soon become exhausted, if the plant is growing rapidly, and it should be changed or enriched with decayed manure at least once each year, care being taken not to disturb the roots to a great extent. it is a mistake to allow ivies too much pot-room, they will do better if the roots are considerably confined. soap-suds or liquid manure if applied once a mouth when the plants are growing, will promote a luxuriant growth. when dust accumulates on the leaves, as it will, if grown in-doors, wash it off with a damp cloth or sponge; if this is long neglected, you need not be surprised if you soon discover the leaves to be covered with red-spider or scale-lice. cold water is the best wash, when washing be sure and treat the underside of the leaves as well as the upper surface. i would recommend the "english ivy" as being the best sort for general cultivation. chapter xvi. annual flowering plants.--pansy culture. annuals flower the same season the seeds are sown, perfect their seeds, and then die. "there is," says james vick, "no forgotten spot in the garden, none which early flowering bulbs or other spring flowers have left unoccupied, that need remain bare during the summer. no bed but what can be made brilliant with these favorites, for there is no situation or soil in which some of these favorites will not flourish. some delight in shade, others in sunshine; some are pleased with a cool, clay bed, while others are never so comfortable as in a sandy soil, or burning sun. the seed, too, is so cheap as to be within the reach of all, while a good collection of bedding plants would not come within the resources of many, and yet very few beds filled with expensive bedding plants look as well as a good bed of our best annuals, like phlox, petunia, or portulaca, and for a vase or basket many of our annuals are unsurpassed. to annuals, also, we are indebted mainly for our brightest and best flowers in the late summer and autumn months. "without the phlox and petunia, and portulaca and aster, and stock, our autumn gardens would be poor indeed, and how we would miss the sweet fragrance of the alyssum, mignonette, and sweet pea, if any ill-luck should befall them, or deprive us of these sweet favorites!" annuals are divided into three classes, hardy, half-hardy, and tender. the hardy annuals are those that, like the larkspur, candytuft, etc., may be sown in the autumn, or very early in the spring in the open ground. the half-hardy annuals should not be sown in the open ground until all danger of frost is over. the balsams and marigolds belong to this class. the tender annuals generally require starting in a green-house, or hot-bed, to bring them to perfection, and should not be set in the open ground until the weather is fine and warm, some time in june. from a perplexing number to be found in plant catalogues, we select the following twelve sorts of annuals as being the most desirable for the garden; they are a galaxy of gems, indeed: asters, balsams, phlox drummondii, double petunias, pansies, double sweet alyssum, double white pyrethrum, dwarf ageratum, verbenas, salvias, double stocks, celosias (coxcomb). sow the seed in the open ground the latter part of may, and the first of july most of the sorts will be in bloom, and they will continue to bloom until arrested by frosts. pansy culture. pansies are old and popular favorites, they embrace varieties with variously-colored flowers, from almost jet black, to pure white and yellow. they are easily grown from seed. the general custom is to sow pansy seed in the fall, but we are in favor of spring sowing. we have tried sowing seed at both seasons, and find that plants grown from spring-sown seed bloom more freely throughout the hot months of summer, while plants raised by fall sowing become exhausted, and cease flowering much sooner. seed sown in march, in light, rich soil, will make fine blooming plants the same season. pansies are hardy, if they have good protection with a litter of leaves or straw, or any light covering, which should be removed very early in the spring, or as soon as danger of heavy frosts is over. plants remaining in ground through the winter, if proper care is given them, will bloom very early in the spring, as soon as the frost is out of the ground. we have even seen the frail blossoms peeping up through the snow, but the plants become exhausted and cease flowering before mid-summer. it is possible to have them bloom throughout the entire winter by taking up old plants from the open ground in october, and carefully planting them in a tight, cold frame in a sheltered location, covering the frame with glazed sash. this is often done by florists whose trade demands the flowers at that season of the year, and especially early in spring. treated thus, they flower abundantly. the same can be done with violets. pansies require a partial shade and a good, rich, loamy soil, and an occasional watering through the dry season will help them. chapter xvii. fall or holland bulbs. that class of bulbs known as fall, or holland bulbs, includes hyacinths, crocuses, jonquils, tulips, narcissuses, snow-drops, and several less known kinds. these bulbs are grown in holland in immense quantities, the soil and climate of that country being peculiarly favorable to them, and they are annually imported into this country in great numbers. the fall is the time to set them out; any time from the first of october, to the middle of december. tulips, jonquils, narcissuses, and hyacinths, should be planted four inches deep, and eight inches apart each way; the snow-drops and crocuses two inches deep, and six inches apart. all of the above named bulbs are entirely hardy, and will stand in the ground without any surface protection through the severest winters. some go to the trouble of covering the surface with leaves or other litter for protection, but this is entirely unnecessary. a very pretty effect may be had, where one has a large number of bulbs, by selecting the different colors and planting each color in a row by itself, so that when they blossom, it will be in ribbon-lines of red, white, blue, or yellow, as the case may be. or, if one has a large number of beds of different shapes, cut so as to form a design of some kind, each section may be planted with a different color (hyacinths are the best for this work), and when all come into bloom in april, the effect will be most charming. we tried this "massing" of the differently colored bulbs one year, in a "design" of one hundred different sections of all conceivable shapes. planting the bulbs so that, when in blossom, the whole would present a harmonious effect. it would be hard to conceive of a more attractive sight than that presented by all those bulbs in full bloom in early april, when every thing else looked barren and cheerless. they were admired by every one who saw them. bulbs of this character bloom and pass away in season to allow room for other plants to be set out. these may be set between the rows of bulbs, and not disturb them in the least. any of the above named bulbs are especially desirable for house culture in winter. make an oblong box, say four feet in length, fifteen inches wide, and twelve deep, fill this with fine, rich loam, then plant a row of hyacinths in the centre, and on each side of this plant a row of either snow-drops or crocuses, water thoroughly, and set away in a dark, cool place. in three weeks remove the box into the full light, and water freely, they will grow and bloom throughout the winter. if the box can be set near a front window, it will make a pretty display while the bulbs are in bloom. these bulbs can be started in pots, or glasses filled with water, and treated in the same manner as stated above. place a single bulb of hyacinth in each pot or glass. four-inch pots filled nearly to the top with soil, and the bulbs set in and pressed down, so that nothing but the crown is above ground, are all that is necessary. the same bulbs can be used a number of years, but they are not so good as fresh ones, which should be obtained each year if possible. after the bulbs are through blooming, they may be left in the soil in which they grew through the winter, and removed to a dry place to rest, in preparation for starting them another fall. if fresh bulbs are desired for this purpose, the old ones may be planted out in the open ground, where they will again renew their strength, and bloom annually for a number of years. they are multiplied from the seed and from offshoots. chapter xviii. tropical bulbs.--tuberoses. gladioluses, tuberoses, cannas, and caladiums, come under this head, and are the best known of this class of bulbs. they are not hardy, and the slightest frost will injure them more or less. it is customary to allow tender bulbs of this kind to rest during the winter, the same as one would an onion. they can be safely kept through the winter under the staging of the green-house, in a dry, frost-proof cellar, where there is plenty of light, or in any other place where potatoes can be safely stored. tropical bulbs of all kinds are much benefited by planting them in good, light, loamy soil, well enriched with well-rotted stable manure. they may be planted out in the open ground as soon as it can be worked in the spring, and all danger from heavy frosts is over. any of the above named bulbs of ordinary size, should be planted at least from three to four inches deep, and from six to eight inches deep when the bulbs are of extra size. i am in favor of planting these bulbs in the open ground much earlier than most gardeners are in the habit of doing. experience has shown me that the earlier in spring those summer bulbs are set out in the open ground, the better. just as soon as the ground is in good condition to work, spade it up deeply, and plant the bulbs; the roots will soon begin to develop in the cool ground, before the tops start to grow, which is the true principle in growing all plants. they will thus receive a fine start before hot weather sets in. we have had tuberoses and gladioluses to bloom much earlier than usual, and much more continuously throughout the summer and fall, as the result of planting them as soon as the ground can be worked in the spring. if a continuation of bloom is desired, the bulbs should be planted at successive intervals of not less then three weeks; this will give a sucession of bloom throughout the entire season. in the fall remove the bulbs from the ground as soon as the tops have been touched by frost, cutting the stalk off to within a couple of inches of the base, and setting the bulbs away to rest for the winter. tuberoses. no collection of garden flowers is complete without the tuberose. for the spotless purity of its flowers, and for incomparable fragrance, it has no superior. it is very easy to grow them successfully. bulbs intended for fall blooming, should be planted in the open ground from the first to the middle of may; plant them about two inches deep. they will do well in any good, rich garden soil, if the soil is occasionally moved around them with the rake or hoe, after they are up and growing. such treatment will cause the bulbs to grow rapidly, and the flower trusses, when they come into bloom, will consequently be much larger and finer. as the tuberose is not hardy in our northern climates, the bulbs should be dug up in the fall, the tops or stalks removed to within two or three inches of the bulbs, which should then be laid away in some dry, warm place, a dry and frost-proof cellar will do, or better yet, store them if possible, under the staging of a green-house. in the spring, before planting, remove all the young offsets from around the parent bulb; there are usually a number of young shoots clinging to it, and as the old bulb blooms but once, and only once, it is henceforth good for nothing, save for the production of more bulbs, if desired. the young offshoots of the first season's growth will not become blooming bulbs until the third year, but if you have quite a number of young bulbs, say twenty-five or fifty, there will naturally be a number that will bloom in rotation, from year to year, and give some bloom each season. some enterprising florists have tuberoses nearly the whole year round. in order to do this, the bulbs must be "started" in pots; the bulbs are potted in the usual manner, so that the top, or crown of the bulb, when potted, will just show above the soil, and they should be kept rather dry until they show signs of growing, when they can be watered freely and set in a warm place. of course bulbs intended for winter blooming must rest, or be kept from growing during the summer, and bulbs to be in bloom in april or may, must be started in january or february in pots. tuberoses are rapidly productive; ten old bulbs having been known to produce one hundred young offshoots in one season. there are many "fine points" in growing tuberoses, but the instruction here given will enable any one to grow them successfully. chapter xix. roses--cultivation and propagating. the rose is preëminently the queen of flowers. it has no rival in the floral kingdom, and will always stand at the head in the catalogue of flora's choicest gems. to it alone belongs that subtle perfume that captivates the sense of smell, and that beauty of form and color so pleasing to the eye. add to all this, it is one of the easiest plants to cultivate, as it will grow and flower in almost any soil or climate, requiring but little care and attention as compared with many other favorites of the garden. there has been great improvement made in roses in the last twenty years by skillful cultivators in this country and in europe, and from a few common sorts formerly grown, many hundred choice and desirable varieties have been produced, and to-day the choice cultivated varieties are very numerous. these differ in respect to hardiness, habit of growth, and peculiar characteristics of blooming, and for these reasons cultivators have grouped them into several distinct classes, each class differing in certain characteristics from the others. tea roses. the roses best adapted for in-door culture belong to the class known as tea roses; these are tender, of a bushy growth, and if properly treated, will bloom the year round; the flowers have a strong tea-scent. tea roses can be cultivated out-of-doors with success, but they must be taken up in the fall and removed in-doors. we know it is the custom of some gardeners to lay the bushes down in the fall, and cover them with earth and leaves; while in some cases this may preserve them, it cannot be depended on as a rule. to keep up a steady bloom, pinch off all flowers as soon as they begin to fade. it is best to not let the buds open fully while on the bush, but they should be cut in the bud, and placed in a vase of water, where they will expand and keep for a long while. all dead leaves and flower stems should be carefully removed, and the surface of the soil in the pots should be stirred up occasionally with a stick, this will keep the plants in a growing condition, and if they can be kept growing, they will bloom continuously. the following varieties of tea roses are in every respect among the best for house culture: _bon silene._--flowers purplish-carmine; highly scented. _niphetos._--pure white, magnificent long buds; an incessant bloomer. _perle de jardins._--sulphur-yellow, full and double; a splendid rose. _la france_ (bourbon).--bright lilac-rose, fine form; perpetual bloomer, half hardy. _hermosa_ (bourbon).--light rose-color, cupped-shaped; a most perpetual bloomer. hybrid perpetual, and moss roses. both of the above classes are entirely distinct from either the tea, noisette, or bourbon roses; they are entirely hardy, exceedingly free-bloomers in their season--from june to july; their flowers have a delightful perfume, and are noted for the richness and variety of their colors. they require to be closely pruned annually. the spring is the most desirable time to prune. they should have a top-dressing of manure every fall. the ground should be kept well shaded around their roots in summer. they require a strong, rich soil to make them flower well. these roses are not desirable for house culture. the following are among the best varieties of the hybrid perpetual, or remontant roses: _gen. jacqueminot._--brilliant crimson-scarlet; magnificent buds. _la reine._--deep rosy-pink; an ideal rose. _coquette des alps._--white; blooms in clusters. _black prince._--blackish-crimson; large, full, and globular. _victor verdier._--rich deep-rose; elegant buds. moss roses. of this class we need not speak in detail to any who have ever seen its delicate moss-covered buds, and inhaled their delightful odor. they are perfectly hardy, and can be wintered without any protection. they are called perpetual, but this is a misnomer, for we know but one variety of moss rose that approaches it, that is the _salet_ moss. the rest are no more so than are the so-called hybrid perpetuals. moss roses should be severely pruned in spring, removing all the old wood. _salet_, deep pink; _white perpetual_, pure white; and _crested_, rose-color, are the most desirable sorts. propagating the rose. the rose is somewhat difficult to propagate from cuttings, and it takes from three to four weeks for them to root under the best conditions. moss roses are generally multiplied by layering (see "layering"), and by budding on the common manetti or multiflora stocks. the following will be found to be a very practicable and simple method of propagating roses on a small scale, and is attended with very little trouble or expense: in the fall place sand in a box, or cold frame, to the depth of eight inches. take from the bushes the number of cuttings it is desired to propagate, making them with two or three points or eyes; insert them in the sand (which should be previously packed as solid as can be), then water thoroughly. as the cuttings are to remain in this frame all winter, it should be provided with a glass sash, and the whole covered with leaves and manure. it need not be banked up until freezing weather. if rightly done, we may expect at the least fifty per cent of the cuttings to come from their winter bed finely rooted. they should then be potted, and after growing awhile, planted out, and some of them will bloom the first season. chapter xx. japan and other lilies.--calla lilies. if we call the rose the "queen of flowers," what royal title shall we bestow upon the beautiful japan lilies? we sometimes think it would be proper to name the rose the king, for its commanding aspect, and the grandly beautiful lily, the queen of the floral kingdom. but, be this as it may, we have only to gaze upon a collection of japan lilies when in full bloom, and inhale their delicious odor, that perfumes the whole atmosphere, to be convinced of their superiority over all other flowers. surely solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. there are many different species and varieties of lilies, but none approach those known as japan lilies in the beauty and variety of their flowers, and their exquisite fragrance. they are perfectly hardy, and the fall is the proper time to plant them. if good strong bulbs are set out in the ground in october or november, planted about eight inches deep, they will throw up strong shoots the following summer, and bloom freely. the flowers increase in size and beauty with the age of the bulb, and this should be left to grow undisturbed in the same spot for five or six years; afterwards, if desired, the bulbs can be dug up, the offshoots removed, and the old bulbs reset, and they will do better than ever. any of the young bulbs that have been removed can be planted out in the ground, and in a few years will form good blooming bulbs. the time to perform this work is in the fall. although entirely hardy without protection, it will benefit these lilies very much, if during the winter, they are covered with a coarse litter, leaves or any other good covering. this should be raked off early in the spring, as manure of any kind seems to injure them when they come in contact with it. the soil in which they do best is a light, sandy loam, well drained. the lily flourishes best in sunny locations. the following is a description of the leading varieties: lilium auratum.--this is the well-known gold-banded lily, and most decidedly the finest of all the japan lilies. l. candidum.--the old white lily (not japan) of the gardens; a splendid sort; elegant, large, pure white flowers, in clusters; blooms earlier than the others, but not the first year; it is one of the most beautiful lilies. l. citrinum.--very rare and beautiful; large, elegantly formed flowers; color, pale yellow, exquisitely tinged with blush. l. longiflorum.--exceedingly beautiful; very long trumpet-shaped flowers, pure snow white. l. speciosum rubrum.--one of the finest of japan lilies; bright crimson and white spotted; splendid large flower, borne in clusters, stem two to three feet. l. tigrinum--single tiger lily.--this splendid lily is one of the best in the list; the stem is tall; the flowers large and elegantly formed; blooms in large clusters; color, brilliant orange scarlet with intense black spots; remains in bloom a long time. l. umbelatum.--very showy, brilliant red, variegated flowers in clusters. the calla lily. the calla lily, or "the lily of the nile," is an old and popular favorite, and is found in window-garden collections everywhere. it is a native of the tropics, where it is said it grows to an enormous size; a single flower often measuring one to two feet in diameter. the calla will attain its highest perfection if planted in a rich, mucky soil, obtained from a swamp or bog. it also requires an abundance of water during the growing season. callas, like all other bulbous plants, must have a season of rest. if required to bloom during the winter or spring months, they must be rested in the summer season, if this is not done we must not expect to have any success in flowering them. the blooming season can be reversed if desired, by resting in winter. without allowing them at least three months of rest, it is useless to expect to flower them successfully. by "resting," we mean to withhold water, and allow the leaves and stalks to die down completely to the bulb. then turn the pot on its side under a tree or grape-arbor, and let the soil dry up completely; this will kill the stalk but not injure the bulb. how to prepare callas for winter blooming. after three months of this rest; or about the first of october, we "dump" out the plant, shake off all the old soil from the bulb or bulbs, and re-pot in fine, rich soil, using pots one size larger than those used the previous year; place the plants in a cool, shady spot, and water freely. let them remain for two or three weeks, until new roots have formed, after which all danger is passed, and they can be removed into full light and heat. when growing, water freely. an application of strong liquid-manure once a week will add greatly to the growth of the plants, and to the number of blossoms produced. a very pretty effect can be obtained by arranging the plants about a fountain or pond where they will bloom freely throughout the summer season, presenting a tropical appearance. they will also grow well by standing the pots completely in the water. chapter xxi. geraniums--the best twelve sorts. there is no flower that can surpass the geranium for profusion of bloom, brilliancy and variety of color, and general adaptability for house culture. the following are the best twelve sorts: double varieties. madam ballet, pure white; jewel, dark crimson; asa gray, salmon, very free bloomer; madam lemoine, light pink, large trusses; bishop wood, rich scarlet, approaching to carmine; charmieux, scarlet; casimer perrier, a very near approach to yellow single varieties. new life, variegated, crimson, and white; gen. grant, dazzling scarlet; pauline lucca, pure white, with pink-eye; chief justice, the darkest of all geraniums, immense trusses; pinafore, salmon, with white eye; la vienne, pure white, pale stamens, splendid; master christine, light pink, elegant for bedding. chapter xxii. azaleas; how to cultivate them. comparatively few of these charming plants are to be seen outside of green-houses and private conservatories, we know not for what reasons, unless it be the erroneous idea that they cannot be successfully grown unless one has the facilities of the florist. i think there is no class of plants more easy of culture, when the manner of treating them is once understood, than azaleas. as they are decidedly winter-flowering plants, generally coming into bloom from december to march and april, they must be treated as such. they should have the same kind of treatment during the summer as recommended for camellias, allowing them to rest in some cool, shady spot out-of-doors, during which period the flowering shoots will grow that are to give the bloom through the winter months. they can be taken into the house any time in the fall before freezing weather, and they will thrive well in an atmosphere suited to the generality of plants, although to bring the bloom out to the best, an atmosphere of ° is needed. there are over one hundred distinct varieties, ranging from pure white to lilac-purple, scarlet and pink, and when in full bloom the entire plant might be easily mistaken for a large bouquet, so literally covered is it with dazzling blossoms. one or two varieties of azaleas should grace every collection; almost every florist keeps them in stock, and the price asked is but a small consideration compared with the amount of pleasure one will derive by having them in full bloom himself. florists hardly ever attempt to multiply the azaleas from cuttings, on account of the hardness of the wood, but the common mode of multiplying them is by grafting on the stock of the wild azalea, plants being easily and quickly obtained through this method. the azalea will flourish best with a rich, mucky loam, a rather shady locality, and an abundance of water. chapter xxiii. camellias.--orange and lemon trees. dear reader, did you ever see a large camellia plant in full blossom? if you have not, i will risk my reputation by saying that all other flowers within my knowledge, barring the rose, dwindle into insignificance when compared with it. it excels the finest rose in doubleness and form of its flowers, and puts the virgin lily to shame for spotless purity and whiteness; if it only possessed fragrance, it would be unquestionably the queen of the floral world. what i shall have to say in regard to this plant, i hope will have the effect of introducing it into many homes where it has hitherto been little known. few outside of professional florists have undertaken to cultivate the camellia, for the reason, we suppose, that it is thought to be quite an impossibility to raise and bloom it successfully outside of a green-house; this is a mistake, although many believe it otherwise. i contend that camellias can be as easily and as successfully grown in the window-garden as the rose or geranium. camellias bloom in the winter, and at no other season of the year. plants should be purchased of the florist in the fall or early in winter, and such plants as have flower-buds already formed; those plants, if kept in the right atmosphere, will bloom profusely, but they must have an atmosphere of ° until the buds are all expanded, after which there will be no danger of the flowers blasting. as soon as the bloom has all passed off, the plants should be taken from their cool quarters, and placed with the other plants in a warm temperature, and watered freely, to encourage a vigorous growth previous to removing them out-of-doors in the spring. as soon as all danger of heavy frosts is over in the spring, the plants should be taken from the house and removed to some shady location, under a grape-arbor, in a pit or frame covered with shades; here leave them standing in the pots "plunging" the pots in earth or sand to prevent too rapid drying out. the summer is the period in which the flower-buds are formed that bloom in winter; the plants should be kept growing, and watered freely throughout the summer. they must be left out-of-doors as long as the weather will permit, but, on the approach of frost, take the plants into the house, and let them stand in a cool room, where the temperature is not over °. this is the critical time, for if they are removed into a warm temperature of ° or °, the buds will all blast and drop off, and no flowers will be produced. if the plants are large and well-budded, a succession of bloom will be yielded throughout the entire winter. there are a number of varieties, embracing colors from red, pink, variegated, etc., to the purest waxy-white. the double white camellia japonica, the white sort, is the most valuable for its bloom, the flowers being sometimes four to five inches in diameter, exceedingly double, with the petals imbricated, and of a waxy texture, and are highly prized by florists, who often charge as high as one dollar per flower for them. they are invaluable for funeral occasions, when pure white flowers are required. plants are multiplied by either grafting or budding them on the common stock; it is almost impossible to raise plants from cuttings; they are slower than the azalea to take root. orange and lemon trees. both orange and lemon trees can be easily raised by sowing the seeds in good, rich soil, and after the seedlings become of sufficient size, a foot to fifteen inches high, they should be budded or grafted, otherwise blossoms and fruit cannot be expected. in the tropical climes, where these fruits are grown, there are varieties that spring up from the seeds of sweet oranges, called naturals; these yield a fruit that is edible, but is of an insipid taste. in no case can we obtain edible fruit of either oranges or lemons, budded or unbudded, in northern climates. the best time to bud these trees is when the seedlings are about a year old. they can be budded in the same manner as other trees, and as a rule, the buds take readily if the stock is in the right condition. some graft them, but buds take better than grafts, and grow more rapidly. if the budding is successful, and the bud looks fresh and green in two weeks after it has been inserted, the union has taken place. the stock may then be cut off within two inches of the bud, and after the bud has started to grow, cut the stub still lower down, close to the bud. one bud in each stock is better than three or four. the soil best adapted to these trees is a rich, mucky loam. they should have plenty of pot room when growing, and, if possible, a warm, moist atmosphere. chapter xxiv. fuchsias--training and management we confess to have a special liking for the fuchsias, and think no assortment of house plants is complete without one or two varieties of these beautiful flowers. they are easily propagated, either from cuttings or by layers, and the amount of bloom one strong, healthy plant is capable of producing under favorable circumstances, is truly wonderful. upon one plant of fuchsia speciosa, started from a cutting of a single eye in march, we counted at one time, in the december following, one hundred and fifty perfect blossoms. the plant stood in an eight-inch pot, and measured four feet in hight. some kinds do better as house plants than others, among the best are _f. speciosa_, _f. fulgens_, and the rose of castile, and i would particularly recommend these sorts as superior to all others for the window-garden. the right kind of soil has everything to do with success in growing fine fuchsias; it should be of a light peaty quality, with one-third cow manure, and thoroughly mixed together until well decayed. they also relish an abundance of water; and if they have, while growing, an application of liquid manure once or twice a week, it will be beneficial; never allow the roots to become potbound, but when the roots begin to form a mat on the outside of the ball of earth, it is time to shift the plant into a pot of the next larger size, and so on as the plant requires it. this is a very important point, and should not be overlooked if strong, healthy plants are expected. fuchsias are especially desirable for training on trellises. they can be trained over an upright trellis, and have a very pretty effect, but the best form is that of an umbrella. secure a strong, vigorous plant, and allow one shoot to grow upright until about two feet high, then pinch off the top of the shoot. it will branch out and form a head, each shoot of which, when sufficiently long, may have a fine thread or hair-wire attached to the tip, by which to draw it downward; fasten the other end of the wire or thread to the stem of the plant, and all the shoots will then be pendent. when each of these branches has attained a length of eight inches, pinch off the tip, and the whole will form a dense head, resembling an umbrella in shape, and the graceful flowers pendent from each shoot will be handsome indeed. remember to keep the stock clear of side-shoots, in order to throw the growth into the head. if properly taken care of, most fuchsias will bloom the year round, but some kinds can be especially recommended for winter blooming, among them are _f. speciosa_, flesh-colored, with scarlet corolla; _f. serratifolia_, orange-scarlet corolla, greenish sepals; meteor, deep-red corolla, light-pink sepals. the following are the finest in every respect that the market affords: mrs. bennett, pink; sir cohn campbell, double blue; rose of castile, single violet; elm city, double scarlet; carl holt, crimson; tower of london, double blue; wave of life, foliage yellow, corolla violet; _f. speciosa_, single, flesh-colored, and _f. fulgens_, long red corolla. chapter xxv. cactuses.--night-blooming cereus.--rex begonias. for singularity and grotesqueness of form, as well as for the exceptional conditions under which they grow to the best advantage, no class of plants is more remarkable than the _cactaceæ_. of these, about a thousand species have been described by botanists; nearly all are indigenous to the new world, though but a small proportion are in cultivation. cactuses delight in a dry, barren, sandy soil. they are naturally children of the desert. it is said by travellers that many of the species bear edible fruit, resembling somewhat in taste the gooseberry. so much for the peculiarities of the cactus family in its native localities, but how can we succeed in cultivating the plants with satisfactory results in the window-garden? there are two simple methods of treatment that cactuses should receive, namely: first, keep the soil about them constantly dry, and keep them in a warm place. secondly, the soil should be of a poor quality, mixed with a little brick dust, and they should never be allowed too much pot room. if either of these two points are observed in the treatment of cactuses, there will be no difficulty in keeping them in a flourishing condition all the time. the night-blooming cereus. the night-blooming cereus is an interesting plant, and excites much admiration when in flower, as it blooms at night-time only, the flowers closing up when exposed to the day-light. they are magnificent flowers when in full blow, but, unhappily, are short-lived, a flower never opening a second time. the plant belongs to the cactus family, and requires the same general treatment. there are a number of night-flowering species and varieties, but the one especially known as the night-blooming cereus is _cereus grandiflorus_, which, when in full bloom, presents a rare sight. some of the flowers of the night-blooming kinds are exceedingly fragrant, notably _cereus triangularis_, a single flower of which, when in fall bloom, will fill the air of a room with its pleasant odor. these plants can be made to bloom freely by keeping the soil quite dry, and allowing them very little pot-room, as they depend more upon the atmosphere than the soil for their growth. we have known large plants of _cereus grandiflorus_, to produce as many as twenty-five fine blossoms each in the course of a season. we have found that liquid manure, if applied to these plants about once a month, and when the soil about them is very dry, will work wonders in their growth, and when a rapid growth can be obtained, there will be no trouble in having an abundance of flowers at regular intervals. care must be taken not to have the liquid too strong. a small quantity of brick dust, mixed with the soil in which they are growing, will be beneficial. these species of cereus are easily propagated by cuttings, which will root readily in sand of any kind. being of a slender habit of growth, and rather rampant, they should have some sort of support, and it is advisable to either train them to a trellis, or upon wires, or a string stretched over and along the window sash. we have had a number of flowers of a pure feathery white, _c. grandiflorus_, that were over fifteen inches in diameter; this is the best of the night-flowering species. propagating rex begonias. those begonias, known as belonging to the rex division, are very beautiful, and also very distinct in both leaf and flower from all other species and varieties. the leaves are noted for their peculiar shape and markings, making them very valuable as ornamental house plants. they are easily multiplied from the leaf with its stalk. to propagate these, the leaf, or leaves, including the stalk, should be taken off close to the plant. insert the stem of the leaf in sand, and deep enough to allow the leaf to lie flat upon the surface of the sand. it will take them about from two to three weeks to root, after which they should be potted in good, rich soil. it will take sometime to start them into a growth, but they grow very rapidly when they begin, and in two years will make large plants. chapter xxvi. rockeries--how to make them. many have a taste for forming grotesque pieces of rock work, selecting therefor such oddly-shaped and variously-colored rocks as may be gathered near the locality; these are generally piled in the form of a pyramid in a conspicuous place on the lawn, and if nicely arranged, cannot be surpassed in attractiveness, and are in pleasing contrast with the flower-beds and shrubbery. some prefer to have merely the bare rocks heaped into a pile, which will appear grotesque and rugged; others set out suitable plants, and train vines to creep over them. we think the latter the best method, where common rocks are used, but if one is fortunate enough to live in a locality where a large number of variously-colored rocks can be obtained, their natural colors when arranged will make them highly attractive. one of the finest pieces of work of this kind we ever saw, was formed of a number of rocks gathered from almost every country on the globe, each stone having a peculiar tint of its own. on the top of this valuable pile was a rare specimen of red rock obtained from siberia, in the region of eternal frost. how to make a rockery. having selected a site in a partly shaded spot, we will then proceed to form a mound of earth which may be drawn to the spot for the purpose if necessary. upon and around this mound the rocks are to be placed, one layer thick, leaving here and there between them a small crevice in which to plant vines, or to drop a few seeds. the top of the heap may be left open, to allow of setting out, either in a pot or planted out in the earth, a choice specimen plant. among the plants the most appropriate for the centre are: _eulalia japonica variegata_, and _zebrina_. a variegated agave may appropriately occupy the place, or some of the tall native wild ferns. a narrow circle may be cut around the base of the rockery, six or eight inches wide; after this is spaded up a row of blue lobelia may be planted around the whole circle. instead of the lobelia, a row of _echeveria secunda glauca_, or of the mountain-of-snow geranium would look very finely. it may be well to mention here a number of the plants most appropriate for rockeries. who is not familiar with the moneywort, with its low-trailing habit and small yellow flowers? it is peculiarly adapted for rockeries. portulaca, paris daisy (_chrysanthemum frutescens_), _myosotis_ (forget-me-not), are among the most popular plants for rockeries. the small sedum or stone crop (_sedum acre_), is an interesting and useful little plant, growing freely on rock or rustic work. as vines are much used for such places, we will mention as the best hardy vines for this purpose veitch's _ampelopsis_ (_a. tricuspidata_), english or irish ivy, and the so-called running myrtle. the above are entirely hardy and will stand any amount of freezing without injury. the following vines, although not hardy, are much used for rockeries: thunbergias, tropæolums, kenilworth ivy, and the german ivy (_senecio scandens_). where a rockery is formed in the midst of a pond of water, as is often done, plants of the kind mentioned will not flourish so well as those of a semi-aquatic nature, such as caladiums, callas, some ferns, cannas, and lycopodiums, all of which will flourish in moist places. chapter xxvii. budding. budding as an art is simple, useful, and easily acquired by any one with a little practice. more can be learned practically about budding in a few hours spent with a skillful nurseryman while he is performing the operation, than could be derived from anything we might write on the subject. we are aware that we shall not be able to state in this brief chapter what will be new or instructive to experienced gardeners or nurserymen. this is not our aim, what may be old to them is likely to be new to thousands of amateur gardeners. in another part of this book will be found a chapter on grafting; this, though differently performed, is analogous in its results to budding, and many amateurs not infrequently speak of them in the same terms. to graft a cion, one end is carefully cut in the shape of a wedge, and inserted in a cleft where it is to grow; on the other hand, in budding, we use but a single eye, taken from a small branch, and insert it inside of the bark of the stock or tree we wish to bud. from this one eye, we may in time look for a tree laden with precious fruit. to be more explicit, and by way of illustration, we will imagine a seedling apple tree, a "natural," to have grown up in our garden. if left alone, the fruit of that seedling tree would probably be worthless, but we don't propose to risk that, and will proceed to bud it with some kind more worthy of room in a garden. when the proper season for budding fruit arrives, generally from the first to the latter part of july, will be the time to bud, if the stock is growing thriftily. a keen-bladed budding knife made for the purpose, a "cion" or "stick" of the variety to be budded, some twine (basswood bark is the best), make up the needed outfit for this operation. if the seedling is large, say five or six feet high, it should be top-budded, putting in a bud or two in each of the thriftiest branches. if the stock is not over one to two feet high, a single bud a few inches from the ground will be the best way to make a good tree of it. at the spot where we have decided to insert the bud, we will make a short, horizontal cut, then downwards a short, perpendicular "slit," not over an inch long, and just penetrating through the bark; open the slit, care being taken not to scratch the wood within, then insert the bud at the top of the cut, and slide it down to its proper place inside of the bark, the top of the bud being in juxtaposition with the horizontal cut above. considerable skill is required to cut a bud properly, and two methods are practised, known as "budding with the wood in," and "budding with the wood out." the former consists in cutting a very little wood with the bud, a little deeper than the bark itself, and in the latter the wood is removed from the bud, leaving nothing but the bare bark. unquestionably the surest way for a young budder is to remove the wood, cutting a pretty deep bud, and then in making the cross cut let it be only as deep as the bark, and by giving it a twitch the bud will readily leave the wood. i will say, however, that most nurserymen insist on budding with the wood, which it is claimed is the surest and best way to bud. we have tried both ways for years, and have been able to discover no difference, excepting where the buds are quite green at the time of budding, when it is best to have a little wood with the bud to sustain it. plums should invariably be budded with the wood out. after the bud has been properly set, it should be firmly tied with a broad string, making the laps close enough to entirely cover the slip, leaving the eye of the bud uncovered. various kinds of strings for tying buds are used by nurserymen, but the basswood bark, which is made into broad, ribbon-like strips, seems peculiarly adapted for the purpose, and we advise its use where one has any considerable amount of budding to do. it usually takes from three to four weeks for a bud to callous and form a union with the stock; at the expiration of this time the strings should be taken off; we would except only those cases where the stock is growing, when if the strings pinch the stock too closely, they can be removed some time sooner. the stock or stocks can now be left until the following spring, when the top should be cut away to within an inch or less of the bud; this will assist the roots to throw all their energy into the bud. top-budding trees. the top-budding of fruit and ornamental trees is much practised now-a-days by orchardists and fruit-growers generally, and sometimes with marked success. a famous horticulturist of geneva, n. y., some years ago planted a large number of lombard plum trees, which he fondly expected to see come into bearing while quite young, and be early compensated for his labor and expense in planting them. he waited a number of years without seeing his hopes realized; his patience at last became exhausted, and starting, lie top-budded them all with the bradshaw plum, which grew rapidly, and bore abundantly in a couple of years, and last season he received eight dollars per bushel for the fruit in the philadelphia market. it is a well known fact among fruit-growers that some rank-growing varieties of fruit trees, as for instance the keiffer hybrid pear, do not produce fruit so early, or in such abundance as some less thrifty-growing varieties, such as the _beurre clairgeau_, but by top-budding the latter-named sort on to a thrifty specimen of the former, we have a tree that will bear fruit almost every year. nothing will take better from the bud than the rose; some elegant tree roses can be grown by simply training up a shoot of any common or wild rose to a sufficient hight, about five feet, and then top-budding it with three or four choice hybrids, as the _gen. jacqueminot_, _la reine_, _coquette des alps_, and _black prince_, and those gems of the floral kingdom, when in blossom, will form a variety of dazzling beauties, the effect of which will not only be charming to the eye, but novel as well. i once removed from the door-yard a large rose bush of the _crimson boursault_ variety, which had a number of large limbs on, into a corner of the conservatory, and there budded into it fifty different choice varieties of roses of all classes: hybrids, teas, noisettes, bourbons, china, and bengal varieties. the effect of all these different roses, when in full blow the following summer was amazing; a perfect galaxy of the "queen of flowers." a similar operation is possible for any skillful amateur florist to perform who has the facilities of a hot-house. budding can only be done when, ripe buds can be obtained, and when the stock to be budded is in a growing and thrifty condition, so that when opening the bark of the stock, the same peels freely, and opens readily at the touch of the knife. we will append here a brief table showing at what months of the summer different trees may be budded: apples july th to th. pears july th to th. plums july th to th. cherries july th to aug. st. quinces july th to aug. st. peaches july th to aug. st. nectarines aug. th to th. apricots aug. th to th. most all sorts of ornamental trees, including roses, in the ordinary season; namely, from july to august st. chapter xxviii. pruning. if we plant trees or shrubs upon our grounds with the hope of making them more attractive, and at the same time indulge in the common and mistaken idea that, if we only plant them that nature will take care of their future, and grow them into handsome and shapely trees and shrubs--we labor in vain. it is not uncommon to see in the centre of refinement and culture every where, sadly neglected door-yards; these are filled with rampant bushes, and wide-spreading evergreens; such yards have more of a "cemetery look" than should belong to the surroundings of a cheerful home. with a little pruning in the proper season, these unshapely bushes might become things of beauty, and not only look better, but will do better, if given a severe trimming in the spring. hedges of privet, purple barberry, and japan quince, look much prettier along the walk than the old-fashioned fences, which are now being rapidly done away with. they should be kept pruned low as to not allow them to grow over two feet high. the proper time for trimming hedges of all kinds is in mid-summer, after the shrubs have made a thrifty growth; we would advise an annual pruning in order to have the hedge looking finely. it is a bad plan to allow a hedge of any kind, especially an evergreen one, to run a number of years without trimming. if a hedge is neglected so long, and then severely pruned, it will look stubby and shabby for a year or two after. with a pair of sharp hedge-shears, a person having a straight eye will make a good job of the trimming every time. the spring is the time of the year in which to do the pruning of all kinds of plants, vines, and shrubs, that are out of doors, as they are then dormant. some prefer to prune grape vines in the fall, just after they have ripened and shed their leaves. we think it unsafe to prune anything too severely in the fall, especially the grape vine. much experience has taught us to select the month of march as the time of the year most suitable for performing the operation. every one who has a garden should possess a pruning knife with a long blade, curved at the end, for the operation. armed with this implement, let us take a walk upon the lawn, and down into the garden, while the snow is still white upon the ground. the first thing that we meet as we enter the garden, is the large grape trellis, with its mass of tangled brown canes, a perfect mat of long vines and curling tendrils. how are we to attack this formidable network of vines in order to do anything with them? the first thing to be done is to sever all the cords and ties that fasten the vines to the trellis, and allow them to fall to the ground for convenience in trimming them. spread the vines out full length upon the ground, and beginning at one of its arms, cut each shoot of the previous season's growth back to two eyes; if the canes are too numerous some may be cut out entirely. after all the "arms" of each vine have been pruned in this manner, the vine can be returned to the arbor and tied up as before. if there is a prospect of cold weather let the vines lie upon the ground, as they will be less liable to "bleed," or to suffer from the cold. this is the simplest way we know of to trim grape vines, and any amateur gardener can do it if he tries this manner. walking a little further, we come upon some rose bushes: there are too many branches among them, and too much old wood, and some that is entirely dead. with our knife we will remove at least one half of this excess of wood, leaving as much young wood of the previous season's growth as possible by thinning out the old limbs and dead wood severely. here is one moss rose bush, the stems appear as brown and looking as seared as a berry; it is apparently winter killed, and by cutting into it we find that to be the case; the roots are in all probability sound, and we will cut the stems down to the ground and cover the place with a forkful of stable manure; if the roots are alive it will grow and bloom the coming summer. here is a large standard rose with a fine top, we will head this back short, cutting each stem to an eye or two of the bottom. proceeding to the lawn we run across some weeping deciduous trees, among them is a large kilmarnock weeping willow, its beautiful pendant branches fairly reach the ground, and switch the snow as they sway to and fro. nothing more beautiful could be imagined. we would head this back close, and it should be done every spring and most of the old wood thinned out. this large climbing rose that clings so close to the piazza, should be trimmed about in the same way as we did the grape vine, and also this large clematis jackmanii should be cut to the ground and allowed to start up anew in the spring. here is a clump of shrubbery among which we see the _weigela_, _spiræas_, _purple fringe_, _deutzia crenata_, _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_, the syringa, and a number of other favorite shrubs. these will all need more or less cutting back and trimming, and now is a good time to do it. we know one gentleman who boasted the finest display of roses in his county, who was in the habit of cutting his rose bushes down to the ground every spring, and when they began to grow he had dug in around each one an abundance of well rotted compost, "and," said he, "i have never seen the day, from june to october, that i could not pluck a large bouquet of the choicest hybrid perpetual roses, while my next door neighbor, who also had rose bushes, could find no flower after june." i will say that this gentleman was in the habit of cutting his roses once a day, and never allowing the flowers to fade on the bush, which is an excellent plan to keep up a perpetuity of bloom. chapter xxix. miscellaneous notes. tree roses. in planting tree roses received from the nursery or elsewhere, be sure and set them deep; the stem, for six or eight inches above the collar, should be under ground. if wet moss be tied about the stem and head of the tree after it has been planted, and the moss kept wet for a week or two after planting, or until the buds begin to start, it will, in nine cases out of ten, save the tree. the moss maybe removed after the growth begins. if planted in the fall, the body and top should be well wrapped up in straw. the lawn. if one has a fine lawn and desires to keep it so, he should never work upon or mow it when the turf is wet or soggy. the impression made by the feet in walking over the sod while in this state, will leave the surface rough and uneven afterwards. do not water the grass or plants while the sun is shining hot, as it will scorch the leaves and make them turn yellow. all weeds, such as dandelions, plantain, etc., growing up through the grass, should be carefully and thoroughly dug out by the roots with a knife or pointed spade; if allowed to remain, they will soon become so numerous as eventually to kill out the grass and give to the lawn an appearance of neglect. lawn vases. the earth in vases of plants that stand out in exposed places, will rapidly dry out; if shells or fine gravel is laid over the surface of the soil, they will prevent it from "baking" after watering, and hold the moisture much longer than without. try it. planting trees. the spring is preferable to the fall for setting out trees and shrubs of all kinds. in the northern states they should be set out about the first of april, to give the roots time enough to become established before warm weather starts the leaves. of thousands of trees and shrubs that we have planted at this season, comparatively few failed to live and grow, providing they were in good condition at the time of planting. young trees should not be headed back the year they are set out, but the roots may be trimmed a little, cutting off all that are bruised and broken. the hole in which a tree or shrub is to be set, should be ample enough to receive all the roots without cramping them into a ball, as is the habit of some who plant trees, the soil filled in about the roots should be fine, but not the sub-soil, which should be replaced by richer earth. never allow manure to come in direct contact with the roots at the time of planting. it is very injurious, but it may be applied on the surface as a mulch, with safety. botanical names. all species of plants belong to some particular genus, and bear a botanical, as well as a common name, by which they are distinguished. those who have studied botany will know the exact botanical name of the plants in most collections. we sometimes see persons making themselves ridiculous by a pretended display of knowledge on matters of horticulture and botany, giving or pretending to give the botanical name of every plant one may happen to mention. the following anecdote will apply to such: mr. sidney smith, the famous english writer, was once visiting the conservatory of a young lady who was proud of her plants and flowers, and used (not very accurately) a profusion of botanical names. "madam," he said, "have you the _psoriasis septennis_?" "no," she said, very innocently, "i had it last winter, and i gave it to the archbishop of canterbury, and it came out beautifully in the spring." _psoriasis septennis_, is the medical name for the "seven year itch!" frozen plants. tender plants that have become frozen, or but slightly touched by frost, can be saved, if taken before they commence to thaw out; sprinkle or dip the affected part in cold water, and then remove the plant or plants into a dark place to remain for a day, then bring them to the light. we have saved whole beds of tender plants from death by early frosts in the autumn, by getting up long before sunrise, drenching the leaves with water, and then covering the plants with a sheet or blanket. cutting grass. it is so easy to mow the lawn with the light-running modern lawn-mower, that many fine lawns are injured by too frequent mowings. we should not follow any set time for mowing, but be governed by the growth of the grass and the weather. when hot weather approaches, the grass should be cut less often, for too close cutting will expose the roots, and if the weather be dry and hot for a considerable period, the grass as a consequence will wither prematurely. an arch. a very simple thing sometimes will look the most attractive. by driving two limber poles into the ground by the side of each of two gate posts, and bringing the two ends of the poles together, and fasten them securely, a respectable arch can be made. at the foot of each pole plant a _clematis jackmanii_, and train them to run up their poles; they will grow rapidly, and in a short time the arch will be covered with beautiful purple stars. this clematis is entirely hardy, and can be used for the same purpose every year by cutting it close to the ground in the fall when done growing. bloom. when watering plants avoid wetting the foliage as much as possible, as they will not bloom as freely as if the leaves were dry. geraniums are known to bloom a great deal more freely where the roots are confined to a small space, and the soil about them kept rather dry; especially is this so with the double sorts. geraniums may be grafted successfully; the short growers, like mrs. pollock, mountain of snow, and happy thought, can be top-grafted on to the strong-growing kinds, like gen. grant, madam lemoine, and other strong-growers. if half a dozen sorts are grafted on a single stock, they will, when in bloom, appear as a curiosity. mildew. mildew is a microscopic fungus, that is parasitic upon cultivated plants. roses, bouvardias, and especially grape vines, are subject to its attacks. if not arrested, mildew will soon strip a plant of its foliage. whenever a whitish dust, as if flour had been sprinkled upon them, appears upon the leaves, particularly those of the rose, and its leaves curl up, it is evident that the plant is attacked by mildew, and some remedy must be at once applied to prevent the spread of the trouble. several excellent remedies are used by florists and gardeners for the prevention and cure of mildew. none of these are more effective than the following, which, if applied in time, before the disease has become so bad as to be beyond help, will very surely arrest it. take three pounds each, of flowers of sulphur and quick-lime, put these together and add sufficient hot water to slake the lime. when the lime is slaked, add six gallons of water, and boil down to two gallons. allow the lime to settle, and pour off the clear liquid and bottle it for use. to treat plants affected by mildew, add one gill of the liquid, prepared as above, to six gallons of water, and mix well together. this is to be freely syringed upon the plants every other day. it will not only arrest mildew, but prevent it. sudden changes of temperature, as cool nights following warm days, tend to the production of mildew, and with house plants, these sudden changes should be carefully guarded against. chapter xxx. sentiment and language of flowers. amaranth immortality. amaryllis beautiful, but timid. aster, double variety. aster, german afterthought. arbutus thee only do i love. acacia friendship. apple blossom preference. asphodel remembered after death. arbor vitæ unchanging friendship. alyssum worth beyond beauty. anemone your love changes. azalea pleasant recollections. argeratum worth beyond beauty. balsam impatience. blue bell constancy. balm pleasantry. bay-leaf i change but in death. bachelor's button hope. begonia deformed. bitter sweet truth. buttercup memories of childhood. brier, sweet envy. calla feminine modesty. carnation pride. clematis mental excellence. cypress disappointment, despair crocus happiness. columbine i cannot give thee up. cresses always cheerful. canterbury bell constancy. cereus, night-blooming transient beauty. candytuft indifference. chrysanthemum heart left desolate. clover, white i promise. clover, four-leaved be mine. crown imperial authority. camellia spotless purity. cissus changeable. centaurea your looks deceive me. cineraria singleness of heart. daisy, field i will think of it. dahlia dignity. daffodil unrequited love. dandelion coquetry. everlasting always remembered. everlasting pea wilt thou go with me. ebony blackness. fuchsia humble love. foxglove insincerity. fern sincerity. fennel strength. forget-me-not for ever remembered. fraxinella fire. geranium, ivy fond of dancing. geranium, oak a melancholy mind. geranium, rose i prefer you. geranium, scarlet stillness. gladiolus ready armed. golden rod encouragement. gillyflower promptness. hyacinth benevolence. honeysuckle devoted love. house leek domestic economy. heliotrope i adore you. hibiscus delicate beauty. hollyhock ambition. hydrangea vain glory. ice plant your looks freeze me. ivy friendship. iris, german flame. iris, common garden a message for thee. jonquil affection returned. jessamine, white amiability. jessamine, yellow gracefulness. larkspur fickleness. lantana rigor. laurel words though sweet may deceive. lavender mistrust. lemon blossom discretion. lady slipper capricious beauty. lily of the valley return of happiness. lilac, white youth. " blue first emotions of love. lily, water eloquence. may flower welcome. marigold sacred affection. marigold and cypress despair. mandrake rarity. mignonette your qualities surpass your charms. morning glory coquetry, affectation. mock orange counterfeit. myrtle love in absence. mistletoe insurmountable. narcissus egotism. nasturtium patriotism. oxalis reverie. orange blossom purity. olive peace. oleander beware. primrose modest worth. pink, white pure love. " red devoted love. phlox our hearts are united. periwinkle sweet memories. pæony ostentation. pansy you occupy my thoughts. poppy oblivion. rhododendron agitation. rose, bud confession of love. " " white too young to love. " austrian thou art all that is lovely. " leaf i never trouble. " monthly beauty ever new. " moss superior merit. " red i love you. " yellow infidelity. rosemary remembrance. sensitive plant modesty. snow-ball thoughts in heaven. snow-drop consolation. sumach pride and poverty. sweet william gallantry. syringa memory. sunflower lofty thought. tuberose purity of mind. thyme activity. tulip, var beautiful eyes. tulip, red declaration of love. tritoma fiery temper. verbena sensibility. " purple i weep for you. " white pray for me. violet, blue faithfulness. " white purity, candor. woodbine fraternal love. wall flower fidelity in misfortune. wistaria close friendship. wax plant artificial beauty. yucca your looks pierce me. yew sadness. zinnia i mourn your absence. * * * * * sent free on application descriptive catalog _of_ rural books _containing vo pages, profusely illustrated, and giving full descriptions of the best works on the following subjects_ farm and garden fruits, flowers, etc. cattle, sheep and swine dogs, horses, riding, etc. poultry, pigeons and bees angling and fishing boating, canoeing and sailing field sports and natural history hunting, shooting, etc. architecture and building landscape gardening household and miscellaneous publishers and importers orange judd company - fourth avenue new york books will be forwarded, postpaid, on receipt of price * * * * * =farm grasses of the united states of america= by william jasper spillman. a practical treatise on the grass crop, seeding and management of meadows and pastures, 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authority on this crop for many years to come. it takes up every detail from preparing the soil and laying out the yard, to curing and selling the crop. every line represents the ripest judgment and experience of experts. size, x ; pages, ; illustrations, nearly ; bound in cloth and gold; price, postpaid, $ . =tobacco leaf= by j. b. killebrew and herbert myrick. its culture and cure, marketing and manufacture. a practical handbook on the most approved methods in growing, harvesting, curing, packing and selling tobacco, with an account of the operations in every department of tobacco manufacture. the contents of this book are based on actual experiments in field, curing barn, packing house, factory and laboratory. it is the only work of the kind in existence, and is destined to be the standard practical and scientific authority on the whole subject of tobacco for many years. pages and original engravings. x inches. cloth. $ . =bulbs and tuberous-rooted plants= by c. l. allen. a complete 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by dr. r. a. craig, professor of veterinary medicine at the purdue university. a concise, practical and popular guide to the prevention and treatment of the diseases of swine. with the discussions on each disease are given its causes, symptoms, treatment and means of prevention. every part of the book impresses the reader with the fact that its writer is thoroughly and practically familiar with all the details upon which he treats. all technical and strictly scientific terms are avoided, so far as feasible, thus making the work at once available to the practical stock raiser as well as to the teacher and student. illustrated. x inches. pages. cloth. $ . =spraying crops--why, when and how= by clarence m. weed, d.sc. the present fourth edition has been rewritten and set throughout to bring it thoroughly up to date, so that it embodies the latest practical information gleaned by fruit growers and experiment station workers. so much new information has come to light since the third edition was published that this is practically a new book, needed by those who have utilized the earlier editions, as well as by fruit growers and farmers generally. illustrated. pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =successful fruit culture= by samuel t. maynard. a practical guide to the cultivation and propagation of fruits, written from the standpoint of the practical fruit grower who is striving to make his business profitable by growing the best fruit possible and at the least cost. it is up-to-date in every particular, and covers the entire practice of fruit culture, harvesting, storing, marketing, forcing, best varieties, etc., etc. it deals with principles first and with the practice afterwards, as the foundation, principles of plant growth and nourishment must always remain the same, while practice will vary according to the fruit grower's immediate conditions and environments. illustrated. pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =plums and plum culture= by f. a. waugh. a complete manual for fruit growers, nurserymen, farmers and gardeners, on all known varieties of plums and their successful management. this book marks an epoch in the horticultural literature of america. it is a complete monograph of the plums cultivated in and indigenous to north america. it will be found indispensable to the scientist seeking the most recent and authoritative information concerning this group, to the nurseryman who wishes to handle his varieties accurately and intelligently, and to the cultivator who would like to grow plums successfully. illustrated. pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =fruit harvesting, storing, marketing= by f. a. waugh. a practical guide to the picking, storing, shipping and marketing of fruit. the principal subjects covered are the fruit market, fruit picking, sorting and packing, the fruit storage, evaporation, canning, statistics of the fruit trade, fruit package laws, commission dealers and dealing, cold storage, etc., etc. no progressive fruit grower can afford to be without 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agriculture, as well as by all who are interested in the tilling of the soil. illustrated. x inches. pages. cloth. net. $ . =land draining= a handbook for farmers on the principles and practice of draining, by manly miles, giving the results of his extended experience in laying tile drains. the directions for the laying out and the construction of tile drains will enable the farmer to avoid the errors of imperfect construction, and the disappointment that must necessarily follow. this manual for practical farmers will also be found convenient for reference in regard to many questions that may arise in crop growing, aside from the special subjects of drainage of which it treats. illustrated. pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =barn plans and outbuildings= two hundred and fifty-seven illustrations. a most valuable work, full of ideas, hints, suggestions, plans, etc., for the construction of barns and outbuildings, by practical writers. chapters are devoted to the economic erection and use of 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for this work, make every point clear to the reader and add considerably to the artistic appearance of the book. pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =greenhouse management= by l. r. taft. this book forms an almost indispensable companion volume to greenhouse construction. in it the author gives the results of his many years' experience, together with that of the most successful florists and gardeners, in the management of growing plants under glass. so minute and practical are the various systems and methods of growing and forcing roses, violets, carnations, and all the most important florists' plants, as well as fruits and vegetables described, that by a careful study of this work and the following of its teachings, failure is almost impossible. illustrated. pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =fungi and fungicides= by prof. clarence m. weed a practical manual concerning the fungous diseases of cultivated plants and the means of preventing their ravages. the author has endeavored to give such a 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fiske. illustrated description of a great variety and styles of the best homemade nests, roosts, windows, ventilators, incubators and brooders, feeding and watering appliances, etc., etc. over illustrations. over pages. x inches. cloth. $ . =turkeys and how to grow them= edited by herbert myrick. a treatise on the natural history and origin of the name of turkeys; the various breeds, the best methods to insure success in the business of turkey growing. with essays from practical turkey growers in different parts of the united states and canada. copiously illustrated pages x inches. cloth. $ . [transcriber's note spellings are inconsistent, especially the use of ée and ee. notes of changes that have been made for obvious misprints, and of other anomalies, are at the end of this etext. there are many sidenotes in the original. they are indicated thus: {sn: }, and have been grouped together at the start of the paragraph in which they appear.] the english hvsbandman. * * * * * _the first part_: contayning the knowledge of the true nature of euery soyle within this kingdome: how to plow it; and the manner of the plough, and other instruments belonging thereto. _together with the_ art of planting, grafting, and gardening after our latest and rarest fashion. a worke neuer written before by any author: and now newly compiled for the benefit of this kingdome. _by_ g. m. _bramo assai, poco, spero nulla chieggio._ _london:_ printed by _t. s._ for _iohn browne_, and are to be sould at his shop in saint _dunstanes_ church-yard. . to the right honovrable, and his singular good lord, the lord _clifton_, baron of layton. it was a custome (right honorable, and my most singular good lord) both amongst the auntient _romans_, and also amongst the wise _lacedemonians_, that euery idle person should giue an account of the expence of his howers: now i that am most idle, and least imployed in your familie, present here vnto your lordships hands an account of the expence of my idle time, which how well, or ill, it is, your noble wisedome must both iudge and correct; onely this i am acertain'd, that for the generall rules and maximes of the whole worke, they are most infallibly true, and perfectly agreeing with our english climate. now if your lordship shall doubt of the true tast of the liquor because it proceedeth from such a vessell as my selfe, whom you may imagine vtterly vnseasoned vvith any of these knowledges, beleeue it (my most best lord) that for diuers yeeres, wherein i liued most happily, i liued a husbandman, amongst husbandmen of most excellent knowledge; during all which time i let no obseruation ouer-slip me: for i haue euer from my cradle beene naturally giuen to obserue, and albe i haue not that oylie tongue of ostentation which loueth euer to be babling all, and somewhat more then it knoweth, drawing from ignorance admiration, and from wisedome laughter, filling meale-times with much vnprofitable noyse; yet i thanke my maker i haue a breast which containeth contentment inough for my selfe, and i hope much benefit for the whole kingdome; how euer or whatsoeuer it is, it is all your lordships, vnder the couert of whose fauourable protection if it may finde grace it is the vttermost aime whereunto my wishes aspire, nor shall i feare the malignitie of the curious, for it is not to them but the honest plaine english husbandman, i intend my labours, vvhose defender you haue euer beene, and for whose honorable prosperitie both they and i will continually pray. _your honours in all seruiceable humblenesse_, g. m. the epistle to the generall and gentle reader. although (generall reader) the nature of this worst part of this last age hath conuerted all things to such vildnesse that whatsoeuer is truely good is now esteemed most vitious, learning being derided, fortitude drawne into so many definitions that it consisteth in meere words onely, and although nothing is happy or prosperous, but meere fashion & ostentation, a tedious fustian-tale at a great mans table, stuft with bigge words, with out sence, or a mimicke iester, that can play three parts in one; the foole, the pandar and the parasit, yet notwithstanding in this apostate age i haue aduentured to thrust into the world this booke, which nothing at all belongeth to the silken scorner, but to the plaine russet honest husbandman, for whose particular benefit, and the kingdomes generall profit, i haue with much paine, care, and industry, passed through the same. now for the motiues which first drew me to vndertake the worke, they were diuers: as first, when i saw one man translate and paraphrase most excellently vpon _virgils georgickes_, a worke onely belonging to the italian climbe, & nothing agreeable with ours another translates _libault & steuens_, a worke of infinit excellency, yet onely proper and naturall to the french, and not to vs: and another takes collections from _zenophon_, and others; all forrainers and vtterly vnacquainted with our climbes: when this i beheld, and saw with what good liking they were entertained of all men; and that euery man was dumbe to speake any thing of the _husbandry_ of our owne kingdome, i could not but imagine it a worke most acceptable to men, and most profitable to the kingdome, to set downe the true manner and nature of our right english _husbandry_, our soyle being as delicate, apt, and fit for increase as any forraine soyle whatsoeuer, and as farre out-going other kingdomes in some commoditie, as they vs in other some. hence, and from these considerations, i began this worke, of which i haue here sent thee but a small tast, which if i finde accepted, according to mine intent, i will not cease (god permitting mee life) to passe through all manner of english _husbandry_ and _huswifery_ whatsoeuer, without omission of the least scruple that can any way belong to either of their knowledges. now gentle reader whereas you may be driuen to some amazement, at two titles which insue in the booke, namely, a former part before the first, and the first part, you shall vnderstand that those first sheetes were detained both from the stationer and me, till the booke was almost all printed; and my selfe by extreame sicknesse kept from ouer-viewing the same, wherefore i must intreate your fauour in this impression and the rather in as much as there wanteth neither any of the words or matter whatsoeuer: _farewell_. thine _g. m._ a former part, before the first part: being an absolute perfect introduction into all the rules of true husbandry; and must first of all be read, or the readers labour will be frustrate. chap. i. _the proem of the author. what a husbandman is: his vtilitie and necessitie._ it is a common adage in our english spéech, that a man generally séene in all things can bée particularly perfect or compleate in none: which prouerbe there is no question will both by the curious and enuious be heauily imposed vpon my backe, because in this, and other workes, i haue delt with many things of much importance, and such as any one of them would require a whole liues experience, whereas neither my birth, my education, nor the generall course of my life can promise no singularitie in any part of those artes they treate of: but for suggestions (the liberty whereof the wisedome of kings could neuer bridle) let them poison themselues with their owne gall, they shall not so much as make me looke ouer my shoulder from my labour: onely to the curteous and well meaning i giue this satisfaction, i am but onely a publique notary, who record the most true and infallible experience of the best knowing husbands in this land. besides, i am not altogether vnséene in these misteries i write of: for it is well knowne i followed the profession of a husbandman so long my selfe, as well might make mee worthy to be a graduate in the vocation: wherein my simplicitie was not such but i both obserued well those which were estéemed famous in the profession, and preserued to my selfe those rules which i found infallible by experience. _virgill_ was an excellent poet, and a seruant, of trusty account, to _augustus_, whose court and study-imployments would haue said he should haue little knowledge in rurall businesse, yet who hath set downe more excellently the manner of italian husbandry then himselfe, being a perfect lanthorne, from whose light both italie and other countries haue séene to trace into the true path of profit and frugallitie? _steuens_ and _libault_, two famous phisitions, a profession that neuer medleth with the plough, yet who hath done more rarely! nay, their workes are vtterly vncontrolable touching all manner of french husbandry whatsoeuer; so my selfe although by profession i am onely a horse-man, it being the predominant outward vertue i can boast of, yet why may not i, hauing the sence of man, by the ayde of obseruation and relation, set downe all the rules and principles of our english husbandry in as good and as perfect order as any of the former? there is no doubt but i may and this i dare bouldly assure vnto all readers that there is not any rule prescribed through this whole worke, but hath his authoritie from as good and well experienced men, in the art of which the rule treateth, as any this kingdome can produce: neither haue i béene so hasty, or willing, to publish this part as men may imagining, for it is well knowne it hath laine at rest this many yéeres, and onely now at the instigation of many of my friends is bolted into the world, to try the censure of wits, and to giue aide to the ignorant husbandman. wherefore to leaue off any further digression, i will fall to mine intended purpose: and because the whole scope of my labour hath all his aime and reuerence to the english husbandman, i will first shew you what a husbandman is. {sn: the definition of a husbandman.} a husbandman is he which with discretion and good order tilleth the ground in his due seasons, making it fruitfull to bring forth corne, and plants, meete for the sustenance of man. this husbandman is he to whom god in the scriptures giueth many blessings, for his labours of all other are most excellent, and therefore to be a husbandman is to be a good man; whence the auntients did baptise, and wée euen to this day doe seriously obserue to call euery husbandman, both in our ordinary conference and euery particular salutation, goodman such a one, a title (if wée rightly obserue it) of more honour and vertuous note, then many which precede it at feasts and in gaudy places. {sn: the vtillitie of the husbandman.} a husbandman is the maister of the earth, turning sterillitie and barrainenesse, into fruitfulnesse and increase, whereby all common wealths are maintained and upheld, it is his labour which giueth bread to all men and maketh vs forsake the societie of beasts drinking vpon the water springs, féeding vs with a much more nourishing liquor. the labour of the husbandman giueth liberty to all vocations, arts, misteries and trades, to follow their seuerall functions, with peace and industry, for the filling and emptying of his barnes is the increase and prosperitie of all their labours. to conclude, what can we say in this world is profitable where husbandry is wanting, it being the great nerue and sinew which houldeth together all the ioynts of a monarchie? {sn: of the necessitie of a husbandman.} now for the necessitie, the profit inferreth it without any larger amplification: for if of all things it be most profitable, then of all things it must néeds be most necessary, sith next vnto heauenly things, profit is the whole aime of our liues in this world: besides it is most necessary for kéeping the earth in order, which else would grow wilde, and like a wildernesse, brambles and wéeds choaking vp better plants, and nothing remayning but a chaos of confusednesse. and thus much of the husbandman his vtillity and necessitie. chap. ii. _of the situation of the husbandmans house; the necessaries there to belonging, together with the modell thereof._ since couerture is the most necessariest thing belonging vnto mans life, and that it was the first thing that euer man inuented, i thinke it not amisse first to beginne, before i enter into any other part of husbandry, with the husbandmans house, without which no husbandry can be maintained or preserued. and albeit the generall husbandman must take such a house as hée can conueniently get, and according to the custome and abillitie of the soyle wherein he liueth, for many countries are very much vnprouided of generall matter for well building: some wanting timber, some stone, some lime, some one thing, some another: yet to that husbandman whom god hath enabled with power both of riches and euery other necessary fit to haue all things in a comely conuenientnesse about him, if he desire to plant himselfe decently and profitable, i would then aduise him to chuse for his situation no high hill, or great promontary (the seate of princes courts) where hée may be gazed vpon by the eye of euery traueller, but some pretty hard knole of constant and firme earth, rather assending then descending, frée from the danger of water, and being inuironed either with some pretty groues, of tall young spiers, or else with rowes of greater timber, which besids the pleasure and profit thereof (hauing wode so neare a mans dore) the shelter will be most excellent to kéepe off the bleaknesse of the sharpe stormes and tempests in winter, and be an excellent wormestall for cattell in the summer. this house would be planted, if possible, neare to some riuer, or fresh running brooke, but by no meanes vpon the verge of the riuer, nor within the danger of the ouerflow thereof: for the one is subiect to too much coldnesse and moisture, the other to danger. you shall plant the face, or forefront, of your house vpon the rising of the sunne, that the vigor of his warmth may at no time depart from some part thereof, but that as he riseth on the oneside so he may set on the other. you shall place the vpper or best end of your house, as namely, where your dining parlor and cheifest roomes are, which euer would haue their prospect into your garden, to the south, that your buttery, kitching and other inferiour offices may stand to the north, coldnesse bringing vnto them a manifold benefit. now touching the forme, fashion, or modell of the house, it is impossible almost for any man to prescribe a certaine forme, the world is so plentifull in inuention and euery mans minde so much adicted to nouelty and curiouity, yet for as much as it is most commended by the generall consent of all the auntients, and that from the modell of that proportion may be contracted and drawne the most curious formes that are almost at this day extant, i will commend vnto you that modell which beareth the proportion of the roman _h._ which as it is most plaine of all other, and most easie for conuaiance, so if a man vpon that plaine song, (hauing a great purse) will make descant, there is no proportion in which he may with best ease show more curiositie, and therefore for the plaine husbandmans better vnderstanding i will here shew him a _facsimile_ (for to adde a scale were néedlesse in this generall worke, all men not being desirous to build of one bignesse) & this it is: {illustration} here you behould the modell of a plaine country mans house, without plaster or imbosture, because it is to be intended that it is as well to be built of studde and plaster, as of lime and stone, or if timber be not plentifull it may be built of courser woode, and couered with lime and haire, yet if a man would bestow cost in this modell, the foure inward corners of the hall would be conuenient for foure turrets, and the foure gauell ends, being thrust out with bay windowes might be formed in any curious manner: and where i place a gate and a plaine pale, might be either a tarrisse, or a gatehouse: of any fashion whatsoeuer, besides all those windowes which i make plaine might be made bay windowes, either with battlements, or without, but the scope of my booke tendeth onely to the vse of the honest husbandman, and not to instruct men of dignitie, who in architecture are able wonderfully to controle me; therefore that the husbandman may know the vse of this _facsimile_, he shall vnderstand it by this which followeth. _a._ signifieth the great hall. _b._ the dining parlor for entertainment of strangers. _c._ an inward closset within the parlor for the mistrisses vse, for necessaries. _d._ a strangers lodging within the parlor. _e._ a staire-case into the roomes ouer the parlor. _f._ a staire-case into the good-mans roomes ouer the kitchin and buttery. _g._ the skréene in the hall. _h._ an inward cellar within the buttery, which may serue for a larder. _i._ the buttery. _k._ the kitchin, in whose range may be placed a bruing lead, and conuenient ouens, the bruing vessels adioyning. _l._ the dairy house for necessary businesse. _m._ the milke house. _n._ a faire sawne pale before the formost court. _o._ the great gate to ride in at to the hall dore. _p._ a place where a pumpe would be placed to serue the offices of the house. {illustration: this figure signifieth the dores of the house.} {illustration: this figure signifieth the windowes of the house.} {illustration: this figure signifieth the chimnies of the house.} now you shall further vnderstand that on the south side of your house, you shall plant your garden and orchard, as wel for the prospect thereof to al your best roomes, as also because your house will be a defence against the northerne coldnesse, whereby your fruits will much better prosper. you shall on the west side of your house, within your inward dairy and kitchin court, fence in a large base court, in the midst whereof would be a faire large pond, well ston'd and grauelled in the bottome, in which your cattell may drinke, and horses when necessitie shall vrge be washt: for i doe by no meanes alow washing of horses after instant labour. néere to this pond you shall build your doue-coate, for pigions delight much in the water: and you shall by no meanes make your doue-house too high, for pigions cannot endure a high mount, but you shall build it moderately, cleane, neate, and close, with water pentisses to kéepe away vermine. on the north side of your base-court you shall build your stables, oxe-house, cow-house, and swine-coates, the dores and windowes opening all to the south. on the south side of the base-court, you shall builde your hay-barnes, corne-barnes, pullen-houses for hennes, capons, duckes, and géese, your french kilne, and malting flowres, with such like necessaries: and ouer crosse betwixt both these sides, you shall build your bound houels, to cary your pease, of good and sufficient timber, vnder which you shall place when they are out of vse your cartes, waynes, tumbrels, ploughs, harrowes, and such like, together with plough timber, and axletrées: all which would very carefully be kept from wet, which of all things doth soonest rot and consume them. and thus much of the husbandmans house, and the necessaries there to belonging. chap. iii. _of the seuerall parts and members of an ordinarie plough, and of the ioyning of them together._ if a workeman of any trade, or mistery, cannot giue directions how, and in what manner, the tooles where with he worketh should be made or fashioned, doubtlesse hée shall neuer worke well with them, nor know when they are in temper and when out. and so it fareth with the husbandman, for if hée know not how his plough should be made, nor the seuerall members of which it consisteth, with the vertue and vse of euery member, it is impossible that euer hée should make a good furrow, or turne ouer his ground in husbandly manner: therefore that euery husbandman may know how a well shaped plough is made, he shall vnderstand that the first member thereof, as being the strongest and most principallest péece of timber belonging to the same, is called the plough-beame, being a large long péece of timber much bending, according to the forme of this figure. {illustration} this beame hath no certaine length nor thicknesse, but is proportioned according to the ground, for if it be for a clay ground the length is almost seauen foote, if for any other mixt or lighter earth, then fiue or sixe foote is long inough. the second member or part of the plough, is called the skeath, and is a péece of woode of two foote and a halfe in length, and of eight inches in breadth, and two inches in thicknesse: it is driuen extreamly hard into the plough-beame, slopewise, so that ioyned they present this figure. {illustration} the third part is called the ploughes principall hale, and doth belong to the left hand being a long bent péece of woode, some what strong in the midst, and so slender at the vpper end that a man may easily gripe it, which being fixed with the rest presenteth this figure. {illustration} the fourth part is the plough head, which must be fixed with the sheath & the head all at one instant in two seuerall mortisse holes: it is a flat péece of timber, almost thrée foote in length if it be for clay ground, otherwise shorter, of breadth seauen inches, and of thicknesse too inches and a halfe, which being ioyned to the rest presenteth this figure. {illustration} the fift part is the plough spindels, which are two small round pieces of woode, which coupleth together the hales, as in this figure. {illustration} the sixt part is the right hand hale, through which the other end of the spindels runne, and is much slenderer then the left hand hale, for it is put to no force, but is onely a stay and aide to the plough houlder when hée cometh to heauy, stiffe, and strong worke, and being ioyned with the rest presenteth this figure. {illustration} the seauenth part is the plough-rest, which is a small péece of woode, which is fixt at one end in the further nicke of the plough head, and the other end to the ploughs right-hand hale, as you may sée by this figure. {illustration} the eight part is called the shelboard, and is a broad board of more then an inche thicknesse, which couereth all the right side of the plough, and is fastned with two strong pinnes of woode through the sheath, and the right-hand hale, according to this figure. {illustration} the ninth part is the coulture, which is a long péece of iron, made sharpe at the neather end, and also sharpe on one side and being for a stiffe clay it must be straight without bending, which passeth by a mortisse-hole through the beame, and to this coulture belongeth an iron ring, which windeth about the beame and kéepeth it in strength from breaking as may appeare by this figure. {illustration} the tenth part of a compleate plough, is the share; which is fixed to the plough head, and is that which cutteth and turneth vp the earth: if it be for a mixt earth then it is made without a wing, or with a very small one, but if it be for a déepe, or stiffe clay, then it is made with a large wing, or an outward point, like the figure following. {illustration} the eleuenth part of a perfect plough is called the plough foote, and is through a mortisse-hole fastned at the farre end of all the beame with a wedge or two, so as the husbandman may at his discretion set it higher or lower, at his pleasure: the vse of it is to giue the plough earth, or put it from the earth, as you please, for the more you driue it downeward, the more it raiseth the beame from the ground, and maketh the irons forsake the earth, and the more you driue it vpward the more it letteth downe the beame, and so maketh the irons bite the sorer; the figure whereof is this. {illustration} thus haue you all the parts and members of a plough, and how they be knit and ioyned together, wherein i would wish you to obserue to make your plough-wright euer rather giue your plough land then put her from the land, that is, rather leaning towards the earth and biting sore, then euer slipping out of the ground: for if it haue two much earth the husbandman may help it in the houlding, but if it haue too little, then of necessitie it must make foule worke: but for as much as the error and amends lye both in the office of the plough-wright, i will not trouble the husbandman with the reformation thereof. now you shall vnderstand that there is one other thing belonging to the plough, which albe it be no member thereof, yet is it so necessary that the husbandman which liueth in durty and stiffe clayes can neuer goe to plough without it, and it is called the aker-staffe, being a pretty bigge cudgell, of about a yarde in length, with an iron spud at the end, according to this figure: {illustration} this akerstaffe the husbandman is euer to carry within his plough, and when at any time the irons, shelboard, or plough, are choaked with durt, clay, or filth, which will cling about the ould stubble, then with this akerstaffe you shall put the same off (your plough still going) and so kéepe her cleane and smooth that your worke may lye the handsomer; and this you must euer doe with your right hand: for the plough choaketh euer on the shelboard side, and betwéene the irons. and thus much touching the perfect plough, and the members thereof. chap. iiii. _how the husbandman shall temper his plough, and make her fit for his worke._ a plough is to a husbandman like an instrument in the hand of a musition, which if it be out of tune can neuer make good musicke, and so if the plough, being out of order, if the husbandman haue not the cunning to temper it and set it in the right way, it is impossible that euer his labour should come to good end. it is very necessary then that euery good husbandman know that a plough being perfectly well made, the good order or disorder thereof consisteth in the placing of the plough-irons and the plough-foote. know then, that for the placing of the irons, the share would be set to looke a little into the ground: and because you shall not bruise, or turne, the point thereof, you shall knocke it fast vpon the head, either with a crooked rams-horne, or else with some piece of soft ash woode: and you shall obserue that it stand plaine, flat, and leuell, without wrying or turning either vpward or downeward: for if it runne not euen vpon the earth it will neuer make a good furrow, onely as before i said, the point must looke a little downeward. now, for the coulture, you must place it slopewise through the beame, so as the point of it and the point of the share may as it were touch the ground at one instant, yet if the coulture point be a little thought the longer it shall not be amisse: yet for a more certaine direction and to try whether your irons stand true i or no, you shall take a string, and measure from the mortisse-hole through which the coulture passeth, to the point of the coulture, and so kéeping your vpper hand constant lay the same length to the of point your share, and if one measure serue them both right, there being no difference betwéene them, then the irons stand true for their length, otherwise they stand false. now your coulture albe it stand true for the length, yet it may stand either too much to the land, or too much from the land, either of which is a great errour, and will kéepe the plough from going true: your coulture therefore shall haue certaine wedges of ould dry ash woode, that is to say, one before the coulture on the vpper side the beame, and another on the land side, or left side, the coulture on the vpper side the beame also; then you shall haue another wedge behinde the coulture vnderneath the beame, and one on the furrow side, or right side, the beame vnderneath also. now, if your coulture haue too much land, then you shall driue in your vpper side wedge and ease the contrary: if it haue too little land, then you shall contrarily driue in your right side vnder wedge and ease the other: if your coulture stand too forward, then you shall driue in your vpper wedge which standeth before the coulture; and if it stand too backward and too néere your share, then you shall driue in your vnder wedge which standeth behinde the coulture: if your coulture standeth awry any way, then are either your side wedges too small, or else not euen and plaine cut, which faults you must amend, and then all will be perfect. now, when your irons are iust and truely placed, then you shall driue in euery wedge hard and firme, that no shaking or other straine may loosen them: as for the plough foote it also must haue a wedge or two, which when your plough goeth right and to your contentment (for the foote will kéepe it from sinking or rising) then you shall also driue them in hard, that the foote may not stirre from the true place where you did set it. and that these things when a man commeth into the field may not be to séeke, it is the office of euery good husbandman neuer to goe forth with his plough but to haue his hatchet in a socket, fixt to his plough beame, and a good piece of hard wedge woode, in case any of your wedges should shake out and be lost. {sn: of holding the plough.} when your plough is thus ordered and tempered in good manner, and made fit for her worke, it then resteth that you know the skill and aduantages in holding thereof, which indéed are rules of much diuersitie, for if it be a stiffe, blacke clay which you plow, then can you not plow too déepe, nor make your furrowes too bigge: if it be a rich hassell ground, and not much binding, then reasonable furrowes, laid closse, are the best: but if it be any binding, stony, or sandy ground, then you cannot make your furrowes too small. as touching the gouerning of your plough, if you sée shée taketh too much land, then you shall writh your left hand a little to the left side and raise your plough rest somewhat from the ground: if shée taketh too little earth, then you shall raise vp your left hand, and carry your plough as in a direct line: if your plough-irons forbeare and will not bite on the earth at all, then it is a signe that you hang too heauy on the plough hales, raising the head of the plough from the ground, which errour you must amend, and of the two rather raise it vp behind then before, but to doe neither is best, for the plough hale is a thing for the hand to gouerne, and not to make a leaning stocke of: and thus much touching the tempring of the plough and making her fit for worke. chap. v. _the manner of plowing the rich, stiffe, blacke clay, his earings, plough, and other instruments._ of all soyles in this our kingdome there is none so rich and fruitfull, if it be well handled and husbanded, as is that which we call the stiffe, blacke, clay, and indeed is more blacker to looke on then any other soyle, yet some times it will turne vp very blewish, with many white vaines in it, which is a very speciall note to know his fruitfulnesse; for that blewish earth mixt with white is nothing else but very rich marle, an earth that in cheshire, lanckashire, and many other countries, serueth to manure and make fat their barrainest land in such sort that it will beare corne seauen yeeres together. this blacke clay as it is the best soyle, well husbanded, so it is of all soyles the worst if it be ill husbanded: for if it loose but one ardor, or seasenable plowing, it will not be recouered in foure yéeres after, but will naturally of it selfe put forth wilde oates, thistels, and all manner of offensiue wéedes, as cockle, darnell, and such like: his labour is strong, heauy, and sore, vnto the cattell that tilleth it, but to the husbandman is more easie then any other soyle, for this asketh but foure times plowing ouer at the most, where diuers other soyles aske fiue times, and sixe times, as shalbe shewed hereafter. but to come to the plowing of this soyle, i hold it méete to beginne with the beginning of the yéere, which with husbandmen is at plow-day, being euer the first munday after the twelft-day, at which time you shall goe forth with your draught, & begin to plow your pease-earth, that is, the earth where you meane to sow your pease, or beanes: for i must giue you to vnderstand, that these clayes are euer more naturall for beanes then pease, not but that they will beare both alike, only the husbandman imployeth them more for beanes, because pease & fitches wil grow vpon euery soyle, but beanes wil grow no where but on the clayes onely. this pease-earth is euer where barley grew the yéere before, & hath the stubble yet remayning thereon. you shal plow this pease-earth euer vpward, that is, you shall beginne on the ridge of the land, & turne all your furrowes vp, one against another, except your lands lye too high (which seldome can be séene) and then you shall begin at the furrow, & cast downe your land. now, when you haue plowed all your pease-ground, you shall let it so lye, till it haue receiued diuers frosts, some raine, and then a fayre season, which betwixt plow-day and saint _valentines_ day you shalbe sure to inioy: and this is called, _the letting of land lye to baite_: for without this rest, and these seasons, it is impossible to make these clayes harrow, or yéelde any good mould at all. after your land hath receiued his kindely baite, then you shall cast in your séede, of beanes, or pease: but in my conceit, an equall mixture of them is the best séede of all, for if the one faile, the other will be sure to hit: and when your land is sowne you shall harrow it with a harrow that hath woodden téeth. the next ardor after this, is the sowing of your barley in your fallow field: the next is the fallowing of your ground for barley the next yéere: the next ardor is the summer-stirring of that which you fallowed: the next is the foyling of that which you summer-stirde: and the last is the winter rigging of that which you foil'd: of all which ardors, and the manner of plowing them, with their seasons, i haue written sufficiently in the first chapter of the next part; where i speake of simple earths vncompounded. now whereas i told you before that these clayes were heauy worke for your cattell, it is necessary that i shew you how to ease them, and which way they may draw to their most aduantage, which onely is by drawing in beare-geares, an inuention the skilfull husbandman hath found out, wherein foure horses shall draw as much as sixe, and sixe as eight, being geard in any other contrary fashion. now because the name onely bettereth not your knowledge, you shall heare behould the figure and manner thereof. {illustration} now you shall vnderstand the vse of this figure by the figures therein contayned, that is to say, the figure ( ) presenteth the plough-cleuisse, which being ioyned to the plough-beame, extendeth, with a chaine, vnto the first toastrée: and touching this cleuisse, you shall vnderstand, that it must be made with thrée nickes in the midst thereof, that if the plough haue too much land giuen it in the making, that is, if it turne vp too much land, then the chaine shall be put in the outwardmost nicke to the land side, that is, the nicke towards your right hand: but if it take too little land, then it shall be put in the nicke next the furrow, that is, towards the right hand: but if it goe euen and well, then you shall kéepe it in the middle nicke, which is the iust guide of true proportion. and thus this cleuisse is a helpe for the euill making or going of a plough. ( ) is the hind-most toastrée, that is, a broad piece of ash woode, thrée inches broad, which going crosse the chaine, hath the swingletrées fastned vnto it, by which the horses draw. now you shall vnderstand that in this toastrée is great helpe and aduantage: for if the two horses which draw one against the other, be not of equall strength, but that the one doth ouer-draw the other, then you shall cause that end of the toastrée by which the weaker horse drawes, to be longer from the chaine then the other, by at least halfe a foote, and that shall giue the weaker horse such an aduantage, that his strength shall counterpoyse with the stronger horse. now there be some especiall husbandmen that finding this disaduantage in the toastrée, and that by the vncertaine shortening, and lenthening of the toastrée, they haue sometimes more disaduantaged the strong horse, then giuen helpe to the weake, therefore they haue inuented another toastrée, with a double chaine, and a round ring, which is of that excellent perfection in draught, that if a foale draw against an olde horse, yet the foale shall draw no more then the abilitie of his owne strength, each taking his worke by himselfe, as if they drew by single chaines. now because this toastrée is such a notable implement both in plough, cart, or waine, and so worthy to be imitated of all good husbands, i thinke it not amisse to shew you the figure thereof. {illustration: the toastree with double chaines.} ( ) the swingletrées, being pieces of ash wood cut in proportion afore-shewed, to which the treates, by which the horses draw, are fastned with strong loopes. ( ) the treates by which the horses draw, being strong cords made of the best hempe. ( ) the place betwéene the treats, where the horses must stand. ( ) the hames, which girt the collers about, to which the other end of the treats are fastned, being compassed pieces of wood, eyther cleane ash, or cleane oake. ( ) the round withes of wood, or broad thongs of leather, to put about the horses necke, to beare the maine chayne from the ground, that it trouble not the horses in their going. ( ) the single-linckes of iron, which ioyne the swingle-trées vnto the toastrées. ( ) the belly-bands, which passe vnder the belly of the horse, and are made fast to both sides of the treates, kéeping them downe, that when the horse drawes, his coller may not choake him: being made of good small line or coard. ( ) the backe-bands, which going ouer the horses backe, and being made fast to both sides of the treates, doe hold them, so as when the horses turne, the treates doe not fall vnder their féete. {sn: how many beasts in a plough.} thus i haue giuen you the perfect portraiture of a well yoakt plough, together with his implements, and the vse of them, being the best which hath yet béene found out by any of our skilfullest english husbandmen, whose practise hath béene vpon these déepe, stiffe, blacke clayes. now you shall vnderstand, that for the number of cattell to be vsed in these ploughes, that in fallowing your land, and plowing your pease-earth, eight good cattell are the best number, as being the strongest, and within the compasse of gouernment, whereas more were but troublesome, and in all your other ardors, sixe good beasts are sufficient, yet if it be so, that eyther want of abilitie, or other necessity vrge, you shall know that sixe beasts will suffice eyther to fallow, or to plow pease-earth, and foure beasts for euery other ardor or earing: and lesse then this number is most insufficient, as appeares by daily experience, when poore men kill their cattell onely by putting them to ouer-much labour. and thus much touching the plowing of the blacke clay. chap. vi. _the manner of plowing the white or gray clay, his earings, plough, and instruments._ now as touching the white or gray clay, you shall vnderstand that it is of diuers and sundry natures, altering according to his tempers of wet or drynesse: the wet being more tough, and the dry more brittle: his mixture and other characters i haue shewed in a former chapter, wherefore for his manner of plowing (obseruing my first methode, which is to beginne with the beginning of the yéere, i meane at christmas) it is thus: {sn: of sowing of pease and beanes.} if you finde that any of this white or gray clay, lying wet, haue lesse mixture of stone or chaulke in it, and so consequently be more tough, as it doth many times fall out, and that vpon such land, that yéere, you are to sow your pease and beanes: for as in the former blacke clay, so in this gray clay you shall begin with your pease-earth euer: then immediately after plow-day, you shall plow vp such ground as you finde so tough, in the selfe-same manner as you did plow the blacke clay, and so let it lye to baite till the frost haue seasoned it, and then sow it accordingly. but if you haue no such tough land, but that it holdes it owne proper nature, being so mixt with small stones and chaulke, that it will breake in reasonable manner, then you shall stay till the latter end of ianuary, at what time, if the weather be seasonable, and inclining to drynesse, you shall beginne to plow your pease-earth, in this manner: first, you shall cause your séedes-man to sow the land with single casts, as was shewed vpon the blacke clay, with this caution, that the greater your séede is, (that is, the more beanes you sow) the greater must be your quantitie: and being sowne, you shall bring your plough, and beginning at the furrow of the land, you shall plow euery furrow downeward vpon the pease and beanes: which is called sowing of pease vnder furrow: and in this manner you shall sow all your pease and beanes, which is cleane contrary to your blacke clay. besides, whereas vpon the stiffe clay it is conuenient to take as large furrowes as you please, vpon this kinde of gray clay you shall take as small furrowes as is possible. now the reason for this manner of plowing your pease-earth, is, because it is a light kinde of breaking earth, so that should it be sowne according to the stiffe blacke clay, it would neuer couer your pease, but leaue them bare, both to be destroyed by the fowles of the ayre, and the bitternesse of the weather. as soone as your pease and beanes are risen a fingers length aboue the earth, then if you finde that any of your lands doe lye very rough, and that the clods be great, it shall not be amisse, to take a payre of woodden harrowes, and harrow ouer all your rough lands, the benefit whereof is this, that it will both breake the hard clots, and so giue those pease leaue to sprout through the earth, which before lay bound in and drowned, and also lay your lands smooth and cleane, that the mowers when they come to mowe your pease and beanes, shall haue better worke, and mowe them with more ease, and much better to the owners profit. for you must vnderstand that where you sow beanes, there it is euer more profit to mowe them with sythes, then to reape them with hookes, and much sooner, and with lesse charge performed. the limitation of time for this ardor of earing, is from the latter end of ianuary vntill the beginning of march, not forgetting this rule, that to sow your pease and beanes in a shower, so it be no beating raine is most profitable: because they, as wheat, take delight in a fresh and a moyst mould. {sn: of sowing of barley.} after the beginning of march, you shall beginne to sow your barley vpon that ground which the yéere before did lye fallow, and is commonly called your tilth, or fallow field: and if any part of it consist of stiffe and tough ground, then you shall, vpon such ground, sow your barley vnder furrow, in such manner and fashion as i described vnto you for the sowing of your stiffe blacke clay: but if it be (as for the most part these gray and white clayes are) of a much lighter, and as it were, fussie temper, then you shall first plow your land vpward, cleane and well, without baukes or stiches: and hauing so plowed it, you shall then sow it with barley, that is to say, with double casts, i meane, bestowing twise so many casts of barley, as you would doe if you were to sow it with pease. and as soone as you haue sowne your barley, you shall take a payre of woodden harrowes, and harrow it as small as is possible: and this is called sowing aboue furrow. {sn: of sowing oates.} now if you haue any land, which eyther through the badnesse of the soyle, or for want of manure, is more barrayne, and hard to bring forth then generally the rest of your land is, then you shall not bestow barley thereupon, but sow it with oates, in such manner and fashion as is appointed for the sowing of pease, that is to say, if it be stiffe ground you shall sow it aboue furrow, if it be light ground, then you shall sow it vnder furrow, knowing this for a rule, that the barraynest ground will euer beare indifferent oates, but if the ground haue any small hart, then it will beare oates in great abundance: neither néede you to be very precise for the oft plowing of your ground before you sow your oates, because oates will grow very well if they be sowne vpon reasonable ground, at the first plowing: whence it comes to passe that many husbandmen doe oft sow their oates where they should sow their pease, and in the same manner as they doe sow their pease, and it is held for a rule of good husbandry also: because if the ground be held any thing casuall for pease, it is better to haue good oates then naughty pease: besides, your oates are both a necessary graine in the house, as for oate-meale, for the pot, for puddings, and such like, and also for the stable, for prouender, and the féeding of all manner of poultry. the time for sowing of your barley and oates, is from from the first of march till the first of aprill, obseruing euer to sow your oates first, and your barley after, for it being onely a summer graine, would participate as little as may be with any part of the winter. {sn: of fallowing.} {sn: of sleighting barley.} about the middest of aprill you shall beginne to fallow that part of your ground, which you entend shall take rest that yéere, and so become your fallow or tilth-field. and in fallowing this gray or white clay, you shall obserue all those rules and ceremonies, which are formerly described for the fallowing of the stiffe blacke clay, knowing that there is in this worke no difference betwéene the blacke clay, and the gray clay, but both to be plowed after one manner, that is to say, to haue all the furrowes cast downeward, and the ridges of the lands laid largely open, and of a good depth, onely the furrowes which you turne vpon this gray clay must be much smaller and lesse then those which you turne vpon your stiffe blacke clay, because this earth is more naturally inclined to binde and cleaue together then that of the blacke clay. the time for fallowing of this ground, is from the middest of aprill vntill the middest of may: at what time you shall perceiue your barley to appeare aboue the ground, so that then you shall beginne to sleight and smooth it: but not with backe harrowes, as was described for the blacke clay, because this gray clay being not so fat and rich, but more inclined to fastnesse and hardnesse, therefore it will not sunder and breake so easily as the other: wherefore when you will smooth or sleight this ground, you shall take a round piece of wood, being in compasse about at least thirty inches, and in length sixe foote, hauing at each end a strong pinne of iron, to which making fast two small poales, by which the horse shall draw, yet in such sort that the round piece of wood may roule and turne about as the horse drawes it: and with this you shall roule ouer all your barley, and by the waight of the round piece of wood bruise and breake all the hard clots asunder. this is called amongst husbandmen a rouler, and is for this purpose of sleighting and smoothing of grounds of great vse and profit. now you shall vnderstand that you must not at any time sleight or smooth your corne, but after a shower of raine, for if the mould be not a little moistned the rouler will not haue power to breake it. now for as much as this rouler is of so good vse and yet not generally vsed in this kingdome, i thinke it not amisse to shew you the figure thereof. {illustration: the great rouler.} as soone as you haue roulled ouer your barley, & laid it so smooth as you can with your rouler, if then you perceiue any hard clots, such as the rouler cannot breake, then you shal send forth your seruants with long clotting béetels, made broad and flat, and with them you shall breake asunder all those hard clots, and so lay your barley as smooth and cleane as is possible: the profit whereof you shall both finde in the multiplying of your corne and also in the sauing of your sithes from breaking, at such time as you shall come to mowe your corne, and gather in your haruest. {sn: of summer-stirring.} {sn: of weeding.} {sn: of stone gathering.} your barley being thus laide smooth, you shall then follow your other necessary businesses, as preparing of your fewell, and other néedements for houshould, vntill the beginning of iune, at which time you shall beginne to summer-stirre your fallow field, which shalbe done in all points after the same manner as you did summer-stirre your blacke clay, that is to say, you shall beginne in the ridge of the land, and as when you fallowed your land you turned your furrowes downeward, so now in summer-stirring, you shall turne your furrowes vpward and close the ridge of you land againe. as soone as this ardor is finished, or when the vnseasonablenesse of the weather, as either too much wet, or too much drynesse shall hinder you from plowing, you shall then looke into your cornefields, that is to say: first into your wheate and rye field, and if there you shall finde any store of wéedes, as thistell, darnell, tare-cockle, or such like, you shall with weede-hookes, or nippers of woode, cut, or plucke them vp by the rootes; and also if you finde any annoyance of stones, which hinders the growth of your corne, as generally it happens in this soyle, you shall then cause some boyes and girles, or other waste persons, to gather them vp and lay them in heapes at the lands ends, to be imployed either about the mending of high wayes or other occasions, and for this purpose their is a generall custome in most villages, that euery houshoulder is bound to send out one seruant to be imployed about this businesse: whence it comes to passe, that it is called common worke, as being done at the generall charge of the whole parish. after you haue wéeded your wheate and rye, you shall then wéede your barley also, which being finished about the midst of iuly, you shall then beginne to looke into your medowes and to the preparing of your hay haruest. {sn: of foyling.} now at such time as either the vnseasonablenesse of the weather, or the growth of your grasse shall hinder you from following that businesse of haruest, you shall then looke into your fallow or tilth field againe, and whereas before at your summer-stirring you plowed your land vpward, now you shall beginne to foile, that is to say, you shall cast your land downe againe, and open the ridge: and this ardor of all other ardors you must by no meanes neglect vpon the gray, white clay, because it being most subiect vnto wéede, and the hardest to bring to a fine mould, this ardor of all others, doth both consume the one and makes perfect the other, and the drier season you doe foile your land in, the better it is, and the more it doth breake and sunder the clots in pieces: for as in summer-stirring the greater clots you raise vp, and the rougher your land lies the better it is, because it is a token of great store of mould, so when you foile, the more you breake the clots in pieces the better season will your land take, and the richer it wilbe when the séede is sowne into it: and the season for the foiling of this soile is from the midst of iuly till the midst of september. {sn: of manuring.} now albe i haue omitted the manuring of this land in his due place, as namely, from the midst of aprill, till the end of may, yet you shall vnderstand that of all other things it is not in any wise to be neglected by the carefull husbandman, both because the soyle being not so rich as the blacke clay, will very hardly bring forth his séede without manure, and also because it is for the most part subiect vnto much wet, and stones, both which are signes of cold and barrainenesse. now for those manures, which are best and most proper for this soile, you shall vnderstand that all those which i formerlie described for the blacke claies, as namely, oxe or cowes dung, horse dung and shéepes dung, are also very good for this soile, and to be vsed in the same manner as is specified in the former chapter: but if you haue not such store of this manure as will serue to compasse your whole land, you shall then vnderstand, that the blacke mud, or durt which lies in the bottome of olde ponds, or else standing lakes, is also a very good manure for this soile, or else straw which is spread in high-wayes, and so rotted by the great concourse or vse of much trauelling, and after in the spring-time shouelled vp in great heapes, is a good manure for this earth: but if you finde this soile to be subiect to extraordinary wet and coldnesse, you shall then know that the ashes eyther of wood, coale, or straw, is a very good manure for it. but aboue all other, and then which there is no manure more excellent for cold barraine clayes of this nature, the pigions dung, or the dung of houshold pullen, as capons, hennes, chickens, turkies, and such like, so there be no goose-dung amongst it, is the best of all other: but not to be vsed in such sort as the other manures, that is to say, to be laid in great heapes vpon the land, or to be spread from the cart vpon the land, for neyther is there such abundance of such manure to be gotten, nor if there were, it would not be held for good husbandrie to make lauish hauocke of a thing so precious. {sn: the vse of pigion or pullen-dung.} you shall then know that for the vse of pigion or pullen-dung, it is thus: you shall first with your hand breake it as small as may be, and then put it into the hopper, in such sort as you put your corne when you sow it: and then looke how you sow your corne, in such sort you shall sow your pigion or pullen-dung: which done, you shall immediately put your barley into the same hopper, and so sow it after the pigions or pullen-dung: by which you are to vnderstand that this kinde of manuring is to be vsed onely in séede-time, and at no other season. this manure is of the same nature that shéepes manure is, and doth last but onely for one yéere, onely it is much hotter, as being in the greatest extremitie of heate. now if it happen that you cannot get any of this pigions or pullen-dung, because it is scarce, and not in euery mans power, if then you take lime and sow it vpon your land in such sort as is before said of the pigions-dung, and then sow your corne after it, you shall finde great profit to come thereon, especially in colde wet soiles, such as for the most part, these gray white clayes are. {sn: of sowing wheate.} after your land is foild, which worke would be finished by the middest of september, then you shall beginne to sow your wheate, rye, and maslin, which in all things must be done as is before set downe for the blacke clay, the choice of séede, and euery obseruation being all one: for wheate not taking delight in a very rich ground, doth prosper best vpon this indifferent soile. whence it comes that in these gray white clayes, you shall for the most part, sée more wheate sowne then any other graine whatsoeuer. but as touching your rye and maslin, that euer desires a rich ground and a fine mould, and therefore you shall make choise of your better earth for that séede, and also obserue to helpe it with manure, or else shéepes folding, in such manner as is described in the former chapter, where i spake of the sowing of wheate, rye, and maslin. {sn: of winter-ridging.} as soone as you haue sowne your wheate, rye, and maslin, you shall then about the latter end of october, beginne to winter ridge, or set vp your land for the whole yéere: which you shall doe in all points, as you doe vpon the blacke clay, without any change or alteration. and the limitation for this ardor is, from the latter end of october vntill the beginning of december, wherein your yéeres worke is made perfect and compleate. {sn: obseruations.} now you shall vnderstand, that although i haue in this generall sort passed ouer the ardors and seuerall earings of this white or gray clay, any of which are in no wise to be neglected: yet there are sundry other obseruations to be held of the carefull husbandman, especially in the laying of his land: as thus, if the soile be of good temper, fruitfull, drie, and of a well mixed mould, not being subiect to any naturall spring or casting forth of moisture, but rather through the natiue warmth drying vp all kinde of fluxes or colde moistures, neyther binding or strangling the séede, nor yet holding it in such loosenesse, that it loose his force of increasing, in this case it is best to lay your lands flat and leuell, without ridges or furrowes, as is done in many parts of cambridge-shire, some parts of essex, and some parts of hartford-shire: but if the clay be fruitfull and of good temper, yet either by the bordering of great hils, the ouer-flow of small brookes, or some other casuall meanes it is subiect to much wet or drowning, in this case you shall lay your lands large and high, with high ridges and déepe furrowes, as generally you sée in lincolne-shire, nottingham-shire, huntington-shire, and most of the middle shires in england. but if the land be barraine, colde, wet, subiect to much binding, and doth bring forth great store of wéedes, then you shall lay your land in little stiches, that is to say, not aboue thrée or foure furrowes at the most together, as is generally séene in middlesex, hartford-shire, kent and surrey: for by that meanes neither shall the land binde and choake the corne, nor shall the wéede so ouer-runne it, but that the husbandman may with good ease helpe to strengthen and clense it, the many furrowes both giuing him many passages, whereby he may correct those enormities, and also in such sort conuaying away the water and other moistures, that there cannot be made any land more fruitfull. {sn: of the plough.} now to speake of the plough which is best and most proper for this gray or white clay, of which we now speake, you shall vnderstand that it differeth excéeding much from that of which we spake concerning the blacke clay: i, and in such sort, that there is but small alliance or affinitie betwéene them: as thus for example: first, it is not so large and great as that for the blacke clay: for the head thereof is not aboue twentie inches in length, and not aboue one inch and a halfe in thicknesse, the maine beame thereof is not aboue fiue foot long, & the rest is broader by an inch and more then that for the blacke clay: this plough also hath but one hale, & that is onely the left hand hale: for the plough-staffe, or aker-staffe serueth euer in stead of the right hand hale, so that the rough-staues are fixed, the vpper vnto the shelboard, and the neather vnto the plough-rest, as for your better vnderstanding you may perceiue by this figure. {illustration: the plough with one hale.} now you shall vnderstand that the especiall care which is to be held in the making of this plough, is, that it be wide and open in the hinder part, that it may turne and lay the furrowes one vpon another: whereas if it should be any thing straitned in the hinder part, considering that this clay naturally is somewhat brittle of it selfe, and that the furrowes which you plow must of necessitie be very narrow and little, it were not possible so to lay them, but that they would fall downe backe againe, and inforce the plow-man to lose his labour. also you shall vnderstand that whereas in the former plough, which is for the blacke clay, you may turne the shelboard, that is, when the one end is worne, you may eftsoones turne the other, and make it serue the like season: in this plough you must neuer turne the shelboard, because the rising wing of the share will so defend it, that it will euer last as long as the plough-head, without change or turning. now for the irons belonging vnto this plough, which is the share and coulture, there is more difference in them then in the plough: for to speake first of the share, whereas the former share for the blacke clay, was made broad, plaine, and with a large wing, this share must be made narrow, sharpe, and small, with no wing at all, hauing from the vpper part thereof, close by the shelboard, a certaine rising wing, or broad piece of iron, which comming vp and arming that part of the shelboard which turnes ouer the land, defends the wood from the sharpe mould, which hauing the mixture of pible stone in it, would otherwise in lesse then one dayes worke consume the shelboard vnto nothing, forcing the plow-man to much trouble and double cost. the fashion of the share is presented in this figure following. {illustration: the share.} this share is onely made that it may take a small furrow, and so by breaking the earth oftner then any other share, causeth the land to yéeld a good and plentifull mould, and also kéepe it from binding or choaking the séede when it is cast into it. now for the coulture, it differeth from the former coulture both in breadth and thicknesse, but especially in compasse: for whereas the former coulture for the blacke clay, was made straight, narrow, and thicke, this must be compassed like an halfe bent bow: it must be broader then thrée fingers, and thinner then halfe an inche, according to this figure. {illustration: the coulture.} now when these irons, the shelboard, and other implements are fixed vnto the plough, you shall perceiue that the plough will carry the proportion of this figure following. {illustration: the plough for the gray clay.} hauing thus shewed you the substance, difference, and contraries of these two ploughs, which belong to these two seuerall clayes, the blacke and gray, you shall vnderstand that there is no clay-ground whatsoeuer, which is without other mixture, but one of these ploughs will sufficiently serue to eare and order it: for all clayes are of one of these tempers. {sn: the vse and handling.} now for the vse and manner of handling or holding this plough, it differeth nothing in particular obseruation from the vse and handling of the plough formerly described, more then in the largenesse and smalnesse of the furrowes: for as before i said, whereas the blacke clay must be raised with a great furrow, and a broad stitch, this gray clay must be raised with a small furrow, and a narrow stitch: and although this plough haue nothing but a left hand hale, yet considering the plough-staffe, vpon which the plow-man resteth his right hand, it is all one as if he had a right. and indéede, to make your knowledge the more perfect, you shall know that these gray clayes are generally in their owne natures so wet, tough, and slimy, and doe so clogge, cleaue, and choake vp the plough, that hée which holds it shall haue enough to doe with his right hand onely to clense and kéepe the plough from choaking, insomuch that if there were another hale, yet the plow-man should haue no leasure to hold it. {sn: of the draught or teame.} now for the draught or teame which should draw this plough, they ought in all points, as well in strength as tryuing to be the same with those before shewed for the vse of the blacke clay: as namely, eyther oxen or horse, or horse and oxen mixt together, according to the custome of the soile wherein the plow-man liues, or his abilitie in prouision, obseruing euer to kéepe his number of beasts for his plough certaine, that is to say, for fallowing, and pease-earth, neuer vnder sixe, and for all other ardors foure at the least. and thus much for the plowing of this gray or white clay. chap. vii. _the manner of plowing the red-sand, his earings, plough, and implements._ next vnto these clayes, which are soiles simple and vncompound, as being perfect in their owne natures, without the helpe of other mixtures, i place the sand soiles, as being of like qualitie, not borrowing any thing but from their owne natures, nor bréeding any defects more then their owne naturall imperfections: and of sands, sith the red sand is the best and most fruitfull, therefore it is fit that it take prioritie of place, and be here first spoken of. you shall then vnderstand that this red sand, albeit it is the best of sands, yet it is the worst of many soiles, as being of it selfe of such a hot and drie nature, that it scorcheth the séede, and dryeth vp that nutriment and fatnesse which should occasion increase: whereby it comes to passe, that the barley which growes vpon this red sand is euer more yealow, leane and withered, then that which growes vpon the clayes or other mixt earths. this sand especially taketh delight in rye, because it is a graine which loues warmth aboue all other, and yet notwithstanding, if it be well ordered, manured and plowed, it will bring forth good store of barley, albeit the barley be not so good as clay-barley, either for the colour, or for the yéeld, whether it be in meale or in malt. {sn: of fallowing.} now for the manner of earing or plowing this redde sand, it differeth much from both the former soyles, insomuch that for your better vnderstanding, i must in many places alter my former methode, yet so little as may be, because i am loath to alter or clogge the memory of the reader: wherefore to pursue my purpose. as soone as christmas is ended, that is to say, about the middest of ianuary, you shall goe with your plough into that field where the haruest before did grow your rye, and there you shall in your plowing cast your lands downe-ward, and open the ridges well, for this yéere it must be your fallow field: for as in the former soiles, wée did diuide the fields either into thrée parts, that is, one for barley and wheate, another for pease, and the third fallow, which is the best diuision: or into foure parts, that is, one for wheate and rye, another for barley, a third for pease, and a fourth fallow, which is the worst diuision and most toilesome, so in this red sand soile, we must euer diuide it into thrée parts, that is, one for barley, another for rye, and a third fallow. for this sand-soile being hot, drie, and light, will neither bring forth good beanes nor good pease, and therefore that ardor is in this place but onely to be spoke of by way of discourse in vrgent necessitie. wherefore (as before i said) about the middest of ianuary you shall beginne to lay fallow that field, where formerly did grow your rye, the manner of plowing whereof differeth nothing from the manner of plowing the clayes before written of, onely that the discretion of the plow-man must thus farre forth gouerne him, that in as much as this soile is lighter, dryer, and of a more loose temper, by so much the more he must be carefull to make his furrowes lesse, and to lay them the closer together: & also in as much as this soile, through his naturall warmth and temperate moisture, is excéeding apt to bring forth much wéede, especially brakes, ling, brambles, and such like, therefore the plow-man shall be very carefull to plow all his furrowes very cleane, without baukes or other impediments by which may be ingendred any of these inconueniences. {sn: of spring-foyling.} after you haue thus broke vp and fallowed your fallow or tilth-field, the limitation of which time is from the middest of ianuary vntill the middest of february, you shall then at the middest of february, when the clay-men begin to sow their beanes and pease, goe with your plough into your other fallow-field, which all the yéere before hath laine fallow and already receiued at your hands at least foure seuerall ardors; as fallowing, summer-stirring, foyling, and winter-rigging; and there you shall plow all that field ouer the fift time, which is called the spring-foyling: and in this ardor you shall plow all your lands vpward, in such sort as when you winter-ridge it, by which meanes you shall plow vp all those wéedes which haue sprung forth in the winter season. for you must vnderstand that in these light, hot, sandy soiles, there is a continuall spring (though not of good fruits) yet of wéeds, quicks, and other inconueniences: for it is a rule amongst husbandmen, that warme soiles are neuer idle, that is, they are euer bringing forth something. {sn: of sowing march-rye.} now the limitation for this ardor is from the middest of februarie vntill the middest of march, at which time you shall, by comparing former experience with your present iudgement, take into your consideration the state, goodnesse, and powerfulnesse of your land, i meane especially of this fallow-field, which hath laine fallow the yéere before, and hath now receiued fiue ardors: and if you finde any part of it, either for want of good ordoring in former times, or for want of manure in the present yéere, to be growne so leane and out of hart, that you feare it hath not strength enough to beare barley, you shall then at this time, being the middest of march, sow such land with rye, which of husbandmen is called the sowing of march-rye: and this rye is to be sowne and harrowed in such sort as you did sow it vpon the clay soiles, that is to say, aboue furrow, and not vnder furrow, except the land be very full of quickes, that is, of brakes, ling, brambles, dockes, or such like, and then you shall first with a paire of iron harrowes, that is, with harrowes that haue iron téeth, first of all harrow the land ouer, and by that meanes teare vp by the rootes all those quickes, and so bring them from the land: which done, you shall sow the land ouer with rye, and then plow it downeward which is vnder furrow: & as soone as it is plowed, you shall then with a paire of iron harrowes harrow it all ouer so excéedingly, that the mould may be made as fine, and the land lie as smooth as is possible. {sn: of the harrow.} now because i haue in the former chapters spoke of harrowes and harrowing, yet haue not deliuered vnto you the shape and proportion thereof, and because both the woodden harrow and the iron harrow haue all one shape, and differ in nothing but the téeth onely, i thinke it not amisse before i procéede any further to shew you in this figure the true shape of a right harrow. {illustration: the harrow.} the parts of this harrow consisteth of buls, staues, and téeth: of buls, which are broad thicke pieces eyther of well seasoned willow, or sallow, being at least thrée inches euery way square, into which are fastned the téeth: of staues, which are round pieces of well seasoned ash, being about two inches and a halfe about, which going thorow the buls, holde the buls firmely in equall distance one from the other: and of téeth, which are either long pinnes of wood or iron, being at least fiue inches in length, which are made fast, and set slope-wise through the buls. {sn: the diuersitie of harrowes.} now you shall vnderstand that harrowes are of two kindes, that is, single and double: the single harrow is called of husbandmen the horse-harrow, and is not aboue foure foote square: the double harrow is called the oxe-harrow, and it must be at least seauen foote square, and the téeth must euer be of iron. now whereas i spake of the horse-harrow and the oxe-harrow, it is to be vnderstood that the single harrow doth belong to the horse, because horses drawing single, doe draw each a seuerall harrow by himselfe, albeit in the common vse of harrowing, we couple two horses euer together, and so make them draw two single harrowes: but oxen not being in good husbandry to be separated, because euer two must draw in one yoake, therefore was the double harrow deuised, containing in substance and worke as much as two single harrowes. {sn: the vse of harrowes.} now for the vse of harrowes. the woodden harrow which is the harrow with woodden téeth, is euer to be vsed vpon clay grounds and light grounds, which through drynesse doth grow loose, and fals to mould of it owne nature, as most commonly sand grounds doe also: and the iron harrow which is the harrow with iron téeth, is euer to be vsed vpon binding grounds, such as through drynesse grow so hard that they will not be sundered, and through wet turne soone to mire and loose durt. now whereas there be mingled earths, which neither willingly yéeld to mould, nor yet bindes so sore, but small industry breaks it, of which earth i shall speake hereafter, to such grounds the best husbands vse a mixture, that is to say, one woodden harrow, and one iron harrow, that the woodden harrow turning ouer and loosening the loosest mould, the iron harrow comming after, may breake the stiffer clots, and so consequently turne all the earth to a fine mould. and thus much for harrowes. {sn: of the sowing of pulse.} {sn: of pease, lentles, and lupines.} now to returne to my former purpose touching the tillage of this red sand: if (as before i said) you finde any part of your fallow-field too weake to beare barley, then is your march-rye, a graine which will take vpon a harder earth: but if the ground be too weake either for barley or rye, (for both those séedes desire some fatnesse of ground) then shall you spare plowing it at all vntill this time of the yéere, which is mid-march, and then you shall plow it, and sow it with either the smallest pease you can get, or else with our true english fitches, which by forraine authors are called _lentles_, that is, white fitches, or _lupines_, which are red fitches: for all these thrée sorts of pulse will grow vpon very barraine soiles, and in their growth doe manure and make rich the ground: yet your pease desire some hart of ground, your _lentles_, or white fitches, lesse, and your _lupines_, or red fitches, the least of all, as being apt to grow vpon the barrainest soile: so likewise your pease doe manure barraine ground well, your _lentles_ better and your _lupines_ the best of all. now for the nature and vse of these graines, the pease as all husbandmen know, are both good for the vse of man in his bread, as are vsed in leicester-shire, lincolne-shire, nottingham-shire, and many other countries: and also for horses in their prouender, as is vsed generally ouer all england: for _lentles_, or white fitches, or the _lupines_ which are redde fitches, they are both indifferent good in bread for man, especially if the meale be well scalded before it be knodden (for otherwise the sauour is excéeding rancke) or else they are a very good foode being sodden in the manner of leaps-pease, especially at sea, in long iourneyes where fresh meate is most exceeding scarce: so that rather then your land should lye idle, and bring forth no profit, i conclude it best to sow these pulses, which both bring forth commoditie, and also out of their owne natures doe manure and inrich your ground, making it more apt and fit to receiue much better séede. for the manner of sowing these thrée sorts of pulse: you shall sow them euer vnder furrow, in such sort as is described for the sowing of pease and beanes vpon the white or gray clay which is of indifferent drinesse and apt to breake. {sn: of manuring.} now the limitation for this ardor or séede time, is from the middest of march, till the middest of aprill: then from the middest of aprill, till the middest of may, you shall make your especiall worke, to be onely the leading forth of your manure to that field which you did fallow, or lay tilth that present yéere immediatelie after christmas, and of which i first spake in this chapter. and herein is to be vnderstood, that the best and principallest manure for this redde-sand, is the ouldest manure of beasts which can be-gotten, which you shall know by the excéeding blacknesse and rottennesse thereof, being in the cutting both soft and smooth, all of one substance, as if it were well compact morter, without any shew of straw or other stuffe which is vnrotted, for this dung is of all the fattest and coolest, and doth best agrée with the nature of this hot sand. next to the dung of beasts, is the dung of horses if it be old also, otherwise it is somewhat of the hottest, the rubbish of old houses, or the swéepings of flowres, or the scowrings of old fish-ponds, or other standing waters where beasts and horses are vsed to drinke, or be washt, or wherevnto the water and moisture of dunghills haue recourse are all good manures for this redde-sand: as for the manure of shéepe vpon this redde-sand, it is the best of all in such places as you meane to sow rie, but not fully so good where you doe intend to sow your barley: if it be a cold moist redde-sand (which is seldome found but in some particular low countries) then it doth not amisse to manure it most with shéepe, or else with chaulke, lime, or ashes, of which you can get the greatest plentie: if this soile be subiect to much wéede and quickes, as generally it is, then after you haue torne vp the wéedes and quickes with harrowes, you shall with rakes, rake them together, and laying them in heapes vpon the land, you shall burne them and then spreading the ashes they will be a very good manure, and in short space destroy the wéedes also; likewise if your land be much ouergrowne with wéedes, if when you sheare your rie you leaue a good long stubble, and then mowing the stubble burne it vpon the land, it is both a good manure and also a good meanes to destroy the wéedes. {sn: of sowing barley.} after your manure is lead forth and either spread vpon the lands, or set in great heapes, so as the land may be couered ouer with manure (for it is to be obserued that this soile must be throughly manured) then about the middest of may, which is the time when this worke should be finished, you shall repaire with your plough into the other fallow field, which was prepared the yéere before for this yéeres barley, & there you shall sow it all ouer with barley aboue furrow, that is to say, you shall first plough it, then sow it, and after harrow it, making the mould as fine and smooth as may be, which is done with easie labour, because this sand of it owne nature is as fine as ashes. {sn: of summer-stirring.} {sn: of sleighting.} now the limitation for this séede time, is from the middest of may, till the middest of iune, wherein if any man demand why it should not be sowne in march and aprill, according as it is sowne in the former soiles, i answere, that first this redde-sand cannot be prepared, or receiue his full season in weather, and earings, before this time of the yéere, and next that these redde-sands, by how much they are hotter and drier then the other claies, by so much they may wel stay the longer before they receiue their séede, because that so much the sooner the séede doth sprout in them, & also the sooner ripen being kept warmer at the roote then in any could soile whatsoeuer. as soone as the middest of iune approacheth, you shall then beginne to summer-stirre your fallow field, and to turne your manure into your land, in such sort as you did vpon your clay soiles, for this ardor of summer-stirring altereth in no soile, and this must be done from the middest of iune, till the middest of iuly, for as touching sleighting, clotting, or smoothing of this barley field, it is seldome in vse, because the finenesse of the sand will lay the land smooth inough without sleighting: yet if you finde that any particular land lieth more rough then the rest, it shall not be amisse, if with your backe harrowes you smooth it a little within a day or two after it is sowne. {sn: of foiling.} {sn: of sowing rye.} from the middest of iuly vntill the middest of august, you shall foile and throw downe your fallow field againe, if your lands lie well and in good order, but if any of your lands doe lie in the danger of water, or by vse of plowing are growne too flat, both which are hinderances to the growth of corne, then when you foile your lands you shall plow them vpward, and so by that meanes raise the ridges one furrow higher. after you haue foiled your land, which must be about the middest of august, then will your barley be ready to mowe, for these hot soiles haue euer an earely haruest, which as soone as it is mowne and carried into the barne, forthwith you shall with all expedition carry forth such manure as you may conueniently spare, and lay it vpon that land from whence you receiued your barley, which is most barraine: and if you want cart manure, you shall then lay your fould of shéepe thereupon, and as soone as it is manured, you shall immediately plow both it & the rest, which ardor should be finished by the middest of september, and so suffered to rest vntill the beginning of october, at which time you shall beginne to sow all that field ouer with rye in such sort as hath béene spoken of in former places. {sn: obiection.} now in as much as the ignorant husbandman may very easiely imagine that i reckon vp his labours too thicke, and therein leaue him no leasure for his necessarie businesses, especially because i appoint him to foile his land from the middest of iuly, till the middest of august, which is both a busie time for his hay haruest, and also for his rye shearing. {sn: answere.} to this i make answere, that i write not according to that which poore men are able (for it were infinit to looke into estates) but according as euery good husband ought, presupposing that he which will liue by the plough, ought to pursue all things belonging vnto the plough, and then he shall finde that there is no day in the yéere, but the saboth, but it is necessarie that the plough be going: yet to reconcile the poore and the rich together, they shall vnterstand, that when i speake of plowing in the time of haruest, i doe not meane that they should neglect any part of that principall worke, which is the true recompence of their labour: but because whilst the dew is vpon the ground, or when there is either raine or mizling there is then no time for haruest worke, then my meaning is that the carefull husbandman shall take those aduantages, and rising earelier in the mornings, be sure to be at his plough two howers before the dew be from the ground, knowing that the getting but of one hower in the day compasseth a great worke in a month, neither shall hée néede to feare the ouer toiling of his cattell, sith at that time of the yéere grasse being at greatest plenty, strongest and fullest of hart, corne scattered almost in euery corner, and the mouth of the beast not being muzeld in his labour, there is no question but he will indure and worke more then at any other season. {sn: of winter ridging.} in the beginning of nouember, you shall beginne to winter-ridge your fallow, or tilth-field, which in all points shalbe done according to the forme described in the former soiles: for that ardor of all other neuer altereth, because it is as it were a defence against the latter spring, which else would fill the lands full of wéedes, and also against the rigor of winter, and therefore it doth lay vp the furrow close together, which taking the season of the frost, winde, and weather makes the mould ripe, mellow, and light: and the limitation for this ardor, is from the beginning of nouember, vntill the middest of december. {sn: of the plough.} {sn: of the coulture.} now as touching the plough which is best and most proper for this redde-sand, it differeth nothing in shape and composure of members from that plough which is described for the blacke clay, hauing necessarily two hales, because the ground being loose and light, the plough will with great difficulty hold land, but with the least disorder be euer ready to runne into the furrow, so that a right hand hale is most necessarie for the houlding of the plough euen, onely the difference of the two ploughes consisteth in this, that the plough for this red-sand, must be much lesse then the plough for the blacke clay houlding in the sizes of the timber the due proportion of the plough for the white or gray clay, or if it be somewhat lesse it is not amisse, as the head being eightéene inches, the maine beame not aboue foure foote, and betwéene the hinder part of the rest, and the out-most part of the plough head in the hinder end not aboue eight inches. now for the plough-irons which doe belong vnto this plough, the coulture is to be made circular, in such proportion as the coulture for the gray, or white clay, and in the placing, or tempering vpon the plough it is to be set an inch at least lower then the share, that it may both make way before the share, and also cut déeper into the land, to make the furrow haue more easie turning. {sn: of the share.} now for the share, it differeth in shape from both the former shares, for it is neither so large nor out-winged, as that for the gray clay, for this share is onely made broad to the plough ward, and small to the point of the share, with onely a little peake and no wing according to this figure. {illustration: the share.} {sn: of the plough-slip.} these plough-irons, both coulture and share, must be well stéeled and hardned at the points, because these sandy soiles being full of moisture and gréete, will in short space weare and consume the irons, to the great hinderance and cost of the husbandman, if it be not preuented by stéele and hardning, which notwithstanding will waste also in these soiles, so that you must at least twise in euery ardor haue your irons to the smith, and cause him to repaire them both with iron and stéele, besides these irons, of coulture and share, you must also haue a long piece of iron, which must be iust of the length of the plough head, and as broad as the plough head is thicke, and in thicknesse a quarter of an inch: and this piece of iron must be nailed vpon the outside of the plough head, next vnto the land, onely to saue the plough head from wearing, for when the plough is worne it can then no longer hould the land, and this piece of iron is called of husbandmen the plough-slip and presenteth this figure. {illustration: the plough-slip.} {sn: of plough clouts.} ouer and besides this plough-slip, their are certaine other pieces of iron which are made in the fashion of broad thinne plates, and they be called plough clouts, and are to be nailed vpon the shelboard, to defend it from the earth or furrow which it turneth ouer, which in very short space would weare the woode and put the husbandman to double charge. {sn: the houlding of the plough.} thus hauing shewed you the parts, members, and implements, belonging to this plough, it rests that i procéede vnto the teame or draught: for to speake of the vse and handling of this plough, it is néedelesse, because it is all one with those ploughes, of which i haue spoken in the former chapters, and he which can hould and handle a plough in stiffe clayes must néedes (except he be excéeding simple) hould a plough in these light sands, in as much as the worke is much more easie and the plough a great deale lesse chargeable. {sn: of the draught.} now for the draught or teame, they ought to be as in the former soiles, oxen or horses, yet the number not so great: for foure beasts are sufficient to plow any ardor vpon this soile, nay, thrée horses if they be of reasenable strength will doe as much as sixe vpon either of the clay-soiles: asfor their attire or harnessing, the beare-geares, before described, are the best and most proper. and thus much concerning this red sand, wherein you are to take this briefe obseruation with you, that the graines which are best to be sowne vpon it, are onely rye, barley, small pease, _lentles_ and _lupines_, otherwise called fitches, and the graines to which it is aduerse, are wheat, beanes and maslin. chap. viii. _the manner of plowing the white sand, his earings, plough, and implements._ next vnto this red sand, is the white sand, which is much more barraine then the red sand, yet by the industry of the husbandman in plowing, and by the cost of manure it is made to beare corne in reasonable plentie. now of white sands there be two kindes, the one a white sand mixt with a kinde of marle, as that in norffolke, suffolke, and other such like places butting vpon the sea-coast: the other a white sand with pible, as in some parts of surrey, about ancaster in lincolne shire, and about salisbury in wil-shire. {sn: of the white sand with pible.} now for this white sand with pible, it is the barrainest, and least fruitfull in bringing forth, because it hath nothing but a hot dustie substance in it. for the manner of earing thereof, it agréeth in all points with the redde sand, the ardors being all one, the tempers, manurings and all other appurtenances: the séede also which it delights in is all one with the red sand, as namely, rye, barley, pease and fitches. wherefore who so shall dwell vpon such a soile, i must referre him to the former chapter of the red sand, and therein he shall finde sufficient instruction how to behaue himselfe vpon this earth: remembring that in as much as it is more barraine then the red sand, by so much it craueth more care and cost, both in plowing and manuring thereof, which two labours onely make perfect the ill ground. {sn: of the white sand with marle.} now for the white sand which hath as it were a certaine mixture, or nature of marle in it, you shall vnderstand that albeit vnto the eye it be more dry and dustie then the red sand, yet it is fully as rich as the red sand: for albe it doe not beare barley in as great plenty as the red sand, yet it beareth wheate abundantly, which the red sand seldome or very hardly bringeth forth. {sn: of fallowing.} wherefore to procéede to the earings or tillage of this white marly sand, you shall vnderstand that about the middest of ianuary is fit time to beginne to fallow your field which shall be tilth and rest for this yéere: wherein by the way, before i procéede further, you shall take this obseruation with you, that whereas in the former soiles i diuided the fields into thrée & foure parts, this soile cannot conueniently, if it be well husbanded, be diuided into any more parts then two, that is to say, a fallow field, and a wheat-field: in which wheate-field if you haue any land richer then other, you may bestow barley vpon it, vpon the second you may bestow wheat, vpon the third sort of ground rye, and vpon the barrainest, pease or fitches: and yet all these must be sowne within one field, because in this white sand, wheate and rye will not grow after barley or pease, nor barley and pease after wheate or rye. your fields being then diuided into two parts, that is, one for corne, the other for rest, you shall as before i said, about the middest of ianuary beginne to fallow your tith-field, which in all obseruations you shall doe according as is mentioned for the red sand. {sn: of sowing pease.} about the middest of march, if you haue any barraine or wasted ground within your fallow field, or if you haue any occasion to breake vp any new ground, which hath not béene formerly broake vp, in eyther of these cases you shall sow pease or fitches thereupon, and those pease or fitches you shall sow vnder furrow as hath béene before described. {sn: of spring-fallowing.} about the middest of aprill you shall plow your fallow-field ouer againe, in such manner as you plowed when you fallowed it first: and this is called spring-fallowing, and is of great benefit because at that time the wéedes and quickes beginning to spring, nay, to flowrish, by reason that the heate of the climbe puts them forth sooner then in other soyles, if they should not be plowed vp before they take too strong roote, they would not onely ouer-runne, but also eate out the hart of the land. {sn: of sowing barley.} about the middest of may you shall beginne to sow your barley vpon the richest part of your old fallow-field, which at the michaelmas before, when you did sow your wheate, and rye, and maslin, you did reserue for that purpose: and this barley you shall sow in such sort as is mentioned in the former chapter of the red sand, in so much that this ardor being finished, which is the last part of your séede-time, your whole field shall be furnished eyther with wheate, if it hold a temperate fatnesse, or with wheate and barley, if it be rich and richer, or with wheate, barley and pulse, if it be rich, poore or extreame barraine: and the manner of sowing all these seuerall séedes is described in the chapters going before. {sn: of summer-stirring.} about the middest of iune you shall beginne to summer-stirre your fallow-field, in such sort as was spoken of in the former chapters concerning the other soiles: for in this ardor there is no alteration of methode, but onely in gouernment of the plough, considering the heauinesse and lightnesse of the earth. during this ardor you shall busily apply your labour in leading forth your manure, for it may at great ease be done both at one season, neyther the plough hindering the cart, nor the cart staying the plough: for this soile being more light and easie in worke then any other soile whatsoeuer, doth euer preserue so many cattell for other imployment that both workes may goe forward together, as shall be shewed when wee come to speake of the plough, and the teame which drawes it. {sn: of manuring.} now as touching the manures most fit for this soyle, they be all those of which we haue formerly written, ashes onely excepted, which being of an hot nature doe scald the séede, and detaine it from all fruitfulnesse, being mixt with this hot soile, so is likewise lyme, and the burning of stubble: other manures are both good and occasion much fertilitie, as being of a binding and coole nature, and holding together that loosenesse which in his too much separation taketh all nutriment from the earth. {sn: of weeding.} after you haue ledde forth your manure, and summer-stird your land, you shall then about the beginning of iulie looke into your corne-field, and if you perceiue any thistles, or any other superfluous wéedes to annoy your corne, you shall then (as is before said) either cut, or plucke them vp by the rootes. {sn: of foyling.} about the middest of august you shall beginne to foile or cast downe your fallow-field againe, and in that ardor you shall be very carefull to plow cleane and leaue no wéedes vncut vp: for in these hot soiles if any wéedes be left with the least roote, so that they may knit and bring forth séede, the annoyance thereof will remaine for at least foure yéeres after, which is a double fallowing. and to the end that you may cut vp all such wéedes cleane, although both your share and coulture misse them, you shall haue the rest of your plough in the vnder part which strokes alongst the earth filled all full of dragges of iron, that is, of olde crooked nailes or great tenter-hookes, such as vpon the putting downe of your right hand when you come néere a wéed shall catch hold thereof and teare it vp by the rootes, as at this day is vsed be many particular husbands in this kingdome, whose cares, skils, and industries are not inferiour to the best whatsoeuer. {sn: of sowing wheate and rye.} {sn: the choise of seede.} about the middest of september, you shall beginne to sow your wheate and rye vpon your fallow field, which graine vpon this soile is to be reckoned the most principall: and you shall sow it in the same manner that is described in the former chapters, wherein your especiallest care is the choise of your séede: for in this soile your whole-straw wheate, nor your great pollard taketh any delight, neither your organe, for all those thrée must haue a firme and a strong mould: but your chilter-wheate, your flaxen-wheate, your white-pollard, and your red-wheate, which are the wheates which yéeld the purest and finest meale, (although they grow not in so great abundance) are the séedes which are most proper and naturall for this soile. as for rye or maslin, according to the goodnesse of the ground so you shall bestow your séede: for it is a generall rule, that wheresoeuer your wheate growes, there will euer rye grow, but rye will many times grow where wheate will not prosper; and therefore for the sowing of your rye, it must be according to the temper of the earth, and the necessitie of your houshold: for wheate being a richer graine then rye, if you be assured that your ground will beare wheate well, it is small husbandrie to sow more rye or maslin then for your house: but if it be too hot for wheate, and kindly for rye, then it is better to haue good rye, then ill wheate. now for the sowing of your rye or maslin in this soile, it differeth nothing from the former soiles, either in plowing or any other obseruation, that is to say, it must be plowed aboue furrow: for rye being the most tender graine, it can neither abide the waight of earth, nor yet moisture; the one, as it were, burying, and the other drowning the vigour and strength of the séede. {sn: of winter-ridging.} about the beginning of nouember you shall winter-ridge your fallow field, i meane that part which you doe preserue for barley (for the other part is furnished with séede) and this winter-ridging differeth nothing from the winter ridging of other soiles, onely you shall a little more precisely obserue to set vp your lands more straight and high then in other soiles, both to defend them from wet, which this soile is much subiect vnto, because commonly some great riuer is neare it, and also for the preseruing of the strength and goodnesse of the manure within the land which by lying open and vnclosed would soone be washt forth and consumed. {sn: of the clensing of lands, or drawing of water-furrowes.} now sith i haue here occasion to speake something of the draining of lands, and the kéeping of them from the annoyance of superfluous wet, whether it be by invndation or otherwise, you shall vnderstand that it is the especiall office and dutie of euery good husbandman, not onely in this soile, but in all other whatsoeuer, to haue a principall respect to the kéeping of his land dry, and to that end hée shall diligently (as soone as he hath winter-rigged his land) take a carefull view how his lands lie, which way the descent goes from whence annoyance or water may possibly come, and so consequently from those obseruations, with a spade or strong plough, of extraordinary greatnesse, draw certaine déepe furrowes from descent vnto descent, by which meanes all the water may be conuayed from his lands, eyther into some common sewer, lake, brooke, or other maine riuer: and to this end it is both a rule in the common lawes of our land, and a laudable custome in the common-wealth of euery towne, that for as much as many townes haue their lands lie in common, that is to say, mixed neighbour with neighbour, few or none hauing aboue two or three lands at the most lying together in one place, therefore euery man shall ioyne, and make their water-furrowes one from another, vntill such time as the water be conuayed into some common issue, as well hée whose lands be without all danger, as he that is troubled with the greatest annoyance, and herein euery one shall beare his particular charge: which is an act of great vertue and goodnesse. {sn: of the plough.} now for the plough which is to plow this white sand it doth differ nothing in size, proportion, and vse of handling from the plough described for the red sand, onely it hath one addition more, that is to say, at the further end of the maine beame of the plough, where you fixe your plough-foote, there you shall place a little paire of round whéeles, which bearing the beame vpon a loose mouing axletrée, being iust the length of two furrows and no more, doth so certainly guide the plough in his true furrow that it can neither lose the land by swaruing (as in these light soiles euery plough is apt to doe) nor take too much land, eyther by the gréedinesse of the plough or sharpnesse of the irons, neither can it drownd through the easie lightnesse of the earth, nor runne too shallow through the fussinesse of the mould, but the whéeles being made of a true proportion, which should not be aboue twelue inches from the centre, the plough with a reasonable hand of gouernment shall runne in a direct and euen furrow: the proportion of which plough is contained in this figure. {illustration: the plough with wheeles.} this plough of all others i hold to be most ancient, and as being the modell of the first inuention, and at this day is preserued both in france, germany, & italy, and no other proportion of ploughes knowne, both as we perceiue by our experience in séeing them plow, & also by reading of their writings: for neither in _virgil_, _columella_, _xenophon_, nor any olde writer: nor in _heresbachius_, _steuens_, nor _libault_, being later writers, finde wée any other plough bequeathed vnto our memories. yet it is most certaine, that in many of our english soiles, this plough is of little profit, as we finde by daily experience both in our clayes, and many of our mixt earths: for in truth this plough is but onely for light, sandy, or grauelly soiles, as for the most part these forraine countries are, especially about the sea-coast, or the borders of great cities, from whence these writers most generally tooke the presidents for their writings. {sn: of the plough-irons.} now for the parts of this plough, it consisteth of the same members which the former ploughs doe, onely that in stead of the plough-foote it hath a paire of whéeles. it hath also but one hale, in such sort as the plough for the gray or white clay. the beame also of this plough is much more straight then the former, by which meanes the skeath is not full so long. the irons belonging vnto this plough are of the fashion of the former irons, onely they be somewhat lesse, that is to say, the coulture is not so long, neyther so full bent as that for the red sand, nor so straight as that for the blacke clay, but as it were holding a meane betwéene both: so likewise the share is not fully so broad as that for the red sand, nor so narrow as that for the gray clay, but holds as it were a middle size betwéene both, somewhat leaning in proportion to the shape of that for the blacke clay. as for the plough-slip, plough-clouts, and other implements which are to defend the wood from the hardnesse of the earth, they are the same, and in the same wise to be vsed as those for the red sand. {sn: of the draught.} now for the draught or teame which drawes this plough, they are as in all other draughts, oxen or horses, but for the number thereof they differ much from those which are formerly written of: for you shall vnderstand that in this white sandy soile, which is of all soiles the lightest, eyther two good horses, or two good oxen are a number sufficient to plow any ardor vpon this soile whatsoeuer, as by daily experience we may sée in those countries whose soile consists of this white light sand, of which wée haue now written: neyther shall the plow-man vpon this soile néede any person to driue or order his plough more then himselfe: for the soile being so light and easie to cut, the plough so nimble, and the cattell so few and so neare him, hauing euer his right hand at libertie (because his plough hath but onely a left hand hale) he hath liberty euer to carry a goade or whip in his right hand, to quicken and set forward his cattell, and also a line which being fastned to the heads of the beasts, hée may with it euer when hée comes to the lands end, stop them and turne them vpon which hand he pleases. and thus much for the tillage and ordering of this white sand. chap. ix. _the manner of plowing the grauell with pible stones, or the grauell with flint, their earings, plough, and implements._ hauing in the plainest manner i can written sufficiently already of the foure simple and vncompounded soiles, to wit, two clayes, blacke and gray, and two sands, red and white, it now rests that i also giue you some perfect touch or taste of the mixt or compounded soiles, as namely, the grauell which is a kinde of hard sand, clay and stone mixt together: and of grauels there be two kindes, that is to say, one that is mixt with little small pible stones, as in many parts of middlesex, kent, and surry: and the grauell mixt with broad flints, as in many parts of hartford-shire, essex, and sundry such places. these grauels are both, in generall, subiect to much barrainnesse, especially if they be accompanied with any extraordinary moisture, yet with the good labour of plowing, and with the cost of much manure, they are brought to reasonable fruitfulnesse, where it comes to passe that the plow-man which is master of such a soile, if either he liue not neare some citie or market-towne, where great store of manure, by the concourse of people, is daily bred, and so consequently is very cheape, or else haue not in his owne store and bréede, meanes to raise good store of manure, hée shall seldome thriue and prosper thereupon. now although in these grauell soiles there is a diuersity of mixture, as the one mingled with small pibles, which indéede is the worst mixture, the other with broad flints, which is the better signe of fruitfulnesse: yet in their order of tillage or earings, in their wéeding and cleansing, and in all other ardors and obseruations, they differ nothing at all, the beginning and ending of each seuerall worke being all one. now for the manner of worke belonging vnto these two soiles, it altereth in no respect nor obseruation eyther in plough, plowing, manuring, weeding, or any other thing whatsoeuer, from that of the white sand, the same times of the yéere, the same séedes, and the same earings being euer to be obserued, wherefore it shall be needlesse to write so amply of these soiles as of the former, because being all one with the white sand, without alteration, it were but to write one thing twice, and therefore i referre the reader to the former chapter, and also the husbandman that shall liue vpon either of these soiles, onely with these few caueats: first, that for the laying his lands, hée shall lay them in little small stitches, that is, not hauing aboue foure furrowes laid together, as it were for one land, in such sort as you sée in hartford-shire, essex, middlesex, kent and surry: for this soile being for the most part subiect to much moisture and hardnesse, if it should be laid in great lands, according to the manner of the north parts, it would ouer-burden, choake and confound the séed which is throwne into it. secondly, you shall not goe about to gather off the stones which séeme as it were to couer the lands, both because the labour is infinite and impossible, as also because those stones are of good vse, and as it were a certaine manuring and helpe vnto the ground: for the nature of this grauell being colde and moist, these stones doe in the winter time, defend and kéepe the sharpnesse of the frosts and bleake windes from killing the heart or roote of the séedes, and also in the summer it defends the scorching heate of the sunne from parching and drying vp the séede, which in this grauelly soile doth not lie so well couered, as in other soyles, especially if this kinde of earth be inuironed with any great hils (as most commonly it is) the reflection whereof makes the heate much more violent. and lastly, to obserue that there is no manure better or more kindly for this kinde of earth then chaulke, white marle, or lyme: for all other matters whatsoeuer the former chapter of the white sand, will giue you sufficient instructions. chap. x. _the manner of plowing the blacke clay mixt with red sand, and the white clay mixt with white sand, their earings, plough and implements._ next to these grauelly soiles, there be also two other compounded earths, as namely, the blacke clay mixt with red sand, and the white clay mixt with white sand, which albe they differ in composition of mould, yet they hold one nature in their tillage and husbandry: wherefore first to speake of the blacke clay mixt with red sand, which (as before i said) is called of husbandmen an hassell earth, you shall vnderstand that it is a very rich and good soile, very fruitfull both for corne and grasse: for corne, being apt to beare any séede whatsoeuer: and for grasse, as naturally putting it forth very earely in the yéere, by which your cattell shall get reliefe sooner then in other soiles of colder nature: for both the blacke and white claies doe seldome flowrish with any store of grasse before iune, which is the time of wood-seare, and this soile will boast of some plenty about the beginning of aprill at the furthest: but for grasse we shall speake in his proper place. {sn: of fallowing.} now for his tillage it is thus: you shall about the middest of ianuary, beginne to fallow that field which you intend that yéere shall lye at rest or tilth, and you shall fallow it in such sort as is specified in the chapter of the blacke clay: onely you shall raise small furrowes and plow the land cleane, being sure to open and cast the land downeward if the land lie high and round, otherwise you shall neuer at any time cast the land downe but ridge it vp, that is to say, when you fallow it, you shall cast the first furrow downeward, and so likewise the second, which two furrowes being cleane ploughed, will lay the land open inough, that is, there wilbe no part of the ridge vnploughed: which done, by changing your hand and the gate of your plough, you shall plough those furrowes backe againe and lay them vpward, and so plough the whole land vpward, also laying it round and high: the reason for this manner of plowing being this, that for as much as this land being mixt of clay and sand, must néedes be a sore binding land, therefore if it should be laid flat, if any great raine or wet should fall, and a present drought follow it, neither should you possibly force your plough to enter into it and breake it, or being broken should you get so much mould as to couer your corne and giue the séede comfort, whereas vpon the contrary part, if it be laid high and vpright, it must necessarily be laid hollow and light, in so much that you may both plough it at your pleasure, and also beget so perfect a mould as any other soile whatsoeuer, both because the wet hath liberty to auoide through the hollownesse, and also because the sunne and weather hath power to enter and season it, wherefore in conclusion you shall fallow this field downeward if it lye high and vpright, otherwise you shall fallow it vpward as the meanes to bring it to the best ardor. now for this fallow field it must euer be made where the yéere before you did reape your pease, in case you haue but thrée fields, or where you did reape your wheate, rye, and maslin, in case you haue foure fields, according to the manner of the blacke clay. {sn: of sowing pease.} about the middest of february, which is within a day or two of saint _valentines_ day, if the season be any thing constant in fairenesse and drinesse, you shall then beginne to sow your pease, for you must vnderstand that albeit this soile will beare beanes, yet they are nothing so naturall for it as pease, both because they are an hungry séede and doe much impaire and wast the ground, and also because they prosper best in a fat, loose, and tough earth, which is contrary to this hard and drie soile: but especially if you haue foure fields, you shall forbeare to sow any beanes at all, least you loose two commodities, that is, both quantitie of graine (because beanes are not so long and fruitfull vpon this earth, as vpon the clayes) and the manuring of your ground, which pease out of their owne natures doe, both by the smoothering of the ground and their owne fatnesse, when your beanes doe pill and sucke the hart out of the earth. now for the manner of sowing your pease, you shall sow them aboue furrow, that is, first plough the land vpward, then immediately sow your pease, and instantly after harrow them, the plough, the séedes-man, and the harrower, by due course, following each other, and so likewise you may sow oates vpon this soile. {sn: of sowing barley.} about the middest of march, which is almost a fortnight before our lady day, you shall beginne to sow your barley, which barley you shall sow neither vnder-furrow nor aboue, but after this order: first, you shall plow your land downeward, beginning at the furrow and so assending vpward to the ridge of the land, which as soone as you haue opened, you shall then by pulling the plough out of the earth, and laying the shelboard crosse the ridge, you shall fill the ridge in againe with the same mould which you plowed vp: this done, your séedes-man shall bring his barley and sow the land aboue furrow: after the land is sowne, you shall then harrow it as small as may be, first with a paire of woodden harrowes, and after with a paire of iron harrowes, or else with a double oxe harrow, for this earth being somewhat hard and much binding, will aske great care and dilligence in breaking. {sn: of sleighting.} after your barley is sowne, you shall about the latter end of aprill beginne to smooth and sleight your land, both with the backe harrowes and with the rouler, and looke what clots they faile to breake, you shall with clotting beetles beate them asunder, making your mould as fine and laying your land as smooth as is possible. {sn: of summer-stirring.} about the middest of may, you shall, if any wet fall, beginne to summer-stirre your land, or if no wet fall, you shall doe your indeauour to summer-stirre your land, rather aduenturing to breake two ploughes, then to loose one day in that labour, knowing this, that one land summer-stird in a dry season, is better then thrée summer-stird in a wet or moist weather, both because it giues the earth a better temper, and kils the wéedes with more assurednesse, and as i speake of summer-stirring, so i speake of all other ardors, that the drier they are done the better they are euer done: and in this season you shall also gather the stones from your ground. {sn: obiection.} now it may be obiected, that if it be best to plough in drie seasons, it is then best to fallow also in a dry season, and by that meanes not to beginne to fallow vntill the beginning of may, as is prescribed for the blacke clay, and so to deferre the summer-stirring till the next month after, sith of necessitie ianuary must either be wet or else vnkindely. {sn: answere.} to this i make answere, that most true it is, that the land which is last fallowed is euer the best and most fruitfull, yet this mixt earth which is compound of sand and clay, is such a binding earth, that if it be not taken and fallowed in a moist-time of the yéere, as namely, in ianuary or february, but suffered to lye till may, at which time the drought hath so entered into him, that the greatest part of his moisture is decaied, then i say, the nature of the ground is such and so hard, that it wilbe impossible to make any plough enter into it, so that you shall not onely aduenture the losse of that speciall ardor, but also of all the rest which should follow after, and so consequently loose the profit of your land: where contrary wise if you fallow it at the beginning of the yéere, as in ianuary, and february, albe they be wet, yet shall you lay vp your furrowes and make the earth more loose, by which meanes you shall compasse all the other earings which belong to your soile: for to speake briefely, late fallowing belongs vnto claies, which by drought are made loose and light, and earely fallowings vnto mixt soiles, such as these which by drinesse doe ingender and binde close together. {sn: of weeding.} about the middest of iune, you shall beginne to wéede your corne, in such sort as hath béene before described in the former chapters: and although this soile naturally of it selfe (if it haue receiued his whole ardor in due seasons, and haue béene ploughed cleane, according to the office of a good husband) doth neither put forth thistle or other wéede, yet if it want either the one or the other, it is certaine that it puts them forth in great abundance, for by thistles and wéedes, vpon this soile, is euer knowne the goodnesse and dilligence of the husbandman. {sn: of foiling.} about the middest of iuly, you shall beginne to foile your land, in such sort also as hath béene mentioned in the former chapters, onely with this obseruation that if any of your lands lie flat, you shall then, in your foiling, plough those lands vpward and not downeward, holding your first precept that in this soile, your lands must lie high, light, and hollow, which if you sée they doe, then you may if you please in your foiling cast them downeward, because at winter ridging you may set them vp againe. {sn: of manuring.} now for as much as in this chapter i haue hitherto omitted to speake of manuring this soile, you shall vnderstand that it is not because i hold it so rich that it néedeth no manure, but because i know there is nothing more néedfull vnto it then manure, in so much that i wish not the husbandman of this ground to binde himselfe vnto any one particular season of the yéere for the leading forth of his manure, but to bestow all his leasurable houres and rest from other workes onely vpon this labor, euen through the circuit of the whole yéere, knowing this most precisely, that at what time of the yéere so euer you shall lay manure vpon this earth it will returne much profit. as for the choise of manures vpon this soile they are all those whatsoeuer, of which i haue formerly intreated in any of the other chapters, no manure whatsoeuer comming amisse to this ground: prouided that the husbandman haue this respect to lay vpon his moystest and coldest ground his hottest manures, and vpon his hottest and driest earth his coolest and moistest manures: the hot manures being shéepes-dung, pigions-dung, pullen-dung, lyme, ashes, and such like: the coole being oxe-dung, horse-dung, the scowrings of ponds, marle, and such like. {sn: of winter-ridging.} about the middest of september you shall beginne to winter-ridge your land, which in all points you shall doe according as is mentioned in the former chapters of the clayes: for in this ardor there is neuer any difference, onely this one small obseruation, that you may aduenture to winter-ridge this mixt earth sooner then any other: for many of our best english husbandmen which liue vpon this soile doe hold this opinion, that if it be winter-ridged so earely in the yéere, that through the vertue of the latter spring it put forth a certaine gréene wéede like mosse, bring short and soft, that the land is so much the better therefore, being as they imagine both fed and comforted by such a slender expression which doth not take from the land any hart, but like a warme couering doth ripen and make mellow the mould, and this cannot be effected but onely by earely winter-ridging. {sn: of sowing of wheate, rye, and maslin.} at the end of september you shall beginne to sow your wheate, rye, and maslin, all which graines are very naturall, good, and profitable vpon this soile, and are to be sowne after the same manner, and with the same obseruations which are specified in the former chapter of the blacke clay, that is to say, the wheate vnder furrow, and vnharrowed, the rye and maslin aboue furrow, and well harrowed. and herein is also to be remembred all those precepts mentioned in the chapter of the blacke clay, touching the diuision of the fields, that is to say, if you haue three fields, you shall then sow your wheate, rye and maslin in your fallow-field, and so saue both the foyling and double manuring of so much earth: but if you haue foure fields, then you shall sow those graines vpon that land from whence the same yéere you did reape your pease; your wheate hauing no other manure then that which came by the pease, your rye hauing, if possible, eyther manure from the cart, or from the folde, in such sort as hath béene shewed in the chapter of the blacke clay, and this of husbandmen is called inam-wheate or inam-rye, that is, white-corne sowne after white-corne, as barley after barley, or hard-corne after hard-corne, which is wheate after pease. {sn: of the plough.} now for the plough which is most proper for this soile it is to be made of a middle size betwixt that for the blacke clay, and that for the red sand, being not all out so bigge and vnwieldy as the first, nor so slender and nimble as the latter, but taking a middle proportion from them both, you shall make your plough of a competent fitnesse. {sn: of the plough-irons.} as for the irons, the share must be of the same proportion that the share for the red sand is, yet a little thought bigger, and the coulture of the fashion of that coulture, onely not full so much bent, but all-out as sharpe and as long: and these irons must be euer well maintained with stéele, for this mixt earth is euer the hardest, and weareth both the plough and irons soonest, and therefore it is agréed by all husbandmen that this plough must not at any time want his plough-slip, except at the first going of the plough you shall finde that it hath too much land, that is to say, by the crosse setting on of the beame, that it runneth too gréedily into the land, which to helpe, you shall let your plough goe without a plough-slip, till the plough-head be so much worne, that it take no more but an ordinary furrow, and then you shall set on your plough-slips and plough clouts also: but i write this in case there be imperfection in the plough, which if it be otherwise, then this obseruation is néedlesse. {sn: of the teame.} now for the teame or draught which shall draw this plough, they are as the former, oxen or horses, and their number the same that is prescribed for the blacke clay, as namely, eight or sixe beasts for pease-earth, for fallowing, and summer-stirring, and sixe or foure for all other ardors: for you must vnderstand that this mixt and binding soile, through his hardnesse, and glutenous holding together, is as hard to plow as any clay-soile whatsoeuer, and in some speciall seasons more by many degrées. {sn: of the white clay with white sand.} now for the white clay mixt with white sand, it is an earth much more barraine, then this former mixt earth, and bringeth forth nothing without much care, diligence, and good order: yet, for his manner of earings, in their true natures euery way doe differ nothing from the earings of this blacke clay and red sand, onely the séede which must be sowne vpon this soile differeth from the former: for vpon this soile in stead of barley you must sow most oates, as a graine which will take much strength from little fertilitie: and in stead of rye you shall sow more wheate and more pease, or in stead of pease then you shall sow fitches of eyther kinde which you please, and the increase will be (though not in abundance, yet) so sufficient as shall well quit the plow-mans labour. {sn: of manuring.} now for the manuring of this ground, you shall vnderstand that marle is the chiefest: for neyther will any man suppose that this hard soile should bring vp cattell sufficient to manure it, nor if it would, yet that manure were not so good: for a barraine clay being mixt with a most barraine sand, it must consequently follow that the soile must be of all the barenest, insomuch that to giue perfect strength and life vnto it, there is nothing better then marle, which being a fat and strong clay, once incorporated within these weake moulds, it must néedes giue them the best nourishment, loosening the binding substance, and binding that weaknesse which occasioneth the barrainnesse: but of this marle i shall haue more occasion to speake hereafter in a particular chapter, onely thus much i must let you vnderstand, that this soile, albe it be not within any degrée of praise for the bringing forth of corne, yet it is very apt and fruitfull for the bréeding of grasse, insomuch that it will beare you corne for at least nine yéeres together (without the vse of any fallow or tilth-field) if it be well marled, and immediately after it will beare you very good bréeding grasse, or else reasonable medow for as many yéeres after, as by daily experience we sée in the countries of lancaster and chester. so that the consequence being considered, this ground is not but to be held indifferent fruitfull: for whereas other soiles afore shewed (which beare abundance of graine) are bound to be manured once in thrée yéeres, this soile, albe it beare neither so rich graine, nor so much plenty, yet it néedes marling not aboue once in sixtéene or eightéene yéeres: and albe marle be a manure of the greatest cost, yet the profit by continuance is so equall that the labour is neuer spent without his reward, as shall more largely appeare hereafter. {sn: of the plough.} as touching the plough, it is the same which is mentioned in the other soile of the blacke clay, and red sand, altering nothing eyther in quantitie of timber, or strength of irons: so that to make any large description thereof, is but to double my former discourses, and make my writings tedious. for to conclude briefely, these two soiles differ onely but in fatnesse and strength of nature, not in earing, or plowing, so that the labours of tillage being equall there is not any alteration more then the true diligence of much manuring, which will bréede an affinitie or alyance betwixt both these soiles. and thus much for this blacke clay and red sand, or white clay and white sand. {illustration} the first part of the english husbandman: contayning, the manner of plowing and manuring all sorts of soyles, together with the manner of planting and setting of corne. chap. i. _of the manner of plowing all simple earths, which are vncompounded._ that many famous and learned men, both in fraunce, spaine, italy and germany, haue spent all their best time in shewing vnto the world the excellencie of their experiences, in this onely renowned arte of husbandry, their large and learned volumes, most excellently written, in that kinde, are witnesses: from whence we by translations haue gotten some contentment, though but small profit; because those forraine clymates, differing much from ours, both in nature of earth, and temper of ayre, the rules and obseruations belonging vnto them can be little auailable to vs, more then to know what is done in such parts, a thing more appertaining to our conference then practise. but now, that other kingdomes may sée though wée write lesse yet wée know as much as belongeth to the office of the english husbandman, i, though the meanest of many millions, haue vndertaken to deliuer vnto the world all the true rudiments, obseruations and knowledges what soeuer, which hath any affinitie or alliance with english husbandry. and for as much as the best and principallest part of husbandry consisteth in the plowing and earring of the ground (for in that onely _adam_ began his first labours) i thinke it not vnméete, first to treate of that subiect, procéeding so from braunch to braunch, till i haue giuen euery one sufficient knowledge. to speake then first of the tilling of grounds. you shall well vnderstand, that it is the office of euery good husbandman before he put his plough into the earth, truly to consider the nature of his grounds, and which is of which quallitie and temper. to procéede then to our purpose; all soyles what soeuer, in this our kingdome of england, are reduced into two kindes onely, that is to say, simple or compound. simple, are those which haue no mixture with others of a contrary quallitie, as are your stiffe clayes, or your loose sands: your stiffe clayes are likewise diuers, as a blacke clay, a blew clay, and a clay like vnto marble. your sands are also diuers, as a red sand, a white sand, a yellow sand, and a sand like vnto dust. your mixt earths are where any of these clayes and sands are equally or vnindifferently mixed together, as shalbe at large declared hereafter. now as touching the tilling of your simple clayes, it is to be noted, that the blacke clay, of all earth, is the most fruitfull, and demandeth from the husbandman the least toyle, yet bringeth forth his increase in the greatest abundance: it will well and sufficiently bring forth thrée crops, eare it desire rest: namely, the first of barly, the second of pease, and the third of wheate: it doth not desire much manure, for it is naturally of it selfe so fat, rich, and fruitfull, that if you adde strength vnto his strength, by heaping manure or compasse thereupon, you make it either blast, and mildew the corne that growes, with the too much fatnesse of the earth, or else through his extreame rankenesse, to bring it vp in such abundance that it is not able to stand vpright when it is shot vp, but falling downe flat to the ground, and the eares of corne smothering one another, they bring forth nothing but light corne, like an emptie huske, without a kirnell. the best manure or compasse therefore that you can giue such ground, is then to plow it in orderly and dew seasons, as thus: you shall begin to fallow, or breake vp this soyle, at the beginning of may, at which time you shall plow it déepe, & take vp a large furrow, and if your lands lye any thing flat, it shalbe méete that you begin on the ridge of the land, and turne all your furrowes vpward, but if your lands lye high and vpright, then shall you begin in the furrow and turne all your furrowes downeward, which is called of husbandmen, the casting downe of land. this first plowing of ground, or as husbandmen tearme it, the first ardor, is called fallowing: the second ardor, which we call stirring of ground, or sommer stirring, you shall begin in iuly, which is of great consequence, for by meanes of it you shall kill all manner of wéedes and thistells that would annoy your land. in this ardor you must oft obserue that if when you fallowed you did set vp your land, then now when you stirre you must cast downe your land, and so contrarily, if before you did cast downe, then now you must set vp: your third ardor, which is called of husbandmen, winter ridgeing, or setting vp land for the whole yéere, you shall begin at the latter end of september, and you must euer obserue that in this third ardor you doe alwaies ridge vp your land, that is to say, you most turne euery furrow vpward and lay them as close together as may be, for should you doe otherwise, that is to say, either lay them flat or loosely, the winter season would so beat and bake them together, that when you should sow your séede you would hardly get your plough into the ground. now your fourth and last ardor, which must be when you sow your séede, you shall begin euer about the midst of march, at least one wéeke before our ladies day, commonly called the annunciation of _mary_, and this ardor you shall euer plow downeward, laying your ridges very well open, and you shall euer obserue in this ardor, first to sow your séede, and then after to plow your ground, turning your séede into the earth, which is called of husbandmen, sowing vnderfurrow: as soone as your ground is plowed you shall harrow it with an harrow whose téeth are all of wood, for these simple earths are of easie temper and will of themselues fall to dust, then after you haue thus sowne your ground, if then there remaine any clots or lumpes of earth vnbroken, you shall let them rest till after the next shower of raine, at which time you shall either with a heauie rouler, or the backside of your harrowes, runne ouer your lands, which is called the sleighting of ground, and it will not onely breake such clots to dust, but also lay your land plaine and smoth, leauing no impediment to hinder the corne from sprouting and comming forth. in this same ordor as you are appointed for this blacke clay, in this same manner you shall ordor both your blew clay & your clay which is like vnto marble. now as touching the plough which is fittest for these clayes, it must be large and strong, the beame long and well bending, the head thicke and large, the skéeth broad, strong, and well sloaping, the share with a very large wing, craueing much earth, and the coulter long, thicke and very straight. now touching those lands which are simple and vncompounded, you shall vnderstand that euery good husbandman must begin his first ardor (which is to fallow them) at the beginning of ianuary, hée must sooner stirre them, which is the second ardor, at the latter end of aprill, he shall cast them downe againe, which is called foyling of land, at the beginning of iuly, which is the third ardor, and wherein is to be noted, that how soeuer all other ardors are plowed, yet this must euer be cast downward: the fourth ardor, which is winter-stirring or winter-ridgeing, must euer begin at the end of september, and the fift and last ardor must be performed when you sow your ground, which would be at the middest of may, at the soonest, and if your leasure and abilitie will giue you leaue, if you turne ouer your ground againe in ianuary, it will be much better, for these sands can neuer haue too much plowing, nor too much manure, and therefore for them both, you shall apply them so oft as your leasure will conueniently serue, making no spare when either the way or opportunitie will giue you leaue. now for as much as all sands, being of a hot nature, are the fittest to bring foorth rye, which is a graine delighting in drynesse onely, you shall vnderstand, that then you shall not néed to plow your ground aboue foure times ouer, that is, you shall fallow, sommer stirre, foyle, and in september sow your corne: and as these ardors serue the red sand, so are they sufficient for your white sand, and your yealow sand also. as touching the ploughes fit for these light earths, they would be little and strong, hauing a short slender beame and a crooked; a narrow and thinne head, a slender skéeth, a share without a wing, a coulter thinne and very crooked, and a paire of hales much bending forward towards the man; and with this manner of plough you may plow diuers mixt and compounded earths, as the blacke clay and red sand, or the red sand and white grauell: and thus much as touching earths that are simple and vncompounded. chap. ii. _of the manner of plowing the blacke clay mixt with white sand, and the white clay mixt with red sand: their earrings, plough, and implements._ as touching the mixture of these two seuerall soyles, that is to say, the blacke clay with white sand, and the white clay with red sand, they differ not in the nature of plowing, sowing, or in manuring, from the soyle which is mixt of a blacke clay and red sand, of which i haue sufficiently intreated before: onely thus much you shall vnderstand, that the blacke clay mixt with white sand is so much better and richer then the white clay mixt with red sand, by as much as the blacke clay is better then the white clay: and although some husbandmen in our land, hould them to be both of one temper and goodnesse, reasoning thus, that by how much the blacke clay is better then the white, by so much the red sand is better then the white sand, so that what the mixture of the one addeth, the mixture of the other taketh away, and so maketh them all one in fruitfulnesse and goodnesse: but in our common experience it doth not so fall out, for wée finde that the blacke clay mixt with white sand, if it be ordered in the forme of good husbandry, that is to say, be plowed ouer at least foure times, before it come to be sowne, and that it be manured and compassed in husbandly fashion, which is to allow at least eight waine-load to an aker, that if then vpon such land you shall sow either organe wheat (in the south parts called red wheat) or flaxen, or white pollard wheat, that such wheat will often mildew, and turne as blacke as soote, which onely showeth too much richnesse and fatnesse in the earth, which the white clay mixt with red sand hath neuer beene séene to doe, especially so long as it is vsed in any husbandly fashion, neither will the white clay mixt with red sand indure to be deuided into foure fields, that is to say, to beare thrée seuerall crops, one after another, as namely, barly, pease, and wheat, without rest, which the blacke clay mixt with white sand many times doth, and thereby againe showeth his better fruitfulnesse: neuerthelesse, in generalitie i would not wish any good husbandman, and especially such as haue much tillage, to deuide either of these soyles into any more then thrée fields, both because hee shall ease himselfe and his cattell of much toyle, shall not at any time loose the best seasons for his best workes, and make his commodities, and fruit of his hands labours, by many degrées more certaine. you shall also vnderstand, that both these soyles are very much binding, especially the white clay with red sand, both because the clay, procéeding from a chaukie and limie substance, and not hauing in it much fatnesse or fertillitie (which occasioneth seperation) being mixt with the red sand, which is of a much more hardnesse and aptnesse to knit together, with such tough matter, it must necessarilie binde and cleaue together, and so likewise the blacke clay, from whence most naturally procéedeth your best limestone, being mixt with white sand, doth also binde together and stifle the séede, if it be not preuented by good husbandry. you shall therefore in the plowing and earring of these two soyles, obserue two especiall notes; the first, that by no meanes you plow it in the wet, that is, in any great glut of raine: for if you either lay it vp, or cast it downe, when it is more like morter then earth, if then any sunshine, or faire weather, doe immediately follow vpon it, it will so drie and bake it, that if it be sowne, neither will the séede haue strength to sprout thorrow it, nor being in any of your other summer ardors, shall you by any meanes make your plough enter into it againe, when the season falleth for other plowing. the second, that you haue great care you lay your land high and round, that the furrowes, as it were standing vpright one by another, or lying light and hollow, one vpon another, you may with more ease, at any time, enter in your plough, and turne your moulde which way you please, either in the heate of sommer, or any other time of the yéere whatsoeuer. now as touching the plough, which is most best and proper for these soyles, it would be the same in sise which is formerly directed for the red sand, onely the irons must be altered, for the coulter would be more long, sharpe, and bending, and the share so narrow, sharpe, and small as can conueniently be made, according as is formerly expressed, that not hauing power to take vp any broad furrow, the furrowes by reason of there slendernesse may lye many, and those many both hollow, light and at any time easily to be broken. as for the teame which is best to worke in this soyle, they may be either horses or oxen, or oxen and horse mixt together, according to the husbandmans abillitie, but if hée be a lord of his owne pleasure and may commaund, and haue euery thing which is most apt and proper, then in these two soyles, i preferre the teame of horses single, rather then oxen, especially in any winter or moist ardor, because they doe not tread and foyle the ground making it mirie and durtie as the oxe doth, but going all in one furrow, doe kéepe the land in his constant firmenesse. as touching the clotting, sleighting, wéeding, and dressing of these two soyles, they differ in nothing from the former mixt earths, but desire all one manner of dilligence: and thus much for these two soyles the blacke clay mixt with white sand, and the white clay with white red sand. chap. iii. _a comparison of all the former soyles together, and most especiall notes for giuing the ignorant husbandman perfect vnderstanding, of what is written before._ the reason why i haue thus at large discoursed of euery seuerall soyle, both simple and compounded, is to show vnto the industrious husbandman, the perfect and true reason of the generall alteration of our workes in husbandry, through this our realme of england: for if all our land, as it is one kingdome, were likewise of one composition, mixture, and goodnesse, it were then excéeding preposterous to sée those diuersities, alterations, i, and euen contrary manners of procéedings in husbandry, which are daily and hourely vsed: but euery man in his owne worke knowes the alteration of clymates. yet for so much as this labour of husbandry, consisteth not for the most part in the knowing and vnderstanding breast, but in the rude, simple, and ignorant clowne, who onely knoweth how to doe his labour, but cannot giue a reason why he doth such labour, more then the instruction of his parents, or the custome of the countrie, where it comes to passe (and i haue many times séene the same to mine admiration) that the skillfullest clowne which is bred in the clay soyles, when hée hath béene brought to the sandy ground, hée could neither hould the plough, temper the plough, nor tell which way in good order to driue the cattell, the heauinesse of the one labour being so contrary to the lightnesse of the other, that not hauing a temperance, or vnderstanding in his hands, hée hath béene put euen vnto his wittes ends; therefore i thinke it conuenient, in this place, by a slight comparison of soyles together, to giue the simplest husbandman such direct & plaine rules that he shall with out the study of his braines, attaine to absolute knowledge of euery seuerall mixture of earth: and albeit hée shall not be able distinctly to say at the first that it is compounded of such and such earths, yet hée shall be very able to deliuer the true reason and manner how such ground (of what nature soeuer) shall be husbanded and tilled. therefore to begin the husbandman, is to vnderstand, that generally there are but two soyles for him to regard, for in them consisteth the whole arte of husbandry: as namely, the open and loose earth, and the close and fast binding earth, and these two soyles being meare opposites and contraries, most necessarily require in the husbandman a double vnderstanding, for there is no soyle, of what simplicitie or mixture soeuer it be, but it is either loose or fast. now to giue you my meaning of these two words, _loose_ and _fast_, it is, that euery soyle which vpon parching and dry weather, euen when the sunne beames scorcheth, and as it were baketh the earth, if then the ground vpon such excéeding drought doe moulder and fall to dust, so that whereas before when it did retaine moisture it was heauie, tough, and not to be seperated, now hauing lost that glewinesse it is light, loose, and euen with a mans foote to be spurnd to ashes, all such grounds are tearmed loose and open grounds, because at no time they doe binde in or imprison the séede (the frost time onely excepted, which is by accidence, and not from the nature of the soyle:) and all such grounds as in their moisture or after the fall of any sodaine raine are soft, plyable, light, and easie to be wrought, but after when they come to loose that moistnesse and that the powerfulnesse of the sunne hath as it were drid vp their veynes, if then such earths become hard, firme, and not to be seperated, then are those soyles tearmed fast and binding soyles, for if there ardors be not taken in their due times, and their séede cast into them in perfect and due seasons, neither is it possible for the plowman to plow them, nor for the séede to sprout through, the earth being so fastned and as it were stone-like fixt together. now sithence that all soyles are drawne into these two heads, fastnes, and loosenesse, and to them is annexed the diuersitie of all tillage, i will now show the simple husbandman which earths be loose, and which fast, and how without curiositie to know and to distinguish them. breifely, all soyles that are simple and of themselues vncompounded, as namely, all claies, as blacke, white, gray, or blew, and all sands, as either red, white, or blacke, are open and loose soyles: the claies because the body and substance of them being held together by moistnes, that moisture being dryed vp, their strength and stifnesse decayeth, and sands by reason of their naturall lightnesse, which wanting a more moist and fixt body to be ioyned with them doe loose all strength of binding or holding together. now all mixt or compound earths (except the compositions of one and the same kinds, as clay with clay, or sand with sand) are euer fast and binding earths: for betwixt sand and clay, or clay & grauell, is such an affinitie, that when they be mixt together the sand doth giue to the clay such hardnesse and drynesse, and the clay to the sand such moisture and coldnesse, that being fixt together they make one hard body, which through the warmth of the sunne bindeth and cleaueth together. but if it be so that the ignorance of the husbandman cannot either through the subtiltie of his eye sight, or the obseruations gathered from his experience, distinguish of these soyles, and the rather, sith many soyles are so indifferently mixt, and the colour so very perfect, that euen skill it selfe may be deceiued: as first to speake of what mixture some soyles consist, yet for as much as it is sufficient for the husbandman to know which is loose and which is binding, hée shall onely when he is perplext with these differences, vse this experiment, hée shall take a good lumpe of that earth whose temperature hée would know, and working it with water and his wet hands, like a péece of past, he shall then as it were make a cake thereof, and laying it before an hot fire, there let it lye, till all the moisture be dried & backt out of it, then taking it into your hands and breaking it in péeces, if betwéene your fingers it moulder and fall into a small dust, then be assured it is a loose, simple, and vncompounded earth, but if it breake hard and firme, like a stone, and when you crumble it betwéene your fingers it be rough, gréetie, and shining, then be assured it is a compounded fast-binding earth, and is compounded of clay and sand, and if in the baking it doe turne red or redish, it is compounded of a gray clay and red sand, but if it be browne or blewish, then it is a blacke clay & white sand, but if when you breake it you finde therein many small pibles, then the mixture is clay and grauell. now there be some mixt soyles, after they are thus bak't, although they be hard and binding, yet they will not be so excéeding hard and stone-like as other soyles will be, and that is where the mixture is vnequall, as where the clay is more then the sand, or the sand more then the clay. when you haue by this experiment found out the nature of your earth, and can tell whether it be simple or compounded, you shall then looke to the fruitfulnesse thereof, which generally you shall thus distinguish. first, that clayes, simple and of themselues vncompounded, are of all the most fruitfull, of which, blacke is the best, that next to clayes, your mixt earths are most fertill, and the mixture of the blacke clay and red sand, called a hasell earth, is the best, and that your sands are of all soyles most barraine, of which the red sand for profit hath euer the preheminence. now for the generall tillage and vse of these grounds, you shall vnderstand that the simple and vncompounded grounds, being loose and open (if they lye frée from the danger of water) the lands may be layd the flattest and greatest, the furrowes turned vp the largest and closest, and the plough and plough-irons, most large and massie, onely those for the sandy grounds must be more slender then those for the clayes and much more nimble, as hath béene showed before. now for the mixt earths, you shall lay your lands high, round, and little, set your furrowes vpright, open, and so small as is possible, and make your plough and plow irons most nimble and slender, according to the manner before specified: and thus i conclude, that hée which knoweth the loose earth and the binding earth, can either helpe or abate the strength of the earth, as is néedfull, and knowes how to sorte his ploughes to each temper, knowes the ground and substance of all tillage. chap. iiii. _of the planting or setting of corne, and the profit thereof._ not that i am conceited, or carried away with any nouelty or strange practise, vnusually practised in this kingdome, or that i will ascribe vnto my selfe to giue any iudiciall approbation or allowance to things mearely vnfrequented, doe i publish, within my booke, this relation of the setting of corne, but onely because i would not haue our english husbandman to be ignorant of any skill or obscure faculty which is either proper to his profession, or agréeable with the fertillitie and nature of our clymates, and the rather, since some few yéeres agoe, this (as it then appeared secret) being with much admiration bruted through the kingdome, in so much that according to our weake accustomed dispositions (which euer loues strange things best) it was held so worthy, both for generall profit and perticular ease, that very fein (except the discréet) but did not alone put it in practise, but did euen ground strong beleifes to raise to themselues great common-wealthes by the profits thereof; some not onely holding insufficient arguments, in great places, of the invtilitie of the plough, but euen vtterly contemning the poore cart iade, as a creature of no necessitie, so that poulters and carriers, were in good hope to buy horse-flesh as they bought egges, at least fiue for a penie; but it hath proued otherwise, and the husbandman as yet cannot loose the horses seruice. but to procéede to the manner of setting or planting of corne, it is in this manner. {sn: of setting wheate.} hauing chosen out an aker of good corne ground, you shall at the beginning of march, appoint at least sixe diggers or laborers with spades to digge vp the earth gardenwise, at least a foote and thrée inches déepe (which is a large spades graft) and being so digged vp, to rest till iune, and then to digge it ouer againe, and in the digging to trench it and manure it, as for a garden mould, bestowing at least sixtéene waine-load of horse or oxe manure vpon the aker, and the manure to be well couered within the earth, then so to let it rest vntill the beginning of october, which being the time for the setting, you shall then digge it vp the third time, and with rakes and béetells breake the moulde somewhat small, then shall you take a board of sixe foot square, which shalbe bored full of large wimble holes, each hole standing in good order, iust sixe inches one from another, then laying the board vpon the new digged ground, you shall with a stick, made for the purpose, through euery hole in the board, make a hole into the ground, at least fore inches déepe, and then into euery such hole you shall drop a corne of wheate, and so remouing the board from place to place, goe all ouer the ground that you haue digged, and so set each seuerall corne sixe inches one from another, and then with a rake you shall rake ouer and couer all the holes with earth, in such sort that they may not be discerned. and herein you are to obserue by the way that a quarte of wheate will set your aker: which wheate is not to be taken as it falles out by chance when you buy it in the market, but especially culd and pickt out of the eare, being neither the vppermost cornes which grow in the toppes of the eares, nor the lowest, which grow at the setting on of the stalke, both which, most commonly are light and of small substance, but those which are in the midst, and are the greatest, fullest, and roundest. {sn: of setting barly, or pease.} now in the selfe-same sort as you dresse your ground for your wheate, in the selfe same manner you shall dresse your ground for barly, onely the first time you digge it shalbe after the beginning of may, the second time and the manuring about the midst of october, wherein you shall note that to your aker of barly earth, you shall alow at least foure and twentie waine-load of manure, and the last time of your digging and setting shalbe at the beginning of aprill. now for the dressing of your earth for the setting of pease, it is in all things answerable to that for barly, onely you may saue the one halfe of your manure, because a dosen waine-load is sufficient, and the time for setting them, or any other pulse, is euer about the midst of february. {sn: of the profit of setting corne.} now for the profit which issueth from this practise of setting of corne, i must néeds confesse, if i shall speake simply of the thing, that is, how many foulds it doubleth and increaseth, surely it is both great and wonderfull: and whereas ingenerall it is reputed that an aker of set corne yéeldeth as much profit as nine akers of sowne corne, for mine owne part i haue séene a much greater increase, if euery corne set in an aker should bring forth so much as i haue séene to procéede from some thrée or foure cornes set in a garden, but i feare me the generalitie will neuer hould with the particular: how euer, it is most certaine that earth in this sort trimmed and inriched, and corne in this sort set and preserued, yéeldeth at least twelue-fold more commoditie then that which by mans hand is confusedly throwne into the ground from the hopper: whence it hath come to passe that those which by a few cornes in their gardens thus set, séeing the innumerable increase, haue concluded a publique profit to arise thereby to the whole kingdome, not looking to the intricacie, trouble, and casualtie, which attends it, being such and so insupportable that almost no husbandman is able to vndergoe it: to which we néed no better testimony then the example of those which hauing out of meare couetousnesse and lucre of gaine, followed it with all gréedinesse, séeing the mischiefes and inconueniences which hath incountred their workes, haue euen desisted, and forgotten that euer there was any such practise, and yet for mine owne part i will not so vtterly condemne it, that i will depriue it of all vse, but rather leaue it to the discretion of iudgement, and for my selfe, onely hould this opinion, that though it may very wel be spared from the generall vse of wheat and barly in this kingdome, yet for hastie-pease, french beanes, and such like pulse, it is of necessary imployment, both in rich and poore mens gardens. and thus much for the setting of corne. chap. v. _of the choice of seede-corne, and which is best for which soyle._ hauing thus showed vnto you the seuerall soyles and temperatures of our english land, together with the order of manuring, dressing and tillage of the same, i thinke it méete (although i haue in generall writ something already touching the séede belonging to euery seuerall earth) now to procéede to a particular election and choice of séede-corne, in which there is great care and diligence to be vsed: for as in men, beasts, fowle, & euery mouing thing, there is great care taken for the choice of the bréeders, because the creatures bred doe so much participate of the parents that for the most part they are séene not onely to carry away their outward figures and semblances, but euen their naturall conditions and inclinations, good issuing from good, and euill from euill: so in the choise of séede-corne, if their be any neglect or carelessenesse, the crop issuing of such corrupt séede must of force bring forth a more corrupt haruest, by as much as it excéedeth in the multiplication. {sn: the choise of seede wheate.} to procéede therefore to the choise of séede-corne, i will begin with wheate, of which there are diuers kindes, as your whole straw wheate, the great browne pollard, the white pollard, the organe or red wheate, the flaxen wheate, and the chilter wheate. your whole straw wheate, and browne pollard, are knowne, the first, by his straw, which is full of pith, and hath in it no hollownesse (whence it comes that husbandmen estéeme it so much for their thacking, allowing it to be as good and durable as réede:) the latter is knowne by his eare, which is great, white, and smooth, without anes or beard vpon it: in the hand they are both much like one to another, being of all wheates the biggest, roundest and fullest: they be somewhat of a high colour, and haue vpon them a very thicke huske, which making the meale somewhat browne causeth the baker not all together to estéeme them for his purest manchet, yet the yéeld of flower which cometh from them is as great and greater then any other wheate whatsoeuer. these two sortes of wheate are to be sowne vpon the fallow field, as crauing the greatest strength and fatnesse of ground, whence it comes that they are most commonly séene to grow vpon the richest and stiffest blacke clayes, being a graine of that strength that they will seldome or neuer mildew or turne blacke, as the other sortes of wheate will doe, if the strength of the ground be not abated before they be throwne into the earth. now for the choise of these two wheates, if you be compelled to buy them in the market, you must regard that you buy that which is the cleanest and fairest, being vtterly without any wéedes, as darnell, cockell, tares or any other foulnesse whatsoeuer: you shall looke that the wheate, as neare as may be, hould all of one bignesse and all of one colour, for to beholde it contrary, that is to say, to see some great cornes, some little, some high coloured, some pale, so that in their mixture they resemble changeable taffata, is an apparant signe that the corne is not of one kinde but mixt or blended, as being partly whole-straw, partly pollard, partly organe, and partly chelter. for the flaxen, it is naturally so white that it cannot be mixt but it may easily be discerned, and these mixt séedes are neuer good, either for the ground or the vse of man. againe you shall carefully looke that neither this kinde of wheate, nor any other that you buy for séede be blacke at the ends, for that is a signe that the graine comming from too rich a soyle was mildewed, and then it will neuer be fruitfull or proue good séede, as also you shall take care that it be not too white at the ends, showing the corne to be as it were of two colours, for that is a signe that the wheate was washt and dried againe, which vtterly confoundeth the strength of the corne and takes from it all abilitie of bringing forth any great encrease. now if it be so that you haue a crop of wheate of your owne, so that you haue no néed of the market, you shall then picke out of your choisest sheafes, and vpon a cleane floare gently bat them with a flaile, and not thresh them cleane, for that corne which is greatest, fullest, and ripest, will first flie out of the eare, and when you haue so batted a competent quantitie you shall then winnow it and dresse it cleane, both by the helpe of a strong winde and open siues, and so make it fit for your séede. i haue séene some husbands (and truely i haue accounted them both good and carefull) that haue before wheate séede time both themselues, wiues, children, and seruants at times of best leasure, out of a great wheate mow or bay, to gleane or pull out of the sheafes, eare by eare, the most principall eares, and knitting them vp in small bundells to bat them and make their séede thereof, and questionlesse it is the best séede of all other: for you shall be sure that therein can be nothing but the cleanest and the best of the corne, without any wéedes or foulnesse, which can hardly be when a man thresheth the whole sheafe, and although some men may thinke that this labour is great and troblesome, especially such as sowe great quantities of wheate, yet let them thus farre encourage themselues, that if they doe the first yéere but gleane a bushell or two (which is nothing amongst a few persons) and sowe it vp on good land, the encrease of it will the next yéere goe farre in the sowing the whole crop: for when i doe speake of this picking of wheate, eare by eare, i doe not intend the picking of many quarters, but of so much as the increase thereof may amount to some quarter. now there is also another regarde to be had (as auailable as any of the former) in chusing of your séede wheate, and that is to respect the soyle from whence you take your séede, and the soyle into which you put it, as thus. if the ground whereon you meane to sowe your wheat be a rich, blacke, clay, stiffe and full of fertillitie, you shall then (as neare as you can) chuse your séede from the barrainest mixt earth you can finde (so the wheate be whole-straw or pollard) as from a clay and grauell, or a clay and white sand, that your séede comming from a much more barraine earth then that wherein you put it, the strength may be as it were redoubled, and the encrease consequently amount to a higher quantitie, as we finde it proueth in our daylie experience; but if these barraine soyles doe not afforde you séede to your contentment, it shall not then be amisse (you sowing your wheate vpon fallow or tilth ground) if you take your séede-wheate either from an earth of like nature to your owne, or from any mixt earth, so that such séede come from the niams, that is, that it hath béene sowne after pease, as being the third crop of the land, and not from the fallow or tilth ground, for it is a maxiome amongst the best husbands (though somewhat proposterous to common sence) bring to your rich ground séede from the barraine, and to the barraine séede from the rich, their reason (taken from their experience) being this, that the séede (as before i said) which prospereth vpon a leane ground being put into a rich, doth out of that superfluitie of warmth, strength and fatnesse, double his increase; and the séede which commeth from the fat ground being put into the leane, hauing all the vigour, fulnesse and iuyce of fertilnes, doth not onely defend it selfe against the hungrinesse of the ground but brings forth increase contrary to expectation; whence procéedeth this generall custome of good husbands in this land, that those which dwell in the barraine woode lands, heathes and high mountaine countries of this kingdome, euer (as néere as they can) séeke out their séede in the fruitfull low vales, and very gardens of the earth, & so likewise those in the vales take some helpes also from the mountaines. now for your other sortes of wheate, that is to say, the white pollard and the organe, they are graines nothing so great, full, and large, as the whole straw, or browne pollard, but small, bright, and very thinly huskt: your organe is very red, your pollard somewhat pale: these two sorts of wheate are best to be sowne vpon the third or fourth field, that is to say, after your pease, for they can by no meanes endure an ouer rich ground, as being tender and apt to sprout with small moisture, but to mildew and choake with too much fatnesse, the soyles most apt for them are mixt earths, especially the blacke clay and red sand, or white clay and red sand, for as touching other mixtures of grounds, they are for the most part so barraine, that they will but hardly bring forth wheate vpon their fallow field, and then much worse vpon a fourth field. now for any other particular choise of these two séedes, they are the same which i shewed in the whole straw, and great pollard. as for the flaxen wheate, and chilter wheate, the first, is a very white wheate both inward and outward, the other a pale red or déepe yellow: they are the least of all sorts of wheate, yet of much more hardnes and toughnesse in sprouting, then either the organe or white pollard, and therefore desire somewhat a more richer soyle, and to that end they are for the most part sowne vpon fallow fields, in mixt earths, of what natures or barrainenesse soeuer, as is to be séene most generally ouer all the south parts of this realme: and although vncompounded sands out of their owne natures, doe hardly bring forth any wheate, yet vpon some of the best sands and vpon the flintie grauels, i haue séene these two wheates grow in good abundance, but being seldome it is not so much to be respected. {sn: the choise of seede rye.} after your wheate you shall make choise of your rie, of which there is not diuers kindes although it carrie diuers complections, as some blackish, browne, great, full and long as that which for the most part growes vpon the red sand, or red clay, which is thrée parts red sand mixt with blacke clay, and is the best rie: the other a pale gray rie, short, small, and hungry, as that which growes vpon the white sand, or white clay and white sand, and is the worst rie. now you shall vnderstand that your sand grounds are your onely naturall grounds for rie, as being indéede not principally apt for any other graine, therefore when you chuse your rie for séede, you shall chuse that which is brownest, full, bould, and longest, you shall haue great care that it be frée from wéedes or filth, sith your sand grounds, out of their owne naturall heat, doth put forth such store of naughtie wéeds, that except a man be extraordinarily carefull, both in the choise and dressing of his rie, he may easily be deceiued and poyson his ground with those wéedes, which with great difficultie are after rooted out againe. now for your séedes to each soyle, it is euer best to sow your best sand-rie vpon your best clay ground, and your best clay-rie vpon your best sand ground, obseruing euer this generall principle, not onely in rie, but euen in wheat, barly, pease and other graine of account, that is, euer once in thrée yéeres, to change all your séede, which you shall finde both to augment your encrease and to returne you double profit. {sn: the choise of seede-barly.} now for the choise of your séede-barly, you shall vnderstand, that for as much as it is a graine of the greatest vse, & most tendernesse, therefore there is the greatest diligence to be vsed in the election thereof. know then that of barly there be diuers sorts, as namely, that which wée call our common barly, being long eares with two rankes of corne, narrow, close, and vpright: another called spike or batteldore-barly, being a large eare with two rankes of corne, broad, flat, and in fashion of a batteldore: and the third called beane-barly, or barly big, being a large foure-square eare, like vnto an eare of wheate. of these thrée barlyes the first is most in vse, as being most apt and proper to euery soyle, whether it be fruitfull or barraine, in this our kingdome, but they haue all one shape, colour and forme, except the soyle alter them, onely the spike-barly is most large and plentifull, the common barly hardest and aptest to grow, and the beane-barly least, palest, & tenderest, so that with vs it is more commonly séene in gardens then in fields, although in other countries, as in fraunce, ireland, and such like, they sowe no other barly at all, but with vs it is of no such generall estimation, and therefore i will neither giue it precedencie nor speake of it, otherwise then to referre it to the discreation of him who takes delight in many practises: but for the common barly, or spike-barly, which our experience findes to be excellent and of great vse, i will knit them in one, and write, my full opinion of them, for their choise in our séede. you shall know then that when you goe into the market to chuse barly for your séede, you shall to your best power elect that which is whitest, fullest, and roundest, being as the ploughman calles it, a full bunting corne, like the nebbe or beake of a bunting, you shall obserue that it be all of one corne, and not mingled, that is, clay barly, and sand barly together, which you shall distinguish by these differences: the clay barly is of a palish, white, yellow colour; smoth, full, large, and round, and the sand barly is of a déepe yellow, browne at the neather end, long, slender, and as it were, withered, and in generall no sand barly is principall good for séede: but if the barly be somewhat of a high colour, and browne at the neather end, yet notwithstanding is very full, bould, and bigge, then it is a signe that such barly comes not from the sand, but rather from an ouer fat soyle, sith the fatnesse of the earth doth euer alter the complection of the barly; for the whiter barly euer the leaner soyle, and better séede: you shall also obserue, that there be not in it any light corne, which is a kinde of hungry graine without substance, which although it filleth the séeds-mans hand, yet it deceiueth the ground, and this light corne will commonly be amongst the best barly: for where the ground is so rich that it bringeth forth the barly too rankely, there the corne, wanting power to stand vpon roote, falleth to the ground, and so robde of kindly ripening, bringeth forth much light and insufficient graine. next this, you shall take care that in your séede-barly there be not any oates, for although they be in this case amongst husbandmen accounted the best of wéede, yet are they such a disgrace, that euery good husband will most diligently eschew them, and for that cause onely will our most industrious husbands bestow the tedious labour of gleaning their barly, eare by eare, by which gleanings, in a yéere, or two, they will compasse their whole séede, which must infallibly be without either oates or any wéede whatsoeuer: and although some grounds, especially your richest blacke clayes, will out of the abundance of their fruitfulnesse (as not induring to be idle) bring forth naturally a certaine kinde of wilde oates, which makes some ignorant husbands lesse carefull of their séede, as supposing that those wilde ones are a poisoning to their graine, but they are infinetly deceiued: for such wilde oates, wheresoeuer they be, doe shake and fall away long before the barly be ready, so that the husbandman doth carry of them nothing into the barne, but the straw onely. next oates, you must be carefull that there be in your barly no other foule wéede: for whatsoeuer you sow, you must looke for the increase of the like nature, and therefore as before i said in the wheate, so in the barly, i would wish euery good husband to imploy some time in gleaning out of his mow the principall eares of barly, which being batted, drest, and sowne, by it selfe, albeit no great quantitie at the first, yet in time it may extend to make his whole séede perfect, and then hée shall finde his profit both in the market, where hée shall (for euery vse) sell with the déerest, and in his owne house where he shall finde his yeeld redoubled. now for fitting of seuerall séedes to seuerall soyles, you shall obserue, that the best séede-barly for your clay field, is ninam barly, sowne vpon the clay field, that is to say, barly which is sowne where barly last grew, or a second crop of barly: for the ground hauing his pride abated in the first croppe, the second, though it be nothing néere so much in quantitie, yet that corne which it doth bring forth is most pure, most white, most full, and the best of all séedes whatsoeuer, and as in case of this soyle, so in all other like soyles which doe hould that strength or fruitfulnesse in them that they are either able of themselues, or with some helpe of manure in the latter end of the yéere, to bring forth two croppes of barly, one after the other: but if either your soyle deny you this strength, or the distance of place bereaue you of the commoditie thereof, then you shall vnderstand that barly from a hasell ground is the best séede, for the clay ground, and barly from the clay ground is the best séede, not onely for the hasell earth, but euen for all mixt earths whatsoeuer, and the barly which procéedes from the mixt earths is the best séede for all simple and vncompounded sands or grauells, as wée finde, both by their increasings and dayly experience. {sn: the choise of seede-beanes, pease, and pulse.} now for the choise of séede-beanes, pease, or other pulse, the scruple is nothing néere so great as of other séedes, because euery one that knowes any graine, can distinguish them when hée sées them: besides they are of that massie waight, and so well able to indure the strength of the winde, that they are easie to be seuered from any wéede or filth whatsoeuer: it resteth therefore that i onely giue you instruction how to imploy them. you shall vnderstand therefore, that if your soyle be a stiffe, blacke, rich, clay, that then your best séede is cleane beanes, or at the least thrée partes beanes, and but one part pease: if it be a gray, or white clay, then beanes and pease equally mixt together: if the best mixt earths, as a blacke clay and red sand, blacke clay and white sand, or white clay and red sand, then your séede must be cleane pease onely: if it be white clay and white sand, blacke clay and blacke sand, then your séede must be pease and fitches mixt together: but if it be grauell or sand simple, or grauell and sand compounded, then your séede must be either cleane fitches, cleane bucke, or cleane tares, or else fitches, bucke and tares mixt together. {sn: the choise of seede-oates.} now to conclude with the choise of your oates. you shall vnderstand that there be diuers kindes of them, as namely, the great long white oate, the great long blacke oate, the cut oate, and the skegge: the two first of these are knowne by their greatnesse and colours, for they are long, full, bigge, and smooth, and are fittest to be sowne vpon the best of barraine grounds, for sith oates are the worst of graine, i will giue them no other prioritie of place. the next of these, which is the cut oate, it is of a pale yealow colour, short, smooth, and thicke, the increase of them is very great, and they are the fittest to be sowne vpon the worst of best grounds, for most commonly where you sée them, you shall also sée both good wheate, good barly, and good beanes and pease also. now for the skegge oate, it is a little, small, hungry, leane oate, with a beard at the small end like a wilde oate, and is good for small vse more then pullen onely: it is a séede méete for the barrainest and worst earth, as fit to grow but there where nothing of better profit will grow. and thus much for those séedes which are apt and in vse in our english soyles: wherein if any man imagine me guiltie of errour, in that i haue omitted particularly to speake of the séede of blend-corne, or masline, which is wheate and rye mixt together, i answere him, that sith i haue shewed him how to chuse both the best wheate and the best rye, it is an easie matter to mixe them according to his owne discretion. chap. vi. _of the time of haruest and the gathering in of corne._ {sn: the getting in of masline.} {sn: the getting in of wheate.} next vnto plowing, it is necessary that i place reaping, sith it is the end, hope, and perfection of the labour, and both the merit and incouragement which maketh the toyle both light and portable: then to procéede vnto the time of haruest. you shall vnderstand that it is requisite for euery good husband about the latter end of iuly, if the soyle wherein he liueth be of any hot temper, or about the beginning of august, if it be of temperate warmth, with all dilligence constantly to beholde his rye, which of all graines is the first that ripeneth, and if he shall perceiue that the hull of the eare beginneth to open, and that the blacke toppes of the corne doth appeare, he may then be assured that the corne is fully ripe, and ready for the sickle, so that instantly he shall prouide his reapers, according to the quantitie of his graine: for if hée shall neglect his rye but one day more then is fit, it is such a hasty graine, that it will shale forth of the huske to the ground, to the great losse of the husbandman. when hée hath prouided his shearers, which he shall be carefull to haue very good, he shall then looke that neither out of their wantonnesse nor emulation, they striue which shall goe fastest, or ridd most ground, for from thence procéedeth many errors in their worke, as namely, scattering, and leauing the corne vncut behind them, the cutting the heads of the corne off so that they are not possible to be gathered, and many such like incommodities, but let them goe soberly and constantly, and sheare the rye at least fourtéene inches aboue the ground. then he must looke that the gatherers which follow the reapers doe also gather cleane, & the binders binde the sheafes fast from breaking, then if you finde that the bottomes of the sheafes be full of gréenes, or wéedes, it shall not be amisse to let the sheafes lye one from another for a day, that those gréenes may wither, but if you feare any raine or foule weather, which is the onely thing which maketh rye shale, then you shall set it vp in shockes, each shocke containing at least seauen sheafes, in this manner: first, you shall place foure sheafes vpright close together, and the eares vpwards, then you shall take other thrée sheafes and opening them and turning the eares downeward couer the other foure sheafes that stoode vpwards, and so let them stand, vntill you may with good conueniencie lead them home, which would be done without any protraction. next after your cleane rye, you shall in the selfe-same sort reape your blend-corne, or masline: and albeit your wheate will not be fully so ripe as your rye, yet you shall not stay your labour, being well assured that your rye is ready, because wheate will harden of it selfe after it is shorne, with lying onely. after you haue got in your rye and blend-corne, you shall then looke vnto your cleane wheate, and taking heare and there an eare thereof, rubbe them in your hand, and if you finde that the corne hath all perfection saue a little hardning onely, you shall then forthwith set your reapers vnto it, who shall sheare it in all things as they did sheare your rye, onely they shall not put it in shockes for a day or more, but let the sheafes lye single, that the winde and sunne may both wither the gréenes, and harden the corne: which done, you shall put the sheafes into great shockes, that is to say, at least twelue or fouretéene sheafes in a shocke, the one halfe standing close together with the eares vpward, the other halfe lying crosse ouerthwart those eares, and their eares downeward, and in this sort you shall let your wheate stand for at least two dayes before you lead it. now it is a custome in many countries of this kingdome, not to sheare their wheate, but to mow it, but in my conceit and in generall experience, it is not so good: for it both maketh the wheate foule, and full of wéede, and filleth vp a great place with little commoditie, as for the vse of thacking, which is the onely reason of such disorderly cutting, there is neither the straw that is shorne, nor the stubble which is left behinde, but are both of sufficiencie inough for such an imployment, if it passe through the hands of a workman, as we sée in dayly experience. {sn: the getting in of barly.} next to your wheate, you shall haue regard to your barly, for it sodainely ripeneth, and must be cut downe assoone as you perceiue the straw is turned white, to the bottome, and the eares bended downe to the groundward. your barly you shall not sheare, although it is a fashion in some country, both because it is painefull and profitlesse, but you shall mowe it close to the ground, and although in generall it be the custome of our kingdome, after your barly is mowen and hath lyne a day or two in swathe, then with rackes to racke it together, and make it into great cockes, and so to leade it to the barne, yet i am of this opinion that if your barly be good and cleane without thistles or wéedes, that if then to euery sitheman, or mower you alot two followers, that is to say, a gatherer, who with a little short rake and a small hooke shall gather the corne together, and a binder, who shall make bands and binde vp the barly in smale sheafes, that questionlesse you shall finde much more profit thereby: and although some thinke the labour troublesome and great, yet for mine owne part, i haue séene very great croppes inned in this manner, and haue séene two women, that with great ease, haue followed and bound after a most principall mower, which made me vnderstand that the toyle was not so great as mine imagination; and the profit ten-fold greater then the labour: but if your corne be ill husbanded, and full of thistles, wéedes, and all filthinesse, then this practise is to be spared, and the loose cocking vp of your corne is much better. assoone as you haue cleansed any land of barly, you shall then immediatly cause one with a great long rake, of at least thirtie téeth, being in a sling bound bauticke-wise crosse his body, to draw it from one end of the land to the other, all ouer the land, that he may thereby gather vp all the loose corne which is scattered, and carry it where your other corne standeth, obseruing euer, as your cheifest rule, that by no meanes you neither leade barly, nor any other graine whatsoeuer, when it is wet, no although it be but moistned with the dew onely: for the least dankishnesse, more then the sweate which it naturally taketh, will soone cause it to putrifie. {sn: the getting in of oates.} now for the gathering in of your oates, they be a graine of such incertaintie, ripening euer according to the weather, & not after any setled or naturall course, that you are to looke to no constant season, but to take them vpon the first show of ripenesse, and that with such diligence that you must rather take them before, then after they be ripe, because if they tarry but halfe a day too long, they will shed vpon the ground, & you shal loose your whole profit. the time then fittest to cut your oates is, assoone as they be somewhat more then halfe changed, but not altogether changed, that is, when they are more then two parts white, and yet the gréene not vtterly extinguished, the best cutting of them is to mow them (albeit i haue séene them shorne in some places) & being mowen to let them dry and ripen in the swathe, as naturally they will doe, and then if you bind them vp in sheafes, as you should binde your barly, it is best: for to carry them in the loose cocke, as many doe, is great losse and hindrance of profit. {sn: the getting in of pulse.} after you haue got in your white corne, you shall then looke vnto your pulse, as beanes, pease, fitches, and such like, which you shall know to be ready by the blacknesse of the straw: for it is a rule, whensoeuer the straw turnes, the pulse is ripe. if then it be cleane beanes, or beanes and pease mixt, you shall mowe them, and being cleane beanes rake them into heapes, and so make them vp into cockes, but if they be mixt you shall with hookes fould the beanes into the pease, and make little round reapes thereof, which after they haue béene turned and dryed, you may put twenty reapes together, and thereof make a cocke, and so lead them, and stacke them: but if they be cleane pease, or pease and fitches, then you shall not mowe them, but with long hookes cut them from the ground, which is called reaping, and so foulding them together into small reapes, as you did your pease and beanes, let them be turned and dryed, and so cocked, and carried either to the barne, stacke, or houell. now hauing thus brought in, and finished your haruest, you shall then immediately mowe vp the stubble, both of your wheate, rye, and masline, and with all expedition there-with thacke, and couer from raine and weather, all such graine as for want of house-roome, you are compeld to lay abroad, either in stacke, or vpon houell: but if no such necessitie be, and that you haue not other more necessary imployment for your stubble, it shall be no part of ill husbandry to let the stubble rot vpon the land, which will be a reasonable manuring or fatting of the earth. now hauing brought your corne into the barne, it is a lesson néedlesse to giue any certaine rules how to spend or vtter it forth, sith euery man must be ruled according to his affaires, and necessitie, yet sith in mine owne experience i haue taken certaine setled rules from those who haue made themselues great estates by a most formall and strickt course in their husbandry, i thinke it not amisse to show you what i haue noted from them, touching the vtterance and expence of their graine: first, for your expence in your house, it is méete that you haue euer so much of euery seuerall sort of graine thresht, as shall from time to time maintaine your family: then for that which you intend shall returne to particular profit, you shall from a fortnight before michaelmas, till a fortnight after, thresh vp all such wheate, rye, & masline, as you intend to sell for séede, which must be winnowed, fand, and drest so cleane as is possible, for at that time it will giue the greatest price; but as soone as séede-time is past, you shall then thresh no more of those graines till it be neare midsummer, but begin to thresh vp all such barly as you intend to conuert and make into malt, and so from michaelmas till candlemas, apply nothing but malting, for in that time graine is euer the cheapest, because euery barne being full, some must sell for the payment of rents, some must sell to pay seruants wages, and some for their christmas prouisions: in which time corne abating and growing scarse, the price of necessitie must afterwards rise: at candlemas you shall begin to thresh all those pease which you intend to sell for séede, because the time being then, and euery man, out of necessitie, inforced to make his prouision, it cannot be but they must néedes passe at a good price and reckoning. after pease séede-time, you shall then thresh vp all that barly which you meane to sell for séede, which euer is at the dearest reckoning of any graine whatsoeuer, especially if it be principally good and cleane. after your séede-barly is sould, you may then thresh vp all such wheate, rye, and masline, as you intend to sell: for it euer giueth the greatest price from the latter end of may vntill the beginning of september. in september you shall begin to sell your malt, which being old and hauing lyne ripening the most part of the yéere, must now at the latter end of the yéere, when all old store is spent, and the new cannot be come to any perfection, be most deare, and of the greatest estimation: and thus being a man of substance in the world, and able to put euery thing to the best vse, you may by these vsuall obseruations, and the helpe of a better iudgement, imploy the fruits of your labours to the best profit, and sell euery thing at the highest price, except you take vpon you to giue day and sell vpon trust, which if you doe, you may then sell at what vnconscionable reckoning you will, which because such vnnaturall exactions neither agrée with charitie, nor humanitie, i will forbeare to giue rules for the same, and referre euery man that is desirous of such knowledge, to the examples of the world, wherein he shall finde presidents inough for such euill customes. and thus much for the first part of this worke, which containeth the manner of plowing and tillage onely. the second part of the first booke of the english husbandman, contayning the art of planting, grafting and gardening, either for pleasure or profit; together with the vse and ordering of woodes. chap. i. _of the scyte, modell, squares, and fashion of a perfect orchard._ although many authors which i haue read, both in italian, french, and dutch, doe make a diuersitie and distinguishment of orchardes, as namely, one for profit, which they fashion rudely and without forme, the other for delight, which they make comely, decent, and with all good proportion, deuiding the quarters into squares, making the alleyes of a constant breadth, and planting the fruit-trées in arteficiall rowes: yet for as much as the comelinesse and well contriuing of the ground, doth nothing abate, but rather increase the commoditie, i will therefore ioyne them both together, and make them onely but one orchard. now for the scyte and placing of this orchard, i haue in the modell of my country house, or husbandmans farme, shewed you where if it be possible it should stand, and both what sunne & ayre it should lye open vpon: but if the scyte or ground-plot of your house will not giue you leaue to place your orchard according to your wish, you shall then be content to make a vertue of necessitie, and plant it in such a place as is most conuenient, and nearest alyed to that forme before prescribed. {illustration} now when you haue found out a perfect ground-plot, you shall then cast it into a great large square, which you shall fence in either with a stone or bricke wall, high, strong pale, or great ditch with a quicke-set hedge, but the wall is best and most durable, and that wall would haue vpon the inside within twelue or fourtéene foote on of another, iames or outshoots of stone or bricke, betweene which you may plant and plash those fruit-trées which are of greatest tendernesse, the south and west sunne hauing power to shine vpon them. when you haue thus fenc'st in this great square, you shall then cast foure large alleyes, at least fourtéene foote broad, from the wall round about, and so likewise two other alleyes of like breadth, directly crosse ouerthwart the ground-plot, which will deuide the great square into foure lesser squares, according to the figure before set downe. the figure . sheweth the alleyes which both compasse about, and also crosse ouer the ground-plot, and the figure . sheweth the foure quarters where the fruit-trées are to be planted. now if either the true nature and largnesse of the ground be sufficient, or your owne abilitie of pursse so great that you may compasse your desires in these earthly pleasures, it shall not be amisse, but a matter of great state, to make your ground-plot full as bigge againe, that is to say, to containe eight large quarters, the first foure being made of an euen leuell, the other foure being raysed at least eight foote higher then the first, with conuenient stayres of state for ascending to the same, to be likewise vpon another euen leuell of like forme, and if in the center of the alleyes, being the mid-point betwéene the squares, might be placed any quaint fountaines or any other antique standard, the platforme would be more excellent and if vpon the ascent from one leuell to another there might be built some curious and arteficiall banquetting house, it would giue luster to the orchard. now for the planting and furnishing of these quarters: you shall vnderstand that if your orchard containe but foure quarters, then the first shalbe planted with apple-trées of all sorts, the second with peares and wardens of all sorts, the third with quinces & chesnutes, the fourth with medlars & seruices. against the north side of your orchard wall against which the south sunne reflects, you shall plant the abricot, verdochio, peach, and damaske-plumbe: against the east side of the wall, the whit muskadine grape, the pescod-plumbe, and the emperiall-plumbe: against the west side the grafted cherries, and the oliue-trée: and against the south side the almond, & figge trée. round about the skirts of euery other outward or inward alley, you shall plant, the wheate-plumbe, both yealow & redde, the rye-plumbe, the damson, the horse-clog, bulleys of all kindes, ordinary french cherryes, filberts, and nuts of all sorts, together with the prune-plumbe, and other such like stone fruits. but if your orchard be of state and prospect, so that it containe eight quarters or more (according to the limitation of the earth) then you shall in euery seuerall quarter plant a seuerall fruit, as apple-trées in one quarter, peares in another, quinces in another, wardens in another, and so forth of the rest. also you shall obserue in planting your apples, peares, and plumbes, that you plant your summer or early fruit by themselues, and the winter or long lasting fruit by themselues. of apples, your ienitings, wibourns, pomederoy, and quéene-apples are reckoned the best earely fruits, although their be diuers others, and the pippin, peare-maine, apple-iohn, and russetting, your best winter and long lasting fruit, though there be a world of other: for the tastes of apples are infinite, according to there composition and mixture in grafting. of peares your golden peare, your katherine-peare, your lording, and such like, are the first, and your stone-peare, warden-peare, and choake-peare, those which indure longest. and of plumbes the rye-plumbe is first, your wheate-plumbe next, and all the other sorts of plumbes ripen all most together in one season, if they haue equall warmth, and be all of like comfortable standing. {illustration} now for the orderly placing of your trées, you shall vnderstand that your plumbe-trées (which are as it were a fence or guard about your great quarters) would be placed in rowes one by one, aboue fiue foote distance one from another, round about each skirt of euery alley: your apple-trées & other greater fruit which are to be planted in the quarters, would be placed in such arteficiall rowes that which way soeuer a man shall cast his eyes yet hée shall sée the trées euery way stand in rowes, making squares, alleyes, and deuisions, according to a mans imagination, according to the figure before, which i would haue you suppose to be one quarter in an orchard, and by it you may easily compound the rest: wherein you shall vnderstand that the lesser prickes doe figure your plumbe-trées, & the greater prickes your apple trées, and such other large fruit. now you shall vnderstand that euery one of these great trées which furnish the maine quarter, shall stand in a direct line, iust twelue foote one from another, which is a space altogether sufficient inough for there spreading, without waterdropping or annoying one another; prouided that the fruiterer, according to his duty, be carefull to preserue the trees vpright and to vnderprope them when by the violence of the winde they shall swarue any way. vpon the ascent or rising from one leuell to another, you may plant the barberry-trées, feberries, and raspberries, of all sorts, which being spreading, thorny and sharpe trées, take great delight to grow thicke and close together, by which meanes often times they make a kinde of wall, hedge, or fencing, where they stand. hauing thus shewed you the ground-plot and proportion of your orchard, with the seuerall deuisions, ascents, and squares, that should be contained therein, and the fruits which are to furnish euery such square and deuision, and their orderly placing, it now rests that you vnderstand that this orchard-plot, so neare as you can bring it to passe, doe stand most open and plaine, vpon the south and west sunne, and most defended from the east and north windes and bitternesse, which being obserued your plot is then perfect and absolute. now forasmuch as where nature, fruitfulnesse, and situation doe take from a man more then the halfe part of his industrie, and by a direct and easie way doth lead him to that perfection which others cannot attaine to without infinit labour and trauell: and whereas it is nothing so commendable to maintaine beautie, as to make deformitie beautifull, i will speake something of the framing of orchard-plots there where both nature, the situation, and barrainnesse, doe vtterly deny the enioying of any such commoditie, as where the ground is vneuen, stonie, sandy, or in his lownesse subiect to the ouerflow of waters, all being apparant enemies to these places of pleasure and delight. first, for the vneuennesse of the ground, if that be his vttermost imperfection, you shall first not onely take a note with your eye, but also place a marke vpon the best ascent of the ground to which the leuell is fittest to be drawne, and then plowing the ground all ouer with a great common plough, by casting the furrowes downward, séeke to fill in and couer the lesser hollownesses of the ground, that their may not any thing appeare but the maine great hollowes, which with other earth which is frée from stones, grauell, or such like euils, you shall fill vp and make leuell with that part where your marke standeth, and being so leuelled, forthwith draw the plot of your orchard: but if the ground be not onely vneuen but also barraine, you shall then to euery loade of earth you carry to the leuelling adde a loade of manure, either oxe manure, or horse manure, the rubbish of houses, or the clensings of olde ditches, or standing pooles, and the earth will soone become fertill and perfect; but if the ground be stonie, that is, full of great stones, as it is in darbishire about the peake or east mores, for small pibbles or small lime-stones are not very much hurtfull, then you shall cause such stones to be digd vp, and fill vp the places where they lay either with marle, or other rich earth, which after it hath béene setled for a yéere or two you shall then plough, and leuell it, and so frame forth the plot of your orchard. if the ground be onely a barraine sand, so that it wanteth strength either to maintaine or bring forth, you shall then first digge that earth into great trenches, at least foure foote déepe, and filling them vp with oxe manure, mixe it with the sand, that it may change some part of the colour thereof and then leuelling it fashion out your orchard. but lastly, and which is of all situations the worst, if you haue no ground to plant your orchard vpon, but such as either through the neighbourhood of riuers, descent of mountaines, or the earths owne naturall quallitie in casting and vomiting out water and moysture, is subiect to some small ouerflowes of water, by which you cannot attaine to the pleasure you séeke, because fruit-trées can neuer indure the corruption of waters, you shall then in the dryest season of the yéere, after you haue marked out that square or quantitie of ground which you intend for your orchard, you shall then cast therein sundry ditches, at least sixtéene foote broad, and nine foote déepe, and not aboue twelue foote betwixt ditch and ditch, vpon which reserued earth casting the earth that you digged vp, you shall raise the banckes at least seauen foote high of firme earth, and kéepe in the top the full breadth of twelue foote, with in a foote or little more: and in the casting vp of these bankes you shall cause the earth to be beaten with maules and broad béetels that it may lye firme, fast, and leuell, and after these bankes haue rested a yéere or more, and are sufficiently setled, you may then at the neather end of the banke, neare to the verge of the water plant store of osyers, which will be a good defence to the banke, and vpon the top and highest part of the banke you shall plant your orchard and fruit-trées, so that when any inundation of water shall happen, the ditches shalbe able inough to receiue it; or else making a passage from your orchard into some other sewer, the water excéeding his limits may haue a frée current or passage: besides these ditches being neatly kept, and comforted with fresh water, may make both pleasant and commodious fish-ponds. also you must be carefull in casting these bankes that you doe not place them in such sort that when you are vpon one you cannot come to the other, but rather like a maze, so that you may at pleasure passe from the one to the other round about the ground, making of diuers bankes to the eye but one banke in substance, and of diuers ponds in appearance, but one in true iudgement. and thus much for the plot or situation of an orchard. chap. ii. _of the nurserie where you shall set all manner of kernels, and stones, for the furnishing of the orchard._ although great persons, out of their greatnesse and abilitie, doe buy their fruit trées ready grafted, and so in a moment may plant an orchard of the greatest quantitie, yet sith the husbandman must raise euery thing from his owne indeauours, and that i onely write for his profit, i therefore hould it most conuenient to beginne with the nursery or store-house of fruits, from whence the orchard receiueth his beauty and riches. this nursery must be a piece of principall ground, either through art or nature, strongly fenced, warme, and full of good shelter: for in it is onely the first infancy and tendernesse of fruit-trées, because there they are first kernells, or stones, after sprigs, and lastly trées. now for the manner of chusing, sowing, and planting them in this nursery, i differ some thing from the french practise, who would chuse the kernells from the cider presse, sow them in large bedds of earth, and within a yeere after replant them in a wilde orchard: now for mine owne part, though this course be not much faulty, yet i rather chuse this kinde of practise, first: to chuse your kernells either of apples, peares, or wardens, from the best and most principallest fruit you can taste, for although the kernell doe bring forth no other trée but the plaine stocke vpon which the fruit was grafted, as thus, if the graft were put into a crab-stocke the kernell brings forth onely a crab-trée, yet when you taste a perfect and delicate apple, be assured both the stocke and graft were of the best choise, and so such kernells of best reckoning. when you haue then a competent quantitie of such kernells, you shall take certaine large pots, in the fashion of milke-boules, all full of hoales in the bottome, through which the raine and superfluous moysture may auoyde, and either in the months of march or nouember (for those are the best seasons) fill the pots three parts full of the finest, blackest, and richest mould you can get, then lay your kernells vpon the earth, about foure fingars one from another, so many as the vessell can conueniently containe, and then with a siue sift vpon them other fine moulds almost thrée fingars thicke, and so let them rest, filling so many pots or vessells as shall serue to receiue your quantitie of kernells of all sorts. now if any man desire to know my reason why i rather desire to set my kernells rather in vessells then in beds of earth, my answere is, that i haue often found it in mine experience, that the kernell of apples, peares, quinces, and such like, are such a tender and dainty séede that it is great oddes but the wormes will deuoure and consume them before they sprout, who naturally delight in such séedes, which these vessels onely doe preuent: but to proceede. after your kernells are sprouted vp and growne to be at least seauen or eight inches high, you shall then within your nursery digge vp a border about two foote and an halfe broad, more then a foote déepe, and of such conuenient length as may receiue all your young plants, and hauing made the mould fine and rich with manure, you shall then with your whole hand gripe as much of the earth that is about the plant as you can conueniently hould, and so take both the plant and the mould out of the vessell, and replant it in the new drest border: and you shall thus doe plant after plant, till you haue set euery one, and made them firme and fast in the new mould: wherein you are to obserue these two principles, first that you place them at least fiue foote one from another, and secondly, that such kernells as you set in your vessels in march, that you replant them in borders of earth in nouember following, and such as you set in nouember to replant in march following, and being so replanted to suffer them to grow till they be able to beare grafts, during which time you shall diligently obserue, that if any of them chance to put forth any superfluous branches or cyons, which may hinder the growth of the body of the plant, that you carefully cut them away, that thereby it may be the sooner inabled to beare a graft: for it is euer to be intended that whatsoeuer procéedeth from kernells are onely to be preserued for stockes to graft on, and for no other purpose. now for the stones of plumbes, & other stone fruit, you shall vnderstand that they be of two kindes, one simple and of themselues, as the rye-plumbe, wheate-plumbe, damson, prune-plumbe, horse-clogge, cherry, and such like, so that from the kernells of them issueth trées of like nature and goodnesse: the other compounded or grafted plumbes, as the abricot, pescod, peach, damaske, verdochyo, emperiall, and such like, from whose kernells issueth no other trées but such as the stockes were vpon which they were grafted. now, for the manner of setting the first, which are simple and vncompounded, you shall digge vp a large bedde of rich and good earth a month or more before march or nouember, and hauing made the mould as fine as is possible, you shall flat-wise thrust euery stone, a foote one from another, more then thrée fingars into the mould, and then with a little small rake, made for the purpose, rake the bedde ouer and close vp the holes, and so let them rest till they be of a yéeres groath, at which time you shall replant them into seuerall borders, as you did your apple-trée plants and others. now for the kernells of your compounded or grafted plumbes, you shall both set them in beddes and replant them into seuerall borders, in the same manner as you did the other kernells of plumbes, onely you shall for the space of eight and forty houres before you set them stéepe them in new milke, forasmuch as the stones of them are more hard, and with greater difficulty open and sprout in the earth, then any other stone whatsoeuer: and thus hauing furnished your nursery of all sorts of fruits and stockes, you shall when they come to full age and bignesse graft them in such order as shalbe hereafter declared. chap. iii. _of the setting or planting of the cyons or branches of most sorts of fruit-trees._ as you are to furnish your nursery with all sorts of kernells and stones, for the bréeding of stockes where on to graft the daintiest fruits you can compasse, so shall you also plant therein the cyons and branches of the best fruit trées: which cyons and branches doe bring forthe the same fruit which the trées doe from whence they are taken, and by that meanes your nursery shall euer afford you perfect trées, wherewith either to furnish your owne grounds, or to pleasure your neighbours. and herein by the way you shall vnderstand that some trées are more fit to be set then to be sowne, as namely, the seruice-trée, the medler, the filbert and such like. now for the seruice-trée, hée is not at all to be grafted, but set in this wise: take of the bastard cyons such as be somewhat bigger then a mans thumbe, and cutting away the branches thereof, set it in a fine loose moulde, at least a foote déepe, and it will prosper exceedingly, yet the true nature of this trée is not to be remoued, and therefore it is conuenient that it be planted where it should euer continue: in like manner to the seruice-tree, so you shall plant the bastard cyons of the medlar-trée either in march or october, and at the waine of the moone. now for the filbert, or large hassell-nut, you shall take the smallest cyons or wands, such as are not aboue two yéeres groath, being full of short heauie twigges, and grow from the roote of the maine trée, and set them in a loose mould, a foote déepe, without pruning or cutting away any of the branches, and they will prosper to your contentment. now for all sorts of plumbe-trées, apple-trées or other fruit-trées which are not grafted, if you take the young cyons which grow from the rootes cleane from the rootes, and plant them either in the spring, or fall, in a fresh and fine mould, they will not onely prosper, but bring forth fruit of like nature and qualitie to the trées from whence they were taken. now for your grafted fruit, as namely, apples, plumbes, cherryes, mulberries, quinces, and such like, the cyons also and branches of them also will take roote and bring forth fruit of the same kinde that the trées did from whence they were taken: but those cyons or branches must euer be chosen from the vpper parts of the trées, betwixt the feast of all-saints and christmas, they must be bigger then a mans finger, smooth, straight, and without twigges: you shall with a sharpe chissell cut them from the body or armes of the trée with such care, that by no meanes you raise vp the barke, and then with a little yealow waxe couer the place from whence you cut the cyon: then hauing digged and dunged the earth well where you intend to plant them, and made the mould easie, you shall with an iron, as bigge as your plant, make a hoale a foote déepe or better, and then put in your cyon and with it a few oates, long stéept in water, and so fixe it firme in the mould, and if after it beginneth to put forth you perceiue any young cyons to put forth from the root thereof, you shall immediatly cut them off, & either cast them away or plant them in other places, for to suffer them to grow may bréede much hurt to the young trées. now where as these cyons thus planted are for the most part small and weake, so that the smallest breath of winde doth shake and hurt their rootes, it shalbe good to pricke strong stakes by them, to which, fastning the young plant with a soft hay rope it may the better be defended from stormes and tempests. next to these fruit-trées, you shall vnderstand that your bush-trées, as barberryes, gooseberryes, or feberryes, raspberryes, and such like, will also grow vpon cyons, without rootes, being cut from their maine rootes in nouember, & so planted in a new fresh mould. and here by the way i am to giue you this note or caueat, that if at any time you finde any of these cyons which you haue planted not to grow and flourish according to your desire, but that you finde a certaine mislike or consumption in the plant, you shall then immediatly with a sharpe knife cut the plant off slope-wise vpward, about three fingars from the ground, and so let it rest till the next spring, at which time you shall beholde new cyons issue from the roote, which will be without sicknesse or imperfection; and from the vertue of this experiment i imagine the gardners of antient time found out the meanes to get young cyons from olde mulberry-trées, which they doe in this manner: first, you must take some of the greatest armes of the mulberry-trée about the midst of nouember, and with a sharpe sawe to sawe them into bigge truncheons, about fiuetéene inches long, and then digging a trench in principall good earth, of such depth that you may couer the truncheons, being set vp on end, with manure and fine mould, each truncheon being a foote one from another, and couerd more then foure fingars aboue the wood, not fayling to water them whensoeuer néede shall require, and to preserue them from wéeds and filthinesse, within lesse then a yéeres space you shall behold those truncheons to put forth young cyons, which as soone as they come to any groath and be twigged, then you may cut them from the stockes, and transplant them where you please, onely the truncheons you shall suffer to remaine still, and cherish them with fresh dunge, and they will put forth many moe cyons, both to furnish your selfe and your friends. and thus much for the planting and setting of cyons or branches. chap. iiii. _of the ordinary and accustomed manner of grafting all sorts of fruit-trees._ {sn: the mixing of stockes and grafts.} as soone as your nursery is thus amply furnished of all sorts of stockes, procéeding from kernells and of all sorts of trées procéeding from cyons, branches or vndergrowings, and that through strength of yéeres they are growne to sufficient abilitie to receiue grafts, which is to be intended that they must be at the least sixe or eight inches in compasse, for although lesse many times both doth and may receiue grafts, yet they are full of debilitie and danger, and promise no assurance to the worke-mans labour, you shall then beginne to graft your stockes with such fruits as from art and experience are méete to be conioyned together, as thus: you shall graft apples vpon apples, as the pippin vpon the great costard, the peare-maine vpon the ienetting, and the apple-iohn or blacke annet vpon the pomewater or crab-trée: to conclude, any apple-stocke, crab-tree, or wilding, is good to graft apples vpon, but the best is best worthy. so for peares, you shall graft them vpon peare stockes, quinces vpon quinces or crab-trées, and not according to the opinion of the frenchman, vpon white thorne or willow, the medlar vpon the seruice-trée, and the seruice vpon the medlar, also cherryes vpon cherryes, & plumbes vpon plumbes, as the greater abricots vpon the lesser abricots, the peach, the figge, or the damson-trée, and to speake generally without wasting more paper, or making a long circumstance to slender purpose, the damson-trée is the onely principall best stocke whereupon to graft any kinde of plumbe or stone fruit whatsoeuer. {sn: the choise of grafts.} after you haue both your stockes ready, and know which grafts to ioyne with which stockes, you shall then learne to cut and chuse your grafts in this manner: looke from what trée you desire to take your grafts, you shall goe vnto the very principall branches thereof, and looke vp to the vpper ends, and those which you finde to be fairest, smoothest, and fullest of sappe, hauing the little knots, budds, or eyes, standing close and thicke together, are the best and most perfect, especially if they grow vpon the east side of the trée, whereon the sunne first looketh; these you shall cut from the trée in such sort that they may haue at least thrée fingars of the olde woode ioyning to the young branch, which you shall know both by the colour of the barke, as also by a little round seame which maketh as it were a distinction betwixt the seuerall growths. now you shall euer, as néere as you can, chuse your grafts from a young trée, and not from an olde, and from the tops of the principall branches, and not from the midst of the trée, or any other superfluous arme or cyon; now if after you haue got your grafts you haue many dayes iourneys to carry them, you shall fould them in a few fresh mouldes, and binde them about with hay, and hay ropes, and so carry them all day, and in the night bury them all ouer in the ground and they will containe their goodnesse for a long season. {sn: how to graft in the cleft.} hauing thus prepared your grafts, you shall then beginne to graft, which worke you shall vnderstand may be done in euery month of the yéere, except nouember and october, but the best is to beginne about christmas for all earely and forward fruit, and for the other, to stay till march: now hauing all your implements and necessaryes about you, fit for the grafting, you shall first take your grafts, of what sort soeuer they be, and hauing cut the neather ends of them round and smoth without raysing of the barke, you shall then with a sharp knife, made in the proportion of a great pen-knife slice downe each side of the grafts, from the seame or knot which parts the olde woode from the new, euen to the neather end, making it flat and thinne, cheifely in the lowest part, hauing onely a regardfull eye vnto the pith of the graft, which you may by no meanes cut or touch, and when you haue thus trimmed a couple of grafts, for moe i doe by no meanes alow vnto one stocke, although sundry other skilfull workmen in this art alow to the least stocke two grafts, to the indifferent great thrée, and to the greatest of all foure, yet i affirme two are sufficiently inough for any stocke whatsoeuer, and albeit they are a little the longer in couering the head, yet after they haue couered it the trée prospereth more in one yéere then that which contayneth foure grafts shall doe in two, because they cannot haue sap inough to maintaine them, which is the reason that trées for want of prosperitie grow crooked and deformed: but to my purpose. when you haue made your grafts ready, you shall then take a fine thinne sawe, whose téeth shalbe filed sharpe and euen, and with it (if the stocke be excéeding small) cut the stocke round off within lesse then a foote of the ground, but if the stocke be as bigge as a mans arme, then you may cut it off two or thrée foote from the ground, and so consequently the bigger it is the higher you may cut it, and the lesser the nearer vnto the earth: as soone as you haue sawne off the vpper part of the stocke, you shall then take a fine sharpe chissell, somewhat broader then the stocke, and setting it euen vpon the midst of the head of the stocke somewhat wide of the pith, then with a mallet of woode you shall stricke it in and cleaue the stocke, at least foure inches déepe, then putting in a fine little wedge of iron, which may kéepe open the cleft, you shall take one of your grafts and looke which side of it you intend to place inward, and that side you shall cut much thinner then the out side, with a most héedfull circumspection that by no meanes you loosen or rayse vp the barke of the graft, cheifly on the out side, then you shall take the graft, and wetting it in your mouth place it in one side of the cleft of the stocke, and regard that the very knot or seame which goes about the graft, parting the olde woode from the new, do rest directly vpon the head of the stocke, and that the out side of the graft doe agrée directly with the out side of the stocke, ioyning barke vnto barke, and sappe vnto sappe, so euen, so smooth, and so close, that no ioyners worke may be discerned to ioyne more arteficially: which done, vpon the other side of the stocke, in the other cleft, you shall place your other graft, with full as much care, diligence, and euery other obseruation: when both your grafts are thus orderly and arteficially placed, you shall then by setting the haft of your chissell against the stocke, with all lenitie and gentlenesse, draw forth your wedge, in such sort that you doe not displace or alter your grafts, and when your wedge is forth you shall then looke vpon your grafts, and if you perceiue that the stocke doe pinch or squize them, which you may discerne both by the straitnesse and bending of the outmost barke, you shall then make a little wedge of some gréene sappy woode, and driuing it into the cleft, ease your grafts, cutting that wedge close to the stocke. when you haue thus made both your grafts perfect, you shall then take the barke of either apple-trée, crab-trée or willow-trée, and with that barke couer the head of the stocke so close that no wet or other annoyance may get betwixt it and the stocke, then you shall take a conuenient quantitie of clay, which indéede would be of a binding mingled earth, and tempering it well, either with mosse or hay, lay it vpon the barke, and daube all the head of the stocke, euen as low as the bottome of the grafts, more then an inch thicke, so firme, close, and smooth as may be, which done, couer all that clay ouer with soft mosse, and that mosse with some ragges of wollen cloath, which being gently bound about with the inward barkes of willow, or osyar, let the graft rest to the pleasure of the highest: and this is called grafting in the cleft. {sn: notes.} now there be certaine obseruations or caueats to be respected in grafting, which i may not neglect: as first, in trimming and preparing your grafts for the stocke: if the grafts be either of cherry, or plumbe, you shall not cut them so thinne as the grafts of apples, quinces, or medlars, because they haue a much larger and rounder pith, which by no meanes must be toucht but fortefied and preserued, onely to the neather end you may cut them as thinne as is possible, the pith onely preserued. secondly, you shall into your greatest stockes put your greatest grafts, and into your least, the least, that there may be an equall strength and conformitie in their coniunction. thirdly, if at any time you be inforced to graft vpon an olde trée, that is great and large, then you shall not graft into the body of that trée, because it is impossible to kéepe it from putrifaction and rotting before the grafts can couer the head, but you shall chuse out some of the principall armes or branches, which are much more slender, and graft them, as is before shewed, omitting not dayly to cut away all cyons, armes, branches, or superfluous sprigs which shall grow vnder those branches which you haue newly grafted: but if there be no branch, small or tender inough to graft in, then you shall cut away all the maine branches from the stocke, and couering the head with clay and mosse, let it rest, and within thrée or foure yéeres it will put forth new cyons, which will be fit to graft vpon. fourthly, if when you either sawe off the top of your stocke, or else cleaue the head, you either raise vp the barke or cleaue the stocke too déepe, you shall then sawe the stocke againe, with a little more carefulnesse, so much lower as your first errour had committed a fault. fiftly, you shall from time to time looke to the binding of the heads of your stockes, in so much that if either the clay doe shrinke away or the other couerings doe losen, by which defects ayre, or wet, may get into the incission, you shall presently with all spéede amend and repaire it. lastly, if you graft in any open place where cattell doe graze, you shall not then forget as soone as you haue finisht your worke to bush or hedge in your graft, that it may be defended from any such negligent annoyance. and thus much for this ordinary manner of grafting, which although it be generall and publike to most men that knoweth any thing in this art, yet is it not inferiour, but the principallest and surest of all other. chap. v. _of diuers other wayes of grafting, their vses and purposes._ although for certainty, vse, and commodity, the manner of grafting already prescribed is of sufficiency inough to satisfie any constant or reasonable vnderstanding, yet for nouelty sake, to which our nation is infinitly addicted, and to satisfie the curious, who thinke their iudgements disparaged if they heare any authorised traueller talke of the things which they haue not practised, i will procéede to some other more quaint manners of grafting, and the rather because they are not altogether vnnecessary, hauing both certainety in the worke, pleasure in the vse, and benefit in the serious imploying of those howers which else might challenge the title of idlenesse, besides they are very well agréeing with the soyles and fruits of this empyre of great brittaine and the vnderstandings of the people, for whose seruice or benefit, i onely vndergoe my trauell. you shall vnderstand therefore, that there is another way to graft, which is called grafting betwéene the barke and tree, and it is to be put in vse about the latter end of february, at such time as the sappe beginnes to enter into the trées: and the stockes most fit for this manner of grafting are those which are oldest and greatest, whose graine being rough and vneuen, either through shaking or twinding, it is a thing almost impossible to make it cleaue in any good fashion, so that in such a case it is meete that the grafter exercise this way of grafting betwixt the barke and the trée, the manner whereof is thus. {sn: grafting betweene the barke.} first, you shall dresse your grafts in such sort as was before discribed when you grafted in the cleft, onely they shall not be so long from the knot or seame downeward by an inch or more, neither so thicke, but as thinne as may be, the pith onely preserued, and at the neather end of all you shall cut away the barke on both sides, making that end smaller and narrower then it is at the ioynt or seame, then sawing off the head of the stocke, you shall with a sharpe knife pare the head round about, smooth and plaine, making the barke so euen as may be, that the barke of your grafts and it may ioyne like one body, then take a fine narrow chissell, not excéeding sharpe, but somewhat rebated, and thrust it hard downe betwixt the barke and the trée, somewhat more then two inches, according to the iust length of your graft, and then gently thrust the graft downe into the same place, euen close vnto the ioynt, hauing great care that the ioynt rest firme and constant vpon the head of the stocke, and thus you shall put into one stocke not aboue thrée grafts at the most, how euer either other mens practise, or your owne reading doe perswade you to the contrary. after your grafts are fixt and placed, you shall then couer the head with barke, clay, and mosse, as hath béene formerly shewed: also you shall fasten about it some bushes of thorne, or sharpe whinnes, which may defend and kéepe it from the annoyance of pye-annats, and such like great birds. there is another way of grafting, which is called grafting in the scutchion, which howsoeuer it is estéemed, yet is it troublesome, incertaine, and to small purpose: the season for it is in summer, from may till august, at what time trées are fullest of sappe and fullest of leaues, and the manner is thus: take the highest and the principallest branches of the toppe of the trée you would haue grafted, and without cutting it from the olde woode chuse the best eye and budding place of the cyon, then take another such like eye or budde, being great and full, and first cut off the leafe hard by the budde, then hollow it with your knife the length of a quarter of an inch beneath the budde, round about the barke, close to the sappe, both aboue and below, then slit it downe twice so much wide of the budde, and then with a small sharpe chissell raise vp the scutchion, with not onely the budde in the midst but euen all the sappe likewise, wherein you shall first raise that side which is next you, and then taking the scutchion betwéene your fingars, raise it gently vp without breaking or brusing, and in taking it off hould it hard vnto the woode, to the end the sappe of the budde may abide in the scutchion, for if it depart from the barke and cleaue to the woode, your labour is lost, this done you shall take another like cyon, and hauing taken off the barke from it, place it in the others place, and in taking off this barke you must be carfull that you cut not the woode, but the barke onely, and this done you shall couer it all ouer with redde waxe, or some such glutenous matter; as for the binding of it with hempe and such trumpery it is vtterly dissalowed of all good grafters: this manner of grafting may be put in practise vpon all manner of cyons, from the bignesse of a mans little fingar to the bignesse of a slender arme. {sn: grafting with the leafe.} not much vnlike vnto this, is the grafting with the leafe, and of like worth, the art whereof is thus: any time betwixt midst may, vntill the midst of september, you shall chuse, from the toppe of the sunne-side of the trée, the most principall young cyon you can sée, whose barke is smoothest, whose leaues are greatest, and whose sappe is fullest, then cutting it from the trée note the principall leafe thereof, and cut away from it all the woode more then about an inch of each side of the leafe, then cutting away the vndermost part of the barke with your knife, take péece meale from the barke all the woode and sappe, saue onely that little part of woode and sappe which féedeth the leafe, which in any wise must be left behind, so that the graft will carry this figure. {illustration} then goe to the body, arme, or branch of that trée which you intend to graft, which is to be presupposed must euer haue a smooth and tender barke, and with a very sharpe knife slit the barke, two slits at least, two inches long a péece, and about halfe an inch or more distance betwéene the two slits: then make another slit crosse-wise ouerthwart, from long slit to long slit, the figure whereof will be thus: {illustration} then with your knife raise the barke gently from the trée, without breaking, cracking, or brusing: then take your graft, and putting it vnder the barke lay it flat vnto the sappe of the trée, so as that little sappe which is left in the leafe, may without impediment cleaue to the sappe of the trée, then lay downe the barke close againe and couer the graft, and with a little vntwound hempe, or a soft wollen list, binde downe the barke close to the graft, and then couer all the incisions you haue made with greene waxe: by this manner of grafting you may haue vpon one trée sundry fruits, as from one apple-tree, both pippins, peare-maines, russettings and such like, nay, you may haue vpon one tree, ripe fruit all summer long, as ienettings from one branch, cislings from another, wibourns from another, costards and quéene-apples from others, and pippens and russettings, from others, which bringeth both delight to the eye, and admiration to the sence, and yet i would not haue you imagine that this kinde of grafting doth onely worke this effect, for as before i shewed you, if you graft in the cleft (which is the fastest way of all grafting) sundry fruits vpon sundry armes or bowes, you shall likewise haue procéeding from them sundry sorts of fruits, as either apples, plumbes, peares or any other kind, according to your composition and industry; as at this day we may dayly sée in many great mens orchards. {sn: grafting on the toppes of trees.} there is yet another manner of grafting, and it is of all other especially vsed much in italy, and yet not any thing disagréeable with our climate, and that is to graft on the small cyons which are on the toppes of fruit trées, surely an experience that carryeth in it both dificulty and wonder, yet being put to approbation is no lesse certaine then any of the other, the manner whereof is thus: you shall first after you haue chosen such and so many grafts as you doe intend to graft, and trimd them in the same manner as you haue béene taught formerly for grafting within the cleft, you shall then mount vp into the toppe of the trée, vpon which you meane to graft, and there make choise of the highest and most principallest cyons (being cleane barkt and round) that you can perceiue to grow from the trée, then laying the graft, and the cyon vpon which you are to graft, together, sée that they be both of one bignesse and roundnesse: then with your grafting knife cut the cyon off betwéene the olde woode and the new, and cleaue it downe an inch and an halfe, or two inches at the most: then put in your graft (which graft must not be cut thinner on one side, then on the other, but all of one thicknesse) and when it is in, sée that the barke of the graft both aboue and below, that is, vpon both sides, doe ioyne close, euen, and firme with the barke of the branch or cyon, and then by foulding a little soft towe about it, kéepe them close together, whilst with clay, mosse, and the in-most barke of osyars you lappe them about to defend them from ayre, winde, and tempests. and herein you shall obserue to make your graft as short as may be, for the shortest are best, as the graft which hath not aboue two or thrée knots, or buddes, and no more. you may, if you please, with this manner of grafting graft vpon euery seuerall cyon, a seuerall fruit, and so haue from one trée many fruits, as in case of grafting with the leafe, and that with much more spéede, by as much as a well-growne graft is more forward and able then a weake tender leafe. and in these seuerall wayes already declared, consisteth the whole art and substance of grafting: from whence albeit many curious braines may, from preuaricating trickes, beget showes of other fashions, yet when true iudgement shall looke vpon their workes, he shall euer finde some one of these experiments the ground and substance of all their labours, without which they are able to doe nothing that shall turne to an assured commoditie. {sn: the effects of grafting.} now when you haue made your selfe perfect in the sowing, setting, planting and grafting of trées, you shall then learne to know the effects, wonders, and strange issues which doe procéede from many quaint motions and helpes in grafting, as thus: if you will haue peaches, cherryes, apples, quinces, medlars, damsons, or any plumbe whatsoeuer, to ripen earely, as at the least two months before the ordinary time, and to continue at least a month longer then the accustomed course, you shall then graft them vpon a mulberry stocke: and if you will haue the fruit to tast like spice, with a certaine delicate perfume, you shall boyle honey, the powder of cloues and soaxe together, and being cold annoynt the grafts there-with before you put them into the cleft, if you graft apples, peares, or any fruit vpon a figge-tree stocke, they will beare fruit without blooming: if you take an apple graft, & a peare graft, of like bignesse, and hauing clouen them, ioyne them as one body in grafting, the fruit they bring forth will be halfe apple and halfe peare, and so likewise of all other fruits which are of contrary tastes and natures: if you graft any fruit-tree, or other trée, vpon the holly or vpon the cypresse, they will be greene, and kéepe their leaues the whole yéere, albeit the winter be neuer so bitter. if you graft either peach, plumbe, or any stone-fruit vpon a willow stocke, the fruit which commeth of them will be without stones. if you will change the colour of any fruit, you shall boare a hole slope-wise with a large auger into the body of the trée, euen vnto the pith, and then if you will haue the fruit yealow you shal fill the hole with saferne dissolued in water: if you will haue it redde, then with saunders, and of any other colour you please, and then stoppe the hole vp close, and couer it with red or yealow waxe: also if you mixe the coulour with any spice or perfume, the fruit will take a rellish or tast of the same: many other such like conceits and experiments are practised amongst men of this art, but sith they more concerne the curious, then the wise, i am not so carefull to bestow my labour in giuing more substantiall satisfaction, knowing curiosity loues that best which procéedes from their most paine, and am content to referre their knowledge to the searching of those bookes which haue onely strangnesse for their subiect, resolued that this i haue written is fully sufficient for the plaine english husbandman. chap. vi. _of the replanting of trees, and furnishing the orchard._ as soone as your séedes, or sets, haue brought forth plants, those plants, through time, made able, and haue receiued grafts, and those grafts haue couered the heads of the stockes and put forth goodly branches, you shall then take them vp, and replant them, (because the sooner it is done the better it is done) in those seuerall places of your orchard which before is appointed, and is intended to be prepared, both by dungging, digging, and euery orderly labour, to receiue euery seuerall fruit. and herein you shall vnderstand, that as the best times for grafting are euery month (except october and nouember) and at the change of the moone, so the best times for replanting, are nouember and march onely, vnlesse the ground be cold and moist and then ianuary, or february must be the soonest all wayes, excepted that you doe not replant in the time of frost, for that is most vnholsome. {sn: the taking vp of trees.} now when you will take vp your trées which you intend to replant in your orchard, you shall first with a spade bare all the maine branches of the roote, and so by degrées digge and loosen the earth from the roote, in such sort that you may with your owne strength raise the young trée from the ground, which done, you shall not, according to the fashion of fraunce, dismember, or disroabe the trée of his beauties, that is to say, to cut off all his vpper branches and armes, but you shall diligently preserue them: for i haue séene a trée thus replanted after the fall of the leafe to bring forth fruit in the summer following: but if the trée you replant be olde then it is good to cut off the maine branches with in a foote of the stocke, least the sappe running vpward, and so forsaking the roote too sodainely doe kill the whole trée. when you haue taken your trée vp, you shall obserue how, and in what manner, it stoode, that is, which side was vpon the south and receiued most comfort from the sunne, and which side was from it and receiued most shadow and bleaknesse, and in the same sort as it then stoode, so shall you replant it againe: this done you shall with a sharpe cutting-knife, cut off all the maine rootes, within halfe a foote of the trée, onely the small thriddes or twist-rootes you shall not cut at all: then bringing the plant into your orchard, you shall make a round hole in that place where you intend to set your trée (the rankes, manner, distance and forme whereof hath béene all ready declared, in the first chapter:) and this hole shalbe at least foure foote ouerthwart euery way, and at least two foote déepe, then shall you fill vp the hole againe, fiftéene inches déepe, with the finest blacke mould, tempered with oxe dunge that you can get, so that then the hole shalbe but nine inches déepe, then you shall take your trée and place it vpon that earth, hauing care to open euery seuerall branch and thrid of the roote, & so to place them that they may all looke downe into the earth, and not any of them to looke backe and turne vpward: then shall you take of the earth from whence your trée was taken, and tempering it with a fourth part of oxe dunge and slekt sope-asshes (for the killing of wormes) couer all the roote of your trée firmely and strongly: then with gréene soddes, cut and ioyned arteficially together, so sodde the place that the hole may hardly be discerned. lastly take a strong stake, and driuing it hard into the ground neare vnto the new planted trée, with either a soft hay rope, the broad barke of willow, or some such like vnfretting band, tye the trée to the stake, and it will defend it from the rage of winde and tempests, which should they but shake or trouble the roote, being new planted, it were inough to confound and spoyle the trée for euer. now, although i haue vnder the title and demonstration of replanting one trée giuen you a generall instruction for the replanting of all trées whatsoeuer, yet, for as much as some are not of that strength and hardnesse to indure so much as some others will, therefore you shal take these considerations by the way, to fortefie your knowledge with. first, you shall vnderstand that all your dainty and tender grafted plumbes, and fruits, as abricots, peaches, damaske-plumbes, verdochyos, pescods, emperialls, and diuers such like, together with orrenges, cytrons, almonds, oliues, and others, which indéede are not familiar with our soyles, as being nearer neighbours to the sunne, doe delight in a warme, fat, earth, being somewhat sandy, or such a clay whose coldnesse by manure is corrected, and therefore here with vs in the replanting of them you cannot bestow too much cost vpon the mould: as for the damson, and all our naturall english plumbes, they loue a fat, cold, earth, so that in the replanting of them if you shall lay too much dunge vnto their roote, you shall through the aboundant heate, doe great hurt vnto the trée. the cherry delighteth in any clay, so that vpon such soyle you may vse lesse manure, but vpon the contrary you cannot lay too much. the medlar estéemeth all earths alike, and therefore whether it be manured or no it skilles not, sunne and shadow, wet and drinesse, being all of one force or efficacy. the peare and apple-trée delights in a strong mixt soyle, and therfore indureth manure kindly, so doth also the quince and warden: lastly the filbert, the hasell, and the chesnut, loue cold, leane, moist, and sandy earths, in so much that there is no greater enimy vnto them then a rich soyle: so that in replanting of them you must euer séeke rather to correct then increase fertillity. you shall also vnderstand that all such fruit-trées as you doe plant against the walles of your orchard (of which i haue spoken already & deciphered out their places) you shall not suffer to grow as of themselues, round, and from the wall, but at the times of pruning and dressing of them (which is euer at the beginning of the spring and immediately after the fall) you shall as it were plash them, and spread them against the wall, foulding the armes in loopes of leather, and nayling them vnto the wall: and to that end you shall place them of such a fit distance one from another, that they may at pleasure spread and mount, without interruption: the profit whereof is at this day seene almost in euery great mans orchard: and although i haue but onely appointed vnto the wall the most quaint fruits of forraine nations; yet there is no fruit of our owne, but if it be so ordered it will prosper and bring forth his fruit better and in greater abundance. and thus much for the replanting of trées and furnishing of a well proportioned orchard. chap. vii. _of the dressing, dungging, proyning, and preseruing of trees._ sith after all the labour spent of ingendring by séede, of fortefying and inabling by planting, and of multiplying by grafting it is to little or no purpose if the trées be not maintained and preserued by dressing, dungging and proyning, i will therefore in this place shew you what belongs to that office or duty, and first, for the dressing of trees: you shall vnderstand that it containeth all whatsoeuer is méete for the good estate of the trée, as first, after your trée is planted, or replanted, if the season shall fall out hot, dry, and parching, insomuch that the moisture of the earth is sucked out by the atraction of the sunne, and so the trée wanteth the nutriment of moisture, in this case you shall not omit euery morning before the rising of the sunne, and euery euening after the set of the sunne, with a great watring-pot filled with water, to water & bath the rootes of the trées, if they be young trées, and newly planted, or replanted, but not otherwise: for if the trées be olde, and of long growth, then you shall saue that labour, and onely to such olde trées you shall about the midst of nouember, with a spade, digge away the earth from the vpper part of the rootes and lay them bare vntill it be midde-march, and then mingling such earth as is most agréeable with the fruit and oxe-dunge and sope-ashes together, so couer them againe, and tread the earth close about them: as for the vncouering of your trées in summer i doe not hold it good, because the reflection of the sunne is somewhat too violent and dryeth the roote, from whence at that time the sappe naturally is gone: you shall also euery spring and fall of the leafe clense your fruit trées from mosse, which procéeding from a cold and cankerous moisture, bréedeth dislike, and barrainenesse in trées: this mosse you must take off with the backe of an olde knife and leaue the barke smooth, plaine, and vnraced: also if you shall dunge such trées with the dunge of swine, it is a ready way to destroy the mosse. {sn: proyning of trees.} after you haue drest and trimmed your trées, you shall then proyne them, which is to cut away all those superfluous branches, armes, or cyons, which being either barraine, bruised or misplaced, doe like drones, steale-away that nutriment which should maintaine the better deseruing sinewes, and you shall vnderstand that the best time for proyning of trées, is in march and aprill, at which time the sappe assending vpward, causeth the trées to budde: the branches you shall cut away are all such as shall grow out of the stocke vnderneath the place grafted, or all such as by the shaking of tempests shall grow in a disorderly and ill fashioned crookednesse, or any other, that out of a well tempered iudgement shall séeme superfluous and burdensome to the stocke from whence it springs, also such as haue by disorder béene brooken, or maimed, and all these you shall cut away with a hooke knife, close by the trée, vnlesse you haue occasion by some misfortune to cut away some of the maine and great armes of the trée, and then you shall not vse your knife for feare of tearing the barke, but taking your sawe you shall sawe off those great armes close by the trée, neither shall you sawe them off downeward but vpward, least the waight of the arme breake the barke from the body: and herein you shall also vnderstand that for as much as the mischances which beget these dismembrings doe happen at the latter end of summer, in the gathering of the fruit, and that it is not fit such maymed and broken boughes hang vpon the trée till the spring, therefore you shall cut them off in the winter time, but not close to the trée by almost a foote, and so letting them rest vntill the spring, at that time cut them off close by the trée. now if you finde the superfluitie of branches which annoy your trées to be onely small cyons, springing from the rootes of the trées, as it often hapneth with all sorts of plumbe-trées, cherry-trées, nut-trées, and such like, then you shall in the winter, bare the rootes of those trées, and cut off those cyons close by the roote: but if your trées be broused or eaten by tame-deare, goates, shéepe, kine, oxen, or such like, then there is no help for such a misfortune but onely to cut off the whole head and graft the stocke anew. {sn: of barke-bound.} next to the proyning of trées, is the preseruing, phisicking, and curing of the diseases of trées: to which they are subiect as well as our naturall bodyes: and first of all, there is a disease called barke-bound, which is when the barke, through a mislike and leperous drynesse, bindeth in the trée with such straitnesse that the sappe being denied passage the body growes into a consumption: it is in nature like vnto that disease which in beasts is called hide-bound, and the cure is thus: at the beginning of march take a sharpe knife, and from the toppe of the body of the trée, to the very roote, draw downe certaine slits, or incissions, cleane through the barke, vnto the very sappe of the trée, round about the trée, & then with the backe of your knife open those slits and annoint them all through with tarre, and in short space it will giue libertie vnto the trée to encrease & grow: this disease commeth by the rubbing of cattell against the trée, especially swine, who are very poyson vnto all plants. {sn: of the gall.} there is another disease in fruit-trées, called the gall, and it eateth and consumeth the barke quit away, and so in time kills the trée: the cure is to cut and open the barke which you sée infected, and with a chissell to take away all that is foule and putrefied, and then to clappe oxe dunge vpon the place, and it will helpe it, and this must be done euer in winter. {sn: of the canker.} the canker in fruit trées is the consumption both of the barke and the body, & it commeth either by the dropping of trées one vpon another, or else when some hollow places of the trée retaineth raine water in them, which fretting through the barke, poysoneth the trée: the cure is to cut away all such boughes as by dropping bréede the euill, and if the hollow places cannot be smooth and made euen, then to stoppe them with clay, waxe, and sope-ashes mixt together. {sn: of worme-eaten barkes.} if the barkes of your trées be eaten with wormes, which you shall perceiue by the swelling of the barke, you shall then open the barke and lay there-vpon swines dunge, sage, and lime beaten together, and bound with a cloath fast to the trée, and it will cure it: or wash the trée with cowes-pisse and vinegar and it will helpe it. {sn: of pismiers and snailes.} if your young trées be troubled with pismiers, or snailes, which are very noysome vnto them, you shall take vnsleckt lime and sope-ashes and mingling them with wine-lées, spread it all about the roote of the trées so infected, and annoint the body of the trée likewise therewith, and it will not onely destroy them but giue comfort to the trée: the soote of a chimney or oake sawe-dust spread about the roote will doe the same. {sn: of caterpillers, and earewigges.} if caterpillers doe annoy your young trées, who are great deuourers of the leaues and young buddes, and spoylers of the barke, you shall, if it be in the summer time, make a very strong brine of water and salt, and either with a garden pumpe, placed in a tubbe, or with squirts which haue many hoales you shall euery second day water and wash your trées, and it will destroy them, because the caterpiller naturally cannot indure moisture, but if neuerthelesse you sée they doe continue still vpon your trees in winter, then you shall when the leaues are falne away take dankish straw and setting it on fire smeare and burne them from the trée, and you shall hardly euer be troubled with them againe vpon the same trées: roules of hay layd on the trées will gather vp earewigges and kill them. {sn: of the barrainenesse of trees.} if your trées be barraine, and albeit they flourish and spread there leaues brauely, yet bring forth no fruit at all, it is a great sicknesse, and the worst of all other: therefore you shall vnderstand it procéedeth of two causes: first, of two much fertillitie, and fatnesse of the ground, which causeth the leafe to put forth and flourish in such vnnaturall abundance, that all such sappe and nutriment as should knit and bring forth fruit, turnes onely vnto leafe, cyons, and vnprofitable branches, which you shall perceiue both by the abundance of the leaues and by the colour also, which will be of a more blacker and déeper gréene, and of much larger proportion then those which haue but their naturall and proper rights: and the cure thereof is to take away the earth from the roote of such trées and fill vp the place againe with other earth, which is of a much leaner substance: but if your trée haue no such infirmitie of fatnesse, but beareth his leaues and branches in good order and of right colour and yet notwithstanding is barraine and bringeth forth little or no fruit, then that disease springeth from some naturall defect in the trée, and the cure thereof is thus: first, you shall vnbare the roote of the trée, and then noting which is the greatest and principallest branch of all the roote, you shall with a great wimble boare a hole into that roote and then driue a pinne of olde dry ashe into the same (for oake is not altogether so good) and then cutting the pinne off close by the roote, couer all the head of the pinne with yealow waxe, and then lay the mould vpon the roote of the trée againe, and treade it hard and firmely downe, and there is no doubte but the trée will beare the yéere following: in fraunce they vse for this infirmitie to boare a hoale in the body of the trée slope-wise, somewhat past the hart, and to fill vp the hoale with life honey and rose-water mixt together, and incorporated for at least xxiiij. howers, and then to stoppe the hole with a pinne of the one woode: also if you wash the rootes of your trées in the drane water which runneth from your barley when you stéepe it for malt, it will cure this disease of barrainenesse. {sn: of the bitternesse of fruit.} if the fruit which is vpon your trées be of a bitter and sootie tast, to make it more pleasant and swéet you shall wash your trée all ouer with swines dunge and water mixt together, & to the rootes of the trées you shall lay earth and swines dunge mixt together, which must be done in the month of ianuary and february onely, and it will make the fruit tast pleasantly. and thus much for the dressing and preseruing of trées. chap. viii. _of the vine, and of his ordering._ for as much as the nature, temperature, and clymate, of our soyle is not so truely proper and agréeing with the vine as that of fraunce, italy, spaine, and such like, and sith wée haue it more for delight, pleasure, and prospect, then for any peculyar profit, i will not vndertake _monsiuer lybaults_ painefull labour, in discribing euery curious perfection or defect that belongs thereunto, as if it were the onely iewell and commoditie of our kingdome, but onely write so much as is fitting for our knowledge touching the maintaynance, increase, and preseruation thereof, in our orchards, gardens, and other places of recreation. {sn: of planting or setting the vine.} first then to speake of the planting or setting of the vine, your greatest diligence must be to séeke out the best plants, and if that which is most strange, rare, great and pleasant be the best, then is that grape which is called the muskadine, or sacke grape, the best, and haue their beginning either from spaine, the canary ilands, or such like places: next to them is the french grape, of which there be many kindes, the best whereof is the grape of orleance, the next the grape of gascoynie, the next of burdeaux, and the worst of rochell, and not any of these but by industry will prosper in our english gardens: when therefore you chuse your plants, you shall chuse such of the young cyons as springing from the olde woode, you may in the cutting cut at least a ioynt or two of olde woode with the young: for the olde will take soonest, and this olde woode must be at least seauen or eight inches long, and the young cyon almost a yard, and the thicker and closer the ioynts of the young cyon are, so much the better they are: and the fit time for cutting and gathering these sets are in midde-ianuary, then hauing prepared, digged, and dunged your earth the winter before, you shall at the latter end of ianuary take two of these sets, or plants, placing them according to this figure: {illustration} and lay them in the earth slope-wise, at least a foote déepe, leauing out of the earth, vncouered, not aboue foure or fiue ioynts, at the most, and then couer them with good earth firmely, closely, and strongly, hauing regard to raise those cyons which are without the earth directly vpward, obseruing after they be set, once in a month to wéede them, and kéepe them as cleane as is possible: for nothing is more noysome vnto them then the suffocating of wéeds: also you shall not suffer the mould to grow hard or bind about the rootes, but with a small spade once in a fortnight to loosen and breake the earth, because there rootes are so tender that the least straytning doth strangle and confound them. if the season doe grow dry, you may vse to water them, but not in such sort as you water other plants, which is to sprinckle water round about the earth of the rootes, but you shall with a round iron made for the purpose somewhat bigger then a mans fingar, make certaine holes into the earth, close vpon the roote of the vine, and powre therein either water, the dregges of strong-ale, or the lées of wine, or if you will you may mixe with the lées of wine either goats-milke, or cowes-milke, and power it into the holes and it will nourish the vine excéedingly, and not the vine onely, but all sorts of dainty grafted plumbes, especially peaches. {sn: of proyning the vine.} now for proyning the vine, you shall vnderstand that it is euer to be done after the fall of the leafe, when the sappe is desended downeward, for if you shall proyne, or cut him, either in the spring, or when the sappe is aloft, it will bléede so excéedingly, that with great difficulty you shall saue the body of the trée from dying: and, in proyning of the vine you shall obserue two things, the first, that you cut away all superfluous cyons and branches, both aboue and below, which either grow disorderly aboue, or fruitlessely below, and in cutting them you shall obserue, neither to cut the olde woode with the young cyon, nor to leaue aboue one head or leader vpon one branch: secondly, you shall in proyning, plash and spread the vine thinnely against the wall, giuing euery seuerall branch and cyon his place, and passage, and not suffer it to grow loosely, rudely, or like a wilde thorne, out of all decency and proportion: for you must vnderstand that your grapes doe grow euer vpon the youngest cyons, and if of them you shall preserue too many, questionlesse for want of nourishment they will lose their vertue, and you your profit. now if your vine be a very olde vine, and that his fruit doth decay, either in quantitie or proportion; if then you finde he haue any young cyons which spring from his roote, then when you proyne him you shall cut away all the olde stocke, within lesse then an handfull of the young cyons, and make them the leaders, who will prosper and continue in perfection a long time after, especially if you trimme the rootes with fresh earth, and fresh dunge. againe, if you be carefull to looke vnto your vine, you shall perceiue close by euery bunch of grapes certaine small thridde-like cyons, which resemble twound wyars, curling and turning in many rings, these also take from the grapes very much nutriment, so that it shall be a labour very well imployd to cut them away as you perceiue them. {sn: experiments of the vine.} now from the vine there is gathered sundry experiments, as to haue it tast more pleasant then the true nature of the grape, and to smell in the mouth odoriferously, or as if it were perfumed, which may be done in this sort: take damaske-rose-water and boyle therein the powder of cloaues, cynamon, thrée graines of amber, and one of muske, and when it is come to be somewhat thicke, take a round goudge and make a hole in the maine stocke of the vine, full as déepe as the hart thereof, and then put therein this medicine, then stopping the hole with cypresse, or iuniper, lay gréene-waxe thereupon, and binde a linnen cloath about it, and the next grapes which shall spring from that vine will tast as if they were preserued or perfumed. if you will haue grapes without stones, you shall take your plants and plant the small ends downeward and be assured your desire is attained. the vine naturally of himselfe doth not bring forth fruit till it haue béene thrée yéeres planted: but if euening and morning for the first month you will bath his roote with goats-milke or cowes-milke, it will beare fruit the first yéere of his planting. lastly, you may if you please graft one vine vpon another, as the swéet vpon the sower, as the muskadine grape, or gréeke, vpon the rochell or burdeaux, the spanish, or iland grape, on the gascoyne, and the orleance vpon any at all: and these compositions are the best, and bring forth both the greatest and pleasantest grapes: therefore whensoeuer you will graft one grape vpon another, you shall doe it in the beginning of ianuary, in this sort: first, after you haue chosen and trimmed your grafts, which in all sorts must be like the grafts of other fruits, then with a sharpe knife, you shall cleaue the head of the vine, as you doe other stockes and then put in your graft, or cyon, being made as thinne as may be and sée that the barkes and sappes ioyne euen and close together, then clay it, mosse it, and couer it, as hath béene before declared. {sn: the medicining of the vine.} if your vine grow too ranke and thicke of leaues, so that the sappe doth wast it selfe in them, and you thereby lose the profit of the fruit, you shall then bare all the rootes of the vine, and cast away the earth, filling vp the place againe with sand & ashes mingled together: but if the vine be naturally of it selfe barraine, then with a goudge you shall make a hole halfe way through the maine body of the vine, and driue into the hole a round pible stone, which although it goe straitly in, yet it may not fill vp the hole, but that the sicke humour of the vine may passe thorrow thereat: then couer the roote with rich earth, and oxe dunge mixt together, and once a day for a month water it with olde pisse, or vrine of a man, and it will make the trée fruitfull: if the vine be troubled with wormes, snailes, ants, earewigges, or such like, you shall morning and euening sprinckle it ouer with cowes-pisse and vinegar mixt together & it will helpe it: & thus much for ordering the vine. chap. ix. _the office of the fruiterrer, or the gatherer, and keeper, of fruit._ after you haue planted euery seuerall quarter, allye, and border within your orchard, with euery seuerall fruit proper vnto his place, and that you haue placed them in that orderly and comely equipage which may giue most delight to the eye, profit to the trée, and commendations to the workeman, (according to the forme and order prescribed in the first chapter) and that now the blessing of the highest, time, and your indeuours hath brought forth the haruest and recompence of your trauell, so that you behould the long-expected fruit hang vpon the trées, as it were in their ripenesse, wooing you to plucke, tast, and to deliuer them from the wombes of their parents, it is necessary then that you learne the true office of the fruiterer, who is in due season and time to gather those fruits which god hath sent him: for as in the husbanding of our grayne if the husbandman be neuer so carefull, or skilfull, in ploughing, dungging, sowing, wéeding and preseruing his crop, yet in the time of haruest be negligent, neither regarding the strength or ripnesse thereof, or in the leading and mowing respects not whether it be wet or dry, doth in that moments space loose the wages of his whole yéeres trauell, getting but durt from durt, and losse from his negligence: so in like case houlds it with all other fruits, if a man with neuer so great care and cost procure, yet if he be inrespectiue in the gathering, all his former businesse is vaine and to no purpose; and therefore i hould nothing more necessary then the relation of this office of the fruiterer, which is the consummation and onely hope of our cost, and diligence, teaching vs to gather wisely what wée haue planted wearily, and to eate with contentment what we haue preserued with care. {sn: of gathering and preseruing cherries.} know then, that of all fruits (for the most part) the cherry is the soonest ripe, as being one of the oldest children of the summer, and therefore first of all to be spoken of in this place, yet are not all cherries ripe at one instant, but some sooner then other some, according to the benefit of the sunne, the warmth of the ayre, and the strength of sappe in the branch on which the cherry hangeth: they are a fruit tender and pleasant, and therefore much subiect to be deuoured and consumed with byrds of the smallest kindes, as sparrowes, robins, starlings, and such like, especially the iay, and the bull-finch, who deuoure them stones and all, euen so fast as they rypen: for preuention whereof; if you haue great abundance of cherry trées, as maine holts that be either one or many akers in compasse, you shall then in diuers places of your holts, as well in the midst, as out-corners, cause to be errected vp certaine long poales of fyrre, or other woode, which may mount somewhat aboue the toppes of the trées, and one the toppes of those poales you shall place certaine clappe-milles made of broken trenchers ioyned together like sayles, which being moued and carryed about with the smallest ayre, may haue vnderneath the sayles a certaine loose little board, against which euery sayle may clap and make a great noyse, which will afright and scare the byrds from your trées: these milles you shall commonly sée in husbandmens yards placed on their stackes or houells of corne, which doth preserue them from fowle and vermine: but for want of these clap-milles you must haue some boy or young fellow that must euery morning from the dawning of the day till the sunne be more then an houre high, and euery euening from fiue of the clocke till nine, runne vp and downe your ground, whooping, showtying, and making of a great noyse, or now and then shooting of some harquebush, or other péece: but by no meanes to vse slings or throwing of stones, least by the miscarriage of his hand hée either beate downe the fruit or bruise the trees. in this sort hauing preserued your cherries from destruction, you shall then know there ripenesse by their colours, for euer those which are most red, are most ripe, and when you sée any that are ripe, you shall take a light ladder, made either of fyrre or sallow, and setting it carefully against the branches, so as you neither bruise them nor the fruit, you shall gather those you finde ripe, not taking the fruit from the stalke, but nipping the stalke and fruit both together from the trée: also you shall be carefull in gathering to handle or touch the cherry so little as may be, but the stalke onely, especially if your hands be hot, or sweaty, for that will change the colour of your cherries, and make them looke blacke: if there be any ripe cherries which hang out of the reach of your hands, then you shall haue a fine small gathering hooke of woode, whose bout shall be made round, and smooth, for nipping the barke of the branches, and with it you shall gently pull vnto you those branches you cannot reach: you shall also haue a little round basket of almost a foote déepe, made with a siue bottome, hauing a handle thwarte the toppe, to which a small hooke being fastned, you shall with that hooke hang the basket by you on some conuenient cyon, and as you gather the cherries, gently lay them downe into the same, and when you haue filled your basket you shall descend and empty it into larger great baskets made of the same fashion, with siue bottomes, and hauing vnderneath two broad lathes or splinters, at least thrée fingers broad a péece, within foure inches one of the other, and going both one way crosse ouerthwart the basket, that if either man or woman shall carry them vpon their heads, which is the best manner of cariage, then the splinters may defend the bottome of the basket from the head of the party, and kéepe the cherries from hurt or bruising, and if you haue occasion to carry your cherries farre, and that the quantitie grow beyond the support of a man, then you shall packe them in hampers or panniers made with false bottoms like siues, and finely lyned on the out side with white straw, and so being closely trust on each side a horses-backe, to carry them whether you please. you shall by no meanes suffer your cherries to lye in any great or thicke heapes one vpon another, but vntill you sell them, or vse them, lay them as thinne as may be, because they are apt of themselues to sweat and catch heate, and that heate doth soone depriue them of the glory of their colour. when you gather any cherries to preserue, you shall gather those which are the greatest, the ripest, you shall pull them from their stalkes one by one, and vse them at furthest within xxiiij. howers after the time they are gotten. {sn: the gathering of stone fruit.} {sn: of gathering hard plumbes.} {sn: of keeping of plumbes.} for the gathering of plumbes in generall, it is in the same manner as you did gather your cherries, both with such a like ladder, such a like hooke, and such like vessels, onely some more speciall obseruations are to be obserued in gathering your dainty grafted plumbes, then of the others, which are of a more hard and induring nature. you shall know then that for gathering of abricots, peaches, date-plumbes, and such like grafted plumbes, you shall duely consider when they are perfectly ripe, which you shall not iudge by their dropping from the trée, which is a signe of ouer-much ripnesse, tending to rottennesse, but by the true mixture of their colour, and perfect change from their first complexion: for when you shall perceiue that there is no gréenenesse nor hardnesse in their out-sides, no, not so much as at the setting on of the stalke, you may then iudge that they are ready to be gathered, and for a perfecter tryall thereof you may if you please, take one which you thinke ripest from the trée, and opening it if you sée the stone comes cleane and dry away and not any of the in-part of the fruit cleauing vnto it, then you may assure your selfe that the fruit is ready to be gathered, which you shall with great deligence and care gather, not by any meanes laying one plumbe vpon another, but each seuerally by another, for these dainty plumbes are naturally so tender that the least touch, though of themselues, doth bruise them, and occasion rottennesse. now when you haue gathered them, if either you haue desire to send them any iourney, as in gratulation to your friends, or for other priuate commoditie, you shall take some close, smooth, boxe, answerable to the store of fruit you are to send, and first line it within all ouer with white paper, then lay your plumbes one by one all ouer the bottome of the boxe, then couering them all ouer with white paper, lay as many moe vpon the toppe of them, and couer them likewise with paper, as before, and so lay row vpon row with papers betwéene them, vntill the boxe be sufficiently filled, and then closing it vp sende it whether you please, and they will take the least hurt, whereas if you should line the boxe either with hay or straw, the very skinnes are so tender that the straw would print into them and bruise them excéedingly, and to lay any other soft thing about them, as either wooll or bumbast, is excéeding euill, because it heateth the plumbes, and maketh them sweat, through which they both loose their colour and rot spéedily. as touching the gathering of plumbes when they are hard, and to ripen them afterward by laying them vpon nettles, to which consenteth the most of our london-fruiterrers, i am vtterly against the opinion, because i both know nature to be the perfectest worke-mistris, and where she is abridged of her power there euer to follow disorders and imperfections, as also that when such things are done, as it were through an ouer-hasty constraint, there cannot procéede any thing but abortiuenesse, and a distastfull rellish: from whence i thinke it comes to passe that in london a man shall very seldome tast a delicate or well rellisht plumbe, vnlesse it be from such as hauing fruit of their owne, make no commoditie thereof more then their owne pleasures: yet thus much i would perswade euery one, that if they haue moe plumbes ripe at once then they can vse, or spend, that then after they are gathered, to spread them thinnely vpon nettles or vine-trée leaues, and it will preserue them sound and well coloured a long time together, but if your store be so superabundant that in no reasonable time you can spend them, then what you doe not preserue, or make godiniake, or maruulade of, the rest you shall take and sprinkling them ouer with swéet-worte, or growt, and then laying them one by one (yet so as they may not touch one another) vpon hurdles or fleakes made of wands, or twigges, and put them into an ouen after bread or pyes haue béene taine thereout, and so leasurely dry them, and they will not onely last, but tast pleasantly all the yéere after: and in this sort you may vse all kindes of plumbes, or peares, whatsoeuer. now for the gathering of the other ordinary sorts of vngrafted plumbes, which haue both much stronger rindes, and are lesse subiect to rotting, you shall gather them, carry, or transport them, in the same manner that you did your cherries, onely in these, as in all other sorts of fruit whatsoeuer, you shall not omit neuer to gather, or pull them from the trée, till the dewe be dryed cleane both from the grasse and from the trées, and that the day be dry, faire, and full of sunne-shine: for the least wet or moisture doth canker and rot the fruit. {sn: of the gathering of peares.} as touching the gathering of peares, though sundry fruiterrers obserue sundry wayes in gathering them, as some making more hast then good-spéed, as either to haue the first tast, or the first profit, some vsing more negligence, thincking their store so great it will neuer be consumed, and some so curious that they will not gather till the peares fall into their bosomes, all which are dispraiseable fashions, yet i for my part would euer aduise all diligent husbands to obserue a mediocritie, and take the fittest season for the gathering of his fruit: as thus for example. if because you are vnexperienced or vnacquainted with the fruit you doe not know the due time of his ripening, you shall obserue the colour of the peare, and if you sée it doe alter, either in part, or in all, you shall be assured the fruit is neare ripening, for peares doe neuer change their colours, but when they doe desire to be taken from the trée: and of all fruit the peare may be gathered the hardest, because both his owne naturall heate and peculiar quallittie will ripen him best with lying: yet to be more strongly fortefied in the knowledge of the ripenesse of your fruit, and because it is better to get a day too late, then an hower to earely, you shall before you gather your peares, whether they be summer fruit or winter fruit, or whether you meane to spend them soone or preserue them long, take one of them from the trée, which is neither the ripest nor the gréenest, but betwixt both, and cut it through the midst with your knife, not longwise, but ouerthwart, and then looke into the coare where the kirnells lye, and if it be hollow so as the kirnells lye as it were hollow therein, the neather ends thereof being turned either blacke, or blackish, albeit the complexion of the peare be little, or not at all altered, yet the peares haue their full growth, and may very well be gathered: then laying them either vpon a bedde of ferne, or straw, one vpon another, in great thicknesse, their owne naturall heate will in short space ripen them, which you shall perceiue both by the spéedy changing of their colour, & the strength of their smell, which will be excéeding suffocating, which as soone as you perceiue, you shall then spread them thinner and thinner, vntill they be all ripe, and then lay them one by one, in such sort as they may not touch one another, and then they will last much the longer, you shall also after they be ripe, neither suffer them to haue straw nor ferne vnder them, but lay them either vpon some smooth table, boards or fleakes of wands, and they will last the longer. {sn: of transporting, or carrying of peares farre.} if you be to carry or transport peares farre, you shall then gather them so much the sooner, and not suffer any ripe one to be amongst them, and then lyning great wicker baskets (such as will hould at least quarters a péece) finely within with white-straw, fill them vp with peares, and then couer them with straw, and corde them aboue, and you may either transport them by land or sea, whether you please, for they will ripen in their cariage: but when you come to your place of residence, then you must néeds vnpacke them and spread them thinner, or else they will rot and consume in a sodaine. {sn: of gathering diuersly.} there be sundry wayes of gathering peares, or other fruit, as namely, to climbe into the trée and to haue a basket with a line fastned thereto, and so when it is filled to let it downe, and cause it to be emptied, which labour though some of our southerne fruiterers doe not much commend, yet for mine owne part i doe not sée much errour therein, but that it is both allowable and conuenient, both because it neither bruiseth the fruit, nor putteth the gatherer to any extraordinary labour, onely the imaginary euill is, that by climbing vp into the trée, hée that gathereth the fruit may indanger the breaking, slipping, and disbranching of many of the young cyons, which bréedeth much hurt and damage to the trée, but iudgement, and care, which ought to be apropriate to men of this quallitie, is a certaine preuenter of all such mischeifes. now for such as in gathering of their fruit doe euery time that the basket is full bring it downe themselues from the trée, and empty it by powring the fruit rudely, and boystrously forth, or for beating of fruit downe with long poales, loggets, or such like, they are both most vilde and preposterous courses, the first being full of too much foolish and carelesse trouble, the latter of too much disorder, & cruelty, ruyning in a moment what hath béene many yéeres in building: as for the climbing the trée with a ladder, albeit it be a very good way for the gathering of fruit, yet if it be neuer so little indiscréetly handled, it as much hazardeth the breaking and bruising both of the fruit and the small cyons, as either climbing the trée, or any other way whatsoeuer. {sn: the gathering of apples.} now for the gathering of your apples: you shall vnderstand that your summer fruit, as your ieniting, wibourne, and such like, are first to be gathered, whose ripenesse, you may partly know by the change of colour, partly by the pecking of birds, but cheifely by the course formerly discribed for your knowledge of the ripenesse of the peare, which is the hollownesse of coare, and liberty of the kirnell onely, and when you doe perceiue they are ripe, you shall gather them in such wise as hath béene declared for the gathering of your peares, without respecting the state of the moone, or any such like obseruation, but when you come to gather your winter-fruit, which is the pippin, peare-maine, russetting, blacke-annat, and such like, you shall in any wise gather them in the wane of the moone, and, as before i said, in the dryest season that may be, and if it be so that your store be so great that you cannot gather all in that season, yet you shall get so much of your principall fruit, the youngest and fairest, as is possible to be gotten, and preserue it for the last which you intend either to spend, or vtter. now for the manner of gathering your apples i doe not thinke you can amend or approue a better way then that which hath béene discribed for the gathering of peares, yet some of our late practitioners (who thinke themselues not cunning if they be not curious) dislike that way, and will onely haue a gathering apron, into which hauing gathered their fruit, they doe empty it into larger vessells: this gathering apron is a strong péece of canuas at least an ell euery way, which hauing the vpper end made fast about a mans necke, & the neather end with thrée loopes, that is, one at each corner, & one in the midst, through which you shall put a string, and binde it about your waste, in so much that both the sides of your apron being open you may put your fruit therein with which hand you please: this manner of gathering apples is not amisse, yet in my conceit the apron is so small a defence for the apples, that if it doe but knocke against the boughes as you doe moue your selfe, it cannot chuse but bruise the fruit very much, which ought euer to be auoyded: therefore still i am of this opinion, there is no better way, safer, nor more easie, then gathering them into a small basket, with a long line thereat, as hath béene before declared in the gathering of peares. now you shall carefully obserue in empting one basket into another, that you doe it so gently as may be, least in powring them out too rudely the stalkes of the fruit doe pricke one another, which although it doe appeare little or nothing at the first, yet it is the first ground, cause, and beginning of rottennesse, and therefore you shall to your vttermost power gather your apples with as small stalkes as may be, so they haue any at all, which they must néedes haue, because that as too bigge stalkes doth pricke and bruise the fruit, so to haue none at all makes the fruit rot first in the place where the stalke should be: you shall also kéepe your fruit cleane from leaues, for they being gréene and full of moisture, when by reason of their lying close together they beginne to wither they strike such an heate into the apples, that they mil-dew and rot instantly. {sn: of fallings.} {sn: of carriage and keeping fruit.} as touching your fallings, which are those apples which fall from your trées, either through too much ripenesse, or else through the violence of winde, or tempests, you shall by no meanes match them, or mixe them, with your gathered fruit, for they can by no meanes last or indure so long, for the latter which falleth by force of winde, wanting the true nourishment of the earth and the kindly ripening vpon the trée, must necessarily shrinke wither, and grow riuelled, so that your best course is to spend them presently, with all spéede possible: for the other which hath too much ripenesse from the earth, and the trée, though it be much better then the other, yet it cannot be long lasting, both because it is in the falling bruised, and also hath too much ripenesse, which is the first steppe to rottennesse, so that they must likewise be spent with all expedition. for the carriage of your apples, if the place be not farre whether you should carry them, you shall then in those large baskets into which you last emptied them, carry them vpon cole-staues, or stangs, betwixt two men, and hauing brought them carefully into your apple-loft, power them downe gently vpon bedds of ferne or straw, and lay them in reasonable large heapes, euery sort of apples seuerall by themselues, without mixture, or any confusion: and for such apples as you would haue to ripen soone, you shall couer them all ouer with ferne also, but for such as you would haue take all possible leasure in ripening, those you shall lay neither vpon ferne, nor straw, but vpon the bare boards, nay, if you lay them vpon a plaster floare (which is of all floares the coldest) till saint andrewes tide, it is not amisse, but very profitable, and the thinner you lay them so much the better. now if you haue any farre iourney to carry your apples, either by land, or by water, then trimming and lyning the insides of your baskets with ferne, or wheat-straw wouen as it were cleane through the basket, you shall packe, couer, and cord vp your apples, in such sort as you did your peares, and there is no danger in the transportation of them, be it by shippe, cart, waggon, or horse-backe. if you be inforced to packe sundry sorts of apples in one basket, sée that betwixt euery sort you lay a diuision of straw, or ferne, that when they are vnpackt, you may lay them againe seuerally: but if when they are vnpackt, for want of roome you are compeld to lay some sorts together, in any wise obserue to mixe those sorts together which are nearest of taste, likest of colour, and all of one continuance in lasting: as for the packing vp of fruit in hogsheads, or shooting them vnder hatches when you transport them by sea, i like neither of the courses, for the first is too close, and nothing more then the want of ayre doth rot fruit, the other is subiect to much wet, when the breach of euery sea indangereth the washing of the apples, and nothing doth more certainely spoyle them. the times most vnseasonable for the transporting of fruit, is either in the month of march, or generally in any frosty weather, for if the sharpe coldenesse of those ayres doe touch the fruit, it presently makes them looke blacke, and riuelled, so that there is no hope of their continuance. the place where you shall lay your fruit must neither be too open, nor too close, yet rather close then open, it must by no meanes be low vpon the ground, nor in any place of moistnesse: for moisture bréedes fustinesse, and such naughty smells easily enter into the fruit, and taint the rellish thereof, yet if you haue no other place but some low cellar to lay your fruit in, then you shall raise shelues round about, the nearest not within two foote of the ground, and lay your apples thereupon, hauing them first lyned, either with swéet rye-straw, wheate-straw, or dry ferne: as these vndermost roomes are not the best, so are the vppermost, if they be vnséeld, the worst of all other, because both the sunne, winde, and weather, peircing through the tiles, doth annoy and hurt the fruit: the best roome then is a well séeld chamber, whose windowes may be shut and made close at pleasure, euer obseruing with straw to defend the fruit from any moist stone wall, or dusty mudde wall, both which are dangerous annoyances. {sn: the seperating of fruit.} now for the seperating of your fruit, you shall lay those nearest hand, which are first to be spent, as those which will last but till alhallontide, as the cisling, wibourne, and such like, by themselues: those which will last till christmas, as the costard, pome-water, quéene-apple, and such like: those which will last till candlemas, as the pome-de-roy, goose-apple, and such like, and those which will last all the yéere, as the pippin, duzin, russetting, peare-maine, and such like, euery one in his seuerall place, & in such order that you may passe from bed to bed to clense or cast forth those which be rotten or putrefied at your pleasure, which with all diligence you must doe, because those which are tainted will soone poyson the other, and therefore it is necessary as soone as you sée any of them tainted, not onely to cull them out, but also to looke vpon all the rest, and deuide them into thrée parts, laying the soundest by themselues, those which are least tainted by themselues, and those which are most tainted by themselues, and so to vse them all to your best benefit. now for the turning of your longest lasting fruit, you shall know that about the latter end of december is the best time to beginne, if you haue both got and kept them in such sort as is before sayd, and not mixt fruit of more earely ripening amongst them: the second time you shall turne them, shall be about the end of february, and so consequently once euery month, till penticost, for as the yéere time increaseth in heate so fruit growes more apt to rot: after whitsontide you shall turne them once euery fortnight, alwayes in your turning making your heapes thinner and thinner; but if the weather be frosty then stirre not your fruit at all, neither when the thaw is, for then the fruit being moist may by no meanes be touched: also in wet weather fruit will be a little dankish, so that then it must be forborne also, and therefore when any such moistnesse hapneth, it is good to open your windowes and let the ayre dry your fruit before it be turned: you may open your windowe any time of the yéere in open weather, as long as the sunne is vpon the skye, but not after, except in march onely, at what time the ayre and winde is so sharpe that it tainteth and riuelleth all sorts of fruits whatsoeuer. {sn: to keepe fruit in frost.} if the frost be very extreame, and you feare the indangering your fruit, it is good to couer them somewhat thicke with fine hay, or else to lay them couered all ouer either in barley-chaffe, or dry salte: as for the laying them in chests of iuniper, or cipresse, it is but a toy, and not worth the practise: if you hang apples in nettes within the ayre of the fire it will kéepe them long, but they will be dry and withered, and will loose their best rellish. {sn: of wardens.} now for the gathering, kéeping, ordering, and preseruing of wardens, they are in all sorts and in all respects to be vsed as you doe vse your peares, onely you are to consider that they are a fruit of a much stronger constitution, haue a much thicker skinne, and will endure much harder season: neither ought you to séeke to ripen them in hast, or before the ordinary time of their owne nature, and therefore to them you shall vse neither straw, ferne, nor hay, but onely dry boards to lay them vpon, and no otherwise. {sn: of medlars and seruices.} for your medlars, you shall gather them about the midst of october, after such time as the frost hath nipt and bitten them, for before they will not be ready, or loosen from the stalke, and then they will be nothing ripe, but as hard as stones, for they neuer ripen vpon the trée, therefore as soone as you haue gathered them, you shall packe them into some close vessell, and couer them all ouer, and round about, with thicke woollen cloathes, and about the cloathes good store of hay, and some other waight of boards, or such like vpon them, all which must bring them into an extreame heate, without which they will neuer ripen kindely, because their ripenesse is indéed perfect rottennesse: and after they haue layne thus, at least a fornight, you shall then looke vpon them, and turning them ouer, such as you finde ripe you shall take away, the rest you shall let remaine still, for they will not ripen all at once, and those which are halfe ripe you shall also remoue into a third place, least if you should kéepe them together, they should beginne to grow mouldy before the other were ready; and in the selfe same manner as you vse your medlars, so you shall vse your seruices, and they will ripen most kindely: or if you please to sticke them betwixt large clouen stickes, and to sprinckle a little olde beare vpon them, and so set them in a close roome, they will ripen as kindely as any other way whatsoeuer. {sn: of quinces.} now for quinces, they are a fruit which by no meanes you may place neare any other kinde of fruit, because their sent is so strong and peircing, that it will enter into any fruit, and cleane take way his naturall rellish: the time of their gathering is euer in october, and the méetest place to lay them in is where they may haue most ayre, so they may lye dry (for wet they can by no meanes indure,) also they must not lye close, because the smell of them is both strong & vnwholsome: the beds whereon they must lye must be of swéet straw, and you must both turne them and shift them very often, or else they will rot spéedily: for the transporting or carying them any long iourney, you must vse them in all things as you vse your peares, & the carriage will be safe. {sn: of nuts.} for nuts, of what sort soeuer they be, you shall know they are ripe as soone as you perceiue them a little browne within the huske, or as it were ready to fall out of the same, the skill therefore in preseruing of them long from drynesse, is all that can be desired at the fruiterers hands: for as touching the gathering of them, there is no scruple to be obserued, more then to gather them cleane from the trée, with the helpe of hookes and such like, for as touching the bruising of them, the shell is defence sufficient. after they be gathered, you shall shale them, and take them cleane out of their huskes, and then for preseruing them from either wormes or drynesse, it shall be good to lay them in some low cellar, where you may couer them with sand, being first put into great bagges or bladders: some french-men are of opinion that if you put them into vessels made of wal-nut-trée, and mixe iuy-berries amongst them, it will preserue them moist a long time: others thinke, but i haue found it vncertaine, that to preserue nuts in honey will kéepe them all the yéere as gréene, moist, and pleasant, as when they hung vpon the trée: the dutch-men vse (and it is an excellent practise) to take the crusht crabbes (after your verdiuyce is strained out of them) and to mixe it with their nuts, and so to lay them in heapes, and it will preserue them long: or otherwise if they be to be transported, to put them into barrells and to lay one layre of crusht crabbes, and another of nuts, vntill the barrell be filled, and then to close them vp, and set them where they may stand coole. but aboue all these foresayd experiments, the best way for the preseruing of nuts is to put them into cleane earthen pots, and to mixe with them good store of salt and then closing the pots close, to set them in some coole cellar, and couer them all ouer with sand, and there is no doubt but they will kéepe coole, pleasant, and moist, vntill new come againe, which is a time fully conuenient. {sn: of grapes.} now to conclude, for the kéeping of grapes, you shall first vnderstand that the best time for their gathering is in the wane of the moone, and about the midst of october, as for the knowledge of his ripenesse it is euer at such time as his first colour is cleane altered, for all grapes before they be ripe are of a déepe, thicke, greene, colour, but after they be ripe, they are either of a blewish redde, or of a bright shining pale gréene. now for the preseruing them for our english vse, which is but onely for a fruit-dish at our tables, for neither our store, nor our soyle, affords vs any for the wine-presse, some thinke it good, after they are gotten, to lay them in fine dry sand, or to glasse them vp in close glasses, where the ayre cannot peirce, will kéepe them long, both full, plumpe, and swéet, but in my conceit the best course is after they are gotten to hang them vpon strings bunch by bunch, in such places of your house as they may take the ayre of the fire, and they will last longest, and kéepe the swéetest. chap. x. _of the making of cyder, or perry._ cyder is a certaine liquor or drinke made of the iuyce of apples, and perrye the like, made of peares, they are of great vse in france, and very wholsome for mans body, especially at the sea, and in hot countries: for they are coole and purgatiue, and doe preuent burning agues: with vs here in england cyder is most made in the west parts, as about deuon-shire & cornwaile, & perry in worcester-shire, glocester-shire, & such like, where indéede the greatest store of those kindes of fruits are to be found: the manner of making them is, after your fruit is gotten, you shall take euery apple, or peare, by it selfe, and looking vpon them, picke them cleane from all manner of filthinesse, as bruisings, rottennesse, worme-eating, and such like, neither leaue vpon them any stalkes, or the blacke buddes which are and grow vpon the tops of the fruit, which done you shall put them in to some very cleane vessell, or trough, and with béetells, made for the purpose, bruise or crush the apples or peares in péeces, & so remoue them into other cleane vessells, till all the fruit be bruised: then take a bagge of hayre-cloath, made at least a yard, or thrée quarters, square, and filling it full of the crusht fruit, put it in a presse of woode, made for the purpose, and presse out all the iuyce and moisture out of the fruit, turning and tossing the bagge vp and downe, vntill there be no more moisture to runne forth, and so baggefull after baggefull cease not vntill you haue prest all: wherein you are especially to obserue, that your vessells into which you straine your fruit be excéeding neate, swéet, and cleane, and there be no place of ill fauour, or annoyance neare them, for the liquour is most apt, especially cyder, to take any infection. as soone as your liquor is prest forth and hath stoode to settle, about twelue houres, you shall then turne it vp into swéet hogsheads, as those which haue had in them last, either white-wine or clarret, as for the sacke vessell it is tollerable, but not excellent: you may also if you please make a small long bagge of fine linnen cloath, and filling it full of the powder of cloues, mace, cynamon, ginger, and the dry pils of lemons, and hang it with a string at the bung-hole into the vessell, and it will make either the cyder, or perry, to tast as pleasantly as if it were renish-wine, and this being done you shall clay vp the bung-hole with clay and salt mixt together, so close as is possible. and thus much for the making of perry or cyder. chap. xi. _of the hoppe-garden, and first of the ground and situation thereof._ {sn: fit ground for hoppes.} that the hoppe is of great vse and commoditie in this kingdome, both the beare, which is the generall and perfect drinke of our nation, and our dayly traffique, both with france, the low-countries, and other nations, for this commoditie, is a continuall testimony, wherefore the first thing to be considered of in this worke, is the goodnesse and aptnesse of the ground for the bringing forth of the fruit thereof, wherein i thus farre consent with maister _scot_, that i doe not so much respect the writings, opinions, and demonstrations, of the gréeke, latine, or french authors, who neuer were acquainted with our soyles, as i doe the dayly practise and experience which i collect, both from my owne knowledge, and the labours of others my countrymen, best séene and approued in this art: therefore to come to my purpose, you shal vnderstand that the light sand, whether it be redde or white, being simple and vnmixed is most vnfit for the planting of hoppes, because that through the barrainenesse, it neither hath comfort for the roote, nor through his seperate lightnesse, any strong hould to maintaine and kéepe vp the poales: likewise the most fertill rich, blacke clay, which of all soyles is the best and most fruitfull, is not to be allowed for a hoppe garden, because his fatnesse and iuyce is so strong that the roote being as it were ouer-fedde, doth make the branches bring forth leaues in such infinite abundance that they leaue neither strength nor place for the fruit, either to knit, or put forth his treasure, as i haue séene by experience in many places: as for the earth which is of a morish, blacke, wet nature, and lyeth low, although i haue often times séene good hoppes to grow thereupon, being well trencht, and the hils cast high to the best aduantage, yet it is not the principall ground of all others, because it is neuer long lasting, but apt to decay and grow past his strength of bearing. the grounds then which i haue generally séene to beare the best hoppes, and whose natures doe the longest continue with such fruit, are those mixt earthes which are clayes with clayes, as blacke with white, or clayes and sands of any sorts, wherein the soyle is so corrected as neither too much fatnesse doth suffocate, nor too much leannesse doth pine: for i had euer rather haue my hoppe-garden desire increase, then continually labour in abatement. and although some doe excéedingly condemne the chauke-ground for this vse, yet i haue not at any time séene better hoppes, or in more plenty, then in such places, as at this day may be séene in many places about hartford-shire. to conclude, though your best mixt earths bring forth the best hoppes, yet there is no soyle, or earth, of what nature soeuer it be (if it lye frée from inundation) but will bring forth good hoppes, if it be put into the hands of an experienced workman. {sn: of the situation.} now, for the situation or site of your hoppe-garden: you shall so neare as you can place it neare some couer or shelter, as either of hils, houses, high-walles, woodes or trées, so those woodes or trées be not so neare that they may drop vpon your hoppe hils, for that will kill them: also the nearer it is planted to your dwelling house it is somuch the better, both because the vigilance of your owne eye is a good guarde thereunto, and also the labours of your work-maister will be more carefull and diligent. a hop-garden as it delighteth much in the pleasantnesse of the sunne, so it cannot endure by any meanes, the sharpenesse of the windes, frosts, or winter weather, and therefore your onely care is your defence and shelter. for the bignesse of your ground, it must be ordered according to your abillitie or place of trade for that commoditie, for if you shall haue them but for your owne vse, then a roode or two roodes will be inough, albeit your house kéeping match with nobillitie: but if you haue them for a more particuler profit, then you may take an aker, two or thrée, according to your owne discretion; wherein you shall euer kéepe these obseruations: that one mans labour cannot attend aboue two thousand fiue hundred hils, that euery roode will beare two hundred and fiftie hils, euery hill beare at least two pounds and an halfe of hoppes, (which is the iust quantitie that will serue to brew one quarter of malt) and that euery hundred waight of hoppes, is at the least, in a reasonable yéere, worth foure-nobles the hundred: so that euery roode of ground thus imployed, cannot be lesse worth, at the meanest reckoning, then sixe pounds by the yéere: for if the ground be principall good for the purpose, and well ordered, the profit will be much greater, in as much as the bells of the hoppes will be much greater, full, and more waighty: and thus much for the ground and situation. chap. xii. _of the ordering of the garden, and placing of the hils._ as soone as you haue chosen out your platforme of ground, you shal either by ploughing, or digging, or by both, make it as flat & leuell as is possible, vnlesse it be any thing subiect vnto water, and then you shall giue it some small desent, and with little trenches conuaye the water from annoying it: you shall also the yéere before you either make hill or plant it with hoppe-rootes, sowe it all ouer with hempe, which will not onely kill, and stifle all sorts of wéeds, but also rot the gréene-swarth, and make the mould mellow, and apt to receiue the rootes when they come to be planted. now, as soone as your ground is thus prepared, you shall then take a line, and with it measure your ground ouerthwart, and to euery hill allow at least thrée foote of ground euery way, and betwixt hill and hill, at the least sixe foote distance: and when you haue marked thus the number of thirty or forty places, where your hils shall be placed, intending euer that the time of yéere for this worke must be about the beginning of aprill, you shall then in the center, or midde part of these places made for the site of your hils, digge small square holes of a foote square each way, and a full foote déepe, and in these holes you shall set your hoppe-rootes, that is to say, in euery hole at least thrée rootes, and these thrée rootes you shall ioyne together in such wise that the toppes of them may be of one equall height, and agréeing with the face or vpper part of the earth, you shall set them straight and vpright, and not seperating them, as many doe, and setting at each corner of the hole a roote, neither shall you twist them, and set both ends vpward, nor lay them flat or crosse-wise in the earth, neither shall you make the hils first and set the rootes after, nor immediately vpon the setting cast great hils vpon them, all which are very vilde wayes for the setting of hoppes, but, as before i sayd, hauing ioyned your rootes together, you shall place them straight and vpright, and so holding them in one hand, with the other put the moulds close, firme, and perfectly about them, especially to each corner of the hole, which done you shall likewise couer the sets themselues all ouer with fine moulds, at least two fingers thicke, and in this sort you shall plant all your garden quite ouer, making the sites for your hill to stand in rowes and rankes, in such order that you may haue euery way betwéene the hils small alleyes and passages, wherein you may goe at pleasure from hill to hill, without any trouble or annoyance, according to that forme which i haue before prescribed touching the placing of your apple-trées in each seuerall quarter in your orchard: and herein you are to vnderstand, that in this first yéere of planting your hoppe-garden you shall by no meanes fashion or make any great hils, but onely raise that part of the earth where your plants are set, some two or thrée fingers higher then the ordinary ground. {sn: the choise of rootes.} now, before i procéede any further, i thinke it not amisse to speake some thing touching the choise, gathering and trimming of hoppe-rootes: wherefore you shall vnderstand that about the latter end of march is the best gathering of hoppe-rootes, which so neare as you can you shall select out of some garden of good reputation, which is both carefully kept, and by a man of good knowledge, for there euery thing being preserued in his best perfection, the rootes will be the greatest and most apt to take: and in the choise of your rootes you shall euer chuse those which are the greatest, as namely, such as are at the least thrée or foure inches about, & ten inches long, let euery roote containe about thrée ioynts, and no more, and in any case let them be the cyons of the last yéeres growth: if they be perfectly good they haue a great gréene stalke with redde streakes, and a hard, broad, long, gréene, bell; if they be otherwise, as namely, wilde-hoppes, then they are small and slender, like thriddes, their colour is all redde, euen when it is at least thrée yards high, whereas the best hoppe carieth his reddish colour not thrée foote from the earth. now hauing gotten such rootes as are good and fit for your purpose, if the season of the weather, or other necessitie hinder you from presently setting them, you shall then either lay them in some puddle, neare to your garden, or else bury them in the ground, vntill fit time for their planting: and of the two it is better to bury them then lay them in puddle, because if you so let them lye aboue xxiiij. houres, the rootes will be spoyled. now after you haue in manner aforeshewed, planted your garden with rootes, it shall not be amisse, if the place be apt to such annoyance, to pricke vpon the site of euery hill a few sharpe thornes to defend them from the scratching of poultry, or such like, which euer are busie to doe mischeife: yet of all house-fowle géese be the worst, but if your fence be as it ought, high, strong, and close, it will both preuent their harme and this labour. {sn: of poales.} next vnto this worke is the placing of poales, of which we will first speake of the choise thereof, wherein if i discent from the opinion of other men, yet imagine i set downe no oracle, but referre you to the experience or the practise, and so make your owne discreation the arbiter betwéene our discentions. it is the opinion of some, that alder-poales are most proper and fit for the hoppe-garden, both that the hoppe taketh, as they say, a certaine naturall loue to that woode, as also that the roughnesse of the rinde is a stay & benefit to the growth of the hoppe: to all which i doe not disagrée, but that there should be found alder-poales of that length, as namely, xvj. or xviij. foote long, nine, or ten, inches in compasse, and with all rush-growne, straight, and fit for this vse, séemeth to mée as much as a miracle, because in my life i haue not beheld the like, neither doe i thinke our kingdome can afford it, vnlesse in some such especiall place where they are purposely kept and maintained, more to shew the art of their maintenance, then the excellency of their natures: in this one benefit, and doutlesse where they are so preserued, the cost of their preseruation amounteth to more than the goodnesse of their extraordinary quallitie, which mine author defends to the contrary, giuing them a larger prerogatiue, in that they are cheaper to the purse, more profitable to the plant, and lesse consumption to the common-wealth: but i greatly doubt in the approbation, and therefore mine aduise is not to rely onely vpon the alder, and for his preheminence imagine all other poales insufficient: but be assured that either, the oake-poale, the ashe, the béeche, the aspe, or maple, are euery way as good, as profitable, and by many degrées much longer lasting. {sn: the proportion of the poale.} {sn: of cutting and erecting poales.} now, if it be so that you happen to liue in the champian country, as for the most part northampton shire, oxford-shire, some parts of leycester and rutland are, or in the wet and low countries, as holland, and kesten in lincolne-shire, or the ile of elye in cambridge-shire, all which places are very barraine of woode, and yet excellent soyles to beare hoppes, rather then to loose the commoditie of the hoppe-garden i wish you to plant great store of willowes, which will afforde you poales as sufficient as any of the other whatsoeuer, onely they are not so long lasting, and yet with carefull and dry keeping, i haue séene them last full out seauen yéeres, a time reasonably sufficient for any young woode, for such a vse. thus you sée the curiositie is not very great of what woode so euer your poale be, so it be of young and cleane growth, rush-growne, (that is to say, biggest at the neather end) eightéene foote in length, and ten inches in compasse. these poales you shall cut and prepare betwixt the feast of al-saints, and christmas, and so pile them vp in some dry place, where they may take no wet, vntill it be midde-aprill, at which time (your hoppes being shot out of the ground at least thrée quarters of a yarde, so that you may discerne the principall cyons which issue from the principall rootes) you shall then bring your poales into the garden, and lay them along in the alleyes, by euery hill so many poales as shall be sufficient for the maine branches, which happely the first yéere will not be aboue two or thrée poales at the most to a hill, but in processe of time more, as foure or fiue, according to the prosperitie of the plants, and the largenesse of the hils. after you haue thus layd your poales, you shall then beginne to set them vp in this sort: first, you shall take a gaue-locke, or crow of iron, and strike it into the earth so neare vnto the roote of the hoppe as is possible, prouided alwayes that you doe not bruise, or touch the roote, and so stroake after stroake, cease not striking till you haue made a hoale at least two foote déepe, and make them a little slantwise inward towards the hill, that the poales in their standing may shoote outwards and hould their greatest distance in the toppes: this done you shall place the poales in those hoales, thus made with the iron crow, and with another péece of woode, made rammer-wise, that is to say, as bigge at the neather end as the biggest part of the poale, or somewhat more, you shall ramme in the poales, and beate the earth firme and hard about them: alwayes prouided, that you touch not any branch, or as little as you may beate with your rammer within betwéene the poales, onely on the out-side make them so fast that the winde, or weather, may not disorder or blow them downe: then lay to the bottome of euery poale the branch which shall ascend it, and you shall sée in a short space, how out of their owne natures, they will imbrace and climbe about them. now, if it happen after your hoppes are growne vp, yet not come to their full perfection, that any of your poales chance to breake, you shall then take a new poale, and with some soft gréene rushes, or the inmost gréene barke of an alder-trée, tye the toppe of the hoppe to the toppe of the new poale, then draw the broken poale out of the hoppe (i meane that part which being broken lyeth vpon the ground) and as you saw it did winde about the olde poale (which is euer the same way that the sunne runnes) so you shall winde it about the new poale: then loosening the earth a little from the neather part of the broken poale, you may with your owne strength pull it cleane out of the earth, and place the new poale in his roome. now, there be some which are excéeding curious in pulling vp these olde poales, and rather then they will shake the earth, or loosen the mould, they will make a paire of large pincers, or tarriers of iron, at least fiue foote long with sharpe téeth, and a clasping hooke to hould the téeth together, when they haue taken fast hould vpon the poale so neare the earth as is possible, and then laying a peice of woode vnder the tarriers, and poysing downe the other ends to rest the poale out of the earth without any disturbance, the modell or fashion of which instrument is contained in this figure: {illustration} this instrument is not to be discommended, but to be held of good vse, either in binding grounds where the earth hardneth and houldeth the poale more then fast, or in the strength and heate of summer, when the drynesse of the mould will by no meanes suffer the poale to part from it: but otherwise it is néedlesse and may without danger be omitted. as soone as you haue sufficiently set euery hill with poales, and that there is no disorder in your worke, you shall when the hoppes beginne to climbe, note if their be any cyons or branches which doe forsake the poales, and rather shoote alongst the ground then looke vp to their supporters, and all such as you shall so finde, you shall as before i sayd, either with soft gréene rushes, or the gréene barke of elder, tye them gently vnto the poales, and winde them about, in the same course that the sunne goes, as oft as conueniently you can: and this you shall doe euer after the dew is gone from the ground, and not before, and this must be done with all possible speede, for that cyon which is the longest before it take vnto the poale is euer the worst and brings forth his fruit in the worst season. {sn: of the hils.} now, as touching the making of your hils, you shall vnderstand that although generally they are not made the first yéere, yet it is not amisse if you omit that scruple, and beginne to make your hils as soone as you haue placed your poales, for if your industry be answerable to the desert of the labour, you shall reape as good profit the first yéere, as either the second or the third. to beginne therefore to make your hils, you shall make you an instrument like a stubbing hoe, which is a toole wherewith labourers stubbe rootes out of decayed woode-land grounds, onely this shall be somewhat broader and thinner, somewhat in fashion (though twice so bigge) vnto a coopers addes, with a shaft at least foure foote long: some onely for this purpose vse a fine paring spade, which is euery way as good, and as profitable, the fashion of which is in this figure. {illustration} with this paring spade, or hoe, you shall pare vp the gréene-swarth and vppermost earth, which is in the alleyes betwéene the hils, and lay it vnto the rootes of the hoppes, raising them vp like small mole-hils, and so monthly increasing them all the yéere through, make them as large as the site of your ground will suffer, which is at least foure or fiue foote ouerthwart in the bottome, and so high as conueniently that height will carry: you shall not by any meanes this first yéere decay any cyons or branches which spring from the hils, but maintaine them in their growth, and suffer them to climbe vp the poales, but after the first yéere is expired you shall not suffer aboue two or thrée cyons, at the most, to rise vpon one poale. after your hils are made, which as before i sayd would be at least foure or fiue foote square in the bottome, and thrée foote high, you shall then diligently euery day attend your garden, and if you finde any branches that being risen more then halfe way vp the poales, doe then forsake them and spread outward, dangling downe, then you shall either with the helpe of a high stoole, on which standing you may reach the toppe of the poale, or else with a small forckt sticke, put vp the branch, and winde it about the poale: you shall also be carefull that no wéeds or other filthinesse grow about the rootes of your hoppes to choake them, but vpon the first discouery to destroy them. chap. xiii. _of the gathering of hoppes, and the preseruing of the poales._ touching the gathering of hoppes you shall vnderstand that after saint _margarets_ day they beginne to blossome, if it be in hot and rich soyles, but otherwise not till lammas: likewise in the best soyles they bell at lammas, in the worst at michaelmas, and in the best earth they are full ripe at michaelmas, in the worst at martillmas; but to know when they are ripe indeede, you shall perceiue the séede to loose his gréene colour, and looke as browne as a hares backe, wherefore then you shall with all dilligence gather them, and because they are a fruit that will endure little or no delay, as being ready to fall as soone as they be ripe, and because the exchange of weather may bréede change in your worke, you shall vpon the first aduantage of faire weather, euen so soone as you shall sée the dewe exhaled and drawne from the earth, get all the ayde of men, women, and children which haue any vnderstanding, to helpe you, and then hauing some conuenient empty barne, or shedde, made either of boards or canuas, neare to the garden, in which you shall pull your hoppes, you shall then beginne at the nearest part of the garden, and with a sharpe garden knife cut the stalkes of the hoppes asunder close by the toppes of the hils; and then with a straite forke of iron, made broad and sharpe, for the purpose, shere vp all the hoppes, and leaue the poales naked. then hauing labouring persons for the purpose, let them cary them vnto the place where they are to be puld; and in any case cut no more then presently is caryed away as fast as they are cut, least if a shower of raine should happen to fall, and those being cut and taking wet, are in danger of spoyling. you shall prouide that those which pull your hoppes be persons of good discretion, who must not pull them one by one, but stripe them roundly through their hands into baskets, mixing the young budds and small leaues with them, which are as good as any part of the hoppe whatsoeuer. after you haue pulled all your hoppes and carried them into such conuenient dry roomes as you haue prepared for that purpose, you shall then spread them vpon cleane floares, so thinne as may be, that the ayre may passe thorrow them, least lying in heapes they sweat, and so mould, before you can haue leasure to dry them. after your hoppes are thus ordered, you shall then cleanse your garden of all such hoppe-straw, and other trash, as in the gathering was scattered therein: then shall you plucke vp all your hoppe-poales, in manner before shewed, and hauing either some dry boarded house, or shed, made for the purpose, pile then one vpon another, safe from winde or weather, which howsoeuer some that would haue their experience, like a collossus, séeme greater then it is, doe disalow, yet it is the best manner of kéeping of poales, and well worthy the charge: but for want of such a house, it shall not be amisse to take first your hoppe-straw, and lay it a good thicknesse vpon the ground, and with sixe strong stakes, driuen slant-wise into the earth, so as the vppermost ends may be inward one to another, lay then your hoppe-poales betwéene the stakes, and pile them one vpon another, drawing them narrower and narrower to the top, and then couer them all ouer with more hoppe-straw, and so let them rest till the next march, at which time you shall haue new occasion to vse them. {sn: winter businesse.} as soone as you haue piled vp your hoppe-poales, dry and close, then you shall about mid-nouember following throw downe your hils, and lay all your rootes bare, that the sharpenesse of the season may nip them, and kéepe them from springing too earely: you shall also then bring into the garden olde cow-dunge, which is at least two yéeres olde, for no new dunge is good, and this you shall lay in some great heape in some conuenient place of the garden vntill aprill, at which time, after you haue wound your hoppes about your poales, you shall then bestow vpon euery hill two or thrée spade-full of the manure mixt with earth, which will comfort the plant and make it spring pleasantly. after your hils are puld downe, you shall with your garden spade, or your hoe, vndermine all the earth round about the roote of the hoppe, till you come to the principall rootes thereof, and then taking the youngest rootes in your hand, and shaking away the earth, you shall sée how the new rootes grow from the olde sets, then with a sharpe knife cut away all those rootes as did spring the yéere before, out of your sets, within an inch and an halfe of the same, but euery yéere after the first you shall cut them close by the olde rootes. now, if you sée any rootes which doe grow straight downward, without ioynts, those you shall not cut at all, for they are great nourishers of the plant, but if they grow outward, or side-wayes, they are of contrary natures, and must necessarily be cut away. if any of your hoppes turne wilde, as oft it happens, which you shall know by the perfect rednesse of the branch, then you shall cut it quite vp, and plant a new roote in his place. after you haue cut and trimmed all your rootes, then you shall couer them againe, in such sort as you were taught at the first planting them, and so let them abide till their due time for poaling. chap. xiiii. _of drying, and not drying of hoppes, and of packing them when they are dried._ although there be much curiositie in the drying of hoppes as well in the temperature of heate (which hauing any extremitie, as either of heate, or his contrary, bréedeth disorder in the worke) as also in the framing of the ost or furnace after many new moulds and fashions, as variable as mens wits and experiences, yet because innouations and incertainty doth rather perplexe then profit, i will shunne, as much as in me lyeth, from loading the memory of the studious husbandman with those stratagems which disable his vnderstanding from the attaining of better perfection, not disalowing any mans approued knowledge, or thinking that because such a man can mend smoking chimnyes, therefore none but hée shall haue license to make chimnyes, or that because some men can melt mettall without winde, therefore it shall be vtterly vnlawfull to vse bellowes: these violent opinions i all together disacknowledge, and wish euery one the liberty of his owne thoughts, and for mine english husband, i will shew him that way to dry his hoppes which is most fit for his profit, safe, easie, and without extraordinary expences. first then to speake of the time which is fittest for the drying of your hoppes, it is immediately as soone as they are gotten, if more vrgent occasions doe not delay the businesse, which if they happen, then you haue a forme before prescribed how to preserue them from mouldinesse and putrifaction till you can compasse fit time to effect the worke in. the manner of drying them is vpon a kilne, of which there be two sorts, that is to say, an english kilne, and a french kilne: the english kilne being composed of woode, lath, and clay, and therefore subiect to some danger of fire, the french, of bricke, lime, and sand, and therefore safe, close, and without all perill, and to be preferred much before the other: yet because i haue hereafter more occasion to speake of the nature, fashion, and edifice of kilnes in that part of this volumne where i intreate of malting, i will cease further to mention them then to say that vpon a kilne is the best drying your hoppes, after this manner, hauing finely bedded your kilne with wheate-straw, you shall lay on your hayre cloath, although some disallow it, but giue no reason therefore, yet it cannot be hurtfull in any degrée, for it neither distasteth the hoppes, nor defendeth them from the fire, making the worke longer then it would, but it preserueth both the hoppes from filthynesse, and their séede from losse: when your hayre-cloath is spread, you shall cause one to deliuer you vp your hoppes in baskets, which you shall spread vpon the cloath, all ouer the kilne, at the least eight inches thicke, and then comming downe, and going to the hole of the kilne, you shall with a little dry straw kindle the fire, and then maintaining it with more straw, you shall kéepe a fire a little more feruent then for the drying of a kilne-full of malt, being assured that the same quantitie of fuell, heate, and time, which dryeth a kilne-full of malt, will also dry a kilne-full of hoppes, and if your kilne will dry twenty strikes, or bushels of malt at one drying, then it will dry forty of hoppes, because being layd much thicker the quantitie can be no lesse then doubled, which is a spéede all together sufficient, and may very well serue to dry more hoppes then any one man hath growing in this kingdome. now, for as much as some men doe not alow to dry hoppes with straw, but rather preferre woode, and of woode still to chuse the gréenest, yet i am of a contrary opinion, for i know by experience that the smoake which procéedeth from woode, (especially if it be greene woode) being a strong and sharpe vapour, doth so taint and infect the hoppes that when those hoppes come to be brewed with, they giue the drinke a smoakie taste, euen as if the malt it selfe had beene woode-dryed: the vnpleasantnesse whereof i leaue to the iudgement of them that haue trauelled in york-shire, where, for the most part, is nothing but woode-dryed malt onely. that you may know when your hoppes are dry inough, you shall take a small long sticke, and stirring the hoppes too and fro with it, if the hoppes doe russell and make a light noyse, each as it were seperating one from another, then they are altogether dry inough, but if in any part you finde them heauy or glewing one to another, then they haue not inough of the fire: also when they are sufficiently and moderately dryed they are of a bright-browne colour, little or nothing altered from that they held when they were vpon the stalke, but if they be ouer dryed, then their colour will be redde: and if they were not well ordered before they were dryed, but suffered either to take wet or mould, then they will looke blacke when they are dry. {sn: of the drying hoppes.} there be some which are of opinion that if you doe not dry your hoppes at all, it shall be no losse, but it is an errour most grose, for if they be not dryed, there is neither profit in their vse, nor safty in preseruing them. as soone as your hoppes are sufficiently dryed, you shall by the plucking vp of the foure corners of your hayre-cloath thrust all your hoppes together, and then putting them into baskets, carry them into such dry places as you haue prepared of purpose to lay them in, as namely, either in dry-fats, or in garners, made either of plaster, or boards: and herein you shall obserue to packe them close and hard together, which will be a meanes that if any of them be not dry, yet the heate they shall get by such lying will dry them fully and make them fit for seruice. {sn: of packing hoppes.} now to conclude, if your store of hoppes be so great that you shall trade or make marchandize of them, then either to conuay them by land or sea, it is best that you packe them into great bagges of canuas, made in fashion of those bagges which woole-men vse, and call them pockets, but not being altogether so large: these bagges you shall open, and either hang vp betwéene some crosse-beames, or else let downe into some lower floare, and then putting in your hoppes cause a man to goe into the bagge and tread downe the hoppes, so hard as is possible, pressing downe basket-full after basket-full, till the bagge be filled, euen vnto the toppe, and then with an extraordinary packe-thriede, sowing the open end of the bagge close together, let euery hollow place be crammed with hoppes, whilst you can get one hand-full to goe in, and so hauing made euery corner strong and fast, let them lye dry till you haue occasion either to shippe or cart them. and thus much for the ordering of hoppes, and their vses. chap. xv. _the office of the gardiner, and first of the earth, situation, and fencing of a garden for pleasure._ there is to be required at the hands of euery perfect gardiner thrée especiall vertues, that is to say, _diligence_, _industry_, and _art_: the two first, as namely, _diligence_ (vnder which word i comprehend his loue, care, and delight in the vertue hee professeth) and _industry_ (vnder which word i conclude his labour, paine, and study, which are the onely testimonies of his perfection) hée must reape from nature: for, if hée be not inclined, euen from the strength of his blood to this loue and labour, it is impossible he should euer proue an absolute gardiner: the latter, which containeth his skill, habit, and vnderstanding in what hée professeth, i doubt not but hée shall gather from the abstracts or rules which shall follow hereafter in this treatise, so that where nature, and this worke shall concurre in one subiect, there is no doubt to be made, but the professor shall in all points, be able to discharge a sufficient dutie. now, for as much as all our antient and forraine writers (for wée are very sleightly beholding to our selues for these indeauours) are excéeding curious in the choise of earth, and situation of the plot of ground which is méete for the garden: yet i, that am all english husbandman, and know our soyles out of the worthinesse of their owne natures doe as it were rebell against forraine imitation, thinking their owne vertues are able to propound their owne rules: and the rather when i call into my remembrance, that in all the forraine places i haue séene, there is none more worthy then our owne, and yet none ordered like our owne, i cannot be induced to follow the rules of italie, vnlesse i were in italie, neither those of france, vnlesse i dwelt in france, nor those of germany except in germany i had my habitation, knowing that the too much heate of the one, or the too much coldnesse of the other, must rather confound then help in our temperate climate: whence it comes, that our english booke-knowledge in these cases is both disgraced and condemned, euery one fayling in his experiments, because he is guided by no home-bredde, but a stranger; as if to reade the english tongue there were none better then an italian pedant. this to auoide, i will neither begge ayde nor authoritie from strangers, but reuerence them as worthies and fathers of their owne countries. {sn: of the ground.} to speake therefore first of the ground which is fit for the garden, albeit the best is best worthy, the labour least, and the profit most certaine, yet it is not méete that you refuse any earth whatsoeuer, both because a garden is so profitable, necessary, and such an ornament and grace to euery house and house-kéeper, that the dwelling place is lame and maymed if it want that goodly limbe, and beauty. besides, if no gardens should be planted but in the best and richest soyles, it were infinite the losse we should sustaine in our priuate profit, and in the due commendations, fit for many worthy workmen, who haue reduced the worst and barrainest earths to as rare perfection and profit as if they had béene the onely soyles of this kingdome: and for mine owne part, i doe not wonder either at the worke of art or nature, when i behould in a goodly, rich, and fertill soyle, a garden adorned with all the delights and delicacies which are within mans vnderstanding, because the naturall goodnesse of the earth (which not induring to be idle) will bring forth whatsoeuer is cast into her: but when i behould vpon a barraine, dry, and deiected earth, such as the peake-hils, where a man may behould snow all summer, or on the east-mores, whose best hearbage is nothing but mosse, and iron stone, in such a place, i say, to behould a delicate, rich, and fruitfull garden, it shewes great worthinesse in the owner, and infinite art and industry in the workeman, and makes me both admire and loue the begetters of such excellencies. but to returne to my purpose touching the choise of your earth for a garden, sith no house can conueniently be without one, and that our english nation is of that great popularitie, that not the worst place thereof but is abundantly inhabited, i thinke it méete that you refuse no earth whatsoeuer to plant your garden vpon, euer obseruing this rule, that the more barraine it is, the more cost must be bestowed vpon it, both in manuring, digging, and in trenching, as shall be shewed hereafter, and the more rich it is, lesse cost of such labour, and more curiositie in wéeding, proyning, and trimming the earth: for, as the first is too slow, so the latter is too swift, both in her increase and multiplication. now, for the knowledge of soyles, which is good, and which is badde, i haue spoken sufficiently already in that part which intreateth of tillage, onely this one caueat i will giue you, as soone as you haue markt out your garden-plot, you shall turne vp a sodde, and taking some part of the fresh mould, champe it betwéene your téeth in your mouth, and if it taste swéetish then is the mould excellent good and fit to receiue either seedes or plants, without much manuring, but if it taste salt or bitter, then it is a great signe of barrainenesse, and must of necessitie be corrected with manure: for saltnesse sheweth much windinesse, which choaketh and stifleth the séede, and bitternesse that vnnaturall heate which blasteth it before it sprout. {sn: of the situation.} now, for the situation of the garden-plot for pleasure, you shall vnderstand that it must euer be placed so neare vnto the dwelling house as is possible, both because the eye of the owner may be a guard and support from inconueniences, as also that the especiall roomes and prospects of the house may be adorned, perfumed, and inriched, with the delicate proportions, odorifferous smells, and wholsome ayres which shall ascend and vaporate from the same, as may more amply be séene in that former chapter, where modelling forth the husbandmans house, i shew you the site and place for his garden, onely you must diligently obserue, that neare vnto this garden doe not stand any houells, stackes of hay, or corne, which ouer-pearing the walls, or fence, of the same, may by reason of winde, or other occasion, annoy the same with straw, chaffe, séedes, or such like filthinesse, which doth not onely blemish the beauty thereof, but is also naturally very hurtfull and cankerous to all plants whatsoeuer. within this garden plot would be also either some well, pumpe, conduit, pond, or cesterne for water, sith a garden, at many times of the yéere, requireth much watering: & this place for water you shall order and dispose according to your abillitie, and the nature of the soyle, as thus: if both your reputation, and your wealth be of the lowest account, if then your garden aford you a plaine well, comely couered, or a plaine pump, it shall be sufficient, or if for want of such springs you digge a fayre pond in some conuenient part thereof, or else (which is much better) erect a cesterne of leade, into which by pippes may discend all the raine-water which falls about any part of the house, it will serue for your purpose: but if god haue bestowed vpon you a greater measure of his blessings, both in wealth & account, if then insteade of either well, pumpe, pond, or cesterne, you erect conduits, or continuall running fountaines, composed of antique workes, according to the curiositie of mans inuention, it shall be more gallant and worthy: and these conduits or water-courses, you may bring in pippes of leade from other remote or more necessary places of water springs, standing aboue the leuell of your garden, as euery artist in the profession of such workes can more amply declare vnto you, onely for mée let it be sufficient to let you vnderstand that euery garden would be accompanied with water. also you shall haue great care that there adioyne not vnto your garden-plot any common-shewers, stinking or muddy dikes, dung-hils, or such like, the annoyance of whose smells and euill vapors doth not onely corrupt and bréede infection in man, but also cankereth, killeth and consumeth all manner of plants, especially those which are most pleasant, fragrant, and odorifferous, as being of tenderest nature and qualitie: and for this cause diuers will not alow the moating of garden-plots about, imagining that the ouer great moistnesse thereof, and the strong smells which doe arise from the mudde in the summer season, doe corrupt and putrifie the hearbes and plants within the compasse of the same, but i am not altogether of that opinion, for if the water be swéet, or the channell thereof sandy or grauelly, then there is no such scruple to be taken: but if it be contrary, then it is with all care to be auoyded, because it is euer a maxime in this case, that your garden-plot must euer be compassed with the pleasantest and swéetest ayre that may be. the windes which you shall generally defend from your garden, are the easterne windes and the northerne, because they are sharpest, coldest, and bring with them tempers of most vnseasonablenesse, & albeit in italie, spaine, and such like hot countries, they rather defend away the westerne and southerne winde, giuing frée passage to the east and north, yet with england it may not be so, because the naturall coldenes of our climate is sufficient without any assistance to further bitternesse, our best industry being to be imployed rather to get warmth, which may nourish and bring forth our labours, then any way to diminish or weaken the same. this plot of ground also would lye, as neare as you can, at the foote or bottome of an hill, both that the hill may defend the windes and sharpe weather from the same, as also that you may haue certaine ascents or risings of state, from leuell to leuell, as was in some sort before shewed in the plot for the orchard, and shall be better declared in the next chapter. {sn: of fencing the garden.} now lastly for the fencing or making priuate the garden-plot, it is to be done according to your abillitie, and the nature of the climate wherein you liue: as thus, if your reuenewes will reach thereunto, and matter be to be got, for that purpose, where you liue, then you shall vnderstand that your best fence is a strong wall, either of bricke, ashler, rough-stone, or earth, of which you are the best-owner, or can with least dammage compasse: but for want either of earth to make bricke, or quarries out of which to get stone, it shall not then be amisse to fence your garden with a tall strong pale of seasoned oake, fixt to a double parris raile, being lined on the inside with a thicke quicke-set of white-thorne, the planting whereof shall be more largely spoken of where i intreate of fencing onely. but if the place where you liue in, be so barraine of timber that you cannot get sufficient for the purpose, then you shall make a studde wall, which shall be splinted and lomed both with earth and lime, and hayre, and copt vpon the toppe (to defend away wet) either with tile, slate, or straw, and this wall is both beautifull, and of long continuance, as may be séene in the most parts of the south of this kingdome: but if either your pouerty or climate doe deny you timber for this purpose, you shall then first make a small trench round about your garden-plot, and set at least foure rowes of quicke-set of white-thorne, one aboue another, and then round about the outside, to defend the quick-set, make a tall fence of dead woode, being either long, small, brushy poales prickt into the earth, and standing vpright, and so bound together in the wast betwéene two other poales, according to the figure set downe, {illustration} being so high that not any kinde of pullen may flie ouer the same, or else an ordinary hedge of common woode, being beyrded vpon the toppe with sharpe thornes, in such wise that not any thing may dare to aduenture ouer it: and this dead fence you shall repaire and maintaine as occasion shall require from time to time, till your quicke-set be growne vp, and, by continuall plashing and interfouldings, be made able and sufficient to fence and defend your garden, which will be within fiue or seauen yeeres at the most, and so continue with good order for euer. and thus much for the situation of gardens. chap. xvi. _of the fashion of the garden-plot for pleasure, the alleyes, quarters, digging and dungging of the same._ {sn: the fashion.} after you haue chosen out and fenced your garden-plot, according as is before sayd, you shall then beginne to fashion and proportion out the same, sith in the conuayance remaineth a great part of the gardiners art. and herein you shall vnderstand that there be two formes of proportions belonging to the garden, the first, onely beautifull, as the plaine, and single square, contayning onely foure quarters, with his large alleyes euery way, as was discribed before in the orchard: the other both beautifull and stately, as when there is one, two or thrée leuelled squares, each mounting seauen or eight steppes one aboue another, and euery square contayning foure seuerall quarters with their distinct and seuerall alleyes of equall breadth and proportion; placing in the center of euery square, that is to say, where the foure corners of the foure quarters doe as it were neighbour and méete one another, either a conduit of antique fashion, a standard of some vnusuall deuise, or else some dyall, or other piramed, that may grace and beautifie the garden. and herein i would haue you vnderstand that i would not haue you to cast euery square into one forme or fashion of quarters or alleyes, for that would shew little varytie or inuention in art, but rather to cast one in plaine squares, another in tryangulars, another in roundalls, & so a fourth according to the worthinesse of conceite, as in some sort you may behould by these figures, which questionlesse when they are adorned with their ornaments, will breed infinite delight to the beholders. {illustration: the plaine square.} {illustration: the square triangular or circular.} {illustration: the square of eight diamonds.} from the modell of these squares, tryangles, and rounds, any industrious braine may with little difficulty deriue and fashion to himselfe diuers other shapes and proportions, according to the nature and site of the earth, which may appeare more quaint and strange then these which are in our common vse, albeit these are in the truth of workmanship the perfect father and mother of all proportions whatsoeuer. {sn: the ordering of alleyes.} now, you shall vnderstand that concerning the alleyes and walkes in this garden of pleasure, it is very méete that your ground, being spacious and large, (which is the best beauty) that you cut through the midst of euery alley an ample and large path or walke, the full depth of the roote of the gréene-swarth, and at least the breadth of seauen or eight foote: and in this path you shall strow either some fine redde-sand, of a good binding nature, or else some fine small grauell, or for want of both them you may take the finest of your pit-coale-dust, which will both kéepe your alleyes dry and smooth, and also not suffer any grasse or gréene thing to grow within them, which is disgracefull, if it be suffered: the french-men doe vse, to couer their alleyes, either with the powder of marble, or the powder of slate-stone, or else paue them either with pit-stone, frée-stone, or tiles, the first of which is too hard to get, the other great cost to small purpose, the rather sith our owne grauell is in euery respect as beautifull, as dry, as strong, and as long lasting: onely this héedfulnesse you must diligently obserue, that if the situation of your garden-plot be low and much subiect to moisture, that then these middle-cut paths or walkes must be heightned vp in the midst, and made in a proportionall bent or compasse: wherein you shall obserue that the out most verdges of the walke must be leuell with the gréene-swarth which holded in each side, and the midst so truly raised vp in compasse, that the raine which falles may haue a passage to each side of the gréene-swarth. now, the lesse this compasse is made (so it auoyde the water, and remaine hard) the better it is, because by that meanes both the eye shall be deceiued (which shewes art in the workman) and the more leuell they are, the more ease vnto them which shall continually walke vpon them. {sn: obiection.} now, if any shall obiect, why i doe not rather couet to haue these alleyes or walkes rather all gréene, then thus cut and deuided, sith it is a most beautifull thing to see a pleasant gréene walke, my answere is this, that first the mixture of colours, is the onely delight of the eye aboue all other: for beauty being the onely obiect in which it ioyeth, that beautie is nothing but an excellent mixture, or consent of colours, as in the composition of a delicate woman the grace of her chéeke is the mixture of redde and white, the wonder of her eye blacke and white, and the beauty of her hand blewe and white, any of which is not sayd to be beautifull if it consist of single or simple colours: and so in these walkes, or alleyes, the all gréene, nor the all yealow cannot be sayd to be most beautifull, but the gréene and yealow, (that is to say, the vntroade grasse, and the well knit grauell) being equally mixt, giue the eye both luster and delight beyonde all comparison. againe, to kéepe your walkes all gréene, or grassy, you must of force either forbeare to tread vpon them, (which is the vse for which they were onely fashioned,) or treading vpon them you shall make so many pathes and ilfauored wayes as will be most vglie to the eye: besides the dewe and wet hanging vpon the grasse will so annoy you, that if you doe not select especiall howers to walke in, you must prouide shooes or bootes of extraordinary goodnesse: which is halfe a depriuement of your liberty, whereas these things of recreation were created for a contrary purpose. now, you shall also vnderstand that as you make this sandy and smooth walke through the midst of your alleyes, so you shall not omit but leaue as much gréene-swarth, or grasse ground of eache side the plaine path as may fully counteruaile the breadth of the walke, as thus for example: if your sandy walke be sixe foote broad, the grasse ground of each side it, shall be at least sixe foote also, so that the whole alley shall be at least eightéene foote in breadth, which will be both comely and stately. {sn: of the quarters.} your alleyes being thus proportioned and set forth, your next worke shall be the ordering of your quarters, which as i sayd before, you may frame into what proportions you please, as into squares, tryangles and rounds, according to the ground, or your owne inuention: and hauing marked them out with lines, and the garden compasse, you shall then beginne to digge them in this manner: first, with a paring spade, the fashion whereof is formerly shewed, you shall pare away all the gréene-swarth, fully so déepe as the roote of the grasse shall goe, and cast it away, then with other digging spades you shall digge vp the earth, at least two foote and a halfe, or thrée foote déepe, in turning vp of which earth, you shall note that as any rootes of wéedes, or other quickes shall be raised or stirred vp, so presently with your hands to gather them vp, and cast them away, that your mould may (as neare as your dilligence can performe it) be cleane from either wilde rootes, stones, or such like offences: & in this digging of your quarters you shall not forget but raise vp the ground of your quarters at least two foote higher then your alleyes, and where by meanes of such reasure, you shall want mould, there you shall supply that lacke by bringing mould and cleane earth from some other place, where most conueniently you may spare it, that your whole quarter being digged all ouer, it may rise in all parts alike, and carry an orderly and well proportioned leuell through the whole worke. {sn: of dunging.} the best season for this first digging of your garden mould is in september: and after it is so digged and roughly cast vp, you shall let it rest till the latter end of nouember, at what time you shall digge it vp againe, in manner as afore sayd, onely with these additions, that you shall enter into the fresh mould, halfe a spade-graft déeper then before, and at euery two foote breadth of ground, enlarging the trench both wide and déepe, fill it vp with the oldest and best oxe or cow-manure that you can possibly get, till such time that increasing from two foote to two foote, you haue gone ouer and manured all your quarters, hauing a principall care that your dunge or manure lye both déepe and thicke, in so much that euery part of your mould may indifferently pertake and be inriched with the same manure. {sn: diuersitie of manures.} now, you shall vnderstand that although i doe particularly speake but of oxe or cow-manure, because it is of all the fattest and strongest, especially being olde, yet their are diuers respects to be had in the manuring of gardens: as first, if your ground be naturally of a good, fat, blacke, and well tempered earth, or if it be of a barraine, sandy, hot, yet firme mould, that in either of these cases your oxe, cow, or beast manure is the best & most sufficient, but if it be of a colde, barraine, or spewing mould then it shall be good to mixe your oxe-dunge with horse-dunge, which shall be at least two yéeres olde, if you can get it, otherwise such as you can compasse: if your ground be good and fertill yet out of his drynesse in the summer-time it be giuen to riue and chappe as is séene in many earths; you shall then mixe your oxe-dunge well with ashes, orts of lime, and such like: lastly, if your earth be too much binding and colde therewithall, then mixe your oxe-dunge with chalke or marle and it is the best manure. and thus much for the generall vse of earths. now, for perticular vses you shall vnderstand that for hearbs or flowers the oxe and horse-dunge is the best, for rootes or cabbages, mans ordure is the best, for harty-chockes, or any such like thisly-fruit, swines-dunge is most sufficient, and thus according to your setled determination you shall seuerally prouide for euery seuerall purpose, and so, god assisting, seldome faile in your profit. and this dunge you shall bring into your garden in little drumblars or whéele-barrowes, made for the purpose, such as being in common vse in euery husbandmans yarde it shall be néedlesse here either to shew the figure or proportion thereof. and thus much for the fashion, digging, and dunging of gardens. chap. xvii. _of the adornation and beautifying of the garden for pleasure._ the adornation and beautifying of gardens is not onely diuers but almost infinite, the industry of mens braines hourely begetting and bringing forth such new garments and imbroadery for the earth, that it is impossible to say this shall be singular, neither can any man say that this or that is the best, sith as mens tastes so their fancies are carried away with the varietie of their affections, some being pleased with one forme, some with another: i will not therefore giue preheminence to any one beauty, but discribing the faces and glories of all the best ornaments generaly or particularly vsed in our english gardens, referre euery man to the ellection of that which shall best agrée with his fancy. {sn: of knots and mazes.} to beginne therefore with that which is most antient and at this day of most vse amongst the vulgar though least respected with great ones, who for the most part are wholy giuen ouer to nouelties: you shall vnderstand that knots and mazes were the first that were receiued into admiration, which knots or mazes were placed vpon the faces of each seuerall quarter, in this sort: first, about the verdge or square of the quarter was set a border of primpe, boxe, lauandar, rose-mary, or such like, but primpe or boxe is the best, and it was set thicke, at least eightéene inches broad at the bottome & being kept with cliping both smooth and leuell on the toppe and on each side, those borders as they were ornaments so were they also very profitable to the huswife for the drying of linnen cloaths, yarne, and such like: for the nature of boxe and primpe being to grow like a hedge, strong and thicke, together, the gardiner, with his sheares may kéepe it as broad & plaine as himselfe listeth. within this border shall your knot or maze be drawne, it being euer intended that before the setting of your border your quarter shall be the third time digged, made exceeding leuell, and smooth, without clot or stone, and the mould, with your garden rake of iron, so broken that it may lye like the finest ashes, and then with your garden mauls, which are broad-boards of more then two foote square set at the ends of strong staues, the earth shall be beaten so hard and firme together that it may beare the burthen of a man without shrinking. and in the beating of the mould you shall haue all diligent care that you preserue and kéepe your leuell to a hayre, for if you faile in it, you faile in your whole worke. {illustration} now for the time of this labour, it is euer best about the beginning of february, and indifferent, about the midst of october, but for the setting of your primpe, or boxe-border, let the beginning of nouember be your latest time, for so shall you be sure that it will haue taken roote, and the leafe will flourish in the spring following: at which time your ground being thus artificially prepared, you shall begin to draw forth your knot in this manner: first, with lines you shall draw the forme of the figure next before set downe, and with a small instrument of iron make it vpon the earth. {illustration} which done, from the order and proportion of these lines you shall draw your single knots or plaine knots of the least curiositie, as may appeare by this figure, being one quarter of the whole knot: euer proportioning your trayles and windings according to the lines there discribed, which will kéepe your worke in iust proportion. but if you desire to haue knots of much more curiositie being more double and intricate, then you shall draw your first lines after this proportion here figured, pinning downe euery line firme to the earth with a little pinne made of woode. {illustration} which done you shall draw your double and curious knots after the manner of the figure following, which is also but one quarter of the whole knot, for looke in what manner you doe one knot in like sort will the other thrée quarters succéede, your lines kéeping you in a continuall euen proportion. {illustration} and in this manner as you draw these knots, with the like helps and lines also you shall draw out your mazes, and laborinths, of what sort or kind soeuer you please, whether they be round or square. but for as much, as not onely the _country-farme_, but also diuers other translated bookes, doe at large describe the manner of casting and proportioning these knots, i will not persist to write more curiously vpon them, but wish euery painefull gardiner which coueteth to be more satisfied therein, to repaire to those authors, where hée shall finde more large amplifications, and greater diuersities of knots, yet all tending to no more purpose then this which i haue all ready written. now, as soone as you haue drawne forth and figured your knot vpon the face of your quarter, you shall then set it either with germander, issoppe, time or pinke-gilly-flowers, but of all hearbes germander is the most principall best for this purpose: diuers doe vse in knots to set thrift, and in time of néed it may serue, but it is not so good as any of the other, because it is much subiect to be slaine with frost, and will also spread vpon the earth in such sort that, without very painefull cutting, it will put your knot out of fashion. {sn: yeallow.} {sn: white.} {sn: blacke.} {sn: red.} {sn: blew.} {sn: greene.} now there is another beautifying or adorning of gardens, and it is most generally to be séene in the gardens of noblemen and gentlemen, which may beare coate-armor, and that is, instead of the knots and mazes formerly spoken of, to draw vpon the faces of your quarters such armes, or ensines, as you may either beare your selfe, or will preserue for the memory of any friend: and these armes being drawne forth in plaine lines, you shall set those plaine shadowing lines either with germander, issop, or such like hearbes: and then for the more ample beautie thereof, if you desire to haue them in their proper and liuely colours (without which they haue but one quarter of their luster) you shall vnderstand that your colours in armory are thus to be made. first, for your mettalls: you shall make your yeallow, either of a yeallow clay, vsually to be had almost in euery place, or the yeallowest sand, or for want of both, of your flanders tile, which is to be bought of euery iron-monger or chandelor; and any of these you must beate to dust: for your white you shall make it of the coursest chalke beaten to dust, or of well burnt plaister, or, for necessity, of lime, but that will soone decay: your blacke is to be made of your best and purest coale-dust, well clensed and sifted: your red is to be made of broken vselesse brickes beaten to dust, and well clensed from spots: your blew is to be made of white-chalke, and blacke coale dust mixed together, till the blacke haue brought the white to a perfect blewnes: lastly your gréene, both for the naturall property belonging to your garden, as also for better continuance and long lasting, you shall make of camomill, well planted where any such colour is to be vsed, as for the rest of the colours, you shall sift them, and strow them into their proper places, and then with a flat beating-béetell you shall beate it, and incorporate it with the earth, and as any of the colours shall decay, you shall diligently repaire them, and the luster will be most beautifull. there is also another beautifying of gardens, which although it last not the whole yéere, yet it is most quaint, rare, and best eye-pleasing, and thus it is: you shall vpon the face of your quarter draw a plaine double knot, in manner of billet-wise: for you shall vnderstand that in this case the plainest knot is the best, and you shall let it be more then a foote betwixt line and line (for in the largenesse consists much beauty) this knot being scored out, you shall take tiles, or tileshreds and fixe them within the lines of your knot strongly within the earth, yet so as they may stand a good distance aboue the earth and this doe till you haue set out all your knot with tile: then precisely note the seuerall passages of your knot, and the seuerall thrids of which it consisteth, and then betwixt your tiles, (which are but as the shadowing lines of your knot) plant in euery seuerall third, flowers of one kinde and colour, as thus for example: in one thrid plant your carnation gilly-flower, in another your great white geli flower, in another your mingle-coloured gilly-flower, and in another your blood-red gilly-flower, and so likewise if you can compasse them you may in this sort plant your seueral coloured hyacinths, as the red, the blew, and the yealow, or your seuerall coloured _dulippos_, and many other italian and french flowers: or you may, if you please, take of euery seuerall plant one, and place them as afforesaid; the grace of all which is, that so soone as these flowers shall put forth their beauties, if you stand a little remote from the knot, and any thing aboue it, you shall sée it appeare like a knot made of diuers coloured ribans, most pleasing and most rare. many other adornations and beautifyings there are which belong to the setting forth of a curious garden, but for as much as none are more rare or more estéemed then these i haue set downe, being the best ornaments of the best gardens of this kingdome, i thinke them tastes sufficient for euery husbandman, or other of better quality which delighteth in the beauty and well trimming of his ground. chap. xviii. _how for the entertainment of any great person, in any parke, or other place of pleasure, where sommer-bowers are made, to make a compleat garden in two or three dayes._ if the honest english husbandman, or any other, of what quallity soeuer, shall entertaine any noble personage, to whom hee would giue the delight of all strange contentment, either in his parke, or other remote place of pleasure, néere vnto ponds, riuer, or other waters of cléerenesse, after hée hath made his arbors and summer-bowers to feast in, the fashion whereof is so common that euery labourer can make them, hée shall then marke out his garden-plot, bestowing such sleight fence thereon as hée shall thinke fit: then hée shall cast forth his alleys, and deuide them from his quarters, by paring away the gréene-swarth with a paring spade, finely, and euen, by a direct line (for a line must euer be vsed in this worke) then hauing store of labourers (after the vpper-most swarth is taken away) you shall cast vp the quarters, and then breaking the mould and leuelling it, you shall make sad the earth againe, then vpon your quarters you shall draw forth either knots, armes, or any other deuise which shall be best pleasing to your fancie, as either knots with single or double trayles, or other emblemicall deuise, as birds, beasts, and such like: and in your knots where you should plant hearbes, you shall take gréene-sods of the richest grasse, and cutting it proportionably to the knot, making a fine trench, you shall lay in your sod, and so ioyning sod to sod close and arteficially, you shall set forth your whole knot, or the portrayture of your armes, or other deuise, and then taking a cleane broome that hath not formerly béene swept withall, you shall brush all vncleanenesse from the grasse, and then you shall behold your knot as compleat, and as comely as if it had béene set with hearbes many yéeres before. now for the portrayture of any liuing thing, you shall cut it forth, ioyning sod vnto sod, and then afterward place it into the earth. now if within this plot of ground which you make your garden piece there be either naturall or arteficiall mounts or bankes vpon them, you may in this selfe-same manner with gréene sods set forth a flight, either at field or riuer, or the manner of hunting of any chase, or any story, or other deuise that you please, to the infinit admiration of all them which shall behold it: onely in working against mounts or bankes you must obserue to haue many small pinnes, to stay your worke and kéepe your sods from slipping one from another, till such time as you haue made euery thing fast with earth, which you must rame very close and hard: as for flowers, or such like adorments, you may the morning before, remoue them with their earth from some other garden, and plant them at your best pleasure. and thus much for a garden to be made in the time of hasty necessity. chap. xix. _how to preserue abricots, or any kinde of curious outlandish-stone-fruit, and make them beare plentifully be the spring or beginning of summer neuer so bitter._ i haue knowne diuers noblemen, gentlemen & men of vnder quallitie, that haue béene most laborious how to preserue these tender stone-fruits from the violence of stormes, frost and windes, and to that end haue béene at great cost and charges yet many times haue found much losse in their labours, wherefore in the end, through the practise of many experiments, this hath béene found (which i will here set downe) the most approuedst way to make them beare without all kinde of danger. after you haue planted your abricot, or other delicate fruit, and plasht him vp against a wall in manner as hath béene before declared, you shall ouer the tops of the trées all along the wall, build a large pentisse, of at least sixe or seauen foote in length: which pentisse ouer-shaddowing the trées, will, as experience hath found out, so defend them, that they will euer beare in as plentifull manner as they haue done any particular yéere before. there be many that will scoffe, or at least, giue no credit to this experiment, because it carrieth with it no more curiositie, but i can assure thée that art the honest english husbandman, that there is nothing more certaine and vnfallible, for i haue séene in one of the greatest noblemens gardens in the kingdome, where such a pentisse was made, that so farre as the pentisse went, so farre the trées did prosper with all fruitfulnesse, and where the pentisse ended, not one trée bare, the spring-time being most bitter and wonderfull vnseasonable. now i haue séene some great personages (whose pursses may buy their pleasures at any rate) which haue in those pentisses fixed diuers strong hookes of iron, and then made a canuasse of the best poldauie, with most strong loopes, of small corde, which being hung vpon the iron hookes, hath reacht from the pentisse to the ground, and so laced with corde and small pulleys, that like the saile of a ship it might be trust vp, and let downe at pleasure: this canuasse thus prepared is all the spring and latter end of winter to be let downe at the setting of the sunne, and to be drawne vp at the rising of the sunne againe. the practise of this i referre to such as haue abillitie to buy their delight, without losse, assuring them that all reason and experience doth finde it most probable to be most excellent, yet to the plaine english husbandman i giue certaine assurance that the pentisse onely is sufficient enough and will defend all stormes whatsoeuer. and thus much for the preseruation and increase of all tender stone-fruit, of what nature, or climbe bred, soeuer. chap. xx. _how to make grapes grow as bigge, full, and as naturally, and to ripen in as due season, and be as long lasting as either in fraunce or spaine._ diuers of our english gardiners, and those of the best and most approued'st iudgements, haue béene very industrious to bring grapes, in our kingdome, to their true nature and perfection: and some great persons i know, that with infinit cost, and i hope prosperous successe, hath planted a vineyard of many acres, in which the hands of the best experienced french-men hath béene imploied: but for those great workes they are onely for great men, and not for the plaine english husbandman, neither will such workes by any meanes prosper in many parts of our kingdome, especially in the north parts: and i that write for the generall vse, must treate of vniuersall maximes: therefore if you desire to haue grapes in their true and best kinde, most earely and longest lasting, you shall in the most conuenient part of your garden, which is euer the center or middle point thereof, build a round house, in the fashion of a round doue-coate, but many degrées lower, the ground worke whereof shalbe aboue the ground two or thrée brickes thickenesse, vpon this ground-plot you shall place a groundsell, and thereon, fine, yet strong studs, which may reach to the roofe: these studs shalbe placed better then foure foote one from another, with little square bars of woode, such as you vse in glasse windowes, two betwixt euery two studs, the roofe you may make in what proportion you will, for this house may serue for a delicate banqueting house, and you may either couer it with leade, slate or tile, which you please. now, from the ground to the top, betwéene the studs, you shall glase it, with very strong glasse, made in an excéeding large square pane, well leaded and cimented. this house thus made, you shall obserue that through the bricke worke there be made, betwéene euery two studs, square holes, cleane through into the house; then on the out-side, opposite against those holes, you shall plant the roote of your vine, hauing béene very carefull in the election and choise thereof: which done, as your vine groweth you shall draw it through those holes, and as you vse to plash a vine against a wall, so you shall plash this against the glasse window, on the in-side, and so soone as it shall beginne to beare grapes you shall be sure to turne euery bunch, so that it may lye close to the glasse, that the reflection of the sunne heating the glasse, that heate may hasten on the ripening, & increase the groath of your grapes: as also the house defending off all manner of euill weather, these grapes will hang ripe, vnrotted or withered, euen till christmas. thus haue i giuen you a tast of some of the first parts of english husbandry, which if i shall finde thankefully accepted, if it please god to grant mée life, i will in my next volumne, shew you the choise of all manner of garden hearbes and flowers, both of this and other kingdomes, the seasons of their plantings, their florishings and orderings: i will also shew you the true ordering of woodes, both high and low, as also the bréeding and féeding of all manner of cattell, with the cure of all diseases incident vnto them, together with other parts of husbandry, neuer before published by any author: this i promise, if god be pleased: to whom be onely ascribed the glory of all our actions, and whose name be praised for euer. amen. * * * * * finis. [transcriber's notes the following changes have been made and anomalies noted. a former part chap. ii. 'adicted to nouelty and curiouity' changed to 'adicted to nouelty and curiousity' chap. iii. 'plough houlder when hée cometh to' scan is unclear 'two much earth' probable misprint for 'too much earth' chap. iiii. 'the of point your share' changed to 'the point of your share' chap. v. 'of that which you soil'd:' changed to 'of that which you foil'd:' chap. vi. 'the ridge of you land againe.' probable misprint for 'the ridge of your land againe.' 'tare-cockle, or such like,' scan is unclear 'after your land is soild,' changed to 'after your land is foild,' chap. vii. 'and if you ffnde' changed to 'and if you finde' 'manure of beasts which can be-gotten' probable misprint for 'manure of beasts which can be gotten' 'your fould of séepe' changed to 'your fould of shéepe' 'frost, winde, and weathe,rmakes' changed to 'frost, winde, and weather, makes' 'no wing accoridng' changed to 'no wing according' chap. ix. 'much barrainnesse, espcially' changed to 'much barrainnesse, especially' 'it shall be needlesse to write' scan is unclear the first part chap. i. 'you most turne euery furrow' probable misprint for 'you must turne euery furrow' 'hée must sooner stirer' changed to 'hée must sooner stirre'. scan is unclear. chap. ii. 'euery thing with is most apt' changed to 'euery thing which is most apt' chap. iii. 'their naturall lighnesse' changed to 'their naturall lightnesse' 'as hath, béene showed before' changed to 'as hath béene showed before' chap. iiii. 'it is most, certaine' changed to 'it is most certaine' 'cornes in their gardens thus, set seeing' changed to 'cornes in their gardens thus set, seeing' chap. v. 'vpon the or fourth field' changed to 'vpon the third or fourth field' 'is ninam barly,' probable misprint for 'is niam barly,' chap. vi. 'as we sée in dayly experience,' changed to 'as we sée in dayly experience.' the second part of the first booke chap. i. 'perfect ground-plot, you' scan is unclear 'twelue or fourtéene foote on of another,' probable misprint for 'twelue or fourtéene foote one of another,' 'thorny and sharpe, trées,' changed to 'thorny and sharpe trées,' chap. iiii. 'you shall tak one of your grafts' changed to 'you shall take one of your grafts' chap. v. 'grafting betweene the barke.' scan is unclear in sidenote 'not aboue trée grafts at the most' changed to 'not aboue thrée grafts at the most' 'grafting on the toppes of trees.' scan is unclear in sidenote 'and to contincu' changed to 'and to continue' chap. vi. 'of the replanting of trees, and furnishing the orchard,' changed to 'of the replanting of trees, and furnishing the orchard.' chap. vii. 'it is a ready away' changed to 'it is a ready way' 'two much fertillitie' probable misprint for 'too much fertillitie' 'stéepe it mfor alt' changed to 'stéepe it for malt' chap. viii. 'for any peculyar pofit' changed to 'for any peculyar profit' chap. ix. 'and growriuelled' changed to 'and grow riuelled' 'they can by meanes indure,' changed to 'they can by no meanes indure,' chap. xi. 'then contiunally labour' changed to 'then continually labour' chap. xii 'of poales.' scan is unclear in sidenote chap. xiiii 'dry more hoppes then any one man' scan is unclear chap. xvii. 'then betwxit your tiles' changed to 'then betwixt your tiles' chap. xviii. 'chap: xviii.' changed to 'chap. xviii.' 'single or double trayles,' scan unclear chap. xix. 'to the pliane english husbandman' changed to 'to the plaine english husbandman' ] [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: _the kensington gardens are in london, where the king lives_.] peter pan in kensington gardens by j. m. barrie (_from 'the little white bird'_) with drawings by arthur rackham [illustration: title page art] new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , , by charles scribner's sons contents chapter i the grand tour of the gardens chapter ii peter pan chapter iii the thrush's nest chapter iv lock-out time chapter v the little house chapter vi peter's goat illustrations . 'the kensington gardens are in london, where the king lives' . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_ . 'the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside' . 'old mr. salford was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered all day in the gardens' . 'when he heard peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip' . 'put his strange case before old solomon caw' . 'after this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise' . 'for years he had been quietly filling his stocking' . 'fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk' . 'these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night' . 'when her majesty wants to know the time' . 'peter pan is the fairies' orchestra' . 'a chrysanthemum heard her, and said pointedly, "hoity-toity, what is this?"' . 'shook his bald head and murmured, "cold, quite cold."' . 'fairies never say, "we feel happy"; what they say is, "we feel _dancey_."' . 'looking very undancey indeed' . 'building the house for maimie' peter pan in kensington gardens [illustration: map of peter pan's kensington gardens] i the grand tour of the gardens [illustration: david] you must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow peter pan's adventures unless you are familiar with the kensington gardens. they are in london, where the king lives, and i used to take david there nearly every day unless he was looking decidedly flushed. no child has ever been in the whole of the gardens, because it is so soon time to turn back. the reason it is soon time to turn back is that, if you are as small as david, you sleep from twelve to one. if your mother was not so sure that you sleep from twelve to one, you could most likely see the whole of them. [illustration: nurse] the gardens are bounded on one side by a never-ending line of omnibuses, over which your nurse has such authority that if she holds up her finger to any one of them it stops immediately. she then crosses with you in safety to the other side. there are more gates to the gardens than one gate, but that is the one you go in at, and before you go in you speak to the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside. this is as near to being inside as she may venture, because, if she were to let go her hold of the railings for one moment, the balloons would lift her up, and she would be flown away. she sits very squat, for the balloons are always tugging at her, and the strain has given her quite a red face. once she was a new one, because the old one had let go, and david was very sorry for the old one, but as she did let go, he wished he had been there to see. [illustration: _the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside._] the gardens are a tremendous big place, with millions and hundreds of trees; and first you come to the figs, but you scorn to loiter there, for the figs is the resort of superior little persons, who are forbidden to mix with the commonalty, and is so named, according to legend, because they dress in full fig. these dainty ones are themselves contemptuously called figs by david and other heroes, and you have a key to the manners and customs of this dandiacal section of the gardens when i tell you that cricket is called crickets here. occasionally a rebel fig climbs over the fence into the world, and such a one was miss mabel grey, of whom i shall tell you when we come to miss mabel grey's gate. she was the only really celebrated fig. we are now in the broad walk, and it is as much bigger than the other walks as your father is bigger than you. david wondered if it began little, and grew and grew, until it was quite grown up, and whether the other walks are its babies, and he drew a picture, which diverted him very much, of the broad walk giving a tiny walk an airing in a perambulator. in the broad walk you meet all the people who are worth knowing, and there is usually a grown-up with them to prevent them going on the damp grass, and to make them stand disgraced at the corner of a seat if they have been mad-dog or mary-annish. to be mary-annish is to behave like a girl, whimpering because nurse won't carry you, or simpering with your thumb in your mouth, and it is a hateful quality; but to be mad-dog is to kick out at everything, and there is some satisfaction in that. if i were to point out all the notable places as we pass up the broad walk, it would be time to turn back before we reach them, and i simply wave my stick at cecco hewlett's tree, that memorable spot where a boy called cecco lost his penny, and, looking for it, found twopence. there has been a good deal of excavation going on there ever since. farther up the walk is the little wooden house in which marmaduke perry hid. there is no more awful story of the gardens than this of marmaduke perry, who had been mary-annish three days in succession, and was sentenced to appear in the broad walk dressed in his sister's clothes. he hid in the little wooden house, and refused to emerge until they brought him knickerbockers with pockets. you now try to go to the round pond, but nurses hate it, because they are not really manly, and they make you look the other way, at the big penny and the baby's palace. she was the most celebrated baby of the gardens, and lived in the palace all alone, with ever so many dolls, so people rang the bell, and up she got out of her bed, though it was past six o'clock, and she lighted a candle and opened the door in her nighty, and then they all cried with great rejoicings, 'hail, queen of england!' what puzzled david most was how she knew where the matches were kept. the big penny is a statue about her. next we come to the hump, which is the part of the broad walk where all the big races are run; and even though you had no intention of running you do run when you come to the hump, it is such a fascinating, slide-down kind of place. often you stop when you have run about half-way down it, and then you are lost; but there is another little wooden house near here, called the lost house, and so you tell the man that you are lost and then he finds you. it is glorious fun racing down the hump, but you can't do it on windy days because then you are not there, but the fallen leaves do it instead of you. there is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf. from the hump we can see the gate that is called after miss mabel grey, the fig i promised to tell you about. there were always two nurses with her, or else one mother and one nurse, and for a long time she was a pattern-child who always coughed off the table and said, 'how do you do?' to the other figs, and the only game she played at was flinging a ball gracefully and letting the nurse bring it back to her. then one day she tired of it all and went mad-dog, and, first, to show that she really was mad-dog, she unloosened both her boot-laces and put out her tongue east, west, north, and south. she then flung her sash into a puddle and danced on it till dirty water was squirted over her frock, after which she climbed the fence and had a series of incredible adventures, one of the least of which was that she kicked off both her boots. at last she came to the gate that is now called after her, out of which she ran into streets david and i have never been in though we have heard them roaring, and still she ran on and would never again have been heard of had not her mother jumped into a 'bus and thus overtaken her. it all happened, i should say, long ago, and this is not the mabel grey whom david knows. returning up the broad walk we have on our right the baby walk, which is so full of perambulators that you could cross from side to side stepping on babies, but the nurses won't let you do it. from this walk a passage called bunting's thumb, because it is that length, leads into picnic street, where there are real kettles, and chestnut-blossom falls into your mug as you are drinking. quite common children picnic here also, and the blossom falls into their mugs just the same. next comes st. govor's well, which was full of water when malcolm the bold fell into it. he was his mother's favourite, and he let her put her arm round his neck in public because she was a widow; but he was also partial to adventures, and liked to play with a chimney-sweep who had killed a good many bears. the sweep's name was sooty, and one day, when they were playing near the well, malcolm fell in and would have been drowned had not sooty dived in and rescued him; and the water had washed sooty clean, and he now stood revealed as malcolm's long-lost father. so malcolm would not let his mother put her arm round his neck any more. between the well and the round pond are the cricket pitches, and frequently the choosing of sides exhausts so much time that there is scarcely any cricket. everybody wants to bat first, and as soon as he is out he bowls unless you are the better wrestler, and while you are wrestling with him the fielders have scattered to play at something else. the gardens are noted for two kinds of cricket: boy cricket, which is real cricket with a bat, and girl cricket, which is with a racquet and the governess. girls can't really play cricket, and when you are watching their futile efforts you make funny sounds at them. nevertheless, there was a very disagreeable incident one day when some forward girls challenged david's team, and a disturbing creature called angela clare sent down so many yorkers that--however, instead of telling you the result of that regrettable match i shall pass on hurriedly to the round pond, which is the wheel that keeps all the gardens going. it is round because it is in the very middle of the gardens, and when you are come to it you never want to go any farther. you can't be good all the time at the round pond, however much you try. you can be good in the broad walk all the time, but not at the round pond, and the reason is that you forget, and, when you remember, you are so wet that you may as well be wetter. there are men who sail boats on the round pond, such big boats that they bring them in barrows, and sometimes in perambulators, and then the baby has to walk. the bow-legged children in the gardens are those who had to walk too soon because their father needed the perambulator. you always want to have a yacht to sail on the round pond, and in the end your uncle gives you one; and to carry it to the pond the first day is splendid, also to talk about it to boys who have no uncle is splendid, but soon you like to leave it at home. for the sweetest craft that slips her moorings in the round pond is what is called a stick-boat, because she is rather like a stick until she is in the water and you are holding the string. then as you walk round, pulling her, you see little men running about her deck, and sails rise magically and catch the breeze, and you put in on dirty nights at snug harbours which are unknown to the lordly yachts. night passes in a twink, and again your rakish craft noses for the wind, whales spout, you glide over buried cities, and have brushes with pirates, and cast anchor on coral isles. you are a solitary boy while all this is taking place, for two boys together cannot adventure far upon the round pond, and though you may talk to yourself throughout the voyage, giving orders and executing them with despatch, you know not, when it is time to go home, where you have been or what swelled your sails; your treasure-trove is all locked away in your hold, so to speak, which will be opened, perhaps, by another little boy many years afterwards. but those yachts have nothing in their hold. does any one return to this haunt of his youth because of the yachts that used to sail it? oh no. it is the stick-boat that is freighted with memories. the yachts are toys, their owner a fresh-water mariner; they can cross and recross a pond only while the stick-boat goes to sea. you yachtsmen with your wands, who think we are all there to gaze on you, your ships are only accidents of this place, and were they all to be boarded and sunk by the ducks, the real business of the round pond would be carried on as usual. paths from everywhere crowd like children to the pond. some of them are ordinary paths, which have a rail on each side, and are made by men with their coats off, but others are vagrants, wide at one spot, and at another so narrow that you can stand astride them. they are called paths that have made themselves, and david did wish he could see them doing it. but, like all the most wonderful things that happen in the gardens, it is done, we concluded, at night after the gates are closed. we have also decided that the paths make themselves because it is their only chance of getting to the round pond. one of these gypsy paths comes from the place where the sheep get their hair cut. when david shed his curls at the hair-dressers, i am told, he said good-bye to them without a tremor, though his mother has never been quite the same bright creature since; so he despises the sheep as they run from their shearer, and calls out tauntingly, 'cowardy, cowardy custard!' but when the man grips them between his legs david shakes a fist at him for using such big scissors. another startling moment is when the man turns back the grimy wool from the sheeps' shoulders and they look suddenly like ladies in the stalls of a theatre. the sheep are so frightened by the shearing that it makes them quite white and thin, and as soon as they are set free they begin to nibble the grass at once, quite anxiously, as if they feared that they would never be worth eating. david wonders whether they know each other, now that they are so different, and if it makes them fight with the wrong ones. they are great fighters, and thus so unlike country sheep that every year they give my st. bernard dog, porthos, a shock. he can make a field of country sheep fly by merely announcing his approach, but these town sheep come toward him with no promise of gentle entertainment, and then a light from last year breaks upon porthos. he cannot with dignity retreat, but he stops and looks about him as if lost in admiration of the scenery, and presently he strolls away with a fine indifference and a glint at me from the corner of his eye. [illustration: porthos] the serpentine begins near here. it is a lovely lake, and there is a drowned forest at the bottom of it. if you peer over the edge you can see the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night there are also drowned stars in it. if so, peter pan sees them when he is sailing across the lake in the thrush's nest. a small part only of the serpentine is in the gardens, for soon it passes beneath a bridge to far away where the island is on which all the birds are born that become baby boys and girls. no one who is human, except peter pan (and he is only half human), can land on the island, but you may write what you want (boy or girl, dark or fair) on a piece of paper, and then twist it into the shape of a boat and slip it into the water, and it reaches peter pan's island after dark. we are on the way home now, though of course, it is all pretence that we can go to so many of the places in one day. i should have had to be carrying david long ago, and resting on every seat like old mr. salford. that was what we called him, because he always talked to us of a lovely place called salford where he had been born. he was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered all day in the gardens from seat to seat trying to fall in with somebody who was acquainted with the town of salford, and when we had known him for a year or more we actually did meet another aged solitary who had once spent saturday to monday in salford. he was meek and timid, and carried his address inside his hat, and whatever part of london he was in search of he always went to westminster abbey first as a starting-point. him we carried in triumph to our other friend, with the story of that saturday to monday, and never shall i forget the gloating joy with which mr. salford leapt at him. they have been cronies ever since, and i noticed that mr. salford, who naturally does most of the talking, keeps tight grip of the other old man's coat. [illustration: _old mr. salford was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered all day in the gardens._] the two last places before you come to our gate are the dog's cemetery and the chaffinches nest, but we pretend not to know what the dog's cemetery is, as porthos is always with us. the nest is very sad. it is quite white, and the way we found it was wonderful. we were having another look among the bushes for david's lost worsted ball, and instead of the ball we found a lovely nest made of the worsted, and containing four eggs, with scratches on them very like david's handwriting, so we think they must have been the mother's love-letters to the little ones inside. every day we were in the gardens we paid a call at the nest, taking care that no cruel boy should see us, and we dropped crumbs, and soon the bird knew us as friends, and sat in the nest looking at us kindly with her shoulders hunched up. but one day when we went there were only two eggs in the nest, and the next time there were none. the saddest part of it was that the poor little chaffinch fluttered about the bushes, looking so reproachfully at us that we knew she thought we had done it; and though david tried to explain to her, it was so long since he had spoken the bird language that i fear she did not understand. he and i left the gardens that day with our knuckles in our eyes. ii peter pan if you ask your mother whether she knew about peter pan when she was a little girl, she will say, 'why, of course i did, child'; and if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days, she will say, 'what a foolish question to ask; certainly he did.' then if you ask your grandmother whether she knew about peter pan when she was a girl, she also says, 'why, of course i did, child,' but if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having a goat. perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your name and calls you mildred, which is your mother's name. still, she could hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. therefore there was no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. this shows that, in telling the story of peter pan, to begin with the goat (as most people do) is as silly as to put on your jacket before your vest. of course, it also shows that peter is ever so old, but he is really always the same age, so that does not matter in the least. his age is one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had a birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one. the reason is that he escaped from being a human when he was seven days old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the kensington gardens. if you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it shows how completely you have forgotten your own young days. when david heard this story first he was quite certain that he had never tried to escape, but i told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his temples, and when he had done this hard, and even harder, he distinctly remembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with that memory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape as soon as his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way up the chimney. all children could have such recollections if they would press their hands hard to their temples, for, having been birds before they were human, they are naturally a little wild during the first few weeks, and very itchy at the shoulders, where their wings used to be. so david tells me. i ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story: first i tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the understanding being that it is quite a different story; and then i retell it with his additions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is more his story or mine. in this story of peter pan, for instance, the bald narrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not all, for this boy can be a stern moralist; but the interesting bits about the ways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscences of david's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples and thinking hard. well, peter pan got out by the window, which had no bars. standing on the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless the kensington gardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot that he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over the houses to the gardens. it is wonderful that he could fly without wings, but the place itched tremendously, and--and--perhaps we could all fly if we were as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was bold peter pan that evening. he alighted gaily on the open sward, between the baby's palace and the serpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie on his back and kick. he was quite unaware already that he had ever been human, and thought he was a bird, even in appearance, just the same as in his early days, and when he tried to catch a fly he did not understand that the reason he missed it was because he had attempted to seize it with his hand, which, of course, a bird never does. he saw, however, that it must be past lock-out time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too busy to notice him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking their cows, drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made him thirsty, so he flew over to the round pond to have a drink. he stooped and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was his beak, but, of course, it was only his nose, and therefore, very little water came up, and that not so refreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle, and he fell flop into it. when a real bird falls in flop, he spreads out his feathers and pecks them dry, but peter could not remember what was the thing to do, and he decided rather sulkily to go to sleep on the weeping-beech in the baby walk. at first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a branch, but presently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. he awoke long before morning, shivering, and saying to himself, 'i never was out on such a cold night'; he had really been out on colder nights when he was a bird, but, of course, as everybody knows, what seems a warm night to a bird is a cold night to a boy in a nightgown. peter also felt strangely uncomfortable, as if his head was stuffy; he heard loud noises that made him look round sharply, though they were really himself sneezing. there was something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted it, he could not think what it was. what he wanted so much was his mother to blow his nose, but that never struck him, so he decided to appeal to the fairies for enlightenment. they are reputed to know a good deal. there were two of them strolling along the baby walk, with their arms round each other's waists, and he hopped down to address them. the fairies have their tiffs with the birds, but they usually give a civil answer to a civil question, and he was quite angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him. another was lolling on a garden chair, reading a postage-stamp which some human had let fall, and when he heard peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip. [illustration: _when he heard peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip._] to peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met fled from him. a band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them. a milkmaid turned her pail upside down and hid in it. soon the gardens were in an uproar. crowds of fairies were running this way and that, asking each other stoutly who was afraid; lights were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the grounds of queen mab's palace came the rub-a-dub of drums, showing that the royal guard had been called out. a regiment of lancers came charging down the broad walk, armed with holly-leaves, with which they jag the enemy horribly in passing. peter heard the little people crying everywhere that there was a human in the gardens after lock-out time, but he never thought for a moment that he was the human. he was feeling stuffier and stuffier, and more and more wistful to learn what he wanted done to his nose, but he pursued them with the vital question in vain; the timid creatures ran from him, and even the lancers, when he approached them up the hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the pretence that they saw him there. despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but now he remembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on the weeping-beech had flown away when he alighted on it, and though this had not troubled him at the time, he saw its meaning now. every living thing was shunning him. poor little peter pan! he sat down and cried, and even then he did not know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. it is a blessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith in his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it. the reason birds can fly and we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings. now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the serpentine, for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there, and there are stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each of which a bird-sentinel sits by day and night. it was to the island that peter now flew to put his strange case before old solomon caw, and he alighted on it with relief, much heartened to find himself at last at home, as the birds call the island. all of them were asleep, including the sentinels, except solomon, who was wide awake on one side, and he listened quietly to peter's adventures, and then told him their true meaning. [illustration: _put his strange case before old solomon caw._] 'look at your nightgown, if you don't believe me,' solomon said; and with staring eyes peter looked at his nightgown, and then at the sleeping birds. not one of them wore anything. 'how many of your toes are thumbs?' said solomon a little cruelly, and peter saw to his consternation, that all his toes were fingers. the shock was so great that it drove away his cold. 'ruffle your feathers,' said that grim old solomon, and peter tried most desperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had none. then he rose up, quaking, and for the first time since he stood on the window ledge, he remembered a lady who had been very fond of him. 'i think i shall go back to mother,' he said timidly. 'good-bye,' replied solomon caw with a queer look. but peter hesitated. 'why don't you go?' the old one asked politely. 'i suppose,' said peter huskily, 'i suppose i can still fly.' you see he had lost faith. 'poor little half-and-half!' said solomon, who was not really hard-hearted, 'you will never be able to fly again, not even on windy days. you must live here on the island always.' 'and never even go to the kensington gardens?' peter asked tragically. 'how could you get across?' said solomon. he promised very kindly, however, to teach peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned by one of such an awkward shape. 'then i shan't be exactly a human?' peter asked. 'no.' 'nor exactly a bird?' 'no.' 'what shall i be?' 'you will be a betwixt-and-between,' solomon said, and certainly he was a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out. the birds on the island never got used to him. his oddities tickled them every day, as if they were quite new, though it was really the birds that were new. they came out of the eggs daily, and laughed at him at once; then off they soon flew to be humans, and other birds came out of other eggs; and so it went on for ever. the crafty mother-birds, when they tired of sitting on their eggs, used to get the young ones to break their shells a day before the right time by whispering to them that now was their chance to see peter washing or drinking or eating. thousands gathered round him daily to watch him do these things, just as you watch the peacocks, and they screamed with delight when he lifted the crusts they flung him with his hands instead of in the usual way with the mouth. all his food was brought to him from the gardens at solomon's orders by the birds. he would not eat worms or insects (which they thought very silly of him), so they brought him bread in their beaks. thus, when you cry out, 'greedy! greedy!' to the bird that flies away with the big crust, you know now that you ought not to do this, for he is very likely taking it to peter pan. peter wore no nightgown now. you see, the birds were always begging him for bits of it to line their nests with, and, being very good-natured, he could not refuse, so by solomon's advice he had hidden what was left of it. but, though he was now quite naked, you must not think that he was cold or unhappy. he was usually very happy and gay, and the reason was that solomon had kept his promise and taught him many of the bird ways. to be easily pleased, for instance, and always to be really doing something, and to think that whatever he was doing was a thing of vast importance. peter became very clever at helping the birds to build their nests; soon he could build better than a wood-pigeon, and nearly as well as a blackbird, though never did he satisfy the finches, and he made nice little water-troughs near the nests and dug up worms for the young ones with his fingers. he also became very learned in bird-lore, and knew an east wind from a west wind by its smell, and he could see the grass growing and hear the insects walking about inside the tree-trunks. but the best thing solomon had done was to teach him to have a glad heart. all birds have glad hearts unless you rob their nests, and so as they were the only kind of heart solomon knew about, it was easy to him to teach peter how to have one. peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day long, just as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human, he needed an instrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used to sit by the shore of the island of an evening, practising the sough of the wind and the ripple of the water, and catching handfuls of the shine of the moon, and he put them all in his pipe and played them so beautifully that even the birds were deceived, and they would say to each other, 'was that a fish leaping in the water or was it peter playing leaping fish on his pipe?' and sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the mothers would turn round in their nests to see whether they had laid an egg. if you are a child of the gardens you must know the chestnut-tree near the bridge, which comes out in flower first of all the chestnuts, but perhaps you have not heard why this tree leads the way. it is because peter wearies for summer and plays that it has come, and the chestnut being so near, hears him and is cheated. but as peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he sometimes fell into sad thoughts, and then the music became sad also, and the reason of all this sadness was that he could not reach the gardens, though he could see them through the arch of the bridge. he knew he could never be a real human again, and scarcely wanted to be one, but oh! how he longed to play as other children play, and of course there is no such lovely place to play in as the gardens. the birds brought him news of how boys and girls play, and wistful tears started in peter's eyes. perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. the reason was that he could not swim. he wanted to know how to swim, but no one on the island knew the way except the ducks, and they are so stupid. they were quite willing to teach him, but all they could say about it was, 'you sit down on the top of the water in this way, and then you kick out like that.' peter tried it often, but always before he could kick out he sank. what he really needed to know was how you sit on the water without sinking, and they said it was quite impossible to explain such an easy thing as that. occasionally swans touched on the island, and he would give them all his day's food and then ask them how they sat on the water, but as soon as he had no more to give them the hateful things hissed at him and sailed away. once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching the gardens. a wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper, floated high over the island and then tumbled, rolling over and over after the manner of a bird that has broken its wing. peter was so frightened that he hid, but the birds told him it was only a kite, and what a kite is, and that it must have tugged its string out of a boy's hand, and soared away. after that they laughed at peter for being so fond of the kite; he loved it so much that he even slept with one hand on it, and i think this was pathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because it had belonged to a real boy. to the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones felt grateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number of fledglings through the german measles, and they offered to show him how birds fly a kite. so six of them took the end of the string in their beaks and flew away with it; and to his amazement it flew after them and went even higher than they. peter screamed out, 'do it again!' and with great good-nature they did it several times, and always instead of thanking them he cried, 'do it again!' which shows that even now he had not quite forgotten what it was to be a boy. at last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart, he begged them to do it once more with him clinging to the tail, and now a hundred flew off with the string, and peter clung to the tail, meaning to drop off when he was over the gardens. but the kite broke to pieces in the air, and he would have been drowned in the serpentine had he not caught hold of two indignant swans and made them carry him to the island. after this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise. [illustration: _after this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise._] nevertheless, peter did reach the gardens at last by the help of shelley's boat, as i am now to tell you. iii the thrush's nest shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever expect to be. he was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. they are people who despise money except what you need for to-day, and he had all that and five pounds over. so, when he was walking in the kensington gardens, he made a paper boat of his bank-note, and sent it sailing on the serpentine. it reached the island at night; and the look-out brought it to solomon caw, who thought at first that it was the usual thing, a message from a lady, saying she would be obliged if he could let her have a good one. they always ask for the best one he has, and if he likes the letter he sends one from class a, but if it ruffles him he sends very funny ones indeed. sometimes he sends none at all, and at another time he sends a nestful; it all depends on the mood you catch him in. he likes you to leave it all to him, and if you mention particularly that you hope he will see his way to making it _a boy this time_, he is almost sure to send another girl. and whether you are a lady or only a little boy who wants a baby-sister, always take pains to write your address clearly. you can't think what a lot of babies solomon has sent to the wrong house. shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled solomon, and he took counsel of his assistants, who having walked over it twice, first with their toes pointed out, and then with their toes pointed in, decided that it came from some greedy person who wanted five. they thought this because there was a large five printed on it. 'preposterous!' cried solomon in a rage, and he presented it to peter; anything useless which drifted upon the island was usually given to peter as a plaything. but he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew what it was at once, having been very observant during the week when he was an ordinary boy. with so much money, he reflected, he could surely at last contrive to reach the gardens, and he considered all the possible ways, and decided (wisely, i think) to choose the best way. but, first, he had to tell the birds of the value of shelley's boat; and though they were too honest to demand it back, he saw that they were galled, and they cast such black looks at solomon, who was rather vain of his cleverness, that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat there very depressed with his head buried in his wings. now peter knew that unless solomon was on your side, you never got anything done for you in the island, so he followed him and tried to hearten him. nor was this all that peter did to gain the powerful old fellow's good-will. you must know that solomon had no intention of remaining in office all his life. he looked forward to retiring by and by, and devoting his green old age to a life of pleasure on a certain yew-stump in the figs which had taken his fancy, and for years he had been quietly filling his stocking. it was a stocking belonging to some bathing person which had been cast upon the island, and at the time i speak of it contained a hundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four nuts, sixteen crusts, a pen-wiper, and a boot-lace. when his stocking was full, solomon calculated that he would be able to retire on a competency. peter now gave him a pound. he cut it off his bank-note with a sharp stick. [illustration: _for years he had been quietly filling his stocking._] this made solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had consulted together they called a meeting of the thrushes. you will see presently why thrushes only were invited. the scheme to be put before them was really peter's, but solomon did most of the talking, because he soon became irritable if other people talked. he began by saying that he had been much impressed by the superior ingenuity shown by the thrushes in nest-building, and this put them into good-humour at once, as it was meant to do; for all the quarrels between birds are about the best way of building nests. other birds, said solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and as a result they did not hold water. here he cocked his head as if he had used an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a mrs. finch had come to the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, 'we don't build nests to hold water, but to hold eggs,' and then the thrushes stopped cheering, and solomon was so perplexed that he took several sips of water. 'consider,' he said at last, 'how warm the mud makes the nest.' 'consider,' cried mrs. finch, 'that when water gets into the nest it remains there and your little ones are drowned.' the thrushes begged solomon with a look to say something crushing in reply to this, but again he was perplexed. 'try another drink,' suggested mrs. finch pertly. kate was her name, and all kates are saucy. solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. 'if,' said he, 'a finch's nest is placed on the serpentine it fills and breaks to pieces, but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the cup of a swan's back.' how the thrushes applauded! now they knew why they lined their nests with mud, and when mrs. finch called out, 'we don't place our nests on the serpentine,' they did what they should have done at first--chased her from the meeting. after this it was most orderly. what they had been brought together to hear, said solomon, was this: their young friend, peter pan, as they well knew, wanted very much to be able to cross to the gardens, and he now proposed, with their help, to build a boat. at this the thrushes began to fidget, which made peter tremble for his scheme. solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of the cumbrous boats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be simply a thrush's nest large enough to hold peter. but still, to peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. 'we are very busy people,' they grumbled, 'and this would be a big job.' 'quite so,' said solomon, 'and, of course, peter would not allow you to work for nothing. you must remember that he is now in comfortable circumstances, and he will pay you such wages as you have never been paid before. peter pan authorises me to say that you shall all be paid sixpence a day.' then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was begun the celebrated building of the boat. all their ordinary business fell into arrears. it was the time of the year when they should have been pairing, but not a thrush's nest was built except this big one, and so solomon soon ran short of thrushes with which to supply the demand from the mainland. the stout, rather greedy children, who look so well in perambulators but get puffed easily when they walk, were all young thrushes once, and ladies often ask specially for them. what do you think solomon did? he sent over to the house-tops for a lot of sparrows and ordered them to lay their eggs in old thrushes' nests, and sent their young to the ladies and swore they were all thrushes! it was known afterwards on the island as the sparrow's year; and so, when you meet grown-up people in the gardens who puff and blow as if they thought themselves bigger than they are, very likely they belong to that year. you ask them. peter was a just master, and paid his workpeople every evening. they stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the paper sixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, and then each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got sixpence. it must have been a fine sight. and at last, after months of labour, the boat was finished. o the glory of peter as he saw it growing more and more like a great thrushes nest! from the very beginning of the building of it he slept by its side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it was lined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. he sleeps in his nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round in it, for it is just large enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round like a kitten. it is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly green, being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or snap the walls are thatched afresh. there are also a few feathers here and there, which came off the thrushes while they were building. the other birds were extremely jealous, and said that the boat would not balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they said the water would come into it, but no water came into it. next they said that peter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look at each other in dismay; but peter replied that he had no need of oars, for he had a sail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced a sail which he had fashioned out of his nightgown, and though it was still rather like a nightgown it made a lovely sail. and that night, the moon being full, and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle (as master francis pretty would have said) and depart out of the island. and first, he knew not why, he looked upward, with his hands clasped, and from that moment his eyes were pinned to the west. he had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with them as his guides, but far away he saw the kensington gardens beckoning to him beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. his face was flushed, but he never looked back; there was an exultation in his little breast that drove out fear. was peter the least gallant of the english mariners who have sailed westward to meet the unknown? at first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to the place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, by removing one of the sleeves, and was forthwith carried backwards by a contrary breeze, to his no small peril. he now let go the sail, with the result that he was drifted towards the far shore, where are black shadows he knew not the dangers of, but suspected them, and so once more hoisted his nightgown and went roomer of the shadows until he caught a favouring wind, which bore him westward, but at so great a speed that he was like to be broke against the bridge. which, having avoided, he passed under the bridge and came, to his great rejoicing, within full sight of the delectable gardens. but having tried to cast anchor, which was a stone at the end of a piece of the kite-string, he found no bottom, and was fain to hold off, seeking for moorage; and, feeling his way, he buffeted against a sunken reef that cast him overboard by the greatness of the shock, and he was near to being drowned, but clambered back into the vessel. there now arose a mighty storm, accompanied by roaring of waters, such as he had never heard the like, and he was tossed this way and that, and his hands so numbed with the cold that he could not close them. having escaped the danger of which, he was mercifully carried into a small bay, where his boat rode at peace. nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to disembark, he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the shore to contest his landing, and shouting shrilly to him to be off, for it was long past lock-out time. this, with much brandishing of their holly-leaves, and also a company of them carried an arrow which some boy had left in the gardens, and this they were prepared to use as a battering-ram. then peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he was not an ordinary human and had no desire to do them displeasure, but to be their friend; nevertheless, having found a jolly harbour, he was in no temper to draw off therefrom, and he warned them if they sought to mischief him to stand to their harms. so saying, he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around him with intent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry among the women, and it was because they had now observed that his sail was a baby's nightgown. whereupon, they straightway loved him, and grieved that their laps were too small, the which i cannot explain, except by saying that such is the way of women. the men-fairies now sheathed their weapons on observing the behaviour of their women, on whose intelligence they set great store, and they led him civilly to their queen, who conferred upon him the courtesy of the gardens after lock-out time, and henceforth peter could go whither he chose, and the fairies had orders to put him in comfort. such was his first voyage to the gardens, and you may gather from the antiquity of the language that it took place a long time ago. but peter never grows any older, and if we could be watching for him under the bridge to-night (but, of course, we can't), i dare say we should see him hoisting his nightgown and sailing or paddling towards us in the thrushes nest. when he sails, he sits down, but he stands up to paddle. i shall tell you presently how he got his paddle. long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he steals back to the island, for people must not see him (he is not so human as all that), but this gives him hours for play, and he plays exactly as real children play. at least he thinks so, and it is one of the pathetic things about him that he often plays quite wrongly. you see, he had no one to tell him how children really play, for the fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk, and so know nothing, and though the birds pretended that they could tell him a great deal, when the time for telling came, it was wonderful how little they really knew. they told him the truth about hide-and-seek, and he often plays it by himself, but even the ducks on the round pond could not explain to him what it is that makes the pond so fascinating to boys. every night the ducks have forgotten all the events of the day, except the number of pieces of cake thrown to them. they are gloomy creatures, and say that cake is not what it was in their young days. [illustration: _fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk._] so peter had to find out many things for himself. he often played ships at the round pond, but his ship was only a hoop which he had found on the grass. of course, he had never seen a hoop, and he wondered what you play at with them, and decided that you play at pretending they are boats. this hoop always sank at once, but he waded in for it, and sometimes he dragged it gleefully round the rim of the pond, and he was quite proud to think that he had discovered what boys do with hoops. another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was for sitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely get out of it. also he found a balloon. it was bobbing about on the hump, quite as if it was having a game by itself, and he caught it after an exciting chase. but he thought it was a ball, and jenny wren had told him that boys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not find it anywhere. perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. it was under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the fairy queen's winter palace (which is within the circle of the seven spanish chestnuts), and peter approached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such things to him. lest it was alive, he addressed it politely; and then, as it gave no answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. he gave it a little push, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive after all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. so he stretched out his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at him, and he was so alarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away to his boat. you must not think, however, that he was a coward, for he came back next night with a crust in one hand and a stick in the other, but the perambulator had gone, and he never saw any other one. i have promised to tell you also about his paddle. it was a child's spade which he had found near st. govor's well, and he thought it was a paddle. do you pity peter pan for making these mistakes? if so, i think it rather silly of you. what i mean is that, of course, one must pity him now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. he thought he had the most splendid time in the gardens, and to think you have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. he played without ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or mary-annish. he could be neither of these things, for he had never heard of them, but do you think he is to be pitied for that? oh, he was merry! he was as much merrier than you, for instance, as you are merrier than your father. sometimes he fell, like a spinning-top, and from sheer merriment. have you seen a greyhound leaping the fences of the gardens? that is how peter leaps them. and think of the music of his pipe. gentlemen who walk home at night write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the gardens, but it is really peter's pipe they hear. of course, he had no mother--at least, what use was she to him! you can be sorry for him for that, but don't be too sorry, for the next thing i mean to tell you is how he revisited her. it was the fairies who gave him the chance. iv lock-out time it is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing known for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children. long ago children were forbidden the gardens, and at that time there was not a fairy in the place; then the children were admitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. they can't resist following the children, but you seldom see them, partly because they live in the daytime behind the railings, where you are not allowed to go, and also partly because they are so cunning. they are not a bit cunning after lock-out, but until lock-out, my word! when you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and you remember a good deal about them in your babyhood, which it is a great pity you can't write down, for gradually you forget, and i have heard of children who declared that they had never once seen a fairy. very likely if they said this in the kensington gardens, they were standing looking at a fairy all the time. the reason they were cheated was that she pretended to be something else. this is one of their best tricks. they usually pretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the fairies' basin, and there are so many flowers there, and all along the baby walk, that a flower is the thing least likely to attract attention. they dress exactly like flowers, and change with the seasons, putting on white when lilies are in and blue for bluebells, and so on. they like crocus and hyacinth time best of all, as they are partial to a bit of colour, but tulips (except white ones, which are the fairy cradles) they consider garish, and they sometimes put off dressing like tulips for days, so that the beginning of the tulip weeks is almost the best time to catch them. when they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively, but if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quite still pretending to be flowers. then, after you have passed without knowing that they were fairies, they rush home and tell their mothers they have had such an adventure. the fairy basin, you remember, is all covered with ground-ivy (from which they make their castor oil), with flowers growing in it here and there. most of them really are flowers, but some of them are fairies. you never can be sure of them, but a good plan is to walk by looking the other way, and then turn round sharply. another good plan, which david and i sometimes follow, is to stare them down. after a long time they can't help winking, and then you know for certain that they are fairies. there are also numbers of them along the baby walk, which is a famous gentle place, as spots frequented by fairies are called. once twenty-four of them had an extraordinary adventure. they were a girls' school out for a walk with the governess, and all wearing hyacinth gowns, when she suddenly put her finger to her mouth, and then they all stood still on an empty bed and pretended to be hyacinths. unfortunately what the governess had heard was two gardeners coming to plant new flowers in that very bed. they were wheeling a hand-cart with the flowers in it, and were quite surprised to find the bed occupied. 'pity to lift them hyacinths,' said the one man. 'duke's orders,' replied the other, and, having emptied the cart, they dug up the boarding school and put the poor, terrified things in it in five rows. of course, neither the governess nor the girls dare let on that they were fairies, so they were carted far away to a potting-shed, out of which they escaped in the night without their shoes, but there was a great row about it among the parents, and the school was ruined. as for their houses, it is no use looking for them, because they are the exact opposite of our houses. you can see our houses by day but you can't see them by dark. well, you can see their houses by dark, but you can't see them by day, for they are the colour of night, and i never heard of any one yet who could see night in the daytime. this does not mean that they are black, for night has its colours just as day has, but ever so much brighter. their blues and reds and greens are like ours with a light behind them. the palace is entirely built of many-coloured glasses, and it is quite the loveliest of all royal residences, but the queen sometimes complains because the common people will peep in to see what she is doing. they are very inquisitive folk, and press quite hard against the glass, and that is why their noses are mostly snubby. the streets are miles long and very twisty, and have paths on each side made of bright worsted. the birds used to steal the worsted for their nests, but a policeman has been appointed to hold on at the other end. one of the great differences between the fairies and us is that they never do anything useful. when the first baby laughed for the first time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skipping about. that was the beginning of fairies. they look tremendously busy, you know, as if they had not a moment to spare, but if you were to ask them what they are doing, they could not tell you in the least. they are frightfully ignorant, and everything they do is make-believe. they have a postman, but he never calls except at christmas with his little box, and though they have beautiful schools, nothing is taught in them; the youngest child being chief person is always elected mistress, and when she has called the roll, they all go out for a walk and never come back. it is a very noticeable thing that, in fairy families, the youngest is always chief person, and usually becomes a prince or princess; and children remember this, and think it must be so among humans also; and that is why they are often made uneasy when they come upon their mother furtively putting new frills on the basinette. you have probably observed that your baby-sister wants to do all sorts of things that your mother and her nurse want her not to do--to stand up at sitting-down time, and to sit down at stand-up time, for instance, or to wake up when she should fall asleep, or to crawl on the floor when she is wearing her best frock, and so on, and perhaps you put this down to naughtiness. but it is not; it simply means that she is doing as she has seen the fairies do; she begins by following their ways, and it takes about two years to get her into the human ways. her fits of passion, which are awful to behold, and are usually called teething, are no such thing; they are her natural exasperation, because we don't understand her, though she is talking an intelligible language. she is talking fairy. the reason mothers and nurses know what her remarks mean, before other people know, as that 'guch' means 'give it to me at once,' while 'wa' is 'why do you wear such a funny hat?' is because, mixing so much with babies, they have picked up a little of the fairy language. of late david has been thinking back hard about the fairy tongue, with his hands clutching his temples, and he has remembered a number of their phrases which i shall tell you some day if i don't forget. he had heard them in the days when he was a thrush, and though i suggested to him that perhaps it is really bird language he is remembering, he says not, for these phrases are about fun and adventures, and the birds talked of nothing but nest-building. he distinctly remembers that the birds used to go from spot to spot like ladies at shop windows, looking at the different nests and saying, 'not my colour, my dear,' and 'how would that do with a soft lining?' and 'but will it wear?' and 'what hideous trimming!' and so on. the fairies are exquisite dancers, and that is why one of the first things the baby does is to sign to you to dance to him and then to cry when you do it. they hold their great balls in the open air, in what is called a fairy ring. for weeks afterwards you can see the ring on the grass. it is not there when they begin, but they make it by waltzing round and round. sometimes you will find mushrooms inside the ring, and these are fairy chairs that the servants have forgotten to clear away. the chairs and the rings are the only tell-tale marks these little people leave behind them, and they would remove even these were they not so fond of dancing that they toe it till the very moment of the opening of the gates. david and i once found a fairy ring quite warm. but there is also a way of finding out about the ball before it takes place. you know the boards which tell at what time the gardens are to close to-day. well, these tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night, so that it says the gardens are to close at six-thirty, for instance, instead of at seven. this enables them to get begun half an hour earlier. [illustration: _these tricky fairies sometimes change the board on a ball night._] if on such a night we could remain behind in the gardens, as the famous maimie mannering did, we might see delicious sights; hundreds of lovely fairies hastening to the ball, the married ones wearing their wedding rings round their waists; the gentlemen, all in uniform, holding up the ladies' trains, and linkmen running in front carrying winter cherries, which are the fairy-lanterns; the cloakroom where they put on their silver slippers and get a ticket for their wraps; the flowers streaming up from the baby walk to look on, and always welcome because they can lend a pin; the supper-table, with queen mab at the head of it, and behind her chair the lord chamberlain, who carries a dandelion on which he blows when her majesty wants to know the time. [illustration: _when her majesty wants to know the time._] the table-cloth varies according to the seasons, and in may it is made of chestnut blossom. the way the fairy servants do is this: the men, scores of them, climb up the trees and shake the branches, and the blossom falls like snow. then the lady servants sweep it together by whisking their skirts until it is exactly like a tablecloth, and that is how they get their tablecloth. they have real glasses and real wine of three kinds, namely, blackthorn wine, berberris wine, and cowslip wine, and the queen pours out, but the bottles are so heavy that she just pretends to pour out. there is bread-and-butter to begin with, of the size of a threepenny bit; and cakes to end with, and they are so small that they have no crumbs. the fairies sit round on mushrooms, and at first they are well-behaved and always cough off the table, and so on, but after a bit they are not so well-behaved and stick their fingers into the butter, which is got from the roots of old trees, and the really horrid ones crawl over the tablecloth chasing sugar or other delicacies with their tongues. when the queen sees them doing this she signs to the servants to wash up and put away, and then everybody adjourns to the dance, the queen walking in front while the lord chamberlain walks behind her, carrying two little pots, one of which contains the juice of wallflower and the other the juice of solomon's seals. wallflower juice is good for reviving dancers who fall to the ground in a fit, and solomon's seals juice is for bruises. they bruise very easily, and when peter plays faster and faster they foot it till they fall down in fits. for, as you know without my telling you, peter pan is the fairies' orchestra. he sits in the middle of the ring, and they would never dream of having a smart dance nowadays without him. 'p. p.' is written on the corner of the invitation-cards sent out by all really good families. they are grateful little people, too, and at the princesses coming-of-age ball (they come of age on their second birthday and have a birthday every month) they gave him the wish of his heart. [illustration: _peter pan is the fairies' orchestra._] the way it was done was this. the queen ordered him to kneel, and then said that for playing so beautifully she would give him the wish of his heart. then they all gathered round peter to hear what was the wish of his heart, but for a long time he hesitated, not being certain what it was himself. 'if i chose to go back to mother,' he asked at last, 'could you give me that wish?' now this question vexed them, for were he to return to his mother they should lose his music, so the queen tilted her nose contemptuously and said, 'pooh! ask for a much bigger wish than that.' 'is that quite a little wish?' he inquired. 'as little as this,' the queen answered, putting her hands near each other. 'what size is a big wish?' he asked. she measured it off on her skirt and it was a very handsome length. then peter reflected and said, 'well, then, i think i shall have two little wishes instead of one big one.' of course, the fairies had to agree, though his cleverness rather shocked them, and he said that his first wish was to go to his mother, but with the right to return to the gardens if he found her disappointing. his second wish he would hold in reserve. they tried to dissuade him, and even put obstacles in the way. 'i can give you the power to fly to her house,' the queen said, 'but i can't open the door for you.' 'the window i flew out at will be open,' peter said confidently. 'mother always keeps it open in the hope that i may fly back.' 'how do you know?' they asked, quite surprised, and, really, peter could not explain how he knew. 'i just do know,' he said. so as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. the way they gave him power to fly was this: they all tickled him on the shoulder, and soon he felt a funny itching in that part, and then up he rose higher and higher, and flew away out of the gardens and over the housetops. it was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his own home he skimmed away over st. paul's to the crystal palace and back by the river and regent's park, and by the time he reached his mother's window he had quite made up his mind that his second wish should be to become a bird. the window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in he fluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep. peter alighted softly on the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and had a good look at her. she lay with her head on her hand, and the hollow in the pillow was like a nest lined with her brown wavy hair. he remembered, though he had long forgotten it, that she always gave her hair a holiday at night. how sweet the frills of her nightgown were! he was very glad she was such a pretty mother. but she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. one of her arms moved as if it wanted to go round something, and he knew what it wanted to go round. 'o mother!' said peter to himself, 'if you just knew who is sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed.' very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made, and he could see by her face that she liked it. he knew he had but to say 'mother' ever so softly, and she would wake up. they always wake up at once if it is you that says their name. then she would give such a joyous cry and squeeze him tight. how nice that would be to him, but oh! how exquisitely delicious it would be to her. that, i am afraid, is how peter regarded it. in returning to his mother he never doubted that he was giving her the greatest treat a woman can have. nothing can be more splendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your own. how proud of him they are! and very right and proper, too. but why does peter sit so long on the rail; why does he not tell his mother that he has come back? i quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two minds. sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he looked longingly at the window. certainly it would be pleasant to be her boy again, but on the other hand, what times those had been in the gardens! was he so sure that he should enjoy wearing clothes again? he popped off the bed and opened some drawers to have a look at his old garments. they were still there, but he could not remember how you put them on. the socks, for instance, were they worn on the hands or on the feet? he was about to try one of them on his hand, when he had a great adventure. perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any rate, his mother woke up, for he heard her say 'peter,' as if it was the most lovely word in the language. he remained sitting on the floor and held his breath, wondering how she knew that he had come back. if she said 'peter' again, he meant to cry 'mother' and run to her. but she spoke no more, she made little moans only, and when he next peeped at her she was once more asleep, with tears on her face. it made peter very miserable, and what do you think was the first thing he did? sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed, he played a beautiful lullaby to his mother on his pipe. he had made it up himself out of the way she said 'peter,' and he never stopped playing until she looked happy. he thought this so clever of him that he could scarcely resist wakening her to hear her say, 'o peter, how exquisitely you play!' however, as she now seemed comfortable, he again cast looks at the window. you must not think that he meditated flying away and never coming back. he had quite decided to be his mother's boy, but hesitated about beginning to-night. it was the second wish which troubled him. he no longer meant to make it a wish to be a bird, but not to ask for a second wish seemed wasteful, and, of course, he could not ask for it without returning to the fairies. also, if he put off asking for his wish too long it might go bad. he asked himself if he had not been hard-hearted to fly away without saying good-bye to solomon. 'i should like awfully to sail in my boat just once more,' he said wistfully to his sleeping mother. he quite argued with her as if she could hear him. 'it would be so splendid to tell the birds of this adventure,' he said coaxingly. 'i promise to come back,' he said solemnly, and meant it, too. and in the end, you know, he flew away. twice he came back from the window, wanting to kiss his mother, but he feared the delight of it might waken her, so at last he played her a lovely kiss on his pipe, and then he flew back to the gardens. many nights, and even months, passed before he asked the fairies for his second wish; and i am not sure that i quite know why he delayed so long. one reason was that he had so many good-byes to say, not only to his particular friends, but to a hundred favourite spots. then he had his last sail, and his very last sail, and his last sail of all, and so on. again, a number of farewell feasts were given in his honour; and another comfortable reason was that, after all, there was no hurry, for his mother would never weary of waiting for him. this last reason displeased old solomon, for it was an encouragement to the birds to procrastinate. solomon had several excellent mottoes for keeping them at their work, such as 'never put off laying to-day because you can lay to-morrow,' and 'in this world there are no second chances,' and yet here was peter gaily putting off and none the worse for it. the birds pointed this out to each other, and fell into lazy habits. but, mind you, though peter was so slow in going back to his mother, he was quite decided to go back. the best proof of this was his caution with the fairies. they were most anxious that he should remain in the gardens to play to them, and to bring this to pass they tried to trick him into making such a remark as 'i wish the grass was not so wet,' and some of them danced out of time in the hope that he might cry, 'i do wish you would keep time!' then they would have said that this was his second wish. but he smoked their design, and though on occasions he began, 'i wish----' he always stopped in time. so when at last he said to them bravely, 'i wish now to go back to mother for ever and always,' they had to tickle his shoulders and let him go. he went in a hurry in the end, because he had dreamt that his mother was crying, and he knew what was the great thing she cried for, and that a hug from her splendid peter would quickly make her to smile. oh! he felt sure of it, and so eager was he to be nestling in her arms that this time he flew straight to the window, which was always to be open for him. but the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it, and peering inside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with her arm around another little boy. peter called, 'mother! mother!' but she heard him not; in vain he beat his little limbs against the iron bars. he had to fly back, sobbing, to the gardens, and he never saw his dear again. what a glorious boy he had meant to be to her! ah, peter! we who have made the great mistake, how differently we should all act at the second chance. but solomon was right--there is no second chance, not for most of us. when we reach the window it is lock-out time. the iron bars are up for life. v the little house everybody has heard of the little house in the kensington gardens, which is the only house in the whole world that the fairies have built for humans. but no one has really seen it, except just three or four, and they have not only seen it but slept in it, and unless you sleep in it you never see it. this is because it is not there when you lie down, but it is there when you wake up and step outside. in a kind of way every one may see it, but what you see is not really it, but only the light in the windows. you see the light after lock-out time. david, for instance, saw it quite distinctly far away among the trees as we were going home from the pantomime, and oliver bailey saw it the night he stayed so late at the temple, which is the name of his father's office. angela clare, who loves to have a tooth extracted because then she is treated to tea in a shop, saw more than one light, she saw hundreds of them all together; and this must have been the fairies building the house, for they build it every night, and always in a different part of the gardens. she thought one of the lights was bigger than the others, though she was not quite sure, for they jumped about so, and it might have been another one that was bigger. but if it was the same one, it was peter pan's light. heaps of children have seen the light, so that is nothing. but maimie mannering was the famous one for whom the house was first built. maimie was always rather a strange girl, and it was at night that she was strange. she was four years of age, and in the daytime she was the ordinary kind. she was pleased when her brother tony, who was a magnificent fellow of six, took notice of her, and she looked up to him in the right way, and tried in vain to imitate him, and was flattered rather than annoyed when he shoved her about. also, when she was batting, she would pause though the ball was in the air to point out to you that she was wearing new shoes. she was quite the ordinary kind in the daytime. but as the shades of night fell, tony, the swaggerer, lost his contempt for maimie and eyed her fearfully; and no wonder, for with dark there came into her face a look that i can describe only as a leary look. it was also a serene look that contrasted grandly with tony's uneasy glances. then he would make her presents of his favourite toys (which he always took away from her next morning), and she accepted them with a disturbing smile. the reason he was now become so wheedling and she so mysterious was (in brief) that they knew they were about to be sent to bed. it was then that maimie was terrible. tony entreated her not to do it to-night, and the mother and their coloured nurse threatened her, but maimie merely smiled her agitating smile. and by and by when they were alone with their night-light she would start up in bed crying 'hsh! what was that?' tony beseeches her, 'it was nothing--don't, maimie, don't' and pulls the sheet over his head. 'it is coming nearer!' she cries. 'oh, look at it, tony! it is feeling your bed with its horns--it is boring for you, o tony, oh!' and she desists not until he rushes downstairs in his combinations, screeching. when they came up to whip maimie they usually found her sleeping tranquilly--not shamming, you know, but really sleeping, and looking like the sweetest little angel, which seems to me to make it almost worse. but of course it was daytime when they were in the gardens, and then tony did most of the talking. you could gather from his talk that he was a very brave boy, and no one was so proud of it as maimie. she would have loved to have a ticket on her saying that she was his sister. and at no time did she admire him more than when he told her, as he often did with splendid firmness, that one day he meant to remain behind in the gardens after the gates were closed. 'o tony,' she would say with awful respect, 'but the fairies will be so angry!' 'i dare say,' replied tony carelessly. 'perhaps,' she said, thrilling, 'peter pan will give you a sail in his boat!' 'i shall make him,' replied tony; no wonder she was proud of him. but they should not have talked so loudly, for one day they were overheard by a fairy who had been gathering skeleton leaves, from which the little people weave their summer curtains, and after that tony was a marked boy. they loosened the rails before he sat on them, so that down he came on the back of his head; they tripped him up by catching his bootlace, and bribed the ducks to sink his boat. nearly all the nasty accidents you meet with in the gardens occur because the fairies have taken an ill-will to you, and so it behoves you to be careful what you say about them. maimie was one of the kind who like to fix a day for doing things, but tony was not that kind, and when she asked him which day he was to remain behind in the gardens after lock-out he merely replied, 'just some day'; he was quite vague about which day except when she asked, 'will it be to-day?' and then he could always say for certain that it would not be to-day. so she saw that he was waiting for a real good chance. this brings us to an afternoon when the gardens were white with snow, and there was ice on the round pond; not thick enough to skate on, but at least you could spoil it for to-morrow by flinging stones, and many bright little boys and girls were doing that. when tony and his sister arrived they wanted to go straight to the pond, but their ayah said they must take a sharp walk first, and as she said this she glanced at the time-board to see when the gardens closed that night. it read half-past five. poor ayah! she is the one who laughs continuously because there are so many white children in the world, but she was not to laugh much more that day. well, they went up the baby walk and back, and when they returned to the time-board she was surprised to see that it now read five o'clock for closing-time. but she was unacquainted with the tricky ways of the fairies, and so did not see (as maimie and tony saw at once) that they had changed the hour because there was to be a ball to-night. she said there was only time now to walk to the top of the hump and back, and as they trotted along with her she little guessed what was thrilling their little breasts. you see the chance had come of seeing a fairy ball. never, tony felt, could he hope for a better chance. he had to feel this for maimie so plainly felt it for him. her eager eyes asked the question, 'is it to-day?' and he gasped and then nodded. maimie slipped her hand into tony's, and hers was hot, but his was cold. she did a very kind thing; she took off her scarf and gave it to him. 'in case you should feel cold,' she whispered. her face was aglow, but tony's was very gloomy. as they turned on the top of the hump he whispered to her, 'i'm afraid nurse would see me, so i shan't be able to do it.' maimie admired him more than ever for being afraid of nothing but their ayah, when there were so many unknown terrors to fear, and she said aloud, 'tony, i shall race you to the gate,' and in a whisper, 'then you can hide,' and off they ran. tony could always outdistance her easily, but never had she known him speed away so quickly as now, and she was sure he hurried that he might have more time to hide. 'brave, brave!' her doting eyes were crying when she got a dreadful shock; instead of hiding, her hero had run out at the gate! at this bitter sight maimie stopped blankly, as if all her lapful of darling treasures were suddenly spilled, and then for very disdain she could not sob; in a swell of protest against all puling cowards she ran to st. govor's well and hid in tony's stead. when the ayah reached the gate and saw tony far in front she thought her other charge was with him and passed out. twilight crept over the gardens, and hundreds of people passed out, including the last one, who always has to run for it, but maimie saw them not. she had shut her eyes tight and glued them with passionate tears. when she opened them something very cold ran up her legs and up her arms and dropped into her heart. it was the stillness of the gardens. then she heard _clang_, then from another part _clang_, then _clang, clang_ far away. it was the closing of the gates. immediately the last clang had died away maimie distinctly heard a voice say, 'so that's all right.' it had a wooden sound and seemed to come from above, and she looked up in time to see an elm-tree stretching out its arms and yawning. she was about to say, 'i never knew you could speak!' when a metallic voice that seemed to come from the ladle at the well remarked to the elm, 'i suppose it is a bit coldish up there?' and the elm replied, 'not particularly, but you do get numb standing so long on one leg,' and he flapped his arms vigorously just as the cab-men do before they drive off. maimie was quite surprised to see that a number of other tall trees were doing the same sort of thing, and she stole away to the baby walk and crouched observantly under a minorca holly which shrugged its shoulders but did not seem to mind her. she was not in the least cold. she was wearing a russet-coloured pelisse and had the hood over her head, so that nothing of her showed except her dear little face and her curls. the rest of her real self was hidden far away inside so many warm garments that in shape she seemed rather like a ball. she was about forty round the waist. there was a good deal going on in the baby walk, where maimie arrived in time to see a magnolia and a persian lilac step over the railing and set off for a smart walk. they moved in a jerky sort of way certainly, but that was because they used crutches. an elderberry hobbled across the walk, and stood chatting with some young quinces, and they all had crutches. the crutches were the sticks that are tied to young trees and shrubs. they were quite familiar objects to maimie, but she had never known what they were for until to-night. she peeped up the walk and saw her first fairy. he was a street boy fairy who was running up the walk closing the weeping trees. the way he did it was this: he pressed a spring in the trunks and they shut like umbrellas, deluging the little plants beneath with snow. 'o you naughty, naughty child!' maimie cried indignantly, for she knew what it was to have a dripping umbrella about your ears. fortunately the mischievous fellow was out of earshot, but a chrysanthemum heard her, and said so pointedly, 'hoity-toity, what is this?' that she had to come out and show herself. then the whole vegetable kingdom was rather puzzled what to do. [illustration: _a chrysanthemum heard her, and said pointedly, "hoity-toity, what is this?"_] 'of course it is no affair of ours,' a spindle-tree said after they had whispered together, 'but you know quite well you ought not to be here, and perhaps our duty is to report you to the fairies; what do you think yourself?' 'i think you should not,' maimie replied, which so perplexed them that they said petulantly there was no arguing with her. 'i wouldn't ask it of you,' she assured them, 'if i thought it was wrong,' and of course after this they could not well carry tales. they then said, 'well-a-day,' and 'such is life,' for they can be frightfully sarcastic; but she felt sorry for those of them who had no crutches, and she said good-naturedly, 'before i go to the fairies' ball, i should like to take you for a walk one at a time; you can lean on me, you know.' at this they clapped their hands, and she escorted them up the baby walk and back again, one at a time, putting an arm or a finger round the very frail, setting their leg right when it got too ridiculous, and treating the foreign ones quite as courteously as the english, though she could not understand a word they said. they behaved well on the whole, though some whimpered that she had not taken them as far as she took nancy or grace or dorothy, and others jagged her, but it was quite unintentional, and she was too much of a lady to cry out. so much walking tired her, and she was anxious to be off to the ball, but she no longer felt afraid. the reason she felt no more fear was that it was now night-time, and in the dark, you remember, maimie was always rather strange. they were now loth to let her go, for, 'if the fairies see you,' they warned her, 'they will mischief you--stab you to death, or compel you to nurse their children, or turn you into something tedious, like an evergreen oak.' as they said this they looked with affected pity at an evergreen oak, for in winter they are very envious of the evergreens. 'oh, la!' replied the oak bitingly, 'how deliciously cosy it is to stand here buttoned to the neck and watch you poor naked creatures shivering.' this made them sulky, though they had really brought it on themselves, and they drew for maimie a very gloomy picture of the perils that would face her if she insisted on going to the ball. she learned from a purple filbert that the court was not in its usual good temper at present, the cause being the tantalising heart of the duke of christmas daisies. he was an oriental fairy, very poorly of a dreadful complaint, namely, inability to love, and though he had tried many ladies in many lands he could not fall in love with one of them. queen mab, who rules in the gardens, had been confident that her girls would bewitch him, but alas! his heart, the doctor said, remained cold. this rather irritating doctor, who was his private physician, felt the duke's heart immediately after any lady was presented, and then always shook his bald head and murmured, 'cold, quite cold.' naturally queen mab felt disgraced, and first she tried the effect of ordering the court into tears for nine minutes, and then she blamed the cupids and decreed that they should wear fools' caps until they thawed the duke's frozen heart. [illustration: _shook his bald head and murmured, "cold, quite cold."_] 'how i should love to see the cupids in their dear little fools' caps!' maimie cried, and away she ran to look for them very recklessly, for the cupids hate to be laughed at. it is always easy to discover where a fairies' ball is being held, as ribbons are stretched between it and all the populous parts of the gardens, on which those invited may walk to the dance without wetting their pumps. this night the ribbons were red, and looked very pretty on the snow. maimie walked alongside one of them for some distance without meeting anybody, but at last she saw a fairy cavalcade approaching. to her surprise they seemed to be returning from the ball, and she had just time to hide from them by bending her knees and holding out her arms and pretending to be a garden chair. there were six horsemen in front and six behind; in the middle walked a prim lady wearing a long train held up by two pages, and on the train, as if it were a couch, reclined a lovely girl, for in this way do aristocratic fairies travel about. she was dressed in golden rain, but the most enviable part of her was her neck, which was blue in colour and of a velvet texture, and of course showed off her diamond necklace as no white throat could have glorified it. the high-born fairies obtain this admired effect by pricking their skin, which lets the blue blood come through and dye them, and you cannot imagine anything so dazzling unless you have seen the ladies' busts in the jewellers' windows. maimie also noticed that the whole cavalcade seemed to be in a passion, tilting their noses higher than it can be safe for even fairies to tilt them, and she concluded that this must be another case in which the doctor had said 'cold, quite cold.' well, she followed the ribbon to a place where it became a bridge over a dry puddle into which another fairy had fallen and been unable to climb out. at first this little damsel was afraid of maimie, who most kindly went to her aid, but soon she sat in her hand chatting gaily and explaining that her name was brownie, and that though only a poor street singer she was on her way to the ball to see if the duke would have her. 'of course,' she said, 'i am rather plain,' and this made maimie uncomfortable, for indeed the simple little creature was almost quite plain for a fairy. it was difficult to know what to reply. 'i see you think i have no chance,' brownie said falteringly. 'i don't say that,' maimie answered politely; 'of course your face is just a tiny bit homely, but----' really it was quite awkward for her. fortunately she remembered about her father and the bazaar. he had gone to a fashionable bazaar where all the most beautiful ladies in london were on view for half a crown the second day, but on his return home, instead of being dissatisfied with maimie's mother, he had said, 'you can't think, my dear, what a relief it is to see a homely face again.' maimie repeated this story, and it fortified brownie tremendously, indeed she had no longer the slightest doubt that the duke would choose her. so she scudded away up the ribbon, calling out to maimie not to follow lest the queen should mischief her. but maimie's curiosity tugged her forward, and presently at the seven spanish chestnuts she saw a wonderful light. she crept forward until she was quite near it, and then she peeped from behind a tree. the light, which was as high as your head above the ground, was composed of myriads of glow-worms all holding on to each other, and so forming a dazzling canopy over the fairy ring. there were thousands of little people looking on, but they were in shadow and drab in colour compared to the glorious creatures within that luminous circle, who were so bewilderingly bright that maimie had to wink hard all the time she looked at them. it was amazing and even irritating to her that the duke of christmas daisies should be able to keep out of love for a moment: yet out of love his dusky grace still was: you could see it by the shamed looks of the queen and court (though they pretended not to care), by the way darling ladies brought forward for his approval burst into tears as they were told to pass on, and by his own most dreary face. maimie could also see the pompous doctor feeling the duke's heart and hear him give utterance to his parrot cry, and she was particularly sorry for the cupids, who stood in their fools' caps in obscure places and, every time they heard that 'cold, quite cold,' bowed their disgraced little heads. she was disappointed not to see peter pan, and i may as well tell you now why he was so late that night. it was because his boat had got wedged on the serpentine between fields of floating ice, through which he had to break a perilous passage with his trusty paddle. the fairies had as yet scarcely missed him, for they could not dance, so heavy were their hearts. they forget all the steps when they are sad, and remember them again when they are merry. david tells me that fairies never say, 'we feel happy': what they say is, 'we feel _dancey_.' [illustration: _fairies never say, "we feel happy"; what they say is, "we feel_ dancey_."_] well, they were looking very undancey indeed, when sudden laughter broke out among the onlookers, caused by brownie, who had just arrived and was insisting on her right to be presented to the duke. [illustration: _looking very undancey indeed._] maimie craned forward eagerly to see how her friend fared, though she had really no hope; no one seemed to have the least hope except brownie herself, who, however, was absolutely confident. she was led before his grace, and the doctor putting a finger carelessly on the ducal heart, which for convenience' sake was reached by a little trap-door in his diamond shirt, had begun to say mechanically, 'cold, qui--,' when he stopped abruptly. 'what's this,' he cried, and first he shook the heart like a watch, and then he put his ear to it. 'bless my soul!' cried the doctor, and by this time of course the excitement among the spectators was tremendous, fairies fainting right and left. everybody stared breathlessly at the duke, who was very much startled, and looked as if he would like to run away. 'good gracious me!' the doctor was heard muttering, and now the heart was evidently on fire, for he had to jerk his fingers away from it and put them in his mouth. the suspense was awful. then in a loud voice, and bowing low, 'my lord duke,' said the physician elatedly, 'i have the honour to inform your excellency that your grace is in love.' you can't conceive the effect of it. brownie held out her arms to the duke and he flung himself into them, the queen leapt into the arms of the lord chamberlain, and the ladies of the court leapt into the arms of her gentlemen, for it is etiquette to follow her example in everything. thus in a single moment about fifty marriages took place, for if you leap into each other's arms it is a fairy wedding. of course a clergyman has to be present. how the crowd cheered and leapt! trumpets brayed, the moon came out, and immediately a thousand couples seized hold of its rays as if they were ribbons in a may dance and waltzed in wild abandon round the fairy ring. most gladsome sight of all, the cupids plucked the hated fools' caps from their heads and cast them high in the air. and then maimie went and spoiled everything. she could n't help it. she was crazy with delight over her little friend's good fortune, so she took several steps forward and cried in an ecstasy, 'o brownie, how splendid!' everybody stood still, the music ceased, the lights went out, and all in the time you may take to say, 'oh dear!' an awful sense of her peril came upon maimie; too late she remembered that she was a lost child in a place where no human must be between the locking and the opening of the gates; she heard the murmur of an angry multitude; she saw a thousand swords flashing for her blood, and she uttered a cry of terror and fled. how she ran! and all the time her eyes were starting out of her head. many times she lay down, and then quickly jumped up and ran on again. her little mind was so entangled in terrors that she no longer knew she was in the gardens. the one thing she was sure of was that she must never cease to run, and she thought she was still running long after she had dropped in the figs and gone to sleep. she thought the snowflakes falling on her face were her mother kissing her good-night. she thought her coverlet of snow was a warm blanket, and tried to pull it over her head. and when she heard talking through her dreams she thought it was mother bringing father to the nursery door to look at her as she slept. but it was the fairies. i am very glad to be able to say that they no longer desired to mischief her. when she rushed away they had rent the air with such cries as 'slay her!' 'turn her into something extremely unpleasant!' and so on, but the pursuit was delayed while they discussed who should march in front, and this gave duchess brownie time to cast herself before the queen and demand a boon. every bride has a right to a boon, and what she asked for was maimie's life. 'anything except that,' replied queen mab sternly, and all the fairies echoed, 'anything except that.' but when they learned how maimie had befriended brownie and so enabled her to attend the ball to their great glory and renown, they gave three huzzas for the little human, and set off, like an army, to thank her, the court advancing in front and the canopy keeping step with it. they traced maimie easily by her footprints in the snow. but though they found her deep in snow in the figs, it seemed impossible to thank maimie, for they could not waken her. they went through the form of thanking her--that is to say, the new king stood on her body and read her a long address of welcome, but she heard not a word of it. they also cleared the snow off her, but soon she was covered again, and they saw she was in danger of perishing of cold. 'turn her into something that does not mind the cold,' seemed a good suggestion of the doctors, but the only thing they could think of that does not mind cold was a snowflake. 'and it might melt,' the queen pointed out, so that idea had to be given up. a magnificent attempt was made to carry her to a sheltered spot, but though there were so many of them she was too heavy. by this time all the ladies were crying in their handkerchiefs, but presently the cupids had a lovely idea. 'build a house round her,' they cried, and at once everybody perceived that this was the thing to do; in a moment a hundred fairy sawyers were among the branches, architects were running round maimie, measuring her; a bricklayer's yard sprang up at her feet, seventy-five masons rushed up with the foundation-stone, and the queen laid it, overseers were appointed to keep the boys off, scaffoldings were run up, the whole place rang with hammers and chisels and turning-lathes, and by this time the roof was on and the glaziers were putting in the windows. [illustration: _building the house for maimie._] the house was exactly the size of maimie, and perfectly lovely. one of her arms was extended, and this had bothered them for a second, but they built a verandah round it leading to the front door. the windows were the size of a coloured picture-book and the door rather smaller, but it would be easy for her to get out by taking off the roof. the fairies, as is their custom, clapped their hands with delight over their cleverness, and they were so madly in love with the little house that they could not bear to think they had finished it. so they gave it ever so many little extra touches, and even then they added more extra touches. for instance, two of them ran up a ladder and put on a chimney. 'now we fear it is quite finished,' they sighed. but no, for another two ran up the ladder, and tied some smoke to the chimney. 'that certainly finishes it,' they said reluctantly. 'not at all,' cried a glow-worm; 'if she were to wake without seeing a night-light she might be frightened, so i shall be her night-light.' 'wait one moment,' said a china merchant, 'and i shall make you a saucer.' now, alas! it was absolutely finished. oh, dear no! 'gracious me!' cried a brass manufacturer, 'there's no handle on the door,' and he put one on. an ironmonger added a scraper, and an old lady ran up with a door-mat. carpenters arrived with a water-butt, and the painters insisted on painting it. finished at last! 'finished! how can it be finished,' the plumber demanded scornfully, 'before hot and cold are put in,' and he put in hot and cold. then an army of gardeners arrived with fairy carts and spades and seeds and bulbs and forcing-houses, and soon they had a flower-garden to the right of the verandah, and a vegetable garden to the left, and roses and clematis on the walls of the house, and in less time than five minutes all these dear things were in full bloom. oh, how beautiful the little house was now! but it was at last finished true as true, and they had to leave it and return to the dance. they all kissed their hands to it as they went away, and the last to go was brownie. she stayed a moment behind the others to drop a pleasant dream down the chimney. all through the night the exquisite little house stood there in the figs taking care of maimie, and she never knew. she slept until the dream was quite finished, and woke feeling deliciously cosy just as morning was breaking from its egg, and then she almost fell asleep again, and then she called out, 'tony,' for she thought she was at home in the nursery. as tony made no answer she sat up, whereupon her head hit the roof, and it opened like the lid of a box, and to her bewilderment she saw all around her the kensington gardens lying deep in snow. as she was not in the nursery she wondered whether this was really herself, so she pinched her cheeks, and then she knew it was herself, and this reminded her that she was in the middle of a great adventure. she remembered now everything that had happened to her from the closing of the gates up to her running away from the fairies, but however, she asked herself, had she got into this funny place? she stepped out by the roof, right over the garden, and then she saw the dear house in which she had passed the night. it so entranced her that she could think of nothing else. 'o you darling! o you sweet! o you love!' she cried. perhaps a human voice frightened the little house, or maybe it now knew that its work was done, for no sooner had maimie spoken than it began to grow smaller; it shrank so slowly that she could scarce believe it was shrinking, yet she soon knew that it could not contain her now. it always remained as complete as ever, but it became smaller and smaller, and the garden dwindled at the same time, and the snow crept closer, lapping house and garden up. now the house was the size of a little dog's kennel, and now of a noah's ark, but still you could see the smoke and the door-handle and the roses on the wall, every one complete. the glow-worm light was waning too, but it was still there. 'darling, loveliest, don't go!' maimie cried, falling on her knees, for the little house was now the size of a reel of thread, but still quite complete. but as she stretched out her arms imploringly the snow crept up on all sides until it met itself, and where the little house had been was now one unbroken expanse of snow. maimie stamped her foot naughtily, and was putting her fingers to her eyes, when she heard a kind voice say, 'don't cry, pretty human, don't cry,' and then she turned round and saw a beautiful little naked boy regarding her wistfully. she knew at once that he must be peter pan. vi peter's goat maimie felt quite shy, but peter knew not what shy was. 'i hope you have had a good night,' he said earnestly. 'thank you,' she replied, 'i was so cosy and warm. but you'--and she looked at his nakedness awkwardly--'don't you feel the least bit cold?' now cold was another word peter had forgotten, so he answered, 'i think not, but i may be wrong: you see i am rather ignorant. i am not exactly a boy; solomon says i am a betwixt-and-between.' 'so that is what it is called,' said maimie thoughtfully. 'that's not my name,' he explained, 'my name is peter pan.' 'yes, of course,' she said, 'i know, everybody knows.' you can't think how pleased peter was to learn that all the people outside the gates knew about him. he begged maimie to tell him what they knew and what they said, and she did so. they were sitting by this time on a fallen tree; peter had cleared off the snow for maimie, but he sat on a snowy bit himself. 'squeeze closer,' maimie said. 'what is that?' he asked, and she showed him, and then he did it. they talked together and he found that people knew a great deal about him, but not everything, not that he had gone back to his mother and been barred out, for instance, and he said nothing of this to maimie, for it still humiliated him. 'do they know that i play games exactly like real boys?' he asked very proudly. 'o maimie, please tell them!' but when he revealed how he played, by sailing his hoop on the round pond, and so on, she was simply horrified. 'all your ways of playing,' she said with her big eyes on him, 'are quite, quite wrong, and not in the least like how boys play.' poor peter uttered a little moan at this, and he cried for the first time for i know not how long. maimie was extremely sorry for him, and lent him her handkerchief, but he didn't know in the least what to do with it, so she showed him, that is to say, she wiped her eyes, and then gave it back to him, saying, 'now you do it,' but instead of wiping his own eyes he wiped hers, and she thought it best to pretend that this was what she had meant. she said out of pity for him, 'i shall give you a kiss if you like,' but though he once knew, he had long forgotten what kisses are, and he replied, 'thank you,' and held out his hand, thinking she had offered to put something into it. this was a great shock to her, but she felt she could not explain without shaming him, so with charming delicacy she gave peter a thimble which happened to be in her pocket, and pretended that it was a kiss. poor little boy! he quite believed her, and to this day he wears it on his finger, though there can be scarcely any one who needs a thimble so little. you see, though still a tiny child, it was really years and years since he had seen his mother, and i dare say the baby who had supplanted him was now a man with whiskers. but you must not think that peter pan was a boy to pity rather than to admire; if maimie began by thinking this, she soon found she was very much mistaken. her eyes glistened with admiration when he told her of his adventures, especially of how he went to and fro between the island and the gardens in the thrush's nest: 'how romantic!' maimie exclaimed, but this was another unknown word, and he hung his head thinking she was despising him. 'i suppose tony would not have done that?' he said very humbly. 'never, never!' she answered with conviction, 'he would have been afraid.' 'what is afraid?' asked peter longingly. he thought it must be some splendid thing. 'i do wish you would teach me how to be afraid, maimie,' he said. 'i believe no one could teach that to you,' she answered adoringly, but peter thought she meant that he was stupid. she had told him about tony and of the wicked thing she did in the dark to frighten him (she knew quite well that it was wicked), but peter misunderstood her meaning and said, 'oh, how i wish i was as brave as tony!' it quite irritated her. 'you are twenty thousand times braver than tony,' she said; 'you are ever so much the bravest boy i ever knew.' he could scarcely believe she meant it, but when he did believe he screamed with joy. 'and if you want very much to give me a kiss,' maimie said, 'you can do it.' very reluctantly peter began to take the thimble off his finger. he thought she wanted it back. 'i don't mean a kiss,' she said hurriedly, 'i mean a thimble.' 'what's that?' peter asked. 'it's like this,' she said, and kissed him. 'i should love to give you a thimble,' peter said gravely, so he gave her one. he gave her quite a number of thimbles, and then a delightful idea came into his head. 'maimie,' he said, 'will you marry me?' now, strange to tell, the same idea had come at exactly the same time into maimie's head. 'i should like to,' she answered, 'but will there be room in your boat for two?' 'if you squeeze close,' he said eagerly. 'perhaps the birds would be angry?' he assured her that the birds would love to have her, though i am not so certain of it myself. also that there were very few birds in winter. 'of course they might want your clothes,' he had to admit rather falteringly. she was somewhat indignant at this. 'they are always thinking of their nests,' he said apologetically, 'and there are some bits of you'--he stroked the fur on her pelisse--'that would excite them very much.' 'they shan't have my fur,' she said sharply. 'no,' he said, still fondling it, however, 'no. o maimie,' he said rapturously, 'do you know why i love you? it is because you are like a beautiful nest.' somehow this made her uneasy. 'i think you are speaking more like a bird than a boy now,' she said, holding back, and indeed he was even looking rather like a bird. 'after all,' she said, 'you are only a betwixt-and-between.' but it hurt him so much that she immediately added, 'it must be a delicious thing to be.' 'come and be one, then, dear maimie,' he implored her, and they set off for the boat, for it was now very near open-gate time. 'and you are not a bit like a nest,' he whispered to please her. 'but i think it is rather nice to be like one,' she said in a woman's contradictory way. 'and, peter, dear, though i can't give them my fur, i wouldn't mind their building in it. fancy a nest in my neck with little spotty eggs in it! o peter, how perfectly lovely!' but as they drew near the serpentine, she shivered a little, and said, 'of course i shall go and see mother often, quite often. it is not as if i was saying good-bye for ever to mother, it is not in the least like that.' 'oh no,' answered peter, but in his heart he knew it was very like that, and he would have told her so had he not been in a quaking fear of losing her. he was so fond of her, he felt he could not live without her. 'she will forget her mother in time, and be happy with me,' he kept saying to himself, and he hurried her on, giving her thimbles by the way. but even when she had seen the boat and exclaimed ecstatically over its loveliness, she still talked tremblingly about her mother. 'you know quite well, peter, don't you,' she said, 'that i wouldn't come unless i knew for certain i could go back to mother whenever i want to? peter, say it.' he said it, but he could no longer look her in the face. 'if you are sure your mother will always want you,' he added rather sourly. 'the idea of mother's not always wanting me!' maimie cried, and her face glistened. 'if she doesn't bar you out,' said peter huskily. 'the door,' replied maimie, 'will always, always be open, and mother will always be waiting at it for me.' 'then,' said peter, not without grimness, 'step in, if you feel so sure of her,' and he helped maimie into the thrush's nest. 'but why don't you look at me?' she asked, taking him by the arm. peter tried hard not to look, he tried to push off, then he gave a great gulp and jumped ashore and sat down miserably in the snow. she went to him. 'what is it, dear, dear peter?' she said, wondering. 'o maimie,' he cried, 'it isn't fair to take you with me if you think you can go back! your mother'--he gulped again--'you don't know them as well as i do.' and then he told her the woeful story of how he had been barred out, and she gasped all the time. 'but my mother,' she said, '_my_ mother----' 'yes, she would,' said peter, 'they are all the same. i dare say she is looking for another one already.' maimie said aghast, 'i can't believe it. you see, when you went away your mother had none, but my mother has tony, and surely they are satisfied when they have one.' peter replied bitterly, 'you should see the letters solomon gets from ladies who have six.' just then they heard a grating creak, followed by _creak, creak_, all round the gardens. it was the opening of the gates, and peter jumped nervously into his boat. he knew maimie would not come with him now, and he was trying bravely not to cry. but maimie was sobbing painfully. 'if i should be too late,' she said in agony, 'o peter, if she has got another one already!' again he sprang ashore as if she had called him back. 'i shall come and look for you to-night,' he said, squeezing close, 'but if you hurry away i think you will be in time.' then he pressed a last thimble on her sweet little mouth, and covered his face with his hands so that he might not see her go. 'dear peter!' she cried. 'dear maimie!' cried the tragic boy. she leapt into his arms, so that it was a sort of fairy wedding, and then she hurried away. oh, how she hastened to the gates! peter, you may be sure, was back in the gardens that night as soon as lock-out sounded, but he found no maimie, and so he knew she had been in time. for long he hoped that some night she would come back to him; often he thought he saw her waiting for him by the shore of the serpentine as his bark drew to land, but maimie never went back. she wanted to, but she was afraid that if she saw her dear betwixt-and-between again she would linger with him too long, and besides the ayah now kept a sharp eye on her. but she often talked lovingly of peter, and she knitted a kettle-holder for him, and one day when she was wondering what easter present he would like, her mother made a suggestion. 'nothing,' she said thoughtfully, 'would be so useful to him as a goat.' 'he could ride on it,' cried maimie, 'and play on his pipe at the same time.' 'then,' her mother asked, 'won't you give him your goat, the one you frighten tony with at night?' 'but it isn't a real goat,' maimie said. 'it seems very real to tony,' replied her mother. 'it seems frightfully real to me too,' maimie admitted, 'but how could i give it to peter?' her mother knew a way, and next day, accompanied by tony (who was really quite a nice boy, though of course he could not compare), they went to the gardens, and maimie stood alone within a fairy ring, and then her mother, who was a rather gifted lady, said-- _'my daughter, tell me, if you can, what have you got for peter pan?'_ to which maimie replied-- _'i have a goat for him to ride, observe me cast it far and wide.'_ she then flung her arms about as if she were sowing seed, and turned round three times. next tony said-- _'if p. doth find it waiting here, wilt ne'er again make me to fear?'_ and maimie answered-- _'by dark or light i fondly swear never to see goats anywhere.'_ she also left a letter to peter in a likely place, explaining what she had done, and begging him to ask the fairies to turn the goat into one convenient for riding on. well, it all happened just as she hoped, for peter found the letter, and of course nothing could be easier for the fairies than to turn the goat into a real one, and so that is how peter got the goat on which he now rides round the gardens every night playing sublimely on his pipe. and maimie kept her promise, and never frightened tony with a goat again, though i have heard that she created another animal. until she was quite a big girl she continued to leave presents for peter in the gardens (with letters explaining how humans play with them), and she is not the only one who has done this. david does it, for instance, and he and i know the likeliest place for leaving them in, and we shall tell you if you like, but for mercy's sake don't ask us before porthos, for he is so fond of toys that, were he to find out the place, he would take every one of them. though peter still remembers maimie he is become as gay as ever, and often in sheer happiness he jumps off his goat and lies kicking merrily on the grass. oh, he has a joyful time! but he has still a vague memory that he was a human once, and it makes him especially kind to the house-swallows when they visit the island, for house-swallows are the spirits of little children who have died. they always build in the eaves of the houses where they lived when they were humans, and sometimes they try to fly in at a nursery window, and perhaps that is why peter loves them best of all the birds. and the little house? every lawful night (that is to say, every night except ball nights) the fairies now build the little house lest there should be a human child lost in the gardens, and peter rides the marches looking for lost ones, and if he finds them he carries them on his goat to the little house, and when they wake up they are in it, and when they step out they see it. the fairies build the house merely because it is so pretty, but peter rides round in memory of maimie, and because he still loves to do just as he believes real boys would do. but you must not think that, because somewhere among the trees the little house is twinkling, it is a safe thing to remain in the gardens after lock-out time. if the bad ones among the fairies happen to be out that night they will certainly mischief you, and even though they are not, you may perish of cold and dark before peter pan comes round. he has been too late several times, and when he sees he is too late he runs back to the thrush's nest for his paddle, of which maimie had told him the true use, and he digs a grave for the child and erects a little tombstone, and carves the poor thing's initials on it. he does this at once because he thinks it is what real boys would do, and you must have noticed the little stones, and that there are always two together. he puts them in twos because they seem less lonely. i think that quite the most touching sight in the gardens is the two tombstones of walter stephen matthews and phoebe phelps. they stand together at the spot where the parish of westminster st. mary's is said to meet the parish of paddington. here peter found the two babes, who had fallen unnoticed from their perambulators, phoebe aged thirteen months and walter probably still younger, for peter seems to have felt a delicacy about putting any age on his stone. they lie side by side, and the simple inscriptions read +---------+ +---------+ | w. | | a | | st. m. | and | p. p. | | | | . | +---------+ +---------+ david sometimes places white flowers on these two innocent graves. but how strange for parents, when they hurry into the gardens at the opening of the gates looking for their lost one, to find the sweetest little tombstone instead. i do hope that peter is not too ready with his spade. it is all rather sad. [illustration: rear cover art] the field and garden vegetables of america; containing full descriptions of nearly eleven hundred species and varieties; with directions for propagation, culture, and use. by fearing burr, jr. illustrated. boston: crosby and nichols, , washington street. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by fearing burr, jr., in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. boston: printed by john wilson and son, , water street * * * * * to hon. albert fearing, president of the hingham agricultural and horticultural society, whose earnest labors and liberal contributions in the cause of humanity have endeared his name to the aged poor and to orphan children, and whose active services have exerted so beneficial an influence on agricultural pursuits in his native town, this volume is gratefully and respectfully dedicated by the author. * * * * * preface. though embracing all the directions necessary for the successful management of a vegetable garden, the present volume is offered to the public as a manual or guide to assist in the selection of varieties, rather than as a treatise on cultivation. through the standard works of american authors, as well as by means of the numerous agricultural and horticultural periodicals of our time, all information of importance relative to the various methods of propagation and culture, now in general practice, can be readily obtained. but, with regard to the characteristics which distinguish the numerous varieties; their difference in size, form, color, quality, and season of perfection; their hardiness, productiveness, and comparative value for cultivation,--these details, a knowledge of which is important as well to the experienced cultivator as to the beginner, have heretofore been obtained only through sources scattered and fragmentary. to supply this deficiency in horticultural literature, i have endeavored, in the following pages, to give full descriptions of the vegetables common to the gardens of this country. it is not, however, presumed that the list is complete, as many varieties, perhaps of much excellence, are comparatively local: never having been described, they are, of course, little known. neither is the expectation indulged, that all the descriptions will be found perfect; though much allowance must be made in this respect for the influence of soil, locality, and climate, as well as for the difference in taste of different individuals. much time, labor, and expense have been devoted to secure accuracy of names and synonymes; the seeds of nearly all of the prominent varieties having been imported both from england and france, and planted, in connection with american vegetables of the same name, with reference to this object alone. the delay and patience required in the preparation of a work like the present may be in some degree appreciated from the fact, that in order to obtain some comparatively unimportant particular with regard to the foliage, flower, fruit, or seed, of some obscure and almost unknown plant, it has been found necessary to import the seed or root; to plant, to till, to watch, and wait an entire season. though some vegetables have been included which have proved of little value either for the table or for agricultural purposes, still it is believed such descriptions will be found by no means unimportant; as a timely knowledge of that which is inferior, or absolutely worthless, is often as advantageous as a knowledge of that which is of positive superiority. that the volume may be acceptable to the agriculturist, seedsman, and to all who may possess, cultivate, or find pleasure in, a garden, is the sincere wish of the author. f. b., jr. hingham, march, . acknowledgments. in the preparation of this work, i have received the cheerful co-operation of many esteemed personal friends, to whom i would here express my grateful acknowledgments. for many valuable suggestions with regard to the culture and general management of the potato, as well as for much important information respecting nearly all of our american varieties of this vegetable, i am indebted to j. f. c. hyde, esq., of newton, mass.; whose long experience in the production of seedlings, as well as in the cultivation of established kinds, will give peculiar value to this portion of the volume. the illustrations, so excellent and truthful, are from the pencil of mr. isaac sprague, of cambridge, mass.; whose fine delineations of animal as well as vegetable life have won for him the reputation of being "the first of living artists." i am peculiarly indebted to rev. e. porter dyer, of hingham, for much valuable advice and assistance; and cannot too fully express my obligations for the unvarying kindness and courteous manner in which repeated, and perhaps often unseasonable, requests for aid have been received and granted. my acknowledgments are also due to hon. joseph breck, author of "book of flowers," and late president of the massachusetts horticultural society; to charles m. hovey, esq., editor of "the magazine of horticulture," and president of the massachusetts horticultural society; to p. b. hovey, esq., nurseryman and seedsman, of cambridge, mass.; and to daniel t. curtis, esq., seedsman and florist, and for many years chairman of the committee on vegetables of the massachusetts horticultural society. for information or other very acceptable assistance, i am also indebted to rev. calvin lincoln, of hingham; rev. john l. russell, of salem, mass.; john a. butler, esq., of chelsea, mass.; edward s. rand, jun., esq., of boston; mr. austin bronson, of enfield, n.h.; george w. pratt, esq., of boston; john m. ives, esq., of salem, mass.; mr. james scott, of hatfield, mass.; mr. alonzo crafts, of whately, mass.; mr. john c. hovey, of cambridge, mass.; mr. isaac p. rand, of dorchester, mass.; mr. george everett, of concord, mass.; and caleb bates, of kingston, mass. from a work entitled "descriptions des plantes potagères, par vilmorin, andrieux, et cie., paris;" from charles m'intosh's excellent "book of the garden;" the "gardener's assistant," by robert thompson; "rogers's vegetable cultivator;" and "lawson's agriculturist's manual,"--i have made liberal extracts; and lest, in the course of the volume, any omission of authority may occur where it should have been accredited, my indebtedness to the valuable publications above mentioned is here candidly confessed. in adapting directions for cultivation, prepared for one climate, or section of country, to suit that of another quite dissimilar, so much alteration of the original text has at times been found necessary, that i have not felt at liberty to affix the name of the original writer, but have simply added the usual marks denoting derivation of authority. abbreviations and authorities. _big._--plants of boston and vicinity. by jacob bigelow, m.d. boston, . _bon. jard._--le bon jardinier pour l'année . par a. boiteau et m. vilmorin. _corb._--the american gardener. by william corbett. concord, boston, and new york, . _cot. gard._--the cottage gardener. by george w. johnson and robert hogg. weekly. london. _count. gent._--the country gentleman. by luther tucker and son. weekly. albany, n.y. _de cand._--the candolle's systema naturale. by prof. de candolle. vols. vo. paris, , . _down._--the fruit and fruit-trees of america. by a. j. downing. revised and corrected by charles downing, . _gard. chron._--the gardener's chronicle. weekly. by prof. lindley. to the present time. _gray._--manual of the botany of the northern united states. by prof. asa gray. new york, . _hort._--the horticulturist, and journal of art and rural taste. monthly. by p. barry and j. jay smith. philadelphia. _hov. mag._--the magazine of horticulture, botany, and rural affairs. by c. m. hovey. boston. monthly. to the present time. _law._--the agriculturist's manual. by peter lawson and son. edinburgh, . _lind._--a guide to the orchard and kitchen garden. by george lindley. london, . _loud._--encyclopædia of gardening. by j. c. loudon. london, . _loud._--encyclopædia of agriculture. by j. c. loudon. london, . _low._--the elements of practical agriculture. by david low. london, . _m'int._--the book of the garden. by charles m'intosh. vols. edinburgh and london, . _mill._--the gardener's and botanist's dictionary. by philip miller. revised by prof. martyn. london, . _neill._--neill's journal of a horticultural tour, &c. vo. edinburgh, . _new am. cyclopædia._--new american cyclopædia. d. appleton & co., new york. vols. royal vo. to . _rog._--the vegetable cultivator. by john rogers. london, . _thomp._--the gardener's assistant. by robert thompson. _trans._--the transactions of the london horticultural society. commenced , and continued at intervals to the present time. _vil._--description des plantes potagères. par vilmorin, andrieux, et cie. paris, . * * * * * contents. chap. i.--_esculent roots._ the beet. carrot. chervil, turnip-rooted. chinese potato, or japanese yam. chufa, or earth almond. german rampion. jerusalem artichoke. kohl rabi. oxalis, tuberous. oxalis, deppe's. parsnip. potato. radish. rampion. swede or ruta-baga turnip. salsify, or oyster plant. scolymus. scorzonera. skirret. sweet potato. tuberous-rooted chickling vetch. tuberous-rooted tropæolum. turnip. - chap. ii.--_alliaceous plants._ the cive. garlic. leek. onion. rocambole. shallot. welsh onion. - chap. iii.--_asparaginous plants._ the artichoke. asparagus. cardoon. hop. oosung. phytolacca. - chap. iv.--_cucurbitaceous plants._ the cucumber. egyptian cucumber. globe cucumber. gourd, or calabash. the melon. musk-melon. persian melons. water-melon. papanjay, or sponge cucumber. prickly-fruited gherkin. pumpkin. snake cucumber. squash. - chap. v.--_brassicaceous plants._ borecole, or kale. broccoli. brussels sprouts. cabbage. cauliflower. colewort. couve tronchuda, or portugal cabbage. pak-chöi. pe-tsai, or chinese cabbage. savoy. sea-kale. - chap. vi.--_spinaceous plants._ amaranthus. black nightshade. leaf-beet, or swiss chard. malabar nightshade. nettle. new-zealand spinach. orach. patience dock. quinoa. sea-beet. shepherd's purse. sorrel. spinach. wild or perennial spinach. - chap. vii.--_salad plants._ alexanders. brook-lime. buckshorn plantain. burnet. caterpillar. celery. celeriac, or turnip-rooted celery. chervil. chiccory, or succory. corchorus. corn salad. cress, or peppergrass. cuckoo flower. dandelion. endive. horse-radish. lettuce. madras radish. mallow, curled-leaf. mustard. nasturtium. garden picridium. purslain. rape. roquette, or rocket. samphire. scurvy-grass. snails. sweet-scented chervil, or sweet cicely. tarragon. valeriana. water-cress. winter-cress, or yellow rocket. wood-sorrel. worms. - chap. viii.--_oleraceous plants._ angelica. anise. balm. basil. borage. caraway. clary. coriander. costmary. cumin. dill. fennel. lavender. lovage. marigold. marjoram. nigella. parsley. peppermint. rosemary. sage. savory. spearmint. tansy. thyme. - chap. ix.--_leguminous plants._ american garden-bean. asparagus-bean. lima bean. scarlet-runner. sieva. chick-pea. chickling vetch. english bean. lentil. lupine. pea. pea-nut. vetch, or tare. winged pea. - chap. x.--_medicinal plants._ bene-plant. camomile. coltsfoot. elecampane. hoarhound. hyssop. licorice. pennyroyal. poppy. palmate-leaved or turkey rhubarb. rue. saffron. southernwood. wormwood. - chap. xi.--_mushrooms, or esculent fungi._ agaricus. boletus. clavaria. morchella, or morel. tuber, or truffle. - chap. xii.--_miscellaneous vegetables._ alkekengi, or ground cherry. corn. egg-plant. martynia. oil radish. okra, or gumbo. pepper. rhubarb, or pie-plant. sunflower. tobacco. tomato. - index field and garden vegetables. chapter i. esculent roots. the beet. carrot. chervil, turnip-rooted. chinese potato, or japanese yam. chufa, or earth almond. german rampion. jerusalem artichoke. kohl rabi. oxalis, tuberous. oxalis, deppes. parsnip. potato. radish. rampion. swede, or ruta-baga turnip. salsify, or oyster plant. scolymus. scorzonera. skirret. sweet potato. tuberous-rooted chickling vetch. tuberous-rooted tropæolum. turnip. the beet. beta vulgaris. the common beet, sometimes termed the red beet, is a half-hardy biennial plant; and is cultivated for its large, succulent, sweet, and tender roots. these attain their full size during the first year, but will not survive the winter in the open ground. the seed is produced the second year; after the ripening of which, the plant perishes. when fully developed, the beet-plant rises about four feet in height, with an angular, channelled stem; long, slender branches; and large, oblong, smooth, thick, and fleshy leaves. the flowers are small, green, and are either sessile, or produced on very short peduncles. the calyxes, before maturity, are soft and fleshy; when ripe, hard and wood-like in texture. these calyxes, which are formed in small, united, rounded groups, or clusters, are of a brownish color, and about one-fourth of an inch in diameter; the size, however, as well as depth of color, varying, to some extent, in the different varieties. each of these clusters of dried calyxes contains from two to four of the true seeds, which are quite small, smooth, kidney-shaped, and of a deep reddish-brown color. these dried clusters, or groups, are usually recognized as the seeds; about fifteen hundred of which will weigh one ounce. they retain their vitality from seven to ten years. _soil and fertilizers._--the soil best adapted to the beet is a deep, light, well-enriched, sandy loam. when grown on thin, gravelly soil, the roots are generally tough and fibrous; and when cultivated in cold, wet, clayey localities, they are often coarse, watery, and insipid, worthless for the table, and comparatively of little value for agricultural purposes. a well-digested compost, formed of barnyard manure, loam and salt, makes the best fertilizer. where this is not to be obtained, guano, superphosphate of lime, or bone-dust, may be employed advantageously as a substitute. wood-ashes, raked or harrowed in just previous to sowing the seed, make an excellent surface-dressing, as they not only prevent the depredations of insects, but give strength and vigor to the young plants. the application of coarse, undigested, strawy manure, tends to the production of forked and misshapen roots, and should be avoided. _propagation and culture._--beets are always raised from seed. for early use, sowings are sometimes made in november; but the general practice is to sow the seed in april, as soon as the frost is out of the ground, or as soon as the soil can be worked. for use in autumn, the seed should be sown about the middle or th of may; and, for the winter supply, from the first to the middle of june. lay out the ground in beds five or six feet in width, and of a length proportionate to the supply required; spade or fork the soil deeply and thoroughly over; rake the surface smooth and even; and draw the drills across the bed, fourteen inches apart, and about an inch and a half in depth. sow the seeds thickly enough to secure a plant for every two or three inches, and cover to the depth of the drills. should the weather be warm and wet, the young plants will appear in seven or eight days. when they are two inches in height, they should be thinned to five or six inches apart; extracting the weaker, and filling vacant spaces by transplanting. the surplus plants will be found an excellent substitute for spinach, if cooked and served in like manner. the afterculture consists simply in keeping the plants free from weeds, and the earth in the spaces between the rows loose and open by frequent hoeings. mr. thompson states that "the drills for the smaller varieties should be about sixteen inches apart, and the plants should be thinned out to nine inches apart in the rows. the large sorts may have eighteen inches between the rows, but still not more than nine inches from plant to plant in the row. when large-sized roots are desired, the rows may be eighteen inches or two feet apart, and the plants twelve or fifteen inches distant from each other in the rows. but large roots are not the best for the table; and it is better to have two medium-sized roots, grown at nine inches apart, than one of perhaps double the size from twice the space. as a square foot of ground should afford plenty of nourishment to produce a root large enough for the table, the area for each plant may, therefore, be limited to that extent. if the rows are sixteen inches apart, and the plants thinned to nine inches in the row, each plant will have a space equal to a square foot. such, of course, would also be the case if the rows were twelve inches apart, and the plants the same distance from each other in the row. but it is preferable to allow a greater space between the rows than between the plants in the row: for, by this arrangement, the leaves have better scope to grow to each side, and the plants so situated grow better than those which have an equal but rather limited space in all directions; whilst the ground can also be more easily stirred, and kept clean." _taking the crop._--roots, from the first sowings, will be ready for use early in july; from which time, until october, the table may be supplied directly from the garden. they should be drawn as fast as they attain a size fit for use; which will allow more time and space for the development of those remaining. for winter use, the roots must be taken up before the occurrence of heavy frosts, as severe cold not only greatly impairs their quality, but causes them to decay at the crown. remove the leaves, being careful not to cut or bruise the crown; spread the roots in the sun a few hours to dry; pack them in sand or earth slightly moist; and place in the cellar, out of reach of frost, for the winter. "the london market-gardeners winter their beets in large sheds, stored in moderately damp mould, and banked up with straw. mr. cuthill states that it is a mistake to pack them in dry sand or earth for the winter; and that the same may be said of parsnips, carrots, salsify, scorzonera, and similar roots. "the object here is, that the moist soil may not draw the natural sap out of the roots so readily as dry sand would do; and hence they retain their fresh, plump appearance, and their tenderness and color are better preserved. in taking up the roots, the greatest care must be exercised that they are neither cut, broken, wounded on the skin, nor any of the fibres removed; and, when the small-leaved varieties are grown, few, if any, of the leaves should be cut off."--_m'int._ if harvested before receiving injury from cold, and properly packed, they will retain, in a good degree, their freshness and sweetness until the new crop is suitable for use. _seed._--to raise seed, select smooth and well-developed roots having the form, size, and color by which the pure variety is distinguished; and, in april, transplant them eighteen inches or two feet apart, sinking the crowns to a level with the surface of the ground. as the stalks increase in height, tie them to stakes for support. the plants will blossom in june and july, and the seeds will ripen in august. in harvesting, cut off the plants near the ground, and spread them in a light and airy situation till they are sufficiently dried for threshing, or stripping off the seeds; after which the seeds should be exposed, to evaporate any remaining moisture. an ounce of seed will sow from one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet of drill, according to the size of the variety; and about four pounds will be required for one acre. _use._--"the roots are the parts generally used, and are boiled, stewed, and also eaten cold, sliced in vinegar and oil. they enter into mixed salads, and are much used for garnishing; and, for all these purposes, the deeper colored they are, the more they are appreciated. some, however, it ought to be noticed, prefer them of a bright-red color; but all must be of fine quality in fibre, solid, and of uniform color. the roots are also eaten cut into thin slices, and baked in an oven. dried, roasted, and ground, they are sometimes mixed with coffee, and are also much employed as a pickle. mixed with dough, they make a wholesome bread; but, for this purpose, the white or yellow rooted sorts are preferred. the roots of all the varieties are better baked than boiled."--_m'int._ the young plants make an excellent substitute for spinach; and the leaves of some of the kinds, boiled when nearly full grown, and served as greens, are tender and well-flavored. some of the larger varieties are remarkably productive, and are extensively cultivated for agricultural purposes. from a single acre of land in good condition, thirty or forty tons are frequently harvested; and exceptional crops are recorded of fifty, and even sixty tons. in france, the white sugar-beet is largely employed for the manufacture of sugar,--the amount produced during one year being estimated to exceed that annually made from the sugar-cane in the state of louisiana. for sheep, dairy-stock, and the fattening of cattle, experience has proved the beet to be at once healthful, nutritious, and economical. _varieties._--the varieties are quite numerous, and vary to a considerable extent in size, form, color, and quality. they are obtained by crossing, or by the intermixture of one kind with another. this often occurs naturally when two or more varieties are allowed to run to seed in close proximity, but is sometimes performed artificially by transferring the pollen from the flower of a particular variety to the stigma of the flower of another. the kinds now in cultivation are as follows; viz.:-- bark-skinned. _vil._ oak bark-skinned. [illustration: bark-skinned beet.] root produced entirely within the earth, broadest near the crown, and thence tapering regularly to a point; average specimens measuring four inches in their greatest diameter, and about one foot in depth. skin dark brown, thick, hard, and wrinkled, or striated, sometimes reticulated or netted, much resembling the bark of some descriptions of trees; whence the name. flesh very deep purplish-red, circled, and rayed with paler red, fine-grained, sugary, and tender. leaves numerous, spreading, bright green, slightly stained with red; the leaf-stems and nerves bright purplish-red. an early and comparatively new french variety, of fine flavor, excellent for summer use, and, if sown as late as the second week in june, equally valuable for the table during winter. not recommended for field culture. sow in rows fourteen inches apart, and thin to six inches apart in the rows. barrott's new crimson. _thomp._ root similar in form to the castelnaudary, but somewhat larger; smooth and regular, and not apt to fork. flesh dark crimson, fine-grained and tender. leaf-stalks yellow. bassano. early flat bassano. turnip-rooted bassano. rouge plate de bassano. _vil._ bulb flattened; six or seven inches in diameter by three or four inches in depth; not very regular or symmetrical, but often somewhat ribbed, and terminating in a very small, slender tap-root. skin of fine texture; brown above ground; below the surface, clear rose-red. flesh white, circled or zoned with bright pink; not very close-grained, but very sugary and well-flavored. leaves numerous, erect, of a lively green color, forming many separate groups, or tufts, covering the entire top, or crown, of the root. leaf-stems short, greenish-white, washed or stained with rose. an italian variety, generally considered the earliest of garden-beets, being from seven to ten days earlier than the early blood turnip-rooted. the flesh, although much coarser than that of many other sorts, is tender, sweet, and of good quality. roots from early sowings are, however, not suited for winter use; as, when overgrown, they almost invariably become too tough, coarse, and fibrous for table use. to have them in perfection during winter, the seed should not be sown till near the close of june. in moist, favorable seasons, it succeeds well in comparatively poor, thin soil. cultivate and preserve as directed for the early turnip-rooted. cattell's dwarf blood. root small, regularly tapering. flesh deep blood-red. leaves small, bright red, spreading, or inclined to grow horizontally. quality good,--similar to that of the red castelnaudary; which variety it much resembles in its general character. on account of its small size, it requires little space, and may be grown in rows twelve inches apart. cow-horn mangel wurzel. _vil._ serpent-like beet. cow-horn scarcity. a sub-variety of the mangel wurzel, producing its roots almost entirely above ground; only a small portion growing within the earth. root long and slender, two feet and a half in length, and nearly three inches in diameter at its broadest part; often grooved or furrowed lengthwise, and almost invariably bent and distorted,--the effect either of the wind, or of the weight of its foliage. flesh greenish white, circled with red at the centre. leaves of medium size, green, erect; the leaf-stems and nerves pale red or rose color. it derives its different names from its various contorted forms; sometimes resembling a horn, and often assuming a shape not unlike that of a serpent. the variety is much esteemed and extensively cultivated in some parts of europe, although less productive than the white sugar or long red mangel wurzel. early mangel wurzel. early scarcity. disette hâtive. _vil._ aside from its smaller size, this variety much resembles the common red mangel wurzel. root contracted towards the crown, which rises two or three inches above the surface of the soil, and tapering within the earth to a regular cone. skin purplish rose, deeper colored than that of the last named. flesh white, circled or zoned with pale red. leaves spreading, green; the leaf-stems rose-colored. it is remarkable for the regular and symmetrical form of its roots, which grow rapidly, and, if pulled while young, are tender, very sweet, and well flavored. planted the last of june, it makes a table-beet of more than average quality for winter use. when sown early, it attains a comparatively large size, and should have a space of twenty inches between the rows; but, when sown late, fifteen inches between the rows, and six inches between the plants in the rows, will afford ample space for their development. early blood turnip-rooted. early turnip beet. [illustration: early blood turnip-rooted] the roots of this familiar variety are produced almost entirely within the earth, and measure, when of average size, from four inches to four and a half in depth, and about four inches in diameter. form turbinate, flattened, smooth, and symmetrical. neck small, tap-root very slender, and regularly tapering. skin deep purplish-red. flesh deep blood-red, sometimes circled and rayed with paler red, remarkably sweet and tender. leaves erect, not very numerous, and of a deep-red color, sometimes inclining to green; but the stems and nerves always of a deep brilliant red. the early blood turnip beet succeeds well from canada to the gulf of mexico; and in almost every section of the united states is more esteemed, and more generally cultivated for early use, than any other variety. among market-gardeners, it is the most popular of the summer beets. it makes a rapid growth, comes early to the table, and, when sown late, keeps well, and is nearly as valuable for use in winter as in summer and autumn. in common with most of the table sorts, the turnip-rooted beets are much sweeter and more tender if pulled before they are fully grown; and consequently, to have a continued supply in their greatest perfection, sowings should be made from the beginning of april to the last of june, at intervals of two or three weeks. the roots, especially those intended for seed, should be harvested before severe frosts, as they are liable to decay when frozen at the crown, or even chilled. sow in drills fourteen inches apart; and, when two inches in height, thin out the plants to six inches apart in the drills. an acre of land in good cultivation will yield from seven to eight hundred bushels. german red mangel wurzel. disette d'allemagne. _vil._ an improved variety of the long red mangel wurzel, almost regularly cylindrical, and terminating at the lower extremity in an obtuse cone. it grows much out of ground, the neck or crown is comparatively small, it is rarely forked or deformed by small side roots, and is generally much neater and more regular than the long red. size very large; well-developed specimens measuring from eighteen to twenty inches in length, and seven or eight inches in diameter. flesh white, with red zones or rings; more colored than that of the last named. leaves erect, green; the stems and nerves washed or stained with rose-red. for agricultural purposes, this variety is superior to the long red, as it is larger, more productive, and more easily harvested. german yellow mangel wurzel. green mangel wurzel. jaune d'allemagne. _vil._ root produced half above ground, nearly cylindrical for two-thirds its length, terminating rather bluntly, and often branched or deformed by small side-roots. size large; when well grown, measuring sixteen or eighteen inches deep, six or seven inches in diameter, and weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. skin above ground, greenish-brown; below, yellow. flesh white, occasionally zoned or marked with yellow. leaves of medium size, rather numerous, erect, very pale, or yellowish green; the stems and ribs light green. while young and small, the roots are tender and well-flavored; but this is a field rather than a table beet. in point of productiveness, it differs little from the common long red, and should be cultivated as directed for that variety. half long blood. dwarf blood. fine dwarf red. early half long blood. rouge nain. _vil._ [illustration: half long blood.] root produced within the earth, of medium size, or rather small; usually measuring about three inches in thickness near the crown, and tapering regularly to a point; the length being ten or twelve inches. skin smooth, very deep purplish-red. flesh deep blood-red, circled and rayed with paler red, remarkably fine grained, of firm texture, and very sugary. leaves small, bright red, blistered on the surface, and spreading horizontally. leaf-stems short. an excellent, half-early, garden variety, sweet, and well flavored, a good keeper, and by many considered very superior to the common long blood. when full grown, it is still tender and fine-grained, and much less stringy and fibrous than the last named, at an equally advanced stage of growth. it may be classed as one of the best table-beets, and is well worthy cultivation. improved long blood. long smooth blood. this is an improved variety of the common long blood, attaining a much larger size, and differing in its form, and manner of growth. when matured in good soil, its length is from eighteen inches to two feet; and its diameter, which is retained for more than half its length, is from four to five inches. it is seldom very symmetrical in its form; for, though it has but few straggling side-roots, it is almost invariably bent and distorted. skin smooth, very deep or blackish purple. flesh dark blood-red, sweet, tender, and fine grained, while the root is young and small, but liable to be tough and fibrous when full grown. leaves small, erect-red, and not very numerous. leaf-stems blood-red. this beet, like the common long blood, is a popular winter sort, retaining its color well when boiled. it is of larger size than the last named, grows more above the surface of the ground, and has fewer fibrous and accidental small side-roots. while young, it compares favorably with the old variety; but, when full grown, can hardly be said to be much superior. to have the variety in its greatest perfection for winter use, the seed should not be sown before the th of june; as the roots of this, as well as those of nearly all the table-varieties, are much more tender and succulent when very rapidly grown, and of about two-thirds their full size. sow in drills fifteen inches apart, and thin to eight inches apart in the drills; or sow on ridges eighteen inches apart. long blood. common long blood. the roots of this familiar variety are long, tapering, and comparatively slender; the size varying according to the depth and richness of the soil. skin dark purple, sometimes purplish-black. flesh deep blood-red, very fine grained and sugary, retaining its color well after being boiled. leaves rather numerous, of medium size, erect, deep purplish-red; the leaf-stems blood-red. one of the most popular of winter beets; but, for late keeping, the seed should not be sown before the middle of june, as the roots, when large, are frequently tough and fibrous. the improved long blood is a variety of this, and has, to a considerable extent, superseded it in the vegetable garden; rather, it would seem, on account of its greater size, than from any real superiority as respects its quality or keeping properties. long red mangel wurzel. red mangel wurzel. marbled field beet. _law._ root fusiform, contracted at the crown, which, in the genuine variety, rises six or eight inches above the surface of the ground. size large, when grown in good soil; often measuring eighteen inches in length, and six or seven inches in diameter. skin below ground purplish-rose; brownish-red where exposed to the air and light. leaves green; the stems and nerves washed or stained with rose-red. flesh white, zoned and clouded with different shades of red. the long red mangel wurzel is hardy, keeps well, grows rapidly, is very productive, and in this country is more generally cultivated for agricultural purposes than any other variety. according to lawson, the marbled or mixed color of its flesh seems particularly liable to vary: in some specimens, it is almost of a uniform red; while, in others, the red is scarcely, and often not at all, perceptible. these variations in color are, however, of no importance as respects the quality of the roots. the seed may be sown from the middle of april to the last of may. if sown in drills, they should be at least eighteen inches apart, and the plants should be thinned to ten inches in the drills. if sown on ridges, the sowing should be made in double rows; the ridges being three and a half or four feet apart, and the rows fifteen inches apart. the yield varies with the quality of the soil and the state of cultivation; thirty and thirty-five tons being frequently harvested from an acre. while young, the roots are tender and well-flavored, and are sometimes employed for table use. long white green-top mangel wurzel. green-top white sugar. long white mangel wurzel. disette blanche à collet verte. _vil._ an improved variety of the white sugar beet. root produced much above ground, and of very large size; if well grown, measuring nearly six inches in diameter, and eighteen inches in depth,--the diameter often retained for nearly two-thirds the length. skin green, where exposed to light and air; below ground, white. flesh white. leaves green, rather large, and not so numerous as those of the white sugar. very productive, and superior to the last named for agricultural purposes; the quality being equally good, and the yield much greater. long yellow mangel wurzel. jaune grosse. _vil._ [illustration: long yellow mangel wurzel.] root somewhat fusiform, contracted towards the crown, which rises six or eight inches above the surface of the ground. size remarkably large; when grown in deep rich soil, often measuring twenty inches in length, and five or six inches in thickness. skin yellow, bordering on orange-color. flesh pale yellow, zoned or circled with white, not close-grained, but sugary. leaves comparatively large, pale green; the stems and nerves yellow; the nerves paler. the variety is one of the most productive of the field-beets; but the roots are neither smooth nor symmetrical, a majority being forked or much branched. in the vicinity of paris, it is extensively cultivated, and is much esteemed by dairy farmers on account of the rich color which it imparts to milk when fed to dairy-stock. compared with the german yellow, the roots of this variety are longer, not so thick, more tapering; and the flesh is of a much deeper color. it has also larger foliage. pine-apple short-top. _hov. mag._ root of medium size, fusiform. skin deep purplish-red. flesh very deep blood-red, fine-grained, as sweet as the bassano, tender, and of excellent quality for table use. leaves very short and few in number, reddish-green; leaf-stems and nerves blood-red. in its foliage, as well as in the color of the root, it strongly resembles some of the long blood varieties; but it is not so large, is much finer in texture, and superior in flavor. it is strictly a garden or table beet, and, whether for fall or winter use, is well deserving of cultivation. red castelnaudary. _trans._ this beet derives its name from a town in the province of languedoc in france, where the soil is particularly adapted to the growth of these vegetables, and where this variety, which is so much esteemed in france for its nut-like flavor, was originally produced. the roots grow within the earth. the leaves are thickly clustered around the crown, spreading on the ground. the longest of the leaf-stems do not exceed three inches: these and the veins of the leaves are quite purple, whilst the leaves themselves are green, with only a slight stain of purple. the root is little more than two inches in diameter at the top, tapering gradually to the length of nine inches. the flesh, which is of a deep purple, and exhibits dark rings, preserves its fine color when boiled, is very tender and sweet, and presents a delicate appearance when cut in slices. being small in its whole habit, it occupies but little space in the ground, and may be sown closer than other varieties usually are. not generally known or much cultivated in this country. red globe mangel wurzel. betterave globe rouge. _vil._ root nearly spherical, but tapering to pear-shaped at the base; nearly one-third produced above ground. size large; well-grown specimens measuring seven or eight inches in diameter, and nine or ten inches in depth. skin smooth, and of a rich purplish rose-color below ground; brown above the surface, where exposed to the sun. flesh white, rarely circled, with rose-red. leaves pale green, or yellowish green; the stems and ribs or nerves sometimes veined with red. this variety is productive, keeps well, and, like the yellow globe, is well adapted to hard and shallow soils. it is usually cultivated for agricultural purposes, although the yield is comparatively less than that of the last named. in moist soils, the yellow globe succeeds best; and, as its quality is considered superior, it is now more generally cultivated than the red. white globe mangel wurzel. a sub-variety of the yellow and red globe, which, in form and manner of growth, it much resembles. skin above ground, green; below, white. leaves green. flesh white and sugary; but, like the foregoing sorts, not fine grained, or suited for table use. productive, easily harvested, excellent and profitable for farm purposes, and remarkably well adapted for cultivation in hard, shallow soil. white sugar. white silesian. betterave blanche. _vil._ [illustration: white sugar beet.] root fusiform, sixteen inches in length, six or seven inches in its greatest diameter, contracted towards the crown, thickest just below the surface of the soil, but nearly retaining its size for half the depth, and thence tapering regularly to a point. skin white, washed with green or rose-red at the crown. flesh white, crisp, and very sugary. leaves green; the leaf-stems clear green, or green stained with light red, according to the variety. the white sugar beet is quite extensively grown in this country, and is employed almost exclusively as feed for stock; although the young roots are sweet, tender, and well flavored, and in all respects superior for the table to many garden varieties. in france, it is largely cultivated for the manufacture of sugar and for distillation. of the two sub-varieties, some cultivators prefer the green-top; others, the rose-colored or red-top. the latter is the larger, more productive, and the better keeper; but the former is the more sugary. it is, however, very difficult to preserve the varieties in a pure state; much of the seed usually sown containing, in some degree, a mixture of both. it is cultivated in all respects as the long red mangel wurzel, and the yield per acre varies from twenty to thirty tons. white turnip-rooted. a variety of the early turnip-rooted blood, with green leaves and white flesh; the size and form of the root, and season of maturity, being nearly the same. quality tender, sweet, and well flavored; but, on account of its color, not so marketable as the last named. wyatt's dark crimson. whyte's dark crimson. rouge de whyte. _vil._ root sixteen inches long, five inches in diameter, fusiform, and somewhat angular in consequence of broad and shallow longitudinal furrows or depressions. crown conical, brownish. skin smooth, slate-black. flesh very deep purplish-red, circled and rayed with yet deeper shades of red, very fine-grained, and remarkably sugary. leaves deep red, shaded with brownish-red: those of the centre, erect; those of the outside, spreading or horizontal. the variety is not early, but of fine quality; keeps remarkably well, and is particularly recommended for cultivation for winter and spring use. much esteemed in england. yellow castelnaudary. _trans._ _vil._ root produced within the earth, broadest at the crown, where its diameter is nearly three inches, and tapering gradually to a point; the length being about eight inches. skin orange-yellow. flesh clear yellow, with paler zones or rings. leaves spreading, those on the outside being on stems about four inches in length; the inner ones are shorter, numerous, of a dark-green color, and rather waved on the edges: the leaf-stems are green, rather than yellow. an excellent table-beet, being tender, yet firm, and very sweet when boiled, although its color is not so agreeable to the eye. yellow globe mangel wurzel. betterave jaune globe. _vil._ [illustration: yellow globe mangel wurzel.] this is a globular-formed beet, measuring about ten inches in diameter, and weighing ten or twelve pounds; about one-half of the root growing above ground. skin yellow, where it is covered by the soil; and yellowish-brown above the surface, where exposed to light and air. flesh white, zoned or marked with yellow, close-grained and sugary. leaves not large or numerous, rather erect, green; the stems and ribs paler, and sometimes yellowish. the yellow globe is one of the most productive of all the varieties; and, though not adapted to table use, is particularly excellent for stock of all descriptions, as the roots are not only remarkably sugary, but contain a considerable portion of albumen. it retains its soundness and freshness till the season has far advanced, does not sprout so early in spring as many others, and is especially adapted for cultivation in hard, shallow soil. the yield varies from thirty to forty tons per acre, according to soil, season, and culture; although crops are recorded of fifty tons and upwards. sow from the last of april to the last of may; but early sowings succeed best. if sown in drills, they should be made twenty inches apart, and the plants should be thinned to ten inches apart in the drills; if sown on ridges, sow in double rows, making the ridges three feet and a half, and the rows sixteen inches apart. on account of its globular form, the crop can be harvested with great facility by the use of a common plough. yellow turnip-rooted. a sub-variety of the blood turnip-rooted, differing principally in color, but to some extent also in its form, which is less compressed. leaves large, yellowish-green; the leaf-stems and nerves yellow. flesh yellow, comparatively close-grained, sweet and tender. not much cultivated on account of its color; the red varieties being preferred for table use. * * * * * the carrot. daucus carota. the carrot, in its cultivated state, is a half-hardy biennial. it is indigenous to some parts of great britain, generally growing in chalky or sandy soil, and to some extent has become naturalized in this country; being found in gravelly pastures and mowing fields, and occasionally by roadsides, in loose places, where the surface has been disturbed or removed. in its native state, the root is small, slender, and fibrous, or woody, of no value, and even of questionable properties as an article of food. _soil, sowing, and culture._--the carrot flourishes best in a good, light, well-enriched loam. where there is a choice of situations, heavy and wet soils should be avoided; and, where extremes are alternatives, preference should be given to the light and dry. if possible, the ground should be stirred to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches, incorporating a liberal application of well-digested compost, and well pulverizing the soil in the operation. the surface should next be levelled, cleared as much as possible of stones and hard lumps of earth, and made mellow and friable; in which state, if the ground contains sufficient moisture to color the surface when it is stirred, it will be ready for the seed. this may be sown from the first of april to the th of may; but early sowings succeed best. the drills should be made an inch in depth; and for the smaller, garden varieties, about ten inches apart. the larger sorts are grown in drills about fourteen inches apart; the plants in the rows being thinned to five or six inches asunder. _harvesting._--the roots attain their full size by the autumn of the first year; and, as they are not perfectly hardy, should be dug and housed before the ground is frozen. when large quantities are raised for stock, they are generally placed in bulk in the cellar, without packing; but the finer sorts, when intended for the table, are usually packed in earth or sand, in order to retain their freshness and flavor. with ordinary precaution, they will remain sound and fresh until may or june. _seed._--to raise seed, select good-sized, smooth, and symmetrical roots; and as early in spring as the frost is out of the ground, and the weather settled, transplant to rows three feet apart, and fifteen inches apart in the rows, sinking the crowns just below a level with the surface of the ground. the seed-stalks are from four to six feet in height, with numerous branches. the flowers appear in june and july; are white; and are produced at the extremities of the branches, in umbels, or flat, circular groups or clusters, from two to five inches in diameter. the seed ripens in august; but, as all the heads do not ripen at once, they should be cut off as they successively mature. the stiff, pointed hairs or bristles with which the seeds are thickly covered, and which cause them to adhere together, should be removed either by threshing or by rubbing between the hands; clearing them more or less perfectly, according to the manner of sowing. if sown by a machine, the seeds should not only be free from broken fragments of the stems of the plant, but the surface should be made as smooth as possible. for hand-sowing, the condition of the seed is less essential; though, when clean, it can be distributed in the drill more evenly and with greater facility. the seeds of the several varieties differ little in size, form, or color, and are not generally distinguishable from each other. they will keep well two years; and if preserved from dampness, and placed in a cool situation, a large percentage will vegetate when three years old. in the vegetable garden, an ounce of seed is allowed for one hundred and fifty feet of drill; and, for field culture, about two pounds for an acre. an ounce contains twenty-four thousand seeds. _use._--though not relished by all palates, carrots are extensively employed for culinary purposes, and are generally considered healthful and nutritious. they form an important ingredient in soups, stews, and french dishes of various descriptions; and by many are much esteemed, when simply boiled, and served with meats or fish. "carrots may be given to every species of stock, and form in all cases a palatable and nourishing food. they are usually given in their raw state, though they may be steamed or boiled in the same manner as other roots. "horses and dairy-cows are the live-stock to which they are most frequently given. they are found in an eminent degree to give color and flavor to butter; and, when this is the end desired, no species of green-feeding is better suited to the dairy. to horses they may be given with cut straw and hay; and, thus given, form a food which will sustain them on hard work. they afford excellent feeding for swine, and quickly fatten them. when boiled, they will be eaten by poultry; and, mixed with any farinaceous substance, form an excellent food for them. they are also used for distillation, affording a good spirit." the varieties are as follow:-- altringham. _law._ altringham. long red altringham. _vil._ the altrincham carrot measures about fourteen inches in length, by two inches in diameter. it retains its thickness for nearly two-thirds its length: but the surface is seldom regular or smooth; the genuine variety being generally characterized by numerous crosswise elevations, and corresponding depressions. neck small and conical, rising one or two inches above the surface of the soil. skin nearly bright-red; the root having a semi-transparent appearance. flesh bright and lively, crisp and breaking in its texture; and the heart, in proportion to the size of the root, is smaller than that of the long orange. leaves long, but not large or very numerous. according to lawson, it is easily distinguished from the long orange by the roots growing more above ground, by its more convex or rounded shoulders, and by its tapering more irregularly, and terminating more abruptly. it is, however, exceedingly difficult to procure the variety in its purity, as it is remarkably liable to sport, although the roots grown for seed be selected with the greatest care. it is a good field-carrot, but less productive than the long orange and some others; mild and well flavored for the table, and one of the best sorts for cultivation for market. thompson states that "it derives its name from a place called altrincham, in cheshire, eng., where it is supposed to have originated. in seedsmen's lists it is frequently, but erroneously, called the altringham." early frame. early forcing horn. earliest short forcing horn. early short scarlet. [illustration: early frame.] root grooved or furrowed at the crown, roundish, or somewhat globular; rather more than two inches in diameter, nearly the same in depth, and tapering suddenly to a very slender tap-root. skin red, or reddish-orange; brown or greenish where it comes to the surface of the ground. foliage small and finely cut or divided, not so large or luxuriant as that of the early horn. the early frame is the earliest of all varieties, and is especially adapted for cultivation under glass, both on account of its earliness, and the shortness and small size of its roots. it is also one of the best sorts for the table, being very delicate, fine-grained, mild, and remarkably well flavored. where space is limited, it may be grown in rows six inches apart, thinned to three inches apart in the rows; or sown broadcast, and the young plants thinned to three inches apart in each direction. early half-long scarlet. half-long red. _vil._ root slender and tapering, measuring seven or eight inches in length, and two inches in its greatest diameter. crown hollow. skin red below the surface of the ground, green or brown above. flesh reddish-orange, fine-grained, mild, and well flavored. foliage similar to that of the early frame, but not abundant. the variety is remarkably productive; in good soil and favorable seasons, often yielding an amount per acre approaching that of the long orange. season intermediate between the early garden and late field sorts. early horn. early scarlet horn. early short dutch. dutch horn. [illustration: early horn carrot.] root six inches in length, two inches and a half in diameter, nearly cylindrical, and tapering abruptly to a very slender tap-root. skin orange-red, but green or brown where it comes to the surface of the ground. flesh deep orange-yellow, fine-grained, and of superior flavor and delicacy. the crown of the root is hollow, and the foliage short and small. the variety is very early, and as a table-carrot much esteemed, both on account of the smallness of its heart and the tenderness of its fibre. as the roots are very short, it is well adapted for shallow soils; and on poor, thin land will often yield a greater product per acre than the long orange or the white belgian, when sown under like circumstances. sow in rows one foot apart, and thin to four inches in the rows. flander's large pale scarlet. _vil._ flander's pale red. root produced within the earth, fourteen or fifteen inches long, three or four inches in diameter at the broadest part, fusiform, not very symmetrical, but often quite crooked and angular. the crown is flat, very large, and nearly covered by the insertion of the leaves. flesh reddish-yellow, and rather coarse-grained. foliage large and vigorous. the roots are formed early and with great certainty. it is also very productive, of large size, keeps remarkably well; and, though of coarse texture, one of the best sorts for cultivation for farm-purposes. it originated in flanders, and is comparatively an old variety, but is little disseminated, and not grown to any extent, in this country. long orange. root long, thickest at or near the crown, and tapering regularly to a point. size very variable, being much affected by soil, season, and cultivation: well-grown specimens measure fifteen inches in length, and three inches in diameter at the crown. skin smooth, of a reddish-orange color. flesh comparatively close-grained, succulent, and tender, of a light-reddish vermilion or orange color, the heart lighter, and large in proportion to the size of the root. foliage not abundant, but healthy and vigorous, and collected into a comparatively small neck. the roots are usually produced entirely within the earth. if pulled while very young and small, they are mild, fine-grained, and good for table use; but, when full grown, the texture is coarser, and the flavor stronger and less agreeable. the long orange is more cultivated in this country for agricultural purposes than all other varieties. with respect to its value for stock, its great productiveness, and its keeping properties, it is considered the best of all the sorts for field culture. a well-enriched soil will yield from six hundred to eight hundred bushels per acre. the seed is usually sown in drills, about fourteen inches apart, but sometimes on ridges, eighteen or twenty inches apart, formed by turning two furrows together; the ridges yielding the largest roots, and the drills the greatest quantity. two pounds of seed are usually allowed to an acre; but, if sown by a well-regulated machine, about one-half this quantity will be sufficient. long red belgian. yellow belgian. yellow green-top belgian. [illustration: long red belgian carrot.] root very long, fusiform, contracted a little towards the crown, but nearly of uniform thickness from the top down half the length. size large; when grown in deep soil, often measuring twenty inches in length, and nearly three inches in diameter. the crown rises four or five inches above the surface of the ground, and is of a green color; below the surface, the skin is reddish-yellow. flesh orange-red. this variety, like the white, originated in belgium. in europe it is much esteemed by agriculturists, and is preferred to the white belgian, as it is not only nearly as productive, but has none of its defects. long yellow. long lemon. root fusiform, three inches in diameter at the crown, and from, twelve to fourteen inches in depth. skin pale yellow, or lemon-color, under ground; but greenish on the top, or crown, which rises a little above the surface of the soil. flesh yellow, the heart paler, and, like that of the long orange, of large size. while young, the roots are delicate, mild, and well flavored; but, when full grown, valuable only for stock. the long lemon is easily harvested, and is very productive, yielding nearly the same quantity to the acre as the long orange; which variety it much resembles in its general character, and with which it is frequently, to a greater or less extent, intermixed. long surrey. long red. james's scarlet. this variety much resembles the long orange: the roots, however, are more slender, the heart is smaller, and the color deeper. "it is popular in some parts of england, and is extensively grown over the continent." long white. common white. root produced entirely below ground, regularly fusiform, fifteen inches long, by about three inches in its largest diameter. skin white, stained with russet-brown. flesh white, and generally considered sweeter than that of the colored varieties. the common white has been but little cultivated since the introduction of the white belgian; a variety much more productive, though perhaps not superior either in flavor, or fineness of texture. new intermediate. [illustration: new intermediate.] an english variety, comparatively of recent introduction. root broadest at the crown, and thence tapering very regularly to a point. size full medium; well-grown specimens measuring nearly three inches in diameter at the broadest part, and about one foot in length. skin bright orange-red. flesh orange-yellow, fine-grained, sweet, well flavored, and, while young, excellent for table use. very hardy, and also very productive; yielding, according to the best english authority, a greater weight per acre than any other yellow-fleshed variety. purple or blood red. violette. _vil._ root fusiform, and very slender, fourteen inches in length, by two inches and a half in diameter at the top or broadest part. skin deep purple, varying to some extent in depth of shade, but generally very dark. flesh purple at the outer part of the root, and yellow at the centre or heart; fine grained, sugary, and comparatively well flavored. not much cultivated for the table, on account of the brown color it imparts to soups or other dishes of which it may be an ingredient. it is also inclined to run to seed the year it is sown. it has, however, the reputation of flourishing better in wet, heavy soil, than any other variety. short white. blanche des vosges. _vil._ root obtusely conical, seven or eight inches long, by about four inches in diameter at the crown, which is large, flat, greenish, and level with the surface of the ground. skin white, tinted with amber, smooth and fine. flesh yellowish-white, remarkably solid, and fine in texture; sweet and well flavored. foliage rather finely divided, and as vigorous as the long orange. the short white yields well, retains its qualities during winter, and is well adapted for cultivation in soils that are hard and shallow. studley. long red brunswick. root fusiform, very long, and regular; the crown level with the surface of the soil. in good cultivation, the roots attain a length of sixteen inches, and a diameter of nearly two inches. color bright reddish-orange, like the altrincham. an excellent table-carrot, but flourishes well only in deep, mellow soil. white belgian. green-top white. root very long, fusiform, eighteen to twenty inches in length, and four or five inches in diameter. in the genuine variety, the crown rises five or six inches from the surface of the ground; and, with the exception of a slight contraction towards the top, the full diameter is retained for nearly one-half of the entire length. skin green above, white below ground. flesh white, tending to citron-yellow at the centre or heart of the root; somewhat coarse in texture. foliage rather large and vigorous. the white belgian carrot is remarkable for its productiveness, surpassing in this respect all other varieties, and exceeding that of the long orange by nearly one-fourth. it can be harvested with great facility, and gives a good return even on poor soils. the variety is not considered of any value as a table esculent, and is grown almost exclusively for feeding stock; for which purpose, it is, however, esteemed less valuable than the yellow-fleshed sorts, because less nutritious, and more liable to decay during winter. since its introduction, it has somewhat deteriorated; and, as now grown, differs to some extent from the description given above. the roots are smaller, seldom rise more than two or three inches above the soil, and taper directly from the crown to the point. a judicious selection of roots for seed, continued for a few seasons, would undoubtedly restore the variety to its primitive form and dimensions. the same amount of seed will be required as of the long orange: and the general method of culture should be the same; with the exception, that, in thinning out the plants, the white belgian should have more space. white belgian horn. transparent white. _vil._ root seven or eight inches in length, and two inches in its greatest diameter, tapering regularly from the crown to the point. skin fine, clear white. flesh very white, and almost transparent, mild, tender, and delicate. a french variety, remarkable for the peculiar, pure white color of its skin and flesh. * * * * * turnip-rooted chervil. parsnip chervil. chærophyllum bulbosum. [illustration: turnip-rooted chervil.] a hardy, biennial plant, from the south of europe. the root is fusiform, four or five inches long, and nearly an inch and a half in diameter; skin, grayish-black; flesh, white. the leaves are compound, the leaflets very deeply cut, and the divisions of the upper leaves very narrow and slender. the flowers are white, and terminate the top of the plant in umbels, or large, circular, flat, spreading bunches. the seeds are long, pointed, furrowed, concave on one side, of a brownish color, and retain their power of germination but one year. an ounce contains sixty-five hundred seeds. _soil and cultivation._--the seeds may be sown in drills, in october or april, in the manner of sowing the seeds of the common carrot: preference to be given to rich, mellow soil. the roots will attain their full size by the following august or september, when they should be harvested. with a little care to prevent sprouting, they may be preserved until april. _seed._--the roots intended for seed should be set in the open ground in autumn or in spring. the seeds will ripen in august, and should be sown within a month or two of the time of ripening; or, if kept till spring, should be packed in earth or sand: for, when these precautions are neglected, they will often remain dormant in the ground throughout the year. _use._--the tuberous-rooted chervil promises to be a valuable esculent root. m. vilmorin considered it worthy to be classed with the potato, though not equally productive. on his authority, upwards of six tons have been produced on an acre; an amount which he states may be greatly increased by a judicious selection of the best roots for seed. the roots, which are eaten boiled, are of a gray color, and nearly of the size and form of an early horn carrot. the flesh is white, farinaceous, and of a flavor intermediate between that of a chestnut and a potato. * * * * * chinese potato, or japanese yam. dioscorea batatas. stem twelve feet or more in length, of a creeping or climbing habit; leaves heart-shaped, though sometimes halberd-formed; flowers small, in clusters, white. "the root is of a pale russet color, oblong, regularly rounded, club-shaped, exceedingly tender, easily broken, and differs from nearly all vertical roots in being largest at the lower end." [illustration: chinese potato, or japanese yam.] _propagation and cultivation._--the chinese potato requires a very deep, light, rather sandy, and tolerably rich soil; and this should be thoroughly stirred to the depth of at least two feet. no fresh manure should be used, but fine, well-decomposed compost applied, and deeply as well as very thoroughly incorporated with the soil; avoiding however, if possible, its direct contact with the growing roots. it is propagated either by small roots; by the top or neck of the large roots, cut off to the length of five or six inches; or by the small bulbs, or tubers, which the plants produce in considerable numbers on the stem, in the axils of the leaves. these should be planted the last of april, or as soon as the ground is in good working condition. lay out the land in raised ridges two feet and a half or three feet asunder; and on the summit set the bulbs, or tubers, with the point or shoot upwards, eight or ten inches apart; and cover about an inch deep. cultivate in the usual manner during the summer; and late in autumn, after the tops are dead, and just before the closing-up of the ground, take up the roots, dry them a short time in the sun, and store them in the cellar for use. the roots are perfectly hardy, and will sustain no injury from the coldest winter, if left unprotected in the open ground. during the second season, the growth of the old root is not continued, but gradually decays as the new roots are formed. a well-grown root will measure about two feet in length, and two inches and a half at its broadest diameter. _use._--the flesh is remarkably white, and very mucilaginous in its crude state. the roots are eaten either boiled or roasted, and require rather more than half the time for cooking that is usually given to the boiling or roasting of the common potato. when cooked, they possess a rice-like taste and consistency, are quite farinaceous, and unquestionably nutritive and valuable for food. * * * * * chufa, or earth almond. edible cyperus. nut rush. cyperus esculentus. a perennial plant, from the south of europe. the roots are long and fibrous, and produce at their extremities numerous small, rounded or oblong, jointed, pale-brown tubers, of the size of a filbert. the flesh of these roots, or tubers, is of a yellowish color, tender, and of a pleasant, sweet, and nut-like flavor. the leaves are rush-like, about eighteen inches high, a little rough, and sharply pointed. the flower-stalks are nearly of the same height as the leaves, three-cornered, hard, and leafless, with the exception of five or six leaflike bracts at the top, from the midst of which are produced the spikelets of flowers, which are of a pale-yellow color. _propagation and culture._--it is propagated by planting the tubers in april or may, two inches deep, in drills two feet apart, and six inches apart in the drills. they will be ready for harvesting in october. in warm climates, the plant, when once introduced into the garden, spreads with great rapidity, and is exterminated with much difficulty. in the northern and middle states, the tubers remaining in the open ground are almost invariably destroyed by the winter. _use._--it is cultivated for its small, almond-like tubers, which, when dried, have somewhat the taste of the almond, and keep a long period. they are eaten either raw or roasted. "the plant grows spontaneously in the light, humid soils of spain; and is cultivated in germany and the south of france. the tubers are chiefly employed for making an orgeat,--a species of drink much used in spain, cuba, and other hot climates where it is known. when mashed to a flour,--which is white, sweet, and very agreeable to the taste,--it imparts to water the color and richness of milk."--_hort._ * * * * * german rampion. tree primrose. evening primrose. oenothera biennis. the german rampion, or evening primrose, common in this country to gravelly pastures and roadsides, is a hardy biennial plant, and, when in full perfection, measures three or four feet in height, with long, flat, pointed leaves, and large, yellow, fragrant flowers. the seed-pods are oblong, four-sided; the seeds are small, angular, of a brown color, and retain their germinative properties three years. _sowing and cultivation._--the seeds should be sown annually, in april, in a rich and shady situation; for if grown in a dry, sunny exposure, and sown very early in the season, the plants are inclined to run to flower during the summer: which renders the roots worthless; for they then become hard and fibrous. sow in drills an inch deep, and fourteen inches apart; thin to six or eight inches in the rows; cultivate in the usual form; and, in september, the roots will be ready for use. for winter use, take up the roots before freezing weather, and pack in sand. for spring use, they may be taken directly from the ground. _to raise seed._--two or three plants, left in the ground through the winter, will yield an abundant supply of seeds the following summer. _use._--the root is the only part used. this, when full grown, is generally from ten to twelve inches long, fusiform, occasionally with a few strong fibres, whitish on the outside, and white within. the thick, outer covering separates readily, and should be removed when the root is eaten in its crude state. it possesses a nutty flavor; but is inferior to the true rampion, having a slight pungency. if required as a raw salad, it should be eaten while young. when the roots have attained their full size, they are usually dressed in the manner of skirret and scorzonera. * * * * * jerusalem artichoke. helianthus tuberosus. the jerusalem artichoke is a hardy perennial. in its manner of growth and flowering, it much resembles the common sunflower; of which, as its scientific term suggests, it is really a species. stem six to eight feet high, very rough, and much branched; leaves alternate, large, rough, heart-shaped at the base, pointed at the ends, and indented on the borders; flowers large, yellow,--produced on the top of the plant, at the extremities of the branches. _soil, propagation, and culture._--"it thrives best in a light, mellow soil, made rich by the application of old, decomposed manure; but the roots will flourish well if planted in any corner of the garden less suited for other descriptions of vegetables. to obtain fine roots, however, the soil should be trenched fifteen or eighteen inches in depth. "it is propagated by planting the small tubers, or offsets: the large tubers may also be cut or divided into several pieces, each having one eye, as practised with the potato. in april, or early in may, lay out the rows three feet apart, drop the tubers one foot apart in the rows, and cover three inches deep. as the plants come up, hoe the ground between the rows from time to time; and draw a little earth around their stems, to support them, and to afford the roots a thicker covering." _taking the crop._--the new tubers will be suitable for use in the autumn. in digging, great care should be taken to remove the small as well as the full-grown; for those not taken from the ground will remain fresh and sound during the winter, and send up in the spring new plants, which, in turn, will increase so rapidly, as to encumber the ground, and become troublesome. in localities where the crop has once been cultivated, though no plants be allowed to grow for the production of fresh tubers, yet the young shoots will continue to make their appearance from time to time for many years. _use._--"the roots, or tubers, are the parts of the plant eaten. these are boiled in water till they become tender; when, after being peeled, and stewed with butter and a little wine, they will be as pleasant as the real artichoke, which they nearly resemble both in taste and flavor." m'intosh says that the tubers may be used in every way as the potato; and are suited to persons in delicate health, when debarred from the use of most other vegetables. _varieties._--for a long period, there was but a single variety cultivated, or even known. recent experiments in the use of seeds as a means of propagation have developed new kinds, varying greatly in their size, form, and color, possessing little of the watery and insipid character of the heretofore grown jerusalem artichoke, and nearly or quite equalling the potato in flavor and excellence. common white. tubers large, and often irregular in form; skin and flesh white; quality watery, and somewhat insipid. it is unfit for boiling, but is sometimes served baked or roasted. it makes a very crisp and well-flavored pickle. purple-skinned. a french variety, produced from seed. tubers purplish rose-color; flesh dryer when cooked, and finer flavored, than that of the foregoing. red-skinned. like the purple-skinned, produced from seed. skin red. between this and the last named there are various intermediate sorts, differing in shades of color, as well as in size, form, and quality. yellow-skinned. _law._ the tubers of this variety are of a yellowish color, and are generally smaller, and even more irregularly shaped, than those of the common white. they are, however, superior in quality, and of a more agreeable taste when cooked. * * * * * kohl rabi. turnip cabbage. brassica caulo-rapa. [illustration: green kohl rabi.] the kohl rabi is a vegetable intermediate between the cabbage and the turnip. the stem, just above the surface of the ground, swells into a round, fleshy bulb, in form not unlike a turnip. on the top and about the surface of this bulb are put forth its leaves, which are similar to those of the swede turnips; being either lobed or entire on the borders, according to the variety. the seeds are produced the second year; after the ripening of which, the bulb perishes. _sowing and cultivation._--mr. thompson's directions are as follows: "kohl rabi may be sown thinly, broadcast, or in drills four inches apart, in april, may, or june. when the young plants are an inch or two in height, they may be transplanted into any good, well-enriched piece of ground, planting them eight inches apart, in rows fifteen inches asunder, and not deeper in the ground than they were in the seed-bed. water should be given till they take fresh root, and subsequently in dry weather as required; for though the plants suffer little from droughts, yet the tenderness of the produce is greatly impaired by an insufficient supply of moisture. with the exception of stirring the ground and weeding, no further culture is required. the crop will be fit for use when the bulbs are of the size of an early dutch turnip: when allowed to grow much larger, they are only fit for cattle. of field varieties, the bulbs sometimes attain an immense size; weighing, in some cases, fourteen pounds." _seed._--take up a few plants entire in autumn; preserve them during winter in the manner of cabbages or turnips; and transplant to the open ground in april, two feet apart in each direction. the seeds are not distinguishable from those of the swede or ruta-baga turnip, and retain their vitality from five to seven years. _use._--the part chiefly used is the turnip-looking bulb, formed by the swelling of the stem. this is dressed and eaten with sauce or with meat, as turnips usually are. while young, the flesh is tender and delicate, possessing the combined flavor of the cabbage and turnip. they are said to keep better than any other bulb, and to be sweeter and more nutritious than the cabbage or white turnip. "in the north of france, they are extensively grown for feeding cattle,--a purpose for which they seem admirably adapted, as, from having a taste similar to the leaves of others of the species, they are found not to impart any of that peculiar, disagreeable taste to the milk, which it acquires when cows are fed on turnips." _varieties._--these are as follow:-- artichoke-leaved. _thomp._ _vil._ cut-leaved. of german origin, deriving its name from the resemblance of the leaves to those of the artichoke. bulb small, and not smooth or symmetrical. the leaves are beautifully cut, and are very ornamental; but the bulb is comparatively of little value. not much cultivated. early dwarf white. _vil._ bulb white, smaller than that of the common white, and supported close to the ground. the leaves are also smaller, and less numerous. it is earlier, and finer in texture, than the last named; and, while young, excellent for the table. transplant in rows fifteen inches apart, and ten inches asunder in the rows. early purple vienna. _thomp._ _vil._ this corresponds with the early white vienna, except in color, which, in this variety, is a beautiful purple, with a fine glaucous bloom. the leaf-stems are very slender, and the leaves smooth, and few in number. these two vienna sorts are by far the best for table use. when taken young, and properly dressed, they form an excellent substitute for turnips, especially in dry seasons, when a crop of the latter may fail or become of inferior quality. early white vienna. _thomp._ dwarf, small, early; bulb handsome, firm, glossy, white, or very pale-green. the leaves are few, small, with slender stems, the bases of which are dilated, and thin where they spring from different parts on the surface of the bulb. the flesh is white, tender, and succulent, whilst the bulb is young, or till it attains the size of an early white dutch turnip; and at or under this size it should be used. set the plants in rows fifteen inches apart, and ten inches from plant to plant in the lines. green. similar to, if not identical with, the common white. the bulbs are pale-green, attain a very large size, and the variety is hardy and productive. not suited to garden culture, but chiefly grown for farm-purposes. purple. _thomp._ _vil._ this variety differs little from the white, except in color; the bulb being purple, and the leaf-stems and nerves also tinged with purple. like the white, it attains a large size, and is only adapted for field culture; the flesh being too coarse and strong-flavored for table use. white. _thomp._ _vil._ bulb large,--when full grown, measuring seven or eight inches in diameter, and weighing from eight to ten pounds; leaves rather large and numerous; skin very pale, or whitish-green; stem about six inches high. hardy, very late, and chiefly employed for farm-purposes. the variety should be cultivated in rows eighteen inches apart, and the plants should stand one foot apart in the rows. * * * * * oxalis, tuberous-rooted.--_law._ tuberous-rooted wood-sorrel. oca. oxalis crenata. of the tuberous-rooted oxalis, there are two varieties, as follow:-- white-rooted. oca blanca. stem two feet in length, branching, prostrate or trailing, the ends of the shoots erect; leaves trifoliate, yellowish-green, the leaflets inversely heart-shaped; flowers rather large, yellow,--the petals crenate or notched on the borders, and striped at their base with purple. the seeds are matured only in long and very favorable seasons. in its native state, the plant is perennial; but is cultivated and treated, like the common potato, as an annual. _cultivation._--the tubers should be started in a hot-bed in march, and transplanted to the open ground in may, or as soon as the occurrence of settled warm weather. they thrive best in dry, light, and medium fertile soils, in warm situations; and should be planted in hills two feet and a half apart, or in drills two feet and a half apart, setting the plants or tubers an inch and a half deep, and fifteen or eighteen inches apart in the drills; treating, in all respects, as potatoes. the tubers form late in the season; are white, roundish, or oblong, pointed at the union with the plant, and vary in size according to soil, locality, and season; seldom, however, exceeding an inch in diameter, or weighing above four ounces. the yield is comparatively small. _use._--the tubers are used as potatoes. when cooked, the flesh is yellow, very dry and mealy, of the flavor of the potato, with a very slight acidity. the tender, succulent stalks and foliage are used as salad. oxalis, red tuberous-rooted. oca colorada. plant similar in habit to the white tuberous-rooted; but the branches, as well as the under surface of the leaves, are more or less stained with red. tubers larger than those of the last named, roundish, tapering towards the connection with the plant, and furnished with numerous eyes in the manner of the common potato; skin smooth, purplish-red; flesh often three-colored,--the outer portion of the tuber carmine-red, the central part marbled, and the intermediate portion yellow,--the colors, when the root is divided transversely, appearing in concentric zones, or rings. the flesh contains but little farinaceous matter, and possesses a certain degree of acidity, which, to many palates, is not agreeable. propagated, and in all respects cultivated, like the white. either of the varieties may also be grown from cuttings, which root readily. according to a statement from the london horticultural society's journal, the acidity may be converted into a sugary flavor by exposing the tubers to the action of the sun for eight or ten days,--a phenomenon which is analogous to what takes place in the ripening of most fruits. when treated in this form, the tubers lose all trace of acidity, and become as floury as the best descriptions of potatoes. if the action of the sun is continued for a long period, the tubers become of the consistence and sweet taste of figs. mr. thompson states that the disagreeable acid taste may also be removed by changing the water when they are three-quarters boiled. the plants are tender, and are generally destroyed early in autumn by frost. the tubers must be taken up before freezing weather, packed in sand, and placed in a dry, warm cellar for the winter. deppe's oxalis. _thomp._ _vil._ oxalis deppei. a perennial plant from mexico, very distinct from the tuberous-rooted species before described. stalk about one foot in height, smooth and branching; leaves four together, the leaflets wedge-shaped, pale yellowish-green, the upper surface marked by two brownish lines or stains in the form of two sides of a triangle; flowers terminal, of a carmine-rose or pink-red color, stained with green at the base of the petals. "the roots are fleshy, tapering, white, and semi-transparent, and furnished on the top of the crown with a mass of scaly bulbs, sometimes amounting to fifty in number, by means of which the plant can be easily propagated. when well grown, the roots are about four inches in length, and from one inch to one inch and a half in thickness."--_thomp._ _soil and culture._--"this oxalis requires a light, rich soil, mixed with decayed vegetable matter; and it prefers a southern aspect, provided the soil is not too dry. "it may be raised from seed; but is generally propagated by planting the bulbs, which should be set the last of april or beginning of may, or when all danger of frost is over, six inches apart, in rows one foot asunder. the bulbs should be only just covered with soil; for thus they occupy a position, with regard to the surface, similar to that in which they are produced: and this seems indispensable, if fine roots are to be obtained. "the stems have been observed to spring up from a considerable depth; but, in this case, tap-roots were not formed. during summer, the soil must be kept moist in dry weather; otherwise, when rain falls abundantly, the sudden accession of water to the roots occasions their splitting. the plants should be allowed to grow as long as there is no danger from frost; but, previous to this occurring, they should either be taken up or protected. if protected from frost by frames or otherwise, the roots will continue to increase in size till near november. when taken up, the roots should be divested of the numerous bulbs formed on their crowns, and then stored up for use in a cool, dry place, but secure from frost. a similar situation will be proper for the small bulbs; or they may be kept in dry sand till the season of planting."--_thomp._ the plant has been cultivated with the most complete success, with no especial preparation of the soil; merely planting the bulbs in shallow drills, the ground being dug and manured as for other kitchen-garden crops. _use._--in a communication to the "gardener's chronicle," prof. morren gives the uses of the plant as follow:-- "the uses of the oxalis are many. the young leaves are dressed like sorrel in soup, or as a vegetable. they have a fresh and agreeable acid, especially in spring. the flowers are excellent in salad, alone, or mixed with corn salad, endive of both kinds, red cabbage, beet-root, and even with the petals of the dahlia, which are delicious when thus employed. when served at table, the flowers, with their pink corolla, green calyx, yellow stripes, and small stamens, produce a fine effect. the roots are gently boiled with salt and water, after having been washed and slightly peeled. they are then eaten like asparagus in the flemish fashion, with melted butter and the yolk of eggs. they are also served up like scorzonera and endive, with white sauce; and form, in whatever way they are dressed, a tender, succulent dish, easy to digest, agreeing with the most delicate stomach. the analogy of the root with salep indicates that its effect should be excellent on all constitutions." "the bright rose-colored flowers being very ornamental, the plant is sometimes employed as an edging for walks."--_thomp._ * * * * * the parsnip. pastinaca sativa. the parsnip is a hardy biennial, indigenous to great britain and some parts of the south of europe, and, to a considerable extent, naturalized in this country. in its native state, the root is small and fibrous, and possesses little of the fineness of texture, and delicacy of flavor, which characterize the parsnip in its cultivated state. the roots are fusiform, often much elongated, sometimes turbinate, and attain their full size during the first year. the flowers and seeds are produced the second year; the plant then measuring five or six feet in height, with a grooved or furrowed, hollow, branching stem. the flowers are yellow, in large spreading umbels five or six inches in diameter. the seeds ripen in july and august; are nearly circular; about one-fourth of an inch in diameter; flat, thin, very light, membranous on the borders, and of a pale yellowish-brown or yellowish-green color. they vary but little in size, form, or color, in the different varieties; and retain their vitality but two years. about six thousand seeds are contained in one ounce. _propagation, soil, and cultivation._--it is always propagated from seed sown annually. _soil._--the soil should be mellow, deep, and of a rich vegetable texture. "if in moderate condition by the manuring of the previous crop, it will be better than applying manure at sowing. should it be necessary to do so, let the manure be in the most thorough state of decomposition; or, if otherwise, incorporate it with the soil, as far from the surface as possible. the parsnip will grow in a stronger soil than the carrot; and succeeds comparatively well when grown in sand, or even in peat, if well manured." _preparation of the ground, and sowing._--"the seed should be sown as early in spring as the ground is in good working condition. as most of the varieties have long fusiform roots, ordinary ploughing will not stir the soil to a sufficient depth for their greatest perfection; and, as the amount of the crop mainly depends on the length of the roots, it is of the first importance to provide for this fact by making the ground fine and friable above and below, to the depth of at least fifteen inches: eighteen or twenty would be better. when the soil has thus been thoroughly pulverized, level off the surface, and rake it fine and smooth, and sow the seed in drills fourteen inches apart and an inch and a half deep; allowing half an ounce of seed for one hundred feet of drill, and from five to six pounds to the acre. when the young plants are two or three inches high, thin them out to about six inches in the rows; and, as they transplant readily, any vacant space can be filled by resetting the surplus plants. keep the earth between the rows loose, and free from weeds, and also the spaces in the rows, until the leaves cover the ground; after which, little further care will be required. the roots will attain a good size by the middle of september, from which time a few may be drawn for present use; but the parsnip is far best at full maturity, which is indicated by the decay of the leaf in october." _harvesting._--the parsnip sustains no injury when left in the open ground during winter; and it is a common practice to take up in the fall a certain quantity of roots to meet a limited demand in the winter months, allowing the rest to remain in the ground until spring. the roots thus treated are considered to have a finer flavor; that is to say, are better when recently taken from the ground. in taking up the crop in autumn, which should be done just previous to the closing-up of the ground, be careful to remove the soil to a sufficient depth, so as not to injure the roots. the thrust of the spade that easily lifts a carrot without essential injury, will, if applied to the parsnip, break the roots of nine in ten at scarcely half their length from the surface of the ground. as the roots keep much fresher, and retain their flavor much better, when taken up entire, the best method is to throw out a trench beside the rows, to the depth of the roots, when they can be easily, as well as perfectly, removed. they should be dug in pleasant weather, and laid on the ground exposed to the sun for a few hours to dry; "and when all the earth is rubbed off them, and their leaves cut off to within an inch of their crowns, they may be stowed away in sand, dry earth, or in any dry, light material most convenient." when thus packed, they will keep well in almost any location, either in the cellar or storehouse. if the roots which have remained in the ground during winter be taken up in spring, and the tops removed as before directed, they may be packed in sand or earth, and will remain fresh and in good condition for use until may or june. _to raise seed._--in april, thin out the roots, that have been in the ground during the winter, to about eighteen inches apart; or, at the same season, select a few good-sized and symmetrical roots from those harvested in the fall, and set them eighteen inches apart, with the crowns just below the surface of the ground. they will send up a stalk to the height and in the manner before described, and the seeds will ripen in august. the central umbel of seeds is always the largest, and is considered much the best. _use._--"the parsnip is considered as a wholesome and nutritious article of food, and is served at table in various styles in connection with salted meats and fish. the roots, aside from this manner of using, form what may be called an excellent side-dish; when, after being boiled, not too soft, they are dipped in thin batter of flour and butter or the white of eggs, and afterwards fried brown." they contain a considerable portion of sugar, and are considered more nutritive than carrots or turnips. the roots form a common ingredient in soups; and are sometimes used for making bread, and also a kind of wine said to resemble malmsey of madeira. aside from the value of the parsnip as a table vegetable, it is one of the most economical roots for cultivation for farm purposes, as it not only produces an abundant and almost certain crop, but furnishes very nourishing food particularly adapted to and relished by dairy-stock. _varieties._--the varieties, which are not numerous, are as follow:-- common, or dutch. _trans._ swelling parsnip. long smooth dutch. the leaves of this kind are strong and numerous; generally about two feet long or high. the roots are from twenty to thirty inches in length, and from three to four inches in diameter at the shoulder, regularly tapering to the end, occasionally producing a few strong fangs. the crown is short and narrow, elevated, and contracting gradually from the shoulder, which is generally below the surface of the ground. seeds from america, holland, and germany, sown in the garden of the london horticultural society, all proved alike; though some were superior to others in the size of their roots, owing, it was thought, both to a careful selection of seed-roots and to the age of the seeds. it was found that new seeds uniformly produced the largest roots. early short-horn. _m'int._ a recently introduced variety, similar to the turnip-rooted, but shorter. very delicate and fine-flavored. guernsey. _trans._ panais long, of the french. the leaves of this kind grow much stronger and somewhat taller than those of the common parsnip. the leaflets are also broader. the only distinguishable difference in the roots is, that those of the guernsey parsnip are the larger and more perfect, being sometimes three feet long. roots produced from seed obtained from guernsey were evidently much superior to those which were grown from seed raised in other localities: from which it would appear that the guernsey parsnip is only an improved variety of the common, arising from soil and cultivation in that island. dr. m'culloch states that, in guernsey, its roots grow to the length of four feet. in its flavor, it differs little from the common dutch parsnip. hollow-crowned. _trans._ long jersey. hollow-crowned guernsey. hollow-headed. in this variety, the leaves are shorter and not so numerous as those of the common parsnip. the roots are oblong, about eighteen inches in length, and four inches in diameter at the shoulder, more swollen at the top, and not tapering gradually, but ending somewhat abruptly with a small tap-root. the crown is short, and quite sunk into the shoulder, so as to form a hollow ring around the insertion of the stalks of the leaves; and grows mostly below the surface of the ground. it is a good sort for general cultivation, especially as it does not require so deep a soil as either the common, or guernsey. there is little difference in the flavor or general qualities of the three varieties. siam, or yellow. _thomp._ panais de siam. this is said to be more tender and richer in flavor than any of the other varieties. it is mentioned by dr. neill in the "encyclopædia britannica," and is described by m. noisette as being yellowish in color, and in form intermediate between the guernsey and turnip-rooted parsnips. he also states that it is the most esteemed. it does not, however, appear to be known at the present day in this country. turnip-rooted. _trans._ panais rond, of the french. [illustration: turnip-rooted parsnip.] the leaves of this sort are few, and do not exceed twelve to sixteen inches in length. the roots are from four to six inches in diameter, tunnel-shaped, tapering very abruptly, with a strong tap-root; the whole being from twelve to fifteen inches in length. the rind is rougher than either of the other sorts; the shoulder very broad, growing above the surface of the soil; convex, with a small, short crown. it is much the earliest of the parsnips; and, if left in the ground, is liable to rot in the crown. the leaves also decay much sooner than those of most other sorts. it is particularly adapted to hard and shallow soils; and, from its coming into use much earlier than any other kind, very desirable. in flavor, it is mild and pleasant, though less sugary than the long-rooted kinds. the flesh, when dressed, is more yellow than that of any other variety. * * * * * the potato. solanum tuberosum. the potato is a native of central or tropical america. in its wild or natural state, as found growing on the mountains of mexico or south america, the tubers rarely exceed an inch in diameter, and are comparatively unpalatable. during the last half-century, its cultivation within the united states has greatly increased; and it is now considered the most important of all esculent roots, and next to the cereals in value as an article of human subsistence. _soil._--the soils best suited to the potato are of the dryer and lighter descriptions; pasture lands, or new land, with the turf freshly turned, producing the most abundant as well as the most certain crops. on land of a stiff, clayey texture, or in wet soils, they are not only extremely liable to disease, but the quality is usually very inferior. "on soils which have been long cropped and heavily manured, they rarely succeed well; and hence garden ground, in most cases, does not produce tubers of so good quality as those obtained from the fields." _fertilizers._--"in good garden soil, the less manure that is used, the better flavored will be the produce; and it will also be much less affected by the disease. therefore, whilst the malady prevails, or symptoms of it still remain, it is not advisable to apply much manure. "amongst the fertilizers that are employed, may be enumerated, in addition to barnyard and stable manure, leaves, leaf-mould, peat-charcoal, and other carbonaceous substances, lime, gypsum, or plaster, and bone-dust. "wood-ashes are useful in supplying potash and other inorganic substances required by the plant; and they may be advantageously applied where the soil contains a large amount of decayed vegetable matter. the same remark will also apply to lime, which is useful in destroying slugs and other vermin, which attack the tubers. plaster, bone-dust, and superphosphate of lime, are best for humid soils. they induce earliness; and where this is an object, as it must be so long as the disease continues, they may be applied with considerable advantage."--_thomp._ _propagation._--"this is almost universally from tubers; the seed being seldom sown, except for the production of new varieties. with many it is a doubtful question, whether the tubers cut, or planted whole, yield the greater return. from experiments made in the garden of the london horticultural society at chiswick, it was found, on the mean of two plantations,--one made early in the season, and the other about one month later,--that the produce from cut sets exceeded that from whole tubers by nearly one ton per acre. in the latter planting, the produce from whole tubers was somewhat greater than that from single eyes: but, in the early plantation, the cut sets gave nearly two tons per acre more produce than the whole tubers; the weight of potatoes planted being deducted in every case. "another important consideration is, whether small tubers or large ones should be employed for making sets; for if, by using the former, an equally good crop could be obtained, a considerable saving in the expense of sets would be effected. large tubers, however, are preferable, for the following reasons: in all plants, large buds tend to produce large shoots; and small or weak buds, the reverse. now, the eyes of potatoes are true buds, and in small tubers they are comparatively weak: they consequently produce weak shoots, and the crop from such is inferior to that obtained from plants originating from larger tubers, furnished with stronger eyes; and this conclusion has been justified by the results of actual experiments. "the part of the potato employed for planting is not a matter of indifference. it was found, by an experiment made in the garden of the horticultural society, that sets taken from the points of the tubers, and planted early in the season, yielded at the rate of upwards of three tons per acre more produce than was obtained from employing the opposite end of the tubers. in a plantation made a month afterwards, the difference was much less, but still in favor of the point, or top end, of the potato."--_thomp._ with regard to the quantity of seed per acre, great diversity of opinion exists among cultivators. much, of course, depends on the variety, as some sorts not only have more numerous eyes, but more luxuriant and stronger plants, than others. of such varieties, a much less quantity will be required than of those of an opposite character. from a series of experiments carefully made for the purpose of ascertaining the amount of seed most profitable for an acre, it was found that from six to eight bushels, if planted in hills, answered better than more: for, when too much seed was used, there were many small tubers; and where the tubers had been divided into very small parts, or single eyes, the plants were more feeble, and the yield less in number and weight, though usually of larger size. _methods of planting and cultivation._--potatoes are usually planted either in hills or ridges; the former method being the more common in this country. if planted in hills, they should be made from three feet to three and a half apart; the distance to be regulated by the habit of the variety under cultivation. if in ridges or drills, they may be made from two and a half to three feet apart; although some of the earlier and smaller kinds may be successfully grown at eighteen or twenty inches. "of sets formed by the division of an average-sized tuber into four parts, three may be allowed a hill; or, if planted in drills, the sets may be placed from seven to twelve inches asunder,--the distance to be regulated by the habit or size of the plant. on light, warm land, the sets should be covered about four inches in depth; but in wet, cold soil, three inches will be sufficient. "as soon as the plants are fairly above the surface, hoeing and surface-stirring should be commenced. the earth should gradually be drawn about the hills, or along the ridges, at each successive hoeing, and every encouragement given to the side-roots to extend themselves: for nearly at their extremities the tubers are formed; so that deeply stirring the ground between the hills or ridges tends to their extension. this latter treatment, however, must not be carried beyond a certain stage in the growth of the plant, or after the tubers have reached a considerable size, as the extremities of the roots might be seriously injured. some varieties of potatoes produce their tubers at a much greater distance from the stem than others. these are chiefly to be found among the later sorts. most of the early kinds produce theirs close to the stem, or at the extremity of very short runners; seldom more than nine inches from the stalk of the plant." _forcing._--this should be commenced from three to four weeks before the season for planting in the open ground. the earliest varieties should be chosen for the purpose, selecting whole tubers of medium size, and placing them close together, in a single layer, among half-decayed leaves or very light loam, on the surface of a moderate hot-bed. "when the shoots have attained the height of two or three inches, and the weather has become sufficiently mild, they should be carefully taken out, and divided into sets; in the process of cutting up the tubers, avoiding as much as possible doing injury to the small fibrous roots, and also to the growing shoots. these sets should then be planted out in hills or drills, in the usual manner and at the usual depth; if possible, leaving the upper portion of the young shoot just above the surface of the ground. some care is requisite in planting out the sets, particularly in covering; for, if the soil is applied too rudely, the sprouts, which separate very easily from the tubers, are exceedingly liable to be broken off, and the set destroyed for early use. if severe cold or frosty weather occurs, the plants should be protected by straw, or any convenient, light material, placed along the drills or on the hills." _taking the crop, and method of preservation._--"the early varieties should be dug for use as they attain a suitable size; which, in warm exposure, will be about the beginning of july; and thence till the middle of august, in less favorable places. the practice of partially removing the soil from about the roots, and gathering the largest tubers, leaving the smaller ones, with the expectation that they will attain a larger size, is a mode of proceeding which seldom realizes the hopes of the cultivator; for the potato, if once disturbed at the roots, seldom recovers the check. "when no apprehension is felt on account of disease, a week's delay in commencing on the crop will be found of great importance both to the bulk and quality; for just previous to the decay of the tops, if pleasant weather prevails and the ground is sufficiently moist, the tubers increase in size with great rapidity. "late varieties usually constitute the great portion of the main crop, and are those which require most care in taking up and storing. so long as the plants continue green, the potato should be allowed to remain in the ground; as this is quite indicative that the tubers have not arrived at full maturity." in the preservation of potatoes, it is of the first importance that they be excluded from light. if this is neglected, they become not only injurious, but actually poisonous; and this is especially the fact when they are allowed to become of a green color, which they readily will do on exposure to the light. in a state of complete darkness they should therefore be placed, the day they are taken out of the ground; and it were even better that they were stored in rather a damp state, than that they should be exposed for a day to the light with a view to dry them. drying has a bad effect on the skin of the potato; for, if subjected to this, the skin and part of the epidermis are made to part with their natural juices, which ever afterwards renders them incapable of absorbing moisture, even if presented to them. fermentation is also an important evil to be guarded against, as it changes the whole substance of the potato, and, so far as seed potatoes are concerned, destroys their vegetative principle. as security against this, they should be stored either in barrels or boxes, or in long, narrow ridges, with partitions of earth between. potatoes once dried should never be again moistened until just before using. "keeping potatoes has the effect of diminishing the quantity of starch contained in them. according to mr. johnson, those which in october yielded readily seventeen per cent of starch, gave, in the following april, only fourteen and a half per cent. the effect of frost is also to lessen the quantity of starch. it acts chiefly upon the vascular and albuminous part; but it also converts a portion of the starch into sugar: hence the sweetish taste of frosted potatoes."--_m'int._ _varieties._--messrs. peter lawson and sons describe one hundred and seventy-five varieties: and other foreign authors enumerate upwards of five hundred, describing the habit of the plant; size, form, and color of the tubers; quality and general excellence; and comparative value for cultivation. they are obtained from seeds; the latter being quite small, flat, and lens-shaped. one hundred and five thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their germinative properties three years. the process is as follows: "select some of the largest and best berries, or balls, when fully ripe, which is denoted by the withering of the stalk; and separate the seeds from the pulp, and dry them thoroughly in the sun. these should be sown in the following spring, and the produce taken up in october. the tubers will then have nearly attained the size of small plums. the best of these should be selected, and the product of each plant carefully and separately preserved. in the month of april following, they should be planted at a distance from one another of from fifteen to eighteen inches; and, when they rise about two inches from the ground, they should be earthed up slightly with the hoe,--an operation which may be repeated during the season. when they have arrived at maturity, they are to be taken up, keeping the product of each stalk by itself; which product is again to be planted the ensuing spring. a judgment of the properties of the varieties will then have been formed, and those are to be reserved for cultivation which are approved of. it will be found, that, whatever had been the character of the parent stock, the seeds will produce numerous varieties, some white, some dark, in color, with tubers of different forms, round, oblong, and kidney-shaped, and varying greatly in the dryness, color, and farinaceous character, of the flesh."--_low._ ash-leaved early. stem nearly two feet in height, erect, with long, smooth, shining, and drooping foliage; flowers very seldom produced; tubers white, roundish, rough-skinned; flesh white, of medium quality. the variety is healthy, and remarkably early; well suited to open culture, but not adapted for growing under glass, on account of its tall habit. ash-leaved kidney. one of the earliest of the garden varieties, well adapted for forcing under glass or for starting in a hot-bed, and subsequent cultivation in the open ground. the plant is of spreading habit, and about eighteen inches in height; leaves small, recurved; tubers of medium size, kidney-shaped, white; flesh white, dry, and well flavored. very healthy. introduced. biscuit. _law._ plant two feet and a half high, spreading; leaves rather rough, large, and of a pale-green color; flowers whitish; tubers rather small, round, smooth, and of a light-brownish color. a very healthy variety, mealy, well flavored, and quite productive. the plants do not decay, nor do the tubers attain full maturity, until nearly the close of the season: the latter are, however, of good quality, and in perfection for the table soon after being harvested. black chenango. black mercer. plant vigorous, and generally of healthy habit; tubers nearly of the form of the lady's finger, but of larger size; skin very deep purple, or nearly black; flesh purple, both in its crude state and when cooked; quality good, usually dry, and of good flavor. the black chenango is moderately productive, and withstands disease better than almost any other potato; but its dark color is objectionable. compared with many of the recent varieties, it has little merit, and is not a profitable sort for extensive cultivation. buckeye. a western variety; grown also to a considerable extent in some parts of the middle states. "it is a handsome, round potato; white throughout, except a little bright pink at the bottom of the eye. it is very early,--ripening as early as the chenango; attains a good marketable size as soon as the dykeman; cooks very dry and light; and is fine flavored, particularly when first matured. it throws up a very thick, vigorous, and luxuriant vine; grows compactly in the hill, and to a large size, yielding abundantly." for planting for early use, it is a promising variety: but for a late or medium crop, upon strong, rich ground, it is said to grow so rapidly, and to so great a size, that many of the tubers are liable to be hollow-hearted; which considerably impairs their value for table use. calico. similar to the pink-eyed; varying little except in color, which is mostly red, with occasional spots and splashes of white. it is in no respect superior to the last-named variety in quality, and cannot be considered of much value for agricultural purposes or for the table. california red. a bright-red potato from california. tubers variable in form, from long to nearly round, rather smooth; eyes slightly depressed. it is one of the most productive of all the varieties; but, on account of its extreme liability to disease, cannot be recommended for general cultivation. carter. a medium-sized, roundish, flattened, white potato, once esteemed the finest of all varieties, but at present nearly or quite superseded by the jackson white, of which it is supposed to be the parent. eyes rather numerous, and deeply sunk; flesh very white, remarkably dry, farinaceous, and well flavored. originated about thirty years ago, in berkshire county, mass., by mr. john carter. churchill. a variety said to have originated in maine, and often sold in the market for the "state of maine;" which it somewhat resembles in size, form, and color. flesh yellow. not a desirable sort. it is much inferior to the "state of maine;" and, in many places, the latter variety has been condemned in consequence of the churchill having been ignorantly cultivated in its stead. cristy. an early sort, of good quality, but rather unproductive. shape somewhat long, though often nearly round; color white and purple, striped, and blended together. it is of no value as an agricultural variety; and, for table use, cannot be considered superior to many other varieties equally healthy and more prolific. cups. introduced. plant upright, stocky, surviving till frost; flowers pale purple; tubers pink or reddish, large, oblong, often irregular; flesh dry and farinaceous. very healthy and productive, but better suited for agricultural purposes than for the table. danvers seedling. danvers red. plant healthy and vigorous. the large, full-grown tubers are long; and the smaller, undeveloped ones, nearly round. color light red, with faint streaks of white; eyes moderately sunk; quality fair. this variety originated in danvers, essex county, mass.; and, when first introduced, was not only of good size and quality, but remarkably productive. it has, however, much deteriorated; and is now, both as respects quality and yield, scarcely above an average. at one period, it had the reputation of being one of the best varieties for keeping, and of entirely withstanding the attacks of the potato disease. davis's seedling. this variety originated in the town of sterling, mass.; and was early disseminated through the influence of the massachusetts horticultural society, at whose exhibitions it attracted much attention on account of its size and beauty. for general cultivation, it is probably one of the most profitable sorts known, as it yields abundantly, even with ordinary attention. under a high state of cultivation, seven hills have produced a bushel of potatoes. the tubers are of good size, red, nearly round, though sometimes more or less flattened. eyes deeply sunk, and not very numerous; flesh nearly white, slightly tinged with pink beneath the skin when cooked; quality good, being dry, farinaceous, and well flavored. it requires the full season for its complete perfection, and resists disease better than most varieties. as a winter potato, or for extensive cultivation for market, it is one of the best of all varieties; and commends itself to the farmer, both as respects quality and yield, as being greatly superior to the peach-blow, pink-eye, vermont white, and many similar varieties, which so abound in city markets. dykeman. plant of medium strength and vigor, rarely producing seed or blossoms; tubers large, roundish, often oblong; color white, clouded at the stem-end and about the eyes (which are moderately sunk and rather numerous) with purple; flesh white, or yellowish-white, its quality greatly affected by season, and the soil in which the variety may be cultivated. in certain descriptions of rather strong, clayey land, the yield is often remarkably great, and the quality much above medium. in such land, if warm and sheltered, the tubers attain a very large size quite early in the season, and find a ready sale in the market at greatly remunerative prices. under other conditions, it frequently proves small, waxy, and inferior in quality, and profitless to the cultivator. notwithstanding these defects, its size, earliness, and productiveness render it worthy of trial. early blue. tubers of medium size, roundish, of a bright purple or bluish color; eyes moderately deep; flesh, when cooked, white, or yellowish-white, mealy, and well flavored. this old and familiar variety is one of the earliest of the garden potatoes, of fine quality, and one of the best for forcing for early crops. it retains its freshness and flavor till late in the spring; is of comparatively healthy habit; and, though but moderately productive, is worthy more general cultivation. early cockney. plant of medium strength and vigor, recumbent, rarely blossoming, and usually ripening and decaying early in the season, or before the occurrence of frost; tubers white, large, roundish, rough; flesh yellowish-white, or nearly white, dry, farinaceous, and of good flavor; hardy, moderately productive, and recommended as a desirable intermediate variety for the garden or for field culture. introduced. early manly. plant medium or small, rarely blossoming, and decaying early in the season; tubers of medium size, white, roundish; flesh yellowish-white, dry, mealy, and mild flavored. it yields well, and is a good variety for early garden culture. introduced. flour-ball. plant reclining, of rather slender habit, rarely blossoming; tubers of medium size, white, round, the skin quite rough or netted; flesh white, dry, farinaceous, and mild flavored. it yields abundantly, and is a good sort for the garden; but would prove less profitable for growing for the market than many other varieties of larger size. fluke kidney. _cot. gard._ plant vigorous, with luxuriant, deep-green foliage; continuing its growth till late in the season, or until destroyed by frost. the tuber is remarkable for its singular shape, of a flattened oval, frequently measuring eight or nine inches in length by nearly three inches in width. the peel is thin, and remarkably free from eyes; the surface, very smooth and even; the flesh is very dry, mealy, and farinaceous, exceedingly well flavored, and, in general excellence, surpassed by few, if any, of the late varieties. it is also healthy, hardy, and very productive; but is much better towards spring than when used soon after being harvested. the variety originated near manchester, eng., about the year ; and appears to be a cross or hybrid between the lapstone kidney and pink-eye. in this country, the variety has never reached the degree of excellence it appears to have attained in england. with us the yield has been small, and it has suffered greatly from disease. the flesh is also yellow when cooked, and quite strong flavored. not recommended for cultivation. forty-fold. an english variety. plant healthy, ripening about the middle of september, rarely producing seed or blossoms; tubers white, of medium size, round; skin rough or netted; flesh white, comparatively dry, and well flavored. it yields abundantly; is a good kind for forcing; and, though the plants remain green until frost, the tubers attain a suitable size for use quite early in the season. an english sort, known as taylor's forty-fold, is quite distinct; the tubers being oval, much flattened, and of a reddish color. garnet chili. stem not long or tall, rather erect, sturdy, and branching; flowers abundant, pale purplish-white, and usually abortive; tubers red, or garnet-colored, very large, roundish, and comparatively smooth and regular; flesh white, dry, mealy, and, the size of the tuber considered, remarkably well flavored. the variety is healthy, yields abundantly, is greatly superior to the peach-blow and kindred sorts for table use, and might be profitably grown for farm-purposes. the plants survive till destroyed by frost. gillyflower. tubers large, oval, or oblong, flattened, white, and comparatively smooth; flesh white, dry, and of fair quality. the plants are healthy, and the variety is very productive: but it is inferior to many others for table use; though its uniform good size, and its fair form, and whiteness, make it attractive and salable in the market. it is similar to, if not identical with, the st. helena and the laplander. green-top. plant strong and vigorous; flowers dull white, generally abortive; tubers quite large, white, roundish, often irregular; eyes deep-set; flesh white, comparatively dry, and well flavored. the variety is productive, and of healthy, hardy habit; not early; the plants continuing green till destroyed by frost. introduced. hill's early. an old variety, very little, if at all, earlier than the white chenango. quality not much above mediocrity; its chief recommendation being its earliness. skin and flesh yellowish-white; eyes rather deeply sunk; size medium; form roundish; moderately productive. it does not ordinarily cook dry and mealy; and, though desirable as an early potato for a limited space in the garden, cannot be recommended for general cultivation. irish cups. tubers nearly round, yellowish-white; eyes deep-set; flesh yellow, and strong flavored when cooked. unfit for table use. aside from the difference in form, the variety somewhat resembles the rohan. jackson white. this comparatively new but very excellent variety originated in maine; and is supposed to be a seedling from the celebrated carter, which it much resembles. tubers yellowish-white, varying in size from medium to large; form somewhat irregular, but generally roundish, though sometimes oblong and a little flattened; eyes rather numerous, and deeply sunk; flesh perfectly white when cooked, remarkably dry, mealy, farinaceous, and well flavored. the variety unquestionably attains its greatest perfection when grown in maine, or the northern sections of vermont and new hampshire; but is nevertheless of good quality when raised in the warmer localities of new england and the middle states. it is earlier than the davis seedling; comparatively free from disease; a good keeper; commands the highest market-price; and, every thing considered, must be classed as one of the best, and recommended for general cultivation. the plants are very erect, the flowers nearly white; and the balls, or berries, are produced in remarkable abundance. jenny lind. rhode-island seedling. a variety of comparatively recent introduction. plant very strong and vigorous; tubers of extraordinary size when grown in strong soils, long and somewhat irregular in form, thickly set on the surface with small knobs, or protuberances, above which the eyes are placed in rather deep basins, or depressions; color red and white intermixed, in some specimens mostly red, while in others white is the prevailing color; flesh yellow when cooked, and quite coarse, but esteemed by many as of good quality for table use. one of the largest of all the varieties, remarkably productive, quite free from disease, keeps well, and, as an agricultural potato, rivals the rohan. requires the full season. it sports more than any potato; being exceedingly variable in size, form, and color. lady's finger. ruffort kidney. _law._ stem from one foot and a half to two feet high, of straggling habit of growth; leaves smooth, and of a light-green color; blossoms rarely if ever produced; tubers white, smooth, long, and slender, and of nearly the same diameter throughout; eyes very numerous, and slightly depressed. a very old variety, of pretty appearance, long cultivated, and much esteemed as a baking potato; its peculiar form being remarkably well adapted for the purpose. it is, however, very liable to disease; and as many of the recently introduced seedlings are quite as good for baking, as well as far more hardy and productive, it cannot now be considered as a variety to be recommended for general culture. lapstone kidney. _m'int._ nichol's early. a variety of english origin. m'intosh describes it as being "decidedly the best kidney potato grown, and an excellent cropper. tubers sometimes seven inches in length, and three inches in breadth. it is longer in coming through the ground in spring than most other varieties, and the stems at first appear weakly; but they soon lose this appearance, and grow most vigorously. it is a first-rate potato in august and september; and will keep in excellent condition till may following, without losing either its mealiness or flavor." long red. form long, often somewhat flattened,--its general appearance being not unlike that of the jenny lind, though of smaller size; color red; flesh marbled or clouded with red while crude, but, when cooked, becoming nearly white. the stem-end is often soggy, and unfit for use; and the numerous prongs and knobs which are often put forth on the sides of the tubers greatly impair their value for the table. a few years since, this variety was exceedingly abundant in the market, and was esteemed one of the best sorts for use late in spring and early in summer. it was also remarkably healthy and very productive, and was considered one of the most valuable kinds for general cultivation. it has somewhat improved in quality by age, although not now to be classed as a potato of first quality. the jenny lind and other varieties are now rapidly superseding it in most localities. mexican. a very handsome white variety, long and smooth, like the st. helena, but not quite so large; eyes very slightly depressed. it is of poor quality, quite unproductive, rots badly, and not worthy of cultivation. nova-scotia blue. this old variety, at one period, was very extensively cultivated, and for many years was considered the most profitable of all the sorts for raising for market or for family use. form nearly round, the larger specimens often somewhat flattened; color light blue; eyes moderately depressed; flesh white, dry, and good. it yields abundantly; but, in consequence of its great liability to disease, its cultivation is now nearly abandoned. old kidney. tubers kidney-shaped, white; flesh yellow, rather waxy, and of indifferent flavor. it is neither very productive, nor very valuable in other respects; and it is now little cultivated. peach-blow. tubers similar in form to the davis seedling, but rather more smooth and regular; color red, the eyes not deeply sunk; flesh yellow when cooked, dry and mealy, but only of medium quality, on account of its comparatively strong flavor. it is hardy and quite productive; keeps well; and is extensively cultivated for market in the northern parts of new england and the state of new york, as well as in the canadas. it is common to the markets of most of the large seaport cities; and, during the winter and spring, is shipped in large quantities to the interior and more southern sections of the united states. the davis seedling--which is quite as productive, and much superior in quality for table use--might be profitably grown as a substitute. pink-eyed. tubers nearly round; eyes rather large and deep; color mostly white, with spots and splashes of pink, particularly about the eyes; flesh yellow. the pink-eyed is an old but inferior variety, hardly superior in quality to the vermont white. though quite productive, it is generally esteemed unworthy of cultivation. poggy, or porgee. cow-horn. a dark-colored variety, extensively cultivated in the british provinces, particularly in nova scotia; and, during the autumn, imported in considerable quantities into the principal seaports of the united states. it is of excellent quality, and by some preferred to all others, especially for baking; for which purpose, on account of its size and remarkable form, it seems peculiarly adapted. it is moderately productive, and succeeds well if seed is procured every year or two from the east; but, if otherwise, it soon deteriorates, even under good cultivation. size above medium; form long, broadest, and somewhat flattened, at the stem-end, and tapering towards the opposite extremity, which is often more or less sharply pointed. it is also frequently bent, or curved; whence the name "cow-horn," in some localities. skin smooth; eyes not depressed; color dark-blue outside, white within when cooked. not very hardy; requiring a full season for its complete perfection. unless where well known, its color is objectionable; and it is generally less salable than the white-skinned varieties. quarry. a large, white, roundish, english potato, not unlike the variety universally known and cultivated many years since in this country as the orange potato. plant vigorous, and of strong, stocky habit; flowers purple, generally abortive; flesh yellowish-white, of fair quality for table use. a hardy, very productive sort, which might be profitably grown for marketing and for agricultural purposes. the plants survive till frost. not early. rohan. tubers very large, in form much resembling the jenny lind,--the full-developed specimens being long, and the smaller or immature tubers nearly round; eyes numerous and deep-set; color yellowish-white, with clouds or patches of pink or rose; flesh greenish-white when cooked, yellowish, watery, and strong flavored. the plant is strong and vigorous, and continues its growth till destroyed by frost. the flowers are generally abortive. mr. hyde describes it as a variety famous in history, but infamous as a table potato, and fit only for stock. it formerly gave an immense yield, but now produces only moderate crops; and its cultivation is nearly abandoned. shaw's early. _m'int._ an english variety, much employed for forcing, and extensively cultivated in the vicinity of london for early marketing. it is, for an early sort, a large, beautiful, oblong, white-skinned potato. its only fault is its hollow eyes. it is very productive. state of maine. this variety, as implied by its name, is of maine origin, and was introduced to general notice six or seven years ago. in form, the tubers are similar to the white chenango, being long, smooth, and somewhat flattened; though the smaller and undeveloped bulbs are often nearly round. eyes almost even with the surface, and quite numerous; color white, like the jackson white. when cooked, the flesh is white, very dry, mealy, and of good flavor. it is quite early, but more liable to disease than the davis seedling and some other varieties. in maine it is grown in great perfection, nearly equalling the jackson white and carter as a table potato. on light soil, it is only moderately productive; but on strong land, in high cultivation, yields abundantly. st. helena. laplander. an old and very productive variety. plant erect, and of a bushy habit, about two feet and a half in height; foliage light green; flowers pale reddish-purple. the tubers are of an oblong form, and remarkably large; specimens having been produced measuring ten inches in length. eyes numerous, but not deeply set; skin white and smooth; flesh white when cooked, mealy, and of fair quality. it is a very healthy variety, and not easily affected by disease; but belongs to that class of late field potatoes, the foliage of which does not in ordinary seasons decay until injured by frost, and the tubers of which generally require to be kept some time before they are fit for using to the greatest advantage. taylor's forty-fold. _law._ forty-fold. plant about one foot and a half high, slender, and spreading in habit; foliage light green; flowers very rarely produced; tubers oval, much flattened, and of medium size; skin rough, and of a dull, reddish color. this variety is very dry and starchy, well flavored, and suffers comparatively little from disease. it is also very productive, and a good early sort for the garden; but not well adapted for field culture, or for cultivation for agricultural purposes. tolon. plant quite low and dwarf, decaying with the season; flowers lilac-purple, large and handsome, generally abortive; tubers of medium size, roundish, of a pink or reddish color; flesh yellow, dry, but not of so mild a flavor as many of the more recent kinds. moderately productive. introduced. vermont white. a very fair and good-sized but poor variety, grown to a considerable extent in the northern and more interior portions of new england. color white outside; but the flesh, when cooked, is yellow, soft, not dry, and strong flavored. it is a strong grower, and very productive, but rots badly. it commands only a low price in the market, on account of its very inferior quality; and cannot be recommended for general cultivation. veto, or abington blue. tubers long, resembling in form those of the long red, and, like that variety, often watery at the stem-end after being cooked; color blue or purplish; flesh white; quality fair as a table potato. this variety originally was remarkably productive, and at one period was in very general cultivation; but now is rarely planted, as it is extremely liable to disease, and rots badly. white chenango. chenango. mercer, of new york. an old and familiar variety; at one period almost everywhere known, and generally acknowledged as the best of all varieties. as a potato for early planting, whether for family use or for the market, it was a general favorite; but, within a few years past, it has not only greatly deteriorated in quality and productiveness, but has been peculiarly liable to disease and premature decay of the plants. when well grown, the tubers are of good size, rather long, slightly flattened, and comparatively smooth; eyes slightly sunk; color white, with blotches of purple,--before cooking, somewhat purple under the skin; flesh, when cooked, often stained with pale purple; in its crude state, zoned with bright purple. quality good; dry, mealy, and well flavored. the variety is considerably affected by the soil in which it may be cultivated; in some localities, being much more colored than in others. it is now rapidly giving place to new seedling varieties, quite as good in quality, and more healthy and productive. white cups. tubers long and flattened, somewhat irregular; eyes deeply sunk; skin yellowish; flesh white. it is a very handsome variety, of maine origin, but is only moderately productive. it is also of ordinary quality, rots easily, and will probably never become popular. white mountain. tubers large, long, white, smooth, uniformly fair and perfect. appears to be nearly identical with the st. helena and laplander. it is very productive, and a good agricultural variety; but, for table use, can be considered only of second quality. worcester seedling. dover. riley. tubers of a pinkish-white color, and similar in form to the jackson white. eyes deep-set; flesh white, more so than that of the davis seedling. it keeps well, and is an excellent variety for cultivation for family use, but less profitable than many others for the market. stalks upright; blossoms pinkish, but not abundant. in quality, this comparatively old and well-known variety is nearly or quite equal to the carter; and, besides, is much more productive. as a garden potato, it deserves general cultivation. requires the full season. * * * * * the radish. raphanus sativus. the radish is a hardy annual plant, originally from china. the roots vary greatly in form; some being round or ovoid, some turbinate, and others fusiform, or long, slender, and tapering. when in flower, the plant rises from three to four feet in height, with an erect, smooth, and branching stem. the flowers are quite large, and, in the different kinds, vary in color from clear white to various shades of purple. the seed-pods are long, smooth, somewhat vesiculate, and terminate in a short spur, or beak. the seeds are round, often irregularly flattened or compressed: those of the smaller or spring and summer varieties being of a grayish-red color; and those of the winter or larger-rooted sorts, of a yellowish-red. an ounce contains from three thousand three hundred to three thousand six hundred seeds, and they retain their vitality five years. _soil, propagation, and cultivation._--all the varieties thrive best in a light, rich, sandy loam; dry for early spring sowings, moister for the summer. like all annuals, the radish is propagated by seeds, which may be sown either broadcast or in drills; but the latter method is preferable, as allowing the roots to be drawn regularly, with less waste. for the spindle-rooted kinds, mark out the drills half an inch deep, and five or six inches apart; for the small, turnip-rooted kinds, three-quarters of an inch deep, and six inches asunder. as the plants advance in growth, thin them so as to leave the spindle-rooted an inch apart, and the larger-growing sorts proportionally farther. "_for raising early radishes without a hot-bed._--sow in the open ground the last of march or early in april, arch the bed over with hoops or pliant rods, and cover constantly at night and during cold days with garden-matting. in moderate days, turn up the covering at the side next the sun; and, if the weather is very fine and mild, remove it entirely." _open culture._--sow in spring as soon as the ground can be worked. if space is limited, radishes may be sown with onions or lettuce. when grown with the former, they are said to be less affected by the maggot. for a succession, a small sowing should be made each fortnight until midsummer, as the early-sown plants are liable to become rank, and unfit for use, as they increase in size. radishes usually suffer from the drought and heat incident to the summer; and, when grown at this season, are generally fibrous and very pungent. to secure the requisite shade and moisture, they are sometimes sown in beds of asparagus, that the branching stems may afford shade for the young radishes, and render them more crisp and tender. a good criterion by which to judge of the quality of a radish is to break it asunder by bending it at right angles. if the parts divide squarely and freely, it is fit for use. _production and quantity of seed._--to raise seed of the spring or summer radishes, the best method is to transplant; which should be done in may, as the roots are then in their greatest perfection. take them up in moist weather; select plants with the shortest tops and the smoothest and best-formed roots; and set them, apart from all other varieties, in rows two feet and a half distant, inserting each root wholly into the ground, down to the leaves. with proper watering, they will soon strike, and shoot up in branching stalks, producing abundance of seeds, ripening in autumn. one ounce and a half of seed will sow a bed five feet in width and twelve feet in length. ten pounds are required for seeding an acre. the excellence of a radish consists in its being succulent, mild, crisp, and tender; but, as these qualities are secured only by rapid growth, the plants should be frequently and copiously watered in dry weather. the varieties are divided into two classes; viz., spring or summer, and autumn or winter, radishes. spring or summer radishes. these varieties are all comparatively hardy, and may be sown in the open ground as early in spring as the soil is in good working condition. the earliest spring radishes are grown as follows: "in january, february, or march, make a hot-bed three feet and a half wide, and of a length proportionate to the supply required. put upon the surface of the dung six inches of well-pulverized earth; sow the seeds broadcast, or in drills five inches apart; and cover half an inch deep with fine mould. when the plants have come up, admit the air every day in mild or tolerably good weather by tilting the upper end of the light, or sometimes the front, one, two, or three inches high, that the radishes may not draw up long, pale, and weak. if they have risen very thick, thin them, while young, to about one inch apart. be careful to cover the sashes at night with garden mats, woollen carpeting, or like material. water with tepid water, at noon, on sunny days. if the heat of the bed declines much, apply a moderate lining of warm dung or stable-litter to the sides, which, by gently renewing the heat, will soon forward the radishes for pulling. remember, as they advance in growth, to give more copious admissions of air daily, either by lifting the lights in front several inches, or, in fine, mild days, by drawing the lights mostly off; but be careful to draw them on early, before the sun has much declined and the air become cool." early black. noir hatif. _vil._ bulb nearly spherical, slightly elongated or tapering, nearly of the size and form of the gray turnip-rooted; skin dull black, rough, and wrinkled; flesh white, solid, crisp, and piquant; leaves of the size of those of the gray turnip-rooted. season intermediate between that of the last named and the black spanish. early long purple. rave violette hative. _vil._ a sub-variety of the long purple, earlier and of smaller size. early purple turnip-rooted. a few days earlier than the scarlet turnip-rooted. size, form, and flavor nearly the same. early scarlet turnip-rooted. rond rose hatif. _vil._ bulb spherical, or a little flattened,--often bursting or cracking longitudinally before attaining its full dimensions; skin deep scarlet; flesh rose-colored, crisp, mild, and pleasant; neck small; leaves few in number, and of smaller size than those of the common scarlet turnip-rooted. season quite early,--two or three days in advance of the last named. as a variety for forcing, it is considered one of the best; but the small size of the leaves renders it inconvenient for bunching, and it is consequently less cultivated for the market than many other sorts. extensively grown in the vicinity of paris. early white turnip-rooted. rond blanc hatif. _vil._ skin and flesh white; form similar to that of the scarlet turnip-rooted. it is, however, of smaller size, and somewhat earlier. an excellent sort, and much cultivated. gray olive-shaped. form similar to the scarlet olive-shaped. skin gray; flesh white, crisp, and well flavored. gray turnip-rooted. gray summer. round brown. _trans._ the form of this variety may be called round, though it is somewhat irregular in shape. it grows large, and often becomes hollow. it should, therefore, be used while young, or when not more than an inch or an inch and a half in diameter. the outside coat is mottled with greenish-brown, wrinkled, and often marked with transverse white lines. the flesh is mild, not so solid as that of many varieties, and of a greenish-white color. the leaves are similar to those of the yellow turnip-rooted, growing long and upright, with green footstalks. half early, and a good variety for summer use. long purple. _thomp._ root long, a large portion growing above ground; skin deep purple; flesh white, and of good flavor. the seed-leaves, which are quite large, are used as a small salad. the variety is early, and good for forcing. when the green tops are required for salading, the seeds should be sown in drills, as mustard or cress. long salmon. _trans._ long scarlet salmon. this variety has been considered synonymous with the long scarlet; but it is really a distinct sort. the neck of the root rises about an inch above the ground, like that of the scarlet, but it is of a paler red; and this color gradually becomes lighter towards the middle, where it is a pale-pink or salmon color. from the middle, the color grows paler downwards, and the extremity of the root is almost white. in shape and size, this radish differs nothing from the scarlet; nor does it appear to be earlier, or to possess any qualities superior to the scarlet radish, the beauty of which, when well grown, exceeds that of any other long radish. long scarlet. _thomp._ early scarlet short-top. early frame. [illustration: long scarlet radish.] root long, a considerable portion growing above the surface of the ground,--outside, of a beautiful, deep-pink color, becoming paler towards the lower extremity; flesh white, transparent, crisp, and of good flavor, having less pungency than that of the scarlet turnip; leaves small, but larger than those of the last-named variety. when of suitable size for use, the root measures seven or eight inches in length, and five-eighths or three-fourths of an inch in diameter at its largest part. the long scarlet radish, with its sub-varieties, is more generally cultivated for market in the eastern, middle, and western states, than any other, or perhaps even more than all other sorts. it is very extensively grown about london, and is everywhere prized, not only for its fine qualities, but for its rich, bright color. it is also one of the hardiest of the radishes; and is raised readily in any common frame, if planted as early as february. olive-shaped scarlet. oblong rose-colored. _thomp._ [illustration: olive scarlet radish.] bulb an inch and a half deep, three-fourths of an inch in diameter, oblong, somewhat in the form of an olive, terminating in a very slim tap-root; skin fine scarlet; neck small; leaves not very numerous, and of small size; flesh rose-colored, tender, and excellent. early, and well adapted for forcing and for the general crop. purple turnip-rooted. this is a variety of the scarlet turnip-rooted; the size, form, color, and quality being nearly the same. the skin is purple. it is considered a few days earlier than the last named. scarlet turnip-rooted. crimson turnip-rooted. [illustration: scarlet turnip-rooted.] bulb spherical; when in its greatest perfection, measuring about an inch in diameter; skin fine, deep scarlet; flesh white, sometimes stained with red; leaves rather large and numerous. the variety is early, and deserves more general cultivation, not only on account of its rich color, but for the crisp and tender properties of its flesh. it is much esteemed in england, and is grown extensively for the london market. small, early, yellow turnip-rooted. bulb of the size and form of the scarlet turnip-rooted; skin smooth, yellow; flesh white, fine-grained, crisp, and rather pungent; foliage similar to that of the scarlet variety; season ten or fifteen days later. white, crooked. tortillée du mans. _vil._ root very long; when suitable for use, measuring twelve inches and upwards in length, and an inch in diameter, nearly cylindrical, often irregular, and sometimes assuming a spiral or cork-screw form; skin white and smooth; flesh white, not so firm as that of most varieties, and considerably pungent; leaves very large. white turnip-rooted. bulb of the form and size of the scarlet turnip-rooted; skin white; flesh white and semi-transparent. it possesses less piquancy than the scarlet, but is some days later. yellow turnip-rooted. _trans._ yellow summer. bulb nearly spherical, but tapering slightly towards the tap-root, which is very slender. it grows large,--to full four inches in diameter, when old; but should be eaten young, when about an inch in diameter. the flesh is mild, crisp, solid, and quite white. the skin is of a yellowish-brown color; and the leaves grow long and upright, with green footstalks. half early, and well adapted for summer cultivation. long white. white italian. naples. white transparent. root long and slender, nearly of the size and form of the long scarlet; skin white,--when exposed to the light, tinged with green; flesh white, crisp, and mild. it is deserving of cultivation, not only on account of its excellent qualities, but as forming an agreeable contrast at table when served with the red varieties. long white purple-top. a sub-variety of the long white; the portion of the root exposed to the light being tinged with purple. in size and form, it differs little from the long scarlet. new london particular. wood's frame. this is but a sub-variety of the long scarlet; the difference between the sorts being immaterial. the color of the new london particular is more brilliant, and extends farther down the root. it is also said to be somewhat earlier. oblong brown. _trans._ the oblong brown radish has a pear-shaped bulb, with an elongated tap-root. it does not grow particularly large; and, being hardier than most varieties, is well adapted for use late in the season. the outside is rough and brown, marked with white circles; the flesh is piquant, firm, hard, and white; the leaves are dark green, and rather spread over the ground; the footstalks are stained with purple. autumn and winter radishes. these varieties may be sown from the th of july to the th of august; the soil being previously made rich, light, and friable. thin out the young plants from four to six inches apart; and, in the absence of rain, water freely. during september and october, the table may be supplied directly from the garden. for winter use, the roots should be harvested before freezing weather, and packed in earth or sand, out of danger from frost. before being used, they should be immersed for a short time in cold water. _to raise seed._--seeds of the winter radishes are raised by allowing the plants to remain where they were sown. as fast as they ripen, cut the stems; or gather the principal branches, and spread them in an open, airy situation, towards the sun, that the pods, which are quite tough in their texture, may become so dry and brittle as to break readily, and give out their seeds freely. _use._--all the kinds are used as salad, and are served in all the forms of the spring and summer radishes. _varieties._-- black spanish. _trans._ bulb ovoid, or rather regularly pear-shaped, with a long tap-root. at first the root is slender, and somewhat cylindrical in form: but it swells as it advances in age, and finally attains a large size; measuring eight or ten inches in length, and three or four inches in diameter. the outside is rough, and nearly black; the flesh is pungent, firm, solid, and white; the leaves are long, and inclined to grow horizontally; the leaf-stems are purple. it is one of the latest, as well as one of the hardiest, of the radishes; and is considered an excellent sort for winter use. large purple winter. _trans._ purple spanish. the large purple winter radish is a beautiful variety, derived, without doubt, from the black spanish; and may therefore be properly called the purple spanish. in shape and character, it much resembles the black spanish: but the outside, when cleaned, is of a beautiful purple, though it appears black when first drawn from the earth; and the coat, when cut through, shows the purple very finely. the footstalks of the leaves have a much deeper tinge of purple than those of the other kinds. long black winter. a sub-variety of the black spanish. root long and tapering. with the exception of its smaller size, much resembling a long orange carrot. long-leaved white chinese. _vil._ root fusiform, sometimes inversely turbinate, about five inches in length, and an inch in diameter; skin white, and of fine texture; flesh fine-grained, crisp, and though somewhat pungent, yet milder flavored than that of the black spanish; leaves large, differing from most other varieties in not being lobed, or in being nearly entire on the borders. its season is nearly the same as that of the rose-colored chinese. the plants produce but few seeds. purple chinese. a sub-variety of the scarlet, with little variation except in color; the size, quality, and manner of growth, being nearly the same. rose-colored chinese. _vil._ scarlet chinese winter. bulb rather elongated, somewhat cylindrical, contracted abruptly to a long, slender tap-root; size full medium,--average specimens measuring about five inches in length, and two inches in diameter at the broadest part; skin comparatively fine, and of a bright rose-color; flesh firm, and rather piquant; leaves large,--the leaf-stems washed with rose-red. season between that of the gray summer and that of the black spanish. winter white spanish. autumn white. blanc d'augsbourg. _vil._ root somewhat fusiform, retaining its diameter for two-thirds the length, sharply conical at the base, and, when well grown, measuring seven or eight inches in length by nearly three inches in its fullest diameter; skin white, slightly wrinkled, sometimes tinged with purple where exposed to the sun; flesh white, solid, and pungent, though milder than that of the black spanish. it succeeds best, and is of the best quality, when grown in light sandy soil. season intermediate. * * * * * rampion. campanula rapunculus. the rampion is a biennial plant, indigenous to the south of europe, and occasionally found in a wild state in england. the roots are white, fusiform, fleshy, and, in common with the other parts of the plant, abound in a milky juice; the lower or root leaves are oval, lanceolate, and waved on the borders; the upper leaves are long, narrow, and pointed. stem eighteen inches or two feet in height, branching; flowers blue, sometimes white, disposed in small, loose clusters about the top of the plant, on the ends of the branches. the seeds are oval, brownish, and exceedingly small; upwards of nine hundred thousand being contained in an ounce. they retain their germinative property five years. the plant flowers in july of the second year, and the seeds ripen in autumn. there is but one variety. _soil and cultivation._--"rampion prefers a rich, free, and rather light soil, in a shady situation. it is raised from seed, which should be sown where the plants are to remain, as they do not bear transplanting well. the sowing may be made in april, may, or the beginning of june: but sometimes plants from very early sowings are liable to run up to seed; and, when this is the case, the roots become tough, and unfit for use. the ground should be well dug, and raked as fine as possible. the seed may then be sown either broadcast or in drills, six inches apart, and about one-fourth of an inch deep. as the seeds are very small, it is advisable to mix them with fifteen or twenty times their bulk of fine sand, in order to secure their even distribution in the drills, and to prevent the plants from coming up too closely. the seed should only be very slightly covered with fine earth; and the seed-bed ought to be frequently watered with a fine-rosed watering-pot till the plants come up, which will be in about a fortnight. "when the young plants are about one inch high, they should be thinned out to four inches apart. after this, no further care is necessary than to water frequently, and to keep the ground free of weeds."--_thomp._ _taking the crop._--the roots will be fit for use from october till april. they may be taken from the ground for immediate use; or a quantity may be taken up in autumn, before the closing-up of the ground, and packed in sand, for use during the winter. _to raise seed._--leave or transplant some of the best yearling plants, and they will produce an abundance of seed in autumn. _use._--the roots have a pleasant, nut-like flavor; and are generally eaten in their crude state as a salad. "the leaves, as well as the roots, are occasionally used in winter salads." * * * * * ruta-baga, or swede turnip. russian turnip. french turnip. brassica campestris ruta-baga. _de cand._ the ruta-baga, or swede turnip, is supposed by de candolle to be analogous to the kohl rabi; the root being developed into a large, fleshy bulb, instead of the stem. in its natural state, the root is small and slender; and the stem smooth and branching,--not much exceeding two feet in height. the bulbs, or roots, are fully developed during the first year. the plant flowers, and produces its seeds, the second year, and then perishes. although considered hardy,--not being affected by even severe frosts,--none of the varieties will withstand the winters of the northern or middle states in the open ground. the crop should therefore be harvested in october or november, and stored for the winter, out of danger from freezing. most of the sorts now cultivated retain their freshness and solidity till spring, and some even into the summer; requiring no particular care in their preservation, other than that usually given to the carrot or the potato. _soil and cultivation._--all the varieties succeed best in a deep, well-enriched, mellow soil; which, previous to planting, should be very deeply ploughed, and thoroughly pulverized by harrowing or otherwise. some practise ridging, and others sow in simple drills. the ridges are usually formed by turning two furrows against each other; and, being thus made, are about two feet apart. if sown in simple drills, the surface should be raked smooth, and the drills made from sixteen to eighteen inches apart; the distance to be regulated by the strength of the soil. _seed and sowing._--about one pound of seed is usually allowed to an acre. where the rows are comparatively close, rather more than this quantity will be required; while three-fourths of a pound will be amply sufficient, if sown on ridges, or where the drills are eighteen inches apart. the sowing may be made from the middle of may to the th of july; the latter time being considered sufficiently early for growing for the table, and by some even for stock. early sowings will unquestionably give the greatest product; while the later-grown bulbs, though of smaller dimensions, will prove of quite as good quality for the table. _to raise seeds._--select the smoothest and most symmetrical bulbs, and transplant them in april, two feet asunder, sinking the crowns to a level with the surface of the ground. the seeds are very similar to those of the common garden and field turnip, and will keep from five to eight years. _varieties._--the varieties are as follow:-- ashcroft. bulb of medium size, ovoid, very smooth and symmetrical; neck very short, or wanting. above ground, the skin is purple; below the surface, yellow. flesh yellow, very solid, fine-grained, and of excellent flavor. it forms its bulb quickly and regularly; keeps in fresh and sound condition until may or june; and well deserves cultivation, either for agricultural purposes or for the table. common purple-top yellow. [illustration: common purple-top yellow.] an old and long-cultivated sort, from which, in connection with the green-top, have originated most of the more recent and improved yellow-fleshed varieties. form regularly egg-shaped, smooth, but usually sending out a few small, straggling roots at its base, near the tap-root; neck short; size rather large,--usually measuring six or seven inches in depth, and four or five inches in its largest diameter; skin purple above ground,--below the surface, yellow; flesh yellow, of close, firm texture, and of good quality. it is very hardy; forms its bulb promptly and uniformly; and in rich, deep soils, yields abundantly. for thin and light soils, some of the other varieties should be selected. early stubble. bulb round, smooth, and regular. the skin, where exposed to light and air, is of a brownish-green; but, where covered by the soil, yellow. the flesh is firm, and well flavored. the early stubble is recommended as forming its bulbs quickly and uniformly, and as being well adapted for late sowing. it yields abundantly; keeps well; is a good sort for the table; and, in some localities, is preferred to the common yellow for cultivation for farm purposes. green-top yellow. in form and foliage, this variety resembles the common purple-top; but usually attains a larger size when grown in similar situations. skin, above the surface of the soil, green; below ground, yellow. the flesh is solid, sweet, and well flavored, but inferior to that of the purple-top. it keeps well, is of fair quality for the table, and, on account of its great productiveness, one of the best of all varieties for growing for feeding stock. green-top white. bulb turbinate, smooth, and symmetrical. the skin above ground is of a fine, clear, pea-green; often browned or mellowed where exposed to the direct influence of the sun: below the surface of the ground, it is uniformly white. the flesh is also white, comparatively solid, very sweet, and of fair quality for table use. it differs from the purple-top white, not only in color, but in size and quality; the bulbs being larger, and the flesh not quite so firm or well flavored. the green-top white is productive; continues its growth till the season has far advanced; is little affected by severe weather; and, when sown in good soil, will yield an agricultural crop of twenty-five or thirty tons to an acre. laing's improved purple-top. _law. and gen. farmer._ this variety differs from most, if not all, of the varieties of swedish turnips, in having entire cabbage-like leaves, which, by their horizontal growth, often nearly cover the surface of the ground. in form, hardiness, and quality, it is fully equal to any of the other sorts. growing late in the autumn, it is not well adapted to a climate where the winter commences early. it has little or no tendency to run to seed in the fall; and even in the spring, when set out for seed, it is a fortnight later in commencing this function than other varieties of ruta-bagas. it requires good land, in high condition; and, under such circumstances, will yield abundantly, and is worthy of cultivation. the bulb, when well grown, has an almost spherical form; a fine, smooth skin, purple above ground, yellow below, with yellow, solid, and well-flavored flesh. purple-top white. bulb oblong, tapering toward the lower extremity, five or six inches in diameter, seven or eight inches in depth, and less smooth and regular than many of the yellow-fleshed varieties. the skin is of a clear rich purple, where it comes to air and light, but, below the ground, pure white; flesh white, very solid and fine-grained, sugary, and well flavored. the variety is hardy, productive, keeps remarkably well, is good for table use, and may be profitably grown for agricultural purposes. upwards of twenty-eight tons, or nine hundred and sixty bushels, have been raised from an acre. river's. root regularly turbinate, or fusiform, of full medium size, smooth, and with few small or fibrous roots; neck two inches long; skin, above ground, green, washed with purplish-red where most exposed to the sun,--below ground, yellow; flesh yellow, firm, sweet, and well flavored. esteemed one of the best, either for stock or the table. keeps fresh till may or june. skirving's purple-top. skirving's improved purple-top. skirving's liverpool. southold turnip, of some localities. bulb ovoid, or regularly turbinate, and rather deeper in proportion to its diameter than the common purple-top yellow; surface remarkably smooth and even, with few fibrous roots, and seldom deformed by larger accidental roots, although, in unfavorable soils or seasons, a few coarse roots are put forth in the vicinity of the tap-root; size full medium,--five to seven inches in length, and four or five inches in diameter. sometimes, when sown early in good soil, and harvested late, the average will considerably exceed these dimensions. neck short, but, when grown in poor soil, comparatively long; skin, above ground, fine, deep purple,--below ground, yellow,--the colors often richly blending together at the surface; flesh yellow, of solid texture, sweet, and well flavored. this variety was originated by mr. william skirving, of liverpool, eng. in this country it has been widely disseminated, and is now more generally cultivated for table use and for stock than any other of the swede varieties. the plants seldom fail to form good-sized bulbs. it is a good keeper; is of more than average quality for the table; and long experience has proved it one of the best sorts for cultivation on land that is naturally shallow and in poor condition. on soils in a high state of cultivation, upwards of nine hundred bushels have been obtained from an acre. in sowing, allow twenty inches between the rows, and thin to ten or twelve inches in the rows. sweet german. [illustration: sweet german.] bulb four or five inches in diameter, six or seven inches in depth, turbinate, sometimes nearly fusiform. in good soil and favorable seasons, it is comparatively smooth and regular; but, under opposite conditions, often branched and uneven. neck two or three inches in length; skin greenish-brown above ground, white beneath; flesh pure white, of extraordinary solidity, very sweet, mild, and well flavored. it retains its solidity and freshness till spring, and often at midsummer has no appearance of sponginess or decay. as a table variety, it must be classed as one of the best, and is recommended for general cultivation. white french. long white french. [illustration: white french.] the roots of this variety are produced entirely within the earth. they are invariably fusiform; and, if well grown, measure four or five inches in diameter, and from eight to ten inches in length. foliage not abundant, spreading; skin white; flesh white, solid, mild, sweet, and delicate. it is not so productive as some other varieties, and is therefore not so well adapted to field culture; but for table use it is surpassed by few, if any, of its class. a rough-leaved, fusiform-rooted variety of the common garden-turnip: is known by the name of "white french" in many localities; but, according to the most reliable authority, that name has not only long been used in connection with, but properly belongs to, the white turnip above described. * * * * * salsify, or oyster-plant. leek-leaved salsify. vegetable oyster. purple goat's beard. tragopogon porrifolius. the salsify is a hardy biennial plant, and is principally cultivated for its roots, the flavor of which resembles that of the oyster; whence the popular name. the leaves are long and grass-like, or leek-like; the roots are long and tapering, white within and without, and, when grown in good soil, measure twelve or fourteen inches in length, and rather more than an inch in diameter at the crown. _soil and cultivation._--the oyster-plant succeeds best in a light, well-enriched, mellow soil; which, previous to sowing the seeds, should be stirred to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches. the seeds should be sown annually, in the same manner and at the same time as the seeds of the carrot and parsnip. make the drills fourteen inches apart; cover the seeds an inch and a half in depth; and thin, while the plants are young, to four or five inches asunder. early sowings succeed best; as the seeds, which are generally more or less imperfect, vegetate much better when the earth is moist than when dry and parched, as it is liable to become when the season is more advanced. cultivate in the usual manner during the summer; and, by the last of september or beginning of october, the roots will have attained their full growth, and be ready for use. the plants will sustain no injury during the winter, though left entirely unprotected in the open ground; and the table may be supplied directly from the garden, whenever the frost will admit of their removal. a portion of the crop should, however, be taken up in autumn, and stored in the cellar, like other roots; or, which is perhaps preferable, packed in earth or sand. roots remaining in the ground may be drawn for use till april, or until the plants have begun to send up their stalks for flowering. _seeds,--production and quantity._--for the production of seeds, allow a few plants to remain during the winter in the open ground where they were sown. they will blossom in june and july. when fully developed, the stem is about three feet in height, cylindrical, and branching. the flowers are large, of a very rich violet-purple, and expand only by day and in comparatively sunny weather. as the flowers are put forth in gradual succession, so the heads of seeds are ripened at intervals, and should be cut as they assume a brownish color. the seeds are brownish,--lighter or darker as they are less or more perfectly matured,--long and slender, furrowed and rough on the sides, tapering to a long, smooth point at the top, often somewhat bent or curved, and measure about five-eighths of an inch in length. they will keep four years. an ounce contains three thousand two hundred seeds, and will sow a row eighty feet in length. some cultivators put this amount of seed into a drill of sixty feet; but if the seed is of average quality, and the season ordinarily favorable, one ounce of seed will produce an abundance of plants for eighty or a hundred feet. _use._--the roots are prepared in various forms; but, when simply boiled in the manner of beets and carrots, the flavor is sweet and delicate. the young flower-stalks, if cut in the spring of the second year and dressed like asparagus, resemble it in taste, and make an excellent dish. the roots are sometimes thinly sliced, and, with the addition of vinegar, salt, and pepper, served as a salad. they are also recommended as being remedial or alleviating in cases of consumptive tendency. there is but one species or variety now cultivated. * * * * * scolymus. spanish scolymus. spanish oyster-plant. scolymus hispanicus. in its natural state, this is a perennial plant; but, when cultivated, it is generally treated as an annual or as a biennial. the roots are nearly white, fleshy, long, and tapering in their general form, and, if well grown, measure twelve or fifteen inches in length, and an inch in diameter at the crown. when cut or bruised, or where the fibrous roots are broken or rubbed off, there exudes a thick, somewhat viscous fluid, nearly flavorless, and of a milk-white color. the leaf is large, often measuring a foot or more in length, and three inches in diameter, somewhat variegated with green and white, deeply lobed; the lobes or divisions toothed, and the teeth terminating in sharp spines, in the manner of the leaves of many species of thistles. when in flower, the plant is about three feet in height. the flowers, which are put forth singly, are of an orange-yellow, and measure an inch and a half in diameter. the seeds are flat, and very thin, membranous on the borders, of a yellowish color, and retain their vitality three years. an ounce contains nearly four thousand seeds. _soil and cultivation._--any good garden loam is adapted to the growth of the scolymus. it should be well and deeply stirred as for other deep-growing root crops. the seeds should be sown from the middle of april to the th of may, in drills an inch deep, and fourteen inches asunder. thin the young plants to five inches distant in the rows; and, during the summer, treat the growing crop as parsnips or carrots. _use._--it is cultivated exclusively for its roots, which are usually taken up in september or october, and served at table, and preserved during the winter, in the same manner as the salsify, or oyster-plant. they have a pleasant, delicate flavor; and are considered to be not only healthful, but remarkably nutritious. * * * * * scorzonera. black oyster-plant. black salsify. scorzonera hispanica. this is a hardy perennial plant, introduced from the south of europe, where it is indigenous. the root is tapering, and comparatively slender,--when well developed, measuring about a foot in length, and an inch in diameter near the crown, or at the broadest part; skin grayish-black, coarse, somewhat reticulated, resembling the roots of some species of trees; flesh white; leaves long, ovate, broadest near the end, and tapering sharply to the stem. they are also more or less distinctly ribbed, and have a few remote teeth, or serratures, at the extremities. when in flower, the plant measures about four feet in height; the stalk being nearly cylindrical, slightly grooved or furrowed, smooth, and branched towards the top. the flowers are large, terminal, yellow; the seeds are whitish, longer than broad, taper towards the top, and retain their vitality two years. an ounce contains about two thousand five hundred seeds. _soil and culture._--though a perennial, it is generally cultivated as an annual or biennial, in the manner of the carrot or parsnip. thompson says, "it succeeds best in a light, deep, free soil and an open situation. it is raised from seed, which may be sown in drills one foot apart, covering with soil to the depth of half an inch. as it is apt to run to seed the same year in which it is sown, and consequently to become tough and woody," the planting should not be made too early, particularly in the warmer sections of the country. a second sowing may be made about four weeks from the first, "as a precautionary measure, in case the plants of the first sowing should run. the young plants, when three or four inches high, should be thinned out to eight inches asunder in the rows. towards the middle or last of september, the roots will have attained sufficient size to be drawn for immediate use: others will come in for use in october and november. in the latter month, they will be in perfection; and, before the closing-up of the ground, a quantity may be taken up, and stored in sand for the winter. when the ground is open, the roots may be drawn from time to time, as required for immediate use. about the middle of april, the roots remaining in the ground will begin to run to flower; after which they soon become hard, woody, and unfit for the table. before this takes place, however, they may be taken up, and stored in sand, where they may be kept for use till may or june." _to raise seed._--allow a few well-grown plants to remain in the ground during winter; or select a few good-sized roots from those harvested in autumn, and reset them in april, about eighteen inches apart, covering them to the crowns. the seed will ripen at the close of the summer or early in autumn. seed saved from plants of the growth of two seasons is considered best; that produced from yearling plants being greatly inferior. _use._--it is cultivated exclusively for its roots; no other portion of the plant being employed in domestic economy. the flesh of these is white, tender, sugary, and well flavored. they are boiled in the manner of the parsnip, and served plain at the table; or they may be cooked in all the forms of salsify or scolymus. before cooking, the outer, coarse rind should be scraped off, and the roots soaked for a few hours in cold water for the purpose of extracting their bitter flavor. * * * * * skirret. crummock, of the scotch. sium sisarum. skirret is a hardy perennial, and is cultivated for its roots, which are produced in groups, or bunches, joined together at the crown or neck of the plant. they are oblong, fleshy, of a russet-brown color without, white within, very sugary, and, when well grown, measure six or eight inches in length, and nearly an inch in diameter. the leaves of the first year are pinnate, with seven or nine oblong, finely toothed leaflets. when fully developed, the plant measures from three to five feet in height; the stem being marked with fine, parallel, longitudinal grooves, or lines. the flowers are small, white, and are produced in umbels at the extremities of the branches. the seeds, eight thousand of which are contained in an ounce, are oblong, of a greenish-gray color, and closely resemble those of the common caraway. they will keep but two years; and, even when newly grown, sometimes remain in the ground four or five weeks before vegetating. _soil and culture._--skirret succeeds best in light, mellow soil, and is propagated by suckers, or seeds. the best method is to sow the seeds annually, as, when grown from slips, or suckers, the roots are liable to be dry and woody; the seeds, on the contrary, producing roots more tender, and in greater perfection. sow the seeds in april, in drills one foot apart, and about an inch in depth; thin to five or six inches; and, in september, some of the roots will be sufficiently grown for use. those required for winter should be drawn before the closing-up of the ground, and packed in sand. _to propagate by slips, or suckers._--in the spring, remove the required number of young shoots, or sprouts, from the side of the roots that have remained in the ground during winter, not taking any portion of the old root in connection with the slips; and set them in rows ten inches asunder, and six inches apart in the rows. they will soon strike, and produce roots of suitable size for use in august or september. _to raise seeds._--the plants that have remained in the ground during the winter, if not disturbed, will send up stalks as before described, and ripen their seeds at the close of the summer. two or three plants will yield all the seeds ordinarily required for a single garden. _use._--the roots were formerly much esteemed, but are now neglected for those greatly inferior. when cooked and served as salsify or scorzonera, they are the whitest and sweetest of esculent roots, and afford a considerable portion of nourishment. there are no varieties. * * * * * sweet potato. spanish potato. carolina potato. convolvulus batatus. ipomoea batatas. the sweet potato is indigenous to both the east and west indies. where its growth is natural, the plant is perennial; but, in cultivation, it is always treated as an annual. the stem is running or climbing, round and slender; the leaves are heart-shaped and smooth, with irregular, angular lobes; the flowers, which are produced in small groups of three or four, are large, bell-shaped, and of a violet or purple color; the seeds are black, triangular, and retain their vitality two or three years,--twenty-three hundred are contained in an ounce. the plants rarely blossom in the northern or middle states, and the perfect ripening of the seeds is of still more rare occurrence. the latter are, however, never employed in ordinary culture; and are sown only for the production of new varieties, as is sometimes practised with the common potato. _soil, planting, and cultivation._--in warm climates, the sweet potato is cultivated in much the same manner as the common potato is treated at the north. it succeeds best in light, warm, mellow soil, which should be deeply stirred and well enriched. the slips, or sprouts, may be set on ridges four feet apart, and fifteen inches from plant to plant; or in hills four or five feet apart in each direction, three plants being allowed to a hill. during the summer, give the vines ordinary culture; and late in september, or early in october, the tubers will have attained their growth, and be ready for harvesting. the slips, or sprouts, are generally obtained by setting the tubers in a hot-bed in march or april, and breaking off or separating the sprouts from the tubers as fast as they reach four or five inches in height or attain a suitable size for transplanting. in favorable seasons, the plucking may be repeated three or four times. in setting out the slips, the lower part should be sunk from one-third to one-half the entire length; and, if very dry weather occurs, water should be moderately applied. _keeping._--the essentials for the preservation of sweet potatoes are dryness and a warm and even temperature. where these conditions are not supplied, the tubers speedily decay. by packing in dry sand, and storing in a warm, dry room, they are sometimes preserved in the northern states until the time of starting the plants in spring. _varieties._--though numerous other varieties, less marked and distinctive, are described by different authors, and are catalogued by gardeners and seedsmen, the principal are as follow:-- kentucky early red. _murray._ red nansemond. tubers red, or purplish-red, of medium size; flesh yellow, dry, sweet, and of good quality. a very prolific, hardy variety; recommended as the best red sweet potato for northern culture. large white. patate-blanche of the french. tubers from six to ten inches in length,--thickest at the middle, where they measure from two to nearly three inches in diameter; weight from six ounces to a pound and upwards; skin dusky white; flesh nearly white, but with a shade of yellow. not so fine-grained or so sweet as the yellow or purple, but quite farinaceous and well flavored. it requires a long season in order to its full development; but, being remarkably hardy, it will succeed well in any of the middle states, and attain a fair size in the warmer sections of new england. nansemond. yellow nansemond. a variety said to have originated in nansemond county, va.; whence the name. tubers large, yellow, swollen at the middle, and tapering to the ends; flesh yellow, dry, unctuous, sweet, and well flavored. it is early fit for the table; matures in short seasons; is very productive; succeeds well in almost any tillable soil; and, having been long acclimated, is one of the best sorts for cultivation at the north,--very good crops having been obtained in maine and the canadas. purple-skinned. new-orleans purple. patate violette. _vil._ tubers swollen at the middle, and tapering in each direction to a point,--measuring, when well grown, from seven to nine inches in length, and from two to three inches in diameter; skin smooth, reddish-purple; flesh fine-grained, sugary, and of excellent quality. the plants attain a remarkable length, and the tubers are rarely united about the neck as in most other varieties. the purple-skinned is early and productive, but keeps badly. it would probably succeed much better in cool climates than either the white or the yellow. it is much grown in the vicinity of paris. red-skinned, or american red. tubers fusiform, long, and comparatively slender,--the length often exceeding twelve inches, and the diameter rarely above two inches; weight from three to ten ounces; skin purplish-red, smooth and shining; flesh yellow, very fine-grained, unctuous, sugary, and farinaceous; plant long and slender. this variety is early, quite hardy, very productive, and excellent, but does not keep so well as the yellow or white sorts. it is well adapted for cultivation in the cooler sections of the united states; where, in favorable seasons, the crop has proved as certain, and the yield nearly as abundant, as that of the common potato. rose-colored. _vil._ tubers somewhat ovoid, or egg-shaped, often grooved, or furrowed, and of extraordinary size. well-grown specimens will measure eight or nine inches in length, and four inches or more in diameter; frequently weighing two and a half, and sometimes greatly exceeding three pounds. skin rose-colored, shaded or variegated with yellow; flesh sweet, of a pleasant, nut-like flavor, but less soft or unctuous than that of the other varieties. it is hardy, remarkably productive, and, its excellent keeping properties considered, one of the best sorts for cultivation. yellow-skinned. yellow carolina. tubers from six to ten inches in length, thickest at the middle, where they measure from two to three inches in diameter, and pointed at the extremities; weight varying from four to twelve ounces and upwards; skin smooth, yellow; flesh yellow, fine-grained, unctuous, and remarkably sugary,--surpassing, in this last respect, nearly all other varieties. not so early as the red-skinned or the purple. when grown in the southern states, it yields well; perfectly matures its crop; and, in color and flavor, the tubers will accord with the description above given. when grown in the middle states, or in the warmer parts of new england, it decreases in size; the tubers become longer and more slender; the color, externally and internally, becomes much paler, or nearly white; and the flesh, to a great extent, loses the fine, dry, and sugary qualities which it possesses when grown in warm climates. * * * * * tuberous-rooted chickling vetch. tuberous-rooted pea. eatable-rooted pea. lathyrus tuberosus. perennial; stem about six feet high,--climbing, slender, four-sided, smooth, and of a clear green color; flowers rather large, in bunches, of a fine carmine rose-color, and somewhat fragrant; pod smooth; seeds rather large, oblong, a little angular, of a brown color, spotted with black; root spreading, furnished with numerous blackish, irregularly shaped tubers, which are generally from an ounce to three ounces in weight. the roots are very farinaceous, and, when cooked, are highly esteemed. in taste, they somewhat resemble roasted chestnuts. where the roots are uninjured by the winter, the plant increases rapidly, and is liable to become a troublesome inmate of the garden. * * * * * tuberous-rooted tropÆolum. _thomp._ ysano. tropæolum tuberosum. this is a perennial plant from peru, and deserves mention as a recently introduced esculent. it produces an abundance of handsome yellow and red tubers, about the size of small pears; the taste of which is not, however, very agreeable. on this account, a particular mode of treatment has been adopted in bolivia, where, according to m. decaisne, they are treated in the following manner:-- the tubers designated "ysano," at la paz, require to be prepared before they are edible. indeed, when prepared like potatoes, and immediately after being taken up, their taste is very disagreeable. but a mode of making them palatable was discovered in bolivia; and the ysano has there become, if not a common vegetable, at least one which is quite edible. the means of making them so consists in freezing them after they have been cooked, and they are eaten when frozen. in this state it is said that they constitute an agreeable dish, and that scarcely a day passes at la paz without two lines of dealers being engaged in selling the ysano, which they protect from the action of the sun by enveloping it in a woollen cloth, and straw. large quantities are eaten sopped in treacle, and taken as refreshment during the heat of the day. _propagation and culture._--the plant may be propagated by pieces of the tubers, in the same manner as potatoes; an eye being preserved on each piece. the sets should be planted in april or may, according to the season, about four feet apart, in light, rich soil. the stems may be allowed to trail along the ground, or pea-sticks may be placed for their support. in dry soils and seasons, the former method should be adopted; in those which are moist, the latter. the tubers are taken up in october, when the leaves begin to decay, and stored in sand. * * * * * the turnip. english turnip. brassica rapa. the common turnip is a hardy, biennial plant, indigenous to great britain, france, and other parts of europe. the roots of all the varieties attain their full size during the first year. the radical leaves are hairy and rough, and are usually lobed, or lyrate; but, in some of the sorts, nearly spatulate, with the borders almost entire. the flowers are produced in may and june of the second year, and the seeds ripen in july; the flower-stalk rises three feet or more in height, with numerous branches; the leaves are clasping, and much smoother and more glaucous than the radical leaves of the growth of the previous year; the flowers are yellow, and are produced in long, loose, upright, terminal spikes; the seeds are small, round, black, or reddish-brown, and are very similar, in size, form, and color, in the different varieties,--ten thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality from five to seven years. _propagation and culture._--all the sorts are propagated by seeds; which should be sown where the plants are to remain, as they do not generally succeed well when transplanted. sowings for early use may be made the last of april, or beginning of may; but as the bulbs are seldom produced in perfection in the early part of the season, or under the influence of extreme heat, the sowing should be confined to a limited space in the garden. the seeds may be sown broadcast or in drills: if sown in drills, they should be made about fourteen inches apart, and half an inch in depth. the young plants should be thinned to five or six inches asunder. for a succession, a few seeds may be sown, at intervals of a fortnight, until the last week in july; from which time, until the th of august, the principal sowing is usually made for the winter's supply. in the middle states, and the warmer portion of new england, if the season is favorable, a good crop will be obtained from seed sown as late as the last week in august. _harvesting._--turnips for the table may be drawn directly from the garden or field until november, but must be harvested before severe freezing weather; for, though comparatively very hardy, few of the varieties will survive the winters of the northern states in the open ground. _seed._--as the various kinds readily hybridize, or intermix, only one variety should be cultivated in the same neighborhood for seed. select the best-formed bulbs, and transplant them out in april, in rows two feet apart, and one foot apart in the rows, just covering the crowns with earth, or leaving the young shoots level with the surface of the ground. an ounce of seed will sow eight rods of land, and a pound will be sufficient for an acre. _varieties._--the varieties are numerous, as follow:-- altrincham. _law._ yellow altrincham. altringham. this is a yellow-fleshed, field variety, of rather less than average size. the bulb, however, is of a fine, globular shape, with a light-green top, very small neck and tap-root, and possessed of considerable solidity. border imperial. border imperial purple-top yellow. bulb five or six inches in diameter, nearly spherical, sometimes flattened, and usually very smooth and symmetrical; skin yellow, the upper surface of a bright purple; flesh yellow, firm, and sugary; leaves large. the variety is of english origin, and is recommended for its earliness and great productiveness. chivas's orange jelly. _thomp._ bulb of a handsome, round form, with a small top; the skin is pale orange; and the flesh yellow, juicy, sweet, and tender. it has very little fibre; so that, when boiled, it almost acquires the consistence of a jelly. it originated in cheshire, eng. cow-horn. long early white vertus. _vil._ [illustration: cow-horn turnip.] root produced much above ground, nearly cylindrical, rounded at the end, ten or twelve inches in length, nearly three inches in diameter, and weighing from one and a half to two pounds. the skin is smooth and shining,--white below the surface of the ground, and green at the top; the flesh is white, tender, and sugary. early, very productive, and remarkable for its regular form and good quality. as a field-turnip, it is one of the best; and, when pulled young, good for table use. during winter, the roots often become dry and spongy. dales's hybrid. _law._ this variety is of english origin, and is said to be a hybrid from the green-top swede and the common white globe. its prevailing traits are, however, those of the white globe; inasmuch as its roots are similar in form and texture. foliage strong and luxuriant; root large, oblong, pale yellow; the upper surface light green; neck and tap-root small. the form of the bulb, though generally oblong, is sometimes nearly globular; but its more material characteristics, large size, and luxuriance of growth, are uniformly the same. its reputation as a turnip of very superior quality has not been sustained in this country. early flat dutch. early white dutch. white dutch. an old and well-known early garden variety; bulb round, very much flattened, and produced mostly within the earth; skin white, somewhat washed with green at the insertion of the leaves, which are of medium size. before the bulb has attained its full dimensions, the flesh is fine-grained, tender, and sweet; but when ripe, especially in dry seasons, it often becomes spongy and juiceless: in which condition, it is of no value for the table; and, even for stock, is comparatively worthless. average specimens measure about four inches in diameter, and two inches and a half in depth. early yellow dutch. yellow dutch. this variety has a small, globular root, of a pale-yellow color throughout. it somewhat resembles the yellow malta, and is a good garden variety. the portion of the bulb above ground, and exposed to the sun, is washed with green. it is of medium size, early, tender, rather close-grained, and sugary; better suited for use in summer and autumn than for winter. by some, the variety is esteemed the best of the yellow garden turnips. finland. _law._ yellow finland. [illustration: finland turnip.] this is a beautiful, medium-sized turnip, of a bright yellow throughout, even to the neck; somewhat similar to a firm yellow malta, but of finer color. the under part of the bulb is singularly depressed: from this depression issues a small, mousetail-like root. it is somewhat earlier, and also hardier, than the yellow malta. the flesh is tender, close-grained, and of a sweet, sugary flavor; the leaves are small, and few in number; bulb about two inches in thickness by four inches in diameter, weighing eight or ten ounces. an excellent garden variety. freneuse. root produced within the earth,--long, tapering, and rather symmetrical; size small,--average specimens measuring five or six inches in length, an inch and a half in diameter at the crown, and weighing eight or ten ounces; skin white, or yellowish-white; flesh white, dry, very firm, and sugary; leaves small, deep green, spreading. half early, and one of the best of the dry-fleshed varieties. golden ball. _m'int._ _vil._ yellow globe. [illustration: golden ball.] bulb produced mostly within the earth, nearly globular, and very smooth and symmetrical; skin bright yellow below ground, greenish above; leaves comparatively small, spreading; flesh pale yellow, sweet, and well flavored, but not so fine-grained as that of many other varieties. it is a good table turnip; and with the robertson's golden stone, which it greatly resembles, the most valuable for cultivation, where large-sized garden turnips are required. its size is about that of the last named. average specimens measure four inches in diameter, nearly the same in depth, and weigh from twelve to fourteen ounces. green globe. _law._ green-top white globe. roots of a fine, globular shape, with a small neck and tap-root; very white below, and green above, the surface of the ground; of medium size, hardy, and firm in texture, but scarcely so much so as the green round; than which it arrives at maturity rather earlier. it is somewhat larger than the white norfolk; has large, deep-green foliage; grows strongly; and produces extraordinary crops: but it soon becomes spongy, and often decays in autumn or early in winter. a sub-variety, of larger size and with softer flesh, is known by the name of hungarian green-top globe. green norfolk. _law._ green-top norfolk. green round. a sub-variety of the white norfolk, of nearly the same form and size; the bulb differing principally in the color of the top, which is green. the norfolk turnips are all of a peculiar flattish form; rather hollowed towards their neck, as also on their under side. when grown to a large size, they become more or less irregular, or somewhat angular. the green-top variety possesses these characters in a less degree than the white-top; and is generally round, flattened, but not much hollowed, on the upper or under surface. it is hardier than the white or red varieties. green tankard. _law._ roots more than half above ground; oblong, or tankard-shaped; of a greenish color, except on the under surface, which is white; flesh white and sweet, but of coarse texture. the term "tankard" is applied to such common field turnips as are of an oblong shape, and the roots of which, in general, grow much above the surface of the ground. such oblong varieties, however, as approach nearest to a round or globular form, are sometimes termed "decanter," or "decanter-shaped turnips." in good soils, the green tankard sometimes attains a weight of eight or ten pounds. as a garden variety, it is of little value. green-top flat. similar in size, form, and quality to the common purple-top flat; skin, above ground, green. long grown in new england for feeding stock; and, in its young state, often used as a table turnip. now very little cultivated. green-top yellow aberdeen. _law._ green-top yellow bullock. an old and esteemed variety, similar in size and form to the purple-top yellow aberdeen: the color of the top is bright green. lincolnshire red globe. this variety is remarkable for its large, deep-green, luxuriant foliage. bulb very large, roundish; skin, below ground, white,--above the surface, purple; flesh white, firm, and, when young, well flavored, and adapted to table use. it yields abundantly; is uniformly fair, and free from small roots; an average keeper; and deserving of cultivation, especially for agricultural purposes. long black. except in the form of its roots, this variety much resembles the round black. it possesses the same peculiar, piquant, radish-like flavor; and is served at table in the same manner. long white maltese. long white clairfontaine. _vil._ roots eight or nine inches in length, an inch and a half in diameter, somewhat fusiform, and very smooth and symmetrical. the crown rises two or three inches above the surface of the ground, and is of a green color, except where exposed to the sun, when it often becomes purple or reddish-brown. below the surface of the soil, the skin is of a dull or dirty white. flesh white, moderately fine, tender, and of a sugary flavor. half early. the variety has some resemblance to the cow-horn; but is smaller, and the flesh not so white. petrosowoodsks. bulb of medium size, flattened,--comparatively smooth and regular; tap-root very slender, issuing from a basin; skin blackish-purple above and below ground, sometimes changing to yellow about the tap-root of large or overgrown bulbs; flesh yellow, fine-grained, and tender, if grown in cool weather, but liable to be fibrous and strong-flavored when grown during the summer months. the variety is early, and must be classed as a garden rather than as a field turnip. pomeranian globe. bulb globular, remarkably smooth and regular; the neck is small, and the skin white, smooth, and glossy; the flesh is white, close-grained, tender, and sweet; the leaves are large, and of a dark-green color, with paler or whitish nerves. half early. when in perfection, the bulbs measure three and a half or four inches in diameter, about the same in depth, and weigh from fourteen to eighteen ounces. if sown early in good soil, and allowed the full season for development, the roots sometimes attain a weight of eight or ten pounds. it is generally cultivated as a field turnip, but is also sown as a garden variety; the roots being of good quality for the table, if pulled when about half grown. preston, or liverpool yellow. _law._ an early sort, somewhat resembling the yellow malta: the bulbs attain a larger size, the foliage is stronger, and the basin, or depression, about the tap-root less deeply sunk. purple-top flat. red-top flat. bulb round, flattened, nearly one-half growing above ground; neck and tap-root small; skin reddish-purple where exposed to light and air, and white below the surface of the soil; flesh very white, close-grained while young, and of a sugary but often bitter taste. during winter, it usually becomes dry and spongy. average specimens measure two and a half inches in depth, four or five inches in diameter, and weigh from sixteen to twenty ounces. this old and well-known variety, at one period, was the principal field as well as garden turnip of the northern and middle states. it is now, however, very little cultivated; being superseded by the strap-leaved and other more desirable sorts. purple-top strap-leaved. [illustration: purple-top strap-leaved turnip.] bulb very flat, smooth, and regular in form, produced almost entirely above ground; tap-root slender; leaves few, upright, broad, rounded at the ends, and tapering to the neck, which is very small; skin above, clear, bright purple,--below, pure white, often finely clouded or shaded at the union of the colors; flesh clear white, firm, solid, sugary, mild, and remarkably well-flavored; size medium,--measuring about two inches and a half in depth by four or five inches in diameter, and weighing from ten to twelve ounces. field-grown roots, with the benefit of a long season and rich soil, attain much greater dimensions; often, however, greatly deteriorating in quality as they increase over the average size. this variety is unquestionably one of the best of the flat turnips, either for the garden or field. it is early, hardy, very prolific, will thrive in almost any description of soil, is of excellent quality, and rarely fails to yield a good crop. it is the best of all the flat turnips for sowing among corn or potatoes, or upon small patches of the garden from which early pease or beans have been harvested. purple-top yellow aberdeen. purple-top aberdeen. purple-top yellow bullock. bulb globular, reddish-purple above, and deep yellow below; tap-root very small; leaves deep green, comparatively short, and inclined to grow horizontally. in rich soil and long seasons, the bulbs sometimes attain a weight of eight or ten pounds; but specimens of average size measure about four inches in depth, nearly five inches in diameter, and weigh from sixteen to twenty ounces. the flesh is pale yellow, tender, sugary, and nearly equal to that of the swedes in solidity. the variety is very hardy, and, although generally grown for farm purposes, is really superior to many sorts cultivated exclusively for table use. red globe. _law._ an old, medium-sized, globular turnip, well suited for cultivation in light soil and on exposed or elevated situations. skin red, where exposed to the sun,--below ground, white; flesh white, and finer in texture than that of the white globe. it is not suited for table use; and is generally field-grown, and fed to stock. red norfolk. red-top norfolk. red round. this is a sub-variety of the white norfolk, the size and form being nearly the same. skin washed, or clouded with red where exposed to the light. it is firmer in texture, and more regular in its form, than the last named; and, if there be any difference in size, this is the smaller variety. red tankard. bulb produced partially above ground, pyriform, eight or nine inches in depth, four or five inches in diameter, and weighing about three pounds; below ground, the skin is white,--above, purple or violet; flesh white, rather firm, sugary, and well flavored; foliage large. it is recommended for its earliness and productiveness, but must be considered a field rather than a table variety. robertson's golden stone. _m'int._ _vil._ an excellent, half-early variety; form nearly globular; color deep orange throughout, sometimes tinged with green on the top; size above medium,--average specimens measuring nearly four inches in depth, four inches in diameter, and weighing from sixteen to eighteen ounces; flesh firm, and well flavored. the robertson's golden stone is remarkably hardy, keeps well, and is one of the best of the yellows for autumn or winter use. round black. _law._ leaves few, small, and comparatively smooth; bulb produced almost or altogether under ground, of an irregular, roundish form, often divided, or terminating in thick branches at its lower extremity; skin black, and very tough; flesh white. the variety is extensively cultivated in some parts of europe, and is much esteemed for its peculiar, piquant, somewhat radish-like flavor. it is sometimes served in its crude state as a salad. six weeks. _law._ autumn stubble. early dwarf. bulb produced much above ground, rather large, and of an irregular, globular form. it soon arrives at maturity; but, on account of its natural softness of texture, should always be sown late, and used before severe frosts. as descriptive of its earliness, it has received the above names; being suited for very late sowing, after the removal of early crops; or for making up blanks in turnip-fields, where the first sowing may have partially failed. it is well flavored, but soon becomes dry and spongy, and is unsuitable for use during winter. skin white below the surface of the ground, greenish above. field-grown specimens sometimes weigh three pounds and upwards. small long yellow. leaves very small, and spreading; root generally entirely under ground, small, and of an oblong or carrot shape, terminating abruptly at the point; skin pale yellow; flesh yellow, firm, dry, and sugary, with some degree of piquancy. it is a good variety for the table, and also a good keeper. snow-ball. navet boule de neige. _vil._ the bulb of this variety is nearly spherical, very smooth and regular; size medium,--the average dimensions being four inches in diameter, four and a half in depth, and the weight about a pound. the neck is small, and the skin white. the flesh of the young bulbs is white, fine-grained, tender, and sugary; but, if overgrown or long kept, it is liable to become dry and spongy. the variety is early, and, though classed by seedsmen as a garden turnip, is well adapted for field culture; as it not only yields abundantly, but succeeds well when sown late in the season on land from which early crops have been harvested. stone globe. bulb globular, and regularly formed, growing mostly beneath the surface of the ground. it belongs to the white-globe varieties, and is considered the hardiest and the best suited for winter use of any of its class. the leaves are larger, stronger, and deeper colored, than any of the white-globe sorts. skin and flesh white; texture moderately close; flavor sweet, and its keeping properties good; size rather large. teltow, or small berlin. teltau. this is said to be the smallest of turnips; its leaves not exceeding in number those of the radish. the root is fusiform or spindle-shaped, not very regular, and produced entirely under ground; skin dusky white; flesh dry, dull white, very fine-grained, piquant, and sugary; leaves erect, yellowish-green. early. the roots measure three inches long by about an inch and three-fourths at their largest diameter, and weigh from three to four ounces. the teltow turnip is much esteemed on account of its excellent qualities, and is one of the best early garden varieties. according to loudon, it is in high repute in france, germany, and holland; and is grown in the sandy fields around berlin, and also near altona, whence it is imported to the london market. it is, or was, grown in immense quantities in the neighborhood of moscow. the peculiar flavor is in the outer rind. when used, it should not be peeled. it bears transplanting well; and may be set in rows one foot apart, and nine inches apart in the rows. waite's hybrid eclipse. a recent variety, of english origin, introduced by mr. john g. waite, a seed-merchant of london. as figured and described, it is of large size, very richly colored, and remarkably smooth and symmetrical. at the crown, it is broad and round-shouldered, and measures about six inches in diameter; which size is nearly retained to a depth of eight or nine inches, when it contracts in a conical form to a tap-root. color of upper portion, clear purple, richly clouded, and contrasting finely with the yellow on the lower part. it is represented as a turnip of excellent quality, and as being very productive. when cultivated in this country, it has generally fallen short of the excellence it is represented as attaining in england. it is apparently not adapted to the dry and warm summers of the united states. white globe. _law._ common field globe. root globular; skin smooth, perfectly white; flesh also white; neck and tap-root small. although this description embraces the principal characters of the white globe, there is considerable variety in the turnips to which this name is applied, arising from the degree of care and attention bestowed by growers in selecting their seed-roots; and the shape is often not a little affected by the soil in which they are grown. thus globes of any kind, and particularly those of this variety, when grown on a very superior, rich soil, may be said to be forced beyond their natural size, and thereby acquire somewhat of a monstrous or overgrown appearance; losing, in a great measure, their natural symmetry. this variety is better adapted to field culture than to the garden, as it is altogether too coarse in texture for table use. it is a poor keeper, and, in unfavorable seasons, sometimes decays before the time of harvesting. specimens have been grown weighing fifteen and even eighteen pounds. white norfolk. white round. a large english variety, somewhat irregular in form, but usually more or less compressed, and sometimes pyriform; the upper portion of the root being produced four or five inches above ground. specimens sometimes measure ten or twelve inches in diameter. the leaves are large, and rather numerous; the skin white below the surface, and often white above, but sometimes washed with green; flesh white and coarse-grained, but sweet. very late. it is but a sub-variety of the common flat turnip, and oftentimes attains a most extraordinary size. for the garden, it possesses no value. it is grown exclusively as an agricultural or field turnip; but is very liable to rot; soon becomes spongy; and can only be classed as third-rate, even for feeding stock. white stone. early stone. white garden stone. this common and well-known garden turnip somewhat resembles the white dutch; but has stronger foliage, is rounder in form, and finer in texture. a carefully selected and improved variety of this is known by the name of mouse-tail turnip; and, in addition, some catalogues contain varieties under the name of red-topped mouse-tail, &c. skin and flesh white; size full medium, measuring three and a half to four inches in depth by four and a half or five inches in diameter. white tankard. navet gras d'alsace. _vil._ bulb pyriform, cylindrical at the crown, which, like that of the red tankard, rises two or three inches from the ground; skin white in the earth, green above; flesh white, tender, sweet, rather firm, and close-grained. early. vilmorin mentions two varieties; one having entire leaves, the other with lyrate or lobed leaves; giving preference, however, to the one with entire leaves. like most of the tankards, the variety seems better adapted to agricultural than to horticultural purposes. white-top flat. bulb similar in size and form to the green-top flat; leaves few and small; skin uniformly white; flesh white, firm, sugary, and well flavored. as a table variety, it is superior to the purple-top flat or the green-top. white-top strap-leaved. this is a sub-variety of the purple-top strap-leaved; differing little, except in color. the leaves are erect, few and small, somewhat lanceolate, and nearly entire on the borders; the bulb is of medium size, much flattened, green above ground, white below, and remarkably smooth and regular in form; tap-root very small; the flesh is white, very fine-grained, saccharine, mild, and excellent. early, productive, and recommended as one of the best varieties for field or garden culture. the strap-leaved turnips appear to be peculiarly adapted to the climate of the northern states, and are greatly superior in all respects to the common white and purple-top flat varieties. though of comparatively recent introduction, they have been widely disseminated; and, wherever grown, are highly esteemed. yellow malta. _m'int._ maltese. golden maltese. a beautiful, very symmetrical, small-bulbed, early variety, slightly flattened above, somewhat concave about, the tap-root, which, as well as the neck, is remarkably small; skin very smooth, bright orange-yellow; foliage small, and not abundant,--on which account the plants may be grown quite close to each other; flesh pale-yellow, fine-grained, and well flavored. it is a good garden variety, and one of the best of the yellows for summer use. average bulbs measure two inches in depth, four inches in diameter, and weigh about ten ounces. yellow scarisbrick. bulb flattened, smooth, and regular; neck small; skin pale yellow,--above ground, green; flesh yellowish-white, tender, and sweet; leaves of medium size, very pale-green. season late. well-grown specimens measure four inches in diameter, and about three inches in depth. yellow stone. very similar to the golden ball or yellow globe. compared with these varieties, the bulb of the yellow stone is produced more above ground, and the upper surface is more colored with green. one of the best of garden turnips. yellow tankard. _vil._ root somewhat fusiform, or of a long, irregular, tankard shape; the crown rising just above the ground. average specimens measure seven or eight inches in length, three inches and a half in diameter, and weigh about twenty-four ounces. skin yellowish-white below ground, green above; flesh pale yellow, firm, and sugary; leaves large. it is esteemed for the solidity of its flesh, and for its earliness and productiveness. a good variety for either field or garden. chapter ii. alliaceous plants. the cive. garlic. leek. onion. rocambole. shallot. welsh onion. * * * * * the cive. chive. allium schoenoprasum. the cive is a hardy, bulbous-rooted, perennial plant, indigenous to france and great britain. the leaves, which are produced in tufts, are seven or eight inches in length, erect and cylindrical, or awl-shaped. the bulbs are white, oval, and of small size; usually measuring about half an inch in diameter. the flower-stalk rises to the height of the leaves, and produces, at its extremity, a globular group of purplish, barren flowers. _propagation and culture._--as the plant seldom, if ever, produces seeds, it is always propagated by a division of the roots, or bulbs. these are produced in compact groups, or bunches, seven or eight inches in diameter. "one of these groups may be divided into a dozen or more parts, each of which will, in a short time, form a cluster equal in size to the original. they should be planted in spring or autumn, in rows eighteen inches apart, and twelve or fifteen inches asunder in the rows. all the cultivation they require is to be kept free from weeds; and they will thrive in any common garden soil. a planting will last many years; but it is well to renew it every third or fourth year." _use._--the young leaves are the parts of the plant used; but, whether used or not, to keep them in a fresh and tender condition, the plants should be frequently shorn to the ground. they possess the flavor peculiar to the onion family; and are principally used in flavoring soups, and as an ingredient in spring salads. the leaves and bulbs are sometimes taken together, and eaten crude, as a substitute for young onions. in omelets, the cive is considered almost indispensable. there are no varieties. * * * * * common garlic. allium sativum. this is a perennial plant, from the south of europe. the root is composed of from ten to fifteen small bulbs, called "cloves," which are enclosed in a thin, white, semi-transparent skin, or pellicle. the leaves are long and narrow. the flower-stem is cylindrical, about eighteen inches in height, and terminates in an umbel, or group, of pale-pink flowers, intermixed with small bulbs. the seeds are black, and, in form, irregular; but are seldom employed for propagation; the cloves, or small bulbs, succeeding better. _planting and cultivation._--garlic thrives best in a light, well-enriched soil; and the bulbs should be planted in april or may, an inch deep, in rows or on ridges, fourteen inches apart, and five or six inches apart in the rows. "all the culture necessary is confined to keeping the ground free from weeds. when the leaves turn yellow, the plants may be taken up; and, having been dried in the sun, they should be tied up in bunches by the stalks, and suspended in a dry, airy room, for use."--_thomp._ _use._--it is cultivated for its bulbs, or cloves, which possess more of the flavor of the onion than any other alliaceous plant. these are sometimes employed in soups, stews, and other dishes; and, in some parts of europe, are eaten in a crude state with bread. "it is not cultivated to any considerable extent in this country; its strong flavor, and the offensive odor it communicates to the breath, causing it to be sparingly used in our cookery. "where attention is paid to culture, the common garlic will attain a size of seven and a half inches in circumference, each bulb; whereas, when grown negligently and unskilfully, it does not attain half that size. twenty ordinary bulbs weigh one pound."--_m'int._ early rose garlic. early pink. this is a sub-variety of the common garlic. the pellicle in which the small bulbs are enclosed is rose-colored; and this is its principal distinguishing characteristic. it is, however, nearly a fortnight earlier. for culinary purposes, it is not considered superior to the common garlic. propagation and cultivation the same; though, in warm climates, the bulbs are sometimes planted in autumn. great-headed garlic. _vil._ allium ampeloprasum. this species is a hardy perennial, and is remarkable for the size of its bulbs; which, as in the foregoing species and variety, separate into smaller bulbs, or cloves. the leaves and stem somewhat resemble those of the leek; the flowers are rose-colored, and are produced at the extremity of the stalk, in large, regular, globular heads, or umbels; the seeds are similar to those of the common garlic, but are seldom used for reproduction; the cloves, or small bulbs, being generally employed for this purpose. it is used and cultivated as the common garlic. * * * * * the leek. allium porrum. the leek is a hardy biennial, and produces an oblong, tunicated bulb; from the base of which, rootlets are put forth in great numbers. the plant, when full grown, much resembles what are commonly known as "scallions;" the lower, blanched portion being the part eaten. this varies in length from four to eight inches, and in diameter from less than an inch to more than three inches. the leaves are long, narrow, smooth, and pointed; and spread in opposite directions, somewhat in the form of a fan. the flower-stem proceeds from the centre of this collection of leaves, and is about four feet in height. the flowers are white, with a stripe of red, and are produced in terminal, globular groups, or umbels; the seeds are black, irregular, but somewhat triangular in form, and, with the exception of their smaller size, are similar to those of the onion. about twelve thousand seeds are contained in an ounce; and they retain their vitality two years. _soil, sowing, and cultivation._--the leek is very hardy, and easily cultivated. it succeeds best in a light but well-enriched soil. when fine leeks are desired, it can hardly be made too rich. it should also be thoroughly spaded over, and well pulverized to the depth of at least twelve inches. the seed should be sown in april, at the bottom of drills made six or eight inches deep, and eighteen inches asunder. sow the seeds thinly, cover half an inch deep, and thin the young plants to nine inches distant in the drills. as the plants increase in size, draw the earth gradually into the drills, and around the stems of the leeks, until the drills are filled. by this process, the bulbs are blanched, and rendered tender and mild flavored. the seeds are sometimes sown broadcast, and in july transplanted to trenches, and subsequently cultivated, as before directed. the plants are also sometimes set on the surface, and afterwards earthed up to the height of six or eight inches in the process of cultivation. in october, the leeks will be suitable for use; and, until the closing-up of the ground, may be drawn from time to time as required for the table. for winter use, they should be preserved in earth or sand. early leeks may be obtained by sowing the seeds in a hot-bed in february or march, and transplanting to the open ground in june or july. _seed._--to obtain seed, some of the finest plants of the growth of the previous year should be set out in april, fifteen inches apart, and the stems sunk to the depth of three or four inches. "the seed ripens in autumn, and its maturity is known by the heads changing to a brown color. it is best preserved in the heads; and these should be cut off with a portion of the stalk a foot in length, tied in bunches, and hung in a dry, airy situation. in this manner, the seed will retain its vegetative powers for two or three years: after that time, it is not to be depended on."--_thomp._ _use._--"the whole plant, except the roots, is used in soups and stews. the white stems, which are blanched by being planted deep for the purpose, are boiled, served with toasted bread and white sauce, and eaten like asparagus." it has the flavor, and possesses the general properties, of the onion. _varieties._-- common flag. _vil._ long flag. the stem, or blanched portion, of this variety is about six inches in depth, and an inch in diameter. the leaves are put forth in opposite directions, are comparatively erect, and of a glaucous-green color. the variety is remarkably hardy, and well suited for open culture. large rouen. _thomp._ gros de rouen. _vil._ [illustration: rouen leek.] leaves very dark-green, broad, and of thick substance; stem rather short, but remarkably thick, sometimes measuring nearly four inches in diameter. it is now the variety most cultivated near paris; and, since its general dissemination, has been much approved by all who have grown it. it is found to be the best kind for forcing, as it acquires a sufficient thickness of stem sooner than any other. in england, it is pronounced one of the best, if not the best, of all varieties. little montagne. _vil._ stem very short and slender; foliage deeper green than that of the common flag. it is the smallest of the leeks. not much cultivated. london flag. large flag. broad flag. english flag. gros court. _vil._ stem about four inches in length, and nearly an inch and a half in diameter. the leaves are larger, of a paler color, and softer in their texture, than those of the common flag. the london-flag leek is hardy, and of good quality. it is more generally cultivated in this country than any other variety. musselburgh. _thomp._ scotch flag. edinburgh improved. stem somewhat shorter than that of the london flag, but of equal thickness. the swelling at the base has the same form. the leaves are broad and tall, and spread regularly in a fan-like manner. their color is deeper than that of the long flag or the large rouen, but paler than the london flag. hardy, and of excellent quality. it originated in england. proliferous leek. _trans._ this is a viviparous variety of the common leek, producing young plants on its flower-stalk instead of flowers. the leaves are similar to those of the london flag; and the plant, in its young state, before it runs to flower, exactly resembles it. the flower-scape is from two to three feet high, and supports a compact, irregular, globose umbel, composed of numerous small bulbs, intermixed with flowers. some of these bulbs occasionally produce a second umbel, on scapes of from six to eight inches in length, but of much smaller dimensions than the principal one. the variety is cultivated in rows, like other leeks; and the bulbs will remain sound several months after they have ripened. small early netherland. _thomp._ small summer brabant. leaves long, narrow, dark-green; stem small. on this account, it is not so valuable as many others for a main crop: besides, if sown at the same time, it is liable to run to seed before winter. a small sowing, however, may be made with advantage for early use. yellow poitou. _thomp._ jaune du poitou. _vil._ a remarkably large variety; the leaves having sometimes measured five feet in length, and six inches in breadth. they are of a yellowish-green color. the underground or blanched portion of the stem is yellowish-white, and is more tender than that of any other variety. on this account, and also for its large size, it deserves cultivation. the great length of the leaves makes it important that more space should be allowed between the plants than is usually allotted to other varieties. * * * * * the onion. allium cepa. the onion is a half-hardy biennial plant: the roots and leaves, however, are annual; as they usually perish during the first year. the bulbs, for which the plant is generally cultivated, are biennial, and differ to a considerable extent in their size, form, and color. the flower-stalk, which is developed the second year, is from three to four feet in height, leafless, hollow, swollen just below the middle, and tapers to the top. the flowers are either white or rose-colored, and are produced at the extremity of the stalk in a regular, globular group, or umbel. the seeds ripen in august. they are deep blue-black, somewhat triangular, and similar in size and form in all the varieties. an ounce contains about seventy-five hundred seeds, which retain their vitality two years. _soil and cultivation._--the onion requires a light, loamy, mellow soil; and, unlike most kinds of garden or field vegetables, succeeds well when cultivated on the same land for successive years. with the exception of the top and the potato onion, all the varieties are raised from seed. previous to sowing, the ground should be thoroughly spaded over or deeply ploughed, and the surface made smooth and even. the seed should be sown as early in spring as the soil may be in good working condition. sow in drills fourteen inches apart, and half an inch in depth. when the plants are three or four inches high, thin them to two inches asunder; and, in the process of culture, be careful not to stir the soil too deeply, or to collect it about the growing bulbs. the onions will ripen in august, or early in september; and their full maturity will be indicated by the perfect decay of the leaves, or tops. the bulbs may be drawn from the drills by the hand, or by the use of a common garden-rake. after being exposed for a few days to the sun for drying, they will be ready for storing or the market. _preservation._--the essentials for the preservation of the bulbs are a low temperature, freedom from frost, dryness, and thorough ventilation. _seed._--for the production of seed, select the ripest, firmest, and best-formed bulbs; and, in april, transplant them to lines two feet and a half or three feet distant, and from nine to twelve inches apart in the lines, sinking the crowns just below the surface of the ground. as the plants advance in height, tie them to stakes for support. the seeds ripen in august: and the heads, or umbels, should be cut off when they assume a brown color; for then the capsules begin to open, and shed their seeds. after being threshed out, the seed should be exposed to the action of the sun until it is thoroughly dried; for, when stored in a damp state, it is extremely liable to generate heat, and consequently to lose its vitality. _varieties._--few of the numerous varieties are cultivated to any extent in this country. many of the kinds succeed only in warm latitudes, and others are comparatively unimportant. the danvers, large red, silver-skin, and the yellow seem peculiarly adapted to our soil and climate. the annual product of these varieties greatly exceeds that of all the other sorts combined. blood-red. _thomp._ french blood-red. dutch blood-red. st. thomas. bulb middle-sized, or rather large, flattened; skin dull red,--the coating next within glossy, and very dark red. the internal layers are palest at the base; and, except at the top, are only colored on their outsides. each layer is paler than the one which surrounds it; till the centre is reached, which is white. it is a good keeper, but one of the strongest flavored of all varieties. it imparts to soups, or other dishes of which it may be an ingredient, a brownish or blackish color. brown portugal. _thomp._ brown spanish. cambrai. oporto. a medium-sized, roundish, or flattened onion; neck small; skin yellowish-brown,--next interior layer not tinged with red. it is a popular variety in some parts of france; and is remarkable for its productiveness, excellent quality, and keeping properties. danvers. danvers yellow. [illustration: danvers onion.] this comparatively recent variety was obtained by selection from the common yellow. it is somewhat above medium size, and inclined to globular in its form. average bulbs measure three inches in diameter, and two inches and three-fourths in depth. the skin is yellowish-brown, but becomes darker by age, and greenish-brown if long exposed to the sun; the flesh is similar to that of the yellow,--white, sugary, comparatively mild, and well flavored. the superiority of the danvers onion over the last named consists principally, if not solely, in its greater productiveness. when grown under like conditions, it yields, on the average, nearly one-fourth more; and, on this account, the variety is generally employed for field culture. it is, however, not so good a keeper; and, for shipping purposes, is decidedly inferior to the yellow,--its globular form rendering it more liable to decay, from the heat and dampness incident to sea voyages. when cultivated for the market, the land is thoroughly ploughed, and well enriched with fine decomposed manure. the surface is then harrowed, and next raked free of stones, and lumps of earth. the seed is sown in april, usually by machines, in rows fourteen inches apart, and three-fourths of an inch in depth; three pounds of seed being allowed to an acre. the crop is treated in the usual form during the summer; and ripens the last of august, or early in september. when the tops have entirely withered, the bulbs are raked from the drills, and spread a few days in the sun for drying; after which they are sorted, and barrelled for storing or the market. the yield varies from five to eight hundred bushels per acre. deptford. _thomp._ brown deptford. very similar to, if not identical with, the english strasburg. "it sometimes exactly agrees with the description of that variety: but it occasionally has a pale-brown skin, without any tinge of red; and, when this is the case, its flavor is milder than that of the last named." with the exception of its more globular form, the bulb much resembles the yellow onion of this country. early silver nocera. early small silver nocera. white nocera. _thomp._ blanc hatif de nocera. _vil._ this is a very small variety of the early silver-skin, with a small, occasionally roundish, but generally oblate bulb. the skin is white; but the layers beneath are striped with bright-green lines. the leaves are very small. sometimes the bulb has only a single leaf, frequently but two; and, if there are more than four, the plant has not its true character. it is an excellent sort for pickling; and is the smallest and earliest variety known,--being fifteen or twenty days earlier than the early silver-skin: but it is very liable to increase in size, and to degenerate. very little known or cultivated in this country. early red wethersfield. a sub-variety of the large red wethersfield, and the earliest of the red onions. form and color nearly the same as the large red; bulb small, measuring about two inches and a half in diameter, and about an inch and a half in depth. it is close-grained; mild; a good keeper; forms its bulbs, with few exceptions, and ripens, the last of july; being three or four weeks earlier than the large red. cultivated to a limited extent in various places on the coast of new england, for early consumption at home, and for shipment to the south and west. this variety and the intermediate are very liable to degenerate: they tend to grow larger and later, approaching the original variety; and can be preserved in a pure state only by a careful selection of the bulbs set for seed. early silver-skin. blanc hatif. _vil._ this is a small early variety of the silver-skin, measuring two inches and three-fourths in diameter, and an inch and three-fourths in depth. the neck is small, and the skin silvery-white. it is much esteemed for its earliness and mild flavor, and is one of the best of all varieties for pickling. when cultivated for the latter purpose, it should be sown and treated as directed for the silver-skin. fusiform, or cow-horn. corné de boeuf. _vil._ this is a large onion, growing from eight inches to a foot in length. it tapers rather regularly from the base to the top, and is frequently bent or curved in the form of a horn; whence the name. skin copper-red. it is late, lacks compactness, is very liable to degenerate, decays soon after being harvested, and must be considered more curious than useful. intermediate red wethersfield. an early variety of the common large red. bulb of medium size, flattened; neck small; color deep purple. it is rather pungent, yet milder than the large red; keeps well; and is grown to a considerable extent, in certain localities in new england, for shipping. james's keeping. james's long keeping. de james. _vil._ this is an english hybrid, said to have been originated by a mr. james, an extensive market-gardener in surrey, eng. the bulb is pyriform, or pear-shaped; and measures four inches and upwards in depth, and two inches or more at its broadest diameter. skin copper-yellow,--the coating next under it reddish-brown; flavor strong. it is not early, but is much prized for its long keeping; the bulbs not sprouting so early in spring as those of most varieties. large red. wethersfield large red. [illustration: wethersfield large red onion.] bulb sometimes roundish, but, when pure, comparatively flat. it is of very large size; and, when grown in favorable soil, often measures five inches or more in diameter, and three inches in depth. skin deep purplish-red; neck of medium size; flesh purplish-white, moderately fine-grained, and stronger flavored than that of the yellow and earlier red varieties. it is very productive; one of the best to keep; and is grown to a large extent, in many places on the seacoast of new england, for shipping to the south and west. it is almost everywhere seen in vegetable markets; and, with perhaps the exception of the yellow or danvers, is the most prominent of the sorts employed for commercial purposes. it derives its name from wethersfield, conn.; where it is extensively cultivated, and where it has the reputation of having originated. a sub-variety of the foregoing is cultivated in some localities, with nearly the same variation in form that exists between the danvers and common yellow. it will probably prove somewhat more productive; but it is neither better flavored, nor to be preferred for its superior keeping properties. madeira. large globe tripoli. romain. de madère rond. de belle garde. _vil._ this is a roundish, obovate onion, of remarkable size, often measuring six inches and a half in depth, and six inches in diameter; neck thick and large; skin reddish-brown,--the layer next within, pale red. the variety is much prized for its extraordinary size, and for its mild, sugary flavor. the plants, however, often fail to form good bulbs; and, even when well matured, the latter are liable to decay soon after being harvested. it requires a long, warm season for its greatest perfection. the seed should be sown early, in drills sixteen inches apart; and the plants should be thinned to eight inches apart in the rows. not suited to new england or the cooler sections of the united states. new deep blood-red. brunswick deep blood-red. rouge très foncé de brunswick. _vil._ bulb very small, flattened,--two inches and a quarter in diameter, and an inch and a half in depth; neck small; skin deep violet-red, approaching black. a half early variety, remarkable for its intense purplish-red color. pale red. rouge pale, de niort. _vil._ bulb roundish, flattened on the upper side, but not so much so as the blood-red, of which this may be considered a variety; size medium, two inches and a half in diameter, one inch and three-quarters in depth; neck small; skin copper-red, much paler than that of the blood-red. compared with the last named, it is earlier and of milder flavor. this and the blood-red are much esteemed by some for their extreme pungency and for their diuretic properties. paris straw-colored. jaune des vertus. _vil._ a large, somewhat flattened variety, much cultivated about paris; skin fine russet-yellow; neck small. it is not early, but very productive, and of excellent quality. pear-shaped. bulb pyriform, measuring four inches and a half in depth, and two inches in diameter at the broadest part; neck small; skin copper-red. it is quite late, but is of good quality, and keeps well. potato onion. underground onion. bulb flattened, from two and a half to three inches in diameter, and about two inches in depth; skin copper-yellow; flavor sugary, mild, and excellent. it does not keep so well as many other varieties; but remains sound longer, if the leaves are cut two or three inches above the top of the bulb at the time of harvesting. the potato onion produces no seeds, neither small bulbs upon its stalks, in the manner of many of the species of the onion family; but, if a full-grown bulb be set in spring, a number of bulbs of various sizes will be formed, beneath the surface of the ground, about the parent bulb. by means of these it is propagated, and an abundant supply often secured in localities where the varieties raised from seed frequently wholly fail, either from the maggot, effects of climate, or other causes. like the other kinds of onions, it requires a rich, deep soil, well manured, and dry at the bottom. this should be deeply and thoroughly stirred, and then raised in ridges of moderate height, fifteen inches apart. in april, select the large bulbs, and set them on the ridges, ten inches apart, with the crown of the bulbs just below the surface of the ground. the subsequent culture consists in keeping them clean from weeds, and gathering a little earth about them from time to time in the process of cultivation. as soon as the tops are entirely dead, they will be ready for harvesting. it is very prolific, yielding from four to six fold. such of the crop as may be too small for the table should be preserved during the winter, to be set in the following spring; planting them out in april, in drills one foot apart and three inches from each other in the drills, and sinking the crowns just below the surface of the ground. they attain their full size by september. silver-skin. white portugal, of new england. bulb of medium size, flattened,--average specimens measuring about three inches in diameter, and an inch and a half or two inches in thickness; neck very small; skin silvery-white. after the removal of the outer envelope, the upper part of the bulb is often veined and clouded with green, while the portion produced below ground is generally clear white. flesh white, fine-grained, sugary, and remarkably mild flavored. it forms its bulb early and regularly, ripens off well, and is quite productive; an average yield being about four hundred bushels per acre. it is a very poor keeper; and this is its most serious objection. it is always preserved through the winter with much difficulty, and almost invariably decays if kept from light and exposed to dampness. the best method for its preservation is to spread the roots in a dry, light, and airy situation. the silver-skin onion is much esteemed in the middle and southern sections of the united states, and is cultivated to a considerable extent in new england. it is well adapted for sowing in august, or the beginning of september, for early use, and for marketing during the ensuing spring. where the winter are mild, the crop, with slight protection, will sustain no injury in the open ground. in europe it is much esteemed, and extensively grown for pickling, as its "white color, in contrast with the fine green veins, or lines, gives it a very agreeable appearance. for pickling, the seed should be sown very thickly, then slightly covered with fine soil, and afterwards rolled. if the seed is covered more deeply, the bulb, from not being quite on the surface, has a larger and thicker neck; so that it loses its finely rounded form, and is, moreover, less compact." this variety, erroneously known in new england as the "white portugal," is unquestionably the true silver-skin, as described both by english and french authors. the application of the term "silver-skin" to the common yellow onion, as very extensively practised by seedsmen and market-men in the eastern states, is neither pertinent nor authorized. strasburg. _m'int._ yellow strasburg. flanders. dutch. essex. this is the variety most generally cultivated in great britain. its form varies from flat to globular, or oval; bulb large, three inches wide, and full two inches in depth; outside coating brown, of firm texture. divested of this, the color is reddish-brown, tinged with green. flavor comparatively mild. it is a very hardy sort, succeeds in cold localities, and keeps well. the strasburg and deptford onions much resemble the common yellow onion of new england; and the difference between the sorts is not great, when english-grown bulbs of the first-named varieties are compared with the bulbs of the yellow onion, american-grown: but seeds of the strasburg or deptford, raised in england and sown in this country, almost invariably fail to produce plants that form bulbs so generally or so perfectly as american-grown seeds of the yellow onion. top or tree onion. egyptian. bulb large, a little flattened; producing, instead of seeds, a number of small bulbs, or onions, about the size of a filbert, which serve as a substitute for seeds in propagation. the flesh is coarse; and the bulbs are very liable to decay during winter, unless kept in a cool and dry situation. the variety has been considered rather curious than useful. _planting and culture._--"either the bulbs formed in the ground, or the small ones upon the stems, may be planted out in april or may. the former are set one foot apart in each direction, and the stem-bulbs four inches apart in rows eight inches asunder. stems that bear heavily require to be supported. when ripe, the stem-bulbs should be dried, and kept free from damp in a cool place." tripoli. _thomp._ flat madeira. de madère plat. _vil._ this is one of the largest varieties. the bulb tapers abruptly from the middle to the neck, and almost equally so to the base. it is five inches and upwards in diameter; color light reddish-brown,--beneath the skin, pale brownish-red, tinged with green. it requires the whole season, and in some localities is considered excellent for a late crop. the flesh is soft, and the bulbs soon perish after being taken from the ground. in its season, it is much esteemed for its mild and delicate flavor. like the madeira onion, the plants fail to form bulbs so generally as other varieties. not adapted to the climate of the northern states. two-bladed. _thomp._ double tige. _vil._ this variety derives its name from the fact that the small bulbs have generally but two leaves. the larger ones have more; rarely, however, exceeding four: but, unless by far the greater portion have only two leaves, either the seed or the cultivation is at fault. the bulbs are small, flat, light-brown, very firm, and attain maturity early; the neck is small, and the top of the bulb is depressed or hollowed around the stem. it keeps well, and is an excellent variety. white globe. _thomp._ [illustration: white globe.] form nearly ovoid, very regular and symmetrical; skin greenish-yellow, marked with rose-colored lines,--the pellicle changing to white on drying. the bulb measures about four inches in depth, and two inches and three-fourths in its largest diameter. it keeps well, and is an excellent variety. yellow globe. nearly allied to the preceding variety; the size and form being the same. skin reddish-yellow. it is hardy, productive, of good flavor, keeps well, and deserves general cultivation. white lisbon. lisbon. _thomp._ early lisbon. white florence. a very large, globular onion, measuring four inches in diameter, and about four inches in depth; neck comparatively thick; skin smooth, thin, clear, and white. it is a late variety; and, although comparatively hardy, requires a long, warm season for its full development. under the most favorable conditions, both with regard to soil and exposure, many of the plants fail to form a good bulb. on account of its hardiness, it is a good sort for sowing in the autumn for a supply of young onions for spring salads; or, if these young bulbs be set in the open ground in april, fine, large onions will be formed towards the end of summer. the variety is better suited to the climate of the middle states than to that of the northern and eastern. white portugal, or spanish. _thomp._ white spanish. white reading. cambridge. soufre d'espagne. _vil._ a very large, flat onion, measuring three inches and upwards in width by about two inches in depth; skin loose, of a pale-brown or yellowish-brown, falling off spontaneously, and exhibiting the next coating, which is greenish-white. it has a small neck, and is particularly mild flavored. one of the best for early winter use, but early decays. very distinct from the white portugal of the new-england markets. yellow onion. silver-skin of new england. [illustration: yellow onion.] one of the oldest varieties, and, as a market onion, probably better known and more generally cultivated in this country than any other sort. the true yellow onion has a flattened form and a very small neck. its size is rather above medium,--measuring, when well grown, from three inches to three inches and a half in diameter, and from two inches to two inches and a half in depth. skin yellowish-brown, or copper-yellow,--becoming somewhat deeper by age, or if exposed long to the sun; flesh white, fine-grained, comparatively mild, sugary, and well flavored. it keeps well, and is very prolific: few of the plants, in good soils and seasons, fail to produce good-sized and well-ripened bulbs. for the vegetable garden, as well as for field culture, it may be considered a standard sort. the danvers onion, which is but a sub-variety of the common yellow, may prove somewhat more profitable for extensive cultivation, on account of its globular form; but neither in its flavor nor in its keeping properties can it be said to possess any superiority over the last named. the term "silver-skin," by which this onion is very generally though erroneously known throughout new england, has created great confusion between seedsmen and dealers. much perplexity might be avoided if its application to the yellow onion were entirely abandoned. the genuine silver-skin, as its name implies, has a skin of pure, silvery whiteness; and is, in other respects, very dissimilar to the present variety. when extensively cultivated for the market, it should be sown and subsequently treated as directed for the danvers onion. the yield per acre varies from four to six hundred bushels. * * * * * rocambole. allium scorodoprasum. this plant is a half-hardy perennial from denmark, partaking of the character of both the leek and garlic. bulbs or cloves similar to those of the common garlic, with much the same flavor, though somewhat milder; leaves large; flower-stalk about two feet high, contorted or coiled towards the top, and producing at its extremity a group of bulbs, or rocamboles, intermixed with flowers. _propagation and culture._--it is propagated by planting either the underground bulbs, or the small cloves, or bulbs, that are produced upon the stem of the plant. these should be set in april, in drills ten inches apart, and four or five inches asunder in the drills. in the following august they will have attained their full size, and may be used immediately; or they may be taken up, spread to dry, tied in bunches, and housed, for future consumption. all the culture required is the removal of weeds, and the occasional stirring of the soil. _use._--"the cloves, or small bulbs, as well those from the stem as those beneath the surface of the ground, are used in the manner of shallots and garlics, and nearly for the same purposes." there is but one variety. * * * * * shallot. allium ascalonicum. the shallot (sometimes written eschalot) is a native of palestine,--the specific term "ascalonicum" being derived from ascalon, a town in syria: hence also the popular english name, "scallion." the root of the plant is composed of numerous small bulbs, united at their base; the whole being enclosed in a thin skin, or pellicle, varying in color in the different varieties. leaves fistulous, or hollow, produced in tufts, or groups; flowers reddish, in terminal, compact, spherical bunches. the plants, however, very seldom blossom. _soil._--"the soil best adapted for growing the shallot is a light, rich, sandy loam; but, as such soils are scarce, any light, dry soil that has been cultivated and manured a year or two will answer." in wet soils, it is liable to be attacked by the maggot; and such location should, therefore, be avoided. _propagation and culture._--the roots of the shallot, which are bulbous, are very readily increased by offsets. the bulbs are oblong, but somewhat irregular in their form, and seldom attain a large size. as they increase into clusters, they do not swell like roots that grow singly. they are propagated by dividing these clustered roots into separate offsets, and planting the divisions in april, in very shallow drills one foot apart; placing them about six inches apart in the drills, and covering them lightly with earth. soot mixed with the surface-soil has been found of much service to prevent the maggot from committing extensive depredations upon this plant. the only after-culture required is that of keeping them clean from weeds, and occasionally stirring the ground. _harvesting._--"as soon as the leaves decay, the bulbs will have attained their growth, and should then be taken up, and spread out in some dry loft; when, after being thoroughly dried and picked, they may be put in bags, boxes, or tied in bundles by the stalks. if kept from frost, they will remain fit for use for several months." _use._--the largest of the bulbs are selected, and employed in the same manner as garlic or onions. "on account of the mildness of its flavor, when compared with that of other cultivated plants of the onion family, it is preferred in cookery as a seasoner in soups and stews. it is also much used in the raw state: the cloves, or sections of the root, cut up into small pieces, form an ingredient in french salads; and are also sprinkled over steaks, chops, &c. the true epicure, however, cuts a clove or bulb in two, and, by rubbing the inside of the plate, secures the amount of relish to suit his palate. "shallot vinegar is made by putting six cloves, or bulbs, into a quart bottle of that liquid; and, when sealed down, it will keep for years. the shallot also makes an excellent pickle."--_m'int._ _varieties._-- common or small shallot. Échalote ordinaire. _vil._ bulbs about three-fourths of an inch in diameter at the base, elongated, and enclosed in a reddish-yellow skin, or pellicle; leaves small, ten or twelve inches high. this variety is early, keeps well, and is one of the best for cultivation. jersey. _vil._ bulbs of large size, measuring two inches in length, and rather more than an inch in diameter at the base; grouped like the other varieties, and enclosed in a light-brown pellicle, as fine in texture as the skin of an onion, which this shallot much resembles in form and odor. compared with the common shallot, it is more round, the neck is smaller, and it is also more close or compact. leaves remarkably glaucous, not tall, but of good substance,--quite distinct in these respects from the small or the large sort. it also sometimes produces seeds; which is, perhaps, a recommendation, as these, when sown, frequently produce new varieties. it is one of the earliest of all the sorts; but is comparatively tender, and decays early. large alenÇon. Échalote grosse d'alençon. _vil._ bulb very large, exceeding in size that of the jersey shallot; which variety it much resembles in form and color, and in being tender, decaying early, and sometimes running to seed. it is, however, not quite so early; and the leaves are longer and more glaucous. flavor mild and pleasant. at the time of harvesting, the bulbs should be long exposed to the sun, in order that they may be thoroughly dried before packing away. "the bulbs are slow in forming, and the worst keepers, as, when stored, they soon begin to sprout." this variety, and also the jersey shallot, closely resemble the onion. it is possible they may constitute a distinct species. large shallot. Échalote grosse. _vil._ bulbs about two inches in diameter at the base, elongated, and enclosed in a brownish-yellow skin, or pellicle; leaves fifteen to eighteen inches high. this variety, in size, much exceeds that of the common or small shallot; and, though later in ripening, is nevertheless the first to be found in the market, as it forms its bulbs early in the season. its keeping properties are inferior to the last named. long keeping. this resembles the common shallot; but is considered superior to that variety in its keeping properties, and in being less subject to the attack of the maggot. it is said that the variety may be kept two years. * * * * * welsh onion. ciboule, of the french. allium fistulosum. the welsh onion is a hardy perennial from siberia. it is quite distinct from the common onion, as it forms no bulbs, but produces numerous elongated, angular, tunicated stems, not unlike scallions, or some of the smaller descriptions of leeks. the flower-stem is about eighteen inches high, swollen near the middle, and terminates in a globular umbel of greenish-white flowers. the seeds are small, black, somewhat irregular in form, and retain their vitality two years. about thirty-six thousand are contained in an ounce. _sowing and cultivation._--the seeds are sown in drills about half an inch in depth, and the crop subsequently treated as the common onion. there are two varieties:-- common or red welsh onion. skin, or pellicle, reddish-brown, changing to silvery-white about the base of the leaves; the latter being fistulous, and about a foot in height. its principal recommendation is its remarkable hardiness. the seeds are sometimes sown in july and august for the young stems and leaves, which are used during winter and early in spring as salad. white welsh onion. early white. ciboule blanche hative. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the common red. the skin is rose-white, and, like that of the last named, changes to silvery-white about the upper portion of the stem, or bulb; the leaves are longer, deeper colored, firmer, and less subject to wither or decay at their extremities, than those of the common red. the white is generally considered the better variety; as it is more tender, and milder in flavor, though much less productive. the welsh onions are of little value, except in cold latitudes; and are rarely found in the vegetable gardens of this country. chapter iii. asparaginous plants. the artichoke. asparagus. cardoon. hop. oosung. phytolacca. * * * * * the artichoke. cynarus scolymus. [illustration: green globe artichoke.] the artichoke is a hardy perennial. the stem is from four to five feet in height, with numerous branches; the leaves are of remarkable size, frequently measuring three feet, and sometimes nearly four feet in length, pinnatifid, or deeply cut on the borders, and more or less invested with an ash-colored down; the mid-ribs are large, fleshy, and deeply grooved, or furrowed; the flowers are large, terminal, and consist of numerous blue florets, enclosed by fleshy-pointed scales; the seeds (eight hundred and fifty of which are contained in an ounce) are of a grayish color, variegated with deep brown, oblong, angular, somewhat flattened, and retain their vitality five years. _soil._--select a light, rich, and rather moist soil, and trench it well; incorporating in the process a liberal portion of old, well-decomposed compost. sea-weeds, kelp, rock-weed, and the like, where they can be obtained, are the best fertilizers; but, where these are not accessible, a slight application of salt will be beneficial. _propagation._--artichokes may be propagated either by seeds, or by slips, or suckers, from established plants. if by slips, they should be taken off in may, when they have grown five or six inches in height, and transplanted four or five inches deep, in rows four feet apart, and two feet apart in the rows. water freely, if dry weather occurs before the young plants are established. keep the ground loose by frequent hoeings; and in august or september the heads will be fit for use. before severe weather, the plants should be covered with straw or stable-litter. as plants of one year's growth produce but few heads, and are also later in their development of these than established plants, it is the practice of many cultivators to set a few young slips, and to destroy an equal part of the old plantation, yearly. _propagation by seeds._--"sow the seeds in april, in a nursery-bed; making the drills a foot apart, and covering the seeds an inch deep. when the plants are three inches high, transplant as before directed. plants from seeds will seldom flower the first year."--_m'int._ _to raise seeds._--allow a few of the largest central heads to remain; and, just as the flowers expand, bend over the stalk so as to allow the rain to run from the buds, as the seeds are often injured by wet weather. in favorable seasons, they will ripen in september. according to english authority, little dependence can be placed on seedling plants: many produce small and worthless heads, whilst others produce those of large size and of good quality. _taking the crop._--"all of the heads should be cut as fast as they are fit for use, whether wanted or not; as allowing them to flower greatly weakens the plants, as does also permitting the stems that produced the heads to remain after the heads are cut off. for pickling whole, the heads should be cut when about two inches in diameter; for other purposes, when they have nearly attained their full size, but before the scales of the calyx begin to open. for what is called 'bottoms,' they should be cut when they are at their largest size, and just as the scales begin to show symptoms of opening, which is an indication that the flowers are about to be formed; after which, the heads are comparatively useless."--_m'int._ _use._--the portions of the plant used are the lowest parts of the leaves, or scales, of the calyx; and also the fleshy receptacles of the flower, freed from the bristles and seed-down. the latter are commonly called the "choke," on account of their disagreeable character when eaten. sometimes, particularly in france, the central leaf-stalk is blanched, and eaten like cardoons. the bottom, which is the top of the receptacles, is fried in paste, and enters largely into fricassees and ragouts. they are sometimes pickled, and often used in a raw state as a salad. the french also cut them into thin slices; leaving one of the scales, or calyx leaves, attached, by which the slice is lifted, and dipped in oil and vinegar before using. the english present the head whole, or cut into quarters, upon a dry plate; the guests picking off the scales one by one, which have a fleshy substance at the base. these are eaten after being dipped in oil and vinegar. what is called "artichoke chard" is the tender leaf-stalks blanched, and cooked like cardoons. the italians and french often eat the heads raw with vinegar, oil, salt, and pepper; but they are generally preferred when boiled. _varieties._-- dark-red spined. bud very small. the variety is remarkable for the very long spines in which the scales terminate. for cultivation, it is inferior to the other sorts. early purple. purple. purple globe. artichaut violet. _vil._ heads rather small, obtusely conical; scales short and broad, pointed, green at the base, tinged with purplish-red on the outside, towards their extremities, moderately succulent, and of good quality. the variety is early, but not hardy. in france, it is considered excellent in its crude state, served with vinegar and oil; but not so good cooked. green globe. large round-headed. globe. a very large sort, much esteemed, and generally cultivated in england. heads, or buds, very large, nearly round, and with a dusky, purplish tint. the scales turn in at the top, and the receptacle is more fleshy than that of most varieties. it is generally preferred for the main crop, as the scales, or edible parts, are thicker, and higher flavored, than those of any other artichoke. it is not a hardy variety, and requires ample protection during winter. green, or common. french. bud very large, of a conical or oval form; scales deep-green, thick, and fleshy, pointed at the tips, and turned outwards. though it has not the same thickness of flesh as the green globe artichoke, it is much hardier, more prolific, and one of the best sorts for cultivation. green provence. bud large; scales comparatively long and narrow, of a lively green color, erect, fleshy at the base, and terminating in a sharp, brownish spine, or thorn; leaves of the plant deep-green. most esteemed in its crude state; eaten as a salad in vinegar and oil. laon. gros vert de laon. _vil._ similar to the common green artichoke, but of larger size. scales rather loose and open, very deep-green, fleshy, and pointed. much cultivated in the vicinity of paris, and there considered the best. large flat brittany. artichaut camus de bretagne. _vil._ bud of medium size, somewhat globular, but flattened at the top; scales closely set together, green, brownish on the borders,--short, thick, and fleshy at the base. earlier than the laon, but not so fleshy. much grown in anjou and brittany. purplish-red. bud conical; scales green towards their tips, and purplish-red at their base. not very fleshy, and in no respect superior to the other varieties. * * * * * asparagus. asparagus officinalis. asparagus is a hardy, perennial, maritime plant. it rises to the height of five feet and upwards, with an erect, branching stem; short, slender, nearly cylindrical leaves; and greenish, drooping flowers. the seeds, which are produced in globular, scarlet berries, are black, somewhat triangular, and retain their germinative powers four years. twelve hundred and fifty weigh an ounce. it is indigenous to the shores of various countries of europe and asia; and, since its introduction, has become naturalized to a considerable extent in this country. it is frequently seen in mowing-fields upon old farms; and, in some instances, has found its way to the beaches and marshes of the seacoast. _propagation._--it is propagated from seed, which may be sown either in autumn, just before the closing-up of the ground; or in spring, as soon as the soil is in good working condition. the nursery, or seed-bed, should be thoroughly spaded over, the surface levelled and raked smooth and fine, and the seed sown, not very thickly, in drills twelve or fourteen inches apart, and about an inch in depth. an ounce of seed is sufficient for fifty or sixty feet of drill. when the plants are well up, thin them to three inches asunder; as they will be much stronger, if grown at some distance apart, than if allowed to stand closely together. cultivate in the usual manner during the summer, and give the plants a light covering of stable-litter during the winter. good plants of one year's growth are preferred by experienced growers for setting; but some choose those of two years, and they may be used when three years old. _soil and planting._--"a rich, sandy, alluvial soil, impregnated with salt, is naturally best adapted to the growth of asparagus; and, in such soil, its cultivation is an easy matter. soils of a different character must be made rich by the application of fertilizing material, and light and friable by trenching. sand, in wet, heavy, clayey soil, is of permanent benefit. "the market-gardeners near london are aware of this; for, highly as they manure their ground for crops generally, they procure sand, or sandy mud, from certain parts of the thames, for asparagus plantations, where the soil is too heavy. "the ground should be thoroughly trenched to the depth of two and a half or three feet: and, in order to make it rich, a large quantity of manure should be incorporated, as well at the bottom as near the surface,--using either sandy mud; the scourings of ditches made into compost; rock-weed, or kelp, where they can be procured; decayed leaves, or leaf-mould; the remains of hot-beds, good peat, or almost any other manure not in too crude a state. "where the soil is not so deep, and the subsoil coarse and rather gravelly, the ground is not trenched so deep; the bottom of the trench being merely dug over. above this, however, a large quantity of manure is applied; and by this, with good after-management,--chiefly consisting in making the soil fine and light for the shoots to push through,--excellent crops are produced. "the ground should be divided into beds either three or five feet wide, with an alley or path of two feet in width between. the reason for having some of the beds so much narrower than the others is, that the narrow ones are sooner heated by the sun's rays, and consequently an earlier production is induced. "the distance between the rows in the beds may be regulated as follows: when the beds are three feet wide, two rows should be transplanted along them: each row should be a foot from the edge of the bed, and they will consequently be a foot apart. in beds that are five feet wide, three rows should be transplanted, also lengthwise,--one along the middle, and one on each side, a foot from the edge of the bed. the distance from plant to plant in the rows should not be less than one foot; at this distance, good-sized heads will be produced: but, if very large heads are desired for exhibition or competition, the plants should be fifteen, or even eighteen, inches asunder. "the transplanting may be performed either in april or may. the three-feet beds should be traced out to run east and west, or so as to present the side of the bed to the direct action of the sun's rays when they are most powerful. asparagus, in beds so formed, pushes earlier in the season than it does in beds running north and south. for all except the earliest beds, the direction is immaterial; and they may run east and west, or north and south, as may be most convenient. "in proceeding to transplant, the beds, and paths, or alleys, should be marked off at the required distance. a stout stake should be driven at each corner of the beds, and from these the distances for the rows should be measured. there are various ways of transplanting. some stretch a line, and cut out a trench only deep enough to allow the roots to be laid out without doubling; and they are spread out like a fan perpendicularly against the side of the cut, the crown of the plant being kept two inches below the surface of the ground. some dig out a trench, and form little hillocks of fine soil, over which the roots are spread, extending like the sticks of an umbrella. others make a ridge, astride which they set the plants, spreading their roots on each side of the ridge; and, again, some take off a portion of the soil on the bed, and, after the surface has been raked smooth, the roots of the plants are spread out nearly at right angles on the level. "the first method is the most expeditious, and is generally practised in setting extensive plantations: but, whatever plan be preferred, the crowns of the plants should all be on the same level; otherwise those that are too high would be liable to be injured by the knife in cutting." during the summer, nothing will be necessary but to keep the plants clear of weeds; and, in doing this, the hoe should be dispensed with as much as possible, to avoid injuring the roots. in the autumn, when the tops have completely withered, they should be cut down nearly level with the surface of the ground, and burned. the beds should then be lightly dug over, and three or four inches of rich loam, intermixed with well-digested compost, and salt at the rate of two quarts to the square rod, should be applied; which will leave the crowns of the roots about five inches below the surface. _second year._--early in spring, as soon as the frost leaves the ground, dig over the beds, taking care not to disturb the roots; rake the surface smooth; and, during the summer, cultivate as before directed: but none of the shoots should be cut for use. in the autumn, after the stalks have entirely withered, cut down and burn as in the previous year; stir the surface of the bed, and add an inch of soil and manure, which will bring the crowns six or seven inches below ground,--a depth preferred, by a majority of cultivators, for established plantations. _third year._--early in spring, stir the ground as directed for the two previous years. some cultivators make a slight cutting during this season; but the future strength of the plants will be increased by allowing the crop to grow naturally as during the first and second years. in autumn, cut and burn as before; dig over the surface; add a dressing of manure; and, in the ensuing spring, the beds may be cut freely for use. instead of transplanting the roots, asparagus-beds are sometimes formed by sowing the seeds where the plants are to remain. when this method is adopted, the beds should be laid out and trenched, as before directed, and about three inches of soil removed from the entire surface. the seed should then be sown in drills an inch deep, at the distances marked out for the rows, and covered with rich, light soil. when the seedlings are two or three inches high, they should be thinned to nine or twelve inches apart; and, in thinning, the weakest plants should be removed. in the autumn, cut down the plants after they have withered, stir and smooth the surface, and add a dressing of manure. in the spring of the second year, stir the surface again; and, during the summer, cultivate as before. in the autumn, the plants will be ready for the dressing; which consists of the soil previously taken from the bed, with sufficient well-digested compost added to cover the crowns of the roots five or six inches in depth. the after-culture is similar to that of beds from transplanted roots. "asparagus-beds should be enriched every autumn with a liberal application of good compost containing some mixture of salt; the benefit of which will be evident, not only in the quantity, but in the size and quality, of the produce. the dressing should be applied after the removal of the decayed stalks, and forked in, that its enriching properties may be washed to the roots of the plants by winter rains. "in general, transplanted asparagus comes up quite slender the first year; is larger the second; and, the third year, a few shoots may be fit for cutting. it is nearly in perfection the fourth year; and, if properly managed, will annually give an abundant supply during the life of the maker of a bed or plantation." _cutting._--"the shoots should be cut angularly, from two to three inches below the surface of the ground; taking care not to wound the younger buds. it is in the best condition for cutting when the shoots are four or five inches above ground, and while the head, or bud, remains close and firm. "it is the practice to cut off all the shoots as they appear, up to the period when it is thought best to leave off cutting altogether. the time for this depends on the climate, season, nature of the soil, and strength of the plants. where the climate is good, or when the season is an early one, cutting must be commenced early; and of course, in such a case, it ought not to be continued late, as the plants would thereby be weakened." in the middle states, the cutting should be discontinued from the th to the th of june; and from the th to the th of the same month in the eastern states and the canadas. "if the plants are weak, they should be allowed to grow up as early as possible, to make foliage, and consequently fresh roots, and thus to acquire more vigor for the ensuing year. it is also advisable to leave off at an early period the cutting of some of the best of the beds intended for early produce, in order that the buds may be well matured early in autumn, and thus be prepared to push vigorously early in spring." asparagus-beds will continue from twenty to thirty years; and there are instances of beds being regularly cut, and remaining in good condition for more than fifty years. _seed._--"select some of the finest and earliest heads as they make their appearance in the spring; tie them to stakes during the summer, taking care not to drive the stake through the crown of the plant. if for the market, or to be sent to a distance, wash out the seeds in autumn, and dry thoroughly; if for home-sowing, allow the seeds to remain in the berries till used." _use._--the young shoots are boiled twenty minutes or half an hour, until they become soft; and are principally served on toasted bread, with melted butter. it is the practice of some to boil the shoots entire; others cut or break the sprout just above the more tough or fibrous part, and cook only the part which is tender and eatable. this is snapped or cut into small sections, which are boiled, buttered, seasoned, and served on toast in the usual form. "the smaller sprouts are sometimes cut into pieces three-eighths of an inch long, and cooked and served as green pease." the sprouts are also excellent when made into soup. it is one of the most productive, economical, and healthful of all garden vegetables. _varieties._--"the names of numerous varieties occur in the catalogues of seedsmen: but there seems to be little permanency of character in the plants; such slight variations as appear from time to time being caused, to a considerable extent, by the nature of the soil, or by the situation in which the plants are grown. what are called the red-topped and green-topped may perhaps be somewhat distinct, and considered as varieties."--_glenny._ soil and location have unquestionably much influence, both as respects the quality and size of the sprouts. a bed of asparagus in one locality produced shoots seldom reaching a diameter of half an inch, and of a very tough and fibrous character; while a bed in another situation, formed of plants taken from the same nursery-bed, actually produced sprouts so large and fine as to obtain the prize of the massachusetts horticultural society. if any variety really exists peculiar in size, form, color, or quality, it cannot be propagated by seed. large sprouts may afford seeds, which, as a general rule, will produce finer asparagus than seeds from smaller plants; but a variety, when it occurs, can be propagated only by a division of the roots. mr. thompson states, that on one part of mr. grayson's extensive plantation, on the south side of the thames, near london, the so-called grayson's giant was produced; and in another section, the common sort: but, when both were made to change places, the common acquired the dimensions of the giant, whilst the latter diminished to the ordinary size. seeds of the following named and described sorts may be obtained of seedsmen, and will undoubtedly, in nearly all cases, afford fine asparagus; but they will not produce plants which will uniformly possess the character of the parent variety:-- battersea. _rog._ battersea is famed for producing fine asparagus, and the name is applied to the particular variety there grown. the heads are large, full, and close, and the tops tinted with a reddish-green color. it is probably intermediate between the green and purple-topped. gravesend. _rog._ originated and named under like circumstances with the battersea. the top is greener, and not generally so plump and close; but it is considered finer flavored. both varieties are, however, held in great estimation. grayson's giant. this variety, as also the deptford, mortlake, and reading, all originated and were named under the same conditions as the varieties before described. all are fine sorts; but the difference between them, and indeed between all of the kinds, if important, is certainly not permanent, so long as they are offered in the form of seeds for propagation. mr. grayson, the originator of this variety, produced a hundred sprouts, the aggregate weight of which was forty-two pounds,--the largest ever raised in britain. german. asperge d'allemagne. _vil._ this variety very nearly resembles the giant purple-topped. it is, however, considered a little earlier, and the top is deeper colored. giant purple-top. dutch. red-top. sprout white; the top, as it breaks ground, purple; size very large, sometimes measuring an inch and three-fourths in diameter, but greatly affected by soil and cultivation. a hundred sprouts of this variety have been produced which weighed twenty-five pounds. green-top. this variety, when grown under the same conditions as the giant purple-top, is generally smaller or more slender. the top of the sprout, and the scales on the sides, are often slightly tinged with purple. the plant, when full grown, is perceptibly more green than that of the giant purple-top. from most nursery-beds, plants of both varieties will probably be obtained, with every intervening grade of size and color. * * * * * cardoon. chardon. chardoon. cynara cardunculus. in its general character and appearance, the cardoon resembles the artichoke. its full size is not attained until the second year, when it is "truly a gigantic herbaceous plant," of five or six feet in height. the flowers, which are smaller than those of the artichoke, are produced in july and august of the second year, and are composed of numerous small blue florets, enclosed by somewhat fleshy, pointed scales. the seeds are oblong, a little flattened, of a grayish or grayish-green color, spotted and streaked with deep brown; and, when perfectly grown, are similar in size and form to those of the apple. about six hundred are contained in an ounce; and they retain their vitality seven years. _soil, propagation, and culture._--the best soil for the cardoon is a light and deep but not over-rich loam. it is raised from seed; which, as the plant is used in the first year of its growth and is liable to be injured by the winter, should be sown annually, although the cardoon is really a perennial. it succeeds best when sown where the plants are to remain; for, if removed, the plants recover slowly, are more liable to run to seed, and, besides, seldom attain the size of those that have not been transplanted. the seed should be sown as early in spring as the weather becomes warm and settled, in drills three feet apart, an inch and a half in depth, and the young plants afterwards thinned to twelve inches asunder in the drills. the leaves are blanched before being used. it is sometimes raised and blanched as follows: sow the seed at the bottom of trenches made about six inches deep, twelve inches wide, three feet apart, and of a length according to the supply required. at the bottom of the trench, thoroughly mix a small quantity of well-digested compost, and sow the seeds in small groups, or collections (three or four seeds together), at about twelve or fifteen inches apart, and cover them an inch or an inch and a half deep. when the young plants have acquired three or four leaves, they should be thinned out to single plants. during the summer, keep them free from weeds; and, as they require much moisture, it is well to water frequently, if the weather is very dry. in september, the plants will have attained their growth for the season, and be ready for blanching; which should be done in a dry day, and when the plants are entirely free from dampness. it is thus performed: the leaves of each plant are carefully and lightly tied together with strong matting; keeping the whole upright, and the ribs of the leaves closely together. the plant is then bound with twisted hay-bands, or bands of straw, about an inch and a half in diameter; beginning at the root, and continuing the winding until two-thirds or three-fourths of the height is covered. if there is no heavy frost, the leaves will blanch quickly and finely without further pains: but, if frosty weather occurs, it will be necessary to earth up about the plants, as is practised with celery; but care should be taken not to raise the earth higher than the hay-bands. one method of blanching is simply to tie the leaves together with matting, and then to earth up the plants from time to time like celery; beginning early in september, and adding gradually every week until they are sufficiently covered. those, however, blanched by the banding process, are superior, both in respect to color and in the greater length of the parts blanched. another practice is to earth up a little about the base of the plant, tie the leaves together with thread or matting, and then envelop the whole quite to the top with a quantity of long, clean wheat or rye straw, placed up and down the plant, and tied together with small cord or strong matting. the leaves will thus blanch without being earthed up, and speedily become white. this process is a good one, is economical, and presents a neat appearance. "in either of the methods, it is very necessary to be careful that the plants are perfectly dry before they are enveloped in their covering: they will otherwise rot." in about three weeks after being tied up, the cardoons will be fit for use. _harvesting._--when the stems and midribs of the leaves are thoroughly blanched, they are ready for use. until the occurrence of severe weather, the table may be supplied directly from the garden: but, before the closing-up of the ground, "the plants should be taken up, roots and leaves entire, and removed to the cellar; where they should be packed in sand, laying the plants down in rows, and packing the sand around them, one course over another, till finished. in this way, they not only keep well, but become more perfectly blanched." _to raise seed._--allow two or three plants to remain unblanched, and leave them in the ground during the winter, protected by straw or other convenient material. they will grow to the height, and flower and seed, as before described. one plant will afford sufficient seed for any common garden. _use._--"the stems of the leaves, as well as the mid-ribs, when blanched, are used for soups, stews, and even for salads, in autumn and winter. the longer these parts of the plant are, and the more rapidly they are grown, the more they are esteemed, on account of their greater crispness, tenderness, and color." the "gardener's chronicle" gives the following directions for dressing them:-- "when a cardoon is to be cooked, the solid stalks of the leaves are to be cut in pieces about six inches long, and boiled, like any other vegetable, in pure water (not salt and water), till they are tender. they are then to be carefully deprived of the slime and strings that will be found to cover them; and, having been thus thoroughly cleansed, are to be plunged in cold water, where they must remain until they are wanted for the table. they are then taken out, and heated with white sauce, or marrow. the process just described is for the purpose of rendering them white, and of depriving them of a bitterness which is peculiar to them. if this is neglected, the cardoons will be black, not white, as well as disagreeable." m'intosh remarks, that, when skilfully prepared, they form an excellent and wholesome dish, deserving far more general notice. in france, the flowers are gathered, and dried in the shade; and, when so preserved, are used as a substitute for rennet, to coagulate milk. _varieties._-- common, or large smooth. _trans._ smooth large solid. plein inerme. _vil._ this kind grows from four to five feet high. the leaves are large and strong, though somewhat smaller than those of the tours or prickly cardoon. they are of a shining-green color, with little appearance of hoariness on the upper surface, and generally destitute of spines; though some of the plants occasionally have a few small ones at the base of the leaflets. the cardon _plein inerme_ of the french, which is described in the "bon jardinier" as a novelty, corresponds nearly with the large smooth or common cardoon. large spanish. _trans._ d'espagne. _vil._ stem five or six feet high. the divisions of the leaflets are rather narrower, and somewhat more hoary, than those of the common cardoon. the ribs are longer, and the whole plant stronger and generally more spiny; though, on the whole, comparatively smooth. it is not, however, always very readily distinguished from the common or large smooth cardoon. it runs up to seed quicker than the other varieties. puvis. _thomp._ artichoke-leaved. lance-leaved. puvis de bourg. _vil._ the puvis cardoon is remarkable for its strong growth, the large size it attains, and the thickness of the mid-ribs of the leaves, which are almost solid. the leaves are thick, and not at all prickly, or very slightly so. the terminal lobe is very large, and lance-formed: whence the name. it is a fine variety, and of more tender substance than the tours cardoon. red. _trans._ blood-ribbed. red-stemmed. _thomp._ large purple. the leaves of this variety are green, without any hoariness; long, narrow, and more sharply pointed than those of most of the other kinds. the ribs are large, solid, and tinged with red. a recent sort, excellent in quality, but wanting in hardiness. tours. _trans._ large tours solid. cardon de tours. _vil._ the leaves of this variety are very hoary on the upper surface; the divisions are broad, sharply pointed, and terminate with rigid, sharp spines. spines also grow, in clusters of from three to five, at the base of the leaflets; and are very strong, and of a yellowish color. this variety is not so tall as the spanish or large smooth. the ribs are large and solid. the tours cardoon is cultivated by the market-gardeners around paris; and, notwithstanding the inconvenience arising from its numerous and rigid spines, it is considered by them as the best, because of its thick, tender, and delicate ribs. * * * * * the hop. humulus lupulus. the hop is considered a native of this continent, and is found wild in all parts of the united states. the root is perennial, but the stems are annual. the latter are from ten to twenty-five feet in length, angular, rough, and twine from right to left. the leaves are placed opposite each other on the stem, on long, winding footstalks: the smaller ones are heart-shaped; the larger ones three or five lobed, veiny, and rough. the barren and fertile flowers are produced on separate plants: the former being very numerous and paniculated; the latter in the form of an ament, or collection of small scales, which are more or less covered with a fine, yellow powder called "lupulin." while several distinct sorts of the fertile or hop-bearing plant have been long in cultivation, only one variety of the male or barren plant is known. _soil and location._--though it may be cultivated with success in a variety of soils, the hop prefers a rich, deep loam, which should be thoroughly ploughed, and, if necessary, enriched with well-digested compost. in general, it may be said that "good corn-land is good hop-land." hops, however, are reputed to be of better quality when raised on comparatively thin soils. _propagation and culture._--it is propagated by a division of the roots early in spring. when extensively cultivated, the plants are set in hills, five to seven feet apart, and three or four cuttings or slips allowed to a hill; but in garden culture, to procure the young shoots, the plants are set in rows about three feet apart, and one foot from plant to plant in the rows. _use._--the plant is principally cultivated for its flowers, which are largely employed in the manufacture of malt liquors. the young shoots are cut in spring, when they are five or six inches in height, and eaten as salad, or used as asparagus, which they somewhat resemble in taste. * * * * * hoosung, or oosung. _hov. mag._ a lettuce-like plant from shanghai. stems cylindrical, from two to three feet high, erect, light green, with a green, succulent pith; leaves oblong, tapering to the base, the uppermost clasping; the flowers are small, yellow, in panicles slightly drooping. if sown in april or may, the plants will ripen their seed in august. _sowing and cultivation._--sow in a cool frame, in either april or may, or continuously, for a succession, at intervals during may, and transplant into the open ground in the usual manner of treating lettuces; making the rows about eighteen inches apart, and placing the plants about the same distance apart in the rows. the plants will be fit for use early in june. _use._--the succulent stem is the part used. this is divested of its outer rind, and either simply boiled, with a little salt in the water, and dressed as asparagus, or stewed in soy, with salt, pepper, and butter added, or boiled in soup as okra. it is a very agreeable and pleasant addition to the list of vegetable esculents, and worthy of trial. the plant is very little cultivated; and there are no described varieties. * * * * * perennial phytolacca. garget. poke. pigeon berry. phytolacca decandra. a hardy, herbaceous, perennial plant, common by roadsides, in waste places, and springing up spontaneously on newly burned pine-lands. it has a branching, purplish stem, five to seven feet in height; and large, oval, pointed, entire leaves. the flowers are produced in july and august, in long clusters; and are of a dull-white color. the fruit consists of a flat, purple, juicy berry; and is sometimes used for dyeing purple. _soil and culture._--it will thrive in almost any soil or situation; and can be easily propagated from seed, or by dividing the roots. the plant requires little cultivation, and is so abundant in many localities as to afford an ample supply for the mere labor of gathering. _use._--the young shoots are eaten early in the season, as a substitute for asparagus, which they resemble in taste. when treated in the manner of sea-kale, the flavor of the sprouts is scarcely distinguishable from that of asparagus. the root has reputed important medicinal properties; and, when taken internally, acts as a violent emetic. annual phytolacca. phytolacca esculenta. an annual species, with foliage similar to the foregoing. it is much less vigorous and stocky in habit. the seed should be sown in april, in drills fifteen inches apart. the young shoots, or plants, are used in the manner of the species before described. chapter iv. cucurbitaceous plants. the cucumber. egyptian cucumber. globe cucumber. gourd, or calabash. the melon. musk-melon. persian melons. water-melon. papanjay, or sponge cucumber. prickly-fruited gherkin. pumpkin. snake cucumber. squash. * * * * * the cucumber. cucumis sativus. the cucumber is a tender, annual plant; and is a native of the east indies, or of tropical origin. it has an angular, creeping stem; large, somewhat heart-shaped, leaves; and axillary staminate or pistillate flowers. the fruit is cylindrical, generally elongated, often somewhat angular, smooth, or with scattering black or white spines; the flesh is white or greenish-white, and is divided at the centre of the fruit into three parts, in each of which the seeds are produced in great abundance. these seeds are of an elliptical or oval form, much flattened, and of a pale yellowish-white color. about twelve hundred are contained in an ounce; and they retain their vitality ten years. _soil and culture._--very dry and very wet soils should be avoided. cucumbers succeed decidedly best in warm, moist, rich, loamy ground. the essentials to their growth are heat, and a fair proportion of moisture. they should not be planted or set in the open air until there is a prospect of continued warm and pleasant weather; as, when planted early, not only are the seeds liable to decay in the ground, but the young plants are frequently cut off by frost. the hills should be five or six feet apart in each direction. make them fifteen or eighteen inches in diameter, and a foot in depth; fill them three-fourths full of thoroughly digested compost, and then draw four or five inches of earth over the whole, raising the hill a little above the level of the ground; plant fifteen or twenty seeds in each, cover half an inch deep, and press the earth smoothly over with the back of the hoe. when all danger from bugs and worms is past, thin out the plants; leaving but three or four of the strongest or healthiest to a hill. _taking the crop._--as fast as the cucumbers attain a suitable size, they should be plucked, whether required for use or not. the imperfectly formed, as well as the symmetrical, should all be removed. fruit, however inferior, left to ripen on the vines, soon destroys their productiveness. _seed._--"cucumbers, from their natural proneness to impregnate each other when, grown together, are exceedingly difficult to keep true to their original points of merit;" and consequently, to retain any variety in its purity, it must be grown apart from all other sorts. when a few seeds are desired for the vegetable garden, two or three of the finest-formed cucumbers should be selected early in the season, and allowed to ripen on the plants. in september, or when fully ripe, cut them open, take out the seeds, and allow them to stand a day or two, or until the pulp attached to them begins to separate; when they should be washed clean, thoroughly dried, and packed away for future use. _for pickling._--the land for raising cucumbers for pickling may be either swarded or stubble; but it must be in good condition, and such as is not easily affected by drought. it should be deeply ploughed, and the surface afterwards made fine and friable by being thoroughly harrowed. the hills should be six feet apart, and are generally formed by furrowing the land at this distance in each direction. manure the hills with well-digested compost, level off, draw over a little fine earth, and the land is ready for planting. this may be done at any time from the middle of june to the first week in july. the quantity of seed allowed to an acre varies from three-fourths of a pound, upwards. in most cases, growers seed very liberally, to provide against the depredation of worms and bugs; usually putting six or eight times as many seeds in a hill as will be really required for the crop. when the plants are well established and beyond danger, the field is examined, and the hills thinned to three or four plants; or, where there is a deficiency of plants, replanted. as fast as the cucumbers attain the proper size, they should be plucked; the usual practice being to go over the plantation daily. in gathering, all the fruit should be removed,--the misshapen and unmarketable, as well as those which are well formed; for, when any portion of the crop is allowed to remain and ripen, the plants become much less productive. in favorable seasons, and under a high state of cultivation, a hundred and twenty-five thousand are obtained from an acre; while, under opposite conditions, the crop may not exceed fifty thousand. the average price is about a dollar and twenty-five cents per thousand. _varieties._-- early cluster. early green cluster. a very popular, early cucumber, producing its fruit in clusters near the root of the plant: whence the name. the plant is healthy, hardy, and vigorous; fruit comparatively short and thick. its usual length is about five inches, and its diameter about two inches; skin prickly, green,--at the blossom-end, often paler, or nearly white,--brownish-yellow when ripe; flesh white, seedy, tender, and well flavored, but less crispy or brittle than that of many other varieties. it is a good early garden sort, and is very productive; but is not well adapted for pickling, on account of the soft and seedy character of its flesh. early frame. short green. one of the oldest of the garden sorts, justly styled a standard variety. plant healthy and vigorous, six to ten feet in length; fruit straight and well formed, five inches and a half long, and two inches and a half in diameter; skin deep-green, paler at the blossom-end, changing to clear yellow as it approaches maturity, and, when fully ripe, of a yellowish, russet-brown color; flesh greenish-white, rather seedy, but tender, and of an agreeable flavor. it is a few days later than the early cluster. the variety is universally popular, and is found in almost every vegetable garden. it is also very productive; succeeds well, whether grown in open culture or under glass; and, if plucked while young and small, makes an excellent pickle. early russian. this comparatively new variety resembles, in some respects, the early cluster. fruit from three to four inches in length, an inch and a half or two inches in diameter, and generally produced in pairs; flesh tender, crisp, and well flavored. when ripe, the fruit is deep-yellow or yellowish-brown. its merits are its hardiness, extreme earliness, and great productiveness. it comes into use nearly ten days in advance of the early cluster, and is the earliest garden variety now cultivated. its small size is, however, considered an objection; and some of the larger kinds are generally preferred for the main crop. london long green. _m'int._ fruit about a foot in length, tapering towards the extremities; skin very deep-green while the fruit is young, yellow when it is ripe; flesh greenish-white, firm, and crisp; flavor good. this variety is nearly related to the numerous prize sorts which in england are cultivated under glass, and forced during the winter. there is little permanency in the slight variations of character by which they are distinguished; and old varieties are constantly being dropped from the catalogues, and others, with different names, substituted. amongst the most prominent of these sub-varieties are the following:-- _carter's superior._--recently introduced. represented as one of the largest and finest of the forcing varieties. _conqueror of the west._--eighteen to twenty inches in length. it is a fine prize sort, and succeeds well in open culture. _cuthill's black spine._--six to nine inches in length, hardy, early, and productive. an excellent sort for starting in a hot-bed. fruit very firm and attractive. _the doctor._--sixteen to eighteen inches in length, and contracted towards the stem in the form of a neck. in favorable seasons, it will attain a good size, if grown in the open ground. crisp, tender, and well flavored. _eggleston's conqueror._--"very prolific, good for forcing, of fine flavor, hardy, and a really useful sort. specimens have been grown measuring twenty-eight inches in length, nine inches and a half in circumference, and weighing five pounds." _flanigan's prize._--an old, established variety; having been grown in england upwards of thirty years. length fifteen inches. _hunter's prolific._--length eighteen inches. very crisp and excellent, but requires more heat than most other varieties. spines white; fruit covered with a good bloom, and not liable to turn yellow at the base. _improved sion house._--this variety has received many prizes in england. not only is it well adapted for the summer crop, but it succeeds remarkably well when grown under glass. _irishman._--length twenty-two to twenty-five inches. handsome, and excellent for exhibition. _lord kenyon's favorite._--length twelve to eighteen inches. a fine sort for winter forcing. _manchester prize._--this, like the nepal, is one of the largest of the english greenhouse prize varieties. it sometimes measures two feet in length, and weighs twelve pounds. in favorable seasons, it will attain a large size in open culture, and sometimes perfect its seed. _nepal._--one of the largest of all varieties; length about twenty-four inches; weight ten to twelve pounds. _norman's stitchworth-park hero._--a recently introduced variety, hardy, long, handsome, very prolific, and fine flavored. _old sion house._--length about nine inches. this is a well-tried, winter, forcing variety. like the improved sion house, it also succeeds well in open culture. quality good, though the extremities are sometimes bitter. _prize-fighter._--length about sixteen inches. good for the summer crop or for exhibition. _rifleman._--this variety is described as one of the best prize cucumbers. it has a black spine; always grows very even from stem to point, with scarcely any handle; carries its bloom well; keeps a good fresh color; and is not liable to turn yellow as many other sorts. length twenty-four to twenty-eight inches. an abundant bearer. _ringleader._--a prominent prize sort, about fifteen inches in length. it succeeds well, whether grown under glass or in the open ground. _roman emperor._--length twelve to fifteen inches. _southgate._--this variety has been pronounced the most productive, and the best for forcing, of all the prize sorts. it is not so late as many of the english varieties, and will frequently succeed well if grown in the open ground. _victory of bath._--length about seventeen inches. well adapted for forcing or for the general crop. long green prickly. long prickly. early long green prickly. this is a large-sized variety, and somewhat later than the white-spined. the plant is a strong grower, and the foliage of a deep-green color; the fruit is about seven inches in length, straight, and generally angular; skin dark-green, changing to yellow as the fruit approaches maturity,--when fully ripe, it is reddish-brown, and is often reticulated about the insertion of the stem; prickles black; flesh white, somewhat seedy, but crisp, tender, and well flavored. the long green prickly is hardy and productive; makes a good pickle, if plucked while young; and is well deserving of cultivation. it differs from the london long green and the long green turkey in its form, which is much thicker in proportion to its length; and also in the character of its flesh, which is more pulpy and seedy. long green turkey. extra long green turkey. a distinct and well-defined variety; when full grown, sometimes measuring nearly eighteen inches in length. form long and slender, contracted towards the stem in the form of a neck, and swollen towards the opposite extremity; seeds few, and usually produced nearest the blossom-end. the neck is generally solid. while the fruit is young, the skin is deep-green; afterwards it changes to clear yellow, and finally assumes a rusty-yellow or yellowish-brown. flesh remarkably firm and crisp; exceeding, in these respects, that of any other variety. very productive and excellent. its remarkably firm and crispy flesh, and the absence of seeds, render it serviceable for the table after it has reached a very considerable size. for the same reasons, it may be pickled at a stage of its growth when other more seedy and pulpy sorts would be comparatively worthless. short prickly. short green prickly. early short green prickly. this variety somewhat resembles the long prickly; but it is shorter, and proportionally thicker. its length, when suitable for use, is about four inches. skin prickly, green, changing to yellow at maturity; flesh transparent greenish-white, rather seedy, but tender, crisp, and fine flavored. the variety is very hardy and productive, comes early into fruit, and is one of the best for pickling. it is a few days later than the early cluster. underwood's short prickly. this is an improved variety of the common short prickly, and is the best of all the sorts for extensive cultivation for pickling. the plant is hardy and productive. the fruit, when young, is very symmetrical, and of a fine deep-green color. its flesh is characterized by extraordinary crispness and solidity. when more advanced, the color becomes paler, and the flesh more soft and seedy. the fruit, at maturity, is yellow. white spanish. the form of this variety is similar to that of the white-spined. the fruit measures about five inches in length, two inches in diameter, and is generally somewhat ribbed. when suitable for use, the skin is white; a characteristic by which the variety is readily distinguished from all others. the flesh is crisp, tender, and well flavored. at maturity, the fruit is yellow. white-spined. early white-spined. new-york market. this very distinct variety is extensively grown for marketing, both at the north and south. the plants grow from six to ten feet in length; and, like those of the early frame, are of a healthy, luxurious habit. the fruit is of full medium size, straight, and well formed; about six inches in length, and two inches and a half in diameter. skin deep-green; prickles white; flesh white, tender, crispy, and of remarkably fine flavor. as the fruit ripens, the skin gradually becomes paler; and, when fully ripe, is nearly white: by which peculiarity, in connection with its white spines, the variety is always readily distinguishable. the white-spined is one of the best sorts for the table; and is greatly prized by market-men on account of its color, which is never changed to yellow, though kept long after being plucked. it is generally thought to retain its freshness longer than any other variety, and consequently to be well fitted for transporting long distances; though, on account of its peculiar color, the freshness may be less real than apparent. for the very general dissemination of this variety, the public are, in a great degree, indebted to the late i. p. rand, esq., of boston, whose integrity as a merchant, and whose skill as a practical vegetable cultivator and horticulturist, will be long remembered. * * * * * egyptian cucumber. hairy cucumber. round-leaved egyptian. concombre chaté. _vil._ cucumis chate. this is a tender, annual plant, with an angular, creeping stem, and alternate, somewhat heart-shaped, leaves. the flowers are axillary, about an inch in diameter, and of a pale-yellow color; the fruit is small, oblong, and very hairy. it is of little value as an esculent, and is rarely cultivated. the fruit is sometimes eaten in its green state, and also when cooked. according to duchesne, the egyptians prepare from the pulp a very agreeable and refreshing beverage. plant and cultivate as directed for melons or cucumbers. * * * * * globe cucumber. concombre des prophètes. _vil._ cucumis prophetarum. a tender annual from arabia. stem slender, creeping, and furnished with tendrils, or claspers. the leaves are about three inches in diameter, five-lobed, and indented on the borders; the flowers are axillary, yellow, and nearly three-fourths of an inch in diameter; the fruit is round, and rarely measures an inch in thickness; skin striped with green and yellow, and thickly set with rigid hairs, or bristles; the seeds are small, oval, flattened, and of a yellowish color. _planting and culture._--the seeds should be planted at the time of planting cucumbers or melons, in hills four or five feet apart, and covered about half an inch deep. thin to two or three plants to a hill. _use._--the fruit is sometimes eaten boiled; but is generally pickled in its green state, like the common cucumber. as a table vegetable, it is comparatively unimportant, and not worthy of cultivation. * * * * * calabash, or common gourd. bottle gourd. cucurbita lagenaria. the calabash, or common gourd, is a climbing or creeping annual plant, frequently more than twenty feet in height or length. the leaves are large, round, heart-shaped, very soft and velvety to the touch, and emit a peculiar, musky odor, when bruised or roughly handled. the flowers, which are produced on very long stems, are white, and nearly three inches in diameter. they expand towards evening, and remain in perfection only a few hours; as they are generally found drooping and withering on the ensuing morning. the young fruit is hairy, and quite soft and tender; but, when ripe, the surface becomes hard, smooth, and glossy. the seeds are five-eighths of an inch in length, somewhat quadrangular, of a fawn-yellow color, and retain their vitality five years. about three hundred are contained in an ounce. _cultivation._--the seeds are planted at the same time and in the same manner as those of the squash. the gourd succeeds best when provided with a trellis, or other support, to keep the plant from the ground; as the fruit is best developed in a pendent or hanging position. _use._--the fruit, while still young and tender, is sometimes pickled in vinegar, like cucumbers. at maturity, the flesh is worthless: but the shells, which are very hard, light, and comparatively strong, are used as substitutes for baskets; and are also formed into water-dippers, and various other articles both useful and ornamental. the varieties are as follow:-- bottle gourd. _vil._ fruit about a foot in length, contracted at the middle, largest at the blossom-end, but swollen also at the part next the stem. there is a sub-variety, very much larger; but it is also later. hercules club. courge massue d'hercule. _vil._ fruit very long. specimens are frequently produced measuring upwards of five feet in length. it is smallest towards the stem, and increases gradually in size towards the opposite extremity, which is rounded, and near which, in its largest diameter, it measures from four to five inches. its form is quite peculiar, and is not unlike that of a massive club: whence the name. it is frequently seen at horticultural and agricultural shows; and, though sometimes exhibited as a "cucumber," has little or no value as an esculent, and must be considered much more curious than useful. it is of a pea-green color while growing, and the skin is then quite soft and tender; but, like the other varieties, the surface becomes smooth, and the skin very hard and shell-like, at maturity. powder-horn. courge poire à poudre. _vil._ fruit long and slender, broadest at the base, tapering towards the stem, and often more or less curved. in its general form, it resembles a common horn, as implied by the name. its usual length is twelve or fourteen inches; and its largest diameter, nearly three inches. siphon gourd. courge siphon. _vil._ fruit rounded, and flattened at the blossom-end; then suddenly contracted to a long, slender neck. the latter often bends or turns suddenly at nearly a right angle; and, in this form, the fruit very much resembles a siphon. pea-green while young, pale-green when mature. shell thick and hard. * * * * * the melon. of the melon, there are two species in general cultivation,--the musk-melon (_cucumis melo_) and the water-melon (_cucurbita citrullus_); each, however, including many varieties. like the squash, they are tender, annual plants, of tropical origin, and only thrive well in a warm temperature. "the climate of the middle and southern states is remarkably favorable for them; indeed, far more so than that of england, france, or any of the temperate portions of europe. consequently, melons are raised as field crops by market-gardeners: and, in the month of august, the finest citrons or green-fleshed melons may be seen in the markets of new york and philadelphia in immense quantities; so abundant, in most seasons, as frequently to be sold at half a dollar per basket, containing nearly a bushel of fruit. the warm, dry soils of long island and new jersey are peculiarly favorable to the growth of melons; and, even at low prices, the product is so large, that this crop is one of the most profitable."--_downing._ through the extraordinary facilities now afforded by railroads and ocean steam-navigation, the markets of all the cities and large towns of the northern portions of the united states, and even of the canadas, are abundantly supplied within two or three days from the time of gathering: and they are retailed at prices so low, as to allow of almost universal consumption; well-ripened and delicious green-fleshed citron-melons being often sold from six to ten cents each. _soil and cultivation._--both the musk and the water melon thrive best in a warm, mellow, rich, sandy loam, and in a sheltered exposure. after thoroughly stirring the soil by ploughing or spading, make the hills six or seven feet apart in each direction. previous to planting, these hills should be prepared as directed for the squash; making them a foot and a half or two feet in diameter, and twelve or fifteen inches in depth. thoroughly incorporate at the bottom of the hill a quantity of well-digested compost, equal to three-fourths of the earth removed; and then add sufficient fine loam to raise the hill two or three inches above the surrounding level. on the top of the hill thus formed, plant twelve or fifteen seeds; and, when the plants are well up, thin them out from time to time as they progress in size. finally, when all danger from bugs and other insect depredators is past, leave but two or three of the most stocky and promising plants to a hill. when the growth is too luxuriant, many practise pinching or cutting off the leading shoots; and, when the young fruit sets in too great numbers, a portion should be removed, both for the purpose of increasing the size and of hastening the maturity of those remaining. "keep the fruit from being injured by lying on the ground; and if slate, blackened shingles, or any dry, dark material, be placed beneath it, by attraction of the sun's rays, the fruit will ripen earlier and better." the striped bug (_galereuca vittata_) is the most serious enemy with which the young melon-plants have to contend. gauze vine-shields, though the most expensive, are unquestionably the most effectual preventive. boxes either round or square, twelve or fifteen inches in depth, and entirely uncovered at the top, if placed over the hills, will be found useful in protecting the plants. the flight of the bug being generally nearly parallel with the surface of the ground, very few will find their way within the boxes, if of the depth required. applications of guano, ashes, dilutions of oil-soap, and plaster of paris, applied while the plants are wet, will be found of greater or less efficacy in their protection. the pungent smell of guano is said to prevent the depredation of the flea-beetle, which, in many localities, seriously injures the plants early in the season, through its attacks on the seed-leaves. * * * * * the musk-melon. cucumis melo. plant running,--varying in length from five to eight feet; leaves large, angular, heart-shaped, and rough on the upper and under surface; flowers yellow, one-petaled, five-pointed, and about an inch in diameter; seeds oval, flat, generally yellow, but sometimes nearly white, about four-tenths of an inch in length, and three-sixteenths of an inch in breadth,--the size, however, varying to a considerable extent in the different varieties. an ounce contains from nine hundred to eleven hundred seeds; and they retain their germinative properties from eight to ten years. _varieties._--these are exceedingly numerous, in consequence of the great facility with which the various kinds intermix, or hybridize. varieties are, however, much more easily produced than retained: consequently, old names are almost annually discarded from the catalogues of seedsmen and gardeners; and new names, with superior recommendations, offered in their stead. the following list embraces most of the kinds of much prominence or value now cultivated either in europe or this country:-- beechwood. fruit nearly spherical, but rather longer than broad,--usually five or six inches in diameter; skin greenish-yellow, thickly and regularly netted; flesh green, melting, sugary, and excellent. an early and fine variety. black-rock cantaloupe. _loud._ a large-fruited, late variety; form variable, but generally round, and flattened at the ends; size large,--ten inches in diameter, eight inches deep, and weighing eight or ten pounds. the skin varies in color from grayish-green to deep-green; becomes yellow at maturity, and is thickly spread with knobby bunches, or small protuberances. rind very thick; flesh reddish-orange, melting, and sugary. it requires a long season for its full perfection. christiana. this variety was originated by the late capt. josiah lovett, of beverly, mass. form roundish; size rather small,--average specimens measuring nearly the same as the green citron; skin yellowish-green; flesh yellow, sweet, juicy, and of good quality. its early maturity is its principal recommendation; the green citron, nutmeg, and many other varieties, surpassing it in firmness of flesh, sweetness, and general excellence. it would probably ripen at the north, or in short seasons, when other sorts generally fail. citron. green-fleshed citron. green citron. [illustration: green citron melon.] fruit nearly round, but flattened slightly at the ends,--deeply and very regularly ribbed; size medium, or rather small,--average specimens measuring about six inches in diameter, and five inches and a half in depth; skin green, and thickly netted,--when fully mature, the green becomes more soft and mellow, or of a yellowish shade; flesh green, quite thick, very juicy, and of the richest and most sugary flavor. it is an abundant bearer, quite hardy, and remarkably uniform in its quality. it is deservedly the most popular as a market sort; and for cultivation for family use, every thing considered, has few superiors. in common with the carolina water-melon, the green citron is extensively grown at the south for shipping to the northern portions of the united states; appearing in the markets of new york and boston three or four weeks in advance of the season of those raised in the same vicinity in the open ground. early cantaloupe. this variety possesses little merit aside from its very early maturity. it is a roundish melon, flattened a little at the ends, ribbed, and of comparatively small size; usually measuring about five inches in diameter. skin yellowish, often spotted with green, and sometimes a little warty; rind quite thick; flesh reddish-orange, sweet, and of good flavor. it is exceedingly variable in size, form, and color. hardy ridge. _loud._ fruit rather small, round, depressed, strongly ribbed, and irregularly warted all over its surface; skin dull yellow, mottled with dull green; flesh an inch thick, bright orange-red, sweet, and well flavored; rind thick; weight from three to four pounds. not an early, but a productive variety. large-ribbed netted. common musk-melon. [illustration: large netted musk-melon.] fruit very large, oval, strongly ribbed; skin yellow, very thickly netted, sometimes so closely as to cover nearly the entire surface; flesh salmon-yellow, remarkably thick and sweet, but not fine-grained or melting, when compared with the more recent and improved varieties. hardy and productive. in good soil and favorable seasons, the fruit sometimes attains a length of fifteen inches, and weighs upwards of twenty pounds. munroe's green flesh. _vil._ a comparatively new variety. the fruit is nearly spherical, but tapers slightly towards the stem, and is rather regularly as well as distinctly ribbed. its diameter is about five inches. cicatrix large; skin greenish-yellow, thickly and finely netted over the entire surface; rind thin; flesh green, remarkably transparent, comparatively thick, very melting, and highly perfumed. nutmeg. fruit oval, regularly but faintly ribbed, eight or nine inches in length, and about six inches in its broadest diameter; skin pale-green, and very thickly netted; rind thin; flesh light-green, rich, sweet, melting, and highly perfumed. the nutmeg melon has been long in cultivation, and is almost everywhere to be found in the vegetable garden, though seldom in a perfectly unmixed state. when the variety is pure, and the fruit perfectly ripened, it is of most delicious excellence, and deservedly ranked as one of "the best." orange cantaloupe. an oval variety, about six inches in length by five inches in diameter, rather prominently ribbed. skin yellow, marbled with green, thickly netted about the stem, and sparsely so over the remainder of the surface; rind thick; flesh reddish-orange, sweet, highly perfumed, and of good flavor. very early and productive. pine-apple. form roundish, inclining to oval, either without ribs or with rib-marking, very faintly defined; size small,--the average diameter being about five inches and a half; skin olive-green, with net-markings more or less abundant; rind thin; flesh green, melting, sweet, and perfumed. season early. it is an excellent sort, easily grown, and very productive. prescott cantaloupe. _vil._ fruit generally somewhat flattened, but variable in form, deeply ribbed; size large,--well-grown specimens measuring eight or ten inches in diameter, and weighing from seven to nine pounds; skin thickly covered with small tubercles; color varying from grayish-green to clear-green, more or less deep, changing to yellow at maturity; rind very thick; flesh orange-red, sugary and melting, and of delicious flavor. there are numerous sub-varieties, as grown by different gardeners, varying somewhat in form, color, and time of maturity; all, however, corresponding nearly with the above description, though known by different names, as the "white," "gray," "black," "prescott," &c. much esteemed in france, and extensively grown by market-gardeners in the vicinity of paris. skillman's fine-netted. this variety much resembles the pine-apple. form rounded, flattened slightly at the ends; flesh green, sugary, melting, and excellent. it has been pronounced "the earliest of the green-fleshed sorts." victory of bath. a recently introduced variety of english origin. fruit egg-shaped, faintly ribbed, rounded at the blossom-end, and slightly contracted towards the stem,--at the insertion of which, it is flattened to a small, plane surface; size medium,--about six inches deep, and five inches in diameter; skin green, clouded with yellow, and sparsely covered with fine net-markings; skin thin; flesh green. * * * * * persian melons. _trans._ these differ remarkably from the varieties commonly cultivated. they are destitute of the thick, hard rind which characterizes the common sorts, and which renders so large a portion of the fruit useless. on the contrary, the persian melons are protected by a skin so thin and delicate, that they are subject to injury from causes that would produce no perceptible effect on the sorts in general cultivation. as a class, they are not only prolific, but their flesh is extremely tender, rich, and sweet, and flows copiously with a cool juice, which renders them still more grateful. they are, however, not early; and, for their complete perfection, require a long and warm season. _varieties._-- dampsha. _m'int._ flesh dark-green near the skin, rather whitish towards the centre, quite melting, and of excellent flavor. the first-produced fruit in the season is somewhat cylindrical, bluntly pointed at both ends; the whole surface being prominently netted, and of a pale-yellow or dark-olive color. the secondary crop has the fruit more pointed and less netted, and the skin becomes much darker. like the other varieties of winter melons, it may be preserved a long time after being taken from the vines, if suspended in a dry room. weight four to five pounds. daree. _trans._ this resembles the geree melon in color, as well as in many other respects. it is of the same form; but the rind, when netted, exhibits coarser reticulations. the flesh is white, thick, crisp, and melting; when fully ripened, very sweet, but rather insipid if imperfectly matured. it is always, however, cool and pleasant. geree. _trans._ a handsome green fruit. in shape, it is oval, or ovate; and measures eight inches in length by four inches and a half in breadth. the skin is closely mottled with dark sea-green upon a pale ground, and is either netted or not. in the former case, the meshes are very close; by which character, it may be readily distinguished from the daree. stalk very short; flesh an inch and a half or two inches thick, bright-green, melting, very sweet, and highly flavored. though perhaps equally rich, it is not so beautiful or so juicy as the melon of keiseng. a good bearer, but requires a warm, long season. germek. _trans._ large germek. a handsome large-sized, ribbed fruit, shaped like a compressed sphere; usually six inches in length, and from seven to nine inches in diameter. skin deep-green, closely netted; flesh from an inch and a half to two inches thick, clear green, firm, juicy, and high flavored. this is an excellent variety, an abundant bearer, ripens early, and exceeds in size any of the persian melons. green hoosainee. _trans._ a handsome egg-shaped fruit, five inches long by four inches broad: when unripe, of a very deep-green; but, in maturity, acquiring a fine, even, light-green, regularly netted surface, which, on the exposed side, becomes rather yellow. the flesh is pale-greenish white, tender and delicate, full of a highly perfumed, pleasant, sweet juice; the rind is very thin; the seeds are unusually large. it is a variety of much excellence, a great bearer, and one of the hardiest of the persian melons. green valencia. _m'int._ a winter sort. although not rich in flavor, it is firm, saccharine, and juicy; and upon the whole, if fully ripened, a more desirable melon than many of the summer varieties. ispahan. _trans._ sweet ispahan. this has been pronounced "the most delicious of all melons." the fruit is egg-shaped, varying in length from eight to twelve inches, and weighing from six to eight pounds; skin nearly smooth, of a deep sulphur-yellow; flesh nearly white, extending about half way to its centre, crisp, sugary, and very rich. it is a variety of much excellence, but is fully perfected only in favorable seasons. melon of keiseng. _loud._ a beautiful egg-shaped fruit, eight inches long, five inches wide in the middle, six inches wide at the lower extremity; very regularly and handsomely formed. color pale lemon-yellow; flesh from an inch and a half to two inches and a quarter thick, nearly white, flowing copiously with juice, extremely delicate, sweet, and high flavored, very similar in texture to a well-ripened beurré pear; rind thin, but so firm that all the fleshy part of the fruit may be eaten. it differs from the sweet ispahan in being closely netted. melon of seen. a fruit of regular figure and handsome appearance, seven inches long by five inches wide. shape ovate, with a small mamelon at the apex; surface pale dusky yellow, regularly and closely netted, except the mamelon, which is but little marked; rind very thin; flesh from an inch and a half to two inches thick, pale-green, sometimes becoming reddish towards the inside, exceedingly tender and juicy; juice sweet, and delicately perfumed. a good bearer, but requires a long season. named from seen, a village near ispahan; where the variety was procured. small germek. _trans._ this ripens about a week earlier than the large germek, but is not so valuable a fruit. in form, it is a depressed sphere, with about eight rounded ribs. it measures four inches in depth by four inches and a half in width. the skin is even, yellowish, with a little green about the interstices, obscurely netted; the flesh is green, inclining to reddish in the inside, an inch and a half thick, juicy, and high flavored; skin very thin. the pulp in which the seeds are immersed is reddish. it is not a great bearer, and the vines are tender. striped hoosainee. _trans._ fruit oval and much netted, dark-green in broad stripes, with narrow intervals of dull white, which become faintly yellow as the fruit ripens; pulp externally green, but more internally pale-red, excessively juicy, and more perfectly melting than that of the famous ispahan melon. it is sweeter and higher flavored than any other persian variety, but requires a long, warm season for its full perfection. * * * * * the water-melon. cucurbita citrullus. plant running,--the length varying from eight to twelve feet; leaves bluish-green, five-lobed, the lobes rounded at the ends; flowers pale-yellow, about an inch in diameter; fruit large, roundish, green, or variegated with different shades of green; seeds oval, flattened, half an inch long, five-sixteenths of an inch broad,--the color varying according to the variety, being either red, white, black, yellowish or grayish brown. an ounce contains from a hundred and seventy-five to two hundred seeds, and they retain their vitality eight years. the water-melon is more vigorous in its habit than the musk-melon, and requires more space in cultivation; the hills being usually made eight feet apart in each direction. it is less liable to injury from insects, and the crop is consequently much more certain. the seed should not be planted till may, or before established warm weather; and but two good plants allowed to a hill. the varieties are as follow:-- apple-seeded. a rather small, nearly round sort, deriving its name from its small, peculiar seeds; which, in form, size, and color, are somewhat similar to those of the apple. skin deep, clear-green; rind very thin; flesh bright-red to the centre, sweet, tender, and well-flavored. it is hardy, bears abundantly, seldom fails to ripen perfectly in the shortest seasons, and keeps a long time after being gathered. black spanish. spanish. form oblong; size large; skin very dark or blackish green; rind half an inch thick; flesh deep-red (contrasting finely with the very deep-green color of the skin), fine-grained, very sugary, and of excellent flavor. the variety is hardy, productive, thrives well, matures its fruit in the northern and eastern states, and is decidedly one of the best for general cultivation. seeds dark-brown, or nearly black. bradford. _w. d. brinckle._ the bradford is a highly prized, south-carolina variety; size large; form oblong; skin dark-green, with gray, longitudinal stripes, mottled and reticulated with green; rind not exceeding half an inch in thickness; seed yellowish-white, slightly mottled, and with a yellowish-brown stripe around the edge; flesh fine red to the centre; flavor fine and sugary; quality "best." carolina. fruit of large size, and of an oblong form, usually somewhat swollen towards the blossom-end; skin deep-green, variegated with pale-green or white; flesh deep-red, not fine-grained, but crisp, sweet, and of fair quality; fruit frequently hollow at the centre; seeds black. this variety is extensively grown in the southern states for exportation to the north, where it appears in the markets about the beginning of august, and to some extent in july. many of the specimens are much less marked with stripes and variegations than the true carolina; and some shipments consist almost entirely of fruit of a uniform deep-green color, but of the form and quality of the carolina. downing mentions a sub-variety with pale-yellow flesh and white seeds. citron water-melon. form very nearly spherical; size rather small,--average specimens measuring six or seven inches in diameter; color pale-green, marbled with darker shades of green; flesh white, solid, tough, seedy, and very squashy and unpalatable in its crude state. it ripens late in the season, and will keep until december. "it is employed in the making of sweetmeats and preserves, by removing the rind or skin and seeds, cutting the flesh into convenient bits, and boiling in sirup which has been flavored with ginger, lemon, or some agreeable article. its cultivation is the same as that of other kinds of melons."--_new american cyclopædia._ clarendon. _w. d. brinckle._ dark-speckled. size large; form oblong; skin mottled-gray, with dark-green, interrupted, longitudinal stripes, irregular in their outline, and composed of a succession of peninsulas and isthmuses; rind thin, not exceeding half an inch; seed yellow, with a black stripe extending round the edge, and from one to three black spots on each side,--the form and number corresponding on the two sides; flesh scarlet to the centre; flavor sugary and exquisite, and quality "best." this fine melon originated in clarendon county, south carolina; and, when pure, may at all times be readily recognized by the peculiarly characteristic markings of the seeds. ice-cream. a large, very pale-green sort; when unmixed, readily distinguishable from all other varieties. form nearly round, but sometimes a little depressed at the extremities; rind thicker than in most varieties; flesh white, very sweet and tender, and of remarkably fine flavor; seeds white. it is prolific, and also early; and is remarkably well adapted for cultivation in cold localities, or where the seasons are too short for the successful culture of the more tender and late kinds. its pale-green skin, white flesh, and white seeds, are its prominent distinctive peculiarities. imperial. _down._ this variety is said to have been introduced from the mediterranean. fruit round, or oblate, and of medium size; skin pale-green, with stripes and variegations of white or paler green; rind thin; flesh pale-red, crisp, sweet, and of excellent flavor; seeds reddish-brown. very productive, but requiring a warm situation and a long season for its complete perfection. mountain sprout. this variety is similar to the mountain sweet. it is of large size, long, and of an oval form. skin striped and marbled with paler and deeper shades of green; rind thin,--measuring scarcely half an inch in thickness; flesh scarlet, a little hollow at the centre, crisp, sugary, and of excellent flavor. like the mountain sweet, it is a favorite market sort. it is not only of fine quality, but very productive. seeds russet-brown. mountain sweet. a large, long, oval variety, often contracted towards the stem in the form of a neck; skin striped and marbled with different shades of green; rind rather thin, measuring scarcely half an inch in thickness; flesh scarlet, and solid quite to the centre; seeds pale russet-brown, but often of greater depth of color in perfectly matured specimens of fruit. a popular and extensively cultivated variety, quite hardy, productive, and of good quality. "for many years, it was universally conceded to be the best market sort cultivated in the middle states, but of late has lost some of the properties that recommended it so highly to favor. this deterioration has probably been owing to the influence of pollen from inferior kinds grown in its vicinity." odell's large white. _w. d. brinckle._ size very large, sometimes weighing sixty pounds; form round; skin gray, with fine green network spread over its uneven surface; rind nearly three-fourths of an inch in thickness; seeds large, grayish-black, and not numerous; flesh pale-red; flavor fine; quality very good. productiveness said to exceed that of most other kinds. this remarkably large melon originated with a negro man on the property of col. a. g. sumner, of south carolina. its large size, and long-keeping quality after being separated from the vine, will recommend the variety, especially for the market. orange. form oval, of medium size; skin pale-green, marbled with shades of deeper green; rind half an inch in depth, or of medium thickness; flesh red, not fine-grained, but tender, sweet, and of good quality. when in its mature state, the rind separates readily from the flesh, in the manner of the peel from the flesh of an orange. when first introduced, the variety was considered one of the best quality; but it appears to have in some degree deteriorated, and now compares unfavorably with many other sorts. pie-melon. california pie-melon. plant running,--the foliage and general habit resembling the common water-melon, but yet distinguishable by its larger size, more hairy stem, and its more stocky and vigorous character; fruit oblong, very large, measuring sixteen inches and upwards in length, and from eight to ten inches in diameter; skin yellowish-green, often marbled with different shades of light-green or pea-green; flesh white, succulent, somewhat tender, but very unpalatable, or with a squash-like flavor, in its crude state. as intimated by the name, it is used only for culinary purposes. this melon should be cooked as follows: after removing the rind, cut the flesh into pieces of convenient size, and stew until soft and pulpy. lemon-juice, sugar, and spices should then be added; after which, proceed in the usual manner of making pies from the apple or any other fruit. if kept from freezing, or from dampness and extreme cold, the pie-melon may be preserved until march. ravenscroft. _w. d. brinckle._ size large; form oblong; skin dark-green, faintly striped and marked with green of a lighter shade, and divided longitudinally by sutures from an inch and a quarter to two inches apart; rind not more than half an inch in thickness; seed cream-color, tipped with brown at the eye, and having a brown stripe around the edge; flesh fine red, commencing abruptly at the rind, and extending to the centre; flavor delicious and sugary; quality "best." this valuable water-melon originated with col. a. g. sumner, of south carolina. souter. _w. d. brinckle._ size large, sometimes weighing twenty or thirty pounds; form oblong, occasionally roundish; skin peculiarly marked with finely reticulated, isolated, gray spots, surrounded by paler green, and having irregular, dark-green, longitudinal stripes extending from the base to the apex; rind thin, about half an inch thick; seed pure cream-white, with a faint russet stripe around the edge; flesh deep-red to the centre; flavor sugary and delicious; quality "best." productiveness said to be unusually great. this excellent variety originated in sumpter district, south carolina. * * * * * papanjay, or sponge cucumber. papangaye. _vil._ cucumis acutangulus. this is an east-indian plant, with a creeping stem, and angular, heart-shaped leaves. the flowers (several of which are produced on one stem) are yellow; the fruit is ten or twelve inches in length, about an inch and a half in diameter, deeply furrowed or grooved in the direction of its length, forming ten longitudinal, acute angles; the skin is hard, and of a russet-yellow color; the seeds are black, rough, and hard, and quite irregular in form,--about five hundred are contained in an ounce. _use._--the fruit is eaten while it is quite young and small; served in the manner of cucumbers, or like vegetable marrow. when fully ripened, it is exceedingly tough, fibrous, and porous, and is sometimes used as a substitute for sponge: whence the name. * * * * * prickly-fruited gherkin. gherkin. west-indian cucumber. jamaica cucumber. cucumis anguria. this species is said to be a native of jamaica. the habit of the plant is similar to that of the globe cucumber, and its season of maturity is nearly the same. the surface of the fruit is thickly set with spiny nipples, and has an appearance very unlike that of the common cucumber. it is comparatively of small size, and of a regular, oval form,--generally measuring about two inches in length by an inch and a third in its largest diameter; color pale-green; flesh greenish-white, very seedy and pulpy. the seeds are quite small, oval, flattened, yellowish-white, and retain their vitality five years. it is somewhat later than the common cucumber, and requires nearly the whole season for its full development. plant in hills about five feet apart; cover the seeds scarcely half an inch deep, and leave three plants to a hill. the prickly-fruited gherkin is seldom served at table sliced in its crude state. it is principally grown for pickling: for which purpose it should be plucked when about half grown, or while the skin is tender, and can be easily broken by the nail. as the season of maturity approaches, the rind gradually hardens, and the fruit becomes worthless. in all stages of its growth, the flesh is comparatively spongy; and, in the process of pickling, absorbs a large quantity of vinegar. * * * * * the pumpkin. cucurbita pepo. under this head, on the authority of the late dr. t. w. harris, should properly be included "the common new-england field-pumpkin, the bell-shaped and crook-necked winter squashes, the canada crook-necked, the custard squashes, and various others, all of which (whether rightly or not, cannot now be determined) have been generally referred by botanists to the _cucurbita pepo_ of linnæus." the term "pumpkin," as generally used in this country by writers on gardening and agriculture, and as popularly understood, includes only the few varieties of the common new-england pumpkin that have been long grown in fields in an extensive but somewhat neglectful manner; the usual practice being to plant a seed or two at certain intervals in fields of corn or potatoes, and afterwards to leave the growing vines to the care of themselves. even under these circumstances, a ton is frequently harvested from a single acre, in addition to a heavy crop of corn or potatoes. the pumpkin was formerly much used in domestic economy; but, since the introduction of the crook-necks, boston marrow, hubbard, and other improved varieties of squashes, it has gradually fallen into disuse, and is now cultivated principally for agricultural purposes. _varieties._--the following are the principal varieties, although numerous intermediate sorts occur, more or less distinct, as well as more or less permanent in character:-- canada pumpkin. vermont pumpkin. the canada pumpkin is of an oblate form, inclining to conic; and is deeply and regularly ribbed. when well grown, it is of comparatively large size, and measures thirteen or fourteen inches in diameter, and about ten inches in depth. color fine, deep orange-yellow; skin or shell rather thick and hard; flesh yellow, fine-grained, sweet, and well flavored. hardy, and very productive. compared with the common field variety, the canada is much more flattened in its form, more regularly and deeply ribbed, of a deeper and richer color; and the flesh is generally much sweeter, and less coarse and stringy in its texture. it seems adapted to every description of soil; thrives well in all climates; and is one of the best sorts for agricultural purposes, as well as of good quality for the table. cheese pumpkin. plant very vigorous; leaves large, deep-green; fruit much flattened, deeply and rather regularly ribbed, broadly dishing about the stem, and basin-like at the opposite extremity. it is of large size; and, when well grown, often measures fifteen or sixteen inches in diameter, and nine or ten inches in depth. skin fine, deep reddish-orange, and, if the fruit is perfectly matured, quite hard and shell-like; flesh very thick, yellow, fine-grained, sweet, and well flavored. the seeds are not distinguishable from those of the common field pumpkin. the cheese pumpkin is hardy, remarkably productive, and much superior in all respects to most of the field-grown sorts. whether the variety originated in this country, cannot probably now be determined; but it was extensively disseminated in the middle states at the time of the american revolution, and was introduced into certain parts of new england by the soldiers on their return from service. after a lapse of more than seventy-five years,--during which time it must have experienced great diversity of treatment and culture,--it still can be found in its original type; having the same form, color, size, and the same thickness, and quality of flesh, which it possessed at the time of its introduction. common yellow field pumpkin. plant of vigorous, stocky habit, extending twelve feet and upwards in length; fruit rounded, usually a little more deep than broad, flattened at the ends, and rather regularly, and more or less prominently, ribbed. its size is much affected by soil, season, and the purity of the seed. average specimens will measure about fourteen inches in length, and eleven or twelve inches in diameter. color rich, clear orange-yellow; skin, or rind, if the fruit is well matured, rather dense and hard; flesh variable in thickness, but averaging about an inch and a half, of a yellow color, generally coarse-grained, and often stringy, but sometimes of fine texture, dry, and of good quality; seeds of medium size, cream-yellow. the cultivation of the common yellow field pumpkin in this country is almost co-eval with its settlement. for a long period, few, if any, of the numerous varieties of squashes, now so generally disseminated, were known; and the pumpkin was not only extensively employed as a material for pies, but was much used as a vegetable, in the form of squash, at the table. during the struggle for national independence, when the excessively high prices of sugars and molasses prevented their general use, it was the practice to reduce by evaporation the liquid in which the pumpkin had been cooked, and to use the saccharine matter thus obtained as a substitute for the more costly but much more palatable sweetening ingredients. when served at table in the form of a vegetable, a well-ripened, fine-grained pumpkin was selected, divided either lengthwise or crosswise; the seeds extracted; the loose, stringy matter removed from the inner surface of the flesh; and the two sections, thus prepared, were baked, till soft, in a common oven. the flesh was then scooped from the shell, pressed, seasoned, and served in the usual form. by many, it is still highly esteemed, and even preferred for pies to the squash, or the more improved varieties of pumpkins; but its cultivation at present is rather for agricultural than for culinary purposes. connecticut field pumpkin. a large, yellow, field variety, not unlike the common yellow in form, but with a softer skin, or shell. it is very prolific, of fair quality as an esculent, and one of the best for cultivating for stock or for agricultural purposes. long yellow field pumpkin. plant hardy and vigorous, not distinguishable from that of the common yellow variety; fruit oval, much elongated, the length usually about twice the diameter; size large,--well-grown specimens measuring sixteen to twenty inches in length, and nine or ten inches in diameter; surface somewhat ribbed, but with the markings less distinct than those of the common yellow; color bright orange-yellow; skin of moderate thickness, generally easily broken by the nail; flesh about an inch and a half in thickness, yellow, of good but not fine quality, usually sweet, but watery, and of no great value for the table. it is very hardy and productive; well adapted for planting among corn or potatoes; may be profitably raised for feeding out to stock; keeps well when properly stored; and selected specimens will afford a tolerable substitute for the squash in the kitchen, particularly for pies. between this and the common yellow, there are various intermediate sorts; and, as they readily hybridize with each other, it is with difficulty that these varieties can be preserved in a pure state. only one of the sorts should be cultivated, unless there is sufficient territory to enable the cultivator to allow a large distance between the fields where the different varieties are grown. nantucket. hard-shell. "nigger-head." form flattened or depressed, but sometimes oblong or bell-shaped, often faintly ribbed; size medium or rather small; color deep-green, somewhat mellowed by exposure to the sun, or at full maturity; skin or shell thick and hard, and more or less thickly covered with prominent, wart-like excrescences; flesh comparatively thick, yellow, sweet, fine-grained, and of excellent flavor,--comparing favorably in all respects with that of the sugar pumpkin. it is a productive sort, and its flesh much dryer and more sugary than the peculiar, green, and warty appearance of the fruit would indicate. when cooked, it should be divided into pieces of convenient size; the seeds, and loose, stringy parts, removed from the inner surface of the flesh, and then boiled or baked in the skin or shell; afterwards scooping out the flesh, as is practised with the hubbard squash or other hard-shelled varieties of pumpkins. it is an excellent pie-variety, and selected specimens will be found of good quality when served as squash at the table. it will keep till february or march. striped field pumpkin. habit of the plant, and form of the fruit, very similar to the common yellow field pumpkin. the size, however, will average less; although specimens may sometimes be procured as large as the dimension given for the common yellow. color yellow, striped and variegated with green,--after being gathered, the green becomes gradually softer and paler, and the yellow deeper; flesh yellow, moderately thick, and, though by some considered of superior quality, has not the fine, dry, and well-flavored character essential for table use; seeds similar to the foregoing sorts. the striped field pumpkin is a hardy sort, and yields well. it is, however, exceedingly liable to hybridize with all the varieties of the family, and is with difficulty preserved in an unmixed condition. it should be grown as far apart as possible from all others, especially when the seed raised is designed for sale or for reproduction at home. sugar-pumpkin. small sugar-pumpkin. [illustration: sugar-pumkin.] plant similar in its character and general appearance to the common field pumpkin; fruit small, eight or nine inches at its broadest diameter, and about six inches in depth; form much depressed, usually broadest near the middle, and more or less distinctly ribbed; skin bright orange-yellow when the fruit is well ripened, hard, and shell-like, and not easily broken by the nail; stem quite long, greenish, furrowed, and somewhat reticulated; flesh of good thickness, light-yellow, very fine-grained, sweet, and well flavored; seeds of smaller size than, but in other respects similar to, those of the field pumpkin. the variety is the smallest of the sorts usually employed for field cultivation. it is, however, a most abundant bearer, rarely fails in maturing its crops perfectly, is of first-rate quality, and may be justly styled an acquisition. for pies, it is not surpassed by any of the family; and it is superior for table use to many of the garden squashes. the facility with which it hybridizes or mixes with other kinds renders it extremely difficult to keep the variety pure; the tendency being to increase in size, to grow longer or deeper, and to become warty: either of which conditions may be considered an infallible evidence of deterioration. varieties sometimes occur more or less marbled and spotted with green; the green, however, often changing to yellow after harvesting. * * * * * snake or serpent cucumber. cucumis flexuosus. though generally considered as a species of cucumber, this plant should properly be classed with the melons. in its manner of growth, foliage, flowering, and in the odor and taste of the ripened fruit, it strongly resembles the musk-melon. the fruit is slender and flexuous; frequently measures more than three feet in length; and is often gracefully coiled or folded in a serpent-like form. the skin is green; the flesh, while the fruit is forming, is greenish-white,--at maturity, yellow; the seeds are yellowish-white, oval, flattened, often twisted or contorted like those of some varieties of melons, and retain their vitality five years. _planting and cultivation._--the seeds should be planted in may, in hills six feet apart. cover half an inch deep, and allow three plants to a hill. _use._--the fruit is sometimes pickled in the manner of the common cucumber, but is seldom served at table sliced in its crude state. it is generally cultivated on account of its serpent-like form, rather than for its value as an esculent. well-grown specimens are quite attractive; and, as curious vegetable productions, contribute to the interest and variety of horticultural exhibitions. * * * * * the squash. all the varieties are tender annuals, and of tropical origin. they only thrive well in a warm temperature: and the seed should not be sown in spring until all danger from frost is past, and the ground is warm and thoroughly settled; as, aside from the tender nature of the plant, the seed is extremely liable to rot in the ground in continued damp and cold weather. any good, well-enriched soil is adapted to the growth of the squash. the hills should be made from eight to ten inches in depth, two feet in diameter, and then filled within three or four inches of the surface with well-digested compost; afterwards adding sufficient fine loam to raise the hill an inch or two above the surrounding level. on this, plant twelve or fifteen seeds; covering about three-fourths of an inch deep. keep the earth about the plants loose and clean; and from time to time remove the surplus vines, leaving the most stocky and vigorous. three plants are sufficient for a hill; to which number the hills should ultimately be thinned, making the final thinning when all danger from bugs and other vermin is past. the dwarfs may be planted four feet apart; but the running sorts should not be less than six or eight. the custom of cutting or nipping off the leading shoot of the running varieties is now practised to some extent, with the impression that it both facilitates the formation of fruitful laterals and the early maturing of the fruit. whether the amount of product is increased by the process, is not yet determined. in giving the following descriptions, no attempt has been made to present them under scientific divisions; but they have been arranged as they are in this country popularly understood:-- _summer varieties._-- apple squash. early apple. plant running, not of stocky habit, but healthy and vigorous; fruit obtusely conical, three inches broad at the stem, and two inches and a half in depth; skin yellowish-white, thin and tender while the fruit is young, hard and shell-like when ripe; flesh dry and well flavored in its green state, and often of good quality at full maturity. the fruit is comparatively small; and, on this account, the variety is very little cultivated. bush summer warted crookneck. early summer crookneck. yellow summer warted crookneck. cucurbita verrucosa. [illustration: bush summer warted crookneck squash.] plant dwarfish or bushy in habit, generally about two feet and a half in height or length; fruit largest at the blossom-end, and tapering gradually to a neck, which is solid, and more or less curved; size medium,--average specimens, when suitable for use, measuring about eight inches in length, and three inches in diameter at the broadest part; the neck is usually about two inches in thickness; color clear, bright-yellow; skin very warty, thin, and easily broken by the nail while the fruit is young, and suitable for use,--as the season of maturity approaches, the rind gradually becomes firmer, and, when fully ripe, is very hard and shell-like; flesh greenish-yellow, dry, and well flavored; seeds comparatively small, broad in proportion to the length, and of a pale-yellow color. about four hundred are contained in an ounce. the bush summer crookneck is generally esteemed the finest of the summer varieties. it is used only while young and tender, or when the skin can be easily pierced or broken by the nail. after the fruit hardens, the flesh becomes watery, coarse, strong flavored, and unfit for table use. on account of the dwarfish character of the plants, the hills may be made four feet apart. three plants will be sufficient for a hill. early white bush scolloped. white pattypan. cymbling. white summer scolloped. pattison blanc. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the early yellow bush scolloped. the plant has the same dwarf habit, and the fruit is nearly of the same size and form. the principal distinction between the varieties consists in the difference of color. by some, the white variety is considered a little inferior in fineness of texture and in flavor to the yellow; though the white is much the more abundant in the markets. both of the varieties are hardy and productive; and there is but little difference in the season of their maturity. in the month of june, large quantities are shipped from the southern and middle states to the north and east, where they anticipate from two to three weeks the products of the home-market gardens; the facilities afforded by steam transportation rendering nearly profitless the efforts of gardeners to obtain an early crop. as the variety keeps well, and suffers little from transportation, the squashes are generally found fresh and in good order on their arrival. early yellow bush scolloped. cymbling. pattypan. yellow summer scollop. [illustration: early yellow bush scolloped.] plant dwarf, of rather erect habit, and about two feet and a half in height; leaves large, clear-green; fruit somewhat of a hemispherical form, expanded at the edge, which is deeply and very regularly scolloped. when suitable for use, it measures about five inches in diameter, and three inches in depth; but, when fully matured, the diameter is often ten or twelve inches, and even upwards. color yellow; skin, while young, thin, and easily pierced,--at maturity, hard and shell-like; flesh pale-yellow, tolerably fine-grained, and well flavored,--not, however, quite so dry and sweet as that of the summer crookneck; seeds broader in proportion to their length than the seeds of most varieties, and of comparatively small size. four hundred and twenty-five weigh an ounce. this variety has been common to the gardens of this country for upwards of a century; during which period, the form and general character have been very slightly, if at all, changed. when grown in the vicinity of the bush summer crookneck, the surface sometimes exhibits the same wart-like excrescences; but there is little difficulty in procuring seeds that will prove true to the description above given. like the summer crookneck, the scolloped squashes are used while young or in a green state. after the hardening of the skin, or shell, the flesh generally becomes coarse, watery, strong-flavored, and unfit for the table. the hills should be made about four feet apart, and three plants allowed to a hill. season from the beginning of july to the middle or last of august. egg-squash. cucurbita ovifera. an ornamental variety, generally cultivated for its peculiar, egg-like fruit, which usually measures about three inches in length, and two inches or two and a half in diameter. skin, or shell, white. it is seldom used as an esculent; though, in its young state, the flesh is quite similar in flavor and texture to that of the scolloped varieties. "if trained to a trellis, or when allowed to cover a dry, branching tree, it is quite ornamental; and, in its ripened state, is quite interesting, and attractive at public exhibitions." increase of size indicates mixture or deterioration. "it has been generally supposed, that the egg-squash was a native of astrachan, in tartary. dr. loroche included it in a list of plants not natives of astrachan, but cultivated only in gardens where it is associated with such exotics as indian corn, or maize, with which it was probably introduced directly or indirectly from america. we also learn from loroche that this species varied in form, being sometimes pear-shaped; that it was sometimes variegated in color with green and white, and the shell served instead of boxes. here we have plainly indicated the little gourd-like, hard-shelled, and variegated squashes that are often cultivated as ornamental plants. "from these and similar authorities, it is evident that summer squashes were originally natives of america, where so many of them were found in use by the indians, when the country began to be settled by europeans."--_dr. t. w. harris, in pennsylvania farm journal._ green bush scolloped. pattison vert. _vil._ fruit similar in size and form to the yellow or white bush scolloped; skin or shell bottle-green, marbled or clouded with shades of lighter green. it is comparatively of poor quality, and is little cultivated. green-striped bergen. "plant dwarf, but of strong and vigorous habit; fruit of small size, bell-shaped; colors dark-green and white, striped. "an early but not productive sort, little cultivated at the north or east, but grown to a considerable extent for the new-york market. it is eaten both while green and when fully ripe." large summer warted crookneck. a large variety of the bush or dwarf summer crookneck. plant twelve feet and upwards in length, running; fruit of the form of the last named, but of much greater proportions,--sometimes attaining a length of nearly two feet; skin clear, bright yellow, and thickly covered with the prominent wart-like excrescences peculiar to the varieties; flesh greenish-yellow, and of coarser texture than that of the dwarf summer crookneck. hardy and very productive. the hills should be made six feet apart. orange. cucurbita aurantiaca. fruit of the size, form, and color of an orange. though generally cultivated for ornament, and considered more curious than useful, "some of them are the very best of the summer squashes for table use; far superior to either the scolloped or warted varieties." when trained as directed for the egg-squash, it is equally showy and attractive. variegated bush scolloped. pattison panaché. _vil._ pale yellow, or nearly white, variegated with green. very handsome, but of inferior quality. _autumn and winter varieties._-- autumnal marrow. _j. m. ives._ boston marrow. courge de l'ohio. _vil._ plant twelve feet or more in length, moderately vigorous; fruit ovoid, pointed at the extremities, eight or nine inches in length, and seven inches in diameter; stem very large, fleshy, and contracted a little at its junction with the fruit,--the summit, or blossom-end, often tipped with a small nipple or wart-like excrescence; skin remarkably thin, easily bruised or broken, cream-yellow at the time of ripening, but changing to red after harvesting, or by remaining on the plants after full maturity; flesh rich, salmon-yellow, remarkably dry, fine-grained, and, in sweetness and excellence, surpassed by few varieties. the seeds are large, thick, and pure white: the surface, in appearance and to the touch, resembles glove-leather or dressed goat-skin. about one hundred are contained in an ounce. in favorable seasons, the autumnal marrow squash will be sufficiently grown for use early in august; and, if kept from cold and dampness, may be preserved till march. mr. john m. ives, of salem, who was awarded a piece of silver plate by the massachusetts horticultural society for the introduction of this valuable variety, has furnished the following statement relative to its origin and dissemination:-- salem, mass., feb. , . dear sir,--as requested, i forward you a few facts relative to the introduction of the autumnal marrow squash, the cultivation of which has extended not only over our entire country, but throughout europe. it succeeds better in england than the crooknecks; and may be seen in great abundance every season at covent-garden market, in london. early in the spring of , a friend of mine from northampton, in this state, brought to my grounds a specimen of this vegetable, of five or six pounds' weight, which he called "vegetable marrow." as it bore no resemblance to the true vegetable marrow, either in its form or color, i planted the seeds, and was successful in raising eight or ten specimens. finding it a superior vegetable, with a skin as thin as the inner envelope of an egg, and the flesh of fine texture, and also that it was in eating early in the fall, i ventured to call it "autumnal marrow squash." soon a drawing was made, and forwarded, with a description, to the "horticultural register" of fessenden, and also to the "new-england farmer." in cultivating this vegetable, i found the fruit to average from eight to nine pounds, particularly if grown on newly broken-up sod or grass land. from its facility in hybridizing with the tribe of pumpkins, i consider it to be, properly speaking, a fine-grained pumpkin. the first indication of deterioration or mixture will be manifested in the thickening of the skin, or by a green circle or coloring of green at the blossom-end. more recently, i have been informed, by the gentleman to whom i was indebted for the first specimen, that the seeds came originally from buffalo, n.y., where they were supposed to have been introduced by a tribe of indians, who were accustomed to visit that city in the spring of the year. i have not been able to trace it beyond this. it is, unquestionably, an accidental hybrid. yours truly, john m. ives. mr. f. burr, jun. canada crookneck. the plants of this variety are similar in habit to those of the common winter crookneck; but the foliage is smaller, and the growth less luxuriant. in point of size, the canada crookneck is the smallest of its class. when the variety is unmixed, the weight seldom exceeds five or six pounds. it is sometimes bottle-formed; but the neck is generally small, solid, and curved in the form of the large winter crooknecks. the seeds are contained at the blossom-end, which expands somewhat abruptly, and is often slightly ribbed. skin of moderate thickness, and easily pierced by the nail; color, when fully ripened, cream-yellow, but, if long kept, becoming duller and darker; flesh salmon-red, very close-grained, dry, sweet, and fine-flavored; seeds comparatively small, of a grayish or dull-white color, with a rough and uneven yellowish-brown border; three hundred are contained in an ounce. [illustration] the canada is unquestionably the best of the crooknecked sorts. the vines are remarkably hardy and prolific; yielding almost a certain crop both north and south. the variety ripens early; the plants suffer but little from the depredations of bugs or worms; and the fruit, with trifling care, may be preserved throughout the year. it is also quite uniform in quality; being seldom of the coarse and stringy character so common to other varieties of this class. cashew. cushaw pumpkin. somewhat of the form and color of the common winter crookneck. two prominent varieties, however, occur. the first is nearly round; the other curved, or of the shape of a hunter's horn. the latter is the most desirable. it is not cultivated or generally known in new england or in the northern portions of the united states; for though well suited to louisiana and other portions of the south, where it is much esteemed, it is evidently too tender for cultivation where the seasons are comparatively short and cool. in an experimental trial by the late dr. harris, specimens raised from seed received from new jersey "did not ripen well, and many decayed before half ripe." the crooknecks of new england "may be distinguished from the cashew by the want of a persistent style, and by their furrowed and club-shaped fruit-stems." cocoa-nut squash. cocoa squash. fruit oval, elongated, sixteen to twenty inches in length, eight or ten inches in diameter, and weighing from fifteen to twenty pounds and upwards; skin thin, easily pierced or broken, of an ash-gray color, spotted, and marked with light drab and nankeen-brown,--the furrows dividing the ribs light drab; stem small; flesh deep orange-yellow, of medium thickness; seeds pure white, broader in proportion to their length than those of the hubbard or boston marrow. the quality of the cocoa-nut squash is extremely variable. sometimes the flesh is fine-grained, dry, sweet, and of a rich, nut-like flavor; but well-developed and apparently well-matured specimens are often coarse, fibrous, watery, and unfit for table use. the variety ripens in september, and will keep till march or april. custard squash. [illustration] plant healthy and of vigorous habit, often twenty feet and upwards in length; fruit oblong, gathered in deep folds or wrinkles at the stem, near which it is the smallest, abruptly shortened at the opposite extremity, prominently marked by large, rounded, lengthwise elevations, and corresponding deep furrows, or depressions; skin, or shell, cream-white; flesh pale-yellow, not remarkable for solidity, or fineness of texture, but well flavored; the seeds are yellowish-white, and readily distinguished from those of other varieties by their long and narrow form. under favorable conditions of soil and season, the custard squash attains a large size; often measuring twenty inches and upwards in length, eight or ten inches in diameter, and weighing from eighteen to twenty-five pounds. it is one of the hardiest and most productive of all varieties. crops are recorded of fourteen tons from an acre. it is esteemed by some for pies; but, as a table squash, is inferior to most other sorts. its great yield makes it worthy the attention of agriculturists, as it would doubtless prove a profitable variety to be cultivated for stock. from the habit of the plant, the form and character of the fruit, and its great hardiness and productiveness, it appears to be allied to the vegetable marrow. egg-shaped, or reeves. _thomp._ fruit large, weighing from fifteen to twenty pounds; but in rich, highly manured soil, and with only a few on each plant, it may be grown to upwards of fifty pounds' weight. it is short, ovate, sometimes tapering rather abruptly. skin, or shell, hard, of a reddish color; flesh firm, red, excellent in a ripe state cooked as a vegetable, or in any other way in which squashes are prepared. the stems run to a very great length, and bear all along most abundantly. altogether, it is a sort highly deserving of cultivation. it was brought into notice by john reeves, esq.; who has contributed to horticulture many valuable plants from china, where he resided for many years. plant in hills eight feet apart, and thin to two plants to a hill. honolulu. plant twelve feet or more in length, remarkably strong and vigorous; leaves very large,--the leaf-stems often three feet and upwards in length; fruit large, oblate, depressed about the stem, broadly, and sometimes deeply, but in general faintly, ribbed; skin moderately thick, but not shell-like, of an ash-green color, striped and variegated with drab or lighter shades of green; flesh reddish-orange, very thick, of good flavor, but less dry and sweet than that of the hubbard or boston marrow; seeds large, white. this recently introduced variety is hardy, productive, a good keeper, excellent for pies, and by some esteemed for table use. specimens frequently occur of a reddish cream-color, striped and marked with drab or pale-yellow. hubbard. _j. j. h. gregory._ [illustration: hubbard squash.] plant similar in character and appearance to that of the autumnal marrow; fruit irregularly oval, sometimes ribbed, but often without rib-markings, from eight to ten inches in length, seven or eight inches in diameter, and weighing from seven to nine pounds,--some specimens terminate quite obtusely, others taper sharply towards the extremities, which are frequently bent or curved; skin, or shell, dense and hard, nearly one-eighth of an inch thick, and overspread with numerous small protuberances; stem fleshy, but not large; color variable, always rather dull, and usually clay-blue or deep olive-green,--the upper surface, if long exposed to the sun, assuming a brownish cast, and the under surface, if deprived of light, becoming orange-yellow; flesh rich salmon-yellow, thicker than that of the autumnal marrow, very fine-grained, sweet, dry, and of most excellent flavor,--in this last respect, resembling that of roasted or boiled chestnuts; seeds white,--similar to those of the autumnal marrow. season from september to june; but the flesh is dryest and sweetest during autumn and the early part of winter. the hubbard squash should be grown in hills seven feet apart, and three plants allowed to a hill. it is essential that the planting be made as far as possible from similar varieties, as it mixes, or hybridizes, readily with all of its kind. in point of productiveness, it is about equal to the autumnal marrow. "the average yield from six acres was nearly five tons of marketable squashes to the acre." mr. j. j. h. gregory, of marblehead, mass., who introduced this variety to notice, and through whose exertions it has become widely disseminated, remarks in the "new-england farmer" as follows:-- "of its history i know next to nothing, farther than that the seed was given to me by an aged female, about twelve years since, in remembrance of whom i named it; and that the party from whom she received it cannot tell from whence the seed came. i infer that it is of foreign origin, partly from the fact that the gentleman to whom i traced it is a resident of a seaport town, and is largely connected with those who follow the seas." italian vegetable marrow. _thomp._ courge coucourzelle. this forms a dwarf bush, with short, reclining stems, and upright leaves, which are deeply five-lobed. the fruits are used when the flowers are about to drop from their ends. they are then from four to five inches long, and an inch and a half to two inches in diameter. when ripe, the fruit is from fifteen to eighteen inches in length, and about six inches in diameter. it is of a pale yellow, striped with green. it should, however, be used in the young, green state; for, when mature, it is not so good as many of the other sorts. it bears very abundantly; and, as it does not run, may be grown in smaller compass than the true vegetable marrow. mammoth. mammoth pumpkin. large yellow gourd, of the english. _thomp._ potiron jaune, of the french. cucurbita maxima. this is the largest-fruited variety known. in a very rich compost, and under favorable conditions of climate, it grows to an enormous size. fruit weighing a hundred and twenty pounds is not uncommon; and instances, though exceptional, are recorded of weights ranging from two hundred to nearly two hundred and fifty pounds. the leaves are very large, and the stems thick, running along the ground to the distance of twenty or thirty feet if not stopped, and readily striking root at the joints. the fruit is round, or oblate; sometimes flattened on the under side, owing to its great weight; sometimes obtusely ribbed, yellowish, or pale buff, and frequently covered to a considerable extent with a gray netting. flesh very deep yellow; seeds white. it is used only in its full-grown or ripe state, in which it will keep for several months; and even during the winter, if stored in a dry, warm situation. the flesh is sweet, though generally coarse-grained and watery. it is used in soups and stews, and also for pies; but is seldom served like squash at the table. neapolitan. courge pleine de naples. _vil._ plant running; leaves small, smooth, striped and marked with white along the nerves; fruit nearly two feet in length, and rather more than five inches in its smallest diameter, bent at the middle, and broadly but faintly ribbed,--it increases in size towards the extremities, but is largest at the blossom-end, where it reaches a diameter of eight or ten inches; skin bright green; stem small; flesh bright, clear yellow; the neck is entirely solid, and the seed-end has an unusually small cavity; seeds dull white. the late rev. a. r. pope, in a communication to the massachusetts horticultural society, describes it as follows: "new, very heavy; having a large, solid neck, and a small cavity for the seeds. flesh sweet, dry, and somewhat coarse, but not stringy. very superior for pies, and a good keeper." patagonian. a large, long squash, prominently ribbed. it differs little in form or size from the custard. skin very deep green; flesh pale yellow; seeds of medium size, yellowish-white. the plant is a vigorous grower, and the yield abundant; but its quality is inferior, and the variety can hardly be considered worthy of cultivation for table use. it may, however, prove a profitable sort for growing for agricultural purposes. puritan. [illustration: puritan squash.] plant running, ten feet and upwards in length; leaves clear green, of medium size; fruit bottle-formed, fourteen or fifteen inches long, and about ten inches in diameter at the broadest part; neck solid, four or five inches in diameter; average weight eight to ten pounds; skin thin, usually white or cream-white, striped and marked with green, though specimens sometimes occur, from unmixed seed, uniformly green; flesh pale yellow, dry, sweet, mild, and well flavored; seeds of medium size, white. season from august to january. this variety, long common to gardens in the vicinity of the old colony, retains its distinctive character to a very remarkable degree, even when grown under the most unfavorable circumstances. seeds, obtained from a gardener who had cultivated the variety indiscriminately among numerous summer and winter kinds for upwards of twenty years, produced specimens uniformly true to the normal form color, and quality. it is hardy and productive, good for table use, excellent for pies, and well deserving of cultivation. sweet-potato squash. plant very similar in character to that of the hubbard or autumnal marrow; fruit twelve or fourteen inches long, seven or eight inches thick, sometimes ribbed, but usually without rib-markings; oblong, tapering to the ends, which are often bent or curved in the manner of some of the types of the hubbard; stem of medium size, striated; skin ash-green, with a smooth, polished surface; flesh salmon-yellow, thick, fine-grained, dry, and sweet,--if the variety is pure, and the fruit well matured, its quality approaches that of the hubbard and autumnal marrow; seeds white. the variety is hardy and productive, keeps well, and is deserving of cultivation. when grown in the vicinity of the last-named sorts, it often becomes mixed, and rapidly degenerates. in its purity, it is uniformly of one color; with perhaps the exception of the under surface, which is sometimes paler or yellowish. it has been suggested that this variety and the hubbard may have originated under similar circumstances. turban. acorn. giraumon turban. turk's-cap. cucurbita piliformis. plant running; leaves small, soft, slightly lobed on the borders; fruit rounded, flattened, expanding about the stem to a broad, plain, brick-red surface, of ten or twelve inches in diameter. at the blossom-end, the fruit suddenly contracts to an irregular, cone-like point, or termination, of a greenish color, striped with white; and thus, in form and color, somewhat resembles a turban: whence the name. flesh orange-yellow, thick, fine-grained, sugary, and well flavored; seeds white, comparatively short, and small. the turban squash is not early, and should have the advantage of the whole season. "its specific gravity is said to exceed that of any other variety. its keeping properties are not particularly good; but its flavor, when grown on light, dry soil, will compare well with either the autumnal marrow or the hubbard." it mixes very readily when grown in the vicinity of other varieties, is not an abundant bearer, and cannot be recommended for general cultivation. dr. harris states that "this variety--sometimes called the 'acorn squash,' because, when the fruit is small, it resembles somewhat an acorn in its cup--seems to be the _cucurbita piliformis_ of duchesne;" and he further adds, that "it sometimes grows to a large size, measuring fourteen or fifteen inches in transverse diameter, and looks like an immense turkish turban in shape. specimens raised in my garden in were little more than ten inches in diameter, and weighed ten pounds or more; having very thick and firm flesh, and but a small cavity within. they proved excellent for table use,--equal in quality to the best autumnal marrows. they keep quite as well as the latter." valparaiso. porter's valparaiso. commodore porter. plant running; leaves large, not lobed, but cut in rounded angles on the borders; fruit oval, about sixteen inches in length, ten or eleven inches in diameter, slightly ribbed, and largest at the blossom-end, which often terminates in a wart-like excrescence; skin cream-white, sometimes smooth and polished, but often more or less reticulated, or netted; flesh comparatively thick, orange-yellow, generally dry, sweet, and well flavored, but sometimes fibrous and watery; seeds rather large, nankeen-yellow, smooth and glossy. the variety requires the whole season for its perfection. it hybridizes readily with the autumnal marrow and kindred sorts, and is kept pure with considerable difficulty. it is in use from september to spring. the variety, if obtained in its purity, will be found of comparative excellence, and well deserving of cultivation. stripes and clouds of green upon the surface are infallible evidences of mixture and deterioration. the late dr. harris, in a communication to the "pennsylvania farm journal," remarks as follows: "the valparaiso squashes (of which there seem to be several varieties, known to cultivators by many different names, some of them merely local in their application) belong to a peculiar group of the genus _cucurbita_, the distinguishing characters of which have not been fully described by botanists. the word 'squash,' as applied to these fruits, is a misnomer, as may be shown hereafter. it would be well to drop it entirely, and to call the fruits of this group 'pompions,' 'pumpkins,' or 'potirons.' it is my belief, that they were originally indigenous to the tropical and sub-tropical parts of the western coast of america. they are extensively cultivated from chili to california, and also in the west indies; whence enormous specimens are sometimes brought to the atlantic states. how much soever these valparaiso pumpkins may differ in form, size, color, and quality, they all agree in certain peculiarities that are found in no other species or varieties of _cucurbita_. their leaves are never deeply lobed like those of other pumpkins and squashes, but are more or less five-angled, or almost rounded and heart-shaped, at base: they are also softer than those of other pumpkins and squashes. the summit, or blossom-end, of the fruit has a nipple-like projection upon it, consisting of the permanent fleshy style. the fruit-stalk is short, nearly cylindrical, never deeply five-furrowed, but merely longitudinally striated or wrinkled, and never clavated, or enlarged with projecting angles, next to the fruit. with few exceptions, they contain four or five double rows of seeds. to this group belong mr. ives's autumnal marrow squash (or pumpkin); commodore porter's valparaiso squash (pumpkin); the so-called mammoth pumpkin, or _cucurbita maxima_ of the botanists; the turban or acorn squash; _cucurbita piliformis_ of duchesne; the cashew pumpkin; stetson's hybrid, called the 'wilder squash;' with various others." vegetable marrow. _thomp._ succade gourd. courge à la moëlle, of the french. plant twelve feet and upwards in length; leaves deeply five-lobed; fruit about nine inches long, and of an elliptic shape,--but it is sometimes grown to twice that length, and of an oblong form; surface slightly uneven, by irregular, longitudinal, obtuse ribs, which terminate in a projecting apex at the extremity of the fruit. when mature, it is of a uniform pale yellow or straw color. the skin, or shell, is very hard when the fruit is perfectly ripened; flesh white, tender, and succulent, even till the seeds are ripe. it may be used in every stage of its growth. some prefer it when the flower is still at the extremity of the fruit; others like it older. when well ripened, it will keep well throughout the winter, if stored in a perfectly dry place, out of the reach of frost, and not exposed to great changes of temperature. to have vegetable marrows large and fine for winter, the young fruit should be regularly taken off for use; and, when the plant has acquired strength, a moderate quantity should be allowed to set for maturity. sufficient for this purpose being reserved, the young fruit that may be subsequently formed should be removed for use in a very young state. the vines, or shoots, may be allowed to run along the surface of the ground; or they may be trained against a wall, or on palings or trellises. the seed should be planted at the same time and in the same manner as those of the winter crookneck or boston marrow. wilder. stetson's hybrid. the wilder squash was produced about twelve years since, from the valparaiso and the autumnal marrow, by mr. a. w. stetson, of braintree, mass.; and was named for the hon. marshall p. wilder, a gentleman widely known for his patriotic devotion to the advancement of agricultural and pomological science in the united states. the plant is a strong grower, and resembles that of the valparaiso. the fruit is somewhat ovoid, but rather irregular in form, broadly and faintly ribbed (sometimes, however, without rib-markings), and varies in weight from twelve to thirty pounds and upwards; stem very large, striated or reticulated, and often turned at right angles near its connection with the fruit,--the opposite extremity terminates in the wart-like excrescence peculiar to the class; skin reddish-yellow, not unlike that of the autumnal marrow; the flesh is remarkably thick, of a salmon-yellow color, sweet and well flavored. in some forms of cookery, and especially for pies, it is esteemed equal, if not superior, to any other variety. when served in the customary manner of serving squash at table, it is inferior to the hubbard or autumnal marrow. the seeds are white. winter crookneck. cuckaw. [illustration: winter crookneck.] this is one of the oldest and most familiar of the winter varieties. plant hardy and vigorous; fruit somewhat irregular in form, the neck solid and nearly cylindrical, and the blossom-end more or less swollen. in some specimens, the neck is nearly straight; in others, sweeping, or circular; and sometimes the extremities nearly or quite approach each other. size very variable, being affected greatly both by soil and season; the weight ranging from six pounds to forty pounds and upwards. a specimen was raised by capt. josiah lovett, of beverly, mass., and exhibited before the massachusetts horticultural society, the weight of which was nearly seventy pounds. color sometimes green; but, when fully mature, often cream-yellow. the color, like that of the canada crookneck, frequently changes after being harvested. if green when plucked, it gradually becomes paler; or, if yellow when taken from the vines, it becomes, during the winter, of a reddish cream-color. flesh salmon-yellow, not uniform in texture or solidity, sometimes close-grained, sweet, and fine flavored, and sometimes very coarse, stringy, and nearly worthless for the table; seeds of medium size, grayish-white, the border darker, or brownish. about two hundred are contained in an ounce. it is a very hardy and productive variety; ripens its crop with great certainty; suffers less from the depredations of insects than most of the winter sorts; and, if protected from cold and dampness during the winter months, will keep the entire year. winter striped crookneck. this is a sub-variety of the common winter crookneck. size large,--the weight varying from six to twenty-five pounds; neck large and solid; seed-end of medium size, and usually smooth; skin thin, very pale-green or light cream-white, diversified with lengthwise stripes and plashes of bright green,--the colors becoming gradually softer and paler after gathering; flesh bright orange, and, like that of the common winter crookneck, not uniform in texture or in flavor. different specimens vary greatly in these respects: some are tough and stringy, others very fine-grained and well flavored. seeds not distinguishable, in size, form, or color, from those of the winter crookneck. the variety is hardy, grows luxuriantly, is prolific, and keeps well. it is more uniform in shape, and generally more symmetrical, than the winter crookneck; though varieties occur of almost every form and color between this and the last named. as the plants require considerable space, the hills should not be less than eight feet apart. two or three plants are sufficient for a hill. "the 'crookneck squash,' as it is commonly but incorrectly called, is a kind of 'pumpkin,'--perhaps a genuine species; for it has preserved its identity, to our certain knowledge, ever since the year , when it was described by ray. before the introduction of the autumnal marrow, it was raised in large quantities for table use during the winter, in preference to pumpkins, which it almost entirely superseded. many farmers now use it instead of pumpkins for cattle; the vine being more productive, and the fruit containing much more nutriment in proportion to its size. it varies considerably in form and color. the best kinds are those which are very much curved,--nearly as large at the stem as at the blossom-end,--and of a rich cream-color. it is said to degenerate in the middle and southern states; where, probably, the valparaiso or some kindred variety may be better adapted to the climate."--_dr. harris._ chapter v. brassicaceous plants. borecole, or kale. broccoli. brussels sprouts. cabbage. cauliflower. colewort. couve tronchuda, or portugal cabbage. pak-chöi. pe-tsai, or chinese cabbage. savoy. sea-kale. * * * * * borecole, or kale. brassica oleracea sabellica. the term "borecole," or "kale," is applied to a class of plants, of the cabbage family, which form neither heads as the common cabbage, nor eatable flowers like the broccoli and cauliflower. some of the varieties attain a height of six or seven feet; but while a few are compact and symmetrical in their manner of growth, and of good quality for table use, many are "ill-colored, coarse, rambling-growing, and comparatively unpalatable and indigestible." most of the kinds are either annuals or biennials, and are raised from seeds, which, in size, form, and color, resemble those of the cabbage. _sowing._--the seeds are sown at the time of sowing the seeds of the cabbage or cauliflower, and in the same manner. early plants may be started in a hot-bed, or the seeds may be sown in the open ground in april or may. in transplanting, treat the plants like young cabbages; setting them more or less remote, according to the size or habit of the variety. though they are extremely hardy, and will endure quite a low temperature, they are generally harvested in autumn, before the closing-up of the ground. if reset in the following spring, they will furnish an abundance of tender sprouts, which, when cooked, are superior in flavor and delicacy to the cabbage, and resemble coleworts or brussels sprouts. _seeds._--"the plants for seed should be selected from those kept over winter, and in april set rather deeply in a spot well exposed to the sun, and in a sandy rather than stiff soil. the stems should be supported, to prevent breakage by the wind." j. e. teschemacher gives the following directions for culture and use:-- "sow, the middle or last of may, a small bed on a moderately rich soil, but in a well-exposed situation. strong plants cannot be obtained from seedlings grown in the shade. when the young plants have six or eight leaves, prepare a piece of well-manured, open soil, plant the young seedlings six or eight inches asunder, water well, and shade for a few days against the hot sun. about a hundred plants are enough for a family. towards the latter end of july, or middle of august, they should be thick, stocky plants, fit for final transplanting to the spots where they are to remain. they may be planted in the lines from which early crops of pease have been removed. the ground must be well manured, and the plants moved singly and carefully, with as much earth attached to the roots as possible. this last precaution is very necessary in all summer transplanting, as the only means of enabling the plants to bear the hot sun. in a garden, they should be well supplied with water for a few days; but in field-planting, where this is not possible, a moist time should be chosen. they will not show much signs of growth until the cool nights prevail: after that, they will grow rapidly. they will not boil tender or with much flavor until they have been frozen, or have experienced a temperature of about ° fahrenheit. _use._--"the tender, upper part alone is eaten. they are often, but not always, frozen when cut; and, when this is the case, they should be put into a cool cellar or in cold water until the frost is out of them. it will take one-half to three-quarters of an hour to boil them tender. put them into the boiling water; to which add a lump of soda. this rather softens them, and causes them to retain their green color. when done, press the water thoroughly out, chop them up with a knife, put them into a vessel to evaporate still more of the water, and serve with melted butter, pepper and salt. in germany, they frequently boil a few chestnuts, and chop up with the kale; between which and the stem and stalk of the kale it is difficult to perceive much difference in taste. the beautiful curled leaves are quite ornamental. "from one hundred plants, pluckings for the table were made twice a week, from the middle of november to the middle of january; and these fresh from the open garden, although the thermometer in the time had indicated a temperature approaching to zero."--_hov. mag._ _varieties._--the varieties, which are numerous, and in many instances not well marked or defined, are as follow:-- buda kale, or borecole. _thomp._ russian kale. asparagus kale. manchester borecole. dwarf feather kale. oak-leaved kale. the buda kale somewhat resembles the purple; but the stalk is shorter. the leaves are purplish, somewhat glaucous, cut and fringed. the variety is not only hardy and well flavored, but continues to produce sprouts longer than any other sort. it is sometimes blanched like sea-kale. cabbaging kale, or borecole. _thomp._ imperial hearting. this is a new variety, and very much resembles the dwarf green curled in the nature, color, and general appearance of the leaves: the heart-leaves, however, fold over each other, somewhat like those of a cabbage, but, on account of the curls of the margin, not so compactly. the quality is excellent. cock's-comb kale. curled proliferous kale. chou frisé prolifère. _vil._ stalk about twenty inches high. the leaves differ to a considerable extent in size, and are of a glaucous-green color. from the upper surface of the ribs and nerves, and also from other portions of the leaves, are developed numerous small tufts, or fascicles of leaves, which, in turn, give rise to other smaller but similar groups. the foliage thus exhibits a cock's-comb form: whence the name. the variety is hardy, but more curious than useful. cow-cabbage. tree-cabbage. _thomp._ cesarean borecole. cesarean cabbage. chou cavalier. this variety generally grows to the height of about six feet; although in some places it is reported as attaining a height of twelve feet, and even upwards. the leaves are large,--measuring from two and a half to nearly three feet in length,--smooth, or but slightly curled. it is generally grown for stock; but the young sprouts are tender and mild-flavored when cooked. its value for agricultural purposes appears to have been greatly overrated; for, when tried in this country against other varieties of cabbages, the produce was not extraordinary. the plants should be set three feet or three feet and a half apart. daubenton's creeping borecole. chou vivace de daubenton. _vil._ stalk four or five feet in height or length. the leaves are nearly two feet long, deep green; the leaf-stems are long and flexible. it sometimes takes root where the stem rests upon the surface of the ground; and, on this account, has been called perennial. the variety is hardy, and yields abundantly; though, in this last respect, it is inferior to the thousand-headed. dwarf green curled borecole. _thomp._ dwarf curled kale. green scotch kale. dwarf curlies. chou frisé à pied court. _vil._ canada dwarf curled. the dwarf green curled is a very hardy but comparatively low-growing variety; the stems seldom exceeding sixteen or eighteen inches in height. the leaves are finely curled; and the crowns of the plants, as well as the young shoots, are tender and delicate, especially after having been exposed to the action of frost. the plants may be set eighteen inches apart. field cabbage. field kale for mowing. chou à faucher. _vil._ leaves sixteen to eighteen inches in length, very dark green, deeply lobed, or lyrate, and hairy, or hispid, on the nerves and borders. the leaf-stems are nearly white. the variety produces small tufts, or collections of leaves, which are excellent for fodder, and which may be cut several times during the season. it is sometimes cultivated for stock; but, as a table vegetable, is of little value. flanders kale. _thomp._ chou caulet de flanders. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the tree-cabbage, from which it is distinguished by the purplish color of its foliage. its height is nearly the same, and the plant has the same general appearance. it is, however, considered somewhat hardier. green marrow-stem borecole. chou moellier. _vil._ stem green, about five feet high, clavate, or club-formed; thickest at the top, where it measures nearly two inches, and a half in diameter. this stem, or stalk, is filled with a succulent pith, or marrow, which is much relished by cattle; and, for this quality, the plant is sometimes cultivated. the leaves are large, and nearly entire on the edges; the leaf-stems are thick, short, white, and fleshy. it is not so hardy as most of the other varieties. the plants should be grown about three feet apart in one direction, by two feet or two feet and a half in the opposite. lannilis borecole. chou de lannilis. _vil._ lannilis tree-cabbage. stem five feet high, thicker and shorter than that of the cow or tree cabbage; leaves long, entire on the borders, pale-green, and very thick and fleshy. the leaf-stems are also thicker and shorter than those of the last-named varieties. the stalk is largest towards the top, and has the form of that of the marrow-stem. it sometimes approaches so near that variety, as to be scarcely distinguishable from it. neapolitan borecole. _trans._ neapolitan curled kale. chou frisé de naples. _vil._ the neapolitan borecole is remarkable for its peculiar manner of growth, but is hardly worthy of cultivation as a table vegetable, or even for stock. the stem is short and thick, and terminates in an oval bulb, somewhat in the manner of the kohl rabi. from all parts of this bulb are put forth numerous erect, small leaves, finely curled on their edges. the whole plant does not exceed twenty inches in height. the leaves are attached to footstalks six or seven inches long. they are obovate, smooth on the surface, with an extraordinary number of white veins, nearly covering the whole leaf. the fringed edges are irregularly cut and finely curled, and so extended as nearly to conceal the other parts of the leaf. as the plant gets old, it throws out numerous small branches from the axils of the leaves on the sides of the bulb. the swollen portion of the stem is of a fleshy, succulent character, and is used in the manner of kohl rabi; between which and the cabbage it appears to be intermediate. palm kale. palm borecole. chou palmier. _vil._ stalk six feet in height, terminating at the top in a cluster of leaves, which are nearly entire on the borders, blistered on the surface like those of the savoys, and which sometimes measure three feet in length by four or five inches in width. as grown in france, the plant is remarkable for its fine appearance, and is considered quite ornamental; though, as an article of food, it is of little value. in england, it is said to have a tall, rambling habit, and to be little esteemed. the plants should be set three feet and a half apart in each direction. purple borecole. red borecole. tall purple kale. curled brown kale. chou frisé rouge grand. _vil._ with the exception of its color, the purple borecole much resembles the tall green curled. as the leaves increase in size, they often change to green; but the veins still retain their purple hue. when cooked, the color nearly or quite disappears. it is remarkably hardy, and is much cultivated in germany. red marrow-stem borecole. red-stalked kale. stalk purplish-red, four and a half or five feet high, and surmounted by a cluster of large, fleshy leaves, on short, thick stems. the stalk is much larger than that of the green marrow-stem, and sometimes measures more than three inches in diameter. it is cultivated in the same manner, and used for the same purposes, as the last-named variety. tall green curled. _thomp._ tall scotch kale. tall green borecole. tall german greens. chou frisé grand du nord. _vil._ this variety, if unmixed, may be known by its bright-green, deeply lobed, and curled leaves. its height is two feet and a half and upwards. very hardy and productive. the parts used are the crowns of the plants; and also the tender side-shoots, which are produced in great abundance. these boil well, and are sweet and delicate, especially after frost; though the quality is impaired by protracted, dry, freezing weather. thousand-headed borecole. _thomp._ chou branchu du poitou. _vil._ chou à mille têtes. the thousand-headed borecole much resembles the tree or cow cabbage, but is not so tall-growing. it sends out numerous side-shoots from the main stem, and is perhaps preferable to the last-named sort. it is chiefly valuable as an agricultural plant, but may occasionally be grown in gardens on account of its great hardiness; but its flavor is inferior to all other winter greens. variegated borecole. _thomp._ variegated kale. variegated canadian kale. chou frisé panaché. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the purple borecole, growing about a foot and a half high. the leaves vary much in size, and are lobed and finely curled. they are also beautifully variegated, sometimes with green and yellowish-white or green and purple, and sometimes with bright-red and green. it is frequently grown as an ornamental plant, is occasionally employed for garnishing, and is sometimes put into bouquets. it is very good cooked after frost, but is not quite so hardy as the purple borecole. variegated cock's-comb kale. a variety of the common cock's-comb kale, with the leaves more or less variegated with purple and white. it is not of much value as an esculent. woburn perennial kale. _thomp._ this is a tall variety of the purple borecole, with foliage very finely divided or fringed. the plant lasts many years, and may be propagated by cuttings, as it neither flowers readily nor perfects well its seeds. its produce is stated to have been more than four times greater than that of either the green or purple borecole on the same extent of ground. the weight of produce from ten square yards was a hundred and forty-four pounds ten ounces; but some of the large kinds of cabbages and savoys will exceed this considerably, and prove of better quality. the woburn perennial kale can therefore only be recommended where the climate is too severe for the more tender kinds of the cabbage tribe. * * * * * broccoli. brassica oleracea var. in its structure and general habit, the broccoli resembles the cauliflower. between these vegetables the marks of distinction are so obscurely defined, that some of the white varieties of broccoli appear to be identical with the cauliflower. botanists divide them as follows:-- "the cauliflower has generally a short stalk, and white-ribbed, oblong leaves. the stem by which the flower is supported unites at the head of the primary branches into thick, short, irregular bundles, in the form of a corymb. it appears to be a degeneration of the _brassica oleracea costata_, or portugal cabbage. "in the broccoli, the stalk is more elevated; the leaf-nerves less prominent; the pedicles, or stems, connected with and supporting the flower, or head, less thick and close. they are also longer; so that, on becoming fleshy, they resemble in shape the young shoots of asparagus: hence the name of 'asparagoides,' given by ancient botanists to broccoli. it seems to be a degeneration of the 'chou cavalier,' or tall, open cabbage. "cultivation, by improving the finer kinds of white broccolis, is narrowing the distinctive marks: but, although so nearly alike, they must ever remain really distinct, inasmuch as they derive their origin from two very distinct types; viz., the portugal cabbage and the tall curled kale. the cauliflower also originated in the south of europe, and the broccoli in the north of europe, either in germany or britain." _seed._--broccoli-seeds are rarely raised in this country; most of the supply being received from france or england. in size, form, and color, they are similar to those of the cabbage or cauliflower. an ounce may be calculated to produce about five thousand plants, although it contains nearly twice that number of seeds. _sowing and cultivation._--in new england, as well as in the middle and western states, the seeds of the later sorts should be sown in march or april, in the manner of early cabbages; whilst the earlier varieties may be sown in the open ground, from the middle to the last of may. if the sowing be made in the open ground, prepare a small nursery-bed not too directly exposed to the sun, and sow in shallow drills six or eight inches apart. the last of june, or as soon as the plants have attained sufficient size, transplant them into soil that is well enriched, and has been deeply stirred; setting them at the distance directed for the variety. if possible, the setting should be performed when the weather is somewhat dull, for then the plants become sooner established; but, if planted out in dry weather, they should be immediately and thoroughly watered. if the plants have been started in a hot-bed, they should be set out at the time of transplanting cabbages. the after-culture consists in hoeing frequently to keep the ground loose and clean, and in earthing up slightly from time to time about the stem. some of the early varieties will be fit for use in september; whilst the later sorts, if properly treated, will supply the table till spring. the difficulties attending the growing of broccoli in this country arise mainly from the extreme heat and dryness of the summer and the intense cold of the winter. whatever will tend to counteract these will promote the growth of the plants, and tend to secure the development of large and well-formed heads. "when the heads of white broccoli are exposed to light, and especially to the direct influence of the sun, the color is soon changed to a dingy or yellowish hue. it is, therefore, necessary to guard against this as much as possible by frequently examining the plants; and, when any heads are not naturally screened, one or two of the adjoining side-leaves should be bent over the flower-head to shade it from the light, and likewise to protect it from the rain. some kinds are almost self-protecting; whilst the leaves of others spread, and consequently require more care in shading."--_thomp._ _taking the crop._--"broccoli should not be allowed to remain till the compactness of the head is broken, but should always be cut while the 'curd,' as the flowering mass is termed, is entire, or before bristly, leafy points make their appearance through it. in trimming the head, a portion of the stalk is left, and a few of the leaves immediately surrounding the head; the extremities being cut off a little below the top of the latter."--_thomp._ _preservation._--"they are sometimes preserved during winter as follows: immediately previous to the setting-in of hard frost in autumn, take up the plants on a dry day, with the roots entire, and turn their tops downwards for a few hours, to drain off any water that may be lodged between the leaves. then make choice of a ridge of dry earth, in a well-sheltered, warm exposure, and plant them down to their heads therein, close to one another; having previously taken off a few of the lower, loose leaves. immediately erect over them a low, temporary shed, of any kind that will keep them perfectly free from wet, and which can be opened to admit the air in mild, dry weather. in very severe freezing seasons, an extra covering of straw, or other description of dry litter, should be applied over and around the shed; but this should be removed on the recurrence of moderate weather." they will keep well in a light, dry cellar, if set in earth as far as the lower leaves. _seeds._--the seeds of broccoli are not distinguishable from those of the cauliflower. they, however, rarely ripen well in this country, and seedsmen are generally supplied from abroad. _use._--the heads, or flowers, are cooked and served in all the forms of the cauliflower. _varieties._--these are exceedingly numerous; although the distinctions, in many instances, are neither permanent nor well defined. in - , a hundred and three nominally distinct sorts were experimentally cultivated at the chiswick gardens, near london, eng., under the direction of robert hogg, esq. in reporting the result, he says, "it is quite evident that the varieties of broccoli, as now grown, are in a state of great confusion. the old varieties, such as grange's and the old early white, have entirely disappeared, or lost their original character; whilst the distinctive names of early white and late white seem now to be possessed of no value, as, in some cases, the one is used for the other, and _vice versâ_." the kinds catalogued by seedsmen, and recommended for cultivation, are the following; viz.:-- ambler's early white. _r. hogg._ similar to mitchinson's penzance, but easily distinguished by its winged leaves; those of the last named being interrupted. it is remarkably hardy, and produces a large, creamy-white head, very uniform in size. chappell's large cream-colored. chappell's new cream-colored. a very large and fine sort, earlier than the portsmouth; flower cream-yellow. sow in the open ground in may, and transplant three feet apart in each direction. danish, or late green. _late danish. siberian._ the leaves of this variety are long, narrow, and much undulated; the leaf-stems are tinged with purple; the heads are of medium size, compact, exposed, and of a greenish color. it is one of the latest and hardiest of all varieties. dwarf brown close-headed. _trans._ this variety resembles the sulphur-colored; from which it probably originated. it is, however, earlier, and differs in the form, as well as in the color, of the flower. the leaves are small, not much waved, dark-green, with white veins: they grow erect, and afford no protection to the head. most of the crowns are green at first; but they soon change to large, handsome, brown heads. the plants should be set two feet apart in each direction. early purple. _trans._ early purple sprouting. an excellent kind, of a deep-purple color. when the variety is unmixed, it is close-headed at first; afterwards it branches, but is liable to be too much branched, and to become green. the plant is from two to three feet high, and a strong grower; the leaves are comparatively short, spreading, and of a purplish-green color; the head is quite open from the leaves. small leaves are sometimes intermixed with the head, and the plant produces sprouts of flowers from the alæ of the leaves. it succeeds best in rich soil, and the plants should be set three feet apart. early sprouting. _m'int._ asparagus broccoli. north's early purple. italian sprouting. early branching. a strong-growing, hardy sort, from two to three feet high. the leaves are spreading, much indented, and of a purplish-green color. the flower is close-headed, and, in the genuine variety, of a rich purple on its first appearance. it is, however, liable to lose its color, and to become greenish; and sometimes produces numerous small, green leaves, intermixed with the flower, particularly if grown in soil too rich. the variety is extensively grown by the market-gardeners in the vicinity of london. elletson's gigantic late white. elletson's mammoth. one of the largest and latest of the white broccolis. leaves spreading; stem short. fine early white. _thomp._ early white. devonshire white. autumn white. plant tall, with erect, dark-green, nearly entire leaves. the heads are very white and close. this variety, in common with a few others, is sometimes cut in considerable quantities by market-gardeners previous to heavy frost, and preserved in cellars for the supply of the market. frogmore protecting. _hov. mag._ head pure white, scarcely distinguishable from the finest cauliflower; size large,--when well formed, measuring from seven to nine inches in diameter. a recently introduced sort, promising to be one of the best. the plants are extremely hardy and vigorous, and rarely fail to develop a large and fine head, having a rich, curdy appearance, and, as before observed, similar to a well-grown cauliflower. it is of dwarf growth; and the outer leaves, closing over the large head of flowers, protect it from the action of severe weather. gillespie's broccoli. _thomp._ a fine, white, early autumn variety, much grown about edinburgh. grange's early cauliflower broccoli. _m'int._ grange's early white. hopwood's early white. marshall's early white. bath white. invisible. this is an old variety, and, when pure, still stands in high estimation; having a head nearly as large and as white as a cauliflower. the leaf-stems are long and naked; the leaves are somewhat ovate, lobed at the base, very slightly waved, and, incurving a little over the flower, defend it from frost and wet. it is not a large grower; and, being upright in habit, may be grown at two feet distant. hardy, and well deserving of cultivation. the london market-gardeners cultivate four varieties, of which this is the principal. green cape. _thomp._ autumnal cape. maher's hardy cape. leaves long and narrow; the veins and midribs green; the head is greenish, and generally covered by the leaves. this variety and the purple cape often become intermixed, and are liable to degenerate. they are, however, quite distinct, and, when pure, very beautiful. green close-headed winter. _trans._ late green. siberian. dwarf roman. this new and excellent broccoli is apparently a seedling from the green cape. the plants are dwarf; the leaves are large and numerous, with white veins. the flower grows exposed, is not of large size, and resembles that of the green cape. its season immediately follows that of the last-named variety. hammond's white cape. an excellent, pure white variety, obtained in england by cultivation and selection. kent's late white.. _r. hogg._ a remarkably hardy, dwarf-growing variety, with very dark-green foliage. bouquet white, of good size, and well protected. kidderminster. _r. hogg._ head large and handsome, of pure whiteness, and much exposed. it is evidently a form of "willcove," and has, undoubtedly, emanated from that variety; but it is somewhat earlier. knight's protecting. _r. hogg._ _m'int._ early gem. the gem. lake's gem. waterloo late white. dilliston's late white. hampton court. invisible late white. when pure, this variety is of a dwarfish habit of growth, with long, pointed, and winged leaves, which have a spiral twist about the head, and turn in closely over it, so as effectually to protect it from the effect of frost, and preserve it of a fine white color. it is remarkably hardy; and as the plants are of small size, with comparatively large heads, a great product is realized from a small piece of ground. late dwarf purple. dwarf swedish. italian purple. dwarf danish. this is the latest purple broccoli. the plants seldom rise above a foot in height. the flower, at first, shows small and green; but soon enlarges, and changes to a close, conical, purple head. the leaves are short and small, dark-green, with white veins, much sinuated, deeply indented, and form a regular radius round the flower. the whole plant presents a singular and beautiful appearance. miller's late white. _thomp._ miller's dwarf. this is an old variety; but is considered by some to be the best late sort, if it can be obtained true. hardy. transplant two feet apart. mitchell's ne plus ultra. _thomp._ hardy, and of dwarf habit; leaves smooth, glaucous, protecting the head, which is cream-colored, large, and compact. transplant two feet apart. mitchinson's penzance. _r. hogg._ early white cornish. mitchinson's early white. one of the best of the spring whites. the leaves are much waved on the margin, and enclose large and fine heads, which are nearly of a pure white color. very hardy. portsmouth. _thomp._ cream-colored. southampton. maher's new dwarf. leaves large, broad, with white veins, spreading; although the central ones partially cover the flower, or head, which is buff, or cream-colored. it is a hardy sort; and the flower, which is produced near the ground, is said to exceed in size that of any other variety. the plants should be set three feet apart. purple cape. _trans._ early purple cape. purple silesian. howden's superb purple. grange's early cape. blue cape. this has a close, compact head, of a purple color, and, in favorable seasons, comes as large as a cauliflower. the plants grow from a foot to a foot and a half in height, with short, erect, concave leaves, regularly surrounding the head. the veins and midribs are stained with purple. the head is exposed to view in growing; and, as it enlarges, the projecting parts of the flower show a greenish-white mixed with the purple color. when boiled, the whole flower becomes green. excellent for general culture, as it is not only one of the finest varieties for the table, but the plants form their heads much more generally than many other kinds. it is the earliest of the purple broccolis. the seed should not be sown before the middle or last of may, and the plants will require a space of two feet and a half in each direction. snow's superb white winter. _thomp._ gill's yarmouth white. this variety is of dwarfish habit. the leaves are broad, with short stems; the heads are large, white, very compact, well protected by the incurved leaves, and equal in quality to those of the cauliflower. by many it is considered superior to grange's early cauliflower broccoli. snow's spring white or cauliflower broccoli. _trans._ naples white. early white. adam's early white. neapolitan white. imperial early white. grange's cauliflower. covent-garden market. plant about two feet high, robust, and a strong grower. the leaves are large, thick-veined, flat, and narrow; and generally compress the head, so as to render it invisible when ready for cutting, and thus protect it from rain and the effects of frost. head large, perfectly white. sulphur or brimstone broccoli. _trans._ late brimstone. fine late sulphur. edinburgh sulphur. leaves with long stems; heads large, compact, somewhat conical, sulphur-colored, sometimes tinged with purple. hardy. walcheren broccoli. _m'int._ comparatively new, and so closely resembling a cauliflower as to be scarcely distinguishable from it. the leaves, however, are more curled, and its constitution is of a hardier nature, enduring the cold, and also withstanding heat and drought better. much esteemed in england, where, by successive sowings, it is brought to the table at every season of the year. ward's superb. _r. hogg._ this is a form of knight's protecting, but is from two to three weeks later. it is of a dwarfish habit of growth, closely protected by the spirally compressed leaves, with a good-sized and perfectly white head. one of the best of the late white broccolis. white cape. _thomp._ heads of medium size, white, and compact. willcove. _r. hogg._ late willcove. the true willcove is a variety perfectly distinct from every other of its season. the heads are very large, firm, even, and fine, and of a pure whiteness. they are fully exposed, and not protected by the leaves as most other broccolis are. on this account, the variety is more liable to be injured by the weather than any other late sort; and therefore, in severe seasons, it must be regarded as deficient in hardiness. "it derives its name from a small village near devonport, eng.; where it originated, and where the broccoli is said to be grown in great perfection." * * * * * brussels sprouts. thousand-headed cabbage. brassica oleracea var. [illustration: brussels sprouts.] in its general character, this vegetable is not unlike some of the varieties of kale or borecole. its stem is from a foot to four feet in height, and from an inch and a half to upwards of two inches in diameter. it is remarkable for the production of numerous small axillary heads, or sprouts, which are arranged somewhat in a spiral manner, and which are often so closely set together as entirely to cover the sides of the stem. "these small heads are firm and compact like little cabbages, or rather like hearted savoys in miniature. a small head, resembling an open savoy, surmounts the stem of the plant, and maintains a circulation of sap to the extremity. most of the original side-leaves drop off as these small buds, or heads, enlarge."--_thomp._ _culture._--the plant is always raised from seeds, which, in size, form, or color, are scarcely distinguishable from the seeds of the common cabbage. these should be sown at the time and in the manner of the cabbage, either in hot-beds in march or april, or in the open ground in april or may. when three or four inches high, transplant two feet apart in each direction, and cultivate as directed for cabbages and cauliflowers. in september, the early plantings will be fit for gathering; whilst the later plants will afford a succession that will supply the table during the winter. for the latter purpose, they should be harvested before severe freezing weather, and preserved in the cellar as cauliflowers and broccolis. they are quite hardy, easily grown, thrive well in new england or in the middle states, and deserve more general cultivation. _to raise seeds._--in the autumn, select two or three of the finest plants; keep them in the cellar, or out of the reach of frost, during winter; and in the spring set them in the open ground, two feet apart, and as far as possible from all flowering plants of the cabbage family. cut off the top shoot, and save the branches of pods that proceed from the finest of the small heads on the sides of the main stem. _use._--the small heads are boiled and served in the manner of cabbages. they are also often used in the form of the cauliflower, boiled until soft, then drained, and afterwards stewed with milk, cream, or butter. _varieties._--two varieties are enumerated by gardeners and seedsmen; viz.:-- dwarf brussels sprouts. a low-growing sort, usually from eighteen inches to two feet in height. it differs from the following variety principally in size, though it is somewhat earlier. the dwarf stems are said to produce heads which are more tender and succulent when cooked than those obtained from taller plants. tall or giant brussels sprouts. stem nearly four feet in height; plant healthy and vigorous, producing the small heads peculiar to its class in great abundance. it is somewhat hardier than the foregoing variety; and, on account of its greater length of stalk, much more productive. there is, however, very little permanency to these sorts. much of the seed found in the market will not only produce plants corresponding with both of the varieties described, but also numerous intermediate kinds. * * * * * the cabbage. brassica oleracea capitata. the cabbage is a biennial plant; and, though comparatively hardy,--growing at all seasons unprotected in england,--will not withstand the winters of the northern states in the open ground. when fully developed, it is from four to five feet in height. the flowers are cruciform, generally yellow, but sometimes white or yellowish-white. the seeds, which ripen in july and august of the second year, are round, reddish-brown or blackish-brown, and retain their vitality five years. about ten thousand are contained in an ounce. _soil and situation._--"though not particularly nice as to soil or situation, cabbages do best when grown in well-manured ground. in such soil, they are generally earlier than when raised in cold and stiff ground. but manure need not be profusely applied, if the ground is naturally of a fertile and open kind; for the flavor is generally better in such soil than where a great quantity of fertilizer is used." _propagation._--all of the varieties are propagated from seed sown annually. for early use, a sowing may be made in a hot-bed in february or march; and, for winter use, the seed may be sown in a nursery-bed in the open ground in may or june. when five or six inches high, transplant to the distance directed in the description of the variety. in the hot-bed or nursery-bed, the plants should not be allowed to stand too thickly together, as this causes them to draw up weak and feeble. _to raise seed._--at the time of harvesting, select a few of the most compact and best-formed heads possessing the characters of the pure variety; and, in the following april, set the plants entire, three feet apart in each direction. as they progress in growth, remove all of the side-shoots, and encourage the main sprout, that will push up through the centre of the head. seeds from the side-shoots, as well as those produced from decapitated stems, are of little value. no cabbage-seed is really reliable that is not obtained from firm and symmetrical heads; and seed thus cultivated for a few successive seasons will produce plants, ninety per cent of which will yield well-formed and good-sized cabbages. american-grown seed is generally considered superior to that of foreign growth; and, when it can be obtained from a reliable seedsman or seeds-grower, the purchaser should not be induced by the difference in price to select the nominally cheaper, as there are few vegetables with which the character of the seed is of greater importance. _varieties._--the varieties are numerous, and the distinction, in many instances, well-defined and permanent. between some of the sorts, however, the variations are slight, and comparatively unimportant. atkins's matchless. _m'int._ this is a variety of the early york: the head, however, is smaller and more conical, and the leaves are more wrinkled,--somewhat similar to those of the savoys. it is of tender texture and delicate flavor; and, with the exception of its smaller size, is considered equal, if not superior, to the last-named variety. it is comparatively a recent sort, and seems to be desirable rather for its precocity and excellent quality than for its size or productiveness. transplant to rows fifteen inches apart, and twelve inches asunder in the rows. barnes's early. barnes's early dwarf. this variety, in respect to season, size, form, and general habit, seems to be intermediate between, or a hybrid from, the york and ox-heart. head ovate, rather compact; texture fine and tender; flavor mild and good. set in rows two feet apart, and eighteen inches apart in the rows. bergen drumhead. large bergen. great american. quintal. _vil._ large german drumhead. head remarkably large, round, flattened at the top, compact; the leaves are of a peculiar, glaucous-green color, of thick texture, firm, and rather erect; the nerves large and prominent; the outer leaves of the head are usually revoluted on the borders; the loose leaves are numerous, and rarely rise above a level with the summit of the head; the stalk is short. the bergen drumhead is one of the largest and latest of all the cabbages; and, when not fully perfected before being harvested, has the reputation, if reset in earth in the cellar, of heading, and increasing in size, during winter. it is a popular market sort; and, notwithstanding its extraordinary proportions, is tender, well flavored, and of more than average quality for family use. the plants should be set three feet apart. champion of america. one of the largest of the recently introduced sorts; the whole plant sometimes attaining a weight of forty pounds and upwards. head very large, flattened, somewhat resembling the drumheads; outer leaves very few, succulent, and tender; stalk short; quality tender, mild, and well flavored. as a market variety, it has few, if any, superiors. it heads with great uniformity, and bears transportation well; but its large size is objectionable when required for the use of families numbering but few members. early battersea. _thomp._ dwarf battersea. early dwarf battersea. the type of the early battersea is very old. when fully grown, the four outside or lower leaves are about sixteen inches in diameter; and, when taken off and spread out, their general outline is nearly circular. the stem is dwarfish, and the leaf-stalks come out quite close to each other; so that scarcely any portion of the stem is to be seen between them. the whole cabbage measures about three feet in circumference. the heart is shortly conical, with a broad base; near which it is about two feet in circumference, when divested of the outside leaves. the ribs boil tender. it is one of the best sorts for the general crop of early cabbages; is not liable to crack; and, when cut close to the stem, often puts forth a number of fresh heads, of fair size and good quality. early cornish. penton. paignton. pentonville. this is an intermediate sort, both in respect to size and season; and is said to derive its name from a village in devonshire, eng., where it has been cultivated for ages. the head is of full medium size, somewhat conical in form, and moderately firm and solid. the outside leaves are rather numerous, long, and of a pale or yellowish green color. its texture is fine and tender, and its flavor mild and agreeable. it is three or four weeks later than the early york. if reset in spring, this variety, like the yanack, will send out from the stalk abundant tender sprouts, which will supply the table with the best of coleworts, or greens, for several weeks of the early part of the season. the plants are somewhat leafy and spreading, and require full the average space. the rows should be two and a half or three feet apart, and the distance between the plants in the rows full two feet. early drumhead. this is an intermediate variety, about the size of the early york, and a little later. the head is round, flattened a little at the top, firm and well formed, tender in texture, and well flavored. it is a good sort for the garden, as it heads well, occupies but little space in cultivation, and comes to the table immediately after the earlier sorts. the plants should be set in rows two feet apart, and eighteen inches apart in the rows. early dutch twist. _m'int._ an excellent cabbage of the smallest size. it is very early and delicate, and may be planted almost as close together as a crop of cabbage-lettuce. the first sowing should be made early; afterwards, sowings should be made at intervals of two or three weeks, which will secure for the table a constant supply of fresh and tender heads from july till winter. early hope. a rather small, solid, oval-headed, early sort, nearly of the season of the early york. its color is bright-green, and its leaves rather erect and firm. in quality, it is not unlike the small early ox-heart, and requires the same space in cultivation. the variety is comparatively new; and, though found on the catalogues of seedsmen, is little disseminated. early low dutch. early dutch drumhead. this well-known and standard variety has a round, medium-sized, solid head, sometimes tinted with brown at its top. the outside and loose leaves are few in number, large, rounded, clasping, blistered, and of a glaucous-green color; the ribs and nerves are small; the stalk is thick and short. it is rather early, tender, and of good quality; heads well; and is one of the best sorts for growing in a small garden for early table use. the plants should be allowed a space of two feet and a half between the rows, and nearly two feet in the rows. early nonpareil. head of medium size, bright-green, rather ovoid or egg-shaped, solid; the leaves are generally erect, roundish, concave, and of thick, firm texture; the stalk is comparatively short, and the spare leaves few in number; flavor mild and pleasant. by some, it is considered the best of the intermediate varieties. in many respects, it resembles the small ox-heart. early sugar-loaf. the color of this variety, and the form of its head, distinguish it from all others. the plant, when well developed, has an appearance not unlike some of the varieties of cos lettuces; the head being round and full at the top, and tapering thence to the base, forming a tolerably regular, inverted cone. the leaves are erect, of a peculiar ashy or bluish-green hue, spoon-shaped, and clasp or cove over and around the head in the manner of a hood or cowl. though an early cabbage, it is thought to be more affected by heat than most of the early varieties; and is also said to lose some of its qualities, if kept late in the season. head of medium size, seldom compactly formed; and, when cut and cooked in its greatest perfection, tender and well flavored. transplant in rows two feet apart, and from eighteen to twenty-four inches apart in the rows. early wakefield. head of medium size, generally somewhat conical, but sometimes nearly round, compact; leaves very glaucous; stalk small. a fine, early variety, heading readily. as the plants occupy but little space, it is recommended as a desirable sort for early marketing. early york. according to rogers, the early york cabbage was introduced into england from flanders, more than a hundred years ago, by a private soldier named telford, who was there many years in the reign of queen anne. on his return to england, he settled as a seedsman in yorkshire: whence the name and celebrity of the variety. in this country, it is one of the oldest, most familiar, and, as an early market sort, one of the most popular, of all the kinds now cultivated. the head is of rather less than medium size, roundish-ovoid, close, and well-formed, of a deep or ash-green color, tender, and well flavored. the loose leaves are few in number, often revoluted on the border, and comparatively smooth on the surface; nerves greenish-white. the plants of the true variety have short stalks, occupy but little space, and seldom fail to produce a well-formed, and, for an early sort, a good-sized head. they require a distance of about eighteen inches between the rows, and fifteen or eighteen inches in the row. its earliness and its unfailing productiveness make it a favorite with market-gardeners; and it still retains its long-established popularity, notwithstanding the introduction of numerous new sorts, represented as being as early, equally prolific, and surpassing it in general excellence. east ham. from east ham, in essex, eng. it is not a large, but a fine, early sort, not unlike the ox-heart. the head is of an oval form, compact, and rather regular; the leaves are firm in texture, sometimes reflexed, or curved backward, but generally erect and concave; nerves pale greenish-white; stem very short. it is mild and delicate, and a desirable early variety. in setting the plants, allow two feet and a half between the rows, and two feet between the plants in the rows. green glazed. american green glazed. head large, rather loose and open; the leaves are numerous, large, rounded, waved on the borders, and slightly blistered on the surface; stalk comparatively long. its texture is coarse and hard, and the variety really possesses little merit; though it is somewhat extensively grown in warm latitudes, where it appears to be less liable to the attacks of the cabbage-worm than any other sort. a distinguishing characteristic of this cabbage is its deep, shining-green color; the plants being readily known from their peculiar, varnished, or glossy appearance. large late drumhead. american drumhead. head very large, round, sometimes flattened a little at the top, close and firm; the loose leaves are numerous, broad, round, and full, clasping, blistered, and of a sea-green color; the ribs and nerves are of medium size, and comparatively succulent and tender; stem short. the variety is hardy, seldom fails to form a head, keeps well, and is of good quality. in cultivation, it requires more than the average space, as the plants have a spreading habit of growth. the rows should not be less than three feet apart; and two feet and a half should be allowed between the plants in the rows. there are many varieties of this cabbage, introduced by different cultivators and seedsmen under various names, differing slightly, in some unimportant particulars, from the foregoing description, and also differing somewhat from each other, "but agreeing in being large, rounded, cabbaging uniformly, having a short stem, keeping well, and in being tender and good flavored." large york. this is a larger cabbage than the early york; which variety it somewhat resembles. the head, however, is broader in proportion to its depth, and more firm and solid; the leaves not connected with the head are more erect, of a firmer texture, not quite so smooth and polished, and the surface slightly bullated, or blistered. it also has a shorter stalk, and is two or three weeks later. the large york seems to be intermediate between the early york and the large late drumheads, as well in respect to form and general character as to its season of maturity. it is recommended as being less affected by heat than many other kinds, and, for this reason, well adapted for cultivation in warm climates. it seldom fails in forming its head, and is tender and well flavored. large ox-heart. large french ox-heart. this is a french variety, of the same form and general character as the small ox-heart, but of larger size. the stalk is short; the head firm and close, and of a light-green color; the spare leaves are few in number, generally erect, and concave. it is a week or ten days later than the small ox-heart, forms its head readily, and is tender and well flavored. one of the best of the intermediate sorts. the plants should be set two feet apart in each direction. marblehead mammoth drumhead. _j. j. h. gregory._ one of the largest of the cabbage family, produced from the mason, or stone-mason, by mr. alley, and introduced by mr. j. j. h. gregory, of marblehead, mass. heads not uniform in shape,--some being nearly flat, while others are almost hemispherical; size very large, varying from fifteen to twenty inches in diameter,--although specimens have been grown of the extraordinary dimensions of twenty-four inches. in good soil, and with proper culture, the variety is represented as attaining an average weight of thirty pounds. quality tender and sweet. cultivate in rows four feet apart, and allow four feet between the plants in the rows. for early use, start in a hot-bed; for winter, sow in the open ground from the first to the middle of may. sixty tons of this variety have been raised from a single acre. mason. _j. j. h. gregory._ the mason cabbage, in shape, is nearly hemispherical; the head standing well out from among the leaves, growing on a small and short stalk. under good cultivation, the heads will average about nine inches in diameter and seven inches in depth. it is characterized for its sweetness, and for its reliability for forming a solid head. it is also an excellent variety for cultivation in extreme northern latitudes, where, from the shortness of the season, or in those sections of the south, where, from excessive heat, plants rarely cabbage well. under good cultivation, nearly every plant will set a marketable head. originated by mr. john mason, of marblehead, mass. pomeranian. this variety is of comparatively recent introduction. the head, which is of medium size, has the form of an elongated cone, and is very regular and symmetrical. it is quite solid, of a pale or yellowish green color, tender and well flavored, and remarkable for the peculiar manner in which the leaves are collected, and twisted to a point, at its top. the loose, exterior leaves are numerous, large, and broad; stalk rather high. it is not early, but rather an intermediate variety, and excellent either as an autumnal or winter cabbage. as it heads promptly and almost invariably, and, besides, is of remarkable solidity, it makes a profitable market cabbage; keeping well, and bearing transportation with very little injury. premium flat dutch. large flat dutch. head large, bluish-green, round, solid, broad and flat on the top, and often tinted with red or brown. the exterior leaves are few in number, roundish, broad and large, clasping, blistered on the surface, bluish-green in the early part of the season, and tinged with purple towards the time of harvesting; stalk short. it is one of the largest of the cabbages, rather late, good for autumn use, and one of the best for winter or late keeping, as it not only remains sound, but retains its freshness and flavor till late in spring. the heads open white and crisp, and, when cooked, are tender and well flavored. it requires a good soil, and should be set in rows not less than three feet apart, and not nearer together than thirty inches in the rows. as a variety for the winter market, the premium flat dutch has no superior. it is also one of the best sorts for extensive culture, as it is remarkably hardy, and seldom fails in forming a good head. an acre of land, well set and cultivated, will yield about four thousand heads. st. denis. _vil._ head of large size, round, a little flattened, solid; the exterior leaves are numerous, glaucous-green, clasping at their base, and often reflexed at the ends; the ribs and nerves are large and prominent; stem long. this variety is of good quality, seldom fails to form a head, and yields a large crop in proportion to the quantity of land it occupies. the plants should be set two feet and a half apart in each direction. shilling's queen. a half-early variety, intermediate in form and size between the york and ox-heart. as a "second early," it is one of the best. it compares favorably with the early nonpareil, and is tender, mild, and delicate. transplant in rows two feet and a half apart, and eighteen inches apart in the rows. small ox-heart. coeur de boeuf petit, of the french. _vil._ head below medium size, ovate or egg-shaped, obtuse, broad at the base, compact. the leaves are of the same bright green as those of the york cabbage, round, of firm texture, sometimes revolute, but generally erect, and concave; the nerves are white, more numerous and less delicate than those of the last-named variety; the stalk is short, and the leaves not composing the head few in number. the ox-heart cabbages--with respect to character, and period of maturity--are intermediate between the yorks and drumheads; more nearly, however, resembling the former than the latter. the small ox-heart is about ten days later than the early york. as not only the heads, but the full-grown plants, of this variety are of small size, they may be grown in rows two feet apart, and sixteen inches apart in the rows. stone-mason. _j. j. h. gregory._ an improved variety of the mason, originated by mr. john stone, jun., of marblehead, mass. head larger than that of the original, varying in size from ten to fourteen inches in diameter, according to the strength of the soil and the cultivation given it. the form of the head is flatter than that of the mason, and but little, if any, inferior to it in solidity. stem very short and small. under good culture, the heads, exclusive of the outer foliage, will weigh about nine pounds. quality exceedingly sweet, tender, and rich. a profitable variety for market purposes; the gross returns per acre, in the vicinity of boston, mass., often reaching from two hundred dollars to three hundred and fifty. the mason, stone-mason, and the marblehead mammoth, severally originated from a package of seeds received from england, under the name of the "scotch drumhead," by mr. john m. ives, of salem, mass. sutton's dwarf comb. _m'int._ this is one of the earliest of all the cabbages. it is small and dwarfish in its habit, hearts well early in the season, and will afford a good supply of delicate sprouts throughout a large part of the summer. the plants require a space of only twelve inches between the rows, and the same distance between the plants in the rows. the seed of this variety, in common with other dwarfish and early sorts, should be sown more frequently than the larger growing kinds, so as to keep up a succession of young and delicate heads, much after the manner of sowing lettuce. vanack. _lind._ this variety was introduced into england from holland, more than a century ago, by a wealthy dutch farmer of the name of vanack. though often found upon the catalogues of our seedsmen, it has not been extensively grown in this country, and perhaps is really but little known. head somewhat irregular in shape, broad at the base, and terminating in rather a sharp point; color palish-green, the ribs and nerves of the leaves paler. the exterior leaves are large, spreading, deep-green, and strongly veined. it is tender in texture, sweet and delicate in flavor, cabbages early and uniformly, and, when kept through the winter and reset in spring, pushes abundant and fine sprouts, forming excellent early coleworts, or greens. lindley pronounces its quality inferior to none of the best cabbages. transplant to rows two feet and a half apart, and two feet apart in the rows. vaugirard cabbage. _thomp._ chou de vaugirard. _vil._ a large, late, but coarse, french variety. the head is generally round; leaves deep-green,--those of the outside having the veins sometimes tinged with red. the plants should be set three feet apart in each direction. waite's new dwarf. _hov. mag._ heads small, but solid and uniform in shape. it has little of the coarseness common to the larger varieties, and the flavor is superior. one of the finest early cabbages, and one of the best sorts for the market. it occupies but little space compared with some of the older kinds, and a large number of plants may be grown upon a small piece of ground. winnigstadt. pointed head. this is a german variety, somewhat similar to the ox-heart, but more regularly conical. head broad at the base, and tapering symmetrically to a point, solid, and of the size of the ox-heart; leaves of the head pale or yellowish green, with large nerves and ribs; the exterior leaves are large, short, and rounded, smooth, and of firm texture; the stalk is short. it is an intermediate sort, immediately following the early york. a large proportion of the plants will form good heads; and as these are not only of remarkable solidity, but retain their freshness well during winter, it is a good variety for marketing, though rather hard, and somewhat deficient in the qualities that constitute a good table-cabbage. it requires a space of about eighteen inches by two feet. _red varieties._--these are comparatively few in number, and generally used as salad or for pickling. when cooked, they are considered less mild and tender than the common varieties, besides retaining a portion of their color; which, by many, is considered an objection. early dwarf red. early blood red. small red. head nearly round, generally of a deep-red or dark-purple color. the leaves on the outside of the plant are not numerous, rather rigid or stiff, green, much washed or clouded with red; stalk short. it is about ten days earlier than the large red dutch, and is quite variable in form and color. the seed should be sown early; and, when transplanted, the rows should be about two feet apart, and the plants eighteen inches in the rows. the variety is seldom served at the table, cooked in the manner of other sorts; for, when boiled, it has a dark and unattractive appearance. it is almost invariably shredded, and with the addition of vinegar, olive-oil, mustard, or other seasoning, served as a salad. large red dutch. the most familiar as well as the most popular of the red varieties. the head is rather large, round, hard, and solid; the leaves composing-the head are of an intense purplish-red; the outer leaves are numerous, red, with some intermixture or shades of green, firm in texture, and often petioled at the union with the stalk of the plant, which is of medium height. on account of its dark color when cooked, it is seldom used in the manner of the common cabbages. it is chiefly used for pickling, or, like the other red sorts, cut in shreds, and served as a salad; though any solid, well-blanched, small-ribbed, white-headed sort will answer for the same purpose, and perhaps prove equally tender and palatable. the large red dutch is one of the latest of cabbages, and should receive the advantage of nearly the entire season. make the sowing, if in the open ground, as soon as the soil is in good working condition, and transplant or thin to rows two and a half or three feet apart, and two feet apart in the rows. the heads may be kept fresh and sound until may. superfine black. _thomp._ small, like the utrecht red, but of a still deeper color. when pickled, however, the dark coloring matter is greatly discharged, so that the substance is left paler than that of others originally not so dark. it is, therefore, not so good for pickling as other sorts which retain their color and brightness. utrecht red. _thomp._ chou noirâtre d'utrecht. a small but very fine dark-red cabbage. * * * * * the cauliflower. brassica oleracea var. the cauliflower, like the broccoli, is strictly an annual plant; as it blossoms and perfects its seed the year in which it is sown. when fully grown or in flower, it is about four feet in height, and in character and general appearance is similar to the cabbage or broccoli at a like stage of growth. the seeds resemble those of the cabbage in size, form, and color; although not generally so uniformly plump and fair. from ten to twelve thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their germinative properties five years. _soil._--"much of the delicacy and excellence of the cauliflower depends on the quickness of its growth: therefore, to promote this, the soil cannot be too highly enriched or too deeply cultivated; and, as all the tribe thrive best in new soil, the deeper the ground is dug, and the more new or rested matter that is turned up for the roots, the better." _sowing and culture._--the seed may be sown in a hot-bed in march, at the same time and in the same manner as early cabbages, and the plants set in the open ground late in may; or the seed may be sown in the open air in april or the beginning of may, in a common nursery-bed, in shallow drills six or eight inches apart; and, when sufficiently grown, the plants may be set where they are to remain. they need not all be transplanted at one time; nor is it important when, except that, as soon as they are large enough, the first opportunity should be improved for beginning the setting. "cauliflowers, after transplanting, require no particular skill during summer, and not much labor. the soil, however, must be kept free from weeds, and stirred with the hoe from time to time. as the plants increase in size, a little earth should be drawn about their roots from the middle of the row; and, in continued dry weather, an application of liquid manure will be very beneficial." the leaves are sometimes gathered, and tied loosely over the tops of the heads, to facilitate the blanching. _taking the crop._--cauliflowers raised by open culture will generally come to the table in october. such as have not fully perfected their heads, may, just as the ground is closing, be taken up by their roots, and suspended, with the top downward, in a light cellar, or other place secure from frost; by which process, the heads will increase in size, and be suitable for use the last of december or first of january. "cauliflowers are ready for cutting when the heads have attained a good size, and while they are close, firm, and white. they may even be cut before they have attained their full size; but it is always advisable to cut them before the heads begin to open, as the flavor is at this stage much more delicate and agreeable. in taking the crop, the stalks should be cut immediately under the lowest leaves, and the upper parts of these should be cut away near the flower-head. "it is not size that constitutes a good cauliflower, but its fine, white, or creamy color, its compactness, and what is technically called its 'curdy' appearance, from its resemblance to the curd of milk in its preparation for cheese. when the flower begins to open, or when it is of a frosty or wart-like appearance, it is less esteemed. in the summer season, it should not be cut long before using." _use._--"the heads, or flowers, are considered one of the greatest of vegetable delicacies, when served up at the table either plain boiled, to be eaten with meat, like other brassicæ, or dressed with white sauce, after the french manner. it is much used as a pickle, either by itself, or as forming an ingredient in what is called 'mixed pickles.' it may also be preserved a considerable time when pickled in the manner of 'sour-krout.' it also forms an excellent addition to vegetable soups."--_m'int._ _preservation during winter._--the best way to preserve them during winter is to take them up late in the fall, with as much earth as possible about their roots, and reset them in earth, in a light, dry cellar, or in any other light and dry location secure from frost. _varieties._--these are comparatively few in number; the distinctions, in many instances, being quite unimportant. in the color, foliage, general habit, and even in the quality, of the entire list, there is great similarity. early london cauliflower. london particular. fitch's early london. stem tall; leaves of medium size. it has a fine, white, compact "curd," as the unexpanded head is termed; and is the sort grown in the vicinity of london for the early crop. it is comparatively hardy, and succeeds well when grown in this country. the plants should be set two feet and a half apart. early paris cauliflower. head rather large, white, and compact; leaves large; stalk short. an early sort. in france, it is sown in june, and the heads come to table in autumn. erfurt's early cauliflower. erfurt's extra early. leaves large, long, waved, and serrated on the borders; stalk of medium height; head large,--measuring from seven to ten inches in diameter,--close, and compact. from the experience of a single season, this variety promises to be one of the best for cultivation in this country. specimens exhibited under this name, before the massachusetts horticultural society, measured fully ten inches in diameter; the surface being very close, and the heads possessing the peculiar white, curdy character so rarely attained in the climate of the united states. the plants seldom fail to form a good-sized and symmetrical head, or flower. large asiatic cauliflower. _thomp._ originally from holland. it is a fine, large, white, compact variety, taller and later than the early london cauliflower; it has also larger leaves. if sown at the same time, it will afford a succession. le normand. _r. hogg._ plant about fifteen inches high, with winged leaves, which are broad, and taper abruptly towards the base. they are toothed and waved on the margin, and expose a head which is about nine inches in diameter, and of a creamy color. it is earlier than the walcheren, and is readily distinguished from it by the waved and toothed margin of the foliage. mitchell's hardy early cauliflower. a new variety. bouquet not large, but handsome and compact. it is so firm, that it remains an unusual length of time without running to seed or becoming pithy. a desirable sort for private gardens and for forcing. stadthold. _vil._ a new variety, introduced from holland. flower fine white, and of large size. not early. waite's alma cauliflower. a new variety, represented as being of large size, and firm; surpassing in excellence the walcheren. walcheren cauliflower. _thomp._ early leyden. legge's walcheren broccoli. this has been cultivated as a broccoli for more than ten years; though originally introduced by the london horticultural society, under the name of early leyden cauliflower. stem comparatively short; leaves broad, less pointed and more undulated than those of the cauliflower usually are. the difference in constitution is, however, important; as it not only resists the cold in winter, but the drought in summer, much better than other cauliflowers. in hot, dry summers, when scarcely a head of these could be obtained, the walcheren cauliflower, planted under similar circumstances, formed beautiful heads,--large, white, firm, and of uniform closeness. wellington cauliflower. messrs. henderson and son describe this cauliflower as the finest kind in cultivation; pure white; size of the head over two feet; in growth, very dwarfish,--the stem not more than two or three inches from the soil. it is one of the hardiest varieties known, and is said to withstand the extreme variations of the climate of the united states. an excellent sort for early planting and for forcing. * * * * * colewort, or collards. _loud._ collet. the colewort, strictly speaking, is a plant distinct from the other varieties of cabbage. it is of small habit, and attains sufficient size for use in a few weeks. it is eatable from the time it has four or six leaves until it has a hard heart. loudon says the original colewort seems to be lost, and is now succeeded by what are called "cabbage coleworts." these are cabbage-plants in their young state; and, when cooked, are quite as tender and good as the true colewort. in growing these, all that is necessary is to sow the seed of almost any variety of the common green cabbages in drills a foot apart, and half an inch deep. for a succession, sowings may be made, at intervals of two weeks, from the last of april to the last of august. in the southern states, the sowings might be continued through the winter. when cultivated for sale, simply allow them to stand till there is enough to be worth bunching and eating. they are boiled and served at table as greens. rosette colewort. a small but remarkably neat variety; the whole plant, when well grown, measuring twelve inches in diameter, and having the form of a rose not completely expanded,--the head corresponding to the bud still remaining at the heart, or centre; stalk small and short. the plants may be grown twelve inches asunder. * * * * * couve tronchuda, or portugal cabbage. _trans._ portugal borecole. large-ribbed borecole. trauxuda kale. though a species of cabbage, the couve tronchuda is quite distinct from the common head varieties. the stalk is short and thick; the outer leaves are large, roundish, of a dark bluish-green, wrinkled on the surface, and slightly undulated on the borders; the mid-rib of the leaf is large, thick, nearly white, and branches into veins of the same color; the plant forms a loose, open head, and, when full grown, is nearly two feet high. _culture._--it should be planted and treated like the common cabbage. the seeds may be sown early in frames, and the plants afterwards set in the open ground; or the sowing may be made in the open ground in may. the plants require two feet and a half between the rows, and two feet between the plants in the rows. the seeds, in size, form, and color, resemble those of the cabbage, and will keep five years. one-fourth of an ounce will produce about a thousand plants. _to raise seed._--in the autumn, before severe weather, remove two or three plants entire to the cellar; and, in april following, reset them about two feet apart. cut off the lower and smaller side-sprouts as they may appear, and allow only the strong, central shoot to grow. the seeds will ripen in august. _use._--different parts of the couve tronchuda are applicable to culinary purposes. the ribs of the outer and larger leaves, when boiled, somewhat resemble sea-kale in texture and flavor. the heart, or middle of the plant, is, however, the best for use. it is peculiarly delicate, and agreeably flavored, without any of the coarseness which is so often found in plants of the cabbage tribe. dwarf couve tronchuda. _trans._ murcianâ. dwarf portugal cabbage. dwarf trauxuda kale. much earlier and smaller throughout than the common couve tronchuda. stem from fifteen to eighteen inches high. the leaves are of medium size, rounded, smooth, and collected at the centre of the plant into a loose heart, or head. when the lower leaves are taken off for use, the plant, unlike the former variety, throws out numerous sprouts, or shoots, from the base of the stem, which make excellent coleworts, or greens. it is, however, wanting in hardiness; and appears to be better adapted for early use than for late keeping. _soil and cultivation._--both of the varieties require a well-manured soil. the seeds of the dwarf couve tronchuda may be sown early in frames, and the plants afterwards set in the open ground; or the sowing may be made, in may or june, where the plants are to remain. they should be two feet apart in each direction. fringed tronchuda. stem short; leaf-stems thicker and larger than those of the common couve tronchuda, but not so fleshy and succulent. the leaves expand towards their extremities into a spatulate form, the edges being regularly lobed and curled. they are of a glaucous or bluish green color, and form a sort of loose heart, or head, at the centre of the plant. its only superiority over the common varieties consists in its more hardy character. the fringed tronchuda is, however, very succulent, and of good quality; and is cultivated to some extent in france, particularly in the vicinity of paris. white-ribbed tronchuda. white-ribbed avilès cabbage. white-ribbed portugal cabbage. chou à côtes blanches d'avilès. this variety nearly resembles the dwarf portugal cabbage, or dwarf couve tronchuda, if it is not identical. it has white ribs, and forms a close heart. it should be planted, and in all respects treated, as the dwarf portugal cabbage. * * * * * pak-chÖi. _vil._ chinese cabbage. brassica sp. an annual plant, introduced from china. the root-leaves are oval, regular, very smooth, deep-green, with long, naked, fleshy, white stems, somewhat similar to those of the swiss chards, or leaf-beets. when in blossom, the plant measures about four feet in height, and the stem is smooth and branching. the flowers are yellow; the seeds are small, round, blackish-brown, and, in their general appearance, resemble those of the turnip or cabbage. an ounce contains about ten thousand seeds, and they will keep five years. _sowing and cultivation._--the seed should be sown in april or may, and the plants may be grown in hills or drills. they are usually sown in rows, and thinned to twelve inches apart. _use._--the leaves are eaten boiled, like cabbage; but they are much more tender, and of a more agreeable flavor. * * * * * pe-tsai. chinese cabbage. brassica chinensis. the pe-tsai, like the pak-chöi, is an annual plant, originally from china. the leaves are of an oval form, rounded at the ends, somewhat blistered on the surface; and, at the centre, are collected together into a long and rather compact tuft, or head. the plant, when well grown and ready for use, has somewhat the appearance of a head of cos lettuce, and will weigh six or seven pounds; though, in its native country, it is said to reach a weight of upwards of twenty pounds. towards the end of the summer, the flower-stalk shoots from the centre of the head to the height of three feet, producing long and pointed leaves, and terminating in loose spikes of yellow flowers. the seeds are small, round, brownish-black, and resemble those of the common cabbage. they retain their vitality five years. an ounce contains eight thousand seeds. _cultivation._--sow in april or may, and thin or transplant to rows eighteen inches apart, and a foot apart in the rows. _use._--it is used like the common cabbage, and is sweet, mild-flavored, and easy of digestion. the young plants are also boiled like coleworts or spinach. * * * * * savoy. savoy cabbage. brassica oleracea, var. bullata. _dec._ this class of cabbages derives its popular name from savoy, a small district adjoining italy, where the variety originated, and from whence it was introduced into england and france more than a hundred and fifty years ago. the savoys are distinguished from the common head or close-hearted cabbages by their peculiar, wrinkled, or blistered leaves. according to decandole, this peculiarity is caused by the fact, that the pulp, or thin portion of the leaf, is developed more rapidly than the ribs and nerves. besides the distinction in the structure of the leaves, the savoys, when compared with the common cabbages, are slower in their development, and have more open or less compactly formed heads. in texture and flavor, they are thought to approach some of the broccolis or cauliflowers; having, generally, little of the peculiar musky odor and taste common to some of the coarser and larger varieties of cabbages. none of the family are hardier or more easily cultivated than the savoys; and though they will not quite survive the winter in the open ground, so far from being injured by cold and frosty weather, a certain degree of frost is considered necessary for the complete perfection of their texture and flavor. _soil._--they succeed best in strong, mellow loam, liberally enriched with well-digested compost. _sowing._--the first sowing may be made early in a hot-bed, and the plants set in the open ground in may, or as soon as the weather will admit. subsequent sowings may be made in drills, in the open ground, in may, or early in june. when the seedlings are five or six inches high, thin or transplant to about three feet apart. _harvesting._--during the autumn, take the heads directly from the garden, whenever they are required for the table; but they should all be taken in before the ground is deeply frozen, or covered with snow. no other treatment will be required during the winter than such as is usually given to the common cabbage. _to raise seed._--in april, select a few well-formed, good-sized heads, as near types of the variety as possible; and set them entire, about two feet apart. if small shoots start from the side of the stalk, they should be removed; as only the sprout that comes from the centre of the head produces seed that is really valuable. all varieties rapidly deteriorate, if grown from seeds produced by side-shoots, or suckers. the seeds, when ripe, in form, size, and color, are not distinguishable from those of the common cabbage. an ounce contains ten thousand seeds, which will generally produce about three thousand plants. _varieties._-- drumhead savoy. cape savoy. head large, round, compact, yellowish at the centre, and a little flattened, in the form of some of the common drumhead cabbages, which it nearly approaches in size. the exterior leaves of the plant are round and concave, clasping, sea-green or bluish-green, rise above a level with the top of the head, and are more finely and less distinctly fretted or blistered on the surface than the leaves of the green globe. stalk of medium length. the drumhead savoy seldom fails to heart well, affords a good quantity of produce, is hardy, and, when brought to the table, is of very tender substance, and finely flavored. it is considered one of the best of the large kinds; and, wherever cultivated, has become a standard sort. it keeps well during winter, and retains its freshness late into the spring. as it requires nearly all of the season for its complete development, the seed should be sown comparatively early. transplant to rows at least three feet apart, and allow nearly the same distance between the plants in the row. early dwarf savoy. early green savoy. head small, flattened, firm, and close; leaves rather numerous, but not large, deep-green, finely but distinctly blistered, broad and rounded at the top, and tapering towards the stalk or stem of the plant, which is short. it is not quite so early as the ulm savoy; but it hearts readily, is tender and of good quality, and a desirable sort for early use. it requires a space of about twenty inches in each direction. early flat green curled savoy. _thomp._ a middle-sized, very dwarf, and flat-headed variety; color deep-green; quality tender and good. the plants should be set fifteen or eighteen inches asunder. early long yellow savoy. chou de milan doré a tète longue. _vil._ similar to the golden savoy, and, like it, an early sort. it has, however, a longer head, and does not heart so firmly. in flavor and texture, as well as in its peculiar color, there is little difference between the varieties. cultivate in rows eighteen inches apart, and fifteen or eighteen inches apart in the rows. early ulm savoy. new ulm savoy. earliest ulm savoy. _m'int._ a dwarfish, early sort. head small, round, solid; leaves rather small, thick, fleshy, and somewhat rigid, of a fine, deep-green, with numerous prominent blister-like elevations. the loose leaves are remarkably few in number; nearly all of the leaves of the plant contributing to the formation of the head. it very quickly forms a heart, which, though not of large size, is of excellent quality. it is, however, too small a sort for market purposes; but, for private gardens, would, no doubt, be an acquisition. in the london horticultural society's garden, it proved the earliest variety in cultivation. being one of the smallest of the savoys, it requires but a small space for its cultivation. if fifteen inches between the rows, and about the same distance in the rows, be allowed, the plants will have ample room for their full development. feather-stem savoy. _m'int._ this curious and useful variety has been in existence for several years, and is said to be a cross between the savoy and the brussels sprouts. it is what may be called a sprouting savoy; producing numerous shoots, or sprouts, along the stem. a sowing should be made the last of april, and another from the middle to the th of may, and the plants set out as soon as they are of suitable size, in the usual manner of savoys and other winter greens. golden savoy. early yellow savoy. _m'int._ a middle-sized, roundish, rather loose-headed variety; changing during the winter to a clear, bright yellow. the exterior leaves, at the time of harvesting, are erect, clasping, of a pale-green color, and coarsely but not prominently blistered on the surface; stalk short. the golden savoy comes to the table early, hearts readily, is of very tender substance when cooked, and of excellent quality; though its peculiar color is objectionable to many. it requires a space of about eighteen inches between the rows, and fifteen to eighteen inches between the plants in the rows. green globe savoy. green curled savoy. large green savoy. one of the best and one of the most familiar of the savoys; having been long in cultivation, and become a standard sort. the head is of medium size, round, bluish or sea green on the outside, yellow towards the centre, and loosely formed. the interior leaves are fleshy and succulent, with large and prominent midribs,--the exterior leaves are round and large, of a glaucous or sea green color, and, in common with those of the head, thickly and distinctly blistered in the peculiar manner of the savoys; stalk of medium height. the variety possesses all the qualities of its class: the texture is fine, and the flavor mild and excellent. on account of its remarkably fleshy and tender character, the inner loose leaves about the head will be found good for the table, and to possess a flavor nearly as fine as the more central parts of the plant. it is remarkably hardy, and attains its greatest perfection only late in the season, or under the influence of cool or frosty weather. as the plants develop much less rapidly than those of the common cabbage, the seed should be sown early. transplant in rows two and a half or three feet apart, and allow a space of two feet and a half between the plants in the rows. long-headed savoy. _vil._ chou milan à tète longue. a comparatively small variety, with an oval, long, yellowish-green, but very compact head; leaves erect, inclining to bluish-green, long and narrow, revoluted on the borders, and finely fretted or blistered on the surface; stem rather high. it is hardy and of excellent quality, but yields less than many other sorts. it is, however, a good kind for gardens of limited size, as it occupies little space, and cabbages well. the plants may be set eighteen inches apart in one direction by about fifteen inches in the opposite. marcelin savoy. _thomp._ a new sort, allied to the early ulm, but growing somewhat larger. though not so early, it is next to it in point of earliness; and, if both sorts are sown at the same time, the marcelin will form a succession. it is a low grower; the leaves are dark-green, finely wrinkled and curled; the head is round, compact, and of excellent quality. when cut above the lower course of leaves, about four small heads, almost equal in delicacy to brussels sprouts, are generally formed. this sort is exceedingly hardy; and, on the whole, must be considered a valuable acquisition. the plants should be set eighteen inches by twelve inches apart. tour's savoy. dwarf green curled savoy. _m'int._ pancalier de tourraine. _vil._ head small, loose, and irregular; leaves numerous, bright-green, rigid, concave or spoon-shaped; the nerves and ribs large, and the entire surface thickly and finely covered with the blister-like swellings peculiar to the savoys. it has some resemblance to the early dwarf savoy; but is larger, less compact, and slower in its development. a useful, hardy, smallish sort, adapted to small gardens; requiring only eighteen or twenty inches' space each way. excellent for use before it becomes fully cabbaged. yellow curled savoy. _thomp._ large late yellow savoy. white savoy. dwarf, middle-sized, round; leaves pale-green at first, but quite yellow in winter; the heart is not so compact as some, but of tender quality, and by many preferred, as it is much sweeter than the other kinds. it is later and hardier than the yellow savoys, before described. * * * * * sea-kale. crambe maritima. sea-kale is a native of the southern shores of great britain, and is also abundant on the seacoasts of the south of europe. there is but one species cultivated, and this is perennial and perfectly hardy. the leaves are large, thick, oval or roundish, sometimes lobed on the borders, smooth, and of a peculiar bluish-green color; the stalk, when the plant is in flower, is solid and branching, and measures about four feet in height; the flowers, which are produced in groups, or clusters, are white, and have an odor very similar to that of honey. the seed is enclosed in a yellowish-brown shell, or pod, which, externally and internally, resembles a pit, or cobble, of the common cherry. about six hundred seeds, or pods, are contained in an ounce; and they retain their germinative powers three years. "they are large and light, and, when sold in the market, are often old, or imperfectly formed; but their quality is easily ascertained by cutting them through the middle: if sound, they will be found plump and solid." they are usually sown without being broken. _preparation of the ground, and sowing._--the ground should be trenched to the depth of from a foot to two feet, according to the depth of the soil, and well enriched throughout. the seeds may be sown in april, where the plants are to remain; or they may be sown at the same season in a nursery-bed, and transplanted the following spring. they should be set or planted out in rows three feet apart, and eighteen inches apart in the rows. _culture._--"after the piece is set, let the plants be kept very clean. the earth should be occasionally stirred, when the rains have run the surface together; and, when the plants come up, let them have their own way the first season. as the plants will blossom the second season if let alone, and the bearing of seed has a tendency to weaken every thing, take off the flower-buds as soon as they appear, and not allow the plants to seed. when the leaves begin to decay in autumn, clear them all off, and dig a complete trench between the rows, and earth up the ridges: that is, all the soil you take out must be laid on the plants, so as to pile or bank up eight inches above the crowns of the roots, thus forming a flat-topped bank a foot across; widening a little downwards, so that the edges shall not break away. in doing this, the piece is formed into alternate furrows and ridges; the plants being under the centre of the ridges. "as the weather gets warm in the spring, these banks should be watered; and, when the surface is broken by the rising plant, remove the earth, and cut off the white shoots close to their base: for these shoots form the eatable portion; and, being blanched under ground, they are tender and white, and from six to eight inches long. the shoots should be cut as soon as they reach the surface; because, if the shoot comes through, the top gets purple, and the plants become strong-flavored. as all of the shoots will not appear at once, the bed should be looked over frequently, and a shoot cut whenever it has broken the surface of the soil; for, if not taken early, it soon becomes nearly worthless. in the process of cutting the shoots, the earth becomes gradually removed; and the tops of the plants, coming to the surface again, put forth other shoots, which must be allowed to grow the remainder of the summer, only taking off the blossom-shoots as before. when, at the fall of the year, the leaves turn yellow, and decay, earth up again, after clearing the plants of their bad leaves and removing every weed. before earthing up, fork the surface a little, just to break it up, that the earth may better take hold, and form a regular mass."--_glenny._ _pot-forcing and blanching._--"the ground, once planted, is as good for pot-forcing as for any thing; except that, for pot-forcing, it is usual to plant three plants in a triangle, about nine inches apart. the plants are cleared when the leaves decay, and the ground is kept level instead of being earthed up. pots and covers (called 'sea-kale pots') are placed over the plants, or patches of plants, and the cover (which goes on and off at pleasure) put on. these pots are of various sizes; usually from ten to fourteen inches in diameter, and from a foot to twenty inches in height. if proper sea-kale pots cannot be procured, large-sized flower-pots will answer as substitutes; the pots being put over the plants as they are wanted, generally a few at a time, so as to keep up a succession. dung is placed all over them; or, if no dung can be had, leaves are used: and they ferment and give out heat as genial, but not so violent, nor do they command so much influence, as the dung. some may be placed on in february, and some in march. the dung is removed from the top to admit of seeing if the plant is started; and, by timely examination, it is easily seen when the plant is ready for use. the shoots are as white, when thus treated, as when grown by the other method, because of the total darkness that prevails while they are covered; but there is more air in the empty pots than there possibly could be in the solid earth, and it is considered that the vegetable is not so tender in consequence. however, the greater bulk of sea-kale is so produced."--_glenny._ _taking the crop._--"the blanched sprouts should be cut when they are from three to six inches in length, and while stiff, crisp, and compact. they should not be left till they are drawn up so as to bend, or hang down. the soil or other material used for excluding the light should be carefully removed, so as to expose the stem of the sprout; and the latter should be cut just below the base of the petioles or leaf-stem, and just enough to keep these attached."--_thomp._ the sea-kale season continues about six weeks. "cutting too much will finally destroy the plants. with one good cutting the cultivator should be satisfied, and should avoid the practice of covering and cutting a second time. the proper way is to cut the large, fine shoots, and leave the smaller ones that come afterwards to grow stronger during the summer." _use._--"the young shoots and stalks, when from the length of three to nine inches, are the parts used. these, however, unless blanched, are no better than the coarser kinds of borecole; but, when blanched, they become exceedingly delicate, and are much prized. the ribs of the leaves, even after they are nearly fully developed, are sometimes used; being peeled and eaten as asparagus. in either state, they are tied up in small bundles, boiled, and served as cauliflowers."--_m'int._ _to obtain seed._--"select some strong plants, and allow them to take their natural growth, without cutting off their crowns, or blanching. when the seed is ripe, collect the pods, dry them, and put them into open canvas-bags. the seeds keep best in the pods."--_thomp._ chapter vi. spinaceous plants. amaranthus. black nightshade. leaf-beet, or swiss chard. malabar nightshade. nettle. new-zealand spinach. orach. patience dock. quinoa. sea-beet. shepherd's purse. sorrel. spinach. wild or perennial spinach. * * * * * amaranthus. chinese amaranthus. chinese spinach. a hardy, annual plant, introduced from china; stem three feet in height, much branched, and generally stained with red; leaves variegated with green and red, long, and sharply pointed; the leaf-stems and nerves are red; the flowers, which are produced in axillary spikes, are greenish, and without beauty; the seeds are small, black, smooth, and shining,--twenty-three thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their power of germination four or five years. _soil and cultivation._--any good garden-soil is adapted to the growth of the amaranthus. before sowing, the ground should be thoroughly pulverized, and the surface made smooth and even. the seed may be sown in april, or at any time during the month of may. it should be sown in very shallow drills, fourteen to sixteen inches apart, and covered with fine, moist earth. when the plants are two inches high, thin to five or six inches apart, and cultivate in the usual manner. they will yield abundantly during most of the summer. _use._--the leaves are used in the manner of spinach, and resemble it in taste. _varieties._-- early amaranthus. amarante mirza. _vil._ this plant is a native of the east indies; and in height, color, and general habit, resembles the chinese amaranthus. it is, however, somewhat earlier, and ripens its seed perfectly in climates where the chinese almost invariably fails. its uses, and mode of cultivation, are the same. hantsi shanghai amaranthus. amarante hantsi shanghai. _vil._ introduced from china by mr. fortune, and disseminated by the london horticultural society. it differs little from the preceding species; and is cultivated in the same manner, and used for the same purposes. annual. * * * * * black nightshade. morelle, of the french. solanum nigrum. an unattractive, annual plant, growing spontaneously as a weed among rubbish, in rich, waste places. its stem is from two to three feet high, hairy and branching; the leaves are oval, angular, sinuate, and bluntly toothed; the flowers are white, in drooping clusters, and are succeeded by black, spherical berries, of the size of a small pea; the seeds are small, lens-shaped, pale yellow, and retain their vitality five years,--twenty-three thousand are contained in an ounce. _propagation and culture._--it is raised from seed, which may be sown in april or may, or in autumn. sow in shallow drills fifteen or eighteen inches apart, and thin to six or eight inches in the drills; afterwards keep the soil loose, and free from weeds, in the usual manner. _use._--the french, according to vilmorin, eat the leaves in the manner of spinach; while dr. bigelow asserts that it has the aspect and reputation of a poisonous plant. on the authority of american botanists, it was introduced into this country from europe. by european botanists, it is described as a plant of american origin. * * * * * leaf-beet, or swiss chard. sicilian beet. white beet. beta cicla. the leaf-beet is a native of the seacoasts of spain and portugal. it is a biennial plant, and is cultivated for its leaves and leaf-stalks. the roots are much branched or divided, hard, fibrous, and unfit for use. _propagation and cultivation._--it is propagated, like other beets, from seed sown annually, and will thrive in any good garden soil. the sowing may be made at any time in april or may, in drills eighteen inches apart, and an inch and a half deep. "when the plants are a few inches high, so that those likely to make the best growth can be distinguished, they should be thinned out to nine inches or a foot apart, according to the richness of the soil; more room being allowed in rich ground. some, however, should be left at half that distance, to make up by transplanting any vacancies that may occur. the ground should be kept clean, and occasionally stirred between the rows; taking care not to injure the roots. in dry weather, plenty of water should be given to promote the succulence of the leaves."--_thomp._ _taking the crop._--"the largest and fullest-grown leaves should be gathered first; others will follow. if grown for spinach, the leaves should be rinsed in clean water, and afterwards placed in a basket to drain dry; if for chard, or for the leaf-stalks and veins, these should be carefully preserved, and the entire leaves tied up in bundles of six or eight in each."--_m'int._ _seed._--during the first season, select a few vigorous plants, and allow them to grow unplucked. just before the closing-up of the ground in autumn, take up the roots; and, after removing the tops an inch above the crown, pack them in dry sand in the cellar. the following spring, as soon as the ground is in working order, set them out with the crowns level with the surface of the ground, and about two feet and a half apart. as the plants increase in height, tie them to stakes, to prevent injury from wind; and in august, when the seed is ripe, cut off the stems near the ground, and spread them entire, in an airy situation, till they are sufficiently dried for threshing out. the seed, or fruit, has the appearance peculiar to the family; although those of the different varieties, like the seeds of the red beet, vary somewhat in size, and shade of color. an ounce of seed will sow a hundred feet of drill, or be sufficient for a nursery-bed of fifty square feet. _use._--"this species of beet--for, botanically considered, it is a distinct species from _beta vulgaris_, the common or red beet--is cultivated exclusively for its leaves; whereas the red beet is grown for its roots. these leaves are boiled like spinach, and also put into soups. the midribs and stalks, which are separated from the lamina of the leaf, are stewed and eaten like asparagus, under the name of "chard." as a spinaceous plant, the white beet might be grown to great advantage in the vegetable garden, as it affords leaves fit for use during the whole summer."--_m'int._ the thin part of the leaves is sometimes put into soups, together with sorrel, to correct the acidity of the latter. the varieties are as follow:-- green or common leaf-beet. stalks and leaves large, green; the roots are tough and fibrous, and measure little more than an inch in diameter; leaves tender, and of good quality. if a sowing be made as soon in spring as the frost will permit, another in june, and a third the last of july, they will afford a constant supply of tender greens, nearly or quite equal to spinach. for this purpose, the rows need be but a foot apart. large-ribbed curled. curled leaf-beet. stalks white; leaves pale yellowish-green, with broad mid-ribs, large nerves, and a blistered surface like some of the savoys. it may be grown as a substitute for spinach, in the manner directed for the common or green-leaved variety. large-ribbed scarlet brazilian. red stalk leaf-beet. poirée à carde rouge. _vil._ leaf-stalks bright purplish-red; leaves green, blistered on the surface; nerves purplish-red. a beautiful sort, remarkable for the rich and brilliant color of the stems, and nerves of the leaves. large-ribbed yellow brazilian. yellow-stalked leaf-beet. poirée à carde jaune. _vil._ a variety with bright-yellow leaf-stalks and yellowish leaves. the nerves of the leaves are yellow, like the leaf-stalks. the color is peculiarly rich and clear; and the stalks are quite attractive, and even ornamental. quality tender and good. silver-leaf beet. great white-leaf beet. swiss chard. sea-kale beet. large-ribbed silver-leaf beet. stalks very large; leaves of medium size, erect, with strong, white ribs and veins. the leaf-stalks and nerves are cooked and served like asparagus, and somewhat resemble it in texture and flavor. it is considered the best of the leaf-beets. * * * * * malabar nightshade (white). climbing nightshade. white malabar spinach. baselle blanche. _vil._ basella alba. from the east indies. though a biennial plant, in cultivation it is generally treated as an annual. stem five feet and upwards in length, slender, climbing; leaves alternate, oval, entire on the borders, green and fleshy; flowers in clusters, small, greenish; seeds round, with portions of the pulp usually adhering,--eleven to twelve hundred weighing an ounce. they retain their vitality three years. large-leaved chinese malabar nightshade. large-leaved malabar spinach. baselle à très large feuille de chine. _vil._ basella cordifolia. a chinese species, more vigorous and much stronger in its general habit than the red or the white. leaves as large as those of lettuce,--green, round, very thick, and fleshy; flowers small, greenish; seeds round, nearly of the same form and color as those of the white variety, but rather larger. the species is slow in developing its flower-stem, and the best for cultivation. * * * * * red malabar nightshade. red malabar spinach. baselle rouge. _vil._ basella rubra. from china. properly a biennial plant, but, like the white species, usually cultivated as an annual. it is distinguished from the last named by its color; the whole plant being stained or tinted with purplish red. in the size and color of the seeds, and general habit of the plant, there are no marks of distinction, when compared with the white. _propagation and cultivation._--all of the species are easily grown from seeds; which may be sown in a hot-bed in march, or in the open ground in may. they take root readily when transplanted; and may be grown in rows like the taller descriptions of pease, or in hills like running beans. wherever grown, they require a trellis, or some kind of support; otherwise the plants will twist themselves about other plants, or whatever objects may be contiguous. all are comparatively tender, and thrive best, and yield the most produce, in the summer months. _use._--the leaves, which are put forth in great profusion, are used in the form of spinach. the juice of the fruit affords a beautiful but not permanent purple color. * * * * * common nettle. large stinging nettle. urtica dioica. the common nettle is a hardy, herbaceous perennial, growing naturally and abundantly by waysides and in waste places, "but is seldom seen where the hand of man has not been at work; and may, therefore, be considered a sort of domestic plant." it has an erect, branching, four-sided stem, from three to five feet in height; the leaves are opposite, heart-shaped at the base, toothed on the borders, and thickly set with small, stinging, hair-like bristles; the flowers are produced in july and august, and are small, green, and without beauty; the seeds are very small, and are produced in great abundance,--a single plant sometimes yielding nearly a hundred thousand. _propagation and culture._--the nettle will thrive in almost any soil or situation. though it may be propagated from seeds, it is generally increased by a division of the roots, which may be made in spring or autumn. these should be set in rows two feet apart, and a foot apart in the rows. _use._--"early in april, the tops will be found to have pushed three or four inches, furnished with tender leaves. in scotland, poland, and germany, these are gathered, as a pot-herb for soups or for dishes, like spinach; and their peculiar flavor is by many much esteemed. no plant is better adapted for forcing; and, in winter or spring, it may be made to form an excellent substitute for cabbage, coleworts, or spinach. collect the creeping roots, and plant them either on a hot-bed or in pots to be placed in the forcing-house, and they will soon send up an abundance of tender tops: these, if desired, may be blanched by covering with other pots. if planted close to a flue in the vinery, they will produce excellent nettle-kale or nettle-spinach in january and february." lawson states that "the common nettle has long been known as affording a large proportion of fibre, which has not only been made into ropes and cordage, but also into sewing-thread, and beautiful, white, linen-like cloth of very superior quality. it does not, however, appear that its cultivation for this purpose has ever been fairly attempted. the fibre is easily separated from other parts of the stalk, without their undergoing the processes of watering and bleaching; although, by such, the labor necessary for that purpose is considerably lessened. like those of many other common plants, the superior merits of this generally accounted troublesome weed have hitherto been much overlooked." * * * * * new-zealand spinach. _loud._ tetragonia expansa. this plant, botanically considered, is quite distinct from the common garden spinach; varying essentially in its foliage, flowers, seeds, and general habit. it is a hardy annual. the leaves are of a fine green color, large and broad, and remarkably thick and fleshy; the branches are numerous, round, succulent, pale-green, thick and strong,--the stalks recline upon the ground for a large proportion of their length, but are erect at the extremities; the flowers are produced in the axils of the leaves, are small, green, and, except that they show their yellow anthers when they expand, are quite inconspicuous; the fruit is of a dingy-brown color, three-eighths of an inch deep, three-eighths of an inch in diameter at the top or broadest part, hard and wood-like in texture, rude in form, but somewhat urn-shaped, with four or five horn-like points at the top. three hundred and twenty-five of these fruits are contained in an ounce; and they are generally sold and recognized as the seeds. they are, however, really the fruit; six or eight of the true seeds being contained in each. they retain their germinative powers five years. _propagation and culture._--it is always raised from seed, which may be sown in the open ground from april to july. select a rich, moist soil, pulverize it well, and rake the surface smooth. make the drills three feet apart, and an inch and a half or two inches deep; and sow the seed thinly, or so as to secure a plant for each foot of row. in five or six weeks from the planting, the branches will have grown sufficiently to allow the gathering of the leaves for use. if the season should be very dry, the plants will require watering. they grow vigorously, and, in good soil, will extend, before the end of the season, three feet in each direction. _gathering._--"the young leaves must be pinched or cut from the branches; taking care not to injure the ends, or leading shoots. these shoots, with the smaller ones that will spring out of the stalks at the points where the leaves have been gathered, will produce a supply until a late period in the season; for the plants are sufficiently hardy to withstand the effects of light frosts without essential injury. "its superiority over the common spinach consists in the fact, that it grows luxuriantly, and produces leaves of the greatest succulency, in the hottest weather." anderson, one of its first cultivators, had but nine plants, which furnished a gathering for the table every other day from the middle of june. a bed of a dozen healthy plants will afford a daily supply for the table of a large family. _seed._--to raise seed, leave two or three plants in the poorest soil of the garden, without cutting the leaves. the seeds will ripen successively, and should be gathered as they mature. _use._--it is cooked and served in the same manner as common spinach. there are no described varieties. * * * * * orach. arrach. french spinach. mountain spinach. atriplex hortensis. orach is a hardy, annual plant, with an erect, branching stem, varying in height from two to four feet, according to the variety. the leaves are variously shaped, tut somewhat oblong, comparatively thin in texture, and slightly acid to the taste; the flowers are small and obscure, greenish or reddish, corresponding in a degree with the color of the foliage of the plant; the seeds are small, black, and surrounded with a thin, pale-yellow membrane,--they retain their vitality three years. _soil and culture._--it is raised from seed sown annually. as its excellence depends on the size and succulent character of the leaves, orach is always best when grown in a rich, deep, and moist soil. the first sowing may be made as soon in spring as the ground is in proper condition; afterwards, for a succession, sowings may be made, at intervals of two weeks, until june. when the ground has been thoroughly dug over, and the surface made fine and smooth, sow the seed in drills eighteen inches or two feet apart, and cover three-fourths of an inch deep. when the young plants are two or three inches high, thin them to ten or twelve inches apart, and cultivate in the usual manner. orach is sometimes transplanted, but generally succeeds best when sown where the plants are to remain. in dry, arid soil, it is comparatively worthless. _to raise seed._--leave a few of the best plants without cutting, and they will afford a plentiful supply of seeds in september. _use._--orach is rarely found in the vegetable gardens of this country. the leaves have a pleasant, slightly acid taste, and, with the tender stalks, are used boiled in the same manner as spinach or sorrel, and are often mixed with the latter to reduce the acidity. "the stalks are good only while the plants are young; but the larger leaves may be picked off in succession throughout the season, leaving the stalks and smaller leaves untouched, by which the latter will increase in size. the orach thus procured is very tender, and much esteemed." a few plants will afford an abundant supply. _varieties._-- green orach. _trans._ dark-green orach. deep-green orach. _mill._ the leaves of this variety are of a dark, grass-green color, broad, much wrinkled, slightly toothed, and bluntly pointed; the stalk of the plant and the leaf-stems are strong and sturdy, and of the same color as the leaves. it is the lowest growing of all the varieties. lurid orach. _trans._ pale-red orach. leaves pale-purple, tinged with dark-green,--the under surface light-purple, with green veins, slightly wrinkled, terminating rather pointedly, and toothed on the borders only toward the base, which forms two acute angles; the stalk of the plant and the stems of the leaves are bright-red, slightly streaked with white between the furrows,--height three feet and upwards. purple orach. _trans._ dark-purple orach. plant from three to four feet in height; leaves dull, dark-purple, more wrinkled and more deeply toothed than those of any other variety. they terminate somewhat obtusely, and form two acute angles at the base. the stalk of the plant and the stems of the leaves are deep-red, and slightly furrowed. the leaves change to green when boiled. red orach. _trans._ dark-red orach. bon jardinier. leaves oblong-heart-shaped, somewhat wrinkled, and slightly toothed on the margin: the upper surface is very dark, inclining to a dingy purple; the under surface is of a much brighter color. the stems are deep-red and slightly furrowed; height three feet and upwards. this is an earlier but a less vigorous sort than the white. the leaves of this variety, as also those of most of the colored sorts, change to green in boiling. red-stalked green orach. _trans._ leaves dark-green, tinged with dull-brown, much wrinkled, toothed, somewhat curled, terminating rather obtusely, and forming two acute angles at the base; the stalk and the stems of the leaves are deep-red, and slightly furrowed; the veins are very prominent. it is of tall growth. red-stalked white orach. _trans._ purple-bordered green orach. _miller._ leaves somewhat heart-shaped, of a yellowish-green, tinged with brown. their margin is stained with purple, and a little dentated or toothed in some cases, but not in all. the stalk and the stems of the leaves are of a palish-red, and are slightly furrowed, as well as streaked with pale-white between the furrows. the plant is of dwarfish growth. white orach. _trans._ pale-green orache. _neill._ white french spinach. yellow orach. leaves pale-green or yellowish-green, much wrinkled, with long, tapering points, strongly cut in the form of teeth towards the base, which forms two acute angles; the stalk of the plant and the stems of the leaves are of the same color as the foliage. it is comparatively of low growth. * * * * * patience. herb patience. patience dock. garden patience. rumex patientia. this plant is a native of the south of europe. it is a hardy perennial, and, when fully grown, from four to five feet in height. the leaves are large, long, broad, pointed; the leaf-stems are red; the flowers are numerous, small, axillary, and of a whitish-green color,--they are put forth in june and july, and the seeds ripen in august. the latter are triangular, of a pale-brownish color, and will keep three years. _soil and cultivation._--"the plant will grow well in almost any soil, but best in one that is rich and rather moist. it may easily be raised from seed sown in spring, in drills eighteen inches asunder; afterwards thinning out the young plants to a foot apart in the rows. it may also be sown broadcast in a seed-bed, and planted out; or the roots may be divided, and set at the above distances. "the plants should not be allowed to run up to flower, but should be cut over several times in the course of the season, to induce them to throw out young leaves in succession, and to prevent seed from being ripened, and scattered about in all directions; for, when this takes place, the plant becomes a troublesome weed."--_thomp._ it is perfectly hardy, and, if cut over regularly, will continue healthy and productive for several years. in the vicinity of gardens where it has been cultivated, it is frequently found growing spontaneously. _use._--"the leaves were formerly much used as spinach; and are still eaten in some parts of france, where they are also employed in the early part of the season as a substitute for sorrel; being produced several days sooner than the leaves of that plant."--_thomp._ its present neglect may arise from a want of the knowledge of the proper method of using it. the leaves are put forth quite early in spring. they should be cut while they are young and tender, and about a fourth part of common sorrel mixed with them. in this way, patience dock is much used in sweden, and may be recommended as forming an excellent spinach dish. * * * * * quinoa (white). _law._ white-seeded quinoa. goose-foot. chenopodium quinoa. an annual plant from mexico or peru. its stem is five or six feet in height, erect and branching; the leaves are triangular, obtusely toothed on the borders, pale-green, mealy while young, and comparatively smooth when old; flowers whitish, very small, produced in compact clusters; seeds small, yellowish-white, round, a little flattened, about a line in diameter, and, on a cursory glance, might be mistaken for those of millet; they retain their vegetative powers three years; about twelve thousand are contained in an ounce. _sowing and cultivation._--it is propagated from seeds which are sown in april or may, in shallow drills three feet apart. as the seedlings increase in size, they are gradually thinned to a foot apart in the rows. the seeds ripen in september. in good soil, the plants grow vigorously, and produce seeds and foliage in great abundance. _use._--the leaves are used as spinach or sorrel, or as greens. in some places, the seeds are employed as a substitute for corn or wheat in the making of bread, and are also raised for feeding poultry. _varieties._-- black-seeded quinoa. the stalks of this variety are more slender, and the leaves smaller, than those of the white-seeded. the plant is also stained with brownish-red in all its parts. seeds small, grayish-black. it is sown, and in all respects treated, like the white. the seeds and leaves are used in the same manner. red-seeded quinoa. _law._ chenopodium sp. this variety, or perhaps, more properly, species, is quite distinct from the white-seeded. it grows to the height of six or eight feet, and even more, with numerous long, spreading branches. the leaves are more succulent than those of the last named, and are produced in greater abundance. when sown at the same time, it ripens its seeds nearly a month later. its foliage and seeds are used for the same purposes as the white. sow in rows three feet apart, and thin to fifteen inches in the rows. * * * * * sea-beet. _trans._ beta maritima. the sea-beet is a hardy, perennial plant. the roots are not eaten; but the leaves, for which it is cultivated, are an excellent substitute for spinach, and are even preferred by many to that delicate vegetable. if planted in good soil, it will continue to supply the table with leaves for many years. the readiest method of increasing the plants is by seeds; but they may be multiplied to a small extent by dividing the roots. the early-produced leaves are the best, and these are fit for use from may until the plants begin to run to flower; but they may be continued in perfection through the whole summer and autumn by cutting off the flower-stems as they arise, and thus preventing the blossoming. there are two varieties:-- english sea-beet. the english sea-beet is a dwarfish, spreading or trailing plant, with numerous angular, leafy branches. the lower leaves are ovate, three or four inches in length, dark-green, waved on the margin, and of thick, fleshy texture; the upper leaves are smaller, and nearly sessile. sow in april or may, in rows sixteen or eighteen inches apart, and an inch in depth; thin to twelve inches in the rows. the leaves should not be cut from seedling plants during the first season, or until the roots are well established. irish sea-beet. this differs from the preceding variety in the greater size of its leaves, which are also of a paler green: the stems are not so numerous, and it appears to be earlier in running to flower. the external differences are, however, trifling; but the flavor of this, when dressed, is far superior to that of the last named. it requires the same treatment in cultivation as the english sea-beet. * * * * * shepherd's purse. thlaspi bursa pastoris. a hardy, annual plant, growing naturally and abundantly about gardens, roadsides, and in waste places. the root-leaves spread out from a common centre, are somewhat recumbent, pinnatifid-toothed, and, in good soil, attain a length of eight or ten inches; the stem-leaves are oval, arrow-shaped at the base, and rest closely upon the stalk. when in blossom, the plant is from twelve to fifteen inches in height; the flowers are small, white, and four-petaled; the seeds are small, of a reddish-brown color, and retain their vitality five years. _propagation and cultivation._--it is easily raised from seed, which should be sown in may, where the plants are to remain. sow in shallow drills twelve or fourteen inches apart, and cover with fine mould. thin the young plants to four inches asunder, and treat the growing crop in the usual manner during the summer. late in autumn, cover the bed with coarse stable-litter, and remove it the last of february. in march and april, the plants will be ready for the table. _use._--it is used in the manner of spinach. "when boiled, the taste approaches that of the cabbage, but is softer and milder. the plant varies wonderfully in size, and succulence of leaves, according to the nature and state of the soil where it grows. those from the gardens and highly cultivated spots near philadelphia come to a remarkable size, and succulence of leaf. it may be easily bleached by the common method; and, in that state, would be a valuable addition to our list of delicate culinary vegetables." in april and may it may be gathered, growing spontaneously about cultivated lands; and, though not so excellent as the cultivated plants, will yet be found of good quality. * * * * * sorrel. rumex. sp. et var. sorrel is a hardy perennial. the species, as well as varieties, differ to a considerable extent in height and general habit; yet their uses and culture are nearly alike. _soil and cultivation._--all of the sorts thrive best in rich, moist soil; but may be grown in almost any soil or situation. the seeds are sown in april or may, in drills fifteen or eighteen inches apart, and covered half an inch in depth. the young plants should be thinned to twelve inches apart; and, in july and august, the leaves will be sufficiently large for gathering. the varieties are propagated by dividing the roots in april or may; and this method must be adopted in propagating the dioecious kinds, when male plants are required. "the best plants, however, are obtained from seed; but the varieties, when sown, are liable to return to their original type. all the care necessary is to hoe the ground between the rows, when needed to fork it over in spring and autumn, and to take up the plants, divide and reset them every three or four years, or less frequently, if they are growing vigorously and produce full-sized leaves." all of the sorts, whether produced from seeds or by parting the roots, will send up a flower-stalk in summer; and this it is necessary to cut out when first developed, in order to render the leaves larger and more tender. the plants will require no special protection or care during the winter; though a slight covering of strawy, stable litter may be applied after the forking-over of the bed in the autumn, just before the closing-up of the ground. _use._--it enters into most of the soups and sauces for which french cookery is so famed, and they preserve it in quantities for winter use. it forms as prominent an article in the markets of paris as does spinach in those of this country; and it has been asserted, that, amongst all the recent additions to our list of esculent plants, "we have not one so wholesome, so easy of cultivation, or one that would add so much to the sanitary condition of the community, particularly of that class who live much upon salt provisions." the species and varieties are as follow:-- alpine sorrel. oseille des neiges. _vil._ rumex nivalis. a new, perennial species, found upon the alps, near the line of perpetual snow. the root-leaves are somewhat heart-shaped, thick, and fleshy; stem simple, with verticillate branches; flower dioecious. it is one of the earliest as well as the hardiest of the species, propagates more readily than alpine plants in general, and is said to compare favorably in quality with the mountain sorrel or patience dock. common sorrel. r. acetosa. this is a hardy perennial, and, when fully grown, is about two feet in height. the flowers--which are small, very numerous, and of a reddish color--are dioecious, the fertile and barren blossoms being produced on separate plants; the seeds are small, triangular, smooth, of a brownish color, and retain their germinative properties two years. an ounce contains nearly thirty thousand seeds. of the common sorrel, there are five varieties, as follow:-- belleville sorrel. broad-leaved. oseille large de belleville. _vil._ leaves ten or twelve inches long by six inches in diameter; leaf-stems red at the base. compared with the common garden sorrel, the leaves are larger and less acid. the variety is considered much superior to the last-named sort, and is the kind usually grown by market-gardeners in the vicinity of paris. it should be planted in rows eighteen inches apart, and the plants thinned to a foot apart in the rows. blistered-leaf sorrel. _trans._ radical leaves nine inches long, four inches wide, oval-hastate or halberd-shaped, growing on long footstalks. the upper leaves are more blistered than those attached to the root; the flower-stems are short. the principal difference between this variety and the common, or broad-leaved, consists in its blistered foliage. it is slow in the development of its flower-stem, and consequently remains longer in season for use. the leaves are only slightly acid in comparison with those of the common sorrel. it is a perennial, and must be increased by a division of its roots; for being only a variety, and not permanently established, seedlings from it frequently return to the belleville, from whence it sprung. fervent's new large sorrel. oseille de fervent. _vil._ an excellent sort, with large, yellowish-green, blistered leaves and red leaf-stems. it is comparatively hardy, puts forth its leaves early, and produces abundantly. the rows should be eighteen inches apart. green or common garden sorrel. root-leaves large, halberd-shaped, and supported on stems six inches in length. the upper leaves are small, narrow, sessile, and clasping. a hardy sort; but, on account of its greater acidity, not so highly esteemed as the belleville. sow in rows fifteen inches apart, and thin to eight or ten inches in the rows. sarcelle blond sorrel. blond de sarcelle. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the belleville, with longer and narrower leaves and paler leaf-stems. it puts forth its leaves earlier in the season than the common sorrel, and is of excellent quality. the seed rarely produces the variety in its purity, and it is generally propagated by dividing the roots. round-leaved on french sorrel. _thomp._ roman sorrel. oseille rond. _vil._ r. scutatus. this is a hardy perennial, a native of france and switzerland. its stem is trailing, and from twelve to eighteen inches in height or length; the leaves vary in form, but are usually roundish-heart-shaped or halberd-shaped, smooth, glaucous, and entire on the borders; the flowers are hermaphrodite, yellowish; the leaves are more acid than those of the varieties of the preceding species, and for this reason are preferred by many. the variety is hardy and productive, but not much cultivated. it requires eighteen inches' space between the rows, and a foot in the rows. there is but one variety. mountain sorrel. oseille verge. _vil._ r. montanus. the leaves of this variety are large, oblong, of thin texture, and of a pale-green color; the root-leaves are numerous, about nine inches long and four inches wide, slightly blistered. it is later than the common garden sorrel in running to flower; and is generally propagated by dividing the roots, but may also be raised from seeds. the leaves are remarkable for their acidity. this is the _rumex montanus_ of modern botanists, though formerly considered as a variety of _r. acetosa_. blistered-leaved mountain sorrel. this variety is distinguished from the green mountain sorrel by its larger, more blistered, and thinner leaves. the leaf-stems are also longer, and, as well as the nerves and the under surface of the leaf, finely spotted with red. it starts early in spring, and is slow in running up to flower. green mountain sorrel. this is an improved variety of the mountain sorrel, and preferable to any other, from the greater size and abundance of its leaves, which possess much acidity. it is also late in running to flower. the leaves are large, numerous, ovate-sagittate, from ten to eleven inches long, and nearly five inches in width; the radical leaves are slightly blistered, and of a dark, shining green color. it can only be propagated by dividing the roots. the plants require a space of eighteen inches between the rows, and a foot from plant to plant in the rows. * * * * * spinach. spinacia oleracea. spinach is a hardy annual, of asiatic origin. when in flower, the plant is from two to three feet in height; the stem is erect, furrowed, hollow, and branching; the leaves are smooth, succulent, and oval-oblong or halberd-shaped,--the form varying in the different varieties. the fertile and barren flowers are produced on separate plants,--the former in groups, close to the stalk at every joint; the latter in long, terminal bunches, or clusters. the seeds vary in a remarkable degree in their form and general appearance; those of some of the kinds being round and smooth, while others are angular and prickly: they retain their vitality five years. an ounce contains nearly twenty-four hundred of the prickly seeds, and about twenty-seven hundred of the round or smooth. _soil and cultivation._--spinach is best developed, and most tender and succulent, when grown in rich soil. for the winter sorts, the soil can hardly be made too rich. it is always raised from seeds, which are sown in drills twelve or fourteen inches apart, and three-fourths of an inch in depth. the seeds are sometimes sown broadcast; but the drill method is preferable, not only because the crop can be cultivated with greater facility, but the produce is more conveniently gathered. for a succession, a few seeds of the summer varieties may be sown, at intervals of a fortnight, from april till august. _taking the crop._--"when the leaves are two or three inches broad, they will be fit for gathering. this is done either by cutting them up with a knife wholly to the bottom, drawing and clearing them out by the root, or only cropping the large outer leaves; the root and heart remaining to shoot out again. either method can be adopted, according to the season or other circumstances."--_rogers._ _to raise seed._--spinach seeds abundantly; and a few of the fertile plants, with one or two of the infertile, will yield all that will be required for a garden of ordinary size. seeds of the winter sorts should be saved from autumn sowings, and from plants that have survived the winter. _use._--the leaves and young stems are the only parts of the plant used. they are often boiled and served alone; and sometimes, with the addition of sorrel-leaves, are used in soups, and eaten with almost every description of meat. "the expressed juice is often employed by cooks and confectioners for giving a green color to made dishes. when eaten freely, it is mildly laxative, diuretic, and cooling. of itself, it affords little nourishment. it should be boiled without the addition of water, beyond what hangs to the leaves in rinsing them; and, when cooked, the moisture which naturally comes from the leaves should be pressed out before being sent to the table. the young leaves were at one period used as a salad."--_m'int._ _varieties._-- flanders spinach. _trans._ this is a winter spinach, and is considered superior to the prickly or common winter spinach, which is in general cultivation during the winter season in our gardens. it is equally hardy, perhaps hardier. the leaves are doubly hastate or halberd shaped, and somewhat wrinkled: the lower ones measure from twelve to fourteen inches in length, and from six to eight in breadth. they are not only larger, but thicker and more succulent, than those of the prickly spinach. the whole plant grows more bushy, and produces a greater number of leaves from each root; and it is sometimes later in running to seed. the seeds are like those of the round or summer spinach, but larger: they are destitute of the prickles which distinguish the seeds of the common winter spinach. for winter use, sow at the time directed for sowing the large prickly-seeded, but allow more space between the rows than for that variety; subsequent culture, and treatment during the winter, the same as the prickly-seeded. large prickly-seeded spinach. large winter spinach. epinard d'angleterre. _vil._ leaves comparatively large, rounded at the ends, thick and succulent. in foliage and general character, it is similar to some of the round-seeded varieties; but is much hardier, and slower in running to seed. it is commonly known as "winter spinach," and principally cultivated for use during this portion of the year. the seeds are planted towards the last of august, in drills a foot apart, and nearly an inch in depth. when well up, the plants should be thinned to four or five inches apart in the drills; and, if the weather is favorable, they will be stocky and vigorous at the approach of severe weather. before the closing-up of the ground, lay strips of joist or other like material between the rows, cover all over with clean straw, and keep the bed thus protected until the approach of spring or the crop has been gathered for use. lettuce-leaved spinach. epinard à feuille de laitue. _vil._ epinard gaudry. leaves very large, on short stems, rounded, deep-green, with a bluish tinge, less erect than those of the other varieties, often blistered on the surface, and of thick substance. it is neither so early nor so hardy as some others; but it is slow in the development of its flower-stalk, and there are few kinds more productive or of better quality. the seeds are round and smooth. for a succession, a sowing should be made at intervals of two weeks. "a variety called 'gaudry,' if not identical, is very similar to this." sorrel-leaved spinach. leaves of medium size, halberd-formed, deep-green, thick, and fleshy. a hardy and productive sort, similar to the yellow or white sorrel-leaved, but differing in the deeper color of its stalks and leaves. summer or round-leaved spinach. round dutch. epinard de hollande. _vil._ leaves large, thick, and fleshy, rounded at the ends, and entire, or nearly entire, on the borders. this variety is generally grown for summer use; but it soon runs to seed, particularly in warm and dry weather. where a constant supply is required, a sowing should be made every fortnight, commencing as early in spring as the frost leaves the ground. the seeds are round and smooth. plants from the first sowing will be ready for use the last of may or early in june. in belgium and germany, a sub-variety is cultivated, with smaller and deeper-colored foliage, and which is slower in running to flower. it is not, however, considered preferable to the common summer or round-leaved. winter or common prickly spinach. epinard ordinaire. _vil._ leaves seven or eight inches long, halberd-shaped, deep-green, thin in texture, and nearly erect on the stalk of the plant; seeds prickly. from this variety most of the improved kinds of prickly spinach have been obtained; and the common winter or prickly-seeded is now considered scarcely worthy of cultivation. yellow sorrel-leaved spinach. white sorrel-leaved spinach. blond à feuille d'oseille. _vil._ the leaves of this variety are similar in form and appearance to those of the garden sorrel. they are of medium size, entire on the border, yellowish-white at the base, greener at the tips, and blistered on the surface. new. represented as being hardy, productive, slow in the development of its flower-stalk, and of good quality. * * * * * wild or perennial spinach. good king henry. tota bona. goose-foot. blitum bonus henricus. a hardy perennial plant, indigenous to great britain, and naturalized to a very limited extent in this country. its stem is two feet and a half in height; the leaves are arrow-shaped, smooth, deep-green, undulated on the borders, and mealy on their under surface; the flowers are numerous, small, greenish, and produced in compact groups, or clusters; the seeds are small, black, and kidney-shaped. _propagation and culture._--"it may be propagated by seed sown in april or may, and transplanted, when the plants are fit to handle, into a nursery-bed. in august or september, they should be again transplanted where they are to remain, setting them in rows a foot apart, and ten inches asunder in the rows, in ground of a loamy nature, trenched to the depth of fifteen or eighteen inches, as their roots penetrate to a considerable depth. the following spring, the leaves are fit to gather for use; and should be picked as they advance, taking the largest first. in this way, a bed will continue productive for several years. "being a hardy perennial, it may also be increased by dividing the plant into pieces, each having a portion of the root and a small bit of the crown, which is thickly set with buds, which spring freely on being replanted. "most of the species of this genus, both indigenous and exotic, are plants of easy cultivation, and may be safely used as articles of food."--_m'int._ _use._--the same as spinach. chapter vii. salad plants. alexanders. brook-lime. buckshorn plantain. burnet. caterpillar. celery. celeriac, or turnip-rooted celery. chervil. chiccory, or succory. corchorus. corn salad. cress, or peppergrass. cuckoo flower. dandelion. endive. horse-radish. lettuce. madras radish. mallow, curled-leaf. mustard. nasturtium. garden picridium. purslain. rape. roquette, or rocket. samphire. scurvy-grass. snails. sweet-scented chervil, or sweet cicely. tarragon. valeriana. water-cress. winter-cress, or yellow rocket. wood-sorrel. worms. * * * * * alexanders. alisanders. smyrnium olusatrum. a hardy, biennial plant, with foliage somewhat resembling that of celery. stem three to four feet high, much branched; radical leaves pale-green, compound,--those of the stem similar in form, but of smaller size. the branches of the plant terminate in large umbels, or spherical bunches of yellowish flowers; which are succeeded by roundish fruits, each of which contains two crescent-shaped seeds. _sowing and culture._--it thrives best in light, deep loam; and is raised from seed sown annually. make the drills two and a half or three feet apart, and cover the seeds an inch deep. when the plants are two or three inches high, thin to twelve inches apart; or sow a few seeds in a nursery-bed, and transplant. _blanching._--when the plants are well advanced, they should be gradually earthed up about the stems in the process of cultivation, in the manner of blanching celery or cardoons; like which, they are also gathered for use, and preserved during winter. _to raise seed._--leave a few plants unblanched; protect with stable-litter, or other convenient material, during winter; and they will flower, and produce an abundance of seeds, the following summer. _use._--it was formerly much cultivated for its leaf-stalks; which, after being blanched, were used as a pot-herb and for salad. they have a pleasant, aromatic taste and odor; but the plant is now rarely grown, celery being almost universally preferred. perfoliate alexanders. smyrnium perfoliatum. a hardy, biennial species, from italy; stem three feet in height, grooved or furrowed, hollow; leaves many times divided, and of a yellowish-green color; flowers, in terminal bunches, yellowish-white; seeds black, of the form of those of the common species, but smaller. it is considered superior to the last named, as it not only blanches better, but is more crisp and tender, and not so harsh-flavored. * * * * * brook-lime. american brook-lime. marsh speedwell. veronica beccabunga. brook-lime is a native of this country, but is also common to great britain. it is a hardy perennial, and grows naturally in ditches, and streams of water, but is rarely cultivated. the stem is from ten to fifteen inches in height, thick, smooth, and succulent, and sends out roots at the joints, by which the plant spreads and is propagated; the leaves are opposite, oval, smooth, and fleshy; the flowers are produced in long bunches, are of a fine blue color, and stand upon short stems,--they are more or less abundant during most of the summer, and are followed by heart-shaped seed-vessels, containing small, roundish seeds. _cultivation._--it may be propagated by dividing the roots, and setting the plants in wet localities, according to their natural habit. it will thrive well when grown with water-cress. _use._--the whole plant is used as a salad, in the same manner and for the same purposes as water-cress. it is considered an excellent anti-scorbutic. * * * * * buckshorn plantain. star of the earth. plantago coronopus. a hardy annual, indigenous to great britain, france, and other countries of europe. the root-leaves are put forth horizontally, and spread regularly about a common centre somewhat in the form of a rosette; the flower-stem is leafless, branching, and from eight to ten inches high; flowers yellow; the seeds are quite small, of a clear, brown color, and retain their power of germination three years,--nearly two hundred and thirty thousand are contained in an ounce. _soil and cultivation._--it succeeds best in a soil comparatively light; and the seed should be sown in april. sow thinly, broadcast, or in shallow drills eight inches apart. when the plants are about an inch high, thin them to three or four inches apart. _use._--the plant is cultivated for its leaves, which are used as a salad. they should be plucked while still young and tender, or when about half grown. * * * * * burnet. _mill._ poterium sanguisorba. burnet is a hardy, perennial plant, indigenous to england, where it is found on dry, upland, chalky soils. when fully developed, it is from a foot and a half to two feet in height. the leaves proceeding directly from the root are produced on long stems, and are composed of from eleven to fifteen smaller leaves, which are of an oval form, regularly toothed, and generally, but not uniformly, smooth. the branches, which are somewhat numerous, terminate in long, slender stems, each of which produces an oval or roundish bunch of purplish-red, fertile and infertile flowers. the fertile flowers produce two seeds each, which ripen in august or september. these are oblong, four-sided, of a yellowish color, and retain their vitality two years. thirty-five hundred are contained in an ounce. _sowing and culture._--the plant is easily propagated by seeds, which may be sown either in autumn or spring. sow in drills ten inches apart, half or three-fourths of an inch deep; and thin, while the plants are young, to six or eight inches in the row. if the seeds are allowed to scatter from the plants in autumn, young seedlings will come up plentifully in the following spring, and may be transplanted to the distances before directed. in dry soil, the plants will continue for many years; requiring no further care than to be occasionally hoed, and kept free from weeds. it may also be propagated by dividing the roots; but, as it is easily grown from seeds, this method is not generally practised. _use._--the leaves have a warm, piquant taste, and, when bruised, resemble cucumbers in odor. they are sometimes used as salad, and occasionally form an ingredient in soups. the roots, after being dried and pulverized, are employed in cases of internal hemorrhage. it is very little used in this country, and rarely seen in gardens. _varieties._--there are three varieties; the distinctions, however, being neither permanent nor important. hairy-leaved burnet. leaves and stems comparatively rough or hairy; in other respects, similar to the smooth-leaved. either of the varieties may be propagated by dividing the roots. large-seeded burnet. this, like the others, is a sub-variety, and probably but a seminal variation. smooth-leaved burnet. leaves and stems of the plant comparatively smooth, but differing in no other particular from the hairy-leaved. seeds from this variety would probably produce plants answering to both descriptions. * * * * * caterpillar. chenille, of the french. _vil._ scorpiurus. all of the species here described are hardy, annual plants, with creeping or recumbent stems, usually about two feet in length. the leaves are oblong, entire on the borders, broadest near the ends, and taper towards the stem; the flowers are yellow, and quite small; the seeds are produced in caterpillar-like pods, and retain their vitality five years. _cultivation._--the seeds may be planted in the open ground in april or may; or the plants may be started in a hot-bed, and set out after settled warm weather. the rows should be fifteen inches apart, and the plants twelve or fifteen inches apart in the rows; or the plants may be grown in hills two feet and a half apart, and two or three plants allowed to a hill. _use._--no part of the plant is eatable; but the pods, in their green state, are placed upon dishes of salads, where they so nearly resemble certain species of caterpillars as to completely deceive the uninitiated or inexperienced. _species._--the species cultivated are the following; viz.:-- common caterpillar. chenille grosse. _vil._ scorpiurus vermiculata. pod, or fruit, comparatively large. the interior grooves, or furrows, are indistinct, or quite wanting: the exterior grooves are ten in number, and well defined. along the summit of these furrows are produced numerous, small, pedicelled tubercles, quite similar to those of some species of worms or caterpillars; and these small tufts, in connection with the brownish-green color and peculiar coiling of the pods, make the resemblance nearly perfect, especially if seen from a short distance. the seeds are large, oblong, flattened at the ends, and of a yellowish color. a well-developed fruit will measure about three-eighths of an inch in diameter; and, when uncoiled, nearly an inch and a half in length. furrowed caterpillar. chenille rayée. _vil._ scorpiurus sulcata. fruit rather slender, furrowed, grayish-green within the furrows, and brown along the summits. four of the exterior furrows are surmounted with numerous small, obtuse, or rounded tubercles; and the pods are coiled in the manner peculiar to the class. the seeds resemble those of the prickly caterpillar, but are of larger size. prickly caterpillar. _vil._ small caterpillar. scorpiurus muricata. pod, or fruit, a fourth of an inch in diameter, curved or coiled; longitudinally furrowed, with numerous, small, erect, tufted points, regularly arranged along the surface. it is of a brownish-red color, with shades of green; and, when well grown, bears a remarkable resemblance to some species of hairy worms or caterpillars. the seeds are large, long, wrinkled, and of a yellowish color. villous or hairy caterpillar. chenille velue. _vil._ scorpiurus subvillosa. this species resembles the prickly caterpillar, but is a little larger. the most marked distinction, however, is in the small points, or tubercles, placed along the longitudinal ridges, which in this species are recurved, or bent at the tips. the seeds are larger than those of the foregoing species. * * * * * celery. smallage. apium graveolens. celery, or smallage, is a hardy, umbelliferous, biennial plant, growing naturally "by the sides of ditches and near the sea, where it rises with wedge-shaped leaves and a furrowed stalk, producing greenish flowers in august." under cultivation, the leaves are pinnatifid, with triangular leaflets; the leaf-stems are large, rounded, grooved, succulent, and solid or hollow according to the variety. the plant flowers during the second year, and then measures from two to three feet in height; the flowers are small, yellowish-white, and are produced in umbels, or flat, spreading groups, at the extremities of the branches; the seeds are small, somewhat triangular, of a yellowish-brown color, aromatic when bruised, and of a warm, pleasant flavor. they are said to retain their germinative powers ten years; but, by seedsmen, are not considered reliable when more than five years old. an ounce contains nearly seventy thousand seeds. _soil._--any good garden soil, in a fair state of cultivation, is adapted to the growth of celery. _propagation._--it is always propagated by seed; one-fourth of an ounce of which is sufficient for a seed-bed five feet wide and ten feet long. the first sowing is usually made in a hot-bed in march: and it may be sown in the open ground in april or may; but, when so treated, vegetates slowly, often remaining in the earth several weeks before it comes up. "a bushel or two of stable manure, put in a hole in the ground against a wall or any fence facing the south, and covered with a rich, fine mould three or four inches deep, will bring the seed up in two weeks." if this method is practised, sprinkle the seed thinly over the surface of the loam, stir the soil to the depth of half an inch, and press the earth flat and smooth with the back of a spade. sufficient plants for any family may be started in a large flower-pot or two, placed in the sitting-room, giving them plenty of light and moisture. _cultivation._--as soon as the young plants are about three inches high, prepare a small bed in the open air, and make the ground rich and the earth fine. here set out the plants for a temporary growth, placing them four inches apart. this should be done carefully; and they should be gently watered once, and protected for a day or two against the sun. "a bed ten feet long and four feet wide will contain three hundred and sixty plants; and, if they be well cultivated, will more than supply the table of a common-sized family from october to may." "in this bed the plants should remain till the beginning or middle of july, when they should be removed into trenches. make the trenches a foot or fifteen inches deep and a foot wide, and not less than five feet apart. lay the earth taken out of the trenches into the middle of the space between the trenches, so that it may not be washed into them by heavy rains; for it will, in such case, materially injure the crop by covering the hearts of the plants. at the bottom of the trench put some good, rich, but well-digested compost manure; for, if too fresh, the celery will be rank and pipy, or hollow, and will not keep nearly so long or so well. dig this manure in, and make the earth fine and light; then take up the plants from the temporary bed, and set them out carefully in the bottom of the trenches, six or eight inches apart."--_corb._ it is the practice of some cultivators, at the time of setting in the trenches, to remove all the suckers, to shorten the long roots, and to cut the leaves off, so that the whole plant shall be about six inches in length. but the best growers in england have abandoned this method, and now set the plants, roots and tops, entire. _blanching._--"when the plants begin to grow (which they will quickly do), hoe on each side and between them with a small hoe. as they grow up, earth their stems; that is, put the earth up against them, but not too much at a time, and always when the plants are dry; and let the earth put up be finely broken, and not at all cloddy. while this is being done, keep the stalks of the outside leaves close up, to prevent the earth getting between the stems of the outside leaves and inner ones; for, if it gets there, it checks the plant, and makes the celery bad. when the earthing is commenced, take first the edges of the trenches, working backwards, time after time, till the earth is reached that was taken from the trenches; and, by this time, the earth against the plants will be above the level of the land. then take the earth out of the middle, till at last the earth against the plants forms a ridge; and the middle of each interval, a sort of gutter. earth up very often, not putting up much at a time, every week a little; and by the last of september, or beginning of october, it will be blanched sufficient for use."--_corb._ another (more recent) method of cultivation and blanching is to take the plants from the temporary bed, remove the suckers, and set them with the roots entire, ten inches apart in the trenches. they are then allowed to grow until they have attained nearly their full size, when the earth for blanching is more rapidly applied than in the previous method. "many plant on the surface,--that is, marking out the size of the bed on ground that has been previously trenched; digging in at least six or eight inches of rich, half-decayed manure, and planting either in single lines four feet apart, or making beds six feet broad, and planting across them, setting the rows fourteen inches apart, and the plants eight inches apart in the lines. they may be earthed up as they advance, or not, until they have attained the height of a foot."--_m'int._ m'intosh gives the following method, practised by the edinburgh market-gardeners: "trenches, six feet wide and one foot deep, are dug out; the bottom is loosened and well enriched, and the plants set in rows across the bed, fourteen inches asunder, and the plants nine inches apart in the rows. by this means, space is economized, and the plants attain a fair average size and quality. the same plan is very often followed in private gardens; and, where the new and improved sorts are grown, they arrive at the size most available for family use. this is one of the best methods for amateurs to grow this crop. they should grow their plants in the temporary or nursery beds until they are ten inches or a foot high, before planting in the trenches; giving plenty of water, and afterwards earthing up once a fortnight." some allow the plants to make a natural growth, and earth up at once, about three weeks before being required for use. when so treated, the stalks are of remarkable whiteness, crisp, tender, and less liable to russet-brown spots than when the plants are blanched by the more common method. _taking the crop._--before the closing-up of the ground, the principal part of the crop should be carefully taken up (retaining the roots and soil naturally adhering), and removed to the cellar; where they should be packed in moderately moist earth or sand, without covering the ends of the leaves. a portion may be allowed to remain in the open ground; but the hearts of the plants must be protected from wet weather. this may be done by placing boards lengthwise, in the form of a roof, over the ridges. as soon as the frost leaves the ground in spring, or at any time during the winter when the weather will admit, celery may be taken for use directly from the garden. _seed._--two or three plants will produce an abundance. they should be grown two feet apart, and may remain in the open ground during the winter. the seeds ripen in august. _use._--the stems of the leaves are the parts of the plant used. these, after being blanched, are exceedingly crisp and tender, with an agreeable and peculiarly aromatic flavor. they are sometimes employed in soups; but are more generally served crude, with the addition of oil, mustard, and vinegar, or with salt only. the seeds have the taste and odor of the stems of the leaves, and are often used in their stead for flavoring soups. with perhaps the exception of lettuce, celery is more generally used in this country than any other salad plant. it succeeds well throughout the northern and middle states; and, in the vicinity of some of our large cities, is produced of remarkable size and excellence. _varieties._-- boston-market celery. a medium-sized, white variety; hardy, crisp, succulent, and mild flavored. compared with the white solid, the stalks are more numerous, shorter, not so thick, and much finer in texture. it blanches quickly, and is recommended for its hardiness and crispness; the stalks rarely becoming stringy or fibrous, even at an advanced stage of growth. much grown by market-gardeners in the vicinity of boston, mass. cole's superb red. _m'int._ this is comparatively a new sort, of much excellence, and of remarkable solidity. it is not of large size, but well adapted for cultivation in the kitchen-garden and for family use; not so well suited for marketing or for exhibition purposes. it has the valuable property of not piping or becoming hollow or stringy, and remains long without running to seed. the leaf-stalks are of a fine purple color, tender, crisp, and fine flavored. a well-grown plant will weigh about six pounds. cole's superb white. much like cole's superb red; differing little, except in color. an excellent sort, hardy, runs late to seed, and is one of the most crisp and tender of the white sorts. stalks short and thick. dwarf curled white. céleri nain frisé. _vil._ leaves dark-green, curled, resembling those of parsley, and, like it, might be employed for garnishing. leaf-stalks rounded and grooved, comparatively crisp and solid, but not fine flavored. it is quite hardy, and, in moderate winters, will remain in the open ground without injury, and serve for soups in spring. its fine, curled foliage, however, is its greatest recommendation. early dwarf solid white. _thomp._ céleri plein, blanc, court, hâtif. _vil._ rather dwarf, but thick-stemmed. the heart is remarkably full; the leaf-stalk solid, blanching promptly. there is, in fact, much more finely blanched substance in a plant of this variety than in one of the tall sorts, and the quality is excellent. it comes into use rather early, and is one of the hardiest of the white varieties. italian celery. _thomp._ large upright. giant patagonian. a tall, strong-growing, erect sort; leaf-stems deeply furrowed, sometimes a little hollow; leaves large, deep-green, with coarse, obtuse serratures. it is not so crisp as the common white solid; and is suitable only for soups, or where very tall celery is desirable. laing's improved mammoth red celery. this is considered the largest variety yet produced; specimens having attained, in england, the extraordinary weight of eight or ten pounds, and at the same time perfectly solid. it is nearly perennial in its habit, as it will not run to seed the first year; and is with difficulty started to blossom even during the second, when planted out for the purpose. color bright-red; flavor unsurpassed, if equalled. manchester red celery. _thomp._ manchester red giant. this variety scarcely differs from the red solid. it has, however, a coarser habit, with a somewhat rounder stalk; and, this being the case, the heart is not so compact. it is grown largely for marketing, and is excellent for soups and stewing. nutt's champion white celery. _m'int._ originated with mr. nutt, of sheffield. it attains, under good management, in good soil, a large size, and, this considered, is of excellent quality; very white, and not apt to run to seed. red solid. _thomp._ new large red. new large purple. tours purple. céleri violet de tours. the plant grows to a large size, full-hearted, with a thick stem. leaf-stalks thick, deeply furrowed, and very solid, of a dark-red or purplish hue where exposed, rose-colored where partially blanched; but the perfectly blanched portion is pure white, more so than the blanched part of the white varieties of celery. it is also crisp, of excellent flavor, and unquestionably the best variety of red celery. seymour's superb white. _thomp._ seymour's superb white solid. a large-sized, vigorous-growing variety; in good soils, often attaining a height of nearly three feet. the stalks are solid; flat at the base, where they overlap, and form a compact, crisp, and, with ordinary care, a well-blanched heart of excellent quality. it succeeds best, as most other sorts do, in rich, moist soil; and when so grown, and properly blanched, will yield a large proportion of celery, of a pure white color, and of the best quality. it is one of the best sorts for extensive culture for the markets, as it is also one of the best varieties for small gardens for family use. it blanches readily; and, with little care, will supply the table, from the last of september, through most of the winter. seymour's white champion. a variety represented as being superior to seymour's superb white. the stalks are broad, flat at the base, and form a compact, well-blanched, crisp heart. shepherd's red. _thomp._ shepherd's giant red. much like the manchester red, but has flatter stems: consequently, it is more compact, and blanches sooner and more perfectly, than that variety; to which, for these reasons, it is preferred by growers for competition. small dutch celery. céleri à couper. _vil._ leaf-stems small, hollow, crisp, and succulent; sprouts, or suckers, abundant. it is seldom blanched; but the leaves are sometimes used for flavoring soups. the seeds should be sown thickly, and on level beds. the plants often resprout after being cut. not much cultivated. sutton's white solid. _m'int._ a very large yet solid-growing variety, exceedingly white and crisp. turkey or prussian celery. giant white. céleri turc. _vil._ turkish giant solid. a remarkably large variety, resembling the common white solid. leaf-stalks long, large, erect, fleshy, and solid; leaves large, with rounded serratures, and of a glossy-green color. it is one of the largest of the white sorts, and is considered superior to the common white solid. wall's white celery. _thomp._ an improved variety of the italian, esteemed by growers for competition, where quantity, not quality, is the principal consideration. white lion's-paw celery. _m'int._ lion's-paw. a short, broad, flat-stalked variety, of excellent quality; crisp and white. its short, flat, spreading habit gave rise to its name. white solid. _thomp._ céleri plein, blanc. _vil._ fine white solid. this variety is of strong and rather tall growth; leaf-stalks generally solid, but when grown in rich, highly manured soil, they sometimes become slightly hollow; leaves large, smooth, bright-green; serratures large and obtuse. it blanches readily, is crisp, of excellent quality, and comes into use earlier than the red sorts. it is generally cultivated in the northern states, not only on account of its hardiness, but for its keeping qualities. as a market variety, it is one of the best. * * * * * celeriac, or turnip-rooted celery. this variety forms at the base of the leaves, near the surface of the ground, a brownish, irregular, rounded root, or tuber, measuring from three to four inches in diameter. the leaves are small, with slender, hollow stems. in favorable exposures and rich soil, the roots sometimes attain a weight of more than three pounds. it is much hardier than the common varieties of celery. _propagation._--it is propagated from seeds, which may be sown in the open ground in april or may, in shallow drills six or eight inches apart. "when the young plants are three inches high, they should be removed, and set on the surface (not in trenches), in moderately enriched soil. they should be set in rows eighteen inches apart, and a foot from each other in the line. at the time of transplanting, all of the small suckers, or side-shoots, should be rubbed off,--a precaution to be kept in view throughout its growth,--as the energies of the whole plant ought to be directed to the formation of the bulb-like root."--_m'int._ _subsequent cultivation._--the growing crop will require no peculiar treatment. when the bulbs are two-thirds grown, they are earthed over for the purpose of blanching, and to render the flesh crisp and tender. cool and humid seasons are the most favorable to their growth. in warm and dry weather, the bulbs are small, comparatively tough, and strong flavored. _taking the crop._--some of the bulbs will be ready for use in september; from which time, till the last of november, the table may be supplied directly from the garden. before severe weather, the quantity required for winter should be drawn, packed in damp earth or sand, and stored in the cellar. _to save seed._--give to a few plants, taken up in the autumn, as much light and air as possible during the winter, keeping them cool, but not allowing them to freeze; and, in april, set them in the open ground, eighteen inches apart. the seed will ripen the last of the season. it is often used in the manner of the seed of the common celery for seasoning soups. _use._--the root, or bulb, is the part of the plant eaten: the flesh of this is white, and comparatively tender, with the flavor of the stalks of common celery, though generally less mild and delicate. it is principally valued for its remarkable hardiness and for its keeping properties. where the common varieties of celery are grown or preserved with difficulty, this might be successfully grown, and afford a tolerable substitute. the bulbs are sometimes eaten boiled, and the leaves are occasionally used in soups. curled-leaved celeriac. curled-leaved turnip-rooted. céleri-rave frisé. _vil._ this is a variety of the common celeriac, or turnip-rooted celery; like which, it forms a sort of bulb, or knob, near the surface of the ground. it is, however, of smaller size; usually measuring about three inches in diameter. the skin is brown, and the flesh white and fine-grained; leaves small, spreading, curled. it is in no respect superior to the common turnip-rooted, and possesses little merit aside from the peculiarity of its foliage. cultivate, preserve during winter, and use as directed for the common variety. early erfurt celeriac. céleri-rave d'erfurt. _vil._ a very early variety. root, or bulb, not large, but regular in form. its earliness is its principal merit. chervil. chærophyllum cerefolium. common or plain-leaved. a hardy, annual plant, from the south of europe. stem eighteen inches to two feet in height; the leaves are many times divided, and are similar to those of the common plain parsley; the flowers are small, white, and produced in umbels at the extremities of the branches; the seeds are black, long, pointed, longitudinally grooved, and retain their vitality but two years,--nearly nine thousand are contained in an ounce. "this is the most common sort; but, except that it is hardier than the curled varieties, is not worthy of cultivation." curled chervil. _m'int._ a variety of the common chervil, with frilled or curled leaves; the distinction between the sorts being nearly the same as that between the plain-leaved and curled-leaved varieties of parsley. the foliage is delicately and beautifully frilled; and, on this account, is much employed for garnishing, as well as for the ordinary purposes for which the plain sort is used. being a larger grower, it requires more room for its development; and the plants should stand a foot apart each way. when intended for winter use, it should have the protection of hand-glasses, frames, or branches of trees placed thickly around or amongst it. in very unfavorable situations, it is well to pot a dozen or two plants, and shelter them under glass during the winter. frizzled-leaved or french chervil. _m'int._ double-curled. cerfeuil frisé. _vil._ an improved variety of the curled chervil,--even more beautiful; but wanting in hardiness. it succeeds best when grown in the summer months. _propagation and cultivation._--chervil is raised from seeds; and, where it is much used, sowings should be made, at intervals of three or four weeks, from april till july. the seeds should be sown thinly, in drills a foot apart, and covered nearly an inch in depth. _use._--it is cultivated for its leaves, which have a pleasant, aromatic taste; and, while young and tender, are employed for flavoring soups and salads. * * * * * chiccory, or succory. wild endive. cichorium intybus. a hardy, perennial plant, introduced into this country from europe, and often abounding as a troublesome weed in pastures, lawns, and mowing-lands. the stem is erect, stout, and branching, and, in its native state, usually about three feet in height,--under cultivation, however, it sometimes attains a height of five or six feet; the radical leaves are deep-green, lobed, and, when grown in good soil, measure ten or twelve inches in length, and four inches in width; the flowers are large, axillary, nearly stemless, of a fine blue color, and generally produced in pairs; the seeds somewhat resemble those of endive, though ordinarily smaller, more glossy, and of a deeper-brown color,--they will keep ten years. the plants continue in blossom from july to september; and the seeds ripen from august to october, or until the plants are destroyed by frost. _soil, sowing, and cultivation._--as the roots of chiccory are long and tapering, it should be cultivated in rich, mellow soil, thoroughly stirred, either by the plough or spade, to the depth of ten or twelve inches. the seed should be sown in april or may, in drills fifteen inches apart, and three-fourths of an inch deep. when the young plants are two or three inches high, thin them to eight inches apart in the rows; and, during the summer, cultivate frequently, to keep the soil light, and the growing crop free from weeds. _blanching._--before using as a salad, the plants are blanched, either by covering with boxes a foot in depth, or by strips of boards twelve or fourteen inches wide, nailed together at right angles, and placed lengthwise over the rows. they are sometimes blanched by covering with earth; the leaves being first gathered together, and tied loosely at the top, which should be left exposed to light. _to save seed._--in the autumn, leave a few of the best plants unblanched; let them be about eighteen inches asunder. protect with stable litter; or, if in a sheltered situation, leave them unprotected during winter, and they will yield abundantly the ensuing summer. _taking the crop._--when the leaves are properly blanched, they will be of a delicate, creamy white. when they are about a foot high, they will be ready for use; and, as soon as they are cut, the roots should be removed, and others brought forward to succeed them. "in cutting, take off the leaves with a thin slice of the crown, to keep them together, as in cutting sea-kale. when washed, and tied up in small bundles of a handful each, they are fit for dressing."--_m'int._ _use._--it is used as endive; its flavor and properties being much the same. though rarely grown in this country, it is common to the gardens of many parts of europe, and is much esteemed. the blanched leaves are known as _barbe de capucin_, or "friar's beard." _varieties._-- improved chiccory, or succory. chicorée sauvage améliorée. _vil._ leaves larger than those of the common chiccory, and produced more compactly; forming a sort of head, or solid heart, like some of the endives. the plant is sometimes boiled and served in the manner of spinach. variegated or spotted chiccory. _vil._ this is a variety of the preceding, distinguished by the color of the leaves, which are veined, and streaked with red. in blanching, the red is not changed, but retains its brilliancy; while the green becomes nearly pure white,--the two colors blending in rich contrast. in this state they form a beautiful, as well as tender and well-flavored, salad. improved variegated chiccory. _vil._ a sub-variety of the spotted chiccory, more constant in its character, and more uniform and distinct in its stripes and variegations. when blanched, it makes an exceedingly delicate and beautiful garnish, and a tender and excellent salad. either of the improved sorts are as hardy, and blanch as readily, as the common chiccory. large-rooted or coffee chiccory. turnip-rooted chiccory. this variety is distinguished by its long, fleshy roots, which are sometimes fusiform, but generally much branched or divided: when well grown, they are twelve or fourteen inches in length, and about an inch in their largest diameter. the leaves have the form of those of the common chiccory, but are larger, and more luxuriant. though the variety is generally cultivated for its roots, the leaves, when blanched, afford a salad even superior to some of the improved sorts before described. vilmorin mentions two sub-varieties of the large-rooted or coffee chiccory; viz.:-- brunswick large-rooted. roots shorter than those of the magdebourg, but of greater diameter; leaves spreading. magdebourg large-rooted. roots long, and comparatively large; leaves erect. after several years' trial, preference was given to this variety, which proved the more productive. _sowing and cultivation._--for raising coffee chiccory, the ground should first be well enriched, and then deeply and thoroughly stirred by spading or ploughing. the seeds should be sown in april or may, in shallow drills a foot apart, and the young plants thinned to three or four inches apart in the rows. hoe frequently; water, if the weather is dry; and in the autumn, when the roots have attained sufficient size, draw them for use. after being properly cleaned, cut them into small pieces, dry them thoroughly in a kiln or spent oven, and store for use or the market. after being roasted and ground, chiccory is mixed with coffee in various proportions, and thus forms a pleasant beverage; or, if used alone, will be found a tolerable substitute for genuine coffee. the roots of any of the before-described varieties may be used in the same manner; but as they are much smaller, and consequently less productive, are seldom cultivated for the purpose. it is an article of considerable commercial importance; large quantities being annually imported from the south of europe to different seaports of the united states. as the plant is perfectly hardy, of easy culture, and quite productive, there appears to be no reason why the home demand for the article may not be supplied by home production. of its perfect adaptedness to the soil and climate of almost any section of this country, there can scarcely be a doubt. * * * * * corchorus. corette potagère, of the french. corchorus olitorius. an annual plant from africa; also indigenous to the west indies. stem about two feet high, much branched; leaves deep-green, slightly toothed, varying in a remarkable degree in their size and form,--some being spear-shaped, others oval, and some nearly heart-shaped; leaf-stems long and slender; flowers nearly sessile, small, yellow, five-petaled; seeds angular, pointed, and of a greenish color,--fourteen thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality four years. _soil, propagation, and culture._--the plant requires a light, warm soil; and should have a sheltered, sunny place in the garden. it is grown from seed sown annually. the sowing may be made in march in a hot-bed, and the plants set in the open ground in may; or the seed may be sown the last of april, or first of may, in the place where the plants are to remain. the drills, or rows, should be fifteen inches apart, and the plants five or six inches apart in the rows. no further attention will be required, except the ordinary labor of keeping the soil loose and the plants clear from weeds. _use._--the leaves are eaten as a salad, and are also boiled and served at table in the form of greens or spinach. they may be cut as soon as they have reached a height of five or six inches. * * * * * corn salad. fetticus. lamb's lettuce. mâche, of the french. valeriana locusta. this is a small, hardy, annual plant, said to derive its name from its spontaneous growth, in fields of wheat, in england. it is also indigenous to france and the south of europe. when in flower, or fully grown, it is from twelve to fifteen inches in height. the flowers are small, pale-blue; the seeds are rather small, of a yellowish-brown color, unequally divided by two shallow, lengthwise grooves, and will keep six or eight years. _soil and culture._--it is always grown from seed, and flourishes best in good vegetable loam, but will grow in any tolerably enriched garden soil. early in april, prepare a bed four feet wide, and of a length according to the quantity of salad required; having regard to the fact, that it is better to sow only a small quantity at a time. rake the surface of the bed even, make the rows across the bed about eight inches apart, sow the seed rather thinly, and cover about one-fourth of an inch deep with fine, moist soil. if dry weather occurs after sowing, give the bed a good supply of water. when the young plants are two inches high, thin them to four inches apart, and cut or draw for use as soon as the leaves have attained a suitable size. as the peculiar value of corn salad lies in its remarkable hardiness, a sowing should be made the last of august or beginning of september, for use during the winter or early in spring; but, if the weather is severe, the plants must be protected by straw or some other convenient material. early in march, or as soon as the weather becomes a little mild, remove the covering, and the plants will keep the table supplied until the leaves from fresh sowings shall be grown sufficiently for cutting. _seed._--to raise seed, allow a few plants from the spring sowing to remain without cutting. they will grow up to the height and in the manner before described, and blossom, and ripen their seed during the summer. an ounce of seed will sow a row two hundred feet in length, and about five pounds will be required for an acre. _use._--the leaves, while young, are used as a salad; and in winter, or early in spring, are considered excellent. they are also sometimes boiled and served as spinach. _varieties._-- common corn salad. root-leaves rounded at the ends, smooth, three or four inches long by about an inch in width. the younger the plants are when used, the more agreeable will be their flavor. large round-leaved. leaves larger, of a deeper green, thicker, and more succulent, than those of the foregoing variety. it is the best sort for cultivation. the leaves are most tender, and should be cut for use while young and small. large-seeded round. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the large round, and is much cultivated in germany and holland. the leaves are longer, narrower, and thinner, and more tender when eaten; but the large round is preferred by gardeners for marketing, as it bears transportation better. the seeds are about twice as large. italian corn salad. _vil._ valerianella eriocarpa. the italian corn salad is a distinct species, and differs from the common corn salad in its foliage, and, to some extent, in its general habit. it is a hardy annual, about eighteen inches high. the radical leaves are pale-green, large, thick, and fleshy,--those of the stalk long, narrow, and pointed; the flowers are small, pale-blue, washed or stained with red; the seeds are of a light-brown color, somewhat compressed, convex on one side, hollowed on the opposite, and retain their vitality five years,--nearly twenty-two thousand are contained in an ounce. it is cultivated and used in the same manner as the species before described. it is, however, earlier, milder in flavor, and slower in running to seed. the leaves are sometimes employed early in spring as a substitute for spinach; but their downy or hairy character renders them less valuable for salad purposes than those of some of the varieties of the common corn salad. * * * * * cress, or peppergrass. lepidium sativum. the common cress of the garden is a hardy annual, and a native of persia. when in flower, the stem of the plant is smooth and branching, and about fifteen inches high. the leaves are variously divided, and are plain or curled, according to the variety; the flowers are white, very small, and produced in groups, or bunches; seeds small, oblong, rounded, of a reddish-brown color, and of a peculiar, pungent odor,--about fourteen thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their germinative properties five years. _soil and cultivation._--cress will flourish in any fair garden soil, and is always best when grown early or late in the season. the seed vegetates quickly, and the plants grow rapidly. as they are milder and more tender while young, the seed should be sown in succession, at intervals of about a fortnight; making the first sowing early in april. rake the surface of the ground fine and smooth, and sow the seed rather thickly, in shallow drills six or eight inches apart. half an ounce of seed will be sufficient for thirty feet of drill. _to raise seed._--leave a dozen strong plants of the first sowing uncut. they will ripen their seed in august, and yield a quantity sufficient for the supply of a garden of ordinary size. _use._--the leaves, while young, have a warm, pungent taste; and are eaten as a salad, either separately, or mixed with lettuce or other salad plants. the leaves should be cut or plucked before the plant has run to flower, as they then become acrid and unpalatable. the curled varieties are also used for garnishing. broad-leaved cress. a coarse variety, with broad, spatulate leaves. it is sometimes grown for feeding poultry, and is also used for soups; but it is less desirable as a salad than most of the other sorts. common or plain-leaved cress. this is the variety most generally cultivated. it has plain leaves, and consequently is not so desirable a sort for garnishing. as a salad kind, it is tender and delicate, and considered equal, if not superior, to the curled varieties. curled cress. garnishing cress. leaves larger than those of the common plain variety, of a fine green color, and frilled and curled on the borders in the manner of some kinds of parsley. it is used as a salad, and is also employed as a garnish. it is very liable to degenerate by becoming gradually less curled. to keep the variety pure, select only the finest curled plants for seed. golden cress. _trans._ this variety is of slower growth than the common cress. the leaves are of a yellowish-green, flat, oblong, scalloped on the borders, sometimes entire, and of a much thinner texture than any of the varieties of the common cress. it is very dwarf; and is consequently short, when cut as a salad-herb for use. it has a mild and delicate flavor. when run to flower, it does not exceed eighteen inches in height. it deserves more general cultivation, as affording a pleasant addition to the varieties of small salads. the seeds are of a paler color, or more yellow, than those of the other sorts. normandy curled cress. _m'int._ a very excellent variety, introduced by mr. charles m'intosh, and described as being hardier than the other kinds, and therefore better adapted for sowing early in spring or late in summer. the leaves are finely cut and curled, and make not only a good salad, but a beautiful garnish. the seed should be sown thinly, in good soil, in drills six inches apart. in gathering, instead of cutting the plants over, the leaves should be picked off singly. after this operation, fresh leaves are soon put forth. it is difficult to procure the seed true; the common curled being, in general, substituted for it. * * * * * cuckoo flower. small water-cress. cardamine pratensis. a hardy, perennial plant, introduced from europe, and naturalized to a limited extent in some of the northern states. stem about fifteen inches high, erect, smooth; leaves deeply divided,--the divisions of the radical or root leaves rounded, those of the stalk long, narrow, and pointed; the flowers are comparatively large, white, or rose-colored, and produced in erect, terminal clusters; the seeds are of a brown color, small, oblong, shortened on one side, rounded on the opposite, and retain their vegetating powers four years,--nearly thirty thousand are contained in an ounce. _soil._--it succeeds best in moist, loamy soil; and should have a shady situation. _propagation and cultivation._--it may be propagated from seeds, or by a division of the roots. the seeds are sown in april or may, in shallow drills a foot asunder. the roots may be divided in spring or autumn. _use._--the leaves have the warm, pungent taste common to the cress family; and are used in their young state, like cress, as a salad. medically, they have the reputation of being highly antiscorbutic and of aiding digestion. there are four varieties:-- _white flowering._--a variety with white, single flowers. _purple flowering._--flowers purple, single. either of these varieties may be propagated from seeds, or by a division of the roots. _double flowering white._--flowers white, double. _double flowering purple._--a double variety, with purple blossoms. these varieties are propagated by a division of the roots. double-flowering plants are rarely produced from seeds. * * * * * the dandelion. leontodon taraxacum. the dandelion, though spontaneously abundant, is not a native of this country. introduced from europe, it has become extensively naturalized, abounding in gardens, on lawns, about cultivated lands; and, in may and june, often, of itself alone, constituting no inconsiderable portion of the herbage of rich pastures and mowing-fields. it is a hardy, perennial plant, with an irregular, branching, brownish root. the leaves are all radical, long, runcinate, or deeply and sharply toothed; the flower-stem is from six to twelve inches and upwards in height, leafless, and produces at its top a large, yellow, solitary blossom; the seeds are small, oblong, of a brownish color, and will keep three years. _soil and cultivation._--although the dandelion will thrive in almost any description of soil, it nevertheless produces much the largest, most tender, and best-flavored leaves, as well as the greatest crop of root, when grown in mellow, well-enriched ground. before sowing, stir the soil, either by the spade or plough, deeply and thoroughly; smooth off the surface fine and even; and sow the seeds in drills half an inch deep, and twelve or fifteen inches apart. if cultivated for spring greens, or for blanching for salad, the seed must be sown in may or june. in july, thin out the young plants to two or three inches apart; cultivate during the season in the usual form of cultivating other garden productions; and, in april and may of the ensuing spring, the plants will be fit for the table. for very early use, select a portion of the bed equal to the supply required; and, in november, spread it rather thickly over with coarse stable-manure. about the beginning of february, remove the litter, and place boards or planks on four sides, of a square or parallelogram, in the manner of a common hot-bed, providing for a due inclination towards the south. over these put frames of glass, as usually provided for hot-beds; adding extra protection by covering with straw or other material in intensely cold weather. thus treated, the plants will be ready for cutting two or three weeks earlier than those in the open ground. when grown for its roots, the ground must be prepared in the manner before directed; and the seeds should be sown in october, in drills fourteen or fifteen inches asunder. in june following, thin out the young plants to two or three inches apart; keep the ground loose, and free from weeds, during the summer; and, in october, the roots will have attained their full size, and be ready for harvesting, which is usually performed with a common subsoil plough. after being drawn, they are washed entirely clean, sliced, and dried in the shade; when they are ready for the market. _use._--the dandelion resembles endive, and affords one of the earliest, as well as one of the best and most healthful, of spring greens. "the french use it bleached, as a salad; and if large, and well bleached, it is better than endive, much more tender, and of finer flavor." the roots, after being dried as before directed, constitute an article of considerable commercial importance; being extensively employed as a substitute for, or mixed in various proportions with, coffee. it may be grown for greens at trifling cost; and a bed twelve or fourteen feet square will afford a family an abundant supply. under cultivation, and even in its natural state, the leaves of different plants vary in a marked degree from each other, not only in size, and manner of growth, but also in form. judicious and careful cultivation would give a degree of permanency to these distinctions; and varieties might undoubtedly be produced, well adapted for the various purposes for which the plant is grown, whether for the roots, for blanching, or for greens. * * * * * endive. chicorium endivia. endive is a hardy annual, said to be a native of china and japan. when fully developed, it is from four to six feet in height. the leaves are smooth, and lobed and cut upon the borders more or less deeply, according to the variety; the flowers are usually of a blue color, and rest closely in the axils of the leaves; the seeds are small, long, angular, and of a grayish color; their germinative properties are retained for ten years; nearly twenty-five thousand are contained in an ounce. _soil._--all of the varieties thrive well in any good, mellow garden soil. where there is a choice of situations, select one in which the plants will be the least exposed to the effects of drought and heat. _propagation._--the plants can be raised only from seed. this may be sown where the plants are to remain; or it may be sown broadcast, or in close drills in a nursery-bed for transplanting. if sown where the plants are to remain, sow thinly in shallow drills a foot apart for the smaller, curled varieties, and fifteen inches for the larger, broad-leaved sorts. thin out the plants to a foot asunder as soon as they are large enough to handle, and keep the ground about them, as well as between the rows, loose, and free from weeds, by repeated hoeings. if required, the plants taken out in thinning may be reset in rows at the same distances apart. if sown in a nursery-bed, transplant when the young plants have eight or ten leaves; setting them at the distances before directed. this should be done at morning or evening; and the plants should afterwards be watered and shaded for a few days, until they are well established. the first sowing may be made as early in spring as the weather will permit; and a sowing may be made a month or six weeks after, for a succession: but as it is for use late in autumn, or during the winter and spring, that endive is most required, the later sowings are the most important. these are usually made towards the end of july. _blanching._--before using, the plants must be blanched; which is performed in various ways. the common method is as follows: when the root-leaves have nearly attained their full size, they are taken when entirely dry, gathered together into a conical form, or point, at the top, and tied together with matting, or any other soft, fibrous material; by which means, the large, outer leaves are made to blanch the more tender ones towards the heart of the plant. after being tied in this manner, the plants are sometimes blanched by earthing, as practised with celery or cardoons. this process is recommended for dry and warm seasons: but in cold, wet weather, they are liable to decay at the heart; and blanching-pots, or, in the absence of these, common flower-pots, inverted over the plants, will be found a safe and effectual means of rendering them white, crisp, and mild flavored. "some practise setting two narrow boards along each side of the row; bringing them together at the top in the form of a triangle, and afterwards drawing earth over them to keep them steady. some cover the dwarfish sorts with half-decayed leaves, dry tanner's bark, sand, coal-ashes, and even sawdust; but all of these methods are inferior to the blanch-pot or the tying-up process." _time required for blanching._--in summer weather, when vegetation is active, the plants will blanch in ten days; but in cool weather, when the plants have nearly attained their growth or are slowly developing, three weeks will be required to perfect the operation. _harvesting, and preservation during winter._--"before frost sets in, they must be tied up in a conical form, as before directed; and all dead or yellow leaves must be taken off. then take them up with a ball of soil to each, and put them into light earth in a cellar or some warm building. put only the roots into the earth. do not suffer the plants to touch each other; and pour a little water round the roots after they are placed in the earth. if they are perfectly dry when tied up, they will keep till spring."--_corb._ _seed._--two or three vigorous plants, left unblanched, will yield sufficient to supply a garden of ordinary size for years. half an ounce will sow a seed-bed of forty square feet. _use._--"the leaves are the parts used, and these only when blanched to diminish their natural bitterness of taste. it is one of the best autumn, winter, and spring salads."--_m'int._ _varieties._--the descriptions of many of the varieties have been prepared from an interesting paper read before the london horticultural society by mr. matthews, clerk of the society's garden. the different sorts are divided into two classes,--the "batavian" and the "curled-leaved." batavian endives. under the batavian endives are included all the varieties with broad leaves, generally rounded at the points, with the margin slightly ragged or torn, but not curled. these are called, by the french, _scarolles_. as most of the sorts require more room than the curled-leaved kinds, the rows should be about fourteen inches apart, and the plants thinned out from nine to twelve inches in the rows. broad-leaved batavian endive. common yellow endive, of the dutch. leaves yellowish-green, large, long and broad, thick and fleshy, the edges slightly ragged: when fully grown, they are about ten inches long, and an inch wide at the base; increasing regularly in width towards the end, and measuring five or six inches in diameter at the broadest part. the leaves of the centre of the plant are of the same form, but shorter, and much paler. the plants form but little heart of themselves; but the length of the outer leaves is such, that they tie up well for blanching. in quality, as well as in appearance, it is inferior to the curled sorts; and its flavor is not so mild and agreeable as that of some of the other kinds of batavian endives. curled batavian endive. _thomp._ the leaves of this variety are neither so large nor so broad as those of the broad-leaved batavian endive: they grow flat on the ground, and are curled at their edges. the whole appearance of the plant is very different from the common broad-leaved; approaching the curled endives, in general character. the heart, which forms of itself, is small, and lies close to the ground. the plants require twelve or fourteen inches' space between the rows, and eight or ten inches in the row. large batavian endive. scarolle grande, of the french. this differs from the small batavian endive in the size and shape of its leaves, which are broader and more rounded: they are a little darker, but yet pale. the inner ones are turned over like the small variety, though not so regularly; but form a large, well-blanched heart, of good flavor. this and the small batavian will blanch perfectly if a mat is laid over them, and do not require to be tied up. both the small and the large sorts are considered hardier than the curled varieties. lettuce-leaved or white batavian endive. scarolle blonde. _vil._ leaves broad and large, obtuse, ragged at the edges, of a paler color and thinner texture than either of the other batavian sorts; the exterior leaves are spreading, fourteen inches long, two inches wide at the base, and, growing regularly broader to the end, measure six or seven inches in diameter at the widest part; the central leaves are short, and the head is less compact than that of the common broad-leaved; the seeds are of a paler color than those of the green curled endive. to blanch it, the leaves must be tied up; and it should be grown for summer use, as it is comparatively tender, and will not endure severe weather. it is best if used while young; for, when fully developed, the leaves are not tender, and, if not well blanched, are liable to have a slightly bitter taste. sow in may or june, in rows fifteen inches apart, and thin to a foot in the rows; or transplant, giving the plants the same space. small batavian endive. scarolle courte, of the french. leaves whitish-green, broad, of moderate length, and slightly cut at the edges. the inner leaves are numerous, and turn over like a hood at the end; forming a larger head than any of the other kinds. it is one of the best of the endives, and a valuable addition to our winter salads. it blanches with little trouble; and is mild and sweet, without being bitter. curled endives. curled endives are those with narrow leaves, more or less divided, and much curled. they are usually full in the heart. the french call them, by way of distinction, _chicorées_. dutch green curled endive. this approaches the large green curled endive in appearance and growth; but the divisions of the leaves are deeper, the outer leaves are broader, not so much curled, and the inner ones more turned into the heart: the outer leaves are about ten inches long. it blanches well, and is hardy. green curled endive. small green curled endive. leaves six or seven inches long, finely cut, and beautifully curled; the outer leaves lying close to the ground, the inner ones thickly set, forming a compact heart. easily blanched, very hardy, and well adapted for winter use. the leaves are longer, and of a darker-green color, than those of the green curled summer endive, and will tie up much better for blanching. it is a fortnight later. sow in rows a foot or fourteen inches apart, and thin to six or eight inches in the row. it may be quickly blanched by simply covering the plant with a deep flower-pot saucer. in summer, while the plants are growing vigorously, the process will be completed in about a week: later in the season, two-weeks, or even more, may be necessary. green curled summer endive. leaves not quite so large as those of the green curled; finely and deeply cut: the outer ones are five or six inches long, and grow close to the ground; the inner are short, numerous, curled, and form a close, full heart. it is much the smallest of any of the kinds, and is somewhat tender. the outer leaves are so short, that they will not tie up; but blanch well by being covered simply with a flat garden-pan, as directed for the green curled. this variety is distinguished from the last named by its shorter, broader, deeper cut, and less curled leaves: the head is more solid at the centre, and is also much harder. the seeds should be sown early; for, if sown late, the plants are liable to be affected by dampness and wet weather, and to rot at the heart. cultivate in rows twelve or fourteen inches apart, and eight or ten inches apart in the rows. italian green curled endive. leaves from ten to twelve inches long, deep-green, narrow, and divided to the mid-rib. they grow erect, and the segments are much cut and curled. it is a well-marked variety; readily distinguished by the length of the leaf-stalks, and the pinnatifid character of the leaves. it blanches well, and is of good quality. large green curled endive. a sub-variety of the common green curled, of stronger growth, and larger hearted. the exterior leaves are ten or twelve inches long, looser and more erect than those of the last named: the inner ones are less numerous, and not so much divided. it is hardy, blanches quickly, and is not liable to decay at the heart. long italian green curled. leaves long, deeply divided, and more upright in their growth than those of the large green curled; the divisions of the leaves are large, and toothed, or cut, but are not curled; the heart-leaves are few and short. the variety is quite distinct; and, though not so neat and regular as some others, it is of excellent quality, and recommended for cultivation. picpus fine curled endive. _vil._ exterior leaves seven or eight inches long, deeply lobed; the lobes divided in the same manner as those of the common green curled. the inside leaves are finely cut, and much curled; and form a kind of head more compact than that of the green curled, but comparatively loose-hearted. it blanches well and quickly, and is a good variety; though neither its foliage nor its general habit presents any very distinctive peculiarities. ruffec curled. chicorée frisée de ruffec. _vil._ this variety attains a remarkable size, much exceeding that of the common green curled. the leaves sometimes measure nearly a foot and a half in length. quality tender and good. staghorn endive. early fine curled rouen. _vil._ a recently introduced variety. the leaves are deep-green, divided into numerous segments, not frilled or curled, but much cut or jagged at the points, the borders having a branched appearance; whence the name. the leaves gradually shorten towards the centre of the plant, are more finely cut, and become closer together; thus forming a moderately firm heart, or head; less compact, however, than that of the green curled summer endive. it is well adapted to humid climates, is hardier than the common green curled, and is preferred by market-gardeners for cultivation in autumn and winter. triple-curled moss endive. _m'int._ winter moss endive. chicorée mousse. _vil._ this is a sub-variety of the staghorn endive, and comparatively of recent introduction. it is a unique sort, exceedingly well curled; and, when the variety is genuine and the plant well developed, has an appearance not unlike a tuft of moss. it is liable to degenerate; and, though sometimes classed as a winter endive, is less hardy than many other sorts. it may be grown in rows a foot apart, six inches being allowed between the plants in the rows. white curled or ever-blanched endive. _vil._ leaves pale yellowish-green, nearly white when young, ten inches long, rather narrow, lobed, cut, and beautifully frilled, or curled, on the borders; the upper surface of the mid-ribs generally tinged with red. the leaves of the centre are not numerous, and much curled: resting upon those of the exterior, they form no head, but leave the heart loose and open. it is distinguished from all others by its color; both the leaves and the seeds being paler than those of any other sort. its principal recommendation is signified in the name; but it should be used while young, cut and served in the form of lettuce. it is then tender and of good quality; though the plants yield a small amount of salad, compared with many other sorts. when fully grown, the leaves become tough, and often bitter. as a variety for winter culture, it is of little value. * * * * * horse-radish. cochlearia armoracia. nasturtium armoracia. horse-radish is a hardy perennial, introduced from europe, growing naturally along old roads, and about gardens and waste places in long settled towns. the root is white within and without, long, nearly cylindrical, and from an inch to two inches and a half in diameter; stalk two feet or more in height, smooth and branching; the radical leaves are from fifteen to eighteen inches in length, oval-oblong, and toothed on the margin,--those of the stalk narrow, pointed, smooth, and shining; the flowers are white, and are put forth in june; the seed-pods are globular, but are very rarely formed, the flowers being usually abortive. there is but one variety. _propagation and culture._--"propagation is always effected by planting portions of the roots, which grow readily. the soil most conducive to it is a deep, rich, light sand, or alluvial deposit, free from stones or other obstructions; as, the longer, thicker, and straighter the roots are, the more they are valued. there is scarcely another culinary vegetable, of equal importance, in which cultivation is, in general, so greatly neglected as in this. it is often found planted in some obscure corner of the garden, where it may have existed for years; and is only visited when needed for the proprietor's table. the operation of hastily extracting a root or two is too often all that is thought of; and the crop is left to fight its way amongst weeds and litter as best it may."--_m'int._ a simple method of cultivation is as follows: trench the ground eighteen inches or two feet deep, and set the crowns or leading buds of old roots, cut off about three inches in length, in rows a foot apart, and nine inches from each other in the rows; cover six inches deep, and cultivate in the usual manner during the summer. the shoots will soon make their appearance, and the large leaves of the plant completely occupy the surface of the bed. after two seasons' growth, the roots will be fit for use. _taking the crop._--its season of use is from october till may; and, whenever the ground is open, the table may be supplied directly from the garden. for winter use, take up the requisite quantity of roots in november, pack them in moist sand or earth, and store in the cellar, or in any situation out of reach of frost. _use._--the root shredded or grated, with the addition of vinegar, is used as a condiment with meats and fish. it has an agreeable, pungent flavor; and, besides aiding digestion, possesses other important healthful properties. * * * * * lettuce. lactuca sativa. lettuce is said to be of asiatic origin. it is a hardy, annual plant, and, when fully developed, from two to three feet in height, with an erect, branching stem. the flowers are compound, yellow, usually about half an inch in diameter; the seeds are oval, flattened, and either white, brown, or black, according to the variety,--nearly thirty thousand are contained in an ounce, and their vitality is retained five years. _soil._--lettuce succeeds best in rich and comparatively moist soil; and is also best developed, and most crisp and tender, if grown in cool, moist weather. a poor soil, and a hot, dry exposure, may produce a small, tolerable lettuce early in spring, or late in autumn; but, if sown in such situations during the summer months, it will soon run to seed, and prove nearly, if not entirely, worthless for the table. the richer the soil may be, and the higher its state of cultivation, the larger and finer will be the heads produced; and the more rapidly the plants are grown, the more tender and brittle will be their quality. _propagation._--it is always grown from seeds, which are small and light; half an ounce being sufficient to sow a nursery-bed of nearly a hundred square feet. it is necessary that the ground should be well pulverized and made smooth before it is sown, and the seeds should not be covered more than a fourth of an inch deep. _cultivation._--some recommend sowing where the plants are to remain, in drills from ten to fifteen inches apart, and thinning the plants to nearly the same distance in the lines; adapting the spaces between the drills, as well as between the plants in the drills, to the habit and size of the variety in cultivation. others recommend sowing in a small nursery-bed, and transplanting. the process of transplanting unquestionably lessens the liability of the plants to run to seed, and produces the largest and finest heads. the first sowing in the open ground may be made as soon in march or april as the frost leaves the ground; and, if a continued supply is desired, a sowing should afterwards be made, at intervals of about four weeks, until september. "during spring, the young crops must be protected from frost, and in summer from drought by copious manure-waterings and frequent stirring of the ground between the plants. in the growing season, every stimulant should be applied; for much of the excellence of the crop depends on the quickness of its growth." _forcing._--lettuce is now served at table the year round; not, of course, of equal excellence at all seasons. sowings are consequently required for each month: those intended for the spring supply being made from december to february; about twelve weeks being required for its full development, when reared in the winter months. the seed is sown rather thinly, broadcast, in a hot-bed; and, when the plants have made two or three leaves, they are pricked out to three or four inches apart in another portion of the bed,--thus affording them more space for growth, and opportunity to acquire strength and hardiness. when two or three inches high, they are finally transplanted into yet another part of the bed, at distances corresponding with the size of the variety, varying from ten to fourteen inches in each direction. as the plants increase in size, the quantity of air should be increased; and water should be given, whenever the surface of the bed becomes dry. in severe cold or in cloudy weather, and almost always at night, straw matting (made thick and heavy for the purpose), woollen carpeting, or a similar substitute, should be extended over the glass, for the retention of heat. some practise transplanting directly from the nursery-bed to where the plants are to remain; but the finest lettuce is generally obtained by the treatment above described. "lettuces are sometimes required for cutting young, or when about two inches high. these are termed, by the french, _laitues à couper_. the small, early sorts (such as the hardy hammersmith and black-seeded gotte) are preferred for this purpose; but any sort that is green or pale-green, and not brown or otherwise colored, will do. they should be sown in the open ground about once a week, or every ten days, from april, throughout the season. in winter, they are best raised on heat. they should be sown rather thickly in drills six inches apart."--_thomp._ _to save seed._--"this should be done from plants raised from early sowings. the finest specimens should be selected; avoiding, however, those that show a disposition to run quickly to seed. those that heart readily, and yet are slow to run up, are to be preferred. care should be taken that no two different varieties be allowed to seed near each other, in order that the sorts may be kept true. the seed which ripens first on the plant is the best: therefore it should be secured, rather than wait for the general ripening. the branchlets which first ripen their seed should be cut of­f, and laid on a cloth in the sun; or, when the forward portion of the seed is as near maturity as will safely bear without shaking of­f, the plants should be carefully pulled up, and placed upright against a south wall, with a cloth under them to perfect their ripening. the seed should in no case be depended on without trial. plants from seeds two years old heart more readily than those from one-year-old seed."--_thomp._ _use._--"lettuce is well known as one of the best of all salad plants. it is eaten raw in french salads, with cream, oil, vinegar, salt, and hard-boiled eggs. it is also eaten by many with sugar and vinegar; and some prefer it with vinegar alone. it is excellent when stewed, and forms an important ingredient in most vegetable soups. it is eaten at almost all meals by the french; by the english after dinner, if not served as adjuncts to dishes during the repast; and by many even at supper. in lobster and chicken salads, it is indispensable; and some of the varieties furnish a beautiful garnish for either fish, flesh, or fowl. "in a raw state, lettuce is emollient, cooling, and in some degree laxative and aperient, easy of digestion, but containing no nourishment." _varieties._--these are exceedingly numerous. some are of english origin; many are french and german; but comparatively few are american. the number of kinds grown to any considerable extent in this country is quite limited. cultivators generally select such as appear to be best adapted to the soil and climate of their particular locality; and, by judicious management, endeavor to give vigor and hardiness to the plants, and to increase the size, compactness, and crispy quality of the head. some of the varieties have thus been brought to a remarkable degree of perfection; the plants producing heads with as much certainty, and nearly as well proportioned and solid, as those of the common cabbage. they are generally divided into two classes; viz., cabbage lettuces and cos lettuces. _cabbage lettuces._-- brown dutch. black-seeded. _vil._ head of medium size, rather long and loose; the leaves, which coil or roll back a little on the borders about the top of the head are yellowish-green, washed or stained with brownish-red,--the surplus leaves are large, round, waved, green, washed with bronze-red, and coarsely, but not prominently, blistered; diameter twelve to fourteen inches; weight about eight ounces. this lettuce cabbages readily, forms a good-sized head, is tender, of good quality, hardy, and tolerably early. it does not, however, retain its head well in dry and warm weather; and, as it is little affected by cold, seems best adapted to winter or very early culture. it resembles the yellow-seeded brown dutch, but is not so early, and the head is looser and larger. brown silesian or marseilles cabbage. _vil._ brown batavian. head green, tinted with brown, remarkably large,--not compactly, but regularly, formed; ribs and nerves of the leaves large and prominent; the leaves disconnected with the head are large, bronze-green, coarsely blistered, and frilled and curled on the margin. the diameter of a well-grown plant is about eighteen inches, and its weight twenty-eight ounces. the seeds are white. this lettuce, though somewhat hard, is brittle and mild flavored, but is better when cooked than when served in its crude state as a salad. it is a hardy, late sort; succeeds well in winter, and retains its head a long period; but is rarely employed for forcing, on account of its size,--one of the plants occupying, in a frame or hot-bed, the space of two plants of average dimensions. brown winter cabbage. _vil._ large brown winter. head of medium size, green, washed or stained with brownish-red, regularly formed, and moderately compact; the exterior leaves are round and short, much wrinkled, and coarsely blistered. when grown in winter or in cool weather, the plants measure fourteen inches in diameter, and weigh from fourteen to sixteen ounces. the seeds are white. hardy, and well adapted for winter culture. the heads are not so firm as those of some varieties; but they are well retained, blanch white and tender, and are of excellent flavor. early or summer cape. royal cape. head roundish, usually well formed, and moderately close and firm; the outer leaves are large, loose, golden-green, undulated, and coarsely blistered; the interior leaves are more finely blistered, and nearly of the same color as those of the outside; head, when divided, yellowish to the centre; the plants, when fully grown, measure nearly a foot in diameter, and weigh from six to ten ounces. the variety is not well adapted for forcing or for early culture in the open ground. as a summer lettuce, it is one of the best; enduring the heat well, and not running soon to seed. though not so crisp and brittle as some of the winter or spring grown varieties, it is comparatively well flavored and of good quality. it is similar to the summer or royal cabbage. early simpson. hâtive de simpson. _vil._ head large, pale-green, a little irregular in its form, and only of medium solidity; the outside leaves are large and broad, plaited, and much blistered; diameter fourteen or fifteen inches; weight twelve or fourteen ounces; seeds white. this lettuce is brittle, and of excellent flavor; but its head is not compactly formed. its season is near that of the versailles cabbage; but it runs quicker to seed. it is said to be an american variety, and is much grown in the vicinity of new york city for marketing. early white spring or black-seeded gotte. _trans._ a small spring cabbage lettuce, growing close to the ground. its heart is hard and firm, and measures about four inches in diameter when stripped of its outer leaves; color pale-green; the leaves are thin, nearly round, rugose, and waved on the margin. this lettuce comes early into use, and, besides, is of excellent flavor; but its chief merit is, that it remains longer than almost any other sort before running to seed, and even sometimes bursts before the flower-stem is formed. it is one of the smallest of the cabbage lettuces, and somewhat resembles the tennis-ball; from which, however, it differs in the leaves being more curled and of a lighter-green color, and by not running to seed so soon by three weeks or a month. the variety has black seeds; and this fact should be particularly attended to in obtaining it from seedsmen, as the white-seeded gotte lettuces run much sooner to flower. various other gotte lettuces are described by authors. "all are of great merit, but are little cultivated in the united states. where small, hard, compact, and delicate sorts are required, this class should be selected." endive-leaved. _vil._ laitue chicorée. this variety forms no head. the leaves are finely frilled and curled, and spread regularly from a common centre in the form of a rosette. a well-developed plant resembles curled endive. it appears to be nearly identical with the green curled lettuce. the seeds are black, and smaller than those of any other variety. english endive-like curled-leaved. _vil._ like the common green curled lettuce, this variety forms no head. the plant has the form of a rosette, and the foliage a silvery-gray appearance. the leaves are short, undulated on the border, but not frilled and curled like the common variety; nerves purplish; the heart of the plant is large and full; seeds black. this lettuce is hardy, tender, and well flavored, and equal, if not superior, to the common green curled, both in respect to quality and its adaptation to winter culture. green curled. curled. endive-leaved. boston curled. the green curled strongly resembles, if it is not identical with, the endive-leaved. when well grown, the plant measures about ten inches in diameter, and is one of the most beautiful of all the lettuces. the exterior leaves are finely frilled and curled, and of a rich, golden-green color; the central leaves are smaller, but frilled and curled like those of the exterior. when in perfection, the plants have the form of a rosette, and make an excellent garnish. the seeds are white. it is hardy, well adapted for forcing, and is extensively grown in the vicinity of boston, mass., for early marketing. as respects its value for the table, it cannot be considered equal to many of the cabbage varieties, as it is deficient in crispness, and tenderness of texture,--qualities essential in all salad plants. its recommendations are its hardiness, its adaptation to early culture and forcing, and particularly its beautiful appearance. market-gardeners and cultivators make three sub-varieties, which are known as "single-curled," "double-curled," and "triple-curled;" the difference consisting in the finer frilling, or curling, of the last named. a well-grown plant resembles some varieties of endive; whence the term "endive-leaved." green winter cabbage. hardy winter cabbage. morine. _vil._ head pale-green, of medium size, round and regular, firm and solid; leaves of the head much wrinkled, and coarsely blistered; the outside leaves are broad and large, glossy-green, wrinkled and blistered like those composing the head. winter-grown plants will measure in their full diameter about twelve inches, and weigh from fourteen to sixteen ounces. seeds white. the green winter cabbage lettuce is tender, and of excellent flavor, particularly if cultivated in cool weather. it is hardy, forms its head promptly and uniformly, is slow in the development of its flowers, and must be classed as one of the best of the hardy, winter varieties. hammersmith hardy. _m'int._ hardy green hammersmith. early frame. early dwarf dutch. green dutch. a popular, old variety, with a comparatively small, dark-green head. the leaves are much wrinkled, concave, thick, and fleshy; the seeds are white. it is considered the hardiest sort in cultivation, and is one of the best for growing in winter or for forcing. when raised in spring, late in autumn, or in cool, moist weather, the plants attain a diameter of nearly ten inches, and weigh from six to eight ounces; but summer-grown specimens are much smaller, rarely measuring more than six or seven inches in diameter, or weighing above three or four ounces. in warm, dry weather, it soon runs to seed. ice cabbage. _trans._ this variety belongs to the division of the silesian or batavian lettuces, and must not be confounded with the white cos. the leaves are of a light shining green, blistered on the surface, much undulated, and slightly jagged on the edges, nearly erect, eight inches long, and five or six inches broad; the outer leaves spread a little at the top, but grow close at the heart. it blanches without tying up, and becomes white, crisp, and tender. the ice cabbage lettuce comes into use with the white silesian, from which it differs, as it also does from any other of its class, in being much more curled, having a lucid, sparkling surface (whence probably its name), and not turning in so much at the heart. it lasts as long in crop as the white silesian. imperial head. turkey cabbage. union. a large and excellent variety, but inferior to the versailles or the ice cabbage. head large, regular, a little oblong, of a dull, pale-green color, and not compactly formed; the outside leaves are large, rounded, undulated or waved on the borders, thin in texture, and of a soiled or tarnished light-green color; diameter fourteen inches; weight twelve to fifteen ounces; seeds white. this is a crisp and tender lettuce, though sometimes slightly bitter. it is not early, and soon shoots up to seed; but is quite hardy, and well adapted for winter cultivation. the imperial head, or imperial cabbage lettuce, with white seeds, was at one period more generally cultivated in small gardens than any other variety; and though some of the recently introduced sorts excel it, not only in size, but in tender consistency and flavor, the imperial is still extensively cultivated and much esteemed. with the exception of the color of its seeds, it resembles the turkey cabbage. india. large india. head large, moderately compact; leaves large, with coarse and hard mid-ribs and veins. its recommendation is its remarkable adaptedness to summer culture; as it withstands heat and drought, and retains its head to a remarkable degree before running to seed. for the table, it is inferior to many other sorts; although the large ribs and veins of the leaves are comparatively brittle, and of tender texture. large brown cabbage or mogul. grosse brune paresseuse. _vil._ large gray cabbage. mammoth. head remarkably large, round, regularly formed, grayish-green, tinted or washed with reddish-brown at the top: the leaves not composing the head are large, plaited, coarsely blistered, of a grayish-green color, stained here and there with spots of pale-brown. the diameter of a well-grown plant is about fourteen inches, and its weight nearly a pound; seeds black. the large brown cabbage lettuce is crisp and tender, but is sometimes slightly bitter. its season is near that of the versailles; but it is slower in forming its head, and sooner runs to flower. it is hardy, good for forcing and well adapted for cultivation during winter. in summer, the heads are comparatively small, and loosely formed. large red cabbage. rouge charteuse. _vil._ head green, washed with red, of medium size, regularly but loosely formed; the exterior leaves are large, undulated, blistered, and stained with brownish-red, like those of the head; diameter thirteen or fourteen inches; weight twelve ounces; seeds black. its season is near that of the large brown cabbage. when grown in warm weather, the head is small, and the plant soon runs to seed: in winter, the head is much larger, more solid, and longer retained. it resembles the brown dutch, but differs in the deeper color of the leaves. large winter cabbage or madeira. laitue passion. _vil._ head of medium size, regular in form, not compact, green, washed with red at the top: the leaves not composing the head are broad and large, a little undulated or waved on the border, plaited or folded at the base, thin in texture, somewhat blistered, and stained with spots of clear brown. when grown in winter, or in cool, moist weather, the plants will measure about a foot in diameter, and weigh nearly a pound. seeds white. it is quite brittle, though not remarkable for tenderness of texture; hardy; succeeds well when grown in cold weather; and remains long in head before shooting up to seed. season, the same with that of the green winter cabbage. malta or ice cabbage. ice cos. drumhead. white cabbage. de malte. _vil._ in its general character, this variety resembles the white silesian. the head is remarkably large, somewhat flattened, compact, pale-green without, and white at the centre; the outer leaves are large and broad, glossy-green, and coarsely blistered; the mid-ribs and nerves are large and prominent. the extreme diameter of a full-grown plant is about sixteen inches, and the weight from twenty to twenty-four ounces. the seeds are white. the variety heads readily, blanches naturally, and is crisp, tender, and well flavored. it is hardy, but not early; and remains long in head without running to seed. it is extensively cultivated in england; and in some localities succeeds better, and is of finer quality, than the white silesian or marseilles cabbage. the name is derived from the glazed or polished surface of the leaves. neapolitan. naples cabbage. plant dwarfish; head of large size, round, regularly formed, solid,--when in perfection, resembling a well-developed cabbage; the exterior leaves are broad and large, green, frilled on the margin, and coarsely blistered. if well grown, the plants will measure sixteen inches in diameter, and weigh from twenty to twenty-four ounces. seeds white. the neapolitan lettuce blanches naturally, is well flavored, and so slow in the development of its flower-stalk, that the heads are sometimes artificially divided at the top to facilitate its growth, and to secure the seeds, a supply of which is always obtained with difficulty; as, aside from the tardiness of the plant in flowering, the yield is never abundant. it is not so good for forcing as many others, and must be classed as a summer rather than as a winter variety. palatine. _vil._ brown cabbage. a variety of medium size, with a round, somewhat depressed head, stained with red about the top. the foliage is yellowish-green, strongly marked or clouded with brownish-red. extreme diameter of the plant ten or eleven inches; weight about twelve ounces. the seeds are black. it is remarkably crisp and tender; of excellent flavor; yields a large quantity of salad in proportion to its size; flourishes well at all seasons, even during winter; and must be classed as one of the best, and recommended for general cultivation. spotted cabbage (black-seeded). sanguine à graine noire. _vil._ the heads of this variety are of medium size, round and regular in their form, and comparatively solid; the sides are brownish-red, but at the crowns the color is changed to clear, bright-red; the outer leaves are short, broad, and round, and strongly marked or clouded with brownish-red, like those composing the head. if grown in winter or in cool weather, the plants attain a diameter of about twelve inches, and will weigh twelve ounces. it retains its head longer than almost any other variety; and, though sometimes slightly bitter, is considered superior to the white-seeded. compared with the last-named, the head is not so well formed, the foliage is deeper colored, and it is not so well adapted for forcing or for cultivation during winter. spotted cabbage (white-seeded). sanguine à graine blanche. _vil._ head yellowish-green, spotted and clouded with brownish-red, of medium size, round and regular. the surplus leaves are small and numerous, round, prominently blistered, copper-green, streaked and variegated with brownish-red. summer-grown plants will measure ten inches in diameter, and weigh about eight ounces. winter-grown plants, or those grown in cool and moist weather, will give an increase of the diameter, and weigh nearly a pound. it is a brittle, well-flavored lettuce, hardy, and well adapted for growing in frames during winter. when grown in the summer months, the head is seldom well formed, and the plants soon run to seed. stone tennis-ball. gotte lente à monter. _vil._ plant quite small, with a uniformly green, regular, solid head; all of the leaves to the heart being strongly wrinkled and coarsely blistered. the exterior leaves are comparatively few and small, green, undulated, and prominently blistered. summer-grown plants measure six or seven inches in diameter, and weigh about three ounces. when grown early or late in the season, or under the influence of cool and moist weather, the plants attain a larger size; often measuring nine or ten inches in diameter, and weighing eight ounces. the seeds are black. the stone tennis-ball hearts well, is of excellent quality, and, in proportion to its size, yields a large quantity of salad. it retains its head a long period, even in warm weather, without shooting up to seed; and, as most of the leaves of the plant are embraced in the head, it occupies but a small space of ground in cultivation. hardy and early. summer cabbage. large white cabbage. royal cabbage. summer blond. _vil._ sugar cabbage. foliage pale yellowish-green; head of medium size, round, somewhat flattened, firm and close; the leaves composing it are wrinkled and blistered,--those of the outside being frequently torn and broken on the margins about the crown. the entire diameter of a well-grown plant is about twelve inches, and the weight from ten to twelve ounces. the seeds are white. it is one of the best sorts for summer cultivation, as it not only forms its head readily in warm and dry weather, but remains long in head before running to flower. for forcing, or for sowing early in the season, some other varieties would succeed better. though sometimes slightly bitter, it is crisp, tender in texture, appears to be adapted to our climate, and is recommended for cultivation. tennis-ball. green ball. button. capuchin. hardy hammersmith. _vil._ one of the oldest and most esteemed of the cabbage lettuces. the head is below medium size, dark-green, remarkably solid if grown in cool weather, but often loose and open-hearted if cultivated during the summer months; the surplus leaves are few in number, deep-green, slightly curled, and broadly, but not prominently, blistered; the seeds of the genuine variety are black. the tennis-ball lettuce is remarkable for its extreme hardiness. winter-grown plants, or those raised in cool, moist weather, will measure about ten inches in diameter, and weigh eight ounces; whilst those raised under opposite conditions rarely exceed seven or eight inches in diameter, or weigh more than four or five ounces. it is slow in running to seed, and the head blanches white and tender. "it requires little room in frames in winter, and yields a great return in spring, as almost the whole plant is eatable." a large cabbage lettuce, tinted with brown about the head, is erroneously known in some localities as the "tennis-ball." turkey cabbage. similar to the imperial head; the principal if not the only difference consisting in the color of the seeds, which are black. versailles. _vil._ swedish. blond versailles. sugar-lettuce. head pale yellowish-green, large, long, and compactly formed; the exterior leaves are large, numerous, wrinkled, and coarsely blistered. when in its greatest perfection, the extreme diameter of the whole plant is about fourteen inches, and its weight twelve or fourteen ounces. the seeds are white. this variety forms its head quickly and uniformly; cabbages white and crisp; is slow in shooting up to seed; flourishes in almost every description of soil, and at all seasons, except, perhaps, in extreme cold; and, though sometimes slightly bitter to the taste, is crisp, tender, and of good quality. with the exception of its paler color, it resembles the neapolitan. it is one of the best of all varieties for summer cultivation. victoria or red-bordered. _vil._ an excellent early and hardy variety. the head is of medium size, tinted or washed with red at the top, round and regular in form, and comparatively solid; leaves large, yellowish-green, wrinkled, and blistered. if grown in summer, the plants measure eight or nine inches in diameter, and weigh four ounces. in cool weather, the plants attain a diameter of twelve inches, and weigh from ten to twelve ounces; seeds white. the victoria lettuce is larger than the tennis-ball, heads freely, and is crisp and well flavored. when sown in summer, it soon runs to flower; but, in cool weather, the heads are well retained. white gotte (black-seeded). _vil._ a small, low-growing, yellowish-green cabbage lettuce, with a comparatively loose head. the plants rarely measure more than six inches in their full diameter, or weigh above four ounces. it is one of the earliest of all the lettuces, crisp, of good flavor, and well adapted for forcing or for frame culture. besides the distinction in the color of the seeds, it differs from the white-seeded white gotte in its smaller and more loosely formed heads. white gotte (white-seeded). _vil._ white tennis-ball. this variety has a small, long, firm, and close head; and is uniformly of a yellowish-green color. the outer leaves are small, light greenish-yellow, waved on the borders, and prominently blistered. the plant is of small dimensions; rarely measuring more than six or seven inches in diameter, or weighing above three ounces. the variety is early, crisp, and well flavored, but soon runs to seed, and is much better adapted for growing in winter, or for forcing, than for cultivation in the summer months. white silesian, or white batavian. _vil._ drumhead cabbage. large drumhead. spanish. one of the largest of the cabbage lettuces. head golden-green, tinted with brownish-red about the top, regularly but not compactly formed. the outer leaves are large and broad, yellowish-green, bordered with brown, wrinkled, and coarsely blistered. when well grown, the entire diameter of the plant is about eighteen inches, and its weight twenty ounces. the seeds are white. this variety appears to be adapted to all seasons. it is hardy, retains its head well, withstands heat and drought, blanches white and crisp, and is of excellent flavor. it succeeds well in frames; but, on account of its large size, is not a profitable sort for forcing. a variety, known as the "tennis-ball" in some localities, is very similar to this; and the "boston cabbage" of new england, if not identical, seems to be but an improved form of the white silesian. white stone cabbage. large golden summer cabbage. head of medium size, yellowish-green, stained with brownish-red, firm and solid. when fully developed, the entire diameter of the plant is about fourteen inches, and its weight sixteen ounces. the seeds are white. this lettuce is brittle, of tender texture and good quality, though it is sometimes slightly bitter. it is hardy, heads readily, is slow in running to flower, succeeds well in warm and dry weather, and is also well adapted for frame-culture or for forcing. yellow-seeded brown dutch. _vil._ white dutch. american brown dutch. head of medium size, yellowish-green, variegated with red, rounded at the top, and tapering to a point at the base; compact; seeds yellow. a half-early sort, of good quality, hardy, and well adapted for winter culture, or for sowing early in spring. it somewhat resembles the black-seeded brown dutch: but, apart from the difference in the color of the seeds, its foliage is more blistered, and more colored with red; and the plant produces numerous sprouts, or shoots, about the base of the head. * * * * * cos lettuces. these are quite distinct from the cabbage lettuces before described. the heads are long, erect, largest at the top, and taper towards the root,--the exterior leaves clasping or coving over and around the head in the manner of a hood, or cowl. as a class, they are remarkable for hardiness and vigor; but the midribs and nerves of the leaves are comparatively coarse and hard, and most of the kinds will be found inferior to the cabbage lettuces in crispness and flavor. they are ill adapted for cultivation in dry and hot weather; and attain their greatest perfection only when grown in spring or autumn, or in cool and humid seasons. _varieties._-- alphange or florence cos (black-seeded). _vil._ in the form of the head, and in its general character, this variety resembles the white-seeded. both of the sorts are remarkable for size, for hardiness and healthy habit, for the length of time they remain in head before running to seed, and for the brittle and tender character of the ribs and nerves of the leaves. besides the difference in the color of the seeds, the head of this variety is smaller, and the foliage paler, than that of the white-seeded. alphange or florence cos (white-seeded). _vil._ magnum bonum cos. head large, long, not compact, and forming well only when the exterior leaves are tied loosely together. the midribs and nerves of the leaves are large, but brittle, and of tender texture. it is ten or twelve days later than the green paris cos, retains its head well, is hardy and of healthy habit, but is deficient in flavor, and inferior to either of the paris sorts. artichoke-leaved. _vil._ this variety forms no head; and, in its foliage and general habit, is quite distinct from all of the cos varieties. the leaves are numerous, twelve or fourteen inches long; of a lively-green color, often stained with brownish-red; erect, narrow, pointed, and toothed on the margin, like those of the artichoke. before blanching, the leaves are slightly bitter; but mild, crisp, and tender, with no savor of bitterness, after being blanched. the seeds are black. the plant grows uprightly, groups its leaves together, and thus blanches the interior parts spontaneously; but a much larger portion will be fit for use, if the leaves are collected, and tied loosely about the tips in the manner of treating cos lettuces. it is remarkably hardy, slow in running to flower, and the seeds may be sown till august. late in the season, it is mild and pleasant, and furnishes a tender salad when most of the cos lettuces become bitter and strong-flavored. bath green cos. _m'int._ this variety has much merit as a hardy, winter, green sort; and is nearly related to the brown cos, but is less brown on the outer leaves: but, while that has white seeds, the seeds of this variety are black. hence there are found, upon the catalogues of seedsmen, black-seeded bath, or brown cos; and white-seeded bath, or brown cos; the latter seeming to be the hardiest, while the former appears to be the best. brown cos. bath cos. sutton's berkshire brown cos. wood's improved bath cos. bearfield cos. white-seeded brown cos. this is one of the oldest of the cos lettuces, and considered the hardiest of the class. the head is of large size, pointed, not compact, and requires to be tied in order to obtain it in its greatest perfection; the leaves are of a copper-green color, stiff and firm, toothed and blistered; the seeds are white. the brown cos blanches white and tender, and is exceedingly crisp and well flavored; but the dark-brownish color of the exterior leaves is deemed an objection, and it is often displaced by really inferior varieties. in weight and measurement, it differs little from the green paris cos. extensively cultivated and much esteemed in england. gray paris cos. _vil._ head of the form of an inverted cone; green, with a grayish tone about the top; compact, and forming well without tying. the exterior leaves are numerous, deep-green, erect, firm, and prominently blistered. the full diameter of the plant is nearly twelve inches, and its weight about twenty ounces; the seeds are white. the gray paris cos is brittle, and of tender texture; but is considered inferior to the other paris cos sorts, and is but little cultivated. green paris cos. _vil._ kensington cos. sutton's superb green cos. wellington. ady's fine large. head inversely conical, compact; leaves deep-green, erect, firm, hooded or cowl-formed towards the ends, and serrated on the margin; the ribs and nerves are large and prominent. when fully grown, the entire diameter of the plant is fifteen or sixteen inches, and its weight twenty-four ounces; the seeds are white. it is considered one of the best of the cos lettuces; and, though not so hardy as the brown cos, is a good variety for forcing, and furnishes a tender, well-flavored head during summer. whether for spring, summer, or autumn, it is an excellent sort. it attains a large size, is of a fine green color, and, "from the manner in which the outer leaves cove over the interior ones, blanches well without having to be tied together." it has a tender, brittle leaf; is some days earlier than the white paris; and is the principal variety employed by the market-gardeners of paris for cultivating under glass. green winter cos. _vil._ head elongated, somewhat of the form of the preceding variety; deep-green, and not forming well, unless the exterior leaves are tied together at the tips; the outer leaves are large, erect, concave, toothed on the margin, and prominently blistered; the seeds are black. it blanches well; but the ribs and nerves of the leaves are comparatively coarse and hard. well adapted to winter culture; but, as a summer lettuce, of little value. monstrous brown cos. _vil._ two-headed. head of remarkable size, long, loose, and open; leaves large, equalling in size those of the alphange or florence cos; green, washed with brown; pointed; seeds white. the plant sends out numerous side-shoots, or suckers; and sometimes produces several distinct heads: these, however, are generally loosely formed, and not of the fine, tender quality of the paris varieties. oak-leaved cos. romaine à feuille de chêne. _vil._ the oak-leaved lettuce produces no head, but forms a loose and open heart at the centre of the plant. the leaves are numerous, bronze-green, and deeply cut, or lobed, on the margin, in the form of the leaves of some species of the oak; the seeds are black. the plants put forth fresh sprouts after having been cut; but the quality is inferior, and the variety is rarely cultivated. red winter cos. foliage deep-brown, smooth, and glossy,--gathered at the centre of the plant into a loose heart, rather than head; seeds black. the hardiness of this lettuce is its principal merit. it is little affected by severe weather; and, as a sort for winter culture, is desirable. when grown in summer, it is of poor quality. spotted cos (black-seeded). red-spotted. bloody. aleppo. panachée à graine noire. _vil._ this variety is similar to the white-seeded, and, like it, forms no head: the leaves are green, much stained or clouded with brownish-red, erect, firm, rounded at the ends, concave or spoon-shaped, and grouped at the centre into a long and comparatively close heart. it is crisp and well flavored, but attains its greatest perfection only when the outer leaves are tied loosely together about the top of the plant. spotted cos (white-seeded). _vil._ like the preceding, this variety forms no head; but the interior leaves are formed into an erect, oblong, close heart, which, by tying the exterior leaves together, becomes white, crisp, and of excellent flavor. though late, it is hardy, remains long in head before running to seed, and is well worthy of cultivation. waite's white cos. _m'int._ an excellent variety, apparently intermediate between the green paris and white paris; not of quite so deep a green as the former, yet deeper than the latter. with regard to its comparative excellence, it is considered fully equal to the paris cos varieties; as it is grown as easily, and is equally crisp and tender. size and weight nearly the same. white brunoy cos (black-seeded). _vil._ leaves of large size, yellowish-green, pointed, slightly undulated, entire on the borders, and often revoluted like those of the white-seeded. it rarely produces a head; or, if so, it is loose and open. its greatest perfection is obtained by collecting the exterior leaves about the top of the plant, and tying them loosely together. the variety is not considered superior to the white-seeded, though both of the sorts are inferior to the paris cos or florence sorts. white brunoy cos (white-seeded). _vil._ the heads of this variety are long and loose, and rarely form well unless the exterior leaves are tied loosely together. it somewhat resembles the alphange in the form and character of its foliage, though the head is longer and larger. the plant attains a remarkable size, is hardy, and of good quality; but soon runs to seed, and appears to be a winter rather than a summer lettuce. white paris cos. _vil._ _m'int._ london white cos. sutton's superb white cos. the head of this variety has the form of the green paris, and blanches well without tying; the outside leaves are erect, yellowish-green, and rather numerous. the extreme diameter of the entire plant, when well grown, is about fourteen inches, and its weight nearly twenty-four ounces. the seeds are white. this is the sort most generally grown by the london market-gardeners, millions of it being produced annually within a few miles of london alone; and it has been adopted almost exclusively, by the gardeners of paris, for cultivation in the open air. next to the green paris cos, this is the best, the largest, and the longest in running to seed, of all the summer lettuces. it is tender, brittle, and mild flavored, less hardy and a few days later than the green paris cos. endive-leaved lettuce. _trans._ lactuca intybacea. the leaves of this species have the form of those of some of the varieties of endive; whence the name. they are small, pale-green, broad towards the ends, cut and irregularly lobed on the borders. while young, the plants have the appearance of green curled endive. as it runs to flower much earlier than the spinach lettuce, it is less esteemed than that variety. the seeds should be sown thickly, in shallow drills ten or twelve inches apart; and the plants should be cut for use when they are three or four inches high. perennial lettuce. _vil._ lactuca perennis. this species is a native of europe; and, in habit and duration, is distinct from all others. the leaves are about ten inches long, of a glaucous or sea green color, thick and fleshy, deeply cut or divided on the margin, and spread regularly from the centre of the plant in the form of a rosette. when fully developed, the plant is two feet and a half high; separating into numerous branches, which terminate in large purple flowers. the seeds, which are of a brownish-black color, are sown in drills fifteen inches apart; and the plants should be thinned to six inches apart in the drills. the leaves are eaten as salad; but, when so used, they should be blanched, either by earthing up or by tying the plant together. they are also sometimes eaten boiled as spinach or endive. spinach lettuce. _trans._ oak-leaved lettuce. lactuca quercina. the leaves of this species are six inches long, pale yellowish-green, lyrate, with obtuse and entire divisions: when fully developed, they somewhat resemble those of the oak, as implied by the name. the plants form no heart, or head; and are never cultivated singly like the cabbage or cos lettuces. the leaves are produced in moderate abundance, and are crisp and well flavored. the seeds should be sown, like those of the endive-leaved, thickly, in drills; and, when the lower leaves are four or five inches long, they may be cut for use. if not taken off too closely, the plants will afford a second cutting. the seeds are sown early with other spring salads. * * * * * madras radish. raphanus sp. the roots of the madras radish are sometimes eaten while they are quite young and small; but they soon become fibrous, strong flavored, and unfit for use. the plant is generally cultivated for its pods, which sometimes measure ten or twelve inches in length: these are solid, crisp, and tender, and, while young, are used for pickling and for salad; being much superior for these purposes to those of the common radish. when cultivated for its pods, the seeds should be sown in drills two feet apart, and the plants thinned to nine inches in the drills. * * * * * mallow, curled-leaved. malva crispa. an annual plant, introduced from europe, and occasionally found growing spontaneously in the vicinity of gardens where it has been once cultivated. the stem is frequently more than six feet in height; the leaves are nearly five inches in diameter, smooth, and of a rich green color, lobed, and beautifully frilled or curled on the borders; flowers axillary, white, and small; the seeds are somewhat kidney-shaped, of a yellowish-brown color, and retain their powers of germination five years. _cultivation._--the seeds are sown the last of april or beginning of may, and covered about an inch deep. the plants require much space, and should be grown at least eighteen inches asunder. the best method is to drop a few seeds where the plants are to grow; or to rake in a few seeds sown broadcast, and transplant. _use._--no part of the plant is considered suitable for food; but the elegantly curled leaves are employed for garnishing desserts. * * * * * mustard. black mustard. brown mustard. red mustard. sinapis nigra. black mustard is a hardy, annual plant, introduced from europe. in some localities, it grows naturally in great abundance; and is regarded as a troublesome weed, though its seeds furnish the common table mustard. its stem is four or five feet in height, round, smooth, and branching; the leaves are lobed and toothed on the margin,--the radical or lower ones rough, those of the upper portion of the stalk smooth; the flowers are numerous, rather large, bright-yellow; the pods are erect, somewhat four-sided, and are set closely against the sides of the stalk; the seeds are small, round, brownish-black, and retain their germinative powers many years; nearly eighteen thousand are contained in an ounce. _propagation and cultivation._--it is raised from seeds, about four quarts of which will be required for sowing an acre. it is sometimes grown in the vegetable garden, but is generally cultivated in fields for its seeds, which, as before remarked, furnish the common table mustard. the sowing is usually made from the middle of april to the middle of may. after making the surface of the ground fine and smooth, sow broadcast, or thinly in shallow drills fourteen or fifteen inches apart; cultivate during the season in the usual manner; and, in august, the crop will be ready for harvesting. cut the stalks at the ground before the pods shed their seeds; and spread in a dry, light, and airy situation, till they are sufficiently dried for threshing. when grown for salad in the vegetable garden, it should be sown, and cut for use, as directed for white mustard. "if the seed is covered to the depth of three inches or more, it will lie dormant, and retain its powers of vegetation for ages: from which circumstance, together with the liability of the seed to become shaken out in the harvesting of the crop, such lands as are once employed for the growing of mustard cannot be fairly cleaned of it for a considerable length of time, and only by judicious fallowing or fallow-cropping, with repeated hoeing and weeding."--_law._ _use._--besides the use of the flour of the seeds as a condiment, the seed-leaves are used as salad, in the manner of those of the white species; and the young plants, cut to the ground, are used as spring greens, either boiled alone, or mixed with spinach. chinese or pekin mustard. _vil._ sinapis pekinensis. a hardy annual, introduced from china. stem four feet high, with remarkably large leaves; the flowers, which are produced in loose, terminal spikes, are yellow and showy; the seeds are small, and retain their vitality five years. _cultivation._--the seeds are sown in april or may, in shallow drills ten or twelve inches apart. if cultivated for its seeds, the drills should be eighteen inches or two feet apart, and the plants thinned to six or eight inches in the drills. _use._--the leaves are employed in salads, in the manner of cress; and they are also sometimes boiled and served as spinach. cabbage-leaved mustard. moutarde à feuilles de chou. _vil._ sinapis sp. a hardy, annual, chinese plant, similar in habit to the species last described. stem from three to four feet high; leaves large, roundish, lobed, and wrinkled; flowers yellow; the seeds are small, reddish-brown or black, and retain their powers of germination a long period. _cultivation and use._--this species is cultivated in the same manner, and is used for the same purpose, as the chinese mustard. curled mustard. west-india cress. a comparatively small species. stem two feet and a half high; flowers bright-yellow; seeds small, blackish-brown,--scarcely distinguishable from those of the black mustard. the leaves are of medium size, greenish-yellow, broadest near the ends, deeply and finely cut on the borders, and beautifully frilled, or curled: they make an excellent garnish; and, when used as salad, have a pleasant, cress-like flavor. cut-leaved mustard. moutarde lacinée. _vil._ in its general character, this species resembles the chinese or pekin mustard: the leaves, however, are much smaller, and divided quite to the mid-rib. when young, the leaves make an excellent small salad; having the warm, pleasant flavor of cress. white mustard. sinapis alba. white mustard is a hardy annual, introduced from europe, and occasionally found growing spontaneously in the vicinity of fields and gardens where it has been once cultivated. the stem is three feet and upwards in height; the leaves are large, deeply lobed, and of a rich, deep-green color; the flowers are large, yellow, produced in loose, terminal spikes; the seeds are yellow, much larger than those of the preceding species, and retain their vitality five years,--seventy-five hundred are contained in an ounce. _propagation._--white mustard is always raised from seeds; about four quarts of which will be necessary for seeding an acre. when grown for salad, an ounce will sow forty feet of drill. _soil and cultivation._--it succeeds best in rich, loamy soil; which, previously to sowing, should be thoroughly pulverized. when cultivated in the vegetable garden for salad or greens, the first sowing may be made as early in the season as the frost will admit. sow the seeds thickly, in drills eight or ten inches apart; and cover half an inch deep with fine mould. remove all weeds as they make their appearance; and, in continued dry weather, water freely. the plants should be cut for use while in the seed-leaf; as, when much developed, they become strong, rank, and ill-flavored. for a succession, a small sowing may be made every week until september. in field culture, the seeds are sometimes sown broadcast; but the more common method is to sow in drills fifteen or eighteen inches apart. when the crop is ready for harvesting, the plants are cut to the ground, stored and threshed, as directed for black mustard. _use._--the plants, before the development of the rough leaves, are used as salad: when more advanced, they are boiled and eaten as spinach. the flour of the seeds furnishes a table mustard of good quality; though the seeds of the black species possess greater piquancy, and are generally employed for the purpose. the seeds of both species are much used in medicine, and are considered equally efficacious. * * * * * nasturtium. indian cress. capucine, of the french. tropæolum, sp. et var. this plant is a native of peru; and, though generally treated as an annual, is a tender perennial. when cultivated for its flowers or seeds, it should be planted in poor, light soil; but when foliage and luxuriant growth are desired, for the covering of arbors, trellises, and the like, the soil can hardly be made too rich. the planting should be made in april or may. as the seeds are quite large, they should be covered two inches deep. when planted in drills, they are made three feet apart, and the young plants thinned to six inches apart in the drills. the growing crop may be supported by staking or bushing, as practised with pease; or the taller-growing sorts may be shortened in, which will induce a strong, stocky habit of growth. while the plants are young, they will require some attention, in order that they may be properly attached to the stakes or trellises provided for their support; after which, little care need be bestowed, beyond the ordinary stirring of the soil, and keeping the ground free from weeds. _use._--the unexpanded flower-buds, and the seeds while young and succulent, have a warm, aromatic taste, and are pickled and used as capers. the young shoots are eaten as salad; and the flowers, which are large and richly colored, are used for garnishing. few ornamental plants are better known or more generally cultivated than the nasturtium. the species and varieties are as follow:-- tall nasturtium. tropæolum majus. stem from six to eight feet high, succulent; leaves alternate, smooth, rounded,--the leaf-stems being attached to the disc, or under-surface; flowers large, on long stems, yellow,--the two upper petals streaked and marked with purple; the seeds are large, somewhat triangular, convex on one of the sides, of a drab or pale-brown color, and retain their germinative properties five years,--from a hundred and eighty to two hundred are contained in an ounce. dark-flowering. a variety of the preceding; differing only in the brown color of the flowers. cultivation and uses the same. variegated. also a sub-variety of the tall nasturtium, with orange-yellow flowers; each of the petals being stained or spotted with purple. other varieties occur, differing in color, but equally useful for the purposes before described. small nasturtium. dwarf capucine. tropæolum minus. much smaller, in all respects, than the common dwarf variety of _tropæolum majus_; the stem rarely measuring more than two feet in length, or rising above a foot in height. the flowers are yellow; the lower petals with a blotch of scarlet at their base, and the upper ones delicately striped with the same color. it yields abundantly; and, though the pods are comparatively small, they are generally preferred to those of the tall nasturtium for pickling. * * * * * picridium. garden picridium. picridium vulgare. a hardy, annual plant, from the south of europe. stem eighteen inches high; leaves six to eight inches long, irregular in form, but generally broad at the ends, and heart-shaped and clasping at the base; flowers yellow, compound, produced in clusters; the seeds are long, slightly curved, four-sided, brown or blackish-brown, and retain their vitality five years. _sowing and cultivation._--the seeds should be sown in april or may, in drills a foot apart, and half an inch in depth. as the plants, when allowed to run to seed, produce but little foliage, it is necessary, in order to secure a continued supply of fresh leaves, to cut or nip off the flowering-shoot as it makes its appearance. under proper management, the leaves grow rapidly, and are produced in great abundance. _use._--the leaves have a pleasant, agreeable flavor; and, while young and tender, are mixed in salads. * * * * * purslain. portulaca. purslain is a hardy, annual plant. most of the cultivated kinds are but improved forms of the common purslain (_p. oleracea_), introduced into this country from europe, and so troublesome as a weed in most vegetable gardens. stem usually about a foot in length, succulent and tender; leaves fleshy, broad and round at the ends, and tapering to the stalk; flowers yellow, resting closely in the axils of the leaves; the seeds are black, exceedingly small, and retain their germinating powers ten years. _soil, propagation, and culture._--purslain thrives well in all soils,--dry, wet, or intermediate; and is propagated by seeds sown in shallow drills at any time from april to july. _use._--the plants may be cut for use when they have made a growth of four or five inches. they are mixed in salads, eaten boiled as spinach, or pickled. the species and varieties are as follow:-- common purslain. portulaca oleracea. abundant in gardens, cultivated fields, and waste grounds. the green and the golden purslain are improved sub-varieties. the common purslain is used in all the forms in which the cultivated sorts are used; and, though some of the latter are considered more succulent, the difference in quality will scarcely repay the cost of cultivation, where the present variety would be the ceaseless competitor for the supremacy. golden purslain. pourpier doré. _vil._ p. oleracea var. aurea. similar to the green purslain, but differing in the paler or yellowish color of the stalks and leaves. green purslain. pourpier vert. _vil._ leaves an inch and three-fourths in length, and upwards of an inch in width, deep-green. large-leaved golden purslain. p. sativa. leaves pale yellowish-green, larger than those of the preceding sorts. the plant is a strong grower, and the leaves attain a remarkable size; but the stalks are often comparatively tough and hard, and, for salad purposes, much inferior to those of the green or golden varieties. * * * * * rape. this plant is generally cultivated for its seeds, like mustard. it is, however, sometimes grown for salad; the seeds being sown in april, and, for a succession, once in three or four weeks till august or september. sow thickly, in drills ten or twelve inches apart, and cover half an inch deep. the soil should be rich and moist, in order to induce a rapid growth, and thus to give a tender, succulent character to the young leaves; these being the parts eaten. they are served like lettuce, or boiled and treated as coleworts or spinach. for mixing with cress or lettuce, the plants are cut to the ground before the development of the second leaves. the species are as follow:-- annual rough-leaved summer rape. _law._ turnip rape. brassica rapa. root fusiform, small, hard, and woody; radical leaves lyrate, vivid green, and without any appearance of the glaucous bloom for which the biennial sorts are so distinguished; the stem-leaves are slightly glaucous, smooth, or nearly so,--the lower ones cut on the borders, the upper entire; the seeds are small, and similar to those of the common field turnip, of which it seems to be either a variety, or the source from which the latter has been derived. common or winter rape. _law._ cole-seed. brassica napus. biennial; root long, tapering, hard, and woody, like that of the species before described. the leaves are smooth, thick, and fleshy, and of much the same form as those of the annual rough-leaved summer rape; this species, however, being readily distinguished, when young, by its uniformly smooth leaves. the seeds, also, are larger than those of the last-named species; but this is not to be relied upon as a distinguishing characteristic, as the size of the seeds, in this as in most other plants, is liable to be materially altered by the soil as well as by the previous culture of the seed-stock. the seeds are sown in summer, and the crop ripens the following year. it is not adapted to the climate of the northern states. in england, the foregoing species are extensively cultivated both for forage and for seed; the latter being used to a limited extent for feeding birds, but chiefly for the production of rape-seed oil. german rape. _law._ annual or early rape. smooth-leaved summer rape. brassica præcox. the german rape somewhat resembles the common or winter. it differs in being of annual duration; in its more deeply divided leaves, more erect pods, and smaller seeds. it would unquestionably succeed well in almost any part of the northern or middle states, and might prove as remunerative a crop as corn or wheat. the seeds should be sown in may; and the plants should be treated and the crop harvested, in all respects, as mustard. it is sometimes sown broadcast, but generally in drills. when sown broadcast, eight or ten pounds of seed will be required for an acre; if in drills, three or four pounds will be sufficient. the yield varies from twenty to forty bushels per acre. summer rape. _law._ colza. wild navew. brassica campestris. a biennial plant, with a tapering, hard, and fibrous root. the radical leaves are lyrate and roughish when young; those of the stem clasping, or heart-shaped, at base, and of an oblong form,--all somewhat fleshy, of a dark-green color, with a glaucous bloom. the seeds are larger than those of the ruta-baga, or swedish turnip, but in other respects not distinguishable. this species is sometimes termed _brassica campestris olifer_, or oil-rape, from its being considered the best sort of rape for cultivating for oil; and to distinguish it from the _campestris ruta-baga_, or swedish turnip, which is only a variety of this species. it is not sufficiently hardy for cultivation in the northern states. * * * * * rocket. _vil._ garden rocket. roquette, of the french. brassica eruca. a hardy, annual plant, from the south of europe. stem about two feet high; leaves long, lobed or lyrate, smooth and glossy, succulent and tender; flowers pale citron-yellow, with blackish-purple veins, very fragrant, having the odor of orange-blossoms; the seeds are small, roundish, brown, or reddish-brown, and retain their vitality two years,--fifteen thousand are contained in an ounce. _sowing and cultivation._--the seed is sown thinly, in shallow drills a foot asunder. the first sowing may be made as early in spring as the frost will permit; afterwards, for a succession, a few seeds may be sown at intervals of three or four weeks. in poor soil and dry seasons, the leaves are liable to be tough and acrid: the seeds should, therefore, be sown in rich loam, and the plants thoroughly watered in dry weather; as, the more rapid and vigorous the growth, the more succulent and mild-flavored will be the foliage. _use._--the leaves, while young and tender, are eaten as salad. * * * * * samphire. _thomp._ _mill._ sea-fennel. parsley-pert. st. peter's herb. crithmum maritimum. this is a half-hardy, perennial plant, common to rocky localities on the seacoast of great britain. stalk from a foot to two feet in height, tender and succulent; leaves half an inch long, somewhat linear, glaucous-green, fleshy; flowers in terminal umbels,--small, white, or yellowish-white; the seeds are oblong, yellowish, and, though somewhat larger, resemble those of fennel,--they retain their germinative power but one year. the plant blossoms in july and august, and the seeds ripen in september and october. _cultivation._--"it is rather difficult to cultivate in gardens; and the produce is never so good as that obtained from the places where it naturally grows. it may be propagated either by dividing the plant, or by sowing the seed in april or in autumn, soon after it is ripe. the latter period is preferable; for, if kept till spring, the seed does not germinate so well. "it succeeds best in a light, sandy, or gravelly soil, kept constantly moist, and sprinkled occasionally with a little sea-salt or barilla, or watered with a solution of these substances, in order to supply the plant with soda, which is a necessary element of its food. it will grow still better if planted or sown among stones at the foot of walls, with a south or east aspect. this, and an occasional watering, with a solution of sea-salt, will give conditions nearly the same as those under which the plant naturally grows. as it is rather delicate, and liable to be injured by frost, it should be protected by dry litter or leaves during the winter. towards the end of summer, the leaves may be cut for use."--_thomp._ _use._--the leaves have a warm, pleasant, aromatic flavor; and, when pickled in vinegar, are used in salads and as a seasoning. golden samphire. _thomp._ inula crithmifolia. a hardy perennial, growing, like the preceding, naturally, on the marshes and seacoast of great britain. the stalk is a foot and a half in height, erect, with clusters of small, fleshy leaves; flowers yellow, in small, umbel-like clusters. _propagation and cultivation._--it may be propagated by seeds, or by a division of the roots. it thrives best in a shady situation, and requires frequent watering. if salt be occasionally dissolved in the water, it will promote the growth of the plants, and render the branches and foliage more succulent and tender. _use._--the fleshy leaves and the young branches are pickled in vinegar, and added to salads as a relish. the plant, however, has none of the pleasant aromatic flavor of the true samphire, though often sold under the name, and used as a substitute. * * * * * scurvy-grass. cochlearia officinalis. this is a hardy, annual, maritime plant, common to the seacoast of france and great britain. the root-leaves spread regularly from a common centre, are heart-shaped, fleshy, smooth, and glossy,--those of the stem sessile, oblong, and toothed on the margin; the stalks are numerous, and from six inches to a foot in height; the flowers are small, white, and produced in compact groups, or clusters; the seeds are small, oval, a little angular, and retain their vitality three years. _soil, sowing, and cultivation._--it succeeds best in moist, sandy soil; and flourishes in shady situations. sow the seeds in august, soon after they ripen, in shallow drills eight or ten inches apart; and, while the plants are young, thin them to five or six inches apart in the rows. the plants taken up in thinning may be transplanted, and new beds formed if occasion require. the growing crop should be kept free from weeds, and liberally watered in dry weather. in the following spring, the leaves will be fit for the table. those plants not cut for use will flower in june, and the seeds will ripen in july. the seeds seldom vegetate well if sown late in spring, or during warm, dry weather. _use._--the radical leaves are used as a salad, and are sometimes mixed with cress. when bruised, they emit an unpleasant odor; and have an acrid, bitter taste when eaten. the plant is more generally used for medicinal purposes than as an esculent. * * * * * snails. snail trefoil. medicago orbicularis. from the south of europe. it is a hardy, annual plant, with reclining steins, compound or winged leaves, and yellow flowers. the pods, or seed-vessels, are smooth, and coiled in a singular and remarkably regular manner. as they approach maturity, they gradually change to a dark-brown color; and, seen from a short distance, have the appearance of snails feeding on the plant. the seeds are large, flat, somewhat kidney-shaped, of a yellowish-brown color, and retain their powers of germination five years. they are usually sold in the pods, but should be taken out before planting. _sowing and culture._--it is propagated by seeds, which should be sown in april or may where the plants are to remain. sow in drills fifteen inches apart. the plants should be thinned out where they are too close, and kept clean from weeds; which is all the culture they require. they will blossom in july, and the seeds will ripen in autumn. _use._--though entirely inoffensive, no part of the plant is used for food. the pods resemble some species of snails in a remarkable degree, and are placed on dishes of salad for the purpose of exciting curiosity, or for pleasantly surprising the guests at table. * * * * * sweet cicely. sweet-scented chervil. osmorrhiza odorata. scandix odorata. a hardy perennial. when fully grown, the stalk is three feet or more in height; the leaves are large, and many times divided; the stems and nerves downy; the flowers are white, fragrant, and terminate the stalks in flat, spreading bunches, or umbels; the seeds are large, brown, and retain their vitality but one year. _sowing and culture._--it is usually grown from seeds; and is of easy cultivation, as it thrives in almost any soil or situation. when allowed to scatter its seeds after ripening in the autumn, the plants will spring up spontaneously in great numbers in the following april or may, and may then be transplanted where they are to remain; or the seed may be sown in october, in beds, making the rows fifteen or eighteen inches apart, and thinning the plants to a foot apart in the rows. when practicable, the seed should be sown in the autumn; as it seldom vegetates well, unless subjected to the action of the winter. after the plants have become established, they will require only ordinary treatment, and yield abundantly. _use._--"in england, the leaves were formerly put into salads; but the strong flavor of aniseed, which the whole plant possesses, renders them disagreeable to most persons. it is now not cultivated in britain; but the leaves and roots are still used in france: the former for the same purposes as those of chervil; the latter in soups, to which they are said to communicate an agreeable taste."--_thomp._ in this country, it is sometimes cultivated with other aromatic plants; but its use in soups, or as a seasoner or garnish, is very limited. * * * * * tarragon. artemesia dracunculus. a hardy, perennial plant, said to be a native of siberia. stalk herbaceous, about three feet in height; the leaves are long, narrow, pointed, smooth, and highly aromatic; the flowers are small, somewhat globular, greenish, and generally infertile. there is but one variety. _soil, planting, and culture._--as the plants seldom produce seed, tarragon is usually propagated by dividing the roots. select a warm and comparatively dry situation; stir the ground deeply and thoroughly; and, in april, set the roots in rows fifteen inches apart, ten or twelve inches apart in the rows, and cover two or three inches deep. they will soon send up vigorous shoots, which may be cut for use the first season. it is sometimes increased by cuttings, set three or four inches deep in moist earth. if seeds can be obtained, they should be sown in april or may, in a nursery-bed or in a common frame. sow in shallow drills six or eight inches apart; and, when the plants are three or four inches high, set them out as directed for the roots. they will early become strong and stocky, and may be used in august or september. the plants are more healthy, yield more abundantly, and are of finer quality, when not allowed to run to flower. _use._--"tarragon is cultivated for its leaves and the points of its young shoots; both of which are used as ingredients in salads, soups, stews, pickles, and other compounds. tarragon vinegar, so much esteemed as a fish-sauce, is made by infusion of the leaves in common vinegar. it is also added to most salads to correct their coldness. three or four plants will be sufficient for a family."--_m'int._ * * * * * valeriana. _vil._ fedia cornucopiæ. valeriana cornucopiæ. this is an annual plant, with a smooth, branching stem about fifteen inches high. the leaves are oblong, stemless, thick, and fleshy, and of a bright, glossy-green color; the flowers are numerous, large, rose-colored, showy, and ornamental; the seeds are oblong, yellowish, somewhat vesiculous, and retain their vitality five years,--twenty-two hundred are contained in an ounce. _soil and culture._--it succeeds best in a light, warm soil. prepare a bed four feet and a half wide, spade it thoroughly over, rake the surface smooth and fine, and sow the seed in drills fourteen inches apart. the first sowing should be made the last of april, or early in may; and afterwards, for a succession, sow a row or two every fortnight till july. _use._--it is used as a salad, and is said to be superior to the common fetticus, or corn-salad. when in blossom, the plant presents a beautiful appearance, and well deserves a place in the flower-garden. * * * * * water-cress. sisymbrium nasturtium. nasturtium officinale. water-cress is a hardy, aquatic perennial; and is found growing naturally, in considerable abundance, about ponds, and in ditches and small running streams. when in blossom, the plant is about two feet in height, or length; the leaves are winged, with five or six pairs of rounded leaflets, and, in deep water, are often immersed, or float upon the surface; the flowers are small, white, four-petaled, and terminate the stalks in loose spikes; the seeds are very small, reddish-brown, and retain their powers of germination five years,--nearly a hundred and twenty thousand are contained in an ounce. _planting and culture._--"water-cress is of the best quality when grown in running streams and gravelly soil." the roots may be planted in spring, in situations where the water is from four to eight inches deep. after they are established, the plants will rapidly increase, both from the natural distribution of the seeds and the spreading of the roots, and soon entirely cover the surface of the water with foliage. it may be grown with trifling cost in any small collection of water, and can be easily introduced by dropping a few plants about the borders at the time of the ripening of the seeds. in many localities, it is found growing in spontaneous abundance; and one of the best and most healthful of salads may be obtained for the mere labor of gathering. _varieties._--there are three described varieties,--the green-leaved, the small brown-leaved, and the large brown-leaved. these differ slightly, if at all, in flavor; though the brown-leaved is generally preferred: having a fine appearance, and a small proportion of stalk to the leaves, it is most salable in the market. the variations in foliage and habit do not appear to be caused by the quantity or quality of the water in which the plants are grown, as the three kinds are found growing together. "the green-leaved is the easiest of cultivation, and the small brown-leaved is the hardiest. the large brown-leaved is the best, and is the only one which can be well grown in situations where shallow water is not to be obtained."--_trans._ _gathering and use._--"the shoots are _cut_ for market, not _broken_ off, as is the usual mode of gathering cress in its natural state, and which is found to be very injurious to the plants in the beds. after they have been cut about three times, they begin to stock; and then, the oftener they are cut, the better. in summer, it is necessary to keep them very closely cut; and in water of a proper depth, and with a good soil, each bed supplies a gathering once a week." it is extensively employed as an early spring salad; and, on account of its warm and pleasant taste, is by many persons preferred to all other salad plants. * * * * * winter-cress. barbarea. american winter-cress. belle-isle cress. scurvy-grass, of some localities. barbarea præcox. stems from twelve to fifteen inches high; leaves lyrate, the terminal lobe round; flowers small, in erect, loose, terminal spikes, or groups; the seeds are small, wrinkled, of a grayish color, and retain their vitality three years. introduced from europe, and naturalized in the northern states. common winter-cress, or yellow rocket. barbarea vulgaris. this species somewhat resembles the foregoing; and, like it, grows naturally in moist, shady situations. it is distinguished by its longer, more erect, and more slender pods. _soil and cultivation._--both of the species are hardy, perennial plants; and are raised from seeds, which should be sown in april or may, in shallow drills a foot apart. for a succession, a few seeds may be sown at intervals of three or four weeks till august. for winter use, sow, and subsequently cultivate, as winter spinach. _use._--as soon as the plants have made sufficient growth, they may be cut for use. the outer leaves should be first gathered, and the flower-stalks cut or nipped off as they make their appearance, in order to render the plants strong and stocky, and to promote the growth of the leaves; these being the parts of the plants used. they are served as cress, which they resemble in flavor. * * * * * wood-sorrel. oxalis acetocella. wood-sorrel is a hardy, perennial plant; growing naturally in woods, in cool and shaded situations. the leaves are radical, inversely heart-shaped, and produced three together at the extremity of quite a long stem, or petiole; the flower-stalk is entirely leafless, and supports a solitary bell-shaped flower, the petals of which are white, finely lined or striped with purple; the seed-vessels are of an oblong form, five-angled, and, when ripe, burst open by the touch, in the manner of those of the _impatiens noli me tangere_, or common balsam, of the flower-garden; the seeds are quite small, and of a reddish-brown color. the flowers are produced in may and june, and the seeds ripen in july. _propagation and culture._--it may be propagated either by seeds or by dividing the roots. the soil should be rich and moist; and the seeds may be sown in april or may, in shallow drills ten or twelve inches apart; or the roots may be divided in spring or autumn, and set in rows the same distance asunder. _use._--the leaves possess a pleasant, acid taste; and are mixed with salads, to which they impart an agreeable, refreshing flavor. the plant is considered one of the most valuable of all vegetables cultivated for their acid properties. * * * * * worms. astragalus hamosus. a hardy, annual plant, indigenous to the south of europe. stem ten or twelve inches long, recumbent; leaves pinnate, with ten or twelve pairs of quite small leaflets; flowers yellow, produced five or six together at the extremity of quite a long stem, or peduncle; the seed-pods are about two inches long, nearly a fourth of an inch thick, peculiarly bent or curved, and contain ten or twelve brown seeds. there is but one species or variety cultivated. _sowing and culture._--the plants may be started by sowing the seeds in a hot-bed in march, or the seeds may be sown in the open ground in may. they are cultivated in rows fourteen inches apart, and ten or twelve inches apart in the rows; and are also grown in groups, or hills, three or four together. the plants blossom in july, and the pods attain their growth in august and september. _use._--the pods, in their green state, much resemble some descriptions of worms; and, like caterpillars (_scorpiurus_) and snails (_medicago_), are sometimes placed on dishes of salad to excite curiosity, or for pleasantly surprising the guests at table. though inoffensive, they are seldom eaten. chapter viii. oleraceous plants. angelica. anise. balm. basil. borage. caraway. clary. coriander. costmary. cumin. dill. fennel. lavender. lovage. marigold. marjoram. nigella. parsley. peppermint. rosemary. sage. savory. spearmint. tansy. thyme. angelica. angelica archangelica. angelica is a native of hungary and germany, and is also indigenous to great britain. it is a hardy, biennial plant, with a cylindrical, hollow, herbaceous stem four or five feet high. the radical leaves are from two to three feet long, compound, or divided in threes, purplish-red at the base; flowers small, pale-yellow, in large, terminal, spherical umbels; the seeds are of a yellowish color, oblong, flattened on one side, convex on the opposite, ribbed, thin, and membraneous on the borders, and retain their germinative power but a single season,--nearly six thousand are contained in an ounce. _soil and culture._--the plants thrive best in damp, and even wet, localities; but may be grown in any good, well-enriched soil. as the seeds soon lose their vitality, they should be sown in august, immediately after ripening. make a small bed, sow the seeds in drills ten inches apart, and cover three-fourths of an inch deep. in this seed-bed allow the young plants to remain until the following spring, when they should be set out two feet asunder in each direction. the stalks will be fit for use in may and june of the following year. if the flower-stem is removed as it makes its appearance, the plants will put forth fresh sprouts from the sides of the root, and survive three years; but when allowed to blossom, and to perfect their seeds, the plants soon after perish. _use._--angelica was formerly used, after being blanched, as a salad, like celery. in the vicinity of london, it is raised to a considerable extent for confectioners,--the tender leaf-stalks and flowering-shoots serving as a basis for sweetmeat. the seeds are sometimes employed for flavoring liquors. * * * * * anise. pimpinella anisum. this is an annual plant, originally from egypt. though but little cultivated in this country, neither our soil nor climate is unsuitable; and it might be successfully, if not profitably, grown in the middle and warmer parts of the northern states. large quantities of the seeds are raised on the island of malta and in some parts of spain, and thence exported to england and america for the purpose of distillation or expression. the stem is from a foot and a half to two feet high, and separates into numerous slender branches; the leaves are twice pinnate,--those of the upper part of the stalk divided into three or four narrow segments; the flowers are small, yellowish-white, produced in large, loose umbels, at the extremities of the branches; the seeds are of a grayish-green color, oblong, slightly bent or curved, convex and ribbed on one side, concave on the opposite, and terminate in a small bunch, or knob,--nearly nine thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality three years. _culture._--anise is raised from seeds sown annually, and thrives best in light, rich, comparatively dry soil, and in a warm, sunny situation. as early in spring as the appearance of settled warm weather, lay out a bed four feet and a half wide, and as long as may be desired; spread on a thin dressing of well-digested compost, and spade it thoroughly in with the soil; then rake the surface fine and even, and sow the seed thinly in drills twelve inches apart and an inch deep, allowing an ounce of seed for a hundred and fifty linear feet. when the plants are an inch high, thin them to five or six inches apart; and, as they increase in size, keep the ground between the rows loose, and the spaces between the plants free from weeds. towards the close of the season, the seed will be ripened sufficiently for harvesting; when the plants should be pulled up, and spread in a sunny place until dry. the seed should then be threshed from the heads, riddled and winnowed, and again exposed to the sun, or spread in a dry, airy room, to evaporate any remaining moisture; when they will be ready for use or the market. in field culture, the grower should follow substantially the same method, with the exception of laying out the ground; omitting, in this particular, its division into beds. after the land has been well prepared, the seed can be sown with great facility by a common sowing-machine, adjusted as when employed for sowing carrots. at the time of harvesting, the plants may be cut near the surface of the ground, or even mowed; thereby avoiding much of the inconvenience arising from the soil that adheres to the roots when the plants are pulled up. there are no varieties. _use._--the seeds and leaves are used both in medicine and cookery. the green leaves are employed in salads, and for seasoning and garnishing, like fennel. the seeds have a fragrant odor, a pleasant, warm taste, and are highly carminative. large quantities are used for distillation and in flavoring liquors, and also for expressing for their essential oil. * * * * * balm. melissa officinalis. a hardy, perennial plant, from the south of europe. the stalk is four-sided, branching, and from two to three feet high; leaves opposite, in pairs, ovate, toothed on the borders; the flowers are small, nearly white, produced in spikes, or clusters, at or near the top of the plant. _soil, propagation, and culture._--any warm, mellow, garden soil is suited to its growth. it is generally propagated by dividing the roots, which may be done either in spring or in autumn. after thoroughly stirring the soil, set the roots in rows fifteen inches apart, and a foot apart in the rows. under good management, the plants will soon completely cover the surface of the ground, and the bed will not need renewal for many years. _gathering._--if required for drying, the plants should be cut as they come into flower, separating the stems at the surface of the ground. they should not be exposed to the sun in drying, but placed in an airy, shady place, and allowed to dry gradually. the leaves, in their green state, may be taken directly from the plants as they are required for use. _use._--the plant has a pleasant, lemon-like odor; an agreeable, aromatic taste; and, in flavoring certain dishes, is used as a substitute for lemon-thyme. it is beneficial in hemorrhage, and other diseases of the lungs; and, in the form of tea, constitutes a cooling and grateful diluent in fevers. a mixture of balm and honey, or sugar, is sometimes applied to the interior of beehives, just previous to receiving the swarm, for the purpose of "attaching the colony to its new settlement." * * * * * basil. ocymum. there are two species of basil cultivated in gardens; viz., the common sweet basil (_o. basilicum_) and the small bush basil (_o. minimum_). of the common sweet basil, there are three varieties; and of the bush basil, two varieties. they are all annuals, and are grown from seeds, which are black, small, oblong, and retain their vitality from six to ten years. common sweet basil. large sweet basil. ocymum basilicum. stem from a foot to a foot and a half in height; leaves comparatively large, green, ovate, sharply pointed; flowers white, in whorls at the extremities of the stems and branches. the whole plant, when bruised, is highly aromatic; having the odor and flavor of cloves. the seeds of the common sweet basil, and also those of the two following varieties, may be sown in a hot-bed in march, and the plants set out in may in rows a foot apart, and five or six inches apart in the rows; or the seeds may be sown in the open ground the last of april or early in may, and the plants thinned while young, as directed for transplanting. in removing the plants from the hot-bed, retain as much of the earth about the roots as possible; water freely as soon as transplanted, and also in dry weather; and they will soon yield an abundance of tender stems and leaves. _varieties._-- purple basil. basilic grand violet. _vil._ leaves and flowers purple. when grown in sunny situations, the leaf-stems and young branches are also purple. in other respects, the variety is similar to the common sweet basil. its properties and uses are the same. lettuce-leaved basil. _vil._ the leaves of this variety are large, pale-green, wrinkled and blistered like those of some kinds of lettuce: whence the name. it resembles the foregoing varieties in taste and odor, and is used for the same purposes. bush basil. ocymum minimum. the bush basils are small, low-growing, branching plants; and are propagated and cultivated like the common sweet basil. green bush basil. basilic fin vert. _vil._ stem about eight inches high; leaves small, green, oval; flowers white, produced in whorls about the upper portion of the principal stalk and towards the extremities of the branches. purple bush basil. basilic fin violet. _vil._ leaves purple. in other respects, similar to the green bush basil. _use._--the leaves and young branches have a strong, clove-like taste and odor, and are used in highly seasoned soups and meats. they are also sometimes added to salads. for winter use, the stalks are cut while in flower, dried, powdered, and preserved, like other pot-herbs. * * * * * borage. borago officinalis. borage is generally classed as a hardy annual, though it is sometimes biennial. stem two feet high; the leaves are oval, alternate, and, in common with the stalk and branches, thickly set with stiff, bristly hairs; the flowers are large and showy,--they are red, white, or blue, and often measure more than an inch in diameter; the seeds are large, oblong, slightly curved, and retain their germinative property three years. _soil and cultivation._--borage thrives best in light, dry soil. the seeds are sown in april or may, in drills ten or twelve inches apart, and half an inch deep. they should be sown quite thinly, or so as to secure a plant for every six or eight inches; to which distance they should be thinned. when a continued supply is required, a second sowing should be made in july. the plants seed abundantly; and, when once introduced into the garden, spring up spontaneously. _use._--the plant is rarely cultivated and little used in this country. it is sometimes employed as a pot-herb, and the young shoots are occasionally mixed in salads. they are also sometimes boiled and used as spinach. the flowers make a beautiful garnish, and it is well worthy cultivation as an ornamental plant. "the stalks and foliage contain a large proportion of nitre; and, when dried, burn like match-paper." _varieties._--there are several varieties, differing slightly, except in the color of the flowers; the red-flowering, white-flowering, and blue-flowering being the principal. a variety, with variegated foliage, is described by some authors. miller states that "they generally retain their distinctions from seeds." * * * * * caraway. carum carui. the common caraway is a hardy, biennial plant; a native of various parts of europe; and, to a considerable extent, naturalized in this country. the root is long and tapering, of a yellowish-white color, and about three-fourths of an inch in diameter near the crown or at its broadest part; the flesh of the root is white, fine-grained, with a flavor not unlike that of the carrot; the flower-stalks are put forth the second season, and are about two feet and a half in height, with numerous spreading branches; the leaves are finely cut, or divided, and of a deep-green color; the flowers are small, white, and produced in umbels at the ends of the branches; the seeds, which ripen quite early in the season, are of an oblong form, somewhat curved, furrowed, slightly tapering towards the extremities, of a clear olive-brown color, and pleasant, aromatic flavor and odor,--nearly eight thousand five hundred seeds are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality three years. _soil and cultivation._--caraway is one of the hardiest of plants, and succeeds well in almost any soil or situation. in the coldest parts of the united states, and even in the canadas, it is naturalized to such an extent about fields and mowing lands, as to be obtained in great abundance for the mere labor of cutting up the plants as the ripening of the seeds takes place. when cultivated, the sowing may be made in april or may: but, if sown just after ripening, the seeds not only vegetate with greater certainty, but the plants often flower the ensuing season; thus saving a summer's growth. sow in drills twelve or fifteen inches apart, and cover half an inch deep. when the plants are well up, thin to six or eight inches apart, and keep the ground loose, and free from weeds. the seeds will ripen in the july of the year after sowing. for other methods of culture, see coriander. _use._--it is principally cultivated for its seeds, which constitute an article of some commercial importance; a large proportion, however, of the consumption in this country being supplied by importation from europe. they are extensively employed by confectioners, and also for distillation. they are also mixed in cake, and, by the dutch, introduced into cheese. it is sometimes cultivated for its young leaves, which are used in soups and salads; or as a pot-herb, like parsley. the roots are boiled in the manner of the carrot or parsnip, and by some preferred to these vegetables; the flavor being considered pleasant and delicate. there are no described varieties. * * * * * clary. _loud._ clary sage. salvia sclarea. clary is a hardy, biennial plant. it is indigenous to the south of europe, and has been cultivated in gardens for upwards of three centuries. the radical leaves are large, rough, wrinkled, oblong-heart-shaped, and toothed on the margin; stalk two feet high, four-sided, clammy to the touch; flowers pale-blue, in loose, terminal spikes; seeds round, brownish, and, like others of the family, produced four together,--they retain their vitality two years. _sowing and culture._--it is generally grown from seeds, which are sown annually in april or may, in drills fifteen or eighteen inches apart, and half or three-fourths of an inch deep. when the young plants are two or three inches high, thin them to ten or twelve inches apart, and treat the growing crop in the usual form during summer. the leaves will be in perfection in the ensuing autumn, winter, and spring; and the plants will blossom, and produce their seeds, in the following summer. _use._--the leaves are used for flavoring soups, to which they impart a strong, peculiar flavor, agreeable to some, but unpleasant to most persons. it has some of the properties of common sage, and is occasionally used as a substitute. the plant is seldom employed in american cookery, and is little cultivated. * * * * * coriander. _law._ coriandrum sativum. a hardy annual, supposed to have been introduced from the south of europe, but now naturalized in almost all temperate climates where it has once been cultivated. stem about two feet in height, generally erect, but, as the seeds approach maturity, often acquiring a drooping habit; stem-leaves more finely cut or divided than those proceeding directly from the root, and all possessed of a strong and somewhat disagreeable odor. the generic name is derived from _koris_ (a bug), with reference to the peculiar smell of its foliage. flowers white, produced on the top of the plant, at the extremities of the branches, in flat, spreading umbels, or bunches; seeds globular, about an eighth of an inch in diameter, of a yellowish-brown color, with a warm, pleasant, aromatic taste,--they become quite light and hollow by age, and are often affected by insects in the manner of seed-pease. though they will sometimes vegetate when kept for a longer period, they are not considered good when more than two years old. _propagation and cultivation._--like all annuals, it is propagated from seed, which should be sown in april or may, in good, rich, mellow soil well pulverized. sow in drills made fourteen or sixteen inches asunder and about three-fourths of an inch in depth, and thin to nine inches in the rows. it soon runs to flower and seed, and will be ready for harvesting in july or august. in the south of england, coriander is generally cultivated in connection with caraway; eighteen pounds of caraway seed being mixed with fifteen pounds of coriander for an acre. the coriander, being an annual, yields its crop the first season. after being cut, it is left on the field to dry, and the seeds afterwards beaten out on cloths; the facility with which these are detached not admitting of the usual method of harvesting. an unquestionably preferable mode of cultivation would be to sow them both in drills alternately, by which means the caraway would be more easily hoed and cleaned after the removal of the coriander. _use._--it is generally cultivated for its seeds, which are used to a considerable extent by druggists, confectioners, and distillers. in the garden, it is sometimes sown for its leaves, which are used as chervil in soups and salads; but, when so required, a sowing should be made at intervals of three or four weeks. there are no varieties. * * * * * costmary, or alecost. balsamita vulgaris. costmary is a hardy, perennial plant, with a hard, creeping root, and an erect, branching stem two or three feet high. the radical leaves, which are produced on long footstalks, are oval, serrated, and of a grayish color,--those of the stalk are sessile, smaller than the radical ones, but similar in form; the flowers are deep-yellow, in erect, terminal, spreading corymbs; the seeds are small, slightly curved, and of a grayish-white color. hoary-leaved costmary. _loud._ a variety with deeply divided and hoary leaves, less fragrant than the preceding. _propagation and cultivation._--costmary may be cultivated in almost any description of soil or situation. it is sometimes grown from seeds, but is generally propagated by dividing the roots, which increase rapidly, and soon entirely occupy the ground. they are taken up for planting out either in spring or autumn, and should be set two feet apart in each direction. by occasionally thinning out the plants as they become too thick, a bed may be continued many years. _use._--the plant has a soft, agreeable odor, and is sometimes used as a pot-herb for flavoring soups. the leaves are used in salads, and also for flavoring ale or beer: hence the name "alecost." * * * * * cumin. cuminum cyminum. cumin is a native of egypt. it is a tender, annual plant, from nine to twelve inches high. the leaves are deep-green, and divided into long, linear segments, not unlike those of fennel; the flowers are white or pale-blue, and produced in small umbels at the extremities of the branches; the seeds are long, furrowed, of a pale-brownish color, and somewhat resemble those of anise,--about seven thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their power of germination three years. _soil and cultivation._--cumin requires a light, warm-loamy soil. the seed should be sown about the beginning of may, in drills fourteen inches apart and half an inch deep. when the plants are well up, they should be thinned to three or four inches apart in the lines. the treatment of the growing crop, and the usual method of harvesting, are the same as directed for anise or coriander. the seed is sometimes sown broadcast; the soil being first finely pulverized, and raked smooth and even. this may be successfully practised upon land naturally light and warm, if free from weeds. though a native of a warm climate, cumin may be successfully grown throughout the middle states, and in the warmer portions of the northern and eastern. _use._--the plant is cultivated for its seeds, which are carminative, and used as those of caraway and coriander. they are sometimes employed for flavoring spirits. the plant is rarely grown, and the seeds are but little used, in the united states. there are no varieties. * * * * * dill. _loud._ anethum graveolens. dill is a hardy, biennial plant. there is but one species cultivated, and there are no varieties. the stem is erect and slender, and the leaves are finely divided; the flowers are produced in june and july of the second year, and the seeds ripen in august. the plant resembles fennel in its general character, though smaller and less vigorous. _propagation and cultivation._--dill flourishes best in light soil, and is propagated from seeds sown annually. as these retain their vitality but a single year, and, even when kept through the winter, vegetate slowly, they are frequently sown late in summer, or early in autumn, immediately after ripening. the drills are made a foot apart, and the seeds covered half an inch deep. the young plants should be thinned to six inches apart in the rows; and the leaves may be gathered for use from july till winter, and in the following spring till the plants have run to flower. _use._--"the whole plant is strongly aromatic. its leaves are used to give flavor to pickles, particularly cucumbers; and occasionally are added to soups and sauces: the seeds are also employed for flavoring pickles. all parts of the plant are used in medical preparations." * * * * * fennel. foeniculum. three species of fennel are cultivated, differing not only in habit, but, to some extent, in their properties. the stems vary in height from two to four feet, and are smooth and branching; the flowers are yellow, in terminal umbels; the seeds are oval, ribbed, or furrowed, generally of a light, yellowish-brown color, and retain their vitality from three to five years. _soil, sowing, and culture._--a light, dry soil is best adapted to the growth of fennel; though it will thrive well in any good garden loam. it is generally raised from seeds, which may be sown in august, just after they ripen, or in april and may. they are generally sown in drills fifteen or eighteen inches apart, and about three-fourths of an inch deep,--the young plants being afterwards thinned to twelve or fifteen inches apart in the drills; or a few seeds may be scattered broadcast on a small seed-bed, raked in, and the seedlings, when two or three inches high, transplanted to rows, as before directed. fennel is sometimes propagated by a division of the roots and by offsets. this may be performed either in spring, summer, or autumn. set the roots, or shoots, fifteen inches apart in each direction; and they will soon become stocky plants, and afford an abundance of leaves for use. when cultivated for its foliage, the flowering-shoots should be cut off as they may make their appearance, to encourage the production of fresh shoots, and to give size and succulency to the leaves. the species and their peculiar uses are as follow:-- common or bitter fennel. foeniculum vulgare. a perennial species, with deep, strong, fleshy roots; stem three or four feet high, with finely divided leaves. the flowers are put forth in july, and the seeds ripen in august: the latter are about one-sixth of an inch long, of a greenish-brown color, and, in common with the leaves, of a decidedly bitter taste. _soil, sowing, and culture._--this species may be grown in almost any soil or situation. sow the seeds soon after ripening, or early in spring. the plants require no other care than to be kept free from weeds. _use._--the young leaves are used for flavoring soups and sauces, and are sometimes mixed in salads. the seeds are carminative, and the roots and leaves have reputed medicinal properties. dark-green leaved. _loud._ a variety with deep-green foliage. its uses, and modes of culture, are the same as those of the foregoing species. florence or italian fennel. _mill._ finochio. sweet azorian fennel. foeniculum dulce. quite distinct from the common fennel, and generally cultivated as an annual. the stem, which is about eighteen inches high, expands near the surface of the ground; and, when divided horizontally, presents an oval form, measuring four or five inches in one direction, and two inches in the opposite. the flowers are produced in umbels, as in the other species. the seeds are slender, yellow, somewhat curved, sweet and pleasant to the taste, and of an agreeable, anise-like odor. _sowing and culture._--the plant should be grown in well-enriched, mellow soil. sow the seeds in april or may, thinly, in shallow drills from eighteen inches to two feet apart. half an ounce of seeds will be sufficient for fifty feet of drill; or, by transplanting when they spring up too thickly, will furnish seedlings for a hundred feet. the plants should be eight or ten inches apart; and, when the stems have attained a sufficient size, they should be earthed up for blanching, in the manner of celery. two or three weeks will be required to perfect this; and, if properly treated, the stems will be found white, crisp, tender, and excellent. plants from the first sowing will be ready for use in july and august. for a succession, a few seeds may be sown in june, or early in july. _use._--the blanched portion of the stem is mixed in soups, and also used as a salad. it is served like celery, with various condiments; and possesses a sweet, pleasant, aromatic taste. it is a popular vegetable in some parts of europe, but is rarely cultivated in this country. sweet fennel. _mill._ malta fennel. foeniculum officinale. by some writers, this has been described as a variety of the common fennel; but its distinctive character appears to be permanent under all conditions of soil and culture. the leaves are long and narrow, and, compared with those of the last named, less abundant, and not so pointed. the stem is also shorter, and the seeds are longer, more slender, and lighter colored. _sowing and cultivation._--it is propagated and cultivated as the common fennel. _use._--it is used in all the forms of the last named. the seeds have a sweet, pleasant, anise-like taste and odor, are strongly carminative, and yield an essential oil by distillation. lavender. lavendula spica. lavender is a hardy, low-growing, shrubby plant, originally from the south of europe. there are three varieties; and they may be propagated from seeds by dividing the roots, or by slips, or cuttings. the seeds are sown in april or may. make the surface of the soil light and friable, and sow the seeds in very shallow drills six inches apart. when the seedlings are two or three inches high, transplant them in rows two feet apart, and a foot apart in the rows. the slips, or cuttings, are set in april, two-thirds of the length in the soil, and in rows as directed for transplanting seedlings. shade them for a few days, until they have taken root; after which, little care will be required beyond the ordinary form of cultivation. the roots may be divided either in spring or autumn. though lavender grows most luxuriantly in rich soil, the plants are more highly aromatic, and less liable to injury from severe weather, when grown in light, warm, and gravelly situations. _use._--lavender is sometimes used as a pot-herb, "but is more esteemed for the distilled water which bears its name, and which, together with the oil, is obtained in the greatest proportion from the flower-spikes which have been gathered in dry weather, and just before the flowers are fully expanded. the oil of lavender is obtained in the ratio of an ounce to sixty ounces of dried flowers."--_law._ "in the neighborhood of mitcham, in surrey, england, upwards of two hundred acres are occupied with lavender alone."--_thomp._ _varieties._-- broad-leaved lavender. _mill._ spike lavender. compared with the common lavender, the branches of this variety are shorter, more sturdy, and thicker set with leaves; the latter being short and broad. the broad-leaved lavender rarely blossoms; but, when this occurs, the leaves of the flower-stalk are differently formed from those of the lower part of the plant, and somewhat resemble those of the common variety. the stalks are taller, the spikes lower and looser, and the flowers smaller, than those of the last named. common or blue-flowering lavender. narrow-leaved blue-flowering. a shrubby, thickly-branched plant, from a foot to upwards of three feet high, according to the depth and quality of the soil in which it is cultivated. the leaves are opposite, long, and narrow; flowers blue or purple, in spikes. the whole plant is remarkably aromatic; but the flowers have this property in a greater degree than the foliage or branches. the plants are in perfection in july and august, and are cut for drying or distillation, close to the stem, as the blossoms on the lower part of the spikes begin to change to a brown color. narrow-leaved white-flowering. a sub-variety of the common lavender, with white flowers. it is of smaller growth and less hardy than the last named, though not so generally cultivated. its properties and uses are the same. * * * * * lovage. ligusticum levisticum. lovage is a hardy, perennial plant, with a hollow, channelled, branching stem six or seven feet high. the leaves are winged, smooth, deep, glossy-green, and somewhat resemble those of celery; the flowers are yellow, and produced in large umbels at the extremities of the branches; the seeds are oblong, striated, of a pale, yellowish-brown color, and retain their germinative powers but one year. _soil, propagation, and culture._--lovage requires a deep, rich, moist soil; and is propagated either by seeds or dividing: the roots. the seeds should be sown in august, or immediately after ripening; as, when sown in spring, they seldom vegetate well. when the young plants have made a growth of two or three inches, they should be transplanted three feet apart in each direction; and, when well established, will require little care, and continue for many years. the roots may be divided in spring or autumn; and should be set three feet apart, as directed for seedling plants; covering the crowns three inches deep. _use._--lovage was formerly cultivated as an esculent; but its use as such has long been discontinued. it is now cultivated for its medicinal properties; both the seeds and roots being used. the latter are large, fleshy, dark-brown without, yellowish within, and of a peculiar, warm, aromatic taste. they are sliced and dried, and in this state are used to some extent by confectioners. the seeds are similar to the roots in taste and odor, but have greater pungency. in appearance and flavor, the plant is not unlike celery. there are no varieties. * * * * * marigold. pot marigold. calendula officinalis. this hardy annual is a native of france and the south of europe. aside from its value for culinary purposes, its large, deep, orange-yellow flowers are showy and attractive; and it is frequently cultivated as an ornamental plant. the stem is about a foot in height; the leaves are thick and fleshy, rounded at the ends, and taper to the stalk; the flowers are an inch and a half or two inches in diameter, yellow,--differing, however, in depth of color, and single or double according to the variety; the seeds are large, light-brown, much curved and contorted, and very irregular both in their size and form. _sowing and cultivation._--the plant is of easy culture. the seeds are sown in autumn, just after ripening; or in april, may, or june. make the drills a foot apart; cover the seed three-fourths of an inch deep; and, when the plants are an inch or two inches high, thin them to eight or ten inches apart. plants from the first sowing will blossom early in july, and continue in bloom until destroyed by frost. _gathering._--the flowers are gathered when fully expanded, divested of their calyxes, and spread in a light, airy, shaded situation until they are thoroughly dried. they are gathered as they come to perfection; for, when the plants are allowed to ripen their seeds, they become much less productive. _to raise seed._--leave one or two of the finest plants, without cutting the flowers; and, when the heads of seed begin to change from a green to a brownish color, cut them off, spread them a short time as directed for drying the flowers, and pack away for use. _use._--the flowers are used in various parts of europe for flavoring soups and stews, and are much esteemed. though often grown as an ornamental plant, the flowers are but little used in this country for culinary purposes. the varieties are as follow:-- common orange-flowered. flowers single, deep orange-yellow, high-flavored. it is considered the best variety for cultivation. lemon-flowered. this differs from the foregoing in the paler color of the flowers, which are also less aromatic. the plants are not distinguishable from those of the common orange-flowered. double orange-flowering. of the same color with the first named, but with fine, large, double ornamental flowers. the petals are flat, and rest in an imbricated manner, one on the other, as in some varieties of the anemone. it is more productive, but less aromatic, than the single-flowering. double lemon-flowering. a variety of the second-named sort, with double flowers like those of the preceding. to raise good seeds of either of the double-flowering kinds, all plants producing single flowers must be removed as soon as their character is known. when the single and double-flowering plants are suffered to grow together, the latter rapidly deteriorate, and often ultimately become single-flowering. childing, or proliferous marigold. _loud._ this variety produces numerous small flowers from the margin of the calyx of the large central flowers. it is quite ornamental, but of little value as an esculent. * * * * * marjoram. origanum. common marjoram. origanum vulgare. a perennial species, with a shrubby, four-sided stem, a foot and a half high; leaves oval, opposite,--at the union of the leaves with the stalk, there are produced several smaller leaves, which, in size and form, resemble those of the common sweet marjoram; the flowers are pale-red, or flesh-colored, and produced in rounded, terminal spikes; the plants blossom in july and august, and the seeds ripen in september. _propagation and culture._--it may be grown from seeds, but is generally propagated by dividing the roots, either in spring or autumn. set them in a dry and warm situation, in rows fifteen inches apart, and ten or twelve inches from plant to plant in the rows. the seeds may be sown in a seed-bed in april or may, and the seedlings transplanted to rows as directed for setting the roots; or they may be sown in drills fifteen inches apart, afterwards thinning out the young plants to ten inches apart in the drills. there is a variety with white flowers, and another with variegated foliage. _use._--the young shoots, cut at the time of flowering and dried in the shade, are used as sweet marjoram for seasoning soups and meats. the whole plant is highly aromatic. sweet marjoram. knotted marjoram. origanum majorana. sweet marjoram is a native of portugal. though a biennial, it is always treated as an annual; not being sufficiently hardy to withstand the winters of the middle or northern states in the open ground. the plant is of low growth, with a branching stem, and oval or rounded leaves. the flowers, which appear in july and august, are of a purplish color, and produced in compact clusters, or heads, resembling knots: whence the term "knotted marjoram" of many localities. the seeds are brown, exceedingly small, and retain their germinative properties three years. _sowing and cultivation._--sweet marjoram is raised from seeds sown annually in april, may, or june. its propagation, however, is generally attended with more or less difficulty, arising from the exceeding minuteness of the seeds, and the liability of the young seedlings to be destroyed by the sun before they become established. the seeds are sown in drills ten or twelve inches apart, and very thinly covered with finely pulverized loam. coarse light matting is often placed over the bed immediately after sowing, to facilitate vegetation; and, if allowed to remain until the plants are well up, will often preserve a crop which would otherwise be destroyed. the seeds are sometimes sown in a hot-bed, and the plants set out in may or june, in rows twelve inches apart, and six inches apart in the rows. _gathering._--the plants, when in flower or fully developed, are cut to the ground; and, for winter use, are dried and preserved as other pot-herbs. _use._--sweet marjoram is highly aromatic, and is much used, both in the green state and when dried, for flavoring broths, soups, and stuffings. pot marjoram. origanum onites. a perennial species, from sicily. stem a foot or more in height, branching; leaves oval, comparatively smooth; the flowers are small, of a purplish color, and produced in spikes. _propagation and cultivation._--the species is propagated, and the crop in all respects should be treated, as directed for common marjoram. the properties and uses of the plant are also the same. both, however, are much inferior to the sweet marjoram last described. winter sweet marjoram. _corb._ origanum heracleoticum. a half-hardy perennial, from the south of europe. stem eighteen inches high, purplish; the leaves are opposite, oval, rounded at the ends, and resemble those of sweet marjoram; the flowers are white, and are put forth in july and august, in spikelets about two inches in length; the seeds ripen in september. _propagation and culture._--it may be grown from seeds, but is generally propagated by dividing the roots either in the spring or fall, and planting the divisions ten inches apart, in rows eighteen inches asunder. it succeeds best in dry localities, and requires no other attention than to have the soil kept loose, and free from weeds. there is a variety with variegated leaves, but differing in no other respect from the foregoing. _use._--the leaves and young branches are used in soups, and stuffing for meats; and should be cut when just coming into flower, and dried in the shade. * * * * * aromatic nigella. four spices. allspice. black cumin. quatre epices, of the french. nigella saliva. a hardy, annual plant from the east indies. stem twelve to eighteen inches high, with alternate, sessile, finely divided leaves; the flowers are large, white, variegated with blue; the seeds, which are produced in a roundish capsule, are somewhat triangular, wrinkled, of a yellowish color, and pungent, aromatic taste,--about thirteen thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality three years. there is a species cultivated, the seeds of which are black. _soil and cultivation._--it is always raised from seed, and thrives best in light, warm soil. the seed may be sown from the middle of april to the middle of may. pulverize the soil well, make the surface smooth and even, and sow in drills twelve or fourteen inches apart and about half an inch deep. when the plants are two inches high, thin them to five or six inches apart in the rows. during the summer, cultivate in the usual manner, keeping the soil loose, and watering occasionally if the weather be dry; and in august or september, or when the seed ripens, cut off the plants at the roots, spread them in an airy situation, and, when sufficiently dried, thresh out; after which, spread the seed a short time to evaporate any remaining moisture, and they will be ready for use. _use._--the seeds have a warm, aromatic taste; and are employed in french cookery, under the name of _quatre épices_, or "four spices." * * * * * parsley. apium petroselinum. parsley is a hardy, biennial plant from sardinia. the leaves of the first year are all radical, compound, rich, deep-green, smooth, and shining. when fully developed, the plant measures three or four feet in height; the flowers are small, white, in terminal umbels; the seeds are ovoid, somewhat three-sided, slightly curved, of a grayish-brown color and aromatic taste,--seven thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality three years. _soil and propagation._--parsley succeeds best in rich, mellow soil, and is propagated from seeds sown annually; an ounce of seed being allowed to a hundred and fifty feet of drill. _sowing._--as the seed vegetates slowly,--sometimes remaining in the earth four or five weeks before the plants appear,--the sowing should be made as early in spring as the ground is in working condition. lay out the bed of a size corresponding to the supply required, spade it deeply and thoroughly, level the surface (making it fine and smooth), and sow the seed in drills fourteen inches apart, and half an inch deep. when the plants are two or three inches high, thin them to eight or ten inches apart; being careful, in the thinning, to leave only the best and finest curled plants. according to lindley, the finest curled kinds will rapidly degenerate and become plain, if left to themselves; while, on the other hand, really excellent sorts may be considerably improved by careful cultivation. the best curled parsley is obtained by repeated transplantings. when the seedlings are two inches high, they are set in rows ten inches apart, and six inches apart in the rows. in about four weeks, they should be again transplanted to where they are to remain, in rows eighteen inches apart, and fourteen inches apart in the rows. when thus treated, the plants become remarkably close, of a regular, rosette-like form, and often entirely cover the surface of the ground. when grown for competition or for exhibition, this process of transplanting is thrice and often four times repeated. _seed._--in autumn, select two or three of the finest curled and most symmetrical plants; allow them to remain unplucked; give a slight protection during winter; and, in the following summer, they will yield abundantly. much care is requisite in keeping the varieties true. this is especially the case with the curled sorts. the seed-growers, who value their stock and character, select the best and finest curled plants, and allow no others to flower and seed. when the object is to improve a variety, but few seeds are saved from a plant; and, in some cases, but few seeds from a head. _use._--the leaves of the curled varieties afford one of the most beautiful of garnishes: they are also used for flavoring soups and stews. the seeds are aromatic, and are sometimes used as a substitute for the leaves; though the flavor is much less agreeable. _varieties._-- dwarf curled parsley. curled parsley. sutton's dwarf curled. usher's dwarf curled. a fine, dwarfish, curled variety, long cultivated in england. in some gardens, it is grown in such perfection as to resemble a tuft of finely curled, green moss. it is hardy, and slow in running to seed, but liable to degenerate, as it constantly tends to increase in size and to become less curled. from the dwarf curled parsley, by judicious cultivation and a careful selection of plants for seed, have originated many excellent sorts of stronger growth, yet retaining its finely curled and beautiful leaves. mitchell's matchless winter. _thomp._ a fine, curled sort, larger than the dwarf curled; and, on account of its remarkable hardiness, recommended as one of the best for winter culture. myatt's triple-curled. myatt's garnishing. myatt's extra fine curled. windsor curled. the leaves of this variety are large and spreading, bright-green above, paler beneath. when true, the foliage is nearly as finely curled as that of the dwarf, though the plant is much larger and stronger in its habit. plain parsley. _thomp._ common parsley. the leaves of this sort are plain, or not curled; and the plant produces them in greater quantity than the curled sorts. it is also somewhat hardier. for many years, it was the principal variety grown in the gardens of this country; but has now given place to the curled sorts, which, if not of better flavor, are generally preferred, on account of their superior excellence for garnishing. rendle's treble garnishing. _trans._ a variety of the dwarf curled, of larger size; the leaves being as finely curled and equally beautiful. hamburg or large-rooted parsley. _m'int._ turnip-rooted parsley. a variety of the common plain parsley, with stronger foliage. though the leaves are sometimes used in the manner of those of the common parsley, it is generally cultivated for its fusiform, fleshy roots. to obtain these of good size and quality, the soil should not be too rich, but deeply and thoroughly trenched. sow the seeds in april or may, in drills a foot or fourteen inches apart, and three-fourths of an inch deep; and, when the seedlings are two or three inches high, thin them to six or eight inches apart in the rows. cultivate during the season as carrots or parsnips; and, in october, the roots will have attained their growth, and be suitable for use. take them up before the ground closes, cut off the tops within an inch or two of the crowns, pack in earth or sand, and store in the cellar for winter. _to raise seeds._--reset a few roots in april, two feet apart; or leave a few plants in the open ground during the winter. they will blossom in june and july, and ripen their seeds in august. _use._--the roots are eaten, boiled as carrots or parsnips. in connection with the leaves, they are also mixed in soups and stews, to which they impart a pleasant, aromatic taste and odor. naples or celery-leaved parsley. neapolitan parsley. celery parsley. this variety somewhat resembles celery; and, by writers on gardening, is described as a hybrid between some of the kinds of celery and the large-rooted or hamburg parsley. with the exception of their larger size, the leaves are similar to those of the common plain parsley. _use._--the leaves are sometimes employed for garnishing; but are generally blanched, and served as celery. _sowing and cultivation._--the plants are started in a hot-bed in march, or the seeds may be sown in a seed-bed in the open ground in may. when the seedlings are four or five inches high, transplant to trenches two feet apart and six or eight inches deep, setting the plants a foot apart in the trenches; afterwards gather the earth gradually about the stems, in the process of cultivation; and, when they are sufficiently grown and blanched, harvest and preserve as celery. _to raise seeds._--leave two or three plants unblanched. they should be eighteen inches asunder, and may remain in the open ground during winter. they will flower, and yield a plentiful supply of seeds, the following summer. * * * * * peppermint. mentha piperita. peppermint is a hardy, perennial plant, introduced from europe, and growing naturally in considerable abundance along the banks of small streams, and in rich, wet localities. where once established, it spreads rapidly, and will remain a long period. stem smooth, erect, four-sided, and from two to three feet in height; leaves opposite, ovate, pointed, toothed on the margin; flowers purplish, or violet-blue, in terminal spikes; the seeds are small, brown, or blackish-brown, and retain their vitality four years. _propagation and culture._--it may be grown from seeds; but this method of propagation is rarely practised, as it is more readily increased by dividing the roots. the agreeable odor, and peculiar, warm, pleasant flavor, of the leaves are well known. the plant, however, is little used as a pot-herb, but is principally cultivated for distillation. for the latter purpose, the ground is ploughed about the middle of may, and furrowed in one direction, as for drill-planting of potatoes; making the furrows about eighteen inches apart. the best roots for setting are those of a year's growth; and an acre of these will be required to plant ten acres anew. these are distributed along the furrows in a continuous line, and covered sometimes with the foot as the planter drops the roots, and sometimes by drawing the earth over them with a hoe. in about four weeks, the plants will be well established, and require hoeing and weeding; which is usually performed three times during the season, the cultivation being finished early in august. "the cutting and distilling commence about the th of august, except in very dry seasons, when it stands two or three weeks longer, and continues until the st of october; during which period the plant is in full inflorescence, and the lower leaves begin to grow sear. it is raked together in small heaps; when it is suffered to wilt ten or twelve hours, if convenient. "the next year, little is done to the mint-field but to cut and distil its product. during this (the second) year, a few weeds make their appearance, but not to the injury of the crop; though the most careful of the mint-growers go through their fields, and destroy them as much as possible. the second crop is not so productive as the first. "the third year, little labor is required other than to harvest and distil the mint. the stem is coarser than before, and the leaves still less abundant. the weeds this year abound, and are not removed or destroyed; half or more of the product of the field often being weeds. "the fourth year, the field is ploughed up early in the spring; and this 'renewing' is sometimes done every third year. "the fifth year, without any further attention, produces a crop equal to the second; after which, the field is pastured and reclaimed for other crops. "the first year produces the best quality of oil, the highest yield per acre, and the greatest amount to the quantity of herbage."--_f. stearns._ * * * * * rosemary. rosmarinus officinalis. rosemary is a half-hardy, shrubby plant, from three to six feet in height. the leaves vary in form and color in the different varieties; the flowers are small, generally blue, and produced in axillary clusters; the seeds are brown, or blackish-brown, and retain their vitality four years. _propagation and cultivation._--like most aromatic plants, rosemary requires a light, dry soil; and, as it is not perfectly hardy, should have a sheltered situation. the common green-leaved and the narrow-leaved are best propagated by seeds; but the variegated sorts are propagated only by cuttings or by dividing the roots. the seeds are sown in april, in a small nursery-bed; and the seedlings, when two or three inches high, transplanted in rows two feet apart, and eighteen inches apart in the rows. when propagated by cuttings, they should be taken off in may or june, six inches long, and set two-thirds of the length in the earth, in a moist, shady situation: when well rooted, transplant as directed for seedlings. the roots may be divided in spring or autumn. _use._--it is sometimes employed, like other pot-herbs, for flavoring meats and soups. it is used in the manufacture of "eau de cologne," and its flowers and calyxes form a principal ingredient in the distillation of "hungary water." infusions of the leaves are made in some drinks, and the young stems are used as a garnish. there are four varieties, as follow:-- common or green-leaved. leaves narrow, rounded at the ends,--the upper and under surface green; the flowers are comparatively large, and deep-colored. the plant is of spreading habit; and, in all its parts, is more strongly aromatic than the narrow-leaved. it is decidedly the best sort for cultivation. gold-striped. a variety of the common or green-leaved, with foliage striped, or variegated with yellow. this and the silver-leaved are generally cultivated as ornamental plants. the gold-striped is much the hardier sort, and will succeed in any locality where the common green-leaved is cultivated. narrow-leaved. the plants of this variety are smaller and less branched than those of the common or green-leaved, and are also less fragrant; the leaves are hoary beneath, and the flowers are smaller and of a paler color. it is used in all the forms of the common or green-leaved, but is less esteemed. silver-striped. this is a sub-variety of the common or green-leaved, and the most tender of all the sorts. it is principally cultivated for its variegated foliage; the leaves being striped, or variegated with white. like the gold-striped, it can only be propagated by slips or by dividing the roots, and must be well protected during winter. * * * * * sage. salvia. sage is a low-growing, hardy, evergreen shrub, originally from the south of europe. stem from a foot and a half to two feet high,--the leaves varying in form and color in the different species and varieties; the flowers are produced in spikes, and are white, blue, red, purple, or variegated; the seeds are round, of a blackish-brown color, and retain their power of germination three years,--nearly seven thousand are contained in an ounce. _soil and propagation._--sage thrives best in light, rich, loamy soil. though easily grown from slips, or cuttings, it is, in this country, more generally propagated from seeds. these may be sown on a gentle hot-bed in march, and the plants set in the open ground in june, in rows eighteen inches apart, and a foot asunder in the rows; or the seeds may be sown in april, where the plants are to remain, thinly, in drills eighteen inches apart, and three-fourths of an inch deep. when the plants are two inches high, thin them to a foot apart in the rows; and, if needed, form fresh rows by resetting the plants taken up in thinning. if grown from cuttings, those from the present year's growth succeed best. these should be set in june. cut them four or five inches in length, remove the lower leaves, and set them two-thirds of their length in the earth. water freely, and shade or protect with hand-glasses. by the last of july, or first of august, they will have taken root, and may be removed to the place where they are to remain. it may also be propagated by dividing the roots in spring or autumn, in the manner of other hardy shrubs. _gathering and use._--sage should be gathered for drying before the development of the flowering-shoots; and, when cultivated for its leaves, these shoots should be cut out as they make their appearance. when thus treated, the product is largely increased; the leaves being put forth in much greater numbers, and of larger size. it is sometimes treated as an annual; the seeds being sown in april, in drills fourteen inches apart, and the plants cut to the ground when they have made sufficient growth for use. the leaves are employed, both in a green and dried state, for seasoning stuffings, meats, stews, and soups. sage is also used for flavoring cheese; and, in the form of a decoction, is sometimes employed for medical purposes. _species and varieties._-- broad-leaved green sage. balsamic sage. _mill._ stems shrubby, less erect and more downy than those of the succeeding species; the leaves are comparatively large, broad, heart-shaped, woolly, toothed on the margin, and produced on long footstalks,--those of the flower-stalks are oblong, sessile, and nearly entire on the borders; the flowers are small, pale-blue, and much less abundant than those of the common sage. it is rarely employed in cookery, but for medical purposes is considered more efficacious than any other species or variety. common or red-leaved. purple-top. red-top. salvia officinalis. this is the common sage of the garden; and with the green-leaved, which is but a sub-variety, the most esteemed for culinary purposes. the young stalks, the leaf-stems, and the ribs and nerves of the leaves, are purple: the young leaves are also sometimes tinged with the same color, but generally change by age to clear green. the red-leaved is generally regarded as possessing a higher flavor than the green-leaved, and is preferred for cultivation; though the difference, if any really exists, is quite unimportant. the productiveness of the varieties is nearly the same. the leaves of the green sage are larger than those of the red; but the latter produces them in greater numbers. green-leaved. green-top. a variety of the preceding; the young shoots, the leaf-stalks, and the ribs and nerves of the leaves, being green. there appears to be little permanency in the characters by which the varieties are distinguished. both possess like properties, and are equally worthy of cultivation. from seeds of either of the sorts, plants answering to the description of the red-leaved and green-leaved would probably be produced, with almost every intermediate shade of color. narrow-leaved green sage. _mill._ sage of virtue. leaves narrow, hoary, toothed towards the base; the spikes of flowers are long, and nearly leafless; flowers deep-blue; the seeds are similar to those of the red-leaved, and produced four together in an open calyx. compared with the common red-leaved or green-leaved, the leaves are much narrower, the spikes longer and less leafy, and the flowers smaller and of a deeper color. the variety is mild flavored, and the most esteemed of all the sorts for use in a crude state; as it is also one of the best for decoctions. "at one period, the dutch carried on a profitable trade with the chinese by procuring the leaves of this species from the south of france, drying them in imitation of tea, and shipping the article to china, where, for each pound of sage, four pounds of tea were received in exchange."--_m'int._ variegated-leaved green sage. a sub-variety of the green-leaved, with variegated foliage. it is not reproduced from seeds, and must be propagated by slips or by dividing the roots. variegated-leaved red sage. this is but an accidental variety of the common red-leaved sage, differing only in its variegated foliage. it can be propagated only by cuttings or by a division of the roots. * * * * * savory. saturjea. the cultivated species are as follow:-- headed savory. saturjea capitata. a perennial plant, with a rigid, angular, branching stem a foot and a half high. the leaves are firm, pointed, and, when bruised, emit a strong, pleasant, mint-like odor; the flowers are white, and are produced in terminal, globular heads; the seeds are quite small, of a deep-brownish color, and retain their vitality three years. it may be propagated from seeds or by dividing the roots; the latter method, however, being generally practised. the young shoots are used in all the forms of summer savory. shrubby savory. saturjea viminea. a shrub-like, perennial species, cultivated in the same manner as the winter savory. the plant has the pleasant, mint-like odor of the species first described, but is little used either in cookery or medicine. summer savory. saturjea hortensis. an annual species, from the south of europe. stem twelve or fifteen inches high, erect, rather slender, and producing its branches in pairs; the leaves are opposite, narrow, rigid, with a pleasant odor, and warm, aromatic taste; the flowers are pale-pink, or flesh-colored, and are produced at the base of the leaves, towards the upper part of the plant, each stem supporting two flowers; the seeds are quite small, deep-brown, and retain their vitality two or three years. _propagation and cultivation._--summer savory is always raised from seeds, sown annually in april or may. it thrives best in light, mellow soil; and the seed should be sown in shallow drills fourteen or fifteen inches apart. when the plants are two or three inches high, thin them to five or six inches apart in the rows, and cultivate in the usual manner during the summer. when the plants have commenced flowering, they should be cut to the ground, tied in small bunches, and dried in an airy, shady situation. for early use, the seeds are sometimes sown in a hot-bed on a gentle heat, and the seedlings afterwards transplanted to the open ground in rows, as directed for sowing. _use._--the aromatic tops of the plant are used, green or dried, in stuffing meats and fowl. they are also mixed in salads, and sometimes boiled with pease and beans. it is sold in considerable quantities at all seasons of the year, in a dried and pulverized state, packed in hermetically-sealed bottles or boxes. winter savory. _thomp._ saturjea montana. a hardy, evergreen shrub, with a low, branching stem about a foot in height. the leaves are opposite, narrow, and rigid, like those of the preceding species; the flowers resemble those of the summer savory, but are larger and of a paler color; the seeds, which ripen in autumn, are small, dark-brown, and retain their vitality three years. _propagation and culture._--"it may be raised from seed sown in april or may; but is generally propagated by dividing the plants in april, or by cuttings of the young shoots taken off in april or may. the cuttings should be planted two-thirds of their length deep, on a shady border, and, if necessary, watered until they take root. when well established, they may be planted out a foot apart, in rows fifteen inches asunder. some may also be planted as an edging. "the plants should be trimmed every year in autumn, and the ground between the rows occasionally stirred; but, in doing this, care must be taken not to injure the roots. fresh plantations should be made before the plants grow old and cease to produce a sufficient supply of leaves." _use._--it is used for the same purposes as summer savory. the leaves and tender parts of the young branches are mixed in salads: they are also boiled with pease and beans; and, when dried and powdered, are used in stuffings for meats and fowl. * * * * * spearmint. green mint. mentha viridis. a hardy, perennial plant, introduced from europe, and generally cultivated in gardens, but growing naturally in considerable abundance about springs of water, and in rich, wet localities. the stem is erect, four-sided, smooth, and two feet or more in height; the leaves are opposite, in pairs, stemless, toothed on the margin, and sharply pointed; the flowers are purple, and are produced in august, in long, slender, terminal spikes; the seeds are small, oblong, of a brown color, and retain their vitality five years,--they are generally few in number, most of the flowers being abortive. _soil, propagation, and culture._--it may be grown from seed, but is best propagated by a division of the roots, which are long and creeping, and readily establish themselves wherever they are planted. spearmint thrives best in rich, moist soil; but may be grown in any good garden loam. the roots may be set either in the autumn or spring. where large quantities are required for marketing in the green state, or when grown for distillation, lay out the land in beds three or four feet in width, and make the drills two or three inches deep and a foot apart. having divided the roots into convenient pieces, spread them thinly along the drills, and earth them over to a level with the surface of the bed. thus treated, the plants will soon make their appearance; and may be gathered for use in august and september. just before severe weather, give the beds a slight dressing of rich soil; and, the ensuing season, the plants will entirely occupy the surface of the ground. _use._--mint is sometimes mixed in salads, and is used for flavoring soups of all descriptions. it is often boiled with green pease; and, with the addition of sugar and vinegar, forms a much-esteemed relish for roasted lamb. it has also much reputed efficacy as a medicinal plant. curled-leaved spearmint. a variety with curled foliage. it is a good sort for garnishing; but, for general use, is inferior to the common or plain-leaved species before described. propagated by dividing the roots. * * * * * tansy. tanacetum vulgare. tansy is a hardy, perennial, herbaceous plant, naturalized from europe, and abundant by roadsides and in waste places. its stem is from two to three feet high; the leaves are finely cut and divided, twice-toothed on the margin, and of a rich, deep-green color; flowers in corymbs, deep-yellow, and produced in great abundance; the seeds are small, of a brownish color, and retain their vitality three years. _soil and cultivation._--tansy may be grown in almost any soil or situation, and is propagated from seeds or by dividing the roots; the latter method being generally practised. in doing this, it is only necessary to take a few established plants, divide them into small pieces or collections of roots, and set them six inches apart, in rows a foot asunder, or in hills two feet apart in each direction. they will soon become established; and, if not disturbed, will completely occupy the ground. in most places, when once introduced, it is liable to become troublesome, as the roots not only spread rapidly, but are very tenacious of life, and eradicated with difficulty. when cultivated for its leaves, the flowering-shoots should be cut off as they make their appearance. it is but little used, and a plant or two will afford an abundant supply. _use._--the leaves have a strong, peculiar, aromatic odor, and a bitter taste. they were formerly employed to give color and flavor to various dishes, but are now rarely used in culinary preparations. the plant possesses the tonic and stomachic properties common to bitter herbs. there are three cultivated varieties, as follow:-- curled-leaved tansy. double tansy. tanacetum vulgare, var. crispum. this differs from the common tansy in the frilled or curled character of the leaves, which have some resemblance to the leaves of the finer kinds of curled cress or parsley. they are of a rich green color, and are sometimes employed for garnishing. in the habit of the plant, color of the flowers, odor and flavor of the leaves, the variety differs little, if at all, from the common tansy. it is more beautiful than the last-named; and, in all respects, much more worthy of cultivation. propagated only by dividing the roots. large-leaved tansy. leaves larger than those of any other variety, but much less fragrant. it is of little value, and rarely cultivated. variegated-leaved. a variety with variegated foliage. aside from the peculiar color of the leaves, the plant differs in no respect from the common tansy: it grows to the same height, the flowers are of the same color, and the leaves have the same taste and odor. it must be propagated by dividing the roots; the variegated character of the foliage not being reproduced from seeds. * * * * * thyme. thymus. two species of thyme are cultivated for culinary purposes,--the common garden thyme (_t. vulgaris_) and the lemon or evergreen thyme (_t. citriodorus_). they are hardy, perennial plants, of a shrubby character, and comparatively low growth. they are propagated from seeds and by dividing the roots; but the finest plants are produced from seeds. of the common garden thyme, there are three varieties:-- broad-leaved. the broad-leaved thyme is more cultivated in this country than any other species or variety. the stem is ten or twelve inches high, shrubby, of a brownish-red color, and much branched; the leaves are small, narrow, green above, and whitish beneath; flowers purple, in terminal spikes; the seeds are black, and exceedingly small,--two hundred and thirty thousand being contained in an ounce; they retain their vitality two years. _propagation and cultivation._--when propagated by seeds, they are sown in april or may, thinly, in shallow drills ten or twelve inches apart. when the plants are up, they should be carefully cleared of weeds, and thinned to eight or ten inches apart, that they may have space for development. they may be cut for use as soon as they have made sufficient growth; but, for drying, the stalks are gathered as they come into flower. if propagated by dividing the roots, the old plants should be taken up in april, and divided into as many parts as the roots and tops will admit. they are then transplanted about ten inches apart, in beds of rich, light earth; and, if the weather be dry, watered till they are well established. they may be cut for use in august and september. _use._--the leaves have an agreeable, aromatic odor; and are used for flavoring soups, stuffings, and sauces. narrow-leaved. _mill._ the stalks of this variety are shorter than those of the broad-leaved; the leaves also are longer, narrower, and more sharply pointed; and the flowers are larger. it is propagated, cultivated, and used as the broad-leaved. variegated-leaved. a sub-variety of the broad-leaved, with variegated foliage. it is generally cultivated as an ornamental plant; and is propagated only by dividing the roots, as directed for the broad-leaved. lemon thyme. _loud._ thymus citriodorus. a low, evergreen shrub, with a somewhat trailing stem, rarely rising more than six or eight inches high. it is readily distinguished from the common or broad-leaved by the soft, pleasant, lemon-like odor of the young shoots and leaves. it is used for flavoring various dishes, and by some is preferred to the broad-leaved. the species is propagated from seeds by dividing the roots, and by layers and cuttings. seedling plants, however, are said to vary in fragrance; and, when a choice stock can be obtained, it is better to propagate by dividing the plants. chapter ix. leguminous plants. american garden-bean. asparagus-bean. lima bean. scarlet-runner. sieva. chick-pea. chickling vetch. english bean. lentil. lupine. pea. pea-nut. vetch, or tare. winged pea. * * * * * american garden-bean. french bean. kidney-bean. haricot, of the french. phaseolus vulgaris. the common garden-bean of the united states is identical with the french or kidney bean of england and france, and is quite distinct from the english or garden bean of french and english catalogues. the american garden-bean is a tender, annual plant from the east indies, with a dwarfish or climbing stem and trifoliate leaves. the flowers are variable in color, and produced in loose clusters; the seeds are produced in long, flattened, or cylindrical, bivalved pods, and vary, in a remarkable degree, in their size, form, and color,--their germinative powers are retained three or four years. as catalogued by seedsmen, the varieties are divided in two classes,--the dwarfs, and the pole or running sorts. _dwarfs._--the plants of this class vary from a foot to two feet in height. they require no stakes or poles for their support; and are grown in hills or drills, as may suit the taste or convenience of the cultivator. all of the varieties are comparatively tender, and should not be planted before settled, mild weather. they succeed best in warm, light soil; but will flourish in almost any soil or situation, except such as are shaded or very wet. when planted in drills, they are made about two inches deep, and from fourteen to twenty inches apart. the seeds are planted from three to six inches apart; the distance in the drills, as well as the space between the drills, being regulated by the habit of the variety cultivated. if planted in hills, they should be three feet apart in one direction, and about two feet in the opposite. if the variety under cultivation is large and vigorous, four or five plants may be allowed to a hill; if of an opposite character, allow twice this number. _to raise seed._--leave a row or a few hills entirely unplucked. seed is of little value when saved at the end of the season from a few scattered pods accidentally left to ripen on plants that have been plucked from time to time for the table. bagnolet. a half-dwarf, french variety. plant strong and vigorous, with remarkably large, deep-green foliage; flowers bright lilac; the pods are straight, seven inches long, half an inch wide, streaked and spotted with purple when sufficiently grown for shelling in their green state, nankeen-yellow when fully ripe, and contain six seeds, which are nearly straight, rounded at the ends, a little flattened on the sides, three-fourths of an inch long, a fourth of an inch thick, and of a violet-black color, variegated or marbled with drab. about sixteen hundred beans are contained in a quart; and, as the plants are vigorous growers, this amount of seed will be sufficient for three hundred feet of drill, or for nearly three hundred hills. if planted in drills, they should be made twenty inches apart, and two plants allowed to a linear foot. the variety is not early, and requires the entire season for its full perfection. when sown as soon as the weather is suitable, the plant will blossom in about seven weeks. in sixty days, pods may be plucked for use; and the crop will be ready for harvesting in fifteen weeks from the time of planting. for its green pods, the seeds may be planted until the middle of july. the bagnolet is of little value as a shelled-bean, either green or ripe. as a string-bean, it is deservedly considered one of the best. the pods are produced in great abundance; and are not only tender, succulent, and well flavored, but remain long on the plants before they become tough, and unfit for use. if the pods are plucked as they attain a suitable size, new pods will rapidly succeed, and the plants will afford a continued supply for several weeks. black-eyed china. plant fifteen inches high, less strong and vigorous than that of the common red-eyed china; the flowers are white; the pods are comparatively short, usually about five inches long, green and straight while young, straw-yellow when sufficiently advanced for shelling, yellow, thick, hard, and parchment-like when ripe, and contain five or six seeds,--these are white, spotted and marked about the eye with black, of an oblong form, usually rounded, but sometimes shortened at the ends, slightly compressed on the sides, and measure half an inch in length, and three-eighths of an inch in thickness. a quart contains fifteen hundred beans, and will plant a drill, or row, of two hundred feet, or a hundred and fifty hills. the variety is early. when sown at the commencement of the season, the plants will blossom in six weeks, produce pods for the table in seven weeks, pods for shelling in ten weeks, and ripen in eighty-seven days. it yields well, ripens off at once, and, on account of the thick, parchment-like character of the pods, suffers much less from wet and unfavorable seasons than many other sorts. as a string-bean, it is of fair quality, good when shelled in the green state, and farinaceous and mild flavored when ripe. blue pod. a half-dwarf variety, growing from two to three feet high, with a branching stem, deep-green foliage, and white flowers. the pods are five inches long, pale-green while young, light-yellow as the season of maturity approaches, cream-white when fully ripe, and contain five or six seeds. its season is intermediate. if sown early, the plants will blossom in seven weeks, afford pods for stringing in eight weeks, green beans in ten or eleven weeks, and ripen their seeds in ninety-seven days. it is a week earlier than the white marrow, and ten days in advance of the pea-bean. plantings may be made as late as the last week in june, which will yield pods for the table in seven weeks, and ripen the middle of september, or in about twelve weeks. the ripe seed is white, oblong, flattened, rounded on the back, often squarely or angularly shortened at the ends, half an inch long, and a fourth of an inch thick: twenty-seven hundred will measure a quart. it is a field rather than a garden variety; though the green pods are tender and well flavored. if planted in drills two feet apart, five pecks of seed will be required for an acre; or four pecks for the same quantity of ground, if the rows are two feet and a half apart. if planted in hills, six or eight seeds should be put in each; and, if the hills are three feet apart, twelve quarts of seed will plant an acre. the blue pod is the earliest of the field varieties; more prolific, more generally cultivated, and more abundant in the market, than either the pea-bean or the white marrow. it is, however, much less esteemed; and, even in its greatest perfection, is almost invariably sold at a lower price. on account of its precocity, it is well suited for planting in fields of corn, when the crop may have been partially destroyed by birds or insects, and the season has too far advanced to admit of a replanting of corn. in field-culture, blue-pod beans are planted till the th of june. canada yellow. round american kidney. _law._ the plants of this variety are from fourteen to sixteen inches high, and of medium strength and vigor; flowers lilac-purple; the pods are five inches long, nearly straight, green while young, yellow at maturity, and contain from four to six seeds. season intermediate. if sown early, the plants will blossom in six or seven weeks, supply the table with pods in eight weeks, green shelled-beans in ten weeks, and ripen off in ninety days. when planted after settled warm weather, the variety grows rapidly, and ripens quickly; blossoming in less than six weeks, and ripening in seventy days, from the time of planting. for green shelled-beans, the seeds may be planted till the middle of july. the ripe seeds are of an ovoid or rounded form, and measure half an inch in length and three-eighths of an inch in thickness. they are of a yellowish-drab color, with a narrow, reddish-brown line about the eye; the drab changing, by age, to dull nankeen-yellow. about seventeen hundred are contained in a quart; and this amount of seeds will plant two hundred and fifty feet of drill, or a hundred and seventy-five hills. the variety is quite productive, and excellent as a shelled bean, green or dry. the young pods are not so tender as those of many other sorts, and are but little used. chilian. plant sixteen or eighteen inches high, sturdy and vigorous; foliage large, deep-green, wrinkled; flowers pale-lilac; the pods are five inches and a half long, slightly curved, pale-green while young, yellowish-white when ripe, and contain five seeds. if planted early in the season, the variety will blossom in seven weeks, yield pods for the table in about eight weeks, and ripen in a hundred days, from the time of planting. the ripe seeds are of a clear, bright pink, or rose color; gradually becoming duller and darker from the time of harvesting. they are kidney-shaped, a little flattened, and of large size; generally measuring three-fourths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch thick. twelve hundred and fifty are contained in a quart, and will be sufficient for planting a row or drill of two hundred feet, or for a hundred and twenty-five hills. the variety is healthy, and moderatively productive; not much esteemed for its young pods, but is worthy of cultivation for the large size and good quality of the beans; which, either in the green or ripe state, are quite farinaceous and mild flavored. crescent-eyed. height fourteen or fifteen inches; flowers white,--the upper petals slightly stained with red; the pods are five inches and a half long, pale-green and somewhat curved when young, yellowish-white when fully ripe, and contain five seeds. season intermediate. if planted early, the variety will blossom in seven weeks, yield pods for stringing in eight weeks, supply the table with green beans in eleven weeks, and ripen in about ninety days. when planted and grown under the influence of summer weather, pods may be plucked for the table in fifty days, and the crop will ripen in about twelve weeks. the beans, when ripe, are white, with a large, rose-red patch about the eye; the colored portion of the surface being striped and marked with brownish-red. the fine rose-red changes by age to a brownish-red, and the red streaks and markings become relatively duller and darker: they are somewhat kidney-shaped, and measure three-fourths of an inch in length and three-eighths of an inch in thickness. a quart contains nearly thirteen hundred seeds, and will plant a hundred and fifty hills, or a row of two hundred feet. the variety yields well, and the green pods are tender and well flavored. it is, however, generally cultivated for its seeds, which are of large size and excellent quality, whether used in a green or ripe state. dun-colored. plant of vigorous, branching habit, sixteen inches in height, with broad, deep-green foliage and purplish-white flowers; the pods are five inches and a half long, half an inch broad, green and nearly straight while young, yellow and slender when fully ripe, and contain five or six beans. the ripe seeds are dun-colored or dark-drab, usually with a greenish line encircling the eye, kidney-shaped, five-eighths of an inch long, and about a fourth of an inch thick. a quart contains about seventeen hundred beans, and will plant a row of two hundred and twenty-five feet, or a hundred and seventy-five hills. it is one of the earliest of the dwarf varieties; blossoming in about six weeks, producing young pods in seven weeks, and ripening in eighty-five days, from the time of planting. when sown after settled warm weather, pods may be gathered for use in six weeks; and, for these, plantings may be made until the st of august. as a shelled-bean, green or dry, it is of little value, and hardly worthy of cultivation. as an early string-bean, it is one of the best. the pods are not only succulent and tender, but suitable for use very early in the season. it is also quite prolific; and, if planted at intervals of two weeks till the last of july, will supply the table to the last of september. the variety has long been cultivated in england and other parts of europe, and is much esteemed for its hardiness and productiveness. dwarf cranberry. plant vigorous; and, if the variety is pure, strictly a dwarf, growing about sixteen inches high. as generally found in gardens, the plants send out slender runners, eighteen inches or two feet in length. the flowers are pale-purple; the pods are five inches long, sickle-shaped, pale-green in their young state, nearly white when ripe, and contain five or six seeds. the ripe seeds are smaller than those of the running variety, but of the same form and color: sixteen hundred are contained in a quart, and will plant nearly two hundred feet of drill, or a hundred and seventy-five hills. the genuine dwarf cranberry is not one of the earliest varieties, but rather an intermediate sort. if sown as soon as the weather will admit, the plants will blossom in seven or eight weeks, and the young pods may be gathered for use in nine weeks. in favorable seasons, the crop is perfected in about ninety days. if planted in june, the variety will ripen in ten weeks. it is hardy and productive; and the young pods are not only succulent and tender, but are suitable for use at a more advanced stage of growth than those of most varieties. the beans, in their green state, are farinaceous and well flavored, but, after ripening, are little used; the color being objectionable. a variety with a brownish-red, oval, flattened seed, half an inch in length, is extensively known and cultivated as the dwarf cranberry. it is ten or twelve days earlier, the plants are smaller and less productive, the young pods less tender and succulent, and the seeds (green or ripe) less farinaceous, than those of the true variety. with the exception of its earlier maturity, it is comparatively not worthy of cultivation. dwarf horticultural. variegated dwarf prague. stem about sixteen inches high; plant of vigorous, branching habit; flowers purple; pods five inches long, green while young, but changing to yellow, marbled and streaked with brilliant rose-red, when sufficiently advanced for shelling in their green state. at maturity, the clear, pale-yellow is changed to brownish-white, and the bright-red variegations are either entirely obliterated, or changed to dull, dead purple. if well formed, the pods contain five (rarely six) seeds. it is a medium or half-early sort; and, if planted as soon as the weather becomes favorable, will blossom in seven weeks, produce pods for the table in about eight weeks, and ripen in ninety-five or a hundred days. planted and grown in summer weather, the variety will produce green pods in seven weeks, and ripen in ninety days. the ripe seeds resemble those of the running variety in form and color; but they are smaller, a little more slender, and usually flattened slightly at the sides. when pure, they are egg-shaped; and a much compressed or a longer and more slender form is indicative of degeneracy. fourteen hundred beans are contained in a quart; and this quantity of seed will be sufficient for planting a row of a hundred and seventy-five feet, or a hundred and forty hills. the dwarf horticultural bean is quite productive, and the young pods are tender and of good quality. it is, however, not so generally cultivated for its young pods as for its seeds, which are much esteemed for their mild flavor and farinaceous quality. for shelling in the green state, it is one of the best of the dwarfs, and deserves cultivation. dwarf sabre. dwarf case-knife. dwarf cimeter. a half-dwarf, french variety, two and a half to three feet high. as the running shoots are quite slender, and usually decay before the crop matures, it is always cultivated as other dwarf sorts. foliage large, wrinkled, and blistered; the flowers are white; the pods are very large, seven to eight inches long, and an inch in width, often irregular and distorted, green while young, paler as the season of maturity approaches, brownish-white when ripe, and contain seven or eight seeds. the ripe bean is white, kidney-shaped, flattened, often twisted or contorted, three-fourths of an inch in length, and three-eighths of an inch in width: about twelve hundred are contained in a quart. as the variety is a vigorous grower, and occupies much space, this quantity of seed will plant a row of two hundred feet, or two hundred and twenty-five hills. season intermediate. the plants blossom in seven weeks, produce young pods in about eight weeks, pods for shelling in their green state in eleven or twelve weeks, and ripen in ninety-seven days, from the time of sowing. if cultivated for its green pods, the seeds may be planted to the middle of july. the dwarf sabre is one of the most productive of all varieties; yielding its long, broad pods in great profusion. from the spreading, recumbent character of the plants, the pods often rest or lie upon the surface of the ground; and, being unusually thin and delicate, the crop often suffers to a considerable extent from the effects of rain and dampness in unfavorable seasons. the young pods are remarkable for their tender and succulent character; and the beans, both in a green and dried state, are mild and well flavored. it is hardy, productive, of good quality, and recommended for cultivation. dwarf soissons. a half-dwarf, french bean, similar in habit to the dwarf sabre. while young, the plants produce slender runners, two feet or more in length; but, as they are generally of short duration, the variety is cultivated as a common dwarf. the flowers are white; pods six inches long, pale-green at first, cream-yellow when sufficiently advanced for shelling, dull cream-white when fully ripe, and contain five, and sometimes six, beans. the variety is comparatively early. plants, from seeds sown in spring, will blossom in six weeks, produce pods for use in seven weeks, and ripen in ninety days. if planted and grown in the summer months, the crop will be ready for harvesting in eleven weeks; and sowings for the ripe seeds may be made till the beginning of july. seeds white, kidney-shaped, flattened, often bent or distorted, five-eighths of an inch long, three-eighths of an inch wide, and a fourth of an inch thick: fifteen hundred are contained in a quart, and will plant a drill two hundred and twenty-five feet in length, or about two hundred hills. the variety is productive, and the young pods are of fair quality; the seeds are excellent, whether used green or ripe; the skin is thin; and they are much esteemed for their peculiar whiteness, and delicacy of flavor. early china. china. red-eyed china. plant fifteen inches high, with yellowish-green, wrinkled foliage, and white flowers; the pods are five inches long, green and straight while young, yellowish-green as they approach maturity, yellow when fully ripe, and contain five (rarely six) beans. the ripe seeds are white, colored and spotted about the eye with purplish-red, oblong, nearly cylindrical at the centre, rounded at the ends, six-tenths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch thick: sixteen hundred and fifty measure a quart, and will plant two hundred feet of drill, or two hundred hills. if planted early in the season, the variety will blossom in six weeks, afford young pods for use in seven weeks, green beans in ten weeks, and ripen in eighty-five days. when planted and grown in summer, the crop will ripen in eleven weeks; and plants from seeds sown as late as the first of august will generally afford an abundant supply of tender pods from the middle to the close of september. the early china is very generally disseminated, and is one of the most popular of the dwarf varieties. it is hardy and productive; but the young pods, though succulent and tender, are inferior to those of some other varieties. the seeds, green or ripe, are thin-skinned, mealy, and mild flavored. early rachel. a low-growing, branching variety, twelve to fifteen inches high; flowers white; the pods are five inches and a half long, green while young, becoming paler or greenish-yellow as they approach maturity, cream-white when ripe, and contain five seeds. planted early in the season, the variety will blossom in about seven weeks; and, in eight weeks, the young pods will be fit for use. pods for shelling may be plucked in ten weeks, and the crop will ripen in eighty days. for the green pods, the seeds may be planted till the middle or twentieth of july. the ripe seed is yellowish-brown, white at one of the ends, kidney-shaped, often abruptly shortened, five-eighths of an inch long, and a fourth of an inch thick: nearly two thousand are contained in a quart. the early rachel is hardy, and moderately productive, and, as an early string-bean, may be desirable; but as a shell-bean, green or dry, it is of little value. in common with many other early sorts cultivated as string-beans, the pods, though crisp and tender at first, soon become too tough and parchment-like for use. in general, the pods of the later sorts remain crisp and tender a much longer period than those of the earlier descriptions. early valentine. valentine. plant about sixteen inches high, with small, yellowish-green leaves and white flowers; the pods are comparatively short, usually four and a half or five inches long, sickle-shaped, almost cylindrical, green while young, yellow when ripe, and contain five seeds. the variety is productive, and quite early, though not one of the earliest. when sown at the commencement of the season, the plants will blossom in six weeks, produce pods for use in about seven weeks, and ripen in thirteen weeks, or ninety days, from the time of planting. if planted after the beginning of summer weather, pods may be gathered for the table in fifty days, and the beans will ripen in eleven weeks. the beans, when ripe, are of a pale-pink color, marbled or variegated with rose-red, becoming duller and browner by age, oblong, nearly straight, sometimes distorted and irregular as if pressed out of their natural shape, often more or less shortened at the ends, five-eighths of an inch long, three-eighths of an inch wide, and about the same in thickness. a quart will contain eighteen or nineteen hundred seeds; which will be sufficient for a hundred and seventy-five hills, or for a drill, or row, of two hundred or two hundred and twenty-five feet. the early valentine is generally cultivated for its tender and very fleshy pods, which remain long on the plants without becoming hard and tough. they make an excellent, brittle pickle; and, when cooked, are equal to those of any other dwarf variety. the shelled-beans, either in their green or ripe state, are little esteemed. the variety has long been grown in england and other parts of europe, and is common to gardens in almost every section of the united states. golden cranberry. canadian. round american kidney. height about sixteen inches; flowers purple; the pods are five inches and a half long, five-eighths of an inch broad, somewhat irregular in form, yellow when ripe, and contain five seeds. season intermediate. early plantings will blossom in seven weeks, yield pods for the table in eight weeks, and ripen in ninety days. the ripe seeds are pale greenish-yellow, with an olive-green line encircling the eye; roundish-ovoid, three-eighths of an inch long, and nearly the same in thickness. a quart contains nearly eighteen hundred seeds, and will plant a row, or drill, of two hundred feet, or two hundred and twenty-five hills. as a string-bean, or for shelling in the green state, it is inferior to many other varieties, and is little cultivated for use in these forms; but as a variety for baking, or for cooking in any form when ripe, it is much esteemed, and recommended for cultivation. hardy and productive. long yellow six-weeks. six-weeks. yellow six-weeks. yellow flageolet. _vil._ the plants of this familiar variety are of vigorous, branching habit, and from fourteen to sixteen inches high; the flowers are pale-purple; the pods are five inches long, six-tenths of an inch broad, often curved or sickle-shaped, green at first, gradually becoming paler, cream-yellow when ripe, and contain five (rarely six) beans. it is one of the earliest of the dwarf varieties. spring plantings will blossom in six weeks, produce pods for the table in seven weeks, and ripen in eighty-seven days. summer plantings will afford pods for the table in about six weeks, and ripen in sixty-three days. when planted as late in the season as the last of july or first of august, the variety will afford an abundant supply of tender pods from the middle to the last of september. the ripe seeds are pale yellowish-drab, with an olive-green line about the eye; the drab rapidly changing by age to dull yellowish-brown. they are kidney-shaped, rather straight, three-fourths of an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch thick. about fourteen hundred beans are contained in a quart, and will plant a row of two hundred feet, or a hundred and fifty hills. it is quite productive, and an excellent early string-bean, but less valuable as a green shelled-bean, or for cooking when ripe. on account of the tender and delicate character of the pods, the ripe seeds are often injured by damp or continued rainy weather. a popular, early garden-bean, much cultivated both in this country and in europe. mohawk. early mohawk. stem about eighteen inches high, sturdy and branching; foliage large, deep-green, wrinkled, and blistered; flowers pale-lilac; the pods are five inches and a half long, five-eighths of an inch wide, and generally contain five seeds,--while young they are green, and nearly straight; as they approach maturity they become paler; and, when ripe, are frequently streaked and spotted with purple. the ripe seeds are variegated with drab, dull purple, and different shades of brown; the brown and dull purple prevailing: they are kidney-shaped, and measure nearly three-fourths of an inch in length, and three-eighths of an inch in width. a quart contains about fourteen hundred and fifty seeds, and will plant a hundred and seventy-five feet of drill, or a hundred and seventy-five hills. it is about a week later than the earliest varieties. spring plantings will blossom in about seven weeks, produce pods for the table in eight weeks, and ripen in a hundred days, from the time of sowing. in ordinary seasons, the variety will ripen perfectly if planted the last week in june; and will yield an abundance of pods for the table, if the planting be made as late in the season as the last of july. the early mohawk is quite productive, and one of the hardiest of the dwarf varieties. it is well adapted for early planting, and is extensively grown by market-gardeners as an early string-bean. the young pods are comparatively tender, and of good quality; and, if gathered as they become of suitable size, the plants will continue to yield them in great abundance. the shelled-beans, green or dry, are less esteemed, and considered inferior to many other varieties. newington wonder. a healthy, vigorous variety, with deep-green foliage and bright-purple flowers. the plants often produce slender, barren runners, eighteen inches or two feet in length; but they are generally of short duration, and the variety is treated as other dwarfs. the pods are small and straight; usually about four inches long, and nearly half an inch broad. they are pale-green at first; and afterwards change to yellowish-white, tinted or washed with bright pink. at maturity they are dusky-drab, sometimes clouded or shaded with purple, and contain six or seven beans. the ripe seeds are pale brownish-drab, with a yellowish-brown line about the eye; oblong, flattened, shortened at the ends, nearly half an inch long, and a fourth of an inch deep: about thirty-six hundred are contained in a quart. as the seeds are comparatively small, and the plants of spreading habit, this amount of seeds will plant a row four hundred feet in length, or four hundred hills. the variety is not early, and, when cultivated for its seeds, should have the benefit of the whole season; though, with favorable autumnal weather, the crop will ripen if planted the middle of june. spring plantings will blossom in eight weeks, produce young pods in nine weeks, and ripen in a hundred and six days. the newington wonder is remarkably prolific; and, in its manner of growth and general character, resembles the tampico or turtle-soup. as a string-bean, it is one of the best. the pods, though not large, are crisp, succulent, and tender, and produced in great abundance throughout most of the season. the seeds, in their green state, are small, and of little value for the table: when ripe, they afford an excellent substitute for the tampico or turtle-soup; the difference, aside from the color, being scarcely perceptible. the newington wonder of english and french authors appears to be, in some respects, distinct from the american variety. it is described as very dwarf, about a foot high, early and productive; pods dark-green, moderately long, not broad, thick and fleshy; seeds quite small, light chestnut-colored. pea-bean. plant vigorous, much branched, and, like the blue pod and white marrow, inclined to send up running shoots; foliage comparatively small, deep-green; flowers white; the pods are about four inches long, half an inch wide, nearly straight, green when young, paler as they approach the season of ripening, yellowish when fully ripe, and contain five beans. it is comparatively a late variety. when planted in spring, it will blossom in fifty days, afford green pods in fifty-eight days, and ripen in about fifteen weeks. in favorable autumns, it will ripen if planted as late as the th of june; but it is not so early as the blue pod or white marrow, and, when practicable, should have the advantage of the entire season. the ripe seeds of the pure variety are quite small, roundish-ovoid, five-sixteenths of an inch long, a fourth of an inch in width and thickness, and of a pure yet not glossy white color: about forty-four hundred seeds are contained in a quart. as a garden variety, it is of little value, though the young pods are crisp and tender. it is cultivated almost exclusively as a field-bean. if planted in rows or drills two feet apart, three pecks of seeds will be required for an acre; or eighteen quarts will seed this quantity of land, if the rows are two feet and a half apart. when planted in hills, eight seeds are allowed to a hill; and, if the hills are made three feet apart, eight quarts will plant an acre. the yield varies from fourteen to twenty bushels, according to soil, season, and cultivation. the pea-bean, the white marrow, and the blue pod are the principal if not the only kinds of much commercial importance; the names of other varieties being rarely, if ever, mentioned in the regular reports of the current prices of the markets. if equally well ripened, and, in their respective varieties, equally pure, the pea-bean and the white marrow command about the same prices; the former, however, being more abundant in the market than the latter. by many, and perhaps by a majority, the pea-bean is esteemed the best of all baking varieties. pottawottomie. the plants of this variety are remarkable for their strong, vigorous habit, and large, luxuriant foliage. the flowers are flesh-white; the pods are six inches long, green at first, then mottled and streaked with lively rose-red on a cream-white ground (the markings changing to purple at maturity), and contain five (rarely six) seeds. the variety is comparatively late. if sown early in the season, the plants will flower in seven weeks, afford pods for shelling in eleven weeks, and ripen in a hundred days, from the time of planting. the ripe seeds are of a light creamy-pink color, streaked and spotted with a red or reddish-brown: the soft, flesh-like color, however, soon becomes duller and darker, and at last gives place to a dull, cinnamon-brown. they are kidney-shaped, fully three-fourths of an inch long, and about three-eighths of an inch broad. about a thousand will measure a quart, and will plant a row two hundred feet in length, or a hundred and twenty-five hills. on account of the large size and spreading habit of the plants, five seeds will be sufficient for a hill; and, in the rows, they should be dropped five or six inches from each other. the young pods are inferior to most varieties in crispness, and tenderness of texture; and are comparatively but little used. the seeds are remarkably large, separate easily from the pods, and, green or ripe, are remarkably farinaceous and well flavored, nearly or quite equalling the dwarf and running horticultural. red flageolet. scarlet flageolet. a half-dwarf, french bean, two to three feet high; flowers pale-purple; the pods are six inches and a half long, somewhat curved, green while young, pale-yellow at maturity, and contain five or six seeds. it is one of the latest of the dwarf varieties. if sown early, the plants will blossom in seven weeks, and pods may be gathered for use in about nine weeks; in thirteen weeks the pods will be sufficiently advanced for shelling, and the crop will be ready for harvesting in a hundred and ten days. it requires the whole season for its full perfection; but, for its young pods or for green beans, plantings may be made to the last week in june. the ripe beans are blood-red when first harvested, but gradually change by age to deep-purple: they are kidney-shaped, nearly straight, slightly flattened, three-fourths of an inch long, three-eighths of an inch broad, and nearly the same in thickness. fifteen hundred seeds are contained in a quart. the red flageolet yields abundantly; and the young pods are not only of good size, but remarkably crisp and tender. if plucked as they become fit for use, the plants continue to produce fresh pods for many weeks. the green beans are farinaceous, and excellent for table use; but are seldom cooked in their ripened state. red-speckled. plant branching, and of strong growth,--nearly a foot and a half high; foliage remarkably large; flowers pale-purple; pods five inches and a half long, nearly straight, green while young, paler with occasional marks and spots of purple when more advanced, yellowish-white when ripe, and containing five (rarely six) seeds. season intermediate. plants from seeds sown after settled warm weather will blossom in six weeks, and green pods may be plucked for use in fifty days. for shelling in their green state, pods may be gathered in ten weeks, and the crop will ripen off in ninety days. for its young pods, or for green beans, plantings may be made to the last week in june; but the crop will not mature, unless the weather continues favorable till the st of october. the ripe seeds are variegated with deep-red and pale-drab, the red predominating; kidney-shaped, nearly straight, three-fourths of an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch deep. a quart contains fourteen hundred and fifty seeds, and will plant a row of two hundred and twenty-five feet, or a hundred and fifty hills. the variety is hardy and productive. it is extensively cultivated as a garden-bean in england and france, and has been common to the gardens of this country for nearly two centuries. the young pods are of medium quality; but the seeds, green or dry, are mealy and well flavored. on account of the parchment-like character of the pods, the seeds seldom suffer from the effects of wet weather. refugee. thousand to one. plant sixteen to eighteen inches high, and readily distinguished from most varieties by its small, smooth, deep-green, and elongated leaves; flowers purple; pods five inches long, nearly cylindrical, pale-green while young, greenish-white streaked with purple when sufficiently advanced for shelling, yellow when ripe, and usually yielding five beans. the refugee is not an early sort. the plants blossom in seven weeks, produce young pods in eight weeks, and ripen in eighty-seven days, from the time of sowing. plantings for the ripened product may be made till the middle of june; and for the green pods, to the middle of july. the ripe seeds are light-drab, with numerous spots and broad patches of bright-purple, nearly straight, cylindrical at the middle, tapering to the ends (which are generally rounded), five-eighths of an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch thick. eighteen hundred and fifty are contained in a quart, and will plant a row two hundred and fifty feet in length, or two hundred hills. the variety is hardy, yields abundantly, and the young pods are thick, fleshy, and tender in texture. as a string-bean, or for pickling, it is considered one of the best of all varieties, and is recommended for general cultivation. the seeds are comparatively small, and are rarely used either in a green or ripened state. rice. _vil._ half-dwarf, about two feet high; flowers white; pods very small, scarcely more than three inches in length, and only two-fifths of an inch in width, usually containing six seeds. the variety requires a full season for its perfection. plants from seeds sown early in spring will blossom in seven weeks, yield young pods in ten weeks, and ripen in a hundred and twelve days. the ripe seeds are very small, and of a peculiar yellowish-white, semi-transparent, rice-like color and appearance. they are quite irregular in form, usually somewhat oblong or ovoid, often abruptly shortened at the ends, three-eighths of an inch long, and a fourth of an inch thick. nearly five thousand are contained in a quart. the young pods are tender and excellent; but the green beans are small, and rarely used. the ripe seeds are peculiar, both in consistency and flavor: they are quite brittle and rice-like; and, when cooked, much relished by some, and little esteemed by others. rob-roy. plant half-dwarf,--early in the season, producing slender, transient, barren runners two or three feet in length; flowers purplish-white; the pods are five inches long, often produced in pairs, yellow as they approach maturity, yellowish-white when ripe, and contain five or six seeds. it is one of the earliest of the dwarfs. spring plantings will blossom in six weeks, produce pods for the table in seven weeks, and ripen in eighty-two days. if planted in june, pods may be plucked for use in six weeks, and the crop will be ready for harvesting in sixty-eight days. the ripe seeds are clear, bright-yellow; the surface being generally veined, and the eye surrounded with an olive-green line. they are of an oblong form, nearly straight on the side of the eye, rounded at the back, five-eighths of an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch deep. fifteen hundred seeds are contained in a quart, and will be sufficient to plant a row of two hundred feet, or a hundred and fifty hills. the rob-roy generally matures in great perfection; being seldom stained or otherwise injured by rain or the dampness of ordinary seasons. it is also one of the earliest of the dwarf varieties, but desirable as a string-bean rather than for its qualities as a green shelled-bean, or for cooking when ripe. if cultivated for its pods only, plantings may be made until the first of august. round yellow six-weeks. round yellow. dwarf yellow. fourteen to sixteen inches high; flowers pale-purple; pods about five inches long, half an inch broad, pale yellowish-green as they approach maturity, and, when fully ripe, remarkably slender, and more curved than in their green state,--they contain five or six beans. the variety is early; blossoming in six weeks, producing young pods in seven weeks, and ripening in ninety days, from the time of planting. when planted in june, pods may be plucked for use in seven weeks, and the crop will be ready for harvesting in eighty days. for its green pods, plantings may be made to the last of july. the ripe seeds are orange-yellow, with a narrow, reddish-brown belt, or line, encircling the eye; oblong or ovoid, half an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch thick. a quart contains two thousand seeds, and will plant a row two hundred and twenty-five feet in length, or two hundred and twenty-five hills. as an early string-bean, the variety is worthy of cultivation, but is little used, and is really of little value, as a shelled-bean, green or ripe. it has been common to the gardens of this country for more than a century; and, during this period, no apparent change has taken place in the character of the plant, or in the size, form, or color of the seed. solitaire. a french variety. the ripe seeds are similar to those of the refugee; but the plants are quite distinct in foliage and general habit. its height is about eighteen inches; the flowers are purple; the pods are six inches long, slender, nearly cylindrical, green at first, paler and streaked with purple when more advanced, and contain six seeds. it is not early. spring plantings will blossom in sixty days, produce pods for the table in seventy days, and ripen in about fifteen weeks. it may be planted for its green pods until the first of july. the beans, when ripe, are variegated with light-drab and deep-purple, the purple prevailing. they are often straight, sometimes curved, nearly cylindrical at the eye, usually rounded, but sometimes shortened, at the ends, three-fourths of an inch long, and a fourth of an inch thick: two thousand measure a quart. on account of the size and branching character of the plants, more space must be allowed in cultivation than is usually given to common dwarf varieties. if planted in rows, they should be at least eighteen inches apart, and the plants eight or ten inches from each other in the rows; and, if planted in hills, they should be thinned to four or five plants, and the hills should not be less than three feet apart. it is not much esteemed as a shelled-bean, either green or ripe. as a string-bean, it is one of the best. its pods are long, cylindrical, remarkably slender, succulent, and tender. it is also a very prolific variety, and the pods remain for an unusual period without becoming tough or too hard for the table. recommended for cultivation. swiss crimson. scarlet swiss. _vil._ plant vigorous, often producing running shoots; flowers pale-purple; pods nearly straight, six inches long, pale-green while young, yellow streaked with brilliant rose-red as they approach maturity, and containing five (rarely six) seeds. it is comparatively a late variety. if planted as early as the weather will permit, the plants will blossom in seven weeks, the young pods will be ready for use in nine weeks, and the crop will be ready for harvesting in a hundred and five days. planted and grown in summer weather, it will produce young pods in sixty days, and ripen in thirteen weeks. plantings for the green seeds may be made to the first of july. the ripe seeds are clear bright-pink, striped and spotted with deep purplish-red: the pink changes gradually to dull, dark-red, and the variegations to dark-brown. they are kidney-shaped, comparatively straight, somewhat flattened, three-fourths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch broad. thirteen hundred seeds are contained in a quart, and will plant a row two hundred feet in length, or a hundred and fifty hills. it is hardy and productive, and, as a shelled-bean, of excellent quality, either in its green or ripened state. as a variety for stringing, it is not above medium quality. turtle-soup. tampico. plant vigorous, producing numerous slender, barren runners two feet or more in length; flowers rich deep-purple; pods five inches long, green and sickle-shaped while young, pale greenish-white stained with purple when more advanced, yellow clouded with purple when ripe, and containing five or six seeds. the variety is quite late, and requires most of the season for its full perfection. plants from early sowings will blossom in eight weeks, the young pods will be sufficiently grown for use in ten weeks, and the crop will ripen in a hundred and eight days. as the young pods are tender and of excellent quality, and are also produced in great abundance, a planting for these may be made as late as the last week in june, which will supply the table from the last of august till the plants are destroyed by frost. the ripe seeds are small, glossy-black, somewhat oblong, and much flattened: thirty-six hundred are contained in a quart, and will plant four hundred feet of drill, or three hundred and fifty hills. it is very productive, and deserving of cultivation for its young and tender pods; but is of little or no value for shelling while green. the ripened seeds are used, as the name implies, in the preparation of a soup, which, as respects color and flavor, bears some resemblance to that made from the green turtle. victoria. this is one of the earliest of the dwarf varieties. early plantings will blossom in six weeks, yield pods for the table in seven weeks, produce pods of suitable size for shelling in about ten weeks, and ripen in eighty-four days. when planted after the season has somewhat advanced,--the young plants thus receiving the benefit of summer temperature,--pods may be gathered for the table in about six weeks, and the crop will ripen in sixty-three days. stalk fourteen to sixteen inches high, with comparatively few branches; flowers purple; pods four and a half to five inches long, streaked and spotted with purple, tough and parchment-like when ripe, and containing five or six seeds. the ripe seeds are flesh-colored, striped and spotted with purple (the ground changing by age to dull reddish-brown, and the spots and markings to chocolate-brown), oblong, somewhat flattened, shortened or rounded at the ends, five-eighths of an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch thick: fourteen hundred are contained in a quart. the variety is remarkably early; and, on this account, is worthy of cultivation. for table use, the young pods and the seeds, green or dry, are inferior to many other sorts. white's early. a remarkably hardy and vigorous variety, eighteen to twenty inches high. flowers white, tinged with purple; pods five inches and a half long, curved or sickle-shaped, green at first, yellowish-white striped with purple when fully ripe, and containing five seeds. early plantings will blossom in about six weeks, young pods may be plucked for use in seven weeks, and the crop will ripen in eighty-two days. if planted as late in the season as the first week in july, the variety will generally ripen perfectly; and, when cultivated for its green pods, plantings may be made at any time during the month. the ripe seeds are either drab or light-slate,--both colors being common,--marked and spotted with light-drab. in some specimens, drab is the prevailing color. they are kidney-shaped, irregularly compressed or flattened, nearly three-fourths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch deep. a quart contains about sixteen hundred seeds, and is sufficient for planting a row two hundred and fifty feet in length, or two hundred hills. this variety, as an early string-bean, is decidedly one of the best, and is also one of the hardiest and most prolific. the pods should be plucked when comparatively young; and, if often gathered, the plants will continue a long time in bearing. as a shelled-bean, either in its green or ripened state, it is only of medium quality. the long peduncles, or stems, that support its spikes of flowers, its stocky habit, and fine, deep-green, luxurious foliage, distinguish the variety from all others. white flageolet. from sixteen to eighteen inches high, of strong and branching habit. flowers white; pods five inches and a half long, sickle-shaped, green while young, yellowish-white at maturity, and containing six (rarely seven) seeds. it is a half-early variety; blossoming in six weeks, yielding pods for the table in seven weeks, pods for shelling in eleven weeks, and ripening in ninety days, from the time of planting. later plantings will ripen in a shorter period, or in about eighty days; and, if cultivated as a string-bean, seed sown as late in the season as the last week of july will supply the table from the middle of september with an abundance of well-flavored and tender pods. the ripe bean is white, kidney-shaped, flattened, three-fourths of an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch broad: about twenty-two hundred are contained in a quart, and will plant a drill, or row, of two hundred and seventy-five feet, or nearly three hundred hills. the white flageolet is very productive, and is recommended for cultivation: the young pods are crisp and tender, and the seeds, green or ripe, are farinaceous, and remarkable for delicacy of flavor. white kidney. kidney. large white kidney. royal dwarf. the plants of this variety are from sixteen to eighteen inches high, and readily distinguishable, from their large and broad leaves, and strong, branching habit of growth; the flowers are white; the pods are somewhat irregular in form, six inches long, green at first, yellow when ripe, and contain five (rarely six) beans. the white kidney-bean is not early: it blossoms in seven weeks, produces young pods in nine weeks, pods for shelling in eleven weeks, and ripens in a hundred and ten days, from the time of planting. the ripe seeds are white, more or less veined, pale-yellow about the hilum, kidney-shaped, nearly straight, slightly flattened, fully three-fourths of an inch long, and about three-eighths of an inch thick: from twelve to thirteen hundred are contained in a quart; and this quantity of seeds will plant a hundred and seventy-five feet of drill, or a hundred and forty hills. as a string-bean, the variety has little merit; but as a shelled-bean, green or ripe, it is decidedly one of the best of the dwarfs, and well deserving of cultivation. the seeds are of large size, pure white, separate readily from the pods, and are tender and delicate. white marrow. white marrowfat. dwarf white cranberry. white egg. plants vigorous, much branched, and inclined to produce running shoots; flowers white; pods five inches long, nearly three-fourths of an inch broad, pale-green at first, then changing to clear yellow, afterwards becoming pure waxen-white, cream-yellow when ripe, and containing five seeds. when planted at the commencement of favorable weather, the variety will blossom in seven weeks, yield pods for the table in eight weeks, and ripen in a hundred and five days. when grown for the ripened product, the planting should not be delayed beyond the th of june. planted at this season, or the last week in june, the crop will blossom the first week in august; and, about the middle of the month, pods may be gathered for the table. by the second week in september, the pods will be of sufficient size for shelling; and, if the season be ordinarily favorable, the crop will ripen the last of the month. it must not, however, be regarded as an early variety; and, when practicable, should be planted before the th of june. the ripe seeds are clear white, ovoid or egg-shaped, nine-sixteenths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch thick. in size, form, or color, they are scarcely distinguishable from those of the white running cranberry. if well grown, twelve hundred seeds will measure a quart. as a string-bean, the white marrow is of average quality: but, for shelling in the green state, it is surpassed by few, if any, of the garden varieties; and deserves more general cultivation. when ripe, it is remarkably farinaceous, of a delicate fleshy-white when properly cooked, and by many preferred to the pea-bean. in almost every section of the united states, as well as in the canadas, it is largely cultivated for market; and is next in importance to the last named for commercial purposes. in field-culture, it is planted in drills two feet apart; the seeds being dropped in groups, three or four together, a foot apart in the drills. some plant in hills two and a half or three feet apart by eighteen inches in the opposite direction, seeding at the rate of forty-four quarts to the acre; and others plant in drills eighteen inches apart, dropping the seeds singly, six or eight inches from each other in the drills. the yield varies from twenty to thirty bushels to the acre, though crops are recorded of nearly forty bushels. yellow-eyed china. plant sixteen to eighteen inches high, more branched and of stronger habit than the black or red eyed; flowers white; pods six inches long, nearly straight, pale-green while young, cream-white at maturity, and containing five or six seeds. it is an early variety. when sown in may, or at the beginning of settled weather, the plants will blossom in six weeks, afford string-beans in seven weeks, pods for shelling in ten or eleven weeks, and ripen in ninety days, from the time of planting. from sowings made later in the season (the plants thereby receiving more directly the influence of summer weather), pods may be plucked for the table in about six weeks, and ripened beans in seventy-five days. plantings for supplying the table with string-beans may be made until the last week in july. the ripe beans are white, spotted and marked about the eye with rusty-yellow, oblong, inclining to kidney-shape, more flattened than those of the red or black eyed, five-eighths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch in breadth: fifteen hundred and fifty are contained in a quart, and will plant two hundred feet of drill, or a hundred and fifty hills. the plants are large and spreading, and most productive when not grown too closely together. the yellow-eyed china is one of the most healthy, vigorous, and prolific of the dwarf varieties; of good quality as a string-bean; and, in its ripened state, excellent for baking, or in whatever manner it may be cooked. it also ripens its seeds in great perfection; the crop being rarely affected by wet weather, or injured by blight or mildew. * * * * * pole or running beans. as a class, these are less hardy than the dwarfs, and are not usually planted so early in the season. the common practice is to plant in hills three feet or three and a half apart; though the lower-growing sorts are sometimes planted in drills fourteen or fifteen inches apart, and bushed in the manner of the taller descriptions of pease. if planted in hills, they should be slightly raised, and the stake, or pole, set before the planting of the seeds. the maturity of some of the later sorts will be somewhat facilitated by cutting or nipping off the leading runners when they have attained a height of four or five feet. case-knife. this variety, common to almost every garden, is readily distinguished by its strong and tall habit of growth, and its broad, deep-green, blistered leaves. the flowers are white. the pods are remarkably large; often measuring nine or ten inches in length, and nearly an inch in width. they are of a green color till near maturity, when they change to yellowish-green, and, when fully ripe, to cream-white. a well-formed pod contains eight or nine seeds. early plantings will blossom in seven or eight weeks, yield pods for stringing in about ten weeks, green beans in twelve or thirteen weeks, and ripen in a hundred and five days. later plantings, with the exclusive advantage of summer weather, will supply string-beans in seven weeks, pods for shelling in eight or nine weeks, and ripen in ninety-six days. plantings for the green beans may be made till nearly the middle of july; and, for the young pods, to the th of the month. the ripe seeds are clear white, kidney-shaped, irregularly flattened or compressed, often diagonally shortened at one or both of the ends, three-fourths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch deep. a quart contains about fifteen hundred seeds, and will plant a hundred and seventy-five hills. it is one of the most prolific of the running varieties. as a shelled-bean, it is of excellent quality in its green state; and, when ripe, farinaceous, and well flavored in whatever form prepared. the large pods, if plucked early, are succulent and tender, but coarser in texture than those of many other sorts, and not so well flavored. the case-knife, in its habit and general appearance, much resembles the sabre, or cimeter, of the french; and perhaps is but a sub-variety. plants, however, from imported sabre-beans, were shorter, not so stocky, a little earlier, and the pods, generally, less perfectly formed. corn-bean. stem six feet and upwards in height; flowers bright-lilac; the pods are five inches and a half long, green while young, cream-white at maturity, and contain six or seven seeds. the variety is late, but remarkable for hardiness and productiveness. the shelled-beans, green or ripe, are little used; the young pods are crisp, succulent, and excellent for the table; and the variety deserves more general cultivation. if plucked as fast as they become of suitable size, the plants will continue to produce them in abundance for six or eight weeks. the ripe seeds are chocolate-brown, somewhat quadrangular, flattened, half an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch broad. in size and form, they somewhat resemble grains of indian corn: whence the name. twelve hundred and fifty seeds are contained in a quart, and will plant a hundred and twenty-five hills. horticultural. marbled prague. _vil._ london horticultural. stem six feet or more in height; flowers purple; the pods are from five to six inches long, nearly three-fourths of an inch broad, pale-green while young, greenish-white streaked and blotched with brilliant rose-red when more advanced, much contorted, hard, parchment-like and very tenacious of their contents when ripe, and enclose five or six seeds. when planted at the commencement of the season, the variety will blossom in about seven weeks, produce pods for stringing in nine weeks, green beans in twelve weeks, and ripen in a hundred days. plantings made during the last week in june will mature their crop, if the season be favorable. for the green beans, plantings may be made until the last of june; and, for the young pods, until the first of july. the ripe beans are flesh-white, streaked and spotted with bright-pink, or red, with a russet-yellow line encircling the eye. they are egg-shaped, rather more than half an inch in length, and four-tenths of an inch in width and depth. from the time of ripening, the soft, flesh-like tint gradually loses its freshness, and finally becomes cinnamon-brown; the variegations growing relatively duller and darker. a quart contains about eleven hundred seeds, and will plant a hundred and twenty-five hills. the horticultural bean was introduced into this country from england about the year . it has now become very generally disseminated, and is one of the most popular of the running sorts. as a string-bean, it is of good quality; shelled in its green state, remarkably farinaceous and well flavored; and, when ripe, one of the best for baking or stewing. it is hardy and productive, but is liable to deteriorate when raised many years in succession from seed saved in the vegetable garden from the scattered pods accidentally left to ripen on the poles. to raise good seed, leave each year a few hills unplucked; allowing the entire product to ripen. indian chief. wax-bean. butter-bean. algerian. d'alger, of the french. stem six or seven feet high, with large, broad foliage and purple flowers; the pods are five inches long, nearly as thick as broad, sickle-shaped, green at first, but soon change to a fine, waxen, semi-transparent cream-white,--the line marking the divisions being orange-yellow. at this stage of growth, the color indicates approaching maturity; but the pods will be found crisp and succulent, and are in their greatest perfection for the table. when ripe, they are nearly white, much shrivelled, and contain six or seven seeds. when cultivated for the ripened product, the seed should be planted as early in the season as the weather will permit. the plants will then blossom in eight or nine weeks, afford young pods in about eleven weeks, pods for shelling in thirteen or fourteen weeks, and ripen in a hundred and twenty-four days. plantings for green pods may be made until the first of july. at the time of harvesting, the seeds are deep indigo-blue, the hilum being white. they are oblong, often shortened abruptly at the ends, half an inch long, nearly the same in depth, and three-tenths of an inch thick. fourteen hundred seeds measure a quart, and will plant a hundred and seventy-five hills. its fine, tender, succulent, and richly colored pods are its chief recommendation; and for these it is well worthy of cultivation. they are produced in profuse abundance, and continue fit for use longer than those of most varieties. in moist seasons, the pods remain crisp and tender till the seeds have grown sufficiently to be used in the green state. the ripe seeds are little used. mottled cranberry. a comparatively strong-growing, but not tall variety. the flowers are white; the pods are short and broad, four inches and a half long, three-fourths of an inch wide, yellow at maturity, and contain four or five seeds. if planted early, the variety will blossom in seven weeks, yield pods for the table in eight or nine weeks, green beans in eleven weeks, and ripen in a hundred days. when planted after settled warm weather, it will ripen in ninety days. the ripe seeds are white, the eye surrounded with a broad patch of purple, which is also extended over one of the ends: they are of a rounded-oval form, half an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch in width and thickness. a quart contains fourteen hundred and fifty seeds, and will plant a hundred and fifty hills. as the plants are of dwarfish character, the seeds are sometimes sown in drills; a quart being required for two hundred feet. the mottled cranberry is moderately productive, and the young pods are tender and well flavored: the seeds, while green, are farinaceous, and, though of good quality when ripe, are but little used. mottled prolific. plant branching, healthy, and vigorous, six feet or more in height; flowers purple; the pods are four inches and a half long, usually produced in pairs, green at first, washed with purple when more advanced, light-brown at maturity, and contain six seeds. it is a late variety. plantings made during the first of the season will not produce pods for use until the last of july, or beginning of august; but, if these are plucked as they become of suitable size, the plants will continue in bearing until destroyed by frost. the ripe beans are drab, thickly and minutely spotted with black, and also distinctly marked with regular lines of the same color. they are of an oblong form, flattened, often squarely or diagonally shortened at the ends, nearly half an inch in length, and three-tenths of an inch in width. a quart contains thirty-one hundred seeds, and will plant about three hundred hills. as a shelled-bean, in its green or ripened state, the variety has little merit. its recommendations are its fine, tender pods, its remarkable productiveness, and its uniformly healthy habit. prÉdhomme. _vil._ introduced from france. plant four or five feet high, with broad, deep-green, blistered foliage and white flowers; the pods are nearly cylindrical, three inches long, green while young, cream-white when ripe, and contain from six to eight seeds, set very closely together. the ripe beans are dull-white, veined, oblong, often shortened at the ends, a third of an inch long, and nearly a fourth of an inch in width and thickness. a quart contains about thirty-five hundred seeds, and will plant three hundred and fifty hills. early plantings will blossom in eight weeks, afford pods for the table in about ten weeks, and ripen in a hundred and eight days. it may be planted for its green pods to the first of july. it is of little value as a shelled-bean in its green state. when ripe, it is of good quality, and, as a string-bean, one of the best; the pods being very brittle, succulent, and fine flavored. they remain long upon the plants without becoming tough and hard; and are tender, and good for use, until almost ripe. on account of their thin and delicate character, the seeds, in unfavorable seasons, are often stained and otherwise injured by dampness at the time of ripening. princess. _vil._ a french variety. plant six feet or more in height, with lively-green foliage and white flowers; the pods are five inches long, pale-green while young, yellow at maturity, and contain six or seven, and sometimes eight, seeds. the ripe bean is white, egg-shaped, two-fifths of an inch long, and a fourth of an inch thick: nearly three thousand are contained in a quart, and will plant three hundred and fifty hills. the variety somewhat resembles the prédhomme; but the seeds are larger and brighter, the pods are longer, the seeds are less close in the pods, and it is some days earlier. it ripens in about three months from the time of planting. a good sort for stringing, and of excellent quality when ripe. red cranberry. this is one of the oldest and most familiar of garden-beans, and has probably been longer and more generally cultivated in this country than any other variety. the plants are five or six feet high, of medium strength and vigor; flowers pale-lilac. the pods are quite irregular in form; often reversely curved, or sickle-shaped; four inches and a half long; yellowish-green while young; clear-white when suitable for shelling; yellowish-white, shrivelled, and contorted, when ripe; and contain five or six seeds. its season is intermediate. if planted early, the variety will blossom in seven weeks, yield young pods in nine weeks, green beans in eleven weeks, and ripen in ninety-five days. in favorable seasons, the crop will ripen if the seeds are planted the last of june; but, for the young pods or for green beans, plantings may be made to near the middle of july. seeds clear, deep-purple, the hilum white, round-ovoid, slightly compressed, half an inch long, and about three-eighths of an inch in depth and thickness. fourteen hundred and fifty seeds are contained in a quart, and will plant a hundred and fifty hills. it is a hardy and productive variety, principally grown as a string-bean. the pods are succulent and tender; and these qualities are retained to a very advanced stage of growth, or until quite of suitable size for shelling. the dark color of the bean, which is to some extent imparted to the pods in the process of cooking, is by some considered an objection; and the white cranberry, though perhaps less prolific, is preferred. as a shelled-bean, it is of good quality in its green state; but, in its ripened state, little used, though dry and farinaceous. red orleans. scarlet orleans. five to six feet high; flowers white; the pods are sickle-shaped, five inches long, green when young, often tinged with red when more advanced, yellow at full maturity, and contain five or six seeds, packed closely together. it is one of the earliest of the running varieties. spring plantings will blossom in about seven weeks, afford pods for the table in eight weeks, green beans in eleven weeks, and ripen in eighty-five-days. planted later in the season, pods sufficiently large for stringing may be gathered in six weeks, and the crop will begin to ripen in about seventy days. as a string-bean, the variety may be planted until the first of august. at the time of harvesting, the ripe seeds are of a bright blood-red color, but change rapidly by age to brownish-red. they are of an oblong form, often squarely or diagonally shortened at the ends by contact with each other in the pods, half an inch long, and three-tenths of an inch broad. a quart, which contains nearly twenty-four hundred seeds, will plant about two hundred and seventy-five hills. the red orleans is quite prolific, and a desirable sort for soups and stews. the young pods are tender, and well flavored; but its remarkable precocity must be considered its chief recommendation. french writers describe the ripe seeds as exceeding the above dimensions; but specimens received from paris seedsmen correspond in size, form, and color with the description before given. rhode-island butter. plant seven feet and upwards in height, with large, broad, deep-green, wrinkled foliage; flowers blush-white; the pods are six inches long, nearly three-fourths of an inch broad, green while young, paler when more advanced, cream-white and much shrivelled when ripe, and contain seven seeds. if planted early in the season, green pods may be plucked for the table in nine or ten weeks, pods for shelling in twelve weeks, and the crop will ripen in a hundred and twenty-three days. planted early in june, the pods will generally all ripen; but, if the planting is delayed to the last of the month, the crop will but partially mature, unless the season prove more than usually favorable. the vines will, however, yield a plentiful supply of pods, and also of green beans. the seeds, at maturity, are cream-yellow, with well-defined spots and stripes of deep yellowish-buff. they are broad-kidney-shaped, flattened, five-eighths of an inch long, and nearly half an inch broad. the cream-yellow gradually changes by age to brown, and the markings become relatively darker. fourteen hundred seeds are contained in a quart, and will plant a hundred and fifty hills. the variety yields abundantly; and the large pods are tender, succulent, and excellent for table use. the beans, in their green state, are of good quality, though little used when ripe. sabre, or cimeter. stem seven or eight feet high; leaves broad, large, deep-green, and much wrinkled or corrugated; flowers white; pods large, broad, and thin, curved at the ends in the form of a sabre, or cimeter, green when young, cream-white when ripe, and contain eight beans. the variety will blossom in eight weeks, afford young pods for the table in ten weeks, green beans in eleven weeks, and ripen in a hundred days, from the time of planting. if sown in june, the crop will mature in ninety days. plantings for the green seeds may be made till the last of june, and for the young pods to the middle of july. the ripe seeds are clear-white, kidney-form, three-fourths of an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch broad. sixteen hundred are contained in a quart, and will plant a hundred and sixty hills. the sabre bean is remarkably productive; the young pods are crisp and tender, excellent for table use, and good for pickling; the seeds, green or dry, are farinaceous, and of delicate flavor and appearance. in height and foliage, size and form of the pods, color and size of the ripe seeds, it resembles the case-knife. the principal difference between the varieties is in the earlier maturity of the sabre. soissons. _vil._ introduced from france. stem six feet or more high; foliage large, broad, wrinkled; flowers white; the pods are eight inches long, three-fourths of an inch broad, sword-shaped, yellowish-green when near maturity, yellowish-white when ripe, and contain six or seven seeds. the variety requires the whole season for its full perfection. if planted early, it blossoms in nine weeks, produces young pods in eleven weeks, and ripens off in gradual succession till the plants are destroyed by frost. if cultivated for its young pods, plantings may be made to the last week in june. the ripe seeds are remarkably large,--often measuring nearly an inch in length and half an inch in breadth,--pure, glossy-white, kidney-shaped, and generally irregularly compressed. seven hundred are contained in a quart, and will plant about eighty hills. the young pods, while quite young and small, are crisp and tender, and the ripe seeds are farinaceous and well flavored. it is also an excellent sort for shelling in the green state; but the plants are not hardy, and thrive well only in warm soil and sheltered situations. under ordinary culture, many of the pods are imperfect, and frequently contain but two or three seeds. white cranberry. stem five or six feet high; flowers white; the pods are five inches and a half long, pale-green while young, striped and marbled with red when near maturity, yellowish-buff when ripe, and contain five or six beans. it is not an early variety. from plantings made at the usual season, young pods may be gathered in about nine weeks, pods for shelling green in twelve weeks, and ripened beans in a hundred and five days. for stringing, or for shelling in a green state, the variety may be planted the first of july; but, in ordinary seasons, few of the pods will reach maturity. the ripe seeds are white, egg-shaped, sometimes nearly spherical, half an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch in breadth and thickness. in size, form, and color, they strongly resemble the dwarf white marrow; and are not easily distinguished from the seeds of that variety. about twelve hundred and fifty are contained in a quart, and will plant a hundred and twenty-five hills. the white cranberry is hardy, yields well, and the young pods are tender and well flavored. for shelling green, it is decidedly one of the best of all varieties; and for baking, or otherwise cooking, is, when ripe, fully equal to the pea-bean or white marrow. wild-goose. plant seven or eight feet high, of healthy, vigorous habit; flowers bright-purple; the pods are sickle-shaped, pale-green at first, cream-yellow streaked and marbled with purple when ripe, and contain six seeds, closely set together. the variety requires the entire season for its full perfection. when planted early, it will blossom in nine weeks, produce young pods in eleven weeks, green beans in thirteen weeks, and ripen in a hundred and twenty days. if planted and grown under the influence of summer weather, the plants will blossom in seven weeks, yield young pods in nine weeks, green beans in twelve weeks, and ripen in a hundred days. plantings for the green seeds may be made to the middle of june, and for the young pods to the first of july. the ripe beans are pale cream-white, spotted with deep purplish-black (the cream-white gradually changing by age to cinnamon-brown), round-ovoid, four-tenths of an inch long, and about three-eighths of an inch in width and thickness. a quart contains nearly seventeen hundred seeds, and will plant two hundred hills. the variety has been long cultivated both in europe and this country. it is hardy and productive. the young pods are of fair quality; and the seeds, green or ripe, are excellent for table use, in whatever form prepared. yellow cranberry. five to six feet high, with yellowish-green foliage and pale-purple flowers: the pods are five inches long, three-fourths of an inch broad, often sickle-shaped; pale-green at first; cream-yellow, shrivelled, and irregular in form, like those of the red variety, at maturity; and contain five or six seeds. it is a few days later than the white cranberry, and nearly two weeks later than the red. planted at the commencement of the season, it will blossom in eight weeks, yield pods for the table in about ten weeks, pods for shelling in twelve or thirteen weeks, and ripen in a hundred and ten days. early summer-plantings will blossom in seven weeks, produce pods for the table in less than nine weeks, and ripen in about a hundred days. when grown for the ripened crop, it should have the advantage of the entire season; but, when cultivated for its young pods, plantings may be made till the first of july. seeds yellow, with a narrow, dark line encircling the hilum: round-ovoid, half an inch long, and three-eighths of an inch in breadth and thickness: thirteen hundred and fifty are contained in a quart, and will plant a hundred and twenty-five hills. the variety is hardy and prolific; of good quality as a string-bean, or for shelling in the green state. when ripe, the seeds are nearly equal to the white marrow for baking, though the color is less agreeable. * * * * * asparagus-bean. long-podded dolichos. dolichos sesquipedalis. the asparagus-bean, in its manner of growth, inflorescence, and in the size and character of its pods, is quite distinct from the class of beans before described. it is a native of tropical america, and requires a long, warm season for its full perfection. the stem is from six to seven feet high; the leaves are long, narrow, smooth, and shining; the flowers are large, greenish-yellow, and produced two or three together at the extremity of quite a long peduncle; the pods are nearly cylindrical, pale-green, pendent, and grow with remarkable rapidity,--when fully developed, they are eighteen or twenty inches long, and contain eight or nine seeds. these should be sown as early in spring as the appearance of settled warm weather; and the plants will then blossom in ten or eleven weeks, afford pods for use in fourteen weeks, and ripen off their crop in gradual succession until destroyed by frost. the ripe seeds are cinnamon-brown, with a narrow, dark line about the hilum; kidney-shaped, half an inch long, and a fourth of an inch broad: nearly four thousand are contained in a quart, and will plant four hundred and fifty hills. the seeds are quite small, and are rarely eaten, either in a green or ripe state. the variety is cultivated exclusively for its long, peculiar pods, which are crisp, tender, of good flavor, and much esteemed for pickling. it is, however, much less productive than many of the running kinds of garden-beans, and must be considered more curious than really useful. * * * * * lima bean. phaseolus lunatus. stem ten feet or more in height; leaves comparatively long and narrow, smooth and shining; flowers small, greenish-yellow, in spikes; the pods are four inches and a half long, an inch and a quarter broad, much flattened, green and wrinkled while young, yellowish when ripe, and contain three or four beans. the lima is one of the latest, as well as one of the most tender, of all garden-beans; and seldom, if ever, entirely perfects its crop in the northern states. little will be gained by very early planting; as the seeds are not only liable to decay before vegetating, but the plants suffer greatly from cold, damp weather. in the northern and eastern states, the seeds should not be planted in the open ground before the beginning of may; nor should the planting be delayed beyond the tenth or middle of the month. in ordinary seasons, the lima bean will blossom in eight or nine weeks, and pods may be plucked for use the last of august, or beginning of september. only a small proportion of the pods attain a sufficient size for use; a large part of the crop being prematurely destroyed by frost. the ripe seeds are dull-white or greenish-white, with veins radiating from the eye; broad, kidney-shaped, much flattened, seven-eighths of an inch long, and two-thirds of an inch broad. a quart contains about seven hundred seeds, and will plant eighty hills. the pods are tough and parchment-like in all stages of their growth, and are never eaten. the seeds, green or ripe, are universally esteemed for their peculiar flavor and excellence; and, by most persons, are considered the finest of all the garden varieties. if gathered when suitable for use in their green state, and dried in the pods in a cool and shaded situation, they may be preserved during the winter. when required for use, they are shelled, soaked a short time in clear water, and cooked as green beans: thus treated, they will be nearly as tender and well flavored as when freshly plucked from the plants. the seeds are sometimes started on a hot-bed, in thumb-pots, or on inverted turf, or sods, cut in convenient pieces; and about the last of may, if the weather is warm and pleasant, transplanted to hills in the open ground. by the following method, an early and abundant crop may be obtained in comparatively favorable seasons:-- "as soon in spring as the weather is settled, and the soil warm and in good working condition, set poles about six feet in length, three feet apart each way, and plant five or six beans in each hill; being careful to set each bean with its germ downward, and covering an inch deep. after they have grown a while, and before they begin to run, pull up the weakest, and leave but three of the most vigorous plants to a hill. as these increase in height, they should, if necessary, be tied to the stakes, or poles, using bass-matting, or other soft, fibrous material, for the purpose. when they have ascended to the tops of the poles, the ends should be cut or pinched off; as also the ends of all the branches, whenever they rise above that height. this practice checks their liability to run to vines, and tends to make them blossom earlier, and bear sooner and more abundantly, than they otherwise would do." in tropical climates, the lima bean is perennial. green lima. a sub-variety of the common lima, differing principally in the pea-green color of the seeds. as generally found in the market, the seeds of the common and green lima are more or less intermixed. by some, the green is considered more tender, and thought to remain longer on the plants without becoming hard, than the white. the habits of the plants are the same, and there is no difference in the season of maturity. a careful selection of seeds for planting, and skilful culture, would undoubtedly give a degree of permanency to this difference in color; which appears to be the principal, if not the only, point of variation. mottled lima. this, like the green, is a sub-variety of the common lima. the ripe seeds are dull-white or greenish-white, mottled and clouded with purple. in the habit of the plant, in the foliage, pods, form, or size of the seeds, or season of maturity, there are no marks of distinction when compared with the common lima. * * * * * scarlet-runner. phaseolus multiflorus. from south america. though nearly allied to the common kidney-bean, it is considered by botanists a distinct species; differing in its inflorescence, in the form of its pods, and particularly in the fact that the cotyledons, or lobes of the planted seed, do not rise to the surface of the ground in the process of germination. it is, besides, a perennial plant. the roots are tuberous, and, though small, not unlike those of the dahlia. if taken up before frost in the autumn, they may be preserved in a conservatory, or warm parlor or sitting-room, during winter, and reset in the open ground on the approach of warm weather; when new shoots will soon make their appearance, and the plants will blossom a second time early and abundantly. the plants are twelve feet or more in height or length, with deep-green foliage and brilliant scarlet flowers; the latter being produced in spikes, on long footstalks. the pods are six inches long, nearly an inch broad, somewhat hairy while young, sickle-shaped and wrinkled when more advanced, light reddish-brown when ripe, and contain four or five seeds. it requires the whole season for its perfection, and should be planted as early as the weather will admit. the plants will then blossom in seven or eight weeks, produce young pods in nine weeks, green seeds in twelve weeks, and ripen in a hundred and fifteen days. the ripe seeds are lilac-purple, variegated with black, or deep purplish-brown,--the edge, or border, little, if any, marked; hilum long and white; form broad-kidney-shaped; size large,--if well grown, measuring seven-eighths of an inch long, six-tenths of an inch broad, and three-eighths of an inch thick. about five hundred and fifty are contained in a quart, and will plant eighty hills. in this country, it is usually cultivated as an ornamental, climbing annual; the spikes of rich, scarlet flowers, and its deep-green foliage, rendering the plant one of the most showy and attractive objects of the garden. though inferior to some of the finer sorts of garden-beans, its value as an esculent has not been generally appreciated. the young pods are tender and well flavored; and the seeds, green or ripe, are much esteemed in many localities. "in britain, the green pods only are used; on the continent, the ripened seeds are as much an object of culture; in holland, the runners are grown in every cottage-garden for both purposes; while, in france and switzerland, they are grown chiefly for the ripened seeds. in england, they occupy a place in most cottage-gardens, and are made both ornamental and useful. they cover arbors, are trained over pales and up the walls of cottages, which they enliven by the brightness of their blossoms; while every day produces a supply of wholesome and nutritious food for the owner. the french, now enthusiastically fond of this legume, at one time held it in utter detestation." painted lady-runner. a sub-variety of the scarlet-runner, with variegated flowers; the upper petals being scarlet, the lower white. the ripe seeds are paler, and the spots and markings duller. cultivation and uses the same. white-runner. a variety of the scarlet-runner. the plants are less vigorous, the pods are longer and less wrinkled, and the flowers and seeds pure white. the green pods are used in the same manner as those of the scarlet-runner, and are similar in texture and flavor; but the shelled-beans, either green or ripe, are generally considered superior to those of the scarlet variety. they are sometimes seen in vegetable markets under the name of the "lima;" and are probably often cultivated, as well as purchased and consumed, as the lima. the white-runner beans, however, are easily distinguished by their greater thickness, more rounded form, and especially by their uniform whiteness. * * * * * sieva. carolina. saba. west-indian. small lima. carolina sewee. phaseolus lunatus, var. the sieva is a variety of the lima, attaining a height of ten or twelve feet. the leaves and flowers resemble those of the common lima. the pods, however, are much smaller, and remarkable for their uniform size; generally measuring three inches in length, and about seven-eighths of an inch in width: they are green and wrinkled while young, pale yellowish-brown when ripe, and contain three, and sometimes four, seeds. though several days earlier than the lima, the sieva bean requires the whole season for its complete maturity; and even when planted early, and receiving the advantage of a warm summer and a favorable autumn, it is seldom fully perfected in the northern states: for, though much of the crop may ripen, a large portion almost invariably is prematurely destroyed by frost. the variety will blossom in eight weeks from the time of planting, afford pods for shelling in twelve weeks, and ripen from near the middle of september till destroyed by frost. the seeds are white or dull yellowish-white, broad-kidney-shaped, much flattened, five-eighths of an inch long, and nearly half an inch broad. a quart contains about sixteen hundred, and will plant about a hundred and fifty hills. the sieva is one of the most productive of all varieties. the young pods, however, are tough and hard, and are never eaten. the beans, in their green or ripe state, are similar to the lima, and are nearly as delicate and richly flavored. it is from two to three weeks earlier than the last named, and would yield a certain abundance in seasons when the lima would uniformly fail. as a shelled-bean, green or dry, it must be classed as one of the best, and is recommended for cultivation. mottled sieva. a sub-variety of the common sieva; the principal if not the only mark of distinction being in the variegated character of the seeds, which are dull-white, spotted and streaked with purple. it is sometimes described as being earlier than the common variety; but, from various experiments in the cultivation of both varieties, there appears to be little if any difference in their seasons of maturity. the color and form of the flower are the same as the sieva; the pods are of the same size and shape; and the leaves have the same elongated form, and smooth, glossy appearance. * * * * * chick-pea. egyptian pea. cicer arietinum. the chick-pea is a hardy, annual plant, originally from the south of europe, but also indigenous to the north of africa and some parts of asia. the stem is two or three feet high, erect and branching; the leaves are pinnate, with from six to nine pairs of oval, grayish, toothed leaflets; the flowers resemble those of the common pea, and are produced on long peduncles, generally singly, but sometimes in pairs; the pods are about an inch long, three-fourths of an inch broad, somewhat rhomboidal, hairy, inflated or bladder-like, and contain two or three globular, wrinkled, pea-like seeds. _sowing and cultivation._--the seed should be sown in april, in the manner of the garden-pea; making the drills about three feet apart, an inch and a half deep, and dropping the seeds two inches asunder in the drills. all the culture required is simply to keep the ground between the rows free from weeds. the crop should be harvested before the complete maturity of the seeds. _use._--"the pease, though not very digestible, are largely employed in soups, and form the basis of the _purée aux croutons_, or bread and pea soup, so highly esteemed in paris." they are also extensively used, roasted and ground, as a substitute for coffee. there are three varieties, as follow:-- red chick-pea. a variety with rose-colored flowers, and red or brownish-red seeds. white chick-pea. both the flowers and seeds white; plant similar to those of the other varieties. yellow chick-pea. this variety has white blossoms and yellow seeds. the plant, in height, foliage, or general habit, differs little from the white or the red seeded. * * * * * chickling vetch. _law._ lentil, of spain. cultivated lathyrus. lathyrus sativus. stem three or four feet high or long, attaching itself to trellises, branches, or whatever may be provided for its support, in the manner of pease; the leaves are small and grass-like; flowers solitary, smaller than those of the common pea, and generally bright-blue; the pods are an inch and a half long, three-fourths of an inch broad, flattened, winged along the back, and enclose two compressed but irregularly shaped seeds of a dun or brownish color and pleasant flavor. _cultivation and use._--the seeds are sown at the time and in the manner of the taller kinds of garden-pease. the plant is principally cultivated for its seeds, the flour of which is mixed with that of wheat or rye, and made into bread. it is also fed to stock; and, in some localities, the plants are given as green food to horses and cattle. "in , its cultivation and use were prohibited on account of its supposed pernicious properties; as it was thought to induce rigidity of the limbs, and to otherwise injuriously affect the system." white-flowered chickling vetch. a variety with white flowers and seeds. the foliage is also much paler than that of the common chickling vetch. other species of the genus also produce farinaceous seeds suitable for food, but in too small quantities to admit of being profitably cultivated in this country. * * * * * english bean. horse-bean. garden-bean, of the english. vicia faba. [illustration: english bean.] the english bean differs essentially from the common american garden or kidney bean usually cultivated in this country; and is classed by botanists under a different genera, and not as a distinct species, as intimated in the "american gardener." aside from the great difference in their general appearance and manner of growth, the soil, climate, and mode of cultivation, required by the two classes, are very dissimilar: the american garden-bean thriving best in a light, warm soil, and under a high temperature; and the english bean in stiff, moist soil, and in cool, humid seasons. the english bean is a native of egypt, and is said to be the most ancient of all the now cultivated esculents. it is an annual plant, with an upright, smooth, four-sided, hollow stem, dividing into branches near the ground, and growing from two to four feet and upwards in height. the leaves are alternate, pinnate, and composed of from two to four pairs of oval, smooth, entire leaflets; the flowers are large, nearly stemless, purple or white, veined and spotted with purplish-black; the pods are large and downy; the seeds are rounded, or reniform, flattened, and vary to a considerable extent in size and color in the different varieties,--they will vegetate until more than five years old. _soil and planting._--as before remarked, the english bean requires a moist, strong soil, and a cool situation; the principal obstacles in the way of its successful cultivation in this country being the heat and drought of the summer. the seeds should be planted early, in drills two feet asunder for the smaller-growing varieties, and three feet for the larger sorts; dropping them about six inches from each other, and covering two inches deep. a quart of seed will plant about a hundred and fifty feet of row or drill. _cultivation._--"when the plants have attained a height of five or six inches, they are earthed up slightly for support; and, when more advanced, they are sometimes staked along the rows, and cords extended from stake to stake to keep the plants erect. when the young pods appear, the tops of the plants should be pinched off, to throw that nourishment, which would be expended in uselessly increasing the height of the plant, into its general system, and consequently increase the bulk of crop, as well as hasten its maturity. this often-recommended operation, though disregarded by many, is of very signal importance."--_m'int._ _taking the crop._--the pods should be gathered for use when the seeds are comparatively young, or when they are of the size of a marrowfat-pea. as a general rule, all vegetables are most tender and delicate when young; and to few esculents does this truth apply with greater force than to the class of plants to which the english bean belongs. _use._--the seeds are used in their green state, cooked and served in the same manner as shelled kidney-beans. the young pods are sometimes, though rarely, used as string-beans. _varieties._-- dutch long pod. plant from four to five feet high, dividing into two or three branches; flowers white; pods horizontal, or slightly pendulous, six or seven inches long, about an inch in width, three-fourths of an inch thick, and containing five or six large white or yellowish-white seeds. not early, but prolific, and of good quality. dwarf fan, or cluster. early dwarf. bog-bean. a remarkably dwarfish, early variety, much employed in forcing. stem about a foot high, separating near the ground into two or three branches; flowers white; the pods, which are produced in clusters near the top of the plant, are almost cylindrical, three inches long, three-fourths of an inch thick, and contain three or four small, oblong, yellow seeds. it is one of the smallest and earliest of the english beans, and yields abundantly. early dwarf crimson-seeded. _vil._ vilmorin's dwarf red-seeded. plant sixteen inches high, separating into two or three divisions, or branches; the flowers resemble those of the common varieties, but are somewhat smaller; the pods are erect, three inches and a half long, three-fifths of an inch wide, half an inch thick, and contain three or four seeds, closely set together, and nearly as large in diameter as the pod. the ripe seeds are bright brownish-red or crimson, thick, shortened at the back, and depressed at the sides: six hundred and fifty will measure a quart. the variety is principally esteemed for its dwarfish habit and early maturity. early mazagan. early malta. this variety, though originally from mazagan, on the coast of africa, is one of the hardiest sorts now in cultivation. stem from two to three feet high, and rather slender; pods four to five inches long, containing four or five whitish seeds. the early mazagan is much less productive than many other sorts; but its hardiness and earliness have secured it a place in the garden, and it has been cultivated more or less extensively for upwards of a century. evergreen long pod. _m'int._ green genoa. green long pod. green nonpareil. this variety grows from three to four feet high. the pods are long, somewhat flattened, and generally contain four rather small, oblong, green seeds. it is an excellent bearer, of good quality, and but a few days later than the common long pod. the variety is much esteemed on account of the fine, green color of the beans; which, if gathered at the proper time, retain their green color when dressed. in planting, make the drills three feet apart, and two inches and a half deep; and allow two plants for each linear foot. green china. from two to two feet and a half high; pods long, cylindrical, containing three or four beans, which remain of a green color when dry. it is recommended for its great productiveness and late maturity. green julienne. _vil._ plant about three feet and a half high, usually divided into four branches; the pods are erect, four inches long, three-fourths of an inch thick, and contain two or three small, oblong, green seeds. early and of good quality. green windsor. toker. stem three feet high, separating into two, and sometimes three, branches; flowers white; pods erect, often horizontal, four inches and a half long, an inch and a quarter wide, and containing three large, green, nearly circular, and rather thick seeds. the latter retain their fresh, green color till near maturity, and, to a considerable extent, when fully ripe; and, on this account, are found in the market, and used at table, after most other varieties have disappeared. the variety resembles the common broad windsor; but the seeds are smaller, and retain their green color after maturity. eleven or twelve well-developed seeds will weigh an ounce. horse-bean. _law._ scotch bean. faba vulgaris arvensis. stem from three to five feet high; flowers variable in color; the ripe seeds are from a half to five-eighths of an inch in length by three-eighths in breadth, generally slightly compressed on the sides, and frequently a little hollowed or flattened at the end, of a whitish or light-brownish color, occasionally interspersed with darker blotches, particularly towards the extremities; eye black; average weight per bushel sixty-two pounds. an agricultural sort, generally cultivated in rows, but sometimes sown broadcast. it is not adapted to the climate of the united states, though extensively and profitably grown in england and scotland. johnson's wonderful. _law._ an improved variety of the broad windsor, recently introduced, and apparently of excellent quality. the pods are long, and contain six or eight beans, which are similar in size and form to the windsor. long-podded. _law._ lisbon. hang-down long pod. early long pod. sandwich. turkey long pod. sword long pod. stems from three to five feet high; pods six to seven inches long, an inch and a fourth broad, rather pendulous, and containing four or five whitish, somewhat oblong, flattened seeds, about an inch in length, and five-eighths of an inch in breadth. the variety has been long in cultivation, is remarkably productive, and one of the most esteemed of the english beans. it is about a week later than the early mazagan. marshall's early dwarf prolific. _m'int._ plant from eighteen inches to two feet high, separating into numerous branches. it resembles the early mazagan; but is two weeks earlier, and much more productive. the pods are produced in clusters near the ground, and contain four or five seeds, which are larger than those of the last named. red or scarlet blossomed. stem three or four feet high, separating near the ground into four branches; flowers generally bright-red, approaching scarlet, but varying from pale to purplish-red and blackish-purple, and sometimes to nearly jet-black; the pods, which differ from all other varieties in their dark, rusty-brown color, are erect, four inches long, nearly an inch broad, and contain three and sometimes four seeds. the variety is remarkably hardy and productive; but less esteemed than many others, on account of its dark color. it deserves cultivation as an ornamental plant. red windsor. _law._ _m'int._ scarlet windsor. dark-red. this variety resembles the violet or purple; growing about four feet high. the pods are narrower than those of the broad windsor, and contain about the same number of seeds: in the green state, these are darker than those of the violet, but change to scarlet when fully grown, and to deep-red when ripe. the red windsor is late, but prolific, and of good quality. it is, however, little cultivated, on account of its dark and unattractive appearance. the seed weighs about thirty-one grains. royal dwarf cluster. _m'int._ a very dwarf, and comparatively new variety; growing only twelve or fourteen inches high. it produces its pods in clusters, three or four beans in each pod, which are smaller than marshall's early prolific. on account of its branching habit, it should not have less than ten or twelve inches in the line, which is nearly its proper distance between the rows. much esteemed for the delicacy and smallness of the beans while young, and considered one of the best of the early dwarf sorts. toker. _law._ large toker. height about five feet; pods rather long, and very broad, containing three or four beans of a whitish color,--differing from the common windsor in being of an elongated, oval form. this is a medium late sort, and an excellent bearer, but considered somewhat coarse, and therefore not so much esteemed as the windsor. the ripe seed weighs thirty-six grains. violet or purple. violette. stem about four feet high, with two or three ramifications; flowers white; pods generally erect, sometimes at right angles, a little curved, four inches or upwards in length, an inch and a fourth in width, four-fifths of an inch thick, containing two and sometimes three seeds. when ripe, the beans are large, not regular in form, rather thin, of a violet-red color, changing by age to a mahogany-red; the size and shape being intermediate between the long pod and broad windsor. the variety is of good quality, and productive; but less desirable than many other sorts, on account of its dark color. white-blossomed long pod. _law._ the flowers of this sort differ from all others in being pure white; having no spots on the large upper petal, or on the wings or smaller side petals. it is liable to degenerate; but may easily be distinguished, when in flower, by the above characters. stem about four feet high; pods long, nearly cylindrical, and slightly pendulous, generally containing four and sometimes five seeds, which are black or blackish-brown, three-fourths of an inch long, and half an inch broad. it is a moderate bearer, and of excellent quality; but not used in an advanced state, on account of its color. the variety possesses the singular anomaly of having the whitest flowers and the darkest seeds of any of the english beans. the seed weighs about twelve grains. windsor. white broad windsor. taylor's large windsor. kentish windsor. mumford. wrench's improved windsor. stem about four feet high; flowers white; pods generally horizontal or inclined, five inches long, an inch and a fourth wide, seven-eighths of an inch thick, and containing two or three beans; seeds large, yellowish, of a flat, circular form, an inch broad, but varying in size according to soil, culture, and season. a quart contains from two hundred and fifty to two hundred and seventy-five seeds. this familiar sort is much esteemed and extensively cultivated. it is considered the earliest of the late garden varieties; and excellent as a summer bean, on account of its remaining longer fit for use than any other, with the exception of the green windsor. it is a sure bearer; and, as the pods are produced in succession, pluckings may be made from day to day for many weeks. the seeds are the heaviest of all the english beans; nine well-grown specimens weighing an ounce. lentil. _law._ ervum lens. a hardy, annual plant, with an erect, angular, branching stem a foot and a half high. the leaves are winged, with about six pairs of narrow leaflets, and terminate in a divided tendril, or clasper; the flowers are small, numerous, and generally produced in pairs; the pods are somewhat quadrangular, flattened, usually in pairs, and enclose one or two round, lens-like seeds, the size and color varying in the different varieties,--about four hundred and fifty are contained in an ounce, and their power of germination is retained three years. _cultivation._--"the soil best adapted for the lentil is that of a dry, light, calcareous, sandy nature." when cultivated as green food for stock, it should be sown broadcast; but, if grown for ripe seeds, it should be sown in drills,--the last of april or beginning of may being the most suitable season for sowing. _use._--"the lentil is a legume of the greatest antiquity, and was much esteemed in the days of the patriarchs. in egypt and syria, the seeds are parched, and sold in shops; being considered by the natives as excellent food for those making long journeys. in france, germany, holland, and other countries of europe, it is grown to a considerable extent, both for its seeds and haum. the former are used in various ways, but principally, when ripe, in soups, as split pease. when given as green food to stock, it should be cut when the first pods are nearly full grown." _varieties._-- common lentil. _law._ yellow lentil. this variety is considered superior to the large lentil, though the seeds are much smaller. in the markets of paris, it is the most esteemed of all the cultivated sorts. its season is the same with that of the last named. green lentil. lentille verte du puy. _vil._ the green lentil somewhat resembles the small lentil, particularly in its habit of growth; though its stem is taller and more slender, and its foliage deeper colored. the principal distinction is in the color of the seeds, which are green, spotted and marbled with black. large lentil. _law._ flowers small, white, generally two, but sometimes three, on each peduncle; the pods are three-fourths of an inch long, half an inch broad, flattened, and generally contain a single seed, which is white or cream-colored, lens-shaped, three-eighths of an inch in diameter, and an eighth of an inch in thickness. the plant is about fifteen inches high. it is one of the most productive of all the varieties, though inferior in quality to the common lentil. one-flowered lentil. ervum monanthos. the stem of this quite distinct species is from twelve to fifteen inches high; the flowers are yellow, stained or spotted with black, and produced one on a foot-stalk; the pods are oval, smooth, and contain three or four globular, wrinkled, grayish-brown seeds, nearly a fourth of an inch in diameter. about five hundred and fifty seeds are contained in an ounce. the one-flowered lentil is inferior to most of the other sorts; but is cultivated to some extent, in france and elsewhere, both for its seeds and herbage. red lentil. _law._ seeds of the size and form of those of the common lentil, but of a reddish-brown color; flowers light-red. its season of maturity is the same with that of the last named. small lentil. _law._ lentille petite. _vil._ seeds about an eighth of an inch in diameter; flowers reddish; and pods often containing two seeds. this is the "lentille petite" of the french; and is the variety mostly sown for green food in france, although its ripe seeds are also used. it is rather late, and grows taller than any of the other sorts, except the green lentil. when sown in drills, they should be from ten to fifteen inches apart, and the plants about four or five inches distant in the rows. the lentils are of a close, branching habit of growth; and a single plant will produce a hundred and fifty and often a much greater number of pods. * * * * * lupine. lupinus. the lupines are distinguished among leguminous plants by their strong, erect, branching habit of growth. of the numerous species and varieties, some are cultivated for ornament, others for forage, and some for ploughing under for the purpose of enriching the soil. the only species grown for their farinaceous seeds, or which are considered of much value to the gardener, are the two following:-- white lupine. _law._ lupinus albus. an annual species, with a sturdy, erect stem two feet high; leaves oblong, covered with a silvery down, and produced seven or eight together at the end of a common stem; the flowers are white, in loose, terminal spikes; the pods are straight, hairy, about three inches long, and contain five or six large, white, flattened seeds,--these are slightly bitter when eaten, and are reputed to possess important medical properties. "the white lupine was extensively cultivated by the romans for its ripened seeds, which were used for food; and also for its green herbage, which was employed for the support of their domestic animals." it is of little value as an esculent; and, compared with many other leguminous plants, not worthy of cultivation. the seeds should be sown where the plants are to remain, as they do not succeed well when transplanted. sow early in may, in drills sixteen to eighteen inches apart; cover an inch and a half deep, and thin to five or six inches in the rows. yellow lupine. _law._ lupinus luteus. the yellow lupine is a native of sicily. it is a hardy annual, and resembles the foregoing species in its general character. the flowers are yellow; the pods are about two inches long, hairy, flattened, and enclose four or five large, roundish, speckled seeds. it blossoms and ripens at the same time with the white, and is planted and cultivated in the same manner. this species is grown in italy for the same purposes as the white, but more extensively. it is also grown in some parts of the south of france, on poor, dry grounds, for cutting in a green state, and ploughing under as a fertilizer. * * * * * the pea. pisum sativum. the native country of the pea, like that of many of our garden vegetables, is unknown. it is a hardy, annual plant; and its cultivation and use as an esculent are almost universal. to give in detail the various methods of preparing the soil, sowing, culture, gathering, and use, would occupy a volume. the following directions are condensed from an elaborate treatise on the culture of this vegetable, by charles m'intosh, in his excellent work entitled "the book of the garden:"-- _soil and its preparation._--the pea comes earliest to maturity in light, rich soil, abounding in humus: hence the practice of adding decomposed leaves or vegetable mould has a very beneficial effect. for general crops, a rich, hazel loam, or deep, rich, alluvial soil, is next best; but, for the most abundant of all, a strong loam, inclining to clay. for early crops, mild manure, such as leaf-mould, should be used. if the soil is very poor, stronger manure should be employed. for general crops, a good dressing may be applied; and for the dwarf kinds, such as tom thumb, bishop's new long pod, and the like, the soil can hardly be too rich. _seed and sowing._--a quart of ripe pease is equal to about two pounds' weight; and contains, of the largest-sized varieties, about thirteen hundred, and of the smaller descriptions about two thousand, seeds. a pint of the small-seeded sorts, such as the daniel o'rourke, early frame, and early charlton, will sow a row about sixty feet in length; and the same quantity of larger-growing sorts will sow a row of nearly a hundred feet, on account of being sown so much thinner. a fair average depth for covering the seed is two and a half or three inches; though some practise planting four or five inches deep, which is said to be a preventive against the premature decay of the vines near the roots. as to distance between the rows, when pease are sown in the usual manner (that is, row after row throughout the whole field), they should be as far asunder as the length of the stem of the variety cultivated: thus a pea, that attains a height or length of two feet, should have two feet from row to row, and so on to those taller or lower growing. they are sometimes sown two rows together, about a foot apart, and ten, twenty, or even fifty feet between the double rows; by which every portion of the crop is well exposed to the sun and air, and the produce gathered with great facility. there is no loss of ground by this method; for other crops can be planted within a foot or two of the rows, and this amount of space is necessary for the purpose of gathering. a common practice in ordinary garden culture is to sow in double rows twelve or fourteen inches apart, slightly raising the soil for the purpose. when so planted, all of the sorts not over two feet in height may be successfully grown without sticking. when varieties of much taller growth are sown, a greater yield will be secured by bushing the plants; which is more economically as well as more strongly done if the planting is made in double rows. the staking, or bushing, should be furnished when the plants are three or four inches high, or immediately after the second hoeing: they should be of equal height, and all straggling side-twigs should be removed for appearance' sake. _early crops._--the earliest crops produced in the open garden without artificial aid are obtained by judicious selection of the most approved early varieties, choosing a warm, favorable soil and situation, and sowing the seed either in november, just as the ground is closing, or in february or march, at the first opening of the soil; the latter season, however, being preferable, as the seed then vegetates with much greater certainty, and the crop is nearly or quite as early. great benefit will be derived from reflected heat, when planted at the foot of a wall, building, or tight fence, running east and west. it is necessary, however, when warm sunshine follows cold, frosty nights, to shade the pease from its influence an hour or two in the morning, or to sprinkle them with cold water if they have been at all frozen. they are sometimes covered with a narrow glass frame of a triangular form, and glazed on both sides, or on one only, according as they may be used on rows running from north to south, or from east to west. in the latter case, such frames may have glass in the south side only. _subsequent cultivation._--"when the crop has attained the height of about five inches, a little earth should be drawn around the stems, but not so closely as to press upon them: it should form a sort of ridge, with a slight channel in the middle. the intention here is not, as in many other cases, to encourage the roots to diverge in a horizontal direction (for they have no disposition to do so), but rather to give a slight support to the plants until they take hold of the stakes that are to support them. those crops which are not to be staked require this support the most: and they should have the earth drawn up upon one side only, that the vines may be thrown to one side; which will both facilitate the operation of gathering, and keep the ground between them clear at the same time, while it supports the necks of the plants better than if the earth was drawn up on both sides." _mildew._--one of the most successful cultivators (t. a. knight) says, "that the secondary and immediate cause of this disease is a want of a sufficient supply of moisture from the soil, with excess of humidity in the air; particularly if the plants be exposed to a temperature below that to which they have been accustomed. if damp and cloudy weather succeed that which has been warm and bright, without the intervention of sufficient rain to moisten the ground to some depth, the crop is generally much injured by mildew." "while engaged in the production of those excellent pease which bear his name, he proved this theory by warding off mildew by copious waterings of the roots. the fashionable remedy, at present, is the application of sulphur. this, no doubt, subdues the disease, but does not remove the cause."--_m'int._ _gathering._--the crop should be gathered as it becomes fit for use. if even a few of the pods begin to ripen, young pods will not only cease to form, but those partly advanced will cease to enlarge. _use._--"in a sanitary point of view, pease cannot be eaten too young, nor too soon after they are gathered; and hence people who depend on the public markets for their supply seldom have this very popular vegetable in perfection, and too often only when it is almost unfit for use. this is a formidable objection to the use of pease brought from long distances. it is, of course, for the interest of the producer to keep back his pease till they are fully grown, because they measure better, and, we believe, by many are purchased quicker, as they get greater bulk for their money. this may be so far excusable on the part of such: but it is inexcusable that a gentleman, having a garden of his own, should be served with pease otherwise than in the very highest state of perfection; which they are not, if allowed to become too old, or even too large."--_m'int._ "pease, in a green state, are with difficulty sent to a distance, as, when packed closely together, heat and fermentation speedily take place. this is one of the causes why pease from the south, or those brought by long distances to market, are discolored, devoid of flavor, and, worst of all, very unwholesome to eat. pease intended for long transportation should be packed in open baskets (not in boxes or tight barrels), and laid in layers not more than two inches thick; and, between such layers, a thick stratum of clean straw or other dry material should be placed." _varieties._--these are very numerous, and, like those of the broccoli lettuce, not only greatly confused, but often based on trifling and unimportant distinctions. from experiments made a few years since in the gardens of the london horticultural society, under the direction of mr. thompson, who planted no less than two hundred and thirty-five reputed sorts (all of which were then enumerated in seedsmen's catalogues), only twenty-seven of the number were selected as being really useful. about the same time, upwards of a hundred sorts were grown by mr. m'intosh, from which twelve were selected as being truly distinct and valuable. "new sorts are yearly introduced: and it would be injudicious not to give them a fair trial; for as we progress in pea-culture, as in every other branch of horticulture, we may reasonably expect that really improved and meritorious sorts will arise, and be substituted for others that may be inferior." auvergne. _cot. gard._ white sabre. white cimeter. the plant is of moderately strong habit of growth, producing a single stem from four to five feet high, according to the soil in which it is grown; and bears from twelve to fifteen pods. these are generally single, but sometimes in pairs; when fully grown, four inches and a half long, and over half an inch broad; tapering to the point, and very much curved. they contain from eight to ten peas, which are closely compressed, and of the size of the early frames. even the small pods contain as many as six or seven peas in each. the ripe seed is white. plants from seed sown may were in blossom june ; and the pods were sufficiently grown for plucking, july . the auvergne pea was introduced from france into england some years ago by the london horticultural society. although it very far surpasses most of the varieties of the white pea, it has never become much disseminated, and is very little known or cultivated. it is, however, a most characteristic variety, and always easily distinguishable by its long, curved pods. it is one of the most productive of all the garden pease. batt's wonder. _trans._ plant three feet in height, of robust growth; foliage dark-green; pods narrow, nearly straight, but exceedingly well filled, containing seven or eight peas of medium size, which, when ripe, are small, smooth, and of a bluish-green color. planted may , the variety will flower about july , and the pods will be fit for use the middle of the month. the variety withstands drought well, and the pods hang long before the peas become too hard for use. it is an excellent pea for a second crop. beck's prize-taker. _trans._ prize-taker. rising sun. plant four and a half to five feet in height; pods roundish, curved or hooked near the end, well filled, containing seven to eight middle-sized peas of a fine green color when young, and mixed olive and white when ripe. sown may , the variety will blossom june , and the pods will be suitable for plucking about the th of july. it is one of the best varieties for the main crop. similar to, if not identical with, bellamy's early green marrow. bedman's imperial. _cot. gard._ the plant generally produces a single stem, which is from three to four feet high; the pods are usually in pairs, but sometimes single, three inches and a quarter long, five-eighths of an inch broad, somewhat curved, and terminate abruptly at the points. each pod contains six to seven peas, which are of an ovate form, and about a third of an inch in their greatest diameter. the ripe seed is pale-blue. planted may , the variety blossomed the last of june, and furnished pease for use about the th of july. for many years, this variety stood foremost among the imperials; but is now giving place to other and greatly superior sorts. bellamy's early green marrow. _cot. gard._ plant of strong and robust habit of growth, sometimes with a single and often with a branching stem, four and a half or five feet high, and producing from twelve to eighteen pods: these are in pairs, rarely single, three inches and a half long, seven-tenths of an inch broad, slightly curved, thick-backed, and terminate abruptly at the point. the surface is smooth, and of a very dark-green color. they contain, on an average, from six to seven large bluish-green peas. the ripe seed has a mixed appearance; some being dull yellowish-white, and others light olive-green, in about equal proportions. plants from seed sown the first week in may were in blossom the last week in june, and pods were plucked for use about the middle of july. the variety is highly recommended, both as a good bearer and a pea of excellent quality, whether for private use or for marketing: for the latter purpose it is peculiarly adapted, as the pod is of a fine deep-color, handsomely and regularly shaped, and always plumply filled. bishop's early dwarf. _law._ pods single or in pairs, about two inches long, bent back at both ends, and increasing in size towards the middle; pea about a fourth of an inch in diameter, and irregularly shaped, cream-colored, with blotches of white, particularly about the eye. the plant grows little more than a foot high, and is fairly productive. early sowings will give a supply for the table in about ten weeks. this once-popular, early dwarf sort is now rapidly giving place to bishop's new long-podded,--a more prolific and much superior variety. bishop's new long-podded. stem about two feet high; pods nearly straight, almost cylindrical, containing six or seven white peas. it is an early variety, an abundant bearer, of excellent quality, and in all respects much superior to the common bishop's early dwarf. planted the st of may, it will blossom june , and yield pease for the table the th of july. m'intosh describes it as "a most abundant bearer, producing a succession of pods during most of the pea-season. like all pease of its class, it requires a rich soil, and from four to six inches between the seed in the line. it is one of the most valuable sorts for small gardens and for domestic use. it originated in england with mr. david bishop; and is a hybrid between bishop's early dwarf and one of the marrowfats, carrying with it the characters of both its parents." black-eyed marrow. plant about five feet high, strong and vigorous; pods generally single, sometimes in pairs, three inches and a quarter in length, three-fourths of an inch in breadth, becoming rough or wrinkled on the surface as they approach maturity, and containing about six large, round, cream-white or brownish-white black-eyed seeds, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter. its season is nearly the same with the dwarf and missouri marrow. if sown the st of may, the plants will blossom the th or th of june, and yield pease for the table about july : the crop will ripen the last of the same month. this is a very prolific as well as excellent variety. it is little cultivated in gardens at the north, though sometimes grown as a field-pea in the canadas. in the middle states, and at the south, it is a popular market-sort, and its cultivation is much more extensive. the dark color of the eye of the ripened seed distinguishes the variety from all others. blue cimeter. _thomp._ sabre. dwarf sabre. blue sabre. new sabre. beck's eclipse. plant about three feet high; pods generally in pairs, well filled, long, roundish, gradually curved from the stem to the point, or cimeter-shaped; seeds of good quality, larger than those of the prussian blue, from which the variety doubtless originated, and to which, when grown in poor soil, it has a tendency to return. if planted the st of may, it will blossom about the th of june, and the pods will be suitable for plucking about the middle of july. it bears abundantly, but not in succession; and, for this reason, is much prized by market-gardeners. the most of the pods being fit to pluck at the same time, the crop is harvested at once, and the land immediately occupied with other vegetables. blue imperial. dwarf blue imperial. plant strong and vigorous, four feet in height, with large, healthy foliage; pods single and in pairs, three inches and a quarter in length, three-fourths of an inch in breadth, containing six or seven large peas. the ripe seed is somewhat indented and irregularly compressed, three-eighths of an inch in diameter, and of a greenish-blue color. with respect to season, the variety is intermediate. if planted the st of may, it will blossom the th of june, and the pods will attain a size fit for plucking about the th of july. it is very hardy; yields abundantly; thrives well in almost any description of soil or situation; and, though not so sweet and tender as some of the more recent sorts, is of good quality. it vegetates with much greater certainty, and its crops are more reliable, than the higher-flavored varieties; and these qualities will still secure its cultivation by those who prefer a certain and plentiful supply of fair quality, to a precarious and limited yield of extraordinary sweetness and excellence. it has long been grown in this country, and is considered a standard variety. blue prussian. _cot. gard._ dwarf blue prussian. prussian blue. green prussian. plant of a vigorous but not robust habit of growth, with a single stem about three feet high, which is sometimes branching. the pods are generally produced in pairs, but are also sometimes single, and vary from twelve to sixteen on each plant. they are from two and three-fourths of an inch to three inches long, three-fourths of an inch wide, somewhat curved, and rather broader towards the point, where they terminate abruptly. they contain about seven peas, which are four-tenths of an inch long, seven-twentieths of an inch wide, about the same in thickness, and compressed on the sides, from being so close together. the ripe seed is blue. sown the st of may, the plants blossomed june , and yielded pease for use the middle of july. it produces abundantly, and is a valuable sort for late summer use. "it is unquestionably the parent of the blue imperial and all like varieties." blue spanish dwarf. _cot. gard._ groom's superb. blue fan. plant from a foot and a half to three feet high. the pods are single and in pairs, in about equal proportion, two inches and a half long, containing from six to seven peas each. the ripe seed is pale-blue. plants from sowings made the first of may will blossom the last of june, and yield pease for use the middle of july. it is a useful variety for small gardens, as it is a low grower and a fair bearer; but it is now much surpassed by bishop's long-podded and burbridge's eclipse, both of which are considered more prolific and better flavored. british queen. _cot. gard._ hair's defiance. tall white mammoth. erin's queen. the plant is of a showy and robust habit of growth, from six to seven feet high, sometimes with a single stem, but generally branching within nine inches or a foot of the ground, and frequently furnished with two and even three laterals, which are of the same height as the whole plant. the pods begin to be produced at the first joint above the first lateral shoot, and are in number from thirteen to eighteen on each plant. they are generally single, but frequently in pairs, from three inches and a quarter to three inches and three-quarters long, rather flattened and broad when first fit to gather, but becoming round and plump when more advanced. they are quite smooth, of a bright-green color, slightly curved, wavy on the upper edge, and contain from five to seven exceedingly large peas, which are not so close together as to compress each other. the ripe seed is white, large, and wrinkled. sown the st of may, the plants will blossom about the th of june, and pods may be plucked for use about the th of july. they will ripen off about the st of august. this is one of the best late peas in cultivation. it belongs to the class known as wrinkled, or knight's marrow; but is much superior in every respect to all the old varieties usually called knight's marrows, being much more prolific and richly flavored. as an intermediate variety, it deserves a place in every garden. burbridge's eclipse. _cot. gard._ stubbs's dwarf. plant a robust grower, always with a simple stem, attaining the height of a foot and a half to about two feet; pods in pairs, rarely single, and from three inches to three inches and a quarter long, seven-tenths of an inch broad, perfectly straight, and of equal width throughout, with a slight waving on the upper edge,--they contain from five to seven peas, which are ovate, nearly half an inch long, a third of an inch broad, and the same in thickness. seed was planted may , the plants blossomed june , and pods were plucked for use july . this may be classed among the valuable contributions which have been made to the list of peas during the last few years. unlike most of the dwarf varieties, it is a most productive sort; and thus its dwarf character is not its chief recommendation. for private gardens, or for cultivation for market, few peas surpass this and bishop's long-podded. carter's victoria. _trans._ carter's eclipse. plant six to seven feet high; pods large, slightly curved, containing seven or eight large peas, which are sweet and of excellent quality. the ripe seeds are white, and much shrivelled or wrinkled. plants from seeds sown may blossomed july , and the pods were fit for plucking the th of the month. the variety continues long in bearing, and the peas exceed in size those of knight's tall white marrow. it is one of the best late tall peas. charlton. _cot. gard. law. thomp._ early charlton. the original character of this variety may be described as follows:-- plant about five feet high, and of vigorous growth; leaves large, with short petioles; tendrils small; pods broad, containing six or seven peas of excellent quality. they are rather larger than those of the early frame, with which this is often confounded. the early charlton may, however, be distinguished by its stronger habit of growth, flat pods, larger seeds, and by being fit for use about a fortnight later than the early frame; so that, when sown at the same time, it forms a succession. according to the messrs. lawson, this is the oldest, and for a long period was the best known and most extensively cultivated, of all the varieties of white garden-pease. its history can be traced as far back as ; and from that time till about , or nearly a century, it continued to stand first in catalogues as the earliest pea, until it was supplanted by the early frame about . it is further said by some to be the source from which the most esteemed early garden varieties have arisen; and that they are nothing else than the early charlton pea, considerably modified in character from the effects of cultivation and selection. although this idea may seem far-fetched, it is not improbable, especially when we take into consideration the susceptibility of change, from cultivation and other causes, which the pea is ascertained to possess. thus if the early charlton, or any other variety, be sown for several years, and only the very earliest and very latest flowering-plants selected for seed each season, the difference in the time of ripening between the two will ultimately become so great as to give them the appearance of two distinct varieties; and by sowing the earlier portion on light, early soils, and the later on strong, black, coarse, or low soils, the difference will become materially increased. it is therefore probable, that the early frame, with its numerous sub-varieties (including the dan o'rourke, prince albert, early kent, and a multitude of others), may have originated in the charlton, though some of them differ essentially in their habit of growth. the various names by which it has been known are reading hotspur, master's or flander's hotspur, golden hotspur, brompton hotspur, essex hotspur, early nicol's hotspur, charlton hotspur, and finally early charlton; the last name becoming general about . an english writer remarks, "that the variety now exists only in name. that which is sold for the early charlton is often a degenerated stock of early frames, or any stock of frames which cannot be warranted or depended upon, but which are, nevertheless, of such a character as to admit of their being grown as garden varieties. the early charlton, if grown at all by seed-growers as a distinct variety, is certainly cultivated to a very limited extent." of the popular american improved early sorts, the hill's early, hovey's extra early, landreth's extra early, are hardy, as well as very prolific; and are not only well adapted for private gardens, but may be recommended as the most profitable kinds for cultivating for early marketing. in an experimental trial of these kinds with the early daniel o'rourke, and some of the most approved of the earliest foreign varieties, they proved to be nearly or quite as early, fully as prolific, continued longer in bearing, and were much more stocky and vigorous in habit. champion of paris. _cot. gard._ excelsior. paradise marrow. stuart's paradise. plant of vigorous growth, with a simple stem five to six feet high, rarely branched, producing from eight to ten pods. these last are generally single, but sometimes in pairs, from three inches and a quarter to three inches and three-quarters long, and five-eighths of an inch wide. they are curved almost as much as those of the cimeter; and, when near maturity, become quite fleshy, wrinkled, and thick-backed. they contain from six to seven large peas, which are close together without being compressed. the ripe seed is white, medium-sized, somewhat flattened and pitted. if sown may , the plants will blossom june , and the pods will be ready for plucking july . this is a very excellent pea, an abundant cropper, and considerably earlier than the auvergne and shillings grotto; to both of which it is also greatly superior. climax. _trans._ napoléon. plant three feet and a half high, of robust habit; pods single or in pairs, three inches long, containing five or six peas; when ripe, these are of medium size, pale-blue or olive, sometimes yellowish, shaded with blue, and, like the eugénie, much wrinkled and indented. if sown the beginning of may, the variety will blossom about the th of june, pods may be plucked for use the th of july, and the crop will ripen the th of the same month. english catalogues represent the napoléon as being "the earliest blue pea in cultivation, podding from the bottom of the haum to the top, with fine large pods." in a trial growth, it proved early and productive; not only forming a great number of pods, but well filling the pods after being formed. in quality it is tender, very sweet and well flavored, resembling the champion of england. its season is nearly the same with that of the eugénie, and the variety is well deserving of cultivation. mr. harrison, the originator of the eugénie and napoléon, states that both of the peas were originally taken from one pod. dantzic. _law._ plant six to seven feet high, branching; pods in pairs, two and a half inches long, half an inch broad, compact, and slightly bent. when ripe, the seed is the smallest of all the light peas, quite round or spherical, of a bright-yellow color, beautifully transparent, with whitish eyes. if sown the st of may, the plants will blossom the th of july, afford pease for the table about the th of the same month, and ripen from the th to the middle of august. it is not a productive variety, and is seldom cultivated in england or in this country; but is grown extensively on the shores of the baltic, and exported for splitting, or boiling whole. dickson's favorite. _trans._ dickson's early favorite. plant five feet high, stocky, vigorous, and very prolific; pods ten to twelve on a stalk, long, round when fully grown, curved, hooked at the extremity, but not so much so as in the auvergne,--to which, in many respects, it bears a strong resemblance. the pods are remarkably well filled, containing from eight to ten peas of medium size, round, and very white. planted the st of may, the variety blossomed june , and pods were gathered for use the th of july. this pea is highly deserving of cultivation as a second early variety. dillistone's early. _cot. gard._ the plant is of slender habit of growth, produces a single stem two feet high, and bears, on an average, from seven to nine pods: these are smaller than those of the dan o'rourke, generally single, but occasionally in pairs, almost straight, and contain seven peas each. the seed, when ripe, is white. sown at the time of the dan o'rourke, the plants were a mass of bloom three days before the last named had commenced blossoming, and the crop was ready for gathering seven days before the dan o'rourke. this is undoubtedly the earliest pea known, and is quite seven or eight days earlier than the dan o'rourke, which has hitherto been regarded as the earliest variety. a striking feature of dillistone's early is, that its changes take place at once. it blooms in a mass, its pods all appear together, and the whole crop is ready to be gathered at the same time. in the chiswick garden, england, where a hundred and sixteen varieties were experimentally cultivated, during the season of , under the supervision of robert hogg, ll.d., this variety was beginning to die off, when the dan o'rourke was yet green and growing. dwarf marrow. dwarf white marrow. dwarf marrowfat. early dwarf marrowfat. plant from three to four feet in height, generally with a single stem, but sometimes branching; pods somewhat flattened, generally single, but sometimes produced in pairs, three inches to three inches and a half long, three-fourths of an inch broad at the middle, tapering with a slight but regular curve to both ends, and containing about six closely-set peas: these are cream-colored and white; the white prevailing about the eye, and at the union of the two sections of the pea; not perfectly round, but more or less compressed, slightly wrinkled, and measuring nearly three-eighths of an inch in diameter. planted the st of may, the variety blossomed the last of june, and afforded pease for the table the th of july. the dwarf marrow is hardy and productive. though not so sweet or well flavored as some of the more recent sorts, its yield is abundant and long continued; and, for these qualities, it is extensively cultivated. the variety, however, is rarely found in an unmixed state; much of the seed sown under this name producing plants of stronger habit of growth than those of the true dwarf marrow, and more resembling the tall white variety. early dan o'rourke. dunnett's first early. waite's dan o'rourke. carter's earliest. sangster's number one. _cot. gard._ plant from three and a half to four feet high,--in general habit not unlike the early frame, of which it is probably an improved variety; pods usually single, two inches and three-fourths long, containing five or six peas. when fully ripe, the pea is round, cream-colored, white at the eye and at the junction of the cotyledons, and nearly a fourth of an inch in diameter. plants from seeds sown may were in bloom june , and pods were gathered for use from the th of the month. the dan o'rourke is remarkable for its precocity; and, with the exception of dillistone's early and one or two american varieties, is the earliest of all the sorts now in cultivation. it is hardy, prolific, seldom fails to produce a good crop, appears to be well adapted to our soil and climate, is excellent for small private gardens, and one of the best for extensive culture for market. its character as an early pea can be sustained only by careful culture, and judicious selection of seeds for propagation. if grown in cold soil, from late-ripened seeds, the variety will rapidly degenerate; and, if from the past any thing can be judged of the future, the dan o'rourke, under the ordinary forms of propagation and culture, will shortly follow its numerous and once equally popular predecessors to quiet retirement as a synonyme of the early frame or charlton. early frame. _thomp._ early dwarf frame. early double-blossomed frame. _law._ essex champion. single-blossomed frame. plant three to four feet in height; pods in pairs, slightly bent backwards, well filled, terminating rather abruptly at both ends, and about two and a half inches long by from three-eighths to half an inch in breadth. the pease, when fully ripe, are round and plump, cream-colored, white towards the eye and at the union of the cotyledons, and measure nearly a fourth of an inch in diameter. sown the st of may, the variety blossomed june , and the pods were ready for plucking the th of july. this well-known pea, for a long period, was the most popular of all the early varieties. at present, it is less extensively cultivated; having been superseded by much earlier and equally hardy and prolific sorts. "the flowers sometimes come single, and sometimes double; the stalk from the same axil dividing into two branches, each terminating in a flower: hence the names of 'single-blossomed' and 'double-blossomed' have both been occasionally applied to this variety." early hotspur. early golden hotspur. golden hotspur. superfine early. reading hotspur. similar to the early frame. mr. thompson represents it as identical. the messrs. lawson describe it as follows: "pods generally in pairs, three inches long, half an inch broad, nearly straight, and well filled; pea similar to the double-blossomed early frame, but rather larger." early warwick. race-horse. once at the head of early pease: now considered by the most experienced cultivators to be identical with the early frame. early washington. cedo nulli. a sub-variety of the early frame; differing slightly, if at all, either in the size or form of the pod, color and size of the seed, or in productiveness. once popular, and almost universally cultivated: now rarely found on seedsmen's catalogues. eugÉnie. plant about three feet in height, with pale-green foliage; pods single or in pairs, three inches long, containing five or six peas. when ripe, the peas are of medium size, cream-colored, and much shrivelled and indented. plants from sowings made may were in blossom june , green pease were plucked july , and the pods ripened from the th to the th of the same month. english catalogues describe the variety as being "the earliest white, wrinkled marrow-pea in cultivation; podding from the bottom of the stalk to the top, with fine large pods." in a trial-growth, it proved hardy and very prolific; and the pease, while young, were nearly as sweet as those of the champion of england. the pods were not remarkable for diameter; but, on the contrary, were apparently slender. the peas, however, were large; and, the pods being thin in texture, the pease, when shelled, seemed to be equal in diameter to the pods themselves. as a new variety, it certainly promises well, and appears to be worthy of general cultivation. it will come to the table immediately after the earliest sorts, and yield a supply till the marrows are ready for plucking. fairbeard's champion of england. _cot. gard._ champion of england. plant of strong and luxuriant habit of growth, with a stem from five to six feet in height, which is often undivided, but also frequently branching. the laterals are produced within about eighteen inches of the ground, and sometimes assume a vigorous growth, and attain as great a height as the main stem. they produce pods at the first joint above the lateral, and are continued at every succeeding joint to the greatest extremity of the plant. the pods are generally single, but frequently in pairs, about three inches and a half long, slightly curved, and terminate abruptly at the point; the surface is quite smooth, and the color light-green till maturity, when they become paler and shrivelled. they contain six or seven quite large peas, which are closely packed together and compressed. the ripe seed is wrinkled, and of a pale olive-green. sown the st of may, the plants were in flower june , and pods were gathered for use the th of july. this variety was originated in england, by mr. william fairbeard, in ; and, with the early surprise, came out of the same pod,--the produce of a plant found in a crop of the dwarf white knight's marrows, to which class it properly belongs. it is, without doubt, one of the most valuable acquisitions which have been obtained for many years; being remarkably tender and sugary, and, in all respects, of first-rate excellence. the rapid progress of its popularity, and its universal cultivation, are, however, the best indications of its superiority. the variety was introduced into this country soon after it was originated, and was first sold at five dollars per quart. fairbeard's nonpareil. _cot. gard._ stem branching, three and a half to four feet high, with a habit of growth and vigor similar to the early frames. the pods are full and plump, but do not become thick-backed and fleshy as they ripen, like those of the frames. they contain from six to eight peas, which are close together, much compressed, and of that sweet flavor which is peculiar to the knight's marrows. the ripe seed is small and wrinkled, and of the same color as the other white, wrinkled pease. the variety was originated by mr. william fairbeard, who also raised the champion of england. it is earlier than the last-named sort, nearly as early as the frames, and a most valuable acquisition. fairbeard's surprise. _cot. gard._ early surprise. surprise. the plant of this variety is of a free but not robust habit of growth, and always with a simple stem, which is about four feet high. the pods are produced at every joint, beginning at about two feet and a half from the ground. they are generally single, but sometimes in pairs, three inches long, slightly curved, but not quite so much as those of the champion of england. they contain from six to seven peas, which are of good size, but not so sweet as those of the last-named sort. the ripe seed is somewhat oval, and of a pale, olive-green color. the variety is a day or two earlier than the champion of england. it originated from the dwarf white knight's marrow, and was taken from the pod in which was found the champion of england. flack's imperial. _cot. gard._ flack's victory. flack's victoria. flack's new large victoria. the plant is of a robust habit of growth, with a stem which is always branching, and generally about three feet in height; the pods are numerous, varying from twelve to eighteen on a plant, generally produced in pairs, but often singly, three inches and a half long, three-fourths of an inch broad, and considerably curved,--terminating abruptly at the point, where they are somewhat broader than at any other part. each pod contains from six to eight very large peas, which are of an ovate shape, half an inch long, seven-twentieths of an inch broad, and the same in thickness. the ripe seed is blue. plants from seed sown may will blossom june , and supply the table july . it is one of the most prolific peas in cultivation; grows to a convenient height; and, whether considered for private gardens or for market supplies, is one of the most valuable varieties which has been introduced for years. general wyndham. _cot. gard._ the plant is of a robust habit, six to seven feet high, and frequently branched; the foliage is dark-green and blotched; the pods are either single or in pairs, and number from ten to fourteen on each plant,--they contain eight very large peas, which are of the deep, dull-green color of the early green marrow. the ripe seed is white and olive mixed. this is a valuable acquisition, and was evidently procured from the ne plus ultra; but it is a more robust grower, and produces much larger pods. the plant continues growing, blooming, and podding till very late in the season; and, when this is in the full vigor of growth, the ne plus ultra is ripening off. the pease, when cooked, are of a fine, bright-green color, and unlike those of any other variety. hair's dwarf mammoth. plant strong and vigorous, from three to three feet and a half high, branching, with short joints; pods single or in pairs, broad, comparatively flat, containing about six very large peas, which are sugary, tender, and excellent. the ripe seeds are shrivelled, and vary in color; some being cream-white, and others bluish-green. sown may , the plants will blossom july , and the pods will be ready for use the th of the same month. very prolific, and deserving of cultivation. harrison's glory. _trans._ plant three feet high, of a bushy, robust habit of growth; pods rather short, nearly straight, and flattish, containing five or six medium-sized peas, of good quality: when ripe, the seeds are light-olive, mixed with white, and also slightly indented. if planted may , the variety will flower june , and the pods will be fit for gathering about the th of july. a good variety; but, like harrison's glory, the pods are frequently not well filled. harrison's perfection. _trans._ plant three feet in height, of vigorous habit; pods small, straight, containing five peas of good size and quality. sown the st of may, the variety will flower june , and the pods will be fit for plucking about the th of july. the only defect in this variety is, that the pods are often not well filled. when growing, it is scarcely distinguishable from harrison's glory; but, in the mature state, the seeds of the former are smooth and white, while those of the latter are indented, and of an olive-color. king of the marrows. plant six feet in height, stocky, and of remarkably vigorous habit; pods single or in pairs, containing five or six large seeds, which, when ripe, are yellowish-green, and much shrivelled and indented, like those of the champion of england. if planted may , the variety will blossom the last of june, and pods for the table may be plucked about the th of july. though comparatively late, it is one of the best of the more recently introduced sorts, and well deserving of general cultivation. when the pods are gathered as fast as they become fit for use, the plants will continue to put forth new blossoms, and form new pods for an extraordinary length of time; in favorable seasons, often supplying the table for five or six weeks. it is very tender and sugary, and little, if at all, inferior to the champion of england. in common with most of the colored pease, the ripe seeds, when grown in this country, are much paler than those of foreign production; and, when long cultivated in the climate of the united states, the blue or green is frequently changed to pale-blue or yellowish-green, and often ultimately becomes nearly cream-white. knight's dwarf blue marrow. a dwarfish sub-variety of knight's marrows, with wrinkled, blue seeds. knight's dwarf green marrow. knight's dwarf green wrinkled. plant about three feet high; pods in pairs, three inches long, three-fourths of an inch wide, flattish, and slightly bent. the ripe pease are of a light bluish-green color. it differs from the foregoing principally in the height of the plant, but also to some extent in the form of the pods. knight's dwarf white marrow. _law._ knight's dwarf white wrinkled marrow. plant three feet high; pods in pairs, three inches long, three-fourths of an inch wide, straight, or nearly so, well filled, and terminating abruptly at both ends; pea, on an average, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, flattened, and very much wrinkled; color white, and sometimes of a greenish tinge. it is a few days earlier than the dwarf green. knight's tall blue marrow. a sub-variety of knight's tall marrows, with blue, wrinkled, and indented seeds. it resembles the tall white and tall green marrows. knight's tall green marrow. _law._ _thomp._ plant from six to seven feet in height, of strong growth; pods large, broad, and well filled; the seed, when ripe, is green, and much wrinkled or indented. if planted the first of may, the variety will blossom towards the last of june, and supply the table the middle of july. the peas are exceedingly tender and sugary; the skin also is very thin. "from their remarkably wrinkled appearance, together with the peculiar sweetness which they all possess, knight's marrows may be said to form a distinct class of garden-pease; possessing qualities which, together with their general productiveness, render them a valuable acquisition, both to cultivators and consumers." if planted not less than six feet apart, these pease will bear most abundantly from the ground to the top: they also yield their pods in succession, and are the best for late crops. knight's tall white marrow. knight's tall white wrinkled marrow. height and general character of the plant similar to knight's tall green marrow. pods in pairs. the ripe seed is white. very productive and excellent. matchless marrow. _cot. gard._ this is a good marrow-pea, but now surpassed by the improved varieties of the early green marrow. it possesses no qualities superior to that variety, and is not so early. the plant grows from five to six feet in height; and the pods contain about seven large peas, which are closely compressed together. milford marrow. _cot. gard._ the plant is of a strong and robust habit of growth, always with a single stem, attaining the height of four and a half or five feet, and producing from twelve to sixteen pods, which are almost always in pairs, three inches and three-quarters long, and three-quarters of an inch wide. they do not become broad-backed, thick, or fleshy, but rather shrivelled, and contain from six to seven very large peas, which are roundish and somewhat compressed, half an inch long, nearly the same broad, and nine-twentieths thick. its season is near that of bellamy's early green marrow; if planted may , blossoming june , and being fit for plucking about the middle of july. missouri marrow. missouri marrowfat. plant three feet and a half or four feet high, strong and vigorous, generally simple, but sometimes divided into branches; pods single and in pairs, three inches long, wrinkled on the surface as they ripen, nearly straight, and containing about six peas, rather closely set together. when ripe, the pea is similar to the dwarf marrow in form, but is larger, paler, more wrinkled, and much more regular in size. plants from seed sown may were in blossom the th of june, and pods were gathered for use the th of july. it is a few days later than fairbeard's champion of england, and nearly of the season of the dwarf marrowfat, of which it is probably but an improved or sub-variety. it is of american origin, very productive, of good quality, and well deserving of cultivation. ne plus ultra. _cot. gard._ jay's conqueror. this is comparatively a recent variety. it belongs to the wrinkled class of pease; is as early as bellamy's green marrow; and possesses, both in pod and pea, the same fine, deep, olive-green color. the plant is of strong and robust habit of growth, six to seven feet high, with a branching stem. it begins to produce pods at two or two and a half feet from the ground; and the number, in all, is from twelve to eighteen. the pods are generally in pairs, three inches and a half long, three-fourths of an inch wide, very plump and full, almost round, slightly curved, and terminate abruptly at the end. their color is deep, bright-green, and the surface smooth. they contain seven very large peas, each of which is half an inch long, nearly the same broad; and, although they are not so closely packed as to compress each other, they fill the pods well. when sown the first of may, the variety will blossom the last of june, and afford peas for use the th of july. it is one of the best tall marrows in cultivation. the ripe seed is mixed white and olive. noble's early green marrow. _cot. gard._ a sub-variety of bellamy's early green marrow. it is a much more abundant bearer; producing from eighteen to twenty pods on a plant, which are singularly regular in their size and form. prince albert. early prince albert. early may. early kent. plant from two and a half to three feet in height, usually without branches; pods generally in pairs, two inches and a half in length, half an inch broad, tapering abruptly at both ends, slightly bent backwards, and well filled; pea, when fully ripe, round, cream-colored, approaching to white about the eye and at the line of the division of the lobes, and measuring about a fourth of an inch in diameter. sown may , the plants blossomed june , and pods were plucked for use july . the prince albert was, at one period, the most popular of all the early varieties, and was cultivated in almost every part of the united states. as now found in the garden, the variety is not distinguishable from some forms of the early frame; and it is everywhere giving place to the early dan o'rourke, dillistone's early, and other more recent and superior sorts. queen of the dwarfs. _cot. gard._ a very dwarfish variety, from six to nine inches high. stem thick and succulent; foliage dark bluish-green. each plant produces from four to six pods, which are of a curious, elliptic form, and contain three or four large peas. ripe seed white, of medium size, egg-shaped, unevenly compressed. the plants are tender; the pods do not fill freely; and the variety cannot be recommended for cultivation. ringwood marrow. flanagan's early. early ringwood. _cot. gard._ beck's gem. plant three and a half to four feet high, usually simple, but sometimes sending out shoots near the ground. the pods are single and in pairs; and, as they ripen, become thick and fleshy, with a rough, pitted, and shrivelled surface: they contain from six to seven large peas, which are nearly round, and about seven-tenths of an inch in diameter in the green state. the ripe seed is white. the variety is comparatively early. if planted may , it will blossom about the th of june, and the pods will be ready to pluck about the th of july. a very valuable sort, producing a large, well-filled pod, and is a most abundant bearer. it has, however, a peculiarity, which by many is considered an objection,--the pod is white, instead of green, and presents, when only full grown, the appearance of over-maturity. this objection is chiefly made by those who grow it for markets, and who find it difficult to convince their customers, that, notwithstanding the pod is white, it is still in its highest perfection. so far from being soon out of season, it retains its tender and marrowy character longer than many other varieties. a new sort, called the "lincoln green," is said to possess all the excellences of the ringwood marrow, without the objectionable white pod. royal dwarf or white prussian. _cot. gard._ dwarf prolific. poor man's profit. plant of medium growth, with an erect stem, which is three feet high, generally simple, but occasionally branching. the pods are usually single, but sometimes in pairs, nearly three inches long, half an inch broad, almost straight, and somewhat tapering towards the point. the surface is quite smooth, and the color bright-green. they are generally well filled, and contain from five to six peas, which are ovate, not compressed, four-tenths of an inch long, a third of an inch broad, and the same in thickness. the ripe seed is white. plants from seed sown the st of may will blossom june , and supply the table about the middle of july. the crop will ripen the th of the same month. this is an old and prolific variety, well adapted for field culture, and long a favorite in gardens, but now, to a great extent, superseded. sebastopol. plant of rather slender habit, three feet and a half in height; pods usually single, two inches and three quarters in length, containing from five to seven peas, which, when ripe, are nearly round and smooth, cream-colored, and scarcely distinguishable, in their size, form, or color, from the early frame and kindred kinds. if planted may , the variety will blossom june , afford pods of sufficient size for shelling about july , and ripen the th of the same month. it is early, very productive, of superior quality, and an excellent sort for growing for market, or in small gardens for family use. in an experimental cultivation of the variety, it proved one of the most prolific of all the early sorts. shillings grotto. _cot. gard._ plant with a simple stem, four feet and a half to five feet high; the pods are generally single, but frequently in pairs, three inches and a half long, about half an inch wide, slightly curved, and, when fully matured, assuming a thick-backed and somewhat quadrangular form. each pod contains, on an average, seven large peas. the ripe seed is white. a great objection to this variety is the tardiness with which it fills; the pods being fully grown, and apparently filled, when the peas are quite small and only half grown. though considered a standard sort, it is not superior to the champion of england; and will probably soon give place to it, or some other of the more recent varieties. spanish dwarf. _cot. gard._ early spanish dwarf. dwarf fan. strawberry. plant about a foot high, branching on each side in the manner of a fan; and hence often called the "dwarf fan." the pods are sometimes single, but generally in pairs, two inches and a half long, half an inch broad, terminate rather abruptly at the point, and contain from five to six rather large peas. the ripe seed is cream-white. sown may , the plants were in blossom june , and pods were plucked for use july . the spanish dwarf is an old variety, and still maintains its position as an early dwarf for small gardens, though it can hardly be considered equal to burbridge's eclipse or bishop's long-podded. there is a variety of this which is called the improved spanish dwarf, and grows fully nine inches taller than the old variety; but it possesses no particular merit to recommend it. tall white marrow. large carolina. tall marrowfat. plant six to seven feet in height, seldom branched; pods three to three inches and a half long, three-fourths of an inch broad, more bluntly pointed than those of the dwarf variety, and containing six or seven peas. when ripe, the pea is nearly of the color of the dwarf marrow, but is more perfectly spherical, less wrinkled, and, when compared in bulk, has a smoother, harder, and more glossy appearance. planted may , the variety will blossom near the st of july, and will come to the table from the th to the th of the same month. it is a few days later than the dwarf. in this country, it has been longer cultivated than any other sort; and, in some of the forms of its very numerous sub-varieties, is now to be found in almost every garden. it is hardy, abundant, long-continued in its yield, and of excellent quality. in england, the variety is cultivated in single rows three feet apart. in this country, where the growth of the pea is much less luxuriant, it may be grown in double rows three feet and a half apart, and twelve inches between the single rows. taylor's early. similar in habit, production, and early maturity, to the early dan o'rourke. thurston's reliance. _cot. gard._ plant strong and robust, six to seven feet high; pods generally single, but occasionally in pairs, and from three inches and a half to four inches and a quarter long. they are broad and flat, shaped like the pods of the blue cimeter, and contain seven or eight very large peas. ripe seed white, large, and unevenly compressed. this is a quite distinct and useful pea; an abundant bearer; and the pods are of a fine deep-green color, which is a recommendation for it when grown for market. it comes in at the same time as the auvergne and shillings grotto, but is of a more tender constitution. tom thumb. beck's gem. bush pea. pois nain hatif extra, of the french. plant of remarkably low growth, seldom much exceeding nine inches in height, stout and branching; pods single, rarely in pairs, two inches and a half in length, half an inch broad, containing five or six peas, which are cream-yellow, and measure about a fourth of an inch in diameter. planted the st of may, the variety blossomed the th of june, and the pods were of suitable size for plucking july . in the color of its foliage, its height and general habit, the variety is very distinct, and readily distinguishable from all other kinds. it is early, of good quality, and, the height of the plant considered, yields abundantly. it may be cultivated in rows ten inches apart. mr. landreth, of philadelphia, remarks as follows: "for sowing at this season (november, in the middle states), we recommend trial of a new variety, which we have designated 'tom thumb,' in allusion to its extreme dwarfness. it seldom rises over twelve inches, is an abundant bearer, and is, withal, quite early. it seems to be admirably adapted to autumn sowings in the south, where, on apprehended frost, protection may be given: it is also equally well suited to early spring planting for the same reason. it is curious, as well as useful; and, if planted on ground well enriched, will yield as much to a given quantity of land as any pea known to us." it is a desirable variety in the kitchen garden; as, from its exceeding dwarfish habit, it may be so sown as to form a neat edging for the walk or border. veitch's perfection. _trans._ plant three feet and a half to four feet high, of strong, robust growth, somewhat branched; pods ten or twelve on a stalk or branch, large, flat, straight, containing six or eight large peas, which are very sugary and excellent. the ripe seeds are large, of a light olive-green color; some being nearly white. planted the st of may, the variety will be in flower june , and the pods will be fit for use about the middle or th of july. it is one of the best pease for main or late crops. victoria marrow. _thomp._ plant from six to seven feet high; pods remarkably large, nearly four inches in length, generally in pairs, straight, roundish, well filled, containing from six to eight peas of extraordinary size and of good quality. the ripe pease are olive-green. the victoria marrow is not early. planted may , it will blossom the last of june, and be fit for the table from the middle of july. this variety bears some resemblance to knight's tall marrow; but, like nearly all others, it is less sugary. those who have a fancy for large pease will find this perhaps the largest. warner's early emperor. _thomp._ warner's early conqueror. early railway. early wonder. beck's morning-star. early emperor. this variety grows somewhat taller, and is a few days earlier, than the prince albert: the pods and pease are also somewhat larger. it is an abundant bearer; and, on the whole, must be considered a good sub-variety of the early frame. woodford's marrow. _cot. gard._ nonpareil. plant of strong and robust habit of growth, like a vigorous-growing marrow; rising with a stem three feet and a half high, which is sometimes simple, but generally branching at about half its height from the ground. the pods begin to be produced at little more than half the height of the plant; and, from that point to the top, every joint produces single or double pods, amounting, in all, to ten or twelve on each. they are single or in pairs, in nearly equal proportions, about three inches and a half long, seven-tenths of an inch broad, quite smooth, and of a dark-green color. when ready to gather, they are rather flattened, but become round as they ripen. they contain, on an average, seven peas, which are of a dark olive-green color, rather thick in the skin, and closely packed; so much so as to be quite flattened on the sides adjoining. sown may , the variety blossomed june , and pease were gathered for the table july . this is a very characteristic pea, and may at once be detected from all others, either by the ripe seed or growing plants, from the peculiar dark-green color, which, when true, it always exhibits. it is well adapted for a market-pea; its dark-green color favoring the popular prejudices. * * * * * eatable-podded or sugar pease. string-pease. skinless pease. pisum macrocarpum. _dec._ in this class are included such of the varieties as want the tough, inner film, or parchment lining, common to the other sorts. the pods are generally of large size, tender and succulent, and are used in the green state like string-beans; though the seeds may be used as other pease, either in the green state or when ripe. "when not ripe, the pods of some of the sorts have the appearance of being swollen or distended with air; but, on ripening, they become much shrivelled, and collapse closely on the seeds." the varieties are not numerous, when compared with the extensive catalogue of the kinds of the common pea offered for sale by seedsmen, and described by horticultural writers. the principal are the following:-- common dwarf sugar. _law. vil._ dwarf crooked-podded sugar. stalk about two feet high, dividing into branches when cultivated in good soil; flower white; pods single or in pairs, six-seeded, three inches long by five-eighths of an inch broad, crooked or jointed-like with the seeds, as in all of the sugar pease, very prominent, especially on becoming ripe and dry; pea fully a fourth of an inch in diameter, white, and slightly wrinkled. the variety is quite late. sown the beginning of may, the plants blossomed the last week in june, and pods were gathered for use july . it is prolific, of good quality as a shelled-pea, and the young pods are tender and well flavored. early dwarf dutch sugar. _vil._ early dwarf de grace. plant about twenty inches high, branching; leaves of medium size, yellowish-green; flowers white; pods two inches and three-quarters in length, half an inch wide, somewhat sickle-shaped, swollen on the sides, flattened at the lower end, and containing five or six peas, which, when ripe, are roundish, often irregularly flattened or indented, wrinkled, and of a yellowish-white color. the variety is the lowest-growing and earliest of all the eatable-podded kinds. if sown at the time of the common dwarf sugar, it will be fit for use twelve or fourteen days in advance of that variety. it requires a good soil; and the pods are succulent and tender, but are not considered superior to those of the common dwarf sugar. giant eatable-podded. _vil._ giant sugar. stalk four to five feet high; leaves large, yellowish-green, stained with red at their union with the stalk of the plant; flower reddish; pods transparent yellowish-green, very thick and fleshy, distended on the surface by the seeds, which are widely distributed, curved, and much contorted, six inches long, and sometimes nearly an inch and a half in diameter,--exceeding in size that of any other variety. they contain but five or six seeds, which, when ripe, are irregular in form, and of a greenish-yellow color, spotted or speckled with brown. it is about a week later than the large crooked sugar. large crooked sugar. _thomp._ broadsword. six-inch-pod sugar. plant nearly six feet in height, and branching when grown in good soil; the leaves are large, yellowish-green; flowers white; pods very large,--measuring from four to five inches in length and an inch in width,--broad, flat, and crooked. when young, they are tender, and easily snap or break in pieces, like the young pods of kidney-beans; and are then fit for use. the sides of the pods exhibit prominent marks where pushed out by the seeds, even at an early stage of growth. the ripe pease are somewhat indented or irregularly compressed, and of a yellowish-white color. it is one of the best of the eatable-podded sorts, and is hardy and productive. it is, however, quite late; blossoming, if sown may , about the last of june, and producing pods for use in the green state about the th of july. purple-podded or australian. _law._ blue-podded. botany-bay pea. plant five feet high, generally without branches; pods usually in pairs, flattened, with thick, fleshy skins, and commonly of a dark-purple color; but this characteristic is not permanent, as they are sometimes found with green pods; in which case, they are, however, easily distinguished from those of other pease by their thick and fleshy nature. when ripe, the pease are of medium size, often much indented and irregularly compressed, and of a light, dunnish, or brown color. season intermediate. it is very productive, and seems possessed of properties which entitle it to cultivation. red-flowered sugar. _vil._ chocolate. stem four or five feet in height, generally simple, but branching when grown in rich soil; leaves long, yellowish-green, tinged with red where they connect with the stalk of the plant; flowers pale-red; pods three inches long, seven-tenths of an inch broad, more or less contorted, containing six to eight peas; seed comparatively large, pale-brown, marbled with reddish-brown. season nearly the same as that of the common dwarf sugar. it is productive, remarkably hardy, and may be sown very early in spring, as it is little affected by cool and wet weather; but the green pease are not much esteemed, as they possess a strong and rather unpleasant flavor. the green pods are tender and good; and, for these, the variety may be worthy of cultivation. tamarind sugar. late dwarf sugar. tamarind pea. plant similar to the common dwarf sugar, but of more luxuriant habit, and with larger foliage; flowers white; pods single or in pairs, six to eight seeded, very long and broad,--often measuring four inches in length and an inch in breadth,--succulent, and generally contorted and irregular in form. a few days later than the common dwarf sugar. hardy, prolific, and deserves more general cultivation. white-podded sugar. _vil._ stem four to five feet high; leaves yellowish-green, and, like those of the giant eatable-podded, stained with red at their insertion with the stalk; flowers purple; pods nearly three inches long, five-eighths of an inch wide, sickle-shaped and contorted, of a yellowish-white color, containing five or six peas. the ripe seeds are irregularly flattened and indented, of a greenish-yellow color, marbled or spotted with brown or black. the variety is quite late. sown may , the pods were not fit for use till july . the pods are crisp and succulent, though inferior in flavor to most of the eatable-podded varieties. yellow-podded sugar. _vil._ stem three to four feet high; leaves large, yellowish-green; flowers white, tinted with yellow; pods four inches long, tapering slightly at the ends, greenish-yellow, thick and fleshy, containing six or seven peas, widely separated. the ripe seeds are oblong, rather regular in form, and of a creamy-white color. it is one of the earliest of the eatable-podded sorts; coming to the table, if planted may , about the middle of july. it is of good quality, but not hardy or productive; and seems to have little to recommend it, aside from the singular color of its pods. * * * * * pea-nut. ground bean. earth nut. _vil._ pindar nut. ground nut. arachys hypogea. a native of africa, and also of central and tropical america. it is an annual plant; and the stem, when full grown, is about fifteen inches in height. the leaves are pinnate, with four leaflets, and a leafy, emarginate appendage at the base of the petioles; the flowers are yellow, and are produced singly, in the axils of the leaves; the fruit, or pod, is of an oblong form, from an inch to an inch and a half in length, rather more than three-eighths of an inch in diameter, often contracted at the middle, but sometimes bottle-formed, reticulated, and of a yellowish color; the kernels, of which the pods contain from one to three, are oblong, quite white, and enclosed in a thin, brown skin, or pellicle. a remarkable peculiarity of this plant is, that the lower blossoms (which alone produce fruit), after the decay of the petals, insinuate their ovaries into the earth; beneath which, at the depth of several inches, the fruit is afterwards perfected. the seed, or kernel, retains its germinative property but a single season; and, when designed for planting, should be preserved unbroken in the pod, or shell. _soil and cultivation._--the pea-nut succeeds best in a warm, light, loamy soil. this should be deeply ploughed and well pulverized, and afterwards laid out in slightly raised ridges two feet apart. as the plants require the whole season for their perfection, the seed should be planted as early in spring as the weather becomes suitable. drop nine inches apart in the drills, and cover an inch and a half or two inches deep. weeding must be performed early in the season; as, after the blossoming of the plants, they are greatly injured if disturbed by the hoe, or if weeds are removed about the roots. it is rather tropical in its character, and cannot be cultivated with success either in the northern or middle states. "the seeds are sometimes dibbled in rows, so as to leave the plants a foot apart each way. as soon as the flowers appear, the vines are earthed up from time to time, so as to keep them chiefly within the ground. when cultivated alone, and there is sufficient moisture, the yield of nuts is from sixty to seventy-five bushels to the acre. if allowed to grow without earthing up, the vines will yield half a ton of hay to the acre. they are killed by the first frost; when the nuts will be mature, and ready for use." _varieties._-- african pea-nut. a comparatively small, smooth, and regularly formed sort. shell thin, usually enclosing two kernels. wilmington pea-nut. carolina. similar to the african. the pods, however, are longer, and the shell is thicker and paler. they rarely contain less than two, and often enclose three, kernels. extensively cultivated in the carolinas and gulf states. tennessee pea-nut. pods large, thick, and irregular in form; the reticulations very coarse and deep. the pods usually contain two kernels. less esteemed than either of the preceding varieties. * * * * * vetch, or tare. vicia sativa. the vetch, or tare, in its properties and habits, somewhat resembles the common pea. there are numerous species as well as varieties, and the seeds of all may be used for food; but they are generally too small, or produced too sparingly, to repay the cost of cultivation. the only variety of much importance to the garden is the following:-- white tare, or vetch. _law._ lentil, of canada. napoléon pea. annual; stem slender and climbing, about three feet high, the leaves terminating in a branching tendril, or clasper; flowers purplish; pods brown, slender, containing from eight to twelve seeds, or grains, which are globular, sometimes slightly flattened, smooth, and of a yellowish-white color; they retain their germinative quality three years; an ounce contains about six hundred seeds. in france and canada, the seeds are used as a substitute for pease, both green and ripe, in soups and other dishes. they are also ground, and made into bread; but in this case their flour is generally mixed with that of wheat, or other of the edible grains. the seeds may be sown in drills, in april or may, in the manner of garden-pease, or broadcast with oats for agricultural purposes. _varieties._-- summer tare, or vetch. an agricultural variety, grown at the north of england and in scotland. it is sown broadcast, and cultivated as wheat or barley. both the haum and seed are used. winter tare, or vetch. extensively grown in england and scotland; usually sown in autumn, mixed with rye, for early spring food for stock. the seeds are smaller than those of the summer variety. not sufficiently hardy to survive the winters of the northern states. * * * * * winged pea. red birdsfoot trefoil. _mill._ lotus tetragonolobus. a hardy, creeping, or climbing, annual plant, fifteen or eighteen inches in height, or length; leaves trifoliate; flowers large, solitary, bright-scarlet; pods three inches and a half long, with four longitudinal, leafy membranes, or wings; seeds globular, slightly compressed, yellowish-white. _use._--the ripened seeds are sometimes used as a substitute for coffee; and the pods, while young and tender, form an agreeable dish, not unlike string-beans. it is often cultivated as an ornamental plant; and, for this purpose, is generally sown in patches, four or five seeds together on the border, where the plants are intended to remain. when grown as an esculent, sow in double drills an inch and a half deep, and two feet apart; the single rows being made twelve inches from each other. chapter x. medicinal plants. bene-plant. camomile. coltsfoot. elecampane. hoarhound. hyssop. licorice. pennyroyal. poppy. palmate-leaved or turkey rhubarb. rue. saffron. southernwood. wormwood. * * * * * bene-plant. oily grain. sesamum, sp. this plant is said to have been introduced into this country from africa by the negroes. it is cultivated in the south of europe, and in egypt is grown to a considerable extent for forage and culinary purposes. it is a hardy annual, with an erect, four-sided stem from two to four feet high, and opposite, lobed, or entire leaves; the flowers terminate the stalk in loose spikes, and are of a dingy-white color; the seeds are oval, flattened, and produced in an oblong, pointed capsule. _propagation and cultivation._--it is propagated from seeds, which should be sown in spring, as soon as the ground has become well settled. they may be sown where the plants are to remain; or in a nursery-bed, to be afterwards transplanted. the plants should be grown in rows eighteen inches or two feet apart, and about a foot apart in the rows. the after-culture consists simply in keeping the ground loose, and free from weeds. the plant is said to yield a much greater amount of herbage if the top is broken or cut off when it is about half grown. _use._--"the seeds were at one time used for food; being first parched, then mixed with water, and afterwards stewed with other ingredients. a sort of pudding is made of the seeds, in the same manner as rice; and is by some persons much esteemed. from the seeds of the first-named sort an oil is extracted, which will keep many years without having any rancid smell or taste. in two years, the warm taste which the new oil possesses wears off, and it becomes quite mild and pleasant, and may be used as a salad-oil, or for all the purposes of olive-oil. two quarts of oil have been extracted from nine pounds of the seeds." the properties of the plant are cooling and healing, with some degree of astringency. a few of the leaves, immersed a short time in a tumbler of water, give it a jelly-like consistence, without imparting color or flavor; and in this form it is generally used. there are three varieties:-- biformed-leaved. _mill._ plant larger than that of the oval-leaved; the lower leaves are three-parted, while those of the upper part of the stalk are oval or entire. oval-leaved. stem about two feet high, with a few short branches; the leaves are oblong, and entire on the borders. trifid-leaved. _mill._ taller and more vigorous than either of the preceding. the upper as well as the lower leaves are trifid, or three-parted. * * * * * camomile. anthemis nobilis. this is a half-hardy, herbaceous, perennial plant, growing wild in various parts of england, by roadsides and in gravelly pastures. its stems rest upon the surface of the ground, and send out roots, by which the plants spread and are rapidly increased. _soil and culture._--camomile flourishes best in light, poor soil; and is generally propagated by dividing the roots, and setting them in rows a foot apart, and eight or ten inches from each other in the rows. they will soon entirely occupy the ground. _gathering._--the flowers should be gathered in a dry day, and when they are fully expanded. they are generally spread in an airy, shady situation for a few days, and afterwards removed to a heated apartment to perfect the drying. common camomile. the flowers of this variety are single. though considered more efficacious for medicinal purposes, it is not so generally cultivated as the double-flowering. its leaves are finely cut, or divided; and, when bruised, emit a peculiar, pungent odor. it may be grown from seeds, or slips, and from divisions of the plants, or roots. double-flowering camomile. a variety of the foregoing, with large, white, double flowers. the leaves are of the same form, but milder in their odor and taste. it is equally hardy with the single-flowering, and much more ornamental. though generally considered less efficacious than the last named, it is generally cultivated for use and the market on account of the greater bulk and weight of its flowers. it is propagated by slips, with a few of the small roots attached. both of the sorts are classed as hardy perennials; but, in the northern and eastern states, the plants are frequently destroyed in severe winters. _use._--"the flowers, which are the parts principally used, have long been in high repute, both in the popular and scientific materia medica, and give out their properties by infusion in either water or alcohol. the flowers are also sometimes used in the manufacture of bitter beer, and, along with wormwood, made, to a certain extent, a substitute for hops. in many parts of england, the peasants have what they call a 'camomile seat' at the end of their gardens, which is constructed by cutting out a bench in a bank of earth, and planting it thickly with the double-flowering variety; on which they delight to sit, and fancy it conducive to health."--_m'int._ it is considered a safe bitter, and tonic; though strong infusions, when taken warm, sometimes act as an emetic. * * * * * common coltsfoot. tussilago farfara. a hardy, herbaceous, perennial plant. the leaves are all radical, roundish-heart-shaped, and from five to seven inches in diameter; the flower-stem (scape) is six or seven inches high, imbricated, and produces a solitary yellow flower, which is about an inch in diameter. the plants blossom in february and march, before the appearance of the leaves, and often while the ground is still frozen and even covered with snow. _propagation and culture._--coltsfoot thrives best in rich, moist soil. it may be propagated from seeds, but is generally increased by dividing its long, creeping roots. the plants require little attention, and will soon occupy all the space allotted. _gathering and use._--the leaves are the parts of the plant used, and are generally cut in july and september. they should not be exposed to the sun for drying, but spread singly in an airy, shaded situation. they are esteemed beneficial in colds and pulmonary disorders. * * * * * elecampane. inula helenium. a hardy, herbaceous, perennial plant, introduced from europe, but growing spontaneously in moist places, by roadsides, and in the vicinity of gardens where it has been cultivated. stem from three to five feet high, thick and strong, branching towards the top; the leaves are from nine inches to a foot in length, ovate, toothed on the margin, downy beneath; the flowers are yellow, spreading, and resemble a small sunflower; the seeds are narrow, four-sided, and crowned with down. the plants blossom in july and august, and there is but one variety cultivated. _propagation and culture._--it is generally propagated by dividing the roots; but may be grown from seeds, which are sown just after ripening. the plants should be set in rows two feet asunder, and a foot from each other in the rows. _use._--elecampane is cultivated for its roots, which are carminative, sudorific, tonic, and alleviating in pulmonary diseases. they are in their greatest perfection when of two years' growth. * * * * * hoarhound. marrubium vulgare. hoarhound is a hardy, herbaceous, perennial plant, introduced from europe, and naturalized to a considerable extent in localities where it has been once cultivated. stem hoary, about two feet high; leaves round-ovate; flowers white; seeds small, of an angular-ovoid form and grayish-brown color. _propagation and cultivation._--the plant prefers a rich, warm soil; and is generally propagated by dividing its long, creeping roots, but may also be raised from seeds. when once established, it will grow almost spontaneously, and yield abundantly. _gathering and use._--the plants are cut for use as they come into flower; and, if required, the foliage may be cut twice in the season. the leaves possess a strong and somewhat unpleasant odor, and their taste is "bitter, penetrating, and durable." the plant has long been esteemed for its efficacy in colds and pulmonary consumption. * * * * * hyssop. hyssopus officinalis. hyssop is a hardy, evergreen, dwarfish, aromatic shrub, from the south of europe. three kinds are cultivated, as follow:-- common or blue-flowering. more generally found in gardens than either of the following varieties. the stems are square and tender at first, but afterwards become round and woody; the leaves are opposite, small, narrow, with six or eight bract-like leaves at the same joint; the flowers are blue, in terminal spikes; seeds small, black, oblong. red-flowering hyssop. quite distinct from the common or blue-flowering. the stem is shorter, the plants are more branching in their habit, and the spikes more dense or compact; flowers fine red. it is not so hardy as the white or the blue flowering, and is often injured by severe winters. white-flowering hyssop. this is a sub-variety of the common blue-flowering; the principal if not the only mark of distinction being its white flowers. its properties, and modes of culture, are the same. _soil and cultivation._--the plants require a light, warm, mellow soil; and are propagated from seeds, cuttings, or by dividing the roots. the seeds are sown in april; and, when the seedlings are two or three inches high, they are transplanted to rows eighteen inches apart, and a foot from each other in the rows. the roots may be divided or the slips set in spring or autumn. _use._--the plant is highly aromatic. the leaves and young shoots are the parts used, and are cut, dried, and preserved as other pot-herbs. "hyssop has the general virtues ascribed to aromatic plants; and is recommended in asthmas, coughs, and other pulmonary disorders."--_rog._ * * * * * licorice. glycyrrhiza glabra. licorice is a hardy, perennial plant. the roots are fleshy, creeping, and, when undisturbed, attain a great length, and penetrate far into the earth; the stem is herbaceous, dull-green, and about four feet high; leaves pinnate, composed of four or five pairs of oval leaflets; flowers pale-blue, in terminal spikes. the fruit consists of short, flattened pods, each containing two or three kidney-shaped seeds. _soil, propagation, and culture._--"licorice succeeds best in deep, rich, rather sandy, or in alluvial soil. the ground should be well enriched the year previous to planting: and it should either be trenched three feet deep in autumn, laid in ridges, and allowed to remain in that state till spring; or it may be trenched immediately before planting. the former method is the preferable one. "licorice is propagated by portions of the creeping stem (commonly termed 'the creeping root'), from four to six inches in length, each having two or three buds. these are planted in march or april, or as soon as the ground can be well worked, in rows three feet apart, and eighteen inches from each other in the rows; covering with earth to the depth of two or three inches. every year, late in autumn, when the sap has gone down and the leaves have turned yellow, the old stems should be cut down with a pruning-knife to a level with the ground. at this time, also, the creeping stems are forked up, cut off close to the main stems, and preserved in sand, or in heaps covered with straw and earth, for future plantations. the roots will be ready for taking up three years after planting. this should be done towards winter, after the descent of the sap. a trench three feet must then be thrown out, and the roots extracted; after which, they may be stored in sand for use."--_thomp._ _use._--the roots are the parts of the plant used, and these are extensively employed by porter-brewers. "the sweet, mucilaginous juice extracted from the roots by boiling is much esteemed as an emollient in colds." * * * * * pennyroyal. hedeoma pulegioides. the american pennyroyal is a small, branching, annual plant, common to gravelly localities, and abounding towards autumn among stubble in dry fields from whence crops of wheat or rye have been recently harvested. the stem is erect, branching, and from six to twelve inches high; the leaves are opposite, oval, slightly toothed; flowers bluish, in axillary clusters; seeds very small, deep blackish-brown. _sowing and cultivation._--in its natural state, the seeds ripen towards autumn, lie dormant in the earth during winter, and vegetate the following spring or summer. when cultivated, the seeds should be sown soon after ripening, as they vegetate best when exposed to the action of frost during winter. they are sown broadcast, or in drills ten or twelve inches asunder. when the plants are in full flower, they are cut off, or taken up by the roots, and dried in an airy, shaded situation. _use._--pennyroyal possesses a warm, pungent, somewhat aromatic taste, and is employed exclusively for medical purposes. an infusion of the leaves is stimulating, sudorific, tonic, and beneficial in colds and chills. this plant must not be confounded with the pennyroyal (_mentha pulegium_) of english writers, which is a species of mint, and quite distinct from the plant generally known as pennyroyal in this country. * * * * * poppy, or maw. papaver somniferum, var. nigrum. a hardy annual, growing naturally in different parts of europe, and cultivated to a considerable extent in germany for its seeds, which, under the name of "maw-seed," are an article of some commercial importance. stem five or six feet high, branching; leaves smooth, glaucous, clasping, and much cut or gashed on the borders; flowers large, terminal, purple and white; the bud pendent, or drooping, until the time of flowering, when it becomes erect. the petals soon fall to the ground, remaining on the plant but a few hours after their expansion; and are succeeded by large, roundish heads, or capsules, two inches and upwards in diameter, filled with the small, darkish-blue seeds for which the plant is principally cultivated. _soil, sowing, and culture._--"the soils best suited to the growth of the poppy are such as are of medium texture and in the highest state of fertilization. as the seeds are small, and consequently easily buried, the land should be well pulverized by harrowing and rolling. the seeds are sown in april, in drills about half an inch in depth, and twenty inches or two feet distant from each other. the young plants are afterwards thinned out to from six to ten inches' distance in the rows, and the whole crop kept free from weeds by frequent hoeing. "the period of reaping is about the month of august, when the earliest and generally the largest capsules begin to open. the plants are then cut or pulled, and tied in small bundles, taking care not to allow the heads to recline until they are carried to the place allotted for the reception of the seed; which is then shaken out, and the sheaves again set upon their ends for the ripening of the remaining capsules. "in germany and flanders, a mode of obtaining the first crop is to spread sheets by the side of the row, into which the seeds are shaken by bending over the tops of the plants: these are then pulled, tied in bundles, and removed; when the sheets are drawn forward to the next row, and so on, until the harvesting is completed."--_law._ _use._--maw-seed is imported to some extent from different parts of europe, and is principally used in this country for feeding birds. oil-poppy. _law._ gray poppy. papaver somniferum olifer. stem three feet high, smooth and branching; flowers dull-red, or grayish; capsules very large, oblong; seeds of a brownish color, and produced in great abundance. it is chiefly cultivated in italy, the south of france, germany, and flanders. _use._--"the oil of the seeds of the poppy is of an agreeable flavor; and, in europe, is chiefly applied to domestic purposes, for which it is esteemed nearly equal to that of the olive. its consumption in this country is comparatively trifling; being principally used for the finer kinds of oil-painting and by druggists." opium, or white poppy. _law._ p. somniferum, album vel candidum. plant strong and vigorous,--the stem, in favorable situations, reaching a height of five or six feet; flowers large, white, and of short duration; seed-pods globular, of large size, often measuring upwards of two inches in diameter; seeds small, white, ripening in august and september. _sowing and cultivation._--"being an annual plant, the poppy, when sown in spring, matures its seed the last of summer or early in autumn. it is of easy culture, and can be successfully grown in any section of the northern or middle states. it may be sown at any time during the month of april, or the first week in may. the best method of cultivating the plant is in rows two feet and a half apart; and, on the poppies attaining a few inches in height, they are hoed out to a distance from one another of six or eight inches. "opium is obtained from the capsules or heads of seed, and is extracted after they are fully formed, but while yet green. the process is simple, and may be taught to children in an hour. "two or more vertical incisions are made in the capsule with a sharp knife or other instrument, about an inch in length, and not so deep as to penetrate through the capsule. as soon as the incisions are made, a milky juice will flow out, which, being glutinous, will adhere to the capsule. this may be collected by a small hair-brush such as is used by painters, and squeezed into a small vessel carried by the person who collects the juice. the incisions are repeated at intervals of a few days all round the capsule, and the same process of collecting the exuded juice is also repeated. "the juice thus collected is opium. in a day or two, it is of the consistence to be worked up into a mass. the narcotic matter of the plant may also be collected by boiling; but it is only the exuded juice that forms pure opium. "in the opium countries of the east, the incisions are made at sunset by several-pointed knives or lancets. on the following day the juice is collected, scraped off with a small iron scoop, and deposited in earthen pots; when it is worked by the hand until it becomes consistent. it is then formed in globular cakes, and laid in small earthen basins to be further dried. after the opium is extracted from the capsule, the plant is allowed to stand, and ripen its seeds. "the seeds of the poppy have nothing of the narcotic principle, and are eaten by the people of the east as a nourishing and grateful food; and they yield, by expression, an oil which is regarded as inferior only to that of the olive."--_law._ the expense of labor forms the principal objection to the cultivation of the poppy in the united states for its opium. as, however, the plants succeed well, and can be easily and extensively grown in any section of the country; and as the process of extraction, though minute, is yet simple,--the employment of females or children might render its production remunerative. * * * * * palmate-leaved rhubarb. _law._ turkey rhubarb. rheum palmatum. this species is readily distinguished by its deeply divided or palmate leaves, and is generally considered as that from which the dried roots chiefly used in medicine are obtained. like the pie rhubarb, it requires a deep, rich soil, which should be thoroughly stirred, and put in as fine a state of cultivation as possible, before setting the plants. these should be placed about three feet apart in each direction, and kept free from weeds during the summer. they will not be ready for taking up until five or six years old. the roots are thick and succulent, with a brownish skin and bright-yellow flesh, streaked or variegated with red. after being dug, they are washed clean, cut in rather large pieces, and dried either by the sun, or in kilns formed for the purpose; when they are ready for use. rhubarb from turkey and the neighboring countries is generally preferred; but it is said its superiority, to a great degree, is attributable to the manner in which it is dried and prepared for market. it is propagated by seed, or by a division of the roots. * * * * * rue. ruta graveolens. rue is a hardy, shrubby, nearly evergreen plant, and thrives best in poor but dry and warm soil. it is propagated by seeds, or slips, and by dividing the roots. the seeds are sown in april, and the roots may be separated in spring or autumn. the plants should be set about eighteen inches apart in each direction. when extensively cultivated, they are set in rows eighteen inches apart, and a foot asunder in the rows. _use._--"rue has a strong, unpleasant odor, and a bitter, pungent, penetrating taste. the leaves are so acrid as to irritate and inflame the skin, if much handled. its efficacy as a vermifuge is unquestioned; but it should be used with caution. it was formerly employed in soups; and the leaves, after being boiled, were eaten pickled in vinegar." the plant is rarely used in this country, either as an esculent or for medical purposes. the kinds cultivated are the following:-- broad-leaved rue. stem shrubby, four or five feet high; leaves compound, of a grayish-green color and strong odor; flowers yellow, in terminal, spreading clusters; the fruit is a roundish capsule, and contains four rough, black seeds. at one period, this was the sort principally cultivated, and is that referred to in most treatises on medicine. more recently, however, it has given place to the narrow-leaved, which is much hardier, and equally efficacious. narrow-leaved rue. stem three or four feet high; foliage narrower than that of the preceding, but of the same grayish color, and strong, peculiar odor; the flowers are produced in longer and looser clusters than those of the broad-leaved, and the seed-vessels are smaller. now generally cultivated because of its greater hardiness. * * * * * saffron. _law._ safflower. carthamus tinctorius. a hardy, annual plant, with a smooth, woody stem, two and a half or three feet high; leaves ovate, spiny; flowers large, compound, bright-orange, or vermilion; seeds ovate, whitish, or very light-brown, a fifth of an inch long, and a tenth of an inch thick. _soil and cultivation._--it grows best on soils rather light, and not wet; and the seed should be sown the last of april, or early in may, in drills about two feet apart and an inch deep. when the plants are two inches high, they should be thinned to six inches apart in the rows, and afterwards occasionally hoed during the summer, to keep the earth loose, and free the plants of weeds. _use._--"it is cultivated exclusively for its flowers, from which the coloring-matter of saffron, or safflower, is obtained. these are collected when fully expanded, and dried on a kiln, under pressure, to form them into cakes; in which state they are sold in the market. it is extensively cultivated in the levant and several countries of europe, particularly france, spain, and germany; in the latter of which, the first gathering of flowers is obtained in the beginning of september; and others, for six or eight weeks following, as the flowers expand. it flowers somewhat earlier in this country, and seems well adapted to our climate. "though the color of the petals is of a deep-orange, they are used for dying various shades of red; the yellow matter being easily separated from the other. the flowers of saffron are employed in spain and other countries for coloring dishes and confectioneries; and from the seed a fixed oil is obtained, somewhat similar to that of the sunflower: for which purpose alone, it does not, however, seem deserving of cultivation." it was formerly much used in medicine in cases of humors and diseased blood. * * * * * southernwood. artemesia abrotanum. a hardy, shrubby plant, about three feet high. the leaves are pale-green, and cut, or divided, into narrow, thread-like segments; the flowers are numerous, small, yellow, drooping; the seeds resemble those of the common wormwood, and retain their germinative properties two years. the plant is generally propagated by dividing the roots in the manner of other hardy shrubs. _use._--the leaves have a strong, resinous, somewhat aromatic and rather pleasant odor, and are quite bitter to the taste. the root is seldom used; but the leaves and young branches are employed in the same manner and for the same purposes as those of the common wormwood. * * * * * wormwood. artemesia. the cultivated species are as follow:-- common wormwood. artemesia absynthium. this species, everywhere common to gardens in this country, is a native of great britain. it is a hardy, perennial, shrubby plant, two or three feet in height. the leaves are deeply cut, or divided, pale-green above, and hoary beneath; the flowers are small, numerous, pale-yellow; the seeds are quite small, and retain their powers of germination two years. the leaves, when bruised, have a strong, somewhat pungent, yet aromatic odor, and are proverbial for their intense bitterness. roman wormwood. artemesia pontica. this species somewhat resembles the foregoing: but the roots are smaller, less woody, and more fibrous, and the stalks are shorter, and more slender; the leaves are smaller, more finely cut, or divided, pale-green above, and hoary on the under surface, like those of the common wormwood; the flowers, which are produced on the upper branches, are small, and of a pale-yellow color; seeds similar to those of the above species, retaining their vitality two years. it is generally preferred to the common wormwood for medicinal purposes, as the taste is more agreeable, and its odor less pungent. sea wormwood. artemesia maritima. indigenous to great britain, and common to the seacoast of holland and the low countries of europe. roots creeping, tough, and fibrous; stalks two or three feet high, and, like the roots, tough and woody; leaves numerous, long, narrow, and hoary; flowers yellow, produced on the small branches towards the top of the plant; seeds similar to those of the common wormwood. the leaves are somewhat bitter to the taste, and, when bruised, emit a strong, pleasant, aromatic odor. _soil and cultivation._--all the species are hardy, aromatic perennials; and, though they will thrive in almost any soil, their properties are best developed in that which is warm, dry, and light. they are generally propagated, as other hardy shrubs, by dividing the plants; but may be raised from seeds, or slips. the seeds are sown in april, in shallow drills; and the seedlings afterwards transplanted to rows two feet apart, and a foot from each other in the rows. _use._--"an infusion of the leaves and tops of the common wormwood is used as a vermifuge, tonic, and stomachic; and the leaves are found to be beneficial to poultry."--- _thomp._ most of the other species possess the same properties in a greater or less degree, and are used for the same purposes. chapter xi. mushrooms, or esculent fungi. agaricus. boletus. clavaria. morchella, or morel. tuber, or truffle. although many experiments have been made in the culture of different species of edible fungi, "only one has yet been generally introduced into the garden, though there can be no doubt the whole would finally submit to and probably be improved by cultivation. many of them are natives of this country, abounding in our woods and pastures; and may be gathered wild, and freely enjoyed by those who have not the means of raising them artificially. in poland and russia, there are about thirty sorts of edible fungi in common use among the peasantry. they are gathered in all the different stages of their growth, and used in various ways,--raw, boiled, stewed, roasted; and being hung up, and dried in stoves or chimneys, form a part of their winter's stock of provisions. "mushrooms are not, however, everywhere equally abundant, owing as well to climate as to the more general cultivation of the soil: the character of many of the sorts is, therefore, not perfectly known, and most of them are passed over as deleterious. indeed, the greatest caution is requisite in selecting any species of this tribe for food; and we can advise none but an experienced botanist to search after any but the common and familiar sort (_agaricus campestris_) for food."--_loud._ * * * * * common mushroom. _m'int._ _rog._ champignon. agaricus campestris. [illustration: common mushroom.] this mushroom, when it first appears, is of a rounded or button-like form, of a white color, and apparently rests on the surface of the ground. when fully developed, "the stem is solid, two or three inches high, and about half an inch in diameter; its cap measures from an inch to three and sometimes even upwards of four inches in diameter, is of a white color, changing to brown when old, and becoming scurfy, fleshy, and regularly convex, but, with age, flat, and liquefying in decay; the gills are loose, of a pinkish-red, changing to liver-color, in contact with but not united to the stem, very thick-set, some forked next the stem, some next the edge of the cap, some at both ends, and generally, in that case, excluding the intermediate smaller gills." loudon says that it is most readily distinguished, when of middle size, by its fine pink or flesh-colored gills and pleasant smell. in a more advanced stage, the gills become of a chocolate color; and it is then more liable to be confounded with other kinds of dubious quality: but the species which most nearly resembles it is slimy to the touch, and destitute of the fine odor, having rather a disagreeable smell. further, the noxious kind grows in woods, or on the margin of woods; while the true mushroom springs up chiefly in open pastures, and should be gathered only in such places. _cultivation._--"this is the only species that has as yet been subjected to successful cultivation; though there can be little doubt that all or most of the terrestrial-growing sorts would submit to the same process, if their natural habitats were sufficiently studied, and their spawn collected and propagated. in this way, the common mushroom was first brought under the control of man. "the seeds of the common mushroom, in falling from the gills when ripe, are no doubt wafted by the wind, and become attached to the stems and leaves of grasses and other herbage; and notwithstanding they are eaten by such animals as the horse, deer, and sheep, pass through their intestines without undergoing any material change in their vegetative existence: and hence, in the dung of these animals, when placed together, and kept moderately dry, and brought to a slight state of fermentation, we discover the first stage of the existence of the future brood of mushrooms. this is practically called 'spawn,' and consists of a white, fibrous substance, running like broken threads through the mass of dung, which appears to be its only and proper _nidus_."--_m'int._ it is prepared for use as follows:-- "in june and july, take any quantity of fresh horse-droppings,--the more dry and high-fed the better,--mixed with short litter, one-third of cow's dung, and a good portion of mould of a loamy nature; cement them well together, and mash the whole into a thin compost, and spread it on the floor of an open shed, to remain until it becomes firm enough to be formed into flat, square bricks; which done, set them on an edge, and frequently turn them till half dry; then, with a dibble, make two or three holes in each brick, and insert in each hole a piece of good old spawn about the size of a common walnut. the bricks should then be left till they are dry. this being completed, level the surface of a piece of ground, under cover, three feet wide, and of sufficient length to receive the bricks; on which lay a bottom of dry horse-dung six inches thick; then form a pile by placing the bricks in rows one upon another, with the spawn-side uppermost, till the pile is three feet high; next cover it with a small portion of warm horse-dung, sufficient in quantity to diffuse a gentle glow of heat through the whole. when the spawn has spread itself through every part of the bricks, the process is ended, and the bricks may then be laid up in a dry place for use. mushroom-spawn thus made will preserve its vegetative power many years, if well dried before it is laid up; but, if moist, it will grow, and exhaust itself."--_trans._ the next step to be taken is the formation of the bed; in the preparation of which, no dung answers so well as that of the horse, when taken fresh from the stable: the more droppings in it, the better. the process recommended by rogers is as follows:-- "about july or august is the general season for making mushroom-beds, though this may be done all the year round. a quantity of the dung mentioned should be collected and thrown together in a heap, to ferment and acquire heat; and, as this heat generally proves too violent at first, it should, previously to making the bed, be reduced to a proper temperature by frequently turning it in the course of the fortnight or three weeks; which time it will most likely require for all the parts to get into an even state of fermentation. during the above time, should it be showery weather, the bed will require some sort of temporary protection, by covering it with litter or such like, as too much wet would soon deaden its fermenting quality. the like caution should be attended to in making the bed, and after finishing it. as soon as it is observed that the fiery heat and rank steam of the dung have passed off, a dry and sheltered spot of ground should be chosen on which to make the bed. this should be marked out five feet broad; and the length, running north and south, should be according to the quantity of mushrooms likely to be required. if for a moderate family, a bed twelve or fourteen feet long will be found, if it takes well, to produce a good supply of mushrooms for some months, provided proper attention be paid to the covering. "on the space marked for making the bed, a trench should be thrown out about six inches deep. the mould may be laid regularly at the side; and, if good, it will do for earthing the bed hereafter: otherwise, if brought from a distance, that of a more loamy than a sandy nature will be best. "whether in the trench, or upon the surface, there should be laid about four inches of good litter, not too short, for forming the bottom of the bed; then lay on the prepared dung a few inches thick, regularly over the surface, beating it as regularly down with the fork; continue thus, gradually drawing in the sides to the height of five feet, until it is narrow at the top like the ridge of a house. in that state it may remain for ten days or a fortnight, during which time the heat should be examined towards the middle of the bed by thrusting some small sharp sticks down in three or four places; and, when found of a gentle heat (not hot), the bed may be spawned: for which purpose, the spawn-bricks should be broken regularly into pieces about an inch and a half or two inches square, beginning within six inches of the bottom of the bed, and in lines about eight inches apart. the same distance will also do for the pieces of spawn, which are best put in by one hand, raising the manure up a few inches, whilst with the other the spawn can be laid in and covered at the same time. "after spawning the bed, if it is found to be in that regular state of heat before mentioned, it may be earthed. after the surface is levelled with the back of the spade, there should be laid on two inches of mould,--that out of the trench, if dry and good, will do; otherwise make choice of a rich loam, as before directed. after having been laid on, it is to be beaten closely together; and, when the whole is finished, the bed must be covered about a foot thick with good oat or wheat straw; over which should be laid mats, for the double purpose of keeping the bed dry, and of securing the covering from being blown off. in the course of two or three days, the bed should be examined; and, if it is considered that the heat is likely to increase, the covering must be diminished for a few days, which is better than taking it entirely off. "in about a month or five weeks,--but frequently within the former time, if the bed is in a high state of cultivation,--mushrooms will most likely make their appearance; and, in the course of eight and forty hours afterwards, they will have grown to a sufficient size for use. in gathering, instead of cutting them off close to the ground, they should be drawn out with a gentle twist, filling up the cavity with a little fine mould, gently pressed in level with the bed. this method of gathering is much better than cutting, as the part left generally rots, and breeds insects, which are very destructive, both in frames and on mushroom-beds. "where a mushroom-bed is to remain permanently, a covered shed will be found convenient. "sometimes it happens that a bed suddenly ceases to produce any mushrooms. this arises from various causes, but principally from the cold state of the bed in winter, or from a too dry state in summer. in the former case, a slight covering of mulchy hay laid over the bed, and on that six or eight inches of well-worked, hot dung, and the whole covered lightly with the straw that was taken off, will most likely bring it about again. in the latter instance, moisture, if required, should be given moderately, two or three mornings; when, after lying about an hour, the whole may be covered up, and be found of much service. in summer, most mushroom-beds in a bearing state require more or less slight waterings. soft water should be used for the purpose: spring water is of too hard and too cold a nature; and, when at any time applied, checks vegetation. in summer time, a gentle shower of rain, on open beds that are in bearing and seem dry, will add considerably to their productiveness. "a mushroom-bed seldom furnishes any abundance after two or three months: it has often done its best in six or seven weeks. heavy rains are most destructive to mushrooms: therefore care should be taken to remove the wet straw, or litter, and directly replace it with dry. hence the utility of a covered shed, or mushroom-house." in addition to the foregoing, the following native species may be eaten with perfect safety, if gathered young and used while fresh:-- agaricus comatus. "an excellent species, much employed for making catchup; but should be used in a young state. it is found growing abundantly on stumps of trees, appearing both in spring and autumn." agaricus deliciosus. _m'int._ sweet mushroom. found in september and october, growing under fir and pine trees. it is of medium size, yellowish, zoned, with deep orange on the top, somewhat resembling _a. torminosus_ (a deleterious species), but readily distinguished from it, as its juice is, when fresh cut, quite red, afterwards turning green, while that of the latter is white and unchangeable. sir james edward smith says it well deserves its name, and is really the most delicious mushroom known; and mr. sowerby is equally high in its praise, pronouncing it very luscious eating, full of rich gravy, with a little of the flavor of mussels. agaricus exquisitus. _badham._ st. george's mushroom. _m'int._ agaricus georgii. this species often attains a weight of five or six pounds. it is generally considered less delicate than the common cultivated mushroom (_a. campestris_); but in hungary it is regarded as a special gift from the saint whose name it bears. persoon describes it as superior to _a. campestris_ in smell, taste, and digestibility; on which account, he says, it is generally preferred in france. it is found abundantly in many places, generally growing in rings, and re-appearing for many successive years on the same spot; and, though sometimes met with in old pastures, is generally found in thickets, under trees. agaricus personatus. blewits. blue hats. _cooke._ this is one of the species occasionally sold in covent-garden market, london. when mature, it has a soft, convex, moist, smooth pileus, with a solid, somewhat bulbous stem, tinted with lilac. the gills are dirty-white, and rounded towards the stem. the _agaricus personatus_ constitutes one of the very few mushrooms which have a market value in england. it is quite essential that it should be collected in dry weather, as it absorbs moisture readily, and is thereby injured in flavor, and rendered more liable to decay. agaricus prunulus. _vitt._ _m'int._ this is found only in spring, growing in rings on the borders of wood-lands; at which time abundance of its spawn may be procured, and may be continued in the same way that the spawn of the common cultivated mushroom is; namely, by transplanting it into bricks of loam and horse-dung, in which it will keep for months. this mushroom is used both in its green and dried state. in the latter it constitutes what is called "funghi di genoa," and is preserved by being simply cut into four pieces, and dried in the air for a few days; when it is strung up, and kept for use. agaricus oreades. fairy-ring agaricus. there is little difficulty in distinguishing this mushroom, which is found growing in rings. the pileus is of a brownish-ochre color at first; becomes paler as it grows older, until it fades into a rich cream-yellow. dr. badham says, "independent of the excellent flavor of this little mushroom, two circumstances make it valuable in a domestic point of view,--the facility with which it is dried, and its extensive dissemination." it may be kept for years without losing any of its aroma or goodness. * * * * * boletus. _fries._ of this, two species are considered eatable,--the _b. edulis_ and the _b. scaber_; the former resembling the common mushroom in taste, and the latter of good quality while in a young, fresh state, but of little value when dried, as it loses much of its odor, and becomes insipid, and unfit for use. * * * * * clavaria. all the species are edible, and many of them indigenous to our woods; being usually found in damp, shady places. * * * * * the morel. _m'int._ morchella esculenta. [illustration: the morel.] in its natural state, the morel is found growing in orchards, damp woods, and in moist pastures. its height is about four inches. it is distinguished by its white, cylindrical, hollow, or solid, smooth stem; its cap is of a pale-brown or gray color, nearly spherical, hollow, adheres to the stem by its base, and is deeply pitted over its entire surface. it is in perfection early in the season; but should not be gathered soon after rain, or while wet with dew. if gathered when dry, it may be preserved for several months. _use._--the morels are used, like the truffle, as an ingredient to heighten the flavor of ragouts, gravies, and other rich dishes. they are used either fresh or in a dried state. _cultivation._--its cultivation, if ever attempted, has been carried on to a very limited extent. of its capability of submitting to culture, there can be little doubt. if the spawn were collected from its natural habitats in june, and planted in beds differently formed, but approximating as nearly as possible to its natural conditions, a proper mode of cultivation would assuredly be in time arrived at. persoon remarks that "it prefers a chalky or argillaceous soil to one of a sandy nature; and that it not unfrequently springs up where charcoal has been burned, or where cinders have been thrown." "the great value of the morel--which is one of the most expensive luxuries furnished by the italian warehouses, and which is by no means met with in the same abundance as some others of the fungi--deserves to be better known than it is at present." the genus comprises a very few species, and they are all edible. * * * * * common truffle. tuber cibarium. [illustration: the truffle.] on the authority of our most distinguished mycologists, the common truffle has not yet been discovered within the limits of the united states. it is said to be found abundantly in some parts of great britain, particularly in wiltshire, kent, and hampshire. it is collected in large quantities in some portions of france, and is indigenous to other countries of europe. the following description by mascall, in connection with the engraving, will give an accurate idea of its size, form, color, and general character: "the size rarely much exceeds that of a large walnut. its form is rounded, sometimes kidney-shaped, and rough with protuberances. the surface, when the truffle is young, is whitish; but, in those that are full grown, it is either blackish or a deep-black. the color of the inside is whitish, with dark-blue and white, gray, reddish, light-brown or dark-brown veins, of the thickness of a horse-hair, which are usually variously entangled, and which form a kind of network, or mat. between the veins are numerous cavities, filled with mucilage, and small, solid grains. these scarcely visible glands were formerly said to be the seeds, or germs, of the young truffles. the less the inside of the truffle is colored with dark veins, the more tender and delicious is its flesh. "the blackish, external rind is hard, and very rough, by means of fine fissures, grains, and protuberances; and forms, with its small facets (which are almost hexagonal), an appearance by which it somewhat resembles the fir-apples of the larch. whilst the truffle is young, its smell resembles that of putrid plants, or of moist, vegetable earth. when it has nearly attained its full growth, it diffuses an agreeable smell, which is peculiar to it, resembling that of musk, which lasts only a few days: it then becomes stronger; and the nearer the fungus is to its dissolution, which speedily ensues, so much the more unpleasant is its odor, till at last it is quite disagreeable and putrid. whilst young, the flesh is watery, and the taste insipid: when fully formed, its firm flesh, which is like the kernel of the almond, has an extremely aromatic and delicious taste; but as soon as the fungus begins to decay, and worms and putrescence to attack it, its taste is bitter and disagreeable." many attempts have been made in great britain, as well as in other parts of europe, to propagate the truffle by artificial means; but all experiments thus far, if they have not totally failed, have been attended by very unsatisfactory results. _use._--like the common mushroom, it is used principally in stuffings, gravies, and sauces, and in other very highly seasoned culinary preparations. it has long been held in high esteem by epicures and the opulent; but, from its extreme rarity, has always commanded a price which has effectually prohibited its general use. it has been truthfully remarked, "that few know how to raise it, and fewer still possess the proper knowledge to prepare it for the table." piedmontese truffle. _thomp._ tuber magnatum. this species is the most celebrated of all the truffles, and always commands an enormous price. it occurs abundantly in the mountains of piedmont, and probably nowhere else. tuber melanosporum. _thomp._ this is the truffle of the paris markets. it is richly scented, and also greatly superior in flavor to the common sorts. other genera and species of fungi are considered harmless, and are occasionally used for food. some of the edible kinds, however, in size, form, color, and organization, so closely approach certain poisonous or deleterious species, as to confuse even the most experienced student. none of the family (not excepting even the common cultivated mushroom) should therefore be gathered for use, except by those who may possess a thorough knowledge of the various species and their properties. chapter xii. miscellaneous vegetables. alkekengi, or ground cherry. corn. egg-plant. martynia. oil radish. okra, or gumbo. pepper. rhubarb, or pie-plant. sunflower. tobacco. tomato. * * * * * alkekengi. strawberry tomato. winter cherry. ground cherry. barbadoes gooseberry. physalis edulis. a hardy annual plant from central or tropical america. stem angular, very much branched, but not erect,--in good soils, attaining a length or height of more than three feet; leaves large, triangular; flowers solitary, yellow, spotted or marked with purple, and about half an inch in diameter; fruit rounded or obtuse-heart-shaped, half an inch in diameter, yellow, and semi-transparent at maturity, enclosed in a peculiar thin, membranous, inflated, angular calyx, or covering, which is of a pale-green color while the fruit is forming, but at maturity changes to a dusky-white or reddish-drab. the pedicel, or fruit-stem, is weak and slender; and most of the berries fall spontaneously to the ground at the time of ripening. the seeds are small, yellow, lens-shaped, and retain their germinative properties three years. the plants are exceedingly prolific, and will thrive in almost any description of soil. sow at the same time, and thin or transplant to the same distance, as practised in the cultivation of the tomato. on land where it has been grown, it springs up spontaneously in great abundance, and often becomes troublesome in the garden. _use._--the fruit has a juicy pulp, and, when first tasted, a pleasant, strawberry-like flavor, with a certain degree of sweetness and acidity intermixed. the after-taste is, however, much less agreeable, and is similar to that of the common tomato. by many the fruit is much esteemed, and is served in its natural state at the table as a dessert. with the addition of lemon-juice, it is sometimes preserved in the manner of the plum, as well as stewed and served like cranberries. if kept from the action of frost, the fruit retains its natural freshness till march or april. purple alkekengi. purple ground cherry. purple strawberry tomato. purple winter cherry. physalis sp. this species grows naturally and abundantly in some of the western states. the fruit is roundish, somewhat depressed, about an inch in diameter, of a deep purple color, and enclosed in the membranous covering peculiar to the genus. compared with the preceding species, the fruit is more acid, less perfumed, and not so palatable in its crude state, but by many considered superior for preserving. the plant is less pubescent, but has much the same habit, and is cultivated in the same manner. tall alkekengi. tall ground cherry. tall strawberry tomato. physalis pubescens. stem about four feet high, erect and branching; leaves oval, somewhat triangular, soft and velvety; flowers yellow, spotted with deep purple; fruit yellow, of the size of the common yellow alkekengi, enclosed in an angular, inflated calyx, and scarcely distinguishable from the last named. it is grown from seeds, which are sown like those of the tomato. it is later, and much less prolific, than the species first described. * * * * * corn. zea mays. _garden and table varieties._-- adams's early white. a distinct and well-marked table variety. ears seven to eight inches in length, two inches in diameter, twelve or fourteen rowed, and rather abruptly contracted at the tips; kernel white, rounded, somewhat deeper than broad, and indented at the exterior end, which is whiter and less transparent than the interior or opposite extremity. the depth and solidity of the kernel give great comparative weight to the ear; and, as the cob is of small size, the proportion of product is unusually large. in its general appearance, the ear is not unlike some descriptions of southern or western field-corn; from which, aside from its smaller dimensions, it would hardly be distinguishable. in quality, it cannot be considered equal to some of the shrivelled-kernelled, sweet descriptions, but will prove acceptable to those to whom the peculiar, sugary character of these may be objectionable. though later than the jefferson or darlings, it is comparatively early, and may be classed as a good garden variety. much grown for early use and the market in the middle states, but less generally known or cultivated in new england. black sweet. slate sweet. plant, in height and general habit, similar to darling's early; ears six to eight inches in length, uniformly eight-rowed; kernels roundish, flattened, deep slate-color, much shrivelled at maturity. early. the variety is sweet, tender, and well flavored; remains a long period in condition for use; and, aside from its peculiar color (which by some is considered objectionable), is well worthy of cultivation. burr's improved. burr's sweet. an improved variety of the twelve-rowed sweet. the ears are from twelve to sixteen rowed, rarely eighteen, and, in good soils and seasons, often measure eight or ten inches in length, nearly three inches in diameter, and weigh, when in condition for the table, from eighteen to twenty-two ounces; cob white; kernel rounded, flattened, pure white at first, or while suitable for use,--becoming wrinkled, and changing to dull, yellowish, semi-transparent white, when ripe. the variety is hardy and productive; and, though not early, usually perfects its crop. for use in its green state, plantings may be made to the th of june. the kernel is tender, remarkably sugary, hardens slowly, is thin-skinned, and generally considered much superior to the common twelve-rowed. it is always dried or ripened for seed with much difficulty; often moulding or decaying before the glazing or hardening of the kernel takes place. if the crop is sufficiently advanced as not to be injured by freezing, it will ripen and dry off best upon the stalks in the open ground; but if in the milk, or still soft and tender at the approach of freezing weather, it should be gathered and suspended, after being husked, in a dry and airy room or building, taking care to keep the ears entirely separate from each other. darling's early. darling's early sweet. stalk about five feet in height, and comparatively slender; the ears are from six to eight inches in length, an inch and a half in diameter, and, when the variety is unmixed, uniformly eight-rowed; the kernels are roundish, flattened, pure white when suitable for boiling,--much shrivelled or wrinkled, and of a dull, semi-transparent yellow, when ripe; the cob is white. the variety is early, very tender and sugary, yields well, produces little fodder, ears near the ground, and is one of the best sorts for planting for early use, as it seldom, if ever, fails to perfect its crop. in the middle states, and in the milder sections of new england, it may be planted for boiling until near the beginning of july. the hills are made three feet apart in one direction by two feet and a half in the opposite; or the seeds may be planted in drills three feet apart, dropping them in groups of three together every eighteen inches. early jefferson. stalk five to six feet high, producing one or two ears, which are of small size, eight-rowed, and measure six or eight inches in length, and about an inch and a half in diameter at the largest part; cob white; kernel white, roundish, flattened,--the surface of a portion of the ear, especially near its tip, often tinged with a delicate shade of rose-red. the kernel retains its color, and never shrivels or wrinkles, in ripening. the variety is hardy and productive, but is principally cultivated on account of its early maturity; though, in this respect, it is little, if at all, in advance of darling's. the quality is tender and good, but much less sugary than the common shrivelled varieties; on which account, however, it is preferred by some palates. it remains but a short time tender and in good condition for boiling; soon becoming hard, glazed, and unfit for use. golden sweet. golden sugar. stalk and general habit similar to darling's early; ears six to eight inches long, an inch and a half or an inch and three-fourths in diameter, regularly eight-rowed; the kernel, when ripe, is semi-transparent yellow. the variety is apparently a hybrid between the common yellow or canada corn and darling's early. in flavor, as well as appearance, both of these varieties are recognized. it does not run excessively to stalk and foliage, yields well, is hardy, and seldom fails to ripen perfectly in all sections of new england. for boiling in its green state, plantings may be made until the last week of june or first of july. in respect to quality, it is quite tender, sweet, and well flavored, but less sugary than most of the other sugar or sweet varieties. old colony. _hov. mag._ this variety was originated by the late rev. a. r. pope, of somerville, mass. at the time of its production, he was a resident of kingston, plymouth county, mass.; and, in consequence of the locality of its origin, it received the name above given. in a communication at the close of the sixteenth volume of the "magazine of horticulture," mr. pope describes it as follows:-- "it is a hybrid, as any one can readily perceive by inspection, between the southern white and the common sweet corn of new england; and exhibits certain characteristics of the two varieties, combining the size of the ear and kernel and productiveness of the southern with the sweetness and tenderness of the northern parent. "the stalks are from ten to twelve feet in height, and of corresponding circumference. they are also furnished with brace-roots (seldom found upon the common varieties of sweet corn); and the pistils are invariably green, and not pink, as in the southern white." the ears are from five to seven inches in length, and the number of rows varies from twelve to twenty; the kernels are very long or deep; and the cob, which is always white, is quite small compared with the size of the ear. when ripe, the kernels are of a dull, semi-transparent, yellowish white, and much shrivelled. the ears are produced on the stalk, four or five feet from the ground. it is very productive, but late; and though it will rarely fail in the coldest seasons to yield abundant supplies in the green state for the table, yet it requires a long and warm season for its complete maturity. for cultivation in the southern states and tropical climates, it has been found to be peculiarly adapted; as it not only possesses there the sweetness and excellence that distinguish the sweet corn of the temperate and cooler sections, but does not deteriorate by long cultivation, as other sweet varieties almost invariably are found to do. parching corn (white kernel). pop-corn. stalk six feet high, usually producing two ears, which are from six to eight inches long, quite slender, and uniformly eight-rowed; cob white; kernel roundish, flattened, glossy, flinty, or rice-like, and of a dull, semi-transparent, white color. when parched, it is of pure snowy whiteness, very brittle, tender, and well flavored, and generally considered the best of all the sorts used for this purpose. in some parts of massachusetts, as also in new hampshire, the variety is somewhat extensively cultivated for commercial purposes. its peculiar properties seem to be most perfectly developed in dry, gravelly, or silicious soils, and under the influence of short and warm seasons. in field culture, it is either planted in hills three feet apart, or in drills three feet apart, and eighteen inches apart in the drills. the product per acre is usually about the same number of bushels of ears that the same land would yield of shelled-corn of the ordinary field varieties. increase of size is a sure indication of deterioration. the cultivator should aim to keep the variety as pure as possible by selecting slender and small-sized but well-filled ears for seed, and in no case to plant such as may have yellow or any foreign sort intermixed. the value of a crop will be diminished nearly in a relative proportion to the increase of the size of the ears. parching corn (yellow). a yellow variety of the preceding. it retains its color to some extent after being parched; and this is considered an objection. it is tender, but not so mild flavored as the white, and is little cultivated. the size and form of the ears are the same, and it is equally productive. red-cob sweet. ears about eight inches in length by a diameter of two inches,--usually twelve but sometimes fourteen rowed; kernels roundish, flattened, white when suitable for boiling, shrivelled, and of a dull, semi-transparent white when ripe; the cob is red, which may be called its distinguishing characteristic. quality good; the kernel being tender and sweet. it remains long in good condition for the table, and is recommended for general cultivation. season intermediate. a sub-variety occurs with eight rows; the form and size of the ear and kernel resembling darling's early. rice (red kernel). this is a variety of the white rice, with deep purplish-red or blood-red kernels. the ears are of the same size and form. its quality, though inferior to the white, is much superior to the yellow. productiveness, and season of maturity, the same. rice (white kernel). stalk six feet or more in height; ears five or six inches long, an inch and a half in diameter, somewhat conical, broadest at the base, and tapering to the top, which is often more or less sharply pointed; the cob is white; the kernels are long and slender, angular, sharply pointed at the outward extremity, as well as to some extent at the opposite, and extremely hard and flinty. they are not formed at right angles on the cob, as in most varieties of corn, but point upward, and rest in an imbricated manner, one over the other. the variety is hardy and prolific; and, though not late, should have the benefit of the whole season. for parching, it is inferior to the common parching corn before described, though it yields as much bulk in proportion to the size of the kernel, and is equally as white: but the sharp points often remain sound; and it is, consequently, less crisp and tender. rice (yellow kernel). another sub-variety of the white rice; the ear and kernel being of the same form and size. it is equally productive, and matures as early; but, when parched, is inferior to the white both in crispness and flavor. stowell's evergreen. stowell's evergreen sweet. stalk from six to seven feet in height, and of average diameter; ears of a conical form, six or seven inches long, and two inches and a quarter in diameter at the base; kernels long or deep, pure white when suitable for boiling, of a dull, yellowish-white, and much shrivelled when ripe; cob white, and, in consequence of the depth of the kernels, small in comparison to the diameter of the ear. the variety is intermediate in its season; and, if planted at the same time with darling's or equally early kinds, will keep the table supplied till october. it is hardy and productive, very tender and sugary, and, as implied by the name, remains a long period in a fresh condition, and suitable for boiling. tuscarora. turkey wheat. plant five to six feet in height, moderately strong and vigorous; ears eight-rowed, and of remarkable size,--exceeding, in this respect, almost every sort used for the table in the green state. in good soil, they are often a foot and upwards in length, and from two inches and three-fourths to three inches in diameter at the base. the kernel, which is much larger than that of any other table variety, is pure white, rounded, flattened, and, when divided in the direction of its width, apparently filled with fine flour of snowy whiteness; the cob is red, and of medium size. in point of maturity, the tuscarora is an intermediate variety. in its green state, it is of fair quality, and considered a valuable sort by those to whom the sweetness of the sugar varieties is objectionable. in their ripened state, the kernels, to a great extent, retain their fresh and full appearance, not shrivelling in the manner of the sugar sort, though almost invariably indented at the ends like some of the southern horse-toothed field varieties. when ground in the ripe state, it is much less farinaceous and valuable for cooking or feeding stock than the fine, white, floury appearance of the kernel, when cut or broken, would seem to indicate. twelve-rowed sweet. a large, comparatively late variety. stalk seven feet high; the ears are from ten to fourteen rowed, seven to nine inches long, often two inches and a half in diameter in the green state, and taper slightly towards the top, which is bluntly rounded; cob white; the kernels are large, round or circular, sometimes tooth-shaped, pure white when suitable for the table, dull white and shrivelled when ripe. the variety is hardy, yields a certain crop, and is sweet, tender, and of good quality. it is the parent of one or two varieties of superior size and excellence, to which it is now gradually giving place. _field varieties._-- canada yellow. early canada. ear small, about seven inches in length, symmetrical, broadest at the base, and tapering to the tip, uniformly eight-rowed, in four double rows; kernel roundish, smooth, and of a rich, glossy, orange-yellow color; cob small, white; stalk four to five feet high, slender; the leaves are not abundant, and the ears, of which the plant very rarely produces more than two, near the ground. on account of the small size of the ear, the yield per acre is much less than that of almost any other field variety; twenty-five or thirty bushels being an average crop. the dwarfish character of the plants, however, admits of close culture,--three feet in one direction by two or two and a half in the opposite,--affording ample space for their full development; four plants being allowed to a hill. its chief merit is its early maturity. in ordinary seasons, the crop will be fully ripened in august. if cultivated for a series of years in the eastern or middle states, or in a latitude much warmer than that of the canadas, the plant increases in size, the ears and kernels grow larger, and it is slower in coming to maturity. dutton. early dutton. ears nine or ten inches long, broadest at the base, tapering slightly towards the tip, ten or twelve rowed, and rarely found with the broad clefts or longitudinal spaces which often mark the divisions into double rows in the eight-rowed varieties,--the outline being almost invariably smooth and regular; kernel as broad as deep, smooth, and of a rich, clear, glossy, yellow color; cob comparatively large, white; stalk of medium height and strength, producing one or two ears. one of the handsomest of the field varieties, nearly as early as the king philip, and remarkable for the uniformly perfect manner in which, in good seasons, the ears are tipped, or filled out. in point of productiveness, it compares favorably with the common new-england eight-rowed; the yield per acre varying from fifty to seventy bushels, according to soil, culture, and season. much prized for mealing, both on account of its quality, and its peculiar, bright, rich color. in cultivation, the hills are made three feet and a half apart in each direction, and five or six plants allowed to a hill. hill. whitman. whitman's improved. webster. smutty white. old-colony premium. stalk six feet or more in height, moderately strong at the ground, but comparatively slender above the ear; foliage not abundant; the ears are produced low on the stalk, often in pairs, are uniformly eight-rowed, well filled at the tips, and, when fully grown, ten or eleven inches in length; cob white, and comparatively small; kernel dusky, transparent-white, large and broad, but not deep. the hill corn is nearly of the season of the common new-england eight-rowed, and is unquestionably the most productive of all field varieties. in plymouth county, mass., numerous crops have been raised of a hundred and fifteen bushels and upwards to the acre; and, in two instances, the product exceeded a hundred and forty. this extraordinary yield is in a degree attributable to the small size of the plant, and the relative large size of the ear. the largest crops were obtained by planting three kernels together, in rows three feet asunder, and from fifteen to eighteen inches apart in the rows. no variety is better adapted for cultivation for farm consumption; but for market, whether in the kernel or in the form of meal, its dull, white color is unattractive, and it commands a less price than the yellow descriptions. from the most reliable authority, the variety was originated by mr. leonard hill, of east bridgewater, plymouth county, mass.; and was introduced to public notice in - . though at present almost universally known as the "whitman," it appears to have been originally recognized as the "hill;" and, of the numerous names by which it has since been called, this is unquestionably the only true and legitimate one. illinois yellow. western yellow. stalk ten feet or more high; foliage abundant; ears high on the stalk, single or in pairs, twelve to sixteen rowed, eleven to thirteen inches long, broadest at the base, and tapering gradually towards the tip, which is bluntly rounded; kernel bright-yellow, long and narrow, or tooth-formed, paler at the outer end, but not indented; cob white. the variety ripens perfectly in the middle states, but is not suited to the climate of new england. illinois white. western white. similar in its general character to the illinois yellow. kernel rice-white; cob generally white, but sometimes red. king philip, or brown. improved king philip. ears ten to twelve inches in length, uniformly eight-rowed when the variety is pure or unmixed; kernel copper-red, rather large, somewhat broader than deep, smooth and glossy; cob comparatively small, pinkish-white; stalk six feet in height, producing one or two ears, about two feet and a half from the ground. in warm seasons, it is sometimes fully ripened in ninety days from the time of planting; and may be considered as a week or ten days earlier than the common new-england eight-rowed, of which it is apparently an improved variety. very productive, and recommended as one of the best field sorts now in cultivation. in good soil and favorable seasons, the yield per acre is from seventy-five to ninety bushels; although crops are recorded of a hundred and ten, and even of a hundred and twenty bushels. as grown in different localities, and even in the product of the same field, there is often a marked variation in the depth of color, arising either from the selection of paler seed, or from the natural tendency of the variety toward the clear yellow of the new-england eight-rowed. a change of color from yellowish-red to paler red or yellow should be regarded as indicative of degeneracy. said to have originated on one of the islands in lake winnipiseogee, n.h. new-england eight-rowed. stalk six or seven feet high, producing one or two ears, which are from ten to eleven inches long, and uniformly eight-rowed; kernel broader than deep, bright-yellow, smooth and glossy; cob comparatively small, white. the variety is generally grown in hills three feet and a half apart in each direction, and five or six plants allowed to a hill; the yield varying from fifty to seventy bushels to the acre, according to season, soil, and cultivation. it is a few days later than the king philip, but ripens perfectly in the middle states and throughout new england; except, perhaps, at the extreme northern boundary, where the canada yellow would probably succeed better. it often occurs with a profuse intermixture of red, sometimes streaked and spotted, sometimes copper-red, like the king philip, and occasionally of a rich, bright, clear blood-red. as the presence of this color impairs its value for marketing, and particularly for mealing, more care should be exercised in the selection of ears for seed; and this, continued for a few seasons, will restore it to the clear yellow of the dutton or early canada. many local sub-varieties occur, the result of selection and cultivation, differing in the size and form of the ear; size, form, and color of the kernel; and also in the season of maturity. the dutton, early canada, king philip, and numerous other less important sorts, are but improved forms of the new-england eight-rowed. parker. a variety remarkable for the extraordinary size of the ears, which, if well grown, often measure thirteen or fourteen inches in length: they are comparatively slender, and uniformly eight-rowed. cob white and slim; kernels bright-yellow, rounded, broader than deep. productive, but some days later than the common new-england eight-rowed. white horse-tooth. southern white. stalk twelve feet or more in height, with large, luxuriant foliage; ears single, often in pairs, short and very thick, sixteen to twenty-two rowed; kernel remarkably large, milk-white, wedge-formed, indented at the outer end; cob red. yellow horse-tooth. southern yellow. plant similar to that of the white horse-tooth; kernel very large, bright-yellow, indented; cob red. extensively cultivated throughout the southern states, but not adapted to the climate of the middle or northern. * * * * * egg-plant. solanum melongena. the egg-plant is a native of africa, and is also indigenous to tropical america. it is a tender annual, with an erect, branching stem, and oblong, bluish-green, powdered leaves. the flowers are one-petaled, purple, and produced on short stems in the axils of the branches; the fruit is often somewhat oblong, but exceedingly variable in form, size, and color; the seeds are small, yellowish, reniform, flattened, and retain their germinative properties seven years. _soil._--the egg-plant will thrive well in any good garden soil, but should have the benefit of a sheltered situation. _sowing and culture._--the seed should be sown in a hot-bed in march, at the time and in the manner of sowing tomato seed. the young plants are, however, more tender; and should not be allowed to get chilled, as they recover from its effects very slowly. the plant being decidedly tropical in character, the seedlings should not be transplanted into the open ground until the commencement of summer weather; when they may be set out in rows two feet apart, and two feet asunder in the rows. keep the ground free from weeds, earth up the plants a little in the process of cultivation, and by the last of august, or beginning of september, abundance of fruit will be produced for the table. if no hot-bed is at hand, sufficient seedling plants for a small garden may be easily raised by sowing a few seeds in march in common flower-pots, and placing them in the sunny window of the sitting-room or kitchen. in favorable seasons, a crop may be obtained by sowing the seeds in may in the open ground, and transplanting the seedlings, when two or three inches high, in a warm and sheltered situation. _use._--"it is used both boiled and stewed in sauces like the tomato. a favorite method among the french is to scoop out the seeds, fill up the cavity with sweet herbs, and fry the fruit whole."--_m'int._ a common method of cooking and serving is as follows: cut the fruit in slices half an inch thick; press out as much of the juice as possible, and parboil; after which, fry the slices in batter, or in fresh butter in which grated bread has been mixed; season with pepper, salt, and sweet herbs, to suit; or, if preferred, the slices may be broiled as steaks or chops. _varieties._-- american large purple. [illustration: american large purple egg-plant.] fruit remarkably large,--often measuring eight inches in depth, seven inches in diameter, and weighing four or five pounds; skin deep-purple, with occasional stripes of green about the stem; plant hardy and stocky. the american large purple is more generally cultivated in this country than any other variety. the plants produce two (and rarely three) fruits; but the first formed are invariably the best developed. it is similar to, if not identical with, the round purple of english and french authors. chinese long white. _vil._ quite distinct from the common white or the purple. plant of low growth, with comparatively pale foliage; fruit white, eight or nine inches long, two inches and a half in diameter, and often more or less curved, particularly when the end is in contact with the ground. it is later than the white or purple varieties, and nearly of the season of the scarlet-fruited. to obtain the fruit in full perfection, the plants must be started in a hot-bed. guadaloupe striped. _vil._ fruit nearly ovoid, smaller than the round or long purple; skin white, streaked and variegated with red. long purple. _trans._ the plants of this variety are of the height of the round purple, but are subject to some variation in the color of the branches and in the production of spines; flowers large, purple, with a spiny calyx; the fruit is oblong, somewhat club-shaped, six or eight inches in length, sometimes straight, but often slightly bent; at maturity, the skin is generally deep-purple, but the color varies much more than the large round; it is sometimes pale-purple, slightly striped, sometimes variegated with longitudinal, yellowish stripes, and always more deeply colored on the exposed side. it is early, of easy culture, hardy and productive, excellent for the table, thrives well in almost any section of the northern states, and, if started in a hot-bed, would perfect its fruit in the canadas. new-york improved. a sub-variety of the large round, producing the same number of fruits, which are generally of a deeper color, and average of larger size. the leaves are often spiny; and, if the variety is genuine, the plants will be readily distinguished from those of the last named by their more dense or compact habit of growth. it is, however, comparatively late, and better suited to the climate of the middle states than to that of new england; though it is successfully cultivated in the vicinity of boston, mass., by starting the plants in a hot-bed, and setting them in a warm and sheltered situation. round purple. _trans._ large round purple. plant from two to three feet high, branching, generally tinged with purple, producing two and sometimes three fruits; the leaves are large, downy, oblong, lobed on the borders, with scattered spines on the midribs; flowers large, pale-purple,--the flower-stem and calyx invested with purple spines; the fruit is obovate, four or five inches in diameter, six or seven inches deep, slightly indented at the apex, and of a fine deep-purple when well matured,--specimens sometimes occur slightly striped or rayed with yellowish-green. the american large purple, if not the same, is but an improved form of this variety. scarlet-fruited egg-plant. _hov. mag._ a highly ornamental variety, introduced from portugal. the plant attains the height of three feet, with leaves about six inches long. in general appearance, it resembles the common egg-plant; but the fruit, which is about the size of a hen's egg, is of a beautiful scarlet. it is rarely if ever used for food, but is principally cultivated for its peculiar, richly colored, and ornamental fruit, which makes a fine garnish. the variety is late, and comparatively tender. the seeds should be started early in a hot-bed, and the plants grown in a warm and sheltered situation. white egg-plant. fruit milk-white, egg-shaped, varying from three to five inches in length, and from two inches and a half to three inches and a half in diameter. it is the earliest, hardiest, and most productive of all varieties. the plants frequently produce five or six fruits each; but the first formed are generally the largest. if sown in the open ground early in may, the plants will often perfect a portion of their fruit; but they are most productive when started in a hot-bed. the fruit is sometimes eaten cooked in the manner of the purple varieties, but is less esteemed. * * * * * martynia. unicorn plant. _gray._ martynia proboscidea. [illustration: the martynia.] a hardy, annual plant, with a strong, branching stem two feet and a half or three feet high. the leaves are large, heart-shaped, entire or undulated, downy, viscous, and of a peculiar, musk-like odor when bruised or roughly handled; the flowers are large, bell-shaped, somewhat two-lipped, dull-white, tinged or spotted with yellow and purple, and produced in long, leafless racemes, or clusters; the seed-pods are green, very downy or hairy, fleshy, oval, an inch and a half in their greatest diameter, and taper to a long, comparatively slender, incurved horn, or beak. the fleshy, succulent character of the pods is of short duration: they soon become fibrous, the elongated beak splits at the point, the two parts diverge, the outer green covering falls off, and the pod becomes black, shrivelled, hard, and woody. the seeds are large, black, wrinkled, irregular in form, and retain their germinative properties three years. _sowing and cultivation._--the martynia is of easy cultivation. as the plants are large and spreading, they should be two feet and a half or three feet apart in each direction. the seeds may be sown in april or may, in the open ground where the plants are to remain; or a few seeds may be sown in a hot-bed, and the seedlings afterwards transplanted. _gathering and use._--the young pods are the parts of the plant used. these are produced in great abundance, and should be gathered when about half grown, or while tender and succulent: after the hardening of the flesh, they are worthless. they are used for pickling, and by many are considered superior to the cucumber, or any other vegetable employed for the purpose. * * * * * oil radish. _law._ raphanus sativus. a variety of the common radish, particularly adapted for the production of oil, and distinguished by the name _r. sativus olifer_, or oil radish. its stems are dwarf, from a foot and a half to two feet in height, much branched, spreading, and produce more seed-pods than the common radish. it is grown rather extensively in china for its oil; from whence it has been introduced into and cultivated in some parts of europe: but it does not appear with any particular success, though much has been said and written in its favor. it seems best suited for southern latitudes, where it may be sown in september, and harvested the following may or june: but, in the northern portions of the united states, it will be found too tender to withstand the winter; and the seed will therefore require to be sown in spring. the oil is obtained from the seed, and is considered superior to rape-seed oil, but is extracted with greater difficulty. * * * * * okra, or gumbo. ocra. hibiscus esculentus. okra is a half-hardy annual, from central america. stem simple, sometimes branched at the top, and from two to six feet in height, according to the variety; the leaves are large, palmate, deep-green; the flowers are large, five-petaled, yellowish on the border, purple at the centre; the seed-pods are angular, or grooved, more or less sharply pointed, an inch or an inch and a half in diameter at the base, and from four to eight inches in length; the seeds are large, round-kidney-shaped, of a greenish-drab color, black or dark-brown at the eye, and retain their power of germination five years. _soil, sowing, and cultivation._--okra may be raised in any common garden soil, and is propagated by seeds sown in april or may. the dwarf varieties may be grown in rows two feet apart, and a foot from each other in the rows; but the taller sorts require a space of at least three feet between the rows, and nearly two feet from plant to plant in the rows. keep the soil about the plants loose and open; and, in the process of cultivation, earth up the stems slightly in the manner of earthing pease. the pods will be fit for use in august and september. it requires a long, warm season; and is most productive when started in a hot-bed, and grown in a warm, sheltered situation. _use._--the green pods are used while quite young, sliced in soups and similar dishes, to which they impart a thick, viscous, or gummy consistency. thus served, they are esteemed not only healthful, but very nutritious. the ripe seeds, roasted and ground, furnish a palatable substitute for coffee. _varieties._-- buist's dwarf okra. _count. gent._ a variety recently introduced by mr. robert buist, of philadelphia. height two feet; being about half that of the old variety. its superiority consists in its greater productiveness, and the little space required for its development; while the fruit is of larger size and superior quality. it is said to produce pods at every joint. dwarf okra. [illustration: dwarf okra.] stem two feet and a half high, sometimes branched at the top, but generally undivided; leaves large, and, as in all varieties, five-lobed; flowers yellow, purple at the centre; pods erect, obtusely pointed, nearly as large in diameter as those of the giant, but generally about five inches in length. it is the earliest of the okras, and the best variety for cultivation in the northern and eastern states. between this and the tall, or giant, there are numerous sub-varieties; the result both of cultivation and climate. the tall sorts become dwarfish and earlier if long cultivated at the north; and the dwarfs, on the contrary, increase in height, and grow later, if long grown in tropical climates. the seeds of all the sorts are similar in size, form, and color. pendent-podded. the plants of this variety differ slightly, if at all, from those of the common or dwarf okra. it is principally, if not solely, distinguished by the pendulous or drooping character of its pods; those of all other sorts being erect. tall or giant okra. white-podded. stem five to six feet in height; pods erect, sharply tapering to a point, eight to ten inches in length, and about an inch and a half in diameter near the stem or at the broadest part. with the exception of its larger size, it is similar to the dwarf; and, if long cultivated under the influence of short and cool seasons, would probably prove identical. it yields abundantly, but is best adapted to the climate of the middle and southern states. * * * * * pepper. capsicum. capsicum annuum. of the capsicum there are many species, both annual and perennial; some of the latter being of a shrubby or woody character, and from four to six feet in height. as they are mostly tropical, and consequently tender, none but the annual species can be successfully grown in open culture in the middle states or new england. the _capsicum annuum_, or common garden-pepper, is a native of india. the stalks vary in height from a foot to nearly three feet; the flowers are generally white or purple; the pods differ in a remarkable degree in size, form, color, and acridness; the seeds are yellow, nearly circular, flattened, and, like the flesh or rind of the fruit, remarkable for their intense piquancy,--nearly forty-five hundred are contained in an ounce, and their vitality is retained five years. _propagation and cultivation._--the plants are always propagated from seeds. early in april, sow in a hot-bed, in shallow drills six inches apart, and transplant to the open ground when summer weather has commenced. the plants should be set in warm, mellow soil, in rows sixteen inches apart, and about the same distance apart in the rows; or, in ordinary seasons, the following simple method may be adopted for a small garden, and will afford an abundant supply of peppers for family use: when all danger from frost is past, and the soil is warm and settled, sow the seeds in the open ground, in drills three-fourths of an inch deep, and fourteen inches apart; and, while young, thin out the plants to ten inches apart in the rows. cultivate in the usual manner, and the crop will be fit for use early in september. _use._--"the pod, or fruit, is much used in pickles, seasonings, and made dishes; as both the pod and seeds yield a warm, acrid oil, the heat of which, being imparted to the stomach, promotes digestion, and corrects the flatulency of vegetable aliments. the larger and more common sorts are raised in great quantities, by market gardeners in the vicinity of populous towns, for the supply of pickle-warehouses." _species and varieties._-- bell-pepper. large bell. bull-nose. [illustration: bell-pepper.] plant two feet and upwards in height, stocky and branching, the stem and branches often stained or clouded with purple; leaves large, on long stems, smaller, smoother, and less sharply pointed, than those of the squash-pepper; flowers white, sometimes measuring nearly an inch and a half in diameter. the pods, which are remarkably large, and often measure nearly four inches deep and three inches in diameter, are pendent, broadest at the stem, slightly tapering, and generally terminate in four obtuse, cone-like points. at maturity, the fruit changes to brilliant, glossy, coral red. the bell-pepper is early, sweet and pleasant to the taste, and much less acrid or pungent than most of the other sorts. in many places, it is preferred to the squash-pepper for pickling, not only because of its mildness, but for its thick, fleshy, and tender rind. in open culture, sow in may, in drills sixteen inches apart, and thin the plants to twelve inches in the drills. in england, they are pickled as follows: the pods are plucked while green, slit down on one side, and, after the seeds are taken out, immersed in salt and water for twenty-four hours; changing the water at the end of the first twelve. after soaking the full time, they are laid to drain an hour or two; put into bottles or jars; and boiled vinegar, after being allowed to cool, poured over them till they are entirely covered. the jars are then closely stopped for a few weeks, when the pods will be fit for use. in this form, they have been pronounced the best and most wholesome of all pickles. bird-pepper. _vil._ stem fifteen to eighteen inches high; leaves very small; flowers white, about two-thirds of an inch in diameter; pods erect, sharply conical, an inch and three-quarters long, about half an inch in diameter, and of a brilliant coral-red when ripe. the variety is late. if sown in the open ground, some of the pods, if the season be favorable, will be fit for use before the plants are destroyed by frost; but few will be fully perfected unless the plants are started under glass. the bird-pepper is one of the most piquant of all varieties, and is less valuable as a green pickle than many milder and thicker-fleshed sorts. it is cultivated in rows fourteen inches apart, and ten or twelve inches asunder in the rows. if sown in the open ground, make the rows the same distance apart, and thin the young plants to the same space in the rows. the "cayenne pepper-pot" of commerce is prepared from bird-pepper in the following manner: "dry ripe peppers well in the sun, pack them in earthen or stone pots, mixing common flour between every layer of pods, and put all into an oven after the baking of bread, that they may be thoroughly dried; after which, they must be well cleansed from the flour, and reduced to a fine powder. to every ounce of this, add a pound of wheat-flour, and as much leaven as is sufficient for the quantity intended. after this has been properly mixed and wrought, it should be made into small cakes, and baked in the same manner as common cakes of the same size; then cut them into small parts, and bake them again, that they may be as dry and hard as biscuit, which, being powdered and sifted, is to be kept for use." cayenne pepper. c. frutescens. the pods of this variety are quite small, cone-shaped, coral-red when ripe, intensely acrid, and furnish the cayenne pepper of commerce. like the other species of the family, it is of tropical origin; and being a perennial, and of a shrubby character, will not succeed in open culture at the north. both the green and ripe pods are used as pickles, and also for making chili vinegar or pepper-sauce; which is done by simply putting a handful of the pods in a bottle, afterwards filled with the best vinegar, and stopping it closely. in a few weeks, it will be fit for use. the process of preparing cayenne pepper is as follows. the pods are gathered when fully ripe. "in india, they are dried in the sun; but in cooler climates they should be dried on a slow hot-plate, or in a moderately heated oven: they are then pulverized, and sifted through a fine sieve, mixed with salt, and, when dried, put into close, corked bottles, for the purpose of excluding the air. this article is subject to great adulteration, flour being often mixed with it; and, still worse, red lead, which is much of the same color, and greatly increases the weight. "a better method is to dry the pods in a slow oven, split them open, extract the seeds, and then pulverize them (the pods) to a fine powder, sifting the powder through a thin muslin sieve, and pulverizing the parts that do not pass through, and sifting again, until the whole is reduced to the finest possible state. place the powder in air-tight glass bottles; but add no salt or other ingredient whatever."--_m'int._ the pods of either of the long-fruited sorts, or those of the cherry-pepper, prepared as above, will furnish a quality of "cayenne" pepper greatly superior to that ordinarily sold by grocers, or even by apothecaries and druggists. the larger and milder kinds, powdered in the same manner, make a wholesome and pleasant grade of pepper of sufficient pungency for a majority of palates. cherry-pepper. capsicum cerasiforme. [illustration: cherry-pepper.] stem twelve to fifteen inches high, strong and branching; leaves comparatively small, long, narrow, and sharply pointed; flowers white, three-fourths of an inch in diameter; pod, or fruit, erect, nearly globular or cherry-form, and, at maturity, of a deep, rich, glossy, scarlet color. it is remarkable for its intense piquancy; exceeding in this respect nearly all the annual varieties. it is not so early as some of the larger sorts; but in favorable seasons will perfect a sufficient portion of its crop in the open ground, both for seed and pickling. for the latter purpose, the peppers should be plucked while still green, put into a common jar or wide-mouthed bottle, and vinegar added to fill the vessel. in a few weeks, they will be fit for use. when in perfection, the plants are very ornamental; the glossy, coral-red of the numerous pods presenting a fine contrast with the deep-green foliage by which they are surrounded. a variety occurs with larger, more conical, and pendent pods. the plant is also much larger, and quite distinct in its general character. cherry-pepper. yellow-fruited. this is a variety of the red cherry. the plants have the same general habit, require the same treatment, and perfect their fruit at the same season. there is little real difference between the sorts, with the exception of the color of the fruit; this being clear yellow. to preserve either of these varieties for use in the dry state, all that is necessary is to cut off the plants close to the roots when the fruit is ripe, and hang them, with the fruit attached, in any warm and dry situation. they will retain their piquancy for years. chili pepper. _vil._ pods pendent, sharply conical, nearly two inches in length, half an inch in diameter, of a brilliant scarlet when ripe, and exceedingly piquant; plant about eighteen inches high; leaves numerous, of small size, and sharply pointed; flowers white, nearly three-fourths of an inch in diameter. sow in a hot-bed in april, and transplant to the open ground in may, about fourteen inches apart in each direction. requires a long, warm season. long red pepper. [illustration: long red pepper.] fruit brilliant, coral-red, generally pendulous, sometimes erect, conical, often curved towards the end, nearly four inches in length, and from an inch to an inch and a half in diameter; skin, or flesh, quite thin, and exceedingly piquant. stalk about two feet high; foliage of medium size, blistered and wrinkled; flowers an inch in diameter, white. the variety yields abundantly, but attains its greatest perfection when started in a hot-bed. the ripe pods, dried and pulverized as directed for cayenne pepper, make an excellent substitute for that article. the plants, with ripe fruit, are very ornamental. long yellow. _vil._ pods pendent, long, and tapering, three to four inches in length, and about an inch in their greatest diameter. at maturity, they assume a lively, rich, glossy yellow; and the plants are then showy and ornamental. stem two feet and upwards in height, slightly colored with purple at the intersection of the branches and insertion of the leaf-stems; leaves of medium size, smaller and paler than those of the long red; flowers white, nearly an inch in diameter. like the last named, it is very piquant. it is also late; and, to obtain the variety in perfection, the seed should be started in a hot-bed in april. purple or blue podded. black-podded. fruit erect, on long stems, bluntly cone-shaped, two inches and a half in length, and a half or three-fourths of an inch in diameter at the broadest part. before maturity, the skin is green or reddish-green, clouded or stained with black or purplish-brown; but, when ripe, changes to rich, deep, indigo-blue. plant two feet or upwards in height, more erect and less branched than other varieties, and much stained with purple at the intersection of the branches and at the insertion of the leaf-stems; leaves of medium size, or small, long, and sharply pointed; leaf-stems long, deep-green; flowers white, tipped with purple, about three-fourths of an inch in diameter; flower-stems long, purple. a rare, richly colored, and beautiful pepper, but not cultivated or of much value as an esculent. for its full perfection, a long, warm season is requisite. the plants should be started in a hot-bed in march or april, and transplanted in may to the open ground, fifteen inches apart. quince-pepper. piment cydoniforme. _vil._ this variety is similar to the sweet spanish; but the fruit is rather longer, and its season of maturity is somewhat later. its flavor is comparatively mild and pleasant; but, like the sweet spanish, it is not generally thick-fleshed. at maturity, the fruit is a brilliant coral-red. round or large red cherry-pepper. rond. _vil._ cerise grosse. this is but a sub-variety of the common red cherry-pepper, differing only in its larger size. it is quite late, and should be started in a hot-bed. squash-pepper. tomato-shaped. fruit compressed, more or less ribbed, about two inches and three-quarters in diameter, and two inches in depth; skin smooth and glossy,--when ripe, of a brilliant coral-red; flesh thick, mild and pleasant to the taste, though possessing more piquancy than the large bell or sweet spanish. plant about two feet high, stout and branching; leaves broad and large; flowers white, an inch and a quarter in diameter; fruit drooping, the fruit-stem short and thick. the squash-pepper is extensively grown for the market, and is most in use in the pickle warehouses of the eastern and middle states. in field-culture, the plants are started in hot-beds in april, and, after the beginning of summer weather, transplanted to the open ground, fourteen to eighteen inches apart, according to the quality of the soil. the fruit is generally sold by weight; and an acre of land, in a fair state of cultivation, will yield about three tons,--a bushel of the thick-fleshed sort weighing nearly thirty-two pounds. an excellent pickle may be made by preparing the peppers in the manner directed for the bell variety. as grown by different market-men and gardeners, there are several sub-varieties of the squash-pepper, differing both in form and in the thickness of the flesh; the latter quality, however, being considered of the greater importance, as the thick-fleshed sorts not only yield a greater weight to the acre, but are more esteemed for the table. the squash-pepper succeeds well when sown in the open ground in may, in drills fourteen inches apart. the plants should be ten or twelve inches apart in the rows; for, when grown too closely, they are liable to draw up, making a weakly, slender growth, and yield much less than when allowed sufficient space for their full development. low-growing, stocky, and branching plants are the most productive. sweet mountain pepper. this variety resembles the large bell, if it is not identical. the sweet mountain may be somewhat larger; but, aside from this, there is no perceptible difference in the varieties. sweet spanish. piment monstreux. _vil._ fruit obtusely conical, often four inches in length, and nearly three inches in diameter,--brilliant glossy scarlet at maturity; stem strong and sturdy, two feet or more in height; leaves large, but narrower than those of the large bell; flowers white, and of large size,--usually an inch and a half in diameter; fruit sometimes erect, but generally drooping. though one of the largest varieties, the sweet spanish is also one of the earliest. the flesh is sweet, mild, and pleasant; and the variety is much esteemed by those to whom the more pungent kinds are objectionable. when prepared in the same form, it makes a pickle equally as fine as the large bell. the sweet spanish pepper succeeds well if sown in the open ground in may. make the rows sixteen inches apart, and thin the plants to a foot apart in the rows. yellow squash-pepper. _vil._ yellow tomato-formed. fruit similar in form to the squash-pepper, but of smaller size, erect or pendulous; orange-yellow at maturity. the variety is later than the last named; much less productive; and, for pickling, is comparatively not worthy of cultivation. * * * * * rhubarb. pie-plant. rheum sp. et var. this is a hardy, perennial plant, cultivated almost exclusively for its leaf-stalks. its general character may be described as follows: root-leaves large, round-heart-shaped, deep-green, and more or less prominently blistered; leaf-stems large, succulent, furrowed, pale-green, often stained or finely spotted with red, varying from two to three inches in diameter at the broadest part, and from a foot to three feet in length. the flower-stalk is put forth in june, and is from five to seven feet in height, according to the variety; the flowers are red or reddish-white, in erect, loose, terminal spikes; the seeds are brown, triangular, membranous at the corners, and retain their germinative properties three years. _soil and cultivation._--rhubarb succeeds best in deep, somewhat retentive soil: the richer its condition, and the deeper it is stirred, the better; as it is scarcely possible to cultivate too deeply, or to manure too highly. it may be propagated by seeds, or by a division of the roots; the latter being the usual method. when grown from seeds, the plants not only differ greatly in size and quality, but are much longer in attaining a growth suitable for cutting. "whether grown from seed, or increased by a division of the roots, a deep, rich soil, trenched to the depth of two or even three feet, is required to insure the full development of the leaf-stalks; for upon their size, rapidity of growth, and consequent tenderness of fibre, much of their merit depends. the seed should be sown in april, in drills a foot asunder; thinning the plants, when a few inches high, to nine inches apart. in the autumn or spring following, they will be fit for transplanting in rows three feet asunder, and the plants set three feet apart. if propagated by dividing the roots, it may be done either in autumn or spring; the same distance being given to the sets that is allowed for seedling plants. as, however, some of the varieties grow to a much larger size than others, a corresponding distance should be accorded them, extending to five feet between the rows, and three feet from plant to plant. "the plants should be set out singly, and not in threes, as is so often done. for the first year, the ground between the rows may be cropped with lettuce, turnips, beans, or similar low-growing crops; but, after the second year, the leaves will cover the whole space, and require it also for their full development."--_m'int._ _after-culture._--this consists in keeping the soil well enriched, open, and clear of weeds; and in breaking over the flower-stalks, that they may not weaken the roots, and consequently reduce the size and impair the quality of the leaf-stalks. _gathering the crop._--"this is usually done in spring; commencing as soon as the stalks have attained a serviceable size. no leaves, however, should be plucked the first year, and only a few of the largest and first formed during the second; and this plucking should not be made too early in the season, because, in that case, the plants would be weakened. from the third year, as long as the roots or plantations last, it may be gathered with freedom. a plantation in good soil, and not overmuch deprived of its foliage, will last from ten to fifteen years. "when the leaves are about half expanded, they may be plucked for use; but, when the largest returns are expected (as in the case of market-gardens), they should be allowed to attain their full size. in removing them, they should be pulled off close to the base, and not cut, to prevent an unnecessary escape of sap, which, in all succulent plants, flows more copiously from a clean cut than from one slightly lacerated or torn. the footstalks should then be separated from the leaves, and tied up in bundles of suitable size for market."--_m'int._ rhubarb is sometimes blanched. this may be effected without removing the plants, by means of sea-kale pots, or by empty casks open at the top, put over the crowns in march. it can, however, be more perfectly done by taking up the roots, and placing them in some dark place, with a temperature of ° or °; where they should be slightly covered with soil to prevent them from drying. when so treated, they are much more tender, crisp, and delicate than when grown exposed to the sun and air: but the quality is greatly impaired; the pulp, though somewhat acid, being generally comparatively flavorless. _use._--as before remarked, it is cultivated for its leaf-stalks; which are used early in the season, as a substitute for fruit, in pies, tarts, and similar culinary preparations. when fully grown, the expressed juice forms a tolerably palatable wine, though, with reference to health, of doubtful properties. "as an article of commercial importance in the vegetable markets, it is of very recent date. in , mr. joseph myatts, of deptford, england, long known for his successful culture of this plant, sent his two sons to the borough-market with five bunches of rhubarb-stalks, of which they could sell but three." it is now disposed of by the ton, and many acres in the vicinity of nearly all large towns and cities are devoted exclusively to its cultivation. _varieties._--these are very numerous, as they are readily produced from the seed; but the number really deserving of cultivation is comparatively limited. old kinds are constantly giving place to new, either on account of superior earliness, size, productiveness, or quality. the following are the prominent sorts cultivated:-- cahoon. leaves remarkably large, often broader than long, and more rounded than those of most varieties; stalk short and thick,--if well grown, measuring from twelve to sixteen inches in length, and three inches or more in diameter; skin thick, uniformly green. its remarkable size is its principal recommendation. the texture is coarse, the flavor is harsh and strong, and it is rarely employed for culinary purposes. in some localities, it is cultivated to a limited extent for the manufacture of wine; the juice being expressed from the stalks, and sugar added in the ratio of three pounds and a half to a gallon. this wine, though quite palatable, has little of the fine aroma of that made from the grape; and, if not actually deleterious, is much less safe and healthful. any of the other varieties may be used for the same purpose; the principal superiority of the cahoon consisting in its larger stalks, and consequently its greater product of juice. downing's colossal. a large variety, nearly of the size of myatt's victoria. it is described as being less acid than the last named, and of a fine, rich, aromatic flavor. early prince imperial. stalks of medium size; recommended by d. t. curtis, esq., chairman of the vegetable committee of the massachusetts horticultural society, as in all respects the best flavored of any variety ever tested; and commended for general cultivation, as particularly adapted to the wants of the family, if not to the wishes of the gardener, to whom size and productiveness are more than flavor. it invariably turns red in cooking, which makes it preferable for the table as a sauce. when cooked, it is of the color of currant-jelly, and remarkably fine flavored. in , it received the first prize of the massachusetts horticultural society, as the best for family use. elford. _thomp._ buck's rhubarb. an early sort, well adapted for forcing. the stalks are rather slender, covered with a thin skin of a bright-scarlet color; and their substance throughout is of a fine red, which they retain when cooked, if not peeled,--a process which, owing to the thinness of the skin, is not considered necessary. even when grown in the dark, the stalks still preserve the crimson tinge. it was raised from the seed of _rheum undulatum_. hawke's champagne. a new variety, said to equal the prince albert in earliness, and also to be of a deeper and finer color, and much more productive. it forces remarkably well; is hardy in open culture; and commands the highest market prices, both from its great size, and fine, rich color. mitchell's royal albert. _thomp._ stalks large, red, and of excellent flavor. early and prolific. myatt's linnÆus. linnæus. a medium-sized or comparatively small variety, recently introduced. "besides being the earliest of all, and remarkably productive as well as high flavored, and possessing little acidity, it has a skin so thin, that removing it is hardly necessary; and its pulp, when stewed, has the uniform consistence of baked rhode-island greenings; and it continues equally crisp and tender throughout the summer and early autumn." one of the best sorts for a small garden or for family use. myatt's victoria. victoria. leaves large, broader than long, deep-green, blistered on the surface, and much waved or undulated on the borders. leaf-stalks very large, varying from two inches and a half to three inches in their broadest diameter, and frequently measuring upwards of two feet and a half in length: the weight of a well-developed stalk, divested of the leaf, is about two pounds. they are stained with red at their base, and are often reddish, or finely spotted with red, to the nerves of the leaf. it has rather a thick skin, is more acid than many other varieties, and not particularly high flavored: but no kind is more productive; and this, in connection with its extraordinary size, makes it not only the most salable, but one of the most profitable, kinds for growing for the market. it requires a deep, highly-manured soil; and the roots should be divided and reset once in four or five years. it is about a fortnight later than the linnæus. nepal. rheum australe. _thomp._ rheum emodi. the leaf-stalks attain an immense size, but are unfit for use on account of their strongly purgative properties: but the leaves, which are frequently a yard in diameter, are useful in covering baskets containing vegetables or fruit; and for these the plant is sometimes cultivated. tobolsk rhubarb. early red tobolsk. leaves comparatively small; leaf-stalks below medium size, stained with red at the base. it is perceptibly less acid than most varieties, and remarkable for fineness of texture and delicacy of flavor. * * * * * sunflower. tall sunflower. annual sunflower. helianthus annuus. stem from five to eight feet or more in height; leaves heart-shaped, rough, three-nerved; flowers very large, terminal, nodding; the seeds are large, ovoid, angular, or compressed, nearly black, sometimes striped with white, and retain their germinative properties five years. the plant is a native of south america. dwarf sunflower. _law._ h. indicus. this species, which was introduced from egypt, differs from the last principally in its more dwarfish habit of growth, but also in being less branched. the flowers are much smaller, and generally of a lighter color. _soil and cultivation._--the sunflower will thrive in almost any soil or situation, but succeeds best on land adapted to the growth of indian corn. it is always grown from seed, which should be sown in april, or the beginning of may, in drills three feet apart. when the plants are well up, they should be thinned to a foot asunder, and afterwards cultivated in the usual manner; stirring the ground occasionally, and keeping the plants free from weeds. the flowers appear in july, and the seeds ripen in august and september. the central flower is first developed; attains a larger size than any that succeed it; and ripens its seeds in advance of those on the side-branches. the heads of seeds should be cut as they successively mature, and spread in a dry, airy situation for three or four weeks; when the seeds will become dry and hard, and can be easily rubbed or threshed out. _use._--"the seeds of both species yield an oil little inferior to that of the olive for domestic purposes, and which is also well adapted for burning. in portugal, the seeds are made into bread, and also into a kind of meal. they are also sometimes roasted, and used as a substitute for coffee; but the purpose for which they seem best adapted is the feeding of domestic fowls, pheasants and other game. the greatest objection to its culture is, that it is a most impoverishing crop, particularly the large or common tall species."--_m'int._ * * * * * tobacco. nicotiana, sp. all the species and varieties of tobacco in common cultivation are annuals; and most, if not all, are natives of this continent. "like other annual plants, it may be grown in almost every country and climate, because every country has a summer; and that is the season of life for all annual plants. in hot, dry, and short summers, like the northern summers of europe or america, tobacco-plants will not attain a large size; but the tobacco produced will be of delicate quality and good flavor. in long, moist, and not very warm summers, the plants will attain a large size,--perhaps as much so as in virginia; but the tobacco produced will not have that superior flavor, which can only be given by abundance of clear sunshine, and free, dry air. by a skilful manufacture, and probably by mixing the tobacco of cold countries with that of hot countries, by using different species, and perhaps by selecting particular varieties of the different species, the defects in flavor arising from climate may, it is likely, be greatly remedied." the species and varieties are as follow:-- connecticut seed-leaf. peach-leaf. virginia tobacco. nicotiana tabacum. [illustration: connecticut seed-leaf.] leaves oblong, regularly tapering, stemless and clasping, eighteen inches to two feet long, and from nine to twelve inches in diameter. when fully developed, the stem of the plant is erect and strong, five feet high, and separates near the top into numerous, somewhat open, spreading branches; the flowers are large, tubular, rose-colored, and quite showy and ornamental; the capsules are ovoid, or somewhat conical, and, if well grown, nearly half an inch in their greatest diameter; the seeds, which are produced in great abundance, are quite small, of a brownish color, and retain their germinative properties four years. this species is extensively cultivated throughout the middle and southern states, and also in the milder portions of new england. in the state of connecticut, and on the banks of the connecticut river in massachusetts, it is a staple product; and in some towns the value of the crop exceeds that of indian corn, and even that of all the cereals combined. guatemala tobacco. a variety with white flowers. in other respects, similar to the foregoing. numerous other sorts occur, many of which are local, and differ principally, if not solely, in the size or form of the leaves. one of the most prominent of these is the broad-leaved, which is considered not only earlier and more productive, but the best for manufacturing. _propagation._--it is propagated by seeds sown annually. select a warm, rich locality in the garden; spade it thoroughly over; pulverize the surface well; and the last of april, or beginning of may, sow the seeds thinly, broadcast; cover with a little fresh mould, and press it well upon them either by the hoe or back of the spade. as they are exceedingly minute, much care is requisite in sowing, especially that they should not be too deeply covered. when the plants appear, keep them clear of weeds, and thin them out sufficiently to allow a free growth. a bed of seedlings nine or ten feet square will be sufficient for an acre of land. if preferred, the plants may be raised in drills eight inches apart, slightly covering the seeds, and pressing the earth firmly over them, as above directed. when the seedlings are four or five inches high, they are ready for transplanting. _soil and cultivation._--tobacco requires a warm, rich soil, not too dry or wet; and, though it will succeed well on recently turned sward or clover-turf, it gives a greater yield on land that has been cultivated the year previous, as it is less liable to be infested by worms, which sometimes destroy the plants in the early stages of their growth. the land should be twice ploughed in the spring; first as soon as the frost will permit, and again just previous to setting. pulverize the surface thoroughly by repeated harrowing and rolling, and it will be ready to receive the young plants. the time for transplanting is from the st to the th of june; taking advantage of a damp day, or setting them immediately after a rain. if the ground is not moist at the time of transplanting, it will be necessary to water the plants as they are set. "the ground should be marked in straight rows three feet apart, and slight hills made on these marks two feet and a half apart; then set the plants, taking care to press the earth firmly around the roots. as soon as they are well established, and have commenced growing, run a cultivator or horse-hoe between the rows, and follow with the hand-hoe; resetting where the plants are missing. the crop should be hoed at least three times, at proper intervals; taking care to stir the soil all over. "when the plants begin to flower, the flower-stem should be broken or cut off; removing also the suckers, if any appear; leaving from twelve to sixteen leaves to be matured." _harvesting and curing._--in ordinary seasons, the crop will be ready for harvesting about the beginning of september; and should all be secured by the th of the month, or before the occurrence of frost. the stalks must be cut at the surface of the ground, and exposed long enough to the sun to wilt them sufficiently to prevent breaking in handling. they should then be suspended in a dry, airy shed or building, on poles, in such a manner as to keep each plant entirely separate from the others, to prevent mouldiness, and to facilitate the drying by permitting a free circulation of the air. thirty or forty plants may be allowed to each twelve feet of pole. the poles may be laid across the beams, about sixteen inches apart. "when erected for the purpose, the sheds are built of sufficient height to hang three or four tiers; the beams being about four feet apart, up and down. in this way, a building forty feet by twenty-two will cure an acre and a half of tobacco. the drying-shed should be provided with several doors on either side, for the free admission of air." when the stalk is well dried (which is about the last of november or beginning of december), select a damp day, remove the plants from the poles, strip off the leaves from the stalk, and form them into small bunches, or hanks, by tying the leaves of two or three plants together, winding a leaf about them near the ends of the stems; then pack down while still damp, lapping the tips of the hanks, or bunches, on each other, about a third of their length, forming a stack with the buts, or ends, of the leaf-stems outward; cover the top of the stack, but leave the ends or outside of the mass exposed to the air. in cold weather, or by mid-winter, it will be ready for market; for which it is generally packed in damp weather, in boxes containing from two to four hundred pounds. a fair average yield per acre is from fourteen to eighteen hundred pounds. _to save seed._--"allow a few of the best plants to stand without removing the flowering-shoots. in july and august, they will have a fine appearance; and, if the season be favorable, each plant will produce as much seed as will sow a quarter of an acre by the drill system, or stock half a dozen acres by transplanting." a single capsule, or seed-pod, contains about a thousand seeds. green tobacco. turkish tobacco. nicotiana rustica. leaves oval, from seven to ten inches long, and six or seven inches broad, produced on long petioles. compared with the preceding species, they are much smaller, deeper colored, more glossy, thicker, and more succulent. when fully grown, the plant is of a pyramidal form, and about three feet in height. the flowers are numerous, greenish-yellow, tubular, and nearly entire on the borders; the seed-vessels are ovoid, more depressed at the top than those of the connecticut seed-leaf, and much more prolific; seeds small, brownish. [illustration: green tobacco.] the green tobacco is early, and remarkably hardy, but not generally considered worthy of cultivation in localities where the connecticut seed-leaf can be successfully grown. it is well adapted to the northern parts of new england and the canadas; where it will almost invariably yield an abundance of foliage, and perfect its seeds. "it is very generally cultivated, almost to the exclusion of the other species, in the north of germany, russia, and sweden, where almost every cottager grows his own tobacco for smoking. it also seems to be the principal sort grown in ireland." there are several varieties, among which may be mentioned the oronoco and the negro-head, both of which have the hardiness and productiveness common to the species, but are not considered remarkably well flavored. the plants should be started in spring, and transplanted as directed for the connecticut seed-leaf; but, on account of its smaller size and habit, two feet, or even twenty inches, between the plants, will be all the space required. * * * * * tomato. love-apple. solanum lycopersicum. the tomato is a native of south america. it is a half-hardy annual, and is said to have been introduced into england as early as . for a long period, it was very little used; and the peculiar, specific term, _lycopersicum_, derived from _lykos_, "wolf," and _persicon_, "a peach" (referring to the beautiful but deceptive appearance of the fruit), more than intimates the kind of estimation in which it was held. it first began to be generally used in italy, subsequently in france, and finally in england. in this country, its cultivation and use may be said to have increased fourfold within the last twenty years; and it is now so universally relished, that it is furnished to the table, in one form or another, through every season of the year. to a majority of tastes, its flavor is not at first particularly agreeable; but, by those accustomed to its use, it is esteemed one of the best, as it is also reputed to be one of the most healthful, of all garden vegetables. when fully grown, the tomato-plant is from four to seven feet and upwards in height or length, with a branching, irregular, recumbent stem, and dense foliage. the flowers are yellow, in branching groups, or clusters; the fruit is red, white, or yellow, and exceedingly variable in size and form; the seeds are lens-shaped, yellowish-white, or pale-gray,--twenty-one thousand are contained in an ounce, and they retain their vitality five years. _propagation._--the tomato is raised from seeds, which should be sown in a hot-bed in march, or in the open ground as soon as the frost will permit. as the plants, even in the most favorable seasons, seldom perfectly mature their full crop, they should be started as early and forwarded as rapidly as possible, whether by hot-bed or open-air culture. if the seeds are sown in a hot-bed, the drills should be made five inches apart, and half an inch deep. when the plants are two inches high, they should be removed to another part of the bed, and pricked out four or five inches apart, or removed into small pots, allowing a single plant to a pot. they are sometimes twice transplanted, allowing more space or a larger pot at each removal; by which process, the plants are rendered more sturdy and branching than they become by being but once transplanted. as early in may as the weather is suitable, the plants may be set in the open ground where they are to remain, and should be three feet apart in each direction; or, if against a wall or trellis, three feet from plant to plant. water freely at the time of transplanting, shelter from the sun for a few days or until they are well established, and cultivate in the usual form during summer. if sown in the open ground, select a sheltered situation, pulverize the soil finely, and sow a few seeds in drills, as directed for the hot-bed. this may be done in november (just before the closing-up of the ground), or the last of march, or first of april. in may, when the plants are three or four inches high, transplant to where they are to remain, as before directed. in gardens where tomatoes have been cultivated, young plants often spring up abundantly from the seeds of the decayed fruit of the preceding season. these, if transplanted, will succeed as well, and frequently produce fruit as early, as plants from the hot-bed or nursery-bed. sufficient plants for the garden of a small family may be started with little trouble by sowing a few seeds in a garden-pan or large flower-pot, and placing it in a sunny window of the sitting-room or kitchen. if the seed is sown in this manner about the middle or th of march, the plants will be of good size for setting by the time the weather will be suitable for their removal. _forcing the crop._--"the ripening of the fruit may be hastened by setting the plants against a south wall or close fence. as the plants increase in size, they must be nailed or otherwise attached to the wall or fence; and, if the weather be dry, liberally watered. when the two first trusses of bloom have expanded over each shoot, the shoot should be stopped by pinching off the portion which is beyond the leaf above the second truss, and no more lateral shoots should be suffered to grow; but the leaves must be carefully preserved, especially those near the trusses of bloom. the number of shoots on each plant will vary according to the strength and vigor of the particular plant; but three or four will be quite enough, leaving about half a dozen trusses of fruit. "as the fruit ripens, it must be well exposed to the sun. there will be nothing gained by allowing a great many fruit to ripen. the number above given will be sufficient, and the tomatoes will be much earlier and larger than if they were more numerous." _culture and training._--a convenient, simple, and economical support for the plants may be made from three narrow hoops,--one twelve, another fifteen, and the third eighteen or twenty inches in diameter,--and attaching them a foot from each other to three stakes about four feet in length; placing the lower hoop so that it may be about ten inches from the surface of the ground after the stakes are driven. the adjoining figure illustrates this method of training. it secures abundance of light, free access of air, and, in skilful hands, may be made quite ornamental. [illustration: hoop-training of the tomato.] [illustration: trellis-training.] or a trellis may be cheaply formed by setting common stakes, four feet in length, four feet apart, on a line with the plants, and nailing laths, or narrow strips of deal, from stake to stake, nine inches apart on the stakes; afterwards attaching the plants by means of bass, or other soft, fibrous material, to the trellis, in the manner of grape-vines or other climbing plants. by either of these methods, the plants not only present a neater appearance, but the ripening of the fruit is facilitated, and the crop much more conveniently gathered when required for use. the french mode of raising tomatoes is as follows: "as soon as a cluster of flowers is visible, they top the stem down to the cluster, so that the flowers terminate the stem. the effect is, that the sap is immediately impelled into the two buds next below the cluster, which soon push strongly, and produce another cluster of flowers each. when these are visible, the branch to which they belong is also topped down to their level; and this is done five times successively. by this means, the plants become stout, dwarf bushes, not above eighteen inches high. in order to prevent their falling over, sticks or strings are stretched horizontally along the rows, so as to keep the plants erect. in addition to this, all laterals that have no flowers, and, after the fifth topping, all laterals whatsoever, are nipped off. in this way, the ripe sap is directed into the fruit, which acquires a beauty, size, and excellence unattainable by other means."--_gard. chron._ _varieties._--these are quite numerous. some are merely nominal, many are variable or quite obscure, and a few appear to be distinct, and, in a degree, permanent. the principal are as follow:-- apple-tomato. apple-shaped. fruit somewhat flattened, inclining to globular, depressed about the stem, but smooth and regular in its general outline. the size is quite variable; but, if well grown, the average diameter is about two inches and a half, and the depth two inches. skin deep, rich crimson; flesh bright-pink, or rose-color,--the rind being thick and hard, and not readily reduced to a pulp when cooked. [illustration: apple-tomato.] the apple-tomato is early, hardy, productive, keeps well, and, for salad and certain forms of cookery, is much esteemed; but it is more liable to be hollow-hearted than any other of the large varieties. in form, as well as in the thick, tough character of its rind, it resembles the bermuda. bermuda. this is a red or rose-colored, apple-formed sort, extensively imported from bermuda into the middle and northern states in may and the early summer months. like the preceding variety, it varies considerably in size,--some specimens measuring little more than an inch in diameter; while others from the same plant, matured at nearly the same season, frequently exceed a diameter of two inches and a half. it possesses a thick, rather tough rind, which rarely becomes pulpy in the process of cooking; and, besides, is quite light and hollow-hearted. in size and form, it somewhat resembles the apple-tomato. when cultivated in new england or the middle states, it has little merit, either for its productiveness or early maturity. fejee. fruit quite large, red, often blushed or tinged with pinkish-crimson, flattened, sometimes ribbed, often smooth, well filled to the centre; flesh pink, or pale-red, firm, and well flavored; plant hardy, healthy, and a strong grower. seeds received from different reliable sources, and recommended as being strictly true, produced plants and fruit in no respects distinguishable from the perfected. fig-tomato. red pear-shaped tomato. [illustration: fig-tomato.] a small, red, pyriform or pear-shaped sort, measuring from an inch and a quarter to an inch and a half in length, and nearly an inch in its broadest diameter. flesh pale-red, or pink, very solid and compact, and generally completely filling the centre of the fruit. like the plum-tomato, it is remarkably uniform in size, and also in shape; but it is little used except for preserving,--other larger varieties being considered more economical for stewing, making catchup, and like purposes. the variety is usually employed for making tomato-figs, which are thus prepared:-- "pour boiling water over the tomatoes, in order to remove the skin; after which, weigh, and place in a stone jar, with as much sugar as tomatoes, and let them stand two days; then pour off the sirup, and boil and skim it till no scum rises; pour it over the tomatoes, and let them stand two days as before; then boil, and skim again. after the third time, they are fit to dry, if the weather is good; if not, let them stand in the sirup until drying weather. then place them on large earthen plates, or dishes, and put them in the sun to dry, which will take about a week; after which, pack them down in small wooden boxes, with fine, white sugar between every layer. tomatoes prepared in this manner will keep for years."--_mrs. eliza marsh, in hov. mag._ giant tomato. _hov. mag._ mammoth. an improved variety of the common large red, attaining a much larger size. fruit comparatively solid, bright-red, sometimes smooth, but generally ribbed, and often exceedingly irregular; some of the larger specimens seemingly composed of two or more united together. the fruit is frequently produced in masses or large clusters, which clasp about the stem, and rest so closely in the axils of the branches as to admit of being detached only by the rending asunder of the fruit itself; flesh pale-pink, and well flavored. like most of the other varieties, the amount of product is in a great degree dependent on soil, culture, and season. under favorable conditions, twenty-five pounds to a single plant is not an unusual yield; single specimens of the fruit sometimes weighing four and even five or six pounds. the giant tomato is not early, and, for the garden, perhaps not superior to many other kinds; but for field-culture, for market, for making catchup in quantities, or for the use of pickle-warehouses, it is recommended as one of the best of all the sorts now cultivated. grape or cluster tomato. solanum sp. this variety, or more properly species, differs essentially in the character of its foliage, and manner of fructification, from the garden tomato. the leaves are much smoother, thinner in texture, and have little of the musky odor peculiar to the common tomato-plant. the fruit is nearly globular, quite small, about half an inch in diameter, of a bright-scarlet color, and produced in leafless, simple, or compound clusters, six or eight inches in length, containing from twenty to sixty berries, or tomatoes; the whole having an appearance not unlike a large cluster, or bunch of currants. the plants usually grow about three feet in height or length; and, in cultivation, should be treated in all respects like those of other varieties. flowers yellow, and comparatively small. early. though quite ornamental, it is of little value in domestic economy, on account of its diminutive size. large red tomato. [illustration: large red tomato.] fruit sometimes smooth, often irregular, flattened, more or less ribbed; size large, but varied much by soil and cultivation,--well-grown specimens are from three to four inches in diameter, two inches and a half in depth, and weigh from eight to twelve ounces; skin smooth, glossy, and, when ripe, of a fine red color; flesh pale-red, or rose-color,--the interior of the fruit being comparatively well filled; flavor good. not early, but one of the most productive of all the varieties; the plants, when properly treated, producing from twelve to fifteen pounds each. from the time of the introduction of the tomato to its general use in this country, the large red was almost the only kind cultivated, or even commonly known. the numerous excellent sorts now almost everywhere disseminated, including the large red, oval, fejee, seedless, giant, and lester's perfected, are but improved sub-varieties, obtained from the common large red by cultivation and selection. large red oval-fruited tomato. a sub-variety of the large red. fruit oval, flattened, much less ribbed, more symmetrical, and more uniform in size, than the last named; well-grown specimens measure about four inches in one direction, three inches in the opposite, and two inches in depth; skin fine, deep-red, smooth and shining; flesh paler, the interior of the fruit well filled with pulp, and, when cooked, yielding a large product in proportion to the bulk. prolific and well flavored, but not early; ripening at the time of the large red. the variety is exceedingly liable to degenerate, constantly tending towards the large red; and can only be maintained in its purity by exclusive cultivation, and a continued use of seeds selected from the fairest, smoothest, best ripened tomatoes, having the peculiar oval form by which the variety is distinguished. large yellow. plant, in its general character, not distinguishable from the large red. the fruit also is quite similar in form and size; the principal mark of distinction being its color, which is a fine, clear, semi-transparent yellow. flesh yellow, well filling the centre, and perhaps a little sweeter or milder than the red; though generally not distinguishable when stewed or otherwise prepared for the table. the variety is hardy, yields abundantly, and comes to perfection with the large red. it is, however, not generally cultivated; the red descriptions being more commonly used, and consequently better adapted for cultivation for the market. mexican. fruit large, comparatively smooth, frequently of an oval form, bright-red, often tinted with rose or bright-pink; flesh pink, solid, filling the fruit to the centre. it is similar to, if not identical with, the perfected. perfected. lester's perfected. pomo d'oro lesteriano. a recently introduced and comparatively distinct variety. plant remarkably healthy and vigorous, often attaining a height or length of six or eight feet, and, in strong soil, of more than ten feet; fruit pinkish-red, or rose-red, of large size, comparatively smooth and regular, flattened, remarkably solid and well filled to the centre, and, when cooked, yielding a large return in proportion to its bulk; flesh firm, well flavored, with comparatively few seeds intermixed. in this last respect, not unlike the seedless. when started at the same time, it ripens two weeks after the early varieties, and continues to yield in great abundance until the plants are destroyed by frost. it is considered one of the best sorts for cultivation for the market, and by many is preferred to all others for the garden. on the authority of a recent writer, the variety has already, to some extent, degenerated. impure seed, or the influence of some peculiar locality, may have furnished grounds for the statement; but if the variety is genuine or unmixed, it will, in almost any soil or exposure, commend itself by its hardiness, solidity, and great productiveness. red cherry-tomato. a small, red tomato, nearly spherical, and about half an inch in diameter. the fruit is produced in great profusion, in large bunches, or clusters; but is comparatively of little value, on account of its small size. it is sometimes used as a preserve, and by some is esteemed for pickling. red plum-tomato. fruit bright-red or scarlet, oval, solid, an inch and a quarter or an inch and a half in depth, and about an inch in diameter; flesh pink, or rose-red, mild and well flavored; seeds comparatively few. the variety is remarkable for its symmetry and for its uniform size. when ripe, the fruit is not easily distinguished from some varieties of scarlet plums. it is hardy, early, and yields abundantly: but the fruit is employed principally for pickling and preserving; its small size rendering it of little value for stewing or for catchup. mixed with the yellow, they make a fine garnish, and are excellent for salad. round red. a small, round, red variety, measuring about an inch in diameter. it is one of the earliest of all the cultivated sorts, but of little value except for pickling or preserving. round yellow. of the size and form of the foregoing, differing only in color. seedless. very similar to, if not identical with, the perfected. fruit almost rose-red, solid, and with comparatively few seeds. tree-tomato. _vil._ _hov. mag._ new upright. tomate de laye. a new variety, raised from seed by grenier, gardener to m. de fleurieux, at a place in france called chateau de laye (whence the name), and introduced by m. vilmorin of paris. it is distinct from all others; rising quite erect to the height of two feet or upwards, with a stem of remarkable size and strength. the branches are not numerous, and comparatively short, usually eight or ten inches in length,--thus requiring no heading-in; leaves not abundant, rather curled, much wrinkled, very firm, closely placed on the sturdy branches, and of a remarkably deep, shining-green color; fruit bright-red, of large size, comparatively smooth, and well filled to the centre,--in many respects, resembling the perfected, though more regular in form. from the peculiar, tree-like character of the plants, the variety is remarkably well adapted for cultivation in pots; but its late maturity greatly impairs its value as a variety for forcing. it is a slow grower, tardy in forming and perfecting its fruit, and, for ordinary garden culture, cannot be recommended as being preferable to the perfected and other earlier and much more prolific varieties. it has been described as strictly self-supporting: but, though the fruit is produced in a remarkably close and almost clasping manner about the sturdy stem and branches, its weight often brings the plants to the ground; and consequently, in exposed situations, it will be necessary to provide stakes, or some similar means of support; though the plants never exhibit the rambling, recumbent character of the common tomato. white tomato. plant similar in habit to the large red; fruit large, generally ribbed, often irregular, but sometimes comparatively smooth. its distinguishing characteristic is its color, which, if the fruit be screened by foliage or if grown in the shade, is almost clear white; if much exposed to the sun, it assumes a yellowish tinge, much paler, however, than the large yellow. flesh yellowish, more watery than that of the large red, and of a somewhat peculiar flavor, much esteemed by some, and unpalatable to others. the variety is hardy, remarkably productive, as early as the large red, and equally large and solid: but its color, before and after being cooked, is unattractive; and it is rarely seen in the markets, and seldom cultivated for family use. white's extra early. early red. extra early. a medium-sized red variety, generally round, but frequently of an oval form, flattened, sometimes ribbed, but comparatively smooth, and, when fully matured, of a deeper color than the later red sorts. average specimens measure about two inches and a half in diameter, and an inch and a half in depth. the plants are moderately vigorous, and readily distinguished by their peculiar curled and apparently withering foliage. flesh pale-red, quite firm, mild, not very seedy, and well filling the fruit, which is considerably heavier than the apple-shaped. when cooked, it yields a much greater product, in proportion to its size, than the last-named and similar hollow-hearted varieties. productive, and of good quality. planted at the same time with the common red varieties, it will ripen about two weeks earlier. an excellent sort for the garden, and recommended for general cultivation. in order to retain this or any other early variety in its purity, seed for planting should be saved from the smoothest, best formed, and earliest ripened fruit. few of the numerous kinds now cultivated possess much permanency of character; and rapidly degenerate, if raised from seed taken from the scattered, irregular, and comparatively immature tomatoes remaining upon the plants at the close of the season. yellow cherry-tomato. a yellow variety of the red cherry-tomato,--differing only in color. quite showy, but of little value for culinary purposes. yellow pear-shaped tomato. yellow fig-tomato. a sub-variety of the red pear-shaped, with a clear, semi-transparent, yellow skin and yellow flesh. like the preceding, it is little used except for preserving and pickling. yellow plum-tomato. a variety of the red plum, of the same size and form, and equally symmetrical; distinguished only by the color of its skin, which is a fine, clear, transparent yellow. it is used principally for preserving; its small size rendering it comparatively valueless for use in any other form. when the two varieties are intermixed, the colors present a fine contrast; and a basket of the fruit is quite a beautiful object. index. agaricus campestris, . " comatus, . " deliciosus, . " exquisitus, . " georgii, . " oreades, . " personatus, . " prunulus, . alecost, . alexanders, . perfoliate, . alisanders, . alkekengi, . purple, . tall, . alliaceous plants, . allium ampeloprasum, . " ascalonicum, . " cepa, . " fistulosum, . " porrum, . " sativum, . " schoenoprasum, . " scorodoprasum, . allspice, . amaranthus, . chinese, . early, . hantsi shanghai, . mirza, . american brooklime, . american garden-bean, . american winter-cress, . anethum graveolens, . angelica, . " archangelica, . anise, . annual phytolacca, . anthemis nobilis, . " nobilis flore pleno, . apium graveolens, . " petroselinum, . arrach, . arachys hypogea, . aromatic nigella, . artemesia abrotanum, . " absynthium, . " dracunculus, . " maritimum, . " pontica, . artichoke, . camus de bretagne, . common, . dark red-spined, . early purple, . french, . globe, . green, . green globe, . green provence, . gros vert de laon, . laon, . large flat brittany, . large round-headed, . purple, . purple globe, . purplish-red, . violet, . asparaginous plants, . asparagus, . asperge d'allemagne, . battersea, . deptford, . dutch, . german, . giant purple-top, . grayson's giant, . gravesend, . green-top, . mortlake, . reading, . red-top, . asparagus officinalis, . astragalus hamosus, . atriplex hortensis, . avilès cabbage, . balm, . balsamita vulgaris, . barbadoes gooseberry, . barbarea præcox, . " vulgaris, . basella alba, . " cordifolia, . " rubra, . basil, . bush, . common, . fin vert, . fin violet, . grand violet, . green bush, . large sweet, . lettuce-leaved, . purple, . purple bush, . bean, american garden, . dwarf varieties, . bagnolet, . black-eyed china, . blue pod, . canada yellow, . canadian, . chilian, . china, . crescent-eyed, . dun-colored, . dwarf case-knife, . dwarf cimeter, . dwarf cranberry, . dwarf horticultural, . dwarf sabre, . dwarf soissons, . dwarf white cranberry, . dwarf yellow, . early china, . early mohawk, . early rachel, . early valentine, . golden cranberry, . kidney, . large white kidney, . long yellow six-weeks, . mohawk, . newington wonder, . pea, . pottawottomie, . red-eyed china, . red flageolet, . red-speckled, . refugee, . rice, . rob-roy, . round american kidney, , . round yellow, . round yellow six-weeks, . royal dwarf, . scarlet flageolet, . scarlet swiss, . six-weeks, . solitaire, . swiss crimson, . tampico, . thousand to one, . turtle-soup, . valentine, . variegated dwarf prague, . victoria, . white's early, . white egg, . white flageolet, . white kidney, . white marrow, . white marrowfat, . yellow-eyed china, . yellow flageolet, . yellow six-weeks, . beans, running or pole, . algerian, . asparagus, . butter, . carolina, . carolina sewee, . case-knife, . cimeter, . corn, . d' alger, . green lima, . horticultural, . indian chief, . lima, . london horticultural, . long-podded dolichos, . marbled prague, . mottled cranberry, . mottled lima, . mottled prolific, . mottled sieva, . painted lady-runner, . prédhomme, . princess, . red cranberry, . red orleans, . rhode-island butter, . saba, . sabre, . scarlet orleans, . scarlet-runner, . sieva, . small lima, . soissons, . wax, . west-indian, . white cranberry, . white-runner, . wild-goose, . yellow cranberry, . bean, english, . bog, . cluster, . dark-red, . dutch long pod, . dwarf fan, . early dwarf, . early dwarf crimson-seeded, . early long pod, . early malta, . early mazagan, . evergreen long pod, . green china, . green genoa, . green julienne, . green long pod, . green nonpareil, . green windsor, . hang-down long pod, . horse-bean, , . johnson's wonderful, . kentish windsor, . large toker, . lisbon, . long-podded, . marshall's early dwarf prolific, . mumford, . purple, . red-blossomed, . red windsor, . royal dwarf cluster, . sandwich, . scarlet-blossomed, . scarlet windsor, . scotch, . sword long pod, . taylor's large windsor, . toker, , . turkey long pod, . vilmorin's dwarf red-seeded, . violet, . violette, . white-blossomed long pod, . white broad windsor, . windsor, . wrench's improved windsor, . bean, french, . bean, kidney, . beet, . bark-skinned, . barrott's new crimson, . bassano, . betterave blanche, . betterave globe rouge, . betterave jaune globe, . cattell's dwarf blood, . common long blood, . cow-horn mangel wurzel, . cow-horn scarcity, . disette blanche à collet verte, . disette d'allemagne, . disette hative, . dwarf blood, . early blood turnip-rooted, . early flat bassano, . early half long blood, . early mangel wurzel, . early scarcity, . early turnip beet, . fine dwarf red, . german red mangel wurzel, . german yellow mangel wurzel, . green mangel wurzel, . green-top white sugar, . half long blood, . improved long blood, . jaune d'allemagne, . jaune grosse, . long blood, . long red mangel wurzel, . long smooth blood, . long white green-top mangel wurzel, . long white mangel wurzel, . long yellow mangel wurzel, . marbled field, . oak bark-skinned, . pine-apple short-top, . red castelnaudary, . red globe mangel wurzel, . red mangel wurzel, . rouge de whyte, . rouge nain, . rouge plate de bassano, . serpent-like, . turnip-rooted bassano, . white globe mangel wurzel, . white silesian, . white sugar, . white turnip-rooted, . whyte's dark crimson, . wyatt's dark crimson, . yellow castelnaudary, . yellow globe mangel wurzel, . yellow turnip-rooted, . beet, leaf, . beet, sea, . belle-isle cress, . bene-plant, . biformed-leaved, . oval-leaved, . trifid-leaved, . beta cicla, . " maritima, . " vulgaris, . black cumin, . black nightshade, . black oyster-plant, . black salsify, . blitum bonus henricus, . boletus edulis, . " scaber, . borage, . blue-flowering, . red-flowering, . variegated, . white-flowering, . borago officinalis, . borecole, or kale, . asparagus, . branchu du poitou, . buda, . cabbaging, . canada dwarf curled, . caulet de flanders, . cesarean, . cesarean cabbage, . chou à faucher, . chou à mille têtes, . chou cavalier, . chou de lannilis, . chou frisé de naples, . chou frisé prolifère, . chou moellier, . chou palmier, . chou vivace de daubenton, . coxcomb, . cow-cabbage, . curled brown . curled proliferous, . daubenton's creeping, . dwarf feather, . dwarf curled, . dwarf curlies, . dwarf green curled, . field cabbage, . field kale, . flanders, . frisé à pied court, . frisé grand du nord, . frisé panaché, . frisé rouge grand, . green marrow-stem, . green scotch, . imperial hearting, . lannilis, . lannilis tree-cabbage, . manchester, . neapolitan, . neapolitan curled, . oak-leaved, . palm, . purple, . red, . red marrow-stem, . red-stalked, . russian, . tall green, . tall green curled, . tall german greens, . tall purple, . tall scotch, . thousand-headed, . tree-cabbage, . variegated, . variegated canadian, . variegated coxcomb, . woburn perennial, . bottle gourd, , . brassica campestris, . " campestris ruta-baga, . " caulo rapa, . " chinensis, . " eruca, . " napa, . " oleracea, , , . " oleracea bullata, . " oleracea sabellica, . " præcox, . " rapa, , . brassicaceous plants, . broccoli, . adam's early white, . ambler's early white, . asparagus, . autumn white, . autumnal cape, . bath white, . blue cape, . brimstone, . cauliflower, . chappell's large cream, . chappell's new cream, . covent-garden market, . cream-colored, . danish, . devonshire white, . dilliston's late white, . dwarf brown close-headed, . dwarf danish, . dwarf roman, . dwarf swedish, . early branching, . early gem, . early purple, . early purple cape, . early purple sprouting, . early white, , . early white cornish, . edinburgh sulphur, . ellertson's gigantic late white, . ellertson's mammoth, . fine early white, . fine late sulphur, . frogmore protecting, . gem, . gillespie's, . gill's yarmouth white, . grange's cauliflower, . grange's early cape, . grange's early cauliflower, . grange's early white, . green cape, . green close-headed winter, . hammond's white cape, . hampton court, . hopwood's early white, . howden's superb purple, . imperial early white, . invisible, . invisible late white, . italian purple, . italian sprouting, . kent's late white, . kidderminster, . knight's protecting, . lake's gem, . late brimstone, . late danish, . late dwarf purple, . late green, , . late willcove, . maher's hardy cape, . maher's new dwarf, . marshall's early white, . miller's dwarf, . miller's late white, . mitchell's ne plus ultra, . mitchinson's early white, . mitchinson's penzance, . naples white, . neapolitan white, . north's early purple, . portsmouth, . purple cape, . purple silesian, . siberian, , . snow's spring white, . snow's superb white winter, . southampton, . sulphur, . walcheren, . ward's superb, . waterloo late white, . white cape, . willcove, . brook-lime, . american, . brussels sprouts, . dwarf, . giant, . tall, . buckshorn plantain, . burnet, . hairy-leaved, . large-seeded, . smooth-leaved, . cabbage, . american drumhead, . american green glazed, . atkins's matchless, . barnes's early, . barnes's early dwarf, . bergen drumhead, . champion of america, . chou de vaugirard, . coeur de boeuf petit, . dwarf battersea, . early battersea, . early cornish, . early drumhead, . early dutch drumhead, . early dutch twist, . early dwarf battersea, . early hope, . early low dutch, . early nonpareil, . early sugar-loaf, . early wakefield, . early york, . east ham, . great american, . green glazed, . large bergen, . large flat dutch, . large french ox-heart, . large german drumhead, . large late drumhead, . large ox-heart, . large york, . marblehead mammoth drumhead, . mason, . paignton, . penton, . pentonville, . pointed-head, . pomeranian, . premium flat dutch, . quintal, . shilling's queen, . small ox-heart, . st. denis, . stone-mason, . suttons's dwarf comb, . vannack, . vaugirard, . waite's new dwarf, . winnigstadt, . cabbage: red varieties, . chou noirâtre d'utrecht, . early blood-red, . early dwarf-red, . large red dutch, . small red, . superfine black, . utrecht red, . calabash, or common gourd, . bottle gourd, , . courge massue d'hercule, . courge poire à poudre, . courge siphon, . hercules club, . powder-horn, . siphon, . calendula officinalis, . camomile, . common, . double-flowering, . campanula rapunculus, . capsicum, . capucine, . dwarf, . caraway, . cardamine pratensis, . cardoon, . artichoke-leaved, . blood-ribbed, . cardon de tours, . common, . d'espagne, . lance-leaved, . large purple, . large smooth, . large spanish, . large tours solid, . plein inerme, . puvis, . puvis de bourg, . red, . red-stemmed, . smooth large solid, . tours, . carolina potato, . carrot, . altrincham, . altringham, . blanche des vosges, . blood red, . common white, . dutch horn, . earliest short forcing horn, . early forcing horn, . early frame, . early half long scarlet, . early horn, . early scarlet horn, . early short dutch, . early short scarlet, . flander's large pale scarlet, . flander's pale-red, . green-top white, . half-long red, . james's scarlet, . long lemon, . long orange, . long red, . long red altringham, . long red belgian, . long red brunswick, . long surrey, . long white, . long yellow, . new intermediate, . purple, . short white, . studley, . transparent white, . violette, . white belgian, . white belgian horn, . yellow belgian, . yellow green-top belgian, . carthamus tinctorius, . carum carui, . caterpillar, . common, . furrowed, . grosse, . hairy, . prickly, . rayée, . small, . velue, . villous, . cauliflower, . early leyden, . early london, . early paris, . erfurt's early, . erfurt's extra early, . fitch's early london, . large asiatic, . legge's walcheren broccoli, . le normand, . london particular, . mitchell's hardy early, . stadthold, . waite's alma, . walcheren, . wellington, . celeriac, . curled-leaved, . early erfurt, . frisé, . rave d'erfurt, . celery, . à couper, . boston-market, . cole's superb red, . cole's superb white, . "dwarf-curled white, . early dwarf solid white, . fine white solid, . giant patagonian, . giant white, . italian, . laing's improved mammoth red, . large upright, . lion's paw, . manchester red, . manchester red giant, . nain frisé, . new large purple, . new large red, . nutt's champion white, . plein blanc, . plein blanc court hatif, . prussian, . red solid, . seymour's superb white solid, . seymour's white champion, . shepherd's giant red, . shepherd's red, . small dutch, . sutton's white solid, . tours purple, . turc, . turkey, . turkish giant solid, . violet de tours, . wall's white, . white lion's paw, . white solid, . chærophyllum bulbosum, . " cerefolium, . champignon, . chardon, . chardoon, . chenille, . chenopodium quinoa, . chervil, . common, . curled, . double-curled, . french, . frisé, . frizzled-leaved, . parsnip, . plain-leaved, . sweet-scented, . turnip-rooted, . chiccory, . brunswick large-rooted, . coffee, . improved, . improved variegated, . large-rooted, . magdebourg large-rooted, . sauvage améliorée, . spotted, . turnip-rooted, . variegated, . chickling vetch, . white-flowered, . chick-pea, . red, . white, . yellow, . chinese amaranthus, . " cabbage, , . " potato, . " spinach, . chives, . chufa, . ciboule, . cicer arietinum, . cichorium endivia, . " intybus, . cive, . clary, . sage, . clavaria, . climbing nightshade, . cochlearia armoracia, . " officinalis, . cole-seed, . colewort, . rosette, . collards, . collet, . coltsfoot, . colza, . concombre chaté, . des prophètes, . convolvulus batatus, . corchorus, . " olitorius, . corette potagère, . coriander, . coriandrum sativum, . corn, . corn: garden varieties, . adam's early white, . black sweet, . burr's improved, . burr's sweet, . darling's early, . darling's early sweet, . early jefferson, . golden sweet, . golden sugar, . old-colony, . parching corn, white kernel, . pop corn, . pop corn, yellow, . red-cob sweet, . rice, red kernel, . " white kernel, . " yellow kernel, . slate sweet, . stowell's evergreen, . stowell's evergreen sweet, . turkey wheat, . tuscarora, . twelve-rowed sweet, . corn: field varieties, . brown, . canada yellow, . dutton, . early canada, . early dutton, . hill, . illinois white, . illinois yellow, . improved king philip, . king philip, . new-england eight-rowed, . old-colony premium, . parker, . smutty white, . southern white, . southern yellow, . webster, . western white, . western yellow, . white horse-tooth, . whitman, . whitman improved, . yellow horse-tooth, . corn salad, . common, . italian, . large round-leaved, . large seeded round, . costmary, . hoary-leaved, . couve tronchuda, . " à côtes blanches, . " dwarf, . " fringed, . " large-ribbed, . " white-ribbed, . crambe maritima, . cress, or peppergrass, . broad-leaved, . common, . curled, . garnishing, . golden, . normandy curled, . plain-leaved, . crithmum maritimum, . crummock, . cuckoo flower, . double purple flowering, . double white flowering, . purple, . white, . cucumber, . carter's superior, . conqueror of the west, . cuthill's black spine, . doctor, . early cluster, . early green cluster, . early frame, . early long green prickly, . early russian, . early short green prickly, . early white-spined, . eggleston's conqueror, . egyptian, . extra long green turkey, . flanigan's prize, . globe, . hairy, . hunter's prolific, . improved sion house, . irishman, . jamaica, . london long green, . long green prickly, . long green turkey, . long prickly, . lord kenyon's favorite, . manchester prize, . nepal, . new-york market, . norman stitchworth-park hero, . old sion house, . prize-fighter, . rifleman, . ringleader, . roman emperor, . round-leaved egyptian, . serpent, . short green, . short green prickly, . short prickly, . snake, . southgate, . sponge, . underwood's short prickly, . victory of bath, . west-indian, . white spanish, . white-spined, . cucumis acutangulus, . " anguria, . " chate, . " flexuosus, . " melo, . " prophetarum, . " sativus, . cucurbita aurantiaca, . " citrullus, . " lagenaria, . " maxima, . " ovifera, . " piliformis, . " pepo, . " verrucosa, . cucurbitaceous plants, . cultivated lathyrus, . cumin, . " cyminum, . cynara cardunculus, . cynarus scolymus, . cyperus esculentus, . dandelion, . daucus carota, . deppe's oxalis, . dill, . dioscorea batatas, . dolichos sesquipedalis, . earth almond, . earth nut, . eatable-podded pease, . eatable-rooted pea, . edible cyperus, . egg-plant, . american large purple, . chinese long white, . guadaloupe striped, . large round purple, . long purple, . new-york improved, . round purple, . scarlet-fruited, . white, . egyptian cucumber, . egyptian pea, . elecampane, . endive, . endives, batavian, . broad-leaved, . common yellow, . curled, . large, . lettuce-leaved, . scarolle blonde, . scarolle courte, . scarolle grande, . small, . white, . endives, curled, . chicorée frisée de ruffec, . " mousse, . dutch green curled, . early fine curled rouen, . ever-blanched, . green curled, . green curled summer, . italian green curled, . large green curled, . long italian green, . picpus fine curled, . ruffec curled, . small green curled, . staghorn, . triple-curled moss, . white curled, . winter moss, . english bean, . english turnip, . ervum lens, . " monanthos, . esculent roots, . evening primrose, . faber vulgaris arvensis, . fedia cornucopiæ, . fennel, . bitter, . common, . dark green-leaved, . florence, . italian, . malta, . sweet, . sweet azorian, . fetticus, . finochio, . foeniculum dulce, . " officinale, . " vulgare, . four spices, . french bean, . french spinach, . french turnip, . garden bean, american, . garden bean, english, . garden patience, . garden picridium, . garden rocket, . garget, . garlic, . common, . early pink, . early rose, . great-headed, . german rampion, . gherkin, . globe cucumber, . glycyrrhiza glabra, . golden samphire, . good king henry, . goosefoot, , . gourd, . green mint, . ground bean, . ground cherry, . " purple, . " tall, . ground nut, . gumbo, . hairy cucumber, . haricot, . hedeoma pulegioides, . helianthus annuus, . " indicus, . " tuberosus, . herb patience, . hibiscus esculentus, . hoarhound, . hoosung, . hop, . horse-bean, , . horse-radish, . humulus lupulus, . hyssop, . blue-flowering, . common, . red-flowering, . white-flowering, . hyssopus officinalis, . indian cress, . inula crithmifolia, . " helenium, . ipomoea batatas, . jamaica cucumber, . japanese yam, . jerusalem artichoke, . common white, . purple-skinned, . red-skinned, . yellow-skinned, . kale (see "borecole "), . kidney-bean, . kohl rabi, . artichoke-leaved, . cut-leaved, . early dwarf white, . early purple vienna, . early white vienna, . green, . purple, . white, . lactuca intybacea, . " perennis, . " quercina, . " sativa, . lamb's lettuce, . large-ribbed borecole, . large stinging nettle, . lathyrus sativus, . " tuberosus, . lavender, . blue-flowering, . broad-leaved, . common, . narrow-leaved blue-flowering, . narrow-leaved white-flowering, . spike, . lavendula spica, . leaf-beet, or swiss chard, . à carde rouge, . carde jaune, . common, . curled, . great white, . green, . large-ribbed curled, . large-ribbed scarlet brazilian, . large-ribbed silver, . large-ribbed yellow brazilian, . red-stalked, . sea-kale, . silver-leaf, . swiss chard, . yellow-stalked, . leek, . broad flag, . common flag, . edinburgh improved, . english flag, . gros court, . gros de rouen, . jaune du poitou, . large flag, . large rouen, . little montagne, . london flag, . long flag, . musselburgh, . proliferous, . scotch flag, . small early netherland, . small summer brabant, . yellow poitou, . leak-leaved salsify, . leguminous plants, . lentil, . canada, . common, . green, . large, . one-flowered, . petite, . red, . small, . verte du puy, . yellow, . of spain, . leontodon taraxacum, . lepidium sativum, . lettuce, . lettuces, cabbage, . american brown dutch, . black-seeded gotte, . blond versailles, . boston curled, . brown, . brown batavian, . brown dutch, black-seeded, . brown silesian, . brown winter, . button, . capuchin, . curled, . de malte, . drumhead, , . early cape, . early dwarf dutch, . early frame, . early simpson, . early white spring, . endive-leaved, . english endive-like curled-leaved, . gotte lente à monter, . green ball, . green curled, . green dutch, . green winter, . grosse brune paresseuse, . hammersmith hardy, . hardy green hammersmith, . hardy hammersmith, . hardy winter cabbage, . hative de simpson, . ice, , . ice cos, . imperial head, . india, . laitue chicorée, . large brown cabbage, . large brown winter, . large drumhead, . large golden summer, . large gray, . large india, . large red, . large winter, . large white, . madeira, . malta, . mammoth, . marseilles, . mogul, . morine, . naples, . neapolitan, . palatine, . passion, . red-bordered, . rouge charteuse, . royal, . royal cape, . sanguine à graine blanche, . sanguine à graine noire, . spanish, . spotted, black-seeded, . spotted, white-seeded, . stone tennis-ball, . sugar, , . summer blond, . summer cabbage, . summer cape, . swedish, . tennis-ball, . turkey cabbage, , . union, . versailles, . victoria, . white, . white batavian, . white dutch, . white gotte, black-seeded, . white gotte, white-seeded, . white silesian, . white stone cabbage, . white tennis-ball, . yellow-seeded brown dutch, . lettuces, cos, . ady's fine large, . à feuille de chêne, . aleppo, . alphange, black-seeded, . alphange, white-seeded, . artichoke-leaved, . bath, . bath green, . bearfield, . bloody, . brown, . endive-leaved, . florence, black-seeded, . florence, white-seeded, . gray paris, . green paris, . green winter, . kensington, . london white, . magnum bonum, . monstrous brown, . oak-leaved, , . panachée à graine noire, . perennial, . red-spotted, . red winter, . spinach lettuce, . spotted, black-seeded, . spotted, white-seeded, . sutton's berkshire brown, . sutton's superb green, . sutton's superb white, . two-headed, . waite's white, . wellington, . white brunoy, black-seeded, . white brunoy, white-seeded, . white paris, . white-seeded brown, . wood's improved bath, . licorice, . ligusticum levisticum, . lima bean, . green, . long-podded dolichos, . lotus tetragonolobus, . lovage, . love-apple, . lupine, . white, . yellow, . lupinus albus, . " luteus, . mâche, . madras radish, . malabar nightshade, . baselle blanche, . baselle rouge, . large-leaved chinese, . red, . très large feuille de chine, . white, . malabar spinach, . mallow, curled-leaved, . malva crispa, . marigold, . childing, . common orange-flowered, . double lemon-flowering, . double orange-flowering, . lemon-flowered, . pot, . proliferous, . marjoram, . common, . knotted, . pot, . sweet, . winter sweet, . marsh speedwell, . martynia, . " proboscidea, . marrubium vulgare, . maw, . medicago orbicularis, . medicinal plants, . melissa officinalis, . melon, . melon, musk, . beechwood, . black-rock cantaloupe, . christiana, . citron, . common musk, . early cantaloupe, . green citron, . green-fleshed citron, . hardy ridge, . large-ribbed netted musk, . munroe's green flesh, . nutmeg, . orange cantaloupe, . pine-apple, . prescott's cantaloupe, . skillman's fine-netted, . victory of bath, . melon, persian varieties, . dampsha, . daree, . geree, . germek, . green hoosainee, . green valencia, . ispahan, . large germek, . melon of keiseng, . melon of seen, . small germek, . striped hoosainee, . sweet ispahan, . melon, water, . apple-seeded, . black spanish, . bradford, . california pie, . carolina, . citron, . clarendon, . dark-speckled, . ice-cream, . imperial, . mountain sprout, . mountain sweet, . odell's large white, . orange, . pie, . ravenscroft, . spanish, . souter, . mentha piperita, . " viridis, . miscellaneous vegetables, . morchella esculenta, . morel, . morelle, . mountain spinach, . murciana, . mushroom, . blewits, . blue hats, . common, . di genoa, . fairy-ring, . st. george's, . sweet, . musk-melon, . mustard, . à feuille de chou, . black, . brown, . cabbage-leaved, . chinese, . curled, . cut-leaved, . lacinée, . pekin, . red, . white, . napolean pea, or vetch, . nasturtium, . dark-flowering, . small, . tall, . variegated, . nasturtium armoracia, . " officinale, . nettle, . new-zealand spinach, . nicotiana, . " tabacum, . " rustica, . nigella sativa, . nut rush, . oca, . blanca, . colorado, . ocra, . ocymum basilicum, . " minimum, . oenothera biennis, . oily grain, . oil radish, . okra, . buist's dwarf, . dwarf, . giant, . pendent-podded, . tall, . white-podded, . oleraceous plants, . onion, . blanc hatif, . blanc hatif de nocera, . blood-red, . brown deptford, . brown portugal, . brown spanish, . brunswick deep blood-red, . cambrai, . cambridge, . corné de boeuf, . cow-horn, . danvers, . danvers yellow, . de belle garde, . de james, . de madère plat, . de madère rond, . deptford, . double tige, . dutch, . dutch blood-red, . early lisbon, . early red wethersfield, . early silver nocera, . early silver-skin, . early small silver nocera, . egyptian, . essex, . flanders, . flat madeira, . french blood-red, . fusiform, . intermediate red wethersfield, . james's keeping, . james's long-keeping, . jaune des vertus, . large globe tripoli, . large red, . lisbon, . madeira, . new deep blood-red, . oporto, . pale-red, . paris straw-colored, . pear-shaped, . potato, . romain, . rouge pale, de niort, . rouge très foncé de brunswick, . silver-skin, . silver-skin of new england, . soufre d'espagne. . spanish, . strasburg, . st. thomas, . top, . tree, . tripoli, . two-bladed, . underground, . wethersfield large red, . white florence, . white globe, . white lisbon, . white nocera, . white portugal, -- . white reading, . white spanish, . yellow, . yellow globe, . yellow strasburg, . oosung, . orach, . dark-green, . dark-purple, . dark-red, . deep-green, . green, . lurid, . pale-green, . pale-red, . purple, . purple-bordered green, . red, . red-stalked green, . red-stalked white, . white, . white french spinach, . yellow, . origanum heracleoticum, . " marjorana, . " onites, . " vulgare, . osmorrhiza odorata, . oxalis, . " acetocella, . " crenata, . " deppei, . " deppe's, . " red tuberous-rooted, . " tuberous-rooted, . " white-rooted, . oyster-plant, . pak-chöi, . palmate-leaved rhubarb, . papangaye, . papanjay, . papaver somniferum, . parsley, . celery, . celery-leaved, . common, . curled, . dwarf curled, . hamburg, . large-rooted, . mitchell's matchless winter, . myatt's extra fine curled, . myatt's garnishing, . myatt's triple-curled, . naples, . neapolitan, . plain, . rendle's treble garnishing, . sutton's dwarf curled, . turnip-rooted, . usher's dwarf curled, . windsor curled, . parsley-pert, . parsnip, . common, . dutch, . early short horn, . guernsey, . hollow-crowned, . hollow-crowned guernsey, . hollow-headed, . long jersey, . long smooth dutch, . panais de siam, . panais long, . panais rond, . siam, . swelling, . turnip-rooted, . yellow, . parsnip chervil, . pastinaca sativa, . patience, . patience dock, . pea, . auvergne, . batt's wonder, . beck's eclipse, . beck's gem, , . beck's morning-star, . beck's prize-taker, . bedman's imperial, . bellamy's early green marrow, . bishop's early dwarf, . bishop's new long-podded, . black-eyed marrow, . blue cimeter, . blue fan, . blue imperial, . blue prussian, . blue sabre, . blue spanish dwarf, . british queen, . brompton hotspur, . burbridge's eclipse, . bush, . carter's earliest, . carter's eclipse, . carter's victoria, . cedo nulli, . champion of england, . champion of paris, . charlton, . charlton hotspur, . climax, . dantzic, . dickson's early favorite, . dickson's favorite, . dillistone's early, . dunnett's first early, . dwarf blue imperial, . dwarf blue prussian, . dwarf fan, . dwarf marrow, . dwarf marrowfat, . dwarf prolific, . dwarf sabre, . dwarf white marrow, . early charlton, . early dan o'rourke, . early double-blossomed frame, . early dwarf frame, . early dwarf marrowfat, . early emperor, . early frame, . early golden hotspur, . early hotspur, . early kent, . early may, . early nicol's hotspur, . early prince albert, . early railway, . early ringwood, . early spanish dwarf, . early surprise, . early warwick, . early washington, . early wonder, . erin's queen, . essex champion, . essex hotspur, . eugénie, . excelsior, . fairbeard's champion of england, . fairbeard's nonpareil, . fairbeard's surprise, . flack's imperial, . flack's new large victoria, . flack's victoria, . flack's victory, . flander's hotspur, . flanagan's early, . general wyndham, . golden hotspur, , . green prussian, . groom's superb, . hair's defiance, . hair's dwarf mammoth, . harrison's glory, . harrison's perfection, . hill's early, . hovey's extra early, . jay's conqueror, . king of the marrows, . knight's dwarf blue marrow, . knight's dwarf green marrow, . knight's dwarf green wrinkled marrow, . knight's dwarf white marrow, . knight's dwarf white wrinkled marrow, . knight's tall blue marrow, . knight's tall green marrow, . knight's tall white marrow, . knight's tall white wrinkled marrow, . landreth's extra early, . large carolina, . lincoln green, . matchless marrow, . master's hotspur, . milford marrow, . missouri marrow, . missouri marrowfat, . napoléon, . ne plus ultra, . new sabre, . noble's early green marrow, . nonpareil, . paradise marrow, . pois nain hatif extra, . poor man's profit, . prince albert, . prize-taker, . prussian blue, . queen of the dwarfs, . race-horse, . reading hotspur, , . ringwood marrow, . rising-sun, . royal dwarf, . sabre, . sangster's number one, . sebastopol, . shillings grotto, . single-blossomed frame, . spanish dwarf, . strawberry, . stuart's paradise, . stubb's dwarf, . superfine early, . surprise, . tall marrowfat, . tall white mammoth, . tall white marrow, . taylor's early, . thurstan's reliance, . tom thumb, . veitch's perfection, . victoria marrow, . waite's dan o'rourke, . warner's early conqueror, . warner's early emperor, . white cimeter, . white prussian, . white sabre, . woodford's marrow, . pease, eatable-podded or string, . australian, . blue-podded, . botany-bay, . broadsword, . chocolate, . common dwarf, . dwarf crooked-podded, . early dwarf de grace, . early dwarf dutch, . giant, . large crooked, . late dwarf, . purple-podded, . red-flowered, . six-inch pod, . tamarind, . white-podded, . yellow-podded, . pea, tuberous-rooted, . pea-nut, . african, . carolina, . tennessee, . wilmington, . pennyroyal, . pepper, . bell, . bird, . black-podded, . blue-podded, . bull-nose, . cayenne, . cerise grosse, . cherry, . cherry yellow-fruited, . chili, . cydoniforme, . large bell, . large red cherry, . long red, . long yellow, . monstreux, . purple-podded, . quince, . rond, . round, . squash, . sweet mountain, . sweet spanish, . tomato-shaped, . yellow squash, . yellow tomato-formed, . peppergrass, . peppermint, . perennial phytolacca, . perennial spinach, . persian melons, . pe-tsai, . physalis edulis, . " pubescens, . phaseolus lunatus, , . " multiflorus, . " vulgaris, . phytolacca decandra, . " esculenta, . picridium, . " vulgare, . pie-plant, . pigeon berry, . pimpinella anisum, . pindar nut, . pisum sativum, . " macrocarpum, . plantago coronopus, . poke, . poppy, . gray, . oil, . opium, . white, . portugal borecole, . portugal cabbage, . portulaca, . " oleracea, . " oleracea var. aurea, . " sativa, . potato, . abington blue, . ash-leaved early, . ash-leaved kidney, . biscuit, . black chenango, . black mercer, . buckeye, . calico, . california red, . carter, . chenango, . churchill, . cow-horn, . cristy, . cups, . danvers red, . danvers seedling, . davis's seedling, . dover, . dykeman, . early blue, . early cockney, . early manly, . flour-ball, . fluke kidney, . forty-fold, , . garnet chili, . gillyflower, . green-top, . hill's early, . irish cups, . jackson white, . jenny lind, . lady's finger, . laplander, . lapstone kidney, . long red, . mercer, of new york, . mexican, . nichol's early, . nova-scotia blue, . old kidney, . peach-blow, . pink-eyed, . poggy, . porgee, . quarry, . rhode-island seedling, . riley, . rohan, . ruffort kidney, . shaw's early, . state of maine, . st. helena, . taylor's forty-fold, . tolon, . vermont white, . veto, . white chenango, . white cups, . white-mountain, . worcester seedling, . poterium sanguisorba, . pot marigold, . prickly-fruited gherkin, . pumpkin, . canada, . cheese, . common yellow field, . connecticut field, . hard-shell, . long yellow field, . nantucket, . nigger-head, . small sugar, . striped field, . sugar, . vermont, . purple goat's beard, . purslain, . common, . doré, . golden, . green, . large-leaved golden, . vert, . quatre epices, . quinoa, . black-seeded, . red-seeded, . white, . white-seeded, . radish, . radishes, spring or summer, . crimson turnip-rooted, . early black, . early frame, . early long purple, . early purple turnip-rooted, . early scarlet short-top, . early scarlet turnip-rooted, . early white turnip-rooted, . gray olive-shaped, . gray summer, . gray turnip-rooted, . long purple, . long salmon, . long scarlet, . long scarlet salmon, . long white, . long white purple-top, . naples, . new-london particular, . noir hatif, . oblong brown, . oblong rose-colored, . olive-shaped scarlet, . purple turnip-rooted, . rave violette hative, . rond blanc hatif, . rond rose hatif, . round brown, . scarlet turnip-rooted, . small early yellow turnip-rooted, . tortillée du mans, . white crooked, . white italian, . white transparent, . white turnip-rooted, . wood's frame, . yellow summer, . yellow turnip-rooted, . radishes, autumn and winter, . autumn white, . black spanish, . blanc d'augsbourg, . large purple winter, . long black winter, . long-leaved white chinese, . purple chinese, . purple spanish, . rose-colored chinese, . scarlet chinese winter, . winter white spanish, . rampion, . rape, . annual, . annual rough-leaved summer, . cole-seed, . colza, . common, . early, . german, . smooth-leaved summer, . summer, . turnip, . wild navew, . winter, . raphanus, . " sativus, , . red beet, . red birdsfoot trefoil, . rheum, . australe, . emodi, . rhubarb, . buck's, . cahoon, . downing's colossal, . early prince imperial, . early red tobolsk, . elford, . hawkes's champagne, . linnæus, . mitchell's royal albert, . myatt's linnæus, . myatt's victoria, . nepal, . tobolsk, . victoria, . rocambole, . rocket, . garden, . roquette, . rosmarinus officinalis, . rosemary, . common, . green-leaved, . gold-striped, . narrow-leaved, . silver-striped, . rue, . broad-leaved, . narrow-leaved, . rumex, . " acetosa, . " montanus, . " nivalis, . " patientia, . " scutatus, . russian turnip, . ruta-baga turnip, . ruta graveolens, . safflower, . saffron, . sage, . balsamic, . broad-leaved green, . common, . green-leaved, . green-top, . narrow-leaved green, . purple-top, . red-leaved, . red-top, . sage of virtue, . variegated green-leaved, . variegated red-leaved, . salad plants, . salsify, . salvia officinalis, . " sclarea, . samphire, . saturjea capitata, . " hortensis, . " montana, . " viminea, . savory, . headed, . shrubby, . summer, . winter, . savoy, . savoy cabbage, . cape, . chou milan doré à tête longue, . chou milan à tête longue, . drumhead, . dwarf green curled, . earliest ulm, . early dwarf, . early flat green curled, . early green, . early long yellow, . early ulm, . early yellow, . feathered-stem, . golden, . green curled, . green globe, . large green, . large late yellow, . long-headed, . marcelin, . new ulm, . pancalier de tourraine, . tours, . white, . yellow curled, . scandix odorata, . scarlet-runner bean, . " painted-lady, . " white-runner, . scolymus, . scolymus hispanicus, . scorpiurus, . " muricata, . " subvillosa, . " sulcata, . " vermiculata, . scorzonera, . " hispanica, . scotch bean, . scurvy-grass, , . sea-beet, . english, . irish, . sea-fennel, . sea-kale, . serpent cucumber, . sesamum sp., . shallot, . common, . echalote grosse, . echalote grosse d'alençon, . echalote ordinaire, . jersey, . large, . large alençon, . long-keeping, . small, . shepherd's purse, . sicilian beet, . sinapis alba, . " nigra, . " pekinensis, . sisymbrium nasturtium, . sium sisarum, . skinless pease, . skirret, . smallage, . small water-cress, . smyrnium olusatrum, . " perfoliatum, . snails, . snail trefoil, . snake cucumber, . solanum lycopersicum, . " melongena, . " nigrum, . " tuberosum, . sorrel, . alpine, . belleville, . blistered-leaf, . blistered-leaf mountain, . blond de sarcelle, . broad-leaved, . common, . common garden, . fervent's new large, . french, . green, . green-mountain, . mountain, . oseille de fervent, . oseille des neiges, . oseille large de belleville, . oseille rond, . oseille verge, . roman, . round-leaved, . sarcelle blond, . southernwood, . spanish potato, . spanish oyster-plant, . spanish scolymus, . spearmint, . curled-leaved, . spinacea oleracea, . spinaceous plants, . spinach, . à feuille de laitue, . blond à feuille d'oseille, . common prickly, . d'angleterre, . d'hollande, . flanders, . gaudry, . large prickly-seeded, . large winter, . lettuce-leaved, . ordinaire, . round dutch, . round-leaved, . sorrel-leaved, . summer, . white sorrel-leaved, . winter, . yellow sorrel-leaved, . sponge cucumber, . squash, . squash (summer varieties), . apple, . bush summer warted crookneck, . cymbling, , . early apple, . early summer crookneck, . early white bush scolloped, . early yellow bush scolloped, . egg, . green bush scolloped, . green striped bergen, . large summer warted crookneck, . orange, . pattison blanc, . pattison panache, . pattison vert, . pattypan, . variegated bush scolloped, . white pattypan, . white summer scolloped, . yellow summer scolloped, . yellow summer warted crookneck, . squash (autumn and winter varieties), . acorn, . autumnal marrow, . boston marrow, . canada crookneck, . cashew, . cocoa, . cocoa-nut, . commodore porter, . courge à la moëlle, . courge coucourzelle, . courge de l'ohio, . courge plein de naples, . cuckaw, . cushaw pumpkin, . custard, . egg-shaped, . giraumon turban, . honolulu, . hubbard, . italian vegetable marrow, . large yellow gourd, . mammoth, . mammoth pumpkin, . neapolitan, . patagonian, . porter's valparaiso, . potiron jaune, . puritan, . reeve's, . stetson's hybrid, . succade gourd, . sweet potato, . turban, . turk's cap, . valparaiso, . vegetable marrow, . wilder, . winter crookneck, . winter striped crookneck, . star of the earth, . strawberry tomato, . purple, . tall, . st. peter's herb, . string-pease, . succory, . sugar-pease, . sunflower, . annual, . dwarf, . tall, . swede or ruta-baga turnip, . ashcroft, . common purple-top yellow, . early stubble, . green-top white, . green-top yellow, . laing's improved purple-top, . long white french, . purple-top white, . river's, . skirving's improved purple-top, . skirving's liverpool, . skirving's purple-top, . southold, . sweet german, . white french, . sweet cicely, . sweet potato, . american red, . kentucky early red, . large white, . nansemond, . new-orleans purple, . patate blanche, . patate violette, . purple-skinned, . red nansemond, . red-skinned, . rose-colored, . yellow-carolina, . yellow nansemond, . yellow-skinned, . sweet-scented chervil, . swiss chard, . tanacetum vulgare, . tansy, . curled-leaved, . double, . large-leaved, . variegated, . tare, . summer, . white, . winter, . tarragon, . tetragonia expansa, . thlaspi bursa pastoris, . thousand-headed cabbage, . thyme, . broad-leaved, . common, . evergreen, . lemon, . narrow-leaved, . variegated, . thymus citriodorus, . " vulgaris, . tobacco, . broad-leaved, . connecticut seed-leaf, . green, . guatemala, . negro-head, . oronoco, . peach-leaf, . turkish, . virginian, . tomato, . apple, . apple-shaped, . bermuda, . cluster, . early red, . extra early, . fejee, . fig, . giant, . grape, . large red, . large red oval, . large yellow, . lester's perfected, . mammoth, . mexican, . new upright, . perfected, . pomo d'oro lesteriano, . red cherry, . red pear-shaped, . red plum, . round red, . round yellow, . seedless, . tomate de laye, . tree, . white, . white's extra early, . yellow cherry, . yellow fig, . yellow pear-shaped, . yellow plum, . tota bona, . tragopogon porrifolius, . trauxuda kale, . tree primrose, . tropæolum, . " majus, . " minus, . " tuberosum, . truffle, . common, . piedmontese, . tuber cibarium, . " magnatum, . " melanosporum, . tuberous-rooted chickling vetch, . pea, . tropæolum, . wood-sorrel, . turkey rhubarb, . turnip-rooted celery, . turnip, . altrincham, . altringham, . autumn stubble, . border imperial, . border imperial purple-top yellow, . chiva's orange jelly, . common field globe, . cow-horn, . dale's hybrid, . decanter, . early dwarf, . early flat dutch, . early stone, . early white dutch, . early yellow dutch, . finland, . freneuse, . golden ball, . golden maltese, . green globe, . green norfolk, . green round, . green tankard, . green-top flat, . green-top norfolk, . green-top white globe, . green-top yellow aberdeen, . green-top yellow bullock, . hungarian green-top globe, . lincolnshire red globe, . liverpool yellow, . long black, . long early white vertus, . long white clairfontaine, . long white maltese, . maltese, . mouse-tail, . navet boule de neige, . navet gros d'alsace, . petrosowoodsks, . pomeranian globe, . preston, . purple-top aberdeen, . purple-top flat, . purple-top strap-leaved, . purple-top yellow aberdeen, . purple-top yellow bullock, . red globe, . red norfolk, . red round, . red tankard, . red-top flat, . red mouse-tail, . red-top norfolk, . robertson's golden stone, . round black, . six-weeks, . small berlin, . small long yellow, . snow-ball, . stone globe, . tankard, . teltau, . teltow, . waite's hybrid eclipse, . white dutch, . white garden stone, . white globe, . white norfolk, . white round, . white stone, . white tankard, . white-top flat, . white-top strap-leaved, . yellow altrincham, . yellow dutch, . yellow finland, . yellow globe, . yellow malta, . yellow scarisbrick, . yellow stone, . yellow tankard, . turnip cabbage, . turnip-rooted chervil, . tussilago farfara, . unicorn plant, . urtica dioica, . valeriana, . " cornucopiæ, . " locusta, . valerianella eriocarpa, . vegetable oyster, . veronica beccabunga, . vetch, or tare, . napoléon pea, . summer, . white, . winter, . vicia faba, . " sativa, . water-cress, . water-melon, . welsh onion, . ciboule blanche hative, . common, . early white, . red, . white, . west-indian bean, . west-indian cress, . west-indian cucumber, . white beet, . wild endive, . wild navew, . wild spinach, . winged pea, . winter cherry, . purple, . winter cress, . common, . wood-sorrel, . worms, . wormwood, . common, . roman, . sea, . yellow rocket, . ysano, . zea mays, . john gayther's garden and the stories told therein [illustration: "are you going to ask me to marry your husband if you should happen to die?"] john gayther's garden and the stories told therein by frank r. stockton _illustrated_ charles scribner's sons new york copyright, , by charles scribner's sons _published november, _ the devinne press contents page john gayther's garden i what i found in the sea told by john gayther ii the bushwhacker nurse told by the daughter of the house iii the lady in the box told by john gayther iv the cot and the rill told by the mistress of the house v the gilded idol and the king conch-shell told by the master of the house vi my balloon hunt told by the frenchman vii the foreign prince and the hermit's daughter told by pomona and jonas viii the conscious amanda told by the daughter of the house ix my translatophone told by the old professor x the vice-consort told by the next neighbor xi blackgum ag'in' thunder told by john gayther illustrations "are you going to ask me to marry your husband if you should happen to die?" frontispiece facing page the gardener began promptly "i made him dig up whole beds of things" the great beast was drawing up his hind legs and was climbing into the car miss amanda listened with the most eager and overpowering attention and dreamed waking dreams of blessedness "do you mean," i cried, "that you would make him a better wife than i do?" "abner, did you ever hear about the eggs of the great auk?" john gayther's garden john gayther's garden the garden did not belong to john gayther; he merely had charge of it. at certain busy seasons he had some men to help him in his work, but for the greater part of the year he preferred doing everything himself. it was a very fine garden over which john gayther had charge. it extended this way and that for long distances. it was difficult to see how far it did extend, there were so many old-fashioned box hedges; so many paths overshadowed by venerable grape-arbors; and so many far-stretching rows of peach, plum, and pear trees. fruit, bushes, and vines there were of which the roll need not be called; and flowers grew everywhere. it was one of the fancies of the mistress of the house--and she inherited it from her mother--to have flowers in great abundance, so that wherever she might walk through the garden she would always find them. often when she found them massed too thickly she would go in among them and thin them out with apparent recklessness, pulling them up by the roots and throwing them on the path, where john gayther would come and find them and take them away. this heroic action on the part of the mistress of the house pleased john very much. he respected the fearless spirit which did not hesitate to make sacrifices for the greater good, no matter how many beautiful blossoms she scattered on the garden path. john gayther might have thinned out all this superfluous growth himself, but he knew the mistress liked to do it, and he left for her gloved hands many tangled jungles of luxuriant bloom. the garden was old, and rich, and aristocratic. it acted generously in the way of fruit, flowers, and vegetables, as if that were something it was expected to do, an action to which it was obliged by its nobility. it would be impossible for it to forget that it belonged to a fine old house and a fine old family. john gayther could not boast of lines of long descent, as could the garden and the family. he was comparatively a new-comer, and had not lived in that garden more than seven or eight years; but in that time he had so identified himself with the place, and all who dwelt upon it, that there were times when a stranger might have supposed him to be the common ancestor to the whole estate. john understood well the mysterious problems of the tillable earth, and he knew, as well as anybody could know, what answers to expect when he consulted the oracles of nature. he was an elderly man, and the gentle exercises of the garden were suited to the disposition of his mind and body. in days gone by he had been a sailor, a soldier, a miner, a ranchman, and a good many other things besides. in those earlier days, according to his own account, john had had many surprising adventures and experiences; but in these later times his memory was by far the most active and vigorous of all his moving forces. this memory was like a hazel wand in the hands of a man who is searching for hidden springs of water. whenever he wished it to turn and point in any particular place or direction, it so turned and pointed. this story is told by john gayther and is called what i found in the sea i what i found in the sea it was on a morning in june that john gayther was hoeing peas, drawing the fine earth up about their tender little stems as a mother would tuck the clothes about her little sleeping baby, when, happening to glance across several beds, and rows of box, he saw approaching the daughter of the house. probably she was looking for him, but he did not think she had yet seen him. he put down his hoe, feeling, as he did, that this june morning was getting very warm; and he gathered up an armful of pea-sticks which were lying near by. with these he made his way toward a little house almost in the middle of the garden, which was his fortress, his palace, his studio, or his workshop, as the case might be. it was a low building with a far-outreaching roof, and under the shade of this roof, outside of the little building, john liked to do his rainy-day and very-hot-weather work. from the cool interior came a smell of dried plants and herbs and bulbs and potted earth. when john reached this garden-house, the young lady was already there. she was not tall; her face was very white, but not pale; and her light hair fluffed itself all about her head, under her wide hat. she wore gold spectacles which greatly enhanced the effect of her large blue eyes. john thought she was the prettiest flower which had ever showed itself in that garden. "good morning, john," she said. "i came here to ask you about plants suitable for goldfishes in a vase. my fishes do not seem to be satisfied with the knowledge that the plants through which they swim were put there to purify the water; they are all the time trying to eat them. now it strikes me that there ought to be some plants which would be purifiers and yet good for the poor things to eat." john put down his bundle of pea-sticks by the side of a small stool. "won't you sit down, miss?" pointing to a garden-bench near by, "and i will see what i can do for you." then he seated himself upon the stool, took out his knife, and picked up a pea-stick. "the best thing for me to do," he said, "is to look over a book i have which will tell me just the kind of water plants which your goldfish ought to have. i will do that this evening, and then i will see to it that you shall have those plants, whatever they may be. i do not pretend to be much of a water gardener myself, but it's easy for me to find out what other people know." john now began to trim some of the lower twigs from a pea-stick. "talking about water gardens, miss," he said, "i wish you could have seen some of the beautiful ones that i have come across!--more beautiful and lovely than anything on the top of the earth; you may be sure of that. i was reminded of them the moment you spoke to me about your goldfish and their plants." "where were those gardens?" asked the young lady; "and what were they like?" "they were all on the bottom of the sea, in the tropics," said john gayther, "where the water is so clear that with a little help you can see everything just as if it were out in the open air--bushes and vines and hedges; all sorts of tender waving plants, all made of seaweed and coral, growing in the white sand; and instead of birds flying about among their branches there were little fishes of every color: canary-colored fishes, fishes like robin-redbreasts, and others which you might have thought were blue jays if they had been up in the air instead of down in the water." "where did you say all this is to be seen?" asked the daughter of the house, who loved all lovely things. "oh, in a good many places in warm climates," said john. "but, now i come to think of it, there was one place where i saw more beautiful sights, more grand and wonderful sights, under the water than i believe anybody ever saw before! would you like me to tell you about it?" "indeed--i--would!" said she, taking off her hat. john now began to sharpen the end of his pea-stick. "it was a good many years ago," said he, "more than twenty--and i was then a seafaring man. i was on board a brig, cruising in the west indies, and we were off porto rico, about twenty miles northward, i should say, when we ran into something in the night,--we never could find out what it was,--and we stove a big hole in that brig which soon began to let in a good deal more water than we could pump out. the captain he was a man that knew all about that part of the world, and he told us all that we must work as hard as we could at the pumps, and if we could keep her afloat until he could run her ashore on a little sandy island he knew of not far from st. thomas, we might be saved. there was a fresh breeze from the west, and he thought he could make the island before we sank. "i was mighty glad to hear him say this, for i had always been nervous when i was cruising off porto rico. do you know, miss, that those waters are the very deepest in the whole world?" "no," said she; "i never heard that." "well, they are," said john. "if you should take the very tallest mountain there is in any part of the earth and put it down north of porto rico, so that the bottom of it shall rest on the bottom of the sea, the top of that mountain would be sunk clean out of sight, so that ships could sail over it just as safely as they sail in any part of the ocean. "of course a man would drown just as easily in a couple of fathoms of water as in this deep place; but it is perfectly horrible to think of sinking down, down, down into the very deepest water-hole on the face of the whole earth." "didn't you have any boats?" asked the young lady. "we hadn't any," said john. "we had sold all of them about two months before to a british merchantman who had lost her boats in a cyclone. one of the things our captain wanted to get to st. thomas for was to buy some more boats. he heard he could get some cheap ones there. "well, we pumped and sailed as well as we could, but we hadn't got anywhere near that sandy island the captain was making for, when, one morning after breakfast, our brig, which was pretty low in the water by this time, gave a little hitch and a grind, and stuck fast on something; and if we hadn't been lively in taking in all sail there would have been trouble. but the weather was fine, and the sea was smooth, and when we had time to think about what had happened we were resting on the surface of the sea, just as quiet and tranquil as if we had been a toy ship in a shop-window. "what we had stuck on was a puzzle indeed! as i said before, our captain knew all about that part of the sea, and, although he knew we were in shallow soundings, he was certain that there wasn't any shoal or rock thereabout that we could get stuck on. "we sounded all around the brig, and found lots of water at the stern, but not so much forward. we were stuck fast on something, but nobody could imagine what it was. however, we were not sinking any deeper, and that was a comfort; and the captain he believed that if we had had boats we could row to st. thomas; but we didn't have any boats, so we had to make the best of it. he put up a flag of distress, and waited till some craft should come along and take us off. "the captain and the crew didn't seem to be much troubled about what had happened, for so long as the sea did not get up they could make themselves very comfortable as they were. but there were two men on board who didn't take things easy. they wanted to know what had happened, and they wanted to know what was likely to happen next. i was one of these men, and a stock-broker from new york was the other. he was an awful nervous, fidgety, meddling sort of a man, who was on this cruise for the benefit of his health, which must have been pretty well worn out with howling, and yelling, and trying to catch profits like a lively boy catches flies. he was always poking his nose into all sorts of things that didn't concern him, and spent about half of his time trying to talk the captain into selling his brig and putting the money into pacific lard--or it might have been mexican balloon stock, as well as i remember. this man was tingling all over with anxiety to find out what we had stuck on; but as he could not stick his nose into the water and find out, and as there was nobody to tell him, he had to keep on tingling. "i was just as wild to know what it was the brig was resting on as the stock-broker was; but i had the advantage of him, for i believed that i could find out, and, at any rate, i determined to try. did you ever hear of a water-glass, miss?" "no, i never did," said the daughter of the house, who was listening with great interest. "well, i will try to describe one to you," said john gayther. "you make a light box about twenty inches high and a foot square, and with both ends open. then you get a pane of glass and fasten it securely in one end of this box. then you've got your water-glass--a tall box with a glass bottom. "the way that you use it is this: you get in a boat, and put the box in the water, glass bottom down. then you lean over and put your head into the open end, and if you will lay something over the back of your head as a man does when he is taking photographs, so as to keep out the light from above, it will be all the better. then, miss, you'd be perfectly amazed at what you could see through that glass at the bottom of the box! even in northern regions, where the water is heavy and murky, you can see a good way down; but all about the tropics, where the water is often so thin and clear that you can see the bottom in some places with nothing but your naked eyes, it is perfectly amazing what you can see with a water-glass! it doesn't seem a bit as if you were looking down into the sea; it is just like gazing about in the upper air. if it isn't too deep, things on the bottom--fishes swimming about, everything--is just as plain and distinct as if there wasn't any water under you and you were just looking down from the top of a house. "well, i made up my mind that the only way for me to find out what it was that was under the brig was to make a water-glass and look down into the sea; and so i made one, taking care not to let the stock-broker know anything about it, for i didn't want any of his meddling in my business. i had to tell the captain, but he said he would keep his mouth shut, for he didn't like the stock-broker any more than i did. "well, miss, i made that water-glass. and when the stock-broker was taking a nap, for he was clean tired out poking about and asking questions and trying to find out what he might get out of the business if he helped to save the brig, the captain and i, with a few men, quietly let down into the water the aft hatch, one of those big doors they cover the hatchways with, and when that was resting on the water it made a very good raft for one man. and i got down on it, with my water-glass and an oar. "the first thing i did, of course, was to paddle around the brig to the place where she had been stove in. she wasn't leaking any more, because the water inside of her was just as high as the water outside; so, if we could do anything, this was the time to do it. i looked down into the water on our starboard bow, and i soon found the place where the brig had been stove in, probably by some water-logged piece of wreckage. i located the hole exactly, and i reported to the captain, who was leaning over the side. then i paddled around the brig to see if i could find out what we were resting on. "when i had sunk my water-glass well into the water, and had got my head into the top of it, i looked down on a scene which seemed like fairyland. the corals and water plants of different colors, and the white glistening sand, and the fishes, big and little, red, yellow, pink, and blue, swimming about among the branches just as if they had wings instead of fins, that i told you of just now, were all there; and the light down under the water seemed so clear and bright that i could see everything under me that was as big as a pea." "that must have been an entrancing vision!" said the daughter of the house. "indeed it was," replied john gayther. "but, would you believe me, miss? i didn't look at it for more than half a minute; for when i turned my water-glass so that i could look under the brig, i could not give a thought to anything else in the world except the astonishing objects our brig was resting on. "at first i could not believe my eyes. i paddled around and around, and i put down my water-glass, and i stared and i stared, until i felt as if my eyes were coming out of my head! at last i had to believe what i saw. there was no use trying to think that my eyes had made a mistake. it was all just as plain to me as you are now. "down in the water, resting on the bottom of this shallow part of the sea, were two great ships--ships of the olden time, with enormously high poops, which were the stern part of old-fashioned vessels, built 'way up high like a four-story house. these two antiquated vessels were lying side by side and close together, with their tall poops reaching far up toward the surface of the sea; and right on top of them, resting partly on one ship and partly on the other, was our brig, just as firmly fixed as if she had been on the stocks in a shipyard! "the whole thing was so wonderful that it nearly took away my breath. i got around to the stern of the brig, and then i stared down at the two vessels under her until i forgot there was anything else in this whole world than those two great old-fashioned ships and myself. the more i looked the more certain i became that no such vessels had floated on the top of the sea for at least two hundred years. from what i had read about old-time ships, and from the pictures i had seen of them, i made up my mind that one of those vessels was an old spanish galleon; and the other one looked to me very much as if it were an english-built ship." "and how did they ever happen to be wrecked there, side by side?" almost gasped the young lady. "oh, they had been fighting," said john. "there could be no mistake about that. they had been fighting each other to the death, and they had gone down together, side by side. and there was our brig, two hundred years afterwards, resting quietly on top of both of them. "i was still wrapped up, body and soul, in this wonderful discovery, when i heard a hail from the stern of the brig, and there was that stock-broker, shouting to me to know what i was looking at. of course that put an end to my observations, and i paddled to the side and got on board. "'lend me that box,' said the stock-broker, 'and let me get down on your raft. what is it you've been looking at, and what did you see in that box?' "but he had got hold of the wrong man. 'no, sir,' said i. 'find a box for yourself, if you want one.' and i held mine so that he could not see that the bottom of it was glass. then the captain came along and told him not to try to get down on that hatch, for if he did he would topple into the water and get himself drowned, which would have been certain to happen, for he could not swim. then the hatch was hauled on deck, and i went below with the captain to his cabin to tell him what i had seen. the stock-broker tried awfully hard to come with us, but we wouldn't let him. "when the captain had heard all i had to tell him, he wasn't struck sentimentally the least bit, as i had been. it did not make any more difference to him whether those two ships had been down there two hundred years or two years; but there was another part to the affair that was very interesting to him. "'gayther,' said he, 'it's ten to one that them ships has got treasure aboard, and what we've got to do is to form a company and go to work and get it.' "'and how would you do that?' said i. "the captain was from provincetown, cape cod, and it didn't take him two seconds to work out his whole plan. "'it's this way,' said he. 'the first thing to do is to form a company. i am president and you can be the other officers. when that is all fixed we can go to work, and we'll mend that hole in our bow. now if you know just where it is, we'll work day and night in that hold, water or no water, and we'll stop it up. then we'll pump the brig out, and i believe she'll float. then we'll mark this place with a buoy, and we'll sail away as fast as we can, with our company all formed and everything fixed and settled. then we'll come back with the vessels and machines, and we'll get out that treasure. we'll divide it into three parts. one part will be mine; one part will be yours; and the other part will go to the crew.' "'and how about the stock-broker?' said i. 'going to let him in the company?' "'no, sir,' said the captain, bringing his fist down on the table. 'whatever else happens, he is to be kept out.' "this was a very fine plan, but it didn't altogether suit me. i didn't want to sail away from that spot and perhaps never see those two ships again. there was no knowing what more i might find out with my water-glass if that stock-broker could be kept from bothering me. "i told the captain this, and he looked hard at me and he said: 'it will take a couple of days to mend that leak and to pump out the brig. if this fine weather keeps on i think we can do it in that time. and if while we are working at it you choose to try to find out more about them two ships, you can do it.' "'and how can i do it?' said i. "'if you can go down in a diver's suit you can do it,' said he. 'i don't know whether you know anything about that business, but if you want to try, i have got a whole kit on board, air-pump, armor, and everything. it belongs to a diver that was out with me about a year ago in the gulf of mexico. he had to go north to attend to some business, and he told me he would let me know when he would come back and get his diving-kit. but he hasn't come back yet, and the whole business is stowed away here on board. do you know anything about going down in a diving-suit?' "now i had never done anything in the way of diving, but i had heard a good deal about it, and i had seen divers at work, and my whole soul was so jumping and shouting inside of me at the very idea of going down and searching into the secrets of those two old ships that i told the captain i was ready to undertake the diving business just the minute he could get things in shape. "well, miss, early the next morning--and i can tell you i didn't sleep much that night--everything was ready for me to go down, and two of the crew who had done that sort of thing before were detailed to attend to the air-pumps and all the other business. the stock-broker he was like a bee on a window-pane; he was buzzing, and kicking, and bumping his head trying to find out what we expected to do. but the captain wouldn't tell him anything; you may be sure i wouldn't; and nobody else knew. "as soon as we could get things straightened out i was lowered over the side of the brig, and sunk out of sight into the water. the captain and all the crew, except the men who were attending to me, then went to work to mend the hole in the side of the brig. and the last thing i heard as i went under the water was the stock-broker howling and yelling and rampaging around the deck. "as i told you before, miss, i had never been down in a diving-suit; but i paid the greatest attention to everything i knew, and i got down to the bottom all right, having a hard time to keep from being scratched to pieces by the barnacles on the sterns of the big ships. "i clumped about for a while on the sandy bottom so as to get familiar with the air-tubes, signal-cords, and all that, and then i signalled to be hauled up a bit; and, after a good deal of trouble, i got on board the vessel which i was sure was a spanish galleon. as i stood on her upper deck, looking around, i felt as if i was in a world of wonders. there was water everywhere, of course--in and around and about everything. but i could see so plainly that i forgot that i was not moving about in the open air. "i can't tell you, miss, everything i saw on that great ship, for it would take too long; but as soon as i could, i set to work to see if i could find the treasure that i hoped was on board of her. here and there about the decks i saw swords and pistols and old cannon, but not a sign of any of the brave fellows that had fought the ship, for the fish had eaten them up long ago, bones and all. "while hunting about, and being careful to keep my air-tube from fouling, i looked into a cabin with the door open; and you will believe me, miss, when i tell you that a cold chill ran down my back when i saw something moving inside, just as if it was a man getting up to see what i wanted. it turned out to be a big fish, about half my size, and he did not ask any questions, but just swam through the open door, almost brushing me, and went his way." "i wonder you weren't frightened to death!" said the daughter of the house. "it would be hard to kill me with fright," said john gayther, "and i'll prove that to you, miss. as i moved on, still looking for the treasure, i came to the door of another cabin, and this was shut and bolted on the outside. i had a hatchet with me, and with this i knocked back the bolts and forced open the door; and there i saw something to make anybody jump. sitting on a locker, right in front of the door, was the skeleton of a man. the room had been shut up so tight that no fish big enough to eat bones could get in; but the little things that live in the water and can get through any crack had eaten all of that man except his bones, his gold buttons, that were lying about on the floor, the golden embroidery of his uniform, that was still hanging about on his skeleton, and the iron fetters on his hands and feet. he was most likely a prisoner of rank who was being taken back to spain, and he had been shut up there through all the fight. "the first thought that came into my mind when i looked at him was that he might be columbus, and that the spaniards had made up the story about their really getting him back to spain at the time when he was to be brought home in irons. but thinking more about it, i knew that this could not be true, and so i shut the door so as to keep the poor fellow from any intrusions so long as he might happen to stay there. "then i went to work in real earnest to find the treasure, and i tell you, miss, i did find it." "what!" exclaimed the daughter of the house. "you really found the treasure on that spanish galleon?" "indeed i did," replied john gayther. "it was in boxes stowed away in a big room in the stern. i smashed the door, and there were the boxes. i went to work at one of them with my hatchet; and i had just forced up one corner of the lid, and had seen that it was filled with big gold pieces, when i felt a pull on my signal-rope, and knew that they wanted me to come up. so i put my fingers into the crack and got out a few of the coins. i could not take a whole box; it would have been too heavy. and then i went out of that room, and signalled that i was ready to go up. it was time, i can tell you, miss, for i was getting mighty nervous and excited, and i needed rest and something to eat. "when i was safe on the deck of the brig, i found everybody gathered there, waiting to hear what i had to tell. they had stopped work for dinner, and that is the reason i had been signalled. "but i didn't say anything to anybody. as soon as my helmet was unscrewed and i was out of my diving-suit i went below with the captain; and although the stock-broker followed us close and nearly pushed himself into the cabin, we shut the door on him and kept him out. then i told the captain everything, and i showed him the three gold coins, which i had kept all the time tightly clinched in my right hand. i can tell you the eyes of both of us were wide open when we looked at those coins. two of them were dated sixteen hundred and something, and one of them fifteen hundred. they were big fellows, worth about ten dollars apiece. the captain took them and locked them up. "'now,' said he, 'do you think you will be able to go down again to-day? if you want to see what's in the other ship you've got to be lively about it, for i think we can get the brig pumped out in twenty-four hours; and if a stiff breeze should spring up to-morrow afternoon--and i am inclined to think it will--we don't want to be caught here. if the other ship's a treasure-ship,' he went on to say, 'you know it would be a good deal better for our company; and so it might be well to find out.' "i didn't need any spurring to make me go down again, for i was all on fire to know what was on board the other ship, which i was sure was english, having had a good opportunity of looking at it while i was down there. "so as soon as i had taken a rest and had had my dinner, i went on deck to get ready for another diving expedition. there was the stock-broker, watching me like a snake watching a bird. he didn't stamp around and ask any more questions: he just kept his venomous eye on me as if he would like to kill me because i knew more than he did. but i didn't concern myself about him, and down i went, and this time i got myself aboard the english vessel just as soon as i could. "it wasn't as interesting as the old spanish vessel, but still i saw enough to fill up a book if i had time to tell it. there were more signs of fighting than there had been on the other ship. muskets and swords were scattered about everywhere, and, although she was plainly a merchant-vessel, she had a lot of the small cannon used in those days. "i looked about a great deal, and it struck me that she had been a merchantman trading with the west indies, but glad enough to fight a spanish treasure-ship if she happened to come across one. it was more than likely that her crew had been a regular set of half-buccaneers, willing to trade if there was trade, and fight if there was any fighting on hand. anyway, the two vessels had had a tough time of it, and each of them had met her match. i could see the grappling-irons which had fastened them together. they had blown so many holes in each other's sides that they had gone to the bottom as peaceably as a pair of twins holding each other by the hands. "i worked hard on that english ship, and i went everywhere where i dared to go, but i couldn't find any signs that she had carried treasure. i hadn't the least doubt that she was on an outward voyage, and that the spaniard was homeward bound. "at last i got down into the hold, and there i found a great number of big hogsheads, that were packed in so well under the deck that they had never moved in all these years. of course i wanted to know what was in them, for, although it would not be gold or silver, it might be something almost as precious if it happened to be spirits of the olden time. "after banging and working for some time i got out the bung of one of these hogsheads, and immediately air began to bubble up, and i could hear the water running in. it was plain the hogshead was empty, and i clapped the bung in again as quick as i could. i wasn't accustomed to sounding barrels or hogsheads under water, but as i knew this was an empty one i sounded it with my hatchet; and then i went around and got the same kind of a sound from each of the others that i hammered on. they were all empty, every blessed one of them. "now i was certain that this vessel had been outward bound; she had been taking out empty hogsheads, and had expected to carry them back full of west indian rum, which was a mighty profitable article of commerce in those days. but she had fallen into temptation, and had gone to the bottom; and here were her hogsheads just as tight and just as empty as on the day she set sail from england. "as i stood looking at the great wall of empty hogsheads in front of me, wondering if it would not be better to give up searching any more on this vessel, which evidently had not been laden with anything valuable, and go again on board the spanish ship and make some sort of a plan for fastening lines to those treasure-boxes so that they might be hauled up on board the brig, i began to feel a sort of trouble with my breath, as if i might suffocate if i did not get out soon. i knew, of course, that something was the matter with my air-supply, and i signalled for them to pump lively. but it was of no use; my supply of fresh air seemed to be cut off. i began to gasp. i was terribly frightened, you may be sure; for, with air gone and no answer to my signals, i must perish. i jerked savagely at my signal-cord to let them know that i wanted to be pulled up,--it was possible that i might reach the surface before being suffocated,--but the cord offered no resistance; i pulled it toward me as i jerked. it had been cut or broken. "then i took hold of my air-tube and pulled it. it, too, was unattached at the other end; it had no connection with the air-pump. "breathing with great difficulty, and with my legs trembling under me, a thought flashed through my mind. as rapidly as possible i drew in the india-rubber air-tube. presently i had the loose end of it in my hand. then i caught hold of the bung of the hogshead which i had opened and which was just in front of me, and the instant i pulled it out i thrust in the end of the air-tube. to my great delight, it fitted tightly in the bung-hole. and now in an instant i felt as if i was sitting upon the pinnacles of paradise. air, fresh air, came to me through the tube! not in abundance, not freely, for there was some water in the tube and there was a good deal of gurgling. but it was air, fresh air; and every time an exhaled breath escaped through the valve in my helmet, a little air from the hogshead came in to take its place. "i stood for a while, weak with happiness. i did not know what had happened; i did not care. i could breathe; that was everything in the world to me. "by gradually raising the tube a few feet at a time i managed to empty the water it contained into the hogshead, and then i breathed more easily. as i did not wish to wait until the air in the hogshead had been exhausted, i went to work on the bung in the next one, and soon transferred the end of my tube to that, which would probably last me a good while, for it was almost entirely free from water. "now i began to cogitate and wonder. i pulled in the end of the signal-cord, and i found it had not been rubbed and torn by barnacles; the end of it had been clean cut with a knife. i remembered that this was the case with the air-tube; as i placed it into the bung-hole of the first hogshead i had noticed how smoothly it had been severed. "now i felt a tug at the rope by which i was raised and lowered. i didn't like this. if i should be pulled up i might be jerked away from my air-supply and suffocate before i got to the surface. so i took a turn of the rope around a stick of timber near by, and they might pull as much as they chose without disturbing me. there i stood, and thought, and wondered. but, above everything, i could not help feeling all the time how good that air was! it seemed to go through every part of me. it was better than wine; it was better than anything i had ever breathed or tasted. a little while ago i was on the point of perishing. now before me there were tiers of hogsheads full of air! if it had not been that i would be obliged to eat, i might have stayed down there as long as i pleased. "i had stayed a long time, and i was at work on the air in a third hogshead--not having half used up the contents of the other two--before i really made up my mind as to what had happened. i was sure that there had been foul play, and i felt quite as sure that the stock-broker was at the bottom of it. except that man, there was no one on board the brig who would wish to do me a harm. the stock-broker he hated me; i had seen that in his face as plainly as if it had been painted on a sign-board. i knew something which he did not know; i was trying to get something which was to be kept a secret from him. if i could be put out of the way he probably thought he might have some sort of a chance. i could not fathom the man's mind, but that's the way it looked to me. "i had been down there a long time, and it must have been getting toward the end of the afternoon; so i prepared to leave my watery retirement. i had made a plan, and it worked very well. i placed the end of my air-tube far into the bung-hole of the hogshead, so that i might not accidentally pull it out; i loosened myself from the bit of timber; and then i made my way to the bow of the vessel on which i was. looking upward, i found that our brig, which was resting on the tall poops of the two sunken vessels, was so suspended above me that her fore chains, which ran under her bowsprit, were almost over my head. "now i stood and took some long, deep breaths; then, having made everything ready, i jerked myself out of that diving-suit in a very few seconds, and, standing free, i gave a great leap upward, and went straight to the surface. i am a good swimmer, and with a few strokes i caught the chains. stealthily i clambered up, making not the least noise, and peeped over the rail. there was nobody forward. the whole ship's company seemed to be crowded aft, where there was a great stir and confusion. i slipped quietly over the rail and, without being seen by anybody, made my way into the forecastle. i hurried to my sea-chest. i took off my wet things and dressed myself in an almost new suit of shore clothes which i had never worn on the brig. i did not lose any more time than i could help, but i took unusual care in dressing myself. i put on a new pair of yellow shoes, and turned up the bottom of my trousers so as to show my red socks. i had a big felt hat which i had bought in mexico, with a little feather in it; and this i put on, pulling it rakishly over on one side. i put around my neck a long blue silk cravat with white spots, which i tied in the biggest bow i could make. then, feeling that i ought to have something in my hands, i picked up a capstan-bar, and laying it across my arm after the manner of a cutlass, i went boldly on deck. "making as much noise as possible, and advancing with what you might call a majestic tread, i strode to the stern of that brig. at first my approach was not noticed, for there was still a great hubbub, and everybody seemed to be shouting or swearing or shaking his fist. the stock-broker stood on one side, and his tongue was going as fast as anybody's; but i noticed that his hands were tied behind him, and there was a rope around his neck. "the captain was the first to see me. he gave me just one look; he turned pale; and then, with a sort of a scared grunt, down he went on his knees. "when the rest of the men laid eyes on me, you never saw such a scared lot in your life. their mouths and their eyes went open, and their swarthy faces were as white as you could wash a dirty sail. some of them shook so that their caps fell off, and one or two began to pray. "as to the stock-broker, he at first seemed greatly startled; but he recovered himself in a moment. there was nothing superstitious about him, and he knew well enough that i was no spirit risen from the deep, but a living man. "'ha, ha!' he shouted. 'here you are, after trying to rob and cheat us, and making believe to be dead, you water thief!--hiding safe and sound on deck while such a row is being raised here about your death, and all sorts of threats being made against me on account of it. look at him, my brave men!' said he, turning to the crew; 'look at the fellow who has been trying to rob us! and he is the man you ought to hang to the yard-arm!' "then he turned again to me. 'you are a fool of a thief, anyway. after you had gone down under this vessel i found your box with the glass in the bottom of it. i got down close to the water and i watched you. i saw you going about in that big sunken ship looking after treasure, and, no doubt, finding it; filling your pockets with gold and telling nobody. i didn't want to kill you when i cut your air-tube, as i have told these good sailors; but i wanted to make you stop stealing and come up, and i did it. the treasure under this vessel belongs to us all, and you have no right to make a secret business out of it, and keep it for yourself and the captain. now, my good men,' he shouted to the crew, 'there is the fellow you ought to hang! look at him, dressed up in fine clothes, while you thought he was soaked and dead at the bottom of the sea! hang him up, i say! then we'll get the treasure, and we'll divide it among us fair and even.' "this was a dangerous moment for me. the men had recovered from their fright. they saw i was no spirit, and they believed that i had been trying to deceive and defraud them. a good many of them drew their knives and came toward me, the stock-broker urging them on. the captain tried to restrain the men who were near him, but they pushed him aside. "i now stepped forward; i pulled my great hat still further over my face; i glared at the men before me; and i brought my capstan-bar with a tremendous thump upon the deck. "'sirrah, varlets!' i roared. 'what mean ye? stop where ye are, and if one man of ye comes nearer i'll cleave him to the chine! caitiffs! varlets! hounds! dare ye threaten me? ods-bodikins, i like it well! by our lady, ye are a merry set of mariners who draw your blades upon a man who is come upon this deck to tell ye how to fill your pockets with old gold! back there, every man of ye, and put up your knives, ere i split your heads and toss ye into the sea!' "as i spoke these words my voice and tones were so loud and terrible that i almost frightened myself. the crew fell back as i advanced a step or two, and every man of them sheathed his knife. even the stock-broker seemed to be overawed by my tremendous voice and my fierce appearance." "john gayther," said the daughter of the house, who had been listening very eagerly, "what made you talk like that, and strut about, and pound the deck? that's not like you. i would not have supposed that you ever could have acted so." "you will understand it all, miss," said the gardener, "when you remember that for nearly two hours i had been breathing the atmosphere of the sixteenth century. that atmosphere was the air which for two hundred years had been fastened up in those empty hogsheads. i had drawn it into my lungs; it had gone into my blood, my nerves, my brain. i was as a man who swash-buckles--a reckless mariner of the olden time. i longed to take my cutlass in my teeth and board a spaniard. as i looked upon the villainous stock-broker before me, i felt as if i could take him by the throat, plunge down with him to the deck of the spanish galleon, and shut him up fast and tight in the room with that manacled spaniard who could not have been columbus. i thrilled with a fierce longing for combat. it was the air of the sixteenth century which had permeated my every pore. "now i fixed upon the stock-broker a terrible glare and stepped toward him. 'money miscreant!' i yelled, 'you it was who tried first to murder me, and then to turn the hearts of all these good men against me!' i raised my capstan-bar in the air. 'aroint thee, fiend!' i yelled. 'get thee below; and if anon i see thee i will break thy dastardly skull!' "at this the stock-broker, frightened nearly out of his wits, and with his hands still tied and the rope around his neck, made a dive for the companionway, and disappeared below. i stood up very bold; i threw out my chest, and gazed around in triumph. the air of the sixteenth century had saved me! those men would have no more dared to attack me, as i stood roaring out my defiance and my threat, than they would have ventured to give battle to the boldest and the blackest of all bloody buccaneers. "i now called the men around me, and i told them all my story. you may imagine that they opened their eyes and mouths so wide that i thought some of them would never get them shut again. but the captain--he was from provincetown, cape cod, and he went straight to business. "'we've mended the leak,' said he, 'and we'll pump all night, and it may be to-morrow we shall float free. then we'll form a company for the recovery of the treasure on that spanish galleon. i will take one third of it; mr. gayther shall have one third; and one third shall be divided among the crew. then we'll anchor a buoy near this spot and sail away, to come back again as soon as may be.' "everybody agreed to this, and we all went to supper. early the next morning a breeze blew very fresh from the southwest; then it increased to a gale; and before ten o'clock the waves began to run so high that one of them lifted the brig clean off the sunken ships on which she had been resting, and we were afloat. in ten seconds more we were lying broadside to the wind. then indeed we had to skip around lively, get up some sails, and put her properly on the wind. before we had time to draw an easy breath we were scudding along, far from the spot which we had intended to mark with an anchored buoy. there was a good deal of water in the hold, but the brig went merrily on as if glad to get away from those two old sea spectres of the past with which she had been keeping such close company. "of course it was impossible to beat up against such a wind, and so we kept on toward st. thomas. the captain had carefully taken the longitude and latitude of the spot where we had been stranded on the ancient ships, and he was sure he could find the place again by sounding in fair weather. "before we reached port, he came on deck with the three gold pieces which i had brought up from the spanish galleon. one of these he put into his own pocket; one he gave to me; and the other he gave to the crew to be changed into small coin and divided. the stock-broker got nothing, and i saw him no more on that voyage. i had sworn to break his head if my eyes ever fell upon him, and he was wise enough to keep out of my sight." "and that is all the money you ever got from the galleon?" asked the daughter of the house. "yes," said john gayther, "that was all. i have the ancient gold piece in my room now, and some day i will show it to you. "as soon as we could do it, we all went with the captain to new york, and there we organized our company, and sold a lot of stock, and chartered a good steamer with derricks and everything necessary for raising sunken treasure. but, although the weather was fair, and we sounded and sounded day after day at the very point of longitude and latitude where we had left the two great ships of the olden time, we never could find them. "one day, just before we had concluded to give up the search, we saw another vessel not far away, also sounding. this we afterwards heard belonged to the stock-broker. he had chartered a steamer, and he had on board of her a president, a secretary, a treasurer, a board of trustees, and four derricks. we steamed away and soon left him, and i am very sure that if his company had ever declared any dividends i should have heard of it." "and that is the end of your story, john gayther?" said the daughter of the house, as she rose from her seat. "yes, miss; that is the end of it," replied the gardener. the young lady said no more, but walked away in quiet reflection, while john gayther picked up the only pea-stick on which he had been at work that morning. this story is told by the daughter of the house and is called the bushwhacker nurse ii the bushwhacker nurse the daughter of the house, her fair cheeks a little flushed, walked rapidly down the broad centre path of the garden, looking for john gayther, the gardener. she soon saw him at work in a bed of tomato-plants. "john," said she, "i have just finished composing a story, and i came out to tell it to you before i write it. i want to do this because you compose stories yourself which in some ways are a good deal like this of mine. but i can't tell it to you out here in the sun. isn't there something you can do in your little house? haven't you some pea-sticks to sharpen?" "oh, yes, miss," said john gayther, with great alacrity; "and if you will go and make yourself comfortable under the shed i will be there in a few minutes." it was rather difficult for john gayther to find any pea-sticks which had not already been stuck into the ground or which wanted sharpening, but he succeeded in getting a small armful of them, and with these he came to where the young lady was seated. he drew up a stool and took out a big knife. "now," said she, gazing through her gold-rimmed spectacles far out into the sunlit garden, "this is the story of a girl." john gayther nodded approvingly. the story of a girl was exactly what he would like to hear, provided it was told by the young lady who sat in front of him. "she was of an independent turn of mind," said the daughter of the house, "and there were a great many things in this world which bored her, not because they were uninteresting in themselves, but because she could not enjoy them in the way which suited her. she had thought of hundreds of things she would like to do if she only could do them in her own way and without control by other people. she was very anxious to perform deeds, noble deeds if possible, but she could not endure the everlasting control which seems to be thought necessary in this world--at least, for girls. the consequence of this was that she spent a great deal of her time in doing things which made no imprint whatever upon the progress of the world or upon the elevation of her own character. "now it happened that at the time of my story there was a war in the land, and a great many people with whom my heroine was acquainted went forth to do battle for their country and their principles, or to act patriotically in some other way than fighting. i forgot to say that my heroine is named almia--" "de ponsett, i suppose," interrupted john gayther. "almia de ponsett is the name of a beautiful new white tea-rose." "not at all," said the young lady, drawing her eyebrows slightly together; "there is no 'de ponsett' about it, and her name has nothing to do with tea-roses. it is simply almia. she grew more and more dissatisfied every day the war went on. everybody who was worth anything was doing something, and here she was doing nothing. what was there she could do? this became the great question of her life. if i were about to write out this story i would say something here about the workings of her mind; but that is not necessary now. but her mind worked a great deal, and the end of it was that she determined to be a nurse. nursing, indeed, is the only thing a young woman can do in a war. "but when she began to make inquiries about army nurses--what they ought to do, how they ought to do it, and all that--she ran up against that terrible bugbear of control. everywhere was control, control, control; and she really began to despair. there were examinations, and training, and applications to the surgeon-general, and to the assistant surgeon, and to special heads of departments and districts and states and counties, for all i know. there was positively no end to the things she would have to do to get a regular appointment to go forth and do her duty to her country. so she threw up the whole business of regular army nursing, and made up her mind to go out into the field of duty to which she had appointed herself, and do the things she ought to do in the way she thought they ought to be done. she likened herself to the knights of old who used to go forth to fight for their ladies and for the upholding of chivalry. she wanted to be a sort of a free-lance, but she did not want to hire herself to anybody. she did not fancy being anything like a guerilla, and then it suddenly struck her that if she did just as she wanted to do she would resemble a bushwhacker more than anything else. a bushwhacker is an honest man. when there is no war he whacks bushes, that is, he cuts them down; and when there is a war--" "he whacks the enemy," suggested john gayther. the daughter of the house smiled a little. "yes," she said; "he tries to do that. but he is entirely independent; he is under nobody; and that suited almia. a bushwhacker nurse was exactly what she wanted to be, and as soon as this was settled she made all her preparations to go to the war." "of course," said john gayther, "the young lady's parents--or perhaps she did not have any parents?" the daughter of the house frowned. "now, john," said she, "i don't want anything said about parents. there were no parents in this case, at least none to be considered. i don't say whether they were dead or not, but the story has nothing to do with them. parents would be very embarrassing, and i don't want to stop to bother with them." john gayther nodded his head as if he thought she was quite right, and she went on: "the first thing almia did was to fit herself out after the fashion she thought best adapted to a bushwhacker nurse. she wore heavy boots, and a bicycle-skirt which just came to the top of the boots; and in this skirt she put ever so many pockets. she wore a little cap with a strap to go under the chin; and from her belt on the left side she hung a very little cask, which she happened to have, something like those carried by the st. bernard dogs in switzerland when they go to look for lost travellers; and this she filled with brandy. in her pockets she put every kind of thing that wounded men might want: adhesive plaster, raw cotton, bandages, some pieces of heavy pasteboard to make splints, needles and fine silk for sewing up cuts, and a good many other things suitable for wounded people. and in the right-hand pocket of her skirt she carried a pistol with five barrels." "my conscience!" exclaimed john gayther, "that was dangerous. and then, you know, nurses hardly ever carry pistols." "but this was necessary," said she, "as you will see as the story goes on. then, when she put on a long waterproof cloak which covered everything, she was ready to go to the war." john gayther looked at the daughter of the house steadfastly and wondered if the almia of the story had cut off her beautiful hair. he was sure she had had an abundance of light silvery-golden hair which fluffed itself all about her head under her wide hat, and it would be a sort of shock to think of its being cut off. but he asked no questions; he did not want to interrupt too much. "almia knew by the papers," continued the daughter of the house, "that a great battle was expected to take place not far from a town at some distance from her home; and she went to this town by rail, carrying only a small hand-bag in addition to the things she wore under her waterproof. she took lodgings at a hotel, and, after an early breakfast the next morning, she hired a cab to take her out to the battle-field. the cabman drove her several miles into the country, but when he heard the booming of the preliminary cannon with which the battle was then opening, he refused to go any farther, and she was obliged to get out at the corner of a lane and the highroad. she paid the man his fare and gave him five dollars extra, and then she engaged him to call at that place for her at eight o'clock that evening. she was sure the battle would be over by that time, as it would be beginning to get dark. the cabman was sorry to leave her there to walk the rest of the way, but his horse was afraid of cannon, and he did not dare to go any farther. "almia took off her waterproof and left it in the cab, and the cabman was a good deal astonished when he saw her without it. he said he supposed she was a reporter and that the little cask was full of ink; he had driven lady reporters about before this. but almia told him she was a nurse, and that he must not fail to call for her at the time appointed. then he drove away; and she walked rapidly along the lane, which seemed to lead toward the battle-field. the lane soon began to curve, and she left it and walked across several fields. soon she came to some outposts, where the sentries wanted to know where she was going. of course the sentries behind an army are not as strict as those in front of it, and so when she informed them she was a nurse they told her how to get to the field-hospital, which was a mile or more away. "but almia did not intend to go to any hospital. she knew if she did she would immediately be put under orders; and now her blood was up, and she could stand no orders. she thought she perceived a faint smell of powder in the air. this made her feel wonderfully independent, and she strode onward with a light and fearless step. but when she came to a bosky copse which concealed her from the sentries, she turned away from the direction of the hospital, and pressed onward toward the point from which came the heaviest sound of cannon. "now you must understand, john gayther," remarked the daughter of the house, taking off her broad hat, that the breeze might more freely blow through the masses of her silvery-golden hair, "that when people who are really in earnest, especially people in fiction, go forth to find things they want, they generally find them. and if it is highly desirable that these things should be out of the common they are out of the common. a great deal of what happens in real life, and almost everything in literature, depends on this principle. you, of course, comprehend this, because you compose stories yourself." "oh, yes," said the gardener; "i comprehend it perfectly." "i say all this on account of what is about to happen in this story, and also because i don't want you to make any objection in your mind on account of its not being exactly according to present usages. almia was pushing steadily through the clump of bushes when she heard, not far away, the clash of arms. greatly excited, she silently moved on, and peeping out from behind some foliage, she saw in a small open space in the woods two men engaged in single combat. how her heart did beat! she was frightened nearly to death. but she did not think of flight; her eyes were glued upon the fascinating spectacle before her. often had she heard of two brave swordsmen fighting each other to the bitter end, and often had she dreamed of these noble contests; but her eyes were all unfamiliar with such inspiring sights. this truly was war. "the combatants were both moderately young men, athletic and active, one with brown hair and the other with black. they had thrown aside their coats and vests, and each wore a broad leathern belt. fiercely and swiftly their long swords clashed. sparks flew, and the ring of the steel sounded far into the woods; but there was none to hear save almia only, and her soul tingled with admiration and terror as the bright blades flashed against the background of semi-gloom which pervaded the woods. she scarcely breathed. her whole soul was in her eyes." "i have seen it there before," thought john gayther, but he said nothing. "now there was a tremendous onset from each swordsman, and the ground echoed beneath their rapid footfalls as they stamped around. then there was a lunge and a sharp nerve-tingling scrape as one blade ran along the other; and then, without a groan, down fell one of these brave warriors flat upon his back upon the grass, the wild flowers, and bits of bark. instantly the impulses of a woman flashed through every vein and nerve of that onlooking girl. scarcely had the tall form of the soldier touched the sod when she became a nurse. springing out from her leafy concealment, she knelt beside the vanquished form of the fallen man. the other soldier, who was about to rest himself by leaning on his sword, sprang back; it seemed as though there had suddenly appeared before him a being from another world." "where they wear bicycle-skirts," thought john gayther. "every trace of enthusiastic excitement had passed away from almia, who now had something in this world to do, and who set about doing it without loss of a second. the man was only wounded, for he opened his eyes and said so, and drawing up his shirt-sleeve he showed almia that the cut was in the lower part of his left arm. instantly despatching the other soldier to a neighboring spring for water, she cleansed the wound, and, finding it was not very deep, she drew the edges of the cut together and held them in place with strips of adhesive plaster. when this had been done she wrapped the arm in several folds of bandage, and the man having risen to a sitting posture, she gave him a small draught of brandy from her cask. "almia now explained how she happened to appear upon the scene, and, addressing the wounded man, she said she hoped she could soon find some way of conveying him to a hospital. 'hospital!' he cried, springing to his feet under the revivifying influence of the brandy. 'no hospital for me! i can walk as well as anybody. and now, sir,' he said, speaking to his former opponent, 'am i to consider myself vanquished, and am i to go with you as your prisoner?' the other regarded him without answering, and for the moment almia, too, was lost in reflection." at this point john gayther, who had been in wars, began to wonder, even if soldiers in these days should engage in single combat with long swords, how one of them could be wounded in the left arm; but he did not interrupt the story. "the first thing that shaped itself clearly in almia's mind was the fear of being left alone in these woods. now that she was so near the edge of the battle, there was no knowing what she might meet with next. the soldier who had conquered now spoke. 'yes, sir,' said he; 'you are my prisoner, and it is my duty to take you to my regiment and deliver you to my officers. i am sorry to do so, but such are the laws of war.' the other soldier bowed his head, simply remarking, 'proceed; i will follow you.'" "if i should take a prisoner," thought john gayther, "i should make him walk in front of me." "then almia stepped forward; she had made up her mind, and she was very resolute. 'gentlemen,' said she, 'this cannot be. we are nearing the contending forces; there may be stragglers; and i do not wish to be left alone. you are both my prisoners.' the two soldiers looked at her in utter amazement. 'yes,' said almia, firmly; 'i mean what i say. i am, it is true, a nurse; but i am a bushwhacker nurse, perfectly independent, and free to act according to the dictates of my judgment. you are my prisoners; and if one of you attempts to escape it will be the duty of the other to assist in arresting his enemy. do not smile; i am armed.' and with this she took from her pocket the pistol with the five barrels. the two soldiers stopped smiling. 'yes,' continued almia; 'i would not wish to do anything of the kind, but if either of you attempts to escape i will call upon him to halt, and if he does not do it i will fire upon his legs while the other soldier attacks him with his sword. you are enemies, and each one of you is bound by his soldiery oaths to prevent the escape of the other. i am absolutely impartial. if either of you should be wounded i would dress his wounds and nurse him carefully without asking to which side he belongs. but if either of you attempts to escape i will, as i said, fire at his legs without asking to which side he belongs.' "the soldier with the brown hair looked at the one with the black hair. 'if i should attempt to escape,' said he, 'would you assist this lady in restraining me?' 'i would,' answered the other. 'then i would do the same by you,' said the first speaker. 'miss, i am your prisoner.' 'and i also,' said the black-haired soldier." "well, well," said john gayther, who had not cut a pea-stick for the last fifteen minutes; "i suppose you could not tell by their uniforms which one of them belonged to your side--i mean the young lady could not tell?" "almia had no side," replied the daughter of the house, "and the soldiers wore no coats, for they had thrown them aside in the heat of the combat; and she purposely took no note whatever of their trousers. she was determined to be absolutely impartial. 'now, then,' said almia to her prisoners, 'i am going to get just as close to the battle as i can. i am delighted to have you with me, not only because you can remove wounded prisoners to shady places where i can nurse them, but because you will be a protection to me. should an unruly soldier appear from either army he will always be met by an enemy and by me.' "the three now pressed on, for there was no time to lose. the roar of the battle was increasing; reports of musketry as well as cannon rent the air, and the sharp whistling of rifle-balls could frequently be heard. reaching a wood road, they followed this for some distance, almia in advance, when suddenly they came upon a man sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree. he had a little blank-book in his hand, and apparently he was making calculations in it with a lead-pencil. at the sound of approaching footsteps he rose to his feet, still holding the open book in his hand. he was a moderately tall man, a little round-shouldered, and about fifty years old. he wore a soldier's hat and coat, but his clothes were so covered with dust it was impossible to perceive to which army he belonged. he had a bushy beard, and that was also very dusty. he wore spectacles, and had a very pleasant smile, and looked from one to the other of the new-comers with much interest. 'i hope,' said he, speaking to the soldiers, 'that this young woman is not your prisoner.' 'no, sir,' said almia, before the others had time to reply; 'they are my prisoners.' the dusty man looked at her in amazement. 'yes,' said the man with the black hair; 'she speaks the truth. we are her prisoners.' "rapidly almia explained the situation, and when she had finished, the stranger nodded his head three or four times, and put his blank-book in his pocket. 'well, well, well,' said he, 'this is what might be expected from the tendency of the times! there are sixteen thousand two hundred and forty more women than men in this state, and many of them are single and have to do something. but a bushwhacker nurse! truly i never thought of anything like that!' "'and you?' asked almia. 'i think it is right that you should give some account of yourself. i do not ask your name, nor do i wish to know which cause you have espoused. but as you appear to be a soldier i am curious to know how you happen to be sitting by the roadside making calculations.' 'i am a soldier,' answered the dusty man, 'but, under the circumstances,'--regarding very closely the trousers of almia's two companions,--'i am very glad you do not want to know to which side i belong. the facts of the case are these: i am an exceptional pedestrian. i am also a very earnest student of social aspects considered in their relation to topography. yesterday, when my army halted at noon, i set out to make some investigations in connection with my favorite research, and when i returned, much later than i expected, my army had gone on, and i have not yet been able to come up to it, although i have walked a great many miles.' "'i should say,' remarked the soldier with the black hair, 'that you are a deserter.' 'no,' replied the exceptional pedestrian, 'i did not desert my army; it deserted me. and now i wish to say that i have become very much interested in you all, and, if there is no objection, i should like to join your company for the present.' 'i have no objection myself,' said almia, 'but what do you say?' she asked, addressing the two soldiers. 'i am afraid, miss,' replied the man with the brown hair, who had recognized some peculiarities in the fashion of the stranger's dusty clothes, 'that if he attempted to leave us i would be obliged to shoot him as a deserter.' 'and i,' said the other, 'would be obliged to do the same thing, because he is my enemy.' 'under these circumstances,' said the exceptional pedestrian, 'i beg to insist that i be allowed to attach myself to your party.' "almia felt she had reason to be proud. here were three military men who were in her power, and who could not get away from her. they were like three mice tied together by the tails, each pulling in a different direction and all remaining in the place where they had been dropped. "the party now pushed forward toward the battle's edge. 'if glory is your object,' said the exceptional pedestrian to almia, 'it would have been better if you had joined a regular corps of nurses. then any meritorious action on your part would have been noted and reported to the authorities, and your good conduct would have been recognized. but now you can expect nothing of the kind.' 'i did not come for the sake of glory,' said almia, flushing slightly; 'i came to succor the suffering, and to do it without trammels.' "'trammels are often very desirable,' said he; 'they enable us to proceed to a greater distance along the path of duty than we would be apt to go if we could wander as we please from side to side.' "almia was about to reply somewhat sharply to this remark when, suddenly, they heard a sound which made their nerves tingle. it was the clang of sabres and the thunder of countless hoofs. they were in a mass of tangled underbrush, and they peeped out into a wide roadway and beheld the approach of a regiment of cavalry. on came this tidal wave of noble horsemen; it reached the spot where almia's burning eyes glowed through the crevices of the foliage. wildly galloping, cavalryman after cavalryman passed her by. the eyes of the horses flashed fire, and their nostrils were widely distended as if they smelt the battle from afar. their powerful necks were curved; their hoofs spurned the echoing earth; and their riders, with flashing blades waved high above their heads, shouted aloud their battle-cry, while their tall plumes floated madly in the surging air. and, above the thunder of the hoofs, and the clinking and the clanking of the bits and chains, and the creaking of their leathern saddles, rose high the clarion voice of their leader, urging them on to victory or to death. "almia had never been so excited in her life; she could scarcely breathe. this was the grandeur of glorious war! oh, how willingly would she have mounted a fleet steed and have followed those valiant horsemen as they thundered away into the distance!" john gayther had seen many a body of cavalry on the march, but he had never beheld anything like this. "after her excitement almia felt somewhat weak; she needed food; and when they had crossed the roadway they stopped to rest under the shade of a spreading oak. unfortunately the soldiers had brought no rations with them, and almia had only some albert biscuit, which she did not wish to eat because she had brought them to relieve the faintness of some wounded soldier. 'if you will permit us,' said the soldier with the black hair, 'we two will go out and forage. each of us will see to it that the other returns.' "while they were gone the exceptional pedestrian conversed with almia. 'during my investigations of the social aspects of this region,' he said, 'i put many miles between myself and the army to which i belong, but by closely adhering to certain geological and topographical principles i knew i should eventually find it. in fact, when you met with me i was making some final calculations which would not fail to show me where i should find my comrades. there is no better way to discover the position of an army than by observing the inclination of the geological strata. in this section, for instance, the general trend of the beds of limestone and quartz indicates the direction of the running streams, and these naturally flow into the valleys and plains, and the land, being well watered, is more fertile; consequently it was soonest cleared by the settlers, while the higher ground surrounding it is still encumbered by timber growth. an army naturally desires open ground for its operations, for large bodies of cavalry and artillery cannot deploy to advantage through wooded districts. therefore, if we follow this roadway, which, as you see, slightly descends to the northeast, we shall soon come within sight of the opposing forces.' "'but,' said almia, 'the roar of the battle comes over from that way, which must be the northwest.' "'that may be,' said the exceptional pedestrian, 'but the principle remains.' "the two soldiers now returned, bearing two large apple-pies resting upon two palm-leaf fans. 'these were all we could procure,' said the brown-haired soldier, 'and the woman would not sell her plates.' the pies were rapidly divided into quarters, and the hungry party began to eat. 'it is true,' said the exceptional pedestrian, 'that the character of the apple indicates the elevation above sea-level of the soil in which it grew. the people who grew these apples would have done much better if they had devoted themselves to the cultivation of the huckleberry. these they could have sold, and then have bought much better apples grown in the plains. i also notice that the flour of which this pastry is made was ground from the wheat of this region, which is always largely mixed with cockle. if the people would give up growing wheat for three or four years, cockle would probably disappear, and they would then have flour of a much higher grade.' almia and the two soldiers could not help smiling when they perceived that while the exceptional pedestrian was making these criticisms he ate three quarters of a pie, which was more than his share. "when the pies had been consumed the little party pressed forward, but not to the northeast, for the two soldiers insisted that the battle raged in the northwest, and they would not go in any other direction, although the exceptional pedestrian endeavored to overwhelm them with arguments to prove that he was right. the din of the battle, however, soon proved that he was wrong. penetrating an extensive thicket, they reached its outer edge, and there gazed upon a far-stretching battle-field. "now this would be the place," said the daughter of the house, "for a fine description, not only of the battle-field, but of the battle which was raging upon it; and, if i ever write this story, i shall tell how one army was posted on one side of a wide valley, while the other army was posted on the other, and how regiments and battalions and detachments from each side came down into the beautiful plain and fought and fired and struggled until the grass was stained with blood; and how the cannon roared from the hills and mowed down whole battalions of infantry below; how brave soldiers fell on every side, wounded and dead, while men with stretchers hurried to carry them away from beneath the hoofs of the charging cavalry. i would tell how the carnage increased every moment; how the yells of fury grew louder; and how the roar of the cannon became more and more terrible. "but all i can say now is that it was a spectacle to freeze the blood. poor almia could scarcely retain consciousness as she gazed upon the awful scenes of woe and suffering which spread out beneath her. and she could do nothing! her labors would be useful only in cases of isolated woundings. if she were to mingle in the fray she would perish in the general slaughter; and if she were to go and offer assistance in the hospitals she would find herself but as a drop in the bucket, her efforts unrecognized, even if she were not driven away as an interloper. besides, she did not know where the hospitals were. "as she gazed upon this scene of horror she perceived an officer, mounted upon a noble charger and followed by several horsemen, take a position upon a hillock not far from the spot where she and her companions were concealed. from this point of vantage the officer, who was evidently a general, could perceive the whole battle-field." "and get himself picked off by a sharp-shooter," thought john gayther, but he did not interrupt. "the brown-haired soldier trembled with emotion, and whispered to almia, 'that is my commander-in-chief.' even without this information almia would have known that the stalwart figure upon the pawing steed was an officer in high command; for, after speaking a few words to one of his companions, the latter galloped away into the valley toward the right, and very soon the battle raged more fiercely in that direction, and the booming of the cannon and the cracking of the rifles was more continuous. then another officer was sent galloping to the left, and in this direction, too, the battle grew fiercer and the carnage increased. courier after courier was sent away, here and there, until, at last, the commander remained with but one faithful adherent. since his arrival upon the hillock the horrors of the bloody contest had doubled, and almia could scarcely endure to look into the valley. "'is there no way,' she said in a gasping whisper, 'of stopping this? these two armies are like hordes of demons! humanity should not permit it!' "'humanity has nothing to do with it,' said the exceptional pedestrian. 'a declaration of war eliminates humanity as a social factor. such is the usage of nations.' "'i don't care for the usage of nations,' said almia. 'it is vile!' "now something very important happened in the battle-field. the commander-in-chief rose in his stirrups and peered afar. then, suddenly turning, he sent his only remaining follower with clattering hoofs to carry a message. 'he is making it worse!' declared almia. 'now more brave men will fall; more blood will flow.' "'of course,' said the exceptional pedestrian. 'he gives no thought to the falling of brave men or the flowing of blood. upon his commands depends the fate of the battle!' "'and without his commands?' asked almia, trembling in every fibre. "the exceptional pedestrian shrugged his shoulders and slightly smiled. 'without them,' he said, 'there would soon be an end to the battle. he is the soul, the directing spirit, of his army. unless he directs, the contest cannot be carried on.' "almia sprang to her feet, not caring whether she was seen or not. she looked over the battle-field, and her heart was sick within her. not only did she see the carnage which desecrated the beautiful plain, but she saw, far, far away, the mothers and sisters of those who were dead, dying, and wounded; she saw the whiteness of their faces when their feverish eyes should scan the list of dead and wounded; she saw them groan and fall senseless when they read the names of loved ones. she could bear no more. "suddenly she turned. 'gentlemen,' she said, 'follow me.' and without another word she stepped out into the open field and walked rapidly toward the commander-in-chief, whose eyes were fixed so steadfastly on the battle that he did not notice her approach. the three soldiers gazed at her in amazement, and then they followed her. they could not understand her mad action, but they could not desert her. "almia stopped at the horse's head. with her left hand she seized his bridle, and in a clear, loud voice she exclaimed, 'commander-in-chief, you are my prisoner!' there was no trembling, no nervousness now; body and soul, she was as hard as steel. the general looked down upon her in petrified bewilderment. he gazed at the three soldiers, and again looked down at her. 'girl!' he thundered, 'what do you mean? let go my horse!' as he said these words he gave his bridle a jerk; but the noble steed paid no attention to his master. he was not afraid of girls. in former days he had learned to like them; to him a girl meant sugar and savory clover-tops. he bent his head toward almia, and instantly her hand was in her pocket and she drew forth an albert biscuit. the horse, which had not tasted food since morning, eagerly took it from her hand, and crunched it in delight. "the commander-in-chief now became furious, and his hand sought the hilt of his sword. if almia had been a man he would have cut her down. 'girl!' he cried, 'what do you mean? are you insane? you men, remove her instantly.' "then almia spoke up bravely, never loosening her hold upon the bridle of the horse. 'i am not insane,' she said. 'i am a nurse, but not a common one; i am a bushwhacker nurse, and that means i am entirely independent. these men are under my control. they are from the opposing armies, and compel each other to obey my commands. i have determined to stop this blood and slaughter. if you do not quietly surrender to me i will fire at one of your legs, and call upon the soldier who is your enemy to attack you with his sword. his duty to his country will compel him to do so.' "the general, who was now so infuriated he could not speak, jerked savagely at the reins; but almia had just given the noble animal another biscuit, and his nose was seeking the pocket from which it came. the horse was conquered! "at this moment a rifle-ball shrieked wildly overhead. the enemy had perceived the little party upon the hillock. the three soldiers, who stood a little below, shouted to almia to come down or she would be killed. she instantly obeyed this warning, but she did not release her hold upon the general's bridle. she started down the hillock away from the battle, and the horse, who willingly subjected himself to her guidance, trotted beside her. the general did not attempt to restrain him, for he had been startled by the rifle-shots. "a little below the edge of the hill almia stopped, and, turning toward the commander-in-chief, she said, 'you might as well surrender. i do not wish to injure you, but if you compel me to do so, i must.' and with this she drew the pistol from her pocket. "'is that thing loaded?' exclaimed the general. "'it is,' answered almia, 'and with five balls.' "'please put it back in your pocket,' said the officer, who, for the first time during the terrible battle, showed signs of fear. 'a girl with a pistol,' said he, 'makes me shudder. why do you stand there?' he shouted to the three men. 'come here and take her away.' "but they did not obey, and the black-haired soldier stepped forward. 'you are my enemy, sir,' he said, 'and i am bound to assist in your capture if i can. there are two of your own men here, but only one of them is armed.' "as he spoke these words a great shell struck the top of the hillock and blew the earth and little stones in every direction. without a word the whole party retired rapidly to an open space behind a large overhanging rock. the general was very much disturbed. the enemy must be getting nearer. he almost forgot almia. "'look here,' he cried to the brown-haired soldier; 'creep back to the top of the hillock and tell me how the battle goes.' with furrowed brows he waited, while almia fed his horse. the brown-haired soldier came quickly back. 'tell me,' cried the general, without waiting for the other to speak, 'has my cavalry made its grand charge, and cut off the approach of the left wing of the enemy?' "'no, sir,' replied the soldier, touching his cap; 'it did not charge in time, and it is now all mixed up with the artillery, which is rapidly retiring.' "'what!' cried the general, 'retiring?' "'yes, sir,' said the soldier; 'i am sorry to say that our whole army is retreating, pell-mell, as fast as it can go. the enemy is in active pursuit, and its left wing is now advancing up this side of the valley. in less than twenty minutes the retreat of our cavalry and artillery will be cut off by the hills, and the infantry is already scattering itself far and wide.' "'i must go!' shouted the general, drawing his sword from its scabbard. 'i must rally my forces! i must--' "'no, general,' said the brown-haired soldier; 'that is impossible. if you were now to attempt to approach our army you would throw yourself into the ranks of the enemy.' "the commander-in-chief dropped the bridle from his listless hands, and bowed his head. 'lost!' he murmured. 'lost! and this was the decisive battle of the war! if i had been able to order my cavalry to charge, the enemy's left wing would have been cut from their main body. but for you,' he continued, fixing his eyes upon almia with a look of unutterable sadness, 'i should have done it. you have caused me to lose this battle.' "almia drew herself up, her heart swelling with emotion. this was the proudest moment of her life--prouder by far than she had ever expected any moment of her existence to be. 'yes,' she said; 'that is what i did. and if this was the decisive battle of the war, then will follow peace; blood will cease to flow, widows and orphans will cease to suffer, and men who have been fighting one another like tigers without really understanding why they sought one another's lives will again meet as friends.' "'there is a great deal of sense in what you say,' exclaimed the exceptional pedestrian. 'i admit i am a soldier, but i do not approve of war. the statistics of social aspects prove--' "he was interrupted by the brown-haired soldier, who remarked: 'it would be well for us to retire, for doubtless the enemy will soon occupy the ridge.' "the general took no notice; apparently he was lost in thought. "'excuse me, sir,' said the brown-haired man, 'but you must seek a place of safety.' "the general raised his head. 'is there a road to the west?' he asked. 'i must take a roundabout way, and join my army, and share its fortunes, whatever they may be.' "'yes, sir,' said the exceptional pedestrian; 'if you skirt these woods, and follow the upward trend of the limestone- and quartz-beds, and then keep along the crest of the mountain for about eight miles, you will come to the village of kirksville, where our retreating army will no doubt halt for the night.' "the general said no more. he turned his horse, whose bridle almia had now released, and, casting another look of sadness upon the erect form of the bushwhacker nurse, he sped away. "i will not say anything more of the general, except that after following for half an hour the directions given to him by the exceptional pedestrian, he rode at full speed into the ranks of the enemy, and was obliged to surrender. no evil happened to him, however, for the war was soon ended, and he was released. "'now,' said the exceptional pedestrian, who was in no way a traitor, but only a person accustomed to making mistakes, 'the day is drawing to a close, and we must hurry away.' "no one objected, and the three soldiers accompanied almia back over the way she had taken when she walked to the battle-field. a little after eight o'clock they arrived at the main road, and there almia found her cab waiting for her. "'i will probably not see you again,' said the exceptional pedestrian, shaking her very cordially by the hand; 'for as the war is now practically over, and my regiment probably scattered, i shall go west. there are many features of our social aspects out there which i wish to study. but before i leave you, miss, i wish to thank you for having made yourself so highly instrumental in bringing this terrible and inhuman war to a close.' "'good-by,' said almia. 'but i think it may be said that it was an albert biscuit which gave us peace. if that horse had not been used to being fed by girls, my efforts might have come to nothing.' "when the two younger soldiers bade good-by to almia they did not say much, but it seemed to her they felt a good deal. at any rate, she knew she felt a good deal. she had known them but a little while, but they had come into her life in such a strange way; for a time she had ruled their destinies, and they had been so good to her! they had stood by her, regardless of everything but her wishes; and then, they were both so handsome, such gallant soldiers. she took their hands, she gazed into their honest faces, a few words of farewell were spoken, and then they helped her into the cab, the door was shut, and she drove away. "as she turned and looked out of the little window in the back of the cab she saw one of them gazing after her; but the dusk of the evening had come on so rapidly she could not be certain which one of them it was. at a turn in the road she sank into her seat. she was tired; she was faint; and, instinctively thrusting her hand into her pocket, she found there one albert biscuit which had been left. she drew it out, but when she looked at it, it seemed to her as though it would be a sacrilege to eat it; its companions had done so much for humanity. but she did eat it, and felt stronger. "for the rest of the drive she sat and wondered and wondered which it was who had looked back, the brown-haired soldier or the black-haired one. then she tried to think which she would like it to be, but she could not make up her mind. "before parting with the soldiers almia had exchanged cards with them, and they had assured her they would let her know how fortune should treat them. day after day she watched and waited for the letter-carrier; but a fortnight passed, and he brought her nothing--at least, nothing she cared for. "at last a letter came. it was from one of the soldiers; she knew that by the address and its general appearance, but of course she did not know the handwriting. she held it in her hand and gazed upon it, and her heart beat fast as she asked herself the question, 'which one has written first?' "presently she opened it. it was from the brown-haired soldier. her face flushed and her heart said to her, 'this is right; this is what you hoped for.' then she read the letter, which was long. it told of many things; and, among others, it informed almia how grateful were the writer's wife and two little girls for the kindness she had shown the husband and father. she had dressed his wounds; she had saved him from being made a prisoner. for the rest of their lives they would never forget her. "the letter dropped from almia's hand; she had received a shock, and for a time she could not recover from it. she sat still, looking out into the nothingness of the distant sky. then her face flushed again, and her heart told her it had made a mistake. she was well pleased that this was the one who had written that he was married. "hour after hour and day after day almia became more and more convinced that she was right. it was the black-haired soldier on whom her thoughts were constantly fixed. and no wonder. in the first place, he was the better soldier of the two. she hated war; but, if men must fight, it is glorious to conquer, and she had seen his quick and practised blade lay low his enemy. the thought of his power made her heart swell. moreover, he had stood by her in the moment of greatest peril; he it was who had said to the commander-in-chief, armed and mounted though he was, that he would attack him if her commands were not obeyed. then, too, he was a little taller than the other, and handsomer; his chest was broad, he stood erect. "day after day she watched and waited, but no letter came. at last, however, there was a ring at the bell, and the black-haired soldier was announced. by a supreme effort almia controlled herself; she bade her heart be still, and she went down to meet him. she was dressed in white; there were flowers in her hair and in her belt. she could not help wondering what he would think of the difference between her and the girl he had known as a bushwhacker nurse. "when her eyes fell upon him and their hands met she was the one who had the right to be the more amazed. she had thought him handsome before; he was glorious now. arrayed in fashionable, well-fitting clothes, wearing only a mustache, and with his hair properly cut, he was a vision of manly beauty. instantly, without any volition on her part, her heart went out to him; she knew that it belonged to him. "for twenty minutes, perhaps a little longer, almia sat with the man she loved; and as she listened to him, saying but little herself, colder and colder grew the heart she had given him. soon she discovered that he looked upon her as a young lady in whom he took an interest on account of the adventures they had had together, but still as a chance acquaintance. he had come to see her because he had happened to be in the town in which she lived. when he went away she did not ask him to come again, and it was plain that he did not expect such an invitation. the few remarks he made about his future plans precluded the supposition that they might meet again. he was pleasant, he was polite, he was even kind; but when he departed he left her with a heart of stone. there was now nothing in the world for which she cared to live. she despised herself for such a feeling, but existence was a blank. she had loved; perhaps, unwittingly, she had shown her love; and now by day and by night she moaned and mourned that the bushwhacker nurse had ever met the two brave soldiers with their glittering swords--that she had not passed them by and gone out into the battle-field to be laid low by some chance bullet." for some little time the daughter of the house had been speaking in a voice which grew lower and lower, and now she stopped. there were tears in her eyes, brought there by the story she herself was telling. john gayther dropped his pea-stick and leaned forward. "now miss," said he, "i really think your story is not quite right. you must have forgotten something--a good many things. think it over, and i am sure you will agree with me that that is not the true ending." she looked at him in surprise. "what do you mean?" she asked. "i mean this," replied the gardener. "if you will put your mind to it, and seriously consider the whole situation, i believe you will see, just as well as i do, that it really turned out very differently from the way you have just told it. that black-haired soldier did not go away in twenty minutes. it must have been somebody else at some other time who went away so soon. it would have been simply impossible for him to have done it. the longer he sat and looked at miss almia, the more he gazed into her beautiful eyes, the more fervently he must have thought that if it depended upon him he would never leave her, never, never again. and she, as she gazed into his handsome features, thrilling with the emotion he could not hide, must have known what was passing in his heart. it did not even need the words he soon spoke to make her understand she was the one thing in the world he loved, and that, in spite of sickness and obstacles of all sorts, he had come that day to tell her so. and when they had sat together for hours, and at last he was obliged to go, and they stood together, his impassioned eyes looking down into her orbs of heavenly blue, you know what must have happened, miss, now, don't you, really? and isn't this the true, true end of the story?" the eyes of the daughter of the house were sparkling; a little flush had come upon her cheeks, and a smile upon her lips. "i do really believe that is the true ending, john," said she; "but how did you ever come to know so much about such things?" "i can't tell you that, miss," said the gardener; "but sometimes i notice things i cannot see, as when i look upon a flower bud not yet open and know exactly what is inside of it." with the smile still on her lips and the flush still on her cheeks, the daughter of the house walked away through the garden. she had determined to make her story end sadly, but john gayther had known her heart better than she knew it herself. this story is told by john gayther and is called the lady in the box iii the lady in the box john gayther was busy putting the finishing touches to a bed in which he intended to sow his latest planting of bush-beans, or string-beans, or snaps, as they are called in different parts of the country. these were very choice seeds which had been sent to him by a friend abroad, and, consequently, john wanted to get them into the ground as soon as possible. but when he saw entering the garden not only the daughter of the house but also her mother, the mistress of the house, a sudden conviction shot through him that there would be no beans planted that morning. the elder of these two ladies was not very elderly, and she was handsomer than her daughter. she was pleasant to look upon and pleasant to talk to, but she had a mind of her own; john gayther had found that out long before. she was very fond of flowers, and there were many beds of them which were planted and treated according to her directions and fancies. these beds did not, in fact, form part of the gardener's garden; they belonged to her, and nobody else had anything to say about them. many things grew there which were not often found in gardens: weeds, for instance, from foreign countries, and some from near-by regions, which the mistress of the house thought might be made to grow into comely blossoms if they were given the chance. here she picked and planted, and put in and pulled out, according to her own will; and her pulling out was often done after a fashion which would have discouraged any other gardener but john gayther, who had long since learned that the mistress of the house knew what she wanted, and that it would be entirely useless for him to trouble himself about her methods. the gardener was not altogether happy when he saw these two ladies coming toward him. he felt sure that they were coming for a story, for when the elder lady came to the garden it was not her habit to bring her daughter with her; and neither of them was likely, on ordinary occasions, to walk along in a straightforward way, loitering neither here nor there. their manner and their pace denoted a purpose. john gayther had never dug into a garden-bed as earnestly and anxiously as he now dug into his mind. these ladies were coming for a story. the younger one had doubtless told her mother that there had been stories told in the garden, and now another one was wanted, and it was more than likely that he was expected to tell it. but he did not feel at all easy about telling a story to the mistress of the house. he knew her so well, and the habits of her mind, that he was fully assured if his fancies should blossom too luxuriantly she would ruthlessly pull them up and throw them on the path. still he believed she would like fancies, and highly colored ones; but he must be very careful about them. they must be harmonious; they must not interfere with each other; they might be rare and wonderful, but he must not give them long latin names which meant nothing. one thing which troubled him was the difficulty of using the first person when telling a story to the mistress of the house. he could tell his stories best in that fashion, but he did not believe that this hearer would be satisfied with them; she would not be likely to give them enough belief to make them interesting. he had a story all ready to tell to the daughter of the house, for he had been sure she would want one some day soon, and this one, told in a manner which would please him, he thought would please her; but it was very different with her mother. he must be careful. when the two ladies came to the bed where the beans were to be planted, the gardener found that he had not mistaken their errand. "john," said the mistress of the house, "i hear you tell a very good story, and i want you to tell me one. let us find a shady place." there was a pretty summer-house on the upper terrace, a shady place where the air was cool and the view was fine; and there they went: but there was no need of john gayther's making any pretence of trimming up pea-sticks this time. "i have a story," said he, his stool at a respectful distance from the two ladies, who were seated on a bench outside the little house. "is it about yourself?" asked the daughter of the house. "no, miss, not this time," he answered. "i am sorry for that," she said, "for i like to think of people doing the things they tell about. but i suppose we can't have that every time." "oh, no," said her mother; "and if john has an interesting story about anybody else, let him tell it." the gardener began promptly. "the name of this story is 'the lady in the box,'" said he, "and, with the exception of the lady, the principal personage in it was a young man who lived in florence toward the end of the last century." "and how did you come to know the story?" asked the daughter of the house. "has it ever been told before?" now there was need to assert himself, if john gayther did not wish to lose grace with his hearers, and he was equal to the occasion. "it has never been printed," said he, quietly but boldly. "it came to me in the most straightforward way, step by step." "very good," said the mistress of the house; "i like a story to come in that way." "the young man, whose name was jaqui," continued john gayther, "was of good parts, but not in very good circumstances. he was a student of medicine, and was the assistant of a doctor, which means that he did all the hard work, such as attending to the shop, mixing the drugs, and even going out to see very poor patients in bad weather. jaqui's employer--master, in fact--was dr. torquino, an elderly man of much reputation in his town. the doctor expected jaqui to be his successor, and as the years went on the younger man began to visit patients in good circumstances who fell sick in fine weather. at last dr. torquino made a bargain with jaqui by which the latter was to pay certain sums of money to the old man's heirs, and then the stock and good-will of the establishment were formally made over to him; and, shortly afterwards, the old doctor died. but before his death he told jaqui everything that it was necessary for him to know in regard to the property and the business to which he had succeeded. [illustration: the gardener began promptly.] "torquino's house was a very good one, consisting of three floors. on the ground floor were the shop, the private office, and the living-rooms. the old doctor and jaqui lodged on the third floor. the second floor was very handsomely furnished, but was not then occupied--at least, not in the ordinary way. it belonged to dr. paltravi, the old doctor's former partner; a somewhat younger man, and married. he had been greatly attached to his wife, and had furnished these rooms to suit her fancy. he was a scientific man, and much more devoted to making curious experiments than he was to the ordinary practice of medicine and surgery. in a small room on this floor, at the very back of the house, was donna paltravi, in a box." "was she dead?" exclaimed the daughter of the house. "it was believed by dr. torquino that she was not, but he could not be sure of it." "and her husband?" asked the elder lady. "was he dead?" "no," replied the gardener; "at least, there was no reason to suppose so. about forty years before the time of this story he had left florence, and this was the way of it: donna paltravi was a young and handsome woman, but her health was not as satisfactory as it might have been, for she had a tendency to fall into swoons, and to remain in them, sometimes for many hours, coming out of a trance as lively as before she went into it. now this disposition had a powerful effect upon her husband, and he studied her very closely, with an interest which almost devoured the other powers of his mind. he experimented upon her, and became so expert that he not only could bring her out of her trances whenever he chose, but he could keep her in them; and this he did, sometimes as long as a week, in order to prove to himself that he could do it." "shame upon him!" exclaimed the daughter of the house. "never mind," said her mother; "let john go on." "well," continued the gardener, "the old doctor told jaqui a great many things about paltravi and his wife, and how she came to be at that time in the box. paltravi had conceived a great scheme, one which he had believed might have immense influence on the happiness of the world. he determined that when his wife next went into a trance he would try to keep her so for fifty years, and then revive her, in the midst of her youth and beauty, to enjoy the world as she should find it." "there was nothing new about that," said the mistress of the house. "that is a very old story, and the thing has been written about again and again and again." "that is very true, madam," answered john gayther, "and dr. paltravi had heard many such stories, but most of them were founded upon traditions and myths and the vaguest kind of hearsay, and some were no more than the fancies of story-tellers. but the doctor wanted to work on solid and substantial ground, and he believed that his wife's exceptional opportunities should not be sacrificed." "sacrificed!" exclaimed the daughter of the house. "i like that!" "of course i will not attempt to explain the doctor's motives, or try to excuse him," said the gardener. "i can only tell what he did. he protracted one of his wife's trances, and when it had continued for a month he determined to keep it up for half a century, if it could be done; and he went earnestly to work for the purpose. the old doctor had not altogether approved of his partner's action, but i don't believe he disapproved very much, for he also possessed a good deal of the spirit of scientific investigation. when everything had been arranged, and the lady had been placed in a large and handsome box which had been designed with great care by her husband and constructed under his careful supervision, she was carried into the little room which had been her boudoir; and there her husband watched and guarded her for nearly a year. in all that time there was not the slightest change in her so far as mortal eye could see, but there came a change over her husband. he grew uneasy and restless, and could not sleep at night; and, at last, he told dr. torquino he would have to go away; he could not stay any longer and see his beautiful wife lying motionless before him. the desire to revive her had become so great he found it impossible to withstand it, and therefore, in the interest of science and for the advantage of the world, he must put it out of his power to interfere with the success of his own great experiment. "he wrote down on parchment everything that was necessary for the person to know who had charge of this great treasure, and he made dr. torquino swear to guard and to protect donna paltravi for forty-nine years, if he should live so long, and, if he did not, that he would deliver his charge into the hands of some worthy and reliable person. if, at the end of the lady's half-century of inanimation, paltravi should not make his appearance, on account of having died, (for nothing else would keep him away), then the person in charge of the lady was to animate her in the manner which was fully and minutely described on the parchment. paltravi then departed, and since that time nothing had been heard of him. "when jaqui came into possession of dr. torquino's house, he felt he owned the contents of only two floors, and that the second floor, especially the little room in the rear, was a great responsibility which he did not desire at all, and of which he would have rid himself if dr. torquino had not made him swear that he would guard it sacredly for the ten years which still remained of the intended period of inanimation. "he had seen the lady in the box, for the old doctor had taken him into her room, and they had removed the top of the box and had looked at her through the great plate of glass which covered her. she was very beautiful and richly dressed, and seemed as if she were merely asleep. but, in spite of her beauty and the interest which attached to her, he wished very much somebody else had her to take care of. such thoughts, however, were of no use; she went with the business and the property, and he had nothing to say about it. "jaqui did not have a very good time after the old doctor's death," continued john gayther. "it was not even as good as he had expected it to be. for nearly fifteen years he had been living in that house with dr. torquino, and in all that time the lady in the box had never troubled him; but now she did trouble him. various legal persons came to attend to the transfer of the property, and, although they found everything all straight and right so far as the old doctor's possessions were concerned, they were not so well satisfied in regard to the contents of the second floor, some of them thinking the government should have something to say in regard to the property of a man who had been away for forty years; but as paltravi had made torquino his heir when he left florence, and jaqui had the papers to show, this matter was settled. but, for all that, jaqui was troubled, and it was about the box of the lady. it was such a peculiar-looking box that several questions were asked as to its contents; and when jaqui boldly asserted that it contained anatomical preparations, he was asked why it happened to be in that handsome little room. but by the help of money and his generally good reputation jaqui got rid of the legal people. "but after this he had to face the neighbors. these heard of the box, and it revived memories, in the minds of some of the elders, of strange stories about dr. paltravi. his wife had died several times, according to some of them, and she had at last been carried to her native town in lombardy for burial. but nobody knew the name of that town, and there were one or two persons who said she never had been buried, but that her husband had preserved her skeleton, and had had it gilded, he was so very fond of her. jaqui had a good deal of trouble with these people, who had never dared to trouble old dr. torquino with their idle curiosity, for he was a man with a high temper and would stand no meddling. "but when the neighbors had ceased to talk, at least to him, there came a third class of troublers, worse than either of the others. these were some scientific people who long ago had heard of the experiment dr. paltravi had been making with his wife. several of these wrote to jaqui, and two of them came to see him. these insisted on looking at the lady in the box, and jaqui was obliged to show her. the two scientists were very much interested--extremely so; but they did not in the least believe the lady was alive. they considered the beautiful figure the most admirable specimen of the preservation of the human body after death that they had ever seen, and that paltravi was entitled to the greatest credit for the success of his experiment. they were anxious to be informed of the methods by which this wonderful result had been obtained. but this, jaqui firmly informed them, was now his secret and his property, and he would not divulge it. the scientists acknowledged the justice of this position, and did not urge their point; but each of them, when he went away, resolved that in the course of a few years he would come back, and if the body of the lady was still in good preservation, he would buy it if he could. jaqui might be poor by that time, or dead. "jaqui now thought his troubles were over; but he was mistaken. a new persecutor appeared, who belonged to a fourth class, fortunately not a very large one. this person was a young man who was not only a fool but a poet." "unfortunate creature!" exclaimed the mistress of the house. "i don't know, madam," said john gayther. "he was very happy. it was the people with whom he associated in this world who were unfortunate. this young man, whose name was florino, lived in milan, and it would have been much better for jaqui if he had lived in patagonia. by great bad luck he had overheard one of the scientists who had visited jaqui talking about what he had seen at his house, and the poet instantly became greatly interested in the story. he plied the learned man with all manner of questions, and very soon made up his mind that he would go to florence to see the lady in the box. he believed she would make a most admirable subject for a poem from his pen. "when florino presented himself to jaqui he came as the general of an army who settles down before a town to invest it and capture it, if he shall live long enough. at first jaqui tried to turn him away in the usual manner; but the poet was not to be turned away. he had no feelings which could be hurt, and jaqui was afraid to hurt his body on account of the police. the young man begged, he argued, he insisted, he persisted. all he wanted was to see, just once, the face of the beautiful lady who had been so wonderfully preserved. he visited the unfortunate jaqui by day and by night; and at last, when florino solemnly promised that if he should be given one opportunity of seeing the lady he would go away and never trouble dr. jaqui any more, the latter concluded that to agree to this proposition would be the best way to get rid of the youth, and so consented to allow him to gaze upon the face which forty years before had been animated by the soul of donna paltravi. "when the upper part of the lid of the box had been removed and the face of the lady appeared under the plate of glass, the soul of the young poet who tremblingly bent over it was filled with rapturous delight. never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful, and, more than this, he declared he had never dreamed of features so lovely. for a time it interested jaqui to listen to the rhapsodies and observe the exaltation of the fool-poet, but he soon had enough of this amorous insanity, and prepared to close the box. then florino burst into wild entreaties--only ten minutes more, five minutes, three minutes, anything! so it went on until the poet had been feasting his eyes on the lady for nearly half an hour. then jaqui forcibly put him out of the room, closed the box, and locked the door. "florino had no more idea of keeping his word than he had of becoming a blacksmith. he persecuted jaqui more than he had before, and when his solicitations to see the lady again were refused he went so far as to attempt to climb up to her window. of course jaqui could have called in the aid of the police, but it would have made it very unpleasant for him to bring the whole affair into court, and florino knew this as well as he did. after a short time the poet tried a new line of tactics, and endeavored to persuade jaqui that it was his duty to revive the lady; when this idea once got well into the head of the young man he became a worse lunatic than before. jaqui attempted to reason with him; but florino would listen to nothing he had to say, and went on being a fool, and a poet, and a lover, at the same time; and jaqui began to be afraid that some day he would get into the room by foul means, break open the box, seize upon the sealed parchment which lay under the lid, and try to revive the lady himself. "it is quite possible this might have happened had not something very unexpected occurred. dr. paltravi came back to his old home. jaqui recognized him immediately from the description which torquino had given of him. he was now nearly seventy years old, but he was in good health and vigor; his tall form was still upright, and the dark eyes, which the old doctor had particularly described, were as bright and as piercing as ever they had been. "he told jaqui he had hoped to postpone the revival of his wife until the expiration of the fifty years, but that of late his resolution had been weakening. it had become very hard for him to think he must wait ten years more before he came back to his home and his wife. science was a great thing, but the love of a man for a woman such as he loved was still greater; and when he heard of the death of dr. torquino he had instantly made up his mind he would not leave his wife in the custody of any one but his old friend and partner. so here he was, fully resolved to lose no time in reviving his wife and in spending his life here with her in their old home so long as they might survive. "jaqui was now a happy man. here was the owner of the lady, ready to take her off his hands and relieve him of all the perplexing responsibility and misery which her possession had caused him. as he looked at the stalwart figure of the returned husband it made him laugh to think of the fool-poet. "dr. paltravi and jaqui were both practical men, and that evening they laid out the whole plan for the revivification of the lady in the box. jaqui was so glad to be rid of her that he willingly undertook to do anything to assist paltravi in starting out on his new career of domestic happiness. "it was agreed that it was most important that when she woke again to life donna paltravi should not be too much surprised, and her husband did everything he could to prevent anything of the kind. he had her old bedroom swept and garnished and made to look as much as possible as it had been when she last saw it. then he went out into the town, and was fortunate enough to engage as maid a young girl who was the daughter of the woman who had been his wife's maid forty years before. then it was decided that this girl, having been well instructed as to what was expected of her, should be the first to see the lady when she should revive; and that after that, when it should be deemed a suitable moment, jaqui should have an interview with her in the capacity of physician, and explain the state of affairs so that she should not be too greatly excited and shocked by the change in the appearance of her husband. then, when everything had been made plain, paltravi was to go to her." "those two were a couple of brave men," remarked the mistress of the house. "they were very fortunate men, i think," said her daughter. "what would i not give to be the first to talk to a woman who had slept for forty years!" "perhaps she is going to sleep indefinitely," answered the mistress of the house. "but we will let john go on with his story." "all these plans were carried out," continued john gayther. "the next day the lady was taken out of the box, removed to her own chamber, and placed upon a couch. the garments she wore were just as fresh and well preserved as she was, and as dr. paltravi stood and looked at her, his heart swelling with emotion, he could see no reason why she should not imagine she had fallen asleep forty minutes before instead of forty years. the two doctors went to work, speaking seldom and in whispers, their faces pale and their hearts scarcely beating, so intense was their anxiety regarding the result of this great experiment. jaqui was almost as much affected as dr. paltravi, and, in fact, his fears were greater, for he was not supported by the faith of the other. he could not help thinking of what would follow if everything did not turn out all right. "but there was no need of anxiety. in a little while respiration was established; the heart began to beat gently; the blood slowly circulated; there was a little quiver about the lips--donna paltravi was alive! her husband, on his knees beside her, lifted his eyes to heaven, and then, his head falling forward, he sank upon the floor." "oh," ejaculated the daughter of the house, "i hope he did not die. that would have been good tragedy, but how dreadful!" "no," answered the gardener, "he did not die; and jaqui, his excitement giving him the strength of a giant, took the insensible man in his arms and carried him out of the room." the mistress of the house gave a little sigh of relief. "i am so glad he did," said she; "i was actually beginning to be afraid. i really do not want to be present when she first sees him." john gayther perfectly understood this remark, and took it to heart. it implied a little lack of faith in his dramatic powers, but it made things a great deal easier for him. "without reëntering the room," continued he, "jaqui partly closed the door, and gazed at the lady through a little crack." "i do not know about that," said the mistress of the house; "he should have gone in boldly." "excuse me," said john gayther, "but i think not. this was a very important moment. nobody knew what would happen. she must not be shocked by seeing a stranger. at the same time, the eye of a professional man was absolutely necessary. donna paltravi slightly moved and sighed; then she opened her eyes and gazed for a few minutes at the ceiling; after which she turned her head upon the cushion of the couch, and in a clear, soft voice called out, 'rita!' this was the name of the girl now in waiting, as it had been the name of her mother, and she instantly appeared from the adjoining room. she had seen all that had happened, and was trembling so much she could scarcely stand; but she was a girl of nerve, and approached and stood by her mistress. 'rita,' said the lady, without looking at her, 'i am hungry; bring me some wine and a few of those cakes you bought yesterday.' "dr. paltravi had remembered everything that had pleased his wife; he had thought of the little cakes, and had scoured the town early in the morning to get some which resembled them; he knew her favorite wine, and had given rita her instructions. without delay the maid brought the refreshments, and in a few minutes the lady was sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand. 'rita,' said she, after eating and drinking a little, 'you are dressed very awkwardly this morning. have you been trying to make your own clothes?' "the doctor had searched diligently in his wife's closets for some garments belonging to her former maid, and he had thought he had succeeded in getting rita to dress as her mother had dressed; but he did not remember these things as accurately as his wife remembered them. 'you know i do not like carelessness in dress,' continued donna paltravi, 'and now that i look at you more closely--' "'she is truly alive,' said jaqui, 'and in full possession of her senses.' and with this he closed the door. "when the doctor recovered, both he and jaqui were very glad to take some wine, for they had been under a dreadful strain." "_had been!_" exclaimed the mistress of the house, who understood the heart of woman, and knew very well that the great strain had not yet come. "but what happened next, john?" "the next thing happened too soon," replied the gardener. "in less than fifteen minutes the maid came to the two doctors and told them her lady demanded to see her husband; and if he were not in the house he must be sent for immediately. this greatly disturbed jaqui, and he turned pale again. if he could have had his own way at that moment he would have put the lady back in her box and locked the door of the little room. he did not feel ready to tell the story he had to tell; but there was no help for it: he must do it, and that immediately. 'go in, jaqui,' said dr. paltravi; 'prepare her mind as well as you can, and then i will see her.' "'hurry, please, sir,' said the maid; 'she is very impatient, and i cannot explain to her.' "thus reassured, jaqui followed the maid." "the quick temper of donna paltravi reminds me of edmond about's story of 'the man with the broken ear,'" said the mistress of the house. "the hero of that story was a soldier who had been preserved in a dried condition for many years, and who proved to be a very bad subject when he had been dampened and revived." "i have read that novel," said john gayther, considerably to the surprise of both his hearers, "and it belongs to the same class as mine,--of course you know all stories are arranged in classes,--but the one i am telling you is much more natural and true to life than the one written by the frenchman." "i am quite ready to believe that," said the mistress of the house. "now please go on." the daughter of the house did not say anything, but she looked very earnestly at the gardener; the conviction was forcing itself upon her that john gayther himself had a story, and she hoped that some day she might hear it. "jaqui was very much surprised when he saw donna paltravi. he had seen her face so often that he was perfectly familiar with it, but now he found it had changed. in color it was not as lifelike as it had been in the box. she was pale, and somewhat excited. 'my maid tells me you are a doctor, sir,' said she. 'but why do you come to me? if i need a doctor, and my husband is away, why is not dr. torquino here?' "'madam,' said jaqui, his voice faltering a little, 'you will excuse the intrusion of a stranger when i tell you that dr. torquino is dead.'" "rather abrupt," said the mistress of the house. "he could not help it, madam," said john gayther; "it popped out of his head. but it did not matter; donna paltravi had a quick perception. 'oh,' she exclaimed, 'and i not know it!' then she stopped and looked steadfastly at jaqui. 'i see,' she said slowly; 'i have been in one of my trances.' then she grew still paler. 'but my husband, he is not dead? tell me he is not dead!' she cried. "'oh, no,' exclaimed jaqui; 'he is alive and well, and will be with you very soon.' donna paltravi's face lighted with an expression of great happiness; her color returned; and she looked almost as handsome as when she had been lying in the box. 'blessed be the holy mary!' said she. 'if he is well it does not matter what has happened. how long have i been in a trance?' "'i cannot say exactly,' replied jaqui, very much afraid to speak the truth; 'in fact, i was not here when you went into it: but--' "'oh, never mind, never mind!' she exclaimed. 'my husband will tell me everything. i would much rather he should do so. but what ugly-fashioned clothes you are wearing, sir! does everybody dress in that way now, or is it only doctors? i am sure i must have been asleep for a good while, and that i shall see some wonderful things. it is quite delightful to think of it. i can scarcely wait until my husband comes. i want him to tell me everything.' "when the greatly relieved jaqui returned with this news he threw dr. paltravi into a state of rapture. his wife knew what had happened; she had not been shocked; she understood; and, above everything else, she longed to see him! after all these forty years he was now--this minute--to be with her again! she was longing to see him! with all the vigor of youth he bounded up the stairs. "now," said john gayther, "we will pass over an interval of time." "i think that will be very well indeed!" the mistress of the house said approvingly. "not a long one, i hope," said her daughter, "for this is a breathless point in the story. i have worked it out in my own mind in three different ways already." the gardener smiled with pleasure. he had a high regard for the mind of the daughter of the house. "well," said he, "the interval is very short; it is really not more than twenty minutes. at the end of that brief space of time jaqui was surprised to see dr. paltravi reënter the room he had so recently left in all the wild excitement of an expectant lover. but what a changed man he was! pale, haggard, wild-eyed, aged, he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands." "i was afraid of that! i was afraid of that!" exclaimed the mistress of the house. "and i, too," said her daughter, with tears in her eyes; "that was one of the ways in which i worked it out. but it is too dreadful. john gayther, don't you think you have made a mistake? if you were to consider it all carefully don't you really believe it could not be that, at least not quite that?" "i am sorry," said the gardener, "but i am sure this story could not have happened in any other way, and i think if you will wait until it is finished you will agree with me. "for a few minutes the distressed husband could not speak, and then in faltering tones he told jaqui what had happened. his wife had been so shocked and horrified at his appearance that she had come near fainting. what made it worse was that it was evident she did not regard him as some strange old man. she had recognized him instantly. his form, his features, his carriage were perfectly familiar to her. she had known them all in her young dark-haired husband of forty years before; and here was that same husband gray-headed, gray-bearded, and repulsively old! she had turned away her head; she would not look at him. as soon as she could speak she had demanded to know how long she had been in her trance, and when the matter was explained her anger was unbounded. "dr. paltravi never told jaqui all that she said, but she must have used very severe language. she declared he had used her shamefully and wickedly in keeping her asleep for so long, and then wakening her to be the wife of a miserable old man just ready to totter into the grave. but she would not be his wife. she vowed she would have nothing to do with him. he had deserted her; he had treated her cruelly; and the holy father, the pope, would look upon it in that light, and would separate her from him. with bitter reproaches she had told him to go away, and never to let her see him again." "she ought to have been ashamed of herself," said the daughter of the house. "i have no sympathy with her. instead of upbraiding him she ought to have been grateful to him for the wonderful opportunities he had given her." "but, john," said the mistress of the house, "i do not believe the pope could have separated them. the roman catholic church does not sanction divorce." "not as a rule, madam," replied the gardener; "but i will touch on this point again. there was a good deal to be said on her side, it is true; but i am not going to take sides with any of the persons in my story. she had driven away the poor doctor, and declared she would have nothing to do with him; and so the unhappy man told jaqui he was going back to milan, where he had been living, and would trouble his wife no more. then up jumped jaqui in a terrible state of mind. was he never to get rid of this lady? he declared to paltravi he could not accept the responsibility. when she had been in the box it had been bad enough, but now it was impossible. he would go away to some place unknown. he would depart utterly and leave everything behind him. "but on his knees dr. paltravi implored jaqui to stay where he was, and to protect his wife for a time at least. he would send money, he would do everything he could, and perhaps, after a time, some arrangement could be made; but now he must go. he had been ordered to leave, and he must do so. it had not been two days since paltravi and jaqui had met, but already it seemed to them that they were old friends. strange circumstances had bound them together, and jaqui now found he could not refuse the charge which was thrust upon him; and dr. paltravi departed. "donna paltravi did not allow her anger to deprive her of her opportunities. there were so many new things she wanted to see that she set about seeing them with great earnestness and industry, and she enjoyed her new world very much indeed. the news of her revivification spread abroad rapidly, for such a thing could not be concealed; and many people came to see her. she was beautiful and popular, and adopted new fashions as soon as she learned them. jaqui had nothing to say to all this; he had no right now to keep people from seeing her. "very soon there came to her the fool-poet. now jaqui began to hope. he had been assured by his priest that, under the circumstances, the church would dissolve this young lady's marriage with paltravi, and if florino would marry her jaqui might look forward to a peaceful life. now whether the priest had a right to say this i will not take it on myself to say; but he did say it: and so jaqui did not feel called upon to interfere with the courtship of the fool-poet. he decided that as soon as possible he would go away from that house. he had a dislike for houses with three floors, and his next habitation should be carefully selected; if so much as a preserved bug or a butterfly in a box should be found on the premises, that symbol of evil should be burned and its ashes scattered afar. "jaqui had every reason to hope. florino literally threw himself at the feet of the fair donna paltravi; and she was delighted with him. he was somewhat younger than she was, but that had been the case with her first lover, and she had not objected. the two young people got on famously together, although there was now a duenna as well as a maid on the second floor. jaqui was greatly comforted. he spent a good deal of his spare time going about florence looking for a desirable house with two floors. the courtship went on merrily, and there was talk of the wedding; and, while jaqui could not help pitying the poor old man in milan, he could not altogether blame the gay young woman in florence, who was now generally looked upon as a lady who had lost her husband. "it was nearly three weeks after the lady had come out of her box when a strange thing happened: four days elapsed without florino coming to the house! jaqui was greatly disturbed and nervous. suppose the young man had found some other lady to love, or suppose his parents had shut him up! such suspicions were very disquieting, and jaqui went to see florino. he found the fool-poet in a fit of the doleful dumps. at first the young man refused to talk: but, when jaqui pressed him, he admitted that he had not quarrelled with the lady; that she did not know why he was staying away; that he had received several notes from her, and that he had not answered them. then jaqui grew very angry and half drew his sword. this was a matter in which he was concerned. the lady's husband had placed her in his charge, and he would not stand tamely by and see her deserted by her lover, who had given everybody reason to believe that he intended to make her his own. "but jaqui put back his sword, for the fool-poet showed no signs of fight, and then he used argument. just as earnestly as he had formerly tried to keep these two apart did he now endeavor to bring them together. but florino would listen to no reason, and at last, when driven to bay, he declared he would not marry an old woman--that donna paltravi had dozens of gray hairs on each temple, and there were several wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. he was a young man, and wanted a young woman for his wife. "jaqui was utterly astounded by what he heard. his mind was suddenly permeated by a conviction which rendered him speechless. he rose, and without another word he hurried home. as soon as he could he made a visit to donna paltravi. he had not seen her for a week or more, and the moment his eyes fell upon her he saw that florino was right. she was growing old! he spent some time with her, but as she did not allude to any change in herself, of course he did not; but just as he was leaving he made a casual remark about florino. 'oh, he has not been here for some time,' said the lady. 'i missed him at first, but now i am glad he does not come. he is very frivolous, and i have a small opinion of his poetry. i think most of it is copied, and he shows poor judgment in his selections.' "that evening, sitting in his private room, jaqui thought he saw through everything. up-stairs on the second floor was a lady who was actually seventy-one years old! her natural development had been arrested by artificial influences, but as these influences had ceased to operate, there could be no reason to doubt that nature was resuming her authority over the lady, and that she was doing her best to make up for lost time. donna paltravi appeared now to be about forty-five years old." "this is getting to be very curious, john," said the mistress of the house. "i have often heard of bodies which, on being exhumed, after they have been buried a long time, presented a perfectly natural appearance, but which crumbled into dust when exposed to the air and the light. would not this lady's apparent youth have crumbled into dust all at once when it was exposed to light and air?" "i cannot say, madam," said the gardener, respectfully, "what might have happened in other cases, but in this instance the life of youth remained for a good while, and when it did begin to depart the change was gradual." "you forget, mamma," said the younger lady, "that this is real life, and that it is a story with one thing coming after another, like steps." "i did forget," said the other, "and i beg your pardon, john." the gardener bowed his head a little, and went on: "jaqui was greatly interested in this new development. he made frequent visits to donna paltravi, and found, to his surprise, that she was not the vain and frivolous woman he had supposed her to be, but was, in reality, very sensible and intelligent. she talked very well about many things, and even took an interest in science. jaqui lost all desire to put her back in her box, and spent the greater part of his leisure time in her company." at this the mistress of the house smiled, but her daughter frowned. "of course," continued the gardener, "he soon fell in love with her." "which was natural enough," said the mistress of the house. "whether it was natural enough or not," cried her daughter, "it was not right." john gayther looked upon her with pride. he knew that in her fair young mind that which ought to be rose high above thoughts of what was likely to be, which came into the more experienced mind of her mother. "but you see, miss," said john gayther, "jaqui was human. here was a lady very near his own age, still beautiful, very intelligent, living in the same house with him, glad to see him whenever he chose to visit her. it was all as clear as daylight, and it was not long before he was in such a state of mind that he would have fallen upon florino with a drawn sword if the fool-poet had dared to renew his addresses to donna paltravi." "i must say," remarked the mistress of the house, "that although his action was natural enough, he was in great danger of becoming a prose-fool." "you are right, madam," said the gardener, "and jaqui had some ideas of that kind himself. but it was of no use. she was an uncommonly attractive lady now that her mind came to the aid of her body. he knew that nature was still working hard to make this blooming middle-aged lady look like the old woman she really was. but love is a powerful antidote to reason, and this was the first time jaqui had ever been in love. when he thought of it at all, he persuaded himself that it did not matter how old this lady might come to be; he would love her all the same. in fact, he was sure that if she were to turn young again and become frivolous and beautiful, his love would not change. it was getting stronger and stronger every time he saw her." "what i am thinking about," exclaimed the daughter of the house, "is that poor old gentleman in milan. no matter what the others were doing, or what they were thinking, they were treating him shamefully, and jaqui was not his friend at all." "you may be right," said her mother; "but, don't you see, this is real life. you must not forget that, my dear." john gayther smiled and went on, and the young lady listened, although she did not approve. "jaqui was a handsome man, and could make himself very agreeable; and it is not surprising that donna paltravi became very much attached to him. he could not fail to see this, and as he was a man of method, he declared to himself one day that upon the next day, at the first moment he could find the lady alone, he would propose marriage to her. he had ceased to think about increase in age and all that. he was perfectly satisfied with her as she was, and he troubled his mind about nothing else. "but early the next day, before he had a chance to carry out his plans, he received a letter from dr. paltravi urging him to come immediately to milan. the poor gentleman was sick in his bed, and greatly longed to see his friend jaqui. the letter concluded with the earnest request that jaqui should not tell donna paltravi where he was going, or that he had heard from the unfortunate writer. jaqui set off at once, for fear he should not find his friend alive, and on the way his emotions were extremely conflicting." "and very wicked, i have no doubt," said the daughter of the house. "he hoped that old man would die." "there is some truth in what you say, miss," answered john gayther, with a proud glance at the mistress of the house, who was not ashamed to return it, "for jaqui could not help thinking that if old dr. paltravi, who could not expect any further happiness in this life, and who must die before very long anyhow, owing to his age and misfortunes, should choose to leave the world at this time, it would not only be a good thing for him, but it would make matters a great deal easier for some people he would leave behind him. in real life you cannot help such thoughts as this, miss, unless you are very, very good, far above the average. "jaqui found the old doctor very sick indeed, and he immediately set about doing everything he could to make him feel better; but dr. paltravi did not care anything about medical treatment. it was not for that he had sent for jaqui. what he desired was to make arrangements for the future of donna paltravi, and he wanted jaqui to carry out his wishes. in the first place, he asked him to take charge of the lady's fortune and administer it to her advantage; and secondly, he desired that he would marry her. 'if i die knowing that the dear woman who was once my wife is to marry you,' said the sick man, 'and thus be protected and cared for, i shall leave this world grateful and happy. i can never do anything for her myself; but if you will take my place, my friend,--and i am sure donna paltravi will easily learn to like you,--that will be the next best thing. now will you promise me?' jaqui knelt by the side of the bed, took his friend's hand, and promised. there were tears in his eyes, but whether they were tears of joy or of sorrow it is not for me to say." "it is for me, though," said the daughter of the house, very severely. "i know that man thoroughly." the gardener went on with his story: "jaqui remained several days with dr. paltravi, but he could not do his poor friend any good. the sick man was nervous and anxious; he was afraid that some one else might get ahead of jaqui and marry donna paltravi; and he urged his friend not to stay with him, where he could be of no service, but to go back to florence and prepare to marry donna paltravi when she should become a widow. as jaqui was also getting nervous, being possessed of the same fears, he at last consented to carry out the old doctor's wishes,--and his own at the same time,--and he returned to florence. "in the meantime donna paltravi had been somewhat anxious about jaqui. she had conceived a high regard for him, and she could think of no satisfactory reason why he should go away without saying anything to her, and stay away without writing. she hoped nothing had occurred which would interfere with the very agreeable sentiments which appeared to be springing up between them. this disturbed state of mind was very bad for a lady in the physical condition of donna paltravi. if i may use the simile of a clock in connection with her apparent age, i should say that worrying conjecture, had caused some cogs to slip, and that the clock of her age had struck a good many years since jaqui's absence. "when he met her she greeted him warmly, plainly delighted to see him; but for a moment he was startled. this lady was really very much older than when he had left her; her hair was nearly gray." "served him right!" said the daughter of the house. "but when he began to talk to her," continued john gayther, "his former feelings for her returned. she was charming, and he forgot about her hair. her conversation greatly interested him; and now that his conscience came to the assistance of his affection (for he was doing exactly what dr. paltravi desired him to do), he was quite happy and spent a pleasant evening. but in the morning, as he looked at himself in the mirror, he remembered her gray hair." at the word "conscience" an indication of a sneer had appeared on the face of the young lady, but she did not interrupt. "it was about a week after this that donna paltravi sat alone in the little room on the second floor, and dr. jaqui sat alone in the little room on the first floor. she was waiting for him to come to her, and he was not intending to go. he believed, with reason, that she was expecting him to propose marriage to her, and he did not intend to offer himself. he was very willing to marry a middle-aged lady, but he did not wish to espouse an old one--at least, an old one who looked her age; and that donna paltravi was going to look her full age in a very short time jaqui had now no doubt whatever. her face was beginning to show a great many wrinkles, and her hair was not only gray but white in some places. but these changes did not in the least interfere with her good looks, for in some ways she was growing more handsome and stately than she had been before; but our good friend jaqui--" "not my good friend jaqui, please," interrupted the daughter of the house. "said to himself," continued john gayther, "that he did not want a mother, but a wife. a few weeks before he would have supposed such a thing impossible, but now a certain sympathy for florino rose in his heart. so he did not go up-stairs that evening, and the lady was very much disturbed and did not sleep well. "in a few days jaqui got ready to go away again, and this time he went to bid the lady good-by. she had heard he was about to take a journey, and as he greeted her he saw she had been weeping but was quite composed now. 'farewell, my friend,' said she. 'i know what is happening to me, and i know what is happening to you. it will be well for you to stay away for a time, and when you return you will see that we are to be very good friends, greatly interested in the progress of science and civilization.' then she smiled and shook hands with him. "jaqui went to rome and to naples, wandering about in an objectless sort of way. he dreaded to go to milan, because he had not heard that dr. paltravi was dead, and it would have been very hard for him to have to explain to the sick man why he had decided not to carry out his wishes. apart from the disappointment he would feel when he heard that donna paltravi was not to have the kind guardianship he had planned for her, the old doctor would be grieved to the soul when he heard his wife had lost the youth he had taken from her, but which he had expected to return in full measure. what made it worse for jaqui was that he could administer no comfort with the news. he could not sacrifice himself to please the old man; promise or no promise, this was impossible. he had not consented to marry an old lady. again, from the very bottom of his heart, did jaqui wish there never had been a lady in a box. "at last, when he could put it off no longer, he went to milan; and there he found dr. paltravi still alive, but very low and very much troubled because he had not heard from jaqui. the latter soon perceived it would be utterly useless to try to deceive or in any way to mislead the old man, who, although in sad bodily condition, still preserved his acuteness of mind. jaqui had to tell him everything, and he began with florino and ended with himself, not omitting to tell how the lady had recognized the situation, and what she had said. then, fearing the consequences of this revelation, he put his hand into his leathern bag to take out a bottle of cordial. but dr. paltravi waved away medicine, and sat up in bed. "'did you say,' he cried, 'she is growing old, and that you believe she will continue to do so until she appears to be the lady of threescore and ten she really is?' "'yes,' said jaqui; 'that is what i said, and that is what i believe.' "'then, by all the holy angels,' cried dr. paltravi, jumping out of bed, 'she shall be my wife, and nobody else need concern himself about her.'" "hurrah!" cried the daughter of the house, involuntarily springing to her feet. "i was so afraid you would not come to that." "i was bound to come to that, miss," said john gayther. "and did they really marry again?" asked the mistress of the house. "no," was the reply; "they did not. there was no need of it. the priests assured them most emphatically that there was not the slightest need of it. and so they came together again after this long interval, which had been forty years to him, but which she had lived in forty days. if they had been together all the time they could not have loved each other more than they did now. to her eyes, so suddenly matured, there appeared a handsome, stately old gentleman seventy years of age; to his eyes, from which the visions of youth had been so suddenly removed, there appeared a beautiful, stately old lady seventy-one years of age. it was just as natural as if one of them had slept all day while the other had remained awake; it was all the same to them both in the evening. "she soon ceased to think how cruelly she had sent him away from her, for she had been so young when she did it. and he now gave no thought to what she had done, remembering how young she was when she did it. they were as happy as though she had had all the past that rightfully belonged to her, for he had had enough for both of them." "and jaqui?" asked the mistress of the house. "oh, jaqui was the happiest of the three of them, happy himself, and happy in their happiness. never again did he wish the lady in her box. he looked no further for a smaller house which should contain but two floors; he was as glad to stay where he was as they were to have him. they were three very happy people, all of them greatly interested in the progress of scientific investigation." "and not one of them deserved to be happy," said the daughter of the house. "but you must remember, miss, this is a story about realities," said the gardener. she sighed a little sigh; she knew that where realities are concerned this sort of thing generally happens. "that is a very good story, john," said the mistress of the house, rising from her seat; "but it seems to me that while you were talking you sometimes thought of yourself as jaqui." "there is something in that, madam," answered the gardener; "it may have been that during the story i sometimes did think that i myself might have been jaqui." "mamma," said the daughter of the house, as the two walked out of the garden, "don't you think that john gayther is very intelligent?" "i have always thought him remarkably intelligent," her mother replied. "i have noticed that gardeners generally are a thoughtful, intelligent race of men." "i don't think it is so much the garden as because he has travelled so much," said the young lady, "and i have a strange feeling that he has a story of his own in the past. i wonder if he will ever tell it to me." "if he has such a story," said the elder lady, "he will never tell it to you." this story is told by the mistress of the house and is called the cot and the rill iv the cot and the rill a week or so later the daughter of the house came skipping down one of the broad paths. john gayther stood still and looked at her, glad to see her coming, as he always was, no matter on what errand she came. "john," she cried, before she reached him, "you are to stop work!" then, as she came up to him, she continued: "yes; there is to be story-telling this morning. we have told papa about it, and he is coming to what he calls the story-telling place with us, and mamma feels inspired to tell the story. so you may take that troubled look out of your face. please put the big easy garden-chair in the shade of the summer-house. papa does so like to be comfortable. and the view from there is so fine, you know--a beautiful land view. papa must be tired of sea views and shore views, and here he will enjoy the mountains!" having delivered all this very volubly, the daughter of the house skipped away. and as john gayther busied himself in making the "story-telling place" attractive he felt glad that there were others besides himself who liked to tell stories. there was such a thing as overworking a mine. he was that rare thing, a story-teller who is also a good listener. moreover, john felt very diffident about telling one of his stories before the master of the house, who was a man prone to speak his mind. not that john disliked the master of the house. far from it. he, with the family, was pleased when the master of the house returned from a long cruise and proceeded immediately to make himself very much at home. for the master of the house was a captain in the navy, and as hearty, bluff, and good-natured as a captain should be. the captain had been at home some days, and had been in the garden several times, and now john gayther was filled with admiration as he saw this fine, sturdy figure, clad all in white, approach the summer-house. with an air of supreme content this figure partly stretched itself in the big garden-chair, while the two ladies seated themselves on the bench. john gayther stood respectfully until the master of the house motioned to him to sit on his stool. "good morning, john," he cried heartily. "we've piped all hands to yarns. i have heard what you can do in this line, and we shall call upon you before long. this time you are privileged to listen. you can let somebody else cut your asparagus and dig your potatoes this morning." "papa," said his daughter, "it is too late for asparagus and too early for potatoes. i am afraid you forget about these things when you are at sea." "not at all," said her father. "on shipboard we cut our asparagus at any time of the year. the steward does it with a big knife, which he jabs through the covers of the tin cans. as for potatoes, they are always with us." the mistress of the house was now prepared to tell her story. "i am going to tell my story in the first person," she began. "there is no better person," interrupted the master of the house. "i do not intend to describe my hero who is to tell the story," continued his wife. "i will only say that he is moderately young and moderately handsome. various other things about him you will find out as the story goes on. now, then, he begins thus: i was driving my wife in a buggy in a mountainous region, and when we reached the top of a little rise in the road, anita put her hand on my arm. 'stop,' she said; 'look down there! that is what i like! it is a cot and a rill. you see that cot--not much of a house, to be sure, but it would do. and there, just near enough for the water to tumble over rocks and gurgle over stones to soothe one to sleep on summer nights, is the rill--not much of a rill, perhaps, but i think it could be arranged with a shovel. and then, all the rest is enchanting. i had been looking at it for some time before i spoke. there is a smooth meadow stretching away to a forest, and behind that there are hills, and in the distance you can just see the mountains. now this is the place where i should like to live. isn't there any way of making those horses stand still for a minute?' "i tried my persuasive powers on the animals, and succeeded moderately. 'to live?' i asked. 'and for how long?' "'until about the d of august,' she replied. 'that will be about three weeks.' "'you mean,' i said in surprise, 'something like this.' "'i do not,' answered anita. 'i mean this very spot. to find something like it would require months. what i want, as i have told you over and over again, is a real cot with a real rill, to which we can go now and live for a little while that unsophisticated life for which my soul is longing.' "anita and i were taking a summer outing together, and were trying to get into free nature, away from people we knew, and had been several days at a mountain hotel, and were driving about the country. my black cobs now declined to stand any longer. "'drive them down into the valley. there must be a road to that house,' said anita. "i drove on for a short distance, and soon came to a wagon-track which descended to the little house. 'anita,' said i, 'i cannot go down that road; it is too rough and rocky, and we should break something. but why do you want to go down there, anyhow? you are not in earnest about living in such a place as that?' "'but i am in earnest,' she answered sweetly but decisively. 'i want to stay in this region and explore it. we both of us hate hotels, and i could be very happy in a cot like that (a little arranged, perhaps) until the d of august, when we have to go north. but i won't ask you to go down that road, of course. suppose we come again to-morrow with some quieter horses.' "'i am sorry,' said i, 'but i cannot do that. mr. baxter comes to-morrow. you know it was planned that he should always come tuesdays.' "she sighed. 'i suppose everything must give way to business,' she said, 'and i shall have to wait until wednesday. but one thing must certainly be agreed upon: when we get to that cot there must be no more mr. baxter; you can certainly plan for that, can't you?' "i made no immediate reply, because i was busy turning the horses in rather an awkward place; but when we were on the smooth highway and were trotting gayly back to the hotel, i discussed the matter more fully with anita, and i found that what she had been talking about was not a mere fancy. before coming to this picturesque mountain region she had set her heart upon some sort of camping out in the midst of real nature, and this cot-and-rill business seemed to suit her exactly. "'i want to go there and live,' she said; 'but i do not mean any marie antoinette business, with milk-pails decked with ribbons, and dainty little straw hats. i want to live in a cot like a cotter--that is, for us to live like two cotters. as for myself, i need it; my moral and physical natures demand it. i must have a change, an absolute change, and this is just what i want. i would shut out entirely the world i live in, and it is only in a real and true cot that this can be done as i want to do it.' "she talked a great deal more on the same subject, and then i told her that if it suited her it suited me, and that on the day after to-morrow we would drive out again and examine the cot. for the rest of the day and the greater part of the evening anita talked of nothing but her projected life in the valley; and before i went to sleep i was quite as much in love with it as she was. the next day it rained, but mr. baxter came all the same; weather never interfered with him." "who in the name of common sense is mr. baxter?" asked the master of the house. "i like to know who people are when i am being told what they do." "i had hoped," said the mistress of the house, "that i should be able to tell my story so you would find out for yourselves all about the characters, just as in real life if you see a man working in a garden you know he is a gardener." "but he may not be," said her husband; "he may be a coachman pulling carrots for his horses." "but, as you wish it," continued the mistress of the house, "i do not mind telling you that mr. baxter was my hero's right-hand man and business manager. and now he will go on: "after baxter and i had finished our business i told him about the cot, for if we carried out anita's plan it would be necessary for him to know where we were. then, putting on waterproof coats, we rode over to the place which had excited my wife's desire to become a cotter. we found the house small but in good order, with four rooms and an adjunct at one end. there were vines growing over it, and at the side of it a garden--a garden with an irregular hedge around two sides; it was a poor sort of a garden, mostly weeds, i thought, as i glanced at it. the stream of water was a pretty little brook, and baxter, who rode to the head of it, said he thought it could be made much better. "the house was the home of a widow with a grown-up daughter and a son about fifteen. we talked to them, asking a great many questions about the surrounding country, and then retired to consult. we did not consider long; in less than ten minutes i had ordered baxter to buy the house and everything in it, if the people were willing to sell; and then to purchase as much land around it as would be necessary to carry out my plans, which i then and there imparted to him in a general way, leaving him to attend to the details." "your nameless hero," said the master of the house, "must have been in very comfortable circumstances." "i am glad to see that my story is explaining itself," remarked his wife, and she continued: "baxter looked serious for a moment, and said it was a big piece of work; but he did not decline it. baxter never declined anything. "'how much time can you give me?' he asked. "'my wife will want to look at the place to-morrow,' i replied; 'that is, if it does not rain: for she says she does not want to see it first in bad weather.' "'that's a help,' said baxter. 'the weather bureau promises east winds and rains for to-morrow and perhaps the next day. and, anyway, i know now what you want. i will go back to town by the one-o'clock train and start things going.' "'there is one thing i object to,' said i, when we were on the country road from which anita had first seen the cot and the rill: 'the house is in full view from this road. before we know it we will be making ourselves spectacles to parties from the hotel who happen to discover us and drive out to see how we are getting on.' "baxter reflected. 'oh, i can arrange that,' said he. 'i know this road; it turns again into the highway not far below here. it is really a private road for the benefit of this house and two others nearly a mile farther on. i will include those places in the purchase, and close up the road. then i will make it a private entrance to this place, with a locked gate. will that do?' "'very well,' said i, laughing. 'but i suppose people could cut across the country and come in at the other end of the road if they really wanted to look into the valley?' "'not after i have finished the job,' said baxter; and i asked no further questions." "may i inquire," said the captain, "if that mr. baxter is in want of a position?" "i am afraid, papa," said the daughter of the house, "that you would have to own a navy before you could employ him." the gardener smiled. a story built upon these lines interested him. the mistress of the house went on without regard to the interruptions: "i found anita in earnest consultation with her maid maria and the mistress of the hotel, and it was at least an hour before she could see me. when i told her i had secured the cot, or at least arranged to do so, she was pleased and grateful, especially as i had had to go out into the rain to do it. 'i knew, of course,' she said, 'that baxter would settle that all right, and so i have been making my arrangements. but there is one favor i want you to grant me: i don't want you to ask me anything about how i am going to manage matters. i don't want to deceive you in any possible way, and so if you do not ask me any questions it will make it easier for me.' "'very good,' i replied; 'and i shall ask a similar favor of you.' "'all right,' said anita. 'and now that matter is settled.' "the prophecies of the weather were correct. the next day, wednesday, it rained, and it also rained on thursday and friday; but on saturday it looked as if it might clear in the afternoon. "'i am not going to-day,' said anita. 'i have been working very hard lately, and to-morrow i will take a good rest, and we will start in on monday.' "baxter was very glad of the four days of delay occasioned by the stormy weather, and said that without working on sunday he could finish everything to his satisfaction. i went down to the cot the next day to see how he was getting on; but anita asked me no questions, and i asked none of her. i had never known her to be so continuously occupied. as i stood with baxter in front of the cottage, where there was a fine view of the surrounding country, i asked him how much land he had thought it desirable to purchase. "'over there,' he said, 'i bought just beyond that range of trees, about half a mile, i should say. but to the west a little more, just skirting the highroad. to the north i bought to the river, which is three quarters of a mile. but over there to the south i included that stretch of forest-land which extends to the foot-hills of the mountains; the line must be about a mile from here.' "'that is a very large tract,' said i. 'how did you manage to buy it so quickly?' "'i had nine real-estate agents here on thursday morning,' he replied, 'and the sales were all consummated this morning. they all went to work at once, each on a separate owner. we bought for cash, and no one knew his neighbor was selling.' "i laughed, and asked him how he was going to keep this big estate private for our use. 'we want to wander free, you know, anywhere and everywhere.' "'that is what i thought,' said he, 'and that is why i took in such a variety of scenery. nobody will interfere with you. there will be no inhabited house on the place except your own, and i am putting up a fence of chicken-yard wire around the whole estate. there is nothing like chicken-yard wire. it is six feet high and very difficult to climb over, and it is also troublesome to cut.' "i exclaimed in amazement: 'that will take a long time!' "'i have contracted to have it done by saturday morning,' replied baxter. 'the train with the wire fence and posts is scheduled to arrive here at eleven o'clock to-night, and work will begin immediately. paulo montani, the italian boss who has worked for me before, has taken this contract, and will put twelve hundred men on.' "'the train will arrive here?' said i. 'what do you mean?' "'the m. b. & t. line runs within a mile and a half of this place, and my trains will all be switched off at a convenient place near here.' "'i would not have supposed there was a side-track there,' i remarked. "'oh, no,' he replied, 'there was none; but i am now having two built. all the different gangs of men will sleep on the freight-cars, which have been fitted up with bunks. the wood-cutters and the landscape-men, hedgers, sodders, and all that arrived about an hour ago, and i am expecting the mechanics' train late this afternoon. the gardeners will not arrive until to-morrow; but if it keeps on raining, that will give them time enough. they want wet weather for their work.'" "excuse me," said the master of the house, who had now finished his cigar and was sitting upright in his chair, "but didn't you omit to state that your hero was the king of siam?" "i have nothing of the kind to state," answered his wife. "he is merely an american gentleman. "when i heard of the great works that were going on, i exclaimed: 'look here, baxter, you must be careful about what you are doing. if you make this place look like a vast cemetery, all laid out in smooth grass and gravelled driveways, my wife won't like it. she wants to live in a cot, and she wants everything to be cottish and naturally rural.' "'that is just what i am going to make it,' said he. 'the highest grade of true naturalism is what i am aiming at in house and grounds. to-morrow afternoon you can look at the house. everything will be done then, and the furniture will all be in place, and if you want any change there will be time enough.' "the next day i went to the cot; but before i reached it i stopped. 'baxter,' i said, 'you have done very well with this rill; it is quite a roaring little torrent.' "'yes,' said he; 'and down below they are working on some waterfalls, but they are not quite finished.' "when i reached the house i did not exactly comprehend what i saw; it was the same house, and yet it was entirely different. it seemed to have grown fifty years older than it was when i first saw it. its color was that of wood beautifully stained by age. there was a low piazza i had not noticed, which was covered with vines. bright-colored old-fashioned flowers were growing in beds close to the house, and there was a pathway, bordered by box bushes, which led from the front door to a gateway in a stone wall which partly surrounded the green little yard. i had not noticed before the gateway or the stone wall, on which grew bitter-sweet vines and virginia creeper. "'now, you see,' said baxter, 'this grass here is not smooth green turf, fresh from the lawn-mower. it is natural grass, with wild flowers in it here and there. nearly all of it was brought from a meadow about a mile away from here. but now step inside a minute. everything there is of the period of : horsehair, you see, lots of black walnut, color all toned down, and all the ornaments covered with netting to keep the flies off.' "i was interested and amused; but i told baxter i did not want to see everything now; i wished to enjoy the place with my wife when we should come to it. he was doing admirably, and i would leave everything to him. as i stood on the little portico and looked over the valley, i saw what seemed to be a regiment of men coming out of the woods and crossing a field. "'that is the first division of the wire-fence men,' said baxter, 'going to supper. they are divided into three sections, and one gang relieves another, so that the work is kept going all night by torchlight.' "as i went away baxter called my attention to the gate at the entrance of our road. it was of light iron, and it could be opened into a clump of bushes where it was not likely to be noticed. 'if this gate is locked,' said i, 'it might make trouble; it may be necessary for some one to go in or out.' "'oh,' said baxter, 'i have provided for all that. you know baldwin, who used to superintend your lake george gardens? i have put him in charge of this gate, and have lodged him in a tent over there in the woods. he will know who to let in.' "on monday morning anita rose very early, and was dressed and ready for breakfast before i woke. the day was a fine one, and her spirits were high. 'you have not the slightest idea,' she said, 'how i am going to surprise you when we get to the cot.' i told her i had no doubt her surprise would be very pleasant, and there i let the matter drop. soon after breakfast we drove over to the cot, this time with a coachman on the box. when we arrived at the gate, which was open and out of sight, i proposed to anita that she should send the carriage back and walk to the cot. "'good,' said she; 'i do not want to see a carriage for two weeks.' "i have not time to speak of anita's delight at everything she saw. she was amazed that plain people such as i had told her owned the house should have lived in such a simple, natural way. 'everything exactly suits everything else,' she said. 'and it is all so cheap and plain. there is absolutely nothing that does not suit a cot.' she was wild with excitement, and ran about like a girl; and when i followed her into the garden, which i had not seen, i found her in one of the box-bordered paths, clapping her hands. the place was indeed very pretty, filled with old-fashioned flowers and herbs and hop-poles, and all sorts of country plants and blossoms. "at last we returned to the house. 'now, anita,' said i, 'we are here in our little cot--' "'where we are going to be as happy as two kittens,' she interrupted. "'and as i want everything to suit you,' i continued, 'i am going to leave the whole matter of the domestic arrangements in your hands. you have seen the house, and you will know what will be necessary to do. mention what servants you want, and i will send for them.' "'first tell me,' said anita, 'what you did with the people who were here? you said there were three of them.' "i could not very well answer this question, for i did not know exactly what baxter had done with them. i was inclined to think, however, that he had sent them to the hotel until arrangements could be made for them to go somewhere else. but i was able to assure anita that they had gone away. "'good,' said she. 'i have been thinking about them, and i was afraid they might find some reason or other to stay about the place, and that would interfere with my plans. and now i will tell you what servants i want. i don't want any. i am going to do the work of this house myself. now don't open your mouth so wide. there is nothing to frighten you in what i have said. i am thirty-two years old, and although i am not very large, i am perfectly strong and healthy, and i cannot imagine anything in this world that would give me more pleasure than to live in this cot with you for two weeks, and to cook our meals and do everything that is necessary to be done. there are thousands and hundreds of thousands of women who do all that and are just as happy as they can be. that is the kind of happiness i have never had, and i want it now.' "i sat upright in my slippery horsehair chair and spoke no word. surely anita had astonished me more than i could possibly astonish her! before me sat my beautiful wife: the mistress of my great house in town, with its butlers and footmen, its maids and its men, its horses, its carriages, its grand company, and its stately hospitality; the lady of my famous country estate, with more butlers and footmen and gardeners and stewards and maids and men and stables and carriages and herds and flocks, its house-parties of distinguished guests--here was this wife of mine, so well known in so many fashionable centres; a social star at home and abroad; a delicately reared being, always surrounded by servitors of every grade, who had never found it necessary to stoop to pick up so much as a handkerchief or a rosebud; and here was this superfine lady of high degree, who had just announced to me that she intended to cook our meals, to pare our potatoes, to wash our dishes, and, probably, to sweep our floors. no wonder i opened my mouth. "'i hope, now,' said anita, putting her feet out in front of her to keep herself from slipping off the horsehair sofa, 'that you thoroughly understand. i do not want any assistance while we are in this cot. i have sent away maria, who has gone to visit her parents, and no woman in service is to come on this place while i am here. i have been studying hard with mrs. parker at the hotel, who seems to be an excellent housekeeper and accustomed to homely fare, and i have learned how to make and to cook a great many things which are simple and nutritious; i have had appropriate dresses made, and maria has gone to town and bought me a great variety of household linen, all good and plain, for our damask table-cloths would look perfectly ridiculous here. i have also laid in a great many other things which you will see from time to time.'" "what a wonderful moment this would have been for a great slump in stocks!" remarked the master of the house. "everything swept away but the cot and the rill and the dear little wife with her coarse linen and her determination to keep no servant. the husband of your anita would have been the luckiest fellow on wall street. if i were working on this story i would have the blackest of black fridays just here." "'now, harold,' said anita, 'i do not in the least intend to impose upon you. because i choose to work is no reason why you should be compelled to do so.' "'i am glad to hear that,' said i. "'i knew you would be,' continued anita. 'but of course neither of us will want very much done for us if we live a cotter's life with these simple surroundings, and so i think one man will be quite enough to do for you all you will want done. but of course if you think it necessary to have two i shall not object.' "'one will be enough,' said i, 'and i will see about sending for him this afternoon.' "'i am so glad,' said anita, 'that you have not got him now, for we can have our first meal in the cot all by ourselves. i'll run up-stairs and dress, and then i will come down and do my first cooking.' "in a very short time anita appeared in a neat dress of coarse blue stuff, a little short in the skirts, with a white apron over it. "'come, now,' said she, gayly, 'let us go into the kitchen and see what we shall have for dinner. shall it be dinner or lunch? cotters dine about noon.' "'oh, make it lunch,' said i. 'i am hungry, and i do not want to wait to get up a dinner.' anita agreed to this, and we went to work to take the lid off a hamper which she told me had been packed by mrs. parker and contained everything we should want for several days. "'besides,' she said, 'that widow woman has left no end of things, all in boxes and cans, labelled. she must have been a very thrifty person, and it was an excellent piece of business to buy the house just as it stood, with everything in it.' "anita found it difficult to make a choice of what she should cook for luncheon. 'suppose we have some tea?' "'very good,' said i, for i knew that was easy to make. "'then,' said she, on her knees beside the hamper, with her forefinger against her lips, 'suppose--suppose we have some croquettes. i know how to make some very plain and simple croquettes out of--' "'oh, don't let us do that,' said i; 'they will take too long, and i am hungry.' "'very well, then,' said anita. 'let us have some boiled eggs; they are quick.' "i agreed to this. "'the next thing,' said anita, 'is bread and butter. would you like some hot soda-biscuit?' "'no,' said i; 'you would have to make some dough and find the soda, and--isn't there anything ready baked?' "'oh, yes,' she answered; 'we have albert biscuit and--' "'albert biscuit will do,' i interrupted. "'now,' said she, 'we will soon have our first meal in the cot.' "'this is a very unassuming lunch,' she said, when we were at last seated at the table, 'but i am going to give you a nice dinner. if you want more than three eggs i will cook you some in a few minutes. i put another stick of wood in the fire so as to keep the water hot.' "i was in considerable doubt as to what sort of man it would be best for us to have. i would have been very glad to have my special valet, because he was an extremely handy man in many ways; but i thought it better to consider a little before sending for him: he might be incongruous. i had plenty of time to consider, for anita occupied nearly the whole afternoon in getting up our dinner. she was very enthusiastic about it, and did not want me to help her at all, except to make a fire in the stove. after that, she said, everything would be easy. the wood was all in small pieces and piled up conveniently near. as i glanced around the kitchen i saw that baxter had had this little room fitted up with every possible culinary requirement. "we had dinner a little before eight. anita sat down, hot, red, but radiant with happiness. "'now, then,' said she, 'you will find i have prepared for you a high-grade cotter's dinner; by which i mean that it is a meal which all farmers or country people might have every day if they only knew enough, or were willing to learn. i have looked over several books on the subject, and mrs. parker told me a great deal. maria told me a great many things also. they were both poor in early life, and knew what they were talking about. first we will have soup--a plain vegetable soup. i went into the garden and picked the vegetables myself.' "'i wish you had asked me to do that,' said i. "'oh, no,' she answered; 'i do not intend to be inferior to any countrywoman. then there is roast chicken. after that a lettuce salad with mayonnaise dressing; i do not believe cotters have mayonnaise dressing, nor shall we every day; but this is an exceptional meal. for the next course i have made a pie, and then we shall have black coffee. if you want wine you can get a bottle from the wine-hamper; but i shall not take any: i intend to live consistently through the whole of this experience.' "there was something a little odd about the soup: it tasted as if a variety of vegetables had been washed in it and then the vegetables thrown away. i removed the soup-plates while anita went out to get the next course. when she put the dish on the table she said something had given way while the fowl was cooking, and it had immediately stuck its legs high in the air. 'it looks funny,' she remarked, 'but in carving you can cut the legs off first.' "i found one side of the fowl much better cooked than the other,--in fact, i should have called it kiln-dried,--and the other side had certainly been warmed. the mayonnaise was very peculiar and made me think of the probable necessity of filling the lamps, and i hoped baxter had had this attended to. the pie was made of gooseberry jam, the easiest pie in the world to make, anita told me. 'you take the jam just as it is, and put it between two layers of dough, and then bake it.' the coffee was very like black writing-ink, and, having been made for a long time, was barely tepid. "strange as it may appear, however, i ate a hearty dinner. i was very hungry. "'now,' said anita, as she folded her napkin, 'i do not believe you have enjoyed this dinner half as much as i enjoyed the cooking of it, and i am not going to wash up anything, for i will not deprive myself of the pleasure of sitting with you while you smoke your after-dinner cigar on the front porch. these dishes will not be wanted until to-morrow, and if you will take hold of one end of the table we will set it against the wall. there is a smaller table which will do for our breakfast.' "i drank several glasses of wine as i smoked, but i did not feel any better. if i had known what was going to happen i should have preferred to go hungry. i did not tell anita i was not feeling well, for that would have made her suffer in mind more than i was suffering in body; but when i had finished my smoke, and she had gone into the house to light the parlor lamp, i hurried over to the barn, where baxter had had a telephone put up, and i called him up in town, and told him to send me a chef who could hoe and dig a little in the garden. "'i thought you would want a man of that kind,' baxter telephoned. 'will isadore do? he is at your town house now, and can leave by the ten-o'clock train.' "i knew isadore. he was the second chef in my town house, a man of much experience, and good-natured. i told baxter to make him understand what sort of place he was coming to, and to send him on without delay. "'do you want him to live in the house?' asked baxter. and i replied that i did not. "'very good,' said he; 'i will have a tent put up for him near baldwin's.' "when i went to the house i told anita i had engaged a man. "'i am glad,' said she; 'but i have just thought of something: i cannot possibly cook for a man.' "'oh, you won't have to do that,' i answered. 'he will live near here, just the other side of the road.' "'that will do very well,' said she. 'i do not mind being your servant, harold, but i cannot be a servant's servant.'" "do you know," said the master of the house, "as this story goes on i feel poorer and poorer every minute--i suppose by comparison. in fact, i do not know that i can afford to light another cigar. but one thought comforts me," he continued: "if i had been living in that cot with my wife i would not have had the stomach-ache; so that balances things somewhat." the lady smiled. "the next morning a little after eight o'clock i came down to open the house, and there, standing by the porch, hat in hand, i saw isadore. he was a middle-aged man, large and solid, with very flat feet and a smoothly shaven face, twinkling eyes, and a benevolent smile. i was very glad to see him, especially before breakfast. i took him away from the house, so that anita might not overhear our conversation, and then i laid the whole case before him. he was an alsatian, but his english was perfectly easy to understand. "'i know precisely what it is that is wanted,' said he, 'and mr. baxter has made the arrangements with me. it is that madame shall not suppose anything, but that what she wishes to be done shall be done.' "'that is the idea,' said i. 'don't interfere with her, but have everything done all right.' "'and i am to be man of all work. i like that. you shall see that i am charmed. now i will go and change my clothes.' and this well-dressed man turned away toward baldwin's tent. "when anita came down the servant i had engaged was at the kitchen door waiting for orders. he was a plainly dressed man, his whole appearance neat but humble. 'he looks like a foreigner,' said anita. "'you are right,' i replied; 'he is an alsatian.' "'and his name?' "i was about to tell her isadore, but i stopped myself. it was barely possible that she might have heard the name of the man who for two years had composed the peculiar and delicious ices of which she was so fond; she might even have seen him, and the name might call up some recollection. 'did you say your name was isaac?' i called out to the man. "'yes, sir,' he answered; 'it is that. i am isaac.' "'i am going to get breakfast,' said anita. 'do you suppose he can build a fire?' "'oh, yes,' i replied; 'that is what he is engaged for--to be the man of all work.' "prompted by curiosity, i shortly afterwards looked in at the kitchen door. 'while you prepare the table, madame,' the man of all work was saying, 'shall i arrange the coffee for the hot water?' "'do you know how to do it?' she asked. "'oh, yes, madame,' the good isaac replied. 'in a little hut in alsace, where i was born, i was obliged to learn to do all things. my father and my mother had no daughter, and i had to be their daughter as well as their son. i learn to cook the simple food. i milk the cow, i rub the horse, i dig in the garden, i pick the berries in the woods.' as he talked isaac was not idle; he was busy with the coffee. "'that is very interesting,' said anita to me; 'where there are no daughters among the poor the sons must learn a great deal.' "i remained at the kitchen door to see what would happen next. there was a piece of dough upon a floury board, and when anita went to lay the table the alsatian fairly flew upon the dough. it was astonishing to see with what rapidity he manipulated it. when anita came back she took the dough and divided it into four portions. 'there will be two rolls apiece for us,' she said. 'and now, isaac, will you put them into the stove? the back part is where we bake things. we are going to have some lamb chops and an omelet,' she said to me as she approached the hamper. "'ah, madame,' cried the alsatian, 'allow me to lift the chops. the raw meat will make your fingers smell.' "'that is true,' said anita; 'you may take them out.' and then she went back to the dining-room. "isaac knelt by the hamper. then he lifted his eyes to the skies and involuntarily exclaimed: '_oh, tonnerre!_ they were not put by the ice.' and he gave a melancholy sniff. 'but they will be all right,' he said, turning to me. 'have trust.' the man of all work handled the chops, and offered to beat the omelet; but anita would not let him do this: she made it herself, a book open beside her as she did so. then she told isaac to put it on the stove, and asked if i were ready for breakfast. as she turned to leave the room i saw her assistant whip her omelet off the stove and slip on it another one. when or where he had made it i had no idea; it must have been while she was looking for the sugar. "'a most excellent breakfast,' said i, when the meal was over; and i spoke the exact truth. "'yes,' said anita; 'but i think i shall do better after i have had more practice. i wonder if that man really can wash dishes.' on being questioned, isaac declared that in the humble cot in which he was born he had been obliged to wash dishes; there were no daughters, and his mother was infirm. "'that is good; and if any of the plates need a little rubbing up afterwards i can do them,' said anita. 'now we will take a walk over the place, which we have not done yet.' "when we returned isaac was working in the garden. anita went into the house, and then the man of all work approached me; he had in his hand a little piece of red earthenware, which he held up before me in one hand and touched his cap with the other. 'sir,' said he, 'is it all pots? grass, bushes, everything?' "'oh, no,' said i. 'what is the matter?' "'excuse me,' said he, 'but everywhere i work in the garden i strike pots, and i broke this one. but i will be more careful; i will not rub so deep.' "for two or three days anita and i enjoyed ourselves greatly. we walked, we sat in the shade, we lay in hammocks, we read novels. 'that man,' said anita, 'is of the greatest possible assistance to me. the fact is that, having been taught to do all sorts of things in his infancy, he does the hard work of the kitchen, and all that is necessary for me to do is to give the finishing touches.' "that afternoon, when i saw the well-known chef isadore--for some years head cook to the duke of oxminster, and willing to accept a second place in the culinary department of my town house only on account of extraordinary privileges and emoluments--when i saw this man of genius coming down the hill carrying a heavy basket which probably contained meats packed in ice, i began to wonder about two things: in the first place, i wondered what exceptional remuneration in addition to his regular salary baxter had offered monsieur isadore in return for his exceptional services in our cot; and in the second place, i wondered if it were exactly fair to practise such a variety of deceptions upon anita. but i quieted my conscience by assuring it that i was doing everything for her benefit and happiness, particularly in regard to this man of all work, who was probably saving us from chronic dyspepsia. besides, it was perfectly fair play, for if she had told me she was going to do all my cooking i never would have come to this cot. "it was that evening, when we were both in a good humor after a good dinner, that my wife somewhat disturbed my peace of mind. 'everything is going on so smoothly and in such a pastoral and delightful way,' said she, 'that i want some of our friends to visit us. i want them to see for themselves how enjoyable such a life as this is. i do not believe any of them know anything about it.' "'friends!' i exclaimed. 'we do not want people here. we cannot entertain them. such a thing was never contemplated by either of us, i am sure.' "'that is true,' said anita; 'but things are different from what i expected. they are ever and ever so much better. and we can entertain people. we have a guest-room which is fitted up and furnished as well as ours is. if we are satisfied, i am sure anybody ought to be. i tell you who will be a good person to invite for the first one--mr. rounders.' "'rounders!' i exclaimed. 'he is the last man in the world for a guest in this cot.' "'no, he is not,' answered anita. 'he would like it very much indeed. he would be perfectly willing and glad to do anything you do, and to live in any way you live. besides, he told me, not very long ago, that he often thought of the joys of an humble life, without care, without anxiety, enough, no more, and a peaceful mind.' "'very well,' said i; 'this is your picnic, and we will have rounders and his wife.' "'no, indeed,' said anita, very emphatically. 'she cannot come anyway, because she is in europe. but i would not have her if she were here. if he comes, he is to come alone. shall i write him a note, or will you? there is no time to waste.' "she wrote the note, and when it was finished isaac carried it to baldwin and told him to have it mailed. "the more i thought about this invitation the more interested i became in it. no one could be more unsuited to a cotter's life than godfrey rounders. he was a rich man of middle age, but he was different from any other rich man with whom i was acquainted. it was impossible to talk to him or even to be with him for five minutes without perceiving that he was completely controlled by the money habit. he knew this, but he could not help it. in business resorts, in society, and in the clubs he met great capitalists, millionaires, and men of wealth of all degrees, who were gentlemen, scholars, kind and deferential in manner, and unobtrusive in dress, and not to be distinguished, so far as conversation or appearance could serve as guides, from those high types of gentlemen which are recognized all over the world. rounders longed to be like one of these, but he found it to be impossible. he was too old to reform, and the money habit had such a hold over him that i believe even when he slept he was conscious of his wealth. he was not a coarse, vulgar dives: he had the instincts of a gentleman; but these were powerless. the consciousness of money showed itself on him like a perspiration; wipe his brows as he might, it always reappeared. "he had not been poor in his early life; his father was a man of moderate means, and rounders had never known privations and hardships; but, in his intense desire to make people think that his character had not been affected by his money, he sometimes alluded to straits and difficulties he had known in early days, of which he was not now in the least ashamed. but he was so careful to keep these incidents free from any suspicion of real hardships or poverty that he always failed to make the impression he desired. i have seen him quite downcast after an interview with strangers, and i was well aware what was the matter with him. he knew that, in spite of his attempts to conceal the domination of his enslaving habit, these people had discovered it. considering all this, i came to believe it would please rounders very much to come to stay a few days with us. life in a cot, without any people to wait upon him, would be a great thing for him to talk about; it might help to make some people believe that he was getting the better of his money habit. "in the middle of the night i happened to wake, then i happened to think of rounders, then i happened to think of a story baxter had told me, and then i burst out into a loud laugh. fortunately anita did not awake; she merely talked in her sleep, and turned over. the story baxter had told me was this: in the past winter i had given a grand dinner, and rounders was one of the guests. isadore's specialty was ices, pastry, salads, and all sorts of delicate preparations, and he had excelled himself on this occasion, especially in the matter of sweets. at an unhappy moment rounders had said to his neighbor that if she could taste the sort of thing she was eating as his cook made it she would know what it really ought to be. an obliging butler carried this remark to monsieur isadore as he was sipping his wine in his dressing-gown and slippers. the interesting part of this anecdote was baxter's description of isadore's rage. the furious cook took a cab and drove directly to baxter's hotel. the wording of monsieur isadore's volcanic remarks i cannot state, but he butchered, cut up, roasted, carved, peppered, and salted rounders's moral and social character in such a masterly way that baxter laughed himself hoarse. the fiery cook would have left my service then and there if baxter had not assured him that if the gilded reptile ever dined with him again isadore should be informed beforehand, that he might have nothing to do with anything that went on the table. in consequence of this promise, monsieur isadore, having withdrawn a deposit of several thousand dollars from one of the trust companies with which rounders was connected, consented to remain in my household. "'now, then,' i asked myself, 'how are we going to get along with rounders and my man of all work isaac?' but the invitation had gone, and there was no help for it. i concluded, and i think wisely, that it would be unkind to trouble anita by telling her anything about this complication, but i would prepare the mind of the good isaac. "i went into the garden the next morning, where our man of all work was gathering vegetables, and when i told him that mr. godfrey rounders was coming to spend a few days with us the face of isadore--for it was impossible at that moment to think of him as isaac--was a wonderful sight to see: his brows contracted, his countenance darkened, and his eyes flashed as though they were about to shoot out lightning. then all color, even his natural ruddiness, departed from his face. he bowed gravely. "'i have heard it said you have taken some sort of dislike to mr. rounders,' said i; 'and while i have nothing to do with it, and do not want to know anything about it, i do not wish to force you into an unpleasant position, and if you would rather go away while mr. rounders is here, i will have some one sent to take your place until he leaves. then we shall want you back again. in this unusual position you have acquitted yourself most admirably.' "while i was speaking isadore had been thinking hard and fast; it was easy to see this by the varied expressions which swept over his face. when i had finished he spoke quite blandly: "'it is that it would be beneath me, sir, to allow any of the dislike of mine to interfere with the comfort or the pleasure of yourself and madame. i beg that you will not believe that i will permit myself even to think of such a thing. i remain so long as it is that you wish me. is it that you intend that your visitor shall know my position in your town house?' "'oh, no,' said i; 'as i have not told my wife, of course i shall not tell him. i am much obliged to you for your willingness to stay. it would be very awkward if you should go.' "'i understand that, sir,' said isaac, 'and i would do not one thing to discompose madame or yourself.' "rounders arrived according to schedule, and i met him at the gate, and explained that my wife insisted it would be incongruous for a carriage to drive up to the cot. 'i like that!' exclaimed rounders. 'i like to walk a little.' i took up one of his valises, the good isaac carried the two larger ones, while rounders, with an apologetic look from right to left, as if there might be some person present to whom this action should be explained, took up some canes and umbrellas wrapped in a rug, and we all went down to the cot, where anita was waiting to receive us. "'oh, i like this,' said rounders, quite cheerfully. 'i do not know when i have gone anywhere without some of my people. but i assure you i like it. at the bottom of our hearts we all like this sort of thing.' "anita showed him everything, and probably bored him dreadfully; but our guest was determined to be pleased, and never ceased to say how much he liked everything. there was no foolish pride about him, he said; he believed in coming close to nature; and although a great many of the peaceful joys of humanity were denied the man of affairs, still, when the opportunity came, how gladly our inward natures rose up to welcome it! 'your wife tells me,' said he, 'that she is cook, housekeeper, everything. this is charming! it must be a joy to you to know she is capable of it. but, my dear friend,' he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, 'you must not let her overwork herself. she will be very apt to do it; the temptation is great. i am sure if i were she the temptation to overwork in these new spheres would be very great.' "rounders certainly did overwork himself, and this was in the line of trying to make us believe that he thoroughly liked this plan of ours of living in a cot by a rill, and that he was quite capable of forgetting his ordinary life of affluence and luxury in the simple joys of our rural household. he would have produced an impression on both anita and me if he had not said so much about it; but i knew what he was trying to do, and made all the necessary allowances for him. "but, say what he might, i knew he was not satisfied. i could see that he missed his 'people,' by whom he was accustomed to be surrounded and served; and i soon found out that his meals did not suit him. anita visited the kitchen much more frequently than she had done just before rounders arrived, and she talked a great deal about the dishes which were served to us; but, so far as i could judge, she had no more to do with their preparation than she had previously had. i was thoroughly well satisfied with everything; and, although rounders was not, it was impossible for him to say so when he sat opposite the lady who told him two or three times at every meal that she presided in the kitchen. of course i would have done everything in my power to give rounders things to eat that he liked, but i did not know what to do. our table was just as good, though not as varied, as it was when we were in town; and that rounders was accustomed to living better than we did i could not for one moment believe. i came to the conclusion that, in spite of his efforts to subdue his dominating habit, he could not resist the temptation to let us know that he was not used to humble life, or even the appearance of it. "so i enjoyed our three good meals a day,--anita would not allow us any more,--which were prepared by one of the best cooks on the continent from the choicest materials furnished regularly under baxter's orders; and if rounders chose to think that what was good enough for me was not good enough for him, he must go his own way and suffer accordingly. in fortune and in station i was so immeasurably superior to him that it nettled me a little to see him put on airs at the table to which i had invited him. but rounders was rounders, and i did not allow my irritation to continue. "in two or three days our visitor's overwork began to show on him: his naturally plump cheeks hung down, his eyes drooped, and, although he drank a great deal of wine, he was seldom in good spirits. on the fourth day of his visit, after the morning mail had been brought to us by isaac, rounders came to me and told me he had just received a letter which would make it necessary for him to go home that afternoon. i expressed my regret, but did not urge him to stay, for it was obvious that he wanted to go. 'i have had a most delightful time,' he said, as he took leave of anita; 'but business is business, and i cannot put it aside.' "i believed both these statements to be incorrect: i knew that at that season he was not likely to be called away on business, and he had given me no reason to suppose he was enjoying himself; and as i walked with him to the gate i am afraid i was only stiffly polite. our spirits rose after his departure. anita said she had found him an incongruity, and i was tired of the spectacle of a purse-proud man trying to appear like other people. but if i were harsh in my judgment of him i was speedily punished. on the third day after he left i received a message from baxter, who wanted to see me at baldwin's tent. he was not allowed to come into the grounds, for anita said that would look too much like business. "i found that baxter's errand was indeed urgent, and that he was fully warranted in disturbing our privacy. the members of an english syndicate were coming down from canada to make final arrangements with me for the purchase of a great tract of mining land, and as my presence and signature were absolutely necessary in the concluding stages of the transaction, i would be obliged to be in new york on the next day but one. "i was greatly annoyed by this intelligence. the weather was particularly fine, anita was reading me a most interesting novel, and i was settling myself down to a thorough enjoyment of our cottage life, which i did not wish interfered with by anybody or anything, and i growlingly asked why the syndicate had chosen such an unsuitable time of the year to come down from canada. but baxter did not know. i continued to growl, but there was no way out of it. i must go to new york. for the sake of perhaps half a million dollars, which would not alter our ordinary manner of living, which would not give us any pleasures, privileges, or advantages of any kind which we did not now possess, we must break up our delightful life at the cot and rill, and go back to the humdrum of ordinary society. "baxter tried to console me. he said we could easily return when this business had been settled. but i knew that going away would break the charm; i thoroughly understood anita's nature, and i was sure if she left the cot for a time she would not want to go back to it. but when i told her baxter's business, and that she would have to have some one come and pack up for her, she flatly declared that no one should do anything of the kind. she would stay where she was. "'you can't stay here by yourself!' i cried. "'of course not,' she said. 'who could imagine such an absurdity? but i shall not be alone. i was thinking this very morning of fanny ransmore and her mother. i want some women guests this time, and they would be delightful after mr. rounders. fanny is as lively as a cricket, and mrs. ransmore could take care of anybody. you can tell baxter to have some one to patrol the grounds at night, and we shall get along beautifully. i am sure you will not be away long.' "'but can you get the ransmores?' i asked. "'certainly,' said she. 'they are at newport now; but i will telegraph immediately, and they can start to-night and get here to-morrow afternoon. you need not be afraid they cannot come. they would give up any engagement on earth to be our only guests.' "the matter was settled according to anita's plan, and i was more willing to go to new york when i reflected that after the ransmores came anita would not be able to read aloud to me." "at this point," said the master of the house, "your hero makes me angry. why should he think he could not go away and leave his wife for three days, when i leave my wife, and daughter too, for three years? his anita is not worth one twentieth as much as either my wife or daughter. then again, if i were in his place, i would not allow a disadvantageous half-million to take me away from you two. it is only the absolutely necessary thousands that make me leave you as i do." "your sentiments are just as nice as they can be, papa," said the daughter of the house; "but don't you see if the gentleman did what you would do it would spoil the story?" john gayther smiled with pleasure. here was a young lady who never forgot the principle of the thing, whatever the thing might be. "that is true!" exclaimed the captain, stretching himself at full length in his chair. "i did not think of that. madam, please proceed; let the king of siam recommence his performances." "i will merely remark," said the mistress of the house, "that if the king of siam undertook to emulate my hero in all his performances, it would be a pretty hard thing for his already overtaxed subjects. "the ransmores arrived on time, and were as delighted with the invitation as anita had said they would be. according to her orders, neither of them brought a maid, which must have been pretty hard on the old lady; but they declared that the fun of waiting on themselves would be greater than anything newport could possibly offer them. "i went to new york, attended to my business, which occupied me for three days, and then i thought this would be a good opportunity to take a trip to philadelphia to look at a large steam-yacht which was in course of construction at the shipyards there. i did not feel in such a hurry to go back to the cot now that the ransmores were there, and i was sure also that anita would like to hear about the new yacht, in which we hoped to make a mediterranean voyage during the winter. but early in the forenoon of my second day in philadelphia, while i was engaged in a consultation concerning some of the interior fittings of the yacht, i received a telegram from baxter informing me that my wife had returned from the cot on the previous evening, and was now at our town house. at this surprising intelligence i dropped the business in hand and went to new york by the first train. "'of course,' said anita, when we were alone, 'i will tell you why i left that precious cot. we had a very good time after you left, and i showed the ransmores everything. the next day fanny and i determined to go fishing, leaving mrs. ransmore to read novels in a hammock, an occupation she adores. isaac was just as good as he could be all the time; he got rods for us, and made us some beautiful bait out of raw beef, for of course we did not want to handle worms; and we started for the river. we had just reached a place where we could see the water, when fanny called out that somebody had a chicken-yard there, and that we would have to go around it. we walked ever and ever so far, over all sorts of stones and bushes, until we made up our minds we were inside a chicken-yard and not outside, and so we could not get around it. i was very much put out, and did not like it a bit because we could not reach the river; but fanny saw through it all, and said she was sure the fence had been put there to keep all sorts of things from disturbing us; and then she proposed fishing in the rill. "'we tried this a long time, but not a bite could we get; and then fanny went wandering up the stream to see if she could find a spring, because she said she had heard that trout were often found in cold streams. after a while she came running back, and said she had found the spring, and what on earth did i think it was? she had soon come to what seemed to be the upper end of the rill, and went down on her hands and knees and looked under the edge of a great flat rock, and there she saw the end of an iron pipe through which the water was running. when i heard this i threw down my fishing-rod and would have nothing to do with an artificial rill. i remembered then that i had thought, two or three times, it had improved very much since i had first seen it; and when i asked mr. baxter about it last night, he said the original rill had not water enough in it for the little cataracts and ponds, and all that, and so he had brought down water from some other stream about half a mile away. "'when we went back to the cot fanny seemed to have her suspicions excited, and she pried into everything, and soon told me that the furniture and all the things in the cot were only imitation of the things plain country people use, and were, in reality, of the best materials and wonderfully well made, and that it must have cost a lot of money to buy all these imitations of old-fashioned, poor-folksy things. then she went into the garden and peered about, and told isaac, who was working there, that she had never seen so many different kinds of vegetables all ripe at the same time. he touched his cap, and said that was a compliment to his gardening. but pretty soon she saw the edge of a flower-pot sticking above the ground, and showed it to me. i made him dig up whole beds of things, and there was nothing but pots and pots, in which everything was growing. "'i went back to the house and looked about a good deal more, with fanny at my elbow to tell me how poor people would never have this or that or the other thing. then i was very angry with myself for not being able to see things without having them pointed out to me by that fanny ransmore, who was not invited to pry about and make herself disagreeable in that way.' "'and were you angry with me?' i asked. "'yes,' she answered; 'for a little while. but when i remembered the plans i had made i thought we were about square, and that i had concealed as much from you as you had from me. i was not angry, but i was determined i would not stay in that mock-cot any longer. i could not bear the sight of anything i looked at. i thought the quickest way of settling the matter was to get rid of the whole business at once, and i told isaac to put a crowbar under the kitchen stove, which was full of burning wood, and turn it over. but he was horrified, and said he might be arrested and put in prison for doing that; and, besides, it would be such a shame to waste so many beautiful things. fanny and her mother thought so, too. and i asked isaac where the family lived who used to own the cot, and he said they were still at the hotel, not being able to find any suitable quarters. so i sent for the widow and her daughter and son, and i told them to take the cot just as it was, and to keep it forever, and i would have mr. maxwell make out the law papers. they went about shouting with delight at everything they saw, very different from that fanny! so it was really a very nice thing to do, and i feel a great deal better. and here i am, and you will find fanny and her mother somewhere in the house whenever you want to see them. after this i think it will be better for us both not to try any affectionate frauds on each other.' "i was very glad the investigating fanny had not discovered all my affectionate frauds, and that i was able myself to reveal to anita the identity of the useful isaac. this did amaze her, and for a moment i thought she was going to cry; but she was not in the habit of doing much of that sort of thing, and presently she laughed. 'monsieur isadore,' she exclaimed, 'working in the garden and washing pots and pans! why, don't you know some people think he is almost as good as our head chef leonard?' "'as good!' i cried. 'he is infinitely better. leonard could never have done for us what our good isaac did. and now i must tell you a story about isadore that baxter related to me this morning as we drove up from the station.' i then told her the story of isadore alias isaac--of his dislike for mr. rounders, and of the noble manner in which he had determined to stand by us when he heard that gentleman was about to visit us. 'after rounders's arrival,' i remarked, 'things went on apparently as well as before--' [illustration: "i made him dig up whole beds of things."] "'apparently!' anita interrupted. 'they went on better than before. i let isaac, as we called him, do a great deal more of the cooking than he did before mr. rounders came. i thought our meals were remarkably good, and if mr. rounders did not like them, as i sometimes thought he did not, i believed it was because he could not help putting on airs even to us.' "i laughed. 'well,' said i, 'the state of the case was this: during the whole time rounders stayed with us, isadore did not cook one particle of food for him.' "'that was impossible,' cried anita. 'i noticed nothing of the kind, and, besides, mr. rounders would have found it out immediately.' "'of course neither of us noticed it,' said i, 'for isadore did not serve us with any of the things he gave to rounders. and as for the latter discovering that he was eating his food raw, he had no idea that such was the case. he supposed he was eating what we ate, and therefore did not like to say anything about it.' "'but i do not understand!' cried anita. 'how could any one eat things and not know they were uncooked?' "'you do not understand,' said i, 'because you do not comprehend the deep and wonderful art of isadore. baxter tried to explain some of it to me as he heard it from the lips of the chef himself, but i do not know enough of kitchen magic to understand it. as isadore waited on us, he was able to bring us well-prepared food, and to give mr. rounders something very different, but which looked just like that we had. even his coffee was served in a cup heated hot in the oven, while the coffee itself had merely been warmed. i cannot explain all these uncooked meals, and if you want to know more you must ask isadore himself. but baxter told me that spices and condiments must have been used with wonderful effect, and that the poor man must have lived mostly on biscuits. isadore said that all his life he would laugh when he thought of mr. rounders trying to eat a chicken croquette the inside of which was perfectly raw, while the outside smoked, and looking at the same time with astonishment at you and me as we quietly ate what seemed to be exactly like the thing he had on his plate.' "'but, harold,' said anita, 'that was a shameful way to treat our guest!' "'that is what baxter said to isadore; but the cook excused himself by stating that all this happened in a cot, in a dear little cot, where everything was different from everything else in the world, and where he had tried to make you and me happy, and where he himself had been so happy, especially when he saw mr. rounders trying to eat chicken croquettes. he was also so pleased with the life at the cot that he is going to have one of his own when he goes back to alsace, which will be shortly, as he has made enough to satisfy his wants, and he intends to retire there and be happy in a cot.' "anita reflected for a few moments, and then she said: 'i think life in a cot might be very happy indeed--for isaac.'" with this the mistress of the house rose from her chair. "is that at all?" exclaimed her daughter. "there are several things i want to know." "that is all," replied the story-teller. "like the good king of siam, i consider my already overtaxed subjects." and with this she went into the house. "do either of you suppose," remarked the master of the house, "that that anita woman gave the whole of that great estate to the widow and her two children? how much land do you think, john gayther, was enclosed inside that chicken wire?" "i have been calculating it in my head," replied the gardener, "and it must have been over a thousand acres. and for my part, sir, i don't believe it was all given to the widow. when mr. baxter came to attend to the papers i think he made over the cot and about seven acres of land, which was quite enough to be attended to by a half-grown boy." "that is my opinion, too," said the daughter of the house, "and i think that the opulent owner of that great estate made a deer-park of the rest of it, with reindeer, fallow deer, red deer, stags, and all sorts of deer, and not one of them able to jump over the wire." "ah, me!" said the captain, rising and folding his arms as he leaned his broad back against a pillar of the summer-house, "these great volcanoes of wealth, always in eruption, always squirting out town houses, country houses, butlers, chefs, under-chefs, diamonds, lady's-maids, horses, carriages, seaside gardens, thousand-acre poultry-yards, private sidewalks, and clouds of money which obscure the sun, daze my eyes and amaze my soul! john gayther, i wish you would send me one of your turnip-hoers; i want him to take my second-best shoes to be mended." this story is told by the master of the house and is called the gilded idol and the king conch-shell v the gilded idol and the king conch-shell the rose-vines were running riot over the old garden wall, and as it was now midsummer and the season of their full bloom had passed, john gayther set to work one morning to prune and train them. the idea of doing this was forcibly impressed upon his mind that day by the fact that the mistress of the house had returned the evening before, and he knew that she would notice the untidy appearance of the rose-vines as soon as it should please her to come into the garden. the family had been at the sea-shore for nearly two weeks, and the gardener had missed them sorely, especially the daughter of the house. they had now all returned, and the butler had told him that they had brought with them a visitor, a frenchman. john gayther, whose mind was always full of the daughter of the house, immediately inquired if he was young; but the butler's answer was unsatisfactory, as he said the gentleman was neither young nor old, and talked queer english. as the butler himself--who was english--talked what seemed to the gardener queer english, john did not lay much stress upon that statement. he was soon to make his own observations, however, for a sweet voice he knew well called out to him: "we are all back, john, in the dear old garden!" john turned, and found four persons had come up quietly and were watching his work. he returned the cordial greetings of the family, and then the master of the house informally introduced their companion. "we have a foreign gentleman with us, john; he belongs to the same nation as your great hero lafayette, and therefore i know you will be pleased to have him join our story-telling party. for it has been decided by the ruling power in this house that a story is to be told this morning; so leave your vines, and come with us." john was obliged to follow as the party took the path to the summer-house, but he went unwillingly. lafayette was a great and good man, but it did not follow that all his countrymen were of that sort; and, in fact, john knew but little about frenchmen. he immediately conceived a dislike to this one as he saw him walking by the side of the daughter of the house and evidently pleased with her company. he greatly disliked the idea of telling a story to this stranger, and determined it should not be made interesting. there was nothing in the frenchman's appearance to excite this dislike. there was nothing striking about him. he was a good-looking man verging on middle age perhaps, with a rather short little figure and an airy walk. "now," said the master of the house, when the party were all disposed to the best advantage, and the frenchman had gone into an ecstasy over the view from the summer-house, "john gayther, you are to listen carefully to this story, for i am going to tell it myself, being moved thereto by the story my wife told here." john, greatly relieved by this announcement, signified his cordial approbation, and the captain began his relation: "captain abner budlong was a retired sailorman. he was rather small of stature, with mild blue eyes, and a little gold ring in each of his ears. he was in the prime of life, and had been so often wet with salted water and dried by salted winds that he looked as though he might last forever. "he had ceased to sail in ships, because his last vessel, of which he had been part-owner, had positively declined to sail any longer under him. when this misguided craft decided to go to the bottom of the sea, captain abner, in a little boat, accompanied by his crew, betook himself to the surface of the land, and there he determined to stay for the rest of his life. his home was on the sea-shore. in the summer-time he fished and took people out to sail in his boat; and in the cold weather he generally devoted himself to putting things into his house, or arranging or rearranging the things already there. he himself was his family, and therefore there was no difference of opinion as to the ordering of that household. "the house was divided through the middle by a narrow hallway; that part to the right as one entered the front door was called by captain abner the 'bachelor side,' while the portion to the left he designated as the 'married side.' the right half might have suggested a forecastle, and was neat and clean, with sanded floors and everything coiled up and stowed away in true shipshape fashion. but the other half was viewed by captain abner as something in the quarter-deck style. exactly half the hall was carpeted, and the little parlor opening from it was also carpeted, painted, and papered, and filled with a great variety of furniture and ornaments which the captain had picked up by sea and land. everything was very pretty and tasteful, according to the captain's ideas of taste and art, and everything was sacred; no collector could have bought anything out of that little parlor, no matter how much money he might offer. "this parlor and the room above had been furnished, decorated, and ornamented for the future mistress of captain abner's household, and he was ready to dedicate them to her services whenever he should be so lucky as to find her. so far, as he sometimes expressed himself, he had not had a chance to sing out, 'there she blows!' "one afternoon, when captain abner was engaged in dusting the ornaments in the parlor, his good friend samuel twitty stood in the doorway and accosted him. sam twitty had been mate to captain abner, and as he had always been accustomed to stand by his captain, he stood by him when he left the sea for the land; although they did not live in the same house, they were great cronies, and were always ready to stand by each other, no matter what happened. sam's face and figure were distinguished by a pleasant plumpness; he was two or three years the junior of captain abner, and his slippered feet were very flat upon the ground. he held his pipe behind his back in such a position that it hung over the uncarpeted part of the hallway. a pipe in the married part of the house was never allowed. "'sam,' said captain abner, 'you've hove in sight jes at the right minute, for i'm kind o' puzzled. here's this conch-shell, which is the biggest i ever seed, and a king conch-shell at that, and i can't make up my mind whether she'd like it here in the middle of the mantelpiece, or whether she'd like to have the gilded idol here, where it would be the fust thing she'd see when she came into the room. sometimes i'm inclined in the way of the heathen idol, and sometimes in the way of the king conch-shell. and how am i to know which she likes? what do you think about it?' "'well, now, cap'n abner,' said sam, his head cocked a little to one side, 'that's a pretty hard question to answer, considerin' i don't know who she is and what kind o' taste she's got. but i'll tell you what i'd do if i was you. i'd put that king conch-shell on the mantelpiece, or i would put the gilded idol there, it wouldn't matter much which, and then i'd put the other one handy, so that when she fust come in, and you could see she didn't like whatever it was that was in the middle of the mantelpiece, you could whip it off and put the other thing there almost afore she knowed it.' "'sam,' said captain abner, 'that's a real good rule to go by, and it looks to me as if it might fit other things besides gilded idols and conch-shells. and now that you're here i'd like you to stay and take supper with me. i've got something to tell you.' "after the evening meal, which was prepared by captain abner and his guest, who were both expert maritime cooks and housekeepers, these two old friends sat down to smoke their pipes, the parlor door having been carefully shut. "'sam,' said the captain, 'i've got everything ready for her that i can think of. there isn't anything more she'd be likely to want. so now i'm goin' after her, and i'm goin' to start on monday mornin'.' "sam twitty was astonished. he had had an idea that captain abner would go on preparing for her to the end of his days, and it was a shock to him to hear that the work of preparation, in which he had been interested for so many years, and in which he had so frequently assisted, should now be brought suddenly to a close. "'ready!' he ejaculated. 'i wouldn't have believed it if ye hadn't told me yourself. and yet, come to think of it, i can't see for the life of me what else you can do for her.' "'there ain't nothin' else,' said abner, 'and on monday mornin' i'm settin' out to look for her.' "'do you go by land or by water?' asked sam. "'land,' was the answer. 'there ain't no chance of runnin' across her by sea.' "'and how are you goin'? walkin'?' "'no, sir,' said abner. 'i'm goin' to hire a horse and a buggy. that's how i'm goin'.' "'and where are you goin' to steer fust?' asked sam. "'i'm goin' fust to thompsontown, and after i've took my observations there i'll fetch a compass and sail every which way, if need be. there's lots of people of all sorts in thompsontown, and i don't see why she shouldn't be one of them.' "'no more do i,' said sam twitty. 'i think it's more'n likely she'll be one of them.' "very early the next morning, almost before the first streaks of dawn, captain abner was awakened by a voice under his window. "'shipmate ahoy!' said the voice, which was sam twitty's. in a moment abner's head was out of the window. "'cap'n abner,' said sam, 'i'm goin' with you.' "abner did not immediately answer, but presently he replied: 'look here, sam twitty; you come around after breakfast and tell me that ag'in.' "promptly after breakfast sam appeared. "'look a' here,' said captain abner, when they had lighted their morning pipes, 'that ain't a bad notion of yours. somethin' might turn up when i'd want advice, and you might give me some like you gave me about the king conch-shell and the gilded idol. it ain't a bad idea, and, as you say so, i'd like you to come along.' "sam did not reply with the alacrity that might have been expected of him. he puffed silently at his pipe and gazed upon the ground. 'you said you was a-goin' in a buggy,' he remarked. "'yes; that's what i'm expectin' to do.' "'then how am i to get back?' inquired sam. "'that's so,' said abner. 'i never thought of that.' "'look a' here, cap'n,' said abner; 'what do you say to a spring-wagon with seats for four, two in front, and two behind?' "this suited captain abner, and sam went on to say: 'there'll be another good thing about that; if you get her and bring her back--' "'which is what i'm goin' for and intend to do.' "'then,' continued sam, 'you two could sit on the back seat, and i could sit in front and drive.' "'did you ever drive, sam?' asked captain abner. "'not yet; but i wouldn't mind l'arnin'.' "'but you won't l'arn with me and her,' said captain abner. "'how are you goin' to manage it, then?' asked sam. 'you won't want me and her to sit on the back seat, and it wouldn't look jes right for you an' her to be in front, and me behind all by myself, as if i was company.' "'don't know,' said captain abner. 'we'll get her fust, and then let her sit where she wants to.' "'there's one thing i wouldn't like to see,' said sam twitty, 'and that's you and me sittin' behind, and her a-drivin'.' "'there won't be none of that,' said captain abner; 'that ain't my way.'" "is that a good beginning?" asked the master of the house, suddenly addressing his wife. "yes," she replied, "very good; and i see this is to be a real man's story." "and so it should be, mamma," said the daughter of the house. "men know more about men than they do about women." "don't be too sure of that," said her father. "but no matter. the two friends started out on monday morning after breakfast for thompsontown. considerable delay was occasioned at the livery-stable by certain pieces of advice which sam twitty offered to captain abner. in the first place, he objected to a good black horse which had been attached to the wagon, giving it as his opinion that that looked too much like a funeral, and that a cheerful-colored horse would be much better adapted to a matrimonial expedition. a gray horse, slower than the black one, was substituted, and sam was quite satisfied. then a great many things in the way of provisions and conveniences came into his mind which he thought would be well to take on the voyage, and he even insisted upon rigging up an extension at the back of the wagon on which her trunk could be carried on the home journey. "at last they got away, and as they drove slowly out of the little village not one of the inhabitants thereof knew anything about their intended journey, except that they were going to thompsontown; for captain abner and sam twitty would have as soon thought of boring a hole in the bottom of a boat in which they were to sail as of telling their neighbors they were going to look for her and to bring her back in that spring-wagon. "the old gray horse jogged very comfortably over the smooth road until a toll-gate was perceived near by. "'now, then, cap'n,' said sam, as they drew up in front of the little house by the roadside, 'whatever you pay here you ought to charge to the expense of gettin' her.' "'that's so,' said his companion; 'but if she's all right i ain't goin' to mind no tolls.' "a pleasant-faced woman now came to the door of the little house and stood expectant, while captain abner thrust his hand into his pocket. "'how much is it?' said he. "'it's ten cents,' said she. "then sam twitty, who did not wish to sit silent, remarked that it was a fine day, and the toll-gate woman said that indeed it was. captain abner was now looking at some small change in the palm of his hand. "'i ain't got ten cents,' said he. 'here's only six, and i can't scrape up another copper. sam, can you lend me four cents?' "sam searched his pockets. 'haven't got it,' said he. 'them little things we bought jes afore we started cleaned me out of change.' "'the same thing's happened to me, too,' said abner; 'and, madam, i'll have to ask you to change a five-dollar note, which is the smallest i've got.' "the toll-gate woman said she was very sorry, but indeed she had not five dollars in change, either at the toll-gate or in the house where she lived just behind in a little garden. the day before she had had a good deal of change, but she had paid it all into the company. "'then what are we goin' to do?' asked sam. 'i suppose you won't let us go through without payin'?' "the woman smiled and shook her head. 'i couldn't do that; it's against the rules. sometimes when people come along and find they have nothin' to pay toll with they go back and get the money somewhere. it's our rules, and if i broke them i might lose my place.' "'which we wouldn't think of makin' you do,' remarked sam. "'but that's one thing i can't do,' said captain abner. 'i can't turn round and go back. if the folks knew i was turned back because i couldn't pay toll i'd never hear the end of it.' "'that's so,' agreed sam. 'it would never do to go back.' "the toll woman stood and looked at them and smiled. she was a pleasant personage, not inclined to worry over the misfortunes of her fellow-beings. "'isn't there a place somewhere near here where i could get a note changed?' asked abner. "'i can't say,' answered the toll woman. 'i don't believe any of the houses along the road has got five dollars in change inside of them, and even if you went across the country to any of the farm-houses, you wouldn't be likely to find that much. but if you are not in a hurry and wouldn't mind waitin', it's as like as not that somebody will be along that's got five dollars in change. you don't seem to know this part of the country,' she added. "'no,' said abner; 'when me and my mate travels we generally take the public conveyances. this is the fust time we've druv on this road.' "then up spoke sam twitty: 'does you and your husband live here and keep the toll-gate, ma'am?' "the woman looked as though she thought the plump person a little inquisitive, but she smiled and answered, 'my husband used to keep the toll-gate, but since he died i've kept it.' "captain abner looked troubled. 'i don't mind so much waitin' myself,' said he, 'but it's the horse i'm thinkin' about. i promised i'd have him fed at twelve o'clock sharp every day i have him. he's used to it, and i don't want him givin' out afore i'm through with him.' "'when horses is used to bein' fed at regular times,' said the toll-gate woman, 'they do show it if they don't get fed. but, if you don't mind, i've got a little stable back there, and some corn, and if you choose to drive your horse into the yard and give him a feed i'll charge you jes what anybody else would. and while he's a-feedin' most likely somebody'll come along that's got five dollars in change.' "for some minutes sam twitty had not said a word, but now he most earnestly advised his friend to accept this offer, and, jumping to the ground, he hurried to open the gate so that captain abner might drive in. abner had not yet made up his mind upon the subject, but, as sam stood there by the open gate, he drove in. "'look a' here!' said sam, as they stood by the stable door. 'this is a jolly good go! did you take notice of that toll-gate woman? she's tiptop to look at. did you see how clean she is, and what a nice way of smilin', an' a good deal of red in her cheeks, too, and jes about old enough, i should say, if i was called upon. and, more than that, i should say, judgin' from what i've seen of her, she's as likely to be as accommodatin' as any person i ever did see that i had seed for so short a time. i jes put her into my mind a-goin' into your parlor and sayin' that conch-shells was jes what she liked on mantelpieces. and i could put her in jes as well with the gilded idol.' "'you seem to do a lot of thinkin' in a mighty short time,' said abner. 'but what's all that got to do with anything?' "'do!' exclaimed sam. 'it's got lots to do. why wouldn't she be a good one for _her_? i don't believe you'd find a better one in thompsontown.' "'sam twitty!' exclaimed abner, rather testily, 'what are you talkin' about? do you suppose i'd paint and paper and clean up and furnish one side of my house for her, and then start out on a week's cruise to look for her, and then take and put in her place and give everything i've been gettin' for her for so many years to the fust woman i meet, and she a toll-gate woman at that?'" the frenchman, who had been listening with great apparent interest, now looked so inquiringly at the master of the house that he paused in his story. "excuse my interrupt," he said apologetically; "but what is toll-gate woman?" "my conscience!" exclaimed the captain, "you haven't understood a word of my story!" he then proceeded to explain a toll-gate and its office and emoluments; but it was at once evident that the frenchman knew all about the thing--he did not know the english words which expressed it; and he had a clear comprehension of the narrative. "those two men pull two ways," he said gleefully; "ought to make a good story." "it is a good story if my papa tells it," spoke up the daughter of the house. and john gayther was pleased to note a sharpness in her voice. "yes, miss; that is just what i say--a very much good story. i long for the end to come." "not exactly the compliment intended," remarked the mistress of the house, with a smile. "how do you think it will end?" asked the daughter of the house, impulsively, addressing the frenchman. "it is not polite to imagine," he replied. "but i want to know," she persisted. "it is not impolite to guess." "well, then, miss, he marry nobody. too many women in that villa thompson. but we sadly interrupt! beg pardon, captain." "the captain i am telling about in my story," said the master of the house, resuming his narrative, "could not silence sam twitty. "'now i tell you, cap'n,' he said, as he assisted in taking the horse out of the wagon, 'don't you go and miss a chance. here's a fust-rate woman, with red cheeks and mighty pretty hair, and a widow, too. even if you don't take her now, it's my advice that you look at her sharp with the idea that if things don't turn out in thompsontown as you'd like them to, it would be mighty comfortin' to you to pick her up on your way back.' "when captain abner and sam returned from the stable they looked up and down the far-stretching road, and then, at the invitation of the toll-gate woman, they seated themselves on a bench at the back of the toll-house. "''tisn't a very good time for people to be passin',' said she. 'not many folks is on the road between twelve and one. they're generally feedin' themselves and their horses. but if you can make yourselves comfortable here in the shade, i don't think you'll have to wait very long. i'll jes step in and see if my dinner ain't cooked. there ain't nobody in sight.' "sam twitty rubbed his hands together. 'in my opinion,' said he, 'that woman is a fust-class housekeeper.' "in a very few minutes she returned. 'if you gentlemen don't mind,' said she, 'i can give you your dinner here at the same price you'd have to pay anywhere else. i always cook a lot on mondays, so's i can have something cold for the rest of the week. it's on the table now, and you can go in and wait on yourselves.' "sam gave a quick glance at abner. 'you go in with her,' said he, 'and eat your dinner. i'm not hungry, and i'll wait out here and keep the toll-gate. afterwards i'll get a bite.' "the toll-gate woman smiled. 'perhaps it would be better for me to go in and wait on one of you at a time; but i don't think it's likely there'll be anybody passin'.' "abner did not object--he was hungry; and he followed the toll-gate woman into her house. sam twitty made a motion as if he would dance a little in his slippered feet. "'that's jes like runnin' across a dead whale what's jes expired of too much fat. all you've got to do is to cut it up and try it down. the fust thing cap'n abner does is to run into a widow woman that'll suit him, i believe, better than anybody he'll meet, if he cruises around thompsontown for a week.' "sam sat down on the bench and pictured things in his mind: he took the toll-gate woman all over captain abner's house, even into the unmarried part, and everywhere he saw her the same bright-cheeked, pleasantly smiling woman she was here in her own house. the picture pleased him so much that he withdrew his senses from the consideration of everything else, and therefore it was he did not hear wheels on the road, and was awakened from his pleasant dreams by a voice outside the door. he bounced to his slippered feet, and entered the toll-house. "on the roadway was a buggy and a horse, and in the buggy sat a smiling young woman. why she smiled sam could not imagine; but then, he could not see the comical expression on his own face on being thus suddenly aroused to a sense of his duty. "'how much is the toll?' said the young woman, still smiling. "sam looked at her; she was a good-looking young person, and he liked her smile, for it betokened a sense of humor, and that pleased him. 'how much?' he repeated. 'a vehicle, a man, and a horse--' "'but this is a girl and a mare,' she interrupted. 'how much is that?' "sam looked up and smiled. this young person certainly had a sense of humor. 'i wonder how much that would be,' he said. 'i guess i'll have to get a pencil and paper and work it out.' "the girl laughed. 'you are not the toll-gate keeper?' she asked. "'no,' replied sam. 'i'm keepin' it for her. she's eatin' her dinner. don't you know the toll yourself? you've paid it before, haven't you?' "'no, i haven't,' she replied. 'i am visiting in the neighborhood. but i won't haggle about being a girl. i'll pay the price for a man, if you will let me know what it is.' "an idea came suddenly into sam twitty's head: this was a very bright girl, a very attractive girl, who was visiting in the neighborhood, and he determined to keep her at the toll-gate a few minutes if he could. "'i don't want to make any mistake,' he said quickly. 'i'll jes pop into the house and see what the toll really'll be for you.' "'oh, you needn't do that,' said the young woman. 'of course it is the same--' "but sam was gone; and she laughed and said to herself that the deputy toll-gate keeper was a very funny person. sam ran to the house, panting. he beckoned to captain abner to step outside. "'look a' here,' he said; 'you hurry out to the gate and take a good long look at the girl that's there. she's a-visitin' in the neighborhood. now mind you take a good look at her, and i'll be there in a minute.' "without exactly understanding the reason for this earnest injunction, abner went to the gate. he was accustomed to taking sam's advice if he saw no good reason against it. "the toll-gate woman was on her feet, but sam detained her, and said something about the relation between sex and toll. "'well, well,' said the woman, 'she must be a queer one. i'll go out to her.' "'oh, no,' cried sam. 'sit here and finish your dinner. he's comin' right back, and i'll collect the toll.' half-way to the toll-house sam met abner. 'what do you think of her?' he asked hurriedly. 'did you take a good look at her?' "'yes, i did,' replied his friend, 'and i don't think nothin' of her. what is there to think about her?' "'go back to your dinner,' cried sam. 'i've got to collect her toll.' "'i want you to tell me,' said the girl, not smiling now, 'do you keep a detective here? do you think i want to cheat the road out of its toll? i am ready to pay the charge, whatever it is.' "'detective!' exclaimed sam. "'yes,' said she; 'that little brown man who came out here and looked at me as if he were determined to know me the next time he saw me.' "'oh, him!' said sam. 'that's a friend of mine, cap'n abner budlong. he's no detective, nor nothin' like one. he jes came out to see who was passin' while i was findin' out about the toll. he's always fond of seein' people.' "'i should think he was,' said the young woman. 'in fact, i think you are a funny lot, toll-gate woman and all. now here is a quarter; please take the toll and give me the change, that is, if you know how to calculate.' "sam took the money, but he did not immediately make the change. 'i don't want you to think hard of any of us,' said he, 'on account of your bein' kept here a little longer than common. but specially i don't want you to think hard of my friend cap'n abner budlong, the gentleman who stepped out here to see who was passin'. bless your soul, he's no detective! he's one of the finest fellows i know, and you jes ought to see his house at shamrick. it's filled with more things that's nice to look at and things that's comfortable to use than any other house in that region. everything's jes as clean and shipshape--' "'he must have a good wife,' the young woman interrupted. "'he hasn't got no wife at all,' said sam, delighted to get in this piece of information. 'never had one.' "the girl looked at him, and then she laughed merrily. 'i really must go on,' she said. 'you truly are a funny lot, all of you.' and as she drove on she looked back, still laughing. "sam twitty rubbed his hands together quite cheerfully, and went into the house to get his dinner. "'did that woman change your five-dollar note?' asked the keeper of the toll-gate. "'bless my soul!' exclaimed sam. 'i never thought to ask her.' "'what did you ask her?' cried the woman. 'she was out there for the longest time, and i thought of course you was gettin' your note changed.' "sam smiled. 'she was very interesting,' said he." "what a treasure sam twitty would be in a matrimonial bureau!" exclaimed the mistress of the house. "provided he exercised a little more caution in the selection of his specimens," suggested john gayther, respectfully. "some might be too green and some the other way, you know; he didn't seem over-particular." "three travellers passed through," continued the master of the house, "but not one of them could change a five-dollar note; and abner chafed at the delay. "'i don't like wastin' time like this,' said he to sam, as the two smoked their after-dinner pipes. "'wastin'!' exclaimed sam. 'i don't call this wastin' time. we didn't start till late this mornin', and here we've got sight of two of her a'ready. here's this one, as red-cheeked and sociable as anybody could expect, and then there's that gal in the buggy.' "'gal in the buggy!' exclaimed abner. 'what on earth are you talkin' about her for?' "'why shouldn't i?' asked sam. 'i tell you, cap'n abner, she's the prettiest and the liveliest young woman you'd be likely to meet if you cruised for a year, and she's visitin' right in the neighborhood, and can't be far from shamrick.' "'codwollops!' said abner, contemptuously. "in the course of an hour old joshua asbury drove up in his farm-wagon, and changed the five-dollar note, and was glad to do it, for he did not like to carry so much inconvenient silver and copper in his pocket. the two friends now made ready to depart. "'let's hurry up,' said sam. 'we've done fust-rate so far, and maybe we'll sight one or two more afore bedtime.' "'when you come back,' said the woman, 'i'd be glad to have you stop and rest, and give your horse a feed if you want to.' "sam twitty assured her most earnestly that they certainly would stop, whether they wanted rest and a feed or not; and he thanked her warmly as he paid for the kind entertainment she had given them. "'sam,' said abner, when they were on the road, 'the trouble with you is, you're too quick. if you was at the tiller you'd run into the fust port you come to, and there wouldn't be no v'yage at all.' "'there's no knowin' when a fellow may want to run into port,' replied sam, 'and it's a good thing to find out all about them as you're coastin' along.' "a few miles from the toll-gate they came to the bottom of a long hill, and half-way up it they saw, going in the same direction as themselves, a man walking vigorously. "'by the general cut of his clothes,' said sam, 'i'd say he is a minister.' "'i expect you're right,' said abner. 'most likely fillin' some fishin' minister's pulpit sunday, and walkin' home monday.' "the pedestrian clergyman walked more slowly as he neared the top of the hill, and the gray horse gradually overhauled him. "'look a' here,' said sam, nudging his companion, 'let's give him a lift. he must be dreadfully hot. and then, by george, cap'n abner, jes think what a jolly thing it'll be--goin' after her, and takin' a minister along, sittin' comfortable on the back seat! that's like holdin' a landin'-net ready to scoop her up the minute you get her to the top of the water.' "they stopped and asked the clergyman if he were going to thompsontown, and when he said he was, they invited him to get in and take the unoccupied seat. he proved to be an agreeable companion; he was young and very grateful. sam soon fell into a very friendly conversation with him, and two or three times, when abner thought that his friend was on the point of saying something that bore too directly on the object of their journey, he pressed his port boot gently upon sam's starboard slipper. "toward the middle of the afternoon they reached thompsontown, where the young clergyman said he was going to stop for the night, and go on by train the next day. sam twitty was glad to hear this, and advised him to stop at the spinnaker boom, where he and captain abner intended to stay until they finished the business which brought them to thompsontown. "thompsontown was a seaside resort, and rather a lively place in the season. there was a large hotel for summer visitors who could afford to pay good prices, and several smaller houses of entertainment, such as the spinnaker boom, where people of moderate means were made very comfortable. "it was much too early for supper, and captain abner and sam took a long walk on the beach, and at their invitation the young clergyman joined them. this gentleman, who did not seem to know any one in thompsontown, proved to be a thorough landsman; but as he was chatty and glad to acquire knowledge, it gave captain abner and sam a great deal of pleasure to talk to him on nautical points and thereby improve his mind. on their return, sam stopped with a start, and almost dropped his pipe. "'what's the matter?' cried captain abner. 'did you see her spout?' "sam made no answer, but stood with his mouth open. he had remarkably good vision. the clergyman stopped and looked at him inquiringly. "'they are coming, both of them!' said sam. "'both of who?' asked abner. "'the gal in the buggy, and the toll-gate woman.'" "if i were telling this story," here interrupted the daughter of the house, excitedly, "i really do not know which one i would marry to captain abner!" "thank you for the compliment, my dear," said her father. "well, there they both were: side by side they were walking along the smooth beach and approaching our three men. sam's eyes sparkled. the toll-gate woman appeared much more comely and attractive than when engaged in her professional duties earlier in the day. she was now attired in fresh-looking summer clothes, and wore a pretty straw hat. as for the girl of the buggy, she was quite another person. it would have been impossible for any one who had merely seen her within the limited confines of a small vehicle to form any idea of the buoyant air and the lively step of this handsome young woman. "'upon my word!' exclaimed sam twitty, advancing toward them. 'who would have expected to meet you two here!' "at this meeting all our characters were variously affected. the toll-gate woman beamed with pleasure; the young woman of the buggy looked as if she were about to laugh; the young minister looked very much interested, although he could have given no good reason why he should be; the countenance of captain abner budlong betrayed no interest whatever; and sam twitty was in a glow of delight. "'i suppose you are surprised to meet me here,' said the toll-gate woman, 'but this is the way of it: a neighbor and his wife came along soon after you left, and offered to bring me to thompsontown; and of course i jumped at the chance, and left the toll-gate in charge of my brother, who lives hard by. and in the town, at the house of a friend, i met this young lady, and--' glancing at her companion, she added: 'i really did not catch the name.' "'miss denby,' stated the young person referred to. "the three men here bowed to miss denby; then, stepping nearer to sam, the toll-gate woman asked in a low voice, 'who is the minister?' "'i don't know his name,' said sam, 'but i'll find out in a minute.' and then he approached the girl of the buggy. 'i am so glad to see you,' he said. "she laughed outright. 'it is awfully funny,' answered she, 'that you care whether you see me or not.' "'i don't think it's funny at all,' said sam. 'but jes let me ask you one thing: what's the name of the toll-gate woman?' "'well, i declare!' she exclaimed. 'from the way she talked about you i thought you were old friends. her name is mrs. sickles.' "sam skipped over to the young clergyman and put his question: 'mr-r-r.?' "'rippledean,' said the young man. "in an instant the quick-slippered sam had joined the party in the bonds of conventional acquaintanceship, having added to the rest of his information the fact that he was samuel twitty of shamrick. "'you are the funniest people i ever met,' exclaimed the lively denby girl. 'none of you seems to know the rest.' "'it is very pleasant to know each other, i am sure,' remarked the toll-gate woman; 'and if i had anything to say about what would be agreeable on such a breezy afternoon as this, now that there's a party of us, i would say it would be to get a boat and take a sail on this sparkling water.' "'a sail!' cried sam. 'why, that will be the best thing in the world, and if you'll wait ten minutes i'll get a boat. cap'n silas peck is a friend of mine, and has got two boats that ain't likely to be out. i'll run down and get one, and have it here in no time.' "in less than a quarter of an hour the party was seated in captain peck's sail-boat, captain abner at the tiller, and sam twitty in charge of the sheet. they decided to sail out to an island about three miles from shore. a stiff breeze was blowing, and captain abner was in his glory. the wind was much too high for ordinary pleasure-boats, and there were no other sails upon the bay; but summer visitors and seafaring men stood along the beach and watched the admirable manner in which that little craft was handled. word was passed from one to another that it was captain abner budlong of shamrick who was at the tiller; many of the watchers had heard of captain abner and what he had done in days gone by, and they were proud to see what their neighbor of shamrick was doing now. "mrs. sickles sat beaming, both hands grasping the rail and her feet firmly braced, but with an expression of perfect trust, as she gazed from captain abner to sam twitty, which would have been edifying to any one of weak habits of faith. the younger woman's hat was off, and her hair was flying like a streamer from a masthead. she drank in the salt breeze with delight, and her eyes sparkled as the boat dipped at the turn of captain abner's tiller until the rail cut under the surface of the water as if it were skimming a pan of milk. she looked upon the bright-eyed sailor at the helm as though he were some sort of a salt-water deity whom it was suitable to worship. it was better than sparkling wine to her to dash over the sparkling water. "the island shore drew near; the little boat bore bravely down upon it, and then with a beautiful sweep fell into the wind; her great wing dropped and hung listless, and her keel gently grazed the sand." "very beautiful! oh, so fine a turn to words!" exclaimed the frenchman, who was very intent upon the story. "my papa is a sailor," said the daughter of the house, proudly. "you should see him bring around a great vessel with a grand sweep, so quietly and so gracefully!" "you never saw me do anything of the kind," said her father, in surprise. "i have never seen you," she admitted reluctantly, "but i know just how you would do it." her father smiled and laid a hand on her head. "well, my dear," he said, "what sam twitty told the inmates of the boat was this: 'if there was an egg-shell 'twixt her bow and the beach, cap'n abner wouldn't have smashed it.' "the captain stemmed the praises which now poured upon him, with a jerk of the head. 'that's all very well,' said he, 'but i'm goin' to give sam twitty a chance; he'll sail you back.' "when the party was on shore and the boat safely moored, sam twitty began to jump about like a collie dog in charge of a flock of sheep. he had said little in the boat, but his mind had been busily at work with the contemplation of great possibilities. there was much to be done, and but little time to do it in, but sam's soul warmed up to its work. casting a rapid glance around, he singled out captain abner, and, dashing into the little party, cut him off from his companions, and drove him out of ear-shot. "'now, cap'n abner,' said he, 'your time's come, and the quicker you get to work the better.' "'work!' cried abner. 'what work have i got to do!' "'do!' exclaimed sam. 'you've got lots to do. look at that sun. it's settin' jes as steady as if it was bein' towed into port, and you'll never get another chance like this. here's two women to pop your question to; here is a minister on hand; here's me and the young woman what don't get chosen, for witnesses; here's all them white caps skippin' over the water; and here's this clean stretch of sand. there couldn't be a better place for a sailor to be married in than jes here.' "'but i tell you, sam,' said abner, a little querulously, 'i didn't come here to marry one of them women. i didn't start on this trip to make fast to the fust female person i might fall in with. i set out on a week's cruise, and i want to see a lot of them afore i make a ch'ice.' "'i tell you, cap'n,' said sam, very earnestly, 'it won't do. you might hang round thompsontown for a year, and you wouldn't find any two such women as them two. here they are, two kinds to pick from: one of them as ripe as a peach, and the other like a cross between a cricket and a blossom. and you've got no time to fool away. when the sun goes down you've got to sail back to thompsontown, and then one will go one way and the other another, and where the minister will go to, nobody knows. they'll all be scattered and out of sight, and this glorious chance you've got might as well be at the bottom of the sea. now, cap'n, i tell you, this thing that's right afore you is what you come for. jes you listen to what i say to you: you go to that mrs. sickles and let her see how you're standin' and what your course is. she's no fool, and she can see the sense of gettin' over a sandbar at high tide jes as well as you can.' "captain abner hesitated a moment. 'she's a mighty fine woman, sam,' said he, 'but if i go and set the case afore her, and she agrees to ship with me, then i can't ask the other one, and there might as well be no other one; and she's as pert a little clipper as ever i seed, sam, and she likes sailin', that she does.' "'now don't you worry about that,' said sam. 'you jes say all you've got to say to her, and hear all she's got to say, but don't sign no papers and take her aboard until you talk to that other girl. now hurry up, and walk along the beach a little further off.' "without waiting for an answer, sam twitty galloped away, or that was what he would have done had he been a sheep-dog. he darted in between mrs. sickles and her companions; he turned her down the beach; he talked to her in rapid snaps about the sea, the sky, the sand, and before she knew it he had driven her alongside of captain abner. then, with what might have been compared to a bark of satisfaction, he bounced away to join the others, who were looking for shells. "in about ten minutes sam twitty's port eye told him that captain abner and the toll-gate woman were approaching, but in abner there were signs of a disposition to fall back. in an instant he had bounded between them and was showing shells to the widow. then, letting her go on by herself, he turned sharply upon abner. "'well,' said he, their heads close together, 'what did she say? is she all right?' "captain abner threw a glance over the water as if his soul were yearning for the fancied possibilities of thompsontown. 'oh, it's all right enough, so far as she counts,' said he. 'i went straight at it, and put the whole thing afore her. i told her about the house and the two parts to it and what they was for, and she said that was charmin'. and i told her about the king conch-shell and the gilded idol, and she said she thought either one of them would be jes lovely, and nothin', she thought, could be better on mantelpieces than gilded idols and king conch-shells. and everything else was jes as slick and smooth as if she was slidin' off the stocks. she's good-lookin' enough, sam, but she ain't got no mind, and i didn't fix up that house, and bother myself year in and year out a-gettin' it all right, to take it and give it to a woman what's got no mind. she'd be jes as well satisfied to see me a-settin' up on the mantelpiece as if the gilded idol or the king conch-shell was there.' "'and she don't suit you?' asked sam, eagerly. "'no, sir,' replied the other; 'she don't suit.' "'all right!' exclaimed the ever-ready sam; 'jes you wait where you are one minute.' in less than that time the agile sam had rounded up miss denby and had her walking along the beach by the side of captain abner, and whether she thought that skilful skipper was going to show her some rare seaweed or the state of his mind, sam considered not for one minute. he had brought the two together, and that was all he cared about. "the good mrs. sickles was standing alone, reflectively gazing upon the little waves, so sam had no trouble in carrying off the minister to a little distance for confidential remarks. "'i want you to tell me, sir,' said he, 'if there is any law ag'in' your marryin' a party on the sea-shore, especially when one of them is a sailor?' "mr. rippledean laughed. 'as i am a regularly ordained minister, i can perform a marriage anywhere,' said he, 'provided the parties are of legal age, and there are no objections. but what are you talking about? who wants to be married?' "'i can't say jes now,' answered sam; 'matters isn't settled yet: but everything is goin' ahead lively with a stiff breeze, and i guess we'll get into soundin's pretty soon. i only spoke to you to know if you'd be all right when the couple's ready.' "'there is nothing the matter with me,' said the young man; 'but i would like to know--' "'jes you lay to for a while,' said sam, 'and i'll tell you all about it.' and then, noticing that mrs. sickles was glancing toward the captain and his companion as if she thought to join them, he dashed out upon her to cut her off. "meanwhile miss denby, with glowing eyes, was saying: 'yes, i do love to sail, and to sail in a small boat, close to the water, almost as if i were in it, skimming like a bird with my wings dipping. oh, it is grand! and you have a sail-boat?' "and the captain answered: 'indeed i have, and there's none better, either for sailing on the wind, or before the wind, or with next to no wind at all.' "'how wonderfully you must sail it! i could not keep my eyes off you as you brought us over here. it was grand! you made her do anything you pleased.' "the captain smiled and nodded. 'but i think of my house as much as i do of my boat, miss,' said he. 'i've got a mighty nice parlor that's as good as any ship's cabin. and now let me put this p'int to you: if you had a big king conch-shell, the prettiest you ever seed, and it was on the middle of the mantelpiece, and you had a gilded idol in another place, would you put the idol where the conch-shell was, and the conch-shell where the idol was, or would you leave 'em both jes where they was afore?' "the young woman laughed merrily. 'what kind of an idol would it be?' she asked. 'a beautiful piece of carving?' "''tain't that,' said captain abner; 'it's jes a piece of wood whittled out by a heathen; but it used to be in a temple, and it's gilded all over.' "'oh, dear!' said she, 'i don't think much of that sort of an idol. i might like to be a gilded idol myself, if i had the right person to worship me. but as for a wooden idol, i wouldn't put that on the mantelpiece, and i am of the same opinion as to the conch-shell.' "'but it's a king conch-shell,' said the captain. "'i don't care,' said she; 'king or queen, it would be all the same to me. but if i were you i think i'd be most of the time in the boat. what is a house, no matter what it has in it, compared to a boat dancing over the waves and speeding before the wind?' "captain abner looked at her. 'i expect you'd like to learn to steer, wouldn't you?' "'indeed i would,' she answered. 'there is nothing i would like better.' "captain abner put his hands into his pockets and gently whistled, and, leaving him, miss denby ran to join the toll-gate woman. down swooped sam twitty. "'is it all right?' he whispered to abner. "'all up,' the other answered, 'and i'm glad of it. she don't want no gilded idol, and she don't want no king conch-shell. she wants her hand on the tiller, that's what she wants. she's got too much mind for me. after i've been workin' year in and year out a-gettin' my affairs the way i wants them, i don't fancy anybody comin' down on me and takin' the tiller out of my hands.' "sam made two or three steps forward, and then he stood gazing in the direction of the setting sun. resting on one slippered foot and extending the other before him, he folded his arms and remained a few moments wrapped in thought. suddenly he turned. "'cap'n abner,' he cried, 'it won't do to sink this chance! it'll never pop up ag'in. you must have spoke pretty plain to that toll-gate woman, considerin' the way she's been turnin' it over in her mind.' "'yes, i did,' said captain abner, 'and that's the way i found out what she was. but i didn't ask her to ship with me.' "'and you don't want her to?' said sam. "'no, i don't.' "'and you don't want the other one, nuther?' "'no, i don't,' replied captain abner, doggedly. 'i don't want nuther of 'em. and i say, sam, the sun's gettin' down and it's about time for us to be settin' sail.' "'there's a good stretch of sky under that sun yet,' said sam, 'and jes you wait a bit, cap'n.' "sam twitty walked slowly along the sandy beach; he looked as a sheep-dog might look who was wondering within himself whether or not he had brought back from the fields as many sheep as he had taken out. he stopped, and looked about at the party. captain abner was walking toward the boat; the minister and the denby girl were standing together, comparing shells; the toll-gate woman was strolling by herself a little higher up the beach, still in a reflective mood. sam gazed from his companions to the sky, the water, the beautiful glistening sands. "'it's a shame to lose all this,' he said to himself; 'it's a burnin' shame to sink it all.' then suddenly, as if his master had whistled, he sped to the side of mrs. sickles. backward and forward these two walked, sam talking earnestly and the toll-gate woman listening with great interest. captain abner now and then gave them an impatient glance, but the other couple did not regard them at all. "'but, mr. twitty,' said mrs. sickles, 'this is so unexpected. i had an idea of the kind about cap'n abner, for i could not help it, but you--really! i've heard of you often, mr. twitty, but i never saw you until to-day.' "'now, mrs. sickles,' said sam, 'you couldn't have had a better day to see me in, if you'd waited a year; and a-speakin' quick and sharp as i've got to do, for the sun's keepin' on goin' down, there couldn't be a better day to marry me in.' "'oh, mr. twitty!' cried mrs. sickles, with flushed face. "'there couldn't be a better time or a better place,' said sam, 'and a minister right here, and two witnesses.' "'but, mr. twitty,' said she, 'i really thought that cap'n budlong--and from what he told me about his house and his things--' "'cap'n abner is one of the finest men in this world,' interrupted sam, 'and he's got a fust-class house, and i ain't got none, and he's got all sorts of things from all parts of the world that he's put in it. but i can get a house and things to put in it, and i can do without gilded idols and king conch-shells, and, what's still more to the p'int, mrs. sickles, i wants you, and he don't.' "'there's something in that,' said the toll-gate woman, and then she added: 'but as to marryin' you here and now, mr. twitty, it's not to be thought of.' "sam walked slowly away; one might have thought his head drooped under a rebuke. he approached the young minister and the girl of the buggy. "'look a' here,' said he to the former; 'you don't mean to say, sir, that you'd back out of marryin' a couple right here and now, that was growed up and of full age, and nothin' to hinder.' "'marry!' cried miss denby. 'a wedding right here on this beautiful island! oh, that would be glorious! who wants to be married?' "'i do,' said sam. "they both laughed. 'but the other person?' asked mr. rippledean. 'there must be a bride if you want a wedding.' "'oh, the bride'll be mrs. sickles,' said sam. 'but the trouble is she ain't altogether willin'.' "'i told you,' said the merry miss denby--'you know i told you that you are the funniest people i ever met, and you truly are. people generally come to an agreement between themselves before they speak to the clergyman.' "'mr. twitty,' said the clergyman, 'i strongly advise you to give up your present notions of immediate matrimony, and wait at least until all parties agree upon time and place and upon the other circumstances of this union for which you seem so impatient.' "'hello, sam!' shouted captain abner from the water's edge, 'ain't you comin' along?' "sam made no answer to any one. he walked silently down toward the boat. everything seemed to be breaking loose from him, and slipping away. his old friend, who had so long wanted her, and who had prepared his house for her, and had set out to look for her, had declined to take her when he saw her; and he, sam, who had so thoroughly understood the opportunities which had been spread before the little party that afternoon, and who knew what would happen if these opportunities were allowed to slip out of sight, had been set aside by one woman, laughed at by another, had been advised by a clergyman, and had been scolded by captain abner. his soul resented all this, and he saw that the edge of the sun was nearly touching the rim of the distant sea. with a great slap upon his thigh, he sprang to the side of the boat, and turned and faced the others, all of whom were now approaching him. "'i am to sail this boat back to thompsontown,' he cried. 'it's been agreed i'm to do it, and i'm goin' to do it; but one thing i'll tell you--the sun can go down, the night can come on, and you can all stay here till mornin' if you like, but this boat don't leave this island with me at the helm till i'm a married man!' with this he skipped on board, sat down in the stern, and clapped his broad hands on the tiller. "there was a burst of astonishment from the rest of the party as sam thus seated himself at bay. even the girl of the buggy did not laugh. "'but i must go home,' she cried, 'before it is any later. my friends will be waiting supper for me.' "'don't matter,' said sam. 'supper can wait.' "'look a' here,' said captain abner. "'i don't want to look a' here,' said sam. 'i'm a-lookin' a different way, and it's mrs. sickles i'm lookin' at. and you needn't none of you look cross at me. i'm to steer this boat home, that's settled, and i don't steer her an inch till i'm a married man.' "the others gathered together on the beach and gazed with varied emotions upon the determined figure of sam as he sat in the stern, his arm resting upon the tiller and one leg crossed leisurely over the other, his protruding slipper lighted up by the rays of the setting sun. "'what is the matter with him?' asked mr. rippledean. 'is he crazy? does he really think of forcing us to remain here until he shall be married? i never heard anything--' "'so delightfully absurd,' interrupted miss denby. "'there's nothin' crazy about sam twitty,' said captain abner. 'he's as sound as a nut, body and soul. but when sam makes up his mind he sticks to it. now sometimes when i make up my mind i don't stick to it. he's a good man all around, and he's got enough to live on, though he never was a cap'n; but you couldn't find a better fust mate than him, or a better sailor, except perhaps somebody what's had a leetle more experience. sam made up his mind that we was all comin' out here for a weddin', everything fallin' together exactly to suit, wind and tide and everything else. but sam ain't goin' to force nobody to do nothin'; he ain't that kind. all he's goin' to do is to stay here till he's married.' "the girl of the buggy clapped her hands. 'oh, that is fine!' she cried. 'it is like lifting you up on a horse and dashing away with you. oh, dear mrs. sickles, take pity on him and on all of us. if you do not, i shall have to talk to him myself and see if i--' "mrs. sickles was not inclined to give attention to any such idle words as these, and she stepped up to captain abner. "'you seem to think very well of mr. twitty, sir,' she said. "'indeed i do,' he answered. 'there ain't nobody i think more of, on watch or below, in storm or fine weather, take him as you find him, than i do of him.' "sam twitty had not heard any of the remarks which had been made on shore; he had been communing with himself: but now his active mind would no longer permit him to sit still. springing to his feet, he stepped forward and stood up in the bow of the boat, and cast his eye over the little party in front of him. then he spoke: "'mrs. sickles, i want to put a p'int to you that's been put to you afore, but i want to put it a little different. if there was a gilded idol and a king conch-shell that you knowed of, and you was asked which of them you would like to have for your own, and you only could have one--' "'oh, dear!' exclaimed miss denby, 'here is that delightful gilded idol and conch-shell again! i wonder what they will do now!' "the toll-gate woman was paling and flushing, and these changes of countenance, combined with her becoming summer dress and her straw hat, made her very attractive to the eye. without waiting for sam to finish his remarks, she spoke: "'i am very sure, mr. twitty, that both the things you mention, from what i have heard of them, would be very nice and pleasant; but you see, mr. twitty, i don't--' "sam suddenly stepped upon the rail, steadying himself by the mast. 'mrs. sickles,' he cried, 'i'll put it plainer to you: supposing you couldn't get the gilded idol?' "mrs. sickles now saw very clearly that there was no more time for hesitation. she stepped a little forward. "'in that case,' she said, 'i'd take the conch-shell.' "with a bound, sam twitty sprang from the shore, and the next moment he had seized the blushing mrs. sickles by the hand. for a moment he gazed proudly around, the sunset light casting a ruddy glow upon his countenance which made it almost as rosy as that of his companion. then he tucked her under his arm and turned toward the minister. "'please step this way, mr. rippledean,' he said. 'that little bluff there, with grass on it, is the place i've picked out for the ceremony. and, cap'n abner, i'll ask you and that young woman to follow along after us and stand up for witnesses.' "just as the upper edge of the sun disappeared beneath the glowing sea, the name of sickles departed from observation and recognition on that line of longitude. but in the glow upon the faces of mr. and mrs. twitty there was nothing to remind one of a sunset sky. it might have been supposed, rather, that they were gazing eastward, and that the morn was glorious. "having gravely saluted his bride, sam lifted up his voice. he was used to that sort of thing, for he had been a boatswain. 'cap'n abner budlong,' he exclaimed, 'step aft and kiss the bride!' "when this command had been obeyed with urbane alacrity, sam called out again, very much as if he were piping all hands to osculation: 'rev. mr. rippledean, step aft and kiss the bride!' "when the minister had retired from the performance of his duty, sam cast a speaking glance in the direction of miss denby. he looked as if he would say that on this occasion it was a great pity that any one should be left out. the girl of the buggy understood his glance, and lifted up her voice in laughter. "'oh, no, mr. twitty,' said she, 'it is not the custom to kiss witnesses.' "'oh, no,' answered mrs. twitty, in tones of approbation; and these were the first words she spoke after she had ceased to be sickles. "as that boat of blissfulness sped across the bay, speeding along under a strong breeze from the west, under a sky full of orange-colored clouds, sam twitty's strong hand grasped the tiller with an energy which would have been sufficient for the guidance of a ship of the line. as the thin sheets of water curled over the lee scuppers of the boat, the right hand which held sam's left never trembled nor tightened its hold; and when the clergyman, sitting by miss denby, asked her if she felt at all afraid, she cheerily replied: "'not with the gilded idol and the king conch-shell both on board--no, not i!' * * * * * "the honeymoon of mr. and mrs. twitty was spent in thompsontown, and lasted three days; for at the end of that time the bride's brother demanded to be released from the care of the toll-gate, having other duties which were incumbent upon him. but when sam and his wife spoke of leaving the spinnaker boom, captain abner was perfectly willing to go with them. his face bore an expression of contented resignation. "'i will drive you two back, sam,' said he. ''tain't no more use for me to stay here. i don't believe i'll find her, and i give it up.' "on the way home the happy mr. twitty burst out laughing. 'it do seem awful comical, cap'n abner,' said he, 'that, after all we said about comin' home, that me and her should be a-settin' on the back seat and you a-drivin' in front alone.' and when this remark was explained to mrs. twitty she laughed very heartily indeed. "sam did not go directly back to shamrick. his wife had a good house, and could not, without due notice, give up her public office, and so he determined to remain, for the present, in the very pleasant quarters thus afforded him. but he vowed with considerable vehemence that mrs. twitty should keep the toll-gate no more; this duty, so long as it had to be performed, he would take upon himself, and he found it a most congenial and interesting occupation. "'like it!' he exclaimed to his wife, after his first day's experience. 'it's as interestin' as readin' the weekly paper. everybody that comes along seems ready for some different kind of chat. and when that young woman with the buggy happens to be drivin' this way, she don't pay no toll. i'll pay for her myself, every time, on account of her services as witness.' "'no, you don't, sam twitty,' remarked his consort; 'that young woman pays her own toll, every time. while i'm here i don't want no changes in the customs of this toll-gate.' * * * * * "it was about a fortnight after sam twitty's wedding that that well-satisfied individual, being called to the gate by the sound of wheels, beheld a buggy, and miss denby sitting therein. in answer to sam's cheerful greeting, she did not laugh, nor even smile. "'i saw your friend captain abner about a week ago,' she said, 'as i drove through shamrick, and he looked dreadfully solemn. i think his disappointment is wearing on him. it is a great pity that a man who can sail a boat as he can should have a moment's sorrow on this earth. it almost made me feel sorry he found out i wanted to learn to steer. i think that was the only barrier between us. and he would have taken me out sailing every fine day!' "'oh, no, no,' said sam; 'that would never have done. you could never have kept your hands off the tiller. if he had known what was good for him he would have married her.' these words he spoke in a confidential tone, and pointed with his thumb behind him. 'but he had the chance, and he didn't take it, and now i don't wonder he's doleful.' "'you ought to go and try to cheer him up,' said miss denby, gathering up the reins. 'do you expect to go on keeping this toll-gate, mr. twitty?' "'i'd like to,' said sam, 'if you're goin' to keep on travellin' this way.' "'oh!' said miss denby, with a reproving smile. "'yes, indeed,' said sam; 'for it reminds me of such a happy day.' "'oh!' said miss denby, as she drove away with her nose in the air. "a few days after this sam did go to shamrick, and walking on the street he met captain abner; but, to his surprise, that individual did not look at all doleful. there was a half-smile on his lips, and his step was buoyant. the two old friends clasped hands with much heartiness. "'you are as gay as a pot of red paint,' said sam. 'you must be feelin' well.' "'i should say so,' said abner; and then, after a portentous pause, he added: 'i've got her.' "'got her!' exclaimed sam, in amazement. 'where did you get her?' "'got her here.' "'and who is it you've got?' "'susan shellbark.' "'susan shellbark!' cried sam. 'you don't mean to say that!' "'it's susan shellbark, and i do mean to say that.' "'why, you've known her all your life,' said sam. "'all my life,' was the answer. "'then why didn't you take her afore?' asked his friend. "'because i hadn't been to thompsontown to see what i could get there. of course i didn't want to take anybody here until i found out what there was in thompsontown. now i know there ain't nothin' for me there.' "'and so you take susan shellbark!' interrupted sam. "'and so i take susan shellbark.' "sam looked at his friend for a moment, and then burst out laughing. 'give me your hand,' he cried. 'i'm mighty glad you've got susan shellbark, and i'm mighty glad you went to thompsontown.' "'so am i,' said captain abner. 'if i hadn't gone to thompsontown i'd never have got susan shellbark.' "'that's so,' cried sam. 'and if you hadn't made up your mind to go to thompsontown, you and me'd never got stuck at the toll-gate with nothin' but a five-dollar note. i'm mighty glad we was stuck, cap'n abner; i'm mighty glad we was stuck!' "thereupon the two friends shook hands again. "'but there is one thing i want to ask,' said sam. 'what about the gilded idol and the king conch-shell?' "'oh, that's all right,' said captain abner; 'they're both to go on to the mantelpiece, one on one end, and t'other on the other. that's to be the way with everything we've got. you've knowed susan shellbark as long as i have, sam, and you know she'll stick to that bargain.' "'that's so,' said sam; 'she'll stick to that bargain. both of you'll be on the mantelpiece, one on one end, and the other on t'other.'" "and what became of the girl in the buggy?" asked the mistress of the house. "her later history is unknown to me," said the master of the house. "i have not made up my mind about that story, papa," said the daughter of the house. "it is not altogether satisfactory." "but very much what usually happens," said john gayther, in an undertone. this story is told by the frenchman and is called my balloon hunt vi my balloon hunt the next morning, after breakfast, the mistress of the house and john gayther were walking through the garden together, for her quick eye had detected much that needed attention. some things she had already decided upon, but there were others in which she thought it best to ask john's advice. they did not always agree; in fact, they were seldom in exact accord: but both were sensible, and he reasoned that, as mistress, she ought to do as she pleased; and she reasoned that, as he had learned the business and she had not, it was just to him and to herself that he should, on many points, be allowed his own way. the orchard was really a continuation of the lower terrace of the garden, but the mistress had not been there for some time. "a great many pears, john," she commented as they strolled under the trees; "a fair show of apples: but there are no plums at all." "plums have their seasons," said john, sententiously. "they are not always falling in one's way; and these are choice plums and don't come promiscuous--sorter scattered like." "i wonder if john means that for philosophy," thought the mistress. then aloud: "my daughter brought me a luscious one yesterday, and, really, it looks as if she had gathered the only one." "bless her heart!" said john, fervently, "i hope she's goin' to pick them up all along the way she goes." "that is too much to hope for any one, john," said the mistress, as they turned to go up into the garden; but in her heart she had the very same hope. they walked through two terraces filled with luxuriant vegetables and bordered by small fruits, now out of season; then on to the third terrace, bordered by currant-bushes, beautiful now to look upon, hung as they were with a profusion of red tassels. and here there came to them an almost overpowering fragrance; for on the terrace above were great beds of lilies, now in their glory--lilies from many climes, lilies of many hues: great white spikes, small pink clusters, spotted, striped, variegated, white with borders of all colors, even black (or purple so dark it looked black), all standing proudly in the sunshine, and sending to heaven their incense of gratitude. it was a gorgeous sight, and the two looked at it with delight and a good deal of pride, for it was the design and the handiwork of both. then they saw, behind all this glory, a group of people disposed in various comfortable positions about the little summer-house on the upper terrace, where the view was finest. there was the master of the house in the big garden-chair; there was the frenchman, seated on a low grassy knoll; there was the daughter of the house on the bench she liked; and beside her was the next neighbor, who was an intimate friend of the daughter of the house, and, therefore, a frequent visitor. the nearest house was not in sight, but it could be reached in a moderate walk. its mistress was a young married woman, very pretty to look at and of a lively turn of mind. she waved her hand to the mistress, while the master called out: "come up here, you two! we are waiting for you." when the two complied with the command, the master continued: "now make yourselves comfortable and listen to a story our guest has promised us." the mistress of the house willingly took the rustic chair the frenchman brought forward, but john gayther had no wish to hear the frenchman's story. he had no fancy for the man, and he did not believe he would fancy his story. "excuse me," he said to the master of the house, "but i see that boy jacob coming through the gate, and i must go with him to weed the melon-bed." "you will do nothing of the kind," said the master of the house; "let the boy weed it alone." "never!" cried john, in horror. "he will trample on all the vines!" "then tell him to do something else." and, without waiting for john to give the order, he called out: "ahoy, there, boy! clear out of this garden!" the boy vanished with celerity, and john gayther sank upon his stool with an air of resignation. but no sooner had the frenchman uttered a few sentences than he brightened up, and not only listened attentively but put aside the disagreeable feeling he had had for him. the beginning of the narrative lifted a load from his mind. the frenchman, having again betaken himself to the grassy mound, began in an easy, airy way: "i am a sportsman as well as a frenchman. it seems hardly necessary to mention both of these things at once, for in my mind they naturally go together. i am expert in many kinds of sports, and it pleases me much, when engaged in such recreations, to employ my mind as well as my body, and in so doing i frequently devise methods of pursuing my favorite sports which are never made use of by ordinary and unimaginative persons. "my irene--she is my wife--is also addicted to sport. it was partly for this reason that i married her. it is not always by sharing my dangers and my glories that my dear irene shows her passion for the outdoor sports which are so fascinating to me; it is often that she does this merely by sympathy. she can remain at home and think of me in the field or on the stream, and be happy. when i return she welcomes, she appreciates. if i overstay my time i do not give myself worry--i know that she will understand that there are contingencies. when she greets me there are no reproaches. she is the wife for a sportsman! "but it is not always that i rely simply upon the sympathy of my irene. it was not so when i went in a balloon to hunt tigers. she was then at my side, for there was no other place where she would have been satisfied, or where i would have had her. there are vicissitudes which should be faced together by those who love. "i had long wished to hunt tigers, and it had come into my head that it would be a grand and novel idea, and also extremely practicable, to shoot at these savage creatures from a balloon. this would be an exhilarating sensation, and it would be safe. in no other way would i take my irene with me when tiger-hunting; and in no other way, i freely admit, would i be very desirous of going myself. "i have heard that one of my countrymen had himself shut up in a stout cage and conveyed to a region infested by tigers. there, with his rifle, he sat comfortably in a chair, with a lantern on a table near by. when, at night, the tigers crowded round his cage, he shot them. but this would not have suited me. suppose a bar of the cage should have been broken! "but in a balloon it would be different. poised in the air a moderate distance above the ground, i could shoot at tigers beneath me and laugh at their efforts to reach my height. therefore it was that i determined to hunt my tigers in a balloon. irene screamed when i mentioned this plan, but she did not refuse to go with me. she had been in balloons, but she had never seen an unrestricted tiger. now she could enjoy these two pleasures at once, and be with me. "this happened in french tonkin. we were in a little outlying town where there was a garrison, and some engineers who made military observations in a balloon. this was a captive balloon not employed for independent ascensions, and from some of the officers, who were my friends, i procured it for my projected tiger hunt. they were all much interested in my expedition, for if it succeeded there would be a new variety of sport in this monotonous region. "the balloon was supplied with gas sufficient to carry myself and my irene, with rifles, provisions, and various necessities, and its lifting power was so proportioned to the weight it carried as to keep it at the height of an ordinary church steeple above the earth. "about ten miles from the town there was a long stretch of desert and barren land, extending for about a quarter of a mile from a jungle and forest to a river; and here, i was told, tigers were often to be found, sometimes crossing the open country to slake their thirst at the stream, but more frequently to prevent antelopes and other tender animals from slaking their thirst. there could be no better spot than this for my experiment. "our journey to the hunting-ground was most delightful. seating ourselves in the commodious car which hung beneath the balloon, we rose to the height of the rope which restrained its ascent. the lower end of this rope was then seized by natives, active and strong, who ran along, pulling the balloon above them. it was the most comfortable method of progression that i had ever known. there were no jars, scarcely any sense of motion. the great overhanging balloon sheltered us from the sun; we leaned over the side of the car, surveyed the landscape, and breathed the fresh morning air. then we breakfasted and smoked our cigarettes. i was happy; my irene was happy. we could have journeyed thus for days. "but when we came to the appointed place we prepared for business. we had with us a machine for anchoring the balloon, and the natives immediately went to work to drive this deeply into the soil, about half-way between the water and the jungle, so that we might be moored at a proper distance above the ground. there was no wind; the balloon hung almost motionless. it had been arranged that when it should be properly attached the natives should leave us, and return in the evening to pull us back to the town, and to carry away the skins of the tigers we had killed. "it was truly luxurious hunting! the rifle of my irene was light and suitable for a lady; mine was of the most improved pattern. we had another one in case of emergencies. we sat and looked down upon the men, urging them to hasten their work and be gone; we were longing for our sport. "suddenly there was a cry from one of the natives. gazing toward the jungle, he yelled: 'a tiger! a tiger!' instantly our hearts stopped beating and our eyes were turned toward the jungle. there, against the matted leaves and stalks, was a mass of yellow and black--half a tiger. in the bright sunlight we could see it plainly. it had been roused by the noise of the pounding, and was gazing out to see what was the matter. with one united scream, the natives shot away. they scattered; they disappeared utterly and at once. where they went i know not. we never saw them again. we did not even think of them. our eyes were set fast upon the black and yellow stripes and the great head. without volition i grasped my rifle. irene put her hand upon her weapon, but i whispered to her not to move. "the tiger came slowly out of the jungle so that we could see him clearly; then he walked toward us. i clutched my rifle still more tightly. "suddenly irene whispered to me: 'we are not fastened; those men did not attach the rope; and we may drift away from him, perhaps across the river, and so lose him. is it too far for a shot?' "'entirely, entirely,' i answered; 'we must wait: and if we do drift across the river we may find some other game there. be quiet!' "so we both were quiet; but the balloon did not drift: there was no wind. "the tiger moved gently toward us; it was dreadful to remain thus motionless and see him come on. he had paid no attention to the escaping natives: he was giving his mind entirely to our balloon. he looked up at us, and he looked down at the end of the rope, a yard or two of which was moving about like a snake as the balloon veered a little this way and that. "this seemed to interest the tiger. he stopped for a few moments and looked at it. he was now near enough for us to observe him closely. we did so with breathless interest. he was a long tiger, and very thin; his flabby flanks seemed to indicate that he was hungry. suddenly he gave a quick bound; he ceased to regard the balloon; his eyes were fixed upon the end of the rope. with great leaps he reached it. he arched his back and looked at it as it moved, then he put one paw upon it. we leaned over the edge of the car and watched him. "the rope was so attached that by putting out her arm irene could reach it. she seized it and made the lower end of it move more quickly on the ground. the tiger gave a jump, with his eyes on the rope. then he leaped forward, and over and over again he put his foot upon it and quickly jerked it away. "'what are you doing?' i whispered. 'are you mad? you may enrage him. do not touch the rope! do not touch it again!' oh, the recklessness, the unthinking playfulness of woman! how can we guard against it? how can we be safe from it? "the rope was now still for a moment. it ceased to interest the tiger, and he looked upward. suddenly an idea came into his head. he seized the rope in his great jaws, and gave a powerful jump backward. oh, what a jerk, what a shock! it was worse than an earthquake. it was like a great throb from the heart of the tiger to the heart of the man. i must have turned pale. did he intend to haul us down? this fearsome thought vented itself in smothered ejaculations, and irene turned to me and spoke in her usual voice: "'he cannot do that, for it is impossible for him to haul us down hand over hand or paw over paw. he is only playing. the rope amuses him. and we need not speak in whispers; even if he hears us he cannot understand us. is it not time to shoot?' "she is so precipitate, my irene. i love her, but she lacks that prudent hesitancy which so often gives a man his power over circumstances. "still i considered the case: if i were going to shoot at all, this was surely a good time. everything had come so suddenly that i had not had time to collect myself, to prepare for action. "i looked steadfastly down at the beast, and so did my irene. i was becoming calmer. he looked up at us with an air of concentration; he paid no more attention to the rope. "i lifted my rifle; i scrutinized its every portion; it was in order. then i leaned over the edge of the car and pointed it downward. i aimed it between his great, earnest eyes, into the very middle of his thoughtful and observant countenance. i pulled the trigger; the explosion shook the car. "up from the ground there came a sudden, startling roar. at first i could not see the tiger, but when the smoke moved away i found myself gazing down into his savage, blazing eyes. roar after roar came up; he sprang from side to side; his tail stiffened and curled, and when he opened his vast mouth, showing the cavern of his throat, his red tongue, and his long white teeth, a shiver ran through me. instinctively i grasped my irene by the arm. "'i do not believe you hit him,' said she. 'see how he bounds! he cannot be hurt. it must be difficult to aim directly downward, but let me try.' "i did not forbid her. even by chance she might strike that awful beast in some vital part. she took a long, deliberate aim, and as she fired the tiger gave a veritable scream. "'ah, ha!' i cried, 'you hit him. truly, my irene, you hit him.' "'but it was only in the toe,' she said. 'see how he has stopped to lick it with his tongue. i think it is his littlest toe. it is not much.' "large toe or small one, that tiger was now an angry beast. hopping backward a little way, he now crouched to the ground, and then gave a wild spring upward. it was heart-sickening as his great form, with its yellow skin and black stripes, his blazing eyes, his flashing teeth, and his outspread claws, rose toward us through the air. of course he could not hurt us; we were too high up. irene's face flushed. 'that was a great leap,' she said. "i took up my rifle again. it comforted me to see what a small jump the beast had made compared to our distance from the ground. again i fired, and this time also i did not hit him. i had never practised shooting at things almost beneath me; the slightest motion of irene disturbed my aim. the report seemed to infuriate the tiger until he was on the verge of madness. he jumped from side to side, he roared, he gnashed his teeth, and it seemed to me that i could smell his horrid breath coming up toward us. "suddenly he ceased all motion; he crouched upon the ground; he made no sound; he shut his mouth; he partly shut his eyes, but they were fixed upon me immovably, and they were green as emerald. "'now,' said irene, 'is a good time to take another shot. shall i try?' "i raised my hand that she might not move. there was a change coming over the sun. at first i thought my sight was affected and i did not see well, but it was not that. instinctively i gazed upward. a wandering cloud was slowly moving under the sun. then i looked down. the tiger's yellow was not so bright, his black stripes were not so clear and sharp-cut, and, more than that, he was coming nearer. the balloon was slowly descending. the truth flashed upon me. deprived of the direct rays of the sun, the gas was condensing. we were going down, down, slowly but surely down! "a chill ran through me, an awful premonitory chill. i knew what to do, but there was little i could do. we carried no ballast, for this was a captive balloon. what could i throw out? the extra rifle! out it went, and fell not far from the tiger; but he did not move; with his green eyes fixed upon the car, he watched it slowly descend. the rifle had relieved it of a little of its weight, but the middle of the cloud was thicker than its edge. the gas was still condensing, the balloon was slowly descending. i became almost frantic. if my irene had been any one else i believe i would have thrown her out. but i could not throw out my irene. besides, she was so vigorous. "it was awful, this steady, this merciless descent. it was like entering a tomb with a red tongue and flashing teeth waiting within. the green eyes gleamed with the malice of a waiting devil biding his time and knowing that it was drawing near. "down, down we went, and the smell of his horrid breath came up like the forerunner of a cruel death. now a tremor ran through the whole body of the crouching beast; even his tail trembled like a feather in the wind. he seemed to press himself nearer and nearer to the earth. his eyes were fixed steadily upon the car. "i knew what this meant. he was about to spring. the moment that we should descend sufficiently low, he would hurl himself into the car; he would not wait for it to touch the ground. "my thoughts raced through my brain. if anything could be done, it must be done in the next half-minute. i spoke quickly to irene. "'do not lose a second,' i said. 'get out on the outside of the car; rest lightly upon its edge; hold by the ropes. i will do the same. at the moment i give the word you must jump. both together; do not hesitate. it will not be much of a fall. we cannot stay here and have him--' "at this instant the tiger gave a tremendous bound upward, his fore paws, bristling with claws, stretched over the edge of the car. in that instant i jumped! "it was a great leap, and as my feet struck the ground and my eyes glanced rapidly about me a feeling of great joy filled my breast. i was on the earth again, master of myself, and the tiger was not there. i looked upward. the great beast was drawing up his hind legs and was climbing into the car, and there was irene, my irene, outside of the car, sitting on the edge and holding on to the ropes. i had forgotten to give her the word! how my heart sank! it was terrible! "i now perceived something that almost paralyzed my every faculty. that balloon was rising. i was a large man and i was heavier than the tiger; with its reduced weight the balloon was slowly going upward. i clasped my hands, i gasped for breath. if i should call to irene to jump now she would be dashed to pieces, the car was already so high. and then the great truth flashed upon me: 'what matters it? if she leaps she will be killed; if she does not leap--' i could not think of it! "to be sure, i might seize the rope and pull her down low enough so that she might safely drop; but if i did that the tiger might also jump. oh, what a position to be in, for one who loves! "it was now absolutely impossible for either of them safely to leap from the car unless i pulled it down, and my mind was not capable of even considering such an alternative. to meet him here upon the ground, in this awful solitude! to die together, but not in each other's arms; to perish from this bright earth; to reach out to my irene; to call to her as she reached out and called to me, when the terrible monster-- it was too much! "but even in my despair i remembered to be humane. i seized the end of the rope. i would not let my irene float away altogether. i could not. the soul of the husband asserted itself. the cloud had now passed from the face of the sun. the balloon was rising with considerable force, but i could hold it; i was very heavy. i would not desert my irene. "as i stood thus, looking upward and holding fast to all that was dear to me in life, i saw irene, still sitting on the edge of the car, raise one hand and put it to her head. i could see that she was feeling faint; the strain of her position was beginning to tell upon her; at any moment she might fall. then my quick glance sought the tiger. he was in the car, his great head and two front paws hanging over the edge; his green eyes were steadily fixed on me. just then irene, evidently unable to hold any longer to the ropes, gave herself a dexterous twist, and in an instant she was inside the car, her head sinking down out of sight. oh, noble, most beloved irene! sooner than let herself drop and fall at my feet a mangled corpse, she would do anything. she well understood my too sensitive soul, this dear irene! "in spite of my emotion i still held firmly to the rope, and the tiger still glared down upon me. it was too far for him to jump; he knew that if he did he would be dashed to pieces. this gave me strength and courage. "irene now raised herself and looked over the edge of the car; the tiger by her side did not regard her. i have often read of wild animals, of different kinds and degrees of fierceness, who, having fallen into a pit together, did not attack each other, but remained as gentle as sheep, being cowed by their fear. plainly this tiger was cowed. he had never been so far above the earth; he knew that he would die if he leaped; but he kept his sinister green eyes steadily fixed on me. [illustration: the great beast was drawing up his hind legs and was climbing into the car.] "now irene called down to me. i could not hear what she said, i was in such terrible agitation. and besides, i think she was afraid to speak too loudly, for fear she might startle the black-and-yellow beast. how i longed to hear her dear words, perhaps her last! mayhap she was bidding me a fond farewell; perhaps she was trying to encourage me and uphold my heart in this terrible trial. it would be like her; she knows my love for her, my dear irene! "and then, ah yes! it might be that she was asking my permission to throw herself from the car: that she was beseeching me to turn away my head that she might leap to the ground, and thus end her anxieties and her miseries--i might say our miseries; for if the tiger should follow her he, too, would be killed. i should be left to weep over my dearest, the joy of my life and my heart. the tiger would be dead. in her last breath irene would know that i was safe. that would be like irene, my dear irene! but i would not suffer it. i could not speak, but i shook my head. "she did not try to say anything more, but she looked down upon me, and so did the tiger. the two heads were not far from each other; they were both regarding me. i grew almost crazy. never was man placed in more terrible straits than this. "suddenly a thought struck me. i seized more tightly the end of the rope, and i ran. i ran to the river. i plunged, i bounded, i made such great haste that sometimes i stumbled over obstacles, and sometimes the balloon seemed to lift me from the ground; but on, on i went, on to the river! "when i reached the edge of the water i took courage to stop and look up. they were both still gazing over the edge of the car, both with their eyes strained upon me. "then boldly and fearlessly i walked into the river. i walked until the water was up to my knees; until it reached my waist. i walked until the surface of the water lapped my shoulders. i was not afraid; i am a good swimmer. irene now called down to me. it was plain she was becoming reckless; she would know what i was going to do, no matter what effect her words would have upon the tiger. if she thought i was about to commit suicide, not daring to bear up under her coming fate, she would dissuade me. it would be like her, that dear irene! "'what are you going to do?' she cried. and as i looked upward her eyes and those of the tiger were steadily fixed on me. "'you must get on the outside of the car again,' i cried. 'do it quickly, without disturbing him. then i will pull you down, down, a little at a time. when you are far enough down--and i will be the judge of that--i will give you the word; then you must jump. it will not hurt you; the water will break your fall, and i will save you. think of nothing else but your trust in me, and jump. the moment you leave the car i let go the rope; then it will instantly be too far for him to jump. quick! be ready when i give the word.' and as i spoke i hauled steadily upon the rope. "irene looked at me for an instant, and then she stood up in the car. i saw her put one foot upon the seat which surrounds it; then quickly appeared the other foot upon the edge of the car. she raised both arms and joined her hands above her head; she pushed herself between the ropes and leaped. it was all the work of a second. "she came down beautifully, head foremost. it was a splendid dive. relieved of her weight, the balloon gave a great jerk, and i let go the rope. "irene went down into the water as cleanly and smoothly as if she had been a diving duck. she scarcely made a splash. she was a magnificent swimmer. "as my dear irene disappeared beneath the surface of the water i made use of the rapid moments in which i could not expect to see her in glancing upward. the tiger was rising rapidly. his head was stretched out over the edge of the car; i could see his wild and frightened eyes. he was afraid to jump. "then i turned to the water. the head of irene had risen above it; she was striking out bravely for the shore. she did not need my help. she is a grand woman! in a few moments we stood beside each other on the shore. i would have thrown myself into her arms; i would have embraced this dear one, now my own again: but she was so wet; i was so wet. we seized each other by the hands. it is impossible to say whether she wept or not, her face was so wet. "then by a sudden instinct we looked upward. the balloon was high above us, rising steadily. we could see the head of the tiger projecting from the car--now such a little head, but i knew that he was gazing at me. then we heard a sound which came down from above. it was the tiger's roar, but it was such a little roar! i clasped more tightly the hand of my irene; we did not speak, but gazed steadily upward at the balloon, which had reached a current of air which was carrying it across the country. the sun was now very hot; the gas was expanding; the balloon was rising higher and higher and higher. "we stood holding each other's hands and gazing. at last there was but a little black spot in the sky; then it faded and shivered, and was gone. side by side we moved away. we were very wet, but the sun was hot. "suddenly i spoke. i could not restrain my burning desire to look deep into the soul of irene. i owed it to my love of her to know the extent of her love for me. those words which she called down from the car, which might have been her last words on earth, what were they? i asked her. "'i said,' she answered, 'that if you would pick up that rifle you threw out, and stand ready, i would jerk open the safety-valve. i would then take up my rifle, and when the car came down we would both shoot him. but you shook your head, and i said no more.' "i did not answer, but in my heart i said: 'o woman! what art thou, and of what strange feelings art thou made! thou hast the beauty of the flower and the intellect of the leaf. to let that awful black-and-yellow fiend descend to the earth! to call up to a cruel death and ask it to come down-stairs and meet you on the lowest step! skies! how can the mind of man conceive of it?' "and leaving the shores of the river, we toiled homeward over the dreary wastes." the company were all much interested in this narrative--almost painfully interested. they said as much to the frenchman, and he was pleased at the impression he had felt sure he would make, and which he always did make, when he told that story. they talked of hunts and wild beasts, but there were no comments upon the story itself. each one had his or her own thought, however. the master of the house thought: "what a clever woman!" the mistress of the house thought: "just like a frenchman!" the next neighbor wished she had been in the balloon to pitch the tiger on him. the daughter of the house was fascinated at the idea of the vicinity of the beautiful, ferocious tiger. and john gayther thought, as he looked wistfully at the daughter of the house: "i am glad he has a wife!" this story is told by pomona and jonas and is called the foreign prince and the hermit's daughter vii the foreign prince and the hermit's daughter the frenchman went away; and after him there was a succession of visitors to the house who were not interested in gardens and were therefore not introduced within the sacred precincts of the summer-house on the upper terrace. the young people took a fancy to a pretty rustic arbor in a secluded spot; but whether it was because they especially admired that part of the garden did not transpire. but the guests left, one after another; and finally there came to visit the family euphemia and her husband. they were old and intimate friends of the family, and the very morning after their arrival they all repaired to the summer-house which overlooked the garden. there was some conversation about the garden,--its beautiful things, and its useful products, and its antiquity,--for euphemia loved the old garden and its traditions. the two gentlemen, provided with comfortable chairs, smoked their cigars in peacefulness and content, and the daughter of the house seemed absorbed in some fancy work. but after some time the master of the house, turning suddenly to euphemia's husband, asked: "what has become of jonas and pomona?" "here they are to answer for themselves!" cried the daughter of the house, springing up, as john gayther ushered into the garden the next neighbor, followed by pomona and jonas. the next neighbor was also on intimate terms with euphemia and her husband, and a devoted and rapturous admirer of pomona. the couple had descended upon her the night before in a most unexpected fashion, but she gave them a hearty welcome, and rejoiced in them, even after she discovered that she owed the visit to a desire on the part of her guests to see euphemia's husband. they knew where he was visiting, but had thought it wiser to go to the next neighbor to pay their little visit. and so the explanation of this apparently strange meeting of so many old friends was simple enough. chairs and benches were found, and john gayther brought his stool unasked and joined the party. he had no idea of missing that conversation. it was soon evident that, while jonas was as tranquil as usual, pomona had something on her mind--that she had come with a purpose; and as soon as the inquiries and explanations were over, she addressed the husband of euphemia with great earnestness: "jone and me came to see you, sir, about something particular; and as we are all friends here, i may as well say it right out." "the more you say the better we shall be pleased!" the master of the house exclaimed. pomona nodded to him, but turned again to the husband of euphemia. "we've been told, sir, that some editors have been asking you to get us to enter fiction again; and what we want to say is that we don't want to enter it no more. what we did when we was in it was all very well, but that's past and gone, although i've said to jone a good many more times than once that if i had to do this or that thing now, that's set down in the book, i'd do it different. but then he always answers that if i'd done that i'd have spoiled the story, and so there was no more to say on that subject. what we've done we gladly did, and we're more than glad we did it for you, sir. but as for doing it again, we can't do it, for it ain't in us. even if we tried to do the best we could for you, all you'd get would be something like skim-milk--good enough for cottage cheese and bonnyclabber, but nothing like good fresh milk with the cream on it." "i think you are perfectly right," said euphemia. "if you don't want to go into fiction again you ought not to be made to do it." "i would not do such a wicked thing as to put anybody in fiction who did not want to go there," gravely replied the husband of euphemia. at these words the load that was on pomona's mind dropped from it entirely. "now, sir," said she, "we've got another thing to say; and it will seem queer to you after what we've said already. we do want to go into fiction, but not the way we was in it before. the fact is that between us we've written a story, and we've brought it with us, hoping you wouldn't mind letting jone read it to you. of course we was expecting to read it to only two; but as we've got to go back to-day, if the rest of the folks don't mind, jone can read it anyway." "i should like it above all things!" exclaimed the next neighbor. "we will not let you go away until it is read," said the mistress of the house. "oh, i do want to hear it!" cried the daughter of the house. "of course jonas must read it," was euphemia's quiet comment. "heave ahead!" called out the master of the house. pomona smiled gratefully. "it isn't a very long story, but we've been a long time working at it, and we wouldn't think of such a thing as calling it finished until our friends has heard it." the quiet and good-natured jonas now drew a manuscript from his pocket and began. "the name of my story," said he, "is 'the foreign prince and the hermit's daughter.'" "we thought of a good many other names for it," said pomona, "and i wanted to call it 'the groundless prince'; but jone he said that groundless applies to things there is no reason for, and as so many princes are of that kind, somebody's feelings might be hurt. and so i gave in." "now this is the way the story begins," said jonas. "in that period of time which is not modern, and yet is not too far back, and in which a great many out-of-the-way things have happened, a certain young prince went travelling in foreign parts of the world with the general purpose of broadening his mind. he wanted to study the manners and customs of other nations in order that he might better know how to govern his own people. "but when, after several years' absence, he came back to the place of his nativity, he found that neighboring nations had made war upon his country--that they had conquered his army and subjugated his people, and had partitioned his principality among themselves. consequently he found himself in a strange position: he had gone forth to visit foreign lands, and now he returned to find himself a foreigner on the very spot where he was born. in fact, his nationality had been swept away; his country had disappeared. "but he was still a prince. nothing could deprive him of his noble birth. but to all the world, save to one person, he was an alien prince, and must always so continue. the exception was a single adherent, who had followed him when he began his travels, and whose loyal spirit would not suffer him to leave his master now. "slowly, with crossed arms and head bent low, the prince strode away from the place that had once been his home, his single adherent following his footsteps. "after a long day's journey they came to a little valley chiefly remarkable for streams and rocks. here, at the entrance of a commodious cave, he beheld an elderly hermit seated upon a stone, calmly surveying the sunset sky. the hermit looked up with a pleasant smile, for it had been long since a traveller had passed that way; and, perceiving that the stranger was not only well-bred but tired, invited him to take a seat upon a stone near by his own, at the same time motioning the adherent to a smaller stone at a little distance. "in reply to the numerous questions of the hermit, the prince soon told his story. "'well, well!' exclaimed the hermit. 'then you are the prince ferrando. i might have known it, for you so closely resemble your father.' "'you knew him, then?' inquired the prince. "'i have often seen him,' the hermit replied. 'the likeness is wonderful. and so you have come back to find that your principality does not exist. it is a strange condition of things; but believe me--i mingled a great deal with the world before i came to this cave, and i know what i am talking about--when i tell you that there are many potentates who would be glad to come back from a journey and to find that their dominions had ceased to exist, and that with them had disappeared all the trials, responsibilities, and dangers of sovereignty.' "'but i am not that sort of person,' said ferrando. 'i do not allow care to oppress me; i do not shrink from responsibility; i am not afraid of danger. i travelled far to broaden my mind; i came back prepared to reign wisely over my subjects. but i have no subjects, and therefore i cannot exercise that enlightened rule for which i have, with so much toil and study, prepared myself. wherever i go i must always be an absolute alien, and as such i must try to learn to consider myself.' "'cheer up, my friend,' said the hermit. 'you are too young to give up things in that way. and now allow me, sir, to introduce you to my daughter.' "ferrando sprang up quickly, and beheld standing near him a very handsome young woman carrying a large basket filled with water-cress. the prince bowed low. 'it is very unusual, i think,' said he, 'for a hermit to have a daughter.' "the hermit smiled. 'yes,' said he; 'it is rather out of the common; but when i came here to seek rest and peace within these rocky walls, my daughter could not be dissuaded from accompanying me.' "'it is plain that she possesses a noble soul,' said the prince, again bowing low. "'i wonder if he ever thinks that of me?' the single adherent asked himself, as he stood respectfully by his low stone. "when the hermit's daughter had been made aware of ferrando's former station and his misfortunes, she went away to prepare supper. the meal was soon ready, and consisted of cress fresh from the spring, fried cress, and toasted cress, with cress tea, and also freshly drawn water from a spring." "poor young man!" exclaimed the next neighbor. "so tired and hungry! was that all they had to give him?" "of course," explained pomona; "hermits never eat anything but water-cress." "after supper," continued jonas, "the hermit filled a pipe with dried water-cress, and offered another to his guest, and the three sat at the entrance of the cave and discussed the prince's affairs, in which the hermit and his daughter seemed to take a lively interest. at a little distance on the small stone sat the single adherent, also smoking a pipe of water-cress, and his inability to enjoy this novel sensation was plainly evident in the radiant beams of the full moon. in the course of an hour the prince and his adherent retired to a guest-cave near by; but the hermit and his daughter sat up far into the night discussing the prince and the peculiar circumstances in which he found himself. "the next morning after breakfast, the principal dish of which was a salmi of water-cress, the hermit, his daughter, and their guest held council together; while the adherent stood at a respectful distance, and listened with earnest attention to all that was said. "'my daughter and i,' said the hermit, 'agree that it is a lamentable thing that a prince such as yourself, so eminently qualified to rule, should have no opportunity to exercise his abilities for sovereignty; therefore we think the best thing you can do is to rent a principality for a term of years. in some ways this would be better than inheriting one, for if you do not like it you can give it up at the end of the term.' "'but where could i find a principality to let?' exclaimed the prince. 'i never heard of anything like that!' "'very likely,' said the hermit; 'but if you were to look around i think you might find something to suit you which the reigning potentate might be willing to lease.' "'i am of my father's opinion,' said the hermit's daughter; 'and if you will take my advice you will investigate the country north of this valley. there are several principalities in that direction, and it would not at all surprise me if, before the end of a day's journey, you were to find something that could be rented.' "the prince was very much pleased with the interest taken in his affairs by the hermit and his daughter, and he decided to follow their advice. as he and his single adherent were about to depart, the hermit said to him: 'i shall be very glad to hear from you, and, if you should succeed in renting a principality, i will willingly give you any advice and assistance in my power. when i mingled with the general world i saw a great deal of governing and all that sort of thing, and it may be i can give you some points which will be of advantage to you.' "the prince accepted with thankfulness the kind offer of his host, and when he approached the daughter to take leave of her, she graciously stuck a sprig of water-cress in his buttonhole. "after walking a few miles the prince and his adherent stopped at a roadside inn, where they ate an abnormal breakfast, and then, with invigorated bodies, they continued their journey. "late in the afternoon the prince became a little tired, and suggested that they stop at a farm-house which stood near the road, and sojourn there for the night. the adherent, however, was of the opinion that they should go on until they reached the crest of a hill before them; they would then be able to survey the country. he placed a high opinion on the statement of the hermit's daughter that they would be likely to find what they wanted before nightfall. "when they reached the crest of the hill they were delighted to see before them, at no great distance, a small city. when they had approached it nearer they perceived by the side of the great gate a sign-board which bore the inscription: principality to let--furnished apply to dowager at the palace "the single adherent nodded his head as he said to himself: 'this is just about what i expected.' "'that hermit's daughter,' said the prince, 'is a remarkable young woman, and her suppositions should not be disregarded.' "after passing the night at an inn near the gate, the prince and his single adherent repaired to the palace to make inquiries regarding the principality. "the dowager was a middle-aged woman dressed in rusty black, with a quick eye and an eager expression. having demanded references of ferrando, she declared herself perfectly satisfied with his statements, for she had met his father, and the likeness was unmistakable. she told him she would be very much pleased to have him for a tenant, and that she was quite sure the principality would suit him exactly. she then showed him all over the palace, the adherent following and taking notice of everything. "the furniture and appointments of the princely mansion were somewhat time-worn and shabby, and the dowager, noticing the scrutinizing glances of the adherent, thought it wise to state that during the life of her late husband everything in the palace had been kept in the most admirable order; but of course it could not be supposed that she, by herself, could go to the expense of new carpets and furniture-coverings. she assured the prince, however, that a very little expenditure of money would make the palace look as bright and clean as if it had been recently furnished. "'of course you have an army,' remarked the prince. "'oh, yes,' said the dowager; 'an excellent army--that is, considering the size of my principality. the infantry is very good indeed. in fact, i heard my late husband say, on an occasion when the infantry corps had just been furnished with new uniforms, that he never saw a finer-looking set of men. the cavalry is also in excellent condition. of course in time of peace it is not necessary to keep these men supplied with horses, but in an agricultural country it is not difficult to obtain horses whenever they are really needed.' "'and the artillery?' inquired the prince. "'i am sorry to say,' replied the dowager, 'that the artillery is not yet supplied with cannon. it was the intention of my late husband to furnish them with the necessary cannon, ammunition, horses, and all that, but he never did so. and of course, being a woman, i could not be expected to attend to such things. but i have no doubt whatever that you can easily and inexpensively put this branch of the army on a proper footing; that is, if you care for artillery.' "the prince asked no further questions about the army, but inquired if the principality was furnished with a navy. "'oh, no,' said the dowager; 'we have no waterfront, and my late husband used often to say that this impossibility of having a navy saved him a great deal of expense, to say nothing of the trouble warships might get him into when they are out of sight in distant parts of the world.' "at this point the dowager was called out by a servant, who in a whisper asked her if the visitors were going to stay to dinner. the adherent seized this opportunity to say in a low voice: "'if your royal highness will excuse me, i will suggest that you ask if there is a legislative body, and a judiciary.' "the dowager, having shaken her head at the servant, returned to the prince. "'have you a legislature?' asked the prince. "'certainly,' she said. 'i cannot say that i think it is a very good one, for i have more trouble with it than with anything else in the principality; but it has now less than a year to run, and my advice would be that you should not convene it again. my experience has taught me that one can get along a great deal better without a legislative body than with one. for my part, i do not approve of them at all.' "'and a judiciary?' remarked the prince. 'i suppose you have that.' "the dowager hesitated a moment as if she did not exactly understand; but she recovered herself, and answered quickly: 'oh, yes, we have one; but i have so little to do with it that for the moment i forgot it. it has been a very good one indeed, but it has been little used of late, and it may be out of order. i have found that plain, straightforward decrees from the throne are a great deal cheaper and a great deal quicker in their operation than a judicial decision. but if you desire a regularly organized judiciary, it will not cost you much to establish one, if you do not employ your judges by the month or year. i find piece-work a great deal more satisfactory, and you can get so much law for nothing in this country that it is not worth while giving much for it when you have to pay.' "the countenance of the single adherent had been growing darker and darker, and he now stepped up to the prince. "'your royal highness,' said he, 'it might be well to speak of the rent.' "when the prince asked the dowager how much she wanted per year for her principality, she did not immediately answer, but reflected, with her chin in her hand; and then, turning to the prince, she stated the amount. "'you must understand,' she added, 'that i would not rent this principality to every one for such a sum as that; but as i know you to be a regular prince who will appreciate the advantages and responsibilities of a place like this, and, as you are unmarried, without encumbrances of any sort, i presume, i would much prefer to let it to you, even at a lower price, than to rent it to a perfect stranger.' "when the adherent heard the sum mentioned by the dowager his countenance grew almost black, and prince ferrando stood in silent amazement. "'it would be impossible for me to pay such a sum as that,' he said at last. 'i have studied political economy, and am familiar with the principles of internal revenue, and the income to be derived from ordinary taxes and imposts in a principality of this size would not enable me to pay that sum.' "'oh, you are very much mistaken!' cried the dowager. 'of course, as a woman, i have not been able to make the principality pay me what it ought to; but my late husband received a very good revenue from it, and i am sure you could do the same, if not a great deal better: for my late husband was not a good business man; he thought too much of other people and not enough of his family.' "the prince looked at his adherent, and the latter shook his head violently. "'it is impossible,' said prince ferrando; 'i cannot pay such a sum as that'; and he rose to go. "'of course,' said the dowager, hastily, 'if you think that is too much, and that you would not be able to pay it, i might take off something in your case. i would not do this for everybody, but as it is you, i will take off one per cent. of the amount i have named.' "for a moment ferrando stood undecided. he greatly wanted the principality; he would be homeless and forlorn without one; and yet this dowager was asking him a most outrageous price. "'i will consider this matter,' said he, 'and if you will give me the refusal of the principality for twenty-four hours i will see you again to-morrow.' "the dowager considered this request as favorable to her interests, and, fearing that she had asked him too little, she added: 'of course, in case of a reduction like this, it must be stipulated in the lease that i reserve some rooms in the palace where i shall board at your expense. you cannot expect me to accept a reduced rent, and to be turned out of my house besides.' "the prince bowed; and, without reply, he and his adherent left the palace, followed by the eager, wistful glances of the dowager. when they reached the inn the prince said to his single adherent: "'i am greatly troubled, and i wish i had the advice of that good hermit. i will write a letter to him, and you shall take it. but you must not walk that long distance; to-morrow you will hire a vehicle and go to the hermit.' "the prince wrote his letter, and the adherent took it to the hermit. the good man and his daughter read it with the greatest interest, and retired to the back of the cave to consider it. presently the hermit approached the single adherent. 'is there room in your vehicle for three persons?' said he. receiving an affirmative answer, he continued: 'then my daughter and i will go back with you. we think the prince is in danger of making a very bad bargain; and as we know a great deal about these things, we believe that our presence and advice will be of great advantage to him.' "so, after the horse had all the water-cress it could eat, the little party started back to the city." "they must have been the first real-estate agents," remarked the master of the house. pomona was about to reply, but jonas gave no time: "when the prince heard the sound of the wheels, and came down to the door of the inn, he was amazed and delighted to see the hermit and his daughter, and welcomed them with unusual ardor. "'of all the people in the world,' he exclaimed, 'i am most happy to see you! i am in great trouble and difficulty, and i want your advice and counsel.' "'which is what we came to give you,' said the good hermit, as he warmly pressed the hand of the prince. "after supper the prince and his guests retired to an inner room for consultation, while the adherent stood in the background. after some discussion it was decided that early in the morning the prince should go to the palace, and should agree to lease the principality for five years, provided the dowager would accept one half the sum she had originally asked; and that he should also absolutely refuse to board the dowager, or to allow her to reserve any part of the palace for her own use. he would promise to pay one quarter's rent in advance if these terms were agreed upon on the spot. "it was nearly high noon on the following day that the dowager left the palace, taking with her all her belongings. as she departed she turned and cast a black look at the adherent. "'it is to his advice,' she said to herself, 'that i owe this very bad bargain that i have made. if that young fellow had been left to himself he would have agreed to everything i demanded.' "for an hour or two before she left the prince had been wandering around the premises, impatiently waiting for her departure. as soon as she was gone, he called to his adherent, and sent him to the inn to summon the hermit and his daughter to his presence. he wished to be grateful to these good friends, but, as he had a respect to appearances, he did not desire the dowager to know that these humble persons were to be his first guests in the palace. "when the hermit and his daughter arrived at the palace they received a princely welcome, and ferrando informed them that he wished them to make him a visit of at least a week. "'you have been so good to me that i wish to do the best for you; and so i have arranged that you shall occupy the state suite in the right wing.' "'we are thankful for this great honor,' said the hermit; 'but, if it would please your royal highness, we should prefer the corresponding rooms in the left wing. we think they will suit us better.' "the prince raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he gave orders that his guests' wishes should be gratified. the adherent, who was standing in the background, raised his eyebrows also; but he was not surprised. "in about half an hour the hermit and his daughter rejoined the prince in the grand hall. to his utter amazement, ferrando beheld his guests dressed in rich and handsome garments. "'did they bring any trunks with them?' he whispered to his adherent, as they approached. "'no, your royal highness,' was the answer. 'they brought nothing but a basket of water-cress, which the lady said had been freshly picked and ought not to be wasted.' "with great dignity the hermit advanced to the prince, and by his side walked his daughter, who was so beautiful in her silks and laces that the prince found it impossible to remove his eyes from her. "'in order to explain this change in our appearance,' said the hermit, 'i will state that the dowager from whom you rented this principality is my brother's widow. before he died he arranged that the dowager should reign over the principality as long as she lived, and that my daughter should then succeed her. at the same time, knowing that his wife did not understand the governing of principalities, he appointed me assistant prince, with a salary. this seemed like a very good plan, but it did not work. the dowager soon showed such a disposition to meddle with everything that was going on that my position gradually became so intolerable that i determined to retire to a hermit's cell, to which my daughter accompanied me.' "with his mind scarcely able to grasp the situation, the prince gazed from the one to the other of his guests. 'can it be possible,' he said presently, 'that in renting this principality i have interfered with your prospects?' "'oh, not at all, not at all,' replied the hermit. 'in the first place, you have given us the great honor of visiting you and of occupying our old suite of apartments. i cannot describe to your royal highness the pleasure i felt when i saw my dressing-gown hanging on its accustomed hook, with my favorite slippers beneath it.' "'i take back my invitation for a week!' cried the prince. 'now that i know who you are, you must stay with me for a long time. i wish you could stay always,' he added, his eyes still fixed upon the beautiful young woman. then, as if to explain this outburst of interest, he said: 'you know, i rely so much on your advice and counsel, and there is no knowing what that dowager may do next.' "'you are right,' said the ex-hermit; 'there is no possible way of knowing. but a plan has suggested itself to me which i think may relieve you of any possible annoyance or molestation. my idea is that you shall marry my daughter. then, in virtue of your lease, you will reign over the principality, and she will be your consort. after a time, when the dowager departs this life, my daughter, by virtue of inheritance, will reign over the principality, and you will be her consort. thus you see the dowager will have no show at all.' "the countenance of the prince shone like the sun. 'a heaven-born plan!' he cried. 'from the moment i saw your daughter with the basket of water-cress, i loved her. by your permission, i will embrace her.' "the permission was given, and he embraced her. she might have said that, from the moment she had understood the peculiar circumstances in which the prince had found himself, her heart had gone out to him like a dove seeking the nest of its partner; but she did not think it needful to occupy the time with unnecessary statements. "'your royal highness,' said the adherent, approaching with a bow, 'i think it is only right to inform you that the dowager, when she left, said to me that she would return early in the afternoon to superintend the removal of her parrots.' "'what!' cried the prince. 'haven't those beastly birds gone yet? send them after her without the loss of a minute. i don't want to see her back here again.' "the ex-hermit, who had drawn his daughter aside for a few words of consultation, now advanced with uplifted hands. 'nay,' said he; 'if you will excuse me, i think i can suggest a better plan than that. the old lady is bound to come back, and the sooner she comes and goes, the better; but we should be prepared for her. i suggest that a priest be summoned, and that you and my daughter be married immediately. our position in the palace will then be assured, and the dowager will have nothing to say, either about our presence here or about anything else. how does my plan suit your royal highness?' "ferrando did not answer, but, turning to the adherent, he ordered him to summon a priest without delay, and to order the assemblage in the great hall of all the courtiers and servants who could be found. the adherent sped away on his errand, and as he did so he smiled and said to himself: 'she is a better manager than the old woman! and her views are broader!' "when the marriage ceremony had been concluded, the prince ordered a sumptuous wedding-feast to be spread. but he was soon informed that there was nothing to eat in the house, for the dowager had not thought it at all incumbent upon her to provide eatables for her tenant. "'it matters not!' cried the ex-hermit, his face glowing with pleasure. 'there will be time enough to provide a good supper. and, in the meantime, what could be more appropriate for a wedding-repast than the basket of cress which my daughter brought with her?' "a table was spread, with a great dish of water-cress in the centre. and it may be remarked that the prince was so wild with delight that if this had been suddenly changed to one containing fried chicken with cream gravy he would not have perceived the difference. "early in the afternoon the dowager returned to the palace to superintend the removal of her parrots. as she entered the great hall she perceived the wedding-party waiting to receive her; and her amazement was such that her toes turned upward and she sat down with great suddenness in a chair which the adherent thoughtfully placed behind her. "'how do you do, my dear sister-in-law?' said the ex-hermit. 'i do not wonder you are surprised to see us here, and in order to relieve your mind i will instantly explain the state of affairs.' whereupon he explained them. "the dowager then found her voice and her strength. springing to her feet, she cried: 'this is a plot! i have been deceived, and the lease is void. not one of you has any right in this palace, and i hereby order you out.' "the ex-hermit smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket. 'before we obey your orders, my dear sister-in-law,' he remarked, 'i wish to call your attention to a little business matter. you will remember that when i was here with you, acting as your assistant, you found great difficulty in paying me my salary. the first year you told me to take it out of the customs duties. the sum i received was not equal to the amount due me, but i made no complaint. the second year i was obliged to rely on the taxes on internal production; but as you required most of the income from this source, i found myself very short of money at the end of the year. the third year i was obliged to rely upon the taxes on pew-rents; and that, as you are aware, yielded me almost nothing. after that you paid me no salary at all. here is my bill for the money due me. but if you cannot conveniently pay me, i will agree, in the presence of these good friends, to postpone the settlement until the next time i lay my eyes upon you. if you do not then pay me, i shall then levy upon your personal possessions.' "the dowager glared at the princess ferrando, and, having shaken her long forefinger at that beautiful young lady, she departed, and was never seen in the palace again." here jonas folded the paper. "is that the end?" asked the daughter of the house. "that is all there is of it," said jonas, sententiously. "i thought," said the daughter of the house, "that the story would tell how he governed his rented principality, and if he ever got his own. i worked it out in my mind like a flash that he would govern so well that his own people would go to him and beg him to govern them." "i think," said the next neighbor, "that if that principality was governed at all, it was by that scheming wife." "there's two ways of ending a story," said pomona. "one is to wind it up, and the other is to let it run down. now when a story is running down as if it was a clock, it's often a good deal longer than you think before it stops; so we thought we would wind this one up right there." euphemia laughed. "but if you wind it up," she said, "you help it to keep on going." for a moment pomona looked embarrassed; but she quickly recovered herself. "i don't mean to wind it up like a clock," she said, "but to wind it up like an old-fashioned clothes-line which isn't wanted again until you have some more things to hang on it." the husband of euphemia stated it as his opinion that that was an excellent way to stop a story; but euphemia did not agree with him. "i think," she said, "that a story of that kind ought to end with a moral. they nearly always do." pomona now looked at jonas, and jonas looked at pomona. "several times, when we was writing the story," said pomona, "i had a notion that jone was trying to squeeze a moral into it here and there; but he didn't say nothing about it, and i didn't ask him, and if there's anything more to say about it, it's for him to do it." jonas smiled. "my opinion about morals to stories is that the people who read them ought to work them out for themselves," said he. "some people work out one kind of moral, and others work out another kind. it was a pretty big job to write that story, which i had to do the most of, and i don't think i ought to be called on to put in any moral, which is a good deal like being asked to make bread for the man who buys my wheat." pomona looked down at the ground, then up to the sky, and then she remarked: "if you wouldn't mind hearing a little bit of a story, i'd like to tell you one." no one had any wish to object, and she began: "once there was a young married man who went to his business in a canoe; every morning he paddled himself down to his business, and every afternoon he paddled himself back. about half-way down the beautiful stream on which he lived there was a little point of rocks projecting out into the water, and the young man was obliged to paddle his canoe very near the opposite shore in order to get out of the way. this was troublesome, and after a while he got tired of it. it would be very much pleasanter, he thought, if he could paddle along the middle of the stream, without thinking about the rocks. so when, one morning, he was in a great hurry, he said to himself that he would steer his canoe right straight against that point of rocks and break it off. after that he would have a clear passage up and down the stream. so as soon as he got near enough he carried out his plan. that young man did not go to his office that morning, and the fragments of his canoe was picked up by a poor family and used for kindling-wood. now," she added, looking deliberately at jonas, "if you can find a good moral to that story we'd be glad to hear it." it was very evident to the listeners that pomona had given a shrewd guess as to the moral of the story jonas had read, if, indeed, he had had in his mind any moral at all--and that her own was an offset to it, or so intended. so the next neighbor came to the rescue. "i have a great dislike," she announced, "to morals of all sorts. i prefer never to think of morals. they are very perplexing, and often worse than useless. but if there are any morals to those two stories, i should say that the first story has something to do with women who manage too much; and the second, in some occult manner, deals with men who try to reform their wives." here every one laughed. and then there followed a lively criticism of the story jonas had read; but they all agreed that it was worthy of pomona and jonas, and should be published. when they had reached this conclusion they were summoned to luncheon. this story is told by the daughter of the house and is called the conscious amanda viii the conscious amanda one morning, as john gayther was working in the melon-bed, the daughter of the house came to him, and greeted him with such a glow on her face that john knew she had something pleasant to tell him. "yes, miss," john replied to her greeting; "it is a beautiful morning, and i know of something more beautiful than the morning." "i do not see any very great beauty in muskmelons," said the daughter of the house, demurely. "muskmelons are not in my mind at this minute," john replied, letting the hoe fall upon the ground as he looked at her pretty face, all aglow. "i have something in my mind, john--a very original story. papa said yesterday i must tell a story, and i have one all ready. i do not believe you ever heard one like it. come to the summer-house; mamma and papa are already there." she tripped away, and john followed her, stopping on the way to pick up a basket of seed-pods. he had just established himself on his stool, facing the family group, and had taken some pods to shell as he listened, when his hand was arrested and all the party silenced by a burst of song from the tall lilac-bushes near the hedge. they could not see the bird, but it was evident that he was enjoying his own melody. such pure, sweet notes--now rippling softly, now with a gay little quiver of joy, now a tender prolonged note, now a succession of trills, high and low, that set the air throbbing, and every now and then a great burst of seraphic music, as if his little heart was so full of happiness he was compelled to pour it forth to all who chose to listen. our party would gladly have listened for a long time, and have omitted the story altogether; but after some minutes of delicious song the strains suddenly ceased, and a little whirring noise in the lilacs indicated that the bird had flown away. the daughter of the house gave a deep sigh. "i was afraid to breathe," she said, "lest he might fly away." "i have heard nothing like that this summer," said the mistress of the house. "it is the red thrush," said john gayther, who had listened rapturously. "a pair of them were here in the early spring. i wonder why this one has come back." "perhaps," said the daughter of the house, "it is one of the young ones come back to visit his birthplace. i am afraid, after that ravishing performance, that my story will sound tame enough." "it will be a different sort of melody," said the mistress of the house, looking fondly at her daughter. "my heroine," began the young lady, "cannot appear in the first person, as if she were telling the story; nor in the second person, as if she were listening to one; nor in the third person, as if she were somewhere else; for, in fact, she was not anywhere. and as there is no such thing as a fourth person in grammar, she cannot be put into any class at all." the captain turned and looked at his daughter. "there seems to be something very foggy about this statement," said he. "i hope the weather will soon clear up, so we can get our bearings." "we shall see about that," said the young lady. "this heroine of mine, miss amanda, never went to sleep. to be sure, she sank into slumber about as often as most people; but when she spoke of having done so she always said she had 'lost consciousness.' she was very methodical about going to sleep and waking up; and at night, just as she was about to lose consciousness, she always said to herself, 'seven o'clock, seven o'clock, seven o'clock,' over and over again until she was really asleep; and in the morning she woke up at seven precisely. she was not married, and so she was able to live her own life much more independently than if the case had been different. she liked to be independent; and she liked to know as much as she could about everything. in these two things she was generally very successful. but you must not think she was prying or too inquisitive; she was really a very good woman, and very fond of her family, which was composed entirely of brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces. "she was a very active person, but she was not very strong; and when she was nearly forty years old something happened to her lungs, and her health gave way more and more, until at last there was no hope for her, and she knew she must die." "oh, this is an awful way to begin a story!" said the captain. "i don't like it. you ought not to kill your heroine just as you begin." "if you want to make any remarks about this story, papa," said the daughter of the house, "which shall be worth anything, you ought to wait until you hear more of it and begin to understand it. when miss amanda found she had a very little while to live, she composed herself comfortably, and began to repeat to herself the words, 'fifty years, fifty years, fifty years,' over and over again. this she did until at last she died; and then there was her funeral; and she was buried; and there was a stone put up over her head with her name on it." john gayther smiled with approbation. he felt sure he was going to hear a story to his liking. the captain smoked steadily. as he had been advised, he would wait until he felt firm ground beneath him before he made any further remarks. as for the mistress of the house, she looked at her daughter, and wondered. the story continued: "all this happened a few years before the middle of a century, and a few years before the end of a century miss amanda regained consciousness. that is to say, she woke up at the end of fifty years, exactly as she had been in the habit of waking up at seven o'clock in the morning. but although she was conscious she did not understand how it was possible she should be so. she did not see; she did not hear; she did not feel. she had no body; no hands or feet; no eyes or ears: she had nothing; and she knew she had nothing. she simply was conscious, and that was all there was about it. she was not surprised; she seemed to take her state and condition as a matter of course, and, to a certain degree, she comprehended it. she remembered perfectly well that she had lost consciousness as she was saying 'fifty years, fifty years, fifty years' over and over again; and now she knew that, as she had regained consciousness, the fifty years must have passed; so, instead of wondering how things had come to be as they were, she, or rather her consciousness, set itself to work to observe everything around it and about it. this had always been miss amanda's habit of mind. "now i want to explain," said the young lady, "that in one way it will be troublesome for me to express myself exactly as i tell this story. of course miss amanda did not exist; it was only her consciousness which observed things: but i think it will be a great deal less awkward for me if i speak of that consciousness as miss amanda. none of us really understands consciousnesses with their outsides all hulled off as john is doing with those seeds which he drops into the basin. each one of those little seeds has within it a power which we do not understand. and that is the way with miss amanda's consciousness." "there," said the captain; "i agree with you. nobody can object to that." "the first thing of which miss amanda became conscious was the smell of sweet peas. she had always been very fond of these flowers. the air was soft and warm, and that, too, was pleasant to her. she observed a good many other things, such as trees and grass; but she did not know where she was, and she did not see anything she could recognize. you must not forget that when i say she saw anything, i mean she became conscious of it. presently, however, she did perceive something that was familiar, and if such a thing had been possible her face would have flushed with pleasure. this familiar object was a sun-dial in the middle of a wide grass-mound. the sun-dial was of brass. it was very old, and some of the figures on the round plate were nearly obliterated by time and weather; but miss amanda recognized it. it was the same sun-dial she had always known in the home where she had been born. but it was not mounted on a round brick pillar, as when she had known it: now it rested on a handsome stone pedestal; but it was the same sun-dial. she could see the place where the upright part had been mended after her nephew john, then only fourteen, had thrown a stone at it, being jealous of it because it would never do any work in bad weather, whereas he had to go to school, rain or shine. "'now,' thought miss amanda, 'if this is the old sun-dial, and if this is the mound in front of our house, although it is so much smaller than i remember it, the dear old house must be just behind it.' but when she became conscious in that direction, the dear old house was not there. there was a house, but it looked new and handsome. it had marble steps, with railings and a portico, but it was another house altogether, and everything seemed to be something else except the sun-dial, and even that did not rest on the old brick pillar with projections at the bottom, on which she used to stand, when she was a little girl, in order to see what time it was. "now miss amanda felt lonely, and a little frightened. she had never been accustomed to finding herself in places entirely strange to her. she felt, too, that she was there in that place, and could not be anywhere else even if she wanted to, and this produced in her a condition which, half a century before, would have been nervousness. but suddenly she perceived something which, although strange, was very pleasant. it was a young girl upon a bicycle coming swiftly toward her over a wide, smooth driveway. miss amanda had never been conscious of a bicycle; and as the girl swept rapidly on, it seemed as if she were skimming over the earth without support. at the foot of the marble steps the girl stopped and seemed to fall to the ground; but she had not fallen: she had only stepped lightly from the machine, which she leaned against a post, and then walked rapidly toward the place where the sweet peas grew. "miss amanda greatly admired this girl. she was dressed in an extremely pretty fashion, with a straw hat and short skirts, something like the peasants in southern europe. she began to pick the sweet-pea blossoms, and soon had a large bunch of them. now steps were heard coming round the house, and the girl, turning her head, called out: 'oh, grandpa, wait a minute. i am picking these flowers for you.' from around one end of the house, which was a large one, miss amanda saw approaching an elderly gentleman who was small, with short gray hair and a round, ruddy face. he walked briskly, and with a light switch, which he carried in his hand, he made strokes at the heads of a few fluffy dandelions which appeared here and there; but he never hit any of them. "instantly miss amanda knew him: it was her nephew john--the same boy who had broken the sun-dial! no matter what his age might happen to be, he had the same bright eyes, and the same habit of striking at things without hitting them. yes, it was john. there could be no possible mistake about it. it was that harum-scarum young scapegrace john. if miss amanda had had a heart, it would have gone out to that dear old boy; if she had had eyes they would have been filled with tears of affection as she gazed on him. of all her family he had been most dear to her, although, as he had often told her, there was no one in the world who found so much fault with him. "the old gentleman sat down on a rustic seat beneath a walnut-tree, and his granddaughter came running to him, filling the air with the odor of sweet peas. she seated herself at the other end of the bench, and let the flowers drop into her lap. 'grandpa,' said she, 'these are for you, but i am only going to give you one of them now for your buttonhole. the rest i will put in a vase in your study. but i wanted you to stop here anyway, for i have something to tell you.' "'tell on,' said he, when the girl had put a spray bearing three blossoms into his buttonhole. 'is it anything you want me to do this afternoon?' "'it isn't anything i want you to do ever,' she said. 'it is about something i must do, and it is just this: grandpa, there are two gentlemen who are about to propose to me, and i think they will do it very soon.' "'how in the world do you know that?' he exclaimed. 'have they sent you printed notices?' "'how is it that anybody knows such a thing?' she answered. 'we feel it, and we can't be expected to explain it. you must have felt such things when you were young, for i have been told you were often in love.' "'never in my life,' said her grandfather, 'have i felt that a young woman was about to propose to me.' "'oh, nonsense!' said the girl, laughing. 'but you could feel that she would like you to propose to her. that's the way it would be in your case.' "miss amanda listened with the most eager and overpowering attention. often in love! that young scapegrace john! but she had no doubt of it. when she had last known him he was not yet eighteen, and he had had several love-scrapes. of course he must have married, for here was his granddaughter; and who in the world could he have taken to wife? could it have been that rebecca hendricks--that bold, black-eyed girl, who, as everybody knew, had tried so hard to get him? with all the strength of her consciousness miss amanda hoped it had not been rebecca. there was another girl, mildred winchester, a sweet young thing, and in every way desirable, whom miss amanda had picked out for him when he should be old enough to think about such things, which at that time he wasn't. rebecca hendricks ought to have been ashamed of herself. now she did hope most earnestly that she would hear something which would let her know he had married mildred winchester. "'well,' said the old gentleman, 'if they do propose, as you seem to have some occult reason for suspecting, have you made up your mind which of them you are going to take?' "'that is the trouble,' said the girl, a very serious look coming over her face. 'i have not made up my mind what i ought to do. i know i ought to be prepared to give the proper answer to the one who speaks first, whichever one he may be; but i cannot come to a decision which satisfies me, and that is the reason, grandpa, i wanted to talk to you about it. of course you know who they are--george and mr. berkeley.' "'my dear mildred,' said the old gentleman, turning quickly around so that he could face her, 'just listen to me.' "'mildred, mildred!' thought miss amanda, and her consciousness was pervaded by a joyful thankfulness which knew no limits. 'she must have been named after her grandmother. he surely married mildred.' and miss amanda gazed on the scapegrace john with more affection than she had ever known before. but in the midst of her joy she could not help wondering who it was that that rebecca hendricks had finally succeeded in getting. that she got somebody miss amanda had not the slightest doubt. "'mildred,' said the old gentleman, 'just listen to me. this is a most important thing you have told me, and i have only this to say about it: if you can't make up your mind which one of those young men you will take when they propose, make up your mind now, this minute, not to have either of them. if you love either one of them as you ought to love the man who shall be your husband, you will have no difficulty in deciding. therefore, if you have a difficulty, you do not really love either of them.' "for a few minutes the girl sat quietly looking down at the flowers in her lap, and then she said: 'but, grandpa, suppose i do not understand myself properly? perhaps after a while i might come to a--' [illustration: miss amanda listened with the most eager and overpowering attention.] "'after a while,' interrupted her grandfather. 'that will not do. you want to understand yourself before a lover proposes to you, not afterwards.'" the captain sat up straight in his chair. "now look here," he said; but he addressed the mistress of the house, not the story-teller. "how does this daughter of ours come to know all these things about lovers, and the weather-signs which indicate proposals of marriage, and all that? has she been going about in society, making investigations into the rudiments of matrimony, during my last cruise? and would you mind telling me if any young men have been giving her lessons in love-affairs? john gayther, have you seen any stray lovers prowling about your garden of late?" the gardener smiled, and said he had seen no such persons. but he said nothing about a very true friend of the daughter of the house, who lived in a small house in the garden, and who would have been very well pleased to break the head of any stray lover who should wander into his precincts. "you don't know girls, my dear," said the mistress of the house, "and you don't know what comes to them naturally, and how much they have to learn. so please let the story go on." "'of course,' said the old gentleman, 'i know who they are. considering how often they have been here of late, i could not well make a mistake about that; and although i am not in favor of anything of the sort, and feel very much inclined to put up a sign, "no lovering on these premises," still, i am a reasonable person' ('you must have changed very much if you are, you dear boy!' thought miss amanda), 'and know what is due to young people, and i am obliged to admit that these young men are good enough as young men go. but the making a choice! that is what i object to. i would advise you, my dear, not to think anything more about it until the time shall come when you feel there is no need of making a choice because the thing has settled itself.' "'but, grandpa,' she said, 'what am i to say if they ask me? i am bound to say something.' "the old gentleman did not reply, but began switching at some invisible dandelions. 'what you tell me,' he said presently, 'reminds me of my aunt amanda. she was a fine woman, and she had two lovers.' ('you little round-faced scamp!' thought miss amanda. 'are you going to tell that child all my love-affairs? and what do you know about them, anyway? i never confided in you. you were nothing but a boy, although you were a very inquisitive one, always wanting to know things, and what you have found out is beyond me to imagine.') "'your aunt amanda,' said mildred. 'that's the one in the oval frame in the parlor. she must have been very pretty.' "'indeed she was,' said the old gentleman. 'that portrait was painted when she was quite a young girl; but she was pretty until the day of her death. i used to be very fond of her, and thought her the most beautiful being on earth. she always dressed well, and wore curls. even when she was scolding me i used to sit and look at her, and think that if such a lady, a little bit younger perhaps, but not much, were shut up in a castle with a window to it, i would be delighted to be a knight in armor, and to fight with retainers at the door of that castle until i got her out and rode away with her sitting on the crupper of my saddle, the horse being always, as i well remember, a gray one dappled with dark spots, with powerful haunches and a black tail.' ('you dear boy,' murmured miss amanda, 'if i had known that i could not have scolded!') 'well, as i said before, she had two lovers. one was a handsome young fellow named garrett bridges.' "'it seems to me i have heard that name,' said mildred. "'very likely, very likely,' said her grandfather. 'it has been mentioned a great many times in our family. garrett had been intended for the army, but he did not get through west point, and at the time he was making love to my aunt amanda his only business was that of expecting an inheritance. but he was so brave and gay and self-confident, and was so handsome and dashing, that everybody said he would be sure to get along, no matter what line of life he undertook.' ('i wonder,' thought miss amanda, 'what he did do, after all. i hope i shall hear that.') 'her other lover,' said the old gentleman, 'was randolph castine, a very different sort of young man.' ('you unmitigated little story-teller!' ejaculated miss amanda. 'he never made love to me for one minute in his whole life. i wish i could speak to john--oh, i wish i could speak to john!') 'so, then,' continued the old gentleman, 'here were the two young men, both loving my aunt amanda; and here was i, intensely jealous of them both.' "'oh, grandfather,' laughed mildred, 'how could you be that?' "'easily enough,' said he. 'i was very impressionable and of a very affectionate turn of mind.' ('you had very queer ways of showing it, you young scamp!' said miss amanda.) 'and i remember, when i was about ten years old, i once asked my mother if it were wicked to marry aunts; and when she told me it would not do, i said i was very sorry, for i would like to marry aunt amanda. i liked her better than anybody else except my mother, and i was sure there was no other person who would take more from me, and slap back less, than aunt amanda.' ('i remember that very well,' thought the happy consciousness; 'and when your mother told me about it, how we both laughed!') "'well, the better i liked my aunt amanda, the less i liked anybody who made love to her; and one night, as i was sitting on the edge of my bed,--it must have been nearly eleven o'clock,--i vowed a vow, which i vowed i would never break, that no presumptuous interloper, especially garrett bridges, should ever marry my aunt amanda. as to randolph castine or any other suitor, i did not think them really worthy of consideration. garrett bridges was the dangerous man. he was at our house nearly every day, and, apart from his special obnoxiousness as a suitor to my aunt amanda, i hated him on my own account, for he treated me as if i were nothing but a boy.' ('and why shouldn't he?' murmured miss amanda. 'you were nearly grown up at that time, but you really behaved more like a boy than a man, and that was one reason i was so fond of you.') "'i had a good many plans for freeing my aunt amanda from the clutches of mr. bridges; but the best of them, and the one i finally determined upon, pleased me very much because it was romantic and adventurous. it seemed to me the best way to prevent mr. bridges from marrying my aunt amanda was to make him marry some one else, and i thought i could do this. there was a girl named rebecca hendricks, who lived about a mile from our house, with whom i was very well acquainted. she was a first-class girl in many ways.' ('i would like to know what they were!' exclaimed miss amanda. 'i think she was about sixth-class, no matter how you looked at her.') 'for one thing, she was very plucky, and ready for any kind of fun. i knew she liked mr. bridges, because i had heard her say so, and her praise of him had frequently annoyed me very much; for i did not want a friend of mine, as she professed to be, to think favorably in any way of such a man as garrett bridges. but things were now getting serious, and i did not hesitate to sacrifice my feelings for the sake of my aunt amanda. i was always ready to do that.' ('not always, my boy,' thought miss amanda; 'not always, i am afraid.') 'so i resolved to get up a match between rebecca and garrett bridges. as i thought over the matter, it seemed to me that they were exactly suited to each other.' ('that's queer!' thought miss amanda. 'i always supposed you thought she was exactly suited to you.') 'of course i could not say anything to bridges about the matter, but i went over to rebecca, and told her the whole plan. she laughed at me, and said it was all pure nonsense, and that if she were going to marry at all she would a great deal rather marry me than mr. bridges. but i told her seriously it was of no use to think of me. in the first place, i was four years younger than she was; and then, i had made up my mind never to marry, no, never, as long as my aunt amanda lived. i was going to take care of her when she grew elderly, and i wanted nobody to interfere with that purpose.' ('you dear boy!' said miss amanda, with a sort of choke in her affectionate consciousness. 'that is so like you--so like you! and yet i thought you were in love with that rebecca.') 'of course i did not give up my plan because she talked in that way,' continued the old gentleman. 'i knew her; i had studied her carefully. like most boys of my age, i was a deep-minded student of human nature, and could see through and through people.' "'of course,' laughed mildred. 'i have known boys just like that.' "'but i was about right in regard to rebecca,' said her grandfather. 'i kept on talking to her, and it was not long before she agreed to let me bring mr. bridges to see her--they were not acquainted. i had no trouble with him, for he was always glad to know pretty girls, and he had seen rebecca. there never was a piece of match-making which succeeded better than that, and it delighted me to act as prompter of the play, while those two were the actors, and i was also the author of the piece.' "'grandpa,' said mildred, 'don't you think all that was rather wrong?' "'i did not think so then,' he answered, 'and i am not sure i think so now; for really they were very well suited to each other, and there did seem to be danger that the man might marry my aunt amanda, and that, as it seemed to me then, and seems to me now, would have been a deplorable thing.' ('if you had known a little more, you scheming youngster,' said miss amanda, 'you would have understood that there was not the least danger of anything of the kind--that is to say, i am not _sure_ there was any danger.') 'it was not long after these two people became acquainted before i had additional cause for congratulating myself that i had done a wise and prudent thing. bridges came to see my aunt amanda every afternoon, just the same as he had been in the habit of doing, and yet he spent nearly every evening with rebecca; and that proved to me he was not a fit lover for my aunt amanda, no matter how you looked at it.' "'but the young girl,' said mildred. 'didn't you think he was also too fickle for her?' "'oh, no,' said the old gentleman; 'i was quite positive that rebecca could manage him when she got him. she would make him walk straight. i knew her; she was a great girl. every morning i went to see her to inquire how things were coming on, and she told me one day that mr. bridges had proposed to her, and that she had accepted him, and that it was of no use to say anything about it to her father, because he would be sure to be dead set against it. her mother was not living, and she kept house for her father, who was a doctor, and he had often said he would not let her marry anybody who would not come there and live with him; and, judging from what she had heard him say of garrett bridges on one or two occasions, she did not feel encouraged to propose this arrangement for him. "'so the plan they agreed upon--which, in fact, i suggested, although rebecca would never have admitted it--was to go off quietly and get married. then she could write to her father and tell him all about it, and when his anger had cooled down they could make him a visit, and it would depend on him what they should do next. i worked out the whole plan of operation, which rebecca afterwards laid before mr. bridges as the result of her own ingenuity, for which he commended her very much. they both agreed--and you may be sure i did not disagree with them--that the sooner they were married the better. the equinoctial storms were expected before very long, and then a wedding-trip would be unpleasant and sloppy. so they fixed on a certain wednesday, which suited me very well because my father and mother would then be away from home on a visit, and that would make it easier for me to do my part.' ('you little schemer!' said miss amanda. 'of course you suggested that wednesday.') "'this place was quite in the country then, and eight miles from a station, and there was only one train to town, at seven o'clock in the morning. if they could get to the village where the station was at quarter-past six, they would have time to get married before the train came. old mr. lawrence, the methodist minister, was always up at six o'clock, and he could easily marry them in twenty minutes, and that would give them lots of time to catch the train. i would furnish the conveyance to take them to the village, and would also attend to rebecca's baggage. mr. bridges could have his trunk taken to the station without exciting suspicion. at five o'clock in the morning, i told rebecca, i would have a horse and buggy tied to a tree by the roadside at a little distance from the doctor's house where the lovers were to meet. "'the night before, rebecca was to put all the clothes she wanted to take with her in a pillow-case, which she was to carry to a woodshed near the house. soon after they started in the buggy i would arrive with a spring-wagon and an empty trunk. i would then get the pillow-case, put it into the trunk, and drive to the station by another road. "'mr. bridges approved of this plan, and thought she was very clever to devise it. so everything was settled, and i went to the stable the day before, and told peter i wanted him to get up very early the next morning, and put old ripstaver in the buggy, and drive him over to dr. hendricks's. i told him he must be there before five o'clock, and that he was to tie the horse to a maple-tree this side of the front yard. i said one of the doctor's family had to get to the village very early because there were some things to be done before the train came, and it had been agreed we should lend our buggy. peter was not quite pleased with the arrangement, and asked why we did not send the old mare--we only kept two horses; but i said she was too slow, and it had been specially arranged that the buggy, with ripstaver, should be sent. peter was a great friend of mine, so he agreed to do what i asked, and said he did not mind walking back.' ('i never would have believed,' said miss amanda, 'that the boy had such a mind. if i had only known what he was planning to do! if i had only known! but even if i had, it is so hard to tell what is right.') "'my aunt amanda was not in the habit of meddling with anything about the barn or stable; but that afternoon--and i never knew why--she went to the barn, and found peter dusting off the buggy. he told me she asked if anybody was going to use the buggy that evening, and he replied he was getting it ready to take over to the hendrickses' in the morning, as some one there wanted to go to the village before the train started for the city. then she asked what horse he was going to put to it, and he told her old ripstaver. then she said she did not think that was a good plan, because ripstaver was hard to drive, and it would be a great deal better to send the old mare. peter agreed to this, and so it happened that when i went to the barn the next morning, as soon as i had seen peter drive away in the buggy, i found the only horse in the stable was old ripstaver. i was mad enough, i can tell you; for if rebecca made any noise and woke her father he could overtake that old mare long before she could get to the village. i never did understand how my aunt amanda happened to meddle that afternoon.' "('of course you couldn't,' said miss amanda. 'you were a fine little manager; but when i looked out of my window that afternoon and saw a boy carrying a trunk to the barn i was very likely to suspect something; and when i went down to the barn myself and found peter getting the buggy ready to go away early the next morning, i suspected a great deal more. i did not know what to do, for i did not want to make a scandal by letting peter know anything was out of the way, and all i could think of was to have a slow horse put in the buggy instead of a fast one. i thought that might help, anyway.') "'well,' continued the old gentleman, 'there was nothing for me to do but to take ripstaver and the spring-wagon and go after rebecca's baggage. when i reached the doctor's house, and found the buggy had gone, i got the pillow-case, put it into the trunk, and started off on a back road which joined the turnpike a couple of miles farther on. near the junction of the two roads was a high hill from which i hoped i might be able to see the buggy, and, if so, i would follow it at a safe distance. as soon as i got to the top of this hill i did see the buggy; but i saw more than that--i saw another buggy not far behind it. there was a roan horse in this one which i knew to belong to the doctor. bridges was whipping our old mare like everything, and she was doing her best, and galloping; but the doctor's roan was a good one, and he was gaining on them very fast. it was a beautiful race, and i felt like clapping and cheering the doctor, for, although he was spoiling my game, it was a splendid thing to see him driving his roan so fast and so steadily, never letting him break out of a regular trot, and i hated bridges so much i was glad to see anybody getting the better of him. "'it was not long before the doctor's buggy caught up with the other one, and then they both stopped; everybody got out, and there must have been a grand talk, but of course i could not hear any of it. the doctor shook his fist, and i could see they were having a lively time. after a bit they stopped talking, the doctor took rebecca into his buggy and drove back, and garrett bridges got into our buggy and went slowly toward the station--to see about his trunk, i suppose. i did not lose any time after that, but drove to the doctor's as fast as old ripstaver could travel, and i had rebecca's pillow-case in the woodshed before the doctor arrived. now i never was able to imagine how the doctor found out that rebecca had gone. she did not know herself. she said she got out of the house without making any more noise than a cat; and as for her father waking up at the sound of wheels in the public road, that was ridiculous; if he had heard them he would not have paid any attention to them. that was one of the queer things neither of us ever found out.' "miss amanda was amused. ('of course you didn't; it was not intended that you should. how could you know that, being greatly troubled, i woke up very early that morning, and when i found you were not in your room i put on my overshoes and walked across the fields to dr. hendricks's. i did not get there as soon as i hoped i would; but when i rang the door-bell, and the doctor himself came to the door, and i told him i did not want to see him but rebecca, and he went to look for her and found her gone, and i confided to him as a great secret what i was sure had happened, it did not take him long to get his horse and buggy and go after her. and how glad i was she had our old mare, and not ripstaver! but i thought all the time it was you she had run away with, and i never knew until now that it wasn't. the doctor told me afterwards that he and his daughter had agreed not to say anything about it, and he advised me to do the same; but the sly old fellow never told me it was mr. bridges and not you. but if i had only known who really was running away with her, i would not have walked across those wet pasture-fields that chilly morning--that is, i do not think i would have done it.') "'but one thing i did know,' said the old gentleman, 'which i often regretted; and that was that if my aunt amanda had not meddled with the horses and so spoiled my plan, rebecca hendricks would have married mr. bridges, and several evil consequences would have been avoided.' ('i wonder what they were?' thought miss amanda.) 'well, things went on pretty much as they had been going on, and that garrett bridges came every day, just as bold as brass, to see my aunt amanda, who, of course, knew nothing of his trying to run away with rebecca. sometimes i thought of telling her, but that would have made a dreadful mess, and i was bound in honor not to say a word about rebecca. "'mr. randolph castine sometimes came to our house, but not often, and i began to wish he would court my aunt amanda and marry her. if she had to marry, he would be a thousand times better than garrett bridges, and i thought i could go to his house--which was a beautiful one, with hunting and fishing--to see her, and perhaps make long stays in the summer-time, which would have been utterly impossible in the case of garrett bridges.' ('you would have been welcome enough in any home of mine,' said miss amanda. 'but you are utterly mistaken about mr. castine. alas! he was no lover at all.') 'but although mr. castine was a splendid man in every way, he was not a bold lover like garrett bridges, and after a while he seemed to get tired and went off to travel. not very long after that bridges went off, too. i think perhaps he had received part of the inheritance he was expecting; but i am not sure about that. anyway, he went. and then my aunt amanda had no lover but me. "'very soon her health began to fail, and this went on for some time, and nothing did her any good. at last she took to her bed. it seemed to me the weaker and thinner she got the more beautiful she became, and i did everything i could for her, which, of course, was not any good. i remember very well that at this time she never lectured me about anything; but she sometimes mentioned rebecca hendricks, always to the effect that she was a very strange girl, and that she could not help thinking her husband, if she ever got one, would be a man who ought to be pitied. i think she was afraid i might marry her; but she need not have worried herself about that--i never had the slightest idea of any such nonsense.' ('but i had every reason to suppose you had such an idea,' said miss amanda, 'considering i thought you had tried to run away with her.') "'well,' said the old gentleman, 'there is not much more of the story. my aunt amanda died, and our family was in great grief for a long time; but none of them grieved as much as i did.' (if miss amanda could have embraced her dear nephew john, she would have done so that minute.) 'then, greatly to our surprise, randolph castine suddenly came home. he had heard of my aunt amanda's dangerous condition, and he had hurried back to see her and to tell her something before she died. he told my mother, to whom he confided everything, that he had been passionately in love with my aunt amanda for a long time, but that he had been so sure she was going to marry mr. bridges that he had never given her any reason to suppose he cared for her, which i said then, and i say now, was a very poor way of managing love business. if he had spoken, everything would have been all right, and my aunt amanda might have been living now; there are plenty of people who live to be ninety. i am positively sure, now, that she was just as much in love with him as he was with her.' "miss amanda now suffered a great and sudden pain: she seemed to exist only in her memory of her great love for randolph castine, and in this present knowledge that he had loved her. oh, why had she been told that in life she had been dreaming, and that only now she had come to know what had been real! nothing that was said, nothing that was visible, impressed her consciousness just then; but presently some words of her nephew john forced themselves upon her attention. "'so she never knew, and he never knew, and two lives were ruined; and she died,' the old gentleman continued, 'my mother thought, as much from disappointed love as from anything else.' "'and what became of mr. castine?' asked mildred, who had been listening with tears in her eyes. "'he went away again,' said her grandfather, 'and stayed away a long time; and at last he married a very pleasant lady because he thought it was his duty, having such a fine estate, which ought to be lived on and enjoyed.' "'did he have any children?' asked mildred. "'yes; one daughter, who married a mr. berkeley of queen mary county. it was considered a good match.' "'berkeley!' exclaimed the young girl, moving so suddenly toward her grandfather that all the sweet peas in her lap fell suddenly to the ground. 'berkeley! why, arthur berkeley comes from queen mary county! do you mean he is the grandson of mr. castine?' "'exactly; that is who he is,' said the old gentleman. "mildred sat for a few minutes without saying a word, looking at the ground. 'grandpa,' she said presently, 'do you know i believe all the time my mind was made up, and i did not know it. and after what you have told me of arthur berkeley, grandpa, and your aunt amanda, i really think i know myself a great deal better than i did before; and if arthur should ask me--that is, if he ever does--' "'and he surely will,' said her grandfather, 'for he came to me this morning, like the honorable fellow he is, and obtained permission to do so.' "'grandpa!' exclaimed mildred; and as she looked up at him there was no beauty in any sweet-pea blossom, or in any other flower on earth, which could equal the brightness and the beauty of her face. "the pain faded out of the consciousness of miss amanda. 'and this is the way it ends!' she murmured. 'this is the way it ends. john's granddaughter and his grandson.' and now it was not pain, but a quiet happiness, which pervaded her consciousness. "the grandfather and granddaughter rose from the rustic bench and walked slowly toward the house. miss amanda looked after them, and blessed them; then she gazed upon the sweet peas on the ground; then she looked once more upon the old dial, still bravely marking each sunny hour; and then, slowly and gradually, miss amanda lost consciousness, without saying to herself, 'seven o'clock' or 'fifty years' or any other period of time. "that is the end," said the young lady. "and quite time!" exclaimed the master of the house. "madam," he said, turning to his wife, "did you know of all this knowledge of which your daughter seems possessed--of boy's nature, and woman's love, and the human heart, and all the rest of it? i can't fathom her with my longest line!" "you may as well give up all idea of that sort of sounding," said the mistress of the house. "there is no line long enough to fathom the human heart." "i am thinking," said john gayther, as he rattled the seeds in the pan, "whether it was worth while for amanda to become conscious for so short a time, and just to hear a tale like that." "was it worth while to learn that the man she had wanted to love her had really loved her?" asked the daughter of the house, eagerly. "it doesn't seem the sort of love to wait fifty years to hear about," said john. "i don't like the way they have in novels of making folks keep back things that men and women couldn't help telling." "then you don't like my story, john," said the daughter of the house, in a disappointed tone. "indeed, but i do, miss," he replied quickly. "as a story it is just perfect; but as real doings it doesn't pan out square. but then, it is meant for a story, and it couldn't be better or more unlike other stories told here. nobody could have thought that out that hadn't a deep mind." the young lady looked critically at john, but she saw he really meant what he said, and she was satisfied. this story is told by the old professor and is called my translatophone ix my translatophone the professor was very old, but he was well preserved--always spoken of as "hale and hearty." he still held his position in his college, and still took a good part in teaching mathematics, but he had an assistant who did the heavy work. he had been principal of the school where the mistress of the house received her education, and she was much attached to him, and he always spent some part of his summer vacation at her house. the master of the house, of course, was not there every summer, and so this season the old professor had a special treat, for there were many things he liked to talk about in which he knew the two ladies could take no interest. it rained for two days after his arrival at the house, but the third morning was bright and clear, and the master of the house conducted his visitor to the favorite resort of the family--a spot the old professor knew well and loved. they conversed for a while on some deep subjects, and then they were joined by the two ladies and the next neighbor, and the serious discourse changed into light talk; and john gayther coming up to pay his respects to the old professor, the next neighbor was seized with an inspiration. "john," she said, "you must tell us a story. sit right down and begin 'once upon a time--' know i haven't heard a story for a long time." "madam," said john, respectfully, "i always do what the ladies tell me to do; and i am more sorry than i can say, but i have to know beforehand when i am to tell a story, and indeed i haven't one ready." "oh, you are clever and can make up as you go along, as the children say." "john never tells an impromptu story," said the mistress of the house. "but, my dear professor," and she turned to the old gentleman, "we are all friends here, and i should so like you to tell us how you got your wife. you once told it to me, and i should like to know what this company will think of the way you won her." the old professor smiled. "i know what you think about it, and i know what i think about it; and, as you say, we are all old friends, and i am rather curious to know what this company will think about it. i will tell my little story." when they were all ready, he began in a clear voice: "if my mary were living this story would never have been told; but she has been a blessed spirit now these many years, and has doubtless long known it, and has judged my conduct righteously. such is my belief." here he made a reverent pause, and then began again: "in my early youth i left, for some two or three years, the beaten track--so to speak--of mathematics; or, more properly, mechanics. for i interested myself in inventing, with more or less success, certain scientific machines. "one of the most successful of these various contrivances, and the one, indeed, in which i was most deeply interested, was a small machine very much resembling in appearance the tube, with a mouth-piece at one end and an ear-piece at the other, frequently used by deaf persons, but very different in its construction and action. in the ordinary instrument the words spoken into the mouth-piece are carried through the tube to the ear, and are then heard exactly as they are spoken. when i used my instrument the person spoke into the mouth-piece exactly as if it were an ordinary tube, but the result was very different, for the great feature of my invention was that, no matter what language was spoken by the person at the mouth-piece, be it greek, choctaw, or chinese, the words came to the ear in perfect english. "this translation was accomplished by means of certain delicate machinery contained in the end of the mouth-piece, which was longer and larger than that of the ordinary ear-tube, but the outward appearance of which did not indicate that it held anything extraordinary. it would take too long to explain this mechanism to you, and you would not be interested; nor is it necessary to my story. "when, after countless experiments and disappointments, and days and nights of hard study and hard work, i finished my little machine, which i called a translatophone, i was naturally anxious to see how it would work with some other person than myself at the mouth-piece. in the course of its construction i had frequently tried the machine by putting the ear-piece into my ear and speaking into the mouth-piece such scraps of foreign languages as i was able to command. these experiments were generally satisfactory, but i could not be satisfied that the machine was a success until some one else should speak into it in some foreign tongue of which i knew positively nothing, so that it would be impossible for me to translate it unconsciously. "this was not an easy thing, and i had determined i would not explain my invention to the public until i had assured myself that it worked perfectly, and until i had had my property in the invention secured to me by patent right. to go to a foreigner and ask him to speak into my instrument, using a language he could readily assure himself i did not speak or understand, would be the same thing as an avowal of what the translatophone was intended to do. i thought of several plans, but none suited me. i did not want to pretend to be deaf, and, even if i did so, i could not explain why i wished to be spoken to in a language i did not use myself. "in the midst of my cogitations and uncertainties, i received a note from mary armat which, for a time, drove from my mind all thought of translatophone and everything concerning it. "miss mary armat and i had been friends since the days in which we went to school together. i had always liked her above the other girls of my acquaintance, and about three years previous to the time of this story i had almost made up my mind that i was in love with her, and that i would tell her so. this, however, i had not done. at that time i had become intensely interested in some of my inventions, and, although my feelings toward mary armat had not in the least changed, i did not visit her as often as had been my custom, and when i did see her i am afraid i told her more about mechanical combinations than she cared to hear. but so engrossed was i that i stupidly failed to notice this, and i did not perceive that i had been neglecting the most favorable opportunities of declaring the state of my affections until she informed me, not in a private interview, but in the midst of her family circle, that she had made up her mind to become a missionary and go to india to work among the heathen. i was greatly shocked, but i could say nothing then, and afterwards had no opportunity to say anything. "i did not write to mary, because she was a most independent and high-spirited girl, and i knew it must be spoken words and not written ones which would satisfy her that i had had good reasons for postponing a declaration of love to her until she had left the country. "so she went to burma. i frequently heard of her, but we did not correspond. she had gone into her new work with great zeal. she had learned the burmese tongue, and had even translated a little english book into that language. for some time she had seemed well satisfied; but i heard through her family that she was getting tired of her eastern life. the rainy seasons were disagreeable to her, the dry seasons did not agree with her; her school duties were becoming very monotonous; and she had found out that in her heart she did not care for the heathen, especially for heathen children. therefore she had resigned her position and was on her way home. the note i received from her informed me that she had arrived in new york the day before, and that she would be very glad if i would come to see her." "_she_ did a sensible thing, anyway," commented the master of the house. the daughter of the house opened her mouth to say: "i do not like her. she had no enthusiasm, or real goodness, to give up her work so soon and for such reasons." but she suddenly reflected that mary had been the speaker's wife, and she shut her mouth with a little vicious snap. "i went to the armat house that evening, and i found there a very lively girl awaiting me. her parents and her two sisters had gone out, and we had the parlor to ourselves. life in burma may not have suited mary armat, but it certainly had improved her, for she was much more charming than when i had last seen her. moreover, she was so very friendly, and without doubt so glad to see me, she was so bright and full of high spirits, that it might have been supposed she had arranged matters so that we could have the evening to ourselves, and was eminently pleased with her success. "i admired her more and more every time i looked at her, and i determined that, as soon as the proper time should come, i would make earnest love to her, and tell her what, perhaps, i should have told her long ago. but just now i had other matters on my mind. "above all things i wanted mary to talk into my translatophone, and to speak in burmese. i knew nothing whatever of that language, and if she should speak it, and the words should come to my ears in pure english, then no further experiment would be necessary, no doubts could possibly exist. but until i had made this test i did not want her to know what the instrument was intended to do; it was barely possible she might play a trick on me and speak in english. but if the thing succeeded i would tell her everything. we two should be the sole owners of the secret of my great invention--an invention which would not only benefit the english-speaking world, but which might be adapted to the language of any nation, and which would make us rich beyond all ordinary probabilities. "as soon as i had the opportunity i began to speak of the work i had been engaged upon during mary's absence; and when i approached the subject i thought i saw on her face an expression which seemed to say, 'oh, dear! are you going to begin on that tiresome business again?' but i was not to be turned from my purpose. such an opportunity as this was too valuable, too important, to be slighted or set aside for anything else. in a few minutes i might discover whether this invention of mine was a success or a failure. i took my translatophone from my pocket, and laid it on the table beside us. "'what's that?' she exclaimed. 'you don't mean to tell me you have become hard of hearing?' "'oh, no,' said i; 'my hearing is just as good as it ever was.' "'but that is a thing deaf people use,' she said. "'well, yes,' i answered; 'it could be used by deaf people, i suppose, although i have never tried it in that way. it is my latest and, i think, my most important invention. it would take too long to explain its mechanism just now--' "'indeed it would,' she interrupted quickly. "'but what i want to do,' i continued, 'is to make a little trial of it with you.' "'if you mean you want me to speak into that thing,' she said, 'i do not want to do it. i should hate to think you are deaf and needed anything of the sort. please put it away; i do not even like the looks of it.' "but i persisted; i told her that i greatly desired that she should speak a few sentences in burmese into my instrument. i had a certain reason for this which i would explain afterwards. "'but you do not understand burmese,' she said in surprise. "'not a word of it,' i answered. 'i do not know how it sounds when it is spoken, nor how it looks when it is written. but there are certain tones and chords, and all that sort of thing, in the foreign languages which are very interesting, no matter whether you understand the language or not.' "'oh, it is a sort of musical thing, then,' she said. "'i will not say it is exactly that,' i replied. 'but if you will simply speak to me in burmese for a minute or two, that is all i ask of you, and afterwards we can talk about its construction and object.' "'oh, i do not want to talk any more about it,' said she; 'but if it will satisfy you, i will say a few words to you in burmese. do you speak into this hole?' she said as she took up the instrument. "i arranged the ear-piece very carefully, and covered my other ear with my hand. immediately she began to speak to me, and every word came to me in clear and beautiful english! but i knew, as well as i knew that i lived, that the words she spoke were burmese, or belonged to some other language which she knew i did not understand. the proof of this was in the words themselves. "'i think you are perfectly horrid,' she said, 'and i am glad to have an opportunity to tell you so, even though you do not understand me. i cannot imagine how anybody can be so stupid as to want to talk about horrible ear-trumpets the first time he meets a girl whom he has not seen for years, and who used to like him so much, and who likes him still in spite of his cruel stupidity. i wonder why you thought i wanted to see you the minute i got home? i am awfully disappointed in you, for i did think you would talk to me in a very different way the first time you saw me. and now i am going to tell you something--and i would rather cut my tongue out than say it in english, but it gives me a wicked delight to say it in burmese: i love you, john howard. i have loved you for a long time; and that is the reason i went to burma; and now that i have come back i am obliged to say that i love you still. if you could invent some sort of a tube that would make you see better with your eyes and understand better with your mind, it would be a great deal more suitable than this horrid, snake-like thing for your ear. i do not suppose you will ever hear me speak this way in english, but i tell you again, john howard, that i love you, and it makes me sick to think what a goose you are.' "'now, then,' she said, putting down the tube, 'was there anything peculiar in the tones and chords of that bit of foreign language?' "fortunately the only light in the room was behind me, and therefore i had reason to hope that she did not observe the expression of my countenance. moreover, as soon as she had finished speaking she had turned her face away from me, and was now leaning back in her chair, her mouth tightly shut and her wide-open eyes directed on the opposite wall. she looked like a woman who had taken a peculiar revenge, and who, in the taking of it, had aroused her soul in its utmost recesses. "for some moments i did not answer her question. in fact, i could not speak at all. my thoughts were in a mad whirl. not only had i discovered that my invention, the hope of my life, was an absolute success, but i was most powerfully impressed by the conviction that now i could never tell mary what my invention was intended to do, for then she would know what it had done. "'yes,' i answered, speaking slowly; 'there was a sort of accord, a kind of--' "i was interrupted in what would have been a very labored sentence by the ringing of the door-bell. mary instantly rose. it was plain she was laboring under suppressed excitement, for there was no other reason why she should have jumped up in that way. she looked as if she were anxious to see some one, no matter who it was. i, too, felt relieved by the interruption. in my state of wildly conflicting emotions any third person would be a relief. "the door opened, and miss sarah castle walked in. 'oh, mary,' she exclaimed, 'i am so glad to find you at home! as it isn't late and the moon is so bright, i thought i would run over to see you for a few minutes. oh, mr. howard!' "sarah castle was a young woman for whom i had no fancy. active in mind and body, and apparently constructed of thoroughly well-seasoned material, she was quick to notice, eager to know, and ready at all times to display an interest in the affairs of her friends, with which, in most cases, said friends would willingly have dispensed. as she took a seat she exclaimed: "'you don't mean to say, mary, that you went deaf in burma?' "unfortunately i had forgotten to put my translatophone into my pocket, and it was lying in full view on the table. mary gave a scornful glance toward the innocent tube. "'oh, that?' she said. 'that is not mine. it belongs to mr. howard.' "the words 'mr. howard' grated upon my nerves. up to this moment, except through the translatophone, she had not addressed me by my name in any form; and every tentative lover knows that when his lady addresses him as though he had no name it means that she does not wish to use his formal title and that the time has not arrived for her to call him by his christian name. "'you deaf?' cried sarah, turning to me. 'i have never heard anything of that. when did it come on? it must have been very recent.' "'oh, he isn't deaf,' said mary, impatiently. 'it is only one of his inventions. but tell me something of your brothers. i have not heard a word about them yet.' "but the knowledge-loving sarah was not to be bluffed off in this way. "'oh, they are all right,' said she. 'they are both in college now. but mr. howard deaf! i am truly amazed. do you have to talk to him through this, mary?' "mary armat was not an ill-natured girl, but, as i said before, she was a high-spirited one, and was at the time in a state of justifiable irritation. "'oh, bother that thing!' she answered. 'i told you it is only one of his inventions, and i wish he would put it in his pocket.' "'not just yet,' said sarah. 'i am really anxious to know about it. why do you use it, mr. howard, if you are not deaf?' "my face must have displayed my extreme embarrassment at this unanswerable question, for mary came to my relief. "'oh, it is a kind of musical instrument,' she said. 'but don't let us talk any more about it. this is the second time i have seen you, but we have not really had a good chance to say anything to each other.' "i took advantage of this very strong hint, and rose. "'musical!' exclaimed the irrepressible sarah. 'oh, mr. howard, please play on it just the least little bit!' "mary allowed herself an expression of extreme disgust. 'please not while i am present,' she said; 'i could not abide it.' "i now advanced to take my leave. "'do not go just now,' said sarah; 'i merely ran over for a minute to ask mary about the wilmer reception; but as you are going, mr. howard, you might as well see me home. it is later now.' "i retired to a book-table at the other end of the parlor, and it was a good deal later when the two young ladies had finished talking about the wilmer reception. "'i do not understand it at all,' said miss castle, when we were on the sidewalk. 'you are not deaf, mr. howard, and yet you use an ear-trumpet. what does it mean?' "of course i did not know what to say, but i had to say something, and, moreover, that something must not be wholly inconsistent with my explanation to mary. "'oh, it is a thing,' i answered, 'that is intended to be used in connection with foreign languages.' then i made a bold stroke: 'it shows the difference in their resonant rhythms.' "'well, i am sure i do not understand that,' said miss castle. 'but what is the good of it? does it make them any pleasanter to listen to?' "i admitted that it did. "'whether you understand them or not?' she asked. "if this young woman had at this moment fallen down a coal-hole i cannot truthfully say that i should have regretted it. "'i cannot explain that, miss castle,' i said, 'for it would take a long time, and here we are at your door.' "'come in and let me try it,' said sarah. "'thank you very much,' i replied, 'but i really cannot. i have an engagement at my club. in fact, i was just going to take leave of miss armat when you came in.' "she looked at me scrutinizingly. 'you used to call her mary armat when you spoke of her,' said she, 'but i suppose her having been a missionary makes a difference in that way. i do not believe much in club engagements, but of course we have to recognize them. and if you cannot come in now i wish you would call on me soon. if your invention has anything to do with foreign languages i truly want to try it. i am studying german now, and if it will put any resonant rhythm into that language it will be very interesting.' "i made a hasty and indefinite promise, and gladly saw the front door shut behind miss sarah castle. "that night i did not sleep; in fact, i did not go to bed. the words mary armat had spoken to me in burmese should have completely engrossed my every thought, but they did not. for one moment my mind was filled with rapture by the knowledge that i was loved by this lovely girl; and in the next i was overwhelmed by anxiety as to what should be done to make it impossible for her to know that i knew she had spoken those words. but whether my thoughts made me happy or distressed me, there seemed to be but one way out of my troubles; i must be content with mary's love, that is, if i should be so fortunate as to secure it. there might be doubts about this; women are fickle creatures, and mary had been very much provoked with me when i parted from her." "i see what is coming," here interrupted the next neighbor, "and i don't approve of it at all!" "it would be hard," continued the old professor, after pausing for further remarks, "to turn my back upon the golden future which my invention would give to mary and me; but i must win her, golden future or not. i sat before my study fire, and planned out my future actions. as soon as i could see mary alone i would tell her my love, and i would explain to her why i had not spoken when i first saw her. but in order to do this i should have to be very careful. i would say nothing but the truth, but i would be very guarded in telling that truth. she must not imagine that anything she had said had made me speak. she must not imagine that i thought she expected me to speak. "i would begin by asking her pardon for worrying her with my invention when i knew she disliked problematic mechanics. then i would tell her, in as few words as possible, that i had expected this little instrument to give me fame and fortune, and therefore i wanted her to know all about it; and then, before she could ask me why i wanted her to know this, i would tell her it was because i wished to lay that fame and fortune at her feet. after that, in the best way my ardent feelings should dictate, i would offer myself to her without fortune, without fame, just the plain john howard who loved her with all his heart. if she accepted me, i would tell her that the invention had not worked as i had intended it should, and therefore i should put it behind me forever." "oh, dear!" cried the next neighbor. "i knew it was coming!" "maybe it didn't," said the master of the house. "having come to a decision," the old professor went on, with more animation, "upon this most important matter, my mind grew easier and i became happier. what was anything a black tube could do for me--what, indeed, was anything in the world--compared to the love of that dear girl? and so i sat and gazed into the fire, and dreamed waking dreams of blessedness. "after a time, however, it came to me that i must make up my mind what i was going to do about the translatophone. i might as well take it apart and throw it into the fire at once, and then there would be an end to that danger to the future of which i had been dreaming. yes; there would be an end to that. but there would also be an end to the great boon i was about to bestow upon the world, a boon the value of which i had not half understood. it truly was a wonderful thing--a most wonderful thing. an american or an englishman, or any one speaking english, could take with him a translatophone and travel around the world, understanding the language of every nation, of every people--the polished tongues of civilization, the speech of the scholars of the orient, and even the jabber of the wild savages of africa. to be sure, he could not expect to answer those who spoke to him, but what of that? he would not wish to speak; he would merely desire to hear. all he would have to do would be to pretend that he was deaf and dumb, and my simple translatophone might put him into communication with the minds of every grade and variety of humanity. "then a new thought flashed into my mind. why only humanity? if i should attach a wide mouth-piece to my instrument, why should i not gather in the songs and cries of the birds? why should i not hear in plain english what they say to each other? why should not all creation speak to me so that i could understand? why should i not know what the dog says when he barks--what words the hen addresses to her chicks when she clucks to them to follow? why should i not know the secrets of what is now to us a tongue-tied world of nature? [illustration: and dreamed waking dreams of blessedness.] "then i had another idea, that made me jump from my chair and walk the floor. i might know what the monkeys say when they chatter to each other! what discovery in all natural history could be so great as this? the thought that these little creatures, so nearly allied to man, might disclose to me their dispositions, their hopes, their ambitions, their hates, their reflections upon mankind, had such a sudden and powerful influence on me that i felt like seizing my translatophone and rushing off to the zoölogical gardens. it was now daybreak. i might obtain admission! "but i speedily dismissed this idea. if i should ever hear in english what the monkeys might say to me, i must give up mary. i should be the slave of my discovery. it would be impossible then to destroy the translatophone. i sat down again before the fire. 'shall i put an end to it now?' i said to myself. nothing would be easier than to take its delicate movements and smash them on the hearth. now a prudent thought came to me: suppose mary should not accept me? then, with this great invention lost,--for i never should have the heart to make another,--i should have nothing left in the world. no; i would be cautious, lest in every way my future life should be overcast with disappointment. the sun had risen, and i felt i must go out; i must have air. before i opened the front door, however, i said to myself, 'remember it is all settled. it is mary you must have--that is, if you can get her.' "of all things in this world, the mind of man is the most independent, the most headstrong. it will work at your bidding as long as it pleases, and then it will strike out at its own pace and go where it chooses. during a walk of a couple of miles i thought nearly all the time of what the monkeys might say to me if i should attach a wide mouth-piece to my translatophone and place it against the bars of their cage. over and over again i stopped these thoughts and said to myself: 'but all this is nothing to me. i must consider mary and nothing else.' then in a very few minutes i was wondering if the monkeys would ask me questions--if they have as strong a desire to know about us as we have to know about them. from such questions how much i might learn in regard to the mental distance between us and them! but again i put all this away from me and began to plan anew what i should say to mary. and then again it was not very long before i found myself thinking how intensely interesting it would be to know what the tree-toads say, and what the frogs talk about when they sit calling to each other all night. it might be a little difficult to get near enough to tree-toads and frogs, but i believed i could manage it. "however, when i returned home i was thinking of mary. "it was early in the afternoon, and i was trying to decide what would be the best time to visit the armat house. the monkeys had not ceased to worry me dreadfully, and i had begun to think that when bees buzz around their hives they must certainly say something interesting to each other. then a note was brought to me from mary. i tore it open and read: "'i want you to come to see me this afternoon. if you possibly can, come about four o'clock, and bring that speaking-tube with you. miss castle has been here nearly all the morning, and some things she has said to me have worried me very much. please come, and do not forget the ear-trumpet.' "this she signed merely with her initials. "mary's note drove to the winds monkeys, bees, and the rest of the world. what had that wretched mischief-maker, that castle girl, been saying to her? i did not believe that the mind of mary armat was capable of originating an unfounded suspicion of me; but the mind of sarah castle was capable of originating anything. she had doubtless suspected that there must be some extraordinary reason for my desire to have people talk to me through a tube in a language i did not understand. she had been too impatient to wait until she could try her german upon me, and she had gone to mary and had filled her mind with horrible conjectures. one thing was certain: no matter what else happened, i must not take that translatophone to mary. after what sarah had said to her there could be no doubt that she would make me speak to her in a foreign language through the tube. it would be easy enough: she could give me a french book and tell me to read a few pages. no matter how badly i should pronounce the words, they would reach her ears in pure english! "and then! "i took my translatophone from the cabinet in which i kept it. the easiest way to destroy it was to throw it at once into the fire; but that would fill the house with the smell of burning rubber. no; it was only necessary to destroy the internal movements. i unscrewed the long mouth-piece, and gently withdrew from it the little membrane-covered cylinder, not six inches in length, which formed the soul of my invention. i took it in my hand and gazed upon it. through its thin, flexible, and almost transparent outer envelope i could see, as i held it to the light, its framework, fine as the thread-like bones of a fish, its elastic chords, its quivering diaphragms, and all the delicate organs of its inner life. it seemed as if i could feel the palpitations of its heart as i breathed upon it. for how many days and months had i been working on this subtle invention--working, and thinking, and dreaming! here it lay, perfect, finished, ready to tell me more than any man ever has known--a thing almost of life, and ready to be brought to life by the voice of man or beast or bird, or perhaps of any living thing. could i have the heart to destroy it? could i have the heart to turn my back upon the gate of the world of wonders which was just opening to me? "'yes,' said i to myself; 'i have the heart to do anything that will prevent my losing the love of mary armat.' "then an evil thought came to me, and tempted me: 'if you choose you can hear the monkeys talk and have mary too. everything you want is in your own hands. don't put that little machine back into the tube. lock it up safely out of sight, and then go to mary with your instrument, and you can talk into it and she can listen, and she may talk and you may listen. yes, you may have your mary--and she need never know that you understand what the monkeys may say to you, or what she has said to you.' "i am proud that i entertained this evil thought for but a very short time. i turned upon it and stormed at it. 'no!' i exclaimed. 'i shall never win mary by cheating her! whether i get her or not, i will be worthy of her.' "then there came another thought, apparently innocent and certainly persuasive. 'do not destroy the translatophone. then, if things do not turn out well between you and mary, you will still have the monkeys.' "'no,' i said to myself; 'i must have mary. i will have nothing to fall back upon. i will allow nothing to exist that might draw me back.' "there was another thing i might do: i might take my translatophone to her, and explain everything. but would there be any possibility, even if she did not fly from me in shame and never see me again, that i could make her believe in a love which had been so spurred on, even aroused, as she might well imagine mine had been? no; that would never do. apart from anything else, it would be impossible for me to be so cruel as to let mary know i had understood the burmese words she had spoken to me. "i looked at the clock; it was half-past three. whatever was to be done must be done now. i cast one more look of longing affection upon the quivering, throbbing little creature, which to me was as much alive as if it had been a tired bird panting in my hand; and then i gently laid it on the hearth. i lifted my left foot and let it hang for an instant over the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, the happy day-dreams those early years of my life had given me, and then, with relentless cruelty, not only to that quivering object but to myself, i brought down my foot with all my strength! "there was a slight struggle for an instant, during which there came to me quick, muffled sounds, which to my agitated brain sounded like the moans of despair from that vast world of animal intelligence which does not speak to man. from my own heart there came a groan. all was over! from the mysterious inner courts of the animal kingdom no revelations would ever come to me! the thick curtain between the intelligence of man and the intelligence of beast and bird which i had raised for a brief moment had now been dropped forever! i should never make another translatophone. "i cast no glance upon the hearth, but put on my hat and coat and went to mary. as i walked there rose behind me a cloud of misty disappointment, while before me there was nothing but dark uncertainty. what would mary have to say to me? and how should i explain what would seem to her to be a cowardly evasion of her plainly expressed request? "when i entered the armat parlor i found mary alone. this encouraged me a little. i had feared that the yearningly inquisitive sarah might also be there. in that case how might i hope to preserve one atom of my secret? "mary came forward with a smile, and held out her hand; i was so astonished i could not speak. "'now don't be cross,' said she. 'as i told you in my note, sarah castle was here this morning, and she greatly troubled my mind about you. she told me i was actually snappish with you when she was here last night. she had never heard me speak to any one in such an ill-natured way. she knew very well that i do not care for inventions and machines, but she did not consider this any reason for my treating you in such a manner. she said i ought to have known that your whole soul is wrapped up in the queer things you invent, and that i should have made some allowance for you, even if i did not care about such things myself. now when she told me this i knew that every word was true, and i was utterly ashamed of myself; and as soon as she left i sent you that note because i wanted you to let me beg your pardon--which you may consider has been done. and now please let me see your speaking-tube. i want you to explain it to me; i want to know how it is made, and what is its object. for i know very well that even if your inventions are not successful they always have very good objects. please forgive me, and let us sit on the sofa and have a nice talk together such as we should have had last night.' "my soul shouted with joy within me, and i said to myself: 'we shall have the nice talk we should have had last night, but it shall be the talk you wanted then, and not the one you ask for now.' "'now, then,' said she, when we had seated ourselves, 'let us go to work to make experiments with your tube. i am so glad you do not feel about it as i thought you would.' "'i did not bring it,' i said. "'oh, what a pity!' interrupted mary. "'no,' said i; 'it is not a pity. it did not work as i expected it would, and there is no use in talking any more about it. i placed great hopes in it, and i had a particular reason for wanting to tell you all about it.' then i began and bravely told her all about it, that is, all that justice and kindness would permit me to tell. in the conversation which ensued, which was a very happy exchange of sentiment, it was wonderful how that translatophone was put into the background. "a great deal of what mary said in answer to my passionate avowals she had already said to me in burmese. but the fact that those straightforward, honest words, fresh from a true woman's heart, and spoken only for the satisfaction of her own frank and impetuous nature, had come to me before in plain english she did not imagine, nor did i ever allow her to imagine. this secret of her soul i always regarded as something that came to me in involuntary confidence, and i always respected that confidence." "were you never sorry?" asked the daughter of the house, when the old professor ceased. "no," he said thoughtfully; "i have never been sorry for what i did. i had a very happy life with my mary--a life far happier than any wonder-exciting invention could have given me." "was it fair to the world to destroy an instrument that might have been of great advantage to science?" ventured john gayther, hesitatingly. "it is not easy," said the old professor, "to decide between what we owe to the world and science, and what we owe to ourselves. you see, i decided in favor of myself. possibly another man would have decided in favor of the invention." "not if he were desperately in love," said the master of the house. "all those fine-spun feelings were unnecessary," said the next neighbor. "if you had not confused your mind with them you would have seen clearly enough that the first idea which came into your head was the proper one to act upon. it would have been no terrible deception if you had taken the instrument to mary without the little machine and talked english with her. later you could have told her you had the invention and you could use it. by that time she would have forgotten that she ever had made that burmese speech, and would have been glad of the fame and fortune the machine would surely have brought." the old professor looked pained. "i do not deny that some such after-thoughts troubled my mind occasionally for some years. but who can say anything of the 'might have been'? the instrument might have failed, after all; or the information gained have proved not worth the hearing; or--" here there was an unlooked-for interruption. the red thrush suddenly burst into song from the midst of the lilac-bushes, and the whole company listened spellbound with delight while the little creature filled the air with melody and sweetness. when the song ceased, the professor remarked: "my translatophone would have been worse than useless here. if i could have heard those words i should have lost that delicious melody. doubtless the words were commonplace enough, but the melody was divine. and it was easy to interpret the spirit of it. it was a song of joy for all that is pleasant, and bright, and happy in this world." this story is told by the next neighbor and is called the vice-consort x the vice-consort the red thrush seemed now to be part of the pleasantness of the garden. whether he was drawn to the lilac-bushes by the sweet memory of his former home, or whether he was keeping a tryst with his mate of the nesting season and was calling her to come to him, or whether his coming was pure caprice, of course john gayther could not know. but every day he came; and when the sky was clear he sang his merry song; and even when the clouds were overshadowing he could not help uttering little trills of melody. after a time he would fly away; but he left a note of gladness in john's heart that stayed there all day. the bird did not seem in the least disturbed by the talk on the terrace. if the sound of the voices reached him at all it must have been as a low murmur, and perhaps he liked it. the family now timed their visits to the summer-house, when they were able to go there, by the red thrush; and he seldom disappointed them. it so happened, however, one morning when they were all there, that the lilacs gave forth no sound. they waited for the accustomed music, and a hush fell upon them. they were silent for some time, and then the old professor spoke: "i see john gayther below the terrace. can't we have a story, if we cannot have a song?" john was called up at once, and the next neighbor accosted him gayly: "if you had known that i am going to tell a story you would have walked faster." john answered her with a pleasant smile. he liked the next neighbor. he liked the kind of mind she had, for it was thoroughly imbued with an anxious desire to do her duty in this world in the manner in which that duty showed itself to her. he liked her because she was fond of the daughter of the house. he liked her because she considered her husband to be the handsomest, best, and cleverest man in the world. perhaps john would have liked this trait best of all if he had not clearly seen that she held in reserve an opinion that this husband would move on a still higher plane if he would place more value on her opinions and statements. "this is the first time you have favored us," he said courteously. "well," she said, "i knew the time would come when i would be called upon, and i could tell many a story about things that have happened to me. i am not exactly the heroine of this tale, but i am intimately concerned in its happenings, and shall tell it in my own way. "before i was married i used to feel that all we have to do in this world is to grow up like grass or clover-blossoms, and to perform our parts by being just as green or as sweet-smelling as our natures allow. but i do not think that way now. along comes a cow, and our careers are ended. of course we cannot get out of the way of our fate any more than grass can get out of the way of a cow; but it often happens that we can accommodate ourselves to our misfortunes. we can be content to being nibbled close; we can spring up again from the roots; or we can patiently wait until we blossom again the next summer. "it was about a year after i was married that i began to think about such things. we were spending a fortnight at the country house of one of my old friends, mrs. cheston; and although bernard, my husband, was away most of the time, fishing with mr. cheston, we were enjoying ourselves very much. there was a village not far away where there were some very nice people, so that we had a good deal of pleasant social life, and it was not long before i became quite well acquainted with some of the village families. "one day mrs. cheston gave me a luncheon, to which she invited a good many of the village ladies; and, after they were all gone, we two sat on the piazza and talked about them. two or three of our guests i had not met before, and in the course of our talk emily mentioned the name of margaret temple. "'temple?' said i. 'which one was that? i do not recall her.' "'you were talking to her some time,' she replied. 'i think she was telling you about the mountains.' "'oh, yes,' said i; 'she was pointing out those passes through which people go into the next county. she sat at the other end of the table, didn't she? she was dressed in black.' "'oh, no,' said emily, 'she was not dressed in black. she never wears black. i think she wore a brown dress with some sort of light trimming.' "'oh, well,' said i, 'i did not notice her dress, and when i do not notice people's clothes i nearly always think they dress in black. is she nice?' "'she is very nice indeed,' said emily; 'everybody thinks that.' "'i wish i had seen more of her,' said i. "emily did not answer this remark, but a smile came on her face which presently grew into a little laugh. i looked at her in surprise. "'what is there funny about miss temple?' i asked. "'really there is nothing funny about her,' she replied, 'but i often laugh to myself when i think of her.' "i suddenly became very much interested in miss temple. 'tell me why you do that,' i said. 'i always like to know why people laugh at other people.' "emily now became very sober. 'you must not think,' she said, 'that there is anything ridiculous about margaret temple. there is not a finer woman to be found anywhere, and i do not believe there is anybody who laughs at her except myself. you know i am very apt to see the funny side of things.' "'and so am i!' i exclaimed. 'do tell me about miss temple. it is so seldom there is anything amusing about a really nice person.' "emily was silent for a moment, and then she said: 'well, i do not know that there is any real harm in telling you what makes me laugh. a good many people know all about it; but i would not, for the world, have margaret temple find out that i told you.' "i assured her with great earnestness that if she would tell me, i would never breathe it to any living soul. "'very well,' said emily; 'i will trust you. as i said, it really isn't funny, but it is just this. it is a positive fact that five married ladies (i am certain of this number, and it may be more) have gone to margaret temple, during the past few years, and each one has asked her to become her husband's second wife in case she should die.' "i did not laugh; i exclaimed in amazement: 'why did they all ask her? i did not notice anything particularly attractive about her.' "'i think that is the point,' said emily. 'i do not think a woman is likely to want her husband to take an attractive woman for his second wife. if she had the chance to choose her successor, she would like her husband to have a really nice person, good in every way, but not one with whom he would be likely to fall violently in love. don't you see the point of that?' "i replied that it was easy enough to see the point, but that there was another one. 'you must remember,' said i, 'that husbands are generally very particular; if one has had a young and handsome wife he would not be likely to be satisfied with anything less.' "emily shook her head. 'i am older than you, rosa, and have had more opportunities of noticing widowers. there are a great many things for them to think about when they marry a second time: their children, their positions, and all that. i believe that if a man and his wife discussed it, which they would not be likely to do, they would be very apt to be of the same mind in regard to the sort of person who ought to come in as number two. for my part, i do not wonder at all that so many women have cast their eyes on margaret temple as a person they would like to have take their places when they are gone. for one thing, you know they would not be jealous of her; this is very important. then, they would be as certain as anything can be certain in this world that their children, if they had any, as well as their husbands, would be in most excellent hands. often, when i have been thinking about her, i have called margaret temple the vice-consort; but i have never told any one this. please remember.' "so far i had not seen a thing to laugh at, but i was deeply interested. 'how came all this to be known?' i asked. 'has miss temple gone about telling people?' "'oh, no, indeed; she is not that sort of person. a good many of the village ladies know it, and i think they always have heard it from those prudent ladies who were providing for their husbands' futures. people talk about it, of course, but they are very careful that nothing they say shall reach margaret temple's ears.' "'tell me about some of the people,' i said, 'who want to secure miss temple as a successor. do they all feel as though they are likely to die?' "'not all of them,' answered emily. 'there is mrs. hendrickson, who was obliged to go to arizona on account of her father's property. he was very rich, and died not long ago. her husband has to stay at home to attend to his business, and she could not take her little baby; and although she is just as healthy as anybody, she knew all the dangers of railroad travelling, and all sorts of things in that far-away place; and, before she packed her trunk, she went to margaret temple and asked her to promise that if she died out there, she, margaret, would marry mr. hendrickson. this i know for certain, for mrs. hendrickson told me herself.' "'did miss temple promise?' "'that i did not hear,' replied emily. 'mrs. hendrickson was in a great hurry, and perhaps she did not intend to tell me, anyway. but i do not believe margaret absolutely refused; at least, it would not have been prudent for her to do so. the hendricksons are rich, and he is a fine man. there would be nothing in the way of such a match.' "'except the return of the wife,' i remarked. "emily smiled. 'and then there was poor mrs. windham,' she continued. 'everybody knew she asked margaret. she left a son about eight years old who is very delicate. the poor woman has not been dead long enough for anything to come of that, but i do not believe anything ever will. there are people who say that mr. windham drinks; but i have seen no signs of it. then there is another one--and no matter what you may hear people say about these things, you must never mention that i told you this. mrs. barnes, the rector's wife, has spoken to margaret on the subject. she looks very well, so far as i can judge; but there is consumption in her family. she is almost bigoted in regard to the duties of a rector's wife. she tries just as hard as she can to fill the position properly herself, and she knows mr. barnes would never be satisfied with any one who did not agree with him as she does about the responsibilities of a rector's wife.' "'does margaret temple agree with him?' i asked. "'i do not know, for i never talked with her on the subject,' replied emily, 'but she is very apt to think what is right. besides, it is believed that mrs. barnes has not only spoken to margaret, but to the rector himself; and if he had not thought the plan a good one, mrs. barnes would have dropped it; and, from things i have heard her say, i know she has not dropped it.' "emily looked as though she were about to rise, and i quickly exclaimed: 'but that is only three. who are the others?' "'one of them,' said she, 'is mrs. clinton. there is nothing the matter with her physically, but she is very rich, and is prudent and careful about everything that belongs to her, while her husband is not a business man at all and never has anything to do with money matters of importance. there are three children, and she has reason to feel anxious about them should they and their property be left in the charge of mr. clinton, or to the tender mercies of some woman who would marry him for the sake of his wealth. you can see for yourself that it is no wonder she casts her eyes upon margaret. i believe mrs. clinton could die happy if she could see her husband and margaret temple promise themselves to each other at her bedside.' "'that seems to me to be horrid,' said i; 'but of course it would be extremely sensible. and the other one?' "'oh, that matter does not amount to much,' said emily. 'old mrs. gloucester lives at the other end of the village, and she does not visit much, so you have not seen her. her husband is old enough, dear knows, but not quite so old as she is. she is very much afraid that she will die and leave him with nobody to take care of him, for they have no children. they are very well off, and i dare say she thinks it would be a good thing for margaret as well as for the old gentleman.' "'that is shameful,' said i; 'it would be the same thing as engaging a trained nurse.' "emily laughed. 'i never heard how margaret received this remarkable proposition,' she said, 'but i hope she was angry.' "'but, at any rate, it could never come to anything,' said i. "'of course not,' answered mrs. cheston. "it is not surprising that after this conversation i took a great interest in margaret temple; and when she called the next morning i had a long and undisturbed talk with her, mrs. cheston being out. i am very fond of analyzing human character, and i often do it while i am riding in the street-cars; and it was not long before i had made up my mind as to what sort of woman margaret temple was. i set her down as what may be called a balanced person. in fact, i thought at the time she was a little too well balanced; if some of her characteristics had been a little more pronounced i think she would have been more interesting. but i liked her very much, and i remember i was almost as well pleased when she was talking to me as when she was listening, and i am sure there are very few persons, men or women, of whom i can say this." here a smile came upon the faces of the company, but they were too polite to make any comment on what had called forth the smile. the master of the house asked permission to light a cigar, and the old professor, who never smoked, remarked: "there is deep philosophy in all this." "i don't know about the philosophy," said the next neighbor, "but it is absolute truth. well, after a time i began to wish that miss temple lived near our home, because she would be such an admirable person for a friend and neighbor. then, suddenly, without any warning, there flashed through me the strangest feeling i ever had in my life. i must have turned pale, for miss temple asked me if i did not feel ill. i soon recovered from the effects of this strange feeling, and went on talking; but i was very glad when mrs. cheston came home, and took the conversation out of my hands. "for two or three days after this my mind was very much troubled, and bernard thought that the air of that part of the country did not agree with me, and that we ought to go to the sea-shore. but this i positively refused to consider. there could be no sea-shore for me until a good many things had been settled. it was at this time that i first began to think that we cannot grow up fresh and green and blossom undisturbed, and that we must consider untimely cows coming along. "to make the state of my mind clearly understood, i must say that there is an hereditary disease in my family. i had never thought anything about it, for there had been no reason why i should; but now i did think about it, and there did seem to be reason. my grandfather had had this disease, and had died of it. to be sure, he was very old; but that did not matter: he died of it, all the same. it never troubled my father, but this made no difference, so far as i was concerned, for i have always heard that hereditary diseases are apt to skip a generation, and if this one had skipped, there was nobody for it to skip to but me; for i have no brothers or sisters. "the more i thought on this subject, the more troubled my mind became, and at last i believed it to be my duty to speak to bernard, although i did not tell him all my thoughts; for i had had a good many that were not necessarily connected with hereditary diseases. i was positively amazed at the way my husband received what i told him. i had expected that perhaps he might pooh-pooh the whole thing, but he did nothing of the kind. he became very serious, and talked to me in the most earnest way. "'now, rosa,' said he, 'i am glad you told me about this, and i want to impress it upon your mind that you must be very careful. in the first place, you must totally give up hot spirits and water. you must not drink more than two glasses of wine, or three at the utmost, at any of your meals. when you get up in the morning you must totally abstain from drinking those mixtures that are taken by some people to give appetite for breakfast. at night you must try to do without any sort of punch or toddy to make you sleep. if you will take this advice, and restrict yourself to water and milk, and not over-rich food, i think you may reasonably expect to live longer than your grandfather did, although i cannot imagine why any one should want to live that long.' "of course i was angry at all this, for i saw then that he was making fun of me; and i said no more to him, for he was not in the right frame of mind to listen to me. but i did not stop thinking. "i now became very intimate with miss temple. i began to like her very much, and i think she liked me. i continued to study her, and i became convinced that she was a woman to whom a very fastidious man might be attracted--i do not mean that he would fall in love with her, but that he would be perfectly satisfied with her. in fact, i summed up her character by assuring myself that in every way she was perfectly satisfactory. i have known other women who were more charming, but they all had faults; and i do not see how any one could have found fault with miss temple. "one day we had taken a long walk, and were on our way home when i began to talk to her about my own affairs. i thought i knew her so well in a general way that the time had come for me to find out some things more definitely. i began in an offhand but cautious manner to talk about bernard. i alluded to his love of outdoor sports, and mentioned that i thought it my duty frequently to speak to him in regard to the terrible consequences which might follow a false step when he was out fishing, and that i thought it necessary to repeat this advice very often, for it was my opinion he paid very little attention to it. i also made several other allusions to his indisposition to take care of himself, and remarked how very necessary it was for me to look after his health. i mentioned his great carelessness in regard to flannel, and told her that it was often quite late in the autumn before he would make any change in his clothing. "then i spoke of his domestic habits; and, as i saw miss temple seemed much interested, i talked a good deal about them. he was the most loving husband in the world, i said, and was always anxious to know what he could do for me more than he was already doing; but when we were in the city he did like to go out in the evenings, and i thought he went to his club too often. of course, i said, i did not say anything to him about it, for i would not want him to think that i desired him to deny himself the company of other gentlemen; but the habit of club attendance was one that might grow on a man, especially a young one, and there were a good many other things that might result from it, such as excessive smoking. so i had thought it well to offer him additional inducements for spending his evenings at home, and i had begun a regular system of reading aloud. it had proved very beneficial to both of us, for i chose good, standard books; and although he sometimes went to sleep, that was to be expected, for bernard was a hard-working man. as for myself, i liked this reading aloud very much, although at first it was rather tiresome, as i had never been used to it. then i asked her if she liked reading aloud--it is such a good way of giving pleasure to others at the same time that you are pleasing yourself. she smiled, and said she was very fond of reading aloud. "then i changed the subject to churches and preachers, for i did not want her to think i was saying too much about my husband, and asked her who was the best preacher in the village. when she said it was mr. barnes, i asked her if she went to his church. she answered that she did, and then i told her that i was also an episcopalian, but that bernard's parents were methodists. i did not think, however, that this would make much difference, for when he began to go regularly to church, i was sure he would rather go with me than to travel off somewhere by himself. "i did not suppose that miss temple would care so much about what i was saying, but she did seem to care, and listened attentively to every word. "'you must not think i am talking too much about my family affairs,' i remarked, 'but doesn't it strike you that a really good wife ought to try just as hard as she can to be on good terms with her husband's family, no matter how queer they may be? i mean the women in it; for they are more likely to be queer than the men. for if she does not do this,' i continued, 'the worst of the trouble, if there is any, will come on him. he will have to take sides either with his wife or his sisters,--and mother too, if he happens to have one,--and that would be sure to make him unhappy if he is a good-hearted man, such as bernard is.' "at this miss temple burst out laughing, and it was the first time i had ever heard her laugh so heartily. as soon as she could speak she exclaimed: 'are you going to ask me to marry your husband if you should happen to die?' "i must have turned as red as the most scarlet poppy, for i felt my face burn. i hesitated a little, but i was obliged to tell the truth, and so i stammered out that i had been thinking of something of the kind. "'oh, please don't look so troubled,' said she. 'several persons have spoken to me on the same subject; but i never should have dreamed that such an idea would come into your head. i think it is the funniest thing in the world!' and then she laughed again. "i was greatly embarrassed, and all i could say was that i hoped i had not offended her. "'oh, not in the least,' she said. 'i am getting used to this sort of thing, and i can bear it.' "this remark helped me very much, for i resented it. 'i do not see what there is to bear,' i said. 'such a man as bernard--and then i have special reasons--' "'oh, yes,' she interrupted quickly; 'each one has a special reason. but there is one general reason that is common to all. now tell me, my dear,'--and as she spoke she took both my hands and looked steadily into my face,--'were you not about to ask me to marry your husband, in case of your death, because you could think of it without being jealous of me, and because you are afraid he might marry some one of whom you would probably be jealous if you knew of it?' "she looked at me in such a kind, strong way that i was obliged to confess that this was my reason for speaking to her about bernard. 'i cannot exactly explain,' i added, and my face burned again, 'why i should think about you in this way; but i hope you will not imagine--' "'oh, i shall not imagine anything that will be disagreeable to you,' she said; and she looked just as good-humored as possible." "does that lady live in any place where my wife can get at her?" asked the master of the house, as the next neighbor paused to take breath. "i have not yet developed a disease," said the mistress of the house. "well, when you do, please find that woman. she is a very good sort." "i shall have an opinion on that subject, papa," said the daughter of the house. "you little minx!" he replied. "i shall see that you are provided for before that." "it is not well to joke about so serious a matter," said the next neighbor, "as you will see when i finish my story. "for a little while miss temple walked on in silence, and i tried hard to think of what would be proper for me to say next, when suddenly she stopped. "'we are not far from the house now,' she said, 'and before we get there i want to set your mind at rest by telling you that if you should die before your husband, and if nothing should happen at any time or in any way to interfere with such a plan, i will marry your bernard and take good care of him. i have never made such a positive promise to any one, but i do not mind making it to you. i am sure i need not ask you to say nothing about this compact to your husband.' "i was stunned, but i managed to stammer: 'oh, no, indeed!' "fortunately for me, miss temple did not stay to supper. i do not think i could have borne to see her and bernard together. it was bad enough as it was. i felt greatly humiliated; i could not understand how i could have done such a thing. it was worse than selling a birthright--it was giving away the dearest thing on earth. i trembled from head to foot when bernard came home from fishing. i do not believe i ever before greeted him so affectionately. my emotion troubled him, and he asked me if i were ill, and if i had been lonely and bored while he was away. he was just as good as good could be, and began to talk again about going to the sea-shore. i did not object this time, for i could not know what would be best to do. "in the evening, after every one else had gone indoors, i begged him to sit longer on the piazza, and to smoke another cigar. he was quite surprised, because, as he said, i had never asked him to do such a thing before, but had rather discouraged his smoking. but i declared i wanted to sit with him in the moonlight all by ourselves. and so we did until his cigar was finished. "for the first hour of that night i did not sleep a wink, my mind was so troubled. i felt as though i were not really bernard's wife, but some sort of a guardian angel who was watching over him to see that somebody else made him happy. after i had thus been in the depths of grief for a long while, i became angry. "'she shall never have him!' i said to myself. 'i will make it the object of my life to live longer than he does. my grandfather lived to be much older than ordinary men, and why should not i have as long a life? perhaps it was the things he ate and drank, and his jovial disposition, that gave him such longevity. if i were sure of this i would be willing to take hot drinks at night, and wine at dinner. no; bernard must not be left behind.' it was while making up my mind very firmly about this that i fell asleep. "the next morning i was possessed with an overwhelming desire to go to see miss temple. why i should do so i could not tell myself. i certainly did not want to see her; i did not wish to speak to her; i did not want her to say anything to me: but i felt that i must go; and i went. she received me very pleasantly, and did not say one word about our conversation of the day before. there were a good many things i should have liked to say, but i did not know how, unless she gave me the opportunity. but she did not, and so it happened that we talked only about something she was sewing--i do not know whether it was a shirt-waist or an army blanket. in fact, i did not hear one word she said about her stupid work, whatever it was, i was so busy re-studying her face, her character, and everything about her. i now found she was much more than satisfactory--she was really good-looking. her eyes were not very large, but they were soft and dark. her voice was clear and sweet. i had noticed this before, but, until now, i had not thought of it as an objection. there were a good many other things that might be very effective to a man, especially to one with half-healed sorrows. i acknowledged to myself that i had been mistaken in her, and i did not doubt she had deceived a good many other people in that neighborhood. "when i rose to leave, she stood for a moment, looking at me as though she expected me to say something on the subject which was certainly interesting to her as well as to me. but now i did not want to talk, and i gave her no chance to say anything. i walked rapidly home, feeling as jealous of margaret temple as any woman could feel of another. "i was glad that day that bernard liked to go fishing, for my mind was in such a condition that i did not think of anything that might happen to him--at least, anything but just one thing, and that was awful. emily cheston supposed i had a headache, and i let her think so, for it gave me more time to myself. i looked at the thing that threatened to crush all my happiness, on every possible side. early in the morning a ray of relief had come to my troubled mind, and this was that i did not believe he would have her, anyway. but i had seen her since, and no such ray comforted me now. "i knew, as i had not known before, what a power she might have over a man. widowers, i thought, are generally ready enough to marry again; but, no matter what they think about it, they mostly wait a good while, for the sake of appearances. but this would be different. when a man knows that his wife had selected some one as her successor--and he would be sure to know this, the woman would see to that--he would not feel it necessary to wait. he would be carrying out his dead wife's wishes, and of course in this there should be no delay. oh, horrible! when i thought of myself as bernard's dead wife, and that woman living, i actually kicked the stool my feet were resting on. i vowed in my mind the thing should never be. i felt better after i had made this vow, although i had not thought of any way by which i could carry it out. certainly i was not going to say anything to bernard about it, one way or another." here the next neighbor paused again. and at that moment the red thrush gave a little low trill, as much as to say: "listen to me now." then he twittered and chirped in a tentative way as if he had not made up his mind about singing, and the party on the terrace felt like clapping to encourage him. "i wonder if he knows he has an audience," said the daughter of the house, in a very low tone. "he knows it is impolite to interrupt the story," said her father. "no; there he goes!" and, sure enough, the bird, having decided that on the whole it would help matters in whatever direction he wished them to be helped, sang out, clear and loud, what seemed to his audience the most delightful song he had yet given them. when he had finished, the next neighbor said: "that was so full of soul i hate to go on with my very material story." "it strikes me," said the old professor, "that there is a good deal of soul in your story." "thank you," said the next neighbor, as she again took up the thread of her narrative. "that evening, prompted by a sudden impulse, i went up to bernard, and, looking into his face, i declared that i would never leave him. "'what!' he exclaimed. 'has any one been asking you to leave me?' "'of course not,' said i, a little irritated--he has such queer ways of taking what i say. 'i mean i am not going to die before you do. i am not going to leave you in this world to take care of yourself.' "he looked at me as though he did not understand me, and i do not suppose he did, although he only said: 'i am delighted to hear that, my dear girl. but how are you going to manage it? how about that hereditary disease you were talking of the other day?' "'i have nothing to say about that,' i answered; 'but if i live as long as my grandfather did, i do not believe that your being a little older than i am would--i mean that you would not be left alone. don't you understand?' "bernard did not laugh. 'you are the dearest little woman in the world,' he said, 'and i believe you would do anything to make me happy--you would even be willing to survive me, so that i should never lose you. but don't let us talk any more about such doleful things. we are both going to live to be a great deal older than your grandfather. now i will tell you something pleasant: i had a letter this morning, just as i was starting out. i put it in my pocket, and did not have time to open it until we were eating our lunch. it is from my brother george, who is going to england next month, you know; and as he wants to see something of us before he starts, he intends to spend a few days in the village, so that he can be with us. he is coming to-morrow.' "a ray of hope shot into my heart so bright that i could almost feel it burn. "'well,' said bernard, 'what have you to say to this? aren't you glad that george is coming?' "'glad!' i replied. 'i am more than delighted.' "bernard looked as though he did not understand this extraordinary ecstasy; but as he was used to not understanding me, i do not suppose he thought it worth while to bother himself about it. "george was a fine young fellow, and, next to bernard, i thought he was the best man in the world. it will be remembered that i had no brother, and george was always as kind and brotherly as he could be. i was fond of him even before i was married; in fact, i knew him quite well before i became acquainted with bernard; and i was always glad to see him. but i had never been so delighted to think he was coming as i was then. my face must have shown this, for bernard laughingly said: "'you must be awfully glad to see george.' "'i am glad,' i answered; and as i spoke i thought that if he knew everything he would understand why my eyes glistened, as i am sure they did. "the reason of my great joy was that a plan had suddenly come into my mind. george had spoken to me several times about marrying, and he had told me just what kind of a wife he wanted; and now, as i remembered what he had said on the subject, it seemed to me he had been describing margaret temple. he wanted a wife who was good-looking but not a belle, and she must be sensible and practical, a good housekeeper, and a charming hostess. besides, she must be intellectual, and fond of books, and appreciate art, and all that. moreover, he had said he would like her to be just about a year older than himself, because he thought that was a good proportion in a young couple. it was apt to make the man look up to his wife a little, which might not be the case if he were the elder. i remembered this, because when he told me i wished very much that i were a year older than bernard. "now, as i said before, all this seemed as though he had been talking of miss temple; and i, knowing her so well, could see other points than those he mentioned in which she would suit him as no other woman could. if george would fall in love with miss temple,--and there was no earthly reason why he should not, for bernard told me he was going to make him stay a week,--then everything would be all right; all my anxieties, my forebodings, and my jealousies would be gone, and i should be as happy as i was before i met that dear girl, miss temple. "this was not all idle fancy. my plan was founded on good, practical ideas. if george married margaret everything would be settled in an absolutely perfect way. if i should die bernard would not need to marry anybody; in fact, i did not believe that in this case he would want to. he would go to live with george and margaret; their home would be his home, and he would always have both of them to take care of him and to make him happy in every possible way in which anybody could make him happy. in my mind's eye i could see him in the best room in the house, with all sorts of comforts and luxuries about him--our present comforts and luxuries would make a great show gathered together in one room; and then i saw margaret and george standing at the open door, asking if there were anything he would like, and what they could do for him. as this mental picture came before me my eyes involuntarily went around that room to see if there were a picture of me on the wall; and there it was, and no portrait of any other woman anywhere about. "in a flash the whole thing became so horrible to me that i threw myself on the bed and began to cry convulsively. bernard heard me, and came up-stairs, and i was obliged to tell him i had a sudden pain. he does not like sudden pains, and sat down and talked to me a good while about what i had been eating. before long, however, i grew calm, and was able to think about my plans in a common-sense, practical way. truly there could be nothing better for my present comfort and bernard's future happiness: margaret and george to take care of him, and my image undimmed in his heart. i felt like one who has insured his life for the benefit of a loved one, so, no matter what might happen to him, he would have, as long as he lived, the joy of knowing what he had done for the loved one. "when george came the next day he was just the same splendid old george, and i do not believe any one ever received a warmer welcome from a sister-in-law than i gave him. bernard made a little fun of me, as usual, and said he believed i would rather see george than him. "'nonsense,' said i; 'i am always glad to see you, but i am especially glad to see george.' "bernard whistled, and looked at me in the same queer way that he looked at me when he once had said laughingly that he believed if i had never met him i would have married george, and i had answered that if i had been sure he did not exist it might have been a good thing for me to marry george. "miss temple did not come to the house that morning, as she so often did, but i asked emily to send over and invite her to tea; for i did not wish to lose any time in the carrying out of my plans. it was about the middle of the afternoon when bernard and his brother came in from a walk. i had been anxious to see george, because i wanted to talk with him about margaret before he met her. i was going to speak very guardedly, of course; but i knew it would be well to prepare his mind, and i had made up my mind exactly what i was going to say. "i artfully managed so that george and i walked over the lawn to a bench in the shade of a big tree where there was something or other--i entirely forget what it was--which i said i would show him. mr. and mrs. cheston and bernard were on the piazza, but i did not ask them to join us. "we sat down on the bench, and, in a general sort of way, i asked him what he had been doing, meaning presently to bring up the subject of margaret, for i did not know what time she might drop in. but george was just as anxious to talk as i was, and, being a man, he was a little more pushing, and he said: "'now, little rosa, i am so glad you came down here with me, for i have something on my mind i want to tell you, and i want to do it myself, before anybody else interferes. it is just this: i am engaged to be married, and as soon as i get back from england i am going to--' and then he opened his eyes very wide and looked hard at me. 'what is the matter, rosa?' he exclaimed. 'don't you feel well?' "in one instant all my plans and hopes and happy dreams of the future had dropped to the ground, and had been crushed into atoms. "'well!' said i, and i think i spoke in a queer voice. 'i am very well. there is nothing the matter with me. what is her name?' "he told me; but i had never heard it before, and it was of no more importance to me than the buzzing of a bee. "'it will be very nice,' i said; 'and now let us go up to the house and tell the others.' "i think that for a woman who had just received such a blow as had been dealt to me i behaved very well indeed. but i was cold and, i suspect, pale. i listened as the others talked, but i did not say much myself; and, as soon as i could make some excuse, i went up to my room. there i threw myself into a great chair, and gently cried myself to sleep. i did not sob loudly, because i did not want bernard to come up again. when i awoke i had a dreadful headache, and i made up my mind i would not go down to tea. i could do no good by going down, and, so far as i was concerned, it did not matter in the least whether margaret was there or not. in fact, i did not care about anything. let george marry whoever he pleased. if i should die margaret temple had promised to take care of bernard. everything was settled, and there was no sense in making any more plans. so i got ready for another nap, and when bernard came up i told him i had a headache, and did not want any tea. "that evening bernard sat and looked at me without speaking, as was sometimes his habit, and then he said: "'rosa, i do not understand this at all, and i want you to tell me why you were so extravagantly glad when you found my brother george was coming here, and why you were so overcome by your emotions when you heard of his engagement.' "'oh, bernard,' i cried, 'if it were anybody else i might tell everything, but i cannot tell you--i cannot tell you!' and i am sure i spoke truly, for how could i have told that dear man what i had said to margaret temple; and how jealous i had been of her afterwards; and how i had planned for her to marry george; and that, after my funeral, he should go to live with them; and about my picture on the wall; and all the rest of it? it was simply impossible. and if he did not know all this, how could he understand my feelings when i heard that george was engaged? "i could not answer him; i could only sob, and repeat what i had said before--that if it were anybody else i might speak, but that i could never tell him. soon after that he went down-stairs, and i went to sleep. "bernard was never cross with me,--i do not believe he could be if he tried,--but the next morning he was very quiet, and soon after breakfast he and mr. cheston and george went fishing. if the incidents of the day before had not occurred i suppose they would have done something in which emily and i could have joined; but some sort of change had come over things, and it was plain enough that even george did not want me. so i sat alone under the tree where george had told me of his engagement, feeling very much troubled and very lonely. i wanted to tell everything to somebody, but there was no one to tell. it would be impossible to speak to emily; she would have no sympathy with me; and if i should tell her everything i had planned, i knew she would laugh at me unmercifully. i think it would have pleased me better to speak to george than to any one else; he had always been so sympathetic and kind; but now things were changed, and he would not care to interest himself in the affairs of any woman except the one to whom he was engaged. it was terrible to sit there and think that there was not a person in the world, not even my husband, to whom i could look for sympathy and comfort. if i had not been out in the open air, where people could have seen me, i should have cried. "happening to look up, i saw some one on the piazza. it was that horrible margaret temple; and when she gazed about from side to side she saw me under the tree, and as i, apparently, took no notice of her, she stepped down from the piazza and came walking across the lawn toward me. if i had been a man i should have cursed my fate; not only was i deprived of every comfort, but here came the disturber of my peace to make me still more unhappy. "i do not remember what she said when she reached me, but i know she spoke very pleasantly; nor do i remember what i replied, but i am sure i did not speak pleasantly. i was out of humor with the whole world, and particularly with her. she brought a little chair that was near by, and sat down by me. she was a very straightforward person about speaking, and so she said, without any preface: "'have you told your husband of that arrangement you made with me if he should survive you?' "'of course i have not!' i exclaimed. 'do you think i would tell him a thing like that, especially when i said i would not? the fact is,' i continued,--and it was very hard for me to keep from crying as i spoke,--'i am just loaded down with trouble, and i cannot tell anybody.' "'i knew you were troubled,' she replied, 'and that is the reason i came this morning. why can't you tell me what is the matter?' "at first this made me angry, and i felt like bouncing off to the house and never speaking to her again; but in the next instant i changed my mind. it would serve her right if i told her everything; and so i did. i made her feel exactly how i had felt when i had thought of her in my place, and how i had determined that it should never be. then i went on and told her all my plans about george and herself; and how bernard was to board with them if i died. i made the story a good deal longer than i have made it here. then i finished by telling her of george's engagement, and how nothing had come of the whole thing except that bernard had supposed that i thought too much of george, and had gone away that morning as cold as a common acquaintance; and that i felt as though my whole life had been wrecked, and that she had done it. "it was easy to see that she was not affected as she should have been by what i said. in fact, she looked as though she wanted to laugh; but her respect for me prevented that. "'i do not see,' she said, 'how i have wrecked your life.' "'that may be so,' i answered, 'but it is because you do not want to see it. i should think that even you would admit that it is enough to drive me crazy to see any woman waiting and longing for the day which would give her that which i prize more than anything else in the world. and to think what you are aspiring to! none of the old left-overs that other people have offered to you, but my bernard, the very prince of men! i do not wonder you were so quick to promise me you would take him!' "she jumped up, and i thought she was going away; but she did not go, and turned again toward me, and remarked, just as coolly as anybody could speak: 'well, i do not wonder, either. your bernard is a most estimable man, and if nothing should happen in any way or at any time to interfere in the case of his surviving you i shall be happy to marry him. i think i would make him a very good wife.' "at this i sprang to my feet, and i am sure my eyes and cheeks were blazing. 'do you mean,' i cried, 'that you would make him a better wife than i do?' "'that is a question,' she said, 'that is not easy to answer, and needs a good deal of consideration.' and she spoke with as much deliberation as if she were trying to decide whether it would be better to cover a floor with matting or carpet. 'for one thing, i do not believe i would nag him.' "'nag!' i exclaimed. 'what do you mean by that? do you suppose i nag him?' "'i do not know anything about it,' she answered, 'except what you told me yourself; and what you said was my reason for agreeing so quickly to your proposition.' "'nag!' i cried. but then i stopped. i thought it would be better to wait until i could think over what i had said to her before i pursued this subject. 'but i can tell you one thing,' i continued, 'and that is that you need not have any hopes in the direction of my husband. i am going to tell him everything just as soon as he comes home, even about you and george; and i am going to make him promise that, no matter what happens, he will never marry you.' [illustration: "do you mean," i cried, "that you would make him a better wife than i do?"] "i think these words made some impression on her, for she answered very quickly: 'i am not sure that it will be wise to tell him everything; but if you are determined to do so, i must insist that you will tell him something more; and that is that i am engaged to be married, and have been for nearly a year.' "'and you have been deceiving all these anxious wives?' i cried. "'i never made promises to any one but to you,' she answered; 'and i would not have done that if i had not liked you so much.' "'you have a funny way of liking,' i remarked. "she merely smiled, and went on: 'and i should not have told you of my engagement if i had not thought it would be safer to do so, considering the story you are going to tell your husband.' "'and it is because i consider it safer that i am going to tell him that story,' i replied. * * * * * "that afternoon, as soon as i was alone with bernard,--i did not give him any time to show me any of his common-acquaintance coolness,--i told him the whole thing from beginning to end. he listened so earnestly that one might have thought he was in church; but when i came to the part about his boarding with george and miss temple he could not help laughing. he excused himself, however, and told me to go on. he looked very happy when i had told him my story, and no one would have supposed that he had ever assumed the air of a mere common acquaintance. "'you are such a good little wife!' he exclaimed. 'and you are always trying to do things to make me happy. but you must not take so much labor and anxiety upon yourself. i want to help you in every way that i can, and in such a case you ought to let me do it.' "'but how could you help me in the trouble i have been telling you about?' i asked. "'easily enough,' he answered. 'now, if you had taken me into your confidence, i would have told you that i consider miss temple too tall a woman for my fancy.' "'she is,' i said. 'i did not think so at first, but i can see it plainly now.' "'then, again, she is too practical-minded.' "'entirely too much so,' i agreed. "'and in other respects she is not up to my standard,' continued bernard. 'so i think, rosa, that if you should ever take up such a scheme again we should act together. i am sure my opinion would be of great advantage to you in helping you to select some one who should take up the work of making me happy--' "'you are perfectly horrid!' i exclaimed; and i stopped his mouth. "that was the end of the matter; but i never learned to like margaret temple. to be sure, i thought seriously of some things she had said; but then, people can consider things people say without liking the people who say them. i pity her husband." just then came the summons to luncheon, and this story was not commented upon. this story is told by john gayther and is called blackgum ag'in' thunder xi blackgum ag'in' thunder john gayther and the daughter of the house walked in the garden. the melons were ripe now, and it was a pleasure to push aside the coarse leaves and find beneath them the tropical-looking fruit with the pretty network tracery covering the gray-green rind. the grape-vines, too, were things of beauty, hanging full of great white, yellow, red, and purple clusters. the tomatoes gleamed scarlet and purple-red thickly among the plants. the cabbages had curled themselves up into compact heads that looked like big folded roses set in an open cluster of leaves. there were rows of green-leaved turnips, red-leaved beets, and feathery-leaved carrots. the ears were standing stiff in the corn rows. in the orchard the peaches were rosy and downy, the plums ready to drop with lusciousness; ruddy-cheeked pears were crowded on the drooping branches; the apples, not so plentiful, were taking on the colors that proclaimed their near fruition; and even the knotty quinces were growing fair and golden. on the upper terrace the stately, delicate cosmos was waving in the wind; great beds of low marigolds were flaunting their rich colors in the bright sunlight; the dahlias lifted into the air, stiffly and proudly, their great blossoms of varying forms; the clove-pinks, lowly and delicate in color, gave forth the fragrance of the springtime which they had held stored up in their tender blossoms; and the early chrysanthemums were unfolding their plumes. "i love the late august-time," said john gayther, as the two sat down to rest in the summer-house after a long stay in the garden. "i have a singular feeling, which i hope is not irreverent, that the great creator is pleased with me for having brought this work to perfection, and the thought gives me great peace of mind." "it does sound a little presumptuous, john," said the young lady. "not in the way i mean it," replied john. "we are told that god gives abundantly of the fruits and blossoms that gladden our hearts and eyes. but this is only partly true. there may be some lands where nothing need be done to these god-given fruits and vegetables and flowers. i do not know. but in this happy land, although he does abundantly give us the material to work upon, he expects us to do the work. else what would be the use of gardens? and if there were no need of gardens there would be no gardens; and how desolate would life be without gardens!" "i see what you mean, john," said the young lady. "we could not go into the woods, or on to the plains, and find the fruits and vegetables that grow so well in this garden. if they were there at all they would be poor and undeveloped." "exactly so," said john. "and in my garden i garner up god's gifts; and i select the best, and then the best of the best, and so on and on; and i watch, oh, so carefully, for everything hurtful; and i water; and i prune off the dead branches; and enrich the ground. and so i work and work, with god's help of the sunshine and the rain; and at last, when it all comes to what we see to-day, i cannot but feel that god is pleased with me for bringing about the fruition he knew i could accomplish with the material given by what some people call nature and i call god. that is what a garden is for, and in that way it glorifies him." they were both silent for some time. the young girl was thinking that while all that john had said was true, she could not, like him, love this season best of all. its very perfection and full fruition were saddening, for that must inevitably be followed by decay. the old man was thinking that while youth and its promise for the future was beautiful, the resignation and peacefulness of an accomplished life was far more beautiful. the red thrush broke into song and startled them both. the old man listened to it as if it were a pæan of thanksgiving for the garden and all that it had given, and wished he were able to join his voice with the music of the bird. as the young girl listened it seemed to her that the song was as clear and sweet and happy as it had been in the spring. and she marvelled. "what a pity! we have missed the bird!" a voice broke into the stillness that had followed the song. it was the mistress of the house who was approaching, followed by the master of the house, the next neighbor, and the old professor. "i was wondering why you were not all here some time ago," said the daughter of the house. "kept by company," said the master of the house, as they all came forward and took their accustomed places. "not half as agreeable as the bird, nor as interesting as the story john promised to tell. i hope it will not be as solemn as your countenance, john." nobody was ever solemn long when the master of the house was present, and john gayther's countenance immediately was lighted up by a smile. "i could not think of telling you a solemn story," he said, "and this one is about a peculiar character i knew. his name was abner batterfield, and he was a farmer. one day he was forty-five years old. he was also tired. having finished hoeing his last row of corn, he sat down on a bench at his front door, took off his wide and dilapidated straw hat, and wiped his brow. presently his wife came out. she was a little more than forty-five years old, and of phenomenal physical and mental endurance. she had lived seventeen years with abner, and her natural vigor was not impaired. "'supper's ready,' said she. "her husband heaved a sigh, and stretched out his weary legs in unison. "'supper,' he repeated; 'it's allus eat, and work, and sleep!' "'perhaps you'd like to leave out the eatin',' said mrs. batterfield; 'that would save lots.' "her husband ignored this remark. his farm was small, but it was too big for him. he had no family except himself and wife, but the support of that family taxed his energies. there was a certain monotony connected with coming out short at the end of the year which was wearisome to his soul. "'mrs. b.,' said he, 'i've made up my mind to start over again.' "'goin' back to the corn-field?' she asked. 'you'd better have your supper first.' "'no,' said he; 'it's different. i've been thinkin' about it all day, and i'm goin' to begin life over ag'in.' "'at your age it would be more fit fer you to consider the proper endin' of it,' said she. "'i knew you'd say that, mrs. b.; i knew you'd say that! you never do agree with me in any of my plans and undertakin's.' "'which accounts fer our still havin' a roof over our heads,' said she. "'but, i can tell you, this time i'm a-goin' ahead. i don't care what people say; i don't care what they do, or what they don't do; i'm goin' ahead. it'll be blackgum ag'in' thunder this time, and i'm blackgum. you've heard about the thunder and lightnin' tacklin' a blackgum-tree?' "'ever since i was born,' said she. "'well, there's a awful scatterin' of dust and chips when that sort of a fight is on; but nobody ever yet heard of thunder gettin' the better of a blackgum-tree. and i'm goin' to be a blackgum!' "mrs. batterfield made no reply to this remark, but in her heart she said: 'and i'm goin' to be thunder.' "the next morning, abner batterfield put on his best clothes, and walked to the little town about two miles distant. he didn't enter the business part of the place, but turned into a shady side street where stood a small one-story building, almost by itself. this was the village library, and the librarian was sitting in the doorway, reading a book. he was an elderly man of comfortable contour, and wore no glasses, even for the finest print. "'mornin', abner,' said the librarian; 'have you brought back that book?' "abner seated himself on the door-step. 'no, i haven't, mr. brownsill,' said he; 'i forgot it. i forgot it, but i remember some things that's in it, and i've come to talk about 'em.' "'very good,' said the librarian, closing the volume of salmon's geographical grammar with his finger at page , treating of paradoxes, and remarked: 'well, abner, what is it?' "then abner batterfield told his tale. he was going to make a fresh start; he was going to spend the rest of his life in some manner worthy of him. he hadn't read much of the book he had taken out of the library, for in his present way of spending his life there didn't seem to be any very good time for reading, but he had read enough of it to make him feel that it was time for him to make a fresh start, and he was going to do it. "'and i may have a tough time,' said abner; 'but it'll be blackgum ag'in' thunder, and i'm blackgum!' "the librarian smiled. 'what are you going to do?' said he. "'that's a thing,' said abner, 'i'm not so certain about. i've been thinkin' of enterin' the ministry; but the bother about that is, i can't make up my mind which particular denomination to enter. there's such a difference in 'em.' "'that's true,' said mr. brownsill; 'that's very true! but haven't you a leaning for some one of them in particular?' "'in thinkin' it over,' said abner, 'i've been drawn to the quakers. so far's i kin find out, there's nothin' a quaker preacher has to do if he don't want to.' "'but then, on the other hand,' said the librarian, 'there's no pay.' "'which won't work at all,' said abner, 'so that's got to be dropped. as to the methodists, there's too much work. a man might as well stick to hoein' corn.' "'what do you think of the catholics?' asked the librarian, meditatively. 'i should think a monk in a cell might suit you. i don't believe you'd be expected to do much work in a cell.' "abner cogitated. 'but there ain't no pay to that, no more'n if i was a quaker. and there's mrs. b. to be considered. i tell you, mr. brownsill, it's awful hard makin' a ch'ice.' "the librarian opened his book and took a good look at the number of the page on which paradoxes were treated, so that he might remember it; then he rose and put the book upon the table, and, turning to abner, he looked at him steadfastly. "'abner batterfield,' said he, 'i understand the state of your mind, and it is plain enough that it's pretty hard for you to make a choice of a new path in life; but perhaps i can help you. how would you like to be a librarian?' "'me!' exclaimed abner, amazed. "'i don't mean,' said mr. brownsill, 'that you should take up this business for life without knowing whether you like it or not, but i can offer you what might be called a sample situation. i want to go away for a couple of weeks to visit my relations, and if you will come and attend to the library while i am gone, it might be a good thing for both of us. then, if you don't like the business of a librarian, you might sample some other calling or profession.' "abner rose from the door-step, and, entering the room, stood before mr. brownsill. 'that's the most sensible thing,' said he, 'that i ever heard said in all my life. sample first, and go into afterwards; that's sound reason. mr. brownsill, i will do it.' "'good!' said the librarian. 'and the duties are not difficult.' "'and the pay?' asked abner. "'just what i get,' said mr. brownsill. "the bargain was made, and abner immediately began taking lessons in the duties of a librarian. "when he went home he told his tale to mrs. b. 'i have hoed my last row of corn,' said he, 'and when it's fit to cut and shock we'll hire a man. there's librarians, mrs. b., so mr. brownsill told me, that gets thousands a year. think of that, mrs. b.--thousands a year!' "mrs. batterfield made no reply to this remark, but in her heart she said: 'and i am thunder.' "early the next morning, long before the ordinary time for opening the library, abner was at his post. he took the key from the concealed nail where mr. brownsill was wont to hang it. he opened the door and windows, as the librarian told him he must do; he swept the floor; he dusted the books; and then he took the water-pail, and proceeded to the pump hard by. he filled it, then he sat down and wiped his brow. he had done so much sitting down and brow-wiping in his life that it had become a habit with him, even when he was neither hot nor tired. "this little library was certainly a very pleasant place in which to earn one's living--ten thousand times more to his taste than the richest corn-field. around the walls were book-shelves, some of them nearly filled with books, most of which, judging from their bindings, were of a sober if not a sombre turn of mind. "'some of these days,' said abner, 'i am goin' to read those books; i never did have time to read books.' "from the ceiling there hung, too high to be conveniently dusted, a few stuffed birds, and one small alligator. 'some of these days,' said abner to himself, 'i am goin' to get on a step-ladder and look at them birds and things; i never did properly know what they was.' "now footsteps were heard on the sidewalk, and abner jumped up quickly and redusted a book upon the table. there entered two little girls, the elder one with her hair plaited down her back. they looked in surprise at abner, who smiled. "'i guess you want to see mr. brownsill,' he said. 'well, i am in his place now, and all you got to do is to tell me what book you want.' "'please, sir,' said the one with plaits, 'mother wants to know if you can change a quarter of a dollar.' "this proposed transaction seemed to abner to be a little outside of a librarian's business, but he put his hand in his pocket and said he would see. when he had extracted all the change that pocket contained he found that he was the owner of three nickels and five copper cents. he tried some other pockets, but there was no money in any of them. he was disappointed; he did not want to begin his intercourse with the townspeople by failing to do the first favor asked of him. he looked around the room; he rubbed his nose. in a moment an idea struck him. "'how much do you want to get out of this quarter?' said he. "'ten cents, sir,' said the girl with the plaits. 'the woman's waitin' fer it now.' "'i'll tell you,' said abner, 'what i can do. all i have got is twenty cents. two of these nickels will do for the woman, and then for the other five cents you can take out a book for a week. a duodecimo volume for a week is five cents. is there any duodecimo volume you would like?' "the girl with the plaits said she didn't know, and that all she wanted was change for a quarter. "'which this will be,' said abner. "asking the little girls to follow him, he approached the book-shelves. 'now here's something,' said he, presently, taking down a book. 'it's buck's theological dictionary, and it's got a lot of different things in it. some of them your mother might like to read to you, and some of them she might like to read to herself. i once read one piece in that book myself. it is about the inquisition, and when i began it i couldn't stop until i got to the end of it. i guess your mother might like to read that, even if she don't read it to you.' "the little girl said she didn't know whether her mother would like it or not, but what she had been sent for was change for a quarter. "'this will be the same thing,' said abner; 'twenty cents in money, and five cents for a duodecimo for one week. so take the money and the book, my dear, and tell your mother that if she keeps it out longer than one week there'll be a fine.' "the child and the duodecimo departed, and abner sat down again, and wiped his brow. 'there's one customer,' said he, 'and that's the way to do business. they come to get you to do somethin' for them, and before they know it they're doin' business with you, payin' cash in advance. but there's one thing i forgot. i oughter asked them young ones what their mother's name was. but i'll remember 'em, specially the one with the plaited hair, so it's all the same.' "the little girls went home. 'it's a new man at the library,' said the one with the plaits, 'and he hadn't got no more'n twenty cents in money; but he sent you a book for the other five cents.' "the mother, with her baby in her lap, sent the ten cents to the woman who was waiting, and then took the book, which opened quite naturally at the article on the inquisition, and began to read. and, although the baby grew restless and began to cry, she didn't stop reading until she had finished that article. 'it's fully worth five cents,' she said to herself, as she put it on the shelf for future perusal. "it was not long before the thought struck abner that he was losing opportunities which spread themselves around him, so he jumped up and took down a book. the volume proved to be one of 'elegant extracts'; but after reading certain reflections 'upon seeing mr. pope's house at binfield' he thought he would like something more in the nature of a story, and took up a thinner volume entitled 'dick's future state.' he turned over the leaves, hoping to meet with some of the adventures of dick; but his attention was arrested by a passage which asserted that arithmetic would be one of the occupations to be followed in heaven. he was about to put away the book in disgust--for to him there was no need of a man's being good in this world if he were to be condemned to arithmetic in the next--when the light from the open door was darkened by a large body who approached in carpet slippers, making no noise. this proved to be a round and doleful negro woman, a greater part of her face wrapped up in a red-and-green handkerchief. her attire was somewhat nondescript, and entirely unsuggestive of literary inclinations. she groaned as she entered the room. "'whar mr. bro'nsill?' she asked, with one hand to her face. "abner was amazed. was it possible that this woman could read, and that she cared for books? he explained the situation, and assured her that he could attend to her just as well as the regular librarian. "'i's mighty glad to hear dat,' said the woman, 'i's mighty glad to hear dat, for i hasn't slep' one wink for dis tooth. mr. bro'nsill he allus pulls my teeth, and dey nebber has been one what ached as bad as dis.' "with this she began to unwrap her swollen face. "'you needn't do that,' cried abner. 'i can't pull teeth. you must go to the dentist.' "'that'll be fifty cents,' said the woman, 'and mr. bro'nsill he don' charge nothin'. i know whar he keeps his pinchers. dey's in dat drawer in de table. and you kin pull it out jes as well as anudder pusson. i'd pull hit out ef i wuz anudder pusson.' "abner shook his head. 'i never pulled a tooth,' he said. 'i don't know nothin' about it.' "'don' dey tell somethin' about pullin' teeth in dese here books?' said the woman. "abner shook his head. 'there may be,' he said, 'but i don't know where to find it.' "'and you's de librarian,' said she, in a tone of supreme contempt, 'and don' know how to fin' what's in de books!' and with this she re-wrapped her face and wabbled away. "'i hope the next one will want a book,' said abner to himself, 'and won't want nothin' else. if i'm to be librarian i want to fork out books.' "the morning passed, and no one else appeared. the forenoon was not the time when people generally came for books in that town. "after he had eaten the dinner he had brought, abner sat down to meditate a little. he was not sure that the life of a librarian would suit him. it was almost as lonesome as hoeing corn. "some time after these reflections--it might have been a minute, it might have been an hour--he was awakened by a man's voice, and suddenly started upright in his chair. "'hello!' said the voice. 'you keepin' library for old brownsill?' "'that's what i'm doin',' said abner; 'he's away for his holiday.' "the new-comer, joe pearson, was an odd creature. i remember him well. he had been assistant to the town clerk, but was now out of a position. he was a stout man with little eyes, and wore a shiny black coat, and no collar. "'i am glad to hear it,' he said. 'mr. brownsill's a little too sharp for my fancy; i'd rather do business with you. have you got any books on eggs?' "'i don't know,' said abner, 'but i can look. what kind of eggs?' "'i don't suppose there's a different book for every kind of egg,' said joe; 'i guess they're lumped.' "'all right,' said abner; 'step up to the shelves, and we'll take a look. now here's one that i've just been glancin' over myself. it seems to have a lot of different things in it: it's called "elegant extracts."' "'"elegant extracts" won't do,' said joe; 'they ain't eggs.' "'e, e, e,' said abner, looking along the line, and anxious to make a good show in the eyes of his acquaintance, who had the reputation of being a man of considerable learning. '"experimental christianity"--but that won't do.' "after fifteen or twenty minutes occupied in scrutiny of backs of books, joe pearson gave up the search. 'i don't believe there's a book on eggs in the whole darned place,' said he. 'that's just like brownsill; he hasn't got no fancy for nothin' practical.' "'what do you want to know about eggs?' said abner. "mr. pearson did not immediately answer, but after a few moments of silent consideration he walked to the door and closed it. then he sat down, and invited abner to sit by him. 'look here, abner batterfield,' said he; 'i've got a idee that's goin' to make my fortune. i want somebody to help me, and i don't see why you couldn't do it as well as anybody else. for one thing, you've got a farm.' "as he said this abner started back. 'confound the farm!' he said. 'i've given up farmin', and i don't want nothin' more to do with it.' "'yes, you will,' said pearson, 'when i've told you what i'm goin' to do. but it won't be common farmin': it'll be mighty different. there's money in this kind of farmin', and no work, nuther, to mention.' "abner now became interested. "'it concerns eggs,' said pearson. 'abner, did you ever hear about the eggs of the great auk?' "'great hawk!' said abner. "'not _hawk_! auk--a-u-k.' "'never seen the bird,' said abner. "'i reckon not,' said the other. 'they say they disappeared some time before the war; but i don't believe that. i've been readin' a piece about 'em, abner, and i tell you it just roused me up, and that's the reason i've come here s'posin' i might find a book that might give me some new p'ints. but i reckon i know enough to work on.' "'is there anything uncommon about 'em?' asked abner. "'uncommon!' exclaimed the other. 'do you know what a great auk's egg is wuth? it's one thousand eight hundred dollars!' "'a car-load?' asked abner. "'stuff!' ejaculated mr. pearson. 'it's that much for _one_; and that one blowed--nothin' but a shell--not a thing inside. and eighteen hundred dollars!' "'by george!' exclaimed abner. 'eighteen hundred dollars!' "'and that's the lowest figure. great auk eggs is wuth twenty-one thousand and six hundred dollars a dozen!' "abner rose from his chair. 'joe pearson,' he said, 'what are you talkin' about?' "'i'm talkin' about makin' the biggest kind of money, and if you choose to go in with me you can make big money too. i'm all correct, and i can show you the figures.' "abner now sat down and leaned over toward pearson. 'whar's it likely to fin' nests?' said he. "'nests!' exclaimed pearson, in disdain. 'if i could find two of 'em--fresh ones--i'd call my fortune made.' "'i should say so,' said abner, 'sellin' for thirty-six hundred dollars! but what is there so all-fired good about 'em to make 'em sell like that?' "'scerceness,' said joe. 'apart from scerceness they ain't no better'n any other egg. but there's mighty few of 'em in market now, and all of them's blowed.' "'and no good?' said abner. "'they say not,' said the other. 'for scerceness they're better blowed than stale, which they're bound to be if they're kept.' "'but what's your idea about 'em?' said abner. "'that's what i'm goin' to tell you,' replied pearson. 'there's a general notion that there ain't no more great auks, specially hen great auks, and that's why their eggs are so scerce. but i don't see the p'int of that. it don't stand to reason; for now and then somebody gets a great auk egg. if you find 'em they've got to be laid; and if they're laid there's got to be hen great auks somewhere. now the p'int is to find out where them great auks lay. it may be a awful job to do it, but if i can do it, and get just two eggs, my fortune's made, and yourn too.' [illustration: "abner, did you ever hear about the eggs of the great auk?"] "'would you divide the thirty-six hundred dollars even?'--now very much interested. "'divide!' sneered pearson. 'do you suppose i'd sell 'em? no, sir; i'd set 'em under a turkey, or perhaps a big hen. then, sir, i'd go into the great auk business. i'd sell auk eggs, and make my fortune, and yourn too.' "'and young ones, if we get a lot?' "'no, sir!' exclaimed pearson. 'nobody'd own no auks but me. you can't catch 'em alive. and i wouldn't sell no eggs at all till they'd first been blowed. i'd keep the business all in my own hands. abner, i've been thinkin' a great deal about this thing. you've heard about the lively sixpence and the slow dollar? well, sir, i'm goin' to sell them auk eggs for sixteen hundred dollars, two for three thousand.'" "john gayther," said the master of the house, "you will not make me believe that you ever knew two such fools." "in the course of my life," said the old professor, "i have known several of them." "not looking for auks' eggs?" inquired the next neighbor. "something just as impracticable," he said. "the north pole, for instance," suggested the mistress of the house. "i think," said john, "they are more likely to find that than my friends were to find what they sought. but we shall see. abner looked at his companion. 'that would be better than 'most any other kind of business,' said he. 'where do you go to get them eggs?' "''way up north,' said pearson; 'and the furder north you go the more likely you are to find 'em.' "'i don't know about goin' north,' said abner, reflectively; 'there's mrs. b. to consider.' "'but i don't want you to go,' said pearson. 'i'm goin' north. and when i've found a couple o' auk eggs, i'll pack 'em up nice and warm in cotton, and send 'em down to you, and have 'em hatched. that's where your farm'll come in. you've got to have a farm and turkeys or big hens if you want to raise auks. then i'll go on lookin', and, most likely, i'll get a couple more.' "'that'll be a good thing,' said abner; 'the more the merrier. i'll go in with you, joe pearson. that's the sort of business that'll just suit me. but i'll tell you one thing, joe: i wouldn't put the price of them eggs down at first; i'd wait until a couple of dozen had been laid and blowed, and then, perhaps, i'd put the price down.' "'no, sir,' said joe; 'i'll put the price down at the very beginning. sixteen hundred dollars, or three thousand for two, is enough for any eggs, and we oughter be satisfied with it.' "'and when are you goin' to start north?' asked abner. "'that's the p'int,' said pearson, 'that's the p'int. you see, abner, i ain't got no family, and i can start north whenever i please, as far as that's concerned. but there's obstacles. for one thing, i ain't got the right kind of clothes; and then there's other things. it's awful hard lines startin' out on a business like this, and the more money there is in it the harder the lines.' "'but you can do it, joe,' said abner. 'i feel in my bones you can do it. it'll be blackgum ag'in' thunder, but you'll be blackgum, and you'll come out all right.' "'i can't be blackgum nor nothin' else,' said pearson, 'if i don't get no help; specially if i don't get no help from the party what's goin' to get a lot of the money.' "abner reflected. 'if we was to set any auk eggs next month, it'll be well on into next summer before we'd have eggs to sell.' "pearson also reflected. 'yes,' he said; 'and it might be a little later than that. you've got to leave a margin. i allus leave a margin. then i'm safe.' "'yes,' said abner; 'then you're safe.' "joe pearson was a man of resourceful discretion. he rose now. 'abner,' said he, 'i've got to go; i've got a lot of things on my hands. and i want you to remember that what i've said to you i said to you, and i wouldn't have no other man know nothin' about it. if anybody else should hear of this thing, and go north, and get ahead of me, it would be--well, i don't know what to say it would be, i've such feelin's about it. i've offered to take you in because you've got a farm, and because i think you're a good man, and would know how to take care of auks when they was hatched. but there's a lot for me to do. there's maps to look over, and time-tables; and i must be off. but i'll stop in to-morrer, abner, and we'll talk this over again.' "when pearson had gone, abner sat and stared steadily at a knot-hole in the floor. 'mrs. b.,' he said to himself, 'has allus been a great one on eggs. she's the greatest one on eggs i ever knowed. if she'd go in, now, the thing 'u'd be just as good as done. when she knows what's ahead of us she oughter go in. that's all i've got to say about it.' "the significance of these reflections depended upon the fact that mrs. batterfield had a small income. it was upon this fact that there depended the other fact that there were three meals a day in the batterfield household. it was this fact, also, which was the cause of mr. joe pearson's visit to the library. he was very well acquainted with abner, although he knew mrs. batterfield but slightly; but he was aware of her income. "after reflecting for about twenty minutes or half an hour upon the exciting proposition which had been made to him, abner grew very impatient. 'no use of my stayin' here,' he said; 'there's nobody goin' to get out books in this hot weather; so i'll just shut up shop and go home. i never did want to see mrs. batterfield as much as i want to see her now.' "'libraries seem to shut up early,' said mrs. batterfield, as her husband walked into the front yard. "'yes, they do,' said abner, 'in summer-time.' "all the way from town he had been rehearsing to himself the story he was going to tell; but he hadn't finished it yet, and he wanted to get it all straight before he began, so he walked over to the barn and sat down on an inverted horse-bucket to get his story all straight before he began. when he got it all straight he concluded not to tell it until after supper. but when that meal was finished, and everything had been cleared away, and mrs. batterfield had gone to sit on the front porch, as was her evening custom, he sat down by her and told his story. "he made the tale as attractive as he possibly could make it. he even omitted the fact that joe pearson intended to sell his first eggs for sixteen hundred dollars instead of eighteen hundred, and he diminished by very many hundred miles the length of joe pearson's probable journey to the north. in fact, had his suppositions been nearly correct, the remaining specimens of the great auk would have been birds of very temperate dispositions, so far as latitude was concerned. "mrs. batterfield listened with great attention. she was engaged upon some sewing on which her eyes were fixed, but her ears drank in every word that abner said. when he had finished, she laid down her sewing, for it was beginning to get a little dark for even her sharp eyes, and remarked: 'and he wants some warm clothes? furs, i suppose?' "'yes,' said abner; 'i expect they'd be furs.' "'and travelling expenses?' she asked. "'yes; i suppose he'd want help in that way. of course, since he's makin' me such a big offer, he'll expect me to put in somethin'.' "mrs. batterfield made no reply, but folded up her sewing and went indoors. he waited until she had time to retire, then he closed the house and went up himself. "'she'll want to sleep on that,' said he; 'it'll be a good thing for her to sleep on it. she mayn't like it at first, but i'll go at her ag'in to-morrer, and i'm goin' to stick to it. i reckon it'll be the worst rassle we ever had; but it's blackgum ag'in' thunder, and i'm blackgum.' "when abner reached his chamber he found his wife sitting quietly by the table, on which burned a lamp. "'hello!' said he. 'i thought you'd be abed and asleep!' "'i didn't want to do my talkin' out front,' said she, 'for there might be people passin' along the road. i think you said this was to be a case of blackgum ag'in' thunder!' "'yes,' said abner, in a somewhat uncertain tone. "'well, then,' said mrs. batterfield, 'i'm thunder.' "it was very late when that couple went to bed, but it was very early the next morning when abner rose. he split a great deal of fire-wood before breakfast, and very soon after that meal he put his hoe on his shoulder and went to his corn-field. he remembered that there were three rows of corn which he had hoed upon only one side. "the library was not opened that day, and it remained closed until mr. brownsill returned. the failure in the supply of books did not occasion very much comment in the town, for everybody agreed that mr. brownsill was a good man and ought to have a holiday. there were four persons in the place--a little girl with plaited hair and a sister; a colored woman with a bad tooth; and joe pearson--who knew that abner batterfield had held, for a time, the office of librarian. "when his vacation had expired, mr. brownsill came home, and on the second morning after his arrival, abner batterfield appeared before him. "'i had to come in town,' said abner, 'and so i thought i'd step in here and see about my pay.' "the librarian looked at him. 'how long were you here?' he asked. 'i've been told that the library was shut up for two weeks.' "'i was here for three quarters of a day,' said abner. 'that's about as near as i can calculate.' "the librarian took up a pencil and made a calculation. "'by the way,' said he, 'you must have done some business. i miss our copy of buck's theological dictionary; but i find no entry about it.' "'that was took out as change,' said abner. 'five cents for a duodecimo for a week, and the rest in change. if the woman hasn't brought it back she owes a week's fine.' "'who was the woman?' asked the librarian. "'i don't know,' said abner; 'but she has a daughter with plaited hair and a small sister. while i'm in town i'll try to look 'em up.' "'in the meantime,' said mr. brownsill, 'i'll have to charge you for the book; and, deducting your pay for three quarters of a day, you now owe me seventy-five cents. i don't suppose there's any use talking about the fines i have got down against you?' "'i don't believe there is,' said abner. "the librarian could not help smiling, so dejected was the tone in which these last words were spoken. "'by the way,' said he, 'how about your great fight you were talking about--blackgum ag'in' thunder? how did that turn out?' "abner in his turn smiled. "'blackgum was split as fine as matches,' said he." "i can't help feeling sorry for the old fellow," said the next neighbor, when john had concluded his story. "i always have sympathy with great ambitions." "and if joe pearson had got far enough north," said the mistress of the house, "he would have found no eggs, but he might have stumbled over the north pole." "it is a pity the old fellow had to tell his wife," said the master of the house. "women ruin great ambitions by too much common-sense. a great many of the inventions we now consider necessary would have been utterly lost to us if some men's brains had not been a little addled. a woman would have set them straight, and that would have been the end. that is the reason so few women are inventors; they have too much sense." "that is a very left-handed compliment," said the daughter of the house. "you are always decrying inventions, which is strange. how would you like to sail a ship without steam?" "it would be a great deal pleasanter, my dear, and much cleaner." "there are patent contrivances for garden-work," said john gayther, "and i don't say that they don't help, especially in planting-time; but, like the captain, i prefer the old ways that bring the gardener and the earth close together. the old, simple instruments seem like friends. i feel as if something went from me through the hoe-handle to the plants; and when the seed drops from my hands instead of from a seeder, it seems to me it takes a message direct from me to the earth that receives it." * * * * * the stories are all told. the winter has come. the orchard is stripped of its leaves, and, sere and brown, they cover the garden paths and are strewn over the box borders. the fruits are all garnered. the bare vines that cover the summer-house are like dead memories of what has been. the vegetable-beds are empty. the black frost has settled upon bloom and foliage on the upper terrace. the sweet, blithe song of the red thrush has ceased. the family have gone to a sunnier clime. and john gayther walks alone in his garden. none none none none none the daddy series for little folks daddy takes us to the garden by howard r. garis _author of_ _uncle wiggily and alice in wonderland_, _uncle wiggily longears_, _uncle wiggily and mother goose_, _uncle wiggily's arabian nights_ illustrated by eva dean made in u.s.a. m.a. donohue & company chicago new york the daddy series by howard r. garis the stories tell of a little boy and girl who go to various places with their dear daddy. each book contains something of value regarding nature lore, outdoor sports and animal life. price cents per volume. howard r. garis * * * * * daddy takes us camping daddy takes us fishing daddy takes us to the circus daddy takes us skating daddy takes us coasting daddy takes us to the farm daddy takes us to the garden daddy takes us hunting birds daddy takes us hunting flowers daddy takes us to the woods copyright, , by r.f. fenno & company * * * * * daddy takes us to the garden contents * * * * * chapter page i a new game ii making a garden iii upside down beans iv the first radish v the potatoes' eyes vi the corn silk vii early tomatoes viii the children's market ix sammie plants tomatoes x white celery xi gathering crops xii pumpkin pie chapter i a new game "mother, what can we do now?" "tell us something to play, please! we want to have some fun!" as harry and mabel blake said this they walked slowly up the path toward the front porch, on which their mother was sitting one early spring day. the two children did not look very happy. "what can we do?" asked hal, as he was called more often than harry. "there isn't any more fun," complained mab, to which her name was often shortened. "oh, my!" laughed mother blake. "such a sadness! what doleful faces you both have. i hope they don't freeze so and stay that way. it would be dreadful!" "it can't freeze," said hal. "it's too warm. daddy told us how cold it had to be to freeze. the ther--ther--oh, well the thing you tell how cold it is--has to get down to where it says number before there's ice." "you mean the thermometer," said mab. "that's it," agreed hal. "and look, the shiny thing--mercury, that's the name of it--the mercury is at now. it can't freeze, mother." "well, i'm glad it can't, for i wouldn't want your face to turn into ice the way it looked a little while ago." "but there's no fun, mother," and mab, whose face, as had her brother's, had lost its fretful look while they were talking about the thermometer, again seemed cross and unhappy. "we can't have any fun!" "why don't you play some games?" asked mrs. blake, smiling at the two children. "we did," answered hal. "we tried to play tag, but it's too muddy to run off the paths, and it's no fun, staying in one place. we can't play ball, 'cause mab can't throw like a boy, and i'm not going to play doll with her." "i didn't ask you to!" said mab quickly. "i was going to play doll by myself." "yes, but you'd want me to be a doctor, or something, when your doll got sick--you always do." "i should think that would be fun," said mother blake. "why don't you play doll and doctor?" "i'm not going to play doll!" declared hal, and his face looked crosser than ever. "oh, it isn't nice to talk that way," said his mother. "you ought to be glad if mab wanted you to be a doctor for her sick doll. but perhaps you can think of something else--some new game. just sit down a moment and we'll talk. then perhaps you'll think of something. i wonder why it is so warm to-day, and why there is no danger of anything freezing--not your faces of course, for i know you wouldn't let that happen. but why is it so warm; do you know?" "'cause it's spring," answered hal. "everybody knows that." "oh, no, not everybody," replied his mother. "your dog roly-poly doesn't know it." "oh, yes, mother! i think he does!" cried mab. "he was rolling over and over in the grass to-day, even if it was all wet like a sponge. he never did that in the winter." "well, perhaps dogs and cats do know when it is spring. the birds do, i'm sure, for then they come up from the south, where they have spent the winter, and begin to build their nests. so you think it is warm to-day because it is spring; do you, hal?" "yes, mother," he replied. "it's time winter was gone, anyhow. and the trees know it is going to be summer soon, for they are swelling out their buds." "and after a while there'll be flowers," added mab. "didn't we have fun, hal, when daddy took us hunting flowers?" "yes, and when he took us to the woods, and to see the different kinds of birds," added the little boy. "we had lots of fun then." "i wish we could have some of that kind of fun now," went on mab. "when's daddy coming home, mother?" "oh, not for quite a while. he has to work and earn money you know. he has to earn more than ever, now that everything costs so much on account of the war. daddies don't have a very easy time these days." "do mothers?" asked mab, thinking of how she played mother to her dolls. maybe, she thought, she could make up a new game, pretending how hard it was for dolls' mothers these days. "well, mothers have to do many things they did not have to do when things to eat and wear did not cost so much," spoke mother blake. "we have to make one loaf of bread go almost as far as two loaves used to go, and as for clothes--well, i am mending some of yours, hal, that, last year, i thought were hardly useful any more. but we must save all we can. so that's why daddy has to work harder and longer, and why he can't come home saturday afternoons as early as he used to." it was a saturday afternoon when hal and mab found so much fault about not having any fun. almost any other day they would have been in school, and have been busy over their lessons. but just now they wanted to play and they were not having a very jolly time, for they could not think of anything to do. or, at least, they thought they could not. "what makes it spring?" asked hal, after a bit, as he watched his mother putting a patch on his little trousers. hal remembered how he tore a hole in them one day sliding down a cellar door. "tell us what makes spring, mother," went on mab. "that will be as much fun as playing, i guess." "the sun makes the spring," said mrs. blake "spring is one of the four seasons. i wonder if you can tell me the others?" "which one starts?" asked hal. "spring, of course," exclaimed mab. "you have to start with something growing, and things grow in the spring." "that is right," said mrs. blake. "spring is the beginning of life in the world, when the flowers and birds begin to grow; the flowers from little buds and the birds from little eggs. what comes next?" "summer!" cried hal. "then's when we can have fun. the ground is dry, so we can play marbles and fly kites. and we can go in swimming and have a long vacation. summer's the jolly time!" "it is a time when things grow that start in the spring," said mother blake. "what comes after summer?" "autumn," answered mab. "some folks call it fall. why do they, mother?" "because the leaves fall from the trees, perhaps. it is a time when the trees and bushes go to sleep, and when most birds fly down to the warm south. and what comes after autumn or fall?" "christmas!" cried hal. "yes, so it does!" laughed mrs. blake. "and i guess most children would say the same thing. but i meant what season." "it's winter," hal said. "let's see if i know 'em. spring, summer, autumn, winter," he recited. "four seasons, and this is spring. i wish it would hurry up and be summer." "so do i," agreed mab. "you can't have any fun now. it's too wet to go without your rubbers, too cold to go without a coat and almost too hot to wear one. i like summer best." "and i like fall and winter," said hal. "but let's do something mab. let's have some fun. what can we do, mother?" and back the children were, just where they started. "why don't you get roly-poly and play with him?" asked mrs. blake. "he's gone away. i guess he ran down to daddy's office like he does sometimes," said mab. "let's go down after him," exclaimed hal. "that'll be some fun." "i don't want to," spoke mab. "i'd rather play with my doll." "you never want to do anything i want to play?" complained hal. "can't she come with me after roly-poly, mother?" "well, i don't know. can't you both play something here until daddy comes home? why don't you play bean-bag?" "we did, but hal always throws 'em over my head and i can't reach," mab said. "she throws crooked," complained hal. "oh, my dears! i think you each must have the spring fever!" laughed mother blake. "try and be nicer toward one another. let me see now. how would you like to help me bake a cake, mab?" "oh, that will be fun!" and mab jumped up from the porch, where she had been sitting near her mother's rocking chair, and began to clap her hands. "may i stir it myself, and put the dough in the pans? "yes, i think so." "pooh! that's no fun for me!" remarked hal. "i want to have some fun, too." "you may clean out the chocolate or frosting dish--whichever kind of a cake we make," offered mab. "you always like to scrape out the chocolate dish, hal." "yes, i like that," he said, smiling a little. "well, you may have it all alone this time, if i make the cake," went on mab. nearly always she and hal shared this pleasure--that of scraping out, with a knife or spoon, the chocolate or sugar icing dish from which mother blake took the sweet stuff for the top and inside the layers of the cake. "come on, hal!" hal was willing enough now, and soon he and his sister were in the kitchen, helping mother blake with her cake-making. though, to tell the truth, mab and mrs. blake did most of the work. while the three were in the midst of their cake-making, into the kitchen rushed a little poodle dog, whirling around, barking and trying to catch his tail. "oh, roly-poly, where have you been?" cried hal. "did daddy come home with you?" "bow-wow!" barked roly-poly, which might mean "no" or "yes," just as you happened to listen to his bark. "oh, don't get in my way, roly!" called mab as the little dog danced about in front of her, while she was carrying a pan filled with cake dough toward the oven. "look out! oh, there it goes." just what mab had feared came to pass. she tripped over the poodle dog, and, to save herself from falling, she had to drop the pan of cake dough. down it fell, right on roly-poly's back. "bow-wow-wow!" he barked and growled at the same time. "oh, look at him!" laughed hal "he's a regular cake himself." "don't let him run through the house that way!" called mother blake. "he'll get the carpets and furniture all dough. get him, hal!" hal made a grab for the little pet dog, and caught him by his tail. this made roly-poly howl louder than ever, until hal, not wishing to hurt his pet, managed to get him in his arms. but of course this made hal's waist all covered with cake dough. "never mind," said mother blake, as she saw hal looking at himself in dismay. "it will all wash off. better to have it on your waist than on the carpets. why, mab! what's the matter?" for mab was crying softly. "oh--oh, my--my nice ca-cake is all spoiled," she sobbed. "oh, no it isn't!" comforted mother blake. "only one pan of dough is spilled, and there is plenty more. the kitchen floor can easily be washed, and so can roly poly. "hal," went on his mother, "you take the dog up to the bath tub and give him a good scrubbing. he'll like that. take off your own waist and let the water run on that. i'll wipe up the floor and you can fill another pan and put it in the oven, mab. don't cry! we'll have the cake in time for supper yet." so mab dried her tears and once more began on the cake, while mrs. blake cleaned up the dough from the floor. in a little while the cake was baking in the oven, and hal came down stairs, rather wet and splattered, but clean. with him was roly-poly, looking half drowned, but also clean. "well, we did a lot of things!" said hal, when he had on dry clothes, and he and mab were waiting for the cake to be baked, after which the chocolate would be spread over it. "it was fun, wasn't it?" "i--i guess so," answered mab, not quite sure. "did i hurt roly when i stepped on him?" "i guess not. he splashed water all over me when i put him in the bath tub, though. i pretended he was a submarine ship and he swam all around." "i wish i had seen him." "i'll make him do it again," and hal started toward the stairs with roly in his arms. "no, please don't!" laughed mother blake. "one bath a day is enough. besides, i think it's time to take the cake out, mab." when the chocolate had been spread on, and hal had scraped out the dish, giving mab a share even though she had said she did not want any, the front door was heart to shut. "here comes daddy!" cried mab. "oh, i wonder if he brought anything?" said hal, racing after his sister. daddy blake did have a package in his arms, and he was smiling. he put the bundle down on the table and caught up first mab and then hal for a hearty kiss. "well, how are you all to-day?" he asked. "i just baked a cake," answered mab. "and the dough went all over roly-poly, and i made believe he was a submarine ship in the bath tub," added hal. "we had lots of fun." "before that we didn't thought," spoke mab. "we wanted to play something new but we didn't know what. did you bring us anything, daddy?" "yes, i brought you and hal a new game." "a new game? oh, goody! may we play it now?" "well, you can start to look at it now, but it takes quite a while to play it. it takes all spring, all summer and part of the fall." "oh, what a long game!" cried hal. "what is it?" "it is called the garden game," said daddy blake, smiling. "and after supper i'll tell you all about it." "the garden game," murmured mab. "it must be fun," said hal, "else daddy wouldn't laugh around his eyes the way he does." "yes, i think you'll like this new game," went on mr. blake. "and whoever learns to play it best will get a fine prize!" "oh! oh! oh!" cried hal and mab in delight. they could hardly wait to find out all about it. chapter ii making a garden "now children," began daddy blake, as the table was cleared of the dishes, when supper had been finished, "i'll start to tell you about the garden game we are going to play." "oh, are you going to play it, too?" asked hal in delight "won't that be fun, mab?" "lots of fun!" anything daddy blake did was fun for hal and mab, whether it was playing a game, or taking them somewhere. eagerly the two children watched while their father opened the package he had brought up from down town when he came home to supper. "is it some kind of a puzzle?" hal wanted to know. "does it go around with wheels?" asked mab, as she heard something rattle inside the paper. "how many can play it?" asked hal. "oh, as many as care to" answered daddy blake. i'm going to play it, and so is your mother, i think; and uncle pennywait, and aunt lollypop, and--no, i guess we can't let roly-poly play the garden game, but you two children can." "oh, it must be a fine game if so many can play," laughed hal. "hurry, daddy, and show us what it is." "do you play sides?" mab inquired. "yes, you can play sides," her father answered with a smile. "as i told you i'm going to give a prize to whoever plays the game best. i'll tell you about it. now here's the first part of the garden," and, as mr. blake opened the paper fully, out rolled a small parcel. the string came off it, and hal and mab saw a lot of beans. for a moment they looked very much disappointed. "oh, daddy blake!" cried hal. "this isn't a new game at all! we've got a bean-bag one!" "and we got tired of playing it to-day," went on mab, in disappointed tones. "this isn't exactly a bean-bag game," said mr. blake with a smile, "though you can make it one if you like. it's ever so much more fun than just bean-bags, for there are many other different parts to the garden game. now if you'll sit down i'll tell you about it." hal and mab saw some brightly colored pictures, among other things, in the big bag that had held the beans, and they thought perhaps they might have fun with the garden game after all. some of you have met hal and mab blake before, on one or more of their many trips with daddy, so i do not need to tell all of you about the children. but to those of you who read this book as the beginning of the daddy series i may say that the first volume is called "daddy takes us camping." in that i told you how daddy and the two children went to live in a tent, and how they heard a queer noise in the night and-- well, i'll leave the rest for you to find out by reading the book. hal and mab lived with daddy and mother blake in a nice house in a small city, and with them lived uncle pennywait and aunt lollypop. these were not their real names. uncle pennywait was called that because he so often said to hal and mab: "wait a minute and i'll give you a penny!" aunt lollypop was more often called aunt lolly, and the reason she had such a queer name was because she was always telling the children to buy lollypops with the money uncle pennywait gave them. lollypops, the children's aunt thought, were the best kind of candy for them, and perhaps she was right. then there was roly-poly, the funny little poodle dog, and once when daddy blake took hal and mab skating, as you may read in that book, roly slid under the ice and was lost for a long, long time. hal and mab just loved to go places with daddy, to learn about the birds, trees and flowers. they had gone to the circus with him, had gone coasting, and had hunted birds with a camera to take pictures of them. there is a book about each one of the different trips hal and mab took with their father. they had many adventures each time they went out, and they learned many things. just before the story i am going to tell you now, daddy blake had taken the children to the woods, telling them about the different kinds of trees. sometimes roly-poly went along with hal and mab when daddy started off with the children. once mab had a little cat that got lost up in a tree, and once her dickey bird flew away and it was a long time before she found one she loved as much as her first singing pet. "but i don't see how you are going to take us anywhere, so we can have fun, just with beans," said hal, as he waited for his father to tell something about the new game. "oh, it isn't just beans," said daddy blake. "see here are some radishes, lettuce, carrots, turnips, potatoes, beets and--" "why it sounds just like a garden!" cried aunt lollypop, coming in from the hall at that moment. "it's a garden game, but we don't know how to play it yet," said mab. "that's what i'm going to teach you," spoke her father. "we are going to make a garden." "where?" hal wanted to know. "in our back yard and in the lot next door. i have hired that to use in planting our garden." "how do you start to make a garden?" asked hal. "that's part of the game you and mab must learn," said mr. blake. "now i'll begin at the beginning and tell you. i think you will like this game as well as any you have ever played, for not only will it be fun, but it will give you work to do, and the best fun in the world is learning to make fun of your work. and don't forget the prize!" "what's the prize for?" asked hal. "for the one who has the best little garden, whether it is hal, mab, uncle pennywait, aunt lolly, mother or myself. we're all going to play the garden game!" "what is the prize going to be?" asked mab. daddy blake thought for a moment. then he said: "well, i suppose if you won the prize you would like it to be a nice doll." "oh, i'd just love it!" cried mab with sparkling eyes. "and hal would want a pair of skates or maybe a sled, for i think his old one is broken," went on daddy blake. "it is," answered hal. "so, as only one of us can win the prize, and as we would all want something different," spoke the children's father, "i think i'll make the prize a ten dollar gold piece, and whoever wins it can buy what they like with it." "oh, that's great!" exclaimed hal. "ten dollars!" added mab. "why i could buy a lot of dolls for that!" "i hope you wouldn't spend all that money for dolls," said aunt lolly. "no, save some for candy!" laughed uncle pennywait. "i'll give you a penny extra as my prize." "we'll talk about spending the money when the prize is won," said daddy blake. "here it is," and he took from his pocket a bright, shining ten dollar gold piece. hal and mab looked at it. "but everyone must work hard in the garden to win it," said mr. blake. "and, mind you! i may get my own prize, for i am going to work in the garden, too. we will each choose some one vegetable, and whoever raises the finest and best crop will get the prize." "what made you think of this game for us?" asked hal. "well, everyone is making gardens this year," said daddy blake. "you know we are at war, and in war time it is harder to get plenty of food than when we are at peace." "why?" asked hal. "because so many men have to go to be soldiers," his father answered. "the farmers and gardeners--thousands of them--have been called away to fight the enemy, so that we, who never before helped to grow things from the earth, must begin now if we are to have enough to eat and to feed our soldiers. "that is why i am going to have a garden--larger than we ever had before. that is why many others who never had gardens before are going to have one this year. all over vacant lots and play-fields, and even some beautiful green, grassy lawns, are being turned into gardens. they will take the places of many gardens that have been turned into battle fields. we must raise more vegetables and fruits and we must save what we raise." "why do we want to save it?" asked hal, "can't we eat it?" "we will eat all we need," his father, "but you know that gardens and farms can only be planted, and fruits vegetables can only grow when the weather is warm. nothing grows in the cold winter. so we raise all we can in summer and save what we need to eat when snow is on the ground." "how are we going to make our garden?" asked mab. "and what am i going to plant?" asked hal. "well, we'll begin at the very beginning," answered daddy blake. "the first part of any garden is getting the soil ready. that is the dirt, in which we plant the seeds, must be dug up and made soft and mellow so the seeds will grow." "what makes seeds grow?" asked mab. "and why can't we plant 'em anywhere?" hal wanted to know. daddy blake laughed. "you're going to have a lot of questions to answer about this garden game," said uncle pennywait. "you'll be kept busy." "yes, i guess so," agreed daddy blake. "well i'll answer all the questions i can, for i want hal and mab to know how hard it is to make even one bean or radish grow from a seed. then, when they find out that it is not easy to have good vegetables, when the bugs, worms and weeds are fighting against them, they will not waste. for waste is wicked not only in war time but always." "oh, daddy!" cried mab. "do the worms and bugs and weeds fight the things in the garden?" "indeed they do," answered her father. "it is just like war all the while between the things we want to grow and the things we don't want." "oh, if the garden game is like war i'm going to have fun playing it!" exclaimed hal, while roly-poly chased his tail around the table. i don't mean that the little poodle dog's tail came off and that he raced around trying to get hold of it again. no indeed! his tail just stayed on him, but he whirled around and around trying to get hold of it in his mouth, and he was having a good time doing it. "there is one of the enemies you'll have to fight if you make a garden," said daddy blake with a smile. "who?" asked hal. "your dog, roly-poly. dogs, when they get in a newly planted garden, often dig up the seeds, just as chickens do. so from the start you'll have to keep roly-poly away." "and chickens, too," said mab. "they've got chickens next door." "yes, but they are kept shut up in their yard, with a wire fence around it," said daddy blake. "however you must keep watch. now suppose we start and pick out what crops we want to raise for the prize of the ten dollar gold piece. i have different kinds of seeds here--corn, beans, tomatoes, radishes and others." "i want to raise beans!" cried mab. "then i can have as many bean-bags as i want." "we mustn't waste too many beans just for playing games, since beans make a good meal, especially for soldiers," said daddy blake. "and much of the food raised on farms and gardens will have to go to feed our soldiers. so we'll give mab the first choice and let her raise beans. what will you choose, hal?" "corn, i guess," hal said. "i like pop corn." "well, we won't raise much pop corn," laughed his father. "while that is good to eat it is not good for making corn bread, and that is the kind we may have to eat if we can't raise enough wheat to make all the white bread we want." "why can't we raise wheat?" asked hal. "well, we could grow a little, for it would grow in our garden as well as in any other soil or dirt," explained daddy blake. "but to raise a lot of wheat, or other grains, a big field is needed--a regular farm--and we haven't that." "will you take us to a farm some day?" asked mab. "yes, after you learn how to make a garden," his father told him. "so you think you want to try corn; eh?" and he laid a package of that seed in front of the little boy. "if mab raises beans and hal grows corn we'll have succotash at any rate," said mother blake. "and succotash is good to can and keep all winter." "well, we may have enough to eat, after all, from our garden," said aunt lolly. "i think i'll raise pumpkins for my share of the new game." "then we can have jack-o-lanterns!" laughed hal. "that will be fun!" "now look here!" exclaimed; daddy blake. "i want you children to have some fun in your gardens, but is isn't all fun. there is going to be hard work, too, if anyone wins this prize," and he held up the ten dollar gold piece. "you may have one pumpkin for a hallowe'en lantern, maybe, but pumpkin pies are what aunt lolly is thinking of, i guess." "indeed i am," she said. "when i was a girl we used to raise many pumpkins in the cornfield at home. so i'll raise my pumpkins between your rows of corn, hal." "that's the way to do it," said uncle pennywait. "i think i'll raise potatoes. they're easy to grow if i can keep the bugs off them, and they'll keep all winter." "i'll raise tomatoes," said daddy blake, taking out a package of tomato seeds for his part of the garden. "we can eat them sliced in summer and have them canned, ready to stew, in winter, i'll have to plant some seeds in the house first to raise plants that i may set them out when it is warm enough. now, mother, what will you grow in the garden?" "carrots," answered mrs. blake. "oh, then we can keep a bunny rabbit!" cried mab. "i've always wanted a bunny." "well, a rabbit may be nice," said daddy blake. "but, as i said, this garden is not all for fun. we are going to raise as many vegetables as we can, so we will have them in the winter to save buying them at the store. we can't afford to raise carrots for rabbits this year. there are your seeds, mother," and he gave his wife a packet with a picture of yellow carrots on the outside. "but there are a lot of seeds left," said mab, as she looked at the large opened bundle on the table. "yes, well have to take turns planting these," her father said. "i just wanted you to pick out your prize crops first. now we have made a start on our garden. the next thing is to get the ground ready as soon as it is warm enough. but first i think i'll start my tomato plants. i'll plant the seeds in the morning." "where?" asked mab. "in a box in the house. you may bring me in a little dirt and i'll let it dry out near the fire, for it is rather damp and cold yet in the garden." the next day hal and mab brought in some dirt from the yard. it was wet and sticky but when it had been spread out on a paper under the stove it soon dried. that night daddy blake filled a big wooden box with the dirt, which he worked with a trowel until it was made fine and smooth. "the first thing to learn in making a garden," the children's father said, "is to have your dirt made very fine, and to be sure that it is the right kind for what you are going to raise. beans will grow in almost any kind of soil, but tomatoes and other vegetables must have soil which is called richer--that is it has more fertilizer in it--something which is food to the seeds and plants as bread, butter, meat and potatoes are food for us." "do plants eat?" asked hal. "of course they do, just as i told you the trees did. plants eat through their roots in the earth. they drink water that way, too, and through their leaves. and they breathe in the air and sunlight the same way. plants, as well as boys and girls, need warm sun, enough water and good soil to make them grow." "but why don't you plant the tomato seeds right in the garden?" asked hal. "because it is a little too early. the weather is not warm enough and the ground is too damp. so i plant the seeds in the house and soon there will be many little tomato plants in this box, which, you children must see to it, must be kept in the sunny window, and not out in the cool air. when the plants are large enough we will take them from the box and put them in the garden in nice long rows. this is called transplanting, which means planting a second time, and is done with many garden things such as lettuce, cabbage and celery." "but you didn't tell us what makes the seeds grow," said mab, as she watched her father carefully smooth the soil in the box and then scatter in the tomato seeds, afterward covering them up with a piece of window glass. "i'll tell you as best i can, though no one really knows what is in the seed to make it grow. only mother nature knows that. but at least we have a start with our garden," said daddy blake, "and to-morrow i'll tell you, as well as i can, why a seed grows. it is time to go to bed now." as hal and mab started up stairs, thinking what a wonderful thing it was to have a garden, there came a ring at the front door. "my! who can be calling this time of night?" asked mother blake, in surprise. hal and mab wondered too. chapter iii upside down beans "let's wait and see who it is, hal," whispered mab to her brother as they stood on the stairs. "maybe it's somebody come to find out about a garden," added the little boy. "daddy knows lots about how to make things grow, and maybe, on account of the war, everybody's got to plant corn and beans and things." "i don't like war and soldiers," spoke mab, while daddy blake went to the front door. "i don't care when you play soldier, and make believe shoot your pop gun, but i don't like real guns. maybe this is somebody come to tell daddy to go to war." "i hope not!" exclaimed hal. when daddy blake opened the door the children heard some one saying: "i guess this little fellow belongs to you, mr. blake. i found him over in my garden, digging away. maybe he was planting a bone, thinking he could grow some roast beef," and a man's laugh was heard. then came a sharp little bark. "oh, it's roly-poly!" cried hal. [illustration] "he must have run away and we didn't miss him 'cause we talked so much about the garden," added mab. "i wonder where he was?" "yes, that's my children's dog," said mr. blake to the man who had brought home roly-poly. "so he was in your garden; eh?" "well, yes, in the place where i'm going to make a garden. my name is porter, i live next door. only moved in last week and we haven't gotten acquainted yet." "that's right," said mr. blake. "well, i'm glad to know you, mr. porter. hal and mab will be pleased to have roly-poly back, i'm also glad to know you're going to have a garden. i'm going to start my two youngsters with one, and if roly-poly comes over, and digs out your seeds, let me know and i'll keep him shut up." "i will, and you do the same with my chickens. they're bad for scratching in a garden, though i plan to keep them in their own yard. so your boy and girl are going to have gardens; are they?" "yes. i want them to learn all they can about such things." "i've got a boy, but he's too young to start yet. sammie is only five," said mr. porter. "well, doggie, i guess you're glad to get back home," and he gave roly-poly to mr. blake who thanked his neighbor, asking him to call again. "here, hal and mab!" called their father. "after this you must keep watch of your pet. i guess there will be many gardens on our street this summer, and no dogs will be allowed in them until after the things are well grown. so watch roly-poly." hal and mab promised they would, and mab said: "oh, that's a cute little boy next door. he has red hair." "his name is sammie," said mr. blake. "now off to bed with you, toodlekins!" and he made believe roly-poly threw kisses from his paws to hal and mab. daddy blake had to go away early the next morning, to be gone three days, so he did not have time to tell hal and mab why it was that seeds grew when planted in the ground. but before going to school on monday the brother and sister saw to it that the glass covered box in which the tomato plants were soon to grow, was put in a sunny window. on the way to school they looked in the big yard of mr. porter who lived next door. he was raking up some dried leaves and grass and a small, red-haired boy was watching him. "hello, little ones!" called mr. porter. "have you got your garden started yet?" "not yet," answered hal. "but we got tomato seeds planted in the house," said mab. "yes, and i must do that too. we'll see who'll have the finest garden," went on mr. porter. "how's your poodle dog?" "oh, we got him shut up so he can't hurt your garden," hal said. "don't worry about that yet," went on the neighbor. "i haven't planted any seeds yet, and shall not until it gets warmer. so you may let your dog run loose." "all right. i guess i will," cried hal, running back to the house. "you'll be late for school!" warned mab. "i'll run fast!" promised her brother. "roly-poly cried when i shut him up. i want to let him out." soon the little dog came running out of the barn where hal had locked him. over into mr. porter's yard ran roly and sammie laughed when he saw hal's pet rolling around in the pile of dried leaves mr. porter had raked together. "roly, you be a good dog!" warned mab, shaking her finger at him. "i get him a cookie!" said sammie with a laugh as he toddled toward the house. "sammie likes dogs," said his father as hal and mab hurried on to school. mr. blake was away longer than he thought he would be, and it was over a week before he came back home. each day hal and mab had placed the box of tomato seeds in the warm sun before going to school, moving it when they came home at noon and in the afternoon they also changed it so that the soil would always be where the warm sun could shine on it. they sprinkled water in the box, as their father had told them to do. then, the day when daddy blake came back from his business trip, hal, looking at the tomato box, cried: "oh, mab! look! there are a lot of little green leaves here." "yes, the tomatoes are beginning to grow," said daddy blake, when he had taken a look. "what makes the seeds grow and green leaves come out?" asked hal. "well, as i said, mother nature does it and no one can tell how," said daddy blake. "but somewhere inside this tiny little thing," and he held out in his hand a tomato seed, "somewhere there is hidden a spark of life. what it looks like we can not say. it is deep in the heart of the seed." "do seeds have hearts?" asked mab. "well, no, not exactly," her father answered. "but we speak of the middle of a tree as it's heart and i suppose the middle of a seed, where its life is, is its heart. so this seed is really alive, though it doesn't seem so." "it looks like a little yellow stone--the kind that comes in sand," spoke hal. "and yet it is alive," said his father. "it can not move about now, though when it is planted it begins to grow and it can move. it can push its leaves up from under the earth. just now it is asleep, and has no life that we can see." "what will bring it to life and make it wake up?" asked hal. "the warm dirt in which it is planted, the sunlight, the air and the water you sprinkle on it," said mr. blake. "if you kept this seed cold and dry it might sleep for many many years, but as soon as you put it under the warm, wet soil, and set the box of dirt where the sun can shine on it, then the seed begins to awaken. something inside it--a germ some call it--begins to swell. it gets larger--the seed is germinating. the hard outside shell, or husk, gets soft and breaks open. the heart inside swells larger and larger. a tiny root appears and begins to dig its way down deeper in the ground to find things to eat. at the same time another part of the seed turns into leaves and these grow up. it is the green leaves you see first, peeping up above the ground, that tell you the seed has germinated and is growing." "isn't it funny!" said hal. "one part of the seed grows down and the other part grows up." "yes," said daddy blake. "that's the way seeds grow. each day you will see these little tomato plants growing more and more, and, as soon as they are large enough, we will set them out in the garden." hal and mab thought it was wonderful that a single, tiny seed of the tomato--a seed that looked scarcely larger than the head of a pin--should have locked up in its heart such things as roots and leaves, and that, after a while, great, big red tomatoes would hang down from the green tomato vine--all from one little seed. "it's wonderful--just like when the man in the show took a rabbit, a guinea pig and a lot of silk ribbon out of daddy's hat," spoke hal. "it is more wonderful," said mr. blake. "for the man in the show put the things in my hat by a trick, when you were not looking, and only took them out again to make you think they were there all the while. but roots, seeds and tomatoes are not exactly inside the seed all the while. the germ--the life--is there, and after it starts to grow the leaves, roots and tomatoes are made from the soil, the air, the water and the sunshine." "are there tomatoes in the air?" asked mab. "well, if it were not for the things in the air, the oxygen, the nitrogen and other gases, about which you are too young to understand now, we could not live grow, and neither could plants. plants also have to have water to drink, as we do, and food to eat, only they eat the things found in the dirt, and we can not do that. at least not until they are changed into fruits, grain or vegetables." hal and mab never tired looking at the tomato plants growing in the box in the house. each day the tiny green leaves became larger and raised themselves higher and higher from the earth. "soon they will be large enough to transplant, or set out in the garden," said daddy blake. two or three days after their father had told hal and mab why seeds grow, the children, coming home from school, saw something strange in their garden. there was a man, with a team of horses and the brown earth was being torn up by a big shiny thing which the horses were pulling as the man drove them. "oh, what's that in our garden?" cried hal to uncle pennywait. "it's a man plowing," said hal's uncle. "but won't he spoil the garden?" mab wanted to know. "he's just starting to make it," uncle pennywait answered. "didn't daddy blake tell you that the ground must be plowed or chopped up, and then finely pulverized or smoothed, so the seeds would grow better?" "oh, yet, so he did," hal said. "well, this is the first start of making a garden," went on uncle pennywait. "the ground must be plowed or spaded. spading is all right for a small garden, but when you have a large one, or a farm, you must use a plow." mr. blake owned a large yard back of his house, and next door, on the other side from where the new porter family lived, was a large vacant lot. the children's father had hired this lot to use as part of his garden. hal and mab watched the man plowing. he held the two curved handles of the plow, and it was the sharp steel "share" of this that they had seen shining in the sun as it cut through the brown soil. a plow cuts through the soil as the horses pull it after them, and it is so shaped that the upper part of the earth is turned over, bringing up to the top, where the sun can shine on it, the underneath part. the undersoil is richer and better for seeds to start growing in than the upper part, where the rain may wash away the plant-food things that are needed to make a good garden. "but daddy said the ground had to be smooth to make a garden," said mab. "the plowing man is making it all rough." "yes, it does look rough now," said daddy blake, as he came along just then, in time to watch the man plowing. "those long lines of overturned soil which you children see are called furrows." "could you plant anything in them?" asked hal. "well, you could, yes. but it would not grow very well, and when the corn, beans or whatever you planted came up, you could not work around them well to cut down the weeds. it would be too rough. so after the man has plowed the ground he will harrow it." "what's that?" asked hal "well a harrow is something like a big rake," explained daddy blake. "there are three kinds of harrows, but they don't often use more than one kind for a garden. the man will use a tooth harrow. it is called that because it is made of iron spikes, or teeth, driven through some long beams of wood. the teeth stick through and when they are dragged over the plowed ground they make it quite smooth. when i take you to the farm i can tell you about and show you other kinds of harrows or big rakes." it took the man with the plow the rest of the day to turn over the soil in the blake garden, and hal and mab looked on every minute they had out of school. mr. porter's garden, next door, was plowed too. when hal and mab went to the fence to see how mr. porter's ground looked they saw little sammie standing near. the red-haired boy was looking at something on the ground. "what is it?" asked hal. "big snake," was the answer. "i don't like a snake. i'm goin' home," and he started to run. "oh, a snake!" cried mab. "i don't like snakes either;" and she turned to go away. "where's the snake, sammie? show me!" said hal. "see him crawlin'?" and red-haired sammie pointed. "i guess he goin' to bite! i run!" and away he started, but he fell down on the rough ground. he did not cry, however, but picked himself up and kept on. "that isn't a snake!" called hal with a laugh, "it's only a big angle worm. that won't hurt you, sammie! don't be afraid." "dat no snake?" the little boy wanted to know. "no. only a fish worm. don't you remember how we went fishing with daddy, mab?" asked her brother. "yes, i do. but i thought it was a snake." hal had jumped over the fence and picked up the worm. it was a large one and had been crawling about the newly-plowed field. "oh, i don't like 'em," said mab with a little shiver. "worms are good," said mr. porter coming out into his garden. "you mean good for fishing?" asked hal "yes, and good for gardens, too. they wiggle through the ground and sort of chew it up so it does not get so hard. the earth around the roots of trees and plants ought to be kept loose and dug up so the air and water can get through easier. so worms in a garden help to make the plants grow." "i didn't know that," said hal, as he put down the big worm, which at once began to crawl slowly along, stretching itself out until it was almost twice as big as at first. in a few days the weather was much warmer, and the soil in the two gardens began to dry out. the man came with the spiked, or tooth, harrow, and his horses dragged this over the ground several times. soon the soil was quite smooth, the big lumps or clods of earth being broken up into little fine chunks. "but it must be finer yet for some things, like lettuce and tomatoes," said mr. blake. "so i'll use a hand rake." "can't we help too?" hal wanted to know. "yes, i want you and mab to do as much garden work as you can. in that way you'll understand how to make things grow. and remember the more you work around in the garden, digging up the earth above the roots of your plants, keeping the weeds cut down, the better your things will grow. making a garden is not easy work, but, after all think what a wonderful lot the seeds and plants do for themselves. still we must help them." "when can i plant my beans?" asked mab. "well, pretty soon now. make your part of the garden, where you are going to plant your beans, as smooth as you can. then mark it off into rows. you should plant your beans in rows with the rows about two feet apart, and put the beans in each row so they are about four inches, one from the other. that will give the plants room enough to spread." "how do i plant my corn?" asked hal. "well, corn must be planted a little differently from beans," answered daddy blake. "you should have your rows from two to three feet apart and each hill of corn should be from a foot to a foot and a half from the next hill." "does corn only grow on a hill?" asked hal. "oh, no," laughed his father, "though on some farms and gardens the corn may be planted on the side of a hill. what i mean was that after your corn begins to grow, the ground is hoed around the corn stalks in a sort of little hill. that is done to keep it from blowing over, for corn grows very tall, in the west sometimes ten and twelve feet high. "however that is yellow or field corn, from which corn meal is made. the kind you are going to plant, hal, is called sweet corn, such as we eat green from the cob after it is boiled. that may not grow so high. but in a day or so it will be time for your corn and beans to be planted, for spring is now fully here and the weather is warm enough." hal and mab worked hard in their gardens. they raked the ground until it was quite smooth. daddy blake, his wife, aunt lollypop and uncle pennywait also raked and smoothed the parts of the garden where they were going to plant their seeds. sometimes the older folks helped the children. next door mr. porter was planting his garden, and red-haired sammie thought he was helping. at least he picked up the stones and threw them at the fence. if roly-poly had been there maybe sammie would have thrown the stones for the little poodle dog to run after. but roly had been sent away for a few weeks, until the gardens had begun to grow. for roly never could see a nicely smoothed patch of ground without wanting to dig in it, and spoil it. "we'll bring him back when the garden things are larger and well-enough grown so he can not hurt them," said daddy blake. hal and mab planted their corn and beans. daddy blake showed his little girl how to punch holes in the brown earth along a straight row which her father made with the rake handle, and into the holes she dropped the beans, covering them with earth so that they were about two inches down from the top. hal's corn did not have to be planted quite so deep, and he dropped five kernels in a circle about as large around as a tea-saucer. this circle would, a little later, be hoed into one big hill of corn. "how long before my beans will grow?" asked mab. "and my corn?" hal wanted to know. "well, beans begin to grow almost as soon as they are in the ground," answered her father, "but you can't see them until about a week. then the little leaves appear. hal's corn will take longer, maybe ten days, before any green shows. you must be patient." hal and mab tried to be, but each day they went out in the garden and looked at where they had planted their beans and corn in the garden rows. "i don't believe they're ever going to grow," said mab at last. "maybe some worms came and took my seeds. i'm going to dig some up and look." "don't," begged hal. but mab did. with a stick she poked in the earth until she saw something that made her call: "oh, hal! look. my beans are all swelled up like a sponge." hal looked, mab had dug up one bean. it had swelled and split apart, and inside the two halves of the bean something green showed. "oh, mab! cover it up, quick!" he cried. "the beans are growing--they're sprouting! cover it up, quick!" and mab did. now she was sure her beans were growing. two mornings afterward she went out into her part of the garden before starting for school. she saw something very queer. "oh, daddy! hal!" cried the little girl "my beans were planted wrong! they're growing upside down! the beans are all pushed upside down out of the ground. oh, my garden is spoiled!" chapter iv the first radish daddy blake came hurrying out of the house as mab called. hal, who was anxiously looking to see if any of his corn had come up, ran over to his sister. "what is the matter?" asked mr. blake. "did roly-poly come home and scratch in your garden?" "no. but look at my beans!" wailed mab. "they're all upside down." it did seem so. along the rows she had so carefully planted in her garden could be seen some light green stems, some of them curved like the letter u upside down. and sticking out of the brown earth were the beans, split open in two halves. "who did it?" asked mab, tears in her eyes. daddy blake looked and laughed. "did you do it?" his little girl wanted to know. "did you upside down my beans, daddy blake?" "no, mother nature did that for you, mab." "then i don't like mother nature!" "but she had to," explained daddy blake. "all the beans i know anything about grow that way. after the bean is planted the heart or germ inside starts to sprout, and sends the root downward. at the same time the leaves begin to grow upward and they take with them the outside husk of the bean which is of no more use. the plant wants to get rid of it, you see, and as there is no room under ground for it, where it might be in the way of the roots, the leaves bring it up with them. for a time after the bean has been pushed out of the ground it keeps the tender leaves from being hurt. then the bean dries and drops off--that is all that is left of it, for the germ, or heart, has started growing another plant, you see. "so don't worry, mab. your beans are all right, even if they do seem to be growing upside down. that is the only way they know. from on your beans will grow very fast." and so they did. daddy blake told the children that beans are ready to eat sometimes within six weeks after the seeds are planted. the beans are not ripe, of course, and some are green, while others are yellow, or wax beans. inside the pods, which are almost like peas, are small green beans. if they were allowed to stay on the vines the green beans inside the pods would get hard and ripe, some turning white like the beans which boys and girls stuff into cloth bags to play games with, and other beans turning a sort of brownish red, with a white spot on. "some bean vines like to climb poles," said daddy blake, "and others are what are called bush-beans, growing as peas grow. that is the kind we planted, as i did not have time to get the poles. then besides string beans, which is the sort in your garden, mab, there are the larger or lima beans, which are very good to eat. i have planted some of them, and we will have them for dinner with your corn, hal, when it grows." "will my corn grow upside down like mab's beans?" hal wanted to know. "oh, no," answered mr. blake. "corn sprouts and grows from the bottom. in another week you ought to see some tiny green spears, like blades of grass, coming up through the brown soil. it is then that crows like to come along, pull up the green stalks and eat the soft kernel of corn which is still there, fast to the root." "how are we going to keep the crows away?" asked hal. "well, i think none will come here, as our garden is in the city and so near the house," said mr. blake. "crows are more plentiful in the country and--" "i know how to keep them away!" cried mab. "how?" asked her brother. "you take an old coat and a pair of pants and stuff 'em with straw, and fasten 'em on a stick in the field." "oh, you mean a scare-crow!" cried hal. "yes," said mab. "could i make a scare-crow for my beans, daddy?" "i hardly think you'll need it, mab," her father said with a laugh. "beans are not eaten by crows. but you will have to begin to hoe away the weeds soon, and work around your rows of bean plants. nothing makes garden things grow better than keeping the weeds away from them, and keeping the soil nicely pulverized and damp." "what do the weeds do to the beans?" asked mab. "well, the weeds grow faster than the beans, and if the weeds are too near they would keep off the sunlight. weeds also eat out of the soil the food that the beans need, so if you let weeds grow in your garden your bean plants would starve. it is just the same as if some big giant sat beside you at the table and took from your plate nearly everything mother put on for you to eat. "so, in order that you might grow well and strong, we would have to take the giant away. it's the same with weeds. they are the bad giants that eat the good things in the soil which our plants need. i'll get you and hal each a little hoe to use in your garden." mab's beans grew very fast and soon the two green leaves on each plant were quite large. then other leaves appeared. by this time hal's corn had begun to show green above the earth, and he was anxious to hoe the dirt around it up into hills, as he had been told he must do. "it is too soon now, though," his father said. "if you work around plants when they are too young you would kill them. they must be allowed to get their roots well down into the ground, to begin eating and drinking. a little baby, at first, does hardly anything but eat and sleep, so that it may grow fast. plants need to do the same thing. i'll tell you when it is time to hoe." aunt lolly and uncle pennywait, as well as daddy blake, had planted their parts of the garden, and the land around the blake house looked smooth and brown, with, here and there, a little green showing. "i know what i'm going to do with that ten dollar gold piece prize when i win it," said uncle pennywait. "what are you going to do?" asked his wife. "i'm going to buy ice cream," said uncle pennywait. "i never yet had all the ice cream i wanted. but i will when i get that ten dollars." "ten dollars is an awful lot of ice cream!" said mab, sighing. "he's only joking," laughed aunt lolly. "you children mustn't let him win the prize. keep busy in your gardens, and get it yourselves." hal and mab did, hoeing away each afternoon when school was out. daddy blake showed them how to cut off the weeds that grew in between the rows of corn and beans. the earth was chopped up fine, for the children were told that earth which is made fine holds water, or moisture, longer than when it is in big chunks. "and plants need to drink water from the soil, as well as through their leaves when it rains," said daddy blake. "a plant can no more get along without water to drink than you children can." "oh daddy!" cried mab, running in the house from her garden one day. "a lot of my bean leaves have holes in them. has hal been shooting his pop gun at them?" "no," said hal. "i didn't! i wouldn't shoot your beans, mab." "well, something did!" cried mab. "will my beans be spoiled, daddy?" "i don't know. i hope not. we'll take a look." as mab had said many of the leaves did have holes in them. daddy blake looked carefully and found some little bugs on the undersides of the bean plants. "ha!" he cried. "here is the enemy!" "it sounds like war to hear you say enemy," spoke hal. "well, if you have a garden you have to make war on the weeds, bugs and beetles," said mr. blake. "a bean-leaf beetle is eating your plants, mab." "can't we make him stop, daddy?" "yes, we'll spray some poison on the leaves, so that when the beetles eat them the poison will kill them," said mr. blake. "but if you poison the beans won't they poison us when we eat them?" hal wanted to know. "the rain will wash off all the poison the beetles do not eat," answered his father. "besides there are no beans on mab's plants yet. by the time the bean pods come i hope we shall have driven the beetles away." mr. blake mixed some poison called arsenic in a can of water and sprinkled it on mab's bean plants. in a few days the beetles had died, or they went away, not liking the taste of the poisoned leaves, and mab's beans were allowed to grow in peace. that war was over. but other bugs and worms came in the blake garden, and daddy blake, uncle pennywait and aunt lolly, as well as the children and their mother, were kept busy. the cut worms got in among the cabbages, and many a nice plant was gnawed off close to the ground, dropping over and wilting away until it died. the cut worms came up out of the ground and ate the tiny cabbage stalks close to the earth. "we shall have to put collars on the cabbage plants," said daddy blake, as he looked at some which were killed. "put collars on cabbages--how?" asked mab. "i'll show you," said her father. he took some tough paper and made a sort of hollow tube around the stalk of each cabbage plant, tying the paper with string. one end was shoved down in the ground, the other being close up around the lowest cabbage leaves, until it did look as though the plant had on a high, stiff collar. "the worms can't bite through the paper--or at least they hardly ever do," said daddy blake, "and after a while the cabbage stalk will get so strong that the worms can not do it any damage." by this time many things were growing in the blake garden. the tomato plants had been set out, and for the first day or so had been kept covered with pieces of paper so the strong sun would not wilt them. they had been used to living in the house, where they started to grow, and transplanting made them tender. but soon they took root in their new soil and began to grow very fast. hal and mab hoed and raked their gardens. when it did not rain they watered their corn and beans, and they were anxious for the time to come when they could really eat some of the things they had grown. daddy blake said mab's beans might be ready to pick green, so they could be boiled, in about six weeks, but hal's corn would not be ready for ten weeks. then the ears would be filled out enough so they could be boiled and eaten with salt and butter. corn grows more slowly than beans. "when will we have anything to eat from our garden?" asked mother blake one day, when the summer sun had been beaming down on the green things for a week. "well, we'll see," said her husband. "come with me, hal and mab. i'll take you to the garden and we'll see what we can find." "my beans aren't ready yet," said mab. "and there are only little, teeny ears of corn on the stalks in my garden," hal said. "we'll see," said daddy blake. he led the children to a plot of earth he himself had planted. hal and mab saw some dark green leaves in long rows. "pull up some of them," directed daddy blake. hal did so. on the end of the leaves, growing down in the ground, was something round and red. "it's a little beet!" cried mab, clapping her hands in delight. "no, they're radishes!" exclaimed hal. "aren't they, daddy?" "yes, those are red early radishes. here are some white ones over here for you to pull, mab. they are called icicles." mab gave a cry of delight as she pulled up some long, white radishes. they did look a little like icicles. "radishes grow very quickly," said daddy blake. "they are ready to eat in about five weeks after the seeds are planted--sooner even that the quickest beans. but of course radishes do not keep over winter. they must be eaten soon after they are pulled, and they make a good relish with bread and butter. we'll have some for dinner." and the blakes did. it was the first thing they had from their new garden, and hal and mab, who were allowed to eat a few, thought the radishes very good. just as the children were getting up from the table one morning, to go out and hoe a little among the corn and beans before going to school, they heard a barking, whining, growling noise out in the yard, and the voice of sammie porter could be heard crying: "oh, stop! stop! go on away! you're bad! oh, come take him away! oh! oh!" "something has happened!" cried daddy blake, jumping up from his chair. "i hope sammie isn't hurt!" chapter v the potatoes' eyes hal and mab ran after their father as he hurried out into the yard. they could hear sammie crying more loudly now, and above his voice sounded a growling and barking noise. one part of the fence, between the blake yard and that where mr. porter had made his garden, was low, so that the two children could look over. they saw sammie standing near the fence, greatly frightened, and looking at a tangle of morning glory vines in which something was wiggling around and making a great fuss. "oh, what is it?" asked hal. "it's a--it's a lion!" cried the frightened sammie. "a great--great big lion, all fuzzy like!" "oh, it couldn't be a lion, sammie," said mr. blake. "tell me what it is that scared you." "'tis a lion," said sammie again. "he ran after me an' i ran an' he ran in the bushes an' he's there now. he barked at me!" "ho! if he barked it's a dog," cried hal. "where is he, sammie?" "in there," and sammie pointed to the tangle of morning glory vines. just then mab saw something that made her call out: "why it is a dog. it's our dog--roly-poly!" "are you sure?" asked her father. "roly is over at mr. thompson's house you know," for the little poodle had been sent away while the garden was being made. mr. thompson had planted nothing, having too small a yard. "i don't care!" exclaimed mab. "i did see roly. he's in the bushes there--under the morning glories." "well, if it's your dog roly i would not be so frightened of him," said sammie. "only i thinked he was a lion." "here, roly! roly-poly, come on out!" cried hal, and out came a very queer-looking dog indeed. it was roly, but how he had changed. he was all stuck over with leaves, grass and bits of bark from the trees. he certainly did "fuzzy," as sammie had said, and not at all like the nice, clean poodle he had been. "oh, whatever is the matter with him?" cried mab. "he's got a lot of leaves stuck on him," added hal. "come here, roly, and i'll pull 'em off for you." roly came running over to hal, but when the little boy tried to get the leaves, grass and bits of bark off his pet he found out what was the matter. "roly's all stuck up in fly paper!" cried hal. "look!" "in fly paper?" asked mr. blake. "are you sure?" "yes, he must have sat down in some fly paper, and it stuck to him all over, and then he rolled in the leaves and grass," answered hal. "and then the leaves and grass stuck to the fly paper," added mab. "oh, you poor roly-poly!" the little poodle dog must have known how he looked, and he must have felt quite badly, for he just stretched out at the feet of hal, who had jumped over the fence, and he howled and howled and howled, roly-poly did. "i wonder how it happened?" asked mr. blake. "but we must take roly-poly in the house and wash him. then he'll feel better and look better. did he scare you very much, sammie?" "a--a little bit. when i saw him in our yard, all fuzzy like, i thought sure he was a lion." mrs. porter came out, having heard her little boy crying, and when she saw roly-poly she laughed. then she said: "you poor dog. come over and i'll squirt the hose on you. that will take off some of the fly paper." "oh, let me squirt it!" cried hal. "roly loves to be squirted on! let me do it!" "i'm going to help," added mab. "an' me, too!" called sammie. "they'll drown the poor dog," spoke mr. blake, laughing. "i guess i'd better take a hand in this myself." "what's the matter?" asked aunt lolly from the back steps. "is the house on fire?" she was always afraid that would happen. "no, it's just roly-poly and some sticky fly paper," answered mr. blake. "he must have run home to get a bath after he got all tangled up in the sticky stuff at the thompson house." by using the hose, and by greasing the fly paper, which really loosened it more than water did, and then by using soap suds and a brush, roly-poly was finally cleaned. then on their way to school hal and mab stopped at the thompson home to find out what had happened. "roly-poly was very good, all the while he was here," said mrs. thompson, "though at first he was lonesome for you. he would have run back to your house if i had let him out, but i knew he might make trouble in your garden so i kept him here. "this morning i put some of the sticky fly paper around the house and left a window open in the room where roly was sleeping. the wind must have blown the sticky paper on his curly coat of hair and this so frightened him that he jumped out of the window and ran back home to you." "only he went in the yard next door, instead of in ours," said mab, "and he hid under the morning glory vines." "and on his way," added hal, "he rolled in dried leaves and grass until he was all covered, and he looked twice as big as he is now." "and sammie thought he was a lion," went on mab. "are you going to bring roly-poly back to me to keep?" asked mrs. thompson. "thank you, no," answered hal. "daddy says our garden is growing so well now that roly can't do much harm. besides we're going to teach him he mustn't dig holes, to hide his bones, in places where we have things planted. so we'll keep roly now." "and we're much obliged to you for being so nice to him," added mab, "and we're sorry he spoiled your fly paper." "oh, i have plenty more fly paper," laughed mrs. thompson. "i'm only sorry poor roly was so stuck up. good-bye!" hal and mab hurried on to school, laughing over what had happened to their pet poodle. when their lessons were done they went back to their garden, anxious to see if roly had been good, and had not dug up any corn or beans. "everything is all right," said mab, as she looked at her bush beans, which were now in blossom. soon the blossoms would drop off and in their places would come tiny bean pods. "oh, see uncle pennyweight!" cried mab, when she had found that roly was peacefully sleeping on the shady porch. "what's he doing?" "planting something, i guess," replied hal after he had looked at his growing corn, and hoed around a few hills. "and aunt lolly is working in her part of the garden," went on mab. "i wonder if they'll win that ten dollar gold piece prize, hal?" "i hope one of us wins it, mab. if i win i'll give you half." "and i'll give you half if i win, 'cause you helped me hoe my beans one day when there was so many weeds in 'em." daddy blake had put the ten dollar gold piece in a little box on the dining room mantle, and every day hal or mab looked to make sure the prize was there. "what you doin' uncle pennywait?" asked mab as she and her brother went over to the vacant lot next door, where part of the blake garden had been planted. "i'm taking the eyes out of the potatoes," answered uncle pennywait. "eyes out of potatoes!" cried hal. "i didn't know they had any." "of course they have!" laughed his uncle. "else how could they see to get out of their brown skin-jackets when they want to go swimming in the kettle of hot water?" "oh, he's only fooling us; isn't he aunt lolly?" asked hal. his aunt was hoeing some weeds away from between the hills of cucumbers she had planted, for she was going to raise some of them, as well as pumpkins, which last had been planted in between the rows of hal's corn. "well, uncle pennywait may be fooling you a little," said aunt lolly, "but i did see him cutting some eyes from the potatoes." hal and mab looked at one another. they did not know what to think now. it was seldom that both aunt lolly and uncle pennywait joked at the same time. "come over here and i'll show you," called uncle pennywait when he had laughed at the funny looks on the faces of the two children. "see," he went on, "these are the 'eyes' of the potato, though the right name, of course, is seeds." he pointed to the little spots you may see on any potato you pick up, unless it is one to small to have them. the spots are near the ends and in the middle, and they look like little dimples. some of them may look very much like eyes, and that is what most gardeners and farmers call them, but they are really the potato's seeds. mab and hal watched what uncle pennywait was doing. he had a basket in which were some large potatoes and these he was cutting into chunks, letting them fall into another basket. in each chunk their uncle cut the children noticed several "eyes." "what are you doing?" asked hal. "i am getting ready to plant a second crop of potatoes," said uncle pennywait. "the first ones i planted in my garden were early ones. soon we will be eating them on the table. they are not the kind that will keep well all winter, and i am planting that kind now. i am going to win the ten dollar prize by raising a bigger crop of potatoes than you can raise of corn or beans, little ones," and he smiled at hal and mab. then he went on cutting the eyes out of the potatoes, while the children watched him. they saw that each potato chunk had in it two or three of the queer dimple-spots. "a potato is not like other things that grow in the garden," said uncle pennywait. "it does not have its seeds separate from it, as beans have theirs in a pod, or as corn has its kernels or seeds on a cob, or a pumpkin or apple has seeds inside it. a potato's seeds are part of itself, buried in the white part that we cook for the table, and each potato has in it many seeds or eyes. "of course i could plant whole potatoes, one in each hill, but that would be wasting seed, so i cut the potatoes up into chunks and plant the little chunks, each one with two or more seeds in it." "and do you only plant one chunk?" asked mab. "no, i drop in two or three, according to the size and the number of eyes. this is done so that if one set of seeds doesn't grow the other will. now you watch me." uncle pennywait had smoothed off a nice bit of his garden where, as yet, he had planted nothing, and into the long earth-rows of this he now began to plant his potato seed. he walked along the rows with a bag of the cut-up pieces hung around his neck, and as he dropped in the white chunks he covered them with dirt by using a hoe. "when my potatoes grow up into nice green vines, and the striped bugs come to have a feast on them, you may help me drive the bad creatures away," said uncle pennywait to the children. "in fact some of my early potatoes need looking after now." "are there bugs on them?" asked mab, when her uncle had finished his planting. "indeed there are! come and i'll show you." over they went to the early-potato part of uncle pennywait's garden. there, on many of the green vines, were a lot of blackish and yellowish bugs, crawling and eating the leaves. "we'll just give them a dinner of paris green," said uncle pennywait, "and they won't eat any more of my vines." "what's paris green?" asked mab. "it is a deadly poison, for grown folks or children as well as bugs, and you must never touch it, or handle it, unless i am with you, or your father is near," said uncle pennywait. "here is some of it." he showed the children a bright, green powder, some of which he stirred into a sprinkling pot full of water. this water he sprayed over the potato vines. "the poison in the water goes on the potato leaves," explained uncle pennywait, "and when the bugs eat the leaves they also eat the poison, and die. we have to kill them or they would eat away the leaves of the vines until they all died, and we would have no potatoes. the potato bugs are very harmful, and we must get rid of them." then he let hal and mab sprinkle the potato vines with the paris green, afterward making the children carefully wash their hands so there would be no danger. "is that the only way to drive away the potato bugs?" asked hal. "sometimes farmers go through their potato field and knock the bugs from the vines into a can full of kerosene oil," said uncle pennywait, "or they may use another poison instead of paris green. but the bugs must be killed if we are to have potatoes." just then mab saw aunt lolly going into her garden with a bottle in her hand. "are you going to poison bugs too?" asked the little girl. "no, i am going to make a cucumber grow inside this," was the answer. "make a cucumber grow in a bottle?" exclaimed hal. "why, how funny!" "let's go see!" cried mab, and together they ran over to aunt lolly's garden. chapter vi the corn silk "maybe this is another joke, like the eyes of the potatoes," said hal to his sister, as they ran along. "that wasn't a joke--the eyes were real, though they couldn't see nor blink at you," mab answered. "the potato eyes must see a little, else how could they find their way to grow up out of the dark ground?" hal wanted to know. "well, my beans didn't have any eyes, and they grew up," mab answered. "even if they did grow upside down, or i thought they did," and she laughed. "but let's see what aunt lolly is doing." uncle pennywait's wife was out among the cucumber vines now. she had planted them about the same time hal had put in the five kernels of corn in each hill. aunt lolly's cucumber seeds had also been planted in hills, so there would be a raised mound of earth for the roots to keep moist in, and in order that the vines, at the start, would be raised up from the other ground around them. now the cucumber plants were quite lengthy, running along over their part of the garden, and in some places there were growing tiny little pickles--or they would be pickles, when put in salt, vinegar and spices. "are you really going to make a cucumber grow in a bottle?" asked mab as she saw her aunt, with a bottle in her hand, stooping over one of the vines. "i really am," was the answer. "it is only a little trick, though, and really does no good. but i thought you children would like to see it." "how are you going to do it?" asked hal. "you see this little cucumber, or pickle," spoke aunt lolly, and she showed one to hal and mab. "well now i'm going to slip it inside this bottle, but not pull the pickle from the vine. if i did that the cucumber would stop growing and die." she had a bottle with a neck large enough so the pickle would go in it. the bottle was an odd shape. "the pickle will grow large and completely fill the bottle," went on aunt lolly. "it will grow because it is not broken off the stem, and the bottle, being glass, will let in the sunshine. the neck is also large enough so air can get in, for without air, sunlight and the food it gets through the stem the pickle would not live. "but as it grows it will swell and fill every part of the bottle and it also will grow just to the shape of the bottle, so that in the fall, when it can't grow any more, because of the strong glass, i can break the bottle and i will have a pickle shaped just like it, curves, queer twists and everything else." "oh, how funny!" cried hal "i wonder if i could grow an ear of corn in a bottle?" "no," answered his aunt. "an ear of corn has to grow inside the husk, and you could not, very well, put a bottle over that." "could i over one of my beans?" asked mab. "well, you might, but it would have to be a very long and thin bottle, for a bean is that shape when it has grown as large as it will ever get. so i don't believe i'd try it, if i were you. ill let you each have one of my pickles to grow inside a bottle." hal and mab thought this would be fun so they found other bottles with which to do the funny trick of making cucumbers grow inside the glass. "i wish daddy would give a prize for the funniest shaped cucumber," said mab, when she had fixed her bottle with a pickle inside it. "maybe he will," spoke her brother. "we'll ask him." but when daddy blake came home that evening he had a package in his arms, and the children were so interested about what might be in it that they forgot to ask for the cucumber prize. "what are you going to do now?" asked mab. "i'm going to take you and hal down to the garden and show you how to set out cabbage plants," said daddy blake. "but we've got some cabbage plants!" cried hal. "yes, i know. but these are a kind that will get a head, or be riper, later in the fall. this is winter cabbage that we will keep down cellar, and have to eat when there is snow on the ground, for cabbage is very good and healthful. we can eat it raw, or made into sauer-kraut or have it boiled with potatoes. we must save some cabbage for winter and that is the kind i am going to plant now." "and may we help?" asked mab. "yes, come on to the garden." daddy blake had asked uncle pennywait, that day, to smooth off a plowed and harrowed place ready for the cabbage plants to be put in that evening, and the long rows, dug in the brown soil, were now waiting. "where did you get the cabbage plants?" mab wanted to know. "did you grow them in a little box down at your office, daddy, as we did the tomatoes here?" "no, mab, not quite that way, though i might have done that if i had had room. i bought these cabbage plants in the market on my way home. some farmers, with lots of ground, plant the cabbage seed early in the spring in what are called 'hot-frames.' that is they are like our tomato boxes only larger, and they are kept out of doors. but over the top are glass windows, so the cold air can not get in. but the warm sun shines through the glass as it did through our tomato box, and soon the cabbage seeds begin to sprout. "then the plants grow larger and larger, until they are strong enough to be set out, as the tomatoes were. in this way you can grow the vegetables better than if you waited until it was warm enough to put the seed right out in the garden, and let the plants grow up there from the beginning. putting the seeds in the hot frame gives them a good start. now we'll set out the cabbage plants, and you may both help." daddy blake gave hal and mab each a small handful of the little cabbage plants, some of which had two and others three light green leaves on. there were also small roofs, with a little wet dirt clinging to them, from where they had been pulled out of their early home in which they first grew. "oh, hal! that isn't the way to do it!" cried daddy blake, when he had watched his little boy walking along the cabbage row for a while, dropping the plants, the roots of which were afterward to be covered with the brown earth. "why not?" hal asked. "because you must only drop one plant in a place. you are letting two and three fall at once. you mustn't make a bouquet of them," and his father laughed. "only one cabbage plant in a spot." "am i doing it right?" asked mab, who was on the other side of the cabbage plot. "well, not exactly. hal dropped his too close together and yours are too far apart. the cabbage plants ought to be about two and a half feet apart, in rows and the rows should be separate one from the other by about twenty inches. here, i'll cut you each a little stick for a measure. you don't need to worry about the rows, as uncle pennywait marked them just the right distance apart as he made them." so after that hal and mab measured, with sticks daddy blake gave them to get one cabbage plant just as far from the one next to it in the row as daddy blake wanted. then, with a hoe, the children's father covered the roots with dirt and the cabbages were planted, or "set out," as the gardener calls it. "now let me take a look at your corn and beans," said mr. blake to the two children, when the cabbages had been left to grow. "i want to see who has the best chance of winning that ten dollar gold prize." "hal's corn is very nice," said mab. "and so are her beans," added mab's brother kindly. "i guess maybe she'll get the prize." "well, it will be quite a little while before we can tell," spoke daddy blake. "corn and beans will not be gathered until fall, though we may eat some of hal's corn earlier, for he has some rows of the sweet variety which can be boiled and gnawed off the ears." daddy blake found a few places in mab's bean patch where the useless weeds needed hoeing away, so they would not steal from the brown earth the food which the good plants needed. "and one or two of your corn hills could be made a little higher, hal," said his father. "if you look at the corn stalks you will see, down near where they are in the ground, some little extra roots coming out above the earth. in order that these roots may reach the soil, and take hold, the dirt must be hoed up to them." mr. blake showed the children what he meant, and mab cried: "those roots are just like the ropes we had on our tent when we went camping." "that's it," said daddy blake. "these roots keep the tall corn stalks from blowing over just as the ropes keep the tent from falling down." "oh, look!" cried mab, as she passed one stalk of corn that was larger than any of the others. "there's something growing on this that's just like my doll's hair. i'm going to pull it off." "no, you mustn't do that," her father said. "that is corn silk." "oh, i know what it is," said hal. "it's brown stuff and sometimes when you're eating corn it gets in your mouth and tickles you." "corn silk isn't brown until it gets old and dried," said his father. "at first it is a light green, like this. and the silk is really part of the corn blossom." "i didn't know corn had a blossom," said mab. "yes," said her father, "it has. part of the blossom is up top here, on these things that look like long fingers sticking out," and he pointed to the upper part of the stalk. "on these fingers grows a sort of fine dust, called pollen, and unless this falls down from the top of the corn stalk, and rests on the silk which grows out from the ear, there would be no more corn seed. or, if corn seed, or kernels, did form on the ear, they would be lifeless, and when planted next year no corn would grow from them. the pollen dust and the silk must mingle together to make perfect ears of corn, so don't pull off the silk, even if you do want to make it into hair for your doll." mab promised she would not, though she loved the feel of the soft corn silk. then she and hal noticed where some of the light yellow pollen had already been blown by the wind down on the silk to help make the perfect ear of corn. as the children walked along through the garden with daddy blake they heard voices over the fence where mr. porter lived. then they heard sammie calling: "oh, daddy! look what i got! it's a big green bug, an' roly-poly is barkin' at him! come quick!" "i hope roly-poly isn't making any more trouble as he did with the fly paper," said mr. blake as he walked toward the fence. chapter vii early tomatoes "what's the matter, mr. porter?" asked mr. blake, looking over the fence where sammie's father was working in his garden. "has our little poodle dog been scratching up your plants?" "oh, no. roly is very good. he seems to know we want the thing's in our gardens to grow, and he only walks carefully between the rows, and doesn't scratch a bit," answered the neighbor. "what is he barking at now?" asked mab, for the little poodle dog had crawled under the fence and had gone next door, as he often did. he was standing near red-haired sammie now. "he's barkin' at a big, green bug," said the little boy. "a green bug; eh?" spoke mr. porter. "maybe we'd better see what it is," he added, speaking to daddy blake. "i rather think we had. there are so many bugs, worms and other things trying to spoil our gardens, that we must not let any of them get away." "he's a awful big bug, almost as long as roly's tail," called sammie from where he stood near a tomato plant. "well, roly's tail isn't very big," laughed daddy blake. "but a bug or worm of that size could eat a lot of plant leaves." "don't touch it--daddy will kill it!" called mr. porter to his little boy. but sammie had no idea of touching the queer bug he had seen, and at which the poodle dog was barking. "oh, it's one of the big green tomato worms!" exclaimed mr. blake when he saw it. "they can do a lot of damage. i hope they don't get in my garden. we must kill as many as we can," and he knocked the worm to the ground and stepped on it. roly-poly barked harder than ever at this, thinking, perhaps, that he had helped get rid of the unpleasant, crawling thing. "we'll look over your tomato patch and see if there are any more worms," suggested mr. blake to his neighbor. "yes, and then i'll come and help you clear your plants of the pests," said mr. porter. "we want to have our gardens good this year, so we won't have to spend so many of our pennies for food next winter." a few more of the green worms were found on the tomato vines, and there were more on daddy blake's. so many were found that he could not be sure he had knocked them all off. "i think i will have to spray the plants with paris green as i did the potatoes," he said. "the tomatoes will not be ready to pick--even the earliest--for some weeks and by that time the poison will have been washed off by the rain." "making a garden is lots of work" said hal, next day, when he and mab had helped their father spray the tomato plants. "yes, indeed," agreed mr. blake. "but, like everything else in this world, you can't have anything without working for it." "i thought all you had to do in a garden," said mab, "was to plant the seed and it would grow into cabbage, radishes, corn, beans or whatever you wanted." "you are beginning to learn otherwise," spoke her father, "and it is a good thing. mother nature is wise and good, but she does not make it too easy for us. she will grow beautiful flowers, and useful fruits and vegetables from tiny seeds, but she also grows bad weeds and sends eating-bugs that we must fight against, if we want things to grow on our farms and gardens. so we still have much work before us to make our gardens a success." "we haven't had much to eat from them yet," said mother blake, who had been hoeing among her carrots. "i hope we can pick something soon." "we had radishes," said hal. "and well soon have tomatoes," added his father. "now that i have driven away the eating worms the vines will grow better and the tomatoes will ripen faster." a week later on some of the vines there were quite large green tomatoes. hal and mab watched them eagerly, noting how they grew and swelled larger, until, one day, mab came running in, crying: "oh, one tomato has a red cheek!" "that's where it got sunburned," said her father with a smile. "that shows they are getting ripe. soon we will have some for the table." in a few days more tomatoes on the vines had red, rosy cheeks, some being red all over. these daddy blake let hal and mab pick, and they brought them in the house. "oh, we shall have some of our own tomatoes for lunch!" cried mother blake when she saw them. "how fine! our garden is beginning to give us back something to pay us for all the work we put on it." "but these are daddy's tomatoes," said hal. "he had the first thing, after the radishes, for the table from his garden, and mab and i haven't anything. daddy'll get his own prize." "no, i promise you i will not take the prize for these tomatoes, even if i did raise them in my part of the garden," said daddy blake with a smile. "and i won't count the radishes we had before the tomatoes were ripe, either. those belonged to all of us. "the prize isn't going to be given away until all the crops are harvested, or brought in, and then we'll see who has the most and the best of things that will keep over winter." "can you keep tomatoes all winter?" asked mab of her father. "well, no, not exactly. but mother can put them into cans, after they have been cooked, and she can make ketchup and spices of them--chili sauce and the like--as well as pickles, so, after all, you might say my tomatoes will last all winter. "sometimes you can keep tomatoes fresh for quite a while down in a cool, dry cellar, if you pull the vines up by the roots, with the tomatoes still on them, and cover the roots with dirt. but they will not keep quite all winter, i believe. at any rate i'm not going to keep ours that way. we'll can them." mother blake sliced the garden tomatoes for supper. she also made a dressing for them, with oil, vinegar and spices, though hal and mab liked their tomatoes best with just salt on. "tomatoes are not only good to eat--i mean they taste good--but they are healthful for one," said daddy blake. "it is not so many years ago that no one ate tomatoes. they feared they were poison, and in some parts of the country they were called ladies' or love apples. but now many, many thousands of cans of tomatoes are put up every year, so that we may have them in winter as well as in summer, though of course the canned ones are not as nice tasting as the ones fresh from the garden, such as we have now." it was not long before there was lettuce from the blake garden, and mother blake said it was the best she had ever eaten. lettuce, too, daddy blake explained, would not keep over winter, though it is sold in many stores when there is snow on the ground. but it comes from down south, where there is no winter, being sent up on fast express trains. "lettuce is also as good to eat as are tomatoes," remarked daddy blake. "it is said to be good for persons who have too many nerves, or, rather, for those whose nerves are not in good condition." one day, when hal and mab came home from school, they hurried out, after leaving their books in the house, for they wanted to play some games." "aren't you going to work in your gardens a little while?" asked their mother. "daddy is out there." "is he?" cried hal. "did he come home early?" "yes, on purpose to hoe among his tomatoes, i think he is cutting down the weeds which grew very fast since the last rain we had." "our parts of the garden are all right," said hal. "my corn doesn't need hoeing." "nor my beans," said mab. "but let's go out and see daddy, hal. maybe he'll tell us something new about the garden." "well, where are your hoes, toodlekins?" called daddy blake, when he saw the two children coming toward him. "there aren't any weeds in my corn," said hal. "nor in my beans," added mab. "not very many, it is true," said daddy blake. "but still there are some, and if you cut down the weeds when they are small, and when there are not many of them, you will find it easier to keep your garden looking neat, and, at the same time, make sure your crops will grow better, than if you wait and only hoe when the weeds are big. "gardens should be made to look nice, as well as be made free from weeds just because it is a good thing for the plants," went on daddy blake. "a good gardener takes pride in his garden. he wants to see every weed cut down. besides, hoeing around your corn and beans makes the dirt nice and finely pulverized--like the pulverized sugar with which mother makes icing for the cakes. and the finer the dirt is around the roots of a plant the more moisture it will hold and the better it will be for whatever is growing, as i have told you before." "well, we'll hoe a little bit," said hal. he and his sister got their hoes and soon they were so interested in cutting down the weeds in between the rows that they forgot about going off to play. hal noticed that the ears of corn on his stalks were getting larger inside the green husk that kept the soft and tender kernels from being broken, as might have happened if they were out in the air, as tomatoes grow. and so the gardens grew, just as did that of "mistress mary, quite contrary," about whom you may read in mother goose, or some book like that. sometimes it rained and again it was quite dry, with a hot sun beating down out of the blue sky. "if we don't get rain pretty soon we shall have to water the gardens," said daddy blake one night after about a week of very dry weather. around the roots of the many plants the earth was caked and hard, so that very little air could get down to nourish the growing things. "what do people do who have gardens where it doesn't rain as often as it does here, daddy?" asked mab. "well in very dry countries, such as some parts of ours near the places called deserts," said mr. blake, "men build large dams, and hold the water back in big ponds or lakes so it will last from one rainy season to another. the water is let run from the lake through little ditches, or pipes, so that the thirsty plants may drink. this is called the irrigation method, for to irrigate means to wet, soak or moisten with water. each farmer or gardener is allowed to buy as much water as he needs, opening little gates at the ends of the main ditches or sluices, and letting the water run over his dry ground, in which he has dug furrows to lead the water where he most needs it. "and sometimes, when there is too little water to use much of it this way, the gardeners do what they call intensive cultivation. those are big words, but they mean that the man just hoes his ground every day around his plants, instead of perhaps once a week. "you know there is moisture in the air, and at night dew falls. this wets the ground a little, and by digging and turning over the earth around the roots of his plants, the gardener makes it very fine so it holds the moisture longer. in this way a little bit of rain, or dew, lasts a long time. come out now, and i'll show you something you perhaps have not noticed." daddy took hal and mab to the garden, and with a hoe he pointed to a place around hal's corn stalks where the dry ground was hard, and baked by the sun. a few strokes of the hoe and daddy blake had turned up some of the underlying earth. hal and mab saw that it was darker in color than that on top, and when they put their hands down in it the earth felt moist. "what makes it?" asked mab. "because the underneath part of the ground held the moisture in it. the top part was baked dry and the moisture had all gone away--evaporated in the sun, if you want to use big words, just as water dries in your hands after you wash them, even if you do not soak it up with a towel." "does a towel soak up water?" asked mab. "i thought it just wiped it off our hands." "no, the towel is like a sponge," said daddy blake. "the fuzzier the towel the more like a sponge it is. each little bit of linen or cotton, is really a tiny hollow tube--a capillary tube it is called--and these tubes suck up the water on your hands as the same fuzzy capillary tubes in a piece of blotting paper suck up the ink. a towel is a sponge or a blotter. and the earth is a sort of sponge when it comes to sucking up the rain and dew. it also holds the water near the plant, when the ground is finely pulverized, so the tomato vine, the corn stalk or the bean bush can drink when it gets thirsty." "my! there's a lot to know about a garden; isn't there?" said mab with a sigh. "yes, there is," agreed hal. "i don't s'pose we'll ever know it all." "no," said his father, "you will not. there will always be something better to learn, not only for you but for everyone. but learn all you can, and learn, first of all, that plants must have sunshine, air and water to make them grow. now we'll water the garden." there were no signs of rain, and though the ground was a little moist in some parts of the garden daddy blake thought all the growing things would be better for a wetting from the hose. so he attached it to the faucet and let hal and mab take turns sprinkling. as the drops fell on the thirsty ground there floated up a most delicious smell, like the early spring rain, which helps mother nature to awaken the sleeping grass and flowers. "i guess my corn is wet enough," said hal, after a bit. he had only been sprinkling a little while when he heard one of his boy friends calling him from the street in front. "oh, your corn isn't half wet enough," laughed daddy blake. "it is almost better not to water the garden at all than not to give it enough, for it only hardens the dirt on top. give the corn a good soaking, just as if it had rained hard. a good watering for the garden means about two quarts of water to every square foot in your plots. don't be afraid of the water. your plants will do so much better for it. but don't spray them too heavily, so the dirt is washed away. let the hose point up in the air, and then the drops will fall like rain." hal kept the hose longer, giving his corn a good wetting, and he could almost see the green stalks stand up straighter when he had finished. they were refreshed, just as a tired horse is made to feel, better, after a hot day in the streets, when he has a cool drink and is sprinkled with the hose. "roly, get out the way or you'll be all wet!" cried mab, as the little poodle dog ran around her beans when she was watering them. "bow-wow!" barked roly, just as if he said he didn't care. "well, if you want to get wet--all right!" laughed mab. "here it comes!" she pointed the hose straight at roly and in a second he was wet through. "ki-yi! ki-yi! ki-yi!" he yelped as he ran out of the garden. "bow-wow! ki-yi!" "well, it will cool him off, and i guess he wanted it after all," said daddy blake. "but roly is a good little dog. he only dug once in the garden since he came back, but i tapped him on the end of his nose with my finger, and scolded him, and he hasn't done it since." the next day daddy blake took hal and mab to the garden again, and showed them how he was building little wooden frames under his tomatoes to keep the red vegetables off the ground where they might lie in the mud and sand and get dirty. "the frames help to hold up the vines so they will not break when the tomatoes get too heavy for them," said mr. blake. "plants have lots of trouble," said hal. "you have to put their seeds in the ground, keep the weeds away from them, hoe them, water them, and keep the bugs and worms away. is there anything else that can happen to things in a garden, daddy?" "yes, sometimes heavy hail storms come and beat down the plants, or tear the leaves to ribbons so the plants die, and bear nothing. this often happens to corn, which has broad leaves easily torn by hail." "what is hail?" asked hal. "well, it's a sort of frozen rain," said daddy blake. "often in a thunder shower the wind plays strange tricks. it whirls the rain drops about, first in some cool air, far above the earth and then whips them into some warm air. the cool air freezes the rain, and when it falls it is not in the shape of beautiful crystals, as is the snow, but is in hard, round balls, sometimes as large as marbles. often the hail will break windows." "i hope it doesn't hail in our nice garden," said hal. "it will hurt your corn worse than it would my beans," said mab. "i hope it doesn't hail, too, hal." but two or three days after that, one evening when the blakes were sitting on the steps after having worked in the garden, there came from the west low mutterings of thunder. then the lightning began to flash and daddy blake said: "we are going to have a shower, i think. well, it will be good for the garden." and soon the big drops began splashing down, followed by another sound. "oh, it's hailing!" cried aunt lolly. "hear the hail stones!" "i love to see it!" exclaimed mab. "but i hope it doesn't hail very big stones." however the stones from the sky--stones of ice that did not melt for some time after they rattled down--were rather large. they bounced up from the sidewalk and on the path around the blake house. "where's hal?" suddenly asked his father. "i want to show him and mab how the inside of hail stones look. i'll run out and get some as soon as the shower slackens a little." it was raining and hailing hard now, and the lightning was flashing brightly, while the thunder was rumbling like big cannon. "hal was here a minute ago," said his mother. "i wonder if he could have run out in the storm?" just then, from his porch, mr. porter called something to daddy blake. all mab and her mother could hear was: "hal--hail--umbrella!" "oh, i hope nothing has happened to him!" said mrs. blake. "you had better go look for him, daddy!" chapter viii the children's market daddy blake caught up an umbrella from the hallway and ran out into the storm, going around the side path toward the back yard and lot where the children had made their gardens. "where is he going?" asked mab. "to look for hal," answered her mother. "where is hal?" "he must have gone out in the storm to see what made it hail, i suppose." "oh, if one of the big hail stones hits him on the end of his nose he'll cry!" exclaimed aunt lolly. "well, he'll know better than to do it again," said uncle pennywait "listen to roly-poly howling!" the little poodle dog was afraid of thunder and lightning, and every time there was a storm he used to get in the darkest corner of the house and howl. he was doing this now as daddy blake ran to the garden to find where hal was. "he's back there--out where his corn is planted!" called mr. porter to hal's father as daddy blake ran around the house. "i saw him from our kitchen window, and i thought i'd tell you." "i'm glad you did!" shouted mr. blake. both he and mr. porter had to shout to be heard above the noise of the storm; for the thunder was very loud, and the patter of the rain drops, and the rattle of the hail made a very great racket indeed. [illustration] when daddy blake turned around the corner of the house and started down the main path that led through the vegetable garden, he saw a strange sight. there stood hal, in the midst of his little corn field, out in the pelting rain and hail, holding the biggest umbrella over as many of the stalks of corn as he could shelter. and hal himself was dripping wet for the rain blew under the umbrella. "what are you doing?" cried mr. blake. "keeping the hail off my corn," answered hal. "you said the hail stones would tear the green leaves all to pieces and i don't want it to. can't mab come out and hold an umbrella, too? you've got one, daddy, so you can help." mr. blake wanted to laugh but he did not like to hurt hal's feelings. besides he was a little worried lest hal take cold in the pelting storm. so he said: "you must come in, hal. holding an umbrella over your corn would only save one hill from the hail and saving that one hill would not make up for you getting ill. we shall have to let the storm do its worst, and trust that not all the corn will be spoiled." "is that what the farmers do?" asked hal, making his way between the rows of corn toward his father. "yes. they can't stop the hail and they can't cover the corn. sometimes it doesn't do a great deal of damage, even though it tears many of the green leaves. this storm is beginning to stop now, so you had better come in." "i didn't want my corn to be spoiled, so i couldn't win the prize," spoke hal, as he went back to the house with his father, walking under the umbrella. "that's why i came out to keep off the frozen rain. it came down awful hard." "yes, it was a heavy storm for a few minutes," said mr. blake. "but it will soon be over, and the rain will do the gardens good, though the hail may hurt them some." by the time hal and his father reached the porch the hail had stopped and it was only raining. mrs. blake, aunt lolly and the others were anxiously waiting. "i thought maybe he had been struck by lightning," said mab. "pooh! i wasn't afraid!" boasted hal. "i guess you were thinking too much about your corn," said his father with a laugh. "it was very good of you, but you mustn't do such a thing again. now you'll have to get dry clothes on. but wait until i show you how a hail stone looks inside." daddy blake ran out into the storm and came back with a handful of the queer, frozen stones. he let hal and mab look at them, and then, taking a large one, he held it on top of the warm stove for a second, until the chunk of ice had melted in half. "see the queer rings inside it," daddy blake said to the children and, looking, they noticed that the hail stone was made up of different layers of ice, just as some kinds of candy are made in sections. "what makes it that way--like an onion," asked hal, for the hail stone did look a bit like an onion that has been sliced through the centre. "it is because the hail is made up of different layers of ice," answered daddy blake. "it is supposed that a hail stone is a frozen rain drop. in the tipper air it gets whirled about, first going into a cold part that freezes it. then the frozen rain drop is tossed down into some warm air, or a cloud where there is water. this water clings to the frozen centre and then is whirled upward again. there is another freeze, and so it goes on, first getting wet and then freezing until, after having been built up of many layers of ice and frozen rain, the hail stone falls to the ground." "my!" exclaimed mab. "i didn't know hail stones were so wonderful." "neither did i," added hal. when hal had changed his clothes he told how it was he happened to run out into the garden during the heavy hail storm. he had seen the big frozen chunks of rain coming down, and he remembered what his father had said about it spoiling garden and farm crops. so hal, when no one was looking, got a big umbrella from the rack and went out to hold it over his corn. mr. porter happened to see him and told mr. blake. the shower did not last very long, and when it was over daddy blake took hal and mab into the garden to see what damage had been done. the ground was so muddy they had to wear rubbers. "oh, a lot of my beans are beaten down!" cried mab, as she looked at her bushes. "they'll straighten up again when the sun comes out," said her father. "if they don't you can hold them up with your hand and hoe more dirt around their roots. that's what i shall have to do with my tomatoes, too. the fruit is getting too heavy for the vines. however no great harm will be done." "a lot of my corn is torn," said hal. "it's too bad!" "not enough is torn to spoil the ears," said daddy blake. "a gardener must expect to have a little damage done to his crops by the storms. of course it isn't nice, but it is part of the garden game. sometimes whole orchards, big green houses and large fields of grain are ruined by hail storms. we were lucky." "what does a farmer do when his whole crop is spoiled by a big storm?" asked hal. "well, generally a farmer raises many crops, so that if one fails he can make money on the others. that is what makes it hard to be a farmer, or, rather, one of the things that make it hard. he never can tell whether or not he is going to have a good crop of anything. sometimes it may be storms that spoil his wheat or hay, and again it may be dry weather, with not enough rain, or bugs and worms may eat up many of his growing things. so you see a farmer, or a man who has a larger garden, must grow many crops so that if he loses one he may have others to keep him through the winter, either by selling the things he raises, or by eating them himself." the next day there was no school, and hal and mab spent much time in their garden. the sun came out bright and warm, and the children said they could almost see the things growing. mab declared that her bean vines grew almost an inch that one day, and it may be that they did. beans grow very fast. if you have ever watched them going up a pole you would know this to be true. with their hoes the children piled more dirt around the roots of the garden plants where the rain had washed the soil away, and thus the bushes and stalks were helped to stand up straighter. some straightened up of themselves when they had dried in the sun. "well, i think we are going to have some good crops," said daddy blake when he went to the garden with hal and mab a few days after the storm. "in fact we are going to have more of some things than we can use." "will we have to throw them away?" asked hal. "no indeed!" laughed his father. "that would be wrong at a time when we must save all the food we can. but we will do as the farmer does who raises a large crop of anything. we will start a little store and sell what we do not need." "a real store?" cried mab, with shining eyes. "and sell things for real money?" asked hal. "of course!" laughed their father, "though you may give your friends anything from your garden that you wish to." "where will we keep the store?" asked hal. "and who will we sell the things to?" "and what will we sell?" asked mab. "what have we too much of, daddy?" "my! you children certainly can ask questions!" exclaimed mr. blake. "now let me see! in the first place i think if you keep the store out on the front lawn, near the street, it will be the best place, i'll put an old door across two boxes and that will be your store counter. and you can sell things to persons that pass along the street. some in automobiles may stop and buy, and others, on their way to the big stores, may stop to get your vegetables because they will be so fresh. the fresher a vegetable is the better. that is it should be eaten as soon as possible after it is taken from the garden, else it loses much of its flavor." "but will people give us real money for our garden truck?" asked hal. he had heard his father and uncle pennywait speak of garden "truck" so he knew it must be the right word. "indeed they'll be glad to pay you real money," said mr. blake with a smile. "persons who have no garden of their own are very glad to buy fresh vegetables. you'll soon see." "but what are we going to sell?" asked mab. "oh, yes, i forgot your question," said her father. "well, there are more tomatoes than your mother has time to can, or make into ketchup just now. she will have plenty more later on. and i think there will be more of your beans, mab, than you will care to keep over winter, or use green. so you can sell some of my tomatoes and some of your beans." "my corn isn't ripe yet," said hal. "the ears are awful little." "no, you must wait a while about your corn. but mother's carrots are ready to pull, and she has more than we will need over winter. you may sell some of those, hal." "oh, won't it be fun--having a real store!" cried the little boy. "come on, mab, we'll get ready! i'm going to pull the carrots." "and i'll pull the beans!" cried mab. "will you get the tomatoes, daddy?" "yes, but you had better let me show you a little bit about getting the things ready for your market store. the nicer your vegetables look, and the more tastefully you set them out, the more quickly will people stop to look at them and buy them. wise gardeners and store-keepers know this and it is a good thing to learn." so daddy blake first showed mab how to pick her string beans, taking off only those of full size, leaving the small to grow larger, when there would be more to eat in each pod. the beans were kept up off the ground with strings running to sticks at the of each row. "if the beans touch the ground they not only get dirty," mr. blake, "but they often are covered with brown, rusty spots and they soon rot. persons like to buy nice, clean beans, free from dirt. so have yours that way, mab." mab put the beans site picked into clean strawberry boxes, and set them in the shade out of the sun until it was time to open the store on the lawn near the street. hal's father showed how to pull from the brown earth the yellow carrots from mother blake's part of the garden. only carrots of good size were pulled, the small ones being left to grow larger. the carrots were tied in bunches of six each, and the bright yellow, pointed bottoms, with the green tops, made a pretty picture as they were laid in a pile in the shade. "now i'll pick some tomatoes and your garden store will be ready for customers," said daddy blake. his vines were laden with ripe, red tomatoes and these were carefully picked and placed in strawberry boxes also, a few being set aside for lunch, as was done with mab's beans and mother blake's carrots. a little later hal and mab took their places behind a broad wooden counter, placed on two boxes out in front of their house. on the board were set the boxes of red tomatoes, those of the green and yellow string beans and the pile of yellow carrots. "now you are all ready for your customers," said daddy blake, as he helped the children put the last touches to their vegetable store. "oh, i wonder if we'll sell anything?" spoke mab, eagerly. "i hope so," answered hal. "oh, look! here comes a big automobile with two ladies in it, and they're steering right toward us!" "i hope they don't upset our counter," said mab slowly, as she watched the big auto approach. chapter ix sammie plants tomatoes "look at the lovely vegetables!" exclaimed one of the ladies in the automobile, as she glanced at what hal and mab had spread out on their store counter--the old barn door set on the two boxes. "are they nice and fresh, children?" asked the second lady, as she put a funny pair of spectacles, on a stick, up to her nose, and looked at the string beans through the shiny glass. "oh, yes'm, they're very fresh!" answered hal. "daddy and us just picked 'em from our garden." "we have more than we can eat, and mother hasn't time to can the tomatoes," explained mab, for their father had left them alone, to say and do as they thought best. "they certainly look nice," went on the first lady, "and how well the children have arranged them." "like a picture," added the other. "see how pretty the red, green and yellow colors show. i must have some tomatoes and beans." "and i want some of those carrots. they say carrots make your eyes bright." hal and mab thought the ladies eyes were bright enough, especially when the sun shone and glittered on the funny stick-spectacles. the automobile had stopped and the chauffeur got down off the front seat behind the steering wheel and walked toward the children's new vegetable store. "how much are your tomatoes?" asked the lady who had first spoken. "eight cents a quart," answered hal, his father telling him to ask that price, which was what they were selling for at the store. "and they're just picked," added the little boy. "i can see they are," spoke the lady. "i'll take three quarts, and you may keep the extra penny for yourselves," she added as she handed hal a bright twenty-five-cent piece. hal and his sister were so excited by this, their first sale, and at getting real money, that they could hardly put the three quarts of red tomatoes in the paper bags daddy blake had brought for them from the store. they did spill some, but as the tomatoes fell on the soft grass they were not broken. "i want some beans and carrots," said the other lady, and the chauffeur helped hal and mab put them in bags, and brought the money back to the children. the beans and carrots were sold for thirty cents, so that hal and mab now have fifty-five cents for their garden stuff. "isn't it a lot of money!" cried hal, when the auto had rolled away down the street, and he and his sister looked at the shining coins. "well get rich," exclaimed mab, gleefully. a little later a lady in a carriage stopped to buy some beans, and after that a man, walking along the street, bought a quart of tomatoes. later on a little girl and her mother stopped and looked at the carrots, buying one bunch. "i want my little girl to eat them as they are good for her," said the lady, "but she says she doesn't like them, though i boil them in milk for her." "but they don't taste like anything," complained the little girl. "our carrots are nice and sweet," said mab. "you'll like these. my brother and i eat them." "they look nice and yellow," said the little girl. "maybe i will like these." hal and mab had sold several boxes of beans and tomatoes and about half a dozen bunches of carrots, in an hour, and now they began putting their store counter in order again, for it was rather untidy. daddy blake had told them to do this. once or twice the children could not make the right change when customers stopped to buy things, but aunt lolly was near at hand, on the porch, and she came to their aid, so there was no trouble. it was rather early in the morning when hal and mab started their store, and by noon they had sold everything, and had taken in over two dollars in "real" money. "isn't it a lot!" cried hal, as he saw the pile of copper, nickle and silver coins in the little box they used for a cash drawer. "a big pile," answered mab. "we'll sell more things to-morrow." "no, i think not," spoke daddy blake, coming along just then. "we must not take too much from our garden to sell. but you have done better than i thought you would. over two dollars!" "what shall we do with it?" asked hal. "well, you may have some to spend, but we'll save most of it," his father answered. "this is the first money you ever earned from your garden, and i want you to think about it. just think what mother nature did for you, with your help, of course. "in the ground you planted some tiny seeds and now they have turned into money. no magician's trick could be more wonderful than that. this money will pay for almost all the seed i bought for the garden. of course our work counts for something, but then we have to work anyhow." hal and mab began to understand what a wonderful earth this of ours is, and how much comes out of the brown soil which, with the help of the air, the rain and sunlight, can take a tiny seed, no larger than the head of a pin, and make from it a great, big green tomato vine, that blossoms and then has on it red tomatoes, which may be eaten or sold for money. and the beans and carrots did the same, each one coming from a small seed. sammie porter came out two or three times and watched hal and mab selling things at their vegetable store. the little boy seemed to be wondering what was going on, and hal and mab told him as well as they could. "sammie goin' to have a 'mato store," he said when the two blake children had sold all their things, and were moving their empty boxes and door into the barn. "me goin' to sell 'matoes." "i wonder what he will do?" said mab. "maybe he'll take a lot of things from his father's garden," suggested hal. "we better tell him not to." "well, mr. porter is working among his potatoes so i guess sammie can't do much harm," mab said. a little later she and hal happened to look out in front and they saw a queer sight. sammie was drawing along the sidewalk his little express wagon, in which he had piled some tomatoes. they were large, ripe ones, and he must have picked them from his father's vines, since he could not get through the fence into the blake gardens. "oh, sammie!" cried mab, running out to him, "what are you doing with those tomatoes?" "sammie goin' have a 'mato store an' sell 'em like you an' hal. you want come my 'mato store?" he asked, looking up and smiling. "no, i guess we have all the tomatoes we want," laughed hal. sammie did not seem to worry about this. maybe he thought some one else would buy his vegetables. he wheeled his cart up near his own front fence, on the grass and sat down beside it. "'mato store all ready," he said. "people come an' buy now." but though several persons passed they did not ask sammie how much his tomatoes were. they may have thought he was only playing, and that his tomatoes were not good ones, though they really were nice and fresh. "we'd better go tell his father or mother," suggested mab to her brother. "i don't believe they know he's here." "guess they don't," hal agreed. "come on; he might get hurt out there all alone." brother and sister started into the porter yard. they did not see sammie's mother, but his father was down in the back end of his lot, weeding an onion bed. "hello, children!" called mr. porter. "did you come over to see how my garden is growing?" "we came to tell you about sammie," said mab. "he's out--" "hello! where is that little tyke?" cried mr. porter suddenly. "he was here a little while ago, making believe hoe the weeds out of the potatoes. i don't see him," he added, straightening up and looking among the rows of vegetables. "he's out in front trying to sell tomatoes," said hal. "oh my!" cried sammie's father. "i told him not to pick anything, but you simply can't watch him all the while." he ran out toward the front of the house, hal and mab following. they saw sammie seated on the ground near his express wagon, and he was squeezing a big red tomato, the juice and seeds running all over him. "sammie boy! what in the world are doing?" cried his father. "sammie plantin' 'mato," was the answer. "nobody come to my store like hal's an' mab's, so plant my 'matos." then they saw where he had dug a hole in the ground with a stick, into this he was letting some of the tomato juice and seeds run, as he squeezed them between his chubby fingers. "oh, but you are a sight!" said mr. porter with a shake of his head. "what your mother will say i don't dare guess! here! drop that tomato, sammie! you've got more all over you than you have in the hole. what are you trying to do?" "make a 'mato garden," was sammie's answer as his father picked him up. "i put seeds in ground and make more 'matoes grow." "but you musn't do it out here," said mr. porter, trying not to laugh, though sammie was a queer sight. "besides, i told you not to pick my tomatoes. you have wasted nearly a quart. now come in and your mother will wash you." into the house he carried the tomato-besmirched little boy, while hal and mab pulled in the express wagon with what were left of the vegetables. sammie had squeezed three of the big, ripe tomatoes into a soft pulp letting the juice and seeds run all over. "and a tomato has lots of juice and seeds," said mab as she and hal told daddy and mother blake, afterward, what had happened. "yes, nearly all vegetables have plenty of seeds," said their father. "mother nature provides them so there may never be any lack. if each tomato, squash or pumpkin or if each bean or pea pod only had one seed in, that one might not be a good one. that is it might not have inside it that strange germ of life, which starts it growing after it is planted. "so, instead of one seed there are hundreds, as in a watermelon or muskmelon. and nearly all of them are fertile, or good, so that other melons may be raised from them. "you see i only bought a small package of tomato seeds, and yet from them we will have hundreds of tomatoes, and each tomato may have a hundred seeds or more, and each of those seeds may be grown into a vine that will have hundreds of tomatoes on, each with a hundred seeds in it and each of these seeds--" "oh, daddy! please stop!" begged mab with a laugh. "it's like the story of the rats and the grains of corn!" "yes, there is no end to the increase that mother nature gives to us," said daddy blake. "the earth is a wonderful place. it is like a big arithmetic table--it multiplies one seed into many." the long summer vacation was now at hand. hal and mab did not have to go to school, and they could spend more time in the garden with their mother, with uncle pennywait or aunt lolly, while daddy blake, every chance he had, used the hoe often to keep down the weeds. "there is nothing like hoeing to make your garden, a success," he told the children. "do they hoe on big farms?" asked hal. "well, on some, yes. i'll take you children to a farm, perhaps before the summer is over, and you can see how they do it. instead of hoeing, though, where there is a big field of corn or potatoes, the farmer runs a cultivator through the rows. the cultivator is like a lot of hoes joined together, and it loosens the dirt, cuts down the weeds and piles the soft, brown soil around the roots of the plants just where it is most needed. but our garden is too small for a horse cultivator--that is one drawn by a horse. the one i shove along by hand is enough for me." of course hal and mab did not spend all their time in the garden. they sometimes wanted to play with their boy and girl chums. for though it was fun to watch the things growing, to help them by hoeing, by keeping away the weeds and the bugs and worms, yet there was work in all this. and daddy blake believed, as do many fathers, that "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy." so hal and mab had their play times. one day mrs. blake asked hal and mab to pick as many of the ripe tomatoes they could find on the vines. "are we going to have another store and sell them?" asked hal. "no, i am going to can some, and make chili sauce of the others," answered his mother. "in that way we will have tomatoes to eat next winter." it was more fun for hal and mab to pick the ripe tomatoes than it was to hoe in the garden, and soon, with the help of uncle pennywait, they had gathered several baskets full of the red vegetables. then aunt lolly and mother blake made themselves busy in the kitchen. they boiled and stewed and cooked on the stove and there floated out of the door and windows a sweet, spicy smell. "oh, isn't that good!" cried mab. "it will taste good next winter!" laughed their uncle. "and to think it comes out of our garden--the tomato part, i mean," spoke mab. "come on!" called hal, after a while, when they had picked all the tomatoes mother blake needed. "where you going?" asked mab. "over to charlie simpson's and have some fun. he's got a new dog." "wait a minute and i'll give you each a penny!" called their uncle, and hal and mab were very glad to wait, for they were hungry after having picked the tomatoes. very early the next morning the blake family was awakened by the loud ringing of their door bell. "oh, my goodness! i hope the house isn't on fire!" cried aunt lolly, quickly getting out of bed. "it's mr. porter. he's at our front door," reported hal, who had looked from the window of his room, from which the front steps could be seen. "what's the matter? what is it; a message--a telegram?" asked mr. blake, as he, too, looked from hal's window. "what has happened?" mrs. blake and the children waited anxiously to hear what the answer would be. chapter x white celery "in our garden you say!" cried daddy blake, with his head out of the window. what it was mr. porter had told their father, to make him exclaim like that, neither hal nor mab could guess. for they could not tell what mr. porter, who now was calling from down on the sidewalk in front, was saying. "that's too bad!" daddy blake went on, as he drew his head in from the window. "i'll come down right away." "oh, what is it?" anxiously asked his wife as he hurried to his room to change from his bath robe into outdoor clothes. "has anything happened?" "i'm afraid there has," answered daddy blake. "is anyone ill that mr. porter wants you to come out in such a hurry. is little sammie hurt in our garden?" "no, but it's something in our garden," replied her husband. "what? oh, don't tell me the garden is on fire?" cried aunt lolly. "how could a green garden burn?" asked uncle pennywait, laughing. "it's somebody cows in our garden--in hal's corn, too, i expect," said daddy blake. "mr. porter saw them and told me. we ought to have little boy blue here to drive them out with his horn. but i'll have to use a stick, i guess." "oh!" cried hal "cows in my corn! they'll eat it all up!" "that's what they will, and mab's beans and aunt lolly's green peas and other things if i don't get them out," said daddy blake from his room where he was quickly dressing. "where you going, hal?" asked mab as she saw her little brother come from his room half dressed. "i'm going with daddy, to the garden, to drive out the cows!" "no, you'd better stay here," his father said. "the cows might run wild when i drive them out, and step on you. it isn't any fun to be stepped on by a cow." hal thought this might be true, so he stayed in while mr. blake hurried out to the yard in the early morning. hal and mab looked from the windows at the back of the house but they could not see much of the garden on account of the thick, leafy trees. they could hear their father and mr. porter talking, though. then while they waited, they heard the mooing of cows, a little later there was a rushing sound at one side of the house, and next several of the big creatures ran out of the side gate into the street. daddy blake made sure the gate was fastened, so the cows could not get in again, and then he came into the house. "is my corn all eaten up?" asked hal, anxiously as he thought of the prize ten dollar gold piece. "is it all gone, daddy?" "no, not very much, though some is trampled down." "is the whole garden spoiled?" asked mab. "well, a little corner of it is. the cows got in among the green peas and they liked them so well they stayed there eating, not going far from where they were planted. so, though we may lose some corn and peas, nothing much else is harmed." "whose cows were they?" asked aunt lolly. "mr. porter says they belong to a milkman who lives on the other side of the town. they must have gotten out of their pasture during the night and then then came here to our garden. they broke down part of the fence to get in." "that milkman ought to be made to pay for what his cows ate," said uncle pennywait. "perhaps he will," said mr. blake. "mr. porter says the man is very good and honest. we won't make a fuss until we see what he will do." hal and mab were anxious to see what had happened to their garden, and so, as soon as they were dressed, they went out along the paths that were made among the different plots where the potatoes, beans, peas, lettuce and various vegetables were growing. "oh, look at my corn!" cried hal "it's all spoiled!" "no, not all, though you will lose several hills," said his father. "and my beans are all trampled down," wailed mab. "never mind," consoled uncle pennywait. "they'll still grow, even if the vines are not as nice as before. a wind storm would have made them look the same way." "and as long as both your crops are damaged, and each about the same amount," said daddy blake to hal and mab, "you will still be even for winning the prize of ten dollars in gold. that is if uncle pennywait doesn't get ahead of you," he added with a sly wink at aunt lolly's husband. hal and mab hurried to look mere closely at their garden plots. hal found, just as he had after the hail storm, that, fey hoeing dirt higher around his hills of corn he could make some of the stalks that had been trampled down, stand up straight. and mab's beans could also be improved. "but the cows certainly ate a lot of green peas," said daddy blake with a sigh as he looked at the place where they had been growing. "still i'd rather have them spoiled than the potatoes, as peas are easier to get in winter than are potatoes--at least for us." the cows wandered up and down the village street until their owner and some of his men came for them. then, when the milkman heard how his animals had damaged mr. blake's garden, an offer of payment was made. some of daddy blake's neighbors told what they thought the milkman should pay, and he did. he said he was very sorry his cows had made so much trouble, and hereafter, he said, he would see that they did not break out of their pasture. "i saw them in your garden, mr. blake, as soon as i got up," said mr. porter. "i arose earlier than i usually do as i wanted to hoe my lima beans before i went to work. i thought i'd call you before the cows ate everything." "i'm glad you did," spoke hal's father. "we saved most of the garden, anyhow." it took two or three days of hard work in the blake garden until it looked as nicely as it had done before the cows broke in. even then the pea vines were only about half as many in number as at first, and they had been delicious, sweet peas, that mother blake had counted on serving at many meals. "but i guess the cows enjoyed them as much as we did," she said. "anyhow there is no use in worrying over what can't be helped." "did the cows hurt the egg plants?" asked aunt lolly. "no, they didn't get in that part of the garden," answered mrs. blake. "i think well have some for dinner." "what--cows or _egg_ plant?" asked uncle pennywait, winking his left eye at mab as he made this joke. "egg plant, of course!" laughed mrs. blake. "suppose you go bring one in for me, uncle pennywait." "we'll come, too!" cried hal and mab, while the little girl, as she took hold of her uncle's hand, asked: "is there really an egg plant? i thought hens laid eggs, and we haven't any hens in our garden." "there is a plant named egg," uncle pennywait said. "i'll show you some. it's down in the far end of the garden." hal and mab had been so busy with their own part of the garden, hoeing and weeding their corn and beans, that they really did not know all the things daddy blake had planted. but when uncle pennywait showed them where, growing in a long row, were some big purple-colored things, that looked like small footballs amid the green leaves, hal cried: "are those egg plants?" "they are," said his uncle. "and do we eat them?" asked mab. "surely; and very good they are, too!" "what makes them call 'em egg plants?" hal wanted to know. "do they taste like eggs just like oyster plant tastes like stewed oysters?" "and how do they cook 'em?" asked mab. "well, you children certainly haven't forgotten to ask questions since your daddy began telling you things about the woods, fields, flowers and birds," laughed uncle pennywait. "let me see, now. well, to begin with, these are called egg plants because they are shaped like an egg you see, only much larger, of course," and uncle pennywait held up one he had cut off the stem where it had been growing. "they taste a little like eggs because, when they are fried, some persons dip them in egg batter. but first they cut them in slices, after they are peeled, and soak them in salt water." "what for?" asked hal. "oh, maybe to make them nice and crisp, or maybe to draw out a strong flavor they have; i really don't know about that part of it. at any rate we're going to have some fried egg plant for lunch, and i like it." so did hal and mab, when they had tasted it. they were beginning to find out that many things good to eat grew in their garden. about a week after this some of hal's corn ears were large enough to pick and very delicious they were boiled, and eaten from the cob with salt and butter on. mother blake also cooked some of the lima beans mab had planted when she made her garden, and the corn and beans, cooked together, made a dish called "succotash," which name the indians gave it many years ago. "what does the name mean?" asked hal. "i can't answer that, for i don't know," replied daddy blake. "i know what it means," said uncle pennywait. "what?" asked mab. "it means fine, good, very good," replied her uncle. "or, if it doesn't, it ought to. those indians knew what was good, all right! i'll have some more, mother blake," and he passed his dish the second time. one day, when hal and mab had finished cutting down some weeds in their garden plots they saw their father carrying some long boards down to the lower end of the lot next door. "are you going to build a bridge, daddy?" asked hal, for there was a little brook not far away. "no, i am going to make my celery grow white?" he answered. "make celery grow white?" exclaimed mab. "i thought it grew white, or light green, all of itself." "no," replied her father, "it doesn't. if celery were left to grow as it comes up from seed the stalks would be green, or at least only the hearts, or the most inside part, would be white. "to make celery white all over we have to keep the sun from shining on it. for it is the rays of the sun, together with the juices, or sap, inside leaves and plants, that makes them green. celery has to be bleached, and one way of doing it is to set long boards on each side of the row of celery plants, fastening them close up, and covering them with straw and dirt to keep out all the light. "some farmers bank up the dirt on both sides of their plants, not using any boards, but i like the boards because they are clean, and keep the soil from getting inside the celery stalks. another way is to put a small wooden tube, or barrel around each plant so that no sunlight can get to the sides of the stalk to make them green." "isn't it queer," said mab. "i thought celery always grew white, like we get it at the table. and so it has to be bleached. if you keep the light from anything green will it turn white, daddy?" "well, almost anything, like plants. children turn pale if they do not get enough sunlight and so does celery. only we like pale celery but it is not healthful for children to be too white. just try a little experiment yourself. take a flat stone and put it over some grass. in a week or so lift up the stone and see what has happened." hal and mab did this, after they had helped their father put the boards on the celery. then, a week later, they lifted up the stone which they had laid over a spot on the lawn. "why, the green grass has all turned white!" cried hal. and so it had. "that's how my celery will turn," said his father. "the grass grew pale from being in the dark so long. it did not like it, and if you left the stone there too long the grass would die. now take it away and in a day or so the grass will be green again." and that's exactly what happened. the sun had tanned the grass green as it tans children brown at the seashore. one day, when mab and hal had started out with their father who was going to show them how to dig potatoes, which is not as easy as it sounds, the children suddenly heard a yelping and barking sound in mr. porter's garden. "there's roly-poly in trouble again!" called mr. blake. "yes, and he's hurt, too!" added hal, for the little poodle was yelping as if in pain. "oh, what has happened to him?" cried mab. "hurry, daddy, please, and see!" chapter xi gathering crops hal, mab and their father ran to the gate in the fence that was between their yard and the garden of mr. porter. down where their neighbor's lima beans were planted, and where they were climbing up the poles, they heard the barking and yelping of roly-poly sounding loudly. "he's there!" cried mab. "here, roly! come here! come on, little doggie!" called hal, thinking, for a moment, that perhaps his pet was barking at a cat, as sometimes roly did, though he really would not have hurt pussy. "why doesn't he come?" asked mab, coming to a stop, while her father looked around, trying to see the poodle among the growing things in the garden. "maybe he's caught and can't come," suggested hal. "caught how?" asked mab. "well, maybe he's all tangled up in the bean vines like he was in the morning glories the day he sat down in the fly paper," hal answered. "oh, roly! are you hurt?" cried mab. "bow-wow! ki-yi!" was all the answer the little poodle dog gave, and, though it might have meant a great deal in dog language mab and hal could not understand it. but roly-poly was trying to make his friends know that something had happened to him. "i'll find him," said mr. blake. "you children had better stay back there," and he motioned to them not to come any farther. hal and mab stood still. "what is it? what's the matter?" mr. porter, coming from another part of the garden where he had been pulling up some turnips. "has anything happened?" "something has happened to roly-poly," replied hal. "hear him howl?" inquired mab. "i should say i did!" cried mr. porter. "and i guess i know what's the matter to. he's in the trap." "in the trap?" cried hal in surprise. "what trap?" mr. porter did not answer. he ran down to where daddy blake was poking among the green vines and bushes, trying to find roly. "come on!" exclaimed hal. "let's go see what it is." "daddy told us to stay here," said mab. "we can't go." hal knew that, and, much as he wanted to see what was going on, he would not disobey his father. mab, too, would have liked to run down where daddy blake and mr. porter were. "bow-wow! ki-yi!" barked and howled roly again, and then the children heard their father and his friend, the man next door, laughing. "i guess roly can't be hurt very much or daddy wouldn't laugh," said mab. "i guess not," agreed hal. "i wish we could go see what it is." just then their father came out from among the tall lima beans. he had roly in his arms, and the little poodle dog was cuddled up as though he did not want to leave them. "is he hurt?" asked mab. "a little," her father answered. "where?" hal wanted to know. "on his tail. it was pinched a little in the mole trap, where he was caught fast. but we got you out; didn't we roly-poly?" "bow-wow; ki-yi!" yelped the poodle. "was he in the mole trap?" asked hal. "and what is a mole trap?" asked mab. "well, i see i'll have to tell you more about the garden," answered daddy blake with a laugh, as he gave roly over to his little girl and boy, who eagerly petted him. "for the mole is one of the garden pests, and the trap, mr. porter set to catch some who were spoiling his things, caught roly-poly instead." "is a mole a worm?" hal wanted to know. "or is it like a potato bug?" "it's a little animal like a mouse," said his father, "only it is blind. it lives underground, in the dark all the while, so really it has no use for eyes, any more than have the blind fish in the big kentucky cave. "but, though a mole is blind, it does not stop him from turning up the ground and uprooting many plants. he really doesn't mean to do it, but we have to catch him just the same." "oh, i'd like to see a blind mole," said mab. "i can't show you one just now," spoke mr. porter, "but i can show you how they dig underground, and the damage they do to lawns and gardens. maybe, if your dog roly will keep out of my mole trap, i can catch one of the creatures and show you how it looks. come down here." mr. porter led the way to that part of the garden where roly had been caught by his little tail. on the ground, among the rows of beans, sometimes going right under them and spoiling the roots, was a long ridge of dirt, in a sort of wavy line. with his fingers daddy blake tore up some of the earth, and opened a regular little tunnel under ground. "the mole," said daddy blake, "tunnels, or digs, his way in the dark, underground, to find grubs and worms which he eats. he had two front claws, very strong, just purposely made for digging, and you would be surprised to see how soon a mole can dig himself underground, even if you put him on top of a hard, dirt road. "it is when the blind mole tunnels along, smelling here and there for grubs and worms, that he uproots the plants and for that reason we have to catch him. there are some traps that have sharp points which go down through the ground with a strong spring to push them, whenever a digging mole gets too near. but the trap mr. porter set was a spring trap without any sharp points to it, which he thought might catch a mole alive. instead it caught roly, who was digging away to find a buried bone, maybe." "is he all right now?" asked mab. "yes, his tail was only pinched a little but roly's tail is very tender i guess, for he howled very loudly." "i wish i could see a mole," said hal. "so do i," echoed his sister. but all they could see was the place where the mole had dug. and perhaps you may see, in your garden or on your lawn, a little raised ridge, or long, low hill of dirt, some morning. if you poke your finger, or a stick, down in it you will find that underneath it is hollow. this is a place where a mole has dug his tunnel in the night to get things to eat. moles dig deep down, too, under the surface where no one can see them, and when they do not uproot the grass or the garden plants, they do little harm. it is only when they come near the top that you can see the ridge they make. sometimes cats catch moles when they come out on top of the ground, thinking them a sort of mouse. the mole's fur is very fine and soft, and would make a fine cloak, only it would take many skins to make one large enough to wear. "well, i'm glad roly-poly is all right," said mab, as she took the little dog from hal, who was holding hint, and petted him on his head. "yes, you may put him down now," spoke her father. "and we'll go dig the potatoes. mother wants some for dinner, and i want to show you children how to get them out of the ground. for we will soon be digging them to put away for winter." when hal and mab reached the potato part of the garden, which was the largest of all the plots, the children saw that many of the green vines were getting brown and withered. "why, the vines are dying!" exclaimed mab. "did a mole spoil them, daddy?" "no, but the potatoes have grown as large as they ever will be, and, there being no more need of the vine, it is drying up. it has gone to seed, just as a dandelion goes to seed, in a way, though we call the potatoes 'tubers' instead of seed. there may be potato seeds, that come when the potato blossom dries up, for all i know, but i have always planted the eyes of the tubers and so does everyone else. now to show you how to dig." [illustration] mr. blake had planted two kinds of potatoes, early and late, and it was the vines of the early ones that had dried up. later on the others would dry, and then it would be time to dig their tubers to put down cellar for the long winter. "first you pull up the vine," said daddy blake, and he tore one from the earth, many of the potatoes clinging to it. these he picked off and put in the basket. then, with a potato hook, which is something like a spading fork, only with the prongs curved downward like a rake, daddy blake began scraping away the dirt from the side of the hill of potatoes. "when a farmer has a big field of potatoes," said the children's father, "he may use a machine potato-digger. this is drawn by horses, who walk between the rows, drawing the machine right over where the potato vines are growing. the machine has iron prongs which dig under the dirt like giant fingers, turning out the potatoes which are tossed between the rows of dirt so men, who follow, may pick them up. but we'll dig ours by hand. and in digging potatoes you must be careful not to stick your fork, spade or whatever you use, into the potato tubers, and so cutting them." "why can't we do that?" asked hal. "because a potato that is cut, pierced or bruised badly will not keep as well as one that is sound and good. it rots more quickly, and one rotten potato in a bin of good ones will cause many others to spoil, just as one rotten apple in a barrel of sound ones will spoil a great many. so be careful when you dig your potatoes." hal and mab watched daddy blake, and then he let them pull a vine and dig in the hill after the brown tubers. out they came tumbling and rolling, as if glad to get into the light and sunshine. for they had been down under the dark earth ever since the eyes were planted in the spring, growing from tiny potatoes into large ones. when mab dug up her hill of potatoes, after she had picked up all there were in it, her father saw her carefully looking among the clods of brown soil. "what have you lost, mab?" he asked. "i was looking for the eye pieces you planted when you made your potato garden," she answered. "oh, they have turned into these many potatoes," laughed mr. blake. "that is the magical trick mother nature does for us. we plant a piece of potato, with 'eyes' in it, or we plant a seed, and up springs a plant on the roots of which are more potatoes, or, if it is a bean, it turns into a vine with many more beans on it. and the seed--that is the eye potato or the bean--disappears completely, just as a magician on the stage pretends to make your handkerchief disappear and change into a lemon. mother nature is very wonderful." hal and mab thought so too. the summer was passing away. the days that had been long and full of sunshine until late in the evening were getting shorter. no longer was it light at five o'clock in the morning, and the golden ball did not stay up until after seven at night. "the days are getting shorter and the nights longer," said daddy blake. "that means winter is not far off, though we still have autumn or fall before us. and that will bring us the harvest days. we will soon begin to harvest, or bring in our crops." "and then will we know who gets the prize?" asked hal. "yes," his father answered. "i'll have to award the ten dollar gold prize then, but it will be some little time yet. things are not all done growing, though they have done their best. from now on we will not have to worry so much about weeds, bugs and worms." "do they die, too, like the potato vines?" asked mab. "yes, though many weeds will not be killed until a hard frost nips them. but the garden plants have gotten their full growth, and are not babies any more, so the weeds can not do them so much harm. most of the bugs and worms, too, have died or been eaten by the birds. the birds are the gardener's best friend, for they eat many worms and bugs that could not be killed in any other way. so the more insect-eating birds you have around your garden the better. even though the robins may take a few cherries they don't get paid half enough that way for the good work they do." "how am i going to harvest my beans?" asked mab. "there aren't many more green ones left to boil, for mother canned a lot of them." "what are left of your beans we will save dried, to make into baked beans this winter," said her father. "and what about my corn?" hal wanted to know. "well, your mother canned some of that," answered his father, "that is the sweet kind. the yellow ears i will show you how to save for the chickens this winter, and there is another kind--well, i'll tell you about that a little later," and he smiled at the children. "oh, have i got three kinds of corn?" asked hal, clapping his hands in delight. "we'll see when we come to harvest it," said daddy blake. "maybe i'll win the prize with that!" exclaimed the little boy. "come on, mab! let's go in and look at the ten dollar gold piece. i hope i win it!" "i hope you do, too, hal," said his sister. "but i'd like it myself, and i've got a awful lot of beans. my vines are covered with them--i mean dried ones, in pods like peas." "i wish we could both have the prize," said hal. "but if i win i'll give you half, mab." "so will i to you!" exclaimed the little girl. as they ran toward the house they saw a farmer, from whom their mother often bought things, standing on the porch. in his hand he held what looked to be a big whip. there was a long wooden handle and fast to it was a shorter stick of wood. "there's the flail i told mr. blake i'd bring him," said the farmer to aunt lolly, who had come to the door when he rang the bell. "a flail," she repeated. "what is it for?" "well, i think mr. blake wants to whip some beans with it," and the farmer laughed, while hal and mab looked at him curiously. chapter xii pumpkin pie "oh, hal!" murmured mab, as she looked at the queer sticks the farmer had brought. "it does seem like a whip! i wonder if daddy is going to whip roly-poly for getting in the mole trap?" "of course not!" laughed hal. "daddy never whips roly anyhow, except sometimes to tap him on the nose with his finger when our poodle does something a little bad. daddy would never use this big wooden whip, anyhow." "the farmer-man said he was bringing it to daddy to whip my beans," went on mab. "i wonder what he means?" just then daddy blake himself came on the front stoop. "ah, so you have brought the flail?" he asked the farmer. "yes, and your little boy and girl here were afraid it was to use on their pet dog!" laughed the farmer, "i guess they never saw a flail before." "i hardly think they did," said mr. blake. "but next year i intend to take them to a farm where they will learn many more things than i could teach them from just a garden." "daddy, but what is a flail?" asked mab. "a flail," said mr. blake, "is what the farmers used to use before threshing machines were invented. and i had mr. henderson bring this one from his farm to thresh out your beans, mab, as we haven't enough to need a machine, even if we could get one." "what does thresh mean?" asked hal. "it means to beat, or pound out," his father explained. "you see wheat, oats, barley, rye and other grains, when they grow on the stalks in the field, are shut up in a sort of envelope, or husk, just as a letter is sealed in an envelope. to get out the letter we have to tear or break the envelope. to get at the good part of grain--the part that is good to eat--we have to break the outer husk. it is the same way with peas or beans. "when they are green we break the pods by hand and get out the peas or beans, but when they are dried it is easier to put a pile of pods on a wooden floor and beat them with a stick. this breaks the envelopes, or pods and the dried peas or beans rattle out. they fall to the bottom, and when the husks and vines are lifted off, and the dirt sifted out, there are our beans or peas, ready to eat after being cooked. "the stick with which the beating is done is called a flail. one part is the handle, and the other part, which is fastened to the handle by a leather string, is called a swingle, or swiple, because it swings through the air, and beats down on the bean or pea pods. "in the olden days wheat, rye and oats were threshed this way on a barn floor, and in the bible you may read how sometimes oxen were driven around on the piles of grain on the threshing floor, so that they might tread out the good kernels from the husks, or envelopes that are not good to eat. but i'll tell you more about that when we get on the farm." "when are we going to beat out my beans?" asked mab. "in a week or so, as soon as they get dried well, and are ripe enough so that they are hard, we will flail, or thresh them," answered daddy blake. "i am going to thresh some peas, too, to have them dried for this winter." farmer henderson left the flail which he had made for daddy blake, and hal and mab looked at it. they could whirl it around their heads, but their father told them to be careful not to hurt one another. "i'm going to thresh some peas!" cried hal. "and i'll use it on my beans so i can get the ten dollar gold prize!" cried mab. there were busy times in the blake home for the next few weeks, for there was much canning to be done, so that the vegetables raised in the garden during the summer would keep to be eaten in the winter. "for that," said daddy blake, "is why uncle sam, which is another name for our government, wants us to grow things out of the earth. it is so that there may be plenty of food for all." so tomatoes were canned, or made into ketchup and chili sauce, while some were used green in pickles. aunt lolly brought into the house the cucumber which had grown inside the glass bottle. it was the exact shape of the glass flask, and when this had been broken the cucumber even had on its side, in white letters, the name of the drug firm that made the bottle. for the name had been painted black by aunt lolly and as the rays of the sun could not go through the black paint the cucumber was white in those places and green all over elsewhere. the children's cucumbers also grew to funny shapes in their bottles. mother blake, with mab and hal to help, pulled up her carrots, of which she had a good crop. the long yellow vegetables, like big ice cream cones, uncle pennywait said, were stored in a dark place in the cellar. "you have a fine crop of carrots," said daddy blake. "do you think i'll win the prize?" asked his wife. "well, i wouldn't be surprised," he answered. "oh, if she should!" exclaimed hal to his sister. "well," spoke mab, with a long sigh, "of course i'd like to have that ten dollar gold piece myself, but we ought to want mother to have it, too." "of course," said hal, and then he went out to look at his corn. it had grown very tall, and there were ears on every stalk. much had been eaten during the summer, boiled green, and sweet and good it was. mother blake had canned some plain corn, and had also put away more, mixed with lima beans, making succotash as the indians used to do. daddy blake soon began to dig the late potatoes, which would be kept down cellar in the dark to be eaten as they were needed during the long winter. "and i think we'll have enough to last us until spring," he said, "and perhaps have some for seed. our garden has been a great success, even if the hail did spoil some things and bugs and worms part of other crops." the potatoes were really uncle pennywait's crop--at least he had planted most of them and called them his, for the tomatoes were daddy blake's. and uncle pennywait kept careful count of every quart and bushel of the potatoes that were eaten, or put away for winter. "because i want that ten dollar prize," he said. hal and mab looked at one another anxiously. "who would win it?" they wondered. finally there were some cold, sharp frosts, so that the tomato and other vines were all shriveled up when hal and mab went out to the garden to look at them. "oh, daddy! will they straighten up again?" they asked. "no. their work is done. we shall have to plant new seeds to make new vines, but we shall have to wait until spring comes again. the earth is soon going to sleep for the winter, when nothing will grow in it. but it is time to get in your corn and beans, children. you must cut your yellow corn, hal, and the other kind, too, and let the ears get dry, ready for husking." "what other kind of corn, daddy?" hal asked. "come and i'll show you," his father said. mr. blake led the way down to the corn patch of the garden. at the end he plucked an ear of corn, stripped away the half dried husk, and showed hal and mab some sharp-pointed kernels. "that's the kind of corn that pops," said the children's father. "i sowed a few hills for you without saying anything. i wanted it as a surprise." "and will it really pop?" asked hal, his eyes shining. "try some and see," advised daddy blake. and later, when the ears of popcorn had dried, and the kernels were shelled into the popper and shaken over the fire, they burst out into big, white bunches like snow flakes. "what makes pop-corn?" asked hal. "well the heat of the fire turns into steam the water that is inside the kernel of corn," said mr. blake. "though you can not see it, there is water in corn, beans and all vegetables, even when they are dry." "and, as i have told you before, when water gets too hot it turns into steam, and the gas or vapor, for that is what steam is, grows very big, as if you blew up a balloon, so that the steam bursts whatever it is inside of, unless the thing that holds it is very strong. steam can even burst cannon balls, so you see it can easily burst, or pop the corn. "then, as the kernel bursts it puffs out and quickly dries into queer shapes by the heat of the fire. it is white because the inside of corn is really white, though the outside husk looks rather yellow sometimes." so part of hal's pop corn crop made something nice to eat during the long winter evenings. but before those evenings came hal and mab had harvested all the things in the garden, with the help of their father and mother, uncle pennywait and aunt lolly. "we must get in the pea and bean vines," said daddy blake when he saw what a hard frost there had been. "then we'll thresh them on the barn floor and it will be time soon, hal, to husk your corn and bring in aunt lolly's pumpkins." for about a dozen big yellow pumpkins were growing amid the stalks of corn, and very pretty they looked in the cool, crisp mornings, when the corn had turned brown from the frost. hal's father showed him how the farmers cut off a hill of the corn stalks, close to the ground, stacking them up in a little pile called a "shock." they were allowed to stand there until the wind and sun had dried the husks on the corn. "now we'll husk the corn," said daddy blake, after the peas and beans had been stored in the barn to dry until they were ready to be threshed or flailed. he showed hal and mab how to strip back the dried husk, and break it off, together with the part of the stalk to which the ear of corn is fastened when it is growing. it was hard work, and the two children did not do much of this, leaving it for the older folk. but they took turns using the flail, and thought this great fun. on a big cloth, on the floor of the barn, were spread the dried bean vines that had been pulled from mab's part of the garden. then the swinging end of the flail was whacked down on the dried vines and pods. out popped the white beans as the pods were broken, and when the flail had been used long enough daddy blake lifted up the vines and crushed, dried pods, and there was left a pile of white beans. "oh, what a lot of them!" cried mab, when they had been sifted, cleaned and put away. there were about two bushels of the dried, white beans, enough to last all winter, baked or made into soup. some dried peas were threshed out also, but not so many of them, and they could be cooked soft again, after they were soaked in water. then hal's yellow corn was piled into two bushel baskets, and there were some of the ears left over. as for uncle pennywait's potatoes, there were nearly ten bushels of them stored away down cellar, and aunt lolly had more than a dozen yellow pumpkins, one very big. mother blake's carrots measured over a barrel and there were many, many cans filled with daddy blake's tomatoes. "now who won the prize?" asked mab, as she looked at her bushels of beans and then at hal's corn. "did hal or did i?" "well," slowly said her father, "i think you both did so well, and you raised, each one, such fine crops, nearly the same in amount, that i'll have to give two prizes!" "two prizes!" cried hal. "yes," went on his father. "instead of dividing this one i'll make another. i brought another ten dollar gold piece from the bank to-day, and here is the first one," and he held up the two, shining, yellow pieces of money. "here is one for you, hal," went on daddy blake, "and one for you, mab," and he handed the children their prizes. "and how did you like being taken to the garden, instead of after flowers or to the woods?" "it was fine!" cried hal, looking eagerly at his golden prize. "and we learned so much," added mab. "i never knew, before, how many things can grow in the ground." "oh, you are just beginning to learn them," said her father. "wait until you go to the farm." "what about my prize?" asked aunt lolly with a laugh. "i'm sure my pumpkins will more than fill two bushel baskets." "perhaps they will," said daddy blake. "well, i'll give you a prize for the first pumpkin pie you bake, aunt lolly. and uncle pennywait shall have a prize for his potatoes, while as for mother--well we'll each give her a prize for the many good meals she got for us while we were working in the garden, and she'll get a special prize for her carrots, which will give you children red cheeks this winter." "hurray!" cried mab. "hurray!" echoed hal. "it's better than fourth of july." a few days after this, when all the vegetables had been gathered in from the garden, which was now sear and brown because of heavy frosts, mab and hal heard their aunt calling them. "maybe she has some lollypops," said hal. "let's go see," cried mab. "here is something you may have for hallowe'en which comes to-morrow night," said aunt lolly, and she pointed to a large pumpkin. "there'll be enough without this," she went on, "and i promised you one for a jack-o'lantern." "oh, won't it be fun to make one!" cried hal. aunt lolly showed them how to cut the top off the big pumpkin, leaving part of the vine for a handle, so that it could be lifted off and put on like a lid. then the pumpkin was scooped out from the inside, so that eyes, a nose and mouth could be cut through the shell. "to-morrow night you can put a lighted candle inside, and set it on the front porch for hallowe'en," said aunt lolly, when the pumpkin lantern was finished. the afternoon of hallowe'en hal and mab, who were helping daddy blake rake up some of the dead vines in the garden, heard sammie porter crying on their front stoop. "what's the matter?" asked hal, running around the corner of the house. "oh-o-o-o-o!" cried sammie. "look at the pumpkin face!" and he pointed to the jack-o'lantern into which the candle had not yet been put. "it's alive!" cried sammie. "look, it's rollin'!" and so the scooped-out pumpkin was moving! it was rolling to and fro on the porch and, for a moment, hal and mab did not know what to think. then, all of a sudden, they heard a noise like: "bow-wow! ki-yi!" "oh, it's roly-poly!" exclaimed mab. "he's in the pumpkin," shouted hal. and so the little poodle dog was. he had crawled inside the big, hollowed lantern, while the lid was off, and had gone to sleep inside. then aunt lolly, as she said afterward, came out, and, seeing the top off the pumpkin-face, had put it on, for fear it might get lost. thus, not knowing it, she had shut roly-poly up inside the jack-o'lantern and he had slept there until he felt hungry and awakened. then he wiggled about, making the pumpkin move and roll over the stoop as if it were alive. "oh, what a funny little dog!" cried mab, as she cuddled him up in her arms, when she took him from the pumpkin. "he's a regular hallowe'en dog!" laughed hal. that night mr. jack-of-the-lantern looked very funny as he grinned at hal, mab and the other hallowe'en frolic-makers who passed the blake stoop. the candle inside him blazed brightly, shining through his eyes, nose and through his mouth with the pumpkin-teeth. "a garden makes fun, and it makes good things to eat," said hal. "i wonder what we'll see when daddy takes us to the farm?" spoke mab. "it will be fun, anyhow," went on hal. "we always have fun when we go anywhere with daddy!" and now, as the children's garden is finished, and all the vegetables are safely put away for the winter, this book comes to an end. but there will be another soon, which i hope you will like. and, for a time, i'll say "good-bye!" the end the next volume in this series will be called: "daddy takes us to the farm." =boy inventors' series= the author knows these subjects from a practical standpoint. each book is printed from new plates on a good quality of paper and bound in cloth. each book wrapped in a jacket printed in colors. _price c each_ boy inventors' wireless triumph boy inventors' and the vanishing sun boy inventors' diving torpedo set boy inventors' flying ship boy inventors' electric ship boy inventors' radio telephone * * * * * =the "how-to-do-it" books= these books teach the use of tools; how to sharpen them; to design and layout work. printed from new plates and bound in cloth. profusely illustrated. each book is wrapped 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an old fashioned girl _louisa may alcott_ black beauty _anna sewell_ elsie dinsmore _martha finley_ heidi _johanna spyri_ king arthur _retold_ little lame prince _miss mulock_ little men _louisa may alcott_ little women _louisa may alcott_ pinocchio _c. collodi_ robin hood _retold_ storyland gems for little folks _winnington_ treasure island _robert louis stevenson_ _for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid upon receipt of $ . _ m·a·donohue·&·company ·south·dearborn·street·chicago =girls banner series= a desirable assortment of books for girls, by standard and favorite authors. each title is complete and unabridged. printed on a good quality of paper from large, clear type and bound in cloth. each book is wrapped in a special multi-colored jacket. _ _ alice's adventures in wonderland _carroll_ _ _ alice through the looking glass _carroll_ _ _ campfire girls on a long hike _francis_ _ _ daddy's girl _meade_ _ _ dog of flanders, a _ouida_ _ _ elsie dinsmore _finley_ _ _ ethel 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printed from large clear type on a superior quality of paper; attractive multi-color jacket wrapper around each book. bound in cloth. . the girl aviators and the phantom airship . the girl aviators on golden wings . the girl aviators' sky cruise . the girl aviators' motor butterfly. _for sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of c._ m.a. donohue & company - south dearborn street :: chicago =motor boat boys series= by louis arundel . the motor club's cruise down the mississippi; or the dash for dixie. . the motor club on the st. lawrence river; or adventures among the thousand islands. . the motor club on the great lakes; or exploring the mystic isle of mackinac. . motor boat boys among the florida keys: or the struggle for the leadership. . motor boat boys down the coast; or through storm and stress. . motor boat boy's river chase; or six chums afloat or ashore. . motor boat boys down the danube; or four chums abroad * * * * * =motor maid series= by katherine stokes . motor maids' school days . motor maids by palm and pine . motor maids across the continent . motor maids by rose, shamrock and thistle. . motor maids in fair japan . motor maids at sunrise camp _for sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of c_. m.a. donohue & company - s. dearborn street :: chicago =the boys' elite series= _ mo, cloth. price c each_. contains an attractive assortment of books for boys by standard and favorite authors. printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper, bound in a superior quality of binders' cloth, ornamented with illustrated original designs on covers stamped in colors from unique and appropriate dies each book wrapped in attractive jacket. . cudjo's cave trowbridge . green mountain boys . life of kit carson edward l. ellis . tom westlake's golden luck perry newberry . tony keating's surprises mrs. g.r. alden (pansy) . tour of the world in days jules verne * * * * * =the girls' elite series= _ mo, cloth. price c each_. contains 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finley hans brinker mary mapes dodge heidi johanna spyri helen's babies john habberton ishmael e.d.e.n. southworth island of appledore aldon ivanhoe sir walter scott kidnapped robert louis stevenson king arthur and his knights retold last days of pompeii lytton life of kit carson edward s. ellis little king, the charles major little lame prince miss mulock little minister, the j.m. barrie little men louisa may alcott little women louisa may alcott oliver twist charles dickens pilgrim's progress john bunyan pinocchio c. collodi prince of the house of david rev. j.h. ingraham robin hood retold robinson crusoe daniel defoe self raised e.d.e.n. southworth sketch book washington irving st. elmo augusta j. evans-wilson swiss family robinson wyss tale of two cities charles dickens three musketeers, the alexander dumas tom brown at oxford thomas hughes tom brown's school days thomas hughes treasure island robert louis stevenson twenty thousand leagues under the sea jules verne twenty years after alexander dumas uncle tom's cabin harriet beecher stowe under two flags ouida _for sale by all book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of cents_ m·a·donohue·&·company ·south·dearborn street··chicago =boy scout series= by g. harvey ralphson just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake boys of today. clean, wholesome and interesting; full of mystery and adventure. each title is complete and unabridged. printed on a good quality of paper from large, clear type and bound in cloth. each book is wrapped in a special multi-colored jacket. . boy scouts in mexico; or, on guard with uncle sam . boy scouts in the canal zone; or, the plot against uncle sam . boy scouts in the philippines; or, the key to the treaty box . boy scouts in the northwest; or, fighting forest fires . boy scouts in a motor boat; or adventures on columbia river . boy scouts in an airship; or, the warning from the sky . boy scouts in a submarine; or, searching an ocean floor . boy scouts on 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summers water-wise gardening science helping plants to need less irrigation water-wise gardening year-round how to grow it with less irrigation: a-z my own garden plan the backyard introduction starting a new gardening era first, you should know why a maritime northwest raised-bed gardener named steve solomon became worried about his dependence on irrigation. i'm from michigan. i moved to lorane, oregon, in april and homesteaded on acres in what i thought at the time was a cool, showery green valley of liquid sunshine and rainbows. i intended to put in a big garden and grow as much of my own food as possible. two months later, in june, just as my garden began needing water, my so-called -gallon-per-minute well began to falter, yielding less and less with each passing week. by august it delivered about gallons per minute. fortunately, i wasn't faced with a completely dry well or one that had shrunk to below gallon per minute, as i soon discovered many of my neighbors were cursed with. three gallons per minute won't supply a fan nozzle or even a common impulse sprinkler, but i could still sustain my big raised-bed garden by watering all night, five or six nights a week, with a single, - / gallon-per-minute sprinkler that i moved from place to place. i had repeatedly read that gardening in raised beds was the most productive vegetable growing method, required the least work, and was the most water-efficient system ever known. so, without adequate irrigation, i would have concluded that food self-sufficiency on my homestead was not possible. in late september of that first year, i could still run that single sprinkler. what a relief not to have invested every last cent in land that couldn't feed us. for many succeeding years at lorane, i raised lots of organically grown food on densely planted raised beds, but the realities of being a country gardener continued to remind me of how tenuous my irrigation supply actually was. we country folks have to be self-reliant: i am my own sanitation department, i maintain my own -foot-long driveway, the septic system puts me in the sewage business. a long, long response time to my call means i'm my own self-defense force. and i'm my own water department. without regular and heavy watering during high summer, dense stands of vegetables become stunted in a matter of days. pump failure has brought my raised-bed garden close to that several times. before my frantic efforts got the water flowing again, i could feel the stressed-out garden screaming like a hungry baby. as i came to understand our climate, i began to wonder about _complete_ food self-sufficiency. how did the early pioneers irrigate their vegetables? there probably aren't more than a thousand homestead sites in the entire maritime northwest with gravity water. hand pumping into hand-carried buckets is impractical and extremely tedious. wind-powered pumps are expensive and have severe limits. the combination of dependably rainless summers, the realities of self-sufficient living, and my homestead's poor well turned out to be an opportunity. for i continued wondering about gardens and water, and discovered a method for growing a lush, productive vegetable garden on deep soil with little or no irrigation, in a climate that reliably provides to virtually dry weeks every summer. gardening with less irrigation being a garden writer, i was on the receiving end of quite a bit of local lore. i had heard of someone growing unirrigated carrots on sandy soil in southern oregon by sowing early and spacing the roots foot apart in rows feet apart. the carrots were reputed to grow to enormous sizes, and the overall yield in pounds per square foot occupied by the crop was not as low as one might think. i read that native americans in the southwest grew remarkable desert gardens with little or no water. and that native south americans in the highlands of peru and bolivia grow food crops in a land with to inches of rainfall. so i had to wonder what our own pioneers did. in , we moved miles south, to a much better homestead with more acreage and an abundant well. ironically, only then did i grow my first summertime vegetable without irrigation. being a low-key survivalist at heart, i was working at growing my own seeds. the main danger to attaining good germination is in repeatedly moistening developing seed. so, in early march , i moved six winter-surviving savoy cabbage plants far beyond the irrigated soil of my raised-bed vegetable garden. i transplanted them feet apart because blooming brassicas make huge sprays of flower stalks. i did not plan to water these plants at all, since cabbage seed forms during may and dries down during june as the soil naturally dries out. that is just what happened. except that one plant did something a little unusual, though not unheard of. instead of completely going into bloom and then dying after setting a massive load of seed, this plant also threw a vegetative bud that grew a whole new cabbage among the seed stalks. with increasing excitement i watched this head grow steadily larger through the hottest and driest summer i had ever experienced. realizing i was witnessing revelation, i gave the plant absolutely no water, though i did hoe out the weeds around it after i cut the seed stalks. i harvested the unexpected lesson at the end of september. the cabbage weighed in at or pounds and was sweet and tender. up to that time, all my gardening had been on thoroughly and uniformly watered raised beds. now i saw that elbow room might be the key to gardening with little or no irrigating, so i began looking for more information about dry gardening and soil/water physics. in spring , i tilled four widely separated, unirrigated experimental rows in which i tested an assortment of vegetable species spaced far apart in the row. out of curiosity i decided to use absolutely no water at all, not even to sprinkle the seeds to get them germinating. i sowed a bit of kale, savoy cabbage, purple sprouting broccoli, carrots, beets, parsnips, parsley, endive, dry beans, potatoes, french sorrel, and a couple of field cornstalks. i also tested one compact bush (determinate) and one sprawling (indeterminate) tomato plant. many of these vegetables grew surprisingly well. i ate unwatered tomatoes july through september; kale, cabbages, parsley, and root crops fed us during the winter. the purple sprouting broccoli bloomed abundantly the next march. in terms of quality, all the harvest was acceptable. the root vegetables were far larger but only a little bit tougher and quite a bit sweeter than usual. the potatoes yielded less than i'd been used to and had thicker than usual skin, but also had a better flavor and kept well through the winter. the following year i grew two parallel gardens. one, my "insurance garden," was thoroughly irrigated, guaranteeing we would have plenty to eat. another experimental garden of equal size was entirely unirrigated. there i tested larger plots of species that i hoped could grow through a rainless summer. by july, growth on some species had slowed to a crawl and they looked a little gnarly. wondering if a hidden cause of what appeared to be moisture stress might actually be nutrient deficiencies, i tried spraying liquid fertilizer directly on these gnarly leaves, a practice called foliar feeding. it helped greatly because, i reasoned, most fertility is located in the topsoil, and when it gets dry the plants draw on subsoil moisture, so surface nutrients, though still present in the dry soil, become unobtainable. that being so, i reasoned that some of these species might do even better if they had just a little fertilized water. so i improvised a simple drip system and metered out or gallons of liquid fertilizer to some of the plants in late july and four gallons more in august. to some species, extra fertilized water (what i call "fertigation") hardly made any difference at all. but unirrigated winter squash vines, which were small and scraggly and yielded about pounds of food, grew more lushly when given a few -gallon, fertilizer-fortified assists and yielded pounds. thirty-five pounds of squash for extra gallons of water and a bit of extra nutrition is a pretty good exchange in my book. the next year i integrated all this new information into just one garden. water-loving species like lettuce and celery were grown through the summer on a large, thoroughly irrigated raised bed. the rest of the garden was given no irrigation at all or minimally metered-out fertigations. some unirrigated crops were foliar fed weekly. everything worked in ! and i found still other species that i could grow surprisingly well on surprisingly small amounts of water[--]or none at all. so, the next year, , i set up a sprinkler system to water the intensive raised bed and used the overspray to support species that grew better with some moisture supplementation; i continued using my improvised drip system to help still others, while keeping a large section of the garden entirely unwatered. and at the end of that summer i wrote this book. what follows is not mere theory, not something i read about or saw others do. these techniques are tested and workable. the next-to-last chapter of this book contains a complete plan of my garden with explanations and discussion of the reasoning behind it. in _water-wise vegetables_ i assume that my readers already are growing food (probably on raised beds), already know how to adjust their gardening to this region's climate, and know how to garden with irrigation. if you don't have this background i suggest you read my other garden book, _growing vegetables west of the cascades,_ (sasquatch books, ). steve solomon chapter predictably rainless summers in the eastern united states, summertime rainfall can support gardens without irrigation but is just irregular enough to be worrisome. west of the cascades we go into the summer growing season certain we must water regularly. my own many-times-revised book _growing vegetables west of the cascades_ correctly emphasized that moisture-stressed vegetables suffer greatly. because i had not yet noticed how plant spacing affects soil moisture loss, in that book i stated a half-truth as law: soil moisture loss averages - / inches per week during summer. this figure is generally true for raised-bed gardens west of the cascades, so i recommended adding / inches of water each week and even more during really hot weather. summertime rainfall west of the cascades (in inches)* location april may june july aug. sept. oct. eureka, ca . . . . . . . medford, or . . . . . . . eugene, or . . . . . . . portland, or . . . . . . . astoria, or . . . . . . . olympia, wa . . . . . . . seattle, wa . . . . . . . bellingham, wa . . . . . . . vancouver, bc . . . . . . . victoria, bc . . . . . . . *source: van der leeden et al., _the water encyclopedia,_ nd ed., (chelsea, mich.: lewis publishers, ). defined scientifically, drought is not lack of rain. it is a dry soil condition in which plant growth slows or stops and plant survival may be threatened. the earth loses water when wind blows, when sun shines, when air temperature is high, and when humidity is low. of all these factors, air temperature most affects soil moisture loss. daily maximum temperature (f)* july/august average eureka, ca medford, or eugene, or astoria, or olympia, wa seattle, wa bellingham, wa vancouver, bc victoria, bc *source: the water encyclopedia. the kind of vegetation growing on a particular plot and its density have even more to do with soil moisture loss than temperature or humidity or wind speed. and, surprising as it might seem, bare soil may not lose much moisture at all. i now know it is next to impossible to anticipate moisture loss from soil without first specifying the vegetation there. evaporation from a large body of water, however, is mainly determined by weather, so reservoir evaporation measurements serve as a rough gauge of anticipated soil moisture loss. evaporation from reservoirs (inches per month)* location april may june july aug. sept. oct. seattle, wa . . . . . . . baker, or . . . . . . . sacramento, ca . . . . . . . *source: _the water encyclopedia_ from may through september during a normal year, a reservoir near seattle loses about inches of water by evaporation. the next chart shows how much water farmers expect to use to support conventional agriculture in various parts of the west. comparing this data for seattle with the estimates based on reservoir evaporation shows pretty good agreement. i include data for umatilla and yakima to show that much larger quantities of irrigation water are needed in really hot, arid places like baker or sacramento. estimated irrigation requirements: during entire growing season (in inches)* location duration amount umatilla/yakama valley april-october willamette valley may-september puget sound may-september upper rogue/upper umpqua valley march-september lower rogue/lower coquille valley may-september nw california april-october *source: _the water encyclopedia_ in our region, gardens lose far more water than they get from rainfall during the summer growing season. at first glance, it seems impossible to garden without irrigation west of the cascades. but there is water already present in the soil when the gardening season begins. by creatively using and conserving this moisture, some maritime northwest gardeners can go through an entire summer without irrigating very much, and with some crops, irrigating not at all. chapter water-wise gardening science plants are water like all other carbon-based life forms on earth, plants conduct their chemical processes in a water solution. every substance that plants transport is dissolved in water. when insoluble starches and oils are required for plant energy, enzymes change them back into water-soluble sugars for movement to other locations. even cellulose and lignin, insoluble structural materials that plants cannot convert back into soluble materials, are made from molecules that once were in solution. water is so essential that when a plant can no longer absorb as much water as it is losing, it wilts in self-defense. the drooping leaves transpire (evaporate) less moisture because the sun glances off them. some weeds can wilt temporarily and resume vigorous growth as soon as their water balance is restored. but most vegetable species aren't as tough-moisture stressed vegetables may survive, but once stressed, the quality of their yield usually drops markedly. yet in deep, open soil west of the cascades, most vegetable species may be grown quite successfully with very little or no supplementary irrigation and without mulching, because they're capable of being supplied entirely by water already stored in the soil. soil's water-holding capacity soil is capable of holding on to quite a bit of water, mostly by adhesion. for example, i'm sure that at one time or another you have picked up a wet stone from a river or by the sea. a thin film of water clings to its surface. this is adhesion. the more surface area there is, the greater the amount of moisture that can be held by adhesion. if we crushed that stone into dust, we would greatly increase the amount of water that could adhere to the original material. clay particles, it should be noted, are so small that clay's ability to hold water is not as great as its mathematically computed surface area would indicate. surface area of one gram of soil particles particle type diameter of number of particles particles surface area in mm per gm in sq. cm. very coarse sand . - . coarse sand . - . medium sand . - . , fine sand . - . , very fine sand . - . , silt . - . , , clay below . , , , , , source: foth, henry d., _fundamentals of soil science,_ th ed. (new york: john wylie & sons, ). this direct relationship between particle size, surface area, and water-holding capacity is so essential to understanding plant growth that the surface areas presented by various sizes of soil particles have been calculated. soils are not composed of a single size of particle. if the mix is primarily sand, we call it a sandy soil. if the mix is primarily clay, we call it a clay soil. if the soil is a relatively equal mix of all three, containing no more than percent clay, we call it a loam. available moisture (inches of water per foot of soil) soil texture average amount very coarse sand . coarse sand . sandy . sandy loam . loam . clay loam . silty clay . clay . source: _fundamentals of soil science_. adhering water films can vary greatly in thickness. but if the water molecules adhering to a soil particle become too thick, the force of adhesion becomes too weak to resist the force of gravity, and some water flows deeper into the soil. when water films are relatively thick the soil feels wet and plant roots can easily absorb moisture. "field capacity" is the term describing soil particles holding all the water they can against the force of gravity. at the other extreme, the thinner the water films become, the more tightly they adhere and the drier the earth feels. at some degree of desiccation, roots are no longer forceful enough to draw on soil moisture as fast as the plants are transpiring. this condition is called the "wilting point." the term "available moisture" refers to the difference between field capacity and the amount of moisture left after the plants have died. clayey soil can provide plants with three times as much available water as sand, six times as much as a very coarse sandy soil. it might seem logical to conclude that a clayey garden would be the most drought resistant. but there's more to it. for some crops, deep sandy loams can provide just about as much usable moisture as clays. sandy soils usually allow more extensive root development, so a plant with a naturally aggressive and deep root system may be able to occupy a much larger volume of sandy loam, ultimately coming up with more moisture than it could obtain from a heavy, airless clay. and sandy loams often have a clayey, moisture-rich subsoil. _because of this interplay of factors, how much available water your own unique garden soil is actually capable of providing and how much you will have to supplement it with irrigation can only be discovered by trial._ how soil loses water suppose we tilled a plot about april and then measured soil moisture loss until october. because plants growing around the edge might extend roots into our test plot and extract moisture, we'll make our tilled area feet by feet and make all our measurements in the center. and let's locate this imaginary plot in full sun on flat, uniform soil. and let's plant absolutely nothing in this bare earth. and all season let's rigorously hoe out every weed while it is still very tiny. let's also suppose it's been a typical maritime northwest rainy winter, so on april the soil is at field capacity, holding all the moisture it can. from early april until well into september the hot sun will beat down on this bare plot. our summer rains generally come in insignificant installments and do not penetrate deeply; all of the rain quickly evaporates from the surface few inches without recharging deeper layers. most readers would reason that a soil moisture measurement taken inches down on september , should show very little water left. one foot down seems like it should be just as dry, and in fact, most gardeners would expect that there would be very little water found in the soil until we got down quite a few feet if there were several feet of soil. but that is not what happens! the hot sun does dry out the surface inches, but if we dig down inches or so there will be almost as much water present in september as there was in april. bare earth does not lose much water at all. _once a thin surface layer is completely desiccated, be it loose or compacted, virtually no further loss of moisture can occur._ the only soils that continue to dry out when bare are certain kinds of very heavy clays that form deep cracks. these ever-deepening openings allow atmospheric air to freely evaporate additional moisture. but if the cracks are filled with dust by surface cultivation, even this soil type ceases to lose water. soil functions as our bank account, holding available water in storage. in our climate soil is inevitably charged to capacity by winter rains, and then all summer growing plants make heavy withdrawals. but hot sun and wind working directly on soil don't remove much water; that is caused by hot sun and wind working on plant leaves, making them transpire moisture drawn from the earth through their root systems. plants desiccate soil to the ultimate depth and lateral extent of their rooting ability, and then some. the size of vegetable root systems is greater than most gardeners would think. the amount of moisture potentially available to sustain vegetable growth is also greater than most gardeners think. rain and irrigation are not the only ways to replace soil moisture. if the soil body is deep, water will gradually come up from below the root zone by capillarity. capillarity works by the very same force of adhesion that makes moisture stick to a soil particle. a column of water in a vertical tube (like a thin straw) adheres to the tube's inner surfaces. this adhesion tends to lift the edges of the column of water. as the tube's diameter becomes smaller the amount of lift becomes greater. soil particles form interconnected pores that allow an inefficient capillary flow, recharging dry soil above. however, the drier soil becomes, the less effective capillary flow becomes. _that is why a thoroughly desiccated surface layer only a few inches thick acts as a powerful mulch._ industrial farming and modern gardening tend to discount the replacement of surface moisture by capillarity, considering this flow an insignificant factor compared with the moisture needs of crops. but conventional agriculture focuses on maximized yields through high plant densities. capillarity is too slow to support dense crop stands where numerous root systems are competing, but when a single plant can, without any competition, occupy a large enough area, moisture replacement by capillarity becomes significant. how plants obtain water most gardeners know that plants acquire water and minerals through their root systems, and leave it at that. but the process is not quite that simple. the actively growing, tender root tips and almost microscopic root hairs close to the tip absorb most of the plant's moisture as they occupy new territory. as the root continues to extend, parts behind the tip cease to be effective because, as soil particles in direct contact with these tips and hairs dry out, the older roots thicken and develop a bark, while most of the absorbent hairs slough off. this rotation from being actively foraging tissue to becoming more passive conductive and supportive tissue is probably a survival adaptation, because the slow capillary movement of soil moisture fails to replace what the plant used as fast as the plant might like. the plant is far better off to aggressively seek new water in unoccupied soil than to wait for the soil its roots already occupy to be recharged. a simple bit of old research magnificently illustrated the significance of this. a scientist named dittmer observed in that a single potted ryegrass plant allocated only cubic foot of soil to grow in made about miles of new roots and root hairs every day. (ryegrasses are known to make more roots than most plants.) i calculate that a cubic foot of silty soil offers about , square feet of surface area to plant roots. if miles of microscopic root tips and hairs (roughly , lineal feet) draws water only from a few millimeters of surrounding soil, then that single rye plant should be able to continue ramifying into a cubic foot of silty soil and find enough water for quite a few days before wilting. these arithmetical estimates agree with my observations in the garden, and with my experiences raising transplants in pots. lowered plant density: the key to water-wise gardening i always think my latest try at writing a near-perfect garden book is quite a bit better than the last. _growing vegetables west of the cascades_, recommended somewhat wider spacings on raised beds than i did in because i'd repeatedly noticed that once a leaf canopy forms, plant growth slows markedly. adding a little more fertilizer helps after plants "bump," but still the rate of growth never equals that of younger plants. for years i assumed crowded plants stopped producing as much because competition developed for light. but now i see that unseen competition for root room also slows them down. even if moisture is regularly recharged by irrigation, and although nutrients are replaced, once a bit of earth has been occupied by the roots of one plant it is not so readily available to the roots of another. so allocating more elbow room allows vegetables to get larger and yield longer and allows the gardener to reduce the frequency of irrigations. though hot, baking sun and wind can desiccate the few inches of surface soil, withdrawals of moisture from greater depths are made by growing plants transpiring moisture through their leaf surfaces. the amount of water a growing crop will transpire is determined first by the nature of the species itself, then by the amount of leaf exposed to sun, air temperature, humidity, and wind. in these respects, the crop is like an automobile radiator. with cars, the more metal surfaces, the colder the ambient air, and the higher the wind speed, the better the radiator can cool; in the garden, the more leaf surfaces, the faster, warmer, and drier the wind, and the brighter the sunlight, the more water is lost through transpiration. dealing with a surprise water shortage suppose you are growing a conventional, irrigated garden and something unanticipated interrupts your ability to water. perhaps you are homesteading and your well begins to dry up. perhaps you're a backyard gardener and the municipality temporarily restricts usage. what to do? first, if at all possible before the restrictions take effect, water very heavily and long to ensure there is maximum subsoil moisture. then eliminate all newly started interplantings and ruthlessly hoe out at least percent of the remaining immature plants and about half of those about two weeks away from harvest. for example, suppose you've got a a -foot-wide intensive bed holding seven rows of broccoli on inch centers, or about plants. remove at least every other row and every other plant in the three or four remaining rows. try to bring plant density down to those described in chapter , "how to grow it: a-z" then shallowly hoe the soil every day or two to encourage the surface inches to dry out and form a dust mulch. you water-wise person--you're already dry gardening--now start fertigating. how long available soil water will sustain a crop is determined by how many plants are drawing on the reserve, how extensively their root systems develop, and how many leaves are transpiring the moisture. if there are no plants, most of the water will stay unused in the barren soil through the entire growing season. if a crop canopy is established midway through the growing season, the rate of water loss will approximate that listed in the table in chapter "estimated irrigation requirement." if by very close planting the crop canopy is established as early as possible and maintained by successive interplantings, as is recommended by most advocates of raised-bed gardening, water losses will greatly exceed this rate. many vegetable species become mildly stressed when soil moisture has dropped about half the way from capacity to the wilting point. on very closely planted beds a crop can get in serious trouble without irrigation in a matter of days. but if that same crop were planted less densely, it might grow a few weeks without irrigation. and if that crop were planted even farther apart so that no crop canopy ever developed and a considerable amount of bare, dry earth were showing, this apparent waste of growing space would result in an even slower rate of soil moisture depletion. on deep, open soil the crop might yield a respectable amount without needing any irrigation at all. west of the cascades we expect a rainless summer; the surprise comes that rare rainy year when the soil stays moist and we gather bucketfuls of chanterelle mushrooms in early october. though the majority of maritime northwest gardeners do not enjoy deep, open, moisture-retentive soils, all except those with the shallowest soil can increase their use of the free moisture nature provides and lengthen the time between irrigations. the next chapter discusses making the most of whatever soil depth you have. most of our region's gardens can yield abundantly without any rain at all if only we reduce competition for available soil moisture, judiciously fertigate some vegetable species, and practice a few other water-wise tricks. _would lowering plant density as much as this book suggests equally lower the yield of the plot? surprisingly, the amount harvested does not drop proportionately. in most cases having a plant density one-eighth of that recommended by intensive gardening advocates will result in a yield about half as great as on closely planted raised beds._ internet readers: in the print copy of this book are color pictures of my own "irrigationless" garden. looking at them about here in the book would add reality to these ideas. chapter helping plants to need less irrigation dry though the maritime northwest summer is, we enter the growing season with our full depth of soil at field capacity. except on clayey soils in extraordinarily frosty, high-elevation locations, we usually can till and plant before the soil has had a chance to lose much moisture. there are a number of things we can do to make soil moisture more available to our summer vegetables. the most obvious step is thorough weeding. next, we can keep the surface fluffed up with a rotary tiller or hoe during april and may, to break its capillary connection with deeper soil and accelerate the formation of a dry dust mulch. usually, weeding forces us to do this anyway. also, if it should rain during summer, we can hoe or rotary till a day or two later and again help a new dust mulch to develop. building bigger root systems without irrigation, most of the plant's water supply is obtained by expansion into new earth that hasn't been desiccated by other competing roots. eliminating any obstacles to rapid growth of root systems is the key to success. so, keep in mind a few facts about how roots grow and prosper. the air supply in soil limits or allows root growth. unlike the leaves, roots do not perform photosynthesis, breaking down carbon dioxide gas into atmospheric oxygen and carbon. yet root cells must breathe oxygen. this is obtained from the air held in spaces between soil particles. many other soil-dwelling life forms from bacteria to moles compete for this same oxygen. consequently, soil oxygen levels are lower than in the atmosphere. a slow exchange of gases does occur between soil air and free atmosphere, but deeper in the soil there will inevitably be less oxygen. different plant species have varying degrees of root tolerance for lack of oxygen, but they all stop growing at some depth. moisture reserves below the roots' maximum depth become relatively inaccessible. soil compaction reduces the overall supply and exchange of soil air. compacted soil also acts as a mechanical barrier to root system expansion. when gardening with unlimited irrigation or where rain falls frequently, it is quite possible to have satisfactory growth when only the surface or inches of soil facilitates root development. when gardening with limited water, china's the limit, because if soil conditions permit, many vegetable species are capable of reaching , , and eight feet down to find moisture and nutrition. evaluating potential rooting ability one of the most instructive things a water-wise gardener can do is to rent or borrow a hand-operated fence post auger and bore a -foot-deep hole. it can be even more educational to buy a short section of ordinary water pipe to extend the auger's reach another or feet down. in soil free of stones, using an auger is more instructive than using a conventional posthole digger or shoveling out a small pit, because where soil is loose, the hole deepens rapidly. where any layer is even slightly compacted, one turns and turns the bit without much effect. augers also lift the materials more or less as they are stratified. if your soil is somewhat stony (like much upland soil north of centralia left by the vashon glacier), the more usual fence-post digger or common shovel works better. if you find more than feet of soil, the site holds a dry-gardening potential that increases with the additional depth. some soils along the floodplains of rivers or in broad valleys like the willamette or skagit can be over feet deep, and hold far more water than the deepest roots could draw or capillary flow could raise during an entire growing season. gently sloping land can often carry to feet of open, usable soil. however, soils on steep hillsides become increasingly thin and fragile with increasing slope. whether an urban, suburban, or rural gardener, you should make no assumptions about the depth and openness of the soil at your disposal. dig a test hole. if you find less than unfortunate feet of open earth before hitting an impermeable obstacle such as rock or gravel, not much water storage can occur and the only use this book will hold for you is to guide your move to a more likely gardening location or encourage the house hunter to seek further. of course, you can still garden quite successfully on thin soil in the conventional, irrigated manner. _growing vegetables west of the cascades_ will be an excellent guide for this type of situation. eliminating plowpan deep though the soil may be, any restriction of root expansion greatly limits the ability of plants to aggressively find water. a compacted subsoil or even a thin compressed layer such as plowpan may function as such a barrier. though moisture will still rise slowly by capillarity and recharge soil above plowpan, plants obtain much more water by rooting into unoccupied, damp soil. soils close to rivers or on floodplains may appear loose and infinitely deep but may hide subsoil streaks of droughty gravel that effectively stops root growth. some of these conditions are correctable and some are not. plowpan is very commonly encountered by homesteaders on farm soils and may be found in suburbia too, but fortunately it is the easiest obstacle to remedy. traditionally, american croplands have been tilled with the moldboard plow. as this implement first cuts and then flips a -or -inch-deep slice of soil over, the sole--the part supporting the plow's weight--presses heavily on the earth about inches below the surface. with each subsequent plowing the plow sole rides at the same -inch depth and an even more compacted layer develops. once formed plowpan prevents the crop from rooting into the subsoil. since winter rains leach nutrients from the topsoil and deposit them in the subsoil, plowpan prevents access to these nutrients and effectively impoverishes the field. so wise farmers periodically use a subsoil plow to fracture the pan. plowpan can seem as firm as a rammed-earth house; once established, it can last a long, long time. my own garden land is part of what was once an old wheat farm, one of the first homesteads of the oregon territory. from about through the s, the field produced small grains. after wheat became unprofitable, probably because of changing market conditions and soil exhaustion, the field became an unplowed pasture. then in the s it grew daffodil bulbs, occasioning more plowing. all through the ' s my soil again rested under grass. in , when i began using the land, there was still a -inch-thick, very hard layer starting about inches down. below inches the open earth is soft as butter as far as i've ever dug. on a garden-sized plot, plowpan or compacted subsoil is easily opened with a spading fork or a very sharp common shovel. after normal rotary tilling, either tool can fairly easily be wiggled inches into the earth and small bites of plowpan loosened. once this laborious chore is accomplished the first time, deep tillage will be far easier. in fact, it becomes so easy that i've been looking for a custom-made fork with longer tines. curing clayey soils in humid climates like ours, sandy soils may seem very open and friable on the surface but frequently hold some unpleasant subsoil surprises. over geologic time spans, mineral grains are slowly destroyed by weak soil acids and clay is formed from the breakdown products. then heavy winter rainfall transports these minuscule clay particles deeper into the earth, where they concentrate. it is not unusual to find a sandy topsoil underlaid with a dense, cement-like, clayey sand subsoil extending down several feet. if very impervious, a thick, dense deposition like this may be called hardpan. the spading fork cannot cure this condition as simply as it can eliminate thin plowpan. here is one situation where, if i had a neighbor with a large tractor and subsoil plow, i'd hire him to fracture my land or feet deep. painstakingly double or even triple digging will also loosen this layer. another possible strategy for a smaller garden would be to rent a gasoline-powered posthole auger, spread manure or compost an inch or two thick, and then bore numerous, almost adjoining holes feet deep all over the garden. clayey subsoil can supply surprisingly larger amounts of moisture than the granular sandy surface might imply, but only if the earth is opened deeply and becomes more accessible to root growth. fortunately, once root development increases at greater depths, the organic matter content and accessibility of this clayey layer can be maintained through intelligent green manuring, postponing for years the need to subsoil again. green manuring is discussed in detail shortly. other sites may have gooey, very fine clay topsoils, almost inevitably with gooey, very fine clay subsoils as well. though incorporation of extraordinarily large quantities of organic matter can turn the top few inches into something that behaves a little like loam, it is quite impractical to work in humus to a depth of or feet. root development will still be limited to the surface layer. very fine clays don't make likely dry gardens. not all clay soils are "fine clay soils," totally compacted and airless. for example, on the gentler slopes of the geologic old cascades, those -million-year-old black basalts that form the cascades foothills and appear in other places throughout the maritime northwest, a deep, friable, red clay soil called (in oregon) jori often forms. jori clays can be to feet deep and are sufficiently porous and well drained to have been used for highly productive orchard crops. water-wise gardeners can do wonders with joris and other similar soils, though clays never grow the best root crops. spotting a likely site observing the condition of wild plants can reveal a good site to garden without much irrigation. where himalaya or evergreen blackberries grow feet tall and produce small, dull-tasting fruit, there is not much available soil moisture. where they grow feet tall and the berries are sweet and good sized, there is deep, open soil. when the berry vines are or more feet tall and the fruits are especially huge, usually there is both deep, loose soil and a higher than usual amount of fertility. other native vegetation can also reveal a lot about soil moisture reserves. for years i wondered at the short leaders and sad appearance of douglas fir in the vicinity of yelm, washington. were they due to extreme soil infertility? then i learned that conifer trees respond more to summertime soil moisture than to fertility. i obtained a soil survey of thurston county and discovered that much of that area was very sandy with gravelly subsoil. eureka! the soil conservation service (scs), a u.s. government agency, has probably put a soil auger into your very land or a plot close by. its tests have been correlated and mapped; the soils underlying the maritime northwest have been named and categorized by texture, depth, and ability to provide available moisture. the maps are precise and detailed enough to approximately locate a city or suburban lot. in , when i was in the market for a new homestead, i first went to my county scs office, mapped out locations where the soil was suitable, and then went hunting. most counties have their own office. using humus to increase soil moisture maintaining topsoil humus content in the to percent range is vital to plant health, vital to growing more nutritious food, and essential to bringing the soil into that state of easy workability and cooperation known as good tilth. humus is a spongy substance capable of holding several times more available moisture than clay. there are also new synthetic, long-lasting soil amendments that hold and release even more moisture than humus. garden books frequently recommend tilling in extraordinarily large amounts of organic matter to increase a soil's water-holding capacity in the top few inches. humus can improve many aspects of soil but will not reduce a garden's overall need for irrigation, because it is simply not practical to maintain sufficient humus deeply enough. rotary tilling only blends amendments into the top or inches of soil. rigorous double digging by actually trenching out inches and then spading up the next foot theoretically allows one to mix in significant amounts of organic matter to nearly inches. but plants can use water from far deeper than that. let's realistically consider how much soil moisture reserves might be increased by double digging and incorporating large quantities of organic matter. a healthy topsoil organic matter level in our climate is about percent. this rapidly declines to less than . percent in the subsoil. suppose inches-thick layers of compost were spread and, by double digging, the organic matter content of a very sandy soil were amended to percent down to feet. if that soil contained little clay, its water-holding ability in the top feet could be doubled. referring to the chart "available moisture" in chapter , we see that sandy soil can release up to inch of water per foot. by dint of massive amendment we might add inch of available moisture per foot of soil to the reserve. that's extra inches of water, enough to increase the time an ordinary garden can last between heavy irrigations by a week or days. if the soil in question were a silty clay, it would naturally make / inches available per foot. a massive humus amendment would increase that to / inches in the top foot or two, relatively not as much benefit as in sandy soil. and i seriously doubt that many gardeners would be willing to thoroughly double dig to an honest inches. trying to maintain organic matter levels above percent is an almost self-defeating process. the higher the humus level gets, the more rapidly organic matter tends to decay. finding or making enough well-finished compost to cover the garden several inches deep (what it takes to lift humus levels to percent) is enough of a job. double digging just as much more into the second foot is even more effort. but having to repeat that chore every year or two becomes downright discouraging. no, either your soil naturally holds enough moisture to permit dry gardening, or it doesn't. keeping the subsoil open with green manuring when roots decay, fresh organic matter and large, long-lasting passageways can be left deep in the soil, allowing easier air movement and facilitating entry of other roots. but no cover crop that i am aware of will effectively penetrate firm plowpan or other resistant physical obstacles. such a barrier forces all plants to root almost exclusively in the topsoil. however, once the subsoil has been mechanically fractured the first time, and if recompaction is avoided by shunning heavy tractors and other machinery, green manure crops can maintain the openness of the subsoil. to accomplish this, correct green manure species selection is essential. lawn grasses tend to be shallow rooting, while most regionally adapted pasture grasses can reach down about feet at best. however, orchard grass (called coltsfoot in english farming books) will grow down or more feet while leaving a massive amount of decaying organic matter in the subsoil after the sod is tilled in. sweet clover, a biennial legume that sprouts one spring then winters over to bloom the next summer, may go down feet. red clover, a perennial species, may thickly invade the top feet. other useful subsoil busters include densely sown umbelliferae such as carrots, parsley, and parsnip. the chicory family also makes very large and penetrating taproots. though seed for wild chicory is hard to obtain, cheap varieties of endive (a semicivilized relative) are easily available. and several pounds of your own excellent parsley or parsnip seed can be easily produced by letting about row feet of overwintering roots form seed. orchard grass and red clover can be had quite inexpensively at many farm supply stores. sweet clover is not currently grown by our region's farmers and so can only be found by mail from johnny's selected seeds (see chapter for their address). poppy seed used for cooking will often sprout. sown densely in october, it forms a thick carpet of frilly spring greens underlaid with countless massive taproots that decompose very rapidly if the plants are tilled in in april before flower stalks begin to appear. beware if using poppies as a green manure crop: be sure to till them in early to avoid trouble with the dea or other authorities. for country gardeners, the best rotations include several years of perennial grass-legume-herb mixtures to maintain the openness of the subsoil followed by a few years of vegetables and then back (see newman turner's book in more reading). i plan my own garden this way. in october, after a few inches of rain has softened the earth, i spread pounds of agricultural lime per , square feet and break the thick pasture sod covering next year's garden plot by shallow rotary tilling. early the next spring i broadcast a concoction i call "complete organic fertilizer" (see _growing vegetables west of the cascades_ or the _territorial seed company catalog_), till again after the soil dries down a bit, and then use a spading fork to open the subsoil before making a seedbed. the first time around, i had to break the century-old plowpan--forking compacted earth a foot deep is a lot of work. in subsequent rotations it is much much easier. for a couple of years, vegetables will grow vigorously on this new ground supported only with a complete organic fertilizer. but vegetable gardening makes humus levels decline rapidly. so every few years i start a new garden on another plot and replant the old garden to green manures. i never remove vegetation during the long rebuilding under green manures, but merely mow it once or twice a year and allow the organic matter content of the soil to redevelop. if there ever were a place where chemical fertilizers might be appropriate around a garden, it would be to affordably enhance the growth of biomass during green manuring. were i a serious city vegetable gardener, i'd consider growing vegetables in the front yard for a few years and then switching to the back yard. having lots of space, as i do now, i keep three or four garden plots available, one in vegetables and the others restoring their organic matter content under grass. mulching gardening under a permanent thick mulch of crude organic matter is recommended by ruth stout (see the listing for her book in more reading) and her disciples as a surefire way to drought-proof gardens while eliminating virtually any need for tillage, weeding, and fertilizing. i have attempted the method in both southern california and western oregon--with disastrous results in both locations. what follows in this section is addressed to gardeners who have already read glowing reports about mulching. permanent mulching with vegetation actually does not reduce summertime moisture loss any better than mulching with dry soil, sometimes called "dust mulching." true, while the surface layer stays moist, water will steadily be wicked up by capillarity and be evaporated from the soil's surface. if frequent light sprinkling keeps the surface perpetually moist, subsoil moisture loss can occur all summer, so unmulched soil could eventually become desiccated many feet deep. however, capillary movement only happens when soil is damp. once even a thin layer of soil has become quite dry it almost completely prevents any further movement. west of the cascades, this happens all by itself in late spring. one hot, sunny day follows another, and soon the earth's surface seems parched. unfortunately, by the time a dusty layer forms, quite a bit of soil water may have risen from the depths and been lost. the gardener can significantly reduce spring moisture loss by frequently hoeing weeds until the top inch or two of earth is dry and powdery. this effort will probably be necessary in any case, because weeds will germinate prolifically until the surface layer is sufficiently desiccated. on the off chance it should rain hard during summer, it is very wise to again hoe a few times to rapidly restore the dust mulch. if hand cultivation seems very hard work, i suggest you learn to sharpen your hoe. a mulch of dry hay, grass clippings, leaves, and the like will also retard rapid surface evaporation. gardeners think mulching prevents moisture loss better than bare earth because under mulch the soil stays damp right to the surface. however, dig down to inches under a dust mulch and the earth is just as damp as under hay. and, soil moisture studies have proved that overall moisture loss using vegetation mulch slightly exceeds loss under a dust mulch. west of the cascades, the question of which method is superior is a bit complex, with pros and cons on both sides. without a long winter freeze to set populations back, permanent thick mulch quickly breeds so many slugs, earwhigs, and sowbugs that it cannot be maintained for more than one year before vegetable gardening becomes very difficult. laying down a fairly thin mulch in june after the soil has warmed up well, raking up what remains of the mulch early the next spring, and composting it prevents destructive insect population levels from developing while simultaneously reducing surface compaction by winter rains and beneficially enhancing the survival and multiplication of earthworms. but a thin mulch also enhances the summer germination of weed seeds without being thick enough to suppress their emergence. and any mulch, even a thin one, makes hoeing virtually impossible, while hand weeding through mulch is tedious. mulch has some unqualified pluses in hotter climates. most of the organic matter in soil and consequently most of the available nitrogen is found in the surface few inches. levels of other mineral nutrients are usually two or three times as high in the topsoil as well. however, if the surface few inches of soil becomes completely desiccated, no root activity will occur there and the plants are forced to feed deeper, in soil far less fertile. keeping the topsoil damp does greatly improve the growth of some shallow-feeding species such as lettuce and radishes. but with our climate's cool nights, most vegetables need the soil as warm as possible, and the cooling effect of mulch can be as much a hindrance as a help. i've tried mulching quite a few species while dry gardening and found little or no improvement in plant growth with most of them. probably, the enhancement of nutrition compensates for the harm from lowering soil temperature. fertigation is better all around. windbreaks plants transpire more moisture when the sun shines, when temperatures are high, and when the wind blows; it is just like drying laundry. windbreaks also help the garden grow in winter by increasing temperature. many other garden books discuss windbreaks, and i conclude that i have a better use for the small amount of words my publisher allows me than to repeat this data; binda colebrook's [i]winter gardening in the maritime northwest[i] (sasquatch books, ) is especially good on this topic. fertilizing, fertigating and foliar spraying in our heavily leached region almost no soil is naturally rich, while fertilizers, manures, and potent composts mainly improve the topsoil. but the water-wise gardener must get nutrition down deep, where the soil stays damp through the summer. if plants with enough remaining elbow room stop growing in summer and begin to appear gnarly, it is just as likely due to lack of nutrition as lack of water. several things can be done to limit or prevent midsummer stunting. first, before sowing or transplanting large species like tomato, squash or big brassicas, dig out a small pit about inches deep and below that blend in a handful or two of organic fertilizer. then fill the hole back in. this double-digging process places concentrated fertility mixed to inches below the seeds or seedlings. foliar feeding is another water-wise technique that keeps plants growing through the summer. soluble nutrients sprayed on plant leaves are rapidly taken into the vascular system. unfortunately, dilute nutrient solutions that won't burn leaves only provoke a strong growth response for to days. optimally, foliar nutrition must be applied weekly or even more frequently. to efficiently spray a garden larger than a few hundred square feet, i suggest buying an industrial-grade, -gallon backpack sprayer with a side-handle pump. approximate cost as of this writing was $ . the store that sells it (probably a farm supply store) will also support you with a complete assortment of inexpensive nozzles that can vary the rate of emission and the spray pattern. high-quality equipment like this outlasts many, many cheaper and smaller sprayers designed for the consumer market, and replacement parts are also available. keep in mind that consumer merchandise is designed to be consumed; stuff made for farming is built to last. increasing soil fertility saves water does crop growth equal water use? most people would say this statement seems likely to be true. actually, faster-growing crops use much less soil moisture than slower-growing ones. as early as it was determined that less water is required to produce a pound of plant material when soil is fertilized than when it is not fertilized. one experiment required , pounds of water to grow pound of dry matter on infertile soil, but only pounds of water to produce a pound of dry matter on rich land. perhaps the single most important thing a water-wise gardener can do is to increase the fertility of the soil, especially the subsoil. _poor plant nutrition increases the water cost of every pound of dry matter produced._ using foliar fertilizers requires a little caution and forethought. spinach, beet, and chard leaves seem particularly sensitive to foliars (and even to organic insecticides) and may be damaged by even half-strength applications. and the cabbage family coats its leaf surfaces with a waxy, moisture-retentive sealant that makes sprays bead up and run off rather than stick and be absorbed. mixing foliar feed solutions with a little spreader/sticker, safer's soap, or, if bugs are also a problem, with a liquid organic insecticide like red arrow (a pyrethrum-rotenone mix), eliminates surface tension and allows the fertilizer to have an effect on brassicas. sadly, in terms of nutrient balance, the poorest foliar sprays are organic. that's because it is nearly impossible to get significant quantities of phosphorus or calcium into solution using any combination of fish emulsion and seaweed or liquid kelp. the most useful possible organic foliar is / to tablespoon each of fish emulsion and liquid seaweed concentrate per gallon of water. foliar spraying and fertigation are two occasions when i am comfortable supplementing my organic fertilizers with water-soluble chemical fertilizers. the best and most expensive brand is rapid-gro. less costly concoctions such as peters - - or the other "grows," don't provide as complete trace mineral support or use as many sources of nutrition. one thing fertilizer makers find expensive to accomplish is concocting a mixture of soluble nutrients that also contains calcium, a vital plant food. if you dissolve calcium nitrate into a solution containing other soluble plant nutrients, many of them will precipitate out because few calcium compounds are soluble. even rapid-gro doesn't attempt to supply calcium. recently i've discovered better-quality hydroponic nutrient solutions that do use chemicals that provide soluble calcium. these also make excellent foliar sprays. brands of hydroponic nutrient solutions seem to appear and vanish rapidly. i've had great luck with dyna-gro - - . all these chemicals are mixed at about tablespoon per gallon. vegetables that: like foliars asparagus carrots melons squash beans cauliflower peas tomatoes broccoli brussels sprouts cucumbers cabbage eggplant radishes kale rutabagas potatoes don't like foliars beets leeks onions spinach chard lettuce peppers like fertigation brussels sprouts kale savoy cabbage cucumbers melons squash eggplant peppers tomatoes fertigation every two to four weeks is the best technique for maximizing yield while minimizing water use. i usually make my first fertigation late in june and continue periodically through early september. i use six or seven plastic -gallon "drip system" buckets, (see below) set one by each plant, and fill them all with a hose each time i work in the garden. doing or plants each time i'm in the garden, it takes no special effort to rotate through them all more or less every three weeks. to make a drip bucket, drill a / -inch hole through the side of a -to- -gallon plastic bucket about / -inch up from the bottom, or in the bottom at the edge. the empty bucket is placed so that the fertilized water drains out close to the stem of a plant. it is then filled with liquid fertilizer solution. it takes to minutes for gallons to pass through a small opening, and because of the slow flow rate, water penetrates deeply into the subsoil without wetting much of the surface. each fertigation makes the plant grow very rapidly for two to three weeks, more i suspect as a result of improved nutrition than from added moisture. exactly how and when to fertigate each species is explained in chapter . organic gardeners may fertigate with combinations of fish emulsion and seaweed at the same dilution used for foliar spraying, or with compost/manure tea. determining the correct strength to make compost tea is a matter of trial and error. i usually rely on weak rapid-gro mixed at half the recommended dilution. the strength of the fertilizer you need depends on how much and deeply you placed nutrition in the subsoil. chapter water-wise gardening year-round early spring: the easiest unwatered garden west of the cascades, most crops started in february and march require no special handling when irrigation is scarce. these include peas, early lettuce, radishes, kohlrabi, early broccoli, and so forth. however, some of these vegetables are harvested as late as june, so to reduce their need for irrigation, space them wider than usual. spring vegetables also will exhaust most of the moisture from the soil before maturing, making succession planting impossible without first irrigating heavily. early spring plantings are best allocated one of two places in the garden plan: either in that part of the garden that will be fully irrigated all summer or in a part of a big garden that can affordably remain bare during the summer and be used in october for receiving transplants of overwintering crops. the garden plan and discussion in chapter illustrate these ideas in detail. later in spring: sprouting seeds without watering for the first years that i experimented with dry gardening i went overboard and attempted to grow food as though i had no running water at all. the greatest difficulty caused by this self-imposed handicap was sowing small-seeded species after the season warmed up. sprouting what we in the seed business call "big seed"--corn, beans, peas, squash, cucumber, and melon--is relatively easy without irrigation because these crops are planted deeply, where soil moisture still resides long after the surface has dried out. and even if it is so late in the season that the surface has become very dry, a wide, shallow ditch made with a shovel will expose moist soil several inches down. a furrow can be cut in the bottom of that damp "valley" and big seeds germinated with little or no watering. tillage breaks capillary connections until the fluffy soil resettles. this interruption is useful for preventing moisture loss in summer, but the same phenomenon makes the surface dry out in a flash. in recently tilled earth, successfully sprouting small seeds in warm weather is dicey without frequent watering. with a bit of forethought, the water-wise gardener can easily reestablish capillarity below sprouting seeds so that moisture held deeper in the soil rises to replace that lost from surface layers, reducing or eliminating the need for watering. the principle here can be easily demonstrated. in fact, there probably isn't any gardener who has not seen the phenomenon at work without realizing it. every gardener has tilled the soil, gone out the next morning, and noticed that his or her compacted footprints were moist while the rest of the earth was dry and fluffy. foot pressure restored capillarity, and during the night, fresh moisture replaced what had evaporated. this simple technique helps start everything except carrots and parsnips (which must have completely loose soil to develop correctly). all the gardener must do is intentionally compress the soil below the seeds and then cover the seeds with a mulch of loose, dry soil. sprouting seeds then rest atop damp soil exactly they lie on a damp blotter in a germination laboratory's covered petri dish. this dampness will not disappear before the sprouting seedling has propelled a root several inches farther down and is putting a leaf into the sunlight. i've used several techniques to reestablish capillarity after tilling. there's a wise old plastic push planter in my garage that first compacts the tilled earth with its front wheel, cuts a furrow, drops the seed, and then with its drag chain pulls loose soil over the furrow. i've also pulled one wheel of a garden cart or pushed a lightly loaded wheelbarrow down the row to press down a wheel track, sprinkled seed on that compacted furrow, and then pulled loose soil over it. handmade footprints sometimes i sow large brassicas and cucurbits in clumps above a fertilized, double-dug spot. first, in a space about inches square, i deeply dig in complete organic fertilizer. then with my fist i punch down a depression in the center of the fluffed-up mound. sometimes my fist goes in so easily that i have to replace a little more soil and punch it down some more. the purpose is not to make rammed earth or cement, but only to reestablish capillarity by having firm soil under a shallow, fist-sized depression. then a pinch of seed is sprinkled atop this depression and covered with fine earth. even if several hot sunny days follow i get good germination without watering. this same technique works excellently on hills of squash, melon and cucumber as well, though these large-seeded species must be planted quite a bit deeper. summer: how to fluid drill seeds soaking seeds before sowing is another water-wise technique, especially useful later in the season. at bedtime, place the seeds in a half-pint mason jar, cover with a square of plastic window screen held on with a strong rubber band, soak the seeds overnight, and then drain them first thing in the morning. gently rinse the seeds with cool water two or three times daily until the root tips begin to emerge. as soon as this sign appears, the seed must be sown, because the newly emerging roots become increasingly subject to breaking off as they develop and soon form tangled masses. presprouted seeds may be gently blended into some crumbly, moist soil and this mixture gently sprinkled into a furrow and covered. if the sprouts are particularly delicate or, as with carrots, you want a very uniform stand, disperse the seeds in a starch gelatin and imitate what commercial vegetable growers call fluid drilling. heat one pint of water to the boiling point. dissolve in to tablespoons of ordinary cornstarch. place the mixture in the refrigerator to cool. soon the liquid will become a soupy gel. gently mix this cool starch gel with the sprouting seeds, making sure the seeds are uniformly blended. pour the mixture into a -quart plastic zipper bag and, scissors in hand, go out to the garden. after a furrow--with capillarity restored--has been prepared, cut a small hole in one lower corner of the plastic bag. the hole size should be under / inch in diameter. walk quickly down the row, dribbling a mixture of gel and seeds into the furrow. then cover. you may have to experiment a few times with cooled gel minus seeds until you divine the proper hole size, walking speed and amount of gel needed per length of furrow. not only will presprouted seeds come up days sooner, and not only will the root be penetrating moist soil long before the shoot emerges, but the stand of seedlings will be very uniformly spaced and easier to thin. after fluid drilling a few times you'll realize that one needs quite a bit less seed per length of row than you previously thought. establishing the fall and winter garden west of the cascades, germinating fall and winter crops in the heat of summer is always difficult. even when the entire garden is well watered, midsummer sowings require daily attention and frequent sprinkling; however, once they have germinated, keeping little seedlings growing in an irrigated garden usually requires no more water than the rest of the garden gets. but once hot weather comes, establishing small seeds in the dry garden seems next to impossible without regular watering. should a lucky, perfectly timed, and unusually heavy summer rainfall sprout your seeds, they still would not grow well because the next few inches of soil would at best be only slightly moist. a related problem many backyard gardeners have with establishing the winter and overwintered garden is finding enough space for both the summer and winter crops. the nursery bed solves both these problems. instead of trying to irrigate the entire area that will eventually be occupied by a winter or overwintered crop at maturity, the seedlings are first grown in irrigated nurseries for transplanting in autumn after the rains come back. were i desperately short of water i'd locate my nursery where it got only morning sun and sow a week or days earlier to compensate for the slower growth. vegetables to start in a nursery bed variety sowing date transplanting date fall/winter lettuce mid-august early october leeks early april july overwintered onions early-mid august december/january spring cabbage mid-late august november/december spring cauliflower mid-august october/november st winter scallions mid-july mid-october seedlings in pots and trays are hard to keep moist and require daily tending. fortunately, growing transplants in little pots is not necessary because in autumn, when they'll be set out, humidity is high, temperatures are cool, the sun is weak, and transpiration losses are minimal, so seedling transplants will tolerate considerable root loss. my nursery is sown in rows about inches apart across a raised bed and thinned gradually to prevent crowding, because crowded seedlings are hard to dig out without damage. when the prediction of a few days of cloudy weather encourages transplanting, the seedlings are lifted with a large, sharp knife. if the fall rains are late and/or the crowded seedlings are getting leggy, a relatively small amount of irrigation will moisten the planting areas. another light watering at transplanting time will almost certainly establish the seedlings quite successfully. and, finding room for these crops ceases to be a problem because fall transplants can be set out as a succession crop following hot weather vegetables such as squash, melons, cucumbers, tomatoes, potatoes, and beans. vegetables that must be heavily irrigated (these crops are not suitable for dry gardens.) bulb onions (for fall harvest) celeriac celery chinese cabbage lettuce (summer and fall) radishes (summer and fall) scallions (for summer harvest) spinach (summer) chapter how to grow it with less irrigation: a-z first, a word about varieties as recently as the s, most american country folk still did not have running water. with water being hand-pumped and carried in buckets, and precious, their vegetable gardens had to be grown with a minimum of irrigation. in the otherwise well-watered east, one could routinely expect several consecutive weeks every summer without rain. in some drought years a hot, rainless month or longer could go by. so vegetable varieties were bred to grow through dry spells without loss, and traditional american vegetable gardens were designed to help them do so. i began gardening in the early s, just as the raised-bed method was being popularized. the latest books and magazine articles all agreed that raising vegetables in widely separated single rows was a foolish imitation of commercial farming, that commercial vegetables were arranged that way for ease of mechanical cultivation. closely planted raised beds requiring hand cultivation were alleged to be far more productive and far more efficient users of irrigation because water wasn't evaporating from bare soil. i think this is more likely to be the truth: old-fashioned gardens used low plant densities to survive inevitable spells of rainlessness. looked at this way, widely separated vegetables in widely separated rows may be considered the more efficient users of water because they consume soil moisture that nature freely puts there. only after, and if, these reserves are significantly depleted does the gardener have to irrigate. the end result is surprisingly more abundant than a modern gardener educated on intensive, raised-bed propaganda would think. finding varieties still adapted to water-wise gardening is becoming difficult. most american vegetables are now bred for irrigation-dependent california. like raised-bed gardeners, vegetable farmers have discovered that they can make a bigger profit by growing smaller, quick-maturing plants in high-density spacings. most modern vegetables have been bred to suit this method. many new varieties can't forage and have become smaller, more determinate, and faster to mature. actually, the larger, more sprawling heirloom varieties of the past were not a great deal less productive overall, but only a little later to begin yielding. fortunately, enough of the old sorts still exist that a selective and varietally aware home gardener can make do. since i've become water-wiser, i'm interested in finding and conserving heirlooms that once supported large numbers of healthy americans in relative self-sufficiency. my earlier book, being a guide to what passes for ordinary vegetable gardening these days, assumed the availability of plenty of water. the varieties i recommended in [i]growing vegetables west of the cascades[i] were largely modern ones, and the seed companies i praised most highly focused on top-quality commercial varieties. but, looking at gardening through the filter of limited irrigation, other, less modern varieties are often far better adapted and other seed companies sometimes more likely sources. seed company directory* abundant life see foundation: p.o. box , port townsend, wa _(abl)_ johnny's selected seeds: foss hill road, albion, maine _(jss)_ peace seeds: se thompson street, corvallis, or _(pea)_ ronninger's seed potatoes: p.o. box , orting, wa _(rsp)_ stokes seeds inc. box , buffalo, ny _(stk)_ territorial seed company: p.o. box , cottage grove, or _(tsc)_ *throughout the growing directions that follow in this chapter, the reader will be referred to a specific company only for varieties that are not widely available. i have again come to appreciate the older style of vegetable--sprawling, large framed, later maturing, longer yielding, vigorously rooting. however, many of these old-timers have not seen the attentions of a professional plant breeder for many years and throw a fair percentage of bizarre, misshapen, nonproductive plants. these "off types" can be compensated for by growing a somewhat larger garden and allowing for some waste. dr. alan kapuler, who runs peace seeds, has brilliantly pointed out to me why heirloom varieties are likely to be more nutritious. propagated by centuries of isolated homesteaders, heirlooms that survived did so because these superior varieties helped the gardeners' better-nourished babies pass through the gauntlet of childhood illnesses. plant spacing: the key to water-wise gardening reduced plant density is the essence of dry gardening. the recommended spacings in this section are those i have found workable at elkton, oregon. my dry garden is generally laid out in single rows, the row centers feet apart. some larger crops, like potatoes, tomatoes, beans, and cucurbits (squash, cucumbers, and melons) are allocated more elbow room. those few requiring intensive irrigation are grown on a raised bed, tightly spaced. i cannot prescribe what would be the perfect, most efficient spacing for your garden. are your temperatures lower than mine and evaporation less? or is your weather hotter? does your soil hold more, than less than, or just as much available moisture as mine? is it as deep and open and moisture retentive? to help you compare your site with mine, i give you the following data. my homestead is only miles inland and is always several degrees cooler in summer than the willamette valley. washingtonians and british columbians have cooler days and a greater likelihood of significant summertime rain and so may plant a little closer together. inland gardeners farther south or in the willamette valley may want to spread their plants out a little farther. living on acres, i have virtually unlimited space to garden in. the focus of my recent research has been to eliminate irrigation as much as possible while maintaining food quality. those with thinner soil who are going to depend more on fertigation may plant closer, how close depending on the amount of water available. more irrigation will also give higher per-square-foot yields. _whatever your combination of conditions, your results can only be determined by trial._ i'd suggest you become water-wise by testing a range of spacings. when to plant if you've already been growing an irrigated year-round garden, this book's suggested planting dates may surprise you. and as with spacing, sowing dates must also be wisely adjusted to your location. the planting dates in this chapter are what i follow in my own garden. it is impractical to include specific dates for all the microclimatic areas of the maritime northwest and for every vegetable species. readers are asked to make adjustments by understanding their weather relative to mine. gardeners to the north of me and at higher elevations should make their spring sowings a week or two later than the dates i use. in the garden valley of roseburg and south along i- , start spring plantings a week or two earlier. along the southern oregon coast and in northern california, start three or four weeks sooner than i do. fall comes earlier to the north of me and to higher-elevation gardens; end-of-season growth rates there also slow more profoundly than they do at elkton. summers are cooler along the coast; that has the same effect of slowing late-summer growth. items started after midsummer should be given one or two extra growing weeks by coastal, high-elevation, and northern gardeners. gardeners to the south should sow their late crops a week or two later than i do; along the south oregon coast and in northern california, two to four weeks later than i do. arugula (rocket) the tender, peppery little leaves make winter salads much more interesting. _sowing date:_ i delay sowing until late august or early september so my crowded patch of arugula lasts all winter and doesn't make seed until march. pregerminated seeds emerge fast and strong. sprouted in early october, arugula still may reach eating size in midwinter. _spacing:_ thinly seed a row into any vacant niche. the seedlings will be insignificantly small until late summer. _irrigation:_ if the seedlings suffer a bit from moisture stress they'll catch up rapidly when the fall rains begin. _varieties:_ none. beans of all sorts heirloom pole beans once climbed over considerable competition while vigorously struggling for water, nutrition, and light. modern bush varieties tend to have puny root systems. _sowing date:_ mid-april is the usual time on the umpqua, elsewhere, sow after the danger of frost is over and soil stays over [de]f. if the earth is getting dry by this date, soak the seed overnight before sowing and furrow down to moist soil. however, do not cover the seeds more than inches. _spacing:_ twelve to inches apart at final thinning. allow about [f] / to feet on either side of the trellis to avoid root competition from other plants. _irrigation:_ if part of the garden is sprinkler irrigated, space beans a little tighter and locate the bean trellis toward the outer reach of the sprinkler's throw. due to its height, the trellis tends to intercept quite a bit of water and dumps it at the base. you can also use the bucket-drip method and fertigate the beans, giving about gallons per row-feet once or twice during the summer. pole beans can make a meaningful yield without any irrigation; under severe moisture stress they will survive, but bear little. _varieties:_ any of the pole types seem to do fine. runner beans seem to prefer cooler locations but are every bit as drought tolerant as ordinary snap beans. my current favorites are kentucky wonder white seeded, fortrex (tsc, jss), and musica (tsc). the older heirloom dry beans were mostly pole types. they are reasonably productive if allowed to sprawl on the ground without support. their unirrigated seed yield is lower, but the seed is still plump, tastes great, and sprouts well. compared to unirrigated black coco (tsc), which is my most productive and best-tasting bush cultivar, kentucky wonder brown seeded (sometimes called old homestead) (stk, pea, abl) yields about percent more seed and keeps on growing for weeks after coco has quit. do not bother to fertigate untrellised pole beans grown for dry seed. with the threat of september moisture always looming over dry bean plots, we need to encourage vines to quit setting and dry down. peace seeds and abundant life offer long lists of heirloom vining dry bean varieties. serious self-sufficiency buffs seeking to produced their own legume supply should also consider the fava, garbanzo bean, and alaska pea. many favas can be overwintered: sow in october, sprout on fall rains, grow over the winter, and dry down in june with the soil. garbanzos are grown like mildly frost-tolerant peas. alaska peas are the type used for pea soup. they're spring sown and grown like ordinary shelling peas. avoid overhead irrigation while seeds are drying down. beets beets will root far deeper and wider than most people realize--in uncompacted, nonacid soils. double or triple dig the subsoil directly below the seed row. _sowing date:_ early april at elkton, late march farther south, and as late as april in british columbia. beet seed germinates easily in moist, cool soil. a single sowing may be harvested from june through early march the next year. if properly thinned, good varieties remain tender. _spacing:_ a single row will gradually exhaust subsoil moisture from an area feet wide. when the seedlings are to inches tall, thin carefully to about inch apart. when the edible part is radish size, thin to inches apart and eat the thinings, tops and all. when they've grown to golfball size, thin to inches apart, thin again. when they reach the size of large lemons, thin to foot apart. given this much room and deep, open soil, the beets will continue to grow through the entire summer. hill up some soil over the huge roots early in november to protect them from freezing. _irrigation:_ probably not necessary with over feet of deep, open soil. _varieties:_ i've done best with early wonder tall top; when large, it develops a thick, protective skin and retains excellent eating quality. winterkeepers, normally sown in midsummer with irrigation, tend to bolt prematurely when sown in april. broccoli: italian style italian-style broccoli needs abundant moisture to be tender and make large flowers. given enough elbow room, many varieties can endure long periods of moisture stress, but the smaller, woody, slow-developing florets won't be great eating. without any irrigation, spring-sown broccoli may still be enjoyed in early summer and purple sprouting in march/april after overwintering. _sowing date:_without any irrigation at all, mid-march through early april. with fertigation, also mid-april through mid-may. this later sowing will allow cutting through summer. _spacing:_ brocoli tastes better when big plants grow big, sweet heads. allow a -foot-wide row. space early sowings about feet apart in the row; later sowings slated to mature during summer's heat can use feet. on a fist-sized spot compacted to restore capillarity, sow a little pinch of seed atop a well-and deeply fertilized, double-dug patch of earth. thin gradually to the best single plant by the time three or four true leaves have developed. _irrigation:_ after mid-june, to gallons of drip bucket liquid fertilizer every two to three weeks makes an enormous difference. you'll be surprised at the size of the heads and the quality of side shoots. a fertigated may sowing will be exhausted by october. take a chance: a heavy side-dressing of strong compost or complete organic fertilizer when the rains return may trigger a massive spurt of new, larger heads from buds located below the soil's surface. _varieties:_ many hybrids have weak roots. i'd avoid anything that was "held up on a tall stalk" for mechanical harvest or was "compact" or that "didn't have many side-shoots". go for larger size. territorial's hybrid blend yields big heads for over a month followed by abundant side shoots. old, open-pollinated types like italian sprouting calabrese, decicco, or waltham are highly variable, bushy, with rather coarse, large-beaded flowers, second-rate flavor and many, many side shoots. irrigating gardeners who can start new plants every four weeks from may through july may prefer hybrids. dry gardeners who will want to cut side shoots for as long as possible during summer from large, well-established plants may prefer crude, open-pollinated varieties. try both. broccoli: purple sprouting and other overwintering types _spacing:_ grow like broccoli, to feet apart. _sowing date:_ it is easiest to sow in april or early may, minimally fertigate a somewhat gnarly plant through the summer, push it for size in fall and winter, and then harvest it next march. with too early a start in spring, some premature flowering may occur in autumn; still, massive blooming will resume again in spring. overwintering green italian types such as ml (tsc) will flower in fall if sown before late june. these sorts are better started in a nursery bed around august and like overwintered cauliflower, transplanted about feet apart when fall rains return, then, pushed for growth with extra fertilizer in fall and winter. with nearly a whole year to grow before blooming, purple sprouting eventually reaches to feet in height and to feet in diameter, and yields hugely. _irrigation:_ it is not essential to heavily fertigate purple sprouting, though you may g-r-o-w enormous plants for their beauty. quality or quantity of spring harvest won't drop one bit if the plants become a little stunted and gnarly in summer, as long as you fertilize late in september to spur rapid growth during fall and winter. root system vigor in the cabbage family wild cabbage is a weed and grows like one, able to successfully compete for water against grasses and other herbs. remove all competition with a hoe, and allow this weed to totally control all the moisture and nutrients in all the earth its roots can occupy, and it grows hugely and lushly. just for fun, i once g-r-e-w one, with tillage, hoeing, and spring fertilization but no irrigation; it ended up feet tall and feet in diameter. as this highly moldable family is inbred and shaped into more and more exaggerated forms, it weakens and loses the ability to forage. kale retains the most wild aggressiveness, chinese cabbage perhaps the least. here, in approximately correct order, is shown the declining root vigor and general adaptation to moisture stress of cabbage family vegetables. the table shows the most vigorous at the top, declining as it goes down. adapted to dry gardening not vigorous enough kale italian broccoli (some varieties) brussels sprouts (late types) cabbage (regular market types) late savoy cabbage brussels sprouts (early types) giant "field-type" kohlrabi small "market-garden" kohlrabi mid-season savoy cabbage cauliflower (regular, annual) rutabaga turnips and radishes italian broccoli (some varieties) chinese cabbage brussels sprouts _sowing date:_ if the plants are a foot tall before the soil starts drying down, their roots will be over a foot deep; the plants will then grow hugely with a bit of fertigation. at elkton i dry garden brussels sprouts by sowing late april to early may. started this soon, even late-maturing varieties may begin forming sprouts by september. though premature bottom sprouts will "blow up" and become aphid damaged, more, higher-quality sprouts will continue to form farther up the stalk during autumn and winter. _spacing:_ make each spot about feet apart. _irrigation:_ without any added moisture, the plants will become stunted but will survive all summer. side-dressing manure or fertilizer late in september (or sooner if the rains come sooner) will provoke very rapid autumn growth and a surprisingly large yield from plants that looked stress out in august. if increasingly larger amounts of fertigation can be provided every two to three weeks, the lush brussels sprouts plants can become feet in diameter and feet tall by october and yield enormously. _varieties:_ use late european hybrid types. at elkton, where winters are a little milder than in the willamette, lunet (tsc) has the finest eating qualities. were i farther north i'd grow hardier types like stabolite (tsc) or fortress (tsc). early types are not suitable to growing with insufficient irrigation or frequent spraying to fight off aphids. cabbage forget those delicate, green supermarket cabbages unless you have unlimited amounts of water. but easiest-to-grow savoy types will do surprisingly well with surprisingly little support. besides, savoys are the best salad material. _sowing date:_ i suggest three sowing times: the first, a succession of early, midseason, and late savoys made in mid-march for harvest during summer; the second, late and very late varieties started late april to early may for harvest during fall and winter; the last, a nursery bed of overwintered sorts sown late in august. _spacing:_ early-maturing savoy varieties are naturally smaller and may not experience much hot weather before heading up--these may be separated by about inches. the later ones are large plants and should be given feet of space or square feet of growing room. sow and grow them like broccoli. transplant overwintered cabbages from nursery beds late in october, spaced about feet apart; these thrive where the squash grew. _irrigation:_ the more fertigation you can supply, the larger and more luxuriant the plants and the bigger the heads. but even small, somewhat moisture-stressed savoys make very edible heads. in terms of increased yield for water expended, it is well worth it to provide late varieties with a few gallons of fertigation about mid-june, and a bucketful in mid-july and mid-august. _varieties:_ japanese hybrid savoys make tender eating but may not withstand winter. european savoys are hardier, coarser, thicker-leaved, and harder chewing. for the first sowing i suggest a succession of japanese varieties including salarite or savoy princess for earlies; savoy queen, king, or savoy ace for midsummer; and savonarch (tsc) for late august/early september harvests. they're all great varieties. for the second sowing i grow savonarch (tsc) for september[-]november cutting and a very late european hybrid type like wivoy (tsc) for winter. small-framed january king lacks sufficient root vigor. springtime (tsc) and fem (tsc) are the only overwintered cabbages available. carrots dry-gardening carrots requires patiently waiting until the weather stabilizes before tilling and sowing. to avoid even a little bit of soil compaction, i try to sprout the seed without irrigation but always fear that hot weather will frustrate my efforts. so i till and plant too soon. and then heavy rain comes and compacts my perfectly fluffed-up soil. but the looser and finer the earth remains during their first six growing weeks, the more perfectly the roots will develop. _sowing date:_ april at elkton. _spacing:_ allocate feet of width to a single row of carrot seed. when the seedlings are about inches tall, thin to inch apart. then thin every other carrot when the roots are [f] / to [f] / inch in diameter and eat the thinnings. a few weeks later, when the carrots are about / to inch in diameter, make a final thinning to foot apart. _irrigation:_ not necessary. foliar feeding every few weeks will make much larger roots. without any help they should grow to several pounds each. _varieties:_ choosing the right variety is very important. nantes and other delicate, juicy types lack enough fiber to hold together when they get very large. these split prematurely. i've had my best results with danvers types. i'd also try royal chantenay (pea), fakkel mix (tsc), stokes "processor" types, and topweight (abl). be prepared to experiment with variety. the roots will not be quite as tender as heavily watered nantes types but are a lot better than you'd think. huge carrots are excellent in soups and we cheerfully grate them into salads. something about accumulating sunshine all summer makes the roots incredibly sweet. cauliflower ordinary varieties cannot forage for moisture. worse, moisture stress at any time during the growth cycle prevents proper formation of curds. the only important cauliflowers suitable for dry gardening are overwintered types. i call them important because they're easy to grow and they'll feed the family during april and early may, when other garden fare is very scarce. _sowing date:_ to acquire enough size to survive cold weather, overwintered cauliflower must be started on a nursery bed during the difficult heat of early august. except south of yoncalla, delaying sowing until september makes very small seedlings that may not be hardy enough and likely won't yield much in april unless winter is very mild, encouraging unusual growth. _spacing:_ in october, transplant about feet apart in rows to feet apart. _irrigation:_ if you have more water available, fertilize and till up some dusty, dry soil, wet down the row, direct-seed like broccoli (but closer together), and periodically irrigate until fall. if you only moisten a narrow band of soil close to the seedlings it won't take much water. cauliflower grows especially well in the row that held bush peas. _varieties:_ the best are the very pricy armado series sold by territorial. chard this vegetable is basically a beet with succulent leaves and thick stalks instead of edible, sweet roots. it is just as drought tolerant as a beet, and in dry gardening, chard is sown, spaced, and grown just like a beet. but if you want voluminous leaf production during summer, you may want to fertigate it occasionally. _varieties:_ the red chards are not suitable for starting early in the season; they have a strong tendency to bolt prematurely if sown during that part of the year when daylength is increasing. corn broadcast complete organic fertilizer or strong compost shallowly over the corn patch till midwinter, or as early in spring as the earth can be worked without making too many clods. corn will germinate in pretty rough soil. high levels of nutrients in the subsoil are more important than a fine seedbed. _sowing date:_ about the time frost danger ends. being large seed, corn can be set deep, where soil moisture still exists even after conditions have warmed up. germination without irrigation should be no problem. _spacing_: the farther south, the farther apart. entirely without irrigation, i've had fine results spacing individual corn plants feet apart in rows feet apart, or square feet per each plant. were i around puget sound or in b.c. i'd try feet apart in rows inches apart. gary nabhan describes papago gardeners in arizona growing individual cornstalks feet apart. grown on wide spacings, corn tends to tiller (put up multiple stalks, each making one or two ears). for most urban and suburban gardeners, space is too valuable to allocate square feet for producing one or at best three or four ears. _irrigation:_ with normal sprinkler irrigation, corn may be spaced inches apart in rows inches apart, still yielding one or two ears per stalk. _varieties:_ were i a devoted sweetcorn eater without enough irrigation, i'd be buying a few dozen freshly picked ears from the back of a pickup truck parked on a corner during local harvest season. were i a devoted corn grower without any irrigation, i'd be experimenting with various types of field corn instead of sweet corn. were i a self-sufficiency buff trying earnestly to produce all my own cereal, i'd accept that the maritime northwest is a region where survivalists will eat wheat, rye, millet, and other small grains. many varieties of field corn are nearly as sweet as ordinary sweet corn, but grain varieties become starchy and tough within hours of harvest. eaten promptly, "pig" corn is every bit as tasty as jubilee. i've had the best dry-garden results with northstine dent (jss) and garland flint (jss). hookers sweet indian (tsc) has a weak root system. successfully starting cucurbits from seed with cucurbits, germination depends on high-enough soil temperature and not too much moisture. squash are the most chill and moisture tolerant, melons the least. here's a failure-proof and simple technique that ensures you'll plant at exactly the right time. cucumbers, squash, and melons are traditionally sown atop a deeply dug, fertilized spot that usually looks like a little mound after it is worked and is commonly called a hill. about two weeks before the last anticipated frost date in your area, plant five or six squash seeds about inches deep in a clump in the very center of that hill. then, a week later, plant another clump at o'clock. in another week, plant another clump at o'clock, and continue doing this until one of the sowings sprouts. probably the first try won't come up, but the hill will certainly germinate several clumps of seedlings. if weather conditions turn poor, a later-to-sprout group may outgrow those that came up earlier. thin gradually to the best single plant by the time the vines are running. when the first squash seeds appear it is time to begin sowing cucumbers, starting a new batch each week until one emerges. when the cucumbers first germinate, it's time to try melons. approaching cucurbits this way ensures that you'll get the earliest possible germination while being protected against the probability that cold, damp weather will prevent germination or permanently spoil the growth prospects of the earlier seedlings. cucumbers _sowing date:_ about may to at elkton. _spacing:_ most varieties usually run five about feet from the hill. space the hills about to feet apart in all directions. _irrigation:_ like melons. regular and increasing amounts of fertigation will increase the yield several hundred percent. _varieties:_ i've had very good results dry-gardening amira ii (tsc), even without any fertigation at all. it is a middle eastern[-]style variety that makes pickler-size thin-skinned cukes that need no peeling and have terrific flavor. the burpless or japanese sorts don't seem to adapt well to drought. most slicers dry-garden excellently. apple or lemon are similar novelty heirlooms that make very extensive vines with aggressive roots and should be given a foot or two more elbow room. i'd avoid any variety touted as being for pot or patio, compact, or short-vined, because of a likely linkage between its vine structure and root system. eggplant grown without regular sprinkler irrigation, eggplant seems to get larger and yield sooner and more abundantly. i suspect this delicate and fairly drought-resistant tropical species does not like having its soil temperature lowered by frequent watering. _sowing date:_ set out transplants at the usual time, about two weeks after the tomatoes, after all frost danger has passed and after nights have stably warmed up above degree f. _spacing:_ double dig and deeply fertilize the soil under each transplant. separate plants by about feet in rows about feet apart. _irrigation:_ will grow and produce a few fruit without any watering, but a bucket of fertigation every three to four weeks during summer may result in the most luxurious, hugest, and heaviest-bearing eggplants you've ever grown. _varieties:_ i've noticed no special varietal differences in ability to tolerate dryish soil. i've had good yields from the regionally adapted varieties dusky hybrid, short tom, and early one. endive a biennial member of the chicory family, endive quickly puts down a deep taproot and is naturally able to grow through prolonged drought. because endive remains bitter until cold weather, it doesn't matter if it grows slowly through summer, just so long as rapid leaf production resumes in autumn. _sowing date:_ on irrigated raised beds endive is sown around august and heads by mid-october. the problem with dry-gardened endive is that if it is spring sown during days of increasing daylength when germination of shallow-sown small seed is a snap, it will bolt prematurely. the crucial moment seems to be about june . april/may sowings bolt in july/august,: after june , bolting won't happen until the next spring, but germination won't happen without watering. one solution is soaking the seeds overnight, rinsing them frequently until they begin to sprout, and fluid drilling them. _spacing:_ the heads become huge when started in june. sow in rows feet apart and thin gradually until the rosettes are inches in diameter, then thin to inches apart. _irrigation:_ without a drop of moisture the plants, even as tiny seedlings, will grow steadily but slowly all summer, as long as no other crop is invading their root zone. the only time i had trouble was when the endive row was too close to an aggressive row of yellow crookneck squash. about august, the squash roots began invading the endive's territory and the endive got wilty. a light side-dressing of complete organic fertilizer or compost in late september will grow the hugest plants imaginable. _varieties:_ curly types seem more tolerant to rain and frost during winter than broad-leaf batavian varieties. i prefer president (tsc). herbs most perennial and biennial herbs are actually weeds and wild hillside shrubs from mediterranean climates similar to that of southern california. they are adapted to growing on winter rainfall and surviving seven to nine months without rainfall every summer. in our climate, merely giving them a little more elbow room than usually offered, thorough weeding, and side-dressing the herb garden with a little compost in fall is enough coddling. annuals such as dill and cilantro are also very drought tolerant. basil, however, needs considerable moisture. kale depending on the garden for a significant portion of my annual caloric intake has gradually refined my eating habits. years ago i learned to like cabbage salads as much as lettuce. since lettuce freezes out many winters ( - degree f), this adjustment has proved very useful. gradually i began to appreciate kale, too, and now value it as a salad green far more than cabbage. this personal adaptation has proved very pro-survival, because even savoy cabbages do not grow as readily or yield nearly as much as kale. and kale is a tad more cold hardy than even savoy cabbage. you may be surprised to learn that kale produces more complete protein per area occupied per time involved than any legume, including alfalfa. if it is steamed with potatoes and then mashed, the two vegetables complement and flavor each other. our region could probably subsist quite a bit more healthfully than at present on potatoes and kale. the key to enjoying kale as a salad component is varietal choice, preparation, and using the right parts of the plant. read on. _sowing date:_ with irrigation, fast-growing kale is usually started in midsummer for use in fall and winter. but kale is absolutely biennial--started in march or april, it will not bolt until the next spring. the water-wise gardener can conveniently sow kale while cool, moist soil simplifies germination. starting this early also produces a deep root system before the soil dries much, and a much taller, very useful central stalk on oleracea types, while early sown siberian (napa) varieties tend to form multiple rosettes by autumn, also useful at harvest time. _spacing: _grow like broccoli, spaced feet apart. _irrigation:_ without any water, the somewhat stunted plants will survive the summer to begin rapid growth as soon as fall rains resume. with the help of occasional fertigation they grow lushly and are enormous by september. either way, there still will be plenty of kale during fall and winter. _harvest:_ bundles of strong-flavored, tough, large leaves are sold in supermarkets but are the worst-eating part of the plant. if chopped finely enough, big raw leaves can be masticated and tolerated by people with good teeth. however, the tiny leaves are far tenderer and much milder. the more rosettes developed on siberian kales, the more little leaves there are to be picked. by pinching off the central growing tip in october and then gradually stripping off the large shading leaves, _oleracea_ varieties may be encouraged to put out dozens of clusters of small, succulent leaves at each leaf notch along the central stalk. the taller the stalk grown during summer, the more of these little leaves there will be. only home gardeners can afford the time to hand pick small leaves. _varieties:_ i somewhat prefer the flavor of red russian to the ubiquitous green siberian, but red russian is very slightly less cold hardy. westland winter (tsc) and konserva (jss) are tall european oleracea varieties. winterbor f (jss, tsc) is also excellent. the dwarf "scotch" kales, blue or green, sold by many american seed companies are less vigorous types that don't produce nearly as many gourmet little leaves. dwarfs in any species tend to have dwarfed root systems. kohlrabi (giant) spring-sown market kohlrabi are usually harvested before hot weather makes them get woody. irrigation is not required if they're given a little extra elbow room. with ordinary varieties, try thinning to inches apart in rows to feet apart and harvest by thinning alternate plants. given this additional growing room, they may not get woody until midsummer. on my irrigated, intensive bed i always sow some more on august , to have tender bulbs in autumn. kohlrabi was once grown as european fodder crop; slow-growing farmers, varieties grow huge like rutabagas. these field types have been crossed with table types to make "giant" table varieties that really suit dry gardening. what to do with a giant kohlrabi (or any bulb getting overblown)? peel, grate finely, add chopped onion, dress with olive oil and black pepper, toss, and enjoy this old eastern european mainstay. _sowing date:_ sow giant varieties during april, as late as possible while still getting a foot-tall plant before really hot weather. _spacing:_ thin to feet apart in rows feet apart. _irrigation:_ not absolutely necessary on deep soil, but if they get one or two thorough fertigations during summer their size may double. _varieties:_ a few american seed companies, including peace seeds, have a giant kohlrabi of some sort or other. the ones i've tested tend to be woody, are crude, and throw many off-types, a high percentage of weak plants, and/or poorly shaped roots. by the time this book is in print, territorial should list a unique swiss variety called superschmeltz, which is uniformly huge and stays tender into the next year. leeks unwatered spring-sown bulbing onions are impossible. leek is the only allium i know of that may grow steadily but slowly through severe drought; the water-short gardener can depend on leeks for a fall/winter onion supply. _sowing date:_ start a row or several short rows about inches apart on a nursery bed in march or early april at the latest. grow thickly, irrigate during may/june, and fertilize well so the competing seedlings get leggy. _spacing:_ by mid-to late june the seedlings should be slightly spindly, pencil-thick, and scallion size. with a sharp shovel, dig out the nursery row, carefully retaining or inches of soil below the seedlings. with a strong jet of water, blast away the soil and, while doing this, gently separate the tangled roots so that as little damage is done as possible. make sure the roots don't dry out before transplanting. after separation, i temporarily wrap bundled seedlings in wet newspaper. dig out a foot-deep trench the width of an ordinary shovel and carefully place this earth next to the trench. sprinkle in a heavy dose of organic fertilizer or strong compost, and spade that in so the soil is fluffy and fertile feet down. do not immediately refill the trench with the soil that was dug out. with a shovel handle, poke a row of -inch-deep holes along the bottom of the trench. if the nursery bed has grown well there should be about inches of stem on each seedling before the first leaf attaches. if the weather is hot and sunny, snip off about one-third to one-half the leaf area to reduce transplanting shock. drop one leek seedling into each hole up to the point that the first leaf attaches to the stalk, and mud it in with a cup or two of liquid fertilizer. as the leeks grow, gradually refill the trench and even hill up soil around the growing plants. this makes the better-tasting white part of the stem get as long as possible. avoid getting soil into the center of the leek where new leaves emerge, or you'll not get them clean after harvest. spacing of the seedlings depends on the amount of irrigation. if absolutely none at all, set them inches apart in the center of a row feet wide. if unlimited water is available, give them inches of separation. or adjust spacing to the water available. the plants grow slowly through summer, but in autumn growth will accelerate, especially if they are side-dressed at this time. _varieties:_ for dry gardening use the hardier, more vigorous winter leeks. durabel (tsc) has an especially mild, sweet flavor. other useful varieties include giant carentian (abl), alaska (stk), and winter giant (pea). lettuce spring-sown lettuce will go to large sizes, remaining sweet and tender without irrigation if spaced foot apart in a single row with feet of elbow room on each side. lettuce cut after mid-june usually gets bitter without regular, heavy irrigation. i reserve my well-watered raised bed for this summer salad crop. those very short of water can start fall/winter lettuce in a shaded, irrigated nursery bed mid-august through mid-september and transplant it out after the fall rains return. here is one situation in which accelerating growth with cloches or cold frames would be very helpful. water-wise cucurbits the root systems of this family are far more extensive than most people realize. usually a taproot goes down several feet and then, soil conditions permitting, thickly occupies a large area, ultimately reaching down to feet. shallow feeder roots also extend laterally as far as or farther than the vines reach at their greatest extent. dry gardeners can do several things to assist cucurbits. first, make sure there is absolutely no competition in their root zone. this means[i]one plant per hill, with the hills separated in all directions a little farther than the greatest possible extent of the variety's ultimate growth.[i] common garden lore states that squashes droop their leaves in midsummer heat and that this trait cannot be avoided and does no harm. but if they've grown as described above, on deep, open soil, capillarity and surface moisture reserves ensure there usually will be no midday wilting, even if there is no watering. two plants per hill do compete and make each other wilt. second, double dig and fertilize the entire lateral root zone. third, as much as possible, avoid walking where the vines will ultimately reach to avoid compaction. finally, [i]do not transplant them.[i] this breaks the taproot and makes the plant more dependent on lateral roots seeking moisture in the top inches of soil. melons _sowing date:_ as soon as they'll germinate outdoors: at elkton, may to june . thin to a single plant per hill when there are about three true leaves and the vines are beginning to run. _spacing:_ most varieties will grow a vine reaching about feet in diameter. space the hills feet apart in all directions. _irrigation:_ fertigation every two to three weeks will increase the yield by two or three times and may make the melons sweeter. release the water/fertilizer mix close to the center of the vine, where the taproot can use it. _varieties:_ adaptation to our cool climate is critical with melons; use varieties sold by our regional seed companies. yellow doll watermelons (tsc) are very early and seem the most productive under the most droughty conditions. i've had reasonable results from most otherwise regionally adapted cantaloupes and muskmelons. last year a new hybrid variety, passport (tsc), proved several weeks earlier than i'd ever experienced and was extraordinarily prolific and tasty. onions/scallions the usual spring-sown, summer-grown bulb onions and scallions only work with abundant irrigation. but the water-short, water-wise gardener can still supply the kitchen with onions or onion substitutes year-round. leeks take care of november through early april. overwintered bulb onions handle the rest of the year. scallions may also be harvested during winter. _sowing date:_ started too soon, overwintered or short-day bulbing onions (and sweet scallions) will bolt and form seed instead of bulbing. started too late they'll be too small and possibly not hardy enough to survive winter. about august at elkton i sow thickly in a well-watered and very fertile nursery bed. if you have more than one nursery row, separate them about by inches. those who miss this window of opportunity can start transplants in early october and cover with a cloche immediately after germination, to accelerate seedling growth during fall and early winter. start scallions in a nursery just like overwintered onions, but earlier so they're large enough for the table during winter, i sow them about mid-july. _spacing:_ when seedlings are about pencil thick (december/january for overwintering bulb onions), transplant them about or inches apart in a single row with a couple of feet of elbow room on either side. i've found i get the best growth and largest bulbs if they follow potatoes. after the potatoes are dug in early october i immediately fertilize the area heavily and till, preparing the onion bed. klamath basin farmers usually grow a similar rotation: hay, potatoes, onions. transplant scallions in october with the fall rains, about inch apart in rows at least feet apart. _irrigation:_ not necessary. however, side-dressing the transplants will result in much larger bulbs or scallions. scallions will bolt in april; the bulbers go tops-down and begin drying down as the soil naturally dries out. _varieties:_ i prefer the sweet and tender lisbon (tsc) for scallions. for overwintered bulb onions, grow very mild but poorly keeping walla walla sweet (jss), buffalo (tsc), a better keeper, or whatever territorial is selling at present. parsley _sowing date:_ march. parsley seed takes two to three weeks to germinate. _spacing:_ thin to inches apart in a single row feet wide. five plants should overwhelm the average kitchen. _irrigation:_ not necessary unless yield falls off during summer and that is very unlikely. parsley's very deep, foraging root system resembles that of its relative, the carrot. _varieties:_ if you use parsley for greens, variety is not critical, though the gourmet may note slight differences in flavor or amount of leaf curl. another type of parsley is grown for edible roots that taste much like parsnip. these should have their soil prepared as carefully as though growing carrots. peas this early crop matures without irrigation. both pole and bush varieties are planted thickly in single rows about feet apart. i always overlook some pods, which go on to form mature seed. without overhead irrigation, this seed will sprout strongly next year. alaska (soup) peas grow the same way. peppers pepper plants on raised beds spaced the usually recommended to inches apart undergo intense root competition even before their leaves form a canopy. with or without unlimited irrigation, the plants will get much larger and bear more heavily with elbow room. _sowing date:_ set out transplants at the usual time. double dig a few square feet of soil beneath each seedling, and make sure fertilizer gets incorporated all the way down to feet deep. _spacing:_ three feet apart in rows to feet apart. _irrigation:_ without any irrigation only the most vigorous, small-fruited varieties will set anything. for an abundant harvest, fertigate every three or four weeks. for the biggest pepper plants you ever grew, fertigate every two weeks. _varieties:_ the small-fruited types, both hot and sweet, have much more aggressive root systems and generally adapt better to our region's cool weather. i've had best results with cayenne long slim, gypsie, surefire, hot portugal, the "cherries" both sweet and hot, italian sweet, and petite sirah. potatoes humans domesticated potatoes in the cool, arid high plateaus of the andes where annual rainfall averages to inches. the species finds our dry summer quite comfortable. potatoes produce more calories per unit of land than any other temperate crop. irrigated potatoes yield more calories and two to three times as much watery bulk and indigestible fiber as those grown without irrigation, but the same variety dry gardened can contain about percent more protein, far more mineral nutrients, and taste better. _sowing date:_ i make two sowings. the first is a good-luck ritual done religiously on march th--st. patrick's day. rain or shine, in untilled mud or finely worked and deeply fluffed earth, i still plant or seed potatoes of an early variety. this provides for summer. the main sowing waits until frost is unlikely and i can dig the potato rows at least inches deep with a spading fork, working in fertilizer as deeply as possible and ending up with a finely pulverized -inch-wide bed. at elkton, this is usually mid-to late april. there is no rush to plant. potato vines are not frost hardy. if frosted they'll regrow, but being burned back to the ground lowers the final yield. _spacing:_ i presprout my seeds by spreading them out in daylight at room temperature for a few weeks, and then plant one whole, sprouting, medium-size potato every inches down the center of the row. barely cover the seed potato. at maturity there should be [f] / to feet of soil unoccupied with the roots of any other crop on each side of the row. as the vines emerge, gradually scrape soil up over them with a hoe. let the vines grow about inches, then pull up about inches of cover. let another inches grow, then hill up another inches. continue doing this until the vines begin blooming. at that point there should be a mound of loose, fluffy soil about to inches high gradually filling with tubers lushly covered with blooming vines. _irrigation:_ not necessary. in fact, if large water droplets compact the loose soil you scraped up, that may interfere with maximum tuber enlargement. however, after the vines are a foot long or so, foliar feeding every week or days will increase the yield. _varieties:_ the water-wise gardener's main potato problem is too-early maturity, and then premature sprouting in storage. early varieties like yukon gold--even popular midseason ones like yellow finn--don't keep well unless they're planted late enough to brown off in late september. that's no problem if they're irrigated. but planted in late april, earlier varieties will shrivel by august. potatoes only keep well when very cool, dark, and moist--conditions almost impossible to create on the homestead during summer. the best august compromise is to leave mature potatoes undug, but soil temperatures are in the s during august, and by early october, when potatoes should be lifted and put into storage, they'll already be sprouting. sprouting in october is acceptable for the remainders of my st. pat's day sowing that i am keeping over for seed next spring. it is not ok for my main winter storage crop. our climate requires very late, slow-maturing varieties that can be sown early but that don't brown off until september. late types usually yield more, too. most of the seed potato varieties found in garden centers are early or midseason types chosen by farmers for yield without regard to flavor or nutrition. one, nooksack cascadian, is a very late variety grown commercially around bellingham, washington. nooksack is pretty good if you like white, all-purpose potatoes. there are much better homegarden varieties available in ronniger's catalog, all arranged according to maturity. for the ultimate in earlies i suggest red gold. for main harvests i'd try indian pit, carole, german butterball, siberian, or a few experimental row-feet of any other late variety taking your fancy. rutabagas rutabagas have wonderfully aggressive root systems and are capable of growing continuously through long, severe drought. but where i live, the results aren't satisfactory. here's what happens. if i start rutabagas in early april and space them about to feet apart in rows feet apart, by october they're the size of basketballs and look pretty good; unfortunately, i harvest a hollow shell full of cabbage root maggots. root maggots are at their peak in early june. that's why i got interested in dry-gardening giant kohlrabi. in we had about surprising inches of rain late in june, so as a test i sowed rutabagas on july . they germinated without more irrigation, but going into the hot summer as small plants with limited root systems and no irrigation at all they became somewhat stunted. by october the tops were still small and a little gnarly; big roots had not yet formed. then the rains came and the rutabagas began growing rapidly. by november there was a pretty nice crop of medium-size good-eating roots. i suspect that farther north, where evaporation is not so severe and midsummer rains are slightly more common, if a little irrigation were used to start rutabagas about july , a decent unwatered crop might be had most years. and i am certain that if sown at the normal time (july ) and grown with minimal irrigation but well spaced out, they'll produce acceptably. _varieties:_ stokes altasweet (stk, tsc) has the best flavor. sorrel this weed-like, drought-tolerant salad green is little known and underappreciated. in summer the leaves get tough and strong flavored; if other greens are available, sorrel will probably be unpicked. that's ok. during fall, winter, and spring, sorrel's lemony taste and delicate, tender texture balance tougher savoy cabbage and kale and turn those crude vegetables into very acceptable salads. serious salad-eating families might want the production of to row-feet. _sowing date:_ the first year you grow sorrel, sow mid-march to mid-april. the tiny seed must be placed shallowly, and it sprouts much more readily when the soil stays moist. plant a single furrow centered in a row feet wide. _spacing: _as the seedlings grow, thin gradually. when the leaves are about the size of ordinary spinach, individual plants should be about inches apart. _irrigation:_ not necessary in summer--you won't eat it anyway. if production lags in fall, winter, or spring, side-dress the sorrel patch with a little compost or organic fertilizer. _maintenance:_ sorrel is perennial. if an unusually harsh winter freeze kills off the leaves it will probably come back from root crowns in early spring. you'll welcome it after losing the rest of your winter crops. in spring of the second and succeeding years sorrel will make seed. seed making saps the plant's energy, and the seeds may naturalize into an unwanted weed around the garden. so, before any seed forms, cut all the leaves and seed stalks close to the ground; use the trimmings as a convenient mulch along the row. if you move the garden or want to relocate the patch, do not start sorrel again from seed. in any season dig up a few plants, divide the root masses, trim off most of the leaves to reduce transplanting shock, and transplant foot apart. occasional unique plants may be more reluctant to make seed stalks than most others. since seed stalks produce few edible leaves and the leaves on them are very harsh flavored, making seed is an undesirable trait. so i propagate only seed-shy plants by root cuttings. spinach spring spinach is remarkably more drought tolerant than it would appear from its delicate structure and the succulence of its leaves. a bolt-resistant, long-day variety bred for summer harvest sown in late april may still yield pickable leaves in late june or even early july without any watering at all, if thinned to inches apart in rows feet apart. squash, winter and summer _sowing date:_ having warm-enough soil is everything. at elkton i first attempt squash about april . in the willamette, may is usual. farther north, squash may not come up until june . dry gardeners should not transplant squash; the taproot must not be broken. _spacing:_ the amount of room to give each plant depends on the potential of a specific variety's maximum root development. most vining winter squash can completely occupy a -foot-diameter circle. sprawly heirloom summer squash varieties can desiccate an -or -foot-diameter circle. thin each hill to one plant, not two or more as is recommended in the average garden book. there must be no competition for water. _irrigation:_ with winter storage types, an unirrigated vine may yield pounds of squash after occupying a -foot-diameter circle for an entire growing season. however, starting about july , if you support that vine by supplying liquid fertilizer every two to three weeks you may harvest pounds of squash from the same area. the first fertigation may only need gallons. then mid-july give ; about august , ; august , feed gallons. after that date, solar intensity and temperatures decline, growth rate slows, and water use also decreases. on september i'd add about gallons and about more on september if it hadn't yet rained significantly. total water: gallons. total increase in yield: pounds. i'd say that's a good return on water invested. _varieties:_ for winter squash, all the vining winter varieties in the c. maxima or c. pepo family seem acceptably adapted to dry gardening. these include buttercup, hubbard, delicious, sweet meat, delicata, spaghetti, and acorn. i wouldn't trust any of the newer compact bush winter varieties so popular on raised beds. despite their reputation for drought tolerance c. mixta varieties (or cushaw squash) were believed to be strictly hot desert or humid-tropical varieties, unable to mature in our cool climate. however, pepita (pea) is a mixta that is early enough and seems entirely unbothered by a complete lack of irrigation. the enormous vine sets numerous good keepers with mild-tasting, light yellow flesh. obviously, the compact bush summer squash varieties so popular these days are not good candidates for withstanding long periods without irrigation. the old heirlooms like black zucchini (abl) (not black beauty!) and warty yellow crookneck grow enormous, high-yielding plants whose extent nearly rivals that of the largest winter squash. they also grow a dense leaf cover, making the fruit a little harder to find. these are the only american heirlooms still readily available. black zucchini has become very raggedy; anyone growing it should be prepared to plant several vines and accept that at least one-third of them will throw rather off-type fruit. it needs the work of a skilled plant breeder. yellow crookneck is still a fairly "clean" variety offering good uniformity. both have more flavor and are less watery than the modern summer squash varieties. yellow crookneck is especially rich, probably due to its thick, oily skin; most gardeners who once grow the old crookneck never again grow any other kind. another useful drought-tolerant variety is gem, sometimes called rolet (tsc). it grows an extensive winter-squash-like vine yielding grapefruit-size, excellent eating summer squash. both yellow crookneck and black zucchini begin yielding several weeks later than the modern hybrids. however, as the summer goes on they will produce quite a bit more squash than new hybrid types. i now grow five or six fully irrigated early hybrid plants like seneca zucchini too. as soon as my picking bucket is being filled with later-to-yield crooknecks, i pull out the senecas and use the now empty irrigated space for fall crops. tomato there's no point in elaborate methods--trellising, pruning, or training--with dry-gardened tomato vines. their root systems must be allowed to control all the space they can without competition, so allow the vines to sprawl as well. and pruning the leaf area of indeterminates is counterproductive: to grow hugely, the roots need food from a full complement of leaves. _sowing date:_ set out transplants at the usual time. they might also be jump started under cloches two to three weeks before the last frost, to make better use of natural soil moisture. _spacing:_ depends greatly on variety. the root system can occupy as much space as the vines will cover and then some. _irrigation:_ especially on determinate varieties, periodic fertigation will greatly increase yield and size of fruit. the old indeterminate sprawlers will produce through an entire summer without any supplemental moisture, but yield even more in response to irrigation. _variety:_ with or without irrigation or anywhere in between, when growing tomatoes west of the cascades, nothing is more important than choosing the right variety. not only does it have to be early and able to set and ripen fruit when nights are cool, but to grow through months without watering the plant must be highly indeterminate. this makes a built-in conflict: most of the sprawly, huge, old heirloom varieties are rather late to mature. but cherry tomatoes are always far earlier than big slicers. if i had to choose only one variety it would be the old heirloom [large] red cherry. a single plant is capable of covering a - to -foot-diameter circle if fertigated from mid-july through august. the enormous yield of a single fertigated vine is overwhelming. red cherry is a little acid and tart. non-acid, indeterminate cherry types like sweetie, sweet , and sweet millions are also workable but not as aggressive as red cherry. i wouldn't depend on most bush cherry tomato varieties. but our earliest cherry variety of all, osu's gold nugget, must grow a lot more root than top, for, with or without supplemental water, gold nugget sets heavily and ripens enormously until mid-august, when it peters out from overbearing (not from moisture stress). gold nugget quits just about when the later cherry or slicing tomatoes start ripening heavily. other well-adapted early determinates such as oregon spring and santiam may disappoint you. unless fertigated, they'll set and ripen some fruit but may become stunted in midsummer. however, a single indeterminate fantastic hybrid will cover a -to -foot-diameter circle, and grow and ripen tomatoes until frost with only a minimum of water. i think stupice (abl, tsc) and early cascade are also quite workable (and earlier than fantastic in washington). chapter my own garden plan this chapter illustrates and explains my own dry garden. any garden plan is a product of compromises and preferences; mine is not intended to become yours. but, all modesty aside, this plan results from continuous years of serious vegetable gardening and some small degree of regional wisdom. my wife and i are what i dub "vegetablitarians." not vegetarians, or lacto-ovo vegetarians because we're not ideologues and eat meat on rare, usually festive occasions in other peoples' houses. but over percent of our calories are from vegetable, fruit, or cereal sources and the remaining percentage is from fats or dairy foods. the purpose of my garden is to provide at least half the actual calories we eat year-round; most of the rest comes from home-baked bread made with freshly ground whole grains. i put at least one very large bowl of salad on the table every day, winter and summer. i keep us in potatoes nine months a year and produce a year's supply of onions or leeks. to break the dietary monotony of november to april, i grow as wide an assortment of winter vegetables as possible and put most produce departments to shame from june through september, when the summer vegies are "on." the garden plan may seem unusually large, but in accordance with solomon's first law of abundance, there's a great deal of intentional waste. my garden produces two to three times the amount of food needed during the year so moochers, poachers, guests, adult daughters accompanied by partners, husbands, and children, mistakes, poor yields, and failures of individual vegetables are inconsequential. besides, gardening is fun. my garden is laid out in -foot-long rows and one equally long raised bed. each row grows only one or two types of vegetables. the central focus of my water-wise garden is its irrigation system. two lines of low-angle sprinklers, only feet apart, straddle an intensively irrigated raised bed running down the center of the garden. the sprinklers i use are naans, a unique israeli design that emits very little water and throws at a very low angle (available from tsc and some garden centers). their maximum reach is about feet; each sprinkler is about feet from its neighbor. on the garden plan, the sprinklers are indicated by a circle surrounding an "x." readers unfamiliar with sprinkler system design are advised to study the irrigation chapter in growing vegetables west of the cascades. on the far left side of the garden plan is a graphic representation of the uneven application of water put down by this sprinkler system. the -foot-wide raised bed gets lots of water, uniformly distributed. farther away, the amount applied decreases rapidly. about half as much irrigation lands only feet from the edge of the raised bed as on the bed itself. beyond that the amount tapers off to insignificance. during summer's heat the farthest feet is barely moistened on top, but no water effectively penetrates the dry surface. crops are positioned according to their need for or ability to benefit from supplementation. for convenient description i've numbered those rows. the raised bed crops demanding the most water are grown on the raised bed. these include a succession of lettuce plantings designed to fill the summer salad bowl, summer spinach, spring kohlrabi, my celery patch, scallions, chinese cabbages, radishes, and various nursery beds that start overwintered crops for transplanting later. perhaps the bed seems too large just for salad greens. but one entire meal every day consists largely of fresh, raw, high-protein green leaves; during summer, looseleaf or semiheading lettuce is our salad item of choice. and our individual salad bowls are larger than most families of six might consider adequate to serve all of them together. if water were severely rationed i could irrigate the raised bed with hose and nozzle and dry garden the rest, but as it is, rows , , , and do get significant but lesser amounts from the sprinklers. most of the rows hold a single plant family needing similar fertilization and handling or, for convenience, that are sown at the same time. row the row's center is about feet from the edge of the raised bed. in march i sow my very first salad greens down half this row--mostly assorted leaf lettuce plus some spinach--and six closely spaced early seneca hybrid zucchini plants. the greens are all cut by mid-june; by mid-july my better-quality yellow crookneck squash come on, so i pull the zucchini. then i till that entire row, refertilize, and sow half to rutabagas. the nursery bed of leek seedlings has gotten large enough to transplant at this time, too. these go into a trench dug into the other half of the row. the leeks and rutabagas could be reasonably productive located farther from the sprinklers, but no vegetables benefit more from abundant water or are more important to a self-sufficient kitchen. rutabagas break the winter monotony of potatoes; leeks vitally improve winter salads, and leeky soups are a household staple from november through march. row : semi-drought tolerant brassicas row gets about half the irrigation of row and about one-third as much as the raised bed, and so is wider, to give the roots more room. one-third of the row grows savoy cabbage, the rest, brussels sprouts. these brassicas are spaced feet apart and by summer's end the lusty sprouts form a solid hedge feet tall. row : kale row grows feet of various kales sown in april. there's just enough overspray to keep the plants from getting gnarly. i prefer kale to not get very stunted, if only for aesthetics: on my soil, one vanity fertigation about mid-july keeps this row looking impressive all summer. other gardens with poorer soil might need more support. this much kale may seem an enormous oversupply, but between salads and steaming greens with potatoes we manage to eat almost all the tender small leaves it grows during winter. row : root crops mostly carrots, a few beets. no irrigation, no fertigation, none needed. one hundred carrots weighing in at around pounds each and -some beets of equal magnitude make our year's supply for salads, soups, and a little juicing. row : dry-gardened salads this row holds a few crowns of french sorrel, a few feet of parsley. over a dozen giant kohlrabi are spring sown, but over half the row grows endive. i give this row absolutely no water. again, when contemplating the amount of space it takes, keep in mind that this endive and kohlrabi must help fill our salad bowls from october through march. row : peas, overwintered cauliflower, and all solanaceae half the row grows early bush peas. without overhead irrigation to bother them, unpicked pods form seed that sprouts excellently the next year. this half of the row is rotary tilled and fertilized again after the pea vines come out. then it stays bare through july while capillarity somewhat recharges the soil. about august , i wet the row's surface down with hose and fan nozzle and sow overwintered cauliflower seed. to keep the cauliflower from stunting i must lightly hand sprinkle the row's center twice weekly through late september. were water more restricted i could start my cauliflower seedlings in a nursery bed and transplant them here in october. the other half is home to the solanaceae: tomato, pepper, and eggplant. i give this row a little extra width because pea vines run, and i fertigate my solanaceae, preferring sprawly tomato varieties that may cover an -foot-diameter circle. there's also a couple of extra bare feet along the outside because the neighboring grasses will deplete soil moisture along the edge of the garden. row : water-demanding brassicas moving away from irrigation on the other side of the raised bed, i grow a succession of hybrid broccoli varieties and late fall cauliflower. the broccoli is sown several times, row-feet each sowing, done about april , june , and july . the late cauliflower goes in about july . if necessary i could use much of this row for quick crops that would be harvested before i wanted to sow broccoli or cauliflower, but i don't need more room. the first sowings of broccoli are pulled out early enough to permit succession sowings of arugula or other late salad greens. row : the trellis here i erect a -foot-long, -foot-tall net trellis for gourmet delicacies like pole peas and pole beans. the bean vines block almost all water that would to on beyond it and so this row gets more irrigation than it otherwise might. the peas are harvested early enough to permit a succession sowing of purple sprouting broccoli in mid-july. purple sprouting needs a bit of sprinkling to germinate in the heat of midsummer, but, being as vigorous as kale, once up, it grows adequately on the overspray from the raised bed. the beans would be overwhelmingly abundant if all were sown at one time, so i plant them in two stages about three weeks apart. still, a great many beans go unpicked. these are allowed to form seed, are harvested before they quite dry, and crisp under cover away from the sprinklers. we get enough seed from this row for planting next year, plus all the dry beans we care to eat during winter. dry beans are hard to digest and as we age we eat fewer and fewer of them. in previous years i've grown entire rows of dry legume seeds at the garden's edge. row : cucurbits this row is so wide because here are grown all the spreading cucurbits. the pole beans in row tend to prevent overspray; this dryness is especially beneficial to humidity-sensitive melons, serendipitously reducing their susceptability to powdery mildew diseases. all cucurbits are fertigated every three weeks. the squash will have fallen apart by the end of september, melons are pulled out by mid-september. the area is then tilled and fertilized, making space to transplant overwintered spring cabbages, other overwintered brassicas, and winter scallions in october. these transplants are dug from nurseries on the irrigated raised bed. i could also set cold frames here and force tender salad greens all winter. row : unirrigated potatoes this single long row satisfies a potato-loving household all winter. the quality of these dry-gardened tubers is so high that my wife complains if she must buy a few new potatoes from the supermarket after our supplies have become so sprouty and/or shriveled that they're not tasty any longer. chapter the backyard water-wise gardener i am an unusually fortunate gardener. after seven years of struggling on one of the poorest growing sites in this region we now live on acres of mostly excellent, deep soil, on the floor of a beautiful, coastal oregon valley. my house and gardens are perched safely above the -year flood line, there's a big, reliable well, and if i ever want more than gallons per minute in midsummer, there's the virtually unlimited umpqua river to draw from. much like a master skeet shooter who uses a . to make the sport more interesting, i have chosen to dry garden. few are this lucky. these days the majority of north americans live an urban struggle. their houses are as often perched on steep, thinly soiled hills or gooey, difficult clay as on a tiny fragment of what was once prime farmland. and never does the municipal gardener have one vital liberty i do: to choose which one-sixth of an acre in his -acre "back yard" he'll garden on this year. i was a suburban backyard gardener for five years before deciding to homestead. i've frequently recalled this experience while learning to dry garden. what follows in this chapter are some strategies to guide the urban in becoming more water-wise. water conservation is the most important first step after it rains or after sprinkler irrigation, water evaporates from the surface until a desiccated earth mulch develops. frequent light watering increases this type of loss. where lettuce, radishes, and other shallow-rooting vegetables are growing, perhaps it is best to accept this loss or spread a thin mulch to reduce it. but most vegetables can feed deeper, so if wetting the surface can be avoided, a lot of water can be saved. even sprinkling longer and less frequently helps accomplish that. half the reason that drip systems are more efficient is that the surface isn't dampened and virtually all water goes deep into the earth. the other half is that they avoiding evaporation that occurs while water sprays through the air between the nozzle and the soil. sprinkling at night or early in the morning, when there is little or no wind, prevents almost all of this type of loss. to use drip irrigation it is not necessary to invest in pipes, emitters, filters, pressure regulators, and so forth. i've already explained how recycled plastic buckets or other large containers can be improvised into very effective drip emitters. besides, drip tube systems are not trouble free: having the beds covered with fragile pipes makes hoeing dicey, while every emitter must be periodically checked against blockage. when using any type of drip system it is especially important to relate the amount of water applied to the depth of the soil to the crops, root development. there's no sense adding more water than the earth can hold. calculating the optimum amount of water to apply from a drip system requires applying substantial, practical intelligence to evaluating the following factors: soil water-holding capacity and accessible depth; how deep the root systems have developed; how broadly the water spreads out below each emitter (dispersion); rate of loss due to transpiration. all but one of these factors--dispersion--are adequately discussed elsewhere in _gardening without irrigation._ a drip emitter on sandy soil moistens the earth nearly straight down with little lateral dispersion; foot below the surface the wet area might only be foot in diameter. conversely, when you drip moisture into a clay soil, though the surface may seem dry, inches away from the emitter and just inches down the earth may become saturated with water, while a few inches deeper, significant dispersion may reach out nearly inches. on sandy soil, emitters on -inch centers are hardly close enough together, while on clay, -or even -inch centers are sufficient. another important bit of data to enter into your arithmetic: cubic foot of water equals about gallons. a -inch-diameter circle equals . square feet (a = pi x radius squared), so cubic foot of water ( gallons) dispersed from a single emitter will add roughly inches of moisture to sandy soil, greatly overwatering a medium that can hold only an inch or so of available water per foot. on heavy clay, a single emitter may wet a -foot-diameter circle, on loams, anywhere in between, gallons will cover a -foot-diameter circle about inch deep. so on deep, clay soil, or even gallons per application may be in order. what is the texture of your soil, its water-holding capacity, and the dispersion of a drip into it? probably, it is somewhere in between sand and clay. i can't specify what is optimum in any particular situation. each gardener must consider his own unique factors and make his own estimation. all i can do is stress again that the essence of water-wise gardening is water conservation. optimizing space: planning the water-wise backyard garden intensive gardening is a strategy holding that yield per square foot is the supreme goal; it succeeds by optimizing as many growth factors as possible. so a raised bed is loosened very deeply without concern for the amount of labor, while fertility and moisture are supplied virtually without limit. intensive gardening makes sense when land is very costly and the worth of the food grown is judged against organic produce at retail--and when water and nutrients are inexpensive and/or available in unlimited amounts. when water use is reduced, yield inevitably drops proportionately. the backyard water-wise gardener, then, must logically ask which vegetable species will give him enough food or more economic value with limited space and water. taking maritime northwest rainfall patterns into consideration, here's my best estimation: water-wise efficiency of vegetable crops (in terms of backyard usage of space and moisture) efficient enough early spring-sown crops: peas, broccoli, lettuce, radishes, savoy cabbage, kohlrabi overwintered crops: onions, broccoli cauliflower, cabbage, favas beans endive kale garden sorrel indeterminate tomatoes giant kohlrabi parsley--leaf and root heirloom summer squash (sprawly) pole beans herbs: marjoram, thyme, dill, cilantro, fennel, oregano root crops: carrots, beets, parsnips marginal brussels sprouts (late) potatoes determinate tomatoes rutabagas eggplant leeks leeks savoy cabbage (late) peppers, small fruited inefficient beans, bush snap peppers, bell broccoli, summer radishes cauliflower scallions, bulb onions celery sweet corn lettuce turnips have fun planning your own water-wise garden! more reading about the interlibrary loan service agricultural books, especially older ones, are not usually available at local libraries. but most municipal libraries and all universities offer access to an on-line database listing the holdings of other cooperating libraries throughout the united states. almost any book published in this century will be promptly mailed to the requesting library. anyone who is serious about learning by reading should discover how easy and inexpensive (or free) it is to use the interlibrary loan service. carter, vernon gill, and tom, dale. _topsoil and civilization._ norman, okla.: university of oklahoma press, . the history of civilization's destruction of one ecosystem after another by plowing and deforestation, and its grave implications for our country's long-term survival. cleveland, david a., and daniela soleri. _food from dryland gardens: an ecological, nutritional and social approach to small-scale household food production._ tucson: center for people, food and environment, . world-conscious survey of low-tech food production in semiarid regions. faulkner, edward h. _plowman's folly._ norman, okla.: university of oklahoma press, . this book created quite a controversy in the s. faulkner stresses the vital importance of capillarity. he explains how conventional plowing stops this moisture flow. foth, henry d. _fundamentals of soil science._ eighth edition. new york: john wylie & sons, . a thorough yet readable basic soil science text at a level comfortable for university non-science majors. hamaker, john. d. _the survival of civilization._ annotated by donald a. weaver. michigan/california: hamaker-weaver publishers, . hamaker contradicts our current preoccupation with global warming and makes a believable case that a new epoch of planetary glaciation is coming, caused by an increase in greenhouse gas. the book is also a guide to soil enrichment with rock powders. nabhan, gary. _the desert smells like rain: a naturalist in papago indian country._ san francisco: north point press, . describes regionally useful native american dry-gardening techniques russell, sir e. john. _soil conditions and plant growth._ eighth edition. new york: longmans, green & co., . probably the finest, most human soil science text ever written. russell avoids unnecessary mathematics and obscure terminology. i do not recommend the recent in-print edition, revised and enlarged by a committee. smith, j. russell. tree crops: a permanent agriculture. new york: harcourt, brace and company, . smith's visionary solution to upland erosion is growing unirrigated tree crops that produce cereal-like foods and nuts. should sit on the "family bible shelf" of every permaculturalist. solomon, stephen j. _growing vegetables west of the cascades._ seattle: sasquatch books, . the complete regional gardening textbook. -------------------------. _backyard composting._ portland, ore.: george van patten publishing, . especially useful for its unique discussion of the overuse of compost and a nonideological approach to raising the most nutritious food possible. stout, ruth. _gardening without work for the aging, the busy and the indolent._ old greenwich, conn.: devin-adair, . stout presents the original thesis of permanent mulching. turner, frank newman. _fertility, pastures and cover crops based on nature's own balanced organic pasture feeds._ san diego: rateaver, . reprinted from the faber and faber, edition. organic farming using long rotations, including deeply rooted green manures developed to a high art. turner maintained a productive organic dairy farm using subsoiling and long rotations involving tilled crops and semipermanent grass/herb mixtures. ven der leeden, frits, fred l. troise, and david k. todd. _the water encyclopedia, second edition._ chelsea, mich.: lewis publishers, . reference data concerning every possible aspect of water. weaver, john e., and william e. bruner. _root development of vegetable crops._ new york: mcgraw-hill, . contains very interesting drawings showing the amazing depth and extent that vegetable roots are capable of in favorable soil. widtsoe, john a. _dry farming: a system of agriculture for countries under low rainfall._ new york: the macmillan company, . the best single review ever made of the possibilities of dry farming and dry gardening, sagely discussing the scientific basis behind the techniques. the quality of widtsoe's understanding proves that newer is not necessarily better. none the home acre e. p. roe contents chapter i tree-planting chapter ii fruit-trees and grass chapter iii the garden chapter iv the vineyard and orchard chapter v the raspberry chapter vi the currant chapter vii strawberries chapter viii the kitchen-garden chapter ix the kitchen-garden (concluded) chapter i tree-planting land hunger is so general that it may be regarded as a natural craving. artificial modes of life, it is true, can destroy it, but it is apt to reassert itself in later generations. to tens of thousands of bread-winners in cities a country home is the dream of the future, the crown and reward of their life-toil. increasing numbers are taking what would seem to be the wiser course, and are combining rural pleasures and advantages with their business. as the questions of rapid transit are solved, the welfare of children will turn the scale more and more often against the conventional city house or flat. a home can be created in rented dwellings and apartments; but a home for which we have the deed, a cottage surrounded by trees, flowers, lawn, and garden, is the refuge which best satisfies the heart. by means of such a suburban nook we can keep up our relations with nature and all her varied and health-giving life. the tired man returning from business finds that his excited brain will not cease to act. he can enjoy restoring rest in the complete diversion of his thoughts; he can think of this tree or that plant, and how he can fill to advantage unoccupied spaces with other trees, flowers, and vegetables. if there is a jersey cow to welcome him with her placid trust, a good roadster to whinny for an airing, and a flock of chickens to clamor about his feet for their supper, his jangling nerves will be quieted, in spite of all the bulls and bears of wall street. best of all, he will see that his children have air and space in which to grow naturally, healthfully. his fruit-trees will testify to his wisdom in providing a country home. for instance, he will observe that if sound plums are left in contact with stung and decaying specimens, they too will be infected; he will see that too close crowding renders the prospect for good fruit doubtful; and, by natural transition of thought, will be glad that his boys and girls are not shut in to the fortuitous associations of hall-way and street. the area of land purchased will depend largely on the desires and purse of the buyer; but about one acre appears to satisfy the majority of people. this amount is not so great that the business man is burdened with care, nor is its limit so small that he is cramped and thwarted by line fences. if he can give to his bit of eden but little thought and money, he will find that an acre can be so laid out as to entail comparatively small expense in either the one or the other; if he has the time and taste to make the land his play-ground as well as that of his children, scope is afforded for an almost infinite variety of pleasing labors and interesting experiments. when we come to co-work with nature, all we do has some of the characteristics of an experiment. the labor of the year is a game of skill, into which also enter the fascinating elements of apparent chance. what a tree, a flower, or vegetable bed will give, depends chiefly upon us; yet all the vicissitudes of dew, rain, frost, and sun, have their part in the result. we play the game with nature, and she will usually let us win if we are not careless, ignorant, or stupid. she keeps up our zest by never permitting the game to be played twice under the same conditions. we can no more carry on our garden this season precisely as we did last year than a captain can sail his ship exactly as he did on the preceding voyage. a country home makes even the weather interesting; and the rise and fall of the mercury is watched with scarcely less solicitude than the mutations of the market. in this chapter and in those which may ensue i merely hope to make some useful suggestions and give practical advice--the result of experience, my own and others'--which the reader may carry out and modify according to his judgment. we will suppose that an acre has been bought; that it is comparatively level, with nothing of especial value upon it--in brief, that the home and its surroundings are still to be created. it is not within my design to treat of the dwelling, its architecture, etc., but we shall have something to say further on in regard to its location. before purchasing, the most careful investigations should be made as to the healthfulness of the region and the opportunities for thorough drainage. having bought the acre, the question of removing all undue accumulations of water on or beneath the surface should be attended to at first. the dry appearance of the soil during much of the year may be misleading. it should be remembered that there are equinoctial storms and melting snows. superabundant moisture at every period should have channels of immediate escape, for moisture in excess is an injury to plant as well as to family life; while thoroughly and quickly drained land endures drought far better than that which is rendered heavy and sour by water stagnating beneath the surface. tile-drains are usually the cheapest and most effective; but if there are stones and rocks upon the place, they can be utilized and disposed of at the same time by their burial in ditches--and they should be covered so deeply that a plow, although sunk to the beam, can pass over them. tiles or the top of a stone drain should be at least two feet below the surface. if the ground of the acre is underlaid with a porous subsoil, there is usually an adequate natural drainage. making haste slowly is often the quickest way to desired results. it is the usual method to erect the dwelling first, and afterward to subdue and enrich the ground gradually. this in many instances may prove the best course; but when it is practicable, i should advise that building be deferred until the land (with the exception of the spaces to be occupied with the house and barn) can be covered with a heavy dressing of barnyard manure, and that this be plowed under in the autumn. such general enriching of the soil may seem a waste in view of the carriage-drive and walks yet to be laid out; but this will not prove true. it should be remembered that while certain parts of the place are to be kept bare of surface-vegetation, they nevertheless will form a portion of the root-pasturage of the shade and fruit trees. the land, also, can be more evenly and deeply plowed before obstructions are placed upon it, and roots, pestiferous weeds, and stones removed with greatest economy. moreover, the good initial enriching is capital, hoarded in the soil, to start with. on many new places i have seen trees and plants beginning a feeble and uncertain life, barely existing rather than growing, because their roots found the soil like a table with dishes but without food. if the fertilizer is plowed under in the autumn, again mixed with the soil by a second plowing in the spring, it will be decomposed and ready for immediate use by every rootlet in contact with it. now, as farmers say, the "land is in good heart," and it will cheer its owner's heart to see the growth promptly made by whatever is properly planted. instead of losing time, he has gained years. suppose the acre to have been bought in september, and treated as i have indicated, it is ready for a generous reception of plants and trees the following spring. possibly at the time of purchase the acre may be covered with coarse grass, weeds, or undergrowth of some kind. in this case, after the initial plowing, the cultivation for a season of some such crop as corn or potatoes may be of great advantage in clearing the land, and the proceeds of the crop would partially meet expenses. if the aim is merely to subdue and clean the land as quickly as possible, nothing is better than buckwheat, sown thickly and plowed under just as it comes into blossom. it is the nature of this rampart-growing grain to kill out everything else and leave the soil light and mellow. if the ground is encumbered with many stones and rocks, the question of clearing it is more complicated. they can be used, and often sold to advantage, for building purposes. in some instances i have seen laboring-men clear the most unpromising plots of ground by burying all rocks and stones deeply beneath the surface--men, too, who had no other time for the task except the brief hours before and after their daily toil. i shall give no distinct plan for laying out the ground. the taste of the owner, or more probably that of his wife, will now come into play. their ideas also will be modified by many local circumstances--as, for instance, the undulations of the land, if there are any; proximity to neighbors, etc. if little besides shade and lawn is desired, this fact will have a controlling influence; if, on the other hand, the proprietor wishes to make his acre as productive as possible, the house will be built nearer the street, wider open space will be left for the garden, and fruit-trees will predominate over those grown merely for shade and beauty. there are few who would care to follow a plan which many others had adopted. indeed, it would be the natural wish of persons of taste to impart something of their own individuality to their rural home; and the effort to do this would afford much agreeable occupation. plates giving the elevation and arrangement of country homes can be studied by the evening lamp; visits to places noted for their beauty, simplicity, and good taste will afford motives for many a breezy drive; while useful suggestions from what had been accomplished by others may repay for an extended journey. such observations and study will cost little more than an agreeable expenditure of time; and surely a home is worth careful thought. it then truly becomes your home--something that you have evolved with loving effort. dear thoughts of wife and children enter into its very materiality; walks are planned with a loving consciousness of the feet which are to tread them, and trees planted with prophetic vision of the groups that will gather beneath the shade. this could scarcely be true if the acre were turned over to architect, builders, and landscape-gardeners, with an agreement that you should have possession at a specified time. we will suppose that it is early spring, that the ground has received its second plowing, and that the carriage-drive and the main walks have been marked out on paper, or, better still, on a carefully considered map. there is now so much to do that one is almost bewildered; and the old saying, "rome was not built in a day," is a good thing to remember. an orderly succession of labor will bring beauty and comfort in good time, especially if essential or foundation labors are first well performed. few things will prove more satisfactory than dry, hard, smooth carriage-roads and walks. these, with their curves, can be carefully staked out, the surface-earth between the stakes to the depth of four or five inches carted to the rear of the place near the stable, or the place where the stable is to be. of the value of this surface-soil we shall speak presently, and will merely remark in passing that it is amply worth the trouble of saving. its removal leaves the beds of the driveway and walks depressed several inches below the surrounding surface. fill these shallow excavations with little stones, the larger in the bottom, the smaller on top, and cover all with gravel. you now have roads and walks that will be dry and hard even in oozy march, and you can stroll about your place the moment the heaviest shower is over. the greater first cost will be more than made good by the fact that scarcely a weed can start or grow on pathways thus treated. all they will need is an occasional rounding up and smoothing with a rake. while this labor is going on you can begin the planting of trees. to this task i would earnestly ask careful attention. your house can be built in a summer; but it requires a good part of a century to build the best trees into anything like perfection. the usual tendency is to plant much too closely. observe well-developed trees, and see how wide a space they require. there is naturally an eager wish for shade as soon as possible, and a desire to banish from surroundings an aspect of bareness. these purposes can, it is true, often be accomplished by setting out more trees at first than could mature, and by taking out one and another from time to time when they begin to interfere with each other's growth. one symmetrical, noble tree, however, is certainly worth more than a dozen distorted, misshapen specimens. if given space, every kind of tree and shrub will develop its own individuality; and herein lies one of their greatest charms. if the oak typifies manhood, the drooping elm is equally suggestive of feminine grace, while the sugar-maple, prodigal of its rich juices, tasselled bloom, and winged seeds, reminds us of wholesome, cheerful natures. even when dying, its foliage takes on the earliest and richest hues of autumn. the trees about our door become in a sense our companions. they appeal to the eye, fancy, and feelings of different people differently. therefore i shall leave the choice of arboreal associates to those who are to plant them--a choice best guided by observation of trees. why should you not plant those you like the best, those which are the most congenial? a few suggestions, however, may be useful. i would advise the reader not to be in too great haste to fill up his grounds. while there are trees to which his choice reverts almost instantly, there are probably many other beautiful varieties with which he is not acquainted. if he has kept space for the planting of something new every spring and fall, he has done much to preserve his zest in his rural surroundings, and to give a pleasing direction to his summer observation. he is ever on the alert to discover trees and shrubs that satisfy his taste. during the preparation of this book i visited the grounds of mr. a. s. fuller, at kidgewood, n. j., and for an hour or two i broke the tenth commandment in spite of myself. i was surrounded by trees from almost every portion of the northern temperate zone, from oregon to japan; and in mr. fuller i had a guide whose sympathy with his arboreal pets was only equalled by his knowledge of their characteristics. all who love trees should possess his book entitled "practical forestry." if it could only be put into the hands of law-makers, and they compelled to learn much of its contents by heart, they would cease to be more or less conscious traitors to their country in allowing the destruction of forests. they might avert the verdict of the future, and prevent posterity from denouncing the irreparable wrong which is now permitted with impunity. the arnolds of to-day are those who have the power to save the trees, yet fail to do so. japan appears to be doing as much to adorn our lawns and gardens as our drawing-rooms; and from this and other foreign lands much that is beautiful or curious is coming annually to our shores. at the same time i was convinced of the wisdom of mr. fuller's appreciation of our native trees. in few instances should we have to go far from home to find nearly all that we wanted in beautiful variety--maples, dogwoods, scarlet and chestnut oaks, the liquid-amber, the whitewood or tulip-tree, white birch, and horn-beam, or the hop-tree; not to speak of the evergreens and shrubs indigenous to our forests. perhaps it is not generally known that the persimmon, so well remembered by old campaigners in virginia, will grow readily in this latitude. there are forests of this tree around paterson, n. j., and it has been known to endure twenty-seven degrees below zero. it is a handsome tree at any season, and its fruit in november caused much straggling from our line of march in the south. then there is our clean-boled, graceful beech, whose smooth white bark has received so many tender confidences. in the neighborhood of a village you will rarely find one of these trees whereon is not linked the names of lovers that have sat beneath the shade. indeed i have found mementoes of trysts or rambles deep in the forest of which the faithful beech has kept the record until the lovers were old or dead. on an immense old beech in tennessee there is an inscription which, while it suggests a hug, presents to the fancy an experience remote from a lover's embrace. it reads, "d. boone cilled bar on tree." there is one objection to the beech which also lies against the white oak--it does not drop its leaves within the space of a few autumn days. the bleached foliage is falling all winter long, thus giving the ground near an untidy aspect. with some, the question of absolute neatness is paramount; with others, leaves are clean dirt, and their rustle in the wind does not cease to be music even after they have fallen. speaking of native trees and shrubs, we shall do well to use our eyes carefully during our summer walks and drives; for if we do, we can scarcely fail to fall in love with types and varieties growing wild. they will thrive just as well on the acre if properly removed. in a sense they bring the forest with them, and open vistas at our door deep into the heart of nature. the tree is not only a thing of beauty in itself, but it represents to the fancy all its wild haunts the world over. in gratifying our taste for native trees we need not confine ourselves to those indigenous to our own locality. from the nurseries we can obtain specimens that beautify other regions of our broad land; as, for instance, the kentucky yellow-wood, the papaw, the judas-tree, and, in the latitude of new jersey and southward, the holly. in many instances the purchaser of the acre may find a lasting pleasure in developing a specialty. he may desire to gather about him all the drooping or weeping trees that will grow in his latitude, or he may choose to turn his acre largely into a nut-orchard, and delight his children with a harvest which they will gather with all the zest of the frisky red squirrel. if one could succeed in obtaining a bearing tree of hale's paper-shell hickory-nut, he would have a prize indeed. increasing attention is given to the growing of nut-trees in our large nurseries, and there would be no difficulty in obtaining a supply. in passing from this subject of choice in deciduous trees and shrubs, i would suggest, in addition to visits to woods and copse, to the well-ornamented places of men who have long gratified a fine taste in this respect, that the reader also make time to see occasionally a nursery like that of s.b. parsons & co., at flushing, n.y. there is no teaching like that of the eyes; and the amateur who would do a bit of landscape-gardening about his own home learns what he would like and what he can do by seeing shrubs and trees in their various stages of growth and beauty. i shall treat the subject of evergreens at the close of this chapter. as a rule, i have not much sympathy with the effort to set out large trees in the hope of obtaining shade more quickly. the trees have to be trimmed up and cut back so greatly that their symmetry is often destroyed. they are also apt to be checked in their growth so seriously by such removal that a slender sapling, planted at the same time, overtakes and passes them. i prefer a young tree, straight-stemmed, healthy, and typical of its species or variety. then we may watch its rapid natural development as we would that of a child. still, when large trees can be removed in winter with a great ball of frozen earth that insures the preservation of the fibrous roots, much time can be saved. it should ever be remembered that prompt, rapid growth of the transplanted tree depends on two things--plenty of small fibrous roots, and a fertile soil to receive them. it usually happens that the purchaser employs a local citizen to aid in putting his ground in order. in every rural neighborhood there are smart men--"smart" is the proper adjective; for they are neither sagacious nor trustworthy, and there is ever a dismal hiatus between their promises and performance. such men lie in wait for newcomers, to take advantage of their inexperience and necessary absence. they will assure their confiding employers that they are beyond learning anything new in the planting of trees--which is true, in a sinister sense. they will leave roots exposed to sun and wind--in brief, pay no more attention to them than a baby-farmer would bestow on an infant's appetite; and then, when convenient, thrust them into a hole scarcely large enough for a post. they expect to receive their money long before the dishonest character of their work can be discovered. the number of trees which this class of men have dwarfed or killed outright would make a forest. the result of a well-meaning yet ignorant man's work might be equally unsatisfactory. therefore, the purchaser of the acre should know how a tree should be planted, and see to it himself; or he should by careful inquiry select a man for the task who could bring testimonials from those to whom he had rendered like services in the past. the hole destined to receive a shade or fruit tree should be at least three feet in diameter and two feet deep. it then should be partially filled with good surface soil, upon which the tree should stand, so that its roots could extend naturally according to their original growth. good fine loam should be sifted through and over them, and they should not be permitted to come in contact with decaying matter or coarse, unfermented manure. the tree should be set as deeply in the soil as it stood when first taken up. as the earth is thrown gently through and over the roots it should be packed lightly against them with the foot, and water, should the season be rather dry and warm, poured in from time to time to settle the fine soil about them. the surface should be levelled at last with a slight dip toward the tree, so that spring and summer rains may be retained directly about the roots. then a mulch of coarse manure is helpful, for it keeps the surface moist, and its richness will reach the roots gradually in a diluted form. a mulch of straw, leaves, or coarse hay is better than none at all. after being planted, three stout stakes should be inserted firmly in the earth at the three points of a triangle, the tree being its centre. then by a rope of straw or some soft material the tree should be braced firmly between the protecting stakes, and thus it is kept from being whipped around by the wind. should periods of drought ensue during the growing season, it would be well to rake the mulch one side, and saturate the ground around the young tree with an abundance of water, and the mulch afterward spread as before. such watering is often essential, and it should be thorough. unskilled persons usually do more harm than good by their half-way measures in this respect. speaking of trees, it may so happen that the acre is already in forest. then, indeed, there should be careful discrimination in the use of the axe. it may be said that a fine tree is in the way of the dwelling. perhaps the proposed dwelling is in the way of the tree. in england the work of "groving," or thinning out trees, is carried to the perfection of a fine art. one shudders at the havoc which might be made by a stolid laborer. indeed, to nearly all who could be employed in preparing a wooded acre for habitation, a tree would be looked upon as little more than so much cord-wood or lumber. if i had a wooded acre i should study the trees most carefully before coming to any decision as to the situation of the dwelling and out-buildings. having removed those obviously unworthy to remain, i should put in the axe very thoughtfully among the finer specimens, remembering that i should be under the soil before nature could build others like them. in the fitting up of this planet as the home of mankind it would appear that the creator regarded the coniferae, or evergreen family, as well worthy of attention; for almost from the first, according to geologists, this family records on the rocky tablets of the earth its appearance, large and varied development, and its adaptation to each change in climate and condition of the globe's surface during the countless ages of preparation. surely, therefore, he who is evolving a home on one acre of the earth's area cannot neglect a genus of trees that has been so signally honored. evergreens will speedily banish the sense of newness from his grounds; for by putting them about his door he has added the link which connects his acre with the earliest geological record of tree-planting. then, like diedrich knickerbocker, who felt that he must trace the province of new york back to the origin of the universe, he can look upon his coniferae and feel that his latest work is in accord with one of the earliest laws of creation. i imagine, however, that my readers' choice of evergreens will be determined chiefly by the fact that they are always beautiful, are easily managed, and that by means of them beautiful effects can be created within comparatively small space. on mr. fuller's grounds i saw what might be fittingly termed a small parterre of dwarf evergreens, some of which were twenty-five years old. numbers of this family might be described as evergreen and gold; for part of the perennial foliage shades off from the deepest green to bright golden hues. among the group of this variety, japanese in origin, mr. fuller showed me a "sporting" specimen, which, from some obscure and remarkable impulse, appeared bent on producing a new and distinct type. one of the branches was quite different from all the others on the tree. it was pressed down and layered in the soil beneath; when lo! a new tree was produced, set out beside its parent, whom it soon surpassed in size, beauty, and general vigor. although still maintaining its green and golden hues, it was so distinct that no one would dream that it was but a "sport" from the adjacent dwarf and modest tree. indeed, it reminded one of beatrix esmond beside her gentle and retiring mother. if it should not in the future emulate in caprice the fair subject of comparison, it may eventually become one of the best-known ornaments of our lawns. at present it appears nowise inclined to hide its golden light under a bushel. what i have said about forming the acquaintance of deciduous trees and shrubs before planting to any great extent, applies with even greater force to the evergreen, family. there is a large and beautiful variety from which to choose, and i would suggest that the choice be made chiefly from the dwarf-growing kinds, since the space of one acre is too limited for much indulgence in. norway spruces, the firs, or pines. an hour with a note-book spent in grounds like those of mr. fuller would do more in aiding a satisfactory selection than years of reading. moreover, it should be remembered that many beautiful evergreens, especially those of foreign origin, are but half hardy. the amateur may find that after an exceptionally severe winter some lovely specimen, which has grown to fill a large space in his heart, as well as on his acre, has been killed. there is an ample choice from entirely hardy varieties for every locality, and these, by careful inquiry of trustworthy nurserymen, should be obtained. moreover, it should be remembered that few evergreens will thrive in a wet, heavy soil. if nature has not provided thorough drainage by means of a porous subsoil, the work must be done artificially. as a rule, light but not poor soils, and warm exposures, are best adapted to this genus of trees. i think that all authorities agree substantially that spring in our climate is the best time for the transplanting of evergreens; but they differ between early and advanced spring. the late mr. a. j. downing preferred early spring; that is, as soon as the frost is out, and the ground dry enough to crumble freely. mr. a. s. fuller indorses this opinion. mr. josiah hoopes, author of a valuable work entitled "the book of evergreens," advises that transplanting be deferred to later spring, when the young trees are just beginning their season's growth; and this view has the approval of the hon. marshall p. wilder and mr. s. b. parsons, jr., superintendent of city parks. abundant success is undoubtedly achieved at both seasons; but should a hot, dry period ensue after the later planting--early may, for instance--only abundant watering and diligent mulching will save the trees. it should be carefully remembered that the evergreen families do not possess the vitality of deciduous trees, and are more easily injured or killed by removal. the roots of the former are more sensitive to exposure to dry air and to sunlight; and much more certainty of life and growth is secured if the transfer can be accomplished in cloudy or rainy weather. the roots should never be permitted to become dry, and it is well also to sprinkle the foliage at the time of planting. moreover, do not permit careless workmen to save a few minutes in the digging of the trees. every fibrous root that can be preserved intact is a promise of life and vigor. if a nurseryman should send me an assortment of evergreens with only the large woody roots left, i should refuse to receive the trees. what i have said in opposition to the transplanting of large trees applies with greater force to evergreens. mr. hoopes writes: "an error into which many unpracticed planters frequently fall is that of planting large trees; and it is one which we consider opposed to sound common-sense. we are aware that the owner of every new place is anxious to produce what is usually known as an immediate effect, and therefore he proceeds to plant large evergreens, covering his grounds with great unsightly trees. in almost every case of this kind the lower limbs are apt to die, and thus greatly disfigure the symmetry of the trees. young, healthy plants, when carefully taken up and as properly replanted, are never subject to this disfigurement, and are almost certain to form handsome specimens." any one who has seen the beautiful pyramids, cones, and mounds of green into which so many varieties develop, if permitted to grow according to the laws of their being, should not be induced to purchase old and large trees which nurserymen are often anxious to part with before they become utterly unsalable. when the evergreens reach the acre, plant them with the same care and on the same general principles indicated for other trees. let the soil be mellow and good. mulch at once, and water abundantly the first summer during dry periods. be sure that the trees are not set any deeper in the ground than they stood before removal. if the soil of the acre is heavy or poor, go to the roadside or some old pasture and find rich light soil with which to fill in around the roots. if no soil can be found without a large proportion of clay, the addition of a little sand, thoroughly mixed through it, is beneficial. the hole should be ample in size, so that the roots can be spread out according to their natural bent. if the ground after planting needs enriching, spread the fertilizer around the trees, not against them, and on the surface only. never put manure on or very near the roots. fine young seedling evergreens can often be found in the woods or fields, and may be had for the asking, or for a trifling sum. dig them so as to save all the roots possible. never permit these to become dry till they are safe in your own grounds. aim to start the little trees under the same conditions in which you found them in nature. if taken from a shady spot, they should be shaded for a season or two, until they become accustomed to sunlight. this can easily be accomplished by four crotched stakes supporting a light scaffolding, on which is placed during the hot months a few evergreen boughs. very pretty and useful purposes can often be served by the employment of certain kinds of evergreens as hedges. i do not like the arbitrary and stiff divisions of a small place which i have often seen. they take away the sense of roominess, and destroy the possibility of pretty little vistas; but when used judiciously as screens they combine much beauty with utility. as part of line fences they are often eminently satisfactory, shutting out prying eyes and inclosing the home within walls of living green. the strong-growing pines and norway spruce are better adapted to large estates than to the area of an acre. therefore we would advise the employment of the american arbor vitae and of hemlock. the hedge of the latter evergreen on mr. fuller's place formed one of the most beautiful and symmetrical walls i have ever seen. it was so smooth, even, and impervious that in the distance it appeared like solid emerald. the ground should be thoroughly prepared for a hedge by deep plowing or by digging; the trees should be small, young, of even height and size, and they should be planted carefully in line, according to the directions already given for a single specimen; the ground on each side mulched and kept moist during the first summer. in the autumn, rake the mulch away and top-dress the soil on both sides for the space of two or three feet outward from the stems with well-decayed manure. this protects the roots and ensures a vigorous growth the coming season. allow no weeds or even grass to encroach on the young hedge until it is strong and established. for the first year no trimming will be necessary beyond cutting back an occasional branch or top that is growing stronger than the others; and this should be done in early october. during the second season the plants should grow much more strongly; and now the shears are needed in summer. some branches and top shoots will push far beyond the others. they should be cut back evenly, and in accordance with the shape the hedge is to take. the pyramidal form appears to me to be the one most in harmony with nature. in october, the hedge should receive its final shearing for the year; and if there is an apparent deficiency of vigor, the ground on both sides should receive another top-dressing, after removing the summer mulch. as the hedge grows older and stronger, the principal shearing will be done in early summer, as this checks growth and causes the close, dense interlacing of branches and formation of foliage wherein the beauty and usefulness of the hedge consist. chapter ii fruit-trees and grass it is a happy proof of our civilization that a dwelling-place, a shelter from sun and storm, does not constitute a home. even the modest rooms of our mechanics are not furnished with useful articles merely; ornaments and pictures appear quite as indispensable. out-of-doors the impulse to beautify is even stronger; and usually the purchaser's first effort is to make his place attractive by means of trees and shrubs that are more than useful--they are essential; because the refined tastes of men and women to-day demand them. in the first chapter i endeavored to satisfy this demand in some degree, and now will ask the reader's attention to a few practical suggestions in regard to several of the fruits which best supply the family need. we shall find, however, that while nature is prodigal in supplying what appeals to the palate and satisfies hunger, she is also like a graceful hostess who decks her banquet with all the beauty that she can possibly bestow upon it. we can imagine that the luscious fruits of the year might have been produced in a much more prosaic way. indeed, we are at a loss to decide which we value the more, the apple-blossoms or the apples which follow. nature is not content with bulk, flavor, and nutriment, but in the fruit itself so deftly pleases the eye with every trick of color and form that the hues and beauty of the flower are often surpassed. we look at a red-cheeked apple or purple cluster of grapes hesitatingly, and are loth to mar the exquisite shadings and perfect outlines of the vessel in which the rich juices are served. therefore, in stocking the acre with fruit, the proprietor has not ceased to embellish it; and should he decide that fruit-trees must predominate over those grown for shade and ornament only, he can combine almost as much beauty as utility with his plan. all the fruits may be set out both in the spring and the fall seasons; but in our latitude and northward, i should prefer early spring for strawberries and peaches. by this time we may suppose that the owner of the acre has matured his plans, and marked out the spaces designed for the lawn, garden, fruit trees, vines, etc. fruit trees, like shade trees, are not the growth of a summer. therefore there is natural eagerness to have them in the ground as soon as possible, and they can usually be ordered from the same nursery, and at the same time with the ornamental stock. i shall speak first of apples, pears, and cherries, and i have been at some pains to secure the opinions of eminent horticulturists as to the best selections of these fruits for the home table, not for market. when there is a surplus, however, there will be no difficulty in disposing of the fine varieties named. the hon. marshall p. wilder, the veteran president of the american pomological society, writes as follows: "herewith is the selection i have made for family use; but i could put in as many more in some of the classes which are just as desirable, or nearly so. these have been made with reference to covering the seasons. apples--red astrakhan, porter, gravenstein, rhode island greening, baldwin, roxbury russet, and sweet bough for baking. pears--clapp's favorite (to be gathered august ), bartlett, seckel, sheldon, beurre bosc, buerre d'anjou, and vicar of winkfield for baking, etc. cherries--black eagle, black tartarian, downer, windsor, cumberland, and red jacket." mr. wilder's honored name, like that of the late charles downing, is inseparably linked with american fruits, and the country owes these two men a debt of gratitude which never can be paid for their lifelong and intelligent efforts to guide the people wisely in the choice and culture of the very best varieties. a moment's thought will convince the reader that i am not giving too much space to this matter of selection. we are now dealing with questions which wide and varied experience can best answer. men who give their lives to the cultivation and observation of fruits in all their myriad varieties acquire a knowledge which is almost invaluable. we cannot afford to put out trees, to give them good culture, and wait for years, only to learn that all our care has been bestowed on inferior or second-rate varieties. life is too brief. we all feel that the best is good enough for us; and the best usually costs no more in money or time than do less desirable varieties. therefore i seek to give on this important question of choice the opinions of some of the highest authorities in the land. mr. a. s. fuller is not only a well-known horticultural author, but has also had the widest experience in the culture and observation of fruit. he prefaces his opinion with the following words: "how much and how often we horticulturists have been puzzled with questions like yours! if we made no progress, were always of the same mind, and if seasons never changed, then perhaps there would be little difficulty in deciding which of the varieties of the different kinds of fruit were really the best. but seasons, our tastes, and even the varieties sometimes change; and our preferences and opinions must vary accordingly. apples--early harvest, fall pippins, spitzenburgh, rhode island greening, autumn sweet bough, and talman's sweet. cherries--early purple guigne, bigarreau of mezel, black eagle, coe's transparent, governor wood, and belle magnifique." the choice of mr. e. s. carmen, editor of the "rural new yorker:" "apples--early harvest, gravenstein, jefferis, baldwin, mother, spitzenburgh. pears--seckel, tyson, clapp's favorite, bartlett, beurre d'anjou, and dana's hovey. cherries--black tartarian, coe's transparent, governor wood, mezel, napoleon bigarreau." the authorities appear to differ. and so they would in regard to any locality; but it should be remembered that president wilder advises for the latitude of massachusetts, messrs. fuller and carmen for that of new jersey. i will give now the selection of the eminent horticulturist mr. p. o. berckmans for the latitude of georgia: "cherries (this is not a good cherry-producing region, but i name the following as the best in order of merit)--buttners, governor wood, belle de choisy, early richmond, and may duke. pears (in order of maturity)--clapp's favorite, seckel, duchesse, beurre superfine, leconte, winter nellis, or glout. morceau. apples--early harvest, red june, carter's blue, stevenson's winter, shockley, buncombe, carolina greening." he who makes his choice from these selections will not meet with much disappointment. i am aware, however, that the enjoyment of fruit depends much upon the taste of the individual; and who has a better right to gratify his taste than the man who buys, sets out, and cares for the trees? some familiar kind not in favor with the fruit critics, an old variety that has become a dear memory of boyhood, may be the best one of all for him--perhaps for the reason that it recalls the loved faces that gathered about the wide, quaint fireplace of his childhood's home. it is also a well-recognized fact that certain varieties of fruit appear to be peculiarly adapted to certain localities. because a man has made a good selection on general principles, he need not be restricted to this choice. he will soon find his trees growing lustily and making large branching heads. each branch can be made to produce a different kind of apple or pear, and the kindred varieties of cherries will succeed on the same tree. for instance, one may be visiting a neighbor who gives him some fruit that is unusually delicious, or that manifest great adaptation to the locality. as a rule the neighbor will gladly give scions which, grafted upon the trees of the home acre, will soon begin to yield the coveted variety. this opportunity to grow different kinds of fruit on one tree imparts a new and delightful interest to the orchard. the proprietor can always be on the lookout for something new and fine, and the few moments required in grafting or budding make it his. the operation is so simple and easy that he can learn to perform it himself, and there are always plenty of adepts in the rural vicinage to give him his initial lesson. while he will keep the standard kinds for his main supply, he can gratify his taste and eye with some pretty innovations. i know of an apple-tree which bears over a hundred varieties. a branch, for instance, is producing yellow bell-flowers. at a certain point in its growth where it has the diameter of a man's thumb it may be grafted with the red baldwin. when the scion has grown for two or three years, its leading shoots can be grafted with the roxbury russet, and eventually the terminal bough of this growth with the early harvest. thus may be presented the interesting spectacle of one limb of a tree yielding four very distinct kinds of apples. in the limited area of an acre there is usually not very much range in soil and locality. the owner must make the best of what he has bought, and remedy unfavorable conditions, if they exist, by skill. it should be remembered that peaty, cold, damp, spongy soils are unfit for fruit-trees of any kind. we can scarcely imagine, however, that one would buy land for a home containing much soil of this nature. a sandy loam, with a subsoil that dries out so quickly that it can be worked after a heavy rain, is the best for nearly all the fruit-trees, especially for cherries and peaches. therefore in selecting the ground, be sure it is well drained. if the acre has been enriched and plowed twice deeply, as i have already suggested, little more is necessary in planting than to excavate a hole large enough to receive the roots spread out in their natural positions. should no such thorough and general preparation have been made, or if the ground is hard, poor, and stony, the owner will find it to his advantage to dig a good-sized hole three or four feet across and two deep, filling in and around the tree with fine rich surface soil. if he can obtain some thoroughly decomposed compost or manure, for instance, as the scrapings of a barnyard, or rich black soil from an old pasture, to mix with the earth beneath and around the roots, the good effects will be seen speedily; but in no instance should raw manure from the stable, or anything that must decay before becoming plant food, be brought in contact with the roots. again i repeat my caution against planting too deeply--one of the commonest and most fatal errors. let the tree be set about as deeply as it stood before removal. if the tree be planted early in spring, as it should be, there will be moisture enough in the soil; but when planting is delayed until the ground has become rather dry and warm, a pail of water poured about its roots when the hole has been nearly filled will be beneficial. now that the tree is planted, any kind of coarse manure spread to the depth of two or three inches on the surface as a mulch is very useful. stake at once to protect against the winds. do not make the common mistake of planting too closely. observe the area shaded by fully grown trees, and you will learn the folly of crowding. moreover, dense shade about the house is not desirable. there should be space for plenty of air and sunshine. the fruit from one well-developed tree will often more than supply a family; for ten or fifteen barrels of apples is not an unusual yield. the standard apples should be thirty feet apart. pears, the dwarfer-growing cherries, plums, etc., can be grown in the intervening spaces. in ordering from the nurseries insist on straight, shapely, and young trees, say three years from the bud. many trees that are sent out are small enough, but they are old and stunted. also require that there should be an abundance of fibrous and unmutilated roots. because the young trees come from the nursery unpruned, do not leave them in that condition. before planting, or immediately after, cut back all the branches at least one-half; and where they are too thick, cut out some altogether. in removal the tree has lost much of its root power, and it is absurd to expect it to provide for just as much top as before. in many books on fruit-culture much space has been given to dwarf pears, apples, and cherries, and trees of this character were planted much more largely some years ago than they are at present. the pear is dwarfed by grafting it on the quince; the apple can be limited to a mere garden fruit-tree in size by being grown on a doucin stock, or even reduced to the size of a bush if compelled to draw its life through the roots of the paradise. these two named stocks, much employed by european nurserymen, are distinct species of apples, and reproduce themselves without variation from the seed. the cherry is dwarfed by being worked on the mahaleb--a small, handsome tree, with glossy, deep-green foliage, much cultivated abroad as an ornament of lawns. except in the hands of practiced gardeners, trees thus dwarfed are seldom satisfactory, for much skill and care are required in their cultivation. their chief advantages consist in the fact that they bear early and take but little space. therefore they may be considered worthy of attention by the purchasers of small places. those who are disposed to make pets of their trees and to indulge in horticultural experiments may derive much pleasure from these dwarfs, for they can be developed into symmetrical pyramids or graceful, fruitful shrubs within the limits of a garden border. when the seeds of ordinary apples and pears are sown they produce seedlings, or free stocks, and upon these are budded or grafted the fine varieties which compose our orchards. they are known as standard trees; they come into bearing more slowly, and eventually attain the normal size familiar to us all. standard cherries are worked on seedlings of the mazzard, which barry describes as a "lofty, rapid-growing, pyramidal-headed tree." i should advise the reader to indulge in the dwarfs very charily, and chiefly as a source of fairly profitable amusement. it is to the standards that he will look for shade, beauty, and abundance of fruit. since we have been dwelling on the apple, pear, and cherry, there are certain advantages of continuing the subject in the same connection, giving the principles of cultivation and care until the trees reach maturity. during the first summer an occasional watering may be required in long periods of drought. in many instances buds will form and start along the stem of the tree, or near the roots. these should be rubbed off the moment they are detected. one of our chief aims is to form an evenly balanced, open, symmetrical head; and this can often be accomplished better by a little watchfulness during the season of growth than at any other time. if, for instance, two branches start so closely together that one or the other must be removed in the spring pruning, why let the superfluous one grow at all? it is just so much wasted effort. by rubbing off the pushing bud or tender shoot the strength of the tree is thrown into the branches that we wish to remain. thus the eye and hand of the master become to the young tree what instruction, counsel, and admonition are to a growing boy, with the difference that the tree is easily and certainly managed when taken in time. the study of the principles of growth in the young trees can be made as pleasing as it is profitable, for the readiness with which they respond to a guiding hand will soon invest them with almost a human interest. a child will not show neglect more certainly than they; and if humored and allowed to grow after their own fashion, they will soon prove how essential are restraint and training. a fruit tree is not like one in a forest--a simple, unperverted product of nature. it is a result of human interference and development; and we might just as reasonably expect our domestic animals to take care of themselves as our grafted and budded trees. moreover, they do not comply with their raison d'etre by merely existing, growing, and propagating their kind. a bartlett pear-tree, like a jersey cow, is given place for the sake of its delicious product. it is also like the cow in requiring judicious feeding and care. trees left to themselves tend to form too much wood, like the grape-vine. of course fine fruit is impossible when the head of a tree is like a thicket. the growth of unchecked branches follows the terminal bud, thus producing long naked reaches of wood devoid of fruit spurs. therefore the need of shortening in, so that side branches may be developed. when the reader remembers that every dormant bud in early spring is a possible branch, and that even the immature buds at the axil of the leaves in early summer can be forced into immediate growth by pinching back the leading shoot, he will see how entirely the young tree is under his control. these simple facts and principles are worth far more to the intelligent man than any number of arbitrary rules as to pruning. reason and observation soon guide his hand in summer or his knife in march--the season when trees are usually trimmed. beyond shortening in leading branches and cutting out crossing and interfering boughs, so as to keep the head symmetrical and open to light and air, the cherry does not need very much pruning. if with the lapse of years it becomes necessary to take off large limbs from any fruit-tree, the authorities recommend early june as the best season for the operation. it will soon be discovered--quite likely during the first summer--that fruit-trees have enemies, that they need not only cultivation and feeding, but also protection. the pear, apple, and quince are liable to one mysterious disease which it is almost impossible to guard against or cure--the fireblight. of course there have been innumerable preventives and cures recommended, just as we see a dozen certain remedies for consumption advertised in any popular journal; but the disease still remains a disheartening mystery, and is more fatal to the pear than to its kindred fruits. i have had thrifty young trees, just coming into bearing, suddenly turn black in both wood and foliage, appearing in the distance as if scorched by a blast from a furnace. in another instance a large mature tree was attacked, losing in a summer half its boughs. these were cut out, and the remainder of the tree appeared healthy during the following summer, and bore a good crop of fruit. the disease often attacks but a single branch or a small portion of a tree. the authorities advise that everything should be cut away at once below all evidence of infection and burned. some of my trees have been attacked and have recovered; others were apparently recovering, but died a year or two later. one could theorize to the end of a volume about the trouble. i frankly confess that i know neither the cause nor the remedy. it seems to me that our best resource is to comply with the general conditions of good and healthy growth. the usual experience is that trees which are fertilized with wood-ashes and a moderate amount of lime and salt, rather than with stimulating manures, escape the disease. if the ground is poor, however, and the growth feeble, barnyard manure or its equivalent is needed as a mulch. the apple-blight is another kindred and equally obscure disease. no better remedy is known than to cut out the infected part at once. in coping with insects we can act more intelligently, and therefore successfully. we can study the characters of our enemies, and learn their vulnerable points. the black and green aphides, or plant-lice, are often very troublesome. they appear in immense numbers on the young and tender shoots of trees, and by sucking their juices check or enfeeble the growth. they are the milch-cows of ants, which are usually found very busy among them. nature apparently has made ample provision for this pest, for it has been estimated that "one individual in five generations might be the progenitor of six thousand millions." they are easily destroyed, however. mr. barry, of the firm of ellwanger & barry, in his excellent work "the fruit garden," writes as follows: "our plan is to prepare a barrel of tobacco juice by steeping stems for several days, until the juice is of a dark brown color; we then mix this with soap-suds. a pail is filled, and the ends of the shoots, where the insects are assembled, are bent down and dipped in the liquid. one dip is enough. such parts as cannot be dipped are sprinkled liberally with a garden-syringe, and the application repeated from time to time, as long as any of the aphides remain. the liquid may be so strong as to injure the foliage; therefore it is well to test it on one or two subjects before using it extensively. apply it in the evening." the scaly aphis or bark-louse attacks weak, feeble-growing trees, and can usually be removed by scrubbing the bark with the preparation given above. in our region and in many localities the apple-tree borer is a very formidable pest, often destroying a young tree before its presence is known. i once found a young tree in a distant part of my place that i could push over with my finger. in june a brown and white striped beetle deposits its eggs in the bark of the apple-tree near the ground. the larvae when hatched bore their way into the wood, and will soon destroy a small tree. they cannot do their mischief, however, without giving evidence of their presence. sawdust exudes from the holes by which they entered, and there should be sufficient watchfulness to discover them before they have done much harm. i prefer to cut them out with a sharp, pointed knife, and make sure that they are dead; but a wire thrust into the hole will usually pierce and kill them. wood-ashes mounded up against the base of the tree are said to be a preventive. in the fall they can be spread, and they at least make one of the best of fertilizers. the codling-moth, or apple-worm, is another enemy that should be fought resolutely, for it destroys millions of bushels of fruit. in the latitude of new york state this moth begins its depredations about the middle of june. whatever may be thought of the relation of the apple to the fall of man, this creature certainly leads to the speedy fall of the apple. who has not seen the ground covered with premature and decaying fruit in july, august, and september? bach specimen will be found perforated by a worm-hole. the egg has been laid in the calyx of the young apple, where it soon hatches into a small white grub, which burrows into the core, throwing out behind it a brownish powder. after about three weeks of apple diet it eats its way out, shelters itself under the scaly bark of the tree--if allowed to be scaly--or in some other hiding-place, spins a cocoon, and in about three weeks comes out a moth, and is ready to help destroy other apples. this insect probably constitutes one of nature's methods of preventing trees from overbearing; but like some people we know, it so exaggerates its mission as to become an insufferable nuisance. the remedies recommended are that trees should be scraped free of all scales in the spring, and washed with a solution of soft soap. about the st of july, wrap bandages of old cloth, carpet, or rags of any kind around the trunk and larger limbs. the worms will appreciate such excellent cover, and will swarm into these hiding-places to undergo transformation into moths. therefore the wraps of rags should often be taken down, thrown into scalding water, dried, and replaced. the fruit as it falls should be picked up at once and carried to the pigs, and, when practicable, worm-infested specimens should be taken from the trees before the worm escapes. the canker-worm in those localities where it is destructive can be guarded against by bands of tar-covered canvas around the trees. the moth cannot fly, but crawls up the tree in the late autumn and during mild spells in winter, but especially throughout the spring until may. when, the evil-disposed moth meets the 'tarry band he finds no thoroughfare, and is either caught or compelled to seek some other arena of mischief. we have all seen the flaunting, unsightly abodes of the tent caterpillar and the foliage-denuded branches about them. fortunately these are not stealthy enemies, and the owner can scarcely see his acre at all without being aware of their presence. he has only to look very early in the morning or late in the evening to find them all bunched up in their nests. these should be taken down and destroyed. cherry and pear slugs, "small, slimy, dark brown worms," can be destroyed by dusting the trees with dry wood ashes or air-slacked lime. field-mice often girdle young trees, especially during the winter, working beneath the snow. unless heaps of rubbish are left here and there as shelter for these little pests, one or two good cats will keep the acre free of them. treading the snow compactly around the tree is also practiced. do not let the reader be discouraged by this list of the most common enemies, or by hearing of others. after reading some medical works we are led to wonder that the human race does not speedily die out. as a rule, however, with moderate care, most of us are able to say, "i'm pretty well, i thank you," and when ailing we do not straightway despair. in spite of all enemies and drawbacks, fruit is becoming more plentiful every year. if one man can raise it, so can another. be hospitable to birds, the best of all insect destroyers. put up plenty of houses for bluebirds and wrens, and treat the little brown song-sparrow as one of your stanchest friends. a brief word in regard to the quince, and our present list of fruits is complete. if the quince is cultivated after the common neglectful method, it would better be relegated to an obscure part of the garden, for, left to itself, it makes a great sprawling bush; properly trained, it becomes a beautiful ornament to the lawn, like the other fruits that i have described. only a little care, with the judicious use of the pruning-shears, is required to develop it into a miniature and fruitful tree, which can be grown with a natural rounded head or in the form of a pyramid, as the cultivator chooses. it will thrive well on the same soil and under similar treatment accorded to the pear or the apple. procure from a nursery straight-stemmed plants; set them out about eight feet apart; begin to form the head three feet from the ground, and keep the stem and roots free from all sprouts and suckers. develop the head just as you would that of an apple-tree, shortening in the branches, and cutting out those that interfere with each other. half a dozen trees will soon give an ample supply. the orange and the pear shaped are the varieties usually recommended. rea's mammoth is also highly spoken of. remember that the quince equally with the apple is subject to injury from the borer, and the evil should be met as i have already described. there is a natural wish to have as much grass about the dwelling as possible, for nothing is more beautiful. if there are children, they will assuredly petition for lawn-tennis and croquet grounds. i trust that their wishes may be gratified, for children are worth infinitely more than anything else that can be grown upon the acre. with a little extra care, all the trees of which i have spoken can be grown in the spaces allotted to grass. it is only necessary to keep a circle of space six feet in diameter--the trunk forming the centre--around the tree mellow and free from any vegetable growth whatever. this gives a chance to fertilize and work the ground immediately over the roots. of course vigorous fruit-trees cannot be grown in a thick sod, while peaches and grapes require the free culture of the garden, as will be shown hereafter. in view, however, of the general wish for grass, i have advised on the supposition that all the ornamental trees, most of the shrubs, and the four fruits named would be grown on the portions of the acre to be kept in lawn. it may be added here that plums also will do well under the same conditions, if given good care. grass is a product that can be cultivated as truly as the most delicate and fastidious of fruits, and i had the lawn is mind when i urged the generous initial deep plowing and enriching. nothing that grows responds more promptly to good treatment than grass; but a fine lawn cannot be created in a season, any more than a fine tree. we will suppose that the spring plantings of trees have been made with open spaces reserved for the favorite games. now the ground can be prepared for grass-seed, for it need not be trampled over any more. if certain parts have become packed and hard, they should be dug or plowed deeply again, then harrowed and raked perfectly smooth, and all stones, big or little, taken from the surface. the seed may now be sown, and it should be of thick, fine-growing varieties, such as are employed in central park and other pleasure-grounds. mr. samuel parsons, jr., superintendent of central park, writes me: "the best grass-seeds for ordinary lawns are a mixture of red-top and kentucky blue-grass in equal parts, with perhaps a small amount of white clover. on very sandy ground i prefer the kentucky blue-grass, as it is very hardy and vigorous under adverse circumstances." having sown and raked in the seed very lightly a great advantage will be gained in passing a lawn-roller over the ground. i have succeeded well in getting a good "catch" of grass by sowing the seed with oats, which were cut and cured as hay as soon as the grain was what is termed "in the milk." the strong and quickly growing oats make the ground green in a few days, and shelter the slower maturing grass-roots. mr. parsons says, "i prefer to sow the grass-seed alone." as soon as the grass begins to grow with some vigor, cut it often, for this tends to thicken it and produce the velvety effect that is so beautiful. from the very first the lawn will need weeding. the ground contains seeds of strong growing plants, such as dock, plantain, etc., which should be taken out as fast as they appear. to some the dandelion is a weed; but not to me, unless it takes more than its share of space, for i always miss these little earth stars when they are absent. they intensify the sunshine shimmering on the lawn, making one smile involuntarily when seeing them. moreover, they awaken pleasant memories, for a childhood in which dandelions had no part is a defective experience. in late autumn the fallen leaves should be raked carefully away, as they tend to smother the grass if permitted to lie until spring. now comes the chief opportunity of the year, in the form of a liberal top-dressing of manure from the stable. if this is spread evenly and not too thickly in november, and the coarser remains of it are raked off early in april, the results will be astonishing. a deep emerald hue will be imparted to the grass, and the frequent cuttings required will soon produce a turf that yields to the foot like a persian rug. any one who has walked over the plain at west point can understand the value of these regular autumnal top-dressings. if the stable-manure can be composted and left till thoroughly decayed, fine and friable, all the better. if stable-manure can not be obtained, mr. parsons recommends mapes's fertilizer for lawns. chapter iii the garden we now approach that part of the acre to which its possessor will probably give his warmest and most frequent thoughts--the garden. if properly made and conducted, it will yield a revenue which the wealth of the indies could not purchase; for whoever bought in market the flavor of fruit and vegetables raised by one's own hands or under our own eyes? sentiment does count. a boy is a boy; but it makes a vast difference whether he is our boy or not. a garden may soon become a part of the man himself, and he be a better man for its care. wholesome are the thoughts and schemes it suggests; healthful are the blood and muscle resulting from its products and labor therein. even with the purse of a millionaire, the best of the city's markets is no substitute for a garden; for nature and life are here, and these are not bought and sold. from stalls and pedlers' wagons we can buy but dead and dying things. the indolent epicure's enjoyment of game is not the relish of the sportsman who has taken his dinner direct from the woods and waters. i am often told, "it is cheaper to buy fruit and vegetables than to raise them." i have nothing to say in reply. there are many cheap things that we can have; experience has proved that one of the best things to have is a garden, either to work in or to visit daily when the season permits. we have but one life to live here, and to get the cheapest things out of it is a rather poor ambition. there are multitudes who can never possess an acre, more or less, and who must obtain nature's products at second hand. this is not so great a misfortune as to have no desire for her companionship, or wish to work under her direction in dewy mornings and shadowy evenings. we may therefore reasonably suppose that the man who has exchanged his city shelter for a rural home looks forward to the garden with the natural, primal instinct, and is eager to make the most of it in all its aspects. then let us plunge in medias res at once. the ideal soil for a garden is a mellow, sandy loam, underlaid with a subsoil that is not too open or porous. such ground is termed "grateful," and it is not the kind of gratitude which has been defined as "a lively appreciation of favors to come," which is true of some other soils. this ideal land remembers past favors; it retains the fertilizers with which it has been enriched, and returns them in the form of good crops until the gift is exhausted; therefore it is a thrifty as well as a grateful soil. the owner can bring it up to the highest degree of fertility, and keep it there by judicious management. this sandy loam--nature's blending of sand and clay--is a safe bank. the manure incorporated with it is a deposit which can be drawn against in fruit and vegetables, for it does not leach away and disappear with one season's rains. light, thin, sandy soil, with a porous or gravelly subsoil, is of a very different type, and requires different treatment. it is a spendthrift. no matter how much you give it one year, it very soon requires just so much more. you can enrich it, but you can't keep it rich. therefore you must manage it as one would take care of a spendthrift, giving what is essential at the time, and in a way that permits as little waste as possible. i shall explain this treatment more fully further on. in the choice of a garden plot you may be restricted to a stiff, tenacious, heavy clay. now you have a miser to deal with--a soil that retains, but in many cases makes no proper use of, what it receives. skill and good management, however, can improve any soil, and coax luxuriant crops from the most unpropitious. we will speak first of the ideal soil already mentioned, and hope that the acre contains an area of it of suitable dimensions for a garden. what should be the first step in this case? why, to get more of it. a quarter of an acre can be made equal to half an acre. you can about double the garden, without adding to it an inch of surface, by increasing the depth of good soil. for instance, ground has been cultivated to the depth of six or seven inches. try the experiment of stirring the soil and enriching it one foot downward, or eighteen inches, or even two feet, and see what vast differences will result. with every inch you go down, making all friable and fertile, you add just so much more to root pasturage. when you wish to raise a great deal, increase your leverage. roots are your levers; and when they rest against a deep fertile soil they lift into the air and sunshine products that may well delight the eyes and palate of the most fastidious. we suggest that this thorough deepening, pulverization, and enriching of the soil be done at the start, when the plow can be used without any obstructions. if there are stones, rocks, roots, anything which prevents the treatment which a garden plot should receive, there is a decided advantage in clearing them all out at the beginning. last fall i saw a half-acre that was swampy, and so encumbered with stones that one could walk all over it without stepping off the rocks. the land was sloping, and therefore capable of drainage. the proprietor put three men to work on the lower side with picks, shovels, and blasting-tools. they turned the soil over to the depth of eighteen inches, taking out every stone larger than a walnut. eight or ten feet apart deep ditches were cut, and the stones, as far as possible, placed in these. the rest were carted away for a heavy wall. you may say it was expensive work. so it was; yet so complete a garden spot was made that i believe it would yield a fair interest in potatoes alone. i relate this instance to show what can be done. a more forbidding area for a garden in its original state could scarcely be found. enough vegetables and fruit can be raised from it hereafter, with annual fertilizing, to supply a large family, and it will improve every year under the refining effects of frost, sun, and cultivation. it should be remembered that culture does for soil what it does for men and women. it mellows, brings it up, and renders it capable of finer products. much, indeed, can be done with a crude piece of land in a single year when treated with the thoroughness that has been suggested, and some strong-growing vegetables may be seen at their best during the first season; but the more delicate vegetables thrive better with successive years of cultivation. no matter how abundantly the ground may be enriched at first, time and chemical action are required to transmute the fertilizers into the best forms of plant-food, and make them a part of the very soil itself. plowing or spading, especially if done in late autumn, exposes the mould to the beneficial action of the air and frost, and the garden gradually takes on the refined, mellow, fertile character which distinguishes it from the ordinary field. in dealing with a thin, sandy soil, one has almost to reverse the principles just given. yet there is no cause for discouragement. fine results, if not the best, can be secured. in this case there is scarcely any possibility for a thorough preparation of the soil from the start. it can gradually be improved, however, by making good its deficiencies, the chief of which is the lack of vegetable mould. if i had such soil i would rake up all the leaves i could find, employ them as bedding for my cow and pigs (if i kept any), and spread the compost-heap resulting on the sandy garden. the soil is already too light and warm, and it should be our aim to apply fertilizers tending to counteract this defect. a nervous, excitable person should let stimulants alone, and take good, solid, blood-making food. this illustration suggests the proper course to be taken. many a time i have seen action the reverse of this resulting disastrously. for instance, a man carts on his light thin soil hot fermenting manure from the horse-stable, and plows it under. seeds are planted. in the moist, cool, early spring they make a great start, feeling the impulse of the powerful stimulant. there is a hasty and unhealthful growth; but long before maturity the days grow long and hot, drought comes, and the garden dries up. therefore every effort should be made to supply cool manures with staying qualities, such as are furnished by decayed vegetable matter composted with the cleanings of the cow-stable. we thus learn the value of fallen leaves, muck from the swamp, etc.; and they also bring with them but few seeds of noxious vegetation. on the other hand, stolid, phlegmatic clay requires the stimulus of manure from the horse-stable. it can be plowed under at once, and left to ferment and decay in the soil. the process of decomposition will tend to banish its cold, inert qualities, and make the ground loose, open, and amenable to the influences of frost, sun, and rain. does the owner of light, warm soils ask, "what, then, shall i do with my stable-manure, since you have said that it will be an injury to my garden?" i have not said this--only that it will do harm if applied in its raw, hot, fermenting state. compost it with leaves, sod, earth, muck, anything that will keep it from burning up with its own heat. if you can obtain no such ingredients, have it turned over and exposed to the air so often that it will decay without passing through a process approaching combustion. when it has become so thoroughly decomposed as to resemble a fine black powder, you have a fertilizer superior to any high-priced patent compound that can be bought. further on i will show how it can be used both in this state and also in its crude condition on light soils with the best results. it is scarcely possible to lay too much stress on this subject of fertilizers. the soil of the garden-plot looks inert: so does heavy machinery; but apply to it the proper motive power, and you have activity at once. manure is the motive power to soil, and it should be applied in a way and degree to secure the best results. to produce some vegetables and fruits much is required; in other growths, very little. in laying out a garden there are several points to be considered. the proprietor may be more desirous of securing some degree of beauty in the arrangement than of obtaining the highest condition of productiveness. if this be true, he may plan to make down its centre a wide, gravelled walk, with a grape-arbor here and there, and fruit-trees and flowers in borders on each side of the path. so far from having any objection to this arrangement, i should be inclined to adopt it myself. it would be conducive to frequent visits to the garden and to lounging in it, especially if there be rustic seats under the arbors. i am inclined to favor anything which accords with my theory that the best products of a garden are neither eaten nor sold. from such a walk down the middle of the garden the proprietor can glance at the rows of vegetables and small fruits on either side, and daily note their progress. what he loses in space and crops he gains in pleasure. nor does he lose much; for if the borders on each side of the path are planted with grape-vines, peach and plum trees, flowers and shrubs, the very ground he walks on becomes part of their root pasturage. at the same time it must be admitted that the roots will also extend with depleting appetites into the land devoted to vegetables. the trees and vines above will, to some extent, cast an unwholesome shade. he who has set his heart on the biggest cabbages and best potatoes in town must cultivate them in ground open to the sky, and unpervaded by any roots except their own. if the general fruitfulness of the garden rather than perfection in a few vegetables is desired, the borders, with their trees, vines, and flowers, will prove no objection. moreover, when it comes to competing in cabbages, potatoes, etc., the proprietor of the home acre will find that some irishman, by the aid of his redolent pig-pen, will surpass him. the roots and shade extending from his borders will not prevent him from growing good vegetables, if not the largest. we will therefore suppose that, as the simplest and most economical arrangement, he has adopted the plan of a walk six feet wide extending through the centre of his garden. as was the case with the other paths, it will be greatly to his advantage to stake it out and remove about four inches of the surface-soil, piling it near the stable to be used for composting purposes or in the earth-closet. the excavation thus made should be filled with small stones or cinders, and then covered with fine gravel. a walk that shall be dry at all times is thus secured, and it will be almost wholly free from weeds. in these advantages alone one is repaid for the extra first cost, and in addition the rich surface soil obtained will double the bulk and value of the fertilizers with which it is mixed. having made the walk, borders five feet wide can be laid out on each side of it, and the soil in these should be as rich and deep as any other parts of the garden. what shall be planted in these borders will depend largely on the tastes of the gardener; but, as has been suggested, there will assuredly be one or more shadowy grape-arbors under which the proprietor can retire to provide horticultural strategy. this brings us to that chef-d'oeuvre of nature-- the vine. it climbs by its tendrils, and they appear to have clasped the heart of humanity. among the best of heaven's gifts, it has sustained the worst perversions. but we will refrain from a temperance lecture; also from sacred and classical reminiscences. the world is not composed of monks who thought to escape temptation--and vainly too--in stony cells. to some the purple cluster suggests bacchanal revelry; to others, sitting under one's own vine and fig-tree--in brief, a home. the vine is like woman, the inspiration of the best and the worst. it may well become one of the dreams of our life to own land, if for no other reason than that of obtaining the privilege of planting vines. as they take root, so will we, and after we have eaten their delicious fruit, the very thought of leaving our acre will be repugnant. the literature of the vine would fill a library; the literature of love would crowd many libraries. it is not essential to read everything before we start a little vineyard or go a-courting. it is said that about two thousand known and named varieties of grapes have been and are being grown in europe; and all these are supposed to have been developed from one species (vitis vinifera), which originally was the wild product of nature, like those growing in our thickets and forests. one can scarcely suppose this possible when contemplating a cluster of tokay or some other highly developed variety of the hot-house. yet the native vine, which began to "yield fruit after his kind, the third day" (whatever may have been the length of that day), may have been, after all, a good starting-point in the process of development. one can hardly believe that the "one cluster of grapes" which the burdened spies, returning from palestine, bore "between two of them upon a staff," was the result of high scientific culture. in that clime, and when the world was young, nature must have been more beneficent than now. it is certain that no such cluster ever hung from the native vines of this land; yet it is from our wild species, whose fruit the indians shared with the birds and foxes (when not hanging so high as to be sour), that we have developed the delicious varieties of our out-door vineyards. for about two centuries our forefathers kept on planting vines imported from europe, only to meet with failure. nature, that had so abundantly rewarded their efforts abroad, quietly checkmated them here. at last american fruit-growers took the hint, and began developing our native species. then nature smiled; and as a lure along this correct path of progress, gave such incentives as the isabella, the catawba, and concord. we are now bewildered by almost as great a choice of varieties from native species as they have abroad; and as an aid to selection i will again give the verdict of some of the authorities. the choice of the hon. norman j. colman, commissioner of agriculture: "early victor, worden, martha, elvira, cynthiana." this is for the region of missouri. for the latitude of new jersey, a.s. fuller's selection: "delaware, concord, moore's early, antoinette (white), augusta (white), goethe (amber)." e.s. carmen: "moore's early [you cannot praise this too much. the quality is merely that of the concord; but the vines are marvels of perfect health, the bunches large, the berries of the largest size. they ripen all at once, and are fully ripe when the concord begins to color], worden, brighton, victoria (white), niagara (white), el dorado. [this does not thrive everywhere, but the grapes ripen early--september , or before--and the quality is perfection--white.]" choice of p.j. berckman, for the latitude of georgia: "white grapes--peter wylie, triumph, maxatawny, scuppernong. bed grapes--delaware, berckman's, brighton. black--concord, ives." as i have over a hundred varieties in bearing, i may venture to express an opinion also. i confess that i am very fond of those old favorites of our fathers, the isabella and catawba. they will not ripen everywhere in our latitude, yet i seldom fail to secure a good crop. in the fall of we voted the isabella almost unsurpassed. if one has warm, well-drained soil, or can train a vine near the south side of a building, i should advise the trial of this fine old grape. the iona, brighton, and agawam also are great favorites with me. we regard the diana, wyoming red, perkins, and rogers' hybrids, lindley, wilder, and amenia, as among the best. the rebecca, duchess, lady washington, and purity are fine white grapes. i have not yet tested the niagara. years ago i obtained of mr. james ricketts, the prize-taker for seedling grapes, two vines of a small wine grape called the bacchus. to my taste it is very pleasant after two or three slight frosts. our list of varieties is long enough, and one must be fastidious indeed who does not find some to suit his taste. in many localities the chief question is, what kind can i grow? in our favored region on the hudson almost all the out-door grapes will thrive; but as we go north the seasons become too cool and short for some kinds, and proceeding south the summers are too long and hot for others. the salt air of the sea-coast is not conducive to vine-culture, and only the most vigorous, like the concord and moore's early, will resist the mildew blight. we must therefore do the best we can, and that will be very well indeed in most localities. because our list of good grapes is already so long, it does not follow that we have reached the limit of development by any means. when we remember that almost within a lifetime our fine varieties have been developed from the wild northern fox grape (vitis labrusca), the summer grape (oestivalis), frost (cordifolia), we are led to think that perhaps we have scarcely more than crossed the stile which leads into the path of progress. if i should live to keep up my little specimen vineyard ten years longer, perhaps the greater part of the varieties now cultivated will have given place to others. the delicious brighton requires no more space than a sour, defective variety; while the proprietor starts with the best kinds he can obtain, he will find no restraint beyond his own ignorance or carelessness that will prevent his replacing the brighton with a variety twice as good when it is developed. thus vine-planting and grape-tasting stretch away into an alluring and endless vista. when such exchanges are made, we do not recommend the grafting of a new favorite on an old vine. this is a pretty operation when one has the taste and leisure for it, and a new, high-priced variety can sometimes be obtained speedily and cheaply in this way. usually, however, new kinds soon drop down within the means of almost any purchaser, and there are advantages in having each variety growing upon its own root. nature yields to the skill of the careful gardener, and permits the insertion of one distinct variety of fruit upon another; but with the vine she does not favor this method of propagation and change, as in the case of pears and apples, where the graft forms a close, tenacious union with the stock in which it is placed. mr. fuller writes: "on account of the peculiar structure of the wood of the vine, a lasting union is seldom obtained when grafted above-ground, and is far from being certain even when grafted below the surface, by the ordinary method." the vine is increased so readily by easy and natural methods, to be explained hereafter, that he who desires nothing more than to secure a good supply of grapes for the table can dismiss the subject. on the other hand, those who wish to amuse themselves by experimenting with nature can find abundant enjoyment in not only grafting old vines, but also in raising new seedlings, among which he may obtain a prize which will "astonish the natives." those, however, whose tastes carry them to such lengths in vine-culture will be sure to purchase exhaustive treatises on the subject, and will therefore give no heed to these simple practical chapters. it is my aim to enable the business man returning from his city office, or the farmer engrossed with the care of many acres, to learn in a few moments, from time to time, just what he must do to supply his family abundantly with fruits and vegetables. if one is about to adopt a grape-culture as a calling, common-sense requires that he should locate in some region peculiarly adapted to the vine. if the possessor of a large farm purposes to put several acres in vineyard, he should also aim to select a soil and exposure best suited to his purpose. two thousand years ago virgil wrote, "nor let thy vineyard bend toward the sun when setting." the inference is that the vines should face the east, if possible; and from that day to this, eastern and southern exposures have been found the best. yet climate modifies even this principle. in the south, i should plant my vineyard on a north-western slope, or on the north side of a belt of woods, for the reason that the long, hot days there would cause too rapid an evaporation from the foliage of the vines, and enfeeble, if not kill them. in the limited space of the home acre one can use only such land as he has, and plant where he must; but if the favorable exposures indicated exist, it would be well to make the most of them. i can mention, however, as encouragement to many, that i saw, last fall, splendid grapes growing on perfectly level and sandy soil in new jersey. a low-lying, heavy, tenacious clay is undoubtedly the worst ground in which to plant a vine; and yet by thorough drainage, a liberal admixture of sand, and light fertilizers, it can be made to produce good grapes of some varieties. a light sandy soil, if enriched abundantly with well-decayed vegetable and barnyard manures, gives wider scope in choice of kinds; while on the ideal well-drained sandy loam that we have described, any outdoor grape can be planted hopefully if the garden is sufficiently removed from the seaboard. as a general truth it may be stated that any land in a condition to produce a fine crop of corn and potatoes is ready for the vine. this would be true of the entire garden if the suggestions heretofore made have been carried out. therefore the borders which have been named are ready to receive the vines, which may be planted in either spring or fall. i prefer the fall season for several reasons. the ground is usually drier then, and crumbles more finely; the young vine becomes well established and settled in its place by spring, and even forms new roots before the growing season begins, and in eight cases out of ten makes a stronger growth than follows spring planting; it is work accomplished when there is usually the greatest leisure. if the ground is ready in early spring, i should advise no delay. a year's growth is gained by setting out the vines at once. as a rule i do not advise late spring planting--that is, after the buds have started on the young vines. they may live, but usually they scarcely do more, the first year. in ordering from a nursery i should ask for vigorous, well-rooted two-year-old vines, and i should be almost as well contented with first-class one-year-olds. if any one should advertise "extra large, strong vines, ready to bear at once," i should have nothing to do with him. that's a nursery trick to get rid of old stock. the first year after the shock of removal a vine should not be permitted to bear at all; and a young vigorous vine is worth a dozen old stunted ones. having procured the vines, keep them in a cool, moist place until ready to plant. never permit the roots to become dry; and if some of them are long and naked, shorten them to two feet, so as to cause them to throw out side fibrous roots, which are the true feeders. excavate holes of ample size, so that all the roots may be spread out naturally. if you have reason to think the ground is not very good, two or three quarts of fine bone-dust thoroughly mixed with the soil that is placed on and about the roots will give a fine send-off. usually a good mulch of any kind of barnyard manure placed on the surface after planting will answer all purposes. before filling in the hole over the roots, place beside the vine a stout stake six or seven feet high. this will be all the support required the first year. cut back the young vine to three buds, and after they get well started, let but one grow. if the planting is done in the fall, mound the earth up over the little vine at the approach of winter, so as to cover it at least six inches below the surface. in spring uncover again as soon as hard frosts are over--say early april in our latitude. slow-growing varieties, like the delaware, may be set out six feet apart; strong growers, like the concord, eight feet. vines can not be expected to thrive under the shade of trees, or to fight an unequal battle in ground filled with the roots of other plants. vines may be set out not only in the garden borders, but also in almost any place where their roots will not be interfered with, and where their foliage will receive plenty of light and air. how well i remember the old isabella vines that clambered on a trellis over the kitchen door at my childhood's home! in this sunny exposure, and in the reflected heat of the building, the clusters were always the sweetest and earliest ripe. a ton of grapes may be secured annually by erecting trellises against the sides of buildings, walls, and poultry yard, while at the same time the screening vines furnish grateful shade and no small degree of beauty. with a little petting, such scattered vines are often enormously productive. an occasional pail of soapsuds gives them a drink which eventually flushes the thickly hanging clusters with exquisite color. people should dismiss from their minds the usual method of european cultivation, wherein the vines are tied to short stakes, and made to produce their fruit near the ground. this method can be employed if we find pleasure in the experiment. at mr. fuller's place i saw fine examples of it. stubby vines with stems thick as one's wrist rose about three feet from the ground, then branched off on every side, like an umbrella, with loads of fruit. only one supporting stake was required. this method evidently is not adapted to our climate and species of grape, since in that case plenty of keen, practical fruit-growers would have adopted it. i am glad this is true, for the vine-clad hills of france do not present half so pleasing a spectacle as an american cornfield. the vine is beautiful when grown as a vine, and not as a stub; and well-trained, well-fed vines on the home acre can be developed to almost any length required, shading and hiding with greenery every unsightly object, and hanging their finest clusters far beyond the reach of the predatory small boy. we may now consider the vines planted and growing vigorously, as they will in most instances if they have been prepared for and planted according to the suggestions already given. now begins the process of guiding and assisting nature. left to herself, she will give a superabundance of vine, with sufficient fruit for purposes of propagation and feeding the birds. our object is to obtain the maximum of fruit from a minimum of vine. the little plant, even though grown from a single bud, will sprawl all over everything near it in three or four years, if unchecked. pruning may begin even before midsummer of the first year. the single green shoot will by this time begin to produce what are termed "laterals." the careful cultivator who wishes to throw all the strength and growth into the main shoot will pinch these laterals back as soon as they form one leaf. each lateral will start again from the axil of the leaf that has been left, and having formed another leaf, should again be cut off. by repeating this process during the growing season you have a strong single cane by fall, reaching probably beyond the top of the supporting stake. in our latitude i advise that this single cane--that is, the vine--be cut back to within fifteen inches of the surface when the leaves have fallen and the wood has well-ripened--say about the middle of november--and that the part left be bent over and covered with earth. when i say "bent over," i do not mean at right angles, so as to admit of the possibility of its being broken, but gently and judiciously. i cover with earth all my vines, except the concords and isabellas, just before hard freezing weather; and even these two hardy kinds i weight down close to the ground. i have never failed to secure a crop from vines so treated. two men will protect over a hundred vines in a day. in early april the young vine is uncovered again; and now the two uppermost buds are allowed to grow and form two strong canes, instead of one, and on this new growth four or five clusters of grapes may be permitted to mature if the vine is vigorous. if it is feeble, take off all the fruit, and stimulate the vine into greater vigor. our aim is not to obtain half a dozen inferior clusters as soon as possible, but to produce a vine that will eventually almost supply a family by itself. if several varieties have been planted, some will be found going ahead rampantly; others will exhibit a feebler growth, which can be hastened and greatly increased by enriching the surface of the soil around them and by a pail of soap-suds now and then in may or june--but not later, unless there should be a severe drought. there should be no effort to produce much growth during the latter part of the summer and early autumn, for then both the wood and roots will be immature and unripened when frost begins, and thus the vine receive injury. for this reason it is usually best to apply fertilizers to vines in the fall; for if given in the spring, a late, unhealthful growth is often produced. throughout all subsequent years manure must be applied judiciously. you may tell the hired man to top-dress the ground about the vines, and he will probably treat all alike; a vine that is already growing so strongly that it can scarcely be kept within bounds will receive as much as one that is slow and feeble in its development. this is worse than waste. each vine should be treated in accordance with its condition and habit of growth. what would be thought of a physician who ordered a tonic for an entire family, giving as much to one who might need depleting, as to another who, as country people say, was "puny and ailin'?" with even an assortment of half a dozen varieties we shall find after the first good start that some need a curb, and others a spur. stakes will answer as supports to the vines during the first and second seasons; but thereafter trellises or arbors are needed. the latter will probably be employed over the central walk of the garden, and may be constructed after several simple and pretty designs, which i leave to the taste of the reader. if vines are planted about buildings, fences, etc., trellises may be made of anything preferred--of galvanized wire, slats, or rustic poles fastened to strong, durable supports. if vines are to be trained scientifically in the open garden, i should recommend the trellises figured on pages and of mr. fuller's work, "the grape culturist." these, beyond anything i have seen, appear the best adapted for the following out of a careful system of pruning and training. such a system mr. fuller has thoroughly and lucidly explained in the above-named book. unless the reader has had experience, or is willing to give time for the mastery of this subject, i should advise that he employ an experienced gardener to prune his vines after the second year. it is a brief task, but a great deal depends upon it. in selecting a man for the work i should require something more than exaggerated and personal assurances. in every village there are terrible butchers of vines and fruit-trees, who have some crude system of their own. they are as ignorant of the true science of the subject as a quack doctor of medicine, and, like the dispenser of nostrums, they claim to be infallible. skilful pruning and training is really a fine art, which cannot be learned in a day or a year. it is like a surgical operation, requiring but little time, yet representing much acquired skill and experience. in almost every locality there are trustworthy, intelligent gardeners, who will do this work for a small sum until the proprietor has learned the art himself, if so inclined. i should also employ the same man in spring to tie up the vines and train them. if one is not ambitious to secure the best results attainable, he can soon learn to perform both the tasks well enough to obtain fairly good fruit in abundance. it should be our constant aim not to permit long, naked reaches of wood, in one part of the vine, and great smothering bunches of fruit and foliage in another part. of course the roots, stem, and leading arms should be kept free from useless shoots and sprouts; but having reached the trellis, the vine should be made to distribute bearing fruit-spurs evenly over it. much can be learned about pruning from books and by watching an expert gardener while giving the annual pruning; but the true science of trimming a vine is best acquired by watching buds develop, by noting what they will do, where they go, and how much space they will take up in a single summer. in this way one will eventually realize how much is wrapped up in the insignificant little buds, and now great the folly of leaving too many on the vine. in my next chapter i shall treat briefly of the propagation of the grape, its insect enemies, diseases, etc.; and also of some other fruits. chapter iv the vineyard and orchard he who proposes to plant grape-vines will scarcely fail to take the sensible course of inspecting the varieties already producing fruit in his locality. from causes often too obscure to be learned with certainty, excellent kinds will prove to be well adapted to one locality, and fail in others. if, therefore, when calling on a neighbor during august, september, or october, we are shown a vine producing fruit abundantly that is suited to our taste, a vine also which manifests unmistakable vigor, we may be reasonably sure that it belongs to a variety which we should have, especially if it be growing in a soil and exposure somewhat similar to our garden plot. a neighbor worthy of the name will be glad to give us a few cuttings from his vine at the time of its annual pruning; and with, very little trouble we also may soon possess the desired variety. when the vine is trimmed, either make yourself or have your friend make a few cuttings of sound wood from that season's growth. about eight inches is a good length for these vine-slips, and they should contain at least two buds. let each slip be cut off smoothly just under the lowest bud, and extend an inch or two above the uppermost bud. if these cuttings are obtained in november or december, they may be put into a little box with some of the moist soil of the garden, and buried in the ground below the usual frost-line--say a foot or eighteen inches in our latitude. the simple object is to keep them in a cool, even temperature, but not a frosty one. early in april dig up the box, open a trench in a moist but not wet part of the garden, and insert the cuttings perpendicularly in the soil, so that the upper bud is covered barely one inch. in filling up the trench, press the soil carefully yet firmly about the cuttings, and spread over the surface just about them a little fine manure. the cuttings should be a foot apart from each other in the row. do not let the ground become dry about them at any time during the summer. by fall these cuttings will probably have thrown out an abundance of roots, and have made from two to three feet of vine. in this case they can be taken up and set out where they are to fruit. possibly but one or two of them have started vigorously. the backward ones had better be left to grow another year in the cutting bed. probably we shall not wish to cultivate more than one or two vines of the variety; but it is just as easy to start several cuttings as one, and by this course we guard against failure, and are able to select the most vigorous plant for our garden. by taking good care of the others we soon derive one of the best pleasures which our acre can afford--that of giving to a friend something which will enhance the productiveness of his acre, and add to his enjoyment for years to come. not only on our neighbor's grounds, but also on our own we shall discover that some varieties are unusually vigorous, productive, and well-adapted to our locality; and we may very naturally wish to have more vines of the same sort, especially if the fruit is to our taste. we can either increase this kind by cuttings, as has been described, or we can layer part of the vine that has won our approval by well-doing. i shall take the latter course with several delicious varieties in my vineyard. some kinds of grapes do not root readily as cuttings, but there is little chance of failure in layering. this process is simply the laying down of a branch of a vine in early spring, and covering it lightly with soil, so that some buds will be beneath the surface, and others just at or a little above it. those beneath will form roots, the others shoots which by fall should be good vines for planting. every bud that can reach the air and light will start upward, and thus there may be a thick growth of incipient vines that will crowd and enfeeble each other. the probabilities are that only two or three new vines are wanted; therefore all the others should be rubbed off at the start, so that the strength of the parent plant and of the new roots that are forming may go into those few shoots designed to become eventually a part of our vineyard. if we wish only one vine, then but one bud should grow from the layer; if two vines, then two buds. the fewer buds that are permitted to grow, the stronger vines they make. it must be remembered that this layer, for the greater part of the growing season, is drawing its sustenance from the parent plant, to which it is still attached. therefore the other branches of this vine thus called upon for unusual effort should be permitted to fruit but sparingly. we should not injure and enfeeble the original vine in order to get others like it. for this reason we advise that no more buds be permitted to grow from the layer than we actually need ourselves. to injure a good vine and deprive ourselves of fruit that we may have plants to give away, is to love one's neighbor better than one's self--a thing permitted, but not required. when our vines are pruned, we can make as many cuttings as we choose, either to sell or give away. the ground in which a layer is placed should be very rich, and its surface round the young growing vines always kept moist and free from weeds. in the autumn, after the leaves have fallen and the wood is ripe and hard, cut off the layered branch close to the vine, and with a garden-fork gently and carefully lift it, with all its roots and young vines attached, out of the soil. first cut the young vines back to three or four buds, then separate them from the branch from which they grew, being sure to give each plant plenty of roots, and the roots back of the point from which it grew; that is, those roots nearest the parent plant from which the branch was layered. all the old wood of the branch that is naked, free of roots, should be cut off. the young shoots thus separated are now independent vines, and may be set out at once where they are to fruit. if you have a variety that does not do well, or that you do not like, dig it out, enrich the soil, and put one of your favorites in its place. we will now consider briefly the diseases and insect enemies of the grape. a vine way be doomed to ill-health from its very situation. mr. hussman, a grape-culturist of great experience and wide observation, writes: "those localities may generally be considered safe for the grape in which there are no miasmatic influences. where malaria and fevers prevail, there is no safety for the crop, as the vine seems to be as susceptible to such influences as human beings." taking this statement literally, we may well ask, where, then, can grapes be grown? according to physicians, malaria has become one of the most generally diffused products of the country. when a man asserts that it is not in his locality, we feel sure that if pressed he will admit that it is "round the corner." country populations still survive, however, and so does grape-culture. yet there are low-lying regions which from defective drainage are distinctively and, it would almost seem, hopelessly malarial. in such localities but few varieties of the vine will thrive, the people who are compelled to live there, or who choose to do so, should experiment until they obtain varieties so hardy and vigorous that they will triumph over everything. the best course with grape-diseases is not to have them; in other words, to recognize the fact at once that certain varieties of the grape will not thrive and be productive of good fruit unless the soil and climate suit them. the proprietor of the home acre can usually learn by a little inquiry or observation whether grapes thrive in his locality. if there is much complaint of mildew, grape-rot, and general feebleness of growth, he should seek to plant only the most hardy and vigorous kinds. as i have said before, our cultivated grapes are derived from several native species found growing wild, and some now valued highly for wine-making are nothing but wild grapes domesticated; as, for instance, norton's virginia, belonging to the oestivalis class. the original plant of this variety was found growing upon an island in the potomac by dr. norton, of virginia. the species from which the greatest number of well-known grapes is obtained is the vitis labrusca, the common wild or fox grape, found growing in woods and thickets, usually where the ground is moist, from canada to the gulf. the dark purple berries, averaging about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, ripen in september, and they contain a tough, musky pulp. yet this "slip of wilderness" is the parent of the refined catawba, the delicious brighton, and the magnificent white grape lady washington--indeed, of all the black, red, and white grapes with which most people are familiar. our earliest grapes, which ripen in august, as well as some of the latest, like the isabella, come from the labrusca species. it is said that the labrusca class will not thrive in the extreme south; and with the exception of the high mountain slopes, this appears reasonable to the student of the vine. it is said that but few of this class will endure the long hot summers of france. but there are great differences among the varieties derived from this native species. for example, the concord thrives almost anywhere, while even here upon the hudson we can scarcely grow the catawba with certainty. it is so good a grape, however, that i persist in making the effort, with varying success; but i should not recommend it, or many of its class, for those localities not specially suited to the grape. i will now name a few varieties which have proved to be, or promise to be, the most thrifty and productive whereever grapes can be grown at all the labrusca class: black--concord, wilder, worden, amenia, early canada, telegraph or christine, moore's early. red-wyoming, goethe, lindley, beauty, brighton, perkins (pale red), and agawam. white--rebecca, martha, alien's hybrid, lady pocklington, prentiss, lady washington. these are all fine grapes, and they have succeeded throughout wide areas of country. any and all are well worth a trial; but if the grower finds that some of them are weak and diseased in his grounds, i should advise that he root them out and replace them with those which thrive. the niagara is highly praised, and may make good all that is claimed for it. of the aestivalis class i can recommend the cynthiana and the herbemont, or warren, for the extreme south. both of them are black. there are new varieties of this vigorous species which promise well. the cordifolia species promises to furnish some fine, hardy, and productive grapes, of which the amber is an example. the elvira, a pale yellow grape, is highly praised by mr. hussman. although the bacchus is distinctively a wine grape, i have already said that its flavor, when fully ripe, was agreeable to me. the only difficulty in growing it is to keep the ground poor, and use the pruning-knife freely. i have enlarged on this point, for i wish to direct the mind of the reader to the fact that there are many very hardy grapes. i congratulate those who, with the taste of a connoisseur, have merely to sample until they find just the varieties that suit them, and then to plant these kinds in their genial soil and favored locality. at the same time i should like to prevent others from worrying along with unsatisfactory varieties, or from reaching the conclusion that they can not grow grapes in their region or garden. let them rather admit that they can not raise some kinds, but may others. if a variety were persistently diseased, feeble, and unproductive under good treatment, i should root it out rather than continue to nurse and coddle it. when mildew and grape-rot first appear, the evil can often be remedied in part by dusting the vines with sulphur, and continuing the process until the disease is cured, if it ever is. i have never had occasion to do this, and will not do it. a variety that often requires such nursing in this favored locality should be discarded. there is one kind of disease, or feebleness rather, to which we are subject everywhere, and from which few varieties are exempt. it is the same kind of weakness which would be developed in a fine sound horse if we drove him until he dropped down every time we took him out. cultivated vines are so far removed from their natural conditions that they will often bear themselves to death, like a peach-tree. to permit this is a true instance of avarice overreaching itself; or the evil may result from ignorance or neglect. close pruning in autumn and thinning out the crowding clusters soon after they have formed is the remedy. if a vine had been so enfeebled, i should cut it back rigorously, feed it well, and permit it to bear very little fruit, if any, for a year. of insect enemies we have the phylloxera of bad eminence, which has so dismayed europe. the man who could discover and patent an adequate remedy in france might soon rival a rothschild in his wealth. the remedy abroad is also ours--to plant varieties which are phylloxera-proof, or nearly so. fortunately we have many which defy this pestiferous little root-louse, and european vine-growers have been importing them by the million. they are still used chiefly as stocks on which to graft varieties of the vinifera species. in california, grapes of the vinifera or european species are generally cultivated; but the phylloxera is at its destructive work among them. the wine-grapes of the future throughout the world may be developed from the hardy cestivalis and cordifolia classes. in many localities, even in this new land, varieties like the delaware succumb to this scourge of foreign vineyards. the aphis, or plant-louse, sometimes attacks the young, tender shoots of the vine. the moment they appear, take off the shoot, and crush it on a board with the foot. leaf-rollers, the grape-vine sphinx, and caterpillars in general must be caught by hand and killed. usually they are not very numerous. the horrid little rose-chafers or rose-bugs are sometimes very destructive. our best course is to take a basin of water and jar them off into it--they fall readily--and then scald them to death. we may discover lady-bugs--small red or yellow and black beetles--among our vines, and many persons, i fear, will destroy them with the rest. we should take off our hats to them and wish them godspeed. in their destruction of aphides and thrips they are among our best friends. the camel-cricket is another active destroyer of injurious insects. why do not our schools teach a little practical natural history? once, when walking in the catskills, i saw the burly driver of a stage-load of ladies bound out of his vehicle to kill a garter-snake, the pallid women looking on, meanwhile, as if the earth were being rid of some terrible and venomous thing. they ought to have known that the poor little reptile was as harmless as one of their own garters, and quite as useful in its way. every country boy and girl should be taught to recognize all our helpers in our incessant fight with insect enemies--a fight which must be maintained with more organized vigor and intelligence than at present, if horticulture is ever to reach its best development. wasps and hornets often swarm about the sweet and early ripe varieties. a wide-mouthed bottle partially filled with molasses and water will entrap and drown great numbers of these ugly customers. some of our favorite birds try our patience not a little. during the early summer i never wearied of watching the musical orioles flashing with their bright hues in and out of the foliage about the house; but when the early grapes were ripe, they took pay for their music with the sang-froid of a favorite prima donna. on one occasion i saw three or four alight on a diana vine, and in five minutes they had spoiled a dozen clusters. if they would only take a bunch and eat it up clean, one would readily share with them, for there would be enough for all; but the dainty little epicures puncture an indefinite number of berries, merely taking a sip from each. then the wasps and bees come along and finish the clusters. the cardinal, cat-bird, and our unrivalled songster the wood-thrush, all help themselves in the same wasteful fashion. one can't shoot wood-thrushes. we should almost as soon think of killing off our nilssons, nevadas, and carys. the only thing to do is to protect the clusters; and this can be accomplished in several ways. the most expeditious and satisfactory method is to cover the vines of early grapes with cheap mosquito netting. another method is to make little bags of this netting and inclose each cluster. last fall, two of my children tied up many hundreds of clusters in little paper bags, which can be procured at wholesale for a trifling sum. the two lower corners of the paper bags should be clipped off to permit the rain to pass freely through them. clusters ripen better, last longer on the vine, and acquire a more exquisite bloom and flavor in this retirement than if exposed to light as well as to birds and wasps. not the fruit but the foliage of the grape-vine needs the sun. few of the early grapes will keep long after being taken from the vine; but some of the later ones can be preserved well into the winter by putting them in small boxes and storing them where the temperature is cool, even, and dry. some of the wine-grapes, like norton's virginia, will keep under these conditions almost like winter apples. one october day i took a stone pot of the largest size and put in first a layer of isabella grapes, then a double thickness of straw paper, then alternate layers of grapes and paper, until the pot was full. a cloth was next pasted over the stone cover, so as to make the pot water-tight. the pot was then buried on a dry knoll below the reach of frost, and dug up again on new year's day. the grapes looked and tasted as if they had just been picked from the vine. for the mysteries of hybridizing and raising new seedlings, grafting, hot-house and cold grapery culture, the reader must look in more extended works than this, and to writers who have had experience in these matters. we shall next consider three fruits which upon the home acre may be regarded as forming a natural group-peaches, plums, and raspberries, if any one expresses surprise that the last-named fruit should be given this relationship, i have merely to reply that the raspberry thrives in the partial shade produced by such small trees as the peach and plum. where there is need of economy of space it is well to take advantage of this fact, for but few products of the garden give any satisfaction when contending with roots below and shade above. we have taken it for granted that some grape-vines would be planted in the two borders extending through the centre of the garden, also that there would be spaces left which might be filled with peach and plum trees and small flowering shrubs. if there is to be a good-sized poultry-yard upon the acre, we should advise that plums be planted in that; but we will speak of this fruit later, and now give our attention to that fruit which to the taste of many is unrivalled--the peach. with the exception of the strawberry, it is perhaps the only fruit for which i prefer spring planting. at the same time, i should not hesitate to set out the trees in autumn. the ground should be good, but not too highly fertilized. i prefer young trees but one year old from the bud. if set out in the fall, i should mound up the earth eighteen inches about them, to protect the roots and stem, and to keep the tree firmly in the soil. with this precaution, i am not sure but that fall planting has the greater advantage, except when the climate is very severe and subject to great alternations. plant with the same care and on the same principles which have been already described. if a careful system of pruning is to be adopted, the trees may be set out twelve feet apart; but if they are to be left to grow at will, which i regret to say is the usual practice, they should be planted fifteen feet from each other. there are many good reasons why the common orchard culture of the peach should not be adopted in the garden. there is no fruit more neglected and ill-treated than the beautiful and delicious peach. the trees are very cheap, usually costing but a few cents each; they are bought by the thousand from careless dealers, planted with scarcely the attention given to a cabbage-plant, and too often allowed to bear themselves to death. the land, trees, and cultivation cost so little that one good crop is expected to remunerate for all outlay. if more crops are obtained, there is so much clear gain. under this slovenly treatment there is, of course, rapid deterioration in the stamina of the peach. pits and buds are taken from enfeebled trees for the purpose of propagation, and so tendencies to disease are perpetuated and enhanced. little wonder that, the fatal malady, the "yellows," has blighted so many hopes! i honestly believe that millions of trees have been sold in which this disease existed from the bud. if fine peaches were bred and propagated with something of the same care that is bestowed on blooded stock, the results would soon be proportionate. gardeners abroad often give more care to one tree than hundreds receive here. because the peach has grown so easily in our climate, we have imposed on its good-nature beyond the limits of endurance, and consequently it is not easy to get sound, healthful trees that will bear year after year under the best of treatment, as they did with our fathers with no care at all. i should look to men who had made a reputation for sending out sound, healthful stock grown under their own eyes from pits and wood which they know to be free from disease. do not try to save a few pennies on the first cost of trees, for the probabilities are that such economy will result in little more than the "yellows." in large orchards, cultivated by horse-power, the stems of the trees are usually from four to six feet high; but in the garden this length of stem is not necessary, and the trees can be grown as dwarf standards, with stems beginning to branch two feet from the ground. a little study of the habit of growth in the peach will show that, to obtain the best results, the pruning-shears are almost as essential as in the case of the grape-vine. more than in any other fruit-tree, the sap tends strongly toward the ends of the shoots. left to nature, only the terminal buds of these will grow from year to year; the other buds lower down on the shoots fail and drop off. thus we soon have long naked reaches of unproductive wood, or sucker-like sprouts starting from the bark, which are worse than useless. our first aim should be to form a round, open, symmetrical head, shortening in the shoots at least one-half each year, and cutting out crossing and interlacing branches. for instance, if we decide to grow our trees as dwarf standards, we shall cut back the stems at a point two feet from the ground the first spring after planting, and let but three buds grow, to make the first three or leading branches. the following spring we shall cut back the shoots that have formed, so as to make six leading branches. thereafter we shall continue to cut out and back so as to maintain an open head for the free circulation of air and light. to learn the importance of rigorous and careful pruning, observe the shoots of a vigorous peach-tree, say three or four years old. these shoots or sprays are long and slender, lined with fruit-buds. you will often find two fruit-buds together, with a leaf-bud between them. if the fruit-buds have been uninjured by the winter, they will nearly all form peaches, far more than the slender spray can support or mature. the sap will tend to give the most support to all growth at the end of the spray or branch. the probable result will be that you will have a score, more or less, of peaches that are little beyond skin and stones. by midsummer the brittle sprays will break, or the limbs split down at the crotches. you may have myriads of peaches, but none fit for market or table. thousands of baskets are sent to new york annually that do not pay the expenses of freight, commission, etc.; while the orchards from which they come are practically ruined. i had two small trees from which, one autumn, i sold ten dollars' worth of fruit. they yielded more profit than is often obtained from a hundred trees. now, in the light of these facts, realize the advantages secured by cutting back the shoots or sprays so as to leave but three or four fruit-buds on each. the tree can probably mature these buds into large, beautiful peaches, and still maintain its vigor. by this shortening-in process you have less tree, but more fruit. the growth is directed and kept within proper limits, and the tree preserved for future usefulness. thus the peach-trees of the garden will not only furnish some of the most delicious morsels of the year, but also a very agreeable and light phase of labor. they can be made pets which will amply repay all kindness; and the attentions they most appreciate, strange to say, are cutting and pinching. the pruning-shears in march and early april can cut away forming burdens which could not be borne, and pinching back during the summer can maintain beauty and symmetry in growth. when the proprietor of the home acre has learned from experience to do this work judiciously, his trees, like the grape-vines, will afford many hours of agreeable and healthful recreation. if he regards it as labor, one great, melting, luscious peach will repay him. a small apple, pear, or strawberry usually has the flavor of a large one; but a peach to be had in perfection must be fully matured to its limit of growth on a healthful tree. let no one imagine that the shortening in of shoots recommended consists of cutting the young sprays evenly all round the trees as one would shear a hedge. it more nearly resembles the pruning of the vine; for the peach, like the vine, bears its fruit only on the young wood of the previous summer's growth. the aim should be to have this young bearing wood distributed evenly over the tree, as should be true of a grape-vine. when the trees are kept low, as dwarf standards, the fruit is more within reach, and less liable to be blown off by high winds. gradually, however, if the trees prove healthful, they will get high enough up in the world. notwithstanding the rigorous pruning recommended, the trees will often overload themselves; and thinning out the young peaches when as large as hickory nuts is almost imperative if we would secure good fruit. men of experience say that when a tree has set too much fruit, if two-thirds of it are taken off while little, the remaining third will measure and weigh more than would the entire crop, and bring three times as much money. in flavor and beauty the gain will certainly be more than double. throughout its entire growth and fruiting life the peach-tree needs good cultivation, and also a good but not overstimulated soil. well-decayed compost from the cow-stable is probably the best barnyard fertilizer. wood-ashes are peculiarly agreeable to the constitution of this tree, and tend to maintain it in health and bearing long after others not so treated are dead. i should advise that half a peck be worked in lightly every spring around each tree as far as the branches extend. when enriching the ground about a tree, never heap the fertilizer round the trunk, but spread it evenly from the stem outward as far as the branches reach, remembering that the head above is the measure of the root extension below. air-slacked lime is also useful to the peach in small quantities; and so, no doubt, would be a little salt from time to time. bone-meal is highly recommended. like other fruit-trees, the peach does not thrive on low, wet ground, and the fruit-buds are much more apt to be winter-killed in such localities. a light, warm soil is regarded as the most favorable. of course we can grow this fruit on espaliers, as they do abroad; but there are few localities where any advantage is to be derived from this course. in our latitude i much prefer cool northern exposures, for the reason that the fruitbuds are kept dormant during warm spells in winter, and so late in spring that they escape injury from frost. alternate freezing and thawing is more harmful than steady cold. the buds are seldom safe, however, at any time when the mercury sinks ten or fifteen degrees below zero. as we have intimated, abuse of the peach-tree has developed a fatal disease, known as the "yellows." it manifests itself in yellow, sickly foliage, numerous and feeble sprouts along the larger limbs and trunk, and small miserable fruit, ripening prematurely. i can almost taste the yellows in much of the fruit bought in market. some regard the disease as very contagious; others do not. it is best to be on the safe side. if a tree is affected generally, dig it out by the roots and burn it at once; if only a branch shows evidence of the malady, cut it off well back, and commit it to the flames. the only remedy is to propagate from trees in sound health and vigor. like the apple, the peach-tree is everywhere subject to injury from a borer, named "exitiosa, or the destructive." the eggs from which these little pests are hatched are laid by the moth during the summer upon the stem of the tree very near the root; the grubs bore through the outer bark, and devour the inner bark and sap-wood. fortunately they soon reveal their evil work by the castings, and by the gum which exudes from the hole by which they entered. they can not do much harm, unless a tree is neglected; in this case, however, they will soon enfeeble, and probably destroy it. when once within a tree, borers must be cut out with a sharp-pointed knife, carefully yet thoroughly. the wounds from the knife may be severe, but the ceaseless gnawing of the grub is fatal. if the tree has been lacerated to some extent, a plaster of moistened clay or cow-manure makes a good salve. keeping the borers out of the tree is far better than taking them out; and this can be effected by wrapping the stem at the ground--two inches below the surface, and five above--with strong hardware or sheathing paper. if this is tied tightly about the tree, the moth cannot lay its eggs upon the stem. a neighbor of mine has used this protection not only on the peach, but also on the apple, with almost complete success. of course the pests will try to find their way under it, and it would be well to take off the wrapper occasionally and examine the trees. the paper must also be renewed before it is so far decayed as to be valueless. it should be remembered also that the borer will attack the trees from the first year of life to the end. in order to insure an unfailing supply of this delicious fruit, i should advise that a few trees be set out every spring. the labor and expense are scarcely greater than that bestowed upon a cabbage patch, and the reward is more satisfactory. for this latitude the following choice of varieties will prove, i think, a good one: early alexander, early elvers, princess of wales, brandywine, old mixon free, stump the world, picquet's late, crawford's late, mary's choice, white free heath, salway, and lord palmerston. if the soil of one's garden is stiff, cold, adhesive clay, the peach would succeed much better budded or grafted on plum-stocks. some of the finest fruit i have ever seen was from seedlings, the trees having been grown from pits of unusually good peaches. while the autumn planting of pits lightly in the soil and permitting them to develop into bearing trees is a pleasing and often profitable amusement, there is no great probability that the result will be desirable. we hear of the occasional prizes won in this way, but not of the many failures. by easy transition we pass to the kindred fruit the plum, which does not generally receive the attention it deserves. if one has a soil suited to it--a heavy clay or loam--it can usually be grown very easily. the fruit is so grateful to the taste and useful to the housekeeper that it should be given a fair trial, either in the garden borders or wherever a tree can be planted so as to secure plenty of light and air. the young trees may be one or two years old from the bud; i should prefer the former, if vigorous. never be induced to purchase old trees by promises of speedy fruit. it is quite possible you may never get any fruit at all from them worth mentioning. i should allow a space of from ten to fifteen feet between the trees when they are planted together, and i should cut them back so that they would begin to branch at two feet from the ground. long, naked stems are subject to the gum-disease. in the place of general advice in regard to this fruit i shall give the experience of mr. t. s. force, of newburgh, who exhibited seventy varieties at the last annual orange county fair. his plum-orchard is a large poultry-yard, containing half an acre, of which the ground is a good loam, resting on a heavy clay subsoil. he bought trees but one year from the bud, set them out in autumn, and cut them back so that they began to form their heads at two feet from the ground. he prefers starting with strong young plants of this age, and he did not permit them to bear for the first three years, his primal aim being to develop a healthy, vigorous tree with a round, symmetrical head. during this period the ground about them was kept mellow by good cultivation, and, being rich enough to start with, received no fertilizers. it is his belief that over-fertilization tends to cause the disease so well known as the "black knot," which has destroyed many orchards in this vicinity. if the garden has been enriched as i have directed, the soil will probably need little, if anything, from the stables, and certainly will not if the trees are grown in a poultry-yard. during this growing and forming period mr. force gave careful attention to pruning. budded trees are not even symmetrical growers, but tend to send up a few very strong shoots that rob the rest of the tree of sustenance. of course these must be cut well back in early spring, or we have long, naked reaches of wood and a deformed tree. it is far better, however, not to let these rampant shoots grow to maturity, but to pinch them back in early summer, thus causing them to throw out side-branches. by summer pinching and rubbing off of tender shoots a tree can be made to grow in any shape we desire. when the trees receive no summer pruning, mr. force advises that the branches be shortened in at least one half in the spring, while some shoots are cut back even more rigorously. at the age of four or five years, according to the vigor of the trees, he permits them to bear. now cultivation ceases, and the ground is left to grow hard, but not weedy or grassy, beneath the boughs. every spring, just as the blossoms are falling, he spreads evenly under the branches four quarts of salt. while the trees thrive and grow fruitful with this fertilizer, the curculio, or plum-weevil, does not appear to find it at all to its taste. as a result of his methods, mr. force has grown large and profitable crops, and his trees in the main are kept healthy and vigorous. his remedy for the black knot is to cut off and burn the small boughs and twigs affected. if the disease appears in the side of a limb or in the stem, he cuts out all trace of it, and paints the wound with a wash of gum shellac and alcohol. trees load so heavily that the plums rest against one another. you will often find in moist warm weather decaying specimens. these should be removed at once, that the infection may not spread. in cutting out the interfering boughs, do not take off the sharp-pointed spurs which are forming along the branches, for on these are slowly maturing the fruit-buds. in this case, as in others, the careful observer, after he has acquired a few sound principles of action to start with, is taught more by the tree itself than from any other source. mr. force recommends the following ten varieties, named in the order of ripening: canada; orleans, a red-cheeked plum; mclaughlin, greenish, with pink cheek; bradshaw, large red, with lilac bloom; smith's orleans, purple; green gage; bleeker's gage, golden yellow; prune d'agen, purple; coe's golden drop; and shropshire damson for preserves. if we are restricted to very light soils, we shall probably have to grow some of the native varieties, of the canada and wild-goose type. in regard to both this fruit and peaches we should be guided in our selection by information respecting varieties peculiarly suited to the region. the next chapter will treat of small fruits, beginning with the raspberry. chapter v the raspberry the wide and favorable consideration given to small fruits clearly marks one of the changes in the world's history. this change may seem trifling indeed to the dignified chroniclers of kings and queens and others of high descent--great descent, it may be added, remembering the moral depths attained; but to those who care for the welfare of the people, it is a mutation of no slight interest. i am glad to think, as has been shown in a recent novel, that lucrezia borgia was not so black as she has been painted; yet in the early days of june and july, when strawberries and raspberries are ripening, i fancy that most of us can dismiss her and her kin from mind as we observe nature's alchemy in our gardens. when we think of the luscious, health-imparting fruits which will grace millions of tables, and remember that until recent years they were conspicuous only by their absence, we may not slightingly estimate a great change for the better. once these fruits were wildings which the vast majority of our forefathers shared sparingly with the birds. often still, unless we are careful, our share will be small indeed; for the unperverted taste of the birds discovered from the first what men have been so slow to learn--that the ruby-like berries are the gems best worth seeking. the world is certainly progressing toward physical redemption when even the irish laborer abridges his cabbage-patch for the sake of small fruits--food which a dainty ariel could not despise. we have said that raspberries thrive in partial shade; and therefore some advice in regard to them naturally follows our consideration of trees. because the raspberry is not so exacting as are many other products of the garden, it does not follow that it should be marked out for neglect. as it is treated on many places, the only wonder is that even the bushes survive. like many who try to do their best in adversity, it makes the most of what people term "a chance to get ahead." moreover, the raspberry is perhaps as often injured by mistaken kindness as by neglect. if we can imagine it speaking for itself, it would say: "it is not much that i want, but in the name of common-sense and nature give me just what i do want; then you may pick at me to your heart's content." the first need of the raspberry is a well-drained but not a very dry, light soil. yet such is its adaptability that certain varieties can be grown on any land which will produce a burdock or a mullien-stalk. in fact, this question of variety chiefly determines our chances of success and the nature of our treatment of the fruit. the reader, at the start, should be enabled to distinguish the three classes of raspberries grown in this country. as was true of grapes, our fathers first endeavored to supply their gardens from foreign nurseries, neglecting the wild species with which our woods and roadsides abounded. the raspberry of europe (rubus idaeus) has been developed, and in many instances enfeebled, by ages of cultivation. nevertheless, few other fruits have shown equal power to adapt themselves to our soil and climate, and we have obtained from foreign sources many valuable kinds--as, for instance, the antwerp, which for weeks together annually taxed the carrying power of hudson river steamers. in quality these foreign kinds have never been surpassed; but almost invariably they have proved tender and fastidious, thriving well in some localities, and failing utterly (except under the most skilful care) in others. the frosts of the north killed them in winter, and southern suns shrivelled their foliage in summer. therefore they were not raspberries for the million, but for those who resided in favored regions, and were willing to bestow upon them much care and high culture. eventually another process began, taking place either by chance or under the skilful manipulation of the gardener--that of hybridizing, or crossing these foreign varieties with our hardier native species. the best results have been attained more frequently, i think, by chance; that is, the bees, which get more honey from the raspberry than from most other plants, carried the pollen from a native flower to the blossom of the garden exotic. the seeds of the fruit eventually produced were endowed with characteristics of both the foreign and native strains. occasionally these seeds fell where they had a chance to grow, and so produced a fortuitous seedling plant which soon matured into a bearing bush, differing from, both of its parents, and not infrequently surpassing both in good qualities. some one horticulturally inclined having observed the unusually fine fruit on the chance plant, and believing that it is a good plan to help the fittest to survive, marked the bush, and in the autumn transferred it to his garden. it speedily propagated itself by suckers, or young sprouts from the roots, and he had plants to sell or give away. such, i believe, was the history of the cuthbert--named after the gentleman who found it, and now probably the favorite raspberry of america. thus fortuitously, or by the skill of the gardener, the foreign and our native species were crossed, and a new and hardier class of varieties obtained. the large size and richness in flavor of the european berry has been bred into and combined with our smaller and more insipid indigenous fruit. by this process the area of successful raspberry culture has been extended almost indefinitely. within recent years a third step forward has been taken. some localities and soils were so unsuited to the raspberry that no variety containing even a small percentage of the foreign element could thrive. this fact led fruit-growers to give still closer attention to our native species. wild bushes were found here and there which gave fruit of such good quality and in such large quantities that they were deemed well worthy of cultivation. many of these wild specimens accepted cultivation gratefully, and showed such marked improvement that they were heralded over the land as of wonderful and surpassing value. some of these pure, unmixed varieties of our native species (rubus strigosus) have obtained a wide celebrity; as, for instance, the brandywine, highland hardy, and, best of all, the turner. it should be distinctly understood, however, that, with the exception of the last-named kind, these native varieties are decidedly inferior to most of the foreign berries and their hybrids or crosses, like the cuthbert and marlboro. thousands have been misled by their praise, and have planted them when they might just as easily have grown far better kinds. i suppose that many wealthy persons in the latitudes of new york and boston have told their gardeners (or more probably were told by them): "we do not wish any of those wild kinds. brinckle's orange, franconia, and the antwerp are good enough for us." so they should be, for they are the best; but they are all foreign varieties, and scarcely will live at all, much less be productive, in wide areas of the country. i trust that this preliminary discussion in regard to red raspberries will prepare the way for the advice to follow, and enable the proprietor of the home acre to act intelligently. sensible men do not like to be told, "you cannot do this, and must not do that"--in other words, to be met the moment they step into their gardens by the arbitrary dictum of a, b, or c. they wish to unite with nature in producing certain results. understanding her simple laws, they work hopefully, confidently; and they cannot be imposed upon by those who either wittingly or unwittingly give bad advice. having explained the natural principles on which i base my directions, i can expect the reader to follow each step with the prospect of success and enjoyment much enhanced. the question first arising is, what shall we plant? as before, i shall give the selection of eminent authorities, then suggest to the reader the restrictions under which he should make a choice for his own peculiar soil and climate. dr. f. m. hexamer, the well-known editor of a leading horticultural journal, is recognized throughout the land as having few, if any, superiors in recent and practical acquaintance with small fruits. the following is his selection: "cuthbert, turner, and marlboro." the hon. marshall p. wilder's choice: "brinckle's orange, franconia, cuthbert, herstine, shaffer." the hon. norman j. colman, commissioner of agriculture: "turner, marlboro, cuthbert." p. j. berckmans, of georgia: "cuthbert, hansel, lost rubies, imperial red." a. s. fuller: "turner, cuthbert, hansel." in analyzing this list we find three distinctly foreign kinds named: the orange, franconia, and herstine. if the last is not wholly of foreign origin, the element of our native species enters into it so slightly that it will not endure winters in our latitude, or the summer sun of the south. for excellence, however, it is unsurpassed. in the cuthbert, marlboro, and lost rubies we have hybrids of the foreign and our native species, forming the second class referred to; in the turner and hansel, examples of our native species unmixed. to each of these classes might be added a score of other varieties which have been more or less popular, but they would serve only to distract the reader's attention. i have tested forty or fifty kinds side by side at one time, only to be shown that four or five varieties would answer all practical purposes. i can assure the reader, however, that it will be scarcely possible to find a soil or climate where some of these approved sorts will not thrive abundantly and at slight outlay. throughout southern new england, along the bank of the hudson, and westward, almost any raspberry can be grown with proper treatment. there are exceptions, which are somewhat curious. for instance, the famous hudson river antwerp, which until within a very few years has been one of the great crops of the state, has never been grown successfully to any extent except on the west bank of the river, and within the limited area of kingston on the north and cornwall on the south. the franconia, another foreign sort, has proved itself adapted to more extended conditions of soil and climate. i have grown successfully nearly every well-known raspberry, and perhaps i can best give the instruction i desire to convey by describing the methods finally adopted after many years of observation, reading, and experience. i will speak of the class first named, belonging to the foreign species, of which i have tested many varieties. i expect to set out this year rows of brinckle's orange, franconia, hudson river antwerp, and others. for this class i should make the ground very rich, deep, and mellow. i should prefer to set out the plants in the autumn--from the middle of october to the tenth of november; if not then, in early spring--the earlier the better--while the buds are dormant. i should have the rows four feet apart; and if the plants were to be grown among the smaller fruit-trees, i should maintain a distance from them of at least seven feet. i should use only young plants, those of the previous summer's growth, and set them in the ground about as deeply as they stood when taken up--say three or four inches of earth above the point from which the roots branched. i should put two well-rooted plants in each hill, and this would make the hills four feet apart each way. by "hills" i do not mean elevations of ground. this should be kept level throughout all future cultivation. i should cut back the canes or stems of the plants to six inches. thousands of plants are lost or put back in their growth by leaving two or three feet of the canes to grow the first year. never do this. the little fruit gained thus prematurely always entails a hundred-fold of loss. having set out the plants, i should next scatter over and about them one or two shovelfuls of old compost or decayed manure of some kind. if the plants had been set out in the fall, i should mound the earth over them before freezing weather, so that there should be at least four inches of soil over the tops of the stems. this little mound of earth over the plants or hill would protect against all injury from frost. in the spring i should remove these mounds of earth so as to leave the ground perfectly level on all sides, and the shortened canes projecting, as at first, six inches above the surface. during the remainder of the spring and summer the soil between the plants chiefly requires to be kept open, mellow, and free from weeds. in using the hoe, be careful not to cut off the young raspberry sprouts, on which the future crop depends. do not be disappointed if the growth seems feeble the first year, for these foreign kinds are often slow in starting. in november, before there is any danger of the ground freezing, i should cut back the young canes at least one-third of their length, bend them gently down, and cover them with earth to the depth of four or five inches. it must be distinctly remembered that very few of the foreign kinds would endure our winter unprotected. every autumn they must be covered as i have directed. is any one aghast at this labor? nonsense! antwerps are covered by the acre along the hudson. a man and a boy would cover in an hour all that are needed for a garden. after the first year the foreign varieties, like all others, will send up too many sprouts, or suckers. unless new plants are wanted, these should be treated as weeds, and only from three to five young canes be left to grow in each hill. this is a very important point, for too often the raspberry-patch is neglected until it is a mass of tangled bushes. keep this simple principle in mind: there is a given amount of root-power; if this cannot be expended in making young sprouts all over the ground, it goes to produce a few strong fruit-bearing canes in the hill. in other words, you restrict the whole force of the plant to the precise work required--the giving of berries. as the original plants grow older, they will show a constantly decreasing tendency to throw up new shoots, but as long as they continue to grow, let only those survive which are designed to bear the following season. the canes of cultivated raspberries are biennial. a young and in most varieties a fruitless cane is produced in one season; it bears in july the second year, and then its usefulness is over. it will continue to live in a half-dying way until fall, but it is a useless and unsightly life. i know that it is contended by some that the foliage on the old canes aids in nourishing the plants; but i think that, under all ordinary circumstances, the leaves on the young growth are abundantly sufficient. by removing the old canes after they have borne their fruit, an aspect of neatness is imparted, which would be conspicuously absent were they left. every autumn, before laying the canes down, i should shorten them in one-third. the remaining two-thirds will give more fruit by actual measurement, and the berries will be finer and larger, than if the canes were left intact. from first to last the soil about the foreign varieties should be maintained in a high degree of fertility and mellowness. of manures from the barnyard, that from the cow-stable is the best; wood-ashes, bone-dust, and decayed leaves also are excellent fertilizers. during all this period the partial shade of small trees will be beneficial rather than otherwise, for it should be remembered that sheltered localities are the natural habitat of the raspberry. by a little inquiry the reader can learn whether varieties of the foreign class are grown successfully in his vicinity. if they are, he can raise them also by following the directions which have been given. brinckle's orange--a buff-colored berry--is certainly one of the most beautiful, delicate, and delicious fruits in existence, and is well worth all the care it requires in the regions where it will grow; while the franconia and others should never be permitted to die out by fruit connoisseurs. if the soil of your garden is light and sandy, or if you live much south of new york, i should not advise their trial. they may be grown far to the north, however. i am told that tender varieties of fruits that can be covered thrive even better in canada than with us. there deep snow protects the land, and in spring and autumn they do not have long periods when the bare earth is alternately freezing and thawing. in the second class of raspberries, the crosses between the foreign and native species, we now have such fine varieties that no one has much cause for regret if he can raise them; and i scarcely see how he can help raising them if he has sufficient energy to set out a few plants and keep them free from weeds and superabundant suckers. take the cuthbert, for instance; you may set it out almost anywhere, and in almost any latitude except that of the extreme southern states. but you must reverse the conditions required for the foreign kinds. if the ground is very rich, the canes will threaten to grow out of sight. i advise that this strong-growing sort be planted in rows five feet apart. any ordinary soil is good enough for the cuthbert to start in, and the plants will need only a moderate degree of fertilizing as they begin to lose a little of their first vigor. of course, if the ground is unusually light and poor, it should be enriched and maintained in a fair degree of fertility. the point i wish to make is that this variety will thrive where most others would starve; but there is plenty of land on which anything will starve. the cuthbert is a large, late berry, which continues long in bearing, and is deserving of a place in every garden. i have grown it for many years, and have never given it any protection whatever. occasionally there comes a winter which kills the canes to the ground. i should perhaps explain to the reader here that even in the case of the tender foreign kinds it is only the canes that are killed by the frost; the roots below the surface are uninjured, and throw up vigorous sprouts the following spring. the cuthbert is so nearly hardy that we let it take its chances, and probably in eight winters out of ten it would stand unharmed. its hardiness is greatly enhanced when grown on well-drained soils. it now has a companion berry in the marlboro--a variety but recently introduced, and therefore not thoroughly tested as yet. its promise, however, is very fine, and it has secured the strong yet qualified approval of the best fruit critics. it requires richer soil and better treatment than the cuthbert, and it remains to be seen whether it is equally hardy. it is well worth winter protection if it is not. it is not a suitable berry for the home garden if no other is grown, for the reason that it matures its entire crop within a brief time, and thus would give a family but a short season of raspberries. cultivated in connection with the cuthbert, it would be admirable, for it is very early, and would produce its fruit before the cuthberts were ripe. unitedly the two varieties would give a family six weeks of raspberries. there are scores of other kinds in this class, and some are very good indeed, well worth a place in an amateur's collection; but the two already named are sufficient to supply a family with excellent fruit. of the third class of red raspberries, representing our pure native species, i should recommend only one variety--the turner; and that is so good that it deserves a place in every collection. it certainly is a remarkable raspberry, and has an unusual history, which i have given in my work "success with small fruits." i doubt whether there is a hardier raspberry in america--one that can be grown so far to the north, and, what is still more in its favor, so far to the south. in the latter region it is known as the southern thornless. the fact that it is almost wholly without spines is a good quality; but it is only one among many others. the turner requires no winter protection whatever, will grow on almost any soil in existence, and in almost any climate. it yields abundantly medium-sized berries of good flavor. the fruit begins to ripen early, and lasts throughout a somewhat extended season. it will probably give more berries, with more certainty and less trouble, than any other variety. even its fault leans to virtue's side. set out a single plant, leave it to nature, and in time it will cover the place with turner raspberries; and yet it will do this in a quiet, unobtrusive way, for it is not a rampant, ugly grower. while it will persist in living under almost any circumstances, i have found no variety that responded more gratefully to good treatment. this consists simply in three things: ( ) rigorous restriction of the suckers to four or five canes in the hill; ( ) keeping the soil clean and mellow about the bearing plants; ( ) making this soil rich. its dwarf habit of growth, unlike that of the cuthbert, enables one to stimulate it with any kind of manure. by this course the size of the bushes is greatly increased, and enormous crops can be obtained. i prefer to set out all raspberries in the fall, although as a matter of convenience i often perform the task in the early spring. i do not believe in late spring planting, except as one takes up a young sprout, two or three inches high, and sets it out as one would a tomato-plant. by this course time is often saved. when it is our wish to increase the quality and quantity of the fruit, i should advise that the canes of all varieties be cut back one-third of their length. a little observation will teach us the reason for this. permit a long cane to bear throughout its natural length, and you will note that many buds near the ground remain dormant or make a feeble growth. the sap, following a general law of nature, pushes to the extremities, and is, moreover, too much diffused. cut away one-third, and all the buds start with redoubled vigor, while more and larger fruit is the result. if, however, earliness in ripening is the chief consideration, as it often is, especially with the market-gardener, leave the canes unpruned, and the fruit ripens a few days sooner. in purveying for the home table, white raspberries offer the attractions of variety and beauty. in the case of brinckle's orange, its exquisite flavor is the chief consideration; but this fastidious foreign berry is practically beyond the reach, of the majority. there is, however, an excellent variety, the caroline, which is almost as hardy as the turner, and more easily grown. it would seem that nature designed every one to have it (if we may say it of caroline), for not only does it sucker freely like the red raspberries, but the tips of the canes also bend over, take root, and form new plants. the one thing that caroline needs is repression, the curb; she is too intense. i am inclined to think, however, that she has had her day, even as an attendant on royalty, for a new variety, claiming the high-sounding title of golden queen, has mysteriously appeared. i say mysteriously, for it is difficult to account for her origin. mr. ezra stokes, a fruit-grower of new jersey, had a field of twelve acres planted with cuthbert raspberries. in this field he found a bush producing white berries. in brief, he found an albino of the cuthbert. of the causes of her existence he knows nothing. all we can say, i suppose, is that the variation was produced by some unknown impulse of nature. deriving her claims from such a source, she certainly has a better title to royalty than most of her sister queens, who, according to history, have been commonplace women, suggesting anything but nature. with the exception of the philadelphians, perhaps, we as a people will not stand on the question of ancestry, and shall be more inclined to see how she "queens it." of course the enthusiastic discoverer and disseminators of this variety claim that it is not only like the cuthbert, but far better. let us try it and see; if it is as good, we may well be content, and can grace our tables with beautiful fruit. there is another american species of raspberry (rubus occidentalis) that is almost as dear to memory as the wild strawberry--the thimble-berry, or black-cap. i confess that the wild flavor of this fruit is more to my taste than that of any other raspberry. apparently its seeds have been sown broadcast over the continent, for it is found almost everywhere, and there have been few children in america whose lips have not been stained by the dark purple juice of its fruit. seeds dropped in neglected pastures, by fence and roadsides, and along the edges of the forest, produce new varieties which do not propagate themselves by suckers like red raspberries, but in a manner quite distinct. the young purple canes bend over and take root in the soil during august, september, and october. at the extreme end of the tip from which the roots descend a bud is formed, which remains dormant until the following spring. therefore the young plant we set out is a more or less thick mass of roots, a green bud, and usually a bit of the old parent cane, which is of no further service except as a handle and a mark indicating the location of the plant. after the ground has been prepared as one would for corn or potatoes, it should be levelled, a line stretched for the row, and the plants set four feet apart in the row. sink the roots as straight down as possible, and let the bud point upward, covering it lightly with merely one or two inches of soil. press the ground firmly against the roots, but not on the bud. the soil just over this should be fine and mellow, so that the young shoot can push through easily, which it will soon do if the plants are in good condition. except in the extreme south, spring is by far the best time for planting, and it should be done early, while the buds are dormant. after these begin to grow, keep the ground mellow and free from weeds. the first effort of the young plant will be to propagate itself. it will sprawl over the ground if left to its wild impulses, and will not make an upright bearing bush. on this account put a stake down by the young sprout, and as it grows keep it tied up and away from the ground. when the side-branches are eight or ten inches long, pinch them back, thus throwing the chief strength into the central cane. by keeping all the branches pinched back you form the plant into an erect, sturdy bush that will load itself with berries the following year. no fruit will be borne the first season. the young canes of the second year will incline to be more sturdy and erect in their growth; but this tendency can be greatly enhanced by clipping the long slender branches which are thrown out on every side. as soon as the old canes are through bearing, they should be cut out and burned or composted with other refuse from the garden. black-caps may be planted on any soil that is not too dry. when the plant suffers from drought, the fruit consists of little else than seeds. to escape this defect i prefer to put the black-caps in a moist location; and it is one of the few fruits that will thrive in a cold, wet soil. one can set out plants here and there in out-of-the-way corners, and they often do better than those in the garden. indeed, unless a place is kept up very neatly, many such bushes will be found growing wild, and producing excellent fruit. the question may arise in some minds, why buy plants? why not get them from the woods and fields, or let nature provide bushes for us where she will? when nature produces a bush on my place where it is not in the way, i let it grow, and pick the fruit in my rambles; but the supply would be precarious indeed for a family. by all means get plants from the woods if you have marked a bush that produces unusually fine fruit. it is by just this course that the finest varieties have been obtained. if you go a-berrying, you may light on something finer than has yet been discovered; but it is not very probable. meanwhile, for a dollar you can get all the plants you want of the two or three best varieties that have yet been discovered, from maine to california. after testing a great many kinds, i should recommend the souhegan for early, and the mammoth cluster and gregg for late. a clean, mellow soil in good condition, frequent pinchings back of the canes in summer, or a rigorous use of the pruning-shears in spring, are all that is required to secure an abundant crop from year to year. this species may also be grown among trees. i advise that every kind and description of raspberries be kept tied to stakes or a wire trellis. the wood ripens better, the fruit is cleaner and richer from exposure to air and sunshine, and the garden is far neater than if the canes are sprawling at will. i know that all horticulturists advise that the plants be pinched back so thoroughly as to form self-supporting bushes; but i have yet to see the careful fruit-grower who did this, or the bushes that some thunder-gusts would not prostrate into the mud with all their precious burden, were they not well supported. why take the risk to save a two-penny stake? if, just before the fruit begins to ripen, a mulch of leaves, cut grass, or any litter that will cover the ground slightly, is placed under and around the bushes, it may save a great deal of fruit from being spoiled. the raspberry season is also the hour and opportunity for thunder-showers, whose great slanting drops often splash the soil to surprising distances. sugar-and-cream-coated, not mud-coated, berries, if you please. in my remarks on raspberries i have not named many varieties, and have rather laid stress on the principles which may guide the reader in his present and future selections of kinds. sufficient in number and variety to meet the needs of every family have been mentioned. the amateur may gratify his taste by testing other sorts described in nurserymen's catalogues. moreover, every year or two some new variety will be heralded throughout the land. the reader has merely to keep in mind the three classes of raspberries described and their characteristics, in order to make an intelligent choice from old and new candidates for favor. it should also be remembered that the raspberry is a northern fruit. i am often asked in effect, what raspberries do you recommend for the gulf states? i suppose my best reply would be, what oranges do you think best adapted to new york? most of the foreign kinds falter and fail in new jersey and southern pennsylvania; the cuthbert and its class can be grown much further south, while the turner and the black-caps thrive almost to florida. raspberries, especially those of our native species, are comparatively free from disease. foreign varieties and their hybrids are sometimes afflicted with the curl-leaf. the foliage crimps up, the canes are dwarfed, and the whole plant has a sickly and often yellow appearance. the only remedy is to dig up the plant, root and branch, and burn it. a disease termed the "rust" not infrequently attacks old and poorly nourished black-cap bushes. the leaves take on an ochreous color, and the plant is seen to be failing. extirpate it as directed above. if many bushes are affected, i advise that the whole patch be rooted up, and healthy plants set out elsewhere. it is a well-known law of nature that plants of nearly all kinds appear to exhaust from the soil in time the ingredients peculiarly acceptable to them. skill can do much toward maintaining the needful supply; but the best and easiest plan is not to grow any of the small fruits too long in any one locality. by setting out new plants on different ground, far better results are attained with much less trouble. chapter vi the currant who that has ever lived in the country does not remember the old straggling currant-bushes that disputed their existence with grass, docks, and other coarse-growing weeds along some ancient fence? many also can recall the weary task of gathering a quart or two of the diminutive fruit for pies, and the endless picking required to obtain enough for the annual jelly-making. nor is this condition of affairs a thing of the past. drive through the land where you will in early july, and you will see farmers mowing round the venerable red dutch currants "to give the women-folks a chance at 'em." the average farmer still bestows upon this fruit about as much attention as the aborigines gave to their patches of maize. this seems very absurd when we remember the important place held in the domestic economy by the currant, and how greatly it improves under decent treatment. if it demanded the attention which a cabbage-plant requires, it would be given; but the currant belongs to that small class of creatures which permit themselves to be used when wanted, and snubbed, neglected, and imposed upon at other times. it is known that the bushes will manage to exist, and do the very best they can, no matter how badly treated; and average human nature has ever taken advantage of such traits, to its continuous loss. the patience of the currant is due perhaps to its origin, for it grows wild round the northern hemisphere, its chief haunts being the dim, cold, damp woods of the high latitudes. you may tame, modify, and vastly change anything possessing life; but original traits are scarcely ever wholly eradicated. therefore the natural habitat and primal qualities of the currant indicate the true lines of development, its capabilities and limitations. it is essentially a northern fruit, requiring coolness, moisture, and alluvial soils. it begins to falter and look homesick even in new jersey; and one has not to go far down the atlantic coast to pass beyond the range of its successful culture. i do not see why it should not thrive much further south on the northern slopes of the mountains. from philadelphia northward, however, except on light dry soils and in sunny exposures, there is no reason why it should not give ample returns for the attention it requires. i shall not lay stress on the old, well-known uses to which this fruit is put, but i do think its value is but half appreciated. people rush round in july in search of health: let me recommend the currant cure. if any one is languid, depressed in spirits, inclined to headaches, and generally "out of sorts," let him finish his breakfast daily for a month with a dish of freshly picked currants. he will soon, almost doubt his own identity, and may even begin to think that he is becoming a good man. he will be more gallant to his wife, kinder to his children, friendlier to his neighbors, and more open-handed to every good cause. work will soon seem play, and play fun. in brief, the truth of the ancient pun will be verified, that "the power to live a good life depends largely upon the liver." out upon the nonsense of taking medicine and nostrums during the currant-season! let it be taught at theological seminaries that the currant is a "means of grace." it is a corrective; and that is what average humanity most needs. the currant, like the raspberry, is willing to keep shady; but only because it is modest. it is one of the fruits that thrive better among trees than in too dry and sunny exposures. therefore, in economizing space on the home acre it may be grown among smaller trees, or, better still, on the northern or eastern side of a wall or hedge. but shade is not essential, except as we go south; then the requisites of moisture and shelter from the burning rays of the sun should be complied with as far as possible. in giving this and kindred fruits partial shade, they should not be compelled to contend to any extent with the roots of trees. this will ever prove an unequal contest. no fruit can thrive in dense shade, or find sustenance among the voracious roots of a tree. select, therefore, if possible, heavy, deep, moist, yet well-drained soil, and do not fear to make and keep it very rich. if you are restricted to sandy or gravelly soils, correct their defects with compost, decayed leaves and sods, muck, manure from the cow-stable, and other fertilizers with staying rather than stimulating qualities. either by plowing or forking, deepen as well as enrich the soil. it is then ready for the plants, which may be set out either in the fall or in early spring. i prefer the autumn--any time after the leaves have fallen; but spring answers almost as well, while buds are dormant, or partially so. it should be remembered that the currant starts very early, and is in full foliage before some persons are fairly wakened to garden interests. it would, in this case, be better to wait until october, unless the plants can be obtained from a neighbor on a cloudy day; then they should be cut back two-thirds of their length before being removed, and the transfer made as quickly as possible. under any circumstances, take off half of the wood from the plants bought. this need not be thrown away. every cutting of young wood six inches long will make a new plant in a single season. all that is needful is to keep the wood moist until ready to put it in the ground, or, better still, a cool, damp place in the garden can be selected at once, and the cuttings sunk two-thirds of their length into the ground, and the soil pressed firm around them. by fall they will have a good supply of roots, and by the following autumn be ready to be set out wherever you wish them to fruit. currant-bushes may be planted five feet apart each way, and at the same distance, if they are to line a fence. they should be sunk a few inches deeper in the soil than they stood before, and the locality be such as to admit of good culture. the soil should never be permitted to become hard, weedy, or grass-grown. as a rule, i prefer two-year-old plants, while those of one year's growth answer nearly as well, if vigorous. if in haste for fruit, it may be well to get three-year-old plants, unless they have been dwarfed and enfeebled by neglect. subsequent culture consists chiefly in keeping the soil clean, mellow, rich, and therefore moist. i have named the best fertilizers for the currant; but if the product of the horse-stable is employed, use it first as a mulch. it will thus gradually reach the roots. otherwise it is too stimulating, and produces a rampant growth of wood rather than fruit. under any circumstances this tendency to produce an undue amount of wood must be repressed almost as rigorously as in the grape-vine. the secret of successful currant-culture is richness beneath, and restriction above. english gardeners are said to have as complete and minute systems of pruning and training currants as the grape; but we do not seem to have patience for such detail. nor do i regard it as necessary. our object is an abundant supply of excellent fruit; and this result can be obtained at a surprisingly small outlay of time and money, if they are expended judiciously. the art of trimming a currant-bush, like that of pruning a grape-vine, is best learned by observation and experience. one can give principles rather than lay down rules. like the vine, the currant tends to choke itself with a superabundance of wood, which soon becomes more or less barren. this is truer of some varieties than of others; but in all instances the judicious use of the pruning-knife doubles the yield. in view of the supposition that the leading shoot and all the branches were shortened in one-half when the plant was set out, i will suggest that early in june it will be observed that much more wood is forming than can be permitted to remain. there are weak, crowding shoots which never can be of any use. if these are cut out at this time, the sap which would go to mature them will be directed into the valuable parts of the forming bush. summer pruning prevents misspent force, and it may be kept up with great advantage from year to year. this is rarely done, however; therefore early in spring the bushes must receive a good annual pruning, and the long shoots and branches be cut well back, so as to prevent naked reaches of wood. observe a very productive bush, and you will see that there are many points abounding in little side-branches. it is upon these that the fruit is chiefly borne. a bush left to itself is soon a mass of long, slender, almost naked stalks, with a little fruit at the ends. the ideal bush is stocky, open, well branched, admitting light, air, and sun in every part. there is no crowding and smothering of the fruit by the foliage. but few clusters are borne on very young wood, and when this grows old and black, the clusters are small. therefore new wood should always be coming on and kept well cut back, so as to form joints and side-branches; and as other parts grow old and feeble they should be cut out. observation and experience will teach the gardener more than all the rules that could be written, for he will perceive that he must prune each bush according to its own individuality. for practical purposes the bush form is the best in which to grow currants; but they can easily be made to form pretty little trees with tops shaped like an umbrella, or any other form we desire. for instance, i found, one autumn, a shoot about three feet long. i rubbed off all the buds except the terminal one and three or four just beneath it, then sunk the lower end of the shoot six inches into the soil, and tied the part above the ground to a short stake. the following spring the lower end took root, and the few buds at the top developed into a small bushy head. clumps of miniature currant-trees would make as pretty an ornament for the garden border as one would wish to see. it should be remembered that there is a currant as well as an apple borer; but the pests are not very numerous or destructive, and such little trees may easily be grown by the hundred. clean culture has one disadvantage which must be guarded against. if the ground under bushes is loose, heavy rains will sometimes so splash up the soil as to muddy the greater part of the fruit. i once suffered serious loss in this way, and deserved it; for a little grass mown from the lawn, or any other litter spread under and around the bushes just before the fruit ripened, would have prevented it. it will require but a very few minutes to insure a clean crop. i imagine that if these pages are ever read, and such advice as i can give is followed, it will be more often by the mistress than the master of the home acre. i address him, but quite as often i mean her; and just at this point i am able to give "the power behind the throne" a useful hint. miss alcott, in her immortal "little women," has given an instance of what dire results may follow if the "jelly won't jell." let me hasten to insure domestic peace by telling my fair reader (who will also be, if the jelly turns out of the tumblers tremulous yet firm, a gentle reader) that if she will have the currants picked just as soon as they are fully ripe, and before they have been drenched by a heavy rain, she will find that the jelly will "jell." it is overripe, water-soaked currants that break up families and demolish household gods. let me also add another fact, as true as it is strange, that white currants make red jelly; therefore give the pearly fruit ample space in the garden. in passing to the consideration of varieties, it is quite natural in this connection to mention the white sorts first. i know that people are not yet sufficiently educated to demand white currants of their grocers; but the home garden is as much beyond the grocer's stall as the home is better than a boarding-house. there is no reason why free people in the country should be slaves to conventionalities, prejudices, and traditions. if white currants are sweeter, more delicious and beautiful than the red, why, so they are. therefore let us plant them abundantly. if there is to be a queen among the currants, the white grape is entitled to the crown. when placed upon the table, the dish appears heaped with translucent pearls. the sharp acid of the red varieties is absent, and you feel that if you could live upon them for a time, your blood would grow pure, if not "blue." the bush producing this exquisite fruit is like an uncouth-looking poet who gives beauty from an inner life, but disappoints in externals. it is low-branching and unshapely, and must be forced into good form--the bush, not the poet--by the pruning-knife. if this is done judiciously, no other variety will bear more profusely or present a fairer object on a july day. the white dutch has the well-known characteristics in growth of the common red dutch currant, and is inferior only to the white grape in size. the fruit is equally transparent, beautiful, mild, and agreeable in flavor, while the bush is enormously productive, and shapely in form, if properly trained and fertilized. while the white currants are such favorites, i do not undervalue the red. indeed, were i restricted to one variety, it should be the old dutch red of our fathers, or, more properly, of our grandmothers. for general house uses i do not think it has yet been surpassed. it is not so mild in flavor as the white varieties, but there is a richness and sprightliness in its acid that are grateful indeed on a sultry day. mingled with the white berries, it makes a beautiful dish, while it has all the culinary qualities which the housekeeper can desire. if the bush is rigorously pruned and generously enriched, it is unsurpassed in productiveness, and the fruit approaches very nearly to the cherry currant in size. i do not recommend the last-named kind for the home garden, unless large, showy fruit counts for more than flavor. the acid of the cherry currant, unless very ripe, is harsh and watery. at best it never acquires an agreeable mildness, to my taste. the bushes also are not so certainly productive, and usually require skilful pruning and constant fertilizing to be profitable. for the market, which demands size above all things, the cherry is the kind to grow; but in the home garden flavor and productiveness are the more important qualities. fay's prolific is a new sort that has been very highly praised. the victoria is an excellent late variety, which, if planted in a sheltered place, prolongs the currant-season well into the autumn. spurious kinds are sold under this name. the true victoria produces a pale-red fruit with tapering clusters or racemes of berries. this variety, with the three others recommended, gives the family two red and two white kinds--all that are needed. those who are fond of black currants can, at almost any nursery, procure the black naples and lee's prolific. either variety will answer all practical purposes. i confess they are not at all to my taste. from the currant we pass on naturally to the gooseberry, for in origin and requirements it is very similar. both belong to the ribes family of plants, and they are to be cultivated on the same general principles. what i have written in regard to partial shade, cool, sheltered localities, rich, heavy soils, good culture, and especially rigorous pruning, applies with even greater force to this fruit, especially if we endeavor to raise the foreign varieties, in cultivating this fruit it is even more important than was true of raspberries that the reader should distinguish between the native and foreign species. the latter are so inclined to mildew in almost every locality that there is rarely any certainty of satisfactory fruit. the same evil pursues the seedling children of the foreign sorts, and i have never seen a hybrid or cross between the english and native species that was with any certainty free from a brown disfiguring rust wholly or partially enveloping the berries. here and there the fruit in some gardens will escape year after year; again, on places not far away, the blighting mildew is sure to appear before the berries are fully grown. nevertheless, the foreign varieties are so fine that it is well to give them a fair trial. the three kinds which appear best adapted to our climate are crown bob, roaring lion, and whitesmith. a new large variety, named industry, is now being introduced, and if half of what is claimed for it is true, it is worth a place in all gardens. in order to be certain of clean, fair gooseberries every year, we must turn to our native species, which has already given us several good varieties. the downing is the largest and best, and the houghton the hardiest, most productive and easily raised. when we remember the superb fruit which english gardeners have developed from wild kinds inferior to ours, we can well understand that the true american gooseberries are yet to be developed. in my work "success with small fruits" those who are interested in this fruit will find much fuller treatment than is warranted in the present essay. not only do currants and gooseberries require similar treatment and cultivation, but they also have a common enemy that must be vigilantly guarded against, or the bushes will be defoliated in many localities almost before its existence is known. after an absence of a few days i have found some of my bushes stripped of every leaf. when this happens, the fruit is comparatively worthless. foliage is as necessary to a plant as are lungs to a man. it is not essential that i should go into the natural history of the currant worm and moth. having once seen the yellowish-green caterpillars at their destructive work, the reader's thoughts will not revert to the science of entomology, but will at once become bloody and implacable. i hasten to suggest the means of rescue and vengeance. the moment these worms appear, be on your guard, for they usually spread like fire in stubble. procure of your druggist white hellebore, scald and mix a tablespoonful in a bowl of hot water, and then pour it in a full watering-can. this gives you an infusion of about a tablespoonful to an ordinary pail of water at its ordinary summer temperature. sprinkle the infected bushes with this as often as there is a worm to be seen. i have never failed in destroying the pests by this course. it should be remembered, however, that new eggs are often hatched out daily. you may kill every worm to-day, yet find plenty on the morrow. vigilance, however, will soon so check the evil that your currants are safe; and if every one would fight the pests, they would eventually be almost exterminated. the trouble is that, while you do your duty, your next-door neighbor may grow nothing on his bushes but currant-worms. thus the evil is continued, and even increased, in spite of all that you can do; but by a little vigilance and the use of hellebore you can always save your currants. i have kept my bushes green, luxuriant, and loaded with fruit when, at a short distance, the patches of careless neighbors were rendered utterly worthless. our laws but half protect the birds, the best insecticides, and there is no law to prevent a man from allowing his acres to be the breeding-place of every pest prevailing. there are three species of the currant-borer, and their presence is indicated by yellow foliage and shrivelling fruit. the only remedy is to cut out and burn the affected stems. these pests are not often sufficiently numerous to do much harm. i earnestly urge that virulent poisons like paris green, london purple, etc., never be used on fruit or edible vegetables. there cannot be safety in this course. i never heard of any one that was injured by white hellebore, used as i have directed; and i have found that if the worms were kept off until the fruit began to ripen, the danger was practically over. if i had to use hellebore after the fruit was fit to use, i should first kill the worms, and then cleanse the bushes thoroughly by spraying them with clean water. in treating the two remaining small fruits, blackberries and strawberries, we pass wholly out of the shade and away from trees. sunshine and open ground are now required. another important difference can also be mentioned, reversing former experience. america is the home of these fruits. the wild species of the blackberry abroad has never, as far as i can learn, been developed into varieties worthy of cultivation; and before importations from north and south america began, the only strawberry of europe was the alpine, with its slight variations, and the musky hautbois. i do not know whether any of our fine varieties of blackberries are cultivated abroad, but i am perfectly certain that they are worthy of the slight attention required to raise them in perfection here. like the blackcaps, all our best varieties are the spontaneous products of nature, first discovered growing wild, and transferred to the garden. the blackberry is a fruit that takes kindly to cultivation, and improves under it. the proper treatment is management rather than cultivation and stimulation. it requires a sunny exposure and a light, warm soil, yet not so dry as to prevent the fruit from maturing into juicy berries. if possible, set the blackberries off by themselves, for it is hard to prevent the strong roots from travelling all over the garden. the blackberry likes a rich, moist, mellow soil, and, finding it, some varieties will give you canes sixteen feet high. you do not want rank, thorny brambles, however, but berries. therefore the blackberry should be put where it can do no harm, and, by a little judicious repression, a great deal of good. a gravelly or sandy knoll, with a chance to mow all round the patch, is the best place. the blackberry needs a deep, loose soil rather than a rich one. then the roots will luxuriate to unknown depths, the wood ripen thoroughly, and the fruit be correspondingly abundant. let the rows be six feet apart; set out the plants in the fall, if possible, or early spring; put two plants in the hills, which may be four feet apart. if the ground is very poor, give the young plants a shovelful of old compost, decayed leaves, etc. any fertilizer will answer, so that it is spread just over the roots to give the plants a good send-off. as a rule, complete success in blackberry culture consists in a little judicious work performed in may, june, and july. the plants, having been set out as i have advised in the case of raspberries, throw up the first season strong green shoots. when these shoots are three feet high, pinch off the top, so as to stop upward growth. the result of this is that branches start on every side, and the plant forms a low, stocky, self-supporting bush, which will be loaded with fruit the following season. the second year the plants in the hill will send up stronger canes, and there will be plenty of sprouts or suckers in the intervening spaces. when very young, these useless sprouts can be pulled out with the least possible trouble. left to mature, they make a thorny wilderness which will cause bleeding hands and faces when attacked, and add largely to the family mending. that which a child could do as play when the suckers were just coming through the ground, is now a formidable task for any man. in early summer you can with the utmost ease keep every useless blackberry sprout from growing. more canes, also, will usually start from the hill than are needed. leave but three strong shoots, and this year pinch them back as soon as they are four feet high, thus producing three stocky, well-branched bushes, which in sheltered places will be self-supporting. should there be the slightest danger of their breaking down with their load of fruit, tie them to stakes by all means. i do not believe in that kind of economy which tries to save a penny at the risk of a dollar. i believe that better and larger fruit is always secured by shortening in the side branches one-third of their length in spring. fine varieties like the kittatinny are not entirely hardy in all localities. the snow will protect the lower branches, and the upper ones can usually be kept uninjured by throwing over them some very light litter, like old pea or bean vines, etc.--nothing heavy enough to break them down. as soon as the old canes are through bearing, they should be cut out. if the blackberry patch has been left to its own wild will, there is nothing left for us but to attack it, well-gloved, in april, with the pruning-shears, and cut out everything except three or four young canes in the hill. these will probably be tall, slender, and branchless, therefore comparatively unproductive. in order to have any fruit at all, we must shorten them one-third, and tie them to stakes. it thus may be clearly seen that with blackberries "a stitch in time" saves almost ninety-nine. keep out coarse weeds and grass, and give fertilizers only when the plants show signs of feebleness and lack of nutrition. a rust similar to that which attacks the black-cap is almost the only disease we have to contend with. the remedy is the same--extirpation of the plant, root and branch. after testing a great many kinds, i recommend the three following varieties, ripening in succession for the family--the early harvest, snyder, and kittatinny. these all produce rich, high-flavored berries, and, under the treatment suggested, will prove hardy in nearly all localities. this fruit is not ripe as soon as it is black, and it is rarely left on the bushes until the hard core in the centre is mellowed by complete maturity. i have found that berries picked in the evening and stood in a cool place were in excellent condition for breakfast. to have them in perfection, however, they must be so ripe as to drop into the basket at the slightest touch; then, as donald mitchell says, they are "bloated bubbles of forest honey." i fancy the reader is as impatient to reach the strawberry as i am myself. "doubtless god could have made a better berry"--but i forbear. this saying has been quoted by the greater part of the human race, and attributed to nearly every prominent man, from adam to mr. beecher. there are said to be unfortunates whom the strawberry poisons. the majority of us feel as if we could attain methuselah's age if we had nothing worse to contend with. praising the strawberry is like "painting the lily;" therefore let us give our attention at once to the essential details of its successful culture. as we have intimated before, this fruit as we find it in our gardens, even though we raise foreign kinds, came originally from america. the two great species, fragaria chilensis, found on the pacific slope from oregon to chili, and fragaria virginiana, growing wild in all parts of north america east of the rocky mountains, are the sources of all the fine varieties that have been named and cultivated. the alpine strawberry (fragaria vesca), which grows wild throughout the northern hemisphere, does not appear capable of much variation and development under cultivation. its seeds, sown under all possible conditions, reproduce the parent plant. foreign gardeners eventually learned, however, that seeds of the chili and virginia strawberry produced new varieties which were often much better than their parents. as time passed, and more attention was drawn to this subject, superb varieties were originated abroad, many of them acquiring a wide celebrity. in this case, as has been true of nearly all other fruits, our nursery-men and fruit-growers first looked to europe for improved varieties. horticulturists were slow to learn that in our own native species were the possibilities of the best success. the chili strawberry, brought directly from the pacific coast to the east, is not at home in our climate, and is still more unfitted to contend with it after generations of culture in europe. even our hardier virginia strawberry, coming back to us from england after many years of high stimulation in a moist, mild climate, is unequal to the harsher conditions of life here. they are like native americans who have lived and been pampered abroad so long that they find this country "quite too rude, you know--beastly climate." therefore, in the choice varieties, and in developing new ones, the nearer we can keep to vigorous strains of our own hardy virginia species the better. from it have proceeded and will continue to come the finest kinds that can be grown east of the rockies. nevertheless, what was said of foreign raspberries is almost equally true of european strawberries like the triomphe de gand and jucunda, and hybrids like the wilder. in localities where they can be grown, their beauty and fine flavor repay for the high culture and careful winter protection required. but they can scarcely be made to thrive on light soils or very far to the south. so many varieties are offered for sale that the question of choice is a bewildering one. i have therefore sought to meet it, as before, by giving the advice of those whose opinions are well entitled to respect. dr. hexamer, who has had great and varied experience, writes as follows: "a neighbor of mine who has for years bought nearly every new strawberry when first introduced, has settled on the duchess and cumberland as the only varieties he will grow in the future, and thinks it not worth while to seek for something better. confined to two varieties, a more satisfactory selection could scarcely be made. but you want six or seven, either being, i think, about the right number for the home garden. i will give them in the order of desirability according to my judgment--cumberland, charles downing, duchess, mount vernon, warren, sharpless, jewell." the selection which places the cumberland triumph at the head of the list is but another proof how kinds differ under varied conditions. on my place this highly praised sort is but moderately productive and not high-flavored, although the fruit is very large and handsome. i regard the list, however, as a most excellent one for most localities. the hon. marshall p. wilder's choice for the latitude of massachusetts: "charles downing, wilder, hervey davis, sharpless, cumberland, kentucky. jewell is very promising." a. s. fuller, for latitude of new york: "charles downing, sharpless, miner's prolific, wilson's albany, champion." p. c. berckmans, for the latitude of georgia: "wilson, sharpless, charles downing, triomphe de gand, glendale." the hon. norman j. colman's choice for missouri and the west: "crescent, captain jack, cumberland, champion, hart's minnesota, cornelia." if i gave a hundred other lists, no two of them probably would agree in all respects. mr. downing often said to me, "soil, climate, and locality make greater differences with the strawberry than with any other fruit." this is far more true of some varieties than others. i believe that the excellent kind named after mr. downing, if given proper treatment, will do well almost anywhere on the continent. it will be noted that it is on all the lists except one. i should place it at the head of garden strawberries. it is a kind that will endure much neglect, and it responds splendidly to generous, sensible treatment. its delicious flavor is its chief recommendation, as it should be that of every berry for the home garden. i have tested many hundreds of kinds, and have grown scores and scores that were so praised when first sent out that the novice might be tempted to dig up and throw away everything except the wonderful novelty pressed upon his attention. there is one quiet, effective way of meeting all this heralding and laudation, and that is to make trial beds. for instance, i have put out as many as seventy kinds at nearly the same time, and grown them under precisely the same conditions. some of the much-vaunted new-comers were found to be old varieties re-named; others, although sold at high prices and asserted to be prodigies, were seen to be comparatively worthless when growing by the side of good old standard sorts; the majority never rose above mediocrity under ordinary treatment; but now and then one, like the sharpless, fulfilled the promises made for it. in my next chapter i shall venture to recommend those varieties which my own experience and observation have shown to be best adapted to various soils and localities, and shall also seek to prove that proper cultivation has more to do with success than even the selection of favored kinds. nor would i seek to dissuade the proprietor of the home acre from testing the many novelties offered. he will be sure to get a fair return in strawberries, and to his interest in his garden will add the pleasure and anticipation which accompany uncertain experiment. in brief, he has found an innocent form of gambling, which will injure neither pocket nor morals. in slow-maturing fruits we cannot afford to make mistakes; in strawberries, one prize out of a dozen blanks repays for everything. chapter vii strawberries there is a very general impression that light, dry, sandy soils are the best for the strawberry. just the reverse of this is true. in its desire for moisture it is almost an aquatic plant. experienced horticulturists have learned to recognize this truth, which the hon. marshall p. wilder has suggested in the following piquant manner: "in the first place, the strawberry's chief need is a great deal of water. in the second place, it needs more water. in the third place, i think i should give it a great deal more water." while emphasizing this truth the reader should at the same time be warned against land whereon water stands above the surface in winter and spring, or stagnates beneath the surface at any time. moisture is essential to the best results; good drainage is equally so. the marvellous crops of strawberries raised in california under well-directed systems of irrigation should teach us useful lessons. the plants, instead of producing a partially developed crop within a few brief days, continue in bearing through weeks and months. it may often be possible to supply abundantly on the home acre this vital requirement of moisture, and i shall refer to this point further on. my first advice in regard to strawberries is to set them out immediately almost anywhere except upon land so recently in grass that the sod is still undecayed. this course is better than not to have the fruit at all, or to wait for it a year without strawberries is a lost year in one serious respect. while there is a wide difference between what plants can do under unfavorable conditions and what they can be made to do when their needs are fully met, they will probably in any event yield a fair supply of delicious fruit. secure this as soon as possible. at the same time remember that a plant of a good variety is a genius capable of wonderful development. in ordinary circumstances it is like the "mute, inglorious" poets whose enforced limitations were lamented by the poet gray; but when its innate powers and gifts are fully nourished it expands into surprising proportions, sends up hundreds of flowers, which are followed by ruby gems of fruit whose exquisite flavor is only surpassed by its beauty. no such concentrated ambrosia ever graced the feasts of the olympian gods, for they were restricted to the humble fragaria vesca, or alpine species. in discovering the new world, columbus also discovered the true strawberry, and died without the knowledge of this result of his achievement. i can imagine the expression on the faces of those who buy the "sour, crude, half-ripe wilsons," against which the poet bryant inveighed so justly. the market is flooded with this fruit because it bears transportation about as well as would marbles. yes, they are strawberries; choke-pears and seckels belong to the same species. there is truth enough in my exaggeration to warrant the assertion that if we would enjoy the possible strawberry, we must raise it ourselves, and pick it when fully matured--ready for the table, and not for market. then any man's garden can furnish something better than was found in eden. having started a strawberry-patch without loss of time wherever it is handiest, we can now give our attention to the formation of an ideal bed. in this instance we must shun the shade of trees above, and their roots beneath. the land should be open to the sky, and the sun free to practice his alchemy on the fruit the greater part of the day. the most favorable soil is a sandy loam, verging toward clay; and it should have been under cultivation sufficiently long to destroy all roots of grass and perennial weeds. put on the fertilizer with a free hand. if it is barnyard manure, the rate of sixty tons to the acre is not in excess. a strawberry plant has a large appetite and excellent digestion. it prefers decidedly manure from the cow-stable, though that from the horse-stable answers very well; but it is not advisable to incorporate it with the soil in its raw, unfermented state, and then to plant immediately. the ground can scarcely be too rich for strawberries, but it may easily be overheated and stimulated. in fertilizing, ever keep in mind the two great requisites--moisture and coolness. manure from the horse-stable, therefore, is almost doubled in value as well as bulk if composted with leaves, muck, or sods, and allowed to decay before being used. next to enriching the soil, the most important step is to deepen it. if a plow is used, sink it to the beam, and run it twice in a furrow. if a lifting subsoil-plow can follow, all the better. strawberry roots have been traced two feet below the surface. if the situation of the plot does not admit the use of a plow, let the gardener begin at one side and trench the area to at least the depth of eighteen inches, taking pains to mix the surface, subsoil, and fertilizer evenly and thoroughly. a small plot thus treated will yield as much as one three or four times as large. one of the chief advantages of thus deepening the soil is that the plants are insured against their worst enemy--drought. how often i have seen beds in early june languishing for moisture, the fruit trusses lying on the ground, fainting under their burden, and the berries ripening prematurely into little more than diminutive collections of seeds! when ground has been deepened as i have said, the drought must be almost unparalleled to arrest the development of the fruit. even in the most favorable seasons, hard, shallow soils give but a brief period of strawberries, the fruit ripens all at once, and although the first berries may be of good size, the later ones dwindle until they are scarcely larger than peas. be sure to have a deep, mellow soil beneath the plants. such a bed can be made in either spring or fall--indeed, at any time when the soil is free from frost, and neither too wet nor dry. i do not believe in preparing and fertilizing ground during a period of drought. we will suppose the work has been done in the spring, as early as the earth was dry enough to crumble freely, and that the surface of the bed is smooth, mellow, and ready for the plants. stretch a garden line down the length of the plot two feet from the outer edge, and set the plants along the line one foot apart from each other. let the roots be spread out, not buried in a mat, the earth pressed firmly against them, and the crown of the plant be exactly even with the surface of the soil, which should also be pressed closely around it with the fingers. this may seem minute detail, yet much dismal experience proves it to be essential. i have employed scores of men, and the great majority at first would either bury the crowns out of sight, or else leave part of the roots exposed, and the remainder so loose in the soil that a sharp gale would blow the plants away. there is no one so economical of time as the hired man whose time is paid for. he is ever bent on saving a minute or half-minute in this kind of work. on one occasion i had to reset a good part of an acre on which my men had saved time in planting. if i had asked them to save the plants in the year of ' , they might have "struck." the first row having been set out, i advise that the line be moved forward three feet. this would make the rows three feet apart--not too far in ground prepared as described, and in view of the subsequent method of cultivation. the bed may therefore be filled up in this ratio, the plants one foot apart in the row, and the rows three feet apart. the next point in my system, for the kind of soil named (for light, sandy soils another plan will be indicated), is to regard each plant as an individual that is to be developed to the utmost. of course only young plants of the previous season's growth should be used. if a plant has old, woody, black roots, throw it away. plants set out in april will begin to blossom in may. these buds and blossoms should be picked off ruthlessly as soon as they appear. never does avarice overreach itself more completely than when plants are permitted to bear the same season in which they are set out. the young, half-established plant is drained of its vitality in producing a little imperfect fruit; yet this is permitted even by farmers who would hold up their hands at the idea of harnessing a colt to a plow. the plants do not know anything about our purpose in regard to them. they merely seek to follow the law of nature to propagate themselves, first by seeds which, strictly speaking, are the fruit, and then by runners. these slender, tendril-like growths begin to appear early in summer, and if left unchecked will mat the ground about the parent with young plants by late autumn. if we wish plants, let them grow by all means; but if fruit is our object, why should we let them grow? "because nearly every one seems to do it," would be, perhaps, the most rational answer. this is a mistake, for many are beginning to take just the opposite course even when growing strawberries by the acre. let us fix our attention on a single plant. it has a certain amount of root pasturage and space in which to grow. since it is not permitted to produce an indefinite number of young plants, it begins to develop itself. the soil is rich, the roots are busy, and there must be an outlet. the original plant cannot form others, and therefore begins to produce fruit-crowns for the coming year. all the sap, all the increasing power of root and foliage, are directed to preparation for fruit. in brief, we have got the plant in traces; it is pulling in the direction we wish, it will eventually deliver a load of berries which would surprise those who trust simply to nature unguided. some one may object that this is a troublesome and expensive way of growing strawberries. do not the facts in the case prove the reverse? a plant restricted to a single root can be hoed and worked around like a hill of corn or a currant-bush. with comparatively little trouble the ground between the rows can be kept clean and mellow. under the common system, which allows the runners to interlace and mat the ground, you soon have an almost endless amount of hand-weeding to do, and even this fails if white clover, sorrel, and certain grasses once get a start. the system i advocate forbids neglect; the runners must be clipped off as fast as they appear, and they continue to grow from june till frost; but the actual labor of the year is reduced to a minimum. a little boy or girl could keep a large bed clipped by the occasional use of a shears or knife before breakfast; and if the ground between the plants is free of runners, it can be hoed over in an hour. considering, therefore, merely the trouble and expense, the single-plant system has the facts in its favor. but our object is not to grow strawberry plants with the least trouble, but to have strawberries of the largest and finest quality. in addition to ease and thoroughness of cultivation, there are other important advantages. the single narrow row of plants is more easily protected against winter's frosts. light, strawy manure from the horse-stable serves well for this purpose; but it should be light and free from heat. i have seen beds destroyed by too heavy a covering of chunky, rank manure. it is not our purpose to keep the beds and plants from freezing, but from alternately freezing and thawing. if snow fell on the bed in december and lasted till april, no other protection would be needed. nature in this latitude has no sympathy for the careless man. during the winter of , in january, and again in february and march, the ground was bare, unprotected plants were badly frozen, and in many instances lifted partly out of the ground by midday thawing and night freezing. the only safe course is to cover the rows thoroughly, but not heavily, early in december. if then light stable-manure is not at hand, leaves, old bean-vines, or any dry refuse from the garden not containing injurious seeds will answer. do not employ asparagus-tops, which contain seed. of course we want this vegetable, but not in the strawberry bed. like some persons out of their proper sphere, asparagus may easily become a nuisance; and it will dispossess other growths of their rights and places as serenely as a knight of labor. the proper balance must be kept in the garden as well as in society; and therefore it is important to cover our plants with something that will not speedily become a usurper. let it be a settled point, then, that the narrow rows must be covered thoroughly out of sight with some light material which will not rest with smothering weight on the plants or leave among them injurious seeds. light stable-manure is often objected to for the reason that employing it is like sowing the ground with grass-seed. if the plants had been allowed to grow in matted beds, i would not use this material for a winter covering, unless it had been allowed to heat sufficiently to destroy the grass and clover seed contained in it. i have seen matted beds protected with stable-manure that were fit to mow by june, the plants and fruit having been over run with grass. no such result need follow if the plants are cultivated in a single line, for then the manure can be raked off in early spring--first of april in our latitude--and the ground cultivated. there is a great advantage in employing light manure if the system i advocate is followed, for the melting snows and rains carry the richness of the fertilizer to the roots, and winter protection serves a double purpose. we will now consider the proper management for the second year, when a full crop should be yielded. i know that many authorities frown upon cultivation during the second spring, before plants bear their fruit. i can not agree with this view, except in regard to very light soils, and look upon it as a relic of the old theory that sandy land was the best for strawberries. take the soil under consideration, a sandy loam, for instance. after the frost is out, the earth settled, and the winter covering raked off, the soil under the spring sun grows hard, and by june is almost as solid as a roadbed. every one knows that land in such condition suffers tenfold more severely from drought than if it were light and mellow from cultivation. perennial weeds that sprouted late in the fall or early spring get a start, and by fruiting-time are rampant. i do advocate early spring cultivation, and by it i almost double my crop, while at the same time maintaining a mastery over the weeds. as soon as the severe frosts are over, in april, i rake the coarsest of the stable-manure from the plants, leaving the finer and decayed portions as a fertilizer. then, when the ground is dry enough to work, i have a man weed out the rows, and if there are vacant spaces, fill in the rows with young plants. the man then forks the ground lightly between the rows, and stirs the surface merely among the plants. thus all the hard, sodden surface is loosened or scarified, and opened to the reception of air and light, dew and rain. the man is charged emphatically that in this cultivation he must not lift the plants or disturb the roots to any extent. if i find a plant with its hold upon the ground loosened, i know there has been careless work. before digging along the row the fork is sunk beside the plants to prevent the soil from lifting in cakes, and the plants with them. in brief, pains are taken that the plants should be just as firm in the soil after cultivation as before. let the reader carefully observe that this work is done early in april, while the plants are comparatively dormant. most emphatically it should not be done in may, after the blossoms begin to appear. if the bed has been neglected till that time, the surface merely can be cultivated with a hoe. when the plants have approached so near to the fruiting, the roots must not be disturbed at all. early cultivation gives time for new roots to grow, and stimulates such growth. where the rows are sufficiently long, and the ground permits it, this early loosening of the soil is accomplished with a horse-cultivator better than with a fork, the hoe following and levelling the soil and taking out all weeds. my next step during the second season is to mulch the plants, in order to keep the fruit clean. without this mulch the fruit is usually unfit for the table. a dashing shower splashes the berries with mud and grit, and the fruit must be washed before it is eaten; and strawberries with their sun-bestowed beauty and flavor washed away are as ridiculous as is mere noise from musical instruments. to be content with such fruit is like valuing pictures by the number of square inches of canvas! in perfecting a strawberry, nature gives some of her finest touches, and it is not well to obliterate them with either mud or water. any light clean material will keep the fruit clean. i have found spring rakings of the lawn--mingled dead grass and leaves--one of the best. leaves from a grove would answer, were it not for their blowing about in an untidy way. of course there is nothing better than straw for the strawberry; but this often costs as much as hay. any clean litter that will lie close to the ground and can be pushed up under the plants will answer. nor should it be merely under the plants. a man once mulched my rows in such a way that the fruit hung over the litter on the soil beyond. a little common-sense will meet the requirement of keeping the berries well away from the loose soil, while at the same time preserving a neat aspect to the bed. pine-needles and salt-hay are used where these materials are abundant. make it a rule to mulch as soon as possible after the plants begin to blossom, and also after a good soaking rain. in this case the litter keeps the ground moist. if the soil immediately about the plants is covered when dry, the mulch may keep it dry--to the great detriment of the forming berries. it is usually best to put on the mulch as soon as the early cultivation is over in april, and then the bed may be left till the fruit is picked. of course it may be necessary to pull out some rank-growing weeds from time to time. if the hired man is left to do the mulching very late in the season, he will probably cover much of the green fruit and blossoms as well as the ground. after the berries have been picked, the remaining treatment of the year is very simple. rake out the mulch, cultivate the soil, and keep the plants free of weeds and runners as during the previous year. before hard freezing weather, protect again as before, and give the plants similar treatment the following spring and summer. under this system the same plants may be kept in bearing three, four, and five years, according to the variety. some kinds maintain their vigor longer than others. after the first year the disposition to run declines, and with the third year, in most instances, deterioration in the plant itself begins. i would therefore advise that under this system a new bed be made, as described, every third year; for, it should be remembered, the new bed is unproductive the first year. this should never be forgotten if one would maintain a continuous supply of berries, otherwise he will be like those born on the th of february, and have only occasional birthdays. if the old bed is just where you wish, and has been prepared in the thorough manner described, it can be renewed in the following manner: when the old plants begin to decline in vigor--say the third or fourth spring--a line of well-decayed compost and manure from the cow-stable a foot wide may be spread thickly down between the rows, dug under deeply, and young plants set out just over the fertilizer. the old plants can be treated as has already been described, and as soon as they are through bearing, dug under. this would leave the young plants in full possession of the ground, and the cultivation and management for three or more years would go on as already directed. this course involves no loss of time or change of ground for a long periods. if, however, a new bed can be made somewhere else, the plants will thrive better upon it. unless there are serious objections, a change of ground is always advantageous; for no matter how lavishly the plot is enriched, the strawberry appears to exhaust certain required constituents in the soil. continued vigor is better maintained by wood-ashes perhaps than by any other fertilizer, after the soil is once deepened and enriched, and it may be regarded as one of the very best tonics for the strawberry plant. bone-meal is almost equally good. guano and kindred fertilizers are too stimulating, and have not the staying qualities required. as has been intimated before, the strawberry bed may often be so located on the home acre as to permit of irrigation. this does not mean sprinkling and splattering with water, but the continuous maintenance of abundant moisture during the critical period from the time the fruit begins to form until it ripens. partial watering during a drought is very injurious; so also would be too frequent watering. if the ground could be soaked twice a week in the evening, and then left to the hardening and maturing influence of the sun and wind, the finest results would be secured. i am satisfied that in most localities the size of the berries and the number of quarts produced might be doubled by judicious irrigation. the system given above applies not only to sandy loam, but also to all varieties of clay, even the most stubborn. in the latter instance it would be well to employ stable-manure in the initial enriching, for this would tend to lighten and warm the soil. care must also be exercised in not working clay when it is too wet or too dry. mulch also plays an important part on heavy clay, for it prevents the soil from baking and cracking. one of the best methods of preventing this is to top-dress the ground with stable-manure, and hoe it in from time to time when fighting the weeds. this keeps the surface open and mellow--a vital necessity for vigorous growth. few plants will thrive when the surface is hard and baked. nevertheless, if i had to choose between heavy clay and light sand for strawberries, i should much prefer the clay. on the last-named soil an abundant winter protection is absolutely necessary, or else the plants will freeze entirely out of the ground. the native strain of cultivated strawberries has so much vigor and power of adaptation that plenty of excellent varieties can be grown on the lightest soil. in this instance, however, we would suggest important modifications in preparation and culture. the soil, as has been already shown, must be treated like a spendthrift. deep plowing or spading should be avoided, as the subsoil is too loose and leachy already. the initial enriching of the bed should be generous, but not lavish. you cannot deposit fertilizers for long-continued use. i should prefer to harrow or rake in the manure, leaving it near the surface. the rains will carry it down fast enough. one of the very best methods is to open furrows, three feet apart, with a light corn-plow, half fill them with decayed compost, again run the plow through to mix the fertilizer with the soil, then level the ground, and set out the plants immediately over the manure. they thus get the benefit of it before it can leach away. the accomplished horticulturist mr. p. t. quinn, of newark, n. j., has achieved remarkable success by this plan. it is a well-known fact that on light land strawberry plants are not so long-lived and do not develop, or "stool out," as it is termed, as on heavier land. in order to secure the largest and best possible crop, therefore, i should not advise a single line of plants, but rather a narrow bed of plants, say eighteen inches wide, leaving eighteen inches for a walk. i would not allow this bed to be matted with an indefinite number of little plants crowding each other into feeble life, but would leave only those runners which had taken root early, and destroy the rest. a plant which forms in june and the first weeks in july has time to mature good-sized fruit-buds before winter, especially if given space in which to develop. this, however, would be impossible if the runners were allowed to sod the ground thickly. in principle i would carry out the first system, and give each plant space in which to grow upon its own root as large as it naturally would in a light soil, and i would have a sufficient number of plants to supply the deficiency in growth. on good, loamy soil, the foliage of single lines of plants, three feet apart, will grow so large as to touch across the spaces; but this could scarcely be expected on light soil unless irrigation were combined with great fertility. nevertheless, a bed with plants standing not too thickly upon it will give an abundance of superb fruit. strawberries grown in beds may not require so much spring mulching to keep the fruit clean, but should carefully receive all that is needed. winter protection also is not so indispensable as on heavier soils, but it always well repays. a thick bed of plants should never be protected by any kind of litter which would leave seeds of various kinds, for under this system of culture weeds must be taken out by hand; and this is always slow, back-aching work. when plants are grown in beds it does not pay to continue them after fruiting the third year. for instance, they are set out in spring, and during the first season they are permitted to make a limited number of runners, and prepare to fruit the following year. after the berries are picked the third year, dig the plants under, and occupy the ground with something else. on light soils, and where the plants are grown in beds instead of narrow rows, new beds should be set out every alternate year. in order to have an abundant supply of young plants it is only necessary to let one end of a row or a small portion of a bed run at will. then new plants can be set out as desired. while more strawberries are planted in spring than at any other time, certain advantages are secured by summer and fall setting. this is especially true of gardens wherein early crops are maturing, leaving the ground vacant. for instance, there are areas from which early peas, beans, or potatoes have been gathered. suppose such a plot is ready for something else in july or august, the earlier the better. unless the ground is very dry, a bed can be prepared as has been described. if the soil is in good condition, rich and deep, it can be dug thoroughly, and the plants set out at once in the cool of the evening, or just before a shower. during the hot season a great advantage is secured if the plants are set immediately after the ground is prepared, and while the surface is still moist. it is unfortunate if ground is made ready and then permitted to dry out before planting takes place, for watering, no matter how thorough, has not so good an influence in starting new growth as the natural moisture of the soil. it would be better, therefore, to dig the ground late in the afternoon, and set out the plants the same evening. watering, however, should never be dispensed with during warm weather, unless there is a certainty of rain; and even then it does no harm. suppose one wishes to set a new bed in july. if he has strawberries growing on his place, his course would be to let some of his favorite varieties make new runners as early as possible. these should be well-rooted young plants by the middle of the month. after the new ground is prepared, these can be taken up, with a ball of earth attached to their roots, and carried carefully to their new starting-place. if they are removed so gently as not to shake off the earth from the roots, they will not know that they have been moved, but continue to thrive without wilting a leaf. if such transplanting is done immediately after a soaking rain, the soil will cling to the roots so tenaciously as to ensure a transfer that will not cause any check of growth. but it is not necessary to wait for rain. at five in the afternoon soak with water the ground in which the young plants are standing, and by six o'clock you can take up the plants with their roots incased in clinging earth, just as successfully as after a rain. plants thus transferred, and watered after being set out, will not wilt, although the thermometer is in the nineties the following day. if young plants are scarce, take up the strongest and best-rooted ones, and leave the runner attached; set out such plants with their balls of earth four feet apart in the row, and with a lump of earth fasten down the runners along the line. within a month these runners will fill up the new rows as closely as desirable. then all propagation in the new bed should be checked, and the plants compelled to develop for fruiting in the coming season. in this latitude a plant thus transferred in july or august will bear a very good crop the following june, and the berries will probably be larger than in the following years. this tendency to produce very large fruit is characteristic of young plants set out in summer. it thus may be seen that plants set in spring can not produce a good crop of fruit under about fourteen months, while others, set in summer, will yield in nine or ten months. i have set out many acres in summer and early autumn with the most satisfactory results. thereafter the plants were treated in precisely the same manner as those set in spring. if the plants must be bought and transported from a distance during hot weather, i should not advise the purchase of any except those grown in pots. nurserymen have made us familiar with pot-grown plants, for we fill our flowerbeds with them. in like manner strawberry plants are grown and sold. little pots, three inches across at the top, are sunk in the earth along a strawberry row, and the runners so fastened down that they take root in these pots. in about two weeks the young plant will fill a pot with roots. it may then be severed from the parent, and transported almost any distance, like a verbena. usually the ball of earth and roots is separated from the pot, and is then wrapped in paper before being packed in the shallow box employed for shipping purposes. a nurseryman once distributed in a summer throughout the country a hundred thousand plants of one variety grown in this manner. the earth encasing the roots sustained the plants during transportation and after setting sufficiently to prevent any loss worth mentioning. this method of the plant-grower can easily be employed on the home acre. pots filled with earth may be sunk along the strawberry rows in the garden, the runners made to root in them, and from them transferred to any part of the garden wherein we propose to make a new bed. it is only a neater and more certain way of removing young plants with a ball of earth from the open bed. some have adopted this system in raising strawberries for market. they prepare very rich beds, fill them with pot-grown plants in june or july, take from these plants one crop the following june, then plow them under. as a rule, however, such plants cannot be bought in quantities before august or september. as we go south, september, october, or november, according to lowness of latitude, are the favorite months for planting. i have had excellent success on the hudson in late autumn planting. my method has been to cover the young plants, just before the ground froze, with two or three inches of clean earth, and then to rake it off again early in april. the roots of such plants become thoroughly established during the winter, and start with double vigor. plants set out in late autumn do best on light, dry soils. on heavy soils they will be frozen out unless well covered. they should not be allowed to bear the following season. a late-set plant cannot before winter in our climate become strong and sturdy enough to produce much fruit the following season. i make it a rule not to permit plants set out after the first of october to bear fruit until a year from the following june. in setting out plants, the principle of sex should be remembered. the majority of our favorite varieties are bisexual; that is, the blossoms are furnished with both stamens and pistils. a variety with this organization, as the sharpless, for instance, will bear alone with no other kind near it. but if one set out a bed of champions--another fine variety--well apart from any staminate kind, it would blossom profusely, but produce no fruit. when i was a boy, hovey's seedling was the great strawberry of the day, and marvellous stories were told of the productiveness of the plants and the size of the berries. how well i remember the disappointment and wrath of people who bought the plants at a high price, and set them out with no staminate varieties near to fertilize the pistillate blossoms. expectations were raised to the highest pitch by profuse blossoming in may, but not a berry could be found the ensuing june. the vigorous plants were only a mockery, and the people who sold them were berated as humbugs. to-day the most highly praised strawberry is the jewell. the originator, mr. p. m. augur, writes me that "plants set two feet by eighteen inches apart, august , , in june, , completely covered the ground, touching both ways, and averaged little over a quart to the plant for the centre patch." all runners were kept off, in accordance with the system advocated in this paper. "at boston a silver medal was awarded to this variety as the best new strawberry introduced within five years." people reading such laudation--well deserved, i believe--might conclude the best is good enough for us, and send for enough jewell plants to set out a bed. if they set no others near it, their experience would be similar to that which i witnessed in the case of hovey's seedling thirty odd years ago. the blossom of the jewell contains pistils only, and will produce no fruit unless a staminate variety is planted near. i have never considered this an objection against a variety; for why should any one wish to raise only one variety of strawberry? all danger of barrenness in pistillate kinds is removed absolutely by planting staminate sorts in the same bed. in nurserymen's catalogues pistillate varieties are marked "p.," and the purchaser has merely to set out the plants within a few feet of some perfect flowering kind to secure abundant fruit. as a result of much experience, i will now make some suggestions as to varieties. in a former paper i have given, the opinions of others upon this important subject, and one can follow the advice of such eminent authorities without misgiving. the earliest strawberry that i have ever raised, and one of the best flavored, is the crystal city. it is evidently a wild variety domesticated, and it has the exquisite flavor and perfume of the field-berry. it rarely fails to give us fruit in may, and my children, with the unerring taste of connoisseurs, follow it up until the last berry is picked. it would run all over the garden unchecked; and this propensity must be severely curbed to render a bed productive. keeping earliness and high flavor in view, i would next recommend the black defiance. it is not remarkably productive on many soils, but the fruit is so delicious that it well deserves a place. the duchess and bidwell follow in the order of ripening. on my grounds they have always made enormous plants, and yielded an abundance of good-flavored berries. the downing is early to medium in the season of ripening, and should be in every collection. the indiana is said to resemble this kind, and to be an improvement upon it. miner's prolific is another kindred berry, and a most excellent one. among the latest berries i recommend the sharpless champion, or windsor chief, and parry. if one wishes to raise a very large, late, showy berry, let him try the longfellow. the cornelia is said to grow very large and ripen late, but i have not yet fruited it. as i said fifteen or twenty years ago, if i were restricted to but one variety, i should choose the triomphe de gand, a foreign kind, but well adapted to rich, heavy soils. the berries begin to ripen early, and last very late. the memphis late has always been the last to mature on my grounds, and, like the crystal city, is either a wild variety, or else but slightly removed. the wilson is the great berry of commerce. it is not ripe when it is red, and therefore is rarely eaten in perfection. let it get almost black in its ripeness, and it is one of the richest berries in existence. with a liberal allowance of sugar and cream, it makes a dish much too good for an average king. it is also the best variety for preserving. it should be remembered that all strawberries, unlike pears, should be allowed to mature fully before being picked. many a variety is condemned because the fruit is eaten prematurely. there is no richer berry in existence than the windsor chief, yet the fruit, when merely red, is decidedly disagreeable. the reader can now make a selection of kinds which should give him six weeks of strawberries. at the same time he must be warned that plants growing in a hard, dry, poor soil, and in matted beds, yield their fruit almost together, no matter how many varieties may have been set out. under such conditions the strawberry season is brief indeed. while i was writing this paper the chief enemy of the strawberry came blundering and bumping about my lamp--the may beetle. the larva of this insect, the well-known white grub, has an insatiable appetite for strawberry roots, and in some localities and seasons is very destructive. one year i lost at least one hundred thousand plants by this pest. this beetle does not often lay its egg in well-cultivated ground, and we may reasonably hope to escape its ravages in a garden. if, when preparing for a bed, many white grubs are found in the soil, i should certainly advise that another locality be chosen. the only remedy is to dig out the larvae and kill them. if you find a plant wilting without apparent cause, you may be sure that a grub is feeding on the roots. the strawberry plant is comparatively free from insect enemies and disease, and rarely disappoints any one who gives it a tithe of the attention it deserves. there are many points in connection with this fruit which, in a small treatise like this, must be merely touched upon or omitted altogether. i may refer those who wish to study the subject more thoroughly to my work, "success with small fruits." chapter viii the kitchen-garden the garden should be open to the sky, and as far as possible unshaded by adjacent trees from the morning and afternoon sun. it is even more essential that the trees be not so near that their voracious roots can make their way to the rich loam of the garden. now for the soil. we should naturally suppose that that of eden was a deep sandy loam, with not too porous a subsoil. as we have already seen again and again, such a soil appears to be the laboratory in which we can assist nature to develop her best products. but nature has a profound respect for skill, and when she recognizes it, "lends a hand" in securing excellent crops from almost drifting sand or stubborn clay. she has even assisted the hollander in wresting from the ocean one of the gardens of the world. we must again dwell on the principles already emphasized, that soils must be treated according to their nature. if too damp, they must be drained; if of the fortunate quality of a sandy loam resting on a clay subsoil, they can be abundantly deepened and enriched from the start, if of a heavy clay, inclined to be cold and wet in spring, and to bake and crack in summer, skill should aim to lighten it and remove its inertia; finally, as we have shown, a light, porous soil should be treated like a spendthrift. all soils, except the last-named, are much the better for being enriched and deeply plowed or forked in october or november. this exposes the mould to the sweetening and mechanical action of frost, and the fertilizers incorporated with it are gradually transformed into just that condition of plant food which the rootlets take up with the greatest ease and rapidity. a light soil, on the contrary, should not be worked in autumn, but be left intact after the crops are taken from it. in one respect a light soil and a stiff, heavy one should be treated in the same way, but for different reasons. in the first instance, fertilizers should be applied in moderation to the surface, and rains and the cultivation of the growing crops depended upon to carry the richness downward to the roots. the porous nature of the earth must ever be borne in mind; fertilizers pass through it and disappear, and therefore are applied to the surface, to delay this process and enable the roots to obtain as much nutriment as possible during the passage. equal and even greater advantages are secured by a top-dressing of barnyard manures and composts to the heaviest of clay. the surface of such soils, left to nature, becomes in hot, dry weather like pottery, baking and cracking, shielding from dew and shower, and preventing all circulation of air about the roots. a top-dressing prevents all this, keeps the surface open and mellow, and supplies not only fertility, but the mechanical conditions that are essential. if we are now ready to begin, let us begin right. i have not much sympathy with finical, fussy gardening. one of the chief fascinations of gardening is the endless field it affords for skilful sleight of hand, short-cuts, unconventional methods, and experiments. the true gardener soon ceases to be a man of rules, and becomes one of strategy, of expedients. he is prompt to act at the right moment. like the artist, he is ever seeking and acting upon hints from nature. the man of rules says the first of july is the time to set out winter cabbage; and out the plants go, though the sky be brazen, and the mercury in the nineties. the gardener has his plants ready, and for a few days watches the sky. at last he perceives that rain is coming; then he sets out his plants, and nature's watering starts them, unwilted, on their new growth. at the same time i protest against careless, slovenly gardening--ground imperfectly prepared, crooked rows, seed half covered, or covered so deeply that the germs are discouraged long before they reach light. one of the best aids to success is a small compost-heap composed equally of manure from the horse-stable, the cow-stable, and of leaves. this should be allowed to stand so long, and be cut down and turned so often, that it becomes like a fine black powder, and is much the better for being kept under shelter from sun and rain. all who hope to have a permanent garden will naturally think first of asparagus--one of the vegetables that have bee a longest in cultivation, and one which is justly among the most valued. it was cultivated hundreds of years before the christian era, and is to-day growing in popular esteem among civilized peoples. in the matter of preparation i shall take issue with many of the authorities. i have read and known of instances wherein extraordinary expense and pains have been bestowed upon the asparagus-bed. the soil has been dug out to the depth of two or more feet, the bottom paved, and the homely, hardy roots, accustomed to roughing it the world over, set out and tended with a care which, if given to a potato, would make it open its eyes. there are few more hardy or widely distributed species of vegetables than asparagus. it is "a native of the sea-coasts of various countries of europe and asia." according to loudon, it is abundant on the sandy steppes in the interior of russia. in southern russia and poland the horses and cows feed upon it. it grows freely in the fens of lincolnshire, and is indigenous to cornwall. on the borders of the euphrates the shoots are so extraordinarily large and vigorous that thompson thinks it would be to the advantage of gardeners to import roots from that region. these facts may indicate that too much stress may have been laid on its character as a marine plant. yet it is true that it grows naturally on the coast of holland, in the sandy valleys and on the downs, while off lizard point it flourishes naturally on an island where, in gales, the sea breaks over the roots. in this country also it has escaped cultivation, and is establishing itself along our coasts, the truth is that it is a plant endowed with a remarkable power of adaptation to all soils and climates, and does not need the extravagant petting often given it. on different portions of my place chance seeds have fallen, and annually produce almost as fine heads as are cut from the garden. nature therefore teaches what experience verifies--that asparagus is one of the most easily grown and inexpensive vegetables of the garden. from two small beds we have raised during the past eight years twice as much as we could use, and at the cost of very little trouble either in planting or cultivation. in my effort to show, from the hardy nature of the asparagus plant, that extravagant preparation is unnecessary, let no one conclude that i am opposed to a good, thorough preparation that accords with common-sense. it is not for one year's crop that you are preparing, but for a vegetable that should be productive on the same ground thirty or forty years. what i said of strawberries applies here. a fair yield of fruit may be expected from plants set out on ordinary corn-ground, but more than double the crop would be secured from ground generously prepared. when i first came to cornwall, about twelve years ago, i determined to have an asparagus bed as soon as possible. i selected a plot eighty feet long by thirty wide, of sandy loam, sloping to the southwest. it had been used as a garden before, but was greatly impoverished. i gave it a good top-dressing of barnyard manure in the autumn, and plowed it deeply; another top-dressing of fine yard manure and a deep forking in the early spring. then, raking the surface smooth, i set a line along its length on one side. a man took a spade, sunk its length in the soil, and pushed it forward strongly. this action made an almost perpendicular wedge-shaped aperture just back of the spade. the asparagus plant, with its roots spread out fan-shape, was sunk in this opening to a depth that left the crown of the plant between three and four inches below the surface. then the spade was drawn out, and the soil left to fall over the crown of the plant. rapidly repeating this simple process, the whole plot was soon set out. the entire bed was then raked smooth. the rows were three feet apart, and plants one foot apart in the row. a similar plot could scarcely have been planted with potatoes more quickly or at less expense, and a good crop of potatoes could not have been raised on that poor land with less preparation. a few years later i made another and smaller bed in the same way. the results have been entirely satisfactory. i secured my object, and had plenty of asparagus at slight cost, and have also sold and given away large quantities. a bit of experience is often worth much more than theory. at the same time it is proper that some suggestions should follow this brief record. the asparagus bed should be in well-drained soil; for while the plant will grow on wet land, it will start late, and our aim is to have it early. again, with asparagus as with nearly everything else, the deeper and richer the soil, the larger and more luxuriant the crop. listen to thompson, the great english gardener: "if the ground has been drained, trenched, or made good to the depth of three feet, as directed for the kitchen-garden generally [!], that depth will suffice for the growth of asparagus." we should think so; yet i am fast reaching the conclusion that under most circumstances it would in the end repay us to secure that depth of rich soil throughout our gardens, not only for asparagus, but for everything else. few of the hasty, slipshod gardeners of america have any idea of the results secured by extending root pasturage to the depth of three feet instead of six or seven inches; soil thus prepared would defy flood and drought, and everything planted therein would attain almost perfection, asparagus included. but who has not seen little gardens by the roadside in which all the esculents seemed growing together much as they would be blended in the pot thereafter? yet from such patches, half snatched from barrenness, many a hearty, wholesome dinner results. let us have a garden at once, then improve it indefinitely. i will give in brief just what is essential to secure a good and lasting asparagus bed. we can if we choose grow our own plants, and thus be sure of good ones. the seed can be sown in late october or early spring on light, rich soil in rows eighteen inches apart. an ounce of seed will sow fifty feet of drill. if the soil is light, cover the seed one inch deep; if heavy, half an inch; pack the ground lightly, and cover the drill with a good dusting of that fine compost we spoke of, or any fine manure. this gives the young plants a good send-off. by the use of the hoe and hand-weeding keep them scrupulously clean during the growing season, and when the tops are killed by frost mow them off. i should advise sowing two or three seeds to the inch, and then when the plants are three inches high, thinning them out so that they stand four inches apart. you thus insure almost the certainty of good strong plants by autumn; for plants raised as directed are ready to be set out after one season's growth, and by most gardeners are preferred. in most instances good plants can be bought for a small sum from nurserymen, who usually offer for sale those that are two years old. strong one-year-olds are just as good, but under ordinary culture are rarely large enough until two years of age. i would not set out three-year-old plants, for they are apt to be stunted and enfeebled. you can easily calculate how many plants you require by remembering that the rows are to be three feet apart, and the plants one foot apart in the row. now, whether you have raised the plants yourself, or have bought them, you are ready to put them where they will grow, and yield to the end of your life probably. again i substantiate my position by quoting from the well-known gardener and writer, mr. joseph harris: "the old directions for planting an asparagus bed were well calculated to deter any one from making the attempt. i can recollect the first i made. the labor and manure must have cost at the rate of a thousand dollars an acre, and, after all was done, no better results were obtained than we now secure at one-tenth of the expense." if the ground selected for the bed is a well-drained sandy loam, is clean, free from sod, roots, stones, etc., i would give it a top-dressing of six inches of good barnyard manure, which by trenching or plowing i would thoroughly mix with the soil to the depth of at least two feet. if the ground is not free from stones, roots, and sod, i should put on the manure, as directed, in the autumn, and begin on one side of the prospective bed and trench it all over, mingling the fertilizer through the soil. the trencher can throw out on the surface back of him every stone, root, and weed, so that by the time he is through there is a sufficient space of ground amply prepared. on all soils except a wet, heavy clay i prefer autumn planting. during the latter part of october or early november put in the plants as explained above, or else make a straight trench that will give room for the spreading of the roots, and leave the crowns between three and four inches below the surface. then level the ground, and cover the row with a light mulch of stable-manure as you would strawberries. if more convenient to set out the plants in spring, do so as soon as the ground is dry enough to crumble freely when worked. in the spring rake off the mulch, and as early as possible fork the ground over lightly, taking pains not to touch or wound the crowns of the plants. the young, slender shoots will soon appear, and slender enough they will be at first. keep them free of weeds and let them grow uncut all through the first year; mow off the tops in late october, and cover the entire bed with three or four inches of coarse barnyard manure. in spring rake off the coarsest of this mulch, from which the rains and melting snows have been carrying down richness, dig the bed over lightly once (never wounding the roots or crowns of the plants), and then sow salt over the bed till it is barely white. let the tops grow naturally and uncut the second year, and merely keep clean. take precisely the same action again in the autumn and the following spring. during the latter part of april and may a few of the strongest shoots may be cut for the table. this should be done with a sharp knife a little below the surface, so that the soil may heal the wound, and carefully, lest other heads just beneath the surface be clipped prematurely. cut from the bed very sparingly, however, the third year, and let vigorous foliage form corresponding root-power. in the autumn of the third and the spring of the fourth year the treatment is precisely the same. in the fourth season, however, the shoots may be used freely to, say, about june , after which the plants should be permitted to grow unchecked till fall, in order to maintain and increase the root-power. every year thereafter there should be an abundant top-dressing of manure in the fall, and a careful digging of the ground in the early spring. light, sandy soil, clear of stones, is well adapted to asparagus, but should be treated on the principles already indicated in this work. there should be no attempt, by trenching, to render a porous subsoil more leaky. it is useless to give the bed a thorough initial enriching. put on a generous top-dressing every autumn and leave the rains to do their work, and good crops will result. if, on the contrary, a cold, heavy clay must be dealt with, every effort should be made to ameliorate it. work in a large quantity of sand at first, if possible; employ manures from the horse-stable, or other light and exciting fertilizers, and there will be no failure. in regard to the use of salt, mr. harris writes: "it is a popular notion that common salt is exceedingly beneficial to asparagus. i do not know that there is any positive proof of this, but, at any rate, salt will do no harm, even if applied thick enough to kill many of our common weeds. salt is usually sown broadcast, at the rate of ten bushels to the acre." until recently i have grown asparagus without salt. hereafter i shall employ it in sufficient degree to kill all weeds except the strongest. i shall sow it every spring after the bed is dug until the ground is as white as if a flurry of snow had passed over it. i think salt is a good manure for asparagus, and many other things. at any rate, we secure a great advantage in keeping our beds free of weeds. i have written thus fully of asparagus because when a man makes a bed as directed he makes it for a lifetime. he can scarcely find another investment that will yield a larger return. we have asparagus on our table every day, from the middle of april to july ; and the annual care of the crop is far less than that of a cabbage-patch. i do not advise severe cutting, however, after the middle of june, for this reason: it is well known that the most pestiferous perennial weed can be killed utterly if never allowed to make foliage. as foliage depends upon the root, so the root depends on foliage. the roots of asparagus may therefore be greatly enfeebled by too severe and long-continued cutting. avarice always overreaches itself. in some localities the asparagus beetle destroys whole plantations. thompson, the english authority, says: "the larvae, beetles, and eggs are found from june to the end of september. picking off the larvae and beetles, or shaking them into receptacles, appears to be the only remedy." peter henderson, in his valuable book, "gardening for profit," figures this insect and its larvae accurately, and says: "whenever the eggs or larvae appear, cut and burn the plants as long as any traces of the insect are seen. this must be done if it destroys every vestige of vegetation." he and other authorities speak of the advantage of cooping a hen and chickens in the bed. most emphatically would i recommend this latter course, for i have tried it with various vegetables. active broods of little chickens here and there in the garden are the best of insecticides, and pay for themselves twice over in this service alone. we will next speak of the onion, because it is so hardy that the earlier it is planted in spring the better. indeed, i have often, with great advantage, sown the seed on light soils the first of september, and wintered over the young plants in the open ground. nature evidently intended the onion for humanity in general, for she has endowed the plant with the power to flourish from the tropics to the coldest limit of the temperate zone. while onions are grown in all sorts of careless ways, like other vegetables, it is by far the best plan to select a space for an annual and permanent bed, just as we do for asparagus. unlike most other crops, the onion does not require change of ground, but usually does better on the same soil for an indefinite number of years. therefore i would advise that upon the home acre the onion, like the asparagus bed, should be made with a view to permanence. not much success can be hoped for on rough, poor land. the onion, like the asparagus bed, should be made and maintained with some care. if possible, select a light, well-drained, but not dry plot. make the soil rich, deep, mellow, to the depth of twenty inches, taking out all stones, roots, etc.; cover the land with at least six inches of good strong barnyard manure. this should be done in the autumn. sow the ground white with salt, as in the case of asparagus, and then mingle these fertilizers thoroughly with the soil, by forking or plowing it at once, leaving the surface as rough as possible, so that the frost can penetrate deeply. just as soon as the ground is dry enough to work in the spring, fork or plow again, breaking every lump and raking all smooth, so that the surface is as fine as the soil in a hot-bed. you cannot hope for much in heavy, lumpy ground. sow at least three seeds to the inch in a shallow drill one inch deep, and spat the earth firmly over the seed with the back of a spade or with your hand. in subsequent culture little more is required than keeping the mere surface stirred with a hoe, and the rows clean of weeds. onions are not benefited by deep stirring of the soil, but the surface, from the start, should be kept clean and scarified an inch or two deep between the rows during the growing season. i prefer to have my onions growing at the rate of one or two to every inch of row, for i do not like large bulbs. i think that moderate-sized onions are better for the table. those who value largeness should thin out the plants to three or four inches apart; but even in the market there is less demand for large, coarse onions. when the tops begin to fall over from their own weight, in august or september, leave them to mature and ripen naturally. when the tops begin to dry up, pull them from the soil, let them dry thoroughly in the sun, and then spread them thinly in a dry loft till there is danger of their freezing. even there they will keep better, if covered deeply with straw, hay, etc., than in a damp cellar. wherever the air is damp and a little too warm, onions will speedily start to grow again, and soon become worthless. after the crop has been taken, the ground should be treated as at first--thoroughly enriched and pulverized late in autumn, and left to lie in a rough state during the winter, then prepared for planting as early as possible. i prefer march sowing of the seed to april, and april, by far, to may. in england they try to plant in february. indeed, as i have said, i have had excellent success by sowing the seed early in september on light soils, and letting the plants grow during all the mild days of fall, winter, and early spring. by this course we have onions fit for the table and market the following may. in this latitude they need the protection of a little coarse litter from december to about the middle of march. only the very severest frost injures them. most of us have seen onions, overlooked in the fall gathering, growing vigorously as soon as the thaws began in spring. this fact contains all the hint we need in wintering over the vegetable in the open ground. if the seed is sown late in september, the plants do not usually acquire sufficient strength in this latitude to resist the frost. it is necessary, therefore, to secure our main crop by very early spring sowings, and it may be said here that after the second thorough pulverization of the soil in spring, the ground will be in such good condition that, if well enriched and stirred late in autumn, it will only need levelling down and smoothing off before the spring sowing. onions appear to do best on a compact soil, if rich, deep, and clean. it is the surface merely that needs to be stirred lightly and frequently. if young green onions with thin, succulent tops are desired very early in spring, it will be an interesting experiment to sow the seed the latter part of august or early in september. another method is to leave a row of onions in the garden where they ripened. when the autumn rains begin, they will start to grow again. the winter will not harm them, and even in april there will be a strong growth of green tops. the seed stalk should be picked off as soon as it appears in spring, or else the whole strength will speedily go to the formation of seed. it should be remembered that good onions can not be produced very far to the south by sowing the small gunpowder-like seed. in our own and especially in warmer climates a great advantage is secured by employing what are known as "onion sets." these are produced by sowing the ordinary black seed very thickly on light poor land. being much crowded, and not having much nutriment, the seed develop into little onions from the size of a pea to that of a walnut, the smaller the better, if they are solid and plump. these, pressed or sunk, about three inches apart, into rich garden soil about an inch deep, just as soon as the frost is out, make fine bulbs by the middle of june. for instance, we had in our garden plenty of onions three inches in diameter from these little sets, while the seed, sown at the same time, will not yield good bulbs before august. there is but little need of raising these sets, for it is rather difficult to keep them in good condition over the winter. any seedsman will furnish them, and they are usually on sale at country stores. three or four quarts, if in good condition, will supply a family abundantly, and leave many to be used dry during the autumn. insist on plump little bulbs. if you plant them early, as you should, you will be more apt to get good sets. many neglect the planting till the sets are half dried up, or so badly sprouted as to be wellnigh worthless. they usually come in the form of white and yellow sets, and i plant an equal number of each. the chief insect enemies are onion maggots, the larvae of the onion fly. these bore through the outer leaf and down into the bulb, which they soon destroy. i know of no remedy but to pull up the yellow and sickly plants, and burn them and the pests together. the free use of salt in the fall, and a light top-dressing of wood-ashes at the time of planting, tend to subdue these insects; but the best course is prevention by deeply cultivating and thoroughly enriching in the fall, leaving the ground rough and uneven for the deep action of frost, and by sowing the seed very early in spring. i have found that the insect usually attacks late-sown and feeble plants. if the maggot were in my garden, i should use the little sets only. some special manures have been employed in attaining the greatest success with this vegetable. in england, pigeon-dung and the cleanings of the pigsty are extensively employed. in this country the sweepings of the hen-roost are generally recommended. it should be remembered that all these are strong agents, and if brought in contact with the roots of any vegetable while in a crude, undiluted state, burn like fire, especially in our climate. what can be done in safety in england will not answer under our vivid sun and in our frequent droughts. these strong fertilizers could be doubled in value as well as bulk by being composted with sods, leaves, etc., and then, after having been mixed, allowed to decay thoroughly. then the compost can be used with great advantage as a top-dressing directly over the drills when either sets or seeds are planted. the spring rains will carry the richness from the surface to the roots, and insure a very vigorous growth. when the compost named in the early part of this paper is used, i sow it thickly in the drill, draw a pointed hoe through once more, to mingle the fertilizer with the soil, and then forthwith sow the seeds or put in the sets one inch deep; and the result is immediate and vigorous growth. wood-ashes and bone-dust are excellent fertilizers, and should be sown on the surface on the row as soon as planted, and gradually worked in by weeding and cultivation during the growing season. manure from the pigsty, wherein weeds, litter, sods, muck, etc., have been thrown freely during the summer, may be spread broadcast over the onion bed in the autumn, and worked in deeply, like the product of the barnyard. the onion bed can scarcely be made too rich as long as the manure is not applied in its crude, unfermented state at the time of planting. then, if the seed is put in very early, it grows too strongly and quickly for insects to do much damage. varieties.--thompson in his english work names nineteen varieties with many synonyms; henderson offers the seed of thirteen varieties; gregory, of seventeen kinds. there is no need of our being confused by this latitude of choice. we find it in the great majority of fruits and vegetables offered by nurserymen and seedsmen. each of the old varieties that have survived the test of years has certain good qualities which make it valuable, especially in certain localities. many of the novelties in vegetables, as among fruits, will soon disappear; a few will take their place among the standard sorts. in the case of the kitchen, as well as in the fruit, garden, i shall give the opinion of men who have a celebrity as wide as the continent for actual experience, and modestly add occasionally some views of my own which are the result of observation. as a choice for the home-garden, mr. henderson recommends the following varieties of onions: extra early red, yellow globe danvers, white portugal or silver skin, and southport yellow globe. mr. joseph harris, the well-known and practical author: yellow danvers, extra early large bed, and white globe. mr. j. j. h. gregory: new queen, early yellow acker, yellow danvers, early red globe danvers, large red wethersfield. they all recommend onion sets. the queen onion is quite distinct. for the home table, where earliness, as well as quality, size and quantity is desired, i think the queen deserves a place. it is admirably fitted for pickling. i have tried all the varieties named, with good success, and grown some of the largest kinds to six inches in diameter. chapter ix the kitchen-garden (concluded) in the last chapter i dwelt somewhat at length on two vegetables for which thorough and enduring preparation is profitable. there is one other very early garden product which requires our attention during the first warm days of spring--rhubarb; sold in some instances under the name of "wine-plant." wine is made from the juicy stalks, but it is an unwholesome beverage. the people call rhubarb "pie-plant;" and this term suggests its best and most common use, although when cooked as if it were a fruit, it is very grateful at a season when we begin to crave the subacid in our food. its cultivation is very simple. those who propose to produce it largely for market will find it to their advantage to raise this plant from the seed; but for the home acre enough plants can be procured, at a moderate cost, from almost any nurseryman. in this instance, also, thorough preparation of the soil is essential, for the rhubarb bed, under good care, will last eight or ten years. a rich, deep, clean, warm soil is the chief essential. it belongs to that class of vegetables known as "gross feeders." during the first year, however, i would apply the fertiliser directly to the hills or plants. these are obtained by dividing the old roots, which may be cut to pieces downward so as to leave a single bud or "eye" surmounting a long tapering portion of root. each division will make a new, vigorous plant, which should be set out so that the bud or crown is three inches below the surface in light soils, and two inches in heavy soils. the plants should be four feet apart each way, and two or three shovelfuls of rich compost worked into the soil where the plant is to stand. you cannot make the ground too rich; only remember that in this, as in all other instances, light, fermenting manures should not be brought into immediate contact with the roots. plant in either autumn or spring. in this latitude and southward i should prefer autumn; northward, perhaps spring is the best season. keep the intervening ground clean and mellow, and pull no stalks the first year, unless it be in the autumn if the plants have become very strong. in the fall, when the foliage has died down, cover the crowns with two or three shovelfuls of rich manure--any kind will do in this instance--and work in a heavy top-dressing all over the ground early in spring. unless seed is required, always cut down the seed-stalks as soon as they appear. the best early variety is the linnaeus. the victoria is a little later, but much larger, and is the kind that i have usually grown. radish-seed may be sown one inch deep as soon as the ground is dry enough in spring, and if the vegetable is a favorite, the sowing may be repeated every two weeks. a common error is to sow the seed too thickly. a warm, rich soil is all that is necessary to secure a crop. what has been said about radishes applies equally to early turnips, with the exception that the plants when three inches high should be thinned so as to stand four inches apart. the ground for these vegetables should be very rich, so as to secure a very rapid growth; for otherwise they are attacked by a little white worm which soon renders them unfit for use. mr. harris recommends the following varieties of early radishes, and his selection coincides with my own experience: bound scarlet turnip, french breakfast, rose (olive-shaped), long scarlet short-top. winter radishes: california mammoth white, and chinese rose. for spring sowing of turnips, mr. henderson recommends red-top strap-leaf, and early flat dutch. the earlier they are sown the better. beets--a much more valuable vegetable--require similar treatment. the ground should be clean, well pulverized, and very rich. i prefer to sow the seed the first week in april, unless the soil is frozen, or very cold and wet. the seed may be sown, however, at any time to the first of july; but earliness is usually our chief aim. i sow two inches deep and thickly, pressing the soil firmly over the seed. let the rows be about fifteen inches apart. referring to the manure which had been left to decay in a sheltered place until it became like fine dry powder, let me say here that i have always found it of greater advantage to sow it with the beet-seed and kindred vegetables. my method is to open the drill along the garden-line with a sharp-pointed hoe, and scatter the fertilizer in the drill until the soil is quite blackened by it; then draw the pointed hoe through once more, to mingle the powdery manure with the soil and to make the drill of an even depth; then sow the seed at once. this thoroughly decayed stable-manure has become the best of plant-food; it warms the ground, and carries the germinating seed and young plants with vigor through the first cold, wet weeks. in the home garden there are several reasons for sowing beet-seed thickly. unfavorable weather and insects will be less apt to cause a thin, broken stand of plants. in order to produce good roots, however, the plants should be thinned out so as to stand eventually three or four inches apart i do not advise very large, coarse roots for the table. for home use i think only three varieties are essential. the egyptian turnip beet is the best very early variety, and can be planted closely, as it has a small top; the bassano is next in earliness, and requires more room; the early blood turnip is the best for a general crop and winter use. the beet is a root which deteriorates rapidly from age; i therefore advise that the seed of the winter supply be sown the last of june or first of july in our latitude. parsnips should be sown at the same time with early beets and in the same way, with the exception that the seed should be covered only an inch deep. i doubt whether there are any marked distinctions in variety, and would advise that only the long smooth or hollow-crowned be sown. the carrot is not quite so hardy as the parsnip, and the seed may be sown a week or two later, or indeed at any time up to the middle of june. its culture and treatment are precisely like those of the parsnip; but the roots should be gathered and stored before a severe frost occurs. for home use a short row of the early horn will answer; for the general crop, sow the long orange. vegetable-oyster, or salsify, is another root-crop which may be treated precisely like the parsnip, and the seed sown at the same time. the seed should be sown in a deep, rich, mellow soil, which is all the better for being prepared in autumn. plant, as early in april as possible, in the same manner as described for beets, thin out to four inches apart, and keep the soil clean and mellow throughout the entire season; for this vegetable grows until the ground freezes. there is only one variety. the pea is another crop which may be put into the ground as soon as the frost is out--the earlier the better, if the smooth, hardy varieties are sown. there are so many varieties that the novice to-day may well be excused for perplexity in choice. thompson, the english authority, gives forty kinds, and one hundred and forty-eight synonyms. mr. gregory recommends the american wonder, bliss's abundance, bliss's ever-bearing, mclean's advancer, yorkshire hero, stratagem, and champion of england. mr. henderson's list includes henderson's first of all, american wonder, bliss's abundance, champion of england, and pride of the market. mr. harris in his catalogue marks first and best, american wonder, and also says, "for the main crop there is nothing better than the champion of england." my own experience would lead me to plant the tom thumb either just before the ground froze in the fall, or as early in march as possible. it is almost perfectly hardy, and gives me the earliest picking. i should also plant henderson's first of all as soon as the frost was out, on a warm, well-drained soil. for second crops, american wonder and premium gem; and for the main and most satisfactory crop of all, champion of england. the champion requires brush as a support, for it grows from four to six feet high; but it is well worth the trouble. i plant the other kinds named because they are much earlier, and so dwarf as to need no brush; they are also productive, and excellent in quality if not left to grow too old. for the dwarf kinds the soil cannot be too rich, and the warmer the ground and exposure, the earlier the crop. for the tall late sorts the soil may easily be made too fertile; they should also be planted in cooler, moister, and heavier ground. in the case of the dwarfs i put a fertilizer in with the seed as i have already explained. cover the dwarfs about two and a half inches deep, and the tall late sorts from three to four inches according to the nature of the soil. plant the champion of england every ten days until the middle of june, and thus secure a succession of the best of all. we all know how numerous have been the varieties of potato introduced into this country of late years--many kinds sent out at first at the rate of one or more dollars per pound. i amuse myself by trying several of these novelties (after they become cheap) every year, and one season raised very early crops of excellent potatoes from the vanguard and pearl of savoy. the early rose and early vermont have long been favorites. they resemble each other very closely. i have had excellent success with the beauty of hebron. it is a good plan to learn what varieties succeed well in our own neighborhood, and then to plant chiefly of such kinds; we may then add to our zest by trying a few novelties. not only much reading on the subject, but also my own observation, and the general law that "like produces like," lead me to indorse the practice of planting large tubers cut into sets containing one or more eyes, or buds. the eye of a potato is a bud from which the plant grows; and the stronger backing it has, the stronger and more able is the plant to evolve new fine tubers through the action of its roots and foliage. a small potato has many immature buds, which as a rule produce feeble plants. the potato will grow on almost any soil; but a dry, rich, sandy loam gives the best, if not the largest, yield. i do not think the potato can be planted too early after the ground is fit to work. one spring i was able to get in several rows the th of march, and i never had a finer yield. i observe that mr. harris strongly indorses this plan. nearly every one has his system of planting. there is no necessity for explaining these methods. i will briefly give mine, for what it is worth. i prefer warm, well-drained soils. plow deeply in autumn, also in spring; harrow and pulverize the ground as completely as possible; then open the furrows with the same heavy plow, sinking it to the beam, and going twice in the furrow. this, of course, would make too deep a trench in which to place the sets, but the soil has been deepened and pulverized at least fourteen inches. a man next goes along with a cart or barrow of well-decayed compost (not very raw manure), which is scattered freely in the deep furrows; then through these a corn-plow is run, to mingle the fertilizer with the soil. by this course the furrows are partially filled with loose, friable soil and manure, and they average four or five inches in depth. the sets are planted at once eight inches apart, the eye turned upward, and the cut part down. the sets are then covered with three or four inches of fine soil, not with sods and stones. when the plants are two or three inches high, they receive their first hoeing, which merely levels the ground evenly. the next cultivation is performed by both corn-plow and hoe. in the final working i do not permit a sharp-slanting slope from the plants downward, so that the rain is kept from reaching the roots. there is a broad hilling up, so as to have a slope inward toward the plants, as well as away from them. this method, with the deep, loosened soil beneath the plants, secures against drought, while the decayed fertilizers give a strong and immediate growth. of course we have to fight the potato, or colorado, beetle during the growing season. this we do with paris green applied in liquid form, a heaping teaspoonful to a pail of water. in taking up and storing potatoes a very common error is fallen into. sometimes even growing tubers are so exposed to sun and light that they become green. in this condition they are not only worthless, but poisonous. if long exposed to light after being dug, the solanine principle, which exists chiefly in the stems and leaves, is developed in the tubers. the more they are in the light, the less value they possess, until they become worse than worthless. they should be dug, if possible, on a dry day, picked up promptly and carried to a dry, cool, dark cellar. if stored on floors of outbuldings, the light should be excluded. potatoes that are long exposed to light before the shops of dealers are injured. barrels, etc., containing them should be covered; if spread on the barn-floor, or in places which can not be darkened, throw straw or some other litter over them. there is no occasion to say much about lettuce. it is a vegetable which any one can raise who will sow the seed a quarter of an inch deep. i have sowed the seed in september, wintered the plants over in cold-frames, and by giving a little heat, i had an abundance of heads to sell in february and march. for ordinary home uses it is necessary only to sow the seed on a warm, rich spot as soon as the frost is out, and you will quickly have plenty of tender foliage. this we may begin to thin out as soon as the plants are three or four inches high, until a foot of space is left between the plants, which, if of a cabbage variety, will speedily make a large, crisp head. to maintain a supply, sowings can be made every two weeks till the middle of august. hardy plants, which may be set out like cabbages, are to be obtained in march and april from nurserymen. henderson recommends the following varieties: henderson's new york, black-seeded simpson, salamander, and all the year round. i would also add the black-seeded butter lettuce. we have now, as far as our space permits, treated of those vegetables which should be planted in the home garden as early in spring as possible. it is true the reader will think of other sorts, as cabbage, cauliflower, spinach, etc. to the professional gardener these are all-the-year-round vegetables. if the amateur becomes so interested in his garden as to have cold-frames and hot-beds, he will learn from more extended works how to manage these. he will winter over the cabbage and kindred vegetables for his earliest supply, having first sown the seed in september. i do not take the trouble to do this, and others need not, unless it is a source of enjoyment to them. as soon as the ground is fit to work in spring, i merely write to some trust-worthy dealer in plants and obtain twenty-five very early cabbage, and twenty-five second early, also a hundred early cauliflower. they cost little, and are set out in half an hour as soon as the ground is fit to work in spring. i usually purchase my tomato, late cabbage, and cauliflower, celery and egg-plants, from the same sources. cabbages and cauliflowers should be set out in rich warm soils, free from shade, as soon as the frost is out. after that they need only frequent and clean culture and vigilant watchfulness, or else many will fall victims to a dirty brown worm which usually cuts the stem, and leaves the plant lying on the ground. the worm can easily be found near the surface the moment it begins its ravages, and the only remedy i know is to catch and kill it at once. in this latitude winter cabbage is set out about the fourth of july. i pinch off half the leaves before setting. good seed, deep plowing or spading, rich soil, and clean culture are usually the only requisites for success. experience and consultation of the books and catalogues enable me to recommend the jersey wakefield for first early, and henderson's summer cabbage and winningstadt as second early. as a late root i ask for nothing better than premium flat dutch. the savoy is the best flavored of the cabbage tribe. henderson recommends the netted savoy, which may be treated like other late cabbage. the cauliflower is ranked among the chief delicacies of the garden, and requires and repays far more attention than cabbage. even the early sorts should have a richer, moister soil than is required for very early cabbage. i advise two plantings in spring, of first and second early; i also advise that late varieties be set out on rich ground the last of june. as with cabbage, set out the plants from two and a half to three feet apart, according to the size of the variety, from trial i recommend early snowball, half-early paris, and large late algiers. spinach thrives in a very rich, well-drained, fine, mellow soil. i prefer a sunny slope; but this is not necessary. sow the seed from the first to the fifteenth of september, so as to give the plants time to become half grown by winter. cover the seeds--three to an inch--two inches deep, and pack the ground well over them; let the rows be three inches apart. when the plants are three inches high, thin out to three inches apart, and keep the soil clean and mellow about them. just before hard freezing weather, scatter about three inches of straw, old pea-vines, or some light litter over the whole bed. as soon as the days begin to grow warm in spring, and hard frost ceases, rake this off. the hardy vegetable begins to grow at once, and should be cut for use so as to leave the plants finally six inches apart, for as fast as space is given, the plants fill it up. by those who are fond of spinach it may be sown in spring as soon as the frost is out. it quickly runs to seed in hot weather, and thinnings of young beets may take its place where space is limited. the round or summer is good for fall or spring planting. those who need much instruction in regard to bush-beans should remain in the city and raise cats in their paved back yards. we shall only warn against planting too early--not before the last of april in our region. it does not take much frost to destroy the plants, and if the soil is cold and wet, the beans decay instead of coming up. if one has a warm, sheltered slope, he may begin planting the middle of april. as a rule, however, bush-beans may be planted from the first of may till the middle of july, in order to keep up a succession. cover the first seed planted one inch deep; later plantings two inches deep. i think that earliest red valentine, black wax or butter, golden wax, and the late refugee are all the varieties needed for the garden. the delicious pale lima bean requires and deserves more attention. i have always succeeded with it, and this has been my method: i take a warm, rich, but not dry piece of ground, work it deeply early in spring, again the first of may, so that the sun's rays may penetrate and sweeten the ground. about the tenth of may i set the poles firmly in the ground. rough cedar-poles, with the stubs of the branches extending a little, are the best. if smooth poles are used, i take a hatchet, and beginning at the butt, i make shallow, slanting cuts downward, so as to raise the bark a little. these slight raisings of the bark or wood serve as supports to the clambering vines. after the poles are in the ground i make a broad, flat hill of loose soil and a little of the black powdery fertilizer. i then allow the sun to warm and dry the hill a few days, and if the weather is fine and warm, i plant the seed about the fifteenth, merely pressing the eye of the bean downward one inch. if planted lower than this depth, they usually decay. if it is warm and early, the seed may be planted by the fifth of may. after planting, examine the seed often. if the beans are decaying instead of coming up, plant over again, and repeat this process until there are three or four strong plants within three or four inches of each pole. let the hills be five feet apart each way, hoe often, and do not tolerate a weed. the long white lima and dreer's improved lima are the only sorts needed. the indians in their succotash taught us long ago to associate corn with beans, and they hit upon a dish not surpassed by modern invention. this delicious vegetable is as easily raised as its "hail-fellow well met," the bean. we have only to plant it at the same time in hills from three to four feet apart, and cover the seed two inches deep. i have used the powdery fertilizers and wood-ashes in the hill to great advantage, first mingling these ingredients well with the soil. we make it a point to have sweet-corn for the table from july until the stalks are killed by frost in october. this is easily managed by planting different varieties, and continuing to plant till well into june. mr. gregory writes: "for a succession of corn for family use, to be planted at the same time, i would recommend marblehead early, pratt's, crosley's, moore's, stowell's evergreen, and egyptian sweet." mr. harris names with praise the minnesota as the best earliest, and hickox improved as an exceedingly large and late variety. mr. henderson's list is henderson sugar, hickox improved, egyptian, and stowell's evergreen. let me add burr's mammoth and squantum sugar--a variety in great favor with the squantum club, and used by them in their famous clam-bakes. the cucumber, if grown in the home garden and used fresh, is not in league with the undertaker. the seed may be planted early in may, and there are many ways of forcing and hastening the yield. i have had cucumbers very early in an ordinary hotbed. outdoors, i make hills in warm soil the first of may, mixing a little of my favorite fertilizer with the soil. after leaving the hill for a day or two to become warm in the sun, i sow the seed in a straight line for fifteen inches, so that the hoe can approach them closely. the seed is covered an inch deep, and the soil patted down firmly. it is possible that a cold storm or that insects may make partial planting over necessary; if so, this is done promptly. i put twenty seeds in the hill, to insure against loss. for a succession or long-continued crop, plant a few hills in rich moist land about the last of may. the young plants always run a gauntlet of insects, and a little striped bug is usually their most deadly enemy. these bugs often appear to come suddenly in swarms, and devour everything before you are aware of their presence. with great vigilance they may be kept off by hand, for their stay is brief. i would advise one trial of a solution of white hellebore, a tablespoonful to a pail of water. paris green--in solution, of course--kills them; but unless it is very weak, it will kill or stunt the plants also. my musk and watermelons were watered by too strong a solution of paris green this year, and they never recovered from it. perhaps the best preventive is to plant so much seed, and to plant over so often, that although the insects do their worst, plenty of good plants survive. this has usually been my method. when the striped bug disappears, and the plants are four or five inches high, i thin out to four plants in the hill. when they come into bearing, pick off all the fruit fit for use, whether you want it or not. if many are allowed to become yellow and go to seed, the growth and productiveness of the vines are checked. the early white spine and extra long white spine are all the varieties needed for the table. for pickling purposes plant the green prolific on moist rich land. the other varieties answer quite as well, if picked before they are too large. the cultivation of the squash is substantially the same as that of the cucumber, and it has nearly the same enemies to contend with. let the hills of the bush sorts be four feet apart each way, and eight feet for the running varieties. the seed is cheap, so use plenty, and plant over from the first to the twenty-fifth of may, until you have three good strong plants to the hill. three are plenty, so thin out the plants, when six or seven inches high, to this number, and keep the ground clean and mellow. i usually raise my running squashes among the corn, giving up one hill to them completely every seven or eight feet each way. early bush sorts: white bush scalloped, yellow bush scalloped. the perfect gem is good for both summer and winter, and should be planted on rich soil, six feet apart each way. the boston marrow is one of the best fall sorts; the hubbard and marblehead are the best winter varieties. when we come to plant musk-melons we must keep them well away from the two above-named vegetables, or else their pollen will mix, producing very disagreeable hybrids. a squash is very good in its way, and a melon is much better; but if you grow them so near each other that they become "'alf and 'alf," you may perhaps find pigs that will eat them. the more completely the melon-patch is by itself, the better, and the nearer the house the better; for while it is liable to all the insects and diseases which attack the cucumber, it encounters, when the fruit is mature, a more fatal enemy in the predatory small boy. choose rich, warm, but not dry ground for musk-melons, make the hills six feet apart each way, and treat them like cucumbers, employing an abundance of seed. as soon as the plants are ready to run, thin out so as to leave only four to fruit. henderson recommends montreal market, hackensack, and netted gem. gregory: netted gem, boston pet, bay view, sill's hybrid, casaba, and ward's nectar. he also advocates a remarkable novelty known as the "banana." harris: early christiana and montreal market. water-melons should be planted eight feet apart; but if one has not a warm, sandy soil, i do not advise their culture. the time of planting and management do not vary materially from those of the musk variety. the following kinds will scarcely fail to give satisfaction where they can be grown: phinney's early, black spanish, mammoth ironclad, mountain sprout, scaly bark, and cuban queen. the tomato has a curious history. native of south america like the potato, it is said to have been introduced into england as early as . many years elapsed before it was used as food, and the botanical name given to it was significant of the estimation in which it was held by our forefathers. it was called lycopersicum--a compound term meaning wolf and peach; indicating that, notwithstanding its beauty, it was regarded as a sort of "dead sea fruit." the italians first dared to use it freely; the french followed; and after eying it askance as a novelty for unknown years, john bull ventured to taste, and having survived, began to eat with increasing gusto. to our grandmothers in this land the ruby fruit was given as "love-apples," which, adorning quaint old bureaus, were devoured by dreamy eyes long before canning factories were within the ken of even a yankee's vision. now, tomatoes vie with the potato as a general article of food, and one can scarcely visit a quarter of the globe so remote but he will find that the tomato-can has been there before him. culture of the tomato is so easy that one year i had bushels of the finest fruit from plants that grew here and there by chance. skill is required only in producing an early crop; and to secure this end the earlier the plants are started in spring, the better. those who have glass will experience no difficulty whatever. the seed may be sown in a greenhouse as early as january, and the plants potted when three inches high, transferred to larger pots from time to time as they grow, and by the middle of may put into the open ground full of blossoms and immature fruit. indeed, plants started early in the fall will give in a greenhouse a good supply all winter. tomatoes also grow readily in hot-beds, cold-frames, or sunny windows. we can usually buy well-forwarded plants from those who raise them for sale. if these are set out early in may on a sunny slope, they mature rapidly, and give an early yield. the tomato is very sensitive to frost, and should not be in the open ground before danger from it is over. throughout may we may find plants for sale everywhere. if we desire to try distinct kinds with the least trouble, we can sow the seed about may , and in our climate enjoy an abundant yield in september, or before. in the cool, humid climate of england the tomato is usually grown en espalier, like the peach, along sunny walls and fences, receiving as careful a summer pruning as the grape-vine. with us it is usually left to sprawl over the ground at will. by training the vines over various kinds of supports, however, they may be made as ornamental as they are useful. the ground on which they grow should be only moderately fertile, or else there is too great a growth of vine at the expense of fruit. this is especially true if we desire an early yield, and in this case the warmest, driest soil is necessary. but comparatively a few years ago the tomato consisted of little more than a rind, with seeds in the hollow centre. now, the only varieties worth raising cut as solid as a mellow pear. the following is gregory's list of varieties: livingston's beauty, alpha, acme, canada victor, arlington, general grant. i will add trophy and mikado. if a yellow variety is desired, try golden trophy. if the tomato needs warm weather in which to thrive, the egg-plant requires that both days and nights should be hot. it is an east indiaman, and demands curry in the way of temperature before it loses its feeble yellow aspect and takes on the dark green of vigorous health. my method is simply this: i purchase strong potted plants between the twentieth of may and the first of june, and set them out in a rich, warm soil. a dozen well-grown plants will supply a large family with egg-fruit. of course one can start the young plants themselves, as in the case of tomatoes; but it should be remembered that they are much more tender and difficult to raise than is the tomato. plants from seed sown in the open ground would not mature in our latitude, as a rule. the best plan is to have the number you need grown for you by those who make it their business. eggplants are choice morsels for the potato-beetle, and they must be watched vigilantly if we would save them. there is no better variety than the new york improved. the pepper is another hot-blooded vegetable that shivers at the suggestion of frost. it is fitting that it should be a native of india. its treatment is usually the same as that of the egg-plant. it matures more rapidly, however, and the seed can be sown about the middle of may, half an inch deep, in rows fifteen inches apart. the soil should be rich and warm. when the plants are well up, they should be thinned so that they will stand a foot apart in the row. the usual course, however, is to set out plants which have been started under glass, after all danger from frost is over. henderson recommends new sweet spanish and golden dawn, the large bell is a popular sort, and cherry red very ornamental. from the okra is made the famous gumbo soup, which ever calls to vision a colored aunty presiding over the mysteries of a southern dinner. if aunt dinah, so well known to us from the pages of "uncle tom's cabin," could have left her receipt for this compound, her fame might have lasted as long as that of mrs. stowe. the vegetable furnishing this glutinous, nutritious, and wholesome ingredient is as easily raised as any product of the garden. we have only to sow the seed, from the first to the tenth of may, two inches deep, and let the plants stand from two to three feet apart each way, in order to have an abundant supply. the new dwarf prolific is about the best variety. fall turnips are so easily grown that they require but few words. they are valuable vegetables for utilizing space in the garden after early crops, as peas, beans, potatoes, etc., are removed. the seed of ruta-baga, or swedish turnips, should be planted earliest--from the twentieth of june to the tenth of july in our latitude. this turnip should be sown in drills two feet apart, and the plants thinned to eight inches from one another. it is very hardy, and the roots are close-grained, solid, and equally good for the table and the family cow. the yellow aberdeen is another excellent variety, which may be sown early in july, and treated much the same as the foregoing. the yellow stone can be sown on good ground until the fifteenth of july in any good garden soil, and the plants thinned to six inches apart. it is perhaps the most satisfactory of all the turnip tribe both for table use and stock. the bed-top strap-leaf may be sown anywhere until the tenth of august. it is a general custom, in the middle of july, to scatter some seed of this hardy variety among the corn: hoe it in lightly, and there is usually a good crop. every vacant spot may be utilized by incurring only the slight cost of the seed and the sowing. it may be well, perhaps, to remember the advice of the old farmer to his son. he said, "stub your toe and spill half the seed before sowing it; for scattered broadcast it is usually much too thick." if this proves true, thin out the plants rigorously. this turnip is good for table and stock as long as it is solid and crisp; but it grows pithy toward spring. there are other kinds well worth a trial. perhaps no vegetable is more generally appreciated than celery. like asparagus, it was once, and is still by some, regarded as a luxury requiring too much skill and labor for the ordinary gardener. this is a mistake. few vegetables in my garden repay so amply the cost of production. one can raise turnips as a fall crop much easier, it is true; but turnips are not celery, any more than brass is gold. think of enjoying this delicious vegetable daily from october till april! when cooked, and served on toast with drawn butter sauce, it is quite ambrosial. in every garden evolved beyond the cabbage and potato phase a goodly space of the best soil should be reserved for celery, since it can be set out from the first to the twentieth of july in our latitude; it can be grown as the most valuable of the second crops, reoccupying space made vacant by early crops. i find it much easier to buy my plants, when ready for them, than to raise them. in every town there are those who grow them in very large quantities, and, if properly packed, quickly transported, and promptly set out in the evening following their reception, and watered abundantly, they rarely fail. there are decided advantages, however, in raising our own plants, especially if midsummer should prove dry and hot, or the plants must be long in transit. when they are growing in our own garden, they can be moved with very slight check to their growth. in starting the seed there is no necessity for hot-bed or cold-frame. it may be put in the ground the first week of april, and the best plants are thus secured. much is gained by preparing a warm but not dry plot of ground in autumn, making it very rich with short, half-decayed stable-manure. this preparation should be begun as soon as possible after the soaking september rains. having thoroughly incorporated and mixed evenly in the soil an abundance of the manure described, leave the ground untouched for three weeks. the warm fertilizer will cause great numbers of weed-seeds to germinate. when these thrifty pests are a few inches high, dig them under and bring up the bottom soil. the warmth and light will immediately start a new and vigorous growth of weeds, which in turn should be dug under. if the celery seed bed be made early enough, this process can be repeated several times before winter--the oftener the better; for by it the great majority of weed-seeds will be made to germinate, and thus are destroyed. the ground also becomes exceedingly rich, mellow, and fine--an essential condition for celery seed, which is very small, and germinates slowly. this thorough preparation does not involve much labor, for the seed-bed is small, and nothing more is required in spring but to rake the ground smooth and fine as soon as the frost is out. the soil has already been made mellow, and certainly nothing is gained by turning up the cold earth in the bottom of the bed. sow the seed at once on the sunwarmed surface. the rows should be nine inches apart, and about twelve seeds sown to every inch of row. the drills should be scarcely an eighth of an inch deep. indeed, a firm patting with the back of a spade would give covering enough. since celery germinates so slowly, it is well to drop a lettuce-seed every few inches, to indicate clearly just where the rows are. then the ground between the rows can be hoed lightly as soon as the weeds start, also after heavy rains, so as to admit the vivifying sun-rays and air. of course when the celery plants are clearly outlined, the lettuce should be pulled out. if the bed is made in spring, perform the work as early as possible, making the bed very rich, mellow, and fine. coarse manures, cold, poor, lumpy soil, leave scarcely a ghost of a chance for success. the plants should be thinned to two inches from one another, and when five inches high, shear them back to three inches. when they have made another good growth, shear them back again. the plants are thus made stocky. in our latitude i try to set out celery, whether raised or bought, between the twenty-fifth of june and the fifteenth of july. this latitude enables us to avoid a spell of hot, dry weather. there are two distinct classes of celery--the tall-growing sorts, and the dwarf varieties. a few years ago the former class was grown generally; trenches were dug, and their bottoms well enriched to receive the plants. now the dwarf kinds are proving their superiority, by yielding a larger amount of crisp, tender heart than is found between long coarse stalks of the tall sorts. dwarf celery requires less labor also, for it can be set on the surface and much closer together, the rows three feet apart, and the plants six inches in the row. dig all the ground thoroughly, then, beginning on one side of the plot, stretch a line along it, and fork under a foot-wide strip of three or four inches of compost, not raw manure. by this course the soil where the row is to be is made very rich and mellow. set out the plants at once while the ground is fresh and moist. if the row is ten feet long, you will want twenty plants; if fifteen, thirty plants; or two plants to every foot of row. having set out one row, move the line forward three feet, and prepare and set out another row in precisely the same manner. continue this process until the plot selected is occupied. if the plants have been grown in your own garden, much is gained by soaking the ground round them in the evening, and removing them to the rows in the cool of the morning. this abundant moisture will cause the soil to cling to the roots if handled gently, and the plants will scarcely know that they have been moved. when setting i usually trim off the greater part of the foliage. when all the leaves are left, the roots, not established, cannot keep pace with the evaporation. always keep the roots moist and unshrivelled, and the heart intact, and the plants are safe. if no rain follows setting immediately, water the plants thoroughly--don't be satisfied with a mere sprinkling of the surface--and shade from the hot sun until the plants start to grow. one of the chief requisites in putting out a celery plant, and indeed almost any plant, is to press the soil firmly round, against, and over the roots. this excludes the air, and the new rootlets form rapidly. neither bury the heart nor leave any part of the root exposed. do not be discouraged at the rather slow growth during the hot days of july and early august. you have only to keep the ground clean and mellow by frequent hoeings until the nights grow cooler and longer, and rains thoroughly moisten the soil. about the middle of august the plants should be thrifty and spreading, and now require the first operation, which will make them crisp and white or golden for the table. gather up the stalks and foliage of each plant closely in the left hand, and with the right draw up the earth round it. let no soil tumble in on the heart to soil or cause decay. press the soil firmly, so as to keep all the leaves in an upright position. then with a hoe draw up more soil, until the banking process is begun. during september and october the plants will grow rapidly, and in order to blanch them they must be earthed up from time to time, always keeping the stalks close and compact, with no soil falling in on the developing part. by the end of october the growth is practically made, and only the deep green leaves rest on the high embankments. the celery now should be fit for use, and time for winter storing is near. in our region it is not safe to leave celery unprotected after the tenth of november, for although it is a very hardy plant, it will not endure a frost which produces a strong crust of frozen soil. i once lost a fine crop early in november. the frost in one night penetrated the soil deeply, and when it thawed out, the celery never revived. never handle celery when it is frozen. my method of preserving this vegetable for winter use is simply this. during some mild, clear day in early november i have a trench ten inches wide dug nearly as deep as the celery is tall. this trench is dug on a warm dry slope, so that by no possibility can water gather in it. then the plants are taken up carefully and stored in the trench, the roots on the bottom, the plants upright as they grew, and pressed closely together so as to occupy all the space in the excavation. the foliage rises a little above the surface, which is earthed up about four inches, so that water will be shed on either side. still enough of the leaves are left in the light to permit all the breathing necessary; for plants breathe as truly as we do. as long as the weather keeps mild, this is all that is needed; but there is no certainty now. a hard black frost may come any night. i advise that an abundance of leaves or straw be gathered near. when a bleak november day promises a black frost at night, scatter the leaves, etc., thickly over the trenched celery, and do not take them off until the mercury rises above freezing-point. if a warm spell sets in, expose the foliage to the air again. but watch your treasure vigilantly. winter is near, and soon you must have enough covering over your trench to keep out the frost--a foot or more of leaves, straw, or some clean litter. there is nothing better than leaves, which cost only the gathering. from now till april, when you want a head or more of celery, open the trench at the lower end, and take out the crisp white or golden heads, and thank the kindly providence that planted a garden as the best place in which to put man, and woman also. garnishing and pot herbs "there's fennel for you; there's rue for you." strange and involuntary is the law of association! i can never see the garnishing and seasoning herbs of the garden without thinking of the mad words of distraught ophelia. i fancy, however, that we are all practical enough to remember the savory soups and dishes rendered far more appetizing than they could otherwise have been by these aromatic and pungent flavors. i will mention only a few of the popular sorts. the seeds of fennel may be sown in april about three-quarters of an inch deep, and the plants thinned to fifteen inches apart. cut off the seed-stalks to increase the growth of foliage. parsley, like celery seed, germinates slowly, and is sometimes about a month in making its appearance. the soil should therefore be made very rich and fine, and the seed sown half an inch deep, as early in spring as possible. when the plants are three inches high, thin them to eight inches apart. sweet-basil may be sown in early may, and the plants thinned to one foot apart. the seeds of sweet-marjoram are very minute, and must be covered very thinly with soil finely pulverized; sow in april or may, when the ground is in the best condition. sage is easily raised from seeds gown an inch deep the latter part of april; let the soil be warm and rich; let the plants stand about one foot apart in the row. thyme and summer-savory require about the same treatment as sage. i find that some of the mountain mints growing wild are quite as aromatic and appetizing as many of these garden herbs. the end none the solitary summer by elizabeth von arnim to the man of wrath with some apologies and much love may may nd.--last night after dinner, when we were in the garden, i said, "i want to be alone for a whole summer, and get to the very dregs of life. i want to be as idle as i can, so that my soul may have time to grow. nobody shall be invited to stay with me, and if any one calls they will be told that i am out, or away, or sick. i shall spend the months in the garden, and on the plain, and in the forests. i shall watch the things that happen in my garden, and see where i have made mistakes. on wet days i will go into the thickest parts of the forests, where the pine needles are everlastingly dry, and when the sun shines i'll lie on the heath and see how the broom flares against the clouds. i shall be perpetually happy, because there will be no one to worry me. out there on the plain there is silence, and where there is silence i have discovered there is peace." "mind you do not get your feet damp," said the man of wrath, removing his cigar. it was the evening of may day, and the spring had taken hold of me body and soul. the sky was full of stars, and the garden of scents, and the borders of wallflowers and sweet, sly pansies. all day there had been a breeze, and all day slow masses of white clouds had been sailing across the blue. now it was so still, so motionless, so breathless, that it seemed as though a quiet hand had been laid on the garden, soothing and hushing it into silence. the man of wrath sat at the foot of the verandah steps in that placid after-dinner mood which suffers fools, if not gladly, at least indulgently, and i stood in front of him, leaning against the sun-dial. "shall you take a book with you?" he asked. "yes, i shall," i replied, slightly nettled by his tone. "i am quite ready to admit that though the fields and flowers are always ready to teach, i am not always in the mood to learn, and sometimes my eyes are incapable of seeing things that at other times are quite plain." "and then you read?" "and then i read. well, dear sage, what of that?" but he smoked in silence, and seemed suddenly absorbed by the stars. "see," he said, after a pause, during which i stood looking at him and wishing he would use longer sentences, and he looked at the sky and did not think about me at all, "see how bright the stars are to-night. almost as though it might freeze." "it isn't going to freeze, and i won't look at anything until you have told me what you think of my idea. wouldn't a whole lovely summer, quite alone, be delightful? wouldn't it be perfect to get up every morning for weeks and feel that you belong to yourself and to nobody else?" and i went over to him and put a hand on each shoulder and gave him a little shake, for he persisted in gazing at the stars just as though i had not been there. "please, man of wrath, say something long for once," i entreated; "you haven't said a good long sentence for a week." he slowly brought his gaze from the stars down to me and smiled. then he drew me on to his knee. "don't get affectionate," i urged; "it is words, not deeds, that i want. but i'll stay here if you'll talk." "well then, i will talk. what am i to say? you know you do as you please, and i never interfere with you. if you do not want to have any one here this summer you will not have any one, but you will find it a very long summer." "no, i won't." "and if you lie on the heath all day, people will think you are mad." "what do i care what people think?" "no, that is true. but you will catch cold, and your little nose will swell." "let it swell." "and when it is hot you will be sunburnt and your skin spoilt." "i don't mind my skin." "and you will be dull." "dull?" it often amuses me to reflect how very little the man of wrath really knows me. here we have been three years buried in the country, and i as happy as a bird the whole time. i say as a bird, because other people have used the simile to describe absolute cheerfulness, although i do not believe birds are any happier than any one else, and they quarrel disgracefully. i have been as happy then, we will say, as the best of birds, and have had seasons of solitude at intervals before now during which dull is the last word to describe my state of mind. everybody, it is true, would not like it, and i had some visitors here a fortnight ago who left after staying about a week and clearly not enjoying themselves. they found it dull, i know, but that of course was their own fault; how can you make a person happy against his will? you can knock a great deal into him in the way of learning and what the schools call extras, but if you try for ever you will not knock any happiness into a being who has not got it in him to be happy. the only result probably would be that you knock your own out of yourself. obviously happiness must come from within, and not from without; and judging from my past experience and my present sensations, i should say that i have a store just now within me more than sufficient to fill five quiet months. "i wonder," i remarked after a pause, during which i began to suspect that i too must belong to the serried ranks of the femmes incomprises, "why you think i shall be dull. the garden is always beautiful, and i am nearly always in the mood to enjoy it. not quite always, i must confess, for when those schmidts were here" (their name was not schmidt, but what does that matter?) "i grew almost to hate it. whenever i went into it there they were, dragging themselves about with faces full of indignant resignation. do you suppose they saw one of those blue hepaticas overflowing the shrubberies? and when i drove with them into the woods, where the fairies were so busy just then hanging the branches with little green jewels, they talked about berlin the whole time, and the good savouries their new chef makes." "well, my dear, no doubt they missed their savouries. your garden, i acknowledge, is growing very pretty, but your cook is bad. poor schmidt sometimes looked quite ill at dinner, and the beauty of your floral arrangements in no way made up for the inferior quality of the food. send her away." "send her away? be thankful you have her. a bad cook is more effectual a great deal than kissingen and carlsbad and homburg rolled into one, and very much cheaper. as long as i have her, my dear man, you will be comparatively thin and amiable. poor schmidt, as you call him, eats too much of those delectable savouries, and then looks at his wife and wonders why he married her. don't let me catch you doing that." "i do not think it is very likely," said the man of wrath; but whether he meant it prettily, or whether he was merely thinking of the improbability of his ever eating too much of the local savouries, i cannot tell. i object, however, to discussing cooks in the garden on a starlight night, so i got off his knee and proposed that we should stroll round a little. it was such a sweet evening, such a fitting close to a beautiful may day, and the flowers shone in the twilight like pale stars, and the air was full of fragrance, and i envied the bats fluttering through such a bath of scent, with the real stars above and the pansy stars beneath, and themselves so fashioned that even if they wanted to they could not make a noise and disturb the prevailing peace. a great deal that is poetical has been written by english people about may day, and the impression left on the foreign mind is an impression of posies, and garlands, and village greens, and youths and maidens much be-ribboned, and lambs, and general friskiness. i was in england once on a may day, and we sat over the fire shivering and listening blankly to the north- east wind tearing down the street and the rattling of the hail against the windows, and the friends with whom i was staying said it was very often so, and that they had never seen any lambs and ribbons. we germans attach no poetical significance to it at all, and yet we well might, for it is almost invariably beautiful; and as for garlands, i wonder how many villages full of young people could have been provided with them out of my garden, and nothing be missed. it is to-day a garden of wallflowers, and i think i have every colour and sort in cultivation. the borders under the south windows of the house, so empty and melancholy this time last year, are crammed with them, and are finished off in front by a broad strip from end to end of yellow and white pansies. the tea rose beds round the sun-dial facing these borders are sheets of white, and golden, and purple, and wine-red pansies, with the dainty red shoots of the tea roses presiding delicately in their midst. the verandah steps leading down into this pansy paradise have boxes of white, and pink, and yellow tulips all the way up on each side, and on the lawn, behind the roses, are two big beds of every coloured tulip rising above a carpet of forget-me-nots. how very much more charming different-coloured tulips are together than tulips in one colour by itself! last year, on the recommendation of sundry writers about gardens, i tried beds of scarlet tulips and forget-me-nots. they were pretty enough; but i wish those writers could see my beds of mixed tulips. i never saw anything so sweetly, delicately gay. the only ones i exclude are the rose-coloured ones; but scarlet, gold, delicate pink, and white are all there, and the effect is infinitely enchanting. the forget-me-nots grow taller as the tulips go off, and will presently tenderly engulf them altogether, and so hide the shame of their decay in their kindly little arms. they will be left there, clouds of gentle blue, until the tulips are well withered, and then they will be taken away to make room for the scarlet geraniums that are to occupy these two beds in the summer and flare in the sun as much as they like. i love an occasional mass of fiery colour, and these two will make the lilies look even whiter and more breathless that are to stand sentinel round the semicircle containing the precious tea roses. the first two years i had this garden, i was determined to do exactly as i chose in it, and to have no arrangements of plants that i had not planned, and no plants but those i knew and loved; so, fearing that an experienced gardener would profit by my ignorance, then about as absolute as it could be, and thrust all his bedding nightmares upon me, and fill the place with those dreadful salad arrangements so often seen in the gardens of the indifferent rich, i would only have a meek man of small pretensions, who would be easily persuaded that i knew as much as, or more than, he did himself. i had three of these meek men one after the other, and learned what i might long ago have discovered, that the less a person knows, the more certain he is that he is right, and that no weapons yet invented are of any use in a struggle with stupidity. the first of these three went melancholy mad at the end of a year; the second was love-sick, and threw down his tools and gave up his situation to wander after the departed siren who had turned his head; the third, when i inquired how it was that the things he had sown never by any chance came up, scratched his head, and as this is a sure sign of ineptitude, i sent him away. then i sat down and thought. i had been here two years and worked hard, through these men, at the garden; i had done my best to learn all i could and make it beautiful; i had refused to have more than an inferior gardener because of his supposed more perfect obedience, and one assistant, because of my desire to enjoy the garden undisturbed; i had studied diligently all the gardening books i could lay hands on; i was under the impression that i am an ordinarily intelligent person, and that if an ordinarily intelligent person devotes his whole time to studying a subject he loves, success is very probable; and yet at the end of two years what was my garden like? the failures of the first two summers had been regarded with philosophy; but that third summer i used to go into it sometimes and cry. as far as i was concerned i had really learned a little, and knew what to buy, and had fairly correct notions as to when and in what soil to sow and plant what i had bought; but of what use is it to buy good seeds and plants and bulbs if you are forced to hand them over to a gardener who listens with ill-concealed impatience to the careful directions you give him, says jawohl a great many times, and then goes off and puts them in in the way he has always done, which is invariably the wrong way? my hands were tied because of the unfortunate circumstance of sex, or i would gladly have changed places with him and requested him to do the talking while i did the planting, and as he probably would not have talked much there would have been a distinct gain in the peace of the world, which would surely be very materially increased if women's tongues were tied instead of their hands, and those that want to could work with them without collecting a crowd. and is it not certain that the more one's body works the fainter grow the waggings of one's tongue? i sometimes literally ache with envy as i watch the men going about their pleasant work in the sunshine, turning up the luscious damp earth, raking, weeding, watering, planting, cutting the grass, pruning the trees--not a thing that they do from the first uncovering of the roses in the spring to the november bonfires but fills my soul with longing to be up and doing it too. a great many things will have to happen, however, before such a state of popular large-mindedness as will allow of my digging without creating a sensation is reached, so i have plenty of time for further grumblings; only i do very much wish that the tongues inhabiting this apparently lonely and deserted countryside would restrict their comments to the sins, if any, committed by the indigenous females (since sins are fair game for comment) and leave their harmless eccentricities alone. after having driven through vast tracts of forest and heath for hours, and never meeting a soul or seeing a house, it is surprising to be told that on such a day you took such a drive and were at such a spot; yet this has happened to me more than once. and if even this is watched and noted, with what lightning rapidity would the news spread that i had been seen stalking down the garden path with a hoe over my shoulder and a basket in my hand, and weeding written large on every feature! yet i should love to weed. i think it was the way the weeds flourished that put an end at last to my hesitations about taking an experienced gardener and giving him a reasonable number of helpers, for i found that much as i enjoyed privacy, i yet detested nettles more, and the nettles appeared really to pick out those places to grow in where my sweetest things were planted, and utterly defied the three meek men when they made periodical and feeble efforts to get rid of them. i have a large heart in regard to things that grow, and many a weed that would not be tolerated anywhere else is allowed to live and multiply undisturbed in my garden. they are such pretty things, some of them, such charmingly audacious things, and it is so particularly nice of them to do all their growing, and flowering, and seed-bearing without any help or any encouragement. i admit i feel vexed if they are so officious as to push up among my tea roses and pansies, and i also prefer my paths without them; but on the grass, for instance, why not let the poor little creatures enjoy themselves quietly, instead of going out with a dreadful instrument and viciously digging them up one by one? once i went into the garden just as the last of the three inept ones had taken up his stand, armed with this implement, in the middle of the sheet of gold and silver that is known for convenience' sake as the lawn, and was scratching his head, as he looked round, in a futile effort to decide where he should begin. i saved the dandelions and daisies on that occasion, and i like to believe they know it. they certainly look very jolly when i come out, and i rather fancy the dandelions dig each other in their little ribs when they see me, and whisper, "here comes elizabeth; she's a good sort, ain't she?"--for of course dandelions do not express themselves very elegantly. but nettles are not to be tolerated. they settled the question on which i had been turning my back for so long, and one fine august morning, when there seemed to be nothing in the garden but nettles, and it was hard to believe that we had ever been doing anything but carefully cultivating them in all their varieties, i walked into the man of wrath's den. "my dear man," i began, in the small caressing voice of one who has long been obstinate and is in the act of giving in, "will you kindly advertise for a head gardener and a proper number of assistants? nearly all the bulbs and seeds and plants i have squandered my money and my hopes on have turned out to be nettles, and i don't like them. i have had a wretched summer, and never want to see a meek gardener again." "my dear elizabeth," he replied, "i regret that you did not take my advice sooner. how often have i pointed out the folly of engaging one incapable person after the other? the vegetables, when we get any, are uneatable, and there is never any fruit. i do not in the least doubt your good intentions, but you are wanting in judgment. when will you learn to rely on my experience?" i hung my head; for was he not in the pleasant position of being able to say, "i told you so"?--which indeed he has been saying for the last two years. "i don't like relying," i murmured, "and have rather a prejudice against somebody else's experience. please will you send the advertisement to-day?" they came in such shoals that half the population must have been head gardeners out of situations. i took all the likely ones round the garden, and i do not think i ever spent a more chastening week than that week of selection. their remarks were, naturally, of the frankest nature, as i had told them i had had practically only gardeners' assistants since i lived here, and they had no idea, when they were politely scoffing at some arrangement, that it happened to be one of my own. the hot-beds in the kitchen garden with which i had taken such pains were objects of special derision. it appeared that they were all wrong--measurements, preparation, soil, manure, everything that could be wrong, was. certainly the only crop we had from them was weeds. but i began about half way through the week to grow sceptical, because on comparing their criticisms i found they seldom agreed, and so took courage again. finally i chose a nice, trim young man, with strikingly intelligent eyes and quick movements, who had shown himself less concerned with the state of chaos existing than with considerations of what might eventually be made of the place. he is very deaf, so he wastes no time in words, and is exceedingly keen on gardening, and knows, as i very soon discovered, a vast amount more than i do, in spite of my three years' application. moreover, he is filled with that humility and eagerness to learn which is only found in those who have already learned more than their neighbours. he enters into my plans with enthusiasm, and makes suggestions of his own, which, if not always quite in accordance with what are perhaps my peculiar tastes, at least plainly show that he understands his business. we had a very busy winter together altering all the beds, for they none of them had been given a soil in which plants could grow, and next autumn i intend to have all the so-called lawns dug up and levelled, and shall see whether i cannot have decent turf here. i told him he must save the daisy and dandelion roots, and he looked rather crestfallen at that, but he is young, and can learn to like what i like, and get rid of his only fault, a nursery- gardener attitude towards all flowers that are not the fashion. "i shall want a great many daffodils next spring," i shouted one day at the beginning of our acquaintance. his eyes gleamed. "ah yes," he said with immediate approval, "they are _sehr modern." i was divided between amusement at the notion of spenser's daffadowndillies being _modern_, and indignation at hearing exactly the same adjective applied to them that the woman who sells me my hats bestows on the most appalling examples of her stock. "they are to be in troops on the grass," i said; whereupon his face grew doubtful. "that is indeed _sehr modern_," i shouted. but he had grown suddenly deafer--a phenomenon i have observed to occur every time my orders are such as he has never been given before. after a time he will, i think, become imbued with my unorthodoxy in these matters; and meanwhile he has the true gardening spirit and loves his work, and love, after all, is the chief thing. i know of no compost so good. in the poorest soil, love alone, by itself, will work wonders. down the garden path, past the copse of lilacs with their swelling dark buds, and the great three-cornered bed of tea roses and pansies in front of it, between the rows of china roses and past the lily and foxglove groups, we came last night to the spring garden in the open glade round the old oak; and there, the first to flower of the flowering trees, and standing out like a lovely white naked thing against the dusk of the evening, was a double cherry in full bloom, while close beside it, but not so visible so late, with all their graceful growth outlined by rosy buds, were two japanese crab apples. the grass just there is filled with narcissus, and at the foot of the oak a colony of tulips consoles me for the loss of the purple crocus patches, so lovely a little while since. "i must be by myself for once a whole summer through," i repeated, looking round at these things with a feeling of hardly being able to bear their beauty, and the beauty of the starry sky, and the beauty of the silence and the scent--"i must be alone, so that i shall not miss one of these wonders, and have leisure really to _live_." "very well, my dear," replied the man of wrath, "only do not grumble afterwards when you find it dull. you shall be solitary if you choose, and, as far as i am concerned, i will invite no one. it is always best to allow a woman to do as she likes if you can, and it saves a good deal of bother. to have what she desired is generally an effective punishment." "dear sage," i cried, slipping my hand through his arm, "don't be so wise! i promise you that i won't be dull, and i won't be punished, and i will be happy." and we sauntered slowly back to the house in great contentment, discussing the firmament and such high things, as though we knew all about them. may th.--there is a dip in the rye-fields about half a mile from my garden gate, a little round hollow like a dimple, with water and reeds at the bottom, and a few water-loving trees and bushes on the shelving ground around. here i have been nearly every morning lately, for it suits the mood i am in, and i like the narrow footpath to it through the rye, and i like its solitary dampness in a place where everything is parched, and when i am lying on the grass and look down i can see the reeds glistening greenly in the water, and when i look up i can see the rye-fringe brushing the sky. all sorts of beasts come and stare at me, and larks sing above me, and creeping things crawl over me, and stir in the long grass beside me; and here i bring my book, and read and dream away the profitable morning hours, to the accompaniment of the amorous croakings of innumerable frogs. thoreau has been my companion for some days past, it having struck me as more appropriate to bring him out to a pond than to read him, as was hitherto my habit, on sunday mornings in the garden. he is a person who loves the open air, and will refuse to give you much pleasure if you try to read him amid the pomp and circumstance of upholstery; but out in the sun, and especially by this pond, he is delightful, and we spend the happiest hours together, he making statements, and i either agreeing heartily, or just laughing and reserving my opinion till i shall have more ripely considered the thing. he, of course, does not like me as much as i like him, because i live in a cloud of dust and germs produced by wilful superfluity of furniture, and have not the courage to get a match and set light to it: and every day he sees the door-mat on which i wipe my shoes on going into the house, in defiance of his having told me that he had once refused the offer of one on the ground that it is best to avoid even the beginnings of evil. but my philosophy has not yet reached the acute stage that will enable me to see a door-mat in its true character as a hinderer of the development of souls, and i like to wipe my shoes. perhaps if i had to live with few servants, or if it were possible, short of existence in a cave, to do without them altogether, i should also do without door-mats, and probably in summer without shoes too, and wipe my feet on the grass nature no doubt provides for this purpose; and meanwhile we know that though he went to the woods, thoreau came back again, and lived for the rest of his days like other people. during his life, i imagine he would have refused to notice anything so fatiguing as an ordinary german woman, and never would have deigned discourse to me on the themes he loved best; but now his spirit belongs to me, and all he thought, and believed, and felt, and he talks as much and as intimately to me here in my solitude as ever he did to his dearest friends years ago in concord. in the garden he was a pleasant companion, but in the lonely dimple he is fascinating, and the morning hours hurry past at a quite surprising rate when he is with me, and it grieves me to be obliged to interrupt him in the middle of some quaint sentence or beautiful thought just because the sun is touching a certain bush down by the water's edge, which is a sign that it is lunch-time and that i must be off. back we go together through the rye, he carefully tucked under one arm, while with the other i brandish a bunch of grass to keep off the flies that appear directly we emerge into the sunshine. "oh, my dear thoreau," i murmur sometimes, overcome by the fierce heat of the little path at noonday and the persistence of the flies, "did you have flies at walden to exasperate you? and what became of your philosophy then?" but he never notices my plaints, and i know that inside his covers he is discoursing away like anything on the folly of allowing oneself to be overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, which is situated in the meridian shallows, and of the necessity, if one would keep happy, of sailing by it looking another way, tied to the mast like ulysses. but he gets grimly carried back for all that, and is taken into the house and put on his shelf and left there, because i still happen to have a body attached to my spirit, which, if not fed at the ordinary time, becomes a nuisance. yet he is right; luncheon is a snare of the tempter, and i would perhaps try to sail by it like ulysses if i had a biscuit in my pocket to comfort me, but there are the babies to be fed, and the man of wrath, and how can a respectable wife and mother sail past any meridian shallows in which those dearest to her have stuck? so i stand by them, and am punished every day by that two-o'clock-in-the-afternoon feeling to which i so much object, and yet cannot avoid. it is mortifying, after the sunshiny morning hours at my pond, when i feel as though i were almost a poet, and very nearly a philosopher, and wholly a joyous animal in an ecstasy of love with life, to come back and live through those dreary luncheon- ridden hours, when the soul is crushed out of sight and sense by cutlets and asparagus and revengeful sweet things. my morning friend turns his back on me when i reenter the library; nor do i ever touch him in the afternoon. books have their idiosyncrasies as well as people, and will not show me their full beauties unless the place and time in which they are read suits them. if, for instance, i cannot read thoreau in a drawing-room, how much less would i ever dream of reading boswell in the grass by a pond! imagine carrying him off in company with his great friend to a lonely dell in a rye-field, and expecting them to be entertaining. "nay, my dear lady," the great man would say in mighty tones of rebuke, "this will never do. lie in a rye-field? what folly is that? and who would converse in a damp hollow that can help it?" so i read and laugh over my boswell in the library when the lamps are lit, buried in cushions and surrounded by every sign of civilisation, with the drawn curtains shutting out the garden and the country solitude so much disliked by both sage and disciple. indeed, it is bozzy who asserts that in the country the only things that make one happy are meals. "i was happy," he says, when stranded at a place called corrichatachin in the island of skye, and unable to get out of it because of the rain,--"i was happy when tea came. such i take it is the state of those who live in the country. meals are wished for from the cravings of vacuity of mind, as well as from the desire of eating." and such is the perverseness of human nature that boswell's wisdom delights me even more than johnson's, though i love them both very heartily. in the afternoon i potter in the garden with goethe. he did not, i am sure, care much really about flowers and gardens, yet he said many lovely things about them that remain in one's memory just as persistently as though they had been inspired expressions of actual feelings; and the intellect must indeed have been gigantic that could so beautifully pretend. ordinary blunderers have to feel a vast amount before they can painfully stammer out a sentence that will describe it; and when they have got it out, how it seems to have just missed the core of the sensation that gave it birth, and what a poor, weak child it is of what was perhaps a mighty feeling! i read goethe on a special seat, never departed from when he accompanies me, a seat on the south side of an ice-house, and thus sheltered from the north winds sometimes prevalent in may, and shaded by the low-hanging branches of a great beech-tree from more than flickering sunshine. through these branches i can see a group of giant poppies just coming into flower, flaming out beyond the trees on the grass, and farther down a huge silver birch, its first spring green not yet deepened out of delicacy, and looking almost golden backed by a solemn cluster of firs. here i read goethe-- everything i have of his, both what is well known and what is not; here i shed invariable tears over werther, however often i read it; here i wade through wilhelm meister, and sit in amazement before the complications of the wahlverwandschaften; here i am plunged in wonder and wretchedness by faust; and here i sometimes walk up and down in the shade and apostrophise the tall firs at the bottom of the glade in the opening soliloquy of iphigenia. every now and then i leave the book on the seat and go and have a refreshing potter among my flower beds, from which i return greatly benefited, and with a more just conception of what, in this world, is worth bothering about, and what is not. in the evening, when everything is tired and quiet, i sit with walt whitman by the rose beds and listen to what that lonely and beautiful spirit has to tell me of night, sleep, death, and the stars. this dusky, silent hour is his; and this is the time when i can best hear the beatings of that most tender and generous heart. such great love, such rapture of jubilant love for nature, and the good green grass, and trees, and clouds, and sunlight; such aching anguish of love for all that breathes and is sick and sorry; such passionate longing to help and mend and comfort that which never can be helped and mended and comforted; such eager looking to death, delicate death, as the one complete and final consolation--before this revelation of yearning, universal pity, every-day selfishness stands awe-struck and ashamed. when i drive in the forests, keats goes with me; and if i extend my drive to the baltic shores, and spend the afternoon on the moss beneath the pines whose pink stems form the framework of the sea, i take spenser; and presently the blue waves are the ripples of the idle lake, and a tiny white sail in the distance is phaedria's shallow ship, bearing cymochles swiftly away to her drowsy little nest of delights. how can i tell why keats has never been brought here, and why spenser is brought again and again? who shall follow the dark intricacies of the elementary female mind? it is safer not to attempt to do so, but by simply cataloguing them collectively under the heading instinct, have done with them once and for all. what a blessing it is to love books. everybody must love something, and i know of no objects of love that give such substantial and unfailing returns as books and a garden. and how easy it would have been to come into the world without this, and possessed instead of an all-consuming passion, say, for hats, perpetually raging round my empty soul! i feel i owe my forefathers a debt of gratitude, for i suppose the explanation is that they too did not care for hats. in the centre of my library there is a wooden pillar propping up the ceiling, and preventing it, so i am told, from tumbling about our ears; and round this pillar, from floor to ceiling, i have had shelves fixed, and on these shelves are all the books that i have read again and again, and hope to read many times more--all the books, that is, that i love quite the best. in the bookcases round the walls are many that i love, but here in the centre of the room, and easiest to get at, are those i love the _best_--the very elect among my favourites. they change from time to time as i get older, and with years some that are in the bookcases come here, and some that are here go into the bookcases, and some again are removed altogether, and are placed on certain shelves in the drawing-room which are reserved for those that have been weighed in the balance and found wanting, and from whence they seldom, if ever, return. carlyle used to be among the elect. that was years ago, when my hair was very long, and my skirts very short, and i sat in the paternal groves with _sartor resartus_, and felt full of wisdom and _weltschmerz_; and even after i was married, when we lived in town, and the noise of his thunderings was almost drowned by the rattle of droschkies over the stones in the street below, he still shone forth a bright, particular star. now, whether it is age creeping upon me, or whether it is that the country is very still and sound carries, or whether my ears have grown sensitive, i know not; but the moment i open him there rushes out such a clatter of denunciation, and vehemence, and wrath, that i am completely deafened; and as i easily get bewildered, and love peace, and my chief aim is to follow the apostle's advice and study to be quiet, he has been degraded from his high position round the pillar and has gone into retirement against the wall, where the accident of alphabet causes him to rest in the soothing society of one carina, a harmless gentleman, whose book on the _bagni di lucca_ is on his left, and a frenchman of the name of charlemagne, whose soporific comedy written at the beginning of the century and called _le testament de l'oncle_, _ou les lunettes cassees_, is next to him on his right. two works of his still remain, however, among the elect, though differing in glory--his _frederick the great_, fascinating for obvious reasons to the patriotic german mind, and his _life of sterling_, a quiet book on the whole, a record of an uneventful life, in which the natural positions of subject and biographer are reversed, the man of genius writing the life of the unimportant friend, and the fact that the friend was exceedingly lovable in no way lessening one's discomfort in the face of such an anomaly. carlyle stands on an eminence altogether removed from sterling, who stands, indeed, on no eminence at all, unless it be an eminence, that (happily) crowded bit of ground, where the bright and courageous and lovable stand together. we germans have all heard of carlyle, and many of us have read him with due amazement, our admiration often interrupted by groans at the difficulties his style places in the candid foreigner's path; but without carlyle which of us would ever have heard of sterling? and even in this comparatively placid book mines of the accustomed vehemence are sprung on the shrinking reader. to the prosaic german, nourished on a literature free from thunderings and any marked acuteness of enthusiasm, carlyle is an altogether astonishing phenomenon. and here i feel constrained to inquire sternly who i am that i should talk in this unbecoming manner of carlyle? to which i reply that i am only a humble german seeking after peace, devoid of the least real desire to criticise anybody, and merely anxious to get out of the way of geniuses when they make too much noise. all i want is to read quietly the books that i at present prefer. carlyle is shut up now and therefore silent on his comfortable shelf; yet who knows but what in my old age, when i begin to feel really young, i may not once again find comfort in him? what a medley of books there is round my pillar! here is jane austen leaning against heine--what would she have said to that, i wonder?--with miss mitford and _cranford_ to keep her in countenance on her other side. here is my goethe, one of many editions i have of him, the one that has made the acquaintance of the ice-house and the poppies. here are ruskin, lubbock, white's _selborne_, izaak walton, drummond, herbert spencer (only as much of him as i hope i understand and am afraid i do not), walter pater, matthew arnold, thoreau, lewis carroll, oliver wendell holmes, hawthorne, _wuthering heights_, lamb's _essays_, johnson's _lives_, marcus aurelius, montaigne, gibbon, the immortal pepys, the egregious boswell, various american children's books that i loved as a child and read and love to this day; various french children's books, loved for the same reason; whole rows of german children's books, on which i was brought up, with their charming woodcuts of quaint little children in laced bodices, and good housemothers cutting bread and butter, and descriptions of the atmosphere of fearful innocence and pure religion and swift judgments and rewards in which they lived, and how the _finger gottes_ was impressed on everything that happened to them; all the poets; most of the dramatists; and, i verily believe, every gardening book and book about gardens that has been published of late years. these gardening books are an unfailing delight, especially in winter, when to sit by my blazing peat fire with the snow driving past the windows and read the luscious descriptions of roses and all the other summer glories is one of my greatest pleasures. and then how well i get to know and love those gardens whose gradual development has been described by their owners, and how happily i wander in fancy down the paths of certain specially charming ones in lancashire, berkshire, surrey, and kent, and admire the beautiful arrangement of bed and border, and the charming bits in unexpected corners, and all the evidences of untiring love! any book i see advertised that treats of gardens i immediately buy, and thus possess quite a collection of fascinating and instructive garden literature. a few are feeble, and get shunted off into the drawing-room; but the others stay with me winter and summer, and soon lose the gloss of their new coats, and put on the comfortable look of old friends in every-day clothes, under the frequent touch of affection. they are such special friends that i can hardly pass them without a nod and a smile at the well-known covers, each of which has some pleasant association of time and place to make it still more dear. my spirit too has wandered in one or two french gardens, but has not yet heard of a german one loved beyond everything by its owner. it is, of course, possible that my countrymen do love them and keep quiet about them, but many things are possible that are not probable, and experience compels me to the opinion that this is one of them. we have the usual rich man who has fine gardens laid out regardless of expense, but those are not gardens in the sense i mean; and we have the poor man with his bit of ground, hardly ever treated otherwise than as a fowl-run or a place dedicated to potatoes; and as for the middle class, it is too busy hurrying through life to have time or inclination to stop and plant a rose. how glad i am i need not hurry. what a waste of life, just getting and spending. sitting by my pansy beds, with the slow clouds floating leisurely past, and all the clear day before me, i look on at the hot scramble for the pennies of existence and am lost in wonder at the vulgarity that pushes, and cringes, and tramples, untiring and unabashed. and when you have got your pennies, what then? they are only pennies, after all--unpleasant, battered copper things, without a gold piece among them, and never worth the degradation of self, and the hatred of those below you who have fewer, and the derision of those above you who have more. and as i perceive i am growing wise, and what is even worse, allegorical, and as these are tendencies to be fought against as long as possible, i'll go into the garden and play with the babies, who at this moment are sitting in a row on the buttercups, singing what appear to be selections from popular airs. june june rd.--the man of wrath, i observe, is laying traps for me and being deep. he has prophesied that i will find solitude intolerable, and he is naturally desirous that his prophecy should be fulfilled. he knows that continuous rain depresses me, and he is awaiting a spell of it to bring me to a confession that i was wrong after all, whereupon he will make that remark so precious to the married heart, "my dear, i told you so." he begins the day by tapping the barometer, looking at the sky, and shaking his head. if there are any clouds he remarks that they are coming up, and if there are none he says it is too fine to last. he has even gone the length once or twice of starting off to the farm on hot, sunny mornings in his mackintosh, in order to impress on me beyond all doubt that the weather is breaking up. he studiously keeps out of my way all day, so that i may have every opportunity of being bored as quickly as possible, and in the evenings he retires to his den directly after dinner, muttering something about letters. when he has finally disappeared, i go out to the stars and laugh at his transparent wiles. but how would it be if we did have a spell of wet weather? i do not quite know. as long as it is fine, rainy days in the future do not seem so very terrible, and one, or even two really wet ones are quite enjoyable when they do come--pleasant times that remind one of the snug winter now so far off, times of reading, and writing, and paying one's bills. i never pay bills or write letters on fine summer days. not for any one will i forego all that such a day rightly spent out of doors might give me; so that a wet day at intervals is almost as necessary for me as for my garden. but how would it be if there were many wet days? i believe a week of steady drizzle in summer is enough to make the stoutest heart depressed. it is to be borne in winter by the simple expedient of turning your face to the fire; but when you have no fire, and very long days, your cheerfulness slowly slips away, and the dreariness prevailing out of doors comes in and broods in the blank corners of your heart. i rather fancy, however, that it is a waste of energy to ponder over what i should do if we had a wet summer on such a radiant day as this. i prefer sitting here on the verandah and looking down through a frame of leaves at all the rosebuds june has put in the beds round the sun-dial, to ponder over nothing, and just be glad that i am alive. the verandah at two o'clock on a summer's afternoon is a place in which to be happy and not decide anything, as my friend thoreau told me of some other tranquil spot this morning. the chairs are comfortable, there is a table to write on, and the shadows of young leaves flicker across the paper. on one side a crimson rambler is thrusting inquisitive shoots through the wooden bars, being able this year for the first time since it was planted to see what i am doing up here, and next to it a jackmanni clematis clings with soft young fingers to anything it thinks likely to help it up to the goal of its ambition, the roof. i wonder which of the two will get there first. down there in the rose beds, among the hundreds of buds there is only one full-blown rose as yet, a marie van houtte, one of the loveliest of the tea roses, perfect in shape and scent and colour, and in my garden always the first rose to flower; and the first flowers it bears are the loveliest of its own lovely flowers, as though it felt that the first of its children to see the sky and the sun and the familiar garden after the winter sleep ought to put on the very daintiest clothes they can muster for such a festal occasion. through the open schoolroom windows i can hear the two eldest babies at their lessons. the village schoolmaster comes over every afternoon and teaches them for two hours, so that we are free from governesses in the house, and once those two hours are over they are free for twenty-four from anything in the shape of learning. the schoolroom is next to the verandah, and as two o'clock approaches their excitement becomes more and more intense, and they flutter up and down the steps, looking in their white dresses like angels on a jacob's ladder, or watch eagerly among the bushes for a first glimpse of him, like miniature and perfectly proper isoldes. he is a kind giant with that endless supply of patience so often found in giants, especially when they happen to be village schoolmasters, and judging from the amount of laughter i hear, the babies seem to enjoy their lessons in a way they never did before. every day they prepare bouquets for him, and he gets more of them than a _prima donna_, or at any rate a more regular supply. the first day he came i was afraid they would be very shy of such a big strange man, and that he would extract nothing from them but tears; but the moment i left them alone together and as i shut the door, i heard them eagerly informing him, by way of opening the friendship, that their heads were washed every saturday night, and that their hair-ribbons did not match because there had not been enough of the one sort to go round. i went away hoping that they would not think it necessary to tell him how often my head is washed, or any other news of a personal nature about me; but i believe by this time that man knows everything there is to know about the details of my morning toilet, which is daily watched with the greatest interest by the three. i hope he will be more successful than i was in teaching them bible stories. i never got farther than noah, at which stage their questions became so searching as to completely confound me; and as no one likes being confounded, and it is especially regrettable when a parent is placed in such a position, i brought the course to an abrupt end by assuming that owl-like air of wisdom peculiar to infallibility in a corner, and telling them that they were too young to understand these things for the present; and they, having a touching faith in the truth of every word i say, gave three contented little purrs of assent, and proposed that we should play instead at rolling down the grass bank under the south windows--which i did not do, i am glad to remember. but the schoolmaster, after four weeks' teaching, has got them as far as moses, and safely past the noah's ark on which i came to grief, and if glibness is a sign of knowledge then they have learned the story very thoroughly. yesterday, after he had gone, they emerged into the verandah fresh from moses and bursting with eagerness to tell me all about it. "herr schenk told us to-day about moses," began the april baby, making a rush at me. "oh?" "yes, and a _boser_, _boser konig_ who said every boy must be deaded, and moses was the _allerliebster_." "talk english, my _dear_ baby, and not such a dreadful mixture," i besought. "he wasn't a cat." "a cat?" "yes, he wasn't a cat, that moses--a boy was he." "but of course he wasn't a cat," i said with some severity; "no one ever supposed he was." "yes, but mummy," she explained eagerly, with much appropriate hand- action, "the cook's moses _is_ a cat." "oh, i see. well?" "and he was put in a basket in the water, and that did swim. and then one time they comed, and she said--" "who came? and who said?" "why, the ladies; and the _konigstochter_ said, _'ach hormal_, _da_ _schreit so etwas_.'" "in german?" "yes, and then they went near, and one must take off her shoes and stockings and go in the water and fetch that tiny basket, and then they made it open, and that _kind_ did cry and cry and _strampel_ so"--here both the babies gave such a vivid illustration of the _strampeln_ that the verandah shook--"and see! it is a tiny baby. and they fetched somebody to give it to eat, and the _konigstochter_ can keep that boy, and further it doesn't go." "do you love moses, mummy?" asked the may baby, jumping into my lap, and taking my face in both her hands--one of the many pretty, caressing little ways of a very pretty, caressing little creature. "yes," i replied bravely, "i love him." "then i too!" they cried with simultaneous gladness, the seal having thus been affixed to the legitimacy of their regard for him. to be of such authority that your verdict on every subject under heaven is absolute and final is without doubt to be in a proud position, but, like all proud positions, it bristles with pitfalls and drawbacks to the weak-kneed; and most of my conversations with the babies end in a sudden change of subject made necessary by the tendency of their remarks and the unanswerableness of their arguments. happily, yesterday the moses talk was brought to an end by the april baby herself, who suddenly remembered that i had not yet seen and sympathised with her dearest possession, a dutch doll called mary jane, since a lamentable accident had bereft it of both its legs; and she had dived into the schoolroom and fished it out of the dark corner reserved for the mangled and thrust it in my face before i had well done musing on the nature and extent of my love for moses--for i try to be conscientious--and bracing myself to meet the next question. "see this poor mary jane," she said, her voice and hand quivering with tenderness as she lifted its petticoats to show me the full extent of the calamity, "see, mummy, no legs--only twowsers and nothing further." i wish they would speak english a little better. the pains i take to correct them and weed out the german words that crop up in every sentence are really untiring, and the results discouraging. indeed, as they get older the german asserts itself more and more, and is threatening to swallow up the little english they have left entirely. i talk english steadily with them, but everybody else, including a small french nurse lately imported, nothing but german. somebody told me the thing to do was to let children pick up languages when they were babies, at which period they absorb them as easily as food and drink, and are quite unaware that they are learning anything at all; whereupon i immediately introduced this french girl into the family, forgetting how little english they have absorbed, and the result has been that they pass their days delightfully in teaching her german. they were astonished at first on discovering that she could not understand a word they said, and soon set about altering such an uncomfortable state of things; and as they are three to one and very zealous, and she is a meek little person with a profile like a teapot with a twisted black handle of hair, their success was practically certain from the beginning, and she is getting on quite nicely with her german, and has at least already thoroughly learned all the mistakes. she wanders in the garden with a surprised look on her face as of one who is moving about in worlds not realised; and the three cling to her skirts and give her enthusiastic lessons all day long. poor seraphine! what courage to weigh anchor at eighteen and go into a foreign country, to a place where you are among utter strangers, without a friend, unable to speak a word of the language, and not even sure before you start whether you will be given enough to eat. either it is that saddest of courage forced on the timid by necessity, or, as doctor johnson would probably have said, it is stark insensibility; and i am afraid when i look at her i silently agree with the apostle of common sense, and take it for granted that she is incapable of deep feeling, for the altogether inadequate reason that she has a certain resemblance to a teapot. now is it not hard that a person may have a soul as beautiful as an angel's, a dwelling-place for all sweet sounds and harmonies, and if nature has not thought fit to endow his body with a chin the world will have none of him? the vulgar prejudice is in favour of chins, and who shall escape its influence? i, for one, cannot, though theoretically i utterly reject the belief that the body is the likeness of the soul; for has not each of us friends who, we know, love beyond everything that which is noble and good, and who by no means themselves look noble and good? and what about all the beautiful persons who love nothing on earth except themselves? yet who in the world cares how perfect the nature may be, how humble, how sweet, how gracious, that dwells in a chinless body? nobody has time to inquire into natures, and the chinless must be content to be treated in something of the same good-natured, tolerant fashion in which we treat our poor relations until such time as they shall have grown a beard; and those who by their sex are for ever shut out from this glorious possibility will have to take care, should they be of a bright intelligence, how they speak with the tongues of men and of angels, nothing being more droll than the effect of high words and poetic ideas issuing from a face that does not match them. i wish we were not so easily affected by each other's looks. sometimes, during the course of a long correspondence with a friend, he grows to be inexpressibly dear to me; i see how beautiful his soul is, how fine his intellect, how generous his heart, and how he already possesses in great perfection those qualities of kindness, and patience, and simplicity, after which i have been so long and so vainly striving. it is not i clothing him with the attributes i love and wandering away insensibly into that sweet land of illusions to which our footsteps turn whenever they are left to themselves, it is his very self unconsciously writing itself into his letters, the very man as he is without his body. then i meet him again, and all illusions go. he is what i had always found him when we were together, good and amiable; but some trick of manner, some feature or attitude that i do not quite like, makes me forget, and be totally unable to remember, what i know from his letters to be true of him. he, no doubt, feels the same thing about me, and so between us there is a thick veil of something fixed, which, dodge as we may, we never can get round. "well, and what do you conclude from all that?" said the man of wrath, who had been going out by the verandah door with his gun and his dogs to shoot the squirrels before they had eaten up too many birds, and of whose coat-sleeve i had laid hold as he passed, keeping him by me like a second wedding guest, and almost as restless, while i gave expression to the above sentiments. "i don't know," i replied, "unless it is that the world is very evil and the times are waxing late, but that doesn't explain anything either, because it isn't true." and he went down the steps laughing and shaking his head and muttering something that i could not quite catch, and i am glad i could not, for the two words i did hear were women and nonsense. he has developed an unexpected passion for farming, much to my relief, and though we came down here at first only tentatively for a year, three have passed, and nothing has been said about going back to town. nor will anything be said so long as he is not the one to say it, for no three years of my life can come up to these in happiness, and not even those splendid years of childhood that grow brighter as they recede were more full of delights. the delights are simple, it is true, and of the sort that easily provoke a turning up of the worldling's nose; but who cares for noses that turn up? i am simple myself, and never tire of the blessed liberty from all restraints. even such apparently indifferent details as being able to walk straight out of doors without first getting into a hat and gloves and veil are full of a subtle charm that is ever fresh, and of which i can never have too much. it is clear that i was born for a placid country life, and placid it certainly is; so much so that the days are sometimes far more like a dream than anything real, the quiet days of reading, and thinking, and watching the changing lights, and the growth and fading of the flowers, the fresh quiet days when life is so full of zest that you cannot stop yourself from singing because you are so happy, the warm quiet days lying on the grass in a secluded corner observing the procession of clouds--this being, i admit, a particularly undignified attitude, but think of the edification! each morning the simple act of opening my bedroom windows is the means of giving me an ever-recurring pleasure. just underneath them is a border of rockets in full flower, at that hour in the shadow of the house, whose gables lie sharply defined on the grass beyond, and they send up their good morning of scent the moment they see me leaning out, careful not to omit the pretty german custom of morning greeting. i call back mine, embellished with many endearing words, and then their fragrance comes up close, and covers my face with gentlest little kisses. behind them, on the other side of the lawn on this west side of the house, is a thick hedge of lilac just now at its best, and what that best is i wish all who love lilac could see. a century ago a man lived here who loved his garden. he loved, however, in his younger years, travelling as well, but in his travels did not forget this little corner of the earth belonging to him, and brought back the seeds of many strange trees such as had never been seen in these parts before, and tried experiments with them in the uncongenial soil, and though many perished, a few took hold, and grew, and flourished, and shade me now at tea-time. what flowers he had, and how he arranged his beds, no one knows, except that the eleven beds round the sun-dial were put there by him; and of one thing he seems to have been inordinately fond, and that was lilac. we have to thank him for the surprising beauty of the garden in may and early june, for he it was who planted the great groups of it, and the banks of it, and massed it between the pines and firs. wherever a lilac bush could go a lilac bush went; and not common sorts, but a variety of good sorts, white, and purple, and pink, and mauve, and he must have planted it with special care and discrimination, for it grows here as nothing else will, and keeps his memory, in my heart at least, for ever gratefully green. on the wall behind our pew in church there is his monument, he having died here full of years, in the peace that attends the last hours of a good man who has loved his garden; and to the long latin praises of his virtues and eminence i add, as i pass beneath it on sundays, a heartiest amen. who would not join in the praises of a man to whom you owe your lilacs, and your spanish chestnuts, and your tulip trees, and your pyramid oaks? "he was a good man, for he loved his garden"--that is the epitaph i would have put on his monument, because it gives one a far clearer sense of his goodness and explains it better than any amount of sonorous latinities. how could he be anything _but_ good since he loved a garden--that divine filter that filters all the grossness out of us, and leaves us, each time we have been in it, clearer, and purer, and more harmless? june th.--yesterday morning i got up at three o'clock and stole through the echoing passages and strange dark rooms, undid with trembling hands the bolts of the door to the verandah, and passed out into a wonderful, unknown world. i stood for a few minutes motionless on the steps, almost frightened by the awful purity of nature when all the sin and ugliness is shut up and asleep, and there is nothing but the beauty left. it was quite light, yet a bright moon hung in the cloudless grey-blue sky; the flowers were all awake, saturating the air with scent; and a nightingale sat on a hornbeam quite close to me, in loud raptures at the coming of the sun. there in front of me was the sun- dial, there were the rose bushes, there was the bunch of pansies i had dropped the night before still lying on the path, but how strange and unfamiliar it all looked, and how holy--as though god must be walking there in the cool of the day. i went down the path leading to the stream on the east side of the garden, brushing aside the rockets that were bending across it drowsy with dew, the larkspurs on either side of me rearing their spikes of heavenly blue against the steely blue of the sky, and the huge poppies like splashes of blood amongst the greys and blues and faint pearly whites of the innocent, new-born day. on the garden side of the stream there is a long row of silver birches, and on the other side a rye-field reaching across in powdery grey waves to the part of the sky where a solemn glow was already burning. i sat down on the twisted, half-fallen trunk of a birch and waited, my feet in the long grass and my slippers soaking in dew. through the trees i could see the house with its closed shutters and drawn blinds, the people in it all missing, as i have missed day after day, the beauty of life at that hour. just behind me the border of rockets and larkspurs came to an end, and, turning my head to watch a stealthy cat, my face brushed against a wet truss of blossom and got its first morning washing. it was wonderfully quiet, and the nightingale on the hornbeam had everything to itself as i sat motionless watching that glow in the east burning redder; wonderfully quiet, and so wonderfully beautiful because one associates daylight with people, and voices, and bustle, and hurryings to and fro, and the dreariness of working to feed our bodies, and feeding our bodies that we may be able to work to feed them again; but here was the world wide awake and yet only for me, all the fresh pure air only for me, all the fragrance breathed only by me, not a living soul hearing the nightingale but me, the sun in a few moments coming up to warm only me, and nowhere a single hard word being spoken, or a single selfish act being done, nowhere anything that could tarnish the blessed purity of the world as god has given it us. if one believed in angels one would feel that they must love us best when we are asleep and cannot hurt each other; and what a mercy it is that once in every twenty-four hours we are too utterly weary to go on being unkind. the doors shut, and the lights go out, and the sharpest tongue is silent, and all of us, scolder and scolded, happy and unhappy, master and slave, judge and culprit, are children again, tired, and hushed, and helpless, and forgiven. and see the blessedness of sleep, that sends us back for a space to our early innocence. are not our first impulses on waking always good? do we not all know how in times of wretchedness our first thoughts after the night's sleep are happy? we have been dreaming we are happy, and we wake with a smile, and stare still smiling for a moment at our stony griefs before with a stab we recognise them. there were no clouds, and presently, while i watched, the sun came up quickly out of the rye, a great, bare, red ball, and the grey of the field turned yellow, and long shadows lay upon the grass, and the wet flowers flashed out diamonds. and then as i sat there watching, and intensely happy as i imagined, suddenly the certainty of grief, and suffering, and death dropped like a black curtain between me and the beauty of the morning, and then that other thought, to face which needs all our courage--the realisation of the awful solitariness in which each of us lives and dies. often i could cry for pity of our forlornness, and of the pathos of our endeavours to comfort ourselves. with what an agony of patience we build up the theories of consolation that are to protect, in times of trouble, our quivering and naked souls! and how fatally often the elaborate machinery refuses to work at the moment the blow is struck. i got up and turned my face away from the unbearable, indifferent brightness. myriads of small suns danced before my eyes as i went along the edge of the stream to the seat round the oak in my spring garden, where i sat a little, looking at the morning from there, drinking it in in long breaths, and determining to think of nothing but just be happy. what a smell of freshly mown grass there was, and how the little heaps into which it had been raked the evening before sparkled with dewdrops as the sun caught them. and over there, how hot the poppies were already beginning to look--blazing back boldly in the face of the sun, flashing back fire for fire. i crossed the wet grass to the hammock under the beech on the lawn, and lay in it awhile trying to swing in time to the nightingale's tune; and then i walked round the ice-house to see how goethe's corner looked at such an hour; and then i went down to the fir wood at the bottom of the garden where the light was slanting through green stems; and everywhere there was the same mystery, and emptiness, and wonder. when four o'clock drew near i set off home again, not desiring to meet gardeners and have my little hour of quiet talked about, still less my dressing-gown and slippers; so i picked a bunch of roses and hurried in, and just as i softly bolted the door, dreadfully afraid of being taken for a burglar, i heard the first water-cart of the day creaking round the corner. fearfully i crept up to my room, and when i awoke at eight o'clock and saw the roses in a glass by my side, i remembered what had happened as though it had been years ago. now here i have had an experience that i shall not soon forget, something very precious, and private, and close to my soul; a feeling as though i had taken the world by surprise, and seen it as it really is when off its guard--as though i had been quite near to the very core of things. the quiet holiness of that hour seems all the more mysterious now, because soon after breakfast yesterday the wind began to blow from the northwest, and has not left off since, and looking out of the window i cannot believe that it is the same garden, with the clouds driving over it in black layers, and angry little showers every now and then bespattering its harassed and helpless inhabitants, who cannot pull their roots up out of the ground and run for their lives, as i am sure they must long to do. how discouraging for a plant to have just proudly opened its loveliest flowers, the flowers it was dreaming about all the winter and working at so busily underground during the cold weeks of spring, and then for a spiteful shower of five minutes' duration to come and pelt them down, and batter them about, and cover the tender, delicate things with irremediable splashes of mud! every bed is already filled with victims of the gale, and those that escape one shower go down before the next; so i must make up my mind, i suppose, to the wholesale destruction of the flowers that had reached perfection--that head of white rockets among them that washed my face a hundred years ago--and look forward cheerfully to the development of the younger generation of buds which cannot yet be harmed. i know these gales. we get them quite suddenly, always from the north- west, and always cold. they ruin my garden for a day or two, and in the summer try my temper, and at all seasons try my skin; yet they are precious because of the beautiful clear light they bring, the intensity of cold blue in the sky and the terrific purple blackness of the clouds one hour and their divine whiteness the next. they fly screaming over the plain as though ten thousand devils with whips were after them, and in the sunny intervals there is nothing in any of nature's moods to equal the clear sharpness of the atmosphere, all the mellowness and indistinctness beaten out of it, and every leaf and twig glistening coldly bright. it is not becoming, a north-westerly gale; it treats us as it treats the garden, but with opposite results, roughly rubbing the softness out of our faces, as i can see when i look at the babies, and avoid the further proof of my own reflection in the glass. but there is life in it, glowing, intense, robust life, and when in october after weeks of serene weather this gale suddenly pounces on us in all its savageness, and the cold comes in a gust, and the trees are stripped in an hour, what a bracing feeling it is, the feeling that here is the first breath of winter, that it is time to pull ourselves together, that the season of work, and discipline, and severity is upon us, the stern season that forces us to look facts in the face, to put aside our dreams and languors, and show what stuff we are made of. no one can possibly love the summer, the dear time of dreams, more passionately than i do; yet i have no desire to prolong it by running off south when the winter approaches and so cheat the year of half its lessons. it is delightful and instructive to potter among one's plants, but it is imperative for body and soul that the pottering should cease for a few months, and that we should be made to realise that grim other side of life. a long hard winter lived through from beginning to end without shirking is one of the most salutary experiences in the world. there is no nonsense about it; you could not indulge in vapours and the finer sentiments in the midst of its deadly earnest if you tried. the thermometer goes down to twenty degrees of frost reaumur, and down you go with it to the realities, to that elementary state where everything is big--health and sickness, delight and misery, ecstasy and despair. it makes you remember your poorer neighbours, and sends you into their homes to see that they too are fitted out with the armour of warmth and food necessary in the long fight; and in your own home it draws you nearer than ever to each other. out of doors it is too cold to walk, so you run, and are rewarded by the conviction that you cannot be more than fifteen; or you get into your furs, and dart away in a sleigh over the snow, and are sure there never was music so charming as that of its bells; or you put on your skates, and are off to the lake to which you drove so often on june nights, when it lay rosy in the reflection of the northern glow, and all alive with myriads of wild duck and plovers, and which is now, but for the swish of your skates, so silent, and but for your warmth and jollity, so forlorn. nor would i willingly miss the early darkness and the pleasant firelight tea and the long evenings among my books. it is then that i am glad i do not live in a cave, as i confess i have in my more godlike moments wished to do; it is then that i feel most capable of attending to the man of wrath's exhortations with an open mind; it is then that i actually like to hear the shrieks of the wind, and then that i give my heartiest assent, as i warm my feet at the fire, to the poet's proposition that all which we behold is full of blessings. but what dreariness can equal the dreariness of a cold gale at midsummer? i have been chilly and dejected all day, shut up behind the streaming window-panes, and not liking to have a fire because of its dissipated appearance in the scorching intervals of sunshine. once or twice my hand was on the bell and i was going to order one, when out came the sun and it was june again, and i ran joyfully into the dripping, gleaming garden, only to be driven in five minutes later by a yet fiercer squall. i wandered disconsolately round my pillar of books, looking for the one that would lend itself best to the task of entertaining me under the prevailing conditions, but they all looked gloomy, and reserved, and forbidding. so i sat down in a very big chair, and reflected that if there were to be many days like this it might be as well to ask somebody cheerful to come and sit opposite me in all those other big chairs that were looking so unusually gigantic and empty. when the man of wrath came in to tea there were such heavy clouds that the room was quite dark, and he peered about for a moment before he saw me. i suppose in the gloom of the big room i must have looked rather lonely, and smaller than usual buried in the capacious chair, for when he finally discovered me his face widened into an inappropriately cheerful smile. "well, my dear," he said genially, "how very cold it is." "did you come in to say that?" i asked. "this tempest is very unusual in the summer," he proceeded; to which i made no reply of any sort. "i did not see you at first amongst all these chairs and cushions. at least, i saw you, but it is so dark i thought you were a cushion." now no woman likes to be taken for a cushion, so i rose and began to make tea with an icy dignity of demeanour. "i am afraid i shall be forced to break my promise not to invite any one here," he said, watching my face as he spoke. my heart gave a distinct leap--so small is the constancy and fortitude of woman. "but it will only be for one night." my heart sank down as though it were lead. "and i have just received a telegram that it will be to-night." up went my heart with a cheerful bound. "who is it?" i inquired. and then he told me that it was the least objectionable of the candidates for the living here, made vacant by our own parson having been appointed superintendent, the highest position in the lutheran church; and the gale must have brought me low indeed for the coming of a solitary parson to give me pleasure. the entire race of lutheran parsons is unpleasing to me,--whether owing to their fault or to mine, it would ill become me to say,--and the one we are losing is the only one i have met that i can heartily respect, and admire, and like. but he is quite one by himself in his extreme godliness, perfect simplicity, and real humility, and though i knew it was unlikely we should find another as good, and i despised myself for the eagerness with which i felt i was looking forward to seeing a new face, i could not stop myself from suddenly feeling cheerful. such is the weakness of the female mind, and such the unexpected consequences of two months' complete solitude with forty-eight hours' gale at the end of them. we have had countless applications during the last few weeks for the living, as it is a specially fat one for this part of the country, with a yearly income of six thousand marks, and a good house, and several acres of land. the man of wrath has been distracted by the difficulties of choice. according to the letters of recommendation, they were all wonderful men with unrivalled powers of preaching, but on closer inquiry there was sure to be some drawback. one was too old, another not old enough; another had twelve children, and the parsonage only allows for eight; one had a shrewish wife, and another was of liberal tendencies in politics--a fatal objection; one was in money difficulties because he would spend more than he had, which was not surprising when one heard what he did have; and another was disliked in his parish because he and his wife were too close-fisted and would not spend at all; and at last, the man of wrath explained, the moment having arrived when if he did not himself appoint somebody his right to do so would lapse, he had written to the one who was coming, and invited him down that he might look at him, and ask him searching questions as to the faith which is in him. i forgot my gloom, and my half-formed desperate resolve to break my vow of solitude and fill the house with the frivolous, as i sat listening to the cheerful talk of the little parson this evening. he was so cheerful, yet it was hard to see any cause for it in the life he was leading, a life led by the great majority of the german clergy, fat livings being as rare here as anywhere else. he told us with pleasant frankness all about himself, how he lived on an income of two thousand marks with a wife and six children, and how he was often sorely put to it to keep decent shoes on their feet. "i am continually drawing up plans of expenditure," he said, "but the shoemaker's bill is always so much more than i had expected that it throws my calculations completely out." his wife, of course, was ailing, but already his eldest child, a girl of ten, took a great deal of the work off her mother's shoulders, poor baby. he was perfectly natural, and said in the simplest way that if the choice were to fall on him it would relieve him of many grinding anxieties; whereupon i privately determined that if the choice did not fall on him the man of wrath and i would be strangers from that hour. "have you been worrying him with questions about his principles?" i asked, buttonholing the man of wrath as he came out from a private conference with him. "principles? my dear elizabeth, how can he have any on that income?" "if he is not a conservative will you let that stand in his way, and doom that little child to go on taking work off other people's shoulders?" "my dear elizabeth," he protested, "what has my decision for or against him to do with dooming little children to go on doing anything? i really cannot be governed by sentiment." "if you don't give it to him--" and i held up an awful finger of warning as he retreated, at which he only laughed. when the parson came to say good-night and good-bye, as he was leaving very early in the morning, i saw at once by his face that all was right. he bent over my hand, stammering out words of thanks and promises of devotion and invocations of blessings in such quantities that i began to feel quite pleased with myself, and as though i had been doing a virtuous deed. this feeling i saw reflected on the man of wrath's face, which made me consider that all we had done was to fill the living in the way that suited us best, and that we had no cause whatever to look and feel so benevolent. still, even now, while the victorious candidate is dreaming of his trebled income and of the raptures of his home-coming to-morrow, the glow has not quite departed, and i am dwelling with satisfaction on the fact that we have been able to raise eight people above those hideous cares that crush all the colour out of the lives of the genteel poor. i am glad he has so many children, because there will be more to be made happy. they will be rich on the little income, and will no doubt dismiss the wise and willing eldest baby to appropriate dolls and pinafores; and everybody will have what they never yet have had, a certain amount of that priceless boon, leisure--leisure to sit down and look at themselves, and inquire what it is they really mean, and really want, and really intend to do with their lives. and this, i may observe, is a beneficial process wholly impossible on pounds a year divided by eight. but i wonder whether they will be thin-skinned enough ever to discover that other and less delightful side of life only seen by those who have plenty of leisure. sordid cares may be very terrible to the sensitive, and make them miss the best of everything, but as long as they have them and are busy from morning till night keeping up appearances, they miss also the burden of those fears, and dreads, and realisations that beset him who has time to think. when in the morning i go into my sausage-room and give out sausages, i never think of anything but sausages. my horizon is bounded by them, every faculty is absorbed by them, and they engross me, while i am with them, to the exclusion of the whole world. not that i love them; as far as that goes, unlike the effect they produce on most of my country-men, they leave me singularly cold; but it is one of my duties to begin the day with sausages, and every morning for the short time i am in the midst of their shining rows, watching my _mamsell_ dexterously hooking down the sleekest with an instrument like a boat-hook, i am practically dead to every other consideration in heaven or on earth. what are they to me, love, life, death, all the mysteries? the one thing that concerns me is the due distribution to the servants of sausages; and until that is done, all obstinate questionings and blank misgivings must wait. if i were to spend my days in their entirety doing such work i should never have time to think, and if i never thought i should never feel, and if i never felt i should never suffer or rapturously enjoy, and so i should grow to be something very like a sausage myself, and not on that account, i do believe, any the less precious to the man of wrath. i know what i would do if i were both poor and genteel--the gentility should go to the place of all good ilities, including utility, respectability, and imbecility, and i would sit, quite frankly poor, with a piece of bread, and a pot of geraniums, and a book. i conclude that if i did without the things erroneously supposed necessary to decency i might be able to afford a geranium, because i see them so often in the windows of cottages where there is little else; and if i preferred such inexpensive indulgences as thinking and reading and wandering in the fields to the doubtful gratification arising from kept- up appearances (always for the bedazzlement of the people opposite, and therefore always vulgar), i believe i should have enough left over to buy a radish to eat with my bread; and if the weather were fine, and i could eat it under a tree, and give a robin some crumbs in return for his cheeriness, would there be another creature in the world so happy? i know there would not. july july st.--i think that after roses sweet-peas are my favourite flowers. nobody, except the ultra-original, denies the absolute supremacy of the rose. she is safe on her throne, and the only question to decide is which are the flowers that one loves next best. this i have been a long while deciding, though i believe i knew all the time somewhere deep down in my heart that they were sweet-peas; and every summer when they first come out, and every time, going round the garden, that i come across them, i murmur involuntarily, "oh yes, _you_ are the sweetest, you dear, dear little things." and what a victory this is, to be ranked next the rose even by one person who loves her garden. think of the wonderful beauty triumphed over--the lilies, the irises, the carnations, the violets, the frail and delicate poppies, the magnificent larkspurs, the burning nasturtiums, the fierce marigolds, the smooth, cool pansies. i have a bed at this moment in the full glory of all these things, a little chosen plot of fertile land, about fifteen yards long and of irregular breadth, shutting in at its broadest the east end of the walk along the south front of the house, and sloping away at the back down to a moist, low bit by the side of a very tiny stream, or rather thread of trickling water, where, in the dampest corner, shining in the sun, but with their feet kept cool and wet, is a colony of japanese irises, and next to them higher on the slope madonna lilies, so chaste in looks and so voluptuous in smell, and then a group of hollyhocks in tenderest shades of pink, and lemon, and white, and right and left of these white marguerites and evening primroses and that most exquisite of poppies called shirley, and a little on one side a group of metallic blue delphiniums beside a towering white lupin, and in and out and everywhere mignonette, and stocks, and pinks, and a dozen other smaller but not less lovely plants. i wish i were a poet, that i might properly describe the beauty of this bit as it sparkles this afternoon in the sunshine after rain; but of all the charming, delicate, scented groups it contains, none to my mind is so lovely as the group of sweet-peas in its north-west corner. there is something so utterly gentle and tender about sweet-peas, something so endearing in their clinging, winding, yielding growth; and then the long straight stalk, and the perfect little winged flower at the top, with its soft, pearly texture and wonderful range and combination of colours--all of them pure, all of them satisfying, not an ugly one, or even a less beautiful one among them. and in the house, next to a china bowl of roses, there is no arrangement of flowers so lovely as a bowl of sweet-peas, or a delf jar filled with them. what a mass of glowing, yet delicate colour it is! how prettily, the moment you open the door, it seems to send its fragrance to meet you! and how you hang over it, and bury your face in it, and love it, and cannot get away from it. i really am sorry for all the people in the world who miss such keen pleasure. it is one that each person who opens his eyes and his heart may have; and indeed, most of the things that are really worth having are within everybody's reach. any one who chooses to take a country walk, or even the small amount of trouble necessary to get him on to his doorstep and make him open his eyes, may have them, and there are thousands of them thrust upon us by nature, who is for ever giving and blessing, at every turn as we walk. the sight of the first pale flowers starring the copses; an anemone held up against the blue sky with the sun shining through it towards you; the first fall of snow in the autumn; the first thaw of snow in the spring; the blustering, busy winds blowing the winter away and scurrying the dead, untidy leaves into the corners; the hot smell of pines--just like blackberries--when the sun is on them; the first february evening that is fine enough to show how the days are lengthening, with its pale yellow strip of sky behind the black trees whose branches are pearled with raindrops; the swift pang of realisation that the winter is gone and the spring is coming; the smell of the young larches a few weeks later; the bunch of cowslips that you kiss and kiss again because it is so perfect, because it is so divinely sweet, because of all the kisses in the world there is none other so exquisite--who that has felt the joy of these things would exchange them, even if in return he were to gain the whole world, with all its chimney-pots, and bricks, and dust, and dreariness? and we know that the gain of a world never yet made up for the loss of a soul. one day, in going round the head inspector's garden with his wife, whose care it is, i remarked with surprise that she had no sweet-peas. i called them _lathyrus odoratus_, and she, having little latin, did not understand. then i called them _wohlriechende wicken_, the german rendering of that which sounds so pretty in english, and she said she had never heard of them. the idea of an existence in a garden yet without sweet-peas, so willing, so modest, and so easily grown, had never presented itself as possible to my imagination. ever since i can remember, my summers have been filled with them; and in the days when i sat in my own perambulator and they were three times as tall as i was, i well recollect a certain waving hedge of them in the garden of my childhood, and how i stared up longingly at the flowers so far beyond my reach, inaccessibly tossing against the sky. when i grew bigger and had a small garden of my own, i bought their seeds to the extent of twenty pfennings, and trained the plants over the rabbit-hutch that was the chief feature in the landscape. there were other seeds in that garden seeds on which i had laid out all my savings and round which played my fondest hopes, but the sweet-peas were the only ones that came up. the same thing happened here in my first summer, my gardening knowledge not having meanwhile kept pace with my years, and of the seeds sown that first season sweet-peas again were the only ones that came up. i should say they were just the things for people with very little time and experience at their disposal to grow. a garden might be made beautiful with sweet-peas alone, and, with hardly any labour, except the sweet labour of picking to prolong the bloom, be turned into a fairy bower of delicacy and refinement. yet the frau inspector not only had never heard of them, but, on my showing her a bunch, was not in the least impressed, and led me in her garden to a number of those exceedingly vulgar red herbaceous peonies growing among her currant bushes, and announced with conviction that they were her favourite flower. it was on the tip of my tongue to point out that in these days of tree-peonies, and peonies so lovely in their silvery faint tints that they resemble gigantic roses, it is absolutely wicked to suffer those odious red ones to pervert one's taste; that a person who sees nothing but those every time he looks out of his window very quickly has his nice perception for true beauty blunted; that such a person would do well to visit my garden every day during the month of may, and so get himself cured by the sight of my peony bushes covered with huge scented white and blush flowers; and that he would, i was convinced, at the end of the cure, go home and pitch his own on to the dust-heap. but of what earthly use would it have been? pointing out the difference between what is beautiful and what misses beauty to a frau inspector of forty, whose chief business it is to make butter, is likely to be singularly unprolific of good results; and, further, experience has taught me that whenever anything is on the tip of my tongue the best thing to do is to keep it there. i wonder why a woman always wants to interfere. it is a pity, nevertheless, that this lady should be so wanting in the aesthetic instinct, for her garden is full of possibilities. it lies due south, sheltered on the north, east, and west by farm buildings, and is rich in those old fruit-trees and well-seasoned gooseberry bushes that make such a good basis for the formation of that most delightful type of little garden, the flower-and-fruit-and-vegetable-mixed sort. she has, besides, an inestimable slimy, froggy pond, a perpetual treasure of malodorous water, much pined after by thirsty flowers; and then does she not live in the middle of a farmyard flowing with fertilising properties that only require a bucket and a shovel to transform them into roses? the way in which people miss their opportunities is melancholy. this pond of hers, by the way, is an object of the liveliest interest to the babies. they do not seem to mind the smell, and they love the slime, and they had played there for several days in great peace before the unfortunate accident of the june baby's falling in and being brought back looking like a green and speckled frog herself, revealed where it was they had persuaded seraphine to let them spend their mornings. then there was woe and lamentation, for i was sure they would all have typhoid fever, and i put them mercilessly to bed, and dosed them, as a preliminary, with castor oil--that oil of sorrow, as carlyle calls it. it was no use sending for the doctor because there is no doctor within reach; a fact which simplifies life amazingly when you have children. during the time we lived in town the doctor was never out of the house. hardly a day passed but one or other of the three had a spot, or, as the expressive german has it, a _pickel_, and what parent could resist sending for a doctor when one lived round the corner? but doctors are like bad habits--once you have shaken them off you discover how much better you are without them; and as for the babies, since they inhabit a garden, prompt bed and the above-mentioned simple remedy have been all that is necessary to keep them robust. i admit i was frightened when i heard where they had been playing, for when the wind comes from that quarter even sitting by my rose beds i have been reminded of the existence of the pond; and i kept them in bed for three days, anxiously awaiting symptoms, and my head full of a dreadful story i had heard of a little boy who had drunk seltzer water and thereupon been seized with typhoid fever and had died, and if, i asked myself with a power of reasoning unusual in a woman, you die after seltzer water, what will you not do after frog-pond? but they did nothing, except be uproarious, and sing at the top of their voices, and clamour for more dinner than i felt would be appropriate for babies who were going to be dangerously ill in a few hours; and so, after due waiting, they were got up and dressed and turned loose again, and from that day to this no symptoms have appeared. the pond was at first strictly forbidden as a playground, but afterwards i made concessions, and now they are allowed to go to a deserted little burying-ground on the west side of it when the wind is in the west; and there at least they can hear the frogs, and sometimes, if they are patient, catch a delightful glimpse of them. the graveyard is in the middle of a group of pines that bounds the frau inspector's garden on that side, and has not been used within the memory of living man. the people here love to make their little burying-grounds in the heart of a wood if they can, and they are often a long way away from the church to which they belong because, while every hamlet has its burying-ground, three or four hamlets have to share a church; and indeed the need for churches is not so urgent as that for graves, seeing that, though we may not all go to church, we all of us die and must be buried. some of these little cemeteries are not even anywhere near a village, and you come upon them unexpectedly in your drives through the woods-- bits of fenced-in forest, the old gates dropping off their hinges, the paths green from long disuse, the unchecked trees casting black, impenetrable shadows across the poor, meek, pathetic graves. i try sometimes, pushing aside the weeds, to decipher the legend on the almost speechless headstones; but the voice has been choked out of them by years of wind, and frost, and snow, and a few stray letters are all that they can utter--a last stammering protest against oblivion. the man of wrath says all women love churchyards. he is fond of sweeping assertions, and is sometimes curiously feminine in his tendency to infer a general principle from a particular instance. the deserted little forest burying-grounds interest and touch me because they are so solitary, and humble, and neglected, and forgotten, and because so many long years have passed since tears were shed over the newly made graves. nobody cries now for the husband, or father, or brother buried there; years and years ago the last tear that would ever be shed for them was dried--dried probably before the gate was reached on the way home--and they were not missed. love and sorrow appear to be flowers of civilisation, and most to flourish where life has the broadest margin of leisure and abundance. the primary instincts are always there, and must first be satisfied; and if to obtain the means of satisfying them you have to work from morning till night without rest, who shall find time and energy to sit down and lament? i often go with the babies to the enclosure near the frau inspector's pond, and it seems just as natural that they should play there as that the white butterflies should chase each other undisturbed across the shadows. and then the place has a soothing influence on them, and they sober down as we approach it, and on hot afternoons sit quietly enough as close to the pond as they may, content to watch for the chance appearance of a frog while talking to me about angels. this is their favourite topic of conversation in this particular place. just as i have special times and places for certain books, so do they seem to have special times and places for certain talk. the first time i took them there they asked me what the mounds were, and by a series of adroit questions extracted the information that the people who had been buried there were now angels (i am not a specialist, and must take refuge in telling them what i was told in my youth), and ever since then they refuse to call it a graveyard, and have christened it the angel- yard, and so have got into the way of discussing angels in all their bearings, sometimes to my confusion, whenever we go there. "but what _are_> angels, mummy?" said the june baby inconsequently this afternoon, after having assisted at the discussions for several days and apparently listening with attention. "_such_ a silly baby!" cried april, turning upon her with contempt, "don't you know they are _lieber gott's_ little girls?" now i protest i had never told those babies anything of the sort. i answer their questions to the best of my ability and as conscientiously as i can, and then, when i hear them talking together afterwards, i am staggered by the impression they appear to have received. they live in a whole world of independent ideas in regard to heaven and the angels, ideas quite distinct from other people's, and, as far as i can make out, believe that the being they call _lieber gott_ pervades the garden, and is identical with, among other things, the sunshine and the air on a fine day. i never told them so, nor, i am sure, did seraphine, and still less seraphine's predecessor miss jones, whose views were wholly material; yet if, on bright mornings, i forget to immediately open all the library windows on coming down, the april baby runs in, and with quite a worried look on her face cries, "mummy, won't you open the windows and let the _lieber gott_ come in?" if they were less rosy and hungry, or if i were less prosaic, i might have gloomy forebodings that such keen interest in things and beings celestial was prophetic of a short life; and in books, we know, the children who talk much on these topics invariably die, after having given their reverential parents a quantity of advice. fortunately such children are confined to books, and there is nothing of the ministering child--surely a very uncomfortable form of infant--about my babies. indeed, i notice that in their conversations together on such matters a healthy spirit of contradiction prevails, and this afternoon, after having accepted april's definition of angels with apparent reverence, the june baby electrified the other two (always more orthodox and yielding) by remarking that she hoped she would never go to heaven. i pretended to be deep in my book and not listening; april and may were sitting on the grass sewing ("needling" they call it) fearful-looking woolwork things for seraphine's birthday, and june was leaning idly against a pine trunk, swinging a headless doll round and round by its one remaining leg, her heels well dug into the ground, her sun-bonnet off, and all the yellow tangles of her hair falling across her sunburnt, grimy little face. "no," she repeated firmly, with her eyes fixed on her sisters' startled faces, "i don't want to. there's nothing there for babies to play with." "nothing to play with?" exclaimed the other two in a breath--and throwing down their needle-work they made a simultaneous rush for me. "mummy, did you hear? june says she doesn't want to go into the _himmel_!" cried april, horror-stricken. "because there's nothing to play with there, she says," cried may, breathlessly; and then they added with one voice, as though the subject had long ago been threshed out and settled between them, "why, she can play at ball there with all the _sternleins_ if she likes!" the idea of the june baby striding across the firmament and hurling the stars about as carelessly as though they were tennis-balls was so magnificent that it sent shivers of awe through me as i read. "but if you break all your dolls," added april, turning severely to june, and eyeing the distorted remains in her hand, "i don't think _lieber gott_ will let you in at all. when you're big and have tiny junes--real live junes--i think you'll break them too, and _lieber_ _gott_ doesn't love mummies what breaks their babies." "but i _must_ break my dolls," cried june, stung into indignation by what she evidently regarded as celestial injustice; "_lieber gott_ made me that way, so i can't help doing it, can i, mummy?" on these occasions i keep my eyes fixed on my book, and put on an air of deep abstraction; and indeed, it is the only way of keeping out of theological disputes in which i am invariably worsted. july th.--yesterday, as it was a cool and windy afternoon and not as pleasant in my garden as it has lately been, i thought i would go into the village and see how my friends the farm hands were getting on. philanthropy is intermittent with me as with most people, only they do not say so, and seize me like a cold in the head whenever the weather is chilly. on warm days my bump of benevolence melts away entirely, and grows bigger in proportion as the thermometer descends. when the wind is in the east it is quite a decent size, and about january, in a north- easterly snowstorm, it is plainly visible to the most casual observer. for a few weeks from then to the end of february i can hold up my head and look our parson in the face, but during the summer, if i see him coming my mode of progression in getting out of the way is described with perfect accuracy by the verb "to slink." the village consists of one street running parallel to the outer buildings of the farm, and the cottages are one-storied, each with rooms for four families--two in front, looking on to the wall of the farmyard, which is the fashionable side, and two at the back, looking on to nothing more exhilarating than their own pigstyes. each family has one room and a larder sort of place, and shares the kitchen with the family on the opposite side of the entrance; but the women prefer doing their cooking at the grate in their own room rather than expose the contents of their pots to the ill-natured comments of a neighbour. on the fashionable side there is a little fenced-in garden for every family, where fowls walk about pensively and meditate beneath the scarlet- runners (for all the world like me in my garden), and hollyhocks tower above the drying linen, and fuel, stolen from our woods, is stacked for winter use; but on the other side you walk straight out of the door on to manure heaps and pigs. the street did not look very inviting yesterday, with a lowering sky above, and the wind blowing dust and bits of straw and paper into my face and preventing me from seeing what i knew to be there, a consoling glimpse of green fields and fir woods down at the other end; but i had not been for a long while--we have had such a lovely summer--and something inside me had kept on saying aggressively all the morning, "elizabeth, don't you know you are due in the village? why don't you go then? when are you going? don't you know you _ought_ to go? don't you feel you _must_? elizabeth, pull yourself together and _go_" strange effect of a grey sky and a cool wind! for i protest that if it had been warm and sunny my conscience would not have bothered about me at all. we had a short fight over it, in which i got all the knocks, as was evident by the immediate swelling of the bump alluded to above, and then i gave in, and by two o'clock in the afternoon was lifting the latch of the first door and asking the woman who lived behind it what she had given the family for dinner. this, i was instructed on my first round by the frau inspector, is the proper thing to ask; and if you can follow it up by an examination of the contents of the saucepan, and a gentle sniff indicative of your appreciation of their savouriness, so much the better. i was diffident at first about this, but the gratification on their faces at the interest displayed is so unmistakable that i never now omit going through the whole business. this woman, the wife of one of the men who clean and feed the cows, has arrived at that enviable stage of existence when her children have all been confirmed and can go out to work, leaving her to spend her days in her clean and empty room in comparative dignity and peace. the children go to school till they are fourteen, then they are confirmed, are considered grown up, and begin to work for wages; and her three strapping daughters were out in the fields yesterday reaping. the mother has a keen, shrewd face, and everything about her was neat and comfortable. her floor was freshly strewn with sand, her cups and saucers and spoons shone bright and clean from behind the glass door of the cupboard, and the two beds, one for herself and her husband and the other for her three daughters, were more mountainous than any i afterwards saw. the size and plumpness of her feather beds, the frau inspector tells me, is a woman's chief claim to consideration from the neighbours. she who can pile them up nearest to the ceiling becomes the principal personage in the community, and a flat bed is a social disgrace. it is a mystery to me, when i see the narrowness of the bedsteads, how so many people can sleep in them. they are rather narrower than what are known as single beds, yet father and mother and often a baby manage to sleep very well in one, and three or four children in the opposite corner of the room in another. the explanation no doubt is that they do not know what nerves are, and what it is to be wakened by the slightest sound or movement in the room and lie for hours afterwards, often the whole night, totally unable to fall asleep again, staring out into the darkness with eyes that refuse to shut. no nerves, and a thick skin--what inestimable blessings to these poor people! and they never heard of either. i stood a little while talking, not asked to sit down, for that would be thought a liberty, and hearing how they had had potatoes and bacon for dinner, and how the eldest girl bertha was going to be married at michaelmas, and how well her baby was getting through its teething. "her baby?" i echoed, "i have not heard of a baby?" the woman went to one of the beds and lifted up a corner of the great bag of feathers, and there, sure enough, lay a round and placid baby, sleeping as sweetly and looking as cherubic as the most legitimate of its contemporaries. "and he is going to marry her at michaelmas?" i asked, looking as sternly as i could at the grandmother. "oh yes," she replied, "he is a good young man, and earns eighteen marks a week. they will be very comfortable." "it is a pity," i said, "that the baby did not make its appearance after michaelmas instead of before. don't you see yourself what a pity it is, and how everything has been spoilt?" she stared at me for a moment with a puzzled look, and then turned away and carefully covered the cherub again. "they will be very comfortable," she repeated, seeing that i expected an answer; "he earns eighteen marks a week." what was there to be said? if i had told her her daughter was a grievous sinner she might perhaps have felt transiently uncomfortable, but as soon as i had gone would have seen for herself, with those shrewd eyes of hers, that nothing had been changed by my denunciations, that there lay the baby, dimpled and healthy, that her daughter was making a good match, that none of her set saw anything amiss, and that all the young couples in the district had prefaced their marriages in this way. our parson is troubled to the depths of his sensitive soul by this custom. he preaches, he expostulates, he denounces, he implores, and they listen with square stolid faces and open mouths, and go back to their daily work among their friends and acquaintances, with no feeling of shame, because everybody does it, and public opinion, the only force that could stop it, is on their side. the parson looks on with unutterable sadness at the futility of his efforts; but the material is altogether too raw for successful manipulation by delicate fingers. "poor things," i said one day, in answer to an outburst of indignation from him, after he had been marrying one of our servants at the eleventh hour, "i am so sorry for them. it is so pitiful that they should always have to be scolded on their wedding day. such children--so ignorant, so uncontrolled, so frankly animal--what do they know about social laws? they only know and follow nature, and i would from my heart forgive them all." "it is _sin_" he said shortly. "then the forgiveness is sure." "not if they do not seek it." i was silent, for i wished to reply that i believed they would be forgiven in spite of themselves, that probably they were forgiven whether they sought it or not, and that you cannot limit things divine; but who can argue with a parson? these people do not seek forgiveness because it never enters their heads that they need it. the parson tells them so, it is true, but they regard him as a person bound by his profession to say that sort of thing, and are sharp enough to see that the consequences of their sin, foretold by him with such awful eloquence, never by any chance come off. no girl is left to languish and die forsaken by her betrayer, for the betrayer is a worthy young man who marries her as soon as he possibly can; no finger of scorn is pointed at the fallen one, for all the fingers in the street are attached to women who began life in precisely the same fashion; and as for that problematical day of judgment of which they hear so much on sundays, perhaps they feel that that also may be one of the things which after all do not happen. the servant who had been married and scolded that morning was a groom, aged twenty, and he had met his little wife, she being then seventeen, in the place he was in before he came to us. she was a housemaid there, and must have been a pretty thing, though there were few enough traces of it, except the beautiful eyes, in the little anxious face that i saw for the first time immediately after the wedding, and just before the weary and harassed parson came in to talk things over. i had never heard of her existence until, about ten days previously, the groom had appeared, bathed in tears, speechlessly holding out a letter from her in which she said she could not bear things any longer and was going to kill herself. the wretched young man was at his wit's end, for he had not yet saved enough to buy any furniture and set up housekeeping, and she was penniless after so many months out of a situation. he did not know any way out of it, he had no suggestions to offer, no excuses to make, and just stood there helplessly and sobbed. i went to the man of wrath, and we laid our heads together. "we do not want another married servant," he said. "no, of course we don't," said i. "and there is not a room empty in the village." "no, not one." "and how can we give him furniture? it is not fair to the other servants who remain virtuous, and wait till they can buy their own." "no, certainly it isn't fair." there was a pause. "he is a good boy," i murmured presently. "a very good boy." "and she will be quite ruined unless somebody--" "i'll tell you what we can do, elizabeth," he interrupted; "we can buy what is needful and let him have it on condition that he buys it back gradually by some small monthly payment." "so we can." "and i think there is a room over the stables that is empty." "so there is." "and he can go to town and get what furniture he needs and bring the girl back with him and marry her at once. the sooner the better, poor girl." and so within a fortnight they were married, and came hand in hand to me, he proud and happy, holding himself very straight, she in no wise yet recovered from the shock and misery of the last few hopeless months, looking up at me with eyes grown much too big for her face, eyes in which there still lurked the frightened look caught in the town where she had hidden herself, and where fingers of scorn could not have been wanting, and loud derision, and utter shame, besides the burden of sickness, and hunger, and miserable pitiful youth. they stood hand in hand, she in a decent black dress, and both wearing very tight white kid gloves that refused to hide entirely the whole of the rough red hands, and they looked so ridiculously young, and the whole thing was so wildly improvident, that no words of exhortation would come to my lips as i gazed at them in silence, between laughter and tears. i ought to have told them they were sinners; i ought to have told them they were reckless; i ought to have told them by what a narrow chance they had escaped the just punishment of their iniquity, and instead of that i found myself stretching out hands that were at once seized and kissed, and merely saying with a cheerful smile, "_nun_ _kinder_, _liebt euch_, _und seid brav_." and so they were dismissed, and then the parson came, in a fever at this latest example of deadly sin, while i, with the want of moral sense so often observable in woman, could only think with pity of their childishness. the baby was born three days later, and the mother very nearly slipped through our fingers; but she was a country girl, and she fought round, and by and by grew young again in the warmth of married respectability; and i met her the other day airing her baby in the sun, and holding her head as high as though she were conscious of a whole row of feather beds at home, every one of which touched the ceiling. in the next room i went into an old woman lay in bed with her head tied up in bandages. the room had not much in it, or it would have been untidier; it looked neglected and gloomy, and some dirty plates, suggestive of long-past dinners, were piled on the table. "oh, such headaches!" groaned the old woman when she saw me, and moved her head from side to side on the pillow. i could see she was not undressed, and had crept under her feather bag as she was. i went to the bedside and felt her pulse--a steady pulse, with nothing of feverishness in it. "oh, such draughts!" moaned the old woman, when she saw i had left the door open. "a little air will make you feel better," i said; the atmosphere in the shut-up room was so indescribable that my own head had begun to throb. "oh, oh!" she moaned, in visible indignation at being forced for a moment to breathe the pure summer air. "i have something at home that will cure your headache," i said, "but there is nobody i can send with it to-day. if you feel better later on, come round and fetch it. i always take it when i have a headache"-- ("why, elizabeth, you know you never have such things!" whispered my conscience, appalled. "you just keep quiet," i whispered back, "i have had enough of you for one day.")--"and i have some grapes i will give you when you come, so that if you possibly can, do." "oh, i can't move," groaned the old woman, "oh, oh, oh!" but i went away laughing, for i knew she would appear punctually to fetch the grapes, and a walk in the air was all she needed to cure her. how the whole village hates and dreads fresh air! a baby died a few days ago, killed, i honestly believe, by the exceeding love of its mother, which took the form of cherishing it so tenderly that never once during its little life was a breath of air allowed to come anywhere near it. she is the watchman's wife, a gentle, flabby woman, with two rooms at her disposal, but preferring to live and sleep with her four children in one, never going into the other except for the christenings and funerals which take place in her family with what i cannot but regard as unnecessary frequency. this baby was born last september in a time of golden days and quiet skies, and when it was about three weeks old i suggested that she should take it out every day while the fine weather lasted. she pointed out that it had not yet been christened, and remembering that it is the custom in their class for both mother and child to remain shut up and invisible till after the christening, i said no more. three weeks later i was its godmother, and it was safely got into the fold of the church. as i was leaving, i remarked that now she would be able to take it out as much as she liked. the following march, on a day that smelt of violets, i met her near the house. i asked after the baby, and she began to cry. "it does not thrive," she wept, "and its arms are no thicker than my finger." "keep it out in the sun as much as you can," i said; "this is the very weather to turn weak babies into strong ones." "oh, i am so afraid it will catch cold if i take it out," she cried, her face buried in what was once a pocket-handkerchief. "when was it out last?" "oh--" she stopped to blow her nose, very violently, and, as it seemed to me, with superfluous thoroughness. i waited till she had done, and then repeated my question. "oh--" a fresh burst of tears, and renewed exhaustive nose-blowing. i began to suspect that my question, put casually, was of more importance than i had thought, and repeated it once more. "i--can't t-take it out," she sobbed, "i know it--it would die." "but has it not been out at all, then?" she shook her head. "not once since it was born? six months ago?" she shook her head. "_poor_ baby!" i exclaimed; and indeed from my heart i pitied the little thing, perishing in a heap of feathers, in one close room, with four people absorbing what air there was. "i am afraid," i said, "that if it does not soon get some fresh air it will not live. i wonder what would happen to my children if i kept them in one hot room day and night for six months. you see how they are out all day, and how well they are." "they are so strong," she said, with a doleful sniff, "that they can stand it." i was confounded by this way of looking at it, and turned away, after once more begging her to take the child out. she plainly regarded the advice as brutal, and i heard her blowing her nose all down the drive. in june the father told me he would like the doctor; the child grew thinner every day in spite of all the food it took. a doctor was got from the nearest town, and i went across to hear what he ordered. he ordered bottles at regular intervals instead of the unbroken series it had been having, and fresh air. he could find nothing the matter with it, except unusual weakness. he asked if it always perspired as it was doing then, and himself took off the topmost bag of feathers. early in july it died, and its first outing was to the cemetery in the pine woods three miles off. "i took such care of it," moaned the mother, when i went to try and comfort her after the funeral; "it would never have lived so long but for the care i took of it." "and what the doctor ordered did no good?" i ventured to ask, as gently as i could. "oh, i did not take it out--how could i--it would have killed it at once--at least i have kept it alive till now." and she flung her arms across the table, and burying her head in them wept bitterly. there is a great wall of ignorance and prejudice dividing us from the people on our place, and in every effort to help them we knock against it and cannot move it any more than if it were actual stone. like the parson on the subject of morals, i can talk till i am hoarse on the subject of health, without at any time producing the faintest impression. when things are very bad the doctor is brought, directions are given, medicines made up, and his orders, unless they happen to be approved of, are simply not carried out. orders to wash a patient and open windows are never obeyed, because the whole village would rise up if, later on, the illness ended in death, and accuse the relatives of murder. i suppose they regard us and our like who live on the other side of the dividing wall as persons of fantastic notions which, when carried into effect among our own children, do no harm because of the vast strength of the children accumulated during years of eating in the quantities only possible to the rich. their idea of happiness is eating, and they naturally suppose that everybody eats as much as he can possibly afford to buy. some of them have known hunger, and food and strength are coupled together in their experience--the more food the greater the strength; and people who eat roast meat (oh, bliss ineffable!) every day of their lives can bear an amount of washing and airing that would surely kill such as themselves. but how useless to try and discover what their views really are. i can imagine what i like about them, and am fairly certain to imagine wrong. i have no real conception of their attitude towards life, and all i can do is to talk to them kindly when they are in trouble, and as often as i can give them nice things to eat. shocked at the horrors that must surround the poor women at the birth of their babies, i asked the man of wrath to try and make some arrangement that would ensure their quiet at those times. he put aside a little cottage at the end of the street as a home for them in their confinements, and i furnished it, and made it clean and bright and pretty. a nurse was permanently engaged, and i thought with delight of the unspeakable blessing and comfort it was going to be. not a baby has been born in that cottage, for not a woman has allowed herself to be taken there. at the end of a year it had to be let out again to families, and the nurse dismissed. "_why_ wouldn't they go?" i asked the frau inspector, completely puzzled. she shrugged her shoulders. "they like their husband and children round them," she said, "and are afraid something will be done to them away from home--that they will be washed too often, perhaps. the gracious lady will never get them to leave their homes." "the gracious lady gives it up," i muttered. when i opened the next door i was bewildered by the crowd in the room. a woman stood in the middle at a wash-tub which took up most of the space. every now and then she put out a dripping hand and jerked a perambulator up and down for a moment, to calm the shrieks of the baby inside. on a wooden bench at the foot of one of the three beds a very old man sat and blinked at nothing. crouching in a corner were two small boys of pasty complexion, playing with a guinea-pig and coughing violently. the loveliest little girl i have seen for a very long while lay in the bed nearest the door, quite silent, with her eyes closed and her mouth shut tight, as though she were trying hard to bear something. as i pulled the door open the first thing i saw, right up against it, was this set young face framed in tossed chestnut hair. "why, _frauchen_," i said to the woman at the tub, "so many of you at home to-day? are you all ill?" there was hardly standing room for an extra person, and the room was full of steam. "they have all got the cough i had," she answered, without looking up, "and lotte there is very bad." i took lotte's rough little hand--so different from the delicate face-- and found she was in a fever. "we must get the doctor," i said. "oh, the doctor--" said the mother with a shrug, "he's no use." "you must do what he tells you, or he cannot help you." "that last medicine he sent me all but killed me," she said, washing vigorously. "i'll never take any more of his, nor shall any child of mine." "what medicine was it?" she wiped her hand on her apron, and reaching across to the cupboard took out a little bottle. "i was in bed two days after it," she said, handing it to me--"as though i were dead, not knowing what was going on round me." the bottle had contained opium, and there were explicit directions written on it as to the number of drops to be taken and the length of the intervals between the taking. "did you do exactly what is written here?" i asked. "i took it all at once. there wasn't much of it, and i was feeling bad." "but then of course it nearly killed you. i wonder it didn't quite. what good is it our taking all the trouble we do to send that long distance for the doctor if you don't do as he orders?" "i'll take no more of his medicine. if it had been any good and able to cure me, the more i took the quicker i ought to have been cured." and she scrubbed and thumped with astounding energy, while lotte lay with her little ashen face a shade more set and suffering. the wash-tub, though in the middle of the room, was quite close to lotte's bed, because the middle of the room was quite close to every other part of it, and each extra hard maternal thump must have hit the child's head like a blow from a hammer. she was, you see, only thirteen, and her skin had not had time to turn into leather. "has this child eaten anything to-day?" "she won't." "is she not thirsty?" "she won't drink coffee or milk." "i'll send her something she may like, and i shall send, too, for the doctor." "i'll not give her his stuff." "let me beg you to do as he tells you." "i'll not give her his stuff." "was it absolutely necessary to wash to-day?" "it's the day." "my good woman," said i to myself, gazing at her with outward blandness, "i'd like exceedingly to tip you up into your wash-tub and thump you as thoroughly as you are thumping those unfortunate clothes." aloud i said in flute-like tones of conciliation, "good afternoon." "good afternoon," said she without looking up. washing days always mean tempers, and i ought to have fled at the first sight of that tub, but then there was lotte in her little yellow flannel night-gown, suffering as only children can suffer, helpless, forced to patience, forced to silent endurance of any banging and vehemence in which her mother might choose to indulge. no wonder her mouth was shut like a clasp and she would not open her eyes. her eyebrows were reddish like her hair, and very straight, and her eyelashes lay dusky and long on her white face. at least i had discovered lotte and could help her a little, i thought, as i departed down the garden path between the rows of scarlet-runners; but the help that takes the form of jelly and iced drinks is not of a lasting nature, and i have but little sympathy with a benevolence that finds its highest expression in gifts of the kind. there have been women within my experience who went down into the grave accompanied by special pastoral encomiums, and whose claims to lady- bountifulness, on closer inquiry, rested solely on a foundation of jelly. yet nothing in the world is easier than ordering jelly to be sent to the sick, except refraining from ordering it. what more, however, could i do for lotte than this? i could not take her up in my arms and run away with her and nurse her back to health, for she would probably object to such a course as strongly as her mother; and later on, when she gets well again, she will go back to school, and grow coarse and bouncing and leathery like the others, affording the parson, in three or four years' time, a fresh occasion for grief over deadly sin. "if one could only get hold of the children!" i sighed, as i went up the steps into the schoolhouse; "catch them young, and put them in a garden, with no older people of their own class for ever teaching them by example what is ugly, and unworthy, and gross." afternoon school was going on, and the assistant teacher was making the children read aloud in turns. in winter, when they would be glad of a warm, roomy place in which to spend their afternoons, school is only in the morning; and in summer, when the thirstiest after knowledge are apt to be less keen, it is both morning and afternoon. the arrangement is so mysterious that it must be providential. herr schenk, the head master, was away giving my babies their daily lessons, and his assistant, a youth in spectacles but yet of pugnacious aspect, was sitting in the master's desk, exercising a pretty turn for sarcasm in his running comments on the reading. a more complete waste of breath and brilliancy can hardly be imagined. he is not yet, however, married, and marriage is a great chastener. the children all stood up when i came in, and the teacher ceased sharpening his wits on a dulness that could not feel, and with many bows put a chair for me and begged me to sit on it. i did sit on it, and asked that they might go on with the lesson, as i had only come in for a minute on my way down the street. the reading was accordingly resumed, but unaccompanied this time by sarcasms. what faces! what dull, apathetic, low, coarse faces! on one side sat those from ten to fourteen, with not a hopeful face among them, and on the other those from six to ten, with one single little boy who looked as though he could have no business among the rest, so bright was he, so attentive, so curiously dignified. poor children--what could the parson hope to make of beings whose expressions told so plainly of the sort of nature within? those that did not look dull looked cunning, and all the girls on the older side had the faces of women. i began to feel dreadfully depressed. "see what you have done," i whispered angrily to my conscience--"made me wretched without doing anybody else any good." "the old woman with the headache is happy in the hopes of grapes," it replied, seeking to justify itself, "and lotte is to have some jelly." "grapes! jelly! futility unutterable. i can't bear this, and am going home." the teacher inquired whether the children should sing something to my graciousness; perhaps he was ashamed of their reading, and indeed i never heard anything like it. "oh yes," i said, resigned, but outwardly smiling kindly with the self-control natural to woman. they sang, or rather screamed, a hymn, and so frightfully loud and piercingly that the very windows shook. "my dear," explained the man of wrath, when i complained one sunday on our way home from church of the terrible quality and volume of the music, "it frightens satan away." our numerous godchildren were not in school because, as we have only lived here three years, they are not yet old enough to share in the blessings of education. i stand godmother to the girls, and the man of wrath to the boys, and as all the babies are accordingly named after us the village swarms with tiny elizabeths and boys of wrath. a hunchbacked woman, unfit for harder work, looks after the babies during the day in a room set apart for that purpose, so that the mothers may not be hampered in their duties at the farm; they have only to carry the babies there in the morning, and fetch them away again in the evening, and can feel that they are safe and well looked after. but many of them, for some reason too cryptic to fathom, prefer to lock them up in their room, exposed to all the perils that surround an inquiring child just able to walk, and last winter one little creature was burnt to death, sacrificed to her mother's stupidity. this mother, a fair type of the intelligence prevailing in the village, made a great fire in her room before going out, so that when she came back at noon there would still be some with which to cook the dinner, left a baby in a perambulator, and a little elizabeth of three loose in the room, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and went off to work. when she came back to get the dinner ready, the baby was still crowing placidly in its perambulator, and the little elizabeth, with all the clothes burnt off her body, was lying near the grate dead. of course the mother was wild with grief, distracted, raving, desperate, and of course all the other women were shocked and horrified; but point the moral as we might, we could not bring them to see that it was an avoidable misfortune with nothing whatever to do with the _finger gottes_, and the mothers who preferred locking their babies up alone to sending them to be looked after, went on doing so as undisturbed as though what had occurred could in no wise be a lesson to themselves. "pray, _herr lehrer_, why are those two little boys sitting over there on that seat all by themselves and not singing?" i asked at the conclusion of the hymn. "that, gracious lady, is the vermin bench. it is necessary to keep--" "oh yes, yes--i quite understand--good afternoon. good-bye, children, you have sung very nicely indeed." "now," said i to myself, when i was safely out in the street again, "i am going home." "oh, not yet," at once protested my unmanageable conscience; "your favourite old woman lives in the next cottage, and surely you are not going to leave her out?" "i see plainly," i replied, "that i shall never be quite comfortable till i have got rid of _you_" and in i went to the next house. the entrance was full of three women--the entrances here are narrow, and the women wide--and they all looked more cheerful than seemed reasonable. they stood aside to let me pass, and when i opened the door i found the room equally full of women, looking equally happy, and talking eagerly. "why, what is happening?" i asked the nearest one. "is there a party?" she turned round, grinning broadly in obvious delight. "the old lady died in her sleep," she said, "and was found this morning dead in her bed. i was in here only yesterday, and she said--" i turned abruptly and went out again. all those gloating women, hovering round the poor body that was clothed on a sudden by death with a wonderful dignity and nobleness, made me ashamed of being a woman. not a man was there,-- clearly a superior race of beings. in the entrance i met the frau inspector coming in to arrange matters, and she turned and walked with me a little way. "the old lady was better off than we thought," she remarked, "and has left a very good black silk dress to be buried in." "a black silk dress?" i repeated. "and everything to match in goodness--nice leather shoes, good stockings, under-things all trimmed with crochet, real whalebone corsets, and a quite new pair of white kid gloves. she must have saved for a long time to have it all so nice." "but," i said, "i don't understand. i have never had anything to do yet with death, and have not thought of these things. are not people, then, just buried in a shroud?" "a shroud?" it was her turn not to understand. "a sheet sort of thing." she smiled in a highly superior manner. "oh dear, no," she said, "we are none of us quite so poor as that." i glanced down at her as she walked beside me. she is a short woman, and carries weight. she was smiling almost pityingly at my ignorance of what is due, even after death, to ourselves and public opinion. "the very poorest," she said, "manage to scrape a whole set of clothes together for their funerals. a very poor couple came here a few months ago, and before the man had time to earn anything he died. the wife came to me (the gracious lady was absent), and on her knees implored me to give her a suit for him--she had only been able to afford the _sterbehemd_, and was frantic at the thought of what the neighbours would say if he had nothing on but that, and said she would be haunted by shame and remorse all the rest of her life. we bought a nice black suit, and tie, and gloves, and he really looked very well. she will be dressed to-night," she went on, as i said nothing; "the dressers come with the coffin, and it will be a nice funeral. i used to wonder what she did with her pension money, and never could persuade her to buy herself a bit of meat. but of course she was saving for this. they are beautiful corsets." "what utter waste!" i ejaculated. "waste?" "yes--utter waste and foolishness. foolishness, not to have bought a few little comforts, waste of the money, and waste of the clothes. is there any meaning, sense, or use whatever in burying a good black silk dress?" "it would be a scandal not to be buried decently," she replied, manifestly surprised at my warmth, "and the neighbours respect her much more now that they know what nice clothes she had bought for her funeral. nothing is wanting. i even found a box with a gold brooch in it, and a bracelet." "i suppose, then, as many of her belongings as will go into the coffin will be buried too, in order to still further impress the neighbours?" i asked--"her feather bed, for instance, and anything else of use and value?" "no, only what she has on, and the brushes and combs and towels that were used in dressing her." "how ugly and how useless!" i said with a shiver of disgust. "it is the custom," was her tranquil reply. suddenly an unpleasant thought struck me, and i burst out emphatically, "nothing but a shroud is to be put on me." "oh no," she said, looking up at me with a face meant to be full of the most reassuring promises of devotion, "the gracious lady may be quite certain that if i am still here she will have on her most beautiful ball dress and finest linen, and that the whole neighbourhood shall see for themselves how well _herrschaften_ know what is due to them." "i shall give directions," i repeated with increased energy, "that there is only to be a shroud." "oh no, no," she protested, smiling as though she were humouring a spoilt and eccentric child, "such a thing could never be permitted. what would our feelings be when we remembered that the gracious lady had not received her dues, and what would the neighbours say?" "i'll have nothing but a shroud!" i cried in great wrath--and then stopped short, and burst out laughing. "what an absurd and gruesome conversation," i said, holding out my hand. "good-bye, frau inspector, i am sure you are wanted in that cottage." she made me a curtsey and turned back. i walked out of the village and through the fir wood and the meadow as quickly as i could, opened the gate into my garden, went down the most sheltered path, flung myself on the grass in a quiet nook, and said aloud "ugh!" it is a well-known exclamation of disgust, and is thus inadequately expressed in writing. august august th.--august has come, and has clothed the hills with golden lupins, and filled the grassy banks with harebells. the yellow fields of lupins are so gorgeous on cloudless days that i have neglected the forests lately and drive in the open, so that i may revel in their scent while feasting my eyes on their beauty. the slope of a hill clothed with this orange wonder and seen against the sky is one of those sights which make me so happy that it verges on pain. the straight, vigorous flower- spikes are something like hyacinths, but all aglow with a divine intensity of brightness that a yellow hyacinth never yet possessed and never will; and then they are not waxy, but velvety, and their leaves are not futile drooping things, but delicate, strong sprays of an exquisite grey-green, with a bloom on them that throws a mist over the whole field; and as for the perfume, it surely is the perfume of paradise. the plant is altogether lovely--shape, growth, flower, and leaf, and the horses have to wait very patiently once we get among them, for i can never have enough of sitting quite still in those fair fields of glory. not far from here there is a low series of hills running north and south, absolutely without trees, and at the foot of them, on the east side, is a sort of road, chiefly stones, but yet with patience to be driven over, and on the other side of this road a plain stretches away towards the east and south; and hills and plain are now one sheet of gold. i have driven there at all hours of the day--i cannot keep away--and i have seen them early in the morning, and at mid-day, and in the afternoon, and i have seen them in the evening by moonlight, when all the intensity was washed out of the colour and into the scent; but just as the sun drops behind the little hills is the supreme moment, when the splendour is so dazzling that you feel as though you must have reached the very gates of heaven. so strong was this feeling the other day that i actually got out of the carriage, being impulsive, and began almost involuntarily to climb the hill, half expecting to see the glories of the new jerusalem all spread out before me when i should reach the top; and it came with quite a shock of disappointment to find there was nothing there but the prose of potato-fields, and a sandy road with home-going calves kicking up its dust, and in the distance our neighbour's _schloss_, and the new jerusalem just as far off as ever. it is a relief to me to write about these things that i so much love, for i do not talk of them lest i should be regarded as a person who rhapsodizes, and there is no nuisance more intolerable than having somebody's rhapsodies thrust upon you when you have no enthusiasm of your own that at all corresponds. i know this so well that i generally succeed in keeping quiet; but sometimes even now, after years of study in the art of holding my tongue, some stray fragment of what i feel does occasionally come out, and then i am at once pulled up and brought to my senses by the well-known cold stare of utter incomprehension, or the look of indulgent superiority that awaits any exposure of a feeling not in the least understood. how is it that you should feel so vastly superior whenever you do not happen to enter into or understand your neighbour's thoughts when, as a matter of fact, your not being able to do so is less a sign of folly in your neighbour than of incompleteness in yourself? i am quite sure that if i were to take most or any of my friends to those pleasant yellow fields they would notice nothing except the exceeding joltiness of the road; and if i were so ill-advised as to lift up a corner of my heart, and let them see how full it was of wonder and delight, they would first look blank, and then decide mentally that they were in the unpleasant situation of driving over a stony road with that worst form of idiot, a bore, and so fall into the mood of self- commiseration which is such a solace to us in our troubles. yet it is painful being suppressed for ever and ever, and i believe the torments of such a state, when unduly prolonged, are more keenly felt by a woman than a man, she having, in spite of her protestations, a good deal of the ivy nature still left in her, and an unhealthy craving for sympathy and support. when i drive to the lupins and see them all spread out as far as eye can reach in perfect beauty of colour and scent and bathed in the mild august sunshine, i feel i must send for somebody to come and look at them with me, and talk about them to me, and share in the pleasure; and when i run over the list of my friends and try to find one who would enjoy them, i am frightened once more at the solitariness in which we each of us live. i have, it is true, a great many friends-- people with whom it is pleasant to spend an afternoon if such afternoons are not repeated often, and if you are careful not to stir more than the surface of things, but among them all there is only one who has, roughly, the same tastes that i have; and even her sympathies have limitations, and she declares for instance with emphasis that she would not at all like to be a goose-girl. i wonder why. our friendship nearly came to an end over the goose-girl, so unexpectedly inflaming did the subject turn out to be. of all professions, if i had liberty of choice, i would choose to be a gardener, and if nobody would have me in that capacity i would like to be a goose-girl, and sit in the greenest of fields minding those delightfully plump, placid geese, whiter and more leisurely than the clouds on a calm summer morning, their very waddle in its lazy deliberation soothing and salutary to a fretted spirit that has been too long on the stretch. the fields geese feed in are so specially charming, so green and low-lying, with little clumps of trees and bushes, and a pond or boggy bit of ground somewhere near, and a profusion of those delicate field flowers that look so lovely growing and are so unsatisfactory and fade so quickly if you try to arrange them in your rooms. for six months of the year i would be happier than any queen i ever heard of, minding the fat white things. i would begin in april with the king-cups, and leave off in september with the blackberries, and i would keep one eye on the geese, and one on the volume of wordsworth i should have with me, and i would be present in this way at the procession of the months, the first three all white and yellow, and the last three gorgeous with the lupin fields and the blues and purples and crimsons that clothe the hedges and ditches in a wonderful variety of shades, and dye the grass near the water in great patches. then in october i would shut up my wordsworth, go back to civilised life, and probably assist at the eating of the geese one after the other, with a proper thankfulness for the amount of edification i had from first to last extracted from them. i believe in england goose eating is held to be of doubtful refinement, and is left to one's servants. here roast goose stuffed with apples is a dish loved quite openly and simply by people who would consider that the number of their quarterings raises them above any suspicion as to the refinement of their tastes, however many geese they may eat, and however much they may enjoy them; and i remember one lady, whose ancestors, probably all having loved goose, reached back up to a quite giddy antiquity, casting a gloom over a dinner table by removing as much of the skin or crackling of the goose as she could when it came to her, remarking, amidst a mournful silence, that it was her favourite part. no doubt it was. the misfortune was that it happened also to be the favourite part of the line of guests who came after her, and who saw themselves forced by the hard laws of propriety to affect an indifferent dignity of bearing at the very moment when their one feeling was a fierce desire to rise up and defend at all costs their right to a share of skin. she had, i remember, very pretty little white hands like tiny claws, and wore beautiful rings, and sitting opposite her, and free myself from any undue passion for goose, i had leisure to watch the rapid way in which she disposed of the skin, her rings and the whiteness of her hands flashing up and down as she used her knife and fork with the awful dexterity only seen in perfection in the fatherland. i am afraid that as a nation we think rather more of our eating and drinking than is reasonable, and this no doubt explains why so many of us, by the time we are thirty, have lost the original classicality of our contour. walking in the streets of a town you are almost sure to catch the word _essen_ in the talk of the passers-by; and _das essen_, combined, of course, with the drinking made necessary by its exaggerated indulgence, constitutes the chief happiness of the middle and lower classes. any story-book or novel you take up is full of feeling descriptions of what everybody ate and drank, and there are a great many more meals than kisses; so that the novel-reader who expects a love-tale, finds with disgust that he is put off with _menus_. the upper classes have so many other amusements that _das essen_ ceases to be one, and they are as thin as all the rest of the world; but if the curious wish to see how very largely it fills the lives, or that part of their lives that they reserve for pleasure, of the middle classes, it is a good plan to go to seaside places during the months of july and august, when the schools close, and the _bourgeoisie_ realises the dream in which it has been indulging the whole year, of hotel life with a tremendous dinner every day at one o'clock. the april baby was a weak little creature in her first years, and the doctor ordered as specially bracing a seaside resort frequented solely by the middle classes, and there for three succeeding years i took her; and while she rolled on the sands and grew brown and lusty, i was dull, and fell to watching the other tourists. their time, it appeared, was spent in ruminating over the delights of the meal that was eaten, and in preparing their bodies by gentlest exercise for the delights of the meal that was to come. they passed their mornings on the sands, the women doing fancy work in order that they might look busy, and the men strolling aimlessly about near them with field-glasses, and nautical caps, and long cloaks of a very dreadful pattern reaching to their heels and making them look like large women, called havelocks,--all of them waiting with more or less open eagerness for one o'clock, the great moment to which they had been looking forward ever since the day before, to arrive. they used to file in when the bell rang with a sort of silent solemnity, a contemplative collectedness, which is best described by the word _recueillement_, and ate all the courses, however many there were, in a hot room full of flies and sunlight. the dinner lasted a good hour and a half, and at the end of that time they would begin to straggle out again, flushed and using toothpicks as they strolled to the tables under the trees, where the exhausted waiters would presently bring them breakfast-cups of coffee and cakes. they lingered about an hour over this, and then gradually disappeared to their rooms, where they slept, i suppose, for from then till about six a death-like stillness reigned in the place and april and i had it all to ourselves. towards six, slow couples would be seen crawling along the path by the shore and panting up into the woods, this being the only exercise of the day, and necessary if they would eat their suppers with appreciation; and april and i, peering through the bracken out of the nests of moss we used to make in the afternoons, could see them coming up through the trees after the climb up the cliff, the husband with his havelock over his arm, a little in front, wiping his face and gasping, the wife in her tight silk dress, her bonnet strings undone, a cloak and an umbrella, and very often a small mysterious basket as well to carry, besides holding up her dress, very stout and very uncomfortable and very breathless, panting along behind; and however much she had to carry, and however fat and helpless she was, and however steep the hill, and however much dinner she had eaten, the idea that her husband might have taken her cloak and her umbrella and her basket and carried them for her would never have struck either of them. if it had by some strange chance entered his head, he would have reasoned that he was as stout as she was, that he had eaten as much dinner, that he was several years older, and that it was her cloak. logic is so irresistible. to go on eating long after you have ceased to be hungry has fascinations, apparently, that are difficult to withstand, and if it gives you so much pleasure that the resulting inability to move without gasping is accepted with the meekness of martyrs, who shall say that you are wrong? my not myself liking a large dinner at one o'clock is not a reason for my thinking i am superior to those who do. their excesses, it is true, are not my excesses, but then neither are mine theirs; and what about the days of idleness i spend, doing nothing from early till late but lie on the grass watching clouds? if i were to murmur gluttons, could not they, from their point of view, retort with conviction fool? all those maxims about judging others by yourself, and putting yourself in another person's place, are not, i am afraid, reliable. i had them dinned into me constantly as a child, and i was constantly trying to obey them, and constantly was astonished at the unexpected results i arrived at; and now i know that it is a proof of artlessness to suppose that other people will think and feel and hope and enjoy what you do and in the same way that you do. if an officious friend had stood in that breathless couple's path and told them in glowing terms how much happier they would be if they lived their life a little more fully and from its other sides, how much more delightful to stride along gaily together in their walks, with wind enough for talk and laughter, how pleasant if the man were muscular and in good condition and the woman brisk and wiry, and that they only had to do as he did and live on cold meat and toast, and drink nothing, to be as blithe as birds, do you think they would have so much as understood him? cold meat and toast? instead of what they had just been enjoying so intensely? miss that soup made of the inner mysteries of geese, those eels stewed in beer, the roast pig with red cabbage, the venison basted with sour cream and served with beans in vinegar and cranberry jam, the piled-up masses of vanilla ice, the pumpernickel and cheese, the apples and pears on the top of that, and the big cups of coffee and cakes on the top of the apples and pears? really a quick walk over the heather with a wiry wife would hardly make up for the loss of such a dinner; and besides, might not a wiry wife turn out to be a questionable blessing? and so they would pity the nimble friend who wasted his life in taking exercise and missed all its pleasures, and the man of toast and early rising would regard them with profound disgust if simple enough to think himself better than they, and, if he possessed an open mind, would merely return their pity with more of his own; so that, i suppose, everybody would be pleased, for the charm of pitying one's neighbour, though subtle, is undeniable. i remember when i was at the age when people began to call me _backfisch_, and my mother dressed me in a little scarlet coat with big pearl buttons, and my eyes turned down because i was shy, and my nose turned up because i was impudent, one summer at the seaside with my governess we noticed in our walks a solitary lady of dignified appearance, who spoke to no one, and seemed for ever wrapped in distant and lofty philosophic speculations. "she's thinking about kant and the nebular hypothesis," i decided to myself, having once heard some men with long beards talking of both those things, and they all had had that same far-away look in their eyes. "_qu'est-ce que c'est une_ _hypothese nebuleuse_, _mademoiselle_?" i said aloud. "_tenez-vous bien_, _et marchez d'une facon convenable_," she replied sharply. "_qu'est-ce que c'est une hypothese_--" "_vous etes trap jeune pour comprendre ces choses_." "_oh alors vous ne savez pas vous-meme_!" i cried triumphantly, "_sans cela vous me diriez_." "_elisabeth_, _vous ecrirez_, _des que nous rentrons_, _leverbe_ _prier le bon dieu de m'aider a ne plus etre si_ _impertinente_." she was an ingenious young woman, and the verbs i had to write as punishments were of the most elaborate and complicated nature-- _demander pardon pour avoir siffle comme un gamin_ _quelconque_, _vouloir ne plus oublier de nettoyer mes_ _ongles_, _essayer de ne pas tant aimer les poudings_, are but a few examples of her achievements in this particular branch of discipline. that very day at the _table d'hote_ the abstracted lady sat next to me. a _ragout_ of some sort was handed round, and after i had taken some she asked me, before helping herself, what it was. "snails," i replied promptly, wholly unchastened by the prayers i had just been writing out in every tense. "snails! _ekelig_." and she waved the waiter loftily away, and looked on with much superciliousness at the rest of us enjoying ourselves. "what! you do not eat this excellent _ragout_?" asked her other neighbour, a hot man, as he finished clearing his plate and had time to observe the emptiness of hers. "you do not like calves' tongues and mushrooms? _sonderbar._" i still can see the poor lady's face as she turned on me more like a tigress than the impassive person she had been a moment before. "_sie_ _unverschamter backfisch_!" she hissed. "my favourite dish--i have you to thank for spoiling my repast--my day!" and in a frenzy of rage she gripped my arm as though she would have shaken me then and there in the face of the multitude, while i sat appalled at the consequences of indulging a playful fancy at the wrong time. which story, now i come to think of it, illustrates less the tremendous importance of food in our country than the exceeding odiousness of _backfisch_ in scarlet coats. august th.--my idea of a garden is that it should be beautiful from end to end, and not start off in front of the house with fireworks, going off at its farthest limit into sheer sticks. the standard reached beneath the windows should at least be kept up, if it cannot be surpassed, right away through, and the german popular plan in this matter quite discarded of concentrating all the available splendour of the establishment into the supreme effort of carpet-bedding and glass balls on pedestals in front of the house, in the hope that the stranger, carefully kept in that part, and on no account allowed to wander, will infer an equal magnificence throughout the entire domain; whereas he knows very well all the time that the landscape round the corner consists of fowls and dust-bins. disliking this method, i have tried to make my garden increase in loveliness, if not in tidiness, the farther you get into it; and the visitor who thinks in his innocence as he emerges from the shade of the verandah that he sees the best before him, is artfully conducted from beauty to beauty till he beholds what i think is the most charming bit, the silver birch and azalea plantation down at the very end. this is the boundary of my kingdom on the south side, a blaze of colour in may and june, across which you see the placid meadows stretching away to a distant wood; and from its contemplation the ideal visitor returns to the house a refreshed and better man. that is the sort of person one enjoys taking round--the man (or woman) who, loving gardens, would go any distance to see one; who comes to appreciate, and compare, and admire; who has a garden of his own that he lives in and loves; and whose talk and criticisms are as dew to the thirsty gardening soul, all too accustomed in this respect to droughts. he knows as well as i do what work, what patience, what study and watching, what laughter at failures, what fresh starts with undiminished zeal, and what bright, unalterable faith are represented by the flowers in my garden. he knows what i have done for it, and he knows what it has done for me, and how it has been and will be more and more a place of joys, a place of lessons, a place of health, a place of miracles, and a place of sure and never-changing peace. living face to face with nature makes it difficult for one to be discouraged. moles and late frosts, both of which are here in abundance, have often grieved and disappointed me, but even these, my worst enemies, have not succeeded in making me feel discouraged. not once till now have i got farther in that direction than the purely negative state of not being encouraged; and whenever i reach that state i go for a brisk walk in the sunshine and come back cured. it makes one so healthy to live in a garden, so healthy in mind as well as body, and when i say moles and late frosts are my worst enemies, it only shows how i could not now if i tried sit down and brood over my own or my neighbour's sins, and how the breezes in my garden have blown away all those worries and vexations and bitternesses that are the lot of those who live in a crowd. the most severe frost that ever nipped the hopes of a year is better to my thinking than having to listen to one malignant truth or lie, and i would rather have a mole busy burrowing tunnels under each of my rose trees and letting the air get at their roots than face a single greeting where no kindness is. how can you help being happy if you are healthy and in the place you want to be? a man once made it a reproach that i should be so happy, and told me everybody has crosses, and that we live in a vale of woe. i mentioned moles as my principal cross, and pointed to the huge black mounds with which they had decorated the tennis-court, but i could not agree to the vale of woe, and could not be shaken in my belief that the world is a dear and lovely place, with everything in it to make us happy so long as we walk humbly and diet ourselves. he pointed out that sorrow and sickness were sure to come, and seemed quite angry with me when i suggested that they too could be borne perhaps with cheerfulness. "and have not even such things their sunny side?" i exclaimed. "when i am steeped to the lips in diseases and doctors, i shall at least have something to talk about that interests my women friends, and need not sit as i do now wondering what i shall say next and wishing they would go." he replied that all around me lay misery, sin, and suffering, and that every person not absolutely blinded by selfishness must be aware of it and must realise the seriousness and tragedy of existence. i asked him whether my being miserable and discontented would help any one or make him less wretched; and he said that we all had to take up our burdens. i assured him i would not shrink from mine, though i felt secretly ashamed of it when i remembered that it was only moles, and he went away with a grave face and a shaking head, back to his wife and his eleven children. i heard soon afterwards that a twelfth baby had been born and his wife had died, and in dying had turned her face with a quite unaccountable impatience away from him and to the wall; and the rumour of his piety reached even into my garden, and how he had said, as he closed her eyes, "it is the will of god." he was a missionary. but of what use is it telling a woman with a garden that she ought really to be ashamed of herself for being happy? the fresh air is so buoyant that it lifts all remarks of that sort away off you and leaves you laughing. they get wafted away on the scent of the stocks, and you stand in the sun looking round at your cheerful flowers, and more than ever persuaded that it is a good and blessed thing to be thankful. oh a garden is a sweet, sane refuge to have! whether i am tired because i have enjoyed myself too much, or tired because i have lectured the servants too much, or tired because i have talked to missionaries too much, i have only to come down the verandah steps into the garden to be at once restored to quiet, and serenity, and my real and natural self. i could almost fancy sometimes that as i come down the steps, gentle hands of blessing have been laid on my head. i suppose i feel so because of the hush that descends on my soul when i get out of the close, restless house into that silent purity. sometimes i sit for hours in the south walk by the verandah just listening and watching. it is so private there, though directly beneath the windows, that it is one of my favourite places. there are no bedrooms on that side of the house, only the man of wrath's and my day-rooms, so that servants cannot see me as i stand there enjoying myself. if they did or could, i should simply never go there, for nothing is so utterly destructive to meditation as to know that probably somebody inquisitive is eyeing you from behind a curtain. the loveliest garden i know is spoilt to my thinking by the impossibility of getting out of sight of the house, which stares down at you, argus-eyed and unblinking, into whatever corner you may shuffle. perfect house and perfect garden, lying in that land of lovely gardens, england, the garden just the right size for perfection, not a weed ever admitted, every dandelion and daisy--those friends of the unaspiring-- routed out years ago, the borders exquisite examples of taste, the turf so faultless that you hardly like to walk on it for fear of making it dusty, and the whole quite uninhabitable for people of my solitary tendencies because, go where you will, you are overlooked. since i have lived in this big straggling place, full of paths and copses where i am sure of being left alone, with wide fields and heath and forests beyond, and so much room to move and breathe in, i feel choked, oppressed, suffocated, in anything small and perfect. i spent a very happy afternoon in that little english paradise, but i came away quite joyfully, and with many a loving thought of my own dear ragged garden, and all the corners in it where the anemones twinkle in the spring like stars, and where there is so much nature and so little art. it will grow i know sweeter every year, but it is too big ever to be perfect and to get to look so immaculate that the diseased imagination conjures up visions of housemaids issuing forth each morning in troops and dusting every separate flower with feather brushes. nature herself is untidy, and in a garden she ought to come first, and art with her brooms and clipping-shears follow humbly behind. art has such a good time in the house, where she spreads herself over the walls, and hangs herself up gorgeously at the windows, and lurks in the sofa cushions, and breaks out in an eruption of pots wherever pots are possible, that really she should be content to take the second place out of doors. and how dreadful to meet a gardener and a wheelbarrow at every turn--which is precisely what happens to one in the perfect garden. my gardener, whose deafness is more than compensated for by the keenness of his eyesight, very soon remarked the scowl that distorted my features whenever i met one of his assistants in my favourite walks, and i never meet them now. i think he must keep them chained up to the cucumber-frames, so completely have they disappeared, and he only lets them loose when he knows i am driving, or at meals, or in bed. but is it not irritating to be sitting under your favourite tree, pencil in hand, and eyes turned skywards expectant of the spark from heaven that never falls, and then to have a man appear suddenly round the corner who immediately begins quite close to you to tear up the earth with his fangs? no one will ever know the number of what i believe are technically known as winged words that i have missed bringing down through interruptions of this kind. indeed, as i look through these pages i see i must have missed them all, for i can find nothing anywhere with even a rudimentary approach to wings. sometimes when i am in a critical mood and need all my faith to keep me patient, i shake my head at the unshornness of the garden as gravely as the missionary shook his head at me. the bushes stretch across the paths, and, catching at me as i go by, remind me that they have not been pruned; the teeming plant life rejoices on the lawns free from all interference from men and hoes; the pinks are closely nibbled off at the beginning of each summer by selfish hares intent on their own gratification; most of the beds bear the marks of nocturnal foxes; and the squirrels spend their days wantonly biting off and flinging down the tender young shoots of the firs. then there is the boy who drives the donkey and water-cart round the garden, and who has an altogether reprehensible habit of whisking round corners and slicing off bits of the lawn as he whisks. "but you can't alter these things, my good soul," i say to myself. "if you want to get rid of the hares and foxes, you must consent to have wire-netting, which is odious, right round your garden. and you are always saying you like weeds, so why grumble at your lawns? and it doesn't hurt you much if the squirrels do break bits off your firs--the firs must have had that happening to them years and years before you were born, yet they still flourish. as for boys, they certainly are revolting creatures. can't you catch this one when he isn't looking and pop him in his own water-barrel and put the lid on?" i asked the june baby, who had several times noticed with indignation the culpable indifference of this boy in regard to corners, whether she did not think that would be a good way of disposing of him. she is a great disciplinarian, and was loud in her praise of the plan; but the other two demurred. "he might go dead in there," said the may baby, apprehensively. "and he is such a naughty boy," said april, who had watched his reckless conduct with special disgust, "that if he once went dead he'd go straight to the _holle_ and stay all the time with the _diable_." that was the first french word i have heard them say: strange and sulphureous first-fruits of seraphine's teaching! we were going round the garden in a procession, i with a big pair of scissors, and the three with baskets, into one of which i put fresh flowers, and into the others flowers that were beginning to seed, dead flowers, and seed-pods. the garden was quivering in heat and light; rain in the morning had brought out all the snails and all the sweetness, and we were very happy, as we always are, i when i am knee-deep in flowers, and the babies when they can find new sorts of snails to add to their collections. these collections are carried about in cardboard boxes all day, and at night each baby has hers on the chair beside her bed. sometimes the snails get out and crawl over the beds, but the babies do not mind. once when april woke in the morning she was overjoyed by finding a friendly little one on her cheek. clearly babies of iron nerves and pellucid consciences. "so you do know some french," i said as i snipped off poppy-heads; "you have always pretended you don't." "oh, keep the poppies, mummy," cried april, as she saw them tumbling into her basket; "if you picks them and just leaves them, then they ripes and is good for such a many things." "tell me about the _diable_" i said, "and you shall keep the poppies." "he isn't nice, that _diable_," she said, starting off at once with breathless eloquence. "seraphine says there was one time a girl and a boy who went for a walk, and there were two ways, and one way goes where stones is, but it goes to the _lieber gott_; and the girl went that way till she came to a door, and the _lieber gott_ made the door opened and she went in, and that's the _himmel_." "and the boy?" "oh, he was a naughty boy and went the other way where there is a tree, and on the tree is written, 'don't go this way or you'll be dead,' and he said, 'that is one _betise_,' and did go in the way and got to the _holle_, and there he gets whippings when he doesn't make what the _diable_ says." "that's because he was so naughty," explained the may baby, holding up an impressive finger, "and didn't want to go to the _himmel_ and didn't love glory." "all boys are naughty," said june, "and i don't love them." "_nous allons parler francais_" i announced, desirous of finding out whether their whole stock was represented by _diable_ and _betise_; "i believe you can all speak it quite well." there was no answer. i snipped off sweet-pea pods and began to talk french at a great rate, asking questions as i snipped, and trying to extract answers, and getting none. the silence behind me grew ominous. presently i heard a faint sniff, and the basket being held up to me began to shake. i bent down quickly and looked under april's sun-bonnet. she was crying great dreadful tears, and rubbing her eyes hard with her one free hand. "why, you most blessed of babies," i exclaimed, kneeling down and putting my arms round her, "what in the world is the matter?" she looked at me with grieved and doubting eyes. "such a mother to talk french to her child!" she sobbed. i threw down the scissors, picked her up, and carried her up and down the path, comforting her with all the soft words i knew and suppressing my desire to smile. "that's not french, is it?" i whispered at the end of a long string of endearments, beginning, i believe, with such flights of rhetoric as priceless blessing and angel baby, and ending with a great many kisses. "no, no," she answered, patting my face and looking infinitely relieved, "that is pretty, and how mummies always talks. proper mummies never speak french--only seraphines." and she gave me a very tight hug, and a kiss that transferred all her tears to my face; and i set her down and, taking out my handkerchief, tried to wipe off the traces of my attempt at governessing from her cheeks. i wonder how it is that whenever babies cry, streaks of mud immediately appear on their faces. i believe i could cry for a week, and yet produce no mud. "i'll tell you what i'll do, babies," i said, anxious to restore complete serenity on such a lovely day, and feeling slightly ashamed of my uncalled-for zeal--indeed, april was right, and proper mothers leave lessons and torments to somebody else, and devote all their energies to petting--"i'll give a ball after tea." "_yes_!" shouted three exultant voices, "and invite all the babies!" "so now you must arrange what you are going to wear. i suppose you'd like the same supper as usual? run away to seraphine and tell her to get you ready." they seized their baskets and their boxes of snails and rushed off into the bushes, calling for seraphine with nothing but rapture in their voices, and french and the _diable_ quite forgotten. these balls are given with great ceremony two or three times a year. they last about an hour, during which i sit at the piano in the library playing cheerful tunes, and the babies dance passionately round the pillar. they refuse to waltz together, which is perhaps a good thing, for if they did there would always be one left over to be a wallflower and gnash her teeth; and when they want to dance squares they are forced by the stubbornness of numbers to dance triangles. at the appointed hour they knock at the door, and come in attired in the garments they have selected as appropriate (at this last ball the april baby wore my shooting coat, the may baby had a muff, and the june baby carried seraphine's umbrella), and, curtseying to me, each one makes some remark she thinks suitable to the occasion. "how's your husband?" june asked me last time, in the defiant tones she seems to think proper at a ball. "very well, thank you." "oh, that is nice." "mine isn't vely well," remarked april, cheerfully. "indeed?" "no, he has got some tummy-aches." "dear me!" "he was coming else, and had such fine twowsers to wear--pink ones with wibbons." after a little more graceful conversation of this kind the ball begins, and at the end of an hour's dancing, supper, consisting of radishes and lemonade, is served on footstools; and when they have cleared it up even to the leaves and stalks of the radishes, they rise with much dignity, express in proper terms their sense of gratitude for the entertainment, curtsey, and depart to bed, where they spend a night of horror, the prey of the awful dreams naturally resulting from so unusual a combination as radishes and babies. that is why my balls are rare festivals--the babies will insist on having radishes for the supper, and i, as a decent parent with a proper sense of my responsibilities, am forced accordingly to restrict my invitations to two, at the most three, in a year. when this last one was over i felt considerably exhausted, and had hardly sufficient strength to receive their thanks with civility. an hour's jig-playing with the thermometer at leaves its marks on the most robust; and when they were in bed, and the supper beginning to do its work, i ordered the carriage and the kettle with a view to seeking repose in the forest, taking the opportunity of escaping before the man of wrath should come in to dinner. the weather has been very hot for a long time, but the rain in the morning had had a wonderful effect on my flowers, and as i drove away i could not help noticing how charming the borders in front of the house were looking, with their white hollyhocks, and white snapdragons, and fringe of feathery marigolds. this gardener has already changed the whole aspect of the place, and i believe i have found the right man at last. he is very young for a head gardener, but on that account all the more anxious to please me and keep his situation; and it is a great comfort to have to do with somebody who watches and interprets rightly every expression of one's face and does not need much talking to. he makes mistakes sometimes in the men he engages, just as i used to when i did the engaging, and he had one poor young man as apprentice who very soon, like the first of my three meek gardeners, went mad. his madness was of a harmless nature and took a literary form; indeed, that was all they had against him, that he would write books. he used to sit in the early morning on my special seats in the garden, and strictly meditate the thankless muse when he ought to have been carting manure; and he made his fellow-apprentices unspeakably wretched by shouting extracts from schiller at them across the intervening gooseberry bushes. let me hasten to say that i had never spoken to him, and should not even have known what he was like if he had not worn eyeglasses, so that the man of wrath's insinuation that i affect the sanity of my gardeners is entirely without justification. the eyeglasses struck me as so odd on a gardener that i asked who he was, and was told that he had been studying for the bar, but could not pass the examinations, and had taken up gardening in the hope of getting back his health and spirits. i thought this a very sensible plan, and was beginning to feel interested in him when one day the post brought me a registered packet containing a manuscript play he had written called "the lawyer as gardener," dedicated to me. the man of wrath and i were both in it, the man of wrath, however, only in the list of characters, so that he should not feel hurt, i suppose, for he never appeared on the scenes at all. as for me, i was represented as going about quoting tolstoi in season and out of season to the gardeners--a thing i protest i never did. the young man was sent home to his people, and i have been asking myself ever since what there is about this place that it should so persistently produce books and lunacy? on the outskirts of the forest, where shafts of dusty sunlight slanted through the trees, children were picking wortleberries for market as i passed last night, with hands and faces and aprons smudged into one blue stain. i had decided to go to a water-mill belonging to the man of wrath which lies far away in a clearing, so far away and so lonely and so quiet that the very spirit of peace seems to brood over it for ever; and all the way the wortleberry carpet was thick and unbroken. never were the pines more pungent than after the long heat, and their rosy stems flushed pinker as i passed. presently i got beyond the region of wortleberry-pickers, the children not caring to wander too far into the forest so late, and i jolted over the roots into the gathering shadows more and more pervaded by that feeling that so refreshes me, the feeling of being absolutely alone. a very ancient man lives in the mill and takes care of it, for it has long been unused, a deaf old man with a clean, toothless face, and no wife to worry him. he informed me once that all women are mistakes, especially that aggravated form called wives, and that he was thankful he had never married. i felt a certain delicacy after that about intruding on his solitude with the burden of my sex and wifehood heavy upon me, but he always seems very glad to see me, and runs at once to his fowlhouse to look for fresh eggs for my tea; so perhaps he regards me as a pleasing exception to the rule. on this last occasion he brought a table out to the elm-tree by the mill stream, that i might get what air there was while i ate my supper; and i sat in great peace waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the sun dropping behind the sharp forest me, and all the little pools and currents into which the stream just there breaks as it flows over mud banks, ablaze with the red reflection of the sky. the pools are clothed with water-lilies and inhabited by eels, and i generally take a netful of writhing eels back with me to the man of wrath to pacify him after my prolonged absence. in the lily time i get into the miller's punt and make them an excuse for paddling about among the mud islands, and even adventurously exploring the river as it winds into the forest, and the old man watches me anxiously from under the elm. he regards my feminine desire to pick water-lilies with indulgence, but is clearly uneasy at my affection for mud banks, and once, after i had stuck on one, and he had run up and down in great agitation for half an hour shouting instructions as to getting off again, he said when i was safely back on shore that people with petticoats (his way of expressing woman) were never intended for punts, and their only chance of safety lay in dry land and keeping quiet. i did not this time attempt the punt, for i was tired, and it was half full of water, probably poured into it by a miller weary of the ways of women; and i drank my tea quietly, going on at the same time with my interrupted afternoon reading of the _sorrows of werther_, in which i had reached a part that has a special fascination for me every time i read it--that part where werther first meets lotte, and where, after a thunderstorm; they both go to the window, and she is so touched by the beauties of nature that she lays her hand on his and murmurs "klopstock,"--to the complete dismay of the reader, though not of werther, for he, we find, was so carried away by the magic word that he flung himself on to her hand and kissed it with tears of rapture. i looked up from the book at the quiet pools and the black line of trees, above which stars were beginning to twinkle, my ears soothed by the splashing of the mill stream and the hooting somewhere near of a solitary owl, and i wondered whether, if the man of wrath were by my side, it would be a relief to my pleasurable feelings to murmur "klopstock," and whether if i did he would immediately shed tears of joy over my hand. the name is an unfortunate one as far as music goes, and goethe's putting it into his heroine's mouth just when she was most enraptured, seems to support the view i sometimes adopt in discoursing to the man of wrath that he had no sense of humour. but here i am talking about goethe, our great genius and idol, in a way that no woman should. what do german women know of such things? quite untrained and uneducated, how are we to judge rightly about anybody or anything? all we can do is to jump at conclusions, and, when we have jumped, receive with meekness the information that we have jumped wrong. sitting there long after it was too dark to read, i thought of the old miller's words, and agreed with him that the best thing a woman can do in this world is to keep quiet. he came out once and asked whether he should bring a lamp, and seemed uneasy at my choosing to sit there in the dark. i could see the stars in the black pools, and a line of faint light far away above the pines where the sun had set. every now and then the hot air from the ground struck up in my face, and afterwards would come a cooler breath from the water. of what use is it to fight for things and make a noise? nature is so clear in her teaching that he who has lived with her for any time can be in little doubt as to the "better way." keep quiet and say one's prayers--certainly not merely the best, but the only things to do if one would be truly happy; but, ashamed of asking when i have received so much, the only form of prayer i would use would be a form of thanksgiving. september september th--i have been looking in the dictionary for the english word for _einquartierung_, because that is what is happening to us just now, but i can find nothing satisfactory. my dictionary merely says ( ) the quartering, ( ) soldiers quartered, and then relapses into irrelevancy; so that it is obvious english people do without the word for the delightful reason that they have not got the thing. we have it here very badly; an epidemic raging at the end of nearly every summer, when cottages and farms swarm with soldiers and horses, when all the female part of the population gets engaged to be married and will not work, when all the male part is jealous and wants to fight, and when my house is crowded with individuals so brilliant and decorative in their dazzling uniforms that i wish sometimes i might keep a bunch of the tallest and slenderest for ever in a big china vase in a corner of the drawing-room. this year the manoeuvres are up our way, so that we are blest with more than our usual share of attention, and wherever you go you see soldiers, and the holy calm that has brooded over us all the summer has given place to a perpetual running to and fro of officers' servants, to meals being got ready at all hours, to the clanking of spurs and all those other mysterious things on an officer that do clank whenever he moves, and to the grievous wailings of my unfortunate menials, who are quite beside themselves, and know not whither to turn for succour. we have had one week of it already, and we have yet another before us. there are five hundred men with their horses quartered at the farm, and thirty officers with their servants in our house, besides all those billeted on the surrounding villages who have to be invited to dinner and cannot be allowed to perish in peasant houses; so that my summer has for a time entirely ceased to be solitary, and whenever i flee distracted to the farthest recesses of my garden and begin to muse, according to my habit, on man, on nature, and on human life, lieutenants got up in the most exquisite flannels pursue me and want to play tennis with me, a game i have always particularly disliked. there is no room of course for all those extra men and horses at the farm, and when a few days before their arrival (sometimes it is only one, and sometimes only a few hours) an official appears and informs us of the number to be billeted on us, the man of wrath has to have temporary sheds run up, some as stables, some as sleeping-places, and some as dining-rooms. nor is it easy to cook for five hundred people more than usual, and all the ordinary business of the farm comes to a stand-still while the hands prepare barrowfuls of bacon and potatoes, and stir up the coffee and milk and sugar together with a pole in a tub. part of the regimental band is here, the upper part. the base instruments are in the next village; but that did not deter an enthusiastic young officer from marching his men past our windows on their arrival at six in the morning, with colours flying, and what he had of his band playing their tunes as unconcernedly as though all those big things that make such a noise were giving the fabric its accustomed and necessary base. we are paid six pfennings a day for lodging a common soldier, and six pfennings for his horse--rather more than a penny in english money for the pair of them; only unfortunately sheds and carpentry are not quite so cheap. eighty pfennings a day is added for the soldier's food, and for this he has to receive two pounds of bread, half a pound of meat, a quarter of a pound of bacon, and either a quarter of a pound of rice or barley or three pounds of potatoes. officers are paid for at the rate of two marks fifty a day without wine; we are not obliged to give them wine, and if we do they are regarded as guests, and behave accordingly. the thirty we have now do not, as i could have wished, all go out together in the morning and stay out till the evening, but some go out as others come in, and breakfast is not finished till lunch begins, and lunch drags on till dinner, and all day long the dining-room is full of meals and officers, and we ceased a week ago to have the least feeling that the place, after all, belongs to us. now really it seems to me that i am a much-tried woman, and any peace i have enjoyed up to now is amply compensated for by my present torments. i believe even my stern friend the missionary would be satisfied if he could know how swiftly his prediction that sorrow and suffering would be sure to come, has been fulfilled. all day long i am giving out table linen, ordering meals, supporting the feeble knees of servants, making appropriate and amiable remarks to officers, presiding as gracefully as nature permits at meals, and trying to look as though i were happy; while out in the garden--oh, i know how it is looking out in the garden this golden weather, how the placid hours are slipping by in unchanged peace, how strong the scent of roses and ripe fruit is, how the sleepy bees drone round the flowers, how warmly the sun shines in that corner where the little spanish chestnut is turning yellow--the first to turn, and never afterwards surpassed in autumn beauty; i know how still it is down there in my fir wood, where the insects hum undisturbed in the warm, quiet air; i know what the plain looks like from the seat under the oak, how beautiful, with its rolling green waves burning to gold under the afternoon sky; i know how the hawks circle over it, and how the larks sing above it, and i edge as near to the open window as i can, straining my ears to hear them, and forgetting the young men who are telling me of all the races their horses win as completely as though they did not exist. i want to be out there on that golden grass, and look up into that endless blue, and feel the ecstasy of that song through all my being, and there is a tearing at my heart when i remember that i cannot. yet they are beautiful young men; all are touchingly amiable, and many of the older ones even charming--how is it, then, that i so passionately prefer larks? we have every grade of greatness here, from that innocent being the ensign, a creature of apparent modesty and blushes, who is obliged to stand up and drain his glass each time a superior chooses to drink to him, and who sits on the hardest chairs and looks for the balls while we play tennis, to the general, invariably delightful, whose brains have carried him triumphantly through the annual perils of weeding out, who is as distinguished in looks and manners as he is in abilities, and has the crowning merit of being manifestly happy in the society of women. nothing lower than a colonel is to me an object of interest. the lower you get the more officers there are, and the harder it is to see the promising ones in the crowd; but once past the rank of major the air gets very much cleared by the merciless way they have been weeded out, and the higher officers are the very flower of middle-aged german males. as for those below, a lieutenant is a bright and beautiful being who admires no one so much as himself; a captain is generally newly married, having reached the stage of increased pay which makes a wife possible, and, being often still in love with her, is ineffective for social purposes; and a major is a man with a yearly increasing family, for whose wants his pay is inadequate, a person continually haunted by the fear of approaching weeding, after which his career is ended, he is poorer than ever, and being no longer young and only used to a soldier's life, is almost always quite incapable of starting afresh. even the children of light find it difficult to start afresh with any success after forty, and the retired officer is never a child of light; if he were, he would not have been weeded out. you meet him everywhere, shorn of the glories of his uniform, easily recognisable by the bad fit of his civilian clothes, wandering about like a ship without a rudder; and as time goes on he settles down to the inevitable, and passes his days in a fourth-floor flat in the suburbs, eats, drinks, sleeps, reads the _kreuzzeitung_ and nothing else, plays at cards in the day-time, grows gouty, and worries his wife. it would be difficult to count the number of them that have answered the man of wrath's advertisements for book- keepers and secretaries--always vainly, for even if they were fit for the work, no single person possesses enough tact to cope successfully with the peculiarities of such a situation. i hear that some english people of a hopeful disposition indulge in ladies as servants; the cases are parallel, and the tact required to meet both superhuman. of all the officers here the only ones with whom i can find plenty to talk about are the generals. on what subject under heaven could one talk to a lieutenant? i cannot discuss the agility of ballet-dancers or the merits of jockeys with him, because these things are as dust and ashes to me; and when forced for a few moments by my duties as hostess to come within range of his conversation i feel chilly and grown old. in the early spring of this year, in those wonderful days of hope when nature is in a state of suppressed excitement, and when any day the yearly recurring miracle may happen of a few hours' warm rain changing the whole world, we got news that a lieutenant and two men with their horses were imminent, and would be quartered here for three nights while some occult military evolutions were going on a few miles off. it was specially inopportune, because the man of wrath would not be here, but he comforted me as i bade him good-bye, my face no doubt very blank, by the assurance that the lieutenant would be away all day, and so worn out when he got back in the evening that he probably would not appear at all. but i never met a more wide-awake young man. not once during those three days did he respond to my pressing entreaties to go and lie down, and not all the desperate eloquence of a woman at her wit's end could persuade him that he was very tired and ought to try and get some sleep. i had intended to be out when he arrived, and to remain out till dinner time, but he came unexpectedly early, while the babies and i were still at lunch, the door opening to admit the most beautiful specimen of his class that i have ever seen, so beautiful indeed in his white uniform that the babies took him for an angel--visitant of the type that visited abraham and sarah, and began in whispers to argue about wings. he was not in the least tired after his long ride he told me, in reply to my anxious inquiries, and, rising to the occasion, at once plunged into conversation, evidently realising how peculiarly awful prolonged pauses under the circumstances would be. i took him for a drive in the afternoon, after having vainly urged him to rest, and while he told me about his horses, and his regiment, and his brother officers, in what at last grew to be a decidedly intermittent prattle, i amused myself by wondering what he would say if i suddenly began to hold forth on the themes i love best, and insist that he should note the beauty of the trees as they stood that afternoon expectant, with all their little buds only waiting for the one warm shower to burst into the glory of young summer. perhaps he would regard me as the german variety of a hyena in petticoats--the imagination recoils before the probable fearfulness of such an animal--or, if not quite so bad as that, at any rate a creature hysterically inclined; and he would begin to feel lonely, and think of his comrades, and his pleasant mess, and perhaps even of his mother, for he was very young and newly fledged. therefore i held my peace, and restricted my conversation to things military, of which i know probably less than any other woman in germany, so that my remarks must have been to an unusual degree impressive. he talked down to me, and i talked down to him, and we reached home in a state of profoundest exhaustion--at least i know i did, but when i looked at him he had not visibly turned a hair. i went upstairs trying to hope that he had felt it more than he showed, and that during the remainder of his stay he would adopt the suggestion so eagerly offered of spending his spare time in his room resting. at dinner, he and i, quite by ourselves, were both manifestly convinced of the necessity, for the sake of the servants, of not letting the conversation drop. i felt desperate, and would have said anything sooner than sit opposite him in silence, and with united efforts we got through that fairly well. after dinner i tried gossip, and encouraged him to tell me some, but he had such an unnatural number of relations that whoever i began to talk about happened to be his cousin, or his brother- in-law, or his aunt, as he hastily informed me, so that what i had intended to say had to be turned immediately into loud and unqualified praise; and praising people is frightfully hard work--you give yourself the greatest pains over it, and are aware all the time that it is not in the very least carrying conviction. does not everybody know that one's natural impulse is to tear the absent limb from limb? at half-past nine i got up, worn out in mind and body, and told him very firmly that it had been a custom in my family from time immemorial to be in bed by ten, and that i was accordingly going there. he looked surprised and wider awake than ever, but nothing shook me, and i walked away, leaving him standing on the hearthrug after the manner of my countrymen, who never dream of opening a door for a woman. the next day he went off at five in the morning, and was to be away, as he had told me, till the evening. i felt as though i had been let out of prison as i breakfasted joyfully on the verandah, the sun streaming through the creeperless trellis on to the little meal, and the first cuckoo of the year calling to me from the fir wood. of the dinner and evening before me i would not think; indeed i had a half-formed plan in my head of going to the forest after lunch with the babies, taking wraps and provisions, and getting lost till well on towards bedtime; so that when the angel-visitant should return full of renewed strength and conversation, he would find the casket empty and be told the gem had gone out for a walk. after i had finished breakfast i ran down the steps into the garden, intent on making the most of every minute and hardly able to keep my feet from dancing. oh, the blessedness of a bright spring morning without a lieutenant! and was there ever such a hopeful beginning to a day, and so full of promise for the subsequent right passing of its hours, as breakfast in the garden, alone with your teapot and your book! any cobwebs that have clung to your soul from the day before are brushed off with a neatness and expedition altogether surprising; never do tea and toast taste so nice as out there in the sun; never was a book so wise and full of pith as the one lying open before you; never was woman so clean outside and in, so refreshed, so morally and physically well-tubbed, as she who can start her day in this fashion. as i danced down the garden path i began to think cheerfully even of lieutenants. it was not so bad; he would be away till dark, and probably on the morrow as well; i would start off in the afternoon, and by coming back very late would not see him at all that day--might not, if providence were kind, see him again ever; and this last thought was so exhilarating that i began to sing. but he came back just as we had finished lunch. "the _herr lieutenant_ is here," announced the servant, "and has gone to wash his hands. the _herr lieutenant_ has not yet lunched, and will be down in a moment." "i want the carriage at once," i ordered--i could not and would not spend another afternoon _tete-a-tete_ with that young man,--"and you are to tell the _herr lieutenant_ that i am sorry i was obliged to go out, but i had promised the pastor to take the children there this afternoon. see that he has everything he wants." i gathered the babies together and fled. i could hear the lieutenant throwing things about overhead, and felt there was not a moment to lose. the servant's face showed plainly that he did not believe about the pastor, and the babies looked up at me wonderingly. what is a woman to do when driven into a corner? the father of lies inhabits corners--no doubt the proper place for such a naughty person. we ran upstairs to get ready. there was only one short flight on which we could meet the lieutenant, and once past that we were safe; but we met him on that one short flight. he was coming down in a hurry, giving his moustache a final hasty twist, and looking fresher, brighter, lovelier, than ever. "oh, good morning. you have got back much sooner than you expected, have you not?" i said lamely. "yes, i managed to get through my part quickly," he said with a briskness i did not like. "but you started so early--you must be very tired?" "oh, not in the least, thank you." then i repeated the story about the expectant parson, adding to my guilt by laying stress on the inevitability of the expedition owing to its having been planned weeks before. april and may stood on the landing above, listening with surprised faces, and june, her mind evidently dwelling on feathers, intently examined his shoulders from the step immediately behind. and we did get away, leaving him to think what he liked, and to smoke, or sleep, or wander as he chose, and i could not but believe he must feel relieved to be rid of me; but the afternoon clouded over, and a sharp wind sprang up, and we were very cold in the forest, and the babies began to sneeze and ask where the parson was, and at last, after driving many miles, i said it was too late to go to the parson's and we would turn back. it struck me as hard that we should be forced to wander in cold forests and leave our comfortable home because of a lieutenant, and i went back with my heart hardened against him. that second evening was worse a great deal than the first. we had said all we ever meant to say to each other, and had lauded all our relations with such hearty goodwill that there was nothing whatever to add. i sat listening to the slow ticking of the clock and asking questions about things i did not in the least want to know, such as the daily work and rations and pay of the soldiers in his regiment, and presently--we having dined at the early hour usual in the country--the clock struck eight. could i go to bed at eight? no, i had not the courage, and no excuse ready. more slow ticking, and more questions and answers about rations and pipeclay. what a clock! for utter laziness and dull deliberation there surely never was its equal--it took longer to get to the half-hour than any clock i ever met, but it did get there at last and struck it. could i go? could i? no, still no excuse ready. we drifted from pipeclay to a discussion on bicycling for women--a dreary subject. was it becoming? was it good for them? was it ladylike? ought they to wear skirts or--? in paris they all wore--. our bringing-up here is so excellent that if we tried we could not induce ourselves to speak of any forked garments to a young man, so we make ourselves understood, when we desire to insinuate such things, by an expressive pause and a modest downward flicker of the eyelids. the clock struck nine. nothing should keep me longer. i sprang to my feet and said i was exhausted beyond measure by the sharp air driving, and that whenever i had spent an afternoon out, it was my habit to go to bed half an hour earlier than other evenings. again he looked surprised, but rather less so than the night before, and he was, i think, beginning to get used to me. i retired, firmly determined not to face another such day and to be very ill in the morning and quite unable to rise, he having casually remarked that the next one was an off day; and i would remain in bed, that last refuge of the wretched, as long as he remained here. i sat by the window in my room till late, looking out at the moonlight in the quiet garden, with a feeling as though i were stuffed with sawdust--a very awful feeling--and thinking ruefully of the day that had begun so brightly and ended so dismally. what a miserable thing not to be able to be frank and say simply, "my good young man, you and i never saw each other before, probably won't see each other again, and have no interests in common. i mean you to be comfortable in my house, but i want to be comfortable too. let us, therefore, keep out of each other's way while you are obliged to be here. do as you like, go where you like, and order what you like, but don't expect me to waste my time sitting by your side and making small-talk. i too have to get to heaven, and have no time to lose. you won't see me again. good-bye." i believe many a harassed _hausfrau_ would give much to be able to make some such speech when these young men appear, and surely the young men themselves would be grateful; but simplicity is apparently quite beyond people's strength. it is, of all the virtues, the one i prize the most; it is undoubtedly the most lovable of any, and unspeakably precious for its power of removing those mountains that confine our lives and prevent our seeing the sky. certain it is that until we have it, the simple spirit of the little child, we shall in no wise discover our kingdom of heaven. these were my reflections, and many others besides, as i sat weary at the window that cold spring night, long after the lieutenant who had occasioned them was slumbering peacefully on the other side of the house. thoughts of the next day, and enforced bed, and the bowls of gruel to be disposed of if the servants were to believe in my illness, made my head ache. eating gruel _pour la galerie_ is a pitiable state to be reduced to--surely no lower depths of humiliation are conceivable. and then, just as i was drearily remembering how little i loved gruel, there was a sudden sound of wheels rolling swiftly round the corner of the house, a great rattling and trampling in the still night over the stones, and tearing open the window and leaning out, there, sitting in a station fly, and apparelled to my glad vision in celestial light, i beheld the man of wrath, come home unexpectedly to save me. "oh, dear man of wrath," i cried, hanging out into the moonlight with outstretched arms, "how much nicer thou art than lieutenants! i never missed thee more--i never longed for thee more--i never loved thee more --come up here quickly that i may kiss thee!--" october st.--last night after dinner, when we were in the library, i said, "now listen to me, man of wrath." "well?" he inquired, looking up at me from the depths of his chair as i stood before him. "do you know that as a prophet you are a failure? five months ago to-day you sat among the wallflowers and scoffed at the idea of my being able to enjoy myself alone a whole summer through. is the summer over?" "it is," he assented, as he heard the rain beating against the windows. "and have i invited any one here?" "no, but there were all those officers." "they have nothing whatever to do with it." "they helped you through one fortnight." "they didn't. it was a fortnight of horror." "well. go on." "you said i would be punished by being dull. have i been dull?" "my dear, as though if you had been you would ever confess it." "that's true. but as a matter of fact let me tell you that i never spent a happier summer." he merely looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. "if i remember rightly," he said, after a pause, "your chief reason for wishing to be solitary was that your soul might have time to grow. may i ask if it did?" "not a bit." he laughed, and, getting up, came and stood by my side before the fire. "at least you are honest," he said, drawing my hand through his arm. "it is an estimable virtue." "and strangely rare in woman." "now leave woman alone. i have discovered you know nothing really of her at all. but _i_ know all about her." "you do? my dear, one woman can never judge the others." "an exploded tradition, dear sage." "her opinions are necessarily biassed." "venerable nonsense, dear sage." "because women are each other's natural enemies." "obsolete jargon, dear sage." "well, what do you make of her?" "why, that she's a dear, and that you ought to be very happy and thankful to have got one of her always with you." "but am i not?" he asked, putting his arm round me and looking affectionate; and when people begin to look affectionate i, for one, cease to take any further interest in them. and so the man of wrath and i fade away into dimness and muteness, my head resting on his shoulder, and his arm encircling my waist; and what could possibly be more proper, more praiseworthy, or more picturesque? ethel morton's enterprise by mabell s.c. smith contents i how it started ii a snow man and seed catalogues iii dorothy tells her secret iv gardening on paper v a defect in the title vi wild flowers for helen's garden vii color schemes viii cave life ix "nothing but leaves" x the u.s.c. and the community xi the flower festival xii enough to give away xiii in business xiv uncle dan's researches xv fur and fossils xvi fairyland xvii the missing heiress chapter i how it started ethel morton, called from the color of her eyes ethel "blue" to distinguish her from her cousin, also ethel morton, whose brown eyes gave her the nickname of ethel "brown," was looking out of the window at the big, damp flakes of snow that whirled down as if in a hurry to cover the dull january earth with a gay white carpet. "the giants are surely having a pillow fight this afternoon," she laughed. "in honor of your birthday," returned her cousin. "the snowflakes are really as large as feathers," added dorothy smith, another cousin, who had come over to spend the afternoon. all three cousins had birthdays in january. the mortons always celebrated the birthdays of every member of the family, but since there were three in the same month they usually had one large party and noticed the other days with less ceremony. this year mrs. emerson, ethel brown's grandmother, had invited the whole united service club, to which the girls belonged, to go to new york on a day's expedition. they had ascended the woolworth tower, gone through the natural history museum, seen the historic jumel mansion, lunched at a large hotel and gone to the hippodrome. everybody called it a perfectly splendid party, and ethel blue and dorothy were quite willing to consider it as a part of their own birthday observances. next year it would be dorothy's turn. this year her party had consisted merely in taking her cousins on an automobile ride. a similar ride had been planned for ethel blue's birthday, but the giants had plans of their own and the young people had had to give way to them. dorothy had come over to spend the afternoon and dine with her cousins, however. she lived just around the corner, so her mother was willing to let her go in spite of the gathering drifts, because roger, ethel brown's older brother, would be able to take her home such a short distance, even if he had to shovel a path all the way. the snow was so beautiful that they had not wanted to do anything all the afternoon but gaze at it. dicky, ethel brown's little brother, who was the "honorary member" of the u.s.c., had come in wanting to be amused, and they had opened the window for an inch and brought in a few of the huge flakes which grew into ferns and starry crystals under the magnifying glass that mrs. morton always kept on the desk. "wouldn't it be fun if our eyeth could thee thingth like that!" exclaimed dicky, and the girls agreed with him that it would add many marvels to our already marvellous world. "as long as our eyes can't see the wee things i'm glad aunt marion taught us to use this glass when we were little," said ethel blue who had been brought up with her cousins ever since she was a baby. "mother says that when she and uncle roger and uncle richard," said dorothy, referring to ethel brown's and ethel blue's fathers, her uncles--"were all young at home together grandfather morton used to make them examine some new thing every day and tell him about it. sometimes it would be the materials a piece of clothing was made of, or the paper of a magazine or a flower--anything that came along." [illustration: "it looked just as if it were a house with a lot of rooms"] "when i grow up," said ethel blue, "i'm going to have a large microscope like the one they have in the biology class in the high school. helen took me to the class with her one day and the teacher let me look through it. it was perfectly wonderful. there was a slice of the stem of a small plant there and it looked just as if it were a house with a lot of rooms. each room was a cell, helen said." "a very suitable name," commented ethel brown. "what are you people talking about?" asked helen, who came in at that instant. "i was telling the girls about that time when i looked through the high school microscope," answered ethel blue. [illustration: single cell] [illustration: double cell] "you saw among other things, some cells in the very lowest form of life. a single cell is all there is to the lowest animal or vegetable." [illustration: multiple cells] "what do you mean by a single cell?" "just a tiny mass of jelly-like stuff that is called protoplasm. the cells grow larger and divide until there are a lot of them. that's the way plants and animals grow." "if each is as small as those i saw under the microscope there must be billions in me!" and ethel blue stretched her arms to their widest extent and threw her head upwards as far as her neck would allow. "i guess there are, young woman," and helen went off to hang her snowy coat where it would dry before she put it in the closet. "there'th a thnow flake that lookth like a plant!" cried dicky who had slipped open the window wide enough to capture an especially large feather. "it really does!" exclaimed ethel blue, who was nearest to her little cousin and caught a glimpse of the picture through the glass before the snow melted. "did it have 'root, stem and leaves'?" asked dorothy. "that's what i always was taught made a plant--root, stem and leaves. would helen call a cell that you couldn't see a plant?" "yes," came a faint answer from the hall. "if it's living and isn't an animal it's a vegetable--though way down in the lower forms it's next to impossible to tell one from the other. there isn't any rule that doesn't have an exception." "i should think the biggest difference would be that animals eat plants and plants eat--what do plants eat?" ended dorothy lamely. "that is the biggest difference," assented helen. "plants are fed by water and mineral substances that come from the soil directly, while animals get the mineral stuff by way of the plants." "father told us once about some plants that caught insects. they eat animals." "and there are animals that eat both vegetables and animals, you and i, for instance. so you can't draw any sharp lines." "when a plant gets out of the cell stage and has a 'root, stem and leaves' then you know it's a plant if you don't before," insisted dorothy, determined to make her knowledge useful. "did any of you notice the bean i've been sprouting in my room?" asked helen. "i'll get it, i'll get it!" shouted dicky. "trust dicky not to let anything escape his notice!" laughed his big sister. dicky returned in a minute or two carrying very carefully a shallow earthenware dish from which some thick yellow-green tips were sprouting. "i soaked some peas and beans last week," explained helen, "and when they were tender i planted them. you see they're poking up their heads now." [illustration: bean plant] "they don't look like real leaves," commented ethel blue. "this first pair is really the two halves of the bean. they hold the food for the little plant. they're so fat and pudgy that they never do look like real leaves. in other plants where there isn't so much food they become quite like their later brothers." "isn't it queer that whatever makes the plant grow knows enough to send the leaves up and the roots down," said dorothy thoughtfully. "that's the way the life principle works," agreed helen. "this other little plant is a pea and i want you to see if you notice any difference between it and the bean." she pulled up the wee growth very delicately and they all bent over it as it lay in her hand. "it hathn't got fat leaveth," cried dicky. [illustration: the pea plant] "good for dicky," exclaimed helen. "he has beaten you girls. you see the food in the pea is packed so tight that the pea gets discouraged about trying to send up those first leaves and gives it up as a bad job. they stay underground and do their feeding from there." "a sort of cold storage arrangement," smiled ethel brown. "after these peas are a little taller you'd find if you pulled them up that the supply of food had all been used up. there will be nothing down there but a husk." "what happens when this bean plant uses up all its food?" "there's nothing left but a sort of skin that drops off. you can see how it works with the bean because that is done above the ground." "won't it hurt those plants to pull them up this way?" "it will set them back, but i planted a good many so as to be able to pull them up at different ages and see how they looked." "you pulled that out so gently i don't believe it will be hurt much." "probably it will take a day or two for it to catch up with its neighbors. it will have to settle its roots again, you see." "what are you doing this planting for?" asked dorothy. "for the class at school. we get all the different kinds of seeds we can--the ones that are large enough to examine easily with only a magnifying glass like this one. some we cut open and examine carefully inside to see how the new leaves are to be fed, and then we plant others and watch them grow." "i'd like to know why you never told me about that before?" demanded ethel brown. "i'm going to get all the grains and fruits i can right off and plant them. is all that stuff in a horse chestnut leaf-food?" "the horse chestnut is a hungry one, isn't it?" "i made some bulbs blossom by putting them in a tall glass in a dark place and bringing them into the light when they had started to sprout," said ethel blue, "but i think this is more fun. i'm going to plant some, too." "grandmother emerson always has beautiful bulbs. she has plenty in her garden that she allows to stay there all winter, and they come up and are scrumptious very early in the spring. then she takes some of them into the house and keeps them in the dark, and they blossom all through the cold weather." "mother likes bulbs, too," said dorothy, "crocuses and hyacinths and chinese lilies--but i never cared much about them. somehow the bulb itself looks too fat. i don't care much for fat things or people." "don't think of it as fat; it's the food supply." "well, i think they're greedy things, and i'm not going ever to bother with them. i'll leave them to mother, but i am really going to plant a garden this summer. i think it will be loads of fun." "we haven't much room for a garden here," said helen, "but we always have some vegetables and a few flowers." "why don't we have a fine one this summer, helen?" demanded ethel brown. "you're learning a lot about the way plants grow, i should think you'd like to grow them." "i believe i should if you girls would help me. there never has been any member of the family who was interested, and i wasn't wild about it myself, and i just never got started." "the truth is," confessed ethel brown, "if we don't have a good garden dorothy here will have something that will put ours entirely in the shade." the girls all laughed. they never had known dorothy until the previous summer. when she came to live in rosemont in september they had learned that she was extremely energetic and that she never abandoned any plan that she attempted. the ethels knew, therefore, that if dorothy was going to have a garden the next summer they'd better have a garden, too, or else they would see little of her. "if we both have gardens dorothy will condescend to come and see ours once in a while and we can exchange ideas and experiences," continued ethel brown. "i'd love to have a garden," said ethel blue. "do you suppose roger would be willing to dig it up for us?" "dig up what?" asked roger, stamping into the house in time to hear his name. the girls told him of their new plan. "i'll help all of you if you'll plant one flower that i like; plant enough of it so that i can pick a lot any time i want to. the trouble with the little garden we've had is that there weren't enough flowers for more than the centrepiece in the dining-room. whenever i wanted any i always had to go and give a squint at the dining room table and then do some calculation as to whether there could be a stalk or two left after helen had cut enough for the next day." "and there generally weren't any!" sympathized helen. "what flower is it you're so crazy over?" asked ethel blue. "sweetpeas, my child. never in all my life have i had enough sweetpeas." "i've had more than enough," groaned ethel brown. "one summer i stayed a fortnight with grandmother emerson and i picked the sweetpeas for her every morning. she was very particular about having them picked because they blossom better if they're picked down every day." "it must have taken you an awfully long time; she always has rows and rows of them," said helen. "i worked a whole hour in the sun every single day! if we have acres of sweetpeas we'll all have to help roger pick." "i'm willing to," said ethel blue. "i'm like roger, i think they're darling; just like butterflies or something with wings." "we'll have to cast our professional eyes into the garden and decide on the best place for the sweetpeas," said roger. "they have to be planted early, you know. if we plant them just anywhere they'll be sure to be in the way of something that grows shorter so it will be hidden." "or grows taller and is a color that fights with them." "it would be hard to find a color that wasn't matched by one sweetpea or another. they seem to be of every combination under the sun." "it's queer, some of the combinations would be perfectly hideous in a dress but they look all right in nature's dress." "we'll send for some seedsmen's catalogues and order a lot." "i suppose you don't care what else goes into the garden?" asked helen. "ladies, i'll do all the digging you want, and plant any old thing you ask me to, if you'll just let me have my sweetpeas," repeated roger. "a bargain," cried all the girls. "i'll write for some seed catalogues this afternoon," said helen. "it's so appropriate, when it's snowing like this!" "'take time by the fetlock,' as one of the girls says in 'little women,'" laughed roger. "if you'll cast your orbs out of the window you'll see that it has almost stopped. come on out and make a snow man." every one jumped at the idea, even helen who laid aside her writing until the evening, and there was a great putting on of heavy coats and overshoes and mittens. chapter ii a snow man and seed catalogues the snow was of just the right dampness to make snowballs, and a snow man, after all, is just a succession of snowballs, properly placed. roger started the one to go at the base by rolling up a ball beside the house and then letting it roll down the bank toward the gate. "see it gather moss!" he cried. "it's just the opposite of a rolling stone, isn't it?" when it stopped it was of goodly size and it was standing in the middle of the little front lawn. "it couldn't have chosen a better location," commended helen. "we need a statue in the front yard," said ethel brown. "this will give a truly artistic air to the whole place," agreed ethel blue. "what's the next move?" asked dorothy, who had not had much experience in this kind of manufacture. "we start over here by the fence and roll another one, smaller than this, to serve as the body," explained roger. "come on here and help me; this snow is so heavy it needs an extra pusher already." dorothy lent her muscles to the task of pushing on the snow man's "torso," as ethel blue, who knew something about drawing figures, called it. the ethels, meanwhile, were making the arms out of small snowballs placed one against the next and slapped hard to make them stick. helen was rolling a ball for the head and dicky had disappeared behind the house to hunt for a cane. "heigho!" roger called after him. "i saw an old clay pipe stuck behind a beam in the woodshed the other day. see if it's still there and bring it along." dicky nodded and raised a mittened paw to indicate that he understood his instructions. it required the united efforts of helen and roger to set the gentleman's head on his shoulders, and helen ran in to the cellar to get some bits of coal to make his eyes and mouth. "he hasn't any expression. let me try to model a nose for the poor lamb!" begged ethel blue. "stick on this arm, roger, while i sculpture these marble features." by dint of patting and punching and adding a long and narrow lump of snow, one side of the head looked enough different from the other to warrant calling it the face. to make the difference more marked dorothy broke some straws from the covering of one of the rosebushes and created hair with them. "now nobody could mistake this being his speaking countenance," decided helen, sticking two pieces of coal where eyes should be and adding a third for the mouth. dicky had found the pipe and she thrust it above his lips. "merely two-lips, not ruby lips," commented roger. "this is an original fellow; he's 'not like other girls.'" "this cane is going to hold up his right arm; i don't feel so certain about the left," remarked ethel brown anxiously. "let it fall at his side. that's some natural, anyway. he's walking, you see, swinging one arm and with the other on the top of his cane." "he'll take cold if he doesn't have something on his head. i'm nervous about him," and dorothy bent a worried look at their creation. "hullo," cried a voice from beyond the gate. "he's bully. just make him a cap out of this bandanna and he'll look like a venetian gondolier." james hancock and his sister, margaret, the glen point members of the united service club, came through the gate, congratulated ethel blue on her birthday, and paid elaborate compliments to the sculptors of the gondolier. "that red hanky on his massive brow gives the touch of color he needed," said margaret. "we don't maintain that his features are 'faultily faultless,'" quoted roger, "but we do insist that they're 'icily regular.'" "thanks to the size of the nose ethel blue stuck on they're not 'splendidly null.'" "no, there's no 'nullness' about that nose," agreed james. "that's 'some' nose!" when they were all in the house and preparing for dinner ethel blue unwrapped the gift that margaret had brought for her birthday. it was a shallow bowl of dull green pottery in which was growing a grove of thick, shiny leaves. the plants were three or four inches tall and seemed to be in the pink of condition. "this is for the top of your christmas desk," margaret explained. "it's perfectly beautiful," exclaimed not only ethel blue but all the other girls, while roger peered over their shoulders to see what it was. "i planted it myself," said margaret with considerable pride. "each one is a little grapefruit tree." "grapefruit? what we have for breakfast? it grows like this?" "mother has some in a larger bowl and it is really lovely as a centrepiece on the dining room table." "watch me save grapefruit seeds!" and ethel brown ran out of the room to leave an immediate request in the kitchen that no grapefruit seeds should be thrown away when the fruit was being prepared for the table. "when mr. morton and i were in florida last winter," said mrs. morton, "they told us that it was not a great number of years ago that grapefruit was planted only because it was a handsome shrub on the lawn. the fruit never was eaten, but was thrown away after it fell from the tree." "now nobody can get enough of it," smiled helen. "mother has a receipt for grapefruit marmalade that is better than the english orange marmalade that is made of both sweet and sour oranges," said dorothy. "sometimes the sour oranges are hard to find in the market, but grapefruit seems to have both flavors in itself." "is it much work?" asked margaret. "it isn't much work at any one time but it takes several days to get it done." "why?" "first you have to cut up the fruit, peel and all, into tiny slivers. that's a rather long undertaking and it's hard unless you have a very, very sharp knife." "i've discovered that in preparing them for breakfast." "the fruit are of such different sizes that you have to weigh the result of your paring. to every pound of cut-up fruit add a pint of water and let it stand over night. in the morning pour off that water and fill the kettle again and let it boil until the toughest bit of skin is soft, and then let it stand over night more." "it seems to do an awful lot of resting," remarked roger. "a sort of 'weary willie,'" commented james. "when you're ready to go at it again, you weigh it once more and add four times as many pounds of sugar as you have fruit." "you must have to make it in a wash-boiler!" "not quite as bad as that, but you'll be surprised to find how much three or four grapefruit will make. you boil this together until it is as thick as you like to have your marmalade." "i can recommend aunt louise's marmalade," said ethel brown. "it's the very best i ever tasted. she taught me to make these grapefruit chips," and she handed about a bonbon dish laden with delicate strips of sugared peel. "let's have this receipt, too," begged margaret, as roger went to answer the telephone. "you can squeeze out the juice and pulp and add a quart of water to a cup of juice, sweeten it and make grapefruit-ade instead of lemonade for a variety. then take the skins and cut out all the white inside part as well as you can, leaving just the rind." "the next step must be to snip the rind into these long, narrow shavings." "it is, and you put them in cold water and let them come to a boil and boil twenty minutes. then drain off all the water and add cold water and do it again." "what's the idea of two boilings?" asked james. "i suppose it must be to take all the bitterness out of the skin at the same time that it is getting soft." "does this have to stand over night?" "yes, this sits and meditates all night. then you put it on to boil again in a syrup made of one cup of water and four cups of sugar, and boil it until the bits are all saturated with the sweetness. if you want to eat them right off you roll them now in powdered sugar or confectioner's sugar, but if you aren't in a hurry you put them into a jar and keep the air out and roll them just before you want to serve them." "they certainly are bully good," remarked james, taking several more pieces. "that call was from tom watkins," announced roger, returning from the telephone, and referring to a member of the united service club who, with his sister, della, lived in new york. "o dear, they can't come!" prophesied ethel blue. "he says he has just been telephoning to the railroad and they say that all the new jersey trains are delayed and so mrs. watkins thought he'd better not try to bring della out. she sends her love to you, ethel blue, and her best wishes for your birthday and says she's got a present for you that is different from any plant you ever saw in a conservatory." "that's what margaret's is," laughed ethel. "isn't it queer you two girls should give me growing things when we were talking about gardens this afternoon and deciding to have one this summer." "one!" repeated dorothy. "don't forget mine. there'll be two." "if aunt louise should find a lot and start to build there'd be another," suggested ethel brown. "o, let's go into the gardening business," cried roger. "i've already offered to be the laboring man at the beck and call of these young women all for the small reward of having all the sweetpeas i want to pick." "what we're afraid of is that he won't want to pick them," laughed ethel brown. "we're thinking of binding him to do a certain amount of picking every day." "anyway, the morton-smith families are going to have gardens and helen is going to write for seed catalogues this very night before she seeks her downy couch--she has vowed she will." "mother has always had a successful garden, she'll be able to give you advice," offered margaret. "we'll ask it from every one we know, i rather imagine," and dorothy beamed at the prospect of doing something that had been one of her great desires all her life. the little thicket of grapefruit trees served as the centrepiece of ethel blue's dinner table, and every one admired all over again its glossy leaves and sturdy stems. "when spring comes we'll set them out in the garden and see what happens," promised ethel blue. "we have grapefruit salad to-night. you must have sent a wireless over to the kitchen," ethel brown declared to margaret. it was a delicious salad, the cubes of the grapefruit being mixed with cubes of apple and of celery, garnished with cherries and served on crisp yellow-green lettuce leaves with french dressing. ethel blue always liked to see her aunt marion make french dressing at the table, for her white hands moved swiftly and skilfully among the ingredients. mary brought her a bowl that had been chilled on ice. into it she poured four tablespoonfuls of olive oil, added a scant half teaspoonful of salt with a dash of red pepper which she stirred until the salt was dissolved. to that combination she added one tablespoonful either of lemon juice or vinegar a drop at a time and stirring constantly so that the oil might take up its sharper neighbor. dorothy particularly approved her aunt marion's manner of putting her salads together. to-night, for instance, she did not have the plates brought in from the kitchen with the salad already upon them. "that always reminds me of a church fair," she declared. she was willing to give herself the trouble of preparing the salad for her family and guests with her own hands. from a bowl of lettuce she selected the choicest leaves for the plate before her; upon these she placed the fruit and celery mixture, dotted the top with a cherry and poured the dressing over all. it was fascinating to watch her, and margaret wished that her mother served salad that way. the club was indeed incomplete without the watkinses, but the members nevertheless were sufficiently amused by several of the "does"--things to do--that one or another suggested. first they did shadow drawings. the dining table proved to be the most convenient spot for that. they all sat around under the strong electric light. each had a block of rather heavy paper with a rough surface, and each was given a camel's hair brush, a bottle of ink, some water and a small saucer. from a vase of flowers and leaves and ferns which mrs. morton contributed to the game each selected what he wanted to draw. then, holding his leaf so that the light threw a sharp shadow upon his pad, he quickly painted the shadow with the ink, thinning it with water upon the saucer so that the finished painting showed several shades of gray. "the beauty of this stunt is that a fellow who can't draw at all can turn out almost as good a masterpiece as ethel blue here, who has the makings of a real artist," and james gazed at his production with every evidence of satisfaction. as it happened none of them except ethel blue could draw at all well, so that the next game had especial difficulties. "all there is to it is to draw something and let us guess what it is," said ethel blue. "you haven't given all the rules," corrected roger. "ethel blue makes two dots on a piece of paper--or a short line and a curve--anything she feels like making. then we copy them and draw something that will include those two marks and she sits up and 'ha-has' and guesses what it is." "i promise not to laugh," said ethel blue. "don't make any such rash promise," urged helen. "you might do yourself an injury trying not to when you see mine." it was fortunate for ethel blue that she was released from the promise, for her guesses went wide of the mark. ethel brown made something that she guessed to be a hen, roger called it a book, dicky maintained firmly that it was a portrait of himself. the rest gave it up, and they all needed a long argument by the artist to believe that she had meant to draw a pair of candlesticks. "somebody think of a game where ethel brown can do herself justice," cried james, but no one seemed to have any inspiration, so they all went to the fire, where they cracked nuts and told stories. "if you'll write those orders for the seed catalogues i'll post them to-night," james suggested to helen. "oh, will you? margaret and i will write them together." "what's the rush?" demanded roger. "this is only january." "i know just how the girls feel," sympathized james. "when i make up my mind to do a thing i want to begin right off, and the first step of this new scheme is to get the catalogues hereinbefore mentioned." "we can plan out our back yards any time, i should think," said dorothy. "father says that somebody--was it bacon, margaret?--says that a man's nature runs always either to herbs or to weeds. let's start ours running to herbs in the first month of the year and perhaps by the time the herbs appear we'll catch up with them." chapter iii dorothy tells her secret "how queer it is that when you're interested in something you keep seeing and hearing things connected with it!" exclaimed ethel blue about a week after her birthday, when della watkins came out from town to bring her her belated birthday gift. the present proved to be a slender hillock covered with a silky green growth exquisite in texture and color. "what is it? what is it?" cried ethel blue. "we mentioned plants and gardens on my birthday and that very evening margaret brought me this grapefruit jungle and now you've brought me this. do tell me exactly what it is." "a cone, child. that's all. a norway spruce cone. when it is dry its scales are open. i filled them with grass seed and put the cone in a small tumbler so that the lower end might be damp all the time. the dampness makes the scales close and starts the seed to sprouting. this has been growing a few days and the cone is almost hidden." "it's one of the prettiest plants--would you call it a plant or a greenhouse?--i ever saw. does it have to be a norway spruce cone?" "o, no. only they have very regular scales that hold the seed well. i brought you out two more of them and some grass seed and canary seed so you could try it for yourself." "you're a perfect duck," and ethel gave her friend a hug. "now let me show you what one of the girls at school gave ethel brown." she indicated a strange-looking brown object hanging before the window. "what in the world is it? it looks--yes, it looks like a sweet potato." "that's what it is--a sweet potato with one end cut off and a cage of tape to hold it. you see it's sprouting already, and they say that the vines hang down from it and it looks like a little green hanging basket." "what's the object of cutting off the end?" "anna--that's ethel brown's friend--said that she scooped hers out just a little bit and put a few drops of water inside so that the sun shouldn't dry it too much." "i should think it would grow better in a dark place. don't you know how irish potatoes send out those white shoots when they're in the cellar?" "she said she started hers in the cellar and then brought them into the light." "just like bulbs." "exactly. aunt louise is having great luck with her bulbs now. she had them in the cellar and now she is bringing them out a pot at a time, so she has something new coming forward every few days." "dorothy doesn't care much for bulbs, but i think it's pretty good fun. you can make them blossom just about when you please by keeping them in the dark or bringing them into the light. i'm going to ask aunt louise to give me some of hers when they're finished flowering. she says you can plant them out of doors and next year they'll bloom in the garden." "mother has some this winter, too. i'll ask her for them after she's through forcing them." "i like them in the garden, too--tulips and hyacinths and daffodils and narcissus and, jonquils. they come so early and give you a feeling that spring really has arrived." "you look as if spring had really arrived in the house here. if there wasn't a little bit of that snow man left in front i shouldn't know it had snowed last week. how in the world did you get all these shrubs to blossom now? they don't seem to realize that it's only january." "that's another thing that's happened since my birthday. margaret told us about bringing branches of the spring shrubs into the house and making them come out in water, so we've been trying it. she sent over those yellow bells, the forsythia, and roger brought in the pussy willows from the brook on the way to mr. emerson's." "this thorny red affair is the japan quince, but i don't recognize these others." "that's because you're a city girl! you'll laugh when i tell you what they are." "they don't look like flowering shrubs to me." "they aren't. they're flowering trees; fruit trees!" "o-o! that really is a peach blossom, then!" "the deep pink is peach, and the delicate pink is apple and the white is plum." "they're perfectly dear. tell me how you coaxed them out. surely you didn't just keep them in water in this room?" "we put them in the sunniest window we had, not too near the glass, because it wouldn't do for them to run any chance of getting chilled. they stayed there as long as the sun did, and then we moved them to another warm spot and we were very careful about them at night." "how often do you change the water?" "every two or three days; and once in a while we spray them to keep the upper part fresh--and there you are. it's _fun_ to watch them come out. don't want to take some switches back to town with you?" della did. "they make me think of a scheme that my aunt rose is putting into operation. she went round the world year before last," she said, "and she saw in japan lots of plants growing in earthenware vases hanging against the wall or in a long bamboo cut so that small water bottles might be slipped in. she has some of the very prettiest wall decorations now--a queer looking greeny-brown pottery vase has two or three sprigs of english ivy. another with orange tints has nasturtiums and another tradescantia." "are they growing in water?" "the ivy and the tradescantia are, but the nasturtiums and a perfectly darling morning glory have earth. she's growing bulbs in them, too, only she doesn't use plain water or earth, just bulb fibre." "what's that?" "why, bulbs are such fat creatures that they don't need the outside food they would get from earth; all they want is plenty of water. this fibre stuff holds enough water to keep them damp all the time, and it isn't messy in the house like dirt." "what are you girls talking about?" asked dorothy, who came in with ethel brown at this moment. both of them were interested in the addition that della had made to their knowledge of flowers and gardening. "every day i feel myself drawn into more and more gardening," exclaimed dorothy. "i've set up a notebook already." "in january!" laughed della. "january seems to be the time to do your thinking and planning; that's what the people who know tell me." "it seems to be the time for some action," retorted della, waving her hand at the blossoming branches about the room. "aren't they wonderful? i always knew you could bring them out quickly in the house after the buds were started out of doors, but these fellows didn't seem to be started at all--and look at them!" "mother says they've done so well because we've been careful to keep them evenly warm," said ethel brown. "dorothy's got the finest piece of news to tell you. if she doesn't tell you pretty soon i shall come out with it myself!" "o, let her tell her own secret!" remonstrated blue. "what is it?" you know that sloping piece of ground about a quarter of a mile beyond the clarks' on the road to mr. emerson's?" "you don't mean the field with the brook where roger got the pussy willows?" "this side of it. there's a lovely view across the meadows on the other side of the road, and the land runs back to some rocks and big trees." "certainly i know it," assented ethel blue. "there's a hillock on it that's the place i've chosen for a house when i grow up and build one." "well, you can't have it because i've got there first!" "what do you mean? has aunt louise--?" "she has." "how grand! how _grand_! you'll be farther away from us than you are now but it's a dear duck of a spot--" "and it's right on the way to grandfather emerson's," added ethel brown. "mother signed the papers this morning and she's going to begin to build as soon as the weather will allow." "with peach trees in blossom now that ought not to be far off," laughed della, waving her hand again at the blossoms that pleased her so much. "how large a house is she going to build?" asked ethel blue. "not very big. large enough for her and me and a guest or two and of course elisabeth and miss merriam," referring to a belgian baby who had been brought to the united service club from war-stricken belgium, and to her caretaker, a charming young woman from the school of mothercraft. "will it be made of concrete?" "yes, and mother says we may all help a lot in making the plans and in deciding on the decoration and everything." "isn't she the darling! it will be the next best thing to building a house yourself!" "there will be a garage behind the house." "a garage! is aunt louise going to set up a car?" "just a small one that she can drive herself. back of the garage there's plenty of space for a garden and she says she'll turn that over to me. i can do anything i want with it as long as i'll be sure to have enough vegetables for the table and lots of flowers for the house." "o, my; o, my; what fun we'll have," ejaculated della, who knew that dorothy could have no pleasure that she would not share equally with the rest of the club. "i came over now to see if you people didn't want to walk over there and see it." "this minute?" "this minute." "of course we do--if della doesn't have to take the train back yet?" "not for a long time. i'd take a later one anyway; i couldn't wait until the saturday club meeting to see it." "how did you know i'd suggest a walk there for the saturday club meeting?" "could you help it?" retorted della, laughing. they timed themselves so that they might know just how far away from them dorothy was going to be and they found that it was just about half way to grandfather emerson's. as somebody from the mortons' went there every day, and as the distance was, in reality, not long, they were reassured as to the smiths being quite out in the country as the change had seemed to them at first. "you won't be able to live in the house this summer, will you?" asked ethel blue. "not until late in the summer or perhaps even later than that. mother says she isn't in a hurry because she wants the work to be done well." "then you won't plant the garden this year?" "indeed i shall. i'm going to plant the new garden and the garden where we are now." "roger will strike on doing all the digging." "he'll have to have a helper on the new garden, but i'll plant his sweetpeas for him just the same. at the new place i'm going to have a large garden." "up here on the hill?" the girls were climbing up the ascent that rose sharply from the road. "the house will perch on top of this little hill. back of it, you see, on top of the ridge, it's quite flat and the garden will be there. i was talking about it with mr. emerson this morning--" "oho, you've called grandfather into consultation already!" "he's going to be our nearest neighbor on that side. he said that a ridge like this was one of the best places for planting because it has several exposures to the sun and you can find a spot to suit the fancy of about every plant there is." "your garden will be cut off from the house by the garage. shall you have another nearer the road?" "next summer there will have to be planting of trees and shrubs and vines around the house but this year i shall attend to the one up here in the field." "brrrr! it looks bleak enough now," shivered ethel blue. "let's go up in those woods and see what's there." "has aunt louise bought them?" "no, but she wants to. they don't belong to the same man who owned this piece of land. they belong to the clarks. she's going to see about it right off, because it looks so attractive and rocky and woodsy." "you'd have the brook, too." "i hope she'll be able to get it. of course just this piece is awfully pretty, and this is the only place for a house, but the meadow with the brook and the rocks and the woods at the back would be too lovely for words. why, you'd feel as if you had an estate." the girls laughed at dorothy's enthusiasm over the small number of acres that were included even in the combined lots of land, but they agreed with her that the additional land offered a variety that was worth working hard to obtain. they made their way up the slope and among the jumble of rocks that looked as if giants had been tossing them about in sport. small trees grew from between them as they lay heaped in disorder and taller growths stretched skyward from an occasional open space. the brook began in a spring that bubbled clear and cold, from under a slab of rock. round about it all was covered with moss, still green, though frozen stiff by the snowstorm's chilly blasts. shrivelled ferns bending over its mouth promised summer beauties. "what a lovely spot!" cried ethel blue. "this is where fairies and wood nymphs live when that drift melts. don't you know this must be a great gathering place for birds? can't you see them now dipping their beaks into the water and cocking their heads up at the sky afterwards!" and she quoted:-- "dip, birds, dip where the ferns lean over, and their crinkled edges drip, haunt and hover." "here's the best place yet!" called dorothy, who had pushed on and was now out of sight. "where are you?" "here. see if you can find me," came a muffled answer. "where do you suppose she went to?" asked ethel brown, as they all three straightened themselves, yet saw no sign of dorothy. "i hope she hasn't fallen down a precipice and been killed!" said ethel blue, whose imagination sometimes ran away with her. "more likely she has twisted her ankle," practical ethel brown. "she wouldn't sound as gay as that if anything had happened to her," della reminded them. the cries that kept reaching them were unquestionably cheerful but where they came from was a problem that they did not seem able to solve. it was only when dorothy poked out her head from behind a rock almost in front of them that they saw the entrance of what looked like a real cave. "it's the best imitation of a cave i ever did see!" the explorer exclaimed. "these rocks have tumbled into just the right position to make the very best house! come in." her guests were eager to accept her invitation. there was space enough for all of them and two or three more might easily be accommodated within, while a bit of smooth grass outside the entrance almost added another room, "if you aren't particular about a roof," as ethel brown said. "do you suppose roger has never found this!" wondered dorothy. "see, there's room enough for a fireplace with a chimney. you could cook here. you could sleep here. you could _live_ here!" the others laughed at her enthusiasm, but they themselves were just as enthusiastic. the possibilities of spending whole days here in the shade and cool of the trees and rocks and of imagining that they were in the highlands of scotland left them almost gasping. "don't you remember when fitz-james first sees ellen in the 'lady of the lake'?" asked ethel blue. "he was separated from his men and found himself in a rocky glen overlooking a lake. the rocks were bigger than these but we can pretend they were just the same," and she recited a few lines from a poem whose story they all knew and loved. "but not a setting beam could glow within the dark ravines below, where twined the path in shadow hid, round many a rocky pyramid." "i remember; he looked at the view a long time and then he blew his horn again to see if he could make any of his men hear him, and ellen came gliding around a point of land in a skiff. she thought it was her father calling her." "and the stranger went home to their lodge and fell in love with her--o, it's awfully romantic. i must read it again," and dorothy gazed at the rocks around her as if she were really in scotland. "has anybody a knife?" asked della's clear voice, bringing them all sharply back to america and rosemont. "my aunt--the one who has the hanging flowerpots i was telling you about--isn't a bit well and i thought i'd make her a little fernery that she could look at as she lies in bed." "but the ferns are all dried up." "'greenery' is a better name. here's a scrap of partridge berry with a red berry still clinging to it, and here's a bit of moss as green as it was in summer, and here--yes, it's alive, it really is!" and she held up in triumph a tiny fern that had been so sheltered under the edge of a boulder that it had kept fresh and happy. there was nothing more to reward their search, for they all hunted with della, but she was not discouraged. "i only want a handful of growing things," she explained. "i put these in a finger bowl, and sprinkle a few seeds of grass or canary seed on the moss and dash some water on it from the tips of my fingers. another finger bowl upside down makes the cover. the sick person can see what is going on inside right through the glass without having to raise her head." "how often do you water it?" "only once or twice a week, because the moisture collects on the upper glass of the little greenhouse and falls down again on the plants and keeps them, wet." "we'll keep our eyes open every time we come here," promised dorothy. "there's no reason why you couldn't add a little root of this or that any time you want to." [illustration: partridge berry] "i know aunty will be delighted with it," cried della, much pleased. "she likes all plants, but especially things that are a little bit different. that's why she spends so much time selecting her wall vases--so that they shall be unlike other people's." "fitz-james's woods," as they already called the bit of forest that dorothy hoped to have possession of, extended back from the road and spread until it joined grandfather emerson's woods on one side and what was called by the rosemonters "the west woods" on the other. the girls walked home by a path that took them into rosemont not far from the station where della was to take the train. "until you notice what there really is in the woods in winter you think there isn't anything worth looking at," said ethel blue, walking along with her eyes in the tree crowns. "the shapes of the different trees are as distinct now as they are in summer," declared ethel brown. "you'd know that one was an oak, and the one next to it a beech, wouldn't you?" "i don't know whether i would or not," confessed dorothy honestly, "but i can almost always tell a tree by its bark." "i can tell a chestnut by its bark nowadays," asserted ethel blue, "because it hasn't any!" "what on earth do you mean?" inquired city-bred della. "something or other has killed all the chestnuts in this part of the world in the last two or three years. don't you see all these dead trees standing with bare trunks?" "poor old things! is it going to last?" "it spread up the hudson and east and west in new york and massachusetts, and south into pennsylvania." "roger was telling grandfather a few days ago that a farmer was telling him that he thought the trouble--the pest or the blight or whatever it was--had been stopped." "i remember now seeing a lot of dead trees somewhere when one of father's parishioners took us motoring in the autumn. i didn't know the chestnut crop was threatened." "chestnuts weren't any more expensive this year. they must have imported them from far-off states." there were still pools of water in the wood path, left by the melting snow, and the grass that they touched seemed a trifle greener than that beside the narrow road. once in a while a bit of vivid green betrayed a plant that had found shelter under an overhanging stone. the leaves were for the most part dry enough again to rustle under their feet. evergreens stood out sharply dark against the leafless trees. "what are the trees that still have a few leaves left clinging to them?" asked della. "oaks. do you know why the leaves stay on?" "is it a story?" "yes, a pleasant story. once the great evil spirit threatened to destroy the whole world. the trees heard the threat and the oak tree begged him not to do anything so wicked. he insisted but at last he agreed not to do it until the last leaf had fallen in the autumn. all the trees meant to hold on to their leaves so as to ward off the awful disaster, but one after the other they let them go--all except the oak. the oak never yet has let fall every one of its leaves and so the evil spirit never has had a chance to put his threat into execution." "that's a lesson in success, isn't it? stick to whatever it is you want to do and you're sure to succeed." "watch me make my garden succeed," cried dorothy. "if 'sticking' will make it a success i'm a stick!" chapter iv gardening on paper when saturday came and the united service club tramped over dorothy's new domain, including the domain that she hoped to have but was not yet sure of, every member agreed that the prospect was one that gave satisfaction to the club as well as the possibility of pleasure and comfort to mrs. smith and dorothy. the knoll they hailed as the exact spot where a house should go; the ridge behind it as precisely suited to the needs of a garden. as to the region of the meadow and the brook and the rocks and the trees they all hoped most earnestly that mrs. smith would be able to buy it, for they foresaw that it would provide much amusement for all of them during the coming summer and many to follow. strangely enough roger had never found the cave, and he looked on it with yearning. "why in the world didn't i know of that three or four years ago!" he exclaimed. "i should have lived out here all summer!" "that's what we'd like to do," replied the ethels earnestly. "we'll let you come whenever you want to." roger gave a sniff, but the girls knew from his longing gaze that he was quite as eager as they to fit it up for a day camp even if he was nearly eighteen and going to college next autumn. when the exploring tour was over they gathered in their usual meeting place--dorothy's attic--and discussed the gardens which had taken so firm a hold on the girls' imaginations. "there'll be a small garden in our back yard as usual," said roger in a tone that admitted of no dispute. "and a small one in dorothy's present back yard and a large one on miss smith's farm," added tom, who had confirmed with his own eyes the glowing tales that della had brought home to him. "i suppose we may all have a chance at all of these institutions?" demanded james. "your mother may have something to say about your attentions to your own garden," suggested helen pointedly. "i won't slight it, but i've really got to have a finger in this pie if all of you are going to work at it!" "well, you shall. calm yourself," and roger patted him with a soothing hand. "you may do all the digging i promised the girls i'd do." a howl of laughter at james's expense made the attic ring. james appeared quite undisturbed. "i'm ready to do my share," he insisted placidly. "why don't we make plans of the gardens now?" "methodical old james always has a good idea," commended tom. "is there any brown paper around these precincts, dorothy?" "must it be brown?" "any color, but big sheets." "i see. there is plenty," and she spread it on the table where james had done so much pasting when they were making boxes in which to pack their presents for the war orphans. "now, then, roger, the first thing for us to do is to see--" "with our mind's eye, horatio?" "--how these gardens are going to look. take your pencil in hand and draw us a sketch of your backyard as it is now, old man." "that's easy," commented roger. "here are the kitchen steps; and here is the drying green, and back of that is the vegetable garden and around it flower beds and more over here next the fence." "it's rather messy looking as it is," commented ethel brown. "we never have changed it from the way the previous tenant laid it out." "the drying green isn't half large enough for the washing for our big family," added helen appraisingly. "mary is always lamenting that she can hang out only a few lines-ful at a time." "why don't you give her this space behind the green and limit your flower beds to the fence line?" asked tom, looking over roger's shoulder as he drew in the present arrangement with some attention to the comparative sizes. "that would mean cutting out some of the present beds." "it would, but you'll have a share in dorothy's new garden in case mrs. morton needs more flowers for the house; and the arrangement i suggest makes the yard look much more shipshape." "if we sod down these beds here what will roger do for his sweetpeas? they ought to have the sun on both sides; the fence line wouldn't be the best place for them." "sweetpeas ought to be planted on chicken wire supported by stakes and running from east to west," said margaret wisely, "but under the circumstances, i don't see why you couldn't fence in the vegetable garden with sweetpeas. that would give you two east and west lines of them and two north and south." "and there would be space for all the blossoms that roger would want to pick on a summer's day," laughed della. "i've always wanted to have a garden of all pink flowers," announced dorothy. "my room in the new house is going to be pink and i'd like to keep pink powers in it all the time." "i've always wanted to do that, too. let's try one here," urged ethel brown, nodding earnestly at ethel blue. "i don't see why we couldn't have a pink bed and a blue bed and a yellow bed," returned ethel blue whose inner eye saw the plants already well grown and blossoming. "a wild flower bed is what i'd like," contributed helen. "we mustn't forget to leave a space for dicky," suggested roger. "i want the garden i had latht year," insisted a decisive voice that preceded the tramp of determined feet over the attic stairs. "where was it, son? i've forgotten." "in a corner of your vegetable garden. don't you remember my raditheth were ripe before yourth were? mother gave me a prithe for the firtht vegetableth out of the garden." "so she did. you beat me to it. well, you may have the same corner again." "we ought to have some tall plants, hollyhocks or something like that, to cover the back fence," said ethel brown. "what do you say if we divide the border along the fence into four parts and have a wild garden and pink and yellow and blue beds? then we can transplant any plants we have now that ought to go in some other color bed, and we can have the tall plants at the back of the right colors to match the bed in front of them?" "there can be pink hollyhocks at the back of the pink bed and we already have pinks and bleeding heart and a pink peony. we've got a good start at a pink bed already," beamed ethel brown. "we can put golden glow or that tall yellow snapdragon at the back of the yellow bed and tall larkspurs behind the blue flowers." "the miss clarks have a pretty border of dwarf ageratum--that bunchy, fuzzy blue flower. let's have that for the border of our blue bed." "i remember it; it's as pretty as pretty. they have a dwarf marigold that we could use for the yellow border." "or dwarf yellow nasturtiums." "or yellow pansies." "we had a yellow stock last summer that was pretty and blossomed forever; nothing seemed to stop it but the 'chill blasts of winter.'" "even the short stocks are too tall for a really flat border that would match the others. we must have some 'ten week stocks' in the yellow border, though." "whatever we plant for the summer yellow border we must have the yellow spring bulbs right behind it--jonquils and daffodils and yellow tulips and crocuses." "they're all together now. all we'll have to do will be to select the spot for our yellow bed." "that's settled then. mark it on this plan." roger held it out to ethel brown, who found the right place and indicated the probable length of the yellow bed upon it. "we'll have the wild garden on one side of the yellow bed and the blue on the other and the pink next the blue," decreed ethel blue. "we haven't decided on the pink border," dorothy reminded them. "there's a dwarf pink candytuft that couldn't be beaten for the purpose," said james decisively. "mother and i planted some last year to see what it was like and it proved to be exactly what you want here." "i know what i'd like to have for the wild border--either wild ginger or hepatica," announced helen after some thought. "i don't know either of them," confessed tom. "you will after you've tramped the rosemont woods with the u.s.c. all this spring," promised ethel brown. "they have leaves that aren't unlike in shape--" "the ginger is heart-shaped," interposed ethel blue, "and the hepatica is supposed to be liver-shaped." "you have to know some physiology to recognize them," said james gravely. "there's where a doctor's son has the advantage," and he patted his chest. "their leaves seem much too juicy to be evergreen, but the hepatica does stay green all winter." [illustration: wild ginger] "the ginger would make the better edging," helen decided, "because the leaves lie closer to the ground." "what are the blossoms?" "the ginger has such a wee flower hiding under the leaves that it doesn't count, but the hepatica has a beautiful little blue or purple flower at the top of a hairy scape." "a hairy what?" laughed roger. "a scape is a stem that grows up right from the or root-stock and carries only a flower--not any leaves," defined helen. "that's a new one on me. i always thought a stem was a stem, whatever it carried," said roger. [illustration: hepatica] "and a scape was a 'grace' or a 'goat' according to its activities," concluded tom. "the hepatica would make a border that you wouldn't have to renew all the time," contributed dorothy, who had been thinking so deeply that she had not heard a word of this interchange, and looked up, wondering why every one was laughing. "dorothy keeps her eye on the ball," complimented james. "have we decided on the background flowers for the wild bed?" "joe-pye-weed is tall enough," offered james. "it's way up over my head." "it wouldn't cover the fence much; the blossom is handsome but the foliage is scanty." "there's a feathery meadow-rue that is tall. the leaves are delicate." "i know it; it has a fine white blossom and it grows in damp places. that will be just right. aren't you going to have trouble with these wild plants that like different kinds of ground?" "perhaps we are," helen admitted. "our garden is 'middling' dry, but we can keep the wet lovers moist by watering them more generously than the rest." "how about the watering systems of all these gardens, anyway? you have town water here and at dorothy's, but how about the new place?" "the town water runs out as far as mr. emerson's, luckily for us, and mother says she'll have the connection made as soon as the frost is out of the ground so the builders may have all they want for their work and i can have all i need for the garden there." "if you get that next field with the brook and you want to plant anything there you'll have to dig some ditches for drainage." "i think i'll keep up on the ridge that's drained by nature." "that's settled, then. we can't do much planning about the new garden until we go out in a body and make our decisions on the spot," said margaret. "we'll have to put in vegetables and flowers where they'd rather grow." "that's what we're trying to do here, only it's on a small scale," roger reminded her. "our whole garden is about a twentieth of the new one." "i shouldn't wonder if we had to have some expert help with that," guessed james, who had gardened enough at glen point not to be ashamed to confess ignorance now and then. "mr. emerson has promised to talk it all over with me," said dorothy. "let's see what there is at dorothy's present abode, then," said roger gayly, and he took another sheet of brown paper and began to place on it the position of the house and the existing borders. "do i understand, madam, that you're going to have a pink border here?" "i am," replied his cousin firmly, "both here and at the new place." "life will take on a rosy hue for these young people if they can make it," commented della. "pink flowers, a pink room--is there anything else pink?" "the name. mother and i have decided on 'sweetbrier lodge.' don't you think it's pretty?" "dandy," approved roger concisely, as he continued to draw. "do you want to change any of the beds that were here last summer?" he asked. "mother said she liked their positions very well. this long, narrow one in front of the house is to be the pink one. i've got pink tulip bulbs in the ground now and there are some pink flowering shrubs--weigelia and flowering almond--already there against the lattice of the veranda. i'm going to work out a list of plants that will keep a pink bed blossoming all summer and we can use it in three places," and she nodded dreamily to her cousins. "we'll do that, but i think it would be fun if each one of us tried out a new plant of some kind. then we can find out which are most suitable for our needs next year. we can report on them to the club when they come into bloom. it will save a lot of trouble if we tell what we've found out about what some plant likes in the way of soil and position and water and whether it is best to cut it back or to let it bloom all it wants to, and so on." "that's a good idea. i hope secretary ethel blue is taking notes of all these suggestions," remarked helen, who was the president of the club. ethel blue said she was, and roger complimented her faithfulness in terms of extravagant absurdity. "your present lot of land has the best looking fencing in rosemont, to my way of thinking," approved tom. "what is it? i hardly remember myself," said dorothy thoughtfully. "why, across the front there's a privet hedge, clipped low enough for your pink garden to be seen over it; and separating you from the clarks' is a row of tall, thick hydrangea bushes that are beauties as long as there are any leaves on them; and at the back there is osage orange to shut out that old dump; and on the other side is a row of small blue spruces." "that's quite a showing of hedges all in one yard." exclaimed ethel blue admiringly. "and i never noticed them at all!" "at the new place mother wants to try a barberry hedge. it doesn't grow regularly, but each bush is handsome in itself because the branches droop gracefully, and the leaves are a good green and the clusters of red berries are striking." "the leaves turn red in the autumn and the whole effect is stunning," contributed della. "i saw one once in new england. they aren't usual about here, and i should think it would be a beauty." "you can let it grow as tall as you like," said james. "your house is going to be above it on the knoll and look right over it, so you don't need a low hedge or even a clipped one." "at the side and anywhere else where she thinks there ought to be a real fence she's going to put honey locust." they all laughed. "that spiny affair _will_ be discouraging to visitors!" helen exclaimed. "why don't you try hedges of gooseberries and currants and raspberries and blackberries around your garden?" "that would be killing two birds with one stone, wouldn't it!" "you'll have a real problem in landscape gardening over there," said margaret. "the architect of the house will help on that. that is, he and mother will decide exactly where the house is to be placed and how the driveway is to run." "there ought to be some shrubs climbing up the knoll," advised ethel brown. "they'll look well below the house and they'll keep the bank from washing. i noticed this afternoon that the rains had been rather hard on it." "there are a lot of lovely shrubs you can put in just as soon as you're sure the workmen won't tramp them all down," cried ethel blue eagerly. "that's one thing i do know about because i went with aunt marion last year when she ordered some new bushes for our front yard." "recite your lesson, kid," commanded roger briefly. "there is the weigelia that dorothy has in front of this house; and forsythia--we forced its yellow blossoms last week, you know; and the flowering almond--that has whitey-pinky-buttony blossoms." they laughed at ethel's description, but they listened attentively while she described the spiky white blossoms of deutzia and the winding white bands of the spiraea--bridal wreath. "i can see that bank with those white shrubs all in blossom, leaning toward the road and beckoning you in," ethel ended enthusiastically. "i seem to see them myself," remarked tom, "and dorothy can be sure that they won't beckon in vain." "you'll all be as welcome as daylight," cried dorothy. "i hate to say anything that sounds like putting a damper on this outburst of imagination that ethel blue has just treated us to, but i'd like to inquire of miss smith whether she has any gardening tools," said roger, bringing them all to the ground with a bump. "miss smith hasn't one," returned dorothy, laughing. "you forget that we only moved in here last september and there hasn't been need for any that we couldn't borrow of you." [illustration: gardening tools] "you're perfectly welcome to them," answered roger, "but if we're all going to do the gardening act there'll be a scarcity if we don't add to the number." "what do we need?" "a rake and a hoe and a claw and a trowel and a spade and a heavy line with some pegs to do marking with." "we've found that it's a comfort to your back to have another claw mounted on the end of a handle as long as a hoe," contributed margaret. "two claws," dorothy amended her list, isn't many." "and a lot of dibbles." "dibbles!" "short flat sticks whittled to a point. you use them when you're changing little plants from the to the hot bed or the hot bed to the garden." "mother and i ought to have one set of tools here and one set at sweetbrier lodge," decided dorothy. "we keep ours in the shed. i'm going to whitewash the corner where they belong and make it look as fine as a fiddle before the time comes to use them." "we have a shed here where we can keep them but at sweetbrier there isn't anything," and dorothy's mouth dropped anxiously. "we can build you a tool house," tom was offering when james interrupted him. "if we can get a piano box there's your toolhouse all made," he suggested. "cover it with tar paper so the rain won't come in, and hang the front on hinges with a hasp and staple and padlock, and what better would you want?" "nothing," answered ethel brown, seriously. ethel blue noted it down in her book and roger promised to visit the local piano man and see what he could find. "we haven't finished deciding how we shall plant dorothy's yard behind this house," margaret reminded them. "we shan't attempt a vegetable garden here," dorothy said. "we'll start one at the other place so that the soil will be in good condition next year. we'll have a man to do the heavy work of the two places, he can bring over every morning whatever vegetables are ready for the day's use." "you want more flowers in this yard, then?" "you'll laugh at what i want!" "don't you forget what you promithed me," piped up dicky. "that's what i was going to tell them now. i've promised dicky to plant a lot of sunflowers for his hens. he says roger never has had space to plant enough for him." "true enough. give him a big bed of them so he can have all the seeds he wants." "i'd like to have a wide strip across the back of the whole place, right in front of the osage orange hedge. they'll cover the lower part that's rather scraggly--then everywhere else i want nasturtiums, climbing and dwarf and every color under the sun." "that's a good choice for your yard because it's awfully stony and nasturtiums don't mind a little thing like that." "then i want gourds over the trellis at the back door." "gourds!" "i saw them so much in the south that i want to try them. there's one shape that makes a splendid dipper when it's dried and you cut a hole in it; and there's another kind just the size of a hen's egg that i want for nest eggs for dickey's hens; and there's the loofa full of fibre that you can use for a bath sponge; and there's a pear-shaped one striped green and yellow that mother likes for a darning ball; and there's a sweet smelling one that is as fragrant as possible in your handkerchief case. there are some as big as buckets and some like base ball bats, but i don't care for those." "what a collection," applauded ethel brown. "beside that my idea of japanese morning glories and a hop vine for our kitchen regions has no value at all," smiled helen. "i'm going to have hops wherever the vines can find a place to climb at sweetbrier," dorothy determined. "i love a hop vine, and it grows on forever." "james and i seem to be in the same condition. if we don't start home we'll go on talking forever," margaret complained humorously. "there's to be hot chocolate for us down stairs at half past four," said dorothy, jumping up and looking at a clock that was ticking industriously on a shelf. "let's go down and get it, and we'll ask mother to sing the funny old song of 'the four seasons' for us." "why is it funny?" asked ethel blue. "it's a very old english song with queer spelling." "something like mine?" demanded della. ethel blue kissed her. "never mind; shakspere spelled his name in several different ways," she said encouragingly, "anyway, we can't tell how this is spelled when aunt louise sings it." as they sat about the fire in the twilight drinking their chocolate and eating sandwiches made of nuts ground fine, mixed with mayonnaise and put on a crisp lettuce leaf between slices of whole wheat bread, mrs. smith sang the old english song to them. "springe is ycomen in, dappled lark singe; snow melteth, runnell pelteth, smelleth winde of newe buddinge. "summer is ycomen in, loude singe cucku; groweth seede, bloweth meade, and springeth the weede newe. "autumne is ycomen in, ceres filleth horne; reaper swinketh, farmer drinketh, creaketh waine with newe corn. "winter is ycomen in, with stormy sadde cheere; in the paddocke, whistle ruddock, brighte sparke in the dead yeare." "that's a good stanza to end with," said ethel blue, as she bade her aunt "good-bye." "we've been talking about gardens and plants and flowers all the afternoon, and it would have seemed queer to put on a heavy coat to go home in if you hadn't said 'winter is ycomen in.'" chapter v a defect in the title in spite of their having made such an early start in talking about gardens the members of the united service club did not weary of the idea or cease to plan for what they were going to do. the only drawback that they found in gardening as a club activity was that the gardens were for themselves and their families and they did not see exactly how there was any "service" in them. "i'll trust you youngsters to do some good work for somebody in connection with them," asserted grandfather emerson one day when roger had been talking over with him his pet plan for remodelling the old emerson farmhouse into a place suitable for the summer shelter of poor women and children from the city who needed country air and relief from hunger and anxiety. "we aren't rushing anything now," roger had explained, "because we boys are all going to graduate this june and we have our examinations to think about. they must come first with us. but later on we'll be ready for work of some sort and we haven't anything on the carpet except our gardens." "there are many good works to be done with the help of a garden," replied mr. emerson. "ask your grandmother to tell you how she has sent flowers into new york for the poor for many, many summers. there are people right here in rosemont who haven't enough ground to raise any vegetables and they are glad to have fresh corn and brussels sprouts sent to them. if you really do undertake this farmhouse scheme there'll have to be a large vegetable garden planted near the house to supply it, and you can add a few flower beds. the old place will look better flower-dressed than empty, and perhaps some of the women and children will like to work in the garden." roger went home comforted, for he was very loyal to the club and its work and he did not want to become so involved with other matters that he could not give himself to the purpose for which the club was organized--helping others. as he passed the miss clarks he stopped to give their furnace its nightly shaking, for he was the accredited furnace man for them and his aunt louise as well as for his mother. he added the money that he earned to the treasury of the club so that there might always be enough there to do a kind act whenever there should be a chance. as he labored with the shaker and the noise of his struggles was sent upward through the registers a voice called to him down the cellar stairs. "ro-ger; roger!" "yes, ma'am," replied roger, wishing the old ladies would let him alone until he had finished his work. "come up here, please, when you've done." "very well," he agreed, and went on with his racket. when he went upstairs he found that the cause of his summons was the arrival of a young man who was apparently about the age of edward watkins, the doctor brother of tom and della. "my nephew is a law student," said miss clark as she introduced the two young people, "and i want him to know all of our neighbors." "my name is stanley clark," said the newcomer, shaking hands cordially. "i'm going to be here for a long time so i hope i'll see you often." roger liked him at once and thought his manner particularly pleasant in view of the fact that he was several years older. roger was so accustomed to the companionship of edward watkins, who frequently joined the club in their festivities and who often came to rosemont to call on miss merriam, that the difference did not seem to him a cause of embarrassment. he was unusually easy for a boy of his age because he had always been accustomed to take his sailor father's place at home in the entertainment of his mother's guests. young clark, on his side, found his new acquaintance a boy worth talking to, and they got on well. he was studying at a law school in the city, it seemed, and commuted every day. "it's a long ride," he agreed when roger suggested it, "but when i get home i have the good country air to breathe and i'd rather have that than town amusements just now when i'm working hard." roger spoke of edward watkins and stanley was interested in the possibility of meeting him. evidently his aunts had told him all about the belgian baby and miss merriam, for he said elisabeth would be the nearest approach to a soldier from a belgian battlefield that he had seen. roger left with the feeling that his new acquaintance would be a desirable addition to the neighborhood group and he was so pleased that he stopped in at his aunt louise's not only to shake the furnace but to tell her about stanley clark. [illustration: the hot bed] during the next month they all came to know him well and they liked his cheerfulness and his interest in what they were doing and planning. on saturdays he helped roger build a hot bed in the sunniest spot against the side of the kitchen ell. they found that the frost had not stiffened the ground after they managed to dig down a foot, so that the excavation was not as hard as they had expected. they dug a hole the size of two window sashes and four feet deep, lining the sides with some old bricks that they found in the cellar. at first they filled the entire bed with fresh stable manure and straw. after it had stayed under the glass two days it was quite hot and they beat it down a foot and put on six inches of soil made one-half of compost and one-half of leaf mould that they found in a sheltered corner of the west woods. "grandfather didn't believe we could manage to get good soil at this season even if we did succeed in digging the hole, but when i make up my mind to do a thing i like to succeed," said roger triumphantly when they had fitted the sashes on to planks that sloped at the sides so that rain would run off the glass, and called the girls out to admire their result. "what are we going to put in here first?" asked ethel brown, who liked to get at the practical side of matters at once. "i'd like to have some violets," said ethel blue. "could i have a corner for them? i've had some plants promised me from the glen point greenhouse man. margaret is going to bring them over as soon as i'm ready for them." "i want to see if i can beat dicky with early vegetables," declared roger. "i'm going to start early parsley and cabbage and lettuce, cauliflower and egg plants, radishes and peas and corn in shallow boxes--flats grandfather says they're called--in my room and the kitchen where it's warm and sunny, and when they've sprouted three leaves i'll set them out here and plant some more in the flats." "won't transplanting them twice set them back?" "if you take up enough earth around them they ought not to know that they've taken a journey." "i've done a lot of transplanting of wild plants from the woods," said stanley, "and i found that if i was careful to do that they didn't even wilt." "why can't we start some of the flower seeds here and have early blossoms?" "you can. i don't see why we can't keep it going all the time and have a constant supply of flowers and vegetables earlier than we should if we trusted to mother nature to do the work unaided." "then in the autumn we can stow away here some of the plants we want to save, geraniums and begonias, and plants that are pretty indoors, and take them into the house when the indoor ones become shabby." "evidently right in the heart of summer is the only time this article won't be in use," decided stanley, laughing at their eagerness. "have you got anything to cover it with when the spring sunshine grows too hot?" "there is an old hemp rug and some straw matting in the attic--won't they do?" "perfectly. lay them over the glass so that the delicate little plants won't get burned. you can raise the sashes, too." "if we don't forget to close them before the sun sets and the night chill comes on, i suppose," smiled ethel blue. "mr. emerson says that seeds under glass do better if they're covered with newspaper until they start." it was about the middle of march when mrs. smith went in to call on her neighbors, the miss clarks, one evening. they were at home and after a talk on the ever-absorbing theme of the war mrs. smith said, "i really came in here on business. i hope you've decided to sell me the meadow lot next to my knoll. if you've made up your minds hadn't i better tell my lawyer to make out the papers at once?" "sister and i made up our minds some time ago, dear mrs. smith, and we wrote to brother william about it before he came to stay with us, and he was willing, and stanley, here, who is the only other heir of the estate that we know about, has no objection." "that gives me the greatest pleasure. i'll tell my lawyer, then, to have the title looked up right away and make out the deed--though i feel as if i should apologize for looking up the title of land that has been in your family as long as mr. emerson's has been in his." "you needn't feel at all apologetic," broke in stanley. "it's never safe to buy property without having a clear title, and we aren't sure that we are in a position to give you a clear title." "that's why we haven't spoken to you about it before," said the elder miss clark; "we were waiting to try to make it all straight before we said anything about it one way or the other." "not give me a clear title!" cried mrs. smith. "do you mean that i won't be able to buy it? why, i don't know what dorothy will do if we can't get that bit with the brook; she has set her heart on it." "we want you to have it not only for dorothy's sake but for our own. it isn't a good building lot--it's too damp--and we're lucky to have an offer for it." "can you tell me just what the trouble is? it seems as if it ought to be straight since all of you heirs agree to the sale." "the difficulty is," said stanley, "that we aren't sure that we are all the heirs. we thought we were, but uncle william made some inquiries on his way here, and he learned enough to disquiet him." "our father, john clark, had a sister judith," explained the younger miss clark. "they lived here on the clark estate which had belonged to the family for many generations. then judith married a man named leonard--peter leonard--and went to nebraska at a time when nebraska was harder to reach than california is now. that was long before the civil war and during those frontier days aunt judith and uncle peter evidently were tossed about to the limit of their endurance. her letters came less and less often and they always told of some new grief--the death of a child or the loss of some piece of property. finally the letters ceased altogether. i don't understand why her family didn't hold her more closely, but they lost sight of her entirely." "probably it was more her fault than theirs," replied mrs. smith softly, recalling that there had been a time when her own pride had forbade her letting her people know that she was in dire distress. "it doesn't make much difference to-day whose fault it was," declared stanley clark cheerfully; "the part of the story that interests us is that the family thought that all great-aunt judith's children were dead. here is where uncle william got his surprise. when he was coming on from arkansas he stopped over for a day at the town where aunt judith had posted her last letter to grandfather, about sixty years ago. there he learned from the records that she was dead and all her children were dead--_except one_." "except one!" repeated mrs. smith. "born after she ceased writing home?" "exactly. now this daughter--emily was her name--left the town after her parents died and there is no way of finding out where she went. one or two of the old people remember that the leonard girl left, but nothing more." "she may be living now." "certainly she may; and she may have married and had a dozen children. you see, until we can find out something about this emily we can't give a clear title to the land." mrs. smith nodded her understanding. "it's lucky we've never been willing to sell any of the old estate," said mr. william clark, who had entered and been listening to the story. "if we had we should, quite ignorantly, have given a defective title." "isn't it possible, after making as long and thorough a search as you can, to take the case into court and have the judge declare the title you give to be valid, under the circumstances?" "that is done; but you can see that such a decision would be granted only after long research on our part. it would delay your purchase considerably." "however, it seems to me the thing to do," decided mrs. smith, and she and stanley at once entered upon a discussion of the ways and means by which the hunt for emily leonard and her heirs was to be accomplished. it included the employment of detectives for the spring months, and then, if they had not met with success, a journey by stanley during the weeks of his summer vacation. dorothy and ethel were bitterly disappointed at the result of mrs. smith's attempt to purchase the coveted bit of land. "i suppose it wouldn't have any value for any one else on earth," cried dorothy, "but i want it." "i don't think i ever saw a spot that suited me so well for a summer play place," agreed ethel blue, and helen and roger and all the rest of the club members were of the same opinion. "the clarks will be putting the price up if they should find out that we wanted it so much," warned roger. "i don't believe they would," smiled mrs. smith. "they said they thought themselves lucky to have a customer for it, because it isn't good for building ground." "we'll hope that stanley will unearth the history of his great-aunt," said roger seriously. "and find that she died a spinster," smiled his aunt louise. "the fewer heirs there are to deal the simpler it will be." chapter vi wild flowers for helen's garden roger had a fair crop of lettuce in one of his flats by the middle of march and transplanted the tiny, vivid green leaves to the hotbed without doing them any harm. the celery and tomato seeds that he had planted during the first week of the month were showing their heads bravely and the cabbage and cauliflower seedlings had gone to keep the lettuce company in the hotbed. on every warm day he opened the sashes and let the air circulate among the young plants. "wordsworth says 'it is my faith that every flower enjoys the air it breathes,' and i suppose that's true of vegetables, too," laughed roger. the girls, meanwhile, had been planting the seeds of canterbury bells and foxgloves in flats. they did not put in many of them because they learned that they would not blossom until the second year. the flats they made from boxes that had held tomato cans. roger sawed through the sides and they used the cover for the bottom of the second flat. the dahlias they provided with pots, joking at the exclusiveness of this gorgeous flower which likes to have a separate house for each of its seeds. these were to be transferred to the garden about the middle of may together with the roots of last year's dahlias which they were going to sprout in a box of sand for about a month before allowing them to renew their acquaintance with the flower bed. by the middle of april they had planted a variety of seeds and were watching the growth or awaiting the germination of gay cosmos, shy four o'clocks, brilliant marigolds, varied petunias and stocks, smoke-blue ageratums, old-fashioned pinks and sweet williams. each was planted according to the instructions of the seed catalogues, and the young horticulturists also read and followed the advice of the pamphlets on "annual flowering plants" and "the home vegetable garden" sent out by the department of agriculture at washington to any one who asks for them. [illustration: a flat] they were prudent about planting directly in the garden seeds which did not require forcing in the house, for they did not want them to be nipped, but they put them in the ground just as early as any of the seedsmen recommended, though they always saved a part of their supply so that they might have enough for a second sowing if a frost should come. certain flowers which they wished to have blossom for a long time they sowed at intervals. candytuft, for instance, they sowed first in april and they planned to make a second sowing in may and a third late in july so that they might see the pretty white border blossoms late in the autumn. mignonette was a plant of which mr. emerson was as fond as roger was of sweetpeas and the girls decided to give him a surprise by having such a succession of blooms that they might invite him to a picking bee as late as the end of october. nasturtiums also, they planted with a liberal hand in nooks and crannies where the soil was so poor that they feared other plants would turn up their noses, and pansies, whose demure little faces were favorites with mrs. morton, they experimented with in various parts of the gardens and in the hotbed. the gardens at the mortons' and smiths' were long established so that there was not any special inducement to change the arrangement of the beds, except as the young people had planned way back in january for the enlargement of the drying green. the new garden, however, offered every opportunity. each bed was laid out with especial reference to the crop that was to be put into it and the land was naturally so varied that there was the kind of soil and the right exposure for plants that required much moisture and for those that preferred a sandy soil, for the sun lovers and the shade lovers. the newly aroused interest in plants extended to the care of the house plants which heretofore had been the sole concern of mrs. emerson and mrs. morton. now the girls begged the privilege of trimming off the dead leaves from the ivies and geraniums and of washing away with oil of lemon and a stiff brush the scale that sometimes came on the palms. they even learned to kill the little soft white creature called aphis by putting under the plant a pan of hot coals with tobacco thrown on them. "it certainly has a sufficiently horrid smell," exclaimed ethel brown. "i don't wonder the beasties curl up and die; i'd like to myself." "they say aphis doesn't come on a plant with healthy sap," ethel blue contributed to this talk, "so the thing to do is to make these plants so healthy that the animals drop off starved." "this new development is going to be a great comfort to me if it keeps on," mrs. emerson confessed to her daughter humorously. "i shall encourage the girls to use my plants for instruction whenever they want to." "you may laugh at their sudden affection," returned mrs. morton seriously, "but i've noticed that everything the u.s.c. sets its heart on doing gets done, and i've no doubt whatever that they'll have what roger calls 'some' garden this next summer." "roger has had long consultations with his grandfather about fertilizers and if he's interested in the beginnings of a garden and not merely in the results i think we can rely on him." "they have all been absorbed in the subject for three months and now 'lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.'" roger maintained that his aunt louise's house ought to be begun at the time that he planted his sweetpeas. "if i can get into the ground enough to plant, surely the cellar diggers ought to be able to do the same," he insisted. march was not over when he succeeded in preparing a trench a foot deep all around the spot which was to be his vegetable garden except for a space about three feet wide which he left for an entrance. in the bottom he placed three inches of manure and over that two inches of good soil. in this he planted the seeds half an inch apart in two rows and covered them with soil to the depth of three inches, stamping it down hard. as the vines grew to the top of the trench he kept them warm with the rest of the earth that he had taken out, until the opening was entirely filled. the builder was not of roger's mind about the cellar digging, but he really did begin operations in april. every day the mortons and smiths, singly or in squads, visited the site of sweetbrier lodge, as mrs. smith and dorothy had decided to call the house. dorothy had started a notebook in which to keep account of the progress of the new estate, but after the first entry--"broke ground to-day"--matters seemed to advance so slowly that she had to fill in with memoranda concerning the growth of the garden. even before the house was started its position and that of the garage had been staked so that the garden might not encroach on them. then the garden had been laid out with a great deal of care by the united efforts of the club and mr. emerson and his farm superintendent. often the ethels and dorothy extended their walk to the next field and to the woods and rocks at the back. the clarks had learned nothing more about their cousin emily, although they had a man searching records and talking with the older people of a number of towns in nebraska. he reported that he was of the opinion that either the child had died when young or that she had moved to a considerable distance from the town of her birth or that she had been adopted and had taken the name of her foster parents. at any rate consultation of records of marriages and deaths in several counties had revealed to him no emily leonard. the clarks were quite as depressed by this outcome of the search as was mrs. smith, but they had instructed the detective to continue his investigation. meanwhile they begged dorothy and her cousins to enjoy the meadow and woods as much as they liked. the warm moist days of april tempted the girls to frequent searches for wild flowers. they found the lot a very gold mine of delight. there was so much variety of soil and of sunshine and of shadow that plants of many different tastes flourished where in the meadow across the road only a few kinds seemed to live. it was with a hearty shout they hailed the first violets. "here they are, here they are!" cried ethel blue. "aunt marion said she was sure she saw some near the brook. she quoted some poetry about it-- "'blue ran the flash across; violets were born!'" "that's pretty; what's the rest of it?" asked ethel brown, on her knees taking up some of the plants with her trowel and placing them in her basket so carefully that there was plenty of earth surrounding each one to serve as a nest when it should be put into helen's wild flower bed. "it's about something good happening when everything seems very bad," explained ethel blue. "browning wrote it." "such a starved bank of moss till, that may morn, blue ran the flash across: violets were born! "sky--what a scowl of cloud till, near and far, ray on ray split the shroud: splendid, a star! "world--how it walled about life with disgrace till god's own smile came out: that was thy face!" "it's always so, isn't it!" approved dorothy. "and the more we think about the silver lining to every cloud the more likely it is to show itself." "what's this delicate white stuff? and these tiny bluey eyes?" asked ethel blue, who was again stooping over to examine the plants that enjoyed the moist positions near the stream. "the eyes are houstonia--quaker ladies. we must have a clump of them. saxifrage, helen said the other was. she called my attention the other day to some they had at school to analyze. it has the same sort of stem that the hepatica has." [illustration: yellow adder's tongue] "i remember--a scape--only this isn't so downy." "they're pretty, aren't they? we must be sure to get a good sized patch; you can't see them well enough when there is only a plant or two." "helen wants a regular village of every kind that she transplants. she says she'd rather have a good many of a few kinds than a single plant of ever so many kinds." "it will be prettier. what do you suppose this yellow bell-shaped flower is?" "it ought to be a lily, hanging its head like that." "it is a lily," corroborated ethel brown, "but it's called 'dog-tooth violet' though it isn't a violet at all." "what a queer mistake. hasn't it any other name?" "adder's-tongue. that's more suitable, isn't it?" "yes, except that i hate to have a lovely flower called by a snake's name!" "not all snakes are venomous; and, anyway, we ought to remember that every animal has some means of protecting himself and the snakes do it through their poison fangs." "or through their squeezing powers, like that big constrictor we saw at the zoo." "i suppose it is fair for them to have a defence," admitted ethel blue, "but i don't like them, just the same, and i wish this graceful flower had some other name." "it has." "o, _that_! 'dog-tooth' is just about as ugly as 'adder's tongue'! the botanists were in bad humor when they christened the poor little thing!" "do you remember what bryant says about 'the yellow violet'?" asked ethel brown, who was always committing verses to memory. "tell us," begged ethel blue, who was expending special care on digging up this contribution to the garden as if to make amends for the unkindness of the scientific world, and ethel brown repeated the poem beginning "when beechen buds begin to swell, and woods the blue-bird's warble know, the yellow violet's modest bell peeps from last year's leaves below." dorothy went into ecstasies over the discovery of two roots of white violets, but there seemed to be no others, though they all sought diligently for the fragrant blossoms among the leaves. a cry from ethel blue brought the others to a drier part of the field at a distance from the brook. there in a patch of soil that was almost sandy was a great patch of violets of palest hue, with deep orange eyes. they were larger than any of the other violets and their leaves were entirely different. "what funny leaves," cried dorothy. "they look as if some one had crumpled up a real violet leaf and cut it from the edge to the stem into a fine fringe." "turn it upside down and press it against the ground. don't you think it looks like a bird's claw?" "so it does! this must be a 'bird-foot violet,'" "it is, and there's more meaning in the name than in the one the yellow bell suffers from. do you suppose there are any violets up in the woods?" "they seem to fit in everywhere; i shouldn't be a bit surprised if there were some there." sure enough, there were, smaller and darker in color than the flowers down by the brook and hiding more shyly under their shorter-stemmed leaves. "helen is going to have some trouble to make her garden fit the tastes of all these different flowers," said ethel brown thoughtfully. "i don't see how she's going to do it." "naturally it's sort of half way ground," replied ethel blue. "she can enrich the part that is to hold the ones that like rich food and put sand where these bird foot fellows are to go, and plant the wet-lovers at the end where the hydrant is so that there'll be a temptation to give them a sprinkle every time the hose is screwed on." [illustration: blue flag] "the ground is always damp around the hydrant; i guess she'll manage to please her new tenants." "if only mother can buy this piece of land," said dorothy, "i'm going to plant forget-me-nots and cow lilies and arum lilies right in the stream. there are flags and pickerel weed and cardinals here already. it will make a beautiful flower bed all the length of the field." "i hope and hope every day that it will come out right," sighed ethel blue. "of course the miss clarks are lovely about it, but you can't do things as if it were really yours." almost at the same instant both the ethels gave a cry as each discovered a plant she had been looking for. "mine is wild ginger, i'm almost sure," exclaimed ethel brown. "come and see, dorothy." "has it a thick, leathery leaf that lies down almost flat?" asked dorothy, running to see for herself. "yes, and a blossom you hardly notice. it's hidden under the leaves and it's only yellowish-green. you have to look hard for it." "that must be wild ginger," dorothy decided. "what's yours, ethel blue?" "i know mine is hepatica. see the 'hairy scape' helen talked about? and see what a lovely, lovely color the blossom is? violet with a hint of pink?" "that would be the best of all for a border. the leaves stay green all winter and the blossoms come early in the spring and encourage you to think that after a while all the flowers are going to awaken." "it's a shame to take all this out of dorothy's lot." "it may never be mine," sighed dorothy. "still, perhaps we ought not to take too many roots; the miss clarks may not want all the flowers taken out of their woods." "we'll take some from here and some from grandfather's woods," decided ethel brown. "there are a few in the west woods, too." so they dug up but a comparatively small number of the hepaticas, nor did they take many of the columbines nodding from a cleft in the piled-up rocks. "i know that when we have our wild garden fully planted i'm not going to want to pick flowers just for the sake of picking them the way i used to," confessed ethel blue. "now i know something about them they seem so alive to me, sort of like people--i'm sure they won't like to be taken travelling and forced to make a new home for themselves." "i know how you feel," responded dorothy slowly. "i feel as if those columbines were birds that had perched on those rocks just for a minute and were going to fly away, and i didn't want to disturb them before they flitted." they all stood gazing at the delicate, tossing blossoms whose spurred tubes swung in every gentlest breeze. "it has a bird's name, too," added dorothy as if there had been no silence; "_aquilegia_--the eagle flower." "why eagle? the eagle is a strenuous old fowl," commented ethel brown. "the name doesn't seem appropriate." "it's because of the spurs--they suggest an eagle's talons." "that's too far-fetched to suit me," confessed ethel brown. "it is called 'columbine' because the spurs look a little like doves around a drinking fountain, and the latin word for dove is '_columba_," said dorothy. "it's queer the way they name flowers after animals--" said ethel blue. "or parts of animals," laughed her cousin. "saxifrage isn't; helen told me the name meant 'rock-breaker,' because some kinds grow in the clefts of rocks the way the columbines do." "i wish we could find a trillium," said ethel blue. "the _tri_ in that name means that everything about it is in threes." "what is a trillium?" asked ethel brown. "roger brought in a handful the other day. 'wake-robin' he called it." "o, i remember them. there was a bare stalk with three leaves and the flower was under the leaves." "there were three petals to the corolla and three sepals to the calyx. he had purple ones and white ones." "here's a white one this very minute," said dorothy, pouncing upon a plant eight or ten inches in height whose leaves looked eager and strong. "see," she said as they all leaned over to examine it; "the blossom has two sets of leaves. the outer set is usually green or some color not so gay as to attract insects or birds that might destroy the flower when it is in bud. these outer leaves are called, all together, the calyx, and each one of them is called a sepal." "the green thing on the back of a rose is the calyx and each of its leaflets is called a sepal," said ethel brown by way of fixing the definition firmly in her mind. "the pretty part of the flower is the corolla which means 'little crown,' and each of its parts is called a petal." "how did you learn all that?" demanded ethel brown admiringly. "your grandmother told me the other day." "you've got a good memory. helen has told me a lot of botanical terms, but i forget them," "i try hard to remember everything i hear any one say about flowers or vegetables or planting now. you never can tell when it may be useful," and dorothy nodded wisely. "shall we take up this wake-robin?" asked ethel blue. "let's not," pleaded ethel brown. "we shall find others somewhere and there's only one here." [illustration: wind flower] they left it standing, but when they came upon a growth of wind-flowers there were so many of them that they did not hesitate to dig them freely. "i wonder why they're called 'wind-flowers'?" queried ethel brown, whose curiosity on the subject of names had been aroused. "i know that answer," replied ethel blue unexpectedly. "that is, nobody knows the answer exactly; i know that much." the other girls laughed. "what is the answer as far as anybody knows it?" demanded dorothy. "the scientific name is 'anemone.' it comes from the greek word meaning 'wind.'" "that seems to be a perfectly good answer. probably it was given because they dance around so prettily in the wind," guessed dorothy. "helen's botany says that it was christened that either because it grew in windy places or because it blossomed at the windy season." "dorothy's explanation suits me best," ethel brown decided. "i shall stick to that." "i think it's prettiest myself," agreed dorothy. "she's so much in earnest she doesn't realize that she's deciding against famous botanists," giggled ethel brown. "it _is_ prettier--a lot prettier," insisted ethel blue. "i'm glad i've a cousin who can beat scientists!" "what a glorious lot of finds!" cried ethel brown. "just think of our getting all these in one afternoon!" "i don't believe we could except in a place like this where any plant can have his taste suited with meadow or brookside or woods or rocks." "and sunshine or shadow." they were in a gay mood as they gathered up their baskets and trowels and gently laid pieces of newspaper over the uprooted plants. "it isn't hot to-day but we won't run any risk of their getting a headache from the sun," declared dorothy. "these woodsy ones that aren't accustomed to bright sunshine may be sensitive to it," assented ethel blue. "we must remember to tell helen in just what sort of spot we found each one so she can make its corner in the garden bed as nearly like it as possible." "i'm going to march in and quote shakespeare to her," laughed ethel brown. "i'm going to say 'i know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlip and the nodding violet grows,' and then i'll describe the 'bank' so she can copy it." "if she doesn't she may have to repeat bryant's 'death of the flowers':-- 'the windflower and the violet, they perished long ago.'" chapter vii color schemes "look out, della; don't pick that! _don't_ pick that, it's poison ivy!" cried ethel brown as all the club members were walking on the road towards grandfather emerson's. a vine with handsome glossy leaves reached an inviting cluster toward passers-by. "poison ivy!" repeated della, springing back. "how do you know it is? i thought it was woodbine--virginia creeper." "virginia creeper has as many fingers as your hand; this ivy has only three leaflets. see, i-v-y," and ethel blue took a small stick and tapped a leaflet for each letter. "i must tell grandfather this is here," said helen. "he tries to keep this road clear of it even if he finds it growing on land not his own. it's too dangerous to be so close to the sidewalk." "it's a shame it behaves so badly when it's so handsome." "it's not handsome if 'handsome is as handsome does' is true. but this is stunning when the leaves turn scarlet." "it's a mighty good plan to admire it from a distance," decided tom, who had been looking at it carefully. "della and i being 'city fellers,' we're ignorant about it. i'll remember not to touch the three-leaved i-v-y, from now on." the club was intent on finishing their flower garden plans that afternoon. they had gathered together all the seedsmen's catalogues that had been sent them and they had also accumulated a pile of garden magazines. they knew, however, that mr. emerson had some that they did not have, and they also wanted his help, so they had telephoned over to find out whether he was to be at home and whether he would help them with the laying out of their color beds. "nothing i should like better," he had answered cordially so now they were on the way to put him to the test. "we already have some of our color plants in our gardens left over from last year," helen explained, "and some of the others that we knew we'd want we've started in the hotbed, and we've sowed a few more in the open beds, but we want to make out a full list." "just what is your idea," asked mr. emerson, while grandmother emerson saw that the dining table around which they were sitting had on it a plentiful supply of whole wheat bread sandwiches, the filling being dates and nuts chopped together. helen explained their wish to have beds all of one color. "we girls are so crazy over pink that we're going to try a pink bed at both of dorothy's gardens as well as in ours," she laughed. "you'd like a list of plants that will keep on blooming all summer so that you can always run out and get a bunch of pink blossoms, i suppose." "that's exactly what we want," and they took their pencils to note down any suggestions that mr. emerson made. "we've decided on pink candytuft for the border and single pink hollyhocks for the background with foxgloves right in front of them to cover up the stems at the bottom where they haven't many leaves and a medium height phlox in front of that for the same reason." "you should have pink morning glories and there's a rambler rose, a pink one, that you ought to have in the southeast corner on your back fence," suggested mr. emerson. "stretch a strand or two of wire above the top and let the vine run along it. it blooms in june." "pink rambler," they all wrote. "what's its name?" "dorothy--" "smith?" "perkins." james went through a pantomime that registered severe disappointment. "suppose we begin at the beginning," suggested mr. emerson. "i believe we can make out a list that will keep your pink bed gay from may till frost." "that's what we want." "you had some pink tulips last spring." "we planted them in the autumn so that they'd come out early this spring. by good luck they're just where we've decided to have a pink bed." "there's your first flower, then. they're near the front of the bed, i hope. the low plants ought to be in front, of course, so they won't be hidden." "they're in front. so are the hyacinths." "are you sure they're all pink?" "it's a great piece of good fortune--mother selected only pink bulbs and a few yellow ones to put back into the ground and gave the other colors to grandmother." "that helps you at the very start-off. there are two kinds of pinks that ought to be set near the front rank because they don't grow very tall--the moss pink and the old-fashioned 'grass pink.' they are charming little fellows and keep up a tremendous blossoming all summer long." "'grass pink,'" repeated ethel, brown, "isn't that the same as 'spice pink'?" "that's what your grandmother calls it. she says she has seen people going by on the road sniff to see what that delicious fragrance was. i suppose these small ones must be the original pinks that the seedsmen have burbanked into the big double ones." "'burbanked'?" "that's a new verb made out of the name of luther burbank, the man who has raised such marvelous flowers in california and has turned the cactus into a food for cattle instead of a prickly nuisance." "i've heard of him," said margaret. "'burbanked' means 'changed into something superior,' i suppose." "something like that. did you tell me you had a peony?" there's a good, tall tree peony that we've had moved to the new bed." "at the back?" "yes, indeed; it's high enough to look over almost everything else we are likely to have. it blossoms early." "to be a companion to the tulips and hyacinths." "have you started any peony seeds?" "the reine hortense. grandmother advised that. they're well up now." "i'd plant a few seeds in your bed, too. if you can get a good stand of perennials--flowers that come up year after year of their own accord--it saves a lot of trouble." "those pinks are perennials, aren't they? they come up year after year in grandmother's garden." "yes, they are, and so is the columbine. you ought to put that in." "but it isn't pink. we got some in the woods the other day. it is red," objected dorothy. "the columbine has been 'burbanked.' there's a pink one among the cultivated kinds. they're larger than the wild ones and very lovely." "mother has some. hers are called the 'rose queen,'" said margaret. "there are yellow and blue ones, too." "your grandmother can give you some pink canterbury bells that will blossom this year. they're biennials, you know." "does that mean they blossom every two years?" "not exactly. it means that the ones you planted in your flats will only make wood and leaves this year and won't put out any flowers until next year. that's all these pink ones of your grandmother's did last season; this summer they're ready to go into your bed and be useful." "our seedlings are blue, anyway," ethel blue reminded the others. "they must be set in the blue bed." "how about sweet williams?" asked mr. emerson. "don't i remember some in your yard?" "mother planted some last year," answered roger, "but they didn't blossom." "they will this year. they're perennials, but it takes them one season to make up their minds to set to work. there's an annual that you might sow now that will be blossoming in a few weeks. it won't last over, though." "annuals die down at the end of the first season. i'm getting these terms straightened in my so-called mind," laughed dorothy. "you said you had a bleeding heart--" "a fine old perennial," exclaimed ethel brown, airing her new information. "--and pink candy-tuft for the border and foxgloves for the back; are those old plants or seedlings?" "both." "then you're ready for anything! how about snapdragons?" "i thought snapdragons were just common weeds," commented james. "they've been improved, too, and now they are large and very handsome and of various heights. if you have room enough you can have a lovely bed of tall ones at the back, with the half dwarf kind before it and the dwarf in front of all. it gives a sloping mass of bloom that is lovely, and if you nip off the top blossoms when the buds appear you can make them branch sidewise and become thick." "we certainly haven't space for that bank arrangement in our garden," decided roger, "but it will be worth trying in dorothy's new garden," and he put down a "d" beside the note he had made. "the snapdragon sows itself so you're likely to have it return of its own accord another year, so you must be sure to place it just where you'd like to have it always," warned mr. emerson. "the petunia sows itself, too," margaret contributed to the general stock of knowledge. "you can get pretty, pale, pink petunias now, and they blossom at a great rate all summer." "i know a plant we ought to try," offered james. "it's the plant they make persian insect powder out of." "the persian daisy," guessed mr. emerson. "it would be fun to try that." "wouldn't it be easier to buy the insect powder?" asked practical ethel brown. "very much," laughed her grandfather, "but this is good fun because it doesn't always blossom 'true,' and you never know whether you'll get a pink or a deep rose color. now, let me see," continued mr. emerson thoughtfully, "you've arranged for your hollyhocks and your phlox--those will be blooming by the latter part of july, and i suppose you've put in several sowings of sweetpeas?" they all laughed, for roger's demand for sweetpeas had resulted in a huge amount of seeds being sown in all three of the gardens. "where are we now?" continued mr. emerson. "now there ought to be something that will come into its glory about the first of august," answered helen. "what do you say to poppies?" "are there pink poppies?" "o, beauties! big bears, and little bears, and middle-sized bears; single and double, and every one of them a joy to look upon!" "put down poppies two or three times," laughed helen in answer to her grandfather's enthusiasm. "and while we're on the letter 'p' in the seed catalogue," added mr. emerson, "order a few packages of single portulaca. there are delicate shades of pink now, and it's a useful little plant to grow at the feet of tall ones that have no low-growing foliage and leave the ground bare." "it would make a good border for us at some time." "you might try it at dorothy's large garden. there'll be space there to have many different kinds of borders." "we'll have to keep our eyes open for a pink lady's slipper over in the damp part of the clarks' field," said roger. "o, i speak for it for my wild garden," cried helen. "you ought to find one about the end of july, and as that is a long way off you can put off the decision as to where to place it when you transplant it," observed their grandfather dryly. "mother finds verbenas and 'ten week stocks' useful for cutting," said margaret. "they're easy to grow and they last a long time and there are always blossoms on them for the house." "pink?" asked ethel blue, her pencil poised until she was assured. "a pretty shade of pink, both of them, and they're low growing, so you can put them forward in the beds after you take out the bulbs that blossomed early." "how are we going to know just when to plant all these things so they'll come out when we want them to?" asked della, whose city life had limited her gardening experience to a few summers at chautauqua where they went so late in the season that their flower beds had been planted for them and were already blooming when they arrived. "study your catalogues, my child," james instructed her. "but they don't always tell," objected della, who had been looking over several. "that's because the seedsmen sell to people all over the country--people living in all sorts of climates and with all sorts of soils. the best way is to ask the seedsman where you buy your seeds to indicate on the package or in a letter what the sowing time should be for our part of the world." "then we'll bother grandfather all we can," threatened ethel brown seriously. "he's given us this list in the order of their blossoming--" "more or less," interposed mr. emerson. "some of them over-lap, of course. it's roughly accurate, though." "you can't stick them in a week apart and have them blossom a week apart?" asked della. "not exactly. it takes some of them longer to germinate and make ready to bloom than it does others. but of course it's true in a general way that the first to be planted are the first to bloom." "we haven't put in the late ones yet," ethel blue reminded mr. emerson. "asters, to begin with. i don't see how there'll be enough room in your small bed to make much of a show with asters. i should put some in, of course, in may, but there's a big opportunity at the new garden to have a splendid exhibition of them. some asters now are almost as large and as handsome as chrysanthemums--astermums, they call them--and the pink ones are especially lovely." "put a big 'd' against 'asters,'" advised roger. "that will mean that there must be a large number put into dorothy's new garden." "the aster will begin to blossom in august and will continue until light frost and the chrysanthemums will begin a trifle later and will last a little longer unless there is a killing frost." "can we get blossoms on chrysanthemums the first, year?" asked margaret, who had not found that true in her experience in her mother's garden. "there are some new kinds that will blossom the first year, the seedsmen promise. i'd like to have you try some of them." "mother has two or three pink ones--well established plants--that she's going to let us move to the pink bed," said helen. "the chrysanthemums will end your procession," said mr. emerson, "but you mustn't forget to put in some mallow. they are easy to grow and blossom liberally toward the end of the season." "can we make candy marshmallows out of it?" "you can, but it would be like the persian insect powder--it would be easier to buy it. but it has a handsome pink flower and you must surely have it on your list." "i remember when mother used to have the greatest trouble getting cosmos to blossom," said margaret. "the frost almost always caught it. now there is a kind that comes before the frost." "cosmos is a delight at the end of the season," remarked mr. emerson. "almost all the autumn plants are stocky and sturdy, but cosmos is as graceful as a summer plant and as delicate as a spring blossom. you can wind up your floral year with asters and mallow and chrysanthemums and cosmos all blooming at once." "now for the blue beds," said tom, excusing himself for looking at his watch on the plea that he and della had to go back to new york by a comparatively early train. "if you're in a hurry i'll just give you a few suggestions," said mr. emerson. "really blue flowers are not numerous, i suppose you have noticed." "we've decided on ageratum for the border and larkspur and monkshood for the back," said ethel brown. "there are blue crocuses and hyacinths and 'baby's breath' for your earliest blossoms, and blue columbines as well as pink and yellow ones! and blue morning glories for your 'climber,' and blue bachelors' buttons and canterbury bells, and mourning bride, and pretty blue lobelia for low growing plants and blue lupine for a taller growth. if you are willing to depart from real blue into violet you can have heliotrope and violets and asters and pansies and primroses and iris." "the wild flag is fairly blue," insisted roger, who was familiar with the plants that edged the brook on his grandfather's farm. "it is until you compare it with another moisture lover--forget-me-not." "if dorothy buys the clarks' field she can start a colony of flags and forget-me-nots in the stream," suggested james. "can you remember cineraria? there's a blue variety of that, and one of salpiglossis, which is an exquisite flower in spite of its name." "one of the sweetpea packages is marked 'blue,'" said roger, "i wonder if it will be a real blue?" "some of them are pretty near it. now this isn't a bad list for a rather difficult color," mr. emerson went on, looking over ethel blue's paper, "but you can easily see that there isn't the variety of the pink list and that the true blues are scarce." "we're going to try it, anyway," returned helen. "perhaps we shall run across some others. now i wrote down for the yellows, yellow crocuses first of all and yellow tulips." "there are many yellow spring flowers and late summer brings goldenrod, so it seems as if the extremes liked the color," said margaret observantly. "the intermediate season does, too," returned mr. emerson. "daffodils and jonquils are yellow and early enough to suit the most impatient," remarked james. "who wrote this," asked mr. emerson, from whom ethel brown inherited her love of poetry: "i wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high on vales and hills, when all at once i saw a crowd a host of golden daffodils; beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze." "wordsworth," cried ethel brown. "wordsworth," exclaimed tom watkins in the same breath. "that must mean that daffies grow wild in england," remarked dorothy. "they do, and we can have something of the same effect here if we plant them through a lawn. the bulbs must be put in like other bulbs, in the autumn. crocuses may be treated in the same way. then in the spring they come gleaming through the sod and fill everybody with wordsworth's delight." "here's another competition between helen's wild garden and the color bed; which shall take the buttercups and cowslips?" "let the wild bed have them," urged grandfather. "there will be plenty of others for the yellow bed." "we want yellow honeysuckle climbing on the high wire," declared roger. "assisted by yellow jessamine?" asked margaret. "and canary bird vine," contributed ethel blue. "and golden glow to cover the fence," added ethel brown. "the california poppy is a gorgeous blossom for an edge," said ethel blue, "and there are other kinds of poppies that are yellow." "don't forget the yellow columbines," dorothy reminded them, "and the yellow snapdragons." "there's a yellow cockscomb as well as a red." "and a yellow verbena." "being a doctor's son i happen to remember that calendula, which takes the pain out of a cut finger most amazingly, has a yellow flower." "don't forget stocks and marigolds." "and black-eyed-susans--rudbeckia--grow very large when they're cultivated." "that ought to go in the wild garden," said helen. "we'll let you have it," responded roger generously, "we can put the african daisy in the yellow bed instead." "calliopsis or coreopsis is one of the yellow plants that the department of agriculture bulletin mentions," said dorothy. "it tells you just how to plant it and we put in the seeds early on that account." "gaillardia always reminds me of it a bit--the lemon color," said ethel brown. "only that's stiffer. if you want really, truly prim things try zinnias--old maids." [illustration: rudbeckia--black-eyed susan] "zinnias come in a great variety of colors now," reported mr. emerson. "a big bowl of zinnias is a handsome sight." "we needn't put any sunflowers into the yellow bed," dorothy reminded them, "because almost my whole back yard is going to be full of them." "and you needn't plant any special yellow nasturtiums because mother loves them and she has planted enough to give us flowers for the house, and flowers and leaves for salads and sandwiches, and seeds for pickle to use with mutton instead of capers." "there's one flower you must be sure to have plenty of even if you don't make these colored beds complete," urged mr. emerson; "that's the 'chalk-lover,' gypsophila." "what is it?" "the delicate, white blossom that your grandmother always puts among cut flowers. it is feathery and softens and harmonizes the hues of all the rest. 'so warm with light his blended colors flow,' in a bouquet when there's gypsophila in it." "but what a name!" ejaculated roger. chapter viii cave life the dogwood was in blossom when the girls first established themselves in the cave in the fitz-james woods. mrs. morton and mrs. smith thought it was rather too cool, but the girls invited them to come and have afternoon cocoa with them and proved to their satisfaction that the rocks were so sheltered by their position and by the trees that towered above them that it would take a sturdy wind to make them really uncomfortable. their first duty had been to clean out the cave. "we can pretend that no one ever has lived here since the days when everybody lived in caves," said ethel blue, who was always pretending something unusual. "we must be the first people to discover it." "i dare say we are," replied dorothy. "uhuh," murmured ethel brown, a sound which meant a negative reply. "here's an old tin can, so we aren't the very first." "it may have been brought here by a wolf," suggested ethel blue. "perhaps it was a werwolf," suggested dorothy. "what's that?" "a man turned by magic into a wolf but keeping his human feelings. the more i think of it the more i'm sure that it was a werwolf that brought the can here, because, having human feelings, he would know about cans and what they had in them, and being a wolf he would carry it to his lair or den or whatever they call it, to devour it." "really, dorothy, you make me uncomfortable!" exclaimed ethel blue. "that may be one down there in the field now," continued dorothy, enjoying her make-believe. the ethels turned and gazed, each with an armful of trash that she had brought out of the cave. there was, in truth, a figure down in the field beside the brook, and he was leaning over and thrusting a stick into the ground and examining it closely when he drew it out. "that can't be a werwolf," remonstrated ethel brown. "that's a man." "perhaps in the twentieth century wolves turn into men instead of men turning into wolves," suggested dorothy. "this may be a wolf with a man's shape but keeping the feelings of a wolf, instead of the other way around." "don't, dorothy!" remonstrated ethel blue again. "he does look like a horrid sort of man, doesn't he?" they all looked at him and wondered what he could be doing in the miss clarks' field, but he did not come any nearer to them so they did not have a chance to find out whether he really was as horrid looking as ethel blue imagined. it was not a short task to make the cave as clean as the girls wanted it to be. the owner of the tin can had been an untidy person or else his occupation of fitz-james's rocks had been so long ago that nature had accumulated a great deal of rubbish. whichever explanation was correct, there were many armfuls to be removed and then the interior of the cave had to be subjected to a thorough sweeping before the girls' ideas of tidiness were satisfied. they had to carry all the rubbish away to some distance, for it would not do to leave it near the cave to be an eyesore during the happy days that they meant to spend there. it was all done and roger, who happened along, had made a bonfire for them and consumed all the undesirable stuff, before the two mothers appeared for the promised cocoa and the visit of inspection. the girls at once set about the task of converting them to a belief in the sheltered position of the cave and then they turned their attention to the preparation of the feast. they had brought an alcohol stove that consisted of a small tripod which held a tin of solid alcohol and supported a saucepan. when packing up time came the tripod and the can fitted into the saucepan and the handles folded about it compactly. "we did think at first of having an old stove top that roger saw thrown away at grandfather's," ethel brown explained. "we could build two brick sides to hold it up and have the stone for a back and leave the front open and run a piece of stove pipe up through that crack in the rocks." mrs. morton and mrs. smith, who were sitting on a convenient bit of rock just outside the cave, peered in as the description progressed. "then we could burn wood underneath and regulate the draft by making a sort of blower with some piece of old sheet iron." the mothers made no comment as ethel brown seemed not to have finished her account. "then we thought that perhaps you'd let us have that old oil stove up in the attic. we could set it on this flat rock on this side of the cave." "we thought there might be some danger about that because it isn't very, _very_ large in here, so we finally decided on this alcohol stove. it's safe and it doesn't take up any room and this solid alcohol doesn't slop around and set your dress afire or your table cloth, and we can really cook a good many things on it and the rest we can cook in our own little kitchen and bring over here. if we cover them well they'll still be warm when they get here." "that's a wise decision," assented mrs. morton, nodding toward her sister-in-law. "i should be afraid that the stove top arrangement might be like the oil stove--the fuel might fall about and set fire to your frocks." "and it would take up much more space in the cave," suggested mrs. smith. "here's a contribution to your equipment," and she brought out a box of paper plates and cups, and another of paper napkins. "these are fine!" cried ethel blue. "they'll save washing." "here's our idea for furnishing. do you want to hear it?" asked dorothy. "of course we do." "do you see that flat oblong space there at the back? we're going to fit a box in there. we'll turn it on its side, put hinges and a padlock on the cover to make it into a door, and fix up shelves." "i see," nodded her mother and aunt. "that will be your store cupboard." "and our sideboard and our linen closet, all in one. we're going to make it when we go home this afternoon because we know now what the measurements are and we've got just the right box down in the cellar." "where do you get the water?" "roger is cleaning out the spring now and making the basin under it a little larger, so we shall always have fresh spring water." "that's good. i was going to warn you always to boil any water from the brook." "we'll remember." the water for the cocoa was now bubbling in the saucepan. ethel blue took four spoonfuls of prepared cocoa, wet it with one spoonful of water and rubbed it smooth. then she stirred it into a pint of the boiling water and when this had boiled up once she added a pint of milk. when the mixture boiled she took it off at once and served it in the paper cups that her aunt had brought. to go with it ethel brown had prepared almond biscuit. they were made by first blanching two ounces of almonds by pouring boiling water on them and then slipping off their brown overcoats. after they had been ground twice over in the meat chopper they were mixed with four tablespoonfuls of flour and one tablespoonful of sugar and moistened with a tablespoonful of milk. when they were thoroughly mixed and rolled thin they were cut into small rounds and baked in a quick oven for ten or fifteen minutes. "these are delicious, my dear," mrs. smith said, smiling at her nieces, and the ethels were greatly pleased at their aunt louise's praise. they sat about on the rocks and enjoyed their meal heartily. the birds were busy over their heads, the leaves were beginning to come thickly in the tree crowns and the chipmunks scampered busily about, seeming to be not at all frightened by the coming of these new visitors to their haunts. dorothy tried to coax one to eat out of her hand. he was curious to try the food that she held out to him and his courage brought him almost within reach of her fingers before it failed and sent him scampering back to his hole, the stripes on his back looking like ribbons as he leaped to safety. within a month the cave was in excellent working order. the box proved to be a success just as the girls had planned it. they kept there such stores as they did not care to carry back and forth--sugar, salt and pepper, cocoa, crackers--and a supply of eggs, cream-cheese and cookies and milk always fresh. sometimes when the family thermos bottle was not in use they brought the milk in that and at other times they brought it in an ordinary bottle and let it stand in the hollow below the spring. glass fruit jars with screw tops preserved all that was entrusted to them free from injury by any marauding animals who might be tempted by the smell to break open the cupboard. these jars the girls placed on the top shelf; on the next they ranged their paper "linen"--which they used for napkins and then as fuel to start the bonfire in which they destroyed all the rubbish left over from their meal. this fire was always small, was made in one spot which roger had prepared by encircling it with stones, and was invariably put out with a saucepanful of water from the brook. "it never pays to leave a fire without a good dousing," he always insisted. "the rascally thing may be playing 'possum and blaze out later when there is no one here to attend to it." a piece of board which could be moved about at will was used as a table when the weather was such as to make eating inside of the cave desirable. one end was placed on top of the cupboard and the other on a narrow ledge of stone that projected as if made for the purpose. one or two large stones and a box or two served as seats, but there was not room inside for all the members of the club. when there was a general meeting some had to sit outside. they added to their cooking utensils a few flat saucepans in which water would boil quickly and they made many experiments in cooking vegetables. beans they gave up trying to cook after several experiments, because they took so long--from one to three hours--for both the dried and the fresh kinds, that the girls felt that they could not afford so much alcohol. they eliminated turnips, too, after they had prodded a frequent fork into some obstinate roots for about three quarters of an hour. beets were nearly as discouraging, but not quite, when they were young and tender, and the same was true of cabbage. "it's only the infants that we can use in this affair," declared dorothy after she had replenished the saucepan from another in which she had been heating water for the purpose, over a second alcohol stove that her mother had lent them. spinach, onions and parsnips were done in half an hour and potatoes in twenty-five minutes. they finally gave up trying to cook vegetables whole over this stove, for they concluded that not only was it necessary to have extremely young vegetables but the size of the cooking utensils must of necessity be too small to have the proceedings a success. they learned one way, however, of getting ahead of the tiny saucepan and the small stove. that was by cutting the corn from the cob and by peeling the potatoes and slicing them very thin before they dropped them into boiling water. then they were manageable. "miss dawson, the domestic science teacher, says that the water you cook any starchy foods in must always be boiling like mad," ethel blue explained to her aunt one day when she came out to see how matters were going. "if it isn't the starch is mushy. that's why you mustn't be impatient to put on rice and potatoes and cereals until the water is just bouncing." "almost all vegetables have some starch," explained mrs. morton. "water _really_ boiling is your greatest friend. when you girls are old enough to drink tea you must remember that boiling water for tea is something more than putting on water in a saucepan or taking it out of a kettle on the stove." "isn't boiling water boiling water?" asked roger, who was listening. "there's boiling water _and_ boiling water," smiled his mother. "water for tea should be freshly drawn so that there are bubbles of air in it and it should be put over the fire at once. when you are waiting for it to boil you should scald your teapot so that its coldness may not chill the hot water when you come to the actual making of the tea." "do i seem to remember a rule about using one teaspoonful of tea for each person and one for the pot?" asked tom. "that is the rule for the cheaper grades of tea, but the better grades are so strong that half a teaspoonful for each drinker is enough." "then it's just as cheap to get tea at a dollar a pound as the fifty cent quality." "exactly; and the taste is far better. well, you have your teapot warm and your tea in it waiting, and the minute the water boils vigorously you pour it on the tea." "what would happen if you let it boil a while?" "if you should taste water freshly boiled and water that has been boiling for ten minutes you'd notice a decided difference. one has a lively taste and the other is flat. these qualities are given to the pot of tea of course." "that's all news to me," declared james. "i'm glad to know it." "i used to think 'tea and toast' was the easiest thing in the world to prepare until dorothy taught me how to make toast when she was fixing invalid dishes for grandfather after he was hurt in the fire at chautauqua," said ethel brown. "she opened my eyes," and she nodded affectionately at her cousin. "there's one thing we must learn to make or we won't be true campers," insisted tom. "what is it? i'm game to make it or eat it," responded roger instantly. "spider cakes." "spiders! ugh!" ejaculated della daintily. "hush; a spider is a frying pan," ethel brown instructed her. "tell us how you do them, tom," she begged. "you use the kind of flour that is called 'prepared flour.' it rises without any fuss." the ethels laughed at this description, but they recognized the value in camp of a flour that doesn't make any fuss. "mix a pint of the flour with half a pint of milk. let your spider get hot and then grease it with butter or cotton seed oil." "why not lard." "lard will do the deed, of course, but butter or a vegetable fat always seems to me cleaner," pronounced tom wisely. "won't you listen to thomas!" cried roger. "how do you happen to know so much?" he inquired amazedly. "i went camping for a whole month once and i watched the cook a lot and since then i've gathered ideas about the use of fat in cooking. as little frying as possible for me, thank you, and no lard in mine!" they smiled at his earnestness, but they all felt the same way, for the girls were learning to approve of delicacy in cooking the more they cooked. "go ahead with your spider cake," urged margaret, who was writing down the receipt as tom gave it. "when your buttered spider is ready you pour in half the mixture you have ready. spread it smooth over the whole pan, put on a cover that you've heated, and let the cake cook four minutes. turn it over and let the other side cook for four minutes. you ought to have seen our camp cook turn over his cakes; he tossed them into the air and he gave the pan such a twist with his wrist that the cake came down all turned over and ready to let the good work go on." "what did he do with the other half of his batter?" asked ethel brown, determined to know exactly what happened at every stage of proceedings. "when he had taken out the first cake and given it to us he put in the remainder and cooked it while we were attacking the first installment." "was it good?" "you bet!" "i don't know whether we can do it with this tiny fire, but let's try--what do you say?" murmured ethel brown to ethel blue. "we ought to have trophies of our bow and spear," roger suggested when he was helping with the furnishing arrangements. "there aren't any," replied ethel brown briefly, "but dicky has a glass bowl full of tadpoles; we can have those." so the tadpoles came to live in the cave, carried out into the light whenever some one came and remembered to do it, and as some one came almost every day, and as all the u.s.c. members were considerate of the needs and feelings of animals as well as of people, the tiny creatures did not suffer from their change of habitation. dicky had taken the frogs' eggs from the edge of a pool on his grandfather's farm. they looked like black dots at first. then they wriggled out of the jelly and took their place in the world as tadpoles. it was an unfailing delight to all the young people, to look at them through a magnifying glass. they had apparently a round head with side gills through which they breathed, and a long tail. after a time tiny legs appeared under what might pass as the chin. then the body grew longer and another pair of legs made their appearance. finally the tail was absorbed and the tadpole's transformation into a frog was complete. all this did not take place for many months, however, but through the summer the club watched the little wrigglers carefully and thought that they could see a difference from week to week. chapter ix "nothing but leaves" when the leaves were well out on the trees helen held an observation class one afternoon, in front of the cave. "how many members of this handsome and intelligent club know what leaves are for?" she inquired. "as representing in a high degree both the qualities you mention, madam president," returned tom, with a bow, "i take upon myself the duty of replying that perhaps you and roger do because you've studied botany, and maybe margaret and james do because they've had a garden, and it's possible that the ethels and dorothy do inasmuch as they've had the great benefit of your acquaintance, but that della and i don't know the very first thing about leaves except that spinach and lettuce are good to eat." "take a good, full breath after that long sentence," advised james. "go ahead, helen. i don't know much about leaves except to recognize them when i see them." "do you know what they're for?" demanded helen, once again. "i can guess," answered margaret. "doesn't the plant breathe and eat through them?" "it does exactly that. it takes up food from water and from the soil by its roots and it gets food and water from the air by its leaves." "sort of a slender diet," remarked roger, who was blessed with a hearty appetite. "the leaves give it a lot of food. i was reading in a book on botany the other day that the elm tree in cambridge, massachusetts, under which washington reviewed his army during the revolution was calculated to have about seven million leaves and that they gave it a surface of about five acres. that's quite a surface to eat with!" "some mouth!" commented roger. "if each one of you will pick a leaf you'll have in your hand an illustration of what i say," suggested helen. [illustration: lily of the valley leaf] they all provided themselves with leaves, picking them from the plants and shrubs and trees around them, except ethel blue, who already had a lily of the valley leaf with some flowers pinned to her blouse. "when a leaf has everything that belongs to it it has a little stalk of its own that is called a _petiole_; and at the foot of the petiole it has two tiny leaflets called _stipules_, and it has what we usually speak of as 'the leaf' which is really the _blade_." they all noted these parts either on their own leaves or their neighbors', for some of their specimens came from plants that had transformed their parts. "what is the blade of your leaf made of?" helen asked ethel brown. "green stuff with a sort of framework inside," answered ethel, scrutinizing the specimen in her hand. "what are the characteristics of the framework?" "it has big bones and little ones," cried della. "good for delila! the big bones are called ribs and the fine ones are called veins. now, will you please all hold up your leaves so we can all see each other's. what is the difference in the veining between ethel brown's oak leaf and ethel blue's lily of the valley leaf?" [illustration: ethel brown's oak leaf] after an instant's inspection ethel blue said, "the ribs and veins on my leaf all run the same way, and in the oak leaf they run every which way." "right," approved helen again. "the lily of the valley leaf is parallel-veined and the oak leaf is net-veined. can each one of you decide what your own leaf is?" "i have a blade of grass; it's parallel veined," roger determined. all the others had net veined specimens, but they remembered that iris and flag and corn and bear-grass--yucca--all were parallel. "yours are nearly all netted because there are more net-veined leaves than the other kind," helen told them. "now, there are two kinds of parallel veining and two kinds of net veining," she went on. "all the parallel veins that you've spoken of are like ethel blue's lily of the valley leaf--the ribs run from the stem to the tip--but there's another kind of parallel veining that you see in the pickerel weed that's growing down there in the brook; in that the veins run parallel from a strong midrib to the edge of the leaf." james made a rush down to the brook and came back with a leaf of the pickerel weed and they handed it about and compared it with the lily of the valley leaf. "look at ethel brown's oak leaf," helen continued. "do you see it has a big midrib and the other veins run out from it 'every which way' as ethel blue said, making a net? doesn't it remind you of a feather?" they all agreed that it did, and they passed around margaret's hat which had a quill stuck in the band, and compared it with the oak leaf. "that kind of veining is called pinnate veining from a latin word that means 'feather,'" explained helen. "the other kind of net veining is that of the maple leaf." tom and dorothy both had maple leaves and they held them up for general observation. "how is it different from the oak veining?" quizzed helen. "the maple is a little like the palm of your hand with the fingers running out," offered ethel brown. "that's it exactly. there are several big ribs starting at the same place instead of one midrib. then the netting connects all these spreading ribs. that is called _palmate_ veining because it's like the palm of your hand." "or the web foot of a duck," suggested dorothy. [illustration: tom and dorothy both had maple leaves] "i should think all the leaves that have a feather-shaped framework would be long and all the palm-shaped ones would be fat," guessed della. "they are, and they have been given names descriptive of their shape. the narrowest kind, with the same width all the way, is called '_linear_.'" "because it's a line--more or less," cried james. "the next wider, has a point and is called '_lance-shaped_.' the '_oblong_' is like the linear, the same size up and down, but it's much wider than the linear. the '_elliptical_' is what the oblong would be if its ends were prettily tapered off. the apple tree has a leaf whose ellipse is so wide that it is called '_oval_.' can you guess what '_ovate_' is?" "'egg-shaped'?" inquired tom. "that's it; larger at one end than the other, while a leaf that is almost round, is called '_rotund_.'" "named after della," observed della's brother in a subdued voice that nevertheless caught his sister's ear and caused an oak twig to fly in his direction. "there's a lance-shaped leaf that is sharp at the base instead of the point; that's named '_ob-lanceolate_'; and there's one called '_spatulate_' that looks like the spatula that druggists mix things with." [illustration: linear lance-shaped oblong elliptical ovate] "that ought to be rounded at the point and narrow at the base," said the doctor's son. "it is. the lower leaves of the common field daisy are examples. how do you think the botanists have named the shape that is like an egg upside down?" "'_ob-ovate_', if it's like the other _ob_," guessed dorothy. "the leaflets that make up the horse-chestnut leaf are '_wedge-shaped_' at the base," helen reminded them. "then there are some leaves that have nothing remarkable about their tips but have bases that draw your attention. one is '_heart-shaped_'--like the linden leaf or the morning-glory. another is '_kidney-shaped_'. that one is wider than it is long." [illustration: shield-shaped oblancolate spatulate rotund crenate edge] [illustration: heart-shaped kidney-shaped] "the hepatica is kidney-shaped," remarked james. "the '_ear-shaped_' base isn't very common in this part of the world, but there's a magnolia of that form. the '_arrow-shaped_' base you can find in the arrow-weed in the brook. the shape like the old-time weapon, the '_halberd_' is seen in the common sorrel." "that nice, acid-tasting leaf?" "yes, that's the one. what does the nasturtium leaf remind you of?" "dicky always says that when the jack-in-the-pulpit stops preaching he jumps on the back of a frog and takes a nasturtium leaf for a shield and hops forth to look for adventures," said roger, to whom dicky confided many of his ideas when they were working together in the garden. [illustration: arrow-shaped ear-shaped halberd-shaped] "dicky is just right," laughed helen. "that is a '_shield-shaped_' leaf." "do the tips of the leaves have names?" "yes. they are all descriptive--'_pointed_,' '_acute_,' '_obtuse_,' '_truncate_,' '_notched_,' and so on," answered helen. "did you notice a minute ago that i spoke of the 'leaflet' of a horse-chestnut leaf? what's the difference between a 'leaflet' and a 'leaf'?" "to judge by what you said, a leaflet must be a part of a leaf. one of the five fingers of the horse-chestnut leaf is a leaflet," della reasoned out in answer. [illustration: obtuse truncated notched] "can you think of any other leaves that have leaflets?" "a locust?" "a rose?" [illustration: pinnate pinnate, tendrils locust leaf sweet pea leaf] "a sweetpea?" the latter answer-question came from roger and produced a laugh. "all those are right. the leaves that are made up of leaflets are called '_compound_' leaves, and the ones that aren't compound are '_simple_.'" "most leaves are simple," decided ethel brown. "there are more simple than compound," agreed helen. "as you recall them do you see any resemblance between the shape of the horse-chestnut leaf and the shape of the rose leaf and anything else we've been talking about this afternoon?" "helen is just naturally headed for the teaching profession!" exclaimed james in an undertone. helen flushed. "i do seem to be asking about a million questions, don't i?" she responded good naturedly. "the rose leaf is feather-shaped and the horse-chestnut is palm-shaped," ethel blue thought aloud, frowning delicately as she spoke. "they're like those different kinds of veining." "that's it exactly," commended her cousin. "those leaves are '_pinnately compound_' and '_palmately compound_' according as their leaflets are arranged like a feather or like the palm of your hand. when you begin to notice the edges of leaves you see that there is about every degree of cutting between the margin that is quite smooth and the margin that is so deeply cut that it is almost a compound leaf. it is never a real compound leaf, though, unless the leaflets are truly separate and all belong on one common stalk." "my lily of the valley leaf has a perfectly smooth edge," said ethel blue. "that is called '_entire_.' this elm leaf of mine has a '_serrate_' edge with the teeth pointing forward like the teeth of a saw. when they point outward like the spines of a holly leaf they are '_dentate_-'toothed. the border of a nasturtium leaf is '_crenate_' or scalloped. most honeysuckles have a '_wavy_' margin. when there are sharp, deep notches such as there are on the upper leaves of the field daisy, the edge is called '_cut_.'" "this oak leaf is 'cut,' then." "when the cuts are as deep as those the leaf is '_cleft_.' when they go about half way to the midrib, as in the hepatica, it is '_lobed_' and when they almost reach the midrib as they do in the poppy it is '_parted_.'" [illustration: dentate wavy] "which makes me think our ways must part if james and i are to get home in time for dinner," said margaret. "there's our werwolf down in the field again," exclaimed dorothy, peering through the bushes toward the meadow where a man was stooping and standing, examining what he took up from the ground. "let's go through the field and see what he's doing," exclaimed roger. "he's been here so many times he must have some purpose." but when they passed him he was merely looking at a flower through a small magnifying glass. he said "good-afternoon" to them, and they saw as they looked back, that he kept on with his bending and rising and examination. "he's like us, students of botany," laughed ethel blue. "we ought to have asked him to helen's class this afternoon." "i don't like his looks," dorothy decided. "he makes me uncomfortable. i wish he wouldn't come here." roger turned back to take another look and shook his head thoughtfully. "me neither," he remarked concisely, and then added as if to take the thoughts of the girls off the subject, "here's a wild strawberry plant for your indoor strawberry bed, ethel brown," and launched into the recitation of an anonymous poem he had recently found. "the moon is up, the moon is up! the larks begin to fly, and, like a drowsy buttercup, dark phoebus skims the sky, the elephant with cheerful voice, sings blithely on the spray; the bats and beetles all rejoice, then let me, too, be gay." chapter x the u.s.c. and the community roger's interest in gardening had extended far beyond fertilizers and sweetpeas. it was not long after the discussion in which the mortons' garden had been planned on paper that he happened to mention to the master of the high school, mr. wheeler, what the club was intending to do. mr. wheeler had learned to value the enthusiasm and persistency of the u.s.c. members and it did not take him long to decide that he wanted their assistance in putting through a piece of work that would be both pleasant and profitable for the whole community. "it seems queer that here in rosemont where we are on the very edge of the country there should be any people who do not have gardens," he said to roger. "there are, though," responded roger. "i was walking down by the station the other day where those shanties are that the mill hands live in and i noticed that not one of them had space for more than a plant or two and they seemed to be so discouraged at the prospect that even the plant or two wasn't there." "yet all the children that live in those houses go to our public schools. now my idea is that we should have a community garden, planted and taken care of by the school children." "bully!" exclaimed roger enthusiastically. "where are you going to get your land?" "that's the question. it ought to be somewhere near the graded school, and there isn't any ploughed land about there. the only vacant land there is is that cheerful spot that used to be the dump." "isn't that horrible! one corner of it is right behind the house where my aunt louise lives. fortunately there's a thick hedge that shuts it off." "still it's there, and i imagine she'd be glad enough to have it made into a pleasant sight instead of an eyesore." "you mean that the dump might be made into the garden?" "if we can get people like mrs. smith who are personally affected by it, and others who have the benefit of the community at heart to contribute toward clearing off the ground and having it fertilized i believe that would be the right place." "you can count on aunt louise, i know. she'd be glad to help. anybody would. why it would turn that terrible looking spot into almost a park!" "the children would prepare the gardens once the soil was put into something like fair condition, but the first work on that lot is too heavy even for the larger boys." "they could pick up the rubbish on top." "yes, they could do that, and the town carts could carry it away and burn it. the town would give us the street sweepings all spring and summer and some of the people who have stables would contribute fertilizer. once that was turned under with the spade and topped off by some commercial fertilizer with a dash of lime to sweeten matters, the children could do the rest." "what is your idea about having the children taught? will the regular teachers do it?" "all the children have some nature study, and simple gardening can be run into that, our superintendent tells me. then i know something about gardening and i'll gladly give some time to the outdoor work." "i'd like to help, too," said roger unassumingly, "if you think i know enough." "if you're going to have a share in planting and working three gardens i don't see why you can't keep sufficiently ahead of the children to be able to show them what to do. we'd be glad to have your help," and mr. wheeler shook hands cordially with his new assistant. roger was not the only member of his family interested in the new plan. his grandfather was public-spirited and at a meeting of citizens called for the purpose of proposing the new community venture he offered money, fertilizer, seeds, and the services of a man for two days to help in the first clearing up. others followed his example, one citizen giving a liberal sum of money toward the establishment of an incinerator which should replace in part the duties of the dump, and another heading a subscription list for the purchase of a fence which should keep out stray animals and boys whose interests might be awakened at the time the vegetables ripened rather than during the days of preparation and backache. mrs. smith answered her nephew's expectations by adding to the fund. the town contributed the lot, and supported the new work generously in more than one way. when it came to the carrying out of details mr. wheeler made further demands upon the club. he asked the boys to give some of their saturday time to spreading the news of the proposed garden among the people who might contribute and also the people who might want to have their children benefit by taking the new "course of study." although james and tom did not live in rosemont they were glad to help and for several saturdays the club tramps were utilized as a means of spreading the good news through the outskirts of the town. the girls were placed among the workers when the day came to register the names of the children who wanted to undertake the plots. there were so many of them that there was plenty to do for both the ethels and for dorothy and helen, who assisted mr. wheeler. the registration was based on the catalogue plan. for each child there was a card, and on it the girls wrote his name and address, his grade in school and a number corresponding to the number of one of the plots into which the big field was divided. it did not take him long to understand that on the day when the garden was to open he was to hunt up his plot and that after that he and his partner were to be responsible for everything that happened to it. two boys or two girls were assigned to each plot but more children applied than there were plots to distribute. the ethels were disturbed about this at first for it seemed a shame that any one who wanted to make a garden should not have the opportunity. helen reminded them, however, that there might be some who would find their interest grow faint when the days grew hot and long and the weeds seemed to wax tall at a faster rate than did the desirable plants. "when some of these youngsters fall by the wayside we can supply their places from the waiting list," she said. "there won't be so many fall by the wayside if there is a waiting list," prophesied her aunt louise who had come over to the edge of the ground to see how popular the new scheme proved to be. "it's human nature to want to stick if you think that some one else is waiting to take your place." the beds were sixteen feet long and five feet wide and a path ran all around. this permitted every part of the bed to be reached by hand, and did away with the necessity of stepping on it. it was decreed that all the plots were to be edged with flowers, but the workers might decide for themselves what they should be. the planters of the first ten per cent. of the beds that showed seedlings were rewarded by being allowed the privilege of planting the vines and tall blossoming plants that were to cover the inside of the fence. most of the plots were given over to vegetables, even those cared for by small children, for the addition of a few extras to the family table was more to be desired than the bringing home of a bunch of flowers, but even the most provident children had the pleasure of picking the white candytuft or blue ageratum, or red and yellow dwarf nasturtiums that formed the borders. once a week each plot received a visit from some one qualified to instruct the young farmer and the condition of the plot was indicated on his card. here, too, and on the duplicate card which was filed in the schoolhouse, the child's attendance record was kept, and also the amount of seed he used and the extent of the crop he harvested. in this way the cost of each of the little patches was figured quite closely. as it turned out, some of the children who were not blessed with many brothers and sisters, sold a good many dimes' worth of vegetables in the course of the summer. "this surely is a happy sight!" exclaimed mr. emerson to his wife as he passed one day and stopped to watch the children at work, some, just arrived, getting their tools from the toolhouse in one corner of the lot, others already hard at work, some hoeing, some on their knees weeding, all as contented as they were busy. "come in, come in," urged mr. wheeler, who noticed them looking over the fence. "come in and see how your grandson's pupils are progressing." the emersons were eager to accept the invitation. "here is the plan we've used in laying out the beds," explained mr. wheeler, showing them a copy of a bulletin issued by the department of agriculture. "roger and i studied over it a long time and we came to the conclusion that we couldn't better this. this one is all vegetables, you see, and that has been chosen by most of the youngsters. some of the girls, though, wanted more flowers, so they have followed this one." [illustration: plan of a vegetable plan of a combined school garden vegetable and flower school garden] "this vegetable arrangement is the one i've followed at home," said roger, "only mine is larger. dicky's garden is just this size." "would there be any objection to my offering a small prize?" asked mr. emerson. "none at all." "then i'd like to give some packages of seeds--as many as you think would be suitable--to the partners who make the most progress in the first month." "and i'd like to give a bundle of flower seeds to the border that is in the most flourishing condition by the first of august," added mrs. emerson. "and the united service club would like to give some seeds for the earliest crop of vegetables harvested from any plot," promised roger, taking upon himself the responsibility of the offer which he was sure the other members would confirm. mr. wheeler thanked them all and assured them that notice of the prizes would be given at once so that the competition might add to the present enthusiasm. "though it would be hard to do that," he concluded, smiling with satisfaction. "no fair planting corn in the kitchen and transplanting it the way i'm doing at home," decreed roger, enlarging his stipulations concerning the club offer. "i understand; the crop must be raised here from start to finish," replied mr. wheeler. the interest of the children in the garden and of their parents and the promoters in general in the improvement that they had made in the old town dump was so great that the ethels were inspired with an idea that would accomplish even more desirable changes. the suggestion was given at one of the saturday meetings of the club. "you know how horrid the grounds around the railroad station are," ethel blue reminded them. "there's some grass," objected roger. "a tiny patch, and right across the road there are ugly weeds. i think that if we put it up to the people of rosemont right now they'd be willing to do something about making the town prettier by planting in a lot of conspicuous places." "where besides the railroad station?" inquired helen. "can you ask? think of the town hall! there isn't a shrub within a half mile." "and the steps of the high school," added ethel brown. "you go over them every day for ten months, so you're so accustomed to them that you don't see that they're as ugly as ugly. they ought to have bushes planted at each side to bank them from sight." "i dare say you're right," confessed helen, while roger nodded assent and murmured something about japan ivy. "some sort of vine at all the corners would be splendid," insisted ethel brown. "ethel blue and dorothy and i planted virginia creeper and japan ivy and clematis wherever we could against the graded school building; didn't we tell you? the principal said we might; he took the responsibility and we provided the plants and did the planting." "he said he wished we could have some rhododendrons and mountain laurel for the north side of the building, and some evergreen azalea bushes, but he didn't know where we'd get them, because he had asked the committee for them once and they had said that they were spending all their money on the inside of the children's heads and that the outside of the building would have to look after itself." "that's just the spirit the city fathers have been showing about the park. they've actually got that started, though," said roger gratefully. "they're doing hardly any work on it; i went by there yesterday," reported dorothy. "it's all laid out, and i suppose they've planted grass seed for there are places that look as if they might be lawns in the dim future." "too bad they couldn't afford to sod them," remarked james, wisely. "if they'd set out clumps of shrubs at the corners and perhaps put a carpet of pansies under them it would help," declared ethel blue, who had consulted with the glen point nurseryman one afternoon when the club went there to see margaret and james. "why don't we make a roar about it?" demanded roger. "ethel blue had the right idea when she said that now was the time to take advantage of the citizens' interest. if we could in some way call their attention to the high school and the town hall and the railroad station and the park." "and tell them that the planting at the graded school as far as it goes, was done by three little girls," suggested tom, grinning at the disgusted faces with which the ethels and dorothy heard themselves called "little girls"; "that ought to put them to shame." "isn't the easiest way to call their attention to it to have a piece in the paper?" asked ethel brown. "you've hit the right idea," approved james. "if your editor is like the glen point editor he'll be glad of a new crusade to undertake." "particularly if it's backed by your grandfather," added della shrewdly. the result of this conference of the club was that they laid the whole matter before mr. emerson and found that it was no trouble at all to enlist his interest. "if you're interested right off why won't other people be?" asked ethel brown when it was clear that her grandfather would lend his weight to anything they undertook. "i believe they will be, and i think you have the right idea about making a beginning. go to mr. montgomery, the editor of the rosemont _star_, and say that i sent you to lay before him the needs of this community in the way of added beauty. tell him to 'play it up' so that the board of trade will get the notion through their heads that people will be attracted to live here if they see lovely grounds about them. he'll think of other appeals. go to see him." the u.s.c. never let grass grow under its feet. the ethels and dorothy, roger and helen went to the office of the _star_ that very afternoon. "you seem to be a delegation," said the editor, receiving them with a smile. "we represent our families, who are citizens of rosemont," answered roger, "and who want your help, and we also represent the united service club which is ready to help you help them." "i know you!" responded mr. montgomery genially. "your club is well named. you've already done several useful things for rosemont people and institutions. what is it now?" roger told him to the last detail, even quoting tom's remark about the "three little girls," and adding some suggestions about town prizes for front door yards which the ethels had poured into his ears as they came up the stairs. while he was talking the editor made some notes on a pad lying on his desk. the ethels were afraid that that meant that he was not paying much attention, and they glanced at each other with growing disappointment. when roger stopped, however, mr. montgomery nodded gravely. "i shall be very glad indeed to lend the weight of the _star_ toward the carrying out of your proposition," he remarked, seeming not to notice the bounce of delight that the younger girls could not resist. "what would you think of a series of editorials, each striking a different note?" and he read from his pad;--survey of rosemont; effect of appearance of railroad station, town hall, etc., on strangers; value of beauty as a reinforcement to good roads and good schools. "that is, as an extra attraction for drawing new residents," he explained. "we have good roads and good schools, but i can conceive of people who might say that they would have to be a lot better than they are before they'd live in a town where the citizens had no more idea of the fitness of things than to have a dump heap almost in the heart of the town and to let the town hall look like a jail." the listening party nodded their agreement with the force of this argument. "'what three little girls have done,'" read mr. montgomery. "i'll invite any one who is interested to take a look at the graded schoolhouse and see how much better it looks as a result of what has been accomplished there. i know, because i live right opposite it, and i'm much obliged to you young ladies." he bowed so affably in the direction of the ethels and dorothy, and "young ladies" sounded so pleasantly in their ears that they were disposed to forgive him for the "little girls" of his title. "i have several other topics here," he went on, "some appealing to our citizens' love of beauty and some to their notions of commercial values. if we keep this thing up every day for a week and meanwhile work up sentiment, i shouldn't wonder if we had some one calling a public meeting at the end of the week. if no one else does i'll do it myself," he added amusedly. "what can we do?" asked ethel brown, who always went straight to the practical side. "stir up sentiment. you stirred your grandfather; stir all your neighbors; talk to all your schoolmates and get them to talk at home about the things you tell them. i'll send a reporter to write up a little 'story' about the u.s.c. with a twist on the end that the grown-ups ought not to leave a matter like this for youngsters to handle, no matter how well they would do it." "but we'd like to handle it," stammered ethel blue. "you'll have a chance; you needn't be afraid of that. the willing horse may always pull to the full extent of his strength. but the citizens of rosemont ought not to let a public matter like this be financed by a few kids," and mr. montgomery tossed his notebook on his desk with a force that hinted that he had had previous encounters with an obstinate element in his chosen abiding place. the scheme that he had outlined was followed out to the letter, with additions made as they occurred to the ingenious minds of the editor or of his clever young reporters who took an immense delight in running under the guise of news items, bits of reminder, gentle gibes at slowness, bland comments on ignorance of the commercial value of beauty, mild jokes at letting children do men's work. it was all so good-natured that no one took offence, and at the same time no one who read the _star_ had the opportunity to forget that seed had been sown. it germinated even more promptly than mr. montgomery had prophesied. he knew that mr. emerson stood ready to call a mass meeting at any moment that he should tell him that the time was ripe, but both he and mr. emerson thought that the call might be more effective if it came from a person who really had been converted by the articles in the paper. this person came to the front but five days after the appearance of the first editorial in the surprising person of the alderman who had been foremost in opposing the laying out of the park. "you may think me a weathercock," he said rather sheepishly to mr. montgomery, "but when i make up my mind that a thing is desirable i put my whole strength into putting it through. when i finally gave my vote for the park i was really converted to the park project and i tell you i've been just frothing because the other aldermen have been so slow about putting it in order. i haven't been able to get them to appropriate half enough for it." mr. montgomery smothered a smile, and listened, unruffled, to his caller's proposal. "my idea now," he went on, "is to call a mass meeting in the town hall some day next week, the sooner the better. i'll be the chairman or mr. emerson or you, i don't care who it is. we'll put before the people all the points you've taken up in your articles. we'll get people who understand the different topics to talk about them--some fellow on the commercial side and some one else on the beauty side and so on; and we'll have the glen point nurseryman--" "we ought to have one over here," interposed mr. montgomery." "we will if this goes through. there's a new occupation opened here at once by this scheme! we'll have him give us a rough estimate of how much it would cost to make the most prominent spots in rosemont look decent instead of like a deserted ranch," exclaimed the alderman, becoming increasingly enthusiastic. "i don't know that i'd call rosemont that," objected the editor. "people don't like to have their towns abused too much; but if you can work up sentiment to have those public places fixed up and then you can get to work on some sort of plan for prizes for the prettiest front yards and the best grown vines over doors and-so on, and raise some competitive feeling i believe we'll have no more trouble than we did about the school gardens. it just takes some one to start the ball rolling, and you're the person to do it," and tactful mr. montgomery laid an approving hand on the shoulder of the pleased alderman. if it had all been cut and dried it could not have worked out better. the meeting was packed with citizens who proved to be so full of enthusiasm that they did not stand in need of conversion. they moved, seconded and passed resolution after resolution urging the aldermen to vote funds for improvements and they mentioned spots in need of improvement and means of improving them that u.s.c. never would have had the courage to suggest. "we certainly are indebted to you young people for a big move toward benefiting rosemont," said mr. montgomery to the club as he passed the settee where they were all seated together. "it's going to be one of the beauty spots of new jersey before this summer is over!" "and the ethels are the authors of the ideal" murmured tom watkins, applauding silently, as the girls blushed. chapter xi the flower festival the idea of having a town flower-costume party was the ethels', too. it came to them when contributions were beginning to flag, just as they discovered that the grounds around the fire engine house were a disgrace to a self-respecting community, as their emphatic friend, the alderman, described them. "people are always willing to pay for fun," ethel brown said, "and this ought to appeal to them because the money that is made by the party will go back to them by being spent for the town." mrs. morton and mrs. emerson and mrs. smith thought the plan was possible, and they offered to enlist the interest of the various clubs and societies to which they belonged. the schools were closed now so that there was no opportunity of advertising the entertainment through the school children, but all the clergymen co-operated heartily in every way in their power and mr. montgomery gave the plan plenty of free advertising, not only in the advertising columns but through the means of reading notices which his reporters prepared with as much interest and skill as they had shown in working up public opinion on the general improvement scheme. "it must be in the school house hall so everybody will go," declared helen. "why not use the hall and the grounds, too?" inquired ethel blue. "if it's a fine evening there are various things that would be prettier to have out of doors than indoors." "the refreshments, for instance," explained ethel brown. "every one would rather eat his ice cream and cake at a table on the lawn in front of the schoolhouse than inside where it may be stuffy if it happens to be a warm night." "lanterns on the trees and candles on each table would make light enough," decided ethel blue. "there could be a punch and judy show in a tent at the side of the schoolhouse," suggested dorothy. "what is there flowery about a punch and judy show?" asked roger scornfully. "nothing at all," returned dorothy meekly, "but for some reason or other people always like a punch and judy show." "where are we going to get a tent?" "a tent would be awfully warm," ethel brown decided. "why couldn't we have it in the corner where there is a fence on two sides? we could lace boughs back and forth between the palings and make the fence higher, and on the other two sides borrow or buy some wide chicken wire from the hardware store and make that eye-proof with branches." "and string an electric light wire over them. i begin to get enthusiastic," cried roger. "we could amuse, say, a hundred people at a time at ten cents apiece, in the side-show corner and keep them away from the other more crowded regions." "exactly," agreed dorothy; "and if you can think of any other side show that the people will like better than punch and judy, why, put it in instead." "we might have finger shadows--rabbits' and dogs' heads and so on; george foster does them splendidly, and then have some one recite and some one else do a monologue in costume." "aren't we going to have that sort of thing inside?" "i suppose so, but if your idea is to give more space inside, considering that all rosemont is expected to come to this festivity, we might as well have a performance in two rings, so to speak." "especially as some of the people might be a little shy about coming inside," suggested dorothy. "why not forget punch and judy and have the same performance exactly in both places?" demanded roger, quite excited with his idea. "the club gives a flower dance, for instance, in the hall; then they go into the yard and give it there in the ten cent enclosure while number two of the program is on the platform inside. when number two is done inside it is put on outside, and so right through the whole performance." "that's not bad except that the outside people are paying ten cents to see the show and the inside people aren't paying anything." "well, then, why not have the tables where you sell things--if you are going to have any?"-- "we are," helen responded to the question in her brother's voice. "--have your tables on the lawn, and have everybody pay to see the performance--ten cents to go inside or ten cents to see the same thing in the enclosure?" "that's the best yet," decided ethel brown. "that will go through well if only it is pleasant weather." "i feel in my bones it will be," and ethel blue laughed hopefully. the appointed day was fair and not too warm. the whole u.s.c. which went on duty at the school house early in the day, pronounced the behavior of the weather to be exactly what it ought to be. the boys gave their attention to the arrangement of the screen of boughs in the corner of the school lot, and the girls, with mrs. emerson, mrs. morton and mrs. smith, decorated the hall. flowers were to be sold everywhere, both indoors and out, so there were various tables about the room and they all had contributed vases of different sorts to hold the blossoms. "i must say, i don't think these look pretty a bit," confessed dorothy, gazing with her head on one side at a large bowl of flowers of all colors that she had placed in the middle of one of the tables. her mother looked at it and smiled. "don't try to show off your whole stock at once," she advised. "have a few arranged in the way that shows them to the best advantage and let ethel blue draw a poster stating that there are plenty more behind the scenes. have your supply at the back or under the table in large jars and bowls and replenish your vases as soon as you sell their contents." the ethels and dorothy thought this was a sensible way of doing things and said so, and ethel blue at once set about the preparation of three posters drawn on brown wrapping paper and showing a girl holding a flower and saying "we have plenty more like this. ask for them." they proved to be very pretty and were put up in the hall and the outside enclosure and on the lawn. "there are certain kinds of flowers that should always be kept low," explained mrs. smith as they all sorted over the cut flowers that had been contributed. "flowers that grow directly from the ground like crocuses or jonquils or daffodils or narcissus--the spring bulbs--should be set into flat bowls through netting that will hold them upright. there are bowls sold for this purpose." "don't they call them 'pansy bowls'?" "i have heard them called that. some of them have a pierced china top; others have a silver netting. you can make a top for a bowl of any size by cutting chicken wire to suit your needs." "i should think a low-growing plant like ageratum would be pretty in a vase of that sort." "it would, and pansies, of course, and anemones--windflowers--held upright by very fine netting and nodding in every current of air as if they were still in the woods." "i think i'll make a covering for a glass bowl we have at home," declared ethel brown, who was diligently snipping ends of stems as she listened. "a glass bowl doesn't seem to me suitable," answered her aunt. "can you guess why?" ethel brown shook her head with a murmured "no." it was della who offered an explanation. "the stems aren't pretty enough to look at," she suggested. "when you use a glass bowl or vase the stems you see through it ought to be graceful." "i think so," responded mrs. smith. "that's why we always take pleasure in a tall slender glass vase holding a single rose with a long stem still bearing a few leaves. we get the effect that it gives us out of doors." "that's what we like to see," agreed mrs. morton. "narcissus springing from a low bowl is an application of the same idea. so are these few sprays of clematis waving from a vase made to hang on the wall. they aren't crowded; they fall easily; they look happy." "and in a room you would select a vase that would harmonize with the coloring," added margaret, who was mixing sweetpeas in loose bunches with feathery gypsophila. "when we were in japan dorothy and i learned something about the japanese notions of flower arrangement," continued mrs. smith. "they usually use one very beautiful dominating blossom. if others are added they are not competing for first place but they act as helpers to add to the beauty of the main attraction." "we've learned some of the japanese ways," said mrs. emerson. "i remember when people always made a bouquet perfectly round and of as many kinds of flowers as they could put into it." "people don't make 'bouquets' now; they gather a 'bunch of flowers,' or they give you a single bloom," smiled her daughter. "but isn't it true that we get as much pleasure out of a single superb chrysanthemum or rose as we do out of a great mass of them?" "there are times when i like masses," admitted mrs. emerson. "i like flowers of many kinds if the colors are harmoniously arranged, and i like a mantelpiece banked with the kind of flowers that give you pleasure when you see them in masses in the garden or the greenhouse." "if the vases they are in don't show," warned mrs. smith. mrs. emerson agreed to that. "the choice of vases is almost as important as the choice of flowers," she added. "if the stems are beautiful they ought to show and you must have a transparent vase, as you said about the rose. if the stems are not especially worthy of admiration the better choice is an opaque vase of china or pottery." "or silver or copper?" questioned margaret. "metals and blossoms never seem to me to go well together," confessed mrs. emerson. "i have seen a copper cup with a bunch of violets loosely arranged so that they hung over the edge and the copper glinted through the blossoms and leaves and the effect was lovely; but flowers to be put into metal must be chosen with that in mind and arranged with especial care." "metal _jardinières_ don't seem suitable to me, either," confessed mrs. emerson. "there are so many beautiful potteries now that it is possible to something harmonious for every flowerpot." "you don't object to a silver centrepiece on the dining table, do you?" "that's the only place where it doesn't seem out of place," smiled mrs. emerson. "there are so many other pieces of silver on the table that it is merely one of the articles of table equipment and therefore is not conspicuous. not a standing vase, mind you!" she continued. "i don't know anything more irritating than to have to dodge about the centrepiece to see your opposite neighbor. it's a terrible bar to conversation." they all had experienced the same discomfort, and they all laughed at the remembrance. "a low bowl arranged flat is the rule for centrepieces," repeated mrs. emerson seriously. "mother always says that gay flowers are the city person's greatest help in brightening up a dark room," said della as she laid aside all the calliopsis from the flowers she was sorting. "i'm going to take a bunch of this home to her to-night." "i always have yellow or white or pink flowers in the dark corner of our sitting room," said mrs. smith. "the blue ones or the deep red ones or the ferns may have the sunny spots." "father insists on yellow blossoms of some kind in the library," added mrs. emerson. "he says they are as good as another electric light to brighten the shadowy side where the bookcases are." "i remember seeing a gay array of window boxes at stratford-on-avon, once upon a time," contributed mrs. morton. "it was a sunshiny day when i saw them, but they were well calculated to enliven the very grayest weather that england can produce. i was told that the house belonged to marie corelli, the novelist." "what plants did she have?" asked dorothy. "blue lobelia and scarlet geraniums and some frisky little yellow bloom; i couldn't see exactly what it was." "red and yellow and blue," repeated ethel brown. "was it pretty?" "very. plenty of each color and all the boxes alike all over the front of the house." "we shouldn't need such vividness under our brilliant american skies," commented mrs. smith. "plenty of green with flowers of one color makes a window box in the best of taste, to my way of thinking." "and that color one that is becoming to the house, so to speak," smiled helen. "i saw a yellow house the other day that had yellow flowers in the window boxes. they were almost extinguished by their background." "i saw a white one in glen point with white daisies, and the effect was the same," added margaret. "the poor little flowers were lost. there are ivies and some small evergreen shrubs that the greenhouse-men raise especially for winter window boxes now. i've been talking a lot with the nurseryman at glen point and he showed me some the other day that he warranted to keep fresh-looking all through the cold weather unless there were blizzards." "we must remember those at sweetbrier lodge," mrs. smith said to dorothy. "why don't you give a talk on arranging flowers as part of the program this evening?" margaret asked mrs. smith. "do, aunt louise. you really ought to," urged helen, and the ethels added their voices. "give a short talk and illustrate it by the examples the girls have been arranging," mrs. morton added, and when mrs. emerson said that she thought the little lecture would have real value as well as interest mrs. smith yielded. "say what you and grandmother have been telling us and you won't need to add another thing," cried helen. "i think it will be the very best number on the program." "i don't believe it will compete with the side show in the yard," laughed mrs. smith, "but i'm quite willing to do it if you think it will give any one pleasure." "but you'll be part of the side show in the yard," and they explained the latest plan of running the program. when the flowers had all been arranged to their satisfaction the girls went into the yard where they found the tables and chairs placed for the serving of the refreshments. the furniture had been supplied by the local confectioner who was to furnish the ice cream and give the management a percentage of what was received. the cake was all supplied by the ladies of the town and the money obtained from its sale was clear profit. the girls covered the bleakness of the plain tables by placing a centrepiece of radiating ferns flat on the wood. on that stood a small vase, each one having flowers of but one color, and each one having a different color. under the trees among the refreshment tables, but not in their way, were the sales tables. on one, cut flowers were to be sold; on another, potted plants, and a special corner was devoted to wild plants from the woods. a seedsman had given them a liberal supply of seeds to sell on commission, agreeing to take back all that were not sold and to contribute one per cent. more than he usually gave to his sales people, "for the good of the cause." every one in the whole town who raised vegetables had contributed to the housewives' table, and as the names of the donors were attached the table had all the attraction of an exhibit at a county fair and was surrounded all the time by so many men that the women who bought the vegetables for home use had to be asked to come back later to get them, so that the discussion of their merits among their growers might continue with the specimens before them. "that's a hint for another year," murmured ethel blue to ethel brown. "we can have a make-believe county fair and charge admission, and give medals--" "of pasteboard." "exactly. i'm glad we thought to have a table of the school garden products; all the parents will be enormously interested. it will bring them here, and they won't be likely to go away without: spending nickel or a dime on ice cream." a great part of the attractiveness of the grounds was due to the contribution of a dealer in garden furniture. in return for being allowed to put up advertisements of his stock in suitable places where they would not be too conspicuous, he furnished several artistic settees, an arbor or two and a small pergola, which the glen point greenhouseman decorated in return for a like use of his advertising matter. still another table, under the care of mrs. montgomery, the wife of the editor, showed books on flowers and gardens and landscape gardening and took subscriptions for several of the garden and home magazines. last of all a fancy table was covered with dolls and paper dolls dressed like the participants in the floral procession that was soon to form and pass around the lawn; lamp shades in the form of huge flowers; hats, flower-trimmed; and half a hundred other small articles including many for ten, fifteen and twenty-five cents to attract the children. at five o'clock the flower festival was opened and afternoon tea was served to the early comers. all the members of the united service club and the other boys and girls of the town who helped them wore flower costumes. it was while the ethels were serving mrs. smith and the miss clarks that the latter called their attention to a man who sat at a table not far away. "that man is your rival," they announced, smiling, to mrs. smith. "my rival! how is that?" inquired mrs. smith. "he wants to buy the field." they all exclaimed and looked again at the man who sat quietly eating his ice cream as if he had no such dreadful intentions. the ethels, however, recognized him as he pushed back a lock of hair that fell over his forehead. "why, that's our werwolf!" they exclaimed after taking a good look at him, and they explained how they had seen him several times in the field, always digging a stick into the ground and examining what it brought up. "he says he's a botanist, and he finds so much to interest him in the field that he wants to buy it so that he may feel free to work there," said miss clark the younger. "that's funny," commented ethel blue. "he almost never looks at any flowers or plants. he just pokes his stick in and that's all." "he offered us a considerable sum for the property but we told him that you had an option on it, mrs. smith, and we explained that we couldn't give title anyway." "did his interest seem to fail?" "he asked us a great many questions and we told him all about our aunt and the missing cousin. i thought you might be interested to know that some one else besides yourself sees some good in the land." "it's so queer," said the other miss clark. "that land has never had an offer made for it and here we have two within a few weeks of each other." "and we can't take advantage of either of them!" the ethels noticed later on that the man was joined by a girl about their own age. they looked at her carefully so that they would recognize her again if they saw her, and they also noticed that the werwolf, as he talked to her, so often pushed back from his forehead the lock of hair that fell over it that it had become a habit. the full effect of the flower costumes was seen after the lanterns were lighted, when some of the young married women attended to the tables while their youngers marched around the lawn that all might see the costumes and be attracted to the entertainment in the hall and behind the screen in the open. roger led the procession, impersonating "spring." "that's a new one to me," ejaculated the editor of the _star_ in surprise. "i always thought 'spring' was of the feminine gender." "not this year," returned roger merrily as he passed by. he was dressed like a tree trunk in a long brown cambric robe that fitted him closely and gave him at the foot only the absolute space that he needed for walking. he carried real apple twigs almost entirely stripped of their leaves and laden with blossoms made of white and pink paper. the effect was of a generously flowering apple tree and every one recognized it. behind roger came several of the spring blossoms--the ethels first, representing the yellow crocus and the violet. ethel brown wore a white dress covered with yellow gauze sewn with yellow crocuses. a ring of crocuses hung from its edge and a crocus turned upside down made a fascinating cap. all the flowers were made of tissue paper. ethel blue's dress was fashioned in the same way, her violet gauze being covered with violets and her cap a tiny lace affair with a violet border. in her case she was able to use many real violets and to carry a basket of the fresh flowers. the contents was made up of small bunches of buttonhole size and she stepped from the procession at almost every table to sell a bunch to some gentleman sitting there. a scout kept the basket always full. sturdy james made a fine appearance in the spring division in the costume of a red and yellow tulip. he wore long green stockings and a striped tulip on each leg constituted his breeches. another, with the points of the petals turning upwards, made his jacket, and yet another, a small one, upside down, served as a cap. james had been rather averse to appearing in this costume because margaret had told him he looked bulbous and he had taken it seriously, but he was so applauded that he came to the conclusion that it was worth while to be a bulb if you could be a good one. helen led the group of summer flowers. as "summer" she wore bunches of all the flowers in the garden, arranged harmoniously as in one of the old-fashioned bouquets her grandmother had spoken of in the morning. it had been a problem to keep all these blossoms fresh for it would not be possible for her to wear artificial flowers. the ethels had found a solution, however, when they brought home one day from the drug store several dozen tiny glass bottles. around the neck of each they fastened a bit of wire and bent it into a hook which fitted into an eye sewed on to the old but pretty white frock which helen was sacrificing to the good cause. after she had put on the dress each one of these bottles was fitted with its flowers which had been picked some time before and revived in warm water and salt so that they would not wilt. "these bottles make me think of a story our french teacher told us once," helen laughed as she stood carefully to be made into a bouquet. "there was a real cyrano de bergerac who lived in the th century. he told a tale supposed to be about his own adventures in which he said that once he fastened about himself a number of phials filled with dew. the heat of the sun attracted them as it does the clouds and raised him high in the air. when he found that he was not going to alight on the moon as he had thought, he broke some of the phials and descended to earth again." "what a ridiculous story," laughed ethel blue, kneeling at helen's feet with a heap of flowers beside her on the floor. "the rest of it is quite as foolish. when he landed on the earth again he found that the sun was still shining, although according to his calculation it ought to be midnight; and he also did not recognize the place he dropped upon in spite of the fact that he had apparently gone straight up and fallen straight down. strange people surrounded him and he had difficulty in making himself understood. after a time he was taken before an official from whom he learned that on account of the rotation of the earth under him while he was in the air, although he had risen when but two leagues from paris he had descended in canada." the younger girls laughed delightedly at this absurd tale, as they worked at their task. bits of trailing vine fell from glass to glass so that none of the holders showed, but a delicate tinkling sounded from them like the water of a brook. "this gown of yours is certainly successful," decided margaret, surveying the result of the ethels' work, "but i dare say it isn't comfortable, so you'd better have another one that you can slip into behind the scenes after you've made the rounds in this." helen took the advice and after the procession had passed by, she put on a pretty flowered muslin with pink ribbons. dorothy walked immediately behind helen. she was dressed like a garden lily, her petals wired so that they turned out and up at the tips. she wore yellow stockings and slippers as a reminder of the anthers or pollen boxes on the ends of the stamens of the lilies. dicky's costume created as much sensation as roger's. he was a jack-in-the-pulpit. a suit of green striped in two shades fitted him tightly, and over his head he carried his pulpit, a wire frame covered with the same material of which his clothes were made. the shape was exact and he looked so grave as he peered forth from his shelter that his appearance was saluted with hearty hand clapping. several of the young people of the town followed in the summer division. one of them was a fleur-de-lis, wearing a skirt of green leaf blades and a bodice representing the purple petals of the blossom. george foster was monkshood, a cambric robe--a "domino"--serving to give the blue color note, and a very correct imitation of the flower's helmet answering the purpose of a head-dress. gregory patton was grass, and achieved one of the successful costumes of the line with a robe that rippled to the ground, green cambric its base, completely covered with grass blades. "that boy ought to have a companion dressed like a haycock," laughed mr. emerson as gregory passed him. margaret led the autumn division, her dress copied from a chestnut tree and burr. her kirtle was of the long, slender leaves overlapping each other. the bodice was in the tones of dull yellow found in the velvety inside of the opened burr and of the deep brown of the chestnut itself. this, too, was approved by the onlookers. behind her walked della, a combination of purple asters and golden rod, the rosettes of the former seeming a rich and solid material from which the heads of goldenrod hung in a delicate fringe. a "long-haired chrysanthemum" was among the autumn flowers, his tissue paper petals slightly wired to make them stand out, and a stalk of joe-pye-weed strode along with his dull pink corymb proudly elevated above the throng. all alone as a representative of winter was tom watkins, decorated superbly as a christmas tree. boughs of norway spruce were bound upon his arms and legs and covered his body. shining balls hung from the twigs, tinsel glistened as he passed under the lantern light, and strings of popcorn reached from his head to his feet. there was no question of his popularity among the children. every small boy who saw him asked if he had a present for him. the flower procession served to draw the people into the hall and the screened corner. they cheerfully yielded up a dime apiece at the entrance to each place, and when the "show" was over they were re-replaced by another relay of new arrivals, so that the program was gone through twice in the hall and twice in the open in the course of the evening. a march of all the flowers opened the program. this was not difficult, for all the boys and girls were accustomed to such drills at school, but the effect in costumes under the electric light was very striking. roger, still dressed as an apple tree, recited bryant's "planting of the apple tree." dicky delivered a brief sermon from his pulpit. george foster ordered the lights out and went behind a screen on which he made shadow finger animals to the delight of every child present. mrs. smith gave her little talk on the arrangement of flowers, illustrating it by the examples around the room which were later carried out to the open when she repeated her "turn" in the enclosure. the cartoonist of the _star_ gave a chalk talk on "famous men of the day," reciting an amusing biography of each and sketching his portrait, framed in a rose, a daisy, mountain laurel, a larkspur or whatever occurred to the artist as he talked. there was music, for mr. schuler, who formerly had taught music in the rosemont schools and who was now with his wife at rose house, where the united service club was taking care of several poor women and children, had drilled some of his former pupils in flower choruses. one of these, by children of dicky's age, was especially liked. every one was pleased and the financial result was so satisfactory that rosemont soon began to blossom like the flower from which it was named. "team work certainly does pay," commented roger enthusiastically when the club met again to talk over the great day. and every one of them agreed that it did. chapter xii enough to give away at the very beginning of his holidays stanley clark had gone to nebraska to replace the detective who had been vainly trying to find some trace of his father's cousin, emily leonard. the young man was eager to have the matter straightened out, both because it was impossible to sell any of the family land unless it were, and because he wanted to please mrs. smith and dorothy, and because his orderly mind was disturbed at there being a legal tangle in his family. perhaps he put into his search more clearness of vision than the detective, or perhaps he came to it at a time when he could take advantage of what his predecessor had done;--whatever the reason, he did find a clue and it seemed a strange coincidence that it was only a few days after the miss clarks had received the second offer for their field that a letter came to them from their nephew, saying that he had not only discovered the town to which emily's daughter had gone and the name of the family into which she had been adopted, but had learned the fact that the family had later on removed to the neighborhood of pittsburg. "at least, this brings the search somewhat nearer home," stanley wrote, "but it also complicates it, for 'the neighborhood of pittsburg' is very vague, and it covers a large amount of country. however, i am going to start to-night for pittsburg to see what i can do there. i've grown so accustomed to playing hide-and-seek with cousin emily and i'm so pleased with my success so far that i'm hopeful that i may pick up the trail in western pennsylvania." the clarks and the smiths all shared stanley's hopefulness, for it did indeed seem wonderful that he should have found the missing evidence after so many weeks of failure by the professional detective, and, if he had traced one step, why not the next? the success of the gardens planted by the u.s.c. had been remarkable. the plants had grown as if they wanted to please, and when blossoming time came, they bloomed with all their might. "do you remember the talk you and i had about rose house just before the fresh air women and children came out?" asked ethel blue of her cousin. ethel brown nodded, and ethel blue explained the conversation to dorothy. "we thought roger's scheme was pretty hard for us youngsters to carry out and we felt a little uncertain about it, but we made up our minds that people are almost always successful when they _want_ like everything to do something and _make up their minds_ that they are going to put it through and _learn how_ to put it through." "we've proved it again with the gardens," responded ethel brown. "we wanted to have pretty gardens and we made up our minds that we could if we tried and then we learned all we could about them from people and books." "just see what roger knows now about fertilizers!" exclaimed dorothy in a tone of admiration. "fertilizers aren't a bit interesting until you think of them as plant food and realize that plants like different kinds of food and try to find out what they are. roger has studied it out and we've all had the benefit of his knowledge." "which reminds me that if we want any flowers at all next week we'd better put on some nitrate of soda this afternoon or this dry weather will ruin them." "queer how that goes right to the blossoms and doesn't seem to make the whole plant grow." "i did a deadly deed to one of my calceolarias," confessed ethel blue. "i forgot you mustn't use it after the buds form and i sprinkled away all over the plant just as i had been doing." "did you kill the buds?" "it discouraged them. i ought to have put some crystals on the ground a little way off and let them take it in in the air." "it doesn't seem as though it were strong enough to do either good or harm, does it? one tablespoonful in two gallons of water!" "grandfather says he wouldn't ask for plants to blossom better than ours are doing." ethel brown repeated the compliment with just pride. "it's partly because we've loved to work with them and loved them," insisted ethel blue. "everything you love answers back. if you hate your work it's just like hating people; if you don't like a girl she doesn't like you and you feel uncomfortable outside and inside; if you don't like your work it doesn't go well." "what do you know about hating?" demanded dorothy, giving ethel blue a hug. ethel flushed. "i know a lot about it," she insisted. "some days i just despise arithmetic and on those days i never can do anything right; but when i try to see some sense in it i get along better." they all laughed, for ethel blue's struggles with mathematics were calculated to arouse sympathy even in a hardened breast. "it's all true," agreed helen, who had been listening quietly to what the younger girls were saying, "and i believe we ought to show people more than we do that we like them. i don't see why we're so scared to let a person know that we think she's done something well, or to sympathize with her when she's having a hard time." "o," exclaimed dorothy shrinkingly, "it's so embarrassing to tell a person you're sorry." "you don't have to tell her in words," insisted helen. "you can make her realize that you understand what she is going through and that you'd like to help her." "how can you do it without talking?" asked ethel brown, the practical. "when i was younger," answered helen thoughtfully, "i used to be rather afraid of a person who was in trouble. i thought she might think i was intruding if i spoke of it. but mother told me one day that a person who was suffering didn't want to be treated as if she were in disgrace and not to be spoken to, and i've always tried to remember it. now, when i know about it or guess it i make a point of being just as nice as i know how to her. sometimes we don't talk about the trouble at all; sometimes it comes out naturally after a while. but even if the subject isn't mentioned she knows that there is at least one person who is interested in her and her affairs." "i begin to see why you're so popular at school," remarked margaret, who had known for a long time other reasons for helen's popularity. helen threw a leaf at her friend and asked the ethels to make some lemonade. they had brought the juice in a bottle and chilled water in a thermos bottle, so that the preparation was not hard. there were cold cheese straws to eat with it. the ethels had made them in their small kitchen at home by rubbing two tablespoonfuls of butter into four tablespoonfuls of flour, adding two tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, seasoning with a pinch of cayenne, another of salt and another of mace, rolling out to a thickness of a quarter of an inch, cutting into strips about four inches long and half an inch wide and baking in a hot oven. "'which i wish to remark and my language is plain,'" helen quoted, "that in spite of dicky's picking all the blossoms we have so many flowers now that we ought to do--give them away. "ethel blue and i have been taking some regularly every week to the old ladies at the home," returned ethel brown. "i was wondering if there were enough to send some to the hospital at glen point," suggested margaret. "the glen point people are pretty good about sending flowers, but the hospital is an old story with them and sometimes they don't remember when they might." "i should think we might send some there and some to the orphanage," said dorothy, from whose large garden the greater part of the supply would have to come. "have the orphans any gardens to work in?" "they have beds like your school garden here in rosemont, but they have to give the vegetables to the house and i suppose it isn't much fun to raise vegetables and then have them taken away from you." "they eat them themselves." "but they don't know willy's tomato from johnny's. if willy and johnny were allowed to sell their crops they'd be willing to pay out of the profit for the seed they use and they'd take a lot of interest in it. the housekeeper would buy all they'd raise, and they'd feel that their gardens were self-supporting. now they feel that the seed is given to them out of charity, and that it's a stingy sort of charity after all because they are forced to pay for the seed by giving up their vegetables whether they want to or not." "do they enjoy working the gardens?" "i should say not! james and i said the other day that they were the most forlorn looking gardeners we ever laid our eyes on." "don't they grow any flowers at all?" "just a few in a border around the edge of their vegetable gardens and some in front of the main building where they'll be seen from the street." the girls looked at each other and wrinkled their noses. "let's send some there every week and have the children understand that young people raised them and thought it was fun to do it." "and can't you ask to have the flowers put in the dining-room and the room where the children are in the evening and not in the reception room where only guests will see them?" "i will," promised margaret. "james and i have a scheme to try to have the children work their gardens on the same plan that the children do here," she went on. "we're going to get father to put it before the board of management, if we can." "i do hope he will. the kiddies here are so wild over their gardens that it's proof to any one that it's a good plan." "oo-hoo," came roger's call across the field. "oo-hoo. come up," went back the answer. "what are you girls talking about?" inquired the young man, arranging himself comfortably with his back against a rock and accepting a paper tumbler of lemonade and some cheese straws. helen explained their plan for disposing of the extra flowers from their gardens. "it's service club work; we ought to have started it earlier," she ended. "the ethels did begin it some time ago; i caught them at it," he accused, shaking his finger at his sister and cousin. "i told the girls we had been taking flowers to the old ladies' home," confessed ethel brown. "o, you have! i didn't know that! i did find out that you were supplying the atwoods down by the bridge with sweetpeas." "there have been such oodles," protested ethel blue. "of course. it was the right thing to do." "how did you know about it, anyway? weren't you taking flowers there yourself?" "no, ma'am." "what were you doing?" "i know; i saw him digging there one day." "o, keep still, dorothy," roger remonstrated. "you might as well tell us about it." "it isn't anything. i did look in one day to ask if they'd like some sweetpeas, but i found the ethels were ahead of me. the old lady has a fine snowball bush and a beauty syringa in front of the house. when i spoke about them she said she had always wanted to have a bed of white flowers around the two bushes, so i offered to make one for her. that's all." "good for roger!" cried margaret. "tell us what you put into it. we've had pink and blue and yellow beds this year; we can add white next year." "just common things," replied roger. "it was rather late so i planted seeds that would hurry up; sweet alyssum for a border, of course, and white verbenas and balsam, and petunias, and candytuft and, phlox and stocks and portulaca and poppies. do you remember, i asked you, dorothy, if you minded my taking up that aster that showed a white bud? that went to mrs. atwood. the seeds are all coming up pretty well now and the old lady is as pleased as punch." "i should think she might be! can the old gentleman cultivate them or is his rheumatism too bad?" "i put in an hour there every once in a while," roger admitted reluctantly. "it's nothing to be ashamed of!" laughed helen encouragingly. "what i want to know is how we are to send our flowers in to new york to the flower and fruit guild. della said she'd look it up and let us know." "she did. i saw tom yesterday and he gave me these slips and asked me to tell you girls about them and i forgot it." roger bobbed his head by way of asking forgiveness, which was granted by a similar gesture. "it seems that the national plant, flower and fruit guild will distribute anything you send to it at fifth avenue; or you can select some institution you're interested in and send your stuff directly to it, and if you use one of these guild pasters the express companies will carry the parcel free." "good for the express companies!" exclaimed ethel brown. "here's one of the pasters," and roger handed one of them to margaret while the others crowded about to read it. approved label national plant, flower and fruit guild, fifth avenue, new york city. express companies adams american great northern national united states wells fargo western will deliver free within a distance of one hundred ( ) miles from stations on their lines to any charitable institution or organization within the delivery limits of adjacent cities. if an exchange of baskets is made they will be returned without charge. conditions this property is carried at owner's risk of loss or damage. no box or basket shall exceed twenty ( ) pounds in weight. all jellies to be carefully packed and boxed. all potted plants to be set in boxes. for _chapel of comforter_, _ horatio street_, _new york city_. from _united service club_, _rosemont, new jersey_. kindly deliver promptly. "where it says 'for,'" explained roger, "you fill in, say, 'chapel of the comforter, horatio street' or 'st. agnes' day nursery, charles street,' and you write 'united service club, rosemont, n.j.,' after 'from.'" "it says 'approved label' at the top," ethel brown observed questioningly. "that's so people won't send flowers to their friends and claim free carriage from the express companies on the ground that it's for charity," roger went on. "then you fill out this postcard and put it into every bundle you send. sender will please fill out one of these cards as far as "received by" and enclose in every shipment. national plant, flower and fruit guild. national office: fifth avenue, n.y.c. sender town sends to-day (date) plants flowers (bunches) fruit or vegetables quarts or bushels jelly, preserved fruit or grape juice (estimated @ / pint as a glass) glasses. nature material to (institution) rec'd by address condition date "that tells the people at the day nursery, for instance, just what you packed and assures them that the parcel hasn't been tampered with; they acknowledge the receipt at the foot of the card,--here, do you see?--and send it to the 'new york city branch, national plant, flower and fruit guild, fifth ave., new york city.' that enables the guild to see that the express company is reporting correctly the number of bundles it has carried." "they've worked out the best way after long experience, tom says, and they find this is excellent. they recommend it to far-off towns that send to them for help about starting a guild." "let's send our flowers to mr. watkins's chapel," suggested ethel blue. "della told me the people hardly ever see a flower, it's so far to any of the parks where there are any." "our women at rose house were pathetic over the flowers when they first came," said helen. "don't you remember the bulgarian? she was a country girl and she cried when she first went into the garden." "i'm glad we planted a flower garden there as well as a vegetable garden." "it has been as much comfort to the women as ours have been to us." "i think they would like to send in some flowers from their garden beds to the chapel," suggested ethel blue. "i was talking with mrs. paterno the other day and she said they all felt that they wanted all their friends to have a little piece of their splendid summer. this will be a way for them to help." "mr. watkins's assistant would see that the bunches were given to their friends if they marked them for special people," said ethel brown. "let's get it started as soon as we can," said helen. "you're secretary, ethel blue; write to-day to the guild for some pasters and postcards and tell them we are going to send to mr. watkins's chapel; and ethel brown, you seem to get on pretty well with bulgarian and italian and a few of the other tongues that they speak at rose house--suppose you try to make the women understand what we are going to do. tell them we'll let them know on what day we're going to send the parcel in, so that they can cut their flowers the night before and freshen them in salt and water before they travel." "funny salt should be a freshener," murmured dorothy, as the ethels murmured their understanding of the duties their president assigned to them. chapter xiii in business it was quite clear to the clarks that the "botanist" had not given up his hope of buying the field, in spite of the owners' insistence that not only was its title defective but that the option had been promised to mrs. smith. he roamed up and down the road almost every day, going into the field, as the girls could see from their elevation in fitz-james's woods, and stopping at the clarks' on his return if he saw any of the family on the veranda, to inquire what news had come from their nephew. "i generally admire persistency," remarked mr. clark one day to mrs. smith and dorothy, and the ethels, "but in this case it irritates me. when you tell a man that you can't sell to him and that you wouldn't if you could it seems as if he might take the hint and go away." "i don't like him," and mrs. smith gave a shrug of distaste. "he doesn't look you squarely in the face." "i hate that trick he has of brushing his hair out of his eyes. it makes me nervous," confessed the younger miss clark. "i can't see why a botanist doesn't occasionally look at a plant," observed dorothy. "we've watched him day after day and we've almost never seen him do a thing except push his stick into the ground and examine it afterwards." "do you remember that girl who was with him at the flower festival?" inquired ethel brown. "i saw her with him again this afternoon at the field. when he pushed his cane down something seemed to stick to it when it came up and he wiped it off with his hand and gave it to her." "could you see what it was like?" "it looked like dirt to me." "what did she do with it?" "she took it and began to turn it around in her hand, rubbing it with her fingers the way dorothy does when she's making her clay things." mr. clark brought down his foot with a thump upon the porch. "i'll bet you five million dollars i know what he's up to!" he exclaimed. "what?" "what?" "what?" rang out from every person on the porch. "i'll go right over there this minute and find out for myself." "find out what?" "do tell us." "what do you think it is?" mr. clark paused on the steps as he was about to set off. "clay," he answered briefly. "there are capital clays in different parts of new jersey. don't you remember there are potteries that make beautiful things at trenton? i shouldn't wonder a bit if that field has pretty good clay and this man wants to buy it and start a pottery there." "next to my house!" exclaimed mrs. smith disgustedly. "don't be afraid; if we're ever able to sell the field you're the person who will get it," promised the old gentleman's sisters in chorus. "we don't want a pottery on the street any more than you do," they added, and expressed a wish that their brother might be able to convince the persistent would-be purchaser of the utter hopelessness of his wishes. "what do you hear from stanley?" mrs. smith asked. "he's still quite at sea in pittsburg--if one may use such an expression about a place as far from the ocean as that!" laughed miss clark. "he thinks he'll go fast if ever he gets a start, but he hasn't found any trace of the people yet. he's going to search the records not only in allegheny county but in washington and westmoreland and fayette counties and the others around pittsburg, if it's necessary. he surely is persistent." "isn't it lucky he is? and don't you hope he'll find some clue before his holidays end? that detective didn't seem to make any progress at all!" mr. clark came back more than ever convinced that he had guessed the cause of the "botanist's" perseverance. "unless my eyes and fingers deceive me greatly this is clay and pretty smooth clay," he reported to the waiting group, and dorothy, who knew something about clay because she had been taught to model, said she thought so, too. "we know his reason for wanting the land, then," declared mr. clark; "now if we could learn why he can't seem to take it in that he's not going to get it, no matter what happens, we might be able to make him take his afternoon walks in some other direction." "who is he? and where is he staying?" inquired mrs. smith. "he calls himself hapgood and he's staying at the motor inn." "is the little girl his daughter?" "i'll ask him if he ever comes here again," and mr. clark looked as if he almost wished he would appear, so that he might gratify his curiosity. the motor inn was a house of no great size on the main road to jersey city. a young woman, named foster, lived in it with her mother and brother. the latter, george, was a high school friend of helen and roger. miss foster taught dancing in the winter and, being an enterprising young woman, had persuaded her mother to open the old house for a tea room for the motorists who sped by in great numbers on every fair day, and who had no opportunity to get a cup of tea and a sandwich any nearer than glen point in one direction and athens creek in the other. "here are we sitting down and doing nothing to attract the money out of their pockets and they are hunting for a place to spend it!" she had exclaimed. the house was arranged like the emerson farmhouse, with a wide hall dividing it, two rooms on each side. miss foster began by putting out a rustic sign which her brother made for her. motor inn tea and sandwiches luncheon dinner it read. the entrance was attractive with well-kept grass and pretty flowers. miss foster took a survey of it from the road and thought she would like to go inside herself if she happened to be passing. they decided to keep the room just in front of the kitchen for the family, but the room across the hall they fitted with small tables of which they had enough around the house. the back room they reserved for a rest room for the ladies, and provided it with a couch and a dressing table always kept fully, equipped with brushes, pins and hairpins. "if we build up a real business we can set tables here in the hall," miss foster suggested. "why not on the veranda at the side?" her mother asked. "that's better still. we might put a few out there to indicate that people can have their tea there if they want to, and then let them take their choice in fair weather." the inn had been a success from the very first day when a car stopped and delivered a load of people who ate their simple but well-cooked luncheon hungrily and liked it so well that they ordered dinner for the following sunday and promised to send other parties. "what i like best about your food, if you'll allow me to say so," the host of the machine-load said to miss foster, "is that your sandwiches are delicate and at the same time there are more than two bites to them. they are full-grown sandwiches, man's size." "my brother calls them 'lady sandwiches' though," laughed miss foster. "he says any sandwich with the crust cut off is unworthy a man's attention." "tell him for me that he's mistaken. no crust on mine, but a whole slice of bread to make up for the loss," and he paid his bill enthusiastically and packed away into his thermos box a goodly pile of the much-to-be-enjoyed sandwiches. people for every meal of the day began to appear at the motor inn, for it was surprising how many parties made a before-breakfast start to avoid the heat of the day on a long trip, and turned up at the inn about eight or nine o'clock demanding coffee and an omelette. then one or two rosemont people came to ask if friends of theirs might be accommodated with rooms and board for a week or two, and in this way the old house by the road grew rapidly to be more like the inn its sign called it than the tea room it was intended to be. servants were added, another veranda was built on, and it looked as if miss foster would not teach dancing when winter came again but would have to devote herself to the management of the village hotel which the town had always needed. it was while the members of the u.s.c. were eating ices and cakes there late one afternoon when they had walked to the station with the departing watkinses that the ethels had one of the ideas that so often struck them at almost the same moment. it came as they watched a motor party go off, supplying themselves with a box of small cakes for the children after trying to buy from miss foster the jar of wild iris that stood in state on the table in the hall. it was not fresh enough to travel they had decided when their hostess had offered to give it to them and they all had examined the purple heads that showed themselves to be past their prime when they were brought out into the light from the semi-darkness of the hall. "couldn't we--?" murmured ethel blue with uplifted eye-brows, glancing at ethel brown. "let's ask her if we may?" replied ethel brown, and without any more discussion than this they laid before miss foster the plan that had popped into their minds ready made. ethel brown was the spokeswoman. "would you mind if we had a flower counter here in your hall?" she asked. "we need to make some money for our women at rose house." "a flower counter? upon my word, children, you take my breath away!" responded miss foster. "we'd try not to give you any trouble," said ethel blue. "one of us would stay here every day to look after it and we'd pay rent for the use of the space." "upon my word!" exclaimed miss foster again. "you must let me think a minute." she was a rapid thinker and her decision was quickly made. "we'll try it for a week," she said. "perhaps we'll find that there isn't enough demand for the flowers to make it worth while, though people often want to buy any flowers they see here, as those people you saw did." "if you'll tell us just what space we can have we'll try not to bother you," promised ethel blue again, and miss foster smiled at her eagerness. "we want it to be a regular business, so will you please tell us how much rent we ought to pay?" asked ethel brown. miss foster smiled again, but she was trying to carry on a regular business herself and she knew how she would feel if people did not take her seriously. "we'll call it five per cent of what you sell," she said. "i don't think i could make it less," and she smiled again. "that's five cents on every dollar's worth," calculated ethel brown seriously. "that isn't enough unless you expect us to sell a great many dollars' worth." "we'll call it that for this trial week, anyway," decided miss foster. "if the test goes well we can make another arrangement. if you have a pretty table it will be an attraction to my hall and perhaps i shall want to pay you for coming," she added good naturedly. she pointed out to them the exact spot on which they might place their flowers and agreed to let them arrange the flowers daily for her rooms and tables and to pay them for it. "i have no flowers for cutting this summer," she said, "and i've been bothered getting some every day. it has taken george's time when he should have been doing other things." "we'll do it for the rent," offered ethel blue. "no, i've been buying flowers outside and using my own time in arranging them. it's only fair that i should pay you as i would have paid some one long ago if i could have found the right person. i stick to the percentage arrangement for the rent." on the way home the girls realized with some discomfiture that without consulting mrs. morton and mrs. smith they had made an arrangement that would keep them away from home a good deal and put them in a rather exposed position. "what do you suppose mother and aunt louise will say?" asked ethel brown doubtfully. "i think they'll let us do it. they know we need the money for rose house just awfully, and they like miss foster and her mother--i've heard aunt marion say they were so brave about undertaking the inn." her voice quavered off into uncertainty, for she realized as she spoke that what a young woman of miss foster's age did in connection with her mother was a different matter from a business venture entered into alone by girls of fourteen. the fact that the business venture was to be carried on under the eye of mrs. foster and her daughter, ladies whom mrs. morton knew well and respected and admired, was the turning point in her decision to allow the girls to conduct the affair which had entered their minds so suddenly. she and mrs. smith went to the inn and assisted in the arrangement of the first assortment of flowers and plants, saw to it that there was a space on the back porch where they could be handled without the water or vases being in the way of the workers in the inn, suggested that an additional sign reading plants and cut flowers be hung below the sign outside and that a card for the benefit of rose house be placed over the table inside, and then went away and left the girls to manage affairs themselves. it was while ethel blue was drawing the poster to hang over the table that the "botanist" walked into the hall and strolled over to investigate the addition to the furnishings. he asked a question or two in a voice they did not like. they noticed that the young girl with him called him "uncle dan" and that he called her "mary." the girls had arranged their flowers according to mrs. smith's and mrs. emerson's ideas, not crowding them but showing each to its best advantage and selecting for each a vase that suited its form and coloring. their supplies were kept out of sight in order not to mar the effect. the tables of the tea rooms were decorated with pink on this opening day, both because they thought that some of the guests might see some connection between pink and the purpose of the sale, helping _rose house_--and for the practical reason that they had more pink blossoms than any other color, thanks to their love of that gay hue. it was noon before any people outside of the resident guests of the inn stopped at the house. then a party of people evidently from a distance, for they were covered with dust, ordered luncheon. while the women were arranging their hair in the dressing room the men came over to the flower table and asked countless questions. "here, gerald," one called to another, "these young women have just begun this business to-day and they haven't had a customer yet. i'm going to be the first; you can be the second." "nothing of the sort; i'll be the first myself," and "gerald" tossed half a dollar on to the table with an order for "sweetpeas, all pink, please." ethel blue, flushed with excitement over this first sale, set about filling a box with the fresh butterfly blossoms, while ethel brown attended to the man who had begun the conversation. he wanted "a bunch of bachelor's buttons for a young lady with blue eyes." an older man who came to see what the younger ones were doing bought buttonholes for all the men and directed that a handful of flowers of different kinds be placed beside each plate on the large table on the shady porch where they were to have their meal. when the women appeared they were equally interested, and inquired all about rose house. one of them directed that enough ferns for the renewal of a centerpiece should be ready for her to take away when they left and the other bought one of the hanging baskets which roger had arranged as a sample of what they could supply if called upon. "roger will be tickled to pieces that his idea caught on at once," ethel brown murmured to ethel blue as they sorted and packed their orders, not very deftly, but swiftly enough for the posies to add to the enjoyment of the people at the table and for the parcels to be ready for them when the motor came to the door. "we'll tell all our friends about you," the guests promised as they left. these were the only patrons until afternoon brought in several parties for tea. almost every one of them was sufficiently drawn by the "rose house" placard to make inquiries, and several of them bought flowers and potted plants. the same was true of the dinner arrivals. when the girls examined their receipts for the day they found they had taken in over seven dollars, had booked several orders and already had learned a good deal about what people liked and what they could carry conveniently in their machines. "we shan't need to have so many cut flowers here," they decided after the day's experience. "it's better to leave them on the plants and then if we run short to telephone to the house and have dicky bring over an extra supply." "these potted plants are all right here, though. we can leave them on the back porch at night, miss foster says, and bring them in to the table in the morning." "we must get roger to fill some more hanging baskets and ox muzzles and make some ivy balls; those are going to take." the plan worked out extremely well, its only drawback being that the girls had to give more time to the table at the inn than they liked. they were "spelled" however, by other members of the club, and finally, as a result of a trip when they all went away for a few days, they engaged a schoolmate of the ethels who had helped them occasionally, to give her whole time to the work at the inn. financially the scheme worked out very well. when it came time to pay the rent for the first week the ethels decided that they were accepting charity if they only paid miss foster five per cent. of their gross earnings, so they doubled it. "i am buying the cut flowers at the same price that the girls are selling them to other customers, and i am glad to pay for their arrangement for it releases me to attend to matters that need me more," she had explained. "even if it should be a few cents on the wrong side of my account, i am glad to contribute something to rose house. and the motoring season is comparatively short, too." every once in a while they received an idea from some one who asked for something they did not have. one housekeeper wanted fresh herbs and the ethels telephoned directions for the picking of the herb bed that roger had planted for their own kitchen use. "we need the herbs ourselves, miss ethel," came back a protest from mary. "i don't want to refuse to fill any order i get, mary," ethel brown insisted. "next year we'll plant a huge bed, enough for a dozen kitchens." this unexpected order resulted in the making of another poster giving the information that fresh kitchen herbs might be had on order and would be delivered by parcel post to any address. several of their customers demanded ferns for their houses indoors or for their porches or wild gardens. this order was not welcome for it meant that some one had to go to the woods to get them as none had been planted in the gardens as yet. still, in accordance with their decision never to refuse to fill an order unless it was absolutely impossible, the girls went themselves or sent one of the boys on a search for what they needed. one steady customer was an invalid who lived in athens creek and who could drive only a few miles once or twice a week. she happened in to the inn one day and ever after she made the house her goal. her especial delight was meadow flowers, and she placed a standing order to have an armful of meadow blossoms ready for her every thursday. this necessitated a visit to the meadows opposite grandfather emerson's house every wednesday afternoon so that the flowers should have recovered from their first shock by the next morning. "this takes me back to the days when i used to follow the flowers through the whole summer," the invalid cried delightedly. "ah, joe-pye-weed has arrived," she exclaimed joyfully over the handsome blossom. when the ethels and dorothy received their first order for the decoration of a house for an afternoon reception they were somewhat overcome. "can we do it?" they asked each other. they concluded they could. one went to the house two days beforehand to examine the rooms and to see what vases and bowls they should have at their disposal. then they looked over the gardens very carefully to see what blossoms would be cut on the appointed day, and then they made a plan with pencil and paper. mr. emerson lent his car on the morning of the appointed day and roger went with them to unload the flowers and plants. they had kept the flowers of different colors together, a matter easy to do when cutting from their beds of special hues, and this arrangement made easy the work of decorating different rooms in different colors. the porch was made cool with ferns and hanging vines; the hall, which seemed dark to eyes blinded by the glare outside, was brightened with yellow posies; the dining room had delicate blue lobelia mingled with gypsophila springing from low, almost unseen dishes all over the table where the tea and coffee were poured, and hanging in festoons from the smaller table on which stood the bowl of grape juice lemonade, made very sour and very sweet and enlivened with charged water. the girls profited by this combination, for the various amounts used in it were being "tried out" during the morning and with every new trial refreshing glasses were handed about for criticism by the workers. in the drawing room where the hostess stood to receive, superb pink poppies reared their heads from tall vases, pink snapdragons bobbed on the mantel piece and a bank of pink candytuft lay on the top of the piano. a lovely vine waved from a wall vase of exquisite design and vines trailed around the wide door as naturally as if they grew there instead of springing from bottles of water concealed behind tall jars of pink hollyhocks. "it is perfectly charming, my dears, and i can't tell you how obliged i am," said their hostess as she pressed a bill into ethel brown's hand. "i know that every woman who will be here will want you the next time she entertains, and i shall tell everybody you did it." she was as good as her word and the attempt resulted in several other orders. the girls tried to make each house different from any that they had decorated before, and they thought that they owed the success that brought them many compliments to the fact that they planned it all out beforehand and left nothing to be done in a haphazard way. meanwhile rose house benefited greatly by the welcome weekly additions from the flower sale to its slender funds. "i'm not sure it isn't roses ye are yerselves, yer that sweet to look at!" exclaimed moya, the cook at rose house, one day when the girls were there. and they admitted themselves that if happiness made them sweet to look at it must be true. chapter xiv uncle dan's researches "uncle dan," whose last name was hapgood, did not cease his calls upon the clarks. sometimes he brought with him his niece, whose name, they learned, was mary smith. "another smith!" ejaculated dorothy who had lived long enough in the world to find out the apparent truth of the legend, that originally all the inhabitants of the earth were named smith and so continued until some of them misbehaved and were given other names by way of punishment. no one liked mr. hapgood better as time went on. "i believe he is a twentieth century werwolf, as dorothy said," ethel brown insisted. "he's a wolf turned into a man but keeping the feelings of a wolf." the girls found little to commend in the manners of his niece and nothing to attract. by degrees the "botanist's" repeated questioning put him in command of all the information the clarks had themselves about the clue that stanley was hunting down. he seemed especially interested when he learned that the search had been transferred to the vicinity of pittsburg. "my sister, mary's mother, lived near pittsburg," he told them when he heard it; "i know that part of the country pretty well." for several days he was not seen either by the clarks or by the girls who went to the motor inn to attend to the flowers, and mrs. foster told the ethels that mary had been left in her care while her uncle went away on a business trip. at the end of a week he appeared again at the clarks', bringing the young girl with him. he received the usual courteous but unenthusiastic reception with which they always met this man who had forced himself upon them so many times. now his eyes were sparkling and more nervously than ever he kept pushing back the lock of hair that hung over his forehead. "well, i've been away," he began. the clarks said that they had heard so. "i been to western pennsylvania." his hearers expressed a lukewarm interest. "i went to hunt up the records of fayette county concerning the grandparents of mary here." "i hope you were successful," remarked the elder miss clark politely. "yes, ma'am, i was," shouted hapgood in reply, thumping his hand on the arm of his chair with a vigor that startled his hosts. "yes, sir, i was, sir; perfectly successful; _en_-tirely successful." mr. clark murmured something about the gratification the success must be to mr. hapgood and awaited the next outburst. it came without delay. "do you want to know what i found out?" "certainly, if you care to tell us." "well, i found out that mary here is the granddaughter of your cousin, emily leonard, you been huntin' for." "mary!" exclaimed the elder miss clark startled, her slender hands fluttering agitatedly as the man's heavy voice forced itself upon her ears and the meaning of what he said entered her mind. "this child!" ejaculated the younger sister, miss eliza, doubtfully, adjusting her glasses and leaning over to take a closer look at the proposed addition to the family. "hm!" this comment came from mr. clark. a dull flush crept over hapgood's face. "you don't seem very cordial," he remarked. "o," the elder miss clark, miss maria, began apologetically, but she was interrupted by her brother. "you have the proofs, i suppose." hapgood could not restrain a glare of dislike, but he drew a bundle of papers from his pocket. "i knew you'd ask for 'em." "naturally," answered the calm voice of mr. clark. "so i copied these from the records and swore to 'em before a notary." "you copied them yourself?" "yes, sir, with my own hand," and the man held up that member as if to call it as a witness to his truth. "i should have preferred to have had the copying done by a typist accredited by the county clerk," said mr. clark coolly. hapgood flushed angrily. "if you don't believe me--" he began, but mr. clark held up a warning finger. "it's always wise to follow the custom in such cases," he observed. hapgood, finding himself in the wrong, leaned over mr. clark's shoulder and pointed eagerly to the notary's signature. "henry holden--that's the notary--that's him," he repeated several times insistently. mr. clark nodded and read the papers slowly aloud so that his sisters might hear their contents. they recited the marriage at uniontown, the county seat of fayette county, pennsylvania, on the fifteenth day of december, , of emily leonard to edward smith. "there you are," insisted hapgood loudly. "that's her; that's the grandmother of mary here." "you're sure of that?" "here's the record of the birth of jabez, son of edward and emily (leonard) smith two years later, and the record of his marriage to my sister and the record of the birth of mary. after i got the marriage of this emily straightened out the rest was easy. we had it right in the family." the two sisters gazed at each other aghast. the man was so assertive and coarse, and the child was so far from gentle that it seemed impossible that she could be of their own blood. still, they remembered that surroundings have greater influence than inheritance, so they held their peace, though miss maria stretched out her hand to mary. mary stared at it but made no move to take it. "your records look as if they might be correct," said mr. clark, an admission greeted by hapgood with a pleased smile and a complacent rub of the hands; "but," went on the old gentleman, "i see nothing here that would prove that this emily leonard was our cousin." "but your nephew, stanley, wrote you that he had found that your emily had removed to the neighborhood of pittsburg." "that's true," acknowledged the elder man, bending his head, "but emily leonard isn't an unusual name." "o, she's the one all right," insisted hapgood bluffly. "further, your record doesn't state the names of this emily leonard's parents." hapgood tossed back the unruly lock of hair. "i ought to have gone back one step farther," he conceded. "i might have known you'd ask that." "naturally." "i'll send to the county clerk and get that straightened out." "it might be well," advised mr. clark mildly. "one other point prevents my acceptance of these documents as proof that your niece belongs to our family. neither the investigator whom we had working on the case nor my nephew have ever told us the date of birth of our emily leonard. we can, of course, obtain that, if it is not already in my nephew's possession, but without it we can't be sure that our cousin was of marriageable age on december fifteenth, ." it was mr. clark's turn to rub his hands together complacently as hapgood looked more and more discomfited. "in fact, my dear sir," mr. clark continued, "you have proved nothing except that some emily leonard married a man named smith on the date named." he tapped the papers gently with a thin forefinger and returned them to their owner, who began to bluster. "i might have known you'd put up a kick," he exclaimed. "i live, when i'm at home, in arkansas," replied mr. clark softly, "and arkansas is so near missouri that i have come to belong to the brotherhood who 'have to be shown.'" hapgood greeted this sally with the beginning of a snarl, but evidently thought it the part of discretion to remain friendly with the people he wanted to persuade. "i seem to have done this business badly," he said, "but i'll send back for the rest of the evidence and you'll have to admit that mary's the girl you need to complete your family tree." "come here, dear," miss clark called to mary in her quiet voice. "are your father and mother alive?" "father is," she thought the child answered, but her reply was interrupted by hapgood's loud voice, saying, "she's an orphan, poor kid. pretty tough just to have an old bachelor uncle to look after yer, ain't it?" the younger miss clark stepped to the window to pull down the shade while the couple were still within the yard and she saw the man give the girl a shake and the child rub her arm as if the touch had been too rough for comfort. "poor little creature! i can't say i feel any affection for her, but she must have a hard time with that man!" the interview left mr. clark in a disturbed state in spite of the calmness he had assumed in talking with hapgood. he walked restlessly up and down the room and at last announced that he was going to the telegraph office. "i might as well wire stanley to send us right off the date of emily leonard's birth, and, just as soon as he finds it, the name of the man she married." "if she did marry," interposed miss maria. "some of our family don't marry," and she humorously indicated the occupants of the room by a wave of her knitting needles. at that instant the doorbell rang, and the maid brought in a telegram. "it's from stanley," murmured mr. clark. "what a strange co-incidence," exclaimed the elder miss clark. "what does he say, brother?" eagerly inquired the younger miss clark. "'emily married a man named smith,'" mr. clark read slowly. "is that all he says?" "every word." "dear boy! i suppose he thought we'd like to know as soon as he found out!" and miss eliza's thoughts flashed away to the nephew she loved, forgetting the seriousness of the message he had sent. "the information seems to have come at an appropriate time," commented mr. clark grimly. "it must be true, then," sighed miss maria; "that mary belongs to us." "we don't know at all if hapgood's emily is our emily, even if they did both marry smiths," insisted mr. clark stoutly, his obstinacy reviving. "i shall send a wire to stanley at once asking for the dates of emily's birth and marriage. he must have them both by this time; why on earth doesn't he send full information and not such a measly telegram as this!" and the old gentleman put on his hat and took his cane and stamped off in a rage to the western union office. the sisters left behind gazed at each other forlornly. "she certainly is an unprepossessing child," murmured miss maria, "but don't you think, under the circumstances, that we ought to ask her to pay us a visit?" miss clark the elder contemplated her knitting for a noticeable interval before she answered. "i don't see any 'ought' about it," she replied at last, "but i think it would be kind to do so." meanwhile mr. clark, stepping into the telegraph office, met mr. hapgood coming out. that worthy looked somewhat startled at the encounter, but pulled himself together and said cheerfully "just been sending off a wire about our matter." when the operator read mr. clark's telegram a few minutes later he said to himself wonderingly, "emily leonard sure is the popular lady!" mr. clark was not at all pleased with his sister's proposal that they invite mary smith to make them a visit. "it will look to hapgood as if we thought his story true," he objected, when they suggested the plan the next morning. "i don't believe it is true, even if our emily did marry a smith, according to stanley." "i don't believe it is, either," answered miss maria dreamily. "a great many people marry smiths." "they have to; how are they to do anything else?" inquired the old gentleman testily. "there is such a lot of them you can't escape them. we're talking about your name, ladies," he continued as dorothy and her mother came in, and then he related the story of hapgood's visit and the possibility that mary might prove to belong to them. "do you think he honestly believes that she's the missing heir?" mrs. smith asked. the ladies looked uncertain but there was no doubt in their brother's mind. "not for a moment of time do i think he does," he shouted. "but what would be his object? why should he try to thrust the child into a perfectly strange family?" the elder miss clark ventured a guess. "he may want to provide for her future if she's really an orphan, as he says." "i don't believe she is an orphan. before her precious uncle drowned her reply with one of his roars i distinctly heard her say that her father was alive," retorted the exasperated mr. clark. "the child would be truly fortunate to have all of you dear people to look after her," mrs. smith smiled, "but if her welfare isn't his reason, what is?" "i believe it has something to do with that piece of land," conjectured mr. clark. "he never said a word about it to-night. that's a bad sign. he wants that land and he's made up his mind to have it and this has something to do with it." "how could it have?" inquired mrs. smith. "this is all i can think of. before we can sell that land or any of our land we must have the consent of all the living heirs or else the title isn't good, as you very well know. now emily leonard and her descendants are the only heirs missing. this man says that the child, mary, is emily leonard's grandchild and that emily and her son, the child's father, are dead. that would mean that if we wanted to sell that land we'd be obliged to have the signatures of my sisters and my nephew, stanley, and myself, and also of the guardian of this child. of course hapgood will say he's the child's guardian. do you suppose, mrs. smith, that he's going to sign any deed that gives you that land? not much! he'll say it's for the child's best interests that the land be not sold now, because it contains valuable clay or whatever it is he thinks he has found there. then he'll offer to buy the land himself and he'll be willing enough to sign the deed then." "but _we_ might not be," interposed miss maria. "i should say not," returned her brother emphatically, "but he'd probably make a lot of trouble for us and be constantly appealing to us on the ground that we ought to sell the land for the child's good--or he might even say for stanley's good or our good, the brazen, persistent animal." "brother," remonstrated miss maria. "you forget that you may be speaking of the uncle of our little cousin." "little cousin nothing!" retorted mr. clark fiercely. "it's all very nice for the mortons to find that that charming girl who takes care of the belgian baby is a relative. this is a very different proposition! however, i suppose you girls--" meaning by this term the two ladies of more than seventy--"won't be happy unless you have the youngster here, so you might as well send for her, but you'd better have the length of her visit distinctly understood." "we might say a week," suggested miss eliza hesitatingly. "say a week, and say it emphatically," approved her brother, and trotted off to his study, leaving the ladies to compose, with mrs. smith's help, a note that would not be so cordial that brother would forbid its being sent, but that would nevertheless give a hint of their kindly feeling to the forlorn child, so roughly cared for by her strange uncle. mary smith went to them, and made a visit that could not be called a success in any way. she was painfully conscious of the difference between her clothes and the ethels' and dorothy's and della's, though why theirs seemed more desirable she could not tell, since her own were far more elaborate. the other girls wore middy blouses constantly, even the older girls, helen and margaret, while her dresses were of silk or some other delicate material and adorned with many ruffles and much lace. she was conscious, too, of a difference between her manners and theirs, and she could not understand why, in her heart, she liked theirs better, since they were so gentle as to seem to have no spirit at all, according to her views. she was always uncomfortable when she was with them and her efforts to be at ease caused her shyness to go to the other extreme and made her manners rough and impertinent. mrs. smith found her crying one day when she came upon her suddenly in the hammock on the clarks' veranda. "can i help?" she asked softly, leaning over the small figure whose every movement indicated protest. "no, you can't," came back the fierce retort. "you're one of 'em. you don't know." "don't know what?" "how i feel. nobody likes me. miss clark just told me to go out of her room." "why were you in her room?" "why, shouldn't i go into her room? when i woke up this morning i made up my mind i'd do my best to be nice all day long. they're so old i don't know what to talk to 'em about, but i made up my mind i'd stick around 'em even if i didn't know what to say. right after breakfast they always go upstairs--i think it's to be rid of me--and they don't come down for an hour, and then they bring down their knitting and their embroidery and they sit around all day long except when that belgian baby that lives at your house comes in--then they get up and try to play with her." mrs. smith smiled, remembering the efforts of the two old ladies to play with "ayleesabet." mary noticed the smile. "they do look fools, don't they?" she cried eagerly. "i think they look very dear and sweet when they are playing with ayleesabet. i was not smiling _at_ them but because i sympathized with their enjoyment of the baby." "well, i made up my mind they needn't think they had to stay upstairs because i wasn't nice; i'd go upstairs and be nice. so i went upstairs to miss maria's room and walked in." "walked right in? without knocking?" "i walked right in. she was sitting in front of that low table she has with the looking glass and all the bottles and boxes on it. her hair was down her back--what there was of it--and she was doing up her switch." mrs. smith was so aghast at this intrusion and at the injured tone in which it was told that she had no farther inclination to smile. "i said, 'i thought i'd come up and sit with you a while,' and she said, 'leave the room at once, mary,' just like that. she was as mad as she could be." "do you blame her?" "why should she be mad, when i went up there to be nice to her? she's an old cat!" "dear child, come and sit on this settee with me and let's talk it over." mrs. smith put her arm over the shaking shoulders of the angry girl and drew her toward her. after an instant's stiffening against it mary admitted to herself that it was pleasant; she didn't wonder dorothy was sweet if her mother did this often. "now we're comfortable," said mrs. smith. "tell me, dear, aren't there some thoughts in your mind that you don't like to tell to any one? thoughts that seem to belong just to you yourself? perhaps they're about god; perhaps they're about people you love, perhaps they're about your own feelings--but they seem too private and sacred for you to tell any one. they're your own, ownest thoughts." mary nodded. "do you remember your mother?" mary nodded again. "sometimes when you recall how she took you in her arms and cuddled you when you were hurt, and how you loved her and she loved you i know you think thoughts that you couldn't express to any one else." mary gave a sniff that hinted of tears. "everybody has an inner life that is like a church. you know you wouldn't think of running into a church and making a noise and disturbing the worshippers. it's just so with people's minds; you can't rush in and talk about certain things to any one--the things that he considers too sacred to talk about." "how are you going to tell?" mrs. smith drew a long breath. how was she to make this poor, untutored child understand. "you have to tell by your feelings," she answered slowly. "some people are more reserved than others. i believe you are reserved." "me?" asked mary wonderingly. "it wouldn't surprise me if there were a great many things that you might have talked about with your mother, if she had lived, but that you find it hard to talk about with your uncle." mary nodded. "he's fierce," she commented briefly. "if he should begin to talk to you about some of the tender memories that you have of your mother, for instance, it might be hard for you to answer him. you'd be apt to think that he was coming into your own private church." "i see that," the girl answered; "but," returning to the beginning of the conversation, "i didn't want to talk secrets with miss maria; i just wanted to be nice." "just in the same way that people have thoughts of their very own that you mustn't intrude on, so there are reserves in their habits that you mustn't intrude on. every one has a right to freedom from intrusion. i insist on it for myself; my daughter never enters my bedroom without knocking. i pay her the same respect; i always tap at her door and wait for her answer before i enter." "would you be mad if she went into your room without knocking?" "i should be sorry that she was so inconsiderate of my feelings. she might, perhaps, interrupt me at my toilet. i should not like that." "is that what i did to miss maria?" "yes, dear, it was. you don't know miss maria well, and yet you opened the door of her private room and went in without being invited." "i'm sorry," she said briefly. "i'm sure you are, now you understand why it wasn't kind." "i wish she knew i meant to be nice." "would you like to have me tell her? i think she'll understand there are some things you haven't learned for you haven't a mother to teach you." "uncle dan says maybe i'll have to live with the old ladies all the time, so they might as well know i wasn't trying to be mean," she whispered resignedly. "i'll tell miss maria, then, and perhaps you and she will be better friends from now on because she'll know you want to please her. and now, i came over to tell you that the u.s.c. is going into new york to-day to see something of the botanical garden and the arboretum. i'm going with them and they'd be glad to have you go, too." "they won't be very glad, but i'd like to go," responded the girl, her face lighted with the nearest approach to affection mrs. smith ever had seen upon it. chapter xv fur and fossils when the club gathered at the station to go into town mary was arrayed in a light blue satin dress as unsuitable for her age as it was for the time of day and the way of traveling. the other girls were dressed in blue or tan linen suits, neat and plain. secretly mary thought their frocks were not to be named in the same breath with hers, but once when she had said something about the simplicity of her dress to ethel blue, ethel had replied that helen had learned from her dressmaking teacher that dresses should be suited to the wearer's age and occupation, and that she thought her linen blouses and skirts were entirely suitable for a girl of fourteen who was a gardener when she wasn't in school. this afternoon dorothy had offered her a pongee dust coat when she stopped at the smiths' on her way to the cars. "aren't you afraid you'll get that pretty silk all cindery?" she asked. mary realized that dorothy thought her not appropriately dressed for traveling, but she tossed her head and said, "o, i like to wear something good looking when i go into new york." one of the purposes of the expedition was to see at the museum of natural history some of the fossil leaves and plants about which the mortons had heard from lieutenant and captain morton who had found several of them themselves in the course of their travels. at the museum they gathered around the stones and examined them with the greatest interest. there were some shells, apparently as perfect as when they were turned into stone, and others represented only by the moulds they had left when they crumbled away. there were ferns, the delicate fronds showing the veining that strengthened the leaflets when they danced in the breeze of some prehistoric morning. "it's wonderful!" exclaimed the ethels, and mary asked, "what happened to it?" "i thought some one would ask that," replied mrs. smith, "so i brought these verses by mary branch to read to you while we stood around one of these ancient rocks." the petrified fern "in a valley, centuries ago grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender, veining delicate and fibers tender; waving when the wind crept down so low. rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it, playful sunbeams darted in and found it, drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, but no foot of man e'er trod that way; earth was young and keeping holiday. "monster fishes swam the silent main; stately forests waved their giant branches, mountains hurled their snowy avalanches mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; nature revelled in grand mysteries, but the little fern was not of these, did not number with the hills and trees; only grew and waved its wild sweet way, no one came to note it day by day. "earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion of the deep, strong currents of the ocean; moved the plain and shook the haughty wood crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,-- covered it and hid it safe away. o, the long, long centuries since that day! o, the changes! o, life's bitter cost, since that useless little fern was lost! "useless? lost? there came a thoughtful man searching nature's secrets, far and deep; from a fissure in a rocky steep he withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran fairy pencilings, a quaint design, veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine, and the fern's life lay in every line! so, i think, god hides some souls away, sweetly to surprise us, the last day." from the museum the party went to the bronx where they first took a long walk through the zoo. how mary wished that she did not have on a pale blue silk dress and high heeled shoes as she dragged her tired feet over the gravel paths and stood watching gunda, the elephant, "weaving" back and forth on his chain, and the tigers and leopards keeping up their restless pacing up and down their cages, and the monkeys, chattering hideously and snatching through the bars at any shining object worn by their visitors! it was only because she stepped back nimbly that she did not lose a locket that attracted the attention of an ugly imitation of a human being. the herds of large animals pleased them all. "how kind it is of the keepers to give these creatures companions and the same sort of place to live in that they are accustomed to," commented ethel brown. "did you know that this is one of the largest herds of buffalo in the united states?" asked tom, who, with della, had joined them at the museum. "father says that when he was young there used to be plenty of buffalo on the western plains. the horse-car drivers used to wear coats of buffalo skin and every new england farmer had a buffalo robe. it was the cheapest fur in use. then the railroads went over the plains and there was such a destruction of the big beasts that they were practically exterminated. they are carefully preserved now." "the prairie dogs always amuse me," said mrs. smith. "look at that fellow! every other one is eating his dinner as fast as he can but this one is digging with his front paws and kicking the earth away with his hind paws with amazing industry." "he must be a convict at hard labor," guessed roger. "or the mayor of the prairie dog town setting an example to his constituents," laughed james. the polar bear was suffering from the heat and nothing but the tip of his nose and his eyes were to be seen above the water of his tank where he floated luxuriously in company with two cakes of ice. the wolves and the foxes had dens among rocks and the wild goats stood daintily on pinnacles to see what was going on at a distance. no one cared much for the reptiles, but the high flying cage for birds kept them beside it for a long time. across the road they entered the grounds of the arboretum and passed along a narrow path beside a noisy brook under heavy trees, until they came to a grove of tall hemlocks. with upturned heads they admired these giants of the forest and then passed on to view other trees from many climes and countries. "here's the lumholtz pine that father wrote me about from mexico," cried ethel blue, whose father, captain morton, had been with general funston at vera cruz. "see, the needles hang down like a spray, just as he said. you know the wood has a peculiar resonance and the mexicans make musical instruments of it." "it's a graceful pine," approved ethel brown. "what a lot of pines there are." "we are so accustomed about here to white pines that the other kinds seem strange, but in the south there are several kinds," contributed dorothy. "the needles of the long leaf pine are a foot long and much coarser than these white pine needles. don't you remember, i made some baskets out of them?" the ethels did remember. "their green is yellower. the tree is full of resin and it makes the finest kind of kindling." "is that what the negroes call 'light wood'?" asked della. "yes, that's light wood. in the fields that haven't been cultivated for a long time there spring up what they call in the south 'old field pines' or 'loblolly pines.' they have coarse yellow green needles, too, but they aren't as long as the others. there are three needles in the bunch." "don't all the pines have three needles in the bunch?" asked margaret. "look at this white pine," she said, pulling down a bunch off a tree they were passing. "it has five; and the 'table mountain pine' has only two." "observant little dorothy!" exclaimed roger. "o, i know more than that," laughed dorothy. "look hard at this white pine needle; do you see, it has three sides, two of them white and one green? the loblolly needle has only two sides, though the under is so curved that it looks like two; and the 'table mountain' has two sides." "what's the use of remembering all that?" demanded mary sullenly. dorothy, who had been dimpling amusedly as she delivered her lecture, flushed deeply. "i don't know," she admitted. "we like to hear about it because we've been gardening all summer and anything about trees or plants interests us," explained tom politely, though the way in which mary spoke seemed like an attack on dorothy. "i've always found that everything i ever learned was useful at some time or other," james maintained decidedly. "you never can tell when this information that dorothy has given us may be just what we need for some purpose or other." "it served dorothy's purpose just now when she interested us for a few minutes telling about the different kinds," insisted ethel blue, but mary walked on before them with a toss of her head that meant "it doesn't interest me." dorothy looked at her mother, uncertain whether to take it as a joke or to feel hurt. mrs. smith smiled and shook her head almost imperceptibly and dorothy understood that it was kindest to say nothing more. they chatted on as they walked through the botanical gardens and exclaimed over the wonders of the hothouses and examined the collections of the museum, but the edge had gone from the afternoon and they were not sorry to find themselves on the train for rosemont. mary sat with mrs. smith. "i really was interested in what dorothy told about the pines," she whispered as the train rumbled on; "i was mad because i didn't know anything that would interest them, too." "i dare say you know a great many things that would interest them," replied mrs. smith. "some day you must tell me about the most interesting thing you ever saw in all your life and we'll see if it won't interest them." "that was in a coal mine," replied mary promptly. "it was the footstep of a man thousands and thousands of years old. it made you wonder what men looked like and how they lived so long ago." "you must tell us all about it, some time. it will make a good addition to what we learned to-day about the fossils." when the mortons reached home they found mr. emerson waiting for them at their house. "i've a proposal to make to these children, with your permission, marion," he said to his daughter. "say on, sir," urged roger. "mr. clark is getting very nervous about this man hapgood. the man is beginning to act as if he, as the guardian of the child, had a real claim on the clark estate, and he becomes more and more irritating every day. they haven't heard from stanley for several days. he hasn't answered either a letter or a telegram that his uncle sent him and the old ladies are working themselves into a great state of anxiety over him. i tell them that he has been moving about all the time and that probably neither the letter nor the wire reached him, but clark vows that hapgood has intercepted them and his sisters are sure the boy is ill or has been murdered." "poor creatures," smiled mrs. morton sympathetically. "is there anything you can do about it?" "i told clark a few minutes ago that i'd go out to western pennsylvania and hunt up the boy and help him run down whatever clues he has. clark was delighted at the offer--said he didn't like to go himself and leave his sisters with this man roaming around the place half the time." "it was kind of you. i've no doubt stanley is working it all out well, but, boy-like, he doesn't realize that the people at home want to have him report to them every day." "my proposal is, marion, that you lend me these children, helen and the ethels and roger, for a few days' trip." "wow, wow!" rose a shout of joy. "or, better still, that you come, too, and bring dicky." mrs. morton was not a sailor's wife for nothing. "i'll do it," she said promptly. "when do you want us to start?" "can you be ready for an early morning train from new york?" "we can!" was the instant reply of every person in the room. chapter xvi fairyland all day long the train pulled its length across across the state of pennsylvania, climbing mountains and bridging streams and piercing tunnels. all day long mr. emerson's party was on the alert, dashing from one side to the other of the car to see some beautiful vista or to look down on a brook brawling a hundred feet below the trestle that supported them or waving their hands to groups of children staring open-mouthed at the passing train. "pennsylvania is a beautiful state," decided ethel brown as they penetrated the splendid hills of the allegheny range. "nature made it one of the most lovely states of the union," returned her grandfather. "man has played havoc with it in spots. some of the villages among the coal mines are hideous from the waste that has been thrown out for years upon a pile never taken away, always increasing. no grass grows on it, no children play on it, the hens won't scratch on it. the houses of the miners turn one face to this ugliness and it is only because they turn toward the mountains on another side that the people are preserved from the death of the spirit that comes to those who look forever on the unlovely." "is there any early history about here?" asked helen, whose interest was unfailing in the story of her country. "the french and indian wars were fought in part through this land," answered mr. emerson. "you remember the chief struggle for the continent lay between the english and the french. there were many reasons why the indians sided with the french in canada, and the result of the friendship was that; the natives were supplied with arms by the europeans and the struggle was prolonged for about seventy-five years." "wasn't the attack on deerfield during the french and indian war?" asked ethel blue. "yes, and there were many other such attacks." "the french insisted that all the country west of the alleghenies belonged to them and they disputed the english possession at every point. when washington was only twenty-one years old he was sent to beg the french not to interfere with the english, but he had a hard journey with no fortunate results. it was on this journey that he picked out a good position for a fort and started to build it. it was where pittsburg now stands." "that was a good position for a fort, where the allegheny and monongahela rivers join to make the ohio," commended roger. "it was such a good position that the french drove off the english workmen and finished the work themselves. they called it fort duquesne and it became one of a string of sixty french forts extending from quebec to new orleans." "some builders!" commended roger. "fort duquesne was so valuable that the english sent one of their generals, braddock, to capture it. washington went with him on his staff, to show him the way." "it must have been a long trip from the coast through all this hilly country." "it was. they had to build roads and they were many weeks on the way." "it was a different matter from the twentieth century transportation of soldiers by train and motor trucks and stages," reminded mrs. morton. "when the british were very near fort duquesne," continued mr. emerson, "the french sent out a small band, mainly indians, to meet them. the english general didn't understand indian fighting and kept his men massed in the road where they were shot down in great numbers and he lost his own life. there's a town named after him, on the site of the battle." "here it is," and helen pointed it out on the map in the railway folder. "it's about ten miles from pittsburg." "washington took command after the death of braddock, and this was his first real military experience. however, his heart was in the taking of fort duquesne and when general forbes was sent out to make another attempt at capturing it washington commanded one of the regiments of virginia troops." "isn't there any poetry about it?" demanded ethel brown, who knew her grandfather's habit of collecting historical ballads. "certainly there is. there are some verses on 'fort duquesne' by florus plimpton written for the hundredth anniversary of the capture." "did they have a great old fight to take the fort?" asked roger. "no fight at all. here's what plimpton says:-- "so said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, and all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind, and the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright at the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light. "good lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky, as though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high! up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven by the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven! "o, there was clattering of steel and mustering in array, and shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay, as came the scouts swift-footed in--'they fly! the foe! they fly! they've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky.' "all the english had to do was to walk in, put out the fire, repair the fort and re-name it." "what did they call it?" "after the great statesman--fort pitt." "that's where 'pittsburg' got its name, then! i never thought about its being in honor of pitt!" exclaimed helen. "it is 'pitt's city,'" rejoined her grandfather. "and this street," he added somewhat later when they were speeding in a motor bus to a hotel near the park, "this street is forbes street, named after the british general. somewhere there is a bouquet street, to commemorate another hero of the war." "i saw 'duquesne way' marked on the map," announced ethel blue. on the following morning they awakened to find themselves opposite a large and beautiful park with a mass of handsome buildings rising impressively at the entrance. "it is schenley park and the buildings house the carnegie institute. we'll go over them by and bye." "it's a library," guessed dicky, who was not too young to have the steelmaker's name associated with libraries in his youthful mind. "it is a library and a fine one. there's also a music hall and an art museum and a natural history museum. you'll see more fossil ferns there, and the skeleton of a diplodocus--" "a dip-what?" demanded roger. "diplodocus, with the accent on the _plod_; one of the hugest animals that ever walked the earth. they found the bones of this monster almost complete in colorado and wired them together so you can get an idea of what really 'big game' was like in the early geological days." "how long is he?" "if all the ten members of the u.s.c. were to take hold of hands and stretch along his length there would be space for four or five more to join the string." "where's my hat?" demanded roger. "i want to go over and make that fellow's acquaintance instanter." "when you go, notice the wall paintings," said his mother. "they show the manufacture and uses of steel and they are considered among the finest things of their kind in america. alexander, the artist, did them. you've seen some of his work at the metropolitan museum in new york." "pittsburg has the good sense to have a city organist," mr. emerson continued. "every sunday afternoon he plays on the great organ in the auditorium and the audience drifts in from the park and drifts out to walk farther, and in all several thousand people hear some good music in the course of the afternoon." "there seem to be some separate buildings behind the institute." "the technical schools, and beyond them is the margaret morrison school where girls may learn crafts and domestic science and so on." "it's too bad it isn't a clear day," sighed ethel blue, as she rose from the table. "this is a bright day, miss," volunteered the waiter who handed her her unnecessary sunshade. "you call this clear?" mrs. morton asked him. "yes, madam, this is a bright day for pittsburg." when they set forth they shook their heads over the townsman's idea of a clear day, for the sky was overcast and clouds of dense black smoke rolled together from the two sides of the city and met over their heads. "it's from the steel mills," mr. emerson explained as he advised ethel brown to wipe off a smudge of soot that had settled on her cheek and warned his daughter that if she wanted to preserve the whiteness of her gloves she had better replace them by colored ones until she returned to a cleaner place. they were to take the afternoon train up the monongahela river to the town from which stanley clark had sent his wire telling his uncle that "emily leonard married a man named smith," but there were several hours to devote to sightseeing before train time, and the party went over schenley park with thoroughness, investigated several of the "inclines" which carried passengers from the river level to the top of the heights above, motored among the handsome residences and ended, on the way to the station, with a flying visit to the old blockhouse which is all that is left of port pitt. "so this is really a blockhouse," helen said slowly as she looked at the little two story building with its heavy beams. "there are the musket holes," ethel brown pointed out. "this is really where soldiers fought before the revolution!" "it really is," her mother assured her. "it is in the care of one of the historical societies now; that's why it is in such good condition." roger had secured the tickets and had telephoned to the hotel at brownsville for rooms so they took their places in the train with no misgivings as to possible discomfort at night. their excitement was beginning to rise, however, for two reasons. in the first place they had been quite as disturbed as dorothy and her mother over the difficulties attending the purchase of the field and the fitz-james woods, and the later developments in connection with the man, hapgood. now that they were approaching the place where they knew stanley clark was working out the clue they began to feel the thrill that comes over explorers on the eve of discovery. the other reason for excitement lay in the fact that mr. emerson had promised them some wonderful sights before they reached their destination. he had not told them what they were, although he had mentioned something about fairyland that had started an abundant flow of questions from dicky. naturally they were all alert to find out what novelty their eyes were to see. "i saw one novelty this afternoon," said roger. "when i stepped into that little stationery shop to get a newspaper i noticed in the rear a queer tin thing with what looked like cotton wool sticking against its back wall. i asked the woman who sold the papers what it was." "trust roger for not letting anything pass him," smiled ethel brown. "that's why i'm such a cyclopedia of accurate information, ma'am," roger retorted. "she said it was a stove." "with cotton wool for fuel?" laughed ethel blue. "it seems they use natural gas here for heating as well as cooking, and the woolly stuff was asbestos. the gas is turned on at the foot of the back wall and the asbestos becomes heated and gives off warmth but doesn't burn." "i stayed in pittsburg once in a boarding house where the rooms were heated with natural gas," said mr. emerson. "it made a sufficient heat, but you had to be careful not to turn the burner low just before all the methodical pittsburgers cooked dinner, for if you made it too low the flame might go out when the pressure was light." "did the opposite happen at night?" "it did. in the short time i was there the newspapers noted several cases of fires caused by people leaving their stoves turned up high at night and the flames bursting into the room and setting fire to some inflammable thing near at hand when the pressure grew strong after the good pittsburgers went to bed." "it certainly is useful," commended mrs. morton. "a turn of the key and that's all." "no coal to be shovelled--think of it!" exclaimed roger, who took care of several furnaces in winter. "no ashes to be sifted and carried away! the thought causes me to burst into song," and he chanted ridicuously:-- "given a tight tin stove, asbestos fluff, a match of wood, an iron key, and, puff, thou, natural gas, wilt warm the arctic wastes, and arctic wastes are paradise enough." as the train drew out of the city the young people's expectations of fairyland were not fulfilled. "i don't see anything but dirt and horridness, grandfather," complained ethel brown. mr. emerson looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment. "true," he answered, "it's not yet dark enough for the magic to work." "no wonder everything is sooty and grimy with those chimneys all around us throwing out tons and tons of soft coal smoke to settle over everything. don't they ever stop?" "they're at it twenty-four hours a day," returned her grandfather. "but night will take all the ugliness into its arms and hide it; the sordidness and griminess will disappear and fairyland will come forth for a playground. the ugly smoke will turn into a thing of beauty. the queer point of it all is," he continued, shaking his head sadly, "fairyland is there all the time and always beautiful, only you can't see it." dicky's eyes opened wide and he gazed out of the window intent on peering into this mysterious invisible playground. "lots of things are like that," agreed roger. "don't you remember how those snowflakes we looked at under the magnifying glass on ethel blue's birthday burst into magnificent crystals? you wouldn't think a handful of earth--just plain dirt--was pretty, would you? but it is. look at it through a microscope and see what happens." "but, grandfather, if the beauty is there right now why can't we see it?" insisted ethel brown. mr. emerson stared out of the window for a moment. "that was a pretty necklace of beads you strung for ayleesabet." "we all thought they were beauty beads." "and that was a lovely string of pearls that mrs. schermerhorn wore at the reception for which you girls decorated her house." there could be no disagreement from that opinion. "since ayleesabet is provided with such beauties we shan't have to fret about getting her anything else when she goes to her coming-out party, shall we?" "what are you saying, grandfather!" exclaimed helen. "of course ayleesabet's little string of beads can't be compared with a pearl necklace!" "there you are!" retorted mr. emerson; "helen has explained it. this fairyland we are going to see can't be compared with the glory of the sun any more than ayleesabet's beads can be compared with mrs. schermerhorn's pearls. we don't even see the fairyland when the sun is shining but when the sun has set the other beauties become clear." "o-o-o!" shouted dicky, whose nose had been glued to the window in an effort to prove his grandfather's statement; "look at that funny umbrella!" everybody jumped to one window or another, and they saw in the gathering darkness a sudden blast of flame and white hot particles shooting into the air and spreading out like an umbrella of vast size. "look at it!" exclaimed the two ethels, in a breath; "isn't that beautiful! what makes it?" "the grimy steel mills of the daytime make the fairyland of night," announced mr. emerson. across the river they noticed suddenly that the smoke pouring from a chimney had turned blood red with tongues of vivid flame shooting through it like pulsing veins. there was no longer any black smoke. it had changed to heavy masses of living fire of shifting shades. great ingots of steel sent the observers a white hot greeting or glowed more coolly as the train shot by them. huge piles of smoking slag that had gleamed dully behind the mills now were veined with vivid red, looking like miniature volcanoes streaked with lava. it was sometimes too beautiful for words to describe it suitably, and sometimes too terrible for an exclamation to do it justice. it created an excitement that was wearying, and when the train pulled into brownsville it was a tired party that found its way to the hotel. as the children went off to bed mr. emerson called out "to-morrow all will be grime and dirt again; fairyland has gone." "never mind, grandfather," cried ethel brown, "we won't forget that it is there just the same if only we could see it." "and we'll think a little about the splendiferousness of the sun, too," called helen from the elevator. "i never thought much about it before." chapter xvii the missing heiress mr. emerson's investigations proved that stanley clark had left brownsville several days previously and had gone to millsboro, farther up the monongahela. he had left that as his forwarding address, the hotel clerk said. this information necessitated a new move at once, so the next morning, bright and early, mr. emerson led his party to the river where they boarded a little steamer scarcely larger than a motor boat. they were soon puffing away at a fair rate of speed against the sluggish current. the factories and huge steel plants had disappeared and the banks looked green and country-like as mile after mile slipped by. suddenly roger, who was sitting by the steersman's wheel, exclaimed, "why, look! there's a waterfall in front of us." so, indeed, there was, a wide fall stretching from shore to shore, but roger, eyeing it suspiciously, added in an aggrieved tone, "but it's a dam. must be a dam. look how straight it is." "how on earth," called ethel blue, "are we going to get over it?" "jump up it the way grandpa told me the salmon fishes do," volunteered dicky. everybody laughed, but mr. emerson declared that was just about what they were going to do. the boat headed in for one end of the dam and her passengers soon found themselves floating in a granite room, with huge wooden doors closed behind them. the water began to boil around them, and as it poured into the lock from unseen channels the boat rose slowly. in a little while the ethels cried that they could see over the tops of the walls, and in a few minutes more another pair of big gates opened in front of them and they glided into another chamber and out into the river again, this time above the "falls." "i feel as if i had been through the panama canal," declared ethel blue. "that's just the way its huge locks work," said mrs. morton. "the next time your uncle roger has a furlough i hope it will be long enough for us to go down there and see it." "i wonder," asked roger, "if there are many more dams like this on the monongahela." "there's one about every ten miles," volunteered the steersman. "until the government put them in only small boats could go up the river. now good sized ones can go all the way to wheeling, west virginia. if you want to, you can go by boat all the way from wheeling to the gulf of mexico." "the gulf of mexico," echoed the two ethels. then they added, also together, "so you can!" and ethel brown said, "the indians used to go from the upper end of lake chautauqua to the gulf in their canoes? when they got to fort duquesne it was easy paddling." "what is that high wharf with a building on it overhanging the river?" asked helen. "that's a coal tipple," said her grandfather. "do you see on shore some low-lying houses and sheds? they are the various machinery plants and offices of the coal mine and that double row of small houses a quarter of a mile farther up is where the employés live." as the boat continued up the river it passed many such tipples. they were now in the soft coal country, the steersman said, and in due time they arrived at millsboro, a little town about ten miles above brownsville. here mr. emerson made immediate inquiries about stanley clark, and found that he had gone on, leaving "uniontown, fayette county," as his forwarding address. "that's the county seat where hapgood says he copied his records," said mr. emerson. "i hope we shall catch young clark there and get that matter straightened out." as there was no train to uniontown until the afternoon, mr. emerson engaged a motor car to take them to a large mine whose tipple they had passed on the way up. the superintendent was a friend of the driver of the car and he willingly agreed to show them through. before entering the mine he pointed out to them samples of coal which he had collected. some had fern leaves plainly visible upon their surfaces and others showed leaves of trees and shrubs. "fairy pencilings, a quaint design, veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine," quoted ethel blue softly, as she looked at them. mrs. morton stopped before a huge block of coal weighing several tons and said to her son, "here's a lump for your furnace, roger." "phew," said roger. "think of a furnace large enough to fit that lump! do you get many of them?" he asked of the superintendent. "we keep that," said the superintendent, "because it's the largest single lump of coal ever brought out of this mine. of course, we could get them if we tried to, but it's easier to handle it in smaller pieces." "what'th in that little houthe over there?" asked dicky. "theems to me i thee something whithing round." "that's the fan that blows fresh air into the mine so that the miners can breathe, and drives out the poisonous and dangerous gases." "what would happen if the fan stopped running?" asked ethel brown. "many things might happen," said the superintendent gravely. "men might suffocate for lack of air, or an explosion might follow from the collection of the dreaded 'fire damp' ignited by some miner's lamp." "fire damp?" repeated mrs. morton. "that is really natural gas, isn't it?" "yes, they're both 'marsh gas' caused by the decay of the huge ferns and plants of the carboniferous age. some of them hardened into coal and others rotted when they were buried, and the gas was caught in huge pockets. it is gas from these great pockets that people use for heating and cooking all about here and even up into canada." ethel brown had been listening and the words "some of them hardened into coal" caught her ear. she went close to her grandfather's side. "tell me," she said, "exactly what is coal and how did it get here?" "what _i_ want to know," retorted mr. emerson, "is what brand of curiosity you have in your cranium, and how did it get there? answer me that." ethel brown laughed. "let's have a lecture," she urged, "and," handing her grandfather a small lump of coal, "here's your text." mr. emerson turned the bit of coal over and over. "when i look at this little piece of black stone," he said, "i seem to see dense forests filled with luxuriant foliage and shrubbery and mammoth trees under which move sluggish streams draining the swampy ground. the air is damp and heavy and warm." "what about the animals?" "there are few animals. most of them are water creatures, though there are a few that can live on land and in the water, too, and in the latter part of the coal-making period enormous reptiles crawled over the wet floor of the forest. life is easy in all this leafy splendor and so is death, but no eye of man is there to look upon it, no birds brighten the dense green of the trees, and the ferns and shrubs have no flowers as we know them. the air is heavy with carbon." "where was the coal?" "the coal wasn't made yet. you know how the soil of the west woods at home is deep with decayed leaves? just imagine what soil would be if it were made by the decay of these huge trees and ferns! it became yards and yards deep and silt and water pressed it down and crushed from it almost all the elements except the carbon, and it was transformed into a mineral, and that mineral is coal." "coal? our coal?" "our coal. see the point of a fern leaf on this bit?" and he held out the piece of coal he had been holding. "that fern grew millions of years ago." "isn't it delicate and pretty!" exclaimed ethel blue, as it reached her in passing from hand to hand, "and also not as clean as it once was!" she added ruefully, looking at her fingers. by way of preparation for their descent into the mine each member of the party was given a cap on which was fastened a small open wick oil lamp. they did not light them, however, until they had all been carried a hundred feet down into the earth in a huge elevator. here they needed the illumination of the tiny lamps whose flicker made dancing shadows on the walls. following the superintendent their first visit was to the stable. "what is a stable doing down here?" wondered ethel brown. "mules pull the small cars into which the miners toss the coal as they cut it out. these fellows probably will never see the light of day again," and their leader stroked the nose of the animal nearest him which seemed startled at his touch. "he's almost blind, you see," the superintendent explained. "his eyes have adjusted themselves to the darkness and even these feeble lights dazzle him." the girls felt the tears very near their eyelids as they thought of the fate of these poor beasts, doomed never to see the sun again or to feel the grass under their feet. "i once knew a mule who was so fond of music that he used to poke his head into the window near which his master's daughter was playing on the piano," said the superintendent, who noticed their agitation and wanted to amuse them. "we might get up band concerts for these fellows." "poor old things, i believe they would like it!" exclaimed helen. "this is a regular underground village," commented mrs. morton, as they walked for a long distance through narrow passages until they found themselves at the heading of a drift where the men were working. "is there any gas here?" asked the superintendent, and when the miners said "yes," he lifted his hand light, which was encased in wire gauze, and thrust it upwards toward the roof and gave a grunt as it flickered near the top. there it was, the dreaded fire-damp, in a layer above their heads. one touch of an open flame and there would be a terrible explosion, yet the miners were working undisturbed just beneath it with unprotected lamps on their caps. the visitors felt suddenly like recruits under fire--they were far from enjoying the situation but they did not want to seem alarmed. no one made any protest, but neither did any one protest when the superintendent led the way to a section of the mine where there was no gas that they might see a sight which he assured them was without doubt wonderful. they were glad that they had been assured that there was no fire-damp here, for their leader lifted his lamp close to the roof. ethel blue made the beginning of an exclamation as she saw his arm rising, but she smothered her cry for her good sense told her that this experienced man would not endanger the lives of himself or his guests. the coal had been taken out very cleanly, and above them they saw not coal but shale. "what is shale?" inquired helen. "hardened clay," replied the superintendent. "there were no men until long after the carboniferous period when coal was formed, but just in this spot it must have happened that the soil that had gathered above the deposits of coal was very light for some reason or other. above the coal there was only a thin layer of soft clay. one day a hunter tramped this way and left his autograph behind." he held his lamp steadily upward, and there in the roof were the unmistakable prints of the soles of a man's feet, walking. "it surely does look mightily as if your explanation was correct," exclaimed mr. emerson, as he gazed at the three prints, in line and spaced as a walker's would be. their guide said that there had been six, but the other three had fallen after being exposed to the air. "i wish it hadn't been such a muddy day," sighed ethel blue. "the mud squeezed around so that his toe marks were filled right up." "it certainly was a muddy day," agreed roger, "but i'm glad it was. if he had been walking on rocks we never should have known that he had passed this way a million or so years ago." they were all so filled with interest that they were almost unwilling to go on in the afternoon, although mr. emerson promised them other sights around uniontown, quite different from any they had seen yet. it was late in the afternoon when they ferried across the river in a boat running on a chain, and took the train for the seat of fayette county. as the daylight waned they found themselves travelling through a country lighted by a glare that seemed to spread through the atmosphere and to be reflected back from the clouds and sky. "what is it?" dicky almost whimpered, as he snuggled closer to his mother. "ask grandfather," returned mrs. morton. "it's the glare from the coke ovens," answered mr. emerson. "do you see those long rows of bee-hives? those are ovens in which soft coal is being burned so that a certain ingredient called bitumen may be driven off from it. what is left after that is done is a substance that looks somewhat like a dry, sponge if that were gray and hard. it burns with a very hot flame and is invaluable in the smelting of iron and the making of steel." "that's why they make so much here," guessed ethel brown, who had been counting the ovens and was well up in the hundreds with plenty more in sight. "here is where they make most of the iron and steel in the united states and they have to have coke for it." "and you notice how conveniently the coal beds lie to the iron mines? nature followed an efficiency program, didn't she?" laughed roger. "they turn out about twenty million tons of coke a year just around here," helen read from her guidebook, "and it is one of the two greatest coke burning regions of the world!" "where's the other?" "in the neighborhood of durham, england." "it is a wonderful sight!" exclaimed ethel blue. "i never knew fire could be so wonderful and so different!" mr. emerson's search for stanley clark seemed to be a stern chase and consequently a long one. here again the hotel clerk told him that mr. clark had gone on, this time to washington, the seat of washington county. he was fairly sure that he was still there because he had received a letter from him just the day before asking that something he had left behind should be sent him to that point, which was done. as soon as the record office was open in the morning mr. emerson and roger went there. "we might as well check up on hapgood's investigations," said mr. emerson. "they may be all right, and he may be honestly mistaken in thinking that his emily is the clarks' emily; or he may have faked some of his records. it won't take us long to find out. mr. clark let me take his copy of hapgood's papers." it was not a long matter to prove that hapgood's copy of the records was correct. emily leonard had married edward smith; their son, jabez, had married a hapgood and mary was their child. where hapgood's copy had been deficient was in his failing to record that this emily leonard was the daughter of george and sabina leonard, whereas the clarks' emily was the daughter of peter and judith leonard. "there's hapgood's whole story knocked silly," remarked mr. emerson complacently. "but it leaves us just where we were about the person the clarks' emily married." "stanley wouldn't have telegraphed that she married a smith if he hadn't been sure. he sent that wire from millsboro, you know. he must have found something in that vicinity." "i'm going to try to get him on the telephone to-night, and then we can join him in washington tomorrow if he'll condescend to stay in one spot for a few hours and not keep us chasing over the country after him." "that's jabez smith over there now," the clerk, who had been interested in their search, informed them. "jabez smith!" repeated roger, his jaw dropped. "jabez smith!" repeated mr. emerson. "why, he's dead!" "jabez smith? the hapgood woman's husband? father of mary smith? he isn't dead. he's alive and drunk almost every day." he indicated a man leaning against the wall of the corridor and mr. emerson and roger approached him. "don't you know the miss clarks said they thought that mary said her father was alive but her uncle interrupted her loudly and said she was 'an orphan, poor kid'?" roger reminded his grandfather. "she's half an orphan; her mother really is dead, the clerk says." jabez smith acknowledged his identity and received news of his brother-in-law and his daughter with no signs of pleasure. "what scheming is hapgood up to now?" he muttered crossly. "do you remember what your grandfather and grandmother leonards' names were," asked mr. emerson. the man looked at him dully, as if he wondered what trick there might be in the inquiry, but evidently he came to the conclusion that his new acquaintance was testing his memory, so he pulled himself together and after some mental searching answered, "george leonard; sabina leonard." his hearers were satisfied, and left him still supporting the court house wall with his person instead of his taxes. stanley, the long pursued, was caught on the wire, and hailed their coming with delight. he said that he thought he had all the information he needed and that he had been planning to go home the next day, so they were just in time. "that's delightful; he can go with us," exclaimed ethel brown, and helen and roger looked especially pleased. the few hours that passed before they met in washington were filled with guesses as to whether stanley had built up the family tree of his cousin emily so firmly that it could not be shaken. "we proved this morning that hapgood's story was a mixture of truth and lies," mr. emerson said, "but we haven't anything to replace it. our evidence is all negative." "stanley seems sure," roger reminded him. when stanley met them at the station in washington he seemed both sure and happy. he shook hands with them all. "it is perfectly great to have you people here," he said to helen. "have you caught emily?" she replied, dimpling with excitement. "i have emily traced backwards and forwards. let's go into the writing room of the hotel and you shall see right off how she stands." they gathered around the large table and listened to the account of the young lawyer's adventures. he had had a lead that took him to millsboro soon after he reached western pennsylvania, but he missed the trail there and spent some time in hunting in surrounding towns before he came on the record in the uniontown courthouse. "i certainly thought i had caught her then," he confessed. "i thought so until i compared the ages of the two emilies. i found that our emily would have been only ten years old at the time the uniontown emily married edward smith." "mr. clark wired you to find out just that point." "did he? i never received the despatch. hadn't i told him the date of our emily's birth? "he has a crow to pick with you over that." "too bad. well, i moseyed around some more, and the trail led me back to millsboro again, where i ought to have found the solution in the first place if i had been more persevering. i came across an old woman in millsboro who had been emily leonard's bridesmaid when she married julian smith. that sent me off to the county seat and there i found it all set down in black and white;--emily leonard, adopted daughter of asa wentworth and daughter of peter and judith (clark) leonard. there was everything i wanted." "you knew she had been adopted by a wentworth?" "i found that out before i left nebraska." "what was the date of the marriage?" " . she was eighteen. two years later her only child, a son, leonard, was born, and she died--" "her son leonard! leonard smith!" exclaimed mrs. morton suddenly. "do you suppose--" she hesitated, looking at her father. he raised his eyebrows doubtfully, then turning to stanley he inquired: "you didn't find out what became of this leonard smith, did you?" "i didn't find any record of his marriage, but i met several men who used to know him. they said he became quite a distinguished musician, and that he married a philadelphia woman." "did they know her name?" asked mrs. morton, leaning forward eagerly. "one of them said he thought it was martin. smith never came back here to live after he set forth to make his fortune, so they were a little hazy about his marriage and they didn't know whether he was still alive." "the name wasn't morton, was it?" the girls looked curiously at their mother, for she was crimson with excitement. stanley could take them no farther, however. "father," mrs. morton said to mr. emerson, as the young people chattered over stanley's discoveries, "i think i'd better send a telegram to louise and ask her what her husband's parents' names were. wouldn't it be too strange if he should be the son of the lost emily?" mr. emerson hurried to the telegraph office and sent an immediate wire to "mrs. leonard smith, rosemont, n.j. wire names of your husband's parents," it read. the answer came back before morning;--"julian and emily leonard smith." "now why in the wide world didn't she remember that when we've done nothing but talk about emily leonard for weeks!" cried mrs. smith's sister-in-law impatiently. "i dare say she never gave them a thought; leonard smith's mother died when he was born, stanley says. how about the father, stanley?" "julian smith? he died years ago. i saw his death record this morning." "then i don't see but you've traced the missing heir right to your own next door neighbor, stanley." "it looks to me as if that was just what had happened," laughed the young lawyer. "isn't that jolly! it's dorothy whose guardian's signature is lacking to make the deed of the field valid when we sell it to her mother!" "it's dorothy who is a part owner of fitz-james's woods already!" cried the ethels. another telegram went to rosemont at once. this one was addressed to "miss dorothy smith." it said, "stanley welcomes you into family. congratulations from all on your good fortune," and it was signed "the travellers." the end gardening for the million _by_ alfred pink author of "recipes for the million." t. fisher unwin preface. it is with the object of stimulating the cultivation of gardens still more beautiful than those generally to be met with that the present volume has been written. it has not been thought necessary to repeat in each case the times when the seeds of the various flowers and plants are to be sown. a careful attention to the remarks made under the headings of "annuals," "biennials," "perennials," and "seed-sowing" will supply all the information needed. that the work may prove useful to those at least who supervise their own gardens is the sincere wish of the author. dulwich. gardening for the million a aaron's rod.--_see_ "solidago." abelia.--very ornamental evergreen shrubs, bearing tubular, funnel-shaped flowers. they succeed in any ordinary soil if the situation is warm and sheltered, and are readily raised by cuttings. height, ft. to ft. abies _(spruce firs)_.--among these ornamental conifers mention may be made of the beautiful japanese spruce ajanensis, which grows freely in most soils and has dual-coloured leaves--dark green on the upper surface and silvery white underneath; this makes a grand single specimen anywhere. the white spruce (_abies alba glauca_) is a rapid grower, but while it is small makes a lovely show in the border; it prefers a moist situation. of the slow-growing and dwarf varieties gregorii is a favourite. the caerulea, or blue spruce, is also very beautiful. clanbrasiliana is a good lawn shrub, never exceeding ft. in height. the pigmy spruce (_a. pygmea_) is the smallest of all firs, only attaining the height of ft. any of these may be increased by cuttings. abronia.--handsome half-hardy annual trailers. grow in sandy peat and multiply by root division. flowers in april. height, in. to in. abutilon.--evergreen greenhouse shrubs of great beauty and easy cultivation. may be raised from seed, or by cuttings of young shoots placed in spring or summer in sand under glass, or with a bottom heat. cut the old plants back in january, and when new shoots appear re-pot the plants. height, ft. to ft. acacia.--winter and spring flowering greenhouse shrubs with charming flowers and graceful foliage. may be grown from seed, which should be soaked in warm water for twenty-four hours, or they may be propagated by layers, cuttings placed in heat, or suckers. they like a rich sandy loam soil. height, ft. to ft. acæna.--these shrubby plants are herbaceous and mostly hardy, of a creeping nature, fast growers, and suitable for dry banks or rough stony places. they flourish best in sandy loam and peat, and may be increased by cuttings placed under glass. the flowers, which are green, are produced in may. the height of the various kinds varies from in. to ft. acantholimon glumaceum _(prickly thrift)_.--this is a frame evergreen perennial, thriving in any light, rich soil. it can be increased by dividing the roots. in may it puts forth its rose-coloured flowers. height, in. acanthus.--a coarse, yet stately hardy perennial, which has large ornamental foliage, and flowers in august. it is not particular as to soil or situation, but free space should be given it. will grow from seed sown from march to midsummer, or in august or september in a sheltered situation. will also bear dividing. height, ft. acer (_maple_).--very vigorous plants, suitable when young for pots, and afterwards for the shrubbery. the a. negundo variegata has silvery variegated leaves, which contrast effectively with dark foliage, campestre colchicum rubrum, with its bright crimson palmate leaves, is very ornamental, as is also negundo californicum aurem, with its golden-yellow foliage. the maple grows best in a sandy loam. it may be increased by cuttings planted in a shaded situation, or by layers, but the choice varieties are best raised from seed sown as soon as it is ripe. achillea ptarmica (_sneezewort_).--a pure white hardy perennial which blooms in august. the dried leaves, powdered, produce sneezing. any soil. best increased by rooted off-sets. flowers from july to september. height, - / ft. achimenes.--fine plants, suitable for the greenhouse, sitting-room, or hanging baskets. plant six tubers in a -in. pot, with their growing ends inclining to the centre and the roots to the edge of the pot, and cover them an inch deep with a compost of peat, loam, and leaf-mould, or a light, sandy soil. keep them well supplied with liquid manure while in a growing state. height, in. to - / ft. aconite (_monk's-hood or wolf's-bane_).--very pretty and very hardy, and succeeds under the shade of trees; but being very poisonous should not be grown where there are children. increased by division or by seeds. flowers june to july. height, ft. (_see also_ "winter aconites.") acorus (_sweet flag)._--a hardy bog plant, having an abundance of light-coloured evergreen foliage. it will grow in any wet soil. height, ft. acroclinium.--daisy-like everlastings. half-hardy annuals suitable for cutting during summer, and for winter bouquets. sow in pots in february or march, cover lightly with fine soil, plunge the pot in gentle heat, place a square of glass on the top, and gradually harden off. seed may also be sown in the open during may or in autumn for early flowering. height, ft. acrophyllum verticillatum.--a greenhouse evergreen shrub. it will grow in any soil, and may be increased by cuttings of half-ripened wood. march is its flowering season. height, ft. acrotis.--these are mostly hardy herbaceous plants from south africa. the soil should consist of two parts loam and one part leaf-mould, and the situation should be dry and sunny. seed may be sown early in march in gentle heat, and the plants grown on in a cold frame till may, when they may be planted out a foot apart. they will flower at midsummer. winter in a warm greenhouse. height, ft. some few are of a creeping nature. actaea spicata (_bane berry_).--a hardy herbaceous perennial which delights in a shady position, and will even grow under trees. it is increased by division of the roots, or it may readily be raised from seed in ordinary soil. may is its flowering month. height, ft. actinella grandiflora.--a showy herbaceous plant, bearing large orange-coloured flowers in july. it is not particular as to soil, and is increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. actinomeris squarrosa.--this hardy and ornamental herbaceous plant bears heads of bright yellow flowers, resembling small sunflowers, from june to august. it thrives in any loamy soil, and is easily increased by dividing the root. height, ft. adam's needle.--_see_ "yucca." adenandra fragrans.--an evergreen shrub suitable for the greenhouse. it thrives best in a mixture of sandy peat and turfy loam. cuttings of the young branches stuck in sand will strike. it flowers in june. height, ft. adenophora lilifolia.--pretty hardy perennials suitable for the border. produce drooping pale blue flowers on branching spikes in july. any soil suits them. they may be grown from seed, but will not allow being divided at the root. height, ft. adlumia cirrhosa.--interesting hardy climbers. will grow in any soil, and are readily increased by seeds sown in a damp situation. require the support of stakes. bloom in august. height, ft. adonis flos.--showy crimson summer flowers, requiring only the simplest treatment of hardy annuals. sow in march or april in the open border. height, ft. adonis pyrenaica.--a rare but charming pyrenean perennial species, with thick ornamental foliage, and producing large golden-yellow flowers from may to july. it needs no special treatment. height, - / ft. adonis vernalis.--a favourite hardy perennial, which grows freely from seed in any garden soil. it may also be increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. Æthionema cordifolium.--this little alpine plant is a hardy evergreen that is very suitable for rock-work, as it will grow in any soil. its rose-hued flowers are produced in june. it may be propagated by seeds or cuttings. height, in. agapanthus (_african lily_).--this is a noble plant, which succeeds well in the open if placed in a rich, deep, moist loam in a sunny situation or in partial shade. in pots it requires a strong loamy soil with plenty of manure. throughout the summer the pots should stand in pans of water. re-pot in march. give it plenty of pot room, say a -in. pot for each plant. in winter protect from severe frost, and give but very little water. the flowers are both lovely and showy, being produced during august in great bunches on stems ft. high. the plant is nearly hardy. several growing together in a large tub produce a fine effect. it is increased by dividing the root while in a dormant state. ageratum.--effective half-hardy annual bedding plants, thriving best in a light, rich soil. seed should be sown in heat in february or march. cuttings root freely under glass. height, - / ft. there is a dwarf variety suitable for ribbon borders and edgings. height, in. agricultural seeds.--required per statute acre. carrot to lb. cabbage (to transplant) " cabbage (to drill) to " kohl rabi (to drill) to " lucerne to " mangold wurtzel to " mustard (broadcast) to " rape or cole to " rye grass, italian bus. rye grass, perennial " sainfoin " tares, or vetches " turnip, swedish lb. turnip, common to " trifolium to " agrostemma.--a hardy annual that is very pretty when in flower; suitable for borders. flourishes in any soil, and is easily raised from seed sown in spring. blooms in june and july. there are also perennial varieties: these are increased by division of the root. height, ft. to ft. agrostis.--a very elegant and graceful species of bent-grass. it is a hardy annual, and is largely used for bouquets. sow the seed in march. height, ft. to - / ft. ajuga reptans.--a hardy herbaceous perennial, suitable for the front of borders. it will grow in any soil, and may be propagated by seeds or division. may is its flowering season. height, in. akebia quinata.--this greenhouse evergreen twining plant delights in a soil of loam and peat; flowers in march, and is increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. alchemilla alpina (_lady's mantle_).--a useful hardy perennial for rock-work. it will grow in any soil, if not too wet, and may be increased by seed sown in the spring or early autumn, or by dividing the roots. it flowers in june. height, ft. allium descendens.--a hardy, bulbous perennial. plant in october or november in any garden soil, and the flowers will be borne in july. height, ft. allium neapolitanum.--this is popularly known as the "star." it bears large heads of pure white flowers, and is suitable for borders, pots, or forcing in a cool house. any common soil suits it. it is increased by off-sets. being one of our earliest spring flowers, the bulbs should be planted early in autumn. height, ft. allspice.--_see_ "calycanthus" and "chimonanthus." alonsoa.--a pretty and free-blooming half-hardy annual, which produces fine spikes of orange-scarlet flowers in june. it is multiplied by cuttings or seeds. height, ft. to - / ft. aloysia citriodora.--this favourite lemon-scented verbena should be grown in rich mould. if grown in the open, it should be trained to a wall facing south, and in winter the roots need protecting with a heap of ashes and the branches to be tied up with matting. it is increased by cuttings planted in sand. august is its flowering season. height, ft. alsine rosani.--this pretty little herbaceous plant, with its cushions of green growth, makes a very fine display on rock-work or in any shady position. ordinary soil suits; it is of easy culture, and flowers during june and july. height, in. alstromeria (_peruvian lilies_).--these beautiful summer-flowering hardy perennials produce large heads of lily-like blossoms in great profusion, which are invaluable for cutting for vase decorations as the bloom lasts a long time in water. plant in autumn in. deep in a well-drained sunny situation, preferably on a south border. protect in winter with a covering of leaves or litter. they may be grown from seed sown as soon as it is ripe in sandy loam. they bloom in july. height, ft. to ft. alternantheras.--cuttings of this greenhouse herbaceous plant may be struck in autumn, though they are usually taken from the old plants in spring. insert them singly in - / -in. pots filled with coarse sand, loam, and leaf-mould. when rooted, place them near the glass, and keep the temperature moist and at degrees or degrees, then they will flower in july. height, in. to ft. althea--_see_ "hibiscus." alyssum.--well adapted for rock-work or the front of flower-beds, and is best sown in autumn. the annual, or sweet alyssum, bears an abundance of scented white flowers in june, and on to the end of september. the hardy perennial, saxatile (commonly called gold dust), bears yellow flowers in spring. height, in. amaranthus.--the foliage of these half-hardy annual plants are extremely beautiful, some being carmine, others green and crimson, some yellow, red, and green. they are very suitable either for bedding or pot plants. sow the seed early in spring in gentle heat, and plant out in may or june in very rich soil. if put into pots, give plenty of room for the roots and keep well supplied with water. flower in july and august. height, - / ft. to ft. amaryllis.--these plants bear large drooping bell-shaped lily-like blossoms. they thrive best in a compost of turfy loam and peat, with a fair quantity of sand. the pots must in all cases be well drained. most of the stove and greenhouse species should be turned out of their pots in autumn, and laid by in a dry place until spring, when they should be re-potted and kept liberally supplied with water. a. reticulata and a. striatifolia bloom best, however, when undisturbed. discontinue watering when the foliage shows signs of failing, but avoid shrivelling the leaves. the hardy varieties should be planted in. deep in light, well--drained soil, and allowed to remain undisturbed for two or three years, when they will probably require thinning out. they are increased by off-sets from the bulbs. the belladonna (_belladonna lily_) should be planted in june in a sheltered border in rich, well-drained soil. formosissima (_the scarlet jacobean lily_) is a gem for the greenhouse, and very suitable for forcing, as it will bloom two or three times in a season. it should be potted in february. lutea (_sternbergia)_ flowers in autumn. plant in. deep from october to december. purpurea (_vallota purpurea or scarborough lily_) is a very beautiful free bloomer. october and november or march and april are the most favourable times for potting, but established plants should be re-potted in june or july. ambrosia mexicana.--a hardy annual of the simplest culture. sow the seed in spring in any fine garden soil. height, - / ft. american plants.--these thrive most in a peat or bog soil, but where this cannot be obtained a good fertile loam, with a dressing of fresh cow manure once in two years, may be used; or leaf-mould and soil from the surface of pasture land, in the proportions of three parts of the former to one of the latter. the soil should be chopped up and used in a rough condition. sickly plants with yellowish foliage may be restored by applying liquid manure once a week during the month of july. a light top-dressing of cow manure applied annually, and keeping the roots free from stagnant water, will preserve the plants in good health. ammobium.--pretty hardy perennials which may be very easily raised from seed on a sandy soil. flower in june. height, ft. ampelopsis.--handsome and rapid climbers, with noble foliage, some changing to a deep crimson in autumn. the veitchii clings to the wall without nailing, and produces a profusion of lovely leaves which change colour. any of the varieties may be grown in common garden soil, and may be increased by layers. anagallis (_pimpernel_.)--very pretty. sow the hardy annuals in the open early in march; the biennials or half-hardy perennials in pots in a greenhouse or a frame, and plant out when strong enough. may also be increased by cuttings planted in ordinary soil under glass. flower in july. height, in. anchusa.--anchusa capensis is best raised in a frame and treated as a greenhouse plant, though in reality it is a hardy perennial. the annual and biennial kinds succeed well if sown in the open in rich soil. all are ornamental and open their flowers in june. height, - / ft. (_see also_ "bugloss.") andromeda.--an ornamental evergreen shrub, commonly known as the marsh cystus, and thriving in a peat soil with partial shade. may be grown from seed sown directly it is ripe and only lightly covered with soil, as the seed rots if too much mould is placed over it. place the seedlings in a cold frame and let them have plenty of air. it is more generally increased by layers in september, which must not be disturbed for a year. drought will kill it, so the roots must never be allowed to get dry. it flowers in april and may. height, ft. androsace.--pretty little plants, mostly hardy, but some require the protection of a frame. they grow best in small pots in a mixture of turfy loam and peat. water them very cautiously. they flower at different seasons, some blooming as early as april, while others do not put forth flower till august. they can be increased by division as well as by seed. height, in. anemones.--these are highly ornamental, producing a brilliant display of flowers. the scarlets make very effective beds. they are mostly hardy, and may be grown in any moist, light, rich garden soil, preferably mixed with a good proportion of silver sand. they should occupy a sunny and well-drained situation. for early spring flowering plant from october to december, placing the tubers - / or in. deep and or in. apart, with a trowelful of manure under each plant, but not touching them. a little sea sand or salt mixed with the soil is a preventive of mildew. if planted in february and march they will bloom from april to june. they are increased by seeds, divisions, or off-sets; the greenhouse varieties from cuttings in light loam under glass. the tubers will not keep long out of the ground. in growing from seed choose seeds from single-flowering plants; sow in march where they are intended to flower in. deep and in. apart; cover with leaf-mould. two or three sowings may be made also during the summer. height, in. to ft. anemonopsis macrophylla.--a rather scarce but remarkably handsome perennial, producing lilac-purple flowers with yellow stamens in july and august. it will grow in ordinary soil, and may be increased by division. height, ft. angelonia grandiflora alba.--an elegant and graceful greenhouse plant, giving forth a delicious aromatic odour. it grows best in a compost of turfy loam and peat, but thrives in any light, rich soil. take cuttings during summer, place them under glass, but give a little air occasionally. height, - / ft. annuals.--plants of this description arrive at maturity, bloom, produce seed, and die in one season. _hardy_.--the seed should be sown thinly in the open borders during march, april, or may in fine soil, covering slightly with well-prepared mould--very small seeds require merely a dusting over them. when the plants are large enough to handle, thin them out boldly, to allow them to develop their true character. by this means strong and sturdy plants are produced and their flowering properties are enhanced. many of the hardy annuals may be sown in august and september for spring flowering, and require little or no protection from frost. _half-hardy._--these are best sown in boxes or in. deep during february and march, and placed on a slight hotbed, or in a greenhouse at a temperature of about degrees. the box should be nearly filled with equal parts of good garden soil and coarse silver sand, thoroughly mixed, and have holes at the bottom for drainage. scatter the seeds thinly and evenly over the soil and cover very lightly. very small seeds, such as lobelia and musk, should not be covered by earth, but a sheet of glass over the box is beneficial, as it keeps the moisture from evaporating too quickly. should watering become necessary, care must be taken that the seeds are not washed out. as soon as the young plants appear, remove the glass and place them near the light, where gentle ventilation can be given them to prevent long and straggly growth. harden off gradually, but do not plant out until the weather is favourable. seed may also be sown in a cold frame in april, or in the open border during may; or the plants may be raised in the windows of the sitting-room. _tender_.--these must be sown on a hotbed, or in rather stronger heat than is necessary for half-hardy descriptions. as soon as they are large enough to be shifted, prick them off into small pots, gradually potting them on into larger sizes until the flowering size is reached. anomatheca cruenta.--this produces an abundance of bright red flowers with a dark blotch and a low growth of grass-like foliage. it is suitable for either vases, edges, or groups. plant the bulbs in autumn in a mixture of loam and peat, and the plants will flower in july. they require a slight protection from frost. if the seed is set as soon as it is ripe it produces bulbs which will flower the following year. height, in. antennaria.--hardy perennial plants, requiring a rich, light soil. they flower in june and july, and may be increased by cuttings or division. the heights of the various kinds range from in. to ft. anthemis tinctoria (_yellow marguerites_).--these perennials are almost hardy, needing protection merely in severe weather. they are readily raised from seed sown in gentle heat early in spring or by slips during the summer months. transplant into light soil. as pot plants they are very effective. june is their flowering period. height, - / ft. anthericum liliago (_st. bernard's lily_).--one of the finest of hardy plants, and easy to grow. planted in deep, free, sandy soil, it will grow vigorously, and in early summer throw up spikes of snowy-white, lily-like blossoms from to feet in height. it may be divided every three or four years, but should not be disturbed oftener. mulching in early springtime is advantageous. anthericum liliastrum _(st. bruno's lily_).--this hardy perennial is a profuse bloomer, throwing up spikes of starry white flowers from may to july. treat in the same manner as the foregoing. height, ft. anthoxanthum gracila.--sweet vernal grass. it is graceful and ornamental, and is used for edgings. sow in spring, keeping the seed moist until it germinates. height, in. anthyllis montana.--a fine hardy perennial for rock-work. it is of a procumbent habit, and has a woody nature. a vegetable soil is best suited for its growth, and its roots should be in contact with large stones. it may be increased by cuttings taken in spring and planted in the shade in leaf-mould. it flowers at midsummer. height, in. antirrhinum (_snapdragon_).--handsome hardy perennials; most effective in beds or borders. they stand remarkably well both drought and excessive rainfall, and succeed in any common soil. seeds sown early in spring produce flowers the same year. for spring bedding, sow in july; keep the young plants in a cold frame, and plant out in march or april. choice sorts may be plentifully increased by cuttings taken in july or august. flower from july to september. height, - / ft. to ft. ants in gardens.--contrary to general belief, ants do more good than harm to a garden; but as they are unsightly on flowers, it is advisable to tie a little wool round the stems of standard roses and other things upon which they congregate. they will not crawl over the wool. a little sulphur sprinkled over a plant will keep them from it; while wall-fruit, etc., may be kept free from them by surrounding it with a broad band of chalk. should they become troublesome on account of their numbers a strong decoction of elder leaves poured into the nest will destroy them; or a more expeditious method of getting rid of them is to put gunpowder in their nests and fire it with a piece of touch-paper tied on to a long stick. aotus gracillima.--a charming and graceful evergreen shrub, whose slender branches are covered with small pea-like flowers in may. it is most suitable for the greenhouse, and delights in a soil of loamy peat and sand. cuttings of half-ripened wood planted under glass will take root. height, ft. aphides, or plant-lice, make their presence known by the plant assuming an unhealthy appearance, the leaves curling up, etc. frequently swarms of ants (which feed upon the aphides) are found beneath the plants attacked. syringe the plant all over repeatedly with gas-tar water, or with tobacco or lime-water. the lady-bird is their natural enemy. apios tuberosa (_glycine apios_).--an american climbing plant which produces in the autumn bunches of purple flowers of an agreeable odour. the foliage is light and elegant. the plant is quite hardy. it enjoys a light soil and a good amount of sunshine. it may be increased by separating the tubers after the tops have died down, and planting them while they are fresh. height, ft. aponogeton.--_see_ "aquatics." apples.--apples delight in a moist, cool climate. all apples will not succeed on the same soil, some preferring clay, while others grow best in sandy loam or in well-drained peat. for a deep, good soil and a sheltered situation the standard form grafted on the crab-apple is generally considered to be the most profitable. for shallow soils it is better to graft on to the paradise stock, as its roots do not run down so low as the crab. the ground, whether deep or shallow, should receive a good mulching in the autumn; that on the deep soil being dug in at the approach of spring, while that on the shallow soil should be removed in the spring to allow the ground to be lightly forked and sweetened, replacing the manure when the dry, hot weather sets in. the best time to perform the grafting is march, and it should be done on the whip-handle system, particulars of which will be found under "grafting." young trees may be planted in the autumn, as soon as the leaves have fallen. budding is done in august, just in the same manner as roses. in spring head back to the bud; a vigorous shoot will then be produced, which can be trained as desired. apples need very little pruning, it being merely necessary to remove branches growing in the wrong direction; but this should be done annually, while the branches are young--either at the end of july or in winter. if moss makes its appearance, scrape it off and wash the branches with hot lime. the following sorts may be specially recommended:--for heavy soils, duchess of oldenburgh, equally suitable for cooking or dessert; warner's king, one of the best for mid-season; and king of the pippins, a handsome and early dessert apple. for light, warm soils, cox's orange pippin or bess pool. the devonshire quarrenden is a delicious apple, and will grow on any good soil. in orchards standards should stand ft. apart each way, and dwarfs from ft. to ft. apricots.--early in november is the most favourable time for planting apricots. the soil--good, sound loam for preference--should be dug ft. deep, and mixed with one-fourth its quantity of rotten leaves and one-fourth old plaster refuse. place a substratum of bricks below each tree and tread the earth very firmly round the roots. they will not need any manure until they are fruiting, when a little may be applied in a weak liquid form, but a plentiful supply of water should be given during spring and summer months. the fan shape is undoubtedly the best way of training the branches, as it allows a ready means of tucking small yew branches between them to protect the buds from the cold. they may be grown on their own roots by planting the stone, but a quicker way to obtain fruit is to bud them on to vigorous seedling plum trees. this should be done in august, inserting the bud on the north or north-west side of the stem and as near the ground as possible. to obtain prime fruit, thin the fruit-buds out to a distance of in. one from the other. in the spring any leaf-buds not required for permanent shoots can be pinched back to three or four leaves to form spurs. the apricot is subject to a sort of paralysis, the branches dying off suddenly. the only remedy for this seems to be to prevent premature vegetation. the following are good sorts: moor park, grosse peche, royal st. ambroise, kaisha, powell's late, and oullin's early. in plantations they should stand ft. apart. aquatics.--all aquatics grow best in wicker-baskets filled with earth. cover the surface of the earth with hay-bands twisted backwards and forwards and round the plant, and lace it down with tarred string, so as to keep the earth and plant from being washed out. the following make good plants:--white water lily (_nymphaea alba_) in deep water with muddy bottom; yellow water lily (_nuphar lutea_); and nuphar advena, having yellow and red flowers; hottonia palustris, bearing flesh-coloured flowers, and alismas, or water plantain, with white, and purple and white flowers. water forget-me-nots (_myosotis palustris_) flourish on the edges of ponds or rivers. the water hawthorn (_aponogetou distachyon_) does well in a warm, sheltered position, and may be grown in loam, plunged in a pan of water. calla ethiopica bears pretty white flowers, so also does the before-mentioned aponogeton distachyon. the flowering rush (_butomus umbellatus_), produces fine heads of pink flowers. the water violet merely needs to be laid on the surface of the water; the roots float. for shallow water menyanthus trifoliata (three-leaved buckbean) and typha latifolia (broad-leaved cat's tail) are suitable. weeping willows grow readily from cuttings of ripened shoots, planted in moist soil in autumn. spiraea does well in moist situations, near water. aquatics are propagated by seed sown under water: many will allow of root-division. tender aquatics are removed in winter to warm-water tanks. aquilegia (_columbine_).--very ornamental and easily-grown hardy perennials. sow seed in march in sandy soil, under glass, and transplant when strong enough. common garden soil suits them. the roots may be divided in spring or autumn. the flowers are produced from may to july. height, ft. arabis alpina (_rock cress, or snow in summer_).--pure white hardy perennial, which is valuable for spring bedding. not particular to soil, and easily raised from seed sown from march to june, placed under a frame, and transplanted in the autumn, or it may be propagated by slips, but more surely by rootlets taken after the plants have done flowering. plant in. apart. height, in. aralia (_fatsia japonica_).--fine foliage plants, very suitable for a shady situation in a living-room. they may be raised from seed sown in autumn in a gentle heat, in well-drained pots of light sandy soil. keep the mould moist, and when the plants are large enough to handle, pot them off singly in thumb pots, using rich, light, sandy soil. do not pot too firmly. keep them moist, but do not over water, especially in winter, and re-pot as the plants increase in size. be careful not to let the sun shine on them at any time, as this would cause the leaves to lose their fresh colour. aralia sieboldi (_fig palm_).--this shrub is an evergreen, and is generally given stove culture, though it proves quite hardy in the open, where its large deep-green leaves acquire a beauty surpassing those grown indoors. slips of half-ripened wood taken at a joint in july may be struck in heat and for the first year grown on in the greenhouse. the young plants should be hardened off and planted out in may in a sunny situation. it should be grown in well-drained sandy loam. is increased also by off-sets, and blooms (if at all) in july. height, ft. aralia sinensis. _see_ "dimorphantus." araucaria imbricata (_the monkey puzzle, or chilian pine_).--this strikingly handsome conifer is very suitable for a forecourt or for a single specimen on grass. young plants are sometimes grown in the conservatory and in the borders of shrubberies, as well as in the centres of beds. it requires a good stiff sandy loam, which must be well drained, and plenty of room for root action should be allowed. young plants are obtained from seed sown in good mellow soil. water sparingly, especially during the winter. arbor vitae. _see_ "thuya." arbutus (_strawberry tree_).--elegant evergreen shrubs with dark foliage of great beauty during october and november, when they produce an abundance of pearly-white flowers, and the fruit of the previous year is ripe. a. unedo is particularly charming. they flourish in the open in sandy loam. the dwarfs are increased by layers, the rest by seeds or by budding on each other. arctostaphylos.--these evergreen shrubs need the same treatment as arbutos. a. uva-ursi, or creeping arbutos, is a pretty prostrate evergreen, which flowers in may, and is only in. high. arctotis.--a showy and interesting half-hardy annual. raise the seed in a frame in march, and transplant in may. it succeeds best in a mixture of loam and peat. it flowers in june. height, ft. arctotis grandis.--a very handsome, half-hardy annual producing large daisy-like flowers on long wiry stems, the upper part being white and the base yellow and lilac, while the reverse of the petals are of a light lilac. the seed should be sown early in spring on a slight hot-bed, and the plants potted off, when sufficiently strong, using a rich, light mould. they may be transferred to the border as soon as all fear of frost is over. height, - / ft. ardisia japonica.--an evergreen shrub which delights in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings will strike if planted in sand under glass with a little bottom heat. it flowers in july. height, ft. arenaria balearica (_sand wort_).--a hardy evergreen trailing plant of easy culture, provided it is favoured with a sandy soil. its cushions of white flowers are produced in july, and it may be increased by seed or division. height, in. it is a beautiful plant for moist, shady rock-work. argemone.--interesting hardy annuals, succeeding well in any common garden soil. are increased by suckers or by seed sown in spring. height, in. to ft. aristolochia sipho (_dutchman's pipe_).--this hardy, deciduous climber grows best in peat and sandy loam with the addition of a little dung. it may be raised from cuttings placed in sand under glass. height, ft. armeria (_thrift_).--handsome hardy perennials for rock-work or pots. they require an open, rich, sandy soil. bloom june to september. height, - / ft. arnebia.--ornamental hardy annuals, closely allied to the anchusa. the seeds are sown in the open in spring, and flowers are produced in july. height, ft. there is also a dwarf hardy perennial variety (_a. echioides_) known as the prophet's flower, growing about ft. high, and flowering early in summer. it needs no special treatment. artemisia annua.--pretty hardy annuals, the silvery leaves of the plant being very effective on rock-work. sow the seed in spring where it is to flower. height, ft. artemisia arborea. _see_ "southernwood." artemisia villarsii.--a hardy perennial whose graceful sprays of finely-cut silvery foliage are very useful for mixing with cut flowers. it may be grown from seed on any soil, and the roots bear dividing; flowers from june to august. height, ft. artichokes.--the jerusalem variety will flourish in light sandy soil where few other things will grow. plant the tubers in march, in. deep and in. apart in rows ft. asunder, and raise and store them in november. the globe variety is increased by off-sets taken in march. set them in deeply manured ground in threes, at least ft. apart and ft. from row to row. keep them well watered, and the ground between them loose. they bear best when two or three years old. arum lilies.--in warm districts these beautiful plants may be grown in damp places out of doors, with a south aspect and a background of shrubs, though, not being thoroughly hardy, it is safer to grow them in pots. they may be raised from seed in boxes of leaf-mould and sand, covering them with glass, and keeping them well watered. as soon as they can be handled, transplant them into small pots, and pot on as they increase in size. they may also be increased by the small shoots that form round the base of the corms, using a compost of loam, leaf-mould, and sand, with a little crushed charcoal. in june transplant them in the open to ripen their corms, and in august put them carefully into -in. pots filled with the above-mentioned compost. they need at all times a good amount of moisture, especially at such times as they are removed from one soil to another. at the same time, it is necessary to procure good drainage. it is well to feed them every other day with weak liquid manure. a temperature of degrees throughout the winter is quite sufficient. when grown in the open, the bulbs should be placed in. below the soil, with a little silver sand beneath each, and not be disturbed oftener than once in four years. three or four may stand a foot apart. stake neatly the flower stems. they flower from september to june. arums.--remarkably handsome plants with fine foliage and curious inflorescence more or less enclosed in a hooded spathe, which is generally richly coloured and marked. they are hardy, easily grown in any soil (a good sandy one is preferable), and flower in july. height, - / ft. (_see also_ "calla.") asarum europaeum.--this curious hardy perennial will grow in almost any soil, and may be increased by taking off portions of the root early in autumn, placing them in small pots till the beginning of spring, then planting them out. it produces its purple flowers in may. height, in. asclepias (_swallow-wort_).--showy hardy perennials which require plenty of room to develop. they may be grown from seed sown in august or april, or can be increased by division of the root. a very light soil is needed, and plenty of sunshine. flowers are produced in july. height, ft. to - / ft. asparagus.--sow in march or april, in rich light soil, allowing the plants to remain in the seed-beds until the following spring; then transplant into beds thoroughly prepared by trenching the ground ft. deep, and mixing about a foot thick of well-rotted manure and a good proportion of broken bones and salt with the soil. the plants should stand ft. apart. in dry weather water liberally with liquid manure, and fork in a good supply of manure every autumn. give protection in winter. the plants should not be cut for use until they become strong and throw up fine grass, and cutting should not be continued late in the season. april is a good time for making new beds. the roots should be planted as soon as possible after they are lifted, as exposure to the air is very injurious to them. asparagus plumosus nanus is a greenhouse variety, bearing fern-like foliage. the seeds should be sown in slight heat early in spring. asparagus sprengeri.--this delightful greenhouse climber is seen to best advantage when suspended in a hanging basket, but it also makes an attractive plant when grown on upright sticks, or on trellis-work. it is useful for cut purposes, lasting a long time in this state, and is fast taking the place of ferns, its light and elegant foliage making it a general favourite. it should be grown in rich, light mould, and may be propagated by seed or division. the roots should not be kept too wet, especially in cold weather. asperula (_woodruff_).--a. azurea setosa is a pretty, light-blue hardy annual, which is usually sown in the open in autumn for early flowering; if sown in the spring it will bloom in june or july. a. odorata is a hardy perennial, merely needing ordinary treatment. it is serviceable for perfuming clothes, etc. asperulas thrive in a moist soil, and grow well under the shade of trees. height, ft. asphalte paths.--sift coarse gravel so as to remove the dusty portion, and mix it with boiling tar in the proportion of gallons to each load. spread it evenly, cover the surface with a layer of spar, shells, or coarse sand, and roll it in before the tar sets. asphodelus.--bold hardy herbaceous plants; fine for borders; will grow in common soil, and flower between may and august. increased by young plants taken from the roots. height, - / ft. to ft. aspidistra.--this greenhouse herbaceous perennial is a drawing-room palm, and is interesting from the fact that it produces its flowers beneath the surface of the soil. it thrives in any fairly good mould, but to grow it to perfection it should be accommodated with three parts loam, one part leaf-mould, and one part sand. it will do in any position, but is best shaded from the midday sun. it may be increased by suckers, or by dividing the roots in april, may, or june. supply the plant freely with water, especially when root-bound. when dusty, the leaves should be sponged with tepid milk and water--a teacup of the former to a gallon of the latter. this imparts a gloss to the leaves. a poor sandy soil is more suitable for the variegated kind, as this renders the variegation more constant. height, ft. to ft. asters.--this splendid class of half-hardy annuals has been vastly improved by both french and german cultivators. speaking generally, the flowers of the french section resemble the chrysanthemum, and those of the german the paeony. they all delight in a very rich, light soil, and need plenty of room from the commencement of their growth. the first sowing may be made in february or march, on a gentle hotbed, followed by others at about fourteen days' interval. the seeds are best sown in shallow drills and lightly covered with soil, then pressed down by a board. prick out the seedlings in. apart, and plant them out about the middle of may in a deeply-manured bed. if plant food be given it must be forked in lightly, as the aster is very shallow-rooting, and it should be discontinued when the buds appear. for exhibition purposes remove the middle bud, mulch the ground with some good rotten soil from an old turf heap, and occasionally give a little manure water. astilbe.--ornamental, hardy herbaceous perennials, with large handsome foliage, and dense plumes of flowers, requiring a peaty soil for their successful cultivation. they may be grown from seed sown in july or august, or may be increased by division. they flower at the end of july. the varieties vary in height, some growing as tall as ft. astragalus alpinus.--a hardy perennial bearing bluish-purple flowers. it will grow in any decent soil, and can be propagated from seed sown in spring or autumn, or by division. height, ft. astragalus hypoglottis.--a hardy deciduous trailing plant, producing purple flowers in july. sow the seed early in spring on a moderate hotbed, and plant out into any garden soil. height, in. astragalus lotoides.--this pretty little trailer is of the same height as a. hypoglottis, and merely requires the same treatment. it flowers in august. astrantia.--this herbaceous plant is quite hardy, and will thrive in any good garden soil, producing its flowers in june and july. seed may be sown either in autumn or spring. height, - / ft. to ft. atragene austriaca.--handsome, hardy climbers, which may be grown in any garden soil. they flower in august, and are increased by layers or by cuttings under glass. height, ft. atriplex.--straggling hardy annuals of very little beauty. will grow in any soil if sown in spring, and only require ordinary attention. flower in july. height, ft. aubergine.--_see_ "egg-plant." aubrietia.--an early spring-blooming hardy perennial. very ornamental either in the garden or on rock-work, the flowers lasting a long time. an open and dry situation suits it best. may be readily raised from seed, and increased by dividing the roots or by cuttings under a glass. flowers in march and april. height in. aucuba.--hardy evergreen shrubs, some having blotched leaves. they look well standing alone on grass plots, and are indifferent to soil or position. cuttings may be struck in any garden soil under a hand-glass in august, or by layers in april or may. when the male and female varieties are planted together, the latter produce an abundance of large red berries, rendering the plant very showy and ornamental. they bloom in june. height, ft. auricula.--this is a species of primrose, and is sometimes called bear's ear from the shape of its leaves. it succeeds best in a mixture of loam and peat, or in four parts rotten loam, two parts rotten cow dung, and one part silver sand; delights in shade, and will not bear too much water. it makes an effective border to beds, and is readily propagated by off-sets taken early in autumn, or in february or march, by division of roots immediately after flowering, or from seed sown in march on gentle heat in firmly pressed light, rich soil, covered with a piece of glass and shaded from the sun till the plants are well up, when sun and air is needed. when large enough to handle, prick them out in a cold frame in. apart, and keep them there through the winter. take care to press the soil well round the roots of off-sets. october is a good time for making new borders. the half-hardy kinds require the protection of a house in winter. height, in. avena sterilis.--a very singular hardy-annual ornamental grass, generally known as animated oats. very useful in a green state for mixing with cut flowers. sow in march or early in april. height, ft. azaleas (_greenhouse_).--a good soil for these deciduous shrubs is made by mixing a fair quantity of silver sand with good fibrous peat. the plants must never be allowed to become too wet nor too dry, and must be shaded from excessive sunshine. after they have flowered remove the remains of the blooms, place the plants out of doors in the sun to ripen the wood, or in a temperature of degrees or degrees, and syringe them freely twice a day. if they require shifting, it must be done directly the flowers have fallen. cuttings taken off close to the plant will root in sand under a glass placed in heat. a. indica is a plant of great beauty. stand it in the open air in summer, in a partially shaded position. in winter remove it to a cool part of the greenhouse. the hardy varieties should receive the same treatment as rhododendrons. flowers in june. height, ft. azara microphylla--this hardy evergreen shrub, with its fan-like branches and small dark, glossy leaves, is very ornamental and sweet-scented. it is increased by placing cuttings of ripened wood in sand under glass with a little heat. height, ft. b babianas.--charming, sweet-scented flowers, suitable for either pot cultivation or the border. in august or september place five bulbs in a well-drained -in. pot, using rich, light, very sandy soil; cover them completely, and press the mould down gently. water very sparingly until the roots are well formed; indeed, if the soil is moist when the bulbs are planted, no water will be needed till the new growth appears above ground. stand the pots in ashes and cover them with in. of cocoa-nut fibre. when the flower spikes are formed, give weak liquid manure twice a week till the flowers open. keep them in a temperature of degrees. when the foliage begins to die down gradually, lessen the amount of moisture given. the bulbs while dormant are best left in the pots. for cultivation in the open, choose a warm situation, make the soil light and sandy, adding a good proportion of well-rotted manure, and plant the bulbs in. deep either in autumn or spring. height, in. to in. bahia lanata.--a hardy herbaceous plant of easy culture from seed sown in spring or autumn in any garden soil. it produces bright orange flowers from june to august. height, ft. bahia trolliifolia.--this hardy herbaceous perennial will grow in any kind of soil. it flowers in august, and can be increased by division. height, ft. balsams.--the seeds of these tender annuals require to be sown in early spring in a hot-house or a warm frame having a temperature of to degrees. when or in. high, or large enough to handle, prick off singly into small pots, shade them till they are established, and re-pot as they advance in strength in a compost of loam, leaf-mould, sand, and old manure. give them air when the weather is favourable. the last shift should be into -sized pots. supply them with an abundance of liquid manure, admit as much air as possible, and syringe freely. they must never be allowed to get dry. secure their stems firmly to sticks. they will flower in the open early in september. height, - / ft. to ft. bambusa.--the dwarf-growing bamboos fortunei variegata and viridi-striata make graceful edgings to borders or paths. the whole family like a rich, loamy, damp soil. baneberry.--_see_ "actæa." baptisia australis.--this ornamental hardy perennial makes a good border plant, growing in any loamy soil, and producing its blue flowers in june and july. it can be multiplied by dividing the root. height, ft. barbarea.--_see_ "rocket." barberries.--very ornamental hardy shrubs, bearing rich yellow flowers in spring and attractive fruit in the autumn. most handsome when trained to a single stem and the head allowed to expand freely. they are not particular as to soil, but prefer a rather light one, and succeed best in a moist, shady situation. cuttings or layers root freely in the open. they require very little attention, beyond occasionally cutting away some of the old branches to make room for new growth. height, - / ft. to ft. bartonia aurea.--beautiful hardy annuals, the flowers of which open at night and effuse a delightful odour. sow the seed in autumn on a gentle hotbed; pot off, and protect in a greenhouse during the winter. plant them out in the open in may, where they will flower in june. height, - / ft. bay, sweet _(laurus nobilis_).--this half-hardy evergreen shrub likes a sheltered position. protection from severe frosts is requisite, especially while it is young. it is more suitable as an isolated specimen plant than for the border. increased by layers or by cuttings of the roots. beans, broad.--a deep, strong loam is most suitable, but good crops can be obtained from any garden soil. the first sowing should be made in february or march, and in succession to may. a sowing of beck's green gem or dwarf fan may even be made in november in rows ft. apart. other varieties should be planted in rows ft. apart, sowing the seed in. deep and at intervals of in. when the plants have done flowering pinch off the tops, to ensure a better crop; and if the black fly has attacked them, take off the tops low enough down to remove the pests, and burn them at once. seville longpod and aquadulce may be recommended for an early crop, and johnson's wonderful and harlington windsor for a main one. beans, french.--the soil should be dug over to a depth of at least in. and liberally enriched with manure. in the open ground the first sowing may be made about the third week in april, another sowing early in may, and subsequent sowings for succession every two or three weeks until the end of july. plant in rows ft apart, and the seeds to in. apart in the rows. a sharp look-out ought to be kept for slugs, which are very partial to french beans when pushing through the soil. for forcing, sow in pots under glass from december to march. beans, runner.--these are not particular as to position or soil, but the best results are obtained by placing them in a deep rich mould where they can get a fair amount of sunlight. sow, from the second week in may until the first week in july for succession, in rows ft. apart, thinning the plants out to ft. apart in the rows. protect from slugs when the plants are coming through the ground, and support them with sticks immediately the growth begins to run. scarlet runners may be kept dwarf by pinching off the tops when the plants are about ft. high, and nipping off the subsequent shoots when in. long. beet.--land that has been well manured for the previous crop is the best on which to obtain well-shaped roots of high quality. sow in april and may in drills in. apart, and thin out the plants to about in. apart. take up for use as wanted until november, when the whole crop should be taken up and stored in dry sand, and in a place where neither moisture nor frost can reach them. when storing them cut off the tails and some portion of the crowns, but be careful not to wound any part of the fleshy root. begonias.--a somewhat succulent genus of conservatory plants. they all require a very rich loamy soil containing a little sand; and heat, moisture, and shade are essential to their health. cuttings or in. long will root readily in spring or summer. stand the cuttings in the shade and do not over-water them; or they may be raised from seed sown in march in a hot-house or frame having a temperature of degrees. height, ft. to ft. tuberous begonias should be planted in small pots placed in heat, early in spring, and at intervals of a fortnight for succession, using a compost of equal parts of fibrous loam, leaf-mould, and sand. press the soil rather firmly so as to promote sturdy growth, and only just cover the top of the tuber. water moderately till the plants begin to grow freely. gradually harden off, and plant out the last week in may or early in june, or shift into larger pots for conservatory decoration. cuttings may be taken in april. the plants may also be raised from seed sown in february or march in a temperature of degrees. before sowing mix the seed with silver sand, then sprinkle it evenly over a box or pan of moist, fine, light loam and silver sand; cover with a sheet of glass, and keep shaded. transplant into small pots, and pot on from time to time as the plants increase in size. plants so treated will flower in june or july. when the leaves of the old plants turn yellow keep the roots quite dry, afterwards turn them out of the pots and bury them in cocoa-nut fibre till january, when they must be re-potted. belladonna lily.--_see_ "amaryllis." bellis perennis.--_see_ "daisies." benthamia.--an ornamental half-hardy shrub. a profuse bloomer, the flowers of which are followed by edible strawberry-like fruit. will succeed in any good garden against a south wall. easily raised from seed or by layers. flowers in august. height, ft. berberidopsis corallina.--distinct and very pretty evergreen climbing shrubs, which prove hardy in the south and west, but need protection in other places. they are not particular as to soil, and may be increased by cuttings. bergamot _(monardia didyma_).--this hardy perennial will grow almost anywhere, and may be increased by seed or by division of the root. it flowers in _july_. height, ft. beta cicla.--a hardy annual which succeeds in any common soil. its dark crimson and yellow flowers are borne in august. height, ft. it is used as spinach. in germany the midrib of the leaf is boiled and eaten with gravy or melted butter. betonica.--_see_ "stachys." biennials.--these plants take two years to flower, and then they die away altogether. the seed of the hardy varieties is sown thinly in the open border any time between april and june, and the plants transferred in the autumn to the place where they are intended to bloom. seed is also sown in august and september for flowering the following year. the half-hardy kinds may be sown in may or june. these require protection during winter, such as is afforded by a cold pit, frame, or greenhouse, or the covering of a mat or litter. bignonia _(trumpet flower_).--this is admirably suitable for a south wall, but it requires plenty of room. it is propagated by cuttings placed in sand, or by cuttings of the root. these should be planted out in the spring, or autumn will do if they are covered with a hand-glass. biota.--_see_ "thuya." bird cherry.--_see_ "cerasus." blackberries.--to obtain good crops plant in a poor, dry soil on raised banks facing south. the bushes should be planted ft. apart. bladder nut.--_see_ "staphylea." blanket flower.--_see_ "gaillardia." bleeding heart.--_see_ "dielytra." bocconia cordata.--ornamental hardy perennials. they do best on a loamy soil, and may be increased by suckers taken from established plants in the summer and placed in rich soil; or by cuttings planted in sand, in a gentle heat under glass; also by seed sown during the autumn months. they appear to the greatest advantage when grown as solitary plants, away from other tall-growing flowers. the variety b. frutescens has an exceedingly pretty foliage. august is the month in which they flower. height, ft. bog or marsh land.--by planting a few of the more distinct species adapted for such positions, bogs or marshes may be made interesting. the following plants are suitable:--arundo donax, bambusa fortunei, cypripedium spectabile, dondia epipactis, drosera rotundifolia, gunnera scabra, iris kaempferi, iris pseud-acorus, juncus zebrinus, myosotis palustris, osmunda regalis, parnassia palustris, pinguicula vulgaris, polygonum sieboldi, and sarracenia purpurea. boltonia asteroides.--this is a hardy perennial which flowers in september. the same treatment that is given to asters is suitable for this plant. height, ft. bomarea.--a useful greenhouse climber, the flowers of which are valuable for cutting, as they last a long time in water. it thrives best in a mixture of sand, peat, and loam. borago laxiflora.--this very choice boragewort is a trailing hardy biennial. it produces lovely pale pendent flowers from june to august, will grow in almost any soil, and can be increased by seed or division. height, ft. borecole, kale, or curled greens.--sow towards the end of march or early in april. plant out as soon as ready in moderately rich soil in rows ft. apart, and the plants ft. apart in the rows. if the seed is sown thickly, the young plants must be pricked off into another bed until ready for planting, as strong, sturdy plants always produce the best results. they may succeed peas without any fresh manure. boronias.--greenhouse evergreen shrubs. a single plant of b. megastigma is sufficient to perfume a good-sized house. b. drummondi, elatior, heterophylla, and serrulata are all good plants. the pots should be filled with sandy peat and be well drained. they are propagated by cuttings taken at a joint and placed under glass. may is their flowering month. height, ft. bougainvillea.--a greenhouse evergreen climber, thriving best in a loamy soil. it flowers in june, and may be increased by cuttings. height, ft. bousingaultia basselloides.--a rapidly growing climber, beautiful both in flower and foliage, the former of which is pure white, produced in july in elegant racemes from in. to in. long. it is nearly hardy; very suitable for a cool greenhouse. any garden soil suits it. height, ft. bouvardias.--favourite stove plants. they are propagated by pieces of the thick fleshy roots, about in. long, inserted in light, rich, sandy soil, and plunged in a bottom-heat. plant out in may in rich, light soil, cutting back all the over-vigorous growth, so as to form a well-balanced plant. at the approach of cold weather they may be taken up and potted off, using small pots to prevent them damping off. in a warm greenhouse they will flower all the winter. box edging.--a deep loam suits the box best. cuttings should be taken early in autumn. dig a trench, and make the bottom firm and even. set the young plants thinly and at regular intervals, leaving the tops in. above the surface. tread the soil firmly against them. cover with in. of gravel to prevent them growing too luxuriantly. the end of june is a good time for clipping. may be transplanted early in spring or late in autumn. (_see also_ "buxus.") brachycome (_swan river daisy_).--beautiful little half-hardy annuals bearing cineraria-like flowers that open well in the border in summer. if well watered in autumn and removed to the greenhouse they will continue to bloom during early winter. sow the seed as for ordinary half-hardy annuals in rich, light mould, covering them sparingly. bloom in may. height, in. bravoa geminiflora (_twin flower_).--this hardy bulbous plant bears lovely racemes of coral-coloured flowers in july. a rich loam suits it best. height, ft. briza (_quaking grass_).--there are several varieties of this ornamental hardy annual grass. briza gracillis is slender, and very pretty both in a green and dried state. briza maxima bears large and handsome panicles. each variety should be sown in pots, or on a sheltered bed out of doors, early in spring. height, ft. broccoli.--requires a heavy, deep, rich soil, and liquid manure during growth. for earliest crop sow thinly in beds early in march, giving a little protection if necessary. successional sowings should be made to the end of june, to produce a constant supply till cauliflowers are ready. transplant, when large enough to handle, about ft. from each other. keep the ground free from weeds, and earth the plants up as they advance in growth. sow purple sprouting broccoli in may for late spring supplies. brodiaea coccinea.--handsome plants for rock-work or the border. on a dry, light, sandy soil, with plenty of sunshine, their gorgeous spikes of brilliant scarlet flowers are very attractive in may. the bulbs may be planted in november, and left undisturbed. broom.--hardy shrubs thriving in almost any soil. cuttings will strike if planted in sand under glass. (_see also_ "genista" _and_ "spartium.") broussonetia papyrifera.--a very effective deciduous shrub, with large, curiously-cut leaves. it likes an open soil, and is propagated by cuttings. february is its blooming time. height, ft. browallia.--very handsome half-hardy annuals; will grow readily from seed in any garden soil, but prefer a sandy one. they bloom in july. height, ft. brussels sprouts.--for a first crop sow early in march, and in april for succession. transplant as soon as ready into deeply-trenched, well-manured soil, about ft. apart. hoe well, and keep clear from weeds. for exhibition and early use sow in a greenhouse, or in a frame over a gentle hotbed, about the middle of february; prick off into a cold frame, gradually harden off, and plant out in may. bryanthus erectus.--a hardy evergreen shrub, which will grow in any soil if the situation is shady and damp. it thrives without any sunshine, but will not endure the constant dropping of moisture upon its leaves from trees. cuttings strike readily. april is its flowering time. height, ft. budding.--budding consists in raising an eye or bud from one part of a bush or tree and transplanting it to another part, or to any other plant of the same species. the process is not only more simple and rapid than that of grafting, but many leading nurserymen contend that a better union is effected, without the risk of dead wood being left at the junction. it may be performed at any time from june to august, cloudy days being most suitable, as the buds unite better in wet weather. it is chiefly employed on young trees having a smooth and tender bark. of the various systems of budding, that known as the shield is probably the most successful. make a small horizontal cut in the bark of the stock, and also a vertical one about an inch long, thus forming an elongated t shape. next select a branch of the current year's growth on which there is a well-formed leaf-bud. pass a sharp knife / in. above the bud and the same distance below it, taking about a third of the wood with the bud. if in the process of detaching it the interior of the bud is torn away it is useless, and a fresh bud must be taken. now hold the bud in the mouth, and with as little delay as possible raise the bark of the stock with a knife, insert the bud, and bind it on with raffia. when the bud begins to grow the binding must be loosened. to prevent the shoots being torn away by the wind a stake may be tied on to the stock, and the new shoot secured to it by means of raffia. fruit trees are sometimes budded close to the soil on stocks - / ft. in height. the buds are rubbed off the stock as soon as they appear, but the stock is not cut away until the following spring. buddlea.--half-hardy, tall, deciduous greenhouse shrubs, delighting in a loamy soil mixed with peat. they may be grown out of doors during the summer, but need the protection of a house in winter. bugloss (_anchusa_).--this showy plant, bearing large blue flowers in june, may be increased by division of the roots into as many plants as there are heads, from slips, or from seed sown in the open border in spring. it is popularly known as ox-tongue. bulbocodium trigynum (_colchicum caucasium_).--a miniature hardy bulbous plant, which produces in february and march erect flowers about the size of snowdrops. set the bulbs in sandy loam or leaf-mould, choosing a sunny situation. the bulbs may be divided every other year. height, in. bulbocodium vernum (_spring saffron_).--this bulb produces early in spring, and preceding the foliage, a mass of rose-purple flowers close to the ground. it is perfectly hardy, and valuable for edgings or rock-work. plant in autumn in light vegetable mould, and in a sheltered, well-drained position. it will not grow in stiff, clay soil. the bulbs may be divided every two years, after the tops have died down. this dwarf plant flowers from january to march. height, in. buphthalmum salicifolium (_deep golden-yellow marguerite_).--showy and ornamental hardy perennials. they will grow in any good soil, and flower from may to september; may be increased by suckers. height, - / ft. burning bush.--_see_ "dictamnus" _and_ "fraxinella." buxus (_tree box_).--a useful evergreen shrub which may be grown in any soil or situation. the b. japonica aurea is one of the best golden plants known for edgings to a walk. the closer it is clipped the brighter it becomes. increased by suckers or layers. c cabbage.--sow from february to april for an autumn supply, and in july and august for spring cutting. as soon as the plants have made four or five leaves, transplant into soil that has been liberally manured and trenched, or dug deeply, placing them in. or ft. apart, according to the kind grown. keep the soil well broken up, and give a liberal supply of liquid manure while they are in a growing state. an open and sunny situation is necessary. among the best varieties for spring sowing are heartwell, early marrow, little pixie, nonpareil, sugarloaf, and early dwarf york. for autumn sowing, ellam's dwarf early spring, defiance, and enfield market may be recommended. coleworts may be sown in june, july, and august for succession, placing them about a foot apart, and cutting before they heart. chou de burghley is of great value for spring sowing, and will be found very useful during autumn and early in winter. this vegetable is sometimes called cabbage broccoli, on account of the miniature broccoli which are formed among its inner leaves towards autumn. couve tronchuda, known also as braganza marrow and portugal cabbage, should be sown in march, april, and may for succession. savoy cabbage is sown in march or april, and given the same treatment as other cabbage. its flavour is much improved if the plants are mellowed by frost before being cut for use. red dutch is used almost solely for pickling. its cultivation is precisely the same as the white varieties. cacalia.--hardy annuals, remarkable for their awkward-looking stems and discoloured leaves. they grow best in a mixture of sandy loam, brick rubbish, and decomposed dung, well reduced. they require very little water while growing, and the pots must be well drained. cuttings, laid by for a few days to dry, strike readily. flower in june. height, - / ft. cactus.--a sandy loam with brick rubbish and a little peat or rotten manure suits them. echinopsis is a good plant for cool houses or windows. during the summer it should be syringed over-head with tepid water, and weak soot water should be given three times a week. it is propagated by off-sets planted in sand, also by slicing off a portion from the top of the plant and placing it in light, rich, porous loam. caladiums.--favourite hothouse foliage plants, generally grown in peat soil at a temperature of degrees. they require plenty of light while growing, and to be kept moderately moist at the roots. as the leaves lose colour less water should be given, and during winter they must be kept almost dry. when fresh growth begins, shake them out of their pots and put them into fresh mould. in syringing the plants use nothing but the purest rainwater, but the less the leaves are wetted the better for the appearance of the plants. they may be increased by dividing the root stock into as many pieces as there are crowns. these should be planted in very rich, sandy soil, an inch or so below the surface. calamintha grandiflora.--this hardy herbaceous plant has sweetly-fragrant foliage, and bears rose-coloured flowers from may to september. any loamy soil suits it, and it is easily increased by suckers. height, ft. calampelis.--a species of half-hardy climbing plants of great merit. they are elegant when in flower, and will endure the open air. they should be trained to a south wall, or over a vase, or up a pillar. any light loamy soil suits them, and they are easily increased by cuttings. flower in july. height, ft. (_see also_ "eccremocarpus.") calandrinia.--very pretty hardy annuals. they grow well in sunny places in a mixture of loam and peat, and may be raised from seed sown in the spring or by cuttings placed under hand-glasses. bloom in july. height, in. to ft. calceolaria.--many of the varieties are suitable for the greenhouse only. they may be grown from seed, but as this is so small it should not be covered; and in watering them it is best to stand the seed-pans in water so that the moisture ascends, as watering from the top might wash the seed too deeply into the soil. july and august are the two best months for sowing. the half-shrubby kinds make fine bedding plants. they are easily reared from cuttings. these are best taken in october. put them in light, sandy mould on a well-drained north border; press the earth round them, and cover with a hand-glass. in very frosty weather a mat should be laid over the glass. pot them off in spring; give plenty of air, and plant them out at the beginning of june, or before, if weather permits. calendula (_marigolds_).--very showy hardy annuals. they merely require sowing in the open in autumn for an early display of bloom, or in spring for a later show, but the autumn sowing gives the more satisfaction. flower during june and july. height, ft. californian plants.--great care should be taken not to allow the sun to strike on the collar of any of the plants from california, as they readily succumb if it does so. calla.--these showy plants, sometimes called arum, are worth cultivating. they make handsome pot-plants, bearing fine white flowers in the spring. may be grown from seeds, or roots may be divided. they are quickly increased by off-sets from the root in august or september. plant the off-sets from the fleshy roots singly in small, well-drained pots of sandy loam with one-fourth leaf-mould or well-rotted manure, and keep them in a very warm situation. water them well while in growth, scantily after the leaves begin to wither, and afterwards give only enough moisture to keep them alive. leave the plants in the light while the leaves die off, and then place them in a shed, in complete repose, for a month or so. re-pot them in october or november, and give plenty of water. they may stand in saucers of water, but this must be changed daily. they flower from may to july. height, ft. callichroa.--a hardy annual which well deserves a place in the garden border, both on account of its dwarf and slender habit and also the colour of its flowers. it is satisfied with any ordinary soil. the seed is raised on a hotbed in march, or in the open in april, and it blooms in the autumn. height, ft. calliopsis.--_see_ "coreopsis." callirhoe (_digitata_).--hardy annuals demanding but little attention. the seed is sown in the open in march. height, ft. calochortus luteus.--this very handsome hardy perennial thrives best in sandy peat with a little loam. it produces yellow flowers in july, and is propagated by offsets from the bulbs. height, ft. caltha.--early-flowering, showy perennials, all thriving in a moist or boggy situation. c. leptosepala is especially choice, its pure white flowers resembling a water-lily. they may be increased from seed, or by division. height, ft. calthus palustris flore-pleno (_double marsh marigold_).--this hardy herbaceous perennial is very useful for mixing with cut flowers. it will grow anywhere, but prefers a clayey soil and a boggy situation, and may be increased by dividing the roots in spring. a succession of flowers are borne from april to june. height, in. calycanthus floridus (_allspice_).--this shrub likes an open loamy soil; flowers in july, and is propagated by layers. height, ft. calystegia.--a perfectly hardy climbing convolvulus, and a beautiful plant for covering arbours, etc., growing ft. to ft. in one season. it thrives in any loamy soil or situation; flowers from may to september, and may be increased by division of the roots. camassia esculenta.--a handsome, hardy, bulbous plant, bearing clusters of beautiful blue flowers in july. it needs a sandy peat border under a north wall, and is increased by bulbs or seeds. plant the bulbs early in october, in. deep and in. apart. height, - / ft. camellias.--the best soil for these beautiful greenhouse evergreens is a mixture of rough peat, plenty of sand, and a little turfy loam. the greenhouse should be kept rather close, at a temperature of degrees to degrees, while the plants are growing; but abundant syringing is necessary at all times. induce a vigorous growth of wood, and let this be well matured by exposure to the sun and free ventilation. old and straggling plants may be renovated by cutting them hard back as soon as they go out of flower, and placing them in a warm house where a moist atmosphere is maintained. this will induce them to break. comparatively little water should be given for some time after they are cut back. when the state of the roots require the plants to be re-potted, remove as much of the old soil as possible without injuring them, and put them into the smallest sized pots into which they can be got, with fresh soil. this may be done after the last flower has fallen, or after the buds have fairly commenced to push. the plants may be placed out of doors at the beginning of june, and returned to the greenhouse in october. there are several varieties suitable for growing in the open. these should be provided with a soil, ft. deep, composed of peat, leaf-mould, and cows' dung. the roots should always be kept moist and cool, and the plants disturbed as little as possible. a top dressing of fresh soil may be given each winter, and the plants protected from frost by binding straw round the stems. campanula.--a showy genus of plants, mostly hardy perennials, which need no special treatment. they are readily raised from seed, or division of roots. the less hardy kinds may be sown on a hotbed or in the greenhouse, and when large enough potted off. campanula mayii is a grand plant for hanging baskets, and also grows well trained up sticks in a pyramidal form. a rich, gritty soil suits them all. the tall-growing varieties make fine pot-plants. flower in july. height, ft. to ft. canary creeper (_tropaeolum canariense_).--this is eminently suitable for trellis-work or for walls. its elegant foliage and bright yellow flowers make it a general favourite. it may be raised from seed on a hotbed in spring, gradually hardened off, and planted out in may. height, ft. candytuft (_iberis_).--very pretty hardy annuals. sow the seed in autumn in a light, rich soil, or in spring if a less prolonged flowering season will give satisfaction. bloom in may or june. height, ft. canna (_indian shot or hemp_).--for pot-plants on terraces, gravel walks, and such like places, few things can equal and none surpass cannas. they are half-hardy perennials, and may be increased from seed or by dividing the roots late in autumn, allowing them first to partially dry. file the tough skin off one end of the seed, and steep it in hot water for a few hours before it is sown, then stand it in a hot place till it has germinated. harden off and plant out, or shift into larger pots in june, using a rich, light soil. lift and store the roots in autumn in the same way as dahlias. different kinds flower at various seasons, so that a succession of bloom may be had throughout the year. height, ft. to ft. cannabis gigantea (_giant hemp_).--this half-hardy hemp is grown for its ornamental foliage, and is treated as above described. height, ft. canterbury bells.--showy hardy biennials, which may be raised from seed sown in the spring. transplant in the autumn to the border where they are intended to flower. the seed may also be sown in a sheltered position in august or september. flower in july. height, ft. cape primroses.--_see_ "streptocarpus." caprifolium.--_see_ "honeysuckle." capsicum.--sow early in march in well-drained pots of rich, light, free mould; cover the seed with / in. of soil, and keep it constantly moist at a temperature of degrees. when strong enough to handle put two or three plants in a -in. pot, and replace them in warmth. keep them rather close till established, then shift them into -in. pots. when established remove them to a cold frame and harden off. plant out at the end of may in a warm situation. keep them well supplied with water in dry weather and syringe the leaves. by stopping the shoots they become nice, bushy shrubs. flower in july. height, - / ft. cardamine pratensis (_cuckoo flower, or milkmaid_).--this hardy perennial thrives in a moist, shady situation. it produces its purple flowers from may to august, and is easily propagated by seeds or division. height, - / ft. cardamine trifolia.--a hardy herbaceous plant; will grow in any soil, flowers in may, and is easily raised from seed. height, - / ft. cardoons.--sow two or three seeds together in clumps ft. apart, in trenches prepared as for celery, in april or may. when in. high pull up the superfluous plants, leaving the strongest one in each case. when they have attained the height of - / ft, tie the leaves lightly to a stake and earth-up the stem. keep them well supplied with water, adding a little guano. they will be ready for use in september. another sowing may be made in june for a spring crop. carduus (_milk thistle_).--coarse hardy annuals; somewhat ornamental, but are hardly more than weeds. they grow freely from seed, and flower from june to august. height, ft. to ft. carex japonica.--this is a graceful and very beautiful variegated grass, striped green, silver, and gold, and makes a fine decoration for the table. it will grow in any moderately moist soil, and bears dividing. sow in spring. carlina.--ornamental, thistle-like, hardy perennials, which will grow in any ordinary soil. flowers are borne from june to september. seed may be sown as soon as it is ripe. height, in. to ft. carnations.--these are divided into three classes, but they are all said originally to come from the clove: ( ) flakes, which are striped with one colour and white; ( ) bizarres, those streaked with two colours and white; ( ) picotees, which have each petal margined with colour on a white or yellow ground, or dotted with small spots. for pot culture, about the end of march put two roots in an -in. pot, filled with light, turfy loam, well drained (too much moisture being injurious), pressing the earth firmly round the roots. stand them on a bed of ashes in a sheltered position, and when the flower-stems appear, stake and tie up carefully. as the buds swell thin out the weakly ones. to prevent them bursting unevenly put an india-rubber ring round the bud, or tie it with raffia. they will flourish in the open borders even in towns if planted in light loam, and may be propagated by _layers_ at the end of july or beginning of august. choose for this purpose fine outside shoots, not those which have borne flowers. cut off all the lower leaves, leaving half a dozen near the top untouched. make incisions on the under sides of the layers, just below the third joint. peg down, and cover the stems with equal quantities of leaf-mould and light loam. do not water them till the following day. the young plants may be separated and potted off as soon as they have taken root--say, the end of august. they may also be increased by _pipings_. fill the pots nearly to the top with light, rich mould and fill up with silver sand. break off the pipings at the third joint, then in each piping cut a little upward slit, plant them pretty thickly in the sand, and place the pot on a gentle hotbed, or on a bed of sifted coal ashes. put on the sashes, and keep the plants shaded from the sun till they have taken root, then harden off gradually, and place each of the young plants separately in a small pot. carnations may also be grown from seed sown in spring. when the seedlings have made six or eight leaves, prick them out into pots or beds. they will flower the following year. the beds must be well drained, as stagnant wet is very injurious to them. carnation margaritae.--may be sown in heat during february or march, pricked out when strong enough, and planted in the open in may or june. carpenteria californica.--the white flowers of this evergreen shrub, which make their appearance in july, are delicately fragrant. the plant is most suitable for a cool greenhouse, but does well in the open, in warm, well-drained situations. when grown in pots the mould should consist of two parts turfy loam, one part peat, and a little sharp sand. it may be increased by seeds or by cuttings planted in sandy soil, with a medium bottom heat. carrots.--to grow them to perfection carrots require a deep, rich, sandy soil, which has been thoroughly trenched and manured the previous autumn. for the main crop the seed should be sown in march, either broadcast or in rows in. apart. a calm day must be chosen for sowing, as the seed is very light and liable to be blown about. it has also a tendency to hang together, to obviate which it is generally rubbed into some light soil or sand previously to being scattered. thin out to a distance of from to in., according to the kind grown. for early use the french horn may be sown on a hotbed in january and february. keep the surface of the ground well open with the hoe. cassia corymbosa.--this stove shrub is an evergreen. it should be grown in a mixture of loam and peat, and may be increased by cuttings planted in sand under glass in a little heat. it flowers in july. height, ft. castor oil plants.--_see_ "ricinus." catananche.--pretty hardy biennials that will grow in almost any soil, and may be increased by seed or division. they bloom in august. height, / ft. to ft. catchfly.--_see_ "silene." cathcartia villosa.--a beautiful himalayan poppy, possessing a rich, soft, hairy foliage and yellow flowers, borne in succession from june to september. any light, rich soil suits it, but it requires a sheltered position. it is propagated by seeds sown in spring. height, / ft. cauliflowers.--sow thinly in pans or shallow boxes early in february and march on a gentle bottom-heat. make a larger and the main sowing in the open ground in march, april, and may for autumn cutting. a sowing should also be made in august for spring and summer use. these latter should be pricked into a frame or under a hand-glass during the winter, and in spring planted out so as to stand in. apart. when the heads appear break some of the large leaves down over them to afford protection, and during the whole of their growth pour plenty of water round the stems in dry weather. they require a thoroughly rich and well-tilled soil to grow them to perfection. ceanothus.--a genus of handsome and ornamental evergreen shrubs. they are free-flowering and suitable for the conservatory or outdoor decoration if placed in warm situations. they flourish best in peat and loam, and are increased by cuttings planted in sand and subjected to gentle heat. height, ft. to ft. cedronella.--ornamental hardy perennials; will grow in any soil, but require a little protection in the winter. they produce their deep purple flowers in june. height, ft. cedrus deodora.--a beautiful and graceful conifer, its arched branches being thickly set with long grey-coloured or whitish-green leaves. in its young stage it makes an exquisite specimen for the lawn. it is the best of all the cedars for such a purpose. the usual method of propagating it is by grafting it on to the common larch. celery.--sow in february or early in march on a mild hotbed for the earliest crop. prick the seedlings off into shallow boxes as soon as they are large enough to handle, and keep them rather close and warm until they are established. towards the end of march prick them out in rows in a frame, setting them in. apart each way, and early in may transfer to rather shallow trenches, protecting them from night frosts. for main and late crops sow in a cold frame in april and plant out in june or july, in. apart, in trenches ft. distant from each other, in. wide, and in. deep, pressing the soil firmly round the roots. earthing up should be delayed until the plants are nearly full grown, and should be done gradually; but let the whole be completed before the autumn is far advanced. when preparing the trench plenty of manure should be dug into the soil. water liberally until earthed up to ensure crisp, solid hearts, and an occasional application of liquid manure will benefit the plants. during winter protect from frost with straw, or other suitable material. celosia (_feathered cockscomb_).--sow the seed in early spring in a warm frame; prick off singly into small pots, and re-pot as they advance in strength in a compost of loam, leaf-mould, old manure, and sand. their final shift should be into -sized pots. give them abundance of liquid manure, never allowing them to become dry, and syringe freely. these half-hardy annuals, rising to the height of ft. and bearing fine spikes of flowers in july and august, make fine pot-plants for table decoration. they may be planted in the open, in june, choosing a warm, sheltered situation and rich, loamy soil. centaurea.--the hardy annual and biennial kinds merely require to be sown in the open in the autumn. the half-hardy ones must be sown on a slight hotbed, where they should remain till strong enough to be planted in the border. cuttings of the perennials should be inserted singly in -in. pots filled with sandy loam, placed in a shady, cool frame till established, and then watered very carefully. the different varieties vary from in. to ft. in height, and flower from june to august. centauridium drummondi.--a blue hardy annual which may be sown in the open in spring. centranthus.--ornamental hardy annuals. sow in the open border in march in any good, well-drained soil. they flower in june. height, - / ft. cephalaria (_yellow scabious_).--strong-growing hardy perennials, suitable for backs of borders. they succeed in any garden soil, and are propagated by seed or division of root. height, ft. to - / ft. cephalotaxus (_podocarpus koraiana_).--handsome conifers of the yew type. these shrubs are quite hardy, and in favoured localities will produce berries. they succeed best in a damp, shady spot, and may be increased by cuttings planted in heavy loam. cerastium biebersteini.--a hardy trailing perennial which will grow in any light soil, and may be increased by suckers. it flowers in june. height, in. cerasus padus (_bird cherry_).--an ornamental tree; useful in the shrubbery in its earlier stages, as it will grow in any soil. it may be increased by seed, budding, or grafting; flowers in april. height, ft. cerinthe.--hardy annuals, suitable for any ordinary soil, and needing merely ordinary treatment. a grand plant for bees. height, ft. cestrums.--charming conservatory plants, flowering early in spring. cuttings may be taken in autumn, placed in small pots in a light compost of peat and sand, and given a little bottom-heat. the young plants may be topped to form bushy ones. re-pot before the roots have filled the small pots, using two parts loam, one part peat, and one part sharp sand. c. parqui is suitable for the open if planted in a sheltered position. chamaepeuce.--half-hardy perennial thistle plants of little merit. any soil suits them, and they may be increased by seed or division. flower in june. height, ft. to ft. chamaerops (_chusan palm_).--fine greenhouse plants, delighting in a rich, loamy soil. height, ft. cheiranthus.--_see_ "wallflower." chelidonium.--this hardy perennial will flourish in any garden soil; flowers in may, and may be increased by division. height, ft. chelone.--charming hardy herbaceous plants. succeed well in a mixture of peat and loam or any rich soil. increased by division of root, or by seed treated like other hardy perennials. they are very effective for the centre of beds, or in groups. bloom in july. height, ft. cherries.--a light, rich soil is the one that cherries succeed in best, though they will grow in any fairly good dry ground. the position should be open, but at the same time sheltered, as the blossoms are liable to be cut off by spring frosts. the planting may be done at any time during november and the beginning of march, when the ground is in a workable condition. cherries are often worked upon the mahaleb stock. as they have a tendency to gumming and canker, the knife should be used as little as possible, but where pruning is necessary, let it be done in the summer. if gumming occurs, cut away the diseased parts and apply stockholm tar to the wounds. aphides or black-fly may be destroyed by tobacco dust and syringing well with an infusion of soft soap. morello succeeds on a north wall. bigarreau, waterloo, black eagle, black tartarian, may duke, white heart, and kentish are all good sorts. bush trees should stand ft. apart, standards ft. cherry (_cornelian_).--_see_ "cornus mas." cherry pie.--_see_ "heliotrope." chervil.--for summer use sow in march, and for winter requirements in july and august, in shallow drills or in. apart. cut for use when or in. high. the tender tops and leaves are used in soups and stews, to which they impart a warm, aromatic flavour. they likewise give piquancy to mixed salads. chestnuts.--to raise trees from seed sow the nuts in november, about in. deep. when two years old they may be transplanted to their permanent site. the only pruning they require is to cut away any branches which would prevent the tree forming a well-balanced head. chicory.--sow in may or june in drills of rich soil, and thin out to in. apart. in autumn lift the roots and store them in dry sand. to force leaves for salads, plant the roots closely together in boxes or large pots, with the tops only exposed, using ordinary soil; place in a temperature of degrees, and keep in the dark. long blanched leaves will soon appear, ready for use. chilli.--same treatment as capsicum. chimonanthus fragrans (_japan allspice_).--this delightfully fragrant hardy shrub, known as the winter flower, produces its blooms in january before the leaves appear. should sharp frost set in, protection ought to be given to the flowers. the plant requires a fairly good soil, and is most at home when trained against a wall. it is generally propagated by means of layers. height, ft. chinese sacred narcissus (_oriental lily, joss flower, or flower of the gods, the chinese emblem of good luck_).--this is a very beautiful variety of the polyanthus narcissus, and is grown to bloom at the advent of the chinese new year. it is very fragrant and free blooming, and is generally flowered in an ornamental bowl of water, the bulb being surrounded with pretty pebbles to keep it well balanced. it may also be grown in a pot of mould, kept in a dark place for about ten days, then placed in a sunny position and supplied with water. it flowers from six to eight weeks after planting. chionanthus virginica (_fringe tree_).--a curious shrub which is best raised from seed. it succeeds in any soil, and bears white flowers in july. it will grow to the height of ft. or more. chionodoxa luciliae (_glory of the snow_).--a pretty hardy spring-flowering bulbous plant. the blossoms, from five to six in number, are produced on gracefully arched stems, to in. high, and are nearly in. across, star-like in form, and of a lovely blue tint on the margin, gradually merging into pure white in the centre. fine for growing in clumps. plant the bulbs in autumn in equal parts of loam, peat, and sand. it succeeds fairly well in the open, but reaches perfection in a cold frame, where the flowers will be produced in march. height, in. choisya ternata (_mexican orange_).--a pretty evergreen wall plant, bearing sweet-scented white flowers in july. the bush is round, and extremely ornamental when grown in the shrubbery. it delights in a mixture of peat and loam, and is propagated by cuttings placed in sand under a handglass, or, better still, by layers of the lower branches in march, detaching them in the autumn. while young it makes a fine pot-plant. height, ft. chorozemas.--these australian plants delight in rich turfy peat mixed with fibrous loam, leaf-mould, and coarse sand. when freshly potted they should be given a warm part of the greenhouse and watered cautiously till they are in full growth, when a little clear liquid manure may be given twice a week. may be shifted at any time except from october to christmas. propagated by cuttings about or in. long of half-ripened young wood taken in july or august, and inserted in sand under a glass. when the pots are full of roots shift the plants into larger sizes. they bloom nearly all the year round, especially in the winter and spring. the plants have rather a rambling habit, and are usually trained over balloon or pyramidal trellises; but this trouble can be spared by cutting them back freely and employing a few light sticks to keep them within bounds. christmas rose.--_see_ "helleborus." chrysanthemum.--the chrysanthemum will grow in any good mould, a naturally good soil being often preferable to an artificial one. where the ground is not in good condition a compost may be made of one-half rich loam and one-fourth each of well-rotted manure and leaf-mould, with sufficient sand to keep it porous. cuttings taken in november or december make the finest exhibition plants. pot them singly in -in. or -in. pots; stand them on coal ashes in a cold frame, and re-pot them in march or april in -in. pots, making the soil moderately firm. when they attain the height of in. pinch off the extreme point of the shoot, which will induce the growth of side-shoots. shift the plants from time to time into larger pots, until at the end of may they receive their final shift into -in. pots, after which they must not on any account be stopped. in june they may be placed in a sheltered and partially shaded part of the open border, standing the pots on pieces of slate to prevent the ingress of worms. syringe the leaves each day and give the roots a liberal supply of liquid manure. when the flower-buds begin to show colour, discontinue the manure water. thin out the flower-buds, leaving two or three only of the strongest on each stem. at the end of september they must be removed to a cool greenhouse to flower. where there is no greenhouse a canvas structure may be erected to protect them from the cold. good plants for the border may be raised from cuttings in march or april. these should be kept close in a frame until rooted, then gradually hardened off, and planted in rich soil. syringing with soot-water twice a week until the flower-buds appear will darken the leaves and deepen the colour of the flowers. chrysogonum virginianum.--a free-flowering, hardy, herbaceous plant, best grown in loam and peat. its deep-golden, star-shaped flowers are produced from june to september. cuttings of ripened wood planted in sand and subjected to moist heat will strike. it may also be increased by dividing the root. height, ft. cichorium intybus.--this is a hardy herbaceous plant producing blue flowers in july. it will grow in any soil and needs no special treatment. seeds may be sown either in autumn or spring. height, ft. cimcifuga.--these hardy herbaceous plants will flourish in any good garden soil and are easily raised from seed, or they may be increased by dividing the roots. various species produce their flowers from may to september. height, ft. to ft. cinerarias.--these grow well in a soil composed of equal parts of rich loam, leaf-mould, and thoroughly rotted horse-dung, liberally mixed with sharp sand. they are increased by seed, cuttings, or off-sets. the seed should be sown as soon as it is ripe and covered with the lightest layer of the finest soil; or it may be sown during march on a slight hotbed. keep the young plants shaded from the sun, and as soon as they can be handled put them into -in. pots. return them to the hotbed and keep them shaded till established, then gradually harden them off, and towards the end of may they may be planted in the open, choosing a sheltered situation. the first flower-stem should be cut out close to the bottom, but the side-shoots may either be reduced or not. at the end of september place them in a cool frame to bloom during the following month. they require to be well supplied with manure water. as soon as the plants have done flowering, cut them down, and keep them well supplied with water, and in march shake them out of their pots and plant each sucker separately. other sowings may be made in april and may. to obtain cuttings, when the plants have flowered cut them down, and when they have again grown large enough take the cuttings and plant them in pots filled with the above compost, putting a layer of silver sand on the top. when the cuttings have made shoots in. long, pinch off the tops to make the plants grow bushy. re-pot when the roots are well grown, but before they get matted, and give occasionally a little liquid manure. keep a good look-out for green fly, and as soon as this nuisance appears fumigate the plants with tobacco paper. an excess of fumigation is injurious. those that have bloomed in pots may be planted in the north border of the garden in july, where they may shed their seed, from which early plants will be produced. they may also be increased by off-sets. if the old plants are cut down and kept well watered they will throw up suckers, which may be separated and potted off into thumb pots, transplanting into larger ones when required. they must _always_ be kept shaded from the sun. a cool frame suits them in summer, and being nearly hardy, should never be subjected to a forcing temperature, sufficient heat to keep away frost and damp being all that is necessary. cinnamon plant.--this is a stove or greenhouse plant, and requires a loam and peat soil. cuttings of the ripe wood strike freely. cissus orientalis.--useful climbing plants which delight in a light, rich soil. they are increased by cuttings planted under glass and kept in a gentle, moist heat. cistus (_rock rose_).--a compost of loam and peat suits these beautiful evergreen shrubs. they may be increased by layers, ripe cuttings covered with a hand-glass, or seed. though the plants are pretty hardy it is advisable to afford them protection during severe frosts. june is their flowering month. height, ft. to ft. citrus japonica.--a greenhouse evergreen tree, requiring a rich loamy soil. very little water should be given it while in a growing state. it is generally budded on an orange or lemon tree and plunged in a bottom-heat. june is its flowering season. height, ft. cladanthus.--the annuals may be sown in the open in april to flower in july. the greenhouse evergreens may be propagated by cuttings under glass. these produce flowers in june. clarkia.--these hardy annuals make a pretty display in the borders during summer. seed ripens plentifully, and merely requires sowing in the open in march, or in september if protected in winter. the bloom lasts from june to september. height, in. claytonia sibirica.--a hardy herbaceous plant which yields light yellow flowers in june. it is not particular as to soil, and may be raised from seed sown either in autumn or spring. it stands division of the root. height, ft. clematis (_virgin's bower_).--these plants like a dry situation. they will grow in smoky districts, and may be increased by cuttings of firm side-shoots under a glass in summer or by layers in september. with the protection of a greenhouse they come into flower early in spring. they are the most beautiful of all flowering hardy climbers. the stove and greenhouse varieties are best planted in loam and peat, though they will thrive in any light soil. any good garden soil suits the hardy kinds. the herbaceous varieties are increased by dividing the roots early in spring. they bloom at various periods. after they have ceased to flower, the jackmanni and viticella sections should be cut down to within or in. of the ground. the patens and florida do not require pruning; those of the lanuginosa should be cut back moderately, but not too close. a good dressing of leaf-mould and manure should be dug in about november. heights vary from ft. to ft. (_see also_ "traveller's joy.") cleome.--the species of this genus are very pretty and free flowering, some being half-hardy climbers notable for their foliage. they like a rich, light soil. cuttings of the stove kinds root freely under a glass. some of the annual species require to be sown in a hotbed frame or in a hot-house, then potted off and placed with tender annuals. the hardier ones may be sown on a hotbed, and afterwards planted out in a sheltered position. they flower in may, june, and july. heights vary from in. to ft. clethra alnifolia.--this hardy deciduous shrub bears in september deliciously scented pure white flowers on the side-shoots of the previous year's growth. it needs a light soil and a dry, sunny situation. it may be propagated by cuttings placed under glass in sandy loam, or by suckers taken when the leaves have fallen, but is more generally increased by layers. height, ft. clianthus.--a genus of very elegant, free-flowering, evergreen greenhouse shrubs. they flourish in the border of the conservatory (or against a south wall if protected from cold) in an equal mixture of loam, peat, and sand. cuttings root freely in the same soil under glass. seed sown early in spring produce flowers the first year, in may. height, ft. to ft. clintonia.--very pretty half-hardy annuals; useful for beds, edging, pots, or rock-work. they produce an abundance of lobelia-like flowers in august. sow the seed in the open in spring. height, in. clitoria.--a greenhouse climbing or trailing plant, which thrives in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. cuttings will strike in heat, but it is more readily grown from seed. clivias (_caffre lilies_).--most beautiful evergreen plants for the greenhouse. the soil most suitable for them is a compost of leaf-mould, loam, and sand. give a liberal supply of water when in full growth, but from september to february keep them only moderately moist. shade from strong sunshine, and keep the temperature at from to degrees. they will not bear much disturbance. seed may be sown in bottom-heat early in spring, or they may be increased by suckers. cobæa scandens.--this rapid climber is well adapted for the conservatory, but it will thrive in the open air if the root is protected during the winter. if planted against a rough wall its tendrils will catch in the crevices and support it without any assistance. it requires plenty of room and a rather poor soil, otherwise it runs to leaf instead of to bloom. the tops of the shoots should be constantly pinched off, to induce thickness of growth. cuttings of firm side-shoots taken in summer will root under glass in a little moist heat; but it is best raised from seed, sown sideways, in a hotbed in march. its blue and purple flowers are produced in august. height, ft. to ft. cob nuts.--_see_ "filberts." cockscomb.--these tender annuals should be sown on a moderate hotbed in march or april, in pans of leaf-mould and sand, covering with / in. of soil. when a couple of inches high place them in small pots, replace them on the hotbed, and give shade till they have taken fresh root. when the weather is favourable let them have a moderate amount of fresh air. afterwards shift them into larger pots, and when the combs are full grown place them in the greenhouse, taking care not to allow any damp to lodge on them, at the same time supplying them well with water and all the air possible. height, in. (_see also_ "celosia.") codonopsis.--these hardy perennials are best grown in sandy peat and loam. they are easily raised from seed or cuttings, and produce their flowers in july and august. height, ft. coix lachryma (_job's tears_).--a half-hardy, annual, ornamental grass bearing clusters of beautiful pearl-like seeds. sow in a warm spot in april, barely covering the seed with fine soil, and keep the surface of the ground moist till germination is ensured. height, - / ft. colchicum (_autumn-flowering crocus_).--plant the bulbs in february in light, loamy soil, placing them in. deep and in. apart. they are readily increased by off-sets from the bulb. september is their flowering season. height, in. (_see also_ "bulbocodium.") coleus.--tender perennial shrubs of some merit, requiring the protection of a greenhouse. keep the plants root-bound and near the glass, with a good supply of heat and moisture. they succeed best in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings of shoots in. long planted in sand, covered with a glass, and plunged in heat to degrees, will strike. pot off singly in loam and sand. bloom in june or july. height, ft. to ft. colletia.--ornamental evergreen shrubs. a mixture of peat and loam, with a sheltered position, is their delight. cuttings will strike in sand if covered with glass. they produce their flowers in july. height, ft. to ft. collinsia.--most elegant hardy annuals, doing well in any garden soil. the seed is sown in autumn for early flowering, and in spring for a later display. bloom may to august. height, ft. collomia.--hardy annuals, possessing little beauty. treat as collinsia. flower in july. height, ft. to ft. colt's-foot.--this hardy perennial flowers before the leaves appear. it grows best in a moist, clayey soil, and may be increased by pieces of the running root. columbine.--_see_ "aquilegia." colutea arborescens (_bladder senna_).--a shrub with acacia-like leaves and producing yellow pea-shaped flowers in july, followed with bladder-shaped seed vessels. it will grow in any soil, and may be raised either from seed or cuttings taken in autumn. height, ft. commelina sellowina (_blue spider wort, or day flower_).--a pretty greenhouse climber, bearing cobalt-blue flowers. it should occupy a sunny position, and be watered freely from march to september, after which very little should be given. commelina tuberosa.--perfectly hardy plants, bearing in june blue or white flowers the size of a shilling. the bulbs may be planted in spring in any garden soil; the plants are increased by off-sets. height, - / ft. compost heap.--get a heap of dead leaves and press and jam them down as closely as possible. then take as much manure, in appearance, as you have dead leaves, and for each cartload have two bushels of unslaked quicklime and some earth. now spread upon the ground, in some out-of-the-way corner, a layer of the dead leaves, upon which sprinkle a layer of lime, and over that a thin layer of earth. next lay on a covering of manure, then a layer of leaves, and one of lime and earth as before, and proceed in this way till all the materials are used up. it will be well, however, to give the heap a good watering whenever you come to the layer of leaves. this slakes the lime and hastens the decomposition of the vegetable matter. after letting it stand for about six weeks, begin at the top of the heap and turn it completely over, so that what was at the bottom will be at the top. repeat this operation from time to time at intervals of six or seven weeks, until it has become perfectly friable and will powder through a garden-fork like dust. it will then be ready for use. this compost is invigorating to flowers of all kinds, and is so ready for them to assimilate. comptonia asplenifolia.--this ornamental deciduous shrub is quite hardy, but requires a light, sandy loam or peat soil and a shady situation. it is increased by layers. blooms in april. height, ft. cone flower.--_see_ "echinacea." conifers.--conifers (so called because they bear cones in place of ordinary seed) are mostly of tall growth, yet among the class are many low--growing evergreens well adapted for the lawn or border. indeed, any of the specimens may be utilised in this way, but of course must be removed from the shrubbery or border before they attain undue proportions. they are hardy, and, generally speaking, not particular as to soil or situation. firs, pines, cedars, etc., come under this heading, and mention is made in other parts of this work of those most suitable for the amateur's requirements. convallaria prolificans.--this is one of the most beautiful hardy perennials known. it has large, deep-green foliage, with erect and much-branched flower-stems. the flowers are white, internally flushed rose; are very fragrant, and are produced from may to september. the plant will grow in any ordinary soil, and may be increased by dividing the root. height, - / ft. convolvulus (_morning glory_).--showy plants. the tender species are well adapted for the stove or conservatory, and are best grown in loam and peat: cuttings strike freely in sand under a glass. the half-hardy annual kinds should be sown on a gentle hotbed in february, and when large enough transferred to the open; or they may be sown in the open in april. hardy kinds merely require sowing in the open, early in spring. the stove and greenhouse annuals and biennials require to be sown in heat, and treated as other stove and greenhouse annuals and biennials. flowering season, may to july. height, in. to ft. coral plant.--_see_ "erythrina." corchorus.--_see_ "kerria." cordyline.--a stove evergreen shrub, which may be grown in any light, vegetable mould or in peat and loam, and is easily increased by suckers. it flowers in spring. height, ft. coreopsis.--very pretty and long-flowering. they all like a light, rich, and sandy soil. cuttings of the stove kinds root freely under glass. hardy perennials may be divided at the roots. the annuals may be sown either in the autumn or in march; they bear transplanting. longipes flowers in april; grandiflora in august. useful as cut flowers. height, - / ft. to ft. cornel.--_see_ "cornus." cornflower.--_see_ "cyanus." corn salad (_lamb's lettuce_).--sow in drills--the plants to stand in. apart--from march till august, in well-drained sandy loam. autumn sowings will stand the winter and prove useful in early spring. it must be gathered young. cornus canadensis (_canadian cornel_).--a pretty herbaceous plant, suitable for moist parts of rock-work. it is very hardy, likes a light soil, and produces flowers from june to august. the roots may be divided in autumn, or in the early part of spring. height, in. cornus mas (_cornelian cherry_).--this hardy deciduous shrub does well in common soil if a fair amount of moisture be given. its yellow flowers are produced on bare stems from february to april. it may be increased by seeds, cuttings, or layers, autumn being the time to propagate. coronilla.--the greenhouse shrubs should be grown in peat and loam. they are raised by seeds and by cuttings. most of the hardy perennials need protection in winter, therefore they are best grown in pots. these are propagated by seed or division. the annuals need no special treatment. coronilla iberica.--a pretty creeping hardy perennial suitable for rock-work, on which its bright yellow flowers are very attractive during june and july. it thrives best in a mixture of peat and loam, and may be increased by seeds or division of the roots. height, in. correa cardinalis.--an evergreen greenhouse shrub. place in equal parts of sand and loam, and propagate by cuttings, which should have plenty of room, as they are liable to damp off. july is its flowering season. height, ft. c. magnifica is also a capital plant. cortusa matthioli.--this ornamental hardy herbaceous plant thrives best in a mixture of peat and loam. it is advisable to give protection to the roots in winter. it may be increased by seeds or by division of the roots. it makes a good pot-plant, and produces flowers in may and june. height, ft. corydalis (_fumitory_).--these low-growing perennials are suitable for dry positions on rock-work. they are not particular as to soil, and may be increased by division of roots, while some scatter seed in abundance. their flowering period extends over many months. height, in. to ft. cosmea bipinnata.--a very pretty half-hardy annual which flowers in july. sow the seed early in spring on a slight hotbed covered with glass, and transplant to the flower border at the end of may. height, ft. cosmos.--pretty plants, the flowers resembling a single dahlia. they are mostly hardy, but some need protection. the annuals should be raised on a hotbed in february and be planted out in may. the perennials, too, are brought forward in heat. some flower in june, others in september. height, ft. to ft. cotoneaster.--evergreen shrubs which will grow in any soil and are easily increased by layers. c. hookeriana attains the dimensions of small trees, and produces a profusion of white flowers and bright crimson berries. c. simonsii is largely used as a hedge. height, ft. to ft. c. rupestris is a small-leaved, prostrate perennial species, bearing white flowers from may to august, followed by red berries. height, in. cotyledon chrysantha (_umbilicus)._--a choice alpine succulent which thrives in a sandy loam, or in well-drained pots of the same soil. it flowers from may to august, and is multiplied by cuttings, which must be left to dry for a few days in a sunny place. flowers are produced from may to august. height, in. cowslips.--well-known hardy perennials. these require the same treatment as primulas. plant in a mixture of loam and peat, and divide as soon as the bloom has died off. height, in. cowslips, cape.--_see_ "lachenalia." crambe cordifolia (_tournefort, or sea cabbage_).--this hardy herbaceous plant is suitable for a wild garden. it likes a good, rich soil, and is easily increased by seed or division. august is its flowering period. height, ft. crane's bill.--_see_ "geranium argentium." crataegus pyracantha (_fire thorn_).--this hardy, ornamental shrub will grow in any soil. it should be planted early in spring on a south or south-west wall, and may be increased by seeds, by budding, or by grafting. the profuse brilliant orange-coloured berries of the c. lelandii (mespilus) ensures it a place on walls and trellises. a sunny position gives best results. prune in march. creeping jenny.--_see_ "lysimachia nummularia." crepis (_hawkweed_).--an interesting hardy annual. it merely requires sowing in spring, and will grow in any soil. the flowers are produced in june. height, ft. cress.--sow at intervals of a week from march to september in the open ground, and during the winter months in frames. a shady position is most suitable. by these frequent sowings, and by often cutting over such as readily renew a bottom growth, a constant succession of tender shoots is obtained. crocus.--among our earliest spring flowers. these will grow in any garden soil, but prefer rich, sandy earth. plant in october or november, in. deep and in. apart. take the roots up every second year, and plant the small off-sets in a nursery bed for two years, when they will be fit for the beds or borders. protect the bulbs from mice, as they are very partial to them, especially in winter. _indoor culture_.--select strong bulbs of the seedling varieties, and plant them in succession, commencing early in autumn, in good, rich, sandy soil. a liberal supply of water is necessary during the blooming season, but perfect drainage must be secured. they grow well in bowls filled with wet moss or sand. height, in. (_see also_ "colchicum.") crotons.--fine-foliaged hothouse plants. a mixture of peat and sandy loam suits their growth, and they require a good amount of light to properly colour their leaves, with a night temperature of degrees. crowea saligna.--charming greenhouse evergreen shrubs, which send forth their purple flowers in september. they grow best in loam and peat. cuttings may be struck in sand under bell-glasses. height, ft. crown imperials.--_see_ "fritillarias." crucianella stylosa.--a hardy perennial. sow in august or september in a sheltered spot to stand the winter. the seed may also be sown from march to midsummer, and the plants moved in autumn to the place where they are to bloom. their delicate pink flowers are produced in july. height, ft. cuckoo flower.--_see_ "cardamine." cucumbers.--a rich, loamy soil is most suitable for their growth. sow frame varieties in a heat of degrees or degrees during february and march for summer use, and when the plants are of sufficient size transplant to a well-prepared hotbed. sow again in september for winter use. the hardy or ridge cucumbers (which are not suited for frame or hothouse culture) should be raised in a frame or hot-bed in april, and planted out about the middle of may in a warm border on strawed ridges prepared with good stable manure, placing a hand-glass over each plant until it is well established. cunila mariana (_dittany_).--this hardy perennial produces heads of pretty purple flowers from july to september. it is not particular as to soil, and can easily be increased by division. height, ft. cuphea.--shrubs of a rather pretty description. the stove varieties require a sandy loam to grow in, and may be propagated by cuttings. the annuals should be sown on a gentle hotbed, and when strong enough potted off and kept in the greenhouse; they should not be moved into the open before the end of may. the perennial species if sown early make good bedding plants the first year; they need protection in the winter. currants.--_black._--a rich, deep soil and a moist situation, together with partial shade, are most suitable for their growth. they succeed better as bushes than as espaliers or trained to walls. cuttings of the previous year's growth are taken in autumn and planted firmly ft. by in. apart. in two years shift every alternate plant so as to allow room for expansion, and plant out finally to a distance of ft. in pruning the bushes, remember that the fruit is borne on the young wood, therefore only sufficient should be cut away to allow of the admission of air and sunshine and the further growth of young branches. a portion of the old wood should be removed each year. mulch the roots, and keep the plants supplied with water in dry seasons. baldwin's black, ogden's black, black naples, lee's prolific, james' prolific, and old black are among the best. _red and white._--an open, sunny position is needed. the soil that suits them best is a deeply-manured, stiff loam. they are readily raised from cuttings--which should be as long and strong as possible--taken in autumn. cut away all the eyes except the three uppermost ones, and plant firmly in rows ft. by in. apart. transplant at the end of the second year to a distance of ft. apart. while the plants are young cut out all the top centre branches, cutting always to an outgrowing bud, so as to give a cylindrical form to the bush. in further pruning leave the leading shoots untouched, but shorten all others to in. or in., and cut out all old, mossy wood. towards the end of june is a good time for cutting the young wood away. the fruit is produced on spurs. in the autumn of each year carefully dig in a good dressing of half-rotted manure, in such a manner as not to injure the roots. among the leading red varieties are the following:--champagne, cherry, chiswick red, houghton castle, raby castle, and red dutch. of the white fruit the white dutch and the cut-leaved white are the leaders. in plantations they should stand from ft. to ft. apart. currants, flowering.--_see_ "ribes." cyanthus lobatus--a small, but very beautiful procumbent perennial, well adapted to fill moist places on rock-work if the situation is open and sunny. a mixture of vegetable mould and sand suits it, and it is best increased by cuttings placed in moist peat. it flowers in the autumn, the flower-stems being from in. to ft. in length. cyanus(_cornflower_).--very pretty and free-blooming hardy annuals. sow the seed in the open in autumn for an early display of flowers, or in march for a later one. thin out to ft. apart. bloom in july. height, ft. to ft. cyclamen.--charming winter and spring blooming bulbous greenhouse plants, which thrive in a mixture of sandy loam and vegetable mould. they require a moist atmosphere and a uniform temperature not lower than degrees. they may be increased by seed sown in slight heat as soon as it is ripe. plant the bulbs in october, also in february and march, placing them so that the crown is level with the top of the pots. one full-sized bulb is sufficient for a -in. pot, which must be provided with good drainage and placed on a layer of coal ashes that is kept constantly moist. water moderately till growth begins, then increase the supply. give a little liquid manure, in a weak state, if a large quantity of flower-buds appear. when the blooming season is over, plunge the pots in a shady, well-drained border, and when the leaves start afresh turn the plants carefully out of the pots, so as not to injure their roots, and re-pot in fresh soil. c. persicum flowers in february, and c. neapolitanum in april. c. europeum is a hard variety, thriving in any situation. it produces sweetly-scented flowers throughout july and august. it does best when planted under trees, or in partial shade on rock-work, in well-drained, good loamy or peaty soil mixed with a fair proportion of brick rubble. plant the corms in september in. apart, and - / in. deep. height, in. to in. cydonia (_pyrus_).--these hardy plants are well adapted for trellis-work, but are more effective when grown as bushes, and flower more freely than when trained to the wall, the bloom often lasting to the winter. they will grow in any soil, and are increased by suckers. height, ft. and upwards. cyperius alternifolius.--a stove grass which will grow in any soil, but requires a plentiful supply of water. it is increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. cypress (_cupressus_).--among these useful conifers c. lawsoniana has no superior as a single specimen for the decoration of the lawn. of free growth and perfectly hardy, it succeeds in almost any soil or situation. c. fraserii is also hardy, of erect habit, and of a rich glaucous hue. when it attains a good size it is very ornamental. the beautiful silver variegated variety argenteo variegata deserves a place in every shrubbery. nana alba maculata is a dwarf globular plant, the slender branches of which are tipped with white, giving it the appearance of being partly covered with snow. pygmea is a compact dwarf-growing variety suitable for the centre of small beds and for rock-work. japan cypresses are elegant little shrubs, one of the finest being retinospora ericoides, whose peculiar violet-red leaves contrast charmingly with light green plants. any of the above may be increased by cuttings. they succeed best in a rich, deep loam, and are improved by thinning out the branches where too thick, and pinching out the stronger shoots where too thin, so as to encourage new growth. cypripedium (_hardy ladies' slipper orchid_).--this plant is of the simplest culture and is well adapted for pots, ferneries, or rock-work. it is most at home in a well-drained yet moist peaty soil, and kept in a frame or on a shady border, where it will bloom in june. protect from frost and heavy rains, but never allow the roots to get dry. height, ft. cytisus.--elegant hardy shrubs with finely-cut leaves and terminal racemes of pea-shaped flowers in july. they will grow in any soil, and are readily raised from seed or layers. height, ft. to ft. d daffodils.--these will grow in any good, cool, moist, well-drained garden soil if sand be put round their roots, but thrive best in a moderately rich loam. they may remain in the ground for years, for large bulbs produce the finest flowers. when the flowering is over the leaves must be allowed to die down, not cut off. plant from september to december. the top of the bulb should be about in. below the surface, according to its size; in. apart is a good distance. daffodils are also suitable for pot culture. plant three to six bulbs, according to size, in a -in. or -in. pot, using a compost of two parts fibrous loam, one part leaf-mould, and one part sand. place the pots on a bed of ashes, and cover with in. of cocoa-nut fibre. as soon as top growth has commenced, remove the plants indoors, and give plenty of light and air to prevent them being drawn. daffodils likewise make a good display when planted on a lawn. dahlias.--these attractive plants require a deep, friable soil, not over rich. they may be grown from seed sown on a hotbed in march and lightly covered with fine mould. as soon as they are up give all the air which can with safety be given. when the seedlings are large enough pot them off singly in the smallest-sized pots or round the edges of -in. ones. plant them out at the end of may, ft. apart; they will flower at the end of august. any that turn out very good had better be propagated by cuttings from the young tops, to save the kind in case the roots should die. when flowering is over take up the young bulbs and treat them as directed afterwards for old tubers. another way to propagate them is to place the old tubers in soil over a hotbed early in march. when the shoots are a couple of inches high the tubers may be taken up and divided with a sharp knife. pot off separately. water them occasionally with liquid manure, made from guano and powdered charcoal, well mixed with rain water, and plant them out early in may. give them plenty of room, and tie the branches securely to stakes firmly fixed in the soil. when they have become good bushy plants put a layer of half-rotted manure round each plant. as soon as frost turns their foliage brown take them up, cut off the roots, leaving about in. of stem attached, and plunge them into a box of sand, chaff, or ashes, and preserve them from damp, frost, and heat during the winter. daisies (_bellis perennis_).--these pretty, little hardy perennials are very useful as edgings. to grow them to perfection the ground should be highly manured, and the roots divided every year, planting them out in. apart in a cool, shady situation. october is a suitable time for transplanting. they flower continuously from february to july. height, in. dandelions.--dandelions on lawns, etc., may be killed by cutting them down as low as possible, and putting a little gas-tar or a pinch of salt on the wound. or they may be dug up and blanched for mixing with salad. in this case plant six roots in an -in. pot, and place an inverted flower-pot over the whole, in order to exclude the light; the plants are sometimes blanched in the open by covering them with old tan or fine ashes. the flowers must be kept picked off, for they soon run to seed, and if unattended to become troublesome. daphne.--beautiful shrubs, mostly evergreens, bearing elegant flowers followed by bright-red poisonous berries. d. mezereum is the most common variety, and is very suitable for the front of shrubberies. the chinese variety d. odorata is too tender for outdoors, but makes a fine ornament for the greenhouse. the dwarf kinds, bearing fragrant pink flowers, are rather tender, but are very useful for rockeries occupying sheltered positions. they all need a peaty soil, and may be increased by grafting on to the common spurge laurel. different varieties flower at various periods, from february to october. height, in. to ft, but the majority are from ft. to ft. high. datura.--ornamental half-hardy annuals. the seeds of all the species must be sown on a hotbed early in spring. when the plants are strong enough transplant them in the border, where they will bloom more freely than in pots. the seeds of d. ceratocaula will sometimes remain several years in the ground before they germinate. they flower in july. height, ft. to ft. day flower.--_see_ "commelina." day lily.--_see_ "hemerocallis." delphinium (_larkspur_).--the gorgeous spikes of flowers produced by these plants render them invaluable for the border. they like a deep soil, highly enriched. the perennials may be divided at the root in autumn, care being taken not to injure the young fleshy sprouts. the annuals are readily raised from seed. the quickest way to grow the perennial varieties from seed is to sow in a frame with a slight bottom-heat, at any time from march to august; but sowings made in the open from april to june will succeed. keep the ground moist, and shade from the sun till the plants are up, then transplant to nursery beds for the summer, afterwards transferring them to their final quarters. flower in june and july. height, - / ft. to ft. dentaria digitata (_toothwort_).--this tuberous hardy perennial grows well in old leaf-mould, and is very suitable for the base portion of rock-work, where it can obtain both shade from the midday sun and moisture. it is readily increased by cutting the roots into pieces about - / in. long, and replanting them where they are intended to bloom, putting in. or so of sand round them. they flower in may. height, - / ft. desfontania spinosa.--a fine, evergreen wall shrub with holly-like leaves, and long, pendulous scarlet and orange flowers in june. it grows best in a compost of loam, peat, and sand, with a south or west aspect. it is propagated by cuttings under glass. height, ft. desmodium canadense.--this is a fine border hardy perennial, producing long racemes of rosy-purple flowers in june or july. it prefers a soil of sandy loam and peat, and may be increased by seed or by cuttings planted in sand and subjected to heat. height, ft. desmodium pendulaeflorum.--a hardy evergreen shrub, flowering in july. it thrives in sandy loam and peat. cuttings planted in sand with a little bottom-heat and under glass will strike. height, ft. deutzia.--a beautiful conservatory shrub, bearing in spring a large quantity of flowers resembling the snowdrop. a peaty soil suits it. it is pretty hardy. height, ft. devil-in-a-bush.--_see_ "nigella." dianthus.--very beautiful and fragrant flowers. the genus embraces carnations, pinks, picotees, and sweet williams. the soil most suitable for them is a light, loamy one, mixed with a little rotten dung and sand. it is well to confine the rarer kind to pots, so as the better to protect them in winter. they are propagated by layers, cuttings, or division of roots. if the cuttings are taken about the middle of june, and placed under glass on a gentle hotbed, they will be ready in about three weeks to plant out in the open. the annuals and biennials merely require sowing where they are intended to bloom. flower in july. height, - / ft. to ft. dictamnus (_burning bush_).--_see_ "fraxinella." dielytra spectabilis (_venus's car, bleeding heart, or lyre flower_).--one of the most elegant hardy perennials for forcing for table decorations, or cutting for vases. the graceful, pendent branches are laden with beautiful red or purple heart-shaped flowers; these, combined with the delicate green of the foliage, give them a conspicuous place among plants. out of doors in summer, among shrubs or herbaceous plants, they are exceedingly attractive. let them be planted in tufty groups in a warm, sheltered border of rich, light soil. they may be increased by division of the root, as in the dahlia, or by cuttings. height, ft. digitalis (_foxglove_).--very showy, hardy, perennial border plants. they will grow in any garden soil, and are readily raised from seed, which, if sown in the autumn, will produce flowers the following june and july. height, ft. to ft. digitata.--_see_ "callirhoe." dimorphantus _(aralia sinensis_).--the dimorphantus mandschuricus is one of the noblest of deciduous shrubs, the foliage being very large and much divided. any soil is suitable for its growth, and it may be propagated by cuttings of ripe wood, taken at a joint and planted on a shaded site. it produces its flowers at midsummer. height, ft. to ft. dimorphotheca ecklonis.--this plant is not perhaps quite hardy, still it may be grown out of doors in a sheltered, sunny situation. it grows well in sandy loam and leaf-mould, and requires a good deal of moisture in the summer months, though from autumn till spring it should be kept on the dry side. during winter it is safest to afford it protection. it is generally raised from cuttings late in summer, which are kept through the winter in small pots in the greenhouse. diphylleia cymosa.--a very pretty bog plant which blooms from june to august. plant in rich, light soil, and give plenty of water. it is propagated by division. height, in. diplacus glutinosus _(hard-wooded mimulus_).--this elegant greenhouse shrub is an evergreen which delights in a rich, sandy loam. it flowers in june, and is increased by cuttings. height, ft. diplopappus.--dwarf-growing evergreen shrubs of pretty habit. the golden stems and leaves of d. chrysophylla render that variety specially attractive. a sandy loam is most suitable for their growth. they require the warmest situation the garden affords, and to be protected during the winter. cuttings strike readily. they flower in august. height, ft. disbudding--the object of disbudding is to prevent the growth of branches which, from their position, would be useless to the tree, and would consequently have to be cut away later on. the process is both simple and expeditious. the trees are gone over once a week during the spring, and the useless buds are rubbed off with the thumb, taking off first those which are most unfavourably situated. the work should be done gradually, so as not to give any check to the tree. the term is also applied to the pinching out of flower-buds, such as those of the chrysanthemum, so as to give more room and strength to the remaining blooms. disemma.--splendid evergreen climbers, suitable either for the greenhouse or in a sheltered position out of doors. plant in rich, loamy soil mixed with peat, and, if grown in the open, give protection to the roots during the winter. they flower in july, and may be increased by cuttings planted in sand under glass. height, ft. to ft. dittany.--_see_ "cunila." docks, to kill.--cut the weeds down to the ground, and run a skewer dipped in vitriol through the roots. dodecatheon.--a hardy perennial, which is very ornamental when in flower. it grows best in a loamy soil, and is easily increased by dividing the roots. blooms in may. height, ft. dog's-tooth violets.--_see_ "violets." dolichos lablab.--half-hardy annuals. the seed should be sown in spring in pots placed in heat, and kept in the hothouse till may, when the plants may be set out in a sheltered position, placing sticks for them to run up, in the like manner to beans. flower in july. height, ft. dondia epipactis.--a very pretty and extremely hardy little perennial, suitable for either pot culture or rock-work. it thrives in peat or leaf-mould, and likes a moist position. strong clumps may be divided in february, but it is rather shy at being moved. it flowers in may. height, in. doronicum (_leopards bane_).--an ornamental hardy perennial. it will grow in any garden soil, and may be propagated from seed sown either in the autumn or spring, or by dividing the root. it produces its flowers in may. height, - / ft. draba.--pretty dwarf alpine plants which bloom during april and may; very suitable for rock-work. they flourish in a compost of loam and peat, and may be propagated by seed or division. height, - / in. to in. dracaena indivisa.--a stove evergreen shrub much valued for its foliage and as a table plant. it requires a light, loamy soil and plenty of light. cuttings stuck in tan or peat and sand, and provided with strong heat, will strike. it flowers in june. height, ft. dracocephalum (_dragon's head_).--ornamental plants, mostly bearing lilac or blue flowers. many of the half-hardy kinds are grown in pots, so that they may the more readily be removed to the greenhouse in winter. the perennials are propagated by dividing the roots. the annuals are increased from seed sown in march or early in april. they like a rich, light soil, and come into bloom in june and july. height, ft. to ft. dracophyllum.--greenhouse evergreen shrubs of an ornamental character. the pots should be filled with an equal mixture of sand and peat. they are propagated by planting the young shoots in sand, covering them with a hand-glass, and plunging them in heat. they flower in june. height, ft. dragon's head.--_see_ "dracocephalum." dryas octopetala (_mountain avens_).--a prostrate, creeping perennial which bears white anemone-like flowers from july to september. it thrives in peat, and is increased by seeds, cuttings, or division. not being quite hardy, protection should be afforded during winter. height, in. dutchman's pipe--_see_ "aristolochia." e earwigs, to trap.--an inverted flower-pot, containing a little dry moss or hay, placed on a stick, forms a good trap for these pests. they will also congregate in any hollow stems of plants that may be laid about. they may be destroyed by shaking them into boiling water. eccremocarpus (_calampelis_).--these climbing half-hardy perennials will grow in any garden soil, a light, loamy one being preferable. sow the seed in autumn on a slight hotbed, pot off, and winter in a greenhouse. the plants will be ready to turn out on a warm south wall in april or may. cut them down in the autumn, and cover the roots with dry leaves: they will shoot up again in the spring. the foliage is dark and clematis-like; the flowers are borne in clusters, are tube-shaped, and bright orange-scarlet in colour. they are increased by cuttings. echeveria.--choice greenhouse evergreen shrubs. they grow best in a sandy loam, with a little peat, mixed with pulverised brick rubbish. water must be given cautiously. young plants may be taken off the parent in october and pressed firmly, but without bruising them, in light, rich soil. cuttings should be left for a few days to dry before planting. they flower in autumn. in winter keep them in a cold frame, and as dry as possible. height, ft. to ft. echinacea purpurea (_purple cone flower_).--a stately hardy perennial, very pretty when in flower, but hardly suitable for cutting purposes. it likes a rich, light, loam soil and plenty of sunshine. the roots may be divided in spring, after growth has fairly started. it blooms during september and october. height, - / ft. echinops (_globe thistle_).--coarse perennial plants, of stiff growth. any soil suits them, and they may be increased by dividing the roots. they bloom in july. height, ft. echium creticum.--a scarlet-flowering hardy annual which should be grown wherever bees are kept. sow in spring in any garden soil. height, - / ft. edelweiss.--_see_ "gnaphalium." edraianthus dalmaticus.--a charming little herbaceous perennial which proves quite hardy in our climate, and well deserves a place in the rockery. plant in deep, rich loam, and cover the surface of the crown with / in. of coarse sand. it may be propagated from off-sets, taken with as much root as possible as soon as flowering ceases. winter the young plants in a cold frame, and do not give them too much water, or they will rot. they will bloom in july and august. height, in. egg-plant (_aubergine_).--the fruit of the egg-plant is edible. the seed is sown in march or april in pots of well-drained, light, rich soil, and placed in a cucumber frame or on a hotbed with a temperature of degrees. when the plants are fairly up they are potted off separately, and when they have started into growth the points are pinched out, so as to induce a bushy habit. it is necessary to keep the roots well supplied with water. when the fruit is set, the growth is stopped at the first joint beyond it. they are mostly treated as greenhouse pot-plants, but may be grown in the open if planted on a south border, in ridges like those made for cucumbers, and covered with hand-glasses till established. the aubergine is a tender annual. height, ft. eggs of insects, to destroy.--into gallons of water stir / peck of lime, / lb. of sulphur, and / lb. of tobacco. when settled, syringe the trees and walls with the clear liquid. more water may be added afterwards. eichhornia crassipes major.--a pretty and curious plant which may be grown in bowls of water like the chinese lily. the stalks are bladders about the size of a greengage, which enable the plant to float. the flowers are soft lilac-rose in colour, and sparkle as if polished, each one being about in. in diameter. a little soil at the bottom of the bowl is beneficial. it will flourish out of doors in summer. elder.--_see_ "sambucus." eleagnus.--effective variegated shrubs which prove perfectly hardy in the south of england. they grow in any ordinary soil, and are increased by cuttings. height, ft. elsholtzia cristata.--hardy annuals of great value where there are bees, the flowers being very sweet. sow in the open in spring. height, ft. empetrum.--small hardy evergreen shrubs requiring an elevated and exposed position, and a dry, barren soil. they flower in may, and are propagated by layers. height, ft. endive.--sow at intervals from may till the end of august, but the principal sowing, to stand the winter, should be made the first week in august, giving the plants the protection of a frame. when the early sown ones are in. high transplant them to a rich nursery bed. when in. high lift them carefully, with the soil round the roots, and place them in drills about in. deep and ft. apart each way. water well immediately after planting, and keep the soil moist. epacris.--pretty heath-like shrubs. they like a sandy peat soil, and plenty of moisture. the pots in which they grow should be provided with ample drainage and stood in a larger-sized pot, with wet moss between the two. as soon they have done blooming cut them back freely, and when the fresh shoots are or in. long, pot them off, placing them in a close, cool pit for three or four weeks. gradually harden off, then place them in a sunny situation out of doors, and remove them to the conservatory in october. they only need sufficient heat to keep out the frost. cuttings of the young wood placed in sand with a little bottom-heat will strike. epigaea repens (_creeping laurel_).--this creeper is hardy and evergreen, and its flowers possess a delicious fragrance. it may be grown in loam and sandy peat or in leaf-mould with a little sand added, in a well-sheltered and moist situation; and may be propagated by layers, in the same manner as carnations. it flowers in april. height, in. epilobium angustifolium.--an ornamental herbaceous plant which may be grown in any common soil from seed sown in autumn, or may be increased by division of the roots. it puts forth its flowers in july. height, ft. epimedium.--an elegant hardy perennial, suitable for shaded borders or rock-work. the best soil for it is sandy peat. it flowers between april and june, and is increased by dividing the root. height, ft. eragrostis elegans (_love grass_).--one of the best of our hardy, annual, ornamental grasses. sown in march, it will reach perfection in august or september. height, ft. eranthis hyemalis.--_see_ "winter aconite." eremurus robustus.--this hardy perennial bears tall, handsome spikes of sweetly-scented, peach-coloured flowers in may. it will grow in any ordinary soil, and is easily propagated by young plants from the roots. height, i ft. ericas (_heaths_).--it is useless to attempt to grow these beautiful shrubs unless proper soil is provided. the free-growing kinds thrive best in good black peat and require large pots. the dwarf and hard-wooded kinds must be provided with sandy peat, and the pots thoroughly well drained. they need less water than the free-growing kinds. they all want a good deal of air, and must not be crowded too closely together. protect from frost and damp. cuttings off the tender tops of the shoots planted in sand under glass will strike. the cuttings of the stronger-growing kinds should be somewhat longer. as soon as rooted, pot off singly, place in a close frame, and harden off by degrees. the hardy sorts grow in a sandy peat, and may be increased by layers or by cuttings. they bloom at various times. height, in. to ft. (_see_ "heaths, greenhouse.") erigeron.--very handsome hardy perennials, producing a copious display of bloom. they will grow in any soil, and may be increased by division or by seed sown between march and july, or in august or september. they flower at the end of july. height, ft. erinus.--the hardy perennial kinds bloom in march, the greenhouse varieties in may. the latter are very pretty. they all like a sandy soil, and may be increased by seed or by division. height, in. to in. eriogonum.--these pretty, hardy, herbaceous plants bloom in june. they grow best in a compost of loam and peat, and are easily raised from seed. height, - / ft. eriostemon.--greenhouse evergreen shrubs. grow in sandy peat with a little loam added. cuttings will strike in sand. they flower in may and june. height, ft. to ft. erodium.--an extensive genus of very beautiful plants, mostly hardy. they will grow in any soil, and merely require ordinary treatment. the bloom is produced in june or july. height, in. to ft. eryngium.--a very ornamental and beautiful kind of thistle. they are mostly quite hardy, and will grow in any garden soil, though they thrive best in a light, sandy one. the greenhouse and frame varieties should be grown in pots, so that they can be easily housed in winter. they are readily increased by seed or division, and produce their flowers in july. height, ft. to ft. erysimum.--flowers of little merit. the herbaceous kinds thrive in common soil, but do best in a mixture of loam and peat. they may be increased by cuttings placed under glass. the annuals and biennials merely need sowing in the open during autumn. they bloom in june and july. height, - / ft. to ft. erythrina crista galli (_coral plant_).--a showy, summer-blooming greenhouse plant. place it in turfy loam enriched with old manure. it may be transferred to the garden in the summer, and when the wood is ripe cut it back and keep it dry till spring. cuttings taken at a joint, with the leaves left on, may be struck in sand. erythronium dens-canis _(dog's tooth violets_).--_see_ "violets." escallonia.--handsome, half-hardy, evergreen shrubs, possessing rich glaucous leaves and bunches of tubular flowers. a peat and sandy loam soil suits them best. they may be planted against, and trained to, a south wall, but need protection from frost. the laterals may be cut back fairly close in march to encourage new growth. they may be propagated by layering in the autumn, or by suckers taken in the spring. height, ft. eschscholtzia.--pretty hardy annuals, especially during august, when they are in flower. any rich soil suits them. easily raised from seed sown on a gentle hotbed in spring, and afterwards transplanted to the border. they flower longest if sown in autumn, but the young plants need protection through the winter. height, ft. eucalyptus citriodora.--a useful window or greenhouse plant, with small, oblong, bright green leaves, furnished with appendages that emit an odour resembling the lemon-scented verbena. it is of easy cultivation, growing freely from seed sown in slight heat. height, ft. eucalyptus globulus.--a greenhouse everlasting tree, commonly known as blue gum. it delights in a mixture of peat, loam, and sand. cuttings, which should not be too ripe, root in sand under glass. it may be grown from seed sown, in a temperature of degrees, from february to april. it flowers in june. eucharidium.--pretty little hardy annuals, nearly allied to the clarkia. the seed may be sown in autumn for early flowering, or in spring for blooming in july. height, ft. eucomis punctata.--a fine, autumn-blooming plant, bearing long spikes of fragrant creamy-white flowers and curiously-spotted stems. it may be grown in any rich soil. height, ft. eucryphia pinnatifida.--a dwarf evergreen shrub with flowers resembling a white st. john's wort. it grows best in a compost of loam and peat, and is propagated by cuttings planted in sand, and subjected to heat. eugenia ugni.--an evergreen shrub which produces white flowers in may, succeeded by round, edible berries. it should be grown in loam and peat. ripened cuttings may be struck in sand under glass. height, ft. eulalia japonica.--a hardy perennial giant grass. it is very handsome as single specimens on lawns, or used in groups on the margins of shrubberies. the flower panicles in their first stage have erect branches, but as the flowers open these curl over gracefully, resembling a prince of wales feather. height, ft. euonymus radicans variegata.--a hardy evergreen shrub which, given a sunny situation, will grow in any soil, though a rich, sandy one is preferable. it may be increased by layers, by seed, by cuttings of ripe wood taken early in autumn and planted in the shade, or by dividing strong roots. may is its time to flower. height, ft. other varieties of the euonymus, or spindle tree, are equally hardy, and easy to propagate. eupatorium odoratum.--a greenhouse shrub which bears sweet-scented white flowers in august, continuing in bloom for a long while. it may be planted out at the end of may, but must be lifted before the frost comes. when flowering ceases, give less water and prune hard back. it grows well in peat and loam, and is increased by seed or by cuttings of the young shoots in spring in bottom-heat. pinch back freely until the end of july, leaving all growth after that period. height, - / ft. euphorbia.--an elegant class of plants. the stove and greenhouse varieties are generally succulent, and require but little water, while the hardy kinds need plenty of moisture. any rich, light soil suits them, but for the tender, succulent plants it should be mixed with brick rubbish. best grown from seed, though the roots may be divided. height, ft. eurya latifolia variegata.--a fine, variegated, large-leaved evergreen, very suitable for covering a low wall, or for conservatory decoration. it delights in a compost of loam and peat, and is propagated by cuttings planted in a sandy soil on gentle heat. height, ft. eurybia.--very pretty flowering shrubs for walls, borders, or rockeries. they require a light, rich soil, and may be increased by seeds sown early in spring on a gentle hotbed. height, ft. eutaxia myrtifolia.--pretty evergreen shrubs, suitable for the greenhouse. they thrive best in a mixture of peat and loam, and require the pots to be well drained. to have nice bushy plants they must be pinched back well. cuttings will strike in sand under glass. they flower in august. height, - / ft. eutoca.--exceedingly pretty hardy annuals. sow the seed in light soil early in spring where it is to flower, and thin out so that the plants have plenty of room. they bloom in july. height, - / ft. evening primrose.--_see_ "oenothera." everlasting peas.--_see_ "peas, everlasting." f fabacea.--_see_ "thermopsis." fatsia japonica.--_see_ "aralia." feather grass.--_see_ "stipa pennata." fennel.--sow the seed in april, cover lightly with fine mould, and when the plants are strong enough set them out ft. apart. cut off the flower-stalks as soon as they appear, to prevent them running to seed. the bed will last for years. (_see also_ "ferula.") fenzlia.--elegant half-hardy annuals. sow the seed on a peat soil. if this be done in autumn, they will flower in april or may; if sown in spring, they will bloom in autumn. height, in. ferns.--most ferns delight in a loose soil, an abundance of moisture, and a warm, humid atmosphere. the stove and greenhouse kinds are best cultivated in a mixture of sandy loam and peat. the hardy kinds grow best among rock-work or in a shady border: a light, sandy soil suits them. they may be increased by dividing the roots. ferns from seed.--collect the spore-fronds towards the end of summer, just as the spore-cases begin to open. place them on a sheet of paper in a box for a few days, keeping it in a dry place. most of the spores will fall out, the others may be rubbed out with the hand. these spores will keep good a long time, but are best sown within a year. fill the pots with good heavy loam, water freely, and apply a coating of charcoal, coarse sand, and sphragnum moss, rubbed through a fine sieve. damp the surface, sow the spores thinly, and cover with glass. keep the soil moist by standing the pots for a time each day up to their rim in water. no surface water should be given. stand the pots in a warm, light place in the greenhouse, but keep them shaded from the sun. when the surface is covered with growth, prick out into pans or boxes, using a rich, light soil. when they are large enough pot them off singly in thumb-pots, re-potting as soon as these are filled with roots. ferraria.--_see_ "tigridia." ferula (_giant fennel_).--strong-growing, hardy, herbaceous plants. f. gigantea has bright, glistening foliage, changing to a brilliant orange, and attains a height of ft or ft. f. tingitana is very stately and graceful, growing ft. high. they are easily raised from seed, will grow in any garden soil, and flower in august and september. festuca.--an annual ornamental grass, which is grown best on a loamy soil. sow the seed in march, and keep moist till it germinates. height, ft. feverfew.--this hardy perennial will grow in any soil and ripen its seed freely. young plants, obtained by sowing the seed early in spring, are very useful for edgings; when planted alternately with, or in proximity to, lobelia a pretty effect is produced. ficaria grandiflora.--a hardy perennial which thrives well when planted under the shade of trees. it is increased by separating the tubers in autumn, and produces its flowers in may. height, in. ficus elastica (_india-rubber plant_).--this thrives well in any light, rich soil, or in loam and peat. keep it moderately moist throughout the winter, using tepid water. in summer any of the artificial manures may be used. sponge the leaves once a week to free them from dust, and keep the plant well sheltered from draughts. cuttings with uninjured leaves will root in autumn in sand with a bottom-heat of or degrees; or the cuttings may be taken in spring, stem-rooting the slips. it flowers in may, and sometimes attains the height of ft. fig palm.--_see_ "aralia." figs.--though in some parts of our country figs are cropped on standards, as a rule they require to be trained on a wall having a southern exposure. the soil should be a fairly good loam mixed with old mortar and crushed bones, but no manure is needed. the end of march or the beginning of april is the most favourable time for planting. the trees should be firmly set, and the surface of the soil kept moist until they are established. manure may be given--preferably in a liquid state--when heavy crops of fruit are being borne. old and exhausted wood may be cut away in april, but the knife must be used sparingly. the branches should be trained to a distance of in. apart, and the fruit-bearing shoots may be pinched back with the thumb and finger at the end of august. the fruit is borne on the previous year's growth. they may be increased by layers, by suckers, or by cuttings of the young wood placed in sand and plunged in a bottom-heat under glass. brown turkey, black ischia, yellow ischia, white marseilles, brunswick, and st john's are all good varieties for open-air cultivation, or for growing in houses. when grown under glass, figs may be trained on trellises near the roof of the house, or may be planted in tubs or pots, not allowing too much root-room. at starting the temperature in the day should be about degrees, and at night degrees. more heat can be given as the plants advance, keeping up a moist atmosphere, but taking care not to give too much water to the roots. by pinching off the points of the shoots when they have made five or six leaves a second crop of fruit will be obtained. use the knife upon them as little as possible. when the fruit begins to ripen admit air, and as soon as it is gathered give liquid manure to the roots every other day to encourage a second crop. when the plants are at rest they need hardly any water. filberts and cob nuts.--these nuts will succeed on any soil that is not cold or wet. the bushes should be planted in october, when the leaves have nearly all fallen. make the soil firm about the roots and give a mulching of stable manure. at the beginning of april the old and exhausted wood may be cut away, as well as any branches that obstruct light and air. encourage well-balanced heads to the bushes by cutting back any branch that grows too vigorously, and remove all suckers as they make an appearance, except they are required for transplanting. the crop is produced on the small wood. the best method of propagation is by layers in november or any time before the buds swell in spring. the process is simple, it merely requiring a notch to be made in a branch of two or three years' growth, which is then pegged down or in. below the surface. the following autumn it may be cut away from its parent, pruned, and planted. they may also be grown from nuts sown in autumn and transplanted when two years old. in kent the bushes are kept low and wide-spreading, by which means the harvest is more readily reaped. on a fairly good soil they should stand from to ft. apart. lambert's filberts, frizzled filberts, purple filberts are good varieties, the former two bearing abundantly. among the best of the cobs may be mentioned the great cob and merveille de bollwyller. fire thorn.--_see_ "crataegus." flea bane.--_see_ "inula" _and_ "stenactis." flower-pots, sizes of.--various practices prevail at different potteries, but the appended names and sizes are generally adopted. in every case the inside measurement is taken. inches inches sizes. across top. deep. thimbles thumbs - / - / sixties ( 's) - / fifty-fours ( 's) forty-eights ( 's) - / thirty-twos ( 's) twenty-fours ( 's) - / sixteens ( 's) - / twelves ( 's) - / eights ( 's) sixes ( 's) fours ( 's) threes ( 's) twos ( 's) foam flower.--_see_ "tiarella." fontanesia phillyraeoides.--this shrub will grow in any soil, but needs protection in severe weather. it may be propagated by layers or by cuttings planted under glass. august is its time for flowering. height, ft. forget-me-not.--_see_ "myosotis." forsythia.--any good soil suits these pretty shrubs. f. suspensa thrives best under greenhouse treatment, but f. viridissima is quite hardy. the former flowers in march, the latter in february. they may be increased by layers or cuttings. height, ft. foxglove.--_see_ "digitalis." fragaria indica (_ornamental strawberry_).--a rich or peaty mould suits this half-hardy perennial. it may be saved through the winter by protecting the roots, but seed sown in spring will generally fruit the same year. it flowers in july. height, ft. francoa.--hardy perennials bearing white flowers from june to september. they like a good, warm soil. the only way of raising them is from seed. they require a slight protection in winter. height, - / ft. fraxinella (_dictamnus_).--this ornamental hardy perennial is commonly known as the burning bush. it succeeds in any garden soil, and is easily raised from seed, which ripens freely. if the flowers are rubbed they emit a fine odour. it blooms in june. height, ft. freesia.--remarkably pretty and graceful cape flowers, possessing a most agreeable perfume. the plants grow about in. high and produce six or eight tubular flowers on a stem. they are easily cultivated in a cool greenhouse, frame, or window, and are invaluable for cutting, the long sprays lasting from two to three weeks in water. the bulbs should be planted early in the spring in rich, very sandy soil, and given the protection of a cold frame in the winter. by successional plantings they may be had in bloom from january to may. put six to twelve bulbs in a -in. or -in pot, place in a sunny position in a cold frame, and cover with damp cinder ashes to keep them fairly moist. when growth has begun and the pots are full of roots, remove the covering of ashes, but keep the pots in the frame, giving a little ventilation when the weather is mild, and watering carefully when the soil appears dry. protect from frost by a covering of mats. for early flowering remove the plants to a warm greenhouse when the flower spikes appear, keeping them as near the glass as possible. when the buds are developed an occasional application of weak liquid manure will prove beneficial. fremontia californica.--a beautiful and somewhat singular wall shrub, with large yellow flowers. any soil is suitable for it, but a south or west aspect is indispensable. fringe tree.--_see_ "chionanthus." fritillarias (_crown imperials, or snake's head lilies_).--soil, sandy loam, or well-drained, deep, rich mould. plant in the open ground in autumn; take the bulbs up as soon as the leaves decay, and preserve them in a rather moist place. increased by off-sets taken from the old roots every third year. they are not so suitable for pot culture as for outdoor decoration. they are quite hardy, and flower in the spring, bearing clusters of pendent bell-shaped flowers surrounded with tufts of fresh green leaves. f. meleagris are of dwarf, slender growth, and bear in early spring elegant pendent flowers of various shades netted and marked with darker colours. these are suitable for either the border or pots. plant in autumn. fruit trees, the pruning of.--cut away all growths that have an inward tendency, and do not allow any shoot to cross over or come in contact with another; also keep the centres of the trees or bushes open. the fruit of trees thus treated is not so liable to be blown down by the wind, and the sun can more readily ripen it. if the ground is poor a dressing of rotted manure worked into the soil will be beneficial to the roots. fuchsias.--these like a warm and moist atmosphere. the hardy sorts do well out of doors in rich, light soil. on the approach of frost cut them down and cover the roots with or in. of coal dust, ashes, or moss. remove the ashes in april and thin out the shoots in may. they will also grow well from cuttings taken off the old wood as soon as they are in. long, inserted in sand and placed under glass, or plunged in dung at a temperature of degrees. cuttings will also strike in loam and leaf-mould. if grown in pots, take them indoors before the frosty weather begins, and give them very little or no water at all during the winter. keep them in a cool place, yet free from frost. re-pot them in the spring, trimming the branches and roots, and making a compost for them of one-half mellow yellow loam, one quarter leaf-mould, and one quarter old manure. place them in a frame with bottom-heat, and water and syringe them moderately while they are growing. when they are in full growth never give them plain water, but always plenty of liquid manure. fumitory.--_see_ "corydalis." funkia.--ornamental plants which delight in a deep, light soil and a warm, moist situation, without which they will not flower. they are increased by division (which should not be too severe) and bloom in july and august. height, / ft. furze.--enjoys a sandy soil. increased by cuttings taken in spring or autumn and placed in a shady border under hand-glasses. it is of evergreen habit, and forms a dense and highly ornamental hedge. (_see also_ "ulex.") g gages.--the cultivation of gages is similar to that of plums. in the open they may be grown as dwarfs or pyramids, and in orchard-houses as gridirons, cordons, or in pots. the chief points to observe are to thin the branches in order to admit plenty of light into the middle of the tree, thus inducing the production of a plentiful supply of fruit spurs, and to occasionally lift and root-prune the tree if growing too strong. among the choicest sorts are: bonne bouche (producing its fruit at the end of august), coe's golden drop (end of september), old green gage (august), guthrie's late green gage (september), m'laughlin's gage (end of august), oullin's golden gage (end of august), and reine claude de bavay (beginning of october). gaillardia (_blanket flower_).--very ornamental flowers, which will grow in any common soil, but thrive most in a light, rich one. seeds of the annual kinds are sown in the spring. the perennials are increased by dividing the roots. bloom in july. height, ft. to ft. galanthus.--_see_ "snowdrops." galax aphylla (_wand plant_).--the heart-shaped galax is a charming little plant for rock-work. it is perennial, and does not lose the old leaves till the new ones appear. a rich, light mould is required for its growth, and its situation should be a somewhat shady one. its flowers are borne in july and august, on stalks ft. or more high. the plant may be increased by taking up a strong clump, shaking it apart, and transplanting at once. (_see also_ "shortia.") galega (_goats rue_).--ornamental hardy perennials, requiring plenty of room. they are readily increased by seed or division of the root, and flower in july. height, ft. to ft. galium.--this hardy herbaceous plant blooms in july. it will grow in any soil, and can be increased by division of the root. height, ft. gardenias.--plant in a hothouse in fibrous peat mixed with a large proportion of sand. give plenty of heat and moisture during growth, with a thin shade to keep off the sun's midday rays. lower the temperature as soon as growth is completed, and in the middle of summer stand the plants out in the open for a week or two for the wood to ripen. height, ft. garlic.--plant small cloves from february to april in rows in. apart and in. from each other in the row. lift them when the leaves die down, dry them in the sunshine, and store in an airy, cool shed. garrya elliptica.--a hardy evergreen shrub, which is very suitable in its early stages for pot-culture. a light, loamy soil is what it likes. cuttings taken in august and placed in sand under a hand-glass will strike freely, but it is most readily increased by layers. in october it bears graceful yellowish-green tassels of flowers from the ends of its shoots. height, ft. gasteria verrucosa.--this plant grows best in pots of turfy loam and leaf-mould, to which has been added a little old mortar. good drainage is essential. water freely in summer, and keep just moist in winter. keep the foliage clean by sponging. give plenty of light, and during warm weather turn the plants out of doors. gastrolobium.--elegant evergreen shrubs which flower in april and may. they are most suitable for adorning the greenhouse, and grow best in a soil of loamy peat and sand. cuttings of half-ripened wood planted under glass will take root. height, ft. gaultheria.--dwarf, creeping evergreen shrubs, having dark foliage and producing white flowers in may, june, or july. they require to be grown in peat, and are increased by layers. g. procumbens is suitable for rockeries, as it only grows to the height of in. g. shallon attains the height of ft. gaura lindheimeri.--this free-flowering, hardy, herbaceous plant will thrive in any light, rich soil. it bears elegant spikes of white flowers from may onwards, followed by red bracts in september, and is readily propagated by seeds. height, ft. gazania splendens.--a showy greenhouse plant. it may be planted in the open in warm positions, but will require protecting in winter. grow it in peat and loam. cuttings will strike if placed in sand under glass. it flowers in july. height, ft. genethyllis.--greenhouse evergreen shrubs which thrive best in sandy loam and peat. cuttings of the young wood planted in the same soil and plunged in heat will take root. their flowering season is in august. height, ft. genista (_broom_).--g. canariense is an exceedingly ornamental and free-flowering greenhouse shrub. it should be planted in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. young cuttings inserted in sand under a glass take root readily. it blooms in june. height, ft. hardy species of genista may be placed in the front of shrubberies. they are increased by seeds or by layers. gentians.--the herbaceous kinds do best in a light, rich soil, such as loam and peat mixed with vegetable mould. the annuals are raised from seed sown as soon as it is ripe; if left till spring before it is sown it will probably not come up till the second year. the perennials are increased by dividing the roots. both of the latter kinds do best in a dry, sandy soil. gentiana acaulis, or gentianella, is very suitable for edgings, or for rock-work; it is an evergreen creeper, and bears large trumpet-shaped flowers of rich ultramarine blue. all the gentians need plenty of free air, and some of them moisture at the roots. bloom in july. height, in. to ft. geranium argentium(_silvery crane's-bill_).--this hardy perennial alpine is very effective on rock-work, especially in front of dark stones; but provision must be made for its long tap roots. a rich, deep loam suits it well. its seeds germinate freely when sown in peat and sand. flowers are borne from may to july. height, in. geraniums.--take cuttings in july or august, and let them he to partially dry for twenty-four hours before planting. when rooted pot them off in 's, and keep them under glass during the winter at a temperature of degrees. if the cuttings are taken in september put three or four slips in a -size pot. in the spring they should be re-potted singly and hardened off as early as possible. a suitable soil for them is made by mixing two parts of good turfy loam, one of leaf-mould, one of well-decomposed cow-dung, and a good proportion of silver sand. bone dust is an excellent addition to the soil. old plants stripped of their leaves may be packed in sand during the winter, and re-potted in spring. gerardia.--these hardy perennials form pyramidal bushes bearing pentstemon-like flowers, thickly set and varying in colour from light pink to dark purple. a peat soil suits them best. they may be propagated by cuttings placed under glass, but are best grown from seed. july is their flowering season. height, ft. to ft. german seeds.--these require to be sown in a cold frame in seed-pans, in the greenhouse, or under a handglass, in good, rich compost, composed of old turf, leaf-mould, some well-rotted manure, and silver sand. the seeds should be sown thinly and watered sparingly. sow early in april, and transplant in the middle or end of may in rich soil. water occasionally with weak liquid manure. gesneria.--handsome greenhouse perennials. they thrive in any light, rich soil. cuttings will strike readily either in sand or soil if placed under glass in heat. they may also be raised from seed sown in a temperature of degrees in march or april. they flower in october. height, in. geum.--very handsome hardy perennials. they grow well in any light, rich, loamy soil, and may be increased either by seeds or by dividing the roots. g. coccineum is extremely pretty. flower in july. height, in. gherkins.--sow the seed the first week in april in small pots, and cover it lightly with fine soil. plunge the pots in a hotbed covered with a frame. when grown to nice little plants, remove them to a cold frame to harden, and plant them out on a warm border towards the end of may. when the fruit begins to form, give liquid manure twice a week. for pickling they must be cut while small. gilia.--extremely pretty and free-flowering hardy annuals, deserving of a place in every garden. they are very suitable for small beds. they should be sown in the open early in spring. g. tricolour may be sown in autumn. bloom in july. height, ft. gillenia trifoliata.--the three-leaved gillenia is a hardy herbaceous perennial which is very useful as a cut flower for the decoration of vases, etc. it should be grown in large clumps, delights in a deep, moist soil and partial shade, and may be propagated by dividing the roots early in spring. it lasts in bloom from june to august. height, ft. gladiolus.--dig the ground out to a depth of ft. or in.; put in a layer of leaf-mould or rotted manure, and then or in. of earth mixed with sand; insert the bulbs ( in. from the surface and in. apart), cover them with in. of sand, and fill up with earth. in frosty weather cover with a thick layer of litter. give plenty of water when they begin to throw up their flower-stems. they may be planted at any time between december and the end of march. if planted late in the season, a depth of or in. is enough. the roots must be kept dry in winter. they are increased by off-sets, taken when the bulbs are removed from the ground after the leaves have turned yellow. these should be planted at once in well-drained earth. if early flowers are required, plant the old bulbs in pots (three to six bulbs being placed in a -in. pot) any time between december and march. give them frame culture up to the second week in may, when they may be transferred to the border. the flowers are invaluable for vase decoration. glaucium flavum tricolor (_hardy horn poppy_).--the large, brilliant, orange-red flowers of this plant are very effective in the border, and the bloom is continuous during the greater part of the summer. the seed is rather slow to germinate, but when sown in the open ground in autumn, it blooms from june to august; when sown in early spring it flowers from july to september. height, ft. glaux maritima (_sea milkweed_).--a pretty little hardy trailing plant bearing flesh-coloured flowers in june and july. it grows in sandy loam, and is raised from seed sown in spring. height, in. globe amaranthus (_gomphrena_).--this tender annual is well known for its clover-like heads of everlasting flowers. it will grow in any rich soil, but to produce really fine plants, much attention must be given to shifting, watering, etc. increased by seed in the same manner as other tender annuals. blooms in july. height, ft. globe flower.--_see_ "trollius." globe thistle.--_see_ "echinops." globularia trichosantha.--a pretty dwarf perennial rock-plant bearing pale blue flowers in may and june. it is hardy, thrives in light, sandy soil, and is increased by either seeds or cuttings planted in sand. height, in. the greenhouse varieties of globularia grow best in loam and peat. glory of the snow.--_see_ "chionodoxa." gloxinias.--a very ornamental family of tuberous-rooted hothouse plants. they are of two classes, the drooping and the erect. pot at any time during january and march in a mixture of equal quantities of loam, peat, and sand, with the addition of a little vegetable soil, and place in a warm ( degrees), moist temperature, where they can be favoured with a little shade. in summer supply the roots plentifully with water, but give them very little in winter. overhead watering is likely to rot the leaves and flowers. g. maculata is increased by division. the leaves of most of the others, if taken off close to the stem, and planted, will soon make young plants. they may be raised from seed sown from march to july in a hothouse or frame having a temperature of to degrees. they flower in june, and on into september. height, in. to ft. glycine.--_see_ "wistaria" _and_ "apios." gnaphalium _(edelweiss_).--hardy everlasting flowers, which are covered with a woolly substance. they may be grown in any light, rich soil. the shrubby and herbaceous kinds may be increased by cuttings or division. the annuals are easily raised from seed. they flower in july. height, ft. goat's rue.--_see_ "galega." godetia.--very pretty hardy annuals, that may be grown in any garden soil. sow in the autumn for early flowering, or in spring for later blooms. july is their ordinary season of coming into flower. height, - / ft. to ft. golden feather.--hardy annual foliage plants. they are not particular as to soil, and are easily raised from seed sown early in spring. they bloom in july. height, ft. golden rod.--_see_ "solidago." gompholobium.--delicate greenhouse evergreen shrubs requiring a soil of sandy loam and peat and but little water. they flower in june, and are propagated by cuttings planted in sand under glass. height, ft. gomphrena.--_see_ "globe amaranthus." gooseberries.--from the middle of october to the end of november is the best time for planting. to produce good crops the soil should be rich, deep, and well drained. the position should be somewhat cool and sheltered, and a liberal quantity of liquid manure is beneficial. in dry seasons mulching may be resorted to with advantage. cuttings are taken in autumn as soon as the leaves begin to fall. select strong shoots about ft. long. cut the bottom end straight across, just below a joint, and with a sharp knife remove all the buds or eyes from the base to within a couple of inches of the top, so as to prevent the formation of suckers. plant the shoots firmly in. deep, in rows ft. apart and in. apart in the rows, on a north border. at the end of the second season cut back all leading shoots to two-thirds of their length. in after years remove weak and superfluous branches, as also any that are growing near the ground, but plenty of young wood must always be left on the bushes. the pruning may be done either in spring or autumn. the following varieties may be recommended:--red, white, and yellow champagne, wilmot's early red, golden drop, ironmonger, and warrington red for dessert; while for preserving and culinary purposes old rough red, conquering hero, favourite, broom girl, british crown, ironsides, lady leicester, thumper, green walnut, leader, and moreton hero may be classed among the leading varieties. when grown in bush form ample room must be allowed between each to enable one to get round the bushes to gather the fruit. gooseberry caterpillar.--to prevent caterpillars attacking gooseberries syringe the bushes with a decoction of common foxglove (digitalis), or dust the leaves with hellebore powder. if the caterpillar has begun its attack, sprinkle some fresh lime below the bushes, and shake the bushes vigorously, so that the insects are dislodged. gorse.--_see_ "ulex." gourds.--sow at the end of march or the beginning of april on a slight hotbed; pot off when the plants are sufficiently advanced, and transplant to the open border in june. they are well adapted for arbours, trellis-work, or sloping banks. the following are among the most ornamental:--abobra viridiflora, benincasa cerifera (wax gourd), bryonopsis erythrocarpa, coccinea indica (scarlet fruit), cucumis anguinus (serpent gourd), cucumis dipsaceus (teasel gourd), cucumis dudaim (balloon gourd), cucumis erinaceus (hedgehog gourd), cucumis grossularoides (gooseberry gourd), cucumis perennis, cucurbita argyrosperma, cucurbita melopepo, cyclanthera explodens (bombshell gourd), cyclanthera pedata, eopepon aurantiacum, eopepon vitifolius, lagenaria clavata (club gourd), lagenaria enormis, lagenaria leucantha depressa, lagenaria leucantha longissima, lagenaria plate de corse, lagenaria poire a poudre, lagenaria siphon, luffa cylindrica, luffa solly qua, melothria scabra, momordica balsamina, momordica charantia, momordica elaterium, mukia scabrella, scotanthus tubiflorus, trichosanthes anguina, trichosanthes coccinea, trichosanthes colubrina, and trichosanthes palmata. grafting.--the objects of grafting are to bring a bush or tree into an earlier state of bearing than it would do naturally; to produce good fruit from an inferior plant; and to save space by putting dwarf scions on to rampant-growing trees. by the process of uniting strong-growing trees to those of a weaker nature their exuberance is checked, and weaker ones are improved by being worked on those of a stronger growth. whatever form of grafting is adopted, the inner layers of the bark of the stock or tree on which the operation is performed, must be brought into direct contact with the inner layers of the bark of the branch which is grafted, or, as it is called, the scion. this scion should be a branch of the early growth of the previous year's wood, and should be in the same state of vegetation as the stock. if the scion is in a more advanced state than the stock, its growth may be stopped by cutting it off and burying it in the earth under a north wall until the stock has advanced sufficiently in growth. grafting of all kinds is best done in march, when the sap is flowing freely. many methods of grafting are adopted, the following being the principal:-- whip or tongue grafting is suitable for almost any description of trees. saw the stock off level at any desired height, then make a deep upward slanting cut through the bark at the top or in. in length, and in the middle of the cut turn the knife downwards and cut out a thin wedge-shaped socket. next cut the scion in a similar manner so that it will fit exactly into the incision of the stock, bringing the bark of each into direct contact. bind it firmly in position, and cover it over, from the top of the stock to the bottom of the scion, with grafting wax or clay. when the scion and the stock are united, which is demonstrated by the former making growth, remove the wax and cut away all shoots that may be produced on the stock. in the french mode of grafting known as the bertemboise, the crown of the stock is cut at a long level, about in. at the top being left square, and an angular piece is cut away in which the scion is inserted. it is then bound and waxed over. theophrastes or rind grafting is used where a tree has strong roots but inferior fruit. the branches are cut off about - / or ft. from the main stem. a sharp cut or in. in length is made down the bark of the branches, and the lower parts of the scion, selected from a superior tree, having been cut into tongues resembling the mouth-piece of a flageolet, the bark of the branches is lifted with a knife, and the tongues of the scions are slipped in, bound, and waxed. side grafting is useful where it is desired to replenish the tree with a fresh branch. a t-shaped cut is made in the stem of the tree, extending to the inner bark; the scion is prepared by a longitudinal sloping cut of the same length as that in the stem, into which it is inserted, and the two are bound together and treated like other grafts. approach grafting is the most favourable method of obtaining choice varieties of the vine, or of growing weak sorts on roots of a stronger growth. the scion is generally grown in a pot. a portion of the bark is cut from both scion and stock while the vine is in active growth, and the two wounded parts brought into contact, so that they fit exactly. they are then tied together, and moss (kept constantly wet) is bound round the parts. the union may be completed by the following spring, but it is safer to leave the cutting down of the stock to the point of union and the separation of the scion from the potted plant until the second spring. grafting wax (_cobbetts_), etc.--pitch and resin four parts each, beeswax two parts, tallow one part. melt and mix the ingredients, and use when just warm. it may be rolled into balls and stored in a dry place. clay bands are frequently employed for excluding the air from wounds caused in the process of grafting. these are liable to crack, unless the clay is well kneaded and mixed with wood ashes or dry horse droppings. grapes.--the cultivation of grapes in the open in our cloudy and changeable climate cannot be looked forward to with any certainty of success. two successive favourable seasons are indispensable--one to ripen the wood, and the next to ripen the fruit. nevertheless, the highly ornamental foliage of the vine entitles it to a place on our walls, and every facility should be afforded for the production of a chance crop of fruit. the soil most suited to the growth of the vine is a medium loam, with which is incorporated a quantity of crushed chalk and half-inch bones. it should be given a south aspect, and be liberally supplied with water in dry seasons. april is the best time to plant it, spreading the roots out equally about in. below the surface of the soil, and mulching with or in. of manure. should mildew set in, syringe the vine with a mixture of soapsuds and sulphur. to secure a continuance of fruit, cut out some of the old rods each year as soon as the leaves fall, and train young shoots in their places. last year's shoots produce other shoots the ensuing summer, and these are the fruit-bearers. one bunch of grapes is enough for a spur to carry. professional gardeners cast off the weight of the bunches, and allow ft. of rod to each pound of fruit. tie or nail the bunches to the trellis or wall, and remove all branches or leaves that intercept light and air. the vine may be increased by layers at the end of september. cut a notch at a bud, and bury it or in. deep, leaving two or three eyes above ground. it may also be propagated by cuttings, about ft. in length, of the last year's growth, with in. of old wood attached, taken the latter end of february. plant these deep in the ground, leaving one eye only above the surface. both the black hamburgh and royal muscadine ripen as well as any in the open. it is under glass only that grapes can be brought to perfection. here a night temperature of to degrees, with a rise of or degrees in the day, should be maintained, the walls and paths damped once or twice a day, and the vine syringed frequently until it comes into bloom, when syringing must cease, and a drier atmosphere is necessary; the moisture being reduced by degrees. as the grapes ripen, admit more air, and reduce the heat, otherwise the fruit will shrivel. after gathering the grapes syringe the vine frequently to clear it from spiders or dust, and keep the house cool to induce rest to the plant. the fruit may be preserved for a long while in a good condition by cutting it with about ft. of the rod attached, and inserting the cuttings in bottles of water in which a piece of charcoal is placed: the bottles to be placed in racks nailed on to an upright post in any room or cellar where an equable temperature of or degrees can be kept up. the system of pruning adopted is that known as spur pruning (_see_ "pruning"). mrs. pearson is a very fine variety, and produces very sweet berries; the frontignan grizzly black and white are also delicious. grasses, natural-- _agrostis stolonifera_ (_creeping bent grass_).--useful for damp meadows. _alopecurus pratensis_ (_meadow foxtail_).--strong-growing and very nutritious. _anthoxanthum odoratum_ (_true sweet vernal_),--hardy and gives fragrance to hay. _avena flavescens_ (_yellow oat grass_).--fine for sheep; grows freely on light soils. _cynosurus cristatus_ (_crested dogstail_).--suitable for any soil. _dactylis glomerata_ (_cocksfoot_).--strong and coarse-growing; cattle are fond of it. _festuca duriuscula_ (_hard fescue_).--dwarf-growing; excellent for sheep. _festuca elatior_ (_tall fescue_).--useful for cold, strong soils. _festuca ovina_ (_sheep's fescue_).--fine for dry, sandy soils. _festuca ovina tenuifolia_ (_slender fescue_).--suitable for mountain pastures. _festuca pratensis_ (_meadow fescue_).--good permanent grass for rich, moist soil. _phleum pratense_ (_timothy, or catstail_).--suitable for strong soils; nutritious and hardy. _poa nemoralis_ (_wood meadow grass_).--good for poor soils. _poa pratensis_ (_smooth-stalked meadow grass_).--grows well on light, dry soil, and also in water-meadows. _poa trivialis_ (_rough-stalked meadow grass_).--fine for damp soil. grasses, ornamental.--fine for mixing in a green state with cut flowers, or in a dried condition for the decoration of vases, winter bouquets, etc. to have them in perfection gather them while quite fresh, with the pollen on them. cut with as long stems as possible, arrange lightly in vases, and keep them in the dark till they are dried and the stems become stiff. the grasses may be divided into two sections, viz., those for bouquets or edgings, and those grown in the border or on lawns for specimen plants. the class is numerous, but the following (which may be found described herein under alphabetical classification) may be mentioned:-- for bouquets and edgings: agrostis, anthoxanthum, avena, briza, coix lachryma, eragrostis, festuca, hordeum jubatum, lagurus, and stipa pennata. for specimen plants: eulalia, gynerium, panicum, phalaris, and zea. gratiola officinalis.--this hardy herbaceous plant bears light blue flowers in july. a rich, moist soil is its delight. it is propagated by dividing the roots. height, ft. green fly.--fumigate the infected plants with tobacco, and afterwards syringe them with clear water; or the plants may be washed with tobacco water by means of a soft brush. grevillea.--handsome greenhouse shrubs, which require a mould composed of equal parts of peat, sand, and loam. give plenty of water in summer, a moderate amount at other seasons. ripened cuttings may be rooted in sand, under a glass. young plants may also be obtained from seed. they bloom in june. their common height is from to ft., but g. robusta attains a great height. grevilleas will grow well in windows facing south. griselinia littoralis.--a dwarf-growing, light-coloured evergreen shrub, which will thrive near the sea. it requires a light, dry soil, and may be increased by cuttings. guelder rose.--_see_ "viburnum." guernsey lily (_nerine sarniense_).--soil, strong, rich loam with sand, well drained. plant the bulbs deeply in a warm, sheltered position, and let them remain undisturbed year by year. keep the beds dry in winter, and protect the roots from frost. they also make good indoor plants, potted in moss or cocoa-nut fibre in september, or they may be grown in vases of water. gumming of trees.--scrape the gum off, wash the place thoroughly with clear water, and apply a compost of horse-dung, clay, and tar. gunnera manicata (_chilian rhubarb_).--this hardy plant bears large leaves on stout foot-stalks, and is very ornamental in the backs of borders, etc. planted in a rich, moist soil, it will flower in august. it can be propagated by division. height, ft. gunnera scabra.--has gigantic leaves, to ft. in diameter, on petioles to ft. in length. it prefers a moist, shady position, and bears division. makes a fine addition to a sub-tropical garden, where it will flower in august. height, ft. gynerium (_pampas grass_).--this unquestionably is the grandest of all grasses, and is sufficiently hardy to endure most of our winters. it is, however, desirable to give it some protection. it requires a deep, rich, alluvial soil, with plenty of room and a good supply of water. plants may be raised from seed sown thinly in pots during february or march, barely covering it with very fine soil, and keeping the surface damp. plant out at end of may. they will flower when three or four years old. the old leaves should be allowed to remain on till the new ones appear, as they afford protection to the plant. it may be increased by division of the root. height, ft. gypsophila.--of value for table bouquets, etc. they will grow in any soil, but prefer a chalky one. the herbaceous kinds are increased by cuttings; the annuals are sown in the open either in autumn or spring. they bloom during july and august. height, ft. to ft. h habrothamnus.--these beautiful evergreen shrubs require greenhouse culture, and to be grown in sandy loam and leaf-mould. the majority of them flower in spring. height, ft. to ft. halesia tetraptera (_snowdrop tree_).--this elegant shrub will grow in any soil, and may be propagated by cuttings of the roots or by layers. the pendent white flowers are produced close to the branches in june. height, ft. hamamelis (_witch hazel_).--an ornamental shrub which will grow in ordinary soil, but thrives best in a sandy one. it is increased by layers. may is its season for flowering. height, ft. to ft. h. arborea is a curious small tree, producing brownish-yellow flowers in mid-winter. harpalium rigidum.--a hardy perennial, producing very fine yellow flowers in the autumn. it will grow in any good garden soil, and may be propagated by seed sown in early autumn, or by division of the roots. height, ft. hawkweed.--_see_ "crepis" _and_ "hieracium." heartsease.--_see_ "pansies." heaths, greenhouse.--for their successful growth heaths require a well-drained soil, composed of three parts finely pulverised peat and one part silver sand, free ventilation, and a careful supply of water, so that the soil is always damp. if they suffer a check they are hard to bring round, especially the hard-wooded kinds. some of the soft-wooded heaths, such as the h. hyemalis, are easier of management. after they have flowered they may be cut hard back, re-potted, and supplied with liquid manure. the stout shoots thus obtained will bloom the following season. (_see also_ "ericas.") hedera.--_see_ "ivy." hedychium gardnerianum.--a hothouse herbaceous plant, delighting in a rich, light soil, plenty of room in the pots for the roots, and a good amount of sunshine. in the spring a top-dressing of rich manure and soot should be given. from the time the leaves begin to expand, and all through its growing stage, it needs plenty water, and an occasional application of liquid manure. the foliage should not be cut off when it dies, but allowed to remain on all the winter. while the plant is dormant keep it rather dry and quite free from frost. it may be increased by dividing the roots, but it blooms best when undisturbed. july is its flowering month. height, ft. hedysarum.--hardy perennials, requiring a light, rich soil, or loam and peat. they may be raised from seed, or increased by dividing the roots in spring. h. multijugum bears rich purple flowers. height, in. to ft. heleniums.--the pumilum is a very pretty hardy perennial that may be grown in any soil, and increased by dividing the roots. it produces its golden flowers in august. height, - / ft. h. autumnale is also easy to grow, but flowers a month later than the pumilum, and attains a height of ft. h. bigelowi is the best of the late autumn-flowering species, producing an abundance of rich yellow flowers with purple discs. flowers in august. height, - / ft. helianthemum alpinum (_rock roses_).--these hardy perennials are best grown in sandy loam and peat, and may be increased by cuttings placed under glass in a sheltered situation. bloom in june or july. height, ft. helianthus (_sunflowers_).--the tall variety is a very stately plant, suitable for the background or a corner of the border. well-grown flowers have measured in. in diameter. the miniature kinds make fine vase ornaments. they grow in any garden soil, and are easily increased by seed raised on a hotbed in spring and afterwards transplanted. the perennials may be propagated by division of the root. they produce their flowers in august. height, ft. to ft. helichrysum.--fine everlasting hardy annuals, that grow best in a mixture of three parts peat and one part sandy loam. may be readily raised from seed sown in a cold frame in march, or cuttings taken off at a joint will strike in peat and sand. bloom during july and august. for winter decoration the flowers should be gathered in a young state, as they continue to develop after being gathered. height, ft. to ft, but most of them are ft. high. heliophila.--pretty little hardy annuals, thriving best in sandy loam and peat. sow the seed early in spring in pots placed in a gentle hotbed, and plant out in may. they flower in june. height, in. heliopsis.--this hardy perennial is useful for cutting purposes, the flowers being borne on long stalks, and lasting for two or three weeks in water. it is not particular as to soil, and may be increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. heliotrope.--commonly called cherry pie. sow the seed early in spring in light, rich soil in a little heat, and plant out in may. the best plants, however, are obtained from cuttings taken off when young, in the same way as verbenas and bedding calceolarias. they are very sensitive to frost. flower in june. height, ft. helipterium.--a half-hardy annual, bearing everlasting flowers. it should receive the same treatment as helichrysum. blooms in may or june. height, ft. helleborus (_christmas rose_).--as its name implies, the hellebore flowers about christmas, and that without any protection whatever. the foliage is evergreen, and of a dark colour. when the plant is once established it produces flowers in great abundance. the plants of the white-flowered variety should be protected with a hand-light when the flower-buds appear, in order to preserve the blossoms pure and clean. any deeply-dug rich garden soil suits it, and it is most at home under the shade of a tree. it prefers a sheltered situation, and during the summer months a mulching of litter and an occasional watering will be beneficial. readily increased by division in spring or seed. height, ft. helonias bullata.--a pretty herbaceous plant, bearing dense racemes of purple-rose flowers from june to august. it grows best in peat, in a moist position. it can be raised from seed or increased by division of the roots. height - / ft. hemerocallis (_day lily_).--old-fashioned plants of great merit. planted in large clumps they produce a grand effect. they are easily grown in any common garden soil, and bloom in july. height, ft. h. kwanso has handsome, variegated foliage. hemp.--_see_ "canna" _and_ "cannabis." hepatica.--this enjoys a rather light, sandy soil and a shady situation. the roots should be taken up and divided every second year. well adapted for surrounding beds or clumps of rhododendrons. flowers in march. height, in. heracleum.--coarse hardy biennials, that may be grown in any kind of soil, and are readily raised from seed. they flower at midsummer. height, ft. to ft. herbs.--thyme, marjoram, chervil, basil, burnet, hyssop, savory, etc., should be sown early in spring, in dry, mild weather, in narrow drills about / in. deep and or in. apart, covered evenly with soil, and transplanted when strong enough. mint is quickly increased by separating the roots in spring, and covering them with in. of earth. sage is propagated by slips of the young shoots taken either in spring or autumn. if planted in light soil and in a sunny position it produces very fragrant flowers. chives should be planted or in. apart: they are increased by division in spring. penny royal, like mint generally, will grow from very small pieces of the root; it needs to be frequently transplanted, and to be kept from a damp condition. rosemary will grow from cuttings planted under glass in a shady spot. thyme likes a light, rich soil, and bears division. sorrel will grow in any soil, and the roots should be divided every two or three years. chamomile roots are divided and subdivided in spring. herbs should be harvested on a fine day, just before they are in full bloom. tie them up in small bunches and hang in the shade to dry, then wrap in paper and store in air-tight vessels, or rub the leaves to a powder and keep in tightly-corked bottles. they will retain their strength for a long time. herbs, the uses of sweet and pot.-- _angelica_.--a biennial. leaves and stalks are eaten raw or boiled; the seeds are aromatic, and used to flavour spirits. _anise_.--leaves used for garnishing, and for seasoning, like fennel; the seeds are medicinal. _balm_.--a hardy perennial. makes a useful tea and wine for fevers. _basil_, sweet and bush.--half-hardy annuals. the leaves and tops of the shoots, on account of their clove-like flavour, are used for seasoning soups and introduced into salads. _borage_.--hardy annual. used for salads and garnishing, and as an ingredient in cool drinks; excellent also for bees. _chamomile_.--a hardy perennial. flowers used medicinally. _caraway_.--a biennial. leaves used in soups, and the seeds in confectionery and medicine. _chervil_.--an annual. useful for salads. _chives_.--hardy perennial. the young tops used to flavour soups, etc. _coriander_.--a hardy annual. cultivated for garnishing. _dill_.--a hardy perennial. leaves used in soups and sauces, also in pickles. _fennel_.--hardy perennial. used in salads and in fish sauce, also for garnishing dishes. _horehound_.--hardy perennial. leaves and young shoots used for making a beverage for coughs. _hyssop_.--hardy evergreen shrub. leaves and young shoots used for making tea; also as a pot herb. _lavender_.--hardy perennial. cultivated for its flowers, for the distillation of lavender water, for flavouring sauces, and for medicinal purposes. _marigold_, pot.--hardy annual. flowers used in soups. _marjoram_, sweet or knotted, and pot.--hardy annuals. aromatic and sweet flavour. used for stuffings and as a pot herb; leaves dried for winter use. _rampion_.--hardy perennial. roots used as a radish; they have a nutty flavour. _rosemary_.--hardy ornamental shrub. sprigs used for garnishing and the leaves in drink. _rue_.--hardy evergreen shrub. leaves used for medicinal drinks; useful for poultry with croup. _sage_.--hardy perennial. decoction of leaves drank as tea; used also for stuffing, meats, and sauces. _savory_, summer.--hardy annual. used for flavouring soups and salads. _savory_, winter.--hardy evergreen shrub. its aromatic flavour makes it valuable as a pot herb. _scurvy grass_.--the small leaves are eaten as watercress. _skirret_.--hardy perennial. sweet, white, and pleasant; the tubers are boiled and served up with butter. _sorrel_, broad-leaved.--hardy perennial. imparts an acid flavour to salads and soups. _thyme_, broad-leaved.--hardy perennial. young leaves and tops used for stuffing, also in soups and sauces. _tarragon_.--hardy perennial. for flavouring vinegar; also used in salads, soups, and pickles. _wormwood_.--a hardy shrub. beneficial to horses and poultry, and is used for medical purposes. herniaria glabra.--these dwarf carpeting plants are of easy culture. grow from seed in spring and transplant into sandy soil. height, - / in. hesperis.--_see_ "rocket." heuchera.--very neat, but not showy, hardy american perennials. they may be grown in any ordinary light garden soil, are increased by dividing the root, and bloom in may. height, ft. to ft. hibbertia dentata.--an evergreen twining plant, requiring a greenhouse for its cultivation and a soil of sandy loam and peat. it flowers in july, and is increased by cuttings taken in spring or summer and kept under glass. height, ft. hibiscus africanus.--a handsome hardy annual mallow. sow in march in slight heat, and plant out in may in. apart. grows best in a mixture of loam and peat. blooms in june. height, ft. hibiscus syriacus (_rose of sharon_).--a hardy, deciduous, autumn-flowering shrub, which will grow in common soil, and may be propagated by seeds, layers, or cuttings planted under glass. height, ft. hieracium (_hawkweed_).--a free-growing hardy perennial, suitable for a sunny bank or border. it is not particular as to soil. from june to september it produces orange-brown flowers. it grows freely from seed, and the roots bear division. height, - / ft. hippeastrums.--_see_ "amaryllis." hippocrepis.--very pretty hardy trailing perennials, covered from may to july with golden pea-shaped flowers. they will grow in any light, sandy soil, and may be increased by cuttings, which root readily under glass. height, in. to in. hippophae.--ornamental shrubs, thriving in ordinary soil, and increased by layers or cuttings of the roots. h. rhamnoides (sea buckthorn) flowers in may. height, ft. holboellia latifolia.--_see_ "stauntonia latifolia." holly (_ilex_).--this pleasing hardy evergreen shrub thrives best on a deep, sandy loam, but will grow in any good soil, provided the position is dry. it succeeds well in the shade. cuttings of young shoots having in. of the old wood attached will strike root, but the plant is of very slow growth, and takes at least four years to grow into a good bush. choice varieties may be grafted or budded on to the common sorts in june or july. to grow holly from seed, gather the berries when ripe, crush them, and mix them up with a little sandy loam, bury them in a hole ft. deep, and cover with litter. dig them up and sow them in march. big bushes are best moved at the end of august, mixing the earth to a puddle before planting. the less pruning they receive the better. they may be trimmed in spring. hollyhock.--may be raised from seed or cuttings. sow the seed about the second week of march in very rich soil, and cover it with in. of dry earth. in june (having soaked the bed thoroughly overnight) remove the young plants to a nursery-bed, setting them in. apart. press the earth firmly round the roots, and water plentifully until settled. in the autumn plant them where they are to bloom. cuttings may be taken as soon as the flowers appear, or from the old plants in autumn. each joint having an eye will furnish a plant. select side branches having two or three joints and leaves. cut the shoots through just under the lower joint, leaving the leaf entire; cut it also about in. above the joint. plant in equal parts of loam, gritty sand, and leaf-mould; shelter from the sun, and sprinkle them every day in fine weather with water. if the cuttings are taken in autumn pot them off in -sized pots, and keep them in a cold frame till the spring, when they may be planted out. flowers in august. height, ft. homerias.--beautiful little south african plants. for out-door cultivation plant the bulbs in a dry, warm situation, from october to january, in. deep, and the same distance apart, in rich, light, well-drained soil, and protect them from heavy rains with a good layer of leaves. for pot culture put four or five bulbs in a -in. pot, place in a cold frame, and cover with cocoa-nut fibre until the growth appears. water moderately, and when the flowers fade abstain from supplying moisture. the bulbs are not quite hardy, therefore they should be removed indoors before frosts appear. homogyne alpina.--hardy herbaceous plants flowering in april. any soil is suitable for them, and they may be increased by division. height, in. honesty (_lunaria_).--interesting hardy biennials. when dried, the shining seed-pods make a handsome addition to winter bouquets, mixed with ornamental grass. any common soil suits them. sow the seed any time from april to june, and transplant them to the border in the autumn for flowering the following may. height, - / ft. to ft. honeysuckles.--these rapid twiners thrive in any loamy soil, and may be increased by putting down layers in the autumn, after the leaves begin to fall. they can also be propagated by cuttings taken in the autumn and planted in a shady, sheltered spot. caprifolium brachypoda and the evergreen c. sempervirens are handsome, free-flowering kinds, suitable for almost any situation. c. aurea-reticulata has beautifully variegated leaves, which render it very ornamental. height, ft. to ft. hop.--a useful hardy climber for covering verandahs, summer-houses, etc. plant in rich, loamy soil, and increase by dividing the roots. (_see also_ "humulus japonicus.") hordeum jubatum (_squirrel-tail grass)_.--a very pretty species resembling miniature barley. sow seed in march, covering it very lightly, and keep the surface of the soil moist till the grass appears. height, - / ft. horminum pyrenaicum.--this hardy perennial produces erect white flowers with blue corolla in june or july. it will grow in any ordinary soil, but needs protection in winter, as it is apt to be injured by damp. it may be propagated either by seed or division. height, - / ft. horn poppy.--_see_ "glaucium." horseradish.--plant in october or february in deep, rich soil; or it may be grown on a heap of cinder-ashes, or on any light ground through which the roots can make their way readily. the best way to increase it is by slips taken from the roots. it requires little or no attention beyond pinching out the tops when running to seed and keeping the ground hoed. hotbeds, to make.--take dead leaves and stable-straw, with the dung, in the proportion of two double loads for a three-light frame. turn it over four or five times during a fortnight, watering it if it is dry. then mark out the bed, allowing ft. or more each way than the size of the frame. shake the compost well up, and afterwards beat it down equally with the fork. place the frame on the bed, leaving the lights off for four or five days to allow the rank steam to escape. keep a thermometer in the frame, and as soon as the temperature falls below degrees apply a lining of fresh dung to the front and one side of the bed, and when this again declines, add another lining to the back and other side, and so on from time to time as occasion requires. the mats used for covering the frames in frosty weather should be made to fit the top, and not hang over the sides. houseleek.--_see_ "sempervivum." houstonia coerulea.--these hardy little evergreens are more generally known as bluets. they make charming ornaments for rock-work, planted between large stones, but in this position they need protection from severe frosts. when planted in pots and placed in a cold frame they show to most advantage. a mixture of leaf-mould and sand, and a moist but well-drained situation is what they delight in. they bloom continuously from april to july. height, in. hovea celsi.--a greenhouse shrub, which is evergreen and elegant when in flower in june. a sandy loam and peat soil is most suitable, and it may be increased by cuttings planted in sand under a hand-glass. height, ft. humea.--a remarkably handsome and graceful plant, the leaves of which when slightly bruised yield a strong odour. it is equally suitable for the centre of beds or large borders, and placed in pots on terraces or the lawn it is very effective. the seed should be raised on a gentle hotbed, then potted off and kept in the greenhouse till the second year, when it may be turned out into a warm situation. it generally succeeds better in such a position than in the greenhouse. flowers in july. height, ft. to ft. humulus japonicus.--(_japanese hop_).--a hardy annual hop of rapid growth, the leaves of which are splashed with white. useful for covering arbours, verandahs, etc. a deep, loamy soil suits it best. increased by seed sown in gentle heat in february, and gradually hardened off. flowers in july. height, ft. hutchinsia alpina.--this small alpine creeper is a profuse bloomer, its glistening white flowers being produced at all seasons. it grows in moist vegetable mould, and bears transplanting at any season. care, however, is required to prevent its roots over-running and choking other things. height, in. hyacinths.--may be grown in pots, in glasses, or in beds and borders. the soil should be rich and light. good loam mixed with old manure and a little leaf-mould and sand suits them very well. if intended to be grown in pots the best time to begin potting is early in september, putting more in at intervals of two or three weeks until the end of december. one bulb is sufficient for a -in. or -in. pot, or three may be placed in an -in. pot. the soil under the bulb should not be pressed down. the top of the bulb should be just above the surface. place the pots on a bed of ashes in a cold frame, put a small inverted pot over the top of the bulb, and cover the whole with cocoa-nut fibre or cinder-ashes to the depth of about in. in about a month roots will have formed with about in. of top growth. the plants may then be taken out, gradually exposed to the light, and finally removed to the conservatory or sunny window. the doubles do best in pots. for growing in glasses select the firmest and best-shaped bulbs. those with single blossoms are preferable, as they are of stronger constitution than the doubles. fill the glasses with pure pond or rain water, so that the bulbs just escape touching it, and put a piece of charcoal in each glass, and change the water when it becomes offensive, taking care that the temperature is not below that which is poured away. stand the glasses in a cool, dark place for three or four weeks until the roots have made considerable progress, then gradually inure to the full light. september is a good time to start the growth. when planted in beds or borders, place the bulbs about in. deep and in. apart, putting a little silver sand below each one. this may be done at any time from october till frost sets in. they succeed fairly well in any good garden soil, but give greatest satisfaction when the ground is rich and light. hyacinthus (_muscari_).--a very hardy race of spring-flowering bulbs. though the varieties are very dissimilar in appearance, they all produce a good effect, especially when planted in good large clumps. plant from september to december. a sandy soil suits them best. the following are well-known varieties:--_botryoides_ (_grape hyacinth_).--very pretty and hardy, bearing fine spikes of deep, rich blue flowers in compact clusters on a stem to in. high. sweet-scented, and blooms about may. the _alba_, or white, variety is also sweet-scented. hyacinthus--_continued_. _candicans_ (_galtonia_).--the white cape hyacinth, or spire lily. a hardy, summer-flowering, bulbous plant ft. to ft. in height, gracefully surmounted with from twenty to fifty pendent, bell-shaped snow-white flowers. thrives in any position and equally suitable for indoor or outdoor decoration. _moschatus_ (_musk hyacinth_).--bears very fragrant purplish flowers. _plvmosum_ (_feather hyacinth_).--a fine, hardy, dwarf plant suitable for any soil. its massive sprays of fine blue flowers, arranged in curious clusters, to in. in length, resemble much-branched slender coral. _racemosum_ (_starch hyacinth_).--rich dark-blue or reddish-purple flowers. very free-flowering and fine for massing. it is similar to the cape hyacinth, but flowers in denser spikes. hydrangea.--this shrub delights in a moist, sheltered position and rich soil. it may be increased at any time from cuttings of the young side-shoots, or in. long, under glass, in sandy soil. the old stems will also strike if planted in a sheltered situation. the plants should be cut back when they have done flowering, and protected from frost; or they may be cut down to the root and covered with manure. they are well suited for the front of shrubberies, and also make fine plants for pot cultivation. the flowers are produced in june and july. height, ft. hymenanthera crassifolia.--ornamental evergreen shrubs, thriving best in a compost of loam and peat. they are increased by cuttings planted in sand and subjected to a little heat. height, ft. hymenoxys.--pretty little hardy annuals that may be easily raised from seed sown early in march in any garden soil. they bloom in june. height, ft. hypericum (_st. john's wort_).--favourite dwarf shrubs. any soil suits the hardy kinds, but they prefer shade and moisture. these may be increased by seed or division. the greenhouse varieties thrive best in a mixture of loam and peat. young cuttings placed in sand under glass will strike. july is their flowering season. height, - / ft. to ft. i iberis.--_see_ "candytuft." ice plants.--_see_ "mesembryanthemum." ilex.--_see_ "holly." impatiens sultani.--half-hardy perennials. may be raised from seed sown early in spring on a hotbed, or later on in a shady spot in the open border; greenhouse culture, however, is more suitable. they bloom in august. height, / ft. incarvilleas.--ornamental hardy herbaceous plants, of easy culture. they are suitable for the border or the rockery, and will grow in any soil if not too dry and exposed. the tuberous roots may be planted at any time in autumn, in. deep. i. delavayi makes a fine solitary or lawn plant, its leaves being from to ft. long; the soft rose-pink, mimulus-shaped flowers, which are carried on stout stems well above the foliage, appearing in may. care should be taken not to disturb it in spring, and it is advisable to cover the roots in winter with a pyramid of ashes, which may be carefully removed at the end of april. incarvilleas may be propagated by seed sown, as soon as it is ripe, in light, well-drained soil, giving the young plants protection in a frame during the first winter, with enough water merely to keep them moist. height, ft. indian corn.--_see_ "zea." indian shot.--_see_ "canna." india-rubber plants.--_see_ "ficus." indigofera.--beautiful evergreen shrubs. i. australis has elegant, fern-like foliage and racemes of pink or purple pea-shaped flowers in april. i. decora alba bears its white flowers in july. they require a sandy loam or peat soil, and greenhouse culture. cuttings of the young wood planted in sand under glass will strike. height, / ft. insects on plants.--to destroy insects on plants wash the plant with tobacco-water (_which see_). or put oz. of quassia chips in a muslin bag, pour on some boiling water, and make it up to i gallon; dissolve oz. of soft soap, add it to the chips, and stir well. use it two or three times during spring and early summer. inula royleana (_fleabane_).--a hardy perennial which flowers in november. it will grow in any garden soil, and can be increased by seeds, or by division of the roots. height, ft. ionopsidium.--these hardy annuals grow freely in any rich, damp soil; a shady position is indispensable. height, / ft. ipomoea.--these beautiful climbing plants are very suitable for covering trellis-work, or for the pillars or rafters of the stove-house. the seed is generally sown in april on a hotbed or under glass, and the young plants set out in the border of the house in may in light, rich soil. success is mainly secured by allowing plenty of root-room. the perennial kinds are increased from cuttings taken from the small side-shoots placed in sand in a brisk bottom-heat. if grown in the open they often shed their seed, and come up year after year with but little attention. they make a good contrast to canariensis. the ipomoea horsfalliae, with its bright scarlet flowers, has a lovely appearance, but must be treated as a stove evergreen. this is propagated by layers, or by grafting on some strong-growing kind. it thrives in loam and peat mixed with a little dung, and flowers in july or august. height, ft. to ft. ipomopsis.--a very beautiful half-hardy biennial, but difficult to cultivate. some gardeners steep the seed in hot water before sowing it; but the best way seems to be to sow it in july in -in. pots in equal parts of sandy peat and loam, ensuring good drainage, and place it in a cold frame, giving it very little water. when the leaves appear, thin out the plants to three or four in each pot. replace them in the frame for a week or so, then remove them to a light, airy part of the greenhouse for the winter. during this period be careful not to over-water them. in spring shift them into well-drained - / -in. pots, using the same kind of soil as before, and taking great care not to injure the roots; still give the least possible amount of water. if plenty of light and air be given, they will flower in july or august. height, ft. iresines.--take cuttings of these greenhouse plants in autumn; insert them thinly in -size pots filled with coarse sand, loam, and leaf-mould, and place in a uniform temperature of or degrees. when they have taken root place them near the glass. height, - / ft. iris.--the iris is the orchid of the flower garden; its blossoms are the most rich and varied in colour of hardy plants. for cutting, for vases, table decoration, etc., it is exceedingly useful, as it is very free-flowering, and lasts a long time in water. it thrives in almost any soil, though a sandy one suits it best, and is strikingly effective when planted in clumps. it soon increases if left undisturbed. the english iris blooms in june and july, bearing large and magnificent flowers ranging in colour from white to deep purple, some being self-colours, while others are prettily marbled. the german iris is especially suitable for town gardens. the spanish iris blooms a fortnight before the english. its flowers, however, are smaller, and the combinations of colours very different. the leopard iris (_pardanthus chinensis_)is very showy, its orange-yellow flowers, spotted purple-brown, appearing in june and july. they are quite hardy. the best time for planting them is october or november, selecting a sunny position. height, - / ft. isopyrums--hardy herbaceous plants of great beauty, nearly related to the thalictrums. they will grow in any ordinary soil, but flourish best in vegetable mould, and in a moist, yet open, situation. they are readily raised from seed, or may be propagated by division of the roots in autumn. they flower in july. height, ft. to - / ft. ivy (_hedera_).--a deep, rich soil suits the common ivy; the more tender kinds require a lighter mould. to increase them, plant slips in a north border in sandy soil. keep them moist through the autumn, and plant them out when well rooted. the following are the principal choice sorts:--aurea spectabilis, palmate-leaved, blotched with yellow; cavendishii, a slender-growing variety, leaves margined with white, with a bronzy shade on the edge; conglomerata, crumpled leaves; elegantissima, slender-growing, with silvery variegated leaves; irish gold-blotch, large leaves, blotched with yellow; latifolia maculata, large white-blotched leaves; lee's silver, silver variegated; maderiensis variegata, leaves broadly marked with white; marmorata, small leaves blotched and marbled with white; pupurea, small leaves of a bright green changing to bronzy-purple; rhomboides obovata, deep green foliage; rhomboides variegata, greyish-green leaves, edged with white; and silver queen, a good hardy variety. ixias.--plant out of doors from september to december, in a sunny, sheltered position, in light, rich, sandy soil. for indoor cultivation, plant four bulbs in a -in. pot in a compost of loam, leaf-mould, and silver sand. plunge the pot in ashes in a frame or cold pit, and withhold water until the plants appear. when making free growth remove them to the conservatory or greenhouse, placing them near the glass, and give careful attention to the watering. ixias are also known under the name of african corn lilies. j jacobaea (_ragwort_).--may be raised from cuttings in the same way as verbenas, and will grow freely from seeds sown in autumn or spring. it delights in a rich, light soil. the purple jacobaea is a great favourite of the public. flowers in august. height, ft. jacob's ladder.--_see_ "polemonium." jasione perennis (_sheep scabious_).--a hardy perennial which produces a profusion of heads of blue flowers in june, and continues to bloom till august. it enjoys a peat soil, and should have the protection of a frame during the winter. it can be propagated by seeds, cuttings, or division. height, ft. jasminum.--these are favourite plants for training over arbours or trellis-work, and for growing against walls. the hardy kinds will flourish in ordinary soil. the stove and greenhouse sorts should be provided with a mixture of sandy peat and loam. they may all be increased by cuttings of ripened wood planted in a sandy soil under glass. j. nudifolium produces an abundance of bright flowers after its leaves have fallen, and is very suitable for town gardens. j. unofficinale is likewise adapted for town, bearing confinement well, and has very sweet flowers. j. revolutum needs protection in severe weather. they bloom in july. height, ft. job's tears.--_see_ "coix lachryma." jonquils.--these are quite hardy, and may be grown in the open in the same manner as hyacinths. five or six bulbs in a -in. pot make a very pretty bouquet. they are excellent early flowers, and very odoriferous. plant in autumn, placing sand round the bulbs. best not disturbed too often. the leaves should not be cut off when withering, but allowed to die down. they bloom in april. height, ft. joss flower.--_see_ "chinese sacred narcissus." juniper (_juniperus_).--these useful conifers prefer dry chalk or sandy soils, but will thrive in any ground that is not too heavy. j. japonica, sabina, and tamariscifolia do well on steep banks and rock-work. they may be propagated by seeds, grafting, or by cuttings of firm young shoots planted in a sandy compost, kept shaded, and covered with a hand-glass. k kadsura japonica.--this is a beautiful creeper for a south or west aspect. it thrives best in loam and sandy peat. cuttings may be struck in sand, placed under a glass, and subjected to heat. kale.--_see_ "borecole." kalmia latifolia.--this hardy, dwarf evergreen shrub is deservedly a great favourite. it produces a wealth of flowers in large clusters. it requires to be grown in peat or good leaf-mould, and needs pure air. it is increased by pegging down the lower branches, which soon become rooted. the flowers are produced from june to august. height, ft. kalosanthes.--showy greenhouse succulent plants. a light, turfy loam is suitable for them, and they may be increased by placing cuttings of the young shoots in a sandy soil on a slight hotbed in spring. pinch them back so as to produce a bushy growth, and give support to the heavy heads of bloom. the cuttings should be left for twenty-four hours to dry before they are planted. the plants require very little water, and they flower in july. height, in. to ft. kaulfussia.--sow this pretty hardy annual in april in the open border, or in march in slight heat. it may also be sown in autumn for early flowering. it will succeed in any light soil, blooming in july. height, in. kennedya marryattæ.--a greenhouse evergreen twining plant of a very beautiful order, which thrives best in a compost of sandy loam and peat. cuttings of the young wood planted in sand, and having a bottom-heat, will strike. it produces its flowers in may. height, ft. other varieties of kennedyas range from to ft. they all need to be well drained and not to stand too near the pipes. kerria (_corchorus_).--beautiful hardy shrubs, which may be grown in any garden soil, and can be propagated by cuttings of the young wood, taken at a joint, and placed under glass. they flower at midsummer. height, ft. koelreuteria paniculata.--this is an ornamental tree bearing long spikes of yellow flowers in july. it will grow in any soil, but requires a sheltered position, and may be increased by layers or root cuttings. height, ft. kohl rabi (_turnip-rooted cabbage_).--though mostly grown as a farm crop, this vegetable is strongly recommended for garden cultivation, as it is both productive and nutritious, and is delicious when cooked while still very small and young. sow in march, and transplant to deeply-dug and liberally manured ground, at a distance of in. from each other. l lachenalia. (_cape cowslips_).--charming greenhouse plants for pot or basket culture. pot in december in a compost of fibrous loam, leaf-mould, and sand; place as near the glass as possible, and never allow the soil to become dry, but maintain good drainage, and only give a little water till they have produced their second leaves. no more heat is required than will keep out the frost. lactuca sonchifolia. (_sow thistle-leaved lettuce_).--an ornamental, but not handsome, hardy perennial, with leaves ft. in length and in. in breadth. it is of neat habit and enjoys the sunshine. a deeply-dug, sandy loam suits it, and it may be increased by seed or division of the roots. the flowers are produced from september till frost sets in. height, ft. ladies' slipper orchid.--_see_ "cypripedium." lady's mantle.--_see_ "alchemilla." lagurus ovatus.--this hardy annual is commonly known as hare's-tail grass. it is distinctly ornamental, producing elegant egg-shaped tufts of a silvery-white hue, and is fine for ornamenting bouquets. sow in march, and keep the ground moist till the seed germinates. height, ft. lallemantia canescens.--bees are very fond of this blue hardy annual, which may readily be grown from seed sown in the spring. height, ft. lamium.--these plants are mostly of a hardy herbaceous description and of little value. they will grow well in any kind of soil, flowering from march to july, according to their varieties, and can be propagated by seed or division. height, in. to ft. lantana.--these dwarf, bushy, half-hardy perennial shrubs bear verbena-like blossoms. they like a dry and warm situation and rich, light soil. the seed is sown in march to produce summer and autumn blooming plants. if cuttings are placed in sand, in heat, they will take root easily. height, ft. to - / ft. lapageria rosea.--a beautiful climbing plant which bears large rose-coloured flowers in may. it can be grown in any light, rich soil, but a compost of leaf-mould, sand, and peat suits it best. it makes a very desirable greenhouse plant, and can be increased either by cuttings or by division. lapagerias require partial shade, plenty of water, and good drainage. height, ft. lardizabala biternata.--this climbing shrub has fine ornamental foliage. it is most suitable for a south or west aspect, where it proves hardy; in other positions protection should be afforded. it will grow in any good soil. may is the month in which it flowers. height, ft. larkspur.--the stock-flowered larkspur is of the same habit as the dutch rocket, but has longer spikes and larger and more double flowers. the hyacinth-flowered is an improved strain of the rocket. among other of the hardy annual varieties may be mentioned the candelabrum-formed, the emperor, and the ranunculi-flowered. they are charming flowers for beds or mixed borders, and only require the same treatment as ordinary annuals, when they will flower in june. height, ft. to - / ft. for perennial larkspurs, _see_ "delphinium." lasiandra.--stove evergreen shrubs, flourishing best in a mixture of equal parts of loam, peat, and sand. they are propagated by cuttings of the young wood, plunged in heat. july is their flowering month. height, ft. lasthenia.--a hardy annual of a rather pretty nature, suitable for flower-beds or borders. autumn is the best time for sowing the seed, but it may also be sown early in the spring. it blooms in may. height, ft. lathyrus.--handsome plants when in flower, the larger kinds being well adapted as backgrounds to other plants in the shrubbery, where they will require supports. they may be planted in any garden soil, and can be increased by seed, and some of the perennial kinds by division of the root. l. latifolia (everlasting pea) flowers in august, other varieties at different times, from may onwards. height, ft. to ft. laurel.--laurels will grow in any good garden soil. they are grown both as bushes and standards, and require but little attention beyond watering. the standards are produced by choosing a young portugal plant and gradually removing the side-shoots on the lower part of the stem, and when the desired height is reached a well-balanced head is cultivated, any eyes that break out on the stem being rubbed off with the thumb. lauro rotundifolia is beyond dispute the best of all laurels; it is of free growth and of dense habit, and its leaves are roundish and of a lively green. (_see also_ "epigaea.") all laurels may be propagated by cuttings and by layers, the latter being the plan usually adopted. laurestinus.--_see_ "viburnum tinus." laurus.--_see_ "bay, sweet." lavatera.--the greenhouse and frame kinds grow in any light soil, and are increased by cuttings of the ripened wood, under glass. the hardy herbaceous species grow well in any common soil, and are propagated by seeds or division. the annuals are sown in the open in spring. some bloom in june, others as late as august. height, ft. to ft. lavender (_lavandula spied_).--a hardy shrub whose sweetly-scented flowers, which are produced in august, are much prized. a dry, gravelly soil is what it likes best. young plants should be raised every three years. it is readily propagated from seed sown in spring. cuttings about in. long, taken in autumn and planted in. deep under a hand-light or in a shaded, sheltered position, will strike. height, - / ft. lawns--to make or renovate lawns sow the seed on damp ground during march or april, if possible, but in any case not later than september, as the young plants are easily ruined by frost. rake the seed in lightly, afterwards roll with a wooden roller, and carefully weed the ground until the grass is well established. to form a thick bottom quickly on new lawns sow lbs., or bushels, to the acre; for improving old ones, lbs. per acre. frequent cutting and rolling is essential to success. if the grass is inclined to grow rank and coarse it will be much improved by a good dressing of sand over it; if it has an inclination to scald and burn up, sprinkle it with guano or soot just before a shower of rain. an accumulation of moss upon a lawn can only be cured by under-draining. lawns, shrubs for.--_see_ "shrubs for lawns." layering.--_see under_ "carnations." ledum (_labrador tea_).--low-growing american evergreen shrubs, thriving best in sandy peat, and may be increased by layers. leek.--sow early in march, and prick out the plants in rich soil, in a sheltered position, to strengthen. as soon as they are large enough, plant them out in very rich, light ground in drills in. between each plant and the rows in. apart. for large exhibition leeks sow in boxes in february, under glass. plant out in june in trenches in. wide and in. deep, with plenty of old manure at the bottom of the trench and in. of good light mould on the top of it. gradually earth up as the stems grow. water liberally in dry weather, and give a little weak liquid manure occasionally. leontopodium.--hardy perennials, succeeding best in peat soil. they are most suitable for rock-work, and may be increased by seed or division of the roots. bloom is produced in june. height, in. leopard's bane.--_see_ "doronicum." leptosiphon.--charming hardy annuals which make nice pot-plants. the seed should be sown in rich, light soil--peat for preference. if this is done in autumn they will flower in april and may; if sown in spring they will bloom in autumn. they are very attractive in beds or ribbons, and also on rock-work. height, in. to ft. leptospermum.--neat greenhouse evergreen shrubs, most at home in equal portions of loam, peat, and sand. cuttings may be struck in sand under glass. they flower in june. height, ft. to ft. leschenaultia.--elegant greenhouse shrubs, delighting in a mixture of turfy loam, peat, and sand. they are evergreen, flower in june, and are propagated by cuttings of the young wood under glass. height, ft. lettuce.--sow early in february on a slight hotbed, and prick out into a well-manured and warm border, having the soil broken down fine on the surface. for early summer supplies sow outdoors in march, and at intervals till the middle of september for later crops. some of the plants raised in september should be wintered in a cold frame, and the remainder transplanted to a dry, sheltered border, or protected with hand-lights. the june and july sowings may be made where the plants are intended to remain. they should stand from to in. apart. a north border is a suitable position in the summer months, as they are less exposed to the sun, and do not run to seed so quickly. the cos lettuce requires to be tied up to blanch; this should be done ten days before it is wanted for use. cabbage lettuce does not need to be tied. leucanthemum (_hardy marguerites_).--same treatment as chrysanthemum. leucojum (_snowflake_).--also known as st. agnes' flower. handsome plants. the flowers are pure white, every petal being tipped with green, dropping in a cluster of from six to eight blooms, each nearly in. long. they grow freely in almost any soil, sandy loam being preferable. increased by off-sets from the bulb, or by seed as soon as it is ripe. the spring snowflake blooms in march, the summer variety in june. the latter is a much more vigorous plant than the former. height, in. to in. leucophyton browni.--a popular white-foliaged bedding plant, which may be increased by dibbling cuttings in sandy soil and placing them in a cool frame. lewisia rediviva.--this makes a pretty rock-plant. it is a perennial and quite hardy, but requires plenty of sun. during april and may it produces large flowers varying in colour from satiny rose to white. the most suitable soil is a light loam mixed with brick rubbish. it is increased by division of the root, or it may be raised from seed. height, in. leycesteria formosa.--ornamental plants, the flowers resembling hops of a purple colour. they will grow in any soil, but need protection in winter. they are multiplied by cuttings. height, ft. liatris pycnostachya.--a curious old herbaceous perennial, now seldom met with, sending up late in summer a dense cylindrical purple spike ft. high. it needs a rich, light, sandy soil, and to be protected during the winter with a thick covering of litter. the roots may be divided in the spring. height, ft. libertia formosa.--the narrow foliage and spikes of pure white flowers, produced in may and june, render this hardy perennial very ornamental. the soil should consist of equal parts of loam and peat. it is propagated by dividing the roots. height, ft. libonia floribunda.--this is a winter-flowering plant, and is easily grown in a cool greenhouse. it is very useful for table decoration, its slender red and yellow tubes of bloom being very effective, but it does not do to keep it for any length of time in a room where there is gas. when flowering has ceased, encourage new growth by giving it plenty of water, air, and sunlight. the new shoots should be cut back in may, and the tips of them used as cuttings, which strike readily in good mould. height, ft. ligustrum _(privet)._--l. ovalifolium is a handsome hardy evergreen, of very rapid growth, and one of the best ornamental hedge plants in cultivation, especially for towns or smoky situations. l. japonicum is likewise ornamental and hardy: tricolor is considered one of the best light-coloured variegated plants grown. l. coriaceum is a slow-growing, compact bush with very dark, shining green leaves, which are round, thick, and leathery. privet will grow in any soil or situation, and is readily increased by cuttings planted in the shade in spring. lilac--_see_ "syringa." lilium.--the lily is admirably adapted for pot culture, the conservatory, and the flower border, and will flourish in any light soil or situation. to produce fine specimens in pots they should be grown in a mixture of light turfy loam and leaf-mould. six bulbs planted in a -in. pot form a good group. the pots should have free ventilation, and the bulbs be covered with in. of mould. for outdoor cultivation plant the bulbs to in. deep, from october to march. after once planting they require but little care, and should not be disturbed oftener than once in three years, as established plants bloom more freely than if taken up annually. give a thin covering of manure during the winter. lilium seed may be sown in well-drained pots or shallow boxes filled with equal parts of peat, leaf-mould, loam, and sand. cover the seeds slightly with fine mould and place the boxes or pots in a temperature of or degrees. a cold frame will answer the purpose, but the seeds will take longer to germinate. the lancifolium and auratum varieties have a delicious fragrance. lilium--_continued_. _candidum_ (the madonna, or white garden lily) should be planted before the middle of october, if possible, in groups of three, in well-drained, highly-manured loam. should they decline, take them up in september and re-plant at once in fresh, rich soil, as they will not stand being kept out of the ground long. they are increased by off-sets. as soon as these are taken from the parent bulb, plant them in a nursery-bed; after two years they may be transferred to the garden. this lily is quite hardy, and needs no protection during winter. _lancifolium_ make very fine pot-plants, or they may be placed in a sunny situation in the border, but in the latter case they must have a thick covering of dry ashes in winter. if grown in pots place them, early in march, in rich, sandy soil. three bulbs are sufficient for an -in. pot. give very little water, but plenty air in mild weather. let them grow slowly. when all frost is over place pans under them, mulch the surface with old manure, and supply freely with air and water. they are propagated by off-sets. _martagon_ (or turk's cap) requires the same treatment as the candidum, with the exception that a little sand should be added to the soil. _tigrinum_ (tiger lily) also receives the same treatment as the madonna. when the flower-stems grow up they throw out roots. a few lumps of horse manure should be placed round for these roots to lay hold of. they are increased by the tiny bulbs which form at the axis of the leaves of the flower-stem. when these fall with a touch they are planted in rich, light earth, about in. apart. in four or five years' time they will make fine bulbs. _auratum_ and _szovitzianum_ (or colchicum) thrive best in a deep, friable, loamy soil, which should be well stirred before planting. if the soil is of a clayey nature it should be loosened to a depth of several feet, and fresh loam, coarse sand, and good peat or leaf-mould added, to make it sufficiently light. for _pardalinum_ (the panther lily) and _superbum_ mix the garden soil with three parts peat and one part sand, and keep the ground moist. they should occupy a rather shady position. all the other varieties will succeed in any good garden soil enriched with leaf-mould or well-decayed manure. for _vallota_ (scarborough lily), _belladonna_, and _formosissima_ (or jacobean) lilies, _see_ "amaryllis." for _african lily, see_ "agapanthus." for _peruvian lilies, see_ "alstromeria." for _st bernard's_ and _st bruno's lilies, see_ "anthericum." for _caffre lilies, see_ "clivias." lily of the valley.--set the roots in bunches ft. apart, and before severe weather sets in cover them with a dressing of well-rotted manure. they should not be disturbed, even by digging among the roots. if grown in pots, they should be kept in a cool place and perfectly dry when their season is over: by watering they will soon come into foliage and flower again. for forcing put ten or twelve "buds" in a -in. pot--any light soil will do--plunge the pot in a sheltered part of the garden. from this they may be removed to the forcing-house as required to be brought into bloom. plunge the pots in cocoa-nut fibre and maintain an even temperature of from to degrees. limnanthes douglasii.--very elegant and beautiful hardy annuals, which are slightly fragrant. they must be grown in a moist and shady situation. the seeds ripen freely, and should be sown in autumn to produce bloom in june, or they may be sown in spring for flowering at a later period. height, ft. linaria.--these all do best in a light, sandy loam, and make good plants for rock-work. l. bipartita is suitable for an autumn sowing. the other annuals are raised in spring. l. triornithophora is a biennial, and may be sown any time between april and june, or in august. the hardy perennial, l. alpina, should be sown in april, and if necessary transplanted in the autumn. linarias flower from july to september. height, in. to ft. linnaea borealis.--a rare, native, evergreen creeping perennial. from july to september it bears pale pink flowers; it makes a pretty pot-plant, and also does well in the open when planted in a shady position. it enjoys a peat soil, and is propagated by separating the creeping stems after they are rooted. height, / in. linum (_flax_).--this succeeds best in rich, light mould. the linum flavum, or golden flax, is very suitable for pot culture; it grows in. in height, and bears brilliant yellow flowers. it requires the same treatment as other half-hardy perennials. the scarlet flax is an annual, very free-flowering, and unsurpassed for brilliancy; easily raised from seed sown in spring. height, / ft. the hardy, shrubby kinds may be increased by cuttings placed under glass. a mixture of loam and peat makes a fine soil for the greenhouse and frame varieties. they flower from march to july. lippia reptans.--a frame creeping perennial which flowers in june. it requires a light soil. cuttings of the young wood may be struck under glass. height, ft. lithospermum prostratum.--a hardy perennial, evergreen trailer, needing no special culture, and adapting itself to any soil. it is increased by cuttings of the previous year's growth, placed in peat and silver sand, shaded and kept cool, but not too wet. they should be struck early in summer, so as to be well rooted before winter sets in. its blue flowers are produced in june. height, ft. loasa.--the flowers are both beautiful and curiously formed, but the plants have a stinging property. they grow well in any loamy soil, and are easily increased by seed sown in spring. flowers are produced in june and july. height, ft. besides the annuals there is a half-hardy climber, l. aurantiaca, bearing orange-coloured flowers, and attaining the height of or ft. lobelia.--these effective plants may be raised from seed sown in january or february in fine soil. sprinkle a little silver sand or very fine mould over the seed; place in a greenhouse, or in a frame having a slight bottom-heat, and when large enough prick them out about in. apart; afterwards put each single plant in a thumb-pot, and plant out at the end of may. as the different varieties do not always come true from seed, it is best to propagate by means of cuttings taken in autumn, or take up the old plants before the frost gets to them, remove all the young shoots (those at the base of the plant are best, and if they have a little root attached to them so much the better), and plant them thinly in well-drained, shallow pans of leaf-mould and sand; plunge the pans in a hotbed under a frame, shade them from hot sunshine, and when they are rooted remove them to the greenhouse till spring, at which time growth must be encouraged by giving a higher temperature and frequent syringing. they may then be planted out in light, rich soil, where they will bloom in june or july. height, in. lobels catchfly.--_see_ "silene." london pride.--_see_ "saxifrage." lonicera.--hardy deciduous shrubs, which will grow in any ordinary soil, and produce their flowers in april or may. they are propagated by cuttings planted in a sheltered position. prune as soon as flowering is over. height, from ft. to ft. lophospermum.--very elegant half-hardy climbers. planted against a wall in the open air, or at the bottom of trellis-work, they will flower abundantly in june, but the protection of a greenhouse is necessary in winter. they like a rich, light soil, and may be grown from seeds sown on a slight hotbed in spring, or from cuttings taken young and placed under glass. height, ft. love apples.--_see_ "tomatoes." love grass.--_see_ "eragrostis." love-in-a-mist.--_see_ "nigella." love-lies-bleeding (_amaranthus caudatus_).--a hardy annual bearing graceful drooping racemes of crimson blossom. the seed should be sown in the open at the end of march, and thinned out or transplanted with a good ball of earth. makes a fine border plant. height, ft. luculia gratissima.--a fine plant either for the wall or border. it grows well in a compost of peat and light, turfy loam, but it is not suitable for pot culture. during growing time abundance of water is needed. when flowering has ceased, cut it hard back. it may be increased by layering, or by cuttings placed in sand under glass and subjected to heat. it flowers in august. height, ft. lunaria.--_see_ "honesty." lupins.--though old-fashioned flowers, these still rank among our most beautiful annual and herbaceous border plants. they may be grown in any soil, but a rich loam suits them best. the seed germinates freely when sown in march, and the flowers are produced in july. height, ft. to ft. lychnis.--hardy perennials which, though rather straggling, deserve to be cultivated on account of the brilliancy of their flowers. l. chalcedonica, commonly known as ragged robin, is perhaps the most showy variety; but l. viscaria plena, or catchfly, is a very beautiful plant. they grow freely in light, rich, loamy soil, but need dividing frequently to prevent them dwindling away. the best season for this operation is early in spring. beyond the care that is needed to prevent the double varieties reverting to a single state, they merely require the same treatment as other hardy perennials. they flower in june and july. height, ft. to ft. lyre flower.--_see_ "dielytra." lysimachia clethroides.--this hardy perennial has something of the appearance of a tall speedwell. when in flower it is attractive, and as it blooms from july on to september it is worth a place in the border. a deep, rich loam is most suitable for its growth, and a sheltered position is of advantage. the roots may be divided either in november or early in spring. height, ft. lysimachia nummularia (_creeping jenny_).--this plant is extremely hardy, and is eminently suitable either for rock-work or pots. it is of the easiest cultivation, and when once established requires merely to be kept in check. every little piece of the creeping root will, if taken off, make a fresh plant. lythrum.--very handsome hardy perennials which thrive in any garden soil, and may be raised from seed or increased by dividing the roots. they flower in july. height, of different varieties, in. to ft. m madia.--a hardy annual of a rather handsome order. the seed should be sown in may in a shady situation. the plant is not particular as to soil, and will flower about eight weeks after it is sown, and continue to bloom during august and september. height, / ft. magnolia grandiflora.--a handsome, hardy evergreen, with large shining, laurel-shaped leaves, and highly-scented, tulip-shaped white flowers. a noble plant for a spacious frontage, but in most places requires to be grown on a wall. it flourishes in any damp soil, and is increased by layers. flowers in august. height, ft. mahonia.--handsome evergreen shrubs, useful for covert planting or for grouping with others. they grow best in a compost of sand, peat, and loam, and may be propagated by cuttings or by layers of ripened wood, laid down in autumn. they flower in april. height, ft. to ft. maianthemum bifolium.--the flowers of this hardy perennial are produced in april and may, and somewhat resemble miniature lily of the valley. seed may be sown at the end of july. the plant will grow in any soil, but delights in partial shade. height, in. maize.--_see_ "zea." malope.--very beautiful hardy annuals having soft leaves. they may be raised from seed sown in april in any garden soil. they bloom in june or july. height, / ft. to ft. malva.--very ornamental plants, more especially the greenhouse varieties. the hardy perennials succeed in any good garden soil, and are increased by seed sown in the autumn, or by division of the root. the greenhouse kinds should be grown in rich earth: these are propagated by cuttings planted in light soil. the annuals are poor plants. some of the varieties bloom in june, others in august. height, ft. mandevillea suaveolens.--a fine climbing plant bearing very sweet white flowers in june. it is rather tender, and more suitable for the conservatory than the open air. it does not make a good pot-plant, but finds a suitable home in the border of the conservatory in equal parts of peat and sandy loam. in pruning adopt the same method as for the vine or other plants which bear flowers on wood of the same year's growth. it is propagated by seed sown in heat, or by cuttings under glass. syringe the leaves daily during the hot season. a temperature of from to degrees in winter, and from to degrees in summer should be maintained. height, ft. manures.--one of the best fertilisers of the soil is made by saturating charred wood with urine. this may be drilled in with seeds in a dry state. for old gardens liquid manure is preferable to stable manure, and if lime or chalk be added it will keep in good heart for years without becoming too rich. a good manure is made by mixing bushels of lime with cwts. of salt. this is sufficient for one acre. it should be forked in directly it is put upon the ground. superphosphate of lime mixed with a small amount of nitrate of soda and forked into the ground is also a fine manure, but is more expensive than that made from lime and salt. charred cow-dung is ready for immediate use. for established fruit-trees use, in showery weather, equal quantities of muriate of potash and nitrate of soda, scattering oz. to the square yard round the roots. peruvian guano, in the proportion of oz. to each gallon of water, is a very powerful and rapid fertiliser. in whatever form manure is given, whether in a dry or liquid form, care must be taken not to administer it in excessive quantities, for too strong a stimulant is as injurious as none at all. in ordinary cases loam with a fourth part leaf-mould is strong enough for potting purposes; and no liquid except plain water should be given until the plants have been established some time. for roses, rhubarb, and plants that have occupied the same ground for a considerable time, mix lb. of superphosphate of lime with / lb. of guano and gallons of water, and pour or gallons round each root every third day while the plants are in vigorous growth. herbaceous plants are better without manure. liquid manure should be of the same colour as light ale. maple.--_see_ "acer." marguerites (_chrysanthemums frutescens_).--the white paris daisies are very effective when placed against scarlet geraniums or other brightly-coloured flowers, and likewise make fine pot-plants. they will grow in any light soil, and merely require the same treatment as other half-hardy perennials. height, ft. (_see also_ "anthemis" _and_ "buphthalmum.") margyricarpus setosus (_bristly pearl fruit_).--a charming little evergreen, of procumbent growth, bearing throughout the whole summer a number of berries on the main branches. being only half-hardy, it requires protection from frost, but in the warmer weather it may be planted on rock-work in sandy loam and vegetable mould. cuttings planted in moist peat under a hand-glass will strike, or it may be propagated by layers. height, in. marigolds.--handsome and free-flowering half-hardy annuals. the greenhouse varieties thrive in a mixture of loam and peat, and cuttings root easily if planted in sand under glass. the african and tall french varieties make a fine display when planted in shrubberies or large beds, while the dwarf french kinds are very effective in the foreground of taller plants, or in beds by themselves. they are raised from seed sown in a slight heat in march, and planted out at the end of may in any good soil. height, in. to ft. (_see also_ "calendula," "tagetes," _and_ "calthus.") martynia.--handsome half-hardy, fragrant annuals. the seed should be sown on a hotbed in march. when the plants are sufficiently advanced transplant them singly into pots of light, rich earth, and keep them in the stove or greenhouse, where they will flower in june. height, / ft. marvel of peru (_mirabilis_).--half-hardy perennials, which are very handsome when in flower, and adorn equally the greenhouse or the open. they may be increased by seed sown in light soil in july or august and planted out in the border in spring. at the approach of frost take the roots up and store them in dry ashes or sand. they flower in july. height, ft. massonia.--singular plants, which to grow to perfection should be placed in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. they require no water while in a dormant state, and may be increased by seed or by off-sets from the bulbs. height, in. to in. mathiola.--_see_ "stocks." mathiola bicornis (_night-scented stocks_).--a favourite hardy annual whose lilac flowers are fragrant towards evening. they may be grown from seed sown between february and may on any ordinary soil. height, ft. matricaria.--this is a half-hardy annual of little interest so far as its flowers are concerned, and is mostly grown as a foliage plant. the seed should be sown in a frame in march, and transplanted at the end of may. height, ft. maurandia barclayana.--this elegant twining plant is best grown in pots, so that it can more conveniently be taken indoors in the winter. the soil should be light and rich. cuttings can be taken either in spring or autumn, or it may be raised from seed. it does very well in the open during the summer, placed against a wall or trellis-work, but will not stand the cold. in the greenhouse it reaches perfection, and blooms in july. height, ft. mazus pumilio.--a pretty diminutive herbaceous plant. when grown in peat and sand in an open situation it survives from year to year, but it will not live through the winter in cold clay soils. its pale green foliage is seen to advantage in carpet bedding, and its branched violet flowers, put forth from june to september, make it a desirable rock-work plant. it may be increased by transplanting, at the end of april, the rooted stems which run under the surface of the ground. meconopsis cambrica(_welsh poppy_).--an ornamental hardy perennial, often found on english rocks. it may be grown in any light, rich soil, is easily raised from seed, and blooms in june. height, - / ft. medlars.--these trees will grow on any well-drained soil. the dutch medlar is most prized, as it bears the largest fruit. it is raised from seed, and usually trained to a standard form. the nottingham and royal are also excellent varieties. any special variety may be grafted on to the seedlings. on deep soils it is best grafted on the pear stock; on light, sandy soil it may be grafted on the white thorn. no pruning is required, beyond cutting away cross-growing branches. megasea.--this hardy herbaceous plant flowers from april to june. a light, sandy soil suits it best. it may be grown from seed or multiplied by division. height, ft. melissa officinalis.--a hardy perennial, flowering in july. any soil suits it. it is increased by division of the root. height, ft. melittis melissophyllum (_large-flowered bastard balm_).--this handsome perennial is not often seen, but it deserves to be more generally grown, especially as it will thrive in almost any soil; but to grow it to perfection, it should be planted in rich loam. it flowers from june to august, and may be increased by division of the roots any time after the latter month. height, / ft. melon.--sow from january to june in pots plunged in a hotbed, the temperature of which should not be under degrees. when the plants have made four or five leaves, set them out in a house or hotbed having a temperature ranging from to degrees. keep the plants well thinned and water carefully, as they are liable to damp off at the collar if they have too much wet. do not allow them to ramble after the fruit has begun to swell, nor allow the plants to bear more than two, or at most three, melons each. they require a strong, fibry, loamy soil, with a little rotten manure worked in. the hero of lockinge is a grand white-fleshed variety, and blenheim orange is a handsome scarlet-fleshed sort. menispermum canadense (_moon seed_).--a pretty slender-branched, hardy, climbing, deciduous shrub, with yellow flowers in june, followed with black berries. it grows in any soil, and can be propagated by seed, by division of roots, or by planting cuttings in spring in a sheltered spot. height, ft. mentha rotundifloria variegata (_variegated mint_).--a hardy perennial, which may be grown in any soil, and is easily increased by dividing the roots. it flowers in july. height, ft. menyanthes.--treat as other hardy aquatics. menziesia (_irish heath_).--this evergreen thrives best in fibrous peat to which a fair quantity of silver sand has been added. while excessive moisture is injurious, the plant must not be kept too dry; the best condition for it is to be constantly damp. slips torn off close to the stem will root in sand under glass, placed in gentle heat. height, ft. mertensia.--these hardy perennials flower from march to july. they will grow in any garden soil, but do best in peat, and are propagated by division. they make fine border plants. mertensia maritima and m. parviflora, however, are best grown in pots, in very sandy soil, perfection being afforded them during the winter. height, / ft. to ft. mesembryanthemums (_ice plants_).--these half-hardy, annual succulents have a bright green foliage covered with ice-like globules. they must be raised in a greenhouse or on a hotbed, sowing the seed in april on sandy soil. prick the young plants out in may. if grown in pots they thrive best in a light, sandy loam. in the border they should occupy a hot and dry situation. keep the plants well watered until established, afterwards give a little liquid manure. may be increased by cuttings taken in autumn. cuttings of the more succulent kinds should be allowed to dry a little after planting before giving them water. a dry pit or frame is sufficient protection in the winter; they merely require to be kept from frost. flower in july. height, ft. mespilus.--_for treatment, see_ "medlars." meum athamanticum.--a hardy perennial with graceful, feathery green foliage, but of no special beauty. it is a native of our shores, will grow in any soil, blooms in july or august, and is freely propagated by seeds. height, - / ft. michaelmas daisies (_starworts_).--a numerous family of hardy herbaceous perennials. some few are very pretty, while others can only be ranked with wild flowers. they thrive in any soil or position, but flourish best where there is a due proportion of sunshine. they are easily raised from seed, sown early in spring, or may be increased by root-division either in the autumn, as soon as they have done flowering, or in the spring. they vary in height from ft. to ft. michauxia campanuloides.--this is an attractive border biennial, bearing from march to june white campanula-like flowers tinged with purple, on erect stems. it is not particular as to soil, but requires a southern position and protection in winter. propagated by seeds in the same way as other biennials. height, ft. mignonette.--for summer-flowering plants sow the seed in spring, and thin out to a distance of in. apart. to obtain bloom during the winter and spring successive sowings are necessary. let the first of these be made the second week in july in light, rich soil; pot off before frost sets in, plunge them in old tan or ashes, and cover with a frame facing the west. another sowing should be made about the middle of august, giving them the same treatment as the previous; and a third one in february, in gentle heat. height, in. to ft. the mignonette tree is produced by taking a vigorous plant of the spring sowing, and removing all the lower shoots in the autumn. pot it in good loam, and keep it in the greenhouse in a growing state, but removing all the flowers. by the spring the stem will be woody. let the same treatment be given it the second year, and the third season it will have become a fine shrub. it may be made to bloom during the winter by picking off the blossom in the summer and autumn. height, ft. mildew.--syringe with a strong decoction of green leaves and tender branches of the elder-tree, or with a solution of nitre made in the proportion of oz. of nitre to each gallon of water. another good remedy is to scatter sulphur over the leaves while the dew is upon them, afterwards giving them a syringing of clear water. milkmaid.--_see_ "cardamine." milk thistle.--_see_ "carduus." mimosa.--these shrubs are often called sensitive plants, on account of the leaves of several of the species of this genus shrinking when touched. they grow well in loam and peat with a little sand, but require to be planted in a warm situation or to have greenhouse care. cuttings of the young wood root readily in sand under a glass. they may also be raised from seed. mimosa pudica exhibits most sensibility. height, ft. mimulus (_monkey flower_).--showy half-hardy perennials which thrive in moist and shady situations and in almost any soil. they may be grown from seed sown in slight heat from february to may, or increased by division of the root. the frame and greenhouse kinds grow best in a rich, light soil, and may be multiplied by cuttings. the annuals may be sown where they are to flower. they bloom in june and july. height, in. to / ft. (_see also_ "diplacus.") mina lobata.--a charming half-hardy annual climber, bearing singularly shaped flowers, produced on long racemes. when young the buds are a vivid red, changing to orange-yellow, and when fully expanded the flowers are creamy-white. it thrives in loam and peat to which a little dung has been added, and is well adapted for arbours, trellises, or stumps of trees. sow the seed on a hotbed in march, harden off, and transplant when all fear of frost is over. height, ft. to ft. mint.--may be grown in any garden soil. it is increased by runners, which, if not held in check, become very troublesome. the roots may be confined by means of tiles or slates. flowers in july. height, / ft. mistletoe.--raise the bark of an apple, pear, or oak tree on the underneath part of a branch and insert some well-ripened berries, then tie the bark down neatly with raffia or woollen yarn. if the berries were inserted on the top of the branch the operation would result in failure, as the birds would devour them. mitella diphylla.--a hardy perennial which bears slender racemes of white flowers in april. it makes a pretty rock plant, delights in a peat soil, and is increased by division of the root. height, in. moles.--these pests may be destroyed by placing in their runs worms that have been kept for some time in mould to which carbonate of barytes has been added. monardia didyma (_oswego mint, or horse balm_).--_see_ "bergamot." monetia barlerioides.--an ornamental shrub, suitable for the greenhouse or stove. it requires to be grown in loam and peat, and may be increased by cuttings planted in sand, under glass, in a bottom-heat. height, ft. monkey flower.--_see_ "mimulus." monkey puzzle.--_see_ "araucaria." monk's-hood.--_see_ "aconite." montbretia.--very graceful and showy plants. the flowers, which are like small gladioli, are produced on long branched spikes and are excellent for cutting. plant in. deep and in. apart in sandy loam and leaf-mould. the corms should never be kept long out of the ground, as they shrivel, and weak growth and few flowers are the result. though they are hardy it is well to give them a covering of litter in winter. they may also be grown in pots. height, - / ft. moraea iridioides.--these plants flower in may, and require the same treatment as ixias. morina (_whorl flower_).--an ornamental hardy perennial, which is seldom met with. it forms rosettes of large, deep green, shiny foliage and stout spikes of rose-coloured flowers in whorls, which make it one of the most attractive of thistles. it likes a rich, light soil, is increased by seed sown in the autumn, also by division in august, and flowers in july. height, / ft. morisia hypogaea.--this is a pretty hardy perennial for rock-work. it flowers in may, and is raised from seed sown as soon as it is ripe. height, in. morna elegans.--beautiful half-hardy annuals. for early flowering sow the seed in september: for later blooms sow in february in slight heat, pot off, affording good drainage to the plants. they are very sensitive to cold, and should not be placed out of doors before the end of may. avoid over-watering, as this would prove fatal to them. the soil should be light and sandy. those sown in september will bloom in the greenhouse in may; those sown in february will flower in the open in the autumn. height, / ft. morning glory.--_see_ "convolvulus." morrenia odorata.--a good twining plant for the greenhouse, producing fragrant cream-coloured flowers in july. it will grow in any good loamy soil, and may be increased by cuttings. height, ft. moss.--to eradicate moss from fruit-trees wash the branches with strong brine or lime water. if it makes its appearance on the lawn, the first thing to do is to ensure a good drainage to the ground, rake the moss out, and apply nitrate of soda at the rate of cwt. to the half-acre, then go over the grass with a heavy roller. should moss give trouble by growing on gravel paths, sprinkle the ground with salt in damp weather. mountain _avens.--see_ "dryas." muhlenbeckia complexa.--a very decorative climber, hardy in nature but requiring a good amount of sunshine to make it bloom. a well-drained, sandy soil is best for its growth, and it can be increased by cuttings of hardy shoots taken early in summer. height, ft. mulberries.--any good soil will grow the mulberry. the tree is hardy, but the fruit wants plenty of sunshine to bring it to perfection. it may be propagated by cuttings of wood one year old with a heel two years old attached. the only pruning necessary is to keep the branches well balanced. autumn is the time to do this, not forgetting that the fruit is borne on the young wood. when grown in tubs or large pots in the greenhouse the fruit attains the perfection of flavour. in addition to the large black and the white (morus alba) the new weeping russian white may be recommended. mulching.--_see_ "soil." muscari.--_see_ "hyacinthus." muscari botryoides.--_see_ "hyacinthus." mushrooms.--take partially dry horse manure and lay it in a heap to ferment. turn and mix it well every few days, and when well and equally fermented, which will be from ten to fourteen days, make it into a bed ft. wide and ft. deep, mixing it well together and beating or treading it firmly. when the temperature of the bed falls to degrees, or a little under, the spawn may be inserted in pieces about the size of a walnut, in. deep and in. apart. now give a covering of loamy soil, in. deep, and beat it down evenly and firmly. finish off with a covering of clean straw or hay about ft. thick. water when necessary with lukewarm water; but very little should be given till the mushrooms begin to come up, then a plentiful supply may be given. they may be grown in any warm cellar or shed, and usually appear in from four to six weeks after planting. musk (_mimulus moschatus_).--a well-known sweet-scented, half-hardy perennial, well adapted for pot culture. a moist, shady position is most congenial to it when placed in the border. seed sown in autumn make fine, early-flowering greenhouse plants. for summer blooming the seed is sown early in spring, under a frame or hand-glass, at a temperature of from to degrees. it is readily propagated by division. height, in. mustard and cress.--for sowing in the open choose a shady border, make the surface fine and firm, and water it well before putting down the seed. let the seed be sown thickly at intervals of seven or fourteen days from march to september. as the cress does not germinate so quickly as the mustard, the former should be sown four days before the latter. the seed must not be covered, but simply pressed into the surface of the soil. keep the ground moist, and cut the crop when the second leaf appears. for winter use it is best sown in boxes and grown in a frame, the seed being covered with flannel kept constantly moist. this may be removed as soon as the seed germinates. gardeners mostly prefer to grow it through coarse flannel, to avoid the possibility of grit being sent to table. the curled leaf cress is the best, and the new chinese mustard is larger in leaf than the old variety, and is very pungent in flavour. myosotis (_forget-me-not_).--the perennial varieties of these beautiful plants grow best in moist places, such as the edges of ponds or ditches; but they also do well in pots among alpine plants. most of them may be increased by root division, and all of them by seed. the annuals like a dry, sandy soil, and are grown from seed sown in march. they flower in june or july. height, in. myrica gala (_candleberry myrtle_).--this hardy deciduous shrub is very ornamental, and its foliage is scented like the myrtle. it will grow in light, rich soil, but thrives best in peat, and may be increased by seeds or layers. may is its flowering time. height, ft. m. cerifera is treated in precisely the same manner. height, ft. myrsiphyllum asparagoides.--_see_ "smilax." myrtle (_myrtus_).--will strike readily if the cuttings be placed in a bottle of water till roots grow, and then planted; or young cuttings will strike in sandy soil under a hand-glass. they succeed best in a mixture of sandy loam and peat and on a south wall. near the sea they prove quite hardy. height, ft. n narcissus.--_see_ "daffodils." nasturtiums.--these are among the most useful of our hardy annuals, producing a display of the brightest of colours throughout the entire summer. the tall-growing climbers make a gay background to a border, and are equally valuable for trellis-work, while the dwarf varieties are first-class bedding plants, and of great service for ribboning. the seeds may be sown in pots in september or in the open ground early in spring. a light sandy or gravelly soil is the best to produce a wealth of bloom. height, ft. and ft. nectarines.--require the same treatment as the peach. in fact, the nectarine stone sometimes produces a peach, and a peach stone often produces a nectarine. fairchild's, humboldt, lord napier, and red roman are useful varieties. they should stand ft. apart. neilla.--these shrubs thrive in ordinary soil, and are increased by cuttings of the young wood. they flower in july. n. torreyi bears white spiraea-like flowers, which are very effective. height, ft. nemesia.--a most beautiful half-hardy annual of the antirrhinum class. sow the seed early in spring on a hotbed, and plant out in may in rich, light soil. cuttings of the young wood will strike under glass. height, - / ft. to - / ft. nemophila.--pretty, neat, and compact hardy annuals, well worth cultivating. they succeed best in a moist and shady situation, delight in peat or vegetable mould, and when grown in circles are very striking. if wanted to flower early, sow the seed in autumn, or on a hotbed in spring; and if required for late blooming, sow in the open in march. treated thus they flower from june to september. height, ft. nepeta glechoma variegata.--a very useful plant for hanging baskets. it can be trained as a pyramid or allowed to hang down; in many cases it is employed as edgings. it is of easy culture, and does well as a window plant or in a cool greenhouse. the soil should be light and dry. it flowers in july, and may be increased by root-division. nerine sarniense.--_see_ "guernsey lily." nertera depressa (_coral berry_).--this pretty moss-like plant is fairly hardy, and is eminently suited for a sheltered position on the rockery. the soil should consist of leaf-mould and sand, and overhead sprinkling with soft water is very beneficial. in cold districts it is better to grow it in the greenhouse. the flowers are produced in july, succeeded by orange-coloured berries. it is easily increased by dividing it early in the spring. height, in. neuvusia alabamensis.--a tamarix-like shrub, bearing clusters of white flowers early in spring. will grow in any soil or situation. increased by cuttings placed in sand under glass. nicotiana (_tobacco plants_).--very showy half-hardy annuals. n. affinis bears long, tubular, sweet-scented, white flowers in july, and grows to the height of ft. n. virginica produces immense leaves and pink flowers, and the plants are to ft. high. the seed is sown on a hotbed in spring, and when the second or third leaf appears the plants are put into small pots and placed in a frame till the end of may, when they are transferred to the border. nierembergia (_cup flowers_).--these elegant half-hardy annuals grow well in any light soil, but prefer a mixture of sandy loam and leaf-mould. sow the seed in march or april in slight heat, harden off, and plant out in may as soon as all fear of frost is over. they flower in july. height, in. to ft. nierembergia rivularis.--this herbaceous plant is of a creeping nature; it has deep green ovate foliage and large saucer-shaped white flowers. it needs a moist position, and is increased by division. the bloom is produced throughout june, july, and august. height, in. nigella.--these hardy annuals, a species of fennel-flower, are both curious and ornamental. perhaps the best known among them is n. hispanica, or love-in-a-mist. they only require sowing in the open in spring--but not before the middle of march--to produce flowers in july and august. height, in. to ft. night-scented stocks.--_see_ "mathiola." nolana.--hardy annuals that are suitable for the border, as they are very showy when in flower. the seed should be sown in spring on a gentle hotbed, and the plants transferred to the garden about the middle of may. n. atriplicifolia may be sown in the open in the autumn. they flower in july and august. height, in. to ft. north borders, plants suitable for.--hardy camellias, chrysanthemums, black and green tea plant, rhododendrons, ferns, red currants, morello cherries, and spring and summer cuttings of all sorts. nuttallia.--this early-flowering shrub is only hardy in the south and south-west of our country. it requires a light, rich soil, and may be increased by division. racemes of white flowers are produced during february and march. height, ft. nycterina.--exquisite little half-hardy plants, suitable for pots or rock-work. the seed should be sown early in spring on a gentle hotbed, and the young plants transferred to the pots or open ground at the end of may, using a light, rich soil. height, in. nymphaea alba.--a hardy aquatic perennial, frequently found in our ponds. it flowers in june, and may be increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. o odontoglossum grande.--a most beautiful orchid, delighting in a temperature of from to degrees and an abundance of water during summer, but good drainage is essential. the blooms are yellow, spotted and streaked with venetian red, and are often in. across. the pots should be two-thirds filled with crocks, then filled up with fibrous peat and sphagnum moss. during winter only a very little moisture should be given. oenothera.--the evening primroses are most useful and beautiful plants, well suited for ornamenting borders, beds, edgings, or rock-work. all the species are free-flowering, and grow well in any good, rich soil. the annual and biennial kinds are sown in the open in spring. the perennials may be increased by dividing the roots, by cuttings, or by seed, the plants from which will flower the first season if sown early in spring. they bloom in june and july. height, in. to ft. olearia.--these evergreen shrubs thrive in peat and loam, and may be increased by division of the roots. o. haastii has foliage resembling the box, and a profusion of white, sweet-scented flowers in summer: a chalk soil suits it admirably. height, ft. to ft. omphalodes verna.--a hardy perennial which may be grown under the shade of trees in ordinary soil. it produces its flowers in march, and is increased by dividing the roots in autumn. height, in. oncidium sarcodes.--plant these orchids firmly in well-drained pots, using equal parts of live sphagnum and fibrous peat. give one good watering as soon as the potting is finished, and stand them in a light, warm part of the greenhouse. they will require very little more water until the roots have taken hold of the soil--only sufficient to keep the pseudo-bulbs from shrivelling--and during the winter months scarcely any moisture is needed. they flower in august. height, - / ft. onions.--require a deep, rich, heavy soil. where the ground is not suitable it should have had a good dressing of rotten manure the previous autumn, and left in ridges during the winter. level the ground, and make it very firm just before the time of sowing. the seed should be sown early in march for the main crop and for salad and pickling onions, and in august for summer use. thin out to about in. apart, excepting those intended to be gathered while small. the tripoli varieties attain a large size if transplanted in the spring. the silver-skins do best on a poor soil. for exhibition onions sow in boxes early in february in a greenhouse; when about in. high prick out, in. apart, into other boxes; give gentle heat and plenty of air, and when they have grown in. high put them in a cool frame until the middle of april, when they must be planted in the open, ft. apart. ononis rotundifolia (_round-leaved restharrow_).--a charming hardy evergreen of a shrubby nature. it will grow in any ordinary garden soil, and is increased by seed, sown as soon as it is ripe. it is most effective in clumps, and blooms from june to september. height, - / ft. onopordon.--half-hardy perennials of a rather interesting nature and of easy cultivation. sow the seed any time between march and june. they require the protection of a frame or greenhouse during winter, and produce flowers in july. height, in. to ft. onosma taurica (_golden drop_).--this hardy herbaceous plant is very pretty when in flower, and suitable for rock-work. it requires a well-drained vegetable mould, and to be planted where it can obtain plenty of sun. it is increased from cuttings taken in summer, placed in a cucumber frame, kept shaded for about a fortnight, and hardened off before the winter. the flowers succeed one another from june to november. height, ft. opuntia rafinesquii (_hardy prickly fig_).--a dwarf hardy cactus with sulphur-coloured flowers, produced from june to august; very suitable for dry spots in rock-work. it grows best in peat with a little sand, and is propagated by separating the branches at a joint, and allowing them to dry for a day or so before putting them into the soil. height, ft. orange, mexican.--_see_ "choisya." orchids.--the four classes into which these charming and interesting plants are divided may be described as ( ) those coming from the tropics, ( ) from south africa, ( ) from the south of europe, and ( ) our native varieties. the first require a stove, the second a greenhouse, the third and fourth slight protection during winter. as their natural character differs so widely it is necessary to ascertain from what part of the globe they come, and to place them in houses having as near as possible the same temperature and humidity as that to which they are accustomed. the pots in which they are grown should be filled with fibrous peat and sphagnum moss, largely mixed with charcoal, and abundant drainage ensured. they are propagated by dividing the root stocks, by separating the pseudo-bulbs, and, in case of the dendrobiums, by cuttings. orchis foliosa (_leafy orchis_) may be grown in the open ground in good sandy loam. when once established it is best not to disturb it, but if needed it may be increased by division, after the tops have died down. orchis fusca (_brown orchis_) may likewise be planted in the open, in a sheltered position, in fine loam and leaf-mould, the soil to be well drained, yet constantly moist. origanum pulchellum.--popularly known as the beautiful marjoram, this plant is useful for cutting for vases. it is perennial and hardy, and thrives in a dry situation with a sunny aspect and in a sandy soil. the bloom is in its best condition in october. the rooted shoots may be divided in spring or almost at any other period, or it may be propagated by taking cuttings in summer. height, - / ft. ornithogalum.--o. arabicum bears a large white flower with a shiny black centre. it is a fine plant for pot culture, or it may be grown in water like the hyacinth. it may be planted in the open early in spring in sandy loam and peat. take it up before the frost sets in and store it in a dry place, as it requires no moisture while in a dormant state. in september the flowers are produced. height, in. o. umbellatum (_star of bethlehem_) is a pretty little flower often found in english meadows, is quite hardy, and once established may be left undisturbed for years. it throws up large heads of starry flowers, which are produced in great abundance. while in a dormant state the bulbs should be kept almost dry. it is propagated by off-sets; flowers in may. height, ft. orobus.--these hardy perennials bear elegant pea-shaped blossoms. the plants will grow readily in any light soil, and are easily increased by root-division in the spring, or by seeds. they flower in june. height, ft. to ft. osmanthus.--these elegant hardy evergreen shrubs succeed best in light, sandy loam, and like a dry situation. they may be increased by cuttings of the young shoots with a little old wood attached, or they may be grafted on to common privet. the variegated varieties are very beautiful. they grow well on chalk soils. height, ft. to ft. othera japonica.--a newly introduced evergreen shrub very similar to the holly. it is perfectly hardy and may be treated in the same manner as that plant. ourisia coccinea.--a hardy herbaceous, surface-creeping perennial of singular beauty as regards both leaf and flower. the soil in which it is grown must be well drained, a peat one being preferable; and the position it occupies must be well shaded from the rays of the midday sun. it flowers from may onwards to september, the cut bloom being admirable for mixing with fern leaves. as soon as new life starts in spring the roots may be divided. height, in. oxalis.--a genus of very pretty bulbous plants that thrive well in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand, or will grow in any light soil. most of the tender kinds may be reared in a frame if protected from frost in the winter. after they have done flowering they should be kept dry until they begin to grow afresh. they are increased by off-sets from the bulb. the hardy species should be planted in a shady border, where they will grow and flower freely. the seeds of these may be sown in the open in spring. some of the varieties have fibrous roots: these will bear dividing. they are equally suitable for pots, borders, or rock-work. height, in. to ft. ox-tongue.--_see_ "bugloss." oxythopis campestris.--a hardy perennial with lemon-yellow flowers in june and july. it will grow in any good garden soil, and is propagated by seed only, which should be sown where the plants are intended to be grown. height, in. p pachysandra.--this early hardy perennial has ornamental foliage and blooms in april. it will succeed in almost any soil, and may be increased by suckers from the roots. height, ft. paeonies.--these beautiful flowering plants are mostly hardy enough to endure our winters. the herbaceous kinds are increased by dividing the plants at the roots, leaving a bud on each slip. the shrubby species are multiplied by cuttings taken in august or september, with a piece of the old wood attached, and planted in a sheltered situation. tree paeonies require protection in winter, and may be propagated by grafting on to the others, by suckers, or by layers. new varieties are raised from seed. a rich, loamy soil suits them best. height, ft. palms from seed.--soak the seed in tepid water for twenty-four hours, then put them singly in. deep in -in. pots filled with equal parts of loam, leaf-mould, and sand. cover the pots with glass and stand them in the warmest part of a hothouse. shade from strong sunshine, and keep the soil just moist. re-pot as soon as the roots have filled the old ones. pampas grass.--_see_ "gynerium." pampas lily of the valley.--_see_ "withania." pancratium.--a handsome class of plants. their habit of growth is somewhat like that of the amaryllis. they are admirably adapted for growing in pots in the greenhouse. they may also be planted in the open ground under a south wall. the bulbs should be placed in a composition of three parts light, sandy loam and one of vegetable mould. they are increased by off-sets from the roots, or by seeds, by which the new varieties are obtained. height, ft. to ft. pandanus veitchi (_variegated screw pine_).--for table decoration or vases this is a most useful plant. it requires a warm greenhouse where a temperature of or degrees can be kept up throughout the year, and grows well in equal parts of peat and loam with one-sixth part sand. during the autumn a little liquid manure is beneficial. in the winter months it should be watered carefully, but in the summer it is improved by syringing with warm water. it is propagated very easily by suckers taken off in spring or summer, placed in a temperature of degrees. panicum.--handsome ornamental grasses. they will grow in any soil or situation. p. capillare is an annual, suitable for bouquets or edgings; it is increased by seed. p. altissimum, an annual, and p. sulcatum, a most elegant greenhouse plant, are fine for specimens. p. plicatum is highly ornamental and hardy, but is best grown as a conservatory or window plant; it has a palm-like appearance, and is of quick growth. most of the plants flower in july. they may be propagated by seed or by division of the roots. average height, - / ft. pansies (_heartsease_).--grow well from seed sown in july or august on a raised bed of light earth. they may also be increased from cuttings taken in august, september, april, or may, selecting young side-shoots and planting them in light earth mixed with silver sand. the cuttings should be kept in a cool frame, moderately moist, and shaded from the hot sun. they can likewise be increased by layers, merely pegging them down and not slitting them on account of their tendency to damp off. they may also be increased by dividing the roots in april or may. they should be planted where they will get all the morning sun, yet be sheltered from mid-day rays; in an open and airy situation, yet protected from cutting winds. while the plants are blooming they should be supplied with liquid manure. papaver (_poppy_).--these showy flowers are most at home in a rich, light soil. they are easily raised from seed sown where they are intended to bloom. the perennials may also be increased by dividing the roots. they flower at midsummer. height varies from ft. to ft. pardanthus chinensis.--_see_ "iris." parsley.--in order to grow parsley to perfection it is necessary that the ground be well drained, as the roots and stems must be kept dry, and the soil should be rich and light. three sowings may be made during the year: the first in spring for late summer and autumn use, the next in june for succession, and another in august or september for spring and early summer use. thin out or transplant, to in. apart. parsley takes longer than most seeds to germinate; it must therefore be watched during dry weather and watered if necessary. plants potted in september and placed in a cold frame, or protected in the open from rain and frost with a covering of mats supported by arches, will be valuable for winter use. parsnips.--these succeed best in a rich soil, but the application of fresh manure should be avoided, as it induces forked and ill-shaped roots. let the ground be trenched two spits deep and left ridged up as long as possible. as early in march as the weather will permit level the surface and sow the seed in drills in. apart, covering it with half an inch of fine soil. when the plants are or in. high, thin them out to in. apart. they may be taken up in november and, after cutting off the tops, stored in a pit or cellar in damp sand, or they may be left in the ground till required for use. passion flower.--cuttings of the young shoots strike readily in sand under glass. the plant likes a good loamy soil mixed with peat. a sheltered position with a south or south-western aspect should be assigned those grown out of doors, and the root should be well protected in winter. the flowers are borne on seasoned growth of the current year: this fact must be considered when pruning the plants. during the hot months the roots require a copious supply of water, and the foliage should be syringed freely. passiflora cærulea is fine for outdoor culture, and countess guiglini makes a capital greenhouse plant. pavia macrostachya.--this is a deciduous hardy shrub or tree which bears elegant racemes of white chestnut-like flowers in july. any soil suits it. it is propagated by layers or by grafting it on to the horse-chestnut. height, ft. peaches.--these are best grown on a strong loam mixed with old mortar; though any soil that is well drained will produce good fruit. when possible, a south wall should be chosen; but they are not particular as to position, providing they are afforded shelter from cold winds. november and february are the most favourable months for planting. the roots should be carefully arranged at equal distances apart, or in. below the surface of soil, and then covered with fine mould. avoid giving manure at all times, except when the trees are bearing fruit heavily. train the shoots about in. apart, removing all the wood-buds except one at the base of the shoot and one at the point. keep the flowers dry and free from frost by means of an overhead shelter, to which tiffany or canvas can be attached, which should, however, only be used so long as the cold weather lasts. to ensure good fruit, thin the same out to in. apart as soon as it attains the size of a small pea, and when the stoning period is passed remove every alternate one, so that they will be ft. apart. after gathering the fruit, remove any exhausted and weak wood, leaving all that is of the thickness of a black-lead pencil. to keep the foliage clean, syringe once a day with water; this may be continued until the fruit is nearly ripe. the following may be recommended for outdoor cultivation:--hale's early, dagmar, and waterloo for fruiting in july or august; crimson galande, dymond, and the well-known bellegarde for succession in september; and golden eagle for a late sort. when planted in quantities, peaches should stand ft. apart. when grown under glass a day temperature of degrees, falling to degrees at night, is sufficient to start with, gradually increasing it so that degrees by day and by night is reached at the period of blossoming. syringe the leaves daily until the flowers are produced, then discontinue it, merely keeping the walls near the pipes and the paths damp. as soon as the fruit is set the syringing should recommence. water of the same temperature as that of the house should in all cases be used. when the fruit begins to ripen, cease once more the syringing until it is gathered, then admit air freely, wash the trees daily, and apply liquid manure to the roots in sufficient quantities to keep the soil moist during the time the trees are at rest. rivers's early, pitmaston orange, dagmar, and royal george are all good under glass. pears.--wherever apples are a success pears will grow. as a rule, they are best grown dwarf. on light soils they should be grafted on to pear stocks, but on heavy soils they are best worked on the quince. the fruiting of young trees may be accelerated by lifting them when about five years old, spreading out the roots ft. below the surface of the soil, and mulching the ground. the mulching should be raked off in the spring, the ground lightly stirred with a fork and left to sweeten, and another mulching applied when the weather becomes hot and dry. in pruning, leave the leading branches untouched, but let all cross shoots be removed, and the young wood be cut away in sufficient quantity to produce a well-balanced tree, and so equalise the flow of sap. some of the pruning may be done in summer, but directly the leaves fall is the time to perform the main work. a good syringing once a week with the garden hose will keep the trees vigorous and free from insects. should scab make its appearance on the leaves, spray them occasionally with bordeaux mixture, using the minimum strength at first, and a stronger application afterwards if necessary. there are over varieties of pears, so it is no easy matter to give a selection to suit all tastes, but a few may be named as most likely to give satisfaction. louise bonne de jersey succeeds in almost any soil and in any situation, is a great favourite, and ripens its fruit in october. beurré giffard makes a fine standard, and ripens in july. beurré hardy is delicious in october and november. doyenné du comice is one of the best-flavoured, and is very prolific. beurré d'amanlis ripens in august. williams's bon chrêtien, aston town, pitmaston duchess, clapp's favourite, comte de lamy, and josephine de malines are all reliable for dessert, while for stewing purposes catillac, black pear of worcester, verulam, and vicar of winkfield are among the best. in orchards standards should be from to ft. apart; dwarfs ft. to rod. peas.--for the production of heavy summer and autumn crops a rich and deeply-stirred soil is essential, one of the best fertilisers being well-decayed farmyard manure; but for the earliest crop a poorer soil, if deep and well pulverised, will give the best results. peas under ft. in height do not require sticking, but they can be more easily gathered if a few small twigs are used to keep the haulm off the ground. if sown in successive lines the space between the rows should correspond with the height of the variety grown. a good plan is to arrange the rows or ft. apart, and crop the intervening spaces with early dwarf vegetables. the earliest varieties may be sown from november to february, on the warmest and most sheltered border: these may be gathered in may and june. the second early round, varieties, if sown from january to april, will be ready for gathering in june and july. the main crop round varieties may be sown from february to may: these will be ready to gather in july and august. the early wrinkled varieties may be sown from march to june, for gathering between june and september. sow main crop and late varieties at intervals of fourteen days from march to may: these will be ready to gather in july, august, and september. when the plants are a couple of inches high draw the earth neatly round them, and stake the taller varieties as soon as the tendrils appear. keep them well watered in dry weather, and if on a light soil a mulching of manure will be beneficial. as soon as the pods are setting apply weak liquid manure to the roots when the ground is moist. peas, everlasting (_lathyrus latifolia_).--these well-known and favourite hardy perennials are very useful for covering trellises, etc. they will grow in any garden soil, and may be raised from seed sown early in spring in slight heat. where there is no greenhouse or frame the seed may be planted, about / in. deep, round the edges of pots filled with nice, light soil, and covered with a sheet of glass, keeping the soil moist till the seed germinates. when the plants are strong enough they may be placed in their permanent quarters. they bloom from june to september. old roots may be divided. height, ft. peas, sweet.--these most beautiful and profuse blooming hardy annuals will grow almost anywhere, but they prefer a dry soil that is both rich and light. the seed should be sown as early in march as practicable, and in april and may for succession. when the plants are or in. high a few twigs may be placed among them, to which they will cling. the flowers are produced in july, and the more liberally they are gathered the longer the plants will continue to bloom. height, ft. pelargonium.--the shrubby kinds will grow well in any rich soil; loam and decayed leaves form a good compost for them. they require good drainage and plenty of air and light while in a vigorous state. cuttings root readily in either soil or sand, especially if placed under glass. most of the hard-wooded varieties are more easily increased by cuttings from the roots. the tuberous-rooted ones should be kept quite dry while dormant, and may be increased by small off-sets from the roots. pentstemon.--this charming hardy perennial is deserving of a place in every garden. it may be grown in any good soil, but a mixture of loam and peat is most suitable. the seed may be sown in april, and the plants transferred when strong enough to their flowering quarters; or it may be sown in a sheltered position during august or september to stand the winter. it may also be increased by dividing the roots in spring, as soon as growth begins. cuttings of the young side-shoots about in. long may be taken at any period--the middle of september is a good time; these should be placed under a hand-glass in sandy loam and leaf-mould. these cuttings will flower the first year. it blooms from may to october. height, ft. peppermint.--this may be grown on any damp or marshy soil, and increased by dividing the roots. perennials.--these are plants that die down during the winter, but spring up and produce new stems annually. some, as for instance antirrhinums and pansies, flower the first season, but usually they do not bloom till the second season. many of the species improve by age, forming large clumps or bushes. the stock is increased by division of the roots, which, if judiciously done, improves the plant. like annuals, they are divided into classes of hardy, half-hardy, and tender plants. hardy perennials do not require artificial heat to germinate the seeds, or at any period of their growth, but are the most easily cultivated of all plants. seed may be sown from march to midsummer, transplanting in the autumn to their flowering quarters; or it may be sown in august and september in a sheltered position to stand the winter. half-hardy plants require artificial heat to germinate their seed, and must be gradually introduced into the open. they may be sown during march and april in frames or a greenhouse, when many will bloom the first season. if sown between may and the end of august they will flower the following spring and summer. they require protection during winter, such as is afforded by a cold pit, frame, or greenhouse, or the covering of a mat or litter. tender perennials may be sown as directed above, but the plants should be kept constantly under glass. some perennials, such as pinks, carnations, saxifrages, etc., do not die down, but retain their leaves. these are called evergreen perennials. pergularia.--very fragrant twining plants, suitable for trellis-work, arbours, etc. a rich soil suits them best. they are easily increased by cuttings sown in sand under glass. they flower at midsummer. height, ft. to ft. perilla nankinensis.--a plant of little merit, except for its foliage, which is of a rich bronze purple. it bears a cream-coloured flower in july. it may be raised in the same manner as other half-hardy annuals, and prefers a light, loamy soil. height, / ft. periploca graeca.--a hardy, deciduous, twining shrub, which will grow in any soil, and may be increased by layers or by cuttings placed under glass. it flowers in july. height, ft. periwinkle.--_see_ "vinca." pernettya.--an american evergreen shrub, which, like all of its class, thrives best in sandy peat; it delights in partial shade, and a moist but well-drained position. it is increased by layers in september, which should not be disturbed for a year. it is a good plan to mulch the roots with leaf-mould or well-rotted manure. height, ft. petunias.--these ornamental half-hardy perennials prefer a mixture of sandy loam and vegetable mould, but will grow in any rich, light soil. seeds sown in march or april, at a temperature of from to degrees, make fine bedding plants for a summer or autumn display. as the seeds are very minute, they should be covered merely with a dusting of the finest of soil. moisture is best supplied by standing the pots up to the rims in water. pot off singly, harden off, and plant out at the end of may. may also easily be raised from cuttings, which will strike at any season in heat, but care must be taken that they do not damp off. they flower in july and august. height, - / ft. to ft. phacelia campanularia.--a superb, rich blue, hardy annual. it will grow in any soil, and is easily raised from seed sown in spring. flowers are borne in june. height, - / ft. phalaris.--p. arundinacea is the well-known perennial ribbon grass; it is easily grown from seed, and the root allows division. p. canariensis is the useful canary seed: it may be propagated from seed on any soil. height, - / ft. philadelphus.--among the best of our flowering shrubs, producing a wealth of sweetly-scented flowers. for cultivation, _see_ "syringa." philesia.--an american evergreen shrub which grows best in peat, but will thrive in any light soil. it should occupy a cool position, but be well sheltered from winds. it is increased by suckers. flowers in june. height, ft. phillyrea.--this effective border evergreen will grow in any ordinary garden soil, and may be increased either by layers or cuttings. it has dark green shining leaves, and is quite hardy. height, ft. phlomis (_lion's tail_).--this effective hardy perennial will grow in any rich, light soil in a warm position, and is a fine lawn plant. flowers are produced from june to august. it may be increased by seed or division. protect the plant from damp in winter. height, ft. phlox.--for richness of colour and duration of bloom there are few plants that can rival either the annual or perennial phlox. the trailing kinds are very suitable for small pots or rock-work, c. drummondi for beds, and the french perennials, p. decussata, for mixed borders. a rich, loamy soil suits them best, and they must never lack moisture. they are easily raised in spring from seed, and the perennials may be increased by cuttings placed under glass, or by division. flower in july. height, ft. to ft. phormium tenax.--a greenhouse herbaceous plant which succeeds best in rich loam. it flowers in august, and may be propagated by dividing the roots. height, ft. phygelius capensis.--a greenhouse perennial bearing carmine and yellow flowers in june, but is hardy enough to be grown on a warm border. it is increased by off-sets from the root, taken off in may. height, ft. physalis (_winter cherry_).--a rich, light soil is most suitable for the stove and greenhouse kinds, cuttings of which root freely under glass. the hardy kinds will grow in any soil, and are increased by seed. p. francheti produces seed-pods over in. in diameter, the cherry-like fruit of which is edible and makes a fine preserve. it is larger than that of the old winter cherry, p. alkekengi. they flower in august. height, ft. to ft. physianthus albens.--this evergreen climber is a good plant for training to the rafters of a greenhouse. it grows well in a mixture of sandy loam and peat, and should receive bold treatment. its white flowers are produced in july. the plant is propagated by seeds, also by cuttings. height, ft. physostegia.--ornamental hardy herbaceous plants, ranging in colour from white to purple. they like a rich soil, and can be raised from seed sown in march. they also bear division. july and august are their flowering months. height, from ft. to ft. phyteuma hallierii.--a very pretty hardy perennial. it will thrive in any soil, blooms from may to august, and can be readily increased by seed or division. height, - / ft. phytolacca decandra (_virginian poke_).--a very fine herbaceous plant, bearing bunches of pretty black berries. it requires a rich soil and plenty of room for its widespreading branches. cuttings will strike under glass, or the seed may be sown in autumn. it flowers in august. height, ft. picotees.--_see_ "carnations." pimelias.--very beautiful, compact, and free-growing greenhouse everlasting shrubs. the most suitable soil consists of three parts sandy peat and one part loam, with good drainage. june or july is their flowering season. they may be grown from seed or young cuttings in. long, placed in sandy peat, with a little bottom heat. do not give too much water. height, ft. to ft. pimpernel.--_see_ "anagallis." pinguicula grandiflora (_great irish butterwort_).--this handsome, hardy bog-plant produces deep violet-blue flowers in august and september. it may be grown in any damp soil and increased by division. height, - / ft. pinks.--will live in almost any soil, but if large blooms are required rich earth is essential. they are increased by pipings taken in may or june. these should be planted out in october, but must be given a well-drained position, as too much wet is injurious to them. do not set the roots too deep, but let the collar of the plant be on a level with the soil. pinus.--as a tall specimen tree nothing is more graceful than the corsican pine (_pinus laricio_). p. strobus nana is a curious dwarf variety, rarely exceeding ft. in height. the argentea aurea is also of dwarf habit. its leaves, which are green in summer, change to a bright golden colour in winter. the umbrella pine (_sciadopitys_) is a very striking conifer, and does well everywhere. it gets its name from its leaves being set at regular intervals round the branches, like the ribs of an umbrella. the pinus may be increased by layers, or by sowing the cones in spring, after they have opened out, in rather sandy soil, covering them lightly. piping.--this consists in drawing out the young grass, or shoots, from the joints of pinks, etc., from may to july being the time for doing so. place them in light, sandy soil, and cover them with a hand-glass. towards the end of september they may be planted out in beds or potted off in rich, light loam. in either case they must not be planted too deeply. the crust of the soil should be level with the collar of the plant. if the pots are put into a frame the plants will require very little water during winter, but as much air should be given as is possible. in march re-pot them, using - / -in. pots. platycodon (_japanese balloon flower_).--hardy and elegant herbaceous plants, requiring a sandy soil. they may be raised either from seeds or from cuttings of the young growth; they flower in july. height, ft. platystemon californicus.--pretty hardy annuals which thrive in a sandy soil. they are easily raised from seed sown in march or april, and bring forth their flowers in august. height, ft. pleroma elegans.--a beautiful evergreen shrub for a greenhouse. pot in equal parts of loam, peat, and sand. it flowers in july. cuttings may be struck in peat in a rather warm temperature. height, ft. plumbago.--these pretty evergreens will grow in any soil, and can be propagated in september by cuttings of half-ripened wood having a heal, planted in a sandy soil, and kept near the glass in a greenhouse. they flower in june. height, ft. p. occidentalis is a charming greenhouse climber. p. capensis alba is a greenhouse evergreen shrub, flowering in november, and growing to a height of ft. p. larpentae is good for a sunny border, in light soil: it bears terminal clusters of rich violet-purple flowers in september. height, ft. plumbagoes require very little attention in winter. plums.--almost any soil will grow this useful fruit. young trees may be planted at any time, when the ground is friable, from november to march, but the earlier it is done the better. the situation should be somewhat sheltered. in exposed positions protection may be afforded by a row of damson trees. many varieties are suitable for growing on walls or sheds, where they are trained into fans, as cordons, and other decorative designs; but it must not be overlooked that until the trees are well established a great deal of fruit is necessarily lost by the severe pruning and disbudding which is required to bring the tree into shape. a pyramid-shaped tree is useful, and is easily grown by training one straight, central shoot, which must be stopped occasionally so that fresh side branches may be thrown out, which of course must be kept at the desired length. a bush tree about ft. in height is undoubtedly the best form of growth, and needs but a minimum amount of attention. in pruning wall trees the main object is to get the side-shoots equally balanced, and to prevent the growth advancing in the centre. the bush form merely require the removal of any dead wood and of cross-growing branches. this should be done late in the summer or in the autumn. the trees are frequently attacked by a small moth, known as the plum fortrix, which eats its way into the fruit and causes it to fall. in this case the fallen unripe fruit should be gathered up and burned, and the trees washed in winter with caustic potash and soda. for growing on walls the following kinds may be recommended: diamond, white magnum bonum, pond's seedling, and belle de louvain for cooking; and kirke, coe's golden drop, and jefferson for dessert. for pyramids and bushes, victoria, early prolific, prince engelbert, sultan, and belgian purple are good sorts. in orchards plums should stand ft. apart. poa trivalis.--a very pretty, dwarf-growing, variegated grass. plant in a moist situation in a rich, light, loamy soil. it is increased either by seed or division. podocarpus.--_see_ "cephalotaxus." podolepis.--hardy annuals bearing yellow and red and white flowers. a mixture of loam and peat is most suitable for their growth. they are easily raised from seed sown in march, and bloom from june to august. height, - / ft. podophyllum peltatum (_duck's foot, or may apple_).--grown chiefly for its foliage and berries, this hardy herbaceous perennial forms a pleasing spectacle when planted in moist soil under trees; it likewise makes a splendid pot-plant. a mixture of peat and chopped sphagnum is what it likes. the pots are usually plunged in wet sand or ashes on a northern border. it is propagated by cutting the roots into pieces several inches in length, with a good bud or crown on each. during may and june the plant produces small white dog-rose-like flowers. height, ft. poinsettia pulcherrima.--a stove evergreen shrub which produces lovely crimson bracts in the winter. plant in sandy loam, give plenty of water to the roots, and syringe the leaves frequently. in early spring cut down the branches to within three or four eyes of the old wood. these cuttings, if laid aside for a day to dry and then planted under glass, will form new plants. it flowers in april. height, ft. polemonium (_jacob's ladder_).--hardy perennial border plants of an ornamental character and of the easiest culture. any soil suits them, and they merely require sowing in the open either in spring or autumn. p. richardsoni is most commonly met with, its blue flowers being produced in early autumn. height, - / ft. polyanthus.--sow the seed late in autumn in well-drained boxes of light, rich mould; cover it very lightly, place under glass, and water sparingly, but give enough to keep the plants moist. the seed requires no artificial heat to germinate it. the roots should be divided each year as soon as they have flowered, and fresh soil given. the single varieties only are florists' flowers. the polyanthus is a species of primrose, grows best in a rather shady position in a loam and peat compost, and produces its flowers in may. height, in. polygala chamaesbuxus.--a hardy evergreen trailing plant requiring a peat soil in which to grow. it may be increased from seed or by division of the roots. may is the time at which it blooms. height, in. polygala dalmaisiana.--this showy evergreen shrub needs a greenhouse treatment. soil--three parts peat, one part turfy loam, and a little sand. it flowers in march. to increase it, top the shoots, which will cause it to throw out new ones. take the new growth off when it is in. long, and place it under glass in a propagating house. height, ft. the hardy annual varieties of polygala are obtained by seed sown in peat. these flower at midsummer. (_see also_ "solomon's seal.") polygonatum.--these pretty herbaceous plants are quite hardy. the flowers, which are borne in may or june, are mostly white. plants succeed best in a rich soil. they may be raised from seed, or the roots can be divided. height, ft. to ft. polygonum brunonis (_knotweed_).--this strong-growing creeping perennial plant is not particular as to soil so long as it can enjoy plenty of sunshine. the shoots root of themselves and must be kept in check, else they will choke other things. it flowers in august, after which the leaves assume beautiful autumnal tints. height, ft. pomegranate.--this requires a deep, loamy soil and a warm, airy situation. may be propagated by cuttings of the shrubs or the root, putting the cuttings into light, rich soil, or by layers. the double kinds of punica, or pomegranate, should be grafted on to the single ones. there is a dwarf kind, bearing scarlet flowers in august, which requires heat. poppies.--_see_ "papaver" _and_ "stylophorum." portulaca.--the seeds of the hardy annual species of this genus may be sown in a sheltered open spot in spring. the half-hardy annuals should be sown thinly in boxes during march and placed in gentle heat. harden off and plant out in may, as soon as the weather permits, in a light, dry soil where it can get a good amount of sunshine. its brilliant and striking colour admirably adapts it for small beds, edgings, or rock-work; and it will succeed in dry, hot sandy positions where scarcely any other plant would live. it flowers in june. height, in. potatoes.--ground intended for potatoes should be dug deeply in the autumn, thoroughly drained, well manured and trenched, and left rough on the surface during the winter. at the beginning of february stand the tubers on end in shallow boxes, and expose them to the light to induce the growth of short, hard, purple sprouts. allow one sprout to each tuber or set, rubbing off the rest. they may be planted at any time from the end of february to the end of march in rows - / to - / ft. asunder, placing the sets in. deep and from to in. apart. as soon as growth appears keep the ground well stirred with the hoe to prevent the growth of weeds, and when the tops are to in. high ridge the earth up about them. directly flower appears, pick it off, as it retards the growth of the tubers. they should be taken up and stored in october. if short of storage room dig up every other row only, and give the remaining ridges an additional covering of earth. they keep well this way. potentilla.--handsome herbaceous plants with strawberry-like foliage. they will grow in any common soil, and may be increased by dividing the roots or by seeds treated like other hardy perennials. the shrubby kinds are well adapted for the fronts of shrubberies, and are propagated by cuttings taken in autumn and planted in a sheltered situation. they flower at midsummer. height, - / ft. potting.--great attention must be paid to this important gardening operation. it is necessary that the pots used be perfectly clean, and, if new, soaked in water for several hours previously, otherwise they would absorb the moisture from the soil to the detriment of the roots. at the bottom of the pots place a few layers of crocks, and on these some rough mould so as to ensure perfect drainage. for all delicate, hard-wooded plants one-third of each pot should be occupied with drainage, but a depth of - / in. is sufficient for others. lift the plant carefully so as not to break the ball of earth round the roots, and fill in with mould round the sides. in order to supply water readily the pots must not be filled up to the rim. pot firmly, and in the case of hard-wooded plants ram the earth down with a blunt-pointed stick; soft-wooded ones may be left rather looser. give shade till the plants have recovered themselves. the soil used for potting should be moist, but not clammy. a rather light, rich loam is most suitable for strong-growing plants; peat for slow-growing, hard-wooded ones, like ericas, camellias, etc.; and a mixture of light loam, one-third its bulk of leaf-soil, and silver sand in sufficient quantity to make the whole porous for quick-growing, soft-wooded plants, such as pelargoniums, calceolarias, fuchsias etc. pratia repens (_lobelia pratiana_).--this pretty little creeping perennial is very suitable for the front of rock-work. it requires a well-drained vegetable soil and all the sun it can get. it is self-propagating. though pretty hardy, it is safer to pot it off in autumn and place it in a cold frame throughout the winter. flowers are produced in june, and are succeeded till cut off by frost. primroses.--_see_ "primulas," _and_ "streptocarpus." primulas.--this genus embraces the auricula, the polyanthus, and the primrose. the greenhouse varieties are among the most useful of our winter-flowering plants. the seed may be sown at any time from march to july in a pot of two-year-old manure, leaf-mould, or fine, rich mould, but not covering it with the soil. tie a sheet of paper over the pot and plunge it in a hotbed. sufficient moisture will be communicated to the seed by keeping the paper damp. when the plants make their appearance remove the paper and place the pot in the shady part of the greenhouse. when they are strong enough to handle, pot off into - / in. pots, and stand them near the glass. the roots may be divided as soon as the plants have done flowering. the hardy kinds may be sown in the open. it should be borne in mind that the seed must be new, as it soon loses its germinating properties. these flower in march or april. height, in. prince's feather.--an ornamental hardy annual, producing tall spikes of dark crimson flowers and purple-tinted foliage. it is not particular as to soil, and merely requires sowing in the open in spring to produce flowers in july. height, ft. privet.--_see_ "ligustrum." prophet's flower.--_see_ "arnebia." prunella grandiflora.--a pretty hardy perennial, suitable for a front border or rock-work, bearing dense spikes of flowers from may to august. it grows well in any ordinary soil, and is propagated by division. height, in. pruning.--the main objects to bear in mind in pruning any kind of bush or tree are to prevent a congested growth of the branches, to remove any shoots that cross each other, as well as all useless and dead wood, and to obtain a well-balanced head. it may be done either in august or in the winter when the sap is at rest, after the worst of the frosts are over, the end of february being usually suitable; but the former period is generally acknowledged to be the better, especially for fruit-trees. the cuts should be clean and level, and when a saw is used should be made smooth with a chisel and covered with grafting wax. in all cases as little wound as possible should be presented. root-pruning has for its object the suppression of over-vigorous growth and the restoration of old trees to a bearing condition. it consists in taking off all the small fibres, shortening the long roots to within or in. of the stem, and cutting away any bruised or injured roots before the trees are first planted out. the mode of procedure in the case of old or unproductive trees is to open the earth in autumn ft. from the stem of the tree, and to saw through two-thirds of the strongest roots. the opening is then filled in with fresh mould. should the growth still be too vigorous, the soil must be opened again the following season and the remaining roots cut through, care being taken not to injure the young fibrous roots. prunus.--beautiful early-flowering trees, which will grow in any soil, and can be increased by seeds or suckers. ptelia trifoliata (_hop tree_).--this is very suitable for planting on the borders of still waters, where its long frond-like leaves, which turn to a golden yellow in autumn, produce a fine effect. it blooms in june, and is propagated by layers. height, ft. pulmonarias (_lungworts_).--hardy perennials that require but little attention; may be grown in any common soil, and propagated by division at any time. they flower in april and may. height, ft. pumilum.--_see_ "heleniums." pumpkins.--valuable for soups and pies in winter, and in summer the young shoots are an excellent substitute for asparagus. for their cultivation, _see_ "gourds." punica granata nana.--a greenhouse deciduous shrub which flowers in august. the soil in which it is placed should be a light, rich loam. it can be most freely multiplied by layers, and cuttings will strike in sand under glass. height, ft. puschkinia (_striped squills_).--this charming bulbous plant may be grown in any light, rich mould, provided it is drained well. the bulbs may be separated when the clumps get overcrowded, late in summer, after the tops have died down, being the most suitable time to do so. if planted in a warm position it will begin to flower in march, and continue in bloom till may. height, in. pyrethrum.--the greenhouse kinds grow in any rich soil, and young cuttings planted under glass root readily. the hardy kinds are not particular as to soil so long as it is not cold and wet, and are increased by seeds sown in heat in february if wanted for early use, or in the open during march and april for later growth. the crowns may be divided either in autumn or spring: each eye or bud will make a fresh plant. young plants produced in this way in the autumn require the protection of a frame during the winter. they flower in july. height varies from in. to ft. pyrola.--a handsome hardy plant, suitable for a moist, shady situation. it is raised from seed, or will bear dividing, but is rather hard to grow. height, in. pyrus japonica.--_see_ "cydonia." q quaking grass.--_see_ "briza." quercus ilex.--a handsome evergreen oak, delighting in a deep, loamy soil. it is propagated by seed sown as soon as it is ripe. quinces.--plant in autumn in a moist but well-drained soil. cuttings of stout stems or in. long, firmly and deeply planted in a shady situation, mulched with leaf-mould, and kept watered in dry weather, will take root; but the surest method of propagation is by layers, pegged down in the soil and detached the following year. a good watering with liquid manure will swell the fruit to a large size. keep the branches well thinned out and cut them regular, so as to let in light and air and form nicely shaped trees. the pruning should be done as soon as the leaves fall. in orchards they should stand rod apart. r radish.--for an early supply sow on a gentle hotbed under a frame in january, february, and march. for succession sow thinly on a warm and sheltered border early in march. follow on with sowings in the open till the middle of september. the black spanish and china rose should be sown during august and september for winter use. lift in november, and store in sand in a cool place. radishes should be liberally watered in dry weather, and the soil made rich and light some time before sowing commences. ragged robin.--_see_ "lychnis." ragwort.--_see_ "jacobaea." ramondia pyrenaica.--a pretty dwarf perennial, suitable for moist interstices of rock-work. it should be planted in a slanting position, so that the roots, while absorbing plenty of moisture, will not rot through being continually in stagnant water. peat soil suits it best. it may be increased by division in spring. if grown from seed it takes two years before flowers are produced. during the height of summer it is in full beauty. rampion.--the roots are used in cooking, and also for salads. for winter use sow in april in rows in. apart, covering the seeds lightly with fine mould, and thin out to in. apart. sow at intervals for a succession. ranunculus.--these prefer a good stiff, rather moist, but well-drained loam, enriched with well-rotted cow-dung, and a sunny situation. february is probably the best time for planting, though some prefer to do it in october. press the tubers (claws downwards) firmly into the soil, placing them or in. deep and or in. apart. cover them with sand, and then with mould. water freely in dry weather. protect during winter with a covering of dry litter, which should be removed in spring before the foliage appears. they flower in may or june. seeds, selected from the best semi-double varieties, sown early in october and kept growing during the winter, will flower the next season. they may likewise be increased by off-sets and by dividing the root. the claws may be lifted at the end of june and stored in dry sand. the plants are poisonous. height, in. to in. raphiolepis ovata.--beautiful evergreen shrubs, producing long spikes of white flowers in june. a compost of loam, peat, and sand is their delight. cuttings will strike in sand under glass. height, ft. raspberries.--a rich, moist, loamy soil is most suitable for their cultivation. suckers are drawn by the hand from the old roots any time between october and february, and set in groups of three in rows ft. apart. if taken in october, the young plants may be pruned early in november. it is usual to cut one cane to the length of ft., the second one to ft., and the third to within a few inches of the ground. as soon as the year's crop is gathered, the old bearing shoots are cut clean away, the young canes are drawn closer together, and at the end of august the tops of the tall ones are pinched off. when the leaves have fallen all the suckers are drawn out and the canes pruned (about four being left to each root). the canes are then tied and manure applied. about may they are, if necessary, thinned out again, and the suckers that are exhausting both soil and plant removed. they produce their fruit on one-year-old canes, which wood is of no further use. the general way of training them is by tying the tops together, or by training them in the shape of a fan on a south wall, but perhaps the best way is to tic them about equal distances apart round hoops supported by light sticks. seed may be separated from the fruit, dried, and sown early in february on a gentle hotbed. prick off into good rich mould, harden off by the middle of may, and plant in rich soil. train them and keep down suckers. when they are grown tall pinch off the tops. red antwerp, yellow antwerp, prince of wales, northumberland filbasket, carter's prolific, and white magnum bonum are all good sorts. red-hot poker.--_see_ "tritoma." red scale.--_see_ "scale." red spiders.--these troublesome pests which appear in the heat of summer, may be got rid of by constantly syringing the plants attacked, and by occasionally washing the walls, etc., with lime or sulphur. retinospora filifera.--a large-growing, hardy evergreen shrub. it may be grown in any light soil, and increased by seed, or by cuttings planted under glass in the shade. it flowers in may. rhamnus (_buckthorn_).--fine evergreen shrubs, of hardy habit and quick growth. they may be grown in any soil, but prefer a sheltered situation, and are very suitable for planting near the sea. r. latifolius has handsome broad leaves. some, such as r. alaternus and r. catharticus, attain large proportions, the former reaching ft. and the latter ft. in height. they may be propagated by layers or by seed. rheum palmatum.--this species of rhubarb makes an effective plant for the back portion of a border. it does well in rich loam, flowering in june, and is increased by dividing the root. height, ft. rhodanthe (_swan river everlasting_).--these beautiful everlasting flowers are half-hardy annuals and are suitable for beds or ribbons, and make most graceful plants for pot culture, placing four plants in a -in. pot. they thrive best in fibrous peat or a rich, light soil, and prefer a warm situation. used largely for winter bouquets, and are perfect gems for pot culture. a succession of bloom may be obtained by sowings made in august, october, and march. the temperature of the seed-pots should be kept at from to degrees, and the soil kept constantly damp with water of the same heat. after potting the seedlings remove them to a cooler house and keep them near the glass. those sown in march may be planted in the open in june, where they will flower in autumn. height, ft. rhodochiton--this evergreen climber makes a fine plant for trellis-work. it is more suitable for the greenhouse, though it may be grown in the open in summer. a light, rich, well-drained soil is its delight, and it may be propagated by seed or by cuttings under glass. in the greenhouse it should not be placed near the pipes. july is its time for flowering. height, ft. rhododendrons.--plant in october in peat, or in a compost of sandy, turfy loam, with a good proportion of decayed leaves and charred refuse. the best position for them is a sheltered one where they can get a moderate amount of sunshine to develop the flower-buds. they like plenty of moisture, but the ground must be well drained. if it is desired to shift their position spring is the best time, the next best being october. they are propagated by layers or seeds, and the small wooded kinds by slips torn off close to the stems, planted in sand, and placed under glass in heat. the seed should be sown early in spring in pans of peat soil, and covered very lightly. place the pans in a frame, and when the soil becomes dry stand the pans in water nearly up to the rims until the surface is moist. pot off when strong enough to handle, and keep close in the frame till fresh roots are produced, then harden off. rhododendrons may, when desired, be transplanted in spring, even after the flower-buds are well advanced, if care be taken not to break the ball of earth round their roots. they bloom at the end of may. height, ft. rhubarb.--seed may be sown thinly during april in drills ft. apart. thin out the plants in. from each other, and let them grow on till the following april, then plant them out ft. apart in deeply trenched ground into which a good quantity of well-rotted manure has been worked. large roots may be divided in autumn or early spring; every portion of the root that has a crown will make a fresh plant. when the last of the crop has been pulled, fork in a dressing of old manure. it may be forced out of doors by covering the ground thickly with stable manure, and placing large flower-pots over the plants to bleach them; but if forced in a frame the light need not be excluded. none but the earliest kinds should be selected for forcing. rhubarb, chilian.--_see_ "gunnera." rhus (_sumach_).--lovely shrubs, growing in any ordinary soil. the young shoots of r. cotinus are clothed with round leaves which change to bright crimson and orange, surmounted with fluffy pink seed-vessels, while r. glabra laciniata resembles a tree fern. they may be propagated either by layers or cuttings. height, ft. to ft. rhynchospermum (trachelospermum) jasminoides.--a pretty, evergreen, woody climber for the conservatory, which succeeds best in a compost of light loam and peat; is of easy culture, and readily increased by cuttings. it is a fine plant for rafters or trellis, and produces in july deliciously fragrant white flowers at the ends of the branches. height, ft. ribes (_flowering currants_).--well-known shrubs, growing in any soil, and flowering early in spring. the colours vary from crimson to white. they may be raised from cuttings either in autumn or early spring. height, ft. richardia aethiopica.--a fine herbaceous perennial with very bold leaves. it needs a good supply of water, and on dry soils should be planted in trenches. a light, rich mould is best for it, and it should have sufficient sun to ripen the wood. lift it in september and winter in the greenhouse. it is increased from off-sets from the root, and flowers in march. height, ft. ricinus, or palma christi (_castor-oil plant, etc._).--the foliage of these half-hardy annuals is very ornamental. the plants like a rich soil. sow the seed early in spring in a slight heat, harden off gradually, and put out at the end of may in a warm, sheltered spot. they may also be propagated by cuttings. height, ft. to ft. robinia.--all these shrubs have fine, fern-like foliage which changes colour in autumn. the pea-shaped flowers vary in colour from cream to purple, and while in bloom the plants are very handsome. they grow in any soil, flower in may and onwards, and are increased by layers. height varies, the rose acacia _(hispida)_ reaching ft., while the locust tree (_pseudo-acacia_) grows to the height of ft. rock cress.--_see_ "arabis." rocket (_hesperis_).--the hardy perennials like a light, rich soil, and need to be frequently divided. the best time to divide them is just after they have done flowering, when they should be potted off, planting them out again in the spring. the annual and biennial kinds merely require to be sown in the open border. most of the rockets give forth greater fragrance towards evening. their flowering season is june. height, ft. to - / ft. rock rose.--_see_ "cistus" _and_ "helianthemum." rodgersia podophylla.--a hardy perennial having immense bronze foliage. it thrives best in a moist, peaty soil; flowers from may to july, and may readily be increased either by seed or division. height, ft. rogiera gratissima.--a pretty evergreen stove shrub, which is often trained to a single stem so as to form a standard. it succeeds in sandy loam and peat. it may be sunk in the flower-border during the height of summer, but must be taken indoors before frost sets in. cuttings placed in sand under a hand-glass in heat will strike. it flowers in june. height, ft. romneyi coulteri.--this grand white-flowered poppy tree is quite hardy, and will grow in any light, rich soil. it blooms in august and september, and may be increased by seed or by division. height, ft. rose campion.--a pretty hardy perennial which may be grown from seed sown in autumn, choosing a sheltered site, or in march in a frame or under a hand-glass, transplanting it in the autumn into a light, rich, loamy soil. height, ft. rosemary (_rosmarinus officinalis_).--this hardy evergreen shrub should occupy a dry and sheltered position. its fragrant purple flowers are produced in february. cuttings of the ripened wood, if planted in spring, will strike root freely. height, ft. roses.--a good, deep, loamy soil, well drained, but which retains a certain amount of moisture, is the most suitable. the position should be sheltered, yet open and exposed to the sun. the latter part of october or november is the most favourable time for planting, but it may be continued with safety until the commencement of march. a fortnight before planting the holes should be dug out - / or ft. deep, and plenty of old manure thrown in and trodden down. on this a good layer of fine mould should be placed, so that the roots do not come in contact with the manure. great care must be taken not to expose the roots to the cold air. when the ground is quite ready for their reception dip the roots in a pail of water, then spread them out carefully on top of the mould, fill in the earth, and tread it firmly. if the plants are standards they require to be firmly staked. precaution is necessary not to plant too deeply, keeping them as near as possible at the depth at which they were previously grown, in no case exceeding in. above the mark which the earth has left on the stem. three weeks after planting tread the earth again round the roots. pruning should be done in march, except in the case of those planted in spring, when the beginning of april will be early enough. cut away all of the wood that is unripe, or exhausted and dead. dwarf growers should be cut back to within two or three buds of the previous year's growth, but five or six eyes may be left on those of stronger growth. the majority of climbing and pillar roses do not require to be cut back, it being only necessary to take out the useless wood. in pruning standards aim at producing an equally balanced head, which object is furthered by cutting to buds pointing outwards. at the first sign of frost the delicate tea and noisette roses need to be protected. in the case of standards a covering of bracken fern or straw must be tied round the heads; dwarfs should have the soil drawn up over the crowns, or they may be loosely covered by straw. apply a top-dressing of farm-yard manure to the beds before the frosts set in, as this will both nourish and protect the roots. fork it in carefully in the spring. cow manure is especially valuable for tea roses. after the first year of planting most of the artificial manures may, if preferred, be used; but nothing is better than farmyard stuff. if the summer be dry, water freely in the evening. roses may be propagated by cuttings in the summer or autumn. the slips should be or in. long, of the spring's growth, taken with in. of the previous year's wood attached. a little bottom-heat is beneficial. they may also be increased by grafting or by separating the suckers. keep a sharp look-out for maggots in the spring, which will generally be found where the leaves are curled up. these must be destroyed by hand-picking. green fly can be eradicated with tobacco wash. mildew may be cured by sprinkling the leaves with sulphur while dew is on them. rose of heaven.--_see_ "viscaria coeli rosa." rose of sharon.--_see_ "hibiscus syriacus." rubus.--_see_ "blackberries." rudbeckia (_cone flower._)--hardy annuals yielding yellow flowers in july. they are readily grown from seed sown early in spring, and will grow in any garden soil, but naturally succeed best in deeply-worked, well-manured ground. they may be increased by division in october or november, as well as in spring-time. height, ft. ruscus aculeatus (_butchers broom_).--a hardy evergreen shrub which thrives in any rich soil, and may be increased by division of the root. height, ft. ruta graveolens.--this hardy evergreen shrub is a species of rue. it enjoys a good, rich soil, in which it flowers freely in august. cuttings may be struck under a hand-glass. height, ft. ruta patavina (_rue of padua_).--for rock-work this hardy perennial is very useful. it likes a dry yet rich and light soil. at midsummer it produces an abundance of greenish-yellow flowers. it can be raised from seed, or cuttings may be struck under a hand-glass. height, in. s saffron, spring.--_see_ "bulbocodium." sage.--this useful herb likes a rich, light soil, and is propagated by division of the root, by cuttings, or by seed. saintpaulia ionantha.--the leaves of this plant spread themselves laterally just over the soil, forming a rosette, in the centre of which spring up large violet-like flowers. it is a continuous bloomer. a rather light, rich soil or vegetable mould suits it best. the seed, which is very minute, should be sown early in spring, in gentle heat: to prevent it being washed away, the pots may stand up to the rims in water for a while when the ground wants moisture. height, ft. st. john's wort.--_see_ "hypericum." salix reticulata.--a dwarf creeping plant whose dark green leaves eminently fit it for the rock-work or carpet bedding. it will grow in any soil, but prefers a moist one, and produces unattractive brown flowers in september. propagated in spring by detaching rooted portions from the parent plant and planting them in moist, sandy loam. height, in. salpiglossis.--very beautiful half-hardy annuals which are greatly prized for cut bloom. a light but not over-rich soil suits them best. the seed may be sown in the open border early in spring, or preferably on a hotbed at the same period. for early flowering raise the plants in the autumn, and winter them in a frame or greenhouse. flowers are produced in july and august. height, ft. salsafy (_vegetable oyster_).--sow the seed in any good garden soil--deep sandy loam is best--towards the end of april in drills ft. apart, and thin the plants out to a distance of in. from each other. the roots may remain in the ground till required for use, or be lifted in october and stored in the same way as beet or carrots. they are prepared for table in the same manner as parsnips, and are also used for flavouring soups. salvia.--very showy flowers, well worth cultivating, and easily grown in a rich, light soil. the annuals and biennials may be sown in the open early in spring. the herbaceous kinds are increased by dividing the roots; the shrubby varieties by cuttings of the young wood planted under glass in march; while the stove species require to be placed in heat. they flower in august in the open. heights vary, according to the kinds, but s. coccinea and s. patens, which are most commonly met with in gardens, grow to a height of ft. sambucus (_the elder_).--useful deciduous shrubs. s. nigra aurea has golden foliage, and is suitable for town gardens. the silvery variegated variety (variegata), is fine for contrasting with others. they may all be propagated by cuttings or by division. flower in june. sand wort.--_see_ "arenaria." sanguinaria canadensis (_bloodroot_).--a hardy perennial, curious both in leaf and flower. it requires a light, sandy soil, shade, and moisture; is propagated by seed sown in july, also by division of the tuberous roots, and it blooms in march. the tubers should be planted in. deep and in. apart. height, in. santolina.--this hardy evergreen shrub grows freely in any soil. it flowers in july, and is increased by cuttings. height, ft. sanvitalia.--interesting, hardy annual trailers, which may be readily raised from seed sown in march or april, and merely require ordinary treatment. they produce their golden and brown and yellow flowers in july. height, ft. saponaria.--these grow best in a mixture of sandy loam and peat or decayed vegetable soil. the annuals may be sown either in autumn, and wintered in a frame, or in the open in april. the perennials are increased by seed or by division of the root, and young cuttings of the branching species root freely if planted under glass. s. ocymoides, on account of its trailing nature, and s. calabrica make fine rock-work plants. the leaves of s. officinalis, or soap plant, if stirred in water form a lather strong enough to remove grease spots. they bloom in june and july. height, in. to ft. sarracenia.--curious herbaceous plants, requiring to be grown in pots of rough peat, filled up with sphagnum moss, in a moderately cool house having a moist atmosphere. they flower in june, and are increased by division. height, from in. to ft. sauromatum guttatum.--this makes a good window or cool greenhouse plant. pot the tuber in good loam and leaf-soil, and keep the mould only just damp until the foliage, which follows the flowers, appears. when the foliage fails, keep the tubers dry till spring. if grown out of doors the tubers must be lifted before frost sets in. savoys.--sow the seed in march or april, and when the plants are in. high remove them to a nursery-bed, selecting the strongest first. let them remain till they are about in. high, then transplant them, in. apart, in well-manured soil. their flavour is greatly improved if they are frozen before being cut for use. saxifrage.--these beautiful alpine perennials delight in a light, sandy soil, and are easily propagated by seed or division. it is most convenient to grow the rare and tender kinds in pots, as they require the protection of a frame in winter. saxifraga sibthorpii is very suitable for the lower and damper parts of rock-work; it is hardy, and sheds its seed freely. s. umbrosa (london pride) makes a neat border, and is also useful for rock-work. s. sarmentosa (mother-of-thousands) is a fine hanging plant for greenhouse or window. they flower in april. height, mostly in. to in., but some grow as high as - / ft. scabious.--ornamental and floriferous hardy biennials, which grow freely in common soil. the seed may be sown at any time between march and midsummer; transplant in the autumn. they bloom in june. height, ft to ft. (_see also_ "cephalaria.") scale.--red scale may be easily overcome with a strong solution of soft soap applied with a sponge. white scale is harder to deal with. syringe frequently with strong soapsuds heated to degrees. if the plant is badly attacked it is best to destroy it. schizanthus.--extremely beautiful and showy annuals. a rather poor, light soil is most suitable for their growth. for early flowering sow the seed in autumn, and keep the young plants in a frame or greenhouse throughout the winter. for a succession of bloom sow in the open border early in the spring. they flower in july and august. height, ft. schizopetalum.--this singular and delightfully fragrant annual does best in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand, or sandy loam and leaf-mould. sow the seed in pots in the spring, place in a greenhouse, and when large enough to handle, plant out in the open border, or it may be kept in an airy part of the house, where it will bloom in june. height, ft. schizostylis coccinea (_crimson flag, or kaffre lily_).--a most lovely autumn-blooming plant, producing abundant spikes of izia-like flowers about ft. high. it is suitable for pot-culture or planting outdoors, and is quite hardy. it requires a rich, light soil. scillas (_squills_).--very useful spring-flowering bulbs. they are hardy, and do well in any position in light soil. when mixed with crocuses and snowdrops they produce a very charming effect. to get perfection of bloom they require deep planting. s. siberica especially looks well when grown in pots with snowdrops. scilla roots are poisonous. general height, ft. scorzonera.--sow in march in light soil in rows in. apart. thin the plants out to about in. one from the other. they may perhaps be ready for use in august, but to have large roots they should be left till they are two years old. they may remain in the ground till wanted for use, or they may be lifted in october and stored like beet, etc. this vegetable is scraped and thrown into cold water for a few hours, then boiled in the same way as carrots and parsnips. scutellaria.--these plants will grow in any good soil. the hardy perennials flower in july. the greenhouse varieties merely require protecting in the winter. they all bear division of the root, and are easily raised from seed. height, - / ft. scyphanthus.--an elegant and curious trailer, which is best grown in a loamy soil. it may be increased from seed sown in april, and it flowers in august. height, ft. sea cabbage.--_see_ "crambe cordifolia." seakale.--the readiest way of propagating this useful vegetable is by off-sets, but it may be raised from seed sown in march or april in rows ft. apart. thin out the young plants to in. in the rows, and transplant in february or march into well-trenched, deep, rich soil in rows ft. apart and the plants in. asunder. keep the plants to one crown, or shoot, and remove all flower-shoots as they appear. in dry weather give a liberal quantity of liquid manure. cropping may commence after the roots have been planted two years. sea lavender.--_see_ "statice." sea milkweed.--_see_ "glaux." sedum (_stonecrop_).--this well-known hardy perennial is suitable for pots or rock-work. it delights in a light, sandy soil, and is readily increased by division or cuttings. it flowers in june or july. height, in. seed-sowing.--two of the most important points in the sowing of seed are the proper condition of the ground and the regular and uniform depth at which the seed is sown. seeds require light, heat, air, and moisture for their germination. the ground should be light, and in such a condition that the young roots can easily penetrate it, and in all cases should be freshly dug so as to communicate air and moisture: it should be neither too wet nor too dry. the most favourable time for seed-sowing is just before a gentle rain. if sown too early on cold, wet ground, the seed is apt to rot; when sown too shallow in a dry time, there may not be sufficient moisture to cause it to sprout. the seed should be sown evenly. the size of a seed is a nearly safe guide as to the depth at which it should be sown. for instance, beans and peas of all kinds should be sown about a couple of inches deep, while very small flower-seeds merely require to be just covered. as to the time for sowing, _see_ "annuals," "biennials," and "perennials." seeds, the protection of.--in order to protect seeds against birds, insects, and rodents, soak them in water containing or per cent, of mineral oil. vegetable seeds, such as haricot beans and peas, should be soaked for twelve hours, and the pips of apples and pears for double that time. for soaking the finer seeds, bitter liquids, such as that of quassia and gentian, should be used. sempervivum (_houseleek_).--the hardy kinds are well known, and may often be seen growing on the roofs of cottages and on walls. they make good rock-work plants, and are easily increased by off-sets. the more tender kinds are suitable for the greenhouse. these should be planted in sandy loam and old brick rubbish. they require but very little water; more may be given when they are in flower. cuttings, after being laid aside for a day or two to dry, will soon make root. height, in. senecio pulcher (_noble crimson groundsel_).--a warm position and a deep, rich, well-drained soil are needed for this flower. it may be propagated by cutting the roots into pieces or in. long, and dibbling them into light soil. it is also increased by the rootlets, which send up small growths in spring. protect from damp and frost, and keep a sharp look-out for slugs. the flowers are produced in autumn. height, ft. senna, bladder.--_see_ "colutea." sensitive plant.--_see_ "mimosa." shallots.--plant the bulbs in november, or in february or march, in rows in. apart, and the bulbs in. one from the other. in july, when the tops are dying down, lift the bulbs, lay them in the sunshine to dry, then store them in a cool place. shamrock.--_see_ "trifolium repens." sheep scabious.--_see_ "jasione." shortia galacifolia.--a hardy, creeping alpine evergreen, having oval leaves, slightly notched at the margins, which turn to a brilliant crimson during the autumn and winter months. in april and may it produces pearly-white flowers, somewhat campanulate in form. it may be planted in early autumn or spring. a light, rich soil suits it best, and it delights in partial shade. it is a lovely plant for rock-work. height, in. shrubs.--deciduous shrubs may be transplanted at any time during late autumn or winter when the ground is not too wet. evergreen shrubs may be moved either early in autumn or in april or may, damp, warm, but not sunny weather being most suitable for the operation. they rejoice in a clean, healthy soil, such as good loam; animal manure does not agree with them, but wood ashes, or charcoal powder with a little guano, may be used. cuttings of shrubs or trees may be taken in september, placed in a mixture of sandy loam and leaf-mould with / in. of sand on top, and covered with a hand-glass; to in. is a good length for the cuttings, all of which, with the exception of about in., should be buried, and preferably with a heel of old wood. keep the soil just damp and give shade. shrubs for lawns.--monkey puzzle (_araucaria imbricata_)--mix wood ashes and burnt refuse with the soil; thujopsis delabrata, thujopsis borealis (of taller growth), irish yews, cupressus lawsoniana erecta viridis, thujas orientalis, vervaeneana, semperaurescens, standard rhododendrons, standard and pyramid hollies, yucca gloriosa (a perfect picture), yucca recurva (the best hardy plant for vases). the cercis tree is also well adapted for lawns. sicyos.--this hardy annual somewhat resembles the cucumber, but is scarcely worth growing except as a curiosity. the seeds are sown on a hotbed in spring, potted off when strong enough, and transferred to the open border early in june. it is a climber, and flowers in august. height, ft. sidalcea.--very pretty hardy perennials, of easy culture. s. candida has pure white flowers closely arranged on the upper part of the stems. s. malvaeflora bears beautifully fringed, satiny pink flowers. they will grow in any good soil from seed sown in autumn and protected during the winter, or they may be increased by division of the roots. height, ft. silene _(catchfly_).--elegant plants, delighting in a light, rich soil. sow the seeds of the annual varieties early in april where they are intended to bloom. silene pendula, when sown in the autumn, makes a pleasing show of pink flowers in the spring. the roots of the herbaceous kinds may be divided in spring. the shrubby sorts are increased by cuttings planted under a hand-glass. the dwarfs make fine rock-work ornaments. flowers are produced in june and july. height, in. to - / ft. silphium aurantiacum.--a good and hardy border perennial, which produces during july and august large deep orange-yellow flowers resembling a sunflower. it is very useful for cutting, will grow anywhere, and can be increased by dividing the root. height, ft. sisyrinchium grandifolium(_satin flower, or rush lily_).--a light loam suits this plant, which is moderately hardy. the soil should be moist, but not wet. it does not like being disturbed, but when necessary the crowns may be divided in autumn, taking care to spread the roots well out. it blooms in april or may. height, ft. skimmia.--neat-growing, dwarf evergreen shrubs having laurel-like leaves, and producing a profusion of scarlet berries in winter. they succeed in any ordinary soil, but thrive best in peat and loam; and are propagated by cuttings placed in heat under glass. slugs.--a sharp watch should be kept over all slugs, and constant visits paid to the garden at daybreak for their destruction. if fresh cabbage leaves are strewed about in the evening the slugs will congregate under them, and in the morning they may be gathered up and dropped into strong brine. the ground may also be dusted with fresh lime, which is fatal to them, but in wet weather the lime soon loses its power. smilax.--a greenhouse climbing plant that is admired for its foliage rather than its bloom. a mixture of peat and loam or leaf-mould and sandy loam suits it. train the shoots up string, and freely water the plant in summer; during the autumn and winter it does not need much moisture. keep the temperature of the house up to degrees throughout the winter. it is readily increased by cuttings. it flowers in july. fine for table decoration. height, ft. snails.--to prevent snails crawling up walls or fruit trees daub the ground with a thick paste of soot and train oil. there is no remedy so effectual for their destruction as hand-picking. snake's head lilies.--_see_ "fritillarias." snapdragon.--_see_ "antirrhinum." sneezewort.--_see_ "achillea." snowball tree.--_see_ "viburnum." snowberry.--_see_ "symphoricarpus." snowdrops _(galanthus)._--these are most effective in clumps. they may be planted at any time from september to december, and left alone for three or four years, when they may be taken up and divided. they grow best in a light, rich soil. snowdrop tree.--_see_ "halesia." snowflake.--_see_ "leucojum." snow in summer.--_see_ "arabis." soil and its treatment.--loam is a mixture of clay and sand. when the former predominates it is termed heavy loam, and when the latter abounds it is called light. marl is a compound of chalk and clay, or chalk and loam. though suitable for certain fruit-trees and a few other things, few flowers will grow in it. drainage is one of the most important considerations in the cultivation of flowers. should the soil be clayey, and hold water, make v-shaped drains, ft. below the surface, and let -in. pipes lead to a deep hole made at the lowest part of the garden and filled with brick rubbish, or other porous substances, through which the water may drain; otherwise the cold, damp earth will rot the roots of the plants. trenching is the process of digging deep, so as to loosen and expose the soil as much as possible to the action of the air. if this is done in the autumn or early winter to a new garden, it is best to dig it deep, say about ft, and leave it in large clods to the pulverising action of the frost, after which it is easily raked level for spring planting. if the clods are turned over the grass will rot and help to improve the ground; new land thus treated will not require manuring the first year. should the ground be clayey, fine ashes or coarse sand thrown over the rough clods after trenching will greatly improve it. digging should be done when the ground is fairly dry, and about one spade deep. avoid treading it down as much as possible. hoeing must be constantly attended to, both to prevent the soil becoming exhausted of its nourishment by the rapid growth of weeds, and because when the surface becomes hard and cracked the rain runs through the deep fissures, leaving the surface soil dry and the roots of the plants unnourished. mulching consists in spreading a layer of stable manure, about in. deep, over the roots of trees and plants in the autumn to keep them warm and moist. the manure may be forked into the soil in the spring. watering the plants carefully is of great consequence. evening or early morning is the best time, and one copious application is far better than little and often. water may be given to the _roots_ at any time, but should not be sprinkled over the leaves in a hot sun nor in cold weather. plants having a soft or woolly foliage should never be wetted overhead, but those with hard and shiny leaves may be freely syringed, especially when in full growth. solanum.--showy greenhouse shrubs, some of which have ornamental foliage. the soil in which they are grown should be light and rich. cuttings planted in sand under glass strike readily. the tender annual varieties may be sown on a hotbed in spring, and placed in the border at the end of may in a dry, sheltered situation, where they will flower in june. height, ft. and upwards. soldanellas.--these small herbaceous perennials should find a place in all alpine collections. they grow best in sandy peat, or in leaf-mould with a liberal addition of sand, and they require a moderate amount of moisture. they may be increased by dividing the roots in april. they flower from march to may. height, in. or in. solidago (_golden rod_).--a useful hardy perennial for the back of borders. throughout late summer and autumn it produces masses of golden flowers. it is not over-particular as to soil, and may be increased by dividing the root in the spring. it increases very rapidly. height, ft. to ft. solomon's seal (_polygonatum multiflorum_).--a graceful hardy plant bearing white pendulent flowers on long curving stems. plant freely in light, rich soil, in a shady position or under trees. the plants should not be disturbed, even by digging among the roots. flowers in may. height, ft. soot-water.--for room and window plants soot-water has this advantage over coarse animal manures, that while the latter are unhealthy and apt to taint the air, the former is purifying and has no unpleasant smell. it is easily made by tying a little soot in a coarse canvas bag and immersing it in a pail of water. it should be applied in a clear, thin state to plants in bud or in full growth during the summer months. sorrel.--sow in march or april in any garden soil, thin out to ft. apart. it is desirable to cut away the flower-stems and to divide the roots every two or three years. the plants may be forced for winter use. southernwood (_artemisia arborea_).--any soil suits this odoriferous bush, and it is readily increased by cuttings or by division. sparaxis.--closely allied to the ixias, equally beautiful and varied in colour, but rather dwarfer and compact in growth. invaluable for pot-culture. for outdoor cultivation plant them early in september, or in. deep, on a sheltered border, in rich, well-drained, loamy soil. protect from frost and wet in the winter, but keep the roots moist while they are growing. for indoor cultivation plant four to six bulbs in a -in. pot, plunge in ashes in a cold frame, withholding water till the plants appear. when making full growth remove them to a sunny window or conservatory, and water them carefully. they will bloom in march or april. height, ft. sparmannia africana.--an exceedingly handsome and attractive greenhouse evergreen shrub, thriving best in loam and peat. cuttings may be struck in sand under glass. may is its flowering season. height, ft. spartium junceum(_yellow broom_).--a hardy evergreen shrub which will grow in any soil, and is propagated by seeds. it flowers in august. height, ft. specularia speculum.--_see_ "venus's looking-glass." spergula pilfera.--may be grown in any moist situation in sandy soil. it is of little value. sphenogyne speciosa.--an elegant hardy annual. sow the seed early in spring on a gentle hotbed in loam and peat, harden off, and transplant at the end of may to a soil composed of loam and leaf-mould, if peat cannot be obtained. the bloom is produced in july. height, ft. spider wort.--_see_ "commelina" _and_ "tradescantia." spigelia marilandica.--from august to october this hardy perennial produces tubular crimson and yellow flowers. it finds a congenial home in damp peat, shaded from the sun, and may be propagated by cuttings in loam and peat under glass. height, ft. spinach.--for summer use sow the round-seeded kinds at intervals of two or three weeks from february to the end of july in rows ft. apart, cover with the finest of soil, and thin out to a distance of or in. in dry weather give a liberal supply of manure water. pull before it runs to seed. for winter use sow the prickly-seeded variety in august and september, and thin the plants out in. apart. if the ground is hot and dry, the seed should be soaked for twenty-four hours before it is sown. new zealand spinach may be sown in the open during may, choosing the warmest spot for its growth; but it is best to sow it in heat in march, keeping the soil fairly moist, and, after hardening it off, to plant it out in june, ft. apart sow perpetual spinach or spinach beet in march in drills ft. apart. cut the leaves frequently, when a fresh crop will be produced. spiraeas.--placed in the open ground these make splendid plants, and are not particular as to soil, though a moist, rich one is preferable. for forcing, plant the clumps in -in. pots, and keep them in a cool frame until they are well rooted. they may then be removed indoors and forced rapidly, supplying them with an abundance of water. their elegant flower spikes are invaluable for bouquets and table decoration. the shrubby kinds are increased by layers or cuttings of the young wood, the herbaceous varieties by division of the roots in autumn. spiraea aruncus, if potted early in the autumn, is very valuable for winter decoration. spiraeas bloom at different periods, from may to august, and vary in height, or ft. being the general growth. spruce firs.--_see_ "abies." stachys coccinea.--this scarlet hardy annual is fine for bees. it may be grown in any soil from seed sown in march or april. height, ft. stachys lanata.--a hardy perennial which will grow in any soil, and bears division. it flowers in july. height, ft. staphylea colchica_(mexican bladder nut)._--this beautiful free-flowering shrub will grow in any garden soil, and produces bunches of fragrant, delicate white flowers in june. it forces well, and may be made to flower at easter by potting it in rich, light soil, placing it in a cold frame till the middle of january, keeping the roots moist, then bringing it into the warm house. it may be propagated by suckers from the roots, by layers, or by cuttings taken in autumn. star flower.--_see_ "trientalis." star of bethlehem.--_see_ "ornithogalum." statice _(sea lavender)._--the greenhouse and frame varieties succeed best in sandy loam and peat, and may be increased by cuttings placed under a bell-glass or in a warm pit. the hardy herbaceous kinds are very suitable for the front of flower borders, and may be freely increased by seeds or division. the annuals, if sown in march, will produce flowers in july. statices require a good amount of water, but thorough drainage must be ensured. if the flowers are dried they will keep their colour for a considerable time. height, ft. to - / ft. stauntonia latifolia.--a greenhouse evergreen climbing plant, which needs a peat and loam soil and plenty of room for its roots. it flowers in april, and is increased by cuttings planted in sand under glass, with a gentle heat. height, ft. stenactis (_fleabane_).--showy hardy perennials which make fine bedding plants. they may be grown from seed, which is produced in great quantities, and merely requires the same treatment as other perennials, or they may be propagated by dividing the plants. they bloom in july. height, ft. stephanotis.--this pretty evergreen twining plant is most suitable for the greenhouse, and flourishes in a mixture of loam and leaf-mould. it flowers in may, and is increased by cuttings struck in heat. height, ft. sternbergia lutea.--a hardy perennial which produces bright yellow flowers in august. it likes a rich soil, and is propagated by off-sets. height, in. stipa pennata (_feather grass_).--one of the most graceful of our ornamental grasses, and most attractive in the border. the seed may be sown early in march, keeping the ground moist until it has germinated, and it is also increased by division. height, ft. stobæa purpurea.--a hardy border plant with long spiny foliage, and bearing from july to september large light blue flowers. it requires a light, rich soil. young cuttings may be struck in sand. height, ft. stocks-- _annual, or ten weeks' stocks_.--sow the seeds in february, march, april, and may for succession; those sown in may will continue to flower till christmas. the soil should be rich, and occasionally a little manure-water may be given. another sowing may be made in august and september. when the plants have several leaves pot off singly in vegetable loam and river sand. height, ft. to - / ft. _brompton_.--sow very thinly during the first week in may in a rich, light, sandy border, with an eastern aspect. when or in. high, thin out to in. apart. those taken out may be re-planted in the flower border, in. from each other. in transplanting reject those plants having a long tap-root: they generally prove to be single. if the following winter be severe they must be protected with mats. any desirable varieties may be propagated by cuttings, which root readily under glass if kept shaded. should it be desirable to transplant them to another part of the garden, march or april will be found the best time to remove them. shade the plants till they are established, and use liquid manure till they begin to flower. _greenhouse or shrubby_ species grow best in a mixture of light soil and sand, and cuttings of these stocks root readily under glass. _night-scented stocks_.--_see_ "mathiola bicornis." if emperor, imperial, or intermediate stocks are sown in march or april, they will flower in the autumn; if sown in june or july they will flower during the following june, and throughout the summer and autumn. stokesia cyanea.--a handsome herbaceous perennial which is quite hardy, but owing to the late period at which it flowers its blooms are liable to be cut off by frosts. it is therefore more suitable for a cool house than the open air, unless the warmest and most sheltered position be assigned to it. a rich, sandy soil is indispensable for its growth. it may be increased by dividing the roots in spring. the flowers are produced from october to december. height, - / ft. stonecrop.--_see_ "sedum." strawberries.--the soil most suitable for the growth of this fruit is a rich, deep, adhesive loam. july or early in august is the best time to make new beds, but if the ground be not then available runners from the old plants may be planted in peat on a north border and lifted with good balls of earth to their permanent bed in the spring. set them firmly in rows ft. apart and in. from plant to plant. spread out the roots and avoid deep planting. remove from the old plants all runners not required for new beds before they take root, as they exhaust the crown. in dry seasons liquid manure is highly beneficial. some growers give supports to the fruit by means of forked-shaped pegs, while others lay straw down to keep the fruit free from grit. keep a sharp look-out for snails and slugs. king of the earlies, auguste nicaise, royal sovereign, vicomtesse héricart de thury, gunton park, president, sir joseph paxton, lord suffield, noble, and samuel bradley are excellent sorts. for ornamental strawberries, _see_ "fragaria indica." strawberry tree.--_see_ "arbutus." streptocarpus (_cape primrose_).--this plant is a greenhouse perennial, showing great variety of colours, from white to violet and crimson, and is of neat habit. a light and rather rich soil or vegetable mould suits it best. seed sown in february in slight heat will produce plants for flowering in july; that sown in march or april will flower in august and september. grow slowly in small pots, and in february put them in their flowering pots. give plenty of air and shade them from the sun. it may also be increased by division, or leaf-cuttings may be taken under a bell-glass. the plants like plenty of water, but need good drainage. height, in. streptosolen jamesoni.--a good compost for this greenhouse evergreen shrub is two parts sandy loam, one part leaf-mould, and a little silver sand. during growth it needs a liberal supply of water and to be kept near the glass; only a small amount of moisture should be given in winter. in march cut it into shape, and re-pot it as soon as new growth starts. during the summer syringe it frequently to keep off red spider, and during winter maintain a temperature of degrees. stylophorum _(celandine poppy, or poppywort)._--during may and june this hardy and handsome plant produces fine yellow flowers. it accommodates itself to any soil, but prefers a rich, light one, and can be increased by seed sown in autumn or early spring. height, - / ft. styrax.--ornamental shrubs requiring a light soil for their cultivation. s. japonica has snowdrop-like flowers, and s. obasa lily-of-the-valley-like scented flowers. they are best propagated by layers. height, ft. to ft. sunflower.--_see_ "helianthus." swainsonia galegifolia alba.--a graceful and charming cool greenhouse plant, with fern-like evergreen foliage and pure white flowers, which are borne from april to november. the soil most suitable for it is a mixture of loam and sandy peat. cuttings of the young growth planted in sand under glass strike readily. height, ft. swallow wort.--_see_ "asclepias." swamp lilies.--_see_ "zephyranthes." swan river daisy.--_see_ "brachycome." sweet alyssum.--_see_ "alyssum." sweet flag.--_see_ "acorus." sweet peas.--_see_ "peas, sweet." sweet rocket.--_see_ "rocket." sweet scabious.--_see_ "scabious." sweet sultan.--sweet-scented, thistle-shaped hardy annual flowers, which are very useful for cutting. they may be raised in any garden soil from seed sown in march or april, and will flower in august. height, - / ft. sweet william.--well-known hardy perennials, and deservedly favourite border plants, which may be grown in any good soil; but to have them to perfection they should be placed in light, loamy ground mixed with a little old manure and sand. they can be raised with little trouble from seed sown thinly at any time between march and midsummer where they are to bloom, and may also be increased by dividing the old plants in spring. they produce their flowers in july. height, - / ft. symphoricarpus (_snowberry_).--a handsome species of st. peter's wort. the shrubs will grow in any ordinary soil, are hardy, and readily propagated by suckers, which are produced abundantly; or cuttings may be taken either in spring or autumn. they bloom in august. height, ft. symphytum caucasicum.--hardy perennials. they will grow in any soil or situation, even thriving under the shade of trees, and may be increased by division. june is the month in which they flower. height, ft. syringa (_lilac_.)--there are many choice varieties of these favourite shrubs, but any of them may be grown in a tolerably good soil. they are propagated by layers or by suckers from the root. they bloom in may or june. height varies from ft. to ft. t tacsonia.--a beautiful twining shrub belonging to the passiflora family. it should be provided with a rich soil, and, as the flowers are produced upon the lateral shoots, it requires frequent stopping. syringe frequently in warm weather to induce a quick growth. it is a quick grower, and, when properly treated, a profuse bloomer, the flowers being produced in july, august, and september. cuttings of young shoots placed under glass in a sandy soil will strike. height, ft. tagetes (_french and african marigolds_).--half-hardy annuals, very elegant when in flower, and deserve a place in the garden. the seed should be sown on a hotbed in march or april, the plants gradually hardened off, and placed in the open at the end of may in a rich, light soil, when they will flower in august. height, ft. to - / ft. tamarix.--neat feathery plants, very suitable for banks and thriving at the seaside, as is evidenced by its luxuriant growth along the parades at eastbourne. the hardy kinds will grow in any soil, and may be propagated by cuttings planted in the open either in spring or autumn. the greenhouse and stove varieties require a soil of loam and peat. cuttings of these should be placed in sand under glass. they flower in june and july. height, ft. to ft. tansy.--a feathery-foliaged hardy perennial, useful for mixing with cut blooms. no special treatment is required. height, ft. taxus.--_see_ "yew." tecoma.--ornamental evergreen shrubs of a twining nature, needing a greenhouse for their cultivation. they require a rich, loamy soil mixed with a little sand, or loam and peat, and rejoice in shade and moisture. t. radicans will grow in the open against a wall, but a warm situation is needed to make it flower. they may be propagated by cuttings of the roots placed in sand under a hand-glass, and by layers. their flowers are produced in july and august. height, ft. to ft. telekia.--_see_ "buphthalmum." tellima grandiflora.--a hardy and very ornamental perennial with round bronzy foliage and spikes of white flowers at midsummer. it succeeds best in peat, but will grow in any rich, light soil. to increase it, divide the roots. height, ft. tetratheca.--pretty greenhouse evergreen shrubs which produce pink flowers in july. they flourish in a soil consisting of equal proportions of loam, peat, and sand. cuttings of the young wood planted under glass in a sandy soil will strike. height, ft. teucrium scorodonia.--this hardy herbaceous plant will grow in any ordinary garden soil. it flowers in july, and is easily raised from seed or increased by division. height, - / ft. thalictrum.--hardy fern-like perennials, suitable for the backs of borders. they grow well in any light soil from seed sown in spring or autumn, and may also be increased by division. thermopsis montana_(fabacea)._--this hardy perennial produces spikes of yellow lupin-like flowers from june to september. the soil should be light and rich. as the plants suffer by division, it is best to raise them by seed, which may be sown either in autumn or spring. height, ft. thladianthe dubia.--a fine climbing plant with handsome foliage and an abundance of fine yellow flowers. quite hardy. sow on a hotbed early in spring, and when sufficiently large and strong, pot off, place in a cold frame to harden, and plant out at the end of may in rich soil. thrift.--_see_ "armeria." thumbergia.--these slender, rapid-growing climbers are extremely pretty when in bloom during june, but they are only half-hardy; they therefore need greenhouse care, or to be planted in a warm situation. they flourish best in a mixture of sandy loam and leaf-mould, and may be grown from seed sown in heat ( to degrees) early in spring. cuttings strike readily. height, ft. thuya (_arbor vitae_).--very decorative conifers, mostly of conical shape, and indispensable to the shrubbery. they thrive in any soil, but prefer a moist situation. for sheltered positions, where a small dome-shaped bush is required, the chinese arbor vitae _(biota orientalis)_ is most desirable; it delights in a heavy soil. the biota elegantissima is one of the most unique hardy shrubs cultivated, and presents a bright golden appearance. another effective yellow variety is the semperaurescens, which retains its colour throughout the winter, and makes a fine pot-plant. one of the most beautiful of all evergreens is the thuyopsis dolabrata; its flat, spray-like leaves are bright green above and silvery below. the china varieties are somewhat tender, and require protection from frost. they may all be propagated from seed or by cuttings. thymus.--effective little perennials for rock-work, growing best in a light, dry, sandy soil. the hardy kinds like an exposed position; rarer kinds should be grown in pots, as they need protection in winter. they are easily increased by seed sown in spring, by cuttings or division. height, in. to in. tiarella.--these hardy herbaceous plants are very suitable for rock-work or the front of a border. they are not particular as to soil; they flower in april, and may be propagated by seed or division. height, in. to ft. tiarella cordifolia (_foam flower_).--a hardy herbaceous perennial, having fine foliage. it will grow in any good soil, but likes shade and moisture. it may be increased by dividing the roots at the end of the summer. the blooms are produced during may and june. height, ft. tigridia (_ferraria; mexican tiger flower, popularly called the tiger iris_).--a gorgeous flower of exceptional beauty. plant the bulbs in the sunniest spot out of doors during march, april, or may, in a sandy loam enriched with a liberal amount of leaf-mould, placing them in. deep and in. apart, and putting a little silver sand round each bulb before covering it with the soil. shelter from cutting winds. the blossoms appear in july or august. each bloom lasts only one day, but is succeeded on the next by fresh ones, so that a continuance of bloom is maintained. protect them in winter with a covering of dead leaves, or, better still, take them up when they have done flowering, and keep them dry and free from frost. for pot-culture plant the bulbs in sandy loam and peat, plunge them in a cold frame, and withhold water until the foliage appears. they may be increased by off-sets or seeds. height, ft. tobacco plants.--_see_ "nicotiana." tobacco-water.--boil oz. of shag, or other strong tobacco, in a pint of water. apply with a soft brush. this is a deadly poison to insects. tomatoes (_love apples_).--those intended to be grown in the open should be raised from seed sown the first week in march in pots of very rich, light mould. place them in a cucumber-house or other gentle heat, and when the second leaf appears, pot them off singly, keeping them near the glass and well watered. towards the end of may remove them to a cold frame to harden off, and plant out as soon as fear of frost is over, in deeply-dug and moderately manured ground, against a south wall fully exposed to the sun. train to a single stem and remove all lateral growths. when the plants are or ft. high pinch off the tops to prevent further growth and throw strength into the fruit. watering should cease as soon as the blossom-buds appear, except in periods of very severe drought. when grown under glass tomatoes need to be trained in much the same way as grape vines. constant attention must be given to removing all useless shoots and exposing the fruit to air and light. an average temperature of degrees should be maintained, with a rather dry and buoyant atmosphere. toothwort.--_see_ "dentaria." torch lily.--_see_ "tritoma." torenia.--these stove and greenhouse plants require a rich soil. they may be increased by seed or division. they flower during june and july. height, in. to in. tournefort.--_see_ "crambe cordifolia." tradescantia virginica (_spider wort_).--a hardy herbaceous plant. in a light, rich soil it will flower in july. height, ft. there are other varieties of tradescantia; they all make good border plants, thrive in any situation, and are continuous bloomers. transplanting.--plants may be transplanted as soon as they are large enough to handle. they must be lifted carefully with a small trowel, or if they are very small, such as golden feather, with a still smaller blunt article, disturbing the roots as little as possible. it should be done when the ground is wet, and preferably in the evening. in dry weather they should be well watered twelve hours before they are disturbed. shade them from sun for one or two days. cabbages, lettuces, cauliflowers, broccoli, kale, and other members of the brassica family _must_ be transplanted, or they will be a failure. root crops such as carrots, parsnips, turnips, etc., must not be transplanted, but thinned out. celery may be transplanted in june or july. traveller's joy (_clematis viorna_).--this hardy climbing plant grows best in a light soil, flowers in august, and is increased by layers of the young shoots in summer. height, ft. trees, plants that flourish under.--ivy, st. john's wort (hypericum calycinum), early-flowering white aconite. tricyrtis.--these greenhouse herbaceous plants bloom in may. a rich, light soil suits them. height, in. trientalis europæa (_star flower_).--to grow this native perennial to advantage, it should be planted in leaf-mould with which a large proportion of sand has been mixed. confine the roots to a narrow compass by means of slates placed just beneath the surface of the soil. let the ground be kept moist, but well drained. the bloom is produced during may and june, and it is propagated by runners. height, in. to in. trifolium repens pentaphyllum.--a showy, hardy, deciduous perennial. it thrives in ordinary soil, puts forth its white flowers in june, and is propagated by seed or division. height, in. trillium erectum (_wood lily_).--this tuberous perennial is quite hardy, and flourishes in partial shade. the soil must be light and rich, yet moist. the plant does not increase very fast, but the roots of good-sized plants may be divided. it flowers in may and june. height, in. tritelia.--a charming spring-flowering plant, bearing pretty white star-like flowers on slender stalks. it is used largely for edgings. it looks well in clumps on the front of borders. plant in autumn, and divide the bulbs every two or three years. height, in. tritoma (_red-hot poker, or torch lily_).--requires a rich, sandy soil, and to be protected in a frame from wet and frost in the winter. increase by division or by suckers from the root. the flower spikes grow to in. long. the crown of the plant should not be more than / in. in the soil, which should be dug deeply and mixed with rotted manure. in winter, if it is left in the ground, surround the plant with in. of sawdust, well trodden. remove this in may, and water liberally with liquid manure till it blooms. the best time to plant is march or october. by many it is considered advisable not to disturb the plant too often. tritonias.--these somewhat resemble miniature gladioli, and are among the most useful bulbs for pot-culture. plant from september to december, placing five or six bulbs in a -in. pot, and using a compost of loam, leaf-mould, and silver sand. plunge the pots in ashes in a cold pit or frame, and keep them dry until the plants appear. when in full growth they may be removed to the conservatory, placing them near the glass, and giving careful attention to watering. for outdoor cultivation choose a sunny, sheltered position, with a light, rich, sandy soil. give protection in frosty weather by covering with dry litter. trollius altaiense (_globe flower_).--a pretty, hardy herbaceous plant, with very handsome foliage. it likes a light but moist soil, may be increased by seed or by dividing the root, and flowers in may. height, in. to ft. trollius asiaticus.--a very pretty herbaceous plant, suitable for the border. it may be raised from seed sown in the autumn, and grown on in light, moist soil. the plant is hardy and flowers in may. height, ft. tropæolums-- _jarratti_ (_scarlet, orange, and black_) are remarkable for a slender and graceful growth. well adapted for covering wire globes, trellises, etc. _lobbianum_ (_various colours_).--elegant dwarf climbers, suitable either for the conservatory or for outdoor culture. they may also be used for bedding if planted thinly and kept pegged down; or may be grown in window-boxes. height, ft. _pentaphyllum_ (_red_) is slender and graceful, and an elegant climber. _polyphyllum_ (_yellow_) succeeds best against a south wall. it is hardy, has rich abundant glaucous foliage, and is a particularly fine climber. _speciosum_ (_scarlet_).--of wild, graceful, luxuriant and slender growth. fine for covering walls and fences, festooning arches, etc. plant at the beginning of october in an eastern aspect or at the base of a north wall, the soil and atmosphere being moderately moist. bury the roots in. deep. _tuberosum_ (_yellow and red_) is quite hardy, and may be planted in any situation. generally a light, rich soil is most suitable. the greenhouse varieties may be increased by cuttings placed in sandy soil under glass. the tuberous-rooted kinds should be taken up in winter and kept in sand till spring, when they may be planted in a sheltered part of the garden. the annuals merely require to be sown in the open in spring. they flower in july, august, and september. height, ft. to ft. (_see also_ "canary creeper.") trumpet flower.--_see_ "bignonia." tuberose.--plant the bulbs in january in a mixture of sandy loam and rotten dung, or leaf-mould, using a small pot for each bulb. plunge them in a hotbed, taking care that the temperature does not fall below degrees, and withhold water until the foliage appears, when a moderate amount should be given. when the pots are full of roots, shift the plants into larger ones, and grow on in a house with a uniform high temperature and moist atmosphere. for a succession of bloom place the roots in a cold frame and cover with cocoanut fibre until growth begins, then remove the fibre, water moderately, and transfer the most forward plants to the conservatory. bloom may be had all the year round by planting in succession from september to june. tulips.--drainage may be considered as the chief means of success in the cultivation of these showy spring flowers. the soil they like best is well-rotted turf cut from pasture land and mixed with a moderate amount of sand, but they will thrive in any ground that is well drained. the bulbs should be planted during october and november about in. deep and in. apart, either in lines or groups, and they retain their bloom longest in a shady situation. as soon as the leaves begin to decay the bulbs may be taken up, dried, and stored away, keeping the colours separate. for pot-culture the single varieties are best. put three bulbs in a -in. pot and six in a -in. one, and treat in the same manner as the hyacinth. they may, if desired, be forced as soon as the shoots appear. when required to fill vases, etc., it is a good plan to grow them in shallow boxes, and transfer them when in flower to the vases or baskets. by this method exactitude of height and colouring is ensured. tulips are divided into three classes: ( ) roses, which have a white ground, with crimson, pink, or scarlet marks; ( ) byblomens, having also a white ground, but with lilac, purple, or black marks; and ( ) bizarres, with a yellow ground having marks of any colour. tunica.--same treatment as "dianthus." turkey's beard.--_see_ "xerophyllum." turnips.--to obtain mild and delicately-flavoured turnips a somewhat light, sandy, but deep, rich soil is necessary. for a first crop sow the early white dutch variety in february or the beginning of march on a warm border. for succession sow early snowball at intervals of three weeks until the middle of july. for winter use sow golden ball, or other yellow-fleshed kinds, early in august. thin each sowing out so that the bulbs stand in. apart. to ensure sound, crisp, fleshy roots they require to be grown quickly, therefore moist soil and liberal manuring is necessary, and the ground kept free from weeds. if fly becomes troublesome, dust the plants with quicklime early in the day, while the dew is on them, and repeat the operation as often as is necessary. tussilago fragrans (_winter heliotrope_).--a very fragrant hardy perennial, flowering in january and february. it will grow in any good garden soil and bears division. height, ft. twin flower.--_see_ "bravoa." u ulex europaeus flore pleno (_double furze_).--this elegant, hardy, evergreen shrub likes a rich, sandy soil, and may be increased by cuttings planted in a shady border and covered with a hand-glass. height, ft. umbilicus chrysanthus.--this little alpine plant should occupy a warm, sheltered, and dry situation, and be protected with an overhead screen in wet seasons. the soil it most enjoys is a mixture of peat and coarse sand. its procumbent stalks emit roots. this new growth may be transplanted in the spring or early summer months. height, in. uvularia.--beautiful hardy perennials, producing drooping flowers from may to july. they succeed best in a light, sandy soil, and may be increased by dividing the roots. height, ft. v vaccineum myrtillus and v. uliginosum.--attractive deciduous shrubs. they require to be grown in peat or very sandy loam. in april or may they produce flowers. they can be increased by dividing the creeping roots. height, - / ft. vaccineum vitis-idæa (_red whortleberry_).--a neat native shrub which, with its flowers and clusters of bright red berries, is very attractive in autumn. a rich, light, sandy soil, moist but well drained, is necessary, and the position should be sunny so as to ripen the berries. it may be increased at any time by division. it flowers from may to october. height, in. valeriana.--an ornamental hardy perennial. it will succeed in any garden soil, and merely requires the same treatment as ordinary perennials. it is readily increased by dividing the roots, and produces its flowers in july. height, ft. vegetable marrow.--sow in pots during march or april, and place in a cucumber frame or on a hotbed, and cover with a hand-glass. harden off, and plant out about the third week in may in ground previously prepared with a heavy dressing of good stable or farmyard manure, protecting the plants at night for the first week or so with a handglass or large flower-pot. do not allow the roots to feel the want of water, and keep a sharp look-out for slugs. seed may also be sown in may in the open. the best way of proceeding in this case is to dig a pit ft. deep and the same in width, fill it with fermenting manure, and put ft. of light mould on top. let it remain for a week so that the soil may get warm, then sow the seed, and cover it with a hand-glass. train the shoots so that they may have plenty of room, and pinch off the tops when the plant has attained its desired length. venidium.--hardy annuals, which are best raised from seed sown early in march on a slight hotbed, and grown in turfy loam, or loam and peat. they bloom in may. height, ft. venus's car.--_see_ "dielytra." venus's looking-glass (_specularia speculum_).--a pretty hardy annual, bearing a profusion of campanula-like flowers in july. suitable for beds, pots, hanging baskets, or rock-work. it flourishes most in a compost of sandy loam and peat. the seeds are best sown in autumn and wintered in a greenhouse, but they may be raised on a hotbed early in spring. cuttings of the young wood planted under glass root freely. height, in. venus's navel wort.--a charming hardy annual for rock-work. the seed should be sown early in spring in good garden mould. height, in. veratum.--handsome foliage plants. they are quite hardy, and delight in a rich soil. july is the month in which they flower. they may be raised from seed, or propagated by division. height, ft. verbascum.--a hardy annual, which produces a profusion of showy flowers in july, and is very suitable for the backs of borders. it will thrive in any soil, and is easily raised from seed sown early in spring. height, ft. verbena.--this charming half-hardy perennial succeeds best in light, loamy soil. it seeds freely, and roots rapidly by being pegged down. it is usual to take the cuttings in february, as spring-struck plants prove best both for growth and flowering. place a score of cuttings in a -sized pot containing / of drainage material, covered with in. of rough leaf-mould, then filled to within - / in. of the rim with equal parts of loam, leaf-mould, or peat and sand, with / in. of sand on the top. make the soil firm at the base of the cuttings, and water level. it is, however, more easily obtained from seed raised on a gentle hotbed, and the plants thus raised are more robust and floriferous. it flowers in july. height, ft. verbena, lemon-scented.--_see_ "aloysia." veronica.--this graceful evergreen, commonly called speedwell, bears handsome spikes of autumn flowers, and makes a good conservatory or sitting-room plant. it stands the winter out of doors in a sheltered position with a dry sub-soil. the annual varieties may be sown in autumn for spring flowering. any light, rich, moist soil suits them. the hardy perennial kinds are increased by dividing the roots, and the greenhouse varieties by seeds or cuttings. the different species flower from july to october. height, ft. to ft. vesicaria graeca.--a small hardy evergreen shrub, suitable for rock-work or edgings. it likes a light, dry soil and an open situation. it may be propagated by seeds, which are freely produced; but the readiest way to increase it is by cuttings of the side-shoots, taken as early as possible so as to become well rooted before cold weather sets in. it flowers from april to june. height, in. to in. viburnum opulus(_guelder rose_, or _snowball tree_).--a very elegant and hardy deciduous shrub, which will grow in any soil, and may be increased by layers, or by cuttings planted in the shade under glass. it blooms in june. height, ft. viburnum tinus (_laurestinus_).--this well-known and much-admired evergreen shrub produces masses of white flowers through the winter months, at which season it is especially ornamental. it is generally propagated by layers, but where a number of the plants are required they may be obtained from autumn cuttings planted in the shade and covered with a hand-glass. height, ft. vicia pyrenaica.--a hardy and good perennial for rock-work, having compact tufts of green growth and producing deep crimson flowers in may and june. it will grow in any soil, and is of easy culture. it is increased by seed, also by division of the roots. height, ft. vinca (_periwinkle_).--many of these are variegated and very showy as rock-work plants, and will grow in any moist soil, enjoying a shady situation. they may be raised from seed sown early in spring in a warm situation, or may be increased by runners, which strike root at the joints like the strawberry. they may be planted under the shade of trees. many choice greenhouse evergreens bearing fine circular flowers and shining foliage are also included under the name of vinca. height, ft. vines.--_see_ "grapes." violas.--the hardy perennials are suitable for the front of flower borders or rock-work, but the smaller species succeed best when grown in pots in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. the herbaceous kinds are increased by seed or division of the roots, the shrubby varieties by cuttings planted under glass, and the annuals by seed sown in the open in spring. height, in. to in. violets.--plant the runners or off-sets in may in loam and leaf-mould, choosing a damp, shady situation. russian and neapolitan violets may be made to flower throughout the winter and early spring by placing them in a stove or warm pit. dog-toothed violets will grow in any light soil. autumn is the best time to plant them, and in. of silver sand round the roots prevents decay; they are hardy and early, but will not bloom unless planted in. deep. white violets like a chalky soil. one of the best manures for violets is the ash from bonfires. they may be multiplied to any extent by pegging down the side-shoots in april. the common violet flowers in march and april. height, in. virgilia.--for the most part greenhouse shrubs, requiring to be grown in a compost of loam, peat, and sand. young cuttings planted in sandy loam and covered with glass will strike. the hardy kinds, such as v. lutea, grow in any light soil, and are increased by laying down shoots in autumn or spring. july is the month in which they flower. height, from ft. to ft. virginian creeper (_ampelopsis hederacea_).--may be propagated by layers or cuttings, and will grow in any common garden soil. the plant is also known as the five-leaved ivy, is a rapid grower, and a favourite for covering unsightly walls. virginian stock.--this pretty little hardy annual is readily raised from seed sown on a border in autumn or spring. it is not particular as to soil. height, in. virgin's bower.--_see_ "clematis." viscaria coeli rosa (_the rose of heaven_).--sow in april, or on a warm, dry, sheltered spot in september. other varieties of viscaria are graceful and effective in beds, masses, or lines, and only require the usual care bestowed upon hardy annuals. the flowers are produced in june and july. height, ft. vitis heterophylla.--these vines are hardy, and will grow in any rich soil. they are propagated by cuttings, and also by layers. v. purpureus has purple leaves, which are very effective. v. coignettae, or the chinese vine, has very noble foliage. w wahlenbergia.--the hardy perennial kinds thrive best in pots, the soil in which should be kept moist. the annuals, which are raised on a hotbed in march, may be planted out in may in a warm situation. waitzia.--very beautiful half-hardy annuals, but more suitable for the greenhouse than the open flower-bed. they require a sandy peat and leaf-mould, and the pots to be well drained, as too much water is as destructive to them as too little. they may be had in flower from may to august by making two sowings, one in september and the other in february, and keeping them in the greenhouse. when large enough to handle, pot off into -in. pots, putting two plants in each pot close to the sides, and shift them into larger ones when they have made sufficient growth. place them in a dry and airy situation and near the glass. they are unable to stand the least frost, therefore, if they are planted out, it should not be done before the beginning of june. height, / ft. waldsteina fragarioides.--a hardy and pretty trailing rock plant, with deep green foliage. from march to may it bears yellow strawberry-like flowers. any soil suits it, and it may be increased by seed or division. height, in. wall-flower (_cheiranthus_).--these favourite hardy perennials prefer a rich, light, sandy soil, and a dry situation. the seed may be sown where it is intended for them to bloom either in autumn or spring. thin out to ft. apart. they may also be increased by shoots torn from the stems of old plants. as well as flowering early in spring, they often bloom in the autumn. height, - / ft. walnuts.--the nuts for raising young trees may be planted at any time between october and the end of february, in. deep and - / ft. apart. train to a single stem to ft. high, removing all the side branches as soon as they make an appearance. the following year they may be planted in their permanent position, which should be high, yet sheltered from frost. two of the best tall-growing varieties are thin-shelled and noyer à bijou. the dwarf prolific makes a good bush tree. wand plant.--_see_ "galax." wasps.--to destroy wasps rinse a large bottle with spirits of turpentine, and thrust the neck into the principal entrance to their nest, stopping up all the other holes to prevent their escape. in a few days the nest may be dug up. the fumes of the spirit first stupefies and eventually destroys the insects. water-cress.--sow in prepared places, during spring, in sluggish brooks and moist situations; or it may be grown on a shady border if kept moist by frequent waterings. it may also be grown in a frame in september from cuttings placed in. apart, sprinkling them daily, but keeping the frame closed for two or three weeks, then watering once a week. give all the air possible in fine weather, but cover the frame with mats during frosts. it is best when grown quickly. watsonia.--plant the bulbs during january in sandy loam with a little peat. they flower in april. height, - / ft. weeds in paths.--these may be destroyed by strong brine, applied when hot. or mix / lb. of oil of vitriol with gallons of water, and apply, taking care not to get the vitriol on the hands or clothes. weigelia.--free-flowering, hardy, deciduous shrubs, the flowers being produced in profusion along the shoots in april, and varying in colour from white to deep crimson. the plants will grow in any soil, and require no special culture. all the varieties force well, and may be increased by cuttings. height, ft. white scale.--_see_ "scale." whitlavia.--a hardy annual, needing no special treatment. it may be sown in autumn, and protected during winter in a frame, or it may be raised in spring in the open ground, where it will bloom in june. height, ft. whortleberry.--_see_ "vaccineum." wigandia caraccasana.--a stove deciduous shrub which thrives best in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings in sand will strike if placed under glass and in heat. it flowers in april. height, ft. windflowers.--_see_ "anemones." winter aconite (_eranthis hyemalis_).--this is one of the very first of flowers to bloom, being in advance of the snowdrop. in the bleakest days of winter this little flower covers the ground with its gilt spangles. plant in early autumn. any soil or situation suits it, but it does best in a light mould and a moist, shady position, or under trees. most effective when planted in masses. the tubers may remain permanently in the ground, or they may be lifted and divided in summer, as soon as the foliage dies down. flowers are produced from december to february. winter cherry.--_see_ "physalis." winter heliotrope.--_see_ "tussilago." wire-worms.--before using mould for potting purposes it is advisable to examine it carefully and pick out any wire-worms that are in it. for the border the best traps are small potatoes with a hole cut in them, buried at intervals just beneath the surface of the soil. wistaria.--this noble wall plant may be abundantly produced, as a long layer will root at every joint. it will also grow from cuttings of the plant and root. though of slow growth at first, when well established it is very free-growing and perfectly hardy. it may also be grown as a small tree for the lawn or centres of large beds by keeping the long twining shoots pinched in. witch hazel.--_see_ "hamamelis." withania origanifolia (_pampas lily-of-the-valley_).--a hardy climbing plant, attaining a height of or ft. in a very short period. the foliage is small, but very dense and of a dark green, the flowers being white. it may be raised from seed, and when once established the roots may remain undisturbed for any length of time, merely removing the stems as soon as they are destroyed by frost. wolf's bane.--_see_ "aconite." wood, to preserve.--in order to prevent wooden posts, piles, etc., from rotting, dip the parts to be sunk in the earth in the following composition:--fine, hard sand, three hundred parts; powdered chalk, forty parts; resin, fifty parts; linseed oil, four parts. heat these together in a boiler, then add red lead, one part; sulphuric acid, one part. mix well together, and use while hot. if too thick, more linseed oil may be added. this composition when dry attains the consistency of varnish, and becomes extremely hard. wood lily.--_see_ "trillium." woodruff.--_see_ "asperula." worms, to destroy.--to each lbs. of newly-slaked lime add gallons of water. stir it well, let it settle, draw off the clear portion, and with it water the surface of the lawn, etc. the worms will come to the top and may be swept up. worms in pots may be brought to the top by sprinkling a little dry mustard on the surface of the soil, and then giving the plant a good watering. wulfenia carinthiaca.--a pretty and hardy perennial from the corinthian alps, suitable alike for rock-work or the border, throwing up spikes of blue flowers from may to july. during winter place it in a frame, as it is liable to rot in the open. it needs a light, rich, sandy soil and plenty of moisture when in growth. cuttings will strike in sand; it may also be propagated by seeds or division. height, ft. x xeranthemum.--these charming everlasting annuals retain, in a dried state, their form and colour for several years. they are of the easiest culture, merely requiring to be sown in spring in light, rich soil to produce flowers in july. height, ft. xerophyllum asphodeloides (_turkey's beard_).--a showy hardy perennial with tufts of graceful, curving, slender foliage. from may to july, when it bears spikes of white flowers, it is very handsome. it does best in a peat border, and may be increased by well-ripened seed or by division. height, - / ft. xerotes.--herbaceous plants, which thrive well in any light, rich soil, and are readily increased by dividing the roots. they flower in june. height, ft. y yew (_taxus_).--for landscape gardening the old gold-striped (_baccata aurea variegata_) is most effective. the japanese variety, t. adpressa, is a pleasing evergreen having dark green leaves and large scarlet berries; it is very suitable for the front of large borders. the common yew (_baccata_) grows dense and bushy, and is excellent for hedges. the dark green leaves of the irish yew (_baccata fastigiata_) make a fine contrast with lighter foliage. dovastonii is a fine weeping yew with long dark green leaves and extra large red berries. there are many other good sorts. the yew likes shade and moisture, but it is not very particular as to soil, loams and clays suiting it admirably. yucca.--this plant, popularly known as adam's needle thrives best in dry, sandy loam. it is quite hardy, and does well on rock-work, to which it imparts a tropical aspect, yucca recurva has fine drooping leaves, and is suitable for vases, etc. it bears a white flower. yuccas are mostly evergreen shrubs, are very beautiful, and have the habit of palm-trees. a light, rich soil suits them all. they are increased by suckers from the root. they make handsome plants for lawns, terraces, ornamental vases, the centre of beds, or sub-tropical gardens, and bloom in september. height, ft. z zauschneria.--a californian half-hardy perennial plant which bears a profusion of scarlet tube-shaped flowers from june to october. it grows freely in a sunny position in any dry, light, gravelly, rich soil, and is increased by division of roots or by cuttings. height, ft. zea (_indian corn_).--this is best raised in a hotbed early in spring, but it will germinate in ordinary soil in may. it requires a sunny situation. height, ft. to ft. zea japonica variegata (_striped japanese maize_).--a fine half-hardy annual ornamental grass, the foliage being striped green and white, and growing to the height of ft. the cultivation is the same as the foregoing. zephyranthes (_swamp lilies_).--plant on a warm border in a rather sandy, well-drained soil. give protection in severe weather, and supply with water during the growing season. take up and divide every second or third year. the flowers are produced in july. height, in. zinnia.--a genus of very pretty annuals, well deserving of cultivation. the seeds must be raised on a gentle hotbed in spring, and planted out in june ft. apart in the richest of loamy soil and warmest and most sheltered position. height ft. to / ft. from images provided by the million book project. flowers and flower-gardens. by david lester richardson, principal of the hindu metropolitan college, and author of "literary leaves," "literary recreations," &c. with an appendix of practical instructions and useful information respecting the anglo-indian flower-garden. calcutta: mdccclv. preface. in every work regard the writer's end, since none can compass more than they intend. _pope_. this volume is far indeed from being a scientific treatise _on flowers and flower-gardens_:--it is mere gossip in print upon a pleasant subject. but i hope it will not be altogether useless. if i succeed in my object i shall consider that i have gossipped to some purpose. on several points--such as that of the mythology and language of flowers--i have said a good deal more than i should have done had i been writing for a different community. i beg the london critics to bear this in mind. i wished to make the subject as attractive as possible to some classes of people here who might not have been disposed to pay any attention to it whatever if i had not studied their amusement as much as their instruction. i have tried to sweeten the edge of the cup. i did not at first intend the book to exceed fifty pages: but i was almost insensibly carried on further and further from the proposed limit by the attractive nature of the materials that pressed upon my notice. as by far the largest portion, of it has been written hurriedly, amidst other avocations, and bit by bit; just as the press demanded an additional supply of "_copy_," i have but too much reason to apprehend that it will seem to many of my readers, fragmentary and ill-connected. then again, in a city like calcutta, it is not easy to prepare any thing satisfactorily that demands much literary or scientific research. there are very many volumes in all the london catalogues, but not immediately obtainable in calcutta, that i should have been most eager to refer to for interesting and valuable information, if they had been at hand. the mere titles of these books have often tantalized me with visions of riches beyond my reach. i might indeed have sent for some of these from england, but i had announced this volume, and commenced the printing of it, before it occurred to me that it would be advisable to extend the matter beyond the limits i had originally contemplated. i must now send it forth, "with all its imperfections on its head;" but not without the hope that in spite of these, it will be found calculated to increase the taste amongst my brother exiles here for flowers and flower-gardens, and lead many of my native friends--(particularly those who have been educated at the government colleges,--who have imbibed some english thoughts and feelings--and who are so fortunate as to be in possession of landed property)--to improve their parterres,--and set an example to their poorer countrymen of that neatness and care and cleanliness and order which may make even the peasant's cottage and the smallest plot of ground assume an aspect of comfort, and afford a favorable indication of the character of the possessor. d.l.r. _calcutta, september st_ . errata. a friend tells me that the allusion to the acanthus on the first page of this book is obscurely expressed, that it was not the _root_ but the _leaves_ of the plant that suggested the idea of the corinthian capital. the root of the acanthus produced the leaves which overhanging the sides of the basket struck the fancy of the architect. this was, indeed, what i _meant_ to say, and though i have not very lucidly expressed myself, i still think that some readers might have understood me rightly even without the aid of this explanation, which, however, it is as well for me to give, as i wish to be intelligible to _all_. a writer should endeavor to make it impossible for any one to misapprehend his meaning, though there are some writers of high name both in england and america who seem to delight in puzzling their readers. at the bottom of page , allusion is made to the dotted lines at some of the open turns in the engraved labyrinth. by some accident or mistake the dots have been omitted, but any one can understand where the stop hedges which the dotted lines indicated might be placed so as to give the wanderer in the maze, additional trouble to find his way out of it. [illustration of a garden.] on flowers and flower-gardens, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. _the song of solomon_. * * * * * these are thy glorious works, parent of good! almighty, thine this universal frame, thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! _milton_. * * * * * soft roll your incense, herbs and fruits and flowers, in mingled clouds to him whose sun exalts whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. _thomson_. a taste for floriculture is spreading amongst anglo-indians. it is a good sign. it would be gratifying to learn that the same refining taste had reached the natives also--even the lower classes of them. it is a cheap enjoyment. a mere palm of ground may be glorified by a few radiant blossoms. a single clay jar of the rudest form may be so enriched and beautified with leaves and blossoms as to fascinate the eye of taste. an old basket, with a broken tile at the top of it, and the root of the acanthus within, produced an effect which seemed to calimachus, the architect, "the work of the graces." it suggested the idea of the capital of the corinthian column, the most elegant architectural ornament that art has yet conceived. flowers are the poor man's luxury; a refinement for the uneducated. it has been prettily said that the melody of birds is the poor man's music, and that flowers are the poor man's poetry. they are "a discipline of humanity," and may sometimes ameliorate even a coarse and vulgar nature, just as the cherub faces of innocent and happy children are sometimes found to soften and purify the corrupted heart. it would be a delightful thing to see the swarthy cottagers of india throwing a cheerful grace on their humble sheds and small plots of ground with those natural embellishments which no productions of human skill can rival. the peasant who is fond of flowers--if he begin with but a dozen little pots of geraniums and double daisies upon his window sills, or with a honeysuckle over his humble porch--gradually acquires a habit, not only of decorating the outside of his dwelling and of cultivating with care his small plot of ground, but of setting his house in order within, and making every thing around him agreeable to the eye. a love of cleanliness and neatness and simple ornament is a moral feeling. the country laborer, or the industrious mechanic, who has a little garden to be proud of, the work of his own hand, becomes attached to his place of residence, and is perhaps not only a better subject on that account, but a better neighbour--a better man. a taste for flowers is, at all events, infinitely preferable to a taste for the excitements of the pot-house or the tavern or the turf or the gaming table, or even the festal board, especially for people of feeble health--and above all, for the poor--who should endeavor to satisfy themselves with inexpensive pleasures.[ ] in all countries, civilized or savage, and on all occasions, whether of grief or rejoicing, a natural fondness for flowers has been exhibited, with more or less tenderness or enthusiasm. they beautify religious rites. they are national emblems: they find a place in the blazonry of heraldic devices. they are the gifts and the language of friendship and of love. flowers gleam in original hues from graceful vases in almost every domicile where taste presides; and the hand of "nice art" charms us with "counterfeit presentments" of their forms and colors, not only on the living canvas, but even on our domestic china-ware, and our mahogany furniture, and our wall-papers and hangings and carpets, and on our richest apparel for holiday occasions and our simplest garments for daily wear. even human beauty, the queen of all loveliness on earth, engages flora as her handmaid at the toilet, in spite of the dictum of the poet of 'the seasons,' that "beauty when unadorned is adorned the most." flowers are hung in graceful festoons both in churches and in ball-rooms. they decorate the altar, the bride-bed, the cradle, and the bier. they grace festivals, and triumphs, and processions; and cast a glory on gala days; and are amongst the last sad honors we pay to the objects of our love. i remember the death of a sweet little english girl of but a year old, over whom, in her small coffin, a young and lovely mother sprinkled the freshest and fairest flowers. the task seemed to soften--perhaps to sweeten--her maternal grief. i shall never forget the sight. the bright-hued blossoms seemed to make her oblivious for a moment of the darkness and corruption to which she was so soon to consign her priceless treasure. the child's sweet face, even in death, reminded me that the flowers of the field and garden, however lovely, are all outshone by human beauty. what floral glory of the wild-wood, or what queen of the parterre, in all the pride of bloom, laughing in the sun-light or dancing in the breeze, hath a charm that could vie for a single moment with the soft and holy lustre of that motionless and faded human lily? i never more deeply felt the force of milton's noble phrase "_the human face divine_" than when gazing on that sleeping child. the fixed placid smile, the smoothly closed eye with its transparent lid, the air of profound tranquillity, the simple purity (elevated into an aspect of bright intelligence, as if the little cherub already experienced the beatitude of another and a better world,) were perfectly angelic--and mocked all attempt at description. "of such is the kingdom of heaven!" o flower of an earthly spring! destined to blossom in the eternal summer of another and more genial region! loveliest of lovely children--loveliest to the last! more beautiful in death than aught still living! thou seemest now to all who miss and mourn thee but a sweet name--a fair vision--a precious memory;--but in reality thou art a more truly living thing than thou wert before or than aught thou hast left behind. thou hast come early into a rich inheritance. thou hast now a substantial existence, a genuine glory, an everlasting possession, beyond the sky. thou hast exchanged the frail flowers that decked thy bier for amaranthine hues and fragrance, and the brief and uncertain delights of mortal being for the eternal and perfect felicity of angels! i never behold elsewhere any of the specimens of the several varieties of flowers which the afflicted parent consigned to the hallowed little coffin without recalling to memory the sainted child taking her last rest on earth. the mother was a woman of taste and sensibility, of high mind and gentle heart, with the liveliest sense of the loveliness of all lovely things; and it is hardly necessary to remind the reader how much refinement such as hers may sometimes alleviate the severity of sorrow. byron tells us that the stars are a beauty and a mystery, and create in us such love and reverence from afar that fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves _a star_. but might we not with equal justice say that every thing excellent and beautiful and precious has named itself _a flower_? if stars teach as well as shine--so do flowers. in "still small accents" they charm "the nice and delicate ear of thought" and sweetly whisper that "the hand that made them is divine." the stars are the poetry of heaven--the clouds are the poetry of the middle sky--the flowers are the poetry of the earth. the last is the loveliest to the eye and the nearest to the heart. it is incomparably the sweetest external poetry that nature provides for man. its attractions are the most popular; its language is the most intelligible. it is of all others the best adapted to every variety and degree of mind. it is the most endearing, the most familiar, the most homefelt, and congenial. the stars are for the meditation of poets and philosophers; but flowers are not exclusively for the gifted or the scientific; they are the property of all. they address themselves to our common nature. they are equally the delight of the innocent little prattler and the thoughtful sage. even the rude unlettered rustic betrays some feeling for the beautiful in the presence of the lovely little community of the field and garden. he has no sympathy for the stars: they are too mystical and remote. but the flowers as they blush and smile beneath his eye may stir the often deeply hidden lovingness and gentleness of his nature. they have a social and domestic aspect to which no one with a human heart can be quite indifferent. few can doat upon the distant flowers of the sky as many of us doat upon the flowers at our feet. the stars are wholly independent of man: not so the sweet children of flora. we tend upon and cherish them with a parental pride. they seem especially meant for man and man for them. they often need his kindest nursing. we place them with guardian hand in the brightest light and the most wholesome air. we quench with liquid life their sun-raised thirst, or shelter them from the wintry blast, or prepare and enrich their nutritious beds. as they pine or prosper they agitate us with tender anxieties, or thrill us with exultation and delight. in the little plot of ground that fronts an english cottage the flowers are like members of the household. they are of the same family. they are almost as lovely as the children that play with them--though their happy human associates may be amongst the sweetest things that ever grew beside a human door. the greeks called flowers the _festival of the eye_: and so they are: but they are something else, and something better. a flower is not a flower alone, a thousand sanctities invest it. flowers not only touch the heart; they also elevate the soul. they bind us not entirely to earth; though they make earth delightful. they attract our thoughts downward to the richly embroidered ground only to raise them up again to heaven. if the stars are the scriptures of the sky, the flowers are the scriptures of the earth. if the stars are a more glorious revelation of the creator's majesty and might, the flowers are at least as sweet a revelation of his gentler attributes. it has been observed that an undevout astronomer is mad. the same thing may be said of an irreverent floriculturist, and with equal truth--perhaps indeed with greater. for the astronomer, in some cases, may be hard and cold, from indulging in habits of thought too exclusively mathematical. but the true lover of flowers has always something gentle and genial in his nature. he never looks upon his floral-family without a sweetened smile upon his face and a softened feeling in his heart; unless his temperament be strangely changed and his mind disordered. the poets, who, speaking generally, are constitutionally religious, are always delighted readers of the flower-illumined pages of the book of nature. one of these disciples of flora earnestly exclaims: were i, o god, in churchless lands remaining far from all voice of teachers and divines, my soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining priests, sermons, shrines the popular little preachers of the field and garden, with their lovely faces, and angelic language--sending the while such ambrosial incense up to heaven--insinuate the sweetest truths into the human heart. they lead us to the delightful conclusion that beauty is in the list of the _utilities_--that the divine artist himself is _a lover of loveliness_--that he has communicated a taste for it to his creatures and most lavishly provided for its gratification. not a flower but shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, of his unrivalled pencil. he inspires their balmy odours, and imparts then hues, and bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes in grains as countless as the sea side sands the forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. _cowper_. in the eye of utilitarianism the flowers are but idle shows. god might indeed have made this world as plain as a quaker's garment, without retrenching one actual necessary of physical existence; but he has chosen otherwise; and no earthly potentate was ever so richly clad as his mother earth. "behold the lilies of the field, they spin not, neither do they toil, yet solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!" we are thus instructed that man was not meant to live by bread alone, and that the gratification of a sense of beauty is equally innocent and natural and refining. the rose is permitted to spread its sweet leaves to the air and dedicate its beauty to the sun, in a way that is quite perplexing to bigots and stoics and political economists. yet god has made nothing in vain! the great artist of the universe must have scattered his living hues and his forms of grace over the surface of the earth for some especial and worthy purpose. when voltaire was congratulated on the rapid growth of his plants, he observed that "_they had nothing else to do_." oh, yes--they had something else to do,--they had to adorn the earth, and to charm the human eye, and through the eye to soften and cheer the heart and elevate the soul! i have often wished that lecturers on botany, instead of confining their instructions to the mere physiology, or anatomy, or classification or nomenclature of their favorite science, would go more into the poetry of it, and teach young people to appreciate the moral influences of the floral tribes--to draw honey for the human heart from the sweet breasts of flowers--to sip from their radiant chalices a delicious medicine for the soul. flowers are frequently hallowed by associations far sweeter than their sweetest perfume. "i am no botanist:" says southey in a letter to walter savage landor, "but like you, my earliest and best recollections are connected with flowers, and they always carry me back to other days. perhaps this is because they are the only things which affect our senses precisely as they did in our childhood. the sweetness of the violet is always the same; and when you rifle a rose and drink, as it were, its fragrance, the refreshment is the same to the old man as to the boy. sounds recal the past in the same manner, but they do not bring with them individual scenes like the cowslip field, or the corner of the garden to which we have transplanted field-flowers." george wither has well said in commendation of his muse: her divine skill taught me this; that from every thing i saw i could some instruction draw, and raise pleasure to the height by the meanest object's sight, by the murmur of a spring _or the least bough's rustelling; by a daisy whose leaves spread shut, when titan goes to bed; or a shady bush or tree_, she could more infuse in me than all nature's beauties can in some other wiser man. we must not interpret the epithet _wiser_ too literally. perhaps the poet speaks ironically, or means by some other _wiser man_, one allied in character and temperament to a modern utilitarian philosopher. wordsworth seems to have had the lines of george wither in his mind when he said thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. thomas campbell, with a poet's natural gallantry, has exclaimed, without the smile from partial beauty won, oh! what were man?--a world without a sun! let a similar compliment be presented to the "painted populace that dwell in fields and lead ambrosial lives." what a desert were this scene without its flowers--it would be like the sky of night without its stars! "the disenchanted earth" would "lose her lustre." stars of the day! beautifiers of the world! ministrants of delight! inspirers of kindly emotions and the holiest meditations! sweet teachers of the serenest wisdom! so beautiful and bright, and graceful, and fragrant--it is no marvel that ye are equally the favorites of the rich and the poor, of the young and the old, of the playful and the pensive! our country, though originally but sparingly endowed with the living jewelry of nature, is now rich in the choicest flowers of all other countries. foreigners of many lands, they form one social shade, as if convened by magic summons of the orphean lyre. _cowper_. these little "foreigners of many lands" have been so skilfully acclimatized and multiplied and rendered common, that for a few shillings an english peasant may have a parterre more magnificent than any ever gazed upon by the median queen in the hanging gardens of babylon. there is no reason, indeed, to suppose that even the first parents of mankind looked on finer flowers in paradise itself than are to be found in the cottage gardens that are so thickly distributed over the hills and plains and vallies of our native land. the red rose, is the red rose still, and from the lily's cup an odor fragrant as at first, like frankincense goes up. _mary howitt_. our neat little gardens and white cottages give to dear old england that lovely and cheerful aspect, which is so striking and attractive to her foreign visitors. these beautiful signs of a happy political security and individual independence and domestic peace and a love of order and a homely refinement, are scattered all over the land, from sea to sea. when miss sedgwick, the american authoress, visited england, nothing so much surprised and delighted her as the gay flower-filled gardens of our cottagers. many other travellers, from almost all parts of the world, have experienced and expressed the same sensations on visiting our shores, and it would be easy to compile a voluminous collection of their published tributes of admiration. to a foreign visitor the whole country seems a garden--in the words of shakespeare--"a _sea-walled garden_." in the year , on a temporary return to england after a long indian exile, i travelled by railway for the first time in my life. as i glided on, as smoothly as in a sledge, over the level iron road, with such magical rapidity--from the pretty and cheerful town of southampton to the greatest city of the civilized world--every thing was new to me, and i gave way to child-like wonder and child-like exultation.[ ] what a quick succession of lovely landscapes greeted the eye on either side? what a garden-like air of universal cultivation! what beautiful smooth slopes! what green, quiet meadows! what rich round trees, brooding over their silent shadows! what exquisite dark nooks and romantic lanes! what an aspect of unpretending happiness in the clean cottages, with their little trim gardens! what tranquil grandeur and rural luxury in the noble mansions and glorious parks of the british aristocracy! how the love of nature thrilled my heart with a gentle and delicious agitation, and how proud i felt of my dear native land! it is, indeed, a fine thing to be an englishman. whether at home or abroad, he is made conscious of the claims of his country to respect and admiration. as i fed my eyes on the loveliness of nature, or turned to the miracles of art and science on every hand, i had always in my mind a secret reference to the effect which a visit to england must produce upon an intelligent and observant foreigner. heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around of hills and dales and woods and lawns and spires, and glittering towns and gilded streams, 'till all the stretching landscape into smoke decays! happy brittannia! where the queen of arts, inspiring vigor, liberty, abroad walks unconfined, even to thy farthest cots, and scatters plenty with unsparing hand. _thomson_. and here let me put in a word in favor of the much-abused english climate. i cannot echo the unpatriotic discontent of byron when he speaks of the cold and cloudy clime where he was born, but where he would not die. rather let me say with the author of "_the seasons_," in his address to england. rich is thy soil and merciful thy clime. king charles the second when he heard some foreigners condemning our climate and exulting in their own, observed that in his opinion that was the best climate in which a man could be out in the open air with pleasure, or at least without trouble and inconvenience, the most days of the year and the most hours of the day; and this he held was the case with the climate of england more than that of any other country in europe. to say nothing of the lovely and noble specimens of human nature to which it seems so congenial, i may safely assert that it is peculiarly favorable, with, rare exceptions, to the sweet children of flora. there is no country in the world in which there are at this day such innumerable tribes of flowers. there are in england two thousand varieties of the rose alone, and i venture to express a doubt whether the richest gardens of persia or cashmere could produce finer specimens of that universal favorite than are to be found in some of the small but highly cultivated enclosures of respectable english rustics. the actual beauty of some of the commonest flowers in our gardens can be in no degree exaggerated--even in the daydreams of the most inspired poet. and when the author of lalla rookh talks so musically and pleasantly of the fragrant bowers of amberabad, the country of delight, a province in jinnistan or fairy land, he is only thinking of the shrubberies and flower-beds at sloperton cottage, and the green hills and vales of wiltshire. sir william temple observes that "besides the temper of our climate there are two things particular to us, that contribute much to the beauty and elegance of our gardens--which are, _the gravel of our walks and the fineness and almost perpetual greenness of our turf_." "the face of england is so beautiful," says horace walpole, "that i do not believe that tempe or arcadia was half so rural; for both lying in hot climates must have wanted _the moss of our gardens_." meyer, a german, a scientific practical gardener, who was also a writer on gardening, and had studied his art in the royal gardens at paris, and afterwards visited england, was a great admirer of english gardens, but despaired of introducing our style of gardening into germany, _chiefly on account of its inferior turf for lawns_. "lawns and gravel walks," says a writer in the _quarterly review_, "are the pride of english gardens," "the smoothness and verdure of our lawns," continues the same writer, "is the first thing in our gardens that catches the eye of a foreigner; the next is the fineness and firmness of our gravel walks." mr. charles mackintosh makes the same observation. "in no other country in the world," he says, "do such things exist." mrs. stowe, whose _uncle tom_ has done such service to the cause of liberty in america, on her visit to england seems to have been quite as much enchanted with our scenery, as was her countrywoman, miss sedgwick. i am pleased to find mrs. stowe recognize the superiority of english landscape-gardening and of our english verdure. she speaks of, "the princely art of landscape-gardening, for which england is so famous," and of "_vistas of verdure and wide sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green_ as the velvet moss sometimes seen growing on rocks in new england." "grass," she observes, "is an art and a science in england--it is an institution. the pains that are taken in sowing, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling and otherwise nursing and coaxing it, being seconded by the often-falling tears of the climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated." this is literally true: any sight more inexpressibly exquisite than that of an english lawn in fine order is what i am quite unable to conceive.[ ] i recollect that in one of my visits to england, (in ) i attempted to describe the scenery of india to william hazlitt--not the living son but the dead father. would that he were still in the land of the living by the side of his friend leigh hunt, who has been pensioned by the government for his support of that cause for which they were both so bitterly persecuted by the ruling powers in days gone by. i flattered myself into the belief that hazlitt was interested in some of my descriptions of oriental scenes. what moved him most was an account of the dry, dusty, burning, grassless plains of bundelcund in the hot season. i told him how once while gasping for breath in a hot verandah and leaning over the rails i looked down upon the sun-baked ground. "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream." i suddenly beheld with all the distinctness of reality the rich, cool, green, unrivalled meads of england. but the vision soon melted away, and i was again in exile. i wept like a child. it was like a beautiful mirage of the desert, or one of those waking dreams of home which have sometimes driven the long-voyaging seaman to distraction and urged him by an irresistible impulse to plunge headlong into the ocean. when i had once more crossed the wide atlantic--and (not by the necromancy of imagination but by a longer and more tedious transit) found myself in an english meadow,--i exclaimed with the poet, thou art free my country! and 'tis joy enough and pride for one hour's perfect bliss, _to tread the grass of england once again_. i felt my childhood for a time renewed, and was by no means disposed to second the assertion that "nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower." i have never beheld any thing more lovely than scenery characteristically english; and goldsmith, who was something of a traveller, and had gazed on several beautiful countries, was justified in speaking with such affectionate admiration of our still more beautiful england, where lawns extend that scorn arcadian pride. it is impossible to put into any form of words the faintest representation of that delightful summer feeling which, is excited in fine weather by the sight of the mossy turf of our country. it is sweet indeed to go, musing through the _lawny_ vale: alluded to by warton, or over milton's "level downs," or to climb up thomson's stupendous rocks that from the sun-redoubling valley lift cool to the middle air their _lawny_ tops. it gives the anglo-indian exile the heart-ache to think of these ramblings over english scenes. england. bengala's plains are richly green, her azure skies of dazzling sheen, her rivers vast, her forests grand. her bowers brilliant,--but the land, though dear to countless eyes it be, and fair to mine, hath not for me the charm ineffable of _home_; for still i yearn to see the foam of wild waves on thy pebbled shore, dear albion! to ascend once more thy snow-white cliffs; to hear again the murmur of thy circling main-- to stroll down each romantic dale beloved in boyhood--to inhale fresh life on green and breezy hills-- to trace the coy retreating rills-- to see the clouds at summer-tide dappling all the landscape wide-- to mark the varying gloom and glow as the seasons come and go-- again the green meads to behold thick strewn with silvery gems and gold, where kine, bright-spotted, large, and sleek, browse silently, with aspect meek, or motionless, in shallow stream stand mirror'd, till their twin shapes seem, feet linked to feet, forbid to sever, by some strange magic fixed for ever. and oh! once more i fain would see (here never seen) a poor man _free_,[ ] and valuing more an humble name, but stainless, than a guilty fame, how sacred is the simplest cot, where freedom dwells!--where she is not how mean the palace! where's the spot she loveth more than thy small isle, queen of the sea? where hath her smile so stirred man's inmost nature? where are courage firm, and virtue fair, and manly pride, so often found as in rude huts on english ground, where e'en the serf who slaves for hire may kindle with a freeman's fire? how proud a sight to english eyes are england's village families! the patriarch, with his silver hair, the matron grave, the maiden fair. the rose-cheeked boy, the sturdy lad, on sabbath day all neatly clad:-- methinks i see them wend their way on some refulgent morn of may, by hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare, towards the hallowed house of prayer! i can love _all_ lovely lands, but england _most_; for she commands. as if she bore a parent's part, the dearest movements of my heart; and here i may not breathe her name. without a thrill through all my frame. never shall this heart be cold to thee, my country! till the mould (or _thine_ or _this_) be o'er it spread. and form its dark and silent bed. i never think of bliss below but thy sweet hills their green heads show, of love and beauty never dream. but english faces round me gleam! d.l.r. i have often observed that children never wear a more charming aspect than when playing in fields and gardens. in another volume i have recorded some of my impressions respecting the prominent interest excited by these little flowers of humanity in an english landscape. * * * * * the return to england. when i re-visited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable delight and admiration. the land seemed a perfect paradise. it was in the spring of the year. the blue vault of heaven--the clear atmosphere--the balmy vernal breeze--the quiet and picturesque cattle, browsing on luxuriant verdure, or standing knee deep in a crystal lake--the hills sprinkled with snow-white sheep and sometimes partially shadowed by a wandering cloud--the meadows glowing with golden butter-cups and be-dropped with daisies--the trim hedges of crisp and sparkling holly--the sound of near but unseen rivulets, and the songs of foliage-hidden birds--the white cottages almost buried amidst trees, like happy human nests--the ivy-covered church, with its old grey spire "pointing up to heaven," and its gilded vane gleaming in the light--the sturdy peasants with their instruments of healthy toil--the white-capped matrons bleaching their newly-washed garments in the sun, and throwing them like snow-patches on green slopes, or glossy garden shrubs--the sun-browned village girls, resting idly on their round elbows at small open casements, their faces in sweet keeping with the trellised flowers:--all formed a combination of enchantments that would mock the happiest imitative efforts of human art. but though the bare enumeration of the details of this english picture, will, perhaps, awaken many dear recollections in the reader's mind, i have omitted by far the most interesting feature of the whole scene--_the rosy children, loitering about the cottage gates, or tumbling gaily on the warm grass_.[ ][ ] two scraps of verse of a similar tendency shall follow this prose description:-- an english landscape. i stood, upon an english hill, and saw the far meandering rill, a vein of liquid silver, run sparkling in the summer sun; while adown that green hill's side, and along the valley wide, sheep, like small clouds touched with light, or like little breakers bright, sprinkled o'er a smiling sea, seemed to float at liberty. scattered all around were seen, white cots on the meadows green. open to the sky and breeze, or peeping through the sheltering trees, on a light gate, loosely hung, laughing children gaily swung; oft their glad shouts, shrill and clear, came upon the startled ear. blended with the tremulous bleat, of truant lambs, or voices sweet, of birds, that take us by surprise, and mock the quickly-searching eyes. nearer sat a fair-haired boy, whistling with a thoughtless joy; a shepherd's crook was in his hand, emblem of a mild command; and upon his rounded cheek were hues that ripened apples streak. disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing, touched that small arcadian king; his sinless subjects wandered free-- confusion without anarchy. happier he upon his throne. the breezy hill--though all alone-- than the grandest monarchs proud who mistrust the kneeling crowd. on a gently rising ground, the lovely valley's farthest bound, bordered by an ancient wood, the cots in thicker clusters stood; and a church, uprose between, hallowing the peaceful scene. distance o'er its old walls threw a soft and dim cerulean hue, while the sun-lit gilded spire gleamed as with celestial fire! i have crossed the ocean wave, haply for a foreign grave; haply never more to look on a british hill or brook; haply never more to hear sounds unto my childhood dear; yet if sometimes on my soul bitter thoughts beyond controul throw a shade more dark than night, soon upon the mental sight flashes forth a pleasant ray brighter, holier than the day; and unto that happy mood all seems beautiful and good. d.l.r. lines to a lady, who presented the author with some english fruits and flowers. green herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste though, grateful to the traveller's sight and taste, seem far less sweet and fair than fruits and flowers that breathe, in foreign lands, of english bowers. thy gracious gift, dear lady, well recalls sweet scenes of home,--the white cot's trellised walls-- the trim red garden path--the rustic seat-- the jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat for hearts that love repose. each spot displays some long-remembered charm. in sweet amaze i feel as one who from a weary dream of exile wakes, and sees the morning beam illume the glorious clouds of every hue that float o'er scenes his happy childhood knew. how small a spark may kindle fancy's flame and light up all the past! the very same glad sounds and sights that charmed my heart of old arrest me now--i hear them and behold. ah! yonder is the happy circle seated within, the favorite bower! i am greeted with joyous shouts; my rosy boys have heard a father's voice--their little hearts are stirred with eager hope of some new toy or treat and on they rush, with never-resting feet! * * * * * gone is the sweet illusion--like a scene formed by the western vapors, when between the dusky earth, and day's departing light the curtain falls of india's sudden night. d.l.r. the verdant carpet embroidered with little stars of gold and silver--the short-grown, smooth, and close-woven, but most delicate and elastic fresh sward--so soothing to the dazzled eye, so welcome to the wearied limbs--so suggestive of innocent and happy thoughts,--so refreshing to the freed visitor, long pent up in the smoky city--is surely no where to be seen in such exquisite perfection as on the broad meadows and softly-swelling hills of england. and perhaps in no country in the world could _pic-nic_ holiday-makers or playful children with more perfect security of life and health stroll about or rest upon earth's richly enamelled floor from sunrise to sunset on a summer's day. no englishman would dare to stretch himself at full length and address himself to sleep upon an oriental meadow unless he were perfectly indifferent to life itself and could see nothing terrible in the hostility of the deadliest reptiles. when wading through the long grass and thick jungles of bengal, he is made to acknowledge the full force of the true and beautiful expression--"_in the midst of life we are in death_." the british indian exile on his return home is delighted with the "sweet security" of his native fields. he may then feel with wordsworth how dear is the forest frowning o'er his head. and dear _the velvet greensward_ to his tread. or he may exclaim in the words of poor keats--now slumbering under a foreign turf-- happy is england! i could be content to see no other verdure than her own. it is a pleasing proof of the fine moral influence of natural scenery that the most ceremonious strangers can hardly be long seated together in the open air on the "velvet greensward" without casting off for a while the cold formalities of artificial life, and becoming as frank and social as ingenuous school-boys. nature breathes peace and geniality into almost every human heart. "john thelwall," says coleridge, "had something very good about him. we were sitting in a beautiful recess in the quantocks when i said to him 'citizen john, this is a fine place to talk treason in!' 'nay, citizen samuel,' replied he, 'it is rather a place to make us forget that there is any necessity for treason!'" leigh hunt, who always looks on nature with the eye of a true painter and the imagination of a true poet, has represented with delightful force and vividness some of those accidents of light and shade that diversify an english meadow. rain and sunshine in may. "can any thing be more lovely, than the meadows between the rains of may, when the sun smites them on the sudden like a painter, and they laugh up at him, as if he had lighted a loving cheek! i speak of a season when the returning threats of cold and the resisting warmth of summer time, make robust mirth in the air; when the winds imitate on a sudden the vehemence of winter; and silver-white clouds are abrupt in their coming down and shadows on the grass chase one another, panting, over the fields, like a pursuit of spirits. with undulating necks they pant forward, like hounds or the leopard. see! the cloud is after the light, gliding over the country like the shadow of a god; and now the meadows are lit up here and there with sunshine, as if the soul of titian were standing in heaven, and playing his fancies on them. green are the trees in shadow; but the trees in the sun how twenty-fold green _they_ are--rich and variegated with gold!" one of the many exquisite out-of-doors enjoyments for the observers of nature, is the sight of an english harvest. how cheering it is to behold the sickles flashing in the sun, as the reapers with well sinewed arm, and with a sweeping movement, mow down the close-arrayed ranks of the harvest field! what are "the rapture of the strife" and all the "pomp, pride and circumstance of glorious war," that bring death to some and agony and grief to others, compared with the green and golden trophies of the honest husbandman whose bloodless blade makes no wife a widow, no child an orphan,--whose office is not to spread horror and desolation through shrieking cities, but to multiply and distribute the riches of nature over a smiling land. but let us quit the open fields for a time, and turn again to the flowery retreats of retired leisure that in trim gardens takes his pleasure. in all ages, in all countries, in all creeds, a garden is represented as the scene not only of earthly but of celestial enjoyment. the ancients had their elysian fields and the garden of the hesperides, the christian has his garden of eden, the mahommedan his paradise of groves and flowers and crystal fountains and black eyed houries. "god almighty," says lord bacon, "first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of all pleasures: it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man." bacon, though a utilitarian philosopher, was such a lover of flowers that he was never satisfied unless he saw them in almost every room of his house, and when he came to discourse of them in his essays, his thoughts involuntarily moved harmonious numbers. how naturally the following prose sentence in bacon's essay on gardens almost resolves itself into verse. "for the heath which was the first part of our plot, i wish it to be framed as much as may be to a natural wildness. trees i would have none in it, but some thickets made only of sweet briar and honeysuckle, and some wild vine amongst; and the ground set with violets, strawberries and primroses; for these are sweet, and prosper in the shade." "for the heath which was the third part of our plot-- i wish it to be framed as much as may be to a natural wildness. trees i'd have none in't, but some thickets made only of sweet-briar and honey-suckle, and some wild vine amongst; and the ground set with violets, strawberries, and primroses; for these are sweet and prosper in the shade." it has been observed that the love of gardens is the only passion which increases with age. it is generally the most indulged in the two extremes of life. in middle age men are often too much involved in the affairs of the busy world fully to appreciate the tranquil pleasures in the gift of flora. flowers are the toys of the young and a source of the sweetest and serenest enjoyments for the old. but there is no season of life for which they are unfitted and of which they cannot increase the charm. "give me," says the poet rogers, "a garden well kept, however small, two or three spreading trees and a mind at ease, and i defy the world." the poet adds that he would not have his garden, too much extended. he seems to think it possible to have too much of a good thing. "three acres of flowers and a regiment of gardeners," he says, "bring no more pleasure than a sufficiency." "a hundred thousand roses," he adds, "which we look at _en masse_, do not identify themselves in the same manner as even a very small border; and hence, if the cottager's mind is properly attuned, the little cottage-garden may give him more real delight than belongs to the owner of a thousand acres." in a smaller garden "we become acquainted, as it were," says the same poet, "and even form friendships with, individual flowers." it is delightful to observe how nature thus adjusts the inequalities of fortune and puts the poor man, in point of innocent happiness, on a level with the rich. the man of the most moderate means may cultivate many elegant tastes, and may have flowers in his little garden that the greatest sovereign in the world might enthusiastically admire. flowers are never vulgar. a rose from a peasant's patch of ground is as fresh and elegant and fragrant as if it had been nurtured in a royal parterre, and it would not be out of place in the richest porcelain vase of the most aristocratical drawing-room in europe. the poor man's flower is a present for a princess, and of all gifts it is the one least liable to be rejected even by the haughty. it might he worn on the fair brow or bosom of queen victoria with a nobler grace than the costliest or most elaborate production of the goldsmith or the milliner. the majority of mankind, in the most active spheres of life, have moments in which they sigh for rural retirement, and seldom dream of such a retreat without making a garden the leading charm of it. sir henry wotton says that lord bacon's garden was one of the best that he had seen either at home or abroad. evelyn, the author of "sylva, or a discourse of forest trees," dwells with fond admiration, and a pleasing egotism, on the charms of his own beautiful and highly cultivated estate at wooton in the county of surrey. he tells us that the house is large and ancient and is "sweetly environed with delicious streams and venerable woods." "i will say nothing," he continues, "of the air, because the pre-eminence is universally given to surrey, the soil being dry and sandy; but i should speak much of the gardens, fountains and groves that adorn it, were they not generally known to be amongst the most natural, and (till this later and universal luxury of the whole nation, since abounding in such expenses) the most magnificent that england afforded, and which indeed gave one of the first examples to that elegancy, since so much in vogue and followed, for the managing of their waters and other elegancies of that nature." before he came into the possession of his paternal estate he resided at _say's court_, near deptford, an estate which he possessed by purchase, and where he had a superb holly hedge four hundred feet long, nine feet high and five feet broad. of this hedge, he was particularly proud, and he exultantly asks, "is there under heaven a more glorious and refreshing object of the kind?" when the czar of muscovy visited england in to instruct himself in the art of ship-building, he had the use of evelyn's house and garden, at _say's court_, and while there did so much damage to the latter that the owner loudly and bitterly complained. at last the government gave evelyn £ as an indemnification. czar peter's favorite amusement was to ride in a wheel barrow through what its owner had once called the "impregnable hedge of holly." evelyn was passionately fond of gardening. "the life and felicity of an excellent gardener," he observes, "is preferable to all other diversions." his faith in the art of landscape-gardening was unwavering. it could _remove mountains_. here is an extract from his diary. "gave his brother some directions about his garden" (at wooton surrey), "which, he was desirous to put into some form, for which he was to remove a mountain overgrown with large trees and thickets and a moat within ten yards of the house." no sooner said than done. his brother dug down the mountain and "flinging it into a rapid stream (which carried away the sand) filled up the moat and levelled that noble area where now the garden and fountain is." though evelyn dearly loved a garden, his chief delight was not in flowers but in forest trees, and he was more anxious to improve the growth of plants indigenous to the soil than to introduce exotics.[ ] sir william temple was so attached to his garden, that he left directions in his will that his heart should be buried there. it was enclosed in a silver box and placed under a sun-dial. dr. thomson reid, the eminent scottish metaphysician, used to be found working in his garden in his eighty-seventh year. the name of chatham is in the long list of eminent men who have enjoyed a garden. we are told that "he loved the country: took peculiar pleasure in gardening; and had an extremely happy taste in laying out grounds." what a delightful thing it must have been for that great statesman, thus to relieve his mind from the weight of public care in the midst of quiet bowers planted and trained by his own hand! burton, in his _anatomy of melancholy_, notices the attractions of a garden as amongst the finest remedies for depression of the mind. i must give the following extracts from his quaint but interesting pages. "to see the pleasant fields, the crystal fountains, and take the gentle air amongst the mountains. "to walk amongst orchards, gardens, bowers, mounts, and arbours, artificial wildernesses, green thickets, arches, groves, lawns, rivulets, fountains, and such like pleasant places, (like that antiochian daphne,) brooks, pools, fishponds, between wood and water, in a fair meadow, by a river side, _ubi variae avium cantationes, florum colores, pratorum frutices_, &c. to disport in some pleasant plain, or park, run up a steep hill sometimes, or sit in a shady seat, must needs be a delectable recreation. _hortus principis et domus ad delectationem facta, cum sylvâ, monte et piscinâ, vulgò la montagna_: the prince's garden at ferrara, schottus highly magnifies, with the groves, mountains, ponds, for a delectable prospect; he was much affected with it; a persian paradise, or pleasant park, could not be more delectable in his sight. st. bernard, in the description of his monastery, is almost ravished with the pleasures of it. "a sick man (saith he) sits upon a green bank, and when the dog-star parcheth the plains, and dries up rivers, he lies in a shady bower," _fronde sub arborea ferventia temperat astra_, "and feeds his eyes with variety of objects, herbs, trees, to comfort his misery; he receives many delightsome smells, and fills his ears with that sweet and various harmony of birds; _good god_, (saith he), _what a company of pleasures hast thou made for man!_" * * * * * "the country hath his recreations, the city his several gymnics and exercises, may games, feasts, wakes, and merry meetings to solace themselves; the very being in the country; that life itself is a sufficient recreation to some men, to enjoy such pleasures, as those old patriarchs did. dioclesian, the emperor, was so much affected with it, that he gave over his sceptre, and turned gardener. constantine wrote twenty books of husbandry. lysander, when ambassadors came to see him, bragged of nothing more than of his orchard, _hi sunt ordines mei_. what shall i say of cincinnatus, cato, tully, and many such? how they have been pleased with it, to prune, plant, inoculate and graft, to show so many several kinds of pears, apples, plums, peaches, &c." the romans of all ranks made use of flowers as ornaments and emblems, but they were not generally so fond of directing or assisting the gardener, or taking the spade or hoe into their own hands, as are the british peasantry, gentry and nobility of the present day. they were not amateur florists. they prized highly their fruit trees and pastures and cool grottoes and umbrageous groves; but they expended comparatively little time, skill or taste upon the flower-garden. even their love of nature, though thoroughly genuine as far as it went, did not imply that minute and exact knowledge of her charms which characterizes some of our best british poets. they had no thompson or cowper. their country seats were richer in architectural than floral beauty. tully's tuscan villa, so fondly and minutely described by the proprietor himself, would appear to little advantage in the eyes of a true worshipper of flora, if compared with pope's retreat at twickenham. the ancients had a taste for the _rural_, not for the _gardenesque_, nor perhaps even for the _picturesque_. the english have a taste for all three. hence they have good landscape-gardeners and first-rate landscape-painters. the old romans had neither. but though, some of our spitalfields weavers have shown a deeper love, and perhaps even a finer taste, for flowers, than were exhibited by the citizens of rome, abundant evidence is furnished to us by the poets in all ages and in all countries that nature, in some form or another has ever charmed the eye and the heart of man. the following version of a famous passage in virgil, especially the lines in italics, may give the english reader some idea of a roman's dream of rural happiness. ah! happy swains! if they their bliss but knew, whom, far from boisterous war, earth's bosom true with easy food supplies. if they behold no lofty dome its gorgeous gates unfold and pour at morn from all its chambers wide of flattering visitants the mighty tide; nor gaze on beauteous columns richly wrought, or tissued robes, or busts from corinth brought; nor their white wool with tyrian poison soil, nor taint with cassia's bark their native oil; _yet peace is theirs; a life true bliss that yields; and various wealth; leisure mid ample fields, grottoes, and living lakes, and vallies green, and lowing herds; and 'neath a sylvan screen, delicious slumbers. there the lawn and cave with beasts of chase abound._ the young ne'er crave a prouder lot; their patient toil is cheered; their gods are worshipped and their sires revered; and there when justice passed from earth away she left the latest traces of her sway. d.l.r. lord bacon was perhaps the first englishman who endeavored to reform the old system of english gardening, and to show that it was contrary to good taste and an insult to nature. "as for making knots or figures," he says, "with divers colored earths, that may lie under the windows of the house on that side on which the garden stands, they be but toys: you may see as good sights many times in tarts." bacon here alludes, i suppose, to the old dutch fashion of dividing flowerbeds into many compartments, and instead of filling them with flowers, covering one with red brick dust, another with charcoal, a third with yellow sand, a fourth with chalk, a fifth with broken china, and others with green glass, or with spars and ores. but milton, in his exquisite description of the garden of eden, does not allude to the same absurd fashion when he speaks of "curious knots," which not nice art, in beds and _curious knots_, but nature boon poured forth profuse on hill and dale and plain. by these _curious knots_ the poet seems to allude, not to figures of "divers colored earth," but to the artificial and complicated arrangements and divisions of flowers and flower-beds. though bacon went not quite so freely to nature as our latest landscape-gardeners have done, he made the _first step_ in the right direction and deserves therefore the compliment which mason has paid him in his poem of _the english garden_. on thy realm philosophy his sovereign lustre spread; yet did he deign to light with casual glance the wilds of taste, yes, sagest verulam, 'twas thine to banish from the royal groves each childish vanity of crisped knot[ ] and sculptured foliage; to the lawn restore its ample space, and bid it feast the sight with verdure pure, unbroken, unabridged; for verdure soothes the eye, as roseate sweets the smell, or music's melting strains the ear. yes--"_verdure soothes the eye_:"--and the mind too. bacon himself observes, that "nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn." mason slightly qualifies his commendation of "the sage" by admitting that he had not quite completed his emancipation from the bad taste of his day. witness his high arched hedge in pillored state by carpentry upborn, with colored mirrors decked and prisoned birds. but, when our step has paced the proud parterre, and reached the heath, then nature glads our eye sporting in all her lovely carelessness, there smiles in varied tufts the velvet rose, there flaunts the gadding woodbine, swells the ground in gentle hillocks, and around its sides through blossomed shades the secret pathway steals. _the english garden_. in one of the notes to _the english garden_ it is stated that "bacon was the prophet, milton the herald of modern gardening; and addison, pope, and kent the champions of true taste." kent was by profession both a painter and a landscape-gardener. addison who had a pretty little retreat at bilton, near rugby, evinces in most of his occasional allusions to gardens a correct judgment. he complains that even in _his_ time our british gardeners, instead of humouring nature, loved to deviate from it as much as possible. the system of verdant sculpture had not gone out of fashion. our trees still rose in cones, globes, and pyramids. the work of the scissors was on every plant and bush. it was pope, however, who did most to bring the topiary style into contempt and to encourage a more natural taste, by his humorous paper in the _guardian_ and his poetical epistle to the earl of burlington. gray, the poet, observes in one of his letters, that "our skill in gardening, or rather laying out grounds, is the only taste we can call our own; the only proof of original talent in matters of pleasure. this is no small honor to us;" he continues, "since neither france nor italy, has ever had the least notion of it." "whatever may have been reported, whether truly or falsely" (says a contributor to _the world_) "of the chinese gardens, it is certain that we are the first of the europeans who have founded this taste; and we have been so fortunate in the genius of those who have had the direction of some of the finest spots of ground, that we may now boast a success equal to that profusion of expense which has been destined to promote the rapid progress of this happy enthusiasm. our gardens are already the astonishment of foreigners, and, in proportion as they accustom themselves to consider and understand them will become their admiration." the periodical from which this is taken was published exactly a century ago, and the writer's prophecy has been long verified. foreigners send to us for gardeners to help them to lay out their grounds in the english fashion. and we are told by the writer of an interesting article on gardens, in the _quarterly review_, that "the lawns at paris, to say nothing of naples, are regularly irrigated to keep up even the semblance of english verdure; and at the gardens of versailles, and caserta, near naples, the walks have been supplied from the kensington gravel-pits." "it is not probably known," adds the same writer, "that among our exportations every year is a large quantity of evergreens for the markets of france and germany, and that there are some nurserymen almost wholly engaged in this branch of trade." pomfret, a poet of small powers, if a poet at all, has yet contrived to produce a popular composition in verse--_the choice_--because he has touched with great good fortune on some of the sweetest domestic hopes and enjoyments of his countrymen. if heaven the grateful liberty would give that i might choose my method how to live; and all those hours propitious fate should lend in blissful ease and satisfaction spend; near some fair town i'd have a private seat built uniform; not little; nor too great: better if on a rising ground it stood, on this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. _the choice_. pomfret perhaps illustrates the general taste when he places his garden "_near some fair town_." our present laureate, though a truly inspired poet, and a genuine lover of nature even in her remotest retreats, has the garden of his preference, "_not quite beyond the busy world_." not wholly in the busy world, nor quite beyond it, blooms the garden that i love, news from the humming city comes to it in sound of funeral or of marriage bells; and sitting muffled in dark leaves you hear the windy clanging of the minster clock; although between it and the garden lies a league of grass. even "sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh" are often pleasing when mellowed by the space of air through which they pass. 'tis distance lends enchantment to the _sound_. shelley, in one of his sweetest poems, speaking of a scene in the neighbourhood of naples, beautifully says:-- like many a voice of one delight, the winds, the birds, the ocean floods, _the city's voice itself is soft_, like solitude's. no doubt the feeling that we are _near_ the crowd but not _in_ it, may deepen the sense of our own happy rural seclusion and doubly endear that pensive leisure in which we can "think down hours to moments," and in this our life, exempt from public haunt, find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing. _shakespeare_. besides, to speak truly, few men, however studious or philosophical, desire a total isolation from the world. it is pleasant to be able to take a sort of side glance at humanity, even when we are most in love with nature, and to feel that we can join our fellow creatures again when the social feeling returns upon us. man was not made to live alone. cowper, though he clearly loved retirement and a garden, did not desire to have the pleasure entirely to himself. "grant me," he says, "a friend in my retreat." to whom to whisper solitude is sweet. cowper lived and died a bachelor. in the case of a married man and a father, garden delights are doubled by the presence of the family and friends, if wife and children happen to be what they should be, and the friends are genuine and genial. all true poets delight in gardens. the truest that ever lived spent his latter days at new place in stratford-upon-avon. he had a spacious and beautiful garden. charles knight tells us that "the avon washed its banks; and within its enclosures it had its sunny terraces and green lawns, its pleached alleys and honeysuckle bowers," in this garden shakespeare planted with his own hands his celebrated mulberry tree. it was a noble specimen of the black mulberry introduced into england in [ ]. in , james i. issued a royal edict recommending the cultivation of silkworms and offering packets of mulberry seeds to those amongst his subjects who were willing to sow them. shakespeare's tree was planted in . mr. loudon, observes that the black mulberry has been known from the earliest records of antiquity and that it is twice mentioned in the bible: namely, in the second book of samuel and in the psalms. when new place was in the possession of sir hough clopton, who was proud of its interesting association with the history of our great poet, not only were garrick and macklin most hospitably entertained under the mulberry tree, but all strangers on a proper application were admitted to a sight of it. but when sir hough clopton was succeeded by the reverend francis gastrell, that gentleman, to save himself the trouble of showing the tree to visitors, had "the gothic barbarity" to cut down and root up that interesting--indeed _sacred_ memorial--of the pride of the british isles. the people of stratford were so enraged at this sacrilege that they broke mr. gastrell's windows. that prosaic personage at last found the place too hot for him, and took his departure from a town whose inhabitants "doated on his very absence;" but before he went he completed the fall sum of his sins against good taste and good feeling by pulling to the ground the house in which shakespeare had lived and died. this was done, it is said, out of sheer spite to the towns-people, with some of whom mr. gastrell had had a dispute about the rate at which the house was taxed. his change of residence was no great relief to him, for the whole british public felt sorely aggrieved, and wherever he went he was peppered with all sorts of squibs and satires. he "slid into verse," and "hitched in a rhyme." sacred to ridicule his whole life long, and the sad burden of a merry song. thomas sharp, a watchmaker, got possession of the fragments of shakespeare's mulberry tree, and worked them into all sorts of elegant ornaments and toys, and disposed of them at great prices. the corporation of stratford presented garrick with the freedom of the town in a box made of the wood of this famous tree, and the compliment seems to have suggested to him his public festival or pageant in honor of the poet. this jubilee, which was got up with great zeal, and at great expense and trouble, was attended by vast throngs of the admirers of shakespeare from all parts of the kingdom. it was repeated on the stage and became so popular as a theatrical exhibition that it was represented night after night for more than half a season to crowded audiences. upon the subject of gardens, let us hear what has been said by the self-styled "melancholy cowley." when in the smoky city pent, amidst the busy hum of men, he sighed unceasingly for some green retreat. as he paced the crowded thorough-fares of london, he thought of the velvet turf and the pure air of the country. his imagination carried him into secluded groves or to the bank of a murmuring river, or into some trim and quiet garden. "i never," he says, "had any other desire so strong and so like to covetousness, as that one which i have had always, that i might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life only to the culture of them and the study of nature," the late miss mitford, whose writings breathe so freshly of the nature that she loved so dearly, realized for herself a similar desire. it is said that she had the cottage of a peasant with the garden of a duchess. cowley is not contented with expressing in plain prose his appreciation of garden enjoyments. he repeatedly alludes to them in verse. thus, thus (and this deserved great virgil's praise) the old corycian yeoman passed his days; thus his wise life abdolonymus spent; th' ambassadors, which the great emperor sent to offer him a crown, with wonder found the reverend gardener, hoeing of his ground; unwillingly and slow and discontent from his loved cottage to a throne he went; and oft he stopped, on his triumphant way: and oft looked back: and oft was heard to say not without sighs, alas! i there forsake a happier kingdom than i go to take. _lib. iv. plantarum_. here is a similar allusion by the same poet to the delights which great men amongst the ancients have taken in a rural retirement. methinks, i see great dioclesian walk in the salonian garden's noble shade which by his own imperial hands was made, i see him smile, methinks, as he does talk with the ambassadors, who come in vain to entice him to a throne again. "if i, my friends," said he, "should to you show all the delights which in these gardens grow, 'tis likelier much that you should with me stay, than 'tis that you should carry me away: and trust me not, my friends, if every day i walk not here with more delight, than ever, after the most happy sight in triumph to the capitol i rode, to thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost a god," _the garden_. cowley does not omit the important moral which a garden furnishes. where does the wisdom and the power divine in a more bright and sweet reflection shine? where do we finer strokes and colors see of the creator's real poetry. than when we with attention look upon the third day's volume of the book? if we could open and intend our eye _we all, like moses, might espy, e'en in a bush, the radiant deity_. in leigh hunt's charming book entitled _the town_, i find the following notice of the partiality of poets for houses with gardens attached to them:-- "it is not surprizing that _garden-houses_ as they were called; should have formerly abounded in holborn, in bunhill row, and other (at that time) suburban places. we notice the fact, in order to observe _how fond the poets were of occupying houses of this description. milton seems to have made a point of having one_. the only london residence of chapman which is known, was in old street road; doubtless at that time a rural suburb. beaumont and fletcher's house, on the surrey side of the thames, (for they lived as well as wrote together,) most probably had a garden; and dryden's house in gerard street looked into the garden of the mansion built by the earls of leicester. a tree, or even a flower, put in a window in the streets of a great city, (and the london citizens, to their credit, are fond of flowers,) affects the eye something in the same way as the hand-organs, which bring unexpected music to the ear. they refresh the common-places of life, shed a harmony through the busy discord, and appeal to those first sources of emotion, which are associated with the remembrance of all that is young and innocent." milton must have been a passionate lover of flowers and flower-gardens or he could never have exhibited the exquisite taste and genial feeling which characterize all the floral allusions and descriptions with which so much of his poetry is embellished. he lived for some time in a house in westminster over-looking the park. the same house was tenanted by jeremy bentham for forty years. it would be difficult to meet with any two individuals of more opposite temperaments than the author of _paradise lost_ and the utilitarian philosopher. there is or was a stone in the wall at the end of the garden inscribed to the prince of poets. two beautiful cotton trees overarched the inscription, "and to show" says hazlitt, (who subsequently lived in the same house himself,) "how little the refinements of taste or fancy entered bentham's system, he proposed at one time to cut down these beautiful trees, to convert the garden, where he had breathed an air of truth and heaven for near half a century, into a paltry chreistomathic school, and to make milton's house (the cradle of _paradise lost_) a thoroughfare, like a three-stalled stable, for the idle rabble of westminster to pass backwards and forwards to it with their cloven hoofs!" no poet, ancient or modern, has described a garden on a large scale in so noble a style as milton. he has anticipated the finest conceptions of the latest landscape-gardeners, and infinitely surpassed all the accounts we have met with of the gardens of the olden time before us. his paradise is a spot more delicious than those gardens feigned or of revived adonis or renowned alcinous, host of old laertes' son or that, not mystic, where the sapient king held dalliance with his fair egyptian spouse[ ] the description is too long to quote entire, but i must make room for a delightful extract. familiar as it must be to all lovers of poetry, who will object to read it again and again? genuine poetry is like a masterpiece of the painter's art:--we can gaze with admiration for the hundredth time on a noble picture. the mind and the eye are never satiated with the truly beautiful. "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever." paradise.[ ] so on he fares, and to the border comes of eden, where delicious paradise, now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, as with a rural mound, the champaign head of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides with thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, access denied: and overhead up grew insuperable height of loftiest shade, cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, a sylvan scene; and as, the ranks ascend shade above shade, a woody theatre of stateliest view. yet higher than their tops, the verdurous wall of paradise up-sprung: which to our general sire gave prospect large into his nether empire neighbouring round; and higher than that wall a circling row of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, blossoms and fruits at once, of golden hue, appear'd, with gay enamell'd colours mix'd; on which the sun more glad impress'd his beams, than on fair evening cloud, or humid bow. when god hath shower'd the earth; so lovely seem'd that landscape: and of pure now purer air meets his approach, and to the heart inspires vernal delight and joy, able to drive all sadness but despair: now gentle gales, fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense native perfumes and whisper whence they stole those balmy spoils. as when to them who sail beyond the cape of hope, and now are past mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow sabean odours from the spicy shore of araby the blest; with such delay well pleased they slack their course, and many a league cheer'd with the grateful smell, old ocean smiles. * * * * * southward through eden went a river large, nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill pass'd underneath ingulf'd; for god had thrown that mountain as his garden mould, high raised upon the rapid current, which through veins of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill water'd the garden; thence united fell down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, which from his darksome passage now appears; and now, divided into four main streams, runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm and country, whereof here needs no account; but rather to tell how, if art could tell, how from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, with mazy error under pendent shades, ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art in beds and curious knots, but nature boon pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, both where the morning sun first warmly smote the open field, and where the unpierced shade imbrown'd the noontide bowers; thus was this place a happy rural seat of various view; groves whose rich, trees wept odorous gums and balm; others whose fruit, burnish'd with golden rind, hung amiable, hesperian fables true, if true, here only, and of delicious taste: betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks grazing the tender herb, were interposed; or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap of some irriguous valley spread her store, flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose: another side, umbrageous grots and caves of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, that to the fringed bank with myrtle crown'd her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. the birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, breathing the smell of field and grove attune, the trembling leaves, while universal pan, knit with the graces and the hours in dance, led on the eternal spring. pope in his grounds at twickenham, and shenstone in his garden farm of the leasowes, taught their countrymen to understand how much taste and refinement of soul may be connected with the laying out of gardens and the cultivation of flowers. i am sorry to learn that the famous retreats of these poets are not now what they were. the lovely nest of the little nightingale of twickenham has fallen into vulgar hands. and when mr. loudon visited (in ) the once beautiful grounds of shenstone, he "found them in a state of indescribable neglect and ruin." pope said that of all his works that of which he was proudest was his garden. it was of but five acres, or perhaps less, but to this he is said to have given a charming variety. he enumerates amongst the friends who assisted him in the improvement of his grounds, the gallant earl of peterborough "whose lightnings pierced the iberian lines." know, all the distant din that world can keep, rolls o'er my grotto, and but soothes my sleep. there my retreat the best companions grace chiefs out of war and statesmen out of place. there st. john mingles with my friendly bowl the feast of reason and the flow of soul; and he whose lightnings pierced the iberian lines now forms my quincunx and now ranks my vines; or tames the genius of the stubborn plain almost as quickly as he conquered spain. frederick prince of wales took a lively interest in pope's tasteful tusculanum and made him a present of some urns or vases either for his "laurel circus or to terminate his points." his famous grotto, which he is so fond of alluding to, was excavated to avoid an inconvenience. his property lying on both sides of the public highway, he contrived his highly ornamented passage under the road to preserve privacy and to connect the two portions of his estate. the poet has given us in one of his letters a long and lively description of his subterranean embellishments. but his verse will live longer than his prose. he has immortalized this grotto, so radiant with spars and ores and shells, in the following poetical inscription:-- thou, who shalt stop, where thames' translucent wave shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave, where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, and pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, unpolished gems no ray on pride bestow, and latent metals innocently glow, approach! great nature studiously behold, and eye the mine without a wish for gold approach--but awful! lo, the egerian grot, where, nobly pensive, st john sat and thought, where british sighs from dying wyndham stole, and the bright flame was shot thro' marchmont's soul; let such, such only, tread this sacred floor who dare to love their country, and be poor. horace walpole, speaking of the poet's garden, tells us that "the passing through the gloom from the grotto to the opening day, the retiring and again assembling shades, the dusky groves, the larger lawn, and the solemnity at the cypresses that led up to his mother's tomb, were managed with exquisite judgment." cliveden's proud alcove, the bower of wanton shrewsbury and love, alluded to by pope in his sketch of the character of villiers, duke of buckingham, though laid out by kent, was probably improved by the poet's suggestions. walpole seems to think that the beautiful grounds at rousham, laid out for general dormer, were planned on the model of the garden at twickenham, at least the opening and retiring "shades of venus's vale." and these grounds at rousham were pronounced "the most engaging of all kent's works." it is said that the design of the garden at carlton house, was borrowed from that of pope. wordsworth was correct in his observation that "landscape gardening is a liberal art akin to the arts of poetry and painting." walpole describes it as "an art that realizes painting and improves nature." "mahomet," he adds, "imagined an elysium, but kent created many." pope's mansion was not a very spacious one, but it was large enough for a private gentleman of inexpensive habits. after the poet's death it was purchased by sir william stanhope who enlarged both the house and garden.[ ] a bust of pope, in white marble, has been placed over an arched way with the following inscription from the pen of lord nugent: the humble roof, the garden's scanty line, ill suit the genius of the bard divine; but fancy now displays a fairer scope and stanhope's plans unfold the soul of pope. i have not heard who set up this bust with its impudent inscription. i hope it was not stanhope himself. i cannot help thinking that it would have been a truer compliment to the memory of pope if the house and grounds had been kept up exactly as he had left them. most people, i suspect, would greatly have preferred the poet's own "unfolding of his soul" to that "_unfolding_" attempted for him by a stanhope and commemorated by a nugent. pope exhibited as much taste in laying out his grounds as in constructing his poems. sir william, after his attempt to make the garden more worthy of the original designer, might just as modestly have undertaken to enlarge and improve the poetry of pope on the plea that it did not sufficiently _unfold his soul_. a line of lord nugent's might in that case have been transferred from the marble bust to the printed volume: his fancy now displays a fairer scope. or the enlarger and improver might have taken his motto from shakespeare: to my _unfolding_ lend a gracious ear. this would have been an appropriate motto for the title-page of "_the poems of pope: enlarged and improved: or the soul of the poet unfolded_." but in sober truth, pope, whether as a gardener or as a poet, required no enlarger or improver of his works. after sir william stanhope had left pope's villa it came into the possession of lord mendip, who exhibited a proper respect for the poet's memory; but when in it was sold to the baroness howe, that lady pulled down the house and built another. the place subsequently came into the possession of a mr. young. the grounds have now no resemblance to what the taste of pope had once made them. even his mother's monument has been removed! few things would have more deeply touched the heart of the poet than the anticipation of this insult to the memory of so revered a parent. his filial piety was as remarkable as his poetical genius. no passages in his works do him more honor both as a man and as a poet than those which are mellowed into a deeper tenderness of sentiment and a softer and sweeter music by his domestic affections. there are probably few readers of english poetry who have not the following lines by heart, me, let the tender office long engage to rock the cradle of reposing age; with lenient arts extend a mother's breath; make langour smile, and smooth the bed of death; explore the thought, explain the asking eye, and keep at least one parent from the sky. in a letter to swift (dated march , ) begun by lord bolingbroke and concluded by pope, the latter speaks thus touchingly of his dear old parent: "my lord has spoken justly of his lady; why not i of my mother? yesterday was her birth-day, now entering on the ninety-first year of her age; her memory much diminished, but her senses very little hurt, her sight and hearing good; she sleeps not ill, eats moderately, drinks water, says her prayers; this is all she does. i have reason to thank god for continuing so long to me a very good and tender parent, and for allowing me to exercise for some years those cares which are now as necessary to her, as hers have been to me." pope lost his mother two years, two months, and a few days after the date of this letter. three days after her death he entreated richardson, the painter, to take a sketch of her face, as she lay in her coffin: and for this purpose pope somewhat delayed her interment. "i thank god," he says, "her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, nor even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity, nay almost of pleasure, that it is even amiable to behold it. it would afford the finest image of a saint expired, that ever painting drew, and it would be the greatest obligation which even that obliging art could ever bestow upon a friend if you would come and sketch it for me." the writer adds, "i shall hope to see you this evening, as late as you will, or to-morrow morning as early, _before this winter flower is faded_." on the small obelisk in the garden, erected by pope to the memory of his mother, he placed the following simple and pathetic inscription. ah! editha! matrum optima! mulierum amantissima! vale! i wonder that any one could have had the heart to remove or to destroy so interesting a memorial. it is said that pope planted his celebrated weeping willow at twickenham with his own hands, and that it was the first of its particular species introduced into england. happening to be with lady suffolk when she received a parcel from spain, he observed that it was bound with green twigs which looked as if they might vegetate. "perhaps," said he, "these may produce something that we have not yet in england." he tried a cutting, and it succeeded. the tree was removed by some person as barbarous as the reverend gentleman who cut down shakespeare's mulberry tree. the willow was destroyed for the same reason, as the mulberry tree--because the owner was annoyed at persons asking to see it. the weeping willow that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream,[ ] has had its interest with people in general much increased by its association with the history of napoleon in the island of st. helena. the tree whose boughs seemed to hang so fondly over his remains has now its scions in all parts of the world. few travellers visited the tomb without taking a small cutting of the napoleon willow for cultivation in their own land. slips of the willow at twickenham, like those of the willow at st. helena, have also found their way into many countries. in the empress of russia had some of them planted in her garden at st. petersburgh. mr. loudon tells us that there is an old _oak_ in binfield wood, windsor forest, which is called _pope's oak_, and which bears the inscription "here pope sang:"[ ] but according to general tradition it was a _beech_ tree, under which pope wrote his "windsor forest." it is said that as that tree was decayed, lady gower had the inscription alluded to carved upon another tree near it. perhaps the substituted tree was an oak. i may here mention that in the vale of avoca there is a tree celebrated as that under which thomas moore wrote the verses entitled "the meeting of the waters." the allusion to _pope's oak_ reminds me that chaucer is said to have planted three oak trees in donnington park near newbury. not one of them is now, i believe, in existence. there is an oak tree in windsor forest above years old. in the hollow of this tree twenty people might be accommodated with standing room. it is called _king's oak_: it was william the conqueror's favorite tree. _herne's oak_ in windsor park, is said by some to be still standing, but it is described as a mere anatomy. ----an old oak whose boughs are mossed with age, and high top bald with dry antiquity. _as you like it_. "it stretches out its bare and sapless branches," says mr. jesse, "like the skeleton arms of some enormous giant, and is almost fearful in its decay." _herne's oak_, as every one knows, is immortalised by shakespeare, who has spread its fame over many lands. there is an old tale goes that herne the hunter, sometime a keeper here in windsor forest, doth all the winter time, at still midnight, walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns, and there he blasts the trees, and takes the cattle; and makes milch cows yield blood, and shakes a chain in a most hideous and dreadful manner. you have heard of such a spirit; and well you know, the superstitious, idle-headed eld received, and did deliver to our age, this tale of herne the hunter for a truth. _merry wives of windsor_. "herne, the hunter" is said to have hung himself upon one of the branches of this tree, and even, ----yet there want not many that do fear, in deep of night to walk by this herne's oak. _merry wives of windsor_. it was not long ago visited by the king of prussia to whom shakespeare had rendered it an object of great interest. it is unpleasant to add that there is considerable doubt and dispute as to its identity. charles knight and a quarterly reviewer both maintain that _herne's oak_ was cut down with a number of other old trees in obedience to an order from george the third when he was not in his right mind, and that his majesty deeply regretted the order he had given when he found that the most interesting tree in his park had been destroyed. mr. jesse, in his _gleanings in natural history_, says that after some pains to ascertain the truth, he is convinced that this story is not correct, and that the famous old tree is still standing. he adds that george the fourth often alluded to the story and said that though one of the trees cut down was supposed to have been _herne's oak_, it was not so in reality. george the third, it is said, once called the attention of mr. ingalt, the manager of windsor home park to a particular tree, and said "i brought you here to point out this tree to you. i commit it to your especial charge; and take care that no damage is ever done to it. i had rather that every tree in the park should be cut down than that this tree should be hurt. _this is hernes oak_." sir philip sidney's oak at penshurst mentioned by ben jonson-- that taller tree, of which the nut was set at his great birth, where all the muses met-- is still in existence. it is thirty feet in circumference. waller also alludes to yonder tree which stands the sacred mark of noble sidney's birth. yardley oak, immortalized by cowper, is now in a state of decay. time made thee what thou wert--king of the woods! and time hath made thee what thou art--a cave for owls to roost in. _cowper_. the tree is said to be at least fifteen hundred years old. it cannot hold its present place much longer; but for many centuries to come it will live in description and look green in song. it stands on the grounds of the marquis of northampton; and to prevent people from cutting off and carrying away pieces of it as relics, the following notice has been painted on a board and nailed to the tree:--"_out of respect to the memory of the poet cowper, the marquis of northampton is particularly desirous of preserving this oak_." lord byron, in early life, planted an oak in the garden at newstead and indulged the fancy, that as that flourished so should he. the oak has survived the poet, but it will not outlive the memory of its planter or even the boyish verses which he addressed to it. pope observes, that "a tree is a nobler object than a prince in his coronation robes." yet probably the poet had never seen any tree larger than a british oak. what would he have thought of the baobab tree in abyssinia, which measures from to feet in girth, and sometimes reaches the age of five thousand years. we have no such sylvan patriarch in europe. the oldest british tree i have heard of, is a yew tree of fortingall in scotland, of which the age is said to be two thousand five hundred years. if trees had long memories and could converse with man, what interesting chapters these survivors of centuries might add to the history of the world! pope was not always happy in his twickenham paradise. his rural delights were interrupted for a time by an unrequited passion for the beautiful and highly-gifted but eccentric lady mary wortley montague. ah! friend, 'tis true--this truth you lovers know; in vain my structures rise, my gardens grow; in vain fair thames reflects the double scenes of hanging mountains and of sloping greens; joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, and only dwells where wortley casts her eyes. what are the gay parterre, the chequered shade, the morning bower, the evening colonnade, but soft recesses of uneasy minds, to sigh unheard in to the passing winds? so the struck deer, in some sequestered part, lies down to die, the arrow at his heart; he, stretched unseen, in coverts hid from day, bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away. these are exquisite lines, and have given delight to innumerable readers, but they gave no delight to lady mary. in writing to her sister, the countess of mar, then at paris, she says in allusion to these "most musical, most melancholy" verses--"_i stifled them here; and i beg they may die the same death at paris_." it is not, however, quite so easy a thing as lady mary seemed to think, to "stifle" such poetry as pope's. pope's notions respecting the laying out of gardens are well expressed in the following extract from the fourth epistle of his moral essays.[ ] this fourth epistle was addressed, as most readers will remember, to the accomplished lord burlington, who, as walpole says, "had every quality of a genius and an artist, except envy. though his own designs were more chaste and classic than kent's, he entertained him in his house till his death, and was more studious to extend his friend's fame than his own." something there is more needful than expense, and something previous e'en to taste--'tis sense; good sense, which only is the gift of heaven, and though no science fairly worth the seven; a light, which in yourself you must perceive; jones and le nôtre have it not to give. to build, or plant, whatever you intend, to rear the column or the arch to bend; to swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; in all let nature never be forgot. but treat the goddess like a modest fair, nor over dress nor leave her wholly bare; let not each beauty every where be spied, where half the skill is decently to hide. he gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, surprizes, varies, and conceals the bounds. _consult the genius of the place in all_;[ ] that tells the waters or to rise or fall; or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, or scoops in circling theatres the vale; calls in the country, catches opening glades, joins willing woods and varies shades from shades; now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines; paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. still follow sense, of every art the soul; parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, spontaneous beauties all around advance, start e'en from difficulty, strike from chance; nature shall join you; time shall make it grow a work to wonder at--perhaps a stowe.[ ] without it proud versailles![ ] thy glory falls; and nero's terraces desert their walls. the vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, lo! cobham comes and floats them with a lake; or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, you'll wish your hill or sheltered seat again. pope is in most instances singularly happy in his compliments, but the allusion to stowe--as "_a work to wonder at_"--has rather an equivocal appearance, and so also has the mention of lord cobham, the proprietor of the place. in the first draught of the poem, the name of bridgeman was inserted where cobham's now stands, but as bridgeman mistook the compliment for a sneer, the poet thought the landscape-gardener had proved himself undeserving of the intended honor, and presented the second-hand compliment to the peer. the grounds at stowe, more praised by poets than any other private estate in england, extend to acres. there are many other fine estates in our country of far greater extent, but of less celebrity. some of them are much too extensive, perhaps, for true enjoyment. the earl of leicester, when he had completed his seat at holkham, observed, that "it was a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's country. i look round; not a house is to be seen but mine. i am the giant of giant-castle and have ate up all my neighbours." the earl must have felt that the political economy of goldsmith in his _deserted village_ was not wholly the work of imagination. sweet smiling village! loveliest of the lawn, thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn; amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen and desolation saddens all the green,-- _one only master grasps thy whole domain_. * * * * * where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, to scape the pressure of contiguous pride? "hearty, cheerful mr. cotton," as lamb calls him, describes stowe as a paradise. on lord cobham's garden. it puzzles much the sage's brains where eden stood of yore, some place it in arabia's plains, some say it is no more. but cobham can these tales confute, as all the curious know; for he hath proved beyond dispute, that paradise is stowe. thomson also calls the place a paradise: ye powers that o'er the garden and the rural seat preside, which shining through the cheerful land in countless numbers blest britannia sees; o, lead me to the wide-extended walks, _the fair majestic paradise of stowe!_ not persian cyrus on ionia's shore e'er saw such sylvan scenes; such various art by genius fired, such ardent genius tamed by cool judicious art, that in the strife all-beauteous nature fears to be out-done. the poet somewhat mars the effect of this compliment to the charms of stowe, by making it a matter of regret that the owner his verdant files of ordered trees should here inglorious range, instead of squadrons flaming o'er the field, and long embattled hosts. this representation of rural pursuits as inglorious, a sentiment so out of keeping with his subject, is soon after followed rather inconsistently, by a sort of paraphrase of virgil's celebrated picture of rural felicity, and some of thomson's own thoughts on the advantages of a retreat from active life. oh, knew he but his happiness, of men the happiest he! who far from public rage deep in the vale, with a choice few retired drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life, &c. then again:-- let others brave the flood in quest of gain and beat for joyless months, the gloomy wave. _let such as deem it glory to destroy, rush into blood, the sack of cities seek; unpierced, exulting in the widow's wail, the virgin's shriek and infant's trembling cry._ * * * * * while he, from all the stormy passions free that restless men involve, hears and _but_ hears, at distance safe, the human tempest roar, wrapt close in conscious peace. the fall of kings, the rage of nations, and the crush of states, move not the man, who from the world escaped, in still retreats and flowery solitudes, to nature's voice attends, from month to month, and day to day, through the revolving year; admiring sees her in her every shape; feels all her sweet emotions at his heart; takes what she liberal gives, nor asks for more. he, when young spring, protudes the bursting gems marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale into his freshened soul; her genial hour he full enjoys, and not a beauty blows and not an opening blossom breathes in vain. thomson in his description of lord townshend's seat of rainham--another english estate once much celebrated and still much admired--exclaims: such are thy beauties, rainham, such the haunts of angels, in primeval guiltless days when man, imparadised, conversed with god. and broome after quoting the whole description in his dedication of his own poems to lord townshend, observes, in the old fashioned fulsome strain, "this, my lord, is but a faint picture of the place of your retirement which no one ever enjoyed more elegantly."[ ] "a faint picture!" what more would the dedicator have wished thomson to say? broome, if not contented with his patron's seat being described as an earthly paradise, must have desired it to be compared with heaven itself, and thus have left his lordship no hope of the enjoyment of a better place than he already possessed. samuel boyse, who when without a shirt to his back sat up in his bed to write verses, with his arms through two holes in his blanket, and when he went into the streets wore paper collars to conceal the sad deficiency of linen, has a poem of considerable length entitled _the triumphs of nature_. it is wholly devoted to a description of this magnificent garden,[ ] in which, amongst other architectural ornaments, was a temple dedicated to british worthies, where the busts of pope and congreve held conspicuous places. i may as well give a specimen of the lines of poor boyse. here is his description of that part of lord cobham's grounds in which is erected to the goddess of love, a temple containing a statue of the venus de medicis. next to the fair ascent our steps we traced, where shines afar the bold rotunda placed; the artful dome ionic columns bear light as the fabric swells in ambient air. beneath enshrined the tuscan venus stands and beauty's queen the beauteous scene commands: the fond beholder sees with glad surprize, streams glisten, lawns appear, and forests rise-- here through thick shades alternate buildings break, there through the borders steals the silver lake, a soft variety delights the soul, and harmony resulting crowns the whole. congreve in his letter in verse addressed to lord cobham asks him to tell how his pleasing stowe employs his time. it would seem that the proprietor of stowe took particular interest in the disposition of the water on his grounds. congreve enquires or dost thou give the winds afar to blow each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe, and fix thy mind alone on rural scenes, _to turn the level lawns to liquid plains_? to raise the creeping rills from humble beds and force the latent spring to lift their heads, on watery columns, capitals to rear, that mix their flowing curls with upper air? * * * * * or slowly walk along the mazy wood to meditate on all that's wise and good. the line:-- to turn the level lawn to liquid plains-- will remind the reader of pope's lo! cobham comes and floats them with a lake-- and it might be thought that congreve had taken the hint from the bard of twickenham if congreve's poem had not preceded that of pope. the one was published in , the other in . cowper is in the list of poets who have alluded to "cobham's groves" and pope's commemoration of them. and _cobham's groves_ and windsor's green retreats when pope describes them have a thousand sweets. "magnificence and splendour," says mr. whately, the author of _observations on modern gardening_, "are the characteristics of stowe. it is like one of those places celebrated in antiquity which were devoted to the purposes of religion, and filled with sacred groves, hallowed fountains, and temples dedicated to several deities; the resort of distant nations and the object of veneration to half the heathen world: the pomp is, at stowe, blended with beauty; and the place is equally distinguished by its amenity and grandeur." horace walpole speaks of its "visionary enchantment." "i have been strolling about in buckinghamshire and oxfordshire, from garden to garden," says pope in one of his letters, "but still returning to lord cobham's with fresh satisfaction."[ ] the grounds at stowe, until the year , were laid out in the old formal style. bridgeman then commenced the improvements and kent subsequently completed them. stowe is now, i believe, in the possession of the marquis of chandos, son of the duke of buckingham. it is melancholy to state that the library, the statues, the furniture, and even some of the timber on the estate, were sold in to satisfy the creditors of the duke. pope was never tired of improving his own grounds. "i pity you, sir," said a friend to him, "because you have now completed every thing belonging to your gardens."[ ] "why," replied pope, "i really shall be at a loss for the diversion i used to take in carrying out and finishing things: i have now nothing left me to do but to add a little ornament or two along the line of the thames." i dare say pope was by no means so near the end of his improvements as he and his friend imagined. one little change in a garden is sure to suggest or be followed by another. garden-improvements are "never ending, still beginning." the late dr. arnold, the famous schoolmaster, writing to a friend, says--"the garden is a constant source of amusement to us both (self and wife); there are always some little alterations to be made, some few spots where an additional shrub or two would be ornamental, something coming into blossom; so that i can always delight to go round and see how things are going on." a garden is indeed a scene of continual change. nature, even without the aid of the gardener, has "infinite variety," and supplies "a perpetual feast of nectared sweets where no crude surfeit reigns." spence reports pope to have said: "i have sometimes had an idea of planting an old gothic cathedral in trees. good large poplars, with their white stems, cleared of boughs to a proper height would serve very well for the columns, and might form the different aisles or peristilliums, by their different distances and heights. these would look very well near, and the dome rising all in a proper tuft in the middle would look well at a distance." this sort of verdant architecture would perhaps have a pleasing effect, but it is rather too much in the artificial style, to be quite consistent with pope's own idea of landscape-gardening. and there are other trees that would form a nobler natural cathedral than the formal poplar. cowper did not think of the poplar, when he described a green temple-roof. how airy and how light the graceful arch, yet awful as the consecrated roof re-echoing pious anthems. almost the only traces of pope's garden that now remain are the splendid spanish chesnut-trees and some elms and cedars planted by the poet himself. a space once laid out in winding walks and beautiful shrubberies is now a potatoe field! the present proprietor, mr. young, is a wholesale tea-dealer. even the bones of the poet, it is said, have been disturbed. the skull of pope, according to william howitt, is now in the private collection of a phrenologist! the manner in which it was obtained, he says, is this:--on some occasion of alteration in the church at twickenham, or burial of some one in the same spot, the coffin of pope was disinterred, and opened to see the state of the remains. by a bribe of £ to the sexton, possession of the skull was obtained for one night; another skull was then returned instead of the poet's. it has been stated that the french term _ferme ornée_ was first used in england by shenstone. it exactly expressed the character of his grounds. mr. repton said that he never strolled over the scenery of the leasowes without lamenting the constant disappointment to which shenstone exposed himself by a vain attempt to unite the incompatible objects of ornament and profit. "thus," continued mr. repton, "the poet lived under the continual mortification of disappointed hope, and with a mind exquisitely sensible, he felt equally the sneer of the great man at the magnificence of his attempt and the ridicule of the farmer at the misapplication of his paternal acres." the "sneer of the great man." is perhaps an allusion to what dr. johnson says of lord lyttelton:--that he "looked with disdain" on "the petty state" of his neighbour. "for a while," says dr. johnson, "the inhabitants of hagley affected to tell their acquaintance of the little fellow that was trying to make himself admired; but when by degrees the leasowes forced themselves into notice, they took care to defeat the curiosity which they could not suppress, by conducting their visitants perversely to inconvenient points of view, and introducing them at the wrong end of a walk to detect a deception; injuries of which shenstone would heavily complain." mr. graves, the zealous friend of shenstone, indignantly denies that any of the lyttelton family had evinced so ungenerous a feeling towards the proprietor of the leasowes who though his "empire" was less "spacious and opulent" had probably a larger share of true taste than even the proprietor of hagley, the lyttelton domain--though hagley has been much, and i doubt not, deservedly, admired.[ ] dr. johnson states that shenstone's expenses were beyond his means,-- that he spent his estate in adorning it--that at last the clamours of creditors "overpowered the lamb's bleat and the linnet's song; and that his groves were haunted by beings very different from fauns and fairies." but this is gross exaggeration. shenstone was occasionally, indeed, in slight pecuniary difficulties, but he could always have protected himself from the intrusion of the myrmidons of the law by raising money on his estate; for it appears that after the payment of all his debts, he left legacies to his friends and annuities to his servants. johnson himself is the most scornful of the critics upon shenstone's rural pursuits. "the pleasure of shenstone," says the doctor, "was all in his eye: he valued what he valued merely for its looks. nothing raised his indignation more than to ask if there were any fishes in his water." dr. johnson would have seen no use in the loveliest piece of running water in the world if it had contained nothing that he could masticate! mrs. piozzi says of him, "the truth is, he hated to hear about prospects and views, and laying out grounds and taste in gardening." "that was the best garden," he said, "which produced most roots and fruits; and that water was most to be prized which contained most fish." on this principle of the valuelessness of those pleasures which enter the mind through the eye, dr. johnson should have blamed the lovers of painting for dwelling with such fond admiration on the canvas of his friend sir joshua reynolds. in point of fact, dr. johnson had no more sympathy with the genius of the painter or the musician than with that of the landscape gardener, for he had neither an eye nor an ear for art. he wondered how any man could be such a fool as to be moved to tears by music, and observed, that, "one could not fill one's belly with hearing soft murmurs or looking at rough cascades." no; the loveliness of nature does not satisfy the thirst and hunger of the body, but it _does_ satisfy the thirst and hunger of the soul. no one can find wheaten bread or wine or venison or beef or plum-pudding or turtle-soup in mere sounds and sights, however exquisite--neither can any one find such substantial diet within the boards of a book--no not even on the pages of shakespeare, or even those of the bible itself,--but men can find in sweet music and lovely scenery and good books something infinitely more precious than all the wine, venison, beef, or plum-pudding, or turtle-soup that could be swallowed during a long life by the most craving and capacious alderman of london! man is of a dual nature: he is not all body. he has other and far higher wants and enjoyments than the purely physical--and these nobler appetites are gratified by the charms of nature and the creations of inspired genius. dr. johnson's gastronomic allusions to nature recal the old story of a poet pointing out to a utilitarian friend some white lambs frolicking in a meadow. "aye," said, the other, "only think of a quarter of one of them with asparagus and mint sauce!" the story is by some supposed to have had a scottish origin, and a prosaic north briton is made to say that the pretty little lambs, sporting amidst the daisies and buttercups, would "_mak braw pies_." a profound feeling for the beautiful is generally held to be an essential quality in the poet. it is a curious fact, however, that there are some who aspire to the rank of poet, and have their claims allowed, who yet cannot be said to be poetical in their nature--for how can that nature be, strictly speaking, _poetical_ which denies the sentiment of keats, that a thing of beauty is a joy for ever? both scott and byron very earnestly admired dr. johnson's "_london_" and "_the vanity of human wishes_." yet the sentiments just quoted from the author of those productions are far more characteristic of a utilitarian philosopher than of one who has been endowed by nature with the vision and the faculty divine, and made capable, like some mysterious enchanter, of clothing the palpable and the familiar with golden exhalations of the dawn. crabbe, also a prime favorite with the authors of the _lay of the last minstrel_, and _childe harold_, is recorded by his biographer--his own son--to have exhibited "a remarkable indifference to all the proper objects of taste;" to have had "no real love for painting, or music, or architecture or for what a painter's eye considers as the beauties of landscape." "in botany, grasses, the most _useful_ but the least ornamental, were his favorites." "he never seemed to be captivated with the mere beauty of natural objects or even to catch any taste for the arrangement of his specimens. within, the house was a kind of scientific confusion; in the garden the usual showy foreigners gave place to the most scarce flowers, especially to the rarer weeds, of britain; and were scattered here and there only for preservation. in fact he neither loved order for its own sake nor had any very high opinion of that passion in others."[ ] lord byron described crabbe to be though nature's sternest painter, yet _the best_. what! was he a better painter of nature than shakespeare? the truth is that byron was a wretched critic, though a powerful poet. his praises and his censures were alike unmeasured. his generous ardor no cold medium knew. he seemed to recognize no great general principles of criticism, but to found all his judgments on mere prejudice and passion. he thought cowper "no poet," pronounced spenser "a dull fellow," and placed pope above shakespeare. byron's line on crabbe is inscribed on the poet's tombstone at trowbridge. perhaps some foreign visitor on reading the inscription may be surprized at his own ignorance when he learns that it is not the author of _macbeth_ and _othello_ that he is to regard as the best painter of nature that england has produced, but the author of the _parish register_ and the _tales of the hall_. absurd and indiscriminate laudations of this kind confound all intellectual distinctions and make criticism ridiculous. crabbe is unquestionably a vigorous and truthful writer, but he is not the _best_ we have, in any sense of the word. though dr. johnson speaks so contemptuously of shenstone's rural pursuits, he could not help acknowledging that when the poet began "to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks and to wind his waters," he did all this with such judgment and fancy as "made his little domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skilful; a place to be visited by travellers, and copied by designers." mason, in his _english garden_, a poem once greatly admired, but now rarely read, and never perhaps with much delight, does justice to the taste of the poet of the leasowes. nor, shenstone, thou shalt pass without thy meed, thou son of peace! who knew'st, perchance, to harmonize thy shades still softer than thy song; yet was that song nor rude nor inharmonious when attuned to pastoral plaint, or tale of slighted love. english pleasure-gardens have been much imitated by the french. viscomte girardin, at his estate of ermenonville, dedicated an inscription in amusing french-english to the proprietor of the leasowes-- this plain stone to william shenstone; in his writings he displayed a mind natural; at leasowes he laid arcadian greens rural. the viscomte, though his english composition was so quaint and imperfect, was an elegant writer in his own language, and showed great taste and skill in laying out his grounds. he had visited england, and carefully studied our modern style of gardening. he had personally consulted shenstone, mason, whateley and other english authors on subjects of rural taste. he published an eloquent description of his own estate. his famous friend rousseau wrote the preface to it. the book was translated into english. rousseau spent his last days at ermenonville and was buried there in what is called _the isle of poplars_. the garden is now in a neglected state, but the tomb of rousseau remains uninjured, and is frequently visited by the admirers of his genius. "dr. warton," says bowles, "mentions milton and pope as the poets to whom english landscape is indebted, but _he forgot poor shenstone_." a later writer, however, whose sympathy for genius communicates such a charm to all his anecdotes and comments in illustration of the literary character, has devoted a chapter of his _curiosities of literature_ to a notice of the rural tastes of the proprietor of the leasowes. i must give a brief extract from it. "when we consider that shenstone, in developing his fine pastoral ideas in the leasowes, educated the nation into that taste for landscape-gardening, which has become the model of all europe, this itself constitutes a claim on the gratitude of posterity. thus the private pleasures of a man of genius may become at length those of a whole people. the creator of this new taste appears to have received far less notice than he merited. the name of shenstone does not appear in the essay on gardening, by lord orford; even the supercilious gray only bestowed a ludicrous image on these pastoral scenes, which, however, his friend mason has celebrated; and the genius of johnson, incapacitated by nature to touch on objects of rural fancy, after describing some of the offices of the landscape designer, adds, that 'he will not inquire whether they demand any great powers of mind.' johnson, however, conveys to us his own feelings, when he immediately expresses them under the character of 'a sullen and surly speculator.' the anxious life of shenstone would indeed have been remunerated, could he have read the enchanting eulogium of whateley on the leasowes; which, said he, 'is a perfect picture of his mind--simple, elegant and amiable; and will always suggest a doubt whether the spot inspired his verse, or whether in the scenes which he formed, he only realised the pastoral images which abound in his songs.' yes! shenstone had been delighted could he have heard that montesquieu, on his return home, adorned his 'chateau gothique, mais orné de bois charmans, don't j'ai pris l'idée en angleterre;' and shenstone, even with his modest and timid nature, had been proud to have witnessed a noble foreigner, amidst memorials dedicated to theocritus and virgil, to thomson and gesner, raising in his grounds an inscription, in bad english, but in pure taste, to shenstone himself; for having displayed in his writings 'a mind natural,' and in his leasowes 'laid arcadian greens rural;' and recently pindemonte has traced the taste of english gardening to shenstone. a man of genius sometimes receives from foreigners, who are placed out of the prejudices of his compatriots, the tribute of posterity!" "the leasowes," says william howitt, "now belongs to the atwood family; and a miss atwood resides there occasionally. but the whole place bears the impress of desertion and neglect. the house has a dull look; the same heavy spirit broods over the lawns and glades: and it is only when you survey it from a distance, as when approaching hales-owen from hagley, that the whole presents an aspect of unusual beauty." shenstone was at least as proud of his estate of the leasowes as was pope of his twickenham villa--perhaps more so. by mere men of the world, this pride in a garden may be regarded as a weakness, but if it be a weakness it is at least an innocent and inoffensive one, and it has been associated with the noblest intellectual endowments. pitt and fox and burke and warren hastings were not weak men, and yet were they all extremely proud of their gardens. every one, indeed, who takes an active interest in the culture and embellishment of his garden, finds his pride in it and his love for it increase daily. he is delighted to see it flourish and improve beneath his care. even the humble mechanic, in his fondness for a garden, often indicates a feeling for the beautiful, and a genial nature. if a rich man were openly to boast of his plate or his equipages, or a literary man of his essays or his sonnets, as lovers of flowers boast of their geraniums or dahlias or rhododendrons, they would disgust the most indulgent hearer. but no one is shocked at the exultation of a gardener, amateur or professional, when in the fulness of his heart he descants upon the unrivalled beauty of his favorite flowers: 'plants of his hand, and children of his care.' "i have made myself two gardens," says petrarch, "and i do not imagine that they are to be equalled in all the world. i should feel myself inclined to be angry with fortune if there were any so beautiful out of italy." "i wish," says poor kirke white writing to a friend, "i wish you to have a taste of these (rural) pleasures with me, and if ever i should live to be blessed with a quiet parsonage, and _another great object of my ambition--a garden_, i have no doubt but we shall be for some short intervals at least two quite contented bodies." the poet young, in the latter part of his life, after years of vain hopes and worldly struggles, gave himself up almost entirely to the sweet seclusion of a garden; and that peace and repose which cannot be found in courts and political cabinets, he found at last in sunny garden bowers where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, and buds and bells with changes mark the hours. he discovered that it was more profitable to solicit nature than to flatter the great. for nature never did betray the heart that loved her. people of a poetical temperament--all true lovers of nature--can afford, far better than more essentially worldly beings, to exclaim with thomson. i care not fortune what you me deny, you cannot bar me of free nature's grace, you cannot shut the windows of the sky through which aurora shows her brightening face: you cannot bar my constant feet to trace the woods and lawns and living streams at eve: let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, and i their toys to the _great children_ leave:-- of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. the pride in a garden laid out under one's own directions and partly cultivated by one's own hand has been alluded to as in some degree unworthy of the dignity of manhood, not only by mere men of the world, or silly coxcombs, but by people who should have known better. even sir william temple, though so enthusiastic about his fruit-trees, tells us that he will not enter upon any account of _flowers_, having only pleased himself with seeing or smelling them, and not troubled himself with the care of them, which he observes "_is more the ladies part than the men's_." sir william makes some amends for this almost contemptuous allusion to flowers in particular by his ardent appreciation of the use of gardens and gardening in general. he thus speaks of their attractions and advantages: "the sweetness of the air, the pleasantness of the smell, the verdure of plants, the cleanness and lightness of food, the exercise of working or walking, but above all, the exemption from cares and solicitude, seem equally to favor and improve both contemplation and health, the enjoyment of sense and imagination, and thereby the quiet and ease of the body and mind." again: "as gardening has been the inclination of kings and the choice of philosophers, so it has been the common favorite of public and private men, a pleasure of the greatest and the care of the meanest; and indeed _an employment and a possession for which no man is too high or too low_." this is just and liberal; though i can hardly help still feeling a little sore at sir william's having implied in the passage previously quoted, that the care of flowers is but a feminine occupation. as an elegant amusement, it is surely equally well fitted for all lovers of the beautiful, without reference to their sex. it is not women and children only who delight in flower-gardens. lord bacon and william pitt and the earl of chatham and fox and burke and warren hastings--all lovers of flowers--were assuredly not men of frivolous minds or of feminine habits. they were always eager to exhibit to visitors the beauty of their parterres. in his declining years the stately john kemble left the stage for his garden. that sturdy english yeoman, william cobbett, was almost as proud of his beds of flowers as of the pages of his _political register_. he thus speaks of gardening: "gardening is a source of much greater profit than is generally imagined; but, merely as an amusement or recreation it is a thing of very great value. it is not only compatible with but favorable to the study of any art or science; it is conducive to health by means of the irresistible temptation which it offers to early rising; to the stirring abroad upon one's legs, for a man may really ride till he cannot walk, sit till he cannot stand, and lie abed till he cannot get up. it tends to turn the minds of youth from amusements and attachments of a frivolous and vicious nature, it is a taste which is indulged at home; it tends to make home pleasant, and to endear to us the spot on which it is our lot to live,--and as to the _expenses_ attending it, what are all these expenses compared with those of the short, the unsatisfactory, the injurious enjoyment of the card-table, and the rest of those amusements which are sought from the town." _cobbett's english gardener_. "other fine arts," observes lord kames, "may be perverted to excite irregular and even vicious emotions: but gardening, which inspires the purest and most refined pleasures, cannot fail to promote every good affection. the gaiety and harmony of mind it produceth, inclining the spectator to communicate his satisfaction to others, and to make them happy as he is himself, tend naturally to establish in him a habit of humanity and benevolence." every thoughtful mind knows how much the face of nature has to do with human happiness. in the open air and in the midst of summer-flowers, we often feel the truth of the observation that "a fair day is a kind of sensual pleasure, and of all others the most innocent." but it is also something more, and better. it kindles a spiritual delight. at such a time and in such a scene every observer capable of a religious emotion is ready to exclaim-- oh! there is joy and happiness in every thing i see, which bids my soul rise up and bless the god that blesses me _anon._ the amiable and pious doctor carey of serampore, in whose grounds sprang up that dear little english daisy so beautifully addressed by his poetical proxy, james montgomery of sheffield, in the stanzas commencing:-- thrice welcome, little english flower! my mother country's white and red-- was so much attached to his indian garden, that it was always in his heart in the intervals of more important cares. it is said that he remembered it even upon his death-bed, and that it was amongst his last injunctions to his friends that they should see to its being kept up with care. he was particularly anxious that the hedges or railings should always be in such good order as to protect his favorite shrubs and flowers from the intrusion of bengalee cattle. a garden is a more interesting possession than a gallery of pictures or a cabinet of curiosities. its glories are never stationary or stale. it has infinite variety. it is not the same to-day as it was yesterday. it is always changing the character of its charms and always increasing them in number. it delights all the senses. its pleasures are not of an unsocial character; for every visitor, high or low, learned or illiterate, may be fascinated with the fragrance and beauty of a garden. but shells and minerals and other curiosities are for the man of science and the connoisseur. and a single inspection of them is generally sufficient: they never change their aspect. the picture-gallery may charm an instructed eye but the multitude have little relish for human art, because they rarely understand it:--while the skill of the great limner of nature is visible in every flower of the garden even to the humblest swain. it is pleasant to read how the wits and beauties of the time of queen anne used to meet together in delightful garden-retreats, 'like the companies in boccaccio's decameron or in one of watteau's pictures.' ritchings lodge, for instance, the seat of lord bathurst, was visited by most of the celebrities of england, and frequently exhibited bright groups of the polite and accomplished of both sexes; of men distinguished for their heroism or their genius, and of women eminent for their easy and elegant conversation, or for gaiety and grace of manner, or perfect loveliness of face and form--all in harmonious union with the charms of nature. the gardens at ritchings were enriched with inscriptions from the pens of congreve and pope and gay and addison and prior. when the estate passed into the possession of the earl of hertford, his literary lady devoted it to the muses. "she invited every summer," says dr. johnson, "some poet into the country to hear her verses and assist her studies." thomson, who praises her so lavishly in his "spring," offended her ladyship by allowing her too clearly to perceive that he was resolved not to place himself in the dilemma of which pope speaks so feelingly with reference to other poetasters. seized and tied down to judge, how wretched i, who can't be silent, and who will not lie. i sit with sad civility, i read with honest anguish and an aching head. but though "the bard more fat than bard beseems" was restive under her ladyship's "poetical operations," and too plainly exhibited a desire to escape the infliction, preferring the earl's claret to the lady's rhymes, she should have been a little more generously forgiving towards one who had already made her immortal. it is stated, that she never repeated her invitation to the poet of the seasons, who though so impatient of the sound of her tongue when it "rolled" her own "raptures," seems to have been charmed with her _at a distance_--while meditating upon her excellencies in the seclusion of his own study. the compliment to the countess is rather awkwardly wedged in between descriptions of "gentle spring" with her "shadowing roses" and "surly winter" with his "ruffian blasts." it should have commenced the poem. o hertford, fitted or to shine in courts with unaffected grace, or walk the plain, with innocence and meditation joined in soft assemblage, listen to my song, which thy own season paints; when nature all is blooming and benevolent like thee. thomson had no objection to strike off a brief compliment in verse, but he was too indolent to keep up _in propriâ personâ_ an incessant fire of compliments, like the _bon bons_ at a carnival. it was easier to write her praises than listen to her verses. shenstone seems to have been more pliable. he was personally obsequious, lent her recitations an attentive ear, and was ever ready with the expected commendation. it is not likely that her ladyship found much, difficulty in collecting around her a crowd of critics more docile than thomson and quite as complaisant as shenstone. let but a _countess_ once own the happy lines, how the wit brightens, how the style refines! though thomson's first want on his arrival in london from the north was a pair of shoes, and he lived for a time in great indigence, he was comfortable enough at last. lord lyttleton introduced him to the prince of wales (who professed himself the patron of literature) and when his highness questioned him about the state of his affairs, thomson assured him that they "were in a more poetical posture than formerly." the prince bestowed upon the poet a pension of a hundred pounds a year, and when his friend lord lyttleton was in power his lordship obtained for him the office of surveyor general of the leeward islands. he sent a deputy there who was more trustworthy than thomas moore's at bermuda. thomson's deputy after deducting his own salary remitted his principal three hundred pounds per annum, so that the bard 'more fat than bard beseems' was not in a condition to grow thinner, and could afford to make his cottage a castle of indolence. leigh hunt has versified an anecdote illustrative of thomson's luxurious idleness. he who could describe "_indolence_" so well, and so often appeared in the part himself, slippered, and with hands, each in a waistcoat pocket, (so that all might yet repose that could) was seen one morn eating a wondering peach from off the tree. a little summer-house at richmond which thomson made his study is still preserved, and even some articles of furniture, just as he left them.[ ] over the entrance is erected a tablet on which is the following inscription: here thomson sang the seasons and their change. thomson was buried in richmond church. collins's lines to his memory, beginning in yonder grave a druid lies, are familiar to all readers of english poetry. richmond hill has always been the delight not of poets only but of painters. sir joshua reynolds built a house there, and one of the only three landscapes which seem to have survived him, is a view from the window of his drawing-room. gainsborough was also a resident in richmond. richmond gardens laid out or rather altered by brown, are now united with those of kew. savage resided for some time at richmond. it was the favorite haunt of collins, one of the most poetical of poets, who, as dr. johnson says, "delighted to rove through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of elysian gardens." wordsworth composed a poem upon the thames near richmond in remembrance of collins. here is a stanza of it. glide gently, thus for ever glide, o thames, that other bards may see as lovely visions by thy side as now fair river! come to me; o glide, fair stream for ever so, thy quiet soul on all bestowing, till all our minds for ever flow as thy deep waters now are flowing. thomson's description of the scenery of richmond hill perhaps hardly does it justice, but the lines are too interesting to be omitted. say, shall we wind along the streams? or walk the smiling mead? or court the forest-glades? or wander wild among the waving harvests? or ascend, while radiant summer opens all its pride, thy hill, delightful shene[ ]? here let us sweep the boundless landscape now the raptur'd eye, exulting swift, to huge augusta send, now to the sister hills[ ] that skirt her plain, to lofty harrow now, and now to where majestic windsor lifts his princely brow in lovely contrast to this glorious view calmly magnificent, then will we turn to where the silver thames first rural grows there let the feasted eye unwearied stray, luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods that nodding hang o'er harrington's retreat, and stooping thence to ham's embowering walks, beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd, with her the pleasing partner of his heart, the worthy queensbury yet laments his gay, and polish'd cornbury woos the willing muse slow let us trace the matchless vale of thames fair winding up to where the muses haunt in twit nam's bowers, and for their pope implore the healing god[ ], to loyal hampton's pile, to clermont's terrass'd height, and esher's groves; where in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd by the soft windings of the silent mole, from courts and senates pelham finds repose enchanting vale! beyond whate'er the muse has of achaia or hesperia sung! o vale of bliss! o softly swelling hills! on which the _power of cultivation_ lies, and joys to see the wonders of his toil. the revd. thomas maurice wrote a poem entitled _richmond hill_, but it contains nothing deserving of quotation after the above passage from thomson. in the _english bards and scotch reviewers_ the labors of maurice are compared to those of sisyphus so up thy hill, ambrosial richmond, heaves dull maurice, all his granite weight of leaves. towards the latter part of the last century the empress of russia (catherine the second) expressed in a french letter to voltaire her admiration of the style of english gardening.[ ] "i love to distraction," she writes, "the present english taste in gardening. their curved lines, their gentle slopes, their pieces of water in the shape of lakes, their picturesque little islands. i have a great contempt for straight lines and parallel walks. i hate those fountains which torture water into forms unknown to nature. i have banished all the statues to the vestibules and to the galleries. in a word english taste predominates in my _plantomanie_."[ ] i omitted when alluding to those englishmen in past times who anticipated the taste of the present day in respect to laying out grounds, to mention the ever respected name of john evelyn, and as all other writers before me, i believe, who have treated upon gardening, have been guilty of the same oversight, i eagerly make his memory some slight amends by quoting the following passage from one of his letters to his friend sir thomas browne. "i might likewise hope to refine upon some particulars, especially concerning the ornaments of gardens, which i shall endeavor so to handle as that they may become useful and practicable, as well as magnificent, and that persons of all conditions and faculties, which delight in gardens, may therein encounter something for their owne advantage. the modell, which i perceive you have seene, will aboundantly testifie my abhorrency of those painted and formal projections of our cockney gardens and plotts, which appeare like gardens of past-board and marchpane, and smell more of paynt then of flowers and verdure; our drift is a noble, princely, and universal elysium, capable of all the amoenities that can naturally be introduced into gardens of pleasure, and such as may stand in competition with all the august designes and stories of this nature, either of antient or moderne tymes; yet so as to become useful and significant to the least pretences and faculties. we will endeavour to shew how the air and genious of gardens operat upon humane spirits towards virtue and sanctitie: i mean in a remote, preparatory and instrumentall working. how caves, grotts, mounts, and irregular ornaments of gardens do contribute to contemplative and philosophicall enthusiasme; how _elysium, antrum, nemus, paradysus, hortus, lucus_, &c., signifie all of them _rem sacram it divinam_; for these expedients do influence the soule and spirits of men, and prepare them for converse with good angells; besides which, they contribute to the lesse abstracted pleasures, phylosophy naturall; and longevitie: and i would have not onely the elogies and effigie of the antient and famous garden heroes, but a society of the _paradisi cultores_ persons of antient simplicity, paradisean and hortulan saints, to be a society of learned and ingenuous men, such as dr. browne, by whome we might hope to redeeme the tyme that has bin lost, in pursuing _vulgar errours_, and still propagating them, as so many bold men do yet presume to do." the english style of landscape-gardening being founded on natural principles must be recognized by true taste in all countries. even in rome, when art was most allowed to predominate over nature, there were occasional instances of that correct feeling for rural beauty which the english during the last century and a half have exhibited more conspicuously than other nations. atticus preferred tully's villa at arpinum to all his other villas; because at arpinum, nature predominated over art. our kents and browns[ ] never expressed a greater contempt, than was expressed by atticus, for all formal and artificial decorations of natural scenery. the spot where cicero's villa stood, was, in the time of middleton, possessed by a convent of monks and was called the villa of st. dominic. it was built, observes mr. dunlop, in the year , from the fragments of the arpine villa! art, glory, freedom, fail--but nature still is fair. "nothing," says mr. kelsall, "can be imagined finer than the surrounding landscape. the deep azure of the sky, unvaried by a single cloud--sora on a rock at the foot of the precipitous appennines--both banks of the garigliano covered with vineyards--the _fragor aquarum_, alluded to by atticus in his work _de legibus_--the coolness, the rapidity and ultramarine hue of the fibrenus--the noise of its cataracts--the rich turquoise color of the liris--the minor appennines round arpino, crowned with umbrageous oaks to the very summits--present scenery hardly elsewhere to be equalled, certainly not to be surpassed, even in italy." this description of an italian landscape can hardly fail to charm the imagination of the coldest reader; but after all, i cannot help confessing to so inveterate a partiality for dear old england as to be delighted with the compliment which gray, the poet, pays to english scenery when he prefers it to the scenery of italy. "mr. walpole," writes the poet from italy, "says, our _memory_ sees more than our eyes in this country. this is extremely true, since for _realities_ windsor or richmond hill is infinitely preferable to albano or frescati." sir walter scott, with all his patriotic love for his own romantic land, could not withhold his tribute to the loveliness of richmond hill,--its "_unrivalled landscape_" its "_sea of verdure_." "they" (the duke of argyle and jeanie deans) "paused for a moment on the brow of a hill, to gaze on the unrivalled landscape it presented. a huge sea of verdure, with crossing and intersecting promontories of massive and tufted groves was tenanted by numberless flocks and herds which seemed to wander unrestrained and unbounded through the rich pastures. the thames, here turreted with villas, and there garlanded with forests, moved on slowly and placidly, like the mighty monarch of the scene, to whom all its other beauties were but accessaries, and bore on its bosom an hundred barks and skiffs whose white sails and gaily fluttering pennons gave life to the whole." _the heart of mid-lothian_. it must of course be admitted that there are grander, more sublime, more varied and extensive prospects in other countries, but it would be difficult to persuade me that the richness of english verdure could be surpassed or even equalled, or that any part of the world can exhibit landscapes more truly _lovely_ and _loveable_, than those of england, or more calculated to leave a deep and enduring impression upon the heart. mr. kelsall speaks of an italian sky "_uncovered by a single cloud_," but every painter and poet knows how much variety and beauty of effect are bestowed upon hill and plain and grove and river by passing clouds; and even our over-hanging vapours remind us of the veil upon the cheek of beauty; and ever as the sun uplifts the darkness the glory of the landscape seems renewed and freshened. it would cheer the saddest heart and send the blood dancing through the veins, to behold after a dull misty dawn, the sun break out over richmond hill, and with one broad light make the whole landscape smile; but i have been still more interested in the prospect when on a cloudy day the whole "sea of verdure" has been swayed to and fro into fresher life by the fitful breeze, while the lights and shadows amidst the foliage and on the lawns have been almost momentarily varied by the varying sky. these changes fascinate the eye, keep the soul awake, and save the scenery from the comparatively monotonous character of landscapes in less varying climes. and for my own part, i cordially echo the sentiment of wordsworth, who when conversing with mrs. hemans about the scenery of the lakes in the north of england, observed: "i would not give up the mists that _spiritualize_ our mountains for all the blue skies of italy." though mrs. stowe, the american authoress already quoted as one of the admirers of england, duly appreciates the natural grandeur of her own land, she was struck with admiration and delight at the aspect of our english landscapes. our trees, she observes, "are of an order of nobility and they wear their crowns right kingly." "leaving out of account," she adds, "our _mammoth arboria_, the english parks have trees as fine and effective as ours, and when i say their trees are of an order of nobility, i mean that they (the english) pay a reverence to them such as their magnificence deserves." walter savage landor, one of the most accomplished and most highly endowed both by nature and by fortune of our living men of letters, has done, or rather has tried to do, almost as much for his country in the way of enriching its collection of noble trees as evelyn himself. he laid out £ , on the improvement of an estate in monmouthshire, where he planted and fenced half a million of trees, and had a million more ready to plant, when the conduct of some of his tenants, who spitefully uprooted them and destroyed the whole plantation, so disgusted him with the place, that he razed to the ground the house which had cost him £ , , and left the country. he then purchased a beautiful estate in italy, which is still in possession of his family. he himself has long since returned to his native land. landor loves italy, but he loves england better. in one of his _imaginary conversations_ he tells an italian nobleman: "the english are more zealous of introducing new fruits, shrubs and plants, than other nations; you italians are less so than any civilized one. better fruit is eaten in scotland than in the most fertile and cultivated parts of your peninsula. _as for flowers, there is a greater variety in the worst of our fields than in the best of your gardens._ as for shrubs, i have rarely seen a lilac, a laburnum, a mezereon, in any of them, and yet they flourish before almost every cottage in our poorest villages." "we wonder in england, when we hear it related by travellers, that peaches in italy are left under the trees for swine; but, when we ourselves come into the country, our wonder is rather that the swine do not leave them for animals less nice." landor acknowledges that he has eaten better pears and cherries in italy than in england, but that all the other kinds of fruitage in italy appeared to him unfit for dessert. the most celebrated of the private estates of the present day in england is chatsworth, the seat of the duke of devonshire. the mansion, called the palace of the peak, is considered one of the most splendid residences in the land. the grounds are truly beautiful and most carefully attended to. the elaborate waterworks are perhaps not in the severest taste. some of them are but costly puerilities. there is a water-work in the form of a tree that sends a shower from every branch on the unwary visitor, and there are snakes that spit forth jets upon him as he retires. this is silly trifling: but ill adapted to interest those who have passed their teens; and not at all an agreeable sort of hospitality in a climate like that of england. it is in the style of the water-works at versailles, where wooden soldiers shoot from their muskets vollies of water at the spectators.[ ] it was an old english custom on certain occasions to sprinkle water over the company at a grand entertainment. bacon, in his essay on masques, seems to object to getting drenched, when he observes that "some sweet odours suddenly coming forth, _without any drops falling_, are in such a company as there is steam and heat, things of great pleasure and refreshment." it was a custom also of the ancient greeks and romans to sprinkle their guests with fragrant waters. the gascons had once the same taste: "at times," says montaigne, "from the bottom of the stage, they caused sweet-scented waters to spout upwards and dart their thread to such a prodigious height, as to sprinkle and perfume the vast multitudes of spectators." the native gentry of india always slightly sprinkle their visitors with rose-water. it is flung from a small silver utensil tapering off into a sort of upright spout with a pierced top in the fashion of that part of a watering pot which english gardeners call the _rose_. the finest of the water-works at chatsworth is one called the _emperor fountain_ which throws up a jet feet high. this height exceeds that of any fountain in europe. there is a vast conservatory on the estate, built of glass by sir joseph paxton, who designed and constructed the crystal palace. his experience in the building of conservatories no doubt suggested to him the idea of the splendid glass edifice in hyde park. the conservatory at chatsworth required , square feet of glass. four miles of iron tubing are used in heating the building. there is a broad carriage way running right through the centre of the conservatory.[ ] this conservatory is peculiarly rich in exotic plants of all kinds, collected at an enormous cost. this most princely estate, contrasted with the little cottages and cottage-gardens in the neighbourhood, suggested to wordsworth the following sonnet. chatsworth. chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride of thy domain, strange contrast do present to house and home in many a craggy tent of the wild peak, where new born waters glide through fields whose thrifty occupants abide as in a dear and chosen banishment with every semblance of entire content; so kind is simple nature, fairly tried! yet he whose heart in childhood gave his troth to pastoral dales, then set with modest farms, may learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, that not for fancy only, pomp hath charms; and, strenuous to protect from lawless harms the extremes of favored life, may honour both. the two noblest of modern public gardens in england are those at kensington and kew. kensington gardens were begun by king william the iii, but were originally only twenty-six acres in extent. queen anne added thirty acres more. the grounds were laid out by the well-known garden-designers, london and wise.[ ] queen caroline, who formed the serpentine river by connecting several detached pieces of water into one, and set the example of a picturesque deviation from the straight line,[ ] added from hyde park no less than three hundred acres which were laid out by bridgeman. this was a great boon to the londoners. horace walpole says that queen caroline at first proposed to shut up st. james's park and convert it into a private garden for herself, but when she asked sir robert walpole what it would cost, he answered--"only three crowns." this changed her intentions. the reader of pope will remember an allusion to the famous ring in hyde park. the fair belinda was sometimes attended there by her guardian sylphs: the light militia of the lower sky. they guarded her from 'the white-gloved beaux,' these though unseen are ever on the wing, hang o'er the box, _and hover o'er the ring_. it was here that the gallantries of the "merry monarch" were but too often exhibited to his people. "after dinner," says the right garrulous pepys in his journal, "to hyde parke; at the parke was the king, and in another coach, lady castlemaine, they greeting one another at every turn." the gardens at kew "imperial kew," as darwin styles it, are the richest in the world. they consist of one hundred and seventy acres. they were once private gardens, and were long in the possession of royalty, until the accession of queen victoria, who opened the gardens to the public and placed them under the control of the commissioners of her majesty's woods and forests, "with a view of rendering them available to the general good." she hath left you all her walks, her private arbors and new planted orchards on this side tiber. she hath left them you and to your heirs for ever; common pleasures to walk abroad and recreate yourselves. they contain a large palm-house built in .[ ] the extent of glass for covering the building is said to be , square feet. my mahomedan readers in hindostan, (i hope they will be numerous,) will perhaps be pleased to hear that there is an ornamental mosque in these gardens. on each of the doors of this mosque is an arabic inscription in golden characters, taken from the koran. the arabic has been thus translated:-- let there be no force in religion. there is no other god except the deity. make not any likeness unto god. the first sentence of the translation is rather ambiguously worded. the sentiment has even an impious air: an apparent meaning very different from that which was intended. of course the original text _means_, though the english translator has not expressed that meaning--"let there be no force _used_ in religion." when william cobbett was a boy of eleven years of age he worked in the garden of the bishop of winchester at farnham. having heard much of kew gardens he resolved to change his locality and his master. he started off for kew, a distance of about thirty miles, with only thirteen pence in his pocket. the head gardener at kew at once engaged his services. a few days after, george the fourth, then prince of wales, saw the boy sweeping the lawns, and laughed heartily at his blue smock frock and long red knotted garters. but the poor gardener's boy became a public writer, whose productions were not exactly calculated to excite the merriment of princes. most poets have a painter's eye for the disposition of forms and colours. kent's practice as a painter no doubt helped to make him what he was as a landscape-gardener. when an architect was consulted about laying out the grounds at blenheim he replied, "you must send for a landscape-painter:" he might have added--"_or a poet_." our late laureate, william wordsworth, exhibited great taste in his small garden at rydal mount. he said of himself--very truly though not very modestly perhaps,--but modesty was never wordsworth's weakness--that nature seemed to have fitted him for three callings--that of the poet, the critic on works of art, and the landscape-gardener. the poet's nest--(mrs. hemans calls it 'a lovely cottage-like building'[ ])--is almost hidden in a rich profusion of roses and ivy and jessamine and virginia-creeper. wordsworth, though he passionately admired the shapes and hues of flowers, knew nothing of their fragrance. in this respect knowledge at one entrance was quite shut out. he had possessed at no time of his life the sense of smell. to make up for this deficiency, he is said (by de quincey) to have had "a peculiar depth of organic sensibility of form and color." mr. justice coleridge tells us that wordsworth dealt with shrubs, flower-beds and lawns with the readiness of a practised landscape-gardener, and that it was curious to observe how he had imparted a portion of his taste to his servant, james dixon. in fact, honest james regarded himself as a sort of arbiter elegantiarum. the master and his servant often discussed together a question of taste. wordsworth communicated to mr. justice coleridge how "he and james" were once "in a puzzle" about certain discolored spots upon the lawn. "cover them with soap-lees," said the master. "that will make the green there darker than the rest," said the gardener. "then we must cover the whole." "that will not do," objects the gardener, "with reference to the little lawn to which you pass from this." "cover that," said the poet. "you will then," replied the gardener, "have an unpleasant contrast with the foliage surrounding it." pope too had communicated to his gardener at twickenham something of his own taste. the man, long after his master's death, in reference to the training of the branches of plants, used to talk of their being made to hang "_something poetical_". it would have grieved shakespeare and pope and shenstone had they anticipated the neglect or destruction of their beloved retreats. wordsworth said, "i often ask myself what will become of rydal mount after our day. will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them. this little wild flower, _poor robin_, is here constantly courting my attention and exciting what may be called a domestic interest in the varying aspect of its stalks and leaves and flowers." i hope no englishman meditating to reside on the grounds now sacred to the memory of a national poet will ever forget these words of the poet or treat his cottage and garden at rydal mount as some of pope's countrymen have treated the house and grounds at twickenham.[ ] it would be sad indeed to hear, after this, that any one had refused to spare the _poor robins_ and _wild geraniums_ of rydal mount. miss jewsbury has a poem descriptive of "the poet's home." i must give the first stanza:-- wordsworth's cottage. low and white, yet scarcely seen are its walls of mantling green; not a window lets in light but through flowers clustering bright, not a glance may wander there but it falls on something fair; garden choice and fairy mound only that no elves are found; winding walk and sheltered nook for student grave and graver book, or a bird-like bower perchance fit for maiden and romance. another lady-poet has poured forth in verse her admiration of the residence of wordsworth. not for the glory on their heads those stately hill-tops wear, although the summer sunset sheds its constant crimson there: not for the gleaming lights that break the purple of the twilight lake, half dusky and half fair, does that sweet valley seem to be a sacred place on earth to me. the influence of a moral spell is found around the scene, giving new shadows to the dell, new verdure to the green. with every mountain-top is wrought the presence of associate thought, a music that has been; calling that loveliness to life, with which the inward world is rife. his home--our english poet's home-- amid these hills is made; here, with the morning, hath he come, there, with the night delayed. on all things is his memory cast, for every place wherein he past, is with his mind arrayed, that, wandering in a summer hour, asked wisdom of the leaf and flower. l.e.l. the cottage and garden of the poet are not only picturesque and delightful in themselves, but from their position in the midst of some of the finest scenery of england. one of the writers in the book entitled '_the land we live in_' observes that the bard of the mountains and the lakes could not have found a more fitting habitation had the whole land been before him, where to choose his place of rest. "snugly sheltered by the mountains, embowered among trees, and having in itself prospects of surpassing beauty, it also lies in the midst of the very noblest objects in the district, and in one of the happiest social positions. the grounds are delightful in every respect; but one view--that from the terrace of moss-like grass--is, to our thinking, the most exquisitely graceful in all this land of beauty. it embraces the whole valley of windermere, with hills on either side softened into perfect loveliness." eustace, the italian tourist, seems inclined to deprive the english of the honor of being the first cultivators of the natural style in gardening, and thinks that it was borrowed not from milton but from tasso. i suppose that most genuine poets, in all ages and in all countries, when they give full play to the imagination, have glimpses of the truly natural in the arts. the reader will probably be glad to renew his acquaintance with tasso's description of the garden of armida. i shall give the good old version of edward fairfax from the edition of . fairfax was a true poet and wrote musically at a time when sweetness of versification was not so much aimed at as in a later day. waller confessed that he owed the smoothness of his verse to the example of fairfax, who, as warton observes, "well vowelled his lines." the garden of armida. when they had passed all those troubled ways, the garden sweet spread forth her green to shew; the moving crystal from the fountains plays; fair trees, high plants, strange herbs and flowerets new, sunshiny hills, vales hid from phoebus' rays, groves, arbours, mossie caves at once they view, and that which beauty most, most wonder brought, no where appear'd the art which all this wrought. so with the rude the polished mingled was, that natural seem'd all and every part, nature would craft in counterfeiting pass, and imitate her imitator art: mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass, the trees no whirlwind felt, nor tempest's smart, but ere the fruit drop off, the blossom comes, this springs, that falls, that ripeneth and this blooms. the leaves upon the self-same bough did hide, beside the young, the old and ripened fig, here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side; the apples new and old grew on one twig, the fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide, that bended underneath their clusters big; the grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour, there purple ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour. the joyous birds, hid under green-wood shade, sung merry notes on every branch and bow, the wind that in the leaves and waters plaid with murmer sweet, now sung and whistled now; ceaséd the birds, the wind loud answer made: and while they sung, it rumbled soft and low; thus were it hap or cunning, chance or art, the wind in this strange musick bore his part. with party-coloured plumes and purple bill, a wondrous bird among the rest there flew, that in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill, her leden was like humane language true; so much she talkt, and with such wit and skill, that strange it seeméd how much good she knew; her feathered fellows all stood hush to hear, dumb was the wind, the waters silent were. the gently budding rose (quoth she) behold, that first scant peeping forth with virgin beams, half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfold in their dear leaves, and less seen, fairer seems, and after spreads them forth more broad and bold, then languisheth and dies in last extreams, nor seems the same, that deckéd bed and bower of many a lady late, and paramour. so, in the passing of a day, doth pass the bud and blossom of the life of man, nor ere doth flourish more, but like the grass cut down, becometh wither'd, pale and wan: o gather then the rose while time thou hast, short is the day, done when it scant began; gather the rose of love, while yet thou may'st loving be lov'd; embracing, be embrac'd. he ceas'd, and as approving all he spoke, the quire of birds their heav'nly tunes renew, the turtles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke, the fowls to shades unseen, by pairs withdrew; it seem'd the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak, and all the gentle trees on earth that grew, it seem'd the land, the sea, and heav'n above, all breath'd out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love. _godfrey of bulloigne_ i must place near the garden of armida, ariosto's garden of alcina. "ariosto," says leigh hunt, "cared for none of the pleasures of the great, except building, and was content in cowley's fashion, with "a small house in a large garden." he loved gardening better than he understood it, was always shifting his plants, and destroying the seeds, out of impatience to see them germinate. he was rejoicing once on the coming up of some "capers" which he had been visiting every day, to see how they got on, when it turned out that his capers were elder trees!" the garden of alcina. 'a more delightful place, wherever hurled, through the whole air, rogero had not found; and had he ranged the universal world, would not have seen a lovelier in his round, than that, where, wheeling wide, the courser furled his spreading wings, and lighted on the ground mid cultivated plain, delicious hill, moist meadow, shady bank, and crystal rill; 'small thickets, with the scented laurel gay, cedar, and orange, full of fruit and flower, myrtle and palm, with interwoven spray, pleached in mixed modes, all lovely, form a bower; and, breaking with their shade the scorching ray, make a cool shelter from the noon-tide hour. and nightingales among those branches wing their flight, and safely amorous descants sing. 'amid red roses and white lilies _there_, which the soft breezes freshen as they fly, secure the cony haunts, and timid hare, and stag, with branching forehead broad and high. these, fearless of the hunter's dart or snare, feed at their ease, or ruminating lie; while, swarming in those wilds, from tuft or steep, dun deer or nimble goat disporting leap.' _rose's orlando furioso_. spenser's description of the garden of adonis is too long to give entire, but i shall quote a few stanzas. the old story on which spenser founds his description is told with many variations of circumstance and meaning; but we need not quit the pages of the faerie queene to lose ourselves amidst obscure mythologies. we have too much of these indeed even in spenser's own version of the fable. the garden of adonis. great enimy to it, and all the rest that in the gardin of adonis springs, is wicked time; who with his scythe addrest does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things, and all their glory to the ground downe flings, where they do wither and are fowly mard he flyes about, and with his flaggy wings beates downe both leaves and buds without regard, ne ever pitty may relent his malice hard. * * * * * but were it not that time their troubler is, all that in this delightful gardin growes should happy bee, and have immortall blis: for here all plenty and all pleasure flowes; and sweete love gentle fitts emongst them throwes, without fell rancor or fond gealosy. franckly each paramour his leman knowes, each bird his mate; ne any does envy their goodly meriment and gay felicity. there is continual spring, and harvest there continuall, both meeting at one tyme: for both the boughes doe laughing blossoms beare. and with fresh colours decke the wanton pryme, and eke attonce the heavy trees they clyme, which seeme to labour under their fruites lode: the whiles the ioyous birdes make their pastyme emongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode, and their trew loves without suspition tell abrode. right in the middest of that paradise there stood a stately mount, on whose round top a gloomy grove of mirtle trees did rise, whose shady boughes sharp steele did never lop, nor wicked beastes their tender buds did crop, but like a girlond compasséd the hight, and from their fruitfull sydes sweet gum did drop, that all the ground, with pretious deaw bedight, threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight. and in the thickest covert of that shade there was a pleasaunt arber, not by art but of the trees owne inclination made, which knitting their rancke braunches part to part, with wanton yvie-twine entrayld athwart, and eglantine and caprifole emong, fashioned above within their inmost part, that neither phoebus beams could through them throng, nor aeolus sharp blast could worke them any wrong. and all about grew every sort of flowre, to which sad lovers were transformde of yore, fresh hyacinthus, phoebus paramoure and dearest love; foolish narcisse, that likes the watry shore; sad amaranthus, made a flowre but late, sad amaranthus, in whose purple gore me seemes i see amintas wretched fate, to whom sweet poet's verse hath given endlesse date. _fairie queene, book iii. canto vi_. i must here give a few stanzas from spenser's description of the _bower of bliss_ in which whatever in this worldly state is sweet and pleasing unto living sense, or that may dayntiest fantasy aggrate was pouréd forth with pleantiful dispence. the english poet in his fairie queene has borrowed a great deal from tasso and ariosto, but generally speaking, his borrowings, like those of most true poets, are improvements upon the original. the bower of bliss. there the most daintie paradise on ground itself doth offer to his sober eye, in which all pleasures plenteously abownd, and none does others happinesse envye; the painted flowres; the trees upshooting hye; the dales for shade; the hilles for breathing-space; the trembling groves; the christall running by; and that which all faire workes doth most aggrace, the art, which all that wrought, appearéd in no place. one would have thought, (so cunningly the rude[ ] and scornéd partes were mingled with the fine,) that nature had for wantonesse ensude art, and that art at nature did repine; so striving each th' other to undermine, each did the others worke more beautify; so diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine; so all agreed, through sweete diversity, this gardin to adorn with all variety. and in the midst of all a fountaine stood, of richest substance that on earth might bee, so pure and shiny that the silver flood through every channel running one might see; most goodly it with curious ymageree was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, of which some seemed with lively iollitee to fly about, playing their wanton toyes, whylest others did themselves embay in liquid ioyes. * * * * * eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, of all that mote delight a daintie eare, such as attonce might not on living ground, save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere: right hard it was for wight which did it heare, to read what manner musicke that mote bee; for all that pleasing is to living eare was there consorted in one harmonee; birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters all agree: the ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made to th' instruments divine respondence meet; the silver-sounding instruments did meet with the base murmure of the waters fall; the waters fall with difference discreet, now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call; the gentle warbling wind low answeréd to all. _the faerie queene, book ii. canto xii._ every school-boy has heard of the gardens of the hesperides. the story is told in many different ways. according to some accounts, the hesperides, the daughters of hesperus, were appointed to keep charge of the tree of golden apples which jupiter presented to juno on their wedding day. a hundred-headed dragon that never slept, (the offspring of typhon,) couched at the foot of the tree. it was one of the twelve labors of hercules to obtain possession of some of these apples. he slew the dragon and gathered three golden apples. the gardens, according to some authorities, were situated near mount atlas. shakespeare seems to have taken _hesperides_ to be the name of the garden instead of that of its fair keepers. even the learned milton in his _paradise regained_, (book ii) talks of _the ladies of the hesperides_, and appears to make the word hesperides synonymous with "hesperian gardens." bishop newton, in a foot-note to the passage in "paradise regained," asks, "what are the hesperides famous for, but the gardens and orchards which _they had_ bearing golden fruit in the western isles of africa." perhaps after all there may be some good authority in favor of extending the names of the nymphs to the garden itself. malone, while condemning shakespeare's use of the words as inaccurate, acknowledges that other poets have used it in the same way, and quotes as an instance, the following lines from robert greene:-- shew thee the tree, leaved with refined gold, whereon the fearful dragon held his seat, that watched _the garden_ called the _hesperides_. _robert greene_. for valour is not love a hercules, still climbing trees in the hesperides? _love's labour lost_. before thee stands this fair hesperides, with golden fruit, but dangerous to be touched for death-like dragons here affright thee hard. _pericles, prince of tyre_. milton, after the fourth line of his comus, had originally inserted, in his manuscript draft of the poem, the following description of the garden of the hesperides. the garden of the hesperides amid the hesperian gardens, on whose banks bedewed with nectar and celestial songs eternal roses grow, and hyacinth, and fruits of golden rind, on whose fair tree the scaly harnessed dragon ever keeps his uninchanted eye, around the verge and sacred limits of this blissful isle the jealous ocean that old river winds his far extended aims, till with steep fall half his waste flood the wide atlantic fills; and half the slow unfathomed stygian pool but soft, i was not sent to court your wonder with distant worlds and strange removéd climes yet thence i come and oft from thence behold the smoke and stir of this dim narrow spot milton subsequently drew his pen through these lines, for what reason is not known. bishop newton observes, that this passage, saved from intended destruction, may serve as a specimen of the truth of the observation that poets lose half the praise they should have got could it be known what they discreetly blot. _waller_. as i have quoted in an earlier page some unfavorable allusions to homer's description of a grecian garden, it will be but fair to follow up milton's picture of paradise, and tasso's garden of armida, and ariosto's garden of alcina, and spenser's garden of adonis and his bower of bliss, with homer's description of the garden of alcinous. minerva tells ulysses that the royal mansion to which the garden of alcinous is attached is of such conspicuous grandeur and so generally known, that any child might lead him to it; for phoeacia's sons possess not houses equalling in aught the mansion of alcinous, the king. i shall give cowper's version, because it may be less familiar to the reader than pope's, which is in every one's hand. the garden of alcinous without the court, and to the gates adjoined a spacious garden lay, fenced all around, secure, four acres measuring complete, there grew luxuriant many a lofty tree, pomgranate, pear, the apple blushing bright, the honeyed fig, and unctuous olive smooth. those fruits, nor winter's cold nor summer's heat fear ever, fail not, wither not, but hang perennial, while unceasing zephyr breathes gently on all, enlarging these, and those maturing genial; in an endless course. pears after pears to full dimensions swell, figs follow figs, grapes clustering grow again where clusters grew, and (every apple stripped) the boughs soon tempt the gatherer as before. there too, well rooted, and of fruit profuse, his vineyard grows; part, wide extended, basks in the sun's beams; the arid level glows; in part they gather, and in part they tread the wine-press, while, before the eye, the grapes here put their blossoms forth, there gather fast their blackness. on the garden's verge extreme flowers of all hues[ ] smile all the year, arranged with neatest art judicious, and amid the lovely scene two fountains welling forth, one visits, into every part diffused, the garden-ground, the other soft beneath the threshold steals into the palace court whence every citizen his vase supplies. _homer's odyssey, book vii_. the mode of watering the garden-ground, and the use made of the water by the public-- whence every citizen his vase supplies-- can hardly fail to remind indian and anglo-indian readers of a hindu gentleman's garden in bengal. pope first published in the _guardian_ his own version of the account of the garden of alcinous and subsequently gave it a place in his entire translation of homer. in introducing the readers of the _guardian_ to the garden of alcinous he observes that "the two most celebrated wits of the world have each left us a particular picture of a garden; wherein those great masters, being wholly unconfined and pointing at pleasure, may be thought to have given a full idea of what seemed most excellent in that way. these (one may observe) consist entirely of the useful part of horticulture, fruit trees, herbs, waters, &c. the pieces i am speaking of are virgil's account of the garden of the old corycian, and homer's of that of alcinous. the first of these is already known to the english reader, by the excellent versions of mr. dryden and mr. addison." i do not think our present landscape-gardeners, or parterre-gardeners or even our fruit or kitchen-gardeners can be much enchanted with virgil's ideal of a garden, but here it is, as "done into english," by john dryden, who describes the roman poet as "a profound naturalist," and "_a curious florist_." the garden of the old corycian. i chanc'd an old corycian swain to know, lord of few acres, and those barren too, unfit for sheep or vines, and more unfit to sow: yet, lab'ring well his little spot of ground, some scatt'ring pot-herbs here and there he found, which, cultivated with his daily care and bruis'd with vervain, were his frugal fare. with wholesome poppy-flow'rs, to mend his homely board: for, late returning home, he supp'd at ease, and wisely deem'd the wealth of monarchs less: the little of his own, because his own, did please. to quit his care, he gather'd, first of all, in spring the roses, apples in the fall: and, when cold winter split the rocks in twain, and ice the running rivers did restrain, he stripp'd the bear's foot of its leafy growth, and, calling western winds, accus'd the spring of sloth he therefore first among the swains was found to reap the product of his labour'd ground, and squeeze the combs with golden liquor crown'd his limes were first in flow'rs, his lofty pines, with friendly shade, secur'd his tender vines. for ev'ry bloom his trees in spring afford, an autumn apple was by tale restor'd he knew to rank his elms in even rows, for fruit the grafted pear tree to dispose, and tame to plums the sourness of the sloes with spreading planes he made a cool retreat, to shade good fellows from the summer's heat _virgil's georgics, book iv_. an excellent scottish poet--allan ramsay--a true and unaffected describer of rural life and scenery--seems to have had as great a dislike to topiary gardens, and quite as earnest a love of nature, as any of the best italian poets. the author of the "gentle shepherd" tells us in the following lines what sort of garden most pleased his fancy. allan ramsay's garden. i love the garden wild and wide, where oaks have plum-trees by their side, where woodbines and the twisting vine clip round the pear tree and the pine where mixed jonquils and gowans grow and roses midst rank clover grow upon a bank of a clear strand, in wrimplings made by nature's hand though docks and brambles here and there may sometimes cheat the gardener's care, _yet this to me is paradise_, _compared with prim cut plots and nice_, _where nature has to act resigned,_ _till all looks mean, stiff and confined_. i cannot say that i should wish to see forest trees and docks and brambles in garden borders. honest allan here runs a little into the extreme, as men are apt enough to do, when they try to get as far as possible from the side advocated by an opposite party. i shall now exhibit two paintings of bowers. i begin with one from spenser. a bower and over him art stryving to compayre with nature did an arber greene dispied[ ] framéd of wanton yvie, flouring, fayre, through which the fragrant eglantine did spred his prickling armes, entrayld with roses red, which daintie odours round about them threw and all within with flowers was garnishéd that, when myld zephyrus emongst them blew, did breathe out bounteous smels, and painted colors shew and fast beside these trickled softly downe a gentle streame, whose murmuring wave did play emongst the pumy stones, and made a sowne, to lull him soft asleepe that by it lay the wearie traveiler wandring that way, therein did often quench his thirsty head and then by it his wearie limbes display, (whiles creeping slomber made him to forget his former payne,) and wypt away his toilsom sweat. and on the other syde a pleasaunt grove was shott up high, full of the stately tree that dedicated is t'olympick iove, and to his son alcides,[ ] whenas hee in nemus gaynéd goodly victoree theirin the merry birds of every sorte chaunted alowd their cheerful harmonee, and made emongst themselves a sweete consórt that quickned the dull spright with musicall comfórt. _fairie queene, book cant. stanzas , and ._ here is a sweet picture of a "shady lodge" from the hand of milton. eve's nuptial bower. thus talking, hand in hand alone they pass'd on to their blissful bower. it was a place chosen by the sov'reign planter, when he framed all things to man's delightful use, the roof of thickest covert was inwoven shade, laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew of firm and fragrant leaf, on either side acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, fenced up the verdant wall, each beauteous flower iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, rear'd high their flourish'd heads between, and wrought mosaic, under foot the violet, crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone of costliest emblem other creature here, beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none, such was their awe of man. in shadier bower more sacred and sequester'd, though but feign'd, pan or sylvanus never slept, nor nymph nor faunus haunted. here, in close recess, with flowers, garlands, and sweet smelling herbs, espoused eve deck'd first her nuptial bed, and heavenly quires the hymenean sung i have already quoted from leigh hunt's "stories from the italian poets" an amusing anecdote illustrative of ariosto's ignorance of botany. but even in these days when all sorts of sciences are forced upon all sorts of students, we often meet with persons of considerable sagacity and much information of a different kind who are marvellously ignorant of the vegetable world. in the just published memoirs of the late james montgomery, of sheffield, it is recorded that the poet and his brother robert, a tradesman at woolwich, (not robert montgomery, the author of 'satan,' &c.) were one day walking together, when the trader seeing a field of flax in full flower, asked the poet what sort of corn it was. "such corn as your shirt is made of," was the reply. "but robert," observes a writer in the _athenaeum_, "need not be ashamed of his simplicity. rousseau, naturalist as he was, could hardly tell one berry from another, and three of our greatest wits disputing in the field whether the crop growing there was rye, barley, or oats, were set right by a clown, who truly pronounced it wheat." men of genius who have concentrated all their powers on some one favorite profession or pursuit are often thus triumphed over by the vulgar, whose eyes are more observant of the familiar objects and details of daily life and of the scenes around them. wordsworth and coleridge, on one occasion, after a long drive, and in the absence of a groom, endeavored to relieve the tired horse of its harness. after torturing the poor animal's neck and endangering its eyes by their clumsy and vain attempts to slip off the collar, they at last gave up the matter in despair. they felt convinced that the horse's head must have swollen since the collar was put on. at last a servant-girl beheld their perplexity. "la, masters," she exclaimed, "you dont set about it the right way." she then seized hold of the collar, turned it broad end up, and slipped it off in a second. the mystery that had puzzled two of the finest intellects of their time was a very simple matter indeed to a country wench who had perhaps never heard that england possessed a shakespeare. james montgomery was a great lover of flowers, and few of our english poets have written about the family of flora, the sweet wife of zephyr, in a more genial spirit. he used to regret that the old floral games and processions on may-day and other holidays had gone out of fashion. southey tells us that in george the first's reign a grand florist's feast was held at bethnall green, and that a carnation named after his majesty was _king of the year_. the stewards were dressed with laurel leaves and flowers. they carried gilded staves. ninety cultivators followed in procession to the sound of music, each bearing his own flowers before him. all elegant customs of this nature have fallen into desuetude in england, though many of them are still kept up in other parts of europe. chaucer who dearly loved all images associated with the open air and the dewy fields and bright mornings and radiant flowers makes the gentle emily, that fairer was to seene than is the lily upon his stalkie greene, rise early and do honor to the birth of may-day. all things now seem to breathe of hope and joy. though long hath been the trance of nature on the naked bier where ruthless winter mocked her slumbers drear and rent with icy hand her robes of green, that trance is brightly broken! glossy trees, resplendent meads and variegated flowers flash in the sun and flutter in the breeze and now with dreaming eye the poet sees fair shapes of pleasure haunt romantic bowers, and laughing streamlets chase the flying hours. d.l.r. the great describer of our lost paradise did not disdain to sing a song on may-morning. now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, comes dancing from the east, and leads with her the flowery may, who from her green lap throws the yellow cowslip and the pale primrose hail bounteous-may, that dost inspire mirth and youth and warm desire; woods and groves are of thy dressing, hill and dale do boast thy blessing. thus we salute thee with our early song, and welcome thee and wish thee long. nor did the poet of the world, william shakespeare, hesitate to do observance to a morn of may. he makes one of his characters (in _king henry viii_.) complain that it is as impossible to keep certain persons quiet on an ordinary day, as it is to make them sleep on may-day--once the time of universal merriment-- when every one was wont "_to put himself into triumph_." 'tis as much impossible, unless we sweep 'em from the doors with cannons to scatter 'em, _as 'tis to make 'em sleep on may-day morning_. spenser duly celebrates, in his "shepheard's calender," thilke mery moneth of may when love-lads masken in fresh aray, when "all is yclad with pleasaunce, the ground with grasse, the woods with greene leaves, and the bushes with bloosming buds." sicker[ ] this morowe, no longer agoe, i saw a shole of shepeardes outgoe with singing and shouting and iolly chere: before them yode[ ] a lustre tabrere,[ ] that to the many a hornepype playd whereto they dauncen eche one with his mayd. to see those folks make such iovysaunce, made my heart after the pype to daunce. tho[ ] to the greene wood they speeden hem all to fetchen home may with their musicall; and home they bringen in a royall throne crowned as king; and his queene attone[ ] was lady flora. _spenser_. this is the season when the birds seem almost intoxicated with delight at the departure of the dismal and cold and cloudy days of winter and the return of the warm sun. the music of these little may musicians seems as fresh as the fragrance of the flowers. the skylark is the prince of british singing-birds--the leader of their cheerful band. lines to a skylark. wanderer through the wilds of air! freely as an angel fair thou dost leave the solid earth, man is bound to from his birth scarce a cubit from the grass springs the foot of lightest lass-- _thou_ upon a cloud can'st leap, and o'er broadest rivers sweep, climb up heaven's steepest height, fluttering, twinkling, in the light, soaring, singing, till, sweet bird, thou art neither seen nor heard, lost in azure fields afar like a distance hidden star, that alone for angels bright breathes its music, sheds its light warbler of the morning's mirth! when the gray mists rise from earth, and the round dews on each spray glitter in the golden ray, and thy wild notes, sweet though high, fill the wide cerulean, sky, is there human heart or brain can resist thy merry strain? but not always soaring high, making man up turn his eye just to learn what shape of love, raineth music from above,-- all the sunny cloudlets fair floating on the azure air, all the glories of the sky thou leavest unreluctantly, silently with happy breast to drop into thy lowly nest. though the frame of man must be bound to earth, the soul is free, but that freedom oft doth bring discontent and sorrowing. oh! that from each waking vision, gorgeous vista, gleam elysian, from ambition's dizzy height, and from hope's illusive light, man, like thee, glad lark, could brook upon a low green spot to look, and with home affections blest sink into as calm a nest! d.l.r. i brought from england to india two english skylarks. i thought they would help to remind me of english meadows and keep alive many agreeable home-associations. in crossing the desert they were carefully lashed on the top of one of the vans, and in spite of the dreadful jolting and the heat of the sun they sang the whole way until night-fall. it was pleasant to hear english larks from rich clover fields singing so joyously in the sandy waste. in crossing some fields between cairo and the pyramids i was surprized and delighted with the songs of egyptian skylarks. their notes were much the same as those of the english lark. the lark of bengal is about the size of a sparrow and has a poor weak note. at this moment a lark from caubul (larger than an english lark) is doing his best to cheer me with his music. this noble bird, though so far from his native fields, and shut up in his narrow prison, pours forth his rapturous melody in an almost unbroken stream from dawn to sunset. he allows no change of season to abate his minstrelsy, to any observable degree, and seems equally happy and musical all the year round. i have had him nearly two years, and though of course he must moult his feathers yearly, i have not observed the change of plumage, nor have i noticed that he has sung less at one period of the year than another. one of my two english larks was stolen the very day i landed in india, and the other soon died. the loss of an english lark is not to be replaced in calcutta, though almost every week, canaries, linnets, gold-finches and bull-finches are sold at public auctions here. but i must return to my main subject.--the ancients used to keep the great feast of the goddess flora on the th of april. it lasted till the rd of may. the floral games of antiquity were unhappily debased by indecent exhibitions; but they were not entirely devoid of better characteristics.[ ] ovid describing the goddess flora says that "while she was speaking she breathed forth vernal roses from her mouth." the same poet has represented her in her garden with the florae gathering flowers and the graces making garlands of them. the british borrowed the idea of this festival from the romans. some of our kings and queens used '_to go a maying_,' and to have feasts of wine and venison in the open meadows or under the good green-wood. prior says: let one great day to celebrate sports and floral play be set aside. but few people, in england, in these times, distinguish may-day from the initial day of any other month of the twelve. i am old enough to remember _jack-in-the-green_. nor have i forgotten the cheerful clatter--the brush-and-shovel music--of our little british negroes--"innocent blacknesses," as lamb calls them--the chimney-sweepers,--a class now almost _swept away_ themselves by _machinery_. one may-morning in the streets of london these tinsel-decorated merry-makers with their sooty cheeks and black lips lined with red, and staring eyes whose white seemed whiter still by contrast with the darkness of their cases, and their ivory teeth kept sound and brilliant with the professional powder, besieged george selwyn and his arm-in-arm companion, lord pembroke, for may-day boxes. selwyn making them a low bow, said, very solemnly "i have often heard of _the sovereignty of the people_, and i suppose you are some of the young princes in court mourning." my native readers in bengal can form no conception of the delight with which the british people at home still hail the spring of the year, or the deep interest which they take in all "the seasons and their change"; though they have dropped some of the oldest and most romantic of the ceremonies once connected with them. if there were an annual fall of the leaf in the groves of india, instead of an eternal summer, the natives would discover how much the charms of the vegetable world are enhanced by these vicissitudes, and how even winter itself can be made delightful. my brother exiles will remember as long as life is in them, how exquisite, in dear old england, is the enjoyment of a brisk morning walk in the clear frosty air, and how cheering and cosy is the social evening fire! though a cold day in calcutta is not exactly like a cold day in london, it sometimes revives the remembrance of it. an indian winter, if winter it may be called, is indeed far less agreeable than a winter in england, but it is not wholly without its pleasures. it is, at all events, a grateful change--a welcome relief and refreshment after a sultry summer or a _muggy_ rainy season. an englishman, however, must always prefer the keener but more wholesome frigidity of his own clime. there, the external gloom and bleakness of a severe winter day enhance our in-door comforts, and we do not miss sunny skies when greeted with sunny looks. if we then see no blooming flowers, we see blooming faces. but as we have few domestic enjoyments in this country--no social snugness,--no sweet seclusion--and as our houses are as open as bird-cages,--and as we almost live in public and in the open air--we have little comfort when compelled, with an enfeebled frame and a morbidly sensitive cuticle, to remain at home on what an anglo-indian invalid calls a cold day, with an easterly wind whistling through every room.[ ] in our dear native country each season has its peculiar moral or physical attractions. it is not easy to say which is the most agreeable--its summer or its winter. perhaps i must decide in favor of the first. the memory of many a smiling summer day still flashes upon my soul. if the whole of human life were like a fine english day in june, we should cease to wish for "another and a better world." it is often from dawn to sunset one revel of delight. how pleasantly, from the first break of day, have i lain wide awake and traced the approach of the breakfast hour by the increasing notes of birds and the advancing sun-light on my curtains! a summer feeling, at such a time, would make my heart dance within me, as i thought of the long, cheerful day to be enjoyed, and planned some rural walk, or rustic entertainment. the ills that flesh is heir to, if they occurred for a moment, appeared like idle visions. they were inconceivable as real things. as i heard the lark singing in "a glorious privacy of light," and saw the boughs of the green and gold laburnum waving at my window, and had my fancy filled with images of natural beauty, i felt a glow of fresh life in my veins, and my soul was inebriated with joy. it is difficult, amidst such exhilarating influences, to entertain those melancholy ideas which sometimes crowd upon, us, and appear so natural, at a less happy hour. even actual misfortune comes in a questionable shape, when our physical constitution is in perfect health, and the flowers are in full bloom, and the skies are blue, and the streams are glittering in the sun. so powerfully does the light of external nature sometimes act upon the moral system, that a sweet sensation steals gradually over the heart, even when we think we have reason to be sorrowful, and while we almost accuse ourselves of a want of feeling. the fretful hypochondriac would do well to bear this fact in mind, and not take it for granted that all are cold and selfish who fail to sympathize with his fantastic cares. he should remember that men are sometimes so buoyed up by the sense of corporeal power, and a communion with nature in her cheerful moods, that things connected with their own personal interests, and which at other times might irritate and wound their feelings, pass by them like the idle wind which they regard not. he himself must have had his intervals of comparative happiness, in which the causes of his present grief would have appeared trivial and absurd. he should not, then, expect persons whose blood is warm in their veins, and whose eyes are open to the blessed sun in heaven, to think more of the apparent causes of his sorrow than he would himself, were his mind and body in a healthful state. with what a light heart and eager appetite did i enter the little breakfast parlour of which the glass-doors opened upon a bright green lawn, variegated with small beds of flowers! the table was spread with dewy and delicious fruits from our own garden, and gathered by fair and friendly hands. beautiful and luscious as were these garden dainties, they were of small account in comparison with the fresh cheeks and cherry lips that so frankly accepted the wonted early greeting. alas! how that circle of early friends is now divided, and what a change has since come over the spirit of our dreams! yet still i cherish boyish feelings, and the past is sometimes present. as i give an imaginary kiss to an "old familiar face," and catch myself almost unconsciously, yet literally, returning imaginary smiles, my heart is as fresh and fervid as of yore. a lapse of fifteen years, and a distance of fifteen thousand miles, and the glare of a tropical sky and the presence of foreign faces, need not make an indian exile quite forgetful of home-delights. parted friends may still share the light of love as severed clouds are equally kindled by the same sun. no number of miles or days can change or separate faithful spirits or annihilate early associations. that strange magician, fancy, who supplies so many corporeal deficiencies and overcomes so many physical obstructions, and mocks at space and time, enables us to pass in the twinkling of an eye over the dreary waste of waters that separates the exile from the scenes and companions of his youth. he treads again his native shore. he sits by the hospitable hearth and listens to the ringing laugh of children. he exchanges cordial greetings with the "old familiar faces." there is a resurrection of the dead, and a return of vanished years. he abandons himself to the sweet illusion, and again lives over each scene, and is what he beholds. i must not be too egotistically garrulous in print, or i would now attempt to describe the various ways in which i have spent a summer's day in england. i would dilate upon my noon-day loiterings amidst wild ruins, and thick forests, and on the shaded banks of rivers--the pic-nic parties--the gipsy prophecies--the twilight homeward walk--the social tea-drinking, and, the last scene of all, the "rosy dreams and slumbers light," induced by wholesome exercise and placid thoughts.[ ] but perhaps these few simple allusions are sufficient to awaken a train of kindred associations in the reader's mind, and he will thank me for those words and images that are like the keys of memory, and "open all her cells with easy force." if a summer's day be thus rife with pleasure, scarcely less so is a day in winter, though with some little drawbacks, that give, by contrast, a zest to its enjoyments. it is difficult to leave the warm morning bed and brave the external air. the fireless grate and frosted windows may well make the stoutest shudder. but when we have once screwed our courage to the sticking place, and with a single jerk of the clothes, and a brisk jump from the bed, have commenced the operations of the toilet, the battle is nearly over. the teeth chatter for a while, and the limbs shiver, and we do not feel particularly comfortable while breaking the ice in our jugs, and performing our cold ablutions amidst the sharp, glass-like fragments, and wiping our faces with a frozen towel. but these petty evils are quickly vanquished, and as we rush out of the house, and tread briskly and firmly on the hard ringing earth, and breathe our visible breath in the clear air, our strength and self-importance miraculously increase, and the whole frame begins to glow. the warmth and vigour thus acquired are inexpressibly delightful. as we re-enter the house, we are proud of our intrepidity and vigour, and pity the effeminacy of our less enterprising friends, who, though huddled together round the fire, like flies upon a sunny wall, still complain of cold, and instead of the bloom of health and animation, exhibit pale and pinched and discolored features, and hands cold, rigid, and of a deadly hue. those who rise with spirit on a winter morning, and stir and thrill themselves with early exercise, are indifferent to the cold for the rest of the day, and feel a confidence in their corporeal energies, and a lightness of heart that are experienced at no other season. but even the timid and luxurious are not without their pleasures. as the shades of evening draw in, the parlour twilight--the closed curtains--and the cheerful fire--make home a little paradise to all. now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, and while the bubbling and loud hissing urn throws up a steamy column, and the cups that cheer but not inebriate wait on each, so let us welcome peaceful evening in _cowper_. the warm and cold seasons of india have no charms like those of england, but yet people who are guiltless of what milton so finely calls "a sullenness against nature," and who are willing, in a spirit of true philosophy and piety, to extract good from every thing, may save themselves from wretchedness even in this land of exile. while i am writing this paragraph, a bird in my room, (not the caubul songster that i have already alluded to, but a fine little english linnet,) who is as much a foreigner here as i am, is pouring out his soul in a flood of song. his notes ring with joy. he pines not for his native meadows--he cares not for his wiry bars--he envies not the little denizens of air that sometimes flutter past my window, nor imagines, for a moment, that they come to mock him with their freedom. he is contented with his present enjoyments, because they are utterly undisturbed by idle comparisons with those experienced in the past or anticipated in the future. he has no thankless repinings and no vain desires. is intellect or reason then so fatal, though sublime a gift that we cannot possess it without the poisonous alloy of care? must grief and ingratitude inevitably find entrance into the heart, in proportion to the loftiness and number of our mental endowments? are we to seek for happiness in ignorance? to these questions the reply is obvious. every good quality may be abused, and the greatest, most; and he who perversely employs his powers of thought and imagination to a wrong purpose deserves the misery that he gains. were we honestly to deduct from the ills of life all those of our own creation, how trifling, in the majority of cases, the amount that would remain! we seem to invite and encourage sorrow, while happiness is, as it were, forced upon us against our will. it is wonderful how some men pertinaciously cling to care, and argue themselves into a dissatisfaction with their lot. thus it is really a matter of little moment whether fortune smile or frown, for it is in vain to look for superior felicity amongst those who have more "appliances and means to boot," than their fellow-men. wealth, rank, and reputation, do not secure their possessors from the misery of discontent. as happiness then depends upon the right direction and employment of our faculties, and not on worldly goods or mere localities, our countrymen might be cheerful enough, even in this foreign land, if they would only accustom themselves to a proper train of thinking, and be ready on every occasion to look on the brighter side of all things.[ ] in reverting to home-scenes we should regard them for their intrinsic charms, and not turn them into a source of disquiet by mournfully comparing them with those around us. india, let englishmen murmur as they will, has some attractions, enjoyments and advantages. no englishman is here in danger of dying of starvation as some of our poets have done in the inhospitable streets of london. the comparatively princely and generous style in which we live in this country, the frank and familiar tone of our little society, and the general mildness of the climate, (excepting a few months of a too sultry summer) can hardly be denied by the most determined malcontent. the weather is indeed too often a great deal warmer than we like it; but if "the excessive heat" did not form a convenient subject for complaint and conversation, it is perhaps doubtful if it would so often be thought of or alluded to. but admit the objection. what climate is without its peculiar evils? in the cold season a walk in india either in the morning or the evening is often extremely pleasant in pleasant company, and i am glad to see many sensible people paying the climate the compliment of treating it like that of england. it is now fashionable to use our limbs in the ordinary way, and the "garden of eden"[ ] has become a favorite promenade, particularly on the evenings when a band from the fort fills the air with a cheerful harmony and throws a fresher life upon the scene. it is not to be denied that besides the mere exercise, pedestrians at home have great advantages over those who are too indolent or aristocratic to leave their equipages, because they can cut across green and quiet fields, enter rural by-ways, and enjoy a thousand little patches of lovely scenery that are secrets to the high-road traveller. but still the calcutta pedestrian has also his gratifications. he can enjoy no exclusive prospects, but he beholds upon an indian river a forest of british masts--the noble shipping of the queen of the sea--and has a fine panoramic view of this city of palaces erected by his countrymen on a foreign shore;--and if he is fond of children, he must be delighted with the numberless pretty and happy little faces--the fair forms of saxon men and women in miniature--that crowd about him on the green sward;--he must be charmed with their innocent prattle, their quick and graceful movements, and their winning ways, that awaken a tone of tender sentiment in his heart, and rekindle many sweet associations. sonnets, written in exile. i. man's heart may change, but nature's glory never;-- and while the soul's internal cell is bright, the cloudless eye lets in the bloom and light of earth and heaven to charm and cheer us ever. though youth hath vanished, like a winding river lost in the shadowy woods; and the dear sight of native hill and nest-like cottage white, 'mid breeze-stirred boughs whose crisp leaves gleam and quiver, and murmur sea-like sounds, perchance no more my homeward step shall hasten cheerily; yet still i feel as i have felt of yore, and love this radiant world. yon clear blue sky-- these gorgeous groves--this flower-enamelled floor-- have deep enchantments for my heart and eye. ii. man's heart may change, but nature's glory never, though to the sullen gaze of grief the sight of sun illumined skies may _seem_ less bright, or gathering clouds less grand, yet she, as ever, is lovely or majestic. though fate sever the long linked bands of love, and all delight be lost, as in a sudden starless night, the radiance may return, if he, the giver of peace on earth, vouchsafe the storm to still this breast once shaken with the strife of care is touched with silent joy. the cot--the hill, beyond the broad blue wave--and faces fair, are pictured in my dreams, yet scenes that fill my waking eye can save me from despair. iii. man's heart may change, but nature's glory never,-- strange features throng around me, and the shore is not my own dear land. yet why deplore this change of doom? all mortal ties must sever. the pang is past,--and now with blest endeavour i check the ready tear, the rising sigh the common earth is here--the common sky-- the common father. and how high soever o'er other tribes proud england's hosts may seem, god's children, fair or sable, equal find a father's love. then learn, o man, to deem all difference idle save of heart or mind thy duty, love--each cause of strife, a dream-- thy home, the world--thy family, mankind. d.l.r. for the sake of my home readers i must now say a word or two on the effect produced upon the mind of a stranger on his approach to calcutta from the sandheads. as we run up the bay of bengal and approach the dangerous sandheads, the beautiful deep blue of the ocean suddenly disappears. it turns into a pale green. the sea, even in calm weather, rolls over soundings in long swells. the hue of the water is varied by different depths, and in passing over the edge of soundings, it is curious to observe how distinctly the form of the sands may be traced by the different shades of green in the water above and beyond them. in the lower part of the bay, the crisp foam of the dark sea at night is instinct with phosphoric lustre. the ship seems to make her way through galaxies of little ocean stars. we lose sight of this poetical phenomenon as we approach the mouth of the hooghly. but the passengers, towards the termination of their voyage, become less observant of the changeful aspect of the sea. though amused occasionally by flights of sea-gulls, immense shoals of porpoises, apparently tumbling or rolling head over tail against the wind, and the small sprat-like fishes that sometimes play and glitter on the surface, the stranger grows impatient to catch a glimpse of an indian jungle; and even the swampy tiger-haunted saugor island is greeted with that degree of interest which novelty usually inspires. at first the land is but little above the level of the water. it rises gradually as we pass up further from the sea. as we come still nearer to calcutta, the soil on shore seems to improve in richness and the trees to increase in size. the little clusters of nest-like villages snugly sheltered in foliage--the groups of dark figures in white garments--the cattle wandering over the open plain--the emerald-colored fields of rice--the rich groves of mangoe trees--the vast and magnificent banyans, with straight roots dropping from their highest branches, (hundreds of these branch-dropped roots being fixed into the earth and forming "a pillared shade"),--the tall, slim palms of different characters and with crowns of different forms, feathery or fan-like,--the many-stemmed and long, sharp-leaved bamboos, whose thin pliant branches swing gracefully under the weight of the lightest bird,--the beautifully rounded and bright green peepuls, with their burnished leaves glittering in the sunshine, and trembling at the zephyr's softest touch with a pleasant rustling sound, suggestive of images of coolness and repose,--form a striking and singularly interesting scene (or rather succession of scenes) after the monotony of a long voyage during which nothing has been visible but sea and sky. but it is not until he arrives at a bend of the river called _garden reach_, where the city of palaces first opens on the view, that the stranger has a full sense of the value of our possessions in the east. the princely mansions on our right;--(residences of english gentry), with their rich gardens and smooth slopes verdant to the water's edge,--the large and rich botanic garden and the gothic edifice of bishop's college on our left--and in front, as we advance a little further, the countless masts of vessels of all sizes and characters, and from almost every clime,--fort william, with its grassy ramparts and white barracks,--the government house, a magnificent edifice in spite of many imperfections,--the substantial looking town hall--the supreme court house--the broad and ever verdant plain (or _madaun_) in front--and the noble lines of buildings along the esplanade and chowringhee road,--the new cathedral almost at the extremity of the plain, and half-hidden amidst the trees,--the suburban groves and buildings of kidderpore beyond, their outlines softened by the haze of distance, like scenes contemplated through colored glass--the high-sterned budgerows and small trim bauleahs along the edge of the river,--the neatly-painted palanquins and other vehicles of all sorts and sizes,--the variously-hued and variously-clad people of all conditions; the fair european, the black and nearly naked cooly, the clean-robed and lighter-skinned native baboo, the oriental nobleman with his jewelled turban and kincob vest, and costly necklace and twisted cummerbund, on a horse fantastically caparisoned, and followed in barbaric state by a train of attendants with long, golden-handled punkahs, peacock feather chowries, and golden chattahs and silver sticks,--present altogether a scene that is calculated to at once delight and bewilder the traveller, to whom all the strange objects before him have something of the enchantment and confusion of an arabian night's dream. when he recovers from his surprise, the first emotion in the breast of an englishman is a feeling of national pride. he exults in the recognition of so many glorious indications of the power of a small and remote nation that has founded a splendid empire in so strange and vast a land. when the first impression begins to fade, and he takes a closer view of the great metropolis of india--and observes what miserable straw huts are intermingled with magnificent palaces--how much oriental filth and squalor and idleness and superstition and poverty and ignorance are associated with savage splendour, and are brought into immediate and most incongruous contact with saxon energy and enterprize and taste and skill and love of order, and the amazing intelligence of the west in this nineteenth century--and when familiarity breeds something like contempt for many things that originally excited a vague and pleasing wonder--the english traveller in the east is apt to dwell too exclusively on the worst side of the picture, and to become insensible to the real interest, and blind to the actual beauty of much of the scene around him. extravagant astonishment and admiration, under the influence of novelty, a strong re-action, and a subsequent feeling of unreasonable disappointment, seem, in some degree, natural to all men; but in no other part of the world, and under no other circumstances, is this peculiarity of our condition more conspicuously displayed than in the case of englishmen in india. john bull, who is always a grumbler even on his own shores, is sure to become a still more inveterate grumbler in other countries, and perhaps the climate of bengal, producing lassitude and low spirits, and a yearning for their native land, of which they are so justly proud, contribute to make our countrymen in the east even more than usually unsusceptible of pleasurable emotions until at last they turn away in positive disgust from the scenes and objects which remind them that they are in a state of exile. "there is nothing," says hamlet, "either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." at every change of the mind's colored optics the scene before it changes also. i have sometimes contemplated the vast metropolis of england--or rather _of the world_--multitudinous and mighty london--with the pride and hope and exultation, not of a patriot only, but of a cosmopolite--a man. its grand national structures that seem built for eternity--its noble institutions, charitable, and learned, and scientific, and artistical--the genius and science and bravery and moral excellence within its countless walls--have overwhelmed me with a sense of its glory and majesty and power. but in a less admiring mood, i have quite reversed the picture. perhaps the following sonnet may seem to indicate that the writer while composing it, must have worn his colored spectacles. london, in the morning. the morning wakes, and through the misty air in sickly radiance struggles--like the dream of sorrow-shrouded hope. o'er thames' dull stream, whose sluggish waves a wealthy burden bear from every port and clime, the pallid glare of early sun-light spreads. the long streets seem unpeopled still, but soon each path shall teem with hurried feet, and visages of care. and eager throngs shall meet where dusky marts resound like ocean-caverns, with the din of toil and strife and agony and sin. trade's busy babel! ah! how many hearts by lust of gold to thy dim temples brought in happier hours have scorned the prize they sought? d.l.r. i now give a pair of sonnets upon the city of palaces as viewed through somewhat clearer glasses. view of calcutta. here passion's restless eye and spirit rude may greet no kindred images of power to fear or wonder ministrant. no tower, time-struck and tenantless, here seems to brood, in the dread majesty of solitude, o'er human pride departed--no rocks lower o'er ravenous billows--no vast hollow wood rings with the lion's thunder--no dark bower the crouching tiger haunts--no gloomy cave glitters with savage eyes! but all the scene is calm and cheerful. at the mild command of britain's sons, the skilful and the brave, fair palace-structures decorate the land, and proud ships float on hooghly's breast serene! d.l.r. sonnet, on returning to calcutta after a voyage to the straits of malacca. umbrageous woods, green dells, and mountains high, and bright cascades, and wide cerulean seas, slumbering, or snow-wreathed by the freshening breeze, and isles like motionless clouds upon the sky in silent summer noons, late charmed mine eye, until my soul was stirred like wind-touched trees, and passionate love and speechless ecstasies up-raised the thoughts in spiritual depths that lie. fair scenes, ye haunt me still! yet i behold this sultry city on the level shore not all unmoved; for here our fathers bold won proud historic names in days of yore, and here are generous hearts that ne'er grow cold, and many a friendly hand and open door. d.l.r. there are several extremely elegant customs connected with some of the indian festivals, at which flowers are used in great profusion. the surface of the "sacred river" is often thickly strewn with them. in mrs. carshore's pleasing volume of _songs of the east_[ ] there is a long poem (too long to quote entire) in which the _beara festival_ is described. i must give the introductory passage. "the beara festival. "upon the ganges' overflowing banks, where palm trees lined the shore in graceful ranks, i stood one night amidst a merry throng of british youths and maidens, to behold a witching indian scene of light and song, crowds of veiled native loveliness untold, each streaming path poured duskily along. the air was filled with the sweet breath of flowers, and music that awoke the silent hours, it was the beara festival and feast when proud and lowly, loftiest and least, matron and moslem maiden pay their vows, with impetratory and votive gift, and to the moslem jonas bent their brows. _each brought her floating lamp of flowers_, and swift a thousand lights along the current drift, till the vast bosom of the swollen stream, glittering and gliding onward like a dream, seems a wide mirror of the starry sphere or more as if the stars had dropt from air, and in an earthly heaven were shining here, and far above were, but reflected there still group on group, advancing to the brink, as group on group retired link by link; for one pale lamp that floated out of view five brighter ones they quickly placed anew; at length the slackening multitudes grew less, and the lamps floated scattered and apart. as stars grow few when morning's footsteps press when a slight girl, shy as the timid halt, not far from where we stood, her offering brought. singing a low sweet strain, with lips untaught. her song proclaimed, that 'twas not many hours since she had left her childhood's innocent home; and now with beara lamp, and wreathed flowers, to propitiate heaven, for wedded bliss had come" to these lines mrs. carshore (who has been in this country, i believe, from her birth, and who ought to know something of indian customs) appends the following notes. "_it was the beara festival_." much has been said about the beara or floating lamp, but i have never yet seen a correct description. moore mentions that lalla rookh saw a solitary hindoo girl bring her lamp to the river. d.l.r. says the same, whereas the beara festival is a moslem feast that takes place once a year in the monsoons, when thousands of females offer their vows to the patron of rivers. "_moslem jonas_" khauj khoddir is the jonas of the mussulman; he, like the prophet of nineveh, was for three days inside a fish, and for that reason is called the patron of rivers." i suppose mrs. carshore alludes, in the first of these notes, to the following passage in the prose part of lalla rookh:-- "as they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young hindoo girl upon the bank whose employment seemed to them so strange that they stopped their palanquins to observe her. she had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthern dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream: and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. lalla rookh was all curiosity;--when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often, in the dusk of evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the oton-jala or sea of stars,) informed the princess that it was the usual way, in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. if the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream, and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain. lalla rookh, as they moved on, more than once looked back, to observe how the young hindoo's lamp proceeded: and while she saw with pleasure that it was unextinguished, she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river." moore prepared himself for the writing of lalla rookh by "long and laborious reading." he himself narrates that sir james mackintosh was asked by colonel wilks, the historian of british india, whether it was true that the poet had never been in the east. sir james replied, "_never_." "well, that shows me," said colonel wilks, "that reading over d'herbelot is as good as riding on the back of a camel." sir john malcolm, sir william ouseley and other high authorities have testified to the accuracy of moore's descriptions of eastern scenes and customs. the following lines were composed on the banks of the hooghly at cossipore, (many long years ago) just after beholding the river one evening almost covered with floating lamps.[ ] a hindu festival. seated on a bank of green, gazing on an indian scene, i have dreams the mind to cheer, and a feast for eye and ear. at my feet a river flows, and its broad face richly glows with the glory of the sun, whose proud race is nearly run ne'er before did sea or stream kindle thus beneath his beam, ne'er did miser's eye behold such a glittering mass of gold 'gainst the gorgeous radiance float darkly, many a sloop and boat, while in each the figures seem like the shadows of a dream swiftly, passively, they glide as sliders on a frozen tide. sinks the sun--the sudden night falls, yet still the scene is bright now the fire-fly's living spark glances through the foliage dark, and along the dusky stream myriad lamps with ruddy gleam on the small waves float and quiver, as if upon the favored river, and to mark the sacred hour, stars had fallen in a shower. for many a mile is either shore illumined with a countless store of lustres ranged in glittering rows, each a golden column throws to light the dim depths of the tide, and the moon in all her pride though beauteously her regions glow, views a scene as fair below d.l.r. mrs. carshore alludes, i suppose to the above lines, or the following sonnet, or both perhaps, when she speaks of my erroneous orientalism-- scene on the ganges. the shades of evening veil the lofty spires of proud benares' fanes! a thickening haze hangs o'er the stream. the weary boatmen raise along the dusky shore their crimson fires that tinge the circling groups. now hope inspires yon hindu maid, whose heart true passion sways, to launch on gungas flood the glimmering rays of love's frail lamp,--but, lo the light expires! alas! what sudden sorrow fills her breast! no charm of life remains. her tears deplore a lover lost and never, never more shall hope's sweet vision yield her spirit rest! the cold wave quenched the flame--an omen dread that telleth of the faithless--_or the dead_! d.l.r. horace hayman wilson, a high authority on all oriental customs, clearly alludes in the following lines to the launching of floating lamps by _hindu_ females. grave in the tide the brahmin stands, and folds his cord or twists his hands, and tells his beads, and all unheard mutters a solemn mystic word with reverence the sudra dips, and fervently the current sips, that to his humbler hope conveys a future life of happier days. but chief do india's simple daughters assemble in these hallowed waters, with vase of classic model laden like grecian girl or tuscan maiden, collecting thus their urns to fill from gushing fount or trickling rill, and still with pious fervour they to gunga veneration pay and with pretenceless rite prefer, the wishes of their hearts to her the maid or matron, as she throws _champae_ or lotus, _bel_ or rose, or sends the quivering light afloat in shallow cup or paper boat, prays for a parent's peace and wealth prays for a child's success and health, for a fond husband breathes a prayer, for progeny their loves to share, for what of good on earth is given to lowly life, or hoped in heaven, h.h.w. on seeing miss carshore's criticism i referred the subject to an intelligent hindu friend from whom i received the following answer:-- my dear sir, the _beara_, strictly speaking, is a mahomedan festival. some of the lower orders of the hindus of the nw provinces, who have borrowed many of their customs from the mahomedans, celebrate the _beara_. but it is not observed by the hindus of bengal, who have a festival of their own, similar to the _beara_. it takes place on the evening of the _saraswati poojah_, when a small piece of the bark of the plantain tree is fitted out with all the necessary accompaniments of a boat, and is launched in a private tank with a lamp. the custom is confined to the women who follow it in their own house or in the same neighbourhood. it is called the _sooa dooa breta_. yours truly, * * * * * mrs. carshore it would seem is partly right and partly wrong. she is right in calling the _beara_ a _moslem_ festival. it is so; but we have the testimony of horace hayman wilson to the fact that _hindu maids and matrons also launch their lamps upon the river_. my hindu friend acknowledges that his countrymen in the north west provinces have borrowed many of their customs from the mahomedans, and though he is not aware of it, it may yet be the case, that some of the hindus of _bengal_, as elsewhere, have done the same, and that they set lamps afloat upon the stream to discover by their continued burning or sudden extinction the fate of some absent friend or lover. i find very few natives who are able to give me any exact and positive information concerning their own national customs. in their explanations of such matters they differ in the most extraordinary manner amongst themselves. two most respectable and intelligent native gentlemen who were proposing to lay out their grounds under my directions, told me that i must not cut down a single cocoa-nut tree, as it would be dreadful sacrilege--equal to cutting the throats of seven brahmins! another equally respectable and intelligent native friend, when i mentioned the fact, threw himself back in his chair to give vent to a hearty laugh. when he had recovered himself a little from this risible convulsion he observed that his father and his grandfather had cut down cocoa-nut trees in considerable numbers without the slightest remorse or fear. and yet again, i afterwards heard that one of the richest hindu families in calcutta, rather than suffer so sacred an object to be injured, piously submit to a very serious inconvenience occasioned by a cocoa-nut tree standing in the centre of the carriage road that leads to the portico of their large town palace. i am told that there are other sacred trees which must not be removed by the hands of hindus of inferior caste, though in this case there is a way of getting over the difficulty, for it is allowable or even meritorious to make presents of these trees to brahmins, who cut them down for their own fire-wood. but the cocoa-nut tree is said to be too sacred even for the axe of a brahmin. i have been running away again from my subject;--i was discoursing upon may-day in england. the season there is still a lovely and a merry one, though the most picturesque and romantic of its ancient observances, now live but in the memory of the "oldest inhabitants," or on the page of history.[ ] see where, amidst the sun and showers, the lady of the vernal hours, sweet may, comes forth again with all her flowers. _barry cornwall_. the _may-pole_ on these days is rarely seen to rise up in english towns with its proper floral decorations[ ]. in remote rural districts a solitary may-pole is still, however, occasionally discovered. "a may-pole," says washington irving, "gave a glow to my feelings and spread a charm over the country for the rest of the day: and as i traversed a part of the fair plains of cheshire, and the beautiful borders of wales and looked from among swelling hills down a long green valley, through which the deva wound its wizard stream, my imagination turned all into a perfect arcadia. one can readily imagine what a gay scene old london must have been when the doors were decked with hawthorn; and robin hood, friar tuck, maid marian, morris dancers, and all the other fantastic dancers and revellers were performing their antics about the may-pole in every part of the city. i value every custom which tends to infuse poetical feeling into the common people, and to sweeten and soften the rudeness of rustic manners without destroying their simplicity." another american writer--a poet--has expressed his due appreciation of the pleasures of the season. he thus addresses the merrie month of may.[ ] may. would that thou couldst laugh for aye, merry, ever merry may! made of sun gleams, shade and showers bursting buds, and breathing flowers, dripping locked, and rosy vested, violet slippered, rainbow crested; girdled with the eglantine, festooned with the dewy vine merry, ever merry may, would that thou could laugh for aye! _w.d. gallagher._ i must give a dainty bit of description from the poet of the poets--our own romantic spenser. then comes fair may, the fayrest mayde on ground, decked with all dainties of the season's pryde, and throwing flowres out of her lap around. upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride, the twins of leda, which, on eyther side, supported her like to their sovereign queene lord! how all creatures laught when her they spide, and leapt and danced as they had ravisht beene! and cupid's self about her fluttred all in greene. here are a few lines from herrick. fled are the frosts, and now the fields appeare re-clothed in freshe and verdant diaper; thawed are the snowes, and now the lusty spring gives to each mead a neat enameling, the palmes[ ] put forth their gemmes, and every tree now swaggers in her leavy gallantry. the queen of may--lady flora--was the british representative of the heathen goddess flora. may still returns and ever will return at her proper season, with all her bright leaves and fragrant blossoms, but men cease to make the same use of them as of yore. england is waxing utilitarian and prosaic. the poets, let others neglect her as they will, must ever do fitting observance, in songs as lovely and fresh as the flowers of the hawthorn, to the lady of the vernal hours. poor keats, who was passionately fond of flowers, and everything beautiful or romantic or picturesque, complains, with a true poet's earnestness, that in _his_ day in england there were no crowds of nymphs, soft-voiced and young and gay in woven baskets, bringing ears of corn, roses and pinks and violets, to adorn the shrine of flora in her early may. the floral games--_jeux floraux_--of toulouse--first celebrated at the commencement of the fourteenth century, are still kept up annually with great pomp and spirit. clemence isaure, a french lady, bequeathed to the academy of toulouse a large sum of money for the annual celebration of these games. a sort of college council is formed, which not only confers degrees on those poets who do most honor to the goddess flora, but sometimes grants them more substantial favors. in the poets were encouraged to compete for a golden violet and a silver eglantine and pansy. a century later the prizes offered were an amaranthus of gold of the value of livres, for the best ode, a violet of silver, valued at livres, for an essay in prose, a silver pansy, worth livres, for an eclogue, elegy or idyl, and a silver lily of the value of sixty livres, for the best sonnet or hymn in honor of the virgin mary,--for religion is mixed up with merriment, and heathen with christian rites. he who gained a prize three times was honored with the title of doctor _en gaye science_, the name given to the poetry of the provençal troubadours. a mass, a sermon, and alms-giving, commence the ceremonies. the french poet, ronsard who had gained a prize in the floral games, so delighted mary queen of scots with his verses on the rose that she presented him with a silver rose worth £ , with this inscription--"_a ronsard, l'apollon de la source des muses_." at ghent floral festivals are held twice a year when amateur and professional florists assemble together and contribute each his share of flowers to the grand general exhibition which is under the direct patronage of the public authorities. honorary medals are awarded to the possessors of the finest flowers. the chief floral festival of the chinese is on their new year's day, when their rivers are covered with boats laden with flowers, and gay flags streaming from every mast. their homes and temples are richly hung with festoons of flowers. boughs of the peach and plum trees in blossom, enkíanthus quinque-flòra, camelias, cockscombs, magnolias, jonquils are then exposed for sale in all the streets of canton. even the chinese ladies, who are visible at no other season, are seen on this occasion in flower-boats on the river or in the public gardens on the shore. the italians, it is said, still have artificers called _festaroli_, whose business it is to prepare festoons and garlands. the ancient romans were very tasteful in their nosegays and chaplets. pliny tells us that the sicyonians were especially celebrated for the graceful art exhibited in the arrangement of the varied colors of their garlands, and he gives us the story of glycera who, to please her lover pausias, the painter of sicyon, used to send him the most exquisite chaplets of her own braiding, which he regularly copied on his canvas. he became very eminent as a flower-painter. the last work of his pencil, and his master-piece, was a picture of his mistress in the act of arranging a chaplet. the picture was called the _garland twiner_. it is related that antony for some time mistrusting cleopatra made her taste in the first instance every thing presented to him at her banquets. one day "the serpent of old nile" after dipping her own coronet of flowers into her goblet drank up the wine and then directed him to follow her example. he was off his guard. he dipped his chaplet in his cup. the leaves had been touched with poison. he was just raising the cup to his lips when she seized his arm, and said "cease your jealous doubts, for know, that if i had desired your death or wished to live without you, i could easily have destroyed you." the queen then ordered a prisoner to be brought into their presence, who being made to drink from the cup, instantly expired.[ ] some of the nosegays made up by "flower-girls" in london and its neighbourhood are sold at such extravagant prices that none but the very wealthy are in the habit of purchasing them, though sometimes a poor lover is tempted to present his mistress on a ball-night with a bouquet that he can purchase only at the cost of a good many more leaves of bread or substantial meals than he can well spare. he has to make every day a banian-day for perhaps half a month that his mistress may wear a nosegay for a few hours. however, a lover is often like a cameleon and can almost live on air--_for a time_--"promise-crammed." 'you cannot feed capons so.' at covent garden market, (in london) and the first-rate flower-shops, a single wreath or nosegay is often made up for the head or hand at a price that would support a poor labourer and his family for a month. the colors of the wreaths are artfully arranged, so as to suit different complexions, and so also as to exhibit the most rare and costly flowers to the greatest possible advantage. all true poets --the sages who have left streaks of light athwart their pages-- have contemplated flowers--with a passionate love, an ardent admiration; none more so than the sweet-souled shakespeare. they are regarded by the imaginative as the fairies of the vegetable world--the physical personifications of etherial beauty. in _the winter's tale_ our great dramatic bard has some delightful floral allusions that cannot be too often quoted. here's flowers for you, hot lavender, mint, savory, majoram, the marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, and with him rises weeping these are flowers of middle summer, and i think they are given to men of middle age. * * * * * o, proserpina, for the flowers now that, frighted, thou lett'st fall from dis's waggon! daffodils, that come before the swallow dares, and take the winds of march with beauty, violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of juno's eyes, or cytherea's breath, pale primroses, that die unmarried ere they can behold great phoebus in his strength,--a malady most incident to maids, bold oxlips and the crown imperial, lilies of all kinds, the flower de luce being one shakespeare here, as elsewhere, speaks of "_pale_ primroses." the poets almost always allude to the primrose as a _pale_ and interesting invalid. milton tells us of the yellow cowslip and the _pale_ primrose[ ] the poet in the manuscript of his _lycidas_ had at first made the primrose "_die unwedded_," which was a pretty close copy of shakespeare. milton afterwards struck out the word "_unwedded_," and substituted the word "_forsaken_." the reason why the primrose was said to "die unmarried," is, according to warton, because it grows in the shade uncherished or unseen by the sun, who was supposed to be in love with certain sorts of flowers. ben jonson, however, describes the primrose as _a wedded lady_--"the spring's own _spouse_"--though she is certainly more commonly regarded as the daughter of spring not the wife. j fletcher gives her the true parentage:-- primrose, first born child of ver there are some kinds of primroses, that are not _pale_. there is a species in scotland, which is of a deep purple. and even in england (in some of the northern counties) there is a primrose, the bird's-eye primrose, (primula farinosa,) of which the blossom is lilac colored and the leaves musk-scented. in sweden they call the primrose _the key of may_. the primrose is always a great favorite with imaginative and sensitive observers, but there are too many people who look upon the beautiful with a utilitarian eye, or like wordsworth's peter bell regard it with perfect indifference. a primrose by the river's brim a yellow primrose was to him. and it was nothing more. i have already given one anecdote of a utilitarian; but i may as well give two more anecdotes of a similar character. mrs. wordsworth was in a grove, listening to the cooing of the stock-doves, and associating their music with the remembrance of her husband's verses to a stock-dove, when a farmer's wife passing by exclaimed, "oh, i do like stock-doves!" the woman won the heart of the poet's wife at once; but she did not long retain it. "some people," continued the speaker, "like 'em in a pie; for my part i think there's nothing like 'em stewed in inions." this was a rustic utilitarian. here is an instance of a very different sort of utilitarianism--the utilitarianism of men who lead a gay town life. sir w.h. listened, patiently for some time to a poetical-minded friend who was rapturously expatiating upon the delicious perfume of a bed of violets; "oh yes," said sir w. at last, "its all very well, but for my part i very much prefer the smell of a flambeau at the theatre." but intellects far more capacious than that of sir w.h. have exhibited the same indifference to the beautiful in nature. locke and jeremy bentham and even sir isaac newton despised all poetry. and yet god never meant man to be insensible to the beautiful or the poetical. "poetry, like truth," says ebenezer elliot, "is a common flower: god has sown it over the earth, like the daisies sprinkled with tears or glowing in the sun, even as he places the crocus and the march frosts together and beautifully mingles life and death." if the finer and more spiritual faculties of men were as well cultivated or exercised as are their colder and coarser faculties there would be fewer utilitarians. but the highest part of our nature is too much neglected in all our systems of education. of the beauty and fragrance of flowers all earthly creatures except man are apparently meant to be unconscious. the cattle tread down or masticate the fairest flowers without a single "compunctious visiting of nature." this excites no surprize. it is no more than natural. but it is truly painful and humiliating to see any human being as insensible as the beasts of the field to that poetry of the world which god seems to have addressed exclusively to the heart and soul of man. in south wales the custom of strewing all kinds of flowers over the graves of departed friends, is preserved to the present day. shakespeare, it appears, knew something of the customs of that part of his native country and puts the following _flowery_ speech into the mouth of the young prince, arviragus, who was educated there. with fairest flowers, while summer lasts, and i live here, fidele, i'll sweeten thy sad grave. thou shalt not lack the flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor the azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor the leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, out-sweetened not thy breath. _cymbeline_. here are two more flower-passages from shakespeare. here's a few flowers; but about midnight more; the herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night are strewings fitt'st for graves.--upon their faces:-- you were as flowers; now withered; even so these herblets shall, which we upon you strow. _cymbeline_. sweets to the sweet. farewell! i hoped thou shoulds't have been my hamlet's wife; i thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not t' have strewed thy grave. _hamlet_. flowers are peculiarly suitable ornaments for the grave, for as evelyn truly says, "they are just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in holy scripture to those fading creatures, whose roots being buried in dishonor rise again in glory."[ ] this thought is natural and just. it is indeed a most impressive sight, a most instructive pleasure, to behold some "bright consummate flower" rise up like a radiant exhalation or a beautiful vision--like good from evil--with such stainless purity and such dainty loveliness, from the hot-bed of corruption. milton turns his acquaintance with flowers to divine account in his lycidas. return; sicilian muse, and call the vales, and bid them hither cast their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. ye vallies low, where the mild whispers use of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, on whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks; throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, that on the green turf suck the honied showers. and purple all the ground with vernal flowers. bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. the tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, the glowing violet, the musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine, with cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,[ ] and every flower that sad embroidery wears; bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, and daffodillies fill their cups with tears, to strew the laureate hearse where lycid lies, for, so to interpose a little ease, let our frail thoughts dally with faint surmise here is a nosegay of spring-flowers from the hand of thomson:-- fair handed spring unbosoms every grace, throws out the snow drop and the crocus first, the daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, and polyanthus of unnumbered dyes, the yellow wall flower, stained with iron brown, and lavish stock that scents the garden round, from the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, anemonies, auriculas, enriched with shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves and full ranunculus of glowing red then comes the tulip race, where beauty plays her idle freaks from family diffused to family, as flies the father dust, the varied colors run, and while they break on the charmed eye, the exulting florist marks with secret pride, the wonders of his hand nor gradual bloom is wanting, from the bird, first born of spring, to summer's musky tribes nor hyacinth, of purest virgin white, low bent, and, blushing inward, nor jonquils, of potent fragrance, nor narcissus fair, as o'er the fabled fountain hanging still, nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks; nor, showered from every bush, the damask rose. infinite varieties, delicacies, smells, with hues on hues expression cannot paint, the breath of nature and her endless bloom. here are two bouquets of flowers from the garden of cowper laburnum, rich in streaming gold, syringa, ivory pure, the scentless and the scented rose, this red, and of an humbler growth, the other[ ] tall, and throwing up into the darkest gloom of neighboring cypress, or more sable yew, her silver globes, light as the foamy surf that the wind severs from the broken wave, the lilac, various in array, now white, now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set with purple spikes pyramidal, as if studious of ornament yet unresolved which hue she most approved, she chose them all, copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, but well compensating her sickly looks with never cloying odours, early and late, hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, that scarce a loaf appears, mezereon too, though leafless, well attired, and thick beset with blushing wreaths, investing every spray, althaea with the purple eye, the broom yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd, her blossoms, and luxuriant above all the jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, the deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf makes more conspicuous, and illumines more, the bright profusion of her scatter'd stars * * * * * th' amomum there[ ] with intermingling flowers and cherries hangs her twigs. geranium boasts her crimson honors, and the spangled beau ficoides, glitters bright the winter long all plants, of every leaf, that can endure the winter's frown, if screened from his shrewd bite, live their and prosper. those ausonia claims, levantine regions those, the azores send their jessamine, her jessamine remote caffraia, foreigners from many lands, they form one social shade as if convened by magic summons of the orphean lyre here is a bunch of flowers laid before the public eye by mr. proctor-- there the rose unveils her breast of beauty, and each delicate bud o' the season comes in turn to bloom and perish, but first of all the violet, with an eye blue as the midnight heavens, the frail snowdrop, born of the breath of winter, and on his brow fixed like a full and solitary star the languid hyacinth, and wild primrose and daisy trodden down like modesty the fox glove, in whose drooping bells the bee makes her sweet music, the narcissus (named from him who died for love) the tangled woodbine, lilacs, and flowering vines, and scented thorns, and some from whom the voluptuous winds of june catch their perfumings _barry cornwall_ i take a second supply of flowers from the same hand here, this rose (this one half blown) shall be my maia's portion, for that like it her blush is beautiful and this deep violet, almost as blue as pallas' eye, or thine, lycemnia, i'll give to thee for like thyself it wears its sweetness, never obtruding. for this lily where can it hang but it cyane's breast? and yet twill wither on so white a bed, if flowers have sense of envy.--it shall be amongst thy raven tresses, cytheris, like one star on the bosom of the night the cowslip and the yellow primrose,--they are gone, my sad leontia, to their graves, and april hath wept o'er them, and the voice of march hath sung, even before their deaths the dirge of those young children of the year but here is hearts ease for your woes. and now, the honey suckle flower i give to thee, and love it for my sake, my own cyane it hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow, it flourishes with its guardian growth, as thou dost, and if the woodman's axe should droop the tree, the woodbine too must perish. _barry cornwall_ let me add to the above heap of floral beauty a basket of flowers from leigh hunt. then the flowers on all their beds-- how the sparklers glance their heads, daisies with their pinky lashes and the marigolds broad flashes, hyacinth with sapphire bell curling backward, and the swell of the rose, full lipped and warm, bound about whose riper form her slender virgin train are seen in their close fit caps of green, lilacs then, and daffodillies, and the nice leaved lesser lilies shading, like detected light, their little green-tipt lamps of white; blissful poppy, odorous pea, with its wing up lightsomely; balsam with his shaft of amber, mignionette for lady's chamber, and genteel geranium, with a leaf for all that come; and the tulip tricked out finest, and the pink of smell divinest; and as proud as all of them bound in one, the garden's gem hearts-ease, like a gallant bold in his cloth of purple and gold. lady mary wortley montague, who introduced inoculation into england--a practically useful boon to us,--had also the honor to be amongst the first to bring from the east to the west an elegant amusement--the language of flowers.[ ] then he took up his garland, and did show what every flower, as country people hold, did signify; and how all, ordered thus, expressed his grief: and, to my thoughts, did read the prettiest lecture of his country art that could be wished. _beaumont's and fletcher's "philaster."_ * * * * * there from richer banks culling out flowers, which in a learned order do become characters, whence they disclose their mutual meanings, garlands then and nosegays being framed into epistles. _cartwright's "love's covenant."_ * * * * * an exquisite invention this, worthy of love's most honied kiss, this art of writing _billet-doux_ in buds and odours and bright hues, in saying all one feels and thinks in clever daffodils and pinks, uttering (as well as silence may,) the sweetest words the sweetest way. _leigh hunt_. * * * * * yet, no--not words, for they but half can tell love's feeling; sweet flowers alone can say what passion fears revealing.[ ] a once bright rose's withered leaf-- a towering lily broken-- oh, these may paint a grief no words could e'er have spoken. _moore_. * * * * * by all those token flowers that tell what words can ne'er express so well. _byron_. * * * * * a mystic language, perfect in each part. made up of bright hued thoughts and perfumed speeches. _adams_. if we are to believe shakespeare it is not human beings only who use a floral language:-- fairies use flowers for their charactery. sir walter scott tells us that:-- the myrtle bough bids lovers live-- a sprig of hawthorn has the same meaning as a sprig of myrtle: it gives hope to the lover--the sweet heliotrope tells the depth of his passion,--if he would charge his mistress with levity he presents the larkspur,--and a leaf of nettle speaks her cruelty. poor ophelia (in _hamlet_) gives rosemary for remembrance, and pansies (_pensees_) for thoughts. the laurel indicates victory in war or success with the muses, "the meed of mighty conquerors and poets sage." the ivy wreathes the brows of criticism. the fresh vine-leaf cools the hot forehead of the bacchanal. bergamot and jessamine imply the fragrance of friendship. the olive is the emblem of peace--the laurel, of glory--the rue, of grace or purification (ophelia's _herb of grace o'sundays_)--the primrose, of the spring of human life--the bud of the white rose, of girl-hood,--the full blossom of the red rose, of consummate beauty--the daisy, of innocence,--the butter-cup, of gold--the houstania, of content--the heliotrope, of devotion in love--the cross of jerusalem, of devotion in religion--the forget-me-not, of fidelity--the myrrh, of gladness--the yew, of sorrow--the michaelmas daisy, of cheerfulness in age--the chinese chrysanthemum, of cheerfulness in adversity--the yellow carnation, of disdain--the sweet violet, of modesty--the white chrysanthemum, of truth--the sweet sultan, of felicity--the sensitive plant, of maiden shyness--the yellow day lily, of coquetry--the snapdragon, of presumption--the broom, of humility--the amaryllis, of pride--the grass, of submission--the fuschia, of taste--the verbena, of sensibility--the nasturtium, of splendour--the heath, of solitude--the blue periwinkle, of early friendship--the honey-suckle, of the bond of love--the trumpet flower, of fame--the amaranth, of immortality--the adonis, of sorrowful remembrance,--and the poppy, of oblivion. the witch-hazel indicates a spell,--the cape jasmine says _i'm too happy_--the laurestine, _i die if i am neglected_--the american cowslip, _you are a divinity_--the volkamenica japonica, _may you be happy_--the rose-colored chrysanthemum, _i love_,--and the venus' car, _fly with me_. for the following illustrations of the language of flowers i am indebted to a useful and well conducted little periodical published in london and entitled the _family friend_;--the work is a great favorite with the fair sex. "of the floral grammar, the first rule to be observed is, that the pronoun _i_ or _me_ is expressed by inclining the symbol flower to the _left_, and the pronoun _thou_ or _thee_ by inclining it to the _right_. when, however, it is not a real flower offered, but a representation upon paper, these positions must be reversed, so that the symbol leans to the heart of the person whom it is to signify. the second rule is, that the opposite of a particular sentiment expressed by a flower presented upright is denoted when the symbol is reversed; thus a rose-bud sent upright, with its thorns and leaves, means, "_i fear, but i hope_." if the bud is returned upside down, it means, "_you must neither hope nor fear_." should the thorns, however, be stripped off, the signification is, "_there is everything to hope_;" but if stript of its leaves, "_there is everything to fear_." by this it will be seen that the expression of almost all flowers may be varied by a change in their positions, or an alteration of their state or condition. for example, the marigold flower placed in the hand signifies "_trouble of spirits_;" on the heart, "_trouble or love_;" on the bosom, "_weariness_." the pansy held upright denotes "_heart's ease_;" reversed, it speaks the contrary. when presented upright, it says, "_think of me_;" and when pendent, "_forget me_." so, too, the amaryllis, which is the emblem of pride, may be made to express, "_my pride is humbled_," or, "_your pride is checked_," by holding it downwards, and to the right or left, as the sense requires. then, again, the wallflower, which is the emblem of fidelity in misfortune, if presented with the stalk upward, would intimate that the person to whom it was turned was unfaithful in the time of trouble. the third rule has relation to the manner in which certain words may be represented; as, for instance, the articles, by tendrils with single, double, and treble branches, as under-- [illustration of _the_, _an_ & _a_.] the numbers are represented by leaflets running from one to eleven, as thus-- [illustration of ' ', ' ', ' ', ' ', ' ', & ' '.] from eleven to twenty, berries are added to the ten leaves thus-- [illustration of ' ' & ' '.] from twenty to one hundred, compound leaves are added to the other ten for the decimals, and berries stand for the odd numbers so-- [illustration of ' ', ' ' & ' '.] a hundred is represented by ten tens; and this may be increased by a third leaflet and a branch of berries up to . [illustration of ' '.] a thousand may be symbolized by a frond of fern, having ten or more leaves, and to this a common leaflet may be added to increase the number of thousands. in this way any given number may be represented in foliage, such as the date of a year in which a birthday, or other event, occurs, to which it is desirable to make allusion, in an emblematic wreath or floral picture. thus, if i presented my love with a mute yet eloquent expression of good wishes on her eighteenth birthday, i should probably do it in this wise:--within an evergreen wreath (_lasting as my affection_), consisting of ten leaflets and eight berries (_the age of the beloved_), i would place a red rose bud (_pure and lovely_), or a white lily (_pure and modest_), its spotless petals half concealing a ripe strawberry (_perfect excellence_); and to this i might add a blossom of the rose-scented geranium (_expressive of my preference_), a peach blossom to say "_i am your captive_" fern for sincerity, and perhaps bachelor's buttons for _hope in love_"--_family friend_. there are many anecdotes and legends and classical fables to illustrate the history of shrubs and flowers, and as they add something to the peculiar interest with which we regard individual plants, they ought not to be quite passed over by the writers upon floriculture. the flos adonis. the flos adonis, a blood-red flower of the anemone tribe, is one of the many plants which, according to ancient story sprang from the tears of venus and the blood of her coy favorite. rose cheeked adonis hied him to the chase hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn _shakespeare_. venus, the goddess of beauty, the mother of love, the queen of laughter, the mistress of the graces and the pleasures, could make no impression on the heart of the beautiful son of myrrha, (who was changed into a myrrh tree,) though the passion-stricken charmer looked and spake with the lip and eye of the fairest of the immortals. shakespeare, in his poem of _venus and adonis_, has done justice to her burning eloquence, and the lustre of her unequalled loveliness. she had most earnestly, and with all a true lover's care entreated adonis to avoid the dangers of the chase, but he slighted all her warnings just as he had slighted her affections. he was killed by a wild boar. shakespeare makes venus thus lament over the beautiful dead body as it lay on the blood-stained grass. alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! what face remains alive that's worth the viewing? whose tongue is music now? what can'st thou boast of things long since, or any thing ensuing? the flowers are sweet, their colors fresh and trim, but true sweet beauty lived and died with him. in her ecstacy of grief she prophecies that henceforth all sorts of sorrows shall be attendants upon love,--and alas! she was too correct an oracle. the course of true love never does run smooth. here is shakespeare's version of the metamorphosis of adonis into a flower. by this the boy that by her side lay killed was melted into vapour from her sight, and in his blood that on the ground lay spilled, a purple flower sprang up, checquered with white, resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. she bows her head, the new sprung flower to smell, comparing it to her adonis' breath, and says, within her bosom it shall dwell since he himself is reft from her by death; she crops the stalk, and in the branch appears green dropping sap which she compares to tears. the reader may like to contrast this account of the change from human into floral beauty with the version of the same story in ovid as translated by eusden. then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows, the scented blood in little bubbles rose; little as rainy drops, which fluttering fly, borne by the winds, along a lowering sky, short time ensued, till where the blood was shed, a flower began to rear its purple head such, as on punic apples is revealed or in the filmy rind but half concealed, still here the fate of lonely forms we see, _so sudden fades the sweet anemone_. the feeble stems to stormy blasts a prey their sickly beauties droop, and pine away the winds forbid the flowers to flourish long which owe to winds their names in grecian song. the concluding couplet alludes to the grecian name of the flower ([greek: anemos], _anemos_, the wind.) it is said of the anemone that it never opens its lips until zephyr kisses them. sir william jones alludes to its short-lived beauty. youth, like a thin anemone, displays his silken leaf, and in a morn decays. horace smith speaks of the coy anemone that ne'er discloses her lips until they're blown on by the wind plants open out their leaves to breathe the air just as eagerly as they throw down their roots to suck up the moisture of the earth. dr. linley, indeed says, "they feed more by their leaves than their roots." i lately met with a curious illustration of the fact that plants draw a larger proportion of their nourishment from light and air than is commonly supposed. i had a beautiful convolvulus growing upon a trellis work in an upper verandah with a south-western aspect. the root of the plant was in pots. the convolvulus growing too luxuriantly and encroaching too much upon the space devoted to a creeper of another kind, i separated its upper branches from the root and left them to die. the leaves began to fade the second day and most of them were quite dead the third or fourth day, but two or three of the smallest retained a sickly life for some days more. the buds or rather chalices outlived the leaves. the chalices continued to expand every morning, for--i am afraid to say how long a time--it might seem perfectly incredible. the convolvulus is a plant of a rather delicate character and i was perfectly astonished at its tenacity of life in this case. i should mention that this happened in the rainy season and that the upper part of the creeper was partially protected from the sun. the anemone seems to have been a great favorite with mrs. hemans. she thus addresses it. flower! the laurel still may shed brightness round the victor's head, and the rose in beauty's hair still its festal glory wear; and the willow-leaves droop o'er brows which love sustains no more but by living rays refined, thou the trembler of the wind, thou, the spiritual flower sentient of each breeze and shower,[ ] thou, rejoicing in the skies and transpierced with all their dyes; breathing-vase with light o'erflowing, gem-like to thy centre flowing, thou the poet's type shall be flower of soul, anemone! the common anemone was known to the ancients but the finest kind was introduced into france from the east indies, by monsieur bachelier, an eminent florist. he seems to have been a person of a truly selfish disposition, for he refused to share the possession of his floral treasure with any of his countrymen. for ten years the new anemone from the east was to be seen no where in europe but in monsieur bachelier's parterre. at last a counsellor of the french parliament disgusted with the florist's selfishness, artfully contrived when visiting the garden to drop his robe upon the flower in such a manner as to sweep off some of the seeds. the servant, who was in his master's secret, caught up the robe and carried it away. the trick succeeded; and the counsellor shared the spoils with all his friends through whose agency the plant was multiplied in all parts of europe. the olive. the olive is generally regarded as an emblem of peace, and should have none but pleasant associations connected with it, but ovid alludes to a wild species of this tree into which a rude and licentious fellow was converted as a punishment for "banishing the fair," with indecent words and gestures. the poet tells us of a secluded grotto surrounded by trembling reeds once frequented by the wood-nymphs of the sylvan race:-- till appulus with a dishonest air and gross behaviour, banished thence the fair. the bold buffoon, whene'er they tread the green, their motion mimics, but with jest obscene; loose language oft he utters; but ere long a bark in filmy net-work binds his tongue; thus changed, a base wild olive he remains; the shrub the coarseness of the clown retains. _garth's ovid_. the mural of this is excellent. the sentiment reminds me of the earl of roscommon's well-known couplet in his _essay on translated verse_, a poem now rarely read. immodest words admit of no defense,[ ] for want of decency is want of sense, the hyacinth. the hyacinth has always been a great favorite with the poets, ancient and modern. homer mentions the hyacinth as forming a portion of the materials of the couch of jove and juno. thick new-born violets a soft carpet spread, and clustering lotos swelled the rising bed, and sudden _hyacinths_[ ] the turf bestrow, and flaming crocus made the mountains glow _iliad, book _ milton gives a similar couch to adam and eve. flowers were the couch pansies, and violets, and asphodel and _hyacinth_, earth's freshest, softest lap with the exception of the lotus (so common in hindustan,) all these flowers, thus celebrated by the greatest of grecian poets, and represented as fit luxuries for the gods, are at the command of the poorest peasant in england. the common hyacinth is known to the unlearned as the harebell, so called from the bell shape of its flowers and from its growing so abundantly in thickets frequented by hares. shakespeare, as we have seen, calls it the _blue_-bell. the curling flowers of the hyacinth, have suggested to our poets the idea of clusters of curling tresses of hair. his fair large front and eye sublime declared absolute rule, and hyacinthine locks round from his parted forelock manly hung, clustering _milton_ the youths whose locks divinely spreading like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue _collins_ sir william jones describes-- the fragrant hyacinths of azza's hair, that wanton with the laughing summer air. a similar allusion may also be found in prose. "it was the exquisitely fair queen helen, whose jacinth[ ] hair, curled by nature, intercurled by art, like a brook through golden sands, had a rope of fair pearl, which, now hidden by the hair, did, as it were play at fast and loose each with the other, mutually giving and receiving richness."--_sir philip sidney_ "the ringlets so elegantly disposed round the fair countenances of these fair chiotes [ ] are such as milton describes by 'hyacinthine locks' crisped and curled like the blossoms of that flower" _dallaway_ the old fable about hyacinthus is soon told. apollo loved the youth and not only instructed him in literature and the arts, but shared in his pastimes. the divine teacher was one day playing with his pupil at quoits. some say that zephyr (ovid says it was boreas) jealous of the god's influence over young hyacinthus, wafted the ponderous iron ring from its right course and caused it to pitch upon the poor boy's head. he fell to the ground a bleeding corpse. apollo bade the scarlet hyacinth spring from the blood and impressed upon its leaves the words _ai ai_, (_alas! alas!_) the greek funeral lamentation. milton alludes to the flower in _lycidas_, like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. drummond had before spoken of that sweet flower that bears in sanguine spots the tenor of our woes hurdis speaks of: the melancholy hyacinth, that weeps all night, and never lifts an eye all day. ovid, after giving the old fable of hyacinthus, tells us that "the time shall come when a most valiant hero shall add his name to this flower." "he alludes," says mr. riley, "to ajax, from whose blood when he slew himself, a similar flower[ ] was said to have arisen with the letters _ai ai_ on its leaves, expressive either of grief or denoting the first two letters of his name [greek: aias]." as poets feigned from ajax's streaming blood arose, with grief inscribed, a mournful flower. _young_. keats has the following allusion to the old story of hyacinthus, or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent on either side; pitying the sad death of hyacinthus, when the cruel breath of zephyr slew him,--zephyr penitent, who now, ere phoebus mounts the firmament fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. _endymion_. our english hyacinth, it is said, is not entitled to its legendary honors. the words _non scriptus_ were applied to this plant by dodonaeus, because it had not the _ai ai_ upon its petals. professor martyn says that the flower called _lilium martagon_ or the _scarlet turk's cap_ is the plant alluded to by the ancients. alphonse karr, the eloquent french writer, whose "_tour round my garden_" i recommend to the perusal of all who can sympathize with reflections and emotions suggested by natural objects, has the following interesting anecdote illustrative of the force of a floral association:-- "i had in a solitary corner of my garden _three hyacinths_ which my father had planted and which death did not allow him to see bloom. every year the period of their flowering was for me a solemnity, a funeral and religious festival, it was a melancholy remembrance which revived and reblossomed every year and exhaled certain thoughts with its perfume. the roots are dead now and nothing lives of this dear association but in my own heart. but what a dear yet sad privilege man possesses above all created beings, while thus enabled by memory and thought to follow those whom he loved to the tomb and there shut up the living with the dead. what a melancholy privilege, and yet is there one amongst us who would lose it? who is he who would willingly forget all" wordsworth, suddenly stopping before a little bunch of harebells, which along with some parsley fern, grew out of a wall, he exclaimed, 'how perfectly beautiful that is! would that the little flowers that grow could live conscious of half the pleasure that they give the hyacinth has been cultivated with great care and success in holland, where from two to three hundred pounds have been given for a single bulb. a florist at haarlem enumerates kinds of double-flowered hyacinths, besides about varieties of the single kind. it is said that there are altogether upwards of varieties of the hyacinth. the english are particularly fond of the hyacinth. it is a domestic flower--a sort of parlour pet. when in "close city pent" they transfer the bulbs to glass vases (hyacinth glasses) filled with water, and place them in their windows in the winter. an annual solemnity, called hyacinthia, was held in laconia in honor of hyacinthus and apollo. it lasted three days. so eagerly was this festival honored, that the soldiers of laconia even when they had taken the field against an enemy would return home to celebrate it. the narcissus foolish narcisse, that likes the watery shore _spenser_ with respect to the narcissus, whose name in the floral vocabulary is the synonyme of _egotism_, there is a story that must be familiar enough to most of my readers. narcissus was a beautiful youth. teresias, the soothsayer, foretold that he should enjoy felicity until he beheld his own face but that the first sight of that would be fatal to him. every kind of mirror was kept carefully out of his way. echo was enamoured of him, but he slighted her love, and she pined and withered away until she had nothing left her but her voice, and even that could only repeat the last syllables of other people's sentences. he at last saw his own image reflected in a fountain, and taking it for that of another, he fell passionately in love with it. he attempted to embrace it. on seeing the fruitlessness of all his efforts, he killed himself in despair. when the nymphs raised a funeral pile to burn his body, they found nothing but a flower. that flower (into which he had been changed) still bears his name. here is a little passage about the fable, from the _two noble kinsmen_ of beaumont and fletcher. _emilia_--this garden hath a world of pleasure in it, what flower is this? _servant_--'tis called narcissus, madam. _em._--that was a fair boy certain, but a fool to love himself, were there not maids, or are they all hard hearted? _ser_--that could not be to one so fair. ben jonson touches the true moral of the fable very forcibly. 'tis now the known disease that beauty hath, to hear too deep a sense of her own self conceived excellence oh! had'st thou known the worth of heaven's rich gift, thou would'st have turned it to a truer use, and not (with starved and covetous ignorance) pined in continual eyeing that bright gem the glance whereof to others had been more than to thy famished mind the wide world's store. gay's version of the fable is as follows: here young narcissus o'er the fountain stood and viewed his image in the crystal flood the crystal flood reflects his lovely charms and the pleased image strives to meet his arms. no nymph his inexperienced breast subdued, echo in vain the flying boy pursued himself alone, the foolish youth admires and with fond look the smiling shade desires, o'er the smooth lake with fruitless tears he grieves, his spreading fingers shoot in verdant leaves, through his pale veins green sap now gently flows, and in a short lived flower his beauty glows addison has given a full translation of the story of narcissus from ovid's metamorphoses, book the third. the common daffodil of our english fields is of the genus narcissus. "pray," said some one to pope, "what is this _asphodel_ of homer?" "why, i believe," said pope "if one was to say the truth, 'twas nothing else but that poor yellow flower that grows about our orchards, and, if so, the verse might be thus translated in english --the stern achilles stalked through a mead of daffodillies" the laurel daphne was a beautiful nymph beloved by that very amorous gentleman, apollo. the love was not reciprocal. she endeavored to escape his godship's importunities by flight. apollo overtook her. she at that instant solicited aid from heaven, and was at once turned into a laurel. apollo gathered a wreath from the tree and placing it on his own immortal brows, decreed that from that hour the laurel should be sacred to his divinity. the sun-flower who can unpitying see the flowery race shed by the morn then newflushed bloom resign, before the parching beam? so fade the fair, when fever revels in their azure veins but one, _the lofty follower of the sun_, sad when he sits shuts up her yellow leaves, drooping all night, and when he warm return, points her enamoured bosom to his ray _thomson_. the sun-flower (_helianthus_) was once the fair nymph clytia. broken-hearted at the falsehood of her lover, apollo, (who has so many similar sins to answer for) she pined away and died. when it was too late apollo's heart relented, and in honor of true affection he changed poor clytia into a _sun-flower_.[ ] it is sometimes called _tourne-sol_--a word that signifies turning to the sun. thomas moore helps to keep the old story in remembrance by the concluding couplet of one of his sweetest ballads. oh! the heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to its close as the sun flower turns on her god when he sets the same look that she turned when he rose but moore has here poetized a vulgar error. most plants naturally turn towards the light, but the sun-flower (in spite of its name) is perhaps less apt to turn itself towards apollo than the majority of other flowers for it has a stiff stem and a number of heavy heads. at all events it does not change its attitude in the course of the day. the flower-disk that faces the morning sun has it back to it in the evening. gerard calls the sun-flower "the flower of the sun or the marigold of peru". speaking of it in the year he tells us that he had some in his own garden in holborn that had grown to the height of fourteen feet. the wall-flower the weed is green, when grey the wall, and blossoms rise where turrets fall herrick gives us a pretty version of the story of the wall-flower, (_cheiranthus cheiri_)("the yellow wall-flower stained with iron brown") why this flower is now called so list sweet maids and you shall know understand this firstling was once a brisk and bonny lass kept as close as danae was who a sprightly springal loved, and to have it fully proved, up she got upon a wall tempting down to slide withal, but the silken twist untied, so she fell, and bruised and died love in pity of the deed and her loving, luckless speed, turned her to the plant we call now, 'the flower of the wall' the wall-flower is the emblem of fidelity in misfortune, because it attaches itself to fallen towers and gives a grace to ruin. david moir (the delta of _blackwood's magazine_) has a poem on this flower. i must give one stanza of it. in the season of the tulip cup when blossoms clothe the trees, how sweet to throw the lattice up and scent thee on the breeze; the butterfly is then abroad, the bee is on the wing, and on the hawthorn by the road the linnets sit and sing. lord bacon observes that wall-flowers are very delightful when set under the parlour window or a lower chamber window. they are delightful, i think, any where. the jessamine. the jessamine, with which the queen of flowers, to charm her god[ ] adorns his favorite bowers, which brides, by the plain hand of neatness dressed-- unenvied rivals!--wear upon their breast; sweet as the incense of the morn, and chaste as the pure zone which circles dian's waist. _churchill._ the elegant and fragrant jessamine, or jasmine, (_jasmimum officinale_) with its "bright profusion of scattered stars," is said to have passed from east to west. it was originally a native of hindustan, but it is now to be found in every clime, and is a favorite in all. there are many varieties of it in europe. in italy it is woven into bridal wreaths and is used on all festive occasions. there is a proverbial saying there, that she who is worthy of being decorated with jessamine is rich enough for any husband. its first introduction into that sunny land is thus told. a certain duke of tuscany, the first possessor of a plant of this tribe, wished to preserve it as an unique, and forbade his gardener to give away a single sprig of it. but the gardener was a more faithful lover than servant and was more willing to please a young mistress than an old master. he presented the young girl with a branch of jessamine on her birth-day. she planted it in the ground; it took root, and grew and blossomed. she multiplied the plant by cuttings, and by the sale of these realized a little fortune, which her lover received as her marriage dowry. in england the bride wears a coronet of intermingled orange blossom and jessamine. orange flowers indicate chastity, and the jessamine, elegance and grace. the rose. for here the rose expands her paradise of leaves. _southey._ the rose, (_rosa_) the queen of flowers, was given by cupid to harpocrates, the god of silence, as a bribe, to prevent him from betraying the amours of venus. a rose suspended from the ceiling intimates that all is strictly confidential that passes under it. hence the phrase--_under the rose_[ ]. the rose was raised by flora from the remains of a favorite nymph. venus and the graces assisted in the transformation of the nymph into a flower. bacchus supplied streams of nectar to its root, and vertumnus showered his choicest perfumes on its head. the loves of the nightingale and the rose have been celebrated by the muses of many lands. an eastern poet says "you may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale; yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose." the turks say that the rose owes its origin to a drop of perspiration that fell from the person of their prophet mahommed. the classical legend runs that the rose was at first of a pure white, but a rose-thorn piercing the foot of venus when she was hastening to protect adonis from the rage of mars, her blood dyed the flower. spenser alludes to this legend: white as the native rose, before the change which venus' blood did on her leaves impress. _spenser_. milton says that in paradise were, flowers of all hue, and _without thorns the rose_. according to zoroaster there was no thorn on the rose until ahriman (the evil one) entered the world. here is dr. hooker's account of the origin of the red rose. to sinless eve's admiring sight the rose expanded snowy white, when in the ecstacy of bliss she gave the modest flower a kiss, and instantaneous, lo! it drew from her red lip its blushing hue; while from her breath it sweetness found, and spread new fragrance all around. this reminds me of a passage in mrs. barrett browning's _drama of exile_ in which she makes eve say-- --for was i not at that last sunset seen in paradise, when all the westering clouds flashed out in throngs of sudden angel-faces, face by face, all hushed and solemn, as a thought of god held them suspended,--was i not, that hour the lady of the world, princess of life, mistress of feast and favour? _could i touch a rose with my white hand, but it became redder at once?_ another poet. (mr. c. cooke) tells us that a species of red rose with all her blushing honors full upon her, taking pity on a very pale maiden, changed complexions with the invalid and became herself as white as snow. byron expressed a wish that all woman-kind had but one _rosy_ mouth, that he might kiss all woman-kind at once. this, as some one has rightly observed, is better than caligula's wish that all mankind had but one head that he might cut it off at a single blow. leigh hunt has a pleasant line about the rose: and what a red mouth hath the rose, the woman of the flowers! in the malay language the same word signifies _flowers_ and _women_. human beauty and the rose are ever suggesting images of each other to the imagination of the poets. shakespeare has a beautiful description of the two little princes sleeping together in the tower of london. their lips were four red roses on a stalk that in their summer beauty kissed each other. william browne (our devonshire pastoral poet) has a _rosy_ description of a kiss:-- to her amyntas came and saluted; never man before more blest, nor like this kiss hath been another but when two dangling cherries kist each other; nor ever beauties, like, met at such closes, but in the kisses of two damask roses. here is something in the same spirit from crashaw. so have i seen two silken sister-flowers consult and lay their bashful cheeks together; newly they peeped from their buds, showed like the garden's eyes scarce waked, like was the crimson of their joys, like were the tears they wept, so like that one seemed but the other's kind reflection. loudon says that there is a rose called the _york and lancaster_ which when, it comes true has one half of the flower red and the other half white. it was named in commemoration of the two houses at the marriage of henry vii. of lancaster with elizabeth of york. anacreon devotes one of his longest and best odes to the laudation of the rose. such innumerable translations have been made of it that it is now too well known for quotation in this place. thomas moore in his version of the ode gives in a foot-note the following translation of a fragment of the lesbian poetess. if jove would give the leafy bowers a queen for all their world of flowers the rose would be the choice of jove, and blush the queen of every grove sweetest child of weeping morning, gem the vest of earth adorning, eye of gardens, light of lawns, nursling of soft summer dawns june's own earliest sigh it breathes, beauty's brow with lustre wreathes, and to young zephyr's warm caresses spreads abroad its verdant tresses, till blushing with the wanton's play its cheeks wear e'en a redder ray. from the idea of excellence attached to this queen of flowers arose, as thomas moore observes, the pretty proverbial expression used by aristophanes--_you have spoken roses_, a phrase adds the english poet, somewhat similar to the _dire des fleurettes_ of the french. the festival of the rose is still kept up in many villages of france and switzerland. on a certain day of every year the young unmarried women assemble and undergo a solemn trial before competent judges, the most virtuous and industrious girl obtains a crown of roses. in the valley of engandine, in switzerland, a man accused of a crime but proved to be not guilty, is publicly presented by a young maiden with a white rose called the rose of innocence. of the truly elegant moss rose i need say nothing myself; it has been so amply honored by far happier pens than mine. here is a very ingenious and graceful story of its origin. the lines are from the german. the moss rose the angel of the flowers one day, beneath a rose tree sleeping lay, the spirit to whom charge is given to bathe young buds in dews of heaven, awaking from his light repose the angel whispered to the rose "o fondest object of my care still fairest found where all is fair, for the sweet shade thou givest to me ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee" "then" said the rose, "with deepened glow on me another grace bestow." the spirit paused in silent thought what grace was there the flower had not? 'twas but a moment--o'er the rose a veil of moss the angel throws, and robed in nature's simple weed, could there a flower that rose exceed? madame de genlis tells us that during her first visit to england she saw a moss-rose for the first time in her life, and that when she took it back to paris it gave great delight to her fellow-citizens, who said it was the first that had ever been seen in that city. madame de latour says that madame de genlis was mistaken, for the moss-rose came originally from provence and had been known to the french for ages. the french are said to have cultivated the rose with extraordinary care and success. it was the favorite flower of the empress josephine, who caused her own name to be traced in the parterres at malmaison with a plantation of the rarest roses. in the royal rosary at versailles there are standards eighteen feet high grafted with twenty different varieties of the rose. with the romans it was no metaphor but an allusion to a literal fact when they talked of sleeping upon beds of roses. cicero in his third oration against verres, when charging the proconsul with luxurious habits, stated that he had made the tour of sicily seated upon roses. and seneca says, of course jestingly, that a sybarite of the name of smyrndiride was unable to sleep if one of the rose-petals on his bed happened to be curled! at a feast which cleopatra gave to marc antony the floor of the hall was covered with fresh roses to the depth of eighteen inches. at a fête given by nero at baiae the sum of four millions of sesterces or about , _l_. was incurred for roses. the natives of india are fond of the rose, and are lavish in their expenditure at great festivals, but i suppose that no millionaire amongst them ever spent such an amount of money as this upon flowers alone.[ ] i shall close the poetical quotations on the rose with one of shakespeare's sonnets. o how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, by that sweet ornament which truth doth give. the rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem for that sweet odour which doth in it live. the canker-blooms have full as deep a dye as the perfumed tincture of the roses, hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, when summer's breath their masked buds discloses; but for their virtue only is their show, they live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; die to themselves. sweet roses do not so; of then sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: and so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, when that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. there are many hundred acres of rose trees at ghazeepore which are cultivated for distillation, and making "attar." there are large fields of roses in england also, for the manufacture of rose-water. there is a story about the origin of attar of roses. the princess nourmahal caused a large tank, on which she used to be rowed about with the great mogul, to be filled with rose-water. the heat of the sun separating the water from the essential oil of the rose, the latter was observed to be floating on the surface. the discovery was immediately turned to good account. at ghazeepoor, the _essence_, _atta_ or _uttar_ or _otto_, or whatever it should be called, is obtained with great simplicity and ease. after the rose water is prepared it is put into large open vessels which are left out at night. early in the morning the oil that floats upon the surface is skimmed off, or sucked up with fine dry cotton wool, put into bottles, and carefully sealed. bishop heber says that to produce one rupee's weight of atta , well grown roses are required, and that a rupee's weight sells from to rupees. the atta sold in calcutta is commonly adulterated with the oil of sandal wood. linnaea borealis the linnaea borealis, or two horned linnaea, though a simple lapland flower, is interesting to all botanists from its association with the name of the swedish sage. it has pretty little bells and is very fragrant. it is a wild, unobtrusive plant and is very averse to the trim lawn and the gay flower-border. this little woodland beauty pines away under too much notice. she prefers neglect, and would rather waste her sweetness on the desert air, than be introduced into the fashionable lists of florist's flowers. she shrinks from exposure to the sun. a gentleman after walking with linnaeus on the shores of the lake near charlottendal on a lovely evening, writes thus "i gathered a small flower and asked if it was the _linnaea borealis_. 'nay,' said the philosopher, 'she lives not here, but in the middle of our largest woods. she clings with her little arms to the moss, and seems to resist very gently if you force her from it. she has a complexion like a milkmaid, and ah! she is very, very sweet and agreeable!" the forget-me-not the dear little forget-me-not, (_myosotis palustris_)[ ] with its eye of blue, is said to have derived its touching appellation from a sentimental german story. two lovers were walking on the bank of a rapid stream. the lady beheld the flower growing on a little island, and expressed a passionate desire to possess it. he gallantly plunged into the stream and obtained the flower, but exhausted by the force of the tide, he had only sufficient strength left as he neared the shore to fling the flower at the fair one's feet, and exclaim "_forget-me-not!_" (_vergiss-mein-nicht_.) he was then carried away by the stream, out of her sight for ever. the periwinkle. the periwinkle (_vinca_ or _pervinca_) has had its due share of poetical distinction. in france the common people call it the witch's violet. it seems to have suggested to wordsworth an idea of the consciousness of flowers. through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, the periwinkle trailed its wreaths, _and 'tis my faith that every flower enjoys the air it breathes._ mr. j.l. merritt, has some complimentary lines on this flower. the periwinkle with its fan-like leaves all nicely levelled, is a lovely flower whose dark wreath, myrtle like, young flora weaves; there's none more rare nor aught more meet to deck a fairy's bower or grace her hair. the little blue periwinkle is rendered especially interesting to the admirers of the genius of rousseau by an anecdote that records his emotion on meeting it in one of his botanical excursions. he had seen it thirty years before in company with madame de warens. on meeting its sweet face again, after so long and eventful an interim, he fell upon his knees, crying out--_ah! voila de la pervanche!_ "it struck him," says hazlitt, "as the same little identical flower that he remembered so well; and thirty years of sorrow and bitter regret were effaced from his memory." the periwinkle was once supposed to be a cure for many diseases. lord bacon says that in his time people afflicted with cramp wore bands of green periwinkle tied about their limbs. it had also its supposed moral influences. according to culpepper the leaves of the flower if eaten by man and wife together would revive between them a lost affection. the basil. sweet marjoram, with her like, _sweet basil_, rare for smell. _drayton._ the basil is a plant rendered poetical by the genius which has handled it. boccaccio and keats have made the name of the _sweet basil_ sound pleasantly in the ears of many people who know nothing of botany. a species of this plant (known in europe under the botanical name of _ocymum villosum_, and in india as the _toolsee_) is held sacred by the hindus. toolsee was a disciple of vishnu. desiring to be his wife she excited the jealousy of lukshmee by whom she was transformed into the herb named after her.[ ] the tulip. tulips, like the ruddy evening streaked. _southey_. the tulip (_tulipa_) is the glory of the garden, as far as color without fragrance can confer such distinction. some suppose it to be 'the lily of the field' alluded to in the sermon on the mount. it grows wild in syria. the name of the tulip is said to be of turkish origin. it was called tulipa from its resemblance to the tulipan or turban. what crouds the rich divan to-day with turbaned heads, of every hue bowing before that veiled and awful face like tulip-beds of different shapes and dyes, bending beneath the invisible west wind's sighs? _moore_. the reader has probably heard of the tulipomania once carried to so great an excess in holland. with all his phlegm, it broke a dutchman's heart, at a vast price, with one loved root to part. _crabbe_. about the middle of the th century the city of haarlem realized in three years ten millions sterling by the sale of tulips. a single tulip (the _semper augustus_) was sold for one thousand pounds. twelve acres of land were given for a single root and engagements to the amount of £ , were made for a first-class tulip when the mania was at its height. a gentleman, who possessed a tulip of great value, hearing that some one was in possession of a second root of the same kind, eagerly secured it at a most extravagant price. the moment he got possession of it, he crushed it under his foot. "now," he exclaimed, "my tulip is unique!" a dutch merchant gave a sailor a herring for his breakfast. jack seeing on the merchant's counter what he supposed to be a heap of onions, took up a handful of them and ate them with his fish. the supposed onions were tulip bulbs of such value that they would have paid the cost of a thousand royal feasts.[ ] the tulip mania never leached so extravagant a height in england as in holland, but our country did not quite escape the contagion, and even so late as the year at the sale of mr. clarke's tulips at croydon, seventy two pounds were given for a single bulb of the _fanny kemble_; and a florist in chelsea in the same year, priced a bulb in his catalogue at guineas. the tulip is not endeared to us by many poetical associations. we have read, however, one pretty and romantic tale about it. a poor old woman who lived amongst the wild hills of dartmoor, in devonshire, possessed a beautiful bed of tulips, the pride of her small garden. one fine moonlight night her attention was arrested by the sweet music which seemed to issue from a thousand liliputian choristers. she found that the sounds proceeded from her many colored bells of tulips. after watching the flowers intently she perceived that they were not swayed to and fro by the wind, but by innumerable little beings that were climbing on the stems and leaves. they were pixies. each held in its arms an elfin baby tinier than itself. she saw the babies laid in the bells of the plant, which were thus used as cradles, and the music was formed of many lullabies. when the babies were asleep the pixies or fairies left them, and gamboled on the neighbouring sward on which the old lady discovered the day after, several new green rings,--a certain evidence that her fancy had not deceived her! at earliest dawn the fairies had returned to the tulips and taken away their little ones. the good old woman never permitted her tulip bed to be disturbed. she regarded it as holy ground. but when she died, some utilitarian gardener turned it into a parsley bed! the parsley never flourished. the ground was now cursed. in gratitude to the memory of the benevolent dame who had watched and protected the floral nursery, every month, on the night before the full moon, the fairies scattered flowers on her grave, and raised a sweet musical dirge--heard only by poetic ears--or by maids and children who hold each strange tale devoutly true. for as the poet says: what though no credit doubting wits may give, the fair and innocent shall still believe. men of genius are often as trustful as maids and children. collins, himself a lover of the wonderful, thus speaks of tasso:-- prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind believed the magic wonders that he sung. all nature indeed is full of mystery to the imaginative. and visions as poetic eyes avow hang on each leaf and cling to every bough. the hindoos believe that the peepul tree of which the foliage trembles like that of the aspen, has a spirit in every leaf. "did you ever see a fairy's funeral, madam?" said blake, the artist. "never sir." "_i_ have," continued that eccentric genius, "one night i was walking alone in my garden. there was great stillness amongst the branches and flowers and more than common sweetness in the air. i heard a low and pleasant sound, and knew not whence it came: at last i perceived _the broad leaf of a flower move_, and underneath i saw a procession of creatures the size and color of green and gray grasshoppers, _bearing a body laid out on a rose leaf_, which they buried with song, and then disappeared." the pink. the pink (_dianthus_) is a very elegant flower. i have but a short story about it. the young duke of burgundy, grandson of louis the fifteenth, was brought up in the midst of flatterers as fulsome as those rebuked by canute. the youthful prince was fond of cultivating pinks, and one of his courtiers, by substituting a floral changeling, persuaded him that one of those pinks planted by the royal hand had sprung up into bloom in a single night! one night, being unable to sleep, he wished to rise, but was told that it was midnight; he replied "_well then, i desire it to be morning_." the pink is one of the commonest of the flowers in english gardens. it is a great favorite all over europe. the botanists have enumerated about varieties of it. the pansy or hearts-ease. the pansy (_víola trîcolor_) commonly called _hearts-ease_, or _love-in-idleness_, or _herb-trinity_ (_flos trinitarium_), or _three-faces-under-a-hood_, or _kit-run-about_, is one of the richest and loveliest of flowers. the late mrs. siddons, the great actress, was so fond of this flower that she thought she could never have enough of it. besides round beds of it she used it as an edging to all the flower borders in her garden. she liked to plant a favorite flower in large masses of beauty. but such beauty must soon fatigue the eye with its sameness. a round bed of one sort of flowers only is like a nosegay composed of one sort of flowers or of flowers of the same hue. she was also particularly fond of evergreens because they gave her garden a pleasant aspect even in the winter. "do you hear him?"--(john bunyan makes the guide enquire of christiana while a shepherd boy is singing beside his sheep)--"i will dare to say this boy leads a merrier life, and wears more of the herb called _hearts-ease_ in his bosom, than he that is clothed in silk and purple." shakespeare has connected this flower with a compliment to the maiden queen of england. that very time i saw (but thou couldst not) flying between the cold moon and the earth, cupid all armed, a certain aim he took at a fair vestal, throned by the west; and loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow as it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. but i might see young cupid's fiery shaft quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon-- and the imperial votaress passed on in maiden meditation fancy free, yet marked i where the bolt of cupid fell. it fell upon _a little western flowers, before milk white, now purple with love's wound-- and maidens call it_ love in idleness fetch me that flower, the herb i showed thee once, the juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, will make or man or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that it sees. fetch me this herb and be thou here again, ere the leviathan can swim a league. _midsummer night's dream._ the hearts-ease has been cultivated with great care and success by some of the most zealous flower-fanciers amongst our countrymen in india. but it is a delicate plant in this clime, and requires most assiduous attention, and a close study of its habits. it always withers here under ordinary hands. the mignonette. the mignonette, (_reseda odorato_,) the frenchman's _little darling_, was not introduced into england until the middle of the th century. the mignonette or sweet reseda was once supposed capable of assuaging pain, and of ridding men of many of the ills that flesh is heir to. it was applied with an incantation. this flower has found a place in the armorial bearings of an illustrious family of saxony. i must tell the story: the count of walsthim loved the fair and sprightly amelia de nordbourg. she was a spoilt child and a coquette. she had an humble companion whose christian name was charlotte. one evening at a party, all the ladies were called upon to choose a flower each, and the gentlemen were to make verses on the selections. amelia fixed upon the flaunting rose, charlotte the modest mignonette. in the course of the evening amelia coquetted so desperately with a dashing colonel that the count could not suppress his vexation. on this he wrote a verse for the rose: elle ne vit qu'un jour, et ne plait qu'un moment. (she lives but for a day and pleases but for a moment) he then presented the following line on the mignonette to the gentle charlotte: "ses qualities surpassent ses charmes." the count transferred his affections to charlotte, and when he married her, added a branch of the sweet reseda to the ancient arms of his family, with the motto of your qualities surpass your charms. vervain. the vervain-- that hind'reth witches of their will. _drayton_ vervain (_verbena_) was called by the greeks _the sacred herb_. it was used to brush their altars. it was supposed to keep off evil spirits. it was also used in the religious ceremonies of the druids and is still held sacred by the persian magi. the latter lay branches of it on the altar of the sun. the ancients had their _verbenalia_ when the temples were strewed with vervain, and no incantation or lustration was deemed perfect without the aid of this plant. it was supposed to cure the bite of a serpent or a mad dog. the daisy. the daisy or day's eye (_bellis perennis_) has been the darling of the british poets from chaucer to shelley. it is not, however, the darling of poets only, but of princes and peasants. and it is not man's favorite only, but, as wordsworth says, nature's favorite also. yet it is "the simplest flower that blows." its seed is broadcast on the land. it is the most familiar of flowers. it sprinkles every field and lane in the country with its little mimic stars. wordsworth pays it a beautiful compliment in saying that oft alone in nooks remote _we meet it like a pleasant thought when such is wanted._ but though this poet dearly loved the daisy, in some moods of mind he seems to have loved the little celandine (common pilewort) even better. he has addressed two poems to this humble little flower. one begins with the following stanza. pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, let them live upon their praises; long as there's a sun that sets primroses will have their glory; long as there are violets, they will have a place in story: there's a flower that shall be mine, 'tis the little celandine. no flower is too lowly for the affections of wordsworth. hazlitt says, "the daisy looks up to wordsworth with sparkling eye as an old acquaintance; a withered thorn is weighed down with a heap of recollections; and even the lichens on the rocks have a life and being in his thoughts." the lesser celandine, is an inodorous plant, but as wordsworth possessed not the sense of smell, to him a deficiency of fragrance in a flower formed no objection to it. miss martineau alludes to a newspaper report that on one occasion the poet suddenly found himself capable of enjoying the fragrance of a flower, and gave way to an emotion of tumultuous rapture. but i have seen this contradicted. miss martineau herself has generally no sense of smell, but we have her own testimony to the fact that a brief enjoyment of the faculty once actually occurred to her. in her case there was a simultaneous awakening of two dormant faculties--the sense of smell and the sense of taste. once and once only, she enjoyed the scent of a bottle of eau de cologne and the taste of meat. the two senses died away again almost in their birth. shelley calls daisies "those pearled arcturi of the earth"--"the constellated flower that never sets." the father of english poets does high honor to this star of the meadow in the "prologue to the legend of goode women." he tells us that in the merry month of may he was wont to quit even his beloved books to look upon the fresh morning daisy. of all the floures in the mede then love i most these floures white and red, such that men callen daisies in our town, to them i have so great affectión. as i sayd erst, when comen is the maie, that in my bedde there dawneth me no daie that i nam up and walking in the mede to see this floure agenst the sunne sprede, when it up riseth early by the morrow that blisfull sight softeneth all my sorrow. _chaucer_. the poet then goes on with his hearty laudation of this lilliputian luminary of the fields, and hesitates not to describe it as "of all floures the floure." the famous scottish peasant loved it just as truly, and did it equal honor. who that has once read, can ever forget his harmonious and pathetic address to a mountain daisy on turning it up with the plough? i must give the poem a place here, though it must be familiar to every reader. but we can read it again and again, just as we can look day after day with undiminished interest upon the flower that it commemorates. mrs. stowe (the american writer) observes that "the daisy with its wide plaited ruff and yellow centre is not our (that is, an american's) flower. the english flower is the wee, modest, crimson tippéd flower which burns celebrated. it is what we (in america) raise in green-houses and call the mountain daisy. its effect, growing profusely about fields and grass-plats, is very beautiful." to a mountain daisy. on turning one down with the plough in april, wee, modest, crimson tippéd flow'r, thou's met me in an evil hour, for i maun[ ] crush amang the stoure[ ] thy slender stem, to spare thee now is past my pow'r, thou bonnie gem. alas! its no thy neobor sweet, the bonnie lark, companion meet, bending thee 'mang the dewy weet[ ] wi' speckled breast, when upward springing, blythe, to greet the purpling east cauld blew the bitter biting north upon thy early, humble, birth, yet cheerfully thou glinted[ ] forth amid the storm, scarce reared above the patient earth thy tender form the flaunting flowers our gardens yield, high sheltering woods and wa's[ ] maun shield, but thou beneath the random bield[ ] o' clod or stane, adorns the histie[ ] stibble field[ ] unseen, alane. there, in thy scanty mantle clad, thy snawye bosom sun ward spread, thou lifts thy unassuming head in humble guise, but now the share up tears thy bed, and low thou lies! such is the fate of artless maid, sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! by love's simplicity betrayed, and guileless trust, till she, like thee, all soiled is laid low i' the dust. such is the fate of simple bard, on life's rough ocean luckless starred! unskilful he to note the card of prudent lore, till billows rage, and gales blow hard and whelm him o'er! such fate to suffering worth is given who long with wants and woes has striven by human pride or cunning driven to misery's brink, till wrenched of every stay but heaven, he, ruined, sink! ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, that fate is thine--no distant date; stern ruin's plough-share drives elate, full on thy bloom; till crushed beneath the furrow's weight shall be thy doom. _burns._ the following verses though they make no pretension to the strength and pathos of the poem by the great scottish peasant, have a grace and simplicity of their own, for which they have long been deservedly popular. a field flower. on finding one in full bloom, on christmas day, . there is a flower, a little flower, with silver crest and golden eye, that welcomes every changing hour, and weathers every sky. the prouder beauties of the field in gay but quick succession shine, race after race their honours yield, they flourish and decline. but this small flower, to nature dear, while moons and stars their courses run, wreathes the whole circle of the year, companion of the sun. it smiles upon the lap of may, to sultry august spreads its charms, lights pale october on his way, and twines december's arms. the purple heath and golden broom, on moory mountains catch the gale, o'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, the violet in the vale. but this bold floweret climbs the hill, hides in the forest, haunts the glen, plays on the margin of the rill, peeps round the fox's den. within the garden's cultured round it shares the sweet carnation's bed; and blooms on consecrated ground in honour of the dead. the lambkin crops its crimson gem, the wild-bee murmurs on its breast, the blue-fly bends its pensile stem, light o'er the sky-lark's nest. 'tis flora's page,--in every place, in every season fresh and fair; it opens with perennial grace. and blossoms everywhere. on waste and woodland, rock and plain, its humble buds unheeded rise; the rose has but a summer-reign; the daisy never dies. _james montgomery_. montgomery has another very pleasing poetical address to the daisy. the poem was suggested by the first plant of the kind which had appeared in india. the flower sprang up unexpectedly out of some english earth, sent with other seeds in it, to this country. the amiable dr. carey of serampore was the lucky recipient of the living treasure, and the poem is supposed to be addressed by him to the dear little flower of his home, thus born under a foreign sky. dr. carey was a great lover of flowers, and it was one of his last directions on his death-bed, as i have already said, that his garden should be always protected from the intrusion of goths and vandals in the form of bengallee goats and cows. i must give one stanza of montgomery's second poetical tribute to the small flower with "the silver crest and golden eye." thrice-welcome, little english flower! to this resplendent hemisphere where flora's giant offsprings tower in gorgeous liveries all the year; thou, only thou, art little here like worth unfriended and unknown, yet to my british heart more dear than all the torrid zone. it is difficult to exaggerate the feeling with which an exile welcomes a home-flower. a year or two ago dr. ward informed the royal institution of london, that a single primrose had been taken to australia in a glass-case and that when it arrived there in full bloom, the sensation it excited was so great that even those who were in the hot pursuit of gold, paused in their eager career to gaze for a moment upon the flower of their native fields, and such immense crowds at last pressed around it that it actually became necessary to protect it by a guard. my last poetical tribute to the daisy shall be three stanzas from wordsworth, from two different addresses to the same flower. with little here to do or see of things that in the great world be, sweet daisy! oft i talk to thee, for thou art worthy, thou unassuming common-place of nature, with that homely face, and yet with something of a grace, which love makes for thee! * * * * * if stately passions in me burn, and one chance look to thee should turn, i drink out of an humbler urn a lowlier pleasure; the homely sympathy that heeds the common life, our nature breeds; a wisdom fitted to the needs of hearts at leisure. when, smitten by the morning ray, i see thee rise, alert and gay, then, cheerful flower! my spirits play with kindred gladness; and when, at dusk, by dews opprest thou sink'st, the image of thy rest hath often eased my pensive breast of careful sadness. it is peculiarly interesting to observe how the profoundest depths of thought and feeling are sometimes stirred in the heart of genius by the smallest of the works of nature. even more ordinarily gifted men are similarly affected to the utmost extent of their intellect and sensibility. we grow tired of the works of man. in the realms of art we ever crave something unseen before. we demand new fashions, and when the old are once laid aside, we wonder that they should ever have excited even a moment's admiration. but nature, though she is always the same, never satiates us. the simple little daisy which burns has so sweetly commemorated is the same flower that was "of all flowres the flowre," in the estimation of the patriarch of english poets, and which so delighted wordsworth in his childhood, in his middle life, and in his old age. he gazed on it, at intervals, with unchanging affection for upwards of fourscore years. the daisy--the miniature sun with its tiny rays--is especially the favorite of our earliest years. in our remembrances of the happy meadows in which we played in childhood, the daisy's silver lustre is ever connected with the deeper radiance of its gay companion, the butter-cup, which when held against the dimple on the cheek or chin of beauty turns it into a little golden dell. the thoughtful and sensitive frequenter of rural scenes discovers beauty every where; though it is not always the sort of beauty that would satisfy the taste of men who recognize no gaiety or loveliness beyond the walls of cities. to the poet's eye even the freckles on a milk-maid's brow are not without a grace, associated as they are with health, and the open sunshine. chaucer tells us that the french call the daisy _la belle marguerite_. there is a little anecdote connected with the appellation. marguerite of scotland, the queen of louis the eleventh, presented marguerite clotilde de surville, a poetess, with a bouquet of daisies, with this inscription; "marguerite d'ecosse à marguerite (_the pearl_) d'helicon." the country maidens in england practise a kind of sortilége with this flower. they pluck off leaf by leaf, saying alternately "_he loves me_" and "_he loves me not_." the omen or oracle is decided by the fall of either sentence on the last leaf. it is extremely difficult to rear the daisy in india. it is accustomed to all weathers in england, but the long continued sultriness of this clime makes it as delicate as a languid english lady in a tropical exile, and however carefully and skilfully nursed, it generally pines for its native air and dies.[ ] the prickly gorse. --yon swelling downs where the sweet air stirs the harebells, and where prickly furze buds lavish gold. _keat's endymion_. fair maidens, i'll sing you a song, i'll tell of the bonny wild flower, whose blossoms so yellow, and branches so long, o'er moor and o'er rough rocky mountains are flung far away from trim garden and bower _l.a. tuamley_. the prickly gorse or goss or furze, (_ulex_)[ ] i cannot omit to notice, because it was the plant which of all others most struck dillenius when he first trod on english ground. he threw himself on his knees and thanked heaven that he had lived to see the golden undulation of acres of wind-waved gorse. linnaeus lamented that he could scarcely keep it alive in sweden even in a greenhouse. i have the most delightful associations connected with this plant, and never think of it without a summer feeling and a crowd of delightful images and remembrances of rural quietude and blue skies and balmy breezes. cowper hardly does it justice: the common, over-grown with fern, and rough with prickly gorse, that shapeless and deformed and dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom and decks itself with ornaments of gold, yields no unpleasing ramble. the plant is indeed irregularly shaped, but it is not _deformed_, and if it is dangerous to the touch, so also is the rose, unless it be of that species which milton places in paradise--"_and without thorns the rose_." hurdis is more complimentary and more just to the richest ornament of the swelling hill and the level moor. and what more noble than the vernal furze with golden caskets hung? i have seen whole _cotees_ or _coteaux_ (sides of hills) in the sweet little island of jersey thickly mantled with the golden radiance of this beautiful wildflower. the whole vallée des vaux (_the valley of vallies_) is sometimes alive with its lustre. vallee des vaux. air--the meeting of the waters. if i dream of the past, at fair fancy's command, up-floats from the blue sea thy small sunny land! o'er thy green hills, sweet jersey, the fresh breezes blow, and silent and warm is the vallée des vaux! there alone have i loitered 'mid blossoms of gold, and forgot that the great world was crowded and cold, nor believed that a land of enchantment could show a vale more divine than the vallée des vaux. a few scattered cots, like white clouds in the sky, or like still sails at sea when the light breezes die, and a mill with its wheel in the brook's silver glow, form thy beautiful hamlet, sweet vallée des vaux! as the brook prattled by like an infant at play, and each wave as it passed stole a moment away, i thought how serenely a long life would flow, by the sweet little brook in the vallée des vaux. d.l.r. jersey is not the only one of the channel islands that is enriched with "blossoms of gold." in the sister island of guernsey the prickly gorse is much used for hedges, and sir george head remarks that the premises of a guernsey farmer are thus as impregnably fortified and secured as if his grounds were surrounded by a stone wall. in the isle of man the furze grows so high that it is sometimes more like a fir tree than the ordinary plant. there is an old proverb:--"when gorse is out of blossom, kissing is out of fashion"--that is _never_. the gorse blooms all the year. fern. i'll seek the shaggy fern-clad hill and watch, 'mid murmurs muttering stern, the seed departing from the fern ere wakeful demons can convey the wonder-working charm away. _leyden_. "the green and graceful fern" (_filices_) with its exquisite tracery must not be overlooked. it recalls many noble home-scenes to british eyes. pliny says that "of ferns there are two kinds, and they bear neither flowers nor seed." and this erroneous notion of the fern bearing no seed was common amongst the english even so late as the time of addison who ridicules "a doctor that had arrived at the knowledge of the green and red dragon, _and had discovered the female fern-seed_." the seed is very minute and might easily escape a careless eye. in the present day every one knows that the seed of the fern lies on the under side of the leaves, and a single leaf will often bear some millions of seeds. even those amongst the vulgar who believed the plant bore seed, had an idea that the seeds were visible only at certain mysterious seasons and to favored individuals who by carrying a quantity of it on their person, were able, like those who wore the helmet of pluto or the ring of gyges, to walk unseen amidst a crowd. the seed was supposed to be best seen at a certain hour of the night on which st. john the baptist was born. we have the receipt of fern-seed; we walk invisible, _shakespeare's henry iv. part i_. in beaumont's and fletcher's _fair maid of the inn_, is the following allusion to the fern. --had you gyges' ring, _or the herb that gives invisibility_. ben jonson makes a similar allusion to it: i had no medicine, sir, to go invisible, _no fern-seed in my pocket_. pope puts a branch of spleen-wort, a species of fern, (_asplenium trichomanes_) into the hand of a gnome as a protection from evil influences in the cave of spleen. safe passed the gnome through this fantastic band a branch of healing spleen-wort in his hand. the fern forms a splendid ornament for shadowy nooks and grottoes, or fragments of ruins, or heaps of stones, or the odd corners of a large garden or pleasure-ground. i have had many delightful associations with this plant both at home and abroad. when i visited the beautiful island of penang, sir william norris, then the recorder of the island, and who was a most indefatigable collector of ferns, obligingly presented me with a specimen of every variety that he had discovered in the hills and vallies of that small paradise; and i suppose that in no part of the world could a finer collection of specimens of the fern be made for a botanist's _herbarium_. fern leaves will look almost as well ten years after they are gathered as on the day on which they are transferred from the dewy hillside to the dry pages of a book. jersey and penang are the two loveliest islands on a small scale that i have yet seen: the latter is the most romantic of the two and has nobler trees and a richer soil and a brighter sky--but they are both charming retreats for the lovers of peace and nature. as i have devoted some verses to jersey i must have some also on the island of penang. i. i stand upon the mountain's brow-- i drink the cool fresh, mountain breeze-- i see thy little town below,[ ] thy villas, hedge-rows, fields and trees, and hail thee with exultant glow, gem of the oriental seas! ii. a cloud had settled on my heart-- my frame had borne perpetual pain-- i yearned and panted to depart from dread bengala's sultry plain-- fate smiled,--disease withholds his dart-- i breathe the breath of life again! iii. with lightened heart, elastic tread, almost with youth's rekindled flame, i roam where loveliest scenes outspread raise thoughts and visions none could name, save those on whom the muses shed a spell, a dower of deathless fame. iv. i _feel_, but oh! could ne'er _pourtray_, sweet isle! thy charms of land and wave, the bowers that own no winter day, the brooks where timid wild birds lave, the forest hills where insects gay[ ] mimic the music of the brave! v. i see from this proud airy height a lovely lilliput below! ships, roads, groves, gardens, mansions white, and trees in trimly ordered row,[ ] present almost a toy like sight, a miniature scene, a fairy show! vi. but lo! beyond the ocean stream, that like a sheet of silver lies, as glorious as a poet's dream the grand malayan mountains rise, and while their sides in sunlight beam their dim heads mingle with the skies. vi. men laugh at bards who live _in clouds_-- the clouds _beneath_ me gather now, or gliding slow in solemn crowds, or singly, touched with sunny glow, like mystic shapes in snowy shrouds, or lucid veils on beauty's brow. viii. while all around the wandering eye beholds enchantments rich and rare, of wood, and water, earth, and sky a panoramic vision fair, the dyal breathes his liquid sigh, and magic floats upon the air! ix. oh! lovely and romantic isle! how cold the heart thou couldst not please! thy very dwellings seem to smile like quiet nests mid summer trees! i leave thy shores--but weep the while-- gem of the oriental seas! d.l.r. henna. the henna or al hinna (_lawsonia inermis_) is found in great abundance in egypt, india, persia and arabia. in bengal it goes by the name of _mindee_. it is much used here for garden hedges. hindu females rub it on the palms of their hands, the tips of their fingers and the soles of their feet to give them a red dye. the same red dye has been observed upon the nails of egyptian mummies. in egypt sprigs of henna are hawked about the streets for sale with the cry of "_o, odours of paradise; o, flowers of the henna!_" thomas moore alludes to one of the uses of the henna:-- thus some bring leaves of henna to imbue the fingers' ends of a bright roseate hue, so bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem like tips of coral branches in the stream. moss. mosses (_musci_) are sometimes confounded with lichens. true mosses are green, and lichens are gray. all the mosses are of exquisitely delicate structure. they are found in every part of the world where the atmosphere is moist. they have a wonderful tenacity of life and can often be restored to their original freshness after they have been dried for years. it was the sight of a small moss in the interior of africa that suggested to mungo park such consolatory reflections as saved him from despair. he had been stripped of all he had by banditti. "in this forlorn and almost helpless condition," he says, "when the robbers had left me, i sat for some time looking around me with amazement and terror. whichever way i turned, nothing appeared but danger and difficulty. i found myself in the midst of a vast wilderness, in the depth of the rainy season--naked and alone,--surrounded by savages. i was five hundred miles from any european settlement. all these circumstances crowded at once upon my recollection; and i confess that my spirits began to fail me. i considered my fate as certain, and that i had no alternative, but to lie down and perish. the influence of religion, however aided and supported me. i reflected that no human prudence or foresight could possibly have averted my present sufferings. i was indeed a stranger in a strange land, yet i was still under the eye of that providence who has condescended to call himself the stranger's friend. at this moment, painful as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small moss irresistibly caught my eye; and though the whole plant was not larger than the top of one of my fingers, i could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, and fruit, without admiration. can that being (thought i) who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image? surely not.--reflections like these would not allow me to despair. i started up; and disregarding both, hunger and fatigue, traveled forward, assured that relief was at hand; and i was not disappointed." victoria regia. on this queen of aquatic plants the language of admiration has been exhausted. it was discovered in the first year of the present century by the botanist haenke who was sent by the spanish government to investigate the vegetable productions of peru. when in a canoe on the rio mamore, one of the great tributaries of the river amazon, he came suddenly upon the noblest and largest flower that he had ever seen. he fell on his knees in a transport of admiration. it was the plant now known as the victoria regia, or american water-lily. it was not till february , that dr. hugh rodie and mr. lachie of demerara forwarded seeds of the plant to sir w.t. hooker in vials of pure water. they were sown in earth, in pots immersed in water, and enclosed in a glass case. they vegetated rapidly. the plants first came to perfection at chatsworth the seat of the duke of devonshire,[ ] and subsequently at the royal gardens at kew. early in november of the same year, ( ,) the leaves of the plant at chatsworth were feet inches in diameter. a child weighing forty two pounds was placed upon one of the leaves which bore the weight well. the largest leaf of the plant by the middle of the next month was five feet in diameter with a turned up edge of from two to four inches. it then bore up a person of stone weight. the flat leaf of the victoria regia as it floats on the surface of the water, resembles in point of form the brass high edged platter in which hindus eat their rice. the flowers in the middle of may measured one foot one inch in diameter. the rapidity of the growth of this plant is one of its most remarkable characteristics, its leaves often expanding eight inches in diameter daily, and mr. john fisk allen, who has published in america an admirably illustrated work upon the subject, tells us that instances under his own observation have occurred of the leaves increasing at the rate of half an inch hourly. not only is there an extraordinary variety in the colours of the several specimens of this flower, but a singularly rapid succession of changes of hue in the same individual flower as it progresses from bud to blossom. this vegetable wonder was introduced into north america in . it grows to a larger size there than in england. some of the leaves of the plant cultivated in north america measure seventy-two inches in diameter. this plant has been proved to be perennial. it grows best in from to feet of water. each plant generally sends but four or five leaves to the surface. in addition to the other attractions of this noble water lily, is the exquisite character of its perfume, which strongly resembles that of a fresh pineapple just cut open. the victoria regia in the calcutta botanic garden has from some cause or other not flourished so well as it was expected to do. the largest leaf is not more than four feet and three quarters in diameter. but there can be little doubt that when the habits of the plant are better understood it will be brought to great perfection in this country. i strongly recommend my native friends to decorate their tanks with this the most glorious of aquatic plants. the fly-orchis--the bee-orchis. of these strange freaks of nature many strange stories are told. i cannot repeat them all. i shall content myself with quoting the following passage from d'israeli's _curiosities of literature_:-- "there is preserved in the british museum, a black stone, on which nature has sketched a resemblance of the portrait of chaucer. stones of this kind, possessing a sufficient degree of resemblance, are rare; but art appears not to have been used. even in plants, we find this sort of resemblance. there is a species of the orchis found in the mountainous parts of lincolnshire, kent, &c. nature has formed a bee, apparently feeding on the breast of the flower, with so much exactness, that it is impossible at a very small distance to distinguish the imposition. hence the plant derives its name, and is called, the _bee-flower_. langhorne elegantly notices its appearance. see on that floweret's velvet breast, how close the busy vagrant lies? his thin-wrought plume, his downy breast, th' ambrosial gold that swells his thighs. perhaps his fragrant load may bind his limbs;--we'll set the captive free-- i sought the living bee to find, and found the picture of a bee,' the late mr. james of exeter wrote to me on this subject: 'this orchis is common near our sea-coasts; but instead of being exactly like a bee, _it is not like it at all_. it has a general resemblance to a _fly_, and by the help of imagination, may be supposed to be a fly pitched upon the flower. the mandrake very frequently has a forked root, which may be fancied to resemble thighs and legs. i have seen it helped out with nails on the toes.' an ingenious botanist, a stranger to me, after reading this article, was so kind as to send me specimens of the _fly_ orchis, _ophrys muscifera_, and of the _bee_ orchis, _ophrys apifera_. their resemblance to these insects when in full flower is the most perfect conceivable; they are distinct plants. the poetical eye of langhorne was equally correct and fanciful; and that too of jackson, who differed so positively. many controversies have been carried on, from a want of a little more knowledge; like that of the bee _orchis_ and the fly _orchis_; both parties prove to be right."[ ] the fuchsia. the fuchsia is decidedly the most _graceful_ flower in the world. it unfortunately wants fragrance or it would be the _beau ideal_ of a favorite of flora. there is a story about its first introduction into england which is worth reprinting here: 'old mr. lee, a nurseryman and gardener, near london, well known fifty or sixty years ago, was one day showing his variegated treasures to a friend, who suddenly turned to him, and declared, 'well, you have not in your collection a prettier flower than i saw this morning at wapping!'--'no! and pray what was this phoenix like?' 'why, the plant was elegant, and the flowers hung in rows like tassels from the pendant branches; their colour the richest crimson; in the centre a fold of deep purple,' and so forth. particular directions being demanded and given, mr. lee posted off to wapping, where he at once perceived that the plant was new in this part of the world. he saw and admired. entering the house, he said, 'my good woman, that is a nice plant. i should like to buy it.'--'i could not sell it for any money, for it was brought me from the west indies by my husband, who has now left again, and i must keep it for his sake.'--'but i must have it!'--'no sir!'--'here,' emptying his pockets; 'here are gold, silver, copper.' (his stock was something more than eight guineas.)--'well a-day! but this is a power of money, sure and sure.'--''tis yours, and the plant is mine; and, my good dame, you shall have one of the first young ones i rear, to keep for your husband's sake,'--'alack, alack!'--'you shall.' a coach was called, in which was safely deposited our florist and his seemingly dear purchase. his first work was to pull off and utterly destroy every vestige of blossom and bud. the plant was divided into cuttings, which were forced in bark beds and hotbeds; were redivided and subdivided. every effort was used to multiply it. by the commencement of the next flowering season, mr. lee was the delighted possessor of fuchsia plants, all giving promise of blossom. the two which opened first were removed into his show-house. a lady came:--'why, mr. lee, my dear mr. lee, where did you get this charming flower?'--'hem! 'tis a new thing, my lady; pretty, is it not?'--'pretty! 'tis lovely. its price?'--'a guinea: thank your ladyship;' and one of the plants stood proudly in her ladyship's boudoir. 'my dear charlotte, where did you get?' &c.--'oh! 'tis a new thing; i saw it at old lee's; pretty, is it not?'--'pretty! 'tis beautiful! its price!'--'a guinea; there was another left.' the visitor's horses smoked off to the suburb; a third flowering plant stood on the spot whence the first had been taken. the second guinea was paid, and the second chosen fuchsia adorned the drawing-room of her second ladyship the scene was repeated, as new-comers saw and were attracted by the beauty of the plant. new chariots flew to the gates of old lee's nursery-ground. two fuchsias, young, graceful and bursting into healthy flower, were constantly seen on the same spot in his repository. he neglected not to gladden the faithful sailor's wife by the promised gift; but, ere the flower season closed, golden guineas clinked in his purse, the produce of the single shrub of the widow of wapping; the reward of the taste, decision, skill, and perseverance of old mr. lee.' whether this story about the fuchsia, be only partly fact and partly fiction i shall not pretend to determine; but the best authorities acknowledge that mr. lee, one of the founders of the hammersmith nursery, was the first to make the plant generally known in england and that he for some time got a guinea for each of the cuttings. the fuchsia is a native of mexico and chili. i believe that most of the plants of this genus introduced into india have flourished for a brief period and then sickened and died. the poets of england have not yet sung the fuschia's praise. here are three stanzas written for a gentleman who had been presented, by the lady of his love with a superb plant of this kind. a fuchsia. i. a deed of grace--a graceful gift--and graceful too the giver! like ear-rings on thine own fair head, these long buds hang and quiver: each tremulous taper branch is thrilled--flutter the wing-like leaves-- for thus to part from thee, sweet maid, the floral spirit grieves! ii. rude gods in brass or gold enchant an untaught devotee-- fair marble shapes, rich paintings old, are art's idolatry; but nought e'er charmed a human breast like this small tremulous flower, minute and delicate work divine of world-creative power! iii. this flower's the queen of all earth's flowers, and loveliest things appear linked by some secret sympathy, in this mysterious sphere; the giver and the gift seem one, and thou thyself art nigh when this glory of the garden greets thy lover's raptured eye. d.l.r. "do you know the proper name of this flower?" writes jeremy bentham to a lady-friend, "and the signification of its name? fuchsia from fuchs, a german botanist." rosemary. there's rosemary--that's for remembrance: pray you, love, remember. _hamlet_ there's rosemarie; the arabians justifie (physitions of exceeding perfect skill) it comforteth the brain and memory. _chester_. bacon speaks of heaths of rosemary (_rosmarinus_[ ]) that "will smell a great way in the sea; perhaps twenty miles." this reminds us of milton's paradise. so lovely seemed that landscape, and of pure, now purer air, meets his approach, and to the heart inspires vernal delight and joy, able to drive all sadness but despair. now gentle gales fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole those balmy spoils. as when to them who sail beyond the cape of hope, and now are past mozambic, off at sea north east winds blow sabean odours from the spicy shore of araby the blest, with such delay well pleased they slack their course, and many a league cheered with the grateful smell, old ocean smiles. rosemary used to be carried at funerals, and worn as wedding favors. _lewis_ pray take a piece of rosemary _miramont_ i'll wear it, but for the lady's sake, and none of your's! _beaumont and fletcher's "elder brother."_ rosemary, says malone, being supposed to strengthen the memory, was the emblem of fidelity in lovers. so in _a handfull of pleasant delites, containing sundrie new sonets, mo_. : rosemary is for remembrance between us daie and night, wishing that i might alwaies have you present in my sight. the poem in which these lines are found, is entitled, '_a nosegay alwaies sweet for lovers to send for tokens of love_.' roger hochet in his sermon entitled _a marriage present_ ( ) thus speaks of the rosemary;--"it overtoppeth all the flowers in the garden, boasting man's rule. it helpeth the brain, strengtheneth the memorie, and is very medicinable for the head. another propertie of the rosemary is, it affects the heart. let this rosemarinus, this flower of men, ensigne of your wisdom, love, and loyaltie, be carried not only in your hands, but in your hearts and heads." "hungary water" is made up chiefly from the oil distilled from this shrub. * * * * * i should talk on a little longer about other shrubs, herbs, and flowers, (particularly of flowers) such as the "pink-eyed pimpernel" (the poor man's weather glass) and the fragrant violet, ('the modest grace of the vernal year,') the scarlet crested geranium with its crimpled leaves, and the yellow and purple amaranth, powdered with gold, a flower which once in paradise, fast by the tree of life began to bloom, and the crisp and well-varnished holly with "its rutilant berries," and the white lily, (the vestal lady of the vale,--"the flower of virgin light") and the luscious honeysuckle, and the chaste snowdrop, venturous harbinger of spring and pensive monitor of fleeting years, and the sweet heliotrope and the gay and elegant nasturtium, and a great many other "bonnie gems" upon the breast of our dear mother earth,--but this gossipping book has already extended to so unconscionable a size that i must quicken my progress towards a conclusion[ ]. i am indebted to the kindness of babu kasiprasad ghosh, the first hindu gentlemen who ever published a volume of poems in the english language[ ] for the following interesting list of indian flowers used in hindu ceremonies. many copies of the poems of kasiprasad ghosh, were sent to the english public critics, several of whom spoke of the author's talents with commendation. the late miss emma roberts wrote a brief biography of him for one of the london annuals, so that there must be many of my readers at home who will not on this occasion hear of his name for the first time. a brief account of indian flowers, commonly used in hindu ceremonies.[ ] a'kunda (_calotropis gigantea_).--a pretty purple coloured, and slightly scented flower, having a sweet and agreeable smell. it is called _arca_ in sanscrit, and has two varieties, both of which are held to be sacred to shiva. it forms one of the five darts with which the indian god of love is supposed to pierce the hearts of young mortals.[ ] sir william jones refers to it in his hymn to kama deva. it possesses medicinal properties.[ ] a'para'jita (_clitoria ternatea_).--a conically shaped flower, the upper part of which is tinged with blue and the lower part is white. some are wholly white. it is held to be sacred to durgá. asoca. (_jonesia asoca_).--a small yellow flower, which blooms in large clusters in the month of april and gives a most beautiful appearance to the tree. it is eaten by young females as a medicine. it smells like the saffron. a'tashi.--a small yellowish or brown coloured flower without any smell. it is supposed to be sacred to shiva, and is very often alluded to by the indian poets. it resembles the flower of the flax or linum usitatissimum.[ ] baka.--a kidney shaped flower, having several varieties, all of which are held to be sacred to vishnu, and are in consequence used in his worship. it is supposed to possess medicinal virtues and is used by the native doctors. baku'la (_mimusops etengi_).--a very small, yellowish, and fragrant flower. it is used in making garlands and other female ornaments. krishna is said to have fascinated the milkmaids of brindabun by playing on his celebrated flute under a _baku'la_ tree on the banks of the jumna, which is, therefore, invariably alluded to in all the sanscrit and vernacular poems relating to his amours with those young women. ba'kasha (_justicia adhatoda_).--a white flower, having a slight smell. it is used in certain native medicines. bela (_jasminum zambac_).--a fragrant small white flower, in common use among native females, who make garlands of it to wear in their braids of hair. a kind of _uttar_ is extracted from this flower, which is much esteemed by natives. it is supposed to form one of the darts of kama deva or the god of love. european botanists seem to have confounded this flower with the monika, which they also call the jasminum zambac. bhu'mi champaka.--an oblong variegated flower, which shoots out from the ground at the approach of spring. it has a slight smell, and is considered to possess medicinal properties. the great peculiarity of this flower is that it blooms when there is not apparently the slightest trace of the existence of the shrub above ground. when the flower dies away, the leaves make their appearance. champa' (_michelia champaka_).--a tulip shaped yellow flower possessing a very strong smell.[ ] it forms one of the darts of kama deva, the indian cupid. it is particularly sacred to krishna. chundra mallika' (_chrysanthemum indiana_).--a pretty round yellow flower which blooms in winter. the plant is used in making hedges in gardens and presents a beautiful appearance in the cold weather when the blossoms appear. dhastu'ra (_datura fastuosa_).--a large tulip shaped white flower, sacred to mahadeva, the third godhead of the hindu trinity. the seeds of this flower have narcotic properties.[ ] drona.--a white flower with a very slight smell. dopati (_impatiens balsamina_).--a small flower having a slight smell. there are several varieties of this flower. some are red and some white, while others are both white and red. ga'nda' (_tagetes erecta_).--a handsome yellow flower, which sometimes grows very large. it is commonly used in making garlands, with which the natives decorate their idols, and the europeans in india their churches and gates on christmas day and new year's day. gandha ra'j (_gardenia florida_).--a strongly scented white flower, which blooms at night. golancha (_menispermum glabrum_).--a white flower. the plant is already well known to europeans as a febrifuge. java' (_hibiscus rosa sinensis_).--a large blood coloured flower held to be especially sacred to kali. there are two species of it, viz. the ordinary javá commonly seen in our gardens and parterres, and the _pancha mukhi_, which, as its name imports, has five compartments and is the largest of the two.[ ] jayanti (_aeschynomene sesban_).--a small yellowish flower, held to be sacred to shiva. jha'nti.--a small white flower possessing medicinal properties. the leaves of the plants are used in curing certain ulcers. ja'nti (_jasminum grandiflorum_).--also a small white flower having a sweet smell. the _uttar_ called _chumeli_ is extracted from it. juyin (_jasminum auriculatum_).--the indian jasmine. it is a very small white flower remarkable for its sweetness. it is also used in making a species of _uttar_ which is highly prized by the natives, as also in forming a great variety of imitation female ornaments. kadamba (_nauclea cadamba_).--a ball shaped yellow flower held to be particularly sacred to krishna, many of whose gambols with the milkmaids of brindabun are said to have been performed under the kadamba tree, which is in consequence very frequently alluded to in the vernacular poems relating to his loves with those celebrated beauties. kinsuka (_butea frondosa_).--a handsome but scentless white flower. kanaka champa (_pterospermum acerifolium_).--a yellowish flower which hangs down in form of a tassel. it has a strong smell, which is perceived at a great distance when it is on the tree, but the moment it is plucked off, it begins to lose its fragrance. kanchana (_bauhinia variegata_).--there are several varieties of this flower. some are white, some are purple, while others are red. it gives a handsome appearance to the tree when the latter is in full blossom. kunda (_jasminum pulescens_).--a very pretty white flower. indian poets frequently compare a set of handsome teeth, to this flower. it is held to be especially sacred to vishnu. karabira (_nerium odosum_).--there are two species of this flower, viz. the white and red, both of which are sacred to shiva. kamini (_murraya exotica_).--a pretty small white flower having a strong smell. it blooms at night and is very delicate to the touch. the _kamini_ tree is frequently used as a garden hedge. krishna chura (_poinciana pulcherrima_).--a pretty small flower, which, as its name imports resembles the head ornament of krishna. when the krishna chura tree is in full blossom, it has a very handsome appearance. krishna keli (_mirabilis jalapa_.)[ ]--a small tulip shaped yellow flower. the bulb of the plant has medicinal properties and is used by the natives as a poultice. kumada (_nymphaea esculenta_)--a white flower, resembling the lotus, but blooming at night, whence the indian poets suppose that it is in love with chandra or the moon, as the lotus is imagined by them to be in love with the sun. lavanga lata' (_limonia scandens_.)--a very small red flower growing upon a creeper, which has been celebrated by jaya deva in his famous work called the _gita govinda_. this creeper is used in native gardens for bowers. mallika' (_jasminum zambac_.)--a white flower resembling the _bela_. it has a very sweet smell and is used by native females to make ornaments. it is frequently alluded to by indian poets. muchakunda (_pterospermum suberifolia_).--a strongly scented flower, which grows in clusters and is of a brown colour. ma'lati (_echites caryophyllata_.)--the flower of a creeper which is commonly used in native gardens. it has a slight smell and is of a white colour. ma'dhavi (_gaertnera racemosa_.)--the flower of another creeper which is also to be seen in native gardens. it is likewise of a white colour. na'geswara (_mesua ferrua_.)--a white flower with yellow filaments, which are said to possess medicinal properties and are used by the native physicians. it has a very sweet smell and is supposed by indian poets to form one of the darts of kama deva. see sir william jones's hymn to that deity. padma (_nelumbium speciosum_.)--the indian lotus, which is held to be sacred to vishnu, brama, mahadava, durga, lakshami and saraswati as well as all the higher orders of indian deities. it is a very elegant flower and is highly esteemed by the natives, in consequence of which the indian poets frequently allude to it in their writings. pa'rijata (_buchanania latifolia_.)--a handsome white flower, with a slight smell. in native poetry, it furnishes a simile for pretty eyes, and is held to be sacred to vishnu. paregata (_erythrina fulgens_.)--a flower which is supposed to bloom in the garden of indra in heaven, and forms the subject of an interesting episode in the _puranas_, in which the two wives of krisna, (rukmini and satyabhama) are said to have quarrelled for the exclusive possession of this flower, which their husband had stolen from the celestial garden referred to. it is supposed to be identical with the flower of the _palta madar_. rajani gandha (_polianthus tuberosa_.)--a white tulip-shaped flower which blooms at night, from which circumstance it is called "the rajani gandha, (or night-fragrance giver)." it is the indian tuberose. rangana.--a small and very pretty red flower which is used by native females in ornamenting their betels. seonti. _rosa glandulefera_. a white flower resembling the rose in size and appearance. it has a sweet smell. sepha'lika (_nyctanthes arbor-tristis_.)--a very pretty and delicate flower which blooms at night, and drops down shortly after. it has a sweet smell and is held to be sacred to shiva. the juice of the leaves of the sephalika tree are used in curing both remittant and intermittent fevers. suryja mukhi (_helianthus annuus_).--a large and very handsome yellow flower, which is said to turn itself to the sun, as he goes from east to west, whence it has derived its name. suryja mani (_hibiscus phoeniceus_).--a small red flower. golaka champa.--a large beautiful white tulip-shaped flower having a sweet smell. it is externally white but internally orange-colored. tagur (_tabernoemontana coronaria_).--a white flower having a slight smell. taru lata.--a beautiful creeper with small red flowers. it is used in native gardens for making hedges. k.g. * * * * * pliny in his natural history alludes to the marks of time exhibited in the regular opening and closing of flowers. linnaeus enumerates forty-six flowers that might be used for the construction of a floral time-piece. this great swedish botanist invented a floral horologe, "whose wheels were the sun and earth and whose index-figures were flowers." perhaps his invention, however, was not wholly original. andrew marvell in his "_thoughts in a garden_" mentions a sort of floral dial:-- how well the skilful gardener drew of flowers and herbs this dial new! where, from above, the milder sun does through a fragrant zodiac run: and, as it works, th'industrious bee computes its time as well as we: how could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers? _marvell_[ ] milton's notation of time--"_at shut of evening flowers_," has a beautiful simplicity, and though shakespeare does not seem to have marked his time on a floral clock, yet, like all true poets, he has made very free use of other appearances of nature to indicate the commencement and the close of day. the sun no sooner shall the mountains touch-- than we will ship him hence. _hamlet_. fare thee well at once! the glow-worm shows the matin to be near and gins to pale his uneffectual fire. _hamlet_. but look! the morn, in russet mantle clad, walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill:-- break we our watch up. _hamlet_. _light thickens_, and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood. _macbeth_. such picturesque notations of time as these, are in the works of shakespeare, as thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in valombrosa. in one of his sonnets he thus counts the years of human life by the succession of the seasons. to me, fair friend, you never can be old, for as you were when first your eye i eyed, such seems your beauty still. three winters cold have from the forests shook three summers' pride; three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned in process of the seasons have i seen; three april's perfumes in three hot junes burned since first i saw you fresh which yet are green. grainger, a prosaic verse-writer who once commenced a paragraph of a poem with "now, muse, let's sing of rats!" called upon the slave drivers in the west indies to time their imposition of cruel tasks by the opening and closing of flowers. till morning dawn and lucifer withdraw his beamy chariot, let not the loud bell call forth thy negroes from their rushy couch: and ere the sun with mid-day fervor glow, when every broom-bush opes her yellow flower, let thy black laborers from their toil desist: nor till the broom her every petal lock, let the loud bell recal them to the hoe, but when the jalap her bright tint displays, when the solanum fills her cup with dew, and crickets, snakes and lizards gin their coil, let them find shelter in their cane-thatched huts. _sugar cane_.[ ] i shall here give (_from loudon's encyclopaedia of gardening_) the form of a flower dial. it may be interesting to many of my readers:-- 'twas a lovely thought to mark the hours as they floated in light away by the opening and the folding flowers that laugh to the summer day.[ ] _mr. hemans_. a flower dial. time of opening. [ ] h. m. yellow goat's beard t.p. late flowering dandelion leon.s. bristly helminthia h.b. alpine borkhausia b.a. wild succory c.i. naked stalked poppy p.n. copper coloured day lily h.f. smooth sow thistle s.l. alpine agathyrsus ag.a. small bind weed con.a. common nipple wort l.c. common dandelion l.t. sported achyrophorus a.m. white water lily n.a. garden lettuce lec.s. african marigold t.e. common pimpernel a.a. mouse-ear hawkweed h.p. proliferous pink d.p. field marigold cal.a. purple sandwort a.p. small purslane p.o. creeping mallow m.c. chickweed s.m. time of closing. h. m. helminthia echioides b.h. agathyrsus alpinus a.b. borkhausia alpina a.b. leontodon serotinus l.d. malva caroliniana c.m. dainthus prolifer p.p. hieracium pilosella m.h. anagallis arvensis s.p. arenaria purpurea p.s. calendula arvensis f.m. tacetes erecta a.m. convolvulus arvensis s.b. achyrophorus maculatus s.a. nymphaea alba w.w.b. papaver nudicaule n.p. hemerocallis fulva c.d.l. cichorium intybus w.s. tragopogon pratensis y.g.b. stellaria media c. lapsana communis c.n. lactuca sativa g.l. sonchus laevis s.t. portulaca oleracea s.p. of course it will be necessary to adjust the _horologium florae_ (or flower clock) to the nature of the climate. flowers expand at a later hour in a cold climate than in a warm one. "a flower," says loudon, "that opens at six o'clock in the morning at senegal, will not open in france or england till eight or nine, nor in sweden till ten. a flower that opens at ten o'clock at senegal will not open in france or england till noon or later, and in sweden it will not open at all. and a flower that does not open till noon or later at senegal will not open at all in france or england. this seems as if heat or its absence were also (as well as light) an agent in the opening and shutting of flowers; though the opening of such as blow only in the night cannot be attributed to either light or heat." the seasons may be marked in a similar manner by their floral representatives. mary howitt quotes as a motto to her poem on _holy flowers_ the following example of religious devotion timed by flowers:-- "mindful of the pious festivals which our church prescribes," (says a franciscan friar) "i have sought to make these charming objects of floral nature, the _time-pieces of my religious calendar_, and the mementos of the hastening period of my mortality. thus i can light the taper to our virgin mother on the blowing of the white snow-drop which opens its floweret at the time of candlemas; the lady's smock and the daffodil, remind me of the annunciation; the blue harebell, of the festival of st george; the ranunculus, of the invention of the cross; the scarlet lychnis, of st. john the baptist's day; the white lily, of the visitation of our lady, and the virgin's bower, of her assumption; and michaelmas, martinmas, holyrood, and christmas, have all their appropriate monitors. i learn the time of day from the shutting of the blossoms of the star of jerusalem and the dandelion, and the hour of the night by the stars." some flowers afford a certain means of determining the state of the atmosphere. if i understand mr. tyas rightly he attributes the following remarks to hartley coleridge.-- "many species of flowers are admirable barometers. most of the bulbous-rooted flowers contract, or close their petals entirely on the approach of rain. the african marigold indicates rain, if the corolla is closed after seven or eight in the morning. the common bind-weed closes its flowers on the approach of rain; but the anagallis arvensis, or scarlet pimpernel, is the most sure in its indications as the petals constantly close on the least humidity of the atmosphere. barley is also singularly affected by the moisture or dryness of the air. the awns are furnished with stiff points, all turning towards one end, which extend when moist, and shorten when dry. the points, too, prevent their receding, so that they are drawn up or forward; as moisture is returned, they advance and so on; indeed they may be actually seen to travel forwards. the capsules of the geranium furnish admirable barometers. fasten the beard, when fully ripe, upon a stand, and it will twist itself, or untwist, according as the air is moist or dry. the flowers of the chick-weed, convolvulus, and oxalis, or wood sorrel, close their petals on the approach of rain." the famous german writer, jean paul richter, describes what he calls _a human clock_. a human clock. "i believe" says richter "the flower clock of linnaeus, in upsal (_horologium florae_) whose wheels are the sun and earth, and whose index-figures are flowers, of which one always awakens and opens later than another, was what secretly suggested my conception of the human clock. i formerly occupied two chambers in scheeraw, in the middle of the market place: from the front room i overlooked the whole market-place and the royal buildings and from the back one, the botanical garden. whoever now dwells in these two rooms possesses an excellent harmony, arranged to his hand, between the flower clock in the garden and the human clock in the marketplace. at three o'clock in the morning, the yellow meadow goats-beard opens; and brides awake, and the stable-boy begins to rattle and feed the horses beneath the lodger. at four o'clock the little hawk weed awakes, choristers going to the cathedral who are clocks with chimes, and the bakers. at five, kitchen maids, dairy maids, and butter-cups awake. at six, the sow-thistle and cooks. at seven o'clock many of the ladies' maids are awake in the palace, the chicory in my botanical garden, and some tradesmen. at eight o'clock all the colleges awake and the little mouse-ear. at nine o'clock, the female nobility already begin to stir; the marigold, and even many young ladies, who have come from the country on a visit, begin to look out of their windows. between ten and eleven o'clock the court ladies and the whole staff of lords of the bed-chamber, the green colewort and the alpine dandelion, and the reader of the princess rouse themselves out of their morning sleep; and the whole palace, considering that the morning sun gleams so brightly to-day from the lofty sky through the coloured silk curtains, curtails a little of its slumber. at twelve o'clock, the prince: at one, his wife and the carnation have their eyes open in their flower vase. what awakes late in the afternoon at four o'clock is only the red-hawkweed, and the night watchman as cuckoo-clock, and these two only tell the time as evening-clocks and moon-clocks. from the eyes of the unfortunate man, who like the jalap plant (mirabilia jalapa), first opens them at five o'clock, we will turn our own in pity aside. it is a rich man who only exchanges the fever fancies of being pinched with hot pincers for waking pains. i could never know when it was two o'clock, because at that time, together with a thousand other stout gentlemen and the yellow mouse-ear, i always fell asleep; but at three o'clock in the afternoon, and at three in the morning, i awoke as regularly as though i was a repeater. thus we mortals may be a flower-clock for higher beings, when our flower-leaves close upon our last bed; or sand clocks, when the sand of our life is so run down that it is renewed in the other world; or picture-clocks because, when our death-bell here below strikes and rings, our image steps forth, from its case into the next world. on each event of the kind, when seventy years of human life have passed away, they may perhaps say, what! another hour already gone! how the time flies!"--_from balfour's phyto-theology_. some of the natives of india who possess extensive estates might think it worth their while to plant a labyrinth for the amusement of their friends. i therefore give a plan of one from london's _arboretum et fruticetum britannicum_. it would not be advisable to occupy much of a limited estate in a toy of this nature; but where the ground required for it can be easily spared or would otherwise be wasted, there could be no objection to adding this sort of amusement to the very many others that may be included in a pleasure ground. the plan here given, resembles the labyrinth at hampton court. the hedges should be a little above a man's height and the paths should be just wide enough for two persons abreast. the ground should be kept scrupulously clean and well rolled and the hedges well trimmed, or in this country the labyrinth would soon be damp and unwholesome, especially in the rains. to prevent its affording a place of refuge and concealment for snakes and other reptiles, the gardener should cut off all young shoots and leaves within half a foot of the ground. the centre building should be a tasteful summer-house, in which people might read or smoke or take refreshments. to make the labyrinth still more intricate mr. loudon suggests that stop-hedges might be introduced across the path, at different places, as indicated in the figure by dotted lines.[ ] [illustration of a garden labyrinth with a scale in feet.] of strictly oriental trees and shrubs and flowers, perhaps the majority of anglo indians think with much less enthusiasm than of the common weeds of england. the remembrance of the simplest wild flower of their native fields will make them look with perfect indifference on the decorations of an indian garden. this is in no degree surprizing. yet nature is lovely in all lands. indian scenery has not been so much the subject of description in either prose or verse as it deserves, but some two or three of our anglo-indian authors have touched upon it. here is a pleasant and truthful passage from an article entitled "_a morning walk in india_," written by the late mr. lawson, the missionary, a truly good and a highly gifted man:-- "the rounded clumps that afford the deepest shade, are formed by the mangoe, the banian, and the cotton trees. at the verge of this deep-green forest are to be seen the long and slender hosts of the betle and cocoanut trees; and the grey bark of their trunks, as they catch the light of the morning, is in clear relief from the richness of the back-ground. these as they wave their feathery tops, add much to the picturesque interest of the straw-built hovels beneath them, which are variegated with every tinge to be found amongst the browns and yellows, according to the respective periods of their construction. some of them are enveloped in blue smoke, which oozes through every interstice of the thatch, and spreads itself, like a cloud hovering over these frail habitations, or moves slowly along, like a strata of vapour not far from the ground, as though too heavy to ascend, and loses itself in the thin air, so inspiring to all who have courage to leave their beds and enjoy it. the champa tree forms a beautiful object in this jungle. it may be recognized immediately from the surrounding scenery. it has always been a favourite with me. i suppose most persons, at times, have been unaccountably attracted by an object comparatively trifling in itself. there are also particular seasons, when the mind is susceptible of peculiar impressions, and the moments of happy, careless youth, rush upon the imagination with a thousand tender feelings. there are few that do not recollect with what pleasure they have grasped a bunch of wild flowers, when, in the days of their childhood, the languor of a lingering fever has prevented them for some weary months from enjoying that chief of all the pleasures of a robust english boy, a ramble through the fields, where every tree, and bush, and hillock, and blossom, are endeared to him, because, next to a mother's caresses, they were the first things in the world upon which he opened his eyes, and, doubtless, the first which gave him those indescribable feelings of fairy pleasure, which even in his dreams were excited; while the coloured clouds of heaven, the golden sunshine of a landscape, the fresh nosegay of dog-roses and early daisies, and the sounds of busy whispering trees and tinkling brooks presented to the sleeping child all the pure pleasure of his waking moments. and who is there here that does not sometimes recal some of those feelings which were his solace perhaps thirty years ago? should i be wrong, were i to say that even, at his desk, amid all the excitements and anxieties of commercial pursuits, the weary calcutta merchant has been lulled into a sort of pensive reminiscence of the past, and, with his pen placed between his lips and his fevered forehead leaning upon his hand, has felt his heart bound at some vivid picture rising upon his imagination. the forms of a fond mother, and an almost angel-looking sister, have been so strongly conjured up with the scenes of his boyish days, that the pen has been unceremoniously dashed to the ground, and 'i will go home' was the sigh that heaved from a bosom full of kindness and english feeling; while, as the dream vanished, plain truth told its tale, and the man of commerce is still to be seen at his desk, pale, and getting into years and perhaps less desirous than ever of winding up his concern. no wonder! because the dearest ties of his heart have been broken, and those who were the charm of home have gone down to the cold grave, the home of all. why then should he revisit his native place? what is the cottage of his birth to him? what charms has the village now for the gentleman just arrived from india? every well remembered object of nature, seen after a lapse of twenty years, would only serve to renew a host of buried, painful feelings. every visit to the house of a surviving neighbour would but bring to mind some melancholy incident; for into what house could he enter, to idle away an hour, without seeing some wreck of his own family, such as a venerable clock, once so loved for the painted moon that waxed and waned to the astonishment of the gazer, or some favorite ancient chair, edged so nobly with rows of brass nails, --but perforated sore, and dull'd in holes by worms voracious, eating through and through. these are little things, but they are objects which will live in his memory to the latest day of his life, and with which are associated in his mind the dearest feelings and thoughts of his happiest hours." here is an attempt at a description in verse of some of the most common trees and flowers of bengal this land is not my father land, and yet i love it--for the hand of god hath left its mark sublime on nature's face in every clime-- though from home and friends we part, nature and the human heart still may soothe the wanderer's care-- and his god is every where beneath bengala's azure skies, no vallies sink, no green hills rise, like those the vast sea billows make-- the land is level as a lake[ ] but, oh, what giants of the wood wave their wide arms, or calmly brood each o'er his own deep rounded shade when noon's fierce sun the breeze hath laid, and all is still. on every plain how green the sward, or rich the grain! in jungle wild and garden trim, and open lawn and covert dim, what glorious shrubs and flowerets gay, bright buds, and lordly beasts of prey! how prodigally gunga pours her wealth of waves through verdant shores o'er which the sacred peepul bends, and oft its skeleton lines extends of twisted root, well laved and bare, half in water, half in air! fair scenes! where breeze and sun diffuse the sweetest odours, fairest hues-- where brightest the bright day god shows, and where his gentle sister throws her softest spell on silent plain, and stirless wood, and slumbering main-- where the lucid starry sky opens most to mortal eye the wide and mystic dome serene meant for visitants unseen, a dream like temple, air built hall, where spirits pure hold festival! fair scenes! whence envious art might steal more charms than fancy's realms reveal-- where the tall palm to the sky lifts its wreath triumphantly-- and the bambu's tapering bough loves its flexile arch to throw-- where sleeps the favored lotus white, on the still lake's bosom bright-- where the champac's[ ] blossoms shine, offerings meet for brahma's shrine, while the fragrance floateth wide o'er velvet lawn and glassy tide-- where the mangoe tope bestows night at noon day--cool repose, neath burning heavens--a hush profound breathing o'er the shaded ground-- where the medicinal neem, of palest foliage, softest gleam, and the small leafed tamarind tremble at each whispering wind-- and the long plumed cocoas stand like the princes of the land, near the betel's pillar slim, with capital richly wrought and trim-- and the neglected wild sonail drops her yellow ringlets pale-- and light airs summer odours throw from the bala's breast of snow-- where the briarean banyan shades the crowded ghat, while indian maids, untouched by noon tide's scorching rays, lave the sleek limb, or fill the vase with liquid life, or on the head replace it, and with graceful tread and form erect, and movement slow, back to their simple dwellings go-- [walls of earth, that stoutly stand, neatly smoothed with wetted hand-- straw roofs, yellow once and gay, turned by time and tempest gray--] where the merry minahs crowd unbrageous haunts, and chirrup loud-- and shrilly talk the parrots green 'midst the thick leaves dimly seen-- and through the quivering foliage play, light as buds, the squirrels gay, quickly as the noontide beams dance upon the rippled streams-- where the pariah[ ] howls with fear, if the white man passeth near-- where the beast that mocks our race with taper finger, solemn face, in the cool shade sits at ease calm and grave as socrates-- where the sluggish buffaloe wallows in mud--and huge and slow, like massive cloud of sombre van, moves the land leviathan--[ ] where beneath the jungle's screen close enwoven, lurks unseen the couchant tiger--and the snake his sly and sinuous way doth make through the rich mead's grassy net, like a miniature rivulet-- where small white cattle, scattered wide, browse, from dawn to even tide-- where the river watered soil scarce demands the ryot's toil-- and the rice field's emerald light out vies italian meadows bright,-- where leaves of every shape and dye, and blossoms varied as the sky, the fancy kindle,--fingers fair that never closed on aught but air-- hearts, that never heaved a sigh-- wings, that never learned to fly-- cups, that ne'er went table round-- bells, that never rang with sound-- golden crowns, of little worth-- silver stars, that strew the earth-- filagree fine and curious braid, breathed, not labored, grown, not made-- tresses like the beams of morn without a thought of triumph worn-- tongues that prate not--many an eye untaught midst hidden things to pry-- brazen trumpets, long and bright, that never summoned to the fight-- shafts, that never pierced a side-- and plumes that never waved with pride;-- scarcely art a shape may know but nature here that shape can show. through this soft air, o'er this warm sod, stern deadly winter never trod; the woods their pride for centuries wear, and not a living branch is bare; each field for ever boasts its bowers, and every season brings its flowers. d.l.r. we all "uphold adam's profession": we are all gardeners, either practically or theoretically. the love of trees and flowers, and shrubs and the green sward, with a summer sky above them, is an almost universal sentiment. it may be smothered for a time by some one or other of the innumerable chances and occupations of busy life; but a painting in oils by claude or gainsborough, or a picture in words by spenser or shakespeare that shall for ever live in description and look green in song, or the sight of a few flowers on a window-sill in the city, can fill the eye with tears of tenderness, or make the secret passion for nature burst out again in sudden gusts of tumultuous pleasure and lighten up the soul with images of rural beauty. there are few, indeed, who, when they have the good fortune to escape on a summer holiday from the crowded and smoky city and find themselves in the heart of a delicious garden, have not a secret consciousness within them that the scene affords them a glimpse of a true paradise below. rich foliage and gay flowers and rural quiet and seclusion and a smiling sun are ever associated with ideas of earthly felicity. and oh, if there be an elysium on earth, it is this, it is this! the princely merchant and the petty trader, the soldier and the sailor, the politician and the lawyer, the artist and the artisan, when they pause for a moment in the midst of their career, and dream of the happiness of some future day, almost invariably fix their imaginary palace or cottage of delight in a garden, amidst embowering trees and fragrant flowers. this disposition, even in the busiest men, to indulge occasionally in fond anticipations of rural bliss-- in visions so profuse of pleasantness-- shows that god meant us to appreciate and enjoy the beauty of his works. the taste for a garden is the one common feeling that unites us all. one touch of nature makes the whole world kin. there is this much of poetical sensibility--of a sense of natural beauty--at the core of almost every human heart. the monarch shares it with the peasant, and nature takes care that as the thirst for her society is the universal passion, the power of gratifying it shall be more or less within the reach of all.[ ] our present chief justice, sir lawrence peel, who has set so excellent an example to his countrymen here in respect to horticultural pursuits and the tasteful embellishment of what we call our "_compounds_" and who, like sir william jones and sir thomas noon talfourd, sees no reason why themis should be hostile to the muses, has obliged me with the following stanzas on the moral or rather religious influence of a garden. they form a highly appropriate and acceptable contribution to this volume. i heard thy voice in the garden. that voice yet speaketh, heed it well-- but not in tones of wrath it chideth, the moss rose, and the lily smell of god--in them his voice abideth. there is a blessing on the spot the poor man decks--the sun delighteth to smile upon each homely plot, and why? the voice of god inviteth. god knows that he is worshipped there, the chaliced cowslip's graceful bending is mute devotion, and the air is sweet with incense of her lending. the primrose, aye the children's pet, pale bride, yet proud of its uprooting, the crocus, snowdrop, violet and sweet-briar with its soft leaves shooting. there nestles each--a preacher each-- (oh heart of man! be slow to harden) each cottage flower in sooth doth teach god walketh with us in the garden. i am surprized that in this city (of calcutta) where so many kinds of experiments in education have been proposed, the directors of public instruction have never thought of attaching tasteful gardens to the government colleges--especially where botany is in the regular course of collegiate studies. the company's botanic garden being on the other side of the river and at an inconvenient distance from the city cannot be much resorted to by any one whose time is precious. an attempt was made not long ago to have the garden of the horticultural society (now forming part of the company's botanic garden) on this side of the river, but the public subscriptions that were called for to meet the necessary expenses were so inadequate to the purpose that the money realized was returned to the subscribers, and the idea relinquished, to the great regret of many of the inhabitants of calcutta who would have been delighted to possess such a place of recreation and instruction within a few minutes' drive. hindu students, unlike english boys in general, remind us of beattie's minstrel:-- the exploit of strength, dexterity and speed to him nor vanity, nor joy could bring. a sort of garden academy, therefore, full of pleasant shades, would be peculiarly suited to the tastes and habits of our indian collegians. they are not fond of cricket or leap-frog. they would rejoice to devote a leisure hour to pensive letterings in a pleasure-garden, and on an occasional holiday would gladly pursue even their severest studies, book in hand, amidst verdant bowers. a stranger from europe beholding them, in their half-grecian garments, thus wandering amidst the trees, would be reminded of the disciples of plato. "it is not easy," observes lord kames, "to suppress a degree of enthusiasm, when we reflect on the advantages of gardening with respect to virtuous education. in the beginning of life the deepest impressions are made; and it is a sad truth, that the young student, familiarized to the dirtiness and disorder of many colleges pent within narrow bounds in populous cities, is rendered in a measure insensible to the elegant beauties of art and nature. it seems to me far from an exaggeration, that good professors are not more essential to a college, than a spacious garden, sweetly ornamented, but without any thing glaring or fantastic, is upon the whole to inspire our youth with a taste no less for simplicity than for elegance. in this respect the university of oxford may justly be deemed a model." it may be expected that i should offer a few hints on the laying out of gardens. much has been said (by writers on ornamental and landscape gardening) on _art_ and _nature_, and almost always has it been implied that these must necessarily be in direct opposition. i am far from being of this opinion. if art and nature be not in some points of view almost identical, they are at least very good friends, or may easily be made so. they are not necessarily hostile. they admit of the most harmonious combinations. in no place are such combinations more easy or more proper than in a garden. walter scott very truly calls a garden the child of art. but is it not also the child of nature?--of nature and art together? to attempt to exclude art--or even, the appearance of art--from a small garden enclosure, is idle and absurd. he who objects to all art in the arrangement of a flower-bed, ought, if consistent with himself, to turn away with an expression of disgust from a well arranged nosegay in a rich porcelain vase. but who would not loathe or laugh at such manifest affectation or such thoroughly bad taste? as there is a time for every thing, so also is there a place for every thing. no man of true judgment would desire to trace the hand of human art on the form of nature in remote and gigantic forests, and amidst vast mountains, as irregular as the billows of a troubled sea. in such scenery there is a sublime grace in wildness,--_there_ "the very weeds are beautiful." but what true judgment would be enchanted with weeds and wildness in the small parterre. as pope rightly says, we must consult the genius of the place in all. it is pleasant to enter a rural lane overgrown with field-flowers, or to behold an extensive common irregularly decorated with prickly gorse or fern and thistle, but surely no man of taste would admire nature in this wild and dishevelled state in a little suburban garden. symmetry, elegance and beauty, (--no _sublimity_ or _grandeur_--) trimness, snugness, privacy, cleanliness, comfort, and convenience--the results of a happy conjunction of art and nature--are all that we can aim at within a limited extent of ground. in a small parterre we either trace with pleasure the marks of the gardener's attention or are disgusted with his negligence. in a mere patch of earth around a domestic dwelling nature ought not to be left entirely to herself. what is agreeable in one sphere of life is offensive in another. a dirty smock frock and a soiled face in a ploughman's child who has been swinging on rustic gates a long summer morning or rolling down the slopes of hills, or grubbing in the soil of his small garden, may remind us, not unpleasantly, of one of gainsborough's pictures; but we look for a different sort of nature on the canvas of sir joshua reynolds or sir thomas lawrence, or in the brilliant drawing-rooms of the nobility; and yet an earl's child looks and moves at least as _naturally_ as a peasant's. there is nature every where--in the palace as well as in the hut, in the cultivated garden as well as in the wild wood. civilized life is, after all, as natural as savage life. all our faculties are natural, and civilized man cultivates his mental powers and studies the arts of life by as true an instinct as that which leads the savage to make the most of his mud hut, and to improve himself or his child as a hunter, a fisherman, or a warrior. the mind of man is the noblest work of its maker (--in this world--) and the movements of man's mind may be quite as natural, and quite as poetical too, as the life that rises from the ground. it is as natural for the mind, as it is for a tree or flower to advance towards perfection. nature suggests art, and art again imitates and approximates to nature, and this principle of action and reaction brings man by degrees towards that point of comparative excellence for which god seems to have intended him. the mind of a milton or a shakespeare is surely not in a more unnatural condition than that of an ignorant rustic. we ought not then to decry refinement nor deem all connection of art with nature an offensive incongruity. a noble mansion in a spacious and well kept park is an object which even an observer who has no share himself in the property may look upon with pleasure. it makes him proud of his race.[ ] we cannot witness so harmonious a conjunction of art and nature without feeling that man is something better than a mere beast of the field or forest. we see him turn both art and nature to his service, and we cannot contemplate the lordly dwelling and the richly decorated land around it--and the neatness and security and order of the whole scene--without associating them with the high accomplishments and refined tastes that in all probability distinguish the proprietor and his family. it is a strange mistake to suppose that nothing is natural beyond savage ignorance--that all refinement is unnatural--that there is only one sort of simplicity. for the mind elevated by civilization is in a more natural state than a mind that has scarcely passed the boundary of brutal instinct, and the simplicity of a savage's hut, does not prevent there being a nobler simplicity in a grecian temple. kent[ ] the famous landscape gardener, tells us that _nature_ _abhors a straight line_. and so she does--in some cases--but not in all. a ray of light is a straight line, and so also is a grecian nose, and so also is the stem of the betel-nut tree. it must, indeed, be admitted that he who should now lay out a large park or pleasure-ground on strictly geometrical principles or in the old topiary style would exhibit a deplorable want of taste and judgment. but the provinces of the landscape gardener and the parterre gardener are perfectly distinct. the landscape gardener demands a wide canvas. all his operations are on a large scale. in a small garden we have chiefly to aim at the _gardenesque_ and in an extensive park at the _picturesque_. even in the latter case, however, though 'tis nature still, 'tis nature methodized: or in other words: nature to advantage dressed. for even in the largest parks or pleasure-grounds, an observer of true taste is offended by an air of negligence or the absence of all traces of human art or care. such places ought to indicate the presence of civilized life and security and order. we are not pleased to see weeds and jungle--or litter of any sort--even dry leaves--upon the princely domain, which should look like a portion of nature set apart or devoted to the especial care and enjoyment of the owner and his friends:--a strictly private property. the grass carpet should be trimly shorn and well swept. the trees should be tastefully separated from each other at irregular but judicious distances. they should have fine round heads of foliage, clean stems, and no weeds or underwood below, nor a single dead branch above. when we visit the finest estates of the nobility and gentry in england it is impossible not to perceive in every case a marked distinction between the wild nature of a wood and the civilized nature of a park. in the latter you cannot overlook the fact that every thing injurious to the health and growth and beauty of each individual tree has been studiously removed, while on the other hand, light, air, space, all things in fact that, if sentient, the tree could itself be supposed to desire, are most liberally supplied. there is as great a difference between the general aspect of the trees in a nobleman's pleasure ground and those in a jungle, as between the rustics of a village and the well bred gentry of a great city. park trees have generally a fine air of aristocracy about them. a gainsborough or a morland would seek his subjects in remote villages and a watteau or a stothard in the well kept pleasure ground. the ruder nature of woods and villages, of sturdy ploughmen and the healthy though soiled and ragged children in rural neighbourhoods, affords a by no means unpleasing contrast and introduction to the trim trees and smoothly undulating lawns, and curved walks, and gay parterres, and fine ladies and well dressed and graceful children on some old ancestral estate. we look for rusticity in the village, and for elegance in the park. the sleek and noble air of patrician trees, standing proudly on the rich velvet sward, the order and grace and beauty of all that meets the eye, lead us, as i have said already, to form a high opinion of the owner. in this we may of course be sometimes disappointed; but a man's character is generally to be traced in almost every object around him over which he has the power of a proprietor, and in few things are a man's taste and habits more distinctly marked than in his park and garden. if we find the owner of a neatly kept garden and an elegant mansion slovenly, rude and vulgar in appearance and manners, we inevitably experience that shock of surprize which is excited by every thing that is incongruous or out of keeping. on the other hand if the garden be neglected and overgrown with weeds, or if every thing in its arrangement indicate a want of taste, and a disregard of neatness and order, we feel no astonishment whatever in discovering that the proprietor is as negligent of his mind and person as of his shrubberies and his lawns. a civilized country ought not to look like a savage one. we need not have wild nature in front of our neatly finished porticos. nothing can be more strictly artificial than all architecture. it would be absurd to erect an elegantly finished residence in the heart of a jungle. there should be an harmonious gradation from the house to the grounds, and true taste ought not to object to terraces of elegant design and graceful urns and fine statues in the immediate neighbourhood of a noble dwelling. undoubtedly as a general rule, the undulating curve in garden scenery is preferable to straight lines or abrupt turns or sharp angles, but if there should happen to be only a few yards between the outer gateway and the house, could anything be more fantastical or preposterous than an attempt to give the ground between them a serpentine irregularity? even in the most spacious grounds the walks should not seem too studiously winding, as if the short turns were meant for no other purpose than to perplex or delay the walker.[ ] they should have a natural sweep, and seem to meander rather in accordance with the nature of the ground and the points to which they lead than in obedience to some idle sport of fancy. they should not remind us of gray's description of the divisions of an old mansion: long passages that lead to nothing. foot-paths in small gardens need not be broader than will allow two persons to walk abreast with ease. a spacious garden may have walks of greater breadth. a path for one person only is inconvenient and has a mean look. i have made most of the foregoing observations in something of a spirit of opposition to those landscape gardeners who i think once carried a true principle to an absurd excess. i dislike, as much as any one can, the old topiary style of our remote ancestors, but the talk about free nature degenerated at last into downright cant, and sheer extravagance; the reformers were for bringing weeds and jungle right under our parlour windows, and applied to an acre of ground those rules of landscape gardening which required a whole county for their proper exemplification. it is true that milton's paradise had "no nice art" in it, but then it was not a little suburban pleasure ground but a world. when milton alluded to private gardens, he spoke of their trimness. retired leisure that in _trim_ gardens takes his pleasure. the larger an estate the less necessary is it to make it merely neat, and symmetrical, especially in those parts of the ground that are distant from the house; but near the architecture some degree of finish and precision is always necessary, or at least advisable, to prevent the too sudden contrast between the straight lines and artificial construction of the dwelling and the flowing curves and wild but beautiful irregularities of nature unmoulded by art. a garden adjacent to the house should give the owner a sense of _home_. he should not feel himself abroad at his own door. if it were only for the sake of variety there should be some distinction between the private garden and the open field. if the garden gradually blends itself with a spacious park or chase, the more the ground recedes from the house the more it may legitimately assume the aspect of a natural landscape. it will then be necessary to appeal to the eye of a landscape gardener or a painter or a poet before the owner, if ignorant of the principles of fine art, attempt the completion of the general design. i should like to see my native friends who have extensive grounds, vary the shape of their tanks, but if they dislike a more natural form of water, irregular or winding, and are determined to have them with four sharp corners, let them at all events avoid the evil of several small tanks in the same "compound." a large tank is more likely to have good water and to retain it through the whole summer season than a smaller one and is more easily kept clean and grassy to the water's edge. i do not say that it would be proper to have a piece of winding water in a small compound--that indeed would be impracticable. but even an oval or round tank would be better than a square one.[ ] if the native gentry could obtain the aid of tasteful gardeners, i would recommend that the level land should be varied with an occasional artificial elevation, nicely sloped or graduated; but native _malees_ would be sure to aim rather at the production of abrupt round knobs resembling warts or excrescences than easy and natural undulations of the surface. with respect to lawns, the late mr. speede recommended the use of the _doob_ grass, but it is so extremely difficult to keep it clear of any intermixture of the _ooloo_ grass, which, when it intrudes upon the _doob_ gives the lawn a patchwork and shabby look, that it is better to use the _ooloo_ grass only, for it is far more manageable; and if kept well rolled and closely shorn it has a very neat, and indeed, beautiful appearance. the lawns in the compound of the government house in calcutta are formed of _ooloo_ glass only, but as they have been very carefully attended to they have really a most brilliant and agreeable aspect. in fact, their beautiful bright green, in the hottest summer, attracts even the notice and admiration of the stranger fresh from england. the _ooloo_ grass, however, on close inspection is found to be extremely coarse, nor has even the finest _doob_ the close texture and velvet softness of the grass of english lawns. flower beds should be well rounded. they should never have long narrow necks or sharp angles in which no plant can have room to grow freely. nor should they be divided into compartments, too minute or numerous, for so arranged they must always look petty and toy-like. a lawn should be as open and spacious as the ground will fairly admit without too greatly limiting the space for flowers. nor should there be an unnecessary multiplicity of walks. we should aim at a certain breadth of style. flower beds may be here and there distributed over the lawn, but care should be taken that it be not too much broken up by them. a few trees may be introduced upon the lawn, but they must not be placed so close together as to prevent the growth of the grass by obstructing either light or air. no large trees should be allowed to smother up the house, particularly on the southern and western sides, for besides impeding the circulation through the rooms of the most wholesome winds of this country, they would attract mosquitoes, and give an air of gloominess to the whole place. natives are too fond of over-crowding their gardens with trees and shrubs and flowers of all sorts, with no regard to individual or general effects, with no eye to arrangement of size, form or color; and in this hot and moist climate the consequent exclusion of free air and the necessary degree of light has a most injurious influence not only upon the health of the resident but upon vegetation itself. neither the finest blossoms nor the finest fruits can be expected from an overstocked garden. the native malee generally plants his fruit trees so close together that they impede each other's growth and strength. every englishman when he enters a native's garden feels how much he could improve its productiveness and beauty by a free use of the hatchet. too many trees and too much embellishment of a small garden make it look still smaller, and even on a large piece of ground they produce confused and disagreeable effects and indicate an absence of all true judgment. this practice of over-filling a garden is an instance of bad taste, analogous to that which is so conspicuously characteristic of our own countrymen in india with respect to their apartments, which look more like an upholsterer's show-rooms or splendid ornament-shops than drawing-rooms or parlours. there is scarcely space enough to turn in them without fracturing some frail and costly bauble. where a garden is over-planted the whole place is darkened, the ground is green and slimy, the grass thin, sickly and straggling, and the trees and shrubs deficient in freshness and vigor. not only should the native gentry avoid having their flower-borders too thickly filled,--they should take care also that they are not too broad. we ought not to be obliged to leave the regular path and go across the soft earth of the bed to obtain a sight of a particular shrub or flower. close and entangled foliage keeps the ground too damp, obstructs wholesome air, and harbours snakes and a great variety of other noxious reptiles. similar objections suggest the propriety of having no shrubs or flowers or even a grass-plot immediately under the windows and about the doors of the house. a well exposed gravel or brick walk should be laid down on all sides of the house, as a necessary safeguard against both moisture and vermin. i have spoken already of the unrivalled beauty of english gravel. it cannot be too much admired. _kunkur_[ ] looks extremely smart for a few weeks while it preserves its solidity and freshness, but it is rapidly ground into powder under carriage wheels or blackened by occasional rain and the permanent moisture of low grounds when only partially exposed to the sun and air. why should not an opulent rajah or nawaub send for a cargo of beautiful red gravel from the gravel pits at kensington? any english house of agency here would obtain it for him. it would be cheap in the end, for it lasts at least five times as long as the kunkur, and if of a proper depth admits of repeated turnings with the spade, looking on every turn almost as fresh as the day on which it was first laid down. instead of brick-bat edgings, the wealthy oriental nobleman might trim all his flower-borders with the green box-plant of england, which would flourish i suppose in this climate or in any other. cobbett in his _english gardener_ speaks with so much enthusiasm and so much to the purpose on the subject of box as an edging, that i must here repeat his eulogium on it. the box is at once the most efficient of all possible things, and the prettiest plant that can possibly be conceived; the color of its leaf; the form of its leaf; its docility as to height, width and shape; the compactness of its little branches; its great durability as a plant; its thriving in all sorts of soils and in all sorts of aspects; _its freshness under the hottest sun_, and its defiance of all shade and drip: these are the beauties and qualities which, for ages upon ages, have marked it out as the chosen plant for this very important purpose. the edging ought to be clipped in the winter or very early in spring on both sides and at top; a line ought to be used to regulate the movements of the shears; it ought to be clipped again in the same manner about midsummer; and if there be _a more neat and beautiful thing than this in the world, all that i can say is, that i never saw that thing_. a small green edging for a flower bed can hardly be too _trim_; but large hedges with tops and sides cut as flat as boards, and trees fantastically shaped with the shears into an exhibition as full of incongruities as the wildest dream, have deservedly gone out of fashion in england. poets and prose writers have agreed to ridicule all verdant sculpture on a large scale. here is a description of the old topiary gardens. these likewise mote be seen on every side the shapely box, of all its branching pride ungently shorn, and, with preposterous skill to various beasts, and birds of sundry quill transformed, and human shapes of monstrous size. * * * * * also other wonders of the sportive shears fair nature misadorning; there were found globes, spiral columns, pyramids, and piers with spouting urns and budding statues crowned; and horizontal dials on the ground in living box, by cunning artists traced, and galleys trim, or on long voyage bound, but by their roots there ever anchored fast. _g. west_. the same taste for torturing nature into artificial forms prevailed amongst the ancients long after architecture and statuary had been carried to such perfection that the finest british artists of these times can do nothing but copy and repeat what was accomplished so many ages ago by the people of another nation. pliny, in his description of his tuscan villa, speaks of some of his trees having been cut into letters and the forms of animals, and of others placed in such regular order that they reminded the spectator of files of soldiers.[ ] the dutch therefore should not bear all the odium of the topiary style of gardening which they are said to have introduced into england and other countries of europe. they were not the first sinners against natural taste. the hindus are very fond of formally cut hedges and trimmed trees. all sorts of verdant hedges are in some degree objectionable in a hot moist country, rife with deadly vermin. i would recommend ornamental iron railings or neatly cut and well painted wooden pales, as more airy, light, and cheerful, and less favorable to snakes and centipedes. this is the finest country in the world for making gardens speedily. in the rainy season vegetation springs up at once, as at the stroke of an enchanter's wand. the landscape gardeners in england used to grieve that they could hardly expect to live long enough to see the effect of their designs. such artists would have less reason, to grieve on that account in this country. indeed even in england, the source of uneasiness alluded to, is now removed. "the deliberation with which trees grow," wrote horace walpole, in a letter to a friend, "is extremely inconvenient to my natural impatience. i lament living in so barbarous an age when we are come to so little perfection in gardening. i am persuaded that years hence it will be as common to remove oaks years old as it now is to plant tulip roots." the writer was not a bad prophet. he has not yet been dead much more than half a century and his expectations are already more than half realized. shakespeare could not have anticipated this triumph of art when he made macbeth ask who can impress the forest? bid the tree unfix his earth-bound root? the gardeners have at last discovered that the largest (though not perhaps the _oldest_) trees can be removed from one place to another with comparative facility and safety. sir h. stewart moved several hundred lofty trees without the least injury to any of them. and if broad and lofty trees can be transplanted in england, how much more easily and securely might such a process be effected in the rainy season in this country. in half a year a new garden might be made to look like a garden of half a century. or an old and ill-arranged plantation might thus be speedily re-adjusted to the taste of the owner. the main object is to secure a good ball of earth round the root, and the main difficulty is to raise the tree and remove it. many most ingenious machines for raising a tree from the ground, and trucks for removing it, have been lately invented by scientific gardeners in england. a scotchman, mr. mcglashen, has been amongst the most successful of late transplanters. he exhibited one of his machines at paris to the present emperor of the french, and lifted with it a fir tree thirty feet high. the french ruler lavished the warmest commendations on the ingenious artist and purchased his apparatus at a large price.[ ] bengal is enriched with a boundless variety of noble trees admirably suited to parks and pleasure grounds. these should be scattered about a spacious compound with a spirited and graceful irregularity, and so disposed with reference to the dwelling as in some degree to vary the view of it, and occasionally to conceal it from the visitor driving up the winding road from the outer gate to the portico. the trees, i must repeat, should be so divided as to give them a free growth and admit sufficient light and air beneath them to allow the grass to flourish. grassless ground under park trees has a look of barrenness, discomfort and neglect, and is out of keeping with the general character of the scene. the banyan (_ficus indica or bengaliensis_)-- the indian tree, whose branches downward bent, take root again, a boundless canopy-- and the peepul or pippul (_ficus religiosa_) are amongst the finest trees in this country--or perhaps in the world--and on a very spacious pleasure ground or park they would present truly magnificent aspects. colonel sykes alludes to a banyan at the village of nikow in poonah with stems descending from and supporting the branches. this tree is said to be capable of affording shelter to , men. it is a tree of this sort which milton so well describes. the fig tree, not that kind for fruit renowned, but such as at this day, to indians known in malabar or deccan, spreads her arms branching so broad and long, a pillared shade, high over arched, and echoing walks between there oft the indian herdsman, shunning heat, shelters in cool, and tends his pasturing herds at loop holes cut through the thickest shade those leaves, they gathered, broad as amazonian taige; and with what skill they had together sewed, to gird their waste. milton is mistaken as to the size of the leaves of this tree, though he has given its general character with great exactness.[ ] a remarkable banyan or buri tree, near manjee, twenty miles west of patna, is inches in diameter, the circumference of its shadow at noon measuring feet. it has sixty stems, or dropped branches that have taken root. under this tree once sat a naked fakir who had occupied that situation for years; but he did not continue there the whole year, for his vow obliged him to be during the four cold months up to his neck in the water of the ganges![ ] it is said that there is a banyan tree near gombroon on the persian gulf, computed to cover nearly , yards. the banyan tree in the company's botanic garden, is a fine tree, but it is of small dimensions compared with those of the trees just mentioned.[ ] the cocoanut tree has a characteristically oriental aspect and a natural grace, but it is not well suited to the ornamental garden or the princely villa. it is too suggestive of the rudest village scenery, and perhaps also of utilitarian ideas of mere profit, as every poor man who has half a dozen cocoanut trees on his ground disposes of the produce in the bazar. i would recommend my native friends to confine their clumps of plaintain trees to the kitchen garden, for though the leaf of the plaintain is a proud specimen of oriental foliage when it is first opened out to the sun, it soon gets torn to shreds by the lightest breeze. the tattered leaves then dry up and the whole of the tree presents the most beggarly aspect imaginable. the stem is as ragged and untidy as the leaves. the kitchen garden and the orchard should be in the rear of the house. the former should not be too visible from the windows and the latter is on many accounts better at the extremity of the grounds than close to the house, as we too often find it. a native of high rank should keep as much out of sight as possible every thing that would remind a visitor that any portion of the ground was intended rather for pecuniary profit than the immediate pleasure of the owner. the people of india do not seem to be sufficiently aware that any sign of parsimony in the management of a large park or pleasure ground produces in the mind of the visitor an unfavorable impression of the character of the owner. i have seen in calcutta vast mansions of which every little niche and corner towards the street was let out to very small traders at a few annas a month. what would the people of england think of an opulent english nobleman who should try to squeeze a few pence from the poor by dividing the street front of his palace into little pigeon-sheds of petty shops for the retail of petty wares? oh! princes of india "reform this altogether." this sordid saving, this widely published parsimony, is not only not princely, it is not only not decorous, it is positively disgusting to every passer-by who himself possesses any right thought or feeling. the natives seem every day more and more inclined to imitate european fashions, and there are few european fashions, which could be borrowed by the highest or lowest of the people of this country with a more humanizing and delightful effect than that attention to the exterior elegance and neatness of the dwelling-house, and that tasteful garniture of the contiguous ground, which in england is a taste common to the prince and the peasant, and which has made that noble country so full of those beautiful homes which surprize and enchant its foreign visitors. the climate and soil of this country are peculiarly favorable to the cultivation of trees and shrubs and flowers; and the garden here is at no season of the year without its ornaments. the example of the horticultural society of india, and the attractions of the company's botanic garden ought to have created a more general taste amongst us for the culture of flowers. bishop heber tells us that the botanic garden here reminded hint more of milton's description of the garden of eden than any other public garden, that he had ever seen.[ ] there is a botanic garden at serampore. in it was in charge of dr. roxburgh. subsequently came the amiable and able dr. wallich; then the venerable dr. carey was for a time the officiating superintendent. dr. voigt followed and then one of the greatest of our anglo-indian botanists, dr. griffiths. after him came dr. mclelland, who is at this present time counting the teak trees in the forests of pegu. he was succeeded by dr. falconer who left this country but a few months ago. the garden is now in charge of dr. thomson who is said to be an enthusiast in his profession. he explored the region beyond the snowy range i think with captain cunningham, some years ago. with the exceptions of voigt and carey, all who have had charge of the garden at serampore have held at the same time the more important appointment of superintendent of the company's botanic garden at garden beach. there is a botanic garden at bhagulpore, which owes its origin to major napleton. i have been unable to obtain any information regarding its present condition. a good botanic garden has been already established in the punjab, where there is also an agricultural and horticultural society. i regret that it should have been deemed necessary to make stupid pedants of hindu malees by providing them with a classical nomenclature for plants. hindostanee names would have answered the purpose just as well. the natives make a sad mess of our simplest english names, but their greek must be greek indeed! a _quarterly reviewer_ observes that miss mitford has found it difficult to make the maurandias and alstraemerias and eschxholtzias--the commonest flowers of our modern garden--look passable even in prose. but what are these, he asks, to the pollopostemonopetalae and eleutheroromacrostemones of wachendorf, with such daily additions as the native name of iztactepotzacuxochitl icohueyo, or the more classical ponderosity of erisymum peroffskyanum. --like the verbum graecum spermagoraiolekitholakanopolides, words that should only be said upon holidays, when one has nothing else to do. if these names are unpronounceable even by europeans, what would the poor hindu malee make of them? the pedantry of some of our scientific botanists is something marvellous. one would think that a love of flowers must produce or imply a taste for simplicity and nature in all things.[ ] as by way of encouragement to the native gardeners--to enable them to dispose of the floral produce of their gardens at a fair price--the horticultural society has withdrawn from the public the indulgence of gratuitous supplies of plants, it would be as well if some men of taste were to instruct these native nursery-men how to lay out their grounds, (as their fellow-traders do at home,) with some regard to neatness, cleanliness and order. these flower-merchants, and even the common _malees_, should also be instructed, i think, how to make up a decent bouquet, for if it be possible to render the most elegant things in the creation offensive to the eye of taste, that object is assuredly very completely effected by these swarthy artists when they arrange, with such worse than dutch precision and formality, the ill-selected, ill-arranged, and tightly bound treasures of the parterre for the classical vases of their british masters. i am often vexed to observe the idleness or apathy which suffers such atrocities as these specimens of indian taste to disgrace the drawing-rooms of the city of palaces. this is quite inexcusable in a family where there are feminine hands for the truly graceful and congenial task of selecting and arranging the daily supply of garden decorations. a young lady--"herself a fairer flower"--is rarely exhibited to a loving eye in a more delightful point of view than when her delicate and dainty fingers are so employed. if a lovely woman arranging the nosegays and flower-vases, in her parlour, is a sweet living picture, a still sweeter sight does she present to us when she is in the garden itself. milton thus represents the fair mother of the fair in the first garden:-- eve separate he spies. veil'd in a cloud of fragrance, where she stood, half spied, so thick the roses blushing round about her glow'd, oft stooping to support each flower of slender stalk, whose head, though gay, carnation, purple, azure, or speck'd with gold, hung drooping unsustain'd; them she upstays gently with myrtle band, mindless the while herself, though fairest unsupported flower, from her best prop so far, and storm so nigh. nearer he drew, and many a walk traversed of stateliest covert, cedar, pine, or palm; then voluble and bold, now hid, now seen, among thick woven arborets, and flowers imborder'd on each bank, the hand of eve[ ] _paradise lost. book ix_. chaucer (in "the knight's tale,") describes emily in her garden as fairer to be seen than is the lily on his stalkie green; and dryden, in his modernized version of the old poet, says, at every turn she made a little stand, and thrust among the thorns her lily hand to draw the rose. eve's roses were without thorns-- "and without thorn the rose,"[ ] it is pleasant to see flowers plucked by the fairest fingers for some elegant or worthy purpose, but it is not pleasant to see them _wasted_. some people pluck them wantonly, and then fling them away and litter the garden walks with them. some idle coxcombs, vain of the nice conduct of a clouded cane, amuse themselves with switching off their lovely heads. "that's villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it." lander says and 'tis my wish, and over was my way, to let all flowers live freely, and so die. here is a poetical petitioner against a needless destruction of the little tenants of the parterre. oh, spare my flower, my gentle flower, the slender creature of a day, let it bloom out its little hour, and pass away. so soon its fleeting charms must lie decayed, unnoticed and o'erthrown, oh, hasten not its destiny, too like thine own. _lyte_. those who pluck flowers needlessly and thoughtlessly should be told that other people like to see them flourish, and that it is as well for every one to bear in mind the beautiful remark of lord bacon that "the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air than in the hand; for in the air it comes and goes like the warbling of music." the british portion of this community allow their exile to be much more dull and dreary than it need be, by neglecting to cultivate their gardens, and leaving them entirely to the taste and industry of the _malee_. i never feel half so much inclined to envy the great men of this now crowded city the possession of vast but gardenless mansions, (partly blocked up by those of their neighbours,) as i do to felicitate the owner of some humbler but more airy and wholesome dwelling in the suburbs, when the well-sized grounds attached to it have been touched into beauty by the tasteful hand of a lover of flowers. but generally speaking my countrymen in most parts of india allow their grounds to remain in a state which i cannot help characterizing as disreputable. it is amazing how men or women accustomed to english modes of life can reconcile themselves to that air of neglect, disorder, and discomfort which most of their "compounds" here exhibit. it would afford me peculiar gratification to find this book read with interest by my hindu friends, (for whom, chiefly, it has been written,) and to hear that it has induced some of them to pay more attention to the ornamental cultivation of their grounds; for it would be difficult to confer upon them a greater blessing than a taste for the innocent and elegant pleasures of the flower-garden. supplement. sacred trees and shrubs of the hindus. the following list of the trees and shrubs held sacred by the hindus is from the friend who furnished me with the list of flowers used in hindu ceremonies.[ ] it was received too late to enable me to include it in the body of the volume. amalaki (_phyllanthus emblica_).--a tree held sacred to shiva. it has no flowers, and its leaves are in consequence used in worshipping that deity as well as durga, kali, and others. the natives of bengal do not look upon it with any degree of religious veneration, but those of the upper provinces annually worship it on the day of the _shiva ratri_, which generally falls in the latter end of february or the beginning of march, and on which all the public offices are closed. aswath-tha (_ficus religiosa_).--it is commonly called by europeans the peepul tree, by which name, it is known to the natives of the upper provinces. the _bhagavat gita_ says that krishna in giving an account of his power and glory to arjuna, before the commencement of the celebrated battle between the _kauravas_ and _pándavas_ at _kurukshetra_, identified himself with the _aswath-tha_ whence the natives consider it to be a sacred tree.[ ] bilwa or sreeful (_aegle marmelos_).--it is the common wood-apple tree, which is held sacred to shiva, and its leaves are used in worshipping him as well as durga, kali, and others. the _mahabharat_ says that when shiva at the request of krishna and the pandavas undertook the protection of their camp at kurukshetra on the night of the last day of the battle, between them and the sons of dhritarashtra, aswathama, a friend and follower of the latter, took up a bilwa tree by its roots and threw it upon the god, who considering it in the light of an offering made to him, was so much pleased with aswathama that he allowed him to enter the camp, where he killed the five sons of the pandavas and the whole of the remnants of their army. other similar stories are also told of the bilwa tree to prove its sacredness, but the one i have given above, will be sufficient to shew in what estimation it is held by the hindus. bat (_ficus indica_).--is the indian banian tree, supposed to be immortal and coeval with the gods; whence it is venerated as one of them. it is also supposed to be a male tree, while the aswath-tha or peepul is looked upon as a female, whence the lower orders of the people plant them side by side and perform the ceremony of matrimony with a view to connect them as man and wife.[ ] durva' (_panicum dactylon_).--a grass held to be sacred to vishnu, who in his seventh _avatara_ or incarnation, as rama, the son of dasaratha, king of oude, assumed the colour of the grass, which is used in all religious ceremonies of the hindus. it has medicinal properties. ka'sta' (_saccharum spontaneum_).--it is a large species of grass. in those ceremonies which the hindus perform after the death of a person, or with a view to propitiate the manes of their ancestors this grass is used whenever the kusa is not to be had. when it is in flower, the natives look upon the circumstance as indicative of the close of the rains. ku'sa (_poa cynosuroides_).--the grass to which, reference has been made above. it is used in all ceremonies performed in connection with the death of a person or having for their object the propitiation of the manes of ancestors. mansa-shij (_euphorbia ligularia_).--this plant is supposed by the natives of bengal to be sacred to _mansa_, the goddess of snakes, and is worshipped by them on certain days of the months of june, july, august, and september, during which those reptiles lay their eggs and breed their young. the festival of arandhana, which is more especially observed by the lower orders of the people, is in honor of the goddess mansa.[ ] na'rikela (_coccos nucifera_).--the cocoanut tree, which is supposed to possess the attributes of a brahmin and is therefore held sacred.[ ] nimba (_melia azadirachta_).--a tree from the trunk of which the idol at pooree was manufactured, and which is in consequence identified with the ribs of vishnu.[ ] tu'lsi (_ocymum_).--the indian basil, of which there are several species, such as the _ram tulsi_ (ocymum gratissimum) the _babooye tulsi_ (ocymum pilosum) the _krishna tulsi_ (osymum sanctum) and the common _tulsi_ (ocymum villosum) all of which possess medicinal properties, but the two latter are held to be sacred to vishnu and used in his worship. the _puranas_ say that krishna assumed the form of _saukasura_, and seduced his wife brinda. when he was discovered he manifested his extreme regard for her by turning her into the _tulsi_ and put the leaves upon his head.[ ] appendix. * * * * * the flower garden in india. the following practical directions and useful information respecting the indian flower-garden, are extracted from the late mr. speede's _new indian gardener_, with the kind permission of the publishers, messrs. thacker spink and company of calcutta. the soil. so far as practicable, the soil should be renewed every year, by turning in vegetable mould, river sand, and well rotted manure to the depth of about a foot; and every second or third year the perennials should be taken up, and reduced, when a greater proportion of manure may be added, or what is yet better, the whole of the old earth removed, and new mould substituted. it used to be supposed that the only time for sowing annuals or other plants, (in bengal) is the beginning of the cold weather, but although this is the case with a great number of this class of plants, it is a popular error to think it applies to all, since there are many that grow more luxuriantly if sown at other periods. the pink, for instance, may be sown at any time, sweet william thrives best if sown in march or april, the variegated and light colored larkspurs should not be put in until december, the dahlia germinates most successfully in the rains, and the beautiful class of zinnias are never seen to perfection unless sown in june. this is the more deserving of attention, as it holds out the prospect of maintaining our indian flower gardens, in life and beauty, throughout the whole year, instead of during the confined period hitherto attempted. the several classes of flowering plants are divided into perennial, biennial, and annual. perennials. the heron's bill, erodium; the stork's bill, pelargonium; and the crane's bill, geranium; all popularly known under the common designation of geranium, which gives name to the family, are well known, and are favorite plants, of which but few of the numerous varieties are found in this country. of the first of these there are about five and twenty fixed species, besides a vast number of varieties; of which there are here found only the following:-- the _flesh-colored heron's bill_, e. incarnatum, is a pretty plant of about six inches high, flowering in the hot weather, with flesh-colored blossoms, but apt to become rather straggling. of the hundred and ninety species of the second class, independently of their varieties, there are few indeed that have found their way here, only thirteen, most of which are but rarely met with. the _rose-colored stork's bill_, p. roseum, is tuberous rooted, and in april yields pretty pink flowers. the _brick-colored stork's bill_, p. lateritium, affords red flowers in march and april. the _botany bay stork's bill_, p. australe, is rare, but may be made to give a pretty red flower in march. the _common horse-shoe stork's bill_, p. zonale, is often seen, and yields its scarlet blossoms freely in april. the _scarlet-flowered stork's bill_, p. inquinans, affords a very fine flower towards the latter end of the cold weather, and approaching to the hot; it requires protection from the rains, as it is naturally of a succulent nature, and will rot at the joints if the roots become at all sodden: many people lay the pots down on their sides to prevent this, which is tolerably successful to their preservation. the _sweet-scented stork's bill_, p. odoratissimum, with pink flowers, but it does not blossom freely, and the branches are apt to grow long and straggling. the _cut-leaved stork's bill_, p. incisum, has small flowers, the petals being long and thin, and the flowers which appear in april are white, marked with pink. the _ivy-leaved stork's bill_, p. lateripes, has not been known to yield flowers in this country. the _rose-scented stork's bill_, p. capitatum, the odour of the leaves is very pleasant, but it is very difficult to force into blossom. the _ternate stork's bill_, p. ternatum, has variegated pink flowers in april. the _oak-leaved stork's bill_, p. quercifolium, is much esteemed for the beauty of its leaves, but has not been known to blossom in this climate. the _tooth-leaved stork's bill_, p. denticulatum, is not a free flowerer, but may with care be made to bloom in april. the _lemon, or citron-scented stork's bill_, p. gratum, grows freely, and has a pretty appearance, but does not blossom. of the second class of these plants the forty-eight species have only three representatives. the _aconite-leaved crane's bill_, g. aconiti-folium, is a pretty plant, but rare, yielding its pale blue flowers with difficulty. the _wallich's crane's bill_ g. wallichianum, indigenous to nepal, having pale pink blossoms and rather pretty foliage, flowering in march and april; but requiring protection in the succeeding hot weather, and the beginning of the rains, as it is very susceptible of heat, or excess of moisture. _propagation_--may be effected by seed to multiply, or produce fresh varieties, but the ordinary mode of increasing the different sorts is by cuttings, no plant growing more readily by this mode. these should be taken off at a joint where the wood is ripening, at which point the root fibres are formed, and put into a pot with a compost of one part garden mould, one part vegetable mould, and one part sand, and then kept moderately moist, in the shade, until they have formed strong root fibres, when they may be planted out. the best method is to plant each cutting in a separate pot of the smallest size. the germinating of the seeds will be greatly promoted by sinking the pots three parts of their depth in a hot bed, keeping them moist and shaded and until they germinate. _soil, &c._ a rich garden mould, composed of light loam, rather sandy than otherwise, with very rotten dung, is desirable for this shrub. _culture_. most kinds are rapid and luxurious growers, and it is necessary to pay them constant attention in pruning or nipping the extremities of the shoots, or they will soon become ill-formed and straggling. this is particularly requisite during the rains, when heat and moisture combine to increase their growth to excess; allowing them to enjoy the full influence of the sun during the whole of the cold weather, and part of the hot. at the close of the rains, the plants had better be put out into the open ground, and closely pruned, the shoots taken off affording an ample supply of cuttings for multiplying the plants; this putting out will cause them to throw up strong healthy shoots and rich blossoms; but as the hot weather approaches, or in the beginning of march, they must be re-placed in moderate sized pots, with a compost similar to that required for cuttings and placed in the plant shed, as before described. the earth in the pots should be covered with pebbles, or pounded brick of moderate size, which prevents the accumulation of moss or fungi. geraniums should at no time be over watered, and must at all seasons be allowed a free ventilation. there is no doubt that if visitors from this to the cape, would pay a little attention to the subject, the varieties might be greatly increased, and that without much trouble, as many kinds may be produced freely by seed, if brought to the country fresh, and sown immediately on arrival; young plants also in well glazed cases would not take up much space in some of the large vessels coming from thence. the anemone has numerous varieties, and is, in england, a very favorite flower, but although a. cernua is a native of japan, and many varieties are indigenous to the cape, it is very rare here. the _double anemone_ is the most prized, but there are several _single_ and _half double_ kinds which are very handsome. the stem of a good anemone should be eight or nine inches in height, with a strong upright stalk. the flower ought not to be less than seven inches in circumference, the outer row of petals being well rounded, flat, and expanding at the base, turning up with a full rounded edge, so as to form a well shaped cup, within which, in the double kinds, should arise a large group of long small petals reverted from the centre, and regularly overlapping each other; the colors clear, each shade being distinct in such as are variegated. the _garden, or star wind flower_, a. hortensis, _boostan afrooz_, is another variety, found in persia, and brought thence to upper india, of a bright scarlet color; a blue variety has also blossomed in calcutta, and was exhibited at the show of february, , by mrs. macleod, to whom floriculture is indebted for the introduction of many beautiful exotics heretofore new to india. but it is to be hoped this handsome species of flowering plants will soon be more extensively found under cultivation. _propagation_. seed can hardly be expected to succeed in this country, as even in europe it fails of germinating; for if not sown immediately that it is ripe, the length of journey or voyage would inevitably destroy its power of producing. offsets of the tubers therefore are the only means that are left, and these should not be replanted until they have been a sufficient time out of the ground, say a month or so, to become hardened, nor should they be put into the earth until they have dried, or the whole offset will rot by exposure of the newly fractured side to the moisture of the earth. the tubers should be selected which are plump and firm, as well as of moderate size, the larger ones being generally hollow; these may be obtained in good order from hobart town. _soil, &c._ a strong rich loamy soil is preferable, having a considerable portion of well rotted cow-dung, with a little leaf mould, dug to a depth of two feet, and the beds not raised too high, as it is desirable to preserve moisture in the subsoil; if in pots, this is effected by keeping a saucer of water under them continually, the pot must however be deep, or the fibres will have too much wet; an open airy situation is desirable. _culture_. when the plant appears above ground the earth must be pressed well down around the root, as the crowns and tubers are injured by exposure to dry weather, and the plants should be sheltered from the heat of the sun, but not so as to confine the air; they require the morning and evening sun to shine on them, particularly the former. the iris is a handsome plant, attractive alike from the variety and the beauty of its blossoms; some of them are also used medicinally. all varieties produce abundance of seed, in which form the plant might with great care be introduced into this country. the _florence iris_, i. florentina, _ueersa_, is a large variety, growing some two feet in height, the flower being white, and produced in the hot weather. the _persian iris_ i. persica, _hoobur_, is esteemed not only for its handsome blue and purple flowers, but also for its fragrance, blossoming in the latter part of the cold weather; one variety has blue and yellow blossoms. the _chinese iris_, i. chinensis, _soosun peelgoosh_, in a small sized variety, but has very pretty blue and purple flowers in the beginning of the hot weather. _propagation_. besides seed, which should be sown in drills, at the close of the rains, in a sandy soil, it may be produced by offsets. _soil, &c._ almost any kind of soil suits the iris, but the best flowers are obtained from a mixture of sandy loam, with leaf mould, the persian kind requiring a larger proportion of sand. _culture_. little after culture is required, except keeping the beds clear from weeds, and occasionally loosening the earth. but the roots must be taken, up every two, or at most three years, and replanted, after having been kept to harden for a month or six weeks; the proper season for doing this being when the leaves decay after blossoming. the tuberose, polianthes, is well deserving of culture, but it is not by any means a rare plant, and like many indigenous odoriferous flowers, has rather too strong an odour to be borne near at hand, and it is considered unwholesome in a room. the _common tuberose_, p. tuberosa, _chubugulshubboo_, being a native of india thrives in almost any soil, and requires no cultivation: it is multiplied by dividing the roots. it flowers at all times of the year in bunches of white flowers with long sepals. the _double tuberose_, p. florepleno, is very rich in appearance, and of more delicate fragrance, although still too powerful for the room. crows are great destroyers of the blossoms, which they appear fond of pecking. this variety is more rare, and the best specimens have been obtained from hobart town. it is rather more delicate and requires more attention in culture than the indigenous variety, and should be earthed up, so as to prevent water lodging around the stem. the lobelia is a brilliant class of flowers which may be greatly improved by careful cultivation. the _splendid lobelia_, l. splendens, is found in many gardens, and is a showy scarlet flower, well worthy of culture. the _pyramidal lobelia_, l. pyramidalis, is a native of nepal, and is a modest pretty flower, of a purple color. _propagation_--is best performed by offsets, suckers, or cuttings, but seeds produce good strong plants, which may with care, be made to improve. _soil, &c._--a moist, sandy soil is requisite for them, the small varieties especially delighting in wet ground. some few of this family are annuals, and the roots of no varieties should remain more than three years without renewal, as the blossoms are apt to deteriorate; they all flower during the rains. the pitcairnia is a very handsome species, having long narrow leaves, with, spined edges and throwing up blossoms in upright spines. the _long stamened pitcairnia_, p. staminea, is a splendid scarlet flower, lasting long in blossom, which, appears in july or august, and continues till december. the _scarlet pitcairnia_, p. bromeliaefolia, is also a fine rich scarlet flower, but blossoming somewhat sooner, and may be made to continue about a month later. _propagation_--is by dividing the roots, or by suckers, which is best performed at the close of the rains. _soil, &c._ a sandy peat is the favorite soil of this plant, which should be kept very moist. the dahlia, dahlia; a few years since an attempt was made to rename this beautiful and extensive family and to call it georgina, but it failed, and it is still better known throughout the world by its old name than the new. it was long supposed that the dahlia was only found indigenous in mexico, but captain kirke some few years back brought to the notice of the horticultural society, that it was to be met with in great abundance in dheyra dhoon, producing many varieties both single and double; and he has from time to time sent down quantities of seed, which have greatly assisted its increase in all parts of india. it has also been found in nagpore. a good dahlia is judged of by its form, size, and color. in respect to the first of these its _form_ should be perfectly round, without any inequalities of projecting points of the petals, or being notched, or irregular. these should also be so far revolute that the side view should exhibit a perfect semicircle in its outline, and the eye or prolific disc, in the centre should be entirely concealed. there has been recently introduced into this country a new variety, all the petals of which are quilled, which has a very handsome appearance. in _size_ although of small estimation if the other qualities are defective, it is yet of some consideration, but the larger flowers are apt to be wanting in that perfect hemispherical form that is so much admired. the _color_ is of great importance to the perfection of the flower; of those that are of one color this should be clear, unbroken, and distinct; but when mixed hues are sought, each color should be clearly and distinctly defined without any mingling of shades, or running into each other. further, the flowers ought to be erect so as to exhibit the blossom in the fullest manner to the view. the most usual colors of the imported double dahlias, met with in india, are crimson, scarlet, orange, purple, and white. amongst those raised from seed from. dheyra dhoon[ ] of the double kind, there are of single colors, crimson, deep crimson approaching to maroon, deep lilac, pale lilac, violet, pink, light purple, canary color, yellow, red, and white; and of mixed colors, white and pink, red and yellow, and orange and white: the single ones of good star shaped flowers and even petals being of crimson, puce, lilac, pale lilac, white, and orange. those from nagpore seed have yielded, double flowers of deep crimson, lilac, and pale purple, amongst single colors; lilac and blue, and red and yellow of mixed shades; and single flowered, crimson, and orange, with mixed colors of lilac and yellow, and lilac and white. _propagation_--is by dividing the roots, by cuttings, by suckers, or by seed; the latter is generally resorted to, where new varieties are desired. mr. george a. lake, in an article on this subject (_gardeners' magazine_, ) says: "i speak advisedly, and from, experience, when i assert that plants raised from cuttings do not produce equally perfect flowers, in regard to size, form, and fulness, with those produced by plants grown from division of tubers;" and he more fully shews in another part of the same paper, that this appears altogether conformable to reason, as the cutting must necessarily for a long period want that store of starch, which is heaped up in the full grown tuber for the nutriment of the plant. this objection however might be met by not allowing the cuttings to flower in the season when they are struck. to those who are curious in the cultivation of this handsome species, it may be well to know how to secure varieties, especially of mixed colors; for this purpose it is necessary to cover the blossoms intended for fecundation with fine gauze tied firmly to the foot stalk, and when it expands take the pollen from the male flowers with a camel's hair pencil, and touch with it each floret of the intended bearing flower, tying the gauze again over it, and keeping it on until the petals are withered. the operation requires to be performed two or three successive days, as the florets do not expand together. _soil &c._ they thrive best in a rich loam, mixed with sand; but should not be repeated too often on the same spot, as they exhaust the soil considerably. _culture_. the dahlia requires an open, airy position unsheltered by trees or walls, the plants should be put out where they are to blossom, immediately on the cessation of the rains, at a distance of three feet apart, either in rows or in clumps, as they make a handsome show in a mass; and as they grow should be trimmed from the lower shoots, to about a foot in height, and either tied carefully to a stake, or, what is better, surrounded by a square or circular trellis, about five feet in height. as the buds form they should be trimmed off, so as to leave but one on each stalk, this being the only method by which full, large, and perfectly shaped blossoms are obtained. some people take up the tubers every year in february or march, but this is unnecessary. the plants blossom in november and december in the greatest perfection, but may with attention be continued from the beginning of october to the end of february. those plants which are left in the ground during the whole year should have their roots opened immediately on the close of the rains, the superabundant or decayed tubers, and all suckers being removed, and fresh earth filled in. the earth should always be heaped up high around the stems, and it is a good plan to surround each plant with a small trench to be filled daily with water so as to keep the stem and leaves dry. the pink, dianthus, _kurunful_, is a well known species of great variety, and acknowledged beauty. the _carnation_, d. caryophyilus, _gul kurunful_, is by this time naturalized in india, adding both beauty and fragrance to the parterre; the only variety however that has yet appeared in the country is the clove, or deep crimson colored: but the success attending the culture of this beautiful flower is surely an encouragement to the introduction of other sorts, there being above four hundred kinds, especially as they may be obtained from seed or pipings sent packed in moss, which will remain in good condition for two or three months, provided no moisture beyond what is natural to the moss, have access to them. the distinguishing marks of a good carnation may be thus described: the stem should be tall and straight, strong, elastic, and having rather short foot stalks, the flower should be fully three inches in diameter with large well formed petals, round and uncut, long and broad, so as to stand out well, rising about half an inch above the calyx, and then the outer ones turned off in a horizontal direction, supporting those of the centre, decreasing gradually in size, the whole forming a near approach to a hemisphere. it flowers in april and may. _propagation_--is performed either by seed, by layers, or by pipings; the best time for making the two latter is when the plant is in full blossom, as they then root more strongly. in this operation the lower leaves should be trimmed off, and an incision made with a sharp knife, by entering the knife about a quarter of an inch below the joint, passing it through its centre; it must then be pegged down with a hooked peg, and covered with about a quarter of an inch of light rich mould; if kept regularly moist, the layers will root in about a month's time: they may then be taken off and planted out into pots in a sheltered situation, neither exposed to excessive rain, nor sun, until they shoot out freely. pipings (or cuttings as they are called in other plants) must be taken off from a healthy, free growing plant, and should have two complete joints, being cut off horizontally close under the second one; the extremities of the leaves must also be shortened, leaving the whole length of each piping two inches; they should be thrown into a basin of soft water for a few minutes to plump them, and then planted out in moist rich mould, not more than an inch being inserted therein, and slightly watered to settle the earth close around them; after this the soil should be kept moderately moist, and never exposed to the sun. seed is seldom resorted to except to introduce new varieties. _soil, &c._--a mixture of old well rotted stable manure, with one-third the quantity of good fine loamy earth, and a small portion of sand, is the best soil for carnations. _culture_.--the plants should be sheltered from too heavy a fall of rain, although they require to be kept moderately moist, and desire an airy situation. when the flower stalks are about six or eight inches in height, they must be supported by sticks, and, if large full blossoms be sought for, all the buds, except the leading one, must be removed with a pair of scissors; the calyx must also be frequently examined, as it is apt to burst, and if any disposition to this should appear, it will be well to assist the uniform expansion by cutting the angles with a sharp penknife. if, despite all precautions the calyx burst and let out the petals, it should be carefully tied with thread, or a circular piece of card having a hole in the centre should be drawn over the bud so as to hold the petals together, and display them to advantage by the contrast of the white color. _insects, &c._--the most destructive are the red, and the large black ant, which attack, and frequently entirely destroy the roots before you can be aware of its approach; powdered turmeric should therefore be constantly kept strewed around this flower. the _common pink_, dianthus chinensis, _kurunful_, and the _sweet william_, d: barbatus, are pretty, ornamental plants, and may be propagated and cultivated in the same way as the carnation, save that they do not require so much care, or so good a soil, any garden mould sufficing; they are also more easily produced from seed. the violet, viola, _puroos_, is a class containing many beautiful flowers, some highly ornamental and others odoriferous. the _sweet violet_, v. odorata, _bunufsh'eh_, truly the poet's flower. it is a deserved favorite for its delightful fragrance as well as its delicate and retiring purple flowers; there is also a white variety, but it is rare in this country, as is also the double kind. this blossoms in the latter part of the cold weather. the _shrubby violet_, v. arborescens, or suffruticosa, _rutunpuroos_, grows wild in the hills, and is a pretty blue flower, but wants the fragrance of the foregoing. the _dog's violet_, v. canina, is also indigenous in the hills. _propagation_.--all varieties may be propagated by seed, but the most usual method is by dividing the roots, or taking off the runners. _soil, &c._--the natural _habitat_ of the indigenous varieties is the sides and interstices of the rocks, where leaf mould, and micaceous sand, has accumulated and moisture been retained, indicating that the kind of soil favorable to the growth of this interesting little plant is a rich vegetable mould, with an admixture of sand, somewhat moist, but having a dry subsoil. _culture_.--it would not be safe to trust this plant in the open ground except during a very short period of the early part of the cold weather, when the so doing will give it strength to form blossoms. in january, however, it should be re-potted, filling the pots about half-full of pebbles or stone-mason's cuttings, over which should be placed good rich vegetable mould, mixed with a large proportion of sand, covering with a thin layer of the same material as has been put into the bottom of the pot; a top dressing of ground bones is said to improve the fineness of the blossoms. they should not be kept too dry, but at the same time watered cautiously, as too much of either heat or moisture destroys the plants. the _pansy_ or _heart's-ease_, v. tricolor, _kheeroo, kheearee_, derives its first name from the french _pensée_. it was known amongst the early christians by the name of _flos trinitatis_, and worn as a symbol of their faith. the high estimation which it has of late years attained in great britain as a florist's flower has, in the last two or three years, extended itself to this country. there are nearly four hundred varieties, a few of which only have been found here. _the characters of a fine heart's-ease_ are, the flower being well expanded, offering a flat, or if any thing, rather a revolute surface, and the petals so overlapping each other as to form a circle without any break in the outline. these should be as nearly as possible of a size, and the greater length of the two upper ones concealed by the covering of those at the side in such manner as to preserve the appearance of just proportion: the bottom petal being broad and two-lobed, and well expanded, not curving inwards. the eye should be of moderate, or rather small size, and much additional beauty is afforded, if the pencilling is so arranged as to give the appearance of a dark angular spot. the colors must also be clear, bright, and even, not clouded or indistinct. undoubtedly the handsomest kinds are those in which the two upper petals are of deep purple and the triade of a shade less: in all, the flower stalk should be long and stiff. the plant blossoms in this country in february and march, although it is elsewhere a summer flower. _propagation_.--in england the moat usual methods are dividing the roots, layers, or cuttings from the stem, and these are certainly the only sure means of preserving a good variety; but it is almost impossible in india to preserve the plant through the hot weather, and therefore it is more generally treated as an annual, and raised every year from seed, which should be sown at the close of the rains; as however their growth, in india is as yet little known, most people put the imported seed into pots as soon as it arrives, lest the climate should deteriorate its germinating power, as it is well known, that even in europe the seed should be sown as soon as possible after ripening. it will be well also to assist its sprouting with a little bottom heat, by plunging the pot up to its rim in a hot bed. american seed should be avoided as the blossoms are little to be depended on, and generally yield small, ill-formed flowers, clouded and run in color. _soil, &c._--this should be moist, and the best compost is formed of one-sixth of well rotted dung from an old hot bed, and five-sixth of loam, or one-fourth of leaf mould and the remainder loam, but in either case well incorporated and exposed for some time previous to use to the action of the sun and air by frequent turning. _culture_.--a shady situation is to be preferred, especially for the dark varieties which assume a deeper hue if so placed. but it has been observed by mackintosh, that "the light varieties bloomed lighter in the shade, and darker in the sunshine--a very remarkable effect, for which i cannot account." the plants must at all times be kept moist, never being allowed to become dry, and should be so placed as to receive only the morning sun before ten o'clock. under good management the plants will extend a foot or more in height, and have a handsome appearance if trained over a circular trellis of rattan twisted. when they rise too high, or it is desirable to fill out with side shoots, the tops must be pinched off, and larger flowers will be obtained if the flower buds are thinned out where they appear crowded. these plants look very handsome when grown in large masses of several varieties, but the seeds of those grown in this manner should not be made use of, as they are sure to sport; to prevent which it is also necessary that the plants which it is desired to perpetuate in this manner should be isolated at a distance from any other kind, and it would be advisable to cover them with thin gauze to prevent impregnation from others by means of the bees and other insects. for show flowers the branches should be kept down, and not suffered to straggle out or multiply; these will also be improved by pegging the longer branches down under the soil, and thereby increasing the number of the root fibres, hence adding to their power of accumulating nourishment, and not allowing them to expand beyond a limited number of blossoms, and those retained should be as nearly equal in age as possible. the hydrangea is a hardy plant requiring a good deal of moisture, being by nature an inhabitant of the marshes. the _changeable hydrangea_, h. hortensis, is of chinese origin and a pretty growing plant that deserves to be a favorite; it blossoms in bunches of flowers at the extremities of the branches which are naturally pink, but in old peat earth, or having a mixture of alum, or iron filings, the color changes to blue. it blooms in march and april. _propagation_ may be effected by cuttings, which root freely, or by layers. _soil, &c._--loam and old leaf mould, or peat with a very small admixture of sand suits this plant. their growth is much promoted by being turned out, for a month or two in the rains, into the open ground, and then re-potted with new soil, the old being entirely removed from the roots: and to make it flower well it must not be encumbered with too many branches. the hoya is properly a trailing plant, rooting at the joints, but have been generally cultivated here as a twiner. the _fleshy-leaved hoya_, h. carnosa, is vulgarly called the wax flower from its singular star shaped-whitish pink blossoms, with a deep colored varnished centre, having more the appearance of a wax model than a production of nature. the flowers appear in globular groups and have a very handsome appearance from the beginning of april to the close of the rains. the _green flowered hoya_, h. viridiflora, _nukchukoree, teel kunga_, with its green flowers in numerous groups, is also an interesting plant, it is esteemed also for its medicinal properties. _propagation_.--every morsel of these plants, even a piece of the leaf, will form roots if put in the ground, cuttings therefore strike very freely, as do layers, the joints naturally throwing out root-fibres although not in the earth. _soil, &c._--a light loam moderately dry is the best for these plants, which look well if trained round a circular trellis in the open border. the stapelia is an extensive genus of low succulent plants without leaves, but yielding singularly handsome star-shaped flowers; they are of african origin growing in the sandy deserts, but in a natural state very diminutive being increased to their present condition and numerous varieties by cultivation, they mostly have an offensive smell whence some people call them the carrion plant. they deserve more attention than has hitherto been shown to them in india. the _variegated stapelia_, s. variegata, yields a flower in november, the thick petals of which are yellowish green with brown irregular spots, it is the simplest of the family. the _revolute-flowered stapelia_, s. revoluta, has a green blossom very fully sprinkled with deep purple, it flowers at the close of the rains. the _toad stapelia_, s. bufonia, as its name implies, is marked like the back of the reptile from whence it has its name; it flowers in december and january. the _hairy stapelia_, s. hirsuta, is a very handsome variety, being, like the rest, of green and brown, but the entire flower covered with fine filaments or hairs of a light purple, at various periods of the year. the _starry stapelia_, s. stellaris, is perhaps the most beautiful of the whole, being like the last covered with hairs, but they are of a bright pinkish blue color; there appears to be no fixed period for flowering. the hairy carrulluma, c. crinalata, belongs to the same family as the foregoing species, which it much resembles, except that it blossoms in good sized globular groups of small star-shaped flowers of green, studded and streaked with brown. _propagation_ is exceedingly easy with each of the last named two species; as the smallest piece put in any soil that is moist, without being saturated, will throw out root fibres. _soil, &c._--this should consist of one-half sand, one-fourth garden mould, and one-fourth well rotted stable manure. the pots in which they are planted should have on the top a layer of pebbles, or broken brick. all the after culture they require is to keep them within bounds, removing decayed portions as they appear and avoiding their having too much moisture. the perennial border plants, besides those included above, are very numerous; the directions for cultivation admitting, from their similarity, of the following general rules:-- _propagation_.--although some few will admit of other modes of multiplication, the most usually successful are by seed, by suckers, or by offsets, and by division of the root, the last being applicable to nine-tenths of the hardy herbaceous plants, and performed either by taking up the whole plant and gently separating it by the hand, or by opening the ground near the one to be divided, and cutting off a part of the roots and crown to make new the sections being either at once planted where they are to stand, or placed for a short period in a nursery; the best time for this operation is the beginning of the rains. offsets or suckers being rapidly produced during the rains, will be best removed towards their close, at which period, also, seed should be sown to benefit by the moisture remaining in the soil. the depth at which seeds are buried in the earth varies with their magnitude, all the pea or vetch kind will bear being put at a depth of from half an inch to one inch; but with the smallest seeds it will be sufficient to scatter them, on the sifted soil, beating them down with, the palm of the hand. _culture_.--transplanting this description of plants will be performed to best advantage during the rains. the general management is comprehended in stirring the soil occasionally in the immediate vicinity of the roots; taking up overgrown plants, reducing and replanting them, for which the rains is the best time; renewing the soil around the roots; sticking the weak plants; pruning and trimming others, so as to remove all weakly or decayed parts. once a year, before the rains, the whole border should be dug one or two spits deep, adding soil from the bottom of a tank or river; and again, in the cold weather, giving a moderate supply of well rotted stable manure, and leaf mould in equal portions. crossing is considered as yet in its infancy even in england, and has, except with the marvel of peru, hardly even been attempted in this country. the principles under which this is effected are fully explained at page of the former part of this work; but it may also be done in the more woody kinds by grafting one or more of the same genus on the stock of another, the seed of which would give a new variety. saving seed requires great attention in india, as it should be taken during the hot weather if possible; to effect which the earliest blossoms must be preserved for this purpose. with some kinds it will be advisable to assist nature by artificial impregnation with a camel hair pencil, carefully placing the pollen on the point of the stigma. the seeds should be carefully dried in some open, airy place, but not exposed to the sun, care being afterwards taken that they shall be deposited in a dry place, not close or damp, whence the usual plan of storing the seeds in bottles is not advisable. * * * * * bulbs. bulbs have not as yet received that degree of attention in this country (india) that they deserve, and they may be considered to form a separate class, requiring a mode of culture differing from that of others. their slow progress has discouraged many and a supposition that they will only thrive in the upper provinces, has deterred others from attempting to grow them, an idea which has also been somewhat fostered by the horticultural society, when they received a supply from england, having sent the larger portion of them to their subscribers in the north west provinces. the narcissus will thrive with care, in all parts of india, and it is a matter of surprise that it is not more frequently met with. a good narcissus should have the six petals well formed, regularly and evenly disposed, with a cup of good form, the colors distinct and clear, raised on strong erect stems, and flowering together. the _polyanthes narcissus_, n. tazetta, _narjus, hur'huft nusreen_, is of two classes, white and sulphur colored, but these have sported into almost endless varieties, especially amongst the dutch, with whom this and most other bulbs are great favorites. it flowers in february and march. the _poet's narcissus_, n. poeticus, _moozhan, zureenkuda_ is the favorite, alike for its fragrance and its delicate and graceful appearance, the petals being white and the cup a deep yellow: it flowers from the beginning of january to the end of march and thrives well. the first within the recollection of the author, in bengal, was at patna, nearly twelve years since, in possession of a lady there under whose care it blossomed freely in the shade, in the month of february. the _daffodil_, n. pseudo-narcissus, _khumsee buroonk_, is of pale yellow, and some of the double varieties are very handsome. _propagation_ is by offsets, pulled off after the bulbs are taken out of the ground, and sufficiently hardened. _soil, &c._--the best is a fresh, light loam with some well rotted cow dung for the root fibres to strike into, and the bottom of the pot to the height of one-third filled with pebbles or broken brick. they will not blossom until the fifth year, and to secure strong flowers the bulbs should only be taken up every third year. an eastern aspect where they get only the morning sun, is to be preferred. the pancratium is a handsome species that thrives well, some varieties being indigenous, and others fully acclimated, generally flowering about may or june. the _one-flowered pancratium_, p. zeylanicum, is rather later than the rest in flowering and bears a curiously formed white flower. the _two-flowered pancratium_, p. triflorum, _sada kunool_, was so named by roxburg, and gives a white flower in groups of threes, as its name implies. the _oval leaved pancratium_, p. ovatum, although of west indian origin, is so thoroughly acclimated as to be quite common in the indian garden. _propagation_.--the best method is by suckers or offsets which are thrown out very freely by all the varieties. _soil, &c._--any common garden soil will suit this plant, but they thrive best with a good admixture of rich vegetable mould. the hyacinth, hyacinthus, is an elegant flower, especially the double kind. the first bloomed in calcutta was exhibited at the flower show some three years since, but proved an imperfect blossom and not clear colored; a very handsome one, however, was shown by mrs. macleod in february , and was raised from a stock originally obtained at simlah. the dutch florists have nearly two thousand varieties. the distinguishing marks of a good hyacinth are clear bright colors, free from clouding or sporting, broad bold petals, full, large and perfectly doubled, sufficiently revolute to give the whole mass a degree of convexity: the stem strong and erect and the foot stalks horizontal at the base, gradually taking an angle upwards as they approach the crown, so as to place the flowers in a pyramidical form, occupying about one-half the length of the stem. the _amethyst colored hyacinth_, h. amethystimus, is a fine handsome flower, varying in shade from pale blue to purple, and having bell shaped flowers, but the foot stalks are generally not strong and they are apt to become pendulous. the _garden hyacinth_, h. orientalis, _sumbul, abrood_, is the handsomer variety, the flowers being trumpet shaped, very double and of varying colors--pink, red, blue, white, or yellow, and originally of eastern growth. it flowers in february and has considerable fragrance. _propagation_.--in europe this is sometimes performed by seed, but as this requires to be put into the ground as soon as possible after ripening, and moreover takes a long time to germinate, this method would hardly answer in this country, which must therefore, at least for the present, depend upon imported bulbs and offsets. _soil, &c._--this, as well as its after culture, is the same as for the narcissus. they will not show flowers until the second year, and not in good bloom before the fifth or sixth of their planting out. the crocus, crocus lutens, having no native name, has yet, it is believed, been hardly ever known to flower here, even with the utmost care. a good crocus has its colors clear, brilliant, and distinctly marked. _propagation_--must be effected, for new varieties, by seeds, but the species are multiplied by offsets of the bulb. _soil, &c._ any fair garden soil is good for the crocus, but it prefers that which is somewhat sandy. _culture_. the small bulbs should be planted in clumps at the depth of two inches; the leaves should not be cut off after the plant has done blossoming, as the nourishment for the future season's flower is gathered by them. the ixia, is originally from the cape, and belongs to the class of iridae: the ixia chinensis, more properly morea chinensis, is a native of india and china, and common in most gardens. _propagation_--is by offsets. _soil, &c._ the best is of peat and sand, it thrives however in good garden soil, if not too stiff, and requires no particular cultivation. the lily, lilium, _soosun_, the latter derived from the hebrew, is a handsome species that deserves more care than it has yet received in india, where some of the varieties are indigenous. the _japan lily_, l. japonicum, is a very tall growing plant, reaching about feet in height with broad handsome flowers of pure white, and a small streak of blue, in the rains. the _daunan lily_, l. dauricum, _rufeef, soosun_, gives an erect, light orange flower in the rains. the _canadian lily_, l. canadense _b'uhmutan_, flowers in the rains in pairs of drooping reflexed blossoms of a rather darker orange, sometimes spotted with a deeper shade. _propagation_--is effected by offsets, which however will not flower until the third or fourth year. _soil, &c._ this is the same as for the narcissus, but they do not require taking up more frequently than once in three years, and that only for about a month at the close of the rains, the japan lily will thrive even under the shade of trees. the amaryllis is a very handsome flower, which has been found to thrive well in this country, and has a great variety, all of which possess much beauty, some kinds are very hardy, and will grow freely in the open ground. the _mexican lily_, a. regina mexicanae, is a common hardy variety found in most gardens, yielding an orange red flower in the months of march and april, and will thrive even under the shades of trees. the _ceylonese amaryllis_, a: zeylanica, _suk'h dursun_, gives a pretty flower about the same period. the _jacoboean lily_, a, formosissima, has a handsome dark red flower of singular form, having three petals well expanded above, and three others downwards rolled over the fructile organs on the base, so as to give the idea of its being the model whence the bourbon _fleur de lis_ was taken, the stem is shorter than the two previous kinds, blossoming in april or may. the _noble amaryllis_, a: insignia, is a tall variety, having pink flowers in march or april. the _broad-leaved amaryllis_, a: latifolia, is a native of india with pinkish white flowers about the same period of the year. the _belladonna lily_. a: belladonna is of moderately high stem, supporting a pink flower of the same singular form as the jacoboean lily, in may and june. _propagation_--is by offsets of the bulb, which most kinds throw out very freely, sometimes to the extent of ten, or a dozen in the season. _soil, &c._--for the choice kinds is the same as is required for the narcissus, and water should on no account be given over the leaves or upper part of the bulb. the common kinds look well in masses, and a good form of planting them is in a series of raised circles, so as for the whole to form a round bed. the dog's tooth violet, erythronium, is a pretty flowering bulb and a great favorite with florists in europe. the _common dog's tooth violet_, e. dens canis, is ordinarily found of reddish purple, there is also a white variety, but it is rare, neither of them grow above three or four inches in height, and flower in march or april. the _indian dog's tooth violet_, e. indicum, _junglee kanda_, is found in the hills, and flowers at about the same time, with a pink blossom. the superb gloriosa, gloriosa superba, _kareearee, eeskooee langula_, is a very beautiful species of climbing bulb, a native of this country, and on that account neglected, although highly esteemed as a stove plant in england; the leaves bear tendrils at the points, and the flower, which is pendulous, when first expanded, throws its petals nearly erect of yellowish green, which gradually changes to yellow at the base and bright scarlet at the point; the pistil which shoots from the seed vessel horizontally possesses the singular property of making an entire circuit between sun-rise and sun-set each day that the flower continues, which is generally for some time, receiving impregnation from every author as it visits them in succession. it blooms in the latter part of the rains. _propagation_ is in india sometimes from seed, but in europe it is confined to division of the offsets. _soil, &c._--most garden soils will suit this plant, but it affords the handsomest, and richest colored flowers in fresh loam mixed with peat or leaf mould, without dung. it should not have too much water when first commencing its growth, and it requires the support of a trellis over which it will bear training to a considerable extent, growing to the height of from five to six feet. many other bulbs, there is no doubt, might be successfully grown in india where every thing is favorable to their growth, and so much facility presents itself for procuring them from the cape of good hope; the natural _habitat_ of so many varieties of the handsomest species, nearly all of them flowering between the end of the cold weather and the close of the rains. some of these being hardy, thrive in the open ground with but little care or trouble, others requiring very great attention, protection from exposure, and shelter from the heat of the sun, and the intensity of its rays; which should therefore have a particular portion of the plant-shed assigned to them, such being inhabitants of the green house in colder climates, and the reason of assigning them such separated part of the chief house, or what is better perhaps, a small house to themselves, is that in culture, treatment, and other respects they do not associate with plants of a different character. one great obstacle which the more extensive culture of bulbs has had to contend against, may be found in that impatience that refuses to give attention to what requires from three to five years to perfect, generally speaking people in india prefer therefore to cultivate such plants only as afford an immediate result, especially with relation to the ornamental classes. _propagation_.--the bulb after the formation of the first floral core is instigated by nature to continue its species, as immediately the flower fades the portion of bulb that gave it birth dies, for which purpose it each year forms embryo bulbs on each side of the blossoming one, and which although continued in the same external coat, are each perfect and complete plants in themselves, rising from the crown of the root fibres: in some kinds this is more distinctly exhibited by being as it were, altogether outside and distinct from, the main, or original bulb. these being separated for what are called offsets, and should be taken off only when the parent bulb has been taken up and hardened, or the young plant will suffer. some species of bulbous rooted plants produce seeds, but this method of reproduction, can seldom be resorted to in this country, and certainly not to obtain new kinds, as the seeds require to be sown as soon as ripe. _soil, culture, &c_.--for the delicate and rare bulbs, it is advisable to have pots purposely made of some fifteen inches in height with a diameter of about seven or eight inches at the top, tapering down to five, with a hole at the bottom as in ordinary flower pots, and for this to stand in, another pot should be made without any hole, of a height of about four inches, sufficient size to leave the space of about an inch all round between the outer side of the plant pot and the inner side of the smaller pot or saucer. this will allow the plant pot to be filled with crocks, pebbles, or stone chippings to the height of five inches, or about an inch higher than the level of the water in the saucer, above which may be placed eight inches in depth of soil and one inch on the top of that, pebbles or small broken brick. by this arrangement, the saucer being kept filled, or partly filled, as the plant may require, with water, the fibres of the root obtain a sufficiency of moisture for the maintenance and advancement of the plant without chance of injury to the bulb or stem, by applying water to the upper earth which is also in this prevented from becoming too much saturated. light rich sandy loam, with a portion of sufficiently decomposed leaf mould, is the best soil for the early stages of growing bulbs. so soon as the leaves change color and wither, then all moisture must be withheld, but as the repose obtained by this means is not sufficient to secure health to the plant, and ensure its giving strong blossoms, something more is required to effect this purpose. this being rendered the more necessary because in those that form offsets by the sides of the old bulbs, they would otherwise become crowded and degenerate, the same occurring also with those forming under the old ones, which will get down so deep that they cease to appear. the time to take up the bulb is when the flower-stem and leaves have commenced decay; taking dry weather for the purpose, if the bulbs are hardy, or if in pots having reduced the moisture as above shown, but it must be left to individual experience to discover how long the different varieties should remain out of the ground, some requiring one month's rest, and others enduring three or four, with advantage; more than that is likely to be injurious. when out of the ground, during the first part of the period they are so kept, it should be, say for a fortnight at least, in any room where no glare exists, with free circulation of air, after which the off-sets may be removed, and the whole exposed to dry on a table in the verandah, or any other place that is open to the air, but protected from the sunshine, which would destroy them. little peculiarity of after treatment is requisite, except perhaps that the bulbs which are to flower in the season should have a rather larger proportion of leaf mould in the compost, and that if handsome flowers are required, it will be well to examine the bulb every week at least by gently taking the mould from around them, and removing all off-sets that appear on the old bulb. for the securing strength to the plant also, it will be well to pinch off the flower so soon as it shews symptoms of decay. the wire worm is a great enemy to bulbs, and whenever it appears they should be taken up, cleaned, and re-planted. it is hardly necessary to say that all other vermin and insects must be watched, and immediately removed. * * * * * the biennial border plants. it is only necessary to mention a few of these, as the curious in floriculture will always make their own selection, the following will therefore suffice.-- the speedwell-leaved hedge hyssop, gratiola veronicifolia, _bhoomee, sooél chumnee_, seldom cultivated, though deserving to be so, has a small blue flower. the simple-stalked lobelia, lobelia simplex, introduced from the cape, yields a pretty blue flower. the evening primrose, oenothera mutabilis, a pretty white flower that blossoms in the evening, its petals becoming pink by morning. the flax-leaved pimpernel, anagallis linifolia, a rare plant, giving a blue flower in the rains; introduced from portugal. the browallia, of two lauds, both pretty and interesting plants; originally from south america. the _spreading browallia_, b. demissa is the smallest of these, and blossoms in single flowers of bright blue, at the beginning of the cold weather. the _upright browallia_, b. alata, gives bloom in groups, of a bright blue; there is also a white variety, both growing to the height of nearly two feet. the small-flowered turnsole, heliotropium parviflorum, _b'hoo roodee_, differs from the rest of this family which are mostly perennials; it yields groups of white flowers, which are fragrant. the flax-leaved candytuft, iberis linifolia, with its purple blossoms, is very rare, but it has been sometimes grown with, success. the stock, mathiola, is a very popular plant, and deserves more extensive cultivation in this country. the _great sea stock_, m sinuata, is rare and somewhat difficult to bring into bloom, it possesses some fragrance and its violet colored groups of flowers have rather a handsome appearance about may. the _ten weeks' stock_, m annua, is also a pleasing flower about the same time. in england this is an annual, but here it is not found to bloom freely until the second year, its color is scarlet, and it has some fragrance. the _purple gilly flower_, m incana, is a pretty flower of purple color, and fragrant. there are some varieties of it such as the _double_, multiplex, the _brompton_, coccinea, and the _white_, alba, varying in color and blossoming in april. the starwort, aster, is a hardy flowering plant not very attractive, except as it yields blossoms at all seasons, if the foot stalks are cut off as soon as the flower has faded, there are very numerous varieties of this plant which is, in europe a perennial, but it is preferable to treat it here as only biennial, otherwise it degenerates. the _bushy starwort_, a dumosus, is a free blossoming plant in the rains, with white flowers. the _silky leaved starwort_, a. sericeus, is indigenous in the hills, putting forth its blue blossoms during the rains. the _hairy starwort_, a pilosus, is of very pale blue, and may, with care, be made to blossom throughout the year. the _chinese starwort,_ a chinensis, is of dark purple and very prolific of blossoms at all times. the beautiful justicia, j speciosa, although, described by roxburgh as a perennial, degenerates very much after the second year, it affords bright carmine colored flowers at the end of the cold weather. the common marvel of peru, mirabilis jalapa _gul abas, krushna kelee_, is vulgarly called the four o'clock from its blossoms expanding in the afternoon. there are several varieties distinguished only by difference of color, lilac, red, yellow, orange, and white, which hybridize naturally, and may easily be obliged to do so artificially, if any particular shades are desired. the hairy indigo, indigofera hirsuta, yields an ornamental flower with abundance of purple blossoms. the hibiscus this class numbers many ornamental plants, the blossoms of which all maintain the same character of having a darkened spot at the base of each petal. the _althaea frutex_, h syriacus, _gurhul,_ yields a handsome purple flower in the latter part of the rains, there are also a white, and a red variety. the _stinging hibiscus_ h pruriens, has a yellow flower at the same season. the _hemp leaved hibiscus_, h cannabinus, _anbaree_, is much the same as the last. the _bladder ketmia_, h trionum, is a dwarf species, yellow, with a brown spot at the base of the petal. the _african hibiscus_ h africanus, is a very handsome flower growing to a considerable height, expanding to the diameter of six to seven inches, of a bright canary color, the dark blown spots at the base of the petals very distinctly marked, the seeds were considered a great acquisition when first obtained from hobarton, but the plant has since been seen in great perfection growing wild in the _turaee_ at the foot of the darjeeling range of hills, blooming in great perfection at the close of the rains. the _chinese hibiscus_, h rosa sinensis, _jooua, jasoon, jupa_, although, really a perennial flower, is in greatest perfection if kept as a biennial, it flowers during the greater part of the season a dark red flower with a darker hued spot, there are also some other varieties of different colors yellow, scarlet, and purple. the tree mallow, lavatera arborea, has of late years been introduced from europe, and may now be found in many gardens in india yielding handsome purple flowers in the latter part of the rains. but it is unnecessary to continue such a mere catalogue, the character and general cultivation of which require no distinct rules, but may all be resolved into one general method, of which the following is a sketch. _propagation_--they are all raised from seed, but the finest double varieties require to be continued by cuttings. the seed should be sown as soon as it can after opening, but if this occur during the rains, the beds, or pots, perhaps better, must be sheltered, removing the plants when they are few inches high to the spot where they are to remain, care being at the same time taken in removing those that have tap roots, such as hollyhock, lavatera, &c not to injure them, as it will check their flowering strongly, the best mode is to sow those in pots and transplant them, with balls of earth entire, into the borders, at the close of the rains. cuttings of such as are multiplied by that method, are taken either from the flower stalks, or root-shoots, early in the rains, and rooted either in pots, under shelter, or in beds, protected from the heavy showers. _culture_--cultivation after the plants are put into the borders, is the same as for perennial plants. but the duration and beauty of the flowers is greatly improved by cutting off the buds that shew the earliest, so as to retard the bloom--and for the same reason the footstalk should be cut off when the flowers fade, for as soon as the plant begins to form seed, the blossoms deteriorate. * * * * * the annual border plants. these are generally known to every one, and many of them are so common as hardly to need notice, a few of the most usual are however mentioned, rather to recal the scattered thoughts of the many, than as a list of annuals. the mignionette, resoda odorata, is too great a favorite both on account of its fragrance and delicate flowers not to be well known, and by repeated sowings it may be made under care to give flowers throughout the year but it is advisable to renew the seed occasionally by fresh importations from europe, the cape, or hobarton. the prolific pink, dianthus prolifer _kurumful_, is a pretty variety; that blossoms freely throughout the year, sowing to keep up succession, the shades and net work marks on them are much varied, and they make a very pretty group together. the lupine, lupinus, is a very handsome class of annuals, many of which grow well in india, all of them flowering in the cold season. the _small blue lupine_, l. varius, was introduced from the cape and is the only one noticed by roxburgh. the _rose, and great blue lupine_, l. pilosus and hirsutus, are both good sized handsome flowers. the _egyptian, or african lupins_, l. thermis, _turmus_, is the only one named in the native language, and has a white flower. the _tree lupine_, l. arboreus, is a shrubby plant with a profusion of yellow flowers which has been successfully cultivated from hobarton seed. the catchfly, silene, the only one known here is the small red, s. rubella, having a very pretty pink flower appearing in the cold weather. the larkspur, delphinum, has not yet received any native name, and deserves to be much more extensively cultivated, especially the neapolitan and variegated sorts. the common purple, d. bhinensis, being the one usually met with; it should be sown in succession from september to december, but the rarer kinds must not be put in sooner than the middle of november, as these do not blossom well before february, march, or april. the sweet pea, lathyrus odoralus, is not usually cultivated with success, because it has been generally sown too late in the season, to give a sufficient advance to secure blossoming. the seeds should be put in about the middle of the rains in pots and afterwards planted out when these cease, and carefully cultivated to obtain blossoms in february or march. the zinnia, has only of late years been introduced, but by a mistake it has generally been sown too late in the year to produce good flowers, whereas if the seed is put into the ground about june, fine handsome flowers will be the result, in the cold weather. the centaury, centaurea, is a very pretty class of annuals which grows, and blossoms freely in this country. the _woolly centaury_, c. lanata, is mentioned by roxburgh as indigenous to the country, but the flowers are very small, of a purple color, blossoming in december. the _blue bottle_ o. cyanus, _azeez_, flowers in december and january, of pink and blue. the _sweet sultan_, c. moschata, _shah pusund_ is known by its fragrant and delicate lilac blossoms in january and february. the balsam, impatiens, _gulmu'hudee, doopatee_ is not cultivated, or encouraged as it should be in india, where some of the varieties are indigenous. a very rich soil should be used. dr. r. wight observes, that balsams of the colder hymalayas, like those of europe, split from the base, rolling the segment towards the apex, whilst those of the hotter regions do the reverse. all annuals require the same, or nearly the same treatment, of which the following may be considered a fair sketch. _propagation_.--these plants are all raised from seed put in the earth generally on the close of the rains, although some plants, such as nasturtium, sweet pea, scabious, wall-flower, and stock, are better to be sown in pots about june or july, and then put out into the border as soon as the rains cease. the seed must be sown in patches, rings, or small beds according to taste, the ground being previously stirred, and made quite fine, the earth sifted over them to a depth proportioned to the size of the seed, and then gently pressed down, so as closely to embrace every part of the seed. when the plants are an inch high they must be thinned out to a distance of two, three, five, seven, or more inches apart, according to their kind, whether spreading, or upright, having reference also to their size; the plants thinned out, if carefully taken up, may generally be transplanted to fill up any parts of the border where the seed may have failed. _culture_. weeding and occasionally stirring the soil, and sticking such as require support, is all the cultivation necessary for annuals. if it be desired to save seed, some of the earliest and most perfect blossoms should be preserved for this purpose, so as to secure the best possible seed for the ensuing year, not leaving it to chance to gather seed from such plants as may remain after the flowers have been taken, as is generally the case with native gardeners, if left to themselves. * * * * * flowers that grow under the shade of trees. it is of some value to know what these are, but at the same time it must be observed that no plant will grow under trees of the fir tribe, and it would be a great risk to place any under the _deodar_--with all others also it must not be expected that any trees having their foliage so low as to affect the circulation of air under their branches, can do otherwise than destroy the plants placed beneath them. those which may be so planted are;--wood anemone.--common arum.--deadly nightshade--indian ditto.--chinese clematis--upright ditto--woody strawberry--woody geranium.--green hellebore.--hairy st. john's wort.--dog's violet.--imperial fritillaria--the common oxalis, and some other bulbs.--common hound's tongue.--common antirrhinum.--common balsam.--to these may be added many of the orchidaceous plants. * * * * * roses. the rose, rosa, _gul_ or _gulab_: as the most universally admired, stands first amongst shrubs. the london catalogues of this beautiful plant contain upwards of two thousand names: mr. loudon, in his "_encyclopaedia of plants_" enumerates five hundred and twenty-two, of which he describes three species, viz. macrophylla, brunonii, and moschata nepalensis, as natives of nepal; two, viz. involucrata, and microphylla, as indigenous to india, and berberifolia, and moschata arborea, as of persian origin, whilst twelve appear to have come from china. dr. roxburgh describes the following eleven species as inhabitants of these regions:-- rosa involucrata, -- chinensis, -- semperflorens, -- recurva, -- microphylla, -- inermis, rosa centiflora, -- glandulifera, -- pubescens, -- diffusa, -- triphylla, most of which, however, he represents to have been of chinese origin. the varieties cultivated generally in gardens are, however, all that will be here described. these are-- . the _madras rose,_ or _rose edward_, a variety of r centifolia, _gul ssudburul_, is the most common, and has multiplied so fast within a few years, that no garden is without it, it blossoms all the year round, producing large bunches of buds at the extremities of its shoots of the year, but, if handsome, well-shaped flowers are desired, these must be thinned out on their first appearance, to one or two, or at the most three on each stalk. it is a pretty flower, but has little fragrance. this and the other double sorts require a rich loam rather inclining to clay, and they must be kept moist.[ ] . the _bussorah rose_, r gallica, _gulsooree_, red, and white, the latter seldom met with, is one of a species containing an immense number of varieties. the fragrance of this rose is its greatest recommendation, for if not kept down, and constantly looked to, it soon gets straggling, and unsightly, like the preceding species too, the buds issue from the ends of the branches in great clusters, which must be thinned, if well formed fragrant blossoms are desired. the same soil is required as for the preceding, with alternating periods of rest by opening the roots, and of excitement by stimulating manure. . the _persian rose_, apparently r collina, _gul eeran_ bears a very full-petaled blossom, assuming a darker shade as these approach nearer to the centre, but, it is difficult to obtain a perfect flower, the calyx being so apt to burst with excess of fulness, that if perfect flowers are required a thread should be tied gently round the bud, it has no fragrance. a more sandy soil will suit this kind, with less moisture. . the _sweet briar_ r rubiginosa, _gul nusreen usturoon_, grows to a large size, and blossoms freely in india, but is apt to become straggling, although, if carefully clipped, it may be raised as a hedge the same as in england, it is so universally a favorite as to need no description. . the _china blush rose_, r indica (r chinensis of roxburgh), _kut'h gulab_, forms a pretty hedge, if carefully clipped, but is chiefly usefully as a stock for grafting on. it has no odour. the _china ever-blowing rose_, r damascena of roxburgh, _adnee gula, gulsurkh_, bearing handsome dark crimson blossoms during the whole of the year, it is branching and bushy, but rather delicate, and wants odour. the _moss rose_, r muscosa, having no native name is found to exist, but has only been known to have once blossomed in india; good plants may be obtained from hobart town without much trouble. the _indian dog-rose_, r arvensis, r involucrata of roxburgh, _gul bé furman_, is found to glow wild in some parts of nepal and bengal, as well as in the province of buhar, flowering in february, the blossoms large, white, and very fragrant, its cultivation extending is improving the blossoms, particularly in causing the petals to be multiplied. . the _bramble-flowered rose_ r multiflora, _gul rana_, naturally a trailer, may be trained to great advantage, when it will give beautiful bunches of small many petaled flowers in february and march, of delightful fragrance. . the _due de berri rose_, a variety of r damascena, but having the petals more rounded and more regular, it is a low rather drooping shrub with delicately small branches. _propagation_.--all the species may be multiplied by seed, by layers, by cuttings, by suckers, or from grafts, almost indiscriminately. layering is the easiest, and most certain mode of propagating this most beautiful shrub. the roots that branch, out and throw up distinct shoots may be divided, or cut off from the main root, and even an eye thus taken off may be made to produce a good plant. suckers, when they have pushed through the soil, may be taken up by digging down, and gently detaching them from the roots. grafting or budding is used for the more delicate kinds, especially the sweet briar, and, by the curious, to produce two or more varieties on one stem, the best stocks being obtained from the china, or the dog rose. _soil &c._--any good loamy garden soil without much sand, suits the rose, but to produce it in perfection the ground can hardly be too rich. _culture_.--immediately at the close of the rains, the branches of most kinds of roses, especially the double ones, should be cut down to not more than six inches in length, removing at the same time, all old and decayed wood, as well as all stools that have branched out from the main one, and which will form new plants; the knife being at the same time freely exercised in the removal of sickly and crowded fibres from the roots; these should likewise be laid open, cleaned and pinned, and allowed to remain exposed until blossom buds begin to appear at the end of the first shoots; the hole must then be filled with good strong stable manure, and slightly earthed over. about a month after, a basket of stable dung, with the litter, should be heaped up round the stems, and broken brick or turf placed over it to relieve the unsightly appearance. while flowering, too, it will be well to water with liquid manure at least once a week. if it be desired to continue the trees in blossom, each shoot should be removed as soon as it has ceased flowering. to secure full large blossoms, all the buds from a shoot should be cut off, when quite young, except one. the _sweet briar rose_ strikes its root low, and prefers shade, the best soil being a deep rich loam with very little sand, rather strong than otherwise; it will be well to place a heap of manure round the stem, above ground, covering over with turf, but it is not requisite to open the roots, or give them so much manure as for other varieties. the sweet briar must not be much pruned, overgrowth being checked rather by pinching the young shoots, or it will not blossom, and it is rather slower in throwing out shoots than other roses. in this country the best mode of multiplying this shrub is by grafting on a china rose stock, as layers do not strike freely, and cuttings cannot be made to root at all. the _bramble-flowered rose_ is a climber, and though not needing so strong a soil as other kinds, requires it to be rich, and frequently renewed, by taking away the soil from about the roots and supplying its place with a good compost of loam, leaf mould, and well rotted dung, pruning the root. the plants require shelter from the cold wind from the north, or west, this, however, if carefully trained, they will form for themselves, but until they do so, it is impossible to make them blossom freely, the higher branches should be allowed to droop, and if growing luxuriantly, with the shoots not shortened, they will the following season, produce bunches of flowers at the end of every one, and have a very beautiful effect, no pruning should be given, except what is just enough to keep the plants within bounds, as they invariably suffer from the use of the knife. this rose is easily propagated by cuttings or layers, both of which root readily. the _china rose_ thrives almost anywhere, but is best in a soil of loam and peat, a moderate supply of water being given daily during the hot weather. they will require frequent thinning out of the branches, and are propagated by cuttings, which strike freely.[ ] as before mentioned, rose trees look well in a parterre by themselves, but a few may be dispersed along the borders of the garden. _insects, &c._ the green, and the black plant louse are great enemies to the rose tree, and, whenever they appear, it is advisable to cut out at once the shoot attacked, the green caterpillar too, often makes skeletons of the leaves in a short time, the ladybird, as it is commonly called, is an useful insect, and worthy of encouragement, as it is a destroyer of the plant louse. * * * * * creepers and climbers the climbing, and twining shrubs offer a numerous family, highly deserving of cultivation, the following being a few of the most desirable. the honey-suckle, caprifolium, having no native name, is too well known, and too closely connected with the home associations of all to need particularizing. it is remarkable that they always twine from east to west, and rather die than submit to a change. the trumpet flower, bignonia, are an eminently handsome family, chiefly considered stove plants in europe, but here growing freely in the open ground, and flowering in loose spikes. the mountain ebony, bauhinia, the distinguishing mark of the class being its two lobed leaves, most of them are indigenous, and in their native woods attain an immense size, far beyond what botanists in europe appear to give them credit for. the virgin's bower, clematis, finds some indigenous representatives in this country, although unnamed in the native language; the odour however is rather too powerful, and of some kinds even offensive, except immediately after a shower of rain. they are all climbers, requiring the same treatment as the honey suckle. the passion flower, passiflora, is a very large family of twining shrubs, many of them really beautiful, and generally of easy cultivation, this country being of the same temperature with their indigenous localities. the racemose asparagus, a. racemosus, _sadabooree, sutmoolee_, is a native of india, and by nature a trailing plant, but better cultivated as a climber on a trellis, in which way its delicate setaceous foliage makes it at all times ornamental, and at the close of the rains it sends forth abundant bunches of long erect spires of greenish white color, and of delicious fragrance, shedding perfume all around to a great distance. * * * * * kalendar work to be performed. january. thin out seeding annuals wherever they appear too thick. water freely, especially such plants as are in bloom, and keep all clean from weeds. cut off the footstalks of flowers, except such as are reserved for seed, as soon as the petals fade. collect the seeds of early annuals as they ripen. february. continue as directed in last month. prepare stocks for roses to be grafted on, r. bengalensis, and r. canina are the best. great care must be paid to thinning out the buds of roses to insure perfect blossoms, as well as to rubbing off the succulent upright shoots and suckers that are apt to spring up at this period. collect seeds as they ripen, to be dried, or hardened in the shade. collect seeds as they ripen, drying them carefully, for a few days in the pods, and subsequently when freed from them in the shade, to put them in the sun being highly injurious. give a plentiful supply of water in saucers to narcissus, or other bulbs when flowering. march. cut down the flower stalks of narcissus that have ceased flowering, and lessen the supply of water. take up the tubers of dahlias, and dry gradually in an open place in the shade, but do not remove the offsets for some days. pot any of the species of geranium that have been put out after the rains, provided they are not in bloom. give water freely to the roots of all flowers that are in blossom. mignionette that is in blossom should have the seed pods clipped off with a pair of scissors every day to continue it. convolvulus in flower should be shaded early in the morning, or it will quickly fade. the evening primrose should be freely watered to increase the number of blossoms. look to the carnations that are coming into bloom, give support to the flower stem, cutting off all side shoots and buds, except the one intended to give a handsome flower. april. careful watering, avoiding any wetting of the leaves is necessary at this period, and the saucers of all bulbs not yet flowered should be kept constantly full, to promote blossoming--the saucers should however be kept clean, and washed out every third day at least. frequent weeding must be attended to, with occasional watering all grass plots, or paths. wherever any part of the garden becomes empty by the clearing off of annuals, it should be well dug to a depth of at least eighteen inches, and after laying exposed in clods for a week or two, manured with tank or road mud; leaf mould, or other good well rotted manure. may. this is the time to make layers of honeysuckle, bauhinia, and other climbing and twining shrubs. mignionette must be very carefully treated, kept moist, and every seed-pod clipped off as soon as the flower fades, or it will not be preserved. continue to dig, and manure the borders, not leaving the manure exposed, or it will lose power. make pipings and layers of carnations. june. thin out the multitudinous buds of the madras rose, also examine the buds of the persian rose, to prevent the bursting of the calyx by tying with thread, or with a piece of parchment, or cardboard as directed for carnations. watch carnations to prevent the bursting of the calyx, and to remove superfluous buds. re pot geraniums that are in sheds, or verandahs, so soon as they have done flowering, also take up, and pot any that may yet remain in the borders. prune off also all superfluous, or straggling branches. continue digging over and manuring the flowering borders. sow zinnias, also make cuttings of perennials and biennials that are propagated by that means, and put in seeds of biennials under shelter, as well as a few of the early annuals, particularly stock and sweet-pea. july. make cuttings and layers of hardy shrubs, and of the fragrant olive; put in cuttings of the willow, and some other trees. plant out pines, and casuarina, cypress, large-leaved fig, and the laurel tribe. transplant young shrubs of a hardy nature. divide the roots, and plant out suckers, or offsets of perennial border plants. make cuttings and sow seeds of biennials, as required; also a few annuals to be hereafter transplanted. sow also geraniums. continue making pipings of carnation, plant out, or transplant hardy perennials into the borders. august. this may be considered the best time for sowing the seeds of hardy shrubs. plant out aralia, canella, magnolia, and other ornamental trees. transplant delicate and exotic shrubs. remove, and plant out suckers, and layers of hardy shrubs. prune all shrubs freely. divide, and plant out suckers, and offsets of hardy perennials, that have formed during the rains. plant out tender perennial plants, in the borders, also biennials. prune, and thin out perennial plants in the borders. put out in the borders such annuals as were sown in june, protecting them from the heat of the sun in the afternoon. sow a few early annuals. plant out dahlia tubers where they are intended to blossom, keeping them as much as possible in classes of colors. make pipings of carnations. september. prick out the cuttings of hardy shrubs that have been made before, or during the rains, in beds for growing. prune all flowering shrubs, having due regard to the character of each, as bearing flowers on the end of the shoots, or from the side exits, give the annual dressing of manure to the entire shrubbery, with new upper soil. remove the top soil from the borders, and renew with addition of a moderate quantity of manure. put out geraniums into the borders, and set rooted cuttings singly in pots. plant out biennials in the borders, also such annuals as have been sown in pots. re-pot and give fresh earth to plants in the shed. october. open out the roots of a few bussorah roses for early flowering, pruning down all the branches to a height of six inches, removing all decayed, and superannuated wood, dividing the roots, and pruning them freely. the madras roses should be treated in the same manner, not all at the same time, but at intervals of a week between each cutting down, so as to secure a succession for blossoming. plant out rooted cuttings in beds, to increase in size. sow annuals freely, and thin out those put in last month, so as to leave sufficient space for growing, at the same time transplanting the most healthy to other parts of the border. november. continue opening the roots of bussorah roses, as well as the rose edward, and madras roses, for succession to those on which this operation was performed last month. prune, and trim the sweetbriar, and many-flowered rose. _flower-garden_--divide, and plant bulbs of all kinds, both, for border, and pot flowering. continue to sow annuals. december continue opening the roots, and cutting down the branches of bussorah, and other roses for late flowering. prune, and thin out also the china and persian roses, as well as the many-flowered rose, if not done last month. train carefully all climbing and twining shrubs. weed beds of annuals, and thin out, where necessary. sow nepolitan, and other fine descriptions of larkspur, as well as all other annuals for a late show. dahlias are now blooming in perfection, and should be closely watched that every side-bud, or more than one on each stalk may be cut off close, with a pair of scissors to secure full, distinctly colored, and handsome flowers. [for further instructions respecting the culture of flowers in india i must refer my readers to the late mr. speede's works, where they will find a great deal of useful information not only respecting the flower-garden, but the kitchen-garden and the orchard.] * * * * * miscellaneous items. the tree-mignonette.--this plant does not appear to be a distinct variety, for the common mignonette, properly trained becomes shrubby. it may be propagated by either seed or cuttings. when it has put forth four leaves or is about an inch high, take it from the bed and put it by itself into a moderate sized pot. as it advances in growth, carefully pick off all the side shoots, leaving the leaf at the base of each shoot to assist the growth of the plant. when it has reached a foot in height it will show flower. but every flower must be nipped off carefully. support the stem with a stick to make it grow straight. even when it has attained its proper height of two feet again cut off the bloom for a few days. it is said that miss mitford, the admired authoress, was the first to discover that the common mignonette could be induced to adopt tree-like habits. the experiment has been tried in india, but it has sometimes failed from its being made at the wrong season. the seed should be sown at the end of the rains. grafting.--take care to unite exactly the inner bark of the scion with the inner bark of the stock in order to facilitate the free course of the sap. almost any scion will take to almost any sort of tree or plant provided there be a resemblance in their barks. the chinese are fond of making fantastic experiments in grafting and sometimes succeed in the most heterogeneous combinations, such as grafting flowers upon fruit trees. plants growing near each other can sometimes be grafted by the roots, or on the living root of a tree cut down another tree can be grafted. the scions are those shoots which united with the stock form the graft. it is desirable that the sap of the stock should be in brisk and healthy motion at the time of grafting. the graft should be surrounded with good stiff clay with a little horse or cow manure in it and a portion of cut hay. mix the materials with a little water and then beat them up with a stick until the compound is quite ductile. when applied it may be bandaged with a cloth. the best season for grafting in india is the rains. manure.--almost any thing that rots quickly is a good manure. it is possible to manure too highly. a plant sometimes dies from too much richness of soil as well as from too barren a one. watering.--keep up a regular moisture, but do not deluge your plants until the roots rot. avoid giving very cold water in the heat of the day or in the sunshine. even in england some gardeners in a hot summer use luke-warm water for delicate plants. but do not in your fear of overwatering only wet the surface. the earth all round and below the root should be equally moist, and not one part wet and the other dry. if the plant requires but little water, water it seldom, but let the water reach all parts of the root equally when you water at all. gathering and preserving flowers.--always use the knife, and prefer such as are coming into flower rather than such as are fully expanded. if possible gather from crowded plants, or parts of plants, so that every gathering may operate at the same time as a judicious pruning and thinning. flowers may be preserved when gathered, by inserting their ends in winter, in moist earth, or moss; and may be freshened, when withered, by sprinkling them with water, and putting them in a close vessel, as under a bellglass, handglass, flowerpot or in a botanic box; if this will not do, sprinkle them with warm water heated to ° or °, and cover them with a glass.--_loudon's encyclopaedia of gardening_. piping---is a mode of propagation by cuttings and is adopted in plants having joined tubular stems, as the dianthus tribe. when the shoot has nearly done growing (soon after its blossom has fallen) its extremity is to be separated at a part of the stem where it is hard and ripe. this is done by holding the root with one hand and with the other pulling the top part above the pair of leaves so as to separate it from the root part of the stem at the socket, formed by the axillae of the leaves, leaving the stem to remain with a tubular or pipe-looking termination. the piping is inserted in finely sifted earth to the depth of the first joint or pipe and its future management regulated on the same general principles as cuttings.--_from the same_. budding.--this is performed when the leaves of plants have grown to their full size and the bud is to be seen at the base of it. the relative nature of the bud and the stock is the same as in grafting. make a slit in the bark of the stock, to reach from half an inch to an inch and a half down the stock, according to the size of the plant; then make another short slit across, that you may easily raise the bark from the wood, then take a very thin slice of the bark from the tree or plant to be budded, a little below a leaf, and bring the knife out a little above it, so that you remove the leaf and the bud at its base, with the little slice you have taken. you will perhaps have removed a small bit of the wood with the bark, which you must take carefully out with the sharp point of your knife and your thumb; then tuck the bark and bud under the bark of the stock which you carefully bind over, letting the bud come at the part where the slits cross each other. no part of the stock should be allowed to grow after it is budded, except a little shoot or so, above the bud, just to draw the sap past the bud.--_gleenny's hand book of gardening_. on pyramids of roses.--the standard roses give a fine effect to a bed of roses by being planted in the middle, forming a pyramidal bed, or alone on grass lawns; but the _ne plus ultra_ of a pyramid of roses is that formed of from one, two, or three plants, forming a pyramid by being trained up three strong stakes, to any length from to feet high (as may suit situation or taste), placed about two feet apart at the bottom; three forming an angle on the ground, and meeting close together at the top; the plant, or plants to be planted inside the stakes. in two or three years, they will form a pyramid of roses which baffles all description. when gardens are small, and the owners are desirous of having _multum in parvo_, three or four may be planted to form one pyramid; and this is not the only object of planting more sorts than one together, but the beauty is also much increased by the mingled hues of the varieties planted. for instance, plant together a white boursault, a purple noisette, a stadtholder, sinensis (fine pink), and a moschata scandens and such a variety may be obtained, that twenty pyramids may have each, three or four kinds, and no two sorts alike on the whole twenty pyramids. a temple of roses, planted in the same way, has a beautiful appearance in a flower garden--that is, eight, ten, or twelve stout peeled larch poles, well painted, set in the ground, with a light iron rafter from each, meeting at the top and forming a dome. an old cable, or other old rope, twisted round the pillar and iron, gives an additional beauty to the whole. then plant against the pillars with two or three varieties, each of which will soon run up the pillars, and form a pretty mass of roses, which amply repays the trouble and expense, by the elegance it gives to the garden--_floricultural cabinet_. how to make rose water, &c--take an earthen pot or jar well glazed inside, wide in the month, narrow at the bottom, about inches high, and place over the mouth a strainer of clean coarse muslin, to contain a considerable quantity of rose leaves, of some highly fragrant kind. cover them with a second strainer of the same material, and close the mouth of the jar with an iron lid, or tin cover, hermetically sealed. on this lid place hot embers, either of coal or charcoal, that the heat may reach the rose-leaves without scorching or burning them. the aromatic oil will fall drop by drop to the bottom with the water contained in the petals. when time has been allowed for extracting the whole, the embers must be removed, and the vase placed in a cool spot. rose-water obtained in this mode is not so durable as that obtained in the regular way by a still but it serves all ordinary purposes. small alembics of copper with a glass capital, may be used in three different ways. in the first process, the still or alembic must be mounted on a small brick furnace, and furnished with a worm long enough to pass through a pan of cold water. the petals of the rose being carefully picked so as to leave no extraneous parts, should be thrown into the boiler of the still with a little water. the great point is to keep up a moderate fire in the furnace, such as will cause the vapour to rise without imparting a burnt smell to the rose water. the operation is ended when the rose water, which falls drop by drop in the tube, ceases to be fragrant. that which is first condensed has very little scent, that which is next obtained is the best, and the third and last portion is generally a little burnt in smell, and bitter in taste. in a very small still, having no worm, the condensation must be produced by linen, wetted in cold water, applied round the capital. a third method consists in plunging the boiler of the still into a larger vessel of boiling water placed over a fire, when the rose-water never acquires the burnt flavour to which we have alluded. by another process, the still is placed in a boiler filled with sand instead of water, and heated to the necessary temperature. but this requires alteration, or it is apt to communicate a baked flavour. syrup of roses--may be obtained from belgian or monthly roses, picked over, one by one, and the base of the petal removed. in a china jar prepared with a layer of powdered sugar, place a layer of rose-leaves about half an inch thick; then of sugar, then of leaves, till the vessel is full. on the top, place a fresh wooden cover, pressed down with a weight. by degrees, the rose-leaves produce a highly-coloured, highly-scented syrup; and the leaves form a colouring-matter for liqueurs. pastilles du serail.--sold in france as turkish, in rosaries and other ornaments, are made of the petals of the belgian or puteem rose, ground to powder and formed into a paste by means of liquid gum. ivory-black is mixed with the gum to produce a black colour; and cinnabar or vermilion, to render the paste either brown or red. it may be modelled by hand or in a mould, and when dried in the sun, or a moderate oven, attains sufficient hardness to be mounted in gold or silver.--_mrs. gore's rose fancier's manual_. of forming and preserving herbariums.--the most exact descriptions, accompanied with the most perfect figures, leave still something to be desired by him who wishes to know completely a natural being. this nothing can supply but the autopsy or view of the object itself. hence the advantage of being able to see plants at pleasure, by forming dried collections of them, in what are called herbariums. a good practical botanist, sir j.e. smith observes, must be educated among the wild scenes of nature, while a finished theoretical one requires the additional assistance of gardens and books, to which must be superadded the frequent use of a good herbarium. when plants are well dried, the original forms and positions of even their minutest parts, though not their colours, may at any time be restored by immersion in hot water. by this means the productions of the most distant and various countries, such as no garden could possibly supply, are brought together at once under our eyes, at any season of the year. if these be assisted with drawings and descriptions, nothing less than an actual survey of the whole vegetable world in a state of nature, could excel such a store of information. with regard to the mode or state in which plants are preserved, desiccation, accompanied by pressing, is the most generally used. some persons, sir j.e. smith observes, recommend the preservation of specimens in weak spirits of wine, and this mode is by far the most eligible for such as are very juicy: but it totally destroys their colours, and often renders their parts less fit for examination than by the process of drying. it is, besides, incommodious for frequent study, and a very expensive and bulky way of making an herbarium. the greater part of plants dry with facility between the leaves of books, or other paper, the smoother the better. if there be plenty of paper, they often dry best without shifting; but if the specimens are crowded, they must be taken out frequently, and the paper dried before they are replaced. the great point to be attended to is, that the process should meet with no check. several vegetables are so tenacious of their vital principle, that they will grow between papers; the consequence of which is, a destruction of their proper habit and colors. it is necessary to destroy the life of such, either by immersion in boiling water or by the application of a hot iron, such as is used for linen, after which they are easily dried. the practice of applying such an iron, as some persons do, with great labor and perseverance, till the plants are quite dry, and all their parts incorporated into a smooth flat mass is not approved of. this renders them unfit for subsequent examination, and destroys their natural habit, the most important thing to be preserved. even in spreading plants between papers, we should refrain from that practice and artificial disposition of their branches, leaves, and other parts, which takes away from their natural aspect, except for the purpose of displaying the internal parts of some one or two of their flowers, for ready observation. the most approved method of pressing is by a box or frame, with a bottom of cloth or leather, like a square sieve. in this, coarse sand or small shot may be placed; in any quantity very little pressing is required in drying specimens; what is found necessary should be applied equally to every part of the bundle under the operation. hot-pressing, by means of steel net-work heated, and placed in alternate layers with the papers, in the manner of hot pressing paper, and the whole covered with the equalizing press, above described, would probably be an improvement, but we have not heard of its being tried. at all events, pressing by screw presses, or weighty non-elastic bodies, must be avoided, as tending to bruise the stalks and other protuberant parts of plants. "after all we can do," sir j.e. smith observes, "plants dry very variously. the blue colours of their flowers generally fade, nor are reds always permanent. yellows are much more so, but very few white flowers retain their natural aspect. the snowdrop and parnassia, if well dried, continue white. some greens are much more permanent than others; for there are some natural families whose leaves, as well as flowers, turn almost black by drying, as melampyrum, bartsia, and their allies, several willows, and most of the orchideae. the heaths and firs in general cast off their leaves between papers, which appears to be an effort of the living principle, for it is prevented by immersion of the fresh specimen in boiling water." the specimens being dried, are sometimes kept loose between leaves of paper; at other times wholly gummed or glued to paper, but most generally attached by one or more transverse slips of paper, glued on one end and pinned at the other, so that such specimens can readily be taken out, examined, and replaced. on account of the aptitude of the leaves and other parts of dried plants to drop off, many glue them entirely, and such seems to be the method adopted by linnaeus, and recommended by sir j.e. smith. "dried specimens," the professor observes, "are best preserved by being fastened, with weak carpenter's glue, to paper, so that they may be turned over without damage. thick and heavy stalks require the additional support of a few transverse strips of paper, to bind them more firmly down. a half sheet, of a convenient folio size, should be allotted to each species, and all the species of a genus may be placed in one or more whole sheets or folios. on the latter outside should be written the name of the genus, while the name of every species, with its place of growth, time of gathering, the finder's name, or any other concise piece of information, may be inscribed on its appropriate paper. this is the plan of the linnaean herbarium."--_loudon_. the end. footnotes. [ ] some of the finest _florists flowers_ have been reared by the mechanics of norwich and manchester and by the spitalfield's weavers. the pitmen in the counties of durham and northumberland reside in long rows of small houses, to each of which is attached a little garden, which they cultivate with such care and success, that they frequently bear away the prize at floral exhibitions. [ ] of rail-road travelling the reality is quite different from the idea that descriptions of it had left upon my mind. unpoetical as this sort of transit may seem to some minds, i confess i find it excite and satisfy the imagination. the wondrous speed--the quick change of scene--the perfect comfort--the life-like character of the power in motion, the invisible, and mysterious, and mighty steam horse, urged, and guided, and checked by the hand of science--the cautionary, long, shrill whistle--the beautiful grey vapor, the breath of the unseen animal, floating over the fields by which we pass, sometimes hanging stationary for a moment in the air, and then melting away like a vision--furnish sufficiently congenial amusement for a period-minded observer. [ ] "that which peculiarly distinguishes the gardens of england," says repton, "is the beauty of english verdure: _the grass of the mown lawn_, uniting with, the grass of the adjoining pastures, and presenting _that permanent verdure_ which is the natural consequence of our soft and humid clime, but unknown to the cold region of the north or the parching temperature of the south. this it is impossible to enjoy in portugal where it would be as practicable to cover the general surface with the snow of lapland as with the verdure of england." it is much the same in france. "there is everywhere in france," says loudon, "a want _of close green turf_, of ever-green bushes and of good adhesive gravel." some french admirers of english gardens do their best to imitate our lawns, and it is said that they sometimes partially succeed with english grass seed, rich manure, and constant irrigation. in bengal there is a very beautiful species of grass called doob grass, (_panicum dactylon_,) but it only flourishes on wide and exposed plains with few trees on them, and on the sides of public roads, shakespeare makes falstaff say that "the camomile the more it is trodden on the faster it grows" and, this is the case with the doob grass. the attempt to produce a permanent doob grass lawn is quite idle unless the ground is extensive and open, and much trodden by men or sheep. a friend of mine tells me that he covered a large lawn of the coarse ooloo grass (_saccharum cylindricum_) with mats, which soon killed it, and on removing the mats, the finest doob grass sprang up in its place. but the ooloo grass soon again over-grew the doob. [ ] i allude here chiefly to the ryots of wealthy zemindars and to other poor hindu people in the service of their own countrymen. all the subjects of the british crown, even in india, are _politically free_, but individually the poorer hindus, (especially those who reside at a distance from large towns,) are unconscious of their rights, and even the wealthier classes have rarely indeed that proud and noble feeling of personal independence which characterizes people of all classes and conditions in england. the feeling with which even a hindu of wealth and rank approaches a man in power is very different indeed from that of the poorest englishman under similar circumstances. but national education will soon communicate to the natives of india a larger measure of true self-respect. it will not be long, i hope, before the hindus will understand our favorite maxim of english law, that "every man's house is his castle,"--a maxim so finely amplified by lord chatham: "_the poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces of the crown. it may be frail--its roof may shake--the wind may blow through it--the storm may enter--but the king of england cannot enter!--all his force dares not cross the threshold of the ruined tenement_." [ ] _literary recreations_. [ ] i have in some moods preferred the paintings of our own gainsborough even to those of claude--and for this single reason, that the former gives a peculiar and more touching interest to his landscapes by the introduction of sweet groups of children. these lovely little figures are moreover so thoroughly english, and have such an out-of-doors air, and seem so much a part of external nature, that an englishman who is a lover of rural scenery and a patriot, can hardly fail to be enchanted with the style of his celebrated countryman.--_literary recreations_. [ ] had evelyn only composed the great work of his 'sylva, or a discourse of forest trees,' &c. his name would have excited the gratitude of posterity. the voice of the patriot exults in his dedication to charles ii, prefixed to one of the later editions:--'i need not acquaint your majesty, how many millions of timber-trees, besides infinite others, have been propagated and planted throughout your vast dominions, at the instigation and by the sole direction of this work, because your majesty has been pleased to own it publicly for my encouragement.' and surely while britain retains her awful situation among the nations of europe, the 'sylva' of evelyn will endure with her triumphant oaks. it was a retired philosopher who aroused the genius of the nation, and who casting a prophetic eye towards the age in which we live, has contributed to secure our sovereignty of the seas. the present navy of great britain has been constructed with the oaks which the genius of evelyn planted.--_d'israeli's curiosities of literature_. [ ] _crisped knots_ are figures curled or twisted, or having waving lines intersecting each other. they are sometimes planted in box. children, even in these days, indulge their fancy in sowing mustard and cress, &c. in 'curious knots,' or in favorite names and sentences. i have done it myself, "i know not how oft,"--and alas, how long ago! but i still remember with what anxiety i watered and watched the ground, and with what rapture i at last saw the surface gradually rising and breaking on the light green heads of the delicate little new-born plants, all exactly in their proper lines or stations, like a well-drilled lilliputian battalion. shakespeare makes mention of garden _knots_ in his _richard the second_, where he compares an ill governed state to a neglected garden. why should we, in the compass of a pale, keep law, and form, and due proportion, showing, as in a model, our firm estate? when our sea-walled garden, the whole land, is full of weeds; her finest flowers choked up, her fruit-trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined, her _knots_ disordered, and her wholesome herbs swarming with caterpillars. there is an allusion to garden _knots_ in _holinshed's chronicle_. in the earl of northumberland "had but one gardener who attended hourly in the garden for setting of erbis and _chipping of knottis_ and sweeping the said garden clean." [ ] ovid, in his story of pyramus and thisbe, tells us that the black mulberry was originally white. the two lovers killed themselves under a white mulberry tree and the blood penetrating to the roots of the tree mixed with the sap and gave its color to the fruit. [ ] _revived adonis_,--for, according to tradition he died every year and revived again. _alcinous, host of old laertes' son_,--that is, of ulysses, whom he entertained on his return from troy. _or that, not mystic_--not fabulous as the rest, but a real garden which solomon made for his wife, the daughter of pharoah, king of egypt--warburton "divested of harmonious greek and bewitching poetry," observes horace walpole, "the garden of alcinous was a small orchard and vineyard with some beds of herbs and two fountains that watered them, inclosed within a quickset hedge." lord kames, says, still more boldly, that it was nothing but a kitchen garden. certainly, gardening amongst the ancient greeks, was a very simple business. it is only within the present century that it has been any where elevated into a fine art. [ ] "we are unwilling to diminish or lose the credit of paradise, or only pass it over with [the hebrew word for] _eden_, though the greek be of a later name. in this excepted, we know not whether the ancient gardens do equal those of late times, or those at present in europe. of the gardens of hesperides, we know nothing singular, but some golden apples. of alcinous his garden, we read nothing beyond figs, apples, olives; if we allow it to be any more than a fiction of homer, unhappily placed in corfu, where the sterility of the soil makes men believe there was no such thing at all. the gardens of adonis were so empty that they afforded proverbial expression, and the principal part thereof was empty spaces, with herbs and flowers in pots. i think we little understand the pensile gardens of semiramis, which made one of the wonders of it [babylon], wherein probably the structure exceeded the plants contained in them. the excellency thereof was probably in the trees, and if the descension of the roots be equal to the height of trees, it was not [absurd] of strebæus to think the pillars were hollow that the roots might shoot into them."--_sir thomas browne.--bohn's edition of sir thomas browne's works, vol. , page_ . [ ] the house and garden before pope died were large enough for their owner. he was more than satisfied with them. "as pope advanced in years," says roscoe, "his love of gardening, and his attention to the various occupations to which it leads, seem to have increased also. this predilection was not confined to the ornamental part of this delightful pursuit, in which he has given undoubted proofs of his proficiency, but extended to the useful as well as the agreeable, as appears from several passages in his poems; but he has entered more particularly into this subject in a letter to swift (march , ); "i wish you had any motive to see this kingdom. i could keep you: for i am rich, that is, have more than i want, i can afford room to yourself and two servants. i have indeed room enough; nothing but myself at home. the kind and hearty housewife is dead! the agreeable and instructive neighbour is gone! yet my house is enlarged, and the gardens extend and flourish, as knowing nothing of the guests they have lost. i have more fruit trees and kitchen garden than you have any thought of; and, i have good melons and apples of my own growth. i am as much a better gardener, as i am a worse poet, than when you saw me; but gardening is near akin to philosophy, for tully says, _agricultura proxima sapientiae_. for god's sake, why should not you, (that are a step higher than a philosopher, a divine, yet have too much grace and wit than to be a bishop) even give all you have to the poor of ireland (for whom you have already done every thing else,) so quit the place, and live and die with me? and let _tales anima concordes_ be our motto and our epitaph." [ ] the leaves of the willow, though green above, are hoar below. shakespeare's knowledge of the fact is alluded to by hazlitt as one of the numberless evidences of the poet's minute observation of external nature. [ ] see mr. loudon's most interesting and valuable work entitled _arboretum et fruticetum britanicum_. [ ] all the rules of gardening are reducible to three heads: the contrasts, the management of surprises and the concealment of the bounds. "pray, what is it you mean by the contrasts?" "the disposition of the lights and shades."--"'tis the colouring then?"--"just that."--"should not variety be one of the rules?"--"certainly, one of the chief; but that is included mostly in the contrasts." i have expressed them all in two verses[ ] (after my manner, in very little compass), which are in imitation of horace's--_omne tulit punctum. pope.--spence's anecdotes_. [ ] in laying out a garden, the chief thing to be considered is the genius of the place. thus at tiskins, for example, lord bathurst should have raised two or three mounts, because his situation is _all_ plain, and nothing can please without variety. _pope--spence's anecdotes_. [ ] the seat and gardens of the lord viscount cobham, in buckinghamshire. pope concludes the first epistle of his moral essays with a compliment to the patriotism of this nobleman. and you, brave cobham! to the latest breath shall feel your ruling passion strong in death: such in those moments as in all the past "oh, save my country, heaven!" shall be your last. [ ] two hundred acres and two hundred millions of francs were made over to le notre by louis xiv. to complete these geometrical gardens. one author tells us that in the ordinary cost of putting a certain portion of the waterworks in play was at the rate of £. per hour, and another still later authority states that when the whole were set in motion once a year on some royal fête, the cost of the half hour during which the main part of the exhibition lasted was not less than , £. this is surely a most senseless expenditure. it seems, indeed, almost incredible. i take the statements from _loudon's_ excellent _encyclopaedia of gardening_. the name of one of the original reporters is neill; the name of the other is not given. the gardens formerly were and perhaps still are full of the vilest specimens of verdant sculpture in every variety of form. lord kames gives a ludicrous account of the vomiting stone statues there;--"a lifeless statue of an animal pouring out water may be endured" he observes, "without much disgust: but here the lions and wolves are put in violent action; each has seized its prey, a deer or a lamb, in act to devour; and yet, as by hocus-pocus, the whole is converted into a different scene: the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water plentifully; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the same work: a representation no less absurd than that in the opera, where alexander the great, after mounting the wall of a town besieged, turns his back to the enemy, and entertains his army with a song." [ ] broome though a writer of no great genius (if any), had yet the honor to be associated with pope in the translation of the odyssey. he translated the nd, th, th, th, th, th, and rd books. henley (orator henley) sneered at pope, in the following couplet, for receiving so much assistance: pope came clean off with homer, but they say, broome went before, and kindly swept the way. fenton was another of pope's auxiliaries. he translated the st, th, th and th books (of the odyssey). pope himself translated the rest. [ ] stowe [ ] the late humphrey repton, one of the best landscape-gardeners that england has produced, and who was for many years employed on alterations and improvements in the house and grounds at cobham, in kent, the seat of the earl of darnley, seemed to think that stowe ought not to monopolize applause and admiration, "whether," he said, "we consider its extent, its magnificence or its comfort, there are few places that can vie with cobham." repton died in , and his patron and friend the earl of darnley put up at cobham an inscription to his memory. the park at cobham extends over an area of no less than , acres, diversified with thick groves and finely scattered single trees and gentle slopes and broad smooth lawns. some of the trees are singularly beautiful and of great age and size. a chestnut tree, named the four sisters, is five and twenty feet in girth. the mansion, of which, the central part was built by inigo jones, is a very noble one. george the fourth pronounced the music room the finest room in england. the walls are of polished white marble with pilasters of sienna marble. the picture gallery is enriched with valuable specimens of the genius of titian and guido and salvator rosa and sir joshua reynolds. there is another famous estate in kent, knole, the seat of dorset, the grace of courts, the muse's pride. the earl of dorset, though but a poetaster himself, knew how to appreciate the higher genius of others. he loved to be surrounded by the finest spirits of his time. there is a pleasant anecdote of the company at his table agreeing to see which amongst them could produce the best impromptu. dryden was appointed arbitrator. dorset handed a slip of paper to dryden, and when all the attempts were collected, dryden decided without hesitation that dorset's was the best. it ran thus: "_i promise to pay mr. john dryden, on demand, the sum of £ . dorset_." [ ] this is generally put into the mouth of pope, but if we are to believe spence, who is the only authority for the anecdote, it was addressed to himself. [ ] it has been said that in laying out the grounds at hagley, lord lyttelton received some valuable hints from the author of _the seasons_, who was for some time his lordship's guest. the poet has commemorated the beauties of hagley park in a description that is familiar to all lovers of english poetry. i must make room for a few of the concluding lines. meantime you gain the height, from whose fair brow, the bursting prospect spreads immense around: and snatched o'er hill, and dale, and wood, and lawn, and verdant field, and darkening heath between, and villages embosomed soft in trees, and spiry towns by surging columns marked, of household smoke, your eye excursive roams; wide stretching from the hall, in whose kind haunt the hospitable genius lingers still, to where the broken landscape, by degrees, ascending, roughens into rigid hills; o'er which the cambrian mountains, like far clouds, that skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise. it certainly does not look as if there had been any want of kindly feeling towards shenstone on the part of lyttelton when we find the following inscription in hagley park. to the memory of william shenstone, esquire, in whose verse were all the natural graces. and in whose manners was all the amiable simplicity of pastoral poetry, with the sweet tenderness of the elegiac. there is also at hagley a complimentary inscription on an urn to alexander pope; and, on an octagonal building called _thomson's seat_, there is an inscription to the author of _the seasons_. hagley is kept up with great care and is still in possession of the descendants of the founder. but a late visitor (mr. george dodd) expresses a doubt whether the leasowes, even in its comparative decay, is not a finer bit of landscape, a more delightful place to lose one-self in, than even its larger and better preserved neighbour. [ ] coleridge is reported to have said--"there is in crabbe an absolute defect of high imagination; he gives me little pleasure. yet no doubt he has much power of a certain kind, and it is good to cultivate, even at some pains, a catholic taste in literature." walter savage landor, in his "imaginary conversations," makes porson say--"crabbe wrote with a two-penny nail and scratched rough truths and rogues' facts on mud walls." horace smith represents crabbe, as "pope in worsted stockings." that there is merit of some sort or other, and that of no ordinary kind, in crabbe's poems, is what no one will deny. they relieved the languor of the last days of two great men, of very different characters--sir walter scott and charles james fox. [ ] the poet had a cottage and garden in kew-foot-lane at or near richmond. in the alcove in the garden is a small table made of the wood of the walnut tree. there is a drawer to the table which in all probability often received charge of the poet's effusions hot from the brain. on a brass tablet inserted in the top of the table is this inscription--"_this table was the property of james thomson, and always stood in this seat._" [ ] shene or sheen: the old name of richmond, signifying in saxon _shining_ or _splendour_. [ ] highgate and hamstead. [ ] in his last sickness [ ] on looking back at page i find that i have said in the foot note that it is only within _the present century_ that gardening has been elevated into _a fine art_. i did not mean within the years of this th century, but _within a hundred years_. even this, however, was an inadvertency. we may go a little further back. kent and pope lived to see landscape-gardening considered a fine art. before their time there were many good practical gardeners, but the poetry of the art was not then much regarded except by a very few individuals of more than ordinary refinement. [ ] catherine the second grossly disgraced herself as a woman--partly driven into misconduct herself by the behaviour of her husband--but as a sovereign it cannot be denied that she exhibited a penetrating sagacity and great munificence; and perhaps the lovers of literature and science should treat her memory with a little consideration. when diderot was in distress and advertized his library for sale, the empress sent him an order on a banker at paris for the amount demanded, namely fifteen thousand livres, on condition that the library was to be left as a deposit with the owner, and that he was to accept a gratuity of one thousand livres annually for taking charge of the books, until the empress should require them. this was indeed a delicate and ingenious kindness. lord brougham makes d'alembert and not diderot the subject of this anecdote. it is a mistake. see the correspondence of baron de gumm and diderot with the duke of saxe-gotha. many of the russian nobles keep up to this day the taste in gardening introduced by catherine the second, and have still many gardens laid out in the english style. they have often had in their employ both english and scottish gardeners. there is an anecdote of a scotch gardener in the crimea in one of the public journals:-- "our readers"--says the _banffshire journal_--"will recollect that when the allies made a brief expedition to yalto, in the south of the crimea, they were somewhat surprised and gratified by the sight of some splendid gardens around a seat of prince woronzow. little did our countrymen think that these gardens were the work of a scotchman, and a moray loon; yet such was the case." the history of the personage in question is a somewhat singular one: "jamie sinclair, the garden boy, had a natural genius, and played the violin. lady cumming had this boy educated by the family tutor, and sent him to london, where he was well known in - - , for his skill in drawing and colouring. mr. knight, of the exotic nursery, for whom he used to draw orchids and new plants, sent him to the crimea, to prince woronzow, where he practised for thirteen years. he had laid out these beautiful gardens which the allies the other day so much admired; had the care of , acres of vineyards belonging to the prince; was well known to the czar, who often consulted him about improvements, and gave him a "medal of merit" and a diploma or passport, by which he was free to pass from one end of the empire to the other, and also through austria and prussia, i have seen these instruments. he returned to london in , and was just engaged with a london publisher for a three years' job, when menschikoff found the turks too hot for him last april twelve-month; the russians then made up for blows, and mr. sinclair was more dangerous for them in london than lord aberdeen. he was the only foreigner who was ever allowed to see all that was done in and out of sebastopol, and over all the crimea. the czar, however, took care that sinclair could not join the allies; but where he is and what he is about i must not tell, until the war is over--except that he is not in russia, and that he will never play first fiddle again in morayshire." [ ] brown succeeded to the popularity of kent. he was nicknamed, _capability brown_, because when he had to examine grounds previous to proposed alterations and improvements he talked much of their _capabilities_. one of the works which are said to do his memory most honor, is the park of nuneham, the seat of lord harcourt. the grounds extend to , acres. horace walpole said that they contained scenes worthy of the bold pencil of rubens, and subjects for the tranquil sunshine of claude de lorraine. the following inscription is placed over the entrance to the gardens. here universal pan, knit with the graces and the hours in dance, leads on the eternal spring. it is said that the _gardens_ at nuneham were laid out by mason, the poet. [ ] mrs. stowe visited the jardin mabille in the champs elysées, a sort of french vauxhall, where small jets of gas were so arranged as to imitate "flowers of the softest tints and the most perfect shape." [ ] napoleon, it is said, once conceived the plan of roofing with glass the gardens of the tuileries, so that they might be used as a winter promenade. [ ] addison in the th number of the _spectator_ in alluding to kensington gardens, observes; "i think there are as many kinds of gardening as poetry; our makers of parterres and flower gardens are epigrammatists and sonnetteers in the art; contrivers of bowers and grottos, treillages and cascades, are romance writers. wise and london are our heroic poets; and if i may single out any passage of their works to commend i shall take notice of that part in the upper garden at kensington, which was at first nothing but a gravel pit. it must have been a fine genius for gardening that could have thought of forming such an unsightly hollow unto so beautiful an area and to have hit the eye with so uncommon and agreeable a scene as that which it is now wrought into." [ ] lord bathurst, says london, informed daines barrington, that _he_ (lord bathurst) was the first who deviated from the straight line in sheets of water by following the lines in a valley in widening a brook at ryskins, near colnbrook; and lord strafford, thinking that it was done from poverty or economy asked him to own fairly how little more it would have cost him to have made it straight. in these days no possessor of a park or garden has the water on his grounds either straight or square if he can make it resemble the thames as described by wordsworth: the river wanders at its own sweet will. horace walpole in his lively and pleasant little work on modern gardening almost anticipates this thought. in commending kent's style of landscape-gardening he observes: "_the gentle stream was taught to serpentize at its pleasure."_ [ ] this palm-house, "the glory of the gardens," occupies an area of ft. in length; the centre is an hundred ft. in width and ft. in height. it must charm a native of the east on a visit to our country, to behold such carefully cultured specimens, in a great glass-case in england, of the trees called by linnaeus "the princes of the vegetable kingdom," and which grow so wildly and in such abundance in every corner of hindustan. in this conservatory also are the banana and plantain. the people of england are in these days acquainted, by touch and sight, with almost all the trees that grow in the several quarters of the world. our artists can now take sketches of foreign plants without crossing the seas. an allusion to the palm tree recals some criticisms on shakespeare's botanical knowledge. "look here," says _rosalind_, "what i found on a palm tree." "a palm tree in the forest of arden," remarks steevens, "is as much out of place as a lioness in the subsequent scene." collier tries to get rid of the difficulty by suggesting that shakespeare may have written _plane tree_. "both the remark and the suggestion," observes miss baker, "might have been spared if those gentlemen had been aware that in the counties bordering on the forest of arden, the name of an exotic tree is transferred to an indigenous one." the _salix caprea_, or goat-willow, is popularly known as the "palm" in northamptonshire, no doubt from having been used for the decoration of churches on palm sunday--its graceful yellow blossoms, appearing at a time when few other trees have put forth a leaf, having won for it that distinction. clare so calls it:-- "ye leaning palms, that seem to look pleased o'er your image in the brook." that shakespeare included the willow in his forest scenery is certain, from another passage in the same play:-- "west of this place, down in the neighbour bottom. the _rank of osiers_ by the murmuring stream, left on your right hand brings you to the place." the customs and amusements of northamptonshire, which are frequently noticed in these volumes, were identical with those of the neighbouring county of warwick, and, in like manner illustrate very clearly many passages in the great dramatist.--_miss baker's "glossary of northamptonshire words." (quoted by the london athenaeum_.) [ ] mrs. hemans once took up her abode for some weeks with wordsworth at rydal mount, and was so charmed with the country around, that she was induced to take a cottage called _dove's nest_, which over-looked the lake of windermere. but tourists and idlers so haunted her retreat and so worried her for autographs and album contributions, that she was obliged to make her escape. her little cottage and garden in the village of wavertree, near liverpool, seem to have met the fate which has befallen so many of the residences of the poets. "mrs. hemans's little flower-garden" (says a late visitor) "was no more--but rank grass and weeds sprang up luxuriously; many of the windows were broken; the entrance gate was off its hinges: the vine in front of the house trailed along the ground, and a board, with '_this house to let_' upon it, was nailed on the door. i entered the deserted garden and looked into the little parlour--once so full of taste and elegance; it was gloomy and cheerless. the paper was spotted with damp, and spiders had built their webs in the corner. as i mused on the uncertainty of human life, i exclaimed with the eloquent burke,--'what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue!'" the beautiful grounds of the late professor wilson at elleray, we are told by mr. howitt in his interesting "_homes and haunts of the british poets_" have also been sadly changed. "steam," he says, "as little as time, has respected the sanctity of the poet's home, but has drawn its roaring iron steeds opposite to its gate and has menaced to rush through it and lay waste its charmed solitude. in plain words, i saw the stages of a projected railway running in an ominous line across the very lawn and before the windows of elleray." i believe the whole place has been purchased by a railway company. [ ] in churton's _rail book of england_, published about three years ago, pope's villa is thus noticed--"not only was this temple of the muses--this abode of genius--the resort of the learned and the wittiest of the land--levelled to the earth, but all that the earth produced to remind posterity of its illustrious owner, and identify the dead with the living strains he has bequeathed to us, was plucked up by the roots and scattered to the wind." on the authority of william hewitt i have stated on an earlier page that some splendid spanish chesnut trees and some elms and cedars planted by pope at twickenham were still in existence. but churton is a later authority. howitt's book was published in . [ ] _one would have thought &c._ see the garden of armida, as described by tasso, c. xvi. , &c. "in lieto aspetto il bel giardin s'aperse &c." here was all that variety, which constitutes the nature of beauty: hill and dale, lawns and crystal rivers, &c. "and, that which all faire works doth most aggrace, "the art, which all that wrought, appearéd in no place." which is literally from tasso, c, xvi . "e quel, che'l bello, e'l caro accresce à l'opre, "l'arte, che tutto fa, nulla si scopre." the next stanza is likewise translated from tasso, c. xvi . and, if the reader likes the comparing of the copy with the original, he may see many other beauties borrowed from the italian poet. the fountain, and the two bathing damsels, are taken from tasso, c. xv, st. , &c. which he calls, _il fonte del riso_. upton. [ ] cowper was evidently here thinking rather of milton than of homer. _flowers of all hue_, and without thorns the rose. _paradise lost_. pope translates the passage thus; beds of all various _herbs_, for ever green, in beauteous order terminate the scene. homer referred to pot-herbs, not to flowers of all hues. cowper is generally more faithful than pope, but he is less so in this instance. in the above description we have homer's highest conception of a princely garden:--in five acres were included an orchard, a vineyard, and some beds of pot-herbs. not a single flower is mentioned, by the original author, though his translator has been pleased to steal some from the garden of eden and place them on "the verge extreme" of the four acres. homer of course meant to attach to a royal residence as royal a garden; but as bacon says, "men begin to build stately sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection." the mansion of alcinous was of brazen walls with golden columns; and the greeks and romans had houses that were models of architecture when their gardens exhibited no traces whatever of the hand of taste. [ ] _and over him, art stryving to compayre with nature, did an arber greene dispied_ this whole episode is taken from tasso, c. , where rinaldo is described in dalliance with armida. the bower of bliss is her garden "stimi (si misto il culto e col negletto) "sol naturali e gli ornamenti e i siti, "di natura arte par, che per diletto "l'imitatrice sua scherzando imiti." see also ovid, _met_ iii. "cujus in extremo est antrum nemorale necessu, "arte laboratum nulla, simulaverat artem "ingenio natura fuo nam pumice vivo, "et lenibus tophis nativum duxerat arcum "fons sonat a dextra, tenui perlucidas unda "margine gramineo patulos incinctus hiatus" upton if this passage may be compared with tasso's elegant description of armida's garden, milton's _pleasant grove_ may vie with both.[ ] he is, however, under obligations to the sylvan scene of spenser before us. mr. j.c. walker, to whom the literature of ireland and of italy is highly indebted, has mentioned to me his surprise that the writers on modern gardening should have overlooked the beautiful pastoral description in this and the two following stanzas.[ ] it is worthy a place, he adds, in the eden of milton. spenser, on this occasion, lost sight of the "trim gardens" of italy and england, and drew from the treasures of his own rich imagination. todd. _and fast beside these trickled softly downe. a gentle stream, &c._ compare the following stanza in the continuation of the _orlando innamorato_, by nilcolo degli agostinti, lib. iv, c. . "ivi è un mormorio assai soave, e basso, che ogniun che l'ode lo fa addornientare, l'acqua, ch'io dissi gia per entro un sasso e parea che dicesse nel sonare. vatti riposa, ormai sei stanco, e lasso, e gli augeletti, che s'udian cantare, ne la dolce armonia par che ogn'un dica, deh vien, e dormi ne la piaggia, aprica," spenser's obligations to this poem seem to have escaped the notice of his commentators. j.c. walker. [ ] the oak was dedicated to jupiter, and the poplar to hercules. [ ] _sicker_, surely; chaucer spells it _siker_. [ ] _yode_, went. [ ] _tabreret_, a tabourer. [ ] _tho_, then [ ] _attone_, at once--with him. [ ] cato being present on one occasion at the floral games, the people out of respect to him, forbore to call for the usual exposures; when informed of this he withdrew, that the spectators might not be deprived of their usual entertainment. [ ] what is the reason that an easterly wind is every where unwholesome and disagreeable? i am not sufficiently scientific to answer this question. pope takes care to notice the fitness of the easterly wind for the _cave of spleen_. no cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, the dreaded east is all the wind that blows. _rape of the lock_. [ ] one sweet scene of early pleasures in my native land i have commemorated in the following sonnet:-- netley abbey. romantic ruin! who could gaze on thee untouched by tender thoughts, and glimmering dreams of long-departed years? lo! nature seems accordant with thy silent majesty! the far blue hills--the smooth reposing sea-- the lonely forest--the meandering streams-- the farewell summer sun, whose mellowed beams illume thine ivied halls, and tinge each tree, whose green arms round thee cling--the balmy air-- the stainless vault above, that cloud or storm 'tis hard to deem will ever more deform-- the season's countless graces,--all appear to thy calm glory ministrant, and form a scene to peace and meditation dear! d.l.r. [ ] "i was ever more disposed," says hume, "to see the favourable than the unfavourable side of things; _a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a year_." [ ] so called, because the grounds were laid out in a tasteful style, under the direction of lord auckland's sister, the honorable miss eden. [ ] _songs of the east by mrs. w.s. carshore. d'rozario & co, calcutta_ . [ ] the lines form a portion of a poem published in _literary leaves_ in the year . [ ] perhaps some formal or fashionable wiseacres may pronounce such simple ceremonies _vulgar_. and such is the advance of civilization that even the very chimney-sweepers themselves begin to look upon their old may-day merry-makings as beneath the dignity of their profession. "suppose now" said mr. jonas hanway to a sooty little urchin, "i were to give you a shilling." "lord almighty bless your honor, and thank you." "and what if i were to give you a fine tie-wig to wear on may-day?" "ah! bless your honor, my master wont let me go out on may-day," "why not?" "because, he says, _it's low life_." and yet the merrie makings on may-day which are now deemed _ungenteel_ by chimney-sweepers were once the delight of princes:-- forth goth all the court, both most and least, to fetch the flowres fresh, and branch and blome, and namely hawthorn brought both page and grome, and then rejoicing in their great delite eke ech at others threw the flowres bright, the primrose, violet, and the gold with fresh garlants party blue and white. _chaucer_. [ ] the may-pole was usually decorated with the flowers of the hawthorn, a plant as emblematical of the spring as the holly is of christmas. goldsmith has made its name familiar even to the people of bengal, for almost every student in the upper classes of the government colleges has the following couplet by heart. the _hawthorn bush_, with seats beneath the shade, for talking age and whispering lovers made. the hawthorn was amongst burns's floral pets. "i have," says he, "some favorite flowers in spring, among which are, the mountain daisy, the harebell, the fox-glove, the wild-briar rose, the budding birch and the hoary hawthorn, that i view and hang over with particular delight." l.e.l. speaks of the hawthorn hedge on which "the sweet may has showered its white luxuriance," and the rev. george croly has a patriotic allusion to this english plant, suggested by a landscape in france. 'tis a rich scene, and yet the richest charm that e'er clothed earth in beauty, lives not here. winds no green fence around the cultured farm _no blossomed hawthorn shields the cottage dear_: the land is bright; and yet to thine how drear, unrivalled england! well the thought may pine for those sweet fields where, each a little sphere, in shaded, sacred fruitfulness doth shine, and the heart higher beats that says; 'this spot is mine.' [ ] on may-day, the ancient romans used to go in procession to the grotto of egeria. [ ] see what is said of palms in a note on page . [ ] phillips's _flora historica_. [ ] the word primrose is supposed to be a compound of _prime_ and _rose_, and spenser spells it prime rose the pride and prime rose of the rest made by the maker's self to be admired the rev. george croly characterizes bengal as a mountainous country-- there's glory on thy _mountains_, proud bengal-- and dr. johnson in his _journey of a day_, (rambler no. ) charms the traveller in hindustan with a sight of the primrose and the oak. "as he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices, he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring." in some book of travels, i forget which, the writer states, that he had seen the primrose in mysore and in the recesses of the pyrenees. there is a flower sold by the bengallee gardeners for the primrose, though it bears but small resemblance to the english flower of that name. on turning to mr. piddington's index to the plants of india i find under the head of _primula_--primula denticula--stuartii--rotundifolia--with the names in the mawar or nepaulese dialect. [ ] in strewing their graves the romans affected the rose; the greeks amaranthus and myrtle: the funeral pyre consisted of sweet fuel, cypress, fir, larix, yew, and trees perpetually verdant lay silent expressions of their surviving hopes. _sir thomas browne_. [ ] the allusion to the cowslip in shakespeare's description of imogene must not be passed over here.-- on her left breast a mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drop i' the bottom of the cowslip. [ ] the guelder rose--this elegant plant is a native of britain, and when in flower, has at first sight, the appearance of a little maple tree that has been pelted with snow balls, and we almost fear to see them melt away in the warm sunshine--_glenny_. [ ] in a greenhouse [ ] some flowers have always been made to a certain degree emblematical of sentiment in england as elsewhere, but it was the turks who substituted flowers for words to such an extent as to entitle themselves to be regarded as the inventors of the floral language. [ ] the floral or vegetable language is not always the language of love or compliment. it is sometimes severe and scornful. a gentleman sent a lady a rose as a declaration of his passion and a slip of paper attached, with the inscription--"if not accepted, i am off to the war." the lady forwarded in return a mango (man, go!) [ ] no part of the creation supposed to be insentient, exhibits to an imaginative observer such an aspect of spiritual life and such an apparent sympathy with other living things as flowers, shrubs and trees. a tree of the genus mimosa, according to niebuhr, bends its branches downward as if in hospitable salutation when any one approaches near to it. the arabs, are on this account so fond of the "courteous tree" that the injuring or cutting of it down is strictly prohibited. [ ] it has been observed that the defense is supplied in the following line--_want of sense_--a stupidity that "errs in ignorance and not in cunning." [ ] there is apparently so much doubt and confusion is to the identity of the true hyacinth, and the proper application of its several names that i shall here give a few extracts from other writers on this subject. some authors suppose the red martagon lily to be the poetical hyacinth of the ancients, but this is evidently a mistaken opinion, as the azure blue color alone would decide and pliny describes the hyacinth as having a sword grass and the smell of the grape flower, which agrees with the hyacinth, but not with the martagon. again, homer mentions it with fragrant flowers of the same season of the hyacinth. the poets also notice the hyacinth under different colours, and every body knows that the hyacinth flowers with sapphire colored purple, crimson, flesh and white bells, but a blue martagon will be sought for in vain. _phillips' flora historica_. a doubt hangs over the poetical history of the modern, as well as of the ancient flower, owing to the appellation _harebell_ being, indiscriminately applied both to _scilla_ wild hyacinth, and also to _campanula rotundifolia, blue bell_. though the southern bards have occasionally misapplied the word _harebell_ it will facilitate our understanding which flower is meant if we bear in mind as a general rule that that name is applied differently in various parts of the island, thus the harebell of scottish writers is the _campanula_, and the bluebell, so celebrated in scottish song, is the wild hyacinth or _scilla_ while in england the same names are used conversely, the _campanula_ being the bluebell and the wild hyacinth the harebell. _eden warwick_. the hyacinth of the ancient fabulists appears to have been the corn-flag, (_gladiolus communis_ of botanists) but the name was applied vaguely and had been early applied to the great larkspur (delphinium ajacis) on account of the similar spots on the petals, supposed to represent the greek exclamation of grief _ai ai_, and to the hyacinth of modern times. our wild hyacinth, which contributes so much to the beauty of our woodland scenery during the spring, may be regarded as a transition species between scilla and hyacinthus, the form and drooping habit of its flower connecting it with the latter, while the six pieces that form the two outer circles, being separate to the base, give it the technical character of the former. it is still called _hyacinthus non-scriptus_--but as the true hyacinth equally wants the inscription, the name is singularly inappropriate. the botanical name of the hyacinth is _hyacinthus orientalis_ which applies equally to all the varieties of colour, size and fulness.--_w. hinks_. [ ] old gerard calls it blew harebel or english _jacint_, from the french _jacinthe_. [ ] inhabitants of the island of chios [ ] supposed by some to be delphinium ajacis or larkspur. but no one can discover any letters on the larkspur. [ ] some _savants_ say that it was not the _sunflower_ into which the lovelorn lass was transformed, but the _heliotrope_ with its sweet odour of vanilla. heliotrope signifies _i turn towards the sun_. it could not have been the sun flower, according to some authors because that came from peru and peru was not known to ovid. but it is difficult to settle this grave question. as all flowers turn towards the sun, we cannot fix on any one that is particularly entitled to notice on that account. [ ] zephyrus. [ ] "a remarkably intelligent young botanist of our acquaintance asserts it as his firm conviction that many a young lady who would shrink from being kissed under the mistletoe would not have the same objection to that ceremony if performed _under the rose_."--_punch_. [ ] mary howitt mentions that amongst the private cultivators of roses in the neighbourhood of london, the well-known publisher mr. henry s. bohn is particularly distinguished. in his garden at twickenham one thousand varieties of the rose are brought to great perfection. he gives a sort of floral fete to his friends in the height of the rose season. [ ] the learned dry the flower of the forget me not and flatten it down in their herbals, and call it, _myosotis scorpioides--scorpion shaped mouse's ear_! they have been reproached for this by a brother savant, charles nodier, who was not a learned man only but a man of wit and sense.--_alphonse karr_. [ ] the abbé molina in his history of chili mentions a species of basil which he calls _ocymum salinum_: he says it resembles the common basil, except that the stalk is round and jointed; and that though it grows sixty miles from the sea, yet every morning it is covered with saline globules, which are hard and splendid, appearing at a distance like dew; and that each plant furnishes about an ounce of fine salt every day, which the peasants collect and use as common salt, but esteem it superior in flavour.--_notes to darwin's loves of the plants_. [ ] the dutch are a strange people and of the most heterogeneous composition. they have an odd mixture in their nature of the coldest utilitarianism and the most extravagant romance. a curious illustration of this is furnished in their tulipomania, in which there was a struggle between the love of the substantial and the love of the beautiful. one of their authors enumerates the following articles as equivalent in money value to the price of one tulip root--"two lasts of wheat--four lasts of rye--four fat oxen--eight fat swine--twelve fat sheep--two hogsheads of wine--four tons of butter--one thousand pounds of cheese--a complete bed--a suit of clothes--and a silver drinking cup." [ ] _maun_, must [ ] _stoure_, dust [ ] _weet_, wetness, rain [ ] _glinted_, peeped [ ] _wa's_, walls. [ ] _bield_, shelter [ ] _histie_, dry [ ] _stibble field_, a field covered with stubble--the stalks of corn left by the reaper. [ ] _the origin of the daisy_--when christ was three years old his mother wished to twine him a birthday wreath. but as no flower was growing out of doors on christmas eve, not in all the promised land, and as no made up flowers were to be bought, mary resolved to prepare a flower herself. to this end she took a piece of bright yellow silk which had come down to her from david, and ran into the same, thick threads of white silk, thread by thread, and while thus engaged, she pricked her finger with the needle, and the pure blood stained some of the threads with crimson, whereat the little child was much affected. but when the winter was past and the rains were come and gone, and when spring came to strew the earth with flowers, and the fig tree began to put forth her green figs and the vine her buds, and when the voice or the turtle was heard in the land, then came christ and took the tender plant with its single stem and egg shaped leaves and the flower with its golden centre and rays of white and red, and planted it in the vale of nazareth. then, taking up the cup of gold which had been presented to him by the wise men of the east, he filled it at a neighbouring fountain, and watered the flower and breathed upon it. and the plant grew and became the most perfect of plants, and it flowers in every meadow, when the snow disappears, and is itself the snow of spring, delighting the young heart and enticing the old men from the village to the fields. from then until now this flower has continued to bloom and although it may be plucked a hundred times, again it blossoms--_colshorn's deutsche mythologie furs deutsche volk_. [ ] the gorse is a low bush with prickly leaves growing like a juniper. the contrast of its very brilliant yellow pea shaped blossoms with the dark green of its leaves is very beautiful. it grows in hedges and on commons and is thought rather a plebeian affair. i think it would make quite an addition to our garden shrubbery. possibly it might make as much sensation with us (americans) as our mullein does in foreign green-houses,--_mrs. stowe_. [ ] george town. [ ] the hill trumpeter. [ ] nutmeg and clove plantations. [ ] leigh hunt, in the dedication of his _stories in verse_ to the duke of devonshire speaks of his grace as "the adorner of the country with beautiful gardens, and with the far-fetched botany of other climates; one of whom it may be said without exaggeration and even without a metaphor, that his footsteps may be traced in flowers." [ ] the following account of a newly discovered flower may be interesting to my readers. "it is about the size of a walnut, perfectly white, with fine leaves, resembling very much the wax plant. upon the blooming of the flower, in the cup formed by the leaves, is the exact image of a dove lying on its back with its wings extended. the peak of the bill and the eyes are plainly to be seen and a small leaf before the flower arrives at maturity forms the outspread tail. the leaf can be raised or shut down with the finger without breaking or apparently injuring it until the flower reaches its bloom, when it drops,"--_panama star_. [ ] signifying the _dew of the sea_. the rosemary grows best near the sea-shore, and when the wind is off the land it delights the home-returning voyager with its familiar fragrance. [ ] perhaps it is not known to _all_ my readers that some flowers not only brighten the earth by day with their lovely faces, but emit light at dusk. in a note to darwin's _loves of the plants_ it is stated that the daughter of linnaeus first observed the nasturtium to throw out flashes of light in the morning before sunrise, and also during the evening twilight, but not after total darkness came on. the philosophers considered these flashes to be electric. mr. haggren, professor of natural history, perceived one evening a faint flash of light repeatedly darted from a marigold. the flash was afterwards often seen by him on the same flower two or three times, in quick succession, but more commonly at intervals of some minutes. the light has been observed also on the orange, the lily, the monks hood, the yellow goats beard and the sun flower. this effect has sometimes been so striking that the flowers have looked as if they were illuminated for a holiday. lady blessington has a fanciful allusion to this flower light. "some flowers," she says, "absorb the rays of the sun so strongly that in the evening they yield slight phosphoric flashes, may we not compare the minds of poets to those flowers which imbibing light emit it again in a different form and aspect?" [ ] the shan and other poems [ ] my hindu friend is not answerable for the following notes. [ ] and infants winged, who mirthful throw shafts rose-tipped from nectareous bow. kam déva, the cupid of the hindu mythology, is thus represented. his bow is of the sugar cane, his string is formed of wild bees, and his arrows are tipped with the rose.--_tales of the forest_. [ ] in this plant was subjected to a regular set of experiments by dr. g. playfair, who, with many of his brethren, bears ample testimony of its efficacy in leprosy, lues, tenia, herpes, dropsy, rheumatism, hectic and intermittent fever. the powdered bark is given in doses of - grains twice a day.--_dr. voight's hortus suburbanus calcuttensis_. [ ] it is perhaps of the flax tribe. mr. piddington gives it the sanscrit name of _atasi_ and the botanical name _linum usitatissimum_. [ ] roxburgh calls it "intensely fragrant." [ ] sometimes employed by robbers to deprive their victims of the power of resistance. in a strong dose it is poison. [ ] it is said to be used by the chinese to blacken their eyebrows and their shoes. [ ] _mirábilis jálapa_, or marvel of peru, is called by the country people in england _the four o'clock flower_, from its opening regularly at that time. there is a species of broom in america which is called the american clock, because it exhibits its golden flowers every morning at eleven, is fully open by one and closes again at two. [ ] marvell died in ; linnaeus died just a hundred years later. [ ] this poem (_the sugar cane_) when read in manuscript at sir joshua reynolds's, had made all the assembled wits burst into a laugh, when after much blank-verse pomp the poet began a paragraph thus.-- "now, muse, let's sing of rats." and what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company who slyly overlooked the reader, perceived that the word had been originally _mice_ and had been altered to _rats_ as more dignified.--_boswell's life of johnson_. [ ] hazlitt has a pleasant essay on a garden _sun-dial_, from which i take the following passage:-- _horas non numero nisi serenas_--is the motto of a sun dial near venice. there is a softness and a harmony in the words and in the thought unparalleled. of all conceits it is surely the most classical. "i count only the hours that are serene." what a bland and care-dispelling feeling! how the shadows seem to fade on the dial plate as the sky looms, and time presents only a blank unless as its progress is marked by what is joyous, and all that is not happy sinks into oblivion! what a fine lesson is conveyed to the mind--to take no note of time but by its benefits, to watch only for the smiles and neglect the frowns of fate, to compose our lives of bright and gentle moments, turning always to the sunny side of things, and letting the rest slip from our imaginations, unheeded or forgotten! how different from the common art of self tormenting! for myself, as i rode along the brenta, while the sun shone hot upon its sluggish, slimy waves, my sensations were far from comfortable, but the reading this inscription on the side of a glaring wall in an instant restored me to myself, and still, whenever i think of or repeat it, it has the power of wafting me into the region of pure and blissful abstraction. [ ] these are the initial letters of the latin names of the plants, they will be found at length on the lower column. [ ] hampton court was laid out by cardinal wolsey. the labyrinth, one of the best which remains in england, occupies only a quarter of an acre, and contains nearly a mile of winding walks. there is an adjacent stand, on which the gardener places himself, to extricate the adventuring stranger by his directions. switzer condemns this plan for having only four stops and gives a plan for one with twenty.--_loudon_. [ ] the lower part of bengal, not far from calcutta, is here described [ ] sir william jones states that the brahmins believe that the _blue_ champac flowers only in paradise, it being yellow every where else. [ ] the wild dog of bengal [ ] the elephant. [ ] even jeremy bentham, the great utilitarian philosopher, who pronounced the composition and perusal of poetry a mere amusement of no higher rank than the game of pushpin, had still something of the common feeling of the poetry of nature in his soul. he says of himself--"_i was passionately fond of flowers from my youth, and the passion has never left me._" in praise of botany he would sometimes observe, "_we cannot propagate stones_:" meaning that the mineralogist cannot circulate his treasures without injuring himself, but the botanist can multiply his specimens at will and add to the pleasures of others without lessening his own. [ ] a man of a polite imagination is let into a great many pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of receiving. he can converse with a picture and find an agreeable companion in a statue. he meets with a secret refreshment in a description, _and often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and meadows, than another does in the possession_.--_spectator_. [ ] kent died in in the th year of his age. as a painter he had no great merit, but many men of genius amongst his contemporaries had the highest opinion of his skill as a landscape-gardener. he sometimes, however, carried his love of the purely natural to a fantastic excess, as when in kensington-garden he planted dead trees to give an air of wild truth to the landscape. in esher's peaceful grove, where kent and nature strove for pelham's love, this landscape-gardener is said to have exhibited a very remarkable degree of taste and judgment. i cannot resist the temptation to quote here horace walpole's eloquent account of kent: "at that moment appeared kent, painter and poet enough to taste the charms of landscape, bold and opinionative enough to dare and to dictate, and born with a genius to strike out a great system from the twilight of imperfect essays. he leaped the fence and saw that all nature was a garden[ ]. he felt the delicious contrast of hill and valley changing imperceptibly into each other, tasted the beauty of the gentle swell, or concave swoop, and remarked how loose groves crowned an easy eminence with happy ornament, and while they called in the distant view between their graceful stems, removed and extended the perspective by delusive comparison."--_on modern gardening_. [ ] when the rage for a wild irregularity in the laying out of gardens was carried to its extreme, the garden paths were so ridiculously tortuous or zig-zag, that, as brown remarked, a man might put one foot upon _zig_ and the other upon _zag_. [ ] the natives are much too fond of having tanks within a few feet of their windows, so that the vapours from the water go directly into the house. these vapours are often seen hanging or rolling over the surface of the tank like thick wreaths of smoke. [ ] broken brick is called _kunkur_, but i believe the real kunkur is real gravel, and if i am not mistaken a pretty good sort of gravel, formed of particles of red granite, is obtainable from the rajmahal hills. [ ] pope in his well known paper in the _guardian_ complains that a citizen is no sooner proprietor of a couple of yews but he entertains thoughts of erecting them into giants, like those of guildhall. "i know an eminent cook," continues the writer, "who beautified his country seat with a coronation dinner in greens, where you see the champion flourishing on horseback at one end of the table and the queen in perpetual youth at the other." when the desire to subject nature to art had been carried to the ludicrous extravagances so well satirized by pope, men rushed into an opposite extreme. uvedale price in his first rage for nature and horror of art, destroyed a venerable old garden that should have been respected for its antiquity, if for nothing else. he lived to repent his rashness and honestly to record that repentance. coleridge, observed to john sterling, that "we have gone too far in destroying the old style of gardens and parks." "the great thing in landscape gardening" he continued "is to discover whether the scenery is such that the country seems to belong to man or man to the country." [ ] in england it costs upon the average about shillings or six rupees to have a tree of feet high transplanted. [ ] i believe the largest leaf in the world is that of the fan palm or talipot tree in ceylon. "the branch of the tree," observes the author of _sylvan sketches_, "is not remarkably large, but it bears a leaf large enough to cover twenty men. it will fold into a fan and is then no bigger than a man's arm." [ ] southey's common-place book. [ ] the height of a full grown banyan may be from sixty to eighty feet; and many of them, i am fully confident, cover at least two acres.--_oriental field sports_. there is a banyan tree about five and twenty miles from berhampore, remarkable for the height of the lower branches from the ground. a man standing up on the houdah of an elephant may pass under it without touching the foliage. a tree has been described as growing in china of a size so prodigious that one branch of it only will so completely cover two hundred sheep that they cannot be perceived by those who approach the tree, and another so enormous that eighty persons can scarcely embrace the trunk.--_sylvan sketches_. [ ] this praise is a little extravagant, but the garden is really very tastefully laid out, and ought to furnish a useful model to such of the people of this city as have spacious grounds. the area of the garden is about two hundred and fifty nine acres. this garden was commenced in by colonel kyd. it then passed to the care of dr. roxburgh, who remained in charge of it from to the date of his death . [ ] alphonse karr, bitterly ridicules the botanical _savants_ with their barbarous nomenclature. he speaks of their mesocarps and quinqueloculars infundibuliform, squammiflora, guttiferas monocotyledous &c. &c. with supreme disgust. our english poet, wordsworth, also used to complain that some of our familiar english names of flowers, names so full of delightful associations, were beginning to be exchanged even in common conversation for the coldest and harshest scientific terms. [ ] _the hand of eve_--the handiwork of eve. [ ] _without thorn the rose_: dr. bentley calls this a puerile fancy. but it should be remembered, that it was part of the curse denounced upon the earth for adam's transgression, that it should bring forth thorns and thistles. _gen._ iii. . hence the general opinion has prevailed, that there were _no thorns_ before; which is enough to justify a poet, in saying "_the rose was without thorn_."--newton. [ ] see page . my hindu friend is not responsible for the selection of the following notes. [ ] birdlime is prepared from the tenacious milky juice of the peepul and the banyan. the leaves of the banyan are used by the bramins to eat off, for which purpose they are joined together by inkles. birds are very fond of the fruit of the peepul, and often drop the seeds in the cracks of buildings, where they vegetate, occasioning great damage if not removed in time.--_voight_. [ ] the ancient greeks and romans also married trees together in a similar manner.--_r._ [ ] the root of this plant, (_euphorbia ligularia_,) mixed up with black pepper, is used by the natives against snake bites.--_roxburgh_. [ ] coccos nucifera, the _root_ is sometimes masticated instead of the betle-nut. in brazil, baskets are made of the _small fibres_. the _hard case of the stem_ is converted into drums, and used in the construction of huts. the lower part is so hard as to take a beautiful polish, when it resembles agate. the reticulated substance at base of the leaf is formed into cradles, and, as some say, into a coarse kind of cloth. the _unexpanded terminal bud_ is a delicate article of food. the _leaves_ furnish thatch for dwellings, and materials for fences, buckets, and baskets; they are used for writing on, and make excellent torches; potash in abundance is yielded by their ashes. the _midrib of the_ leaf serves for oars. the _juice of the flower and stems_ is replete with sugar, and is fermented into excellent wine, or distilled into arrack, or the sugary part is separated as jagary. the tree is cultivated in many parts of the indian islands, for the sake not only of the sap and _milk_ it yields, but for the _kernel_ of its fruit, used both as food and for culinary purposes, and as affording a large proportion of _oil_ which is burned in lamps throughout india, and forms also a large article of export to europe. the fibrous and uneatable rind of the fruit is not only used to polish furniture and to scour the floors of rooms, but is manufactured into a kind of cordage, (_koir_) which is nearly equal in strength to hemp, and which roxburgh designates as the very best of all materials for cables, on account of its great elasticity and strength. the sap of this as well as of other palms is found to be the simplest and easiest remedy that can be employed for removing constipation in persons of delicate habit, especially european females.--_voigt's suburbanus calcuttensis_. [ ] the root is bitter, nauseous, and used in north america as anthelmintic. _a. richard_. [ ] of one species of tulsi (_babooi-tulsi_) the seeds, if steeped in water, swell into a pleasant jelly, which is used by the natives in cases of catarrh, dysentry, chronic diarrhoea &c. and is very nourishing and demulcent--_voigt_. [ ] this list is framed from such as were actually grown by the author between and the present year, from seed received chiefly through the kindness of captain kirke. [ ] the native market gardens sell madras roses at the rate of thirteen young plants for the rupee. mrs. gore tells us that in london the most esteemed kinds of old roses are usually sold by nurserymen at fifty shillings a hundred the first french and other varieties seldom exceed half a guinea a piece. [ ] i may add to mr. speede's list of roses the _banksian rose_. the flowers are yellow, in clusters, and scentless. mrs. gore says it was imported into england from the calcutta botanical garden, it is called _wong moue heong_. there is another rose also called the _banksian rose_ extremely small, very double, white, expanding from march till may, highly scented with violets. the _rosa brownii_ was brought from nepaul by dr. wallich. a very sweet rose has been brought into bengal from england. it is called _rosa peeliana_ after the original importer sir lawrence peel. it is a hybrid. i believe it is a tea scented rose and is probably a cross between one of that sort and a common china rose, but this is mere conjecture. the varieties of the tea rose are now cultivated by indian malees with great success. they sell at the price of from eight annas to a rupee each. a variety of the bengal yellow rose, is now comparatively common. it fetches from one to three rupees, each root. it is known to the native gardeners by the english name of "_yellow rose_". amongst the flowers introduced here since mr. speede's book appeared, is the beautiful blue heliotrope which the natives call _kala heliotrope_. [ ] he gains all points who pleasingly confounds, surprizes, varies, and conceals the bounds. [ ] the following is the passage alluded to by todd a pleasant grove with chant of tuneful birds resounding loud, thither he bent his way, determined there to rest at noon, and entered soon the shade, high roofed, and walks beneath and alleys brown, that opened in the midst a woody scene, nature's own work it seemed (nature taught art) and to a superstitious eye the haunt of wood gods and wood nymphs. _paradise regained, book ii_ [ ] the following stanzas are almost as direct translations from tasso as the two last stanzas in the words of fairfax on page :-- the whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay;-- ah! see, whoso fayre thing doest faine to see, in springing flowre the image of thy day! ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee doth first peepe forth with bashful modesty; that fairer seems the less you see her may! lo! see soone after how more bold and free her baréd bosome she doth broad display; lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away! so passeth, in the passing of a day, of mortal life, the leaf, the bud, the flowre, ne more doth florish after first decay, that erst was sought, to deck both bed and bowre of many a lady and many a paramoure! gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime for soone comes age that will her pride deflowre; gather the rose of love, whilest yet is time whilest loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime[ ] _fairie queene, book ii. canto xii._ [ ] i suppose in the remark that kent leapt the fence, horace walpole alludes to that artist's practice of throwing down walls and other boundaries and sinking fosses called by the common people _ha! ha's!_ to express their astonishment when the edge of the fosse brought them to an unexpected stop. horace walpole's history of modern gardening is now so little read that authors think they may steal from it with safety. in the _encyclopaedia britannica_ the article on gardening is taken almost verbatim from it, with one or two deceptive allusions such as--"_as mr. walpole observes_"--"_says mr. walpole_," &c. but there is nothing to mark where walpole's observations and sayings end, and the encyclopaedia thus gets the credit of many pages of his eloquence and sagacity. the whole of walpole's _history of modern gardening_ is given piece-meal as an original contribution to _harrrison's floricultural cabinet_, each portion being signed clericus. [ ] perhaps robert herrick had these stanzas in his mind's ear when he wrote his song of gather ye rosebuds while ye may old time is still a flying; and this same flower that smiles to-day to-morrow will be dying. * * * * * then be not coy, but use your time; and while ye may, so marry: for having lost but once your prime you may for ever tarry. charles franks, charles aldarondo and the online distributed proofreading team. home vegetable gardening a complete and practical guide to the planting and care of all vegetables, fruits and berries worth growing for home use by f. f. rockwell author of _around the year in the garden_, _gardening indoors and under glass_, _the key to the land,_ etc., etc. preface with some, the home vegetable garden is a hobby; with others, especially in these days of high prices, a great help. there are many in both classes whose experience in gardening has been restricted within very narrow bounds, and whose present spare time for gardening is limited. it is as "first aid" to such persons, who want to do practical, efficient gardening, and do it with the least possible fuss and loss of time, that this book is written. in his own experience the author has found that garden books, while seldom lacking in information, often do not present it in the clearest possible way. it has been his aim to make the present volume first of all practical, and in addition to that, though comprehensive, yet simple and concise. if it helps to make the way of the home gardener more clear and definite, its purpose will have been accomplished. contents chapter i introduction ii why you should garden iii requisites of the home vegetable garden iv the planting plan v implements and their uses vi manures and fertilizers vii the soil and its preparation part two--vegetables viii starting the plants ix sowing and planting x the cultivation of vegetables xi the vegetables and their special needs xii best varieties of the garden vegetables xiii insects and disease, and methods of fighting them xiv harvesting and storing part three--fruits xv the varieties of pome and stone fruits xvi planting; cultivation; filler crops xvii pruning, spraying, harvesting xviii berries and small fruits xix a calendar of operations xx conclusion chapter i introduction formerly it was the custom for gardeners to invest their labors and achievements with a mystery and secrecy which might well have discouraged any amateur from trespassing upon such difficult ground. "trade secrets" in either flower or vegetable growing were acquired by the apprentice only through practice and observation, and in turn jealously guarded by him until passed on to some younger brother in the profession. every garden operation was made to seem a wonderful and difficult undertaking. now, all that has changed. in fact the pendulum has swung, as it usually does, to the other extreme. often, if you are a beginner, you have been flatteringly told in print that you could from the beginning do just as well as the experienced gardener. my garden friend, it cannot, as a usual thing, be done. of course, it may happen and sometimes does. you _might_, being a trusting lamb, go down into wall street with $ , [ed. note: all monetary values throughout the book are values] and make a fortune. you know that you would not be likely to; the chances are very much against you. this garden business is a matter of common sense; and the man, or the woman, who has learned by experience how to do a thing, whether it is cornering the market or growing cabbages, naturally does it better than the one who has not. do not expect the impossible. if you do, read a poultry advertisement and go into the hen business instead of trying to garden. i _have_ grown pumpkins that necessitated the tearing down of the fence in order to get them out of the lot, and sometimes, though not frequently, have had to use the axe to cut through a stalk of asparagus, but i never "made $ , in ten months from an eggplant in a city back-yard." no, if you are going to take up gardening, you will have to work, and you will have a great many disappointments. all that i, or anyone else, could put between the two covers of a book will not make a gardener of you. it must be learned through the fingers, and back, too, as well as from the printed page. but, after all, the greatest reward for your efforts will be the work itself; and unless you love the work, or have a feeling that you will love it, probably the best way for you, is to stick to the grocer for your garden. most things, in the course of development, change from the simple to the complex. the art of gardening has in many ways been an exception to the rule. the methods of culture used for many crops are more simple than those in vogue a generation ago. the last fifty years has seen also a tremendous advance in the varieties of vegetables, and the strange thing is that in many instances the new and better sorts are more easily and quickly grown than those they have replaced. the new lima beans are an instance of what is meant. while limas have always been appreciated as one of the most delicious of vegetables, in many sections they could never be successfully grown, because of their aversion to dampness and cold, and of the long season required to mature them. the newer sorts are not only larger and better, but hardier and earlier; and the bush forms have made them still more generally available. knowledge on the subject of gardening is also more widely diffused than ever before, and the science of photography has helped wonderfully in telling the newcomer how to do things. it has also lent an impetus and furnished an inspiration which words alone could never have done. if one were to attempt to read all the gardening instructions and suggestions being published, he would have no time left to practice gardening at all. why then, the reader may ask at this point, another garden book? it is a pertinent question, and it is right that an answer be expected in advance. the reason, then, is this: while there are garden books in plenty, most of them pay more attention to the "content" than to the form in which it is laid before the prospective gardener. the material is often presented as an accumulation of detail, instead of by a systematic and constructive plan which will take the reader step by step through the work to be done, and make clear constantly both the principles and the practice of garden making and management, and at the same time avoid every digression unnecessary from the practical point of view. other books again, are either so elementary as to be of little use where gardening is done without gloves, or too elaborate, however accurate and worthy in other respects, for an every-day working manual. the author feels, therefore, that there is a distinct field for the present book. and, while i still have the reader by the "introduction" buttonhole, i want to make a suggestion or two about using a book like this. do not, on the one hand, read it through and then put it away with the dictionary and the family bible, and trust to memory for the instruction it may give; do not, on the other hand, wait until you think it is time to plant a thing, and then go and look it up. for instance, do not, about the middle of may, begin investigating how many onion seeds to put in a hill; you will find out that they should have been put in, in drills, six weeks before. read the whole book through carefully at your first opportunity, make a list of the things you should do for your own vegetable garden, and put opposite them the proper dates for your own vicinity. keep this available, as a working guide, and refer to special matters as you get to them. do not feel discouraged that you cannot be promised immediate success at the start. i know from personal experience and from the experience of others that "book-gardening" is a practical thing. if you do your work carefully and thoroughly, you may be confident that a very great measure of success will reward the efforts of your first garden season. and i know too, that you will find it the most entrancing game you ever played. good luck to you! chapter ii why you should garden there are more reasons to-day than ever before why the owner of a small place should have his, or her, own vegetable garden. the days of home weaving, home cheese-making, home meat-packing, are gone. with a thousand and one other things that used to be made or done at home, they have left the fireside and followed the factory chimney. these things could be turned over to machinery. the growing of vegetables cannot be so disposed of. garden tools have been improved, but they are still the same old one-man affairs--doing one thing, one row at a time. labor is still the big factor--and that, taken in combination with the cost of transporting and handling such perishable stuff as garden produce, explains why _the home gardener can grow his own vegetables at less expense than he can buy them_. that is a good fact to remember. but after all, i doubt if most of us will look at the matter only after consulting the columns of the household ledger. the big thing, the salient feature of home gardening is not that we may get our vegetables ten per cent. cheaper, but that we can have them one hundred per cent. better. even the long-keeping sorts, like squash, potatoes and onions, are very perceptibly more delicious right from the home garden, fresh from the vines or the ground; but when it comes to peas, and corn, and lettuce,--well, there is absolutely nothing to compare with the home garden ones, gathered fresh, in the early slanting sunlight, still gemmed with dew, still crisp and tender and juicy, ready to carry every atom of savory quality, without loss, to the dining table. stale, flat and unprofitable indeed, after these have once been tasted, seem the limp, travel-weary, dusty things that are jounced around to us in the butcher's cart and the grocery wagon. it is not in price alone that home gardening pays. there is another point: the market gardener has to grow the things that give the biggest yield. he has to sacrifice quality to quantity. you do not. one cannot buy golden bantam corn, or mignonette lettuce, or gradus peas in most markets. they are top quality, but they do not fill the market crate enough times to the row to pay the commercial grower. if you cannot afford to keep a professional gardener there is only one way to have the best vegetables--grow your own! and this brings us to the third, and what may be the most important reason why you should garden. it is the cheapest, healthiest, keenest pleasure there is. give me a sunny garden patch in the golden springtime, when the trees are picking out their new gowns, in all the various self-colored delicate grays and greens--strange how beautiful they are, in the same old unchanging styles, isn't it?--give me seeds to watch as they find the light, plants to tend as they take hold in the fine, loose, rich soil, and you may have the other sports. and when you have grown tired of their monotony, come back in summer to even the smallest garden, and you will find in it, every day, a new problem to be solved, a new campaign to be carried out, a new victory to win. better food, better health, better living--all these the home garden offers you in abundance. and the price is only the price of every worth-while thing--honest, cheerful patient work. but enough for now of the dream garden. put down your book. put on your old togs, light your pipe--some kind-hearted humanitarian should devise for women such a kindly and comforting vice as smoking--and let's go outdoors and look the place over, and pick out the best spot for that garden-patch of yours. chapter iii requisites of the home vegetable garden in deciding upon the site for the home vegetable garden it is well to dispose once and for all of the old idea that the garden "patch" must be an ugly spot in the home surroundings. if thoughtfully planned, carefully planted and thoroughly cared for, it may be made a beautiful and harmonious feature of the general scheme, lending a touch of comfortable homeliness that no shrubs, borders, or beds can ever produce. with this fact in mind we will not feel restricted to any part of the premises merely because it is out of sight behind the barn or garage. in the average moderate-sized place there will not be much choice as to land. it will be necessary to take what is to be had and then do the very best that can be done with it. but there will probably be a good deal of choice as to, first, exposure, and second, convenience. other things being equal, select a spot near at hand, easy of access. it may seem that a difference of only a few hundred yards will mean nothing, but if one is depending largely upon spare moments for working in and for watching the garden--and in the growing of many vegetables the latter is almost as important as the former--this matter of convenient access will be of much greater importance than is likely to be at first recognized. not until you have had to make a dozen time-wasting trips for forgotten seeds or tools, or gotten your feet soaking wet by going out through the dew-drenched grass, will you realize fully what this may mean. exposure but the thing of first importance to consider in picking out the spot that is to yield you happiness and delicious vegetables all summer, or even for many years, is the exposure. pick out the "earliest" spot you can find--a plot sloping a little to the south or east, that seems to catch sunshine early and hold it late, and that seems to be out of the direct path of the chilling north and northeast winds. if a building, or even an old fence, protects it from this direction, your garden will be helped along wonderfully, for an early start is a great big factor toward success. if it is not already protected, a board fence, or a hedge of some low-growing shrubs or young evergreens, will add very greatly to its usefulness. the importance of having such a protection or shelter is altogether underestimated by the amateur. the soil the chances are that you will not find a spot of ideal garden soil ready for use anywhere upon your place. but all except the very worst of soils can be brought up to a very high degree of productiveness-- especially such small areas as home vegetable gardens require. large tracts of soil that are almost pure sand, and others so heavy and mucky that for centuries they lay uncultivated, have frequently been brought, in the course of only a few years, to where they yield annually tremendous crops on a commercial basis. so do not be discouraged about your soil. proper treatment of it is much more important, and a garden- patch of average run-down,--or "never-brought-up" soil--will produce much more for the energetic and careful gardener than the richest spot will grow under average methods of cultivation. the ideal garden soil is a "rich, sandy loam." and the fact cannot be overemphasized that such soils usually are made, not found. let us analyze that description a bit, for right here we come to the first of the four all-important factors of gardening--food. the others are cultivation, moisture and temperature. "rich" in the gardener's vocabulary means full of plant food; more than that--and this is a point of vital importance--it means full of plant food ready to be used at once, all prepared and spread out on the garden table, or rather in it, where growing things can at once make use of it; or what we term, in one word, "available" plant food. practically no soils in long- inhabited communities remain naturally rich enough to produce big crops. they are made rich, or kept rich, in two ways; first, by cultivation, which helps to change the raw plant food stored in the soil into available forms; and second, by manuring or adding plant food to the soil from outside sources. "sandy" in the sense here used, means a soil containing enough particles of sand so that water will pass through it without leaving it pasty and sticky a few days after a rain; "light" enough, as it is called, so that a handful, under ordinary conditions, will crumble and fall apart readily after being pressed in the hand. it is not necessary that the soil be sandy in appearance, but it should be friable. "loam: a rich, friable soil," says webster. that hardly covers it, but it does describe it. it is soil in which the sand and clay are in proper proportions, so that neither greatly predominate, and usually dark in color, from cultivation and enrichment. such a soil, even to the untrained eye, just naturally looks as if it would grow things. it is remarkable how quickly the whole physical appearance of a piece of well cultivated ground will change. an instance came under my notice last fall in one of my fields, where a strip containing an acre had been two years in onions, and a little piece jutting off from the middle of this had been prepared for them just one season. the rest had not received any extra manuring or cultivation. when the field was plowed up in the fall, all three sections were as distinctly noticeable as though separated by a fence. and i know that next spring's crop of rye, before it is plowed under, will show the lines of demarcation just as plainly. this, then, will give you an idea of a good garden soil. perhaps in yours there will be too much sand, or too much clay. that will be a disadvantage, but one which energy and perseverance will soon overcome to a great extent--by what methods may be learned in chapter viii. drainage there is, however, one other thing you must look out for in selecting your garden site, and that is drainage. dig down eight or twelve inches after you have picked out a favorable spot, and examine the sub-soil. this is the second strata, usually of different texture and color from the rich surface soil, and harder than it. if you find a sandy or gravelly bed, no matter how yellow and poor it looks, you have chosen the right spot. but if it be a stiff, heavy clay, especially a blue clay, you will have either to drain it or be content with a very late garden--that is, unless you are at the top of a knoll or on a slope. chapter vii contains further suggestions in regard to this problem. soil antecedents there was a further reason for, mentioning that strip of onion ground. it is a very practical illustration of what last year's handling of the soil means to this year's garden. if you can pick out a spot, even if it is not the most desirable in other ways, that has been well enriched or cultivated for a year or two previous, take that for this year's garden. and in the meantime have the spot on which you intend to make your permanent vegetable garden thoroughly "fitted," and grow there this year a crop of potatoes or sweet corn, as suggested in chapter ix. then next year you will have conditions just right to give your vegetables a great start. other considerations there are other things of minor importance but worth considering, such as the shape of your garden plot, for instance. the more nearly rectangular, the more convenient it will be to work and the more easily kept clean and neat. have it large enough, or at least open on two ends, so that a horse can be used in plowing and harrowing. and if by any means you can have it within reach of an adequate supply of water, that will be a tremendous help in seasons of protracted drought. then again, if you have ground enough, lay off two plots so that you can take advantage of the practice of rotation, alternating grass, potatoes or corn with the vegetable garden. of course it is possible to practice crop rotation to some extent within the limits of even the small vegetable garden, but it will be much better, if possible, to rotate the entire garden-patch. all these things, then, one has to keep in mind in picking the spot best suited for the home vegetable garden. it should be, if possible, of convenient access; it should have a warm exposure and be well enriched, well worked-up soil, not too light nor too heavy, and by all means well drained. if it has been thoroughly cultivated for a year or two previous, so much the better. if it is near a supply of water, so situated that it can be at least plowed and harrowed with a horse, and large enough to allow the garden proper to be shifted every other year or two, still more the better. fill all of these requirements that you can, and then by taking full advantage of the advantages you have, you can discount the disadvantages. after all it is careful, persistent work, more than natural advantages, that will tell the story; and a good garden does _not_ grow--it is made. chapter iv the planting plan having selected the garden spot, the next consideration, naturally, is what shall be planted in it. the old way was to get a few seed catalogues, pick out a list of the vegetables most enthusiastically described by the (wholly disinterested) seedsman, and then, when the time came, to put them in at one or two plantings, and sowing each kind as far as the seed would go. there is a better way--a way to make the garden produce more, to yield things when you want them, and in the proper proportions. all these advantages, you may suppose, must mean more work. on the contrary, however, the new way makes very much less work and makes results a hundred per cent. more certain. it is not necessary even that more thought be put upon the garden, but forethought there must be. forethought, however, is much more satisfactory than hind-thought. in the new way of gardening there are four great helps, four things that will be of great assistance to the experienced gardener, and that are indispensable to the success of the beginner. they are the planting plan, the planting table, the check list and the garden record. do not become discouraged at the formidable sound of that paragraph and decide that after all you do not want to fuss so much over your garden; that you are doing it for the fun of the thing anyway, and such intricate systems will not be worth bothering with. the purpose of those four garden helps is simply to make your work less and your returns more. you might just as well refuse to use a wheel hoe because the trowel was good enough for your grandmother's garden, as to refuse to take advantage of the modern garden methods described in this chapter. without using them to some extent, or in some modified form, you can never know just what you are doing with your garden or what improvements to make next year. of course, each of the plans or lists suggested here is only one of many possible combinations. you should be able to find, or better still to construct, similar ones better suited to your individual taste, need and opportunity. that, however, does not lessen the necessity of using some such system. it is just as necessary an aid to the maximum efficiency in gardening as are modern tools. do not fear that you will waste time on the planting plan. master it and use it, for only so can you make your garden time count for most in producing results. in the average small garden there is a very large percentage of waste--for two weeks, more string beans than can be eaten or given away; and then, for a month, none at all, for instance. you should determine ahead as nearly as possible how much of each vegetable your table will require and then try to grow enough of each for a continuous supply, and no more. it is just this that the planting plan enables you to do. i shall describe, as briefly as possible, forms of the planting plan, planting table, check list and record, which i have found it convenient to use. to make the planting plan take a sheet of white paper and a ruler and mark off a space the shape of your garden--which should be rectangular if possible--using a scale of one-quarter or one-eighth inch to the foot. rows fifty feet long will be found a convenient length for the average home garden. in a garden where many varieties of things are grown it will be best to run the rows the short way of the piece. we will take a fifty-foot row for the purpose of illustration, though of course it can readily be changed in proportion where rows of that length can not conveniently be made. in a very small garden it will be better to make the row, say, twenty-five feet long, the aim being always to keep the row a unit and have as few broken ones as possible, and still not to have to plant more of any one thing than will be needed. in assigning space for the various vegetables several things should be kept in mind in order to facilitate planting, replanting and cultivating the garden. these can most quickly be realized by a glance at the plan illustrated herewith. you will notice that crops that remain several years--rhubarb and asparagus--are kept at one end. next come such as will remain a whole season--parsnips, carrots, onions and the like. and finally those that will be used for a succession of crops--peas, lettuce, spinach. moreover, tall-growing crops, like pole beans, are kept to the north of lower ones. in the plan illustrated the space given to each variety is allotted according to the proportion in which they are ordinarily used. if it happens that you have a special weakness for peas, or your mother-in-law an aversion to peppers, keep these tastes and similar ones in mind when laying out your planting plan. do not leave the planning of your garden until you are ready to put the seeds in the ground and then do it all in a rush. do it in january, as soon as you have received the new year's catalogues and when you have time to study over them and look up your record of the previous year. every hour spent on the plan will mean several hours saved in the garden. the planting table is the next important system in the business of gardening, especially for the beginner. in it one can see at a glance all the details of the particular treatment each vegetable requires-- when to sow, how deep, how far apart the rows should be, etc. i remember how many trips from garden to house to hunt through catalogues for just such information i made in my first two seasons' gardening. how much time, just at the very busiest season of the whole year, such a table would have saved! ------------------------------------------------------ -----------------------------------------------------| | |pa| | | | rhubarb- |rs| | seed bed | | |le|??| | | |y | | | |-------------------------------------------------| | asparagus- | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | pole beans- | |-------------------------------------------------| | tomatoes- | |-------------------------------------------------| | cabbage early- | | late - | |-------------------------------------------------| | broccoli- | brussels sprouts- | | peppers- | egg plant- | |-------------------------------------------------| | celery- | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | onions- - / | | leeks- / | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | carrots- | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | beets- | |-------------------------------------------------| | turnips- - / | rutabaga- / | | parsnips- | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | | | | | corn- | | | | | | | | | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | | | | | peas- | | | | | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | bush beans- | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | lettuce- | | onion sets- | endive- | |-------------------------------------------------| | muskmelons- hills | cucumbers- hills | |-------------------------------------------------| | | | | pumpkins- h | watermelons- h | | | | |-------------------------------------------------| | | summer squash, bush- h | | winter squash- h | | | | summer squash, vine- h | | | | |-------------------------------------------------| a typical planting plan. the scale measurements at the left and top indicate the length and distance apart of rows. [ed. distances are approximate, due to typing line constraints.] the planting table prepared for one's own use should show, besides the information given, the varieties of each vegetable which experience has proved best adapted to one's own needs. the table shown herewith gives such a list; varieties which are for the most part standard favorites and all of which, with me, have proven reliable, productive and of good quality. other good sorts will be found described in part two. such a table should be mounted on cardboard and kept where it may readily be referred to at planting time. the check list is the counterpart of the planting table, so arranged that its use will prevent anything from being overlooked or left until too late. prepare it ahead, some time in january, when you have time to think of everything. make it up from your planting table and from the previous year's record. from this list it will be well to put down on a sheet of paper the things to be done each month (or week) and cross them off as they are attended to. without some such system it is almost a certainty that you will overlook some important things. the garden record is no less important. it may be kept in the simplest sort of way, but be sure to keep it. a large piece of paper ruled as follows, for instance, will require only a few minutes' attention each week and yet will prove of the greatest assistance in planning the garden next season. vegetable garden record-- -------------|---------------|--------|--------|---------------------- vegetable |variety | put in | ready | notes -------------|---------------|--------|--------|---------------------- beans, dwarf |red valentine | may | july | not best quality. try | | | | other earlies |golden wax | may | july | rusted. spray next | | | | year bean, pole |old homestead | may | july | too many. poles | | | | next year |early leviathan| may | aug. | good. dry. bean, lima |fordhook | may | | rotted. try may beet |egyptian | apr. | june | roots sprangled |eclipse | apr. | june | better quality cabbage |wakefield | apr. | june | injured by worms. | | | |hellebore next year etc., etc. | | | | -------------|---------------|--------|-------|---------------------- the above shows how such a record will be kept. of course, only the first column is written in ahead. i want to emphasize in passing, however, the importance of putting down your data on the day you plant, or harvest, or notice anything worth recording. if you let it go until tomorrow it is very apt to be lacking next year. try these four short-cuts to success, even if you have had a garden before. they will make a big difference in your garden; less work and greater results. check list jan. st--send for catalogues. make planting plan and table. order seeds. feb. st--inside: cabbage, cauliflower, first sowing. onions for plants. feb. th--inside: lettuce, cabbage, cauliflower, brussels sprouts, beets. march st--inside: lettuce, celery, tomato (early). march th--inside: lettuce, tomato (main), eggplant, pepper, lima beans, cucumber, squash; sprout potatoes in sand. april st--inside: cauliflower (on sods), muskmelon, watermelon, corn. outside: (seed-bed) celery, cabbage, lettuce. onions, carrots, smooth peas, spinach, beets, chard, parsnip, turnip, radish. lettuce, cabbage (plants). may st--beans, corn, spinach, lettuce, radish. may th--beans, limas, muskmelon, watermelon, summer squash, peas, potatoes, lettuce, radish, tomato (early), corn, limas, melon, cucumber and squash (plants). pole-lima, beets, corn, kale, winter squash, pumpkin, lettuce, radish. june st--beans, carrots, corn, cucumber, peas, summer spinach, summer lettuce, radish, egg-plant, pepper, tomato (main plants). june th--beans, corn, peas, turnip, summer lettuce, radish, late cabbage, and tomato plants. july st--beans, endive, kale, lettuce, radish, winter cabbage, cauliflower, brussels sprouts and celery plants. july th--beans, early corn, early peas, lettuce, radish. aug. st--early peas, lettuce, radish. aug. th--early peas, lettuce, radish in seed-bed, forcing lettuce for fall in frames. sept. st--lettuce, radish, spinach and onions for wintering over. note.--this list is for planting only (the dates are approximate: see note i at the end of the chapter). spraying and other garden operations may also be included in such a list. see "calendar of operations" at end of book. planting table depth to -distance apart- vegetable plant[ ] sow--ins. seeds[ ] rows i. crops remaining entire season asparagus, seed april-may - in. in. asparagus, plants april ft. ft. bean, pole may -june ft. ft. bean, lima may -june ft. ft. beet, late april-august - in. in. carrot, late may-july / - - in. in. corn, late may -july ft. ft. cucumber may -july ft. ft. egg-plant, plants june - .. ft. in. leek april .. - in. in. melon, musk may -june ft. ft. melon, water may -june - ft. - ft. onion april / - - in. in. okra may -june / - ft. ft. parsley[ ] april-may / - in. ft. parsnip april / - - in. in. pepper, seed june st / - in. in. pepper, plants june - .. ft. in. potatoes, main april -june - in. in. pumpkins may -june - - ft. - ft. rhubarb, plants april .. - ft. ft. salsify april-may - in. in. squash, summer may -july - ft. ft. squash, winter may -june - - ft. - ft. tomato, seed june / - in. in. tomato, plants may -july .. ft. ft. note.--the index reference numbers refer to notes at end of chapter. ------------------+---------+------------------------------------------ |seed for | | ft. | vegetable | row | varieties ------------------+---------+------------------------------------------ asparagus, seed | oz. | palmetto, giant argenteuil, barr's | | mammoth asparagus, plants | | palmetto, giant argenteuil, barr's | | mammoth bean, pole | / pt. | kentucky wonder, golden, cluster, | | burger's stringless bean, lima | / pt. | early leviathan, giant podded, burpee | | improved beet, late | oz. | crimson globe carrot, late | / oz. | danver's half-long, ox-heart, chantenay corn, late | / pt. | seymour's sweet orange, white evergreen, | | country gentleman cucumber | / oz. | early white spine, fordhook famous, davis | | perfect egg-plant, plants | | black beauty, n.y. purple leek | / oz. | american flag melon, musk | / oz. | netted gem, emerald gem, hoodoo melon, water | / oz. | cole's early sweetheart, halbert honey onion | / oz. | prizetaker, danver's globe, ailsa craig, | | southport red globe, mammoth | | silverskin (white) okra | / oz. | perfected perkins, white velvet parsley | / oz. | emerald parsnip | / oz. | hollow crowned (improved) pepper, seed | / oz. | ruby king, chinese giant pepper, plants | | ruby king, chinese giant potatoes, main | / pk. | irish cobbler, green mountain, uncle sam | | (norton beauty, norwood, early) pumpkins | / oz. | large cheese, quaker pie rhubarb, plants | | myatt's victoria salsify | / oz. | mammoth sandwich squash, summer | / oz. | white bush, delicata, fordhook, vegetable | | marrow squash, winter | / oz. | hubbard, delicious tomato, seed | / oz. | earliana, chalk's jewel, matchless, dwarf | | giant tomato, plants | | earliana, chalk's jewel, matchless, dwarf | | giant ------------------+---------+------------------------------------------ planting table depth to -distance apart- vegetable plant[ ] sow--ins. seeds[ ] rows ii. crops for succession plantings bean, dwarf may -aug - in. - / - ft. kohlrabi[ ] april-july / - - in. - / - ft. lettuce[ ] april-august / ft. - - / ft. peas, smooth april -aug - - in. ft. peas, wrinkled april -july - - in. - ft. radish april -sept / - in. ft. spinach april-sept - in. in. turnip april-sept / - - in. in. iii. crops to be followed by others beet, early april-june - in. in. broccoli, early[ ] april / - - / ft. ft. borecole[ ] april / - ft. - / ft. brussels sprouts[ ] april / - - / ft. ft. cabbage, early[ ] april / - - / ft. ft. carrot april / - - in. in. cauliflower[ ] april / - - / ft. ft. com, early may - ft. - ft. onion sets april-may - - in. in. peas april -may - in. ft. crops in sec. ii. iv. crops that may follow others beet, late july-august - in. in. borecole may-june[ ] / - ft. - / ft. broccoli may-june[ ] / - ft. - / ft. brussels sprouts may-june[ ] / - - / ft. - / ft. cabbage late may-june[ ] / - - / ft. - / ft. cauliflower may-june[ ] / - ft. - / ft. celery, seed april / - in. ft. celery, plant july -aug .. in. - ft. endive[ ] april-august / ft. ft. peas, late may -aug - - in. ft. crops in sec. ii. ii. crops for succession plantings ------------------+---------+------------------------------------------ |seed for | | ft. | vegetable | row | varieties ------------------+---------+------------------------------------------ bean, dwarf | pt. | red valentine burpee's greenpod, | | improved refugee, brittle wax, | | rust-proof golden wax, burpee's | | white wax kohlrabi | / oz | white vienna lettuce | | mignonette, grand rapids, may king, | | big boston, new york, deacon, cos, | | paris white peas, smooth | pt | american wonder peas, wrinkled | pt | gradus, boston unrivaled, quite content radish | / oz. | rapid red, crimson globe, chinese spinach | / oz. | swiss chard beet, long season, victoria turnip | / oz. | white milan, petrowski, golden ball iii. crops to be followed by others beet, early | oz. | edmund's early, early model broccoli, early | | early white french borecole | | dwarf scotch curled brussels sprouts | | dalkeith, danish prize cabbage, early | | wakefield, glory of enkhuisen, | | early summer, succession, savoy carrot | / oz. | golden ball, early scarlet horn cauliflower | | burpee's best early, snowball, sea-foam | | dry weather corn, early | / pt. | golden bantam, peep o' day, cory onion sets | pt. | peas | pt. | crops in sec. ii. iv. crops that may follow others beet, late | oz. | crimson globe borecole | | dwarf scotch curled broccoli | | early white french brussels sprouts | | dalkeith, danish prize cabbage, late | | succession, danish ballhead drumhead cauliflower | | as above [savoy, mammoth rock (red)] celery, seed | oz. | white plume, golden self-blanching, | | winter queen celery, plant | | white plume, golden self-blanching, | | winter queen endive | / oz. | broad-leaved batavian, giant fringed peas, late | pt. | gradus crops in sec. ii. reference notes from the tables in the vicinity of new york city. each miles north or south will make a difference of to days later or earlier. this is for sowing the seed. it will take three to six weeks before plants are ready. hence the advantage of using the seed-bed. for instance, you can start your late cabbage about june th, to follow the first crop of peas, which should be cleared off by the th of july. distances given are those at which the growing _plants_ should stand, after thinning. seed in drills should be sown several times as thick. best started in seed-bed, and afterward transplanted; but may be sown when wanted and afterward thinned to the best plants. chapter v implements and their uses it may seem to the reader that it is all very well to make a garden with a pencil, but that the work of transferring it to the soil must be quite another problem and one entailing so much work that he will leave it to the professional market gardener. he possibly pictures to himself some bent-kneed and stoop-shouldered man with the hoe, and decides that after all there is too much work in the garden game. what a revelation would be in store for him if he could witness one day's operations in a modern market garden! very likely indeed not a hoe would be seen during the entire visit. modern implements, within less than a generation, have revolutionized gardening. this is true of the small garden as certainly as of the large one: in fact, in proportion i am not sure but that it is more so--because of the second wonderful thing about modern garden tools, that is, the low prices at which they can be bought, considering the enormous percentage of labor saved in accomplishing results. there is nothing in the way of expense to prevent even the most modest gardener acquiring, during a few years, by the judicious expenditure of but a few dollars annually, a very complete outfit of tools that will handsomely repay their cost. while some garden tools have been improved and developed out of all resemblance to their original forms, others have changed little in generations, and in probability will remain ever with us. there is a thing or two to say about even the simplest of them, however,-- especially to anyone not familiar with their uses. there are tools for use in every phase of horticultural operations; for preparing the ground, for planting the seed, for cultivation, for protecting crops from insects and disease, and for harvesting. first of all comes the ancient and honorable spade, which, for small garden plots, borders, beds, etc., must still be relied upon for the initial operation in gardening--breaking up the soil. there are several types, but any will answer the purpose. in buying a spade look out for two things: see that it is well strapped up the handle in front and back, and that it hangs well. in spading up ground, especially soil that is turfy or hard, the work may be made easier by taking a strip not quite twice as wide as the spade, and making diagonal cuts so that one vertical edge of the spade at each thrust cuts clean out to where the soil has already been dug. the wide-tined spading-fork is frequently used instead of the spade, as it is lighter and can be more advantageously used to break up lumps and level off surfaces. in most soils it will do this work as well, if not better, than the spade and has the further good quality of being serviceable as a fork too, thus combining two tools in one. it should be more generally known and used. with the ordinary fork, used for handling manure and gathering up trash, weeds, etc., every gardener is familiar. the type with oval, slightly up-curved tines, five or six in number, and a d handle, is the most convenient and comfortable for garden use. for areas large enough for a horse to turn around in, use a plow. there are many good makes. the swivel type has the advantage of turning all the furrows one way, and is the best for small plots and sloping ground. it should turn a clean, deep furrow. in deep soil that has long been cultivated, plowing should, with few exceptions, be down at least to the subsoil; and if the soil is shallow it will be advisable to turn up a little of the subsoil, at each plowing--not more than an inch--in order that the soil may gradually be deepened. in plowing sod it will be well to have the plow fitted with a coulter, which turns a miniature furrow ahead of the plowshare, thus covering under all sods and grass and getting them out of the way of harrows and other tools to be used later. in plowing under tall-growing green manures, like rye, a heavy chain is hung from the evener to the handle, thus pulling the crop down into the furrow so that it will all be covered under. where drainage is poor it will be well to break up the subsoil with a subsoil plow, which follows in the wake of the regular plow but does not lift the subsoil to the surface. tools for preparing the seed-bed the spade or spading-fork will be followed by the hoe, or hook, and the iron rake; and the plow by one or more of the various types of harrow. the best type of hoe for use after the spade is the wide, deep-bladed type. in most soils, however, this work may be done more expeditiously with the hook or prong-hoe (see illustration). with this the soil can be thoroughly pulverized to a depth of several inches. in using either, be careful not to pull up manure or trash turned under by the spade, as all such material if left covered will quickly rot away in the soil and furnish the best sort of plant food. i should think that our energetic manufactures would make a prong-hoe with heavy wide blades, like those of the spading-fork, but i have never seen such an implement, either in use or advertised. what the prong-hoe is to the spade, the harrow is to the plow. for general purposes the acme is an excellent harrow. it is adjustable, and for ground at all mellow will be the only one necessary; set it, for the first time over, to cut in deep; and then, set for leveling, it will leave the soil in such excellent condition that a light hand- raking (or, for large areas, the meeker smoothing-harrow) will prepare it for the finest of seeds, such as onions and carrots. the teeth of the acme are so designed that they practically constitute a gang of miniature plows. of disc harrows there are a great many makes. the salient feature of the disc type is that they can tear up no manure, grass or trash, even when these are but partly turned under by the plow. for this reason it is especially useful on sod or other rough ground. the most convenient harrow for putting on the finishing touches, for leveling off and fining the surface of the soil, is the lever spike-tooth. it is adjustable and can be used as a spike-tooth or as a smoothing harrow. any of the harrows mentioned above (except the meeker) and likewise the prong-hoe, will have to be followed by the iron rake when preparing the ground for small-seeded garden vegetables. get the sort with what is termed the "bow" head (see illustration) instead of one in which the head is fastened directly to the end of the handle. it is less likely to get broken, and easier to use. there is quite a knack in manipulating even a garden rake, which will come only with practice. do not rake as though you were gathering up leaves or grass. the secret in using the garden rake is _not_ to gather things up. small stones, lumps of earth and such things, you of course wish to remove. keep these raked off ahead of where you are leveling the soil, which is accomplished with a backward-and-forward movement of the rake. the tool-house of every garden of any size should contain a seed-drill. labor which is otherwise tedious and difficult is by it rendered mere play--as well as being better done. the operations of marking the row, opening the furrow, dropping the seed at the proper depth and distance, covering immediately with fresh earth, and firming the soil, are all done at one fell swoop and as fast as you can walk. it will even drop seeds in hills. but that is not all: it may be had as part of a combination machine, which, after your seeds are planted--with each row neatly rolled on top, and plainly visible--may be at once transformed into a wheel hoe that will save you as much time in caring for your plants as the seed-drill did in planting your seed. hoeing drudgery becomes a thing of the past. the illustration herewith shows such a machine, and some of the varied attachments which may be had for it. there are so many, and so varied in usefulness, that it would require an entire chapter to detail their special advantages and methods of use. the catalogues describing them will give you many valuable suggestions; and other ways of utilizing them will discover themselves to you in your work. valuable as the wheel hoe is, however, and varied in its scope of work, the time-tried hoe cannot be entirely dispensed with. an accompanying photograph [ed. not shown here] shows four distinct types, all of which will pay for themselves in a garden of moderate size. the one on the right is the one most generally seen; next to it is a modified form which personally i prefer for all light work, such as loosening soil and cutting out weeds. it is lighter and smaller, quicker and easier to handle. next to this is the warren, or heart-shaped hoe, especially valuable in opening and covering drills for seed, such as beans, peas or corn. the scuffle-hoe, or scarifier, which completes the four, is used between narrow rows for shallow work, such as cutting off small weeds and breaking up the crust. it has been rendered less frequently needed by the advent of the wheel hoe, but when crops are too large to admit of the use of the latter, the scuffle-hoe is still an indispensable time-saver. there remains one task connected with gardening that is a bug-bear. that is hand-weeding. to get down on one's hands and knees, in the blistering hot dusty soil, with the perspiration trickling down into one's eyes, and pick small weedlets from among tender plantlets, is not a pleasant occupation. there are, however, several sorts of small weeders which lessen the work considerably. one or another of the common types will seem preferable, according to different conditions of soil and methods of work. personally, i prefer the lang's for most uses. the angle blade makes it possible to cut very near to small plants and between close-growing plants, while the strap over the back of a finger or thumb leaves the fingers free for weeding without dropping the instrument. there are two things to be kept in mind about hand-weeding which will reduce this work to the minimum. first, never let the weeds get a start; for even if they do not increase in number, if they once smother the ground or crop, you will wish you had never heard of a garden. second, do your hand-weeding while the surface soil is soft, when the weeds come out easily. a hard-crusted soil will double and treble the amount of labor required. it would seem that it should be needless, when garden tools are such savers of labor, to suggest that they should be carefully kept, always bright and clean and sharp, and in repair. but such advice is needed, to judge by most of the tools one sees. always have a piece of cloth or old bag on hand where the garden tools are kept, and never put them away soiled and wet. keep the cutting edges sharp. there is as much pleasure in trying to run a dull lawnmower as in working with a rusty, battered hoe. have an extra handle in stock in case of accident; they are not expensive. in selecting hand tools, always pick out those with handles in which the grain does not run out at the point where there will be much strain in using the tool. in rakes, hoes, etc., get the types with ferrule and shank one continuous piece, so as not to be annoyed with loose heads. spend a few cents to send for some implement catalogues. they will well repay careful perusal, even if you do not order this year. in these days of intensive advertising, the commercial catalogue often contains matter of great worth, in the gathering and presentation of which no expense has been spared. for fighting plant enemies the devices and implements used for fighting plant enemies are of two sorts:--( ) those used to afford mechanical protection to the plants; ( ) those used to apply insecticides and fungicides. of the first the most useful is the covered frame. it consists usually of a wooden box, some eighteen inches to two feet square and about eight high, covered with glass, protecting cloth, mosquito netting or mosquito wire. the first two coverings have, of course, the additional advantage of retaining heat and protecting from cold, making it possible by their use to plant earlier than is otherwise safe. they are used extensively in getting an extra early and safe start with cucumbers, melons and the other vine vegetables. simpler devices for protecting newly-set plants, such as tomatoes or cabbage, from the cut-worm, are stiff, tin, cardboard or tar paper collars, which are made several inches high and large enough to be put around the stem and penetrate an inch or so into the soil. for applying poison powders, such as dry paris green, hellebore and tobacco dust, the home gardener should supply himself with a powder gun. if one must be restricted to a single implement, however, it will be best to get one of the hand-power, compressed-air sprayers--either a knapsack pump or a compressed-air sprayer--types of which are illustrated. these are used for applying wet sprays, and should be supplied with one of the several forms of mist-making nozzles, the non- cloggable automatic type being the best. for more extensive work a barrel pump, mounted on wheels, will be desirable, but one of the above will do a great deal of work in little time. extension rods for use in spraying trees and vines may be obtained for either. for operations on a very small scale a good hand-syringe may be used, but as a general thing it will be best to invest a few dollars more and get a small tank sprayer, as this throws a continuous stream or spray and holds a much larger amount of the spraying solution. whatever type is procured, get a brass machine--it will out-wear three or four of those made of cheaper metal, which succumbs very quickly to the, corroding action of the strong poisons and chemicals used in them. of implements for harvesting, beside the spade, prong-hoe and spading- fork already mentioned, very few are used in the small garden, as most of them need not only long rows to be economically used, but horse- power also. the onion harvester attachment for the double wheel hoe, costing $ . , may be used with advantage in loosening onions, beets, turnips, etc., from the soil or for cutting spinach. running the hand- plow close on either side of carrots, parsnips and other deep-growing vegetables will aid materially in getting them out. for fruit picking, with tall trees, the wire-fingered fruit-picker, secured to the end of a long handle, will be of great assistance, but with the modern method of using low-headed trees it will not be needed. another class of garden implements are those used in pruning--but where this is attended to properly from the start, a good sharp jack-knife and a pair of pruning shears (the english makes are the best, as they are in some things, when we are frank enough to confess the truth) will easily handle all the work of the kind necessary. still another sort of garden device is that used for supporting the plants; such as stakes, trellises, wires, etc. altogether too little attention usually is given these, as with proper care in storing over winter they will not only last for years, but add greatly to the convenience of cultivation and to the neat appearance of the garden. various contrivances are illustrated in the seed catalogues, and many may be home-made--such as a stake-trellis for supporting beans. as a final word to the intending purchaser of garden tools, i would say: first thoroughly investigate the different sorts available, and when buying, do not forget that a good tool or a well-made machine will be giving you satisfactory use long, long after the price is forgotten, while a poor one is a constant source of discomfort. get good tools, and _take_ good care of them. and let me repeat that a few dollars a year, judiciously spent, for tools afterward well cared for, will soon give you a very complete set, and add to your garden profit and pleasure. chapter vi. manures and fertilizers to a very small extent garden vegetables get their food from the air. the amount obtained in this way however, is so infinitesimal that from the practical standpoint it need not be considered at all. practically speaking, your vegetables must get all their food from the garden soil. this important garden fact may seem self-evident, but, if one may judge by their practice, amateur gardeners very frequently fail to realize it. the professional gardener must come to realize it for the simple reason that if he does not he will go out of business. without an abundant supply of suitable food it is just as impossible to grow good vegetables as it would be to train a winning football team on a diet of sweet cider and angel cake. without plenty of plant food, all the care, coddling, coaxing, cultivating, spraying and worrying you may give will avail little. the soil must be rich or the garden will be poor. plant food is of as many kinds, or, more accurately speaking, in as many _forms_, as is food for human beings. but the first distinction to make in plant foods is that between available and non- available foods--that is, between foods which it is possible for the plant to use, and those which must undergo a change of some sort before the plant can take them up, assimilate them, and turn them into a healthy growth of foliage, fruit or root. it is just as readily possible for a plant to starve in a soil abounding in plant food, if that food is not available, as it would be for you to go unnourished in the midst of soups and tender meats if the latter were frozen solid. plants take all their nourishment in the form of soups, and very weak ones at that. plant food to be available must be soluble to the action of the feeding root tubes; and unless it is available it might, as far as the present benefiting of your garden is concerned, just as well not be there at all. plants take up their food through innumerable and microscopic feeding rootlets, which possess the power of absorbing moisture, and furnishing it, distributed by the plant juices, or sap, to stem, branch, leaf, flower and fruit. there is one startling fact which may help to fix these things in your memory: it takes from to pounds of water to furnish food for the building of one pound of dry plant matter. you can see why plant food is not of much use unless it is available; and it is not available unless it is soluble. the theory of manuring the food of plants consists of chemical elements, or rather, of numerous substances which contain these elements in greater or less degrees. there is not room here to go into the interesting science of this matter. it is evident, however, as we have already seen that the plants must get their food from the soil, that there are but two sources for such food: it must either be in the soil already, or we must put it there. the practice of adding plant food to the soil is what is called manuring. the only three of the chemical elements mentioned which we need consider are: nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and potash. the average soil contains large amounts of all three, but they are for the most part in forms which are not available and, therefore, to that extent, may be at once dismissed from our consideration. (the non-available plant foods already in the soil may be released or made available to some extent by cultivation. see chapter vii.) in practically every soil that has been cultivated and cropped, in long-settled districts, the amounts of nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash which are immediately available will be too meager to produce a good crop of vegetables. it becomes absolutely necessary then, if one would have a really successful garden, no matter how small it is, to add plant foods to the soil abundantly. when you realize, ( ) that the number of plant foods containing the three essential elements is almost unlimited, ( ) that each contains them in different proportions and in differing degrees of availability, ( ) that the amount of the available elements already in the soil varies greatly and is practically undeterminable, and ( ) that different plants, and even different varieties of the same plant, use these elements in widely differing proportions; then you begin to understand what a complex matter this question of manuring is and why it is so much discussed and so little understood. what a labyrinth it offers for any writer--to say nothing of the reader--to go astray in! i have tried to present this matter clearly. if i have succeeded it may have been only to make the reader hopelessly discouraged of ever getting at anything definite in the question of enriching the soil. in that case my advice would be that, for the time being, he forget all about it. fortunately, in the question of manuring, a little knowledge is not often a dangerous thing. fortunately, too, your plants do not insist that you solve the food problem for them. set a full table and they will help themselves and take the right dishes. the only thing to worry about is that of the three important foods mentioned (nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash) there will not be enough: for it has been proved that when any one of these is exhausted the plant practically stops growth; it will not continue to "fill up" on the other two. of course there is such a thing as going to extremes and wasting plant foods, even if it does not, as a rule, hurt the plants. if, however, the fertilizers and manures described in the following sections are applied as directed, and as mentioned in chapter vii., good results will be certain, provided the seed, cultivation and season are right. various manures the terms "manure" and "fertilizer" are used somewhat ambiguously and interchangeably. using the former term in a broad sense--as meaning any substance containing available plant food applied to the soil, we may say that manure is of two kinds: organic, such as stable manure, or decayed vegetable matter; and inorganic, such as potash salts, phosphatic rock and commercial mixed fertilizers. in a general way the term "fertilizer" applies to these inorganic manures, and i shall use it in this sense through the following text. between the organic manures, or "natural" manures as they are often called, and fertilizers there is a very important difference which should never be lost sight of. in theory, and as a chemical fact too, a bag of fertilizer may contain twice the available plant food of a ton of well rotted manure; but out of a hundred practical gardeners ninety- nine--and probably one more--would prefer the manure. there is a reason why--two reasons, even if not one of the hundred gardeners could give them to you. first, natural manures have a decided physical effect upon most soils (altogether aside from the plant food they contain); and second, plants seem to have a preference as to the _form_ in which their food elements are served to them. fertilizers, on the other hand, are valuable only for the plant food they contain, and sometimes have a bad effect upon the physical condition of the soil. when it comes right down to the practical question of what to put on your garden patch to grow big crops, nothing has yet been discovered that is better than the old reliable stand-by--well rotted, thoroughly fined stable or barnyard manure. heed those adjectives! we have already seen that plant food which is not available might as well be, for our immediate purposes, at the north pole. the plant food in "green" or fresh manure is not available, and does not become so until it is released by the decay of the organic matters therein. now the time possible for growing a crop of garden vegetables is limited; in many instances it is only sixty to ninety days. the plants want their food ready at once; there is no time to be lost waiting for manure to rot in the soil. that is a slow process--especially so in clayey or heavy soils. so on your garden use only manure that is well rotted and broken up. on the other hand, see that it has not "fire-fanged" or burned out, as horse manure, if piled by itself and left, is very sure to do. if you keep any animals of your own, see that the various sorts of manure --excepting poultry manure, which is so rich that it is a good plan to keep it for special purposes--are mixed together and kept in a compact, built-up square heap, not a loose pyramidal pile. keep it under cover and where it cannot wash out. if you have a pig or so, your manure will be greatly improved by the rooting, treading and mixing they will give it. if not, the pile should be turned from bottom to top and outside in and rebuilt, treading down firmly in the process, every month or two-- applying water, but not soaking, if it has dried out in the meantime. such manure will be worth two or three times as much, for garden purposes, as that left to burn or remain in frozen lumps. if you have to buy all your manure, get that which has been properly kept; and if you are not familiar with the condition in which it should be, get a disinterested gardener or farmer to select it for you. when possible, it will pay you to procure manure several months before you want to use it and work it over as suggested above. in buying manure keep in mind not what animals made it, but what food was fed--that is the important thing. for instance, the manure from highly-fed livery horses may be, weight for weight, worth three to five times that from cattle wintered over on poor hay, straw and a few roots. there are other organic manures which it is sometimes possible for one to procure, such as refuse brewery hops, fish scraps and sewage, but they are as a rule out of the reach of, or objectionable for, the purposes of the home gardener. there are, however, numerous things constantly going to waste about the small place, which should be converted into manure. fallen leaves, grass clippings, vegetable tops and roots, green weeds, garbage, house slops, dish water, chip dirt from the wood-pile, shavings--any thing that will rot away, should go into the compost heap. these should be saved, under cover if possible, in a compact heap and kept moist (never soaked) to help decomposition. to start the heap, gather up every available substance and make it into a pile with a few wheelbarrows full, or half a cartload, of fresh horse manure, treading the whole down firmly. fermentation and decomposition will be quickly started. the heap should occasionally be forked over and restacked. light dressings of lime, mixed in at such times, will aid thorough decomposition. wood ashes form another valuable manure which should be carefully saved. beside the plant food contained, they have a most excellent effect upon the mechanical condition of almost every soil. ashes should not be put in the compost heap, because there are special uses for them, such as dusting on squash or melon vines, or using on the onion bed, which makes it desirable to keep them separate. wood ashes may frequently be bought for fifty cents a barrel, and at this price a few barrels for the home garden will be a good investment. coal ashes contain practically no available plant food, but are well worth saving to use on stiff soils, for paths, etc. value of green manuring another source of organic manures, altogether too little appreciated, is what is termed "green manuring"--the plowing under of growing crops to enrich the land. even in the home garden this system should be taken advantage of whenever possible. in farm practice, clover is the most valuable crop to use for this purpose, but on account of the length of time necessary to grow it, it is useful for the vegetable garden only when there is sufficient room to have clover growing on, say, one half- acre plot, while the garden occupies, for two years, another half-acre; and then changing the two about. this system will give an ideal garden soil, especially where it is necessary to rely for the most part upon chemical fertilizers. there are, however, four crops valuable for green-manuring the garden, even where the same spot must be occupied year after year: rye, field corn, field peas (or cow peas in the south) and crimson clover. after the first of september, sow every foot of garden ground cleared of its last crop, with winter rye. sow all ground cleared during august with crimson clover and buckwheat, and mulch the clover with rough manure after the buckwheat dies down. sow field peas or corn on any spots that would otherwise remain unoccupied six weeks or more. all these are sown broadcast, on a freshly raked surface. such a system will save a very large amount of plant food which otherwise would be lost, will convert unavailable plant food into available forms while you wait for the next crop, and add _humus_ to the soil--concerning the importance of which see chapter vii. chemical fertilizers i am half tempted to omit entirely any discussion of chemical fertilizers: to give a list of them, tell how to apply them, and let the why and wherefore go. it is, however, such an important subject, and the home gardener will so frequently have to rely almost entirely upon their use, that probably it will be best to explain the subject as thoroughly as i can do it in very limited space. i shall try to give the theory of scientific chemical manuring in one paragraph. we have already seen that the soil contains within itself some available plant food. we can determine by chemical analysis the exact amounts of the various plant foods--nitrogen, phosphoric acid, potash, etc.--which a crop of any vegetable will remove from the soil. the idea in scientific chemical manuring is to add to the available plant foods already in the soil just enough more to make the resulting amounts equal to the quantities of the various elements used by the crop grown. in other words: ) available plant food elements in ( the soil, plus > == amounts of food elements available chemical food elements ( in matured crop supplied in fertilizers ) that was the theory--a very pretty and profound one! the discoverers of it imagined that all agriculture would be revolutionized; all farm and garden practice reduced to an exact science; all older theories of husbandry and tillage thrown by the heels together upon the scrap heap of outworn things. science was to solve at one fell swoop all the age- old problems of agriculture. and the whole thing was all right in every way but one--it didn't work. the unwelcome and obdurate fact remained that a certain number of pounds of nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash--about thirty-three--in a ton of good manure would grow bigger crops than would the same number of pounds of the same elements in a bag of chemical fertilizer. nevertheless this theory, while it failed as the basis of an exact agricultural science, has been developed into an invaluable guide for using all manures, and especially concentrated chemical manures. and the above facts, if i have presented them clearly, will assist the home gardener in solving the fertilizer problems which he is sure to encounter. various fertilizers what are termed the raw materials from which the universally known "mixed fertilizers" are made up, are organic or inorganic substances which contain nitrogen, phosphoric acid or potash in fairly definite amounts. some of these can be used to advantage by themselves. those practical for use by the home gardener, i mention. the special uses to which they are adapted will be mentioned in part two, under the vegetables for which they are valuable. ground bone is rich in phosphate and lasts a long time; what is called "raw bone" is the best "bone dust" or "bone flour" is finely pulverized; it will produce quick results, but does not last as long as the coarser forms. cotton-seed meal is one of the best nitrogenous fertilizers for garden crops. it is safer than nitrate of soda in the hands of the inexperienced gardener, and decays very quickly in the soil. peruvian guano, in the pure form, is now practically out of the market. lower grades, less rich in nitrogen especially, are to be had; and also "fortified" guano, in which chemicals are added to increase the content of nitrogen. it is good for quick results. nitrate of soda, when properly handled, frequently produces wonderful results in the garden, particularly upon quick-growing crops. it is the richest in nitrogen of any chemical generally used, and a great stimulant to plant growth. when used alone it is safest to mix with an equal bulk of light dirt or some other filler. if applied pure, be sure to observe the following rules or you may burn your plants: ( ) pulverize all lumps; ( ) see that none of it lodges upon the foliage; ( ) never apply when there is moisture upon the plants; ( ) apply in many small doses--say to pounds at a time for x feet of garden. it should be put on so sparingly as to be barely visible; but its presence will soon be denoted by the moist spot, looking like a big rain drop, which each particle of it makes in the dry soil. nitrate of soda may also be used safely in solution, at the rate of pound to gallons of water. i describe its use thus at length because i consider it the most valuable single chemical which the gardener has at command. muriate and sulphate of potash are also used by themselves as sources of potash, but as a general thing it will be best to use them in combination with other chemicals as described under "home mixing." lime will be of benefit to most soils. it acts largely as an indirect fertilizer, helping to release other food elements already in the soil, but in non-available forms. it should be applied once in three to five years, at the rate of to bushels per acre, after plowing, and thoroughly harrowed in. apply as long before planting as possible, or in the fall. mixed fertilizers mixed fertilizers are of innumerable brands, and for sale everywhere. it is little use to pay attention to the claims made for them. even where the analysis is guaranteed, the ordinary gardener has no way of knowing that the contents of his few bags are what they are labeled. the best you can do, however, is to buy on the basis of analysis, not of price per ton--usually the more you pay per bag, the cheaper you are really buying your actual plant food. send to the experiment station in your state and ask for the last bulletin on fertilizer values. it will give a list of the brands sold throughout the state, the retail price per ton, and the actual value of plant foods contained in a ton. then buy the brand in which you will apparently get the greatest value. for garden crops the mixed fertilizer you use should contain (about): ) nitrogen, per cent. ( basic formula phosphoric acid, per cent. > == for potash, per cent. ( garden crops ) if applied alone, use at the rate of to pounds per acre. if with manure, less, in proportion to the amount of the latter used. by "basic formula" (see above) is meant one which contains the plant foods in the proportion which all garden crops must have. particular crops may need additional amounts of one or more of the three elements, in order to attain their maximum growth. such extra feeding is usually supplied by top dressings, during the season of growth. the extra food beneficial to the different vegetables will be mentioned in the cultural directions in part two. home mixing if you look over the experiment station report mentioned above, you will notice that what are called "home mixtures" almost invariably show a higher value compared to the cost than any regular brand. in some cases the difference is fifty per cent. this means that you can buy the raw chemicals and make up your own mixtures cheaper than you can buy mixed fertilizers. more than that, it means you will have purer mixtures. more than that, it means you will have on hand the materials for giving your crops the special feeding mentioned above. the idea widely prevails, thanks largely to the fertilizer companies, that home mixing cannot be practically done, especially upon a small scale. from both information and personal experience i know the contrary to be the case. with a tight floor or platform, a square-pointed shovel and a coarse wire screen, there is absolutely nothing impractical about it. the important thing is to see that all ingredients are evenly and thoroughly mixed. a scale for weighing will also be a convenience. further information may be had from the firms which sell raw materials, or from your experiment station. applying manures the matter of properly applying manure, even on the small garden, is also of importance. in amount, from fifteen to twenty-five cords, or to cartloads, will not be too much; although if fertilizers are used to help out, the manure may be decreased in proportion. if possible, take it from the heap in which it has been rotting, and spread evenly over the soil immediately before plowing. if actively fermenting, it will lose by being exposed to wind and sun. if green, or in cold weather, it may be spread and left until plowing is done. when plowing, it should be completely covered under, or it will give all kinds of trouble in sowing and cultivating. fertilizers should be applied, where used to supplement manure or in place of it, at from to pounds per acre, according to grade and other conditions. it is sown on broadcast, after plowing, care being taken to get it evenly distributed. this may be assured by sowing half while going across the piece, and the other half while going lengthwise of it. when used as a starter, or for top dressings--as mentioned in connection with the basic formula--it may be put in the hill or row at time of planting, or applied on the surface and worked in during the growth of the plants. in either case, especially with highly concentrated chemicals, care must be taken to mix them thoroughly with the soil and to avoid burning the tender roots. this chapter is longer than i wanted to make it, but the problem of how best to enrich the soil is the most difficult one in the whole business of gardening, and the degree of your success in growing vegetables will be measured pretty much by the extent to which you master it. you cannot do it at one reading. re-read this chapter, and when you understand the several subjects mentioned, in the brief way which limited space made necessary, pursue them farther in one of the several comprehensive books on the subject. it will well repay all the time you spend upon it. because, from necessity, there has been so much of theory mixed up with the practical in this chapter, i shall very briefly recapitulate the directions for just what to do, in order that the subject of manuring may be left upon the same practical basis governing the rest of the book. to make your garden rich enough to grow big crops, buy the most thoroughly worked over and decomposed manure you can find. if it is from grain-fed animals, and if pigs have run on it, it will be better yet. if possible, buy enough to put on at the rate of about twenty cords to the acre; if not, supplement the manure, which should be plowed under, with to pounds of high-grade mixed fertilizer (analyzing nitrogen four per cent., phosphoric acid eight per cent., potash ten per cent.)--the quantity in proportion to the amount of manure used, and spread on broadcast after plowing and thoroughly harrowed in. in addition to this general enrichment of the soil, suitable quantities of nitrate of soda, for nitrogen; bone dust (or acid phosphate), for phosphoric acid; and sulphate of potash, for potash, should be bought for later dressings, as suggested in cultural directions for the various crops. if the instructions in the above paragraph are followed out you may rest assured that your vegetables will not want for plant food and that, if other conditions are favorable, you will have maximum crops. chapter vii the soil and its preparation having considered, as thoroughly as the limited space available permitted, the matter of plant foods, we must proceed to the equally important one of how properly to set the table, on or rather in, which they must be placed, before the plants can use them. as was noted in the first part of the preceding chapter, most tillable soils contain the necessary plant food elements to a considerable extent, but only in a very limited degree in _available_ forms. they are locked up in the soil larder, and only after undergoing physical and chemical changes may be taken up by the feeding roots of plants. they are unlocked only by the disintegration and decomposition of the soil particles, under the influence of cultivation--or mechanical breaking up--and the access of water, air and heat. the great importance of the part the soil must play in every garden operation is therefore readily seen. in the first place, it is required to furnish all the plant food elements--some seven in number, beside the three, nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash, already mentioned. in the second, it must hold the moisture in which these foods must be either dissolved or suspended before plant roots can take them up. the soil is naturally classified in two ways: first, as to the amount of plant food contained; second, as to its mechanical condition--the relative proportions of sand, decomposed stone and clay, of which it is made up, and also the degree to which it has been broken up by cultivation. the approximate amount of available plant food already contained in the soil can be determined satisfactorily only by experiment. as before stated, however, almost without exception they will need liberal manuring to produce good garden crops. i shall therefore not go further into the first classification of soils mentioned. of soils, according to their variation in mechanical texture, i shall mention only the three which the home gardener is likely to encounter. rocks are the original basis of all soils, and according to the degree of fineness to which they have been reduced, through centuries of decomposition by air, moisture and frost, they are known as gravelly, sandy or clayey soils. clay soils are stiff, wet, heavy and usually "cold." for garden purposes, until properly transformed, they hold too much water, are difficult to handle, and are "late." but even if there be no choice but a clay soil for the home garden, the gardener need not be discouraged. by proper treatment it may be brought into excellent condition for growing vegetables, and will produce some sorts, such as celery, better than any warm, light, "garden" soil. the first thing to do with the clay soil garden, is to have it thoroughly drained. for the small amount of ground usually required for a home garden, this will entail no great expense. under ordinary conditions, a half-acre garden could be under-drained for from $ to $ --probably nearer the first figure. the drains--round drain tile, with collars--should be placed at least three feet deep, and if they can be put four, it will be much better. the lines should be, for the former depth, twenty to thirty feet apart, according to character of the soil; if four feet deep, they will accomplish just as much if put thirty to fifty feet apart--so it pays to put them in deep. for small areas - / -inch land tile will do. the round style gives the best satisfaction and will prove cheapest in the end. the outlet should of course be at the lowest point of land, and all drains, main and laterals, should fall slightly, but without exception, toward this point. before undertaking to put in the drains, even on a small area, it will pay well to read some good book on the subject, such as draining for profit and draining for health, by waring. but drain--if your land requires it. it will increase the productiveness of your garden at least to per cent.--and such an increase, as you can readily see, will pay a very handsome annual dividend on the cost of draining. moreover, the draining system, if properly put in, will practically never need renewal. on land that has a stiff or clay sub-soil, it will pay well to break this up--thus making it more possible for the water to soak down through the surface soil rapidly--by using the sub-soil plow. (see chapter v.) the third way to improve clay soils is by using coarse vegetable manures, large quantities of stable, manures, ashes, chips, sawdust, sand, or any similar materials, which will tend to break up and lighten the soil mechanically. lime and land plaster are also valuable, as they cause chemical changes which tend to break up clayey soils. the fourth thing to do in treating a garden of heavy soil is to plow, ridging up as much as possible, in the fall, thus leaving the soil exposed to the pulverizing influences of weather and frost. usually it will not need replowing in the spring. if not plowed until the spring, care should be taken not to plow until it has dried out sufficiently to crumble from the plow, instead of making a wet, pasty furrow. the owner of a clayey garden has one big consolation. it will not let his plant food go to waste. it will hold manures and fertilizers incorporated with it longer than any other soil. sandy soil is, as the term implies, composed largely of sand, and is the reverse of clay soil. so, also, with the treatment. it should be so handled as to be kept as compact as possible. the use of a heavy roller, as frequently as possible, will prove very beneficial. sowing or planting should follow immediately after plowing, and fertilizers or manures should be applied only immediately before. if clay soil is obtainable nearby, a small area of sandy soil, such as is required for the garden, can be made into excellent soil by the addition of the former, applied as you would manure. plow the garden in the fall and spread the clay soil on evenly, harrowing in with a disc in the spring. the result will be as beneficial as that of an equal dressing of good manure--and will be permanent. it is one of the valuable qualities of lime, and also of gypsum to even a greater extent, that while it helps a clay soil, it is equally valuable for a sandy one. the same is true of ashes and of the organic manures--especially of green manuring. fertilizers, on sandy soils, where they will not long be retained, should be applied only immediately before planting, or as top and side dressing during growth. sandy soil in the garden will produce early and quick results, and is especially adapted to melons, cucumbers, beans and a number of the other garden vegetables. gravelly soil is generally less desirable than either of the others; it has the bad qualities of sandy soil and not the good ones of clay, besides being poorer in plant food. (calcareous, or limestone pebble, soils are an exception, but they are not widely encountered.) they are not suited for garden work, as tillage harms rather than helps them. the ideal garden soil is what is known as a "rich, sandy loam," at least eight inches deep; if it is eighteen it will be better. it contains the proper proportions of both sand and clay, and further has been put into the best of mechanical condition by good tilth. that last word brings us to a new and very important matter. "in good tilth" is a condition of the soil difficult to describe, but a state that the gardener comes soon to recognize. ground, continually and _properly cultivated_, comes soon to a degree of fineness and lightness at once recognizable. rain is immediately absorbed by it, and does not stand upon the surface; it does not readily clog or pack down; it is crumbly and easily worked; and until your garden is brought to this condition you cannot attain the greatest success from your efforts. i emphasized "properly cultivated." that means that the soil must be kept well supplied with humus, or decomposed vegetable matter, either by the application of sufficient quantities of organic manures, or by green manuring, or by "resting under grass," which produces a similar result from the amount of roots and stubble with which the soil is filled when the sod is broken up. only by this supply of humus can the garden be kept in that light, friable, spongy condition which is absolutely essential to luxuriant vegetable growth. preparing the soil unless your garden be a very small one indeed, it will pay to have it plowed rather than dug up by hand. if necessary, arrange the surrounding fence as suggested in the accompanying diagram, to make possible the use of a horse for plowing and harrowing. (as suggested in the chapter on implements), if there is not room for a team, the one- horse plow, spring-tooth and spike-tooth cultivators, can do the work in very small spaces. if however the breaking up of the garden must be done by hand, have it done deeply--down to the sub-soil, or as deep as the spading-fork will go. and have it done thoroughly, every spadeful turned completely and every inch dug. it is hard work, but it must not be slighted. plowing if the garden can be plowed in the fall, by all means have it done. if it is in sod, it must be done at that time if good results are to be secured the following season. in this latter case, plow a shallow furrow four to six inches deep and turning flat, as early as possible in the fall, turning under a coating of horse manure, or dressing of lime, and then going over it with a smoothing-harrow or the short blades of the acme, to fill in all crevices. the object of the plowing is to get the sods rotted thoroughly before the following spring; then apply manure and plow deeply, six to twelve inches, according to the soil. where the old garden is to be plowed up, if there has not been time to get in one of the cover crops suggested elsewhere in this text, plow as late as possible, and in ridges. if the soil is light and sandy, fall plowing will not be advisable. in beginning the spring work it is customary to put on the manure and plow but once. but the labor of double plowing will be well repaid, especially on a soil likely to suffer from drouth, if the ground be plowed once, deeply, before the manure is spread on, and then cross- plowed just sufficiently to turn the manure well under--say five or six inches. on stiff lands, and especially for root crops, it will pay if possible to have the sub-soil plow follow the regular plow. this is, of course, for thoroughly rotted and fined manure; if coarse, it had better be put under at one plowing, making the best of a handicap. if you have arranged to have your garden plowed "by the job," be on hand to see that no shirking is done, by taking furrows wider than the plow can turn completely; it is possible to "cut and cover" so that the surface of a piece will look well enough, when in reality it is little better than half plowed. harrowing that is the first step toward the preparation of a successful garden out of the way. next comes the harrowing; if the soil after plowing is at all stiff and lumpy, get a disc-harrow if you can; on clayey soils a "cut-a-way" (see implements). on the average garden soil, however, the acme will do the work of pulverizing in fine shape. if, even after harrowing, the soil remains lumpy, have the man who is doing your work get a horse-roller somewhere, and go over the piece with that. the roller should be used also on very sandy and light soils, after the first harrowing (or after the plowing, if the land turns over mellow) to compact it. to follow the first harrowing (or the roller) use a smoothing-harrow, the acme set shallow, or a "brush." fining. this treatment will reduce to a minimum the labor of finally preparing the seed- or plant-bed with the iron rake (or, on large gardens, with the meeker harrow). after the finishing touches, the soil should be left so even and smooth that you can with difficulty bring yourself to step on it. get it "like a table"--and then you are ready to begin gardening. whatever implements are used, do not forget the great importance of making the soil thoroughly fine, not only at the surface, but as far as possible below even under the necessity of repetition. i want to emphasize this again by stating the four chief benefits, of this thorough pulverization: first, it adds materially in making the plant foods in the soil available for use; secondly, it induces the growing plants to root deeply, and thus to a greater extent to escape the drying influence of the sun; thirdly, it enables the soil to absorb rain evenly, where it falls, which would otherwise either run off and be lost altogether, or collect in the lower parts of the garden; and last, and most important, it enables the soil to retain moisture thus stored, as in a subterranean storage tank, but where the plants can draw upon it, long after carelessly prepared and shallow soils are burning up in the long protracted drouths which we seem to be increasingly certain of getting during the late summer. prepare your garden deeply, thoroughly, carefully, in addition to making it rich, and you may then turn to those more interesting operations outlined in the succeeding sections, with the well founded assurance that your thought and labor will be rewarded by a garden so remarkably more successful than the average garden is, that all your extra pains-taking will be richly repaid. part two--vegetables chapter viii. starting the plants this beautifully prepared garden spot--or rather the plant food in it-- is to be transformed into good things for your table, through the ever wonderful agency of plant growth. the thread of life inhering in the tiniest seed, in the smallest plant, is the magic wand that may transmute the soil's dull metal into the gold of flower and fruit. all the thought, care and expense described in the preceding chapters are but to get ready for the two things from which your garden is to spring, in ways so deeply hidden that centuries of the closest observation have failed to reveal their inner workings. those two are seeds and plants. (the sticklers for technical exactness will here take exception, calling our attention to tubers, bulbs, corns and numerous other taverns where plant life puts up over night, between growth and growth, but for our present purpose we need not mind them.) the plants which you put out in your garden will have been started under glass from seed, so that, indirectly, everything depends on the seed. good seeds, and true, you must have if your garden is to attain that highest success which should be our aim. seeds vary greatly--very much more so than the beginner has any conception of. there are three essentials; if seeds fail in any one of them, they will be rendered next to useless. first, they must be true; selected from good types of stock and true to name; then they must have been good, strong, plump seeds, full of life and gathered from healthy plants; and finally, they must be fresh. [footnote: see table later this chapter] it is therefore of vital importance that you procure the best seeds that can be had, regardless of cost. poor seeds are dear at any price; you cannot afford to accept them as a gift. it is, of course, impossible to give a rule by which to buy good seed, but the following suggestions will put you on the safe track. first, purchase only of some reliable mail-order house; do not be tempted, either by convenience or cheapness, to buy the gaily lithographed packets displayed in grocery and hardware stores at planting time--as a rule they are not reliable; and what you want for your good money is good seed, not cheap ink. second, buy of seedsmen who make a point of growing and testing their own seed. third, to begin with, buy from several houses and weed out to the one which proves, by actual results, to be the most reliable. another good plan is to purchase seed of any particular variety from the firm that makes a leading specialty of it; in many cases these specialties have been introduced by these firms and they grow their own supplies of these seeds; they will also be surer of being true to name and type. good plants are, in proportion to the amounts used, just as important as good seed--and of course you cannot afford losing weeks of garden usefulness by growing entirely from seed sown out-doors. beets, cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, egg-plant, and for really efficient gardening, also onions, corn, melons, celery, lima beans, cucumbers, and squash, will all begin their joyous journey toward the gardener's table several weeks before they get into the garden at all. they will all be started under glass and have attained a good, thrifty, growing size before they are placed in the soil we have been so carefully preparing for them. it is next to impossible to describe a "good" vegetable plant, but he who gardens will come soon to distinguish between the healthy, short-jointed, deep-colored plant which is ready to take hold and grow, and the soft, flabby (or too succulent) drawn-up growth of plants which have been too much pampered, or dwarfed, weazened specimens which have been abused and starved; he will learn that a dozen of the former will yield more than fifty of the latter. plants may be bought of the florist or market gardener. if so, they should be personally selected, some time ahead, and gotten some few days before needed for setting out, so that you may be sure to have them properly "hardened off," and in the right degree of moisture, for transplanting, as will be described later. by far the more satisfactory way, however, is to grow them yourself. you can then be sure of having the best of plants in exactly the quantities and varieties you want. they will also be on hand when conditions are just right for setting them out. for the ordinary garden, all the plants needed may be started successfully in hotbeds and cold-frames. the person who has had no experience with these has usually an exaggerated idea of their cost and of the skill required to manage them. the skill is not as much a matter of expert knowledge as of careful regular care, daily. only a few minutes a day, for a few sash, but every day. the cost need be but little, especially if one is a bit handy with tools. the sash which serves for the cover, and is removable, is the important part of the structure. sash may be had, ready glazed and painted, at from $ . to $ . each, and with care they will last ten or even twenty years, so you can see at once that not a very big increase in the yield of your garden will be required to pay interest on the investment. or you can buy the sash unglazed, at a proportionately lower price, and put the glass in yourself, if you prefer to spend a little more time and less money. however, if you are not familiar with the work, and want only a few sash, i would advise purchasing the finished article. in size they are three feet by six. frames upon which to put the sash covering may also be bought complete, but here there is a chance to save money by constructing your own frames--the materials required, being x in. lumber for posts, and inch-boards; or better, if you can easily procure them, plank x in. so far as these materials go the hotbed and coldframe are alike. the difference is that while the coldframe depends for its warmth upon catching and holding the heat of the sun's rays, the hotbed is artificially heated by fermenting manure, or in rare instances, by hot water or steam pipes. in constructing the hotbed there are two methods used; either by placing the frames on top of the manure heap or by putting the manure within the frames. the first method has the advantage of permitting the hotbed to be made upon frozen ground, when required in the spring. the latter, which is the better, must be built before the ground freezes, but is more economical of manure. the manure in either case should be that of grain-fed horses, and if a small amount of straw bedding, or leaves--not more, however, than one-third of the latter--be mixed among it, so much the better. get this manure several days ahead of the time wanted for use and prepare by stacking in a compact, tramped-down heap. turn it over after three or four days, and re-stack, being careful to put the former top and sides of the pile now on the inside. having now ready the heating apparatus and the superstructure of our miniature greenhouse, the building of it is a very simple matter. if the ground is frozen, spread the manure in a low, flat heap--nine or ten feet side, a foot and a half deep, and as long as the number of sash to be used demands--a cord of manure thus furnishing a bed for about three sash, not counting for the ends of the string or row. this heap should be well trodden down and upon it should be placed or built the box or frame upon which the sash are to rest. in using this method it will be more convenient to have the frame made up beforehand and ready to place upon the manure, as shown in one of the illustrations. this should be at least twelve inches high at the front and some half a foot higher at the back. fill in with at least four inches--better six --of good garden soil containing plenty of humus, that it may allow water to soak through readily. the other method is to construct the frames on the ground before severe freezing, and in this case the front should be at least twenty-four inches high, part of which--not more than half--may be below the ground level. the x in. planks, when used, are handled as follows: stakes are driven in to support the back plank some two or three inches above the ground,--which should, of course, be level. the front plank is sunk two or three inches into the ground and held upright by stakes on the outside, nailed on. remove enough dirt from inside the frame to bank up the planks about halfway on the outside. when this banking has frozen to a depth of two or three inches, cover with rough manure or litter to keep frost from striking through. the manure for heating should be prepared as above and put in to the depth of a foot, trodden down, first removing four to six inches of soil to be put back on top of the manure,--a cord of the latter, in this case, serving seven sashes. the vegetable to be grown, and the season and climate, will determine the depth of manure required--it will be from one to two feet,--the latter depth seldom being necessary. it must not be overlooked that this manure, when spent for heating purposes, is still as good as ever to enrich the garden, so that the expense of putting it in and removing it from the frames is all that you can fairly charge up against your experiment with hotbeds, if you are interested to know whether they really pay. the exposure for the hotbeds should be where the sun will strike most directly and where they will be sheltered from the north. put up a fence of rough boards, five or six feet high, or place the frames south of some building. the coldframe is constructed practically as in the hotbed, except that if manure is used at all it is for the purpose of enriching the soil where lettuce, radishes, cucumbers or other crops are to be grown to maturity in it. if one can put up even a very small frame greenhouse, it will be a splendid investment both for profit and for pleasure. the cost is lower than is generally imagined, where one is content with a home-made structure. look into it. preparing the soil all this may seem like a lot of trouble to go to for such a small thing as a packet of seed. in reality it is not nearly so much trouble as it sounds, and then, too, this is for the first season only, a well built frame lasting for years--forever, if you want to take a little more time and make it of concrete instead of boards. but now that the frame is made, how to use it is the next question. the first consideration must be the soil. it should be rich, light, friable. there are some garden loams that will do well just as taken up, but as a rule better results will be obtained where the soil is made up specially as follows: rotted sods two parts, old rotted manure one part, and enough coarse sand added to make the mixture fine and crumbly, so that, even when moist, it will fall apart when pressed into a ball in the hand. such soil is best prepared by cutting out sod, in the summer, where the grass is green and thick, indicating a rich soil. along old fences or the roadside where the wash has settled will be good places to get limited quantities. those should be cut with considerable soil and stacked, grassy sides together, in layers in a compost pile. if the season proves very dry, occasionally soak the heap through. in late fall put in the cellar, or wherever solid freezing will not take place, enough to serve for spring work under glass. the amount can readily be calculated; soil for three sash, four inches deep, for instance, would take eighteen feet or a pile three feet square and two feet high. the fine manure (and sand, if necessary) may be added in the fall or when using in the spring. here again it may seem to the amateur that unnecessary pains are being taken. i can but repeat what has been suggested all through this book, that it will require but little more work to do the thing the best way as long as one is doing it at all, and the results will be not only better, but practically certain--and that is a tremendously important point about all gardening operations. sowing the seed having now our frames provided and our soil composed properly and good strong tested seed on hand, we are prepared to go about the business of growing our plants with a practical certainty of success--a much more comfortable feeling than if, because something or other had been but half done, we must anxiously await results and the chances of having the work we had put into the thing go, after all, for nothing. the seed may be sown either directly in the soil or in "flats." flats are made as follows: get from your grocer a number of cracker boxes, with the tops. saw the boxes lengthwise into sections, a few two inches deep and the rest three. one box will make four or five such sections, for two of which bottoms will be furnished by the bottom and top of the original box. another box of the same size, knocked apart, will furnish six bottoms more to use for the sections cut from the middle of the box. the bottoms of all, if tight, should have, say, five three- quarter-inch holes bored in them to allow any surplus water to drain off from the soil. the shallow flats may be used for starting the seed and the three-inch ones for transplanting. where sowing but a small quantity of each variety of seed, the flats will be found much more convenient than sowing directly in the soil--and in the case of their use, of course, the soil on top of the manure need be but two or three inches deep and not especially prepared. where the seed is to go directly into the frames, the soil described above is, of course, used. but when in flats, to be again transplanted, the soil for the first sowing will be better for having no manure in it, the idea being to get the hardest, stockiest growth possible. soil for the flats in which the seeds are to be planted should be, if possible, one part sod, one part chip dirt or leaf mould, and one part sand. the usual way of handling the seed flats is to fill each about one- third full of rough material--screenings, small cinders or something similar--and then fill the box with the prepared earth, which should first be finely sifted. this, after the seeds are sown, should be copiously watered--with a fine rose spray, or if one has not such, through a folded bag to prevent the washing of the soil. here is another way which i have used recently and, so far, with one hundred per cent, certainty of results. last fall, when every bit of soil about my place was ash dry, and i had occasion to start immediately some seeds that were late in reaching me, my necessity mothered the following invention, an adaptation of the principle of sub-irrigation. to have filled the flats in the ordinary way would not have done, as it would have been impossible ever to wet the soil through without making a solid mud cake of it, in which seeds would have stood about as good a chance of doing anything as though not watered at all. i filled the flats one-third full of sphagnum moss, which was soaked, then to within half an inch of the top with soil, which was likewise soaked, and did not look particularly inviting. the flats were then filled level-full of the dust-dry soil, planted, and put in partial shade. within half a day the surface soil had come to just the right degree of moisture, soaked up from below, and there was in a few days more a perfect stand of seedlings. i have used this method in starting all my seedlings this spring--some forty thousand, so far--only using soil screenings, mostly small pieces of decayed sod, in place of the moss and giving a very light watering in the surface to make it compact and to swell the seed at once. two such flats are shown [ed., unable to recreate in typed format], just ready to transplant. the seedlings illustrated in the upper flat had received just two waterings since being planted. where several hundred or more plants of each variety are wanted, sow the seed broadcast as evenly as possible and fairly thick--one ounce of cabbage, for instance, to three to five x inch flats. if but a few dozen, or a hundred, are wanted, sow in rows two or three inches apart, being careful to label each correctly. before sowing, the soil should be pressed firmly into the corners of the flats and leveled off perfectly smooth with a piece of board or shingle. press the seed evenly into the soil with a flat piece of board, cover it lightly, one- eighth to one-quarter inch, with sifted soil, press down barely enough to make smooth, and water with a very fine spray, or through burlap. for the next two days the flats can go on a pretty hot surface, if one is available, such as hot water or steam pipes, or top of a boiler, but if these are not convenient, directly into the frame, where the temperature should be kept as near as possible to that indicated in the following table. in from two to twelve days, according to temperature and variety, the little seedlings will begin to appear. in case the soil has not been made quite friable enough, they will sometimes "raise the roof" instead of breaking through. if so, see that the surface is broken up at once, with the fingers and a careful watering, as otherwise many of the little plants may become bent and lanky in a very short time. from now on until they are ready to transplant, a period of some three or four weeks, is the time when they will most readily be injured by neglect. there are things you will have to look out for, and your attention must be regular to the matters of temperature, ventilation and moisture. vegetable date to sow seed will best temperature to keep germinate (about) (about) beets feb. -apr. years degrees broccoli feb. -apr. years degrees brussels sprouts feb. -apr. years degrees cabbage feb. -apr. years degrees cauliflower feb. -apr. years degrees celery feb. -apr. years degrees corn apr. -may years degrees cucumber mar. -may years degrees egg-plant mar. -apr. years degrees kohlrabi mar. -apr. years degrees lettuce feb. -apr. years degrees melon, musk apr. -may years degrees melon, water apr. -may years degrees okra mar. -apr. years degrees onion jan. -mar. years degrees pepper mar. -apr. years degrees squash mar. -apr. years degrees tomato mar. -apr. years degrees the temperatures required by the different varieties will be indicated by the table above. it should be kept as nearly as possible within ten degrees lower and fifteen higher (in the sun) than given. if the nights are still cold, so that the mercury goes near zero, it will be necessary to provide mats or shutters (see illustrations) to cover the glass at night. or, better still, for the few earliest frames, have double-glass sash, the dead-air space making further protection unnecessary. ventilation: on all days when the temperature within the frame runs up to sixty to eighty degrees, according to variety, give air, either by tilting the sash up at the end or side, and holding in position with a notched stick; or, if the outside temperature permits, strip the glass off altogether. watering: keep a close watch upon the conditions of the soil, especially if you are using flats instead of planting directly in the soil. wait until it is fairly dry--never until the plants begin to wilt, however--and then give a thorough soaking, all the soil will absorb. if at all possible do this only in the morning (up to eleven o'clock) on a bright sunny day. plants in the seedling state are subject to "damping off"--a sudden disease of the stem tissue just at or below the soil, which either kills the seedlings outright, or renders them worthless. some authorities claim that the degree of moisture or dampness has nothing to do with this trouble. i am not prepared to contradict them, but as far as my own experience goes i am satisfied that the drier the stems and leaves can be kept, so long as the soil is in good condition, the better. i consider this one of the advantages of the "sub-irrigation" method of preparing the seed flats, described above. transplanting: under this care the little seedlings will come along rapidly. when the second true leaf is forming they will be ready for transplanting or "pricking off," as it is termed in garden parlance. if the plants are at all crowded in the boxes, this should be done just as soon as they are ready, as otherwise they will be injured by crowding and more likely to damp off. boxes similar to the seed-flats, but an inch deeper, are provided for transplanting. fill these with soil as described for frames--sifted through a coarse screen (chicken-wire size) and mixed with one-third rotted manure. or place an inch of manure, which must be so thoroughly rotted that most of the heat has left, in the bottom, and fill in with soil. find or construct a table or bench of convenient height, upon which to work. with a flat piece of stick or one of the types of transplanting forks lift from the seedling box a clump of seedlings, dirt and all, clear to the bottom. hold this clump in one hand and with the other gently tear away the seedlings, one at a time, discarding all crooked or weak ones. never attempt to pull the seedlings from the soil in the flats, as the little rootlets are very easily broken off. they should come away almost intact. water your seed-flats the day previous to transplanting, so that the soil will be in just the right condition, neither wet enough to make the roots sticky nor dry enough to crumble away. take the little seedling by the stem between thumb and forefinger, and with a small round pointed stick or dibber, or with the forefinger of the other hand, make a hole to receive the roots and about half the length--more if the seedlings are lanky--of the stem. as the seedling drops into place, the tips of both thumbs and forefingers, by one quick, firm movement, compress the earth firmly both down on the roots and against the stem, so that the plant sticks up firmly and may not be readily pulled out. of course there is a knack about it which cannot be put into words--i could have pricked off a hundred seedlings in the time i am spending in trying to describe the operation, but a little practice will make one reasonably efficient at it. in my own work this spring, i have applied the "sub-irrigation" idea to this operation also. the manure placed in the bottom of the boxes is thoroughly watered and an inch of soil put in and watered also, and the box then filled and the plants pricked in. by preparing a number of flats at one time, but little additional work is required, and the results have convinced me that the extra trouble is well worth while. of the early cabbage and cauliflower, not two plants in a thousand have dropped out. ordinarily about one hundred plants are put in a x inch flat, but if one has room and is growing only a few plants for home use, somewhat better plants may be had if fifty or seventy-five are put in. in either case keep the outside rows close to the edges of the flats, as they will have plenty of room anyway. when the flat is completed, jar the box slightly to level the surface, and give a thorough watering at once, being careful, however, to bend down the plants as little as possible. set the flats close together on a level surface, and, if the weather is bright, shade from the sun during the middle of the day for two or three days. from now on keep at the required temperature and water thoroughly on bright mornings as often as the soil in the flats gets on the dry side, as gardeners say--indicated by the whitening and crusting of the surface. above all, give all the air possible while maintaining the necessary temperature. the quality of the plants will depend more upon this than anything else in the way of care. whenever the temperature allows, strip off the sash and let the plants have the benefit of the rains. a good rain seems to do them more good than any watering. should your plants of cabbage, lettuce, beets or cauliflower by any chance get frozen, do not give them up for lost, for the chances are that the following simple treatment will pull them through: in the first place, shade them thoroughly from the sun; in the second, drench them with cold water, the coldest you can get--if you have to break the ice for it, so much the better. try, however, to prevent its happening again, as they will be less able to resist subsequent injury. in hot weather, where watering and ventilation are neglected, the plants will sometimes become infested with the green aphis, which under such conditions multiplies with almost incredible rapidity. hardening off: for five days or a week before setting plants in the field they should be thoroughly hardened off. if they have been given plenty of air this treatment will mean little change for them--simply exposing them more each day, until for a few nights they are left entirely without protection. they will then be ready for setting out in the open, an operation which is described in the next chapter. starting plants outside much of the above is applicable also to the starting of plants out-of- doors, for second and for succession crops, such as celery and late cabbage. select for the outside seed-bed the most thoroughly pulverized spot to be found, enriched and lightened with fine manure. mark off rows a foot apart, and to the necessary depth; sow the seed evenly; firm in if the soil is dry, cover lightly with the back of the rake and roll or smooth with the back of the spade, or of a hoe, along the drills. the seed, according to variety, will begin to push through in from four to twenty days. at all times keep the seed-bed clear of weeds; and keep the soil between the rows constantly cultivated. not unless it is very dry will watering be necessary, but if it is required, give a thorough soaking toward evening. as the cabbage, celery and similar plants come along it will add to their sturdiness and stockiness to shear off the tops--about half of the large leaves--once or twice after the plants have attained a height of about six inches. if the precautions concerning seed and soil which i have given are heeded and the details of the work of planting, transplanting and care are carried out, planting time (april) will find the prospective gardener with a supply of good, stocky, healthy plants on hand, and impatient to get them into that carefully prepared garden spot. all of this work has been--or should have been--interesting, but that which follows in the next chapter is more so. chapter ix sowing and planting the importance of having good seeds has already been declared. they must not only grow, but grow into what we have bought them for--be true to name. without the latter quality we cannot be sure of good gardens, and without the former they will not be full ones. a meagre "stand" from seeds properly sown is a rather exasperating and discouraging experience to encounter. the cost for fertilizing and preparing the land is just as much, and the cost of cultivating very nearly as much, when the rows are full of thrifty plants or strung out with poor ones. whether you use ten cents' worth or ten dollars' worth, the best seed to be had will be the most economical to buy--to say nothing of the satisfaction that full rows give. and yet good seedsmen are more thoughtlessly and unjustly abused in the matter of seed vitality than in any other. inexperienced gardeners seem universally to have the conviction that the only thing required in seed sowing is to cover the seed with soil. what sort of soil it is, or in what condition, or at what depth or temperature the seed is planted, are questions about which they do not trouble themselves to think. two conditions--moisture and warmth--are necessary to induce germination of seeds, no matter how full of life they may be; and as was shown in the preceding chapter the different varieties have some choice as to the degree of each, especially of temperature. this means of course that some commonsense must be used in planting, and when planting outdoors, where we cannot regulate the temperature to our need, we simply must regulate our seed sowing to its dictates, no matter how impatient we may be. to insure the best possible germination, and thus the best gardening, we must, first of all then, settle the question of temperature when sowing out-of-doors. for practical work it serves to divide the garden vegetables into two groups, though in planting, the special suggestions in the following chapter should be consulted. when to sow outdoors sow from the end of march to the beginning of may, or when plum and peach trees bloom, the following: beet cabbage carrot cauliflower celery endive kale kohlrabi lettuce onions parsley parsnip peas radish spinach turnip water-cress sow from the beginning of may to the middle of june, or when apple trees bloom, the following: beans corn cucumber melon, musk melon, water okra pumpkin squash tomato getting the seed to sprout, however, is only the first step in the game; they must be provided with the means of immediately beginning to grow. this means that they should not be left to germinate in loosely packed soil, full of air spaces, ready to dry out at the first opportunity, and to let the tiny seed roots be shriveled up and die. the soil should touch the seed--be pressed close about it on all sides, so that the first tiny tap root will issue immediately into congenial surroundings where it can instantly take hold. such conditions can be found only in a seed-bed fine but light enough to pack, reasonably rich and sufficiently moist, and where, in addition to this, the seed has been properly planted. methods of planting the seed-bed, as it is called, is the surface prepared to receive the seed, whether for a patch of radishes or an acre of onions. for crops to be sown directly where they are to go, the chapter on preparation of the soil takes us to this point, and as stated at the conclusion of that chapter, the final preparation of the bed should be made only immediately prior to its use. having, then, good seeds on hand and the soil properly prepared to receive them, the only problem remaining is what way they shall be put in. the different habits of growth characteristic of different plants make it patent at the outset that there must be different methods of planting, for very evidently a cabbage, which occupies but three or four square feet of space and stays in one place to make a head, will not require the same treatment as a winter squash, roaming all over the garden and then escaping under the fence to hide some of its best fruit in the tall grass outside. the three systems of planting usually employed are known as "drills," "rows" and "hills." i do not remember ever seeing a definition giving the exact distinctions between them; and in horticultural writing they seem to be used, to some extent at least, interchangeably. as a rule "drills" refer to the growing of plants continuously in rows, such as onions, carrots or spinach. "rows" refer to the growing of plants at fixed distances apart in the rows such as cabbage, or potatoes--the cultivation, except hand weeding and hoeing, being all done in one direction, as with drills. "hills" refer to the growing of plants usually at equal distances, four feet or more apart each way, with cultivating done in both directions, as with melons and squashes. i describe the different methods at length so that the reader may know more definitely just what is meant by the special instructions given in the following text. sowing the seed if one observes the suggestions as to temperature just given, and the following precautions in placing the seed within the soil, failure of good seed to germinate is practically impossible. in the first place, plant _on a freshly prepared surface_, always just before a rain if possible, except in the case of very small seeds, when just after a rain will be better. if the soil is at all dry, or likely to be followed by a spell of hot, dry weather, always firm by using the back of the hoe for small seed, or the ball of the foot for larger ones, such as peas, beans or corn, to press the seed firmly and evenly into the soil before covering. then when the soil is covered in over the seed, firm along the top of the row very lightly, just enough to mark it and hold the soil in place. the depth of the drill furrow in which the seed is to be sown will depend ( ) on the variety of vegetable, ( ) on the season of planting, and ( ) on weather conditions. remember that the seed must be supplied with moisture both to germinate and to continue to exist after germination; and also that it must have soil through which the air can to some extent penetrate. keeping these things in mind, common sense dictates that seed planted in the spring, or during a wet spell of weather, will not need to be put in as deeply as should the same seed in summer or early autumn, or during a hot, dry spell. the old general rule is, to cover seed planted under glass, where the moisture can be controlled, to a depth of two or three times its diameter; and out-of-doors, to four or five times. i should say these depths were the minimums desirable. in other words, the smallest seed, such as onion, carrot, lettuce, will go in one-quarter to one-half inch deep. beets, spinach, parsnips and other medium-sized seed one-half to one inch deep, and peas, beans, corn, etc., two to four inches deep-- usually near the first figure. after the seed is sown it is of course desirable to keep the ground from baking or crusting on top, as it is likely to do after a morning rain followed directly by hot sun. if the seed sprouts have not yet reached the surface of the soil, rake very lightly across the rows with an iron rake; if they have broken through, work as close as possible to the row. the best implement i have ever seen for this purpose is the disc attachment of the double wheel hoe--see implements. an ordinarily good garden loam, into which the desirable quantity of short manure has been worked, will give little trouble by raking. in a clay soil, it often will pay, on a small scale, to sift leaf mould, sphagnum moss, or some other light porous covering, over the rows, especially for small seed. the special seed-bed, for starting late cabbage or celery, may easily be sheltered. in very hot, dry weather this method will be a great help. setting out plants the reader has not forgotten, of course, that plants as well as seeds must go into the well managed garden. we have already mentioned the hardening-off process to which they must be subjected before going into the open ground. the flats should also be given a copious watering several hours, or the day before, setting out. all being ready, with your rows made straight and marked off at the correct distances, lift out the plants with a trowel or transplanting fork, and tear or cut them apart with a knife, keeping as much soil as possible with each ball of roots. distribute them at their positions, but not so many at a time that any will dry out before you get them in place. get down on your hands and knees, and, straddling the row, proceed to "set." with the left hand, or a trowel or dibber if the ground is not soft, make a hole large enough to take the roots and the better part of the stem, place the plant in position and firm into place by bearing down with the backs of the knuckles, on either side. proceed so to the end of the row, being careful to keep your toes from undoing your good work behind you, and then finish the job by walking back over the row, still further firming in each plant by pressing down the soil at either side of the stem simultaneously with the balls of the feet. when all the rows are completed, go over the surface with the iron rake, and you will have a job thoroughly done and neatly finished. if the weather and soil are exceptionally dry it may be necessary to take the additional precautions, when planting, of putting a pint or so of water in each hole (never on the surface) previous to planting; or of puddling the roots in a thick mixture of rich soil and water. the large leaves also should be trimmed back one-half. in the case of plants that are too tall or succulent, this should be done in any case --better a day or two previous to setting out. after-care transplanting should be done whenever possible in dull weather or before rain--or even during it if you really would deserve the name of gardener! if it must be done when the sun continues strong, shade the plants from, say, ten to three o'clock, for a day or two, with half sheets of old newspapers held in tent-shaped position over the plants by stones or earth. if it is necessary to give water, do it toward evening. if the plants have been properly set, however, only extreme circumstances will render this necessary. keep a sharp lookout for cut-worms, maggots or other enemies described in chapter xiii. and above all, cultivate. never let the soil become crusted, even if there is not a weed in sight. keep the soil loosened up, for that will keep things growing. chapter x the cultivation of vegetables before taking up the garden vegetables individually, i shall outline the general practice of cultivation, which applies to all. the purposes of cultivation are three--to get rid of weeds, and to stimulate growth by ( ) letting air into the soil and freeing unavailable plant food, and ( ) by conserving moisture. as to weeds, the gardener of any experience need not be told the importance of keeping his crops clean. he has learned from bitter and costly experience the price of letting them get anything resembling a start. he knows that one or two days' growth, after they are well up, followed perhaps by a day or so of rain, may easily double or treble the work of cleaning a patch of onions or carrots, and that where weeds have attained any size they cannot be taken out of sowed crops without doing a great deal of injury. he also realizes, or should, that every day's growth means just so much available plant food stolen from under the very roots of his legitimate crops. instead of letting the weeds get away with any plant food, he should be furnishing more, for clean and frequent cultivation will not only break the soil up mechanically, but let in air, moisture and heat--all essential in effecting those chemical changes necessary to convert non- available into available plant food. long before the science in the case was discovered, the soil cultivators had learned by observation the necessity of keeping the soil nicely loosened about their growing crops. even the lanky and untutored aborigine saw to it that his squaw not only put a bad fish under the hill of maize but plied her shell hoe over it. plants need to breathe. their roots need air. you might as well expect to find the rosy glow of happiness on the wan cheeks of a cotton-mill child slave as to expect to see the luxuriant dark green of healthy plant life in a suffocated garden. important as the question of air is, that of _water_ ranks beside it. you may not see at first what the matter of frequent cultivation has to do with water. but let us stop a moment and look into it. take a strip of blotting paper, dip one end in water, and watch the moisture run up hill, soak up through the blotter. the scientists have labeled that "capillary attraction"--the water crawls up little invisible tubes formed by the texture of the blotter. now take a similar piece, cut it across, hold the two cut edges firmly together, and try it again. the moisture refuses to cross the line: the connection has been severed. in the same way the water stored in the soil after a rain begins at once to escape again into the atmosphere. that on the surface evaporates first, and that which has soaked in begins to soak in through the soil to the surface. it is leaving your garden, through the millions of soil tubes, just as surely as if you had a two-inch pipe and a gasoline engine, pumping it into the gutter night and day! save your garden by stopping the waste. it is the easiest thing in the world to do--cut the pipe in two. and the knife to do it with is-- _dust_. by frequent cultivation of the surface soil--not more than one or two inches deep for most small vegetables--the soil tubes are kept broken, and a mulch of dust is maintained. try to get over every part of your garden, especially where it is not shaded, once in every ten days or two weeks. does that seem like too much work? you can push your wheel hoe through, and thus keep the dust mulch as a constant protection, as fast as you can walk. if you wait for the weeds, you will nearly have to crawl through, doing more or less harm by disturbing your growing plants, losing all the plant food (and they will take the cream) which they have consumed, and actually putting in more hours of infinitely more disagreeable work. "a stitch in time saves nine!" have your thread and needle ready beforehand! if i knew how to give greater emphasis to this subject of thorough cultivation, i should be tempted to devote the rest of this chapter to it. if the beginner at gardening has not been convinced by the facts given, there is only one thing left to convince him--experience. having given so much space to the _reason_ for constant care in this matter, the question of methods naturally follows. i want to repeat here, my previous advice--by all means get a wheel hoe. the simplest sorts cost only a few dollars, and will not only save you an infinite amount of time and work, but do the work better, very much better than it can be done by hand. you _can_ grow good vegetables, especially if your garden is a very small one, without one of these labor-savers, but i can assure you that you will never regret the small investment necessary to procure it. with a wheel hoe, the work of preserving the soil mulch becomes very simple. if one has not a wheel hoe, for small areas very rapid work can be done with the scuffle hoe. the matter of keeping weeds cleaned out of the rows and between the plants in the rows is not so quickly accomplished. where hand-work is necessary, let it be done at once. here are a few practical suggestions that will reduce this work to a minimum, ( ) get at this work while the ground is soft; as soon as the soil begins to dry out after a rain is the best time. under such conditions the weeds will pull out by the roots, without breaking off. ( ) immediately before weeding, go over the rows with a wheel hoe, cutting shallow, but just as close as possible, leaving a narrow, plainly visible strip which must be hand- weeded. the best tool for this purpose is the double wheel hoe with disc attachment, or hoes for large plants. ( ) see to it that not only the weeds are pulled but that _every inch_ of soil surface is broken up. it is fully as important that the weeds just sprouting be destroyed, as that the larger ones be pulled up. one stroke of the weeder or the fingers will destroy a hundred weed seedlings in less time than one weed can be pulled out after it gets a good start. ( ) use one of the small hand-weeders until you become skilled with it. not only may more work be done but the fingers will be saved unnecessary wear. the skilful use of the wheel hoe can be acquired through practice only. the first thing to learn is that it is necessary to watch _the wheels only:_ the blades, disc or rakes will take care of themselves. other suggestions will be found in the chapter on implements. the operation of "hilling" consists in drawing up the soil about the stems of growing plants, usually at the time of second or third hoeing. it used to be the practice to hill everything that could be hilled "up to the eyebrows," but it has gradually been discarded for what is termed "level culture"; and the reader will readily see the reason, from what has been said about the escape of moisture from the surface of the soil; for of course the two upper sides of the hill, which may be represented by an equilateral triangle with one side horizontal, give more exposed surface than the level surface represented by the base. in wet soils or seasons hilling may be advisable, but very seldom otherwise. it has the additional disadvantage of making it difficult to maintain the soil mulch which is so desirable. rotation of crops there is another thing to be considered in making each vegetable do its best, and that is crop rotation, or the following of any vegetable with a different sort at the next planting. with some vegetables, such as cabbage, this is almost imperative, and practically all are helped by it. even onions, which are popularly supposed to be the proving exception to the rule, are healthier, and do as well after some other crop, _provided_ the soil is as finely pulverized and rich as a previous crop of onions would leave it. here are the fundamental rules of crop rotation: ( ) crops of the same vegetable, or vegetables of the same family (such as turnips and cabbage) should not follow each other. ( ) vegetables that feed near the surface, like corn, should follow deep-rooting crops. ( ) vines or leaf crops should follow root crops. ( ) quick-growing crops should follow those occupying the land all season. these are the principles which should determine the rotations to be followed in individual cases. the proper way to attend to this matter is when making the planting plan. you will then have time to do it properly, and will need to give it no further thought for a year. with the above suggestions in mind, and _put to use_, it will not be difficult to give the crops mentioned in the following chapter those special attentions which are needed to make them do their very best. chapter xi the vegetables and their special needs the garden vegetables may be considered in three groups, in each of which the various varieties are given somewhat similar treatment: the root crops, such as beets and carrots; the leaf crops, such as cabbage and lettuce; the fruit crops, such as melons and tomatoes. root crops under the first section we will consider: beet carrot kohlrabi leek onion parsnip potato salsify turnip any of these may be sown in april, in drills (with the exception of potatoes) twelve to eighteen inches apart. the soil must be rich and finely worked, in order that the roots will be even and smooth--in poor or ill-prepared soil they are likely to be misshapen, or "sprangling." they must be thinned out to the proper distances, which should be done if possible on a cloudy day, hand-weeded as often as may be required, and given clean and frequent cultivation. all, with the exception of leeks and potatoes, are given level culture. all will be greatly benefited, when about one-third grown, by a top dressing of nitrate of soda. _beet:_--beets do best in a rather light soil. those for earliest use are started under glass (as described previously) and set out six to seven inches apart in rows a foot apart. the first outdoor sowing is made as soon as the soil is ready in spring, and the seed should be put in thick, as not all will come through if bad weather is encountered. when thinning out, the small plants that are removed, tops and roots cooked together, make delicious greens. the late crop, for fall and winter use, sow the last part of june. for this crop the larger varieties are used, and on rich soil will need six to eight inches in the row and fifteen inches between rows. _carrot:_--carrots also like a soil that is rather on the sandy side, and on account of the depth to which the roots go, it should be deep and fine. the quality will be better if the soil is not too rich. a few for extra early use may be grown in the hotbeds or frame. if radishes and carrots are sown together, in alternating rows six inches apart, the former will be used by the time the carrots need the room, and in this way a single x ft. sash will yield a good supply for the home garden. use chantenay or ox-heart (see chapter xii) for this purpose. the late crop is sometimes sown between rows of onions, skipping every third row, during june, and left to mature when the onions are harvested; but unless the ground is exceptionally free from weeds, the plan is not likely to prove successful. _kohlrabi:_--while not truly a "root crop"--the edible portion being a peculiar globular enlargement of the stem--its culture is similar, as it may be sown in drills and thinned out. frequently, however, it is started in the seed-bed and transplanted, the main crop (for market) being sown in may or june. a few of these from time to time will prove very acceptable for the home table. they should be used when quite young; as small as two inches being the tenderest. _leek:_--to attain its best the leek should be started in the seed-bed, late in april, and transplanted in late june, to the richest, heaviest soil available. hill up from time to time to blanch lower part of stalk; or a few choice specimens may be had by fitting cardboard collars around the stem and drawing the earth up to these, not touching the stalk with earth. _onions:_--onions for use in the green state are grown from white "sets," put out early in april, three to four inches apart in rows twelve inches apart; or from seed sown the previous fall and protected with rough manure during the winter. these will be succeeded by the crop from "prickers" or seedlings started under glass in january or february. as onions are not transplanted before going to the garden, sow directly in the soil rather than in flats. it is safest to cover the bed with one-half inch to one inch of coarse sand, and sow the seed in this. to get stocky plants trim back twice, taking off the upper half of leaves each time, and trim back the roots one-half to two- thirds at the time of setting out, which may be any time after the middle of april. these in turn will be succeeded by onions coming from the crop sown from seed in the open. the above is for onions eaten raw in the green state when less than half grown. for the main crop for bulbs, the home supply is best grown from prickers as described above. prize-taker and gibraltar are mostly used for this purpose, growing to the size of the large spanish onions sold at grocery stores. for onions to be kept for late winter and spring use, grow from seed, sowing outdoors as early as possible. no vegetable needs a richer or more perfectly prepared soil than the onion; and especial care must be taken never to let the weeds get a start. they are gathered after the tops dry down and wither, when they should be pulled, put in broad rows for several days in the sun, and then spread out flat, not more than four inches deep, under cover with plenty of light and air. before severe freezing store in slatted barrels, as described in chapter xiv. _parsnip:_--sow as early as possible, in deep rich soil, but where no water will stand during fall and winter. the seed germinates very slowly, so the seed-bed should be very finely prepared. they will be ready for use in the fall, but are much better after the first frosts. for method of keeping see chapter xiv. _potato:_--if your garden is a small one, buy your main supply of potatoes from some nearby farmer, first trying half a bushel or so to be sure of the quality. purchase in late september or october when the crop is being dug and the price is low. for an extra early and choice supply for the home garden, start a peck or so in early march, as follows: select an early variety, seed of good size and clean; cut to pieces containing one or two eyes, and pack closely together on end in flats of coarse sand. give these full light and heat, and by the middle to end of april they will have formed dense masses of roots, and nice, strong, stocky sprouts, well leaved out. dig out furrows two and a half feet apart, and incorporate well rotted manure in the bottom, with the soil covering this until the furrow is left two to three inches deep. set the sprouted tubers, pressing firmly into the soil, about twelve inches apart, and cover in, leaving them thus three to four inches below the surface. keep well cultivated, give a light top dressing of nitrate of soda--and surprise all your neighbors! this system has not yet come extensively into use, but is practically certain of producing excellent results. for the main crop, if you have room, cut good seed to one or two eyes, leaving as much of the tuber as possible to each piece, and plant thirteen inches apart in rows three feet apart. cultivate deeply until the plants are eight to ten inches high and then shallow but frequently. as the vines begin to spread, hill up moderately, making a broad, low ridge. handle potato-bugs and blight as directed in chapter xiii. for harvesting see chapter xiv. while big crops may be grown on heavy soils, the quality will be very much better on sandy, well drained soils. planting on well rotted sod, or after green manuring, such as clover or rye, will also improve the looks and quality of the crop. like onions, they need a high percentage of potash in manures or fertilizers used; this may be given in sulphate of potash. avoid planting on ground enriched with fresh barnyard manure or immediately after a dressing of lime. _salsify:_--the "vegetable oyster," or salsify, is to my taste the most delicious root vegetable grown. it is handled practically in the same way as the parsnip, but needs, if possible, ground even more carefully prepared, in order to keep the main root from sprangling. if a fine light soil cannot be had for planting, it will pay to hoe or hand-plow furrows where the drills are to be--not many will be needed, and put in specially prepared soil, in which the seed may get a good start. _radish:_--to be of good crisp quality, it is essential with radishes to grow them just as quickly as possible. the soil should be rather sandy and not rich in fresh manure or other nitrogenous fertilizers, as this tends to produce an undesirable amount of leaves at the expense of the root. if the ground is at all dry give a thorough wetting after planting, which may be on the surface, as the seeds germinate so quickly that they will be up before the soil has time to crust over. gypsum or land-plaster, sown on white and worked into the soil, will improve both crop and quality. they are easily raised under glass, in autumn or spring in frames, requiring only forty to fifty degrees at night. it is well to plant in the hotbed, after a crop of lettuce. or sow as a double crop, as suggested under _carrots_. for outside crops, sow every ten days or two weeks. _turnip:_--while turnips will thrive well on almost any soil, the quality--which is somewhat questionable at the best--will be much better on sandy or even gravelly soil. avoid fresh manures as much as possible, as the turnip is especially susceptible to scab and worms. they are best when quite small and for the home table a succession of sowing, only a few at a time, will give the best results. leaf crops under leaf crops are considered also those of which the stalk or the flower heads form the edible portion, such as celery and cauliflower. asparagus brussels sprouts cabbage cauliflower celery endive kale lettuce parsley rhubarb spinach the quality of all these will depend largely upon growing them rapidly and without check from the seed-bed to the table. they are all great nitrogen-consumers and therefore take kindly to liberal supplies of yard manure, which is high in nitrogen. for celery the manure is best applied to some preceding crop, such as early cabbage. the others will take it "straight." most of these plants are best started under glass or in the seed-bed and transplanted later to permanent positions. they will all be helped greatly by a top-dressing of nitrate of soda, worked into the soil as soon as they have become established. this, if it fails to produce the dark green healthy growth characteristic of its presence, should be followed by a second application after two or three weeks--care being taken, of course, to use it with reason and restraint, as directed in chapter vi. another method of growing good cabbages and similar plants, where the ground is not sufficiently rich to carry the crop through, is to "manure in the hill," either yard or some concentrated manure being used. if yard manure, incorporate a good forkful with the soil where each plant is to go. (if any considerable number are being set, it will of course be covered in a furrow--first being trampled down, with the plow). another way, sure of producing results, and not inconvenient for a few hundred plants, is to mark out the piece, dig out with a spade or hoe a hole some five inches deep at each mark, dilute poultry manure in an old pail until about the consistency of thick mud, and put a little less than half a trowelful in each hole. mix with the soil and cover, marking the spot with the back of the hoe, and then set the plants. by this method, followed by a top-dressing of nitrate of soda, i have repeatedly grown fine cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce and sprouts. cotton-seed meal is also very valuable for manuring in the hill--about a handful to a plant, as it is rich in nitrogen and rapidly decomposes. the cabbage group is sometimes hilled up, but if set well down and frequently cultivated, on most soils this will not be necessary. they all do best in very deep, moderately heavy soil, heavily manured and rather moist. an application of lime some time before planting will be a beneficial precaution. with this group rotation also is almost imperative. the most troublesome enemies attacking these plants are: the flea- beetle, the cabbage-worm, the cabbage-maggot (root) and "club-root"; directions for fighting all of which will be found in the following chapter. _asparagus:_--asparagus is rightly esteemed one of the very best spring vegetables. there is a general misconception, however--due to the old methods of growing it--concerning the difficulty of having a home supply. as now cared for, it is one of the easiest of all vegetables to grow, when once the beds are set and brought to bearing condition. nor is it difficult to make the bed, and the only reason why asparagus is not more universally found in the home garden, beside that mentioned above, is because one has to wait a year for results. in selecting a spot for the asparagus bed, pick out the earliest and best drained soil available, even if quite sandy it will do well. plow or dig out trenches three feet apart and sixteen to twenty inches deep. in the bottoms of these tramp down firmly six to eight inches of old, thoroughly rotted manure. cover with six to eight inches of good soil-- not that coming from the bottom of the trench--and on this set the crowns or root-clumps--preferably one-year ones--being careful to spread the roots out evenly, and covering with enough soil to hold in position, making them firm in the soil. the roots are set one foot apart. then fill in level, thus leaving the crowns four to six inches below the surface. as the stalks appear give a light dressing of nitrate of soda and keep the crop cleanly cultivated. (lettuce, beets, beans or any of the small garden vegetables may be grown between the asparagus rows during the first part of the season, for the first two years, thus getting some immediate return from labor and manure). the stalks should not be cut until the second spring after planting and then only very lightly. after that full crops may be had. after the first season, besides keeping cleanly cultivated at all times, in the fall clear off and burn all tops and weeds and apply a good coating of manure. dig or lightly cultivate this in the spring, applying also a dressing of nitrate of soda, as soon as the stalks appear. if the yield is not heavy, give a dressing of bone or of the basic fertilizers mentioned earlier. it is not difficult to grow plants from seed, but is generally more satisfactory to get the roots from some reliable seedsman. _broccoli:-the broccoli makes a flower head as does the cauliflower. it is, however, inferior in quality and is not grown to any extent where the latter will succeed. it has the one advantage of being hardier and thus can be grown where the cauliflower is too uncertain to make its culture worth while. for culture directions see _cauliflower_. _brussels sprouts:_--in my opinion this vegetable leaves the cabbage almost as far behind as the cauliflower does. it is, if anything, more easily grown than cabbage, except that the young plants do not seem able to stand quite so much cold. when mature, however, it seems to stand almost any amount of freezing, and it is greatly improved by a few smart frosts, although it is very good when succeeding the spring crop of cauliflower. it takes longer to mature than either cabbage or cauliflower. _cabbage:_--cabbage is one of the few vegetables which may be had in almost as good quality from the green-grocer as it can be grown at home, and as it takes up considerable space, it may often be advisable to omit the late sorts from the home garden if space is very limited. the early supply, however, should come from the garden--some people think it should stay there, but i do not agree with them. properly cooked it is a very delicious vegetable. what has already been said covers largely the conditions for successful culture. the soil should be of the richest and deepest, and well dressed with lime. lettuce is grown with advantage between the rows of early cabbage, and after both are harvested the ground is used for celery. the early varieties may be set as closely as eighteen inches in the row, and twenty-four between rows. the lettuce is taken out before the row is needed. the late crop is started in the outside seed-bed about june st to th. it will help give better plants to cut back the tops once or twice during growth, and an occasional good soaking in dry weather will prove very beneficial. they are set in the field during july, and as it often is very dry at this time, those extra precautions mentioned in directions for setting out plants, in the preceding chapter, should be taken. if the newly set plants are dusted with wood ashes, it will be a wise precaution against insect pests. _cauliflower:_--the cauliflower is easily the queen of the cabbage group: also it is the most difficult to raise. ( ) it is the most tender and should not be set out quite so early. ( ) it is even a ranker feeder than the cabbage, and just before heading up will be greatly improved by applications of liquid manure. ( ) it must have water, and unless the soil is a naturally damp one, irrigation, either by turning the hose on between the rows, or directly around the plants, must be given--two or three times should be sufficient. ( ) the heads must be protected from the sun. this is accomplished by tying up the points of leaves, so as to form a tent, or breaking them (snap the mid- rib only), and folding them down over the flower. ( ) they must be used as soon as ready, for they deteriorate very quickly. take them while the head is still solid and firm, before the little flower tips begin to open out. _celery:_--this is another favorite vegetable which has a bad reputation to live down. they used to plant it at the bottom of a twelve-inch trench and spend all kinds of unnecessary labor over it. it can be grown perfectly well on the level and in the average home garden. as to soil, celery prefers a moist one, but it must be well drained. the home supply can, however, be grown in the ordinary garden, especially if water may be had in case of injurious drouth. for the early crop the best sorts are the white plume and golden self- blanching. seed is sown in the last part of february or first part of march. the seed is very fine and the greatest pains must be taken to give the best possible treatment. the seed should be pressed into the soil and barely covered with very light soil--half sifted leaf-mould or moss. never let the boxes dry out, and as soon as the third or fourth leaf comes, transplant; cut back the outside leaves, and set as deeply as possible without covering the crown. the roots also, if long, should be cut back. this trimming of leaves and roots should be given at each transplanting, thus assuring a short stocky growth. culture of the early crop, after setting out, is easier than that for the winter crop. there are two systems: ( ) the plants are set in rows three or four feet apart, six inches in the row, and blanched, either by drawing up the earth in a hill and working it in about the stalks with the fingers (this operation is termed "handling"), or else by the use of boards laid on edge along the rows, on either side. ( ) the other method is called the "new celery culture," and in it the plants are set in beds eight inches apart each way (ten or twelve inches for large varieties), the idea being to make the tops of the plants supply the shade for the blanching. this method has two disadvantages: it requires extra heavy manuring and preparation of soil, and plenty of moisture; and even with this aid the stalks never attain the size of those grown in rows. the early crop should be ready in august. the quality is never so good as that of the later crops. for the main or winter crop, sow the seed about april st. the same extra care must be taken as in sowing under glass. in hot, dry weather, shade the beds; never let them dry out. transplant to second bed as soon as large enough to develop root system, before setting in the permanent position. when setting in late june or july, be sure to put the plants in up to the hearts, not over, and set firmly. give level clean culture until about august th, when, with the hoe, wheel hoe or cultivator, earth should be drawn up along the rows, followed by "handling." the plants for early use are trenched (see chapter xiv), but that left for late use must be banked up, which is done by making the hills higher still, by the use of the spade. for further treatment see chapter xiv. care must be taken not to perform any work in the celery patch while the plants are wet. _corn salad or fetticus:_--this salad plant is not largely grown. it is planted about the middle of april and given the same treatment as spinach. _chicory:_--this also is little grown. the witloof, a kind now being used, is however much more desirable. sow in drills, thin to five or six inches, and in august or september, earth up, as with early celery, to blanch the stalks, which are used for salads, or boiled. cut-back roots, planted in boxes of sand placed in a moderately warm dark place and watered, send up a growth of tender leaves, making a fine salad. _chervil:_--curled chervil is grown the same as parsley and used for garnishing or seasoning. the root variety resembles the stump- rooted carrot, the quality being improved by frost. sow in april or september. treat like parsnip. _chives:_--leaves are used for imparting an onion flavor. a clump of roots set put will last many years. _cress:_--another salad little grown in the home garden. to many, however, its spicy, pungent flavor is particularly pleasing. it is easily grown, but should be planted frequently--about every two weeks. sow in drills, twelve to fourteen inches apart. its only special requirement is moisture. water is not necessary, but if a bed can be started in some clean stream or pool, it will take care of itself. upland cress or "pepper grass" grows in ordinary garden soil, being one of the very first salads. sow in april, in drills twelve or fourteen inches apart. it grows so rapidly that it may be had in five or six weeks. sow frequently for succession, as it runs to seed very quickly. _chard:_--see _spinach. dandelion:_--this is an excellent "greens," but as the crop is not ready until second season from planting it is not grown as much as it should be. sow the seed in april--very shallow. it is well to put in with it a few lettuce or turnip seed to mark the rows. drills should be one foot apart, and plants thinned to eight to twelve inches. the quality is infinitely superior to the wild dandelion and may be still further improved by blanching. if one is content to take a small crop, a cutting may be made in the fall, the same season as the sowing. _endive:_--this salad vegetable is best for fall use. sow in june or july, in drills eighteen to twenty-four inches apart, and thin to ten to twelve inches. to be fit for use it must be blanched, either by tying up with raffia in a loose bunch, or by placing two wide boards in an inverted v shape over the rows; and in either case be sure the leaves are dry when doing this. _kale:_--kale is a non-heading member of the cabbage group, used as greens, both in spring and winter. it is improved by frost, but even then is a little tough and heavy. its chief merit lies in the fact that it is easily had when greens of the better sorts are hard to get, as it may be left out and cut as needed during winter--even from under snow. the fall crop is given the same treatment as late cabbage. siberian kale is sown in september and wintered-over like spinach. _lettuce:_--lettuce is grown in larger quantities than all the other salad plants put together. by the use of hotbeds it may be had practically the year round. the first sowing for the spring under-glass crop is made in january or february. these are handled as for the planting outside--see chapter viii.--but are set in the frames six to eight inches each way, according to variety. ventilate freely during the day when over ° give ° at night. water only when needed, but then thoroughly, and preferably only on mornings of bright sunny days. the plants for first outdoor crops are handled as already described. after april st planting should be made every two weeks. during july and august the seed-beds must be kept shaded and moist. in august, first sowing for fall under-glass crop is made, which can be matured in coldframes; later sowings going into hotbeds. in quality, i consider the hard-heading varieties superior to the loose-heading sorts, but of course that is a matter of taste. the former is best for crops maturing from the middle of june until september, the latter for early and late sowings, as they mature more quickly. the cos type is good for summer growing but should be tied up to blanch well. to be at its best, lettuce should be grown very rapidly, and the use of top-dressings of nitrate are particularly beneficial with this crop. the ground should be light, warm, and very rich, and cultivation shallow but frequent. _mushroom:_--while the mushroom is not a garden crop, strictly speaking, still it is one of the most delicious of all vegetables for the home table, and though space does not permit a long description of the several details of its culture, i shall try to include all the essential points as succinctly as possible, ( ) the place for the bed may be found in any sheltered, dry spot--cellar, shed or greenhouse-- where an even temperature of to degrees can be maintained and direct sunlight excluded. (complete darkness is _not_ necessary; it is frequently so considered, but only because in dark places the temperature and moisture are apt to remain more even.) ( ) the material is fresh horse-manure, from which the roughest of the straw has been shaken out. this is stacked in a compact pile and trampled--wetting down if at all dry--to induce fermentation. this process must be repeated four or five times, care being required never to let the heap dry out and burn; time for re-stacking being indicated by the heap's steaming. at the second or third turning, add about one-fifth, in bulk, of light loam. ( ) when the heat of the pile no longer rises above to degrees (as indicated by a thermometer) put into the beds, tramping or beating very firmly, until about ten inches deep. when the temperature recedes to degrees, put in the spawn. each brick will make a dozen or so pieces. put these in three inches deep, and twelve by nine inches apart, covering lightly. then beat down the surface evenly. after eight days, cover with two inches of light loam, firmly compacted. this may be covered with a layer of straw or other light material to help maintain an even degree of moisture, but should be removed as soon as the mushrooms begin to appear. water only when the soil is very dry; better if water is warmed to about degrees. when gathering never leave stems in the bed as they are likely to breed maggots. the crop should appear in six to eight weeks after spawning the bed. _parsley:_--this very easily grown little plant should have at least a row or two in the seed-bed devoted to it. for use during winter, a box or a few pots may be filled with cut-back roots and given moderate temperature and moisture. if no frames are on hand, the plants usually will do well in a sunny window. parsley seed is particularly slow in germinating. use a few seeds of turnip or carrot to indicate the rows, and have the bed very finely prepared. _rhubarb:_--this is another of the standard vegetables which no home garden should be without. for the bed pick out a spot where the roots can stay without interfering with the plowing and working of the garden--next the asparagus bed, if in a good early location, will be as good as any. one short row will supply a large family. the bed is set either with roots or young plants, the former being the usual method. the ground should first be made as deep and rich as possible. if poor, dig out the rows, which should be four or five feet apart, to a depth of two feet or more and work in a foot of good manure, refilling with the best of the soil excavated. set the roots about four feet apart in the row, the crowns being about four inches below the surface. no stalks should be cut the first season; after that they will bear abundantly many years. in starting from seed, sow in march in frames or outside in april; when well along-about the first of june--set out in rows, eighteen by twelve inches. by the following april they will be ready for their permanent position. manuring in the fall, as with asparagus, to be worked in in the spring, is necessary for good results. i know of no crop which so quickly responds to liberal dressings of nitrate of soda, applied first just as growth starts in in the spring. the seed stalks should be broken off as fast as they appear, until late in the season. _sea-kale:_--when better known in this country, sea-kale will be given a place beside the asparagus and rhubarb, for, like them, it may be used year after year. many believe it superior in quality to either asparagus or cauliflower. it is grown from either seed or pieces of the root, the former method, being probably the more satisfactory. sow in april, in drills fourteen inches apart, thinning to five or six. transplant in the following spring as described for rhubarb--but setting three feet apart each way. in the fall, after the leaves have fallen--and every succeeding fall-- cover each crown with a shovelful of clean sand and then about eighteen inches of earth, dug out from between the rows. this is to blanch the spring growth. after cutting, shovel off the earth and sand and enrich with manure for the following season's growth. _spinach:_--for the first spring crop of this good and wholesome vegetable, the seed is sown in september, and carried over with a protection of hay or other rough litter. crops for summer and fall are sown in successive plantings from april on, long-standing being the best sort to sow after about may th. seed of the new zealand spinach should be soaked several hours in hot water, before being planted. for the home garden, i believe that the swiss chard beet is destined to be more popular, as it becomes known, than any of the spinaches. it is sown in plantings from april on, but will yield leaves all season long; they are cut close to the soil, and in an almost incredibly short time the roots have thrown up a new crop, the amount taken during the season being wonderful. spinach wants a strong and very rich soil, and dressings of nitrate show good results. the fruit crops under this heading are included: bean, dwarf bean, pole corn peas cucumber egg-plant melon, musk melon, water okra pepper pumpkins squash tomato most of these vegetables differ from both the preceding groups in two important ways. first of all, the soil should not be made too rich, especially in nitrogenous manures, such as strong fresh yard-manure; although light dressings of nitrate of soda are often of great help in giving them a quick start--as when setting out in the field. second, they are warm-weather loving plants, and nothing is gained by attempting to sow or set out the plants until all danger from late frosts is over, and the ground is well warmed up. (peas, of course, are an exception to this rule, and to some extent the early beans.) third, they require much more room and are grown for the most part in hills. light, warm, "quick," sandy to gravelly soils, and old, fine, well rotted manure--applied generally in the hill besides that plowed under, make the best combination for results. such special hills are prepared by marking off, digging out the soil to the depth of eight to ten inches, and eighteen inches to two feet square, and incorporating several forkfuls of the compost. a little guano, or better still cottonseed meal, say / to gill of the former, or a gill of the latter, mixed with the compost when putting into the hill, will also be very good. hills to be planted early should be raised an inch or two above the surface, unless they are upon sloping ground. the greatest difficulty in raising all the vine fruits--melons, etc.-- is in successfully combating their insect enemies--the striped beetle, the borer and the flat, black "stink-bug," being the worst of these. remedies will be suggested in the next chapter. but for the home garden, where only a few hills of each will be required, by far the easiest and the only sure way of fighting them will be by protecting with bottomless boxes, large enough to cover the hills, and covered with mosquito netting, or better, "plant-protecting cloth," which has the additional merit of giving the hills an early start. these boxes may be easily made of one-half by eight-inch boards, or from ordinary cracker-boxes, such as used for making flats. plants so protected in the earlier stages of growth will usually either not be attacked, or will, with the assistance of the remedies described in the following chapter, be able to withstand the insect's visits. _beans, dwarf:_--beans are one of the most widely liked of all garden vegetables--and one of the most easily grown. they are very particular about only one thing--not to have a heavy wet soil. the dwarf or bush sorts are planted in double or single drills, eighteen to twenty-four inches apart, and for the first sowing not much over an inch deep. later plantings should go in two to three inches deep, according to soil. ashes or some good mixed fertilizer high in potash, applied and well mixed in at time of planting, will be very useful. as the plants gain size they should be slightly hilled--to help hold the stalks up firmly. never work over or pick from the plants while they are wet. the dwarf limas should not be planted until ten to fourteen days later than the early sorts. be sure to put them in edgeways, with the eye down, and when there is no prospect of immediate rain, or the whole planting is fairly sure to be lost. _beans, pole:_--the pole varieties should not go in until about the time for the limas. plant in specially prepared hills (see above) ten to twenty seeds, and when well up thin, leaving three to five. poles are best set when preparing the hills. a great improvement over the old-fashioned pole is made by nailing building laths firmly across x -in. posts seven or eight feet high (see illustration). to secure extra early pods on the poles pinch back the vines at five feet high. _corn:_--for extra early ears, corn may easily be started on sod, as directed for cucumbers. be sure, however, not to get into the open until danger from frost is over--usually at least ten days after it is safe for the first planting, which is seldom made before may st. frequent, shallow cultivation is a prime necessity in growing this crop. when well up, thin to four stalks to a hill--usually five to seven kernels being planted. a slight hilling when the tassels appear will be advisable. plant frequently for succession crops. the last sowing may be made as late as the first part of july if the seed is well firmed in, to assure immediate germination. sweet corn for the garden is frequently planted in drills, about three feet apart, and thinning to ten to twelve inches. _cucumber:_--this universal favorite is easily grown if the striped beetle is held at bay. for the earliest fruits start on sod in the frames: cut out sods four to six inches square, where the grass indicates rich soil. pack close together in the frame, grass side down, and push seven or eight seeds into each, firmly enough to be held in place, covering with about one and a half inches of light soil; water thoroughly and protect with glass or cloth, taking care to ventilate, as described in chapter viii. set out in prepared hills after danger of frost is over. outside crop is planted directly in the hills, using a dozen or more seeds and thinning to three or four. _egg-plant:_--the egg-plant is always started under glass, for the northern states, and should be twice transplanted, the second time into pots, to be of the best size when put out. this should not be until after tomatoes are set, as it is perhaps the tenderest of all garden vegetables as regards heat. the soil should be very rich and as moist as can be selected. if dry, irrigating will be necessary. this should not be delayed until the growth becomes stunted, as sudden growth then induced is likely to cause the fruit to crack. watch for potato-bugs on your egg-plants. they seem to draw these troublesome beetles as a magnet does iron filings, and i have seen plants practically ruined by them in one day. as they seem to know there will not be time to eat the whole fruit they take pains to eat into the stems. the only sure remedy is to knock them off with a piece of shingle into a pan of water and kerosene. egg-plants are easily burned by paris green, and that standard remedy cannot be so effectively used as on other crops; hellebore or arsenate of lead is good. as the season of growth is very limited, it is advisable, besides having the plants as well developed as possible when set out, to give a quick start with cotton-seed meal or nitrate, and liquid manure later is useful, as they are gross feeders. the fruits are ready to eat from the size of a turkey egg to complete development. _melon, musk:_--the culture of this delicious vegetable is almost identical with that of the cucumber. if anything it is more particular about having light soil. if put in soil at all heavy, at the time of preparing the hill, add sand and leaf-mould to the compost, the hills made at least three feet square, and slightly raised. this method is also of use in planting the other vine crops. _melon, water:_--in the warm southern states watermelons may be grown cheaply, and they are so readily shipped that in the small home gardens it will not pay to grow them, for they take up more space than any other vegetable, with the exception of winter squash. the one advantage of growing them, where there is room, is that better quality than that usually to be bought may be obtained. give them the hottest spot in the garden and a sandy quick soil. use a variety recommended for your particular climate. give the same culture as for musk melon, except that the hill should be at least six to ten feet apart each way. by planting near the edge of the garden, and pinching back the vines, room may be saved and the ripening up of the crop made more certain. _okra:_--although the okra makes a very strong plant--and incidentally is one of the most ornamental of all garden vegetables-- the seed is quickly rotted by wet or cold. sow not earlier than may th, in warm soil, planting thinly in drills, about one and a half inches deep, and thinning to a foot or so; cultivate as with corn in drills. all pods not used for soup or stems during summer may be dried and used in winter. _peas:_--with care in making successive sowings, peas may be had during a long season. the earliest, smooth varieties are planted in drills twelve to eighteen inches apart, early in april. these are, however, of very inferior quality compared to the wrinkled sorts, which may now be had practically as early as the others. with the market gardener, the difference of a few days in the maturing of the crop is of a great deal more importance than the quality, but for the home garden the opposite is true. another method of planting the dwarf-growing kinds is to make beds of four rows, six to eight inches apart, with a two-foot alley between beds. the tall-growing sorts must be supported by brush or in other ways; and are put about four feet apart in double rows, six inches apart. the early varieties if sown in august will usually mature a good fall crop. the early plantings should be made in light, dry soil and but one inch deep; the later ones in deep loam. in neither case should the ground be made too rich, especially in nitrogen; and it should not be wet when the seed is planted. _pepper:_--a dozen pepper plants will give abundance of pods for the average family. the varieties have been greatly improved within recent years in the quality of mildness. the culture recommended for egg-plant is applicable also to the pepper. the main difference is that, although the pepper is very tender when young, the crop maturing in the autumn will not be injured by considerable frost. _pumpkin:_--the "sugar" or "pie" varieties of the pumpkin are the only ones used in garden culture, and these only where there is plenty of ground for all other purposes. the culture is the same as that for late squashes, which follows. _squash:_--for the earliest squash the bush varieties of scallop are used; to be followed by the summer crookneck and other summer varieties, best among which are the fordhook and delicata. for all, hills should be prepared as described at the beginning of this section and in addition it is well to mix with manure a shovelful of coal ashes, used to keep away the borer, to the attack of which the squash is particularly liable. the cultivation is the same as that used for melons or cucumbers, except that the hills for the winter sorts must be at least eight feet apart and they are often put twelve. _tomato:_--for the earliest crop, tomatoes are started about march st. they should be twice transplanted, and for best results the second transplanting should be put into pots--or into the frames, setting six to eight inches each way. they are not set out until danger of frost is over, and the ground should not be too rich; old manure used in the hill, with a dressing of nitrate at setting out, or a few days after, will give them a good start. according to variety, they are set three to five feet apart--four feet, where staking or trellising is given, as it should always be in garden culture, will be as much as the largest- growing plants require. it will pay well, both for quality and quantity of fruit, to keep most of the suckers cut or rubbed off. the ripening of a few fruits may be hastened by tying paper bags over the bunches, or by picking and ripening on a board in the hot sun. for ripening fruit after frost see chapter xiv. a sharp watch should be kept for the large green tomato-worm, which is almost exactly the color of the foliage. his presence may first be noticed by fruit and leaves eaten. hand-picking is the best remedy. protection must be made against the cutworm in localities where he works. all the above, of course, will be considered in connection with the tabulated information as to dates, depths and distances for sowing, quantities, etc., given in the table in chapter iv, and is supplemented by the information about insects, diseases and harvesting given in chapters xiii and xiv, and especially in the chapter on varieties which follows, and which is given separately from the present chapter in order that the reader may the more readily make out a list, when planning his garden or making up his order sheet for the seedsman. chapter xii best varieties of the garden vegetables it is my purpose in this chapter to assist the gardener of limited experience to select varieties sure to give satisfaction. to the man or woman planning a garden for the first time there is no one thing more confusing than the selection of the best varieties. this in spite of the fact that catalogues should be, and might be, a great help instead of almost an actual hindrance. i suppose that seedsmen consider extravagance in catalogues, both in material and language, necessary, or they would not go to the limit in expense for printing and mailing, as they do. but from the point of view of the gardener, and especially of the beginner, it is to be regretted that we cannot have the plain unvarnished truth about varieties, for surely the good ones are good enough to use up all the legitimate adjectives upon which seedsmen would care to pay postage. but such is not the case. every season sees the introduction of literally hundreds of new varieties--or, as is more often the case, old varieties under new names--which have actually no excuse for being unloaded upon the public except that they will give a larger profit to the seller. of course, in a way, it is the fault of the public for paying the fancy prices asked--that is, that part of the public which does not know. commercial planters and experienced gardeners stick to well known sorts. new varieties are tried, if at all, by the packet only--and then "on suspicion." in practically every instance the varieties mentioned have been grown by the author, but his recommendations are by no means based upon personal experience alone. wherever introductions of recent years have proved to be actual improvements upon older varieties, they are given in preference to the old, which are, of course, naturally much better known. it is impossible for any person to pick out this, that or the other variety of a vegetable and label it unconditionally "the best." but the person who wants to save time in making out his seed list can depend upon the following to have been widely tested, and to have "made good." _asparagus:_--while there are enthusiastic claims put forth for several of the different varieties of asparagus, as far as i have seen any authentic record of tests (bulletin , n. j. agr. exp. station), the prize goes to palmetto, which gave twenty-eight per cent. more than its nearest rival, donald's elmira. big yield alone is frequently no recommendation of a vegetable to the home gardener, but in this instance it does make a big difference; first, because palmetto is equal to any other asparagus in quality, and second, because the asparagus bed is producing only a few weeks during the gardening season, and where ground is limited, as in most home gardens, it is important to cut this waste space down as much as possible. this is for beds kept in good shape and highly fed. barr's mammoth will probably prove more satisfactory if the bed is apt to be more or less neglected, for the reason that under such circumstances it will make thicker stalks than the palmetto. _beans (dwarf):_--of the dwarf beans there are three general types: the early round-podded "string" beans, the stringless round- pods, and the usually more flattish "wax" beans. for first early, the old reliable extra early red valentine remains as good as any sort i have ever tried. in good strains of this variety the pods have very slight strings, and they are very fleshy. it makes only a small bush and is fairly productive and of good quality. the care-taking planter, however, will put in only enough of these first early beans to last a week or ten days, as the later sorts are more prolific and of better quality. burpee's stringless greenpod is a good second early. it is larger, finer, stringless even when mature, and of exceptionally handsome appearance. improved refugee is the most prolific of the green-pods, and the best of them for quality, but with slight strings. of the "wax" type, brittle wax is the earliest, and also a tremendous yielder. the long-time favorite, rust-proof golden wax, is another fine sort, and an especially strong healthy grower. the top-notch in quality among all bush beans is reached, perhaps, in burpee's white wax--the white referring not to the pods, which are of a light yellow, and flat --but to the beans, which are pure white in all stages of growth. it has one unusual and extremely valuable quality--the pods remain tender longer than those of any other sort. of the dwarf limas there is a new variety which is destined, i think, to become the leader of the half-dozen other good sorts to be had. that is the burpee improved. the name is rather misleading, as it is not an improved strain of the dreer's or kumerle bush lima, but a mutation, now thoroughly fixed. the bushes are stronger-growing and much larger than those of the older types, reaching a height of nearly three feet, standing strongly erect; both pods and beans are much larger, and it is a week earlier. henderson's new early giant i have not yet tried, but from the description i should say it is the same type as the above. of the pole limas, the new giant-podded is the hardiest--an important point in limas, which are a little delicate in constitution anyway, especially in the seedling stage--and the biggest yielder of any i have grown and just as good in quality--and there is no vegetable much better than well cooked limas. with me, also, it has proved as early as that old standard, early leviathan, but this may have been a chance occurrence. ford's mammoth is another excellent pole lima of large size. of the other pole beans, the two that are still my favorites are kentucky wonder, or old homestead, and golden cluster. the former has fat meaty green pods, entirely stringless until nearly mature, and of enormous length. i have measured many over eight and a half inches long--and they are borne in great profusion. golden cluster is one of the handsomest beans i know. it is happily named, for the pods, of a beautiful rich golden yellow color, hang in generous clusters and great profusion. in quality it has no superior; it has always been a great favorite with my customers. one need never fear having too many of these, as the dried beans are pure white and splendid for winter use. last season i tried a new pole bean called burger's green-pod stringless or white-seeded kentucky wonder (the dried seeds of the old sort being brown). it did well, but was in so dry a place that i could not tell whether it was an improvement over the standard or not. it is claimed to be earlier. _beets:_--in beets, varieties are almost endless, but i confess that i have found no visible difference in many cases. edmund's early and early model are good for first crops. the egyptian strains, though largely used for market, have never been as good in quality with me. for the main crop i like crimson globe. in time it is a second early, of remarkably good form, smooth skin and fine quality and color. _broccoli:_--this vegetable is a poorer cousin of the cauliflower (which, by the way, has been termed "only a cabbage with a college education"). it is of little use where cauliflower can be grown, but serves as a substitute in northern sections, as it is more hardy than that vegetable. early white french is the standard sort. _brussels sprouts:_--this vegetable, in my opinion, is altogether too little grown. it is as easy to grow as fall and winter cabbage, and while the yield is less, the quality is so much superior that for the home garden it certainly should be a favorite. today (jan. th) we had for dinner sprouts from a few old plants that had been left in transplanting boxes in an open coldframe. these had been out all winter--with no protection, repeatedly freezing and thawing, and, while of course small, they were better in quality than any cabbage you ever ate. dalkeith is the best dwarf-growing sort. danish prize is a new sort, giving a much heavier yield than the older types. i have tried it only one year, but should say it will become the standard variety. _cabbage:_--in cabbages, too, there is an endless mix-up of varieties. the jersey wakefield still remains the standard early. but it is at the best but a few days ahead of the flat-headed early sorts which stand much longer without breaking, so that for the home garden a very few heads will do. glory of enkhuisen is a new early sort that has become a great favorite. early summer and succession are good to follow these, and danish ballhead is the best quality winter cabbage, and unsurpassed for keeping qualities. but for the home garden the savoy type is, to my mind, far and away the best. it is not in the same class with the ordinary sorts at all. perfection drumhead savoy is the best variety. of the red cabbages, mammoth rock is the standard. _carrots:_--the carrots are more restricted as to number of varieties. golden ball is the earliest of them all, but also the smallest yielder. early scarlet horn is the standard early, being a better yielder than the above. the danvers half-long is probably grown more than all other kinds together. it grows to a length of about six inches, a very attractive deep orange in color. where the garden soil is not in excellent condition, and thoroughly fined and pulverized as it should be, the shorter-growing kinds, ox-heart and chantenay, will give better satisfaction. if there is any choice in quality, i should award it to chantenay. _cauliflower_;--there is hardly a seed catalogue which does not contain its own special brand of the very best and earliest cauliflower ever introduced. these are for the most part selected strains of either the old favorite, henderson's snowball, or the old early dwarf erfurt. snowball, and burpee's best early, which resembles it, are the best varieties i have ever grown for spring or autumn. they are more likely to head, and of much finer quality than any of the large late sorts. where climatic conditions are not favorable to growing cauliflower, and in dry sections, dry-weather is the most certain to form heads. _celery:_--for the home garden the dwarf-growing, "self-blanching" varieties of celery are much to be preferred. white plume and golden self-blanching are the best. the former is the earliest celery and of excellent quality, but not a good keeper. recent introductions in celery have proved very real improvements. perhaps the best of the newer sorts, for home use, is winter queen, as it is more readily handled than some of the standard market sorts. in quality it has no superior. when put away for winter properly, it will keep through april. _corn:_--you will have to suit yourself about corn. i have not the temerity to name any best varieties--every seedsman has about half a dozen that are absolutely unequaled. for home use, i have cut my list down to three: golden bantam, a dwarf-growing early of extraordinary hardiness--can be planted earlier than any other sort and, while the ears are small and with yellow kernels, it is exceptionally sweet and fine in flavor. this novelty of a few years since, has attained wide popular favor as quickly as any vegetable i know. seymour's sweet orange is a new variety, somewhat similar to golden bantam, but later and larger, of equally fine quality. white evergreen, a perfected strain of stowell's evergreen, a standard favorite for years, is the third. it stays tender longer than any other sweet corn i have ever grown. _cucumbers:_--of cucumbers also there is a long and varied list of names. the old extra early white spine is still the best early; for the main crop, some "perfected" form of white spine. i myself like the fordhood famous, as it is the healthiest strain i ever grew, and has very large fruit that stays green, while being of fine quality. in the last few years the davis perfect has won great popularity, and deservedly so. many seedsmen predict that this is destined to become the leading standard--and where seedsmen agree let us prick up our ears! it has done very well with me, the fruit being the handsomest of any i have grown. if it proves as strong a grower it will replace fordhood famous with me. _egg-plant:_--new york improved purple is still the standard, but it has been to a large extent replaced by black beauty, which has the merit of being ten days earlier and a more handsome fruit. when once tried it will very likely be the only sort grown. _endive:_--this is a substitute for lettuce for which i personally have never cared. it is largely used commercially. broad-leaved batavian is a good variety. giant fringed is the largest. _kale:_--kale is a foreigner which has never been very popular in this country. dwarf scott curled is the tenderest and most delicate (or least coarse) in flavor. _kohlrabi:_--this peculiar mongrel should be better known. it looks as though a turnip had started to climb into the cabbage class and stopped half-way. when gathered young, not more than an inch and a half in diameter at the most, they are quite nice and tender. they are of the easiest cultivation. white vienna is the best. _leek:_--for those who like this sort of thing it is--just the sort of thing they like. american flag is the best variety, but why it was given the first part of that name, i do not know. _lettuce:_--to cover the lettuces thoroughly would take a chapter by itself. for lack of space, i shall have to mention only a few varieties, although there are many others as good and suited to different purposes. for quality, i put mignonette at the top of the list, but it makes very small heads. grand rapids is the best loose- head sort--fine for under glass, in frames and early outdoors. last fall from a bench x ft., i sold $ worth in one crop, besides some used at home. i could not sell winter head lettuce to customers who had once had this sort, so good was its quality. may king and big boston are the best outdoor spring and early summer sorts. new york and deacon are the best solid cabbage-head types for resisting summer heat, and long standing. of the cos type paris white is good. _muskmelon:_--the varieties of muskmelon are also without limit. i mention but two--which have given good satisfaction out of a large number tried, in my own experience. netted gem (known as rocky ford) for a green-fleshed type, and emerald gem for salmon-fleshed. there are a number of newer varieties, such as hoodoo, miller's cream, montreal, nutmeg, etc., all of excellent quality. _watermelon:_--with me (in connecticut) the seasons are a little short for this fruit. cole's early and sweetheart have made the best showing. halbert honey is the best for quality. _okra:_--in cool sections the perfected perkins does best, but it is not quite so good in quality as the southern favorite, white velvet. the flowers and plants of this vegetable are very ornamental. _onion:_--for some unknown reason, different seedsmen call the same onion by the same name. i have never found any explanation of this, except that a good many onions given different names in the catalogues are really the same thing. at least they grade into each other more than other vegetables. with me prizetaker is the only sort now grown in quantity, as i have found it to outyield all other yellows, and to be a good keeper. it is a little milder in quality than the american yellows--danvers and southport globe. when started under glass and transplanted out in april, it attains the size and the quality of the large spanish onions of which it is a descendant. weathersfield red is the standard flat red, but not quite so good in quality or for keeping as southport red globe. of the whites i like best mammoth silver-skin. it is ready early and the finest in quality, to my taste, of all the onions, but not a good keeper. ailsa craig, a new english sort now listed in several american catalogues, is the best to grow for extra fancy onions, especially for exhibiting; it should be started in february or march under glass. _parsley:_--emerald is a large-growing, beautifully colored and mild-flavored sort, well worthy of adoption. _parsnip:_--this vegetable is especially valuable because it may be had at perfection when other vegetables are scarce. hollow crown ("improved," of course!) is the best. _peas:_--peas are worse than corn. you will find enough exclamation points in the pea sections of catalogues to train the vines on. if you want to escape brain-fag and still have as good as the best, if not better, plant gradus (or prosperity) for early and second early; boston unrivaled (an improved form of telephone) for main crop, and gradus for autumn. these two peas are good yielders, free growers and of really wonderfully fine quality. they need bushing, but i have never found a variety of decent quality that does not. _pepper:_--ruby king is the standard, large, red, mild pepper, and as good as any. chinese giant is a newer sort, larger but later. the flesh is extremely thick and mild. on account of this quality, it will have a wider range of use than the older sorts. _pumpkins:_--the old large cheese, and the newer quaker pie, are as prolific, hardy and fine in quality and sweetness as any. _potato:_--bovee is a good early garden sort, but without the best of culture is very small. irish cobbler is a good early white. green mountain is a universal favorite for main crop in the east--a sure yielder and heavy-crop potato of excellent quality. uncle sam is the best quality potato i ever grew. baked, they taste almost as rich as chestnuts. _radish:_--i do not care to say much about radishes; i do not like them. they are, however, universal favorites. they come round, half- long, long and tapering; white, red, white-tipped, crimson, rose, yellow-brown and black; and from the size of a button to over a foot long by fifteen inches in circumference--the latter being the new chinese or celestial. so you can imagine what a revel of varieties the seedsmen may indulge in. i have tried many--and cut my own list down to two, rapid-red (probably an improvement of the old standard, scarlet button), and crimson globe (or giant), a big, rapid, healthy grower of good quality, and one that does not get "corky." a little land-plaster, or gypsum, worked into the soil at time of planting, will add to both appearance and quality in radishes. _spinach:_--the best variety of spinach is swiss chard beet (see below). if you want the real sort, use long season, which will give you cuttings long after other sorts have run to seed. new zealand will stand more heat than any other sort. victoria is a newer variety, for which the claim of best quality is made. in my own trial i could not notice very much difference. it has, however, thicker and "savoyed" leaves. _salsify:_--this is, to my taste, the most delicious of all root vegetables. it will not do well in soil not deep and finely pulverized, but a row or two for home use can be had by digging and fining before sowing the seed. it is worth extra work. mammoth sandwich is the best variety. _squash:_--of this fine vegetable there are no better sorts for the home garden than the little delicata, and fordhook. vegetable marrow is a fine english sort that does well in almost all localities. the best of the newer large-vined sorts is the delicious. it is of finer quality than the well known hubbard. for earliest use, try a few plants of white or yellow bush scalloped. they are not so good in quality as either delicata or fordhook, which are ready within a week or so later. the latter are also excellent keepers and can be had, by starting plants early and by careful storing, almost from june to june. _tomato:_--if you have a really hated enemy, give him a dozen seed catalogues and ask him to select for you the best four tomatoes. but unless you want to become criminally involved, send his doctor around the next morning. a few years ago i tried over forty kinds. a good many have been introduced since, some of which i have tried. i am prepared to make the following statements: earliana is the earliest quality tomato, for light warm soils, that i have ever grown; chalk's jewel, the earliest for heavier soils (bonny best early resembles it); matchless is a splendid main-crop sort; ponderosa is the biggest and best quality--but it likes to split. there is one more sort, which i have tried one year only, so do not accept my opinion as conclusive. it is the result of a cross between ponderosa and dwarf champion--one of the strongest-growing sorts. it is called dwarf giant. the fruits are tremendous in size and in quality unsurpassed by any. the vine is very healthy, strong and stocky. i believe this new tomato will become the standard main crop for the home garden. by all means try it. and that is a good deal to say for a novelty in its second year! _turnip:_--the earliest turnip of good quality is the white milan. there are several others of the white-fleshed sorts, but i have never found them equal in quality for table to the yellow sorts. of these, golden ball (or orange jelly) is the best quality. petrowski is a different and distinct sort, of very early maturity and of especially fine quality. if you have room for but one sort in your home garden, plant this for early, and a month later for main crop. do not fail to try some of this year's novelties. half the fun of gardening is in the experimenting. but when you are testing out the new things in comparison with the old, just take a few plants of the latter and give them the same extra care and attention. very often the reputation of a novelty is built upon the fact that in growing it on trial the gardener has given it unusual care and the best soil and location at his command. be fair to the standards--and very often they will surprise you fully as much as the novelties. chapter xiii insects and diseases and methods of fighting them i use the term "methods of fighting" rather than the more usual one, "remedies," because by both experience and study i am more and more convinced that so long as the commercial fields of agriculture remain in the present absolutely unorganized condition, and so long as the gardener--home or otherwise--who cares to be neglectful and thus become a breeder of all sorts of plant pests, is allowed so to do--just so long we can achieve no remedy worth the name. when speaking of a remedy in this connection we very frequently are putting the cart before the horse, and refer to some means of prevention. prevention is not only the best, but often the only cure. this the gardener should always remember. this subject of plant enemies has not yet received the attention from scientific investigators which other branches of horticulture have, and it is altogether somewhat complicated. before taking up the various insects and diseases the following analysis and list will enable the reader to get a general comprehension of the whole matter. plant enemies are of two kinds--( ) insects, and ( ) diseases. the former are of two kinds, (a) insects which chew or eat the leaves or fruit; (b) insects which suck the juices therefrom. the diseases also are of two kinds--(a) those which result from the attack of some fungus, or germ; (b) those which attack the whole organism of the plant and are termed "constitutional." concerning these latter practically nothing is known. it will be seen at once, of course, that the remedy to be used must depend upon the nature of the enemy to be fought. we can therefore reduce the matter to a simple classification, as follows: plant enemies insects class eating a sucking b diseases parasitical c constitutional d remedies mechanical number covered boxes........... collars................. cards................... destructive hand-picking............ kerosene emulsion....... whale-oil soap.......... miscible oils........... tobacco dust............ carbolic acid emulsion.. corrosive sublimate.... bordeaux mixture....... poisonous paris green............ arsenate of lead....... hellebore.............. it will be of some assistance, particularly as regards quick reference, to give the following table, which shows at a glance the method of fighting any enemy, the presence of which is known or anticipated. while this may seem quite a formidable list, in practice many of these pests will not appear, and under ordinary circumstances the following six remedies out of those mentioned will suffice to keep them all in check, _if used in time:_ covered boxes, hand-picking, kerosene emulsion, tobacco dust, bordeaux mixture, arsenate of lead. enemy | attacking | class | remedy --------------------|----------------------------|--------|------- aphis (plant-lice) | cabbage and other plants, | b | , , | especially under glass | | asparagus-beetle | asparagus | a | , asparagus rust | asparagus | c | black-rot | cabbage and the cabbage | d | | group | | borers | squash | b | caterpillars | cabbage group | a | , , caterpillars | tomato | a | club-root | cabbage group | c | see text cucumber-beetle | cucumber and vines | a | , , (striped beetle) | | | cucumber-wilt | cucumber and vines | c | cucumber-blight | cucumber, muskmelon, | c | | cabbage | | cut-worm | cabbage, tomato, onion | a | , , , flea-beetle | potato, turnip, radish | a | , potato-beetle | potato and egg-plant | a | , , potato-blight | potato | c | potato-scab | potato (tubers) | c | root-maggot | radish, onion, cabbage, | a | , , | melons | | squash-bug | squash, pumpkin | b | , , , white-fly | plants; cucumber, tomato | b | , , white-grub | plants | a | however, that the home gardener may be prepared to meet any contingency, i shall take up in brief detail the plant enemies mentioned and the remedies suggested. _aphis:_--the small, soft green plant-lice. they seldom attack healthy growing plants in the field, but are hard to keep off under glass. if once established it will take several applications to get rid of them. use kerosene or soap emulsion, or tobacco dust. there are also several trade-marked preparations that are good. aphine, which may be had of any seed house, has proved very effective in my own work, and it is the pleasantest to use that i have so far found. _asparagus-beetle:_--this pest will give little trouble on cleanly cultivated patches. thorough work with arsenate of lead ( to ) will take care of it. _black-rot:_--this affects the cabbage group, preventing heading, by falling of the leaves. in clean, thoroughly limed soil, with proper rotations, it is not likely to appear. the seed may be soaked, in cases where the disease has appeared previously, for fifteen minutes in a pint of water in which one of the corrosive sublimate tablets which are sold at drug stores is dissolved. _borers:_--this borer is a flattish, white grub, which penetrates the main stem of squash or other vines near the ground and seems to sap the strength of the plant, even when the vines have attained a length of ten feet or more. his presence is first made evident by the wilting of the leaves during the noonday heat. coal ashes mixed with the manure in the hill, is claimed to be a preventative. another is to plant some early squash between the hills prepared for the winter crop, and not to plant the latter until as late as possible. the early squash vines, which act as a trap, are pulled and burned. last season almost half the vines in one of my pieces were attacked after many of the squashes were large enough to eat. with a little practice i was able to locate the borer's exact position, shown by a spot in the stalk where the flesh was soft, and of a slightly different color. with a thin, sharp knife-blade the vines were carefully slit lengthwise on this spot, the borer extracted and killed and the vines in almost every instance speedily recovered. another method is to root the vines by heaping moist earth over several of the leaf joints, when the vines have attained sufficient length. _cabbage-caterpillar:_--this small green worm, which hatches upon the leaves and in the forming heads of cabbage and other vegetables of the cabbage group, comes from the eggs laid by the common white or yellow butterfly of early spring. pick off all that are visible, and spray with kerosene emulsion if the heads have not begun to form. if they have, use hellebore instead. the caterpillar or worm of tomatoes is a large green voracious one. hand-picking is the only remedy. _club-root:_--this is a parasitical disease attacking the cabbage group, especially in ground where these crops succeed each other. lime both soil and seed-bed--at least the fall before planting, unless using a special agricultural lime. the crop infested is sometimes carried through by giving a special dressing of nitrate of soda, guano or other quick-acting powerful fertilizer, and hilled high with moist earth, thus giving a special stimulation and encouraging the formation of new roots. while this does not in any way cure the disease, it helps the crop to withstand its attack. when planting again be sure to use crop rotation and to set plants not grown in infested soil. _cucumber-beetle:_--this is the small, black-and-yellow-striped beetle which attacks cucumbers and other vines and, as it multiplies rapidly and does a great deal of damage before the results show, they must be attended to immediately upon appearance. the vine should be protected with screens until they crowd the frames, which should be put in place before the beetles put in an appearance. if the beetles are still in evidence when the vines get so large that the screens must be removed, keep sprayed with bordeaux mixture. plaster, or fine ashes, sifted on the vines will also keep them off to some extent, by keeping the leaves covered. _cucumber-wilt:_--this condition accompanies the presence of the striped beetle, although supposed not to be directly caused by it. the only remedy is to get rid of the beetles as above, and to collect and burn every wilted leaf or plant. _cucumber-blight_ or _mildew_ is similar to that which attacks muskmelons, the leaves turning yellow, dying in spots and finally drying up altogether. where there is reason to fear an attack of this disease, or upon the first appearance, spray thoroughly with bordeaux, - - , and repeat every ten days or so. the spraying seems to be more effective on cucumbers than on melons. _cut-worm:_--the cut-worm is perhaps the most annoying of all garden pests. others do more damage, but none is so exasperating. he works at night, attacks the strongest, healthiest plants, and is content simply to cut them off, seldom, apparently, eating much or carrying away any of the severed leaves or stems, although occasionally i have found such bits, especially small onion tops, dragged off and partly into the soil. in small gardens the quickest and best remedy is hand-picking. as the worms work at night they may be found with a lantern; or very early in the morning. in daytime by digging about in the soil wherever a cut is found, and by careful search, they can almost invariably be turned out. as a preventive, and a supplement to hand-picking, a poisoned bait should be used. this is made by mixing bran with water until a "mash" is made, to which is added a dusting of paris green or arsenate of lead, sprayed on thickly and thoroughly worked through the mass. this is distributed in small amounts--a tablespoonful or so to a place along the row or near each hill or plant--just as they are coming up or set out. still another method, where only a few plants are put out, is to protect each by a collar of tin or tar paper. _flea-beetle:_--this small, black or striped hard-shelled mite attacks potatoes and young cabbage, radish and turnip plants. it is controlled by spraying with kerosene emulsion or bordeaux. _potato-beetle:_--the striped colorado beetle, which invariably finds the potato patch, no matter how small or isolated. paris green, dry or sprayed, is the standard remedy. arsenate of lead is now largely used. on small plots hand-picking of old bugs and destruction of eggs (which are laid on under side of leaves) is quick and sure. _potato-blight:_--both early and late forms of blight are prevented by bordeaux, - - , sprayed every two weeks. begin early-- when plants are about six inches high. _potato-scab:_--plant on new ground; soak the seed in solution prepared as directed under no. , which see; allow no treated tubers to touch bags, boxes, bins or soil where untreated ones have been kept. _root-maggot:_--this is a small white grub, often causing serious injury to radishes, onions and the cabbage group. liming the soil and rotation are the best preventives. destroy all infested plants, being sure to get the maggots when pulling them up. the remaining plants should be treated with a gill of strong caustic lime water, or solution of muriate of potash poured about the root of each plant, first removing an inch or so of earth. in place of these solutions carbolic acid emulsion is sometimes used; or eight to ten drops of bisulphide of carbon are dropped into a hole made near the roots with the dibber and then covered in. extra stimulation, as directed for _club-root_, will help carry the plants through. _squash-bug:_--this is the large, black, flat "stink-bug," so destructive of squash and the other running vines. protection with frames, or hand-picking, are the best home garden remedies. the old bugs may be trapped under boards and by early vines. the young bugs, or "sap-sucking nymphs," are the ones that do the real damage. heavy tobacco dusting, or kerosene emulsion will kill them. _white-fly:_--this is the most troublesome under glass, where it is controlled by fumigation, but occasionally is troublesome on plants and tomato and cucumber vines. the young are scab-like insects and do the real damage. spray with kerosene emulsion or whale-oil soap. _white-grub_ or _muck-worm:_--when lawns are infested the sod must be taken up, the grubs destroyed and new sward made. when the roots of single plants are attacked, dig out, destroy the grubs and, if the plant is not too much injured, reset. the remedies given in the table above are prepared as follows: mechanical remedies .--_covered boxes:_--these are usually made of half-inch stuff, about eight inches high and covered with mosquito netting, wire or "protecting cloth"--the latter having the extra advantage of holding warmth over night. .--_collars_ are made of old cans with the bottoms removed, cardboard or tarred paper, large enough to go over the plant and an inch or so into the ground. .--_cards_ are cut and fitted close around the stem and for an inch or so upon the ground around it, to prevent maggots going down the stem to the root. not much used. destructive remedies .--_hand-picking_ is usually very effective, and if performed as follows, not very disagreeable: fasten a small tin can securely to a wooden handle and fill one-third full of water and kerosene; make a small wooden paddle, with one straight edge and a rather sharp point; by using this in the right hand and the pan in the left, the bugs may be quickly knocked off. be sure to destroy all eggs when hand-picking is used. .--_kerosene emulsion_ is used in varying strengths; for method of preparing, see chapter xvii. and .--for use of whale-oil soap and miscible oils, see chapter xvii. .--_tobacco dust:_--this article varies greatly. most sorts are next to worthless, but a few of the brands especially prepared for this work (and sold usually at $ per hundred pounds, which will last two ordinary home gardens a whole season) are very convenient to use, and effective. apply with a duster, like that described in implements. .--_carbolic acid emulsion:_-- pint crude acid, lb. soap and gal. water. dissolve the soap in hot water, add balance of water and pump into an emulsion, as described for kerosene emulsion. .--_corrosive sublimate_ is used to destroy scab on potatoes for seed by dissolving oz. in gals, of water. the same result is obtained by soaking for thirty minutes in a solution of commercial formalin, at the rate of gill to gals. of water. .--_bordeaux mixture:_--see chapter xvii. poisonous remedies .--_paris green:_--this is the standard remedy for eating-bugs and worms. with a modern dusting machine it can be put on dry, early in the morning when the dew is still on. sometimes it is mixed with plaster. for tender plants easily burned by the pure powder, and where dusting is not convenient, it is mixed with water at the rate of lb. to to gals. and used as a spray. in mixing, make a paste of equal quantities of the powder and quicklime, and then mix thoroughly in the water. it must be kept stirred up when using. .--_arsenate of lead:_--this has two advantages over paris green: it will not burn the foliage and it will stay on several times as long. use from to lbs. in gals. of water; mix well and strain before putting in sprayer. see also chapter xvii. .--_hellebore:_--a dry, white powder, used in place of nos. or on vegetables or fruit that is soon to be eaten. for dusting, use lb. hellebore to of plaster or flour. for watering or spraying, at rate of lb. to gals. of water. precautions so much for what we can do in actual hand-to-hand, or rather hand-to- mouth, conflict with the enemy. very few remedies have ever proved entirely successful, especially on crops covering any considerable area. it will be far better, far easier and far more effective to use the following means of precaution against plant pest ravages: first, aim to have soil, food and plants that will produce a rapid, robust growth without check. such plants are seldom attacked by any plant disease, and the foliage does not seem to be so tempting to eating- insects; besides which, of course, the plants are much better able to withstand their attack if they do come. second, give clean, frequent culture and keep the soil busy. do not have old weeds and refuse lying around for insects and eggs to be sheltered by. burn all leaves, stems and other refuse from plants that have been diseased. do not let the ground lie idle, but by continuous cropping keep the bugs, caterpillars and eggs constantly rooted out and exposed to their natural enemies. third, practice crop rotation. this is of special importance where any root disease is developed. fourth, watch closely and constantly for the first appearance of trouble. the old adages "eternal vigilance is the price of peace," and "a stitch in time saves nine," are nowhere more applicable than to this matter. and last, and of extreme importance, be prepared to act _at once_. do not give the enemy an hour's rest after his presence is discovered. in almost every case it is only by having time to multiply, that damage amounting to anything will be done. if you will keep on hand, ready for instant use, a good hand-sprayer and a modern powder gun, a few covered boxes, tobacco dust, arsenate of lead and materials for kerosene emulsion and bordeaux mixture, and are not afraid to resort to hand-picking when necessary, you will be able to cope with all the plant enemies you are likely to encounter. the slight expense necessary--considering that the two implements mentioned will last for years with a little care--will pay as handsome a dividend as any garden investment you can make. chapter xiv harvesting and storing it is a very common thing to allow the garden vegetables not used to rot on the ground, or in it. there is a great deal of unnecessary waste in this respect, for a great many of the things so neglected may just as well be carried into winter, and will pay a very handsome dividend for the slight trouble of gathering and storing them. a good frost-proof, cool cellar is the best and most convenient place in which to store the surplus product of the home garden. but, lacking this, a room partitioned off in the furnace cellar and well ventilated, or a small empty room, preferably on the north side of the house, that can be kept below forty degrees most of the time, will serve excellently. or, some of the most bulky vegetables, such as cabbage and the root crops, may be stored in a prepared pit made in the garden itself. as it is essential that such a pit be properly constructed, i shall describe one with sufficient detail to enable the home gardener readily to construct it. select a spot where water will not stand. put the vegetables in a triangular-shaped pile, the base three or four feet wide, and as long as required. separate the different vegetables in this pile by stakes about two feet higher than the top of the pile, and label them. then cover with a layer of clean straw or bog hay, and over this four inches of soil, dug up three feet back from the edges of the pile. this work must be done late in the fall, as nearly as one can judge just before lasting freezing begins, and preferably on a cold morning when the ground is just beginning to freeze; the object being to freeze the partly earth covering at once, so that it will not be washed or blown off. the vegetables must be perfectly dry when stored; dig them a week or so previous and keep them in an airy shed. as soon as this first layer of earth is partly frozen, but before it freezes through, put on another thick layer of straw or hay and cover with twelve inches of earth, keeping the pile as steep as possible; a slightly clayey soil, that may be beaten down firmly into shape with a spade, being best. the pile should be made where it will be sheltered from the sun as much as possible, such as on the north side of a building. the disadvantage of the plan is, of course, that the vegetables cannot be got at until the pile is opened up, in early spring, or late if desired. its two advantages are that the vegetables stored will be kept in better condition than in any cellar, and that cellar or house room will be saved. for storing small quantities of the roots, such as carrots or beets, they are usually packed in boxes or barrels and covered in with clean sand. where an upstairs room has to be used, swamp or sphagnum moss may replace the sand. it makes an ideal packing medium, as it is much lighter and cleaner than the sand. in many localities it may be had for the gathering; in others one may get it from a florist. in storing vegetables of any kind, and by whatever method, see to it that: ( ) they are always clean, dry and sound. the smallest spot or bruise is a danger center, which may spread destruction to the lot. ( ) that the temperature, whatever required--in most cases - degrees being best--is kept as even as possible. ( ) that the storage place is kept clean, dry (by ventilation when needed) and sweet (by use of whitewash and lime). ( ) that no rats or other rodents are playing havoc with your treasures while you never suspect it. so many of the vegetables can be kept, for either part or all of the winter, that i shall take them up in order, with brief directions. many, such as green beans, rhubarb, tomatoes, etc., which cannot be kept in the ordinary ways, may be easily and cheaply canned, and where one has a good cellar, it will certainly pay to get a canning outfit and make use of this method. _beans:_--almost all the string and snap beans, when dried in the pods, are excellent for cooking. and any pods which have not been gathered in the green state should be picked, _as soon as dry_ (as wet weather is likely to mould or sprout them), and stored in a dry place, or spread on a bench in the sun. they will keep, either shelled or in the dry pods, for winter. _beets:_--in october, before the first hard frosts, take up and store in a cool cellar, in clean, perfectly dry sand, or in pits outside (see cabbage); do not cut off the long tap roots, nor the tops close enough to cause any "bleeding." _brussels sprouts:_--these are improved by freezing, and may be used from the open garden until december. if wanted later, store them with cabbage, or hang up the stalks in bunches in a cold cellar. _cabbage:_--if only a few heads are to be stored, a cool cellar will do. even if where they will be slightly frozen, they will not be injured, so long as they do not freeze and thaw repeatedly. they should not be taken in until there is danger of severe freezing, as they will keep better, and a little frost improves the flavor. for storing small quantities outdoors, dig a trench, a foot or so deep, in a well drained spot, wide enough to admit two heads side by side. pull up the cabbages, without removing either stems or outer leaves, and store side by side, head down, in the bottom of the trench. now cover over lightly with straw, meadow hay, or any refuse which will keep the dirt from freezing to the cabbages, and then cover over the whole with earth, to the depth of several inches, but allowing the top of the roots to remain exposed, which will facilitate digging them up as required. do not bury the cabbage until as late as possible before severe freezing, as a spell of warm weather would rot it. _carrots:_--treat in the same way as beets. they will not be hurt by a slight freezing of the tops, before being dug, but care must be taken not to let the roots become touched by frost. _celery:_--that which is to be used early is blanched outside, by banking, as described in chapter xi, and as celery will stand a little freezing, will be used directly from the garden. for the portion to be kept over winter, provide boxes about a foot wide, and nearly as deep as the celery is high. cover the bottoms of these boxes with two or three inches of sand, and wet thoroughly. upon this stand the celery upright, and packed close together. in taking up the celery for storing in this way, the roots and whatever earth adheres to them are kept on, not cut, as it is bought in the stores. the boxes are then stored in a cellar, or other dark, dry, cold place where the temperature will not go more than five degrees below freezing. the celery will be ready for use after christmas. if a long succession is wanted, store from the open two or three different times, say at the end of october, first part of november and the latter part of november. _cucumbers, melons, egg-plant:_--while there is no way of storing these for any great length of time without recourse to artificial cold, they may be had for some time by storing just before the first frosts in a cool, dark cellar, care being taken in handling the fruits to give them no bruises. _onions:_--if the onions got a good early start in the spring, the tops will begin to die down by the middle of august. as soon as the tops have turned yellow and withered they should be pulled, on the first clear dry day, and laid in windrows (three or four rows in one), but not heaped up. they should be turned over frequently, by hand or with a wooden rake, and removed to a shed or barn floor as soon as dry, where the tops can be cut off. keep them spread out as much as possible, and give them open ventilation until danger of frost. then store in a dry place and keep as cool as possible without freezing. a few barrels, with holes knocked in the sides, will do well for a small quantity. _parsley:_--take up a few plants and keep in a flower-pot or small box, in the kitchen window. _parsnips:_--these will stay in the ground without injury all winter, but part of the crop may be taken up late in the fall and stored with beets, carrots and turnips, to use while the ground is frozen. _potatoes:_--when the vines have died down and the skin of the new potatoes has become somewhat hardened, they can be dug and stored in a cool, dry cellar at once. be sure to give plenty of ventilation until danger of frost. keep from the light, as this has the effect of making the potatoes bitter. if there is any sign of rot among the tubers, do not dig them up until it has stopped. _squash and pumpkins:_--the proper conditions for storing for winter will be indicated by the drying and shrinking of the stem. _cut_ them from the vines, being careful never to break off the stem, turn over, rub off the dirt and leave the under side exposed to a few days' sunlight. then carry in a spring wagon, or spring wheelbarrow, covered with old bags or hay to keep from any bruises. store in the dryest part of the cellar, and if possible where the temperature will not go below forty degrees. leave them on the vines in the field as late as possible, while escaping frosts. _tomatoes:_--just before the first frosts are likely to begin, pick all of the best of the unripened fruits. place part of these on clean straw in a coldframe, giving protection, where they will gradually ripen up. place others, that are fully developed but not ripe, in straw in the cellar. in this way fresh tomatoes may frequently be had as late as christmas. _turnip:_--these roots, if desired, can be stored as are beets or carrots. it is hard to retain our interest in a thing when most of its usefulness has gone by. it is for that reason, i suppose, that one sees so many forsaken and weed-grown gardens every autumn, where in the spring everything was neat and clean. but there are two very excellent reasons why the vegetable garden should not be so abandoned--to say nothing of appearances! the first is that many vegetables continue to grow until the heavy frosts come; and the second, that the careless gardener who thus forsakes his post is sowing no end of trouble for himself for the coming year. for weeds left to themselves, even late in the fall, grow in the cool moist weather with astonishing rapidity, and, almost before one realizes it, transform the well kept garden into a ragged wilderness, where the intruders have taken such a strong foothold that they cannot be pulled up without tearing everything else with them. so we let them go--and, left to themselves, they accomplish their purpose in life, and leave upon the ground an evenly distributed supply of plump ripe seeds, which next spring will cause the perennial exclamation, "mercy, john, where did all these weeds come from?" and john replies, "i don't know; we kept the garden clean last summer. i think there must be weed seeds in the fertilizer." do not let up on your fight with weeds, for every good vegetable that is left over can be put to some use. here and there in the garden will be a strip that has gone by, and as it is now too late to plant, we just let it go. yet now is the time we should be preparing all such spots for withstanding next summer's drouth! you may remember how strongly was emphasized the necessity for having abundant humus (decayed vegetable matter) in the soil--how it acts like a sponge to retain moisture and keep things growing through the long, dry spells which we seem to be sure of getting every summer. so take thought for next year. buy a bushel of rye, and as fast as a spot in your garden can be cleaned up, harrow, dig or rake it over, and sow the rye on broadcast. just enough loose surface dirt to cover it and let it sprout, is all it asks. if the weather is dry, and you can get a small roller, roll it in to ensure better germination. it will come up quickly; it will keep out the weeds which otherwise would be taking possession of the ground; it will grow until the ground is frozen solid and begin again with the first warm spring day; it will keep your garden from washing out in heavy rains, and capture and save from being washed away and wasted a good deal of left-over plant food; it will serve as just so much real manure for your garden; it will improve the mechanical condition of the soil, and it will add the important element of humus to it. in addition to these things, you will have an attractive and luxuriant garden spot, instead of an unsightly bare one. and in clearing off these patches for rye, beware of waste. if you have hens, or by chance a pig, they will relish old heads of lettuce, old pea-vines, still green after the last picking, and the stumps and outer leaves of cabbage. even if you have not this means of utilizing your garden's by- products, do not let them go to waste. put everything into a square pile--old sods, weeds, vegetable tops, refuse, dirt, leaves, lawn sweepings--anything that will rot. tread this pile down thoroughly; give it a soaking once in a while if within reach of the hose, and two or three turnings with a fork. next spring when you are looking for every available pound of manure with which to enrich your garden, this compost heap will stand you in good stead. burn _now_ your old pea-brush, tomato poles and everything that is not worth keeping over for next year. do not leave these things lying around to harbor and protect eggs and insects and weed seeds. if any bean-poles, stakes, trellises or supports seem in good enough condition to serve another year, put them under cover now; and see that all your tools are picked up and put in one place, where you can find them and overhaul them next february. as soon as your surplus pole beans have dried in their pods, take up poles and all and store in a dry place. the beans may be taken off later at your leisure. be careful to cut down and burn (or put in the compost heap) all weeds around your fences, and the edges of your garden, _before_ they ripen seed. if the suggestions given are followed, the vegetable garden may be stretched far into the winter. but do not rest at that. begin to plan _now_ for your next year's garden. put a pile of dirt where it will not be frozen, or dried out, when you want to use it next february for your early seeds. if you have no hotbed, fix the frames and get the sashes for one now, so it will be ready to hand when the ground is frozen solid and covered with snow next spring. if you have made garden mistakes this year, be planning now to rectify them next--without progress there is no fun in the game. let next spring find you with your plans all made, your materials all on hand and a fixed resolution to have the best garden you have ever had. part three--fruits and berries chapter xv. the varieties of pome and stone fruits many a home gardener who has succeeded well with vegetables is, for some reason or other, still fearsome about trying his hand at growing his own fruit. this is all a mistake; the initial expense is very slight (fruit trees will cost but twenty-five to forty cents each, and the berry bushes only about four cents each), and the same amount of care that is demanded by vegetables, if given to fruit, will produce apples, peaches, pears and berries far superior to any that can be bought, especially in flavor. i know a doctor in new york, a specialist, who has attained prominence in his profession, and who makes a large income; he tells me that there is nothing in the city that hurts him so much as to have to pay out a nickel whenever he wants an apple. his boyhood home was on a pennsylvania farm, where apples were as free as water, and he cannot get over the idea of their being one of nature's gracious gifts, any more than he can overcome his hankering for that crisp, juicy, uncloying flavor of a good apple, which is not quite equaled by the taste of any other fruit. and yet it is not the saving in expense, although that is considerable, that makes the strongest argument for growing one's own fruit. there are three other reasons, each of more importance. first is quality. the commercial grower cannot afford to grow the very finest fruit. many of the best varieties are not large enough yielders to be available for his use, and he cannot, on a large scale, so prune and care for his trees that the individual fruits receive the greatest possible amount of sunshine and thinning out--the personal care that is required for the very best quality. second, there is the beauty and the value that well kept fruit trees add to a place, no matter how small it is. an apple tree in full bloom is one of the most beautiful pictures that nature ever paints; and if, through any train of circumstances, it ever becomes advisable to sell or rent the home, its desirability is greatly enhanced by the few trees necessary to furnish the loveliness of showering blossoms in spring, welcome shade in summer and an abundance of delicious fruits through autumn and winter. then there is the fun of doing it--of planting and caring for a few young trees, which will reward your labors, in a cumulative way, for many years to come. but enough of reasons. if the call of the soil is in your veins, if your fingers (and your brain) in the springtime itch to have a part in earth's ever-wonderful renascence, if your lips part at the thought of the white, firm, toothsome flesh of a ripened-on-the-tree red apple-- then you must have a home orchard without delay. and it is not a difficult task. apples, pears and the stone fruits, fortunately, are not very particular about their soils. they take kindly to anything between a sandy soil so loose as to be almost shifting, and heavy clay. even these soils can be made available, but of course not without more work. and you need little room to grow all the fruit your family can possibly eat. time was, when to speak of an apple tree brought to mind one of those old, moss-barked giants that served as a carriage shed and a summer dining-room, decorated with scythes and rope swings, requiring the services of a forty-foot ladder and a long-handled picker to gather the fruit. that day is gone. in its stead have come the low-headed standard and the dwarf forms. the new types came as new institutions usually do, under protest. the wise said they would never be practical--the trees would not get large enough and teams could not be driven under them. but the facts remained that the low trees are more easily and thoroughly cared for; that they do not take up so much room; that they are less exposed to high winds, and such fruit as does fall is not injured; that the low limbs shelter the roots and conserve moisture; and, above all, that picking can be accomplished much more easily and with less injury to fine, well ripened fruit. the low-headed tree has come to stay. if your space will allow, the low-headed standards will give you better satisfaction than the dwarfs. they are longer-lived, they are healthier, and they do not require nearly so much intensive culture. on the other hand, the dwarfs may be used where there is little or no room for the standards. if there is no other space available, they may be put in the vegetable or flower garden, and incidentally they are then sure of receiving some of that special care which they need in the way of fertilization and cultivation. as i have said, any average soil will grow good fruit. a gravelly loam, with a gravel subsoil, is the ideal. do not think from this, however, that all you have to do is buy a few trees from a nursery agent, stick them in the ground and from your negligence reap the rewards that follow only intelligent industry. the soil is but the raw material which work and care alone can transform, through the medium of the growing tree, into the desired result of a cellar well stored each autumn with fruit. fruit trees have one big advantage over vegetables--the ground can be prepared for them while they are growing. if the soil will grow a crop of clover it is already in good shape to furnish the trees with food at once. if not, manure or fertilizers may be applied, and clover or other green crops turned under during the first two or three years of the trees' growth, as will be described later. the first thing to consider, when you have decided to plant, is the location you will give your trees. plan to have pears, plums, cherries and peaches, as well as apples. for any of these the soil, of whatever nature, must be well drained. if not naturally, then tile or other artificial drainage must be provided. for only a few trees it would probably answer the purpose to dig out large holes and fill in a foot or eighteen inches at the bottom with small stone, covered with gravel or screened coal-cinders. my own land has a gravelly subsoil and i have not had to drain. then with the apples, and especially with the peaches, a too-sheltered slope to the south is likely to start the flower buds prematurely in spring, only to result in total crop loss from late frosts. the diagram on the next page suggests an arrangement which may be adapted to individual needs. one may see from it that the apples are placed to the north, where they will to some extent shelter the rest of the grounds; the peaches where they will not be coddled; the pears, which may be had upon quince stock, where they will not shade the vegetable garden; the cherries, which are the most ornamental, where they may lend a decorative effect. and now, having decided that we can--and will--grow good fruit, and having in mind suggestions that will enable us to go out to-morrow morning and, with an armful of stakes, mark out the locations, the next consideration should be the all-important question of what varieties are most successfully grown on the small place. [illustration: a suggested arrangement of fruit trees on the small place.] [ed. unable to recreate in text format.] the following selections are made with the home fruit garden, not the commercial orchard, in mind. while they are all "tried and true" sorts, succeeding generally in the northeast, new england and western fruit sections, remember that fruits, as a rule, though not so particular as vegetables about soil, seem much more so about locality. i would suggest, therefore, submitting your list, before buying, to your state experiment station. you are taxed for its support; get some direct result from it. there they will be glad to advise you, and are in the best position to help you get started properly. above all, do not buy from the traveling nursery agent, with his grip full of wonderful lithographs of new and unheard-of novelties. get the catalogue of several reliable nurseries, take standard varieties about which you know, and buy direct. several years ago i had the opportunity to go carefully over one of the largest fruit nurseries in the country. every care and precaution was taken to grow fine, healthy, young trees. the president told me that they sold thousands every year to smaller concerns, to be resold again through field and local agents. yet they do an enormous retail business themselves, and of course their own customers get the best trees. the following are listed, as nearly as i can judge, in the order of their popularity, but as many of the best are not valuable commercially, they are little known. whenever you find a particularly good apple or pear, try to trace it, and add it to your list. apples without any question, the apple is far and away the most valuable fruit, both because of its greater scope of usefulness and its longer season--the last of the winter's russets are still juicy and firm when the first early harvests and red astrachans are tempting the "young idea" to experiment with colic. plant but a small proportion of early varieties, for the late ones are better. out of a dozen trees, i would put in one early, three fall, and the rest winter sorts. among the summer apples are several deserving special mention: yellow transparent is the earliest. it is an old favorite and one of the most easily grown of all apples. its color is indicated by the name, and it is a fair eating-apple and a very good cooker. red astrachan, another first early, is not quite so good for cooking, but is a delicious eating-apple of good size. an apple of more recent introduction and extremely hardy (hailing first from russia), and already replacing the above sorts, is livland (livland raspberry). the tree is of good form, very vigorous and healthy. the fruit is ready almost as soon as yellow transparent, and is of much better quality for eating. in appearance it is exceptionally handsome, being of good size, regular form and having those beautiful red shades found almost exclusively in the later apples. the flesh is quality is fully up to its appearance. the white, crisp-breaking flesh, most aromatic, deliciously sub-acid, makes it ideal for eating. a neighbor of mine sold $ worth of fruit from twenty trees to one dealer. for such a splendid apple mcintosh is remarkably hardy and vigorous, succeeding over a very wide territory, and climate severe enough to kill many of the other newer varieties. the fameuse (widely known as the snow) is an excellent variety for northern sections. it resembles the mcintosh, which some claim to be derived from it. fall pippin, pound sweet and twenty ounce, are other popular late autumns. in the winter section, baldwin, which is too well known to need describing, is the leading commercial variety in many apple districts, and it is a good variety for home growing on account of its hardiness and good cooking and keeping qualities; but for the home orchard, it is far surpassed in quality by several others. in northern sections, down to the corn line, northern spy is a great favorite. it is a large, roundish apple, with thin, tender, glossy skin, light to deep carmine over light yellow, and an excellent keeper. in sections to which it is adapted it is a particularly vigorous, compact, upright grower. jonathan is another splendid sort, with a wider range of conditions favorable for growth. it is, however, not a strong-growing tree and is somewhat uncertain in maturing its fruit, which is a bright, clear red of distinctive flavor. it likes a soil with more clay than do most apples. in the middle west and middle south, grimes (golden) has made a great local reputation in many sections, although in others it has not done well at all. the spitzenberg (esopus) is very near the top of the list of all late eating-apples, being at its prime about december. it is another handsome yellow-covered red apple, with flesh slightly yellowish, but very good to the taste. the tree, unfortunately, is not a robust grower, being especially weak in its earlier stages, but with good cultivation it will not fail to reward the grower for any extra care it may have required. these, and the other notable varieties, which there is not room here to describe, make up the following list, from which the planter should select according to locality: _earliest or summer:_--early harvest, yellow transparent, red astrachan, benoni (new), chenango, sweet bough, williams' favorite, early strawberry, livland raspberry. _early autumn:_--alexander, duchess, porter, gravenstein, mcintosh red. _late autumn:_--jefferies, fameuse (snow), maiden's blush, wealthy, fall pippin, pound sweet, twenty ounce, cox orange, hubbardston. _winter:_--baldwin, rhode island greening, northwestern greening, jonathan, northern spy, yellow, swaar, delicious, wagener, king, esopus, spitzenberg, yellow bellflower, winter banana, seek-no-further, talman sweet, roxbury russett, king david, stayman's winesap, wolf river. pears pears are more particular than apples in the matter of being adapted to sections and soils. submit your list to your state experiment station before ordering trees. many of the standard sorts may be had where a low-growing, spreading tree is desired (for instance, quince-stock pears might be used to change places with the plums). varieties suitable for this method are listed below. they are given approximately in the order of the ripening: wilder: early august, medium in size, light yellow, excellent quality. does not rot at the core, as so many early pears are liable to do. margaret: oblong, greenish, yellow to dull red. clapp favorite: very large, yellow pear. a great bearer and good keeper--where the children cannot get at it. howell: a little later than the foregoing; large, bright yellow, strong-growing tree and big bearer. duchesse d'angouleme: large greenish yellow, sometimes reaching huge size; will average better than three-quarters of a pound. the quality, despite its size, is splendid. seckel: small in size, but renowned for exquisite flavor--being probably the most universally admired of all. beurre superfine: october, medium size, excellent quality. bartlett: the best known of all pears, and a universal favorite. succeeds in nearly all sections. anjou: one of the best keepers, and very productive. one of the best in flavor, rich and vinous. for trees of the standard type the following are worthy of note: congress (souvenir du c.): a very large summer sort. handsome. belle lucrative: september to october. winter nelis: medium size, but of excellent quality and the longest keeper. kieffer: very popular for its productiveness, strength of growth and exceptional quality of fruit for canning and preserving. large fruit, if kept thinned. should have a place in every home garden. josephine de malines: not a great yielder but of the very highest quality, being of the finest texture and tempting aroma. peaches success with peaches also will depend largely upon getting varieties adapted to climate. the white-fleshed type is the hardiest and best for eating; and the free-stones are for most purposes, especially in the home garden, more desirable than the "clings." greensboro is the best early variety. crawford is a universal favorite and goes well over a wide range of soil and climate. champion is one of the best quality peaches and exceptionally hardy. elberta, ray, and hague are other excellent sorts. mayflower is the earliest sort yet introduced. plums the available plums are of three classes--the natives, europeans and japans; the natives are the longest-lived, hardier in tree and blossom, and heavier bearers. the best early is milton; brilliant red, yellow and juicy flesh. wildgoose and whitaker are good seconds. mrs. cleveland is a later and larger sort, of finer quality. three late-ripening plums of the finest quality, but not such prolific yielders, are wayland, benson and reed, and where there is room for only a few trees, these will be best. they will need one tree of newman or prairie flower with them to assure setting of the fruit. of the europeans, use reine claude (the best), bradshaw or shropshire. damson is also good. the japanese varieties should go on high ground and be thinned, especially during their first years. my first experience with japanese plums convinced me that i had solved the plum problem; they bore loads of fruit, and were free from disease. that was five years ago. last spring the last one was cut and burned. had they been planted at the top of a small hill, instead of at the bottom, as they were, and restricted in their bearing, i know from later experience that they would still be producing fruit. the most satisfactory varieties of the japanese type are abundance and red june. burbank is also highly recommended, cherries cherries have one advantage over the other fruits--they give quicker returns. but, as far as my experience goes, they are not as long-lived. the sour type is hardier, at least north of new jersey, than the sweet. it will probably pay to try a few of the new and highly recommended varieties. of the established sorts early richmond is a good early, to be followed by montmorency and english morello. windsor is a good sweet cherry, as are also black tartarian, sox, wood and yellow spanish. all the varieties mentioned above are proved sorts. but the lists are being added to constantly, and where there is a novelty strongly recommended by a reliable nurseryman it will often pay to try it out--on a very small scale at first. chapter xvi planting: cultivation: filler crops as the pedigree and the quality of the stock you plant will have a great deal to do with the success or failure of your adventure in orcharding, even on a very small scale, it is important to get the best trees you can, anywhere, at any price. but do not jump to the conclusion that the most costly trees will be the best. from reliable nurserymen, selling direct by mail, you can get good trees at very reasonable prices. as a general thing you will succeed best if you have nothing to do with the perennial "tree agent." he may represent a good firm; you may get your trees on time; he may have a novelty as good as the standard sorts; but you are taking three very great chances in assuming so. but, leaving these questions aside, there is no particular reason why you should help pay his traveling expenses and the printing bills for his lithographs ("made from actual photographs" or "painted from nature," of course!) when you can get the best trees to be had, direct from the soil in which they are grown, at the lowest prices, by ordering through the mail. or, better still, if the nursery is not too far away, take half a day off and select them in person. if you want to help the agent along present him with the amount of his commission, but get your trees direct from some large reliable nursery. well grown nursery stock will stand much abuse, but it will not be at all improved by it. do not let yours stand around in the sun and wind, waiting until you get a chance to set it out. as soon as you get it home from the express office, unpack it and "heel it in," in moist, but not wet, ground; if under a shed, so much the better. dig out a narrow trench and pack it in as thick as it will go, at an angle of forty-five degrees to the natural position when growing. so stored, it will keep a long time in cold weather, only be careful that no rats, mice, or rabbits reach it. do not, however, depend upon this knowledge to the extent of letting all your preparations for planting go until your stock is on hand. be ready to set it the day it arrives, if possible. planting planting can be done in either spring or fall. as a general rule, north of philadelphia and st. louis, spring planting will be best; south of that, fall planting. where there is apt to be severe freezing, "heaving," caused by the alternate freezing and thawing; injury to the newly set roots from too severe cold; and, in some western sections, "sun-scald" of the bark, are three injuries which may result. if trees are planted in the fall in cold sections, a low mound of earth, six to twelve inches high, should be left during the winter about each, and leveled down in the spring. if set in the spring, where hot, dry weather is apt to follow, they should be thoroughly mulched with litter, straw or coarse manure, to preserve moisture--care being taken, however, against field mice and other rodents. the trees may either be set in their permanent positions as soon as bought, or grown in "nursery rows" by the purchaser for one or two years after being purchased. in the former case, it will be the best policy to get the strongest, straightest two-year stock you can find, even if they cost ten or fifteen cents apiece more than the "mediums." the former method is the usual one, but the latter has so many advantages that i give it the emphasis of a separate paragraph, and urge every prospective planter to consider it carefully. in the first place, then, you get your trees a little cheaper. if you purchase for nursery row planting, six-foot to seven-foot two-year-old apple trees, of the standard sorts, should cost you about thirty cents each; one-year "buds," six feet and branched, five to ten cents less. this gain, however, is not an important one--there are four others, each of which makes it worth while to give the method a trial. first, the trees being all together, and in a convenient place, the chances are a hundred to one that you will give them better attention in the way of spraying, pruning and cultivating--all extremely important in the first year's growth. second, with the year gained for extra preparation of the soil where they are to be placed permanently, you can make conditions just right for them to take hold at once and thrive as they could not do otherwise. third, the shock of transplanting will be much less than when they are shipped from a distance--they will have made an additional growth of dense, short roots and they will have become acclimated. fourth, you will not have wasted space and time with any backward black sheep among the lot, as these should be discarded at the second planting. and then there is one further reason, psychological perhaps, but none the less important; you will watch these little trees, which are largely the result of your own labor and care, when set in their permanent positions, much more carefully than you would those direct from the nursery. i know, both from experience and observation, how many thrifty young trees in the home orchard are done to an untimely death by children, careless workmen, and other animals. so if you can put a twelve-month curb on your impatience, get one-year trees and set them out in a straight row right in your vegetable garden where they will take up very little room. keep them cultivated just as thoroughly as the rest of your growing things. melons, or beans, or almost any low-growing vegetable can be grown close beside them. if you want your garden to pay for your whole lot of fruit trees this season dig up a hole about three feet in diameter wherever a tree is to "go permanently." cut the sod up fine and work in four or five good forkfuls of well rotted manure, and on these places, when it is warm enough, plant a hill of lima pole-beans-the new sort named giant-podded pole lima is the best i have yet seen. place a stout pole, eight to ten feet high, firmly in each hole. good lima beans are always in demand, and bring high prices. let us suppose that your trees are at hand, either direct from the nursery or growing in the garden. you have selected, if possible, a moist, gravelly loam on a slope or slight elevation, where it is naturally and perfectly drained. good soil drainage is imperative. coarse gravel in the bottom of the planting hole will help out temporarily. if the land is in clover sod, it will have the ideal preparation, especially if you can grow a patch of potatoes or corn on it one year, while your trees are getting further growth. in such land the holes will not have to be prepared. if, however, you are not fortunate enough to be able to devote such a space to fruit trees, and in order to have them at all must place them along your wall or scattered through the grounds, you can still give them an excellent start by enriching the soil in spots beforehand, as suggested above in growing lima beans. in the event of finding even this last way inapplicable to your land, the following method will make success certain: dig out holes three to six feet in diameter (if the soil is very hard, the larger dimension), and twelve to eighteen inches deep. mix thoroughly with the excavated soil a good barrowful of the oldest, finest manure you can get, combined with about one-fourth or one-fifth its weight of south carolina rock (or acid phosphate, if you cannot get the rock). it is a good plan to compost the manure and rock in advance, or use the rock as an absorbent in the stable. fill in the hole again, leaving room in the center to set the tree without bending or cramping any roots. where any of these are injured or bruised, cut them off clean at the injured spot with a sharp knife. shorten any that are long and straggling about one-third to one-half their length. properly grown stock should not be in any such condition. remember that a well planted tree will give more fruit in the first ten years than three trees carelessly put in. get the tree so that it will be one to three inches deeper in the soil than when growing in the nursery. work the soil in firmly about the roots with the fingers or a blunt wooden "tamper"; do not be afraid to use your feet. when the roots are well covered, firm the tree in by putting all your weight upon the soil around it. see that it is planted straight, and if the "whip," or small trunk, is not straight stake it, and tie it with rye straw, raffia or strips of old cloth-never string or wire. if the soil is very dry, water the root copiously while planting until the soil is about half filled in, never on the surface, as that is likely to cause a crust to form and keep out the air so necessary to healthy growth. prune back the "leader" of the tree-the top above the first lateral branches, about one-half. peach trees should be cut back more severely. further information in regard to pruning, and the different needs of the various fruits in regard to this important matter, will be given in the next chapter. setting standard apple trees, fully grown, will require thirty to forty-five feet of space between them each way. it takes, however, ten or twelve years after the trees are set before all of this space is needed. a system of "fillers," or inter-planting, has come into use as a result of this, which will give at least one hundred per cent, more fruit for the first ten years. small-growing standards, standard varieties on dwarf stock, and also peaches, are used for this purpose in commercial orchards. but the principle may be applied with equally good results to the home orchard, or even to the planting of a few scattered trees. the standard dwarfs give good satisfaction as permanent fillers. where space is very limited, or the fruit must go into the garden, they may be used in place of the standard sorts altogether. the dwarf trees are, as a rule, not so long-lived as the standards, and to do their best, need more care in fertilizing and manuring; but the fruit is just as good; just as much, or more, can be grown on the same area; and the trees come into bearing two to three years sooner. they cost less to begin with and are also easier to care for, in spraying and pruning and in picking the fruit. cultivation the home orchard, to give the very finest quality of fruit, must be given careful and thorough cultivation. in the case of scattered trees, where it is not practicable to use a horse, this can be given by working a space four to six feet wide about each tree. every spring the soil should be loosened up, with the cultivator or fork, as the case may be, and kept stirred during the early part of the summer. unless the soil is rich, a fertilizer, high in potash and not too high in nitrogen, should be given in the spring. manure and phosphate rock, as suggested above, is as good as any. in case the foliage is not a deep healthy green, apply a few handfuls of nitrate of soda, working it into the soil just before a rain, around each tree. about august st the cultivation should be discontinued, and some "cover crop" sown. buckwheat and crimson clover is a good combination; as the former makes a rapid growth it will form, if rolled down just as the apples are ripening, a soft cushion upon which the windfalls may drop without injury, and will furnish enough protection to the crimson clover to carry it through most winters, even in cold climates. in addition to the filler crops, where the ground is to be cultivated by horse, potatoes may be grown between the rows of trees; or fine hills of melons or squash may be grown around scattered trees, thus, incidentally, saving a great deal of space in the vegetable garden. or why not grow a few extra fancy strawberries in the well cultivated spots about these trees? neither they nor the trees want the ground too rich, especially in nitrogen, and conditions suiting the one would be just right for the others. it may seem to the beginner that fruit-growing, with all these things to keep in mind, is a difficult task. but it is not. i think i am perfectly safe in saying that the rewards from nothing else he can plant and care for are as certain, and surely none are more satisfactory. if you cannot persuade yourself to try fruit on any larger plan, at least order half a dozen dwarf trees (they will cost about twenty cents apiece, and can be had by mail). they will prove about the best paying investment you ever made. chapter xvii pruning, spraying, harvesting the day has gone, probably forever, when setting out fruit trees and giving them occasional cultivation, "plowing up the orchard" once in several years, would produce fruit. apples and pears and peaches have occupied no preferred position against the general invasion of the realm of horticulture by insect and fungous enemies. the fruits have, indeed, suffered more than most plants. nevertheless there is this encouraging fact: that, though the fruits may have been severely attacked, the means we now have of fighting fruit-tree enemies, if thoroughly used, as a rule are more certain of accomplishing their purpose, and keeping the enemies completely at bay, than are similar weapons in any other line of horticultural work. with fruit trees, as with vegetables and flowers, the most important precaution to be taken against insects and disease is to _have them in a healthy, thriving, growing condition_. it is a part of nature's law of the survival of the fittest that any backward or weakling plant or tree seems to fall first prey to the ravages of destructive forces. for these reasons the double necessity of maintaining at all times good fertilization and thorough cultivation will be seen. in addition to these two factors, careful attention in the matter of pruning is essential in keeping the trees in a healthy, robust condition. as explained in a previous chapter, the trees should be started right by pruning the first season to the open-head or vase shape, which furnishes the maximum of light and air to all parts of the tree. three or four main branches should form the basis of the head, care being taken not to have them start from directly opposite points on the trunk, thus forming a crotch and leaving the tree liable to splitting from winds or excessive crops. if the tree is once started right, further pruning will give little trouble. cut out limbs which cross, or are likely to rub against each other, or that are too close together; and also any that are broken, decayed, or injured in any way. for trees thus given proper attention from the start, a short jackknife will be the only pruning instrument required. the case of the old orchard is more difficult. cutting out too many of the old, large limbs at one time is sure to give a severe shock to the vitality of the tree. a better plan is, first, to cut off _close_ all suckers and all small new-growth limbs, except a few of the most promising, which may be left to be developed into large limbs; and then as these new limbs grow on, gradually to cut out, using a fine-tooth saw and painting the exposed surfaces, the surplus old wood. apples will need more pruning than the other fruits. pears and cherries need the least; cutting back the ends of limbs enough to keep the trees in good form, with the removal of an occasional branch for the purpose of letting in light and air, is all the pruning they will require. of course trees growing on rich ground, and well cultivated, will require more cutting back than those growing under poorer conditions. a further purpose of pruning is to effect indirectly a thinning of the fruit, so that what is grown will be larger and more valuable, and also that the trees may not become exhausted by a few exceptionally heavy crops. on trees that have been neglected and growing slowly the bark sometimes becomes hard and set. in such cases it will prove beneficial to scrape the bark and give a wash applied with an old broom. whitewash is good for this purpose, but soda or lye answers the same purpose and is less disagreeably conspicuous. slitting the bark of trunks and the largest limbs is sometimes resorted to, care being taken to cut through the bark only; but such practice is objectionable because it leaves ready access to some forms of fungous disease and to borers. where extra fine specimens of fruit are desired, thinning is practiced. it helps also to prevent the tree from being overtaxed by excessive crops. but where pruning is thoroughly done this trouble is usually avoided. peaches and japan plums are especially benefited by thinning, as they have a great tendency to overbear. the spread of fruit diseases, especially rot in the fruit itself, is also to some extent checked. of fruit-tree enemies there are some large sorts which may do great damage in short order--rabbits and field mice. they may be kept away by mechanical protection, such as wire, or by heaping the earth up to a height of twelve inches about the tree trunk. or they may be caught with poisoned baits, such as boiled grain in which a little rough on rats or similar poison has been mixed. the former method for the small home garden is little trouble, safer to fido and tabby, and the most reliable in effect. insects and scale diseases are not so easily managed; and that brings us to the question of spraying and of sprays. for large orchards the spray must, of course, be applied with powerful and expensive machinery. for the small fruit garden a much simpler and very moderate priced apparatus may be acquired. the most practical of these is the brass-tank compressed-air sprayer, with extension rod and mist-spray nozzle. or one of the knapsack sprayers may be used. either of these will be of great assistance not only with the fruit trees, but everywhere in the garden. with care they will last a good many years. whatever type you get, be sure to get a brass machine; as cheaper ones, made of other metal, quickly corrode from contact with the strong poisons used. apple enemies the insects most commonly attacking the apple are the codlin-moth, tent-caterpillar, canker-worm and borer. the codlin-moth lays its eggs on the fruit about the time of the falling of the blossoms, and the larvae when hatched eat into the young fruit and cause the ordinary wormy apples and pears. owing to these facts, it is too late to reach the trouble by spraying after the calyx closes on the growing fruit. keep close watch and spray immediately upon the fall of the blossoms, and repeat the spraying a week or so (not more than two) later. for spray use paris green at the rate of lb., or arsenate of lead (paste or powder, less of the latter: see accompanying directions) at the rate of lbs. to gallons of water, being careful to have a thorough mixture. during july, tie strips of burlap or old bags around the trunks, and every week or so destroy all caterpillars caught in these traps. the tent-caterpillar may be destroyed while in the egg state, as these are plainly visible around the smaller twigs in circular, brownish masses. (see illustration.) upon hatching, also, the nests are obtrusively visible and may be wiped out with a swab of old bag, or burned with a kerosene torch. be sure to apply this treatment before the caterpillar begins to leave the nest. the treatment recommended for codlin-moths is also effective for the tent-caterpillar. the canker-worm is another leaf-feeding enemy, and can be taken care of by the paris green or arsenate spray. the railroad-worm, a small white maggot which eats a small path in all directions through the ripening fruit, cannot be reached by spraying, as he starts life inside the fruit; but where good clean tillage is practiced and no fallen fruit is left to lie and decay under the trees, he is not apt to give much trouble. the borer's presence is indicated by the dead, withered appearance of the bark, beneath which he is at work, and also by small amounts of sawdust where he entered. dig him out with a sharp pocket-knife, or kill him inside with a piece of wire. the most troublesome disease of the apple, especially in wet seasons, is the apple-scab, which disfigures the fruit, both in size and in appearance, as it causes blotches and distortions. spray with bordeaux mixture, - - , or - - (see formulas below) three times: just before the blossoms open, just as they fall, and ten days to two weeks after they fall. the second spraying is considered the most important. the san josé scale is of course really an insect, though in appearance it seems a disease. it is much more injurious than the untrained fruit grower would suppose, because indirectly so. it is very tiny, being round in outline, with a raised center, and only the size of a small pinhead. where it has once obtained a good hold it multiplies very rapidly, makes a scaly formation or crust on the branches, and causes small red-edged spots on the fruit (see illustration). for trees once infested, spray thoroughly both in fall, after the leaves drop, and again in spring, _before_ growth begins. use lime-sulphur wash, or miscible oil, one part to ten of water, thoroughly mixed. cherry enemies sour cherries are more easily grown than the sweet varieties, and are less subject to the attacks of fruit enemies. sweet cherries are troubled by the curculio, or fruit-worm, which attacks also peaches and plums. cherries and plums may be sprayed, when most of the blossoms are off, with a strong arsenate of lead solution, to lbs. to gals. water. in addition to this treatment, where the worms have once got a start, the beetles may be destroyed by spreading a sheet around and beneath the tree, and every day or so shaking or jarring them off into it, as described below. peach enemies do not spray peaches. for the curculio, within a few days after the flowers are off, take a large sheet of some cheap material to use as a catcher. for large orchards there is a contrivance of this sort, mounted on a wheelbarrow frame, but for the home orchard a couple of sheets laid upon the ground, or one with a slit from one side to the center, will answer. if four short, sharp-pointed stakes are fastened to the corners, and three or four stout hooks and eyes are placed to reunite the slit after the sheet is placed about the tree, the work can be more thoroughly done, especially on uneven ground. after the sheet is placed, with a stout club or mallet, padded with a heavy sack or something similar to prevent injury to the bark, give a few sharp blows, well up from the ground. this work should be done on a cloudy day, or early in the morning--the colder the better--as the beetles are then inactive. if a considerable number of beetles are caught the operation should be repeated every two or three days. continue until the beetles disappear. peaches are troubled also by borers, in this case indicated by masses of gum, usually about the crown. dig out or kill with a wire, as in the case of the apple-borer. look over the trees for borers every spring, or better, every spring and fall. another peach enemy is the "yellows," indicated by premature ripening of the fruit and the formation of stunted leaf tufts, of a light yellow color. this disease is contagious and has frequently worked havoc in whole sections. owing to the work of the agricultural department and the various state organizations it is now held in check. the only remedy is to cut and burn the trees and replant, in the same places if desired, as, the disease does not seem to be carried by the soil. pear enemies pears are sometimes affected with a scab similar to the apple-scab, and this is combated by the same treatment--three sprayings with bordeaux. a blight which causes the leaves suddenly to turn black and die and also kills some small branches and produces sores or wounds on large branches and trunk, offers another difficulty. cut out and burn all affected branches and scrape out all sores. disinfect all sores with corrosive sublimate solution-- to --or with a torch, and paint over at once. plum enemies plums have many enemies but fortunately they can all be effectively checked. first is the curculio, to be treated as described above. for leaf-blight--spotting and dropping off of the leaves about midsummer--spray with bordeaux within a week or so after the falling of the blossoms. this treatment will also help to prevent fruit-rot. in addition to the spraying, however, thin out the fruit so that it does not hang thickly enough for the plums to come in contact with each other. in a well kept and well sprayed orchard black-knot is not at all likely to appear. it is very manifest wherever it starts, causing ugly, black, distorted knarls, at first on the smaller limbs. remove and burn immediately, and keep a sharp watch for more. as this disease is supposed to be carried by the wind, see to it that no careless neighbor is supplying you with the germs. as will have been seen from the above, spraying poisons are of two kinds: those that work by contact, which must be used for most sucking insects, and germs and fungous diseases; and those that poison internally, used for leaf-eating insects. of the former sort, bordeaux mixture is the standard, although within the last few years it has been to a considerable extent replaced by lime-sulphur mixtures, which are described below. bordeaux is made in various forms. that usually used is the - - , or lbs. copper sulphate, lbs. unslaked lime, gals. water. to save the trouble of making up the mixture each time it is needed make a stock solution as follows: dissolve the copper sulphate in water at the rate of lb. to gal. this should be done the day before, or at least several hours before, the bordeaux is wanted for use. suspend the sulphate crystals in a cloth or old bag just below the surface of the water. then slake the lime in a tub or tight box, adding the water a little at a time, until the whole attains the consistency of thick milk. when necessary, add water to this mixture if it is kept too long; never let it dry out. when ready to spray, pour the stock copper sulphate solution into the tank in the proportion of gals. to every of spray required. add water to amount required. then add stock lime solution, first diluting about one-half with water and straining. the amount of lime stock solution to be used is determined as follows: at the druggist's get an ounce of yellow prussiate of potash dissolved in a pint of water, with a quill in the cork of the bottle so that it may be dropped out. (it is poison.) when adding the stock lime solution as directed above, continue until the prussiate testing solution when dropped into the bordeaux mixture will no longer turn brown; then add a little more lime to be on the safe side. all this sounds like a formidable task, but it is quite simple when you really get at it. remember that all you need is a few pounds each of quicklime and copper sulphate, an ounce of prussiate of potash and a couple of old kegs or large pails, in which to keep the stock solutions, lime-sulphur mixtures can be bought, or mixed by the home orchardist. they have the advantages over bordeaux that they do not discolor the foliage or affect the appearance of the fruit. use according to directions, usually about part to of water. these may be used at the same times and for the same purposes as bordeaux. lime-sulphur wash is used largely in commercial orcharding, but it is a nasty mess to prepare and must be used in late fall or winter. for the home orchard one of the miscible oils now advertised will be found more satisfactory. while they cost more, there is no time or expense for preparation, as they mix with cold water and are immediately ready for use. they are easier to apply, more comfortable to handle, and will not so quickly rot out pumps and spraying apparatus. like the sulphur wash, use only during late fall and winter. kerosene emulsion is made by dissolving ivory, soft, whale-oil, or tar soap in hot water and adding (away from the stove, please!) kerosene (or crude oil); / lb. soap, gal. water, gals, kerosene. immediately place in a pail and churn or pump until a thick, lathery cream results. this is the stock solution: for use, dilute with five to fifteen times as much water, according to purpose applied for--on dormant fruit trees, to times; on foliage, or even . of the poisons for eating-insects, arsenate of lead is the best for use in the fruit orchard, because it will not burn the foliage as paris green is apt to do, and because it stays on longer. it can be used in bordeaux and lime-sulphur mixtures, thus killing two bugs with one spray. it comes usually in the form of a paste--though there is now a brand in powder form (which i have not yet tried). this should be worked up with the fingers (it is not poison to touch) or a small wooden paddle, until thoroughly mixed, in a small quantity of water and then strained into the sprayer. use, of the paste forms, from one- fourth to one lb. in gals, clear water. paris green is the old standard. with a modern duster it may be blown on pure without burning, if carefully done. applied thus it should be put on during a still morning, before the dew goes. it is safer to use as a spray, first making a paste with a small quantity of water, and then adding balance of water. keep constantly stirred while spraying. if lime is added, weight for weight with the green, the chances of burning will be greatly reduced. for orchard work, lb. to gals. water is the usual strength. the accompanying table will enable the home orchardist to find quickly the trouble with, and remedy for, any of his fruit trees. the quality of fruit will depend very largely upon the care exercised in picking and storing. picking, carelessly done, while it may not at the time show any visible bad results, will result in poor keeping and rot. if the tissue cells are broken, as many will be by rough handling, they will be ready to cause rotten spots under the first favorable conditions, and then the rot will spread. most of the fruits of the home garden, which do not have to undergo shipping, will be of better quality where they ripen fully on the tree. pears, however, are often ripened in the dark and after picking, especially the winter sorts. apples and pears for winter use should be kept, if possible, in a cold, dark place, where there is no artificial heat, and where the air will be moist, but never wet, and where the thermometer will not fall below thirty-two degrees. upon exceptionally cold nights the temperature may be kept up by using an oil stove or letting in heat from the furnace cellar, if that is adjacent. in such a place, store the fruit loosely, on ventilated shelves, not more than six or eight inches deep. if they must be kept in a heated place, pack in tight boxes or barrels, being careful to put away only perfect fruit, or pack in sand or leaves. otherwise they will lose much in quality by shriveling, due to lack of moisture in the atmosphere. with care they may be had in prime quality until late in the following spring. fruit | pest | remedy | times to apply | | | and when ------+--------------+-------------------------------+---------------- apple | apple-scab | bordeaux - - , or summer | .--b b o--a b | | lime-sulphur spray | f--f d. | | | | apple-maggot | pick up and destroy all | (see key below.) | or | fallen fruits | | railroad worm| dig out or kill with wire; | | borer | search for in fall and spring| | | | | codlin moth | arsenate of lead, in ; | | | or paris green, in . | .--a b f-f | | burlap bands on truck | d. | | for traps during july | | | | | cankerworm | same as above | | | | | tent- | same as above, also wipe out | | caterpillar | out or burn nests | | | | | blister-mite | lime-sulphur wash; kerosene | late fall or | | emulsion (dilute times) | early spring. | | or miscible oil ( in gal.)| | | | | bud-moth | arsenate of lead or paris | .--when leaves | | green | appear--b b o. ------+--------------+-------------------------------+----------------- cherry| leaf blight | bordeaux - - | .--b b c--a | | | calyx closes--f | | | d--f d. | | | | curculio | arsenate of lead, in . | .--a b f. | | curculio catcher (see plum) | times a week | | | | black-knot | cut out and burn at once | | | (see plum) | | | | | fruit-rot | pick before fully ripe. | | | spread out in cool airy room | ------+--------------+-------------------------------+----------------- peach | borer | dig out or kill with wire | | yellows | pull out and burn | | | tree--replant | | | | | curculio | do not spray. catch on sheets | | | (see plum) | | | | | brown-rot | summer lime-sulphur; open | | | pruning; pick rotten fruit | .--when fruit | | | is half | | | grown--f | | | d--f d. | | | | leaf-curl | bordeaux - - ; lime-sulphur | --b buds swell, | | wash | fall or early | | | spring. ------+--------------+-------------------------------+----------------- pear | blight | cut out diseased branches; | | | clean out sores; disinfect | | | with corrosive sublimate | | | in ; paint over | | | | | scab | bordeaux - - , or summer | .--b b o--a b | | sulphur (see apple) | o--f d. | | | | blister-mite | | ------+--------------+-------------------------------+----------------- plum | leaf-blight | bordeaux or summer sulphur | .--after fruits | | | set. | fruit-rot | same; also thin fruits so as | | black-knot | not to touch (see cherry) | | curculio | also have neighboring trees | | | cleaned up | | | jar down on sheets stretched | | | beneath trees and destroy | a b f--cool | | | mornings- | | | times a week. ------+--------------+-------------------------------+----------------- any | san josé | lime-sulphur wash, kerosene | late fall or | scale | emulsion, times diluted; | early spring. | | miscible oil, in gals | | | | | oyster-shell | kerosene emulsion | may or june, | scale | | when young | | | whitish lice | | | appear. ------+--------------+-------------------------------+----------------- a-after. b-before. d-days. f-follow up in. b-blossoms. o-open. f-fall. do not let yourself be discouraged from growing your own fruit by the necessity for taking good care of your trees. after all, you do not have to plant them every year, as you do vegetables, and they yield a splendid return on the small investment required. do not fail to set out at least a few this year with the full assurance that your satisfaction is guaranteed by the facts in the case. chapter xviii berries and small fruits besides the tree-fruits discussed in the preceding chapters, there is another class which should be represented in every home garden--the berries and small fruits. these have the advantage of occupying much less room than the former do and are therefore available where the others are not. the methods of giving berries proper cultivation are not so generally known as the methods used with vegetables. otherwise there is no reason why a few of each should not be included in every garden of average size. their requirements are not exacting: the amount of skill, or rather of attention, required to care for them is not more than that required by the ordinary vegetables. in fact, once they are well established they will demand less time than the annual vegetables. of these small fruits the most popular and useful are: the strawberry, the blackberry, dewberry and raspberry, the currant, gooseberry and grape. the strawberry is the most important, and most amateurs attempt its culture--many, however, with indifferent success. this is due, partly at least, to the fact that many methods are advocated by successful growers, and that the beginner is not likely to pick out _one_ and stick to it; and further, that he is led to pay more attention to how many layers he will have, and at what distance he will set the plants, than to proper selection and preparation of soil and other vital matters. the soil should be well drained and rich--a good garden soil being suitable. the strawberries should not follow sod or corn. if yard manure is used it should be old and well rotted, so as to be as free as possible from weed seeds. potash, in some form (see fertilizers) should be added. the bed should be thoroughly prepared, so that the plants, which need careful transplanting, may take hold at once. a good sunny exposure is preferable, and a spot where no water will collect is essential. the plants are grown from "layers." they are taken in two ways: ( ) by rooting the runners in the soil; and ( ) by layering in pots. in the former method they are either allowed to root themselves, or, which gives decidedly better results, by selecting vines from strong plants and pushing them lightly down into the soil where the new crown is to be formed. in the second method, two-inch or three-inch pots are used, filling these with soil from the bed and plunging, or burying, them level with the surface, just below where the crown is to be formed, and holding the vine in place with a small stone, which serves the additional purpose of marking where the pot is. in either case these layers are made after the fruiting season. setting the plants in using the soil-rooted layers, it is generally more satisfactory to set them out in spring, as soon as the ground can be worked, although they are sometimes set in early fall--august or september--when the ground is in very good condition, so that a good growth can at once be made. care should be used in transplanting. have the bed fresh; keep the plants out of the soil as short a time as possible; set the plants in straight, and firm the soil; set just down to the crown--do not cover it. if the soil is dry, or the season late, cut off all old leaves before planting; also shorten back the roots about one-third and be sure not to crowd them when setting, for which purpose a trowel, not a dibble, should be used if the condition of the ground makes the use of any implement necessary. if so dry that water must be used, apply it in the bottom of the hole. if very hot and dry, shade for a day or two. methods of growing i describe the three systems most valuable for the home garden: ( ) the hill, ( ) the matted row, and ( ) the pot-layered. ( ) in the hill system the plants are put in single rows, or in beds of three or four rows, the plants one foot apart and the rows, or beds, two or three feet apart. in either case each plant is kept separate, and all runners are pinched off as fast as they form, the idea being to throw all the strength into one strong crown. ( ) in the matted row system the plants are set in single rows, and the runners set in the bed at five or six inches each side of the plants, and then trained lengthways of the row, this making it a foot or so wide. the runners used to make these secondary crowns must be the first ones sent out by the plants; they should be severed from the parent plants as soon as well rooted. all other runners must be taken off as they form. to keep the beds for a good second crop, where the space between the rows has been kept cultivated and clean, cut out the old plants as soon as the first crop of berries is gathered, leaving the new ones--layered the year before-- about one foot apart. ( ) the pot-layering system, especially for a small number of plants, i consider the best. it will be seen that by the above systems the ground is occupied three years, to get two crops, and the strawberry season is a short one at best. by this third system the strawberry is made practically an annual, and the finest of berries are produced. the new plants are layered in pots, as described above. the layers are taken immediately after the fruit is gathered; or better still, because earlier, a few plants are picked out especially to make runners. in either case, fork up the soil about the plants to be layered, and in about fifteen days they will be ready to have the pots placed under them. the main point is to have pot plants ready to go into the new bed as soon as possible after the middle of july. these are set out as in the hill system, and all runners kept pinched off, so that a large crown has been formed by the time the ground freezes, and a full crop of the very best berries will be assured for the following spring. the pot-layering is repeated each year, and the old plants thrown out, no attempt being made to get a second crop. it will be observed that ground is occupied by the strawberries only the latter half of the one season and the beginning of the next, leaving ample time for a crop of early lettuce, cabbage or peas before the plants are set, say in , and for late cabbage or celery after the bed is thrown out, in . thus the ground is made to yield three crops in two years--a very important point where garden space is limited. cultivation whatever system is used--and each has its advocates--the strawberry bed must be kept clean, and attention given to removing the surplus runners. cultivate frequently enough to keep a dust mulch between the rows, as advocated for garden crops. at first, after setting, the cultivation may be as deep as three or four inches, but as the roots develop and fill the ground it should be restricted to two inches at most. where a horse is used a planet jr. twelve-tooth cultivator will be just the thing. mulching after the ground freezes, and before severe cold sets in (about the st to the th of december) the bed should be given its winter mulch. bog hay, which may be obtained cheaply from some nearby farmer, is about the best material. clean straw will do. cover the entire bed, one or two inches over the plants, and two or three between the rows. if necessary, hold in place with old boards. in spring, but not before the plants begin to grow, over each plant the mulch is pushed aside to let it through. besides giving winter protection, the mulch acts as a clean even support for the berries and keeps the roots cool and moist. insects and disease for white-grub and cut-worm see pages elsewhere in the text. for rust, which frequently injures the leaves so seriously as to cause practical loss of crop, choose hardy varieties and change bed frequently. spraying with bordeaux, - - , four or five times during first season plants are set, and second season just before and just after blossoming, will prevent it. in making up your strawberry list remember that some varieties have imperfect, or pistillate blossoms, and that when such varieties are used a row of some perfect-flowering (bi- sexual) sort must be set every nine to twelve feet. varieties new strawberries are being introduced constantly; also, they vary greatly in their adaptation to locality. therefore it is difficult to advise as to what varieties to plant. the following, however, have proved satisfactory over wide areas, and may be depended upon to give satisfaction. early crop:--michel's early, haverland, climax; mid- season crop:--bubach no. , brandywine, marshall, nic. ohmer, wm. belt, glen mary, sharplesss; late crop:--the gandy, sample, lester lovett. the blackberry, dewberry and raspberry are all treated in much the same way. the soil should be well drained, but if a little clayey, so much the better. they are planned preferably in early spring, and set from three or four to six or seven feet apart, according to the variety. they should be put in firmly. set the plants in about as deep as they have been growing, and cut the canes back to six or eight inches. if fruit is wanted the same season as bushes are set, get a few extra plants--they cost but a few cents--and cut back to two feet or so. plants fruited the first season are not likely to do well the following year. two plants may be set in a place and one fruited. if this one is exhausted, then little will be lost. give clean cultivation frequently enough to maintain a soil mulch, as it is very necessary to retain all the moisture possible. cultivation, though frequent, should be very shallow as soon as the plants get a good start. in very hot seasons, if the ground is clean, a summer mulch of old hay, leaves or rough manure will be good for the same purpose. in growing, a good stout stake is used for each plant, to which the canes are tied with some soft material. or, a stout wire is strung the length of the row and the canes fastened to this--a better way, however, being to string two wires, one on either side of the row. another very important matter is that of pruning. the plants if left to themselves will throw up altogether too much wood. this must be cut out to four or five of the new canes and all the canes that have borne fruit should be cut and burned each season as soon as through fruiting. the canes, for instance, that grow in will be those to fruit in , after which they should be immediately removed. the new canes, if they are to be self-supporting, as sometimes grown, should be cut back when three or four feet high. it is best, however, to give support. in the case of those varieties which make fruiting side-shoots, as most of the black raspberries (blackcaps) do, the canes should be cut back at two to three feet, and it is well also to cut back these side shoots one-third to one-half, early in the spring. in cold sections (new york or north of it) it is safest to give winter protection by "laying down" the canes and giving them a mulch of rough material. having them near the ground is in itself a great protection, as they will not be exposed to sun and wind and will sometimes be covered with snow. for mulching, the canes are bent over nearly at the soil and a shovelful of earth thrown on the tips to hold them down; the entire canes may then be covered with soil or rough manure, but do not put it on until freezing weather is at hand. if a mulch is used, it must be taken off before growth starts in the spring. the blackberry the large-growing sorts are set as much as six by eight feet apart, though with careful staking and pruning they may be comfortably handled in less space. the smaller sorts need about four by six. when growth starts, thin out to four or five canes and pinch these off at about three feet; or, if they are to be put on wires or trellis, they may be cut when tied up the following spring. cultivate, mulch and prune as suggested above. blackberries will do well on a soil a little dry for raspberries and they do not need it quite so rich, as in this case the canes do not ripen up sufficiently by fall, which is essential for good crops. if growing rank they should be pinched back in late august. when tying up in the spring, the canes should be cut back to four or five feet and the laterals to not more than eighteen inches. blackberry enemies do not do extensive injury, as a rule, in well- cared-for beds. the most serious are: ( ) the rust or blight, for which there is no cure but carefully pulling and burning the plants as fast as infested; ( ) the blackberry-bush borer, for which burn infested canes; and ( ) the recently introduced bramble flea-louse, which resembles the green plant-louse or aphis except that it is a brisk jumper, like the flea-beetle. the leaves twist and curl up in summer and do not drop off in the fall. on cold early mornings, or wet weather, while the insects are sluggish, cut all infested shoots, collecting them in a tight box, and burn. blackberry varieties as with the other small fruits, so many varieties are being introduced that it is difficult to give a list of the best for home use. any selections from the following, however, will prove satisfactory, as they are tried-and-true:--early king, early harvest, wilson junior, kittatinny, rathburn, snyder, erie. the dewberry this is really a trailing blackberry and needs the same culture, except that the canes are naturally slender and trailing and therefore, for garden culture, must have support. they may be staked up, or a barrel hoop, supported by two stakes, makes a good support. in ripening, the dewberry is ten to fourteen days earlier than the blackberry, and for that reason a few plants should be included in the berry patch. premo is the earliest sort, and lucretia the standard. raspberry the black and the red types are distinct in flavor, and both should be grown. the blackcaps need more room, about three by six or seven feet; for the reds three by five feet will be sufficient. the blackcaps, and a few of the reds, like cuthbert, throw out fruiting side branches, and should have the main canes cut back at about two and a half feet to encourage the growth of these laterals, which, in the following spring, should be cut back to about one-third their length. the soil for raspberries should be clayey if possible, and moist, but not wet. raspberry enemies the orange rust, which attacks the blackberry also, is a serious trouble. pull up and burn all infested plants at once, as no good remedy has as yet been found. the cut-worm, especially in newly set beds, may sometimes prove destructive of the sprouting young canes. the raspberry-borer is the larva of a small, flattish, red-necked beetle, which bores to the center of the canes during summer growth, and kills them. cut and burn. raspberry varieties of the blackcaps, gregg, mccormick, munger, cumberland, columbian, palmer (very early), and eureka (late), are all good sorts. reds: cuthbert, cardinal (new), turner, reliance, the king (extra early), loudon (late). yellow: golden queen. currants the currant and gooseberry are very similar in their cultural requirements. a deep, rich and moist soil is the best--approaching a clayey loam. there need be no fear of giving too much manure, but it should be well rotted. plenty of room, plenty of air, plenty of moisture, secured where necessary by a soil or other mulch in hot dry weather, are essential to the production of the best fruit. the currant will stand probably as much abuse as any plant the home gardener will have to deal with. stuck in a corner, smothered in sod, crowded with old wood, stripped by the currant-worm, it still struggles along from year to year, ever hopefully trying to produce a meager crop of poor fruit. but these are not the sort you want. although it is so tough, no fruit will respond to good care more quickly. to have it do well, give it room, four or five feet each way between bushes. manure it liberally; give it clean cultivation, and as the season gets hot and dry, mulch the soil, if you would be certain of a full-sized, full-flavored crop. two bushes, well cared for, will yield more than a dozen half-neglected ones. anywhere north of new york a full crop every year may be made almost certain. pruning currants besides careful cultivation, to insure the best of fruit it is necessary to give some thought to the matter of pruning. the most convenient and the most satisfactory way is to keep it in the bush form. set the plants singly, three or four feet apart, and so cut the new growth, which is generously produced, as to retain a uniform bush shape, preferably rather open in the center. the fruit is produced on wood two or more years old. therefore cut out branches either when very small, or not until four or five years later, after it has borne two or three crops of fruit. therefore, in pruning currants, take out ( ) superfluous young growth; ( ) old hard wood (as new wood will produce better fruit); and ( ) all weak, broken, dead or diseased shoots; ( ) during summer, if the tips of the young growths kept for fruiting are pinched off, they will ripen up much better-- meaning better fruit when they bear; ( ) to maintain a good form, the whole plant may be cut back (never more than one-third) in the fall. in special situations it may be advisable to train the currant to one or a few main stems, as against a wall; this can be done, but it is less convenient. also it brings greater danger from the currant-borer. the black currant, used almost entirely for culinary or preserving purposes, is entirely different from the red and white ones. they are much larger and should be put five to six feet apart. some of the fruit is borne on one-year-old wood, so the shoots should not be cut back. moreover, old wood bears as good fruit as the new growth, and need not be cut out, unless the plant is getting crowded, for several years. as the wood is much heavier and stronger than the other currants, it is advisable gradually to develop the black currants into the tree form. enemies of the currant the worst of these is the common currant-worm. when he appears, which will be indicated by holes eaten in the lower leaves early in spring, generally before the plants bloom, spray at once with paris green. if a second brood appears, spray with white hellebore (if this is not all washed off by the rain, wipe from the fruit when gathered). for the borer, cut and burn every infested shoot. examine the bushes in late fall, and those in which the borers are at work will usually have a wilted appearance and be of a brownish color. varieties of currants red dutch, while older and smaller than some of the newer varieties, is hardier and not so likely to be hurt by the borer. london market, fay's prolific, perfection (new), and prince albert, are good sorts. white grape is a good white. naples, and lee's prolific are good black sorts. the gooseberry this is given practically the same treatment as the currant. it is even more important that it should be given the coolest, airiest, location possible, and the most moist soil. even a partially shaded situation will do, but in such situations extra care must be taken to guard against the mildew--which is mentioned below. summer mulching is, of course, of special benefit. in pruning the gooseberry, it is best to cut out to a very few, or even to a single stem. keep the head open, to allow free circulation of air. the extent of pruning will make a great difference in the size of the fruit; if fruit of the largest size is wanted, prune very close. all branches drooping to the ground should be removed. keep the branches, as much as possible, from touching each other. gooseberry enemies the currant-worm attacks the gooseberry also, and is effectively handled by the arsenate of lead, paris green or hellebore spraying, mentioned above. the great trouble in growing gooseberries successfully is the powdery mildew--a dirty, whitish fungous growth covering both fruit and leaves. it is especially destructive of the foreign varieties, the culture of which, until the advent of the potassium sulfide spray, was being practically abandoned. use oz. of potassium sulfide (liver of sulphur) to gals. water, and mix just before using. spray thoroughly three or four times a month, from the time the blossoms are opening until fruit is ripe. gooseberry varieties of the native gooseberries--which are the hardiest, downing and houghton's seedling are most used. industry is an english variety, doing well here. golden prolific, champion, and columbus, are other good foreign sorts, but only when the mildew is successfully fought off. the grape no garden is so small that there cannot be found in it room for three or four grape-vines; no fruit is more certain, and few more delicious. if it is convenient, a situation fully exposed to the sun, and sloping slightly, will be preferable. but any good soil, provided only it is rich and thoroughly drained, will produce good results. if a few vines are to be set against walls, or in other out-of-the-way places, prepare the ground for them by excavating a good-sized hole, putting in a foot of coal cinders or other drainage material, and refilling with good heavy loam, enriched with old, well rotted manure and half a peck of wood ashes. for culture in the garden, such special preparation will not be necessary--although, if the soil is not in good shape, it will be advisable slightly to enrich the hills. one or two-year roots will be the most satisfactory to buy. they may be set in either fall or spring--the latter time, for new york or north, being generally preferable. when planting, the cane should be cut back to three or four eyes, and the roots should also be shortened back-- usually about one-third. be sure to make the hole large enough, when setting, to let the roots spread naturally, and work the soil in well around them with the fingers. set them in firmly, by pressing down hard with the ball of the foot after firming by hand. they are set about six feet apart. grape pruning as stated above, the vine is cut back, when planting, to three or four eyes. the subsequent pruning--and the reader must at once distinguish between pruning, and training, or the way in which the vines are placed--will determine more than anything else the success of the undertaking. grapes depend more upon proper pruning than any other fruit or vegetable in the garden. two principles must be kept track of in this work. first principle: _the annual crop is borne only on canes of the same year's growth, springing from wood of the previous season's growth_. second principle: _the vine, if left to itself, will set three or four times the number of bunches it can properly mature_. as a result of these facts, the following system of pruning has been developed and must be followed for sure and full-sized crops. ( ) at time of planting, cut back to three or four eyes, and after these sprout leave only one (or two) of them, which should be staked up. ( ) following winter (december to march), leave only one cane and cut this back to three or four eyes. ( ) second growing season, save only two canes, even if several sprout, and train these to stake or trellis. these two vines, or arms, branching from the main stem, form the foundation for the one-year canes that bear the fruit. however, to prevent the vine's setting too much fruit (see second principle above) these arms must be cut back in order to limit the number of fruit-bearing canes that will spring from them, therefore: ( ) second winter pruning, cut back these arms to eight or ten buds-- and we have prepared for the first crop of fruit, about forty bunches, as the fruiting cane from each bud will bear two bunches on the average. however these main arms will not bear fruiting-canes another year (see first principle above) and therefore: ( ) at the third winter pruning, (a) of the canes that bore fruit, only the three or four nearest the main stem or trunk are left; (b) these are cut back to eight or ten buds each, and (c) everything else is ruthlessly cut away. each succeeding year the same system is continued, care being taken to rub off, each may, buds or sprouts starting on the main trunk or arms. the wood, in addition to being cut back, must be well ripened; and the wood does not ripen until after the fruit. it therefore sometimes becomes necessary to cut out some of the bunches in order to hasten the ripening of the rest. at the same time the application of some potash fertilizer will be helpful. if the bunches do not ripen up quickly and pretty nearly together, the vine is overloaded and being damaged for the following year. the matter of pruning being mastered, the question of training is one of individual choice. poles, trellises, arbors, walls--almost anything may be used. the most convenient system, however, and the one i would strongly recommend for practical home gardening for results, is known as the (modified) kniffen system. it is simplicity itself. a stout wire is stretched five or six feet above the ground; to this the single main trunks of the vine run up, and along it are stretched the two or three arms from which the fruiting-canes hang down. they occupy the least possible space, so that garden crops may be grown practically on the same ground. i have never seen it tried, but where garden space is limited i should think that the asparagus bed and the kniffen grape- arbor just described could be combined to great advantage by placing the vines, in spaces left for them, directly in the asparagus row. of course the ground would have to be manured for two crops. a - - fertilizer is right for the grapes. if using stable manure, apply also ashes or some other potash fertilizer. if the old-fashioned arbor is used, the best way is to run the main trunk up over it and cut the laterals back each year to two or three eyes. the most serious grape trouble which the home gardener is likely to encounter is the black-rot where only a few grapes are grown the simplest way of overcoming this disease is to get a few dozen cheap manila store-bags and fasten one, with a couple of ten-penny nails, over each bunch. cut the mouth of the bag at sides and edges, cover the bunch, fold the flaps formed over the cane, and fasten. they are put on after the bunches are well formed and hasten the ripening of the fruit, as well as protecting it. on a larger scale, spraying will have to be resorted to. use bordeaux, - - , from third leaf's appearance to middle of july; balance of season with ammoniacal copper carbonate. the spray should be applied in particular just before every rain-- especially on the season's growth. besides the spraying, all trimmed- off wood, old leaves and twigs, withered bunches and grapes, or "mummies," and refuse of every description, should be carefully raked up in the spring and burned or buried. also give clean culture and keep the main stems clean. the grape completes the list of the small fruits worth while to the average home gardener. if you have not already experimented with them, do not let your garden go longer without them. they are all easily obtained (none costing more than a few cents each), and a very limited number will keep the family table well supplied with healthy delicacies, which otherwise, in their best varieties and condition, could not be had at all. the various operations of setting out, pruning and spraying will soon become as familiar as those in the vegetable garden. there is no reason why every home garden should not have its few rows of small fruits, yielding their delicious harvests in abundance. chapter xix a calendar of operations one of the greatest difficulties in gardening is to get things started ahead at the proper time, and yet upon the thoroughness with which this is done the success of the garden must depend, in large measure. the reader may remember that in a previous chapter (chapter iv) the importance of accurately planning the work ahead was emphasized. i mentioned there the check list used to make sure that everything would be carried out, or started ahead at the proper time--as with the sowing of seeds. the following garden operations, given month by month, will serve not only as a timely reminder of things to be done, but as the basis for such a check list. the importance of the _preparations_ in all matters of gardening, is of course obvious. january probably one of the good resolutions made with the new year was a better garden for the coming summer. the psychologists claim that the only hope for resolutions is to nail them down at the start with an _action_--that seems to have more effect in making an actual impression on the brain. so start the good work along by sending at once for several of the leading seed catalogues. _planting plan_. make out a list of what you are going to want this year, and then make your planting plan. see chapter iv. _seeds_. order your seed. _do it now_ while the seedsman's stock is full; while he is not rushed; while there is ample time to rectify mistakes if any occur. _manures_. altogether too few amateur gardeners realize the great importance of procuring early every pound of manures, of any kind, to be had. it often may be had cheaply at this time of year, and by composting, adding phosphate rock, and several turnings, if you have any place under cover where it can be collected, you can double its value before spring. _frames_. even at this season of the year do not fail to air the frames well on warm days. practically no water will be needed, but if the soil does dry out sufficiently to need it, apply early on a bright morning. _onions_. it will not be too early, this month, to sow onions for spring transplanting outside. get a packet each of prizetaker, ailsa craig, mammoth silver-skin, or gigantic gibraltar. _lettuce_. sow lettuce for spring crop under glass or in frames. _fruit_. this is a good month to prune grapes, currants, gooseberries and peach trees, to avoid the rush that will come later. february _hotbeds_. a little early for making them until after the th, but get all your material ready--manure, selected and stacked; lumber ready for any new ones; sash all in good repair. _starting seeds_. first part of the month, earliest planting of cabbage, cauliflower and lettuce should be made; and two to four weeks later for main early crop. at this time also, beets and earliest celery. _tools_. overhaul them all now; order repairs. get new catalogues and study new improvements and kinds you do not possess. _poles and brush_. whether you use the old-fashioned sort (now harder to obtain than they used to be) or make your "poles" and use wire trellis for peas, attend to it now. _fruit_. finish up last month's work, if not all done. also examine plum and cherry trees for black-knot. march _hotbeds_. if not made last of february, should be made at once. some of the seed sown last month will be ready for transplanting and going into the frames; also lettuce sown in january. radish and carrot (forcing varieties) may be sown in alternating rows. give much more air; water on bright mornings; be careful not to have them caught by suddenly cold nights after a bright warm day. _seed-sowing under glass_. last sowing of early cabbage and early summer cabbages (like succession), lettuce, rhubarb (for seedling plants), cauliflower, radish, spinach, turnip, and early tomatoes; towards last of month, late tomatoes and first of peppers, and egg- plant. sweet peas often find a place in the vegetable garden; start a few early, to set out later; they will do better than if started outside. start tomatoes for growing in frames. for early potatoes sprout in sand. _planting, outside_. if an early spring, and the ground is sufficiently dry, sow onions, lettuce, beet, radish, (sweet peas), smooth peas, early carrot, cabbage, leek, celery (main crop), and turnip. set out new beds of asparagus, rhubarb and sea-kale (be sure to try a few plants of the latter). manure and fork up old beds of above. _fruit_. prune now, apple, plum and pear trees. and this is the last chance for lime-sulphur and miscible-oil sprays. april now the rush is on! plan your work, and _work your plan_. but do not yield to the temptation to plant more than you can look out for later on. remember it is much easier to sow seeds than to pull out weeds. _the frames_. air! water! and do not let the green plant-lice or the white-fly get a ghost of a chance to start. almost every day the glass should be lifted entirely off. care must be taken never to let the soil or flats become dried out; toward the end of the month, if it is bright and warm, begin watering towards evening instead of in early morning, as you should have been doing through the winter. if proper attention is given to ventilation and moisture, there will not be much danger from the green plant-louse (aphis) and white-fly, but at the first sign of one fight them to a finish. use kerosene emulsion, tobacco dust, tobacco preparations, or aphine. _seed sowing_. under glass: tomato, egg-plant and peppers. on sod: corn, cucumbers, melons, early squash, lima beans. _planting, outside_. onions, lettuce, beet, etc., if not put in last month; also parsnip, salsify, parsley, wrinkled peas, endive. toward the end of this month (or first part of next) second plantings of these. set out plants of early cabbage (and the cabbage group) lettuce, onion sets, sprouted potatoes, beets, etc. _in the garden_. cultivate between rows of sowed crops; weed out by hand just as soon as they are up enough to be seen; watch for cut- worms and root-maggots. _fruit_. thin out all old blackberry canes, dewberry and raspberry canes (if this was not done, as it should have been, directly after the fruiting season last summer). be ready for first spraying of early- blossoming trees. set out new strawberry beds, small fruits and fruit trees. may _keep ahead of the weeds_. this is the month when those warm, south, driving rains often keep the ground too wet to work for days at a time, and weeds grow by leaps and bounds. woe betide the gardener whose rows of sprouting onions, beets, carrots, etc., once become green with wild turnip and other rapid-growing intruders. clean cultivation and slight hilling of plants set out are also essential. _the frames_. these will not need so much attention now, but care must be taken to guard tender plants, such as tomatoes, egg-plant and peppers, against sudden late frosts. the sash may be left off most of the time. water copiously and often. _planting, outside_. first part of the month: early beans, early corn, okra and late potatoes may be put in; and first tomatoes set out --even if a few are lost--they are readily replaced. finish setting out cabbage, lettuce, cauliflower, beets, etc., from frames. latter part of month, if warm: corn, cucumbers, some of sods from frames and early squash as traps where late crop is to be planted or set. _fruit_. be on time with first sprayings of late-blossoming fruits--apples, etc. rub off from grape vines the shoots that are not wanted. june _frequent, shallow cultivation!_ firm seeds in dry soil. plant wax beans, lima beans, pole beams, melons, corn, etc., and successive crops of lettuce, radish, etc. top-dress growing crops that need special manure (such as nitrate of soda on onions). prune tomatoes, and cut out some foliage for extra early tomatoes. toward end of month set celery and late cabbage. also sow beans, beets, corn, etc., for early fall crops. spray where necessary. allow asparagus to grow to tops. _fruit._ attend to spraying fruit trees and currants and gooseberries. make pot-layers of strawberries for july setting. july maintain frequent, shallow cultivation. set out late cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, leeks and celery. sow beans, beets, corn, etc., for late fall crops. irrigate where needed. _fruit_. pinch back new canes of blackberry, dewberry and raspberry. rub off second crop of buds on grapes. thin out if too many bunches; also on plums, peaches and other fruit too thick, or touching. pot-layered strawberries may be set out. august keep the garden clean from late weeds--especially purslane, the hot- weather weed pest, which should be always _removed_ from the garden and burned or rotted down. sow spinach, rutabaga turnip, bush beans and peas for last fall crop. during first part of month, late celery may still be put out. sow lettuce for early fall crop, in frames. first lot of endive should be tied up for blanching. _fruit_. strawberries may be set, and pot-layered plants, if wanted to bear a full crop the following season, should be put in by the thin out and bag grapes. september _frames_. set in lettuce started in august. sow radishes and successive crop of lettuce. cooler weather begins to tell on late- planted crops. give cabbage, cauliflower, etc., deeper cultivation. "handle" celery wanted for early use. harvest and store onions. get squash under cover before frost. from the th to th sow spinach, onions, borecole for wintering over. sow down thickly to rye all plots as fast as cleared of summer crops; or plow heavy land in ridges. attend to draining. _fruit_. trees may be set. procure barrels for storing fruit in winter. at harvest time it is often impossible to get them at any price. october get ready for winter. blanch rest of endive. bank celery, to be used before christmas, where it is. gather tomatoes, melons, etc., to keep as long as possible. keep especially clean and well cultivated all crops to be wintered over. late in the month store cabbage and cauliflower; also beets, carrots, and other root crops. get boxes, barrels, bins, sand or sphagnum moss ready beforehand, to save time in packing. clean the garden; store poles, etc., worth keeping over; burn everything else that will not rot; and compost everything that will. _fruit_. harvest apples, etc. pick winter pears just before hard frosts, and store in dry dark place. november _frames_. make deep hotbeds for winter lettuce and radishes. construct frames for use next spring. see that vegetables in cellar, bins, and sheds are safe from freezing. trench or store celery for spring use. take in balance of all root crops if any remain in the ground, except, of course, parsnip and salsify for spring use. put rough manure on asparagus and rhubarb beds. get mulch ready for spinach, etc., to be wintered over, if they occupy exposed locations. _fruit_. obtain marsh or salt hay for mulching strawberries. cut out old wood of cane-fruits--blackberries, etc., if not done after gathering fruit. look over fruit trees for borers. december cover celery stored last month, if trenched out-of-doors. use only light, loose material at first, gradually covering for winter. put mulch on spinach, etc. _fruit_. mulch strawberries. prune grape-vines; make first application of winter sprays for fruit trees. and then set about procuring manures of all kinds from every available source. remember that anything _which will rot_ will add to the value of your manure pile. muck, lime, old plastering, sods, weeds (earth and all), street, stable and yard sweepings--all these and numerous others will increase your garden successes of next year. chapter xx conclusion it is with a feeling in which there is something of fear that i close these pages--fear that many of those little things which become second nature to the grower of plants and seem unimportant, but which sometimes are just the things that the beginner wants to know about, may have been inadvertently left out. in every operation described, however, i have tried to mention all necessary details. i would urge the reader, nevertheless, to study as thoroughly as possible all the garden problems with which he will find himself confronted and to this end recommend that he read several of the many garden books which are now to be had. it must be to his advantage to see even the same subjects presented again from other points of view. the more familiar he can make himself, both in theory and in practice, with all the multitude of operations which modern gardening involves, the greater success will he attain. personally, the further i have gone into the growing of things--and that has now become my business as well as my pleasure--the more absorbingly interesting i find it. each season, each crop, offers its own problems and a reward for the correct solution of them. it is a work which, even to the beginner, presents the opportunity of deducting new conclusions, trying new experiments, making new discoveries. it is a work which offers pleasant and healthy recreation to the many whose days must be, for the most part, spent in office or shop; and it gives very substantial help in the world-old problem of making both ends meet. let the garden beginner be not disappointed if he does not succeed, for the first season or two, or possibly three, with everything he plants. there is usually a preventable reason for the failure, and studious observation will reveal it. with the modern success in the application of insecticides and fungicides, and the extension of the practice of irrigation, the subject of gardening begins to be reduced to a scientific and (what is more to the point) a sure basis. we are getting control of the uncertain factors. all this affects first, perhaps, the person who grows for profit, but with our present wide circulation of every new idea and discovery in such matters, it must reach soon to every remote home garden patch which is cared for by a wide-awake gardener. such a person, from the fact that he or she is reading a new garden book, i take the reader to be. i hope this volume, condensed though it is, has added to your fund of practical garden information; that it will help to grow that proverbial second blade of grass. i have only to add, as i turn again to the problems waiting for me in field and under glass, that i wish you all success in your work--the making of better gardens in america. distributed proofreaders team _the library of work and play_ gardening and farming by ellen eddy shaw copyright, this book is dedicated to the real boys of this real club and to the girls who are just as good as boys contents part i--the garden club chapter i. the garden club ii. the boys' garden difficulties iii. the girls' secret iv. garden experiments performed indoors v. the work shop end of the garden vi. what the girls made winter evenings vii. improving the school grounds viii. myron's strawberry bed ix. jack's all-round garden x. albert and jay's drainage problem xi. george's cabbage troubles xii. peter, potatoes and profit xiii. philip's backyard xiv. the corn contest xv. the girls' secret work xvi. more about the girls' work xvii. the girls' winter work xviii. the grand wind-up--girls vs. boys part ii.--the chief's garden talks chapter i. the soil ii. plant food iii. seeds iv. the plant itself v. increasing plants vi. garden operations vii. common weeds viii. garden pests ix. vegetable culture x. flower culture xi. the wild-flower garden xii. landscape gardening xiii. how boys and girls can make money from their gardens illustrations dee's garden was a "lovesome thing" _frontispiece_ the way the chief taught his boys to handle tools jay's tile drain converted a swamp into a garden philip's backyard made beautiful by annuals and quick-growing vines the bulb story constant cultivation of the soil saved george's cabbages jack's rake handle as a measuring stick albert sowing large seeds singly elizabeth sowing small seed from the package myron transplanting his long-rooted strawberry plants katharine transplanting her flowers by a method of lifting part i--the garden club i the garden club the door opened. a gust of wind and rain literally swept five boys, wet and breathless, into the room. the man at the big oak table in front of a huge open fire looked up, smiled, and said, "off with your duds, boys! bar the door securely, jay, for it's a wild night. throw a fresh log on the fire, albert. and all line up." for a few moments the big cheerful room seemed full of wriggling, twisting boys as great coats were pulled off and hung up carefully on pegs at the far end of the room. it was a rule here at the chief's home that things should always be shipshape. then the "line up" came. this was a little ceremony the boys always went through, having dropped into it quite of their own accord. they formed a line in front of the open fire with backs to it and faces toward the man. then they solemnly saluted in military style. at this the chief arose, saluted, and by a wave of the hand assigned each boy to his place at the table. this little group of boys had formed itself naturally into a club. it met with the chief every saturday night. he was really no chief, this big, boy-loving man who had come to spend a while in this little country village, to rest and to write. the boys had named him the chief because, as albert said, "he could lead any tribe and tame any savage." at this albert always laughed for he himself had been called a savage so many times he almost believed he was one. the boys dropped into their places. jay, or the "little chief" as the boys called him, sat opposite the big chief at the end of the table and right in front of the fire. he was slim and tall and light of foot. he could run faster, throw farther, and play better than any other boy in the village. he always led, he never bullied, he played fair, so the other boys always followed. albert, jay's brother, big and heavy and as full of mischief as he could hold, took his place at the chief's right hand. albert called this his place of honour although knowing full well that he was there so the chief might have him within reach. next to albert came george, frank-faced and bashful, sturdy and loyal. opposite him red-headed, stubby peter sat always on the edge of his chair, always with a bit of a smile on his face, never talking much, always agreeing good-naturedly. beside peter and at the chief's left was jack, who wriggled constantly like a young eel. after the boys were seated and quiet, the chief pushed back his work, a plan of his summer's garden, leaned back in his chair and said, "i think first we had better take up your reports." then he pointed at jay who began: "well, when albert and i asked father for a piece of the garden for our very own to work exactly as we pleased this summer, with no questions asked or answered, he laughed. he said that albert wouldn't stick to it a day." "i will, just the same," shouted out albert quite red in the face. "just keep out of this, savage, until i get through." the man laid a restraining hand on albert's arm and jay continued: "but i begged father, and told him we'd always worked for him, and he might let us try for ourselves. besides, i told him we'd not shirk his work. so finally he said we each could have the ten hills in the corn patch for the experiment, just as you wished. and then--" "and then," broke in albert, unable longer to contain himself, "what do you think he gave us? it's just no use trying, for he gave us an old piece of land below the barn. it's a regular old swamp; why, water stands there the whole spring long, and it takes half the summer to dry it out. then it gets hard as a brick. now what is the use of trying on that?" "we'll take it just the same, and so we told father," continued jay. "we have just got to make that old land do something." the chief nodded and pointed to george for his report. "same here," began george. "my father wouldn't listen at all at the first; then he said i might have the hills of corn. he threw in also an old side slope which he thinks is too poor for any use." george sank back in his chair in a quite dejected manner. it was now jack's turn. "you see," he began at his lightning rate, "we haven't much land anyway, seeing as we live in the village. i can have the backyard, such as it is, but that's precious little use. it's never been used for a garden, and it's full of rock. one of our neighbours says i may have a piece of her corn patch for my corn, if i'll take care of hers, too. of course i took her offer. just had to." peter took his turn last, as usual. "we have no place at our home; too much lawn, and mother will not have it cut up. grandfather said i might have any place i wanted in his garden if i'd really care for it myself." "my!" said albert, "what a snap! your grandfather has the best garden land around here. you'll win the chief's five dollars for the best garden; you just can't help yourself. i'd like to punch you, peter, for having such luck." peter smiled a little more broadly. "fin sorry the garden's so good, but i can't help it." "it's all right, peter," began the chief; "after all, boys, i believe we are not having such bad luck. cheer up! we are going to surprise those fathers of yours, and have a good time out of it, too. jay and albert have a big problem of draining; george has simply got to put that sandy slope in shape; it looks as if jack would have to fill in for his garden; and peter--well, some of you may beat peter yet." at this last peter smiled, jack skilfully tumbled him off his chair and albert gave a war whoop. the chief called his meeting to order again. "and now, boys, i shall see you each one separately about your garden problems. remember, not a word at home, for we are going to surprise the people. and at our next regular meeting, and at all others this winter we shall have reports on the manner in which you are going to get at your work and the way in which you will beat conditions. in this way we can keep track of each other's work. we must make our plans, too, on paper, which will help out. we have catalogues to write for, garden stakes to make, and no end of things will come up. but first you boys ought to understand a bit more than you do about the soil. it is a storehouse of good things. knowledge of the soil is a key to this storehouse. "we can roughly divide the soil into three classes and call these sand, clay, and humus. the ideal soil has all three of these elements in it. sandy soil is made up, as the name itself really tells, of broken up rock masses. one can tell this sort of soil by its lightness and the ease with which a mass of it drops apart. by the word lightness one does not mean colour or weight, but looseness. a clay soil may be told by its stickiness; its power to form lumps or masses; its tendency to crack and bake under the hot sun. such a soil is called heavy. humus soil is made up largely of decayed animal and vegetable matter. its presence is told by a dark, rich colour. "in trying to improve the soil we are dealing with, we have first to think of its physical, and second, its chemical condition. "the great needs of the soil are air and water. just think of all soils as made up of many particles; let us say like a lot of marbles, one placed upon another. each given mass of particles has a given air space between every particle. again, if a marble is dipped in water a film of water remains on it a short time. let us think of the particles as always having a film of water on them. then, as roots and root-hairs of plants strike down among these they find the two necessities, air and water. "now sand is very loose and so lets the water drain down through it too rapidly. how shall we improve a sandy soil? just add something to bind the loose sand particles together. humus is good for this binding purpose. "clay absorbs much water. then its particles squeeze tightly together and so air is shut out. add sand to clay soils, to lighten them. "humus soil is very rich in nitrogen. this brings us to the chemical side of soils. there are many chemicals in soils which act as foods to plants, but only three are the essentials. if these cannot be unlocked from the soil, or are lacking, they must be supplied. these plant foods are nitrogen, potash, and phosphorus. "the chief source of nitrogen is manure; of potash, nitrate or sulphate of potash, and wood ashes; of phosphorus, bone ash or phosphates. how can you tell when one of these is lacking? well, first it is well to know what each one does for a plant. nitrogen makes fine, green, sturdy growth of leaf and stalk; phosphorus helps blossoming plants; while potash makes plump fruit. if foliage looks sickly then nitrogen is needed. if one wishes a good growth of leaves, as in lettuce, nitrogen is needed. if the fruit is small and poor, supply potash; while if the flower and stalk need better growth, add phosphorus. "be careful in adding nitrogen. nitrogen is the plant food which is most easily lost out of the soil. study the soil you are dealing with, supply if possible what it lacks, and try to unlock to your seedlings the goodness already in the garden soil." the interesting talk ended. "couldn't we meet oftener than just saturdays?" questioned jack. "we'll see; it all depends upon how much work there is. possibly we may have to meet fridays, too, later on, for you have no lessons that night. anything more, boys, before the popcorn?" "i'd like to know," asked peter, "if my cousin philip, who comes from the city to grandfather's to spend almost every saturday and sunday, may join us too. he wants to fix up his city backyard and doesn't know how to begin." "bring him along next saturday. we'll be glad to have him, shan't we, boys?" "don't know," blurted out albert, "it's our club." "keep quiet, albert. let him in as long as he behaves and works. isn't that right?" asked jay. "yes," answered george and jack. "then, boys, we'll have jack's report next week, as his problem is not so difficult. if jay and albert drop in some day from school they shall have a book which will help them, and george needs one, too." at this point albert dropped off his seat in mock alarm murmuring as he fell, "worse, much worse than school!" george dropped a heavy book on top of him to add to his comfort. the chief went on as if nothing had happened. "jack and peter, shell and pop the corn, george and jay, crack the nuts. and you, albert, run to the cellar for the apples. get good ones, young man." "why," questioned albert, as he picked himself up, "why must poor albert always do the hard work, while the other fellows stay by the warm fire?" no one answered him and he slowly marched off. soon the corn was popped, the nuts cracked and the big red apples on deck. and then it was a quiet room save for the snapping of a shell from a half-cracked nut, and the munching of the firm apples as the boys ate. the firelight played softly over the old room bringing out strongly the big oak table, the group of boys, the silent man, throwing far back into the shadows the old rush-bottomed chairs, the short-legged rockers and the pieces of furniture at all distant from the fire. the clock struck nine. the boys reluctantly got up from the floor and struggled into their coats. jay unbarred the door. the man held the light high above his head sending a stream of light after them, george astride his old farm horse ready for his three-mile ride, jay and albert trudging after him, and jack and peter hand in hand on a run toward the village. "good-night!" they shouted back at the man, "we'll be on time next saturday night, seven sharp. good-night!" ii the boys' garden difficulties "it's fine to see you back, myron," began the chief, looking at a big, good looking fellow, who had dropped quietly into his place by george. "are you here for all the time, now?" "yes," replied myron, "i got tired of the town and am glad enough to be back again." "we are just as glad as you are. is philip here for sunday?" philip wriggled happily beside peter and said nothing. for peter had impressed philip with the fact that he must keep quiet for it wasn't very much his club anyway. "there is business up for discussion, and two applications," began the chief. "applications!" broke in albert. "may we have those first?" "if you can't keep still," retorted jay, "you'll get applications all right, but of quite another sort." the chief passed two letters to george. george stood up, swallowed hard, for he was a bashful lad, and began. "'will the junior garden club give suggestions and practical help for the improvement of the oldfield centre school grounds?' signed 'the teacher.'" "crickey!" said albert. "that's white in her! expert advice! i guess we will!" "what shall we do about this?" asked the chief. "we just ought to do it, i think," began jack. "there surely is no other public-spirited club in this place." "just so," murmured peter. "we ought now to have a secretary for the club, and a chairman, too. i believe to-night is the time to vote for these officers," suggested the chief. "suppose jack and philip tear up slips of paper and pass them. then myron and george collect, and count the ballots. we should vote for chairman first." "what does the chairman have to do?" asked myron. "a chairman always calls a meeting to order and presides," answered the man. for a few minutes they were all very busy with paper and pencil. the results were given by myron. "jay has all the votes for chairman. albert has four for secretary, and so i suppose we'll have to have him." albert, nothing daunted, said, "i guess you will, but i write like a hen." "that's right, you do," chimed in jack to albert's apparent annoyance. "now, jack, call your meeting to order and let's have these matters voted on." "come to order all of you. what shall we do about this school-ground business?" "i vote," began myron. "stand on your feet," advised jay. "i vote--" "no, myron," corrected the chief, "move--not vote." "i move, then, that we fix up those grounds." "who seconds this?" and jay looked hard at george. "i will," he responded. "i'm not sure, now," appealed jay to the chief, "i'm not sure just how to go on." "it's this way--it has been moved and seconded that this request be granted. all in favour say 'aye'; all contrary minded 'no'. it is a vote." jay repeated this and the boys voted, albert, as usual, voting "no," just for fun. "now, if george will read the second letter-----" "i should think," jack half questioned, "that the secretary should read things, now we have a secretary." "so he should, hand those papers over, george." george, delighted, gave place to albert, who stumblingly read. "we girls wish to garden, too. we'd like to join your club. we can do just as good work as boys. will you take us in?" "not much!" went on alfred just as if he were still reading, "girls in our club, no siree, girls never!" "girls might do something," began myron. "but," jack broke in, "they'd after all spoil a boys' club. why, it wouldn't be a boys' club then." "they might have one of their own," suggested peter. "and do different things," continued philip. "i really don't see," jay went on, "quite how we could have them. but, i suppose, they might meet with the chief and we could help them sometimes." "no," said albert, "we don't wish to get mixed up with that sort of thing. they'd run the whole club in the end." "that's right," agreed george. this was put to vote properly and the girls were barred out. "you must write them a letter, albert," concluded jay. "write a letter! a letter to those girls! never!" "yes you will; you are the secretary and you have to, understand," said jay. poor albert, not long before so proud of his office, looked as if he'd rather be whipped than be the secretary. "the real business to-night is to hear reports so we can do a little experimenting and testing next week," suggested the man. "all right, we'll have george's first." "i shall, of course," began george, "plant my corn, country gentleman, in with father's. we have plenty of seed corn, so i shall not have to buy any. as far as my old slope goes i have to pick all the stone off. then i am not sure just how to drain it, for the rains from another slope above wash it all the spring and summer. i shall then put some barnyard manure on and plant it all to corn. of course, i must plough and harrow it, too." "now," said the chief, "i guess we'd better stop right here and have a little talk, for george has brought up some problems for discussion. in the first place--let us consider the draining. all george has to consider is that he has to conduct or lead the water off his land." "but," said george, "that is what seems to me difficult." "have you noticed how water takes definite courses down hills? that ought to give you some help." "i see," cried jack, "george could make gutters for the rain to travel along and so lead the water off his garden." "exactly, jack has the idea. it is really a bit of engineering. suppose george finds the highest point, the greatest slope, of his land. from this point a gutter or furrow should be dug so that the water is made to flow off and away from his land." "how deep shall i dig the gutter?" "dig it about three feet deep and fill stones right into this gutter. two feet of stone in the gutter is about right. water falling on a stone mass drains off properly. it would sink into an earth mass. bring a little sketch of this with you next week, george, showing where you are going to dig the drain. now boys, how much fertilizer do you think ought to go on this poor land of george's?" "i was going to put on two inches," said george. "i should think he ought to put at least four inches on," half questioned myron. "i'll say eight," began philip. the boys shouted at this. "philip," went on the man after the laughter ceased, "is very nearly right. if george wishes to get anything from this old land at once, he must fertilize it heavily. if your father can spare a foot of fertilizer put it on." the boys all whistled. "now about the corn! did you know, george, that corn is a most exhaustive crop?" "i don't even know what you mean." "i do," said jack, "he means corn tires the soil." "just so," continued the chief, "the soil supplies food to the plant. some crops use up more of the soil's goodness than others. corn is one of these. now, george, what do you think about planting a crop that works the soil very hard, especially when the soil you are dealing with is rather poor?" "it wouldn't be the best thing, i should say. will you suggest good things to plant?" "well, potatoes, tomatoes and cabbage demand less from the soil." "then i choose cabbage, i'll plant that entire old slope to cabbage." "now, jack, suppose you talk." "i have decided to build a coldframe, so i can get a little earlier start with my plants; i suppose i should have begun this frame last fall. i know this--that i have to dig out my whole garden spot and fill it in. so i thought i could get a start with the coldframe while i was working at filling in. i have decided to plant lettuce, radish, beets, tomatoes, peppers and some flowers. i think i shall plant asters, stock and sunflowers." "why sunflowers?" asked philip. "i want the seed for my squirrel's feed next winter. then, too, i think sunflowers make a pretty nice background for a garden." "if you wish to drop in to see me before the next week's meeting we'll have plans for the coldframe worked out to explain to the boys then. you measure the space where you are going to put the frame and ask your father about the lumber. as lumber is your father's business, i should almost think you could get us some soft wood, say white-wood, for our stakes and markers," suggested the chief. "of course, i can," promised jack. "now peter," said jay. "my garden is to be just potatoes." "peter and potatoes!" jeered albert. "oh, peter!" "i don't care, i'm for potatoes and profit." "peter always does make money. so i suppose his potatoes will turn into money, too," volunteered philip. "my stunt," said myron next, "is to be strawberries. i want to raise strawberries. mr. marsh, on the longmeadow farm, has offered to give me some plants. i'll do the corn stunt; aren't you going to, pete?" "of course, that was understood, and philip will have his corn at grandfather's too, for a city backyard is no place for corn." "now, albert, you may talk for both of us," said jay. "our land has to be drained, but it is not exactly the same proposition that george has. water stands on our land. we had thought of putting a drain pipe in. it seems as if there should be an easier way, but we don't know one," albert stopped and looked at the chief, who leaned back in his chair and thought a minute. "i guess, boys, we had better stop and talk over the matter of drainage. there are three kinds of drains, namely: the open drain, the blind drain, and the tile drain. each one has worked out of the other. the simplest sort and the one man first used is the open ditch. a piece of land was covered with water. a ditch was dug through the land at the place or places where water was standing. usually a little stone is thrown into the bottom to help drain the water off. "such a drain put out of use quite a bit of land. so partly because of this a second sort of drain was worked out. a good body of stone was put into the drain, then earth filled in over this. water percolating down through the soil followed along these drainage courses. formerly it settled in spots and made boggy land. finally a more systematic sort of drain developed from this last one. instead of a body of stone, a drain tile was placed on the bottom of the trench. "straight off you boys can see which one of these three represents the best all around drain. out in the country or where there is no need to think of utilizing every bit of land, the open drain is often seen. but where every bit of land must be used, the open drain is out of the question. "all drains come under the head of one of these three types. after all, boys, since you can put in the tile drain would it not be wiser to do so?" "surely," answered albert. "but i should think soil which has been under water for some time, as this has, would be a bit poor." "in case you find the soil is sour, as it may be, you can sweeten it up. there is a certain farm sweetener in lime," added the chief. "we shall plant on our land onions, peas, and tomatoes." continued albert. "we believe that the soil is going to be especially good for onions." "i guess i shall have to break in again right here. onions need a fine, rich, deep soil. to be sure moist soil is good for certain varieties of onions. that is why, i imagine, you thought your soil good. you must get this soil into better garden condition before you devote it to a crop like onions. try a general vegetable garden this season. work out the crop value of the soil. "philip, do you know what you are going to do?" "i know that i have everything to do. i thought perhaps i should do something like this. we want that old backyard to be really pretty. the yard is a long narrow strip of land just like most city backyards. i thought i'd make a walk straight through it. i want a little fish pond at the end. i thought i'd lay out a few flower beds with paths in between them. mother says she will buy me a few shrubs." "i say, chief, don't you think some of us might go up to the city and help philip make the cement pond?" asked albert eagerly. "we might," murmured jay, "if we get invited." "boys, it's late. we know a little of what our stunts are to be. next week each of you bring about fifty seeds of each kind you intend to plant. be able to tell just how these seeds should be planted. also have the dimensions of your plots. jack will bring some soft wood along, too. and philip, find out, if possible just how much money you can have for shrubs. now on with your coats! out of my house in two seconds!" "no food to-night is a sad blow, chief," said albert pretending to weep as he opened the outside door. "this blow is sadder," replied jack, playfully shoving albert clean out of the door. iii the girls' secret a very timid little knock roused the chief from his study of jack's coldframe plans. the outer door gently opened and three little girls entered and advanced to where the man sat. one, the smallest of the three, was thrust forward as spokesman. gathering herself together she began with a rush. she thrust a letter into the chief's hands. "this is the boys' horrid letter. we don't care particularly about belonging to a boys' club. we wouldn't now, any way. but we'd like to show those boys a thing or two and we thought perhaps you would help us. will you?" "sit down, and we will work out a little plot together. but first tell me your names. i like to know the names of people with whom i plot." the girls came close to the man. the spokesman did the introducing. "i am delia, peter's sister, and just as smart as he is. this," pointing to a quiet, pleasant-faced girl, "is ethel. and the other is jack's sister, elizabeth." "how many more girls belong to this company?" "they are all outside waiting, i'll call them in if you say so. they are behind the lilac bushes. you see we were afraid some of the boys might come to see you, so we hid. for we don't wish them to know about this at all. i'll call the girls in now." so delia ran to the door, held it wide open, and called "come girls, he wants to meet you!" "come right in, girls. this one," pointing to a girl with light hair and bright eyes, "is eloise. her father keeps the inn. and this is josephine, who has no yard at all; and helena who has plenty of ground; and this," with a grand flourish, "this is the judge's daughter, katharine." "i hate," said katharine, "always being labelled; i think it's pretty hard on a girl to be tagged this way." "if you'll sit down," began the chief--"although there are not chairs enough--we'll get right down to business." and then how they talked! closer and closer they drew up to the chief until the eight heads were so close together they seemed almost one huge head. finally they all shouted with laughter. "not a word outside, mind you, not one word. prove that girls can keep a secret." "we solemnly promise," said katharine for the others. "look," cried elizabeth, "there comes jack; what shall we do?" "out this way," quietly replied the man, almost sweeping seven happy little girls out of the door. "now, cut and run." and off they scampered over the fields. iv garden experiments performed indoors "the meeting is called to order," began jay. "to-night, so the chief says, each fellow has some special thing to talk about. albert will have an accident with that bottle unless he begins right off, so tune up, savage." "this bottle is full of vinegar. i might have brought a lemon or anything else acid. this blue paper is called litmus paper. i got it at the drug store for ten cents. just look right here, and you will see magic worked. i shall put some vinegar on this piece of paper. see!" "turned red as quick as scat!" said jack. "litmus will always turn red when any acid gets on it. i've tried several acids at home. it works every time," went on albert as if no one else had spoken. "i cannot see what this has to do with gardens." began philip. "now you keep quiet until i finish. haven't you fellows heard your fathers talk about sour ground? well, that means acid soil." "why, we have a piece of ground, where sorrel grows thick; father says that is sour," added george. "just a minute, albert," broke in the chief; "that is one way, george, that farmers tell a sour bit of land. weeds grow thickly over such ground, but as george has said, sorrel is likely to predominate. go on, albert." "any soil may be tested with this litmus. the chief calls this the scientific way of going at it. i was able to get a little soil from our future garden plot, and i'll find out right now if it's acid." albert opened a small box which was full of soil that looked quite clayey. he wet a piece of litmus and buried it in the soil. "we'll have to leave this a few minutes, and i'll finish what i have to say. if soil is very acid it has to be changed back again." "back again to what?" asked jack. "why, back again, so it isn't acid," albert continued, decidedly confused. "i'll help you a bit," and the chief came to the rescue, "get that big bottle over there, albert." albert brought the bottle. in it was a liquid clear as water. "taste it, peter," and the chief handed peter a little in a small glass. "why it doesn't taste like much of anything; sort of flat." "that's it exactly, peter. it certainly is not an acid, is it?" peter shook his head. "it is lime water and does not belong in the acid class, but to one which is exactly opposite to the acids, the alkalies. soils ought to be neither acid nor alkaline, but neutral, as it is called. an alkali will help make neutral an acid. if the soil is acid it is bad for your crop. put a little lime water on the litmus which the acid has turned red." albert did this and the boys watched interestedly to see the effect. "back again," sang out jack as the red litmus changed to blue. "now from this you see a way to overcome the acid conditions of albert's piece of land, if it proves to be acid." "i see," said jack, "lime it." "exactly! now see, albert, if the paper has changed colour." "my, i should say it had!" and albert held up the piece of litmus paper, now quite red from its contact with the soil. "well, albert, it is pretty plain to see what you have to do. did you find out the amount of lime to use?" "in the book i read it said for clay soils - pounds per acre." "i should say," said the chief, "for that special piece of land use about bushels to the acre." "how many pounds of lime," asked jack, "to the bushel?" "i can answer," grandly went on albert, "there are pounds to the bushel. so that makes pounds." "quite a proposition!" said jay. "yes, but your land is only a half acre and so that changes matters a little. how much is lime a bushel, jack? ask your father, will you?" "i think," said the chief, "that we'll have to lay a drain pipe through your land. anyway i shall come around in early spring and have a look at it." "now peter, we'll hear from you," jay announced. "my work was to find out how long it took different kinds of seeds to germinate, that is sprout. i took a dozen each of different seeds, put blotters in dishes, wet the blotters, and placed the seeds on these. i kept them in a warm place in the dining room. i have made each of you fellows a copy of the table." peter's germinating table beans - days. onion - days. beets - " peas - " cabbage - " pepper - " carrot - " radish - " celery - " tomato - " lettuce - " turnip - " "i'd like to know what use a germinating table is, anyway?" asked albert scornfully. "well," peter replied thoughtfully, "it gives you an exact knowledge of the time to expect your seedlings to poke up. now suppose radish came up in four days. the carrot you had planted didn't come up and after twelve days, discouraged, you plant more seed. now two days later the first carrots you sowed begin to appear. if you had known that it took carrots from to days to germinate you'd not have made the mistake of planting again so soon. i think of another reason," went on peter warming up to his subject. "suppose you planted beet seed. you waited ten days; nothing happened; you wait two more and still no seedling appears; something is surely wrong and you plant over again." "what could be wrong," asked philip. "the seed might be poor," replied peter. "george has been testing seed," said jay, "and he might tell us about it now, couldn't he, chief? it seems to come in here." the chief nodded. "i have been finding out whether certain seeds which i happen to have on hand are worth planting or not. if any of you fellows have seed and wish to find this out, you can easily enough. so you can be sure whether old seed is worth planting. now it happens that father had some of his last year's corn and some from four years ago. so i took seeds of each. if you test small seed like lettuce, the chief says seeds will do. these i put on blotters just as pete did his. of course, i kept them separate. from last year's seed seeds sprouted out of the , or / of them. and that equals per cent. if all seed was per cent. good it would be all right to use, i think. now when i looked at the four-year-old seed, what do you think? only five seeds had started. that makes only / , or per cent. of course, no one would care to use seed where only per cent. of the seed sprouted." "is there any real percentage of germination that seeds should have?" jack asked eagerly. "yes," replied the chief, "although value as you see from george's experiment is lost by age. the real standard germination value for corn is per cent., for beans , for turnips , for peas , etc. you can see that the per cents. for these vegetables run high. so do not use seeds when the per cent. has dropped too low. "has george found out the time when other seeds lose value?" asked peter. "i did not work this table out because i did not have the old seed to work with," replied george, "but the chief gave me a book to look it up in. i have printed on our press the table. so you fellows may each have a copy." george handed the sheets around the table. it happened that the chief had a little old printing press that he had presented to the club. club real estate, albert called it. george's table age of seeds for planting purposes - years. - years. - years. - years. corn tomato beet pea ( - ) cucumber celery pepper lettuce radish ( - ) melon carrot onion turnip ( - ) squash bean parsley pumpkin "now, george," albert begged, "give us a table of germinating per cents." "not much, each fellow can work out the value of his own old seeds and see if they are worth using." "i think george is right," began the chief after the laugh at albert's expense ceased. "perhaps you'd like to try the effect of depth of planting on corn. here are some boxes of earth. george, you plant six kernels of corn one inch deep and mark the box with your name and the depth on it, peter, plant the next box with six kernels at two inches. albert, try three inches, and jack, four inches. it will be your business, myron, to drop in here each half day and note the first appearance of corn in the different boxes." the result of this experiment, which took about two weeks in all, was as follows: depth of planting time to come up in. - / days in. " in. " in. - / " this experiment showed the boys that seeds too deeply planted are hindered in progress. "myron, you may take the floor now," signalled jay. "i have worked out and printed for you the amount of seed necessary to plant a certain space. i have printed my table just as george did. 'h' stands for hills and 'd' means drills." "what is a drill?" asked philip. "why a drill is a furrow. you can make a drill with a rake handle, or a hoe. we can show you better when we get outdoors, philip," myron answered quite condescendingly. myron's seed-estimate table name method of planting quantity of seed hills or drills bean (bush) d qt. for ft. beet d oz. " ft. cabbage h oz. " plants carrot d oz. " ft. corn h qt. " hills. lettuce d oz. " ft. musk melon h oz. " hills. onion d oz. " ft. parsley d oz. " ft. pea d oz. " ft. pepper d oz. " plants. potato h peck " hills. pumpkin h oz. " hills. radish d oz. " ft. tomato h oz. " plants. turnip d oz. " ft. "this table is all right, i suppose," began philip, "but if a fellow doesn't know quite how far apart to plant his cabbage, say, i can't see how this table helps much." "i took it for granted," myron answered, "that you fellows know a little about things. but if a person didn't know what you ask, philip, i suppose this table isn't much good. shall i call all the tables in, chief?" "not at all, myron, this is a good table so far as it goes. next time each of you boys look up this matter. perhaps you can work out a good scheme for such information." "now, philip, we'd like to hear about your shrub money and then we'll have time to see jack's coldframe plans, before club time is over," at which jay settled back in his chair as if club work was a strain on a fellow after all. "i may have one dollar to spend. i have decided to buy three shrubs. i shall plant one by itself; the two others together in a clump. i wanted forsythia, but i have finally decided on japan snowball and van houtte's spirea." "why?" asked albert. "you see the forsythia shows up best against a dark background because of the bright yellow flowers. i have no good setting for such a shrub. then, too, it blossoms so very early in the spring, in april you know, that it seemed to me, since i must plant this spring, i'd disturb less a later flowering shrub. i chose the japan snowball because it's less liable to have lice than some others and because it looks well all by itself on the lawn. that spirea is a specially good variety of spirea because it does well almost anywhere, and also it is very showy and the foliage is handsome all summer long. some shrubs look scrubby after awhile." "where did you get all this knowledge, philip?" asked albert, half enviously. "i made it my business to know. i hunted up shrubs in a catalogue, then i called on a florist, and we had a shrub talk together." "now, i call that getting down to real work," jay remarked. philip looked happy and peter nearly tilted his chair over in his pleasure for he evidently felt the city was making good. "now, jack, bring on the coldframe." "i have my drawing right here," began jack, spreading it out on the table while the boys crowded about. "you look at the drawing as i explain. myron and jay have promised to help me make it. it will be a coldframe this year; next fall i shall change it into a hotbed." "how?" broke in albert. "i shall dig out the soil from the coldframe. then i shall put in two feet of manure and cover it with four inches of soil. this spring about all i can do is to mix into the soil some well-rotted manure. i guess i shall put in about three inches in all. i guess i can explain," continued jack, delighted at this opportunity to air his newly acquired knowledge. "the chief has talked this over with me. it all depends upon what you wish to use the frame for. i want to use mine to get an early start this spring, so i make the bed rich and depend on the sun's rays mostly for heat. this, then, is a coldframe. the sloping glass frame helps you see. but next winter i hope to really get results out of this frame, so i have to supply extra heat. the layer of manure underneath gives this. i then have a hotbed. if i just wish to keep plants along, ready to force next spring, then the sun's rays would be enough for that work without the layer of heat." "i see, thank you, and why do you say layer of heat? i should call it a layer of manure." "because it is heat, isn't it? and anyway real gardeners call it that. we may as well use the right names; don't you think so, chief?" "surely, jack. it's our business to know right terms. each line of work has its own language. jack has done a good piece of work so far. we shall have most of our next meeting in the workshop. jack, myron and jay are going to work on this frame. you other fellows will be able to make stakes and dibbers enough for the crowd." "what is a dibber?" asked albert. "that is for you to look up. if you have any old rake or hoe handles bring them along for dibber making. good-night, boys." off into the night they scampered--a jolly, sound lot of lads. v the workshop end of the garden "before we go to the workshop we might take up the methods of planting our vegetables. then if any fellow has worked out a table, peter, the star printer, may strike off copies for all of us," began jay, after calling the meeting to order. "i'd be glad to hear from any of you fellows who have done anything on this matter." all was quiet. finally myron arose and began to read from a paper covered with writing. "the carrot--common name of the _daucus carota_--a biennial, indigenous to europe, believed by some botanists to have been derived from the common wild carrot." "where'd you copy that stuff? no table can be made from that! imagine a fellow out planting carrots and reading before he sows: the carrot--a bi--bi what, biped, did you say, myron?" albert chuckled away and myron dropped into his seat saying angrily, "i tried hard, anyway. it took me a whole evening to copy just the carrot." "i should think it might have. has any fellow a really simple table?" "i've worked at it," peter replied modestly. "i think i have something here that will really be of use." at this peter spread out on the big table a neat piece of work. peter's outdoor planting table name depth to distance apart plant seeds furrows bean (bush) in. - in. ft. beet - / in. - in. - in. cabbage / in. - in. ft. corn - / in. ft. - ft. (hills) lettuce / in. - in. - in. musk melon in. - ft. - ft. (hills) onion / in. - in. - in. parsley / in. in. ft. pepper / in. in. ft. potato in. - in. - in. (hills) pumpkin - / in. - ft. - ft. (hills) radish / in. in. - in. tomato / - in. ft. ft. (hills) turnip / in. in. in. "that's all right," and the chief laid a hand on peter's shoulder and he smiled across at myron. "each one of you boys ought to know how to make a working plan of his garden. i showed jack how to make his coldframe plan. it is well done. now gather about the table and i will make a plan of a supposed garden." [illustration: drawing i drawing ii drawing iii drawing iv this very simple plan of a garden, used by the chief, has in it the essentials for all your garden plan drawing. follow each step as the boys did and you will be able to make a drawing of your own garden.] "i will lend you mine and you might make a drawing of that," craftily suggested albert. "no, young man, you are to make your own. let us suppose for the sake of an easy problem that we claim our garden is to be on a square piece of land, forty feet by forty feet. in drawing to a scale, one takes a certain small measure to stand for a foot. if we take an inch to be a foot, then the entire forty-foot length would have to be forty inches. that is a pretty good large drawing. let us take something smaller and say one-eighth of an inch equals a foot, thus / in. = ft. so we shall have a length and a width of five inches. "the first step in the actual drawing is to find the centre of your given piece of drawing paper. see, i just make short lines or portions of diagonals through the centre as shown right here in what i call drawing i. draw a vertical line through the centre extending to the top and the bottom of the paper. now draw a horizontal line through the centre to the extreme left and right of the sheet. now measure up from the centre on the vertical line the half width of the garden. if the centre is to stand for the centre of the garden, then the garden itself would extend up, down, and to the right and left of its centre, just ft. or - / in. in a plan with scale / in. to ft. so measure up from the centre along the vertical line just two and one-half inches and place a dot. letter this dot a. do this same thing down the vertical line and we have dot b. also measure the same distance along the horizontal to left, calling the dot d and along the right calling the last dot c. now draw a horizontal line in. long through a with - / in. either side of the dot. this gives you one side of your garden or a -ft. length. do a similar thing through dot b. through c and d draw similar lines. we now have the outline of our garden of ft. square. we have on our paper, though, a square x in. "i have decided to have a circular bed in the centre of the garden which shall be ft. in diameter. therefore, the radius of the circle should be ft. or / in. get a pair of compasses for that, jack. now i shall swing the circle. but i wish a -ft. path all about this circular garden. if the path is ft., then i must set my compasses on / in. more or now make the / in. into / in. let us swing another circle with the same point as a centre. "it strikes me that if i should lay my garden out into four squares, the combination of squares, central circles and straight main paths would look incongruous. so i shall cut the central points of the four square beds off by swinging circles. have patience and you will see, for the general plan is in my mind just as it ought to be in the mind of any person who is to make a garden. now swing another circle with a radius of in., and still another the radius of which shall be - / in. "now we come to stage two of this working drawing (drawing ii). i wish a -ft. path going down to the centre bed from the points a, b, c and d. place your ruler, jay, on point a, for you may draw now. measure to the right of a / in. and to the left / in., and place dots at these points. you have the width of your -ft. paths. do this same thing at points b, c and d. number these points , , , , , , and . with very light lines connect points and , and , and , and . where the line - cuts the second circle from the centre, letter the intersections e and f. the intersections of - mark g and h, of - i and j, and of - n and l. you now see the outline of these paths running through the garden. let us border each path with two -ft. borders. so place the ruler at point and mark off two / in. spaces by dots. do the same at points , , , , , and . connect the opposite dots by light lines. "now let george take the third stage (drawing iii). go right over the inside circle so as to make it stand out boldly. strengthen line to e, to g, to f, to h, to i, to n, to j and to l. now these circles should be strengthened and lines erased that interfere. that leaves curve ei, gj, lh, and fn standing out clearly. you see in the drawing one-half the garden plan erased and all right. "after myron has erased every line (drawing iv), you will see the garden plan in all its neatness. place the measurements on the drawing. it looks well, does it not, boys? "these are the steps. any of you can work out your plan if you have one to work out." "now boys, for the shop! myron, jay and jack are to work on the coldframe. peter will have an evening's work printing this planting table. albert will tell us the use of the dibber and make you one each from all these old handles." albert, assuming a grand oratorical manner, gave the boys the benefit of his search for knowledge. "a dibber is a pointed tool, usually a stick, used to make holes for planting seeds, bulbs, setting out plants and transplanting of seedlings." off they all trooped to a little workshop back of the man's home. soon the boys were hard at work, sawing, whittling, and setting up type. [illustration: a sturdy dibber. this needs no directions for the making. the cut tells the story.] here are directions for what the boys made. directions for making a coldframe hemlock was the wood jack used. the lumber for sides and ends is one inch thick while strips marked a and b are one and one-fourth inches thick. cut out pieces in. x ft. in., and in. x ft. in., for the back and the front. cut two pieces x in. and shape them according to drawing for the ends. nail these four pieces together to form the frame. the sides should be nailed to the ends. use ten-penny nails and drive them slantingly. [illustration: working sketch of hotbed jack's working drawing of his hotbed. this was to serve for a coldframe temporarily.] saw out strips a two inches wide and as long as the slanting edge of the end of the frame. be careful with this measurement not to measure the slanting edge of the _end_ piece only, but to include with it the thickness of both front and back pieces. saw out two more pieces two inches wide and as long as the frame is wide at the bottom. make strip b - / in. x ft. in. lay out notches marked a by dividing top and bottom edges of front and back into three equal spaces. cut notches to receive strips marked a. nail strips a in place, also b. to make a neat piece of work the ends of strips a should be planed slightly slanting to make them exactly even, or "flush" with front and back boards. the real object of strips a is to keep the frame from bulging at the centre. jack had three common single window sashes, -in. x ft. which made an excellent cover for the frame. these should be placed in position and fastened to strip b with two-inch butts. notice the sashes project over the front so as to carry the water away from the frame. the sash should be fastened to the frame, putty side out. garden stake the stake may be made of soft wood or hard. it is a good one to use in staking off the garden. it is entirely a piece of knife work. the dimensions are clearly given on the working plan. if the stake is made inches instead of inches, it may be used as a foot rule in measuring off furrows. [illustration: a heavy stake like this one, jack used in marking off his drills. it is adapted to just such work.] the boy's garden reel a piece of wood (ash is suitable for this work), - / x - / x / in. is needed. draw pencil lines lengthwise and widthwise through the centre of this piece. from the centre measure out one inch in both directions, placing dots. these give the central points for centre cut. measure from the four corners of the piece inches along the length. connect by line the opposite dots. this gives the line marked - / in. in the diagram. it shows the beginning of the cut to the centre line. one inch above these lines draw other lines straight across the wood. find centre of these. place a dot one-half inch on both sides of each from centre. this gives the one-inch end cuts. cut this up to one-half inch of each corner. this makes a large substantial garden reel. [illustration: made of hard wood this reel will last forever.] a plant stool or tabouret the materials needed are four pieces x x / in. planed, for legs; one piece x x / in., planed, top; two pieces - / x - / x / in., planed, lower braces; one piece - / x - / x / in., planed, upper brace. use chestnut, white wood, white oak, mahogany, cherry or birch. you will need also -in. blued screws, round head, for fastenings. [illustration: this looks like a pretentious piece of woodwork for a lad to make. george did not think so. the construction is simple. note the good lines.] to construct the stool make with the two - / x - / x / in. pieces the lower braces, a lap joint. find the mid-line of each piece by measuring - / in. from the ends. from this line lay off two other lines parallel to it and at a distance of / in. to the right and left. this makes a - / in. square in the centre of each piece. now transfer these lines down the edges of the lower brace pieces. saw on the inside of the lines down one-half the thickness or saw and chisel down to one-half. it is necessary to saw on the inside of the lines or a loose joint will result. the joint must be exactly in the middle and all arms must be equal in length when completed. brads or finishing nails should be used to hold the joint in place. this lower brace is in. up from the floor or bottom of the stool. in the picture the screws, which hold the brace, show plainly. now lay off an octagon, with a diameter of - / in. on the - / x - / x / in. piece, sawing off the corner pieces so as to just fit the leg. glue and screw this to the under sides of the top piece, placing the grain across that of the top wood. warping is thus prevented. this brace acts as a support to which the upper ends of the legs are firmly screwed and glued. a / in. gimlet hole should be bored for each screw or the wood will split. the holes should not be deeper than - / in. if the screws are to hold firmly. try drawing the screws across a cake of soap and see if they will not be applied more easily. to be sure that the legs go on exactly rigid it would be well to draw lines diagonally through the centre of the under surface of the top piece. the legs are to be attached at right angles to these diagonals. after the legs are screwed to the upper and lower braces sandpaper the entire stool. do this lengthwise to the grain, never across. then stain and wax. vi what the girls made winter evenings while the boys were making their pieces of garden apparatus the girls were at work also. they met with the chief at katharine's house and made a number of pieces of garden apparatus. the directions for making these are given so that other children may make some too. directions for making seed envelopes cut paper - / in. by - / in.; place it the long way of the paper going from front to back of the desk or table at which you work. measure from the upper left corner down - / in., and place point ; - / in. farther down place point . measure from the upper right corner down - / in. and place point ; - / in. farther down place point . measure from the upper left corner toward the right - / in. and place point ; - / in. farther toward the right place point . measure from the lower left corner toward the right - / in., and place point ; - / in. farther toward the right place point . [illustration: pattern for seed envelope katharine made this seed envelope of rather stiff paper so it was of real service] draw dotted lines through and , and , and , and . measure / in. toward the right from points and and place a dot. draw full lines toward the left to the intersection of the dotted lines. measure / in. down from and , and place dots. draw full lines upward to the intersection of the dotted lines. measure / in. up from points and , place dots, and draw full lines downward to the intersection of the dotted lines. draw a full line from points and to the intersection of dotted lines. cut on full lines. fold on dotted lines. fold a, b, and c, in this order, and paste, leaving d for flap to be pasted down when the envelope has been filled with seeds. dimensions of markers the right marker is - / in. long. the distance from head to central point of notch is / in. the distance between notches, or from the central point of one notch across the marker to the central point of the other, is / in. the width is / in. and the thickness / in. the middle marker is - / in. long, / in. wide, and - / in. thick. allow about / in. for the pointing at the end. the left marker is rather larger and stronger; it, too, may be pointed and not notched, so acting as a good pot-marker. make it ins. long, / in. wide, and / in. thick. the line between the notches measures / in. and is in. from the top of the marker. [illustration: such labels as these, made of thin wood, serve as plant labels as well as being useful in the outdoor garden] a garden sieve--materials small boards x - / x / in. small boards x - / x / in. strips of wood x / x / in. strips of wood x / x / in. fine wire netting x in. [illustration: josephine's box had too limited a drainage area] [illustration: make a flat like this one of eloise's and so provide plenty of drainage space] make the framework of a box without a lid, using the -inch pieces for the sides and -inch pieces for ends, putting the ends between the side pieces. use the wire netting for the bottom of the box, nailing it on with the strips of wood. paint the sieve with two coats of dark green paint. a bulb flat the dimensions of the box are the same as those for the sieve except for the depth, which is three inches instead of two and a half inches. of course the bottom is wood with three drainage holes bored in it. a flat may be constructed without the drainage holes as shown in the cut. in this case make the bottom of small pieces of wood leaving an inch space between each piece. this is eloise's kind of a bulb box. a gathering basket for flowers the materials needed are: spokes, ins. long, of number reed. weavers of number reed. weavers of number reed. spokes, in. long, of number reed. _directions_.--split four spokes of number reed exactly in the centre, and slip the remaining four through the slits in the first group. [illustration: this is the basket made and used by katharine. it is a gathering basket just right for fruit and short-stemmed flowers] double a number weaver and slip the loop over the upper vertical group and with the pairing weave go around each group four times. next, separate the spokes in groups of two and continue the pairing weave until four more rows have been woven in. then separate the spokes by ones and weave until the diameter is - / in. cut all off that remains of the number weaver, and insert weavers of number reed. continue with the triple weave to a diameter of in. cut off the ends of the spokes and insert spokes, in. long, of number reed; one on each side of the spokes, except the first; in this instance insert but one. use the side which has been next the weaver for the inside of the basket, letting rough ends come on the outside of the basket. turn the spokes up, and hold in place with one row of quadruple, weave over three spokes and back of one, using the number reed. with the same reed put in eleven rows of plain weave, over one spoke and under the next. next, one row of quadruple and follow with seven rows of double weave, over two and under one, and finish with one row of quadruple weave. for the first row of the border carry number spoke back to number spoke, or the next spoke at the right, and out; number spoke back of number , and out. continue once around the basket. for the second row carry number spoke over number and , and down; number over and and down, and so on around. for the third row carry number over number and down; number over number and down. this may be continued until you have formed a roll over the entire edge. if handles are desired, on each side of the basket insert a piece of number reed for the foundation of these. the end of a number weaver is woven in at the left of the foundation under the third row from the top of the basket, and the long end of the weaver is twisted around the foundation to the other side of the handle. here it is pushed down inside the basket on one side of the handle and over again on the other side of the handle, three rows from the top, making a loop inside. the weaver is then laid close beside the first twist and follows it across to the opposite side. now it goes in under the third row on the left of the handle and out on the right side. each row of twisting must follow close beside the last. six or seven rows will cover the foundation. the end is fastened off by bringing it inside the basket again where it is cut off. this flower basket may be made without the handles. but they add much to it without being a great deal of extra work. a sundial take two pieces of the wood you have chosen: a, - / x - / x / in. and b, x - / x / in. _construction_.--true up each piece to the given dimensions, and sandpaper carefully. be careful to stroke the wood always with the grain--never across the fibres. [illustration: dee's sundial kept fairly accurate time. it is a real ornament to the garden.] [illustration: gnomon pattern just one-half actual size] next make a shadow-piece, or gnomon, as it is called. get a thin piece of the same kind of wood as is used in piece a, and lay it out as follows: with the fibres running in the direction ab, beginning at point a construct an angle equal to the latitude of the place where the dial is to be used. for example, if the latitude of a town is degrees construct the angle d degrees, or if it is degrees, let d be degrees. then cut from a to c, and sandpaper carefully. take the wooden shadow-piece and fasten it to the centre of piece a. fasten by two brads or small nails about / inch or inch long, or glue it. place piece a over piece b so that a margin of / in. will be left on all sides. place a so that the fibres will run at right angles to b to prevent the boards from warping. these two pieces may be fastened together by driving a brad in each corner, or gluing, or both. pot-rest use almost any kind of wood, as white wood, cherry or white oak. two pieces of wood x / x - / in. are needed for the cross pieces. these should be planed. there are needed also four little pieces as feet or pads. the dimensions of these should be - / x - / x / in. to make this stand, draw a line across the two long pieces inches from either end. lay off two other lines parallel to this / inch to the right and left. transfer these lines down the edges by the aid of the try square. saw on the inside of these lines down one half the thickness, or / inch. chisel out for a half-lap joint. [illustration: a pot-rest like the above is worth making because it lasts] the sawing and chiseling should be done carefully. it is necessary to saw on the inside of the lines or a loose joint will be had. doubling the passage of the saw through the wood will often make the difference of / inch. after these are made to fit, the upper ends may be rounded down by chisel and compasses, or bevelled, using the plane. use / -inch brads or finishing nails, four in each pad or foot to fasten pads to the arms. the pads should project / inch from ends and sides. to finish the work nicely so the rest will both look well and stand exposure, apply a suitable stain. allow it to stand at least thirty minutes. then rub down with a cloth to an even stain. it is better to allow the stain to stand a day or so. this gives time for the stain to set before applying the wax. otherwise, some of the stain will be loosened and removed when waxing and a lighter shade of stain will result. plant jardini�re the measurements are easy since the scale is one-half inch. that is, as you measure the line in the working plan you allow one whole inch for every one-half inch you measure on that. so, if a line measures three and one-half inches, make the line for your box seven inches. this is the real height of the box. notice some lines have their real measures given at the side. directions for making are as follows: fold a piece of paper large enough for one of the sides and sketch one-half the outline on one of the folds. cut to line and then draw the other half. this will give perfect balance. cut two pieces of wood from this pattern by placing it on the wood and tracing. [illustration: from the ruler you can read off the exact size of the jardinière] draw a line parallel to each side / inch in on the pattern for a new pattern for the other two sides. these sides will need to be / inch narrower, / inch on each side, as they must fit between the other two sides. if wood of different thickness is used it will be double the thickness. use a coping saw to cut out the base. the tapering sides may be cut to lines by saw, plane or chisel. the curve at the base may be bored by / -inch auger, and in this way a better curve may be had. [illustration: helena used a scale of / inch in the construction of this jardinière so the plan is very easy to work from] use - / -inch brads or finishing nails. a little glue added will make a firmer box. a much larger box after the same pattern will make a beautiful holder for a larger plant or shrub, using, of course, thicker wood. two small cleats should be nailed and glued from the inside to support a bottom. the bottom will give better service if it does not entirely fill the space. let it be the proper length but allow a space of an inch on both sides for dirt and leaves to fall through and out. chestnut was the wood helena used. it was stained and later waxed and polished. a beautiful permanent brown stain may be had on chestnut or white oak by applying strong ammonia to it with a brush and later sandpapering down and waxing. white wood is another good wood to use, but a stain will have to be applied to white wood, as ammonia will not act on it. a strong solution of permanganate of potash put on with a brush will darken any wood; it has no fumes. vii improving the school grounds during the first days of early spring the chief and his boy assistants looked over the school grounds to see what should be done for its improvement. the school was situated on a triangular piece of land right in the fork of two roads. the land was elevated; so much so that the building stood on a real slope; it was practically a road bank. this slope was washed by spring rains leaving large rocks exposed to view. the country road was especially poor at this section. there were deep gullies in it; the gutters were full of leaves and rock. about the school building was a comparatively level spot covered with rock. no trees grew here; a little grass struggled up each year, soon to lose heart and die. "it seems to me," said albert thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets, "that we have our life work here." "not at all," announced the chief, "this is just the sort of thing which confronts most country schools." sitting on a rock the chief gathered his clan in solemn conclave. at the close of the conference jay marched into the schoolhouse and wrote the following headings on the board: i. constructing a wall to form an embankment. ii. cleaning the grounds and making a lawn. iii. planting of trees. iv. preparation and planting of the flower garden. v. cleaning and mending the road. these headings represented the general lines of work the conclave had decided were the right ones, the most pressing ones to begin on. first all the stones were picked up. the smaller boys and girls made little heaps of the small stones, while the larger rocks, requiring strength to move, were left to the older boys and girls. to some rocks the boys were obliged to take the pickaxe and crowbar. these were rolled, dragged and carted to the gutter at the bottom of the bank. a sand bank of this description where the wash is great always needs an embankment of some sort to hold the soil in place. so the boys built a stone wall. they made this wall of the stones picked from the grounds. first the height was decided on. this was to be two feet. they drove stakes, one at the beginning, and so on for every five feet of extent. after leveling, two inches was measured from top of each stake down and a cord was strung along from stake to stake. previously, to be sure that the stakes were at the same level, one of the boys, squatting down on the ground so that his eye was on a level with the stake nearest him, looked or "sighted" along the stakes. where one stake seemed to rise up above the others it was hammered down a little to fall into line. thus a straight line or top level for the wall was obtained. the wall itself was not difficult to build. it meant only the selection of stones and firming them into place. close to the wall there was a strip of level land; then the slope arose from this quite gently. after the stones were picked off the boys raked the ground all over fine, free from lumps and small stones. one evening in the village store george's father offered to plough and harrow the entire grounds if jack's father would give the grass seed. the bargain was sealed. but after all, this sandy soil was no sort of soil to plant grass seed in. the father of one of the girls gave to the school a few loads of good soil. this was spread over the slope to a depth of about a foot. again they raked it all over smooth, filling in and making as pleasing a grade as possible. the chief told them it would have been far better if they could have had two feet of good soil. grass needs all of that. another way to have improved the soil conditions would have been to plant corn or potatoes on this ground for one year. with such a crop the boys and girls would have been constantly working it, stirring it up. this improves soil. after the soil was spread the next thing was to make it firm. this was done in three ways. one day the teacher decided that for gymnastic work they might all turn out and tramp the soil. up the bank they stamped, then down by the old drive to the road again, and up the bank. another way was by using tamping sticks. the boys made these sticks from old broom handles, to the ends of which they fitted solid pieces of board about ten inches square. some were merely nailed upon the ends of the broom handle; but this method was insecure. the others were made with holes in the centre of the boards of the same diameter as the handles. these sticks were used to tamp the soil or spank it down. but on the day when an old farmer, stopping to watch the work, offered his roller, there was great rejoicing. between classes, during recesses and at any odd time the slope was rolled. one boy in the very beginning pushed the roller but not after that, for when it was explained to him he understood why he should pull the roller. first, because pulled there are no foot prints left; and secondly, one slips and makes bad places on the lawn when pushing. next came the seed sowing. the allowance of seed was one quart to each square feet. jack's father chuckled when his son refused absolutely the variety he offered him. "no, sir, i do not wish kentucky blue grass. it takes three years to get good results from it. the results are all right." "thanks," murmured the highly entertained father. "we can't wait three years, we must have speedy results. i wish a recleaned mixture, and no chaff in it." "very well, young man, i wish to know two things: first, where did you get your knowledge? and second, where does my pay come in?" "the chief told me what book to read to understand about lawns. as for the pay, you made your bargain with george's father. anyway i should think it would be pay enough to see a fine lawn in a public place made from your grass seed." "right you are, young man. go on, read and read. but remember to work as well." they chose a rather cloudy day for the planting, and a day when the wind did not blow. grass seed is so fine it will blow all about if the wind is stirring. grass seed is sown broadcast, that is, scattered by the hand. it is not sown in drills. it was a pleasure to watch the sowing, for it was done right. first, the sowing hand was held low, the person stooping down. some seed was taken with the fingers. then the sowing arm was swung freely in a semi-circle. after going over the ground once, a second sowing was made at right angles to the first. a second relay of boys and girls came out and raked the sown ground all over. a third relay then rolled the ground. do you see that there was little opportunity then for the seed being blown off the surface of the ground? the children were delighted when a gentle rain, followed by several warm days came right after the sowing. a soaking rain or a series of cold damp days might have spoiled the work. the only way to have a good lawn from a poor piece of land is to do a thorough piece of work. patching up means constant patching. the paths and driveway to the school were just rock masses. the first thing was to clear out all the rock. then loads of ashes were brought from the houses of the different children. all the parents were glad to get rid of the ash-dumps in the backyards. all kinds of carts were brought into use. for a week no boy dared appear without a load of ashes. all these ashes were dumped into the drive and paths. then the whole ash layer was rolled and rolled. it finally made a good solid kind of walk. it was the business of the tree-planting committee to have two saplings ready by arbor day and to know themselves just how to plant. in the start of this work, committees had been formed. now these committees were supposed to know exactly how to do the work and to procure the necessary material for it. it was not the duty of the committee to do all the work; by no means, or the others would not have known how to work. two trees were to be planted, one little maple near the building; another, a buttonball tree, down on the lower grade. a maple was chosen because it was easy to get from the woods and also because the maple is such a good all-round tree. then later, because of a cold wind exposure on one side of the schoolhouse it was decided to plant a screen of little poplar trees. this was to shut off an unsightly view which could not be remedied in any other way. one of the girls on the tree committee suggested a poplar in place of the maple. she was voted down. now if quick results had been wished, of course the poplar would have been the tree to have chosen. that was why the poplars were chosen for screening purposes. but for permanence the maple, the oak, the buttonball are all better. the poplar shoots up quickly, to be sure, but again it sheds its leaves early in the season. its life is not as long as the oak's. there are more reasons, too. but if you must have quick results, here is a trick. plant first a poplar then a maple or some other tree and so on. later the poplars may be cut out and you have left the fine sturdy, long-lived trees. at the same time the poplars have tided over that in-between period. we sometimes weary of waiting for an oak to grow sizable. the tree planting was left until may because of the state arbor day. the maple and buttonball or plane-tree were dug up by the boys in the woods the morning of arbor day. the trees were chosen from a rather open part of the wood. it is better to choose trees from the open places than from the denser woods. trees thus selected are far more likely to grow on being transplanted into a place similar to that from which they came. the boys chose trees about five feet tall. the smaller the tree the better. the following directions were the ones agreed upon: ( ) dig a hole large enough and deep enough to accommodate the roots without cramping. allow so that the tree shall sit one inch lower than it did before. ( ) place the topsoil on one side of the hole; on the other the poorer subsoil. if the topsoil is very poor, get some good, rich, black soil. ( ) place good soil in the bottom of the hole. ( ) put the tree on this layer, spreading the roots out carefully. ( ) shovel rich soil over the roots. see that it goes in between the roots. don't be afraid to use your fingers for this work. ( ) the poorer soil goes in on top. ( ) tramp the soil down with your feet, making firm about the tree trunk. ( ) if the planting comes late in the warm weather make the soil into a soft mud with plenty of water, in this form washing it in between and about the roots, all roots and rootlets come in direct contact with the mud. ( ) last of all cut the tree back, shortening the larger branches about one-quarter their length. after planting the boys kept the trees soaked with water, thus making it possible for the young saplings to have plenty of water. as the spring went on the little maple prospered but the plane-tree started to put out a few sickly looking leaves and finally died in midsummer. just what was the trouble? supposedly these two trees were planted according to the same directions. it finally came out that the boys who planted the plane-tree had not cut off the bruised rootlets. these rootlets being in a bad condition rotted and affected the entire root. another mistake was the failure of the boys to put the good soil about the roots, and they had made the hole a little too small for the entire root area. well, it simply went to show that such a piece of work must be done right and carefully, if success is to be certain. these were the reasons why our boys lost one of their arbor day trees. the chief told the children that it might have been done over then, but that spring was the better time, because the transplanted tree has the good long feeding season ahead of it, and therefore has an opportunity to get over the shock and to get accustomed to its new surroundings before winter is on. trees planted in the fall should not be cut back. leave this until the next spring. the children wished later that they had used something else for a screen. the poplar trees grew fast but of course did not fill out as evergreens and shrubs do. so, after all, the hedge of shrubs would have acted as a better screen. had they chosen evergreens these would have made a better wind-break in the winter season for the exposure was north, cold, and windy. such work, though, is worth while, because we learn so many better ways of doing things. the flower garden was almost entirely the girls' work. in the first place the school had no money. seeds do cost something. but the amount of seed which can be purchased for one dollar is amazing. peter's grandfather, hearing of the school's needs, gave a dollar. this was money enough to buy seeds of ageratum, zinnia, dwarf nasturtium, california poppy and verbena besides some others. most schools have interested friends. all along the sides and front of the schoolhouse close to the building the nasturtiums were planted. the ground was hard packed. the plough had left the soil untouched near the building. so the boys spaded this up. all the stone was picked out. good soil was brought from the woods, fertilizer from the barn and it was all worked thoroughly in. stakes had to be made. an easy stake to make is one from a lath. mark off -inch lengths or such lengths as are required. make one end pointed for about six inches; sandpaper. you have a good stake, that is, a good temporary one. these were driven in to the outer edge of these nasturtium strips at distances of four feet and strung with three cords four inches apart. the cords should be carried about the stakes in a groove made for this purpose. thus the cord will be held and not slip up or down. thus strung off, border beds will not be stepped on or run over by cats and dogs. the nasturtiums were planted four inches apart, in drills one foot apart. just two rows were planted. the first row was six inches from the front edge, then a foot space left, then another drill. finally one foot was left between that and the foundation of the building. the girls of the fourth grade made the drills with the hoe handle. the children of the first and second grades cut out pieces of paper in inch lengths. four of these placed along in a row gave the right distance for planting the seeds. the nasturtium seeds were soaked over night. and since the soil was warm and mellow, it helped. along the walks ageratum was planted in the following manner to serve as a border. a drill was made as if for lettuce planting. the seeds were sown in the same way as for that vegetable. when the plants were an inch high they were thinned to six inches apart. the zinnia was planted according to helen's way of planting and told by her under the girls' planting in a later chapter. the verbenas, as the other flowers, were planted in early may. they were planted one-fourth inch deep and six inches apart in drills one foot apart. the poppy bed was made fine, very fine, by much raking. then the seed was sown as the grass seed was, that is, by the method we term broadcast sowing. these plants were thinned later so as to stand about eight inches apart. but the plants thinned out were not used again, for these poppies will not stand transplanting. this bed was simply one gorgeous red in august. in the early spring days the gutters were cleaned out thoroughly. the road patching was quite a different matter. these country roads, like those of many places, were just dirt roads. now earth is poor material for road construction. but if drainage is properly looked out for, and the earth road is smooth from rolling, earth roads make, after all, fine roads for summer travel. it was suggested that rock be filled in, and the earth over this. but when the boys considered how deep cuts would be formed in such a mend by wagon wheels, this was given up. then it was decided to fill in with layers of rock mass. myron brought a load of slate for this purpose. but slate, while it makes a smooth road, does not stand wet weather well. so myron had to return his slate to the road-side bed from which he had taken it. then the chief told the children briefly about road materials; how soft limestone makes too weak roads for loads, how easily they wash and wear; how granite, because of its being made up of several materials, is poor, too; how flint and quartz, while hard, are brittle, and are not sufficiently tough; and that sandstone was impossible. then he told them that good gravel, tough limestone and trap-rock were good road materials. roads need materials having hardness, toughness and cementing qualities. by taking a trip to a gravel bed, some three miles out of town, the boys were able to get gravel for their patchwork. they did not merely fill in the breaks but dug out the road bed straight across wherever a break occurred until they came to good road. coarse gravel was put at the bottom up to six inches of the top surface. this was packed down and rolled. at the same time it was watered until mud rose or flushed over the top surface. finally pebbles from about a half-inch size to coarse sand were laid on and rolled thoroughly. this is the way these lads fixed one piece of poor roadway. it happened that one of the farmers near by tethered his cow on the school grounds during the summer. one of the girls gave a workable solution for this problem. this was it: the boys should come back in relays all summer long and keep the grass so short that no cow could get a nibble from their new lawn. this was done and it worked. when the subject of the care of the flower garden arose it was easily settled. the girls gladly divided themselves off into committees. each committee's business was that of weeding, picking and distributing the flowers. the prophecy that there would be blossoms enough to supply the homes, the churches and the sick proved true. to be sure the garden did not look so well in the fall as in early summer, but it took only a short time to fix up the grounds when school re-opened. plans were made for another spring during the first weeks of school. the lawn would need a little more work done on it, an oak should be planted, a group of shrubs put in. but the foundation work had been done. and one day when the news was brought that the town was going to put the first strip of real macadam road by the schoolhouse, a deafening shout went up. viii myron's strawberry bed one fine day in early april myron spaded up his strawberry bed. the bed was made in a sunny spot, on moist but not soggy soil, land excellent for strawberry culture because the year before it was part of a potato field. following the chief's advice he had spread over the bed only a very light covering of well-rotted manure. myron first measured off his garden bed driving stakes in at the four corners. then he strung off the bed with stout garden cord. "now," he said to himself, "i know exactly what i have to do." then going to one corner of the space with his back toward all the rest of the bed he began his work. [illustration: photographs by edward mahoney the way the chief taught his boys to handle tools] he had a fine spading fork which he had bought a few days before. grasping the top of the handle with his right hand, with the left midway down the handle, he pressed the prongs of the fork with his left foot vertically into the ground. then lowering the top of the handle toward the ground and backward, he slipped his left hand down the handle to about a foot from the prongs, and drew up the spading fork with earth on it. this earth he threw a little forward and with the prongs broke up the lumps. he continued this until all the work was done. then he looked at his spading fork, his brand new fork, and found the prongs quite bent, "the chief told us to buy decent tools, but i thought i'd save a little money. well, i'll break up some of these lumps a bit with my hoe and see how that will stand a little work." the land myron's father had given him was very good indeed, rich and light, so that work of lump breaking was really very slight, yet it made the new hoe-blade rattle in its socket. after this work had been thoroughly done the boy took his rake and started making fine the soil for the bed. myron had learned well how to handle his tools. these lessons of handling tools the chief had taught the boys for he felt that a tool should be a skilful instrument in the hand. "a gardener should wield his hoe as well as a surgeon does his scalpel," the chief had often said. so the boys were proud of really knowing how to work. after looking proudly at the fine, smooth bed the boy shouldered his tools and marched off to the village. [illustration: the crosses show where myron set the strawberry plants. the dotted lines signify the plantings of succession crops] do not think that you can save money by purchasing poor tools. it is quite impossible, because always one has either to buy new and better ones, or mend and remend the poor ones. the lad found out that a good trowel costs at least cents although a smaller one called a transplanting trowel may be had for cents; cast steel rake, cents ( teeth), cents ( teeth); hoe, cents; dutch hoe, four inches, cents; spading fork, $ . , and weeder cents. that afternoon armed with cord, stakes, a tape, and the plan of the bed, myron started to mark it off for the plants. after tacking his plan up on the fence post he began the measuring. the piece of ground was - / feet wide by feet long. beginning at one edge of the garden he measured in six inches along the width. the same thing was done from the opposite edge. stakes were driven in at these two points and a cord stretched between. the same thing was done from the other two ends. so myron had two cords extending down the length of his garden each six inches from the edge of the patch. these cords are lettered a a and d d in his plan. b b is inches from a a; c c is inches from d d. the next thing was to get the position of each plant in the bed. this is the way it was done: beginning with a a, measure from the upper stake nine inches down the line and place a small stake. this is the place to set the first plant. from this, measure and place stakes at one-foot distances. there will be five plants down the line. down b b, measure fifteen inches and place a stake. this gives the position for the first plant, then, as before, place stakes at one-foot intervals. c c is marked off similar to a a; and d d to b b. in all myron then had places for twenty plants. as the work was finished myron looked up to see jack's face peeping over the fence. "how do you like my strawberry bed?" "it's all right," jack replied, "especially the strawberry plants. they look very promising." "quit your fooling, and come in and see this bed face to." as jack went over the fence he stopped to look at the plan. "i say, myron, this shows a plan's of some use to a man. what do you mean by succession crops?" "that stands for the sort of seed you keep sowing at intervals and so getting several crops a season. i shall put in radish and lettuce. i am to supply our own table all summer. father is not going to sow either of these. he is depending on me." the trip to longmeadow farm for strawberry plants was one of pleasure and profit to myron. the boys used to say that while old mr. mills had a crust inches deep, underneath this he was as fine as the strawberries he raised. i. constructing a wall to form an embankment. ii. cleaning the grounds and making a lawn. iii. planting of trees. iv. preparation and planting of the flower garden. v. cleaning and mending the road. "strawberry plants are worth," said the old gentleman, "about two cents apiece. i will give you your plants if you will do two things. first, during this season, you are to pinch all the blossoms as they appear, off the plants. secondly, i wish to experiment with a new variety of berry to see if it is good for this locality. i wish you to take five of these plants and try the experiment with me. do you agree?" "certainly. but can't i leave just one blossom on each plant to see what the fruit is like?" and also leave one entire row blossoming as it will?" "yes, that will be all right. the reason for pinching off the blossoms the first year is to save the strength of the young plant. otherwise it all goes to fruit forming. it pays to do this, because the second year you will have a good yield. remember that strawberries which flourish in certain localities may fail utterly in others. that is why you and i are experimenting with this new berry. i am going to give you five plants of marshall, five of nick ohmer, and five of brandywine. remember, shorten back the roots three inches before you plant. i shall be around to see your strawberry bed. remember to cultivate after every rain, and in between times, too." "thank you, and good-bye," said the boy. myron set his plants after the following fashion: he dug trenches along the cord lines previously marked out. then the roots were shortened. to plant, hold the plant against one side of the trench just as myron did, as illustrated in one of the pictures. then push the earth in from the other side and press firmly in place. the plants should sit so that their crowns are even with the top of the ground. when mr. mills came to see that bed he found two or three plants badly placed. care must be taken in the placing. the days after planting were very hot so myron covered the plants with straw to protect them from the heat. as the season advanced the little plants sent out runners. these were immediately cut off. if they had not been, they would have become entangled and thus formed what is called a matted row. some people cultivate strawberries this way. but myron's way, the hill culture, while it means constant attention, is perhaps a better method. one day, old mr. mills took myron on a little trip with him to a farm where a man was cultivating berries by the matted row method and doing it in a very slovenly way. "it taught me a lesson," the boy told his mother that evening, "that lazy methods are pretty bad." once or twice that season he sprinkled wood ashes on the ground of the bed. just a little should be sprinkled on, as one sprinkles salt on a potato. soil gives food to a plant. this food is nitrogen in various forms, potash and phosphorus. sometimes we help the soil supply one or more of these chemicals. the wood ash adds a little extra potash which is very good for the strawberry. it turned out after a second year that the new variety gave very small and flavourless berries. so the old gentleman and myron wasted no more space on that variety. the second year myron obtained excellent results. from some of his plants he got one quart of berries each, during the season. that was good, but no better than a strawberry plant should do under good cultivation. as far as his lettuce and radish went there was nothing new or startling in his experience. he tried this little trick of lettuce sowing with some success: instead of sprinkling the seed in the drill, he placed each seed separately and four inches apart. by this method one need not transplant to get good heads. he tried the black tennis ball seed. this forms a good head. did you ever try the icicle radish? myron recommends it. it is long and white and so gets its name. along with the radish he planted parsley. this is a good way to do as these vegetables do not interfere one with the other. "grow any more lettuce and radish?" exclaimed myron's father one evening in the village store, "not while i have a boy who can do it as myron can. he beats me all right. and i am glad." ix jack's all-round garden just as soon as the ground was workable jack set his coldframe. he chose a southern exposure, back of the barn, so that the frame should sit up against the stone foundation of the i. constructing a wall to form an embankment. ii. cleaning the grounds and making a lawn. iii. planting of trees. iv. preparation and planting of the flower garden. v. cleaning and mending the road. building. first he dug down about a foot deep. as he dug, he knocked up the lumps and picked out the stone. then he went to the barn and got a barrow load of horse manure, not fresh, but old, rotted manure. this he very carefully mixed in with the soil already made fine. "now i shall put the frame on. come, elizabeth, and give me a lift with this." after some tugging the frame was set. "i thought frames were usually sunk in the ground," commented elizabeth. "i shall do that this fall and make a real hotbed out of it. you see this spring i just want to give my seeds a little extra start. that's why i made the soil so rich and so deep. now i am going to bank the frame about with manure. then i shall put dirt over that. you see i get some extra heat that way. just see the fine slope of the glass. i guess old sun will get caught all right." jack busily banked the frame, spanking the fertilizer down hard with the back of his spade. he sloped it up some four inches along the sides and front. "now i am going to make drills for my seed. in the first partition i shall plant lettuce and tomato; then pepper and onion go in, and the third is for flower seed." jack bent over the frame, and began to scratch lengthwise of the beds with the edge of his trowel. red-faced from bending over, and hot from his former exertion, his trouser knees covered with earth and manure, he stood off and looked at his work. "i'm precious glad elizabeth has gone, for if those aren't the worst, crookedest old rows i ever saw." and so they were. they were all distances apart, of different depths and entirely untidy-looking. jack picked up his rake and again raked the little beds over, so that no trace of his poor work was left. then he found a board which stretched across the frame widthwise, so that he could kneel upon this and work to advantage in the bed. he next whittled out two little pointed sticks to act as stakes, and tying to these a piece of cord just the right length for the drills, he was ready for work. with one stake stuck in the bed at the upper end, the other at the lower, the cord between gave jack a good string line for the drill. then, with the end of a small round stick held close against the taut line, the drill was made. so he continued making drills at distances of four inches apart. pouring out some lettuce seed in his hand, jack began to sprinkle it rather unevenly in the first little drill. elizabeth, having returned, stood by watching and shaking her head. "i didn't know you were here. you make me nervous," began jack. "i feel more nervous than you possibly can, for you are wasting seed and sowing in a poor way. see, here you have a little pile of seed, and there you have none," and elizabeth bent eagerly over the bed. "well, if you think you can do better, just try this next drill." jack straightened up, and gave way to elizabeth. "wait a minute," and elizabeth ran into the house. soon she came out with some small seed envelopes in her hand. from the bag of lettuce seed--for jack had bought his seed by bulk--elizabeth poured some into a small envelope. then by shaking the envelope she carefully and sparingly sowed the lettuce in the drill. "i say, that is good!" said jack admiringly. "now i'll do some myself." "i should think you would wish only one more row; then have a row, or perhaps two, to transplant in. for i believe you'll have to prick out the plants before the garden is ready." "you talk like the real thing, elizabeth. what do you mean by pricking out?" "why, pricking is just lifting out the seedlings with a pointed stick from one row to another, or from a box or hotbed into the outside garden. what else are you going to plant, jack?" "i thought i'd put in--say two rows of tomatoes, one row of onions, and one of peppers. in the third partition i'd start asters. i just love asters. so i've made up my mind to make a kind of specialty of these." "that's fine! may i help?" "you certainly may, for you are a help." elizabeth chuckled away to herself, for jack evidently was not questioning where she got her knowledge. "it seems to me," she rather timidly suggested, "that it would look more shipshape to label these rows, and put in little sticks where each row begins and ends." "well now, that is a fine suggestion." so jack stuck in some little sticks he got from the woodshed. elizabeth did not dare offer some nicely made little markers laid away in her desk for future use. she feared those would call forth questions. jack brought out a hammer and tacks. then writing the names of the seeds on the little envelopes elizabeth had brought out, he tacked one over each row onto the inside of the frame. they both stood off and admired the work. warm days jack opened the frame, at first only a little, and later, wide open for all day. one night he forgot to close it, and a slight frost made a sorry looking set of seedlings next morning. he lost every single plant except a few little asters, which were protected by the inner partition of the frame. these seedlings he watered at intervals all day. this was at elizabeth's suggestion. by this treatment these were saved. so jack, sadder and wiser, started over again. when the lettuce plants had four little leaves jack, with elizabeth's help, transplanted some into the drills left for them. when they were larger yet, they transplanted the lettuce to the real garden. this is the way they did it. in the first place the children chose a cloudy day for the work. a cloudy day is far better than a bright sunny one because bright sun is too strong for little lettuces which have been disturbed from their places and put into new ones. to transplant, dig up a number of plants and plenty of earth with them. use a trowel for this work, gently lifting plants and earth. a drill may be made; or, perhaps better yet, make holes with the dibber. pour a little water into the hole. then gently separate a plant taking as much soil with it as you can keep on its roots. place the little plant in the hole or drill, and cover the roots with soil. with the fingers press the soil firmly about the plant. water the earth, not the leaves of the plant. next day, and for several days, cover the transplanted plants with strawberry baskets. these are far better than newspaper coverings, because light and air freely come through the crevices of the basket. the newspaper makes a covering too tight and close for the tender lettuces. between plants the children left six inches. jack raised boston lettuce. he not only had enough for his mother all summer long, but sold some, too. the way he happened to sell it was merely an accident. not far from the village was a large summer hotel. one day the proprietor had driven around to the house to see jack's father on business. as the men were talking jack and elizabeth came from the garden with two fine heads of lettuce. "have you any more lettuce than what you can use yourself?" asked the proprietor, after feeling of the heads of lettuce and admiring the good firm centres. "yes," replied jack, "i have now, and shall have all along, more than we can use. you see i keep making sowings every ten days in the coldframe, and transplanting." "i'll take all the extra lettuce you have at five cents a head. that is what i pay all summer long for it. to-morrow bring me up what you can." "thank you, sir. ten heads will walk up to-morrow." "the first time i've ever heard of heads walking," laughed jack's father, well pleased with his lad. but we are away ahead of the story, for we have planted and sold lettuce before jack has had a chance to really make his garden. the soil in the backyard was very poor, so jack decided to cultivate only a strip twenty feet long and eight feet wide. he dug out all the soil to the depth of two feet. his father lent him the use of a horse and wagon, and gave him from the barns whatever fertilizer he needed. the digging was a long, tedious piece of work. it was hard, too; but the boy kept at it. any piece of land can be used if a boy has a mind to work hard over it. some of the poorest of the soil was carted off, then into the top of the remaining soil he mixed the old manure. then into the garden space six inches of manure was spread, and over this was filled in the old top soil and fertilizer, that mixture which he had previously prepared. about one foot of this was put in. jack's father lent him the horse again and the services of a man. they drove to the longmeadow farm and got a load of top soil. old mr. mills said he would give the soil if jack could answer three garden questions correctly. "all right," said the boy, "you'll probably knock me over, for i don't know much about gardening, but i'm trying hard." "question number one: suppose your backyard had been clay soil--what would you have done with it then?" "i should have mixed in sand, using about one-quarter the amount of sand as i had of clay." "good! question number two: suppose you had no sand--what then?" "i'd have used ashes; old clinkers i guess would be best. everyone has ashes." "question number three: what is the object of mixing sand or coal ashes or clinkers with clay." "the reason is to break up the clay. clay bakes hard, becomes sticky, and little air or light gets into it. ash or sand breaks it up. i think that's about all i know about this." "the soil is yours, young man, i shall be around to see your garden some day. remember good gardening means working your muscles hard." "thank you, mr. mills. by the way my arms and legs ache, i guess i know about muscles." "and remember too," continued mr. mills, "that certain vegetables are very closely related and will intermingle. for example, do not plant different kinds of corn close together. the pollen from one kind will fertilize another kind and so you get a crossing which results in a mongrel sort of corn. melons and cucumbers will do the same thing. and so care must be taken in order that this sort of intermingling does not take place. you see, jack, that there are many things a real good gardener has to consider. gardening is not only a matter of soil preparation but it is also a matter of understanding plants and their relations one to the other." so the good soil was put on and jack was ready for business. straight across the back was planted a row of sunflowers. sunflower seeds belong under the head of large seeds, and should be planted one inch deep and one foot apart. two seeds were placed in together. this is a safe plan, because if one fails to come up, the other doubtless will come up. if both appear, when the plants get about three inches high, pull out the weaker one. then the boy planted a second row two feet from the first one. the first row was planted close up to the fence. jack found out that this was a mistake. always leave all about the garden a space of a foot or so, in order that one may walk about freely and get at the rear row of plants without trouble. again, do not plant too close to a fence, unless the planting be some vine or climbing plant, which you desire to have cover the fence. next the aster plants were transplanted. this was done after the same manner as the lettuce. they were placed about one foot apart each way. these were put across the entire spot just as the sunflowers had been. thirty-two little aster plants were set out and still jack had a number left over. it is amazing the amount of aster plants one can raise from a little packet of seeds. "i'm going to sell the rest of these aster plants," he declared. and he did. the boy tramped about until he found a lady desiring the plants, to whom he sold little plants for $ and set them out for cents. the rest of the garden space was used for the onions, peppers, lettuce, tomatoes and radish. the onions transplanted from the coldframe gave fine early onions with a mild flavour. when jack was making furrows for the sunflower seed jay came along and leaned over the fence. "jack," he drawled, "you look like a kangaroo all humped over making that furrow. why don't you use your hoe right?" "i thought i was using it right. come in here and show me how, will you?" so jay jumped the fence and picked up the hoe. "stand this way! straddle the furrow with your back in the direction you are going to hoe; or else stand on the left side of the furrow facing it. grasp the handle of the hoe in the right hand near the upper end. the back of your hand should be up. now the left hand should be a foot or more below the other hand. and see the back of my hand. it is toward the left and my thumb points down the handle, just so with the rake handle." all summer long the boy worked or cultivated his piece of land. he kept hoeing and weeding constantly. one of the august pieces of work was to fix the hotbed for winter. now the frame was taken up and the pit dug deeper--about two feet this time. previous to this a great pile of manure had been heaped up near by. jack had sprinkled it with hot water to start fermentation. steam rising from the heap was proof of this, and it may be used at this time. then the manure was put into the pit. an eighteen-inch bed of it was made and firmly tramped down. at first the temperature of this was over one hundred degrees. when it dropped to ninety-five degrees soil was put on. the temperature was taken by means of a thermometer buried in the manure. the frame was placed after two inches of soil had been put in; then four more inches went on. the surface of the soil was made to slope at the same angle as the glass. all about the frame was banked, again, manure covered with earth and leaf matter. jack transplanted violet plants into one compartment. these were good violets and were placed four inches apart. in the second bed he sowed foxglove, pansy and stock. the third was left for radish and lettuce, a bit later. elizabeth helped him sew together several thicknesses of straw matting as covering for the winter nights. they had decided that newspapers next the glass, then the mats, and finally a rubber blanket, would be protection sufficient. but jack's hotbed work is quite another story. however, i can tell you that the next winter he added two other frames to this one. x albert and jay's drainage problem. the problem of draining which albert and jay had to consider, was perhaps the biggest piece of work that was done all that spring. in the first place, it should have been done in the fall. that is the time to do such work, for if put off until spring it delays greatly the spring planting. it was a wet spring, too. the boys, rather impatient of waiting, started digging one day, but it ended in disaster. the ground was soft and wet and hence very heavy to handle. this piece of land was one hundred feet wide or deep. it had a frontage of one hundred and fifty feet. a slope rose up in front of it, which accounted for the water being drained onto this land. the water naturally would have run off the land into a brook at the back. but in about the centre was a hollow, and beyond that the ground rose a little, and then dropped toward the brook. the depression made a kind of drain hole and the water settled there all the spring through. this strip of land of the boys was not by any means the entire piece of land, which was much larger, but the boys' father had given them this largely to try their mettle. he felt so certain they could not do it that he said they might have all they needed from a pile of drain pipe he intended to use himself on a piece of wet land the next fall. "i shall have all my drain pipe left to me," he said to the boys' mother one night. she smiled, for the boys had talked matters over a bit with her. myron's strawberry bed was all made, jack's garden-filling work done, george's ploughing and planting finished, before the boys could lay the drain. "it's no use," said albert, "i'm ready to give up." "now savage, there's to be no quitting. i'd be ashamed of you, at least we can surprise father." "all right, jay, i'm with you." finally the day came when the chief and the boys started work. a drain pipe should be laid ordinarily anywhere from twenty inches to three feet deep. one may dig or plough to make the trench. it is wise to dig as narrow a trench as possible and so lift as little soil as possible. then, too, the bed of the drain should slope gradually from the upper or highest point to the lowest. the drop in level should be about four inches per hundred feet. so the boys had to consider just this. this is the way they "sighted" to get the drop in level. they drove a stake into the ground at some twenty feet from the place where the drain was to begin. previously a cord had been stretched from one end of the centre of the field to the other end. since the centre of the field seemed to be the place for the deposit of water the drain was to go directly through the centre. if you ever have a piece of draining to do the problem may not be so simple as this. you may find several natural drainage areas. then you must lay drains through these. or instead of separate drains make side ones which empty into a main drain. going back again to the "sighting" for the drain bed level--the boys have driven a stake into the ground. it stands five feet above the ground level. if a tree had been in line with the drain line this might have been used and saved driving the stakes. across the stake, at right angles to it, a board with a perfectly straight edge was nailed. this board was about four feet long, one end pointed at the drain line. at the other end jay placed his eye looking across this to where albert had driven stakes. one stake had been driven into the ground at the beginning where the drain was to be dug; another at the extreme end or outlet of the drain. albert stood at the first stake and ran a little piece of paper slowly up and down the stake until jay raised his hand. this meant that the paper was on the same line with the sighting board. then albert ran to the other stake and did the same. the difference in these two points gives the difference in level of the ground. albert measured from the ground to his mark on the first stake, and, doing the same in the case of the other stake, found the difference to be eight inches. this was too great a drop. then the boys drove two stakes in between these others and did the same work of level finding. from stake to , or for the first twenty-five feet there was no difference in level. for the first fifty feet there was four inches drop; for the next twenty-five feet, five inches rise; and the last twenty-five feet, six inches drop. they marked all this on the stakes in order to make sure they got the level right. the bed must, you see, drop one inch for every twenty-five feet. for the first fifty feet of the line the drop was just twice too much; then came the abrupt rise and drop. albert ploughed a furrow straight along the line and ploughed back again. then he reploughed. the boys then began to dig, making a ditch three feet deep right through the land. in order to get the right level they used a home-made device and plumb-line which can be made as follows: nail the ends of two six-inch boards ten feet long, so as to make a right angle; then across the open end of the triangle, nail another six-inch board having the lower edge about a foot from the ends of the boards. cut off the ends of the boards on a level, so that they will rest evenly on the ground. next drive a nail into the apex of the triangle, and to it tie a line long enough so that when the triangle is stood on its legs, the plumb-bob, which you will tie on the other end of it, will almost reach the ground. the centre must next be determined. to do it, set the triangle up on its legs on a level place and when the plumb-line comes to rest, mark the place. a lead-pencil mark will do, but as it is liable to become obliterated by the dirt, a saw mark is more permanent. now you know what the grade of the bottom of your ditch will be. reproduce this on a level place by means of a board with a large enough block under one end to give the right pitch; put the triangle on this and when the plumb-line comes to a rest, mark the place on the cross piece. reverse the ends of the triangle to get a similar mark on the other side of the centre or level mark. this makes a level by which a fairly accurate grade can be made. the tile pipes were laid upon a bed of gravel. this prevents the clogging up of the loosely put together joints. to fit tiles place the small end of one into the large end of the next, and so on. over the end of the last tile, which emptied into the brook, they wired a bit of rather fine-meshed chicken wire. then the trench was filled in. by test albert had found the soil of this land acid. lime was to be put on it. now lime must be in a crumbling state for this purpose. so after they had bought the lime they dumped it in a heap on a corner of the plot. after it had become air slaked, or reduced to a powder by the action of air upon it, it was spread over the lot. this and considerable fertilizer was ploughed in. the boys then had an ideal sort of planting soil for almost anything. the drain actually worked. now some boy may ask, suppose a fellow has no tile and cannot afford to buy any. in such a case there are two alternatives or choices. a wooden trough may be made by nailing together boards six inches wide. then make a gravel bed and tip this trough over on it peak up. the wooden drain, however, is likely to rot. the other way is to put a double row of stones right through the centre of the bed slope. these stones--perfectly flat ones--should be placed on end with a foot between the rows. in this space put small stones. the chief thing to remember in the drainage problem is that one wants a gradual flow of water from inlet to outlet. any boy can fix his wet, soggy garden spot even though he has no tiles. stones can be found surely, and, if no gravel beds are near, all the little brothers and sisters can pick small stones. the boys had decided on planting what they called a general vegetable garden--corn, pumpkins, beans (bush), melons, tomatoes, beets and carrots. this combination of vegetables was a happy choice as they all can well wait until rather late for planting. the boys used the planting table that peter had worked out. [illustration: photograph by h.l. schultz <b>jay's tile drain converted a swamp into a garden</b>] many times boys and girls are bothered by the word "hill". i have seen boys make nice little heaps of earth and then make a hole in the top of these like a crater in a volcano. down into this crater they poke seeds. now a hill merely means a place. this place is not to be heaped up above the level of the ground. place five seeds to the hill. do not, of course, make a little pile of these seeds but lay them on the ground with a little space between seeds, say an inch. when planting beans place the eye of each bean down against the ground. the bean stands up on edge. the pumpkins were planted in between the hills of corn. this is just the place to plant pumpkin or squash because there is opportunity sufficient for the vines to run. remember not to plant these two together. soon after the pumpkins began to come up the boys noticed one morning that the leaves had been eaten. some were completely riddled, looking like lace work. digging about the ground albert found a black and white striped beetle. its name is the striped beetle. the boys killed these in the course of three days. they bought five cents' worth of white hellebore, which is a powder, and sprinkled it on the ground in a circle about the stems of the young plants. they made the circles some six inches from the plant stalk. doing this at night, the evening dews prevented the scattering about of the powder. they put this on for three nights. afterwards sand was sprinkled lightly over the hills and at the end of the runners. this makes a discouraging sort of prospect for the beetle who is hunting for something good to eat, not sand to walk over. if instead of sand they had used lime it would have been better. for the lime is quite likely to form a sticky mass on the legs of the insect pest. the moisture from dew or rainwater helps this along, while sand is far more likely to drop off the victim's legs. the chief felt sure that besides the beetles there were slugs in the garden. slugs are very likely to bother. they appear early in the season, feed chiefly at night and after rains, and lay eggs throughout the summer and autumn. these eggs are laid in the ground and in rubbish heaps. the treatment suggested above and started just as soon as there are signs of slugs, will work. the boys treated their melons in the same way and had no further trouble with beetles and slugs. the tomato plants were started inside. they were transplanted into strawberry baskets. these are excellent to use, because in transplanting to the ground the little strawberry baskets may be knocked apart without disturbing the plant nearly so much as if it were planted in a compact box. be sure to line the basket with paper before filling with earth. when the plants began to straggle about and bend over stakes were driven into the ground and the plants tied to these. jay used hoops and made a sort of cage for the separate plants. he drove four stakes into the ground at distances of eighteen inches from the stalk and in a circular form. then slipping hoops over the plant he nailed these hoops to the stakes. some plants had two hoops about them, some three; it all depends on the size and needs of the plant. only keep this in mind; that the object in staking tomatoes is not only to keep the plant erect, and the fruit off of the ground, but to allow plenty of light and air to get at all parts of the plant. the bean culture resulted in a little private contest between albert and jay. that winter the chief had given the boys a talk on inoculation of soil. one day while they were working on their land jay suggested that they separate the bean section of their garden, having a bean plot at one end and another of the same size at the extreme other end; that one of them should inoculate the soil of his plot and the other should not. these plots being so far removed would not be in danger of soil washing one from the other. albert, who rather scorned inoculation of soil, willingly agreed to make the experiment, stipulating that he have the uninoculated plot. by inoculation of the soil is meant introducing into the soil a germ. this germ makes it possible that the nitrogen already in the soil be given to the plant in such a form that it may be absorbed, and absorbed in greater quantities than it otherwise could be. jay sent to the nearest state agricultural experiment station, asking for the soil. this was sent free of charge. it was a soil, fine in texture and brown in appearance. according to the directions sent with it jay spread it evenly over the top of his bean patch. a piece of land for inoculation should be prepared all ready for planting; then the inoculated soil is merely put over this, as frosting on a cake. after this the seeds are planted. they planted bush limas. of course they had to plant the same kind of bean for the sake of the experiment. beans are not hard to cultivate. they should be kept free from weeds and the soil well stirred up. albert, fearful of his beans becoming affected by spots or anthracnose, sprayed them from the start. this disease is likely to affect beans about july. so in order to get ahead of the inoculated crop the boy did what he later found there was no need of. to be sure beans are liable to this trouble, but it is not a surety. it is never likely to appear unless the weather be very moist. this summer happened to be a dry one. the spray he used was the bordeaux mixture. his father offered to supply him with the mixture if he would do mixing for both. so he used this receipt: dissolve six pounds of copper sulphate in six gallons of water. it is an excellent plan to crush up this chemical in a mortar and put this powder into a bag. hang the bag up so it just touches the surface of the water. add twenty-five gallons of water to this. to four pounds of slaked lime add twenty-five gallons of water. then add this solution to the other. the boy's father had a spraying machine. so albert used this. i have known boys to use a corn broom to spray with. dip this in the spraying mixture and shake over the foliage. the only spraying rule albert used was to keep the foliage covered with the mixture; this does not mean many applications. at the close of the bean season jay had the finer, larger, beans with a better flavour. his yield was one-third greater than albert's. "and think, too, how i worked," albert moaned. "hereafter i shall not make fun of inoculation." there is not much more to tell of this garden. the poppies yielded well. these were supported as they grew by stakes, as tomatoes are. carrots need rather mellow, upland soil. the boys found that their carrots did not do so well as the other vegetables. the soil was a bit heavy and moist for them. they found this out about beets: beets should not be transplanted. transplanting puts them back. albert transplanted a few and learned this fact. xi george's cabbage troubles george had a long task in stone picking. the old slope seemed to be full of stone. george would pick continuously from school to supper time, and next morning declare that new stones had grown in the night. the ditching was very little work. it meant digging a ditch about two feet deep and then making at either end of this gutter a side ditch at a very severe angle to the main ditch. these side ditches were directed along the sides of the hill for about six feet, and the water thus directed would conduct itself off. of course the angle was such that the ditch led away from the garden spot. [illustration: slope slope --------------------- / ditch \ side / -------------------- \ side slope / / \ \ slope / / garden \ \ / / \ \ picture this as the ditch george dug right above his garden. the water passed through the side slopes away from the garden.] as the stones were picked off he piled them into the gutter, where this stony bottom also helped the drainage problem. george was a master hand at ploughing, for he had always done his share of it, so ploughing meant nothing to him. first, you will remember george had one foot of dressing to put on the land. this he ploughed in; and then reploughed. after this the slope was harrowed. you all know that the harrow simply makes fine the soil after the plough has done its work of throwing up the earth. the rake is a kind of harrow. of course, when the garden plot is large, the rake is impossible, and then the harrow, really a big rake dragged by a horse, must do this work. it took the boy longer than some of the others to do his work, for george did more work at home than the others. he was probably better informed on farm matters, however. his father was a real farmer; the other boys' fathers farmed, too, but not as a business. anticipating the amount of time this preparatory work would take he had not started his cabbage inside. to get an early crop of cabbage, seed must be planted in january or february; then one may start in march. but for the late crop plant in the open in may or june. this is just what george did. he made furrows straight down his sunny southern slope. these furrows were two feet apart. the seed, of savoy cabbage, was sprinkled in the furrows. this was done after rain. cabbage needs much moisture for quick germination. george might have poured water into the furrows and puddled or stirred the earth a bit, if the garden had been small, but his was too large for this, so he took advantage of nature's watering. when the plants were about two inches above ground they were thinned out to stand two feet apart in the furrow. cabbage, you know, is quite likely to become infested by pests. perhaps the most common of which are lice or aphis and the cabbage worm, a green caterpillar. therefore it is well to try a little prevention. so all over the ground about the plants sprinkle unslaked lime. tobacco dust or soot may be used for this purpose, too. good cultivation also helps prevent these pests. one row of cabbage began to develop worms. these george picked off, but he found that he could not keep up with them; so the chief advised him to buy a little pyrethrum powder at the store. this he mixed with five times its bulk of dust. putting the mixture into an old potato sack he shook it over the infested heads of cabbage. except for this drawback the cabbage did well. he lost the infested row of cabbage. for he pulled them all up, spaded the ground over, and sprinkled it with the poison mixture. all the other cabbage heads were sprinkled with it, too. one may easily lose all his cabbage from these worms. in the fall the cabbages were harvested. this was about the last of october. george pulled them up by the roots. he found some of the heads rather soft, some bursting open. as it does not pay to keep such cabbage over, these were fed to the cattle--a gift, george called it, to pay for the fertilizer. all the fine solid heads are worth storing. in order to get nice white inner leaves, as the head begins to form break and bend over the outer leaves and those that protect the inner ones. it is a sort of blanching or bleaching process. two hundred fine firm heads were the result of the work of this boy. "what are you going to do with all these, i'd like to know?" asked jack. "i expect to store a number of them--one hundred and fifty, i should say. i'm going to give away fifty. in the winter i hope to sell about one hundred of my stored ones." george's way of storing cabbages is a good one. a spot was ploughed in the orchard between the rows of trees. then the cabbages were piled in a neat pile roots up, one cabbage fitting into the other. all about and over this heap a layer of straw about four inches thick was placed. to hold the pile in place stakes were driven in about its base. to hold the straw, branches were placed over the whole and boards put on last. the straw packing kept the cabbage from freezing. if george's father had had a good tight shed the cabbage could have been stored on shelves in this. the ordinary home cellar is no place for storage of cabbage. later in the winter he sold one hundred heads of cabbage to the markets in a near-by city. these he sold at two cents per head. they kept fifty at home. the boys tried long and hard to find out where the other fifty went. but george would not tell. there was an orphans' home some few miles from the village. it seems that at one time an appeal had been made at the school to the boys and girls to give whatever they could to this home. at that time george had nothing to give. no one knew how badly the boy felt, so as his cabbages grew the lad made a pledge with himself to give one quarter of his cabbage to this home. one evening in late october, george had hitched up an old farm horse, loaded his cabbage in, and had driven over to the home. the chief learned of his kindness one december evening, when he visited the matron to see about christmas gifts for the children. she told him that one evening in the fall a bashful lad had brought a load of cabbage to her, but would not tell his name. as the man walked home he thought of the really splendid ending of george's cabbage experiment. after all a garden reaches its real work when some of its product is given to those who are in need. "now i see," said the chief out loud, as he walked past george's house on his homeward way, "why george made out of his garden so much less than the others. i never could understand why he lost the prize. i am glad there are boys who care less for money than for other things." xii peter, potatoes, and profit peter had a mile to go to his garden, which was on his grandfather's farm. this farm land, you will remember, was especially good. the ploughing, fertilizing and harrowing were done for peter. the soil was just the sort potatoes thrive on, a sandy loam. after the furrows had been made about six inches deep and two feet apart, peter put a sprinkling of chemical fertilizer into the bottom of each furrow. this was sprinkled on as one puts salt on potato before eating it. over this he placed some dirt so the fertilizer would not burn the potato. early the morning of planting peter cut his seed potatoes. the date was the st of april, not a bit too soon to get in early potatoes. the seed potatoes chosen were fair, smooth specimens of good size. these he cut so that only one eye was left to a piece of potato the size of a hen's egg. these pieces were dropped into the furrows at distances of fifteen inches apart and four inches deep. after covering, the man went over the potato patch with a harrow. a boy might use a rake for this work, but as peter's patch was a small part of his grandfather's field the harrowing of the whole was done by the man. when the little potato plants were well up peter sprayed them with paris green. this was wise because he thus got ahead of the potato bug. some one may like to know how to mix up paris green. the proportion used was one tablespoonful to a pail of water. this was put on with a watering pot every two weeks, thus peter kept his potatoes quite free from bugs. although the rest of the potato patch was cultivated by the horse, peter used the hoe. he could not plough, for peter was a rather small boy for his age and not very muscular. the secret of potato culture is to cultivate well and keep the bugs down. he dug his potatoes about the middle of june. from the one quarter acre his grandfather had lent him for his garden peter dug seven bushels of potatoes. at the time new potatoes were selling for $ . per bushel. his father bought three bushels and the other four were sold in the city to philip's mother and friends. the constant working of the soil for potato culture gets it into a fine mellow condition exactly right for celery. peter's grandfather suggested that the boy put this in, and so have another crop, a fall one. although this soil had been well fertilized in the spring for the potatoes this was yet not sufficient for celery culture. celery ought to be started either indoors in flats, or in a hothouse or seed bed late in february--transplanted to other flats, and again finally to the open ground. to prepare for the celery trenches were dug three feet apart and one foot wide. the earth thrown out in trench digging was piled between the ditches to be used later in banking up the celery. these trenches were six inches deep. in the bottom of the trench was put some enriched manure. this was of different materials. peter used well-rotted barnyard dressing, a little hen manure, and about the same quantity of chemical fertilizer. hen manure is rich, so he did not use the bulk of that. over this was put an inch of soil. celery plants should be set about six inches apart in the trench. first cut them back; that is, cut off about one quarter of the root and one-third of the top. this cutting back increases the spread of root-growth later and decreases the amount of respiration of water from the leaves. the top alone grows more stocky and bulky. firm the plants well. that is, press the soil firmly about the roots and stalk. when the plant has received its growth it must be blanched. this process not only whitens celery, but also takes the bitter taste out of it. this may be done in various ways, but peter used the earth process. he tied the bunches up together with bits of raffia. this was done merely to keep the earth from pressing in between the stalks. then the earth which had been left in between the trenches was drawn up with the hoe about the stalks until only the top leaves poked out above. do not do all this banking at once. take several days at it. boards may be placed along the sides of the banked celery hills. peter having heard of the self-blanching kinds told his grandfather that he would plant this kind to obviate blanching. but there were two drawbacks. in the first place, he had waited too late to start seed. and secondly, these varieties, too, should be bleached to take out the bitter taste. so peter bought young celery plants from his grandfather. he paid $ for two hundred small plants. later in november he sold these to the same market where his potatoes had gone. fifty bunches he sold to his father. these were left protected in the ground for use when needed. the rest he sold in the city. from his celery he made $ . . in all the lad made $ . . this was a pretty good sum to make. so peter's saying of "potatoes and profit" actually worked out. xiii philip's backyard on a beautiful saturday in late april one might have seen the chief and his boys boarding the train for the city. it was the day set apart for helping philip. the boy had cleared up the yard ready for work. you will remember shrubs were to be planted, a walk and cement pond made, and a little gardening done. the shrubs were planted as the school trees were. one must be careful to dig the hole large enough to receive the roots of the shrub. if old shrubs are transplanted be sure to cut out all the old wood, and also cut the top back severely; that is, reduce it to one-third its former size. it was great fun to make the little pond. such a pond may be used for fish or for water plants or for both. do not make too large a one, unless you have a very large yard. the smaller ones are easier to care for, and more pleasing in appearance. first stake off the outside limits for the pond. philip's was to be four feet by two and one-half feet. dig down three feet. fill in the bottom of the pond up to fifteen inches of the top with large stones. then in between and over these put small stones so that you have filled in about six to eight inches of the cavity. now it is time to mix cement. mix only a little at a time. get a board about two feet square. with a trowel put on the board one part of portland cement to three parts of sand. have a watering pot full of water at hand. add water enough each time to the cement and sand to make a soft but not running mass. if it be possible for you to have small stones to put in, it will improve the mortar you are mixing. these stones should not be larger than one inch in size. add four parts of these to the mixture. now over the bottom of the pond put on the paste about three inches thick. fill in with the trowel and smooth it off with the back of this same tool. the sides are the next job. put a board slantwise against the bottom of the pond so there is a space between the board and the side you are to plaster. drop the mortar down into this space and press the board against the sides. this firms the mortar. keep up this work all around the sides of the pond. another way to do this work is to make a box that will fit approximately into the pond, but that gives a space all around over three inches from the sides. then the mortar may be dropped in. after three days knock out the box and you have the inside all right. if you wet the sides and bottom of the box the mortar will cling to it less. if the mortar looks rather rough after you finish, mix cement with water, take a whisk broom and with this brush the paste all over the bottom and sides of the pond. all around the ground by the pond, mortar for about six inches. this prevents the breaking in of the edges. albert and george, who worked on this job, did the mortaring the first way. the pond was left unfilled for a week to dry thoroughly. then after placing two inches of sand in the bottom it was filled with water. philip bought two pond lily roots. he tied stones with string on the roots of the plants to keep them down: otherwise they would have bobbed up and floated on the surface of the water. some one gave him two water hyacinths. in the middle of the yard a round bed was made. to do this take a cord and tie a stake at either end. the cord should be whatever length you have decided shall be the radius of the circle. the radius of a circle, you remember, is the distance from the centre to the circumference. now drive one of the stakes into the ground at the exact centre. grasp in your hand the other stake and swing a circle with it. the stake will scratch a well-defined line so that you have the outline of the circle, the boundary of the bed. jay spaded down to about six inches all along the outlines of bed. after that the bed itself was spaded. philip insisted on outlining it with brick which had been given him. some children use whitewashed stones, some use shells. either plan gives a spotty effect. the idea fails of being artistic. a neat cutting of the turf and a slight heaping up of a round bed toward the centre gives after all a far more pleasing effect. try to keep as near to nature's own plan as you can. shells belong on the seashore or in a collection; keep stones for road making, wall building, cement work and curbs; bricks are for foundations and buildings. rarely use things for what they were not intended. it is better usually to border a bed with low-growing flowers. ageratum, candytuft and dwarf nasturtiums are good for the purpose. along a walk to an old outhouse they planted asters on one side and four o'clocks on the other. asters, as all boys and girls know, are better if started inside early. then they may be transplanted to the outside. in his way one gets a bit ahead of the season. but philip was obliged to plant seed for both. so he planted it in a drill as one plants lettuce. later the little seedlings were thinned out to stand six inches apart. this thinning was done when the plants were four inches high. four o'clocks need lots of room as they grow bushy. plants in narrow strips are quite likely to drop over their limits. to keep these in bounds philip later built a fence. for this he used stakes driven into the ground at intervals of every four feet. to these he nailed strips of railing. sometimes cords are used instead of railings. an old fence was all about the yard and an old unused outbuilding in the rear. these were both unsightly in appearance, so they had to be hidden. vines were used for this purpose. about six inches from the fence a furrow was made four inches deep. climbing nasturtium seeds were dropped into this furrow at distances of every four inches. the seeds had been soaked over night. this was because the ground was very dry and the weather was now quite settled and warm. if the ground is wet and the weather cold, never soak seed. it just adds to the general soggy condition to do this. [illustration: photograph by mary h. northend. philip's backyard made beautiful by annuals and quick-growing vines.] morning-glory seeds were planted along the end of the fence by the outbuilding and all around it. after these climbing things began to grow the pretty effect of the vines was amazing. many times one has to train vines so they will grow where one wishes. in such cases drive small stakes into the ground back of where the vine is planted. tie a cord or string to the stake and carry this up to where you wish the vine to go. the string may be attached in the best way, according to the place. if it is to an old building, drive a nail into the side, roof or peak of this. some people make latticed trellises. these may be made from laths. a neighbour gave philip some canna bulbs which he planted in an old sieve filled with rich dirt. canna bulbs look much like sweet potatoes. usually a bit of stalk is left on the bulb. leave this in planting above ground for about one-half inch. dig a hole large enough to place the canna bulb and deep enough so the stalk comes above the ground. place one big, fat bulb, or two or three little chaps in one spot. leave about one foot between plantings. in the fall after frost cut off the stalks about two inches above the ground, dig up the bulbs, shake all dirt off, and put into a box with a little thoroughly dry dirt until spring. leave this box where it is dark and cool. it would have been far better had philip planted the cannas either in the round bed or against the fence as a screen. as a general rule the planting in tubs, kettles, kegs and similar receptacles is not only inartistic, but gives the plant very confined and cramped quarters. when possible plant right out in the ground. window boxes and roof gardening in boxes is "another story." the cost of philip's flower garden was cents. he bought five-cent packages of each of the flower seeds. the cannas cost nothing. the shrubs were $ , the cement cents, and the water-lily roots cents. so the total cost for changing an ugly yard to a mass of flowers was $ . . philip's clearing up seemed to be catching for the girl across the street started in with her work. for ten cents she bought a collection of flower seed. these seed were planted in three-foot beds. the beds were banked up or supported by strips of board. this same girl planted flowers in two old kettles and set one upon an empty cask and the other on an old drain tile. but she later decided very wisely that this was not after all so very pretty. kettles are better for potato boiling than for flowers. but such a good time as she had all summer in her own green, pleasant backyard! and so had philip, too! "just a few cents and some hard work will change your backyard into something beautiful," philip was heard to say one day to a group of city boys. xiv the corn contest each boy was to take a certain number of hills of corn in his father's corn patch. he was to select his seed corn after a few suggestions given him by the chief. these hills of selected corn were to be cared for by the boy himself, but it was perfectly legitimate that the soil be prepared for him, since most of the boys were to plant in their fathers' cornfields. in the growing of corn the first matter for a boy or girl to consider is the selection of the seed. corn should be selected carefully by the individual stalk; that is, choose ears from stalks bearing an ear or ears at, or a little below, the middle of the stalk. the stalk itself should be thick and free from suckers or any evidence of disease. the ear should be cylindrical. the kernels should be deep setting, uniform and compact. then the cob should not be too large. look at some samples. see how some ears have too large a cob, others too small, while still others show a right amount of cob. the butt and tip of the ear should be well filled out. look for a perfect ear. the kernels are uniform in size, in even rows, with only a slight space between rows. see the tip and butt. very little space is lost at the butt. you have seen ears where the butt was all space. there is still another sort of corn. it might be called mongrel. any one can raise such corn. good care shows in corn as good breeding does in boys and girls. one more point the boys were told to consider in selecting seed ears, that was the relation of the circumference of the ear to its length. an ear should have a fairly large circumference at the base and taper toward the tip. to estimate relation of circumference to length, which should be as three is to four, measure the ear one-third the distance from butt to tip. so if the ear is eight inches long the circumference should be about six inches. all the boys but jack and myron tested their seed corn to be sure of its vitality. peter went a little further than the other boys. he not only tested for general vitality, but he tested for vitality among the ears he had selected as good seed ears. this he did in the following manner: he chose twenty-five ears, and used four kernels from each ear. first a soup plate was filled with sand. this was moistened by dropping a little water on the sand. sand must not be too wet for this work. he partitioned off the sand-bed into rows with cardboard between them. on the cardboards was marked over each row of four kernels the number of the ear from which they came. the sand was moistened each day. peter worked out from this the best ears for quick germination. the next point to be considered in corn culture is that of the soil. soil for corn should be mellow and fine. if it has vegetable matter or humus in it, then its value as a corn-growing soil is increased. fertilize well and plough, or if the plot is small, spade. you ought to have surely eight inches of good, mellow soil. in planting corn place five kernels in a hill. you will remember that a hill means a place. for corn which grows high make the hills four feet apart; while for the low growing varieties place three feet apart. cover the early varieties with one inch of soil; the later varieties with one-half inch. as the corn shoots begin to appear every boy should appear with his hoe or cultivator, for one secret of good gardening is constant cultivation or stirring of the soil. water, as you know, rises in the ground and coming to the surface evaporates. now the point is to keep the moisture in the ground for the plant's food supply. so if one keeps stirring the soil he makes a layer of earth which stops the water as it rises. we call this a mulch. when the shoots are six inches high choose the three finest little corn seedlings in the group of five. pull the others out. the reason for putting in five kernels in the first place, instead of three, is that some may not come up. and, too, some that do come up may be poor and sickly. myron did a very stupid thing. at least he called it stupid. some one sent him a packet of seed popcorn. myron thought it would be pretty interesting to raise some and supply the club with popcorn at its meetings all the next winter. now myron did not know that from the corn tassels the pollen when ripe or dry blows all over the corn field. this pollen falls on the silk of corn plants anywhere in the field. the pollen fertilizes the plant and the ear of corn sets and grows. because the pollen being light is blown to such distances and because different kinds of corn can interpollinate, is reason enough for not planting different varieties of corn in one patch. myron's popcorn and sweet corn fertilized each other and he got a corn which was a cross between the sweet corn and popcorn. he learned a lesson of pollination, but at the expense of the corn crop. one may plant early and late corn in the same patch but otherwise he should stick to one kind of corn. the boys in the fall were to submit twelve of the finest ears they had raised. these were to be scored or sized up as follows: ---------------------------------------------------------- | name of contestant | variety of | dates of planting | | | corn | | | .................. | ..............| ................. | |------------------------------------|-------------------| | ( ) ear: | | | | a. trueness to type | | | | b. shape | | | |------------------------------------|---------|---------| | ( ) filling of: | | | | a. tip | | | | b. butt | | | |------------------------------------|---------|---------| | ( ) kernels: | | | | a. shape | | | | b. arrangement of cob | | | | c. depth | | | | d. colour | | | |------------------------------------|---------|---------| | ( ) measurements of ear: | | | | a. length | | | | b. circumference | | | |------------------------------------|---------|---------| | ( ) proportion of corn to cob: | | | |------------------------------------|---------|---------| | total | |--------------------------------------------------------| this score card needs a little explanation. take up ( ) ear, first. all the twelve ears presented ought to be much alike; that is, like the type or parent ear you are striving to produce again. so if, out of twelve specimens, six were fine ears and the other six were rather poor, then surely ten credits or points could not be given. the shape of an ear should in general be tapering, well rounded a little below the centre, and tapering not too abruptly toward the tip. the second point is the filling of the tip and butt. the tip should be filled with even, regularly arranged kernels. it should not be too pointed nor too blunt. the butts should be covered over with kernels except where a deep, clean-cut depression is left. here, as in the tips, the shape has to be considered, for flattened and blunted butts are bad form. as to kernels, they should be uniform and well-shaped, not only on the single cob, but in all the specimens. the furrows must be uniform, regular, and with only a slight space between. to determine depth cut a square inch right out of an ear. all kernels should be of one colour. if a red kernel is in with the white then there has been an intermixing. all kernels on all ears ought to have the colour of those of the type form. not only should there be a proper proportion between length of ear and circumference, but an ear may be too long. the usual length of ears is from eight to twelve inches, according to variety. we have spoken of cob-relation before. this cannot be determined accurately by your eye but must be done by weight; so shell the corn, weighing the ear first. now weigh the cob. the difference is weight of corn. divide the weight of the corn by the weight of the ear. this gives per cent. of corn. for the exhibit the boys afterward used half their samples submitted and reckoned per cent. on this. the proper percentage of corn to cob should be or per cent. you can easily find out if you come up to standard. myron brought in some corn merely to show his mistake but of course did not submit any. jack, you will remember, did not test his corn and results showed this. out of his twelve samples there were two good ears. the others showed many changes. the poorly filled tips, irregular rows, and wide space between rows--all these scored against jack. george's corn was thrown out because black kernels were found here and there in with the others. albert's and jay's peep-o-day came out in fine shape. but peter's country gentleman after all had the record. philip dropped out of the race because he went on a summer vacation. so for a slight amount peter took over philip's corn hills. that fall the boys made very careful selection of seed corn. "after all," myron said one night at club meeting, "although peter's corn was the only really fine specimen, i think some of the rest of us got fully as much out of the corn contest." "so do i," added jack; "and i, for one, shall test corn after this." "i think our corn was pretty good," albert went on in a half-injured way; "but we are going to beat that record next year. we shall rotate our crop, planting our corn where the beans were this season. that's a thing fellows ought to know; that it's a mighty good thing to rotate crops." "what's that?" asked philip. "rotating crops means not always planting the same crop on the same piece of land, but changing every two or three years. it happens that beans are very good to plant before corn. they do not take from the soil, the chief says, what the corn needs. so a piece of soil planted to beans gets in shape for corn planting another year. it would not be well to plant corn on a certain piece of land more than two successive years. then something else should be planted on this land and the corn put somewhere else." "good!" said the chief. "some day we shall discuss rotation of crops more fully. there are no end of topics for us to work over this next winter." xv the girls' secret work the girls were each to raise something special at their own home and then each was to have a share in a big garden. katharine, who had quite a lovely yard, was to give the space for the general garden. this was largely because katharine's home was on the river road, a bit out of the village and near none of the boys' places, for the girls wished to keep the knowledge of their work from the boys as long as possible. helena lived next house to george and the land she might have used for this big garden would have bordered george's corn patch. so that, of course, would never do. the garden while formal was ornamental. the girls were all to work on the staking out and preparation. but each girl was then to take a section of it and plant and care for that. katharine was to take the centre portion of grass and cannas. now a grass plot is very pleasing in a garden. it is restful to the eye and is much more harmonious with the other colours in a garden than a mass of brilliant blossoms. cannas have some height, a delicate splash of colour in the blossom and so work in well. it is always well to put some tall-growing plant in the centre. the effect is that of working up to a climax. one should not immediately jump from very low flowers in the beds to a few tall ones in the centre. this is ludicrous. make the gradation gradual from low to high. this garden of the girls may seem almost to violate this principle. not so, for the nasturtiums merely acted as a border. then all around the garden were the zinnias, poppies and marigolds a step up to the cannas. one may buy tall or rather low growing cannas. these latter grow about four feet high. they chose these low ones with yellow and orange in the blossom to harmonize with the yellow and orange of the nasturtiums. note the proportional amount of grass space in the girls' garden. observe too that it is the centre of interest. the nasturtium border was elizabeth's. zinnias were chosen by helena, and katharine was to help in this work. eloise loving the mignonette had asked for it, poppies were josephine's and marigold was for dee. ethel wanted the border of sweet alyssum although it represented a long strip to work. [illustration diagram: scale / in.- ft. note the proportional amount of grass space in the girls' garden. observe, too, that it is the centre of interest.] if you think over this garden with its brilliant poppy colour, the heavy yellow of the marigold, the lighter colour effect of yellow in the nasturtium, the dark red zinnia--quite a splash of colour, was it not? in order to have great masses of brilliant colour in the same garden one must break them in some way. there are two possibilities that are good: first, paths between beds, and second, borders of white or inconspicuously coloured plants. sweet alyssum is good for this purpose and so too is mignonette. mignonette has such a small and modest little flower that one thinks always of mignonette in terms of green. the mignonette was massed at the entrance of the garden for pleasing and subdued effect. in staking out a garden it is well first to put heavy stakes, like the ones the boys made, in each of the four corners of the entire plot and put a string around. this strings off the outline of the entire garden. sight along the lines as jay and albert did to be sure the lines are straight. in sloping land true up with great care. on a level bit of land sighting is easy. next if there is a main path string that off using twine, stakes and always sighting. if the garden is a large one of many small plots the next thing to do is to string lengthwise the entire garden, measuring off plots and paths. then widthwise measure off paths. the side paths give you the width-boundary of the plots. but the paths have cords through portions of them. so put stakes in the corners of the plots. cut the cord in the centres of cross paths and tie to stakes. if carefully done each plot is marked off shipshape. in general make the main paths four feet wide, plot paths or side paths eighteen inches. plots with widths about one-third of the lengths are right. this did not hold true for this garden since the beds were long narrow strips. in such cases the width should be a comfortable one to lean over and work across. in staking such a garden plot as the girls' it is well to first line off with stakes and cord the entire outline of the garden. then next string off main paths and intermediate ones. it is very easy then to string off the beds, for the path boundaries have done most of the work for you. the girls planted all their seeds except poppy and grass seed in drills just as one plants lettuce and radish. this is a far easier way to plant since as the little seedlings come up one can easily distinguish the nice even row of little plants from weeds. they decided later that it would have been easier if the poppy had come up in drills. for it came up in little tufts here and there. and, sad to say, the poppy does not stand transplanting. in making drills take two stakes and a string. to either end of the string tie a stake. the length of the string after tying should be the length of the drill one wishes to make. this will be usually either the length or width of the bed. this, then, is your line for the drill making. another thing the girls did which makes garden measurements easy is the following: mark off on the rake or hoe handle three feet. one of these feet measure off into inches. this saves carrying a measuring rod into the garden. the marking should be done on the edge of the handle and not on either the under or upper surface of it. if garden stakes are made one foot in length they can be used in measuring. nasturtium culture needs some explanation. nasturtiums are the most accommodating of flowers. they will live on almost any soil. the seeds are large and so are very easy for little girls to handle. they may be placed two seeds together six inches apart in the furrow. if the soil is very dry and the weather very warm, soak the seeds over night. plant the seeds about one inch deep, cover over the soil and firm it well. it is easy enough to keep the nasturtium bed weeded for the seedlings are large and not to be mistaken. keep the flowers well picked all summer and you will have numberless blooms. sweet alyssum is a charming border plant. this, too, grows in almost any soil. it is well to sow the seed in a box indoors. transplant when the little seedlings are two inches high. but alyssum may be sown right outdoors in the garden plot. sprinkle the seeds along in the drill. after the seedlings come up and are about an inch high thin out until the seedlings stand six to twelve inches apart. marigolds are very gay sort of flowers. many do not like them on account of their disagreeable odour. but a strong point about these flowers is this: they bloom and bloom, and then they bloom again. there are three kinds of marigolds one might plant. these are the african, french and dwarf. they differ in height and also bushiness. the african varieties must be thinned out to stand fifteen inches apart, the french ten inches and the dwarf six inches. these seeds are dry, dead looking chaps, but are not so small that they cannot be handled separately and placed carefully in the drill. plant them nearer together than they are to stand later. for instance, put the african five inches apart, the french five inches, too, and the dwarf three inches. then you have extras, so if some do not come up your garden is not crippled. mignonette, again, is accommodating and will grow in almost any kind of soil. these seeds are small and may be sprinkled along in the drill. later thin out so the plants stand from six to twelve inches apart. in choosing mignonette seed remember that there is a great difference in mignonette. some is very sweet, some is not: some have large sturdy spikes, while others have rather small spikes. it pays to buy good seed. poppy is a trifle more particular about the soil it grows in. it requires a rather rich, sandy loam. again remember that poppies never stand transplanting. poppy may be planted broadcast or in drills. the tall growing varieties should finally stand eighteen inches apart and the smaller ones nine inches. in order that poppies may blossom freely you should never let a seed capsule form. for you see that if one wishes bloom, one must not let the strength of a plant go to any other work except blossom making. zinnias are satisfactory just as marigolds are. to be sure they are not a very graceful flower. but what of that? we need all kinds of flowers. when you buy the little packets of seed you usually get a mixture of colour. in order to have just the colour one wishes, seed must be bought from the seedsman by the ounce. the girls wanted dark red zinnia. one ounce planted this space. it is not as expensive to buy seed this way. a number of people may club together for seed. helena's method of planting zinnia was to sow the seeds in a drill. later she thinned her seedlings so that they stood eight inches apart in the row. cornflowers or bachelor's buttons are lovely too. they are far lovelier if bought by bulk so one may have the one colour, that lovely blue. these seeds may be planted in drills two seeds every six inches apart. later thin to twelve inches apart. most people start cannas from the bulb. when one does this, plant a good sized bulb and leave about an inch of stalk above ground. if the bulbs are smaller use two to a hole or planting. if cannas are started from seed follow this direction: file holes in the canna seed. the reason for this is that the outer crust is tough and filing helps the young plant to get out. these seeds should be soaked in warm water for a day. plant in pots. when the plants are six to eight inches tall transplant to the garden. cannas should stand two to six feet apart. it depends on variety, whether tall or dwarfed, how far apart to place them. when the flower garden was first started the question arose: "shall we plant annuals, biennials or perennials." "for my part," said josephine, "i don't know at all what these words mean." katharine got a dictionary and soon she and eloise had these botanical terms worked out as follows: a perennial is a plant which lives year after year in the soil. it usually blossoms its second season. trees and shrubs are hardy perennials. a biennial is sown one year, blossoms the next and then dies. biennials should be covered lightly with straw or leaves through the winter. an annual blossoms and dies its first season. but some annuals sow themselves and so come up again the next season. the girls worked out a table of planting by months which ethel called the plant time-table. besides the garden which the girls all had together each one did something to improve things at home. the flower time-table +--------------+-------------+--------------------+ | name | sowing time | blossoming time | +--------------+-------------+--------------------+ |ageratum | may | june-october | |aster | may | until frost | |balsam | may | june-september | |calendula | may | june-october | |cal. poppy | may | august | |candytuft | may | june-september | |coreopsis | may | june-august | |cornflower | april | june | |cosmos | may | august-september | |four o'clock | may | july-august | |foxglove | may | june | |gaillardia | may | july-october | |helianthus | may | august-september | |hollyhocks | august | august | |iceland poppy | may | june-september | |larkspur | may | june-july | |marigold | may | until frost | |mignonette | may | until frost | |morning-glory | may | july-august | |petunia | may | july-september | |phlox | may | july-october | |scabiosa | may | july-august | |stock | may | june-july | |sunflower | april | july-september | +--------------+-------------+--------------------+ ethel and dee set up a sundial in ethel's own backyard. the directions that follow will help other girls and boys in setting up theirs. sun-time and clock-time are not quite the same. there are four days in the year when, if you work out the sun-shadow time, your dial will be almost accurate. this is because on these days the sun-time and the clock-time practically coincide. these dates are april th, june th, september st, and december th. before you go outdoors draw on the platform of the sundial a straight line from angle b of the gnomon to the front edge of the platform. set the dial out in direct sunlight. the shadow cast must fall right on the straight line which you previously drew. when the shadow and the line coincide, mark the extreme end of the line xii. this stands for twelve o'clock. now screw the sundial in this position to the column you have made for it to rest upon. at one o'clock mark where the shadow points, and keep on with this for every hour. you remember the gnomon angle was the number of degrees corresponding to the degrees in latitude of your special place. poughkeepsie boys and girls will be interested to know that if a sundial be brought to them from rome, it will be right for them. and if new york city boys and girls could get one from florence, they would find it accurate for their own use. these girls lived near poughkeepsie. elizabeth planted a border of nasturtium, sunflower and zinnia along her sidewalk. it cost eight cents for seed to plant these two by ten feet strips. helena made a bed of different kinds of flowers right back of her father's field. the garden was thirteen and one-half feet square. the edges her father helped her sod, this making a terrace effect. nine little flower beds were marked off with paths between. in the beds were asters, celosia, balsam, nasturtiums, marigold, zinnia, carnation, schizanthus, sweet peas, dahlias, gladiolus, candytuft, lilies, scabiosa, stocks, salvia, snapdragon, phlox, mignonette, four o'clocks and petunias. helena's mother worked with her in the garden as did one of the boys across the street. he was not a club member but was hoping to be one the next year. and so leston worked with helena all summer long. he finally won his place in the chief's club. eloise decided she would have a window garden and so before all the front windows of the inn, window boxes were placed. most of the trouble with the window box is a lack of drainage space. estimate off the bottom of the box something like this: to every foot bore six holes. this is none too much. the great trouble usually is lack of drainage, or lack of air, or sour soil. over each drainage hole put a bit of broken pot. then it is well to put a half-inch of drainage material in the box. stone, broken pot, sphagnum moss, or hay will do for this. the soil should be good, rich, garden soil. with this one might mix in some sand to help drainage. window boxes should be watered with care; they should not be flooded. eloise had very effective boxes. vincas trailed over the edges; dwarf cannas were in the back of each box; and red and white geraniums were a glory all summer long. josephine's gardening was a little difficult. she had no space at all. the backyard at her house was seeded down and her mother did not wish it spaded up. she had no front yard. josephine thought and thought for some time, then decided she would just simply have to make a way to have a garden. so one day she went to the grocery store and bought a soap box for ten cents. this she filled with soil from eloise's garden. then she bought a five-cent package of parsley seed. these seeds were soaked over night in warm water, for parsley seeds are slow to germinate. then the seeds were planted in neat little rows in her box garden. this garden was most convenient. it stood out near the house in the backyard all summer. it went to the exhibit in the fall. it stayed on the piazza until frost and then went into the kitchen for the winter. josephine had parsley enough for her mother's table all the year around. xvi more about the girls' work. in late september the girls began agitating the matter of bulb planting for the school grounds and their homes. the boys were rather scornful of it. "i believe in gardens," said albert with great finality, "but bulb work seems to me like fancy work. and then too, bulbs are pretty expensive." "very well," answered dee, "we girls are quite able, as you boys know, to work alone. but spading is pretty hard, and i should think some of you would be glad to help." "i'll help any time," myron volunteered, "and i promise to bring two of these other chaps whenever you say." "thank you, myron. we'll not bother you boys further now." off the girls ran to katharine's home to study bulb catalogues. katharine's father gave five dollars for bulbs for the school grounds. this he stipulated was for outdoor planting. elizabeth and ethel were going to plant outdoors at home. the other girls had each some money for indoor work. you may all like to know what the girls found out from their search in bulb catalogues. in the first place very good and perfectly reliable information is obtained from the catalogue of any reputable seed house. the girls found out that certain bulbs are better adapted to outside planting, while others do equally well indoors or out. take tulips first; these are suited to the outdoor conditions. to be sure the florist, whose business it is to raise them inside does so with great success. but boys and girls are more likely to have trouble with inside planting of tulips than of other bulbs. oftentimes lice cover them when the bulb is first brought up from the cellar. then when treated with kerosene emulsion or some other insecticide the bud becomes blasted, for the blossom is close under the folded outer leaves, so is in a very precarious position. then, too, tulip bulbs rot easily and the buds blast easily. so it is wise not to run so many risks but try the kinds of bulbs which are less prone to trouble. the easiest and safest bulbs for children to work with are narcissus (including daffodils, jonquils, chinese lily bulbs and paper narcissus), and hyacinth. hyacinth has one bad habit when planted indoors. this is the tendency to unfold its blossom too soon. so the beautiful hyacinth blossom appears dwarfed and stunted close down near the ground. to avoid this condition do not take the bulb from the dark until the leaves are about an inch to two inches above the earth and until they have spread apart. this gives the blossom a chance to shoot up. tip the pot over and see if the roots are visible through the drainage hole. the time to buy bulbs is in late august or early september. after this bulbs through shrinkage depreciate in value; by which value is meant not one in price but in soundness and ability to produce blossoms. do not buy cheap or cut-rate bulbs. buy good, big, sound ones. the roman hyacinths are excellent for forcing. they are small flowered, quite different from the large sturdy dutch hyacinths more commonly planted. in choosing hyacinths you have to decide upon the colour and whether you wish double or single varieties. in general most people enjoy single flowers better. if you are to use the hyacinths for outdoor planting or bedding it is perfectly safe just to write for bulbs which are to be bedded. la grandesse is a beautiful white; king of the blues speaks for itself and the sarah bernhardt is a salmon pink. these do well inside, too. charles dickens is a fine rose colour, prince of wales, violet, and l'innocence, a fine white. these are good for inside planting. some may like the smaller roman hyacinths, which do splendidly indoors. very good hyacinths are bought for fifteen cents. tulips do especially well outdoors. a capital one for either bedding or indoor forcing is the isabelle. it is a beautiful red tulip which is bought for five cents. the summer beauty, a hardy white tulip, is well worth the ten cents asked for each one. some of you may like to raise some freaks; then try parrot tulips at about thirty-five cents a dozen. a thing to remember about the indoor planting of tulips is this--tulips, more than other bulbs, are likely to have plant lice, so watch out! in daffodils you may be sure of the van sion. these are worth forty cents a dozen. you can buy daffodils for twenty. if you wish to lay in a stock of bulbs for water planting choose, of course, chinese lilies, but try, too, the paper white narcissus. these bulbs cost forty cents a dozen. buy from the five-and-ten-cent store a glass dish, and gather stones for it. about three weeks before you wish blossoms plant a dozen of these narcissi in the glass dish with the stones as a foundation, and water enough to come up around the base of the bulbs. it is a good plan to set the dish of bulbs in the dark for four or five days. you can grow hyacinths in water too. for this a special glass is sold, although i have seen children place a bulb in the top of a preserve jar. it works all right. bulbs must never drop low into water or they decay. these, too, should be placed in the dark for about a week. suppose you have a quarter to spend. you can make all kinds of interesting combinations. three daffodils for ten cents, a hyacinth for ten, and a tulip for five, give you a chance to experiment. a word more about narcissus. this is a large family, one gets confused sometimes with the names daffodil, jonquil and paper white narcissus. all these are of the family narcissus. the daffodils are the bulbs with large single or double cups. the jonquil has a cluster of small blossoms of from three to six single flowers. the paper white narcissus has four to twelve single blossoms to the flower head. ethel and dee had good lawns at home which their mothers were not willing to have spaded up, but they gave consent to the girls putting crocus bulbs here and there over the lawns. these bulbs should be planted about an inch deep and three inches apart in the group. these were dotted about in clusters of six. the dibble is a good instrument to use in dotting bulbs around the turf. crocuses are good for indoor planting as well. they may be planted in flats or in indoor boxes. remember crocuses are of practically no use for cut-flower purposes. the school tulip bed was made just as philip's round bed was made. the time to plant depends on the weather. it is always well to get all outdoor planting done before the time of frost. why? because you wish to get the bulbs in while the earth is still warm. bulbs lie in the ground all winter slowly putting out roots, slowly starting to push up toward the light above. for good root forming they need this long time of slow growth. get the outdoor bulbs in the ground during september. before this the ground may be prepared. in all the beds dig down about two feet. work over the soil well. make it fine and free from lumps and stones. ordinary garden soil will be right for these beds. put no fertilizer in. if your ground is clayey, mix sand with it. use one-quarter sand in a mixture of this sort. this makes a lighter soil. clay soil is what we call a heavy soil. bulbs require light soils. now comes planting. different kinds of bulbs require different depths of soil. place the tulip bulbs four inches deep, and six inches apart. hyacinths were planted by elizabeth in a strip beside the house. jack also planted daffodils in a corner sheltered by the house foundation and an old high fence. the daffodils were planted exactly as the tulips, but the hyacinths were planted six inches deep, instead of four. in buying bulbs for outdoor planting ask for bedding bulbs, while for indoor work buy forcing varieties. one bright day in october the girls met at katharine's house to pot their bulbs for winter. some had made wooden boxes or flats during the winter; others had bought low pots; while still others had the ordinary high pot. in potting bulbs or any other plant two things are to be kept in mind--first, the soil, and second, the drainage. the soil may be any good garden soil. to a given quantity one may add one-fourth rotted manure and one-fourth sand. this last helps lighten the material, allowing more air to get at the entire mass and making good drainage easier. mix all this together. if one lacks the well-rotted manure and sand, any good garden soil may be used. sift the soil until it is perfectly fine. a simple sieve, which works well, may be made from a small soap or starch box. knock the bottom out and use in place of this wire netting. helena and eloise made two sieves which did for all the girls. eloise also made some very good flats as described before under the chapter on the girls' winter work. you can easily see how excellent this style of flat is from a drainage point of view. more trouble, in potted bulbs and all kinds of plants, comes from too little drainage space than from any other one thing. most boys and girls think it enough if one little stone or piece of pot is put in the hole of the flower pot. not so; there should be from one to two inches of drainage material in the pot. that seems a great deal, doesn't it? but it will give not only drainage but air space, too, and this keeps the plant in good healthy shape. with too little drainage area the earth in a pot gets clogged and very often sour. a high pot needs more drainage matter in it than a low one. first use a piece of broken pot to place over the drainage hole. but put this in such a position that the drainage hole will be kept open. then put in two inches of coarse material like broken pot. it is now a good plan to place over this a layer of coarse material. this gives a greater opportunity for air. over this goes the soil you have already prepared. place bulbs just below the surface and have soil one inch below the top of pot. narcissus and hyacinths may be planted with their tops out of the soil. a low pot needs less drainage material. some pots have sphagnum moss over the drainage. instead of this use old sod finely torn up or coarse soil. see, too, that the bulb comes nearly to the top of the soil. when indoor bulbs are planted at some distance below the surface of the soil they have too much work to do to force their way up and out. it takes too long. after the girls had finished potting the next step was to make arrangements for the resting time. bulbs should stay in the dark and cold from five to ten weeks. it is difficult to give an exact time as conditions differ and bulbs too. bulbs may take their retirement in a dark cold cellar where there is no danger from mice. some attics are suited for this. eloise put hers in an old bureau. this bureau was in an unused, cold room. the bulbs were placed in the drawers which were then closed, but not tightly. ethel, dee and josephine put theirs in the cellar. helena, elizabeth and katharine tried another plan. they had a trench dug outdoors two feet deep and eighteen inches wide. in this they placed their pots and flats. then the trench was filled in with dirt and over this a layer of ashes was put. the pots were given a good watering before they were sunk into the ground. unless the winter is a very dry and open one the bulbs will need no more water. if there should be little snow-fall then it may be necessary to water the ground where the bulbs are, but this is not usual. little sticks were put into the ground just where the bulbs were. these help in locating them when digging-up time comes. the girls left them in the ground for six weeks. then they were taken in and put in a cold north window for a week. helena put hers in the dark a week and then brought them to a north window for another week. then she put them in a south window. bulbs should go very slowly from dark and cold to warmth and light. this is a point to be remembered. the girls who stored their pots in attic and cellar of course had to water them. this should be done as often as the plant needs it, perhaps three times a week. [illustration: the bulb story . ample drainage . depth of planting . perfect root development . ready to come to the light photographs by h.e. angell and henry schultz.] when the plant is about an inch above the ground, as one of the pictures shows, it is the time to bring it to the light. be sure the outer leaves have spread apart in the ease of hyacinths and tulips; also invert the pot and see if the roots are poking through; this is another way to be sure that the bulb is ready to come to the light. a way to help a hyacinth or tulip develop its stems properly and so prevent blossoming low down in the box is to put a cone over the bulb as soon as you bring it to the light. make the cone of paper and have one opening at the top two inches in diameter. the flower stem and leaves of the bulb will quickly start to grow up to the light. take this cone off when the leaves are several inches high. the girls did some water-planting, too. for this purpose hyacinths, chinese lilies, paper narcissus and jonquils are good. some people put these dishes and glasses immediately in the light. but it is better if they are set away in the dark until the shoots start and the roots, too, begin development. the girls bought glass dishes at the five-and-ten-cent store. into these dishes were put small stones which they had gathered in the fall for this purpose. stones should be small for this work, from one-half inch to an inch in diameter. josephine had a lot of fine white sand which she packed in all about the stones. the sand was kept thoroughly wet all the time. this is a good method of treatment. paper white narcissus, if planted early, will blossom by thanksgiving. they may be held back until christmas. these blossoms are sweet smelling and very graceful in appearance. eloise tried the same method with jonquils with excellent results. in february they had a bulb exhibit and their display was really fine. in the spring they all felt that the outdoor work, too, had paid. the beds were uncovered as early as possible. the outdoor bulb will stand considerable cold, even after it is well up. cut worms may trouble the hyacinths; if so try the paper collar treatment. finally remember then three things about bulbs: good bulbs, good drainage, plenty of time in the dark. after bulbs are through blooming let the blossom dry thoroughly and the leaves get yellow and dry. one need not keep these homely looking plants in the living room in plain sight. put them away down cellar to finish drying out. then cut the leaves and blossoms off to one inch of the bulb itself. take bulb out of pot, shake all dirt off, and dry thoroughly. these may be put into paper bags and hung up in a dry place or just packed in a pasteboard box. these indoor bulbs may be planted outdoors in the fall. they will do better for the change. indoor bulb culture means forcing, a hard strain and demand on a bulb. outdoor planting gives a long winter's rest, not entire rest, to be sure, but the growth during the winter is slow. list of bulbs by colours white flowers ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- name |depth |outdoor|indoor |height |special points | to | | | | |plant |bloom |bloom | | ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- snowdrop in. march christmas - in. earliest of spring flowers. likes cool and shady spots crocus in. " " - in. buy _crocus_ _biflorus_. var. _argenteus_ white - in. april january in. increases very crowned rapidly daffodils poet's - in. may " in. excellent for narcissus outdoor work grape in. march " - in. plant in shady hyacinth places in the lawn bell- in. may christmas in. poet's narcissus flowered and this scilla scilla planted together bloom at same time star of in. " in. most satisfactory bethlehem for bloom tulips in. april january - in. try duc van thol and d'immaculée hyacinths in. " " - in. plant baroness van thuyl, very large and very early --------------------------------------------------------------------- yellow flowers ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- name |depth |outdoor|indoor |height |special points | to | | | | |plant |bloom |bloom | | ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- crocus - in. march christmas - in. plant cloth of gold trumpet daffodils in. april january in. van sion is especially satisfactory. flowers double jonquil in. " " in. flowers sweetly fragrant daffodil in. " " in. variety _narcissus_ _bulbocodium_ tulips in. " " in. due van thol, yellow hyacinths in. " " in. choose from those called bedding varieties ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- blue flowers ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- name |depth |outdoor|indoor |height |special points | to | | | | |plant |bloom |bloom | | ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- common crocus - in. march christmas in. good for lawn effects grape hyacinths - in. april january in. good for pot culture iris in. may " - plant in groups (spanish) in. for garden effect iris in. june " - if planted outdoors in (english) in. september, cover well with leaves bulb- - in. may " in. satisfactory for flowered bloom scilla hyacinths in. " " in. king of the blues ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- red flowers ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- name |depth |outdoor|indoor |height |special points | to | | | | |plant |bloom |bloom | | ---------+-------+-------+---------+-------+------------------------- peony in. may - plant outdoors - / ft. in september. increases and lives a long time late in. july ft. showy and peony attractive red - in. august ft. protect through speciosum the winter, lily leaving bulbs in the ground tulips april january - in. isabelle choose variety ---------------------------------------------------------------------- xvii the girls' winter work. "we want some plants at school this winter, and we each should like some plants of our own at home." this remark greeted the chief one day in late september as he entered his home after a long tramp in the woods. the slant rays of the late afternoon sun and the low fire in the fireplace were not able to give the chief any clue as to the speakers. "who are '_we_'?" he demanded. "i am dee," was the reply, "and 'we' are all the girls." "dear me" said the man, "i thought i had settled your case by recommending bulb culture to you." "not much!" shouted the girls all together. "we have finished our bulb work," katharine went on to say, "and now we are very anxious to do something with house plants. we have a good six weeks or more to wait for our bulbs, and so we thought possibly you would be willing to help us." "i did think," grumbled the man, "that after i had invited you to a series of talks this winter you would leave me in peace." and then they all laughed gaily together. "well, what is your stock you have to work with, girls? i shall have to know that before i can help you." "we have--that is, most of us have--a lot of old straggly geraniums in our gardens. then katharine's mother has some fuchsias and begonias which she has promised us," replied miriam. "up at the hotel where jack sold his lettuce there are a few things i have been promised," added elizabeth. "do you know what these are?" asked ethel. "yes. there are some heliotrope plants, marguerites, some lovely rose geraniums, and a few flowering maples or--i have forgotten the long name for them." "abutilon is the other name," added the chief. "well, that is a start, surely. i'll do some potting with you next saturday afternoon. that will give elizabeth time to get her hotel plants. i guess dee will drive you up. you are to take a big basket with you, and your trowels. carefully lift each plant from its resting-place. water the soil a bit before you take up the plants. they come up easier for this, and soil is more likely to remain clinging to the roots. if it should rain friday you will be saved the trouble of taking a watering pot with you. be sure to take up with the plant some of its own soil. then pack all these soil-encased plants in your basket. do not let the sun get at them before we get at potting. come all of you at two in the afternoon. bring your plants with their own earth, your straggly geraniums, pots, and each a trowel. now perhaps you will be willing to trot home so i may eat my supper." next saturday at two a grand collection of girls, plants, big pots, little pots, and trowels arrived. the chief took girls and all out into his potting shed. this was once an old woodhouse; now a shed with benches running along two sides of it. under the benches were great heaps of soil. pots and pans were piled in one corner and garden implements were neatly put up on the walls. "i call this a pretty nice place for work," said eloise in tones full of real interest. the chief nodded smilingly at her, for there was a bond of sympathy between the man and this real outdoor girl. eloise had a greater appreciation of the work than any one of the others. "where did that splendid window box come from?" asked josephine. "that is one the boys made last winter especially for the school. i shall have to give you girls some group work first. then i'll demonstrate potting and slipping to you all together. eloise and josephine will start to put the drainage material into the pots. ethel and dee may do the same for the window box. put in your curved pieces of pot over the drainage hole, then about an inch of drainage material. there is a wooden mallet. crack up some bits of old flower pot as you need them. outside is a half barrel of old pots. instead of using all pot for this half inch of drainage material, use some charcoal. in that barrel marked charcoal you will find plenty of pieces. the charcoal is not only good for drainage but helps keep the soil sweet. helena, miriam and katharine will mix the soil. here are some firkins and peck measures. to every three measures of soil from that pile there, which is nothing but garden soil, add one measure of sand and one of leaf mould. now, my leaf mould over there in that tub isn't real mould from the woods. you see the part desired in leaf mould is vegetable matter. i can get that from old rotted leaves and rotted sods. notice, girls, that you see no green grass in that soddy matter i have shaved off with my spade--only the under surface of the sods. this surface is full of vegetable matter in the form of young roots. stir up all these portions thoroughly. "now, elizabeth, look at these pots. some are brand new, some are clogged with soil and green matter. soak the new ones in a pailful of water and clean and wash the dirty ones." "i'd like to ask why i am to soak the new pots, and why, since soil is going right back into these old pots, i have to clean them. i should think the soil clinging to the sides would help out." "yes, i should like to know that, too," said miriam, stopping her work. "if new pots are not soaked the soil in them dries out very rapidly. you can see that would be bad. old soil clinging to plants interferes with the new root growth while the green affects the porosity of the pot." the girls stirred, scraped, and placed bits of pot in boxes and pots for a time without speaking. "are we putting the right amount of drainage into these pots?" finally questioned eloise. "not quite enough into those large pots. in the small ones the inch of drainage you have in the pots is quite sufficient, but in those pots over six inches in size put an inch and a half of drainage material. there should be two inches of drainage in that window box. katherine, you are taking those new pots out of the water too soon. leave them in until the bubbling is all over. wait a minute, you mixing girls over there. you mustn't put such coarse soil into your mixture. that could well go into the pots and window box above the drainage material. but it is far too coarse for a good potting soil. what soil you need for potting one of you should sift. if the lumps were not so large it would have been all right. what is that you are saying, dee?" "i wanted to know what you were going to use in place of sphagnum moss. we have the drainage fixed in the box. shall we put on the coarse material next? helena said you always used sphagnum moss." "so i do when i can get it. but i can't always, so i just take some old thin sods and put them on, green side down, next to the drainage. to be sure, the coarse material could go on next, but it is very apt to settle badly in the pot or box. you will find that sod just outside. pick out the very thinnest pieces; any others will be too thick." "now," said elizabeth, "if you will bring your pots over, we'll fill them up with soil for you." "wait a little, elizabeth. what is going to happen with that pot already full of soil when you put the plant in? just how are you going to work that?" "why, i had intended to make a hole in the soil and put the plant in." "that is no way to pot plants. come here, girls, and let us talk this point out. i will pot a plant for you. i guess this begonia would be a good one. see, it has quite a ball of earth of its own. now look at elizabeth's full pot. trying to plant in a pot already full of soil is beginning entirely wrong. hand over another pot, josephine. thank you. see, here is a pot with its drainage, and a very little bit of old sod over this. the soddy matter takes up only about a quarter inch. give me a trowel full of the potting soil, or a little coarse soil first. now i lower into the pot my plant with its own earth still about it. see, it is going to be about right. now, while i hold the plant in position in the pot with my left hand, i shake the potting soil in all about the plant. here is a stick. i made it and call it my potting stick. it is about the length of a foot ruler. see, it is about an inch thick and has a rounded end. with this end i gently poke the soil into place. occasionally, i give the pot a little shake, which settles the soil into crevices and crannies. but never do this jerkily or violently. when the soil is within a half inch of the top of the pot, press it down all about the plant stem; that is, firm the plant. you should be able to take up a potted plant by the plant stalk without uprooting it. the florist can do this with any of his potted plants. if the plant is loose in its new home it will not do well." "you said to have a half-inch space between top of soil and top of pot. i should like to know why, because all the plants at my aunt's house are done the other way," eagerly inquired helena. "the purpose of the half-inch space is for watering the plant. i should be willing to wager that when your aunt waters her plants she has a bad time with water spilling over and soil washing out. the space allows for this and prevents its happening." "i shall tell her about that when i go to see her. i am to go next week. don't you think i might carry her a plant nicely potted?" "indeed i do. i think we can spare a begonia for her. just let me water this plant a little. notice that i do not flood it. now, set it outside, elizabeth, right by my back door where it will be sheltered." "why put it outside?" asked the child, as she took the pot; "i'd have left it here under shelter." "it goes out because good fresh air is as important for newly potted plants as good soil, careful handling, and watering. now for a slipping geranium lesson! "old, stocky geraniums in the fall garden are exactly right to slip. these properly slipped and started, if well cared for, will blossom by january or february. if closely crowded into the window box, you may be certain of bloom provided you have good, strong sunlight on them. florists slip geraniums and put them into sand; many people put the slips into water to form roots; but it is far easier for you children and for schools to place the slips immediately into the earth of the window box. "the slipping process itself is easy. suppose we have a big, old geranium from which to take our slips. it is full of branches. these branches or stems have around them at intervals rings called nodes. the space between two nodes is called an internode. on the nodes are what seem to be small leaves. press one aside, notice between it and the stem what appears to be a very small bud. here a new shoot can start. "so choose a branch, pick off all the large leaves except two at the extreme end. if there are more than two, choose the two smallest leaves. now it is ready to cut. about four inches down the stem cut it off between two nodes. do not cut straight across the stem but cut slantwise. "you have now as i have in my hand, a geranium slip which is four inches long. at one end of the stalk are two leaves; the other end is cut obliquely across. before you plant this slip look between the two leaves and see if there is a small bud. if so, and it is all green, leave it. for this green means that as the bud develops only leaves will unfold. if you see any other colour in the bud, pinch it out with your fingers. the colour tells us that the bud is a flower bud. if this be left on the slip, all the strength of the little plant will be taken up in forming the blossom. a new plant is not strong enough to stand this. it needs all its power for plant growth. "plant the slip in your window box, burying it in earth above the first node; that is, the node just above the cut. thus you have buried in the earth the place where roots will form. "crowd the slips in, three or four inches only apart. they should not be exposed to the full glare of the sun at first. some gardeners say to let the slips wilt before watering. but it is quite safe to water a little from the first. do not soak the soil, however, or the young plants will decay. "now the slips may be put right into a window box, or into these flats. i would not place them immediately in a sunny window. but place them where the sun does not shine directly. it is excellent to leave window boxes and newly potted plants outdoors for a time, until in the fresh air they get accustomed to their new living conditions." "shall we fix up the school window boxes now?" asked josephine. "yes, we will get right at that. but first i will give you a window-box talk. "the most satisfactory way to grow plants in the schoolroom and in many cases, at home, is in the window box. the window box means the possibility of easily caring for a number of plants in a small space. plants in pots take much more space than the same number of plants in a window box. "it is the cleanest way, too. you are all familiar with the sight of a pot covered with crêpe paper stained and discoloured from water spilt upon it and moisture given off from the porous pot. "the window box, if properly watered, need never leak. its freshly painted sides need never be covered with any material. it stands for just what it is--a well-made, well-painted wooden box. "it is quite impossible to give dimensions for the construction of the window box, since it must fit the space one wishes to use. it is wise to keep in mind this--that these boxes when filled with soil are very, very heavy and awkward to handle. so if your window is large, why not have two small boxes for the space rather than one large one? when these are placed end to end the effect is of one long box. the ordinary house window may well have the single box. "other things to keep in mind for the constructing of the box are depth, drainage, holes, joints and paint. "just as bulb boxes need no great depth, so with window boxes. if the depth be great the plants spend too much energy in root growth. a shallow box means, if properly filled, a compact root mass. so if your box is to be, say three and a half feet long make it not more than ten inches deep. "as we make drainage holes in the bottom of the bulb box, so we do in the window box. many people make window boxes without drainage holes. it seems rather better to have them since they offer exit for surplus water, and places for the roots to get at the air. these holes may be bored six inches apart down through the centre of the box; or they may be bored in two lines, thus doubling the number of holes and the amount of air space. take this rule, for every square foot of space have four drainage holes. "a box filled with soil all winter constantly in a state of moisture is quite likely to spring or spread apart at the joints. the better fitted the joints the better the box, and the better it stands the inside pressure and moisture continually brought to bear upon it. "as to paint, of course the box must have one coat (perhaps two) on the outside. a dark green is all around the best. green is always the best setting for plants. nature made this colour scheme. we only follow her lead. "after the box is made, and the paint dry, it must be filled. "do any of you girls happen to know just where in the school room the boxes are to be placed?" "one goes into a south window, and i believe the other is to be in a north one," replied dee. "that certainly tells us enough to help us in selecting plants for these boxes. the kind of plants to place in the box depends upon whether the box is to go into a bright sunny window or into one which gets little or no sun. everyone knows the most satisfactory plant of all for sunny windows is the geranium. it is easy enough to get them for schools without money, because this is the time when everyone's mother is taking up plants for the winter, some of which are always thrown away. many large, old plants slipped make six or more good little chaps. begonias are most satisfactory; you can plant these either in sun or shade. a good one for a shady window is the one called the 'beefsteak' begonia. "fuchsias make a fine show. if you wish to have a plant of some height do not choose a fern or palm, for these plants need so much water they should always be planted by themselves in single pots or in fern dishes. the amount of water required for a palm would cause ordinary plants, like geraniums, to decay. so choose plants which take up about the same quantity of water. for height, then, one might plant a flowering maple. these are fine in leaf and blossom. so they add much to the box. dracenas are good for both sun and shade; so, too, is pandanus. the foliage of this is pleasing. much is added to the general effect if some plants which form long hangers are put in, and planted close to the front side of the box. in sun or shade the wandering jew grows. a bit breaks off; it is stuck back into the earth and again it grows. pieces cut and put into water grow equally well. trailing over the sides of the vessel they are in, they make a pleasing effect in a corner, or by the side of a window. "an important thing to be remembered in connection with window boxes is that the closer you plant the better the growth of the plants. it sounds wrong. we think that plants ought to have space to grow in. they should, usually; but space defeats the object of the window box, because the idea is to have top growth and blossom. if you give plants a chance to grow under the ground they will do it at a sacrifice to their growth above ground. so crowd the plants in. the root growth, thus limited and checked, gives added strength above. this is true too, in a measure, of planting in pots. most people put plants in too large pots, and so fail often to get good top growth and blossom. notice next time you drop into a florist's shop the large palms in comparatively small pots. why is this? just to get good growth of foliage. "finally, as to sunny and sunless windows: put into the boxes for the shady windows plants which run to foliage, and into those for the sunny windows plants from which you expect blossom. for blossoms, sun is necessary. "the last thing of all is the placing of the box. shall it go on the sill? not if you wish to keep the sill in good condition. shall it be screwed to the casement? it may be, but it is hard to place each year, and often the strain is too great on the screws. the best arrangement is that of iron brackets screwed to the casement beneath the window sill. these brackets when not in use may be folded in against the wall and so are quite out of the way and do not have to be removed from schoolrooms each spring when the box goes outdoors. the weight of the box is sufficient to hold the brackets out, and so steadies them that it is not necessary to even screw the box on. two boys holding the brackets straight, two others placing the box on, is all the labour needed to make that box permanently secure. it remains here now until its journey outdoors next spring. "i would like to add the english ivy to the list of trailing plants for the window box. "some people have candytuft and others marguerites in the indoor box. they do not look as well through an entire indoor season as geraniums, fuchsias and begonias. i think i'll ask miriam, elizabeth, and helena to work on the shady window box. we will use dracena, vincas, pandanus, begonia and wandering jew. ethel, katharine, and josephine fix up the sunny window box--the fuchsia, heliotrope, marguerite, geraniums, wandering jew, and english ivy. this will be a charming box. dee, you and i will plant the rest of these geranium slips for the girls." they all worked away busily for some time. then the chief asked the girls to come into the house for a time. as they entered the living room they noticed an array of plants on the big table. "sit down, girls, i have a little gift for each of you. i wish you to study and nurse these plants throughout the winter. "this first tall, rather stiff-looking plant is called an aspidistra. it is the best all-around plant for the house or schoolroom. it does not need much or special care. be sure to keep the leaves clean. see that you do it, miriam. "this little norfolk island pine is the only one of the cone-bearing trees that you can bank on. notice that the method of branching is by whorls. you are to have this plant, elizabeth. "i imagined that eloise would love this little lemon tree called ponderosa. you can raise lemon trees from seed, but like the apple tree, they need special attention before they grow good fruit. "the jersualem cherry tree is for josephine. it does not absolutely need sun. it, too, stands a great deal of neglect. remember i am not recommending neglect to you. i am giving you the house plants that are of easiest culture. you will be glad to make note of this entire list. of course, the berries are the charm of this jerusalem cherry tree. "to ethel i will give this lovely genista. it is the finest of all yellow-flowered winter plants. as the blossoms fade they should be taken off. since this is a good winter flower, it should be allowed to rest in the summer. "the azalea is for dee. it needs the same care as ethel's plant. these need not be thrown away next spring. but put them in a shady spot laid on their sides. "helena's plant is a palm called the _cocos weddelliana_, and katharine's is a fern, the holly fern. "i wish to tell you a bit about ferns and palms. "in most school buildings and homes these two kinds of plants hold chief place. this doubtless is because they, too, stand lack of attention. most people keep them water-logged because supposedly they are accustomed to and need lots of water. we must keep in mind that while ferns for instance are found outdoors in very damp spots, they are not in places undrained and choked off from air. so the jardinière half full of water does not quite represent the real environment of the fern. "going on with the fern there are a few points to hold in mind. do not permit the room temperature to fall below degrees. neither should it rise above degrees. direct sunlight injures the delicate fronds of ferns. a north window where there is light without direct sunshine is the right fern place. keep the leaves clean by spraying with clear water on bright days. if bugs appear, spray weekly with tobacco water. this solution should be very weak. "the best varieties to grow are the sword, boston, holly, and maidenhair. use spider ferns for a fern dish. "palms require great quantities of water, even temperatures, little direct sunlight, and daily sponging of the leaves. a sponge dampened in clean water is the best thing to use for this purpose. the most popular and easiest-to-grow palms are the following: _cocos weddelliana_, date palm, kentia, and the arcea." "will you tell us about the watering of plants?" asked ethel. "surely, although i can say but little since it depends largely upon good judgment. water a plant when it needs it. keep the soil moist but not soaked. if plants are beginning to decay or a mould is coming on the surface of the soil, the trouble usually is over watering. at such a time let the soil of the pot or box dry out. then water carefully after that. if the pot is always damp or has become green you may know that the trouble is either too much water or poor drainage." "what pests are likely to attack our plants?" questioned elizabeth. "lice and scale troubles are the chief pests of the house plants. you all know plant lice. use kerosene emulsion for these. the scale appears as a scaly mass, usually on the stems of plants. these scales are living animal forms. the best way to get rid of them is to wipe them off with a rag soaked in kerosene emulsion." "why didn't you give some one a rubber plant?" was the next question from miriam. "i guess because of its bad habit of growing so tall and losing its lower leaves. they look like giraffes at the circus. but one may top these plants." "what is topping?" and "how do you do it?" burst from dee and helena at the same time. "i suppose you see that if one could get that nice-looking top off and start again the old rubber plant would be all right. so about a foot below the last leaf on the stalk--i mean the last leaf numbering from the top--- you should start the operation. cut a slit in the bark at this place. pack soil about the stem. then encase this with sacking. so you have a nice ball of earth packed about the stem. let the ball be about six inches in diameter. keep it moist. you can sprinkle the water on. after a time roots will appear coming through the sacking. the roots have started to develop at this incision of the stem. now the stalk may be cut below these new roots and the new rubber plant potted." "that is very interesting," began katharine. "i should so like to try it," broke in dee. "now, girls, i believe you'd better pick up your new plants and scamper. we certainly have done a good afternoon's work. the chief things to try for in indoor plant culture are cleanliness of the plant, proper drainage, and freedom from abrupt changes in temperature and draughts. good-by, girls. we meet again soon at our exhibits." "good-by, and thank you so much," cried the girls in chorus. xviii the grand wind-up--girls vs. boys one day in late september the boys' garden club received an invitation to katharine's house for four o'clock the following saturday. never were boys more astonished than these as they were ushered into the girls' garden. "well," albert said quite frankly, "you have beaten us as far as beauty goes. you try vegetables next summer, and we fellows will race you." "thank you!" answered dee, "you are very kind to us, very! you may possibly have noticed those beautiful window boxes at the inn. eloise made those herself, stocked the boxes, and has cared for them, too. elizabeth's borders have grown as well, i should say, as jack's flowers. peter will tell you of our sundial. helena has a beautiful garden. to be sure leston has helped her but only because he wanted to so badly. girls are not such bad gardeners, are they?" "not bad?" shouted the boys, "you are wonders!" "every fellow here give three cheers for the girls," commanded jay. this was done with a hearty good will. a week later the girls received an invitation to attend the boys' fall exhibit, held at the chief's house. early that morning the boys had gone to the woods to gather autumn boughs. the walls were a blaze of bright-coloured leaves. about the room were placed tables upon which the boys' products were exhibited. fathers and mothers had come to the exhibit; in fact, the whole village had turned out. the prize went to peter, for he had made the most money out of his garden. just a word from a talk given by the chief about the arrangement of exhibits and matters in general. he said, "there are as many ways to prepare vegetables and flowers for an exhibit as there are boys and girls to exhibit. it is not enough to bring the articles to be exhibited. the real art of showing one's things comes in artistic and attractive arrangement. "vegetables should be thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned. dirt clinging to the roots needs sometimes a brush to get it entirely off. carrots, beets, radishes, turnips, celery and other vegetables where the edible part is beneath ground, need this sort of attention, not only to make them clean, but to bring out the colours in each case. "the foliage of a vegetable plant often adds much to its appearance in exhibition. for instance, the carrot has quite lovely lacey leaves. beet leaves have such good red colours in them that they, too, add something to the general effect. the colours of the leaf and the colour of the fruit itself are a harmony. when radish leaves are taken off there is no good way of bunching the radishes. they are cut quite off from kith and kin. "the only objection to the foliage is its wilting, drooping, tired looking leaves certainly add nothing lovely to the exhibit. if the exhibition is of short duration there is no trouble along this line; if it is one of several days the problem is different. "children's exhibits, however, usually last but a short time. but if the products can be put away in cold storage over night, or in water in a cool place, then it is possible to keep them in good shape. "an outdoor exhibit is not wholly satisfactory because of the effect of the air on the products. they wilt badly. a tent is far better than the open-air table for exhibiting. with care the exhibition may always be made attractive. "the arrangement of products is one of the main features. generally children's exhibits are pretty messy and mussy looking. this is because of two things: first, the children have so many little separate exhibits; second, we do not stop to discuss carefully the matter of arrangement and preparation. if the children understood fully that no products would be admitted for exhibition unless these were cleaned, were of uniform size, and of the requisite number, there would be little trouble. with them, arrangement would have to be worked out largely on the scene of action, although colour effects, bunching, and general matters could be taken up beforehand. "let us think out a few general directions for exhibiting. first, all products must be thoroughly cleaned. heading vegetables, as cabbage and lettuce, should be cleaned well, and perhaps two heads of each kind shown by the exhibitor. radishes, carrots, young onions and small vegetables which are to be bunched should have anywhere from twelve to twenty specimens in the bunch. leave the foliage on such bunches. the large vegetables like beets and parsnips may have from four mammoth specimens to eight smaller ones. potatoes are exhibited by the plate and so are tomatoes. there are supposed to be seven large specimens to the plate. "flowers are usually shown cut and arranged in vases. the vases should be of clear, white glass for the best effects. rose bowls may be used, too. do not put grand collections of all varieties and colours of flowers together. suppose the exhibit of a certain person is to be one of asters. then put the purple ones together in a vase, the pink ones together in another vase. "another mistake of exhibitors is the huddling of products into close quarters. give your individual specimens plenty of room. let the things stand out as individual. the entire exhibit is spoiled when it looks messy and huddled up. "the labelling is often done poorly. any little piece of paper is stuck on the vases or under a bunch of vegetables. the child's name is written in abominable handwriting. write or neatly print a little card. put on this the date, name of the exhibitor (or number) and his place of residence, if required. "these, in brief, show the real educative lines along which one ought to conduct a children's exhibit. the aesthetic side enters in largely, and a proper bit of the commercial is here, too." well, this exhibit of the boys' was pretty good. each boy had a set of photographs showing the round of his work. these had been made into books. some of the boys had kept diaries. the diaries had in them not only an account of experiences, but also the tables worked out with the chief. jack had what he called an improvement section, which gave ways by which he might improve over his present methods of work. the garden plans drawn to a scale were on the walls. myron had brought his set of real garden tools. the pieces of hand work made by the boys were there, too. george had made a collection of garden pests, while philip and peter had made collections of weed pests. all the pamphlets from washington which they had used in their work and those from their own state experiment station were on a little table. each boy told briefly the difficulties he had encountered and how he had met them. after a talk by jay, albert spoke of the experiment in inoculation of soil. then he and jay disappeared, and returned with plates, one for each guest, and on each plate were two spoonfuls of beans, one of the inoculated and the other of the uninoculated beans. the visitors were not told which were which. then a vote was taken as to which were the better. of course, the inoculated beans won out. after this, the real refreshments were served. "i should like to ask," dee made bold to say, "where you boys got strawberries to make ice cream of? strawberries in october! you certainly do not expect us to believe you raised them." "i did," said myron, striking an attitude before her. "i did in my own little patch." "did you make a few cakes of ice and thus have a cold storage plant?" dee continued sarcastically. "dear me, no! i'm much more clever than that. one day, with a few baskets of berries tucked under this noble right arm of mine, i walked to this house. i knocked at the door. a man let me in. he tied an apron about this waist. we actually canned these same berries which you are now eating as a frozen delicacy." "you boys are altogether too smart," and dee turned her back on myron to accept a second dish of cream from philip. that didn't disturb myron any, for he cakewalked back to the kitchen for more cream. "well, it was a fine exhibit for mere lads," jack's father was heard to say on his way home; "if we could bring into this little village a few more men like our boys' chief there would be no question about a boy's coming up all right. it makes me ashamed to think that we parents have left this work to an outsider." "i feel," answered george's father, "that this man is a real 'insider'." after all the guests had left the chief's once again the boys formed their line and saluted the man. "is there nothing for us this winter, o chief?" asked albert. "plenty. we are going to have a beautiful winter, and next spring better work." laden with their trophies the boys reluctantly started for home. they stood in the road in front of the chief's gate, and the moon shone down on seven happy, manly boys. the three cheers to the chief arose clear and shrill on the still evening air. as it died away the boys seemed to melt into the shadows of the road. the man stood motionless in his doorway until the last sound of the boys died away. then he went back into the room to dream over the fire dreams for his boys. part ii the chief's garden talks i the soil the following winter the chief gave friday afternoon talks to his boys and girls. these meetings did not in any way interfere with the boys' regular saturday evening club. immediately after school each friday afternoon they all trooped round to the chief's little house, which had become a centre of village interest. finally the men came too, for they had found out that this man knew of what he spoke. but we are wandering away from those friday afternoons. there was the strangest collection of stools and benches in the chief's side entry, all belonging to the boys and girls. "you must each one bring your own seat, because you all know that i haven't chairs enough to go around." and this called forth the collection. it was an odd sight that first friday in early november. a long straggly line of boys and girls, each one with a seat of some kind, wound its way up to the chief's hospitable door, where he stood waiting, laughing aloud at the sight. in they came, and made a semi-circle about the big fireplace. "i just love this room," said albert, voicing the feelings of them all. "i have thought," began the chief, "that since our really successful first year of gardening, we ought to be in a position to undertake and to desire to know more about certain subjects which i shall discuss. each friday i am going to take up a topic such as i should if i were teaching you in school." "you do not mean that we'll have to remember and answer questions just like school? you surely do not mean that, big chief," broke in albert. "no," replied the man laughing, "no, you may forget it all if you like. remember it, if it seems to you useful. but if it's a strain on you, albert, make it your business to forget." they all laughed at this, but none so heartily as albert himself. "that's one on this old head of mine," he said, banging that member up against the side of the chimney. "my first talk i have given you in part, but i have more i wish to add. i believe even albert can stand it. the subject is the soil. "soil primarily had its beginning from rock together with animal and vegetable decay, if you can imagine long stretches or periods of time when great rock masses were crumbling and breaking up. heat, water action, and friction were largely responsible for this. by friction here is meant the rubbing and grinding of rock mass against rock mass. think of the huge rocks, a perfect chaos of them, bumping, scraping, settling against one another. what would be the result? well, i am sure you all could work that out. this is what happened: bits of rock were worn off, a great deal of heat was produced, pieces of rock were pressed together to form new rock masses, some portions becoming dissolved in water. why, i myself, almost feel the stress and strain of it all. can you? "then, too, there were great changes in temperature. first everything was heated to a high temperature, then gradually became cool. just think of the cracking, the crumbling, the upheavals, that such changes must have caused! you know some of the effects in winter of sudden freezes and thaws. but the little examples of bursting water pipes and broken pitchers are as nothing to what was happening in the world during those days. the water and the gases in the atmosphere helped along this crumbling work. "from all this action of rubbing, which action we call mechanical, it is easy enough to understand how sand was formed. this represents one of the great divisions of soil--sandy soil. the sea shores are great masses of pure sand. if soil were nothing but broken rock masses then indeed it would be very poor and unproductive. but the early forms of animal and vegetable life decaying became a part of the rock mass and a better soil resulted. so the soils we speak of as sandy soils have mixed with the sand other matter, sometimes clay, sometimes vegetable matter or humus, and often animal waste. [illustration: constant cultivation of the soil saved george's cabbages photograph by karl w. helmer] "clay brings us right to another class of soils--clayey soils. it happens that certain portions of rock masses became dissolved when water trickled over them and heat was plenty and abundant. this dissolution took place largely because there is in the air a certain gas called carbon dioxide or carbonic acid gas. this gas attacks and changes certain substances in rocks. sometimes you see great rocks with portions sticking up looking as if they had been eaten away. carbonic acid did this. it changed this eaten part into something else which we call clay. a change like this is not mechanical but chemical. the difference in the two kinds of change is just this: in the one case of sand, where a mechanical change went on, you still have just what you started with, save that the size of the mass is smaller. you started with a big rock, and ended with little particles of sand. but you had no different kind of rock in the end. mechanical action might be illustrated with a piece of lump sugar. let the sugar represent a big mass of rock. break up the sugar, and even the smallest bit is sugar. it is just so with the rock mass; but in the case of a chemical change you start with one thing and end with another. you started with a big mass of rock which had in it a portion that became changed by the acid acting on it. it ended in being an entirely different thing which we call clay. so in the case of chemical change a certain something is started with and in the end we have an entirely different thing. the clay soils are often called mud soils because of the amount of water used in their formation. the slate that myron brought for road making belongs to the clay family, and so does shale. "the third sort of soil which we farm people have to deal with is lime soil. remember we are thinking of soils from the farm point of view. this soil of course ordinarily was formed from limestone. just as soon as one thing is mentioned about which we know nothing, another comes up of which we are just as ignorant. and so a whole chain of questions follows. now you are probably saying within yourselves, how was limestone first formed? "at one time ages ago the lower animal and plant forms picked from the water particles of lime. with the lime they formed skeletons or houses about themselves as protection from larger animals. coral is representative of this class of skeleton-forming animal. "as the animal died the skeleton remained. great masses of this living matter pressed all together, after ages, formed limestone. some limestones are still in such shape that the shelly formation is still visible. marble, another limestone, is somewhat crystalline in character. another well-known limestone is chalk. perhaps you'd like to know a way of always being able to tell limestone. i'll drop a little of this acid on some lime. see how it bubbles and fizzles. now albert will drop some on this chalk and on the marble, too. the same bubbling takes place. so lime must be in these three structures. one does not have to buy a special acid for this work, for even the household acids like vinegar will cause the same result. albert will prove this to you. "then these are the three types of soil with which the farmer has to deal, and which we wish to understand. for one may learn to know his garden soil by studying it, just as one learns a lesson by study. "i believe the boys from their last winter's work feel fairly familiar with soils, i have in these three tumblers the three types of soil. as i pour water on them just see what happens. observe how little water it takes to saturate sand. the limy soil holds more water and the clayey an amazing quantity. "i do not know whether you are much acquainted with the sea shore, i doubt it." "i am," broke in katharine, "for each summer, except this last one, i have spent a month at the beach." "then possibly you can tell us, katharine, whether, or not, the sand takes in, or absorbs, much heat during the day." "indeed it does absorb heat; why some days we used to go barefooted on the beach right after dinner. i can tell you there were times when we couldn't stand the heat of the sand." "that is quite true," continued the chief, "sand absorbs heat to a remarkable degree. this heat is, to be sure, in the upper layers of the sand. had katharine burrowed down with her toes below those upper layers she would have found moist, cool sands. but an upper layer of soil, made up of particles which fall apart easily because of the loose make-up, a layer which has absorbed little water and much heat--well, to me that sort of soil doesn't sound quite right for good gardening. add to such a soil, humus in the shape of stable manure in large quantities and this same poor soil becomes very good. "now here is the lime soil tumbler. this soil has taken up rather more water than the sand took. but it, too, surely needs to develop greater power to take in and hold water. so the same sort of medicine which we gave the sandy soil may be dealt out to the lime soil. lime is a pretty good substance to have in soil. lime is a kind of fertilizer in itself; it's a soil sweetener; it helps to put plant food in shape for use, and causes desirable bacteria to grow. this sounds a bit staggering but all of these things i am going to talk over with you. so just at present forget it, albert, if it is a heavy burden. "the clay soil, you observe, has taken in quite a quantity of water. that seems like a good thing. it is. but clay has a mean little habit of squeezing tightly its particles together with the aid of water so that air is excluded from the mass. it forms huge lumps; it bakes out and cracks badly; and it is also very damp, cold and soggy in early spring. "as the problem with sand is to add something so that more water may be held in the soil, so the problem with clay is to overcome that bothersome habit of baking and caking and cracking. to do this we might add sand or ashes. but perhaps it would be better yet to add manure with a lot of straw in it. this is the easiest kind of thing for country boys and girls to get, because the bedding swept out of horses' stalls is just the thing. "when i speak of clay's horrid habit of tight squeezing, i always have to stop and talk about the two great needs of all soils. one is the need for water; the other, for air. a soil cannot exist without these two things any more than we can. without these, or poorly supplied with them, a soil is as if it were half-starved. "that trouble always comes from a lack of one or the other is quite sufficient to prove to us that these are essential. just see how sand lacks water, as does lime soil too! but there is plenty of air space, unless these soils are too finely powdered. now look at clay! plenty of water, but how about the air? when clay begins its packing, then air is excluded. "so one of the questions to be asked in soil improvement concerns the water and air problem. we must have air spaces, and we must have water-holding capacity. "before we go home i must just speak of soil and subsoil. when you strike your spade down into the earth and lay bare a section of the soil this is what you see: on top is the plant growth, the soil beneath this, dark in texture and about our locality of a depth of from six to eight inches. this layer is called the topsoil. in sections of the west it is several feet in depth. now below the topsoil is a lighter coloured, less fertile, more rocky layer, the subsoil. beneath comes a layer of rock. "and finally you may be a bit confused by the word loam. it is often given as one of the classes of soils. by loam we mean clay, sand and humus. you will often hear people speaking of a sandy loam or a clayey loam according as there is a greater percentage of sand or clay in the soil. "next friday i shall talk about soil fertility. so trot home lively now!" ii plant food a soil, as i have said before to the boys, may contain all the food necessary for plant growth and still not support any good growth at all. that means then we ought to be able in some way or other so to understand the soil that it will be possible to unlock these good things for the plants to live on. "i see a question in josephine's and miriam's faces. i guess that this question is concerning what the plant food is in soils. that is right, is it not? "well, i'll take that up first, then;--different ways of improving and increasing the goodness of the soil. "the foods that are necessary and essential to plants and most likely to be lacking in the soil are nitrogen, potash and phosphorus. now by no means must you think that these are the only chemicals which are foods, for there are something like thirteen, all of which do a share in the food supply. oxygen and carbon are very necessary indeed. oxygen is both in the air and in water. carbon plants take entirely from the air. i might go on and tell you of iron, of sulphur, of silicon and all the others. but you would only get confused, so i am going to make you acquainted with these three entirely necessary ones. they are capricious; often missing, and when not missing hard to make into available food for plants. "the soil contains many bacteria, small living organisms. these may be divided into two classes, the good ones and the bad ones. the good ones acting on nitrogenous matter put it in shape for the plant to absorb or feed upon. you see nitrogen may be in soil in quantities sufficient for nourishment. but unless it is in a compound available for use, it is of no value to the plant. then there are the bad bacteria which act upon nitrogen in such a way as to form compounds which escape from the soil as a gas. that is pretty bad, is it not? "how can the good bacteria be encouraged to grow, and the bad ones prevented from forming? the necessary conditions for the growth of good bacteria are air, water, darkness, humus matter and freedom from acid condition of the soil. if the soil is acid then these other 'chaps' set up their work; so we must see to it that our soils are well cultivated, well aired, have plenty of manure, and, if acid, have a liming, so that these bacteria missionaries can start their good work. "the manure i spoke of above is the great source of nitrogen upon which most plants depend. there is nitrogen sufficient right in the air, but that again is not available. certain plants like beans, peas and clovers belonging to the family of legumes are a great deal more fortunate than the rest of the plant families, for, under favourable conditions, they develop bacteria which make it possible to take into themselves free nitrogen. just look here! see this narrow box; i can drop down one side of it. here is a sheet of glass put on so you may look at the roots of the beans which are planted close to this glass side. just observe the great extent of root system. now see on the roots these white lumps, or nodules as they are called. these contain nitrogen-gathering bacteria. some farmers in order to get more available nitrogen in the soil plant a crop of some legume. then these root masses with their treasures on them are spaded into the soil. "but most plants depend for nitrogen on manure. whenever you see sickly looking foliage know that nitrogen is lacking, and supply manure in order to obtain it. "the next element is potash. its most common source of supply is wood ashes, not coal ashes. one may buy potash in the form of the muriate or sulphate. i told the boys before that potash was good for seed and fruit. pretty necessary to have in the soil, is it not? stunted fruit and poor seed mean lack of potash. phosphorus helps in this work too, and also assists in the forming of fine flowers. bone ash and phosphates are the sources of this food element. "so if we just consider the classes of soils with which we have to deal, remember the foods that must be had, and the effects on plants where one (or all) of these is lacking, we have in our hands a help to soil troubles. "take sandy soil--what is its greatest need? i should say humus. it certainly should have more nitrogen. so add humus in the form of manure. spread it on your piece of garden plot anywhere from two to six inches deep. this spaded in will, i think, do the work. you see sand allows water to trickle away too fast. water must be held properly in the soil. "the clay soil really needs air. the good bacteria will not work without this. so spade the soil up in the fall, and leave it weathering in huge lumps. sand or ashes added in the spring helps the air question too. a sprinkling of lime over the surface tends to sweeten the entire soil; for clay soil, so often too wet, is liable to get sour. lime also adds another plant food called calcium. it would not be bad to add some humus in order to have an even greater supply of nitrogen. "the lime soil, light and sweet, needs humus too. it should have this to add body and ability to hold water. "sometimes it is well to add in the spring a sprinkling of phosphates; that is a chemical fertilizer. chemical fertilizers are like tonics to the soil. "all this very briefly puts us in touch with plant foods. i think you all know from your school work that plants take their foods in liquid form. these solutions of foods are very, very weak. that is another reason why we should see that, if possible, there is plenty of nourishment available in the soil, and plenty of water too. "these bean roots and rootlets show the feeding area or places of plants. notice the small roots which apparently have a fringe on them. these fringes we call the root hairs. these absorb, soak up the dilute food which is in the soil. "it is very wonderful what power they have of penetrating the soil. see the bit of blotter i have put down the path of one bean's root course. it would seem to shut the rootlets entirely off from the soil. "jay will gently press the bit of blotter away from the soil. see here and there how these root hairs have wound their way through the blotter to the soil, their feeding place. it is well that plants have this power of seeking and finding food. because it greatly increases their food chances. "so much very briefly for plant food. i have not told you very much to be sure, but it is quite enough, i think, for a 'starter,' i wish to tell you a bit about the plant itself soon. a few experiments may liven up the subject. so i shall ask josephine, miriam, and ethel to attend to those for us. we can take turns at demonstrating as jay and albert have to-day. so you girls must remember to drop in to see me--say, wednesday of next week." iii seeds now before we begin just have a look at these geraniums. they have turned entirely around again and are looking out of the window at the sun. the power which plants have to move is very clearly shown, is it not? i am going to talk a little this afternoon about seeds. "any reliable seed house can be depended upon for good seeds; but even so, there is a great risk in seeds. a seed may to all appearances be all right and yet not have within it vitality enough, or power, to produce a hardy plant. "if you save seed from your own plants you are able to choose carefully. suppose you are saving seed of aster plants. what blossoms shall you decide upon? now it is not the blossom only which you must consider, but the entire plant. why? because a weak, straggly plant may produce one fine blossom. looking at that one blossom so really beautiful you think of the numberless equally lovely plants you are going to have from the seeds. but just as likely as not the seeds will produce plants like the parent plant. "so in seed selection the entire plant is to be considered. is it sturdy, strong, well shaped and symmetrical; does it have a goodly number of fine blossoms? these are questions to ask in seed selection. "if you boys and girls should happen to have the opportunity to visit a seedsman's garden, you will see here and there a blossom with a string tied around it. these are blossoms chosen for seed. if you look at the whole plant with care you will be able to see the points which the gardener held in mind when he did his work of selection. "last winter we had quite a discussion on corn seed selection. so we will not discuss that further. only let me say this for the benefit of the girls in order to show them the care which must be exercised in selection. should a finely formed ear of corn have one or two black kernels on it, then that shows a cross or taint, do not use such an ear for the old trouble may crop out. take an ear of seed corn, notice the small and rather undersized kernels at the top; do not use these. select kernels, the largest, plumpest and best shaped. "in seed selection size is another point to hold in mind. suppose peter had bought a package of bean seed. pull the little envelope out of your pocket, young man, and open it up. just look at those seeds as peter spreads them out here. now we know no way of telling anything about the plants from which this special collection of seeds came. so we must give our entire thought to the seeds themselves. it is quite evident that there is some choice; some are much larger than the others; some far plumper, too. by all means choose the largest and fullest seed. the reason is this: when you break open a bean--and this is very evident, too, in the peanut--you see what appears to be a little plant. so it is. under just the right conditions for development this 'little chap' grows into the bean plant you know so well. "this little plant must depend for its early growth on the nourishment stored up in the two halves of the bean seed. for this purpose the food is stored. beans are not full of food and goodness for you and me to eat, but for the little baby bean plant to feed upon. and so if we choose a large seed, we have chosen a greater amount of food for the plantlet. this little plantlet feeds upon this stored food until its roots are prepared to do their work. so if the seed is small and thin, the first food supply insufficient, there is a possibility of losing the little plant. "you may care to know the name of this pantry of food. it is called a cotyledon if there is but one portion, cotyledons if two. thus we are aided in the classification of plants. a few plants that bear cones like the pines have several cotyledons. but most plants have either one or two cotyledons. "some plantlets, as they develop and start to push above the ground, bear along the cotyledon. this is true in the case of the bean. jack and peter have planted corn and beans in this box, not to have succotash but to show you about the habits of seeds. see the bean plantlet, big, sturdy, fellow, is still clinging to its seed leaves or cotyledons, its baby nourishment. now look at the corn: there is absolutely no sign above ground of its one seed leaf. "so from large seeds come the strongest plantlets. that is the reason why it is better and safer to choose the large seed. it is the same case exactly as that of weak children. look at myron, great strapping fellow! hasn't he a fine chance in the world? do you remember that little sickly boy who was in school last spring? he was as old as myron, yet see how handicapped he is. try not to bring weak little plantlets into the plant world. bring strong, sturdy, healthy ones by careful seed selection. "there is often another trouble in seeds that we buy. the trouble is impurity. seeds are sometimes mixed with other seeds so like them in appearance that it is impossible to detect the fraud. pretty poor business, is it not? the seeds may be unclean. bits of foreign matter in with large seed are very easy to discover. one can merely pick the seed over and make it clean. by clean is meant freedom from foreign matter. but if small seed are unclean, it is very difficult, well nigh impossible, to make them clean. "the third thing to look out for in seed is viability. we know from our testings that seeds which look to the eye to be all right may not develop at all. there are reasons. seeds may have been picked before they were ripe or mature; they may have been frozen; and they may be too old. seeds retain their viability or germ developing power, a given number of years and are then useless. there is a viability limit in years which differs for different seeds. this matter, along with directions for testing, the girls may get from our club secretary, albert. all of this we took up last year in our preliminary garden work before we started outdoor work. "from the test of seeds we find out the germination percentage of seeds. now if this percentage is low, don't waste time planting such seed unless it be small seed. immediately you question that statement. why does the size of the seed make a difference? this is the reason. when small seed is planted it is usually sown in drills. most amateurs sprinkle the seed in very thickly. so a great quantity of seed is planted. and enough seed germinates and comes up from such close planting. so quantity makes up for quality. "but take the case of large seed, like corn for example. corn is planted just so far apart and a few seeds in a place. with such a method of planting the matter of per cent, of germination is most important indeed. "small seeds that germinate at fifty per cent. may be used but this is too low a per cent. for the large seed. suppose we test beans. the percentage is seventy. that per cent. would pass you in school, but it does not pass muster here. for if such low-vitality seeds were planted, we could not be absolutely certain of the seventy per cent. coming up. but if the seeds are lettuce go ahead with the planting. peter will pass around these germinating per cent. tables which he has printed for you. i'd advise you to paste these in your garden diaries. after a test refer to this table which is from a united states agricultural dept. list for seeds not over one year old. you then know at once whether the seed is worth using. -------------------------------------------------------- per cent. of germination -------------------------------------------------------- beans | leek | pumpkin cabbage | lettuce | radish carrots | muskmelon | spinach cauliflower | okra | squash celery | onion | tomatoes corn | parsley | turnips cucumber | peas | watermelon eggplant | peppers | -------------------------------------------------------- "after being sure of good seed the next step to consider is when to plant the seed. it is well to start certain seed inside and so get a bit ahead of the season. other seed may as well wait, and be planted out in the open when the ground is warm. "such vegetable seed as the following may be started inside. -------------------------------------------- indoor planting time-table -------------------------------------------- february | march | april -------------------------------------------- artichoke | | cabbage | | celery | cucumber | egg plant | egg plant | lettuce | lettuce | muskmelon onion | pepper | radish | radish | tomato | | tomato -------------------------------------------- "flower seeds i will take up later because i wish to think over the flower garden by itself. "when shall we plant seeds outdoors? now no one under the sun can say plant such and such a seed on may th or april st. it is the same absurd case as saying change your winter clothes for summer ones on may st. many writers will cover this subject by saying plant seeds when the earth is warm. but even that is a pretty general sort of direction. "nature has given us a planting guide. she tacks her notice on the fruit trees. when those early blooming trees, the peach and the plum, put out their beautiful blossoms the first planting time is on. to be sure the temperature then is a bit low, only about degrees, so the planting is not of the more tender vegetables. get your seed of beet, carrot, cabbage, cauliflower, endive, kale, lettuce, parsley, parsnip, onion, pea, radish, turnip and spinach. these may all be planted. "the next signal to watch for is given by the blooming of the apple trees. this is the planting time for the more tender seed. these need a temperature of about degrees in the shade, real apple-blooming time. corn, beans, egg plant, melon, squash, cucumber, pumpkin, tomato and pepper seeds may be planted. "but when is the time to put out the hotbed, or indoor-started seedlings? when the apple blossoms drop their petals and have passed by is the signal for them to go into the ground. of course, they naturally would be the last, for they are made very tender from their glass-grown coddling. "when it comes to the planting of seed there are certain things to remember always. first the ground should be made very fine. this is an easy matter if the planting is done in the hotbed, but more of a problem in the outdoor garden. it is foolish to plant at all if one does not intend to do things right. so work over the seed bed thoroughly. after all is fine and deeply worked, say to about a foot deep, the next thing to consider is this--how deep should a seed be planted? "the depth depends upon the size of the seed. take such small seed as poppy, parsley, even lettuce, and these may be just sprinkled on the surface of the ground. then tread them in with the foot or place a board over them and walk on the board. in this way the small seed are pressed into the soil quite sufficiently. "for seeds in general the following might answer for a rule: there are seeds like corn, oats, wheat and the grasses which come up unhampered by their seed leaves. such seed may be planted deeply--say ten times the thickness of the seed. other seed like beans, squash, radish, etc., push and carry their seed leaves up through the soil with them. so these, because of this extra work, should be planted nearer the surface. four or five times the thickness of the seed is a safe rule to follow. "when the seed becomes entirely or nearly saturated with water then germination begins. sometimes people soak their corn in tepid water before planting. this hastens germination. but on the other hand if the soil is very wet and cold the soaked seeds may rot in so much moisture. certain seeds have very thick coverings. canna, date and nut seeds are examples. their cases are so hard and absorb moisture so slowly that germination is a long process. to hasten this little holes may be drilled in the case, thus giving the plant germ a chance to get out. nurserymen crack the nuts in order to help matters along. you can readily see what a really difficult piece of work it is for a tiny embryo or baby plant to break open a thick case. "if seeds are planted too deeply again, a tremendous piece of work is imposed upon the little plant. to push up through, say one inch of soil, would be quite a task for a lettuce seedling. "finally in seed planting, the soil must be safely compacted or pressed about the seed. the object of this is to bring in contact with all parts of the seed soil particles with their films of water. suppose a radish seed is planted and no soil happens to come in direct contact with the seed. that distance, so slight to us, is a well-nigh impossible one for the rootlets to extend to. "there is a possibility of course, of too close compacting. this occurs when the soil is very wet. do not compact at all then. in fact, such soil condition represents a very bad time for planting, anyway. moisture is necessary for germination, but superabundance of water is fatal. it is simply ideal when after a planting a gentle rain comes--germination. "i remember once seeing a garden which school children had planted so close to the surface that after a rain most of the seeds were lying all sprouted on the surface of the soil. take care not to plant in such a manner. "this talk has been largely for the purpose of bringing to your minds certain necessary points. let me sum them up: cheap seed are expensive because they are often full of impurities and lack vital power. buy good seed and test _them_. plant large seed, because the storage of food is greater. make the soil conditions right in order to give every help to the seed. plant neither too deep, nor too near the surface. compact the soil, and so aid germination. the first start of work must be right; otherwise, trouble comes." iv the plant itself "to think of a plant as a breathing, growing thing is wonderful, but it is far more wonderful to think of it as something possible for even boys and girls to train and improve. here is a bed of petunias, let us say; do you know just how it is possible to have larger, finer petunias next year? "a slight operation performed, and behold magic has been worked! "first, we will go over the life history of a plant, and then i'll tell you of this magic and how to work it. or better yet my assistants here, josephine, miriam and ethel, will do the trick. "a plant really goes through much the same operations in life as does an animal. only to be sure, these operations are performed in a rather different way. a plant has a digestive, or feeding, system, a breathing apparatus, the power to rid itself of waste and to make seed; it moves, and it grows, too. philip looked a bit skeptical when i said it moves. well, it does. of course, a plant does not walk about, and move from spot to spot. but a plant can and does move. why it can turn itself around back to, even. just look at my geranium slips there! they seem to be breaking their backs to peep out of the window and look at their best friend, the sun. turn all of them around, george. see, they face us now! remember to look at them next friday. "but to start over again. a plant has just three necessary and important parts: these parts are the roots, stem, and leaves. no, elizabeth, the fruit and flowers are not separate parts. why? well, merely because by some queer provision of the plant world, the leaves are responsible for making or forming both the flower and the fruit. if you watch a bud form and unfold, you will notice that the entire little bud seems to be a series of leaves. and if your fingers were clever enough you could take tiny leaves and fold them into the parts which go to make up the flower and the fruit. this last, like most of the rest of that i am telling you, is just one of the miracles of nature. "the root, rootlets and root hairs all go to make up the root-system of a plant. this system is a feeding and food storage system; cold storage, we might call it. "i have spoken before about how the root hairs absorb food. food is soaked up something as a blotter soaks up ink. underground plant food must be liquid in nature. this is because plants, like babies, must have very dilute food. plants can no more get food out of a dry lump of soil than a little baby can get its food from a hunk of bread or a thick slice of corn beef. but let that soil be water-soaked, and have the proper bacteria at work, and the material is in plant-food form. josephine has here an old, old experiment. what was a white pink is now a red one. it has been in that glass of red ink and a little water. and lo, up the stem the red fluid climbed until it suffused the white flower and made it red. notice as miriam holds that lump of sugar only just touching the surface of the water, the water moves up that lump. in this way water and liquid food rise up the stems of plants. just so, too, water rises in the soil from the lower layers up to the feeding place of the roots, and even up to the surface of the ground. "as the roots are feeding and storing places, so the stem is a sort of passage way for the passing back and forth of liquids. take a stem of a big plant, like an oak tree, and you see in the wood where storage of fibre has gone on. but the great work is that of interchange. "leaves are very active portions of the plant. they represent a great, busy manufactory. manufacturing what? that question i see stamped on myron's face so plainly he need not speak it out. manufacturing real food out of raw material--that is the work of these plant shops. "let me tell you about this. ethel has in her hands two little plants. the one in her right hand has been growing in the light; the other, in her left hand, has been put away in the dark to grow. the absence of green colour is very marked in this latter plant. so you see it takes light to form this green, or chlorophyll as it is called. the chlorophyll-saturated cells, absorbing carbonic acid and the water-diluted food from the soil, literally break them up. and when broken, food is found suitable for plants to absorb. wonderful, is it not? "i spoke of carbonic acid; well, this is a gas, as some of you have found out before, made up of carbon and oxygen. it is a gas which we of the animal kingdom breathe out as waste from our bodies. the plant takes it in through the leaf--and, by the way, i ought to explain that. it is this way: if we had a magnifying glass we should find over the inner surface of leaves, pores, or stomata as they are called. they open in the presence of light; and from these openings what the plant has no use for passes out, and gases from the air may pass in. some call these openings breathing pores. "quantities of water pass out through these pores. when this process goes on too rapidly a plant will wilt. "so, to go back, we will suppose that carbonic acid gas has passed into the leaves. straightway the chlorophyll bodies get to work. the gas is broken up, and oxygen and carbon are left. the carbon is wood the plant builds. some of the oxygen passes out into the air and some is kept for plant food use. "it is a good thing for us that some of the oxygen does escape into the air for we need it. so you see we, in our respiration, and the plant, in its breathing, are doing each other a good turn. "of course, there is the dilute food from the soil, which is largely mineral matter and water. the chlorophyll bodies work away on these minerals, and make them into foods. a great body of water, as i have said before, passes out of the plant through the stomata. "i have told you a thing that the plant can do which we are not capable of doing. a plant takes a mineral and makes it over into food. you and i, unless we happen to be circus glass-eaters, are not built to do this work. but the vegetables which we eat do the work for us. "a great deal of plant food is in the form of sugars and starches. i remember katharine and peter told me last winter that in their physiology they learned how sugars and starches were made in our own bodies. and lo and behold, the geranium can do a similar thing. "some plants store up lots of starch, as the potato. others store quantities of sugar, as the southern sugar cane and the beet. wonderful? well, i guess it is. if we could hear and see all the work these energetic little chlorophyll bodies are doing, we should be amazed. "you will remember that i told you some plants could take the very necessary chemical nitrogen from the air; most of them, however, must get it from the soil. and so again this from the soil solution is worked over into available food. "after all we must not fail to see that water is most important. it floats all the important food elements to the leaves for the work to be done there. the food carbon, of course, is an exception to this rule and i will say again in certain cases nitrogen is, also. "thus you boys and girls now understand how necessary it is that a soil should be of the right texture to hold water. if it is not, it must be helped to be so. sand, you will remember, had to be doctored to hold water. clay needed treatment in order to make it quit its bad habit of baking out. "here is a rather interesting experiment set up by josephine and ethel. look at the first piece of apparatus--a tumbler partly full of water, a piece of cardboard over the top of the tumbler, and passing down through a hole in the cardboard a piece of plant just stem stripped of leaves, and finally a second tumbler clapped over the first. the second piece of apparatus is exactly like the first, only that the stem, one end of which is in the water, has leaves on the other end. notice that the upper glass in the second case has moisture on it. the upper tumbler of the other set is perfectly dry. whence, then, came the moisture? it must, of course, be the leaves which gave it off, since they represent the only difference in the two pieces of apparatus. "i wish we might go on with whole sets of experiments, but for that we have not time. "you understand a little of the mission of root, stem and leaf. the root does a good work in holding a plant in place. it is the foundation material of the plant. there is much, much more to be learned about all these subjects. this little is just to open your eyes to the wonders of the work each plant is performing all the time. "i said i would show you some magic. well, this magic has to do with plant improvement. it is not much of a trick to raise a plant, but it is a great one to be able to improve that plant. "let me tell you of a friend of mine whom we will call rodney, because that is his real name. one day rodney noticed the gardener doing something with a little flat knife to a pansy. then he tied a little paper bag over the pansy, of course leaving the whole thing on the plant. "'what are you doing?' asked the lad. 'i am fixing that pansy so that the seed from it shall be finer seed than they otherwise would be.' "then the old gardener explained this to rodney: there are two parts to flowers which are very necessary, absolutely necessary to making seed. one part is the pistil, the other the stamen. some flowers have both pistils and stamen, while others have just the pistil and one has to hunt for another plant having the stamen. you can tell the stamens in this way: they are the parts which have in their care the pollen. most of you know pollen as a yellow powder or dust. sometimes it is a sticky gummy mass. the pistil is that part of the flower which ends in the seed vessel. it very often takes a central position in the flower, standing up importantly as if it were the 'part' of the flower. and after all, it is. now, when this pollen powder falls on the pistil it does not explode. the pistil merely opens up a bit and down travels the powder into the seed vessel to help form seed. there would be no real fertile seed without the pollen. "sometimes the pollen from one flower falls on its own pistil, sometimes the wind, the bees, the birds carry the pollen to flowers far off and drop it on their pistils. marvelous, is it not? everything has to be just right, or the pollen does not do its work nor the pistil, either. pollen has to be ripe to help make the seed. "but how can the work of the wind and the bees and the birds be improved on? just as the old gardener was doing it. he had one pansy, oh such a large one, but not at all beautiful in colour. he had another one, small but exquisite in colouring. if he could but grow those two together, shake them up, say a magic word and get a pansy both beautiful and large! "rodney's gardener used magic but not a magic wand. he took a little knife called a scalpel. he carefully took some pollen from the beautiful pansy and then rubbed it gently over the pistil of the big pansy. the pollen was all ready to drop, and by this he knew it was ripe. "why did he place a bag over the pansy? well, simply because he didn't wish that pansy interfered with. suppose the bag were not on; suppose after he had put the pollen on, the wind had blown other pollen to this same pistil? let us suppose that this other pollen came from a very inferior flower. the experiment would have been spoiled. "any of you can try this plant improvement. i see by katharine's eyes and dee's also that they are going to try it. it is well if you have a pair of forceps. then you need not use your fingers against the plant at all. gently pull the pistil a bit forward, gently place the pollen on with the scalpel and you have performed the operation entirely with the proper instruments. "the girls did some saving of fine specimens of flowers this fall, but the kind of work of which i have just told you means far more. in the one case you choose from what you have; in the other case you make what you want. "good-by, again, until next friday afternoon!" v increasing plants "this last garden season we have tried two methods of raising plants: one was by seed; the other by slips or cuttings. the girls will typify still another method with their bulbs. this last method is by division. a bulb as it stores up its nourishment after the blossoming time forms new little bulbs. these may be separated from the parent tuber if large enough. you all saw me dividing my peonies. those peonies doubtless were started years ago from one or two roots. and now when i dug them up it looked as if i were laying in a stock of sweet potatoes so great was the increase. "there are just three other methods of propagating or increasing plants. these are layering, budding and grafting. "layering is done in several ways. suppose you have a gooseberry bush you wish to layer. the time to do the work is after the flowering season is past. choose a branch which has not flowered. strip off the lower leaves. now where the old and new wood meet is the place for the cut. make a cut right into the stem which will be like a tongue. let this be about an inch long. hold this to the ground with the cut side down. bank soil over this. at and under the tongue the new shoots will start, and the new gooseberry bush grow from this. this new plant may be cut off from the parent. if the twig will not stay bent down in this position, cut a forked piece of wood which shall act as a pin. do you picture this? a branch bent so that not far from the parent plant it is buried under ground with the rest of the root protruding from the ground. "a rubber plant may be layered or topped as it is called. rubber plants have an ugly habit of going to top, dropping off their lower leaves as they do this. so they look as if they were trying to develop into huge bushes, and they become very ugly in so doing. the top looks all right and many a person wishes that top were off all by itself and nicely potted. "this is the way it is topped. a slit is cut in the bark about where you would like to see roots growing. then soil and florists' moss is bound about the wound. these may easily be kept moist. a paper pot could be put about the soil if one wished. the soil mass should be a ball of about six inches in diameter. when the new roots appear through the moss or poking out of the paper pot, cut the stem of the plant below the pot. and behold you have a little rubber plant just as good as new, i have told this before to the girls. "another method of layering is to cut the parent off down to the ground. what is left is called the stool. this stool should be covered with about six inches of earth. let us suppose this is done in early spring. when fall comes around uncover the stool. there will be found a number of new shoots or plants all nicely protected. these may be transplanted. do you know that stool can be used over again? "this work of layering is really very simple. myron used it with his strawberries. the runners were bent and buried just as those of the gooseberry i spoke of. in this way new strawberry plants were obtained. one shoot may be bent and buried more than once. so one may get just as easily two or more new plants from one shoot. this seems as much a miracle as the cross fertilization of plants. "the fifth method is that of budding. apple, peach, plum, cherry and pear trees may be budded; so, too, may roses. "in a word, a bud is taken from some desirable tree and inserted within the bark of a tree either less desirable or young. young fruit trees, as you know, need some help before they produce good fruit. now if george had at home a peach tree which bore very fine fruit he would be glad to cross a young tree with this. budding is a kind of crossing. "this work should be done in the spring, although it may be done in the fall. but the spring is a more limber time with nature. sap is begining to flow; life is new and fresh again; all the plant world is ready to start up and do something. then, too, the bark of trees should be in as flexible a condition as possible. the two things really necessary for the work are mature buds and bark easy to peel. "buds should be taken from the very strongest and best twigs of the last year's growth. the little seedlings in which the buds are to be inserted should be one year old. these are called the stock. "this is the manner of inserting the bud: first make a t-shaped cut in the bark of the stock. this cut should be made on the north side of the little tree, because it will thus be more sheltered from the sun's rays. the cut should not be far from the ground on the main trunk, although it may be at the base of strong shoots. but make it in the former position for these yearlings. then loosen the bark with the flat handle of a regular budding knife. not many boys and girls own such knives. some of you have scalpels. the handles of these are flat enough to use. again, you could easily whittle a piece of wood thin and flat enough for this work. "the next question is how to sever a bud from its parent shoot. suppose you have chosen a nice full bud. about a quarter of an inch below the base of the bud start cutting into the wood. run the knife up to about one quarter of an inch above the bud. do not cut out through to the surface, but rather from the upper surface cut the bark loose and peel this carefully down until you can see the under surface of the bud. you still have the wood attached to the twig at its upper edge. if as you look at the under surface of the bud you see that it is hollow, throw the whole thing away. if it has fibres then it is all right. the proper layer is left to reunite with the stock. now the bud and peeled-off bark may be inserted in the t-shaped slip. bind the bud in place with raffia. do this raffia bandaging both above and below the slit. "in about ten days the bandage may come off, for the knitting of fibres is well under way. now the top of the little tree should be cut right back to about two inches above the bud, because you wish all the growth to go to the bud. this is the part of promise to the tree. all its hope lies in this new bud. "the best method of increase is that of grafting. a graft or scion, which is a shoot with two or more buds on it of last year's growth, is inserted on the stem of another plant called the stock. "by means of this process of grafting, trees bearing poor fruit are made to bear good fruit. wild fruit trees are brought under cultivation, and a given tree may bear several varieties of its given fruit. for example, i have in mind a tree, the marvel of my childhood, which bore big sour apples, beautiful gravensteins, and a good quality of baldwins. this sort of experimenting with trees is not only as good as a puzzle, but is of great value. to make a wild apple tree with its gnarly, little sour apples into a really truly, well-behaved tree bearing good fruit is worth while, is it not? grafting is not only a method of improvement but of taming stock, which is after all improvement. "there are certain necessary precautions to take in this operation of grafting; for this, like budding, is a surgical operation. "in all woody branches the outer layer is the bark; next comes the green layer. between this layer and the real wood is a mass of fibres which go by the name of 'cambium'. the cambium layer of the stock and the scion must be one against the other in grafting in order that the sap may flow freely as before. this layer of cambium might be likened to our blood system. the two cambium layers must be pressed closely together so that the operation may be successful. and finally no cut surface should be left exposed to the air. it is air, you know, that plays havoc with flesh wounds. more and more we see that tree doctors have a work something like our own physicians. "grafting is usually done in the spring--in march or april--about the time sap begins to flow. the grafts or scions may be cut before this. choose the tree from which you wish to take a scion. you choose it because of its fine-flavoured, sound fruit. perhaps the fruit is especially large, too. size of fruit, however, does not denote fine fruit. i once had an apple that weighed a pound. it was a beauty, fair to look upon. but what a tasteless, pithy piece of fruit it was. appearances in fruit are often deceitful. the scions were to be of the last year's growth with two or more buds. the shoots should be clean, healthy and vigorous. you must transmit no disease along with the scions. these may be cut off in january or february, and stuck into the soil for about four to six inches. keep away from direct sunlight. the buds of scions cut at this time are dormant as they should be. "grafting is named according to the manner in which the scion is put into the stock. there is whip grafting, and cleft grafting. whip grafting is sometimes spoken of as tongue grafting. "this latter method is accomplished in this way: suppose you have a scion in your hand. cut across the end of it diagonally. use a sharp knife for this, and make a clean cut, as i now cut across this twig. about two-thirds of the distance back from the narrow or more pointed end of the cut make a vertical cut of about an inch right up into the scion. cut the stock in a similar way. then insert the tongue of the stock into the slit of the scion. press these together carefully. bind with raffia. whenever this work is done outdoors, as it would be in the case of any of you who try this experiment, the union must be sealed over. as official documents are sealed with wax, so this union is legally sealed in wax. one can buy a regular grafting wax. sometimes people mix clay and grease together. that is simple, but pretty sticky sounding. "realgrafting wax is made this way: to two parts of beeswax, add four of resin. melt these together with one pound of tallow or linseed oil. when all are melted together, pour into cold water. pull like molasses candy until it is light coloured. one's fingers should be greased to apply this wax properly. "cleft grafting is almost described by its name. a cleft or cut is made in the stock after the stem has been neatly cut across. the cleft is a vertical cut of about an inch in length. this is made through the centre of the stock. the scion is made to fit down into this, so naturally it is cut like a wedge. but there should be cuts made on both sides of the scion diagonally to form this wedge. so two cut surfaces of cambium are laid bare to fit against two similar surfaces of the stock. if the stock is several times thicker than the graft or scion, there should be two of these latter inserted. place one at either end of the cleft. bind and wax. "if the stock is the same thickness as the graft then these two fit perfectly one into the other. "this is only a little bit about grafting; but i trust this is enough to get you all interested in this work. "'is grafting really necessary?' i heard albert whisper a while ago. it does seem like a great deal of work. the trouble with starting fruit from seed and expecting to get good results lies in this point: fruit trees seems to lose in their development from seed the ability to produce fruit as fine as the parent stock; and so grafting becomes a necessity. strange that this should be so, but it is. "start with a peach stone or seed. it came from a fine tree; the fruit was luscious. and yet the little seedling which comes from that very stone as a rule must be grafted to bear fruit of equally fine flavour as that of the original peach. fruit trees have a tendency to revert to old wild poor forms. and so we must save them and help them. "if any of you should start a little orchard he would wish to know how far apart the trees should be. apple trees should be set thirty to forty feet apart each way; pear trees twenty to thirty feet each way; plums and peaches sixteen to twenty feet each way. trees need room in which to spread out and develop; hence the distance given them. i am glad that myron has made a start on small fruits. his strawberries were a success. i'd like to think that next season each of you was to have in his garden, vegetables, flowers, one small fruit and one of the larger ones, such as a seedling apple or peach." vi garden operations "i suppose the talk to-day will seem to you all merely a repetition of things you already know. beginnings, however, are most important. results often take care of themselves, but beginnings never do. gardens started wrong always go wrong; that is, unless one tears up one's work and begins over again. "the first thing in garden making is the selection of a spot. some of us are saved that trouble, since we have no choice; or like josephine, have nothing at all in the way of space. without a choice, it means simply doing the best one can with conditions. with space limited it resolves itself into no garden, or a box garden. surely a box garden is better than nothing at all. at least, josephine felt this to be true, and proved that parsley grows (with care) as well in a box as in the garden. i claim that everyone may have something of a garden if he be willing to take what comes to hand. "but we will now suppose that it is possible to really choose just the right site for the garden. what shall be chosen? the greatest determining factor is the sun. no one would have a north corner, unless it were absolutely forced upon him; because, while north corners do for ferns, certain wild flowers, and begonias, they are of little use as spots for a general garden. "if possible, choose the ideal spot--a southern exposure. here the sun lies warm all day long. when the garden is thus located the rows of vegetables and flowers should run north and south. thus placed, the plants receive the sun's rays all the morning on the eastern side, and all the afternoon on the western side. one ought not to have any lopsided plants with such an arrangement. "suppose the garden faces southeast. in this case the western sun is out of the problem. in order to get the best distribution of sunlight run the rows northwest and southeast. "the idea is to get the most sunlight as evenly distributed as possible for the longest period of time. from the lopsided growth of window plants it is easy enough to see the effect on plants of poorly distributed light. so if you use a little diagram remembering that you wish the sun to shine part of the day on one side of the plants and part on the other, you can juggle out any situation. the southern exposure gives the ideal case because the sun gives half time nearly to each side. a northern exposure may mean an almost entire cut-off from sunlight; while northeastern and southwestern places always get uneven distribution of sun's rays, no matter how carefully this is planned. "the garden, if possible, should be planned out on paper. the plan is a great help when the real planting time comes. it saves time and unnecessary buying of seed. last winter we drew some plans to a scale. peter, philip, and myron did this work in fine shape. they offer to take groups of you girls and show you how to do it; so whenever you are ready for this, the boys are ready, too. sometimes we do change our plans some, anyway a change is easily made when a plan has been drawn as a basis. "new garden spots are likely to be found in two conditions: they are covered either with turf or with rubbish. in large garden areas the ground is ploughed and the sod turned under; but in small gardens remove the sod. how to take off the sod in the best manner is the next question. stake and line off the garden spot. the line gives an accurate and straight course to follow. cut the edges with the spade all along the line. if the area is a small one, say four feet by eighteen or twenty, this is an easy matter. such a narrow strip may be marked off like a checkerboard, the sod cut through with the spade, and easily removed. this could be done in two long strips cut lengthwise of the strip. when the turf is cut through, roll it right up like a roll of carpet. "but suppose the garden plot is large. then divide this up into strips a foot wide and take off the sod as before. what shall be done with the sod? do not throw it away for it is full of richness, although not quite in available form. so pack the sod grass side down one square on another. leave it to rot and to weather. when rotted it makes a fine fertilizer. such a pile of rotting vegetable matter is called a compost pile. all through the summer add any old green vegetable matter to this. in the fall put the autumn leaves on. a fine lot of goodness is being fixed for another season. "the girls, i suppose, think this is a wretched heap to have in the corner of a garden. so it is. but it is possible to screen it. plant before the space allotted to this, castor beans, tall cannas or sunflowers. perhaps the castor beans would be the best of all. sunflowers get brown and straggly looking before the season is past its prime. "even when the garden is large enough to plough, i would pick out the largest pieces of sod rather than have them turned under. go over the ploughed space, pick out the pieces of sod, shake them well and pack them up in a compost heap. "what is to be done with the rubbish often found on new garden sites? if this be only weeds and other vegetable matter it may be very easily burned on the garden spot. but suppose it is a grand collection of tin cans, bottles and such things as cannot be burned? what can we do with them? cities have public dumps where lots are to be filled in. all such trash may go to these. oftentimes it is possible to find suitable places in the country for dumping. but do not dump where the rubbish is to be unsightly for others as it has been for yourself; far better have a dump heap on your own land and screen this as the compost heap was to be shielded from view. we take the wrong point of view if we dump rubbish anywhere, for the sake of getting rid of it. you remember your plan is to help make a more beautiful village. "how must the small garden be spaded? a method called trenching, is good because it is so thorough. here is a diagram george has made. just get your heads around this, and i'll explain it. [illustration: from this plan see the scheme of trenching. top soil from aa' is carted to ee'. then the top soil from bb' goes into aa'. continue this method and see that the soil on ee' finally goes into trench dd'. so all the top soil in this given area is worked over and is still kept on top.] "this rectangle is supposed to be the plot which needs digging. line it off into strips one foot wide. have your wheelbarrow right beside aa'. dig one foot of top soil out of strip a' along all its length. put this into the barrow and dump it into the strip marked ee' outside of the garden proper. do the same thing to strip bb', only throw the soil into trench aa'. the top soil from cc' goes into bb'; that of dd' into cc'. now the soil that was dumped outside the garden upon the strip ee' of course is already to go right into trench dd'. "the value of this work is to get the soil of the bed entirely worked over. most people dig but poorly. digging is hard work; so a boy digs a little here, and a little there, throughout the seed bed and thinks the work is all done. it is really done when the above method is used. and after all we have said about the necessity for airing soil, and the need of stirring things up so that the good bacteria may do their work, i know you will all see the point immediately. "mere spading of the ground is not sufficient. the soil is still left in lumps. always as one spades one should break up the big lumps. but even so the ground is in no shape for planting. ground must be very fine indeed to plant in, because seeds can get very close indeed to fine particles of soil. but the large lumps leave large spaces which no tiny root hair can penetrate. a seed is left stranded in a perfect waste when planted in chunks of soil. a baby surrounded with great pieces of beefsteak would starve. a seed among large lumps of soil is in a similar situation. the spade never can do this work of pulverizing soil. but the rake can. that's the value of the rake. it is a great lump breaker, but will not do for large lumps. if the soil still has large lumps in it take the hoe. "many people handle the hoe awkwardly. get up, jay, and show us just how to hold it! walk along as you hoe, drawing the hoe toward you. the chief work of this implement is to rid the soil of weeds and stir up the top surface. it is used in summer to form that mulch of dust so valuable in retaining moisture in the soil. i often see boys hoe as if they were going to chop into atoms everything around. hoeing should never be such vigorous exercise as that. spading is vigorous, hard work, but not hoeing and raking. "after lumps are broken use the rake to make the bed fine and smooth. now the great piece of work is done. to be sure i have said nothing of fertilizing. the kind and amount of fertilizer depends on the kind of soil. well-rotted manure being the best all-around fertilizer, we will say that we have spaded that into the seed bed after the trenching operation is over. "now the plan made on paper comes into practical use, and garden stakes, cord and a means of measuring are the things necessary to have on hand. jay and albert have made their garden stakes one foot in length. they will serve as a good rule in furrow making. on their hoe handles jack and elizabeth have marked two feet off into inches. this is another scheme for measuring. george has a pole four feet long which he uses. this has inches marked on one foot of its length. katharine has a seventy-five foot tape measure. and leston and helena have made this tool i have here in my hand. it looks like a wooden toothed rake with its teeth eight inches apart. this dragged over the surface of a nice, fine garden bed marks off furrows. it makes the most regular furrows you ever saw because it cannot help itself. miriam used a board last summer. she laid this across her seed bed, kneeling on it, then she drew a dibber along the board's straight edge, pressing firmly into the soil with the dibber. this also made a good straight furrow. "peter and philip always use a line and two stout garden stakes. their hoes do the rest. "we usually think of furrows, or drills, as they really should be called when little soil is removed, as being about a half inch or even less in width. sometimes certain seed, beans and peas, for example, are placed in double rows in a wide drill. "i think you all understand hill making. then you remember how we planted certain seeds broadcast, as grass and poppy seeds. remember that seeds thus sown need only a dusting of soil over them. "but in general, drill sowing for both vegetables and flower seeds is the most satisfactory method. "most boys and girls sow seeds too thickly. the seedlings as they come up are too crowded for proper amounts of sunlight, air and food. you have seen lettuce seedlings crowded together growing small and weak. why? lack of light and air, lack of moisture and food are the reasons for this. thin out pretty severely. wait, of course, until the seedlings are an inch or more high. then look over the little plants and gently take out the weakest and smallest specimens. press the soil firmly about those which remain. if the first planting has been very thick have two times of thinning. it is a bit easier on those seedlings remaining if too many comrades do not go at once. [illustration: jack's rake handle as a measuring stick] [illustration: albert sowing large seeds singly photographs by edward mahoney] "of course, some of these seedlings may be transplanted. they should be about two inches above ground for this purpose. lettuce, cabbage and peppers transplant beautifully; so do asters. i would not try to transplant beets, radish or turnips. the reason is that these plants have long tap roots. usually a portion of the root is left in the ground and the transplanted seedling has an injured root. so you either lose it, or it does poorly. "beets may be allowed to grow thickly for a time. then when the thinning is done, the tender beet tops may be used for greens. "transplanting is a delicate operation. a trowel or a thin garden marker, a can of water and dibber are the necessary tools for the business. a cloudy day is a good thing to have on hand, also. if this is impossible, place the sun behind a cloud. the little seedling should be taken up with great care from its old home. a little soil should come with the roots. this gives the little plant a home feeling in its new quarters. the thin stick is often better to use than the trowel. if the soil is watered a bit about the small plant, one is far more likely to get the soil up with the roots. "now make the hole in the ground with the dibber just where you wish. a motion, like that of a revolving top, is the one to use in working the dibber. water the hole. drop a little soil in the bottom of the hole. you see the dibber leaves an awkward little peak there at the bottom of the hole. water lodges there and stays. the tiny rootlets do not quite reach into the bottom of the hole, and perhaps dangle in the water and begin to decay. a little soil dropped in prevents all this. now a little plant goes in. do not place it too low, nor too high in the hole. have the roots uncramped. drop soil in gently and finally firm it all with both hands. "the sun must not shine too hotly for the first few days on these little plants in their new home. they are not yet used to their surroundings and must be coddled a bit if they are to do well. "the remaining garden operations are weeding and constant cultivation. a part of the work in the flower garden is close picking, if constant bloom is wished. "i have said nothing about how to plant different seeds because each of you had tables to cover all of that. "the object of this talk is to impress upon you the necessity for careful preparation. well-prepared soil, carefully handled tools and plants are ways to success. "good tools, good seed, good hard work make for results such as will satisfy your highest hopes. but it is not the result only that is worth the struggle; the knowledge and the power are the greater glories." vii common weeds what a delight it would be if we could garden without weeds. but that is well-nigh impossible. for these rascals, the weeds, are such persistent fellows, so clever in their devices for getting over the surface of the earth, so able to live where nothing else in the plant world can live, that it is a discouraging matter to attempt to exterminate them. they always seem to me like pushing sort of people trying to live among those who do not want them. then, too, they crowd the better class of inhabitants out. "there are a certain number of plants which we always looked upon as weeds, such as burdock and wild carrot, for example. but if a beautiful garden plant should persist in living and spreading itself over our vegetable garden, then that, too, would become a weed. over across the sea in england the poppy grows wild in the fields. it looks very beautiful to the traveler, because it makes lovely red splashes of colour through the field. but i doubt very much if it looks really attractive to the farmer. these things depend largely, do they not, upon one's point of view? "even a question like weeds we have no right to look at from one point of view only. the good points of weeds do not balance up the bad points; but it is well to give even weeds their due. rid the world of weeds and unless these despoiled spots were cultivated, think of the great waste places there would be over the earth's surface. the weeds shade the ground thus preventing too great surface evaporation. then the weeds are a signal to farmers and all gardeners to get busy. we people of the world are lazy, just naturally so, and perhaps if there were no weeds we might cultivate the soil too little. years ago certain weeds were much used in medicine. this is more or less true, to-day. the dandelion with its bitter secretion was good, it was believed, for the liver, a sort of spring tonic. the department of agriculture has printed a pamphlet on 'weeds used in medicine' (farmers' bulletin, no. ). jack and jay each sent for a copy last spring. you all might start a garden library with these pamphlets for a basis. they are sent to you free and are invaluable in your work. get together all the helps you can on the subject you are studying. boys and girls receive free so much in the present day that it seems a shame not to make use of these things. the boys have written to the department of agriculture and each month it sends to the club a list of the publications sent out or reprinted during the previous month. you girls might follow this good example set you by the boys. "well, we have wandered a bit from the subject in hand. weeds are again discouraging because they have such facilities for travel. talk about flying machines--weeds are centuries ahead of men along these lines. look at a milkweed seed; it is a complete flying apparatus. with its perfect ballast it flies beautifully along over field and river ready to alight in proper seed style, end down. "there is a piece of mechanism in the end of each burdock seed that seems to make travel possible, and dissemination sure. never was fish hook more cleverly made than this hook of the bur seed. it catches on to your clothing and travels until you feel its pull. then you pick it off and cast it aside. so it goes. it sticks to the furry and hairy coats of animals and again is carried along. "did you ever observe the seed of wild carrot? it, too, is arranged with clinging points all around and about its seed. if you should give just a little attention to the subject of the means of distribution of wild seeds you would have a greater respect for the ways and means of nature. "here is another discouraging side to the weed question. weeds produce so many, many seeds! look at a single stalk of plantain. this stalk does not stand for one seed capsule, but all up and down the stalk are the seeds; again, not one seed here and one there, but each capsule or seed case holding many seeds. when these become ripe, then the top of the capsule comes off just like the cover of a box, or the top of a salt cellar, and the seeds are sent out. it would not be a useless thing to count sometimes the number of seeds on one plantain stalk, and thus gain an idea of the tremendous possibilities of increase which the weeds have. "a lad i once knew counted the number of seeds in a milkweed pod which he had, and found very nearly two hundred. i do not remember the exact number. it was between one hundred and ninety-five and two hundred. think of one pod scattering that number of seeds! think again of the number of pods on one milkweed plant! it is staggering, is it not? to be sure we can remember the parable of the sower and have some hope, for some seed may fall on soil in which they will never come to maturity. "weeds, like the wild morning glory, form new plants not from their seed only, but from their travelling, trailing branches. "if, then, the chances are so good for renewal of weeds, what is the plan of campaign which we should follow? once a german gentleman who loved and cultivated roses was asked how to get rid of rose bugs. 'kill them,' he said. 'pick them off by hand and kill them by foot is the sure method!' he continued. "so, to get rid of weeds, just destroy them. persistently and constantly weed them out and cultivate the soil. clean cultivation is the only sort for good crops and freedom from weeds. "weeds, as flowers, drop in the three classes of annuals, biennials and perennials. any annual is easy enough to hold down. just pull such weeds up. some merely cut the weed off at the surface of the ground, but it is a better way to be rid of the thing entirely. and should you not be quite sure of the kind of weed, then pulling up is the only really safe plan. for if the weed happened to be a perennial, leaving the root in the ground would be the worst possible thing to do. "the greatest business of all annuals is to form seed. now i know you wish to say that this is the business of all plants. it is. but with annuals there is only one chance to produce seed. that chance is the one short year of their lives, and this is doubtless the reason why these chaps work so hard at seed forming, and produce so many seed. therefore, the thing evidently to be done is to make it impossible for annuals to form seed. "the biennials and perennials must have further treatment than just that of preventing seed formation. the underground part of such weeds must be destroyed. for these live in the ground ready to come up again. biennials may be killed out by deep hoeing. get rid of all the young plants, keep at the older ones with the hoe and prevent seed formation, too. biennials are found most abundantly in waste places along woodsides and where the soil for a long time has been left undisturbed. "perennials need about the same treatment as biennials. but even greater persistency should be exercised in destroying the underground portion. for these underground plants produce new plants as surely as seeds do. the bindweed has a creeping root, wild garlic has a bulb, and such forms are always producing new forms underground while the seed above the ground is able to do the same thing. "ploughing helps destroy perennials, as the roots are exposed to direct sunlight and so destroyed. another method of treatment is that of cutting off the top down to the root and putting salt on the freshly cut root tap. then again these roots may be starved out by never allowing the top or leafy part to form. you will remember that it is the leaf which makes the food. and if there is no food then there will be none to store away in the root for new root formation. some farmers smother roots. this is done by planting such crops as hemp, clover or cowpeas. these crops choke out the weeds. they cover the ground very completely, and so the weeds have less of a chance. "i give the following table of a few very common weeds in order that you may know just how to handle them. "i must speak especially about snapdragon or butter and eggs. it came to our country as a garden flower. it has spread and spread, partly by its seeds and partly by its root stalks, which are creeping ones, and now it is a perennial weed. for since it has become a nuisance it must be classed as a weed. as it spreads along it tends to force out other plants. "this weed, like the wild carrot, is really very lovely. could such weeds be properly held down in small garden areas they would be very ornamental. i saw a little flower garden once, quite beautiful, with two small clumps, one of wild mustard and one of field daisy, among the other flowers. ----------------------------------------------------------------- common name class seed time colour of flower ----------------------------------------------------------------- burdock biennial aug.-oct. purple bur-marigold or annual july-nov. yellow beggar ticks canada thistle perennial " " " chickweed annual mar.-july white cocklebur " july-oct. green dandelion perennial may-oct. yellow english bindweed or " aug.-oct. white morning glory moth mullein biennial july-nov. yellow narrow-leaved annual july-oct. blue stickseed or beggar tick ox-eye daisy or perennial aug.-oct. white white daisy pigweed annual aug.-nov. green prickly lettuce, " july-nov. yellow milkweed purslane, pursley " june-dec. " rib-grass, plantain biennial july-nov. white ragweed, roman wormwood annual aug.-nov. yellow russian thistle " " " purplish smartweed perennial aug.-sept. pink sorrel perennial june-nov. red wild carrot, biennial july-nov. white queen anne's lace wild garlic, onion perennial july-oct. " wild mustard annual june-oct. yellow wild parsnip biennial july-oct. " yellow daisy, " july-sept. " ox-eye daisy, brown-eyed susan yellow dock perennial aug.-oct. green ----------------------------------------------------------------- "the seeds of the wild mustard, like those of the plantain and other weeds, get in with the grain seed and so cause constant trouble. farmers feel that such weeds must be thoroughly gotten out of the fields. "it is not our own native weeds which are so troublesome but the foreign ones. most of our worst weeds are foreigners. they have come to this country as stowaways from across the seas. they have fought for centuries and can keep the fight up over here. "i am not going to give you a description of each weed we have. this table, a copy of which is for each of you, will be, i think, of true help. the study of weeds is something quite by itself. it is for you to help prevent the seeding of weeds everywhere. do not carelessly scatter seeds. keep your own garden plots free from these pests by clean and careful cultivation. remember, too, the value of cover crops. "there is another pest to fight. this pest is of the animal kingdom and not of the plant kingdom. next friday our talk is on animal pests, and how to destroy them." viii garden pests if we could garden without any interference from the pests which attack plants, then indeed gardening would be a simple matter. but all the time we must watch out for these little foes--little in size, but tremendous in the havoc they make. "as human illness may often be prevented by healthful conditions, so pests may be kept away by strict garden cleanliness. heaps of waste are lodging places for the breeding of insects. i do not think a compost pile will do the harm, but unkempt, uncared-for spots seem to invite trouble. "there are certain helps to keeping pests down. the constant stirring up of the soil by earthworms is an aid in keeping the soil open to air and water. many of our common birds feed upon insects. the sparrows, robins, chickadees, meadow larks and orioles are all examples of birds who help in this way. some insects feed on other and harmful insects. some kinds of ladybugs do this good deed. the ichneumon-fly helps too. and toads are wonders in the number of insects they can consume at one meal. the toad deserves very kind treatment from all of us. "each girl and boy gardener should try to make her or his garden into a place attractive to birds and toads. a good birdhouse, grain sprinkled about in early spring, a water-place, are invitations for birds to stay a while in your garden. if you wish toads, fix things up for them too. during a hot summer day a toad likes to rest in the shade. by night he is ready to go forth to eat but not to kill, since toads prefer live food. how can one "fix up" for toads? well, one thing to do is to prepare a retreat, quiet, dark and damp. a few stones of some size underneath the shade of a shrub with perhaps a carpeting of damp leaves, would appear very fine to a toad. "suppose a certain crop in your garden has had an insect pest. do not plant this same crop next year, for it would doubtless have the same pest. don't let the soil get full of insect troubles; therefore, keep the soil open and aired and study it well. "there are two general classes of insects known by the way they do their work. one kind gnaws at the plant really taking pieces of it into its system. this kind of insect has a mouth fitted to do this work. grasshoppers and caterpillars are of this sort. the other kind sucks the juices from a plant. this, in some ways, is the worst sort. plant lice belong here, as do mosquitoes, which prey on us. all the scale insects fasten themselves on plants, and suck out the life of the plants. "now can we fight these chaps? the gnawing fellows may be caught with poison sprayed upon plants, which they take into their bodies with the plant. the bordeaux mixture which peter used is a poison sprayed upon plants for this purpose. so, too, is paris green. "in the other case the only thing is to attack the insect direct. so certain insecticides, as they are called, are sprayed on the plant to fall upon the insect. they do a deadly work of attacking, in one way or another, the body of the insect. the kerosene emulsion made by the girls for their infested house plants worked this same way. tobacco water and tobacco dust sprinkled on act in similar manner. "lime, soot, and sand are other means of blocking and choking off insects. "sometimes we are much troubled with underground insects at work. you have seen a garden covered with ant hills. here is a remedy, but one of which you must be careful. "carbon bisulphid comes in little tin cans. it is a liquid of a vile smell, something like onions and rotten eggs mixed. the girls' noses are going up sky-high now. but it does the work of ant killing. you must be careful in handling this. it has a horrid explosive habit. pour about a teaspoonful down an ant hole. do not use a good silver spoon from the dining room. get an old spoon, or buy a tin one. for you will never use it again except it be for carbon-bisulphid work. after this liquid has been poured down the hole, place a bit of a chip over it, for there may be a slight volcanic action underground. it is well to do this on a damp, cloudy day when all the ants are at home. "remember this stuff is not to be fooled with, as it is poisonous and also takes fire readily. never open the can inside by a fire, in too great a heat, or near a lighted match. invite your fathers to help in this. by no means do anything silly. keep the can closed except when pouring out a teaspoonful. "this question is constantly being asked, 'how can i tell what insect is doing the destructive work?' well, you can tell partly by the work done, and partly by seeing the insect itself. this latter thing is not always so easy to accomplish. i had cutworms one season and never saw one. i saw only the work done. if stalks of tender plants are cut clean off be pretty sure the cutworm is abroad. what does he look like? well, that is a hard question because his family is a large one. should you see sometime a grayish striped caterpillar, you may know it is a cutworm. but because of its habit of resting in the ground during the day and working by night, it is difficult to catch sight of one. the cutworm is around early in the season ready to cut the flower stalks of the hyacinths. when the peas come on a bit later, he is ready for them. a very good way to block him off is to put paper collars, or tin ones, about the plants. these collars should be about an inch away from the plant. "of course, plant lice are more common. those we see are often green in colour. but they may be red, yellow or brown. kerosene emulsion is the medicine for plant lice. lice are easy enough to find since they are always clinging to their host. as sucking insects they have to cling close to a plant for food, and one is pretty sure to find them. but the biting insects do their work, and then go hide. that makes them much more difficult to deal with. "rose slugs do great damage to the rose bushes. they eat out the body of the leaves, so that just the veining is left. they are soft-bodied, green above and yellow below. since they are eating insects paris green will kill them. but the kerosene emulsion penetrates their soft bodies; so this also may be used. "a beetle, the striped beetle, attacks young melons and squash leaves. it eats the leaf by riddling out holes in it. this beetle, as its name implies, is striped. the back is black with yellow stripes running lengthwise. white hellebore powder kills these pests. ask the druggist for five cents' worth and you will have a great plenty for any of your gardens. it, too, is a poison. this poison is also good to use for the caterpillars that eat many of our garden plants. make a circle four inches from the stalk of an infested plant and sprinkle the powder in this. evening time is good for this, because the dew moistens the powder just enough to make it a nuisance to the insect. "then there are the slugs, which are garden pests. the slug will devour almost any garden plant, whether it be a flower or a vegetable. they lay lots of eggs in old rubbish heaps. do you see the good of cleaning up rubbish? the slugs do more harm in the garden than almost any other single insect pest. you can discover them in the following way. there is a trick for bringing them to the surface of the ground in the day time. you see they rest during the day below ground. so just water the soil in which the slugs are supposed to be. how are you to know where they are? they are quite likely to hide near the plants they are feeding on. so water the ground with some nice clean lime water. this will disturb them, and up they'll poke to see what the matter is. "beside these most common of pests already mentioned, pests which attack many kinds of plants, there are special pests for special plants. discouraging, is it not? beans have pests of their own; so have potatoes and cabbages, as george well knows. in fact, the vegetable garden has many inhabitants. in the flower garden lice are very bothersome, the cutworm and the slug have a good time there, too, and ants often get very numerous as the season advances. but for real discouraging insect troubles the vegetable garden takes the prize. if we were going into fruit to any extent, perhaps the vegetable garden would have to resign in favour of the fruit garden. "a common pest in the vegetable garden is the tomato worm. this is a large yellowish or greenish striped worm. its work is to eat into the young fruit. "a great, light green caterpillar is found on celery. this caterpillar may be told by the black bands, one on each ring or segment of its body. "the squash bug may be told by its brown body, which is long and slender, and by the disagreeable odour from it when killed. the potato bug is another fellow to look out for. it is a beetle with yellow and black stripes down its crusty back. the little green cabbage worm is a perfect nuisance. it is a small caterpillar and smaller than the tomato worm. these are perhaps the most common of garden pests by name. it might be well to take up the common vegetables and flowers mentioning the pests which prey on each one. "let us take the vegetables first. none of us have grown asparagus yet; but it will be well to know about this vegetable. there is a beetle which may trouble asparagus plants. it is red with markings of black. the grub of this beetle is dark green. look out for the asparagus beetle during april and may, for these are the months when it appears. the eggs are laid on young shoots of the plant. such shoots should be cut right off. after the cutting season is over the plants should be sprayed. this may be done in august. very dilute bordeaux mixture or paris green may be used for a spray. "next in the alphabet come beans. the most common trouble that beans have is one called anthracnose. that staggering word means that the leaves become covered with spots which are round with purple borders. again, a spray of bordeaux mixture should be used. the plants should be sprayed until the pods form. look for this trouble in july. "beets are prone to leaf spots. as soon as such spots appear, the plants should be sprayed with the bordeaux mixture. every two weeks give the plants about three sprayings. "the cabbage worm i have spoken of. this worm works all summer. cabbages, if neglected, become literally alive with the little caterpillars. they eat and eat the foliage, riddling it completely. they eat into the heads so that the cabbage plant is completely spoiled. george treated his with pyrethrum powder. this he mixed with five times its bulk of dust. it was then dusted or shaken over the cabbage plant. a very good thing to do before trouble begins is to dust the soil and tender plants with lime. after the plants have begun to head use hellebore powder. "lice appear on cauliflower. the kerosene emulsion which we use on our indoor plants is all right for this work, too. the lice appear on the foliage in great white masses. they suck the life and goodness from the plant. they come all through the summer at any time. whale oil soap is another good spray to use. peter has typewritten receipts for these sprays which you may have at the close of this talk. sometimes the root of the cauliflower is attacked. little white maggots mine or burrow through the root. they are quite likely to begin their bad work in june or july. that rather dangerous carbon bisulphid is the medicine for this trouble. make a hole in the soil as you did when treating the ant. do not make this too near the plant. i should say six inches away would be about right. pour a teaspoonful of the poison into the hole and it will take care of itself. cover the hole over as you would in the case of the ant. when cauliflower plants begin to look sickly pull one up. if it is full of maggots that is easy to determine. but it may be that you will find great lumps or knots on the root. since these knots appear during the same months as the maggots, you can only be sure of the real cause by pulling up a plant. if these knots are on the root, then you have a very serious trouble to contend with. so serious is the club root condition that the only safe thing to do is to pull up and completely destroy the diseased plants. dig the soil up after this. then lime it. put a lot of lime on, not just a dusting over the surface of the soil. this represents soil that is in trouble, so do not plant cauliflower here again, or its coarser cousin, the cabbage. "sometimes a little red or orange and black bug appears. this is called the harlequin bug from its fantastic appearance. this bug may come all summer long at any time. the whale oil soap spray is the one to use. celery may be troubled with the light green caterpillar with the black bands before spoken of. this caterpillar arrives in august. it is not difficult at all to see, so many may be picked off just by hand. one may use paris green as a spray. "none of you had any trouble with corn being infested. but sometimes a worm, called the earworm, which is like the tomato worm, will appear during june and eat the tips of the young ears. a little paris green sprinkled on the leaves, at their base will kill them. "cucumbers and melons, as i have before said, are prone to be preys of the cutworms, squash bugs, striped beetles, and lice or aphis. you know treatment for cutworms and lice. the squash bug may be destroyed by hand. sometimes when bits of sticks are placed on the ground the bugs will crawl under them. next morning a small harvest of bugs can be killed. the squash bug lays its eggs on the under surface of the plant's leaves. these leaves should be removed and burned. the striped beetle is kept off by the bordeaux mixture spray. this beetle appears in june. a spraying during this month often prevents a blight of the leaves in july. this blight appears first as a spotting on the leaves, after which the leaves soon wither up. "onions, as well as radishes, are affected by maggots which will mine through the onion bulb as well as the stems of the young, tender plants. a solution made from carbolic soap and water is excellent with which to water the soil about the plants. "peas have green lice as melons and cucumbers do. the lice appear early in may and june, and are killed and kept down by the regulation treatment. many times during the latter part of summer peas may become mildewed. you can tell this by a growth of white down on stem and leaves. put some soap in the bordeaux mixture and spray. "from may to october potato bugs flourish. paris green is the spray to use. in the start they may be hand picked. but do not let them get ahead of your hand. a very serious potato disease is that of scab. scales appear on the potatoes themselves. to prevent this, uncut seed potatoes are soaked in poison. but this is not a work for you to do alone by any means. "the squash bug naturally seeks out the squash vine. he should be treated as we said when we talked of the same bug and melons. "tomatoes have numerous troubles. the cutworm, the tomato worm, the horn worm, potato beetle and various blights may come to tomatoes. the horn worm is a large green worm named from the horn at one end of its body. it appears in midsummer. such large worms usually may be hand picked. if you should see a tomato plant wilting for no reason at all, pull it up and burn it; it probably has an infectious trouble which is carried from one plant to another by insects. it is really an infectious disease. "these are the most common vegetable garden pests and their remedies. "as the girls know, the flower garden is not without pests, too. plant lice are plenty enough. these may appear at one time or another during the entire year. "some plants become covered with a little red spider. it attacks the foliage and does great damage. this may be due to lack of moisture with house plants. i do not mean lack of watering, but a dry condition of the air of the room. often just a spray of clear water is sufficient to rid the plant of the mites. "roses have more troubles than any one other flower. the rose bush may have lice or it may have a little green bug that jumps very quickly and so gets its name of leaf-hopper. kerosene emulsion is good to use. often slugs will feed upon the surface of the leaves. a dusting of lime over the leaves keeps these feeders away. there is a brown beetle called the rose chafer, which eats the flower itself. hand picking is about the best weapon to employ against this enemy. a scale sometimes comes on the stems. this scale looks like a white crust. it is wise to spray such rose bushes with kerosene emulsion. and better still, if possible, cut off and burn such scale-encrusted parts. "cutworms bother the early bulbs and the violets, too. a great many of the larger pests may be hand picked. the lice should be sprayed. "and for the remedies. the following will be the ones you will need the most: kerosene emulsion soap (ivory) / pound boiling water quarts kerosene quarts "the soap should be shaved up and dissolved in the water. to this add the kerosene (of course not when the soap and water is on the stove) a little at a time. beat it with an egg beater to be kept for that purpose; or shake it vigorously. "for use against plant lice add to one cup of this emulsion cups of water. for scale insects dilute with four cups of water. bordeaux mixture i. copper sulphate (blue vitriol) lb. water gal. dissolve the sulphate in the water. ii. slaked lime lb. water gal. dissolve the lime in the water. to one bucket ( - / gallons) of fresh water add four pints of the first solution. to another bucket of fresh water add six pints of the second solution. stir these together. keep the rest of the solutions i. and ii. for later mixing when it is needed. whale oil soap hot water solution whale oil soap pound hot water quarts this is the right dilution for plant lice but for scale insects it is too weak; for them use about two quarts of water to one pound of soap. "the best way to apply liquid sprays in small gardens is to use a whisk broom. just dip the little broom into the mixture needed and shake the brush over the plant. then the hands need never come in contact with the poison. careful children can use sprays without any trouble. josephine has used kerosene emulsion in this fashion: she pours a little into a saucer, takes a bit of cheese cloth and dipping it into the emulsion wipes the lice off an infested part. usually one application is enough. this sounds like a much more disagreeable task than it really is. a plant syringe may be used. but personally i like the hand method. of course if there are lots of lice on many plants this would not be practical at all. "it stands to reason that sick plants need medicines of some kind. sometimes to be sure they need better living conditions. often the soil is sour, water-logged, unaired and totally unfit for a self-respecting plant to live in. the whole thing resolves itself into a study of conditions, and a desire to help the plant have as comfortable a time as possible in life." ix vegetable culture "as a rule, boys and girls choose to grow bush beans rather than pole beans. i cannot make up my mind whether or not this is from sheer laziness. in a city backyard the tall varieties might perhaps be a problem since it would be difficult to get poles. but these running beans can be trained along old fences and with little urging will run up the stalks of the tallest sunflowers. so that settles the pole question. there is an ornamental side to the bean question. suppose you plant these tall beans at the extreme rear end of each vegetable row. make arches with supple tree limbs, binding them over to form the arch. train the beans over these. when one stands facing the garden, what a beautiful terminus these bean arches make. "beans like rich, warm, sandy soil. in order to assist the soil be sure to dig deeply, and work it over thoroughly for bean culture. it never does to plant beans before the world has warmed up from its spring chills. there is another advantage in early digging of soil. it brings to the surface eggs and larvae of insects. the birds eager for food will even follow the plough to pick from the soil these choice morsels. a little lime worked in with the soil is helpful in the cultivation of beans. "bush beans are planted in drills about eighteen inches apart, while the pole-bean rows should be three feet apart. the drills for the bush limas should be further apart than those for the other dwarf beans--say three feet. this amount of space gives opportunity for cultivation with the hoe. if the running beans climb too high just pinch off the growing extreme end, and this will hold back the upward growth. "among bush beans are the dwarf, snap or string beans, the wax beans, the bush limas, one variety of which is known as brittle beans. among the pole beans are the pole limas, wax and scarlet runner. the scarlet runner is a beauty for decorative effects. the flowers are scarlet and are fine against an old fence. these are quite lovely in the flower garden. where one wishes a vine, this is good to plant for one gets both a vegetable, bright flowers and a screen from the one plant. when planting beans put the bean in the soil edgewise with the eye down. "beets like rich, sandy loam, also. fresh manure worked into the soil is fatal for beets, as it is for many another crop. but we will suppose that nothing is available but fresh manure. some gardeners say to work this into the soil with great care and thoroughness. but even so, there is danger of a particle of it getting next to a tender beet root. the following can be done; dig a trench about a foot deep, spread a thin layer of manure in this, cover it with soil, and plant above this. by the time the main root strikes down to the manure layer, there will be little harm done. beets should not be transplanted. if the rows are one foot apart there is ample space for cultivation. whenever the weather is really settled, then these seeds may be planted. young beet tops make fine greens. greater care should be taken in handling beets than usually is shown. when beets are to be boiled, if the tip of the root and the tops are cut off, the beet bleeds. this means a loss of good material. pinching off such parts with the fingers and doing this not too closely to the beet itself is the proper method of handling. i throw this in for the benefit of our future cooks, the girls. "there are big coarse members of the beet and cabbage families called the mangel wurzel and ruta baga. about here these are raised to feed to the cattle. they are a great addition to a cow's dinner. "the cabbage family is a large one. there is the cabbage proper, then cauliflower, broccoli or a more hardy cauliflower, kale, brussels sprouts and kohlrabi, a cabbage-turnip combination. george has worked out cabbage culture successfully. i refer to him for full particulars. "cauliflower is a kind of refined, high-toned cabbage relative. it needs a little richer soil than cabbage and cannot stand the frost. a frequent watering with manure water gives it the extra richness and water it really needs. the outer leaves must be bent over, as in the case of the young cabbage, in order to get the white head. the dwarf varieties are rather the best to plant. "kale is not quite so particular a cousin. it can stand frost. rich soil is necessary, and early spring planting, because of slow maturing. it may be planted in september for early spring work. "brussels sprouts are a very popular member of this family. on account of their size many people who do not like to serve poor, common old cabbage will serve these. brussels sprouts are interesting in their growth. the plant stalk runs skyward. at the top, umbrella like, is a close head of leaves, but this is not what we eat. shaded by the umbrella and packed all along the stalk are delicious little cabbages or sprouts. like the rest of the family a rich soil is needed and plenty of water during the growing period. the seed should be planted in may, and the little plants transplanted into rich soil in late july. the rows should be eighteen inches apart, and the plants one foot apart in the rows. "kohlrabi is a go-between in the families of cabbage and turnip. it is sometimes called the turnip-root cabbage. just above the ground the stem of this plant swells into a turnip-like vegetable. in the true turnip the swelling is underground, but like the cabbage, kohlrabi forms its edible part above ground. it is easy to grow. only it should develop rapidly, otherwise the swelling gets woody, and so loses its good quality. sow out as early as possible; or sow inside in march and transplant to the open. plant in drills about two feet apart. set the plants about one foot apart, or thin out to this distance. to plant one hundred feet of drill buy half an ounce of seed. seed goes a long way, you see. kohlrabi is served and prepared like turnip. it is a very satisfactory early crop. "before leaving the cabbage family i should like to say that the cabbage called savoy is an excellent variety to try. it should always have an early planting under cover, say in february, and then be transplanted into open beds in march or april. if the land is poor where you are to grow cabbage, then by all means choose savoy. "carrots are of two general kinds: those with long roots, and those with short roots. if long-rooted varieties are chosen, then the soil must be worked down to a depth of eighteen inches, surely. the shorter ones will do well in eight inches of well-worked sandy soil. do not put carrot seed into freshly manured land. another point in carrot culture is one concerning the thinning process. as the little seedlings come up you will doubtless find that they are much, much too close together. wait a bit, thin a little at a time, so that young, tiny carrots may be used on the home table. these are the points to jot down about the culture of carrots. i am saying very little about depths and distances because these were all worked out by the boys last winter and tables may be had for the asking. "peter covered the ground of celery raising. one or two points only i will speak of. a very rich, workable soil is a celery soil. in the process of getting such a bed ready it ought to have a thorough wetting down a day before planting. celery seed is small, and, as is the case with other small seed, it is quite likely to be planted in clumps or bunches. to avoid this the seed should be mixed with sand and then sprinkled in drills. these drills should be six inches apart, and very shallow. sow the seed, cover, and water. this bed should be screened from direct sunlight. a careful, gentle, daily watering is necessary. thin the little plants to four inches apart. peter can tell the rest of the story. the only other thing i need add is this, that in transplanting the work should be done quickly. one should not take up celery plants and perhaps leave them a long time before placing in new quarters. plant immediately. it takes little to upset a celery plant and check its growth. so never take up a whole lot of celery plants at one time. take up a few, keep them moist, plant them, and then start again. [illustration: elizabeth sowing small seed from the package. photograph by helen w. cook.] "i am not going to say a word about corn. you all remember the boys' work of last year. your teacher has planned next friday afternoon for the boys to discuss this at school. so we shall not have our meeting, but i shall come to the school to hear their report. i hope our girls will take notes on this. for i know that eloise has decided to raise corn next year; helena is going to; and leston will not be out of the corn contest this season. "the cucumber is the next vegetable in the line. this is a plant from foreign lands. some think that the cucumber is really a native of india. it is believed that it was brought here by the negro, and that a species of cucumber from africa became finally at home in this country. a light, sandy and rich soil is needed--i mean rich in the sense of richness in organic matter. when cucumbers are grown outdoors, as we are likely to grow them, they are planted in hills. nowadays, they are grown in hothouses; they hang from the roof, and are a wonderful sight. in the greenhouse a hive of bees is kept so that cross-fertilization may go on. "but if you intend to raise cucumbers follow these directions: sow the seed inside, cover with one inch of rich soil. in a little space of six inches diameter, plant six seeds. place like a bean seed with the germinating end in the soil. when all danger of frost is over, each set of six little plants, soil and all, should be planted in the open. later, when danger of insect pests is over, thin out to three plants in a hill. the hills should be about four feet apart on all sides. "egg plant is another vegetable we have not tried. it is another of those which has been improved by crossing, usually with peppers and tomatoes. but as we are not burbanks yet, i shall not talk of that side of egg plant culture. some varieties of egg plant grow to a large size but the smaller fruits, on the whole, have the better flavour. a good, well-worked, rich garden loam is the soil for this vegetable. the seed may be planted out in the open in little drills six inches apart. the seed should be scattered along as lettuce seed is. when the plants are about six inches high, transplant them to their permanent place. they should then stand about two feet apart on all sides. more often the seeds are started inside in march. when the little plants are about two inches high they should be transplanted into boxes or pots. screen from too hot sunshine. about the time of corn planting the plants should go into the open. a rich soil is now quite necessary. again i would suggest as a good method the placing of a little well-rotted manure under each place where an egg plant is to go. there is a rather interesting parasite which sometimes fastens itself upon the egg plant. a parasite is a form which clings to another and takes its nourishment from this latter or host. the parasite is a lazy shirk. so in this case the parasite grows on the egg plant and absorbs the food which the egg plant needs for itself. this is not an uncommon thing in nature. when such a thing happens first pull up and destroy the poor egg plant, for the parasite is clinging too closely and persistently to be removed. "nearly everyone in our country clings to lettuce as the only plant for a salad. over across the sea in old england this is not so. other plants are used in this way and called salad plants. endive is one of these. some of the endives are curly-leaved, and when blanched are attractive to look upon; and surely there is no reason why we should not consider the side of beauty in vegetables. "endive is a very hardy plant. one-half an ounce of the seed will sow one hundred feet of drill. sow it as you would lettuce seed in soil which should be moist and rich. the plants finally should be about eight inches apart in the drill. the outer leaves should be tied over the top in order to blanch the inner ones for table use. in the fall the plants from summer sowings may be taken up with balls of earth on the roots and placed in the coldframes ready for use through the winter. the coldframe is a blessing. it is a place of storage all the fall and early winter. it is a place for early work in the late winter and first part of spring. "lettuce with children has always been a prime favourite for cultivation. before the time of christ, lettuce was grown and served. there is a wild lettuce from which the cultivated probably came. there are a number of cultivated vegetables which have wild ancestors, carrots, turnips and lettuce being the most common among them. lettuce may be tucked into the garden almost anywhere. it is surely one of the most decorative of vegetables. the compact head, the green of the leaves, the beauty of symmetry--all these are charming characteristics of lettuces. "not all form heads. there is a mistaken idea abroad among children that by transplanting, any lettuce can be made to head. only such varieties as are called heading lettuces will head. and these must be transplanted in order to have really good heads. there are two general types of lettuce--the cos and the cabbage. the cabbage grows more like a cabbage with great tendency toward heading. the cos grows longer, narrower, and has spoon-shaped leaves, which have a big, coarse midrib. the inner leaves cling more closely together after a heading fashion; the outer leaves spread apart. we grow in our american gardens more of the cabbage type than of the cos. should we go to see our french cousins next summer, the cos lettuce would be served to us with plenty of oil as a dressing. "as the summer advances and as the early sowings of lettuce get old they tend to go to seed. don't let them. pull them up. none of us are likely to go into the seed-producing side of lettuce. what we are interested in is the raising of tender lettuce all the season. to have such lettuce in mid and late summer is possible only by frequent plantings of seed. if seed is planted every ten days or two weeks all summer, you can have tender lettuce all the season. when lettuce gets old it becomes bitter and tough. "melons are most interesting to experiment with. we suppose that melons originally came from asia, and parts of africa. watermelons grow wild in africa. the negroes and wild animals feed upon them. perhaps that is the reason why the coloured people so love them. anyway, melons belong to these countries. melons are a summer fruit. over in england we find the muskmelons often grown under glass in hothouses. the vines are trained upward rather than allowed to lie prone. as the melons grow large in the hot, dry atmosphere, just the sort which is right for their growth, they become too heavy for the vine to hold up. so they are held by little bags of netting, just like a tennis net in size of mesh. the bags are supported on nails or pegs. it is a very pretty sight i can assure you. over here usually we raise our melons outdoors. they are planted in hills. eight seeds are placed two inches apart and an inch deep. the hills should have a four foot sweep on all sides; the watermelon hills ought to have an allowance of eight to ten feet. make the soil for these hills very rich. as the little plants get sizeable--say about four inches in height--reduce the number of plants to two in a hill. always in such work choose the very sturdiest plants to keep. cut the others down close to or a little below the surface of the ground. pulling up plants is a shocking way to get rid of them. i say shocking because the pull is likely to disturb the roots of the two remaining plants. when the melon plant has reached a length of a foot, pinch off the end of it. this pinch means this to the plant: just stop growing long, take time now to grow branches. sand or lime sprinkled about the hills tends to keep bugs away. "onions are about as popular a vegetable as we have. some people are quite scornful of onions because of their truly disagreeable odour. but i do not know what we should do without the onion for flavourings. peter is to plant onions where he last had celery. that is very wise, because onions do especially well coming after a crop for which the land was heavily fertilized. onions like moisture of soil, too. if the soil is not rich enough, nitrate of soda may be added. the most discouraging thing about chemical fertilizers is the fact that advertisements say to have a certain quantity for an acre of land. few boys and girls are planting entire acres, to just one thing. now, suppose you write down this: add / pound of nitrate of soda to square feet of land then use the proper fractional amount. to buy / of a pound for example sounds absurd. buy your quarter pound and put the approximate amount on. sprinkle chemical fertilizer over the surface of the soil and rake it in just under the surface. "there are two methods for the planting of onions. one way is to use seed; the other, sets. sets mean little onion bulbs. these are placed in drills about six inches apart and so that the little bulb may be just beneath the surface of the soil. do not set too low. these bulbs are ready before seed onions. seeds are rather slow in development. if you make sowings pretty thick the tender tops may be used, and so the thinning process is done to advantage. "i believe that all your gardens should have some parsley in them. it can be planted as a border, since it grows low and has a fringy, decorative effect. if you were italian girls and boys you would have parsley if you had nothing else; for the italians always use it in their soups. there is a european variety, not as pretty as the common variety, which grows taller and ranker. it has a stronger smell. an italian boy who was living in america had a garden in which he grew both kinds of parsley. he was asked which he liked the better. straightening up, he pointed to the european saying, 'smells stronger.' ''i believe none of us have raised parsnips. it takes / of an ounce of seed to plant feet of drill. any deep, rich, moist garden soil will do. just as early as the ground is workable, the seed should be sown. sow in drills of / inch depth and inches apart. the plants should finally stand about eight inches apart. they may be dug before or after frost. some people think that the early frosts improve the flavour of parsnips. "i suppose there is no vegetable so well liked as peas. who would wish a fourth of july dinner without peas? the early varieties of peas go into the ground just as early as possible. i like best to dig trenches six inches deep and about eighteen inches apart. as the peas are dropped into the trench, cover over with about two inches of soil. as the plants grow, fill soil into the trench. of course, peas have to be brushed. so as soon as the little runners form put brush behind the plant and start the twiners about the brush stalks. a variety of pea called gradus is very excellent in flavour. "as for potatoes--well, now, just see peter grin! he has covered that subject. of course, i can add nothing to an expert's advice. "peppers are worth trying. if you do not care for them in your home gardens, add them to the school garden. they work in with the courses in cooking. just as egg plants are started inside, so ought peppers to be. whenever the soil is warm and the weather settled, the pepper plants may go out. the best soil for them is a rich, sandy one. the little plants should have about one and a half foot of space on all sides. at first they look pretty lonesome so far apart but soon they will grow to large, bushy plants. a little hen manure mixed with soil and put on top of the ground about the little peppers gives them a good start in their new quarters. there are many interesting kinds of peppers to grow. if a pepper with a little sting is wished try such varieties as bird's eye, red cluster, and tobasco. suppose the peppers are to be used for stuffing. then large, rather more mild-flavoured kinds are needed. ruby king pepper is a bouncing beauty. the red etna, improved bull nose and golden king are other good ones. "the word pumpkin stands for good, old-fashioned pies, for thanksgiving, for grandmother's house. it really brings more to mind than the word squash. i suppose the squash is a bit more useful, when we think of the fine hubbard, and the nice little crooked-necked summer squashes; but after all, i like to have more pumpkins. and as for jack-o'-lanterns--why they positively demand pumpkins. in planting these, the same general directions hold good which were given for melons. and use these same for squash-planting, too. but do not plant the two cousins together, for they have a tendency to run together. plant the pumpkins in between the hills of corn and let the squashes go in some other part of the garden. "we have very nearly worn out the subject of radish. about the only cultural point i would add is this: make radish develop quickly. if growth is slow, the radish is likely to be poor. sometimes all the growth goes to top. fine, green leaves result, but no good radishes. then doctor the soil in order that fruit development may be quickened. radishes are the quickest in maturing of all vegetables. that is why your teacher had radish beds for the lower grades in the school. the children got a result and got it quickly. josephine might have raised radishes as well as parsley in the box garden she had. people in cities could raise these two vegetables on their roofs just as well as not. they are worth the effort it takes in trying. "there is one point i wish to speak of in tomato culture. the great trouble in cultivating comes in the overgrowth of vines. each plant becomes a large, overgrown, unwieldy sort of affair unless looked out for. use a stake for each vine. tie the main stalk of the plant to this. let the development of fruit come from the top of the plant. so pinch back the lateral branches and remove these. in this way the tomato garden is a neat and pretty one. this treatment is similar to that given grapes. "there is a tomato called the dwarf champion. this is a dwarf variety and so gives less trouble than the other kinds. it does not get troublesome and often does not need staking. if you were little boys and girls, i should say plant this kind of tomato every time. "i have little more to say about turnips. they are an old vegetable, for over two thousand years ago, the greeks dined on turnips. i usually plant mine right out in the open. the soil may be a sandy one. x flower culture in planting the flower garden there are a few things always to be considered. these are matters of colour, of time and of persistency. "the subject of colour is not so trying, after all, as many gardeners seem to think. if you people wish to plant a few of a good many gay-blooming plants, then i guess colour is a problem. the chief thought in a flower garden should be, how i can make a beautiful picture of this garden of mine. you see right off how tiring and dazzling the garden of too many little dots of colour could be. look about in nature--see the beautiful range of the butterfly weed, the pinky purple of joe pye, the scarlet of cardinal flowers, the blue of certain asters, the pink of bouncing bet, the yellow of tansy and goldenrod. nature is constantly presenting perfect splashes of brilliant colour here and there. and yet it is not inharmonious. why? one reason is that much of the colour is in great masses, and what is not has been softened by stretches of soft green. "let us take a hint from this for our small gardens. plant colours in masses, and have breaks of green in between. not a bad idea! i seem to hear you say. "then a garden should have a strong time element about it. by this i mean that one should plan a garden for a round of bloom. why have all the blooms in august? if you look at this bulb time-table i shall have ready for you, you will find that it is possible to start with bulbs. snowdrops and crocuses will gladly usher in a continuous round of bloom for you. i do not mean that these two will bloom continuously. not at all! but i mean they are the starters. there are conditions, where spring bloom and fall bloom alone is desired. this is the case with all school gardens where summer care is impossible. another table called a garden of continuous bloom will help you plan this. "another point to think of is persistency. why not plant some seed which will produce plants that come up year after year? why not have some hardy perennials and some self-sowing annuals? poppy and cornflower sow themselves. these are annuals. think of the perennials, which come year after year to welcome us. i think you should have hardy matter in your gardens. peonies come up year after year, iris takes care of itself, helianthus or perennial sunflower bobs up each year. "george asked me one day, what i meant when i spoke of herbaceous plants. a herbaceous plant is one with a non-woody stem, as geraniums. mock orange is not herbaceous, because it has a woody stem. when i speak of hardy plants, i mean those which can stand living outdoors through their existence, from start to finish. a half-hardy plant is one that requires fostering before being planted outdoors. we consider asters half-hardy, because they need the extra heat for start which the nasturtium does not need. you would not think of starting nasturtiums indoors. but asters and stock really need this sort of a start in life. "the tall flowers must go toward the back of the garden, for if they were placed in the foreground they would screen the others. the plants of medium height make up the main part of the garden; while the low plants are in the foreground as borders. "perhaps it would be wiser to put some tall perennials or self-sowing annuals in the background, and among the shrubbery. then save bed spaces for the annuals. this will cause less disturbance in the garden than the sowing of annuals in with the perennials. "i cannot take up all the garden flowers with you, because it is an impossibility. but a certain number of the more common ones i will talk of. "there are certain plants rather easier to grow than others, and very satisfactory in results. one of these all-around plants is the pansy. it likes best of all cool, moist places but it will do well, under rather reverse conditions. pansies are the easiest of plants to grow from seed, and they offer a ready response to experiments with cross-fertilization. the very best time to sow plants is after midsummer. anyway, the work must be done before october the first. let us claim then that the middle of august is a good time. make little drills a quarter of an inch deep for the seed; or better, sprinkle it on a fine seed bed. over the seed sift a little soil. pansy seed is fine and small, so great care must be taken in the early waterings; better far to cover the bed with old sacking, and water the sacking. in this way, the seed is not washed away. the little sturdy plants should be covered over with leaves or straw for the wintertime. when early spring comes, you will be delighted with plants which are well along. "pansy flowers should always be kept well picked. do not let the seed pods form if you desire continuous bloom. it is well to hold this in mind--that if plants are hurried along too fast, the flowers suffer in size. small, inferior flowers result from such treatment. pansies have a habit of running out--that is, the flowers grow smaller each year. it is merely a warning to keep making new sowings in order that one may always have large, vigorous blooms. "choice seed of this flower is very expensive. it is a plant that some florists have put all their time upon. it has seemed to certain men that one of the greatest things in the world, is to find out ways of improving the plants of the earth. so certain fruits are crossed to make new and better ones; and certain flowers are being constantly worked over to get superior strains. sweet peas, pansies, stock, and dahlias are plants which have been much improved by man's skill. "larkspur is one of those plants which children so rarely try. i have wondered often why. it is not hard to raise, and so i am hoping that some of you will try it another season. the larkspur is a hardy plant, and there are both annuals and perennials in this family. some varieties are dwarfed, and grow only a foot and a half high, while others grow five feet in height. this latter growth is very charming in the background of the garden. the flower spikes are showy and the foliage pretty. the larkspur likes a pretty rich sort of soil. the seed is very slow in germinating, and that is reason enough for fall planting. the stay over winter gives these fussy seeds time to make up their minds to germinate. this sowing should be done after the middle of october. "really charming blue flowers are a bit difficult to find because we have fewer blue flowers than those of the reds and yellows. do not get the impression that larkspurs are only blue in colour. there are yellow, pink, red, and white varieties. but the blue is very fine. so when you are thinking of high flowers for backgrounds, keep the larkspur in mind. "hollyhock is another good background plant, because of its height and sentinel-like effect. it sows itself, so will take care of itself. perennial phlox is well to put into the garden. helianthus, i have mentioned, as suitable for backgrounds. it has a rather bad habit of too free spreading. "peonies are very satisfactory. i am sure you will all want some of them. they look their best planted in clumps. a certain pink and white peony is called the rose peony. it is sweet scented, and when in blossom it scents the portion of the yard where it is placed. these look well planted in wide borders. the roots, or bulbs, should go about three inches below ground in nice, rich, garden soil. do not plant where they get the full blaze of early sun. "i'd put some iris in the border, too. it requires no care. you need not bed it over, even, in the fall. it likes a certain amount of moisture, but grows readily under almost all conditions. the german iris is an easy grower; the french fleur-de-lis is lovely with its more delicate blossom. certain irises, to be sure, are particular about their quarters, but the two kinds mentioned are not. they like a certain amount of open space. do not hide them in the shrubbery, although they may be planted near it. "you might put in some hardy chrysanthemums. these need good rich garden soil. they should also be placed near the back of the garden for good effect. you may choose almost any colour in these. some of the little button chrysanthemums are good for backgrounds. the yellow ones make good splashes of colour, while the dull reds are most beautiful. these bloom after frost. when the frost has made havoc with the foliage, cut the plant down to about one inch of the ground. it is well to cut the flowers before frost. "you have now a few good background plants which are hardy. "the biennials can be so planted as to behave like perennials. these plants, you remember, are doing their best blossoming work the second summer. so by yearly sowings you may always have good effects. i have mentioned some already for your garden:--canterbury bell, cornflower and foxglove are biennials. cornflower tends to self sow, but needs help in this work from you. sweet william is an old favourite. of course, it is pretty gaudy. but i like old sweet william in spite of his gay tendency. they are rather stiff, but so easy to raise, being not very particular about anything. "when it comes to annuals there is a multitude of these to plant each season. there are candytuft and alyssum for borders. then mignonette is absolutely necessary to keep the garden sweet. coreopsis is easy to raise, and so is godetia. if a great big bold mass of colour is desired, put in shirley poppies. these grow well even on sandy soil. it is well to remember, that these do not lend themselves kindly to transplanting. "suppose there is a bit of sandy ground which needs a low-growing plant. put in this spot portulaca. the bright little blossoms, constantly blooming, add a bit of cheer to that old sandy place. "there are the old stand-bys which are good bloomers--nasturtiums, zinnias, marigolds and petunias. in the case of zinnia, it is better to buy these seeds by the ounce. children's penny packages and the regular five-cent packages are filled usually with seeds which produce variously coloured blossoms. one can plan for no good effects in this way. if you get a seed catalogue, and look through the zinnia list, you can choose just what you like. "certain plants are spoken of as plants for bedding. these plants are placed in a formal bed after the spring flowers have finished their blooming. you sometimes see in the park fine beds of tulips and hyacinths early in the season. after these have finished their blooming, plants which are all started are put in their bed. if seeds were planted they would take so long to develop that the bed would look bad for a long time. so bedding plants are put in. geraniums are the most popular of all. begonias, fuchsias, heliotrope and coleus are often used. geraniums will stand almost any kind of soil, and therefore have great advantages over most plants. begonias will flourish in the shade; while the strong point about coleus is that of beauty of foliage. "to those of you who have started outdoor bulb beds, the bedding list will be of some service. marguerites look well in such a bed. often one sees a border of ageratum about such a one. there is always a sort of stiff effect about such borders, however. a canna bed is after the same order, yet is effective. salvia, or scarlet sage, looks well in wide borders, or near the underpinning of the house. both these may act as bedding plants. "there are three other kinds of gardens i should like to bring to your minds--the rock garden, the herb garden and the wild-flower garden. this last we shall have to leave for another time, however. "whenever a rockery is mentioned to some people they shrug their shoulders, and murmur something about a mere heap of rocks. now, a rock garden may be very pretty, or very ugly. such a garden should never be stuck out in the front yard to hit one in the face. but if you have a place in your yard, which is near the woods or in the vicinity of trees, or by a rocky ledge--in short, if you have any place with a bit of wildness surrounding it, use this for a rockery. if your yard is just a plain, tame, civilized yard, you'd better leave the rock garden out. i know of a lady living in a city, whose backyard is a rocky ledge. that ledge itself told her what her garden ought to be. it just cried out to her, 'build a rock garden on me.' and she did it. any other kind of a garden would have been out of place and taste there. wherever a rocky ledge is found, there is a possibility for a rock garden. "to have a good garden of this sort, one must have earth as well as rocks. earth must be put into all the crevices of rock, so that there is some depth to it, and at such an angle that it won't be washed out by hard rains. a rock garden should have an earth foundation. i mean that there must be much of earth about it. i saw a charming one, which had only climbing nasturtiums planted over it. it was a great rock jutting out, and extending back into the yard--a big, flat, irregular affair--and all over it were these running vines. it was very simple and very effective. go to the woods and seek out ferns which are growing in rocky places. take what little earth they have about them, and try to give them a similar position in your own rockery. bring back some leaf mould from the woods, and mix the garden soil for the rockery. candytuft, dwarf phlox, stonecrop, morning glory, saxifrage, bleeding heart, rock cress, myrtle, thrift, columbine, bell flower, and moss pink. get some moss, too, for chinks between rocks. "if we could go back to old colonial days, and visit a dame's garden, i am sure we should find a little herb garden there. our mothers might call these herbs pot herbs. here all the flavourings for the soups were raised. here sweet lavender might be found, its flowers used to make fragrant the bed linen. horehound, anise and others were used in medicines; while little caraway seeds made delicious the cakes and cookies. i can see bunches of dried sage hung in the attic. "even with us there might be good use made of this garden both at home and at school. we do, of course, grow parsley, which is an herb, but the others seem to have dropped out of our gardens. we might at least grow next summer the sage and savoury for the turkey stuffing. "herbs need a sandy, well-worked soil. seed should be sown in drills about twelve inches apart. the seed should be sown in early spring, as soon as the ground is warm. sprinkle the seed just below the surface, and cover lightly with soil. "a list of common herbs includes the following: anise, balm, basil, borage, caraway, catnip, coriander, dill, fennel, horehound, hop, hyssop, lavender, pot marigold, sweet and pot marjoram, parsley, pennyroyal, rosemary, rue, sage, savoury, tansy, sorrel, thyme, and wormwood. it would be of little use to plant all of these, even to see what the plants were like. i would suggest your trying lavender, sage, savoury, and dill. "lavender seed is very slow to germinate, so sow the seed plentifully in early spring. the soil should have a dusting of lime over it as lavender plants enjoy lime. the flower is the part you wish. pick these flower stalks before the flowers get old. dry, and then sprinkle the dried flowers in the linen chest. lavender is very sweet, and is often spoken of as sweet lavender. to this day one will hear women singing in the streets of london, 'sweet lavender, buy my sweet lavender.' "sage likes a good, well-drained soil. it, too, likes lime. the little seedlings should be thinned out to stand about ten inches apart. when you see flowers forming cut the sage plant and quickly dry. it makes a pretty border plant in the garden. savoury is also a border plant. but this is a hardy annual, while lavender and sage are perennials. it likes a light but rich soil. both the leaves and flowers are used in soup flavouring. "dill is also sown in early spring. it is the seed of the dill plant, and not the leaves and flowers, which is the useful part. the seeds are used in the making of pickles. "i shall hope to see something in the herb line, in your gardens next year--a hardy garden started, and a good bit of taste displayed by all of you. you girls might raise mint to put in lemonade. "next time we shall have our talk on wild flowers. some of you know and love many of these wild flowers." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals for sandy soils ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ clarkia rose june - / ft. good to use for a border white oct. plant. purple use single varieties. poppy white july - / ft. do not transplant. fine for red aug. mass effects. nasturtium yellow june most satisfactory, especially to maroon oct. - ft. for cut flowers. blooms freely. portulaca white june / ft. blooms freely -- grows close red to the ground. yellow zinnia red june - / ft. grows without great care. magenta frost blooms freely. looks best when massed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals for heavy soils ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ godetia red july - ft. easy to grow. an english white oct. favourite: blooms freely. sweet pea variety july - ft. plant early in the spring in oct. a sunny spot. keep flowers well clipped for constant bloom. petunia magenta may - ft. mass or use in borders. give plenty of sun. good for the outdoor window box. sweet white july / ft. sow thickly in the borders. alyssum sept. blooms freely. grows in every soil. pot orange june - / ft. blooms freely. looks well marigold yellow frost in masses. stiff effect as a cut flower. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ seven favourite annuals for cut flowers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ sweet white july / ft. use in low bowls for table alyssum red sept. decorations. china aster white july ft. lasts long after cutting. blue to oct. purple baby's white june - ft. use in bouquets with other breath rose oct. flowers. coreopsis yellow june - ft. place by themselves in tall brown nov. vases. nasturtium scarlet june - ft. cut freely for constant yellow oct. bloom. use in great masses in low vases. pansy purple may / - ft. cut closely. place in low blue june dishes. yellow white pink white may ft. lasts well after cutting. maroon aug. rose ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals that bloom after frost ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ sweet alyssum white july / ft. withstands early frosts. sept. good border plant. candytuft red june to / ft. sow at intervals through white sept. the summer. good cut flower. cornflower rose june - ft. good for cut flowers. blue blooms freely. white marigold yellow june / - better for garden effects browns aug. ft. than for cut flowers. annual phlox yellow may / - self sows. good all round reds aug. ft. plant. white ten-weeks white june / a second sowing made in stock purple july ft. may flowers the same pink season. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ fragrant annuals ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ mignonette green may ft. beautifully fragrant. do oct. not transplant. good to use as a break for clashing colours. sweet peas white july - ft. free bloomer. try variety scarlet oct. _lathyrus odorata._ blue yellow ten- weeks pink june ft. good for cut flowers. stock purple july fragrant at night. white sweet sultan white june ft. _centaurea moschata_ good yellow aug. for cut flowers. purple sweet alyssum white july / ft. _alyssum maritimun._ low sept. growing, border plant. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals that re-sow themselves ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ morning glory reds july - ft. grows rapidly. makes a blues oct good screen. whites poppy pink june / - ft. _papaver rhocas_ and p. scarlet sept. _somniferum_. white phlox yellow may l/ - ft. _phlox drummondii._ reds aug. need much water. white pot marigold orange june - ft. _calendula officinalis_ yellow oct. likes a warm soil. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals that climb ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ balloon vine white aug. ft. grows rapidly. good screen. japanese hop incon- july - ft. rapid grower. looks well spicuous oct. growing along old fences. moon-flower white july - ft. night bloomer. grows sept. rapidly. morning glory purple june ft. rapid grower. good white aug. screen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals for shady places ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ godetia white july - ft. the flowers are showy. red to oct. musk yellow june / - ft. need moisture and coolness. to aug nemophila blue june - ft. moisture, partial shade and white to oct. coolness. pansy white may / - ft. sow under same conditions yellow to oct. as musk in early spring. purple blooms freely in the fall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals for sunny places ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ balsam red june to - ft. plant in rich sandy loam yellow oct. under direct rays of sun. white cornflower blue may to ft. full flower. resows itself sept. cosmos white july to ft. overrich soil retards pink sept. bloom. crimson gaillardia red july to ft. good cut flower. blossoms yellow oct. freely. marigold, yellow july to ft. blooms profusely; stiff african frost flower head. nasturtium yellow june to - ft. both dwarf and tall varieties scarlet oct. are rapid growers and free bloomers. rose moss white june / - / ft. _portulaca grandiflora._ magenta aug. plant in position direct sunshine. verbena various july to ft. start inside for early sept. bloom. wallflower orange june - / ft. sown in sept. blooms in july may. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ annuals for rocky places ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ phlox red june to - - / ft. variety _phlox drumondii_ white oct. duration of bloom depends on richness of soil. candytuft red may / - - / ft. plant in the fall and cover white frost for early spring bloom. clarkia purple june - / ft. use _clarkia elegans._ red oct. thrives in both sun and white partial shade. nasturtium reds june ft. _tropoeolum minor;_ blooms (dwarf) yellows oct. very early. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ fragrant perennials ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ winter lilac dec. ft. blooms outdoors in winter. heliotrope feb. flowers small. russian violet march / ft. double flowers. hardy. violets lily-of- white may / ft. plant by middle of march the-valley for that season's bloom. needs part shade. spreads. valerian pinkish june ft. finely cut foliage. easy to grow. lemon lily yellow june ft. flowers in. long. tubers which multiply rapidly. fringed pink lilac july ft. blooms until autumn if prevented from seeding. bee balm scarlet july ft. odour of mint. good for aug. mass effects. white day white aug. ft. lilies - in. long. fine, lily sept. broad-leaved foliage. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ perennials for cut flowers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ christmas rose white nov. / ft. blooms outdoors in the feb. snow. no fragrance. charming in masses. california violet march / ft. large flowers but single. violets fragrant. foxglove purple june - ft. large flowers, long stems. oriental blue june - ft. beautiful colour, long larkspur white stems. let no flowers go to seed. japan iris variety july - ft. short lived when cut. of fine blooms. japan anemone pink sept. ft. finest september flower. white plant in spring. plant for afternoon sun. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ tall perennials ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ hollyhock variety july ft. single varieties are the of hardier; double varieties last longer. plume poppy pinkish july ft. spreads rapidly. fine for massing and screening. do not plant on the west as it shuts off sun. golden glow yellow aug. ft. multiplies rapidly. fine bloomer. liable to pest lice. spray with soap solution. double yellow aug. ft. largest double flower of sunflower any perennial. likely to run out unless divided late yellow sept. - ft. tallest of perennials; sunflower blooms till october. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ low growing perennials ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ crested blue april in. earliest of iris. good for dwarf iris edgings. plant the middle of march. dwarf flag purple april in. increases rapidly. large flowers. good colouring english pink april in. good for spring budding daisy white purposes. tufted blue june in. more but smaller flowers pansies or yellow than pansies. after violets white july cut back, manure and they will bloom again in september. carpathian blue july in. bloom for weeks. easy harebell to grow. coral bells red aug. in. grow in sandy, well-drained soil. coral red flowers. popp-mallow crimson sept. in. blooms nearly weeks. colour does not harmonize with others. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ perennials of medium height ------------------------------------------------------------------------ name colour time height special points ------------------------------------------------------------------------ bleeding pink may - / ft. long lived and long of heart bloom. graceful. european crimson may ft. earliest of peonies. poor peony white appearance in the fall. sweet red june in. self sows. flowers at their william pink best the second year. white chinese crimson june - / ft. long-lived. very peony pink satisfactory. plant white in september. foxglove purple june - - / ft. spire-like cluster white of flowers. oriental blue june - ft. best blue perennial. cut larkspur flower spikes as soon as they fade. oriental red june ft. self sows. flowers in. poppy across. gaillardia red june ft. flowers more freely than yellow nov. any other perennial. cover plants after ground freezes. late phlox all best aug. - / ft. fragrant in the evening. blue sept. many colours of bloom. and yellow hardy blue sept. ft. long season of bloom. chrysanthemum scarlet nov. deep rich soil and sunny exposure for best results. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ xi the wild-flower garden "a wild-flower garden has a most attractive sound. one thinks of long tramps in the woods, collecting material, and then of the fun in fixing up a real for sure wild garden. "if the wild garden is to be a school affair, then i certainly should plant the different kinds of flowers together. the north corner near the building is a suitable place. but if the garden is to be at home--your own private little garden--i am inclined to think it would be better to plant the wild flowers here and there among the cultivated ones. "a wild-flower garden is a joy each year, because up it comes without constant replanting of seed. it is a hardy garden. as nature often covers her wood-flowers over with leaves preparatory to winter, so you might copy her and do the same. "many people say they have no luck at all with such a garden. it is not a question of luck, but a question of understanding, for wild flowers are like people and each has its personality. what a plant has been accustomed to in nature it desires always. in fact, when removed from its own sort of living conditions, it sickens and dies. that is enough to tell us that we should copy nature herself. suppose you are hunting wild flowers. as you choose certain flowers from the woods, notice the soil they are in, the place, conditions, the surroundings, and the neighbours. "suppose you find dog-tooth violets and wind-flowers growing near together. then place them so in your own new garden. suppose you find a certain violet enjoying an open situation; then it should always have the same. you see the point, do you not? if you wish wild flowers to grow in a tame garden make them feel at home. cheat them into almost believing that they are still in their native haunts. "wild flowers ought to be transplanted after blossoming time is over. take a trowel and a basket into the woods with you. as you take up a few, a columbine, or a hepatica, be sure to take with the roots some of the plant's own soil, which must be packed about it when replanted. "the bed into which these plants are to go should be prepared carefully before this trip of yours. surely you do not wish to bring those plants back to wait over a day or night before planting. they should go into new quarters at once. the bed needs soil from the woods, deep and rich and full of leaf mold. the under drainage system should be excellent. then plants are not to go into water-logged ground. some people think that all wood plants should have a soil saturated with water. but the woods themselves are not water-logged. it may be that you will need to dig your garden up very deeply and put some stone in the bottom. over this the top soil should go. and on top, where the top soil once was, put a new layer of the rich soil you brought from the woods. "before planting water the soil well. then as you make places for the plants put into each hole some of the soil which belongs to the plant which is to be put there. "i think it would be a rather nice plan to have a wild-flower garden giving a succession of bloom from early spring to late fall; so let us start off with march, the hepatica, spring beauty and saxifrage. then comes april bearing in its arms the beautiful columbine, the tiny bluets and wild geranium. for may there are the dog-tooth violet and the wood anemone, false solomon's seal, jack-in-the-pulpit, wake robin, bloodroot and violets. june will give the bellflower, mullein, bee balm and foxglove. i would choose the gay butterfly weed for july. let turtle head, aster, joe pye weed, and queen anne's lace make the rest of the season brilliant until frost. "let us have a bit about the likes and dislikes of these plants. after you are once started you'll keep on adding to this wild-flower list. "there is no one who doesn't love the hepatica. before the spring has really decided to come, this little flower pokes its head up and puts all else to shame. tucked under a covering of dry leaves the blossoms wait for a ray of warm sunshine to bring them out. the last year's leaves stay on through the winter brooding over the little fresh sprouts. these embryo flowers are further protected by a fuzzy covering. this reminds one of a similar protective covering which new fern leaves have. in the spring a hepatica plant wastes no time on getting a new suit of leaves. it makes its old ones do until the blossom has had its day. then the new leaves, started to be sure before this, have a chance. these delayed, are ready to help out next season. you will find hepaticas growing in clusters, sort of family groups. they are likely to be found in rather open places in the woods. the soil is found to be rich and loose. so these should go only in partly shaded places and under good soil conditions. if planted with other woods specimens give them the benefit of a rather exposed position, that they may catch the early spring sunshine. i should cover hepaticas over with a light litter of leaves in the fall. during the last days of february, unless the weather is extreme take this leaf covering away. you'll find the hepatica blossoms all ready to poke up their heads. "the spring beauty hardly allows the hepatica to get ahead of her. with a white flower which has dainty tracings of pink, a thin, wiry stem, and narrow, grass-like leaves, this spring flower cannot be mistaken. you will find spring beauties growing in great patches in rather open places. plant a number of the roots and allow the sun good opportunity to get at them. for this plant loves the sun. "the other march flower mentioned is the saxifrage. this belongs in quite a different sort of environment. it is a plant which grows in dry and rocky places. often one will find it in chinks of rock. there is an old tale to the effect that the saxifrage roots twine about rocks and work their way into them so that the rock itself splits. anyway, it is a rock garden plant. i have found it in dry, sandy places right on the borders of a big rock. it has white flower clusters borne on hairy stems. "the columbine is another plant that is quite likely to be found in rocky places. standing below a ledge and looking up, one sees nestled here and there in rocky crevices one plant or more of columbine. the nodding red heads bob on wiry, slender stems. the roots do not strike deeply into the soil; in fact, often the soil hardly covers them. now, just because the columbine has little soil, it does not signify that it is indifferent to the soil conditions. for it always has lived, and always should live, under good drainage conditions. i wonder if it has struck you, how really hygienic plants are? plenty of fresh air, proper drainage, and good food are fundamentals with plants. "it is evident from study of these plants how easy it is to find out what plants like. after studying their feelings, then do not make the mistake of huddling them all together under poor drainage conditions. "i always have a feeling of personal affection for the bluets. when they come i always feel that now things are beginning to settle down outdoors. they start with rich, lovely, little delicate blue blossoms. as june gets hotter and hotter their colour fades a bit, until at times they look quite worn and white. some people call them quaker ladies, others innocence. under any name they are charming. they grow in colonies, sometimes in sunny fields, sometimes by the road-side. from this we learn that they are more particular about the open sunlight than about the soil. "if you desire a flower to pick and use for bouquets, then the wild geranium is not your flower. it droops very quickly after picking and almost immediately drops its petals. but the purplish flowers are showy, and the leaves, while rather coarse, are deeply cut. this latter effect gives a certain boldness to the plant that is rather attractive. the plant is found in rather moist, partly shaded portions of the woods. i like this plant in the garden. it adds good colour and permanent colour as long as blooming time lasts, since there is no object in picking it. "i suppose little children would not have a perfect spring without the dog's tooth violet. the leaves are attractive and almost make the beauty of a bouquet. it is sometimes called trout lily. the mottled effect of the leaves accounts for the trout part of the name, and as for lily, it _is_ a lily, and never belonged to the violet family at all. dig the plant up, and the bulbous root tells the story. it really does belong to the lily family. the nodding yellow flower is pretty, too. these, when picked, last a long time in water. they like to grow in the neighbourhood of the brook. a moist, half-shaded half-open piece of land is their delight, and therefore in many gardens the trout lily might have to be left out. "there is a sweet little flower called the wood anemone, or wind-flower. it is another modest little flower, white in colour. the constant nodding of the petals stirred by even a breath of wind gives it the name of wind-flower. these also grow in colonies. have you noticed how social, but clannish, our wild flowers are? especially is this true of the real woods flowers, rather than of the wayside flowers. the anemone grows in open places by the woods or the hillside. they are a sort of border plant evidently trying to leave the woods, but still bound to it. "if in your yard there happens to be a big old fatherly tree or a decaying stump, plant wind-flowers all about it. you may make the flowers feel that they are on the edge of the woods. "while i have numbered bloodroot among may flowers, it often does appear in april, and before the wood anemone. the silvery, white blossom pushes its head above the leaves in a fine fashion. they are sensitive flowers, closing partly in cloudy weather, and actually dropping to pieces in a rainstorm or under severe winds. the leaves are large, rather coarse, but pretty with their light under surfaces. the stems have tinges of red on them, a dark red sap in the roots. these roots bleed when disturbed. the indians used to stain their faces with this orange sap-blood. you will find bloodroot growing in rich soil either in open woods or on rocky slopes. "in a nice, rich, moist place put a few jack-in-the pulpits. this flower is much like a child's jack-in-the-box. it is so different from most of our plants that it has the effect of the joker in a pack of cards. push back the flap over jack's face and you will see a club like a policeman's billy. along this club the inconspicuous flowers are borne. later, in the fall, the fruit forms, and inside, instead of rather uninteresting flowers, are bright red berries. so jack jokes again. "there is always a great feeling of joy when the first trilliums, or wake robins, appear. walking in the deep, moist woods suddenly one sees a mass of big leaves and white flowers. the same irresistably lovely trilliums have come again. three big leaves, then a flower stalk shooting up from the centre of this whorl of leaves, and on top the crowning glory--the three-petaled trillium flower. a fragrant white or pink form is called the nodding wake robin. these in a glance tell their wishes. the plant sometimes is nearly two feet high. so a clump of these could easily go toward the back of the wild-flower garden in shade and moist soil. "another wild flower of striking beauty is the may apple or mandrake. it comes very early in may, often in april. this plant grows to about the same height as the trillium. only the big spreading leaves of the mandrake are visible at first sight. beneath these, and daintily hung in the junction of the leaf stalks, is the lovely, waxy, white blossom. late after the fading of the blossom the fruit appears. so its name of may apple comes from this fruit, which has a sickly sweet taste. the leaf and stalk part of the may apple are of a poisonous nature. this flower, too, likes rather low, moist, shaded places. "the false solomon's seal is found in woods where moisture is. during june and july this plant is in blossom. after the white flowers the fruit, or berry, appears. the berry changes from green, to white, to red. there is a two-leaved solomon's seal called the false lily-of-the-valley which is found at this same time. it has usually two little lily-like leaves and a blossom stalk running up from these. tiny fragrant flowers are borne on this stalk. these plants grow in moist woods, also. one might plant these two near together in the garden, for the soil conditions are the same for both. "who would wish a wild-flower garden without violets? the little sweet wood ones, the big horse shoes, the rare white, and more rare yellow--any and all are worth our while! violets, at least the most of them, prefer not to be huddled away. i wonder why, when people think of transplanting violets, a dull, dark, moist spot immediately comes to mind? violets like the sun, like good soil, and plenty of air. some violets are found in the swamps, but did you happen to notice what long stems they have? why? the reason is to raise the lovely flowers into the light. nothing could be sweeter or more satisfactory than a violet bed. i rather like violets bedded by themselves. they fill in corners beautifully. they grow gladly about trees. they adorn borders. you may cover them, in the fall or not as you like. they are not fussy. take a north corner at school, a corner not wholly shaded by any means--fill that in solid with violet plants in the fall. that corner always will be a thing of real beauty. "the bellflower coming in may blooms on until september. the flower is blue, purple or violet. it is a flower found in dry places, on grassy slopes, along hillsides, and is common to most localities. "i have a sneaking fondness for mullein. one or two stalks of it give a charming effect in the garden. its yellow flowers, its tall flower stalk, the thick, hairy leaves--all these are its charms. it is said that these same hairy leaves were used as wicks by the ancients. anyway, the flowers themselves on the tall stalks that often reach to seven feet, look like gleaming lights on a torch. the mullein has a simple dignity. it grows in the dry fields and along roadsides. so you see it is by no means particular about its habitat, its place of abode. "another tall plant is the foxglove. the flowers are gathered together in a sort of spike at the end of the stalk, are large and yellow and really lovely. the plant grows to about four feet in height. it has a bad habit, this downy false foxglove, of absorbing some of its nourishment from the roots of plants near which it stands. this plant, too, is fond of dry places. "a very gay flower, intensely red, is the bee balm. it is an herb, and a perennial. it is often called oswego tea, because the indians are supposed to have used it for tea. then, again, you will hear it called indian's plume. this name seems most suitable. i can just imagine a chief strutting around with this gay plume on his head. it likes a somewhat secluded, moist, shady, cool place. i think it would be possible for some of you to make it grow at home. for colour it would be invaluable. the cardinal flower is the only flower more gaudy in red than this bee balm. "when one comes to orange colour the butterfly weed takes the prize. this flower has a variety of names: it is called pleurisy root, and wind root, and orange root. would you think that this gay little beggar was a member of the milkweed family? it is. when seed time comes it produces a seed pod like unto the milkweed pod only more slender than this. all summer long the insects hover about it. it is just like a signal to them. "come over here to me!" it calls to them all. it is found in dry places, in the fields and pastures, along the dusty road sides, and by the sooty railroad track it flashes its signal. you can make this plant feel at home surely. and think of the butterflies that will visit your garden all summer long. "then later comes old joe pye weed. joe pye was an indian doctor but that doesn't seem to have anything to do with his weed. yes, it has its connection. for when old joe pye went out on a case of typhoid fever he carried this plant along; hence, its name. the plant sometimes grows to ten feet in height. really the swamp is its home. so if you are to use it at all remember that it must have this condition of great moisture, even to swampiness. the flower clusters are of a charming colour, a beautiful dull pink. "another inhabitant of wet places is the turtle head. the flower resembles in shape a turtle's or a snake's head, and so receives both names. "when it comes to queen anne's lace, you say that is a troublesome weed. yes, it is. but it is truly beautiful with its lacy flower head. a great bouquet of these on the porch, the dining table, or the school piano is a real picture. a clump of these in the garden, if held in check, is simply stunning. how can they be held down? the only way is to let no flower heads go to seed. the little, clinging, persistent, numerous seeds are seeds of trouble. this lovely bother grows in any sort of soil. "there are numbers and numbers of wild flowers i might have suggested. these i have mentioned were not given for the purpose of a flower guide, but with just one end in view--your understanding of how to study soil conditions for the work of starting a wild-flower garden. "if you fear results, take but one or two flowers and study just what you select. having mastered, or better, become acquainted with a few, add more another year to your garden. i think you will love your wild garden best of all before you are through with it. it is a real study, you see." xii landscape gardening the subject to-night is a very pretentious one, for no one would expect boys and girls to be landscape gardeners. but many boys and girls have excellent taste and taste is the foundation stone of landscape gardening. this work has often been likened to the painting of a picture. your art-work teacher has doubtless told you that a good picture should have a point of chief interest, and the rest of the points simply go to make more beautiful the central idea, or to form a fine setting for it. look at that picture over miriam's head. see that lone pine, the beautiful curve of the hillside, the scrub undergrowth about the tree, the bit of sky beyond! as soon as one looks at that picture one's eye rests on the pine, and the other features seem to appear afterward. "so in landscape gardening there must be in the gardener's mind a picture of what he desires the whole to be when he completes his work. take, for example, your school grounds. you did a bit of landscape work there, although we never called it that before. the little schoolhouse itself was our centre of interest. how could we fix up the grounds so that the little building should have a really attractive setting? that, i believe, was the thought in each of your heads, although no one of you ever put this into words. "notice now with me the good points about that work, and from this study we shall be able to work out a little theory of landscape gardening. "first there is a good extent of lawn about the building, the path to the door is slightly curved and pleasingly so, a fine little maple stands out rather interestingly on the side lawn, the flower garden has a good mass effect, the screen of poplar trees at the back acts as a stately rear guard, and the vines over the outbuilding hide what was once a blemish. "let us go back to the lawn. a good extent of open lawn space is always beautiful. it is restful. it adds a feeling of space to even small grounds. so we might generalize and say that it is well to keep open lawn spaces. if one covers his lawn space with many trees, with little flower beds here and there, the general effect is choppy and fussy. it is a bit like an over-dressed person. one's grounds lose all individuality thus treated. a single tree or a small group is not a bad arrangement on the lawn. do not centre the tree or trees. let them drop a bit into the background. make a pleasing side feature of them. in choosing trees one must keep in mind a number of things. you should not choose an overpowering tree; the tree should be one of good shape, with something interesting about its bark, leaves, flowers or fruit. while the poplar is a rapid grower, it sheds its leaves early and so is left standing, bare and ugly, before the fall is old. mind you, there are places where a row or double row of lombardy poplars is very effective. but i think you'll agree with me that one lone poplar is not. the catalpa is quite lovely by itself. its leaves are broad, its flowers attractive, the seed pods which cling to the tree until away into the winter, add a bit of picturesqueness. the bright berries of the ash, the brilliant foliage of the sugar maple, the blossoms of the tulip tree, the bark of the white birch, and the leaves of the copper beech--all these are beauty points to consider. "place makes a difference in the selection of a tree. suppose the lower portion of the grounds is a bit low and moist, then the spot is ideal for a willow. don't group trees together which look awkward. i never should have peter and myron march together in school. why? because they look wretchedly together. myron makes peter look short and peter causes myron to look overgrown. so it is with trees. a long-looking poplar does not go with a nice rather rounded little tulip tree. a juniper, so neat and prim, would look silly beside a spreading chestnut. one must keep proportion and suitability in mind. "i'd never advise the planting of a group of evergreens close to a house, and in the front yard. the effect is very gloomy indeed. houses thus surrounded are overcapped by such trees and are not only gloomy to live in, but truly unhealthful. the chief requisite inside a house is sunlight and plenty of it. "there are no shrubs on the school grounds. you had spoken of doing that but bulbs took up the attention of the girls this fall. and as for you boys--you were attending to your own crops. shrubbery is very pleasing if properly placed. it is just the thing to fill in corners near buildings, to help define the turns in walks, and to use as hedges. usually one shrub standing by itself is not nearly so pleasing as one tree by itself. it has a squatty and isolated appearance. there is a corner close by the school building where shrubs should go. why? because the place looks bare and staring, and the building is very ugly at that point; the shrubs would fill in the space, and make the building look much better. "as trees are chosen because of certain good points, so shrubs should be. in a clump i should wish some which bloomed early, some which bloomed late, some for the beauty of their fall foliage, some for the colour of their bark and others for the fruit. some spireas and the forsythia bloom early. the red bark of the dogwood makes a bit of colour all winter, and the red berries of the barberry cling to the shrub well into the winter. this list of shrubs which philip has made out will be a help to you in this work. philip's shrub table --------------------------------------------------------------------- common name botanical name height colour special points --------------------------------------------------------------------- _march_ spice bush _benzoin_ - ft. yellow flowers appear _odoriferum_ before leaves. crimson fruit in fall. aromatic odour. daphne _daphne mezereum_ ft. purple the only hardy deciduous daphne. plant in light soil and in shade. _april_ barberry _berberis- - ft. yellow prefers dry soil. berries _thunbergii_ all winter. golden bell _forsythia_ - ft. yellow flowers appear before _suspensa_ leaves. hardy; free from insects. _may_ red-osier _cornus_ - ft. white red branched. plant dogwood _stolonifera_ in moist soil. japanese snow _deutzia_ - ft. white very beautiful when flower _gracilis_ flowering. needs well drained soil. japanese _viburnum_ ft. white not as likely to have snowball _plicatum_ lice as common snowball. larger balls. lilac _syringa_ ft. purple very fragrant. will _vulgaris_ grow anywhere even in some shade. _june_ deutzia _deutzia_ - ft. white hardy; flowers showy. _lemoinei_ weigela _diervilla_ ft. pink may have white or red _florida_ white flowers. flowers under red trees. lives where other shrubs die. spirea _spiræa_ ft. white most showy of spireas. _van houttei_ grows anywhere. mock orange _philadelphus_ ft. varieties fragrant; _coronarius_ of different makes good screen. colours. smoke bush _rhus cotinus_ - ft. purplish hardy. beautiful all summer. purple colour changes to smoke colour. _july_ spirea _spirea_ ft. white flowers run from white _bumalda_, to deep pink. late var._anthony_ flowering. hardy. _waterer_ sweet pepper _clethra_ - ft. white moist soil or sandy. bush _alnifolia_ late blooming; fragrant flowers. _august_ althea, rose _hibiscus_ ft. white to very hardy. plant in of sharon _syriacus_ purple any good garden soil. _september_ hardy _hydrangea_ ft. white to a showy shrub. flowers hydrangea _paniculata_ pink remain on all winter. _october_ witch hazel _hamamelis_ - ft. yellow grows anywhere. likes _virginiana_ moisture. fruit "explodes." "certain shrubs are good to use for hedge purposes. a hedge is rather prettier usually than a fence. the californian privet is excellent for this purpose. osage orange, japan barberry, buckthorn, japan quince, and van houtte's spirea are other shrubs which make good hedges. "you have to remember that not only should grounds look well to the passerby but they should look equally well from the inside of the building. as your mother is working in the kitchen during the hot summer or sewing during a long dull winter afternoon, would it not be a joy to her to look out at a syringa sweet with blossom or a barberry with nodding red berries? landscape gardening is not only for the purpose of adding beauty to the earth's surface, but also for the putting joy into the heart of a person as well. "i forgot to say that in tree and shrub selection it is usually better to choose those of the locality one lives in. unusual and foreign plants do less well, and often harmonize but poorly with their new setting. "i spoke of the path to the schoolhouse with its slight curve. landscape gardening may follow along very formal lines or along informal lines. the first would have straight paths, straight rows in stiff beds, everything, as the name tells, perfectly formal. the other method is, of course, the exact opposite. there are danger points in each. "the formal arrangement is likely to look too stiff; the informal, too fussy, too wiggly. as far as paths go, keep this in mind, that a path should always lead somewhere. that is its business--to direct one to a definite place. now, straight, even paths are not unpleasing if the effect is to be that of a formal garden. the danger in the curved path is an abrupt curve, a whirligig effect. it is far better for you to stick to straight paths unless you can make a really beautiful curve. no one can tell you how to do this. "garden paths may be of gravel, of dirt, or of grass. one sees grass paths in some very lovely gardens. i doubt, however, if they would serve as well in your small gardens. your garden areas are so limited that they should be re-spaded each season, and the grass paths are a great bother in this work. of course, a gravel path makes a fine appearance, but again you may not have gravel at your command. it is possible for any of you to dig out the path for two feet. then put in six inches of stone or clinker. over this, pack in the dirt, rounding it slightly toward the centre of the path. there should never be depressions through the central part of paths, since these form convenient places for water to stand. the under layer of stone makes a natural drainage system. "a building often needs the help of vines or flowers or both to tie it to the grounds in such a way as to form a harmonious whole. vines lend themselves well to this work. it is better to plant a perennial vine, and so let it form a permanent part of your landscape scheme. the virginia creeper, wistaria, honeysuckle, a climbing rose, the clematis and trumpet vine are all most satisfactory. "just close your eyes and picture a house of natural colour, that mellow gray of the weathered shingles. now add to this old house a purple wistaria. can you see the beauty of it? i shall not forget soon a rather ugly corner of my childhood home, where the dining room and kitchen met. just there climbing over, and falling over a trellis was a trumpet vine. it made beautiful an awkward angle, an ugly bit of carpenter work. "of course, the morning-glory is an annual vine, as is the moon-vine and wild cucumber. now, these have their special function. for often, especially in school work, it is necessary to cover an ugly thing for just a time, until the better things and better times come. the annual is 'the chap' for this work. "along an old fence a hop vine is a thing of beauty. one might try to rival the woods' landscape work. for often one sees festooned from one rotted tree to another the ampelopsis vine. "flowers may well go along the side of the building, or bordering a walk. in general, though, keep the front lawn space open and unbroken by beds. what lovelier in early spring than a bed of daffodils close to the house? hyacinths and tulips, too, form a blaze of glory. these are little or no bother, and start the spring aright. one may make of some bulbs an exception to the rule of unbroken front lawn. snowdrops and crocuses planted through the lawn are beautiful. they do not disturb the general effect, but just blend with the whole. one expert bulb gardener says to take a basketful of bulbs in the fall, walk about your grounds, and just drop bulbs out here and there. wherever the bulbs drop, plant them. such small bulbs as those we plant in lawns should be in groups of four to six. daffodils may be thus planted, too. you all remember the grape hyacinths that grow all through katharine's side yard. "the place for a flower garden is generally at the side or rear of the house. the backyard garden is a lovely idea, is it not? who wishes to leave a beautiful looking front yard, turn the corner of a house, and find a dump heap? not i. the flower garden may be laid out formally in neat little beds, or it may be more of a careless, hit-or-miss sort. both have their good points. great masses of bloom are attractive. "you should have in mind some notion of the blending of colour. nature appears not to consider this at all, and still gets wondrous effects. this is because of the tremendous amount of her perfect background of green, and the limitlessness of her space, while we are confined at the best to relatively small areas. so we should endeavour not to blind people's eyes with clashes of colours which do not at close range blend well. in order to break up extremes of colours you can always use masses of white flowers, or something like mignonette, which is in effect green. "the old-fashioned flowers are lovely--sweet william, phlox, old-fashioned pinks, petunia, verbena, zinnia, marigold, mignonette, and poppy are always dear and sweet. hollyhocks are charming. they represent a kind of guard for the garden. stand this hollyhock phalanx up against a wall like naughty boys, close to the house, or by an old fence. they are so tall that they must be in the background. they grace it. otherwise they would overtop and shadow the other garden plants. if there is an old ash pile, an old dump or anything else unsightly, plant something tall before it. hollyhocks would not do for this, since their foliage is too scanty. castor beans are just the thing, however; and sunflowers, the old giant ones, are good, too. a screen is for screening, so that the foliage is of first consideration. "a wild-flower garden is a good scheme, too. what is lovelier? bank in a north corner full of these. hepatica, columbines, anenome, bellflower, butterfly weed, turtle head and aster represent wild flowers which bloom from march through october. i can see that north corner now. miriam has planned to have one, and has really done the work this fall. "the water garden is another good thing to try with just the right setting. a place at the end of a slope of land, near some drooping trees, a bit shaded would be right. the garden philip made is a pattern for you all to follow. "finally, let us sum up our landscape lesson. the grounds are a setting for the house or buildings. open, free lawn spaces, a tree or a proper group well placed, flowers which do not clutter up the front yard, groups of shrubbery--these are points to be remembered. the paths should lead somewhere, and be either straight or well curved. if one starts with a formal garden, one should not mix the informal with it before the work is done. "at one time we said a little about poor taste in garden furnishings. painted kettles, old drain pipes, whitewashed bricks, and edgings of shells seemed to us then a bit fussy and crude. so, too, is a summer house stuck out on the front lawn, a rustic seat all by itself in an open spot, an archway which forms an arch over nothing. the summer house should be placed in the side yard, or in the rear in a spot where trees lend it a background. if its use is that of a resting spot for your mother, she certainly would not wish it right out on the front lawn. if the house is for children to play in, then again it is not for the front of the house. an appropriate place is near the garden where it makes a cool place to rest after labour, a spot from which to view the beauties of the garden, and a charming place to serve afternoon tea. "a good general plan to follow in this landscape work is to see what natural charms your place has, and then try to increase and help these. 'help nature' is a good watchword. even though the garden plan is to be a formal one, the natural resources and setting of your place should be kept in mind. the little we did last year on the school grounds was a bit of landscape garden work. i did not call it that to you then, for if i had you would have been scared off. philip's work in his backyard was of the same nature. the girls' flower garden was a bit of formal work. i guess, too, the outdoor bulb planting which albert scorned might come under the same head. so you see you have been landscape gardeners without knowing it. to continue to be, all we have to do is to go on somewhat along the general lines i have spoken of to-night. different committees have prepared a number of tables which should help you much in matters of selection." garden of constant bloom by months -------------------------------------------------------------- name colour height special points -------------------------------------------------------------- _march_ columbine red ft. grows on rocky places. graceful flower. hepatica white in. early spring flower. ready to blossom blue under the snow. last year's pink leaves shelter flower. saxifrage white in. grows in rocky, sandy places. --------------------------------------------------------------------- _april_ bluebell blue in. likes rock soil and sun. dwarf iris blue ft. a good border plant. does not require any special soil. spreads. moss pink pink in. likes full sun. spreads rapidly. violet blue in. good soil. plant in either sun or shade. --------------------------------------------------------------------- _may_ lily-of- white in. grows under trees, spreads rapidly. the-valley flowers fragrant. cut flower effect. german iris different ft. the best of flags for general planting purposes. forget- blue low thrives on moist soil. planted with me-not tulips follows them in bloom. chinese different ft. the earliest of peonies. good in peony borders. myrtle blue low grows even in shade and poorly drained soils. spreads rapidly. --------------------------------------------------------------------- _june_ bleeding pink ft. a hardy plant. needs moist, good heart soil. good border plant. foxglove purple ft. perennial which self sows. effective in backgrounds. likes shade. garden peony crimson ft. the real old-fashioned peony. good border plant. large blossoms. larkspur blue ft. good for borders and backgrounds. the finest of blue flowers. sweet different ft. a self sewing perennial. bright william colours. good for massing. sweet and constant bloomer. --------------------------------------------------------------------- _july_ baby's white ft. grows in rocky soil. use for formal breath bouquets. butterfly orange ft. likes full sunlight and dry soil. fine weed colour effect. perennial different - ft. good for borders and cut flowers. phlox spiked pink ft. belongs in wet swamp lands. will loosestrife grow in borders. hollyhock different ft. use for backgrounds and borders. --------------------------------------------------------------------- _august_ aster, new blue ft. grows in any soil. the best of tall england asters. golden glow yellow ft. grows in any soil and spreads rapidly. good background. japanese white climber rapid flowering vine. use on trellis. clematis sweet flowers. sunflower yellow ft. fine for backgrounds and screens. any dry soil. turtle head rose ft. flowers on spikes. any soil, but wet purple preferred. --------------------------------------------------------------------- _september_ hardy white ft. blooms till frost. blossom heads hydrangea effective. japanese carmine ft. good border plant. blossoms last anemone till frost. --------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------- water and bog plants --------------------------------------------------------------------- common name scientific name special points --------------------------------------------------------------------- arrowhead _sagittaria latifolia_ one of the most popular water plants. spreads badly. arum (water) _calla palustris_ popular water plant. grows less than ft. high. blooms in june. blue flag _iris versicolor_ grows from - ft. high. grows in bogs and gardens. cat-tail _typha latifolia_ grows to ft. or more. spreads rapidly. floating heart _limnanthemum grows less than ft. high. nymphoides_ good plant for a pond. spreads readily. forget-me-not _myosotis palustris_ grows less than ft. high. prefers half-shady places. lotus, american _nelumbo lutea_ good for a pond. marsh marigold _caltha palustris_ grows - / ft. high. blooms in may. pickerel weed _pontederia grows - ft. high. blooms in cordata_ july. pitcher plant _darlingtonia grows less than ft. good for californica_ bog planting. sweet flag _acorus calamus_ height is ft. flowers in early summer. water-lily _nymphaea odorata_ sweet-scented, most popular water-lily. water mint _mentha aquatica_ one of the popular mint family. low growing. --------------------------------------------------------------------- four water-lilies for beginners --------------------------------------------------------------------- name colour special points --------------------------------------------------------------------- _nymphaea gladstoniana_ white this is a hardy variety " _marliacea_ yellow " " " " " _dentata_ white tender, night blooming plant " _zanzibariensis_ blue tender, day blooming plant. --------------------------------------------------------------------- water-lilies for small ponds --------------------------------------------------------------------- name |colour |required depth | | of water --------------------------------------------------------------------- _nymphoea alba_ (hardy) | white |more than ft. " _tuberosa_ (hardy) | white | " " " " _marliacea rosea_ (hardy) | pink | " " " " _odorata_, var. _minor_ |white |less than ft. (hardy) | | " _tetragona_ (hardy) |yellow | " " " " _laydekeri_, var. |pink | " " " _rosea_ (hardy) | | " _zanzibariensis_ (tender) |white | " " " --------------------------------------------------------------------- note:--any of these forms may be grown in from to ft. of water. --------------------------------------------------------------------- tree table --------------------------------------------------------------------- name |height | special points --------------------------------------------------------------------- carolina poplar | ft.|grows in a dry soil. fastest growing street | | tree. its dropping fruit is a nuisance. | | sheds leaves early. catalpa | ft. |lovely white blossoms in june. seed pods | | stay on into winter. quick growing. | | good lawn tree. english hawthorn| ft. |flowers in june. red berries. grows on | | dry soils. slow grower. sharp thorns. linden | ft. |easy to grow. fragrant flowers. rapid | | grower. european species smaller than | | american. live oak | ft.|not hardy in the north. grows south of | | virginia. beautiful evergreen oak. likes | | moist soil. locust | ft. |fragrant flowers in may and june. rapid | | grower. seeds in pods. thorny bark. lombardy poplar | ft. |quick grower. stiff, straight and tall. | | dignified but melancholy tree. fine for | | pathway effect. norway maple | ft.|tall, well rounded tree. yellow foliage in | | the fall. pin oak | ft.|fastest grower among oaks. you cannot | | grow plants under it. red maple | ft.|earliest flowering maple. good for lowlands. | | bright red foliage in the fall. sugar maple | ft.|moist soil. bright foliage in the fall. best | | street tree among maples. horse chestnut | ft. |fine white flowers in june. attractive buds | | and leaves. foliage grows very dense. --------------------------------------------------------------------- xiii how boys and girls can make money from their gardens naturally, we are all interested in ways and means of earning money. it is not a bad thing at all for a boy or girl to wish to turn work into cash. not always is it possible for one to find a market next door for products. no, it is rarely as easy a matter as that. one has to really work a bit. "let me tell you one boy's story. this lad, let us call him newton, had a nice vegetable and flower garden. he had worked so hard over it, it did seem to him as if he ought to be able to sell some of his produce. one day he loaded a little cart with vegetables and went down the street to a corner market. i imagine he went in a half-hearted sort of way. the market-man was busy and he spoke a bit roughly to the boy. but newton went on to another store. he received the same sort of treatment there. this time he gave up discouraged and went home. his mother was not discouraged. she showed him how he should have made his vegetables, wagon and all, look more attractive. "so newton went to work again. he scrubbed his radishes and new carrots until they shone. he bunched them up into neat little bundles. then the lettuce came in for its washing and cleaning. thus he treated all the vegetables. then he printed a sign 'fresh vegetables for sale' and started off again. this time he went to the largest hotel in the little city in which he lived. there he was sent to the cook. this big, good-natured fellow said that he would look at his stuff. 'looks good to me,' said the cook, 'it really looks like home-grown things,' straightway he bought a good part of what newton had and there and then made arrangements for daily deliveries of certain vegetables. "the lesson from newton's experience is this: in order to sell, you must put your wares in attractive shape. who wishes to buy dirty radishes or droopy looking lettuce? no one is willing to pay decent prices. putting materials in such condition that all the good points speak loudly at first, is one way to attract notice and sell later. if you find you can sell by shipping your goods the same points hold true. "another way to make money is to raise young plants for sale. jack did this with his aster plants. lots of people wish their garden plants partly started. they either do not have the interest, or else they have not the time for initial work. asters, stock, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, pepper, celery--all of these may be started for market purposes. "suppose you have planted tomato seed. you are bound to have more young plants than you wish. why not sell them? suppose mrs. jones always buys hers. then go to her and ask if she will not buy of you. she may not believe you can be a very good gardener, so she hesitates. well, then just ask her if you cannot bring your little plants around for her to see when the time comes. get to work in your best style. transplant in little paper cups or strawberry baskets. then the setting out of the plants will be very easy and quite a scientific performance. i think you will sell to mrs. jones all right. "if you really intend to go into this early market side then you should certainly have a coldframe. you could not blame your mother if she refused to have the kitchen littered up with old tin cans and boxes all the spring. do not be a nuisance at home just to make money. [illustration: photograph by w.h. jenkins myron transplanting his long-rooted strawberry plants. photograph by helen w. cooke katherine transplanting her flowers by a method of lifting.] "i know a little girl who raised aster and stock plants, also young vegetable plants. she had a coldframe. in the spring, when people were starting their gardens and wondering where they should go for plants, she fixed up an attractive basket filled with her plants. she asked no exorbitant price, but a fair one for a little girl's good work. one year she bought herself a dressing table from her garden earnings. i think that well worth while. don't you? "another way to make money from your garden is to sell your seed. i do not think any of you will be at all likely to try to rival the seed houses. but i am sure that you can supply certain seeds for your own fathers and mothers. "such seed as those of radish, lettuce and turnip you would not save. it is better to buy them. but surely you can make some pretty good selections for seed corn. i believe you can manage beans, peas, melons, pumpkins, potatoes and squash. then we have, i believe, learned from the school flower garden how to select seed. nasturtium seed may always be saved, dried and put into its own envelope. this will be found to be true, that seeds saved from our own flower garden often do not give satisfactory results as time goes on. the plants and flowers after a few seasons seem to spindle out. in the large seed gardens the varieties of flowers raised are either many or cross-pollination is carried on. "in putting up your seeds in envelopes give a few cultural directions on them; that is, tell how to plant the special seed. also, put on when to plant and the proper soil conditions under which planting should go on. if the seeds are those of flowers add information concerning height, colour of blossom, and time of blossoming. someone might like to know also if the seed was that of an annual, biennial or perennial plant. think out a neat, attractive way to fix these envelopes. if you do not wish to sell them, they will serve as nice christmas gifts. "among the garden trappings which we made last winter are things you could easily sell. such a plant stand as jack made for his own room is certainly marketable. make samples of your wares and then take orders for them. again, these represent christmas gifts, too. "rustic seats, a woven mat of corn husks to kneel on when weeding, a bit of nice trellis work, a little tool house are all possible pieces of work. "i saw once what a boy called his handy boxes. these were wooden boxes, with hinged covers and handles, so that they might be carried about. one was for seeds. this box had partitions inside, and all the different envelopes of seeds were arranged in the different cubby holes. another box had garden accessories. the word sounds interesting. it means all the little extras needed in the work. labels, small stakes, a garden reel, measure, knife, cord, note book, pencil--all were in the box, all were things which the boy often used. you can make variations on these. but a box which may be carried about has advantages over one that is screwed up in the tool house. "i believe the flower-gathering basket would sell well. it is not that it is a rather picturesque sort of englishy custom to go out and pick flowers with a pretty basket tucked under one's arm, but it is very inconvenient, very hot work, and very mussy, to have to hold bunches of flowers in the hand as one gathers. "in some places where there are summer colonies it is possible to sell bunches of flowers. i knew of a case where big bunches of sweet peas were brought to the hotel every morning. these sold for ten and fifteen cents the bunch and went like hot cakes. "the girls may think of all sorts of wicker mats and trays that would make the garden tea more attractive. one ought to think of the aesthetic side. "i have not mentioned working for others. hire yourself out. let it be known that you can and will weed, mow lawns, plant and transplant for so much per hour. someone may be going off for a few weeks; see to it that you are the boy or girl to be employed. prove yourself faithful. "in the winter make garden utensils and also attend to the bulb end of it. at christmas time you could do a big business. "someone might make and bottle kerosene emulsion. paste on each bottle directions for using. print very neatly, so it will look well. "there are doubtless many other ways of making money. but, above all, do not neglect the other side; give away some things from your garden and some of your labour, too. if all you think of is the making of money the soul and heart of you all will get as small and shrivelled as a dry pea. who wants to be stingy? better never to make money than to grow like that. don't let people pay you for everything you do. do certain things for mother and father for nothing. the home garden is as much theirs as yours. wouldn't it be ludicrous if your mother said, 'no, katharine, you cannot have those flowers to carry to school unless you pay ten cents for them,' how cross you would be! just as absurd, is it not, for you to suggest that you cannot work on that same garden unless you receive ten cents an hour? no, that is all wrong. and if any one of you feels that way do one of two things--either sit down and be ashamed for a good, long time and think of all the things done freely for you; or else go take all the money in your own little bank at home, buy something your mother wants, and give it, being glad, so glad you can get rid of what you have been so stingy about. "give flowers to the poor, the sick at home and the sick in hospitals, the church, the people you love, the people you think you don't love, and the people who seem lonely and forlorn. "once upon a time there was made a wondrous garden. it was called the earth. the flowers, the trees, the plants which afterwards became through man's skill our staple products--all these were free, absolutely free. "if this is a true story, how can we be so small as always to make money from this garden? let us pay our debt to it freely and gladly. "this is our last talk. some of you already have started your early vegetables and flowers. instead of one coldframe we have four in our family and one belongs to a girl. "it is going to be a better year of gardening than before. leston is with us now. another season there will be others. the school grounds look well, and if you have noticed the entire village looks a little better than ever before. "we will shake hands all around. in a few weeks we shall have hands quite dirty with good old garden soil. you may take your stools and benches off with you, or leave them all here." "we shall leave them," said eloise; "for i am coming back often to sit on my little cricket right on your hearth." "i am a little large for a cricket," went on albert; "but i'd not quit this hearthstone, so my stool stays." "and mine, too," each one added. off they trooped again, some down the country road, some up the road, others across the fields, and george, as usual, on his old horse. they shouted until out of sight. "the best things in the world," the man murmured as he stepped out into the open and drew into his lungs deep breaths of the fresh spring air. farm gardening with hints on cheap manuring quick cash crops and how to grow them compiled and published, by johnson & stokes, seed growers and merchants and market st., philadelphia, pa. copyright, , by johnson & stokes [illustration: hilling celery, as practised by philadelphia market gardeners.] contents. chapter i. page. making the soil rich chapter ii. choice of location chapter iii. vegetables suited to farm culture everywhere chapter iv. vegetables suited to farm culture in some locations chapter v. sashes and bedding plants chapter vi. the strawberry preface. farmers in the thickly populated eastern and middle states, or, in fact, east of the mississippi river, cannot grow grains nor fatten beeves with the same profit as before the opening of the great west. dairying still returns fair profits, but there is a widespread demand for cash crops adapted to farm culture, especially where railroads furnish quick access to towns and cities. in response to this demand, we beg to offer a short list of farm vegetables that can be grown with greater profit than grain, with hints about growing them. there is no real line dividing the vegetables of the market garden from those of the farm garden, but it may be assumed in a somewhat arbitrary way that those which do not yield at the gross rate of $ per acre per year will not pay for the intense culture of high-priced land, although they will pay handsome profits in broad-acred operations under horse culture. before offering a list of money crops to farmers we shall have a word to say in the following pages about economic manuring. larger cash receipts and smaller cash expenditures will result in better bank balances. johnson & stokes. philadelphia, january , . chapter i. making the soil rich. everybody understands that the soil becomes impoverished by continued cropping, if no return be made in the form of manure or fertilizer. this impoverishment is sometimes real, while sometimes it is more apparent than real, owing to the exhaustion of only one or two elements of fertility. farmers have learned a great deal about agricultural chemistry since the introduction of artificial fertilizers. they know that while plants demand many things for their growth, there are but three elements which are in danger of being exhausted in ordinary cropping. these three things are nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash. =lime.=--lime is used on the land not for its direct results as a fertilizer, but because it has the ability to break up combinations already existing in the soil and set free the plant food that previously was in an insoluble form. lime sometimes produces almost marvelous results; at other times no visible effects whatever. hence, it is not a fertilizer, though in actual practice it is sometimes a fertilizing agent of great value. land that has been much manured or long in sod is likely to be benefited by lime. artificial manures, on the other hand, furnish real plant food in soluble form, and may be expected to produce crops invariably, year after year, if the soil be sufficiently moist. when a fertilizer contains nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash it is said to be complete. when any element is missing the fertilizer is said to be incomplete. ground bone, wood ashes, south carolina rock, kainit, etc., are examples of incomplete fertilizers. =barnyard manure.=--barnyard manure is the best of all known fertilizers. not only is it complete in character, but it has the highly valuable property of bulk. it is rich in humus or humus-forming materials. it opens and ventilates the soil, and improves its mechanical condition to a remarkable degree. humus is a name for decaying organic matter. american market gardeners deem it entirely safe to use fifty to seventy-five tons of barnyard manure to the acre of ground in their intensive cultural operations. american farmers seldom apply more than ten or fifteen tons of such manure to the acre in the open field. the manufacture of artificial fertilizers had its origin in the fact that cultivators could not get enough manure from natural sources, and, hence, were compelled to go into the market and buy nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash in other forms. =closer economy.=--with the increase of competition and consequent fall of prices a closer economy in cost of production is necessary. prices have fallen most in respect to commodities that will bear long-distance freight transit and less in respect to the more perishable products of the soil. hence, farmers have widely turned attention to small fruits and vegetables for money crops, instead of grains, and are now studying how to fertilize these crops in the most effective and economical manner. it is very evident that while great quantities of fertility are demanded by the new crops, there is no such margin of profit in their culture as to warrant wasteful methods, and no losses of home-produced fertility can be tolerated. =as to saving manure.=--a penny saved is a penny earned. a half ton of manure saved is a dollar earned; and, conversely, a half ton of manure wasted is a dollar wasted. in many american barnyards much of the manure is lost, partly by leaching and partly by escape of ammonia. it is estimated that as much as a third of the natural manure produced in this country is practically thrown away. the cornell station has announced that a pile of horse manure exposed to the weather will lose half of its value in six months. the kansas station reaches nearly the same conclusion about farmyard manure. manure stored under cover may lose from to per cent. of its nitrogen (ammonia); and as this element is the most expensive of all to buy, it is evident that the loss is a very serious one, and one that should be avoided if possible. =general principles of storage.=--having pointed out the fact that on many farms there is a loss of a large amount of excellent manure, it is now in order to name a remedy. the compass of this book is so limited that it is necessary to go straight to the point, omitting a detailed account of the chemical processes involved. the best-known method of keeping all the manure produced by farm animals is storage under a closed shed, supplemented with chemical preservatives. the shed need not cover the barnyard, but merely the manure pile. the preservatives cost little money, and eventually go to the soil in the form of excellent fertilizers. not a cent paid for them need be lost. the manure shed should be large enough to work in with comfort; large enough to permit the heap or heaps of manure to be turned, worked over and shifted from place to place. a clay or earth floor will answer every purpose, and the shed may be of the cheapest character, provided it will turn the rain. the floor of the manure shed should slope inward from all directions, and the drainage around the shed should be outward, so that no rain-water or snow-water can enter. in theory, it may be best to put fresh manure on the land as quickly as possible. all leaching is then received by the soil, and little is lost, except through the air. in practice, this plan is not always a good one. it costs more to make ten trips to the field than one trip, and valuable time is wasted. it is quite out of the question to haul out manure every day or even every week. besides, it is necessary in actual practice, especially in gardening or truck farming, to cover a whole piece of ground at one time, so that it may be plowed and seeded for the coming crop. the ground is usually available only a short time before this preparation, having, perhaps, been occupied by something else. it is desirable, moreover, that the manure when applied shall be ready for immediate service as plant food, which is not the case with the raw product. fresh manure is but sparingly digestible by plant roots. quicker cash results will be secured by applying prepared manure to the soil than by applying the product fresh from the stable. the manure shed has already been mentioned. a few dollars will build it. sometimes a half barrel is sunken in the centre of the manure shed, and the drainage from the manure heaps collected there, and returned to the tops of the heaps. it is occasionally necessary to add water, when turning manure, to secure the desired degree of dampness and a gentle fermentation. this fermentation will cause the litter to fall to pieces, and will convert it into quickly-available plant food. no one who has never tried it will expect the generous heaps which will follow systematic and persevering efforts to accumulate and stack up the available manure materials on any farm. =preservatives.=--the best-known common preservatives of manure in storage are gypsum, kainit and acid phosphate. gypsum or land plaster holds ammonia, and is thus of the highest value as a preservative. gypsum must be moist to be effective, and, hence, should be used regularly upon the fresh manure. kainit, which is a low-grade sulphate of potash, checks fermentation, and hence prevents loss of ammonia. it contains much salt, and attracts and holds moisture. it should not be used under the feet of animals. acid phosphate contains much gypsum, and unites with ammonia that would otherwise escape. the geneva (n. y.) station recommends the use of one of the following per day: per horse. per cow. per pig. per sheep. pounds. pounds. ounces. ounces. gypsum - / - / - / - / acid phosphate - / - / kainit - / - / - / the advantage of using kainit and acid phosphate are that they add potash and phosphoric acid respectively, in which barnyard manure is likely to be deficient. in some soils the potash will be preferable; in others, phosphoric acid will do more good. =value of manure of each kind of animal.=--it has been figured out that the average value of horse manure per year is $ per animal; cattle, $ ; hogs, $ ; and sheep, $ . but these are not the only sources of manure on the farm. the hen-house will annually yield manure to the value of to cents per fowl, if intelligently cared for. the outhouse will produce fertility to the amount of $ to $ per year, according to the size of the family, the precautions as to loss by leaching, and the care given. the kitchen slops, including the scraps, are worth $ to $ per year, if properly composted. the wood ashes have a distinct and high fertilizing value; but not in the hen-house, where they are worse than wasted. and even coal ashes can be turned to account. professor roberts has suggested $ per year as a conservative estimate of the value of the manure produced during seven winter months on a farm carrying four horses, twenty cows, fifty sheep and ten pigs. the estimated value may be made much higher in cases where farmers are willing to use thought and labor in preparation and preservation of home-made manures. =solid manure and liquid manure.=--the urine is the most valuable portion of the excretion of animals, according to the tables of the agricultural chemists. it is especially rich in nitrogen, and, hence, its strong odor under fermentation. it is also rich in potash. its place is on the manure heap, not in a ditch leading to a brook. if it collects in quantities beyond the absorbing power of the manure pile, it should go on the compost heap or else be diluted and at once put upon the land. =when to fertilize.=--the land is a good bank in which to deposit money in the form of manure; but there are certain portions of the year when the land bank declares no dividends. it is safe to put manure upon an unfrozen soil at any time, but the best, the quickest, and the largest results are obtained by manuring during the growing season, preferably just before planting the crop. small applications, often repeated, are preferable to large, though rare, applications. plants, like animals, consume small amounts of food each day, and cannot take a year's food at a single meal. =humus.=--humus, often referred to by agricultural writers, is a name for decaying organic matter in the soil. green crops turned under, grass roots, stubble, leaves, long manure, etc., form humus. the term is a comprehensive one. humus is a dark-colored substance, abundant in all rich ground. a lump of manure that has been lying in the ground for a year or two has become, practically, a mass of humus. =minute soil workers.=--in all good soils there are myriads of small organisms, whose duty is to destroy organic matter and convert it into soil, or into humus, or into plant food. this explains the superiority of good, moist soil as compared to coal ashes for making compost heaps. coal ashes are worth sifting, if the work can be done automatically; that is, by simply pouring the ashes upon a sloping wire screen. the coarse portion of the ashes, if not worth reburning, will at least make good walks, drives or road beds, while the fine portions make excellent absorbents to put under hen roosts. [illustration: some of the many forms of bacteria. (magnified).] hen manure and the product of the outhouse, whether containing sifted ashes or not, should go speedily into a heap of moist earth, for this earth will furnish the organisms to quickly convert the excreta into valuable soil. sifted coal ashes usually contain some fertility on account of wood, garbage, etc., burned in the kitchen stove, but have value mainly as absorbents. moist loam, on the other hand, teems with life, and has the wonderful ability not merely to hide organic matter, but to actually change its character, converting it into soil that retains none of its original characteristics. what was malodorous manure, offensive to smell and touch, is changed into an odorless, dark-colored material that leaves no stain upon the hands, and which is plant food of the best and most available character. =economy in manuring.=--true economy in manuring demands a comprehension of these simple matters. the methods are inexpensive, and are within the reach of every tiller of the soil. the whole matter may be summed up in a few words, as follows: waste nothing, permit no fermentation or leaching, use preservatives, and learn the true art of making composts, including the functions of the minute organisms just described. no better use can be made of rainy days in summer or winter than in caring for manure; turning the piles, making compact stacks, adding needed moisture and preservatives, shaking out all lumps and putting undecayed portions into the centre of the heap. ton after ton of the best kind of fertilizer can be accumulated on every farm in this manner, including not only what is now lost through careless handling, but also a large amount of good material that is now entirely overlooked on many farms. all rubbish, all litter, all dirt, has a fertilizing value. if certain waste products must go to the bonfire, the ashes can at least be saved and used during the next growing season. it is sometimes better to burn weeds and certain tough vines than to attempt to compost them; but the ashes should not be wasted. it is the saving of many little things that counts in the yearly total. labor is money, but it is better to invest labor at home than to go to the fertilizer-maker for supplies and pay out cash. =the fertilizer man.=--the fertilizer man will always be with us, because he has a true place in the economy of the farm and garden. we must go to him for the preservatives already mentioned--for gypsum, for kainit and for acid phosphate; and also for complete fertilizers. these articles are all comparatively cheap. the fertilizer man can make but modest profits upon them. the purchase of high-grade goods from well-known and honest makers is to be commended, for it is strictly economical. the thing to be avoided is the blind buying of fertilizers from unknown or irresponsible makers or agents. this is worse than buying a cat in a bag, and results in great waste of good money. =wood ashes.=--wood ashes is rich in potash, and is particularly valuable with potatoes, fruits of all kinds, etc. but it is a great error to mix wood ashes with fresh manure of any kind, especially with hen manure, as the escape of ammonia is hastened and much value is lost. =natural and artificial manures.=--where the home supply of manure is insufficient for a piece of ground, necessitating the addition of artificial manure, it is universally conceded to be good practice to stretch the natural product over the whole tract and then to go over the whole tract with an artificial fertilizer. =irrigation.=[a]--in connection with a review of the home sources of manure the item of irrigation must not be overlooked, for it is thoroughly well established that water is a carrier of appreciable amounts of fertilizing materials. in european countries large areas of pasture and mowing lands are fertilized by water alone, the irrigation being regarded as of great value on this account, aside from the fact that it supplies moisture to the grass roots. most streams in the united states contain more or less sewage, and in respect to irrigation are valuable on that account. [footnote a: the reader is referred to our new book on this subject. it is entitled, "irrigation by cheap modern methods." see illustration next page, also pages and .--johnson & stokes.] =waste products.=--many waste or by-products, available for use as fertilizers, come from time to time within the reach of the farmer or gardener, especially to those living near towns or railroads. the average market house, be it said with regret, is none too clean, and refuse in considerable amounts could be had there for the trouble of sweeping. cattle cars often contain several inches of valuable droppings, to be had for next to nothing. street-scrapings are worth the trouble of hauling, if the distance is short. the manure lost on the highways is very great in amount, and may be worth the cost of collection. there will some day be a machine for gathering this manure from the roads by horse-power, as it would amply repay the expense of driving such a machine along every much-used highway. [illustration: an illustration from johnson & stokes' new book--"irrigation by cheap modern methods."] =value of manure.=--dr. beal figures the values per ton of the several farm-made manures as follows: hen manure, $ . ; sheep, $ . ; pigs, $ . ; horses, $ . ; cows, $ . . [illustration: bacteroid tubercles on red clover root. drawn from nature.] these figures are based on the assumption that the animals are well fed, and that no leaching of the manure is allowed, with gypsum used as a preservative, and good care exercised in all respects. it must not be supposed that all manure has such value, or that any manure will retain such value under careless treatment. =green manuring.=--the system of green manuring, as formerly understood and practiced, had two purposes in view. one was to supply the soil with needed humus; the other to furnish winter protection and prevent washing. the practice is a very old one and has much to commend it. not only do plant roots draw up fertility from considerable depths, to be afterward deposited in the superficial soil when the growing crop is turned down by the plow, but the process favors chemical changes in the soil by the admission of air and sunlight and by the decomposition of leaves, stems and roots. but nothing whatever in the way of new fertility is added by turning down a rye crop, for instance. [illustration: crimson or scarlet clover, a nitrogen gatherer.] =cultivating the legumes.=--the present system of green manuring contemplates something in addition to what was formerly gained, for agricultural sciences now recognizes the fact that nitrogen, the most expensive element of fertility, can be taken from the air and added to the plant food in the soil by means of certain plants which have the peculiar habit of regularly forming little tubercles or lumps on their feeding roots. these lumps are to be found on plants in perfect health, and are not parasitical in any hostile sense. the lumps are filled with small living organisms called bacteria, and, hence, have been called bacteroid tubercles. the minute tenants slowly but surely secrete nitrogen, and put it in a form adapted to plant growth. the plants which bear these root lumps belong to a group called legumes, of which clover, peas, beans, vetches, etc., are familiar examples. curiously enough, nearly all the leguminous plants are thus fitted by nature by means of the root lumps to act as soil enrichers, and these plants have, therefore, assumed the highest agricultural significance. it is well known that such crops as cowpeas, crimson or scarlet clover, common red and pea vine or sapling clover, soja beans, vetches, etc., can be used to add nitrogen to the soil in commercial quantities. the gain of new material, expressed in money, has been estimated as high as $ per acre. this, therefore, is the avenue through which the farmer can most economically supply nitrogen to his land. if he will exercise all the economy heretofore suggested in the care of natural manures, and will grow legumes, he will not have much occasion to buy nitrogen in the market. =grass vs. clover.=--an idea of the great fertilizing value of the leguminous plants as compared with grasses may be obtained by a study of the following analyses from u. s. farmers' bulletin no. , by dr. e. w. allen, on "leguminous plants for green manuring and for feeding": fertilizing value in crop. assumed per acre. yield. per acre. nitrogen. phos. acid. potash. hay from tons. pounds. pounds. pounds. red top (a grass) · · · timothy (a grass) · · · red clover (a legume) · · · alfalfa (a legume) · · · cowpea (a legume) · · · soja bean (a legume) · · · =nitrogen, phosphoric acid, potash.=--we have just noted the cheapest source of nitrogen. it can be collected by root tubercles at less than the commercial rate of to cents per pound. phosphoric acid can be best secured, if a new supply becomes necessary, in the form of ground bone or in the form of acid phosphate. either of these articles, if bought from a reliable dealer, is a good and economical thing to use. potash is to be had most cheaply, perhaps, in the manner suggested heretofore: by the use of kainit as a preserver of stable manure. the kainit performs a double purpose if used in that way, and thus gets upon the land in a cheap manner. muriate of potash and sulphate of potash are high-priced articles, but when bought from good houses are fully worth the money they cost. except for the use of kainit, just mentioned, the muriate or sulphate would be the more economical form. potash or phosphoric acid (or both), as may be determined by circumstances, are needed to aid crimson clover in its growth, and with the clover form a perfect manure. barnyard manure is a perfect fertilizer, especially when preserved with kainit or acid phosphate; and a leguminous crop, if stimulated with phosphoric acid and potash, leaves the land in fine cropping condition. =value of green manures.=--the cash value of green manuring is somewhat a matter of location. on light, sandy soils it will be found wise to turn the whole crop under with the plow, while on heavy loams this plan is of doubtful benefit. on the latter land it is conceded to be better practice to harvest the crop and feed it to stock, and return the resulting manure to the land. =maximum amounts of manures.=--nobody has yet ventured to fix the maximum amounts of natural or artificial manures that soils will bear, but these amounts are great. reference has already been made to the number of tons of stable manure per acre used respectively by market gardeners and farmers in america. as to commercial fertilizers, the quantity has been pushed up to two tons per acre, with enormous crops in consequence, and with no bad results where the constituent of the fertilizer were well balanced and where the water-supply was ample. it is quite easy, however, to scorch or burn the foliage of growing plants by the improper use of acid fertilizers in dry weather. of course, no such amount as two tons per acre would be used in ordinary farming or farm gardening, but only in certain intense cultural operations. chapter ii. choice of location. almost every farm has a choice spot for a garden, some favored location where the soil is warm and mellow, and where, perhaps, shelter is afforded by hill or woodland. such a spot, especially if it can be artificially irrigated, is capable of great things in the way of growing truck. the place of all others, if it can be had, is a rich meadow bank, on ground low enough for gravity irrigation and yet high enough to be out of the way of floods. such a location is by no means rare. there are countless acres fulfilling these conditions, and every acre thus situated is capable of yielding in vegetables twenty-fold its value as pasturage. such a meadow needs a few lines of underdrains and an irrigating ditch along the highest feasible level. deep plowing of low land will rarely bring up the sub-soil, and, after a good coat of lime, the application of manure may be carried to almost any extent, with good results assured in advance. if a meadow is not available, the farm gardener will do the next best thing, whatever that may be, in choosing a place for vegetables, trusting the rainfall and depending on manure and good tillage for satisfactory crops. =as to growing.=--the one point to be emphasized about the production of truck for market is that quick growth is necessary for quality, and, hence, for profits. good soil, good cultivation and sufficient moisture are the essentials for rapid growth. =as to marketing.=--a point of prime importance for all producers to remember is that price is largely a matter of taste and fancy. if the consumer can be attracted by the good appearance of vegetables or fruit, a sale is certain to be made. it will pay handsomely to keep at home all medium or second-quality stuff, offering nothing but the best for sale. [illustration: reproduction of a photograph taken in dock street wholesale market, philadelphia.] in the great wholesale and retail markets of philadelphia, new york and boston good stuff always moves quickly at fair prices, while poor stuff begs for buyers at rates yielding no profit to anybody. the wholesaler is frequently blamed for failure to obtain good prices when the fault is really with the producer, and is chargeable to poor stuff or poor packing. there is a good business opening everywhere for truckers who will ship only first-class stuff in new packages. such produce reaches what is known as the fancy trade, and there is more than a living in it for enterprising growers. truckers who rush their stuff to market in an unwashed, unsorted condition, in old or unclean baskets or boxes, may make expenses out of the business, but they will never do much more. there is a premium on quality and appearance. chapter iii. vegetables suited to farm culture everywhere. [illustration: loading the market wagon.] in this chapter are grouped a number of vegetables of easy culture. they may be grown with success almost anywhere. some of them are produced by market gardeners, but by reason of the amount of ground which they occupy they are more particularly adapted to horse culture by farmers. the chapter will treat briefly of asparagus, beans, beets, cabbage, carrots, sweet corn, horseradish, parsnip, potato, pumpkin and squash, salsify, tomato, turnip, etc. asparagus. asparagus demands a deep, rich, well-drained soil. its culture is profitable, and it yields ready cash at an early season of the year, when other sales are limited. the cutting term covers six weeks, beginning (at philadelphia) in the middle or latter part of april. cutting must here cease in june, in order to give the roots ample time to regain strength and make vigorous tops. the gross product per acre, near philadelphia, expressed in money, is, perhaps, $ at this time. [illustration: donald's elmira.] in selecting a situation for a bed, a warm spot should be chosen, having a deep and mellow soil, and with good natural or artificial drainage. a small area is better than a large one, as being more likely to receive sufficient manure; and it is desirable that the land should have been tilled for a year or two before the planting of the roots, and a heavy coat of manure incorporated with the soil--the more manure the better. =roots.=--the roots are set in early spring, in deep trenches, or feet apart, made with a plow. if the plow be run both ways and the loose dirt shovelled out, it is quite easy to reach a depth of or more inches. it is not material whether strong one-year-old roots or two-year-old roots be used. =varieties.=--as to varieties, it is almost as much a matter of culture as of name; still, there are better and worse kinds. asparagus varies in color from purple to green, and even to white. there are certain so-called mammoth sorts, whose shoots are larger, but less numerous than the old-fashioned kinds. there is a slight difference in flavor, also, but the preference of the local market must determine the farmer in making a choice of roots. if a green "grass" be preferred, that kind can be had from seedsmen; but, no matter how carefully the roots may be grown, there will be some slight variations in the color of the shoots, for asparagus does not always come true from seed. market gardeners usually sort their asparagus shoots at bunching time; always for size, and sometimes for color, especially when supplying a fancy trade. as a rule, it is wise to select a variety that will produce a good number of large-sized shoots, such as donald's elmira or barr's mammoth, and trust to manure and culture for the best results. quality of shoots depends on quick growth, and size depends somewhat on distance of the root under ground. the deeper the asparagus root under the surface, the larger in diameter will be the shoot, provided the plants are not crowded; a fact of which gardeners often take advantage by heaping soil up over the crowns of the plants during the growing season. asparagus.--donald's elmira is one of the best for the north. palmetto is the asparagus generally grown in the south. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =setting out.=--the young roots should be set carefully, crowns up, at intervals of - / to feet, in the deep furrows or trenches heretofore mentioned. a few inches of manure can be put in the bottom, covering slightly with soil and about inches of soil put upon them. the spaces between the rows may be cultivated during the first year, and some quick crop grown there. the working of this crop will gradually fill up the furrows about the stems of the young asparagus, which, during the first year, is quite small and insignificant in appearance. by fall, the furrows will be entirely filled and the surface of the patch level. the asparagus slug, the larva of the well-known beetle, may be kept down by occasionally dusting with slacked lime containing paris green. the following year the asparagus will show up to some advantage, but should not be cut. the third year (second after planting) will yield some marketable shoots; but cutting should not continue more than two or three weeks. the fourth year the bed may be said to be in full bearing. =treatment.=--the spring treatment of an asparagus bed in profit begins with a light plowing parallel with the rows, great care being observed to use a wheel on the plow so that not more than a few inches of soil may be turned, lest the crowns be cut and injured. the bed then lies until the cutting season is well advanced, when the plow may be again used. the first plowing was merely to break the surface of the ground and turn under the winter coat of manure, leaving the land level. the second plowing (if given) is to be toward the rows, for the purpose of throwing them further under the surface, so as to get larger shoots as warm weather advances. another plowing, very shallow, followed by harrow or cultivator, should be given at the end of the cutting season, in june, to destroy all weeds and to encourage summer growth of the asparagus. the patch should be kept clear of weeds during the summer, and growth encouraged by cultivation. in the late autumn the tops are mowed off and burned, as there seems to be no economic way of composting them, for, if moved to the compost heap or barnyard, they will seed the whole farm with asparagus. there should be a good coat of manure for winter protection, to be turned under in early spring, as already mentioned. =marketing.=--the preparation of the crop for market involves some time and trouble. the shoots are cut every day. some growers do the work early in the morning, and carry the bunches to market the same day. others cut and bunch one day, put in water over night and carry to market the following day. circumstances must decide which is best. [illustration: acme asparagus buncher, with knife guard.] if asparagus is to be shipped long distances, it must either be packed in open crates (like strawberry crates), or else thoroughly chilled by ice before starting. otherwise, it will heat and spoil. the usual asparagus bunch is just about the size of a dry-measure quart in diameter, and from to inches in length. in fact, a quart cup or tin fruit can is frequently used in shaping the bunch. home-made wooden bunchers are also in common use. the acme asparagus buncher is the best, coming in two sizes. the asparagus is tied in two places with raphia or soft string, and thus makes a neat and attractive package. the butts are cut off square with a knife after the bunch is finished, and in this shape asparagus will remain fresh for a long time, if kept standing in shallow water. in tying up the bunches the shoots are separated into two or three sizes. the small shoots are quite as good for food as the larger ones, but the latter always bring more money in market, which warrants the additional trouble involved. =salt.=--salt is frequently used on asparagus beds, but not always. salt is sometimes an indirect fertilizer, acting upon fertility already in the soil, and having a distinct tendency to attract and hold moisture, but it has no direct fertilizing influence. it has a beneficial effect in helping to check the growth of weeds. =fertilizers.=--kainit is an excellent thing for asparagus beds, as it contains a considerable percentage of sulphate of potash, which is a direct fertilizer. it also contains a fourth of its bulk of salt. ground bone, which contains nitrogen (ammonia) and phosphoric acid, is also a good thing to use on asparagus. it is very lasting in its action, and with the kainit makes a complete manure, especially in connection with the winter coat of stable manure. asparagus is a gross feeder, and will take almost any amount of fertilizer. market gardeners, who raise the most and best asparagus, depend mainly on enormous quantities of first-class stable manure; and this is probably the best fertilizer of all for this succulent and valuable vegetable. =tools.=--no special tools are demanded in asparagus culture, though such tools are on the market. any long knife will do for cutting the shoots, although a very good knife is especially made of solid steel, and can be bought for cents. the cut should be made just below the surface of the ground, care being taken not to injure other shoots just coming up. crooked shoots often make their appearance, resulting from injury done by the cutting knife. other causes, such as insects, hard soil, etc., produce crooked or deformed shoots. asparagus bunchers, made of wood and metal, mentioned in the seed catalogues, are sometimes used, the acme, heretofore referred to, being the best and cheapest. [illustration: solid steel asparagus knife.] any light plow with a wheel will answer for the asparagus bed. a light-weight harrow is also desirable. where asparagus trenches are laid out and dug by hand of course a garden line must be used, in order to have them straight and uniform. the practice of digging deep trenches for asparagus still prevails to some extent in private gardens, but the farm gardener must use cheaper methods. =roots per acre.=--with rows feet apart and plants feet apart in the rows, it is evident that each plant represents just square feet of space. hence, about , asparagus plants would be required for an acre of land set at these distances; they are, however, often set closer than this, sometimes at the rate of , roots and over per acre. an asparagus bed containing roots will supply an ordinary family. beans. bean-growing in a small way is fully warranted in every garden, but on a large scale it is a different question, being somewhat a matter of soil and location. =food value.=--the bean is one of the most excellent of human foods. its botanical kinship is close to the pea, and both are legumes. the leguminous plants, it will be remembered, have the rare ability of obtaining nitrogen through the tubercles on their roots, taking this expensive element partly from the air, and not greatly impoverishing the soil by their growth. something of the food value of the bean may be learned by comparing its chemical analysis with that of beef. in pounds of beans there are pounds of protein (nitrogenous matter), while in pounds of beef there are but about to pounds of protein. peas are almost as rich as beans in protein, which is the tissue-building element of all foods, and, hence, it is easy to realize the fact that both beans and peas are foods of the highest economic value. they are standard foods of the world, entering into the diet of soldiers, laborers and persons needing physical strength. it is generally safe to grow beans for the retail market of any town or centre of population, but to compete in the open wholesale market demands experience and good equipment on the part of the grower to insure profits. [illustration: improved round green pod extra early valentine bean.] =varieties and types.=--the varieties of beans are well-nigh endless. some demand poles, while some are dwarf, being called bush beans. the influence of man has developed the bean into a vast number of different forms, which frequently show a disposition to revert or go back to some ancestral type, no matter how carefully the seeds may be kept. the pole beans, in general terms, yield larger crops and bear through a longer season than the bush beans. the green-podded beans, as a rule, are more prolific and more hardy than the yellow-podded or wax beans. the climbers demand a whole season, and bear until frost. the bush beans are mostly employed where two or more crops are demanded per year from the ground. the so-called cut-short or snap-short beans are those in which the whole pod, in its green state, is used for food. they are of both types, climbing and bush. the lima forms include a number of distinct beans, differing greatly in size and shape and also in habit of growth. bush beans (green pod).--we recommend improved round pod extra early valentine; also, new giant stringless valentine. bush beans (yellow pod).--wardwell's kidney wax and davis' white wax are largely grown in the south for shipment north. valentine wax is recommended for the north. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." white field or soup beans.--we recommend day's leafless medium and new snowflake field. for descriptions of these and other varieties, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." pole lima beans.--we especially recommend ford's mammoth podded lima and siebert's early lima. pole snap beans.--golden andalusia wax is one of the best yellow-pod pole beans, and lazy wife's one of the best green-pod sorts. dwarf lima.--dreer's, burpee's and henderson's represent three distinct types. for full descriptions of beans, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =location.=--in choosing a spot for bean culture the farm gardener should select good mellow soil that has been manured the previous year. fresh manure produces an excessive growth of vine at the expense of pods. =making ready.=--much stable manure, which is rich in nitrogen, should be avoided. in good ordinary soil, with some rotted manure from the previous crop, the bean plant will do well. it will obtain nitrogen, in great part, from the air, as already explained. old manure is very favorable as a starter, as it contains the minute organisms mentioned in the preceding pages. complete fertilizers or those containing phosphoric acid and potash must be supplied. only nitrogen is derived from the air. =soil inoculation.=--the soil of a new bean patch is sometimes inoculated with soil from an old patch, to get quick action of the bacteria (little organisms), which form the lumps or tubercles on the roots. the scattering of a little soil over the surface is all that is required. care should be taken to avoid the transfer of soil for this purpose from a patch affected with rust or blight, as diseases are carried from place to place with only too much ease. =when to plant.=--beans may safely be planted when the apple is in bloom, in may; not so early as peas, as beans are less hardy. the ground should be dry and warm. beans of all kinds demand shallow planting, as the seeds must be lifted from the ground in the earliest process of growth. the seed swells, bursts, sends a shoot (radicle) downward, and the two parts of the seed, called the seed-leaves, are pushed up into the daylight. small round beans can take care of themselves, as they turn easily in the soil, but lima beans often perish in the effort to get above ground. this is why lima beans should always be planted eye down, and less than an inch deep. a half inch is deep enough for most beans. if lima beans are wanted extra early, they should be started on small squares of inverted sod, under glass. the earliest bush beans yield marketable pods within forty to fifty days from planting; the pole beans in from seventy to ninety days from planting. there should be successional plantings made of the bush beans from the first date to within fifty days of frost. the different types of beans are fully and carefully described in the seed catalogues. =distances.=--poles for beans should be set about feet apart each way; or, in single rows, about feet apart. not more than three or four plants should be allowed to a hill. wires stretched between posts, with strings down to the ground, are sometimes used. the bush beans are planted in rows feet apart for horse culture, or half that distance where a hoe or hand cultivator is to be used. the plants in the rows should stand or inches apart for best yield. [illustration: plant of the new valentine wax bean. the earliest wax or yellow podded snap short.] =on a large scale.=--in large field operations, where the dried bean is the object in view, a clover sod is a favorite location. the ground is enriched by or pounds of complete fertilizer, and the beans are planted with a grain drill, using every fourth tube. the culture is by horse-power, and the vines are pulled by hand or by means of a bean-harvester, and threshed with a flail or grain thresher. these white grocery beans are sold everywhere in large quantities. =cultivation.=--all bean cultivation should be shallow. nothing is gained by cutting the feeding roots. the climbing sorts twine "against the sun;" that is, in a contrary direction to the apparent motion of the sun. the shoots must be tied up several times, to keep them on their own poles. =diseases.=--the worst bean enemies are rust and blight. in new soil, with good weather, these troubles seldom appear. during prolonged wet weather there seems to be no help for them. spraying with bordeaux mixture is a preventive. the spraying should be done in advance of blossoming. the seed is sometimes soaked in bordeaux mixture for an hour where rust is anticipated. prevention is better than cure, and new soil and fresh seed are the best precautions. diseased vines should be burned. =insects.=--the weevil which attacks the bean is closely allied to the pea weevil. some practical people say there is no remedy known; others recommend heating the beans to ° for an hour; others use bisulphide of carbon in a closed vessel, along with the beans. =profits.=--by far the largest cash receipts per acre are obtained by selling beans in their fresh state; preferably in the pods. the production of bush beans (pods) may run up to or bushels per acre, or even more. lima beans are more profitably sold in the pods than shelled, though some markets demand the shelled article. the consumer gets a fresher and better article in the pods, and the producer is saved much trouble, and this method should be encouraged. beans should be cooled, if possible, before shipment in bulk to distant markets, thus avoiding danger from heating, moulding and spotting. beets. beets are produced in enormous quantities by market gardeners near all large cities, both under glass and in the open ground. they also have a place in the farm garden, as they are of easy culture. [illustration: crosby's improved egyptian, the earliest blood turnip beet.] excellence in the table beet depends partly on variety, but mainly on the quickness of growth. sweetness and succulence result from high culture in rich, mellow soil. mangels and sugar beets, of course, have a place on every farm, for stock-feeding purposes, and table beets may also be grown, if good soil is available, for market purposes. the winter-keeping sorts are frequently in demand, and may be included among the farmer's cash crops. no amount of stable manure is excessive in beet-growing. partially rotted manure is best. for horse culture the rows should be feet apart. five to six pounds of seed will plant an acre. planting.--planting may be done as soon as the ground can be worked in the spring, as the beet is hardy, and not injured by a little frost; and successional plantings may be made until june. the june sowing will produce autumn beets, which can be stored for winter use or sale. it is well to soak the seed in tepid water before planting; it should be scattered thinly in the rows and lightly covered. in dry weather the soil must be pressed firmly on the seed, to insure sufficient moisture for germination. the plants in the rows should be thinned out to or inches. it is very important to remember that the more space each plant has about it the sooner will it reach a marketable size. beet plants standing inches apart in the row will be ready long before plants standing only inches apart. beets vary in shape very considerably. some are round and some are long, with intermediate grades. the turnip-shaped beets are the earliest, while the half-longs and longs are the heaviest. for market purposes, if sold in bunches, the round ones are the most profitable. [illustration: ford's perfected half-long beet. the best winter keeper.] the color of the foliage varies greatly; but the color of the leaf is not always typical of the root. some of the blood beets have green leaves. there are many shades and colors of the roots, from deepest blood red to white, with zones of pink. the beet is an excellent and highly esteemed article of food, and is always in demand. beets.--for earliest, we especially recommend crosby's improved egyptian and surprise; for winter, ford's perfected half-long. please see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =marketing and storing.=--a bunch contains five, six or seven beets, with tops tied together and superfluous leaves cut off. the bunching and topping may be done in the field, and the bunches afterward washed in a tub of water, by means of a scrubbing brush. it always pays to send roots to market in a clean and attractive condition. winter storage in cellars, under sand, is often practiced; or the beets may be kept in pits in the open ground, covered with straw and earth. =enemies.=--the beet is remarkably free from enemies of any kind. the root sometimes cracks, and is occasionally attacked by insects, but the farmer or gardener has little to fear if soil be good and weather be favorable. all farmers attending market should have a few beets to help make up the weekly load for the wagon. cabbage. early cabbage is not a farm gardener's crop at the north, though in the southern states the early varieties can be grown by farmers for shipment to the great northern markets. the northern farmer, unless provided with glass, usually finds more profit in the later and larger sorts, which mature in autumn. =soil.=--rich, loamy soil, containing much clay, is best for this vegetable, which is a rank feeder. large amounts of manure are demanded. the manure is best applied in a partially rotted form, as fresh manure of any kind (especially hog manure) is liable to produce the disease or deformity known as club-root, the spores of the disease apparently being in the fresh manure; though land too long cropped with cabbage is likely to produce the same disease without the application of fresh manure of any kind. [illustration: early jersey wakefield cabbage.] =seed.=--it is of especial importance that good seed be planted, as cabbage varies so much and shows such a disposition to go back to undesirable types that great dissatisfaction and loss attend all experiments with poorly-selected seed. the choice of seed not infrequently determines the size and success of the crop. expert cabbage growers are well aware of this fact. [illustration: johnson & stokes 'market gardeners' no. , valuable for early summer or winter cabbage.] =planting.=--the manure should be broadcasted, and an ample amount used, with a high-grade fertilizer in the row. the young plants, previously started in a seed-bed, should (at the north) be set out in july. the seed for late cabbage is planted in may. a quarter pound of seed will give enough plants for an acre. the rows should be feet apart, and the plants - / feet apart in the rows. these distances favor good cultivation and quick growth. in some parts of new england the seed is sown in the open field, in rows where the cabbage is to grow, but the practice of transplanting from seedbeds is found most satisfactory. the rainfall here usually insures a fair crop of cabbage, but any crop which requires transplanting in midsummer is liable to delay or injury in case of protracted dry weather. hence, irrigation is desirable. at the distances just recommended for planting ( Ã� - / feet) there would be , plants to the acre. in the case of such varieties as johnson & stokes' earliest and jersey wakefield cabbage, where the number of plants per acre would be perhaps , , the michigan experiment station obtained , more marketable heads per acre under irrigation than where water was not used upon the growing crop. (this fact is mentioned in a book on irrigation just issued by the publishers of this book). =varieties.=--the earliest varieties of cabbage have small, conical heads; the midsummer sorts mostly round heads; and the late or drumhead sorts have large, flat heads. there are cabbages which never head; as, for instance, the collards of the south; and there are varieties of crinkled-leaf cabbages, known as the savoy types. the kales are closely related to the cabbages. both cabbages and kales have purple-colored forms, sometimes called red forms. cabbage.--for early varieties for the south, we recommend johnson & stokes' earliest, early jersey wakefield and charleston wakefield; for both early and late in the north, johnson & stokes' market gardeners' no. , louderback's all the year round; for late varieties for the north, new rock head winter, johnson & stokes' matchless flat dutch, danish ball head. the johnson & stokes' hard heading savoy cabbage is of rare excellence. for descriptions of the many varieties of cabbage, please see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =cultivation.=--thorough horse cultivation between the rows should be supplemented by a hand-hoe between the plants in the rows. the cultivation must be good and continuous until the heads begin to form. =diseases and insects enemies.=--club root has been mentioned. it is a fungous trouble. the best remedy is new ground. the black flea on very young plants can be conquered with air-slacked lime or wood ashes. the cut worm is troublesome only in spring; not with late cabbage. the root maggot is sometimes very destructive, both with cabbage and cauliflower. new ground is the most satisfactory remedy. green aphides or lice often follow lack of strength in the cabbage. pyrethrum powder, air-slacked lime, kerosene emulsion, etc., are used as remedies for lice. the pyrethrum may be used dry or in water, at the rate of a tablespoonful to two gallons. the green cabbage worm, one of the worst of all enemies, can be pretty effectually checked by means of air-slaked lime dusted over the leaves. other caterpillars yield to the same treatment. =bursting.=--bursting of cabbage heads is caused by a second growth, the result, perhaps, of continued wet weather, or warm weather following cold weather. the best remedy is to cut part of the feeding roots, either by close cultivation or with a hoe. =selling.=--cabbage prices vary between extremes that are far separated. early cabbage usually sells at a good profit. summer and autumn prices may be low. winter and spring prices are almost always fair, and occasionally extra. pennsylvania farmers sometimes ship to wholesalers in the cities and sometimes sell at public sale in the open field, in the autumn, just as the crop stands. the latter plan is an excellent one, where auction prices warrant it. it avoids the cost and risk of storage, as each buyer removes and stores his purchase. =storage.=--cabbage will bear much freezing without injury. the art of winter storage is to put it where it will have the fewest changes of temperature, and where it will be cool and damp without being wet. the most common practice is to cover two or three rows of inverted heads, with roots attached, with from to inches of soil, making provision for good drainage by ditches on both sides of the wedge-shaped heap. [illustration: cutting johnson & stokes' earliest cabbage for market. photographed june st, in the field of messrs. myers & bowman, the well-known philadelphia market gardeners. this was the first home-grown cabbage in philadelphia markets.] this system may be modified so as to include six or more rows of inverted cabbage, the heap being flat instead of wedge-shaped on top. it does not turn water so well, but in practice is usually satisfactory. a good plan is to use about inches of soil, and to add straw or litter as the cold increases. under a steady low temperature it is no trouble to keep cabbage through the winter, but it is hard to provide against the many changes of our variable climate. [illustration: johnson & stokes' matchless late flat dutch cabbage.] where heads are to be carried over for seed, or where it is intended to head up soft cabbages during the winter (a feasible thing) the roots are set downward instead of upward. if care be taken to remove the roots without much injury, they may be set in furrows or trenches, and the earth heaped over the cabbages just as in the several ways above mentioned, and they will make decided growth during their life under ground. in fact, a cabbage with any sort of immature head in november will, under proper management, be in good marketable condition in march or april. solid freezing in the trenches is not necessarily destructive, but if the temperature falls much below ° (at the point occupied by the heads), there is danger that they will perish. they may be in good edible condition after such severe freezing, but the chances are that they will fail to grow if set out for seed. the cabbage decays with a strong, offensive smell when its tissues finally break down after repeated changes of temperature and moisture. a uniform temperature is favored by the use of earth in storage, and though storage in buildings and cellars is quite feasible, there is nothing better or cheaper than the soil of the open field. if the crop is not all to be marketed at one time, it is well to make a number of separate trenches, so that each can be wholly cleared of its contents at a single opening. these trenches and ridges must be made upon dry ground, where there is no standing water. =for stock.=--cabbages make good food for cows, but should be fed after milking; and frozen cabbages should never be fed in any considerable quantity, as they are liable to cause hoven or bloat. carrots. a sandy soil or light loam is best for carrots, but they will grow anywhere under good culture. enormous quantities are grown by the market gardeners, both under glass and in the open ground, for use in soups and for seasoning purposes. the short or half-long varieties are demanded by this trade. [illustration: average specimens of rubicon half-long carrots.] farm gardeners will do best with half-long and long kinds, unless a special demand calls for the smaller carrots. the large half-long and long ones are suited to both culinary and stock-feeding purposes. it requires from three to four pounds of seed to the acre, depending on the distance between the rows. the plants should be from to inches apart in the rows, and the rows as near together as is feasible for horse work. clean culture is demanded. the seed must be planted shallow, and may go into the ground as early as it can be worked in the spring, and from that time until the middle of june. the only danger about late planting is the possibility of dry weather. the carrot is quite free from insect or other enemies, as a rule, and its culture is not difficult. it demands thinning and hoeing after the plants are well above ground, but no extra attention of any kind. the winter storage is the same as for beets or turnips, either to be put away in earth-covered heaps or preserved in a cool, non-freezing root cellar. the so-called belgian carrots (both yellow and white) are used only as stock food; though the other sorts, such as rubicon, danvers and long orange, if in excess of market demands, are equally good for stock. cows and horses are fond of them, and they are most wholesome. the farm gardener should raise them, however, for their cash value in the produce markets. the carrot is in high favor with good cooks everywhere. the carrot does not demand excessively rich ground; in fact, too much manure tends to stimulate the growth of the top at the expense of the root, and fresh manure makes the root rough. the smaller carrots are bunched and sold like radishes or early beets. the larger kinds are sold by measure--about cents or more per basket at this time (january, ). this is at the rate of $ . per barrel, or about $ per acre. the crop is a good one, if near a market where carrots are demanded. carrot.--we especially recommend rubicon half-long for market or stock. see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." sweet corn. there is no money crop more available to the farm gardener than sweet corn. it will grow anywhere, and the young ears are always in demand. any sod land plowed shallow will yield a crop of sweet corn. it is easy in this latitude to have an unbroken succession of marketable ears from july st to october st, or even somewhat earlier and later. shallow plowing and the use of a little fertilizer or compost in the hills will put the ground in order. a complete fertilizer is best. a compost containing hen manure is excellent. =planting.=--eight or ten quarts of seed are required to plant an acre of corn in hills, allowing for replanting of what is injured by grubs or other causes. the larger varieties should be planted feet by ; the rows feet apart and the hills feet apart, with not more than three stalks in a hill. the smaller varieties may be grown much closer-- feet by . any method may be used in laying out a corn field that will give each stalk (of the large kinds) the equivalent of square feet of ground space. the dwarf sweet corns demand about half that space. =varieties.=--the sweet corns require from sixty to eighty days to produce ears fit for boiling. the earliest varieties are small, and are lacking in sweetness as compared to the best intermediate types. still, the early prices are so much better than midsummer prices, that the early varieties will always be grown for market. indeed, the best profits of the business are from the extra early and extra late sales. sweet corn should not be grown by shippers who are distant more than twenty-four hours from market, as the ears lose quality and flavor soon after being pulled from the stalks. forty-eight hours from market is an extreme distance, but is feasible if the ears can be chilled in a cold storage house previous to shipment; otherwise, they will heat and spoil. even when designed for a near-by market a load of sweet corn ears may heat and spoil during a single night. it is best to scatter them upon the grass, if pulled during the afternoon for shipment the following morning. the most profit to the grower will be found in ears which are not too large, as corn is often sold by the dozen, the large sorts being too weighty. the early kinds, though small, can be planted closely, and a large number of ears secured; and they are out of the way so soon that the ground can be used for celery or other late crop. celery can be set out between the rows of corn, and thus be shaded to some extent during the critical period following transplanting. the evergreens, early and late, and the shoe-peg types, such as country gentleman and zig zag evergreen, are among the sweetest of all. the grains are of irregular shape and arrangement, and the appearance of the ears is not altogether prepossessing. when once known, however, they are in demand by consumers. the red-cob corns should be cooked by dropping into boiling water. if cooked slowly, the red color of the cob affects the appearance of the grains. sweet corn.--for first early, we recommend burlington hybrid and mammoth white cory. the former closely resembles a true sugar corn in appearance. for second early, early champion and new early evergreen; for late, original stowell's evergreen, country gentleman, zig zag evergreen. see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual" for descriptions of varieties. =cultivation, enemies, etc.=--shallow culture, frequently repeated, is demanded by sweet corn. the growth at first is timid and slow; afterward, if well cultivated, the stalks grow with great rapidity and vigor. [illustration: new early evergreen sweet corn.] to make the most of the stalks, they should be cut as soon as possible after the last ears have gone to market and fed to stock. sweet corn stalks when dry make excellent fodder. the main enemies of corn are the cut worm, which is only troublesome in spring; a fungus which attacks the ears and which is always most prevalent on the small, early sorts; and a worm which cuts and injures the grain while the corn is in milk. crows sometimes pull up the seeds, but can be disposed of by scattering a little yellow corn on the surface of the ground around the edges of the field. as the crow destroys many cut worms, it is better to feed him with corn than to shoot him. the prevalence of fungus-troubled or smutty corn is probably a symptom of weakness, the result of planting too early, or of too much wet weather. all plants that are weak are liable to fungus attacks, and it is the early corn that suffers most. this corn is often planted before the ground is sufficiently warm, and there is a consequent weakness of growth. indian corn, at philadelphia, should not be planted before may th, and yet it is not uncommon to see gardeners planting sweet corn two weeks earlier. they say they are "going to risk it." the result may be a good crop of corn, or it may be a crop of worms and fungus. of course, the high price of the first corn in market is the excuse for the unseasonable date of planting. but it is not quite fair to blame the seed or the variety of corn for what is partly the result of the gardener's impatience. all traces of smut on corn stalks should be burned, and not allowed to be fed to cattle. =the corn worm.=--far more destructive and disastrous than smut is the corn worm (heliothis armiger). this is the cotton worm of the south, there called boll worm. it is also sometimes called the tomato worm. it is the larva of a day-flying moth. the difficulty in dealing with it is that when in the corn ear it is out of the reach of poisonous applications of any kind. its depredations are extensive, especially in early corn. it prefers corn to all other foods, and cotton planters protect their crops by planting early corn in the cotton fields and then destroying the corn and the worms within the ears. the best remedy at the north is to feed all wormy ears to pigs; and to plow the corn land in autumn, when the insects are in the pupa or chrysalis state. if turned up by the plow, it is believed that they mostly perish. the worms are said to be cannibals, eating each other to a great extent. this worm is, perhaps, the greatest enemy with which the grower of sweet corn has to contend. the plan of feeding wormy ears to pigs offers the double advantage of destroying the enclosed pests, while at the same time fattening the pigs. =successional planting.=--the skillful farmer will arrange successional plantings of corn, beginning (at philadelphia) may th and ending about july th. the first and last plantings should be of the early sorts; the intermediate plantings of the full-sized varieties. =profits.=--profits depend on location. the size of the crop should approximate , dozens of ears per acre, and the gross receipts should be $ to $ per acre, more or less, above the value of the fodder. =suckering.=--time is often spent in pulling the suckers from the stalks of sweet corn. such time is wasted. if the suckers are let alone they will not reduce the number or quality of the marketable ears. horseradish. farmers who have soil that is both rich and deep can find profit in growing horseradish on a large scale, in connection with early peas, beans or sweet corn. the sets are planted in may, in the rows between crops, and after the crops are removed the horseradish makes its main growth. it is perfectly hardy, and comes on rapidly during the late summer and autumn months. where the ground is not strong enough to produce large roots the first year, the business will not prove very remunerative. =the sets.=--horseradish sets are made by cutting small roots ( / to / inch in thickness) into pieces or inches long. the upper end is cut square off; the lower end with a slope. this is to get them right end up at planting time. the small roots are available in quantities in the autumn, when the large roots are trimmed for market. the sets are kept in sand during the winter, or buried in the open ground, in a carefully-marked spot, where they can be easily found in the spring. if planted feet apart in rows feet apart, each plant will represent square feet of space, and, hence, about , sets will be needed for an acre. the method of planting is to strike out rows, and with a long dibber or crowbar make holes or inches deep. a set is dropped into each hole and the earth pressed about it. [illustration: ideal hollow crown parsnip.] shoots will soon appear above the surface, and when the early crop has been removed from the land, the horseradish should be well cultivated once or twice. little further attention is needed. the roots should be lifted the same year, in december, and stored in an earth-covered heap or pit, or else in sand in a root cellar. the small lateral roots should be saved for the next year's sets. there is a good demand for horseradish, both wholesale and retail; but prices should be ascertained before going into the business in a large way. good roots, after trimming and washing, should weigh half a pound or more each. parsnip. the cultural requirements of the parsnip are quite similar to those of the carrot. any soil that is deep mellow and moderately rich may be used for parsnips. fresh manure is to be avoided, as it makes the roots rough. [illustration: mammoth sandwich island salsify as bunched for market.] the seed should be planted in early spring, while the ground is moist, as it germinates very slowly. it should be covered to a depth of half an inch, and the soil pressed down firmly. the plants must be thinned out to stand or inches apart. the parsnip is a vegetable of a perfectly hardy character. it may remain in the ground, just where it grows, all winter. the flavor is said to be improved by hard freezing, and no amount of freezing will hurt it. it has a high value as human food, and is demanded in large quantities in some markets. it also has a high value as a stock food, especially for cows. it should be fed after milking, in quantities not sufficient to taint the milk. the price is variable, but about the same as the carrot. parsnip.--we recommend ideal hollow crown. for description, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." salsify or oyster plant. salsify, oyster plant or vegetable oyster is a root of easy culture and of high food value. in shape it resembles the carrot and parsnip, and is as perfectly hardy as the latter. the seed should be sown an inch under the surface, in spring, in rows - / to - / feet apart, and the plants thinned to stand inches apart in the rows. the culture is the same as for parsnips. fresh manure must be avoided, as it makes the roots ill-shaped. the roots, under good treatment, will exceed an inch in diameter, and may attain a size of inches or more. they may remain in the ground over winter, to be taken up whenever the frost permits or they may be taken up in late autumn and preserved in sand in a cellar. good salsify is in demand where its merits are known. the potato. the cultivation of the potato is so well understood by every american farmer and gardener that it seems unnecessary to discuss the details of cutting the tubers, planting, cultivating, harvesting, etc. the weak points of potato culture are most commonly the fertilizing and the treatment of diseases. these will be briefly discussed. as to lack of moisture, to be remedied by artificial watering, the reader is referred to our new book, entitled, "irrigation by cheap modern methods," in which a case is mentioned where water alone made a difference of bushels per acre in the crop. potatoes.--best for the south, bliss triumph, pride of the south, crown jewel, early thoroughbred. general crop in the north--houlton early rose, table king, late puritan, rural new-yorker no. . for descriptions of these and other varieties, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =fertilizing.=--a ton of potatoes ( - / bushels) contains · pounds of nitrogen (equal to · pounds of ammonia), · pounds of phosphoric acid and pounds of potash. this shows that nitrogen and potash are the elements mainly abstracted from the soil by a crop of potatoes. an analysis is not an infallible index of what must be applied to any soil, for that soil may be naturally rich in some one fertilizing element and deficient in the others. only experiment will determine what is best. but a knowledge of the analysis of the crop is necessary to intelligent experimentation. nitrogen and potash will evidently be demanded in most cases, yet the ohio station recently reports that "phosphoric acid has been the controlling factor in the increase of the potato yields" in the trials made there. this shows how greatly soils vary in their requirements. [illustration: harvesting seed potatoes near houlton, aroostook county, maine.] barnyard manure would answer all purposes and would be an ideal potato fertilizer, except for the fact that it so often carries with it the spores of such diseases as blight, scab and rot. still, barnyard manure in a partly rotted condition is very widely used by potato growers. clover sod is an excellent source of nitrogen, as heretofore explained. the clover is, perhaps, the best of the leguminous crops for green manuring purposes. many successful potato farmers depend largely upon clover, supplementing it with a small amount of high-grade complete fertilizer in the rows. where phosphoric acid is necessary, it can be had in the form of ground bone or acidulated rock, and potash can be had in the form of sulphate or as kainit. where the scab is prevalent, it may prove better to use kainit, on account of the salt which it contains, as will be presently explained. =planting.=--it requires from seven to ten bushels of tubers to plant an acre. some growers use as much as fifteen bushels. the date of planting, depth, distance between rows, etc., are details for individual determination. flat culture is better than ridge culture, so far as conservation of moisture is concerned. it is important that good northern-grown seed be planted; tubers which have not lost their strength by excessive sprouting. storage in a cool, dark, dry place is best for potatoes. whether planted early or late, or at successional dates, must be determined by the market requirements of the grower. =varieties.=--the varieties of potatoes are many, and while it is wise to experiment in a small way on new kinds, it is best to depend for business purposes on standard sorts that have been fully tested. =irrigation.=--after the farmer has exhausted his best efforts in the preparation and fertilization of the soil, and after good seed has been planted and the best possible culture given, there may come a season of prolonged drouth that will defeat his purpose of securing a large crop. this result is not common, but neither is it rare; and where farmers are looking toward the high culture of certain special crops, it would be well for them to consider the matter of artificially watering their potato fields. [illustration: an average tuber of table king, one of the best all around potatoes.] =diseases and enemies.=--not counting dry weather, which sometimes robs the farmer of two-thirds of his crop, there are four diseases which exert a disastrous influence on the potato, and which are liable to occur any season. two of these diseases are of the leaf and stem and two of the tubers. the two leaf troubles are respectively known as blight or downy mildew and the macrosporium disease. the two tuber troubles are scab and rot. =leaf blights.=--no attempt will be made here to separately describe the two leaf diseases. both destroy the foliage and check the further growth of both vine and tuber. the leaves turn brown or black, and the stem quickly wilts and falls. there can be no growth of tuber without vigorous health of vine. spraying with bordeaux mixture, in advance of the occurrence of any disease, is recommended. bordeaux mixture for this purpose is made by using six pounds of copper sulphate and four pounds of quick lime, dissolved in separate wooden vessels, and the lime water poured into the dissolved blue stone. this should be diluted with water sufficient to fill a forty-five gallon barrel. paris green to the amount of from one-quarter to three-quarters of a pound to the barrel should be added, to destroy beetles and other insects. the vines should be sprayed five or six times, beginning when they are inches high, at intervals of ten days or two weeks. during rainy weather the spraying should be more frequent than during clear weather. the object is to prolong the life and vigor of the vines. the cost of the five or six sprayings, including labor at $ . per day, is put at not above $ per acre, while the crop at stake may be affected to the extent of scores of bushels. =scab and rot.=--the evidence about scab and rot is still contradictory, but it is likely that these diseases will presently be under control. at the new jersey station, professor halsted completely conquered scab with an application of pounds of flowers of sulphur per acre scattered in the rows, while the same treatment at the ohio station was less successful. at the latter station benefit was found in the use of salt, kainit, sulphate of potash, etc. the various experiments and observations on potato scab and rot seem to indicate that scab flourishes best on a soil inclined to be alkaline, while rot is most prevalent on a soil inclined to be acid. the use of lime increases scab, while the use of kainit diminishes it. the best practice, therefore, under present knowledge, would be to use clean seed on new ground, avoiding fresh stable manure. clean seed can be had by treating tubers with corrosive sublimate. this substance is dissolved to the amount of - / ounces, in two gallons of hot water, and (after standing a day) diluted with water so as to make fifteen gallons. in this solution the uncut seed potatoes should be soaked for an hour and a half. all unplanted seed potatoes should be destroyed, as the corrosive sublimate is highly poisonous. the use of sulphur, as recommended by professor halsted, will prove entirely satisfactory in some soils. in others, the use of kainit or sulphate of potash or acid phosphate would no doubt be found preferable. where soil is badly affected with disease germs, it is unquestionably better to seek a new field than to attempt to disinfect the old one. a rotation of crops will probably restore diseased land to health more cheaply and more thoroughly than any other process. =profits.=--of potato profits it is not necessary to speak, except to remark that it costs but little more to produce bushels to the acre than bushels. there can be no doubt whatever that it pays handsomely to spray potato vines with the bordeaux mixture. pumpkins and squashes. [illustration: mammoth golden cashaw pumpkin, one of the best for market or stock feeding.] there is no clear dividing line between pumpkins and squashes, as they belong to the same botanic family--the cucurbita. some members of the group are clearly pumpkins, and others just as clearly squashes, but when an attempt is made to draw a sharp line between them, we get into difficulty. in general terms the pumpkin has a soft rind or shell and the squash a hard rind. but even this thumbnail test is not infallible. these vegetables belong on the farm, on account of the large ground space occupied by the vines. pumpkins may be economically grown in corn fields, the seeds being planted along with the corn--one pumpkin seed to every fourth hill. no special care is needed besides the cultivation given the corn. farmers should give far more attention to growing squashes, as they are much superior to pumpkins in food quality, both for the table and for stock. there are numbers of excellent squashes now catalogued by the seedsmen which many farmers have never tried, but which are worthy of cultivation for market purposes. when a farmer by experiment has found a high-quality squash adapted to his soil, he has put himself in possession of a product of permanent market value. pumpkin.--we especially recommend mammoth golden cashaw and winter luxury. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." squash.--early varieties--mammoth white bush scalloped, giant summer crookneck. winter-keeping varieties--sweet nut, faxon, chicago warted, hubbard, early prolific orange marrow. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." tomatoes. tomatoes may justly be rated among the leading crops available to farm gardeners. there is always a brisk market for selected, carefully-washed tomatoes, packed in new baskets. such produce is seldom offered in excessive quantities. any good corn land will produce good tomatoes. excessive manuring is likely to stimulate the vines at the expense of the fruit. a little complete fertilizer or compost in the hills is desirable. tomato seed of early varieties should be started under glass. the seed is sown on heat and the plants once or twice transplanted, and put in the open ground as soon as danger of frost is over. little is gained by setting out too early, when the ground is cool. the tomato is of tropical origin, and makes rapid growth only at a temperature of ° or upward. indeed, it is suspected that one of the worst diseases to which the tomato is liable, the blight, is encouraged, if not wholly caused by too early planting in the open ground. =varieties and planting.=--at feet apart each way, it will require about , tomato plants for an acre of land. in open field culture the tomato is always allowed to lie upon the ground. in garden culture, it is often tied to stakes or supported on trellises. three ounces of seed will raise sufficient plants for an acre. there are many varieties of tomatoes, including the early and late market sorts, the yellow kinds, and the little pear-shaped and plum-shaped tomatoes, both red and yellow, used in pickling. the ideal market tomato is one of medium size and smooth shape. it must have firmness and depth, and the quality of ripening evenly all over. there should be neither greenness nor wrinkles around the calyx, nor should the fruit be of irregular shape. as to color, it is a matter of taste and neighborhood preference. some markets demand red and some purple fruit. tomato.--we recommend, for earliest, atlantic prize and money maker; for second early and main crop, brinton's best, new fortune; for late, brandywine, cumberland red, stone. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =successional planting.=--if the first tomato plants be set in the open ground (at philadelphia) may th to th, there should be at least one and preferably two later crops, because young, vigorous plants yield the most and best fruit. it is good practice to sow tomato seed in the open ground, say about middle of may, and again somewhat later. these out-of-door plants will come forward very rapidly, and will be ready to produce late summer and autumn crops. [illustration: atlantic prize tomatoes, as they appear for sale on fruit stands, etc., during the spring months.] =cultivation.=--the tomato is of the easiest cultivation, and will grow even under neglect, but it so abundantly repays attention, that no farmer can afford to be careless about the matter. the nights of may are cool in the north, and the newly-set plant at first makes little growth. cultivator and hand-hoe should both be kept in motion during this period, and in june also. in the latter month the tomato will make a sudden leap toward maturity, and will yield ripe fruit in july. the out-of-doors cropping season lasts for three full months. the tomato is now grown under glass almost everywhere, and is to be had in the market during all the months of the year. [illustration: the great b. b. (brinton's best) tomato, best for main crop.] the out-of-doors season is profitably prolonged by picking all the mature or nearly mature fruit when the first frost comes, in october, and placing these unripe tomatoes on straw in a cold frame. covered with straw and with the sash to keep out frost, the fruit ripens in a satisfactory manner for several weeks. such a frame must be well ventilated or the tomatoes will rot rather than ripen. [illustration: new fortune, one of the best second early tomatoes.] =diseases and enemies.=--tomato diseases, fortunately, are not numerous. blight sometimes sweeps off a whole field of early-set tomato plants, on farms where later plantings are quite healthy. this favors the theory that blight results from weakness caused by early planting in cold ground. it is a fungous disease, and may sometimes be prevented by the use of bordeaux mixture. the same remedy is the best known preventive of black rot. potato bugs may be either hand-picked or poisoned with paris green. the tobacco worm sometimes causes much damage to the tomato. all diseased or blighted tomato vines should be promptly burned, and the crop carried to new soil the following year. =marketing, profits, etc.=--as already stated, choice tomatoes in clean baskets are always in demand, and a new basket will usually pay for itself on a single sale. the sum of $ per acre may be quoted as the average gross receipts from tomatoes at present prices. this estimate is based on the low yield of a half-peck of fruit to each vine at cents per basket. if sold retail, the tomatoes would command more money, while if sold in bulk to a canning factory the gross receipts might be larger or smaller, depending on the size of the general crop and other circumstances. turnips and ruta bagas. turnips and ruta bagas are closely related. the latter are turnips in fact, and are frequently called swedes. the common method on many farms is to sow turnips broadcast, but it is a far better practice to sow both these and the ruta bagas in drills, so that they can be kept clear of weeds and worked by horse-power. not only are these advantages secured, but the row system makes it possible to take out the superfluous plants, and secure roots of uniform size and shape. turnips and ruta bagas have high economic value as foods, both for humanity and for live stock. =turnips.=--turnips are grown for market purposes both in spring and in fall. in the spring the seed should be sown early, in mellow soil. for the fall crop the seed may be sown either in july or august. the rows in garden or field may be as close as can be conveniently worked. turnip.--for earliest, we recommend purple top and white milan. for fall crop, mammoth purple top globe and golden ball. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." [illustration: budlong or breadstone turnip.] =ruta bagas or swedes.=--the seed of ruta baga or swedish turnip should be sown (in the latitude of philadelphia) in july, a little earlier than the seed of the common turnip. the ground should be well enriched with rotted manure, the rows - / to feet apart, the seed covered to the depth of half an inch, and the plants afterward thinned out so as to stand or inches apart in the row. the crop is almost always large and satisfactory. ruta baga.--we recommend myer's purple top beauty and budlong. for descriptions, see our "garden and farm manual." [illustration: myer's purple top beauty ruta baga.] =storage.=--turnips of all kinds sell well in the winter markets, to say nothing of their high value as stock foods. they are easily preserved in root cellars, covered with sand, or in pits in dry soil, covered with straw and earth to prevent freezing. [illustration: distribution of water through home-made hose pipe. an illustration from our new book--"irrigation by cheap modern methods." no gardener should miss reading this work. see page .] chapter iv. vegetables suited to farm culture in some locations. in this portion of the book are grouped a number of vegetables not adapted to every farm or location. the list includes celery, water cress, cucumbers, egg plants, kale, lettuce, melons, mushrooms, onions, peas, radishes, rhubarb, spinach, sweet potato, etc. where favored locations for their production exist on farms they may be grown with profit, if markets are accessible. celery. on very many farms there are meadows with deep, rich soils that are now lying under grass; or, worse, under tussocks and swamp weeds. some locations are subject to disastrous overflow during freshets, but innumerable spots exist where such meadows could with safety be converted into celery gardens, capable of easy irrigation, either situated above the level of floods or susceptible of artificial protection by means of cheap embankments. such situations are entirely too valuable to use for pasturage. they are the truck gardens of the future. =perfect celery.=--the object in celery-growing is to produce thick, robust, tender, solid, crisp, sweet leaf stalks, free from rust or insect attacks. the essentials are rich land and plenty of water, and skill is required in the two points of bleaching and storing. but there are no mysterious processes to be learned. the kalamazoo growers have, it is true, a rare advantage in their deep muck soil, with a permanent water level only a few inches or feet below the surface, but their success depends on accuracy of working detail almost as much as on perfection of soil. it is not necessary to go to michigan for good celery ground. =fertilizers.=--the best known fertilizer for celery is thoroughly rotted barnyard manure. fresh manure is to be avoided for several reasons. it is less available for plant food, more likely to produce rust, and more liable to open the soil and render it too dry. commercial fertilizers are not infrequently used, but there is a decided preference among many celery growers for the rotted stable product. shallow plowing ( inches) is practiced, as celery roots do not go deep. =planting.=--it requires from , to , celery plants to the acre, according to their distances apart. in the intense culture at the great celery centres two crops (and even three crops) of celery are grown upon the land per year, by a system of planting between rows, but in the operations of farm gardeners not more than one crop per season is grown. this may follow an earlier market crop, such as peas, beans, onions or sweet corn, though where the farmer is hard pushed with other work, the celery may be grown without any other crop preceding it, but not upon newly-turned sod land, as the earth should be loose and mellow. seed for early celery must be started under glass, but the farmer will find his best celery market in the autumn. april will, therefore, be ample time for sowing the seed, which should be scattered thinly in rows in finely-raked mellow soil in the open ground, and covered lightly. the seed is very slow to germinate, and the bed should be copiously watered until the plants are well started. in small operations, it is well to transplant at least once. in large operations, the plants are thinned out in the original rows, and carried from thence direct to the field. the upper leaves and the tips of the roots are cut off, and the plants are set firmly in the soil by means of a dibber. [illustration: j. & s. golder self-blanching celery prepared for market.] =dates and distances.=--july is a proper time for setting out celery; preferably after a rain or during dull weather. the rows may be from to feet apart, depending on the purpose of the planter, and the plants or inches apart in the rows. if the celery is to be stored for blanching, -feet rows may be used. if it is to be blanched in the field, the distance between the rows should be greater, so that more loose soil will be available for hilling. one ounce of celery seed will furnish , to , plants. a half pound is sufficient to furnish plants for an acre. even on good ground celery should not be set out later than august th (in the latitude of philadelphia), and preferably earlier. the system of level planting is practiced by large growers everywhere. trenching is still followed in some private gardens, but is too expensive for commercial operations. =varieties.=--the so-called dwarf and half-dwarf varieties have pushed the larger kinds out of the market almost entirely, though seed of the giant sorts can still be obtained. the dwarf kinds are large enough for all purposes, however, and are in best favor everywhere. they are about inches high, as compared to twice that height in the old-fashioned giant types. the favorites of late years for early celery are the self-blanching sorts, such as white plume and golden self-blanching, which are the result of the continued selection of individual plants or sports showing a tendency to blanch easily. for winter keeping, the perle le grand, winter queen and perfection heartwell are the best. these varieties are beautiful as well as highly palatable. there are also red or pink sorts, of high table merit and good keeping qualities. celery.--we recommend golden self-blanching and white plume for early, perle le grand for both early and late and winter queen for late. the latter is the very best keeper. see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =cultivation.=--the proper culture of the celery has already been suggested in the allusion to its need for water and its shallow feeding habits. the surface soil should be highly enriched, the stirring of the soil very shallow, and the water supply copious, either by capillary attraction from below (as at kalamazoo) or by rainfall or artificial irrigation. =blanching.=--the first step in the process of blanching or bleaching is what is known as handling. this operation consists in grasping all the leaves of a celery plant in one hand, while with the other the soil is drawn together and packed so as to hold the stalks in an upright, compact position. this single operation will fit some of the early-planted sorts for market in the course of two weeks; though a second operation, called hilling, is usually considered desirable, even with the self-blanching sorts. see photograph on first page. the kalamazoo growers depend on muck for field blanching, though they also use boards. muck is merely a dark soil, containing or consisting mainly of vegetable matter. they first "handle," as just described, and about five days later draw inches more of the muck about the celery stalks. again, three days later, they draw an additional inches about the stalks, and in two weeks from the start the celery is ready for market. these operations are frequently done by two men working together, one holding the stalks and the other drawing the soil to them. the first operation puts the stalks in an upright, compact position, so that little or no soil can get into the heart of the plant. the second draws about the plant all the soil that will conveniently remain there. the third merely supplements the second, as the hill has had time to become somewhat firm and has settled away a little from the upper leaves. boards are used for summer blanching, as they are less heating than soil. ordinary lumber, free from knot holes, is employed. the boards rest on their edges, one board on each side of the row, the tops being drawn together until within - / inches of each other, and the lower edge of the board held in place either by stakes or by soil. the work of handling or hilling must be done only when the celery is dry and unfrozen. in fact, celery must never be handled when wet (except when preparing it for market), or it will surely be rusted and spoiled. the same practices of blanching celery as here mentioned in connection with the kalamazoo operations are in vogue near philadelphia and other eastern cities, and are not new. the real reason that kalamazoo is so celebrated is her possession of that wonderful black muck soil, underlaid with standing water. this has attracted the best celery growers of the country; men who have small places of from one to three acres, and who work out every detail to perfection, employing little labor outside of their own families and concentrating their efforts on the production of perfect celery crops. there are extensive celery growers at kalamazoo, with tracts of thirty or more acres devoted exclusively to this vegetable, but the majority of the gardens there are small, and much hand-work is done. =winter storage.=--the art of the winter storage of celery, as practiced by large growers, is not hard to learn. both at kalamazoo and here in the eastern states there are two methods in vogue. one is the use of especially-built houses, and the other is the open-field plan. [illustration: blanching celery with boards.] [illustration: winter queen, the best late winter keeping celery.] the celery house or "coop" is a low frame structure, half under ground, generally or feet wide, and as long as may be desired. there is a door in one end and a window in the other. the sides, ends and roof are double and filled with sawdust. there are wooden chimneys or ventilators at intervals of feet along the peak of the roof, and sometimes there are glass windows in the roof, provided with wooden shutters. the celery stands upon the floor, which is of loose soil. there is a narrow walk lengthwise in the middle of the building, and boards extending from the central walk to the side walls separate the packed celery into narrow sections. no earth is placed between the celery stalks as they stand. they are, in fact, rooted in the soil of the floor, and are thus able to make the slight growth demanded for complete blanching. the various doors, windows and ventilators make it possible to keep the air fresh and wholesome, and during cold weather a stove may afford heat to the storage room. artificial heat is not commonly required. another method, cheaper and quite as satisfactory, especially on farms or in market gardens, is to trench the celery in the open field. the situation of the trench must be a dry one, where there will be no standing water. the trench must be nearly or quite as deep as the height of the celery, with perpendicular sides, and a foot or less in width. the stalks are set upright in the trench, with all decayed or worthless leaves removed, as closely as they will stand, without soil between them. to keep them in that condition is purely a matter of care. if they are buried deeply and the weather proves warm they will rot. but if the covering be decreased in warm weather and increased in cold weather, the celery can be kept in perfect condition. in private gardens celery is often planted in double rows, a foot apart, and wintered where it grows by covering deeply with soil. an excellent plan is to make an a-shaped trough of two boards to turn the rain, on top of which a greater or less amount of straw, leaves or litter may be piled, if needed. mice sometimes do considerable damage to stored celery, but are more easily controlled in short trenches than in long ones. small amounts of celery may be stored in cellars, in boxes a foot wide and a foot deep, with damp sand in the bottom. no soil is needed between the plants. the coolest and darkest part of the cellar is best for storage. =diseases.=--celery diseases are preventable and insect attacks are few. for blight, kainit is recommended, both in the seed-bed and open field. for rust, the bordeaux mixture is advised. hollow-stemmed or pithy celery is the result of poor stock or improper soil, and can be avoided by the use of more manure and more water. =new process.=--the method of growing celery in highly enriched soil, with plants set or inches apart both ways, is quite feasible. the plants stand so close as to blanch each other to some extent, but the system has never attracted general favor. a great deal of water is required. cultivation is possible only when the plants are small. =profits.=--the use of celery is obviously on the increase, but the demand is for a first-class article. the cash results may be set at anywhere from $ to $ per acre. the actual net profits of well-conducted operations are considerable. water cress. water cress, a vegetable closely allied to several other edible cresses, is used in very large quantities in all city restaurants. it is a much-esteemed winter relish, and is mostly served with every one of the thousands of beefsteak orders daily filled in the great eating houses and lunch rooms. the demand for it seems to be on the increase. [illustration: water cress.] water cress is of the easiest culture. it can be grown in the soil of a forcing house under glass, and is extensively produced in this way by market gardeners. the cheapest method is to grow it in running water, preferably near a spring head; and many such situations are available to farmers. flat beds, made of loam, gravel, or sand, covered with or inches of warm, spring water, will yield great quantities of water cress in early spring; and the use of a few sash will keep the cress in growth during the winter. the cress should be cut frequently, as the young shoots are most succulent and tender. for market purposes the water cress is tied in bunches, and retailed at from to cents per bunch, or packed in pint boxes, leaves uppermost, and retailed for about cents per box. these are winter and early spring prices. water cress culture is profitable in favored locations. cucumber. the cucumber market is not easily over-supplied, but the pickling tub should stand ready to receive all cucumbers not sold in a fresh condition. for field culture, good ground must be selected, and marked out with a plow, Ã� feet; or, a little wider, if the soil is strong. at least one shovelful of well-rotted manure is dropped in every hill, and mixed with the soil, and a dozen seeds planted, to be thinned out finally to three or four plants. it is better to have extra plants, on account of the attacks of the striped beetle. the cucumber belongs to a botanic family which is naturally tender, and the seeds should not be sown until the soil is quite warm. for farm work, the planting season is the latter part of may and the whole of june; and even july is a suitable month, if the soil can be irrigated. it will require two pounds of seed for an acre. the variety sown should depend on the purpose in view; but in all commercial operations, well-known and thoroughly tested sorts should be chosen. shallow cultivation is recommended. if an early market is to be supplied with cucumbers, the seeds may be started under glass, on bits of inverted sod or in small boxes, and set in the open ground on the arrival of settled warm weather; but the farmer will usually find it most profitable to sow the seeds where the plants are to remain. the most serious enemy of the cucumber vine is the striped beetle, which attacks the young plant and frequently ruins it. the remedy is air-slaked lime, or soot, or sifted coal ashes, or wood ashes diluted with dry road dust. the best preventive is salt or kainit, used in the hills. the true plan is to have strong, vigorous plants, which, as a rule, will resist and outgrow the striped beetle, and be not greatly injured by its attacks. there is a blight which sometimes destroys the cucumber vine, apparently the result of weakness following a prolonged drouth. the vine of the cucumber must be kept in vigorous growth, not only by cultivation and a sufficient water-supply, but by care in removing all the fruit as soon as formed, for, if the seeds be permitted to mature, the vine will quickly perish. it is the purpose of the vine's existence to produce ripe seeds, and it will make repeated and long-continued efforts to accomplish this end. in gathering the cucumbers, it is important to avoid injuring the vine. some growers use a knife; others break the stem by a dexterous twist, without injuring the vine in the least. [illustration: johnson & stokes' perfected jersey pickle cucumber.] it requires cucumbers (more or less) of fair pickling size to make a bushel, and it is estimated that an acre will produce from to bushels, or even more. when the pickles are pulled while quite small, the number runs up to , per acre; and the pickle factories in some cases make their estimates on a yield of , per acre. the price is variable, but often quite profitable. cucumber.--for planting in the south to ship to northern markets use improved arlington white spine. giant of pera is a fine table sort. for pickling, plant johnson & stokes' perfected jersey pickle. for description see our "garden and farm manual." =downy mildew.=--a disease which lately threatened to destroy the business of growing pickles in new jersey and elsewhere, the downy mildew of the cucumber, can be fully overcome by spraying the vines with bordeaux mixture. it requires six or seven applications, at intervals of a week or ten days, to conquer this comparatively new disease. downy mildew is a fungous trouble affecting the leaves and destroying the further usefulness of the vine. a recent new york experiment showed a yield of $ worth of pickles per acre under spraying as against complete failure where the bordeaux mixture was not used. the cost of spraying was $ . per acre, leaving $ . per acre as the value of the crop saved by the operation. egg plant. the advisability of growing egg plants in farm gardening operations is a question of location. on a suitable soil, near a good market, the operation will be a profitable one, if rightly managed. the egg plant is a tender vegetable, botanically allied to both the tomato and the potato, but less hardy than either, especially when young. for this reason it is best to delay sowing the seed, even in hot-beds, until cold weather is past, for the tender seedlings never fully recover from a chill or set-back. indeed, for the farm gardener the month of may is early enough to sow the seed under glass, for this plant grows with great rapidity in a warm soil, and may-sown seed not infrequently yields plants that outstrip those sown a full month earlier. [illustration: new jersey improved large purple smooth stem egg plant.] the egg plant demands a richer soil than either the potato or tomato. it also asks for more water. it is a rank feeder. a good stimulant, if rotted manure cannot be had, is nitrate of soda at the rate of pounds to the acre. the farm gardener will do well to consider his market before engaging in the production of the egg plant on an extensive scale, for it is a perishable product. it bears shipment well, but its use is mainly limited to consumption while fresh. it may command a very high price at some seasons of the year and at other times be practically unsalable at any price, owing to an over-supply. if egg-plant seed be sown under glass in early may, and carefully protected against cool weather (especially at night), the young plants will be ready to transplant before the end of the month and large enough for the open field in june. they should be set in rows feet apart, and about feet apart in the row. set at these distances, an acre of ground would accommodate about , plants. the enemy of the egg plant, in growth, is the potato bug, which must be hand-picked or poisoned. there is a rot which causes the fruit to drop from the stem before reaching maturity. this rot is a fungus, and the bordeaux mixture is recommended for it. the blight which sometimes affects the foliage is in part at least caused by cold weather, and for this there is no remedy, except late planting. every healthy plant should produce from two to six or more full-sized fruits, and it is therefore easy to calculate that an acre's product under favorable circumstances may be very large. egg plant.--there is nothing equal to the new jersey improved large purple smooth stem for the use of farm gardeners. for description, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." [illustration: johnson & stokes' imperial, or long standing kale.] kale or borecole. kale, of which there are many varieties, is a headless cabbage, closely allied to such vegetables as brussels sprouts, collards, etc. it is one of the most hardy of vegetables, and in this latitude it will live over winter in the open ground, with only straw or litter as a protection. if cut for use when frozen it should be thawed out in cold water. the kales are among the most delicately flavored cabbages. some of them are of such ornamental shape as to be full worthy of cultivation for decorative purposes. the height varies from to feet, and the colors include both greens, dark purples and intermediate shades. kale demands a rich, deep soil. the seed should be sown in a border or seed-bed, and transplanted to the open field and set in rows, after the manner of cabbage. it is largely and profitably grown in the south for shipment to the great northern markets. where farmers are situated near centres of population where kale is in demand, its culture will be found profitable, as it requires even less labor than cabbage. it is planted both in spring and autumn. the former crop is for autumn consumption and the latter crop is carried over winter after the manner of spinach, protected by a light covering of some sort of litter. kale.--for the south, we recommend extra dwarf green curled scotch; for the north, johnson & stokes' new imperial. see our "garden and farm manual" for descriptions. lettuce. in some sections, especially in the south, lettuce can be grown with profit by farm gardeners. depending on the latitude, the seed may be planted from autumn until spring. the plants are usually sheltered and headed under glass, or under muslin-covered sash, and are sent north in ventilated barrels. the lettuce is naturally a cool-weather plant, and its culture is easy. the seed is cheap and it germinates quickly. well-grown lettuce always commands good prices. it is usual to start the seeds in a border or under a frame, and to prick out the plants into more roomy quarters as soon as they are large enough to handle. in a few weeks after transplanting, in good growing weather, they are headed ready for market. good soil, abundance of moisture and free ventilation are essentials in lettuce production. [illustration] in some parts of the north lettuce culture would be found profitable by farmers in the summer season, for there are varieties well adapted to high temperature, provided good soil and sufficient water be furnished. there is not a month in the year when lettuce is not demanded for use in salads, and this demand is likely to increase. lettuce.--for the south, we especially recommend reichner's early white butter, big boston and new treasure; for the north, new sensation, mammoth salamander and hornberger's dutch butter. please see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." melons. melon culture belongs on the farm rather than in the small market garden, on account of the large space occupied by the growing vines. an acre of ground will accommodate only about watermelon hills (at feet each way) or about , muskmelon or cantaloupe hills ( feet each way), and hence the necessity for large areas of ground for the cultivation of these crops. the requirements of the various melons are quite similar. broken sod ground or any green crop turned down favors their growth, and well-rotted stable manure in the hill is the best known stimulant. all the melons are tender, and are suited only to warm-weather growth, and this fact must be remembered in sowing the seed. light alluvial soil near rivers or streams is adapted to melon growth, and many an old meadow now weedy and unprofitable might be used to advantage for one of these crops. [illustration: new black-eyed susan watermelon.] =the watermelon.=--for cash-producing purposes the best watermelon is a large one, with a hard rind. it must have a dark pink or red centre and must be a good shipper. it should weigh thirty to forty pounds, and there should be to , first-class melons to the acre. the best melon for family use or for a strictly retail trade is a medium-sized variety, which has a thin rind, pink or red flesh and extra sweetness, weighing from twenty to thirty pounds. the preparation of the ground has already been suggested. two shovels of manure should go into each hill. the planting date is may in this latitude; or as soon as the ground is thoroughly warm. four pounds of seed per acre will be required. but one plant per hill is allowed to grow. the end of the main shoots should be pinched off, to encourage branching and flowering. [illustration] cultivation should be thorough. fungous diseases can be controlled by means of the bordeaux mixture, except that it is difficult to reach the under side of the leaves. to prevent sunburn on melons, some growers sow buckwheat when the vines are in blossom, and thus secure a partial shade by the time the fruit is large enough to be injured by the sun. generally, no protection is necessary. at $ or $ per hundred, the average wholesale price at philadelphia, watermelon culture is profitable. early prices are higher. water melons.--for shipping--johnson's dixie, blue gem, duke jones, sweet heart. for home market--black-eyed susan, florida favorite, kentucky wonder, mciver's wonderful sugar. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =citron.=--this small round melon is cultivated in all respects as the watermelon, but being smaller the hills may be closer. it is used in making preserves. the name citron is frequently applied to certain of the cantaloupes. =cantaloupes or muskmelons.=--it is a matter of choice whether the green-fleshed or red-fleshed sorts are grown; or whether the variety be large or small. the sorts covered with strongly webbed or netted markings are in high favor for shipping to distant points, as they carry well. flavor is in part at least a matter of temperature and sunshine. cantaloupes may be nicely ripened by removing them from the vines and storing in dry, warm rooms. the usual planting distance is from - / to feet, in hills containing rotted manure. compost, made of hen manure, is sometimes used in the hill, well mixed with the soil. good cantaloupes are always in active demand. musk melons.--early sorts for shipping--mccleary's improved jenny lind, netted beauty, the captain, champion market, improved netted gem, anne arundel. late sorts--the princess, johnson & stokes' superb, etc. see "garden and farm manual" for descriptions. [illustration: mccleary's improved early jenny lind muskmelon.] =enemies.=--in addition to the fungous diseases of the watermelon and cantaloupe, which are best treated with bordeaux mixture, all melons are sometimes badly troubled with an aphis called the melon louse. the remedy is whale-oil soap--a pound in six gallons of water; or kerosene emulsion. the latter is made by dissolving half a pound of soft soap in one gallon of water; then adding two gallons of kerosene, churning violently; then diluting with ten or twelve gallons of water. this emulsion is put upon the melon vines in the form of a spray, and is one of the best insecticides known. it is to be used on all sucking insects, like lice and squash bugs. biting insects are easily killed with paris green--one pound in pounds of flour or plaster, or in gallons of water. [illustration: improved early netted gem muskmelon (rose gem strain).] where the land is suited to melon culture, in any part of the country, the farm gardener will find no more satisfactory or remunerative crop. mushrooms. under certain favored circumstances the mushroom may be grown as a farm gardener's crop. the requisites are horse manure and a dark cellar, cave or vault. if the manure be available and a suitable apartment at hand, the growing of mushrooms may be taken up for winter work. [illustration: a bed of mushrooms from english milltrack spawn.] there are many ways of growing mushrooms, and they can be produced in any situation where a steady temperature of ° can be maintained. a simple method is to prepare a bed consisting of horse manure and loam, three parts by measure of the former and one of the latter, the manure having been somewhat fermented and sweetened by allowing it to heat and turning it several times. a compact bed a foot deep is made. this bed will first heat and then cool. as it cools, when at ° or ° an inch below the surface, bits of brick spawn the size of a hen's egg are inserted about inches apart. the bed must not be immediately covered, or the temperature will rise sufficiently to kill the spawn. in ten days, more or less, as shown by a thermometer, this danger will be past, and the bed should receive a coating of good loam an inch deep. no water is to be applied until after the bed is in full bearing. it is assumed that the temperature of the room or cellar has been uniformly °, day and night; that the bed has not been made where it could become water-soaked; that it is sufficiently moist, yet not wet; and that no draft of air has passed over the surface in a way either to reduce the temperature of the bed itself or to dry the soil upon the surface. if these conditions cannot be maintained, either by a specially favorable place or by means of covering the bed with litter, it is better to let mushrooms alone. the crop should appear in six or eight weeks, and should last two months, the total product being from one-half to one pound per square foot. the cash price is from to cents per pound in the large cities; and the crop is sufficiently profitable to warrant the losses which beginners so commonly experience. these losses are the result of carelessness or ignorance in the matter of details. the usual sources of failure are poorly prepared beds, the medium being either too wet or too dry; frequent changes of temperature; improper use of water; and, lastly, poor or stale spawn. mushrooms are packed in small baskets lined with paper, and carefully covered to prevent evaporation. a five-pound package is a favorite shipping size. onions. the onion is a national crop; as widely though not quite as extensively grown as the potato. it is available as a money crop for the farm gardener. =choice of soil.=--heavy, stiff clay land is to be avoided. sand and gravel dry out too quickly. stony land renders good culture difficult. the best soil for onions is a deep, rich, mellow loam. soils which afford natural advantages for irrigation should not be overlooked, as the rainfall is often lacking when greatly needed. =fertilizers.=--onion culture demands high manuring. no amount of rotted stable manure is likely to be excessive. a ton per acre of high-grade, complete fertilizer is not too much, if moisture can be supplied. hen manure is a good top dressing for onion-beds, furnishing the needed nitrogen. nitrate of soda is a good source of nitrogen, if nitrogen must be purchased. the clovers and other leguminous crops yield the cheapest nitrogen. wood ashes, kainit, etc., furnish potash. either ground bone or acid phosphate will give the needed phosphoric acid. an analysis of the onion shows that it carries away fertility in just about the proportions furnished by stable manure. it is a singular fact that onions can be grown year after year on the same ground, if well manured. rotation is necessary only in case of the occurrence of disease or insect attack. the onion loves cool weather. =planting.=--to grow onion sets, the seed is sown in close rows, at the rate of from fifty to sixty pounds per acre. to grow large onions direct from seed, five pounds of seed per acre will be required. to plant a field with onion sets will require twelve to fifteen bushels per acre, according to size of the set. [illustration: a list of the most popular american onions.] an onion set is merely an immature bulb. sets vary from the size of a large pea up to that of a walnut. when the seed is sown thickly the bulbs have no chance to grow, and the summer weather quickly ripens the tops, completely suspending the growth of the bulb. in some parts of the country onion sets cannot be grown with profit, as the tops refuse to die and the bulbs or sets do not ripen properly. in nearly all parts of the united states onions can be grown direct from the seed the first year; especially from seed grown around philadelphia, which is earlier than western-grown. it is quite customary in the south to sow onion seed in late summer or autumn; in august or september. this will give early spring onions of marketable size. in the north, within quite recent years, it has become the practice to sow onion seed in frames, in fall or early spring, and transplant the young onions to the open ground. this is sometimes spoken of as the new onion culture. onion sets or young plants should be placed or inches apart, in rows a foot apart, if to be cultivated by hand; the rows farther apart if for horse work. the onion is hardy. many varieties will live in the open ground over winter, if covered (at the north) with light litter. it is in this way that shoots for bunching are obtained early in the spring. the seed should be sown for sets when the apple is in bloom. sets may be put into the ground earlier; in fact, as soon as the ground can be worked. the set should not produce seed the first year, though it often does so. it should, on the contrary, grow to the size of say inches, and then ripen for winter storage. excessively large onions are not desirable. to hasten maturity, the tops may be broken down or the roots may be cut by running a knife or sharp plow or cultivator along one side of the row. the onion, under favorable circumstances, will produce a crop of bushels (fifty-six pounds to the bushel) per acre; though bushels is nearer the average product. [illustration: weeding a field of onion sets on our bucks county seed farm near philadelphia.] =storage.=--the storage of onions and onion sets is simple. the bulbs should first be ripened on the ground, by a brief exposure to wind and sun. this completes the wilting of the tops. they should then be spread out on ventilated trays or racks, or a few inches in depth on a floor, in a dry, shady place, where the air is good, preferably a loft; not a damp cellar. freezing will not injure them, but they must not be handled when they begin to thaw, or they will rot. they must not be bruised during the operation of gathering or during the process of storage. a popular and excellent method of wintering onions in cold climates is to spread straw to the depth of inches on a dry floor or scaffold, and put on a layer of onions from inches to a foot deep, and cover with feet of straw. this will not always prevent freezing, but it checks all sudden changes. onions not fully cured should never be kept in barrels, but spread out so as to be perfectly ventilated. onion sets shrink greatly in storage; sometimes as much as one-half between fall and spring. =varieties.=--there are many varieties of onions, some of american and some of foreign origin. the former are better keepers, but the latter are of milder flavor. the american sorts (danvers, southport globe varieties, wethersfield, extra early red, silver skin, strasburg, etc.) are usually considered to be the most profitable; but the foreign kinds (prize taker, prize winner, pearl, bermuda, giant rocca, victoria, etc.) are profitable in those parts of the country where soil and climate warrant their growth from seed in a single season. the so-called tree onion is a perennial, of american origin, living out over winter. it is sometimes called egyptian or top onion. it produces bulbs or sets at the top of the seed-stalk. the potato or multiplier onion divides its large bulb into numerous small ones, which in turn produce large onions the next year. onions.--for farm gardeners' purposes, we especially recommend philadelphia yellow globe danvers, mammoth yellow prizetaker, white prize winner. earliest onions are--extra early red globe danvers, american extra early white pearl, rhode island yellow cracker. the best for sets--extra early red, philadelphia yellow dutch and white silver skin. for descriptions of varieties, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =diseases and enemies.=--to prevent maggot, the use of kainit is recommended; pounds per acre. for onion smut, which may in part be cured by the kainit, the best known remedy is a change of soil. thrip, which causes the cuticle of the leaves to become covered with whitish or yellowish spots, is best treated by means of kerosene emulsion, used as a spray. the onion fly may, in part, at least, be abated by the use of equal parts of wood ashes and land plaster dusted very thoroughly on the young plants. stiff-necked onions, often called stags, are the result either of improper growth or poor stock. they are sometimes planted in autumn for use as scallions (scullions) the following spring. =marketing.=--onions are sometimes sold in the open field; a good plan when a fair price can be secured. after curing, as already described, they are usually sold by the bushel or barrel. they are always in demand, as the onion is a standard article of human food. in the green state they are sold either by measure, by the bunch, or by the rope. the latter method consists in tying the onions along wisps of straw. =scallions.=--no small amount of money is expended by housekeepers in the early spring markets for scallions (scullions), or bunched onion shoots. these tender shoots are washed, tied and sold for to cents per bunch, retail, or half those figures wholesale. scallions are produced from either sets or large onions planted the preceding autumn, and sheltered either by frames or litter, so as to encourage early spring growth. peas. it will require one and one-half to two bushels of peas to seed an acre, and no crop finds a more ready sale than fresh peas in the summer and autumn markets. farmers who are near centres of population, or who enjoy good shipping facilities, will find peas a quick money crop. any good soil will produce a crop of this excellent vegetable, but it must not be assumed because the pea is a legume, with nitrogen-collecting roots, that it will not well repay the application of manure to the soil. peas and beans need less assistance than some other things, but they give good returns for the application of rotted manure or artificial fertilizer. the seed should be put into the ground in early spring, as soon as the soil is dry enough to receive it, beginning with the smooth, extra-early sorts, which are more hardy than the wrinkled varieties. a little subsequent frost will do no harm. the smooth, early sorts should be sown in rows, about feet apart, the intermediate or half-dwarf sorts in rows feet apart, and the tall, late varieties, in rows feet apart. in field operations no sticks are used, and large pickings are taken even from the tall-growing vines while sprawling upon the ground; and the labor is vastly less where no sticks are employed. the early peas should stand closer in the rows than the later and larger sorts. the extra early kinds mature in fifty to fifty-five days from germination; the intermediate kinds in sixty-five to seventy days, and the tall and late kinds in seventy-five to eighty days. for autumn planting, the extra early varieties are used, and are planted until sixty days before frost. [illustration: plant of new giant podded marrow pea.] mildew is a field enemy of the pea, resulting from unfavorable weather. the weevil often attacks the seed, but does not injure it for market purposes. the canning of green peas is now an industry of enormous extent in america. the peas are shelled and sorted by machinery, and thousands of bushels are annually disposed of in this manner. the wholesale market price of peas in the pod varies from cents to $ per bushel at philadelphia. the latter price is for the early product. the usual retail price is to cents per half peck. the crop of green pods per acre may be rated at bushels, more or less. peas.--earliest for the south--johnson & stokes' new record extra early, alaska; second early--johnson & stokes' second early market garden; late--giant podded marrow, improved stratagem, crown prince, sugar marrow. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." rhubarb. in some parts of the united states rhubarb or pie plant is grown in very considerable quantities for market purposes, and with profit. its culture is extremely simple. it is merely necessary to plant seed or roots, and to have the plants about feet apart each way in a permanent bed. the plant is a perennial, lasting for many years. it is a rank feeder, and the more manure given it, the larger and more succulent will be the young shoots. the roots should be divided every five years, as they finally become too large. the demand for rhubarb continues through the spring and into summer, and large quantities are canned for pie-making. five leaf stalks make a large bunch. it is worth $ to $ per bunches, wholesale. radish. farmers who retail their produce should raise radishes. rich ground and abundant moisture are the requisites for quick growth, and upon quick growth depends good quality. slow-growing radishes are hot and pithy. the early sorts are best for spring, but the so-called summer radishes are best for warm weather, as they are not so liable as the early kinds to become pithy. enormous quantities of winter radishes are grown in autumn, for use and sale during the winter months. they are kept in sand, like other roots. [illustration: johnson & stokes' olive scarlet, the earliest radish.] the early kinds mature in twenty to twenty-five days from sowing. nitrate of soda in small quantities is one of the best known stimulants. rotted stable manure is good, but hog manure and night soil are not in favor among radish growers, tending to produce insect attacks. the free use of lime, salt or kainit is recommended as a preventive against insects. sometimes it is necessary to avoid manure of any kind, on account of maggots, depending wholly on artificial fertilizers. as a last resort the radish-bed must be removed to new ground, as the maggot renders radishes wholly unsalable. [illustration: china rose winter radish.] the green seed pods of radishes are sometimes used for pickling. the plant is closely related to the mustard. it is wrong to wait for radishes to grow large (except the winter sorts), as they are sweetest and most succulent when comparatively small. crisp, sweet radishes always command ready money. radish.--early, for the south--scarlet turnip white tipped, johnson & stokes' olive scarlet, philadelphia gardeners' long scarlet. summer radishes--red and white chartier, white strasburg, improved yellow summer turnip. all seasons, radishes which are equally good for summer or winter--new celestial, new round scarlet china. for winter use only--china rose. for descriptions, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." spinach. spinach (or spinage) is grown for its leaves, which are cooked in winter and spring for use as "greens." the leaf is sweet and palatable even when raw, but it is always stewed for table purposes. it is a cool weather plant, almost perfectly hardy. it may be sown in spring, for immediate use, or in the autumn for fall cutting, or for carrying over winter. [illustration: plants and roots of parisian long standing spinach.] it is of the easiest culture, requiring ten or twelve pounds of seed per acre, either broadcasted or sown in rows. in small gardens it is usually grown in rows, but in open field culture it is more commonly broadcasted. patches of many acres in extent are seen near the large cities. it is also grown quite extensively in some parts of the south for shipment to northern markets during january and february. to prepare it for market the leaves are cut before the seed stalk appears, and after washing are barrelled or crated for shipment. growers receive from $ . to $ . per barrel in philadelphia and new york in the winter and spring. where accessible to market, spinach is a profitable crop. blight is the main enemy. the remedy is removal to another soil. of spinach there are many types; some smooth and some with savoy or wrinkled leaves. the property of standing a long time before going to seed is desirable, especially when sown in the spring, as it increases the length of the cutting season. at the north a slight protection of litter or straw is necessary in winter. south of latitude of washington no protection is needed. spinach is cut even when frozen; in fact, at any time when there is no snow on the ground. by throwing it into cold water it quickly thaws, and affords a palatable and healthful food in midwinter. the dead or yellow leaves should be removed before sending it to market, and if carefully prepared it has an attractive green appearance during cold weather when other vegetables are scarce. the winter crop is larger than any other, but much is also grown for spring sales. it is admirably adapted to farm culture. spinach.--for spring planting, we recommend parisian long standing; for autumn, american savoy or bloomsdale. see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." the sweet potato. the cultivation of the sweet potato affords profitable employment to thousands of american farmers. it is pre-eminently a farmer's crop, on account of the ground space occupied. it demands a light or sandy soil, well drained and well manured. it has wonderful drouth-resisting qualities; though, on the other hand, it is quite unable to withstand continued cold, wet weather. its territorial range may be said to include nearly the whole of the united states, where the soil is suited to its growth, and it is even cultivated in canada. it will in all probability increase in favor as it is better known and the manner of preserving or storing it is better understood. sweet potato.--we recommend and endorse the hardy bush or vineless sweet potato. for description, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual." =fertilizers.=--there is wide diversity of practice in the matter of enriching the land for sweet potatoes, and most of the standard manures are used, either in one place or another. there seems to be an almost universal endorsement of well-rotted stable manure, and next in favor is wood ashes. high-grade fertilizer of any kind, thoroughly incorporated with the soil, may be used. =young plants.=--sweet potatoes are propagated by sprouts obtained by laying tubers on their sides, not touching each other, covered with soil, in specially prepared heated beds. these sprouts produce abundant rootlets while still attached to the parent tuber, and by pulling them with care, great numbers of young plants can be obtained. a second and even a third crop of young plants may be pulled from the same tubers. in the south no artificial heat is needed. =growing the slips or sprouts as practised in new jersey.=--the fire-bed, so-called, is quite generally used in southern new jersey for obtaining slips or sprouts for spring planting. it is necessary to have bottom heat and a uniform temperature of about °. [illustration: plant of new hardy bush or vineless sweet potato.] the fire-bed consists essentially of a pit about by feet in size. it is floored with boards laid upon cross pieces. beneath the boards there is an air chamber. on top of the boards the bed is made. at one end is a furnace, with flues running out into the air space beneath the bed, but not reaching the chimney or smoke-pipe at the opposite end of the bed. at the hottest end of the bed the soil is over inches deep. at the cool end a depth of inches is quite sufficient. the whole bed is covered either with canvas muslin or with glass sashes, there being a ridge pole above the bed, running lengthwise with it, thus giving a double pitch to muslin or to glass. after the soil has been heated somewhat, the tubers are laid on the bed, about an inch apart, and covered with about inches of good soil, and the soil, in turn, covered with leaves or hay, to increase the warmth of the bed. in a week, more or less, the sprouts will show above the surface of the soil, when the leaves or hay must be removed. the object in not connecting the flues from the furnace with the chimney is to economize heat. the air chamber under the entire bed becomes evenly heated, and the smoke escapes finally by the chimney. this chimney may be made of wood, and a height of or feet will afford ample draft. either wood or coal may be burned, but preferably wood. the planting distance in the field is about feet by , the young plants being set upon ridges. it requires about , plants to the acre. the work must not be done until the ground is warm. the crop is ready in from sixty to ninety days. =cultivation.=--shallow cultivation is all that is required. the vines at the north are not permitted to take root along their length, but in the south they are sometimes allowed to do so, and additional tubers thus secured. at the north the vines are lifted and turned, to clear the way for the cultivator and to prevent rooting. =enemies.=--black rot is one of the worst of sweet potato diseases. stem rot is another serious enemy. the best treatment for these and other fungous troubles is prevention, and the best prevention is a healthy soil. it is, therefore, best to go to new land occasionally. =harvesting.=--the common practice is to plow the sweet potatoes out of the ground just after the first frost has touched the vines. the tubers must be exposed to the air for a time, and partially dried. they are prepared for market, if wanted immediately, by rubbing off the soil and sorting into two sizes. =storage.=--at the south one of the several methods of winter storage is to build a light wooden flue of lattice work, and pack about it a conical-shaped heap containing about forty or fifty bushels of sweet potatoes. straw is used as a covering, with earth upon the straw, the earth to be increased as the weather becomes colder. over the entire heap a rough shed is erected to turn the rain. the top of the flue or ventilator is closed with straw in really cold weather. the spot must be a dry one. the new jersey sweet potato house is a stone building, say Ã� feet on the inside, with walls feet high, and a good roof. the building is half under ground, and the earth is banked up around it. there is a passage way through the centre, and the bins for the sweet potatoes are to feet square and to feet deep. there is a door on the south side, with window above, and a stove is placed inside the building, for use when required. the walls are plastered, and the under side of the roof is also covered with lath and plaster, and the place is thoroughly weather-proof. a house of this kind will afford storage room for , or more bushels of sweet potatoes, and will keep them in excellent condition, if all details receive proper attention. the requirements for successful storage are that the tubers shall not be too hot, nor too cold, nor too wet, and that sudden changes of temperature shall be avoided. the sweet potato crop may be said to vary from to bushels per acre, under ordinary management, with higher results under good conditions. chapter v. sashes and bedding plants. [illustration] the cost of a hot-bed sash, glazed and painted, is somewhere about $ ; and such a sash can be made to earn its cost every year. the farmer who has, say, a pair of sashes for hot-bed work and another pair for cold-frame work, can turn them to very good account in the early spring, not only in starting such bedding plants as may be required in his own operations, but in producing plants for his neighbors. it costs but little more to grow , than cabbage, tomato or egg plants, and the surplus above the home requirement can be converted into dollars. =the hot bed.=--the hot-bed is merely a board-lined pit, containing fermenting manure, with a few inches of soil on the manure, and covered by a sash. the ordinary sash is about Ã� feet. a board shutter, the exact size of the sash, or a mat of straw, completes the outfit. the depth of manure, depending on the purpose in view, should be from to feet, the depth of soil from to inches, and the distance from soil to glass about inches at the start. as the manure ferments the soil will sink. =the cold frame.=--the cold frame is merely a piece of rich, mellow soil, enclosed by boards and covered with glass. there is no bottom heat of any kind, but it is a great deal warmer than the open soil, and serves a variety of purposes. in the hot-bed, made in february or march (in the latitude of philadelphia), all tender things may be started. the usual seeds sown here at that date on heat are cabbage, cauliflower, radish, lettuce, onions, etc., followed by tomato, pepper, celery, egg plant, etc., including flower seeds, if desired. the cold frame is used through the winter for lettuce, onions, carrots, corn salad, spinach, etc., and in spring for the reception of the things started on heat, when the time arrives for transplanting and hardening them. properly-managed sashes will do a great deal toward the production of early market crops, and profits not infrequently depend upon the item of earliness. the one thing for inexperienced persons to learn about sashes and their uses is the imperative necessity of free ventilation whenever the sun shines on the glass. chapter vi. the strawberry. in addition to the several vegetables enumerated in the preceding pages, there is one of the small fruits that has taken such a prominent place in what may be termed farm horticulture as to deserve mention here. it is the strawberry. this berry is, perhaps, the most popular small fruit in america, and because of its perishable character, is one that requires strictly local production. it cannot be shipped long distances without loss of character and flavor, and hence the local grower will never be crowded out of his own market. the culture of the strawberry is simple and easy. there are many ways of setting out plants, and the after-treatment also differs widely. there will always be controversy concerning the respective merits of the hill system and the matted row system. each cultivator must decide for himself which is the better. for the farmer, whose acres are many and whose duties are pressing, there is, perhaps, no better way than to set strawberries in rows feet apart, with plants feet apart in the row, and to allow the plants to run together in the rows, giving sufficient attention to keep the alleys well stirred and the whole bed clear of weeds. to set an acre will require about , plants. the winter covering of litter should be raked into the walks or alleys as soon as winter is over and allowed to remain there as a mulch for keeping the soil cool and damp and for the purpose of keeping the berries clean. [illustration: new twice-bearing french strawberry "mammoth perpetual." for description, see "johnson & stokes' garden and farm manual."] as soon as the crop is off, the bed should be plowed, turning strawberries and litter under, and sweet corn or other quick crop at once planted. this will insure the gathering of two crops in two years; otherwise a strawberry crop means a two-years' use of the soil. the setting out of a new strawberry bed every spring is good practice; and it is altogether advisable for farmers to occasionally introduce new varieties of strawberries on their farms, to replace old or enfeebled sorts. the profits of strawberry culture are quite large, the gross receipts not infrequently running to $ per acre. new boxes and crates are advisable, and are distinctly profitable. index. page. asparagus bacteria , barnyard manure beans bedding plants beets bordeaux mixture borecole cabbage cantaloupe carrot celery citron cold frame crimson clover corn worm corrosive sublimate cucumber egg plant glass green manuring , , horseradish hot bed humus irrigation , , , kale kerosene emulsion legumes lettuce lime location, choice of marketing manure, storage manure, value of , melon louse melons mushrooms muskmelons onions oyster plant parsnip peas potato potato blight potato scab potato rot preservatives of manure pumpkin radish rhubarb ruta baga salsify salt sashes soil inoculation spinach squash strawberry swedes sweet potato tomatoes turnip waste products water cress whale-oil soap wood ashes =everybody should read our new book= =irrigation by cheap modern methods= =double the crops--water will do it. strictly up-to-date. fully illustrated.= =tells you just what you want to know in just the way you want to be told.= there is something here for every farmer and gardener. that thing is a sufficient water-supply. irrigation makes deserts to rejoice and gardens to blossom. nature often withholds needed moisture at critical times. millions of dollars are lost annually through the uncertainties of the weather. after reading this work you will be surprised at the cheapness and practicability of irrigation, which will double the production at an expense of from $ to $ , , just according to what you want to spend, while it reduces soil culture to an exact science and enables the tiller of the soil to work on schedule time. for terms on which this book can be had, see our "garden and farm manual," which is sent free to all who write for it. compiled and published by =johnson & stokes= =..seed growers and merchants..= = and market street philadelphia, pa.= [illustration: the largest seed warehouse in the east nos. and market street, philadelphia, pa.] floracroft seed gardens and trial grounds in order to get the best results from our efforts, and make sure that customers shall receive from us the best seeds that the world produces, we have for many years maintained and carried on extensive trials at our floracroft seed gardens and trial grounds, located about nine miles from our city warehouses. all operations are under the personal direction and management of one of our firm, who resides there. here are planted each season, for thorough trial, samples of all "novelties" offered by other seedsmen both in this country and europe, as well as anything which may be sent us, claimed to be new and superior, by our amateur or market garden customers. by this means we are enabled to satisfy ourselves of the true character and value of any novelty before it can find a place in our catalogue. many acres are also devoted to the production of pedigree stock seed, from which the seeds we offer are grown. we plant the best seeds obtainable; then go over the crop, plant by plant, carefully "rogueing" and destroying the inferior and selecting and saving only the best. this stock seed from selected plants is sent to be grown on our farms in localities where the conditions of soil and climate are best adapted to the perfect development of the particular variety. it is the product of such stock seed only that we offer for sale. here are also located our seed testing houses, where a sample of every lot of seed, whether grown by ourselves or grown for us under contract, is thoroughly tested, in mother earth, for vitality and purity of stock, and only those of satisfactory quality and germinating power are sold. in fact, we leave no stone unturned to gain and hold the confidence of all customers and secure them from disappointment. =johnson & stokes= =..seedsmen..= = and market street, philadelphia, pa.= [illustration] that grow into dollars for the professional market gardener will also grow the choicest vegetables and flowers in the home garden. =our garden and farm manual tells all about them= _it is sent free to seed buyers_ =johnson & stokes and market street philadelphia, pa=. transcriber's note * obvious punctuation and spelling errors repaired. * footnote moved to the end of the appropriate paragraph. * notes moved to the end of the appropriate section. * text enclosed between equal signs was in bold face in the original (=bold=). small gardens and how to make the most of them special notice. seeds if you want really good bulbs & seeds at moderate prices, send to mr. robert sydenham, , tenby street, birmingham. no one will serve you better. his unique lists are acknowledged by all to be the best, cheapest, and most reliable ever published. they contain only the best vegetables, flowers, and bulbs worth growing. being the selections of the largest seed growers, market gardeners, and the most celebrated professional gardeners and amateurs in the kingdom. they also contain very useful cultural instructions. mr. sydenham's bulbs and seeds were represented and gained first prizes at london, birmingham, preston, newcastle-on-tyne, shrewsbury, edinburgh, etc., etc., in , , , , , , and . sweet peas a speciality. no flowers give so much cut bloom at so little cost and trouble if treated as instructions sent with each collection. good varieties, seeds of each, s. d.; choice varieties, seeds of each, s.; or the two collections for s. d.; a third collection of the best varieties for exhibition, s.; or the three collections, s., post free, with a packet each of the four best striped varieties added free of charge. generally sold at twice or three times the money. the best tomatoes, d. per packet of seeds. the best cucumbers, d. per packet of seeds. all other seeds equally cheap and good. full lists post free on application. =put it on top= of your fowlhouse, tool or bicycle shed, or anything in the shape of a shed that you are building. ask your ironmonger for our handy booklet, which will help you considerably with useful hints on building all kinds of structures, and roofing them with =red hand roofing felt= if your ironmonger has not got it, you can get it free, and name of nearest holder, from d. anderson & son, ld., lagan works, belfast. special notice. laxton's grand new large-fruited, early strawberry for . the "laxton," the ideal amateurs' and market growers' fruit. the fruit that everyone must grow! _a darker, firmer, and improved "royal sovereign."_ we believe this to be by far the =finest= of our many introductions, and in it we claim to have combined all the good points of those two fine varieties from which it was raised, viz, "royal sovereign" and "sir j. paxton," and believe it to be the most wonderful strawberry for earliness, size, firmness, quality, hardiness, and vigour of plant combined. =the following are some of its good points--= =earliness.=--in earliness it is as early as "royal sovereign." =size.=--in size it is as large as, if not larger than, "sovereign," and certainly larger than "sir j. paxton." =colour.=--but in colour it is much =darker and brighter= than "sovereign," partaking of the rich colour and taking appearance of "sir j. paxton." =flavour.=--in flavour it is quite as rich as "royal sovereign." =firmness.=--it is also =much firmer= than "sovereign," does not rot on the ground in damp weather, and is a far better traveller. =cropping qualities.=--its cropping qualities are prodigious, heavier than either "sovereign" or "paxton," throwing its bold tresses well above the foliage. =constitution.=--a very hardy and vigorous grower, retaining its foliage well in winter. =fast selling out for .=--the demand for this variety has been already very large, and as the stock is small and is fast selling out, we must ask for early orders or we shall be unable to execute until . =plants in pots only supplied.= =price s. per doz.; £ per .= (not less than / at the doz. and rates.) as the demand is very great, and the stock limited, the price cannot be much lower for several years. a handsome coloured plate, and full descriptive catalogue published shortly. free on application. laxton brothers, strawberry plant growers and specialists, bedford. small gardens [illustration] green's lawn mowers imitated by many! equalled by none! over , sold! [illustration] green's garden rollers are unsurpassed! known and appreciated throughout the world. [illustration] thos. green & son, ltd., blackfriars road, london, s.e., and leeds. _please write for list, s. g., . may be had from local ironmongers and seedsmen._ small gardens and how to make the most of them by violet purton biddle london c. arthur pearson ltd. henrietta street w.c. [sidenote: patent coil stake] notice. don't stake your carnations till you have seen the patent improved coil stake. no tying required. stakes last a lifetime. the greatest boon ever offered to growers. only wants seeing. _prices (cash with order)_:-- in., = / = per , = /-= per doz. in., = / = " = / = " in., = / = " = /-= " in., stouter, = / = per , = / = per doz. =a. porter=, stone house, =maidstone=. [sidenote: fruit trees, shrubs, seeds, etc.] the finest apple on earth is undoubtedly bramley's seedling, unequalled for productiveness and quality. all kinds of fruit trees on offer to suit every planter. the rose (the queen of flowers), all new varieties stocked. flowering and ornamental shrubs a speciality. my flower and vegetable seeds cannot be excelled. send for my lists which contain valuable remarks on profitable fruit growing. free on application to-- henry merryweather, the nurseries, southwell, notts. [sidenote: garden netting] tanned garden netting. protect your strawberry beds, seeds, &c., from the ravages of birds. nets oiled and dressed; square yards for /-. can be sent any width or length; carriage paid on orders over s. henry robinson, garden net works, rye, sussex. [sidenote: plants for small gardens] small gardens and how to make the most of them (_country or suburban_). =send a small rough plan of your garden=, showing points of the compass, and stating whether in town, country, or suburb, to mr. wood, and he will give you a list of plants sufficient and suitable for the different positions. communication in regard to _rockeries_ and _rock plants_ is specially invited. list of alpines, hardy herbaceous plants and aquatics on application to j. wood, woodville, kirkstall, leeds. synopsis of contents chapter i =the general arrangement of the garden= _what to go in for, and what to avoid--brick walls--trees, their advantages and disadvantages, etc._ chapter ii =lawns, paths, beds, and border= _how to keep the lawns level--paths, and how to lay them--beds and bedding--the new style versus the old--flower borders and their backgrounds--improvement of the soil._ chapter iii =on the duty of making experiments= _description of a small yet lovely garden--colour schemes--a novel way of growing flowers, the spring dell--variety in the flower-garden._ chapter iv =some neglected but handsome plants= _the sweet old columbine--bocconia cordata at hampton court--campanulas as continuous bloomers--the heavenly larkspurs--christmas roses--the tall and brilliant lobelias--chinese-lantern plants--tufted pansies._ chapter v =the conservatory and greenhouse= _mistakes in staging--some suitable climbers--economical heating--aspect, shading, etc.--the storing of plants--no waste space--frames._ chapter vi =the tool shed and summer-house= _spades and the bishop--weeding a pleasure--trusty thermometers-- summer-houses and their adornment._ chapter vii =roses for amateurs= _teas--hybrid perpetuals--bourbons--rose-hedges--pillar roses--suitable soil._ chapter viii =enemies of the garden= _slugs, and how to trap them--blight or green fly--earwigs--wireworms-- snails--mice--friends or foes?_ chapter ix =the rockery= _a few hints on its construction--aspect and soil--a list of alpines-- other suitable plants._ chapter x =trees, and how to treat them--shrubs= _some good plants for growing beneath trees--list of hardy shrubs-- climbers--enriching the soil._ chapter xi =the ins and outs of gardening= _planting--watering--"puddling"--shelter--youth and age, in relation to plants--catalogue defects--a time for everything._ chapter xii =the profitable portion= _fruit, best kinds for small gardens--size minus flavour--vegetables-- herbs._ chapter xiii =annuals and biennials= _why they fail--table of good annuals--table of biennials._ chapter xiv =window-boxes= _how to make them--relation of box to residence they are intended to adorn--suitable soil--window-plants for different aspects._ chapter xv =table decoration= _graceful arrangement--thick-skinned stems--preserving and resuscitating flowers--colour schemes--table of flowers in season._ chapter xvi =the propagation of plants= _by division--by cuttings--by seeds--by layers._ chapter xvii =the management of room plants= _best kinds for "roughing it"--importance of cleanliness--the proper way of watering them._ chapter xviii =various hints= _artificial manures--labelling--cutting off dead flowers--buying plants--tidiness in the garden, etc._ terms used by gardeners =mulching=--term used for applying manure in a thick layer round the roots of shrubs, as a protection from frost. =pricking off=--transplanting seedlings into separate pots. ="eyes"=--incipient leaf-buds. ="heel"=--the hardened part of a cutting, formed where it is joined to the original plant. =annual=--lasting one year. =biennial=--lasting two years. =perennial=--lasting several years. =herbaceous=--term applied to plants which die down completely every winter. =deciduous=--not ever-green; this term is applied to trees the leaves of which fall off every autumn. =suckers=--shoots that spring up from the common stock, as distinct from those which belong to the engrafted portion. =pegging down=--bending branches down close to the ground, and securing them with a peg. =runners=--separate little plants, issuing from the parent, and ultimately rooting for themselves. =spit=--a spade's depth. ="strike"=--a term applied to cuttings making roots. =pinching out=--rubbing off undesirable shoots. ="blind"=--a term applied to plants which turn out flowerless. =heeling in=--the process of temporarily covering plants with soil, till the weather is suitable for setting them out in their permanent quarters. =carpet-bedding=--the geometrical arrangement of plants. _all seeds and bulbs sent carriage and packing free on receipt of remittance._ barr's seeds for flower & kitchen garden of finest selected strains & tested growth =the best seeds in the world= for securing a supply of vegetables "the year round," and for keeping the flower garden and greenhouse always gay, and with abundance of flowers to cut for vases and bouquets. barr's /-collection of vegetable seeds contains a liberal assortment of the following useful vegetables:--beans (broad and french), beet, borecoli, broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage, capsicum, carrot, cauliflower, celery, colewort, corn salad, cucumber, cress, endive, herbs, leek, lettuce, melon, mustard, onions, parsley, parsnips, peas, radish, salsify, savoy cabbage, scorzonera, spinach, tomato, turnip, and vegetable marrow. other collections of =barr's superior vegetable seeds=:--= / =, = / =, = / =, = /-=, = /-=, and = /-=. full particulars sent on application. barr's choice flower seeds =barr's seed guide= contains a select list of all the most beautiful annuals and perennials. special collections for all purposes and many sterling novelties. = = packets of the best hardy annuals = / = = = " " " " " = / = = = " " " " perennials = / = = = " " " " " = / = for collections of half-hardy annuals or perennials, and seeds of plants for rockwork, &c., see barr's seed guide, _free on application_. =barr's= seed guide, containing many useful notes on culture, which will be found of great value to gardeners, amateurs and exhibitors, free on application. =barr's= catalogue of hardy perennials and alpines, ready in february, free. =barr's= catalogue of bulbs and tubers for spring planting, ready in february, free. =barr's= list of autumn-flowering bulbs, ready st july, free. =barr's= catalogue of beautiful daffodils, ready in august, free. =barr's= catalogue of bulbs for garden and greenhouse, ready st september, free. barr & sons, , & , king st., covent garden, london nurseries--long ditton, near surbiton, surrey. [sidenote: corpulency and the cure.] "how stout you are getting." there is too often a scarcely veiled reproach in that exclamation: "how stout you are getting!" at any rate, the corpulent one is generally sensitive on that point, and perhaps feels a reproach where none is intended. certain it is that to lose the _svelte_ symmetry of youth, to broaden out, to "swell wisibly," as sam weller has it, and finally to become "fat and scant of breath," is a process at once humiliating and distressing, especially to those who possess that keen appreciation of personal appearance which is a part of what is termed good breeding. there is now, however, no excuse for those who have resigned themselves to carry to the grave the rotund proportions of a falstaff. the perusal of a little book entitled "corpulency and the cure," by f. cecil russell, has afforded us not a little interest and instruction on a subject that has hitherto received but superficial attention from the medical profession. mr. russell has made the cure of obesity his life's study, and judging from the record of his achievements--over a thousand grateful letters from his patients are printed in the book--he has been singularly successful. the author's treatment is not by "wasting." there is no "sweating"; there are no stringent restrictions as to eating and drinking; no drastic conditions of any kind. the medicine prescribed is simple and pleasant, purely vegetable, and perfectly harmless. its action is two-fold; it reduces the abundant fatty tissue at a very rapid rate--in some cases to the extent of over lb. or lbs. in twenty-four hours--usually from lbs. to lbs. in a week (sometimes considerably more), and at the same time it acts as a refreshing and invigorating tonic, promoting a healthy appetite, and dispelling the feeling of depression and extreme _malaise_ experienced by the majority of corpulent people. "does the fat return after cessation of the treatment?" is a question that many will ask. no, under normal conditions it does not. mr. russell's treatment goes to the root of the malady, and, without having the slightest pernicious effect even on the most delicate persons, eliminates the cause of the tendency to corpulence. "corpulency and the cure," a dainty little book of some pages, is now in its eighteenth edition. we would cordially recommend such of our readers who are troubled with what we will call, for the sake of euphony, "exaggerated _embonpoint_," to procure a copy by sending two penny stamps to mr. f. c. russell, woburn house, store street, bedford square, london. this well-known specialist can claim the unique distinction of having successfully treated over , cases of obesity. a unique treatment. the "russell" treatment is a marvellously efficacious and radical cure which is not only not harmful, but extremely vitalising and strengthening, promoting appetite and aiding digestion, assimilation and nutrition. meanwhile the reduction of adipose matter goes steadily on until normal weight is reached. =no noxious drugs.= =no stringent dietary.= =no drastic restrictions.= an unfailing test. the weighing machine will prove that the reduction of fat commences within hours, the loss of weight varying from / to lb.; even more than this in severe cases of obesity. the compound forming the basis of the treatment is purely vegetable, & wholly free from objectionable ingredients. whilst permanently reducing the body to normal weight and size, the "russell" treatment has a wonderfully strengthening & invigorating effect upon the system. mr. russell will be pleased to give to all readers suffering from obesity a copy of his book, "corpulency and the cure," pages. when writing for the book, enclose two penny stamps to cover its postage. the book will be forwarded in a sealed plain envelope. address:-- woburn house, , store street, bedford square, london, w.c. small gardens chapter i the general arrangement of the garden _what to go in for, and what to avoid--brick walls--trees, their advantages and disadvantages, etc._ it is imperative that =a small garden=, such as one generally finds attached to suburban or small houses, should be made the very most of. frequently, however, its owners seem to think that to attempt to grow anything in such a little plot of ground is a veritable waste of time and money, as nothing ever comes of it. the aim of this book is to show that even the tiniest piece of land can be made pretty and even profitable, if due attention be given it. =well begun is half done.= to begin with, it is well to remember that the tenant of a small garden should not endeavour to represent every feature he sees in large grounds; the poverty-stricken shrubbery and pond just about large enough for a nice bath, are too often seen, and only call forth ridicule. some landscape gardeners have even objected to the presence of a lawn, where the space at disposal is very limited indeed, but to my mind =a little turf is always advisable=, for it not onl entices people into the fresh air for a game, but forms a good foil for flowering plants, and above all looks so well during the winter. =a long narrow garden= is always easier to deal with than a square plot of land, the range of vision not being "brought up short," as it were. it is well to take heed of this fact where there is any choice in the matter. =good brick walls= are a great help in gardening, though alas! in these hurried days they are becoming much rarer, the wooden fence being run up so quickly, and at far less expense. as regards =the walks=, it is better to have one path wide enough for two people abreast than several unsociably narrow ones. each path should lead somewhere, to the summer-house, or a gate, for instance: otherwise it looks inconsequent. besides the flower-garden proper, =a nursery= for making experiments, sowing seeds, and striking cuttings, should find a place, if possible; a rubbish-heap is invaluable, too, where all decayed vegetable refuse, road-scraping, soapsuds, etc., should be thrown. in autumn, all the leaves the gardener sweeps up should be placed near by, both heaps being frequently turned over to allow of the noxious gas escaping, and to assist decomposition. the =rubbish corner= should be at the furthest extremity of the garden, though it need not be unsightly if a screen is placed around it. privet is certainly the quickest growing shrub for that purpose, but, as it is so common, other shrubs, such as =pyrus japonica=, =arbutus=, =barberry=, and =pyracantha=, may be used. =the joys of a greenhouse.= if there is no greenhouse, try to obtain one; it is such an infinite delight all through the dark months of the year, and this without any great cost for fuel. a rippingille oil-stove, with one four-inch wick, will suffice to keep the frost out of a structure measuring × , if a lean-to (that is, attached to a dwelling-house). even this expense may be avoided where it is built against a kitchen wall, though, if the wall happened to face north, only ferns and just a few flowers would thrive. but even these would form a great interest, especially to invalids, who often find their greatest pleasure in pottering about under their "little bit of glass." =a vexed question.= the vexed question of =lopping one's neighbours' trees= is sure to crop up sooner or later. however much detriment the trees may be doing, by preventing the free access of sun and air, tenants should know that the law only justifies them in cutting down those branches which actually overhang their own domains. this being the case, it is often the best "to grin and bear it," and lop the trees as little as possible, for we must acknowledge that the fine form of a tree is always spoilt when interfered with to any great extent. if the border would, in any case be shady, so much the better; it will only require a little more attention in the matter of watering, etc. after all, shade from the hot summer sun is absolutely necessary if we would enjoy a garden, therefore it is always well to hesitate over an act which takes but a few minutes to do, but may need years to repair. where the trees overhang a good south or west wall the matter is more serious; it is then advisable to cut back as far as possible, for roses, peach-trees, and, indeed, most =climbers resent the constant drip= they are obliged to endure in wet weather. a list of plants which do well under trees in various aspects is given in another chapter. =breaking up.= as the eye wearies of the straight piece of lawn with gravel path and border surrounding it, where practicable the ground should be broken up a bit. some wide =trellis-work=, painted dark-green, with an arch-way on either side, helps to do this, and lends a pleasant sense of mystery to what might otherwise be a prosaic garden. it should be covered with all manner of creepers, such as clematis, jasmine, roses in variety, and some of the hardy annuals. very tender plants should not be put on a trellis, as it does not by any means take the place of a wall, being more draughty than the open ground, though such things as the _ceanothus_ will often live through several winters, and bloom beautifully every summer in such a spot, till an unusually hard frost kills them outright. =mulching=, however, of which more anon (see glossary), materially aids in preserving them. =in gardening it is the little things that tell.= a mere trifle often makes the difference between failure and success. people will hardly believe, for instance, how important it is that certain plants should only receive =soft water=, and continue giving the water laid on by the company when all the time gallons and gallons of =precious rain= from heaven are running to waste. it is only a question of a tank to preserve it, which should be in an unobtrusive situation, though easily get-at-able. where alpines are concerned, rainwater should be the only beverage, and this reminds me that a =rockery= on which to grow these gems of other countries is not such an impossibility in a town garden as might be thought by their scarcity. =how not to do it.= the rockery, as seen in most gardens, both public and private, is too often an example of "how not to do it." a heterogeneous mass of clinkers, planted here and there with ivy, and exposed to the full force of sun and wind, is not to be named in the same breath with those at kew, for instance. of course, these are not made with bricks at all, but of soft grey stone, rather difficult to obtain by amateurs. nevertheless, the shape and general characteristics may be copied; indeed, a day every now and then spent in the royal gardens at kew or in any other well planned gardens, is a liberal education in such matters, and a great help in laying out a garden to good effect, though, naturally, everything must be considerably modified. chapter ii lawn, paths, beds, and border _how to keep a lawn level--paths, how to lay them--beds and bedding--the new style versus the old--flower-borders and their backgrounds--improvement of the soil._ =the autocrat of the garden.= we have spoken of the general arrangement of the suburban garden, and must now proceed to particularize. first as to =the lawn=: it might often be described as a thing invented to keep the journeyman gardener in constant work, for where that individual only comes for a day or even half a day each week (on which basis this book is written) he generally seems to occupy his time in rolling, mowing, and sweeping the grass. an endeavour should a made to curtail this lengthy business, if it can be done without hurting his very sensitive feelings. when a boot-boy is kept, he can be set to roll the grass before and after it is mown, and also assist in the tidying up, thus giving the man leisure to attend to other matters. where tennis or more especially croquet is played, great care should be taken to keep the turf level; =inequalities= can always be remedied in the winter or early spring. =fine soil= should be scattered over each depression where these are only slight, and a little seed sown about march; but when the turf is very uneven it is a better plan to lift it, fill up underneath with soil, and re-lay, rolling well so that it may settle down properly. to keep a lawn even =constant rolling= is most necessary. even when the lawn is smooth, it is as well to some seed in the spring of every year, for there are sure to be weeds to eradicate, and this is apt to leave bare patches which mar the beauty of any lawn. during hot, dry summers, water must be regularly applied or the grass will wither and perhaps die out altogether. =grassy slopes= especially should be looked after, as they are the first to show signs of distress. where there is no hose, a "spreader" will be found a most useful adjunct to a water-can, and is quite inexpensive. the knives of a mowing-machine should not be set too low in warm weather, as =close cutting= of grass is often responsible for it turning brown. the =paths= of a garden can be composed of several substances, gravel possibly being the best, as it is so easily renewed and kept in order. in cottage gardens delightful pebble walks with an edging of tiles can be sometimes seen, but unless plants having a mossy or cushion-like growth are allowed to fall over the tiles, this arrangement is rather stiff. when laying gravel down, see that it is of a ="binding" quality=, and laid fairly thick, as this method is economical in the long run, because it can be easily turned. the paths must be kept clear of weeds, and, except in the wild portion, free also of moss, a difficult thing where the growth of trees is very rank. picking up the path constantly with a rake and =scattering common salt= over it, is one way of keeping moss down. it is important that the centre of a path be higher than the sides, so that it should =dry quickly after rain=. =beds and bedding.= as regards the beds in the garden, these are usually all on the lawn, though =a long raised bed= with a path on either side looks extremely well if filled with flowers, and can be easily got at on dewy mornings without wetting the feet. fantastic shapes are not advisable, unless =carpet-bedding=[ ] is the style aimed at. rose-trees look best in round or oblong beds, and do not lend themselves to filling up stars, though a crescent-shaped bed suits the low-growing kinds very well. as a rule only one or two different kinds of flowers should be used in the same bed, and if a good display of blossom is required these must be frequently changed. =cuttings a year old= make the best bedding-plants in a general way, for, though the quantity of bloom may not be quite so great the habit is more bushy, the individual flower far finer, and the period of blossoming greatly prolonged. it has been found that many of the old-fashioned flowers bloom much better if they also are =divided= and =new soil added=. this is particularly noticeable in such flowers as _delphiniums_, _campanulas_, and _japonica_ anemones. once every two or three years, however, is often enough for these hardy denizens of our gardens. [ ] see glossary, p. . =making the most of the land.= a new style of bedding has cropped up lately, or rather a lesson that nature has always been teaching us has at last been taken to heart, for the idea is really as old as the hills. two =plants flowering at different seasons= are placed together where formerly each would have had a separate piece of ground; thus, a tall, autumn phlox will be seen rearing its panicles of flowers from a carpet of _aubrietia_, _alyssum_, or forget-me-not, which all flower in spring. in this way each foot of ground has something to interest us at all seasons of the year. lilies have been planted amongst rhododendrons and azaleas for some time past, and now the system has been extended. when once we have made up our minds to have =no bare soil=, various schemes will present themselves to us. bulbs can be treated so, to the great improvement of the garden, as when they grow out of some hardy herbaceous plant, their dying leaves which present such an untidy appearance are nearly hidden. this double system of planting is especially necessary in beds which are in full view of the house, as these must never look empty. =wanted--an eye for colour.= borders are not so much trouble in this way, as, if the wall or fence at the back is well covered with a succession of flowering shrubs, this makes =a very good back-ground=, and, as every artist knows, that is half the battle. the colours, however, must be carefully chosen, so that the plants in front blend with the creepers on the wall. the inconsistency of people in this matter is very noticeable, for they will mix shades in their borders which they would not dream of allowing on their dinner-tables. who has not had his teeth set on edge by the sight of a pinkish-mauve everlasting pea in juxtaposition with a flaming red geranium! it is repeated every year in scores of gardens, to the great offence of every artistic eye. =colours that quarrel= so violently with each other should never be visible from the same point of view, but kept rigorously apart. it is important that =the soil of the border= be of fairly good quality; if the staple be poor and rocky, plenty of loam must be incorporated with a small proportion of manure. on the other hand, if it is heavy, cold, and clayey, sand must be added to make it porous, and thus improve the drainage. where the soil is not improved, some trouble should be taken to choose only those plants which will do really well in the particular soil the garden possesses. chapter iii on the duty of making experiments _description of a small yet lovely garden--colour schemes--the spring dell--a novel way of growing flowers--variety in flower-gardens._ ="be original!"= is a motto that every amateur gardener should adopt. far too few experiments are made by the average owner of a garden; he jogs along on the same old lines, without a thought of the delightful opportunities he misses. each garden, however small, should possess an =individuality= of its own--some feature that stamps it as out of the common run. i remember seeing a tiny strip in a large town quite fairy-like in its loveliness, and it has always been a lesson to me on what enthusiasm can do. the old lady to whom it belonged was not rich, but an ardent lover of all that is beautiful in nature and art; moreover, she did nearly all the work herself. though it was situated amid smoke and dirt, it almost invariably looked bright and pretty, reminding one somehow, from its quaintness, of the "days of long ago," for there were no geraniums, no calceolarias, no lobelias, and not a single portugal laurel in the whole place. =gardeners of the red, white, and blue school=, if any read this book, will open their eyes at all this, and wonder, maybe, how a proper garden could manage to exist without these indispensable plants. but then it was not a proper garden in their sense of the term; paths were winding instead of straight, flowers grew so well, and bloomed so abundantly that they even ran into the walks occasionally, and, what was yet more reprehensible, there was not a shadow of a box edging to =restrain= their mad flight! roses and jasmine threw their long flower-laden shoots over the arches in wild luxuriance, and were a pretty sight, as viewed from the seat hidden in a bower near by. there was a small fernery, too, containing some of the choicest specimens that can be grown in this country. altogether it was a most charming little garden, and gave infinite pleasure to the owner and her friends; indeed, i for one have often been much less pleased with formal ground of several acres in extent, though the latter might cost a mint of money to keep up. experiments in the way of colour-schemes are most interesting, and should appeal to ladies, who may gain ideas for their costumes from the blending of shades in their garden, or _vice-versâ_. here a word of warning will not be out of place; do not rely too much on the =coloured descriptions in the catalogues=, for, as they are usually drawn up by men, they are frequently inaccurate; so many men are =partially colour-blind=, and will describe a crushed strawberry as a carmine! frequently a flower will change its colour, however, when in different soil and position, even in the same district. =the dell at chertsey.= a novel way of growing plants is to open up a spring dell. i wonder if any of my readers have ever seen the one on st. ann's hill, chertsey? i will try to picture it here. a large basin is scooped out of the hill, and on the slopes of this basin are grown masses of rhododendrons and azaleas. round the rim at the top is some light rustic fencing, partially covered with climbing plants, and there was also a narrow bridge of the same material. this dell could not be copied in very small gardens, because it should be so placed as to come upon one rather in the way of a surprise, but where there are any corners not quite in view of all the windows, a little ingenuity will make a lovely thing of it. the shrubs used need not be identical; less expensive plants may be grown in just the same way. those on the slope of the dell will do best; the plants for the bottom must be carefully chosen, as, of course, they will get =much moisture and little sun=. wall-flowers would run to leaf in that position; and so, i am afraid, would forget-me-not; daisies (double ones) would revel there, however, particularly if the soil were made fairly rich; they are extremely reasonable in price, and easily obtained. bluebells, wood anemones, _doronicums_, _hepaticas_, narcissus, snowdrops, all like such a situation, but perhaps the queen of them all is _dicentra spectabilis_, or "lady's locket," as it is sometimes called; it has pink drooping racemes and finely-cut foliage, and is generally found under glass, though it is never seen to such advantage as when well grown out of doors. this dell is the very place for it, as, when out in the open ground, rough winds injure its precocious blooms. the =hardy cyclamen= would do admirably, too, but these must be planted on the slope of the dell, as they need perfect drainage. in summer it should be a mass of filmy ferns, foxgloves, and hardy orchids; the best of the orchids is _cypripedium spectabile_, and it should be planted in peat and leaf-mould, and in such a way that it is fairly dry in winter and well watered in summer. experiments in the way of growing uncommon plants are always interesting; in the next chapter, therefore, i will mention a few unreasonably neglected plants, including some novelties which i can personally testify to as well worth obtaining. chapter iv some neglected but handsome plants _the sweet old columbine--bocconia cordata at hampton court-- campanulas as continuous bloomers--the heavenly larkspurs--christmas roses--the tall and brilliant lobelias--the chinese-lantern plants--tufted pansies._ we will begin alphabetically, therefore i will first say a few words regarding the =pink-flowered anemone japonica=. though the white variety (_alba_) is to be seen in every garden, the older kind is not grown half enough; perhaps this is owing to the peculiar pinkish shade of the petals, a colour that will harmonize with few others, and might be termed æsthetic; it should be grown in a large clump by itself or mixed with white; it flowers at the same time as _a. j. alba_, and equally approves of a rich and rather heavy soil, and also likes a shady place. both kinds spread rapidly. =aquilegias, or columbines, are most elegant plants=, generally left to the cottage garden, though their delicate beauty fits them for the best positions; they do well on borders, and generally flower about the end of may; in a light soil they seed freely, and spring up all round the parent plant. =asters=, the botanical name for michaelmas daisies, are beautiful flowers for a small garden if the right sort are chosen; those that take up a great deal of room should be discarded where space is an object, and such kinds as _a. amellus bessaribicus_, planted instead; this is perhaps the finest of the genus, and is =first-rate for cutting=. it is only two feet high, of neat habit, and bears large, bright mauve flowers with golden centres very freely, from the beginning of august right into october. =a. ericoides= is another one of neat habit, and is only half a foot taller than the last; it bears long sprays, covered the whole way up the stem with tiny white flowers and mossy foliage. some of the _novi-belgii_ asters are also very good and easy to grow. one of the most =effective and beautiful= plants in the summer months is _bocconia cordata_; it has delicate, heart-shaped foliage of a clear apple-green, silvered beneath, and creamy flower-spikes which measure from three to five feet in height; though so tall, it is eminently =fitted for the town garden=, for it is not a straggling plant and rarely requires staking. at hampton court palace it is one of the most striking things in the herbaceous border during july. the hardy =campanulas= are good things to have, and in their own shade of blue are not to be beaten; of the taller varieties, the blue and white peach-leaved kinds are the handsomest, and come in very usefully for cutting. _c. carpatica_ and _c. c. alba_ are shorter, being only one foot high; they =flower continuously=, and look very well in a bed with the double _potentillas_, which are described further on. =coreopsis grandiflora= is handsomer than the old _lanceolata_, and bears large bright yellow flowers, which are very handsome when cut and =bloom for a long period=. it is difficult to imagine what we should do without =delphiniums= (larkspurs) in the hardy flower-border; they are absolutely invaluable, and seem to have almost =every good quality=, neither are they at all difficult to grow; some of their blossoms are of an azure blue, a rare colour in nature; then they can be had of a cambridge blue, purple, white, rose, and even red; the last, however, is a fickle grower and not to be recommended, save for the rockery. though one may give s. and even more per dozen for them, beautiful kinds can be had for s.; these plants run from two to five feet high in good soil, but need plenty of manure to do them really well, as they belong to the tribe of "=gross-feeders=." the =erigerons= are useful plants to grow, very much like the large-flowered michaelmas daisies, except that they come in earlier and are of a dwarfer habit; they may be had in orange as well as blue shades. the =funkias= are grand plants, grown chiefly for their =foliage=, which is sometimes green margined with white, or green mixed with gold, and in one kind the leaves are marbled blue and green; they =set off the flowers near them= to great advantage. in the early spring slugs attack them; these must be trapped and killed (see chap. viii.). why are the old =christmas roses= seen so little, i wonder? grown in heavy soil and cold aspect they do beautifully, and bring us their pure white flowers =when little else is obtainable outside=. one thing against them in this hurry-skurry age is the fact that they increase so slowly; this makes them rather expensive too. good plants of _helleborus niger maximus_ may, however, be bought for half-a-crown; this variety has =very handsome leaves=, and is all the better for a little manure. =a flower that everybody admires= is the =heuchera sanguinea=, a rare and lovely species; it has graceful sprays of coral-red flowers, borne on stems from one to two feet high, which generally appear in june, and are first-rate for cutting. =lobelia fulgens= is a brilliantly beautiful species, not to be confounded with the dwarf blue kinds; these tall varieties have quaintly-shaped red flowers, and narrow leaves of the darkest crimson; the roots are rather tender, and much dislike damp during the autumn and winter. =lychnis chalcedonica= is one of the unreasonably neglected plants; it has =bright scarlet flowers=, a good habit, and grows from two to three feet high; it must have a sunny position and prefers a sandy soil. some of the new hardy =penstemons= are lovely, and =flower during the whole summer=; they look very well in a round bed by themselves, and do not require much looking after; they are rather too tender to withstand our damp winters without protection, therefore the old plants should be mulched, after having had cuttings taken from them, to be kept secure from frost in a frame. the =winter cherry=, or =cape gooseberry (physalis alkekengi)= is a most fascinating plant; =its fruit is the attraction=, and resembles chinese-lanterns; they appear early in september, and make quite a good show in the garden. when bad weather comes, the stalks should be cut, hung up to dry for about a week, and then mixed in vases with dried grasses and the effect is very pretty. care must be taken when asking for this plant under the english name, as there is a greenhouse plant so termed which is quite different, and, of course, will not stand frost. a dozen plants cost about s.; do not be persuaded to get the newer sort--_franchetti_--the berries are larger, but coarse and flabby, and not nearly so decorative. =polemonium richardsoni= is a very pretty plant, its english name being =jacob's ladder=. the flowers are borne in clusters, and are pale sky-blue in colour with a yellow eye: the foliage is fernlike in character and very abundant. this plant =likes a shady nook=, which must not be under trees, however, and if well watered after its first bloom is over in june, it will flower again in autumn. the double =potentillas= are glorious things for bedding, and are most uncommon looking. their flowers are =like small double roses= in shape: generally orange, scarlet, or a mixture of both: the leaves, greyish-green in colour, resemble those of the strawberry. unfortunately, these plants require a good deal of staking, but they are well worth the trouble. the large-leaved =saxifrages=, sometimes called _megaseas_, merit a good deal more attention than they receive. for one thing they begin flowering very early, holding up their close pink umbels of flowers so bravely in cold winds: then their foliage is quite distinct, and turns to such =a rich red in september= that this fact, added to their easy cultivation, makes it wonderful that they are not more grown. i remember, on a dreary day in mid-february, being perfectly charmed by the sight of a large bed of this _saxifraga ligulata_, completely filling up the front garden of a workman's cottage in one of the poorest roads of a large town. the flowers are particularly =clean and fresh-looking=, and having shiny leaves they of course resist dust and dirt well. =tradescantias= and =trollius= are two good families of plants for growing on north borders; the first have curious blue or reddish-purple flowers, rising on stiff stalks clothed with long pointed leaves, and they continue in =flower from may till september=. the =trollius= has bright orange or lemon-yellow cup-shaped blossoms and luxuriant foliage. it flowers from the end of may for some weeks. both these plants grow about two feet high. =violas= or =tufted pansies= are very pretty, and extremely =suitable for the ground work of beds=, especially where these are in shade, though they will not do under trees. cuttings must constantly be taken, as one-year-old plants flower more continuously, and have larger blooms and a more compact habit than older plants, besides which they are apt to die out altogether, if left to themselves. these are but a few of the wealth of good things to be made use of, for, when once real enthusiasm is awakened, the amateur who wishes to have a thoroughly interesting garden will only be too eager to avail himself of all that is best in the horticultural world. chapter v the conservatory and greenhouse _mistakes in staging--some suitable climbers--economical heating--aspect, shading, etc.--the storing of plants--no waste space--frames._ =a well-kept conservatory= adds much to the charm of a drawing-room, but requires careful management. potting and the like cannot very well go on in a place which must always look presentable. a conservatory, of course, is tiled, and therefore every dead leaf and any soil that may be spilled show very much; it is therefore advisable to have a greenhouse as well, or, failing that, some frames. a greenhouse, though it may be only just large enough to turn round in, is a great help towards a nice garden, and a boon in winter; it also allows of =a change of plants= for the dwelling-house and conservatory, greatly to their advantage. =staging generally takes up far too much room=; the middle part of a conservatory should be left free, so that there is space to walk about; stands for plants are easily arranged, and give a more natural appearance than fixed staging, which always looks rather stiff. being a good deal more liable to visits from guests than an ordinary greenhouse, the conservatory must be kept scrupulously clean and neat; the floor, walls, and woodwork must be washed very often, and the glass kept beautifully bright. cobwebs must never be allowed to settle anywhere, and all the shelves must be kept free of dirt and well painted; curtains should be hung near the entrance to the drawing-room, so that they may be pulled across the opening at any time, to hide work of this sort. =hanging plants= are great adjuncts where the structure is lofty, and open-work iron pillars, when draped with some graceful climbing plant, are a great improvement. where there is but little fire heat, considerable care will be needed to choose something which will look well all the year round. we will suppose that the frost is merely kept out; in the summer, such a house can be bright with _plumbago_, _pelargoniums_, _salvias_, and indeed all the regular greenhouse flowering plants, as, except in hot-houses, no artificial heat is then necessary anywhere. in winter, there is more difficulty, for all the climbing plants which are in conspicuous positions must be nearly hardy; of these, the trumpet flower (_bignonia_), _swainsonia_, passion-flower, _choisya ternata_, myrtle and camellia, are the best; these are nearly evergreen, and consequently look ornamental even when out of flower. =plants suitable for hanging baskets= are the trailing _tradescantias_, the white _campanula_, lobelia, pelargonium, and many ferns. for the pot plants there are hosts of things; _freesias_, _cyclamen_, marguerite-carnations, _primulas_, christmas roses, arums, azaleas, _kalmias_, _spireas_, chrysanthemums, narcissus, roman hyacinths, and so on. many late-flowering hardy plants, will, if potted up, continue in bloom long after the cold has cut them off outside. =cactus plants=, too, ordinarily grown in a warm green-house, will even withstand one or two degrees of frost when kept perfectly dry, dust-dry, in fact. during winter in england =it is the damp that kills=, not the cold; bearing that in mind, we shall be able to grow many things that hitherto have puzzled us. all those delicate iris, half-hardy ferns, and tiresome plants that would put off flowering till too late, why, a cold conservatory or greenhouse is the very place for them! =green-houses are altogether easier to manage than conservatories=, and therefore are the best for amateurs. there cuttings may be struck, plants repotted, fuchsias, geraniums, etc., stored, and tender annuals reared. a =lean-to greenhouse= should face south preferably, and the door should be placed at the warm end, that is, the west, so that when opened no biting wind rushes in. when the summer comes, a temporary shading will be necessary; twopennyworth of whitening and a little water mixed into a paste will do this. about the middle of september it should be washed off, if the rain has not already done so; for if it remains on too long the plants will grow pale and lanky. =artificial heat.= the rippingille stove before referred to must be placed at the coldest end, and only sufficient warmth should emanate from it just to keep out the frost, unless it is intended to use it all day. it is well to remember that =the colder the atmosphere outside, the cooler in proportion must the interior be=. even a hot-house is allowed by a good gardener to go down to ° or even ° on a bitterly cold night, as a great amount of fire-heat at such times is inimical to plant life, though it will stand a tremendous amount of sun-power. several mats or lengths of woollen material, canvas, etc., stretched along outside will save expense, and be a more natural way of preserving the plants. =one great advantage that a greenhouse has= over a conservatory is this: that any climbers can be planted out, whereas tubs have to be used where the floor is tiled. =cucumbers and tomatoes= do very well in a small house, and an abundance of these is sure to please the housekeeper. seeds of the cucumber should be sown about the first week in march on a hot-bed; if in small pots all the better, as their roots suffer less when transferred to where they are to fruit. do not let the shoots become crowded, or insects and mildew will attack them. in the summer, "damp down" pretty frequently and give plenty of air, avoiding anything like a draught, however. "=telegraph=," though not new, is a reliable cucumber of good flavour and a first-rate cropper. =tomato seed= should be sown about the same time and the plants treated similarly, giving plenty of water but no stimulant in the way of guano till they have set their fruit, which can be assisted by passing a camel's hair brush over the flowers, and thus fertilising them. of course, out of doors the bees do this; their "busyness" materially aiding the gardener. as to =storing plants=, a box of sand placed in a dry corner where no drip can reach it, is best for this, burying the roots of dahlias, etc., fairly deep in it, and withholding water till the spring, when they may be taken out, each root examined, decayed parts removed, and every healthy plant repotted. the pots should be placed under the shelves till they shoot forth, when they can be gradually brought forward to the light. this reminds me that =the dark parts of a greenhouse= should never be wasted, as, besides their use in bringing up bulbs, ferns can be grown for cutting, and such things as rhubarb, may be readily forced there. =frames= are very useful and fairly cheap, though it is best to get them set with -oz. glass, or they will not last long. seedlings may be brought up in them with greater success than if in a greenhouse, and a supply of violets may be kept up in them during the coldest weather. the mats they are covered with during the night must never be removed till the frost is well off the grass, say about a.m., as a sudden thaw makes terrible havoc. =the great point to remember= when about to indulge in a greenhouse is this: unless sufficient time and trouble can be given to make it worth while, it is better to spend the money on the outdoor department, which to a certain extent takes care of itself. where there is leisure to attend to a greenhouse, however, few things will give more return for the care spent on it. chapter vi the tool shed and summer-house _spades and the bishop--weeding without back-ache--the indispensable thermometer--well-made tools a necessity--summer-houses and their adornment._ though it is true enough that the best workmen need little mechanical aid, yet =a well-stocked tool-shed= is not to be despised. sometimes it may only be a portion of a bicycle-shed which can be set apart for our implements, or the greenhouse may have to find room for a good many of them, but certain it is that a few nicely-finished tools are an absolute necessity to the would-be gardener. of course a good many of them can be hired; it is not everyone, for instance, who possesses a =lawn-mower=, but if the owner of a garden is ambitious enough to wish to do without a gardener altogether, a lawn-mower will be one of the first things he will wish to possess himself of. in that case he cannot do better than invest is one of ransome's or green's machines. their work is always of a high standard and the firms are constantly making improvements in them. the newest ones are almost perfection, but it is better to get a second-hand one of either of these firms than a new one of an inferior make. a =roller= is useful too, but, as these large implements run into a good deal of money, it may be as well to state that, on payment of d. or so, any of them may be borrowed for an hour or two. ladders can be had in this way; also shears, fret-saws--anything that is only wanted occasionally. a =spade= is a daily necessity, however. has not one of our most learned divines exalted the art of digging by his commendation thereof, and who shall say him nay? it is expedient to wear =thick boots=, however, during this operation, not only on account of the earth's moisture, but also because otherwise it is ruinous to our soles. to preserve the latter, a spade with a sharp edge should never be chosen, but one which has a flat piece of iron welded on to the body of it. digging is good because it breaks up the earth, and exposes it to the sun and also to the frost, which sweetens and purifies it; care must be taken however, in doing it, as so many things die down in the winter and are not easily seen. the ordinary hired gardener is very clever at =burying things so deep that they never come up again=! most people abhor =weeding=, yet if done with a dutch hoe it is rather =pleasant work=, as no stooping is required. after a few showers of rain the hoe runs along very easily, and the good it does is so patent that i always think it very satisfactory labour indeed. these hoes cost about s. d. each. =raking= is easy work, and very useful for smoothing beds or covering seeds over with soil. english made, with about eight or ten teeth, their cost is from two to three shillings. one of the most necessary implements is a =trowel=, in particular for a lady, as its use does not need so much muscle as a spade; their price is from s. d. to s. d. each. where there are many climbers =a hammer= is wanted, not a toy one of german make; these are sometimes chosen by amateurs under the mistaken idea that the lighter the hammer the lighter the work. one of english make, strong and durable, is the kind of thing required, and costs about s. or s. d. =wall-nails=, one inch long (the most useful size), are d. a pound, and may be had at any ironmongers. the =shreds of cloth= may be bought too, but anyone who deals at a tailor's can procure a mixed bundle of cloth pieces for nothing, when there is the light labour of cutting them into shreds, work of a few minutes only. in choosing =watering-cans=, see that they are thoroughly good tin, as a strong can will last for years; moreover, when it begins to leak it will bear mending; they cost from s. upwards, the roses should be made to take off as a rule, and a special place assigned to them on the shelf of the tool-shed, as they readily get lost. =syringes=, much used for washing off insects, are rather expensive, consequently are not to be found in many small gardens; a more fortunate friend will sometimes lend one, as there is a good deal of freemasonry amongst people who indulge in the hobby of gardening. a thing everyone must have is =a thermometer=, in greenhouses they are indispensable; the minimum kind are the most useful, telling one as they do exactly the degree of frost experienced during the preceding night. they may be bought at a chemist's for s. each, and must be re-set every day; the aforesaid chemist will show any purchaser the way to do this--it is quite simple. =raffia=, or =bass=, for tying flower-sticks, and =labels= are minor necessities which cost little, though sticks may run into a good deal if bought prepared for staking. personally, i dislike both the coloured kinds (never nature's green) and the white. both show far more than the =unobtrusive sticks= obtained by cutting down the stalks of michaelmas daisies, for instance. =galvanised iron stakes last practically for ever=, and if they are of the twisted kind, no tying is required, greatly lessening labour. it is a curious fact that though =arches made of iron set up electrical disturbance= and injure the climbers, these stakes seem to have no bad effect whatever. at the end of the autumn they should be collected, and stored in a safe place till summer comes round again. thin ones suitable for carnations, etc., may be procured from a. porter, storehouse, maidstone, for s. a dozen, carriage paid. the thicker ones can be made to order at small cost at any ironmonger's. a handy man can often make =frames= himself, especially if they are not required to be portable, and really these home-made ones answer almost as well as those that are bought. good frames can sometimes be had at sales for an old song, and only require a coat of paint to make them as good as new. here i will end my list, only reiterating that, however few tools you may have, it is foolish to get any but the best. a =summer-house= need not necessarily be bought ready-made. i have seen many a pretty bower put together in the spare hours of the carpenter of the family. there is one advantage in these =home-made summer-houses=, that they are generally more roomy than those which are bought, and can be made to suit individual requirements. =how to cover a summer-house.= of course, it is more necessary to cover these amateur and therefore somewhat clumsy structures with creepers, but that is not difficult. even the first summer they can be made to look quite presentable by planting the =japanese hop=. the leaves are variegated, and in shape like the virginia creeper. messrs. barr, of long ditton, surrey, told me it grew feet in one season. it can be had from them in pots, about the first week in may, for s. d. a dozen. then there are the =nasturtiums=, always so effective when =trained up lengths of string=, with the dark back-ground of the summer-house to show up their beautiful flowers. if the soil in which they grow is poor and gravelly, the blossoms will be more numerous. the =canary creeper= is another plant, which is so =airy and graceful= that one never seems to tire of it. get the seeds up in good time, so that when planted out they are of a fair height, else so much of the summer is lost. there are so many =uncommon climbing plants= which should be tried, notably _eccremocarpus scaber_, _cobea scandens_, and _mina lobata_. the last two are annual, and the first can be grown as such, though in mild winters and in sunny positions it is a perennial. it =flowers whenever the weather will let it=, and its blossoms are orange-yellow in colour, very curious and invariably noticed by visitors. reliable seeds of all three can be had from messrs. barr, at d. a packet. the _cobea_ bears pale purple bell-shaped flowers, and is a quick grower. _mina lobata_ is generally admired, and though of a different family bears a slight resemblance to an _eccremocarpus_, both in the shape of its flowers and in the way they are arranged on the stem. it is only half hardy. clematis _jackmanni_ and _montana_ are good for this position too. _jackmanni_ is the well-known velvety purple kind, and must be cut down to the ground every autumn, and well mulched; that is because it flowers on the new growth of each year. _montana_, however, flowers on the wood of the previous year, and therefore must be cut back about the end of june, if at all, as may is the month it blooms. the dutchman's pipe, or _aristolochia sipho_, is not to be altogether recommended, as =its huge leaves always seem to make small gardens appear smaller still=, which is not desirable; otherwise, it is a splendid plant for covering summer-houses, as it is a rapid climber. it is wise to plant some of the =decorative ivies= as well, so that, if the flowering plants fail, it will not be of so much consequence. the =varieties with pointed leaves= are exceedingly elegant, and are much more suitable than the common sort for decorating churches and dwelling-house, and cost no more to buy. =fragrant odours.= at =the base of the summer-house= there should be quantities of sweet-scented plants, as this will make the time spent there all the pleasanter. there are lavender, rosemary, thyme, bay, sweet peas, stocks, and mignonette, besides the oak-leaved geranium, tobacco plant, marvel of peru, and, of course, roses, though the latter do not give off scent quite so much as the other plants mentioned. the =position of the summer-house= is important. i have seen some divided, but where there is no partition it should generally face west. it is delightful on a fine evening to sit and watch the clouds change from glory to glory, as the sun gradually sinks to its rest, and the stars gleam out in the darkening sky. chapter vii roses for amateurs _teas--hybrid perpetuals--some good climbing varieties--treatment and soil--rose hedges--pillar roses._ the reason for the heading given to this chapter is that growing roses for show will not be mentioned, as it is quite a separate branch of the art and would require a book to itself to do it full justice. =blooms of a fair size, but in abundance= during five months of the year, that is what most amateurs need, for, after all, the amount of disbudding that has to be done when growing roses for show quite goes to one's heart! we want fine, well-coloured, healthy flowers, and to attain that end a =good soil is absolutely necessary=. this is especially the case with =hybrid perpetuals=, but teas will often do in a light soil, if manure is given them, and plenty of water in the dry season. the h.p.'s, as gardeners call them, =must have loam and clay= to do them properly; where the soil is not improved by adding these ingredients, it is advisable to rely chiefly on tea roses. =the advantages of teas.= for many reasons tea roses are the best for small gardens, as they like the shelter found there. they =flower more continuously= and in much greater profusion, are not so troubled with green fly, and are far =more decorative= in habit of growth and colour of leafage than most of the other species. in their particular shades of colour they cannot be equalled, though for cherry reds and dark maroons we have to look to the hybrid perpetual, at least, if we want flowers of fine form, and also for that =lovely fresh pink= of the captain christy type (though this is now termed a hybrid tea by rosarians). the name perpetual is apt to give =a false idea= to those who are not experienced. most of these roses are not at all continuous, many only lasting six weeks or so in bloom, and some even less, if the season is hot; that is one great reason why they are being superseded by teas, at least in the suburbs of london and the south of england. in the midlands and north the =hardiness of the h.p.'s= is greatly in their favour. =teas will stand the closeness= of a garden surrounded by houses and trees much better than the perpetuals, which are very apt to become mildewed in such positions. of course, many remedies are given for this, but often they are =worse than the disease=; flowers of sulphur, for instance, to take the best-known remedy, disfigures the whole plant terribly. =teas= are much the =best for planting in beds= which are very conspicuous, for, as i said previously, they are always ornamental. where standards are placed down each side of the lawn, it is rather a good plan to place all the =hybrid perpetuals on one side and the teas on the other=, giving the greater amount of sun to the latter. =good climbers for warm walls.= when covering a very hot wall, too, it is best, in the south of england, to stick to the tender roses, as the others become almost burnt up. i will name here five of the =best climbing tea roses= for a south or west wall. william allan richardson the beautiful orange variety so much admired; bouquêt d'or, a daughter of gloire de dijon, but prettier in the bud than the old variety; madame berard, fawny yellow, very floriferous; l'idéal, and gustave regis. =l'ideal is a most beautiful rose=, its colouring almost defying description--a peculiar yellow, streaked with red and gold, like a turner sunset. gustave regis, though often classed as a bush rose, easily covers a low wall, and is one of the best kinds there are, as it is covered with bloom the whole of the season. the buds make =lovely button-holes=, and are creamy yellow, long, and pointed. they are just like water-lilies when fully open, and on a warm sunny day exhale a perfectly delicious fragrance, unlike any other rose with which i am acquainted. another good climbing =tea-rose= is duchesse d'auerstadt. though introduced as long ago as , this variety is =not often heard of=, perhaps on account of its shy blooming qualities. this however need deter no one from growing it, as its =lovely foliage= makes it quite a picture at all times: bronze, crimson, rich metallic green, its shoots and leaves are a pleasure to look at. its flowers, too, when they come how splendid they are! =great golden goblets= full to overflowing with the firm, rich petals and with a scent to match; they are indeed worth waiting for! anxiously is each bud watched, for they take so long to come to perfection that the anxiety is not ill-founded. i have known a bud take four weeks to come out, but then it had to stand a lot of bad weather, and came through it safely after all. all these rose-trees may be had from benjamin r. cant & sons, colchester, at s. d. each. this firm always sends out good plants, with plenty of vitality in them, and as these old-established rose-nurseries are by no means in a sheltered spot, you may be sure of each tree being hardily grown and thoroughly ripened, great points in their future well-being. =climbers for cool walls.= east, or better still e.s.e., is a good aspect for hybrid perpetual and bourbon roses on walls. i have frequently noticed that they have a great dislike to the very hottest of the sun's rays, and that is the reason i have advised those places to be reserved for teas. some good climbing varieties for cool aspects are:--mrs. john laing, a satiny pink of lovely form and sweet scent. jules margottin, cherry-red, globular in shape, sweet-scented and very floriferous. prince camille de rohan, =one= of =the best dark roses= to be had, as they are generally so difficult to grow--it is blackish-maroon in colour, and flowers abundantly. boule-de-neige, a bourbon, with white flowers in great abundance. madame isaac pereire another bourbon; it is a quick grower and =most abundant flowerer=, the flowers are bright rose crimson. souvenir-de-la-malmaison, one of the best bourbons we have; does particularly well on cold walls, even on those facing north. its flowers are very large, somewhat flat in form, and blush-white; it =blooms abundantly in autumn=, and is rarely subject to blight. =climbers require very little pruning.= it is a case chiefly of cutting out all dead wood, and snipping the decayed ends of those that are left. =when planting rose-trees= of any description, choose mild and if possible calm weather, for it is better to keep the trees out of the ground a few days rather than plant them in frosty weather. =the soil should be friable=, so that it crumbles fairly well, and when the plant is in position it is advisable =to cover the roots with potting-soil= for two or three inches. spread the roots out like a fan, and be sure not to plant the tree too deep. =look carefully for the mark= showing the union =of graft and stock=, and be careful not to cover this with more than two inches of soil. tread down the soil well to make it firm, and thus induce the rose-trees to make fresh roots. in =planting out climbers=, carefully tack all loose shoots to the wall or fence behind it, else the wind may do much harm. when all is finished give a good mulching of strawy manure, which should be dug in when march comes; and if there is a likelihood of frost, protect the branches with bracken or any light covering. =bush roses of the h.p. type.= i will now give a few of the best hybrid perpetuals of the bush type; many of the varieties i shall name, however, =make very good standards= though they are more expensive. the "dwarfs," as rosarians call them, only cost from d. to s. each at messrs. cant's, except in the case of =novelties=; and where these are concerned, it is well to wait a year or two, as they rapidly go down to the normal price. duke of teck, bright carmine scarlet, of good form, and occasionally blooms in the autumn. dupuy jamain, =one of the best h.p.'s ever introduced=, the flowers are almost cherry-red in colour, sweet-scented, and come out in succession =the whole of the summer=: it is a quick grower, and does well in a somewhat shady position. heinrich schultheis flowers of a true rose-pink touched with silver, very prettily shaped and exceedingly fragrant. unfortunately, this variety is =subject to attacks of mildew=, though this does not seem to affect the beauty of the flowers but spoils the leaves. baroness rothschild, a faultless rose as regards form and colour, which is a beautiful pale pink, but utterly =devoid of scent=, a serious fault in my opinion. comtesse de bearn, large, dark, and very floriferous. madame gabriel luizet, light silvery pink, quick growing, and free blooming. ulrich brunner, always given an excellent character in the catalogues, and indeed it is a good rose, cherry-red in colour, sweet-scented, and of fine form: it =rarely ails=, mildew and rust passing it by altogether. it is exceedingly vigorous, and makes therefore a good pillar-rose. pride of waltham, a =rose little heard-of= yet most lovely; its blossoms are of the brightest pink, sweetly scented, and beautifully cupped. charles lefèvre, beautiful crimson with dark shading; also very good at kew (and continuous). abel carrière, another dark maroon of fine form, and queen of the bedders, producing carmine flowers so freely that it must be disbudded; it is subject to mildew. so many roses formerly classed as hybrid perpetuals are now called hybrid teas. the dear old la france is one that has undergone this change; it is =a rose no-one should be without=, and should be grown both as a standard and a bush; its silvery pink flowers have a most exquisite scent and perfect shape (that is, when nearly wide open; it is not a good button-hole variety). another hybrid tea rose that has come to the fore lately is bardou job, a =splendid bedding variety=, with flaming roses almost single in form, but produced in prodigal profusion; it pays for feeding. queen mab is a somewhat similar rose but has apricot flowers, tinted pink and orange, borne in the same generous manner. it is a china rose; neither of these kinds attain a great height, nevertheless beds entirely composed of them are exceedingly effective and may be seen some distance off; they require very little pruning. =pillar roses.= having mentioned pillar-roses, i will add a few more names especially calculated to do well in such positions; perhaps =one of the best= is paul's carmine pillar, with its sheets; of lovely flowers covering the stems the whole way up, with plenty of healthy foliage to set them off. when better known, i should imagine it would be a rival even to turner's crimson rambler, magnificent as that is when grown to perfection. at kew recently a bed of the carmine pillar was quite =one of the sights of the garden=. a close investigation of the bed in which they were planted revealed the fact that every alternate rose-tree was a gloire de dijon, but each one was a sorry failure, and instead of scaling the heights, crouched low at the foot of its iron stake, as though unwilling to compete with the other blushing occupants. the "glories" were not very youthful either, that one could see by their thick hard stems; plenty of time had evidently been given them to do the work, but for some unknown reason they had shirked it. i have known several cases of this sort with the much-loved "glory de john," as the gardeners broadly term it. madame plantier is =a good white pillar-rose=, doing well in any situation, and cheshunt hybrid is also most accommodating, and blooms well even in poor soil, though it well repays good cultivation. its flowers, cherry-carmine in colour, are large and full, and the petals are prettily veined and curl over at the edges. the foliage is rich, and the tree =never seems attacked by any disease=; it is a hybrid tea. aimée vibert, a noisette, is very good as a pillar-rose and extremely hardy: it also does well on arches; the flowers are small and white, with pink tips to the petals; it is very free, and flowers continuously. =rose hedges.= hedges of roses are quite as effective as pillars, and make a very pretty screen for two-thirds of the year. the =ever-green roses are best= for this purpose, and of these flora is by far-and-away the nicest rose. it has sweet flowers, small, full, and of the loveliest pink; they are borne in clusters, each one looking just ready for a fairy-wedding bouquet. they have a delightful scent, too, their =only fault being their short duration=; in one summer they will grow from five to ten feet, and are so free-flowering as almost to hide the leaves. dundee rambler, ruga, mirianthes, and léopoldine d'orléans are all equally suitable for hedges. =dwarf teas.= i will now name a list of the best dwarf tea-roses; to begin with, alba rosea is a dear old rose-tree, moderate in growth, bearing numbers of flesh-white blossoms, good in form though small in size. these have a faint, sweet scent, and are very pretty for cutting. one day last august, i cut a whole branch off with about six open flowers upon it, and put it in a tall vase just as it was; they arranged themselves, and were much admired. the tree is decidedly dwarf and moderate in growth, and the leaves are very dark green, thus making a beautiful foil to the roses. catherine mermet is somewhat of the same type, but the flowers are larger and more deeply flushed with pink; it is =a good green-house rose=. madame de watteville resembles a tulip, having thick firm petals of a creamy-white colour, distinctly edged with pink. it is a strong grower and free in flowering. madame hoste is a pretty lemon-yellow colour, one of the easiest to grow in this particular shade; the flowers are of good form, and if well manured are large and full; it has a sweet scent. madame lambard is =a rose no one can do without=, it is so free-blooming and continuous; the colour is not constant, sometimes being mostly pink, at others almost a fawn, but as a rule it is a blend of those two shades. marie van houtte is another =indispensable variety=; the roses are lovely in form, of a pale lemon-yellow colour, each petal being flushed with pink at the edges, and the whole having a soft bloom, as it were, over it. this carmine-marking, however, is not constant; weather and position seem to have a good deal to do with it. meteor is one of the darker teas, being carmine-crimson shaded with blackish-maroon; the roses are not full though of good shape, consequently they =look best in bud=. this tree wants feeding to do well, and is not a vigorous grower. grace darling is =a gem= which everyone should have; the blossoms are large, full, perfect in shape and exquisite in colour, which is generally a peachy-pink, the reverse of the petals being a rich cream, and, as these curl over in a charming manner, the effect is unique and extremely beautiful. the foliage is abundant, of a ruddy tint, and keeps free from blight; indeed, =this entirely fascinating rose= has only one fault, it is altogether too unassuming. a bright, pink rose of fine form is the duchess of albany; it is often called =a deep coloured la france=, as it is a "sport" from that famous rose. the marquis of salisbury is another dark tea-rose; it is small but well-shaped though thin, and the blooms are abundant; it is strictly moderate in growth, being somewhat like the chinas in habit. a fine rose =in a warm summer= is kaiserin friedrich, as it has large, very full, flowers, which take a good deal of building up; it appears to dislike cold and rainy weather. =sunrise is a new kind= that is making a considerable stir in the rose-world; its flowers vary from reddish-carmine to pale fawn, and the tree has glorious foliage. =the time to plant.= october and november are the best months to plant rose-trees, except in very cold parts; february is then a safer time, especially for the tender sorts. =their first season they require a great deal of looking after=; their roots have not got a proper foot-hold in the earth, and this means constant watering in dry weather. at blooming-time, an occasional application of guano does a great deal of good, making both flowers and leaves richer in colour. =dead blooms, too, must be sedulously cut off=, as, if left on, the tree is weakened. =pruning.= do a little pruning in october, though march and april are the chief months. in the autumn, however, the shoots of rose-trees should be thinned out, the branches left can then be shortened a fourth of their length with advantage, as the winter's howling winds are less likely to harm them. standards especially require this, as when "carrying much sail" they are very liable to be up-rooted. when the spring comes, look the trees carefully over before commencing operations, remembering that =the sturdier a tree is the less it needs pruning=. the knife must go the deepest in the case of the poor, weak ones. always prune down to an "eye," that is an incipient leaf-bud; if this is not done the wood rots. evergreen roses need scarcely be touched, save to cut out dead branches and snip off decayed ends. for teas and noisettes also, little actual pruning is necessary. h.p.'s require the most. as a general rule for roses, if you want quality, not quantity, prune: hard, but to enable you to "cut and come again," only prune moderately. =dis-budding= is a certain method of improving the blooms if it is done =in time=. it is little use to do it when the buds once begin to show colour; start picking off the superfluous ones when they are quite small, and the difference in size and shape is often amazing. chapter viii enemies of the garden _slugs, and how to trap them--blight or green fly--earwigs-- wireworm--snails--mice--friends mistakenly called foes._ =the best garden as a rule has the fewest insects=, indeed, no foe is allowed to lodge for any length of time without means being taken for its extermination. some enemies are more easily got rid of than others; for instance, green fly, or _aphis_ (to give it the scientific name), rarely attacks healthy plants to any extent; it goes for the sick ones, therefore =good cultivation will speedily reduce their numbers=. when any is seen, a strong syringing of =soapy water= will generally dislodge them, or, if this is impracticable, a dusting of =tobacco-powder= is a very good substitute. tait and buchanan's anti-blight, to be had of most seedsmen, is a reliable powder; it is also efficacious in preventing mildew in potatoes, chrysanthemums, etc. in some gardens, especially those inclined to be damp, =slugs are very troublesome=; their depredations are usually carried on by night, so that it is rather difficult to trap them; many things are sold for this purpose, but =hand-picking= is the surest method. in the evening, sink a saucer a little way in the border, and fill this with moist bran; =it is irresistible to the slugs=, and when twilight comes on they will steal out from their hiding-places and make a supper off it. then comes man's opportunity. armed with a pointed stick and a pail of salt and water, they must be picked off and popped into the =receptacle=, there =to meet a painless death=; one can squash them under foot, but where they are plentiful this is rather a messy proceeding. snails may be trapped in exactly the same way; =salt or sand= should be placed in a ring round any plant they are specially fond of, or else in a single night they will graze off the whole of the juicy tops. young growths are their greatest delicacy, hence they are most troublesome in the spring. =wireworm= is another tiresome enemy well known to carnation growers, and more difficult to get rid of than the slug, owing to its hard and horny covering which resists crushing; salt again, however, is =a splendid cure=. it should be well mixed with the soil though not brought too close to the plants. =earwigs= are horrid insects to get into a garden; they often come in with a load of manure, simply swarms of them imbedding themselves in such places. dahlias are the plants they like best, and, if not kept down with a watchful eye, they will completely spoil both flowers and leaves. hollow tubes, such as short straws, put round will collect many, or =the old plan= of filling an inverted flower-pot with moss is also useful, though somewhat disfiguring, if perched on the tops of the stakes supporting the dahlias. =mice= are dreadfully destructive, too, especially in the country, and being so quick in their movements they are troublesome to catch. traps must be baited with the daintiest morsels, to make them turn away from the succulent tops of the new vegetation. owls and other large birds are most effectual in doing away with these troublesome little animals, a fact which should be taken into account. =many people from ignorance= destroy birds or insects which may be urgently required to keep down annoying pests--take, for instance, =ladybirds=--the pretty creatures are =invaluable= where there is much green fly, yet how often are they doomed to death by some well-meaning gardener, and it is the same with birds. =a robin or sparrow will eat hundreds of aphides in one day=, so that, unless there are many fruit-trees in the garden, it is most unwise to shoot the dear little songsters; and even in the latter case, if protection can be afforded, by all means save the birds! a while ago some farmers had been so enraged by the devastation made by the sparrows and starlings that they determined to kill all the old birds. the consequence was that they were so over-run the next season by insects of every description, that they had to import birds at great trouble, to take the place of those they had killed. foes are often mistaken for friends, but occasionally the reverse is the case! chapter ix the rockery _a few hints on its construction--aspect and soil--a list of alpines--other suitable plants._ a well-constructed rockery filled with a good selection of alpine plants is a =never-failing delight= to anyone fond of a garden. yet how rare a thing it is! most of the erections one sees are mere apologies for the real thing. the truth is not one gardener in a hundred knows how to make a rockery, though he does not like to say so! =an artistic mind is needed= to construct one that will be pleasing to the eye, besides a knowledge of draining, water-supply, and so forth. an educated person is not actually necessary, but one with common sense, who would not dream of making it merely another back-ground for gorgeous bedding-plants which are all very well in their right place, but absolutely =unsuited to a rockery=. =as regards aspect=, one that is built on each side of a narrow path running north and south, does very well, but as this may be impossible in a small garden, =a corner rockery= built high in the form of a triangle and facing south-east, can be made extremely pretty, as i know from experience. where the rockery is in the shade, no overhanging trees must be near, if choice alpines are expected to live there. =the material= may be either slabs of grey stone as at kew, or the more easily obtained "clinkers." =clinkers= are really bricks spoiled in the baking, having all sorts of excrescences on them which unfit them for ordinary building purposes; they should always be ordered from a strictly local contractor, as carriage adds considerably to the cost. =the soil= should be a mixture of peat, sand, and loam; no manure should be incorporated, the ="pockets"= for special favourites and plants that have individual wants can be filled in at the time of planting. =one advantage= pertaining to a rockery is that many plants which quite refuse to thrive in a border will grow and flourish there, and the attention they need is less troublesome to give; in fact, it is =a delightful form of gardening=, especially for a lady, as there is no fear of the feet getting dirty or wet, and a trowel, not a spade, is the chief implement used. a small piece of turf, just a few feet wide, at the bottom of the corner style of rockery, is =a great set-off=, and a vast improvement on a gravel path. =suitable plants for a rockery.= the following are some of the best flowers for a rockery. the _aubrietias_ are very pretty little plants, having creeping rosettes of greyish-green leaves, and a perfect sheet of mauve or lilac bloom about april. the effect is greatly enhanced when =planted so as to fall over a stone= or brick; indeed, it is for those things which are so easily lost sight of in a border that a rockery comes in; they can be closely inspected there without much stooping. the _arabis_ is a pretty plant, somewhat like the _aubrietia_ in habit and time of flowering; hence, where only a small selection can be made, it might be left out, as it is =a trifle coarse=. such a term could never be applied to the _androsaces_, which may be numbered among =the= _élite_ =of rock plants=; they are evergreens, and do not exceed six inches in height; they bear tiny but very bright flowers, varying from rose in some species to lavender in others. =apennine gems.= some of the alpine anemones are lovely, notably _a. appennina_, which has sky-blue flowers that open out flat on very short stalks, surrounded by pale green denticulated foliage. _a. blanda_ is much the same, save that it flowers a month or so earlier; they are spring-blooming plants, and like moisture and shade, and will not do at all if subjected to much hot sun. these and many similar plants can often be planted on a =rockery facing south-east= (which aspect suits so many sun-loving plants), by arranging bricks, stones, or small shrubs, so as to shelter them from its hottest rays. _aquilegias_, mentioned in the list of border plants, look quite as well on a rockery, if moisture can be given them, as their flowers are so delicate, and the leaves so fragile and prettily coloured, especially in the early spring. the blue and white _a. cærulea_, from the rocky mountains, is =a gem=, and the scarlet kinds are very effective. =for forming close green carpets=, _arenaria balearica_ is most useful; it creeps over rocks and stones, covering them completely with its moss-like growth, and hiding any hard, unlovely surfaces. the _campanula_ family is =a host in itself=, many of the smaller varieties looking better on a rockery than anywhere else. some of these tiny bell-flowers have, however, the very longest of names! _c. portenschlagiana_, for instance, is only four inches high, and =a charming little plant= it is, and flowers for months, beginning about july. the blossoms are purple-blue in colour, and continue right into november, unless very hard frosts come to stop it. _c. cespetosa_ is another variety well suited to rock-work, as it is even smaller than the last. =the alpine wall-flower=, _cheiranthus alpinus_, is a very choice little plant; it has creamy-yellow flowers, borne on stalks a few inches high, and, though each individual plant is biennial, they seed so freely that they are practically perennial. a light, dry soil and a sunny situation suits them; they will even grow on old walls, and very picturesque they look perched up on some mossy old ruin. =an attractive rock plant=, though rarely seen, is _chrysogonum virginianum_; its flowers are creamy-yellow, and grow in a very quaint manner; this plant =blooms the whole season through=. plants of this character should be noted carefully, as they help to give a rockery =a well-furnished appearance=, so that one always has something to show visitors. for warm, dry, sunny nooks =rock-roses= are the very thing; where other plants would be burnt up, the _cistus_ flourishes, for it requires no particular depth of soil. _c. florentinus_ (white) and _c. crispus_ (dark crimson), are two of the best. =one of the most exquisite and interesting rock-plants= i have ever seen is _clematis davidiana_, a plant only introduced of recent years, but noticeable wherever seen; it is not a climber, as its name might lead one to suppose, for =it only grows two feet high=, and generally trails along the ground; the flowers are curious in shape, and of a metallic blue-grey colour; the foliage is very neat and pretty; it blooms about july, and should be planted so that it can be examined closely. =the fumitories= are elegant plants, and nearly always in flower; the blossoms are small, yellow, sometimes white, and borne in profusion amongst the finely-cut foliage, which, =the whole summer through=, is a bright clear green. with one plant of _corydalis lutea_ a stock can soon be obtained, as this variety seeds freely. all the fumitories prefer a light soil and a sunny position. dwarf evergreen shrubs greatly improve the appearance of the rockery in late autumn and winter, especially when they add berries to their attractions. the _cotoneasters_ are evergreen, and when about a foot high are very suitable for such a position. _c. horizontalis_ and _c. micicrophylla_ bear scarlet berries, and are altogether very choice; they must not be allowed to get too large, but taken up when little over a foot high, and others substituted for them. =various bulbs=, which we generally plant in the border, find a prettier background in the rockery; here each bulb is made the most of, and, where very small, is seen to greater advantage; even if ever so insignificant, it cannot get buried away under a spadeful of soil, nor get splashed with mud. you must often have noticed how crocuses get blown over and spoilt by the wind, but in a cosy nook of the rock-work, planted fairly close together, and in a "pocket" surrounded by bricks, they find a happy home, and can be inspected without any difficulty. personally, i do not care for =crocuses in a line=; one cannot see their pure transparency, and only get an idea of a broad band of colour; close at hand, their dewy chalices, exquisitely veined and streaked, seem far more beautiful, particularly where the finer sorts are selected. =all crocuses do not flower in spring=; some of the prettiest species bloom in autumn, though many people, seeing them at that time, imagine they are _colchicums_; the latter, though certainly very decorative when in flower, are followed by such coarse leaves that the crocus is decidedly preferable. the =hardy cyclamen= are very suitable for a rockery, as, being beauties in miniature, they are apt to get lost in a mixed border. _c. neapolitanum_ has marbled foliage and pretty pink flowers, and _c. europeum_ (maroonish crimson) is also well worth growing; they must be placed in a shady part, yet where the drainage is perfect; stagnant moisture kills them. the =hardy orchids= should be tried too, especially the _cypripedium_; it is not generally known how handsome some of them are; they like shade and moisture; indeed, through the summer the peat they are growing in should be a regular swamp, or they will fail to produce fine flowers. another plant that likes peat is the little _daphne eneorum_. this is =an evergreen=, and produces its pink fragrant flowers every spring; it will not do in very smoky places, but, like the heath, must have a fairly pure atmosphere. =the alpine pinks are treasures for the rockery=, and do well in town gardens; they flower nearly all the summer, and are not particular as to soil and position, though they prefer plenty of sun. =the gentians= look very well on rockwork, but like a stronger soil than most alpines, loam suiting them best. water should be generously given during spring and summer. _g. acaulis_ is the best for amateurs. the red shades found in the =geum tribe= are very uncommon, being neither crimson, scarlet, nor orange, but a mixture of all three, with a dash of brown thrown in. they =flower continuously=, and have dull green woolly foliage, which sets the flowers off well. they need a light, well-drained soil. _geum chilense_, or _coccineum plenum_, is a good kind, and so is _g. miniatum_; both are about two feet high, but require no staking whatever. of course, it will be understood that sticks, except of the lightest kind, are =quite inadmissible= on a rockery. =helianthemums=, or =rock roses=, are charming little evergreen plants, with wiry prostrate stems, and small flowers, which are freely produced all the summer. they may be had in white, yellow, pink, scarlet, and crimson, and either double or single; the variety named mrs. c. w. earle is a very effective double scarlet, and quite a novelty. =iris reticulata= is =a very fascinating little bulbous plant=, well adapted for a rockery; it blooms in the early spring, and very beautiful the flowers are, being rich violet-purple, with gold blotches on each petal; they are scented, too; when in blossom, the stems reach to about nine inches in height. one of the most lovely plants that can be imagined for a rockery is =lithospermum prostratum=, and yet how rarely one sees it; the glossy green leaves always look cheerful, and the flowers are exquisite, they are a bright full blue, and each petal is slightly veined with red, it is not difficult to grow, a dry, sunny position being all it requires; it is of trailing habit and an ever-green. everyone knows =the creeping jenny=, but it is not to be despised for rock-work, especially for filling up odd corners where other things will not thrive. it blooms best where there is a certain amount of sun. =st. dabeoc's heath= is a pretty little shrub, very neat and of good habit; its flowers are the true pink, shading off to white, and of the well-known heath shape. somewhat slow-growing, it prefers peat. =plants that flower the whole season through= are most valuable on the rockery. =oenotheras= may be depended on to present a pleasing appearance for several weeks, especially if all dead flowers are picked off. the dwarf kinds are the most suitable, such as _oenothera marginata_, _missouriensis_, _linearis_, and _taraxacifolia_. the last-named, however, is only a biennial, but has the advantage of =opening in the morning=, while most of the evening primroses do not seem to think it worth while to make themselves attractive till calling-hours. =the most fairy-like little plant= for filling up narrow crevices in sunny quarters is the dear old =wood-sorrel=. it has tiny leaves like a shamrock in shape, but of a warm red-brown colour, and the sweetest little yellow flowers imaginable; they are borne on very short stalks, and only come out when the sunshine encourages them; the whole plant does not exceed three inches in height; it spreads rapidly, seeds freely, and thrives best in a very light soil; it will also do well on walls. the =alpine poppies= are so delicate and graceful that they seem made for the rockery. they only grow six inches high, and continue in flower at least four months; they may be had in a great range of colours, and are easily brought up from seed. nice bushy plants can be had of these poppies for about four shillings a dozen, and it is needless to say they require plenty of sunshine. the word _phlox_ conveys to many people the idea of a tall autumn-flowering plant, with large umbels of flowers, individually about the size of a shilling. but these are not the only species; the alpine varieties are just as beautiful in a different way, though some are not more than a few inches high, and each flower no bigger than a ladies' glove-button. in spring and early summer they become =perfect sheets of bloom=, so that the foliage is completely hidden; when out of flower, they are soft green cushions of plants, and serve to cover bare bricks well. the =alpine potentillas= are pretty, and keep in flower for a long time. _p. nepalensis_ is a good one, but the merits of _p. fruticosa_ are much exaggerated, its dirty-looking yellow flowers are by no means prepossessing. =no rockery is complete= without several specimens of the family of _saxifrages_. one cannot do better than make a beginning with them, as they are so fine in form and diverse in style. _s. aizoon compactum_ is one of the best rosette species, and _s. hypnoides densa_ of the mossy tribe; other kinds well worth growing are _s. burseriana_, which has pretty white flowers on red hairy stems in early march; _s. cunifolia_, with charming fresh pink blossoms, and of course _s. umbrosa_, the sweet old-fashioned =london pride=. a dry sunny situation suits the _saxifrages_ best. the =house leeks= are somewhat similar in appearance, but like drier situations than the last-named plants. the _sempervivums_ delight to creep along a piece of bare rock, and one marvels how they can derive enough sustenance from the small amount of poor soil in which they are often seen growing. the =cobweb species=, called _arachnoideum_, is most interesting, and invariably admired by visitors; it has greyish-green rosettes, each one of which is covered with a downy thread in the form of a spider's web. a kind more often seen is _sempervivum montanum_, and certainly it is a =very handsome species=, with curious flowers supported on firm succulent red stems. it is to be seen in broad clumps at kew, and very well it looks. there are no better carpetters than the =dwarf sedums=, or =stone crops=. _s. glaucum_ has blue-grey foliage, and spreads rapidly; _s. lydium_ is the variety most in use, and can be had very cheaply. the tall, old variety, _sedum spectabile_, has been improved upon, and the novelty is called _s. s. rosea_. another novelty is _shortia galacifolia_; it is a native of north america, and has white, bell-shaped flowers supported on elegant, hairy stems, the leaves are heart shaped, and turn almost scarlet in autumn; thus, the plant has =two seasons of beauty=, as it blooms in the spring. a peaty soil, with a little sand added, suits it well, if the drainage is good; and it likes a half-shady position. =plants that are sadly neglected= are the airy-fairy sea-lavenders or _statices_, with their filmy heads like purple foam; _s. gmelini_ and _s. limonium_ are two of the best. when cut, they last a long time, and are very useful for giving a graceful appearance to =stiff bouquets=. the dwarf _thalictrums_ are =good rockery plants=; they are =grown for their foliage=, which bears a striking resemblance to the maidenhair fern. _t. adiantifolium_ and _t. minus_ are very pretty; their flower-heads should always be cut off, so as to promote the production of their fine fronds, which have the property of lasting well when cut. the =aromatic scent of thyme= is very pleasant on a rockery; not only should the silver and golden varieties be grown, but also those bright kinds which give us sheets of purple, pink, and white blossom during summer; to thrive they must be exposed to full sunshine, when =they will attract innumerable bees=. the new kind, _t. serpyllum roseus_, is splendid, the tiny flowers coming in such profusion as to completely hide the foliage. all are low-growing, having the cushion habit of growth. _veronicas_ are not often seen, yet they are exceedingly pretty, and continuous bloomers. =amateurs should not begin with the shrub tribe=, as these are somewhat tender, but if _v. incana_, _v. longifolia-subsessilis_, and _v. prostrata_ are obtained, they will be sure to please. the first and last are low-growing, but the other is two feet high, and has long racenes like soft blue tassels, which hang down in the most charming way. =a few words on some more bulbs= that look well on rockeries, besides the crocus and dwarf iris before-mentioned, may not be amiss: the =winter aconites= are most appropriate so placed, and show to greater advantage than in the level border. their golden flowers, each surrounded by a frill of green, come forth as early as january, if the weather be propitious. the _chionodoxa_, called also =glory of the snow=, is very fresh and pretty, with its bright blue flowers having a conspicuous white eye. if left undisturbed they will spread rapidly, and come up year after year without any further trouble; they are =very cheap=, and will do in any soil. =snowdrops= are charming on rock-work, and may be placed close to the _chionodoxa_, as they bloom almost together. the =grape-hyacinths= have very quaint little flowers of a bright dark-blue colour, on stalks about five or six inches high; they flower for some weeks, and must be massed together to get a good effect. =the early-flowering scillas= resemble the _chionodoxas_, but last much longer in bloom. they are very =easy to manage=, and rarely fail to make a good show. _s. siberica_ is the best-known variety, and can be obtained very cheaply. =the miniature narcissus= is the sweetest thing imaginable; _n. minus_, is only a few inches high, and when in the open border is apt to get splashed, but amongst stones in a sheltered position on the rockery they are charming. all these dwarf bulbs look so well in such positions, because =their purity remains unsullied=. here i will leave the rockery, merely intimating that =early autumn is the best time for planting=, and that if pains are taken to construct it properly at first, a great amount of trouble will be saved in the end. most of these plants and bulbs may be had of messrs. barr & sons, , king street, covent garden. their daffodil nurseries at long ditton, near surbiton, surrey, are famous all the world over, but they also go in a great deal for hardy perennials and rock plants, of which they have a splendid stock; their prices are very reasonable, too, when you take into consideration that everything they send out is absolutely true to name. their interesting catalogues will be sent post free on application. chapter x trees, shrubs, and how to treat them. _some good plants for growing beneath them--selection of hardy shrubs--enriching the soil--climbers._ forest-trees in a small garden are somewhat out of place, but as they are often found in such positions, i will deal with them here. it is to be remembered that though they give most grateful shade, not only do they rob everything beneath them of sunshine, but also =take so much out of the soil=, that, unless constant renewals are made, very little can be grown in their immediate vicinity; the class of plants that will do best beneath their branches also find the soil they are growing in best renewed by the leaves which fall therefrom. for the sake of tidiness, these of course are swept away, but they should be kept for two or three years, and then brought back, converted into =leaf-mould=; if this is not done, the quality of the soil will steadily deteriorate, instead of getting richer, as it does in woods; and this is one reason why so many wild plants fail to thrive when brought into cultivation; manure is no substitute, but often distasteful to them. =something besides ivy.= trees must be divided into two broad sections, =deciduous and ever-green=. very few plants will do well under the latter, but as regards the first, =ivy= is not by any means the only thing that will grow, though it is often a good plan to use it as a foundation, and work in plants here and there afterwards. there is no need to choose the large kind; those elegant varieties with long pointed leaves are =more ornamental and just as easy to grow=. their roots must be restricted when other plants are near, or they will soon take up all the room. =ferns= will do very well under trees, if they are plentifully watered during the dry season. here also a few of the choicest kinds should be grown, for though some of them may not do so well as in a shady open spot, most of them will give a fairly good account of themselves. always plant them with the rhizome above ground, not forgetting that when each fern has its full complement of fronds, it will take up a considerably larger space than it does at the time it is set out. if the _osmunda regalis_ is tried--=the royal fern=--it is necessary to get a good established turf of it; strong clumps cost about s. d. each; plenty of water must be given it in the summer. i have seen it in splendid form under a tree in a very small garden. perhaps the =st. john's worts= come next to ivy and ferns in their usefulness for planting under trees, as they are =always decorative, being ever-green=. in the spring, the foliage is a most lovely soft apple-green, and in summer when the golden cups filled with anthers issue forth from the axils of the leaves, the effect is beautiful. _hypericum calycinum_ is the latin term for these plants, and though they will do on the dryest bank and in the poorest soil, being very tough and wiry, if they are grown in good loam and manure is occasionally given them, they will repay with far finer flowers, which will be produced for a longer season. =a good breadth of woodruff= makes a very pretty picture for several weeks, and has a delightful scent; here and there bulbs can be planted amongst it, neither being harmed by this plan. the _aubrietias_ =flower with unfailing regularity= under trees, even when the aspect is north, and no gleam of sunshine reaches them; their greyish-green rosettes resist drought splendidly, and though these plants do not give us so much blossom in unfavourable positions, still they make a very pretty show. _aubrietias_ can be easily propagated by division; every morsel grows. =banks under trees.= the white _arabis_ also does well under similar conditions; both are useful for draping perpendicular surfaces, such as the steep side of a bank or hedge. a raised border, with facing of bricks, is rather a nice way of growing plants under trees, and the work of tending them is pleasant, less stooping being required. the =mossy saxifrage= droops over the edges, and mingles well with the _arabis_, but it must be more carefully watered, as it is apt to die out; pieces should constantly be taken off, and dibbled in so as to fill up any gaps. the =periwinkles= meander charmingly over the roughest stones, and in the most dreary spots; their glossy ever-green leaves, and fresh bright little flowerets =always looking cheerful= whatever the weather. they creep quickly, rooting every few inches as they grow; on the perpendicular face of the rock, succulent plants like =echeverias= can sometimes be made to grow (those little green rosettes, having each leaf tipped with red, which can be bought so readily in may for about twopence each). =many things will do for a time=, that want renewing each year, even if hardy. cowslips, primroses, polyanthus, wallflowers, all will make a fair show if planted out just before flowering, but, unless a few hours' sun daily shines on them, they will not retain enough vitality to produce seed, and being biennial soon die out, leaving not a trace behind. =a great many bulbs do admirably under deciduous trees=, especially those which blossom before the new leaves on the branches above them have reached any appreciable size. =scillas= bloom in the same place year after year; snowdrops also do fairly well, and lilies of the valley ring out a few of their dainty bells every spring (a rich vegetable soil suits them best). =tulips= only do well when planted afresh every autumn; but, as they are so cheap, that is not a great matter. the _megaseas_, mentioned in another chapter, give forth many of their fine leaves, but they refuse to turn colour, owing to the want of sun. fox-gloves, also, grow and flower, seeming to enjoy their position. =if the aspect of the space to be filled is a cold one=, such things as geraniums will only give a few poor flowers, and then succumb. even pansies wilt and gradually fade away under trees, for their soft, weak stems and leaves soon get drawn up for want of light, though they will do well enough on an _open_ border, facing north. =hard-wooded plants= will be generally found to do best; indeed, some of the shrub tribe succeed very well, particularly barberry, _pernettyas_, the early _daphnes_, whortleberries, _gaultheria shallon_ and _cotoneaster_. while on the subject of =shrubs=, it may be as well to mention several attractive kinds which may be planted in place of the =eternal box= and portugal laurel; of course, these two have almost every good quality; they will do in any soil, are ever-green, and resist smoke, dust and dirt well; but, in places where poor soil and a soot-laden atmosphere are absent, =substitutes might occasionally be found for those shrubs=, which will have the added charm of novelty. one of the nicest for small gardens is _cotoneaster microphylla_; this is a joy to look at, all through the winter months, when it is at its best; the branches grow in an uncommon manner, and are of somewhat prostrate habit; they are thickly clothed with dark, small leaves the whole way up the stem, and shining amongst them are the pretty crimson, almost transparent berries. it is quite distinct from the ordinary berry-bearing shrubs, as there is =nothing stiff about its gracefully-curving sprays=, which look well cut and wedged in the japanese fashion. shrubs of this variety may be had as low as sixpence, but it is better policy to get a larger one, costing about eighteen pence, as they will sooner be of a presentable size; they are shrubs, too, that do not altogether show their capabilities when at a very youthful stage. =a good all round plant.= _berberis aquifolium_ is another shrub which has a great deal to recommend it; it is ever-green, and will do in almost any position; it bears lovely yellow flowers in spring, purple powdered berries in august, and the foliage turns a rich red in october. always ornate, it is one of the easiest shrubs to grow, and =just the thing for a small garden=. =the myrtle=, though liable to be killed in a very hard frost, can often be grown to a great size in a sheltered garden; i have seen bushes eight yards round, in an exposed position near the river thames, which must have been braving the storms for many a year past. they should not be planted out till march or april, though november is the month for most other shrubs. the old _pyrus japonica_ =makes a good bush=, though most often grow on a wall; its bright flowers, carmine-scarlet in colour with yellow anthers in the centre, appear early in april, a week or two later than the climbers, which of course are protected. when grown in bush form, it =is sometimes pruned out of all recognition=; this is especially the case in public gardens, and is quite an affliction to any one who knows how lovely it can be! the knife should be restrained, allowing the _pyrus_ to take its own shape as much as possible; it is often sold under the name of _cydonia japonica_, as that is really its rightful title. =one or two of the _araucarias_ make very good shrubs for a small garden=; they should not be grown in cold, wind-swept places, as their branches soon turn brown if exposed to continued frost and furious blasts. there is a magnificent specimen in the nurseries of messrs. veitch, kingston hill, surrey, planted about ; its ornamental appearance is greatly due to the number of young branches springing out from the main trunk and almost completely covering it; they nestle under the larger branches, and produce a very picturesque effect. small plants of this variety may be had for three or four shillings. messrs. veitch have a splendid selection of shrubs, all in the best of health; their hollies are well grown, and include all the good sorts; a variety that bears fruit when quite young is _ilex glabrum_, of which they have a large stock; these trees are such slow growers, that it is advisable to get one that will look attractive almost at once. =pernettyas are ornamental little shrubs=, not so much grown as they deserve; in winter, when most things look drooping and unhappy, these american visitors to our gardens are bright and cheerful. =the dwarf erica carnea=, both pink and white, show their buds as early as november, and at the turn of the year present a very pretty appearance; they look well as edgings to rhododendron beds; their price is about sixpence each. =another charming winter shrub= is _cornus sanguinea_; its beauty lies in the red glow of its leafless stems, which makes it visible some distance off. _spirea anthony waterer_ is a =fine plant in late summer=, having pink umbels of flowers and a habit somewhat like the valerian. =the snow-berry= is good in autumn and winter, having large white berries which hang on a long time; it is deciduous, and likes a rich soil. messrs. veitch have a splendid collection of conifers for all aspects and positions; their small junipers are most fascinating little trees, with flat spreading branches of the loveliest shade of green, and their seedling firs are well balanced. they sell a great variety of lilac trees too. =grafted lilacs.= a note on lilacs will not be amiss; if you notice that any lilacs you may happen to have flower sparsely, and are poor in size and colour it will be as well to examine the stems close to the soil, and you will probably find a fine crop of suckers; all these must be cut away as sedulously as those on your rose-trees, for =nearly all lilacs are grafted=, very few kinds being sold on their own roots. the _forsythias_ are =pretty climbers or shrubs=, according to the variety chosen, much like the yellow jasmine, with its golden stars on leafless stems. just as the latter, however, is going out of flower the _forsythias_ are coming on, and therefore give a succession of very pretty blossoms. originally from china, =the wigelias= have now taken a place in many english gardens, by reason of their fresh pink and white flowers and easy cultivation. they bloom late in spring, and should be placed by preference =against a dark wall=, as their flowers, being surrounded by pale-green foliage, do not stand out sufficiently on a light one. =the delicate ceanothus.= the exquisite summer-flowering _ceanothus_ has been mentioned before, but i notice it here again because it is one of those =shrubs that should not be overlooked= on any account; its leaves are somewhat like those of a heliotrope, and its flowers are bluish-mauve in colour and borne in trusses; it blooms for many weeks and has a most delicious scent, and should be planted out in the spring. =a neglected but really remarkable shrub is the= _rhus cotinus_--=the smoke plant.= in early august it is a striking sight, with its curious inflorescence quite impossible to describe. at hampton court there are two or three fine species. =winter shrubbery.= it will be observed that shrubs presenting a decorative appearance in winter are made much of; this is because soft-wooded plants always look miserable then, whereas with a few berry-bearing shrubs and a nice selection of bulbs, we may have a =pretty garden all the year round=. once planted, however, they should not be left entirely to take care of themselves; the soil must be enriched occasionally, if we wish for good results, and great care taken to =train them in the way they should go=, by pinching out shoots which would tend to give a lop-sided effect. such things as firs must be unobtrusively staked till they are able to support themselves, as =symmetrical growth= is part of their charm, and we must remember that "as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined." =standard rhododendrons= require to be very carefully staked until they have a fair hold of the ground, or their big heads are caught by the wind, and this loosens the soil to such an extent that it is impossible for fresh roots to be made. generally, some of the =bush rhododendrons= should be grown amongst the standards, and if these are dotted about with clumps of lilies the effect is very rich. _lilium tigrinum splendens_ is =one of the best for this purpose=, and is most brilliantly beautiful during august and september; they are six feet in height, and the flowers are a rich orange red, with black spots on each petal; they can be obtained for half-a-crown the dozen. =a lily suitable for placing amongst azaleas=, as it is only three feet high, is _lilium speciosum album_; it has glistening pure-white flowers, and a graceful habit. the shade of the shrub is most beneficial to the lilies, as they dislike strong sunshine, and of course they are also protected from cold in winter. the same soil, a mixture of peat, loam and sand, suits both. chapter xi =the ins and outs of gardening= _planting--watering--"puddling"--aspect--shelter--youth and age in relation to plants--catalogue defects--a time for everything._ now that we have seen what to plant, it will be advisable to learn =how to plant it=. perhaps the most important point to be taken notice of is the necessity of =firm planting=. watch how a clever gardener presses the earth well round the roots of everything he puts in, where the plants are large, treading the soil down with his foot. =loose planting is ruinous= (except in a few isolated cases), and yet it is a favourite practice with amateurs, who call it treating their flowers tenderly! but, as with the human kind, =a judicious mixture of firmness and tenderness= is the happy medium to be aimed at, and which alone insures success. =a good watering= helps to make the soil settle as much as anything; therefore, when put into the ground the plants should be well soaked, after which they should be left for a few days, with the exception of =overhead watering=, which is most refreshing. in very hot weather, it is often possible to transplant with perfect safety, if the roots are put into "puddle." =planting in "puddle."= "puddle" is a very expressive gardening term, which signifies soil mixed with so much water as almost to have acquired the consistency of a paste. =operation =--well water the plant to be removed; =operation =--dig the hole which is to receive it; =operation =--fill the same with water up to the rim; =operation =--carefully take up your plant with plenty of soil round it; =operation =--gently place it in hole prepared, the walls of which will then be thoroughly soaked; =operation =--fill in with the "puddle" above referred to; =operation =--tread gently but firmly down; and, lastly, scatter a little dryer soil on the top. flowers planted in this fashion can be taken up even during june, july and august; and, if properly looked after, will scarcely flag at all. =effects of aspect.= the influence of aspect on plants is an interesting study; we all know that a shrub on a south wall is practically in a different climate to a shrub on a north wall. one reason why tender plants do so well on a =south or west aspect= is because the sun does not reach it till some hours after it has risen and warmed the air. the =sun shining on half-frozen buds= often has a disastrous effect on plants climbing walls with an eastern aspect; consequently, a north wall is often better for a delicate plant, if the warmest aspect cannot be given it; camellias, for instance, when outside prefer it to any other. =if a succession of one kind of flower is desired=, a group facing each corner o£ the compass will often accomplish this, sometimes as much difference as a month being noted. certain unimpressionable plants refuse to alter their season of blooming, but, as a rule, it is a sure method of attaining this object. =colouring is also vastly influenced by aspect=; such things as pansies, for example, never show such rich markings under a hot sun, but require an east border to bring out their true beauties. scotland suits them admirably, with its cool summer nights and moist atmosphere. =the importance of shelter.= shelter has a great deal to do with success in a garden; in the ordinary town garden, the builder has generally been only too obliging in this respect, but in bleak hilly spots it might almost be called the gardener's watchword. few things except scotch firs and the like will stand a =long-continued high wind= with impunity; not only does it wrench the plants out of the soil, but, if it comes from a cold quarter, both flowers and leaves curl up at its approach and refuse to thrive; they become nipped in the bud, as at the touch of frost. everyone has experienced the meaning of shelter when out in a cold nor'-easter; how it bites one, making the blood stand still with its fury! then, all at once, we round the corner, and hey presto! all is changed; the air is quite caressing, and the blood tingles to our very finger-tips from the sudden reaction. with due regard to shelter, then, =climates can be "manufactured" without glass=. in extensive grounds, these wind-breaks are made by planting lines of trees, but in smaller spaces it may be done differently. the construction of =light fences=, not over five feet in height, run up inside the compound, accomplish a good deal, as may be seen by any visitor to the nurseries of messrs. barr, at long ditton; they are =not ugly if well clothed=, and make an effectual break in a much shorter time than would be the case if fruit-trees were planted, though there is nothing prettier than a row of apple or pear trees, grown espalier fashion, if time is no object. many things will nestle beneath them, and flower beautifully for months together, for, though these fruit-trees are deciduous, the force of the wind is considerably lessened by them, on the same principle that =fishing-nets are such a protection from frost= to wall-climbers; and this again may be compared to the veils which ladies use to protect their skin. though of wide mesh, the fishing-nets will keep off five or six degrees of frost, and in certain cases are better than a closer protection, like tiffany, which sometimes "coddles" the trees too much. =a few words on the respective qualities of youth and age= may not be amiss. amateurs are so often disappointed in their garden purchases, because they will not allow the plants sufficient time to demonstrate their capabilities. =catalogues are much to blame= in this respect; an enticing description of a shrub is given, and the confiding amateur orders it, believing that in a year or two it will fulfil its character. how can he be expected to know that that particular variety never bears any flowers worth speaking of till it is at least seven years old! in the long run, i think nurserymen will find it pay to tell the whole truth regarding each plant they send out, not merely in a negative way either. if an alpine, for example, like _linnea borealis_, is extremely difficult to grow and flower in this country, it is only fair to say so; to place it amongst a lot of easily-cultivated plants without a word of warning is =not straightforward dealing=, moreover is apt to make people disgusted with the whole thing. some plants bloom much the best when in their first youth; this is the case with many of the soft-wooded plants, which soon give signs of exhaustion, especially in a light soil. when it is noticed that the outside flowering stems produce finer blossoms than those from the centre, it is generally =a sign that division is required=, and that the soil wants enriching. =the calendar.= that there is =a time for everything in gardening= is almost a truism; the calendar is considered one of the most important parts of a technical book on this subject. it is advisable for an amateur gardener to =have a note-book=, in which he jots down what he has to do several weeks or months in advance; so often some fault easily remedied is left over from year to year, because perhaps it is only observed in the summer, and cannot be mended till winter. recently, the calendar has not been given quite so much prominence; gardeners find out more and more that the weather is not governed by it, and that though one year it may be best to sow a certain seed at the beginning of february, another season may be so cold that it will have to go in at least a fortnight later. nevertheless, taken roughly, this diary of events, as the dictionary calls it, holds good for most years, and it is wise to stick to it as far as possible. chapter xii the profitable portion _fruit--the best kinds for a small garden--avoidance of size minus flavour--vegetables--herbs._ if a small garden has room for any fruit-trees, =apples are the most useful= kind to grow; they can be so trained as to take up little room; for instance, in _espalier_ fashion, down each side of a sunny walk. these =apple-hedges= are a lovely sight in spring and also in the autumn, when the ruddy fruit is waiting to drop into the outstretched hand. though names can easily be given, it is generally a good plan to =make enquiries in the neighbourhood as to the best varieties= to grow, for so much depends on soil and position. colloquial names are often given, which require identifying with existing varieties; this can be done by sending up a specimen of the fruit to the manager of a correspondence column in some reliable gardening magazine. these gentlemen are generally able to give the desired information, and no charge is made. =a surer method= still is to send the fruit which it is desired to identify to some well-known nurseries, such as those of messrs. rivers at sawbridgeworth, hertfordshire; they have acres upon acres of splendid fruit-trees of every kind, and my readers cannot do better than purchase all they require from them. having such wide experience, they can recommend varieties suitable for all kinds of soil and all sorts of positions. for small gardens, apple-trees grafted on =the paradise stock= are much to be recommended, as they are compact in habit, taking up but little room and =begin bearing almost at once=. messrs. rivers guarantee their trees on this stock to continue in full-bearing for many years. "plant pears, and you plant for your heirs" is the old saying, but this is all changed now that the =quince stock= is used so much. _cordon_ pears on wire fencing bear first-rate crops, and are particularly good for small gardens; the diagonal cordon is perhaps the best. =cooking pears= can be grown on north walls, but it is not advisable to try dessert varieties on such a cold aspect. =stone fruit.= to grow stone fruit successfully, =the soil must contain a fair quantity of lime=; moreover the trees, especially if trained against walls, must be kept well-watered at the stoning period. after the fruit has been picked, less moisture is required. =standard plants are very profitable=, as crops of currants and gooseberries can be grown beneath them; this double system of cropping the ground being a great advantage where space is a consideration. =plums= require little pruning, and are also not so liable to attacks of birds as other fruit. when ordering, =do not get too many trees of one variety=, a good selection will give a long succession of fruit; this applies to all kinds of fruit-trees. =currants are a very manageable fruit=, as they do well in almost any position; heavy crops can be secured from bushes planted on north borders, the =black currant= thriving though it only gets a minimum of sunshine; =gooseberries= are not exacting either, and will give a good return for a small amount of labour. both may be propagated by cuttings, and are very reasonable in price, only costing about four shillings a dozen. messrs. rivers' stock of =maiden peach-trees= and =nectarines= is unsurpassed, and many of the best kinds obtainable have been raised by them, and are of worldwide fame. regarding that oft-debated question of protecting the blossom in spring, they do not advise anything in the nature of bracken to be used, this often doing more harm than good. if possible, =a glass coping= should be placed along the top of the wall, from which tiffany can depend on cold nights; unless this be done, it is best to leave them alone. fine crops are often obtained in the south and west of england without any protection whatever, the good seasons amply compensating for the bad. it occasionally happens that the amateur has an advantage over the market grower. this is particularly the case where one wants to curtail the =depredations of birds=; it pays to protect a few yards of fruit, but where it is a case of several acres, the trees have to take their chance. =cherries= have to be watched very carefully in this respect; it is very desirable to keep the =morello cherries= hanging long, as they then become sweeter and make good tarts. these trees do very well on north walls. =want of flavour.= one great fault noticeable in fruit-growing of recent years is that everything is sacrificed to size and appearance, flavour being at a discount; the shows have had a great deal to do with this; in the old days, when they were fewer in number, the test of a fruit was its taste. =strawberries= in particular have deteriorated in this way, the huge kinds now seen often being absolutely devoid of the luscious flavour generally associated with them. of course we have =better keeping varieties=, and they can be obtained much later than was once the case. if the culture of the perpetual varieties is extended strawberries will be in season many weeks longer, and this will be extremely good news for invalids, who find it as a rule one of the easiest fruits to digest. =the cultivation of strawberries is fairly easy=, but their wants must be regularly attended to. once in three years the old plants must be taken up, and new ones (the "runners" issuing from the old) planted instead; in the summer a good mulching of strawy manure should be placed between the rows, as this helps to keep the fruit clean, besides enriching the soil. plants which are expected to bear a good crop of fruit must have all their runners cut off as fast as they appear, as it exhausts the plants much to bear both. =strawberries are partial to rather a light soil=, but nearly all other fruit-trees revel in a mixture of loam and clay, with a little sand to keep it open. this soil does not suffer so much from drought, and, being firmer, the larger trees can send their roots down and get a far better hold of the ground than is possible in shingly, poor soils. =ornamental and useful.= =vegetables= take up a good deal of room in a garden if they are wanted all the year round, but a few things can be easily grown. =scarlet runner beans=, being ornamental as well as useful, are some of the best vegetables to grow, as they can be made to form a convenient screen for a rubbish heap. these can be brought up from seed sown early in april, and, when a foot high, require sticks; these come rather expensive if new ones are used every summer, but with care they will last two and even three seasons, though latterly they become very brittle. on the rubbish heap, =marrows= can be grown with the greatest facility, as they revel in the rich warmth there found. they should be bought when a few inches high, and planted out at the end of may, as they are only half hardy. when the flower at the end drops off they are ready to cut; if allowed to get much larger they lose all their flavour. a few, however, should be allowed to become quite ripe, as they can be used in the autumn for making apple-tart, two parts apple to one part marrow, and they also make =a good jam= when spiced with ginger, etc. =relations of the sunflowers.= =jerusalem artichokes= will flourish on a north border, and come in very nicely during november; they are planted in exactly the same manner as potatoes, that is, by means of pieces containing two or three "eyes," which should go in about february. like potatoes, too, they can be stored; though so tall, they do not require any sticks; these artichokes present much the same appearance as the ordinary cottager's sun-flower (indeed, the botanical name is identical, _helianthus_), having thick, hollow stems, covered with long, pointed, hairy leaves. =potatoes are rather "kittle-kattle"= for amateurs, but where the soil is light they should certainly be tried, especially where there is room for a rotation of crops, as successive planting should not be made in the same place. beware of giving rank manure to them, a sure precursor of disease; artificial manures, such as guano are far more suitable. =no trees must be allowed near them=, but a sunny open piece of ground be given up to them. march is the month to plant and the rows should be from fifteen inches to two feet apart. =carrots and turnips= also prefer a light soil and sunny situation. seeds of both should be sown in march, when the soil is in a friable condition, several times subsequently; the seeds must be well thinned out, and the space between the rows constantly turned by the hoe; the latter operation is particularly needful in heavy land, as it not only destroys weeds, but prevents the soil from caking: the rows should be about a foot apart. before the turnips are ready, the young green tops make a vegetable by no means to be despised. =herbs=, such as mint, parsley, mustard and cress, should be grown in every garden, as they take up but little space and are so much dearer to buy. =mint= is perennial, and will come up year after year, giving no trouble whatever; it spreads rapidly and will grow anywhere. to start a bed, roots can be bought from some market-gardener, or cuttings can be struck from the bunches bought in the shops. =parsley= is a biennial, though generally grown as an annual, because the leaves from young plants are much the best; the seeds should be sown two or three times a year, beginning about february, in a sheltered nook; =this herb likes plenty of sun=; even the curliest varieties degenerate if placed in a damp shady situation. it prefers light soil, and gives a better winter supply than where the soil is heavy. flower-heads must be cut off regularly to keep the plants in good condition, though just a few of the best kinds may be allowed to perfect their seed, which should be sown as soon as ripe. =mustard and cress= should also be sown several times during the summer; the cress must be sown three or four days before the mustard, to obtain them ready for cutting at the same time; both must be cut almost directly they appear, as, if allowed to grow tall, they become tough, and their flavour is lost; these seeds require no thinning out, the exception that proves the rule. chapter xiii annuals and biennials _how to grow annuals--some good kinds--some good biennials._ many amateurs look upon annuals as rubbishy things to grow, and only suitable for the children's gardens, but that is because they have generally failed to grow them properly. with the improved kinds now in cultivation, it is possible to make the portion of the flower-garden devoted to them "a thing of beauty" if not "a joy for ever." as it is more satisfactory to bring them up from the beginning, i have described in chapter xvi. a method generally successful. =seed-sowing out-of-doors= being rather precarious, i have found it advisable to =sow all the smaller seeds either in a green-house or frame=, however hardy the annual be. this not only saves endless trouble in the way of protecting the seed from birds, etc., but is advantageous in that one has an earlier display of bloom, owing to the growth being quicker under glass. below is a table of the choicest kinds:-- annuals. name. length. colour. bartonia aurea to - / ft. golden yellow. celosia plumosa - / ft. red and yellow. (somewhat after the style of prince's feather; tender.) coreopsis (or calliopsis) ft. yellow and red. eschscholtzia ft. bright yellow. (very pretty grey-green foliage; select.) gaillardia - / ft. yellow and red. (the "blanket flower"; good for cutting.) godetia ins. red to white. (cup-shaped; showy.) mesembryanthemum / to ft. ice plant. (grown for its foliage, which glistens beautifully; must have sun.) ionopsidium acaule to ins. pale mauve. (miniature plants for filling up crevices in rockwork.) linum coccineum ft. new scarlet variety. lupinus arboreus, "snow-queen" to ft. pure white. (a very stately plant; new.) nemophila grandiflora / ft. beautiful blue and white. (remind one of the eyes of a child.) phlox drummondi ft. all shades of red to white (half-hardy; must be massed.) shirley poppy ft. all shades of pink. (very graceful and free; light soil.) portulaca / ft. mixed colours. (the most effective of all annuals; half-hardy; must have plenty of sun and a light soil.) salpiglossis - / ft. all shades. (very fragile flowers, veined and marked in exquisite fashion; must be massed.) silene pendula compacta / ft. bright pink. (flowers shaped somewhat like a maltese cross.) stocks, double, ten-week ft. various. (when thinning, only keep the weakest seedlings, as those are the double ones.) biennials. these, if sown one spring, will not flower the following summer, but do so the year after. name. length. colour. fox-gloves to ft. white and coloured (white, most picturesque; all do well in shade; unless seed is required, cut out main stem, when side shoots will flower.) lunaria biennis - / to ft. the old "honesty." (much prized for its silvery seed-pods.) polyanthus / ft. mixed colours. (admirable for shady places; water well.) japanese pinks ft. deepest crimson to white. (fringed petals; a whole bed of this is lovely.) sweet williams ft. mixed shades. (auricula type, the best; there is a novelty, blackish-maroon in shade, which should be placed amongst some of the crimson varieties.) snap-dragons ft. varied. (flower from june to november; eschew reds of a mauve hue.) wallflower, "ruby gem" ft. reddish violet. the seeds of all these, true to name and ripe for germination, may be obtained from messrs. barr, long ditton, surrey, who sell sixpenny packets of all these kinds; small quantities of the well-known sorts only costing threepence. this is a =great advantage to owners of small gardens=, as one does not wish to give s. d. or s. d. for perhaps two thousand seeds of one variety, when only two or three dozen are required. penny packets of seeds may be had from the one and all company at most greengrocer's, and are really wonderful value for the money. chapter xiv window boxes _how to make them--relation of box to residence they are intended to adorn--suitable soil--window plants for different aspects._ where gardens are small, one seems to need window boxes more than where there is land and to spare. they add to the number of one's flowers, and, if carefully looked after, decidedly =improve the appearance of a house=. that is a large "if" though, for unkempt boxes only make it look untidy. =flowers first, box second.= though the tiled sort obtain a good deal of patronage, nothing really looks much better than boxes covered with virgin cork, if constantly renewed, for it acts as =a foil to the flowers=, whereas patterned tiles are rather apt to take one's attention away from them. in summer, certainly, they have the advantage of preserving the earth in a moist condition, and in smoky towns they help to give a bright, clean look to the houses so decorated. old-fashioned houses, however, should always have their window boxes made in the virgin cork style, as they accord better with their surroundings. when strong wooden boxes have been procured, it is quite easy to tack on the cork one's self, provided one has a sharp knife and a good supply of long nails, and it is =most fascinating work=; it is advisable to wear gloves during the process, as the hands may become rough otherwise. seven pounds of the cork may be had for a shilling of any seedsman, and three lots will do two boxes of the average size. =the soil should be fairly light=, like that used for potting, but before the boxes are filled, several holes, bored with a red-hot poker, should be made in the bottom, and a thin layer of "crocks" spread over them; do not quite fill the box with soil, but leave an inch or two free to allow of watering, and even more if a layer of moss or =cocoa-nut fibre= is used to cover the surface of the soil; this is certainly an improvement till the plants get large enough to cover it themselves. only =artificial manures= must be used to fertilize the roots, and even those must not be given too often, but only in the hot weather, when growth is quick, as they are stimulating to a great degree. =constant renewals are necessary=, if the boxes are to look gay all the year round; even the best gardeners acknowledge this. if continuous bloomers are chosen, however, the cost is considerably modified. perhaps the =winter shrubs= are the most expensive item; yet they are often chosen without much regard to cheerfulness; indeed, the favourite kinds present a most funereal appearance. =aspect= has always a good deal to do with the selection of plants, but in the case of windows facing north and east, it is the cold winds more than the absence of sun which restricts the choice. shelter is a great factor in their well-being. =showy in winter.= in a cosy box with a western exposure, and protected on the north, the golden-tipped _retinosporas_ make =a pretty show during the cold months= of the year, and form a welcome change from the prevailing dark green tones. _cotoneasters_, _pernettyas_, and the variegated _euonymus_ are also very suitable. the polypody ferns, being evergreen, look very well too, and =will thrive facing all four points of the compass=. in the spring, =dwarf wall-flowers=, interspersed with different kinds of bulbs, make the boxes look bright, and the new _pyrus maulei_ is also very pretty at this season. the =perennial candytuft=, too, is a splendid flower for late spring, particularly _iberis correafolia_, which has a neat habit, and bears quantities of snow-white flowers; it likes sun, and not too much moisture. the =yellow jasmine=, which is so pretty in winter, looks extremely well when allowed to droop over the edges of a box, as it flowers in quite a young state. the mossy _saxifrages_ are suitable for the edges of the box, and are always ornamental; their charming white flowers, supported on red stalks, appear about may. such =bulbs= as the duc van thol tulips are very bright, and mix well with the shrubs; they should be put in some time in october. =crocuses= look well, too, but should not be placed in the same box as the tulips, or too gaudy an appearance will result. a thick planting along the front of the box of the starch hyacinth--_muscari_--is =uncommon=, and an exceedingly nice thing to have, as the moment the window is open fragrant whiffs, resembling new-mown hay, pour into the room, especially on a sunny morning. when these bulbs have to make way for the summer flowers, it is advisable to plant them out in the garden and use another lot next year, as the =constant transplantation somewhat weakens them=. of course, one could leave them in the box during the summer, if it were not for the unsightly decaying leaves, which =must on no account be cut off=. about the middle of may for the south of england, and a fortnight later for the north, is the time to furnish the boxes for the summer. if the window is small, low-growing plants and trailers should prevail. =for cold aspects.= some good flowers for north and east aspects are _fuschias_, _calceolarias_, _begonias_, and the lovely white _campanula isophylla_; the latter thrives best in such conditions, bearing finer flowers for a much greater length of time than where the sun scorches it. =these plants accord well with stucco=, which serves to show up their whiteness more than anything. =marguerites=, yellow and white, also thrive in the cooler windows of a house, and are not so exigent in the matter of watering when so placed. when selecting =begonias= for boxes it is well to choose the single varieties with moderate-sized blossoms; the big flabby ones soon become spoilt by rain, and are not produced so freely, nor is their habit of growth so good. =for hot situations= the double geraniums are splendid, but they should not be mixed with lobelias, as they look infinitely better when grouped by themselves, the shades ranging from dark crimson to the palest salmon-pink. =pretty trailers.= the quick-growing _tradescantia_ with its many-jointed stems and glossy bright green leaves, softens =the somewhat formal appearance of the geraniums=, and will cover all the bare soil in a marvellously short space of time, and droop over the edges in long streamers; it is quite distinct from the tall _tradescantias_ mentioned in a former chapter, and is the easiest thing in the world to propagate, as any little bits saved over from a bouquet will make roots in a bowl of water, or they can be "struck" in the ordinary way in a pot under glass. the variegated _tradescantia_ is =a very choice trailer=, but a little more tender than the other, and requires a sunny position, while the plain green variety will do anywhere outside in the summer, even growing well under trees. =for autumn= there are the =hardy chrysanthemums=, and if dwarf varieties with fibrous roots are chosen, a very good show can be made with these till the middle or end of november. the protection afforded them by the house keeps them in good condition longer than when they are in the open, especially when a thin veiling, such as tiffany, is afforded them on cold nights. even newspapers will keep out several degrees of frost, and form a very cheap method of protection. chapter xv table decoration and flowers in season _graceful arrangement--how to manage thick-skinned stems--colour-schemes--bad colours for artificial light--preserving and resuscitating--table of flowers in season._ the fashion of decorating tables to the extent now done is of comparatively recent date. when the duties were taken off the importation of foreign flowers, they became so much lower in price that the great middle-class could afford to buy some even in mid-winter. in the british isles themselves, too, the carriage of flowers is much cheaper and more expeditious, though there is plenty of room for improvement still in that respect. =the manner of arranging= them has much altered, for, instead of cramming a clumsy vase to its utmost limits with a dozen different flowers of as many shades, only one, two, or at most three, kinds are now used, and these are set out in as =graceful and airy= a manner as possible. =plain glass vases=, as a rule, show the blossoms off best, though pale green or ruby occasionally looks very well. the water need not be changed every day in all cases; it depends on the flower; wall-flowers, for instance, turn the water putrid very soon, while it keeps fresh much longer where roses are concerned. =the vases should, however, be filled up once a day=, as the stems suck up moisture rapidly. hard-wooded flower stalks should receive special attention, or they will droop directly. =stem-splitting.= lilac, when cut and placed in water will absorb no more moisture than a lead pencil, unless the stems are split up; this can be done either with a hammer or a knife or both. as many leaves as possible should be left on the stems, for when under water they largely help to make the blossoms last well; it is only where the stalks are nearly leafless that the splitting and peeling is necessary. =maidenhair fern may be made to last= much longer if the end of the black, wiry stem is hammered for about an inch up. it must not be forgotten that =cutting from a plant strengthens it=, and induces it to continue sending up flower-stalks. people often seem chary of cutting their roses with any length of stem, i suppose because it has leaves and shoots all the way up, but this is an error; they should be cut with about eight or ten inches of stalk; pansies and _violas_ also look much more natural when a portion of the shoot is cut along with each blossom. =by parcel post.= on hot summer days, when flowers are to be sent by post, =they should be picked early in the morning=, several hours before they are to be sent off, and placed in bowls of water; then, if they are packed close together in tin, wood, or even card-board boxes they will arrive quite fresh at their destination, where otherwise they would be hopelessly faded. when a box of flowers is received, the contents should be put =in luke-warm water= in a dim light for an hour or so; they can then be re-arranged in the vases they are intended to occupy. =blue--a daylight colour.= some colours respond to artificial light much better than others. =most shades of blue are not suitable for decorating dinner tables=, because they turn almost brown, or at best a dull mauve. in choosing violets, therefore, for evening wear, it will be found that the blossoms which have thin, rather washed-out petals of the lightest purple will look best, the full blue not being nearly so effective. =for luncheon=, an arrangement of purple clematis in vases on the palest pink ground is lovely, but does not look quite so well by gas-light, though here again if the least velvety flowers are chosen for evening, a good effect can be obtained. =yellow is a splendid evening colour=, but must be bright, or it will look merely cream. a dining-room panelled in light oak, adorned with yellow marguerites alone, is very pleasing to the eye. in the spring, =laburnum makes a novel dressing for a dining-table=; care, however, must be exercised with this flower, as the pods are poisonous. blue also looks well with brown in the day-time; larkspurs, forget-me-nots, _plumbago_, _campanulas_, _nemophilla_, etc., all look very well. we know how artistic blue porcelain is on oak shelves, and, if the flowers have a white eye or are veined with white, the effect is somewhat the same. =scarlet is a good gas or electric light colour=, but it must be used judiciously, and as a rule only be mixed with white, just as the ladies at a regimental ball are generally only allowed to robe themselves in this pure shade. =simplicity.= now-a-days the decorations are rarely made so high that one cannot see the other side of the table. though this arrangement might occasionally be useful in hiding the face of an enemy, on the whole it was found inconvenient; accordingly they have climbed down; the "bazaar-stall" fashion is also disappearing, and flat table-centres are used instead, or none at all. simplicity is the great cry now, and though of course it may be costly, a charming effect is obtained with fewer flowers than was formerly considered correct, and is moreover easily imitated by an artistic eye in less expensive blossoms. some of the flowers to be had in each respective season are enumerated on p. . it will be noticed that where plenty of out-door blossoms are to be had, the hot-house varieties are omitted. table of natural and forced flowers for each month. january. _natural._ christmas rose. yellow jasmine. _forced._ carnations. eucharis. gardenias. poinsettias. tuberoses. late chrysanthemums. roman hyacinths. odontoglossum (orchid). tulips. violet, single and double. narcissus. february. _natural._ christmas roses. yellow jasmine. daphne. snowdrops. _forced._ white lilac. carnation. hyacinths. tulips. geraniums. marguerites. cattleya (orchid). camellias. roses. dicentra. narcissus. march. _natural._ violets. early narcissus. almond blossom. cowslips. polyanthus. _forced._ freesias. lily of the valley. arums. narcissus. mauve lilac. anemones. lilium harrisii. " longiflorum. roses. azaleas. april. _natural._ daffodils. wallflowers. forget-me-not. tulips. alyssum. anemones. doronicums. _forced._ sweet peas. roses. carnations. arums. lilies of the valley. alliums. acacia. epacris. may. _natural._ laburnum. poet's eye narcissus. doronicums. trollius. iris. parrot tulips. lilies of the valley. syringa. lilac. ranunculus. _forced._ arums. ixias. gladiolus (scarlet and white). june. _natural._ sweet peas. roses. pinks. pyrethrums (single). larkspurs. canterbury bells. penstemons. lilies. columbines. flag iris and other iris. july. _natural._ clematis. montbretias. st. john's wort. campanulas. poppies (to be picked in the bud). carnations. cornflowers. indian pinks. erigeron (like an early michaelmas daisy). gladiolus. august. _natural._ clematis. coreopsis. gaillardias. snapdragons. sunflowers. gladiolus. dahlias. roses. carnations. september. _natural._ michaelmas daisies. pinks. chrysanthemums. lilies. sunflowers. japanese anemones. roses. _forced._ tuberoses. cattleyas. eucharis. gardenias. october. _natural._ michaelmas daisies. chrysanthemums. physalis (or cape gooseberry). violets. single marigolds. _forced._ salvias. marguerites. tuberoses. eucharis. odontoglossum. cattleya. bouvardia. roses. carnations. november. _natural._ michaelmas daisies. chrysanthemums. the gladwin iris (berries). violets. _forced._ eucharis. geraniums. marguerites. salvias. carnations. chrysanthemums. odontoglossum. cattleya. bouvardia. camellias. december. _natural._ yellow jasmine. christmas roses. _forced._ salvias. cypripediums. violets. poinsettias. geraniums. chrysanthemums. lilies of the valley. roman hyacinths. coelogyne (orchid). narcissus in variety. =the cost of a flower is always in proportion to its blooming time.= if lilies of the valley are wanted in august, they must be paid for heavily, as retarded bulbs (those which have been kept in ice) are used to produce them. chapter xvi the propagation of plants _by dividing--by cuttings--by seeds--by layers._ =propagation may be affected in various ways=, of which division is perhaps the easiest. it must be done very carefully, or decay will set in. some plants lend themselves to this form of propagation very readily; in others, the root stock is single and obviously resents division, wherefore it is better to try another plan. the michaelmas daisies are good instances of the first kind; their roots are fibrous, and soon take to the new soil; it is tap-rooted plants which dislike division so much. =careful division.= it is advisable to divide most plants in the growing season, which is from spring to early autumn; if it is done in the winter months, each piece frequently remains quite inert and eventually rots. the plant should be taken up, with a fork by preference, and then pulled carefully apart with the hand. =the smallest fragment of the old white anemone will grow=, but few plants will stand quite so much division. each piece should be well watered as it is planted, and if the sun is hot some shade improvised. such things as _delphiniums_, _phloxes_, _campanulas_, and quick-growing subjects in general, should not be left too long without being divided, or the flowers will dwindle, and the plants become straggling in habit. a good many plants which might be propagated by =division= of the roots are propagated instead by cuttings, as the flowers come finer in every way, and of course this method suits many plants which cannot be divided. chrysanthemums present few difficulties; though the ultimate growth of this japanese plant entails a vast amount of labour (if prizes are the object in view), yet cuttings from them are the easiest things possible to strike, even easier than a geranium, as there is no damping off. =cuttings are generally struck under glass=, this method being the surest, even with hardy plants. the shoots selected should be well ripened, and the cut made squarely below a joint and be =taken with a "heel"= if possible, that is, with a piece of the old wood attached. all but the topmost leaves should be pinched off, and then the cuttings must be inserted round the sides of the pot, and the soil well pressed down,--the best cuttings in the world cannot make roots unless this be attended to. after that a good watering should be given them, and the pots set in a shady place till they have emitted roots, which may be known by the fact of their beginning to make new leaves. some cuttings root better when the cut is allowed to form a "callus," which in warm weather only takes a few hours. =rose cuttings= root very well out of doors on a north border, and trees produced in this manner are often very satisfactory, but they take a long while to come to a flowering stage, somewhat trying the patience of ardent amateurs. one can gradually get quite a nice collection of interesting plants, by striking all the likely shoots in the different bunches of flowers received from friends, but it is generally best to identify them as soon as possible, so as to give each the right treatment. =propagation by seed= is quite a fascinating employment, and is a successful method, if pains are taken; though so many amateurs seem to fail. i have found it the safest plan, with all except the largest seeds, to bring them up under glass. even the hardiest can be treated in this way, and one feels so much more sure of the result. for one thing, birds cannot get at them, therefore there is no need to make a network of black cotton to keep them off; neither can the cat meddle with them, and we all know pussy is a very bad gardener. =the pans= specially sold for the purpose are the best, but pots will do very well. fill them with fine moist soil, and press firmly down; then scatter the seed thinly on the top, and only cover with a slight layer of soil, afterwards placing in a dark corner. where the seed is very small, do not cover with any mould at all, but, as an extra protection, place a piece of cardboard over the top of the pot, so that they shall not be blown away. =seeds like a still atmosphere=, moisture, warmth, and darkness. seeds and seedlings must not be watered in the ordinary way, but the pan containing them should be placed in a saucer of water, when enough moisture will be drawn up by capillary attraction. thinning is extremely necessary; every plant must be given room to attain its full dimensions; where this is not done, the result is most unsatisfactory. as regards the =time for sowing=, of course, spring is the most usual, but in the case of annuals it will often be found a good plan to sow a few in autumn, as, by pursuing this method, nice stocky little plants are ready for the garden quite early in the season, and give flowers long before spring-sown seed could possibly do so. =propagation by layering= is very useful, as cuttings of some plants will not strike readily. strong shoots are denuded of their leaves for a few inches, and their stems slit up and pressed into the ground by means of a peg; when firmly rooted, they can be detached from the parent plant by means of a penknife. carnations are generally reproduced in this way, as it is the surest method of all. chapter xvii the management of room plants _best kinds for "roughing" it--importance of cleanliness--the proper way of watering them._ the majority of english women like to see their rooms, and specially their drawing-rooms, adorned with =growing plants=. nevertheless, a great many do not cultivate them successfully, so a few hints will not be amiss. =constant attention= is needed to keep plants in perfect health, and this is exactly what is so often denied them. a lady buys two or three ferns that take her fancy, and feels for a while quite interested in their welfare; but, after a week or so, she leaves them to take care of themselves, which means to dwindle, and ultimately die. many shillings, therefore, are constantly being spent in renewing plants which, with proper care, should last for years. all room plants =must be looked after daily=, a few minutes every morning being far better than an hour once a week, which is all they receive in some homes. i will treat first of =palms=, which, though such slow-growing subjects, seem the favourite of all for home decoration, owing to their grace of form and good lasting properties. if you observe the roots of most palms, you will see that, attached in an odd way to the rising stem is =a sort of bulb=, not unlike a pigmy potato. this excrescence, which should only be covered by a thin layer of soil, stores up nutriment for the plant's use, in much the same way as a hyacinth or daffodil does. this accounts in a great measure for its power in enduring dryness of the soil without flagging, which property, however, should not be abused. palms should be watered as regularly, though not so often, as more sappy plants. =the correct way to water.= numbers of people do not know how to give water in the correct way, whereby the florist prospers! =the golden rule= is never to water a plant until it requires it, and then to do it thoroughly. it is fatal merely to moisten the top of the soil, and to leave the deeper roots dry. first give =a sharp tap to the pot=; if it rings, water is required; if, on the contrary, a dull sound is given out, the soil is wet enough. lifting a pot is a sure test too, as one's hand soon becomes accustomed to the difference in weight of a moist and dry pot; the former, of course, being so much heavier. always see that the water runs through the hole at the bottom of the pot, then you may be sure that each particle of soil is wet, and not till then. if you possibly can, it is best to =use water of a corresponding temperature to that of the room they are in=; this is most important with delicate plants. large, shiny, horizontal-leaved plants require a weekly sponging to remove the inevitable dust which settles on them. =gloves should be worn= while this is being done, as contact with the skin turns the edges of the leaves yellow; also gloves, of course, help to keep the hands soft and white. plants with large leaves should never be watered overhead, unless immediately wiped dry, as each drop allowed to stand on the leaf turns yellow, rots, and finally quite spoils the leaf, so that it has to be removed. palms will stand gas fairly well, but not so well as _aspidistras_. =the best plants for dark corners.= an _aspidistra_ (please note spelling) is =the best plant there is for roughing it=. the long, thick, dark leaves seem to stand draughts, gas, dark corners, poor soil, and general neglect almost with impunity. but here again watering overhead is fatal, as regards the appearance of these plants. the =leaves should be washed once a week=, but i will just say here that where one is in a hurry, and cannot wait to get a sponge and water, a good polish with a duster is not at all a bad substitute. there are disputes occasionally as to whether _aspidistras_ ever flower. of course, it is an undoubted fact that they do, and i can give a decided affirmative to any who may question it. my plants flower regularly every spring, but, as these blooms are a dull, greenish-purple in colour, and only sit, as it were, on the top of the soil, they are naturally overlooked. the modesty of the violet is nowhere when compared with the _aspidistra_! =aralias are good room plants=, for they have a bold and handsome form, and glossy, bright green foliage, very like that of a fig. they do not stand gas well, however, but, as so many houses are lighted by electricity, this is less of a drawback than was formerly the case. if not regularly watered, too, they have a habit of dropping their leaves; otherwise they are of easy culture. as they grow taller, the lower leaves, even on a healthy plant, generally drop off. =leggy plants.= it is a good way, when these and kindred plants become "leggy," to improve their appearance by cutting off the old root, and making them root higher up the stem. where the plant is valuable, it is best to be sure of new roots before throwing away the old, but, as a rule, _aralias_ have so many joints that they may easily be induced to strike by just pressing the stem firmly into the soil, then putting the pot in some dark place, and keeping the soil rather dry, though the foliage must be kept moist. =to be quite sure of success=, however, it is best to treat them in the following manner:--choose a handful of soil with a little loam in it, and, wetting the stem slightly, press the soil round two or three of the joints, and bind closely with some raffia or bass, being very careful to keep the soil always moist, or the plant will fail to make roots. some people enclose this part of the stem in two halves of a small flower-pot, which is a good plan, if the stem will bear the weight, as it preserves a more even temperature. =the hare's-foot fern=--_davallia canariensis_--with its beautiful blue-green fronds, much divided and elegantly arched, makes the loveliest room plant imaginable, and, though fairly common, is =not often seen in a good state of health=. i have found that, on first buying a pot of this fern, the leaves almost invariably turn rusty and drop off, so that, as the new fronds sometimes do not appear for some while, an amateur might really be pardoned for _imagining the plant dead_. this is not so; the hare's-foot merely resents the change of atmosphere (it has probably been in a moist green-house), and, like most of us, takes time to settle down. once it has acclimatised itself, there is no better plant to be had for the purpose. it is so essentially decorative that no one can fail to admire it. firm potting is important in growing the =davallia=, and it does not seem so partial to water as most of the fern tribe. it will also stand gas pretty well, if not shut up for the night in an atmosphere charged with it, and this is the case with many room plants; they =strongly object to being left to spend the night in the impure air=, though a few hours each evening will not do them much harm. the plan of taking them out at bed-time also prevents so much dust accumulating on their leaves, an inevitable drawback where a room is thoroughly swept and dusted. =always endeavour to keep your plants well balanced.= in a room, it is impossible to do this, without constantly turning the pots round, so that all parts may get the light. in summer, this has to be attended to nearly every day, but in winter less often, as the sun is, of course, much less powerful. as regards =re-potting=, great care must be exercised, or more harm than good will result. palms will grow for years in quite small pots, and do not thrive if over-potted. on the other hand, some plants require it annually, but, seldom or often, unless for some special reason, =re-potting should always be done in the spring=. from the beginning of february until the end of may, a plant may safely be shifted on, as it is called, because all these months comprise the growing season, when fresh roots are emitted and new leaves being produced almost daily. see that the pot is perfectly clean and dry, and the soil in a friable condition; it should be composed of peat, loam and sand in equal parts; a little leaf mould, where it is for a fern proper, will be beneficial. a =potting soil= ready prepared may be had for about a shilling a peck from any seedsman, which saves time and trouble in mixing. be sure to put clean crocks in at the bottom, or the soil will become sour. shake the pot every now and again as you fill it up, to ensure no crevices being left; =loose potting= has caused the death of many a fine plant. when the pot is full, press the mould down, leaving from half an inch to an inch (according to the size) bare of soil to the rim of the pot, to allow of watering. it is well to put a layer, about half an inch thick, of cocoa-nut fibre on the top of the soil, as this looks neat, and serves to show off the foliage to the best advantage. enough of the fibre to cover several dozen pots may be had for threepence. guano is good, if supplied to the plants during the warmer months of the year. the proportions of guano to water can always be seen on the label pasted on the outside of the tin. it is well to remember that =guano should never be given to a plant when the soil is dry=, but always just after it has been watered. =saucers or jardinieres should be emptied= as a rule an hour after the plants have been watered, though where ferns seem to flourish most when allowed to stand in water, it is well to continue the practice. in very hot weather, this is undoubtedly of benefit to many plants, but in the winter the soil of all pot plants should err on the dry side, cold and damp together often proving fatal. =good for two-thirds of the year.= there are some first-rate plants which refuse to look well for the coldest part of the year (unless one is possessed of an hot-house), but which are really =capital for brightening our rooms= for at least eight months in the twelve. of these, the _asparagus_ "fern" is perhaps the most useful. it is a lovely and graceful plant, which bears cutting, and it lasts so long, both in and out of water. being, however, in reality a stove plant, amateurs who have no warmed green-house must not expect to keep it in thoroughly good health during the winter, but so soon as the spring appears, new green stems will shoot up in all directions, and the old fronds will soon be replaced by bright green feathery plumes of infinite grace. =pteris wimsetti= is a charming room plant. =young eucalyptus plants= are also very pretty for decorating a room, and are supposed to be good as a disinfectant. their habit of growth is uncommon, and very charming to watch, as they quickly reach to an effective size, and make large handsome plants to set in the corners of reception rooms. it is best to bring them up by seed, which should be sown in february or march. =spring is the best time to buy room-plants.= chapter xviii various hints _artificial manures--labelling--cutting off dead flowers--buying plants--tidiness in the garden, etc._ with far the larger half of our population =the question of cost= comes into everything. there are so many claims on our purses, that the money spent on recreations can only be a small part; moreover, is always liable to be drawn on at any moment. somehow, the money laid out on a garden always seems to be grudged, especially when it is for such things as manure, so that if that item can be reduced, so much the better. =a "wrinkle."= one good way of buying it, is to get the boys who sweep the roads to bring the contents of their cart to your garden instead of taking it away. quite a lot can be purchased for sixpence or so, and the mixture is even more beneficial to some plants than the loads bought from the contractor. when the neat little heaps are swept up at the roadside, anyone may take it away. householders can employ their own errand-boys to do so, no charge being made whatever. =guano and artificial manures= in general are very stimulating, and must only be given to plants in bud, or at all events full-growth. sickly plants or those at rest must never have it. =soapsuds= form a mild stimulant for rose-trees in summer, but these things do not come in place of the manure with which the soil must be dressed in autumn; they are only additions. =labelling.= there has been much controversy over the labelling of plants; it must be done very delicately, or the appearance of the garden is spoilt; the word label usually presupposes a name to be written thereon, but, in reality, =just a mark to show where a plant is=, often seems all that is necessary, and this is very important indeed with plants which die right down every winter. the most unobtrusive tallies must be used, and they should be of zinc, or they will inevitably get lost. the wooden ones are all right in the greenhouse, but no good at all outside. for rose-trees, names are required, and =the "acme" labels are much the best= ever invented for these, and have now been in use by all rosarians for years; they can be had at cant's rose nurseries, colchester, for about s. d. a dozen, post paid. =if we would keep plants in good health=, all dead flowers must be cut off regularly; this is specially important in the case of sweet peas, pansies, and other free-flowering plants, which become poor, and soon leave off blossoming altogether, if allowed to form seed-pods. it is =a good plan= to go round every morning with a basket and scissors, and snip off all faded blooms, as, when several days elapse, the work becomes long and irksome. =as regards buying plants=, this comes somewhat expensive, until a little knowledge and experience has been gained. after a while, the different plants are known by sight, and one is able to see directly whether a flower or shrub is well grown and of good colour. then, instead of ordering everything at the large nurseries, one can often pick up, in one's wanderings, very =good things at small cost=. until that is the case, it is wiser to order from some reliable firm who is sure to send out everything true to name. people who go in for gardening, should always be ready to learn; there are so many points which cannot be acquired all at once. one can often gain a "wrinkle" if one keeps one's eyes open, as the saying is. constant visits should be made to kew, hampton court, or any other well-kept public garden, if at all within reach. a stroll round a neighbour's garden, too, will often give one new ideas, and the interchange of opinions does a deal of good. a magazine keeps up one's interest wonderfully, and there are many specially published for amateurs. one must not be surprised that the advice often seems contradictory. =the right way of growing a plant is the way that succeeds=, and experience shows how varied may be the means by which success is attained. i should like here to warn my readers that before launching out into any great expense, they first come to a full understanding as to what they will or will not be able to take away. greenhouses can be put up as =tenants' fixtures=, but a very slight difference in the manner of placing them may result in a good deal of unpleasantness with the landlord, and it is the same with rose-trees, and other shrubs and plants. where a shrub has attained to goodly proportions, it is really the best way to let it remain, even though the associations connected with it may be pleasant, as transplanting would probably mean death, in which case neither party would have gained anything. of course, in the nature of things, a lover of gardening is loth to move at all, a rolling stone is not at all in his line. =tidiness is most important in a small garden=, especially in the winter time; plants may be allowed to get rampant in summer, but in the cold weather, this wildness tends to make it look miserable. one sometimes sees the brown, mildewed stalks of sunflowers and other tall plants, left on right into december, even in a front garden, and it =gives such a deserted look= to the place, that one longs to "have at them" there and then with a knife. it is the same way with autumn leaves; in woods they look beautiful, as they flutter down and make a rich, rustling carpet for our feet, but, somehow, in the garden the beauty seems gone, and it is generally the best plan to sweep them away as soon as possible into some corner, where they can be left to turn into leaf mould. of course there is a certain beautiful freedom which is very desirable in a garden, and which no one could call untidiness. what looks lovelier, for instance, than the jasmine, with its long sprays hanging down over the window, or the break made in a straight-edged path by some luxurious patch of thrift or forget-me-not? these are only fascinating irregularities! =winter need not be a time for idleness=; it must be spent in getting ready for the spring. tools should be overhauled thoroughly, and new supplies of sticks and labels prepared. plans, too, should be made for filling each different bed, so that when the warm days arrive, and one scarcely knows what to be at first, everything may be in train. the faculty of looking ahead must needs be used, if we wish to succeed. i often think that =living in anticipation constitutes a great part of the charm of gardening=. when sowing the seed, have we not bright visions of the time when that self-same seed will bear most exquisite blossoms? when pruning our rose trees, dreams of what they will become lend added interest to our occupations, and, indeed, this quality of imagination turns arduous work into a veritable labour of love, so that its devotees always aver it is the most delightful recreation in the world. january. _average temperature ._ in frosty weather wheel manure on to ground. see that every plant which is not quite hardy is well protected from frost. shake off any snow which may be lying on the branches of fir trees, etc. in mild weather digging may be done. if it has not already been done cut back all deciduous trees, such as chestnuts, limes and sycamores. prune all except the tender fruit trees, cutting back weak shoots hard, and strong ones little. sow early peas on a warm border. do not transplant this month. start covering rhubarb with pots or boxes for forcing, and surround them with manure. paths may be relaid with gravel. the erection of arches, trellis work, or any alteration of this sort may be attended to. keep all plants under glass clear of decaying leaves and anything likely to cause mouldiness. raise temperature of greenhouses as the days become lighter. february. _average temperature ._ begin sowing hardy annuals outside in a sheltered position. refrain from pruning rose-trees, or they will suffer later on. new lawns can be made now, though autumn is the best time. see that all trees are securely staked and shoots of wall climbers well nailed in before the winds of march come. prune remaining fruit trees. seeds of broad beans, peas, carrots, onions, beetroot, parsley, lettuce, etc., can now be sown, though the largest sowing should be made next month. plants under glass must have more air and more water as they begin to grow quickly. ventilate carefully and close all the houses before sunset. give manure to fruit trees. look over fuchsias, dahlias, etc.; cut back and place in gentle warmth. march. _average temperature ._ hardy perennials may be planted. prune hardy rose trees. sow the bulk of flowering annuals. cut back ivy during last week. free the lawn of plantains and sow grass-seed on bare patches. renew or fill up box edgings. hoe beds and borders frequently to keep down weeds. rose trees may be planted, though autumn is the best time. see that bedding plants in frames have plenty of water. clear out all dead plants and give a general tidy-up to the greenhouse. give plenty of air from top-lights to glasshouses. plant out jerusalem artichokes. sow seeds of vegetables of all kinds. pick up gravel paths, and give another layer if necessary. protect anything newly planted from rough winds. mulch bush fruit trees. april. _average temperature ._ make last sowing of annuals and thin out those appearing above ground. fill up gaps in the flower border. plant out dahlias. prune tea-roses during first week. if rather dry weather ensues keep rockery and all spring-flowering plants well-watered. beds must be prepared for the tender plants put out next month by turning the soil well over and thus pulverizing it. protect tender fruit trees from late frosts. sow seeds of vegetables for succession. if the weather is hot, shading can be put on greenhouses. bedding plants must be gradually hardened off by giving plenty of air. mow and roll lawn frequently. plant out potato tubers. edgings can be planted or filled up. may. _average temperature ._ keep a sharp look-out for insects. commence bedding out this month and continue all through, reserving tender things such as coleus till the last. hoe well between annuals and keep them well watered. carefully train the various climbers or they will grow into an inextricable mass. fill vases and baskets. clip evergreen hedges as this makes them break out at the bottom. put some strawy manure between the rows of strawberries and keep well watered. sow vegetable seeds for succession. plant out gourds, marrows, etc. if the weather is hot keep everything well watered. transplant violets to their cool summer quarters. syringe frequently under glass. june. _average temperature ._ if the garden is not altogether dependent on bedding plants it ought to be looking its freshest and best. see that everything has enough water. continue to thin out flowering annuals as they increase in size. carefully stake larkspurs, carnations, etc. if the leaves of spring bulbs have turned quite yellow, cut them off, but not before. give copious supplies of water to all wall plants as a slight shower of rain scarcely touches them. give occasional doses of manure to rose trees, and pick off all faded flowers. water rockeries. stake runner beans. sow late broccoli. sow more lettuce. water peaches, apricots, etc., copiously. mulch all fruit trees. protect cherries from birds. draw earth up round potatoes. water marrows well and often with liquid manure. early this month plant out tomatoes on a south or west wall. keep greenhouses well ventilated both day and night. harden off azaleas before being set outside next month. most plants under glass will want watering twice a day or they must stand in a saucer of water. july. _average temperature ._ look out for rose suckers and cut them off. syringe rose trees. mulch those going out of flower to induce them to make fresh buds. keep faded flowers picked off. commence propagating carnations. take note of gaps in the flower beds and fill up from the nursery garden. place azaleas, heaths, etc., outside in a shady place to rest awhile. pansies which are blooming well on cool borders should have weak solutions of guano water afforded them. cut down faded spikes of larkspur and mulch and water well. this month bedding plants are valuable as july is not a good month for herbaceous perennials. stake the later runner beans. plant out celery. sow more turnip seed. syringe both wall fruit and standards. make new plantations of strawberries. water lawn every day if possible. thin out the superfluous wood of fig trees and shorten gross shoots on all fruit trees. keep everything well watered under glass. give air all night to greenhouses. tie up climbers to roof neatly and frequently syringe. damp down several times daily. august. _average temperature ._ take pansy cuttings. stake dahlias, phloxes, etc. keep soil from caking by constant hoeing. take cuttings of geraniums, fuchsias, etc., and strike them out of doors. give copious supplies of water to rose trees and syringe foliage often. cuttings of rose trees may be inserted now on a cool border. rockeries must be constantly watered. disentangle shoots of climbing plants and tie back artistically. water lawn daily and do not cut too low. cuttings of most plants may be taken now and inserted in a shady border with every chance of success. cut down old raspberry canes to make way for the new. protect fruit from wasps and other insects. pinch off the tops of runner beans. earth up celery and put out more young plants. remove leaves which obstruct light on wall-peaches, apricots, etc. syringe frequently. give air day and night to greenhouses. give constant supplies of liquid manure to chrysanthemums. cut back climbing plants on the roof. september. _average temperature ._ begin planting spring bulbs. continue to take cuttings of bedding plants, but insert in frames now. leave off giving outside plants stimulants. sow hardy annuals to flower next spring. plant out rooted layers of carnations. thin dahlia shoots and give plenty of water. remove rose suckers. pluck apples and pears as soon as ripe, and put on dry shelves to keep. the fruit should not touch. prepare ground for new plantations. on hot days fruit trees can still be syringed to keep down insects. plant out cabbages, sprouts, etc., from the seed bed. earth up celery. dig up and store potatoes. towards the middle of the month remove greenhouse shading. thin out climbers on roof again. save for chrysanthemums guano is little needed now. tender plants outside should be housed at the end of the month. pot up freesias. damp down less often and reduce the amount of air supplied. ferns which were not repotted in the spring can be done now. october. _average temperature ._ plant spring bulbs and the madonna lily. take up all bedding plants and house carefully. fill the beds with polyanthus, wallflower, forget-me-not and other early flowers. this is a good month for planting most things. begin putting in shrubs. thin out annuals sown last month. cut back climbing plants. keep hardy chrysanthemums well staked. alterations can now proceed. continue to pick pears and apples, and go over them daily to pick out mouldy ones. commence planting fruit trees. raspberry plantations should now be made. mulch strawberry beds after forking lightly between the rows. sow early peas in sheltered situations. store potatoes, carrots, parsnips, etc. give liquid manure to chrysanthemums under glass. ventilate carefully and do not damp down. bring september planted bulbs to the light as soon as they appear above ground. november. _average temperature ._ plant rose trees. mulch every rose tree in the garden. continue planting hardy perennials. cut down all dead stalks of dahlias, sunflowers, phloxes, etc. finish planting bulbs. roll lawn frequently. new ones can now be made. continually tidy up the garden. finish planting shrubs. protect fig-trees by mulching and cut back some of the over-luxuriant shoots. plant fruit trees of all kinds. trench ground not in use that the rain and frost may sweeten it. prune currants and gooseberries. hoe frequently between rows of cauliflower and cabbage. celery must be earthed up higher. any alterations that may be in hand should be completed this month. see that oil-lamp and other heating apparatus is in good order. look over cuttings of geraniums, etc., and remove all decayed leaves, which should be burnt. ventilate all glass houses much less, especially during fogs. december. _average temperature ._ give a final glance to tender plants to see that they are well protected. cut down faded stalks of hardy chrysanthemums. place hand-lights over christmas roses. this is a good time for writing new labels, preparing stakes, and making plans for the following summer. roll gravel walks, and if mossy sprinkle with salt. planting of fruit trees may continue if the weather be mild. thin out gross wood to allow the air to circulate. wheel manure on to the ground in frosty weather. prepare vegetable seeds for sowing, by separating them from the husk, drying, labelling and sorting them. earth up greens of all kinds with the hoe. in glasshouses avoid too much moisture at this dead season of the year. only ventilate in mild, calm weather. keep everything scrupulously clean. give as much light as possible to growing things. plants at rest should be kept dark. index aspect, influence of, on plants, conservatory, the-- cactus plants for, hanging plants in, how to stage, plants suitable for hanging baskets, enemies of the garden-- earwigs, to get rid of, mice, to get rid of, slugs, to get rid of, wireworms, to get rid of, flowers-- annuals, biennials, colours for day and evening use, natural and forced procurable each month, to pack for post, fruit, want of flavour in, gardens, small-- be original in planting, beds and bedding, hints for, border soil for, breaking up the straight appearance of, description of a small and lovely garden, duty of making experiments in, eye for colour needed in, fruit for, general arrangement of, how not to plant, lawns, to keep in order, little things that tell in, making the most of land, ornamental and useful, paths of, to keep in order, stone fruit for, the dell at chertsey, to begin well, walks, the, gardening hints-- art of buying plants, the, cut off dead flowers, labelling, manures, tidiness, glossary of terms used by gardeners, greenhouses-- advantages of, over conservatories, artificial heat for, climbers in, houseleeks, storing plants in, the joys of, to manage, lopping one's neighbour's trees. a vexed question, monthly hints for gardeners-- january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december, planting, the art of, plants that are neglected but handsome-- asters, campanulas, cape gooseberry, christmas roses, columbines, coreopsis grandiflora, delphiniums (larkspurs), erigerons, funkias, heuchera sanguinea, jacob's ladder, lobelia fulgens, lychnis chalcedonica, penstemons, pink flowered anemone japonica, potentillas, saxifrages, tradescantias & trollius, violas, propagation of plants. by careful division, by layering, by cuttings, by seed, room plants-- when to buy, correct way of watering, for dark corners, good for two-thirds of the year, hare's-foot ferns, to keep them well balanced, leggy plants and what to do for, management of, palms, rockery, the-- apennine gems for, bulbs for, hints for the construction of, rock roses, suitable plants for, roses-- bush roses of h.p. type, climbers for cool walls, dwarf teas, good climbers for warm walls, hedges of, pillar, pruning, , tea, time to plant, shelter for plants, shrubs-- ceanothus, the delicate, good all round, lilacs grafted, st. john's wort, winter shrubbery, summer-houses-- fragrant odours for, how to cover, position of, table, decoration-- hints on, maidenhair, to make it last, simplicity in, stem-splitting, time for everything in gardening, a tool-sheds, well stocked, trees-- bank under, good plants for growing beneath, vegetables for small gardens, window boxes-- flowers for cold aspects, flowers for warm aspects, how to make, pretty trailers for, showy flowers for winter, [sidenote: garden seeds and bulbs] amateur gardeners and others should apply for our catalogue before ordering elsewhere. a. c. taylor, ltd., seedsmen and bulb importers, , electric avenue, brixton, london, s.w. the choicest bulbs and seeds at moderate prices. catalogues gratis (issued in january and august). 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[_in the press._ this should prove a very useful book to all housekeepers. the tips it contains are really valuable, and are grouped under the different branches of domestic work. heads, and how to read them a popular guide to phrenology in everyday life. by stackpool e. o'dell. fully illustrated. crown vo, cloth. price s. [_in the press._ the author has made this the study of his life, and is therefore an authority on the subject. technical terms have been avoided as much as possible so as to render the book intelligible to all. wooings and weddings in many climes by louise jordan miln author of "when we were strolling players in the east," &c. with full-page illustrations. demy vo. price s. 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[illustration] all mowers sent on a month's trial carriage paid. ransomes' "patent" automaton, with chain or wheel gearing. the "patent" automaton lawn mowers are without a rival in design, mechanical construction, excellence of materials, workmanship, finish, durability, and lightness of draught. by close and frequent cutting these machines will produce a rich velvety surface. the knives are driven by accurate machine-made gearing, which works very smoothly and quietly, and is completely covered to exclude dirt. =made in nine sizes, in. to in. wide.= ransomes' "anglo-paris" mowers. the best light machines. the "anglo-paris" lawn mowers are suitable for small gardens, and for ladies' and amateurs' use; have perfect adjustment, and can be used with or without a grass box. =made in eight sizes, in. to in. wide.= ransomes' "lion" mowers. the best cheap machines. introduced to meet the demand for a very low-priced machine of reliable english workmanship. = in., in., in., and in.= ransomes' "horse & pony mowers." the best large machines. new patterns; new adjustments; new patent spring handles; double angle cutters. =made in six sizes, in. to in. wide.= _supplied promptly by all ironmongers._ catalogues free on application to ransomes, sims & jefferies, ltd., ipswich. [sidenote: dobbie's guide] [illustration] dobbie's catalogue & competitors' guide.-- large quarto pages, beautifully illustrated lists of all flower and vegetable seeds, with most valuable, cultural notes, times of sowing, colours, heights, &c.; also all the best flowering plants, including our world-famed collections of dahlias, pansies, violas, early flowering chrysanthemums, herbaceous plants, pentstemons, pyrethrums, roses, fruit trees, &c., &c. "indispensable alike to amateur and professional gardeners." copies per parcel post on receipt of sixpence. dobbie & co., the royal seedsmen, rothesay. [sidenote: alkan] "alkan" cures in =one minute= by inhalation. the effect is marvellous. the one minute cure for headache, neuralgia, toothache, neuralgia of the ear. this simple and perfectly harmless remedy has cured instantaneously thousands suffering from the above complaints. of all chemists and stores, prices = / = & = / = per bottle. sent post paid to any part of the united kingdom on receipt of price. or of the proprietors, =b. & g. alkan=, _general depot_, , strand, london, w.c. [sidenote: vegetable and flower seeds] shilling's seeds are the best for amateurs & gardeners because they produce the finest flowers and vegetables. catalogue sent gratis and post free. c. r. shilling, seedsman, winchfield, hants. [illustration: "ill weeds grow apace." root them out!] a present precaution may save you great future trouble. work in the garden is pleasant work, but it is hard work, and every invention to lessen labour is an advantage! with the "gnu" weeding fork [illustration] flower beds, &c. may be kept in perfect order with a minimum of labour. the prongs being very close together it loosens the soil and removes weeds better and quicker than by hand. no stooping or soiled hands. price complete, with ft. handle, = / each.= daisy fork [illustration] such unsightly weeds as daisies and plantains can be completely removed from lawns, tennis courts, &c., quicker and better than by any other method. having prongs, close together, and a strong lever, the entire root is removed without exertion or without disturbing the surrounding grass. price complete with ft handle, = / each.= manufactured solely by j. lytle, barton road, walton, liverpool. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. passages in bold are indicated by =bold=. punctuation has been corrected without note. inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. wood and garden [illustration: _frontispiece._] wood and garden notes and thoughts, practical and critical, of a working amateur by gertrude jekyll _with illustrations from photographs by the author_ [illustration] second edition longmans, green, and co. paternoster row, london new york and bombay _all rights reserved_ printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. at the ballantyne press preface from its simple nature, this book seems scarcely to need any prefatory remarks, with the exception only of certain acknowledgments. a portion of the contents (about one-third) appeared during the years and in the pages of the _guardian_, as "notes from garden and woodland." i am indebted to the courtesy of the editor and proprietors of that journal for permission to republish these notes. the greater part of the photographs from which the illustrations have been prepared were done on my own ground--a space of some fifteen acres. some of them, owing to my want of technical ability as a photographer, were very weak, and have only been rendered available by the skill of the reproducer, for whose careful work my thanks are due. a small number of the photographs were done for reproduction in wood-engraving for mr. robinson's _garden_, _gardening illustrated_, and _english flower garden_. i have his kind permission to use the original plates. g. j. contents chapter i introductory - chapter ii january - beauty of woodland in winter -- the nut-walk -- thinning the overgrowth -- a nut nursery -- _iris stylosa_ -- its culture -- its home in algeria -- discovery of the white variety -- flowers and branches for indoor decoration. chapter iii february - distant promise of summer -- ivy-berries -- coloured leaves -- _berberis aquifolium_ -- its many merits -- thinning and pruning shrubs -- lilacs -- removing suckers -- training _clematis flammula_ -- forms of trees -- juniper, a neglected native evergreen -- effect of snow -- power of recovery -- beauty of colour -- moss-grown stems. chapter iv march - flowering bulbs -- dog-tooth violet -- rock-garden -- variety of rhododendron foliage -- a beautiful old kind -- suckers on grafted plants -- plants for filling up the beds -- heaths -- andromedas -- lady fern -- _lilium auratum_ -- pruning roses -- training and tying climbing plants -- climbing and free-growing roses -- the vine the best wall-covering -- other climbers -- wild clematis -- wild rose. chapter v april - woodland spring flowers -- daffodils in the copse -- grape hyacinths and other spring bulbs -- how best to plant them -- flowering shrubs -- rock-plants -- sweet scents of april -- snowy mespilus, marsh marigolds, and other spring flowers -- primrose garden -- pollen of scotch fir -- opening seed-pods of fir and gorse -- auriculas -- tulips -- small shrubs for rock-garden -- daffodils as cut flowers -- lent hellebores -- primroses -- leaves of wild arum. chapter vi may - cowslips -- morells -- woodruff -- felling oak timber -- trillium and other wood-plants -- lily of the valley naturalised -- rock-wall flowers -- two good wall-shrubs -- queen wasps -- rhododendrons -- arrangement for colour -- separate colour-groups -- difficulty of choosing -- hardy azaleas -- grouping flowers that bloom together -- guelder-rose as climber -- the garden-wall door -- the pæony garden -- moutans -- pæony varieties -- species desirable for garden. chapter vii june - the gladness of june -- the time of roses -- garden roses -- reine blanche -- the old white rose -- old garden roses as standards -- climbing and rambling roses -- scotch briars -- hybrid perpetuals a difficulty -- tea roses -- pruning -- sweet peas autumn sown -- elder-trees -- virginian cowslip -- dividing spring-blooming plants -- two best mulleins -- white french willow -- bracken. chapter viii july - scarcity of flowers -- delphiniums -- yuccas -- cottager's way of protecting tender plants -- alströmerias -- carnations -- gypsophila -- _lilium giganteum_ -- cutting fern-pegs. chapter ix august - leycesteria -- early recollections -- bank of choice shrubs -- bank of briar roses -- hollyhocks -- lavender -- lilies -- bracken and heaths -- the fern-walk -- late-blooming rock-plants -- autumn flowers -- tea roses -- fruit of _rosa rugosa_ -- fungi -- chantarelle. chapter x september - sowing sweet peas -- autumn-sown annuals -- dahlias -- worthless kinds -- staking -- planting the rock-garden -- growing small plants in a wall -- the old wall -- dry-walling -- how built -- how planted -- hyssop -- a destructive storm -- berries of water-elder -- beginning ground-work. chapter xi october - michaelmas daisies -- arranging and staking -- spindle-tree -- autumn colour of azaleas -- quinces -- medlars -- advantage of early planting of shrubs -- careful planting -- pot-bound roots -- cypress hedge -- planting in difficult places -- hardy flower border -- lifting dahlias -- dividing hardy plants -- dividing tools -- plants difficult to divide -- periwinkles -- sternbergia -- czar violets -- deep cultivation for _lilium giganteum_. chapter xii november - giant christmas rose -- hardy chrysanthemums -- sheltering tender shrubs -- turfing by inoculation -- transplanting large trees -- sir henry steuart's experience early in the century -- collecting fallen leaves -- preparing grubbing tools -- butcher's broom -- alexandrian laurel -- hollies and birches -- a lesson in planting. chapter xiii december - the woodman at work -- tree-cutting in frosty weather -- preparing sticks and stakes -- winter jasmine -- ferns in the wood-walk -- winter colour of evergreen shrubs -- copse-cutting -- hoop-making -- tools used -- sizes of hoops -- men camping out -- thatching with hoop-chips -- the old thatcher's bill. chapter xiv large and small gardens - a well done villa-garden -- a small town-garden -- two delightful gardens of small size -- twenty acres within the walls -- a large country house and its garden -- terrace -- lawn -- parterre -- free garden -- kitchen garden -- buildings -- ornamental orchard -- instructive mixed gardens -- mr. wilson's at wisley -- a window garden. chapter xv beginning and learning - the ignorant questioner -- beginning at the end -- an example -- personal experience -- absence of outer help -- johns' "flowers of the field" -- collecting plants -- nurseries near london -- wheel-spokes as labels -- garden friends -- mr. robinson's "english flower-garden" -- mr. nicholson's "dictionary of gardening" -- one main idea desirable -- pictorial treatment -- training in fine art -- adapting from nature -- study of colour -- ignorant use of the word "artistic." chapter xvi the flower-border and pergola - the flower-border -- the wall and its occupants -- _choisya ternata_ -- nandina -- canon ellacombe's garden -- treatment of colour-masses -- arrangement of plants in the border -- dahlias and cannas -- covering bare places -- the pergola -- how made -- suitable climbers -- arbours of trained planes -- garden houses. chapter xvii the primrose garden - chapter xviii colours of flowers - chapter xix the scents of the garden - chapter xx the worship of false gods - chapter xxi novelty and variety - chapter xxii weeds and pests - chapter xxiii the bedding fashion and its influence - chapter xxiv masters and men - index list of illustrations frontispiece _face title_ a wild juniper _face page_ scotch firs thrown on to frozen water by snowstorm " old juniper, showing former injuries " juniper, lately wrecked by snowstorm " garden door-way wreathed with clematis graveolens " cottage porch wreathed with the double white rose (_r. alba_) " wild hop, entwining wormwood and cow-parsnip " daffodils in the copse " magnolia stellata " daffodils among junipers where garden joins copse " tiarella cordifolia " hollyhock, pink beauty. (_see page _) " tulipa retroflexa " late single tulips, breeders and bybloemen " trillium in the wild garden " rhododendrons where the copse and garden meet " grass walks through the copse " rhododendrons at the edge of the copse " south side of door, with clematis montana and choisya " north side of the same door, with clematis montana and guelder-rose " free cluster-rose as standard in a cottage garden " double white scotch briar " part of a bush of rosa polyantha " garland-rose showing natural way of growth " lilac marie legraye (_see page _) " flowering elder and path from garden to copse " the giant lily " cistus florentinus " the great asphodel " lavender hedge and steps to the loft " hollyhock, pink beauty " solomon's seal in spring, in the upper part of the fern-walk " the fern-walk in august " jack (_see page _) " the "old wall" " erinus alpinus, clothing steps in rock-wall " borders of michaelmas daisies " pens for storing dead leaves " careful wild-gardening--white foxgloves at the edge of the fir wood. (_see page _) " holly stems in an old hedge-row " wild junipers " wild junipers " the woodman " grubbing a tree-stump " felling and grubbing tools (_see page _) " hoop-making in the woods " hoop-shaving " shed-roof, thatched with hoop-chip " garland-rose wreathing the end of a terrace wall " a roadside cottage garden " a flower-border in june " pathway across the south border in july " outside view of the brick pergola shown at page , after six years' growth " end of flower-border and entrance of pergola " south border door and yuccas in august " stone-built pergola with wrought oak beams " pergola with brick piers and beams of rough oak " evening in the primrose garden " tall snapdragons growing in a dry wall " mulleins growing in the face of dry wall (_see "old wall," page _) " geraniums in neapolitan pots " space in step and tank-garden for lilies, cannas, and geraniums " hydrangeas in tubs, in a part of the same garden " mullein (verbascum phlomoides) at the edge of the fir wood " a grass path in the copse " wood and garden chapter i introductory there are already many and excellent books about gardening; but the love of a garden, already so deeply implanted in the english heart, is so rapidly growing, that no excuse is needed for putting forth another. i lay no claim either to literary ability, or to botanical knowledge, or even to knowing the best practical methods of cultivation; but i have lived among outdoor flowers for many years, and have not spared myself in the way of actual labour, and have come to be on closely intimate and friendly terms with a great many growing things, and have acquired certain instincts which, though not clearly defined, are of the nature of useful knowledge. but the lesson i have thoroughly learnt, and wish to pass on to others, is to know the enduring happiness that the love of a garden gives. i rejoice when i see any one, and especially children, inquiring about flowers, and wanting gardens of their own, and carefully working in them. for the love of gardening is a seed that once sown never dies, but always grows and grows to an enduring and ever-increasing source of happiness. if in the following chapters i have laid special stress upon gardening for beautiful effect, it is because it is the way of gardening that i love best, and understand most of, and that seems to me capable of giving the greatest amount of pleasure. i am strongly for treating garden and wooded ground in a pictorial way, mainly with large effects, and in the second place with lesser beautiful incidents, and for so arranging plants and trees and grassy spaces that they look happy and at home, and make no parade of conscious effort. i try for beauty and harmony everywhere, and especially for harmony of colour. a garden so treated gives the delightful feeling of repose, and refreshment, and purest enjoyment of beauty, that seems to my understanding to be the best fulfilment of its purpose; while to the diligent worker its happiness is like the offering of a constant hymn of praise. for i hold that the best purpose of a garden is to give delight and to give refreshment of mind, to soothe, to refine, and to lift up the heart in a spirit of praise and thankfulness. it is certain that those who practise gardening in the best ways find it to be so. but the scope of practical gardening covers a range of horticultural practice wide enough to give play to every variety of human taste. some find their greatest pleasure in collecting as large a number as possible of all sorts of plants from all sources, others in collecting them themselves in their foreign homes, others in making rock-gardens, or ferneries, or peat-gardens, or bog-gardens, or gardens for conifers or for flowering shrubs, or special gardens of plants and trees with variegated or coloured leaves, or in the cultivation of some particular race or family of plants. others may best like wide lawns with large trees, or wild gardening, or a quite formal garden, with trim hedge and walk, and terrace, and brilliant parterre, or a combination of several ways of gardening. and all are right and reasonable and enjoyable to their owners, and in some way or degree helpful to others. the way that seems to me most desirable is again different, and i have made an attempt to describe it in some of its aspects. but i have learned much, and am always learning, from other people's gardens, and the lesson i have learned most thoroughly is, never to say "i know"--there is so infinitely much to learn, and the conditions of different gardens vary so greatly, even when soil and situation appear to be alike and they are in the same district. nature is such a subtle chemist that one never knows what she is about, or what surprises she may have in store for us. often one sees in the gardening papers discussions about the treatment of some particular plant. one man writes to say it can only be done one way, another to say it can only be done quite some other way, and the discussion waxes hot and almost angry, and the puzzled reader, perhaps as yet young in gardening, cannot tell what to make of it. and yet the two writers are both able gardeners, and both absolutely trustworthy, only they should have said, "in my experience _in this place_ such a plant can only be done in such a way." even plants of the same family will not do equally well in the same garden. every practical gardener knows this in the case of strawberries and potatoes; he has to find out which kinds will do in his garden; the experience of his friend in the next county is probably of no use whatever. i have learnt much from the little cottage gardens that help to make our english waysides the prettiest in the temperate world. one can hardly go into the smallest cottage garden without learning or observing something new. it may be some two plants growing beautifully together by some happy chance, or a pretty mixed tangle of creepers, or something that one always thought must have a south wall doing better on an east one. but eye and brain must be alert to receive the impression and studious to store it, to add to the hoard of experience. and it is important to train oneself to have a good flower-eye; to be able to see at a glance what flowers are good and which are unworthy, and why, and to keep an open mind about it; not to be swayed by the petty tyrannies of the "florist" or show judge; for, though some part of his judgment may be sound, he is himself a slave to rules, and must go by points which are defined arbitrarily and rigidly, and have reference mainly to the show-table, leaving out of account, as if unworthy of consideration, such matters as gardens and garden beauty, and human delight, and sunshine, and varying lights of morning and evening and noonday. but many, both nurserymen and private people, devote themselves to growing and improving the best classes of hardy flowers, and we can hardly offer them too much grateful praise, or do them too much honour. for what would our gardens be without the roses, pæonies, and gladiolus of france, and the tulips and hyacinths of holland, to say nothing of the hosts of good things raised by our home growers, and of the enterprise of the great firms whose agents are always searching the world for garden treasures? let no one be discouraged by the thought of how much there is to learn. looking back upon nearly thirty years of gardening (the earlier part of it in groping ignorance with scant means of help), i can remember no part of it that was not full of pleasure and encouragement. for the first steps are steps into a delightful unknown, the first successes are victories all the happier for being scarcely expected, and with the growing knowledge comes the widening outlook, and the comforting sense of an ever-increasing gain of critical appreciation. each new step becomes a little surer, and each new grasp a little firmer, till, little by little, comes the power of intelligent combination, the nearest thing we can know to the mighty force of creation. and a garden is a grand teacher. it teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all, it teaches entire trust. "paul planteth and apollos watereth, but god giveth the increase." the good gardener knows with absolute certainty that if he does his part, if he gives the labour, the love, and every aid that his knowledge of his craft, experience of the conditions of his place, and exercise of his personal wit can work together to suggest, that so surely as he does this diligently and faithfully, so surely will god give the increase. then with the honestly-earned success comes the consciousness of encouragement to renewed effort, and, as it were, an echo of the gracious words, "well done, good and faithful servant." chapter ii january beauty of woodland in winter -- the nut-walk -- thinning the overgrowth -- a nut nursery -- _iris stylosa_ -- its culture -- its home in algeria -- discovery of the white variety -- flowers and branches for indoor decoration. a hard frost is upon us. the thermometer registered eighteen degrees last night, and though there was only one frosty night next before it, the ground is hard frozen. till now a press of other work has stood in the way of preparing protecting stuff for tender shrubs, but now i go up into the copse with a man and chopping tools to cut out some of the scotch fir that are beginning to crowd each other. how endlessly beautiful is woodland in winter! to-day there is a thin mist; just enough to make a background of tender blue mystery three hundred yards away, and to show any defect in the grouping of near trees. no day could be better for deciding which trees are to come down; there is not too much at a time within sight; just one good picture-full and no more. on a clear day the eye and mind are distracted by seeing away into too many planes, and it is much more difficult to decide what is desirable in the way of broad treatment of nearer objects. the ground has a warm carpet of pale rusty fern; tree-stem and branch and twig show tender colour-harmonies of grey bark and silver-grey lichen, only varied by the warm feathery masses of birch spray. now the splendid richness of the common holly is more than ever impressive, with its solid masses of full, deep colour, and its wholesome look of perfect health and vigour. sombrely cheerful, if one may use such a mixture of terms; sombre by reason of the extreme depth of tone, and yet cheerful from the look of glad life, and from the assurance of warm shelter and protecting comfort to bird and beast and neighbouring vegetation. the picture is made complete by the slender shafts of the silver-barked birches, with their half-weeping heads of delicate, warm-coloured spray. has any tree so graceful a way of throwing up its stems as the birch? they seem to leap and spring into the air, often leaning and curving upward from the very root, sometimes in forms that would be almost grotesque were it not for the never-failing rightness of free-swinging poise and perfect balance. the tints of the stem give a precious lesson in colour. the white of the bark is here silvery-white and there milk-white, and sometimes shows the faintest tinge of rosy flush. where the bark has not yet peeled, the stem is clouded and banded with delicate grey, and with the silver-green of lichen. for about two feet upward from the ground, in the case of young trees of about seven to nine inches diameter, the bark is dark in colour, and lies in thick and extremely rugged upright ridges, contrasting strongly with the smooth white skin above. where the two join, the smooth bark is parted in upright slashes, through which the dark, rough bark seems to swell up, reminding one forcibly of some of the old fifteenth-century german costumes, where a dark velvet is arranged to rise in crumpled folds through slashings in white satin. in the stems of older birches the rough bark rises much higher up the trunk and becomes clothed with delicate grey-green lichen. the nut-walk was planted twelve years ago. there are two rows each side, one row four feet behind the other, and the nuts are ten feet apart in the rows. they are planted zigzag, those in the back rows showing between the front ones. as the two inner rows are thirteen feet apart measuring across the path, it leaves a shady border on each side, with deeper bays between the nearer trees. lent hellebores fill one border from end to end; the other is planted with the corsican and the native kinds, so that throughout february and march there is a complete bit of garden of one kind of plant in full beauty of flower and foliage. the nut-trees have grown into such thick clumps that now there must be a vigorous thinning. each stool has from eight to twelve main stems, the largest of them nearly two inches thick. some shoot almost upright, but two or three in each stool spread outward, with quite a different habit of growth, branching about in an angular fashion. these are the oldest and thickest. there are also a number of straight suckers one and two years old. now when i look at some fine old nut alley, with the tops arching and meeting overhead, as i hope mine will do in a few years, i see that the trees have only a few stems, usually from three to five at the most, and i judge that now is the time to thin mine to about the right number, so that the strength and growing power may be thrown into these, and not allowed to dilute and waste itself in growing extra faggoting. the first to be cut away are the old crooked stems. they grow nearly horizontally and are all elbows, and often so tightly locked into the straighter rods that they have to be chopped to pieces before they can be pulled out. when these are gone it is easier to get at the other stems, though they are often so close together at the base that it is difficult to chop or saw them out without hurting the bark of the ones to be left. all the young suckers are cut away. they are of straight, clean growth, and we prize them as the best possible sticks for chrysanthemums and potted lilies. after this bold thinning, instead of dense thickety bushes we have a few strong, well-branched rods to each stool. at first the nut-walk looks wofully naked, and for the time its pictorial value is certainly lessened; but it has to be done, and when summer side-twigs have grown and leafed, it will be fairly well clothed, and meanwhile the hellebores will be the better for the thinner shade. the nut-catkins are already an inch long, but are tightly closed, and there is no sign as yet of the bright crimson little sea-anemones that will appear next month and will duly grow into nut-bearing twigs. round the edges of the base of the stools are here and there little branching suckers. these are the ones to look out for, to pull off and grow into young trees. a firm grasp and a sharp tug brings them up with a fine supply of good fibrous root. after two years in the nursery they are just right to plant out. the trees in the nut-walk were grown in this way fourteen years ago, from small suckers pulled off plants that came originally from the interesting cob-nut nursery at calcot, near reading. i shall never forget a visit to that nursery some six-and-twenty years ago. it was walled all round, and a deep-sounding bell had to be rung many times before any one came to open the gate; but at last it was opened by a fine, strongly-built, sunburnt woman of the type of the good working farmer's wife, that i remember as a child. she was the forewoman, who worked the nursery with surprisingly few hands--only three men, if i remember rightly--but she looked as if she could do the work of "all two men" herself. one of the specialties of the place was a fine breed of mastiffs; another was an old black hamburg vine, that rambled and clambered in and out of some very old greenhouses, and was wonderfully productive. there were alleys of nuts in all directions, and large spreading patches of palest yellow daffodils--the double _narcissus cernuus_, now so scarce and difficult to grow. had i then known how precious a thing was there in fair abundance, i should not have been contented with the modest dozen that i asked for. it was a most pleasant garden to wander in, especially with the old mr. webb who presently appeared. he was dressed in black clothes of an old-looking cut--a quaker, i believe. never shall i forget an apple-tart he invited me to try as a proof of the merit of the "wellington" apple. it was not only good, but beautiful; the cooked apple looking rosy and transparent, and most inviting. he told me he was an ardent preacher of total abstinence, and took me to a grassy, shady place among the nuts, where there was an upright stone slab, like a tombstone, with the inscription: to alcohol. he had dug a grave, and poured into it a quantity of wine and beer and spirits, and placed the stone as a memorial of his abhorrence of drink. the whole thing remains in my mind like a picture--the shady groves of old nuts, in tenderest early leaf, the pale daffodils, the mighty chained mastiffs with bloodshot eyes and murderous fangs, the brawny, wholesome forewoman, and the trim old gentleman in black. it was the only nursery i ever saw where one would expect to see fairies on a summer's night. i never tire of admiring and praising _iris stylosa_, which has proved itself such a good plant for english gardens; at any rate, for those in our southern counties. lovely in form and colour, sweetly-scented and with admirable foliage, it has in addition to these merits the unusual one of a blooming season of six months' duration. the first flowers come with the earliest days of november, and its season ends with a rush of bloom in the first half of april. then is the time to take up old tufts and part them, and plant afresh; the old roots will have dried up into brown wires, and the new will be pushing. it thrives in rather poor soil, and seems to bloom all the better for having its root-run invaded by some stronger plant. when i first planted a quantity i had brought from its native place, i made the mistake of putting it in a well-prepared border. at first i was delighted to see how well it flourished, but as it gave me only thick masses of leaves a yard long, and no flowers, it was clear that it wanted to be less well fed. after changing it to poor soil, at the foot of a sunny wall close to a strong clump of alströmeria, i was rewarded with a good crop of flowers; and the more the alströmeria grew into it on one side and _plumbago larpenti_ on the other, the more freely the brave little iris flowered. the flower has no true stem; what serves as a stem, sometimes a foot long, is the elongated style, so that the seed-pod has to be looked for deep down at the base of the tufts of leaves, and almost under ground. the specific name, _stylosa_, is so clearly descriptive, that one regrets that the longer, and certainly uglier, _unguicularis_ should be preferred by botanists. what a delight it was to see it for the first time in its home in the hilly wastes, a mile or two inland from the town of algiers! another lovely blue iris was there too, _i. alata_ or _scorpioides_, growing under exactly the same conditions; but this is a plant unwilling to be acclimatised in england. what a paradise it was for flower-rambles, among the giant fennels and the tiny orange marigolds, and the immense bulbs of _scilla maritima_ standing almost out of the ground, and the many lovely bee-orchises and the fairy-like _narcissus serotinus_, and the groves of prickly pear wreathed and festooned with the graceful tufts of bell-shaped flower and polished leaves of _clematis cirrhosa_! it was in the days when there were only a few english residents, but among them was the rev. edwyn arkwright, who by his happy discovery of a white-flowered _iris stylosa_, the only one that has been found wild, has enriched our gardens with a most lovely variety of this excellent plant. i am glad to be able to quote his own words:-- "the finding of the white _iris stylosa_ belongs to the happy old times twenty-five years ago, when there were no social duties and no vineyards[ ] in algiers. my two sisters and i bought three horses, and rode wild every day in the scrub of myrtle, cistus, dwarf oak, &c. it was about five miles from the town, on what is called the 'sahel,' that the one plant grew that i was told botanists knew ought to exist, but with all their searching had never found. i am thankful that i dug it up instead of picking it, only knowing that it was a pretty flower. then after a year or two durando saw it, and took off his hat to it, and told me what a treasure it was, and proceeded to send off little bits to his friends; and among them all, ware of tottenham managed to be beforehand, and took a first-class certificate for it. it is odd that there should never have been another plant found, for there never was such a free-growing and multiplying plant. my sister in herefordshire has had over fifty blooms this winter; but we count it by thousands, and it is _the_ feature in all decorations in every english house in algiers." [ ] the planting of large vineyards, in some cases of private enterprise, had not proved a financial success. throughout january, and indeed from the middle of december, is the time when outdoor flowers for cutting and house decoration are most scarce; and yet there are christmas roses and yellow jasmine and laurustinus, and in all open weather _iris stylosa_ and czar violets. a very few flowers can be made to look well if cleverly arranged with plenty of good foliage; and even when a hard and long frost spoils the few blooms that would otherwise be available, leafy branches alone are beautiful in rooms. but, as in all matters that have to do with decoration, everything depends on a right choice of material and the exercise of taste in disposing it. red-tinted berberis always looks well alone, if three or four branches are boldly cut from two to three feet long. branches of the spotted aucuba do very well by themselves, and are specially beautiful in blue china; the larger the leaves and the bolder the markings, the better. where there is an old exmouth magnolia that can spare some small branches, nothing makes a nobler room-ornament. the long arching sprays of alexandrian laurel do well with green or variegated box, and will live in a room for several weeks. among useful winter leaves of smaller growth, those of _epimedium pinnatum_ have a fine red colour and delicate veining, and i find them very useful for grouping with greenhouse flowers of delicate texture. _gaultheria shallon_ is at its best in winter, and gives valuable branches and twigs for cutting; and much to be prized are sprays of the japan privet, with its tough, highly-polished leaves, so much like those of the orange. there is a variegated eurybia, small branches of which are excellent; and always useful are the gold and silver hollies. there is a little plant, _ophiopogon spicatum_, that i grow in rather large quantity for winter cutting, the leaves being at their best in the winter months. they are sword-shaped and of a lively green colour, and are arranged in flat sheaves after the manner of a flag-iris. i pull up a whole plant at a time--a two-year-old plant is a spreading tuft of the little sheaves--and wash it and cut away the groups of leaves just at the root, so that they are held together by the root-stock. they last long in water, and are beautiful with roman hyacinths or freesias or _iris stylosa_ and many other flowers. the leaves of megaseas, especially those of the _cordifolia_ section, colour grandly in winter, and look fine in a large bowl with the largest blooms of christmas roses, or with forced hyacinths. much useful material can be found among ivies, both of the wild and garden kinds. when they are well established they generally throw out rather woody front shoots; these are the ones to look out for, as they stand out with a certain degree of stiffness that makes them easier to arrange than weaker trailing pieces. i do not much care for dried flowers--the bulrush and pampas-grass decoration has been so much overdone, that it has become wearisome--but i make an exception in favour of the flower of _eulalia japonica_, and always give it a place. it does not come to its full beauty out of doors; it only finishes its growth late in october, and therefore does not have time to dry and expand. i grew it for many years before finding out that the closed and rather draggled-looking heads would open perfectly in a warm room. the uppermost leaf often confines the flower, and should be taken off to release it; the flower does not seem to mature quite enough to come free of itself. bold masses of helichrysum certainly give some brightness to a room during the darkest weeks of winter, though the brightest yellow is the only one i much care to have; there is a look of faded tinsel about the other colourings. i much prize large bunches of the native iris berries, and grow it largely for winter room-ornament. among the many valuable suggestions in mrs. earle's delightful book, "pot-pourri from a surrey garden," is the use indoors of the smaller coloured gourds. as used by her they give a bright and cheerful look to a room that even flowers can not surpass. [illustration: a wild juniper.] chapter iii february distant promise of summer -- ivy-berries -- coloured leaves -- _berberis aquifolium_ -- its many merits -- thinning and pruning shrubs -- lilacs -- removing suckers -- training _clematis flammula_ -- forms of trees -- juniper, a neglected native evergreen -- effect of snow -- power of recovery -- beauty of colour -- moss-grown stems. there is always in february some one day, at least, when one smells the yet distant, but surely coming, summer. perhaps it is a warm, mossy scent that greets one when passing along the southern side of a hedge-bank; or it may be in some woodland opening, where the sun has coaxed out the pungent smell of the trailing ground ivy, whose blue flowers will soon appear; but the day always comes, and with it the glad certainty that summer is nearing, and that the good things promised will never fail. how strangely little of positive green colour is to be seen in copse and woodland. only the moss is really green. the next greenest thing is the northern sides of the trunks of beech and oak. walking southward they are all green, but looking back they are silver-grey. the undergrowth is of brambles and sparse fronds of withered bracken; the bracken less beaten down than usual, for the winter has been without snow; only where the soil is deeper, and the fern has grown more tall and rank, it has fallen into thick, almost felted masses, and the stalks all lying one way make the heaps look like lumps of fallen thatch. the bramble leaves--last year's leaves, which are held all the winter--are of a dark, blackish-bronze colour, or nearly red where they have seen the sun. age seems to give them a sort of hard surface and enough of a polish to reflect the sky; the young leaves that will come next month are almost woolly at first. grassy tufts show only bleached bents, so tightly matted that one wonders how the delicate young blades will be able to spear through. ivy-berries, hanging in thick clusters, are still in beauty; they are so heavy that they weigh down the branches. there is a peculiar beauty in the form and veining of the plain-shaped leaves belonging to the mature or flowering state that the plant reaches when it can no longer climb, whether on a wall six feet high or on the battlements of a castle. cuttings grown from such portions retain this habit, and form densely-flowering bushes of compact shape. beautiful colouring is now to be seen in many of the plants whose leaves do not die down in winter. foremost amongst these is the foam-flower (_tiarella cordifolia_). its leaves, now lying on the ground, show bright colouring, inclining to scarlet, crimson, and orange. _tellima_, its near relation, is also well coloured. _galax aphylla_, with its polished leaves of hard texture, and stalks almost as stiff as wire, is nearly as bright; and many of the megaseas are of a fine bronze red, the ones that colour best being the varieties of the well-known _m. crassifolia_ and _m. cordifolia_. among shrubs, some of the nearly allied genera, popularly classed under the name andromeda, are beautiful in reddish colour passing into green, in some of the leaves by tender gradation, and in others by bold splashing. _berberis aquifolium_ begins to colour after the first frosts; though some plants remain green, the greater number take on some rich tinting of red or purple, and occasionally in poor soil and in full sun a bright red that may almost be called scarlet. what a precious thing this fine old berberis is! what should we do in winter without its vigorous masses of grand foliage in garden and shrubbery, to say nothing of its use indoors? frequent as it is in gardens, it is seldom used as well or thoughtfully as it deserves. there are many places where, between garden and wood, a well-considered planting of berberis, combined with two or three other things of larger stature, such as the fruiting barberry, and whitethorn and holly, would make a very enjoyable piece of shrub wild-gardening. when one reflects that _berberis aquifolium_ is individually one of the handsomest of small shrubs, that it is at its very best in mid-winter, that every leaf is a marvel of beautiful drawing and construction, and that its ruddy winter colouring is a joy to see, enhanced as it is by the glistening brightness of the leaf-surface; and further, when one remembers that in spring the whole picture changes--that the polished leaves are green again, and the bushes are full of tufted masses of brightest yellow bloom, and fuller of bee-music than any other plant then in flower; and that even then it has another season of beauty yet to come, when in the days of middle summer it is heavily loaded with the thick-clustered masses of berries, covered with a brighter and bluer bloom than almost any other fruit can show,--when one thinks of all this brought together in one plant, it seems but right that we should spare no pains to use it well. it is the only hardy shrub i can think of that is in one or other of its varied forms of beauty throughout the year. it is never leafless or untidy; it never looks mangy like an ilex in april, or moulting like a holly in may, or patchy and unfinished like yew and box and many other evergreens when their young leafy shoots are sprouting. we have been thinning the shrubs in one of the rather large clumps next to the lawn, taking the older wood in each clump right out from the bottom and letting more light and air into the middle. weigelas grow fast and very thick. quite two-thirds have been cut out of each bush of weigela, philadelphus, and ribes, and a good bit out of ceanothus, "gloire de versailles," my favourite of its kind, and all the oldest wood from _viburnum plicatus_. the stuff cut out makes quite a respectable lot of faggoting. how extremely dense and hard is the wood of philadelphus! as close-grained as box, and almost as hard as the bright yellow wood of berberis. some of the lilacs have a good many suckers from the root, as well as on the lower part of the stem. these must all come away, and then the trees will have a good dressing of manure. they are greedy feeders, and want it badly in our light soil, and surely no flowering shrub more truly deserves it. the lilacs i have are some of the beautiful kinds raised in france, for which we can never be thankful enough to our good neighbours across the channel. the white variety, "marie legraye," always remains my favourite. some are larger and whiter, and have the trusses more evenly and closely filled, but this beautiful marie fills one with a satisfying conviction as of something that is just right, that has arrived at the point of just the best and most lovable kind of beauty, and has been wisely content to stay there, not attempting to pass beyond and excel itself. its beauty is modest and reserved, and temperate and full of refinement. the colour has a deliciously-tender warmth of white, and as the truss is not over-full, there is room for a delicate play of warm half-light within its recesses. among the many beautiful coloured lilacs, i am fond of lucie baltet and princesse marie. there may be better flowers from the ordinary florist point of view, but these have the charm that is a good garden flower's most precious quality. i do not like the cold, heavy-coloured ones of the bluish-slaty kinds. no shrub is hardier than the lilac; i believe they flourish even within the arctic circle. it is very nearly allied to privet; so nearly, that the oval-leaved privet is commonly used as a stock. standard trees flower much better than bushes; in this form all the strength seems to go directly to the flowering boughs. no shrub is more persistent in throwing up suckers from the root and from the lower part of the stem, but in bush trees as well as in standards they should be carefully removed every year. in the case of bushes, three or four main stems will be enough to leave. when taking away suckers of any kind whatever, it is much better to tear them out than to cut them off. a cut, however close, leaves a base from which they may always spring again, but if pulled or wrenched out they bring away with them the swollen base that, if left in, would be a likely source of future trouble. before the end of february we must be sure to prune and train any plants there may be of _clematis flammula_. its growth is so rapid when once it begins, that if it is overlooked it soon grows into a tangled mass of succulent weak young stuff, quite unmanageable two months hence, when it will be hanging about in helpless masses, dead and living together. if it is left till then, one can only engirdle the whole thing with a soft tarred rope and sling it up somehow or anyhow. but if taken now, when the young growths are just showing at the joints, the last year's mass can be untangled, the dead and the over-much cut out, and the best pieces trained in. in gardening, the interests of the moment are so engrossing that one is often tempted to forget the future; but it is well to remember that this lovely and tenderly-scented clematis will be one of the chief beauties of september, and well deserves a little timely care. in summer-time one never really knows how beautiful are the forms of the deciduous trees. it is only in winter, when they are bare of leaves, that one can fully enjoy their splendid structure and design, their admirable qualities of duly apportioned strength and grace of poise, and the way the spread of the many-branched head has its equivalent in the wide-reaching ground-grasp of the root. and it is interesting to see how, in the many different kinds of tree, the same laws are always in force, and the same results occur, and yet by the employment of what varied means. for nothing in the growth of trees can be much more unlike than the habit of the oak and that of the weeping willow, though the unlikeness only comes from the different adjustment of the same sources of power and the same weights, just as in the movement of wind-blown leaves some flutter and some undulate, while others turn over and back again. old apple-trees are specially noticeable for their beauty in winter, when their extremely graceful shape, less visible when in loveliness of spring bloom or in rich bounty of autumn fruit, is seen to fullest advantage. few in number are our native evergreens, and for that reason all the more precious. one of them, the common juniper, is one of the best of shrubs either for garden or wild ground, and yet, strangely enough, it is so little appreciated that it is scarcely to be had in nurseries. chinese junipers, north american junipers, junipers from spain and greece, from nepaul and siberia, may be had, but the best juniper of all is very rarely grown. were it a common tree one could see a sort of reason (to some minds) for overlooking it, but though it is fairly abundant on a few hill-sides in the southern counties, it is by no means widely distributed throughout the country. even this reason would not be consistent with common practice, for the holly is abundant throughout england, and yet is to be had by the thousand in every nursery. be the reason what it may, the common juniper is one of the most desirable of evergreens, and is most undeservedly neglected. even our botanists fail to do it justice, for bentham describes it as a low shrub growing two feet, three feet, or four feet high. i quote from memory only; these may not be the words, but this is the sense of his description. he had evidently seen it on the chalk downs only, where such a portrait of it is exactly right. but in our sheltered uplands, in sandy soil, it is a small tree of noble aspect, twelve to twenty-eight feet high. in form it is extremely variable, for sometimes it shoots up on a single stem and looks like an italian cypress or like the upright chinese juniper, while at other times it will have two or more tall spires and a dense surrounding mass of lower growth, while in other cases it will be like a quantity of young trees growing close together, and yet the trees in all these varied forms may be nearly of an age. [illustration: scotch firs thrown on to frozen water by snowstorm.] the action of snow is the reason of this unlikeness of habit. if, when young, the tree happens to have one main stem strong enough to shoot up alone, and if at the same time there come a sequence of winters without much snow, there will be the tall, straight, cypress-like tree. but if, as is more commonly the case, the growth is divided into a number of stems of nearly equal size, sooner or later they are sure to be laid down by snow. such a winter storm as that of the end of december was especially disastrous to junipers. snow came on early in the evening in this district, when the thermometer was barely at freezing point and there was no wind. it hung on the trees in clogging masses, with a lowering temperature that was soon below freezing. the snow still falling loaded them more and more; then came the fatal wind, and all through that night we heard the breaking trees. when morning came there were eighteen inches of snow on the ground, and all the trees that could be seen, mostly scotch fir, seemed to be completely wrecked. some were entirely stripped of branches, and stood up bare, like scaffold-poles. until the snow was gone or half gone, no idea could be formed of the amount of damage done to shrubs; all were borne down and buried under the white rounded masses. a great holly on the edge of the lawn, nearly thirty feet high and as much in spread, whose head in summer is crowned with a great tangle of honeysuckle, had that crowned head lying on the ground weighted down by the frozen mass. but when the snow was gone and all the damage could be seen, the junipers looked worse than anything. what had lately been shapely groups were lying perfectly flat, the bare-stemmed, leafless portions of the inner part of the group showing, and looking like a faggot of dry brushwood, that, having been stood upright, had burst its band and fallen apart in all directions. some, whose stems had weathered many snowy winters, now had them broken short off half-way up; while others escaped with bare life, but with the thick, strong stem broken down, the heavy head lying on the ground, and the stem wrenched open at the break, like a half-untwisted rope. the great wild junipers were the pride of our stretch of heathy waste just beyond the garden, and the scene of desolation was truly piteous, for though many of them already bore the marks of former accidents, never within our memory had there been such complete and comprehensive destruction. [illustration: old juniper, showing former injuries.] [illustration: juniper, lately wrecked by snowstorm.] but now, ten years later, so great is their power of recovery, that there are the same junipers, and, except in the case of those actually broken off, looking as well as ever. for those with many stems that were laid down flat have risen at the tips, and each tip looks like a vigorous young ten-year-old tree. what was formerly a massive, bushy-shaped juniper, some twelve feet to fifteen feet high, now covers a space thirty feet across, and looks like a thick group of closely-planted, healthy young ones. the half broken-down trees have also risen at the tips, and are full of renewed vigour. indeed, this breaking down and splitting open seems to give them a new energy, for individual trees that i have known well, and observed to look old and over-worn, and to all appearance on the downward road of life, after being broken and laid down by snow, have some years later, shot up again with every evidence of vigorous young life. it would be more easily accounted for if the branch rooted where it touched the ground, as so many trees and bushes will do; but as far as i have been able to observe, the juniper does not "layer" itself. i have often thought i had found a fine young one fit for transplanting, but on clearing away the moss and fern at the supposed root have found that it was only the tip of a laid-down branch of a tree perhaps twelve feet away. in the case of one of our trees, among a group of laid-down and grown-up branches, one old central trunk has survived. it is now so thick and strong, and has so little top, that it will be likely to stand till it falls from sheer old age. close to it is another, whose main stem was broken down about five feet from the ground; now, what was the head rests on the earth nine feet away, and a circle of its outspread branches has become a wholesome group of young upright growths, while at the place where the stem broke, the half-opened wrench still shows as clearly as on the day it was done. among the many merits of the juniper, its tenderly mysterious beauty of colouring is by no means the least; a colouring as delicately subtle in its own way as that of cloud or mist, or haze in warm, wet woodland. it has very little of positive green; a suspicion of warm colour in the shadowy hollows, and a blue-grey bloom of the tenderest quality imaginable on the outer masses of foliage. each tiny, blade-like leaf has a band of dead, palest bluish-green colour on the upper surface, edged with a narrow line of dark green slightly polished; the back of the leaf is of the same full, rather dark green, with slight polish; it looks as if the green back had been brought up over the edge of the leaf to make the dark edging on the upper surface. the stems of the twigs are of a warm, almost foxy colour, becoming darker and redder in the branches. the tips of the twigs curl over or hang out on all sides towards the light, and the "set" of the individual twigs is full of variety. this arrangement of mixed colouring and texture, and infinitely various position of the spiny little leaves, allows the eye to penetrate unconsciously a little way into the mass, so that one sees as much tender shadow as actual leaf-surface, and this is probably the cause of the wonderfully delicate and, so to speak, intangible quality of colouring. then, again, where there is a hollow place in a bush, or group, showing a cluster of half-dead stems, at first one cannot tell what the colour is, till with half-shut eyes one becomes aware of a dusky and yet luminous purple-grey. the merits of the juniper are not yet done with, for throughout the winter (the time of growth of moss and lichen) the rugged-barked old stems are clothed with loveliest pale-green growths of a silvery quality. standing before it, and trying to put the colour into words, one repeats, again and again, pale-green silver--palest silvery green! where the lichen is old and dead it is greyer; every now and then there is a touch of the orange kind, and a little of the branched stag-horn pattern so common on the heathy ground. here and there, as the trunk or branch is increasing in girth, the silvery, lichen-clad, rough outer bark has parted, and shows the smooth, dark-red inner bark; the outer covering still clinging over the opening, and looking like grey ribands slightly interlaced. many another kind of tree-stem is beautiful in its winter dress, but it is difficult to find any so full of varied beauty and interest as that of the juniper; it is one of the yearly feasts that never fails to delight and satisfy. chapter iv march flowering bulbs -- dog-tooth violet -- rock-garden -- variety of rhododendron foliage -- a beautiful old kind -- suckers on grafted plants -- plants for filling up the beds -- heaths -- andromedas -- lady fern -- _lilium auratum_ -- pruning roses -- training and tying climbing plants -- climbing and free-growing roses -- the vine the best wall-covering -- other climbers -- wild clematis -- wild rose. in early march many and lovely are the flowering bulbs, and among them a wealth of blue, the more precious that it is the colour least frequent among flowers. the blue of _scilla sibirica_, like all blues that have in them a suspicion of green, has a curiously penetrating quality; the blue of _scilla bifolia_ does not attack the eye so smartly. _chionodoxa sardensis_ is of a full and satisfying colour, that is enhanced by the small space of clear white throat. a bed of it shows very little variation in colour. _chionodoxa lucilliæ_, on the other hand, varies greatly; one may pick out light and dark blue, and light and dark of almost lilac colour. the variety _c. gigantea_ is a fine plant. there are some pretty kinds of _scilla bifolia_ that were raised by the rev. j. g. nelson of aldborough, among them a tender flesh-colour and a good pink. _leucojum vernum_, with its clear white flowers and polished dark-green leaves, is one of the gems of early march; and, flowering at the same time, no flower of the whole year can show a more splendid and sumptuous colour than the purple of _iris reticulata_. varieties have been raised, some larger, some nearer blue, and some reddish purple, but the type remains the best garden flower. _iris stylosa_, in sheltered nooks open to the sun, when well established, gives flower from november till april, the strongest rush of bloom being about the third week in march. it is a precious plant in our southern counties, delicately scented, of a tender and yet full lilac-blue. the long ribbon-like leaves make handsome tufts, and the sheltered place it needs in our climate saves the flowers from the injury they receive on their native windy algerian hills, where they are nearly always torn into tatters. what a charm there is about the common dogtooth violet; it is pretty everywhere, in borders, in the rock-garden, in all sorts of corners. but where it looks best with me is in a grassy place strewn with dead leaves, under young oaks, where the garden joins the copse. this is a part of the pleasure-ground that has been treated with some care, and has rewarded thought and labour with some success, so that it looks less as if it had been planned than as if it might have come naturally. at one point the lawn, trending gently upward, runs by grass paths into a rock-garden, planted mainly with dwarf shrubs. here are andromedas, pernettyas, gaultherias, and alpine rhododendron, and with them three favourites whose crushed leaves give a grateful fragrance, sweet gale, _ledum palustre_, and _rhododendron myrtifolium_. the rock part is unobtrusive; where the ground rises rather quickly are a couple of ridges made of large, long lumps of sandstone, half buried, and so laid as to give a look of natural stratification. hardy ferns are grateful for the coolness of their northern flanks, and cyclamens are happy on the ledges. beyond and above is the copse, or thin wood of young silver birch and holly, in summer clothed below with bracken, but now bristling with the bluish spears of daffodils and the buds that will soon burst into bloom. the early pyrenean daffodil is already out, gleaming through the low-toned copse like lamps of pale yellow light. where the rough path enters the birch copse is a cheerfully twinkling throng of the dwarf daffodil (_n. nanus_), looking quite at its best on its carpet of moss and fine grass and dead leaves. the light wind gives it a graceful, dancing movement, with an active spring about the upper part of the stalk. some of the heavier trumpets not far off answer to the same wind with only a ponderous, leaden sort of movement. farther along the garden joins the wood by a plantation of rhododendrons and broad grassy paths, and farther still by a thicket of the free-growing roses, some forming fountain-like clumps nine paces in diameter, and then again by masses of flowering shrubs, gradating by means of sweetbriar, water-elder, dogwood, medlar, and thorn from garden to wild wood. now that the rhododendrons, planted nine years ago, have grown to a state and size of young maturity, it is interesting to observe how much they vary in foliage, and how clearly the leaves show the relative degree of relationship to their original parents, the wild mountain plants of asia minor and the united states. these, being two of the hardiest kinds, were the ones first chosen by hybridisers, and to these kinds we owe nearly all of the large numbers of beautiful garden rhododendrons now in cultivation. the ones more nearly related to the wild _r. ponticum_ have long, narrow, shining dark-green leaves, while the varieties that incline more to the american _r. catawbiense_ have the leaves twice as broad, and almost rounded at the shoulder where they join the stalk; moreover, the surface of the leaf has a different texture, less polished, and showing a grain like morocco leather. the colour also is a lighter and more yellowish green, and the bush is not so densely branched. the leaves of all the kinds are inclined to hang down in cold weather, and this habit is more clearly marked in the _catawbiense_ varieties. there is one old kind called _multum maculatum_--i dare say one of the earliest hybrids--for which i have a special liking. it is now despised by florists, because the flower is thin in texture and the petal narrow, and the truss not tightly filled. nevertheless i find it quite the most beautiful rhododendron as a cut flower, perhaps just because of these unorthodox qualities. and much as i admire the great bouncing beauties that are most justly the pride of their raisers, i hold that this most refined and delicate class of beauty equally deserves faithful championship. the flowers of this pretty old kind are of a delicate milk-white, and the lower petals are generously spotted with a rosy-scarlet of the loveliest quality. the leaves are the longest and narrowest and darkest green of any kind i know, making the bush conspicuously handsome in winter. i have to confess that it is a shy bloomer, and that it seems unwilling to flower in a young state, but i think of it as a thing so beautiful and desirable as to be worth waiting for. within march, and before the busier season comes upon us, it is well to look out for the suckers that are likely to come on grafted plants. they may generally be detected by the typical _ponticum_ leaf, but if the foliage of a branch should be suspicious and yet doubtful, if on following the shoot down it is seen to come straight from the root and to have a redder bark than the rest, it may safely be taken for a robber. of course the invading stock may be easily seen when in flower, but the good gardener takes it away before it has this chance of reproaching him. a lady visitor last year told me with some pride that she had a most wonderful rhododendron in bloom; all the flower in the middle was crimson, with a ring of purple-flowered branches outside. i am afraid she was disappointed when i offered condolence instead of congratulation, and had to tell her that the phenomenon was not uncommon among neglected bushes. when my rhododendron beds were first planted, i followed the usual practice of filling the outer empty spaces of the clumps with hardy heaths. perhaps it is still the best or one of the best ways to begin when the bushes are quite young; for if planted the right distance apart--seven to nine feet--there must be large bare spaces between; but now that they have filled the greater part of the beds, i find that the other plants i tried are more to my liking. these are, foremost of all, _andromeda catesbæi_, then lady fern, and then the dwarf _rhododendron myrtifolium_. the main spaces between the young bushes i plant with _cistus laurifolius_, a perfectly hardy kind; this grows much faster than the rhododendrons, and soon fills the middle spaces; by the time that the best of its life is over--for it is a short-lived bush--the rhododendrons will be wanting all the space. here and there in the inner spaces i put groups of _lilium auratum_, a lily that thrives in a peaty bed, and that looks its best when growing through other plants; moreover, when the rhododendrons are out of flower, the lily, whose blooming season is throughout the late summer and autumn, gives a new beauty and interest to that part of the garden. the time has come for pruning roses, and for tying up and training the plants that clothe wall and fence and pergola. and this sets one thinking about climbing and rambling plants, and all their various ways and wants, and of how best to use them. one of my boundaries to a road is a fence about nine feet high, wall below and close oak paling above. it is planted with free-growing roses of several types--aimée vibert, madame alfred carrière, reine olga de wurtemburg, and bouquet d'or, the strongest of the dijon teas. then comes a space of _clematis montana_ and _clematis flammula_, and then more roses--madame plantier, emélie plantier (a delightful rose to cut), and some of the grand sweetbriars raised by lord penzance. from midsummer onward these roses are continually cut for flower, and yield an abundance of quite the most ornamental class of bloom. for i like to have cut roses arranged in a large, free way, with whole branches three feet or four feet long, easy to have from these free-growing kinds, that throw out branches fifteen feet long in one season, even on our poor, sandy soil, that contains no particle of that rich loam that roses love. i think this same reine olga, the grand grower from which have come our longest and largest prunings, must be quite the best evergreen rose, for it holds its full clothing of handsome dark-green leaves right through the winter. it seems to like hard pruning. i have one on a part of the pergola, but have no pleasure from it, as it has rushed up to the top, and nothing shows but a few naked stems. [illustration: garden door-way wreathed with clematis graveolens.] [illustration: cottage porch wreathed with the double white rose (_r. alba_).] one has to find out how to use all these different roses. how often one sees the wrong roses used as climbers on the walls of a house. i have seen a gloire de dijon covering the side of a house with a profitless reticulation of bare stem, and a few leaves and flowers looking into the gutter just under the edge of the roof. what are generally recommended as climbing roses are too ready to ramp away, leaving bare, leggy growth where wall-clothing is desired. one of the best is climbing aimée vibert, for with very little pruning it keeps well furnished nearly to the ground, and with its graceful clusters of white bloom and healthy-looking, polished leaves is always one of the prettiest of roses. its only fault is that it does not shed its dead petals, but retains the whole bloom in dead brown clusters. but if a rose wishes to climb, it should be accommodated with a suitable place. that excellent old rose, the dundee rambler, or the still prettier garland rose, will find a way up a holly-tree, and fling out its long wreaths of tenderly-tinted bloom; and there can be no better way of using the lovely himalayan _r. brunonis_, with its long, almost blue leaves and wealth of milk-white flower. a common sweetbriar will also push up among the branches of some dark evergreen, yew or holly, and throw out aloft its scented branches and rosy bloom, and look its very best. but some of these same free roses are best of all if left in a clear space to grow exactly as they will without any kind of support or training. so placed, they grow into large rounded groups. every year, just after the young laterals on the last year's branches have flowered, they throw out vigorous young rods that arch over as they complete their growth, and will be the flower-bearers of the year to come. two kinds of roses of rambling growth that are rather tender, but indispensable for beauty, are fortune's yellow and the banksias. pruning the free roses is always rough work for the hands and clothes, but of all roses i know, the worst to handle is fortune's yellow. the prickles are hooked back in a way that no care or ingenuity can escape; and whether it is their shape and power of cruel grip, or whether they have anything of a poisonous quality, i do not know; but whereas hands scratched and torn by roses in general heal quickly, the wounds made by fortune's yellow are much more painful and much slower to get well. i knew an old labourer who died of a rose-prick. he used to work about the roads, and at cleaning the ditches and mending the hedges. for some time i did not see him, and when i asked another old countryman, "what's gone o' master trussler?" the answer was, "he's dead--died of a canker-bush." the wild dog-rose is still the "canker" in the speech of the old people, and a thorn or prickle is still a "bush." a dog-rose prickle had gone deep into the old hedger's hand--a "bush" more or less was nothing to him, but the neglected little wound had become tainted with some impurity, blood-poisoning had set in, and my poor old friend had truly enough "died of a canker-bush." the flowering season of fortune's yellow is a very short one, but it comes so early, and the flowers have such incomparable beauty, and are so little like those of any other rose, that its value is quite without doubt. some of the tea roses approach it in its pink and copper colouring, but the loose, open, rather flaunting form of the flower, and the twisted set of the petals, display the colour better than is possible in any of the more regular-shaped roses. it is a good plan to grow it through some other wall shrub, as it soon gets bare below, and the early maturing flowering tips are glad to be a little sheltered by the near neighbourhood of other foliage. i do not think that there is any other rose that has just the same rich butter colour as the yellow banksian, and this unusual colouring is the more distinct because each little rose in the cluster is nearly evenly coloured all over, besides being in such dense bunches. the season of bloom is very short, but the neat, polished foliage is always pleasant to see throughout the year. the white kind and the larger white are both lovely as to the individual bloom, but they flower so much more shyly that the yellow is much the better garden plant. but the best of all climbing or rambling plants, whether for wall or arbour or pergola, is undoubtedly the grape-vine. even when trimly pruned and trained for fruit-bearing on an outer wall it is an admirable picture of leafage and fruit-cluster; but to have it in fullest beauty it must ramp at will, for it is only when the fast-growing branches are thrown out far and wide that it fairly displays its graceful vigour and the generous magnificence of its incomparable foliage. the hardy chasselas, known in england by the rather misleading name royal muscadine, is one of the best, both for fruit and foliage. the leaves are of moderate size, with clearly serrated edges and that strongly waved outline that gives the impression of powerful build, and is, in fact, a mechanical contrivance intended to stiffen the structure. the colour of the leaves is a fresh, lively green, and in autumn they are prettily marbled with yellow. where a very large-leaved vine is wanted nothing is handsomer than the north american _vitis labrusca_ or the asiatic _vitis coignettii_, whose autumn leaves are gorgeously coloured. for a place that demands more delicate foliage there is the parsley-vine, that has a delightful look of refinement, and another that should not be forgotten is the claret-vine, with autumnal colouring of almost scarlet and purple, and abundance of tightly clustered black fruit, nearly blue with a heavy bloom. many an old house and garden can show the far-rambling power of the beautiful _wistaria chinensis_, and of the large-leaved _aristolochia sipho_, one of the best plants for covering a pergola, and of the varieties of _ampelopsis_, near relations of the grape-vine. the limit of these notes only admits of mention of some of the more important climbers; but among these the ever-delightful white jasmine must have a place. it will ramble far and fast if it has its own way, but then gives little flower; but by close winter pruning it can be kept full of bloom and leaf nearly to the ground. [illustration: wild hop, entwining wormwood and cow-parsnip.] the woods and hedges have also their beautiful climbing plants. honeysuckle in suitable conditions will ramble to great heights--in this district most noticeable in tall hollies and junipers as well as in high hedges. the wild clematis is most frequent on the chalk, where it laces together whole hedges and rushes up trees, clothing them in july with long wreaths of delicate bloom, and in september with still more conspicuous feathery seed. for rapid growth perhaps no english plant outstrips the hop, growing afresh from the root every year, and almost equalling the vine in beauty of leaf. the two kinds of wild bryony are also herbaceous climbers of rapid growth, and among the most beautiful of our hedge plants. the wild roses run up to great heights in hedge and thicket, and never look so well as when among the tangles of mixed growth of wild forest land or clambering through some old gnarled thorn-tree. the common brambles are also best seen in these forest groups; these again in form of leaf show somewhat of a vine-like beauty. in the end of march, or at any time during the month when the wind is in the east or north-east, all increase and development of vegetation appears to cease. as things are, so they remain. plants that are in flower retain their bloom, but, as it were, under protest. a kind of sullen dulness pervades all plant life. sweet-scented shrubs do not give off their fragrance; even the woodland moss and earth and dead leaves withhold their sweet, nutty scent. the surface of the earth has an arid, infertile look; a slight haze of an ugly grey takes the colour out of objects in middle distance, and seems to rob the flowers of theirs, or to put them out of harmony with all things around. but a day comes, or, perhaps, a warmer night, when the wind, now breathing gently from the south-west, puts new life into all growing things. a marvellous change is wrought in a few hours. a little warm rain has fallen, and plants, invisible before, and doubtless still underground, spring into glad life. what an innocent charm there is about many of the true spring flowers. primroses of many colours are now in bloom, but the prettiest, this year, is a patch of an early blooming white one, grouped with a delicate lilac. then comes _omphalodes verna_, with its flowers of brilliant blue and foliage of brightest green, better described by its pretty north-country name, blue-eyed mary. there are violets of many colours, but daintiest of all is the pale-blue st. helena; whether it is the effect of its delicate colouring, or whether it has really a better scent than other varieties of the common violet, i cannot say, but it always seems to have a more refined fragrance. chapter v april woodland spring flowers -- daffodils in the copse -- grape hyacinths and other spring bulbs -- how best to plant them -- flowering shrubs -- rock-plants -- sweet scents of april -- snowy mespilus, marsh marigolds, and other spring flowers -- primrose garden -- pollen of scotch fir -- opening seed-pods of fir and gorse -- auriculas -- tulips -- small shrubs for rock-garden -- daffodils as cut flowers -- lent hellebores -- primroses -- leaves of wild arum. in early april there is quite a wealth of flower among plants that belong half to wood and half to garden. _epimedium pinnatum_, with its delicate, orchid-like spike of pale-yellow bloom, flowers with its last year's leaves, but as soon as it is fully out the young leaves rush up, as if hastening to accompany the flowers. _dentaria pinnata_, a woodland plant of switzerland and austria, is one of the handsomest of the white-flowered _cruciferæ_, with well-filled heads of twelve to fifteen flowers, and palmate leaves of freshest green. hard by, and the best possible plant to group with it, is the lovely virginian cowslip (_mertensia virginica_), the very embodiment of the freshness of early spring. the sheaf of young leafage comes almost black out of the ground, but as the leaves develop, their dull, lurid colouring changes to a full, pale green of a curious texture, quite smooth, and yet absolutely unreflecting. the dark colouring of the young leaves now only remains as a faint tracery of veining on the backs of the leaves and stalks, and at last dies quite away as the bloom expands. the flower is of a rare and beautiful quality of colour, hard to describe--a rainbow-flower of purple, indigo, full and pale blue, and daintiest lilac, full of infinite variety and indescribable charm. the flowers are in terminal clusters, richly filled; lesser clusters springing from the axils of the last few leaves and joining with the topmost one to form a gracefully drooping head. the lurid colouring of the young leaves is recalled in the flower-stems and calix, and enhances the colour effect of the whole. the flower of the common dog-tooth violet is over, but the leaves have grown larger and handsomer. they look as if, originally of a purplish-red colour, some liquid had been dropped on them, making confluent pools of pale green, lightest at the centre of the drop. the noblest plant of the same family (_erythronium giganteum_) is now in flower--a striking and beautiful wood plant, with turn-cap shaped flowers of palest straw-colour, almost white, and large leaves, whose markings are not drop-like as in the more familiar kind, but are arranged in a regular sequence of bold splashings, reminding one of a _maranta_. the flowers, single or in pairs, rise on stems a foot or fifteen inches high; the throat is beautifully marked with flames of rich bay on a yellow ground, and the handsome group of golden-anthered stamens and silvery pistil make up a flower of singular beauty and refinement. that valuable indian primrose, _p. denticulata_, is another fine plant for the cool edge or shady hollows of woodland in rather good, deep soil. but the glory of the copse just now consists in the great stretches of daffodils. through the wood run shallow, parallel hollows, the lowest part of each depression some nine paces apart. local tradition says they are the remains of old pack-horse roads; they occur frequently in the forest-like heathery uplands of our poor-soiled, sandy land, running, for the most part, three or four together, almost evenly side by side. the old people account for this by saying that when one track became too much worn another was taken by its side. where these pass through the birch copse the daffodils have been planted in the shallow hollows of the old ways, in spaces of some three yards broad by thirty or forty yards long--one kind at a time. two of such tracks, planted with _narcissus princeps_ and _n. horsfieldi_, are now waving rivers of bloom, in many lights and accidents of cloud and sunshine full of pictorial effect. the planting of daffodils in this part of the copse is much better than in any other portions where there were no guiding track-ways, and where they were planted in haphazard sprinklings. [illustration: daffodils in the copse.] the grape hyacinths are now in full bloom. it is well to avoid the common one (_muscari racemosum_), at any rate in light soils, where it becomes a troublesome weed. one of the best is _m. conicum_; this, with the upright-leaved _m. botryoides_, and its white variety, are the best for general use, but the plume hyacinth, which flowers later, should have a place. _ornithogalum nutans_ is another of the bulbous plants that, though beautiful in flower, becomes so pestilent a weed that it is best excluded. where and how the early flowering bulbs had best be planted is a question of some difficulty. perhaps the mixed border, where they are most usually put, is the worst place of all, for when in flower they only show as forlorn little patches of bloom rather far apart, and when their leaves die down, leaving their places looking empty, the ruthless spade or trowel stabs into them when it is desired to fill the space with some other plant. moreover, when the border is manured and partly dug in the autumn, it is difficult to avoid digging up the bulbs just when they are in full root-growth. probably the best plan is to devote a good space of cool bank to small bulbs and hardy ferns, planting the ferns in such groups as will leave good spaces for the bulbs; then as their leaves are going the fern fronds are developing and will cover the whole space. another way is to have them among any groups of newly planted small shrubs, to be left there for spring blooming until the shrubs have covered their allotted space. many flowering shrubs are in beauty. _andromeda floribunda_ still holds its persistent bloom that has endured for nearly two months. the thick, drooping, tassel-like bunches of bloom of _andromeda japonica_ are just going over. _magnolia stellata_, a compact bush some five feet high and wide, is white with the multitude of its starry flowers; individually they look half double, having fourteen to sixteen petals. _forsythia suspensa_, with its graceful habit and tender yellow flower, is a much better shrub than _f. viridissima_, though, strangely enough, that is the one most commonly planted. corchorus, with its bright-yellow balls, the fine old rosy ribes, the japan quinces and their salmon-coloured relative _pyrus mauleii_, _spiræa thunbergi_, with its neat habit and myriads of tiny flowers, these make frequent points of beauty and interest. in the rock-garden, _cardamine trifoliata_ and _hutchinsia alpina_ are conspicuous from their pure white flowers and neat habit; both have leaves of darkest green, as if the better to show off the bloom. _ranunculus montanus_ fringes the cool base of a large stone; its whole height not over three inches, though its bright-yellow flowers are larger than field buttercups. the surface of the petals is curiously brilliant, glistening and flashing like glass. _corydalis capnoides_ is a charming rock-plant, with flowers of palest sulphur colour, one of the neatest and most graceful of its family. [illustration: magnolia stellata.] [illustration: daffodils among junipers where garden joins copse.] border plants are pushing up vigorous green growth; finest of all are the veratrums, with their bold, deeply-plaited leaves of brilliant green. delphiniums and oriental poppies have also made strong foliage, and daylilies are conspicuous from their fresh masses of pale greenery. flag iris have their leaves three parts grown, and pæonies are a foot or more high, in all varieties of rich red colouring. it is a good plan, when they are in beds or large groups, to plant the dark-flowered wallflowers among them, their colour making a rich harmony with the reds of the young pæony growths. there are balmy days in mid-april, when the whole garden is fragrant with sweetbriar. it is not "fast of its smell," as bacon says of the damask rose, but gives it so lavishly that one cannot pass near a plant without being aware of its gracious presence. passing upward through the copse, the warm air draws a fragrance almost as sweet, but infinitely more subtle, from the fresh green of the young birches; it is like a distant whiff of lily of the valley. higher still the young leafage of the larches gives a delightful perfume of the same kind. it seems as if it were the office of these mountain trees, already nearest the high heaven, to offer an incense of praise for their new life. few plants will grow under scotch fir, but a notable exception is the whortleberry, now a sheet of brilliant green, and full of its arbutus-like, pink-tinged flower. this plant also has a pleasant scent in the mass, difficult to localise, but coming in whiffs as it will. the snowy mespilus (_amelanchier_) shows like puffs of smoke among the firs and birches, full of its milk-white, cherry-like bloom--a true woodland shrub or small tree. it loves to grow in a thicket of other trees, and to fling its graceful sprays about through their branches. it is a doubtful native, but naturalised and plentiful in the neighbouring woods. as seen in gardens, it is usually a neat little tree of shapely form, but it is more beautiful when growing at its own will in the high woods. marshy hollows in the valleys are brilliant with marsh marigold (_caltha palustris_); damp meadows have them in plenty, but they are largest and handsomest in the alder-swamps of our valley bottoms, where their great luscious clumps rise out of pools of black mud and water. _adonis vernalis_ is one of the brightest flowers of the middle of april, the flowers looking large for the size of the plant. the bright-yellow, mostly eight-petalled, blooms are comfortably seated in dense, fennel-like masses of foliage. it makes strong tufts, that are the better for division every four years. the spring bitter-vetch (_orobus vernus_) blooms at the same time, a remarkably clean-looking plant, with its cheerful red and purple blossom and handsomely divided leaves. it is one of the toughest of plants to divide, the mass of black root is like so much wire. it is a good plan with plants that have such roots, when dividing-time comes, to take the clumps to a strong bench or block and cut them through at the crown with a sharp cold-chisel and hammer. another of the showiest families of plants of the time is _doronicum_. _d. austriacum_ is the earliest, but it is closely followed by the fine _d. plantagineum_. the large form of wood forget-me-not (_myosotis sylvatica major_) is in sheets of bloom, opening pink and changing to a perfect blue. this is a great improvement on the old smaller one. grouped with it, as an informal border, and in patches running through and among its clumps, is the foam-flower (_tiarella cordifolia_), whose flower in the mass looks like the wreaths of foam tossed aside by a mountain torrent. by the end of the month the satin-leaf (_heuchera richardsoni_) is pushing up its richly-coloured leaves, of a strong bronze-red, gradating to bronze-green at the outer edge. the beauty of the plant is in the colour and texture of the foliage. to encourage full leaf growth the flower stems should be pinched out, and as they push up rather persistently, they should be looked over every few days for about a fortnight. [illustration: tiarella cordifolia. (_height, inches._)] [illustration: hollyhock, pink beauty. (_see page ._) (_height, feet._)] the primrose garden is now in beauty, but i have so much to say about it that i have given it a chapter to itself towards the end of the book. the scotch firs are shedding their pollen; a flowering branch shaken or struck with a stick throws out a pale-yellow cloud. heavy rain will wash it out, so that after a storm the sides of the roads and paths look as if powdered sulphur had been washed up in drifts. the sun has gained great power, and on still bright days sharp _snicking_ sounds are to be heard from the firs. the dry cones of last year are opening, and the flattened seeds with their paper-like edges are fluttering down. another sound, much like it but just a shade sharper and more _staccato_, is heard from the gorse bushes, whose dry pods are flying open and letting fall the hard, polished, little bean-like seeds. border auriculas are making a brave show. nothing in the flower year is more interesting than a bed of good seedlings of the alpine class. i know nothing better for pure beauty of varied colouring among early flowers. except in varieties of _salpiglossis_, such rich gradation of colour, from pale lilac to rich purple, and from rosy pink to deepest crimson, is hardly to be found in any one family of plants. there are varieties of cloudings of smoky-grey, sometimes approaching black, invading, and at the same time enhancing, the purer colours, and numbers of shades of half-tones of red and purple, such as are comprised within the term _murrey_ of heraldry, and tender blooms of one colour, sulphurs and milk-whites--all with the admirable texture and excellent perfume that belong to the "bear's-ears" of old english gardens. for practical purposes the florist's definition of a good auricula is of little value; that is for the show-table, and, as bacon says, "nothing to the true pleasure of a garden." the qualities to look for in the bed of seedlings are not the narrowing ones of proportion of eye to tube, of exact circle in the circumference of the individual pip, and so on, but to notice whether the plant has a handsome look and stands up well, and is a delightful and beautiful thing as a whole. [illustration: tulipa retroflexa.] [illustration: late single tulips, breeders and bybloemen.] tulips are the great garden flowers in the last week of april and earliest days of may. in this plant also the rule of the show-table is no sure guide to garden value; for the show tulip, beautiful though it is, is of one class alone--namely, the best of the "broken" varieties of the self-coloured seedlings called "breeders." these seedlings, after some years of cultivation, change or "break" into a variation in which the original colouring is only retained in certain flames or feathers of colour, on a ground of either white or yellow. if the flames in each petal are symmetrical and well arranged, according to the rules laid down by the florist, it is a good flower; it receives a name, and commands a certain price. if, on the other hand, the markings are irregular, however beautiful the colouring, the flower is comparatively worthless, and is "thrown into mixture." the kinds that are the grandest in gardens are ignored by the florist. one of the best for graceful and delicate beauty is _tulipa retroflexa_, of a soft lemon-yellow colour, and twisted and curled petals; then silver crown, a white flower with a delicate picotee-like thread of scarlet along the edge of the sharply pointed and reflexed petals. a variety of this called sulphur crown is only a little less beautiful. then there is golden crown, also with pointed petals and occasional threadings of scarlet. nothing is more gorgeous than the noble _gesneriana major_, with its great chalice of crimson-scarlet and pools of blue in the inner base of each petal. the gorgeously flamed parrot tulips are indispensable, and the large double yellow rose, and the early double white la candeur. of the later kinds there are many of splendid colouring and noble port; conspicuous among them are _reine d'espagne_, _couleur de vin_, and _bleu celeste_. there are beautiful colourings of scarlet, crimson, yellow, chocolate, and purple among the "breeders," as well as among the so-called _bizarres_ and _bybloemen_ that comprise the show kinds. the best thing now in the rock-garden is a patch of some twenty plants of _arnebia echioides_, always happy in our poor, dry soil. it is of the borage family, a native of armenia. it flowers in single or double-branching spikes of closely-set flowers of a fine yellow. just below each indentation of the five-lobed corolla is a spot which looks black by contrast, but is of a very dark, rich, velvety brown. the day after the flower has expanded the spot has faded to a moderate brown, the next day to a faint tinge, and on the fourth day it is gone. the legend, accounting for the spots, says that mahomet touched the flower with the tips of his fingers, hence its english name of prophet-flower. the upper parts of the rock-garden that are beyond hand-reach are planted with dwarf shrubs, many of them sweetly scented either as to leaf or flower--_gaultherias_, sweet gale, alpine rhododendron, _skimmias_, _pernettyas_, _ledums_, and hardy daphnes. _daphne pontica_ now gives off delicious wafts of fragrance, intensely sweet in the evening. in march and april daffodils are the great flowers for house decoration, coming directly after the lent hellebores. many people think these beautiful late-flowering hellebores useless for cutting because they live badly in water. but if properly prepared they live quite well, and will remain ten days in beauty. directly they are cut, and immediately before putting in water, the stalks should be slit up three or four inches, or according to their length, and then put in deep, so that the water comes nearly up to the flowers; and so they should remain, in a cool place, for some hours, or for a whole night, after which they can be arranged for the room. most of them are inclined to droop; it is the habit of the plant in growth; this may be corrected by arranging them with something stiff like box or berberis. _anemone fulgens_ is a grand cutting flower, and looks well with its own leaves only or with flowering twigs of laurustinus. then there are pansies, delightful things in a room, but they should be cut in whole branches of leafy stem and flower and bud. at first the growths are short and only suit dish-shaped things, but as the season goes on they grow longer and bolder, and graduate first into bowls and then into upright glasses. i think pansies are always best without mixture of other flowers, and in separate colours, or only in such varied tints as make harmonies of one class of colour at a time. the big yellow and white bunch primroses are delightful room flowers, beautiful, and of sweetest scent. when full-grown the flower-stalks are ten inches long and more. among the seedlings there are always a certain number that are worthless. these are pounced upon as soon as they show their bloom, and cut up for greenery to go with the cut flowers, leaving the root-stock with all its middle foliage, and cutting away the roots and any rough outside leaves. when the first daffodils are out and suitable greenery is not abundant in the garden (for it does not do to cut their own blades), i bring home handfuls of the wild arum leaves, so common in roadside hedges, grasping the whole plant close to the ground; then a steady pull breaks it away from the tuber, and you have a fine long-stalked sheaf of leafage held together by its own underground stem. this should be prepared like the lent hellebores, by putting it deep in water for a time. i always think the trumpet daffodils look better with this than with any other kind of foliage. when the wild arum is full-grown the leaves are so large and handsome that they do quite well to accompany the white arum flowers from the greenhouse. chapter vi may cowslips -- morells -- woodruff -- felling oak timber -- trillium and other wood-plants -- lily of the valley naturalised -- rock-wall flowers -- two good wall-shrubs -- queen wasps -- rhododendrons -- arrangement for colour -- separate colour-groups -- difficulty of choosing -- hardy azaleas -- grouping flowers that bloom together -- guelder-rose as climber -- the garden-wall door -- the pæony garden -- moutans -- pæony varieties -- species desirable for garden. while may is still young, cowslips are in beauty on the chalk lands a few miles distant, but yet within pleasant reach. they are finest of all in orchards, where the grass grows tall and strong under the half-shade of the old apple-trees, some of the later kinds being still loaded with bloom. the blooming of the cowslip is the signal for a search for the morell, one of the very best of the edible fungi. it grows in open woods or where the undergrowth has not yet grown high, and frequently in old parks and pastures near or under elms. it is quite unlike any other fungus; shaped like a tall egg, with the pointed end upwards, on a short, hollow stalk, and looking something like a sponge. it has a delicate and excellent flavour, and is perfectly wholesome. the pretty little woodruff is in flower; what scent is so delicate as that of its leaves? they are almost sweeter when dried, each little whorl by itself, with the stalk cut closely away above and below. it is a pleasant surprise to come upon these fragrant little stars between the leaves of a book. the whole plant revives memories of rambles in bavarian woodlands, and of mai-trank, that best of the "cup" tribe of pleasant drinks, whose flavour is borrowed from its flowering tips. in the first week in may oak-timber is being felled. the wood is handsomer, from showing the grain better, when it is felled in the winter, but it is delayed till now because of the value of the bark for tanning, and just now the fast-rising sap makes the bark strip easily. a heavy fall is taking place in the fringes of a large wood of old scotch fir. where the oaks grow there is a blue carpet of wild hyacinth; the pathway is a slightly hollowed lane, so that the whole sheet of flower right and left is nearly on a level with the eye, and looks like solid pools of blue. the oaks not yet felled are putting forth their leaves of golden bronze. the song of the nightingale and the ring of the woodman's axe gain a rich musical quality from the great fir wood. why a wood of scotch fir has this wonderful property of a kind of musical reverberation i do not know; but so it is. any sound that occurs within it is, on a lesser scale, like a sound in a cathedral. the tree itself when struck gives a musical note. strike an oak or an elm on the trunk with a stick, and the sound is mute; strike a scotch fir, and it is a note of music. [illustration: trillium in the wild garden.] in the copse are some prosperous patches of the beautiful north american wood-lily (_trillium grandiflorum_). it likes a bed of deep leaf-soil on levels or cool slopes in woodland, where its large white flowers and whorls of handsome leaves look quite at home. beyond it are widely spreading patches of solomon's seal and tufts of the wood-rush (_luzula sylvatica_), showing by their happy vigour how well they like their places, while the natural woodland carpet of moss and dead leaves puts the whole together. higher in the copse the path runs through stretches of the pretty little _smilacina bifolia_, and the ground beyond this is a thick bed of whortleberry, filling all the upper part of the copse under oak and birch and scotch fir. the little flower-bells of the whortleberry have already given place to the just-formed fruit, which will ripen in july, and be a fine feast for the blackbirds. other parts of the copse, where there was no heath or whortleberry, were planted thinly with the large lily of the valley. it has spread and increased and become broad sheets of leaf and bloom, from which thousands of flowers can be gathered without making gaps, or showing that any have been removed; when the bloom is over the leaves still stand in handsome masses till they are hidden by the fast-growing bracken. they do not hurt each other, as it seems that the lily of the valley, having the roots running just underground, while the fern-roots are much deeper, the two occupy their respective _strata_ in perfect good fellowship. the neat little _smilacina_ is a near relation of the lily of the valley; its leaves are of an even more vivid green, and its little modest spikes of white flower are charming. it loves the poor, sandy soil, and increases in it fast, but will have nothing to say to clay. a very delicate and beautiful north american fern (_dicksonia punctilobulata_) proves a good colonist in the copse. it spreads rapidly by creeping roots, and looks much like our native _thelipteris_, but is of a paler green colour. in the rock-garden the brightest patches of bloom are shown by the tufts of dwarf wallflowers; of these, _cheiranthus alpinus_ has a strong lemon colour that is of great brilliancy in the mass, and _c. marshalli_ is of a dark orange colour, equally powerful. the curiously-tinted _c. mutabilis_, as its name implies, changes from a light mahogany colour when just open, first to crimson and then to purple. in length of life _c. alpinus_ and _c. marshalli_ are rather more than biennials, and yet too short-lived to be called true perennials; cuttings of one year flower the next, and are handsome tufts the year after, but are scarcely worth keeping longer. _c. mutabilis_ is longer lived, especially if the older growths are cut right away, when the tuft will generally spring into vigorous new life. _orobus aurantiacus_ is a beautiful plant not enough grown, one of the handsomest of the pea family, with flowers of a fine orange colour, and foliage of a healthy-looking golden-green. a striking and handsome plant in the upper part of the rockery is _othonna cheirifolia_; its aspect is unusual and interesting, with its bunches of thick, blunt-edged leaves of blue-grey colouring, and large yellow daisy flowers. there is a pretty group of the large white thrift, and near it a spreading carpet of blue veronica and some of the splendid gentian-blue _phacelia campanularia_, a valuable annual for filling any bare patches of rockery where its brilliant colouring will suit the neighbouring plants, or, best of all, in patches among dwarf ferns, where its vivid blue would be seen to great advantage. two wall-shrubs have been conspicuously beautiful during may; the mexican orange-flower (_choisya ternata_) has been smothered in its white bloom, so closely resembling orange-blossom. with a slight winter protection of fir boughs it seems quite at home in our hot, dry soil, grows fast, and is very easy to propagate by layers. when cut, it lasts for more than a week in water. _piptanthus nepalensis_ has also made a handsome show, with its abundant yellow, pea-shaped bloom and deep-green trefoil leaves. the dark-green stems have a slight bloom on a half-polished surface, and a pale ring at each joint gives them somewhat the look of bamboos. now is the time to look out for the big queen wasps and to destroy as many as possible. they seem to be specially fond of the flowers of two plants, the large perennial cornflower (_centaurea montana_) and the common cotoneaster. i have often secured a dozen in a few minutes on one or other of these plants, first knocking them down with a battledore. now, in the third week of may, rhododendrons are in full bloom on the edge of the copse. the plantation was made about nine years ago, in one of the regions where lawn and garden were to join the wood. during the previous blooming season the best nurseries were visited and careful observations made of colouring, habit, and time of blooming. the space they were to fill demanded about seventy bushes, allowing an average of eight feet from plant to plant--not seventy different kinds, but, perhaps, ten of one kind, and two or three fives, and some threes, and a few single plants, always bearing in mind the ultimate intention of pictorial aspect as a whole. in choosing the plants and in arranging and disposing the groups these ideas were kept in mind: to make pleasant ways from lawn to copse; to group only in beautiful colour harmonies; to choose varieties beautiful in themselves; to plant thoroughly well, and to avoid overcrowding. plantations of these grand shrubs are generally spoilt or ineffective, if not absolutely jarring, for want of attention to these simple rules. the choice of kinds is now so large, and the variety of colouring so extensive, that nothing can be easier than to make beautiful combinations, if intending planters will only take the small amount of preliminary trouble that is needful. some of the clumps are of brilliant scarlet-crimson, rose and white, but out of the great choice of colours that might be so named only those are chosen that make just the colour-harmony that was intended. a large group, quite detached from this one, and more in the shade of the copse, is of the best of the lilacs, purples, and whites. when some clumps of young hollies have grown, those two groups will not be seen at the same time, except from a distance. the purple and white group is at present rather the handsomest, from the free-growing habit of the fine old kind _album elegans_, which forms towering masses at the back. a detail of pictorial effect that was aimed at, and that has come out well, was devised in the expectation that the purple groups would look richer in the shade, and the crimson ones in the sun. this arrangement has answered admirably. before planting, the ground, of the poorest quality possible, was deeply trenched, and the rhododendrons were planted in wide holes filled with peat, and finished with a comfortable "mulch," or surface-covering of farmyard manure. from this a supply of grateful nutriment was gradually washed in to the roots. this beneficial surface-dressing was renewed every year for two years after planting, and even longer in the case of the slower growing kinds. no plant better repays care during its early years. broad grass paths leading from the lawn at several points pass among the clumps, and are continued through the upper parts of the copse, passing through zones of different trees; first a good stretch of birch and holly, then of spanish chestnut, next of oak, and finally of scotch fir, with a sprinkling of birch and mountain ash, all with an undergrowth of heath and whortleberry and bracken. thirty years ago it was all a wood of old scotch fir. this was cut at its best marketable maturity, and the present young wood is made of what came up self-sown. this natural wild growth was thick enough to allow of vigorous cutting out, and the preponderance of firs in the upper part and of birch in the lower suggested that these were the kinds that should predominate in their respective places. [illustration: rhododendrons where the copse and garden meet.] it may be useful to describe a little more in detail the plan i followed in grouping rhododendrons, for i feel sure that any one with a feeling for harmonious colouring, having once seen or tried some such plan, will never again approve of the haphazard mixtures. there may be better varieties representing the colourings aimed at in the several groups, but those named are ones that i know, and they will serve as well as any others to show what is meant. the colourings seem to group themselves into six classes of easy harmonies, which i venture to describe thus:-- . crimsons inclining to scarlet or blood-colour grouped with dark claret-colour and true pink. in this group i have planted nigrescens, dark claret-colour; john waterer and james marshall brook, both fine red-crimsons; alexander adie and atrosanguineum, good crimsons, inclining to blood-colour; alarm, rosy-scarlet; and bianchi, pure pink. . light scarlet rose colours inclining to salmon, a most desirable range of colour, but of which the only ones i know well are mrs. r. s. holford, and a much older kind, lady eleanor cathcart. these i put by themselves, only allowing rather near them the good pink bianchi. . rose colours inclining to amaranth. . amaranths or magenta-crimsons. . crimson or amaranth-purples. . cool clear purples of the typical _ponticum_ class, both dark and light, grouped with lilac-whites, such as _album elegans_ and _album grandiflorum_. the beautiful partly-double _everestianum_ comes into this group, but nothing redder among purples. _fastuosum florepleno_ is also admitted, and _luciferum_ and _reine hortense_, both good lilac-whites. but the purples that are most effective are merely _ponticum_ seedlings, chosen when in bloom in the nursery for their depth and richness of cool purple colour. my own space being limited, i chose three of the above groups only, leaving out, as of colouring less pleasing to my personal liking, groups , , and . the remaining ones gave me examples of colouring the most widely different, and at the same time the most agreeable to my individual taste. it would have been easier, if that had been the object, to have made groups of the three other classes of colouring, which comprise by far the largest number of the splendid varieties now grown. there are a great many beautiful whites; of these, two that i most admire are madame carvalho and sappho; the latter is an immense flower, with a conspicuous purple blotch. there is also a grand old kind called minnie, a very large-growing one, with fine white trusses; and a dwarf-growing white that comes early into bloom is cunningham's white, also useful for forcing, as it is a small plant, and a free bloomer. [illustration: grass walks through the copse.] nothing is more perplexing than to judge of the relative merits of colours in a rhododendron nursery, where they are all mixed up. i have twice been specially to look for varieties of a true pink colour, but the quantity of untrue pinks is so great that anything approaching a clear pink looks much better than it is. in this way i chose kate waterer and sylph, both splendid varieties; but when i grew them with my true pink bianchi they would not do, the colour having the suspicion of rank quality that i wished to keep out of that group. this same bianchi, with its mongrel-sounding name, i found was not grown in the larger nurseries. i had it from messrs. maurice young, of the milford nurseries, near godalming. i regretted to hear lately from some one to whom i recommended it that it could not be supplied. it is to be hoped that so good a thing has not been lost. a little way from the main rhododendron clumps, and among bushy andromedas, i have the splendid hybrid of _r. aucklandi_, raised by mr. a. waterer. the trusses are astoundingly large, and the individual blooms large and delicately beautiful, like small richly-modelled lilies of a tender, warm, white colour. it is quite hardy south of london, and unquestionably desirable. its only fault is leggy growth; one year's growth measures twenty-three inches, but this only means that it should be planted among other bushes. [illustration: rhododendrons at the edge of the copse.] the last days of may see hardy azaleas in beauty. any of them may be planted in company, for all their colours harmonise. in this garden, where care is taken to group plants well for colour, the whites are planted at the lower and more shady end of the group; next come the pale yellows and pale pinks, and these are followed at a little distance by kinds whose flowers are of orange, copper, flame, and scarlet-crimson colourings; this strong-coloured group again softening off at the upper end by strong yellows, and dying away into the woodland by bushes of the common yellow _azalea pontica_, and its variety with flowers of larger size and deeper colour. the plantation is long in shape, straggling over a space of about half an acre, the largest and strongest-coloured group being in an open clearing about midway in the length. the ground between them is covered with a natural growth of the wild ling (_calluna_) and whortleberry, and the small, white-flowered bed-straw, with the fine-bladed sheep's-fescue grass, the kind most abundant in heathland. the surrounding ground is copse, of a wild, forest-like character, of birch and small oak. a wood-path of wild heath cut short winds through the planted group, which also comprises some of the beautiful white-flowered californian _azalea occidentalis_, and bushes of some of the north american vacciniums. azaleas should never be planted among or even within sight of rhododendrons. though both enjoy a moist peat soil, and have a near botanical relationship, they are incongruous in appearance, and impossible to group together for colour. this must be understood to apply to the two classes of plants of the hardy kinds, as commonly grown in gardens. there are tender kinds of the east indian families that are quite harmonious, but those now in question are the ordinary varieties of so-called ghent azaleas, and the hardy hybrid rhododendrons. in the case of small gardens, where there is only room for one bed or clump of peat plants, it would be better to have a group of either one or the other of these plants, rather than spoil the effect by the inharmonious mixture of both. i always think it desirable to group together flowers that bloom at the same time. it is impossible, and even undesirable, to have a garden in blossom all over, and groups of flower-beauty are all the more enjoyable for being more or less isolated by stretches of intervening greenery. as one lovely group for may i recommend moutan pæony and _clematis montana_, the clematis on a wall low enough to let its wreaths of bloom show near the pæony. the old guelder rose or snowball-tree is beautiful anywhere, but i think it best of all on the cold side of a wall. of course it is perfectly hardy, and a bush of strong, sturdy growth, and has no need of the wall either for support or for shelter; but i am for clothing the garden walls with all the prettiest things they can wear, and no shrub i know makes a better show. moreover, as there is necessarily less wood in a flat wall tree than in a round bush, and as the front shoots must be pruned close back, it follows that much more strength is thrown into the remaining wood, and the blooms are much larger. i have a north wall eleven feet high, with a guelder rose on each side of a doorway, and a _clematis montana_ that is trained on the top of the whole. the two flower at the same time, their growths mingling in friendly fashion, while their unlikeness of habit makes the companionship all the more interesting. the guelder rose is a stiff-wooded thing, the character of its main stems being a kind of stark uprightness, though the great white balls hang out with a certain freedom from the newly-grown shoots. the clematis meets it with an exactly opposite way of growth, swinging down its great swags of many-flowered garland masses into the head of its companion, with here and there a single flowering streamer making a tiny wreath on its own account. on the southern sides of the same gateway are two large bushes of the mexican orange-flower (_choisya ternata_), loaded with its orange-like bloom. buttresses flank the doorway on this side, dying away into the general thickness of the wall above the arch by a kind of roofing of broad flat stones that lay back at an easy pitch. in mossy hollows at their joints and angles, some tufts of thrift and of little rock pinks have found a home, and show as tenderly-coloured tufts of rather dull pink bloom. above all is the same white clematis, some of its abundant growth having been trained over the south side, so that this one plant plays a somewhat important part in two garden-scenes. through the gateway again, beyond the wall northward and partly within its shade, is a portion of ground devoted to pæonies, in shape a long triangle, whose proportion in length is about thrice its breadth measured at the widest end. a low cross-wall, five feet high, divides it nearly in half near the guelder roses, and it is walled again on the other long side of the triangle by a rough structure of stone and earth, which, in compliment to its appearance, we call the old wall, of which i shall have something to say later. thus the pæonies are protected all round, for they like a sheltered place, and the moutans do best with even a little passing shade at some time of the day. moutan is the chinese name for tree pæony. for an immense hardy flower of beautiful colouring what can equal the salmon-rose moutan reine elizabeth? among the others that i have, those that give me most pleasure are baronne d'alès and comtesse de tuder, both pinks of a delightful quality, and a lovely white called bijou de chusan. the tree pæonies are also beautiful in leaf; the individual leaves are large and important, and so carried that they are well displayed. their colour is peculiar, being bluish, but pervaded with a suspicion of pink or pinkish-bronze, sometimes of a metallic quality that faintly recalls some of the variously-coloured alloys of metal that the japanese bronze-workers make and use with such consummate skill. [illustration: south side of door, with clematis montana and choisya.] [illustration: north side of the same door, with clematis montana and guelder-rose.] it is a matter of regret that varieties of the better kinds of moutans are not generally grown on their own roots, and still more so that the stock in common use should not even be the type tree pæony, but one of the herbaceous kinds, so that we have plants of a hard-wooded shrub worked on a thing as soft as a dahlia root. this is probably the reason why they are so difficult to establish, and so slow to grow, especially on light soils, even when their beds have been made deep and liberally enriched with what one judges to be the most gratifying comfort. every now and then, just before blooming time, a plant goes off all at once, smitten with sudden death. at the time of making my collection i was unable to visit the french nurseries where these plants are so admirably grown, and whence most of the best kinds have come. i had to choose them by the catalogue description--always an unsatisfactory way to any one with a keen eye for colour, although in this matter the compilers of foreign catalogues are certainly less vague than those of our own. many of the plants therefore had to be shifted into better groups for colour after their first blooming, a matter the more to be regretted as pæonies dislike being moved. the other half of the triangular bit of pæony ground--the pointed end--is given to the kinds i like best of the large june-flowered pæonies, the garden varieties of the siberian _p. albiflora_, popularly known as chinese pæonies. though among these, as is the case with all the kinds, there is a preponderance of pink or rose-crimson colouring of a decidedly rank quality, yet the number of varieties is so great, that among the minority of really good colouring there are plenty to choose from, including a good number of beautiful whites and whites tinged with yellow. of those i have, the kinds i like best are-- hypatia, pink. madame benare, salmon-rose. the queen, pale salmon-rose. léonie, salmon-rose. virginie, warm white. solfaterre, pale yellow. edouard andré, deep claret. madame calot, flesh pink. madame bréon. alba sulfurea. triomphans gandavensis. carnea elegans (guerin). curiosa, pink and blush. prince pierre galitzin, blush. eugenie verdier, pale pink. elegans superbissima, yellowish-white. virgo maria, white. philomèle, blush. madame dhour, rose. duchesse de nemours, yellow-white. faust. belle douaisienne. jeanne d'arc. marie lemoine. many of the lovely flowers in this class have a rather strong, sweet smell, something like a mixture of the scents of rose and tulip. then there are the old garden pæonies, the double varieties of _p. officinalis_. they are in three distinct colourings--full rich crimson, crimson-rose, and pale pink changing to dull white. these are the earliest to flower, and with them it is convenient, from the garden point of view, to class some of the desirable species. some years ago my friend mr. barr kindly gave me a set of the pæony species as grown by him. i wished to have them, not for the sake of making a collection, but in order to see which were the ones i should like best to grow as garden flowers. in due time they grew into strong plants and flowered. a good many had to be condemned because of the raw magenta colour of the bloom, one or two only that had this defect being reprieved on account of their handsome foliage and habit. prominent among these was _p. decora_, with bluish foliage handsomely displayed, the whole plant looking strong and neat and well-dressed. others whose flower-colour i cannot commend, but that seemed worth growing on account of their rich masses of handsome foliage, are _p. triternata_ and _p. broteri_. though small in size, the light red flower of _p. lobata_ is of a beautiful colour. _p. tenuifolia_, in both single and double form, is an old garden favourite. _p. wittmanniana_, with its yellow-green leaves and tender yellow flower, is a gem; but it is rather rare, and probably uncertain, for mine, alas! had no sooner grown into a fine clump than it suddenly died. all pæonies are strong feeders. their beds should be deeply and richly prepared, and in later years they are grateful for liberal gifts of manure, both as surface dressings and waterings. friends often ask me vaguely about pæonies, and when i say, "what kind of pæonies?" they have not the least idea. broadly, and for garden purposes, one may put them into three classes-- . tree pæonies (_p. moutan_), shrubby, flowering in may. . chinese pæonies (_p. albiflora_), herbaceous, flowering in june. . old garden pæonies (_p. officinalis_), herbaceous, including some other herbaceous species. i find it convenient to grow pæony species and caulescent (lent) hellebores together. they are in a wide border on the north side of the high wall and partly shaded by it. they are agreed in their liking for deeply-worked ground with an admixture of loam and lime, for shelter, and for rich feeding; and the pæony clumps, set, as it were, in picture frames of the lower-growing hellebores, are seen to all the more advantage. [illustration: free cluster-rose as standard in a cottage garden.] chapter vii june the gladness of june -- the time of roses -- garden roses -- reine blanche -- the old white rose -- old garden roses as standards -- climbing and rambling roses -- scotch briars -- hybrid perpetuals a difficulty -- tea roses -- pruning -- sweet peas, autumn sown -- elder-trees -- virginian cowslip -- dividing spring-blooming plants -- two best mulleins -- white french willow -- bracken. what is one to say about june--the time of perfect young summer, the fulfilment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade? for my own part i wander up into the wood and say, "june is here--june is here; thank god for lovely june!" the soft cooing of the wood-dove, the glad song of many birds, the flitting of butterflies, the hum of all the little winged people among the branches, the sweet earth-scents--all seem to say the same, with an endless reiteration, never wearying because so gladsome. it is the offering of the hymn of praise! the lizards run in and out of the heathy tufts in the hot sunshine, and as the long day darkens the night-jar trolls out his strange song, so welcome because it is the prelude to the perfect summer night; here and there a glowworm shows its little lamp. june is here--june is here; thank god for lovely june! and june is the time of roses. i have great delight in the best of the old garden roses; the provence (cabbage rose), sweetest of all sweets, and the moss rose, its crested variety; the early damask, and its red and white striped kind; the old, nearly single, reine blanche. i do not know the origin of this charming rose, but by its appearance it should be related to the damask. a good many years ago i came upon it in a cottage garden in sussex, and thought i had found a white damask. the white is a creamy white, the outsides of the outer petals are stained with red, first showing clearly in the bud. the scent is delicate and delightful, with a faint suspicion of magnolia. a few years ago this pretty old rose found its way to one of the meetings of the royal horticultural society, where it gained much praise. it was there that i recognised my old friend, and learned its name. i am fond of the old _rosa alba_, both single and double, and its daughter, maiden's blush. how seldom one sees these roses except in cottage gardens; but what good taste it shows on the cottager's part, for what rose is so perfectly at home upon the modest little wayside porch? i have also learnt from cottage gardens how pretty are some of the old roses grown as standards. the picture of my neighbour, mrs. edgeler, picking me a bunch from her bush, shows how freely they flower, and what fine standards they make. i have taken the hint, and have now some big round-headed standards, the heads a yard through, of the lovely celeste and of madame plantier, that are worth looking at, though one of them is rather badly-shaped this year, for my handsome jack (donkey) ate one side of it when he was waiting outside the studio door, while his cart-load of logs for the ingle fire was being unloaded. what a fine thing, among the cluster roses, is the old dundee rambler! i trained one to go up a rather upright green holly about twenty-five feet high, and now it has rushed up and tumbles out at the top and sides in masses of its pretty bloom. it is just as good grown as a "fountain," giving it a free space where it can spread at will with no training or support whatever. these two ways i think are much the best for growing the free, rambling roses. in the case of the fountain, the branches arch over and display the flowers to perfection; if you tie your rose up to a tall post or train it over an arch or _pergola_, the birds flying overhead have the best of the show. the garland rose, another old sort, is just as suitable for this kind of growth as dundee rambler, and the individual flowers, of a tender blush-colour, changing to white, are even more delicate and pretty. the newer crimson rambler is a noble plant for the same use, in sunlight gorgeous of bloom, and always brilliant with its glossy bright-green foliage. of the many good plants from japan, this is the best that has reached us of late years. the himalayan _rosa brunonii_ is loaded with its clusters of milk-white bloom, that are so perfectly in harmony with its very long, almost blue leaves. but of all the free-growing roses, the most remarkable for rampant growth is _r. polyantha_. one of the bushes in this garden covers a space thirty-four feet across--more than a hundred feet round. it forms a great fountain-like mass, covered with myriads of its small white flowers, whose scent is carried a considerable distance. directly the flower is over it throws up rods of young growth eighteen to twenty feet long; as they mature they arch over, and next year their many short lateral shoots will be smothered with bloom. two other roses of free growth are also great favourites--madame alfred carrière, with long-stalked loose white flowers, and emilie plantier. i have them on an east fence, where they yield a large quantity of bloom for cutting; indeed, they have been so useful in this way that i have planted several more, but this time for training down to an oak trellis, like the one that supports the row of bouquet d'or, in order to bring the flowers within easier reach. now we look for the bloom of the burnet rose (_rosa spinosissima_), a lovely native plant, and its garden varieties, the scotch briars. the wild plant is widely distributed in england, though somewhat local. it grows on moors in scotland, and on beachy head in sussex, and near tenby in south wales, favouring wild places within smell of the sea. the rather dusky foliage sets off the lemon-white of the wild, and the clear white, pink, rose, and pale yellow of the double garden kinds. the hips are large and handsome, black and glossy, and the whole plant in late autumn assumes a fine bronzy colouring between ashy black and dusky red. other small old garden roses are coming into bloom. one of the most desirable, and very frequent in this district, is _rosa lucida_, with red stems, highly-polished leaves, and single, fragrant flowers of pure rosy-pink colour. the leaves turn a brilliant yellow in autumn, and after they have fallen the bushes are still bright with the coloured stems and the large clusters of bright-red hips. it is the st. mark's rose of venice, where it is usually in flower on st. mark's day, april th. the double variety is the old _rose d'amour_, now rare in gardens; its half-expanded bud is perhaps the most daintily beautiful thing that any rose can show. [illustration: double white scotch briar.] after many years of fruitless effort i have to allow that i am beaten in the attempt to grow the grand roses in the hybrid perpetual class. they plainly show their dislike to our dry hill, even when their beds are as well enriched as i can contrive or afford to make them. the rich loam that they love has to come many miles from the weald by hilly roads in four-horse waggons, and the haulage is so costly that when it arrives i feel like distributing it with a spoon rather than with the spade. moreover, even if a bed is filled with the precious loam, unless constantly watered the plants seem to feel and resent the two hundred feet of dry sand and rock that is under them before any moister stratum is reached. but the tea roses are more accommodating, and do fairly well, though, of course, not so well as in a stiffer soil. if i were planting again i should grow a still larger proportion of the kinds i have now found to do best. far beyond all others is madame lambard, good alike early and late, and beautiful at all times. in this garden it yields quite three times as much bloom as any other; nothing else can approach it either for beauty or bounty. viscountess folkestone, not properly a tea, but classed among hybrid noisettes, is also free and beautiful and long-enduring; and papa gontier, so like a deeper-coloured lambard, is another favourite. bouquet d'or is here the strongest of the dijon teas. i grow it in several positions, but most conveniently on a strong bit of oak post and rail trellis, keeping the long growths tied down, and every two years cutting the oldest wood right out. it is well to remember that the tying or pegging down of roses always makes them bloom better: every joint from end to end wants to make a good rose; if the shoots are more upright, the blooming strength goes more to the top. the pruning of tea roses is quite different from the pruning required for the hybrid perpetuals. in these the last year's growth is cut back in march to within two to five eyes from where it leaves the main branch, according to the strength of the kind. this must not be done with the teas. with these the oldest wood is cut right out from the base, and the blooming shoots left full length. but it is well, towards the end of july or beginning of august, to cut back the ends of soft summer shoots in order to give them a chance of ripening what is left. when an old tea looks worn out, if cut right down in march or april it will often throw out vigorous young growth, and quite renew its life. [illustration: part of a bush of rosa polyantha.] [illustration: garland-rose, showing natural way of growth.] within the first days of june we can generally pick some sweet peas from the rows sown in the second week of september. they are very much stronger than those sown in spring. by november they are four inches high, and seem to gain strength and sturdiness during the winter; for as soon as spring comes they shoot up with great vigour, and we know that the spray used to support them must be two feet higher than for those that are spring-sown. the flower-stalks are a foot long, and many have four flowers on a stalk. they are sown in shallow trenches; in spring they are earthed up very slightly, but still with a little trench at the base of the plants. a few doses of liquid manure are a great help when they are getting towards blooming strength. i am very fond of the elder-tree. it is a sociable sort of thing; it seems to like to grow near human habitations. in my own mind it is certainly the tree most closely associated with the pretty old cottage and farm architecture of my part of the country; no bush or tree, not even the apple, seems to group so well or so closely with farm buildings. when i built a long thatched shed for the many needs of the garden, in the region of pits and frames, compost, rubbish and burn-heap, i planted elders close to the end of the building and on one side of the yard. they look just right, and are, moreover, every year loaded with their useful fruit. this is ripe quite early in september, and is made into elder wine, to be drunk hot in winter, a comfort by no means to be despised. my trees now give enough for my own wants, and there are generally a few acceptable bushels to spare for my cottage neighbours. about the middle of the month the virginian cowslip (_mertensia virginica_) begins to turn yellow before dying down. now is the time to look out for the seeds. a few ripen on the plant, but most of them fall while green, and then ripen in a few days while lying on the ground. i shake the seeds carefully out, and leave them lying round the parent-plant; a week later, when they will be ripe, they are lightly scratched into the ground. some young plants of last year's growth i mark with a bit of stick, in case of wanting some later to plant elsewhere, or to send away; the plant dies away completely, leaving no trace above ground, so that if not marked it would be difficult to find what is wanted. [illustration: lilac marie legraye. (_see page ._)] [illustration: flowering elder and path from garden to copse.] this is also the time for pulling to pieces and replanting that good spring plant, the large variety of _myosotis dissitiflora_; i always make sure of divisions, as seed does not come true. _primula rosea_ should also be divided now, and planted to grow on in a cool place, such as the foot of a north or east wall, or be put at once in its place in some cool, rather moist spot in the rock-garden. two-year-old plants come up with thick clumps of matted root that is now useless. i cut off the whole mass of old root about an inch below the crown, when it can easily be divided into nice little bits for replanting. many other spring-flowering plants may with advantage be divided now, such as aubrietia, arabis, auricula, tiarella, and saxifrage. the young primrose plants, sown in march, have been planted out in their special garden, and are looking well after some genial rain. the great branching mullein, _verbascum olympicum_, is just going out of bloom, after making a brilliant display for a fortnight. it is followed by the other of the most useful tall, yellow-flowered kinds, _v. phlomoides_. both are seen at their best either quite early in the morning, or in the evening, or in half-shade, as, like all their kind, they do not expand their bloom in bright sunshine. both are excellent plants on poor soils. _v. olympicum_, though classed as a biennial, does not come to flowering strength till it is three or four years old; but meanwhile the foliage is so handsome that even if there were no flower it would be a worthy garden plant. it does well in any waste spaces of poor soil, where, by having plants of all ages, there will be some to flower every year. the mullein moth is sure to find them out, and it behoves the careful gardener to look for and destroy the caterpillars, or he may some day find, instead of his stately mulleins, tall stems only clothed with unsightly grey rags. the caterpillars are easily caught when quite small or when rather large; but midway in their growth, when three-quarters of an inch long, they are wary, and at the approach of the avenging gardener they will give a sudden wriggling jump, and roll down into the lower depths of the large foliage, where they are difficult to find. but by going round the plants twice a day for about a week they can all be discovered. the white variety of the french willow (_epilobium angustifolium_) is a pretty plant in the edges of the copse, good both in sun and shade, and flourishing in any poor soil. in better ground it grows too rank, running quickly at the root and invading all its neighbours, so that it should be planted with great caution; but when grown on poor ground it flowers at from two feet to four feet high, and its whole aspect is improved by the proportional amount of flower becoming much larger. towards the end of june the bracken that covers the greater part of the ground of the copse is in full beauty. no other manner of undergrowth gives to woodland in so great a degree the true forest-like character. this most ancient plant speaks of the old, untouched land of which large stretches still remain in the south of england--land too poor to have been worth cultivating, and that has therefore for centuries endured human contempt. in the early part of the present century, william cobbett, in his delightful book, "rural rides," speaking of the heathy headlands and vast hollow of hindhead, in surrey, calls it "certainly the most villainous spot god ever made." this gives expression to his view, as farmer and political economist, of such places as were incapable of cultivation, and of the general feeling of the time about lonely roads in waste places, as the fields for the lawless labours of smuggler and highwayman. now such tracts of natural wild beauty, clothed with stretches of heath and fern and whortleberry, with beds of sphagnum moss, and little natural wild gardens of curious and beautiful sub-aquatic plants in the marshy hollows and undrained wastes, are treasured as such places deserve to be, especially when they still remain within fifty miles of a vast city. the height to which the bracken grows is a sure guide to the depth of soil. on the poorest, thinnest ground it only reaches a foot or two; but in hollow places where leaf-mould accumulates and surface soil has washed in and made a better depth, it grows from six feet to eight feet high, and when straggling up through bushes to get to the light a frond will sometimes measure as much as twelve feet. the old country people who have always lived on the same poor land say, "where the farn grows tall anything will grow"; but that only means that there the ground is somewhat better and capable of cultivation, as its presence is a sure indication of a sandy soil. the timber-merchants are shy of buying oak trees felled from among it, the timber of trees grown on the wealden clay being so much better. chapter viii july scarcity of flowers -- delphiniums -- yuccas -- cottager's way of protecting tender plants -- alströmerias -- carnations -- gypsophila -- _lilium giganteum_ -- cutting fern-pegs. after the wealth of bloom of june, there appear to be but few flowers in the garden; there seems to be a time of comparative emptiness between the earlier flowers and those of autumn. it is true that in the early days of july we have delphiniums, the grandest blues of the flower year. they are in two main groups in the flower border, one of them nearly all of the palest kind--not a solid clump, but with a thicker nucleus, thinning away for several yards right and left. only white and pale-yellow flowers are grouped with this, and pale, fresh-looking foliage of maize and funkia. the other group is at some distance, at the extreme western end. this is of the full and deeper blues, following a clump of yuccas, and grouped about with things of important silvery foliage, such as globe artichoke and silver thistle (_eryngium_). i have found it satisfactory to grow delphiniums from seed, choosing the fine strong "cantab" as the seed-parent, because the flowers were of a medium colour--scarcely so light as the name would imply--and because of its vigorous habit and well-shaped spike. it produced flowers of all shades of blue, and from these were derived nearly all i have in the border. i found them better for the purpose in many cases than the named kinds of which i had a fair collection. the seedlings were well grown for two years in nursery lines, worthless ones being taken out as soon as they showed their character. there is one common defect that i cannot endure--an interrupted spike, when the flowers, having filled a good bit of the spike, leave off, leaving a space of bare stem, and then go on again. if this habit proves to be persistent after the two years' trial, the plant is condemned. for my liking the spike must be well filled, but not overcrowded. many of the show kinds are too full for beauty; the shape of the individual flower is lost. some of the double ones are handsome, but in these the flower takes another shape, becoming more rosette-like, and thereby loses its original character. some are of mixed colouring, a shade of lilac-pink sliding through pale blue. it is very beautiful in some cases, the respective tints remaining as clear as in an opal, but in many it only muddles the flower and makes it ineffective. delphiniums are greedy feeders, and pay for rich cultivation and for liberal manurial mulches and waterings. in a hot summer, if not well cared for, they get stunted and are miserable objects, the flower distorted and cramped into a clumsy-looking, elongated mop-head. though weak in growth the old _delphinium belladonna_ has so lovely a quality of colour that it is quite indispensable; the feeble stem should be carefully and unobtrusively staked for the better display of its incomparable blue. some of the yuccas will bloom before the end of the month. i have them in bold patches the whole fifteen-feet depth of the border at the extreme ends, and on each side of the pathway, where, passing from the lawn to the pæony ground, it cuts across the border to go through the arched gateway. the kinds of yucca are _gloriosa_, _recurva_, _flaccida_, and _filamentosa_. they are good to look at at all times of the year because of their grand strong foliage, and are the glory of the garden when in flower. one of the _gloriosa_ threw up a stout flower-spike in january. i had thought of protecting and roofing the spike, in the hope of carrying it safely through till spring, but meanwhile there came a damp day and a frosty night, and when i saw it again it was spoilt. the _yucca filamentosa_ that i have i was told by a trusty botanist was the true plant, but rather tender, the one commonly called by that name being something else. i found it in a cottage garden, where i learnt a useful lesson in protecting plants, namely, the use of thickly-cut peaty sods. the goodwife had noticed that the peaty ground of the adjoining common, covered with heath and gorse and mossy grass, resisted frost much better than the garden or meadow, and it had been her practice for many years to get some thick dry sods with the heath left on and to pack them close round to protect tender plants. in this way she had preserved her fuchsias of greenhouse kinds, and calceolarias, and the yucca in question. the most brilliant mass of flower in early july is given by the beds of _alströmeria aurantiaca_; of this we have three distinct varieties, all desirable. there is a four feet wide bed, some forty feet long, of the kind most common in gardens, and at a distance from it a group grown from selected seed of a paler colour; seedlings of this remain true to colour, or, as gardeners say, the variety is "fixed." the third sort is from a good old garden in ireland, larger in every way than the type, with petals of great width, and extremely rich in colour. _alströmeria chilense_ is an equally good plant, and beds of it are beautiful in their varied colourings, all beautifully harmonious, and ranging through nearly the same tints as hardy azaleas. these are the best of the alströmerias for ordinary garden culture; they do well in warm, sheltered places in the poorest soil, but the soil must be deep, for the bunches of tender, fleshy roots go far down. the roots are extremely brittle, and must be carefully handled. alströmerias are easily raised from seed, but when the seedlings are planted out the crowns should be quite four inches under the surface, and have a thick bed of leaves or some other mild mulching material over them in winter to protect them from frost, for they are chilian plants, and demand and deserve a little surface comfort to carry them safely through the average english winter. sea-holly (_eryngium_) is another family of july-flowering plants that does well on poor, sandy soils that have been deeply stirred. of these the more generally useful is _e. oliverianum_, the _e. amethystinum_ of nurserymen, but so named in error, the true plant being rare and scarcely known in gardens. the whole plant has an admirable structure of a dry and nervous quality, with a metallic colouring and dull lustre that are in strong contrast to softer types of vegetation. the black-coated roots go down straight and deep, and enable it to withstand almost any drought. equalling it in beauty is _e. giganteum_, the silver thistle, of the same metallic texture, but whitish and almost silvery. this is a biennial, and should be sown every year. a more lowly plant, but hardly less beautiful, is the wild sea-holly of our coasts (_e. maritimum_), with leaves almost blue, and a handsome tuft of flower nearly matching them in colour. it occurs on wind-blown sandhills, but is worth a place in any garden. it comes up rather late, but endures, apparently unchanged, except for the bloom, throughout the late summer and autumn. but the flower of this month that has the firmest hold of the gardener's heart is the carnation--the clove gilliflower of our ancestors. why the good old name "gilliflower" has gone out of use it is impossible to say, for certainly the popularity of the flower has never waned. indeed, in the seventeenth century it seems that it was the best-loved flower of all in england; for john parkinson, perhaps our earliest writer on garden plants, devotes to it a whole chapter in his "paradisus terrestris," a distinction shared by no other flower. he describes no less than fifty kinds, a few of which are still to be recognised, though some are lost. for instance, what has become of the "_great gray hulo_" which he describes as a plant of the largest and strongest habit? the "gray" in this must refer to the colour of the leaf, as he says the flower is red; but there is also a variety called the "_blew hulo_," with flowers of a "purplish murrey" colouring, answering to the slate colour that we know as of not unfrequent occurrence. the branch of the family that we still cultivate as "painted lady" is named by him "dainty lady," the present name being no doubt an accidental and regrettable corruption. but though some of the older sorts may be lost, we have such a wealth of good known kinds that this need hardly be a matter of regret. the old red clove always holds its own for hardiness, beauty, and perfume; its newer and dwarfer variety, paul engleheart, is quite indispensable, while the beautiful salmon-coloured raby is perhaps the most useful of all, with its hardy constitution and great quantity of bloom. but it is difficult to grow carnations on our very poor soil; even when it is carefully prepared they still feel its starving and drying influence, and show their distaste by unusual shortness of life. _gypsophila paniculata_ is one of the most useful plants of this time of year; its delicate masses of bloom are like clouds of flowery mist settled down upon the flower borders. shooting up behind and among it is a tall, salmon-coloured gladiolus, a telling contrast both in form and manner of inflorescence. nothing in the garden has been more satisfactory and useful than a hedge of the white everlasting pea. the thick, black roots that go down straight and deep have been undisturbed for some years, and the plants yield a harvest of strong white bloom for cutting that always seems inexhaustible. they are staked with stiff, branching spray, thrust into the ground diagonally, and not reaching up too high. this supports the heavy mass of growth without encumbering the upper blooming part. hydrangeas are well in flower at the foot of a warm wall, and in the same position are spreading masses of the beautiful _clematis davidiana_, a herbaceous kind, with large, somewhat vine-like leaves, and flowers of a pale-blue colour of a delicate and uncommon quality. the blooming of the _lilium giganteum_ is one of the great flower events of the year. it is planted in rather large straggling groups just within the fringe of the copse. in march the bulbs, which are only just underground, thrust their sharply-pointed bottle-green tips out of the earth. these soon expand into heart-shaped leaves, looking much like arum foliage of the largest size, and of a bright-green colour and glistening surface. the groups are so placed that they never see the morning sun. they require a slight sheltering of fir-bough, or anything suitable, till the third week of may, to protect the young leaves from the late frosts. in june the flower-stem shoots up straight and tall, like a vigorous young green-stemmed tree. if the bulb is strong and the conditions suitable, it will attain a height of over eleven feet, but among the flowering bulbs of a group there are sure to be some of various heights from differently sized bulbs; those whose stature is about ten feet are perhaps the handsomest. the upper part of the stem bears the gracefully drooping great white lily flowers, each bloom some ten inches long, greenish when in bud, but changing to white when fully developed. inside each petal is a purplish-red stripe. in the evening the scent seems to pour out of the great white trumpets, and is almost overpowering, but gains a delicate quality by passing through the air, and at fifty yards away is like a faint waft of incense. in the evening light, when the sun is down, the great heads of white flower have a mysterious and impressive effect when seen at some distance through the wood, and by moonlight have a strangely weird dignity. the flowers only last a few days, but when they are over the beauty of the plant is by no means gone, for the handsome leaves remain in perfection till the autumn, while the growing seed-pods, rising into an erect position, become large and rather handsome objects. the rapidity and vigour of the four months' growth from bulb to giant flowering plant is very remarkable. the stem is a hollow, fleshy tube, three inches in diameter at the base, and the large radiating roots are like those of a tree. the original bulb is, of course, gone, but when the plants that have flowered are taken up at the end of november, offsets are found clustered round the root; these are carefully detached and replanted. the great growth of these lilies could not be expected to come to perfection in our very poor, shallow soil, for doubtless in their mountain home in the eastern himalayas they grow in deep beds of cool vegetable earth. here, therefore, their beds are deeply excavated, and filled to within a foot of the top with any of the vegetable rubbish of which only too much accumulates in the late autumn. holes twelve feet across and three feet deep are convenient graves for frozen dahlia-tops and half-hardy annuals; a quantity of such material chopped up and tramped down close forms a cool subsoil that will comfort the lily bulbs for many a year. the upper foot of soil is of good compost, and when the young bulbs are planted, the whole is covered with some inches of dead leaves that join in with the natural woodland carpet. [illustration: the giant lily.] in the end of july we have some of the hottest of the summer days, only beginning to cool between six and seven in the evening. one or two evenings i go to the upper part of the wood to cut some fern-pegs for pegging carnation layers, armed with fag-hook and knife and rubber, and a low rush-bottomed stool to sit on. the rubber is the stone for sharpening the knife--a long stone of coarse sandstone grit, such as is used for scythes. whenever i am at work with a knife there is sure to be a rubber not far off, for a blunt knife i cannot endure, so there is a stone in each department of the garden sheds, and a whole series in the workshop, and one or two to spare to take on outside jobs. the bracken has to be cut with a light hand, as the side-shoots that will make the hook of the peg are easily broken just at the important joint. the fronds are of all sizes, from two to eight feet long; but the best for pegs are the moderate-sized, that have not been weakened by growing too close together. where they are crowded the main stalk is thick, but the side ones are thin and weak; whereas, where they get light and air the side branches are carried on stouter ribs, and make stronger and better-balanced pegs. the cut fern is lightly laid in a long ridge with the ends all one way, and the operator sits at the stalk end of the ridge, a nice cool shady place having been chosen. four cuts with the knife make a peg, and each frond makes three pegs in about fifteen seconds. with the fronds laid straight and handy it goes almost rhythmically, then each group of three pegs is thrown into the basket, where they clash on to the others with a hard ringing sound. in about four days the pegs dry to a surprising hardness; they are better than wooden ones, and easier and quicker to make. people who are not used to handling bracken should be careful how they cut a frond with a knife; they are almost sure to get a nasty little cut on the second joint of the first finger of the right hand--not from the knife, but from the cut edge of the fern. the stalk has a silicious coating, that leaves a sharp edge like a thin flake of glass when cut diagonally with a sharp knife; they should also beware how they pick or pull off a mature frond, for even if the part of the stalk laid hold of is bruised and twisted, some of the glassy structure holds together and is likely to wound the hand. chapter ix august leycesteria -- early recollections -- bank of choice shrubs -- bank of briar roses -- hollyhocks -- lavender -- lilies -- bracken and heaths -- the fern-walk -- late-blooming rock-plants -- autumn flowers -- tea roses -- fruit of _rosa rugosa_ -- fungi -- chantarelle. _leycesteria formosa_ is a soft-wooded shrub, whose beauty, without being showy, is full of charm and refinement. i remember delighting in it in the shrub-wilderness of the old home, where i first learnt to know and love many a good bush and tree long before i knew their names. there were towering rhododendrons (all _ponticum_) and ailanthus and hickory and magnolias, and then spiræa and snowball tree and tall yellow azalea, and buttercup bush and shrubby andromedas, and in some of the clumps tall cypresses and the pretty cut-leaved beech, and in the edges of others some of the good old garden roses, double cinnamon and _r. lucida_, and damask and provence, moss-rose and sweetbriar, besides tall-grown lilacs and syringa. it was all rather overgrown, and perhaps all the prettier, and some of the wide grassy ways were quite shady in summer. and i look back across the years and think what a fine lesson-book it was to a rather solitary child; and when i came to plant my own shrub clump i thought i would put rather near together some of the old favourites, so here again we come back to leycesteria, put rather in a place of honour, and near it buttercup bush and andromeda and magnolias and old garden roses. [illustration: cistus florentinus.] [illustration: the great asphodel.] i had no space for a shrub wilderness, but have made a large clump for just the things i like best, whether new friends or old. it is a long, low bank, five or six paces wide, highest in the middle, where the rather taller things are planted. these are mostly junipers and magnolias; of the magnolias, the kinds are _soulangeana_, _conspicua_, _purpurea_, and _stellata_. one end of the clump is all of peat earth; here are andromedas, skimmeas, and on the cooler side the broad-leaved gale, whose crushed leaves have almost the sweetness of myrtle. one long side of the clump faces south-west, the better to suit the things that love the sun. at the farther end is a thrifty bush of _styrax japonica_, which flowers well in hot summers, but another bush under a south wall flowers better. it must be a lovely shrub in the south of europe and perhaps in cornwall; here the year's growth is always cut at the tip, but it flowers well on the older wood, and its hanging clusters of white bloom are lovely. at its foot, on the sunny side, are low bushy plants of _cistus florentinus_. i am told that this specific name is not right; but the plant so commonly goes by it that it serves the purpose of popular identification. then comes _magnolia stellata_, now a perfectly-shaped bush five feet through, a sheet of sweet-scented bloom in april. much too near it are two bushes of _cistus ladaniferus_. they were put there as little plants to grow on for a year in the shelter and comfort of the warm bank, but were overlooked at the time they ought to have been shifted, and are now nearly five feet high, and are crowding the magnolia. i cannot bear to take them away to waste, and they are much too large to transplant, so i am driving in some short stakes diagonally and tying them down by degrees, spreading out their branches between neighbouring plants. it is an upright-growing cistus that would soon cover a tallish wall-space, but this time it must be content to grow horizontally, and i shall watch to see whether it will flower more freely, as so many things do when trained down. next comes a patch of the handsome _bambusa ragamowski_, dwarf, but with strikingly-broad leaves of a bright yellow-green colour. it seems to be a slow grower, or more probably it is slow to grow at first; bamboos have a good deal to do underground. it was planted six years ago, a nice little plant in a pot, and now is eighteen inches high and two feet across. just beyond it is the mastic bush (_caryopteris mastacanthus_), a neat, grey-leaved small shrub, crowded in september with lavender-blue flowers, arranged in spikes something like a veronica; the whole bush is aromatic, smelling strongly like highly-refined turpentine. then comes _xanthoceras sorbifolia_, a handsome bush from china, of rather recent introduction, with saw-edged pinnate leaves and white flowers earlier in the summer, but now forming its bunches of fruit that might easily be mistaken for walnuts with their green shucks on. here a wide bushy growth of _phlomis fruticosa_ lays out to the sun, covered in early summer with its stiff whorls of hooded yellow flowers--one of the best of plants for a sunny bank in full sun in a poor soil. a little farther along, and near the path, comes the neat little _deutzia parviflora_ and another little shrub of fairy-like delicacy, _philadelphus microphyllus_. behind them is _stephanandra flexuosa_, beautiful in foliage, and two good st. john's worts, _hypericum aureum_ and _h. moserianum_, and again in front a cistus of low, spreading growth, _c. halimifolius_, or something near it. one or two favourite kinds of tree pæonies, comfortably sheltered by lavender bushes, fill up the other end of the clump next to the andromedas. in all spare spaces on the sunny side of the shrub-clump is a carpeting of _megasea ligulata_, a plant that looks well all the year round, and gives a quantity of precious flower for cutting in march and april. i was nearly forgetting _pavia macrostachya_, now well established among the choice shrubs. it is like a bush horse-chestnut, but more refined, the white spikes standing well up above the handsome leaves. on the cooler side of the clump is a longish planting of dwarf andromeda, precious not only for its beauty of form and flower, but from the fine winter colouring of the leaves, and those two useful spiræas, _s. thunbergi_, with its countless little starry flowers, and the double _prunifolia_, the neat leaves of whose long sprays turn nearly scarlet in autumn. then there comes a rather long stretch of _artemisia stelleriana_, a white-leaved plant much like _cineraria maritima_, answering just the same purpose, but perfectly hardy. it is so much like the silvery _cineraria_ that it is difficult to remember that it prefers a cool and even partly-shaded place. beyond the long ridge that forms the shrub-clump is another, parallel to it and only separated from it by a path, also in the form of a long low bank. on the crown of this is the double row of cob-nuts that forms one side of the nut-alley. it leaves a low sunny bank that i have given to various briar roses and one or two other low, bushy kinds. here is the wild burnet rose, with its yellow-white single flowers and large black hips, and its garden varieties, the scotch briars, double white, flesh-coloured, pink, rose, and yellow, and the hybrid briar, stanwell perpetual. here also is the fine hybrid of _rosa rugosa_, madame george bruant, and the lovely double _rosa lucida_, and one or two kinds of small bush roses from out-of-the-way gardens, and two wild roses that have for me a special interest, as i collected them from their rocky home in the island of capri. one is a sweetbriar, in all ways like the native one, except that the flowers are nearly white, and the hips are larger. last year the bush was distinctly more showy than any other of its kind, on account of the size and unusual quantity of the fruit. the other is a form of _rosa sempervirens_, with rather large white flowers faintly tinged with yellow. [illustration: lavender hedge and steps to the loft.] [illustration: hollyhock, pink beauty.] hollyhocks have been fine, in spite of the disease, which may be partly checked by very liberal treatment. by far the most beautiful is one of a pure pink colour, with a wide outer frill. it came first from a cottage garden, and has always since been treasured. i call it pink beauty. the wide outer petal (a heresy to the florist) makes the flower infinitely more beautiful than the all-over full-double form that alone is esteemed on the show-table. i shall hope in time to come upon the same shape of flower in white, sulphur, rose-colour, and deep blood-crimson, the colours most worth having in hollyhocks. lavender has been unusually fine; to reap its fragrant harvest is one of the many joys of the flower year. if it is to be kept and dried, it should be cut when as yet only a few of the purple blooms are out on the spike; if left too late, the flower shakes off the stalk too readily. some plantations of _lilium harrisi_ and _lilium auratum_ have turned out well. some of the _harrisi_ were grouped among tufts of the bright-foliaged _funkia grandiflora_ on the cool side of a yew hedge. just at the foot of the hedge is _tropæolum speciosum_, which runs up into it and flowers in graceful wreaths some feet above the ground. the masses of pure white lily and cool green foliage below are fine against the dark, solid greenery of the yew, and the brilliant flowers above are like little jewels of flame. the bermuda lilies (_harrisi_) are intergrouped with _l. speciosum_, which will follow them when their bloom is over. the _l. auratum_ were planted among groups of rhododendrons; some of them are between tall rhododendrons, and have large clumps of lady fern (_filix foemina_) in front, but those that look best are between and among bamboos (_b. metake_); the heavy heads of flower borne on tall stems bend gracefully through the bamboos, which just give them enough support. here and there in the copse, among the thick masses of green bracken, is a frond or two turning yellow. this always happens in the first or second week of august, though it is no indication of the approaching yellowing of the whole. but it is taken as a signal that the fern is in full maturity, and a certain quantity is now cut to dry for protection and other winter uses. dry bracken lightly shaken over frames is a better protection than mats, and is almost as easily moved on and off. the ling is now in full flower, and is more beautiful in the landscape than any of the garden heaths; the relation of colouring, of greyish foliage and low-toned pink bloom with the dusky spaces of purplish-grey shadow, are a precious lesson to the colour-student. [illustration: solomon's seal in spring, in the upper part of the fern-walk.] [illustration: the fern-walk in august.] the fern-walk is at its best. it passes from the garden upwards to near the middle of the copse. the path, a wood-path of moss and grass and short-cut heath, is a little lower than the general level of the wood. the mossy bank, some nine feet wide, and originally cleared for the purpose, is planted with large groups of hardy ferns, with a preponderance (due to preference) of dilated shield fern and lady fern. once or twice in the length of the bank are hollows, sinking at their lowest part to below the path-level, for _osmunda_ and _blechnum_. when rain is heavy enough to run down the path it finds its way into these hollow places. among the groups of fern are a few plants of true wood-character--_linnæa_, _trientalis_, _goodyera_, and _trillium_. at the back of the bank, and stretching away among the trees and underwood, are wide-spreading groups of solomon's-seal and wood-rush, joining in with the wild growth of bracken and bramble. most of the alpines and dwarf-growing plants, whose home is the rock-garden, bloom in may or june, but a few flower in early autumn. of these one of the brightest is _ruta patavina_, a dwarf plant with lemon-coloured flowers and a very neat habit of growth. it soon makes itself at home in a sunny bank in poor soil. _pterocephalus parnassi_ is a dwarf scabious, with small, grey foliage keeping close to the ground, and rather large flowers of a low-toned pink. the white thyme is a capital plant, perfectly prostrate, and with leaves of a bright yellow-green, that with the white bloom give the plant a particularly fresh appearance. it looks at its best when trailing about little flat spaces between the neater of the hardy ferns, and hanging over little rocky ledges. somewhat farther back is the handsome dwarf _platycodon mariesi_, and behind it the taller platycodons, among full-flowered bushes of _olearia haasti_. by the middle of august the garden assumes a character distinctly autumnal. much of its beauty now depends on the many non-hardy plants, such as gladiolus, canna, and dahlia, on tritomas of doubtful hardiness, and on half-hardy annuals--zinnia, helichrysum, sunflower, and french and african marigold. fine as are the newer forms of hybrid gladiolus, the older strain of gandavensis hybrids are still the best as border flowers. in the large flower border, tall, well-shaped spikes of a good pink one look well shooting up through and between a wide-spreading patch of glaucous foliage of the smaller yuccas, _tritoma caulescens_, _iris pallida_, and _funkia sieboldi_, while scarlet and salmon-coloured kinds are among groups of pæonies that flowered in june, whose leaves are now taking a fine reddish colouring. between these and the edge of the border is a straggling group some yards in length of the dark-foliaged _heuchera richardsoni_, that will hold its satin-surfaced leaves till the end of the year. farther back in the border is a group of the scarlet-flowered dahlia fire king, and behind these, dahlias lady ardilaun and cochineal, of deeper scarlet colouring. the dahlias are planted between groups of oriental poppy, that flower in may and then die away till late in autumn. right and left of the scarlet group are tritomas, intergrouped with dahlias of moderate height, that have orange and flame-coloured flowers. this leads to some masses of flowers of strong yellow colouring; the old perennial sunflower, in its tall single form, and the best variety of the old double one of moderate height, the useful _h. lætiflorus_ and the tall miss mellish, the giant form of _harpalium rigidum_. _rudbeckia newmanni_ reflects the same strong colour in the front part of the border, and all spaces are filled with orange zinnias and african marigolds and yellow helichrysum. as we pass along the border the colour changes to paler yellow by means of a pale perennial sunflower and the sulphur-coloured annual kind, with paris daisies, _oenothera lamarkiana_ and _verbascum phlomoides_. the two last were cut down to about four feet after their earliest bloom was over, and are now again full of profusely-flowered lateral growths. at the farther end of the border we come again to glaucous foliage and pale-pink flower of gladiolus and japan anemone. it is important in such a border of rather large size, that can be seen from a good space of lawn, to keep the flowers in rather large masses of colour. no one who has ever done it, or seen it done, will go back to the old haphazard sprinkle of colouring without any thought of arrangement, such as is usually seen in a mixed border. there is a wall of sandstone backing the border, also planted in relation to the colour-massing in the front space. this gives a quiet background of handsome foliage, with always in the flower season some show of colour in one part or another of its length. just now the most conspicuous of its clothing shrubs or of the somewhat tall growing flowers at its foot are a fine variety of _bignonia radicans_, a hardy fuchsia, the claret vine covering a good space, with its red-bronze leaves and clusters of blue-black grapes, the fine hybrid crinums and _clerodendron foetidum_. tea roses have been unusually lavish of autumn bloom, and some of the garden climbing roses, hybrids of china and noisette, have been of great beauty, both growing and as room decoration. many of them flower in bunches at the end of the shoots; whole branches, cut nearly three feet long, make charming arrangements in tall glasses or high vases of oriental china. perhaps their great autumnal vigour is a reaction from the check they received in the earlier part of the year, when the bloom was almost a failure from the long drought and the accompanying attacks of blight and mildew. the great hips of the japanese _rosa rugosa_ are in perfection; they have every ornamental quality--size, form, colour, texture, and a delicate waxlike bloom; their pulp is thick and luscious, and makes an excellent jam. the quantity of fungous growth this year is quite remarkable. the late heavy rain coming rather suddenly on the well-warmed earth has no doubt brought about their unusual size and abundance; in some woodland places one can hardly walk without stepping upon them. many spots in the copse are brilliant with large groups of the scarlet-capped fly agaric (_amanita muscaria_). it comes out of the ground looking like a dark scarlet ball, generally flecked with raised whitish spots; it quickly rises on its white stalk, the ball changing to a brilliant flat disc, six or seven inches across, and lasting several days in beauty. but the most frequent fungus is the big brown _boletus_, in size varying from a small bun to a dinner-plate. some kinds are edible, but i have never been inclined to try them, being deterred by their coarse look and uninviting coat of slimy varnish. and why eat doubtful _boletus_ when one can have the delicious chantarelle (_cantharellus cibarius_), also now at its best? in colour and smell it is like a ripe apricot, perfectly wholesome, and, when rightly cooked, most delicate in flavour and texture. it should be looked for in cool hollows in oak woods; when once found and its good qualities appreciated, it will never again be neglected. chapter x september sowing sweet peas -- autumn-sown annuals -- dahlias -- worthless kinds -- staking -- planting the rock-garden -- growing small plants in a wall -- the old wall -- dry-walling -- how built -- how planted -- hyssop -- a destructive storm -- berries of water-elder -- beginning ground-work. in the second week of september we sow sweet peas in shallow trenches. the flowers from these are larger and stronger and come in six weeks earlier than from those sown in the spring; they come too at a time when they are especially valuable for cutting. many other hardy annuals are best sown now. some indeed, such as the lovely _collinsia verna_ and the large white iberis, only do well if autumn-sown. among others, some of the most desirable are nemophila, platystemon, love-in-a-mist, larkspurs, pot marigold, virginian stock, and the delightful venus's navel-wort (_omphalodes linifolia_). i always think this daintily beautiful plant is undeservedly neglected, for how seldom one sees it. it is full of the most charming refinement, with its milk-white bloom and grey-blue leaf and neat habit of growth. any one who has never before tried annuals autumn-sown would be astonished at their vigour. a single plant of nemophila will often cover a square yard with its beautiful blue bloom; and then, what a gain it is to have these pretty things in full strength in spring and early summer, instead of waiting to have them in a much poorer state later in the year, when other flowers are in plenty. hardy poppies should be sown even earlier; august is the best time. dahlias are now at their full growth. to make a choice for one's own garden, one must see the whole plant growing. as with many another kind of flower, nothing is more misleading than the evidence of the show-table, for many that there look the best, and are indeed lovely in form and colour as individual blooms, come from plants that are of no garden value. for however charming in humanity is the virtue modesty, and however becoming is the unobtrusive bearing that gives evidence of its possession, it is quite misplaced in a dahlia. here it becomes a vice, for the dahlia's first duty in life is to flaunt and to swagger and to carry gorgeous blooms well above its leaves, and on no account to hang its head. some of the delicately-coloured kinds lately raised not only hang their heads, but also hide them away among masses of their coarse foliage, and are doubly frauds, looking everything that is desirable in the show, and proving worthless in the garden. it is true that there are ways of cutting out superfluous green stuff and thereby encouraging the blooms to show up, but at a busy season, when rank leafage grows fast, one does not want to be every other day tinkering at the dahlias. careful and strong staking they must always have, not forgetting one central stake to secure the main growth at first. it is best to drive this into the hole made for the plant before placing the root, to avoid the danger of sending the point of the stake through the tender tubers. its height out of the ground should be about eighteen inches less than the expected stature of the plant. as the dahlia grows, there should be at least three outer stakes at such distance from the middle one as may suit the bulk and habit of the plant; and it is a good plan to have wooden hoops to tie to these, so as to form a girdle round the whole plant, and for tying out the outer branches. the hoop should be only loosely fastened--best with roomy loops of osier, so that it may be easily shifted up with the growth of the plant. we make the hoops in the winter of long straight rent rods of spanish chestnut, bending them while green round a tub, and tying them with tarred twine or osier bands. they last several years. all this care in staking the dahlias is labour well bestowed, for when autumn storms come the wind has such a power of wrenching and twisting, that unless the plant, now grown into a heavy mass of succulent vegetation, is braced by firm fixing at the sides, it is in danger of being broken off short just above the ground, where its stem has become almost woody, and therefore brittle. now is the moment to get to work on the rock-garden; there is no time of year so precious for this work as september. small things planted now, while the ground is still warm, grow at the root at once, and get both anchor-hold and feeding-hold of the ground before frost comes. those that are planted later do not take hold, and every frost heaves them up, sometimes right out of the ground. meanwhile those that have got a firm root-hold are growing steadily all the winter, underground if not above; and when the first spring warmth comes they can draw upon the reserve of strength they have been hoarding up, and make good growth at once. except in the case of a rockery only a year old, there is sure to be some part that wants to be worked afresh, and i find it convenient to do about a third of the space every year. many of the indispensable alpines and rock-plants of lowly growth increase at a great rate, some spreading over much more than their due space, the very reason of this quick-spreading habit being that they are travelling to fresh pasture; many of them prove it clearly by dying away in the middle of the patch, and only showing vigorous vitality at the edges. such plants as _silene alpestris_, _hutchinsia alpina_, _pterocephalus_, the dwarf alpine kinds of _achillea_ and _artemisia_, _veronica_ and _linaria_, and the mossy saxifrages, in my soil want transplanting every two years, and the silvery saxifrages every three years. as in much else, one must watch what happens in one's own garden. we practical gardeners have no absolute knowledge of the constitution of the plant, still less of the chemistry of the soil, but by the constant exercise of watchful care and helpful sympathy we acquire a certain degree of instinctive knowledge, which is as valuable in its way, and probably more applicable to individual local conditions, than the tabulated formulas of more orthodox science. one of the best and simplest ways of growing rock-plants is in a loose wall. in many gardens an abrupt change of level makes a retaining wall necessary, and when i see this built in the usual way as a solid structure of brick and mortar--unless there be any special need of the solid wall--i always regret that it is not built as a home for rock-plants. an exposure to north or east and the cool backing of a mass of earth is just what most alpines delight in. a dry wall, which means a wall without mortar, may be anything between a wall and a very steep rock-work, and may be built of brick or of any kind of local stone. i have built and planted a good many hundred yards of dry walling with my own hands, both at home and in other gardens, and can speak with some confidence both of the pleasure and interest of the actual making and planting, and of the satisfactory results that follow. the best example i have to show in my own garden is the so-called "old wall," before mentioned. it is the bounding and protecting fence of the pæony ground on its northern side, and consists of a double dry wall with earth between. an old hedge bank that was to come away was not far off, within easy wheeling distance. so the wall was built up on each side, and as it grew, the earth from the hedge was barrowed in to fill up. a dry wall needs very little foundation; two thin courses underground are quite enough. the point of most structural importance is to keep the earth solidly trodden and rammed behind the stones of each course and throughout its bulk, and every two or three courses to lay some stones that are extra long front and back, to tie the wall well into the bank. a local sandstone is the walling material. in the pit it occurs in separate layers, with a few feet of hard sand between each. the lowest layer, sometimes thirty to forty feet down, is the best and thickest, but that is good building stone, and for dry walling we only want "tops" or "seconds," the later and younger formations of stone in the quarry. the very roughness and almost rotten state of much of this stone makes it all the more acceptable as nourishment and root-hold to the tiny plants that are to grow in its chinks, and that in a few months will change much of the rough rock-surface to green growth of delicate vegetation. moreover, much of the soft sandy stone hardens by exposure to weather; and even if a stone or two crumbles right away in a few years' time, the rest will hold firmly, and the space left will make a little cave where some small fern will live happily. the wall is planted as it is built with hardy ferns--_blechnum_, polypody, hartstongue, _adiantum_, _ceterach_, _asplenium_, and _ruta muraria_. the last three like lime, so a barrow of old mortar-rubbish is at hand, and the joint where they are to be planted has a layer of their favourite soil. each course is laid fairly level as to its front top edge, stones of about the same thickness going in course by course. the earth backing is then carefully rammed into the spaces at the uneven backs of the stones, and a thin layer of earth over the whole course, where the mortar would have been in a built wall, gives both a "bed" for the next row of stones and soil for the plants that are to grow in the joints. [illustration: jack. (_see page ._)] [illustration: the "old wall."] the face of the wall slopes backward on both sides, so that its whole thickness of five feet at the bottom draws in to four feet at the top. all the stones are laid at a right angle to the plane of the inclination--that is to say, each stone tips a little down at the back, and its front edge, instead of being upright, faces a little upward. it follows that every drop of gentle rain that falls on either side of the wall is carried into the joints, following the backward and downward pitch of the stones, and then into the earth behind them. the mass of earth in the middle of the wall gives abundant root-room for bushes, and is planted with bush roses of three kinds, of which the largest mass is of _rosa lucida_. then there is a good stretch of berberis; then scotch briars, and in one or two important places junipers; then more berberis, and ribes, and the common barberry, and neat bushes of _olearia haastii_. the wall was built seven years ago, and is now completely clothed. it gives me a garden on the top and a garden on each side, and though its own actual height is only - / feet, yet the bushes on the top make it a sheltering hedge from seven to ten feet high. one small length of three or four yards of the top has been kept free of larger bushes, and is planted on its northern edge with a very neat and pretty dwarf kind of lavender, while on the sunny side is a thriving patch of the hardy cactus (_opuntia raffinesquiana_). just here, in the narrow border at the foot of the wall, is a group of the beautiful _crinum powelli_, while a white jasmine clothes the face of the wall right and left, and rambles into the barberry bushes just beyond. it so happened that these things had been planted close together because the conditions of the place were likely to favour them, and not, as is my usual practice, with any intentional idea of harmonious grouping. i did not even remember that they all flower in july, and at nearly the same time; and one day seeing them all in bloom together, i was delighted to see the success of the chance arrangement, and how pretty it all was, for i should never have thought of grouping together pink and lavender, yellow and white. the northern face of the wall, beginning at its eastern end, is planted thus: for a length of ten or twelve paces there are ferns, polypody and hartstongue, and a few _adiantum nigrum_, with here and there a welsh poppy. there is a clump of the wild stitchwort that came by itself, and is so pretty that i leave it. at the foot of the wall are the same, but more of the hartstongue; and here it grows best, for not only is the place cooler, but i gave it some loamy soil, which it loves. farther along the hartstongue gives place to the wild iris (_i. foetidissima_), a good long stretch of it. nothing, to my mind, looks better than these two plants at the base of a wall on the cool side. in the upper part of the wall are various ferns, and that interesting plant, wall pennywort (_cotyledon umbilicus_). it is a native plant, but not found in this neighbourhood; i brought it from cornwall, where it is so plentiful in the chinks of the granite stone-fences. it sows itself and grows afresh year after year, though i always fear to lose it in one of our dry summers. next comes the common london pride, which i think quite the most beautiful of the saxifrages of this section. if it was a rare thing, what a fuss we should make about it! the place is a little dry for it, but all the same, it makes a handsome spreading tuft hanging over the face of the wall. when its pink cloud of bloom is at its best, i always think it the prettiest thing in the garden. then there is the yellow everlasting (_gnaphalium orientale_), a fine plant for the upper edge of the wall, and even better on the sunny side, and the white form of _campanula cæspitosa_, with its crowd of delicate little white bells rising in june, from the neatest foliage of tender but lively green. then follow deep-hanging curtains of yellow alyssum and of hybrid rock pinks. the older plants of alyssum are nearly worn out, but there are plenty of promising young seedlings in the lower joints. [illustration: erinus alpinus, clothing steps in rock-wall.] throughout the wall there are patches of polypody fern, one of the best of cool wall-plants, its creeping root-stock always feeling its way along the joints, and steadily furnishing the wall with more and more of its neat fronds; it is all the more valuable for being at its best in early winter, when so few ferns are to be seen. every year, in some bare places, i sow a little seed of _erinus alpinus_, always trying for places where it will follow some other kind of plant, such as a place where rock pink or alyssum has been. all plants are the better for this sort of change. in the seven years that the wall has stood, the stones have become weathered, and the greater part of the north side, wherever the stone work shows, is hoary with mosses, and looks as if it might have been standing for a hundred years. the sunny side is nearly clear of moss, and i have planted very few things in its face, because the narrow border at its foot is so precious for shrubs and plants that like a warm, sheltered place. here are several choisyas and sweet verbenas, also _escallonia_, _stuartia_, and _styrax_, and a long straggling group of some very fine pentstemons. in one space that was fairly clear i planted a bit of hyssop, an old sweet herb whose scent i delight in; it grows into a thick bush-like plant full of purple flower in the late summer, when it attracts quantities of bumble-bees. it is a capital wall-plant, and has sown its own seed, till there is a large patch on the top and some in its face, and a broadly-spreading group in the border below. it is one of the plants that was used in the old tudor gardens for edgings; the growth is close and woody at the base, and it easily bears clipping into shape. the fierce gales and heavy rains of the last days of september wrought sad havoc among the flowers. dahlias were virtually wrecked. though each plant had been tied to three stakes, their masses of heavy growth could not resist the wrenching and twisting action of the wind, and except in a few cases where they were well sheltered, their heads lay on the ground, the stems broken down at the last tie. if anything about a garden could be disheartening, it would be its aspect after such a storm of wind. wall shrubs, only lately made safe, as we thought, have great gaps torn out of them, though tied with tarred string to strong iron staples, staples and all being wrenched out. everything looks battered, and whipped, and ashamed; branches of trees and shrubs lie about far from their sources of origin; green leaves and little twigs are washed up into thick drifts; apples and quinces, that should have hung till mid-october, lie bruised and muddy under the trees. newly-planted roses and hollies have a funnel-shaped hole worked in the ground at their base, showing the power of the wind to twist their heads, and giving warning of a corresponding disturbance of the tender roots. there is nothing to be done but to look round carefully and search out all disasters and repair them as well as may be, and to sweep up the wreckage and rubbish, and try to forget the rough weather, and enjoy the calm beauty of the better days that follow, and hope that it may be long before such another angry storm is sent. and indeed a few quiet days of sunshine and mild temperature work wonders. in a week one would hardly know that the garden had been so cruelly torn about. fresh flowers take the place of bruised ones, and wholesome young growths prove the enduring vitality of vegetable life. still we cannot help feeling, towards the end of september, that the flower year is nearly at an end, though the end is a gorgeous one, with its strong yellow masses of the later perennial sunflowers and marigolds, goldenrod, and a few belated gladioli; the brilliant foliage of virginian creepers, the leaf-painting of _vitis coignettii_, and the strong crimson of the claret vine. the water-elder (_viburnum opulus_) now makes a brave show in the edge of the copse. it is without doubt the most beautiful berry-bearing shrub of mid-september. the fruit hangs in ample clusters from the point of every branch and of every lateral twig, in colour like the brightest of red currants, but with a translucent lustre that gives each separate berry a much brighter look; the whole bush shows fine warm colouring, the leaves having turned to a rich red. perhaps it is because it is a native that this grand shrub or small tree is generally neglected in gardens, and is almost unknown in nurserymen's catalogues. it is the parent of the well-known guelder-rose, which is merely its double-flowered form. but the double flower leaves no berry, its familiar white ball being formed of the sterile part of the flower only, and the foliage of the garden kind does not assume so bright an autumn colouring. the nights are growing chilly, with even a little frost, and the work for the coming season of dividing and transplanting hardy plants has already begun. plans are being made for any improvements or alterations that involve ground work. already we have been at work on some broad grass rides through the copse that were roughly levelled and laid with grass last winter. the turf has been raised and hollows filled in, grass seed sown in bare patches, and the whole beaten and rolled to a good surface, and the job put out of hand in good time before the leaves begin to fall. chapter xi october michaelmas daisies -- arranging and staking -- spindle-tree -- autumn colour of azaleas -- quinces -- medlars -- advantage of early planting of shrubs -- careful planting -- pot-bound roots -- cypress hedge -- planting in difficult places -- hardy flower border -- lifting dahlias -- dividing hardy plants -- dividing tools -- plants difficult to divide -- periwinkles -- sternbergia -- czar violets -- deep cultivation for _lilium giganteum_. the early days of october bring with them the best bloom of the michaelmas daisies, the many beautiful garden kinds of the perennial asters. they have, as they well deserve to have, a garden to themselves. passing along the wide path in front of the big flower border, and through the pergola that forms its continuation, with eye and brain full of rich, warm colouring of flower and leaf, it is a delightful surprise to pass through the pergola's last right-hand opening, and to come suddenly upon the michaelmas daisy garden in full beauty. its clean, fresh, pure colouring, of pale and dark lilac, strong purple, and pure white, among masses of pale-green foliage, forms a contrast almost startling after the warm colouring of nearly everything else; and the sight of a region where the flowers are fresh and newly opened, and in glad spring-like profusion, when all else is on the verge of death and decay, gives an impression of satisfying refreshment that is hardly to be equalled throughout the year. their special garden is a wide border on each side of a path, its length bounded on one side by a tall hedge of filberts, and on the other side by clumps of yew, holly, and other shrubs. it is so well sheltered that the strongest wind has its destructive power broken, and only reaches it as a refreshing tree-filtered breeze. the michaelmas daisies are replanted every year as soon as their bloom is over, the ground having been newly dug and manured. the old roots, which will have increased about fourfold, are pulled or chopped to pieces, nice bits with about five crowns being chosen for replanting; these are put in groups of three to five together. tall-growing kinds like _novi belgi_ robert parker are kept rather towards the back, while those of delicate and graceful habit, such as _cordifolius elegans_ and its good variety diana are allowed to come forward. the fine dwarf _aster amellus_ is used in rather large quantity, coming quite to the front in some places, and running in and out between the clumps of other kinds. good-sized groups of _pyrethrum uliginosum_ are given a place among the asters, for though of quite another family, they are daisies, and bloom at michaelmas, and are admirable companions to the main occupants of the borders. the only other plants admitted are white dahlias, the two differently striped varieties of _eulalia japonica_, the fresh green foliage of indian corn, and the brilliant light-green leafage of _funkia grandiflora_. great attention is paid to staking the asters. nothing is more deplorable than to see a neglected, overgrown plant, at the last moment, when already half blown down, tied up in a tight bunch to one stake. when we are cutting underwood in the copse in the winter, special branching spray is looked out for our michaelmas daisies and cut about four feet or five feet long, with one main stem and from two to five branches. towards the end of june and beginning of july these are thrust firmly into the ground among the plants, and the young growths are tied out so as to show to the best advantage. good kinds of michaelmas daisies are now so numerous that in selecting those for the special garden it is well to avoid both the ones that bloom earliest and also the very latest, so that for about three weeks the borders may show a well-filled mass of bloom. [illustration: borders of michaelmas daisies.] the bracken in the copse stands dry and dead, but when leaves are fluttering down and the chilly days of mid-october are upon us, its warm, rusty colouring is certainly cheering; the green of the freshly grown mossy carpet below looks vividly bright by contrast. some bushes of spindle-tree (_euonymus europæus_) are loaded with their rosy seed-pods; some are already burst, and show the orange-scarlet seeds--an audacity of colouring that looks all the brighter for the even, lustreless green of the leaves and of the green-barked twigs and stems. the hardy azaleas are now blazing masses of crimson, almost scarlet leaf; the old _a. pontica_, with its large foliage, is as bright as any. with them are grouped some of the north american vacciniums and andromedas, with leaves almost as bright. the ground between the groups of shrubs is knee-deep in heath. the rusty-coloured withered bloom of the wild heath on its purplish-grey masses and the surrounding banks of dead fern make a groundwork and background of excellent colour-harmony. how seldom does one see quinces planted for ornament, and yet there is hardly any small tree that better deserves such treatment. some quinces planted about eight years ago are now perfect pictures, their lissome branches borne down with the load of great, deep-yellow fruit, and their leaves turning to a colour almost as rich and glowing. the old english rather round-fruited kind with the smooth skin is the best both for flavour and beauty--a mature tree without leaves in winter has a remarkably graceful, arching, almost weeping growth. the other kind is of a rather more rigid form, and though its woolly-coated, pear-shaped fruits are larger and strikingly handsome, the whole tree has a coarser look, and just lacks the attractive grace of the other. they will do fairly well almost anywhere, though they prefer a rich, loamy soil and a cool, damp, or even swampy place. the medlar is another of the small fruiting trees that is more neglected than it should be, as it well deserves a place among ornamental shrubs. here it is a precious thing in the region where garden melts into copse. the fruit-laden twigs are just now very attractive, and its handsome leaves can never be passed without admiration. close to the medlars is a happy intergrowth of the wild guelder-rose, still bearing its brilliant clusters, a strong-growing and far-clambering garden form of _rosa arvensis_, full of red hips, sweetbriar, and holly--a happy tangle of red-fruited bushes, all looking as if they were trying to prove, in friendly emulation, which can make the bravest show of red-berried wild-flung wreath, or bending spray, or stately spire; while at their foot the bright colour is repeated by the bending, berried heads of the wild iris, opening like fantastic dragons' mouths, and pouring out the red bead-like seeds upon the ground; and, as if to make the picture still more complete, the leaves of the wild strawberry that cover the ground with a close carpet have also turned to a crimson, and here and there to an almost scarlet colour. during the year i make careful notes of any trees or shrubs that will be wanted, either to come from the nursery or to be transplanted within my own ground, so as to plant them as early as possible. of the two extremes it is better to plant too early than too late. i would rather plant deciduous trees before the leaves are off than wait till after christmas, but of all planting times the best is from the middle of october till the end of november, and the same time is the best for all hardy plants of large or moderate size. i have no patience with slovenly planting. i like to have the ground prepared some months in advance, and when the proper time comes, to do the actual planting as well as possible. the hole in the already prepared ground is taken out so that the tree shall stand exactly right for depth, though in this dry soil it is well to make the hole an inch or two deeper, in order to leave the tree standing in the centre of a shallow depression, to allow of a good watering now and then during the following summer. the hole must be made wide enough to give easy space for the most outward-reaching of the roots; they must be spread out on all sides, carefully combing them out with the fingers, so that they all lay out to the best advantage. any roots that have been bruised, or have broken or jagged ends, are cut off with a sharp knife on the homeward side of the injury. most gardeners when they plant, after the first spadeful or two has been thrown over the root, shake the bush with an up and down joggling movement. this is useful in the case of plants with a good lot of bushy root, such as berberis, helping to get the grains of earth well in among the root; but in tree planting, where the roots are laid out flat, it is of course useless. in our light soil, the closer and firmer the earth is made round the newly-planted tree the better, and strong staking is most important, in order to save the newly-placed root from disturbance by dragging. some trees and shrubs one can only get from nurseries in pots. this is usually the case with ilex, escallonia, and cydonia. such plants are sure to have the roots badly matted and twisted. the main root curls painfully round and round inside the imprisoning pot, but if it is a clever root it works its way out through the hole in the bottom, and even makes quite nice roots in the bed of ashes it has stood on. in this case, as these are probably its best roots, we do not attempt to pull it back through the hole, but break the pot to release it without hurt. if it is possible to straighten the pot-curled root, it is best to do so; in any case, the small fibrous ones can be laid out. often the potful of roots is so hard and tight that it cannot be disentangled by the hand; then the only way is to soften it by gentle bumping on the bench, and then to disengage the roots by little careful digs all round with a blunt-pointed stick. if this is not done, and the plant is put in in its pot-bound state, it never gets on; it would be just as well to throw it away at once. nine years ago a hedge of lawson's cypress was planted on one side of the kitchen garden. three years later, when the trees had made some growth, i noticed in the case of three or four that they were quite bare of branches on one side all the way up for a width of about one-sixth of the circumference, leaving a smooth, straight, upright strip. suspecting the cause, i had them up, and found in every case that the root just below the bare strip had been doubled under the stem, and had therefore been unable to do its share of the work. nothing could have pointed out more clearly the defect in the planting. there are cases where ground cannot be prepared as one would wish, and where one has to get over the difficulty the best way one can. such a case occurred when i had to plant some yews and savins right under a large birch-tree. the birch is one of several large ones that nearly surround the lawn. this one stands just within the end of a large shrub-clump, near the place of meeting of some paths with the grass and with some planting; here some further planting was wanted of dark-leaved evergreens. there is no tree more ground-robbing than a birch, and under the tree in question the ground was dust-dry, extremely hard, and nothing but the poorest sand. looking at the foot of a large tree one can always see which way the main roots go, and the only way to get down any depth is to go between these and not many feet away from the trunk. farther away the roots spread out and would receive more injury. so the ground was got up the best way we could, and the yews and savins planted. now, after some six years, they are healthy and dark-coloured, and have made good growth. but in such a place one cannot expect the original preparation of the ground, such as it was, to go for much. the year after planting they had some strong, lasting manure just pricked in over the roots--stuff from the shoeing-forge, full of hoof-parings. hoof-parings are rich in ammonia, and decay slowly. every other year they have either a repetition of this or some cooling cow manure. the big birch no doubt gets some of it, though its hungriest roots are farther afield, but the rich colour of the shrubs shows that they are well nourished. as soon as may be in november the big hardy flower-border has to be thoroughly looked over. the first thing is to take away all "soft stuff." this includes all dead annuals and biennials and any tender things that have been put in for the summer, also paris daisies, zinnias, french and african marigolds, helichrysums, mulleins, and a few geraniums. then dahlias are cut down. the waste stuff is laid in big heaps on the edge of the lawn just across the footpath, to be loaded into the donkey-cart and shot into some large holes that have been dug up in the wood, whose story will be told later. the dahlias are now dug up from the border, and others collected from different parts of the garden. the labels are tied on to the short stumps that remain, and the roots are laid for a time on the floor of a shed. if the weather has been rainy just before taking them up, it is well to lay them upside down, so that any wet there may be about the bases of the large hollow stalks may drain out. they are left for perhaps a fortnight without shaking out the earth that holds between the tubers, so that they may be fairly dry before they are put away for the winter in a cellar. then we go back to the flower border and dig out all the plants that have to be divided every year. it will also be the turn for some others that only want division every two or three or more years, as the case may be. first, out come all the perennial sunflowers. these divide themselves into two classes; those whose roots make close clumpy masses, and those that throw out long stolons ending in a blunt snout, which is the growing crown for next year. to the first division belong the old double sunflower (_helianthus multiflorus_), of which i only keep the well-shaped variety soleil d'or, and the much taller large-flowered single kind, and a tall pale-yellow flowered one with a dark stem, whose name i do not know. it is not one of the kinds thought much of, and as usually grown has not much effect; but i plant it at the back and pull it down over other plants that have gone out of flower, so that instead of having only a few flowers at the top of a rather bare stem eight feet high, it is a spreading cloud of pale yellow bloom; the training down, as in the case of so many other plants, inducing it to throw up a short flowering stalk from the axil of every leaf along the stem. the kinds with the running roots are _helianthus rigidus_, and its giant variety miss mellish, _h. decapetalus_ and _h. lætiflorus_. i do not know how it may be in other gardens, but in mine these must be replanted every year. phloxes must also be taken up. they are always difficult here, unless the season is unusually rainy; in dry summers, even with mulching and watering, i cannot keep them from drying up. the outside pieces are cut off and the woody middle thrown away. it is surprising what a tiny bit of phlox will make a strong flowering plant in one season. the kinds i like best are the pure whites and the salmon-reds; but two others that i find very pretty and useful are eugénie, a good mauve, and le soleil, a strong pink, of a colour as near a really good pink as in any phlox i know. both of these have a neat and rather short habit of growth. i do not have many michaelmas daisies in the flower border, only some early ones that flower within september; of these there are the white-flowered _a. paniculatus_, _shortii_, _acris_, and _amellus_. these of course come up, and any patches of gladiolus are collected, to be dried for a time and then stored. the next thing is to look through the border for the plants that require occasional renewal. in the front i find that a longish patch of _heuchera richardsoni_ has about half the plants overgrown. these must come up, and are cut to pieces. it is not a nice plant to divide; it has strong middle crowns, and though there are many side ones, they are attached to the main ones too high up to have roots of their own; but i boldly slice down the main stocky stem with straight downward cuts, so as to give a piece of the thick stock to each side bit. i have done this both in winter and spring, and find the spring rather the best, if not followed by drought. groups of _anemone japonica_ and of _polygonum compactum_ are spreading beyond bounds and must be reduced. neither of these need be entirely taken up. without going into further detail, it may be of use to note how often i find it advisable to lift and divide some of the more prominent hardy plants. every year i divide michaelmas daisies, goldenrod, _helianthus_, _phlox_, _chrysanthemum maximum_, _helenium pumilum_, _pyrethrum uliginosum_, _anthemis tinctoria_, _monarda_, _lychnis_, _primula_, except _p. denticulata_, _rosea_, and _auricula_, which stand two years. every two years, white pinks, cranesbills, _spiræa_, _aconitum_, _gaillardia_, _coreopsis_, _chrysanthemum indicum_, _galega_, _doronicum_, _nepeta_, _geum aureum_, _oenothera youngi_, and _oe. riparia_. every three years, _tritoma_, _megasea_, _centranthus_, _vinca_, _iris_, _narcissus_. a plasterer's hammer is a tool that is very handy for dividing plants. it has a hammer on one side of the head, and a cutting blade like a small chopper on the other. with this and a cold chisel and a strong knife one can divide any roots in comfort. i never divide things by brutally chopping them across with a spade. plants that have soft fleshy tubers like dahlias and pæonies want the cold chisel; it can be cleverly inserted among the crowns so that injury to the tubers is avoided, and it is equally useful in the case of some plants whose points of attachment are almost as hard as wire, like _orobus vernus_, or as tough as a door-mat, like _iris graminia_. the michaelmas daisies of the _novæ angliæ_ section make root tufts too close and hard to be cut with a knife, and here the chopper of the plasterer's hammer comes in. where the crowns are closely crowded, as in this aster, i find it best to chop at the bottom of the tuft, among the roots; when the chopper has cut about two-thirds through, the tuft can be separated with the hands, dividing naturally between the crowns, whereas if chopped from the top many crowns would have been spoilt. tritomas want dividing with care; it always looks as if one could pull every crown apart, but there is a tender point at the "collar," where they easily break off short; with these also it is best to chop from below or to use the chisel, making the cut well down in the yellow rooty region. veratrums divide much in the same way, wanting a careful cut low down, the points of their crowns being also very easy to break off. the christmas rose is one of the most awkward plants to divide successfully. it cannot be done in a hurry. the only safe way is to wash the clumps well out and look carefully for the points of attachment, and cut them either with knife or chisel, according to their position. in this case the chisel should be narrower and sharper. three-year-old tufts of st. bruno's lily puzzled me at first. the rather fleshy roots are so tightly interlaced that cutting is out of the question; but i found out that if the tuft is held tight in the two hands, and the hands are worked opposite ways with a rotary motion of about a quarter of a circle, that they soon come apart without being hurt in the least. delphiniums easily break off at the crown if they are broken up by hand, but the roots cut so easily that it ought not to be a difficulty. there are some plants in whose case one can never be sure whether they will divide well or not, such as oriental poppies and _eryngium oliverianum_. they behave in nearly the same way. sometimes a poppy or an eryngium comes up with one thick root, impossible to divide, while the next door plant has a number of roots that are ready to drop apart like a bunch of salsafy. everlasting peas do nearly the same. one may dig up two plants--own brothers of say seven years old--and a rare job it is, for they go straight down into the earth nearly a yard deep. one of them will have a straight black post of a root - / inches thick without a break of any sort till it forks a foot underground, while the other will be a sort of loose rope of separate roots from half to three-quarters of an inch thick, that if carefully followed down and cleverly dissected where they join, will make strong plants at once. but the usual way to get young plants of everlasting pea is to look out in earliest spring for the many young growths that will be shooting, for these if taken off with a good bit of the white underground stem will root under a hand-light. most of the primrose tribe divide pleasantly and easily: the worst are the _auricula_ section; with these, for outdoor planting, one often has to slice a main root down to give a share of root to the offset. when one is digging up plants with running roots, such as gaultheria, honeysuckle, polygonum, scotch briars, and many of the _rubus_ tribe, or what is better, if one person is digging while another pulls up, it never does for the one who is pulling to give a steady haul; this is sure to end in breakage, whereas a root comes up willingly and unharmed in loosened ground to a succession of firm but gentle tugs, and one soon learns to suit the weight of the pulls to the strength of the plant, and to learn its breaking strain. towards the end of october outdoor flowers in anything like quantity cannot be expected, and yet there are patches of bloom here and there in nearly every corner of the garden. the pretty mediterranean periwinkle (_vinca acutiflora_) is in full bloom. as with many another southern plant that in its own home likes a cool and shady place, it prefers a sunny one in our latitude. the flowers are of a pale and delicate grey-blue colour, nearly as large as those of the common _vinca major_, but they are borne more generously as to numbers on radical shoots that form thick, healthy-looking tufts of polished green foliage. it is not very common in gardens, but distinctly desirable. in the bulb-beds the bright-yellow _sternbergia lutea_ is in flower. at first sight it looks something like a crocus of unusually firm and solid substance; but it is an amaryllis, and its pure and even yellow colouring is quite unlike that of any of the crocuses. the numerous upright leaves are thick, deep green, and glossy. it flowers rather shyly in our poor soil, even in well-made beds, doing much better in chalky ground. czar violets are giving their fine and fragrant flowers on stalks nine inches long. to have them at their best they must be carefully cultivated and liberally enriched. no plants answer better to good treatment, or spoil more quickly by neglect. a miserable sight is a forgotten violet-bed where they have run together into a tight mat, giving only few and poor flowers. i have seen the owner of such a bed stand over it and blame the plants, when he should have laid the lash on his own shoulders. violets must be replanted every year. when the last rush of bloom in march is over, the plants are pulled to pieces, and strong single crowns from the outer edges of the clumps, or from the later runners, are replanted in good, well-manured soil, in such a place as will be somewhat shaded from summer sun. there should be eighteen inches between each plant, and as they make their growth, all runners should be cut off until august. they are encouraged by liberal doses of liquid manure from time to time, and watered in case of drought; and the heart of the careful gardener is warmed and gratified when friends, seeing them at midsummer, say (as has more than once happened), "what a nice batch of young hollyhocks!" in such a simple matter as the culture of this good hardy violet, my garden, though it is full of limitations, and in all ways falls short of any worthy ideal, enables me here and there to point out something that is worth doing, and to lay stress on the fact that the things worth doing are worth taking trouble about. but it is a curious thing that many people, even among those who profess to know something about gardening, when i show them something fairly successful--the crowning reward of much care and labour--refuse to believe that any pains have been taken about it. they will ascribe it to chance, to the goodness of my soil, and even more commonly to some supposed occult influence of my own--to anything rather than to the plain fact that i love it well enough to give it plenty of care and labour. they assume a tone of complimentary banter, kindly meant no doubt, but to me rather distasteful, to this effect: "oh yes, of course it will grow for you; anything will grow for you; you have only to look at a thing and it will grow." i have to pump up a laboured smile and accept the remark with what grace i can, as a necessary civility to the stranger that is within my gates, but it seems to me evident that those who say these things do not understand the love of a garden. i could not help rejoicing when such a visitor came to me one october. i had been saying how necessary good and deep cultivation was, especially in so very poor and shallow a soil as mine. passing up through the copse where there were some tall stems of _lilium giganteum_ bearing the great upturned pods of seed, my visitor stopped and said, "i don't believe a word about your poor soil--look at the growth of that lily. nothing could make that great stem ten feet high in a poor soil, and there it is, just stuck into the wood!" i said nothing, knowing that presently i could show a better answer than i could frame in words. a little farther up in the copse we came upon an excavation about twelve feet across and four deep, and by its side a formidable mound of sand, when my friend said, "why are you making all this mess in your pretty wood? are you quarrying stone, or is it for the cellar of a building? and what on earth are you going to do with that great heap of sand? why, there must be a dozen loads of it." that was my moment of secret triumph, but i hope i bore it meekly as i answered, "i only wanted to plant a few more of those big lilies, and you see in my soil they would not have a chance unless the ground was thoroughly prepared; look at the edge of the scarp and see how the solid yellow sand comes to within four inches of the top; so i have a big wide hole dug; and look, there is the donkey-cart coming with the first load of dahlia-tops and soft plants that have been for the summer in the south border. there will be several of those little cartloads, each holding three barrowfuls. as it comes into the hole, the men will chop it with the spade and tread it down close, mixing in a little sand. this will make a nice cool, moist bottom of slowly-rotting vegetable matter. some more of the same kind of waste will come from the kitchen garden--cabbage-stumps, bean-haulm, soft weeds that have been hoed up, and all the greenest stuff from the rubbish-heap. every layer will be chopped and pounded, and tramped down so that there should be as little sinking as possible afterwards. by this time the hole will be filled to within a foot of the top; and now we must get together some better stuff--road-scrapings and trimmings mixed with some older rubbish-heap mould, and for the top of all, some of our precious loam, and the soil of an old hotbed and some well-decayed manure, all well mixed, and then we are ready for the lilies. they are planted only just underground, and then the whole bed has a surfacing of dead leaves, which helps to keep down weeds, and also looks right with the surrounding wild ground. the remains of the heap of sand we must deal with how we can; but there are hollows here and there in the roadway and paths, and a place that can be levelled up in the rubbish-yard, and some kitchen-garden paths that will bear raising, and so by degrees it is disposed of." chapter xii november giant christmas rose -- hardy chrysanthemums -- sheltering tender shrubs -- turfing by inoculation -- transplanting large trees -- sir henry steuart's experience early in the century -- collecting fallen leaves -- preparing grubbing tools -- butcher's broom -- alexandrian laurel -- hollies and birches -- a lesson in planting. the giant christmas rose (_helleborus maximus_) is in full flower; it is earlier than the true christmas rose, being at its best by the middle of november. it is a large and massive flower, but compared with the later kinds has a rather coarse look. the bud and the back of the flower are rather heavily tinged with a dull pink, and it never has the pure-white colouring throughout of the later ones. i have taken some pains to get together some really hardy november-blooming chrysanthemums. the best of all is a kind frequent in neighbouring cottage-gardens, and known hereabouts as cottage pink. i believe it is identical with emperor of china, a very old sort that used to be frequent in greenhouse cultivation before it was supplanted by the many good kinds now grown. but its place is not indoors, but in the open garden; if against a south or west wall, so much the better. perhaps one year in seven the bloom may be spoilt by such a severe frost as that of october , but it will bear unharmed several degrees of frost and much rain. i know no chrysanthemum of so true a pink colour, the colour deepening to almost crimson in the centre. after the first frost the foliage of this kind turns to a splendid colour, the green of the leaves giving place to a rich crimson that sometimes clouds the outer portion of the leaf, and often covers its whole expanse. the stiff, wholesome foliage adds much to the beauty of the outdoor kinds, contrasting most agreeably with the limp, mildewed leafage of those indoors. following cottage pink is a fine pompone called soleil d'or, in colour the richest deep orange, with a still deeper and richer coloured centre. the beautiful crimson julie lagravère flowers at the same time. both are nearly frost-proof, and true hardy november flowers. the first really frosty day we go to the upper part of the wood and cut out from among the many young scotch firs as many as we think will be wanted for sheltering plants and shrubs of doubtful hardiness. one section of the high wall at the back of the flower border is planted with rather tender things, so that the whole is covered with sheltering fir-boughs. here are loquat, fuchsia, pomegranate, _edwardsia_, _piptanthus_, and _choisya_, and in the narrow border at the foot of the wall, _crinum_, _nandina_, _clerodendron_, and _hydrangea_. in the broad border in front of the wall nothing needs protection except tritomas; these have cones of coal-ashes heaped over each plant or clump. the crinums also have a few inches of ashes over them. some large hydrangeas in tubs are moved to a sheltered place and put close together, a mound of sand being shovelled up all round to nearly the depth of the tubs; then a wall is made of thatched hurdles, and dry fern is packed well in among the heads of the plants. they would be better in a frost-proof shed, but we have no such place to spare. the making of a lawn is a difficulty in our very poor sandy soil. in this rather thickly-populated country the lords of the manor had been so much pestered for grants of road-side turf, and the privilege when formerly given had been so much abused, that they have agreed together to refuse all applications. opportunities of buying good turf do not often occur, and sowing is slow, and not satisfactory. i am told by a seedsman of the highest character that it is almost impossible to get grass seed clean and true to name from the ordinary sources; the leading men therefore have to grow their own. in my own case, having some acres of rough heath and copse where the wild grasses are of fine-leaved kinds, i made the lawn by inoculation. the ground was trenched and levelled, then well trodden and raked, and the surface stones collected. tufts of the wild grass were then forked up, and were pulled into pieces about the size of the palm of one's hand, and laid down eight inches apart, and well rolled in. during the following summer we collected seed of the same grasses to sow early in spring in any patchy or bare places. one year after planting the patches had spread to double their size, and by the second year had nearly joined together. the grasses were of two kinds only, namely, sheep's fescue (_festuca ovina_) and crested dog's-tail (_agrostis canina_). they make a lawn of a quiet, low-toned colour, never of the bright green of the rather coarser grasses; but in this case i much prefer it; it goes better with the heath and fir and bracken that belong to the place. in point of labour, a lawn made of these fine grasses has the great merit of only wanting mowing once in three weeks. * * * * * i have never undertaken the transplanting of large trees, but there is no doubt that it may be done with success, and in laying out a new place where the site is bare, if suitable trees are to be had, it is a plan much to be recommended. it has often been done of late years, but until a friend drew my attention to an article in the _quarterly review_, dated march , i had no idea that it had been practised on a large scale so early in the century. the article in question was a review of "the planter's guide," by sir henry steuart, bart., ll.d. (edinburgh, .) it quoted the opinion and observation of a committee of gentlemen, among whom was sir walter scott, who visited allanton (sir henry steuart's place) in september , when the trees had been some years planted. they found them growing "with vigour and luxuriance, and in the most exposed situations making shoots of eighteen inches.... from the facts which they witnessed the committee reported it as their unanimous opinion that the art of transplantation, as practised by sir henry steuart, is calculated to accelerate in an extraordinary degree the power of raising wood, whether for beauty or shelter." the reviewer then quotes the method of transplantation, describing the extreme care with which the roots are preserved, men with picks carefully trying round the ground beneath the outer circumference of the branches for the most outlying rootlets, and then gradually approaching the bole. the greatest care was taken not to injure any root or fibre, these as they were released from the earth being tied up, and finally the transplanting machine, consisting of a strong pole mounted on high wheels, was brought close to the trunk and attached to it, and the tree when lowered, carefully transported to its new home. every layer of roots was then replanted with the utmost care, with delicate fingering and just sufficient ramming, and in the end the tree stood without any artificial support whatever, and in positions exposed to the fiercest gales. the average size of tree dealt with seems to have had a trunk about a foot in diameter, but some were removed with complete success whose trunks were two feet thick. in order that his trees might be the better balanced in shape, sir henry boldly departed from the older custom of replanting a tree in its original aspect, for he reversed the aspect, so that the more stunted and shorter-twigged weather side now became the lee side, and could grow more freely. he insists strongly on the wisdom of transplanting only well-weathered trees, and not those of tender constitution that had been sheltered by standing among other close growths, pointing out that these have a tenderer bark and taller top and roots less well able to bear the strain of wind and weather in the open. he reckons that a transplanted tree is in full new growth by the fourth or fifth year, and that an advantage equal to from thirty to forty years' growth is gained by the system. as for the expense of the work, sir henry estimated that his largest trees each cost from ten to thirteen shillings to take up, remove half a mile, and replant. in the case of large trees the ground that was to receive them was prepared a twelvemonth beforehand. * * * * * now, in the third week of november, the most pressing work is the collecting of leaves for mulching and leaf-mould. the oaks have been late in shedding their leaves, and we have been waiting till they are down. oak-leaves are the best, then hazel, elm, and spanish chestnut. birch and beech are not so good; beech-leaves especially take much too long to decay. this is, no doubt, the reason why nothing grows willingly under beeches. horse and cart and three hands go out into the lanes for two or three days, and the loads that come home go three feet deep into the bottom of a range of pits. the leaves are trodden down close and covered with a layer of mould, in which winter salad stuff is immediately planted. the mass of leaves will soon begin to heat, and will give a pleasant bottom-heat throughout the winter. other loads of leaves go into an open pen about ten feet square and five feet deep. two such pens, made of stout oak post and rail and upright slabs, stand side by side in the garden yard. the one newly filled has just been emptied of its two-year-old leaf-mould, which has gone as a nourishing and protecting mulch over beds of daffodils and choice bulbs and alströmerias, some being put aside in reserve for potting and various uses. the other pen remains full of the leaves of last year, slowly rotting into wholesome plant-food. with works of wood-cutting and stump-grubbing near at hand, we look over the tools and see that all are in readiness for winter work. axes and hand-bills are ground, fag-hooks sharpened, picks and mattocks sent to the smithy to be drawn out, the big cross-cut saw fresh sharpened and set, and the hand-saws and frame-saws got ready. the rings of the bittle are tightened and wedged up, so that its heavy head may not split when the mighty blows, flung into the tool with a man's full strength, fall on the heads of the great iron wedges. [illustration: pens for storing dead leaves.] [illustration: careful wild-gardening--white foxgloves at the edge of the fir wood. (_see page ._)] some thinning of birch-trees has to be done in the lowest part of the copse, not far from the house. they are rather evenly distributed on the ground, and i wish to get them into groups by cutting away superfluous trees. on the neighbouring moorland and heathy uplands they are apt to grow naturally in groups, the individual trees generally bending outward towards the free, open space, the whole group taking a form that is graceful and highly pictorial. i hope to be able to cut out trees so as to leave the remainder standing in some such way. but as a tree once cut cannot be put up again, the condemned ones are marked with bands of white paper right round the trunks, so that they can be observed from all sides, thus to give a chance of reprieve to any tree that from any point of view may have pictorial value. frequent in some woody districts in the south of england, though local, is the butcher's broom (_ruscus aculeatus_). its stiff green branches that rise straight from the root bear small, hard leaves, armed with a sharp spine at the end. the flower, which comes in early summer, is seated without stalk in the middle of the leaf, and is followed by a large red berry. in country places where it abounds, butchers use the twigs tied in bunches to brush the little chips of meat off their great chopping-blocks, that are made of solid sections of elm trees, standing three and a half feet high and about two and a half feet across. its beautiful garden relative, the alexandrian or victory laurel (_ruscus racemosus_), is also now just at its best. nothing makes a more beautiful wreath than two of its branches, suitably arched and simply bound together near the butts and free ends. it is not a laurel, but a _ruscus_, the name laurel having probably grown on to it by old association with any evergreen suitable for a victor's wreath. it is a slow-growing plant, but in time makes handsome tufts of its graceful branches. few plants are more exquisitely modelled, to use a term familiar to the world of fine art, or give an effect of more delicate and perfect finish. it is a valuable plant in a shady place in good, cool soil. early in summer, when the young growths appear, the old, then turning rusty, should be cut away. no trees group together more beautifully than hollies and birches. one such happy mixture in one part of the copse suggested further plantings of holly, birches being already in abundance. every year some more hollies are planted; those put in nine years ago are now fifteen feet high, and are increasing fast. they are slow to begin growth after transplanting, perhaps because in our very light soil they cannot be moved with a "ball"; all the soil shakes away, and leaves the root naked; but after about three years, when the roots have got good hold and begun to ramble, they grow away well. the trunk of an old holly has a smooth pale-grey bark, and sometimes a slight twist, that makes it look like the gigantic bone of some old-world monster. the leaves of some old trees, especially if growing in shade, change their shape, losing the side prickles and becoming longer and nearly flat and more of a dark bottle-green colour, while the lower branches and twigs, leafless except towards their ends, droop down in a graceful line that rises again a little at the tip. [illustration: holly stems in an old hedge-row.] the leaves are all down by the last week of november, and woodland assumes its winter aspect; perhaps one ought rather to say, some one of its infinite variety of aspects, for those who live in such country know how many are the winter moods of forest land, and how endless are its variations of atmospheric effect and pictorial beauty--variations much greater and more numerous than are possible in summer. with the wind in the south-west and soft rain about, the twigs of the birches look almost crimson, while the dead bracken at their foot, half-draggled and sodden with wet, is of a strong, dark rust colour. now one sees the full value of the good evergreens, and, rambling through woodland, more especially of the holly, whether in bush or tree form, with its masses of strong green colour, dark and yet never gloomy. whether it is the high polish of the leaves, or the lively look of their wavy edges, with the short prickles set alternately up and down, or the brave way the tree has of shooting up among other thick growth, or its massive sturdiness on a bare hillside, one cannot say, but a holly in early winter, even without berries, is always a cheering sight. john evelyn is eloquent in his praise of this grand evergreen, and lays special emphasis on this quality of cheerfulness. near my home is a little wild valley, whose planting, wholly done by nature, i have all my life regarded with the most reverent admiration. the arable fields of an upland farm give place to hazel copses as the ground rises. through one of these a deep narrow lane, cool and dusky in summer from its high steep banks and over-arching foliage, leads by a rather sudden turn into the lower end of the little valley. its grassy bottom is only a few yards wide, and its sides rise steeply right and left. looking upward through groups of wild bushes and small trees, one sees thickly-wooded ground on the higher levels. the soil is of the very poorest; ridges of pure yellow sand are at the mouths of the many rabbit-burrows. the grass is of the short fine kinds of the heathy uplands. bracken grows low, only from one to two feet high, giving evidence of the poverty of the soil, and yet it seems able to grow in perfect beauty clumps of juniper and thorn and holly, and scotch fir on the higher ground. on the steeply-rising banks are large groups of juniper, some tall, some spreading, some laced and wreathed about with tangles of honeysuckle, now in brown winter dress, and there are a few bushes of spindle-tree, whose green stems and twigs look strangely green in winter. the thorns stand some singly, some in close companionship, impenetrable masses of short-twigged prickly growth, with here and there a wild rose shooting straight up through the crowded branches. one thinks how lovely it will be in early june, when the pink rose-wreaths are tossing out of the foamy sea of white thorn blossom. the hollies are towering masses of health and vigour. some of the groups of thorn and holly are intermingled; all show beautiful arrangements of form and colour, such as are never seen in planted places. the track in the narrow valley trends steadily upwards and bears a little to the right. high up on the left-hand side is an old wood of scotch fir. a few detached trees come half-way down the valley bank to meet the gnarled, moss-grown thorns and the silver-green junipers. as the way rises some birches come in sight, also at home in the sandy soil. their graceful, lissome spray moving to the wind looks active among the stiffer trees, and their white stems shine out in startling contrast to the other dusky foliage. so the narrow track leads on, showing the same kinds of tree and bush in endless variety of beautiful grouping, under the sombre half-light of the winter day. it is afternoon, and as one mounts higher a pale bar of yellow light gleams between the farther tree-stems, but all above is grey, with angry, blackish drifts of ragged wrack. now the valley opens out to a nearly level space of rough grass, with grey tufts that will be pink bell-heather in summer, and upstanding clumps of sedge that tell of boggy places. in front and to the right are dense fir-woods. to the left is broken ground and a steep-sided hill, towards whose shoulder the track rises. here are still the same kinds of trees, but on the open hillside they have quite a different effect. now i look into the ruddy heads of the thorns, bark and fruit both of rich warm colouring, and into the upper masses of the hollies, also reddening into wealth of berry. [illustration: wild junipers.] throughout the walk, pacing slowly but steadily for nearly an hour, only these few kinds of trees have been seen, juniper, holly, thorn, scotch fir, and birch (a few small oaks excepted), and yet there has not been once the least feeling of monotony, nor, returning downward by the same path, could one wish anything to be altered or suppressed or differently grouped. and i have always had the same feeling about any quite wild stretch of forest land. such a bit of wild forest as this small valley and the hilly land beyond are precious lessons in the best kind of tree and shrub planting. no artificial planting can ever equal that of nature, but one may learn from it the great lesson of the importance of moderation and reserve, of simplicity of intention, and directness of purpose, and the inestimable value of the quality called "breadth" in painting. for planting ground is painting a landscape with living things; and as i hold that good gardening takes rank within the bounds of the fine arts, so i hold that to plant well needs an artist of no mean capacity. and his difficulties are not slight ones, for his living picture must be right from all points, and in all lights. [illustration: wild junipers.] no doubt the planting of a large space with a limited number of kinds of trees cannot be trusted to all hands, for in those of a person without taste or the more finely-trained perceptions the result would be very likely dull or even absurd. it is not the paint that make the picture, but the brain and heart and hand of the man who uses it. chapter xiii december the woodman at work -- tree-cutting in frosty weather -- preparing sticks and stakes -- winter jasmine -- ferns in the wood-walk -- winter colour of evergreen shrubs -- copse-cutting -- hoop-making -- tools used -- sizes of hoops -- men camping out -- thatching with hoop-chips -- the old thatcher's bill. it is good to watch a clever woodman and see how much he can do with his simple tools, and how easily one man alone can deal with heavy pieces of timber. an oak trunk, two feet or more thick, and weighing perhaps a ton, lies on the ground, the branches being already cut off. he has to cleave it into four, and to remove it to the side of a lane one hundred feet away. his tools are an axe and one iron wedge. the first step is the most difficult--to cut such a nick in the sawn surface of the butt of the trunk as will enable the wedge to stick in. he holds the wedge to the cut and hammers it gently with the back of the axe till it just holds, then he tries a moderate blow, and is quite prepared for what is almost sure to happen--the wedge springs out backwards; very likely it springs out for three or four trials, but at last the wedge bites and he can give it the dexterous, rightly-placed blows that slowly drive it in. before the wedge is in half its length a creaking sound is heard; the fibres are beginning to tear, and a narrow rift shows on each side of the iron. a few more strokes and the sound of the rending fibres is louder and more continuous, with sudden cracking noises, that tell of the parting of larger bundles of fibres, that had held together till the tremendous rending power of the wedge at last burst them asunder. now the man looks out a bit of strong branch about four inches thick, and with the tree-trunk as a block and the axe held short in one hand as a chopper, he makes a wooden wedge about twice the size of the iron one, and drives it into one of the openings at its side. for if you have only one iron wedge, and you drive it tight into your work, you can neither send it farther nor get it out, and you feel and look foolish. the wooden wedge driven in releases the iron one, which is sent in afresh against the side of the wedge of oak, the trunk meanwhile rending slowly apart with much grieving and complaining of the tearing fibres. as the rent opens the axe cuts across diagonal bundles of fibres that still hold tightly across the widening rift. and so the work goes on, the man unconsciously exercising his knowledge of his craft in placing and driving the wedges, the helpless wood groaning and creaking and finally falling apart as the last holding fibres are severed by the axe. meanwhile the raw green wood gives off a delicious scent, sweet and sharp and refreshing, not unlike the smell of apples crushing in the cider-press. [illustration: the woodman.] the woodman has still to rend the two halves of the trunk, but the work is not so heavy and goes more quickly. now he has to shift them to the side of the rough track that serves as a road through the wood. they are so heavy that two men could barely lift them, and he is alone. he could move them with a lever, that he could cut out of a straight young tree, a foot or so at a time at each end, but it is a slow and clumsy way; besides, the wood is too much encumbered with undergrowth. so he cuts two short pieces from a straight bit of branch four inches or five inches thick, levers one of his heavy pieces so that one end points to the roadway, prises up this end and kicks one of his short pieces under it close to the end, settling it at right angles with gentle kicks. the other short piece is arranged in the same way, a little way beyond the middle of the length of quartered trunk. now, standing behind it, he can run the length easily along on the two rollers, till the one nearest him is left behind; this one is then put under the front end of the weight, and so on till the road is reached. trees that stand where paths are to come, or that for any reason have to be removed, root and all, are not felled with axe or saw, but are grubbed down. the earth is dug away next to the tree, gradually exposing the roots; these are cut through with axe or mattock close to the butt, and again about eighteen inches away, so that by degrees a deep trench, eighteen inches wide, is excavated round the butt. a rope is fastened at the right distance up the trunk, when, if the tree does not hold by a very strong tap-root, a succession of steady pulls will bring it down; the weight of the top thus helping to prise the heavy butt out of the ground. we come upon many old stumps of scotch fir, the remains of the original wood; they make capital firewood, though some burn rather too fiercely, being full of turpentine. many are still quite sound, though it must be six-and-twenty years since they were felled. they are very hard to grub, with their thick taproots and far-reaching laterals, and still tougher to split up, their fibres are so much twisted, and the dark-red heart-wood has become hardened till it rings to a blow almost like metal. but some, whose roots have rotted, come up more easily, and with very little digging may be levered out of the ground with a long iron stone-bar, such as they use in the neighbouring quarries, putting the point of the bar under the "stam," and having a log of wood for a hard fulcrum. or a stout young stem of oak or chestnut is used for a lever, passing a chain under the stump and over the middle of the bar and prising upwards with the lever. "stam" is the word always used by the men for any stump of a tree left in the ground. [illustration: grubbing a tree-stump.] [illustration: felling and grubbing tools. (_see page ._)] a spell of frosty days at the end of december puts a stop to all planting and ground work. now we go into the copse and cut the trees that have been provisionally marked, judged, and condemned, with the object of leaving the remainder standing in graceful groups. the men wonder why i cut some of the trees that are best and straightest and have good tops, and leave those with leaning stems. anything of seven inches or less diameter is felled with the axe, but thicker trees with the cross-cut saw. for these our most active fellow climbs up the tree with a rope, and makes it fast to the trunk a good way up, then two of them, kneeling, work the saw. when it has cut a third of the way through, the rope is pulled on the side opposite the cut to keep it open and let the saw work free. when still larger trees are sawn down this is done by driving in a wedge behind the saw, when the width of the saw-blade is rather more than buried in the tree. when the trunk is nearly sawn through, it wants care and judgment to see that the saw does not get pinched by the weight of the tree; the clumsy workman who fails to clear his saw gets laughed at, and probably damages his tool. good straight trunks of oak and chestnut are put aside for special uses; the rest of the larger stuff is cut into cordwood lengths of four feet. the heaviest of these are split up into four pieces to make them easier to load and carry away, and eventually to saw up into firewood. the best of the birch tops are cut into pea-sticks, a clever, slanting cut with the hand-bill leaving them pointed and ready for use. throughout the copse are "stools" of spanish chestnut, cut about once in five years. from this we get good straight stakes for dahlias and hollyhocks, also beanpoles; while the rather straight-branched boughs are cut into branching sticks for michaelmas daisies, and special lengths are got ready for various kinds of plants--chrysanthemums, lilies, pæonies and so on. to provide all this in winter, when other work is slack or impossible, is an important matter in the economy of a garden, for all gardeners know how distressing and harassing it is to find themselves without the right sort of sticks or stakes in summer, and what a long job it then seems to have to look them up and cut them, of indifferent quality, out of dry faggots. by the plan of preparing all in winter no precious time is lost, and a tidy withe-bound bundle of the right sort is always at hand. the rest of the rough spray and small branching stuff is made up into faggots to be chopped up for fire-lighting; the country folk still use the old word "bavin" for faggots. the middle-sized branches--anything between two inches and six inches in diameter--are what the woodmen call "top and lop"; these are also cut into convenient lengths, and are stacked in the barn, to be cut into billets for next year's fires in any wet or frosty weather, when outdoor work is at a standstill. what a precious winter flower is the yellow jasmine (_jasminum nudiflorum_). though hard frost spoils the flowers then expanded, as soon as milder days come the hosts of buds that are awaiting them burst into bloom. its growth is so free and rapid that one has no scruple about cutting it freely; and great branching sprays, cut a yard or more long, arranged with branches of alexandrian laurel or other suitable foliage--such as andromeda or gaultheria--are beautiful as room decoration. christmas roses keep on flowering bravely, in spite of our light soil and frequent summer drought, both being unfavourable conditions; but bravest of all is the blue algerian iris (_iris stylosa_), flowering freely as it does, at the foot of a west wall, in all open weather from november till april. in the rock-garden at the edge of the copse the creeping evergreen _polygala chamæbuxus_ is quite at home in beds of peat among mossy boulders. where it has the ground to itself, this neat little shrub makes close tufts only four inches or five inches high, its wiry branches being closely set with neat, dark-green, box-like leaves; though where it has to struggle for life among other low shrubs, as may often be seen in the alps, the branches elongate, and will run bare for two feet or three feet to get the leafy end to the light. even now it is thickly set with buds and has a few expanded flowers. this bit of rock-garden is mostly planted with dwarf shrubs--_skimmia_, bog-myrtle, alpine rhododendrons, _gaultheria_, and _andromeda_, with drifts of hardy ferns between, and only a few "soft" plants. but of these, two are now conspicuously noticeable for foliage--the hardy cyclamens and the blue himalayan poppy (_meconopsis wallichi_). every winter i notice how bravely the pale woolly foliage of this plant bears up against the early winter's frost and wet. the wood-walk, whose sloping banks are planted with hardy ferns in large groups, shows how many of our common kinds are good plants for the first half of the winter. now, only a week before christmas, the male fern is still in handsome green masses; _blechnum_ is still good, and common polypody at its best. the noble fronds of the dilated shield-fern are still in fairly good order, and _ceterach_ in rocky chinks is in fullest beauty. beyond, in large groups, are prosperous-looking tufts of the wood-rush (_luzula sylvatica_); then there is wood as far as one can see, here mostly of the silver-stemmed birch and rich green holly, with the woodland carpet of dusky low-toned bramble and quiet dead leaf and brilliant moss. by the middle of december many of the evergreen shrubs that thrive in peat are in full beauty of foliage. _andromeda catesbæi_ is richly coloured with crimson clouds and splashes; skimmias are at their best and freshest, their bright, light green, leathery foliage defying all rigours of temperature or weather. pernettyas are clad in their strongest and deepest green leafage, and show a richness and depth of colour only surpassed by that of the yew hedges. copse-cutting is one of the harvests of the year for labouring men, and all the more profitable that it can go on through frosty weather. a handy man can earn good wages at piece-work, and better still if he can cleave and shave hoops. hoop-making is quite a large industry in these parts, employing many men from michaelmas to march. they are barrel-hoops, made of straight poles of six years' growth. the wood used is birch, ash, hazel and spanish chestnut. hazel is the best, or as my friend in the business says, "hazel, that's the master!" the growths of the copses are sold by auction in some near county town, as they stand, the buyer clearing them during the winter. they are cut every six years, and a good copse of chestnut has been known to fetch £ an acre. a good hoop-maker can earn from twenty to twenty-five shillings a week. he sets up his brake, while his mate, who will cleave the rods, cuts a post about three inches thick, and fixes it into the ground so that it stands about three feet high. to steady it he drives in another of rather curly shape by its side, so that the tops of the two are nearly even, but the foot of the curved spur is some nine inches away at the bottom, with its top pressing hard against the upright. to stiffen it still more he makes a long withe of a straight hazel rod, which he twists into a rope by holding the butt tightly under his left foot and twisting with both hands till the fibres are wrenched open and the withe is ready to spring back and wind upon itself. with this he binds his two posts together, so that they stand perfectly rigid. on this he cleaves the poles, beginning at the top. the tool is a small one-handed adze with a handle like a hammer. a rod is usually cleft in two, so that it is only shaved on one side; but sometimes a pole of chestnut, a very quick-growing wood, is large enough to cleave into eight, and when the wood is very clean and straight they can sometimes get two lengths of fourteen feet out of a pole. [illustration: hoop-making in the woods.] the brake is a strong flat-shaped post of oak set up in the ground to lean a little away from the workman. it stands five and a half feet out of the ground. a few inches from its upper end it has a shoulder cut in it which acts as the fulcrum for the cross-bar that supports the pole to be shaved, and that leans down towards the man. the relative position of the two parts of the brake reminds one of the mast and yard of a lateen-rigged boat. the bar is nicely balanced by having a hazel withe bound round a groove at its upper short end, about a foot beyond the fulcrum, while the other end of the withe is tied round a heavy bit of log or stump that hangs clear of the ground and just balances the bar, so that it see-saws easily. the cleft rod that is to be shaved lies along the bar, and an iron pin that passes through the head of the brake just above the point where the bar rides over its shoulder, nips the hoop as the weight of the stroke comes upon it; the least lifting of the bar releases the hoop, which is quickly shifted onwards for a new stroke. the shaving tool is a strong two-handled draw-knife, much like the tool used by wheelwrights. it is hard work, "wunnerful tryin' across the chest." the hoops are in several standard lengths, from fourteen to two and a half feet. the longest go to the west indies for sugar hogsheads, and some of the next are for tacking round pipes of wine. the wine is in well-made iron-hooped barrels, but the wooden hoops are added to protect them from the jarring and bumping when rolled on board ship, and generally to save them during storage and transit. these hoops are in two sizes, called large and small pipes. a thirteen-foot size go to foreign countries for training vines on. a large quantity that measure five feet six inches, and called "long pinks," are for cement barrels. a length of seven feet six inches are used for herring barrels, and are called kilderkins, after the name of the size of tub. smaller sizes go for gunpowder barrels, and for tacking round packing-cases and tea-chests. the men want to make all the time they can in the short winter daylight, and often the work is some miles from home, so if the weather is not very cold they make huts of the bundles of rods and chips, and sleep out on the job. i always admire the neatness with which the bundles are fastened up, and the strength of the withe-rope that binds them, for sixty hoops, or thirty pairs, as they call them, of fourteen feet, are a great weight to be kept together by four slight hazel bands. [illustration: hoop-shaving.] [illustration: shed-roof, thatched with hoop-chip.] in this industry there is a useful by-product in the shavings, or chips as they call them. they are eighteen inches to two feet long, and are made up into small faggots or bundles and stacked up for six months to a year to dry, and then sell readily at twopence a bundle to cut up for fire-lighting. they also make a capital thatch for sheds, a thatch nearly a foot thick, warm in winter, and cool in summer, and durable, for if well made it will last for forty years. i got a clever old thatcher to make me a hoop-chip roof for the garden shed; it was a long job, and he took his time (although it was piece-work), preparing and placing each handful of chips as carefully as if he was making a wedding bouquet. he was one of the old sort--no scamping of work for him; his work was as good as he could make it, and it was his pride and delight. the roof was prepared with strong laths nailed horizontally across the rafters as if for tiling, but farther apart; and the chips, after a number of handfuls had been duly placed and carefully poked and patted into shape, were bound down to the laths with soft tarred cord guided by an immense iron needle. the thatching, as in all cases of roof-covering, begins at the eaves, so that each following layer laps over the last. only the ridge has to be of straw, because straw can be bent over; the chips are too rigid. when the thatch is all in place the whole is "drove," that is, beaten up close with a wooden bat that strikes against the ends of the chips and drives them up close, jamming them tight into the fastening. after six months of drying summer weather he came and drove it all over again. thatching is done by piece-work, and paid at so much a "square" of ten by ten feet. when i asked for his bill, the old man brought it made out on a hazel stick, in a manner either traditional, or of his own devising. this is how it runs, in notches about half an inch long, and dots dug with the point of the knife. it means, "to so much work done, £ , s. d." iixxx·i·, iixxxx·ii[v] iiii[v]xx,iixx chapter xiv large and small gardens a well done villa garden -- a small town garden -- two delightful gardens of small size -- twenty acres within the walls -- a large country house and its garden -- terrace -- lawn -- parterre -- free garden -- kitchen garden -- buildings -- ornamental orchard -- instructive mixed gardens -- mr. wilson's at wisley -- a window garden. the size of a garden has very little to do with its merit. it is merely an accident relating to the circumstances of the owner. it is the size of his heart and brain and goodwill that will make his garden either delightful or dull, as the case may be, and either leave it at the usual monotonous dead-level, or raise it, in whatever degree may be, towards that of a work of fine art. if a man knows much, it is more difficult for him to deal with a small space than a larger, for he will have to make the more sacrifice; but if he is wise he will at once make up his mind about what he will let go, and how he may best treat the restricted space. some years ago i visited a small garden attached to a villa on the outskirts of a watering-place on the south coast. in ordinary hands it would have been a perfectly commonplace thing, with the usual weary mixture, and exhibiting the usual distressing symptoms that come in the train of the ministrations of the jobbing-gardener. in size it may have been a third of an acre, and it was one of the most interesting and enjoyable gardens i have ever seen, its master and mistress giving it daily care and devotion, and enjoying to the full its glad response of grateful growth. the master had built with his own hands, on one side where more privacy was wanted, high rugged walls, with spaces for many rock-loving plants, and had made the wall die away so cleverly into the rock-garden, that the whole thing looked like a garden founded on some ancient ruined structure. and it was all done with so much taste that there was nothing jarring or strained-looking, still less anything cockneyfied, but all easy and pleasant and pretty, while the happy look of the plants at once proclaimed his sympathy with them, and his comprehensive knowledge of their wants. in the same garden was a walled enclosure where tree pæonies and some of the hardier of the oriental rhododendrons were thriving, and there were pretty spaces of lawn, and flower border, and shrub clump, alike beautiful and enjoyable, all within a small space, and yet not crowded--the garden of one who was a keen flower lover, as well as a world-known botanist. i am always thankful to have seen this garden, because it showed me, in a way that had never been so clearly brought home to me, how much may be done in a small space. another and much smaller garden that i remember with pleasure was in a sort of yard among houses, in a country town. the house it belonged to, a rather high one, was on its east side, and halfway along on the south; the rest was bounded by a wall about ten feet high. opposite the house the owner had built of rough blocks of sandstone what served as a workshop, about twelve feet long along the wall, and six feet wide within. a low archway of the same rough stone was the entrance, and immediately above it a lean-to roof sloped up to the top of the wall, which just here had been carried a little higher. the roof was of large flat sandstones, only slightly lapping over each other, with spaces and chinks where grew luxuriant masses of polypody fern. it was contrived with a cement bed, so that it was quite weather-tight, and the room was lighted by a skylight at one end that did not show from the garden. a small surface of lead-flat, on a level with the top of the wall, in one of the opposite angles, carried an old oil-jar, from which fell masses of gorgeous tropæolum, and the actual surface of the flat was a garden of stonecrops. the rounded coping of the walls, and the joints in many places (for the wall was an old one), were gay with yellow corydalis and snapdragons and more stonecrops. the little garden had a few pleasant flowering bushes, ribes and laurustinus, a bay and an almond tree. in the coolest and shadiest corner were a fern-grotto and a tiny tank. the rest of the garden, only a few yards across, was laid out with a square bed in the middle, and a little path round, then a three-feet-wide border next the wall, all edged with rather tall-grown box. the middle bed had garden roses and carnations, and mignonette and stocks. all round were well-chosen plants and shrubs, looking well and happy, though in a confined and rather airless space. every square foot had been made the most of with the utmost ingenuity, but the ingenuity was always directed by good taste, so that nothing looked crowded or out of place. and i think of two other gardens of restricted space, both long strips of ground walled at the sides, whose owners i am thankful to count among my friends--one in the favoured climate of the isle of wight, a little garden where i suppose there are more rare and beautiful plants brought together within a small space than perhaps in any other garden of the same size in england; the other in a cathedral town, now a memory only, for the master of what was one of the most beautiful gardens i have ever seen now lives elsewhere. the garden was long in shape, and divided about midway by a wall. the division next the house was a quiet lawn, with a mulberry tree and a few mounded borders near the sides that were unobstrusive, and in no way spoilt the quiet feeling of the lawn space. then a doorway in the dividing wall led to a straight path with a double flower border. i suppose there was a vegetable garden behind the borders, but of that i have no recollection, only a vivid remembrance of that brilliantly beautiful mass of flowers. the picture was good enough as one went along, especially as at the end one came first within sound and then within sight of a rushing river, one of those swift, clear, shallow streams with stony bottom that the trout love; but it was ten times more beautiful on turning to go back, for there was the mass of flowers, and towering high above it the noble mass of the giant structure--one of the greatest and yet most graceful buildings that has ever been raised by man to the glory of god. it is true that it is not every one that has the advantage of a garden bounded by a river and a noble church, but even these advantages might have been lost by vulgar or unsuitable treatment of the garden. but the mind of the master was so entirely in sympathy with the place, that no one that had the privilege of seeing it could feel that it was otherwise than right and beautiful. both these were the gardens of clergymen; indeed, some of our greatest gardeners are, and have been, within the ranks of the church. for have we not a brilliantly-gifted dignitary whose loving praise of the queen of flowers has become a classic? and have we not among churchmen the greatest grower of seedling daffodils the world has yet seen, and other names of clergymen honourably associated with roses and auriculas and tulips and other good flowers, and all greatly to their bettering? the conditions of the life of a parish priest would tend to make him a good gardener, for, while other men roam about, he stays mostly at home, and to live with one's garden is one of the best ways to ensure its welfare. and then, among the many anxieties and vexations and disappointments that must needs grieve the heart of the pastor of his people, his garden, with its wholesome labour and all its lessons of patience and trust and hopefulness, and its comforting power of solace, must be one of the best of medicines for the healing of his often sorrowing soul. i do not envy the owners of very large gardens. the garden should fit its master or his tastes just as his clothes do; it should be neither too large nor too small, but just comfortable. if the garden is larger than he can individually govern and plan and look after, then he is no longer its master but its slave, just as surely as the much-too-rich man is the slave and not the master of his superfluous wealth. and when i hear of the great place with a kitchen garden of twenty acres within the walls, my heart sinks as i think of the uncomfortable disproportion between the man and those immediately around him, and his vast output of edible vegetation, and i fall to wondering how much of it goes as it should go, or whether the greater part of it does not go dribbling away, leaking into unholy back-channels; and of how the looking after it must needs be subdivided; and of how many side-interests are likely to steal in, and altogether how great a burden of anxiety or matter of temptation it must give rise to. a grand truth is in the old farmer's saying, "the master's eye makes the pig fat;" but how can any one master's eye fat that vast pig of twenty acres, with all its minute and costly cultivation, its two or three crops a year off all ground given to soft vegetables, its stoves, greenhouses, orchid and orchard houses, its vineries, pineries, figgeries, and all manner of glass structures? but happily these monstrous gardens are but few--i only know of or have seen two, but i hope never to see another. nothing is more satisfactory than to see the well-designed and well-organised garden of the large country house, whose master loves his garden, and has good taste and a reasonable amount of leisure. i think that the first thing in such a place is to have large unbroken lawn spaces--all the better if they are continuous, passing round the south and west sides of the house. i am supposing a house of the best class, but not necessarily of the largest size. immediately adjoining the house, except for the few feet needed for a border for climbing plants, is a broad walk, dry and smooth, and perfectly level from end to end. this, in the case of many houses, and nearly always with good effect, is raised two or three feet above the garden ground, and if the architecture of the house demands it, has a retaining wall surmounted by a balustrade of masonry and wrought stone. broad and shallow stone steps lead down to the turf both at the end of the walk and in the middle of the front of the house, the wider and shallower the better, and at the foot of the wall may be a narrow border for a few climbing plants that will here and there rise above the coping of the parapet. i do not think it desirable where there are stone balusters or other distinct architectural features to let them be smothered with climbing plants, but that there should be, say, a _pyrus japonica_ or an escallonia, and perhaps a white jasmine, and on a larger space perhaps a cut-leaved or a claret vine. some of the best effects of the kind i have seen were where the bush, being well established, rose straight out of the grass, the border being unnecessary except just at the beginning. the large lawn space i am supposing stretches away a good distance from the house, and is bounded on the south and west by fine trees; away beyond that is all wild wood. on summer afternoons the greater part of the lawn expanse is in cool shade, while winter sunsets show through the tree stems. towards the south-east the wood would pass into shrub plantations, and farther still into garden and wild orchard (of which i shall have something to say presently). at this end of the lawn would be the brilliant parterre of bedded plants, seen both from the shaded lawn and from the terrace, which at this end forms part of its design. beyond the parterre would be a distinct division from the farther garden, either of yew or box hedge, with bays for seats, or in the case of a change of level, of another terrace wall. the next space beyond would be the main garden for hardy plants, at its southern end leading into the wild orchard. this would be the place for the free garden or the reserve garden, or for any of the many delightful ways in which hardy flowers can be used; and if it happened by good fortune to have a stream or any means of having running water, the possibilities of beautiful gardening would be endless. [illustration: garland-rose wreathing the end of a terrace wall.] beyond this again would come the kitchen garden, and after that the stables and the home farm. if the kitchen garden had a high wall, and might be entered on this side by handsome wrought-iron gates, i would approach it from the parterre by a broad grass walk bounded by large bay trees at equal intervals to right and left. through these to the right would be seen the free garden of hardy flowers. for the kitchen garden a space of two acres would serve a large country house with all that is usually grown within walls, but there should always be a good space outside for the rougher vegetables, as well as a roomy yard for compost, pits and frames, and rubbish. and here i wish to plead on behalf of the gardener that he should have all reasonable comforts and conveniences. nothing is more frequent, even in good places, than to find the potting and tool sheds screwed away into some awkward corner, badly lighted, much too small, and altogether inadequate, and the pits and frames scattered about and difficult to get at. nothing is more wasteful of time, labour, or temper. the working parts of a large garden form a complicated organisation, and if the parts of the mechanism do not fit and work well, and are not properly eased and oiled, still more, if any are missing, there must be disastrous friction and damage and loss of power. in designing garden buildings, i always strongly urge in connection with the heating system a warmed potting shed and a comfortable messroom for the men, and over this a perfectly dry loft for drying and storing such matters as shading material, nets, mats, ropes, and sacks. if this can be warmed, so much the better. there must also be a convenient and quite frost-proof place for winter storing of vegetable roots and such plants as dahlias, cannas, and gladiolus; and also a well-lighted and warmed workshop for all the innumerable jobs put aside for wet weather, of which the chief will be repainting and glazing of lights, repairing implements, and grinding and setting tools. this shop should have a carpenter's bench and screw, and a smith's anvil, and a proper assortment of tools. such arrangements, well planned and thought out, will save much time and loss of produce, besides helping to make all the people employed more comfortable and happy. i think that a garden should never be large enough to be tiring, that if a large space has to be dealt with, a great part had better be laid out in wood. woodland is always charming and restful and enduringly beautiful, and then there is an intermediate kind of woodland that should be made more of--woodland of the orchard type. why is the orchard put out of the way, as it generally is, in some remote region beyond the kitchen garden and stables? i should like the lawn, or the hardy flower garden, or both, to pass directly into it on one side, and to plant a space of several acres, not necessarily in the usual way, with orchard standards twenty-five feet apart in straight rows (though in many places the straight rows might be best), but to have groups and even groves of such things as medlars and quinces, siberian and chinese crabs, damsons, prunes, service trees, and mountain ash, besides apples, pears, and cherries, in both standard and bush forms. then alleys of filbert and cob-nut, and in the opener spaces tangles or brakes of the many beautiful bushy things allied to the apple and plum tribe--_cydonia_ and _prunus triloba_ and _cratægus_ of many kinds (some of them are tall bushes or small trees with beautiful fruits); and the wild blackthorn, which, though a plum, is so nearly related to pear that pears may be grafted on it. and then brakes of blackberries, especially of the parsley-leaved kind, so free of growth and so generous of fruit. how is it that this fine native plant is almost invariably sold in nurseries as an american bramble? if i am mistaken in this i should be glad to be corrected, but i believe it to be only the cut-leaved variety of the native _rubus affinis_. i have tried the best of the american kinds, and with the exception of one year, when i had a few fine fruits from kittatinny, they had been a failure, whereas invariably when people have told me that their american blackberries have fruited well, i have found them to be the parsley-leaved. some members of the large rose-apple-plum tribe grow to be large forest trees, and in my wild orchard they would go in the farther parts. the bird-cherry (_prunus padus_) grows into a tree of the largest size. a mountain ash will sometimes have a trunk two feet in diameter, and a head of a size to suit. the american kind, its near relation, but with larger leaves and still grander masses of berries, is a noble small tree; and the native white beam should not be forgotten, and choice places should be given to amelanchier and the lovely double japan apple (_pyrus malus floribunda_). to give due space and effect to all these good things my orchard garden would run into a good many acres, but every year it would be growing into beauty and profit. the grass should be left rough, and plentifully planted with daffodils, and with cowslips if the soil is strong. the grass would be mown and made into hay in june, and perhaps mown once more towards the end of september. under the nut-trees would be primroses and the garden kinds of wood hyacinths and dogtooth violets and lily of the valley, and perhaps snowdrops, or any of the smaller bulbs that most commended themselves to the taste of the master. such an orchard garden, well-composed and beautifully grouped, always with that indispensable quality of good "drawing," would not only be a source of unending pleasure to those who lived in the place, but a valuable lesson to all who saw it; for it would show the value of the simple and sensible ways of using a certain class of related trees and bushes, and of using them with a deliberate intention of making the best of them, instead of the usual meaningless-nohow way of planting. this, in nine cases out of ten, means either ignorance or carelessness, the planter not caring enough about the matter to take the trouble to find out what is best to be done, and being quite satisfied with a mixed lot of shrubs, as offered in nursery sales, or with the choice of the nurseryman. i do not presume to condemn all mixed planting, only stupid and ignorant mixed planting. it is not given to all people to take their pleasures alike; and i have in my mind four gardens, all of the highest interest, in which the planting is all mixed; but then the mixture is of admirable ingredients, collected and placed on account of individual merit, and a ramble round any one of these in company with its owner is a pleasure and a privilege that one cannot prize too highly. where the garden is of such large extent that experimental planting is made with a good number of one good thing at a time, even though there was no premeditated intention of planting for beautiful effect, the fact of there being enough plants to fall into large groups, and to cover some extent of ground, produces numbers of excellent results. i remember being struck with this on several occasions when i have had the happiness of visiting mr. g. f. wilson's garden at wisley, a garden which i take to be about the most instructive it is possible to see. in one part, where the foot of the hill joined the copse, there were hosts of lovely things planted on a succession of rather narrow banks. almost unthinkingly i expressed the regret i felt that so much individual beauty should be there without an attempt to arrange it for good effect. mr. wilson stopped, and looking at me straight with a kindly smile, said very quietly, "that is your business, not mine." in spite of its being a garden whose first object is trial and experiment, it has left in my memory two pictures, among several lesser ones, of plant-beauty that will stay with me as long as i can remember anything, one an autumn and one a spring picture--the hedge of _rosa rugosa_ in full fruit, and a plantation of _primula denticulata_. the primrose was on a bit of level ground, just at the outer and inner edges of the hazel copse. the plants were both grouped and thinly sprinkled, just as nature plants--possibly they grew directly there from seed. they were in superb and luxuriant beauty in the black peaty-looking half-boggy earth, the handsome leaves of the brilliant colour and large size that told of perfect health and vigour, and the large round heads of pure lilac flower carried on strong stalks that must have been fifteen inches high. i never saw it so happy and so beautiful. it is a plant i much admire, and i do the best i can for it on my dry hill; but the conditions of my garden do not allow of any approach to the success of the wisley plants; still i have treasured that lesson among many others i have brought away from that good garden, and never fail to advise some such treatment when i see the likely home for it in other places. [illustration: a roadside cottage garden.] some of the most delightful of all gardens are the little strips in front of roadside cottages. they have a simple and tender charm that one may look for in vain in gardens of greater pretension. and the old garden flowers seem to know that there they are seen at their best; for where else can one see such wallflowers, or double daisies, or white rose bushes; such clustering masses of perennial peas, or such well-kept flowery edgings of pink, or thrift, or london pride? among a good many calls for advice about laying out gardens, i remember an early one that was of special interest. it was the window-box of a factory lad in one of the great northern manufacturing towns. he had advertised in a mechanical paper that he wanted a tiny garden, as full of interest as might be, in a window-box; he knew nothing--would somebody help him with advice? so advice was sent and the box prepared. if i remember rightly the size was three feet by ten inches. a little later the post brought him little plants of mossy and silvery saxifrages, and a few small bulbs. even some stones were sent, for it was to be a rock-garden, and there were to be two hills of different heights with rocky tops, and a longish valley with a sunny and a shady side. it was delightful to have the boy's letters, full of keen interest and eager questions, and only difficult to restrain him from killing his plants with kindness, in the way of liberal doses of artificial manure. the very smallness of the tiny garden made each of its small features the more precious. i could picture his feeling of delightful anticipation when he saw the first little bluish blade of the snowdrop patch pierce its mossy carpet. would it, could it really grow into a real snowdrop, with the modest, milk-white flower and the pretty green hearts on the outside of the inner petals, and the clear green stripes within? and would it really nod him a glad good-morning when he opened his window to greet it? and those few blunt reddish horny-looking snouts just coming through the ground, would they really grow into the brilliant blue of the early squill, that would be like a bit of midsummer sky among the grimy surroundings of the attic window, and under that grey, soot-laden northern sky? i thought with pleasure how he would watch them in spare minutes of the dinner-hour spent at home, and think of them as he went forward and back to his work, and how the remembrance of the tender beauty of the full-blown flower would make him glad, and lift up his heart while "minding his mule" in the busy restless mill. chapter xv beginning and learning the ignorant questioner -- beginning at the end -- an example -- personal experience -- absence of outer help -- johns' "flowers of the field" -- collecting plants -- nurseries near london -- wheel-spokes as labels -- garden friends -- mr. robinson's "english flower-garden" -- mr. nicholson's "dictionary of gardening" -- one main idea desirable -- pictorial treatment -- training in fine art -- adapting from nature -- study of colour -- ignorant use of the word "artistic." many people who love flowers and wish to do some practical gardening are at their wit's end to know what to do and how to begin. like a person who is on skates for the first time, they feel that, what with the bright steel runners, and the slippery surface, and the sense of helplessness, there are more ways of tumbling about than of progressing safely in any one direction. and in gardening the beginner must feel this kind of perplexity and helplessness, and indeed there is a great deal to learn, only it is pleasant instead of perilous, and the many tumbles by the way only teach and do not hurt. the first few steps are perhaps the most difficult, and it is only when we know something of the subject and an eager beginner comes with questions that one sees how very many are the things that want knowing. and the more ignorant the questioner, the more difficult it is to answer helpfully. when one knows, one cannot help presupposing some sort of knowledge on the part of the querist, and where this is absent the answer we can give is of no use. the ignorance, when fairly complete, is of such a nature that the questioner does not know what to ask, and the question, even if it can be answered, falls upon barren ground. i think in such cases it is better to try and teach one simple thing at a time, and not to attempt to answer a number of useless questions. it is disheartening when one has tried to give a careful answer to have it received with an oh! of boredom or disappointment, as much as to say, you can't expect me to take all that trouble; and there is the still more unsatisfactory sort of applicant, who plies a string of questions and will not wait for the answers! the real way is to try and learn a little from everybody and from every place. there is no royal road. it is no use asking me or any one else how to dig--i mean sitting indoors and asking it. better go and watch a man digging, and then take a spade and try to do it, and go on trying till it comes, and you gain the knack that is to be learnt with all tools, of doubling the power and halving the effort; and meanwhile you will be learning other things, about your own arms and legs and back, and perhaps a little robin will come and give you moral support, and at the same time keep a sharp look-out for any worms you may happen to turn up; and you will find out that there are all sorts of ways of learning, not only from people and books, but from sheer trying. i remember years ago having to learn to use the blow-pipe, for soldering and other purposes connected with work in gold and silver. the difficult part of it is to keep up the stream of air through the pipe while you are breathing the air in; it is easy enough when you only want a short blast of a few seconds, within the compass of one breath or one filling of the bellows (lungs), but often one has to go on blowing through several inspirations. it is a trick of muscular action. my master who taught me never could do it himself, but by much trying one day i caught the trick. the grand way to learn, in gardening as in all things else, is to wish to learn, and to be determined to find out--not to think that any one person can wave a wand and give the power and knowledge. and there will be plenty of mistakes, and there must be, just as children must pass through the usual childish complaints. and some people make the mistake of trying to begin at the end, and of using recklessly what may want the utmost caution, such, for instance, as strong chemical manures. some ladies asked me why their plant had died. they had got it from the very best place, and they were sure they had done their very best for it, and--there it was, dead. i asked what it was, and how they had treated it. it was some ordinary border plant, whose identity i now forget; they had made a nice hole with their new trowel, and for its sole benefit they had bought a tin of concentrated fertiliser. this they had emptied into the hole, put in the plant, and covered it up and given it lots of water, and--it had died! and yet these were the best and kindest of women, who would never have dreamed of feeding a new-born infant on beefsteaks and raw brandy. but they learned their lesson well, and at once saw the sense when i pointed out that a plant with naked roots just taken out of the ground or a pot, removed from one feeding-place and not yet at home in another, or still more after a journey, with the roots only wrapped in a little damp moss and paper, had its feeding power suspended for a time, and was in the position of a helpless invalid. all that could be done for it then was a little bland nutriment of weak slops and careful nursing; if the planting took place in the summer it would want shading and only very gentle watering, until firm root-hold was secured and root-appetite became active, and that in rich and well-prepared garden ground such as theirs strong artificial manure was in any case superfluous. when the earlier ignorances are overcome it becomes much easier to help and advise, because there is more common ground to stand on. in my own case, from quite a small child, i had always seen gardening going on, though not of a very interesting kind. nothing much was thought of but bedding plants, and there was a rather large space on each side of the house for these, one on gravel and one on turf. but i had my own little garden in a nook beyond the shrubbery, with a seat shaded by a _boursault elegans_ rose, which i thought then, and still think, one of the loveliest of its kind. but my first knowledge of hardy plants came through wild ones. some one gave me that excellent book, the rev. c. a. johns' "flowers of the field." for many years i had no one to advise me (i was still quite small) how to use the book, or how to get to know (though it stared me in the face) how the plants were in large related families, and i had not the sense to do it for myself, nor to learn the introductory botanical part, which would have saved much trouble afterwards; but when i brought home my flowers i would take them one by one and just turn over the pages till i came to the picture that looked something like. but in this way i got a knowledge of individuals, and afterwards the idea of broad classification and relationship of genera to species may have come all the easier. i always think of that book as the most precious gift i ever received. i distinctly trace to its teaching my first firm steps in the path of plant knowledge, and the feeling of assured comfort i had afterwards in recognising the kinds when i came to collect garden plants; for at that time i had no other garden book, no means of access to botanic gardens or private collections, and no helpful adviser. one copy of "johns" i wore right out; i have now two, of which one is in its second binding, and is always near me for reference. i need hardly say that this was long before the days of the "english flower-garden," or its helpful predecessor, "alpine plants." by this time i was steadily collecting hardy garden plants wherever i could find them, mostly from cottage gardens. many of them were still unknown to me by name, but as the collection increased i began to compare and discriminate, and of various kinds of one plant to throw out the worse and retain the better, and to train myself to see what made a good garden plant, and about then began to grow the large yellow and white bunch primroses, whose history is in another chapter. and then i learnt that there were such places (though then but few) as nurseries, where such plants as i had been collecting in the cottage gardens, and even better, were grown. and i went to osborne's at fulham (now all built over), and there saw the original tree of the fine ilex known as the fulham oak, and several spring-flowering bulbs i had never seen before, and what i felt sure were numbers of desirable summer-flowering plants, but not then in bloom. soon after this i began to learn something about daffodils, and enjoyed much kind help from mr. barr, visiting his nursery (then at tooting) several times, and sometimes combining a visit to parker's nursery just over the way, a perfect paradise of good hardy plants. i shall never forget my first sight here of the cape pondweed (_aponogeton distachyon_) in full flower and great vigour in the dipping tanks, and overflowing from them into the ditches. also i was delighted to see the use as labels of old wheel-spokes. i could not help feeling that if one had been a spoke of a cab-wheel, and had passed all one's working life in being whirled and clattered over london pavements, defiled with street mud, how pleasant a way to end one's days was this; to have one's felloe end pointed and dipped in nice wholesome rot-resisting gas-tar and thrust into the quiet cool earth, and one's nave end smoothed and painted and inscribed with some such soothing legend as _vinca minor_ or _dianthus fragrans_! later i made acquaintance with several of the leading amateur and professional gardeners, and with mr. robinson, and to their good comradeship and kindly willingness to let me "pick their brains" i owe a great advance in garden lore. moreover, what began by the drawing together of a common interest has grown into a still greater benefit, for several acquaintances so made have ripened into steady and much-valued friendships. it has been a great interest to me to have had the privilege of watching the gradual growth, through its several editions, of mr. robinson's "english flower-garden," the one best and most helpful book of all for those who want to know about hardy flowers, offering as it does in the clearest and easiest way a knowledge of the garden-treasures of the temperate world. no one who has not had occasional glimpses behind the scenes can know how much labour and thought such a book represents, to say nothing of research and practical experiment, and of the trouble and great expense of producing the large amount of pictorial illustration. another book, though on quite different lines, that i find most useful is mr. nicholson's "illustrated dictionary of gardening," in eight handy volumes. it covers much the same ground as the useful old johnson's "gardener's dictionary," but is much more complete and comprehensive, and is copiously illustrated with excellent wood-cuts. it is the work of a careful and learned botanist, treating of all plants desirable for cultivation from all climates, and teaching all branches of practical horticulture and such useful matters as means of dealing with insect pests. the old "johnson" is still a capital book in one volume; mine is rather out of date, being the edition of , but it has been lately revised and improved. it would be delightful to possess, or to have easy access to, a good botanical library; still, for all the purposes of the average garden lover, these books will suffice. i think it is desirable, when a certain degree of knowledge of plants and facility of dealing with them has been acquired, to get hold of a clear idea of what one most wishes to do. the scope of the subject is so wide, and there are so many ways to choose from, that having one general idea helps one to concentrate thought and effort that would otherwise be wasted by being diluted and dribbled through too many probable channels of waste. ever since it came to me to feel some little grasp of knowledge of means and methods, i have found that my greatest pleasure, both in garden and woodland, has been in the enjoyment of beauty of a pictorial kind. whether the picture be large as of a whole landscape, or of lesser extent as in some fine single group or effect, or within the space of only a few inches as may be seen in some happily-disposed planting of alpines, the intention is always the same; or whether it is the grouping of trees in the wood by the removal of those whose lines are not wanted in the picture, or in the laying out of broad grassy ways in woody places, or by ever so slight a turn or change of direction in a wood path, or in the alteration of some arrangement of related groups for form or for massing of light and shade, or for any of the many local conditions that guide one towards forming a decision, the intention is still always the same--to try and make a beautiful garden-picture. and little as i can as yet boast of being able to show anything like the number of these i could wish, yet during the flower-year there is generally something that at least in part answers to the effort. i do not presume to urge the acceptance of my own particular form of pleasure in a garden on those to whom, from different temperament or manner of education, it would be unwelcome; i only speak of what i feel, and to a certain degree understand; but i had the advantage in earlier life of some amount of training in appreciation of the fine arts, and this, working upon an inborn feeling of reverent devotion to things of the highest beauty in the works of god, has helped me to an understanding of their divinely-inspired interpretations by the noblest minds of men, into those other forms that we know as works of fine art. and so it comes about that those of us who feel and understand in this way do not exactly attempt to imitate nature in our gardens, but try to become well acquainted with her moods and ways, and then discriminate in our borrowing, and so interpret her methods as best we may to the making of our garden-pictures. i have always had great delight in the study of colour, as the word is understood by artists, which again is not a positive matter, but one of relation and proportion. and when one hears the common chatter about "artistic colours," one receives an unpleasant impression about the education and good taste of the speaker; and one is reminded of an old saying which treats of the unwisdom of rushing in "where angels fear to tread," and of regret that a good word should be degraded by misuse. it may be safely said that no colour can be called artistic in itself; for, in the first place, it is bad english, and in the second, it is nonsense. even if the first objection were waived, and the second condoned, it could only be used in a secondary sense, as signifying something that is useful and suitable and right in its place. in this limited sense the scarlet of the soldier's coat, and of the pillar-box and mail-cart, and the bright colours of flags, or of the port and starboard lights of ships, might be said to be just so far "artistic" (again if grammar would allow), as they are right and good in their places. but then those who use the word in the usual ignorant, random way have not even this simple conception of its meaning. those who know nothing about colour in the more refined sense (and like a knowledge of everything else it wants learning) get no farther than to enjoy it only when most crude and garish--when, as george herbert says, it "bids the rash gazer wipe his eye," or when there is some violent opposition of complementary colour--forgetting, or not knowing, that though in detail the objects brought together may make each other appear brighter, yet in the mass, and especially when mixed up, the one actually neutralises the other. and they have no idea of using the colour of flowers as precious jewels in a setting of quiet environment, or of suiting the colour of flowering groups to that of the neighbouring foliage, thereby enhancing the value of both, or of massing related or harmonious colourings so as to lead up to the most powerful and brilliant effects; and yet all these are just the ways of employing colour to the best advantage. but the most frequent fault, whether in composition or in colour, is the attempt to crowd too much into the picture; the simpler effect obtained by means of temperate and wise restraint is always the more telling. chapter xvi the flower-border and pergola the flower-border -- the wall and its occupants -- _choisya ternata_ -- nandina -- canon ellacombe's garden -- treatment of colour-masses -- arrangement of plants in the border -- dahlias and cannas -- covering bare places -- the pergola -- how made -- suitable climbers -- arbours of trained planes -- garden houses. i have a rather large "mixed border of hardy flowers." it is not quite so hopelessly mixed as one generally sees, and the flowers are not all hardy; but as it is a thing everybody rightly expects, and as i have been for a good many years trying to puzzle out its wants and ways, i will try and describe my own and its surroundings. there is a sandstone wall of pleasant colour at the back, nearly eleven feet high. this wall is an important feature in the garden, as it is the dividing line between the pleasure garden and the working garden; also, it shelters the pleasure garden from the sweeping blasts of wind from the north-west, to which my ground is much exposed, as it is all on a gentle slope, going downward towards the north. at the foot of the wall is a narrow border three feet six inches wide, and then a narrow alley, not a made path, but just a way to go along for tending the wall shrubs, and for getting at the back of the border. this little alley does not show from the front. then the main border, fourteen feet wide and two hundred feet long. about three-quarters of the way along a path cuts through the border, and passes by an arched gateway in the wall to the pæony garden and the working garden beyond. just here i thought it would be well to mound up the border a little, and plant with groups of yuccas, so that at all times of the year there should be something to make a handsome full-stop to the sections of the border, and to glorify the doorway. the two extreme ends of the border are treated in the same way with yuccas on rather lesser mounds, only leaving space beyond them for the entrance to the little alley at the back. [illustration: a flower-border in june.] the wall and border face two points to the east of south, or, as a sailor would say, south-south-east, half-way between south and south-east. in front of the border runs a path seven feet wide, and where the border stops at the eastern end it still runs on another sixty feet, under the pergola, to the open end of a summer-house. the wall at its western end returns forward, square with its length, and hides out greenhouses, sheds, and garden yard. the path in front of the border passes through an arch into this yard, but there is no view into the yard, as it is blocked by some yews planted in a quarter-circle. though wall-space is always precious, i thought it better to block out this shorter piece of return wall on the garden side with a hedge of yews. they are now nearly the height of the wall, and will be allowed to grow a little higher, and will eventually be cut into an arch over the arch in the wall. i wanted the sombre duskiness of the yews as a rich, quiet background for the brightness of the flowers, though they are rather disappointing in may and june, when their young shoots are of a bright and lively green. at the eastern end of the border there is no return wall, but another planting of yews equal to the depth of the border. notched into them is a stone seat about ten feet long; as they grow they will be clipped so as to make an arching hood over the seat. the wall is covered with climbers, or with non-climbing shrubs treated as wall-plants. they do not all want the wall for warmth or protection, but are there because i want them there; because, thinking over what things would look best and give me the greatest pleasure, these came among them. all the same, the larger number of the plants on the wall do want it, and would not do without it. at the western end, the only part which is in shade for the greater part of the day, is a _garrya elliptica_. so many of my garden friends like a quiet journey along the wall to see what is there, that i propose to do the like by my reader; so first for the wall, and then for the border. beyond the _garrya_, in the extreme angle, is a _clematis montana_. when the _garrya_ is more grown there will not be much room left for the clematis, but then it will have become bare below, and can ramble over the wall on the north side, and, in any case, it is a plant with a not very long lifetime, and will be nearly or quite worn out before its root-space is reached or wanted by its neighbours. next on the wall is the beautiful rose acacia (_robinia hispida_). it is perfectly hardy, but the wood is so brittle that it breaks off short with the slightest weight of wind or snow or rain. i never could understand why a hardy shrub was created so brittle, or how it behaves in its native place. i look in my "nicholson," and see that it comes from north america. now, north america is a large place, and there may be in it favoured spots where there is no snow, and only the very gentlest rain, and so well sheltered that the wind only blows in faintest breaths; and to judge by its behaviour in our gardens, all these conditions are necessary for its well-being. this troublesome quality of brittleness no doubt accounts for its being so seldom seen in gardens. i began to think it hopeless when, after three plantings in the open, it was again wrecked, but at last had the happy idea of training it on a wall. even there, though it is looked over and tied in twice a year, a branch or two often gets broken. but i do not regret having given it the space, as the wall could hardly have had a better ornament, so beautiful are its rosy flower-clusters and pale-green leaves. as it inclines to be leggy below, i have trained a crimson rambler rose over the lower part, tying it in to any bare places in the _robinia_. [illustration: pathway across the south border in july.] [illustration: outside view of the brick pergola shown at page , after six years' growth.] next along the wall is _solanum crispum_, much to be recommended in our southern counties. it covers a good space of wall, and every year shoots up some feet above it; indeed it is such a lively grower that it has to endure a severe yearly pruning. every season it is smothered with its pretty clusters of potato-shaped bloom of a good bluish-lilac colour. after these i wanted some solid-looking dark evergreens, so there is a loquat, with its splendid foliage equalling that of _magnolia grandiflora_, and then black laurustinus, bay, and japan privet; and from among this dark-leaved company shoots up the tender green of a banksian rose, grown from seed of the single kind, the gift of my kind friend commendatore hanbury, whose world-famed garden of la mortola, near ventimiglia, probably contains the most remarkable collection of plants and shrubs that have ever been brought together by one man. this rose has made good growth, and a first few flowers last year--seedling roses are slow to bloom--lead me to expect a good show next season. in the narrow border at the foot of the wall is a bush of _raphiolepis ovata_, always to me an interesting shrub, with its thick, roundish, leathery leaves and white flower-clusters, also bushes of rosemary, some just filling the border, and some trained up the wall. our tudor ancestors were fond of rosemary-covered walls, and i have seen old bushes quite ten feet high on the garden walls of italian monasteries. among the rosemaries i always like, if possible, to "tickle in" a china rose or two, the tender pink of the rose seems to go so well with the dark but dull-surfaced rosemary. then still in the wall-border comes a long straggling mass of that very pretty and interesting herbaceous clematis, _c. davidiana_. the colour of its flower always delights me; it is of an unusual kind of greyish-blue, of very tender and lovely quality. it does well in this warm border, growing about three feet high. then on the wall come _pyrus maulei_ and _chimonanthus_, claret-vine, and the large-flowered _ceanothus_ gloire de versailles, hardy _fuchsia_, and _magnolia soulangeana_, ending with a big bush of _choisya ternata_, and rambling above it a very fine kind of _bignonia grandiflora_. then comes the archway, flanked by thick buttresses. a choisya was planted just beyond each of these, but it has grown wide and high, spreading across the face of the buttress on each side, and considerably invading the pathway. there is no better shrub here than this delightful mexican plant; its long whippy roots ramble through our light soil with every sign of enjoyment; it always looks clean and healthy and well dressed, and as for its lovely and deliciously sweet flowers, we cut them by the bushel, and almost by the faggot, and the bushes scarcely look any the emptier. beyond the archway comes the shorter length of wall and border. for convenience i planted all slightly tender things together on this bit of wall and border; then we make one job of covering the whole with fir-boughs for protection in winter. on the wall are _piptanthus nepalensis_, _cistus ladaniferus_, _edwardsia grandiflora_, and another loquat, and in the border a number of hydrangeas, _clerodendron foetidum_, _crinums_, and _nandina domestica_, the chinese so-called sacred bamboo. it is not a bamboo at all, but allied to _berberis_; the chinese plant it for good luck near their houses. if it is as lucky as it is pretty, it ought to do one good! i first made acquaintance with this beautiful plant in canon ellacombe's most interesting garden at bitton, in gloucestershire, where it struck me as one of the most beautiful growing things i had ever seen, the beauty being mostly in the form and colouring of the leaves. it is not perhaps a plant for everybody, and barely hardly; it seems slow to get hold, and its full beauty only shows when it is well established, and throws up its wonderfully-coloured leaves on tall bamboo-like stalks. there is nothing much more difficult to do in outdoor gardening than to plant a mixed border well, and to keep it in beauty throughout the summer. every year, as i gain more experience, and, i hope, more power of critical judgment, i find myself tending towards broader and simpler effects, both of grouping and colour. i do not know whether it is by individual preference, or in obedience to some colour-law that i can instinctively feel but cannot pretend even to understand, and much less to explain, but in practice i always find more satisfaction and facility in treating the warm colours (reds and yellows) in graduated harmonies, culminating into gorgeousness, and the cool ones in contrasts; especially in the case of blue, which i like to use either in distinct but not garish contrasts, as of full blue with pale yellow, or in separate cloud-like harmonies, as of lilac and pale purple with grey foliage. i am never so much inclined to treat the blues, purples, and lilacs in gradations together as i am the reds and yellows. purples and lilacs i can put together, but not these with blues; and the pure blues always seem to demand peculiar and very careful treatment. the western end of the flower-border begins with the low bank of yuccas, then there are some rather large masses of important grey and glaucous foliage and pale and full pink flower. the foliage is mostly of the globe artichoke, and nearer the front of _artemisia_ and _cineraria maritima_. among this, pink canterbury bell, hollyhock, phlox, gladiolus, and japan anemone, all in pink colourings, will follow one another in due succession. then come some groups of plants bearing whitish and very pale flowers, _polygonum compactum_, _aconitum lycoctonum_, double meadowsweet, and other spiræas, and then the colour passes to pale yellow of mulleins, and with them the palest blue delphiniums. towards the front is a wide planting of _iris pallida dalmatica_, its handsome bluish foliage showing as outstanding and yet related masses with regard to the first large group of pale foliage. then comes the pale-yellow _iris flavescens_, and meanwhile the group of delphinium deepens into those of a fuller blue colour, though none of the darkest are here. then more pale yellow of mullein, thalictrum, and paris daisy, and so the colour passes to stronger yellows. these change into orange, and from that to brightest scarlet and crimson, coming to the fullest strength in the oriental poppies of the earlier year, and later in lychnis, gladiolus, scarlet dahlia, and tritoma. the colour-scheme then passes again through orange and yellow to the paler yellows, and so again to blue and warm white, where it meets one of the clumps of yuccas flanking the path that divides this longer part of the border from the much shorter piece beyond. this simple procession of colour arrangement has occupied a space of a hundred and sixty feet, and the border is all the better for it. the short length of border beyond the gateway has again yuccas and important pale foliage, and a preponderance of pink bloom, hydrangea for the most part; but there are a few tall mulleins, whose pale-yellow flowers group well with the ivory of the yucca spikes and the clear pink of the tall hollyhocks. these all show up well over the masses of grey and glaucous foliage, and against the rich darkness of dusky yew. dahlias and cannas have their places in the mixed border. when it is being dismantled in the late autumn all bare places are well dug and enriched, so that when it comes to filling-up time, at the end of may, i know that every spare bit of space is ready and at the time of preparation i mark places for special dahlias, according to colour, and for groups of the tall cannas where i want grand foliage. there are certain classes of plants that are quite indispensable, but that leave a bare or shabby-looking place when their bloom is over. how to cover these places is one of the problems that have to be solved. the worst offender is oriental poppy; it becomes unsightly soon after blooming, and is quite gone by midsummer. i therefore plant _gypsophila paniculata_ between and behind the poppy groups, and by july there is a delicate cloud of bloom instead of large bare patches. _eryngium oliverianum_ has turned brown by the beginning of july, but around the group some dahlias have been planted, that will be gradually trained down over the space of the departed sea-holly, and other dahlias are used in the same way to mask various weak places. there is a perennial sunflower, with tall black stems, and pale-yellow flowers quite at the top, an old garden sort, but not very good as usually grown; this i find of great value to train down, when it throws up a short flowering stem from each joint, and becomes a spreading sheet of bloom. one would rather not have to resort to these artifices of sticking and training; but if a certain effect is wanted, all such means are lawful, provided that nothing looks stiff or strained or unsightly; and it is pleasant to exercise ingenuity and to invent ways to meet the needs of any case that may arise. but like everything else, in good gardening it must be done just right, and the artist-gardener finds that hardly the placing of a single plant can be deputed to any other hand than his own; for though, when it is done, it looks quite simple and easy, he must paint his own picture himself--no one can paint it for him. i have no dogmatic views about having in the so-called hardy flower-border none but hardy flowers. all flowers are welcome that are right in colour, and that make a brave show where a brave show is wanted. it is of more importance that the border should be handsome than that all its occupants should be hardy. therefore i prepare a certain useful lot of half-hardy annuals, and a few of what have come to be called bedding-plants. i like to vary them a little from year to year, because in no one season can i get in all the good flowers that i should like to grow; and i think it better to leave out some one year and have them the next, than to crowd any up, or to find i have plants to put out and no space to put them in. but i nearly always grow these half-hardy annuals; orange african marigold, french marigold, sulphur sunflower, orange and scarlet tall zinnia, nasturtiums, both dwarf and trailing, _nicotiana affinis_, maize, and salpiglossis. then stocks and china asters. the stocks are always the large white and flesh-coloured summer kinds, and the asters, the white comet, and one of the blood-red or so-called scarlet sorts. then i have yellow paris daisies, _salvia patens_, heliotrope, _calceolaria amplexicaulis_, geraniums, scarlet and salmon-coloured and ivy-leaved kinds, the best of these being the pink madame crousse. [illustration: end of flower-border and entrance of pergola.] [illustration: south border door and yuccas in august.] the front edges of the border are also treated in rather a large way. at the shadier end there is first a long straggling bordering patch of _anemone sylvestris_. when it is once above ground the foliage remains good till autumn, while its soft white flower comes right with the colour of the flowers behind. then comes a long and large patch of the larger kind of _megasea cordifolia_, several yards in length, and running back here and there among taller plants. i am never tired of admiring the fine solid foliage of this family of plants, remaining, as it does, in beauty both winter and summer, and taking on a splendid winter colouring of warm red bronze. it is true that the flowers of the two best-known kinds, _m. cordifolia_ and _m. crassifolia_, are coarse-looking blooms of a strong and rank quality of pink colour, but the persistent beauty of the leaves more than compensates; and in the rather tenderer kind, _m. ligulata_ and its varieties, the colour of the flower is delightful, of a delicate good pink, with almost scarlet stalks. there is nothing flimsy or temporary-looking about the megaseas, but rather a sort of grave and monumental look that specially fits them for association with masonry, or for any place where a solid-looking edging or full-stop is wanted. to go back to those in the edge of the border: if the edging threatens to look too dark and hard, i plant among or just behind the plants that compose it, pink or scarlet ivy geranium or trailing nasturtium, according to the colour demanded by the neighbouring group. _heuchera richardsoni_ is another good front-edge plant; and when we come to the blue and pale-yellow group there is a planting of _funkia grandiflora_, whose fresh-looking pale-green leaves are delightful with the brilliant light yellow of _calceolaria amplexicaulis_, and the farther-back planting of pale-blue delphinium, mullein, and sulphur sunflower; while the same colour of foliage is repeated in the fresh green of the indian corn. small spaces occur here and there along the extreme front edge, and here are planted little jewels of colour, of blue lobelia, or dwarf nasturtium, or anything of the colour that the place demands. the whole thing sounds much more elaborate than it really is; the trained eye sees what is wanted, and the trained hand does it, both by an acquired instinct. it is painting a picture with living plants. i much enjoy the pergola at the end of the sunny path. it is pleasant while walking in full sunshine, and when that sunny place feels just a little too hot, to look into its cool depth, and to feel that one has only to go a few steps farther to be in shade, and to feel that little air of wind that the moving summer clouds say is not far off, and is only unfelt just here because it is stopped by the wall. it feels wonderfully dark at first, this gallery of cool greenery, passing into it with one's eyes full of light and colour, and the open-sided summer-house at the end looks like a black cavern; but on going into it, and sitting down on one of its broad, low benches, one finds that it is a pleasant subdued light, just right to read by. the pergola has two openings out of it on the right, and one on the left. the first way out on the right is straight into the nut-walk, which leads up to very near the house. the second goes up two or three low, broad steps made of natural sandstone flags, between groups of ferns, into the michaelmas daisy garden. the opening on the left leads into a quiet space of grass the width of the flower and wall border (twenty feet), having only some peat-beds planted with kalmia. this is backed by a yew hedge in continuation of the main wall, and it will soon grow into a cool, quiet bit of garden, seeming to belong to the pergola. now, standing midway in the length of the covered walk, with the eye rested and refreshed by the leafy half-light, on turning round again towards the border it shows as a brilliant picture through the bowery framing, and the value of the simple method of using the colours is seen to full advantage. i do not like a mean pergola, made of stuff as thin as hop-poles. if means or materials do not admit of having anything better, it is far better to use these in some other simple way, of which there are many to choose from--such as uprights at even intervals, braced together with a continuous rail at about four feet from the ground, and another rail just clear of the ground, and some simple trellis of the smaller stuff between these two rails. this is always pretty at the back of a flower-border in any modest garden. but a pergola should be more seriously treated, and the piers at any rate should be of something rather large--either oak stems ten inches thick, or, better still, of fourteen-inch brickwork painted with lime-wash to a quiet stone-colour. in italy the piers are often of rubble masonry, either round or square in section, coated with very coarse plaster, and lime-washed white. for a pergola of moderate size the piers should stand in pairs across the path, with eight feet clear between. ten feet from pier to pier along the path is a good proportion, or anything from eight to ten feet, and they should stand seven feet two inches out of the ground. each pair should be tied across the top with a strong beam of oak, either of the natural shape, or roughly adzed on the four faces; but in any case, the ends of the beams, where they rest on the top of the piers, should be adzed flat to give them a firm seat. if the beams are slightly curved or cambered, as most trunks of oak are, so much the better, but they must always be placed camber side up. the pieces that run along the top, with the length of the path, may be of any branching tops of oak, or of larch poles. these can easily be replaced as they decay; but the replacing of a beam is a more difficult matter, so that it is well to let them be fairly durable from the beginning. [illustration: stone-built pergola with wrought oak beams.] [illustration: pergola with brick piers and beams of rough oak. (_see opposite page ._)] the climbers i find best for covering the pergola are vines, jasmine, aristolochia, virginia creeper, and wistaria. roses are about the worst, for they soon run up leggy, and only flower at the top out of sight. a sensible arrangement, allied to the pergola, and frequent in germany and switzerland, is made by planting young planes, pollarding them at about eight feet from the ground, and training down the young growths horizontally till they have covered the desired roof-space. there is much to be done in our better-class gardens in the way of pretty small structures thoroughly well-designed and built. many a large lawn used every afternoon in summer as a family playground and place to receive visitors would have its comfort and usefulness greatly increased by a pretty garden-house, instead of the usual hot and ugly, crampy and uncomfortable tent. but it should be thoroughly well designed to suit the house and garden. a pigeon-cote would come well in the upper part, and the face or faces open to the lawn might be closed in winter with movable shutters, when it would make a useful store-place for garden seats and much else. chapter xvii the primrose garden it must be some five-and-twenty years ago that i began to work at what i may now call my own strain of primroses, improving it a little every year by careful selection of the best for seed. the parents of the strain were a named kind, called golden plover, and a white one, without name, that i found in a cottage garden. i had also a dozen plants about eight or nine years ago from a strong strain of mr. anthony waterer's that was running on nearly the same lines; but a year later, when i had flowered them side by side, i liked my own one rather the best, and mr. waterer, seeing them soon after, approved of them so much that he took some to work with his own. i hold mr. waterer's strain in great admiration, and, though i tried for a good many years, never could come near him in red colourings. but as my own taste favoured the delicately-shaded flowers, and the ones most liked in the nursery seemed to be those with strongly contrasting eye, it is likely that the two strains may be working still farther apart. they are, broadly speaking, white and yellow varieties of the strong bunch-flowered or polyanthus kind, but they vary in detail so much, in form, colour, habit, arrangement, and size of eye and shape of edge, that one year thinking it might be useful to classify them i tried to do so, but gave it up after writing out the characters of sixty classes! their possible variation seems endless. every year among the seedlings there appear a number of charming flowers with some new development of size, or colour of flower, or beauty of foliage, and yet all within the narrow bounds of--white and yellow primroses. [illustration: evening in the primrose garden.] their time of flowering is much later than that of the true or single-stalked primrose. they come into bloom early in april, though a certain number of poorly-developed flowers generally come much earlier, and they are at their best in the last two weeks of april and the first days of may. when the bloom wanes, and is nearly overtopped by the leaves, the time has come that i find best for dividing and replanting. the plants then seem willing to divide, some almost falling apart in one's hands, and the new roots may be seen just beginning to form at the base of the crown. the plants are at the same time relieved of the crowded mass of flower-stem, and, therefore, of the exhausting effort of forming seed, a severe drain on their strength. a certain number will not have made more than one strong crown, and a few single-crown plants have not flowered; these, of course, do not divide. during the flowering time i keep a good look-out for those that i judge to be the most beautiful and desirable, and mark them for seed. these are also taken up, but are kept apart, the flower stems reduced to one or two of the most promising, and they are then planted in a separate place--some cool nursery corner. i find that the lifting and replanting in no way checks the growth or well-being of the seed-pods. i remember some years ago a warm discussion in the gardening papers about the right time to sow the seed. some gardeners of high standing were strongly for sowing it as soon as ripe, while others equally trustworthy advised holding it over till march. i have tried both ways, and have satisfied myself that it is a matter for experiment and decision in individual gardens. as nearly as i can make out, it is well in heavy soils to sow when ripe, and in light ones to wait till march. in some heavy soils primroses stand well for two years without division; whereas in light ones, such as mine, they take up the food within reach in a much shorter time, so that by the second year the plant has become a crowded mass of weak crowns that only throw up poor flowers, and are by then so much exhausted that they are not worth dividing afterwards. in my own case, having tried both ways, i find the march sown ones much the best. the seed is sown in boxes in cold frames, and pricked out again into boxes when large enough to handle. the seedlings are planted out in june, when they seem to go on without any check whatever, and are just right for blooming next spring. the primrose garden is in a place by itself--a clearing half shaded by oak, chestnut, and hazel. i always think of the hazel as a kind nurse to primroses; in the copses they generally grow together, and the finest primrose plants are often nestled close in to the base of the nut-stool. three paths run through the primrose garden, mere narrow tracks between the beds, converging at both ends, something like the lines of longitude on a globe, the ground widening in the middle where there are two good-sized oaks, and coming to a blunt point at each end, the only other planting near it being two other long-shaped strips of lily of the valley. every year, before replanting, the primrose ground is dug over and well manured. all day for two days i sit on a low stool dividing the plants; a certain degree of facility and expertness has come of long practice. the "rubber" for frequent knife-sharpening is in a pail of water by my side; the lusciously fragrant heap of refuse leaf and flower-stem and old stocky root rises in front of me, changing its shape from a heap to a ridge, as when it comes to a certain height and bulk i back and back away from it. a boy feeds me with armfuls of newly-dug-up plants, two men are digging-in the cooling cow-dung at the farther end, and another carries away the divided plants tray by tray, and carefully replants them. the still air, with only the very gentlest south-westerly breath in it, brings up the mighty boom of the great ship guns from the old seaport, thirty miles away, and the pheasants answer to the sound as they do to thunder. the early summer air is of a perfect temperature, the soft coo of the wood-dove comes down from the near wood, the nightingale sings almost overhead, but--either human happiness may never be quite complete, or else one is not philosophic enough to contemn life's lesser evils, for--oh, the midges! chapter xviii colours of flowers i am always surprised at the vague, not to say reckless, fashion in which garden folk set to work to describe the colours of flowers, and at the way in which quite wrong colours are attributed to them. it is done in perfect good faith, and without the least consciousness of describing wrongly. in many cases it appears to be because the names of certain substances have been used conventionally or poetically to convey the idea of certain colours. and some of these errors are so old that they have acquired a kind of respectability, and are in a way accepted without challenge. when they are used about familiar flowers it does not occur to one to detect them, because one knows the flower and its true colour; but when the same old error is used in the description of a new flower, it is distinctly misleading. for instance, when we hear of golden buttercups, we know that it means bright-yellow buttercups; but in the case of a new flower, or one not generally known, surely it is better and more accurate to say bright yellow at once. nothing is more frequent in plant catalogues than "bright golden yellow," when bright yellow is meant. gold is not bright yellow. i find that a gold piece laid on a gravel path, or against a sandy bank, nearly matches it in colour; and i cannot think of any flower that matches or even approaches the true colour of gold, though something near it may be seen in the pollen-covered anthers of many flowers. a match for gold may more nearly be found among dying beech leaves, and some dark colours of straw or dry grass bents, but none of these when they match the gold are bright yellow. in literature it is quite another matter; when the poet or imaginative writer says, "a field of golden buttercups," or "a golden sunset," he is quite right, because he appeals to our artistic perception, and in such case only uses the word as an image of something that is rich and sumptuous and glowing. the same irrelevance of comparison seems to run through all the colours. flowers of a full, bright-blue colour are often described as of a "brilliant amethystine blue." why amethystine? the amethyst, as we generally see it, is a stone of a washy purple colour, and though there are amethysts of a fine purple, they are not so often seen as the paler ones, and i have never seen one even faintly approaching a really blue colour. what, therefore, is the sense of likening a flower, such as a delphinium, which is really of a splendid pure-blue colour, to the duller and totally different colour of a third-rate gem? another example of the same slip-slop is the term flame-coloured, and it is often preceded by the word "gorgeous." this contradictory mixture of terms is generally used to mean bright scarlet. when i look at a flame, whether of fire or candle, i see that the colour is a rather pale yellow, with a reddish tinge about its upper forks, and side wings often of a bluish white--no scarlet anywhere. the nearest approach to red is in the coals, not in the flame. in the case of the candle, the point of the wick is faintly red when compared with the flame, but about the flame there is no red whatever. a distant bonfire looks red at night, but i take it that the apparent redness is from seeing the flames through damp atmosphere, just as the harvest-moon looks red when it rises. and the strange thing is that in all these cases the likeness to the unlike, and much less bright, colour is given with an air of conferring the highest compliment on the flower in question. it is as if, wishing to praise some flower of a beautiful blue, one called it a brilliant slate-roof blue. this sounds absurd, because it is unfamiliar, but the unsuitability of the comparison is scarcely greater than in the examples just quoted. it seems most reasonable in describing the colour of flowers to look out for substances whose normal colour shows but little variation--such, for example, as sulphur. the colour of sulphur is nearly always the same. citron, lemon, and canary are useful colour-names, indicating different strengths of pure pale yellow, inclining towards a tinge of the palest green. gentian-blue is a useful word, bringing to mind the piercingly powerful hue of the gentianella. so also is turquoise-blue, for the stone has little variety of shade, and the colour is always of the same type. forget-me-not blue is also a good word, meaning the colour of the native water forget-me-not. sky-blue is a little vague, though it has come by the "crystallising" force of usage to stand for a blue rather pale than full, and not far from that of the forget-me-not; indeed, i seem to remember written passages in which the colours of flower and firmament were used reciprocally, the one in describing the other. cobalt is a word sometimes used, but more often misused, for only water-colour painters know just what it represents, and it is of little use, as it so rarely occurs among flowers. crimson is a word to beware of; it covers such a wide extent of ground, and is used so carelessly in plant-catalogues, that one cannot know whether it stands for a rich blood colour or for a malignant magenta. for the latter class of colour the term amaranth, so generally used in french plant-lists, is extremely useful, both as a definition and a warning. salmon is an excellent colour-word, copper is also useful, the two covering a limited range of beautiful colouring of the utmost value. blood-red is also accurately descriptive. terra-cotta is useful but indefinite, as it may mean anything between brick-red and buff. red-lead, if it would be accepted as a colour-word, would be useful, denoting the shades of colour between the strongest orange and the palest scarlet, frequent in the lightest of the oriental poppies. amber is a misleading word, for who is to know when it means the transparent amber, whose colour approaches that of resin, or the pale, almost opaque, dull-yellow kind. and what is meant by coral-red? it is the red of the old-fashioned dull-scarlet coral, or of the pink kind more recently in favour. the terms bronze and smoke may well be used in their place, as in describing or attempting to describe the wonderful colouring of such flowers as spanish iris, and the varieties of iris of the _squalens_ section. but often in describing a flower a reference to texture much helps and strengthens the colour-word. i have often described the modest little _iris tuberosa_ as a flower made of green satin and black velvet. the green portion is only slightly green, but is entirely green satin, and the black of the velvet is barely black, but is quite black-velvet-like. the texture of the flower of _ornithogalum nutans_ is silver satin, neither very silvery nor very satin-like, and yet so nearly suggesting the texture of both that the words may well be used in speaking of it. indeed, texture plays so important a part in the appearance of colour-surface, that one can hardly think of colour without also thinking of texture. a piece of black satin and a piece of black velvet may be woven of the same batch of material, but when the satin is finished and the velvet cut, the appearance is often so dissimilar that they may look quite different in colour. a working painter is never happy if you give him an oil-colour pattern to match in distemper; he must have it of the same texture, or he will not undertake to get it like. what a wonderful range of colouring there is in black alone to a trained colour-eye! there is the dull brown-black of soot, and the velvety brown-black of the bean-flower's blotch; to my own eye, i have never found anything so entirely black in a natural product as the patch on the lower petals of _iris iberica_. is it not ruskin who says of velasquez, that there is more colour in his black than in many another painter's whole palette? the blotch of the bean-flower appears black at first, till you look at it close in the sunlight, and then you see its rich velvety texture, so nearly like some of the brown-velvet markings on butterflies' wings. and the same kind of rich colour and texture occurs again on some of the tough flat half-round funguses, marked with shaded rings, that grow out of old posts, and that i always enjoy as lessons of lovely colour-harmony of grey and brown and black. much to be regretted is the disuse of the old word murrey, now only employed in heraldry. it stands for a dull red-purple, such as appears in the flower of the virginian allspice, and in the native hound's-tongue, and often in seedling auriculas. a fine strong-growing border auricula was given to me by my valued friend the curator of the trinity college botanic garden, dublin, to which he had given the excellently descriptive name, "old murrey." sage-green is a good colour-word, for, winter or summer, the sage-leaves change but little. olive-green is not so clear, though it has come by use to stand for a brownish green, like the glass of a wine-bottle held up to the light, but perhaps bottle-green is the better word. and it is not clear what part or condition of the olive is meant, for the ripe fruit is nearly black, and the tree in general, and the leaf in detail, are of a cool-grey colour. perhaps the colour-word is taken from the colour of the unripe fruit pickled in brine, as we see them on the table. grass-green any one may understand, but i am always puzzled by apple-green. apples are of so many different greens, to say nothing of red and yellow; and as for pea-green, i have no idea what it means. i notice in plant-lists the most reckless and indiscriminate use of the words purple, violet, mauve, lilac, and lavender, and as they are all related, i think they should be used with the greater caution. i should say that mauve and lilac cover the same ground; the word mauve came into use within my recollection. it is french for mallow, and the flower of the wild plant may stand as the type of what the word means. lavender stands for a colder or bluer range of pale purples, with an inclination to grey; it is a useful word, because the whole colour of the flower spike varies so little. violet stands for the dark garden violet, and i always think of the grand colour of _iris reticulata_ as an example of a rich violet-purple. but purple equally stands for this, and for many shades redder. snow-white is very vague. there is nearly always so much blue about the colour of snow, from its crystalline surface and partial transparency, and the texture is so unlike that of any kind of flower, that the comparison is scarcely permissible. i take it that the use of "snow-white" is, like that of "golden-yellow," more symbolical than descriptive, meaning any white that gives an impression of purity. nearly all white flowers are yellowish-white, and the comparatively few that are bluish-white, such, for example, as _omphalodes verna_, are of a texture so different from snow that one cannot compare them at all. i should say that most white flowers are near the colour of chalk; for although the word chalky-white has been used in rather a contemptuous way, the colour is really a very beautiful warm white, but by no means an intense white. the flower that always looks to me the whitest is that of _iberis sempervirens_. the white is dead and hard, like a piece of glazed stoneware, quite without play or variation, and hence uninteresting. chapter xix the scents of the garden the sweet scents of a garden are by no means the least of its many delights. even january brings _chimonanthus fragrans_, one of the sweetest and strongest scented of the year's blooms--little half-transparent yellowish bells on an otherwise naked-looking wall shrub. they have no stalks, but if they are floated in a shallow dish of water, they last well for several days, and give off a powerful fragrance in a room. during some of the warm days that nearly always come towards the end of february, if one knows where to look in some sunny, sheltered corner of a hazel copse, there will be sure to be some primroses, and the first scent of the year's first primrose is no small pleasure. the garden primroses soon follow, and, meanwhile, in all open winter weather there have been czar violets and _iris stylosa_, with its delicate scent, faintly violet-like, but with a dash of tulip. _iris reticulata_ is also sweet, with a still stronger perfume of the violet character. but of all irises i know, the sweetest to smell is a later blooming one, _i. graminea_. its small purple flowers are almost hidden among the thick mass of grassy foliage which rises high above the bloom; but they are worth looking for, for the sake of the sweet and rather penetrating scent, which is exactly like that of a perfectly-ripened plum. all the scented flowers of the primrose tribe are delightful--primrose, polyanthus, auricula, cowslip. the actual sweetness is most apparent in the cowslip; in the auricula it has a pungency, and at the same time a kind of veiled mystery, that accords with the clouded and curiously-blended colourings of many of the flowers. sweetbriar is one of the strongest of the year's early scents, and closely following is the woodland incense of the larch, both freely given off and far-wafted, as is also that of the hardy daphnes. the first quarter of the year also brings the bloom of most of the deciduous magnolias, all with a fragrance nearly allied to that of the large one that blooms late in summer, but not so strong and heavy. the sweetness of a sun-baked bank of wallflower belongs to april. daffodils, lovely as they are, must be classed among flowers of rather rank smell, and yet it is welcome, for it means spring-time, with its own charm and its glad promise of the wealth of summer bloom that is soon to come. the scent of the jonquil, poeticus, and polyanthus sections are best, jonquil perhaps best of all, for it is without the rather coarse scent of the trumpets and nonsuch, and also escapes the penetrating lusciousness of _poeticus_ and _tazetta_, which in the south of europe is exaggerated in the case of _tazetta_ into something distinctly unpleasant. what a delicate refinement there is in the scent of the wild wood-violet; it is never overdone. it seems to me to be quite the best of all the violet-scents, just because of its temperate quality. it gives exactly enough, and never that perhaps-just-a-trifle-too-much that may often be noticed about a bunch of frame-violets, and that also in the south is intensified to a degree that is distinctly undesirable. for just as colour may be strengthened to a painful glare, and sound may be magnified to a torture, so even a sweet scent may pass its appointed bounds and become an overpoweringly evil smell. even in england several of the lilies, whose smell is delicious in open-air wafts, cannot be borne in a room. in the south of europe a tuberose cannot be brought indoors, and even at home i remember one warm wet august how a plant of balm of gilead (_cedronella triphylla_) had its always powerful but usually agreeably aromatic smell so much exaggerated that it smelt exactly like coal-gas! a brother in jamaica writes of the large white jasmine: "it does not do to bring it indoors here; the scent is too strong. one day i thought there was a dead rat under the floor (a thing which did happen once), and behold, it was a glassful of fresh white jasmine that was the offender!" while on this less pleasant part of the subject, i cannot help thinking of the horrible smell of the dragon arum; and yet how fitting an accompaniment it is to the plant, for if ever there was a plant that looked wicked and repellent, it is this; and yet, like medusa, it has its own kind of fearful beauty. in this family the smell seems to accompany the appearance, and to diminish in unpleasantness as the flower increases in amiability; for in our native wild arum the smell, though not exactly nice, is quite innocuous, and in the beautiful white arum or _calla_ of our greenhouses there is as little scent as a flower can well have, especially one of such large dimensions. in fungi the bad smell is nearly always an indication of poisonous nature, so that it would seem to be given as a warning. but it has always been a matter of wonder to me why the root of the harmless and friendly laurustinus should have been given a particularly odious smell--a smell i would rather not attempt to describe. on moist warmish days in mid-seasons i have sometimes had a whiff of the same unpleasantness from the bushes themselves; others of the same tribe have it in a much lesser degree. there is a curious smell about the yellow roots of berberis, not exactly nasty, and a strong odour, not really offensive, but that i personally dislike, about the root of _chrysanthemum maximum_. on the other hand, i always enjoy digging up, dividing, and replanting the _asarums_, both the common european and the american kinds; their roots have a pleasant and most interesting smell, a good deal like mild pepper and ginger mixed, but more strongly aromatic. the same class of smell, but much fainter, and always reminding me of very good and delicate pepper, i enjoy in the flowers of the perennial lupines. the only other hardy flowers i can think of whose smell is distinctly offensive are _lilium pyrenaicum_, smelling like a mangy dog, and some of the _schizanthus_, that are redolent of dirty hen-house. there is a class of scent that, though it can neither be called sweet nor aromatic, is decidedly pleasing and interesting. such is that of bracken and other fern-fronds, ivy-leaves, box-bushes, vine-blossom, elder-flowers, and fig-leaves. there are the sweet scents that are wholly delightful--most of the roses, honeysuckle, primrose, cowslip, mignonette, pink, carnation, heliotrope, lily of the valley, and a host of others; then there is a class of scent that is intensely powerful, and gives an impression almost of intemperance or voluptuousness, such as magnolia, tuberose, gardenia, stephanotis, and jasmine; it is strange that these all have white flowers of thick leathery texture. in strongest contrast to these are the sweet, wholesome, wind-wafted scents of clover-field, of bean-field, and of new-mown hay, and the soft honey-scent of sun-baked heather, and of a buttercup meadow in april. still more delicious is the wind-swept sweetness of a wood of larch or of scotch fir, and the delicate perfume of young-leaved birch, or the heavier scent of the flowering lime. out on the moorlands, besides the sweet heather-scent, is that of flowering broom and gorse and of the bracken, so like the first smell of the sea as you come near it after a long absence. how curiously scents of flowers and leaves fall into classes--often one comes upon related smells running into one another in not necessarily related plants. there is a kind of scent that i sometimes meet with, about clumps of brambles, a little like the waft of a fir wood; it occurs again (quite naturally) in the first taste of blackberry jam, and then turns up again in sweet sultan. it is allied to the smell of the dying strawberry leaves. the smell of the primrose occurs again in a much stronger and ranker form in the root-stock, and the same thing happens with the violets and pansies; in violets the plant-smell is pleasant, though without the high perfume of the flower; but the smell of an overgrown bed of pansy-plants is rank to offensiveness. perhaps the most delightful of all flower scents are those whose tender and delicate quality makes one wish for just a little more. such a scent is that of apple-blossom, and of some small pansies, and of the wild rose and the honeysuckle. among roses alone the variety and degree of sweet scent seems almost infinite. to me the sweetest of all is the provence, the old cabbage rose of our gardens. when something approaching this appears, as it frequently does, among the hybrid perpetuals, i always greet it as the real sweet rose smell. one expects every rose to be fragrant, and it is a disappointment to find that such a beautiful flower as baroness rothschild is wanting in the sweet scent that would be the fitting complement of its incomparable form, and to perceive in so handsome a rose as malmaison a heavy smell of decidedly bad quality. but such cases are not frequent. there is much variety in the scent of the tea-roses, the actual tea flavour being strongest in the dijon class. some have a powerful scent that is very near that of a ripe nectarine; of this the best example i know is the old rose goubault. the half-double red gloire de rosamène has a delightful scent of a kind that is rare among roses. it has a good deal of the quality of that mysterious and delicious smell given off by the dying strawberry leaves, aromatic, pungent, and delicately refined, searching and powerful, and yet subtle and elusive--the best sweet smell of all the year. one cannot have it for the seeking; it comes as it will--a scent that is sad as a forecast of the inevitable certainty of the flower-year's waning, and yet sweet with the promise of its timely new birth. sometimes i have met with a scent of somewhat the same mysterious and aromatic kind when passing near a bank clothed with the great st. john's wort. as this also occurs in early autumn, i suppose it to be occasioned by the decay of some of the leaves. and there is a small yellow-flowered potentilla that has a scent of the same character, but always freely and willingly given off--a humble-looking little plant, well worth growing for its sweetness, that much to my regret i have lost. i observe that when a rose exists in both single and double form the scent is increased in the double beyond the proportion that one would expect. _rosa lucida_ in the ordinary single state has only a very slight scent; in the lovely double form it is very sweet, and has acquired somewhat of the moss-rose smell. the wild burnet-rose (_r. spinosissima_) has very little smell; but the scotch briars, its garden relatives, have quite a powerful fragrance, a pale flesh-pink kind, whose flowers are very round and globe-like, being the sweetest of all. but of all the sweet scents of bush or flower, the ones that give me the greatest pleasure are those of the aromatic class, where they seem to have a wholesome resinous or balsamic base, with a delicate perfume added. when i pick and crush in my hand a twig of bay, or brush against a bush of rosemary, or tread upon a tuft of thyme, or pass through incense-laden brakes of cistus, i feel that here is all that is best and purest and most refined, and nearest to poetry, in the range of faculty of the sense of smell. the scents of all these sweet shrubs, many of them at home in dry and rocky places in far-away lower latitudes, recall in a way far more distinct than can be done by a mere mental effort of recollection, rambles of years ago in many a lovely southern land--in the islands of the greek archipelago, beautiful in form, and from a distance looking bare and arid, and yet with a scattered growth of lowly, sweet-smelling bush and herb, so that as you move among them every plant seems full of sweet sap or aromatic gum, and as you tread the perfumed carpet the whole air is scented; then of dusky groves of tall cypress and myrtle, forming mysterious shadowy woodland temples that unceasingly offer up an incense of their own surpassing fragrance, and of cooler hollows in the same lands and in the nearer orient, where the oleander grows like the willow of the north, and where the sweet bay throws up great tree-like suckers of surprising strength and vigour. it is only when one has seen it grow like this that one can appreciate the full force of the old bible simile. then to find oneself standing (while still on earth) in a grove of giant myrtles fifteen feet high is like having a little chink of the door of heaven opened, as if to show a momentary glimpse of what good things may be beyond! among the sweet shrubs from the nearer of these southern regions, one of the best for english gardens is _cistus laurifolius_. its wholesome, aromatic sweetness is freely given off, even in winter. in this, as in its near relative, _c. ladaniferus_, the scent seems to come from the gummy surface, and not from the body of the leaf. _caryopteris mastacanthus_, the mastic plant, from china, one of the few shrubs that flower in autumn, has strongly-scented woolly leaves, something like turpentine, but more refined. _ledum palustre_ has a delightful scent when its leaves are bruised. the wild bog-myrtle, so common in scotland, has almost the sweetness of the true myrtle, as has also the broad-leaved north american kind, and the candleberry gale (_comptonia asplenifolia_) from the same country. the myrtle-leaved rhododendron is a dwarf shrub of neat habit, whose bruised leaves have also a myrtle-like smell, though it is less strong than in the gales. i wonder why the leaves of nearly all the hardy aromatic shrubs are of a hard, dry texture; the exceptions are so few that it seems to be a law. if my copse were some acres larger i should like nothing better than to make a good-sized clearing, laying out to the sun, and to plant it with these aromatic bushes and herbs. the main planting should be of cistus and rosemary and lavender, and for the shadier edges the myrtle-leaved rhododendron, and _ledum palustre_, and the three bog-myrtles. then again in the sun would be hyssop and catmint, and lavender-cotton and southernwood, with others of the scented artemisias, and sage and marjoram. all the ground would be carpeted with thyme and basil and others of the dwarfer sweet-herbs. there would be no regular paths, but it would be so planted that in most parts one would have to brush up against the sweet bushes, and sometimes push through them, as one does on the thinner-clothed of the mountain slopes of southern italy. among the many wonders of the vegetable world are the flowers that hang their heads and seem to sleep in the daytime, and that awaken as the sun goes down, and live their waking life at night. and those that are most familiar in our gardens have powerful perfumes, except the evening primrose (_oenothera_), which has only a milder sweetness. it is vain to try and smell the night-given scent in the daytime; it is either withheld altogether, or some other smell, quite different, and not always pleasant, is there instead. i have tried hard in daytime to get a whiff of the night sweetness of _nicotiana affinis_, but can only get hold of something that smells like a horse! some of the best of the night-scents are those given by the stocks and rockets. they are sweet in the hand in the daytime, but the best of the sweet scent seems to be like a thin film on the surface. it does not do to smell them too vigorously, for, especially in stocks and wallflowers, there is a strong, rank, cabbage-like under-smell. but in the sweetness given off so freely in the summer evening there is none of this; then they only give their very best. but of all the family, the finest fragrance comes from the small annual night-scented stock (_matthiola bicornis_), a plant that in daytime is almost ugly; for the leaves are of a dull-grey colour, and the flowers are small and also dull-coloured, and they are closed and droop and look unhappy. but when the sun has set the modest little plant seems to come to life; the grey foliage is almost beautiful in its harmonious relation to the half-light; the flowers stand up and expand, and in the early twilight show tender colouring of faint pink and lilac, and pour out upon the still night-air a lavish gift of sweetest fragrance; and the modest little plant that in strong sunlight looked unworthy of a place in the garden, now rises to its appointed rank and reigns supreme as its prime delight. chapter xx the worship of false gods several times during these notes i have spoken in a disparaging manner of the show-table; and i have not done so lightly, but with all the care and thought and power of observation that my limited capacity is worth; and, broadly, i have come to this: that shows, such as those at the fortnightly meetings of the royal horticultural society, and their more important one in the early summer, whose object is to bring together beautiful flowers of all kinds, to a place where they may be seen, are of the utmost value; and that any shows anywhere for a like purpose, and especially where there are no money prizes, are also sure to be helpful. and the test question i put to myself at any show is this, does this really help the best interests of horticulture? and as far as i can see that it does this, i think the show right and helpful; and whenever it does not, i think it harmful and misleading. the love of gardening has so greatly grown and spread within the last few years, that the need of really good and beautiful garden flowers is already far in advance of the demand for the so-called "florists" flowers, by which i mean those that find favour in the exclusive shows of societies for the growing and exhibition of such flowers as tulips, carnations, dahlias, and chrysanthemums. in support of this i should like to know what proportion of demand there is, in dahlias, for instance, between the show kinds, whose aim and object is the show-table, and the decorative kinds, that are indisputably better for garden use. looking at the catalogue of a leading dahlia nursery, i find that the decorative kinds fill ten pages, while the show kinds, including pompones, fill only three. is not this some indication of what is wanted in gardens? i am of opinion that the show-table is unworthily used when its object is to be an end in itself, and that it should be only a means to a better end, and that when it exhibits what has become merely a "fancy," it loses sight of its honourable position as a trustworthy exponent of horticulture, and has degenerated to a baser use. when, as in chrysanthemum shows, the flowers on the board are of _no use anywhere but on that board_, and for the purpose of gaining a money prize, i hold that the show-table has a debased aim, and a debasing influence. beauty, in all the best sense, is put aside in favour of set rules and measurements, and the production of a thing that is of no use or value; and individuals of a race of plants capable of producing the highest and most delightful forms of beauty, and of brightening our homes, and even gardens, during the dim days of early winter, are teased and tortured and fatted and bloated into ugly and useless monstrosities for no purpose but to gain money. and when private gardeners go to these shows and see how the prizes are awarded, and how all the glory is accorded to the first-prize bloated monster, can we wonder that the effect on their minds is confusing, if not absolutely harmful? shows of carnations and pansies, where the older rules prevail, are equally misleading, where the single flowers are arrayed in a flat circle of paper. as with the chrysanthemum, every sort of trickery is allowed in arranging the petals of the carnation blooms: petals are pulled out or stuck in, and they are twisted about, and groomed and combed, and manipulated with special tools--"dressed," as the show-word has it--dressed so elaborately that the dressing only stops short of applying actual paint and perfumery. already in the case of carnations a better influence is being felt, and at the london shows there are now classes for border carnations set up in long-stalked bunches just as they grow. it is only like this that their value as outdoor plants can be tested; for many of the show sorts have miserably weak stalks, and a very poor, lanky habit of growth. then the poor pansies have single blooms laid flat on white papers, and are only approved if they will lie quite flat and show an outline of a perfect circle. all that is most beautiful in a pansy, the wing-like curves, the waved or slightly fluted radiations, the scarcely perceptible undulation of surface that displays to perfection the admirable delicacy of velvety texture; all the little tender tricks and ways that make the pansy one of the best-loved of garden flowers; all this is overlooked, and not only passively overlooked, but overtly contemned. the show-pansy judge appears to have no eye, or brain, or heart, but to have in their place a pair of compasses with which to describe a circle! all idea of garden delight seems to be excluded, as this kind of judging appeals to no recognition of beauty for beauty's sake, but to hard systems of measurement and rigid arrangement and computation that one would think more applicable to astronomy or geometry than to any matter relating to horticulture. i do most strongly urge that beauty of the highest class should be the aim, and not anything of the nature of fashion or "fancy," and that every effort should be made towards the raising rather than the lowering of the standard of taste. the societies which exist throughout the country are well organised; many have existed for a great number of years; they are the local sources of horticultural education, to which large circles of people naturally look for guidance; and though they produce--and especially the rose shows--quantities of beautiful things, it cannot but be perceived by all who have had the benefit of some refinement of education, that in very many cases they either deliberately teach, or at any rate allow to be seen with their sanction, what cannot fail to be debasing to public taste. i will just take two examples to show how obvious methods of leading taste are not only overlooked, but even perverted; for it is not only in the individual blooms that much of the show-teaching is unworthy, but also in the training of the plants; so that a plant that by nature has some beauty of form, is not encouraged or even allowed to develop that beauty, but is trained into some shape that is not only foreign to its own nature, but is absolutely ugly and ungraceful, and entirely stupid. the natural habit of the chrysanthemum is to grow in the form of several upright stems. they spring up sheaf-wise, straight upright for a time, and only bending a little outwards above, to give room for the branching heads of bloom. the stems are rather stiff, because they are half woody at the base. in the case of pot-plants it would seem right only so far to stake or train them as to give the necessary support by a few sticks set a little outwards at the top, so that each stem may lean a little over, after the manner of a bamboo, when their clustered heads of flower would be given enough room, and be seen to the greatest advantage. but at shows, the triumph of the training art seems to be to drag the poor thing round and round over an internal scaffolding of sticks, with an infinite number of ties and cross-braces, so that it makes a sort of shapeless ball, and to arrange the flowers so that they are equally spotted all over it, by tying back some almost to snapping-point, and by dragging forward others to the verge of dislocation. i have never seen anything so ugly in the way of potted plants as a certain kind of chrysanthemum that has incurved flowers of a heavy sort of dull leaden-looking red-purple colour trained in this manner. such a sight gives me a feeling of shame, not unmixed with wrathful indignation. i ask myself, what is it for? and i get no answer. i ask a practical gardener what it is for, and he says, "oh, it is one of the ways they are trained for shows." i ask him, does he think it pretty, or is it any use? and he says, "well, they think it makes a nice variety;" and when i press him further, and say i consider it a very nasty variety, and does he think nasty varieties are better than none, the question is beyond him, and he smiles vaguely and edges away, evidently thinking my conversation perplexing, and my company undesirable. i look again at the unhappy plant, and see its poor leaves fat with an unwholesome obesity, and seeming to say, we were really a good bit mildewed, but have been doctored up for the show by being crammed and stuffed with artificial aliment! my second example is that of _azalea indica_. what is prettier in a room than one of these in its little tree form, a true tree, with tiny trunk and wide-spreading branches, and its absurdly large and lovely flowers? surely it is the most perfect room ornament that we can have in tree shape in a moderate-sized pot; and where else can one see a tree loaded with lovely bloom whose individual flowers have a diameter equal to five times that of the trunk? but the show decrees that all this is wrong, and that the tiny, brittle branches must be trained stiffly round till the shape of the plant shows as a sort of cylinder. again i ask myself, what is this for? what does it teach? can it be really to teach with deliberate intention that instead of displaying its natural and graceful tree form it should aim at a more desirable kind of beauty, such as that of the chimney-pot or drain-pipe, and that this is so important that it is right and laudable to devote to it much time and delicate workmanship? i cannot but think, as well as hope, that the strong influences for good that are now being brought to bear on all departments of gardening may reach this class of show, for there are already more hopeful signs in the admission of classes for groups arranged for decoration. the prize-show system no doubt creates its own evils, because the judges, and those who frame the schedules, have been in most cases men who have a knowledge of flowers, but who are not people of cultivated taste, and in deciding what points are to constitute the merits of a flower they have to take such qualities as are within the clearest understanding of people of average intelligence and average education--such, for instance, as size that can be measured, symmetry that can be easily estimated, thickness of petal that can be felt, and such qualities of colour as appeal most strongly to the uneducated eye; so that a flower may possess features or qualities that endow it with the highest beauty, but that exclude it, because the hard and narrow limits of the show-laws provide no means of dealing with it. it is, therefore, thrown out, not because they have any fault to find with it, but because it does not concern them; and the ordinary gardener, to whose practice it might be of the highest value, accepting the verdict of the show-judge as an infallible guide, also treats it with contempt and neglect. now, all this would not so much matter if it did not delude those whose taste is not sufficiently educated to enable them to form an opinion of their own in accordance with the best and truest standards of beauty; for i venture to repeat that what we have to look for for the benefit of our gardens, and for our own bettering and increase of happiness in those gardens, are things that are beautiful, rather than things that are round, or straight, or thick, still less than for those that are new, or curious, or astonishing. for all these false gods are among us, and many are they who are willing to worship. chapter xxi novelty and variety when i look back over thirty years of gardening, i see what an extraordinary progress there has been, not only in the introduction of good plants new to general cultivation, but also in the home production of improved kinds of old favourites. in annual plants alone there has been a remarkable advance. and here again, though many really beautiful things are being brought forward, there seems always to be an undue value assigned to a fresh development, on the score of its novelty. now it seems to me, that among the thousands of beautiful things already at hand for garden use, there is no merit whatever in novelty or variety unless the thing new or different is distinctly more beautiful, or in some such way better than an older thing of the same class. and there seems to be a general wish among seed growers just now to dwarf all annual plants. now, when a plant is naturally of a diffuse habit, the fixing of a dwarfer variety may be a distinct gain to horticulture--it may just make a good garden plant out of one that was formerly of indifferent quality; but there seems to me to be a kind of stupidity in inferring from this that all annuals are the better for dwarfing. i take it that the bedding system has had a good deal to do with it. it no doubt enables ignorant gardeners to use a larger variety of plants as senseless colour-masses, but it is obvious that many, if not most, of the plants are individually made much uglier by the process. take, for example, one of the dwarfest ageratums: what a silly little dumpy, formless, pincushion of a thing it is! and then the dwarfest of the china asters. here is a plant (whose chief weakness already lies in a certain over-stiffness) made stiffer and more shapeless still by dwarfing and by cramming with too many petals. the comet asters of later years are a much-improved type of flower, with a looser shape and a certain degree of approach to grace and beauty. when this kind came out it was a noteworthy novelty, not because it was a novelty, but because it was a better and more beautiful thing. also among the same asters the introduction of a better class of red colouring, first of the blood-red and then of the so-called scarlet shades, was a good variety, because it was the distinct bettering of the colour of a popular race of garden-flowers, whose red and pink colourings had hitherto been of a bad and rank quality. it is quite true that here and there the dwarf kind is a distinctly useful thing, as in the dwarf nasturtiums. in this grand plant one is glad to have dwarf ones as well as the old trailing kinds. i even confess to a certain liking for the podgy little dwarf snapdragons; they are ungraceful little dumpy things, but they happen to have come in some tender colourings of pale yellow and pale pink, that give them a kind of absurd prettiness, and a certain garden-value. i also look at them as a little floral joke that is harmless and not displeasing, but they cannot for a moment compare in beauty with the free-growing snapdragon of the older type. this i always think one of the best and most interesting and admirable of garden-plants. its beauty is lost if it is crowded up among other things in a border; it should be grown in a dry wall or steep rocky bank, where its handsome bushy growth and finely-poised spikes of bloom can be well seen. [illustration: tall snapdragons growing in a dry wall.] [illustration: mulleins growing in the face of dry wall. (_see "old wall," page ._)] one of the annuals that i think is entirely spoilt by dwarfing is love-in-a-mist, a plant i hold in high admiration. many years ago i came upon some of it in a small garden, of a type that i thought extremely desirable, with a double flower of just the right degree of fulness, and of an unusually fine colour. i was fortunate enough to get some seed, and have never grown any other, nor have i ever seen elsewhere any that i think can compare with it. the zinnia is another fine annual that has been much spoilt by its would-be improvers. when a zinnia has a hard, stiff, tall flower, with a great many rows of petals piled up one on top of another, and when its habit is dwarfed to a mean degree of squatness, it looks to me both ugly and absurd, whereas a reasonably double one, well branched, and two feet high, is a handsome plant. i also think that stocks and wallflowers are much handsomer when rather tall and branching. dwarf stocks, moreover, are invariably spattered with soil in heavy autumn rain. an example of the improver not knowing where to stop in the matter of colouring, always strikes me in the gaillardias, and more especially in the perennial kind, that is increased by division as well as by seed. the flower is naturally of a strong orange-yellow colour, with a narrow ring of red round the centre. the improver has sought to increase the width of the red ring. up to a certain point it makes a livelier and brighter-looking flower; but he has gone too far, and extended the red till it has become a red flower with a narrow yellow edge. the red also is of a rather dull and heavy nature, so that instead of a handsome yellow flower with a broad central ring, here is an ugly red one with a yellow border. there is no positive harm done, as the plant has been propagated at every stage of development, and one may choose what one will; but to see them together is an instructive lesson. no annual plant has of late years been so much improved as the sweet pea, and one reason why its charming beauty and scent are so enjoyable is, that they grow tall, and can be seen on a level with the eye. there can be no excuse whatever for dwarfing this, as has lately been done. there are already plenty of good flowering plants under a foot high, and the little dwarf white monstrosity, now being followed by coloured ones of the same habit, seems to me worthy of nothing but condemnation. it would be as right and sensible to dwarf a hollyhock into a podgy mass a foot high, or a pentstemon, or a foxglove. happily these have as yet escaped dwarfing, though i regret to see that a deformity that not unfrequently appears among garden foxgloves, looking like a bell-shaped flower topping a stunted spike, appears to have been "fixed," and is being offered as a "novelty." here is one of the clearest examples of a new development which is a distinct debasement of a naturally beautiful form, but which is nevertheless being pushed forward in trade: it has no merit whatever in itself, and is only likely to sell because it is new and curious. and all this parade of distortion and deformity comes about from the grower losing sight of beauty as the first consideration, or from his not having the knowledge that would enable him to determine what are the points of character in various plants most deserving of development, and in not knowing when or where to stop. abnormal size, whether greatly above or much below the average, appeals to the vulgar and uneducated eye, and will always command its attention and wonderment. but then the production of the immense size that provokes astonishment, and the misapplied ingenuity that produces unusual dwarfing, are neither of them very high aims. and much as i feel grateful to those who improve garden flowers, i venture to repeat my strong conviction that their efforts in selection and other methods should be so directed as to keep in view the attainment of beauty in the first place, and as a point of honour; not to mere increase of size of bloom or compactness of habit--many plants have been spoilt by excess of both; not for variety or novelty as ends in themselves, but only to welcome them, and offer them, if they are distinctly of garden value in the best sense. for if plants are grown or advertised or otherwise pushed on any other account than that of their possessing some worthy form of beauty, they become of the same nature as any other article in trade that is got up for sale for the sole benefit of the seller, that is unduly lauded by advertisement, and that makes its first appeal to the vulgar eye by an exaggerated and showy pictorial representation; that will serve no useful purpose, and for which there is no true or healthy demand. no doubt much of it comes about from the unwholesome pressure of trade competition, which in a way obliges all to follow where some lead. i trust that my many good friends in the trade will understand that my remarks are not made in any personal sense whatever. i know that some of them feel much as i do on some of these points, but that in many ways they are helpless, being all bound in a kind of bondage to the general system. and there is one great evil that calls loudly for redress, but that will endure until some of the mightiest of them have the energy and courage to band themselves together and to declare that it shall no longer exist among them. chapter xxii weeds and pests weeding is a delightful occupation, especially after summer rain, when the roots come up clear and clean. one gets to know how many and various are the ways of weeds--as many almost as the moods of human creatures. how easy and pleasant to pull up are the soft annuals like chickweed and groundsel, and how one looks with respect at deep-rooted things like docks, that make one go and fetch a spade. comfrey is another thing with a terrible root, and every bit must be got out, as it will grow again from the smallest scrap. and hard to get up are the two bryonies, the green and the black, with such deep-reaching roots, that, if not weeded up within their first year, will have to be seriously dug out later. the white convolvulus, one of the loveliest of native plants, has a most persistently running root, of which every joint will quickly form a new plant. some of the worst weeds to get out are goutweed and coltsfoot. though i live on a light soil, comparatively easy to clean, i have done some gardening in clay, and well know what a despairing job it is to get the bits of either of these roots out of the stiff clods. the most persistent weed in my soil is the small running sheep's sorrel. first it makes a patch, and then sends out thready running roots all round, a foot or more long; these, if not checked, establish new bases of operation, and so it goes on, always spreading farther and farther. when this happens in soft ground that can be hoed and weeded it matters less, but in the lawn it is a more serious matter. its presence always denotes a poor, sandy soil of rather a sour quality. goutweed is a pest in nearly all gardens, and very difficult to get out. when it runs into the root of some patch of hardy plant, if the plant can be spared, i find it best to send it at once to the burn-heap; or if it is too precious, there is nothing for it but to cut it all up and wash it out, to be sure that not the smallest particle of the enemy remains. some weeds are deceiving--sow-thistle, for instance, which has the look of promising firm hand-hold and easy extraction, but has a disappointing way of almost always breaking short off at the collar. but of all the garden weeds that are native plants i know none so persistent or so insidious as the rampion bell-flower (_campanula rapunculus_); it grows from the smallest thread of root, and it is almost impossible to see every little bit; for though the main roots are thick, and white, and fleshy, the fine side roots that run far abroad are very small, and of a reddish colour, and easily hidden in the brown earth. but some of the worst garden-weeds are exotics run wild. the common grape hyacinth sometimes overruns a garden and cannot be got rid of. _sambucus ebulis_ is a plant to beware of, its long thong-like roots spreading far and wide, and coming up again far away from the parent stock. for this reason it is valuable for planting in such places as newly-made pond-heads, helping to tie the bank together. _polygonum sieboldi_ must also be planted with caution. the winter heliotrope (_petasites fragrans_) is almost impossible to get out when once it has taken hold, growing in the same way as its near relative the native coltsfoot. but by far the most difficult plant to abolish or even keep in check that i know is _ornithogalum nutans_. beautiful as it is, and valuable as a cut flower, i will not have it in the garden. i think i may venture to say that in this soil, when once established, it cannot be eradicated. each mature bulb makes a host of offsets, and the seed quickly ripens. when it is once in a garden it will suddenly appear in all sorts of different places. it is no use trying to dig it out. i have dug out the whole space of soil containing the patch, a barrow-load at a time, and sent it to the middle of the burn-heap, and put in fresh soil, and there it is again next year, nearly as thick as ever. i have dug up individual small patches with the greatest care, and got out every bulb and offset, and every bit of the whitish leaf stem, for i have such faith in its power of reproduction that i think every atom of this is capable of making a plant, only to find next year a thriving young tuft of the "grass" in the same place. and yet the bulb and underground stem are white, and the earth is brown, and i passed it all several times through my fingers, but all in vain. i confess that it beats me entirely. _coronilla varia_ is a little plant that appears in catalogues among desirable alpines, but is a very "rooty" and troublesome thing, and scarcely good enough for garden use, though pretty in a grassy bank where its rambling ways would not be objectionable. i once brought home from brittany some roots of _linaria repens_, that looked charming by a roadside, and planted them in a bit of alpine garden, a planting that i never afterwards ceased to regret. i learnt from an old farmer a good way of getting rid of a bed of nettles--to thrash them down with a stick every time they grow up. if this is done about three times during the year, the root becomes so much weakened that it is easily forked out, or if the treatment is gone on with, the second year the nettles die. thrashing with a stick is better than cutting, as it makes the plant bleed more; any mutilation of bruise or ragged tearing of fibre is more harmful to plant or tree than clean cutting. of bird, beast, and insect pests we have plenty. first, and worst, are rabbits. they will gnaw and nibble anything and everything that is newly planted, even native things like juniper, scotch fir, and gorse. the necessity of wiring everything newly planted adds greatly to the labour and expense of the garden, and the unsightly grey wire-netting is an unpleasant eyesore. when plants or bushes are well established the rabbits leave them alone, though some families of plants are always irresistible--pinks and carnations, for instance, and nearly all cruciferæ, such as wallflowers, stocks, and iberis. the only plants i know that they do not touch are rhododendrons and azaleas; they leave them for the hare, that is sure to get in every now and then, and who stands up on his long hind-legs, and will eat rose-bushes quite high up. plants eaten by a hare look as if they had been cut with a sharp knife; there is no appearance of gnawing or nibbling, no ragged edges of wood or frayed bark, but just a straight clean cut. field mice are very troublesome. some years they will nibble off the flower-buds of the lent hellebores; when they do this they have a curious way of collecting them and laying them in heaps. i have no idea why they do this, as they neither carry them away nor eat them afterwards; there the heaps of buds lie till they rot or dry up. they once stole all my auricula seed in the same way. i had marked some good plants for seed, cutting off all the other flowers as soon as they went out of bloom. the seed was ripening, and i watched it daily, awaiting the moment for harvesting. but a few days before it was ready i went round and found the seed was all gone; it had been cut off at the top of the stalk, so that the umbel-shaped heads had been taken away whole. i looked about, and luckily found three slightly hollow places under the bank at the back of the border where the seed-heads had been piled in heaps. in this case it looked as if it had been stored for food; luckily it was near enough to ripeness for me to save my crop. the mice are also troublesome with newly-sown peas, eating some underground, while sparrows nibble off others when just sprouted; and when outdoor grapes are ripening mice run up the walls and eat them. even when the grapes are tied in oiled canvas bags they will eat through the bags to get at them, though i have never known them to gnaw through the newspaper bags that i now use in preference, and that ripen the grapes as well. i am not sure whether it is mice or birds that pick off the flowers of the big bunch primroses, but am inclined to think it is mice, because the stalks are cut low down. pheasants are very bad gardeners; what they seem to enjoy most are crocuses--in fact, it is no use planting them. i had once a nice collection of crocus species. they were in separate patches, all along the edge of one border, in a sheltered part of the garden, where pheasants did not often come. one day when i came to see my crocuses, i found where each patch had been a basin-shaped excavation and a few fragments of stalk or some part of the plant. they had begun at one end and worked steadily along, clearing them right out. they also destroyed a long bed of _anemone fulgens_. first they took the flowers, and then the leaves, and lastly pecked up and ate the roots. but we have one grand consolation in having no slugs, at least hardly any that are truly indigenous; they do not like our dry, sandy heaths. friends are very generous in sending them with plants, so that we have a moderate number that hang about frames and pot plants, though nothing much to boast of; but they never trouble seedlings in the open ground, and for this i can never be too thankful. alas that the beautiful bullfinch should be so dire an enemy to fruit-trees, and also the pretty little tits! but so it is; and it is a sad sight to see a well-grown fruit-tree with all its fruit-buds pecked out and lying under it on the ground in a thin green carpet. we had some fine young cherry-trees in a small orchard that we cut down in despair after they had been growing twelve years. they were too large to net, and their space could not be spared just for the mischievous fun of the birds. chapter xxiii the bedding fashion and its influence it is curious to look back at the old days of bedding-out, when that and that only meant gardening to most people, and to remember how the fashion, beginning in the larger gardens, made its way like a great inundating wave, submerging the lesser ones, and almost drowning out the beauties of the many little flowery cottage plots of our english waysides. and one wonders how it all came about, and why the bedding system, admirable for its own purpose, should have thus outstepped its bounds, and have been allowed to run riot among gardens great and small throughout the land. but so it was, and for many years the fashion, for it was scarcely anything better, reigned supreme. it was well for all real lovers of flowers when some quarter of a century ago a strong champion of the good old flowers arose, and fought strenuously to stay the devastating tide, and to restore the healthy liking for the good old garden flowers. many soon followed, and now one may say that all england has flocked to the standard. bedding as an all-prevailing fashion is now dead; the old garden-flowers are again honoured and loved, and every encouragement is freely offered to those who will improve old kinds and bring forward others. and now that bedding as a fashion no longer exists, one can look at it more quietly and fairly, and see what its uses really are, for in its own place and way it is undoubtedly useful and desirable. many great country-houses are only inhabited in winter, then perhaps for a week or two at easter, and in the late summer. there is probably a house-party at easter, and a succession of visitors in the late summer. a brilliant garden, visible from the house, dressed for spring and dressed for early autumn, is exactly what is wanted--not necessarily from any special love of flowers, but as a kind of bright and well-kept furnishing of the immediate environment of the house. the gardener delights in it; it is all routine work; so many hundreds or thousands of scarlet geranium, of yellow calceolaria, of blue lobelia, of golden feverfew, or of other coloured material. it wants no imagination; the comprehension of it is within the range of the most limited understanding; indeed its prevalence for some twenty years or more must have had a deteriorating influence on the whole class of private gardeners, presenting to them an ideal so easy of attainment and so cheap of mental effort. but bedding, though it is gardening of the least poetical or imaginative kind, can be done badly or beautifully. in the _parterre_ of the formal garden it is absolutely in place, and brilliantly-beautiful pictures can be made by a wise choice of colouring. i once saw, and can never forget, a bedded garden that was a perfectly satisfying example of colour-harmony; but then it was planned by the master, a man of the most refined taste, and not by the gardener. it was a _parterre_ that formed part of the garden in one of the fine old places in the midland counties. i have no distinct recollection of the design, except that there was some principle of fan-shaped radiation, of which each extreme angle formed one centre. the whole garden was treated in one harmonious colouring of full yellow, orange, and orange-brown; half-hardy annuals, such as french and african marigolds, zinnias, and nasturtiums, being freely used. it was the most noble treatment of one limited range of colouring i have ever seen in a garden; brilliant without being garish, and sumptuously gorgeous without the reproach of gaudiness--a precious lesson in temperance and restraint in the use of the one colour, and an admirable exposition of its powerful effect in the hands of a true artist. i think that in many smaller gardens a certain amount of bedding may be actually desirable; for where the owner of a garden has a special liking for certain classes or mixtures of plants, or wishes to grow them thoroughly well and enjoy them individually to the full, he will naturally grow them in separate beds, or may intentionally combine the beds, if he will, into some form of good garden effect. but the great fault of the bedding system when at its height was, that it swept over the country as a tyrannical fashion, that demanded, and for the time being succeeded in effecting, the exclusion of better and more thoughtful kinds of gardening; for i believe i am right in saying that it spread like an epidemic disease, and raged far and wide for nearly a quarter of a century. its worst form of all was the "ribbon border," generally a line of scarlet geranium at the back, then a line of calceolaria, then a line of blue lobelia, and lastly, a line of the inevitable golden feather feverfew, or what our gardener used to call featherfew. could anything be more tedious or more stupid? and the ribbon border was at its worst when its lines were not straight, but waved about in weak and silly sinuations. and when bedding as a fashion was dead, when this false god had been toppled off his pedestal, and his worshippers had been converted to better beliefs, in turning and rending him they often went too far, and did injustice to the innocent by professing a dislike to many a good plant, and renouncing its use. it was not the fault of the geranium or of the calceolaria that they had been grievously misused and made to usurp too large a share of our garden spaces. not once but many a time my visitors have expressed unbounded surprise when they saw these plants in my garden, saying, "i should have thought that you would have despised geraniums." on the contrary, i love geraniums. there are no plants to come near them for pot, or box, or stone basket, or for massing in any sheltered place in hottest sunshine; and i love their strangely-pleasant smell, and their beautiful modern colourings of soft scarlet and salmon-scarlet and salmon-pink, some of these grouping beautifully together. i have a space in connection with some formal stonework of steps, and tank, and paved walks, close to the house, on purpose for the summer placing of large pots of geranium, with sometimes a few cannas and lilies. for a quarter of the year it is one of the best things in the garden, and delightful in colour. then no plant does so well or looks so suitable in some earthen pots and boxes from southern italy that i always think the best that were ever made, their shape and well-designed ornament traditional from the middle ages, and probably from an even more remote antiquity. [illustration: geraniums in neapolitan pots.] there are, of course, among bedding geraniums many of a bad, raw quality of colour, particularly among cold, hard pinks, but there are so many to choose from that these can easily be avoided. i remember some years ago, when the bedding fashion was going out, reading some rather heated discussions in the gardening papers about methods of planting out and arranging various tender but indispensable plants. some one who had been writing about the errors of the bedding system wrote about planting some of these in isolated masses. he was pounced upon by another, who asked, "what is this but bedding?" the second writer was so far justified, in that it cannot be denied that any planting in beds is bedding. but then there is bedding and bedding--a right and a wrong way of applying the treatment. another matter that roused the combative spirit of the captious critic was the filling up of bare spaces in mixed borders with geraniums, calceolarias, and other such plants. again he said, "what is this but bedding? these are bedding plants." when i read this it seemed to me that his argument was, these plants may be very good plants in themselves, but because they have for some years been used wrongly, therefore they must not now be used rightly! in the case of my own visitors, when they have expressed surprise at my having "those horrid old bedding plants" in my garden, it seemed quite a new view when i pointed out that bedding plants were only passive agents in their own misuse, and that a geranium was a geranium long before it was a bedding plant! but the discussion raised in my mind a wish to come to some conclusion about the difference between bedding in the better and worse sense, in relation to the cases quoted, and it appeared to me to be merely in the choice between right and wrong placing--placing monotonously or stupidly, so as merely to fill the space, or placing with a feeling for "drawing" or proportion. for i had very soon found out that, if i had a number of things to plant anywhere, whether only to fill up a border or as a detached group, if i placed the things myself, carefully exercising what power of discrimination i might have acquired, it looked fairly right, but that if i left it to one of my garden people (a thing i rarely do) it looked all nohow, or like bedding in the worst sense of the word. [illustration: space in step and tank-garden for lilies, cannas, and geraniums.] [illustration: hydrangeas in tubs, in a part of the same garden.] even the better ways of gardening do not wholly escape the debasing influence of fashion. wild gardening is a delightful, and in good hands a most desirable, pursuit, but no kind of gardening is so difficult to do well, or is so full of pitfalls and of paths of peril. because it has in some measure become fashionable, and because it is understood to mean the planting of exotics in wild places, unthinking people rush to the conclusion that they can put any garden plants into any wild places, and that that is wild gardening. i have seen woody places that were already perfect with their own simple charm just muddled and spoilt by a reckless planting of garden refuse, and heathy hillsides already sufficiently and beautifully clothed with native vegetation made to look lamentably silly by the planting of a nurseryman's mixed lot of exotic conifers. in my own case, i have always devoted the most careful consideration to any bit of wild gardening i thought of doing, never allowing myself to decide upon it till i felt thoroughly assured that the place seemed to ask for the planting in contemplation, and that it would be distinctly a gain in pictorial value; so there are stretches of daffodils in one part of the copse, while another is carpeted with lily of the valley. a cool bank is covered with gaultheria, and just where i thought they would look well as little jewels of beauty, are spreading patches of trillium and the great yellow dog-tooth violet. besides these there are only some groups of the giant lily. many other exotic plants could have been made to grow in the wooded ground, but they did not seem to be wanted; i thought where the copse looked well and complete in itself it was better left alone. but where the wood joins the garden some bold groups of flowering plants are allowed, as of mullein in one part and foxglove in another; for when standing in the free part of the garden, it is pleasant to project the sight far into the wood, and to let the garden influences penetrate here and there, the better to join the one to the other. [illustration: mullein (verbascum phlomoides) at the edge of the fir wood.] [illustration: a grass path in the copse.] under the bracken in both pictures is a wide planting of lily of the valley, flowering in may before the fern is up. (_see page ._) chapter xxiv masters and men now that the owners of good places are for the most part taking a newly-awakened and newly-educated pleasure in the better ways of gardening, a frequent source of difficulty arises from the ignorance and obstructiveness of gardeners. the owners have become aware that their gardens may be sources of the keenest pleasure. the gardener may be an excellent man, perfectly understanding the ordinary routine of garden work; he may have been many years in his place; it is his settled home, and he is getting well on into middle life; but he has no understanding of the new order of things, and when the master, perfectly understanding what he is about, desires that certain things shall be done, and wishes to enjoy the pleasure of directing the work himself, and seeing it grow under his hand, he resents it as an interference, and becomes obstructive, or does what is required in a spirit of such sullen acquiescence that it is equal to open opposition. and i have seen so many gardens and gardeners that i have come to recognise certain types; and this one, among men of a certain age, is unfortunately frequent. various degrees of ignorance and narrow-mindedness must no doubt be expected among the class that produces private gardeners. their general education is not very wide to begin with, and their training is usually all in one groove, and the many who possess a full share of vanity get to think that, because they have exhausted the obvious sources of experience that have occurred within their reach, there is nothing more to learn, or to know, or to see, or to feel, or to enjoy. it is in this that the difficulty lies. the man has no doubt done his best through life; he has performed his duties well and faithfully, and can render a good account of his stewardship. it is no fault of his that more means of enlarging his mind have not been within his grasp, and, to a certain degree, he may be excused for not understanding that there is anything beyond; but if he is naturally vain and stubborn his case is hopeless. if, on the other hand, he is wise enough to know that he does not know everything, and modest enough to acknowledge it, as do all the greatest and most learned of men, he will then be eager to receive new and enlarged impressions, and his willing and intelligent co-operation will be a new source of interest in life both to himself and his employer, as well as a fresh spring of vitality in the life of the garden. i am speaking of the large middle class of private gardeners, not of those of the highest rank, who have among them men of good education and a large measure of refinement. from among these i think of the late mr. ingram of the belvoir castle gardens, with regret as for a personal friend, and also as of one who was a true garden artist. but most people who have fair-sized gardens have to do with the middle class of gardener, the man of narrow mental training. the master who, after a good many years of active life, is looking forward to settling in his home and improving and enjoying his garden, has had so different a training, a course of teaching so immeasurably wider and more enlightening. as a boy he was in a great public school, where, by wholesome friction with his fellows, he had any petty or personal nonsense knocked out of him while still in his early "teens." then he goes to college, and whether studiously inclined or not, he is already in the great world, always widening his ideas and experience. then perhaps he is in one of the active professions, or engaged in scientific or intellectual research, or in diplomacy, his ever-expanding intelligence rubbing up against all that is most enlightened and astute in men, or most profoundly inexplicable in matter. he may be at the same time cultivating his taste for literature and the fine arts, searching the libraries and galleries of the civilised world for the noblest and most divinely-inspired examples of human work, seeing with an eye that daily grows more keenly searching, and receiving and holding with a brain that ever gains a firmer grasp, and so acquires some measure of the higher critical faculty. he sees the ruined gardens of antiquity, colossal works of the rulers of imperial rome, and the later gardens of the middle ages (direct descendants of those greater and older ones), some of them still among the most beautiful gardens on earth. he sees how the taste for gardening grew and travelled, spreading through europe and reaching england, first, no doubt, through her roman invaders. he becomes more and more aware of what great and enduring happiness may be enjoyed in a garden, and how all that he can learn of it in the leisure intervals of his earlier maturity, and then in middle life, will help to brighten his later days, when he hopes to refine and make better the garden of the old home by a reverent application of what he has learnt. he thinks of the desecrated old bowling-green, cut up to suit the fashion of thirty years ago into a patchwork of incoherent star and crescent shaped beds; of how he will give it back its ancient character of unbroken repose; he thinks how he will restore the string of fish-ponds in the bottom of the wooded valley just below, now a rushy meadow with swampy hollows that once were ponds, and humpy mounds, ruins of the ancient dikes; of how the trees will stand reflected in the still water; and how he will live to see again in middle hours of summer days, as did the monks of old, the broad backs of the golden carp basking just below the surface of the sun-warmed water. and such a man as this comes home some day and finds the narrow-minded gardener, who believes that he already knows all that can be known about gardening, who thinks that the merely technical part, which he perfectly understands, is all that there is to be known and practised, and that his crude ideas about arrangement of flowers are as good as those of any one else. and a man of this temperament cannot be induced to believe, and still less can he be made to understand, that all that he knows is only the means to a further and higher end, and that what he can show of a completed garden can only reach to an average dead-level of dulness compared with what may come of the life-giving influence of one who has the mastery of the higher garden knowledge. moreover, he either forgets, or does not know, what is the main purpose of a garden, namely, that it is to give its owner the best and highest kind of earthly pleasure. neither is he enlightened enough to understand that the master can take a real and intelligent interest in planning and arranging, and in watching the working out in detail. his small-minded vanity can only see in all this a distrust in his own powers and an intentional slight cast on his ability, whereas no such idea had ever entered the master's mind. though there are many of this kind of gardener (and with their employers, if they have the patience to retain them in their service, i sincerely condole), there are happily many of a widely-different nature, whose minds are both supple and elastic and intelligently receptive, who are eager to learn and to try what has not yet come within the range of their experience, who show a cheerful readiness to receive a fresh range of ideas, and a willing alacrity in doing their best to work them out. such a servant as this warms his master's heart, and it would do him good to hear, as i have many times heard, the terms in which the master speaks of him. for just as the educated man feels contempt for the vulgar pretension that goes with any exhibition of ignorant vanity, so the evidence of the higher qualities commands his respect and warm appreciation. among the gardeners i have known, five such men come vividly to my recollection--good men all, with a true love of flowers, and its reflection of happiness written on their kindly faces. but then, on the other hand, frequent causes of irritation arise between master and man from the master's ignorance and unreasonable demands. for much as the love of gardening has grown of late, there are many owners who have no knowledge of it whatever. i have more than once had visitors who complained of their gardeners, as i thought quite unreasonably, on their own showing. for it is not enough to secure the services of a thoroughly able man, and to pay good wages, and to provide every sort of appliance, if there is no reasonable knowledge of what it is right and just to expect. i have known a lady, after paying a round of visits in great houses, complain of her gardener. she had seen at one place remarkably fine forced strawberries, at another some phenomenal frame violets, and at a third immense malmaison carnations; whereas her own gardener did not excel in any of these, though she admitted that he was admirable for grapes and chrysanthemums. "if the others could do all these things to perfection," she argued, "why could not he do them?" she expected her gardener to do equally well all that she had seen best done in the other big places. it was in vain that i pleaded in defence of her man that all gardeners were human creatures, and that it was in the nature of such creatures to have individual aptitudes and special preferences, and that it was to be expected that each man should excel in one thing, or one thing at a time, and so on; but it was of no use, and she would not accept any excuse or explanation. i remember another example of a visitor who had a rather large place, and a gardener who had as good a knowledge of hardy plants as one could expect. my visitor had lately got the idea that he liked hardy flowers, though he had scarcely thrown off the influence of some earlier heresy which taught that they were more or less contemptible--the sort of thing for cottage gardens; still, as they were now in fashion, he thought he had better have them. we were passing along my flower-border, just then in one of its best moods of summer beauty, and when its main occupants, three years planted, had come to their full strength, when, speaking of a large flower-border he had lately had made, he said, "i told my fellow last autumn to get anything he liked, and yet it is perfectly wretched. it is not as if i wanted anything out of the way; i only want a lot of common things like that," waving a hand airily at my precious border, while scarcely taking the trouble to look at it. and i have had another visitor of about the same degree of appreciative insight, who, contemplating some cherished garden picture, the consummation of some long-hoped-for wish, the crowning joy of years of labour, said, "now look at that; it is just right, and yet it is quite simple--there is absolutely nothing in it; now, why can't my man give me that?" i am far from wishing to disparage or undervalue the services of the honest gardener, but i think that on this point there ought to be the clearest understanding; that the master must not expect from the gardener accomplishments that he has no means of acquiring, and that the gardener must not assume that his knowledge covers all that can come within the scope of the widest and best practice of his craft. there are branches of education entirely out of his reach that can be brought to bear upon garden planning and arrangement down to the very least detail. what the educated employer who has studied the higher forms of gardening can do or criticise, he cannot be expected to do or understand; it is in itself almost the work of a lifetime, and only attainable, like success in any other fine art, by persons of, firstly, special temperament and aptitude; and, secondly, by their unwearied study and closest application. but the result of knowledge so gained shows itself throughout the garden. it may be in so simple a thing as the placing of a group of plants. they can be so placed by the hand that knows, that the group is in perfect drawing in relation to what is near; while by the ordinary gardener they would be so planted that they look absurd, or unmeaning, or in some way awkward and unsightly. it is not enough to cultivate plants well; they must also be used well. the servant may set up the canvas and grind the colours, and even set the palette, but the master alone can paint the picture. it is just the careful and thoughtful exercise of the higher qualities that makes a garden interesting, and their absence that leaves it blank, and dull, and lifeless. i am heartily in sympathy with the feeling described in these words in a friend's letter, "i think there are few things so interesting as to see in what way a person, whose perceptions you think fine and worthy of study, will give them expression in a garden." index adonis vernalis, alcohol, its gravestone, alexandrian laurel, alströmerias, best kinds, how to plant, amelanchier, , ampelopsis, andromeda catesbæi, ; a. floribunda and a. japonica, ; autumn colouring, , anemone fulgens, ; japonica, , aponogeton, apple, wellington, ; apple-trees, beauty of form, aristolochia sipho, arnebia echioides, aromatic plants, artemisia stelleriana, arum, wild, leaves with cut daffodils, auriculas, ; seed stolen by mice, autumn-sown annuals, azaleas, arrangement for colour, ; a. occidentalis, ; autumn colouring, ; as trained for shows, bambusa ragamowski, beauty of woodland in winter, , beauty the first aim in gardening, , , , , , bedding-out as a fashion, and onward; bedding rightly used, berberis for winter decoration, ; its many merits, bignonia radicans, large-flowered variety, birch, its graceful growth, ; colour of bark, ; fragrance in april, ; grouped with holly, bird-cherry, bitton, canon ellacombe's garden at, blue-eyed mary, books on gardening, and onward border plants, their young growth in april, bracken, ; cut into layering-pegs, ; careful cutting, ; when at its best to cut, ; autumn colouring, bramble, colour of leaves in winter, ; in forest groups, ; in orchard, ; american kinds, briar roses, , bryony, the two wild kinds, bulbous plants, early blooming, how best to plant, bullfinch, a garden enemy, butcher's broom, cactus, hardy, on rock-wall, caltha palustris, campanula rapunculus, cardamine trifoliata, carnations, ; at shows, caryopteris mastacanthus, ceanothus, gloire de versailles, cheiranthus, alpine kinds, chimonanthus fragrans, chionodoxa sardensis and c. lucilliæ, choisya ternata, , , christmas rose, giant kind, chrysanthemums, hardy kinds, ; as trained at shows, cistus laurifolius, ; c. florentinus, ; c. ladaniferus, , claret vine, clematis cirrhosa, ; c. flammula when to train, ; wild clematis in trees and hedges, ; c. montana, , ; c. davidiana, , clergymen as gardeners, clerodendron foetidum, , climbing plants, ; for pergola, colour, of woodland in winter, ; of leaves of some garden plants, ; colour-grouping of rhododendrons, ; of azaleas, ; colour of foliage of tree pæonies, ; colour arrangement in the flower-border, , , ; colour of bracken in october, ; of azaleas and andromedas in autumn, ; of bark of holly, ; study of, ; of flowers, how described, and onward copse-cutting, corchorus japonicus, coronilla varia, corydalis capnoides, cottage gardens, , ; roses in, cottager's way of protecting tender plants, cowslips, crinums, crinums, hybrid, , ; protecting, crocuses, eaten by pheasants, daffodils in the copse, ; planted in old pack-horse tracks, dahlias, staking, ; digging up, delphiniums, ; grown from seed, ; d. belladonna, dentaria pinnata, deutzia parviflora, digging up plants, discussions about treatment of certain plants, dividing tough-rooted plants, ; spring-blooming plants, ; how often, ; suitable tools, and onward dog-tooth violets, , doronicum, dressing of show flowers, dried flowers, dwarfing annuals, edwardsia grandiflora, elder trees, ; elder-wine, epilobium angustifolium, white variety, epimedium pinnatum, , erinus alpinus, sown in rock-wall, eryngium giganteum, ; e. maritimum, ; e. oliverianum, , . eulalia japonica, flowers dried, evergreen branches for winter decoration, everlasting pea, dividing and propagating, experimental planting, felling trees, fern filix foemina in rhododendron beds, , ; dicksonia punctilobulata, ; ferns in rock-wall, ; polypody, , fern-pegs for layering carnations, fern-walk, suitable plants among groups of ferns, flower border, , forms of deciduous trees, beauty of, forsythia suspensa and f. viridissima, forget-me-not, large kind, foxgloves, fungi, amanita, boletus, chantarelle, funkia grandiflora, galax aphylla, colour of leaves in winter, gale, broad-leaved, garden friends, garden houses, gardening, a fine art, garrya elliptica, gaultheria shallon, value for cutting, ; in rock-garden, geraniums as bedding plants, and onward gourds, as used by mrs. earle, goutweed, grape hyacinths, , grass, sheep's-fescue, grasses for lawn, grey-foliaged plants, grouping plants that bloom together, grubbing, ; tools, , guelder-rose as a wall-plant, ; single kind, gypsophila paniculata, , half-hardy border plants in august, , happiness in gardening, , hares, as depredators, heath sods for protecting tender plants, heaths, filling up rhododendron beds, ; wild heath among azaleas, ; cut short in paths, ; ling, hellebores, caulescent kinds in the nut-walk, ; for cutting, , ; buds stolen by mice, . heuchera richardsoni, , holly, beauty in winter, ; grouped with birch, ; cheerful aspect, hollyhocks, the prettiest shape, honey-suckle, wild, hoof-parings as manure, hoop-making, , and onward hop, wild, hutchinsia alpina, hyacinth (wild) in oak-wood, hydrangeas, protecting, ; at foot of wall, hyssop, a good wall-plant, iris alata, ; i. foetidissima, ; i. pallida, iris stylosa, how to plant, ; white variety, ; time of blooming, , ivy, shoots for cutting, japan privet, foliage for winter decoration, japan quince (cydonia or pyrus), jasminum nudiflorum, junction of garden and wood, , juniper, its merits, ; its form, action of snow, ; power of recovery from damage, ; beauty of colouring, ; stems in winter dress, ; in a wild valley, , and onward kitchen-garden, ; its sheds, , larch, sweetness in april, large gardens, lavender, when to cut, lawn-making, ; lawn spaces, , leaf mould, learning, , , , lessons of the garden, ; in wild-tree planting, ; in orchard planting, ; of the show-table, leucojum vernum, leycesteria formosa, lilacs, suckers, as strong feeders, good kinds, ; standards best, lilium auratum among rhododendrons, , ; among bamboos, lilium giganteum, ; cultivation needed in poor soil, lilium harrisi and l. speciosum, lily of the valley in the copse, linaria repens, london pride in the rock-wall, loquat, love-in-a-mist, love of gardening, luzula sylvatica, magnolia, branches indoors in winter, ; magnolia stellata, ; kinds in the choice shrub-bank, mai-trank, marking trees for cutting, marsh marigold, masters and men, mastic, meconopsis wallichi, medlar, megaseas, colour of foliage, ; m. ligulata, ; in front edge of flower-border, mertensia virginica, ; sowing the seed, mice, , michaelmas daisies, a garden to themselves, ; planting and staking, ; early kinds in mixed border, mixed planting, ; mixed border, morells, mulleins (v. olympicum and v. phlomoides), ; mullein-moth, , muscari of kinds, musical reverberation in wood of scotch fir, myosotis sylvatica major, nandina domestica, narcissus cernuus, ; n. serotinus, ; n. princeps and n. horsfieldi in the copse, nature's planting, nettles, to destroy, novelty, nut nursery at calcot, nut-walk, ; catkins, ; suckers, oak timber, felling, old wall, , and onward omphalodes verna, ophiopogon spicatum for winter cutting, orchard, ornamental, orobus vernus, ; o. aurantiacus, othonna cheirifolia, pæonies and lent hellebores grown together, pæony moutan grouped with clematis montana, ; special garden for pæonies, ; frequent sudden deaths, ; varieties of p. albiflora, ; old garden kinds, ; pæony species desirable for garden use, pansies as cut flowers, ; at shows, parkinson's chapter on carnations, pavia macrostachya, pea, white everlasting, pergola, pernettya, pests, bird, beast, and insect, phacelia campanularia, pheasants, as depredators, ; destroying crocuses, philadelphus microphyllus, phlomis fruticosa, phloxes, piptanthus nepalensis, , planes pollarded, planting early, ; careful planting, ; planting from pots, ; careful tree planting, platycodon mariesi, plume hyacinth, polygala chamæbuxus, polygonum compactum, ; sieboldi, "pot-pourri from a surrey garden," primroses, white and lilac, ; large bunch-flowered kinds as cut flowers, ; seedlings planted out, ; primrose garden, primula denticulata, progress in gardening, prophet-flower (arnebia), protecting tender plants, pterocephalus parnassi, pyrus maulei, queen wasps, quince, rabbits, ranunculus montanus, raphiolepis ovata, rhododendrons, variation in foliage, ; r. multum maculatum, ; plants to fill bare spaces among, ; arrangement for colour, and onward; hybrid of r. aucklandi, ; alpine, ribbon border, ribes, robinia hispida, rock garden, making and renewing, rock-wall, and onward rosemary, roses, pruning, tying, and training, ; fence planted with free roses, ; reine olga de wurtemburg, ; climbing and rambling roses, ; fortune's yellow, banksian, ; wild roses, ; garden roses: provence, moss, damask, r. alba, ; roses in cottage gardens, ramblers and fountains, ; free growth of rosa polyantha, ; two good, free roses for cutting, ; burnet rose and scotch briars, rosa lucida, ; tea roses: best kinds for light soil, pegging, pruning, ; roses collected in capri, ; second bloom of tea roses, ; jam made of hips of r. rugosa, , ; r. arvensis, garden form of, ; r. boursault elegans, ; china, ; their scents, ruscus aculeatus, ; r. racemosus, ruta patavina, a late-flowering rock-plant, sambucus ebulis, satin-leaf (heuchera richardsoni), scilla maritima, ; s. sibirica, s. bifolia, scents of flowers, and onward scotch fir, pollen, ; cones opening, ; effect of sound in fir-wood, show flowers, show-table, what it teaches, shrub-bank, ; snug place for tender shrubs, shrub-wilderness of the old home, skimmeas, , slugs, smilacina bifolia, snapdragon, snowstorm of december , snowy mespilus (amelanchier), solanum crispum, solomon's seal, spindle-tree, spiræa thunbergi, , ; s. prunifolia, st. john's worts, choice, stephanandra flexuosa, sternbergia lutea, sticks and stakes, storms in autumn, styrax japonica, suckers of nuts, ; robbers, how to remove, ; on grafted rhododendrons, sunflowers, perennial, sweetbriar, rambling, ; fragrance in april, sweet-leaved small shrubs, , , sweet peas, autumn sown, , thatching with hoop-chips, thinning the nut-walk, ; thinning shrubs, ; trees in copse, tiarella cordifolia, ; colour of leaves in winter, tools for dividing, ; for tree cutting and grubbing, ; woodman's, ; axe and wedge, ; rollers, ; cross-cut saw, training the eye, ; training clematis flammula, transplanting large trees, trillium grandiflorum, tritomas, protecting, tulips, show kinds and their origin, ; t. retroflexa, ; other good garden kinds, various ways of gardening, verbascum olympicum and v. phlomoides, villa garden, vinca acutiflora, vine, black hamburg at calcot, ; as a wall-plant, ; good garden kinds, ; claret vine, , ; vitis coignettii, violets, the pale st. helena, ; czar, virginian cowslip, ; its colouring, ; sowing seed, wall pennywort, water-elder, a beautiful neglected shrub, weeds, wild gardening misunderstood, wilson, mr. g. f.'s garden at wisley, window garden, winter, beauty of woodland, wistaria chinensis, whortleberry under scotch fir, , woodman at work, woodruff, wood-rush, , wood-work, xanthoceras sorbifolia, yellow everlasting, yuccas, some of the best kinds, ; in flower-border, the end printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. edinburgh & london transcriber's notes: . inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original. (where both are acceptable usage) . inconsistencies in the use of capitalisation and spelling within botanical names have been retained from the original (where both are acceptable usage). . punctuation has been normalised. . page numbering format in the index has been standardised. . the following words have been changed: p. amelancheir to amelanchier: the snowy mespilus (_amelanchier_) p. at to as: such as globe artichoke p. olivieranum to oliverianum: useful is _e. oliverianum_ p. rudbekia to rudbeckia: _rudbeckia newmanni_ reflects p. accomypaning to accompanying: the accompanying attacks p. ailantus to ailanthus: and ailanthus and hickory p. olivieranum to oliverianum: and _eryngium oliverianum_. p. foetidium to foetidum: hydrangeas, _clerodendron foetidum_ p. olivieranum to oliverianum: _eryngium oliverianum_ has turned p. ladaniferns to ladaniferus: c. ladaniferus, , p. olivieranum to oliverianum: e. oliverianum, , p. coignetti to coignettii: vitis coignettii, . p. in the bill of sale, a "letter" best described as an inverted v, is here represented by [v]: iixxx·i·, iixxxx·ii[v] iiii[v]xx, iixx note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) ethel morton at sweetbrier lodge by mabell s. c. smith the world syndicate publishing company cleveland, ohio new york, n. y. printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i a new craft ii playing with concrete iii the club selects the benches iv christopher finds a new lodging v the law of laughter vi spring all the year round vii closets and stepmothers viii "off to philadelphia in the morning" ix helen distinguishes herself x the land of "cat-fish and waffles" xi lights and a fall xii in the family hospital xiii a golden color scheme xiv at the metropolitan xv preparations for the housewarming xvi columbus day xvii the parting breakfast chapter i a new craft "carefully! o, do be careful, ethel brown! i'm so afraid i'll drop one of them!" it was ethel blue morton speaking to her cousin, who was helping her and their other cousin, dorothy smith, take dicky morton's newly hatched chickens out of the incubator and put them into the brooder. "i _have_ dropped one," exclaimed dorothy. "poor little dinky thing! it didn't hurt it a bit, though. see, it's running about as chipper as ever." "are you counting 'em?" demanded dicky, whose small hands were better suited than those of the girls for making the transfer that was to establish the chicks in their new habitation. "yes," answered all three in chorus. "here's one with a twisted leg. he must have fallen off the tray when he was first hatched." cried ethel brown. "he lookth pretty well. i gueth he'll live if i feed him by himthelf tho the throng ones won't crowd him away from the feed panth," said dicky, examining the cripple, for in spite of his small supply of seven years he had learned from his big brother roger and from his grandfather emerson a great deal about the use of an incubator and the care of young chickens. "that's a good hatch for this time of year," ethel brown announced when she added together the numbers which each handler reported to her. "a hundred and thirty-seven." "hear their little beaks tapping the wooden floor," ethel blue said, calling their attention to the behavior of the just-installed little fowls who were making themselves entirely at home with extraordinary promptness. "they take naturally to oatmeal flakes, don't they?" commented dorothy. "i always thought the old hen taught the chicks to scratch, and there's a little chap scratching as vigorously as if he had been taking lessons ever since he was born." "they don't need lessons. scratching is as natural as eating to them. hear them hum?" they all listened, smiling at the note of contentment that buzzed gently from the greedy groups of crowding chicks. as the oatmeal disappeared the chickens looked about them for shelter and discovered the strips of cloth that did duty for the maternal wings. rushing beneath them they cuddled side by side in the covered part of the brooder. "look at that one tucking his head under his wing like a grown-up hen!" exclaimed ethel blue. "i'll have to turn the lamp up a little higher tho they won't crowd and hurt each other," dicky decided. "i'd wait a minute until they begin to warm the whole of their house by the warmth from their bodies," urged ethel brown, and her brother agreed that there was no need of haste, but he watched them closely until he saw that they were not trampling on each other's backs or sitting down hard on each other's heads. "when will they come out again?" asked dorothy, who had never seen an incubator and brooder in operation before and who was immensely interested. "when they are hungry." "how soon will that be?" "in about two hours. they're a good deal like babies." "and is this brooder a really good step-mother?" "it's a foster-mother," corrected ethel blue. "it isn't anything so horrid as a step-mother." "o, i don't think step-mothers are horrid," objected dorothy. "yeth, they are," insisted dicky. "all the fairy stories say they're cruel." "o, fairy stories," sniffed dorothy. "i imagine fairy stories are right about step-mothers," insisted ethel blue. "did you ever know one?" asked dorothy. "no, i never did; but i have a feeling that they couldn't love a child that wasn't their own." "why not?" demanded ethel brown. "mother loves you just as well as she does her own children and you're only her niece." "not her own niece, either--uncle roger's niece," corrected ethel blue; "but then, aunt marion is a darling." "i don't see why a step-mother shouldn't be a darling." "i don't see why she shouldn't be but i don't believe she ever is," and ethel blue stuck to her opinion. "well, there aren't any 'steps' around this family, so we can't tell by our own experience," cried dorothy, "and we've got this chicken family moved into its new house, so let's go and see what the workmen are doing at our new house." dorothy's mother had been planning for several months to build a house on a lot of land on the same street that they were living on now, but farther away from the mortons' and nearer the farm where lived the mortons' grandfather and grandmother, mr. and mrs. emerson. the contractor had been at work only a few days. "he had just finished staking off the ground when i was there the other afternoon," said ethel brown. "he's way ahead of that now," dorothy reported as they walked on, three abreast across the sidewalk, their blue serge suits all alike, their tipperary hats set at the same angle on their heads, and only the different colors of their eyes and hair distinguishing them to a careless observer. "he told me yesterday that the whole cellar would be dug by this afternoon and they would be beginning to put in the concrete wall." "where?" "the cellar wall." "i thought cellar walls were made of stone." "sometimes they are, but when there isn't stone all cut, concrete is more convenient and cheaper, too." "and it lasts forever, i was reading the other day." "i should say it did. those old pyramids in egypt are partly made of concrete, they think, and they are three or four thousand years old." "does aunt louise expect her house to last three or four thousand years?" "she wants it durable; and fireproof, any way, because we're some distance from the engine house." "if we watch this house grow it will be almost like building it with our own hands, won't it?" exclaimed ethel brown, for, although the house was her aunt's, mrs. smith had made all the cousins feel that she wanted them to have a share in the pleasure that she and dorothy were having in making a shelter for themselves after their many years of wandering. she and her daughter consulted over every part of the plans and they had often asked the opinion of the mortons, so that they all had come to say "our house" quite as if it were to belong to them. as they approached the knoll which they had been calling "our house lot" for several months, they saw that the gravel for the concrete was being hauled to the top of the hill where the bags of sand and cement had already been unloaded and a small concrete mixer set up. "they do things fast, don't they!" exclaimed dorothy. "there's mr. anderson, the contractor." a tall, substantial scotsman bowed to them as they reached the top of the hill. "have you come to superintend us, miss dorothy?" he asked pleasantly. "we're going to make all our preparations for mixing the concrete to-day, and then we'll start up the machine to-morrow." "you won't have the cellar wall all built by to-morrow after school, will you?" asked dorothy anxiously. "we want to see how you do it." "it won't take long to do this small cellar so you'd better hurry right here from your luncheon," mr. anderson returned as he walked away to attend to the placing of the pile of gravel, and to lay a friendly hand on the sides of the panting horses. "if your driveway doesn't wind around more than this road that the hauling men have made all your friends' horses will be puffing like mills when they reach the top," ethel blue warned her cousin. "mother and the architect and a landscape gardener have it all drawn on paper," dorothy responded. "it's going to sweep around the foot of the knoll and come gently up the side and lie quite flat on top of the ridge for a little way before it reaches the front door." "that will be a long walk for people on foot." "ethel blue is speaking for herself," laughed ethel brown. "and for dorothy, too. she'll walk most of the time even if aunt louise is going to set up a car." "there's to be a footpath over there," dorothy indicated a side of the hill away from the proposed driveway. "it will be a short cut and it's going to be walled in with shrubs so it won't be seen from the driveway." "what would be the harm if you could see it from the driveway?" "o, the lines would interfere, the landscape artist said. you mustn't have things confused, you know," and she shook her head as if she knew a great deal about the subject. "i suppose it would look all mixy and queer if you should see the grounds from an airship," guessed ethel brown, "but i don't see what difference it would make from the ground." "i guess it would be ugly or he wouldn't be so particular about it," insisted dorothy. "that's his business--to make grounds look lovely." "i think i can see what he means," ventured ethel blue, who knew something about drawing and design. "i watched aunt marion's dressmaker draping an evening gown for her one day. she made certain lines straight and other lines curved, but the two kinds of lines didn't cross each other any old way; she put them in certain places so that they would each make the other kind of line look better and not make the general effect confusing." "don't you remember how it was when we were planning dorothy's garden on top of this ridge, back of the house and the garage?" ethel brown reminded them. "we had to draw several positions for the different beds because some of our plans looked perfectly crazy--just a mess of square beds and oblong beds and round beds." "they made you dizzy--i remember. we found we had to follow roger's advice and make them balance." "helen says there's a lot of geometry in laying out a garden. i guess she's right." helen and roger were ethel brown's older sister and brother. they were in the high school. they had come now to the excavation for the cellar and watched the italian laborers throwing out the last shovelfuls of earth. "they're very particular about making the earth wall smooth," commented ethel brown. "i imagine they have to if the wall is to be concrete," returned dorothy. "they've cut it under queerly at the foot on both sides; what's that for?" "i haven't the dimmest," answered dorothy briefly. "let's ask mr. anderson." "you'd find it hard to stand up straight if you had only a leg to stand on and not a foot," that gentleman answered to the question. "that concrete foot gives a good solid foundation, and it helps to repel the frost if that should get into the ground so deep. do you see the planks the men are setting up twelve inches in from the bank?" the girls nodded. "they are making a fence all around the cellar you see; that is to keep the concrete in place when it is poured in, and to give it shape." "is it soft like mud?" "it is made of one part of cement and two and one-half parts of sand and five parts of gravel. do you cook?" they all nodded again. "when you come to-morrow you'll see the mixing machine making a stiff batter of those three things--cement and sand and gravel." "it must be like putting raisins in a plum pudding," suggested ethel brown. "you have to be careful the stones--the raisins--don't all sink to the bottom or get bunched together in one place." "that's the idea," smiled mr. anderson. "all those things and water go into one end of the mixer and they come out at the other end concrete in a soft state. then the men shovel the stuff into the space between the fence and the earth bank, making sure that that widening trench at the foot is chock full and they thump it down and let it 'set.'" "i think the cellar will look very ugly with that old plank wall," decided dorothy seriously. "the planks will be taken away." "won't the concrete show lines where the cracks between the boards were?" "do you see those rolls of heavy paper over there? the planks will be lined with that so that the concrete will come against a perfectly smooth surface. when the wood is taken away the men will go over it with a smoothing tool and when they have finished even your particular eye will see nothing to take exception to." "o, i knew it would be right somehow," murmured dorothy, who was afraid she had hurt mr. anderson's feelings. "i just didn't know how you managed it." "here's the way the end of the wall would look if you could slice down right through it," and the contractor took out his notebook and drew a cross section of the concrete wall showing its widened foot. "what's the floor to be made of?" asked ethel blue. "concrete--four inches of it," answered mr. anderson promptly. "it will slope a trifle toward this end, and there a drainage pipe will be laid to carry off any water used in washing the floor. then a layer of cement will go on top of the concrete." "what's that for?" "to make it all smooth. it will be rounded up at the corners and sides where it joins the walls, so there won't be any chance for the dust to collect." "the cellar in our house is awfully damp," remarked ethel brown. "sometimes you can see the water dripping down the stones." "the walls and the floor of this cellar will be waterproofed with a mixture of rich cement and sand mortar, and i think you'll find, young ladies, that you'll have a cellar that'll be hard to beat." the contractor slapped his notebook emphatically and beamed at them so amiably that they felt the greatest confidence in what he proposed. "any way, i haven't anything better to suggest," said dorothy dryly. mr. anderson walked off, giving a roar of amusement as he left them. "where does the sun rise from here?" asked ethel blue as she stood at the spot where was to be the front of the house, and gazed about her. "does the house face directly south?" "no, it faces just half way between south and west. the corners of the house point to north, south, east and west. mother said that if the front was due south the back would be due north and she didn't want a whole side of her house facing north." "it does have a chilly sound," shivered ethel brown. "with a point stretching toward the north the rooms that have a northern exposure will also have the morning sun and the afternoon sun." "i know aunt louise will have her dining room where the morning sun will shine in." "yes, _ma'am_," returned dorothy emphatically. "it makes you feel better all day if you eat your breakfast in the sunshine. by this plan of mother's every room in the house will have direct sunshine at some part of the day." "it's great," approved ethel blue. "can't we ask mr. anderson about making a bird's bath out of cement?" she inquired. "ethel brown and i saw a beauty at mrs. schermerhorn's and perhaps he'd let us have some of the concrete to-morrow when the men are mixing it, and we can try to make one." the girls raced over to the spot where the contractor was just about to get into his ford, and stopped him. "would you mind letting us have a little concrete to-morrow to make a bird's bath with?" begged dorothy breathlessly. "a bird's bath?" repeated mr. anderson. "how are you going to make it?" "couldn't we put some concrete in a pan and squeeze another pan down on to it and let it harden?" "why, yes, something like that," returned mr. anderson slowly. "do you want to make it yourselves?" "yes, indeed," all three girls cried in chorus. he smiled at their enthusiasm and offered a suggestion. "i suppose you want the bird's bath for your garden, miss dorothy;--why don't you make a little pool for the garden?" "oh, could we?" "if you could get a tub and lay down a flooring of concrete and then put in another tub enough smaller so that there would be a space between the walls, then you could fill the space with concrete. when it set, you could take out the inner tub after two or three days and turn the concrete out of the outer tub and there you'd have a concrete tub that you could move about." "that sounds great," beamed dorothy, "but wouldn't it be awfully heavy?" "here's a better way, then. if you can make up your mind exactly where you want to have it in your garden you can have a hole dug, lay down your floor of concrete and put your small tub on it." "i see--then you fill the space between the tub and the earth with concrete." "precisely; thump it down hard and let it stand untouched for a while. then take away your tub, and there you are again." "you can't make the concrete floor and leave it, can you?" "no, indeed. you must have everything ready to do the whole thing at once. put in your tub which is to be your mold, while the floor is still plastic--" "eh?" inquired ethel brown. "soft enough to mold; and then pour in the walls right off quick. you can't fool round when you're working with concrete." "how can we keep the water fresh in the tub?" asked ethel blue of dorothy. dorothy paused, not knowing what to say. "it would be fun to keep gold fish in it," she said, "but they would have to have fresh water, wouldn't they?" she turned appealingly to mr. anderson. "that's not hard to manage," he said. "you can put a bit of broomstick between the earth wall and the outer wall of your tub-mold and pour the concrete around it. when the concrete has hardened you pull out the stick and there is a hole. then you can have a drain dug that will tap that hole on the outside and carry off the water through a few lengths of drain pipe." "what's to prevent the water running off all the time?" ethel blue wanted to know. "keep a plug in it," answered the contractor briefly. "and there should be waterproofing stuff mixed with the materials. you have your gardener dig a hole in the garden," he said, adding, "don't forget to have plenty of grease." "what's that for?" "why do you grease your cake pans?" "so the cake won't stick." "same here. on the cellar wall we lined the inside of the wooden forms with paper. that isn't so easy with round forms, so you grease them." "i never thought there was any likeness between concrete and cooking," laughed ethel brown as the girls watched mr. anderson's skill in taking his little car over the rough ground around the cellar excavation, "but there seems to be plenty." "let's chase off and see if we can collect the things we shall need to-morrow," urged dorothy. "i'll have to find patrick and bring him here and show him just where to dig the hole." "where are you going to dig the hole?" "i think just in the open place on top of the ridge." "i wouldn't," objected ethel brown. "why not?" "won't it be too warm in summer? if you're going to have gold fish you don't want to boil them." "the water would get pretty hot in the sun, wouldn't it?" considered her cousin. "what do you think of a place under that tree?" "it ought not to be too near the tree because the roots will grow out a long way from the trunk of the tree and they might get under the pool and break up the concrete." "oh, could a tender little thing like a root break concrete that's as hard as stone?" "it certainly can. grandfather showed me a crack in a concrete wall of his on the farm that was made by the root of a big tree not far off." "well, then we can't have our pool anywhere near a tree. a shrub wouldn't hurt it, though; why can't it go near those shrubs that are going to separate the flower garden from the vegetable garden?" "that place would be all right because there's a tall spruce there that throws a shadow over the shrubs for a part of the day. that's all you need; you don't want to take away all the sunshine from the pool." so the exact spot was decided on and marked so that patrick should make no mistake, and then the girls rushed off on a search for shallow basins and a tub. chapter ii playing with concrete it was not the ethels and dorothy alone who appeared at the "new place" the next afternoon to make the experiments with concrete. helen, ethel brown's elder sister, and her friend, margaret hancock, of glen point, were so interested in the younger girls' account of what they were going to do with mr. anderson's help that they came too. as they puffed up the steep knoll on which the new house was to stand they stopped beside the cellar hole to see what progress had been made since the day before. "they have just frisked along!" dorothy exclaimed when she saw that not only was the inside fence-mold all built but that the concrete floor was laid and that the men were pouring the mixture in between the planks and the earth wall and pounding it down as they poured. "mr. anderson said 'you can't fool round when you're working with concrete,'" ethel brown repeated. "they aren't, are they?" the men were all working as fast as they could move, some of them shovelling the materials into the mixer, others running the machine, others wheeling the wet concrete in iron barrows to the men at the edge of the cellar who tamped it down as fast as it was poured into the narrow space that defined the growing wall. "when it is full, way up to the top, what happens next?" dorothy inquired of mr. anderson who came over to where they were standing. "then we're going to build on it a three foot wall of concrete blocks to support the upper part of the house." "that's the wall that has the cellar windows in it?" "yes." "then do make good big ones; mother likes a bright cellar," urged dorothy. "we're going to make her a beauty," promised the contractor. "come up into your garden now and let's get this concrete work up there done. here, luigi," he called to an italian, "bring us a load of concrete over there," and he waved his hand in the direction of the spot where patrick had dug the hole for the tub. they all examined the hole with care and the ethels fitted in the tub and found that their digger had done his work skilfully, since there were just about three inches between the earth and the tub all around. they pulled the tub out again and under mr. anderson's direction they greased it thoroughly. "we want to do every bit we can ourselves," they insisted when he suggested that luigi might do that part for them. "don't forget the hole for the drainage," he reminded them. "have you got your stick? and on which side are you going to have that?" they surveyed the ground about the hole and decided that a drainage pipe might run a few inches underground for a short distance and discharge itself at the edge of a bank below which a vegetable garden was to lie. "if you're careful what you plant there it will be an advantage to the ground to have this dampening once in a while," said mr. anderson, who was something of a gardener. "there won't be enough water to drown out any of your plants." luigi emptied a load of concrete into the hole and while he was gone to get a new supply the girls thumped it down hard, fitted in the greased tub and wedged a bit of broomstick which roger, ethel brown's brother, had cut for dorothy into the space between the tub and the earth just at the top of the concrete flooring. when luigi came back they were ready to thump as he poured and three loads filled up the space entirely. "now, then, luigi will bring you one of the smoothing tools that the men over there are using and you can make the top look even," and mr. anderson gave more instructions to the italian. "it will be pretty to have some plants at the edge so they'll bend over and see themselves in the water," suggested margaret. "i should think there must be some water plants that would grow inside without much trouble," ethel blue said. "we must look that up; they'd probably need a little soil of some sort," helen reminded them. "they'd be awfully pretty," said dorothy complacently. "don't you seem to see it--with gold fish swimming around among the stems?" "dicky might lend us his old turtle," laughed ethel brown. "he's tired of taking care of it. you could put a stick in here partly above the water, for him to sun himself on. i don't see why he wouldn't be quite happy here." dicky's turtle was a family joke. dicky had found him two years before and had taken him home thinking he was a piece of stone. his excitement and terror when the stone lying on the library table stuck out first a head and then one leg after another to the number of four, had never been forgotten by the people who saw him at this thrilling moment. "now for your bird's bath," mr. anderson reminded his pupils. "you have to work fast, you know." dorothy brought out her two shallow basins, one smaller than the other. the larger had its inside well greased and the smaller was thoroughly rubbed over on its under side. into the larger they poured about an inch of concrete and then squeezed the smaller dish into it, but not so sharply that it cut through. they filled in the crack between the two, pushing and patting the mixture into place, and they smoothed the edge so that it turned over the rim of the larger bowl before they cut it off evenly all around with a wire. "there," said mr. anderson as he watched them. "we'll see what will come from that. it might be better done--" at which the girls all pulled long faces--"but also, it might be worse, or i'm very much mistaken." "i wish we could make some garden furniture," sighed dorothy, holding up her dripping hands helplessly, but at the same time gazing with joy at their new manufacture. "you could if you would make the forms," said mr. anderson. "all you need to do is to make a bench inside of another bench and fill the space between with concrete." "that sounds easy, but if you were a girl, mr. anderson, you might find it a little hard to make the forms." "we can all drive nails," insisted ethel brown stoutly. "i believe i'll try." but the others laughed at her and reminded her that she would have to drive the nails through rather heavy planking, so she gave up the notion. "what are the walls going to be made of?" margaret asked dorothy. "something fireproof, mother said, but i don't know what she finally decided on. i'll ask mr. anderson." "plaster on hollow tile," the contractor answered absent-mindedly over his shoulder, as he walked briskly before them back to the cellar. the girls saw that he was too full of business now to pay any more attention to them, so they thanked him for giving them so much time and made some investigations on their own account among the piles of material lying about on the grounds. "i wonder if this could be 'hollow-tile,'" ethel blue said to the rest as she came across a stack of strange-looking pieces of brown earthenware. "it's certainly hollow," returned ethel brown, "but i always supposed tiles were flat things. that's a tile mother sets the teapot on to keep the heat from harming the polish of the table." they stood about the pile of brown, square-edged pipes, roughly glazed inside and out, through whose length ran three square holes. they asked two workmen as they passed what they were. one said "hollow tile," and the other, "terra-cotta." "i suspect they're both right," helen decided. "probably they're hollow tile made of terra-cotta." "but i thought terra-cotta was lighter brown and smooth. they make little images out of terra-cotta," insisted dorothy. "i've seen those," agreed margaret, "but i suppose there can be different qualities of terra-cotta just as there are different qualities of china." "this stuff is fireproof, any way," explained dorothy. "i remember now hearing mother and the architect talking about it. and they said something about a 'dead air space.' that must mean the holes." "what's dead air space for?" inquired ethel blue. "i think it dries up the dampness, or keeps it out so that it doesn't get into the house." "these are useful old blocks, then, even if they aren't pretty," decided helen, patting the ugly pile. mr. anderson strolled toward them again after giving various directions to his men. "just how is this tile used?" inquired dorothy, as he seemed to be more at leisure now. "we build a wall of this hollow tile," he answered; "then we put the plaster right on to it. do you see that the outside is rather rough? that is so the plaster will have something to take hold of. we mix it up of cement and lime and sand and put on three coats. the first one is mixed with hair, and mashed on hard so that it will stick and it is roughened so that the next coat will stick to it." "is the next coat made of the same stuff?" "without the hair; and the third coat is as thin as cream and is flowed on to make a smooth-looking outside finish." "that's a lot of work," commented dorothy. "that's not all we're going to do to your walls; mrs. smith wants them to be a trifle yellowish in tone--a little warmer than the natural color of the plaster--so we're going to wash on some mineral matter that will give them color and waterproof them at the same time." "killing two birds," murmured helen. "then the whole house will look plastery except the roof and chimneys," said ethel brown. "including the roof and chimneys," returned mr. anderson. "we're going to use concrete shingles--" "concrete shingles! doesn't that sound funny!" "they are colored, so they look like green or red shingles." "what color is mother going to have?" "dark green. the chimney is to be made of reinforced concrete." "'reinforced' must mean 'strengthened,' but how do you strengthen it?" inquired margaret. "you've seen how we build a mold to pour the concrete in; inside of the mold we build a sort of cage of steel rods. don't you see that when the concrete hardens it would be almost impossible for such a reinforced piece of work to break through?" "couldn't an earthquake break it?" "an earthquake might give a piece of solid concrete such a twist that it would crack through, but suppose the crack found itself up against a steel rod? don't you think it would complicate matters?" the girls thought it would. "i'm awfully glad our chimney is going to be reinforced," dorothy exclaimed, "because up on this knoll we're going to feel the wind a lot and it would be horrid if the chimney should fall down!" "it certainly would," agreed the ethels, but mr. anderson assured them that they need not be afraid of any accident of the sort with a reinforced concrete chimney. "i've seen skyscrapers going up in new york," said margaret "and all the beams were of steel. are you going to use steel beams here?" "no, we don't often use steel construction for small houses, but this house is going to be more fireproof than most small houses even if it does have wooden beams. you watch it as it goes on and notice all the points that make for fireproofness. it will interest you," mr. anderson promised as he walked away. the girls all washed their hands as well as they could with the hose with which the workmen watered the concrete mixture, but they had nothing to dry them on and they walked down the road holding them before them and waving them in the breeze. "mother will think we are crazy if she happens to be looking out of the window," said dorothy. "my aunt sent you a message, dorothy," said margaret. "what aunt? i didn't know you had an aunt," replied dorothy. "she seems like a new aunt to us; james and i haven't seen her since we were little bits of things." "where does she live?" asked ethel blue. "in washington. she's an interior decorator and she's awfully busy, so when she has had to come on to new york to buy materials or to see people she has never had a chance to stay with us." "is she going to make a visit this time?" inquired ethel brown. "she has come for a long visit now. she has a commission to decorate a house in englewood. it's going to take her several weeks, and then she wants to rest and do some studying and to make the rounds of the decorators in the city, so it will be several months before she goes back again." "that's nice," said ethel blue politely, and she was glad she had thought so because margaret said at once, "we think it's splendid. she's a young aunt, lots and lots younger than mother, and james and i think she's loads of fun." "what was her message to me?" asked dorothy. "o, we were telling her about the united service club and the things we did--sending gifts to the war orphans and celebrating holidays and our plans for helping some poor women and children in the summer and for taking care of the belgian baby. she was awfully interested and said she felt as if she knew all of you people and the watkinses quite well, we talked about you so much. then we told her about dorothy's house, and how mrs. smith had said we might all give our opinions about the decorating, and she asked us to tell you that she'd be very glad indeed to act as consulting decorator when you come to the inside work." "why, that's awfully sweet of her!" exclaimed dorothy. "mother isn't going to have a regular decorator, and i know she'll be immensely pleased to have miss--what is your aunt's name?" "graham; she's our aunt daisy!" "--to have miss graham give us advice and 'check up' on our suggestions." "by the time your house is ready for that part she will have finished her englewood house; but she said she'd be glad to come over and see the house and the plans any time when she was free for the afternoon, and she hoped you'd consult her about everything you wanted to." "daisy is a pretty name, isn't it?" ethel blue murmured to herself. "i wish one of us was named daisy." "her name is really margaret; i'm named after her. daisy is the nickname for margaret, you know." "it's a lovely name," said ethel blue again. "and please tell miss daisy that i think she's the finest ever, and mother will think so, too, when i tell her about this," added dorothy. "and do ask her to come over to one of the u. s. c. meetings when we happen to be doing something that will interest her," concluded helen, who was the president of the club. chapter iii the club selects the benches it seemed to dorothy and the ethels that the outside of sweetbrier lodge, as mrs. smith had determined to call her house, went up with remarkable speed, but that the inside would never be done--never! every day the girls walked down the road after school, and stood and surveyed the general appearance from the sidewalk and from across the street and sometimes they went on to mrs. emerson's and discussed vigorously as to whether the view of the corner of the house that was to be seen now would still be seen after the leaves came out or whether the house would be entirely concealed by the foliage. "that's 'one of the things no feller knows,'" mr. emerson quoted. "we shall have to wait and see." "we can get an idea how it is to look from the road," said ethel brown. "only there'll be a lot of planting," dorothy explained. "there'll be a hedge along the street and a lot of shrubs on the knoll and the house will be covered with vines in the course of time." "that's another good point about concrete," declared mr. emerson; "vines don't injure it as they do brick." "we'll have it entirely covered, then," laughed dorothy. "i thought it was to be a bungalow," said mrs. emerson. "your mother has always spoken of it as a bungalow, but the plans i saw the men following the other day when i went up the hill to take a look at things, seemed to me like a two story house." "mother changed her mind," said dorothy. "she thought a bungalow would be too crowded now that we have little belgian elisabeth with us, so the house is going to have two stories and an attic." "the u. s. c. couldn't get on without dorothy's attic," smiled ethel brown, for almost all of the presents for the christmas ship had been made in the attic of dorothy's present abiding place, and the club had had many meetings there. "there's nothing like having a well-thought-out plan before you attempt building," said mr. emerson, "and that your mother had." "she tried to think of every possible need, ayleesabet's as well as our own," continued dorothy, using the pronunciation that the belgian baby had given her own name. "she has a good contractor in anderson." "he didn't make the very lowest bid," said dorothy. "there was one man who was lower, but he was such a lot lower that mother thought there must be something the matter with the quality of the material he used, or that he employed workmen so poor that they might not do their work well, so she didn't consider that offer at all." "she was very wise," commended mr. emerson. "he might have spoiled the whole thing and have cost her more money in the end by turning out a poor job." while the building was going on and before the inside work was done the girls spent a good deal of time in planning for the furnishing of the garden. the flower and vegetable beds had all been arranged some weeks before and many of them had been planted, but the artistic part of the garden had been left until there should be time to devote to it. mrs. smith had promised dorothy that she should have the choice of the garden furniture, reserving for herself a veto power if her daughter chose anything that seemed to her entirely unsuitable. "not that i expect to use it," she said, smiling at the girls who were listening to her. the selection of the benches and tables and trellises was made a subject of attention by the whole united service club. a meeting was called in the partly begun garden so that they might have the "lie of the land" before them as they talked. dorothy took with her a number of catalogues from which to select or to gather ideas. "we've got a good shelter of large trees already provided for us," she said as they all seated themselves in such shade as the young leaves made. "there ought to be a fine large settee under it where we can have club meetings all summer, no matter how warm it is," urged tom watkins with wise foresight. tom and his sister, della, came out from new york for the club gatherings, and the prospect of meeting out of doors instead of in the attic, which was delightful in winter but not so attractive in warm weather, made him offer this shrewd suggestion. "in the first place," said dorothy again, opening the various catalogues and spreading them on the grass where they could all see them, "don't you think it would be pretty to have all the chairs and benches of one pattern? or don't you?" "i think it would," answered ethel brown, examining the pages carefully before she made her decision. "would what?" "i should like them all alike. it would be messy to have a lot of different patterns." ethel blue, who had a good deal of artistic sense and ability, nodded her agreement with this belief. they all came to the same conclusion. "then, let's pick out the pattern," said dorothy, who had an orderly mind. "something plain, so the visitor's eye won't be drawn to the benches instead of the flowers," recommended helen. "suppose we were sitting here, for instance, and looking toward the flower beds--there will be some tables and chairs between us and the flowers, probably--" "if the seeds will only grow," dorothy sighed comically. "--and we want to forget them and not have them intrude on our attention." "correct!" james hancock thumped the ground by way of applause. "what's the plainest pattern there is?" asked della, extending her hand for a book. "that one--but that's too plain," remonstrated ethel blue. "that's so plain that it draws your attention as much as if it were all fussed up." they laughed at her disgust and urged her to choose the next plainest. "i rather think this one with cross bars is pretty," she decided seriously. "you wouldn't get tired of that--especially if they're all painted dark green so you won't see them much." "you girls seem to want to have invisible furniture," grinned roger. "me for something more substantial." "these will be substantial enough--they're made of cypress," retorted helen, "but you don't want to see a lot of chairs and benches when you come out to observe the beauties of nature, my child." "i can bay the moon on a white bench with an elaborate pattern just as musically as on a plain, dark green one," insisted roger. "don't pay any attention to him," urged ethel brown, which crushing remark from a younger sister was rewarded by a hair-pull effectively delivered by roger. "yow!" squealed ethel. "now who's baying the moon?" inquired her brother. "let's decide on the cross-barred kind," decreed dorothy. "the lady of the garden has made her decision," announced james, tooting through his hands as if he were a herald making an announcement. "now for the shapes. how many are you going to have, lady?" "i think there ought to be a very large bench that would hold almost all the club, and then one or two smaller benches and two or three chairs and two small tables for lemonade and cocoa." "and to hold the secretary's book when she's writing," urged ethel blue who held the office of scribe and had not always found herself conveniently situated to do her work. "here's a bully bench for the whole u. s. c.," cried tom. "it's curved so it will fit right under this semi-circle of trees as if it were made for this very spot." he held up the picture of a wide bench with two wings. it was greeted with applause. "when that is made in the pattern we chose it will be as pretty as any one could ask for," dorothy decided. "and painted green," added ethel blue, at which they all laughed. "i'm serious about the green," she insisted. "don't you see what i mean, dorothy?" she continued, appealing to the person who was to have the final decision on the question. "i think you're right," replied dorothy. "don't mind what they say. write down one of those, miss secretary, and one of these right-angled ones--don't you all of you think that's a comfy one?" they did, and they also approved of the single bench and the chairs and the small tables. "they won't be all jammed up in this corner, of course," dorothy explained gravely, "but when we have a club meeting we can bring them together if we want to and room enough for everybody." "i thought we were all to sit on the big bench," objected tom with an air of deep disappointment. "so we shall if you boys are too lazy to pull the other benches and chairs over here," answered dorothy. "if we have plenty we can arrange them any way we want to." "what about trellises?" inquired ethel blue who had been continuing her researches in the catalogues. "here are some beauties. don't you think you'll need some?" "she certainly will if that dorothy perkins rambler rose gets busy as it ought to," decided roger. "there'll be a lot of vines and tall things if they'll only grow," said dorothy hopefully. "i think there ought to be one or two flat ones and an arbor that will be a trellis." "here's an arbor that you can walk through or sit down in while you admire your plants, and you will be protected from the sun," tom pointed out. "and that same one with a lattice back and a bench inside makes a pretty good imitation of a summer house," suggested ethel brown. "we'll have one apiece of those, then." "count up and see how much stuff you're planning to order," roger suggested. "you've got a huge big place to set them in here but you don't want too much wood work, nevertheless." they came to the conclusion that there were not too many for the size of the grounds and were well satisfied with their choice. "do you see how well we're going to see the house from here?" dorothy asked. they all agreed that it would be very pretty from that point. "my idea is that the garden must look well from the house," said dorothy. "mother wants a pergola somewhere. don't you think the right place for it would be covering a walk leading from the house to here?" "that's a great notion," approved tom. "as you came toward the garden you'd have a--what do you call the effect--where you see a view framed in somehow?" "do you mean a vista?" asked margaret. "that's it. there would be a vista of the garden." "it will be lovely!" helen said decisively. "and i don't see why there shouldn't be a trellis framing a view of the woods toward grandfather emerson's; that would be pretty, too." dorothy went over to look at the drawing that helen held up to her and decided straightway that it was worth trying. they all went toward the upper side of the garden where young peach trees were planted on the northern slope of the ridge and chose a spot which gave a charming picture of the adjoining field with its brook and the woods beyond. "the birds are coming along pretty well now," announced james who had been lying on his back gazing up into the branches swaying in the upper breeze. "are you going to build any bird houses, dorothy?" asked ethel brown. "i suppose we'll have to if we want them to stay late in the season or all winter," replied her cousin. "but bird houses are so ugly." "not the modern ones," interposed james eagerly. "you make them out of pieces of the trunks of trees with the bark on, and you fix up a platform with a stick on it that has spikes to hang suet on and they aren't a bit conspicuous and lots of birds will stay all winter that otherwise would go south before the regular palm beach rush." "we must have some then," dorothy made up her mind. "say 'robert of lincoln'?" she begged ethel brown, who was the club's reciter, "and then we'll go home and have some cocoa and cookies." "do, ethel brown;" "come on," were the cries from all the u. s. c. members as they settled themselves to listen to bryant's charming verses. merrily swinging on brier and weed, near to the nest of his little dame, over the mountain side and mead, robert of lincoln is telling his name, bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; snug and safe is that nest of ours, hidden among the summer flowers, chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln is gaily dressed, wearing a bright black wedding coat; white are his shoulders and white his crest, hear him call in his cheery note: bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; look, what a nice new coat is mine, sure there was never a bird so fine. chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln's quaker wife, pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, passing at home a patient life, broods in the grass while her husband sings: bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; brood, kind creature; you need not fear thieves and robbers while i am here. chee, chee, chee. modest and shy as a nun is she, one weak chirp is her only note, braggart and prince of braggarts is he, pouring boasts from his little throat: bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; never was i afraid of man; catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. chee, chee, chee. six white eggs on a bed of hay, flecked with purple, a pretty sight! there as the mother sits all day, robert is singing with all his might: bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; nice good wife that never goes out, keeping house while i frolic about. chee, chee, chee. soon as the little ones chip the shell six wide mouths are open for food; robert of lincoln bestirs him well, gathering seed for the hungry brood. bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; this new life is likely to be hard for a gay young fellow like me. chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln at length is made sober with work and silent with care; off is his holiday garment laid, half forgotten that merry air, bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; nobody knows but my mate and i where our nest and our nestlings lie. chee, chee, chee. summer wanes, the children are grown; fun and frolic no more he knows; robert of lincoln's a humdrum crone; off he flies and we sing as he goes: bob-o'link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; when you can pipe that merry old strain, robert of lincoln, come back again. chee, chee, chee. chapter iv christopher finds a new lodging there was trouble in chicken circles. the young chicks that the ethels and dorothy had helped dicky move from the incubator to the brooder were making rapid progress toward broiler size, and had been transferred to a run of their own where they scratched and dozed happily through the long spring days. dicky and ayleesabet, the belgian baby, were examining them on a late june afternoon. dicky had brought with him his old friend, the turtle, which had not yet been moved to dorothy's pool, since his present owner wanted to wait until his aunt's house was occupied before he let so cherished a possession go where he might slip away and his loss, perhaps, be unnoticed. "when you're living right there tho you can watch chrithtopher columbuth all the time i'll let you have him," dicky had promised dorothy. "i see myself in my mind's eye sitting side of the tank all day and night holding the turtle's paw!" dorothy exclaimed when she told the ethels of dicky's decision. perhaps because he felt that he was soon to be parted from his old comrade dicky's affection for christopher seemed to increase and he developed a habit of carrying him about, sometimes in his hand and sometimes in a little basket which dorothy had made for christopher's christmas gift. to-day he had brought him to the chicken yard in his hand and had laid him down on the ground while he examined his flock and called ayleesabet's attention to the beauties of this or the other miniature hen. elisabeth's words were few, but she managed to make her wants and opinions known with surprising ease, and she never had the least trouble about expressing her emotions. her little playmate had learned this and therefore when he heard loud howls behind his back he knew that it was not anger that was disturbing the usually placid baby, but terror. shriek after shriek arose although it seemed to him that he turned about almost instantly. he was not in time, however, to prevent her from being thrown down in some mysterious way, or to see the cause of the commotion among the chickens. they fluttered and squawked and ran to and fro, tumbling over each other and running with perfect indifference over the baby as she lay yelling on the ground. her blue romper legs came up every now and then out of the mass of chicken feathers, and their kicking only added to the disturbance and confusion of the chicks. the hubbub did not go unnoticed. roger ran from his vegetable garden to see what was the matter; helen appeared from her garden of wild flowers; miss merriam, the baby's caretaker, ran from the porch where she was talking with the ethels who were waiting for the out-of-town members of the u. s. c. to arrive. at the moment when all these people were rushing to the rescue, margaret and james hancock, just off the glen point street car, hurried from the corner, and della and tom watkins, arrived by the latest train from new york, burst open the gate in their excitement. to meet all these inquiries came dicky, tugging after him by the leg, the baby, howling pitifully by this time as she was dragged over the grass. miss merriam seized her and hugged her tight. "what's the matter with the little darling precious?" she crooned. ayleesabet gathered herself together courageously and her sobbing died away. "what was it all about?" miss merriam inquired of dicky. "i don't know," replied dicky, his own lip trembling as he tried to understand the rapid, thrilling experience. "tell gertrude what happened," miss merriam urged the baby, wiping away her tears and setting her down on her feet on the grass just as christopher columbus bumped his way over the sod to join them. ayleesabet's conversational powers were not equal to the explanation, but her little hands could tell a great deal, and her caretaker was skilled in interpreting them. she pointed to the turtle and called him by the nickname that dicky had given him, "chriththy"; then she spread out her fat little fingers and waved a forward motion with her hand. "chrissy stuck out his head and legs and walked ahead," interpreted miss merriam. "where was he, dicky?" "in the chicken yard." elisabeth was kneeling beside the turtle now, tapping his shell with a chubby forefinger; after which she rolled over on her back and screamed. miss merriam shook her head at this demonstration, but dicky translated it out of his previous experience. "the chickenth hit hith thhell with their beakth, and, when he moved they were frightened and knocked her over," he guessed. "that's just what happened, i believe," said roger, setting elisabeth on her feet once more. "i've seen the chickens run like anything from christopher, and probably they ran between the baby's legs and upset her and then scampered all over her. i don't wonder she was scared." christopher gave no testimony in the case. he may have been overcome by the confusion; at any rate he withdrew into his shell and preserved a studied calm from which he could not be roused. "i think you can have him," said dicky suddenly to dorothy, who had come through the fence at the corner where her yard joined her cousins'. "he botherth me." "very well," said dorothy. "let's take him over to sweetbrier lodge this afternoon. we're all going over there anyway--bring him along, dicky." so the procession set forth, dicky and his shell-covered friend at the fore, escorted by all the rest of the united service club, while miss merriam and her charge, whose walking ability had not yet developed much speed, brought up the rear. as they all toiled up the hill to sweetbrier lodge mrs. smith and mrs. morton came out on the veranda of the new house to watch them. "has anything happened?" called mrs. smith as soon as they were within earshot. "we're just bringing christopher over to his new home," dorothy explained to her mother. "'the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land,'" quoted mrs. morton. "i used to think that that meant a turtle like dicky's and not a turtle-dove," and the two mothers laughed and disappeared within the house while the younger people kept on to the garden and the concrete pool. when they reached there dicky gazed at the pool in dismay. "there ithn't any water in it," he objected, shaking his head doubtfully. "we can reach it with the hose and fill it up in no time," his cousin explained. "it'll run out of the hole," pointing to the hole made by the broomstick when the concrete was soft. "we'll put a plug in the hole." "he hasn't any log to sit on." "roger will find him a stick." "i don't want to leave him here all alone," screamed dicky, overcome by a renewal of his former misgivings. casting himself on the ground he hugged his treasure to his breast and waved his legs in the air. "you can take him back again if you want to," ethel brown reminded him, "but you know he's always getting into trouble with the chickens now. he seems to run away every day." as the memory of the latest encounter between christopher and the chicks with elisabeth's overthrow, flashed before him, dicky howled again. there seemed to be no haven on earth for his favorite. "i'll tell you what we'll do," suggested dorothy soothingly. "let's go down to the house. the laundry is finished, and we can put him in one of the tubs there until this pool is fixed to suit you." "it'th dark in the laundry," objected dicky again. "not in this laundry. you see," explained dorothy, sitting down beside the sufferer and patting him gently, "the house is built on the side of a hill, so the laundry has full sized windows and is bright and cheerful though it's on a level with the cellar. i think christopher will like it." dicky stood up, his face smeared with tears, but a new interest gleaming in his reddened eyes. "come on," urged ethel blue, tactfully; "let's all go and see if we can't make him comfortable." "i'll pick up a piece of log for him as we go along," promised roger, and he and tom and james went off towards the woods to look for just the right thing. "what a perfectly dandy cellar. why, it's as bright as the upper part of the house!" exclaimed margaret as the procession invaded the lower regions of the lodge. "isn't it fine!" agreed dorothy. "the workmen have cleared it all up, and, if this part were all, it might be lived in right off." "the whitewashed walls make it look bright." "and the large windows! i never saw such windows in a cellar." "mother says i may put little cheesecloth curtains in them." "curtains will look sweet the day after you take in the winter supply of coal," grinned roger, who appeared with the other boys, carrying christopher's bit of log. "they won't look dirty, if that's what you mean by 'sweet,'" dorothy retorted. "look--" and she opened the door of a coal bin--"the coal is put in through a concrete chute that leads directly into the bin and the bin is entirely shut off from the cellar. no dust floats out of that, young man." "how do you get the coal out?" "here's a little door that slides up and catches. you notice that the floor of the bin isn't level with the cellar floor; it's raised to make it a comfortable height for shoveling. under it is the place for the logs for the open fires. there are two bins, one for furnace coal and the other for the coal for the stoves, and the kindling wood goes in this third one. they are all together and large enough but not too large, and the furnace coal is near the boiler and the small coal is near the laundry and the wood is close to the dumb waiter that will take that and the clean clothes upstairs." "all as compact as a cut-out puzzle," approved roger. "i take off my hat to this arrangement." "thank you," courtesied dorothy. "mother and i worked that out together, and we're rather pleased with it ourselves." "what do you do with the ashes?" asked roger, who took care of several furnaces in the winter time, and therefore made his examination as a specialist. "put them down that chute with a swinging door and into a covered can. it will be hard for the ashes to fly there." "this is the concrete floor we superintended," said helen, looking at it closely. "all smooth and well drained with rounded edges. it's going to be as clean as a whistle down here. see the metal ceiling? that's for fire prevention, and so is the sprinkler system and there's a metal covered door at the head of the cellar stairs." "there seems to be a lot of machinery for a small house," observed james as he carried his examination around the space. "mother said she couldn't afford luxuries but she could afford comforts and these are some of the comforts," smiled dorothy. "not very pretty comforts," remarked ethel blue dryly. "'handsome is as handsome does,'" quoted her cousin. "when these things get to working you won't care whether they're beautiful to look at or not." "what's the heating system--steam or hot water?" asked tom, standing before the boiler. "hot water. they say it's more convenient for a small house because you don't have to keep up such a big fire all the time." "that's so; in steam heating there has to be fire enough to make steam, anyway, doesn't there?" "and when the steam in the pipes cools it turns to water and dribbles away, but in the hot water system there will be some heat in the outside of your radiator as long as the water inside has any warmth at all." "how does the expense compare?" inquired james who was always interested in the financial side of all questions. "the hot water system is said to be cheaper," replied dorothy. "why are there so many pipes?" asked ethel brown, looking with a puzzled air at the collection before her. "hear me lecture on heating!" laughed dorothy; "but i did study it all out with mother, so i think i'm telling you the truth about it. there have to be two sets of pipes, one to take the hot water to the radiators and the other to bring it back after it has cooled." "there seem to be big pipes and small ones." "mains and branch pipes they call them. the man who put these in said this house was especially well arranged for piping because it wouldn't take any more pressure to force the water into one radiator than another. he says there's going to be a good even heat all over everywhere." "there isn't a lot of difference between radiators for steam and those for hot water, is there?" asked ethel blue. "no, you have to put something with water in it on top of both kinds to make the air of the room moist. here you have to open the air valve yourself and let out the air that accumulates in the radiator. in the steam ones they are automatically worked by steam." "there can't be much air in the hot water radiator, i should think," said margaret thoughtfully. "there isn't. you only have to open the valve two or three times in the course of the winter. the biggest difference is that the hot water system has to have an expansion tank." "what's that?" "why, when steam is shut up it just presses harder than ever, but when water is heated it swells and it's likely to burst open whatever it's in, so there has to be an open tank up at the top of the house where it can go and swell around all it wants to," laughed dorothy. "what are these affairs?" inquired margaret who had been looking at two other arrangements near by. "that one is a gas thing for heating water in summer when there isn't any other fire. there's a tiny flame burning all the time, and when the water is drawn out of the tank the flame becomes larger automatically and heats up a new supply." "that's a fine scheme; you don't have to heat the house up and yet the water is always ready. what's the other?" "that's to burn up the garbage. in the kitchen there's a tiny closet for the garbage pail. it's ventilated from the outside. there is a thing that burns the garbage and makes it heat the water, but mother decided that we had so small a family that there might be days when there wouldn't be fuel enough to make a decent fire, so we'd better have the gas heater." "the other would be economical for a hotel," observed prudent james. "here's the refrigerating plant," dorothy said, motioning toward a tank and a set of pipes and a small motor. "going to cut out the iceman?" grinned tom. "we're going to be independent of him. mother doesn't like natural ice, any way; she went over to the rosemont pond last winter when the men were cutting and the ice was so dirty she made up her mind right off that she didn't want any more of it. this thing will chill the refrigerator up in the kitchen and pipes from it are going under the flooring of the drawing room and the dining room so they can be made comfy in summer." "hope you can cut them off in winter!" and roger gave a tremendous shiver. "we can," dorothy reassured him. "good work!" "it makes small cakes of ice too, so we can always have plenty for the club lemonades." "i don't know but i think that's more useful than the heating arrangements," approved plump little della. "that's because you're fat," responded tom with brotherly frankness. "you think you suffer most in summer, but if you didn't have any heat in winter you'd change your cry." "i suppose i should, but i do nearly _melt_ in warm weather," sighed della. "we don't mean to if we can help it," laughed dorothy. "this is the air-washing arrangement over here," went on dorothy, as she continued her round of the cellar. "air-washing!" was the general chorus. "as long as we have a little motor we're going to make it useful. there's a small fan here that brings in the fresh air. it goes into a 'spray chamber' and is washed free of dust with water that is cold in summer and warm in winter." "i see clearly that the temperature of this castle is going to be just right," exclaimed roger. "after the air leaves the spray chamber it goes over some plates that take all the moisture out of it, and then the fan forces it through the pipes that go into every room." "are those the little gratings i noticed in all the rooms the other day?" asked ethel blue. "those are the ventilators. don't you think we've made everything very compact here? all these pipes take up very little room." "mighty little!" commended roger. "and they're all open so you can get at them without any trouble." "here's a scheme patrick suggested," laughed dorothy, pointing upward to what looked like a concrete shelf with an upturned border almost at the top of the cellar wall. "what's it for?" asked ethel brown. "that shelf is directly underneath the seat beside the fireplace in the drawing room. patrick plans to save himself the trouble of carrying up the logs by piling them on this shelf down here. then he lifts the cover of the seat upstairs and all he has to do is to take out his wood and make his fire!" "that certainly is a cracker-jack labor saving device! good for patrick!" "he's especially tickled with the vacuum cleaner run by this same little motor. you ought to hear him talk about it." "what are these cupboards for?" asked helen who had been exploring. "that one with the glass doors is for preserves, and the place in the other corner that has a fence for its two inside walls is a place for cleaning silver and shoes and lamps and brasses. see--there are cupboards along the inside of the fence. they hold all the cleaning materials, and the cleaner can sit in a swing chair in the middle and use a different part of the concrete shelf against the two cellar walls for boots or fire-irons or knives and forks or lamps. at one end is a sink so he can have what water he needs for his work and he can wash his hands when he turns from one kind of cleaning to another." "and he isn't all smothered up in a small room. who thought of that?" "patrick and i worked that out together. patrick has lots of ingenuity." "i should say you had, too!" exclaimed della, admiringly. "here's where dorothy does her carpentering," cried james. "i may move that bench up in the attic later," explained dorothy, "but i thought i'd leave it here until the house was done, because there are apt to be little things to be hammered and nailed for some time, i suppose." "how long are you going to be before you fikth a plathe for chrithopher columbuth?" demanded dicky, whose patience was entirely exhausted. "we'll make him happy right here and now," answered dorothy briskly, throwing open the door of the laundry. the sun shone gayly on the concrete floor and the room was a cheerful spot. an electric washing machine stood ready although covered tubs were built against the wall for use in emergencies, and at one side was a drying closet. there were numerous plugs against the wall for the attachment of pressing irons. "what's this?" asked ethel brown, lifting a cover of a hopper at the base of a chute. "that's the chute for soiled clothes. the other end is on the bedroom floor, and it saves carrying." "that's as good as patrick's log device!" smiled helen. "shall i put christopher's log in here?" asked roger, lifting the top of one of the stationary tubs. "yes, fix it so he can crawl up and sit in the sunshine where it strikes the tub. we'll have to draw some water from the hydrant outside; the water isn't turned on in the house yet." roger picked up a pail that was standing near by and went up the cellar stairs two at a time. "now, sir," he said to dicky when he came back, "i'll lift you up and you can put christopher into his new abode." dicky deposited his charge gently on the log and he lay there poking out his head to enjoy the sunshine. "did you bring some bits of meat for him?" roger asked. for answer dicky turned out of the pocket of his rompers a handful of chopped beef. "certainly unappetizing in appearance," said tom, wrinkling his nose, "but i dare say christopher is not particular." chapter v the law of laughter the mortons were sitting on their porch on a warm evening waving fans and trying to think that the coming night promised comfortable sleep. the ethels sat on the upper step, roger was stretched on the floor at one side, helen sat beside her mother's hammock which she kept in gentle motion by an occasional movement of her hand, and dicky was dozing in a large chair. in a near-by tree an insect insisted that "katy did," and in the grass a cricket chirruped its shrill call. "i do feel that aunt louise's being able to build this pretty house after all her years of wandering is about the nicest thing that ever happened out of a fairy story," murmured helen softly to her mother, but loudly enough for the others to hear. "there are people who talk about the law of compensation," smiled mrs. morton in the darkness. "they think that if one good is lacking in our lives other goods take its place." "do you believe that?" "i believe that everything that happens to us comes because we have obeyed or disobeyed god's laws. sometimes we are quite unconscious of disobeying them, but the law has to work out just as if we knew all about it." "for instance?" came a deep voice from the floor, indicating that roger had awakened. "do you remember the time you walked off the end of the porch one day?" "i should say i did! my nose aches at the mere thought of it." "you didn't know anything about the law of gravitation, but the law worked in your case just as if you had known all about it." "i'm bound to state that it did," confirmed roger, still gently rubbing his nose as he lay in the shadow. "it seems as if it might have held up for a little boy who didn't know what he was going to get by disobeying it," said ethel blue sympathetically. "but it didn't and it never does," returned mrs. morton. "that's one reason why we ought to try to learn what god's laws are just as fast and as thoroughly as we can; not only the laws of nature like the law of gravitation, but laws of morality and justice and right thinking and unselfishness and kindness toward others." "sometimes mighty mean people seem to prosper," said ethel brown, with a hint of rebellion in her voice. "that's because those people obey to the letter the law that controls prosperity of a material kind. a man may be cruel to his wife and unkind to his children, but he may have a genius for making money. some people call it the law of compensation. i call it merely an understanding of the financial law and a lack of understanding of the law of kindness." "i don't see what law dear aunt louise could have broken to have made her have such a hard time," wondered ethel blue. "her husband being killed and her having to wander about without a home for so many years--that seems like a hard punishment." "men have decided that 'ignorance of the law is no excuse'!" said her aunt, "and the same thing is true of laws that are not man-made." "that seems awfully hard," objected helen; "it doesn't seem fair to punish a person for what he doesn't know." "if a cannibal should come to rosemont and should kill some one and have a barbecue, we should think that he ought to be deprived of his liberty because he was a dangerous person to have about, even if we felt sure that he did not know that he was doing an act forbidden by new jersey law. the position is that although a person may be ignorant of the law it is his business to know it. that seems to be the way with the higher laws; we may break them in our ignorance--but we ought not to be ignorant. we ought to try just as hard as we know how all the time to do everything as well as we can and to be as good as we can. if we never let ourselves do a mean act or think a mean thought we're bound to come to an understanding of the great laws sooner than if we just jog along not thinking anything about them. i believe one reason why your aunt louise was so slow in reaching the end of her troubles after uncle leonard died was because she was unable to control her sorrow. she has told me that she was completely crushed by his death and the condition of poverty in which she found herself with a little child--dorothy--to take care of." "i don't blame her," murmured ethel blue. "she blames herself, because she has learned that giving way to grief paralyzes all the powers that god has given us to carry on the work of life with. if our minds are filled with gloom our bodies don't behave as they ought to--i dare say even you children know that." "i know," agreed ethel blue, who was sensitive and imaginative and suffered unnecessarily over many things. "your mind doesn't go, either," roger added. "i know when i got in the dumps last spring about graduating i couldn't do a thing. my work went worse than ever. it was only when mr. wheeler"--referring to the principal of the high school--"jollied me up and told me i was getting on as well as the rest of the fellows that i took a brace; and you know i did come out all right." "i should say you did, dear," acknowledged his mother proudly. "instances like that make you understand how necessary it is to be brave and to be filled with joy because life is going on as well as it is. it is our duty to make the most of everything that is given us--our bodies, our minds, our spirits--and if courage will help or joy will help then we must cultivate courage and joy." "did aunt louise see that after a while?" "not for a long time, she says. after the shock of uncle leonard's sudden death had worn away somewhat she began naturally to have a little more courage--not to be so completely crushed as she was at first. then she saw that when she was feeling brave she could accomplish more, and succeed better in new undertakings. if she went to ask for work somewhere and had no hope that she would receive it she usually did not receive it; but if she went feeling that this day was to be one of success for her it usually was." "i suppose she went in with a sort 'of course you'll give it to me' air that made the men she was asking think of 'of course' they would," smiled roger. "i don't doubt it. then she says that she found out that there was real value in laughter." "in laughter!" repeated ethel brown. "why laughter is just foolishness." "no, indeed; laughter is the outward expression of delight." "lord chesterfield told his son he hoped he'd never hear him laugh in all his life," offered roger. "lord chesterfield hated noisy laughter as much as i do. there's nothing more annoying than empty, silly giggling and laughter; but the laughter that means real delight over something worth being delighted at--that's quite another matter. lord chesterfield and i are agreed in being opposed to a vulgar _manner_ of laughing, but we are also agreed in believing that delight needs expression. isn't it in that same letter that he says he hopes he will often see his son smile?" "same place," responded roger briefly. "aunt louise says she found that even if she wasn't feeling really gay she could raise her spirits by doing her best to laugh at something. if you hunt hard enough there is almost always something funny enough to laugh at within reach of you." "like dicky here snoozing away as soundly as if he were in bed." "poor little man. you needn't carry him up yet, though. he's not uncomfortable there." "there's one thing i think is perfectly wonderful about aunt louise," said ethel blue; "she takes so much pleasure out of little things. she's interested in everything the u. s. c. does, and she wants to help on anything the town undertakes--you know how nice she was about the school gardens--and sometimes when a day comes that seems just stupid with nothing to do at all, if you go over to aunt louise's she'll tell you something she's seen or heard that day that you never would have noticed for yourself and that really is interesting." "she gets their full value out of everything that passes before her eyes. it's the wisest thing to do. the big things of life are more absorbing but very few of us encounter the big things of life. most of us meet the small matters, the everyday happenings, and nothing else." "isn't life full of a mess of 'em!" ejaculated roger. "getting up and dressing and brushing your hair and eating three meals a day have to be done three hundred sixty-five times a year; whereas you hear some splendid music or come across a fine new poem or find yourself in a position where you can do a real kindness about once in a cat's age. queer, isn't it?" "that's just why it's a good plan to see the opportunities in the little things. if we see with clear eyes we may be able to do some small kindnesses oftener than 'once in a cat's age.' it's certainly true that the everyday troubles, the trifling annoyances, are really harder to bear than the big troubles." "o-o-o!" disclaimed helen. "the big troubles give you a bigger shock, but then you pull yourself together and summon your strength, and strength to endure them comes. but the small matters--they come so often and they seem such pin pricks that it seems not worth while to call upon your powers of endurance." "yet if you don't you're as cross as two sticks all the time," finished helen. "i know how it is. it's like having a serious wound or a mosquito bite." they all laughed, for roger, as if to illustrate her remarks, gave a slap at a buzzing enemy at just the appropriate moment. "another thing that helps to make aunt louise a happy woman now is that she is at peace not only with everybody on earth but also with herself. if she makes a mistake she doesn't fret about it; she does her best to remedy it, and she does her best not to repeat it. 'once may be excusable ignorance,' she says, 'but twice is stupidity,' and then she tells the tale of the boy who was walking across a field and fell into a dry well which he knew nothing about. he roared loudly and after a time a farmer heard him and pulled him out. the next day he was walking across the same field and he fell again into the same well." "he set up the same roar, i suppose." "a perfect imitation of the previous one. the same farmer came. when he looked down the well and saw the same boy he said disgustedly, 'yesterday i thought ye were a poor, unknowin' lad; to-day i know ye're a sad fool.'" again they all laughed. "she's always cheerful and always affectionate and she's as dear as she can be and i'm glad she's going to have this lovely house and i wish we had one just like it," cried helen in a burst. "we have a good house." "but it doesn't belong to us." "we army and navy people can't expect to own houses, my child. you don't need to have that told you at this late day." "i know that. if father weren't so keen on having us all together while we're being educated we wouldn't have been in rosemont as long as we have; but i sometimes envy the people who have a home of their own that they are sure to stay in for ever so many years." "when you feel that way you must think of the many advantages of the army and navy children. if your father had not been on the pacific station when you were the ethels' age you wouldn't have had a chance to see california when you were old enough to enjoy it and remember it." "i know, mother. i didn't mean to growl. i just thought that father had as much money as aunt louise from his father, and he had his salary besides, and yet we haven't a house of our own." "we've had a good many of uncle sam's houses, which is more than your aunt louise has had. but you must remember that her inheritance from your grandfather morton was accumulating for many years while her family didn't know where she was, while your father and ethel blue's father have been spending the income of theirs all along." "uncle roger has had a lot of children to spend his on, but father hasn't had any one but me," said ethel blue, whose life had been entirely spent with her cousins because her mother had died when she was a tiny baby. never before had she thought whether her father, who was a captain in the army, had any money or not. now she saw that he must be better provided with it than his brother, her uncle roger, the father of ethel brown and helen and roger and dicky, who was a lieutenant in the navy. "your father is always generous with his money, but i dare say he is saving it for some time when he will want it," suggested mrs. morton. "i don't know when he'll want it any more than he does now," said ethel blue. "perhaps he'll want to have a house of his own at whatever post he is when he has a grown-up daughter," smiled helen. "you'd better learn to keep house right off." the idea thrilled ethel. never before had she happened to think of the possibility of joining her father after her school days were over. never having known any home except with ethel brown and her other cousins she had always seen the future as shared with them. the notion of leaving them was painful, but the chance of being always with her father, of being his housekeeper, of seeing him every day, of making him comfortable, was one that filled her with delight. her blue eyes filled with tenderness as she dreamed over the possibility. "i have lots to learn yet before i should know enough," she murmured, staring almost unseeingly at her cousin, "but it's wonderful to think i could do it." the new idea would not leave her mind, though, indeed, she made no effort to drive it out. that the future might hold for her a change so complete was something she wanted to let her thoughts linger on. she hardly noticed that roger was gathering dicky up into his arms to carry him upstairs to bed, or that there was a general stir on the veranda, betokening a move indoors. "miss graham was at dorothy's this afternoon," ethel brown said as she rose and picked up the straw cushion on which she had been sitting. "was she?" inquired helen interestedly. "i wish i had seen her. i never have yet, you know." "neither has ethel blue. she and aunt louise and dorothy and i went over to the new house and looked at the attic. she says she'll come over next week and help us about the bedroom floor. that will be ready then for us to talk about the decorating." "be sure and let me know when she is coming. what did she say about the attic?" "she liked it especially because it had been sheathed, following all the ins and outs. she thought the irregularity was pretty. she suggested a closet for furs over the kitchen. it won't cost much to bring the refrigerating pipes up there, she says." "that's bully. aunt louise may take care of my fur gloves for me next summer if the moths don't eat them up this year," promised roger who had stopped in the doorway to hear ethel brown's report, and stood with the still sleeping dicky over his shoulder. "she suggested a raised ledge about fourteen inches high to stand trunks on." "then you don't break your back bending over them when you're hunting for something," exclaimed helen. "that's splendid. she seems to have practical ideas as well as ornamental ones." "she thought there ought to be a fire bucket closet up there, too. you know aunt louise has had them put in on all the other floors, but she didn't think of it there." "what is it?" asked mrs. morton. "just a narrow closet with four shelves. on each of the lower three are fire buckets to be kept full of water all the time and on the top shelf are some of those hand grenade things and chemical squirt guns. they don't look very well when they're right out in sight. this way covers them up but makes them just as convenient. there is to be no lock on the door of the closet and fire is to be painted outside so every one will know where it is even if he gets rattled when the fire really happens." "are the maids' rooms to be on the attic floor?" asked mrs. morton. "two little beauties, and a bath-room between them. one room is to be pink and the other blue and they're going to have ivory paint and fluffy curtains just like dorothy's." "did you think to say anything to miss graham about the club's using the attic in winter for weekly meetings?" "dorothy did. she thought a movable platform would be a great scheme; one wide enough for us to use for a little stage when we wanted to have singing or recitations up there. she picked out a good place for the phonograph, where the shape of the ceiling wouldn't make the sound queer, and she thought rattan furniture stained brown would be pretty, and scrim curtains--not dead white ones, but a sort of goldeny cream that would harmonize with the wood. there are lovely big cotton rugs in dull blues, that aren't expensive, she says; and if we don't want to see the row of trunks and chests against the wall we can arrange screens that will shut them out of sight and will also take the place of the pictures that you can't hang on a wall that slopes the wrong way." "i don't see, then, but aunt louise will have an attic and we'll have a club room and both parties to the transaction will be pleased," beamed helen, who, as president of the club was always careful that the members should be comfortable when they gathered for their weekly talking and planning and working. "doesn't miss graham come from washington?" asked ethel blue dreamily, half awakening to the conversation. "yes, you know she does." "fort myer is just across the river; i wonder if she knows father." "ask her when you see her," recommended ethel brown, and they all went in to bed as a clap of thunder gave promise of a cooling shower. chapter vi spring all the year round it proved to be quite a week later before the workmen were far enough along to make it worth while for miss graham to be summoned to a conference on the decoration of the bedroom floor, and when ethel blue met her at last she forgot altogether to ask if she knew her dearly beloved father. there were several reasons why she did not ask. in the first place she had forgotten that she meant to; in the next, miss daisy was so absorbed in what she was hearing from all the club members about their ideas for the bed-rooms, and so interested in comparing them with her own practical knowledge of how they could be carried out, that no one who listened to her or saw her at work wanted to interrupt her with any questions that had no bearing on the matter in hand. not that she was not interested in the young people. she was thoroughly interested in them. she knew all of their names and sorted out one from the other immediately just from margaret's and james's descriptions of them. she listened attentively to their suggestions and they all felt that she was treating their ideas with respect and that if she did not always agree with them she had a good reason for it. "i think she's the most competent woman almost that i ever saw," said helen admiringly to margaret as they stood at one side of the upper hall and watched her as she rapidly sketched for mrs. smith what she meant by a certain plan of window hanging. helen was greatly interested in new occupations for women and the fact that this woman had studied to be an interior decorator and had succeeded so well that she had orders from the suburbs of new york itself had impressed the young girl as making her well worth trying to know well. helen was not drawn toward interior decorating--she had already made up her mind, that she was to be one of the scientific home-makers educated at the school of mothercraft--but she admired women with the courage to start new things, and this work seemed to her to be perfectly suited to a woman and at the same time of enough importance to be really worth while putting a lot of preparation into it. the dressing of shop windows seemed to her another peculiarly feminine occupation, hardly entered at all, as yet, by women, and capable of being developed into an art. "the decoration of a room or a building ought to seem a sort of growth from the room or the building," miss graham was explaining to the ethels. "it ought to seem perfectly natural that it should be there, just as a blossom seems perfectly natural to find on a plant. i never like the phrase 'applied design,'" she continued, smiling as she turned to mrs. smith. "it sounds as if you made a design and then clapped it on to the afflicted spot as if it were a plaster of some kind." "too often it looks that way," mrs. smith smiled in return. "come and see how we've arranged our sleeping porches." as miss graham stood in the doorway that opened on to the porch of dorothy's room, one hand resting on ethel brown's shoulder, helen felt more than ever the power--for friendliness and good will as well as for the execution of her art--that this dark-eyed, dark-haired, ruddy-cheeked young woman possessed. her nose was a trifle too short for beauty and her mouth a bit too wide, but her coloring denoted health, her hair curled crisply over a broad forehead, her teeth were brilliantly white, and the straight folds of her gown showed the lines of her strong figure as the strange dull blue-green of her linen frock, dashed with a bit of orange, brought into relief all the good points of her tinting. "she makes you want to stop and look at her," helen decided, "and you want to know her, too." mrs. smith had arranged for three sleeping porches, one for her own room, one for dorothy's, and a larger one outside of the nursery where the belgian baby enjoyed herself in the daytime. this porch was also shared by elisabeth's care-taker. each porch was on a different side of the house, so that they did not encroach upon each other, and each was somewhat different in arrangement. "did you originate this idea?" asked miss graham, as she examined the sliding windows by which the bed was to be shut off from the room at night and enclosed in the room in the morning. "you never need step out of bed on to the cold floor of the porch," she commented approvingly. "i saw that in a sanitarium," returned mrs. smith. "it was desirable that the patients should never be chilled and the doctor and architect invented this way of preventing it." "it's capital," smiled miss graham, "and so simple. when the inside sash is closed, the outside is up, and vice versa. are they all like this?" "yes," answered her hostess. "dorothy is to have a couch in that corner, and a table and chairs. there is to be a screw eye attached to the foot of the couch. a weight on the end of a cord will go through a pulley fastened to the wall, high up over the head of the couch. there will be a hook at the other end of the cord. when this hook goes into the screw eye and the weight is pulled, the couch will stand on its head and will be out of the way at any time when floor space is more to be desired than lying down comfort." "of course there will be some sort of drapery to cover the under side when it is hauled up against the wall," said miss graham with a question in her voice. "dorothy has something in mind that is going to meet that difficulty, she thinks," answered mrs. smith. "are you going to have your room of any decided color," asked miss graham. "i've been perfectly crazy for a rose-colored room, ever since i was a tiny child," answered dorothy. "i've set my heart on this room's looking like a pink rose--" "or a bunch of apple blossoms?" asked miss graham. ethel blue looked quickly at the decorator when she made this suggestion which at once stirred the young girl's imagination to a mental sight of a springtime tree laden with clusters of blossoms, whose delicate white was flushed with the delicate pink of the dawn. the suggestion appealed to her immediately as possible of a development far more exquisite than that which dorothy had planned. both would be pink, yet the fineness of the new color scheme seemed to her suited to dorothy's slender grace. she could not have put it into words but she felt that miss graham had a feeling for color that enabled her to adapt the room in which the color was to be used to the personality of the young girl who was chiefly to use it. instinctively she moved closer to miss graham and met her smiling glance with a nod and smile of understanding. dorothy liked the new idea. "i think an apple-blossom room would be perfectly lovely," she exclaimed. "if mother would only let me use wall-paper--i saw such a beauty pattern the other day. there were clusters of apple-blossoms all over it." "are you going to use wall-paper," miss graham asked mrs. smith. "dorothy and i decided that we would not use wall-paper in the bed-rooms at any rate," answered dorothy's mother. "i wish we hadn't," pouted dorothy, but she was cheered when miss graham nodded her approval of their decision. "you're quite right," she said. "apart from the sanitary side it isn't a good plan to paper walls until the plaster is thoroughly dry. this is especially true of a house built on the side of a hill." "this house has such a wonderful concrete foundation," said margaret, "that i should think it would be always perfectly solid." "so should i," answered miss graham, "but there's always a chance that some part of the soil beneath may give a little when the full weight of a house rests upon it. the settling of a house for only a half inch or an inch would play havoc with the plaster on these walls." "you think we'd better hold back the paper for a final resort?" asked mrs. smith. "i never advise paper in bed-rooms unless there's good reason to do so," answered the decorator. "here is what i should suggest for an apple-blossom room--though perhaps you have some ideas that you would like to have carried out?" she interrupted herself to ask dorothy. "no," said dorothy, "as long as it's pink and pretty i don't care how it is decorated." miss graham stood in the centre of the room now, noticing how the sunshine fell on the floor, the shadow at the end where the sleeping porch was, and the possible positions for the various articles of furniture. "i seem to see these walls washed with a white which is tinted with a faint flush of pink," said miss graham slowly, as she thought it out. "that means a pink so delicate that it will not irritate the weariest nerves and will soothe to sleep by its beauty. the wood-work should be similar in tone but a trifle more like ivory. do you know that chintz that has blurry, indefinite flowers on it?" dorothy said that she did. "i saw a lovely piece of it the other day with a design of apple-blossoms. i should use that as a covering for your bed, your couch, your chairs, and for hangings for the windows. then across one end of the wall--on that shadiest side,--i should throw a branch of apple-blossoms, painted in the same blurry, indefinite way in which the flowers appear on the chintz. i knew a man who was enough of the artist in his soul to do the thing as if the wall had suddenly grown thin and through it you could see an apple tree in blossom out in the orchard." "i think that would be perfectly lovely," said dorothy, and all the others expressed the greatest pleasure at the proposed scheme of decoration. "here is what i would suggest for the windows," said miss daisy, taking out her note book, and sketching with a few rapid lines the folds of apple-blossom chintz, falling straight at the sides, with a valance at the top showing a very slight fullness. "between these and the windows," said miss graham, "i should put swiss muslin, either perfectly plain or dotted or with a fine cross-bar, whichever you like best. i should have those muslin curtains next to the glass all alike all over the house and the shades, too, so that the effect from the outside will be uniform and not messy." "that neatness will suit ethel brown's ideas of what is harmonious," laughed helen, and miss graham flashed her brilliant smile on ethel brown, who was nodding her approval of the idea as she listened. "now, how had you planned to finish the other sleeping porches?" inquired miss graham. "we thought we'd better have a radiator on the one leading off the nursery," said mrs. smith. "you'll have to be awfully careful about its freezing," warned miss graham. "i suppose we shall, but it seemed as if it might be advisable with a child who has been so delicate as elisabeth. you will see that the outer ledge of her porch is somewhat higher than either dorothy's or mine and there are pieces of lattice work to fill in the openings on very cold nights. we thought we'd have out there a low play-table for the baby, and one or two little chairs and a work-table and easy-chair for miss merriam." "there are cotton chinese rugs that are extremely pretty for upstairs porches," said miss graham. "one that is largely white but has a dash of green and pink, would be charming for dorothy's porch. what color is the baby's room to be?" "ethel blue wants us to have it pale blue." again a vivid look of appreciation came into miss graham's eyes as she turned them on ethel blue, but she merely said, "there are charming chinese rugs in white with dull blue designs like old chinese pottery. tell me what you had planned in your mind for elisabeth," she continued, turning toward the young girl and extending her hand so winningly that ethel found herself not only standing beside her with a feeling that she had been her friend for a long time, but filled with confidence that her suggestions would not be laughed at, and might indeed be really good. "i thought of walls and paint of white faintly colored with blue. it was just about what you suggested for dorothy's room, only blue instead of pink; and it seemed to me that there might be blue birds--for happiness, you know--skimming along the walls, up near the top." "one of those big chinese rugs that is almost all white, but has a little blue, would be lovely, wouldn't it?" cried helen, seizing the idea. "several small ones would be better," returned miss graham, "because a baby's room has to be kept so spick and span that you want to have light rugs that are easy to take up and clean." "you know those little round seats that you sometimes see in railway waiting rooms?" asked ethel blue. miss graham said she had noticed them. "don't you think one would be cunning for elisabeth? the seat part ought to be awfully low and there could be light blue cushions on it. and then i think it would be fun if there was a low bench running around two sides of the room, with cushions of the same color on it. it would do for a table and a seat both." miss graham thought the idea was capital. "how would you paint them?" she asked. "wouldn't a sort of bluish-white like the wood-work be pretty," asked ethel blue. "you know that shiny paint that is so highly polished that the baby's finger marks won't show on it." "enamel paint," translated miss graham. "i think it would be very pretty, and i should have all the little chairs and tables painted the same way. there are a lot of little things that would be charming in the nursery," she continued. "you can have a solid table, whose top lifts off, disclosing a sand-pile inside. and some parts of that seat around the room ought to lift up so that the baby can put away her own toys in the box underneath the cushions." "i thought a great big doll's house might fit into one corner so that it would be two-sided," said ethel blue. "if the lower floor was all one room the baby could walk right in and sit down with the dolls." "do you think she could keep still long enough to make a real visit?" laughed helen. "you'll want to interest her in plants and animals as she grows up," suggested miss graham. "you might begin even now by having an aquarium with a few water plants and some gold fish and you must arrange to have it on a good solid stand so that it won't tip over if elisabeth should happen to throw her fat little self against it. i suppose she's too small to have had any regular training as yet?" she continued, turning to mrs. smith. "miss merriam, who is taking care of her, is trying some of the montessori ideas." "i thought perhaps she was. madame montessori tries to make all her training a natural outcome of the children's lives and to develop them to use what they know in their daily occupations. if elisabeth had a clothes-closet small enough for her to hang up and take down her own dresses and coats and rompers, i think miss merriam would find that she would be trying to put them on and fasten them herself very soon." "wouldn't a clothes pole about three feet high be too cunning for words," exclaimed ethel blue, and dorothy cried, "do let us have all these things, mother. elisabeth will look like a little white persian kitten, trotting around in this blue and white room!" "had you made any plans for your own room, mrs. smith?" asked miss graham. "oh, aunt louise, i do wish you'd have one of those gray rooms, with scarlet lacquer furniture," cried helen eagerly. before mrs. smith could answer, miss graham had interposed a soft objection. "i wouldn't," she said. "a room like that has several reasons for non-existence. they are very handsome because the real scarlet lacquer is beautiful in itself, and it's valuable too, but a room whose chief appeal to the eye is scarlet is not restful." "you think scarlet is not a proper color for a bed-room," responded helen. "not at all suitable to my way of thinking. it's exciting, rather than soothing. another objection to it here is that a room containing such a vivid color should be a dark room, and all of your bed-rooms are splendidly light. but the most serious objection to my mind, is this. just step out here in the entry with me for a minute." they all followed miss graham on to the landing at the head of the stairs. "in a house as small as this," she said, "you can see from the hall into all the bed-rooms. that means that from the decorator's point of view, the entire floor ought to be harmonious. behind us, for instance, is the baby's delicate blue nursery. just ahead is dorothy's apple-blossom room. do you think that a room of gray and scarlet and black is going to be harmonious with those delicate tints?" they saw her meaning at once and agreed with her that it would not be suitable. "i decorated a small apartment last winter," she said, "that turned out very happily. the sitting room was one of these scarlet lacquer rooms and the bed-room was done in tones of pale green and dull orange. you felt as if you were sitting in an orange grove in florida on an evening when a frost was expected and they were burning smudges to warm the trees." "i know," cried dorothy, "i've seen them do that. you see the oranges gleaming through the misty smoke, and it's all hazy and beautiful." "it turned out well in this room that i did," said miss graham, modestly, "but if you accept the blue and pink colorings for the other rooms here," she said, turning to mrs. smith with a smile, "i'm afraid your own room will have to be of some delicate tone to harmonize with them." "there are certain shades of yellow, that would be suitable," returned mrs. smith. "a primrose yellow," answered miss graham, "would be charming, and it would not be hard to find a lovely chintz, that would give you just the spring-like atmosphere that you'd enjoy having about you all the time." "i think we're going to have this floor a little piece of spring all the year around," said ethel blue; and again miss graham flashed at her a look of understanding. chapter vii closets and stepmothers after they had shown all the rest of the house to miss daisy the family party gathered on the brick terrace outside of the drawing room to investigate lemonade and little cakes. the ethels had brought the lemonade from home in a thermos bottle which kept it cool and refreshing, and that morning dorothy had made some "hearts and rounds" which proved most appetizing with the cool drink. a few canvas chairs which mrs. smith had sent over from home, so that she might have something to sit down on when she visited the new house, were all the furniture of the veranda, but the girls found several boxes which the workmen had left, and they laid planks on them and made benches that were entirely comfortable. a similar arrangement with the boxes turned on their ends provided a little table on which they placed the refreshments. paper cups answered every necessary purpose, although they were not beautiful, and paper plates held the hearts and rounds just as well as if they had been china. they were all a little tired after walking about the house for so long a time, and those of them who had chairs leaned back with satisfaction and looked over the low parapet to the adjoining meadow with its brook and its cluster of woods at the upper end. beyond the fields the emersons' house could be seen dimly through the trees. "we wondered in the springtime whether we should be able to see this house from grandfather's house," said ethel brown. "i haven't looked lately, but i guess we can, or else we shouldn't be able to see grandfather's house from here." "the line of those far-away mountains is very beautiful against the sky," miss graham noticed, with her keen observation of everything that added to the loveliness of the landscape. "they are far enough away to have a blue haze hanging over them," said mrs. smith, "and they give you a feeling that our quiet country scene here has a great deal of variety after all." "your house is admirably placed to make the most of every beauty around you," said miss daisy, "and i hope you'll allow me to compliment you on the way it is turning out. you know they say that you have to build two or three houses in order to build one exactly to your satisfaction, but i should think that you were almost accomplishing that with your first attempt." "i am glad you like so many things about it," said mrs. smith. "dorothy and i would be pleased with almost any house that really belonged to us, for we've had nothing of our own for many years, but of course it is a tremendous satisfaction to have this develop into something that is beautiful and livable too." "you've added so many happy touches," said miss graham. "take for instance this terrace. a brick terrace always makes me think of some old country house in england, with its dark red walls buried among the brilliant green foliage. so many of those houses have terraces like this, partly roofed like yours, and wide enough to be really an extra room." "aunt louise's terrace is really two extra rooms," said ethel blue, "because it opens from the drawing room and also from the dining room." "we're going to have all our meals out here in pleasant weather, whenever it's warm enough," said dorothy. "i can see you're sufficiently afraid of new jersey mosquitoes to have a part screened." "it's the only prudent thing to do," returned mrs. smith. "jersey mosquitoes are really more than a joke, but if you have this wire cage to get into you can defy them. you can see that at the end of the terrace opposite the dining room our cage covers the whole of the floor, while up at this end only a part is wired in. in the evening when the buzzers are buzzing we can take shelter behind the screen, but in the daytime we can sit outside as we're doing now." "are you going to glass it in winter? i see you have a radiator." "there are to be long glass sashes that fit into the same grooves that hold the screens now. the open fire will take off the chill on autumn mornings and the radiator ought to keep us warm even when the snow is banked against the glass." "with palms and rubber plants and rugs and wicker chairs and tables--i suppose you'll have wicker?" mrs. morton interrupted herself to inquire of her sister-in-law. "yes, wicker, but we haven't decided between brown or green," and mrs. smith turned appealingly to miss graham. "neither, i should say. don't you think a dull dark red, a mahogany red--would be pretty with this brick floor?" "and against the concrete wall. i do; and it ought not to be hard to find rugs with dull reds and greens that will draw all those earthy, autumnal shades together." "you might have one of those swinging settees hanging by chains from the ceiling." "dorothy would enjoy that." "so would we," interposed ethel brown. "i seem to see myself perching on it, waving my lemonade cup." "don't illustrate all over me," remonstrated ethel blue, dodging the flowing bowl. "i like very much the seclusion you've gained by building up the wall at the end of the terrace on the side toward the road," said miss graham. "we found that people could see from the road any one sitting on the terrace, although we're so high here," said mrs. smith, "but with the parapet built up at that end, they can't see anything, even though there is an opening in the wall." "and the window frames a lovely picture of the meadows across the road from you." "i don't see," said ethel brown, "why you always call your living room a drawing room, aunt louise." "it isn't a living room," returned mrs. smith. "a living room is really a room which is used both as a sitting room and a dining room. no room which is used for only one of those purposes should be called a living room." "lots of people do," insisted ethel brown. "but they are not right," returned her aunt. "drawing room seems a very formal name for it," helen said. "of course we're used to it, because grandmother emerson always calls her parlor a drawing room, but she has a huge, big room, so my idea of a drawing room is always something immense." "perhaps it is rather old-fashioned and stately," admitted mrs. smith; "but the drawing room is simply a place where the family _withdraws_ to sit together and talk together, and it need not be any more formal than the people who use it. but i protest that my drawing room or sitting room, or whatever it may be, shall not be called a living room, because it is not devoted to eating as well as sitting." "i am glad you make that distinction," said miss graham. "so many people are careless about using the word and nowadays you seldom find a real living room except in a bungalow in the country where people are living very informally during the summer, and where space is limited. there's another thing about your house that i like exceedingly," she continued, "and that is your closets." mrs. morton, who had joined the party on the terrace, laughed heartily at this praise. "that ought to please you, louise," she said, and added, turning to miss graham, "louise has spent more time inventing all sorts of cupboards and closets than in drawing the original plan of the house, i really believe." "i know it wasn't wasted time," returned miss graham. "i have every sympathy with a craze for closets. you can't have too many to suit me. do you remember that room at mt. vernon entirely surrounded by cupboards and closets? i always thought washington must have had an extraordinarily orderly mind to want to have all his dining room belongings carefully placed on shelves behind closed doors!" "i wonder how many different kinds of closets we have," murmured dorothy, beginning to count them up on her fingers. everybody tossed in a contribution, naming the closet which she happened to remember. "a coat closet near the front door," said ethel brown. "clothes closets in every bed-room and two extra ones in the attic," added mrs. smith. "a dress closet with mirrors on the doors, that turn back to make a three-fold dressing glass. i envy you that comfort, louise," said mrs. morton. "you'll notice that the coat closets and the clothes closets all have long poles with countless hangers on them," said mrs. smith. "they'll hold a tremendous number of garments; many more than dorothy and i have." "the closet i'm craziest about is the one that is filled with glass cubes to put hats in," said helen. "you open the door and there are half a dozen, and you can see the hats right through, so you don't have to keep pulling out one box after another, always getting the wrong one first." "that's a perfectly splendid idea," approved miss graham. "i suppose along the lower part of the closet side of your room, you have small closets and cupboards for shoes and for blouses." "i have my blouse closet above my shoe closet," returned mrs. smith. "did you notice the tall, thin closet for one-piece dresses?" asked ethel blue. "i should think that would be splendid because it doesn't jam up your evening dresses," said helen, who was beginning to think longingly of real, grown-up evening dresses. "that's the closet ethel blue always calls the 'stepmother closet,'" laughed ethel brown. "why 'stepmother closet'?" inquired miss graham quickly. "because it would pinch a stepmother so hard if she got into it," said ethel blue. miss graham looked puzzled and dorothy explained. "ethel blue hates stepmothers. she doesn't know why, except that they are always horrid in fairy stories, but she thinks this long narrow closet would be just the place to put a horrid one into to punish her." "stepmothers are often very nice," said mrs. morton. "i had a stepmother," said miss graham, "and i couldn't have loved my own mother more tenderly, and i'm sure she loved margaret's mother and me quite as well as if we had been her own children. in fact, i think she was more careful of us than she was of her own children. she used to say we were a legacy to her and that she felt it her duty as well as her delight to be extra good to us, for our mother's sake." ethel blue listened and smiled at the kind brown eyes that were smiling at her, but she shook her head as if she were unconvinced. "at any rate you might select your closet to fit your stepmother," miss daisy laughed, "and if you wanted to be very bad to a thin one, you could make her squeeze up small in one of the glass hat boxes, and a fat one would suffer most in this narrow closet of yours." they all laughed again and went on with the list of closets in the house. "you noticed, i hope," said mrs. smith, "that almost every closet in the house has an electric bulb inside that lights when you open the door and goes out again when the door is closed." "splendid," approved miss graham. "is there one in your linen closet?" "yes, indeed. did you notice that the linen closet is on the bedroom floor? there need be no carrying up and down stairs of heavy bed linen. the linen for the maid's room, in the attic, is kept in a small linen closet up there, and the table linen belongs in a closet made especially for it in the dining room. it has many glass shelves quite close together, so that each table cloth may have a spot to itself and the centrepieces and doilies may be kept flat with nothing to rumple them." "i suppose the medicine closets will go into the bath-rooms when the other fittings are installed," said mrs. morton. "yes," returned her sister-in-law. "did you notice the pretty cedar shavings that the carpenters left on the floor of the cedar closet?" asked dorothy. "they say they always leave the cedar shavings they made, because people like to put them among their clothes to make them fragrant." "i'm glad you are having a cedar closet," said margaret. "mother got along with a cedar chest for a great many years, but she has always longed for a cedar closet. she had one built this summer." "we have both," said dorothy. "the chest is going up in the attic and the closet is on the bedroom floor." "the thing that pleases me most in the closet line," said ethel brown, who is a good cook, "is the pastry closet just off the kitchen. the carpenter told me there was a refrigerating pipe running around it so that it would always be cool, and there was to be a plate glass shelf on which the pastry could be rolled out." "you certainly have the latest wrinkles," exclaimed mrs. morton admiringly. "i have never seen that arrangement in real life. i thought it only existed in large hotels or the women's magazines!" "there are lots of other little comforts in our house," laughed dorothy, "and there are two or three more kinds of closets if we count bookcases that have doors and cupboards to keep games in." "they're every one modern and useful except that stepmother squeezer," said miss graham, rising to take leave. "that sounds like some invention of the middle ages when people used to torture each other to death so cheerfully." "o, i wouldn't _torture_ her," protested ethel blue. "unless she were a really truly fairy story bad one," miss daisy insisted. "could you resist that?" she held ethel blue's eyes for just a second with her smiling gaze that was graven down in the depths of her warm brown ones. "i wouldn't _really_ hurt her," ethel blue repeated, and wondered why she felt as if she had been taken seriously. chapter viii "off to philadelphia in the morning" "helen," called mrs. morton a few days later just after the morning visit of the letter carrier, "i have a note here from uncle richard asking me if i can run over to philadelphia and attend to a little matter of business for him. he is so tied up at fort myer that he can't possibly get away. do you think it would be pleasant if you and i went over for a few days and took roger and the children with us?" the "children" of the morton family meant those younger than roger and helen. helen received the suggestion with a cry of delight. "it would be just too lovely for anything," she said, waving in the air the little linen dress she was making for elisabeth. "the younger girls had the massachusetts trip this summer that you and roger didn't share," her mother said. "i think this time we might all of us go, and i'm not sure that it would not be pleasant to ask the watkinses and the hancocks." "the whole u. s. c.!" cried helen. "mother, you certainly were born a darling. how did you ever think of anything so perfectly galoptious?" "it's natural for me to be 'galoptious,'" her mother returned, laughing. "now, we shall have to work fast, if we are going to accomplish uncle richard's errand, because the people whom he wants me to see will be in philadelphia only to-morrow. he has telegraphed them, asking them to keep an hour for me, so i must go over to-day or very early to-morrow morning." "would you like to have me call up margaret and della on the telephone and see if they can go to-day? if they can, i don't see why we can't fly around tremendously and get our bags packed this morning and take an afternoon train," said helen, who was beginning to grow energetic as the full prospect of the pleasure before her appeared before the eyes of her mind. mrs. morton agreeing, helen flew to the telephone, and was lucky enough to catch margaret at glen point and della in new york without any difficulty. they both said that they would consult their mothers and would call helen again within an hour. she then telephoned to dorothy, but found that she was at sweetbrier lodge and as the telephone had not been put in yet, she was, for a moment, at a loss what to do. she remembered, however, that ethel brown and ethel blue had spoken of spending the morning at grandmother emerson's, and she therefore called up her house in the hope that they might be there. they had just left there to go and do a little house-cleaning in the cave in fitzjames' woods, where they frequently enjoyed an afternoon lemonade. mrs. emerson said, however, that she could easily send a messenger after them, and that it would not be many minutes before she would ring helen in her turn. "i haven't anything to report," helen said to her mother after she had made these various calls, "but i had better be getting out our handbags and trying to find roger, i suppose." mrs. morton was already packing her valise with her own and dicky's requirements and she nodded an assent to helen's suggestion. it was not many minutes before the telephone bell began ringing. the first summons was from margaret hancock who said that her mother and father were delighted with the opportunity to have her and james go to philadelphia in mrs. morton's care. "it will be a real club expedition," she said gleefully, "and i'm just as sure as if i saw it with my own eyes, that you're packing a 'history of philadelphia' in your hand-bag." helen laughed because she was well accustomed to being joked about her love of history. "i notice all of you are willing enough to listen when i tell about places," she said, "and this time you'll have to take it from me because grandfather won't be there to tell you." the next ring meant that the ethels had returned to mrs. emerson's. "what do you want of us?" ethel blue asked in a tone that sounded as if she were not particularly pleased at being called back. "how would you like to go to philadelphia?" helen answered triumphantly. "do you really mean it?" asked ethel, who was not quite sure that her ears were hearing correctly. "i do mean it, and if you and ethel blue want to go with mother and me this afternoon, you must rush home just as fast as you can and get your bags packed. aunt louise says dorothy may go, but i can't find her, so please stop at the new house and see if she's there and tell her about it." "well i should say we would," returned a voice that was now filled with delight. "ethel blue wants to know why mother is going?" she asked. "on some business for her father--for uncle richard. but do stop chattering and come home as fast as you can rush. if we don't get off this afternoon, we can't go until to-morrow morning and we shan't be able to stay so long in philadelphia." it was not until they reached home that the ethels learned that the watkinses and the hancocks were to join the party, and they were so excited over the prospect of this club pilgrimage, that they were hardly able to get together their belongings. the most difficult person to find was roger who did not seem to be within reach of the telephone anywhere. they called up all the places where they thought it possible that he might be, but he could not be found, and he walked in just before luncheon quite unprepared for the surprise that awaited him. "helen has packed your bag for you," his mother told him, "so rush and change your clothes and go to the train to meet della and tom." rosemont being already part way on the road from new york and philadelphia, it was necessary for the party to take a local train to the nearest stopping place of the express. the watkinses came out from new york on a local and the hancocks arrived on the trolley, so that the entire group met at the mortons' about half an hour before the time to start. they were all chattering briskly, all filled with enthusiasm for this new adventure. "don't you think i'd better go too?" mr. emerson asked his daughter, as he counted up the throng and noticed their eagerness. "i don't think it's necessary, father," mrs. morton replied. "roger and tom and james are surely big enough to escort us, and i know philadelphia so well that i have no fear of our being lost in the city with three such competent young men to take care of us." mr. emerson smiled somewhat doubtfully and murmured something about his daughter's having a hopeful disposition. "you don't realize how serious roger can be when he feels that he has actual responsibility," said mrs. morton, "and as for james hancock, he is sometimes so grave that he almost alarms me." "he may be grave, but has he any sense?" asked mr. emerson tartly. "the children seem to think he has a great deal. at any rate i feel sure that no difficulty is going to come to us with these three big boys on hand and i wouldn't think of taking you on this fatiguing trip, on such a hot day," insisted his daughter. mr. emerson looked somewhat relieved although he again assured mrs. morton that he would be entirely willing to escort her and her flock. "no farther than the rosemont station, thank you," she said, smiling. it was at the station and just as the train was drawing in that mr. emerson handed helen a notebook. "you've taken me by surprise this morning," he said, "and i haven't had much time to get up my usual collection of historical poetry, but i couldn't let you go off without having something of the kind to remember me by." helen and the ethels laughed at this confession, for mr. emerson was so fond of american history that he was in the habit, whenever they all went on trips together, of supplying himself with ballads concerning any historical happenings in the district through which they were to travel. "philadelphia ought to be a fertile field for you, sir," said james hancock. "it is," returned the old gentleman, "but you'll escape the full force of my efforts this time, thanks to your quick start." the run to the junction and then to philadelphia was made in a short time. it was fairly familiar to all of them and the country presented no beauties to make it remarkable, although roger pretended to be a guide showing wonderful sights to the new yorkers, della and tom. "do you think, mother, we shall have time to look up some of the historical places in the city?" asked helen. "i thought that would be the most interesting thing to do," mrs. morton replied. "i shan't have to meet my business people until midday to-morrow, so this afternoon and to-morrow morning we can see many points of interest if we don't delay too long at each one." "being related to the navy through my paternal ancestor," said roger in large language, "philadelphia has always interested me because the father of old william penn, its founder, was an admiral in the english navy." "i didn't know that," said helen. "watch me run for base!" exclaimed roger. "i got one off of helen on the first ball. it isn't often that helen admits there's something she doesn't know about american history." "you miserable boy! you sound as if i were pretending to be a 'know-it-all'! there are plenty of things i don't know about american history. for instance i know very little about william penn, except that he was a quaker." "well then," said roger, "allow me to inform you, beloved sister, that william penn was an oxford man and a preacher in the society of friends. he seems to have had some pull because the powers gave him a grant of pennsylvania (that means penn's woods), in . he went to america two years later and founded this minute little town which we are approaching." "those old englishmen on the other side certainly had a calm way of giving out grants of land without saying anything about it to the indians, didn't they?" said margaret. "penn got along much better with the indians than many of the heads of the colonies. he made a treaty with them, which is said to have been very remarkable in two ways; in the first place he wouldn't swear to keep it because he was a quaker, and quakers won't take an oath; and in the next place, he _did_ keep it, which was quite an event in colonial circles!" "he must have been a good chap," commented tom. "you're going to see a statue of him as soon as you get off the train," interposed mrs. morton. "where is it?" asked ethel brown. "on top of the city hall. it's the first thing you see when you come out of the railroad station. in fact you're so close to the public buildings, as they're called, that i doubt if you can see the top at all until you get farther away from them." "the statue must be enormous if it's up so high," said ethel blue. "i've been told it was thirty-seven feet high," returned mrs. morton, "and that the rim of the old gentleman's hat was so wide that a person could walk on it comfortably." "wouldn't it be fun to do our back step on the edge of his hat!" exclaimed ethel blue to ethel brown, as they looked out the cab which was taking them to the hotel, and saw the figure of the benevolent quaker black against the sky some five hundred feet above the ground. the hotel wherein mrs. morton established her flock was "in the heart of conservative philadelphia." immediately after luncheon they packed themselves into a large touring car and began their historical explorations. "if we do things according to time, we ought to go first to all of the places that have to do with william penn," said helen. "i'm afraid that might make us jump around the city a little," said mrs. morton, "because if i am not mistaken, the house that william penn gave to his daughter letitia, is out in fairmount park, and the one belonging to his grandson is in the zoo. we'll see them before we go home, but now we had better give our attention to the things that are here in the city. to begin with we can go to the little park on whose site william penn made his famous treaty with the indians. it takes us somewhat out of our way, but i know helen's orderly mind will like to begin there." helen smiled at her mother's understanding of her, and the car sped northwards along the river front, now given over to business and tenements. at the treaty park they looked about them with their imaginations rather than with their eyes, for there was little of interest before them, while the past held a vision of the elm tree under which the group of broad-hatted friends discussed terms with the copper-colored natives. lieutenant morton's children were interested in seeing not far away the ship building yards where many an american battleship had slipped from the ways to pursue her peaceful course upon the ocean. returning as they had come, they passed on second street the site of a house in which the great settler had lived, and promised themselves to remember that in independence hall they were to look for a piece of the treaty tree. "everything that isn't called 'penn' in this town seems to be called 'franklin,'" said ethel blue, after reading many of the signs on the buildings. "that's because the great benjamin lived here for most of his life," said james, by way of explanation. "he was born in boston, but he soon deserted those cold regions for a warmer clime, and made a name for himself here." "i should say he left it behind him," commented ethel blue again as she read another sign, this time of a "penn laundry." "penn and franklin are the two great men of old philadelphia, without any doubt," said mrs. morton, as the machine stopped before carpenters' hall. "help! help!" cried tom. "i blush to state that i don't know carpenters' hall from a ham sandwich." helen looked at him with horror on her face. "stand right here before we set foot inside and let me tell you that i am perfectly shocked that any american boy, old enough to have graduated from high school and to be going to yale in a few weeks, should make such a statement as that!" she was genuinely troubled about it and tom flushed as he saw that she really was scornful of his ignorance. "now, next," she said, "do you know what the boston tea party was?" tom meekly said that he remembered that in december, , a number of boston men disguised as indians had thrown overboard from a ship in the harbor, boxes of tea on which they refused to pay the british duty. helen nodded approvingly. "i'm glad you remember that much," she said tartly. "after that tea party there was a continual and rapid growth of dislike for the old country, which was trying to tax the colonists, without allowing them any representation in the parliament which was governing them. the feeling grew so strong that a continental congress, made up of delegates from the thirteen original colonies, was called to meet here in philadelphia, in september, . it met here at carpenters' hall," she concluded triumphantly. tom glanced up at the hall with an entirely new interest. "in this same old building?" he asked. "in this very identical place," said helen, and then she allowed the procession to enter the building. "september , ," repeated ethel brown thoughtfully. "why, that was the autumn before the battles of concord and lexington." "yes, the revolution had not yet begun. the continental congress met to talk over the situation, and here are the very chairs the members used." ethel blue touched one of them with the tips of her fingers. "i'm glad i've touched anything as interesting as this," she said. "look at the inscription," said james, calling their attention to the lettering. "within these walls henry, hancock and adams inspired the delegates of the colonies with nerve and sinew for the toils of war!" "john hancock was my great-great-grandfather's brother," said james proudly. "good for you, old chap," exclaimed roger, thumping him on the back, while helen beamed at margaret. "how long did these congressmen chat here?" meekly asked tom of helen. "after about a month they agreed on what they called a declaration of rights, and they sent it over to franklin, who was in england, and asked him to present it to the house of commons." "in the light of after events i suppose the house of commons didn't take a look at it," said roger. "they certainly did not," replied helen, "and the battles of lexington and concord were the result. you remember they were fought in april of . ticonderoga was captured in may of the same year and the battle of bunker hill was fought in june." "and congress kept on sitting while all this fighting was going on?" "yes; the men discussed each new move as it was made. early in june one of the members made a motion before the congress that 'these colonies ought to be independent.'" "that idea seems simple enough to us now," said tom, "but i dare say it was startling when a mere colonist proposed to break off with the mother country." "it seems to me it's about time for grandfather emerson to have some poetry on this period of history," said ethel brown. "if he were here, i'm sure he would never have let this congress sit for eight or nine months without discovering something in poetry about it." helen laughed. "you certainly understand grandfather," she said. "in just about a minute, while we're going over to independence hall, i'm going to read you some verses that belong right in here. on the first of july they began to debate about this proposal that the colonists should be independent. it was a mighty important matter, of course, because if they adopted it, it certainly meant war, and if they did not beat in the war, it might mean a worse state of affairs than they were in at the present moment. so there was much to be said on both sides and it looked as if the vote was going to be very close. here's where rodney the delegate did some hard riding," and helen took out one of the type-written sheets, which her grandfather had given her. "what colony did he represent?" asked ethel blue. "rodney was from delaware," she returned, "now listen, while i read you this poem." "rodney's ride "in that soft mid-land where the breezes bear the north and south on the genial air, through the county of kent, on affairs of state, rode cæsar rodney, the delegate. "burly and big and bold and bluff, in his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff, a foe to king george and the english state, was cæsar rodney, the delegate. "into dover village he rode apace, and his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face, it was matter grave that brought him there, to the counties three on the delaware. "'money and men we must have'm,' he said, 'or the congress fails and the cause is dead: give us both and the king shall not work his will. we are men, since the blood of bunker hill!' "comes a rider swift on a panting bay: 'ho, rodney, ho, you must save the day, for the congress halts at a deed so great, and your vote alone may decide its fate.' "answered rodney then: 'i will ride with speed; it is liberty's stress; it is freedom's need. when stands it?' 'to-night. not a moment to spare, but ride like the wind from the delaware.' "'ho, saddle the black! i've but half a day, and the congress sits eighty miles away-- but i'll be in time, if god grants me grace, to shake my fist in king george's face.' "he is up: he is off! and the black horse flies on the northward road ere the 'god-speed' dies; it is a gallop and spur as the leagues they clear, and the clustering mile-stones move a-rear. "it is two of the clock! and the fleet hoofs fling the fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling; it is three; and he gallops with slack rein where the road winds down to the delaware. "four; and he spurs into new castle town, from his panting steed he gets trim down-- 'a fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!' and off speeds rodney the delegate. "it is five; and the beams of the western sun tinge the spires of wilmington gold and dun; six; and the dust of chester street flies back in a cloud from the courser's feet. "it is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam, at the schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream-- and at seven-fifteen by the rittenhouse clock, he flings his reins to the tavern jock. "the congress is met; the debate's begun, and liberty lags for the vote of one-- when into the hall, not a moment late, walks cæsar rodney, the delegate. "not a moment late! and that half day's ride forwards the world with a mighty stride; for the act was passed ere the midnight stroke o'er the quaker city its echoes woke. "at tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung; 'we are free!' all the bells through the colonies rung, and the sons of the free may recall with pride the day of delegate rodney's ride." "pretty stirring, isn't it! i take it that the continental congress had moved over to independence hall by this time," said tom, when the reading was done. "yes, they were over here, sitting in the east room, when they passed the declaration of independence." an attendant seeing the interested faces of the young people, took them about the room and explained the relics to them. "this," he said, "is the very furniture that was in the room at the time of the signing of the declaration. right on this very table the document received the signature of the president of the congress--" "john hancock," murmured helen to james in an undertone. "--and the rest of them," continued the guide. "is the original document here?" asked james, who was thrilling with interest, but who preserved the calmness which he inherited from his scottish ancestors. "no," answered the caretaker. "that is kept at washington in the library of the state department, but there is an exact copy of it over there on the wall." going upstairs, the party remembered to look up the piece of the elm tree, under which penn had signed his treaty with the indians, and they saw in addition the original charter of philadelphia, bearing the date . in another room they found some furniture belonging to washington and penn and various portraits of more historic than artistic interest. they enjoyed more seeing some of the boards of the original floor. these were carefully kept under glass, as if they were great treasures. "now we're going to see the most sacred relic in america, next to the declaration itself," said helen, leading the way down the staircase at whose foot was the famous liberty bell, which had rung out its message of joy on july , , when the delegates passed the declaration and the people of philadelphia knew that war was before them, and yet were glad to meet whatever might be the outcome of the defiance. they gathered in silence around the bell and read its description:--"proclaim liberty to all the land and to all the inhabitants thereof." they noticed the crack which ran through it, and felt that they were looking upon a real veteran of that far-away time. "grandfather told me not to forget to tell you about the little boy who gave the signal to the bell-ringer," helen said. "he was stationed where he could see the door-keeper of the room in which the delegates were sitting. when the final vote was taken, the door-keeper gave the signal to the boy and he ran out, shouting the cry that resounded through the colonies, 'ring! ring! ring!'" chapter ix helen distinguishes herself "come out into the park for a few minutes," said mrs. morton. "i'm perfectly sure helen has some poetry to read to us before very long, and if we can sit down for a minute or two on the benches, we can hear it at our convenience." "the fire of discontent had been smouldering for a long time," said helen, beginning her lecture promptly when they were seated, "and just as soon as the declaration was passed the flames burst out. there was fighting all over the colonies from south carolina to new york city. washington was made commander-in-chief of the little army there, but he was quite unable to defeat the large force which the british sent. he retreated across new jersey, and in december of --" "about a year and a half later," interposed ethel brown. helen nodded and continued: "he reached the delaware river. the british followed him on the other bank of the river, with the centre of the army at trenton, new jersey. on christmas night of , the future of the colonies looked about as dark as the night itself, but here is what happened, told in some of the rhymes that grandfather found for us." and helen read virginia woodward cloud's poem, called the "ballad of sweet p." "she was a spirited girl," said james gravely. "she was too nice a girl to be a deceiving girl," said ethel blue, and a vigorous discussion as to how much deception was fair in war time would have broken out if helen had not continued her account of the revolution around philadelphia. "at day-break on the th of december, washington entered trenton and surprised the enemy," helen ended. "it was in the battle of trenton and in the battle of princeton about a week later, that our emerson great-great-great-grandfather fought, wasn't it?" said roger, recalling the account which his grandfather had read to the mortons several times from the old family bible. "yes, don't you remember how he fought against his daughter's english lover?" "we must ask the chauffeur where the betsy ross house is," said mrs. morton, rising and leading the way to the car. the man knew and set off at once through the few narrow streets, and before long they were standing in front of the old-fashioned dwelling. "who is the lady?" murmured tom in an undertone to ethel brown, pretending to be afraid that helen would hear him but really speaking loudly enough to draw her attention. "tom watkins, you're perfectly dreadful," helen exclaimed promptly. "do you really mean that you don't know who betsy ross was?" this direct question was too much for tom's truthfulness and he broke into a laugh. "i don't know that i should have known if i hadn't read the other day a tale about a play that some urchins wrote for the stage at hull house in chicago." "did jane addams tell the story?" "she did, so it must be true. it was entirely original with some immigrant boys who had been studying american history. it went something like this:--in the first act some american revolutionary soldiers are talking together and one of them says, 'gee, ain't it fierce! we ain't got no flag.' the others agreed that it was fierce. in the next act a delegation of soldiers approached general washington. they saluted, and then said to him, 'general, we ain't got no flag. gee, ain't it fierce?'" tom's story was received with many giggles. "what did washington say?" asked ethel blue. "washington agreed that it was fierce, and said that he'd do something about it, so the next act shows him at the house of betsy ross. he said to her, 'mrs. ross, we ain't got no flag. ain't it fierce? what shall we do about it?'" "they didn't have a very large vocabulary," laughed margaret. "but the american spirit was there," insisted mrs. morton. "what did betsy say," inquired ethel brown. "mrs. ross said, 'it _is_ fierce. you hold the baby, george, and i'll make you something right off.'" "isn't that perfectly delicious!" gurgled dorothy. "and that last realistic scene took place in this little house!" said mrs. morton, shaking with mirth. "it belongs to the city now, so betsy's patriotism and industry are remembered by many visitors." "here's grandfather's contribution to this moment," smiled helen as she brought out still another of her type-written sheets, and read some lines by minna irving. "betsy's battle flag "from dusk till dawn the livelong night she kept the tallow dips alight, and fast her nimble fingers flew to sew the stars upon the blue. with weary eyes and aching head she stitched the stripes of white and red, and when the day came up the stair complete across a carven chair hung betsy's battle flag. "like the shadows in the evening gray the continentals filed away, with broken boots and ragged coats, but hoarse defiance in their throats; they bore the marks of want and cold, and some were lame and some were old, and some with wounds untended bled, but floating bravely overhead was betsy's battle flag. "when fell the battle's leaden rain, the soldier hushed his moan of pain and raised his dying head to see king george's troopers turn and flee. their charging column reeled and broke, and vanished in the rolling smoke, before the glory of the stars, the snowy stripes, and scarlet bars of betsy's battle flag. "the simple stone of betsy ross is covered now with mold and moss, but still her deathless banner flies, and keeps the color of the skies, a nation thrills, a nation bleeds, a nation follows where it leads, and every man is proud to yield his life upon a crimson field for betsy's battle flag." "when was it that washington made his historic visit to betsy?" asked roger of helen. "that was in june of . a year later, on the fourteenth of june, , congress adopted the stars and stripes as our flag." "that's why june th is celebrated as flag day, i suppose," said ethel blue. "i think our flag has more meaning to it than any other flag in the world," declared roger. "the thirteen stripes mean the thirteen original colonies, don't they?" "there were thirteen stars at the beginning. they've added a star for every new state that has joined the union." "it certainly does make your heart beat to look at it, especially when you happen to come on it suddenly as miss bates said in those verses of hers that we had in our peace day program on lincoln's birthday." "a russian sea-captain once told me it looked to him like a mosaic," mrs. morton said. "but every piece of the mosaic is full of meaning," said ethel blue, "and mosaics make beautiful pictures any way." "there was a sad time ahead for philadelphia in spite of washington's successes at trenton and princeton," said helen, taking up her story once more. "the americans were successful in vermont and northern new york, but in september, , they were defeated at brandywine creek, and the british marched into philadelphia a fortnight later and took possession of the town." "wasn't it about that time that the american army spent the winter at valley forge?" asked margaret. "i seem to remember something about their living in a great deal of distress, such as the soldiers in europe are enduring now." "this was the time," confirmed helen. "grandfather has a few lines of reed's here telling about it." "such was the winter's awful sight, for many a dreary day and night, what time our country's hope forlorn, of every needed comfort shorn, lay housed within a buried tent, where every keen blast found a rent, and oft the snow was seen to sift along the floor its piling drift, or, mocking the scant blanket's fold, across the night-couch frequent rolled; where every path by a soldier beat, or every track where a sentinel stood, still held the print of naked feet, and oft the crimson stains of blood; where famine held her spectral court, and joined by all her fierce allies; she ever loved a camp or fort beleaguered by the wintry skies,-- but chiefly when disease is by, to sink frame and dim the eye, until, with seeking forehead bent, in martial garments cold and damp, pale death patrols from tent to tent, to count the charnels of the camp. such was the winter that prevailed within the crowded, frozen gorge; such were the horrors that assailed the patriot band at valley forge." "how long did the british hold the city?" asked tom, after he had shaken his head over the americans' troubles. "six or eight months," said helen, "and you can imagine what a thrilling time it was for american girls like sweet p. i can fancy them walking daintily along the street turning their heads aside when a british officer passed them, as if he were too far beneath their notice for them even to glance at." they all laughed at the picture that helen's words drew. "when sir henry clinton evacuated philadelphia in the middle of june, he started for new york. washington followed him but did not win in the skirmish which they fought at monmouth, new jersey. the indians on the western frontier had joined the british, and there was some terrible fighting there. our fleet, as a general thing, was successful on the ocean. clinton stayed for more than a year in new york city. washington established himself just above the city where he could keep an eye on him." "wasn't that the time when my old friend, anthony wayne, stirred up a little excitement up the hudson?" asked roger. "yes, it was then he took stony point, which we saw when we went up the river to west point. there was fighting in new jersey and in the south, and the british seemed to be getting tired out." "it was at the end of several sharply fought fields that cornwallis surrendered at yorktown in virginia, wasn't it?" inquired roger. tom looked at him with exaggerated respect. "it certainly is a great thing to be related to the army and navy. here's helen, a walking 'history of the revolution,' and old roger actually remembering something about cornwallis's surrender!" "bah!" acknowledged roger. "they tell a story about the way that philadelphia heard the news of the surrender," interposed the caretaker of the betsy ross house, who had been listening to the conversation. "there was an old german watchman walking the streets, and calling the hours through the night, as was the custom then. he cried out; 'bast dree o'clock and cornvallis ist daken.' people who had turned over in bed growling when they had been awakened by him before, were only too thankful to hear his hoarse voice croaking out the good news." "that was in october, ," went on helen, after nodding her thanks to the caretaker for his addition to the story. "it took a good many months for the british to leave the country, for transportation was a difficult matter at that time." "i'll bet you the americans were thankful to have peace," exclaimed james. "it sounds to me very much as if the british were, too," said roger. "any country must be grateful for a rest from such long distress." "grandfather's poetry is by freneau this time," said helen. "i'm going to read you only two stanzas of it." "the great unequal conflict past, the britons banished from our shore, peace, heaven-descended, comes at last, and hostile nations rage no more; from fields of death the weary swain returning, seeks his native plain. in every vale she smiles serene, freedom's bright stars more radiant rise, new charms she adds to every scene, her brighter sun illumes our skies. remotest realms admiring stand, and hail the hero of our land." "who is the hero?" inquired tom. "washington, i suppose." "yes, indeed," said helen. "these verses were written when he was traveling through philadelphia on his way to mt. vernon." "i know enough american history to tell you that he didn't stay there long," said tom, proud of being able to bring forward one sure piece of information. "he was made president on his war record. that i do know." they all applauded this contribution. the care-taker of the house again could not resist joining the conversation. "the five years after the signing of the treaty of peace in were very critical years," he said. "the new country had almost no money and no definite policy, now that they had cut themselves free from england. somebody proposed a federal convention and it met here in philadelphia in ." "what did they want to do this time?" asked margaret. "now they had to draw up some sort of constitution for the new country. washington was chosen president of the convention and they worked from may until september in planning the constitution, which they nick-named the 'new roof.'" "yes, i know about that," cried helen. "grandfather gave me a poem about that. he thought we'd be especially interested in it on account of dorothy knowing so much about the building of a house,"--and she read them the old poem called 'the new roof,' by francis hopkinson, one of the signers of the declaration of independence. come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools, your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules; bring your mallets and planes, your level and line, and plenty of pins of american pine: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,_ _our government firm, and our citizens free._ come, up with _the plates_, lay them firm on the wall, like the people at large, they're the ground-work of all; examine them well, and see that they're sound, let no rotten part in our building be found: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _a government firm, and our citizens free._ now hand up the _girders_, lay each in its place, between them the _joists_, must divide all the space; like assemblymen _these_ should lie level along, like _girders_, our senate prove loyal and strong: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _a government firm over citizens free._ the rafters now frame; your _king-posts_ and _braces_, and drive your pins home, to keep all in their places; let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine, and your pins be all made of american pine: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _a government firm over citizens free._ our _king-posts_ are _judges_: how upright they stand, supporting the _braces_; the laws of the land: the laws of the land, which divide right from wrong, and strengthen the weak, by weak'ning the strong: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _laws equal and just, for a people that's free._ up! up with the _rafters_; each frame is a _state_: how nobly they rise! their span, too, how great! from the north to the south, o'er the whole they extend, and rest on the walls, whilst the walls they defend: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _combine in strength, yet as citizens free._ now enter the _purlins_, and drive your pins through; and see that your joints are drawn home and all true. the _purlins_ will bind all the rafters together: the strength of the whole shall defy wind and weather: _for our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _united as states, but as citizens free._ come, raise up the _turret_; our glory and pride; in the center it stands, o'er the whole to _preside_: the sons of columbia shall view with delight its pillars, and arches, and towering height: _our roof is now rais'd, and our song still shall be,_ _a federal head o'er a people that's free._ huzza! my brave boys, our work is complete; the world shall admire columbia's fair seat; its strength against tempest and time shall be proof, and thousands shall come to dwell under our roof: _whilst we drain the deep bowl, our toast still shall be,_ _our government firm, and our citizens free._ "now that we have put the united states on a good running foundation, i think we might finish up our revolutionary history by whirling out to valley forge," said mrs. morton. "it's a delightful ride, and i think we could do it comfortably in what is left of the afternoon." "i shall be glad," said helen, pretending extreme fatigue, "for these ignorant people have made me work so hard remembering dates and things, that i'm quite exhausted, and i'd like to sit still and view the scenery for a while." the chauffeur said that he could manage the ride and even give them time for a walk when they reached their destination, if they were not in a hurry to return. "i think it would be fun to come back in the evening," said margaret, and they started off with great satisfaction. as they passed fairmount park they promised themselves to see it in detail in the morning, but now there was only time to notice that much of it had been left in a natural condition, which was far more beautiful than any results that art could have brought about. the road lay through a rolling country with pleasant suburban towns and comfortable-looking farm houses. at valley forge they felt like real pilgrims at a shrine, for they remembered the bitter suffering of the american soldiers and the even greater mental anguish of their leader, who sometimes felt that he had led his brave men into this distress, and might not be able to lead them to the victory which he must have, if the colonies were to become independent of the land they had sprung from. across the surrounding hills they walked, reading with utmost interest the monuments and markers which commemorate events and places and people connected with this fateful winter. below swept the schuylkill river, between peaceful banks, far different from those that hem it in farther down, as it runs through the great city. chapter x the land of "cat-fish and waffles" it was a tired party that tumbled into bed that night but the long ride in the fresh air made them sleep like tops and they awoke the next morning entirely refreshed, and ready to start out again on their investigations of the city of brotherly love. "to-day i am not going to open my mouth," said helen. "i talked altogether too much yesterday." "you were a wonder," said tom, admiringly. "i wish i could remember dates the way you do." "hush," said helen, with a finger on her lip. "my energetic grandfather blocked out the whole history of philadelphia in the revolutionary days for me, so it was not my unaided memory that reeled off all that information. any way, i'm going to sit back and have the rest of you inform me to-day about the places we shall see." "what are we going to see?" inquired roger. "mother, you know this village; can't you make out a list for us?" mrs. morton said that she had some suggestions to make and roger jotted them down in a book. "there are one or two churches," she said, "which have an interest because they are old, or have connection with some important person or because there is some strangeness about the way they are built." "i shall like those," said ethel blue. "i'm going to try to draw some of the doorways for miss graham. she asked me to draw any little thing about buildings that i thought would interest her." "you'll see some old-timey doorways in rittenhouse square," said mrs. morton. "that is like washington square in new york, only here the whole square has been preserved in its former beauty. you'll find more than one doorway, and which will be worth putting into your sketch book." "would it take too much time to see the mint?" asked james. "i shouldn't want to suggest it if it will take too long, but it would be awfully interesting." "i had the mint on my list," said mrs. morton, tapping her forehead. "i'll transfer it from that spot to paper," laughed roger. "i hope we can get the same chauffeur we had yesterday," said ethel brown; "he knew a lot about things." "i suppose he's accustomed to driving tourists," replied her mother. as good fortune would have it they were able to secure the same car, and the good-natured driver beamed at them, as they stowed themselves away as they had the day before. mrs. morton told him the chief "sights" which they wanted to see, and directed him to point out anything that they passed which would have some interest for the young people. first they went over to the old part of the town along the delaware, to find one of the churches of which mrs. morton had spoken. on the way they stopped at christ church. its high box pews seemed to them full of dignity, and they imagined the elaborately arranged head-dresses of the ladies and powdered wigs of the gentlemen, rising above the old-fashioned seats. the pulpit was high up on one side of the chancel. "this is the church that was presided over by bishop white, the first episcopal bishop of pennsylvania," said mrs. morton. "he was influential in organizing the episcopal church in this country." out in the graveyard, whose quiet seemed strangely out of place amid the hurry of the city, they found many stones bearing well-known names, among them that of benjamin franklin. "he died in ," read delia, from the stone. "wasn't that just about the time washington was elected president?" "one year after," said helen, who could not resist giving historical information. "the first real american congress after the separation of the country from england met here in philadelphia in , and elected washington as president." "you can't escape a little history as long as sister helen is around," murmured roger. "it wasn't i who started it," retorted helen. "now, children, be quiet. you may thank your stars that your sister knows so much about history," said mrs. morton; "it would be an excellent thing, roger, if you stowed away some of it in your brain, too." "yes'm," answered roger meekly. it was while the car was on its way to the second old church of their search that the chauffeur asked james, who was sitting beside him, if he knew that "hail columbia" was written in philadelphia. "i certainly didn't," said james. "helen, did you know that 'hail columbia' was written in philadelphia?" "no, i didn't know that," said helen. "tell me about it." with his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel the chauffeur told james, who repeated the story over his shoulder to those in the back of the car, that while john adams was president, there was a war scare, because french vessels were supposed to be off the coast ready to attack american merchant vessels. a man named john hopkinson wrote the poem, which was sung one night at the chestnut street theatre. "you mean our 'hail columbia'--the regular 'hail columbia'?" asked ethel brown. the chauffeur nodded at ethel brown. her memory for verses was always good and she repeated the first stanza of the stirring song. "hail columbia, happy land! hail! ye heroes, heaven-born band, who fought and bled in freedom's cause, who fought and bled in freedom's cause, and when the storm of war was gone, enjoyed the peace your valor won; let independence be your boast, ever mindful what it cost, ever grateful for the prize, let its altar reach the skies." they all joined in the chorus. "firm united let us be, rallying round our liberty, as a band of brothers joined, peace and safety we shall find." almost on the river, toward the southern end of the town, was the church which the chauffeur called "old swedes church," and whose correct name, mrs. morton said, was "gloria dei." "how old is it?" asked dicky who was beginning to understand that they were on a historical pilgrimage. they all laughed at his seriousness, and his mother answered. "this building is only a little over two centuries old--but it's on the site of an old wooden church that was built in . it was a swedish church, originally, and then the whole congregation turned episcopal." "it doesn't look as if they lived around the church in any great numbers," said tom, gazing about him. "most of the parishioners live now a long way from here," said the chauffeur, "but they love the church because they are the descendants of the original founders, and they come from great distances to the morning services and stay to sunday school, old people and young ones, too, and cook their dinner in the parish house." "that sounds like a new england village church to which all the farmers from around about come for the day," said margaret hancock. "i used to see them when i was a little girl and we went to new hampshire for the summer. they bring their lunch and eat it under the trees between services." "since we seem to be doing churches, we ought to go to a quaker meeting house," suggested mrs. morton, turning to the chauffeur for information. "there is one up on th street, madam," he responded. "there's a boys' school connected with it that is very well known--the penn charter school. lots of the old quaker families send their boys there still." "i don't suppose there would be a meeting to-day," inquired helen. the chauffeur shook his head. "you wouldn't like it, any way," he said. "i'm a quaker myself, and i know when i was your age it was awfully hard work to keep still so long." "is it worse than any other kind of church?" asked dicky. the driver nodded again, dexterously avoiding a big truck as he answered. "the congregation just sits there until the spirit moves someone to speak. i've been there many a time when they sat for two hours and nothing happened at all." "dear me," exclaimed ethel blue, shaking her head gravely; "i don't believe i could keep still as long as that." "i dare say it's just as well that there is no meeting to-day," said mrs. morton. "any way, i don't know that i should approve of your going to a religious service out of curiosity." tom nodded in agreement with mrs. morton. "i'm sure father wouldn't like it," he said. tom's father was a clergyman in new york. "he doesn't object to our going to other churches," he went on, "but he has seen so much of tourists who come to new york and go around the city, taking in three or four churches on sunday morning merely to hear the music or some celebrated speaker, that he has always warned us children against being 'religious rubber-necks.'" they all laughed and contented themselves with looking at the outside of the severely plain meeting-house. the tour over the mint was filled with interest for all of them. "this is the oldest mint in the united states," the guide explained to them. "what's the date?" helen could not resist asking, although roger shook his head at her and tom visibly smothered a smile. " " the man replied. "we turn out gold and silver and copper here and we've done a great deal of minting for south america, and, of late years, for the philippines." the boys were most interested in the processes by which the discs were cut out of plain sheets of metal and were then fed into tubes of just the right size to hold them, until they reached the stamping machine which gave them the impress they were to wear through life. "those new gold pieces are certainly beauties," said roger, looking at the eagle flying through the air on one coin and then at the same majestic bird standing with dignity on another. "i don't think this indian has a very handsome nose," said ethel blue, critically, as she examined a five-cent piece. "but think how appropriate it is,--the noble red-man on one side of the nickel, and the buffalo of the plains on the other," returned james. the girls were more interested in the coin collection in the mint's museum. here they saw not only american coins, from the earliest to the most recent, but coins of other countries. one of them was the tiny bit of metal known as the "widow's mite." "the widow didn't have to be very muscular to carry that around," commented roger. "but she must have had a separate bag to put it in or it would have been lost," returned practical ethel brown. "there's nothing doing in the academy of fine arts now, ma'am," the chauffeur told mrs. morton, when she got into the car again. "it has a grand exhibition every winter but it's closed for the summer. would you like to see the collections?" the question was put to the party and they agreed that they would prefer to stay out of doors in this brilliant summer weather. "we'll make an expedition to the metropolitan museum some day before long," promised mrs. morton. "i wish we might do it soon," said dorothy. "miss graham said she'd go with us, and i think we should learn a lot from her because she's half an artist." "let's ask her to take us as soon as we get back," said ethel blue. "i'm crazy about her, and this would be a good chance for us to be with her for almost all day." "i'll see that you have your opportunity soon," her aunt marion promised her. "we have time to run out to mt. airy this morning," suggested the chauffeur. "then after luncheon, you could go to the park and the zoo in the afternoon." "what is mt. airy?" asked della. "one of the finest deaf and dumb asylums in america," replied the young man proudly. della shook her head and the rest of them pulled such long faces mrs. morton could not resist smiling. "i rather think these young people care more for human beings who can talk and hear," she said to the chauffeur. "at any rate," she went on, looking at her watch, "i must meet my business appointment now, so i suggest, roger, that you take our party to wanamaker's. you can see a lot of interesting things there, and can have your luncheon, and i'll meet you there when i am through with my business." so it was arranged, and the chauffeur was ordered for three o'clock to take them to fairmount park. at the appointed hour his cheerful face greeted them once again. because of the mortons' interest in the navy, they first ran south to the league island navy yard. even their familiarity with many navy yards did not lessen their interest in this one, with its rows of officers' houses and its barracks and mess-room. just because they were so familiar with similar places, however, they did not stay long, and the car was soon whirling northwards to the opposite end of the city. they went through miles and miles of streets lined with small houses. "these are the houses which have given philadelphia the nick-name of the 'city of homes,'" exclaimed mrs. morton. "you see, in new york people are crowded on to a small tongue of land, between two rivers. here there are two rivers also, but the space between them is wider. there's nothing to prevent the city's crossing the schuylkill and running westward, as it began to do many long years ago." "these houses aren't very beautiful," commented ethel blue. "they are very neat," said ethel brown. "but don't you get tired of these red bricks and white shutters, and the little flights of white marble steps, all alike? i don't see how anybody knows when he has come home. i should think people would all the time be getting into their neighbors' houses by mistake." "it is much more wholesome for a family to have a house to itself, than for many families to be crowded into one building," said mrs. morton. "i don't see why," objected tom, who had been born and reared in new york. "the large buildings are wonderfully constructed now-a-days for ventilation and sanitation. they couldn't be better in that respect." "that's true," said mrs. morton, "but a family loses something of its privacy when it lives in a building with other people. the householder is responsible for his own heating, his own side-walk, and so on, for all matters whose good care makes for the happiness of his family. the apartment dweller loses that work for the well-being of his family, when he lets go its responsibility." "i dare say you are right, mrs. morton," said tom, "but in these days of co-operation, it seems to me you gain something by uniting, as apartment house people practically do, to hire some one to take the responsibility of the heating arrangements, the side-walks, the ashes, and so on." "it all depends on the conditions," returned mrs. morton. "in new york, especially on manhattan island, where land is so valuable that buildings must go up in the air, such co-operation has become desirable, but where there is plenty of space, it seems better for every household to be separate as far as possible." the chauffeur called their attention, as they passed through logan square, to the fact that this was the fourth city square they had seen since they had been in his care. "on our way south from the penn treaty park, we went through franklin square, and then you saw washington square when you were down by independence hall. this morning you saw rittenhouse square. logan is the fourth. these four squares were laid out by william penn as a part of the original design of the city." not far from logan square they were enabled to reach the bank of the schuylkill, and the rest of the afternoon they spent in the lovely park through which flows this river and the picturesque little wissahickon. their first visit was to the zoo, which the chauffeur told them was one of the finest in the united states. they invested in peanuts and small cakes and made themselves popular with the animals whose cages they passed. then they drove on, gliding swiftly in and out among the stately trees which the engineers of the park had had the good sense to leave as they found them. along the wissahickon they noticed many small inns, all of which showed signs, inviting passers-by to come in and partake of "cat-fish and waffles." "i can understand the waffle supply being limited only by the energy of the cooks," exclaimed roger, as he read one of the numerous summonses, "but if they catch the cat-fish in the wissahickon they must keep an army of fishermen out in the boats all day long!" "i wish we could go out on the river," murmured helen, as they whirled along the banks of the schuylkill. "it looks so refreshing there." "i think we can get a barge at one of these boat houses and go up the river a little way," suggested mrs. morton, turning inquiringly to the chauffeur. "it's a pretty bit from about here up to a place called 'the lilacs,'" he answered. "it's a pretty little club house." "oh, do lets do it," cried ethel blue excitedly. "it would be lovely." so they went to a near-by boat house and made the arrangements. the boats were large, with seats for four rowers besides the seats in the stern and bow. the ethels had learned to row at chautauqua the summer before, so they occupied one seat. the three boys each took one of the other seats, each rowing a single oar. helen sat on the seat with tom, margaret with roger, and dorothy with james. mrs. morton and dicky sat in the stern, and della played look-out in the bow. it was a charming pull between shores beautiful by nature and gay with boat houses from which merry parties were establishing themselves in boats and barges and canoes. the rowers found the trip not too hard upon the muscles, even the ethels saying that they were not at all tired, when the lilacs came in sight. the car met them at the club house because they had to go back to the hotel and pack their bags in order to catch the train for home. the chauffeur had brought up with him a man from the boat house, to take the barge back where it belonged. they returned over different streets to the city so that they felt that they had a good idea of the geography of the town. "i've had a perfectly stunning time, mrs. morton," said tom, as he bade her "good-bye" on the train and thanked her for her care. "it has been splendid fun, and my only grief is that i am afraid helen may have fatigued her brain, remembering all that history!" helen wrinkled her nose at him, but she laughed good-naturedly and agreed with him that the trip had been great fun. chapter xi lights and a fall it was not often that ethel blue took a violent fancy to any one. although she had something of the temperament that artists claim to have, she also had great reserve, and she found the companionship of her cousins, ethel brown and dorothy, quite sufficient for her. now, however, she was filled with admiration for margaret's aunt, miss graham. miss graham suited her in so many ways. she was good to look at, and ethel found herself gazing at her wholesome, amiable face, filled with life and earnestness and fun, and enjoyed it quite as much as if she had great beauty. then, miss graham, because of her occupation as an interior decorator, knew something about art, and ethel blue wanted to know how to draw and paint, and how to appreciate pictures. she found that she never met miss graham without realizing afterwards that she had learned something from her. perhaps it was only the meaning of a new phrase, or perhaps miss daisy called her attention to the light on the group of figures in some picture, or to the harmonies of color in the landscape. whatever it was, it was not brought out in any preachy way and yet ethel blue found herself with quite a store of information that had come from her new friend. miss graham did not seem to single out ethel blue for particular attention. they naturally drifted together when there was a large party, because their tastes were similar. "i think your aunt daisy is nicer than any aunt in the world except my aunt marion," ethel blue confided to margaret one day. "that's just about what james and i think," said margaret. "has she finished her englewood house?" inquired ethel. "yes, that was done some time ago. that's why she has been able to go to see mrs. smith so many times recently. she has spent several afternoons at sweetbrier lodge, you know." remembering this, ethel blue went to the new house one afternoon especially to see if miss graham was there. she had no definite reason for doing so--she merely thought she would like to see her. by good luck miss graham was there, as she had brought out some samples of hangings to show to mrs. smith, and she was waiting on the terrace for her to come, and resting as she waited. "i'm glad to see you, child," she called to ethel blue, and ethel did not resent being called a child, for she realized that it was merely an endearing word coming from miss daisy's lips. "bring one of those canvas chairs over here beside me," she urged, "and we'll look at the view and talk a while." "isn't it going to be lovely when the real furniture is on the terrace here?" said ethel blue eagerly. "the view is lovely, no matter what the chairs are," returned miss graham, smiling at her affectionately. "when do you think your aunt is coming?" "i don't know. did she expect you? shall i run back to the house and tell her you are here?" "no, probably i'm a little early and i shall enjoy sitting here and talking with you until she comes." ethel felt much complimented by this desire on miss graham's part and placed her chair beside her. their eyes looked out across the field with its brook and the trees that sheltered mr. emerson's house. across the street the meadows, rich with the field flowers of late summer, stretched away towards the distant river, and beyond that were more trees rearing their heights across the sky. as they looked a shadow fell on the meadow and moved swiftly across it. "it looks as if some huge birds were flying between the earth and the sun," smiled miss daisy. "doesn't it go fast!" returned ethel blue. "notice the change in the color of the meadow, when the sunlight is hidden for a minute and then falls again on the vegetation." ethel blue nodded, for she saw that the change was almost as if a sheet of colored glass had been held over a strong electric light. "sometimes during a thunder shower," she said, "i've seen awfully queer colors over in that meadow." "the air is charged with electric particles sometimes," explained miss daisy, "and you are looking through them. you get different color effects during an ordinary rain storm, too." "i think rain over that meadow is going to be one of the prettiest things dorothy will see from this terrace," said ethel blue. "she will have a long sweep to watch and a shower moves sometimes fast and sometimes slowly, so there will be opportunity to notice many changes," suggested miss graham. "i wonder if aunt louise is going to have electric lights out here on the porch," said ethel blue. "they will draw the mosquitoes like everything." "but she won't mind that because she can stay inside of her wire cage," answered miss daisy. "surely she's going to have electric lights. don't you see the wires already put in?" "of course," answered ethel blue. "how stupid of me! those black ends are poking out all over the house and somehow i never thought what they were for." "then you haven't noticed the lighting scheme that your aunt and dorothy have worked out. let's walk through the house now, and see just how she has arranged it." they went through the door of the screen into the enclosed portion and then into the dining room. "most people have one of those hang-down lights over the dining table," said ethel blue. "i don't see any wire for one here. i'm glad aunt louise isn't going to have one. they never are the right height. you always have to be dodging under them to see the person across from you and the light shines on the table so brilliantly that you're almost afraid to eat anything it falls on." miss graham laughed at ethel's vigorous protest, but she said that she, too, did not like a central light over the dining table. "there is no need of a very brilliant light in a dining room," she said. "you can see the people about the table without any difficulty in a subdued light and the general effect is far more beautiful than when people are sitting in a glare." "i think candle light is prettiest for the dining room," said ethel blue. "it is prettiest for the table," replied miss graham. "the place where you really want a strong light is over the serving table behind the screen. you don't want the maid to make any mistakes just because she can't see clearly the dishes she is handling. there you need a strong light, but it can be placed so low that the screen shields it for the room and it will not interfere with the dimmer light of the rest of the room." "i suppose there ought to be other lights in the room," said ethel blue. "you might find that there weren't any candles in the house some evening and then it would be awful to have only this light over the serving table and none of them in other parts of the room." miss graham laughed at the possibility of such a disaster. "there can be side-lights over the mantel-place," she said, "electric lights that look like candles, with pretty candle shades, and one or two similar arrangements on the other side of the room." "don't you ever put a central light in the dining rooms you decorate?" asked ethel blue. "sometimes i let the light flow out from a dull, golden globe set into the ceiling over the table. the glass of the bowl is so thick that only a gentle radiance comes from it and yet it ekes out the light from the candles." "ethel brown is particularly pleased with the switch out in the vestibule," said ethel blue. "you see you can come home when the house is all dark, and light the electricity in the hall by turning on the switch outside of the front door. wouldn't it be a good joke on a burglar, if he did it by accident some night when he was trying to get in," laughed the young girl. "it's a capital invention," said miss graham. "you notice your aunt has side lights here in the hall. have you ever happened to be in a house where they were moving the furniture about and every piece that passed the hall chandelier gave it a rap?" "that's the way it is in the house we're in now," said ethel. "every time any one goes away and the express man brings down a trunk, he hits the light in the hall. i don't know how many globes aunt marion has had broken that way." upstairs they found the same side-lighting in all the bed rooms. "the theory of it is," said miss graham, "that when you want to see anything very clearly, you put in a light close to the place where you need to work. if you are going to arrange your hair before your dressing table, you want a light directly over your dressing glass. if you are going to read you turn on a light beside your reading stand. an upper light is usually for general illumination and a side light for real service." "a combination of the two lights makes a room ready for anything," said ethel blue. "i want you to notice particularly the fixtures that your aunt louise has selected for indirect lighting," said miss graham. "she has chosen beautiful bowls that look like alabaster. they turn upwards and the bulbs are hidden in them. the strong glare is against the ceiling so that the people get only the reflected light. there is to be one of those bowls on a high standard in the front hall, and one at the turn of the stair-case. they look like ancient roman urns, giving forth a marvelous radiance." "i think that will be prettier than some clear, engraved glass covers, that i saw the other day," said ethel blue. "they showed the bulbs right through." "far prettier," agreed miss graham. "the whole object of this indirect light is to make your room seem to be lighted by a glow whose real origin you hardly know. of course your intelligence tells you that there are electric bulbs up there, but you don't want really to see them." "it seems to me that people must be thinking more about how to make things pretty than they used to," said ethel blue. "when ethel brown's grandfather built his house, aunt marion says it was thought very handsome by everybody in rosemont. it has lots of convenient things in it, and plenty of brilliant lights, but the fixtures aren't pretty and the idea seems to be to make just as big a shine as possible." "nowadays," said miss graham, "people try to make the useful things beautiful also whenever they can." "i'm glad to learn all about a house," said ethel blue, "because some time i may have to keep house for my father and i want to know everything there is to know. of course army people have to live in uncle sam's houses, but still there are always different arrangements you can introduce, even in a government house." "i'm sure you'll be able to make useful everything you learn," said miss graham, "and your father will be pleased with whatever makes the house lovelier and more comfortable." "i've always meant to ask whether you didn't know my father," said ethel blue. "he is at fort myer, near washington." "captain richard morton," said miss daisy. "yes, indeed. i know a great many of the officers and their families at fort myer. i've met your father and i know him well." "isn't he the dearest old darling that ever walked?" said ethel blue, bouncing with enthusiasm. "he certainly is a very nice person," agreed miss graham, smiling, "and he thinks he has one of the finest daughters who ever walked." "does he really?" cried ethel blue. "i'm so glad he does! you see, i so seldom see him that sometimes i'm afraid he'll forget all about me. once when he came to rosemont, i passed him in the street when he was walking up from the station, and he didn't know me and i didn't know him. wasn't that perfectly frightful?" "that was too bad," agreed miss graham. "somehow i've never thought of being able to live with him," said ethel blue. "you know i've always lived with aunt marion, because my mother died when i was a little bit of a baby, but the other day somebody said something about my going to father later on, and i haven't been able to think of anything else since." "i know he wants you," said miss graham. "has he spoken to you about it?" "yes, often." "i suppose i'll have to be a million times older than i am now, before he thinks i'm able to take care of him," said ethel blue. "i don't believe it will be a whole million years," smiled miss graham. "i shall feel dreadfully to leave aunt marion and ethel brown. i've never been away from ethel brown more than three or four days in my whole life," said ethel brown's twin cousin, "but if my father needs me, why of course, i must go." "indeed you must," returned miss graham, "and i'm sure he wants you just as soon as he can send for you." ethel blue was so overjoyed at this opinion, that she jumped up on the ledge on the top of the parapet running around the terrace, and danced with delight the fancy step--"one, two, three, back; one, two, three, back"--with which she and ethel brown were accustomed to express great satisfaction with the way in which life was treating them. to miss graham's horror, ethel blue's enthusiasm blinded her eyes and her third back step took her off the parapet. she fell to the ground and rolled down the hill, her slender little body bouncing from rock to rock with cruel force and increasing speed. miss graham gave a cry of distress and vaulted over the parapet with the ease which she had acquired in the gymnasium in her college days. running the risk of rolling down hill herself, she bounded down the steep slope, and reached the foot almost as soon as did the body of the young girl, which lay very still, its head against the stone which had brought unconsciousness. miss graham turned over the limp little form, shuddering as she saw the bruise on the forehead. she tried to lift it but found she could make no progress up the steep knoll. again and again she called to the workmen in the house, and finally two of them appeared at an upper window and made gestures of understanding when she beckoned to them. they leaped down the hill with long strides, and soon were carrying ethel blue up to the terrace. they laid her gently on the floor and ran to get water from the hydrant, while miss graham slipped off the young girl's shoes, raised her feet upon a block of wood that happened to be near by, so that the blood might flow towards her heart, and gently chafed her wrists. when the water came, she dashed a shower of it from the tips of her fingers on the pale little face lying so quietly against the bricks. "will i run to de nex' house an' telephone for de doctor?" asked one of the men, and miss graham nodded an assent and added a direction to summon mrs. morton. before either her aunt or the doctor came, however, ethel blue returned to consciousness. before she opened her eyes, she heard a soft, affectionate voice crooning over her, "my dear little girl, my poor little girl." she kept her eyes closed for a minute or two, so pleasant was this sound from the lips of miss graham whom she had grown to love so fondly. when at last she opened her eyes and saw miss daisy's anxious face change its expression to one of delight, she almost felt that it was worth while to fall off a precipice to bring about such a result. chapter xii in the family hospital mrs. morton was acting as head nurse in the home hospital. ethel blue's injuries from her fall were not serious, but besides the bruises on her forehead, she had numerous large black and blue spots all over her body and she had been so shaken that the doctor thought it was well for her to stay in bed for a day or two. in addition to ethel blue, dicky was laid low for the time being. he had gone over to his grandfather's and as he was accustomed to run about the farm by himself, and as he usually stayed near some of the workmen, nobody paid any attention to him. this time, however, he went up into the pasture, where he found most of the cows lying down in the shade of the trees and meditatively chewing their cuds after their morning meal. dicky was not in the least afraid of cows, having been familiar with them from his babyhood. he therefore walked up to one of the prostrate creatures and sat down comfortably upon her neck, steadying himself by her nearest horn. nothing happened for a minute of two, for either his weight was so slight that the cow hardly noticed it, or else his position did not interfere with her comfort. after a time, however, he began to pull at her horns in time with the motion of her jaws, and this measured movement seemed to annoy her. shaking her head, she rose, first behind, throwing her rider even farther forward than he was, and then in front, tossing him off altogether. the distance to the ground was not great, but it was far enough for dicky to be peppered with bumps and pretty well shaken. the cow paid no farther attention to him but walked off to a spot where she might be free from annoyance, and the little boy lay for some time on the ground before he could pull himself together and go to his grandfather's. by the time he reached there, his bruises were already turning black and he was interesting both to himself and to his relatives, although he was manfully keeping back his tears. the doctor ordered him to bed for a day or two, and now he lay on a cot at one side of the large room which served as the family hospital, and ethel blue at the other, comparing their wounds, and receiving the attention of mrs. morton. she had finished reading one of the br'er rabbit stories to them when ethel blue introduced the subject that was so constantly in her mind. "did i tell you how i happened to fall off the terrace wall?" she asked her aunt. "i wondered how you did it; you are usually so sure-footed." "i was talking with miss daisy about my going to live with father by-and-by. you know i never thought of it until the other night when we were all together on the porch and helen,--wasn't it?--said something about it. i wish i didn't have to wait to finish school before i can go to him." "are you in such a hurry to leave us?" said mrs. morton, with a little sigh for the many years of loving care she had spent over this child, who was to her like one of her own. ethel blue was conscience-stricken. "you know, aunt marion, i love all of you just like my own people. only it seems so wonderful to think about being with father all the time that i can't get it out of my mind--now it's in my mind." "there are a good many things to be considered," answered mrs. morton. "you know that an officer often has to be away from home and your father wouldn't like to leave you alone." ethel blue's face fell. "if i only had somebody like dicky's mary to stay with me," she said, referring to the nurse who had always taken care of dicky, and who had lived on with the family after he was too old to need a nurse. "perhaps your father might marry again and then there would be no difficulty about your being with him all the time." mrs. morton made the suggestion gently but ethel blue flushed angrily at once. "i think that's a perfectly horrible idea, aunt marion. that means a stepmother for me, and i think a stepmother is detestable." "have you ever known one," inquired mrs. morton coolly. "no, i never have, but i've read a great deal about them and they're always cross and mean and their stepchildren hate them." "don't you suppose that a great many stepchildren work up a dislike beforehand just because they read the same kind of stories that you seem to have been reading?" asked mrs. morton. ethel blue was a reasonable girl, and she thought this over before she answered. "perhaps they do," she said, although slowly, as if she disliked to admit it. "i have happened to know several stepmothers," said mrs. morton, "and i never have known one who was not quite as kind or even kinder to her stepchildren, than to her own children. a mother feels that she can do as her judgment dictates with her own children, but with her stepchildren she weighs everything with even greater care, because she feels an added responsibility toward them." "but she can't love them as she does her own children," said ethel blue. "i think there is very little difference," said her aunt marion. "i am not your stepmother but at the same time i am not your own mother, and i am not conscious of loving you any less than i love ethel brown. you are both my dear girls." "i love father but i do think father would be mean if he gave me a stepmother," said ethel blue. "but, wouldn't _you_ be mean if you objected to his having the happiness of a household of his own, after all these years when he has not had one?" returned mrs. morton promptly. "your father has lived a lonely life for many years, and if such a thing should happen as his deciding to marry again, i can't think that my little ethel blue would be so selfish as to make him unhappy--or even uncomfortable--about it." this was a new idea for ethel blue and she snuggled down under her covers and turned her head away to think about it. her aunt left her alone and the room was quiet except for the noise made by dicky's little hands, as he turned the pages of a picture book. it was almost dark when mrs. morton came back with mary, each of them bearing a tray with the supper for one of the invalids. "i must say," laughed mrs. morton, as she entered the hospital, "these are pretty hearty meals for people who call themselves ill." "my mind isn't ill," said ethel blue; "it's just these bruises that hurt me," and dicky understood what she meant, for he told mary, who was arranging his pillows, that his "black and blue thspotth were awful thore," but that he was going to get up in the morning. as mrs. morton leaned over ethel blue's bed, the young girl put an arm around her aunt's neck and drew her down to her. "i've made up my mind not to be piggy if anything like that does happen," she said, hesitatingly. "do you know that it is going to happen?" "no, i do not," answered mrs. morton, "but i saw that you were in a frame of mind to make your father very unhappy if it should come to pass. you ought not to allow yourself to have such thoughts, even about an indefinite stepmother. they might easily turn into thoughts of real hatred for an actual stepmother." "but do you think there _might_ be a stepmother some time or other?" asked ethel blue. "yes, dear, i do. your father probably seems old to you, but he really is not very old and, as i said before, he has lived a lonely life for many years. you know it was fourteen years ago that your mother died, and since then he has had no home of his own and no loving companionship. he has not even had the delight of helping to bring up his little daughter. if he can make happiness for himself now, after all these years, don't you think that his little daughter ought to help him?" ethel blue nodded silently and ate her supper thoughtfully. "while you two were taking your nap, i went to sweetbrier lodge," said mrs. morton, by way of entertaining the invalids. "i am so much interested in the way that aunt louise has arranged for the maids. you know so many people have only a servant's workroom, the kitchen; and the maids have no room to sit in after their work is done. aunt louise has been very thoughtful in all her plans. the laundry and the kitchen and the pantry between the kitchen and the dining room, all have the most convenient arrangements possible. every shelf and cupboard is placed so that the number of footsteps that the kitchen worker must take will be reduced as greatly as possible. then there are all sorts of labor saving arrangements. you saw those in the kitchen and the cellar. the electrician has been there daily fitting up an electric range and dish-washing machine. the wires in the kitchen are placed just where they will be most serviceable, and there are plenty of windows so that the room is bright in the day-time. then just off the kitchen, there is a delightful little sitting room, with a porch opening from it. it has a view toward the garden and fitzjames's woods, and it is to be prettily furnished." "there are two bed-rooms and a bath for the maids in the attic story," said ethel blue. "they are going to be prettily furnished too." "will they have a garden?" asked dicky from his corner. "do you know?" mrs. morton turned to ethel for an answer. "i do understand now," she replied, "why dorothy insisted on having the herb garden down by the house. i thought it was just because it would be convenient to have the herbs near the kitchen, but she planted flowers there too, and now i see that it will be a pretty flower garden for the maids to enjoy and to cut for their own rooms." "there are two things about aunt louise that are interesting," said ethel blue. "one is the way she always tries to make other people happy and comfortable." "she is naturally thoughtful and considerate," said mrs. morton, "and she has had much unhappiness in her life and has happened to meet many people who are unhappy, so it has taught her to do all she can to brighten other people's lives and to make them easier." "i don't believe many people who are building a house would let a lot of children say what they thought would be nice about it," said ethel blue. "she wants dorothy and all of you to learn about the new ways of building and fitting up a house," returned mrs. morton, "and she knows how much fun it is to talk over such matters in a general pow-wow. haven't all of you had a good deal of fun out of it?" "we certainly have," replied ethel blue. "i liked fixing up ayleesabet's room particularly, because i suggested the idea, but we have all made suggestions for every room in the house. aunt louise has not agreed with all of them, but she always told us why she didn't agree or why she didn't like our ideas. she never was snippy about it, just because we were children. the other thing that is interesting in aunt louise, is the way she wants to have all sorts of new arrangements in a house." "almost everybody does that," answered mrs. morton. "i don't know anybody in rosemont who has all the things that aunt louise has put in. people have vacuum cleaners now-a-days, that they move around from one room to another, but she has hers built in, so the dirt is drawn right down into the cellar. she has every kind of electric thing she has ever heard of, i do believe." "the electrician was there to-day as i told you, arranging wires in the kitchen." "i was trying to count up as i was lying here, all the things in the house that go by electricity. of course there's the door bell to begin with. then there are all the lighting switches--the one in the vestibule and all the regular ones in the halls and rooms and a lot of them in the different closets, so that she never will have to struggle around in the dark for anything she is hunting for." "i saw a man putting in a little pilot light for the oven, to-day," said mrs. morton. "what's that for?" "so the cook can investigate the state of affairs in the oven. sometimes it's hard to say how far along a dish at the back of the oven is. this light enables you to make out whether it is browning properly or not." "the man who put in the summer water-heater called the little light that burns all the time in that, a 'pilot,'" said ethel blue. "the dumb-waiter that runs from the cellar up through the house to take up kindling or whatever needs to be taken up stairs, runs at the touch of an electric button," said mrs. morton. "i wish there had been an elevator for people," said ethel blue. "the house isn't large enough to call for that," said her aunt, laughing. "dorothy and her mother are able to go up one or two flights of stairs without much suffering!" ethel laughed at the suggestion, and went on with her enumeration of the uses of electricity. "the city water runs into the house, but do you know that aunt louise has had an extra pump fitted into a deep well at the back of the house, and that is to work by electricity? she was afraid the house was so high up that the power of the town water might be weak sometimes." "she's prepared for anything, isn't she? she'll be quite independent if any accident should happen to the rosemont reservoir." "you know the fittings of the laundry are electric." "and the electrician to-day was going to put in an electric hair dryer in the bath-room, so that a shampoo will require only a few minutes' time." "i see where all of us girls visit dorothy on shampoo day," giggled ethel blue. "she'll be as popular as i used to be when our cherries were ripe," her aunt marion smiled in return. "i never seemed to have so many friends as during the june days when i always entertained my guests by inviting them up into the cherry tree." "was that the cherry tree on the right thide of chrandfather'th houthe?" asked dicky suddenly from the corner where he had been supposed to be dozing. "the very same cherry tree, young man. i dare say you know it." "it'th too fat for me to thin up," he said, "but nektht year i'm going up on a ladder the minute i see a robin flying off with the first ripe cherry." chapter xiii a golden color scheme when the time came for having the interior decorating done in sweetbrier lodge and for getting the furniture, the u. s. c. felt that they were really in the very midst of a delightful experience. the attic was furnished with brown wicker, as miss graham had suggested. a small upright piano was brought up through a window, and this pleasant, quiet room at the top of the house, served to give dorothy a spot for practising where she would disturb no one. up here, too, she could keep any work that she was doing and merely put it into a chest that she had prepared for the purpose, whenever she wanted to leave it, or, if it was something that could not easily be moved, it might even be kept out upon the table and there would be no one to be annoyed by an appearance of untidiness. the piano was to be a pleasure at the club meetings, for all the u. s. c. members liked to sing, and helen was planning that they should wind up every meeting during the coming winter with a good stirring chorus before they separated for the afternoon. on the bedroom floor, the furnishings were carried out as they had been planned, elisabeth's room in blue, dorothy's in pink, and mrs. smith's in primrose yellow, and the two guest chambers in violet and a delicate, misty grey. the wood-work was painted ivory white and the floors were all of hard wood. rugs in harmonious tints gave the desirable depths of tone to the color plan. on this floor mrs. smith had a sewing room and also a small sitting room, where she could write business letters and be quite undisturbed. with the floor below came the really serious work of furnishing, the girls thought. the drawing room was the important feature of this floor. "here is the family hearth," said mrs. smith to dorothy, "and we want to make this room beautiful--one that people will like to come into and to stay in." "it must not be cold in color, then," said dorothy. "nobody likes to stay in a chilly looking room." "and it ought not to be too warm in color," said plump little della, who suffered terribly from the heat in summer. "it just makes me perspire to _think_ of some of the thick, heavy-looking rooms i've been in. they are only suitable for zero weather and we don't seem to have any more zero weather nowadays." mrs. smith had allowed dorothy to ask the club members to have cocoa with her on the afternoon when the final decisions were to be made. they had brought down from up-stairs some of the chairs and a table which had already been put into the bed-rooms. dorothy and the ethels had made cocoa and had baked some cocoanut cakes on the new electric oven, and they were all gathered in the drawing room, sipping their cocoa and looking about them at the possibilities of the room. "before we begin, tell me how you made these cakes," said margaret, who was always adding a new receipt to her cook book. "we took half a pound of dried cocoanut and two ounces of sugar and three ounces of ground rice, and mixed them all up together. then we beat the whites of three eggs perfectly stiff and stirred the froth thoroughly into the other things," said ethel brown. "then we dipped out a tablespoonful at a time and put it on to a buttered baking tin, and baked it all in a quick oven for five minutes," said ethel blue, "but we didn't take the tin out, right off. we let the oven cool and the little cakes cook slowly for half an hour longer." "they do be marvellous good," murmured james, and all the others agreed with him. miss graham had come over with margaret and james, but she said that she was not going to give her professional advice until it was asked for. "i may as well tell you first of all," said mrs. smith, "what my color scheme is for this room, and then you can help me with the details. i want the whole thing to be in tones of brown, lightened by yellow, and contrasted with that dull blue you see in oriental rugs. now, keep that scheme of color in your mind and work it out for me." "i think you must have told the painter about it before he did the wood-work," guessed margaret. "this wood-work is white, but a yellowish white that will be quite in harmony with your brown and gold scheme." "you've caught me," smiled mrs. smith. "it had to be done, so i told him what i wanted. it's successful, don't you think so?" she asked, looking toward miss graham. "entirely," approved miss daisy. "the floors are hard wood, but i suppose you're going to have a big brown and gold and blue rug," said helen. "certainly those colors, if i can find just the right thing," said her aunt. "i was with mother the other day in a rug shop," said della, "and i saw beautiful chinese rugs, with dull blue backgrounds and figures of brown and tan." "i've noticed," said helen, "that oriental rugs have a great deal of red and green in them. i should think it might be hard to find rugs with just brown and blue." "i have discovered that it is," said mrs. smith, "for i've already been on one or two searching trips. still, those chinese rugs that della mentioned are always available, and if you hunt far enough you can get others with the brown note uppermost. what do you think about size?" she asked. "oh," said helen. "i seem to see in my mind's eye a huge, great, splendid one in the middle of the room." "it would be a beautiful rug probably," said ethel brown, "but i don't know that i should like one big fellow as much as two smaller ones." "why not?" asked miss graham. "i don't know that i can tell you," answered ethel brown, blushing. "perhaps it's because it makes the room seem too big and grand, and the arrangement of smaller ones would break it up into smaller sections, and make it seem more home-like." miss daisy nodded as if she were satisfied, but made no comment. "how do all of you feel about the size of the rugs?" inquired mrs. smith, and helen put the question to vote. they decided that they liked the idea of two or more rugs of medium size with little ones where they were needed instead of a very large one in the centre of the room. "i think you're right," said mrs. smith, "and i think that it will be easier to find the smaller ones than the very large ones--and less expensive into the bargain," she said, laughing. "what is the furniture to be?" inquired tom. "dorothy and i had a few antiques that have been kept for us all these years from my father's house, and they have given us the note for the rest. they are mahogany, colonial in style, so we think that we must make the rest of the furniture harmonize with them." "aunt marion told me she saw some lovely reproductions of truly old chairs and tables and things," said ethel blue. "i suppose you can make the room look as if every piece in it was a truly old one." "if i had money enough, i could undoubtedly find truly old pieces," said mrs. smith, "but i think i shall content myself with the modern pieces in the old style." "at any rate, they will be stronger," said margaret. "we have some very old furniture, and since we put steam heat in our house, they've been falling to pieces as fast as they could fall." "how are the walls of this room to be treated?" asked james. "there i want your help," said mrs. smith. "i saw a dark brown paper dashed with gold the other day, on the library wall at mrs. schermerhorn's," said roger. "too dark," cried the ethels in chorus. "mrs. schermerhorn's wood-work is dark and aunt louise's is almost white." "there's a kind of japanese paper that looks like metal burlap," said margaret. "it has a little glint of gold in it." "that's too dark, too, i think," said dorothy. "it ought to be something that will connect the yellow-white of the wood-work with the gold, which is the lightest tone in mother's color scheme." again miss graham nodded her approval, although she said nothing. "i saw a very wide pongee silk the other day that would be just about the right shade, if it could be put on like wall-paper," said ethel blue. "it would be a little darker than this paint, and it would tie on to the gold in the rug or in any piece of furniture covering." again miss graham nodded. "and i don't see why it couldn't be stenciled," said ethel brown. "something like the walls upstairs in the apple-blossom room, only of course something that would be appropriate for this room. but even if you didn't like that idea," she went on, "i think the pongee silk alone would be beautiful." mrs. smith liked that idea, too, but she hesitated to give her final decision until she had examined a certain homespun linen which she had had recommended to her as a possible success from the point of view of color. "now that you have finished your cocoa, i want you to move your chairs over here, where you can look into the dining room," she said. "you see, i've had the dining room separated from this room by folding doors; there will be door curtains also, but i want to be able to shut off the room entirely from this room if i choose. now, while we talk about the furniture here, look into the dining room and get the shape of it into your minds, so that you can regard it as a sort of outgrowth of this room. are you comfortable now?" they said they were and went on to discuss the furniture. "will all of the pieces be upholstered with the same material?" asked ethel blue. "oh, no," cried ethel brown. "let's have two or three different shades of brown, and one in the right shade of yellow and one or two in the same dull blue of the rug." again miss graham nodded. "you want to repeat in the furniture the colors of the rug," she said. "they give you a wide range of tones because these oriental rugs may have as many as twenty-five shades of blue, so finely graduated that you can hardly tell them apart, except with a reading glass. the brown and gold of the furniture will bring out the brown and gold of the floor covering and you must be careful that the yellow of the furniture is not so brilliant as to overpower the more delicate yellow of your walls. there should be a sort of scale from the yellowish white wood-work which is your highest note, down to the darkest shade of brown." "now, that we've decided about the furniture, tell me what general idea you have for the dining room," said mrs. smith. "i'm all excitement to hear what you have to say about the dining room, because it isn't quite clear in my own mind, and i want to work it out with you." "you want it to be an outgrowth of this room," said helen, "and you don't want it treated like an entirely separate room." "since it is connected with this room by so wide an opening, when the doors are drawn back," said her aunt, "it seems to me as if it ought to be in harmony with the coloring here." they all agreed with this idea. "i suggest," said margaret, "that the whole room might be a little darker than this room, although decorated with the same colors." miss graham again approved this. "it has the morning sun," said dorothy, "and at night through most of the year the gas is lighted at dinner time so it isn't necessary to have it so bright as the other room." "then why not have everything the same, except just a little deeper in tone," said ethel blue. "have the wood-work a trifle darker and find some material for the walls or have them color-washed a few shades darker than the pongee. the floor is a little darker than this anyway and one of the darker blue chinese rugs will be lovely on it." "mother's china is blue canton," said dorothy. "that will give blue touch that will harmonize with the rugs." they were all pleased with their decisions and were greatly pleased when miss graham approved their wisdom. the electricians had put in the electric fixtures and they noticed that the dining room side lights of both the dining room and drawing room looked like sconces; that there was a glowing bowl of light in the ceiling above the dinner table; and that the half concealed lights were to give a pleasant radiance in the larger room, while plugs around the wall permitted the use of electric lamps for reading or sewing at many different points. "how is this little reception room to be done, mrs. smith?" asked james as he roamed into a small room just beside the front door. "this whole floor, all in all, is to have the same color scheme," said mrs. smith. "i think this and the hall will be done like the dining room." "come out now, and see the maid's sitting room," cried dorothy. "it is the cunningest thing and so pretty." the wicker furniture had already come for this room and the attic, and they all exclaimed at the delicate shade of gray rattan which made a charming back-ground for cushions of flowered chintz. "i think it's a dear duck of a room!" said ethel brown. "and see the roses on the walls!" exclaimed dorothy. "and it opens on to a little porch that is going to be covered with rambler roses all summer, if i can possibly make them grow and blossom." "how many of you people can go to the metropolitan museum with me on saturday?" asked miss graham. "i know you younger ones are all busy in school now, and the boys are getting ready to go to college, so that is your only day, for we want plenty of time." there was not one of them who could not go, so they arranged about trains and where they should pick up the watkinses in new york, and separated with pleasant expectations of the very good time ahead of them. chapter xiv at the metropolitan dicky, the honorary member of the united service club, had been considered too young to become a member of the party to visit the metropolitan museum. he had, however, begged so hard not to be left behind, that helen and roger had relented, and had promised to take him if he, in his turn, would agree not to bother miss graham by asking more than a million questions every ten minutes. he was also under bond not to stray away from the party. as it turned out, however, the honorary member did not go to new york on the appointed day. he had planned an expedition of his own for purposes of investigation, and the results were such that he was not able to meet his other engagement later on. underneath his bobbed hair dicky kept a sharp pair of ears and there was very little of the talk about his aunt's new house that had escaped his attention. among other things he had listened while his sisters and cousins had commented upon the manner in which the kitchen was equipped. the floor was concrete, the walls were of white tile, the shelves were of glass, and the cupboard doors of enameled metal. he had heard his mother say to his aunt louise: "why, you could turn the hose on it to clean it, couldn't you?" the idea had inflamed his imagination and he determined to see how it would work. detaching the hose and spray from the bath-room he trotted off immediately after breakfast, intent on putting into effect his mother's idea. it seemed to him that it would be a delight to live in a house where one might enter into the kitchen at any moment and find the cook spraying the walls with a hose. if the reality proved to be as charming as the anticipation, he was going to beg his mother to have their own kitchen made over promptly. the workmen were all upstairs at sweetbrier lodge but the lower doors were open so that there was no difficulty in achieving an entrance. he knew how to attach the spray to the faucet and a twist of the fingers turned on the water. it seemed to him as the first dash struck him full in the face, he having been a little careless about the nozzle, that his aunt louise need not have worried about the pressure of the town water. he shook his head like a pussy cat in the rain, but manfully restrained the ejaculation that leaped to his lips. he was glad that he did, because nobody interrupted and the succeeding moments were filled with ecstasy. he sprayed the floor, the electric range, the shiny white table, the glistening cupboards, and, best of all, the gleaming tiles of the walls down which the drops chased each other in a joyous race for the floor. the moments sped in this entrancing pursuit. at home a cry for dicky had arisen as the time came to dress him for his trip to new york. nobody knew where he had gone. it was not until ethel brown telephoned to dorothy that they learned that he had been seen passing her house. "he must have gone to sweetbrier lodge for some reason or other," said ethel brown. "what on earth possessed him on this morning of all mornings!" she called to roger, and he dashed off on the run to see if he could find his wandering brother. none of the workmen at the new house had any knowledge of his whereabouts, and it was not until roger opened one of the carefully closed doors and was greeted by a dash of water, straight in his waistcoat, that he found the wanderer. roger was a boy of even temper but he confessed to his mother afterwards that his fingers ached as never before to impress on dicky his disapproval of his occupation. "what on earth are you doing here?" he demanded, snatching the hose from dicky's reluctant fingers, and turning off the water. "washing down the walls," replied dicky truthfully. "incidentally you've given yourself a good soaking," said roger, looking at the thoroughly drenched little figure before him. "here, slip into this coat, and i hope i haven't got to carry you home the whole way, you big, heavy creature." "i think i'd be warmer if i trotted myself," suggested dicky, a little apprehensive of what might happen to him in the way of a bear hug, in his brother's strong arms. "i guess you're right," said roger. "we'll have to run like deer, for it's almost time for the car to come for us. this puts an end to your going into town, i suppose you understand, young man." dicky had not thought of losing his other joy while he was realizing his first delight, and he puckered his face for a howl, but before the sound could come out, roger said: "you brought it on to yourself, so don't yell. this is the natural result of what you've been doing. you can't expect ten people to wait for you to be thoroughly dried and got ready to go into town, can you?" dicky was an uncommonly reasonable child and he swallowed his sobs as he shook his head. there was no farther conversation, for both boys were running as fast as roger's legs could set the pace. dicky's strides were assisted by his brother, who seized his arm and helped him over the ground with giant steps. mrs. morton's view of the situation seemed to be painfully like roger's, and dicky found himself put into the care of mary and an unnaturally rough bath towel, his only part in the expedition that had promised such happiness to him, being the sight of his relatives climbing into his grandfather's automobile and dashing off toward glen point, where they were to pick up miss graham and the hancocks. when the party reached new york they made up their minds that they might as well approach the museum containing many beautiful objects by the prettiest way possible, so at th street the car swept into central park. as they entered, miss graham called their attention to the golden statue of general sherman, made by the famous sculptor, saint-gaudens. as they neared the museum, she pointed out cleopatra's needle, an egyptian shaft covered with hieroglyphics. "the poor old stone has had a hard time in this climate," said roger. "it has scaled off terribly, hasn't it?" "they are trying to preserve it by a preparation of parafine," said miss graham. "i should think it would have to be repeated every winter," said helen. "it doesn't seem as if parafine was much of a protection against heavy frost." just inside the entrance of the building they found della and tom awaiting them. miss graham called their attention first to the tapestries hanging in the entrance hall, and told them something of the patient work that went into the production of one of these great sheets of painstaking embroidery. "are they making them anywhere, nowadays?" asked ethel blue. "when the war is over and you go to paris, you can see the tapestry workers in the gobelins factory," said miss daisy. "every machine has hung upon it the picture which the worker is copying. it may take a man six or seven years to complete one piece." "shouldn't you think he would be sick to death of it!" exclaimed dorothy. "i suppose the first year he tells himself he must be pleasant, so that he will see the picture get started. in the second year perhaps he'll be ready to put in the feet of his figures. then all the middle years must be comparatively exciting because he's doing the central part of the picture; and the last year he has a sort of a thrill because it's almost done, even though the work may be all in the clouds." "i judge that they make landscapes with figures, chiefly," guessed james. "many of them are landscapes with figures," replied miss daisy. "they have a wide variety of objects. the factory belongs to the government and the pieces are used as decorations for government buildings, and as gifts to people of other countries. the french government gave miss alice roosevelt a piece of gobelin when she was married. i've seen it on exhibition in the art museum at cincinnati." "i suppose all the workmen now have gone to the war, and the factory is closed," said tom. "probably. the men who work there now are descendants, sometimes in the third or fourth generation, of the early workers. they hold their positions for life and although their pay is not large they also have each a cottage and piece of land on the grounds of the factory." as the u. s. c. ascended the great stair-way they passed numerous impressive busts and stopped to look at all of them. most of the men were famous americans, whose names were already familiar to the young people. "now," said miss graham, as they reached the head of the stairs, "later on we can choose the kind of thing we would like especially to see, but first i want to show you two or three pictures and we can talk a little about them. then perhaps we will enjoy better the pictures we see afterwards." "i am sure we shall," answered roger, politely, although his heart was yearning for the riggs collection of armor. miss daisy read his mind. "i know you want to see the riggs armor most of all," she said, "and margaret and james have been talking a lot about the morgan collection and the ethels told me on the way in that they had seen in the sunday papers reproductions of some of the pictures in the altman collections and they want to see the originals. we can see all those later on, but first we will look for a minute at a very famous picture by a frenchwoman, rosa bonheur." "oh, i remember about her," said helen. "she used to wear men's clothes when she was working in her studio. she said skirts bothered her." "i should think they would," said james. "i remember about her, too. she made a specialty of animals and sometimes she had lions and other wild animals from some zoo, and let them wander about. she needed to be dressed so she could skip lively if they made any demonstration!" "those are huge horses, aren't they," said ethel blue, as they stood before the "horse fair." "they look as if they were 'feeling gayly,' as the north carolina mountaineers say," quoted dorothy. "what is it all about?" asked miss graham. "why, i don't know," answered ethel blue slowly. "is it about anything in particular? isn't it just a lot of horses being taken to a horse fair for exhibition?" miss graham nodded and said that that was probably all there was to it. then she led them to a picture by a french artist, meissonier. "i spot napoleon," said tom promptly, as they took up their position. "this is called 'friedland, ,'" said miss graham. before she could ask any question or make any suggestion about the picture, helen had explained "friedland." "that was one of napoleon's famous battles. here he defeated the russians and prussians." "eighteen hundred and seven?" repeated james. "why, napoleon was at the very height of his power then, wasn't he?" "he looks it," said margaret. "doesn't he look as if he were the lord of the world? and how those men around him gaze at him with adoration! he certainly had a wonderful ability for making himself beloved by his soldiers!" miss graham had been listening to these comments with the greatest interest. "what difference do you see between this picture and the 'horse fair'?" she asked. they looked carefully at the picture before them and ethel blue scampered back to refresh her memory on the "horse fair." "there isn't any more action in one than the other," said james, "though, of course, it's different." "but this one makes me think a lot about a great man," added his sister. "and you want to know what it's all about," exclaimed ethel brown. "you feel as if there must be some story about this one," said ethel blue, returning from her expedition to the "horse fair." "that's just the point," said miss graham, patting her shoulder, "there's no especial appeal to the imagination in the 'horse fair.' you just see horses going to any horse fair in northern france, and there's nothing to tell you that one horse has won a ploughing match and that another is a candidate for a blue ribbon because of his great weight. but here you realize at once that napoleon was a man to command attention. you want to know what he has been doing. you feel that there is some good reason for the evident admiration of his soldiers. those two pictures are examples of two different classes of pictures. the 'horse fair' you might call a sketch in a traveller's note book. the napoleon picture is an illustration in a story." the young people thought over all this and nodded their agreement. "now come with me and see this picture of a pretty girl." miss graham led the way to the morgan collection and they looked into the winning face of "miss farren." she seemed to be moving swiftly across the canvas, her dress and cloak streaming behind her from the speed of her motion. "she's a pretty girl," said roger, with his hand on his heart. tom nodded in agreement, but james shook his head. "she looks silly," he said sternly. "there isn't any story to her picture, i'm sure," said helen. "that's just a portrait." "but may not a portrait indicate something of the character of the sitter?" asked miss graham. "it ought to," returned margaret, "and i should think there was something of this girl's character in the portrait, but there's nothing to show that this might be the illustration of a story." "unless it were the frontispiece, showing the picture of the heroine," said roger. "but the heroine doing nothing that is told about in the story," insisted helen. miss graham made no comment on these criticisms but led the way to another picture, also of a girl, but this time of a girl in the dress of a peasant and not handsomely arrayed as was miss farren. "there is a bigger difference than clothes between these two," said della, "but i don't know just what it is. this girl isn't pretty like miss farren." "do you know who this is?" asked miss daisy. "somebody who is thinking a lot," said ethel brown. "she is seeing things in her mind," said ethel blue. "who is the most famous girl in history, who did that?" asked miss graham. "jeanne d'arc," said helen. "she saw visions that inspired her to be a leader of men in the army and she brought about the coronation of her king when he was kept from his throne by the english who held paris and a large part of france." "she is seeing visions now," whispered ethel blue, clinging to miss graham's arm. miss graham gently smoothed the fingers that were tensely closed over the sleeve of her jacket. "why do you suppose helen told us about jeanne d'arc just now?" she asked. "because helen just naturally knows all the history there is to be known," said roger, joking his sister in brotherly fashion. helen flushed and murmured something that sounded like, "i thought you'd like to know why she looked like that." "there is something more than just her character and her disposition in that picture," said margaret. "if a single picture can be a story picture, i should think this was a story picture as much as the napoleon one," said tom. again miss daisy nodded her approval. "i call it a story picture," she said. "helen felt that it was, immediately, and that is why she told us something of the story of jeanne d'arc." "most landscapes must be just note book pictures, then," guessed ethel brown. "unless the landscape should be a background for some story," said della. "there might be gypsies kidnapping a child, for instance." "of course there are other divisions," said miss graham, "but roughly speaking, almost every picture is either a record of fact or of imagination, or else it tells a story." "it's going to be interesting to think about that, when we look at the other pictures we shall see later on," said tom, and even roger nodded assent, although his heart was still set upon the armor. "now, let's go back for a moment to look at the 'horse fair,'" said miss graham. "what do you think a picture ought to have in it to be a real picture?" she asked as they went along the gallery. "it seems to me that a picture that is nothing but a record, as you said a few minutes ago, can't be much of a picture," said roger. "i should want something more in a picture, something that would stir me up. why, even miss farren's there isn't exactly a record, because you have something more than just eyes and nose and hair. she looks as if she would be fun to talk to, and as for the 'horse fair,' which was the other picture that we decided was a record, why that has in it more than just a lot of horses." "if rosa bonheur had wanted merely to draw some horses, she might have strung them along in a row so that we could get an idea of their size and color and could make a guess at their weight, but here we see them in action and we know that they are in good spirits and we feel some sympathy with the men who have a hard time to hold them." "yes, that picture stirs me a little, too." "that is because both 'miss farren' and the 'horse fair' are real pictures. any picture that tries to be more than merely a photographic reproduction must stir your emotions in one way or another," said miss daisy. "now as we look at this picture, do you think the artist put into it everything that she saw on the road that morning when she passed this group of men and horses?" "i dare say not," said della, "because there would be likely to be dogs and boys with the men, and perhaps some ugly houses in the background." "why do you suppose she didn't put everything in?" "why, a picture ought to try to be beautiful, oughtn't it, and some of those things might be ugly, or there might be so many of them that it would be confusing." "those are both good reasons," said miss daisy. "they both show that the artist has to _select_ the things that he thinks will be of the greatest interest to the people who look at his pictures." "now when he has picked them out, what should you say the next step was?" they were all rather blank at this question but after a while roger said slowly, "evidently she picked out just so many as being the best looking ones to put in the picture; and she didn't like them all facing the audience, ready to bob their heads at you as you look at them; she made them trot along the road in a natural way." "certainly," approved miss graham. "she _arranged_ what she had selected so that they would be natural and--" "and so that the colors would show well?" asked ethel brown. "yes, so that there would be contrasts of color that would be pleasing to the eye. then there should be _balance_. have you any idea what that means?" nobody had. "i wonder if you haven't all noticed a japanese print that margaret has?" "you mean the one with big green leaves up in one corner and the grasshopper clinging to a tendril?" asked helen. "that's the one," returned miss daisy. "did it ever occur to you that those leaves were all crowded off into one corner of the picture?" "i never thought of it," said margaret, "and i have looked at it every day for a year. they are, aren't they?" "but it didn't affect you unpleasantly, did it?" "why, no. i think it's a pretty picture," said ethel brown. "it is," agreed miss graham; "but what device did the artist use to make you feel comfortable about it, and to make you forget that he had put a bunch of foliage up in one corner and had left more than one-half of his sheet blank?" nobody could answer this question and miss graham had to give the explanation herself. "it's all a question of balance," she said. "the great mass of white paper in the lower right hand part of the picture balances the mass of green leaves in the upper left hand corner. the green is a heavier looking color than the white, and it therefore takes a larger amount of white to balance the green. the japanese who made this painting understood that, and he has so arranged his leaves and his grasshopper, that the eye is entirely pleased by the balance that results. if rosa bonheur has managed wisely there should be masses of light and dark, balancing each other, and there should be spaces and solids, balancing each other." "has she done it? it doesn't worry me any," said roger. "i think she must have succeeded." keeping miss graham's explanation in mind they took another look at the napoleon picture and concluded that meissonier also knew what he was about. "'composition' means the putting together of a picture, doesn't it?" asked helen. "i should think that the composition of a picture that has so many figures, must be extremely difficult." "far more difficult, of course, than one for which the artist has selected fewer objects." "and of two artists producing complicated pictures like these, he is the better who gives an effect of simplicity." "suppose that rosa bonheur had noticed that one of the men struggling with the horses had his face bound up with a cloth; does that have anything to do with the picture?" they all agreed that it had not. "then she was perfectly right to leave out any object that would distract the observer's mind. she put into this picture of horses going to the horse fair only such things as would make the onlooker think of the beauty and spirit of the horses as shown by their handsome coats and by the difficulty which the men had in controlling them, and his imagination would be stirred to wonder as to which of these fine animals was to win a prize. everything which might compete with these simple ideas the artist left out of the picture." "it must have been awfully hard to do such a lot of legs," said ethel blue, who knew a little about drawing. "an artist has to know a good deal about anatomy," returned miss graham. "he must know how the human body is made, and the horse's body, too, if he is to do a picture like this, and he even must know something about the under-structure of the earth. he must make the lines of those legs all move harmoniously. look at this napoleon picture once more." once again they stood before "friedland." "if you were to prolong the up-standing lines of weapons and helmets you would find that they were parallel or tended toward some point possibly outside of the picture. unless an appearance of confusion is desired it would not do to have lines leading in every direction." "it would make a picture look every which way, wouldn't it?" said ethel blue. "attention to such points as this helps to give expression to the whole picture," went on miss daisy. "not only do the figures in the pictures have their own expression, but the picture as a whole may wear an expression of peace, like that quiet landscape over there; or of confusion, like this picture of the attempted assassination of a pope, or of orderly excitement, like that cavalry charge yonder." as they turned from one canvas to another the club realized the truth of what miss graham was saying. "that is a fact, isn't it?" agreed tom. "you don't have to see the look on the fellows' faces to get the general effect of the picture even from a distance." "we've been talking so much about color schemes in connection with dorothy's new house, that i am sure the phrase is familiar to you," said miss graham. "look at the color schemes of these pictures around us. do you see that there are no discords because a color note is struck and all of the other shades and colors harmonize with it? that battle rush, for instance, is a study in red. compare that with the dull misty blues, greens, and greys in lepage's 'jeanne d'arc.'" they went from one picture to another and proved the truth of this statement to their satisfaction. "now we'll call our lesson done," said miss graham. "we'll have some luncheon downstairs and when we come up we can let roger have his heart's desire, and we'll give the afternoon to looking at the morgan and altman and riggs collections of wonders. i doubt if there was ever gathered together anywhere three such groups. the altman pictures are choice, the riggs armor is unequalled anywhere in the world, and the morgan collection is the finest general collection ever owned by a private individual." it was a weary but a happy party that returned to rosemont in the late afternoon. "one of these days is awfully hard on your head," confessed roger, as he was talking to his mother about the club's experience, "but it certainly is good for your gray matter." "we're going to remember whenever we look at pictures again," said ethel brown. "and there are lots of things in it that we shall think about when we look over the decorating in our house," insisted dorothy. "what i thought was the nicest of all was the way miss graham taught us. it was just like talking. i think she is awfully nice," was ethel blue's decision. chapter xv preparations for the housewarming the trip to the metropolitan museum gave every member of the party a new set of words for her vocabulary. they looked at pictures with opened eyes and talked of their "composition" and "balance." they were all of them more or less interested in photography and now they tried to take photographs that would be real pictures. "it isn't so easy to make a picture by selecting what you want to have and leaving out the things you don't want," said roger to helen one morning as they walked toward sweetbrier lodge, "when the things are right there in the landscape and won't get out of the camera's way. a painter would leave out that stupid old wooden house in the field there, but he'd leave in the splendid elm bending over it. now if i 'shoot' the elm i've got to 'shoot' the house, too." "the only way out is to take the house at some angle that will show off any good points it may have," declared helen, wrinkling a puzzled brow. "then as likely as not you'll have to take the tree on the side where the lightning hit it and peeled off all its bark," growled her brother gloomily. "that just shows that a photographer has to be more skilful than a painter," she said. "the painter can do what he likes, but the photographer has to get good results out of what is set before him." "and as for balance--if nature happens to have placed things in balance, well and good; but if she didn't what can you do about it?" "nothing, my child, unless you introduce some object that you have some power over. put in a girl or a dog or a horse somewhere where their weight will bring about the result you want." "you can't carry girls and dogs and horses round with you," objected roger, who was in a depressed mood this morning and found difficulties in every suggestion. "you've got enough sisters and cousins for the girls, and you can take christopher columbus around with you in your pocket to play the four-footed friend," laughed helen. "speaking of columbus--are we going to celebrate columbus day this year?" asked roger, as he deftly inserted a new spool of film. "it's just luck james and i being here at all, you know. we'd like to do something to celebrate being exposed to scarlet fever as soon as we got to boston, and being sent home for it to incubate, and then having nothing hatch!" "haven't you heard? aunt louise is going to have her housewarming on october , columbus day? she has asked the club to do something appropriate." "i thought the watkinses had asked us to go into new york to see the parade." "they have. that won't interfere with us. they'll come out here later and then we'll do something in the evening in the new attic to amuse aunt louise's guests." "any idea what?" "i've got an idea in the back of my head. i'll have to talk it over first with the girls to see if we can manage the costumes. if we can i think it will be mighty pretty." roger nodded absent-mindedly. he had perfect confidence in his sister's good judgment and he was willing to do his part for his aunt's sake as well as for the good name of the club. "what are you taking?" helen asked him after they had roamed about the new place for a time. "you seem to be using a lot of film." "i am. i thought i'd take the new house and garden from every point of view i could, inside and out, and make two or three portfolios of them and send them to father and uncle richard, as they'd probably like to have them." "what a perfectly darling idea! isn't aunt louise delighted?" "she seems to be," returned roger. "you knew she had asked uncle richard to come up for her house-warming?" "father, too; but it's dollars to doughnuts they won't be able to come, so i thought i'd do these any way." "father won't be able to, but uncle richard may." "he'll be glad to have the prints even if he has seen the original places." "perhaps he'll like them better on that account." "i think i should. it would be like having your memory illustrated." "are you going to do the rockery in the garden?" "if the frost has left anything." "it must be placed in just the right spot for there's a lot of it left. i passed it early to-day and it looked almost as pretty as if it were summer." "dorothy certainly made a success of that." "it was an afterthought, too." "i believe the chief reason it has been so lovely is that it was placed in a natural position. the rocks look as if they ought to be just where they are." "mrs. schermerhorn's rockery looks as if she had said, 'lo, i'll have a rockery,' and then she stuck it right in the middle of her lawn where no collection of rocks has been for twenty years." "and she has hot-house ferns in it!" the brother and sister laughed delightedly at their neighbor's ideas of natural beauty. "perhaps it was fortunate that dorothy didn't have a hot-house to draw on," said roger, moving from one side to another of his cousin's rockery in order to get the best view of its remaining loveliness. "dorothy has too much sense. in the first place she snuggled hers in here under the trees, just the way the rocks are naturally over in fitzjames's woods. then she brought over here exactly the plants she found there." "it had to look as if it were a bit of the woods, didn't it?" "do you want me to be in this picture?" "you look too dressed up." "thank you! this is a middy i've worn all summer, and i'm just wearing out the rags of it on saturdays." "nevertheless, you dazzle me." "that's a polite way of saying you don't want me in the foreground. you'd better put in what miss daisy calls 'contemporaneous human interest.' i'm a great addition to any picture in which i appear." "you are, ma'am, of course," replied roger with exaggerated politeness, "but i think i'd like you under an arbor in a graceful attitude and not hobnobbing with these wild flowers." "you forget that wild flowers have been my special care this summer," returned helen, withdrawing to a point where she would not interfere with roger's plans. "dorothy's wild garden is only a copy of mine." "not in arrangement. hers is prettier with everything piled up on the stones this way--columbines, ferns, wild ginger, hepaticas." "you're right about that. mine had to be in a regular bed. are you going to take a picture of the vegetable garden?" "certainly i am. and of tomatoes that were started with and without dirt bands." roger's chief attention during the summer garden campaign had been devoted to the raising of vegetables, while the girls had done wonders with flowers. "what are dirt bands?" inquired helen. "i know," cried the voice of ethel brown who came in sight through the pergola. "they're brown paper cuffs to put around young plants. it keeps the earth all close and cozy and warm and they grow faster than the ones that don't wear such fine clothes." "listen to that," roger said approvingly to helen. "those ethels haven't let anything slip that happened in any of our gardens all summer. they know all about everything!" "roger is in a very complimentary mood this morning," laughed helen. "if i could only think of something to say i'd be polite in return." "i'm sorry it doesn't come to you spontaneously," replied her brother, "but what care i?" and he broke into song: "i'm a careless potato, and care not a pin how into existence i came; if they planted me drill-wise or dibbled me in, to me 'tis exactly the same. the bean and the pea may more loftily tower, but i care not a button for them. defiance i nod with my beautiful flower when the earth is hoed up to my stem." "oo-hoo!" came a voice from the lodge. "come in and help." "there's dorothy calling," cried ethel brown, and they all moved toward the house where they found their cousin on the back porch with an array of plates, bowls, stones, small plants, tiny trees and small china figures before her. "may i inquire, madam, what on earth--" began roger, but ethel brown's exclamation enlightened him. "you're making japanese gardens!" "i'm going to try to. i think they're awfully pretty and cunning. let's each make one." mrs. smith had bought a professionally made garden at an oriental shop in new york, and the girls were seized with a desire to copy it. "here's the real thing," and dorothy indicated a flat bowl of gray and dull green pottery. in it were some stones outlining the bed of a stream over which stretched the span of a tiny porcelain bridge. a twisted tree that looked aged in spite of its height of only three inches reared its evergreen head at one end of the bridge; a patch of grass the size of three fingers grew greenly at the other end, and a goldfish swam happily in a pool at the side. "margaret told me that horse-radish would grow if you kept it damp and let it sprout, so i've got several pieces started for our gardens." sure enough, the horse-radish had sent forth shoots and a head of small leaves quite tall enough for the size of the garden, and its body looked brownish and gnarled like some bit of queer oriental wood. dorothy had taken up little plants of running growth like partridge berry and she had collected many wee ferns. "we can sprinkle a pinch or two of grass seed and bird seed over them all when they're done," she said. "that ought to bring up something fresh every little while." "these will be all started for your housewarming," suggested helen. "that's why i'm doing them. we can leave them here, and i'll come over every day so they'll be watered. i think they'll be awfully pretty and they'll be different from the usual decorations." "i read somewhere the other day that the japs arrange their flowers with a meaning." "o, they do," cried dorothy. "they have very little in one holder, perhaps only three flowers. one--the highest one--means heaven, the next lower is man, and the lowest is earth." "i should have to have a diagram with every vase," insisted roger. "the water in the bowl that holds the flowers represents the surface of the earth and the edge of the bowl is the horizon. then they have ways of suggesting the different seasons--spring by flowers, summer by a lot of green leaves, autumn by bright colored leaves and winter by tall stems without much on them." "we've got flowers left in the gardens--lots of them," insisted ethel brown proudly. "plenty," answered dorothy; "and by this time next year i hope we'll have a little hot-house of our own so that we can have flowering plants all winter, but i like other things, too." "miss daisy was telling me the other day that we americans didn't pay enough attention to using through the winter branches of trees and seedling trees from the woods and boughs of pine and fir and cedar," said ethel blue, who came through the house and had been listening to the conversation. "i don't see why you couldn't have a small maple-tree growing all winter in the dining-room if you put your mind on it," answered helen. "a great jar of norway spruce with cones hanging from the fingers would be stunning," decided roger, as he set his horse-radish in place and planted a tree at one end of it. "the covers for the radiators are all on now," said dorothy, changing the subject. "did you notice them when you came through the house?" the ethels had not and helen and roger had gone directly to the garden, so they all went in on a tour of examination. "mother said that there was one thing about heating that she couldn't stand, and that was the ugly radiators; so the heating man has tried to hide them as much as he could. there isn't one in the house that stands out like a monument of pipes," declared dorothy. "even in the attic?" "not even in the attic. see, he's covered most of them with grilles bronzed or painted like the wood-work of the room, so they aren't at all conspicuous." "it's these little points that make this house so attractive," declared helen. "aunt louise has thought of everything." "what are you going to wear at the party?" asked ethel blue of dorothy. "if we do that columbus thing--" began dorothy, looking at helen. "go on," the president of the u. s. c. replied to the inquiring gaze; "we might as well tell roger now as later." "if we have the tableaux and pantomimes we can stay in our court dresses." "court dresses?" inquired roger, sitting up interestedly. "why so scrumptious?" "columbus at the court of ferdinand and isabella," answered helen. "you as columbus." "me? me? why this honor?" asked roger meekly. "need you ask?" returned helen. "that's in reply to your remarks about me as an addition to the foreground of your photographs." "even. i don't care what i do as long as i have time to get it up." "you shall have plenty of time," promised dorothy. "what i'm more interested in just now is what we're to have to eat on the festive night." "is aunt louise going to let us decide?" "subject to her veto, i suspect," smiled helen. dorothy nodded. "she says she wants something different from ice-cream and cake and chicken salad." they all laughed, for rosemont was noted for invariably having these three excellent but monotonous viands at all her teas and receptions and church entertainments. "i move we have cold turkey," said roger. "it's rather early for turks, but we can have capon if we can't find a good turkey," replied ethel brown, who kept the run of the rosemont market. "let's have little birds in aspic jelly," suggested dorothy. they all gurgled with pleasure at this idea. "squabs," went on dorothy as her imagination began to work. "um," commented roger, his eyes shut. "split them down the back, dip them into beaten egg and melted butter, sprinkle them with the finest bread crumbs and broil them." "o," came a gentle murmur from roger, who was deeply affected by the recital of this appetizing dish. "where's the aspic?" "you cut each squab in halves and put one-half in a mold and then you pour on the aspic." "dorothy, you talk as if you'd been doing birds in aspic all your life. did you ever cook them?" "once," dimpled dorothy. "at cooking school." "i know how to make aspic," declared ethel brown proudly. "let's have it." "soak a quarter of an ounce of vegetable gelatine in a pint of water for two hours; then add the strained juice of a lemon, pepper and salt and cayenne, two tablespoonfuls of tarragon vinegar and another pint of water. let it cook for a few minutes over a slow fire and then boil it for two or three minutes and strain it through a jelly bag over your birdies." "o, you can't do that that way," cried ethel blue. "their elbows will show through when they're turned out of their molds. you have to put in a layer of jelly and when it is stiffened a little put in your bird, and then pour the rest of the jelly over it." "correct," approved dorothy. "we must be sure to have enough for each person to have a half bird in a mold. they are turned out at the last minute and a sprig of parsley is laid on top of each one." "help! help!" came a faint cry from roger. "i am swooning with joy at the sound of this delicious food. i'm so glad aunt louise is giving this party and not one of the chicken salad ladies of rosemont." "aspic is good to know about for hot weather use," said ethel blue. "i've been meaning all summer to tell della how to make it--she feels the heat so awfully." "you can put all sorts of meats in it, i suppose." "and vegetables; peas and beets and carrots very tender and cut very fine. tomato jelly makes a good salad, too." "you could make pretty little individual molds of that." "what are we going to have for salad after these birds?" inquired roger. "let's have alligator pear salad. it's as easy as fiddle. you just have to pare the alligators and take out their cores--" "with a butcher's knife?" inquired roger. "--and cut them in halves lengthwise. then you put the pieces on a pale yellow-green lettuce leaf, and pour french dressing over it, and there you are!" "i like it all except the name," objected roger. "christen it something else, and be happy," urged helen. "what for sweeties?" roger demanded. "i'm going through this feast systematically." "don't go on to the sweeties until we've settled on the bread, then," insisted ethel brown, "i say parker house rolls." "or pocket book rolls--the same thing, only smaller," said ethel blue. "i haven't made any since we were at chautauqua; i shall have to look them up again," confessed dorothy. "i remember," said ethel brown. "you scald two cups of milk and then put into it three tablespoonfuls of butter, two teaspoonfuls of sugar and a teaspoonful and a half of salt. when it has cooled off a little add a dissolved yeast cake and three cups of flour and beat it like everything." "command me on the day of the party," offered roger politely. "we will," giggled the girls, and they said it so earnestly that roger gazed at them suspiciously. "cover it up and let it rise; then cut it through and through and knead in two and a half cups more flour. let it rise again. put it on a floured board, knead it, and roll it out to half an inch in thickness. then cut out the rolls with a floured biscuit cutter. brush one-half of each roll with melted butter and fold the round in halves." "won't they slide open?" "not if you pinch the edges together. arrange them in your pan and cover them over so they can rise in comfort. then bake them in a hot oven for from twelve to fifteen minutes," ended ethel brown. "they aren't as easy as della's lightning biscuits, but they're so good when they're done that you don't mind having taken the trouble about them." "now for the sweeties," insisted roger. "i'm afraid you'll forget them and my tooth is as sweet as ever it was." "are frozen things absolutely forbidden?" inquired dorothy. "o, no, let's have one frozen thing. we're going to have some of the rosemont people who aren't relatives, you know, and i hate to think of what they'd say about aunt louise if she didn't give them something frozen!" laughed helen. "let's have frozen peaches, then. make them in the proportion of two quarts of peaches to two cups of sugar, a quart of water, and the juice of a lemon and a half. you peel the peaches and take out the stones and rub the fruit through a colander. put the peach pulp and the lemon juice into a syrup made by boiling the sugar and water together for five minutes and letting it cool. pour it all into the freezer and grind it until it is firm." "command me," murmured roger again. "poor old roger! you shan't be worked to death! patrick will do the grinding." "for small mercies i'm thankful," returned roger, a beaming smile breaking over his face. "i speak for chopped preserved ginger with whipped cream, served in those lovely ramequins of aunt louise's," cried ethel blue. "why can't we have maple marguerites to go with everything?" "new to me, but let's have 'em," urged roger. "boil together a cup and a half of brown sugar and a half a cup of water until it makes a soft ball when it's dropped into cold water. let it cool for a few minutes and then put in half a teaspoonful of maple flavoring and beat it all together. have ready a quarter of a cup of finely chopped nut meats. add half of this amount and drop this perfectly _dee_-licious stuff on to crackers. while it's still warm enough to be sticky sprinkle over the crackers the remainder of the nut meats." "i'll grind the nut meats," offered roger. "and ask for heavy pay in marguerites!" laughed ethel brown. "i scorn your aspersions of my character," returned her brother solemnly. "what are you going to have to drink?" "coffee--grape-juice--lemonade--the usual things." "i think that's a pretty good list. write it down and let's see what aunt louise thinks of it," recommended helen. chapter xvi columbus day ethel blue, as columbus day approached, was filled with many strange feelings, some of them far from pleasant. when she read a letter from her father a few days before the twelfth she felt as if dread had brought upon her exactly what she had dreaded. the letter was filled with loving expressions but it told her that her father was to be married very soon. "i know that you will love the dear lady who has honored me by saying that she will relieve my loneliness," he wrote. "_i_ would have relieved his loneliness if he had given me a chance," ethel sobbed to herself as she lay on her bed and read the tear-blotted lines for the tenth time. "it will be a sorrow to you to leave aunt marion and your cousins, but perhaps the thought that now you will belong in a home of your own will make up for it, in part, at any rate. i don't see how we can all help being happy together, and we must all try to make each other happy." ethel blue thought of a great many things to say in reply to her father. they sounded very smart and very convincing as she said them over to herself in a whisper, but just as she was wiping her eyes and getting up to sit at her desk and put them on paper her aunt marion's suggestion that she would be selfish if she did anything that would hurt her father or prevent him from making a belated happiness for himself cut her to the heart. "he doesn't love me or he wouldn't do it," she repeated, and then she remembered that all her life she had had a home and a loving family of cousins who were as good as brothers and sisters, while her father had spent the same time without the thought, even, of home-making. "i suppose it's some old fort myer woman who's as cross as two sticks," she murmured again and again; and then an inner voice seemed to speak in her ear and tell her that there was no reason why she should not imagine that it was some really lovely person who was as sweet as she was pretty. "everybody says my mother was pretty," thought poor ethel blue, who had been making herself very miserable by her old habit of "pretending" without any basis of fact, and who now was trying to get a scrap of comfort from the thought that her father had had good taste once and might be trusted to exercise it again. whether or not to show the letter to her aunt marion she did not know. her father had not said whether he had informed her or not. usually ethel told her aunt everything promptly, but now she did not feel as if she could speak of the thing that had appeared dreadful when it was only a possibility. the reality was so much worse that it did not seem as if she could trust herself to mention it. "aunt louise has asked him to come on to the housewarming," she said. "i'll wait and see if he comes. then he can tell her and aunt marion himself; and if he doesn't come it won't be any worse for me to tell them a few days from now than right off this minute." it was so forlorn an ethel blue who dragged herself through the preparations for the columbus day entertainment, that ethel brown could not help noticing the melancholy air that hung over her usually smiling face. ethel blue would make no explanation to her cousin, nor would she tell her aunt anything more than the reassuring words that she was perfectly well. they gave up trying to make her talk about herself, trusting to time to bring its own healing. no letter came from her father announcing his acceptance of his sister louise's invitation, nor did another letter reach ethel blue. she was inclined to make a grievance of this until it occurred to her that she was not likely to hear until she replied to her father's announcement of his proposed marriage. "it's a serious thing and i ought to answer his letter right off," her conscience told her, "but i can't say i'm glad and i don't want to say i'm not glad. i'll wait until after the twelfth, any way." her feelings of selfishness and uncertainty made her a miserable girl during the interval. on the morning of columbus day the mortons and hancocks went into new york to the watkinses. della's and tom's father was a clergyman who worked among the foreigners of the east side. this was an advantage to the club members when they watched the procession that wound its way from the lower part of the city northward to columbus circle at th street. "these people must come from all over europe," exclaimed ethel brown as bits of conversation in languages that she never had heard drifted to her ears. "new york is called one of the largest foreign cities in the world," laughed roger, whose spirits had risen although he was having difficulties again with his camera and its persistent desire to take everything that came within its range, "whether the girls are pretty or not!" he complained. "they say that new york is the second largest german city in the world, and that there are more hebrews of different nationalities gathered here than anywhere else," said tom. "here are a lot of people wearing peasant costumes that i never saw in any geography," cried dorothy. "when otherwise not accounted for you can generally put them among the balkan states," laughed della. "look at that girl over there in peasant costume and right side of her is a girl in the latest new york style! that's a tremendous contrast." "i suppose the american-dressed girl thinks she is very fashionable, but the other looks much more sensibly dressed and more attractive, too," said james gravely. "she's a great deal prettier girl for one reason," smiled his sister. "she would look better whatever she wore." they all laughed at james who insisted that he preferred peasant dress, but they all exclaimed with delight at the gorgeous costumes worn by a group of hungarian men. some of them were riding in carriages and they seemed very self-conscious but greatly pleased at the attention they attracted. "this is a great day for the italians," said helen as band after band, and society after society, bearing the italian red, white and green passed them. "well, columbus was an italian. they ought to feel comfortable about it. he discovered us." they all shouted at james's way of putting his defense of columbus's countrymen. "if we're going to hear any of the speeches at columbus circle we'd better hop into the subway and speed to th street," urged tom. they were in plenty of time, and watched the placing around the columbus monument of numberless wreaths and emblems which the societies brought with them, chiefly at the ends of tall poles and deposited at the feet of the statue of the great explorer. as soon as they reached home the mortons all went over to sweetbrier lodge to help with the final decorations. the attic they had set in order the day before. this was necessary for they had to have a curtain and they wanted to put it through a rehearsal as well as themselves. extra chairs had been brought in for the occasion and they were now unfolded so that the little audience room was ready for its opening performance. below stairs all was ready in the kitchen department, the ethels learned when they offered their services there. what was not completed was the arrangement of flowers and branches throughout the rooms. at the end of an hour during which the ethels and dorothy and helen arranged and roger carried, the house looked really lovely. the color scheme of the lower floor was so autumnal that it was not hard to follow it out in leaves and blossoms. chrysanthemums were ready to emphasize the yellow tones, and bronze leaves from oaks and chestnuts carried on the darker hues. here and there one of dorothy's japanese gardens gave an air of quaintness to a corner, or stood in relief against a screen. upstairs the nursery was a bower of white cosmos; dorothy's room was feathery with pink blossoms of the same delicate flower; against mrs. smith's primrose walls trailed the yellow leaves of a grapevine; purple asters nodded in the violet chamber, and the gray guest room wore fluffs of clematis. it was not a large party that gathered at mrs. smith's for the housewarming. the family connection was not small, however, and the newcomers had made some warm friends during the year that they had lived in rosemont. the older watkinses and hancocks had come, and about fifty people filled the drawing room comfortably, admiring its beauty as they waited for the signal to go upstairs to the attic to see one of the entertainments which rosemonters had learned to expect from the united service club. "it's very charming," murmured mrs. hancock to her sister. "i see your hand here." "not very much," demurred miss graham. "i merely made an occasional suggestion or told them how to work out some good idea of their own. the color scheme is mrs. smith's." "it is charming," repeated mrs. hancock, her eyes moving from the yellow-white wood-work to the natural pongee walls and then on to the next shade of yellow, found in the draperies of the windows, made of a heavy linen dyed to strike the next note in the color scale. the furniture was upholstered in three or four shades of brown; a bit of gold flashed sombrely from the shadows, and an occasional touch of dull blue brought out the blue tones of the handsome rugs. every one took a peek into the upper rooms as they passed upstairs to the attic. ayleesabet's nursery received much praise, and the delicate tones of the bed-rooms won immediate approval. in the attic they found comfortable wicker chairs arranged about the room facing a small stage before which hung a tan linen curtain. "what are the children going to do?" asked mr. emerson of his hostess. "i really don't know," returned mrs. smith. "dorothy said it would be appropriate for columbus day, so i entrusted it all to the young people." when the curtain was drawn the club was disclosed grouped on the stage. they sang miss bates's "america the beautiful," mrs. smith accompanying them on the piano. "that's all i have to do with the program," she said to mr. emerson when it was over and she had again taken her seat beside him. then tom told the story of columbus--how he was born at genoa and became a sailor and when he was about thirty-four years old went with a brother to live in lisbon. tom was seated on the stage at a table and two or three of the others sat about as if they were in a library listening to the talk. they entered quite naturally into the conversation. "four years later," continued tom, "somebody gave columbus a map that put the orient directly west of spain, and columbus became filled with a desire to search out the east by sailing west." "i've read that he died thinking he had discovered the east," responded helen. "he laid his plans before the portuguese king, but he found he couldn't trust him, so he went to king ferdinand and queen isabella in spain. they summoned their wisest men to pass on the subject at a council held at salamanca. for three years they kept him waiting about in uncertainty before they reported to the king that his idea was absurd. columbus was furious--" "i should think he might have been." "--and he started at once for paris to try to get the king of france, charles viii, to help him. he took his little son with him and one night they slept at a monastery. the prior became interested in columbus's story and believed in him and didn't want the glory of his achievement to go to another country. so he managed to secure for him another interview with ferdinand and isabella, and we're going to see now," said tom, turning to the audience, "what happened at the convent." with that the curtain fell. when it parted once more a dark curtain across the stage represented the outside of the convent. ethel brown recited trowbridge's "columbus at the convent," while james acted the part of the prior; roger, columbus; and dicky, little diego. "those children have a real feeling for costume," whispered miss graham to her neighbor, and then started as she found that it was not her brother-in-law, dr. hancock, as she supposed, but ethel blue's father, captain morton, who had come in in the darkness. "how do you do?" he said, smiling at her startled air. "i suppose they made these things themselves." "the boys are wearing their sisters' long stockings and the girls made the short, puffy trunks and short, full coats." ethel brown's voice sounded clearly through the darkness though her hearers could not see her. "dreary and brown the night comes down, gloomy without a star. on palos town the night comes down; the day departs with a stormy frown; the sad sea moans afar. "a convent-gate is near; 'tis late; ting-ling! the bell they ring. they ring the bell, they ask for bread-- 'just for my child,' the father said. kind hands the bread will bring. "white was his hair, his mien was fair, his look was calm and great. the porter ran and called a friar; the friar made haste and told the prior; the prior came to the gate." here the dark curtain was drawn and a room was disclosed with a table at which the men sat and a small bed in which dicky was put to sleep. "he took them in, he gave them food; the traveller's dreams he heard; and fast the midnight moments flew, and fast the good man's wonder grew, and all his heart was stirred. "the child the while, with soft, sweet smile, forgetful of all sorrow, lay soundly sleeping in his bed. the good man kissed him then and said: 'you leave us not to-morrow!' "'i pray you rest the convent's guest; the child shall be our own-- a precious care, while you prepare your business with the court, and bear your message to the throne.' "and so his guest he comforted. o, wise, good prior, to you, who cheered the stranger's darkest days, and helped him on his way, what praise and gratitude are due!" the pantomime followed the lines closely. "wasn't dicky cunning!" exclaimed dicky's adoring grandmother. "dicky was a duck!" exclaimed helen, who had slipped out to see the pantomime. "we told him what he was supposed to be--a little boy travelling with his father, and that they had to stop and ask for food and that a kind man took them in and gave him a comfy bed. he seemed to understand it all, and he took hold of james's hand and looked up in his face as seriously as if he were the real thing. he was splendid." "all the same i'm always relieved when dicky's part is over and he hasn't done anything awful!" confessed dorothy, who had come out also. "it would be just like him to say to james, 'you needn't give me any bread; i want cookieth!'" "we tried to impress on him that he wasn't to say anything--that nobody but ethel brown was to say anything; that was the game. i dare say if james had spoken dicky would have ordered his meal to suit his fancy." tom went on with columbus's story at this point, but he spoke from the floor because tableaux were being arranged behind the curtains. he told how the interview with the king and queen that the prior had arranged, all went wrong and how columbus started again for france but was called back by the queen whose imagination had been excited by what he told her, and who promised to pledge her jewels to raise money for his expedition. here the curtains swung open and showed a brilliant scene, della representing the queen, james the king, and all the other club members, courtiers. columbus was arguing his case before the court and he was shown in the act of knocking off the end of an egg to convince the men who had said that they would believe the world was round when they saw the impossible happen--when an egg should stand upright. "i hope roger's hand won't slip," murmured roger's mother; "that's a real egg!" it was while she was standing beside the queen as one of her ladies in waiting that ethel blue's eyes happened to fall on her father out in the audience. the light from the stage illuminated his face and she thought that she never had seen him so happy as he looked at that moment. "he's so dear and he's going away from me," she groaned inwardly. "now if it were only dear miss daisy he's going to marry," she wished with all her heart as she noticed that miss graham sat in the next chair; "but it isn't; it's some old fort myer woman." the curtain fell on her misery and tom again took up his tale. he told about the three tiny ships that columbus managed to secure, and their setting sail and how frightened the sailors became when day after day passed and they saw no chance of ever reaching new land or ever returning home, and how they threatened to mutiny if he did not turn back. then came another pantomime with roger as columbus and james as the mate of the _santa maria_, while ethel brown recited joaquin miller's poem: columbus "behind him lay the gray azores, behind the gates of hercules; before him not the ghost of shores, before him only shoreless seas. the good mate said: 'now must we pray, for lo, the very stars are gone. brave admiral, speak, what shall i say?' 'why, say, "sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"' "'my men grow mutinous day by day; my men grow ghastly wan and weak.' the stout mate thought of home; a spray of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 'what shall i say, brave admiral, say, if we sight naught but seas at dawn?' 'why, you shall say at break of day, "sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"' "they sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, until at last the blanched mate said: 'why, now not even god would know should i and all my men fall dead. these very winds forget their way, for god from these dread seas is gone. now speak, brave admiral, speak and say'-- he said: 'sail on! sail on! and on!' "they sailed. they sailed. then spake the mate: 'this mad sea shows his teeth to-night. he lifts his lip, he lies in wait, with lifted teeth as if to bite; brave admiral, say but one good word: what shall we do when hope is gone?' the words leapt like a leaping sword: 'sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!' "then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, and peered through darkness. ah, that night of all dark nights! and then a speck-- a light! a light! a light! a light! it grew, a starlit flag unfurled! it grew to be time's burst of dawn. he gained a world; he gave that world its grandest lesson: 'on! sail on!'" the last picture was columbus gazing joyfully at the land he had discovered through his perseverance. it was supposed to be the early morning of october , , and roger, surrounded by his sailors, stood with a foot on the rail of his boat, shielding his eyes from the rising sun, while the others crowded behind him, whispering with delight. when the curtains fell together for the last time the lights flashed out upon the audience and disclosed captain morton greeting his sister and sister-in-law and his nieces and nephews. "where's my girl?" he inquired in his cordial, hearty voice. "where's ethel blue?" some one gave her a friendly push forward so her father did not notice the reluctance with which she had been almost creeping toward him. he threw his arm around her shoulders regardless of possible damage to the elegancies of her court costume, and kissed her heartily. the tears shone in her eyes as she forced herself to meet his searching gaze. "not crying!" he whispered in her ear, and she felt her heart give a real pang as the happiness left his face and was replaced by his old look of sorrow and endurance. "not crying!" he repeated in her ear. "why, i thought you loved her! you've done nothing but write to me about miss daisy all summer!" "about miss daisy? do you mean--? is it miss daisy?" "it certainly is miss daisy. here, come behind the curtain," and he swept his daughter and his _fiancée_ out of sight of the retiring audience. "it is daisy graham who is to be your dear mother, my little ethel blue. are you satisfied now?" "o, father! o, miss daisy!" cried ethel blue, sobbing now from relief and joy and clinging to both of them; "i never guessed it! it's too wonderful to be true!" chapter xvii the parting breakfast ethel blue's change of mind about stepmothers was so complete that her cousins would have joked her about it except that her aunt marion advised them to say nothing to her on a subject that had once been so sore a theme. "don't recall those painful thoughts," she advised. "ethel blue will be happier and certainly miss daisy will be if the present mood continues." "i thought you couldn't help loving her when you knew her," captain morton had said to ethel blue. "that's why i was willing to postpone the wedding all summer so that you and she might have a chance to become really well acquainted." "it was a good way," answered ethel frankly. "if i had known about it i should have thought everything miss daisy did was done for its effect on me. i should have been suspicious of her all the time." "you have come to know a very dear woman in a natural way and it crowns my happiness that you should care so much for each other." since he had waited so patiently for so many months captain morton begged that the wedding should take place at once. mrs. hancock urged her sister to have it in glen point. "if you go to washington you'll have many acquaintances there but not any more loving friends than you've made here and in rosemont," she said cordially. "it will give the doctor and me the greatest happiness to have you married from our house, and it will be such a delight to all the u. s. c. if they know that they can all be at the wedding of their dear 'miss daisy.'" "it will be easier for all the rosemont people--and it would be very sweet to go to richard from your house," murmured daisy thoughtfully. "i believe i'll do it." "it will be easier to bring aunt mary on here than for all the new jersey clans to go to washington," insisted mrs. hancock, referring to the aunt with whom her sister had lived in washington. "i'll do it," decided daisy. "richard's furlough is almost over so it will have to be very soon," she continued. "i'll have to begin my preparations at once." so all the plans were made for a quiet wedding for just the two families and their intimate friends. it was to be ten days after the housewarming. the ceremony was to be in the church at glen point, with ethel blue as maid of honor, and margaret and helen, ethel brown and della as the bridesmaids. even this very first decision gave the ethels a twinge of pain, because it prophesied their coming separation. never before had they been separated at any such function, yet now ethel blue was to be in one position and her twin cousin in another. they both sighed when it was talked over, and they glanced at each other a trifle sadly. they did not need to put the meaning of their glances into words. dr. hancock was to give the bride away. to everybody's regret lieutenant morton could not be present to act as his brother's best man. "i'm more sorry than i can tell you, old fellow," he wrote. "roger will have to take my place and give you all my good wishes with his own. you may congratulate me, too, for i've just got word that my step has come. i can now sign myself, "your affectionate brother, "roger morton, "capt. u.s.n." there was great rejoicing in the morton family when they learned this news, and telegrams poured in on them all day long after the announcement was publicly made. "it gives one more touch of happiness," smiled richard morton, who went about beaming. he had to content himself with the companionship of his daughter, for his betrothed was too busy to give him much time. probably this was a good thing, for it made her father's visit much as it always had been to ethel blue, and did not impress on her too abruptly the idea of their new relation. it was at the meeting of the u. s. c. held very soon after the housewarming that the members decided to give a breakfast in celebration of the wedding and of ethel blue's departure from rosemont. "we'll call it a breakfast, but we'll have it rather late," said helen. "why?" growled roger hungrily. "i like my morning nourishment early." "it's going to be out on our terrace, and it's getting to be late in the season and if it's too cold we can't have it there," said dorothy. "put in your glass windows and have it at a civilized hour," implored roger. dorothy looked at helen. "i'll ask mother if she won't do that," she said. "then we can have a fire in the open fireplace out there if it should be really frosty. i forgot we had all those comforts!" "we must give the glen point people time to get over, if roger can restrain his appetite a trifle," urged ethel brown. "we'd better have della and tom stay all night so they'll be here on time," urged ethel blue. "i can't get over new haven being near enough for tom to go back and forth so easily. i always thought it was as far off as boston." "i declare i almost weep every time i think of ethel blue's leaving the club," sobbed tom with loud groans. ethel blue tossed a pillow at him. "stop making fun of me," she said with her pretended severity. "ethel blue was the founder of this club. don't forget that," said james gravely. "don't be so solemn, people; you'll make me bawl," and ethel blue looked around her wildly, as ethel brown made a dive into her pocket for her handkerchief, and della sniffed. "stop your nonsense, children," urged helen. "let's make a list of what we are going to do at our breakfast. first, what shall we eat?" the discussion waxed absorbing, but when it came to the arrangement of a program it was found that there seemed to be fewer ideas than was customary among them. "what's the matter?" asked helen. "usually we're tumbling over ourselves suggesting things." "i've got an idea, but it's sort of a joke and i don't want to take the edge off it by telling it now," admitted james. it proved that all of them were in the same predicament. "i'll tell you--let's have helen and roger the committee to arrange this program," suggested tom. "then we can each one tell the committee what our particular idea is, and they'll be the only ones who will know all the jokes." they decided that this would be the best way, and the committee withdrew to a corner where it was visited by one after the other of the rest of the members, while the unoccupied people drew around the piano on which ethel blue was playing popular songs. "when do you go?" tom asked her as she stopped for a few minutes to hunt up a new piece of music. "the wedding is the day after our breakfast; then they go off on a week's trip and when they come back they'll pick me up here and take me on to fort myer with them." "that means that you'll only be here about ten days longer?" ethel blue nodded, her eyes filling. "i wish you'd give us your idea now, tom," called helen, seeing from across the room that her little cousin was not far from tears, and tom went away, leaving her to let her fingers slip softly through a simple tune that her aunt marion had taught her to play in the dusk without her notes. she wondered if she would ever do it again; if her new mother and her father would want her to play it to them; if she should be happy, the only young person in the household when she had been accustomed to a large family; if she could ever get along without dicky to tease her and to be teased. "aunt marion says that every change in life has its good points and its bad ones," she thought. "i must make the most out of the good points and try not to notice the bad ones or to change them into good ones." the tune rang out with a gayer lilt. "any way, there are so many good points now that i ought not to think about the others. i've all my life wanted to live with father. here's my chance, and i must see only that my wish has come true." "you sound very gay over here by yourself," said james's voice behind her. "you don't sound as if you were sorry at all about leaving us." "i'm trying to balance things," ethel blue answered. "i lose ethel brown and all of you, but i gain father." "you'll be coming north for your holidays next summer, i suppose. that will be a great old time for the u. s. c.," he said hopefully. "it would be simply too fine for words if the u. s. c. could go to washington for washington's birthday next winter the way it did this winter," returned ethel blue, beaming at him. "there certainly is every inducement to get up an excursion there now," said james. "you know we've decided on a round robin, don't you?" "a round robin? how does it work?" "helen and ethel brown and the honorary member and dorothy will be here in rosemont, margaret will be in glen point, della in new york, you at fort myer and we boys at harvard and yale and the boston tech. helen is going to start a letter on the first day of each month. she'll tell us what she's been doing. ethel brown will add on a bit; so will dicky and dorothy. it will go to margaret. she'll put in a big batch of glen point news and send it in town to della. when she has finished she'll send it on to tom at new haven, and in course of time it will reach roger and me in boston and cambridge and we'll send it on to you in washington." "that will be perfectly great!" exclaimed ethel. "you can illustrate it with kodaks, and we'll all know what every one of us is doing all the time." "that was aunt daisy's idea. she thought we'd all like to keep together in some way even if we couldn't have our saturday meetings." "isn't she splendid!" ejaculated ethel blue, and at that instant she felt that she was far richer than ever before in her life. the morning of the breakfast proved to be clear and not too frost-filled for comfort. "we really hardly need the glass," mrs. smith said as she and dorothy examined the terrace at an early hour. "it was safer to have it, though," answered dorothy. "it might have rained and it never would have done to have the bride take cold. now we can have the sashes open and the fire will take off the chill. it's a great combination." mrs. smith agreed that it was, and went on with her scrutiny of the table. when the guests arrived at nine o'clock, which was the very latest moment permitted them by roger, they found the sun shining merrily on silver and glass and china, twinkling as if it were in the secret of the jokes that helen and roger had up their sleeves. mr. emerson had sent over his car for the hancocks, for the doctor's car was too small to convey the entire family. "it does my heart good to see richard so radiant," said mrs. morton to her sister-in-law as captain morton ran down the steps to help his _fiancée_. "i believe the best part of his life is before him," mrs. smith answered softly, a smile on her lips. the hostess sat at one end of the table and dorothy at the other. in the middle of one side was helen, the president of the united service club, and in the middle of the other, ethel blue, the secretary and departing member. mingled with the other club members were mr. and mrs. emerson, who had contributed so greatly to the club's pleasure during the preceding year, and dr. and mrs. hancock, relatives of to-morrow's bride. the hour was too early for mr. and mrs. watkins to come out from new york, but they telephoned their good wishes and congratulations while the meal was in progress. it was a simple breakfast but everything was good both to eat and to look at. it began with fruit, of which there were several kinds, and continued with a well-cooked cereal. "none of your five minute cereals for me," smiled mrs. smith. "i always have even the short-time ones cooked at least twice as long as they are reputed to need. it brings out their flavor better." after the cereal with its rich cream came chops for the meat eaters and individual _omelettes soufflés_, as light as a feather, for the egg eaters. the coffee was clear and turned to a warm gold when the cream worked its magic upon it. broiled fresh mushrooms with bacon brought it all to an end. "just the kind of muffins i like best," ethel brown said in a undertone to dorothy. "potatoes from our own farm," announced the hostess. "all praise to dorothy, the farmer," hailed mr. emerson. "mostly to roger," protested dorothy. "he managed the vegetable end of our planting." helen tapped on her glass. "this will be the last meeting of all the members of the u. s. c.," she said, "because ethel blue and the boys are going away." a shade fell over the faces of all those around the table. "we who are left at home here are going to keep it up, so that there'll always be a club for the wanderers to come back to. and we're going to have a round robin fly about every month." "perhaps we'll all get together next summer in the holidays," suggested tom. "we'll try to," the president continued. "now i want to ask you to drink in aunt louise's nice brown coffee to the health of the founder of the united service club. she is its secretary and to-day she is distinguished as being about to leave us for good." they rapped the table and shouted ethel blue's name joyously. she sat with her head bowed, smiling. "speech, speech," cried mr. emerson. "thank you, thank you," replied ethel blue breathlessly. "i'm glad we've had the club. it has been fun, although we've had to work pretty hard at it." "you've made fun for others," said mrs. emerson. "you've lived up to your name:--the united service." "i'd like to propose the health of the club as a whole," said mrs. morton. "as a citizen of rosemont i can repeat what has been said to me by other citizens, even if, as the mother of some of the members, i might be somewhat embarrassed to utter such praise. rosemont thinks that the united service club has done more to stir up the town than any other organization it has ever had." there was general applause from the grown-ups. "i'd like to hear some of these undertakings," said captain morton. "won't some one recite them?" "o, father, i wrote you all about them when each one came off," objected ethel blue. "uncle richard will hear what some of them are when we give out our prizes," said helen. "we've decided to give prizes for certain especial successes. ethel brown, for instance, will be so good as to rise and receive a reward for reciting more poems than we ever knew could be learned by one small brain." ethel brown rose and received, while the rest applauded, a small sieve. "why a sieve?" inquired margaret. "the sieve is symbolic. ethel takes in verse through her eyes and lets it out through her lips just like a sieve." after the laughter subsided, helen continued: "our next prize is for grandfather emerson, who supplied ethel brown with much of the material with which she has favored us." mr. emerson was decorated with a miniature well and pump. "i suppose this is the fount of english undefiled on which i drew," he commented. the president went on with her distribution. the jokes were all mild but for the club members each had its meaning. james received a small pair of crutches, because he was the only one who had broken a leg. "i'm glad it wasn't scissors," said his father. "he might be led into cutting corners again." dorothy received a pink tin containing a cake with pink icing--all by way of recognition of her love of cooking and of pink. roger's gift was a set of collar and cuffs made from paper "dirt bands" and adorned with cuff buttons and a cravat of dazzling beauty. "a man of fashion and a farmer combined," helen announced. dicky received a watering can, by way of indicating his fondness for getting into trouble with water. a fan went to della "for next summer's use." tom had a little roman soldier as a reminder of his representation of one of the great twin brethren. margaret's offering was a tiny christmas ship containing needles and a spool of thread. helen gave herself a doll's coat like the one which she and margaret had copied in great numbers for the war orphans. ethel blue's gift was a real present--a travelling case fitted with the necessaries of a journey. this came from all the members of the club. "you're just too dear," whispered ethel blue, too overcome to speak. they drowned her voice in a burst of chatter, so that she might not burst into tears. "i have a few gifts left," said helen, "and i'd like to give them out by acclamation. whose tires have we worn until they were almost worn out and yet _she_ has never tired?" "grandmother emerson," came the ringing answer, and helen ran around to her grandmother's chair and gave her a toy automobile. "who made the most box furniture for rose house?" "roger," shouted james at the top of his lungs, while at the same moment roger cried "james." the others, having been instructed to keep silent, concluded that the question was settled for them. "roger _and_ james," decreed helen, presenting each of them with a knife. "who are our high-flyers?" "the ethels," every one said promptly, for the ethels were the only ones present who had been up in an aeroplane. a tiny flyer was given to each of them. so it went on until the supply of parcels in helen's basket was exhausted. "now, to wind up with," helen said, "i want to thank uncle richard for giving us the very finest kind of present," and she waved her hand across the table to miss daisy, whose shining eyes and glowing cheeks told of her delight in all she had seen. "uncle richard is taking away ethel blue, but he's giving us an aunt. we love her already and we think we've all won a prize in her." "ah, no," exclaimed miss daisy, slipping one hand into ethel blue's and laying the other on captain morton's shoulder. "it is i who have won a prize--a double prize!" * * * * * transcriber's note: --silently corrected some obvious typographical errors and misspellings. --used hyphens more consistently, when the original showed a clear preference. scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. [illustration: book cover] beautiful gardens in america books by louise shelton published by charles scribner's sons * * * * * beautiful gardens in america. illustrated. to _net_ $ . continuous bloom in america. illustrated. to _net_ $ . the seasons in a flower garden. illustrated. mo _net_ $ . [illustration: plate i "mariemont," newport, r. i. mrs. thomas j. emory _after an autochrome photograph by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] beautiful gardens in america by louise shelton [illustration] second edition new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons dedicated to the praise of those american men and women, of whatsoever period, who have planted so beautifully that their gardens are an inspiration to others in all generations in green old gardens here may i live what life i please, married and buried out of sight, married to pleasure, and buried to pain, hidden away amongst scenes like these under the fans of the chestnut trees: living my child-life over again, with the further hope of a fuller delight, blithe as the birds and wise as the bees. in green old gardens hidden away from sight of revel, and sound of strife, here have i leisure to breathe and move, and do my work in a nobler way; to sing my songs, and to say my say; to dream my dreams, and to love my love, to hold my faith and to live my life, making the most of its shadowy day. --violet fane. contents page foreword xv chapter i. the garden and its meaning ii. climate in america iii. new england maine new hampshire and vermont massachusetts rhode island connecticut iv. new york long island, new york v. new jersey vi. pennsylvania vii. maryland viii. virginia ix. south carolina x. georgia and florida xi. tennessee and missouri xii. illinois and indiana xiii. ohio xiv. michigan and wisconsin xv. new mexico xvi. california xvii. oregon and washington xviii. alaska xix. vancouver island a few garden gates illustrations color-plates plate i "mariemont," newport, r. i. _frontispiece_ ii } iii } "fairlawn," lenox, mass. _facing page_ iv the author's childhood garden v southampton, l. i. vi "glen alpine," morristown, n. j. vii } viii } roland park, baltimore, md. _plates i, v, vii, and viii were reproduced from photographs colored by mrs. herbert a. raynes, the basis of which were autochrome photographs._ half-tone plates plate "kenarden lodge," bar harbor, maine "blair eyrie," bar harbor, maine } } "hamilton house," south berwick, maine } } } } cornish, n. h. } } old bennington, vt. } } "weld," brookline, mass. } wellesley, mass. "holm lea," brookline, mass. } } "fairlawn," lenox, mass. } } } "bellefontaine," lenox, mass. } "overloch," wenham, mass. "fernbrooke," lenox, mass. "chesterwood," glendale, mass. } } "riverside farm," tyringham, mass. } "naum keag," stockbridge, mass. "brookside," great barrington, mass. "rock maple farm," hamilton, mass. brookline, mass. longfellow's garden, cambridge, mass. old witch house, salem, mass. "mariemont," newport, r. i. "the elms," newport, r. i. "vernon court," newport, r. i. "villaserra," warren, r. i. "woodside," hartford, conn. "elmwood," pomfret, conn. pomfret centre, conn. "branford house," groton, conn. pomfret centre, conn. } auburn, n. y. } section of a wild garden at tuxedo park, n. y. "woodland," tuxedo, n. y. "cragswerthe," tuxedo, n. y. "blithewood," barrytown-on-hudson, n. y. } } "wodenethe," beacon-on-hudson, n. y. } } the author's childhood garden, newburgh-on-hudson, n. y. "echo lawn," newburgh-on-hudson, n. y. } } "meadowburn," warwick, n. y. "ridgeland farm," bedford, n. y. southampton, l. i. } } } "the orchard," southampton, l. i. } } } "the appletrees," southampton, l. i. southampton, l. i. } } } east hampton, l. i. } "manor house," glen cove, l. i. cedarhurst, l. i. westbury, l. i. "manor house," glen cove, l. i. "sylvester manor," shelter island "cherrycroft," morristown, n. j. "ridgewood hill," morristown, n. j. morristown, n. j. } } "blairsden," peapack, n. j. } "brooklawn," short hills, n. j. } } "drumthwacket," princeton, n. j. } "onunda," madison, n. j. "glen alpine," morristown, n. j. "thornton," rumson, n. j. highland, n. j. "allgates," haverford, pa. } andalusia, pa. } "edgecombe," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. "krisheim," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. } } "willow bank," bryn mawr, pa. "fancy field," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. "timberline," bryn mawr, pa. "ballygarth," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. "hampton," towson, md. "evergreen-on-avenue," baltimore, md. "cylburn house," cylburn, baltimore co., md. "ingleside," catonsville, md. "the blind," havre de grace, md. } } montpelier, va. } } } "rose hill," greenwood, va. } "meadowbrook manor," drewry's bluff, va. richmond, va. } "magnolia garden," charleston, s. c. } } } "preston garden," columbia, s. c. } } } "green court," augusta, ga. } tropical growth, palm beach, fla. "rostrevor," knoxville, tenn. longview, tenn. "hazelwood," kinloch, mo. lake forest, ill. "hardin hall," hubbard's wood, ill. } "the farms," monticello, ill. } } the rock garden, "englishton park," lexington, ind. } "gwinn," cleveland, ohio } } clifton, cincinnati, ohio } "shadyside," painesville, ohio } } "indian hill," mentor, ohio "orchard house," alma, mich. "garra-tigh," bay city, mich. "fairlawn," grosse points shores, mich. } "house-in-the-woods," lake geneva, wis. } las cruces, n. m. } "kimberly crest," redlands, cal. } "glendessary," santa barbara, cal. } } "piranhurst," santa barbara, cal. } ross, cal. pasadena, cal. } } } "caÑon crest park," redlands, cal. } typical growth in california } } "thornewood," tacoma, wash. } } } seattle, wash. section of a rose hedge bordering an avenue in portland, ore. "rosecrest," portland heights, portland, ore. "cliff cottage," elk rock, portland, ore. "high hatch," riverwood, portland, ore. } } victoria city, vancouver island, b. c. longview, tenn. "knock-mae-cree," westport, conn. } } "hamilton house," south berwick, maine } } "glen alpine," morristown, n. j. east hampton, l. i. "glendessary," santa barbara, cal. clifton, cincinnati, ohio. "thornewood," tacoma, wash. title-page: east hampton, l. i., albert herter, esq. from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals. "a garden was wonderful at night--a place of strange silences and yet stranger sound: trees darkly guarding mysterious paths that ran into caverns of darkness; the scents of flowers rising from damp earth heavy with dew; flowers that were weary with the dust and noise of the day and slept gently, gratefully, with their heads drooping to the soil, their petals closed by the tender hands of the spirits of the garden. the night sounds were strangely musical. cries that were discordant in the day mingled now with the running of distant water, the last notes of some bird before it slept, the measured harmony of a far-away bell, the gentle rustle of some arrival in the thickets; the voice that could not be heard in the noisy chatter of the day rose softly now in a little song of the night and the dark trees and the silver firelight of the stars." --hugh walpole. foreword books and magazines written by and for american architects usually show in their illustrations fine imitations of lovely french, english, and italian formalism and works of art in marble or other stone ornamenting the gardens of great mansions in this country. the object of this book is to present, more particularly, another type of garden, demonstrating the cultured american's love of beauty expressed through plant life rather than in stone; showing the development of his ideal in more original directions, when planning for himself the garden spot in which he is to live rather than when building wholly in imitation of some accepted type of classic art. with but few exceptions, these illustrations are of a class which might be called personal gardens. the attractive features in nearly every view speak so eloquently for themselves that there seems but little need of detailed verbal description of each beautiful spot. in covering all sections of the country, occasion is given for the observation and study of widely varying climatic conditions, the results of which the author has also sought to consider. some difficulty has been felt in properly ascribing the ownership of a number of the gardens illustrated. as a rule, there is but one recognized director of the garden's welfare--rarely are two members of a household equally interested. while he is by custom acknowledged master of the house, it is oftener she who rules supreme among the flowers. misnaming the real possessor might be a serious mistake; attributing the ownership to two is superfluous; the benefit, where any doubt existed, has been therefore given to the fair sex, with due apology for possible errors. louise shelton. morristown, n. j., october , . beautiful gardens in america a garden come not with careless feet to tread my garden's unfrequented ways. no highroad this, no busy clanging street, no place of petty shows and fond displays. here there are blossoms sweet that shrink and pine from inconsiderate gaze; and here the birds repeat only to loving ears their truest lays. hither i can retreat and drink of peace where peace unravished stays. herein are streams of sorrow no man knows-- herein a well of joy inviolate flows; come not with careless feet to soil my garden's sanctuary ways. --anonymous. i the garden and its meaning a world without flowers! what would it be? among those who know, such a question needs no answer--and we are not seeking a reply from the uninitiated who, for lack of understanding and sympathy, can but gaze at us with wondering pity, when our gardens cause us to overlook so much that to them means life. but is there any life more real than the life in the garden for those who actually take part in its creation and nurture it carefully week by week and year by year? if, owing to this absorbing occupation, we fail to give a full share of ourselves to some of the social avocations of the busy world are we to be pitied for getting "back to the soil" to which we belong? man was put by the creator "in the garden of eden to dress it and to keep it," and even after his forced departure therefrom he was bidden to "till the ground," and the reward seems great to us who know the meaning of the signs and wonders continually being revealed in the garden world. in seeking the simpler life which many are now craving, if luxuries are blessings that we could do without, must we count the flower garden a luxury? not while its beauty is a joy in which others may share, nor when it helps to keep at home our interests which make the real home. there is a luxury that often induces the roaming spirit, and doubtless were there fewer motors there would be still more gardens and incidentally more home life. yet notwithstanding this temptation to roam, gardens are now on the increase in almost every section of the united states. we have made a brave beginning of which to be justly proud. if only we could live in the world more as we live in the garden, what joy and contentment would be brought into the daily life! in the garden hurry and noise are needless, for perfect system can prevail where each plant, each labor has its own especial time, and where haste is a stranger, quiet reigns. it is in the stillness of the green world that we hear the sounds that make for peace and growth. in the garden, too, we labor faithfully, as best we know how, in following rules that promise good results. then at a certain time we must stand aside, consciously trusting to the source of life to do the rest. with hopeful eyes we watch and wait, while the mysterious unseen spirit brings life into plant and tree. when something goes wrong, how sublime is our cheerful garden philosophy, as smiling we say: "just wait until we try next year!" and patiently we try again, and ever patiently, sometimes again and yet again. our unwritten motto is: "if others can, then why not we?" even the man who "contends that god is not" shows all this wondrous reliance in the unseen force within his garden. with hands plunged into the cool earth we seem to bury in the magic soil all thoughts that jar till we almost feel ourselves a part of the garden plan; as much in harmony with it as the note of the bird, the soft splash of the fountain, the tints of the flowers and their perfumes. this idea is better expressed in four lines found inscribed on an old garden seat: "the kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, one is nearer god's heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth." it is not a selfish life--the object in view is not a narrow one. how few would be content to create a beautiful garden if none could see! and our pleasure is not complete until others have shared its sweetness with us. the gardener is developing nature in the simplest and truest way, following the thought of the first great architect and gladdening the hearts of men with the vision beautiful of the possibilities within plant life. in the flower garden the efforts are for upbuilding, for giving back some of the beauty intended in the perfect plan, too often defaced by man's heedlessness. dating back their beginning some two hundred years in certain southern states, numerous gardens, beautiful with age, tell the story of the ardent garden lovers of earlier days, who had to send abroad for their green treasures which they planted and carefully tended, hopefully planning for the future. many such gardens with their choice shrubs and trees still stand as green memorials to those long-ago people who had time and money for this luxury. since then the hardships following war have brought sad neglect to the beautiful places--the number we can never guess--many of which, however, are now being aroused to fresh life by new owners who appreciate the charm and dignity of an ancient home. hidden away in some of the old plantations of the south, and scattered over the eastern states, near philadelphia, along the hudson river, and in parts of massachusetts, the best of the older gardens are found. beautiful, too, while often beyond reach of the camera, are many of the more modern creations so skilfully and lovingly fashioned by men and women of later generations. it is impossible to do justice in photography to some of them when certain conditions prevent the camera from being placed at a range favorable to getting a view of the larger portions in one photograph. sometimes they are composed of three or four connecting sections, each bringing a surprised delight to the visitor passing from one to the other, but such an arrangement cannot be satisfactorily portrayed in a picture. one strange reason why some american gardens are not photographed for the public is that occasionally people are found who will not share their blessings with others less fortunate; who jealously keep in seclusion all the wealth of nature's sweetness contained in their garden plot. after all, is not the delight which belongs to a garden but a bit of borrowed glory from the creator of sunlight, and of the kingdom of flowers? if a garden is worthy of showing to our intimates, can we close it to the stranger who may need even more to breathe inspiration from its peace and loveliness? the foreign custom of opening the fine places to the public on stated days is one that we should freely emulate. and to those who may not come to the gardens, what a boon is photography, especially in color, placing in our very hands the beauty that we crave! the views contained within this book show gardens that were planned, with but few exceptions, by their owners, earnestly laboring to express their sense of the beautiful in these their outdoor homes. and so great is the individuality evinced in most of them that there are hardly two gardens that resemble one another; for the differences in gardens are as many as the endless number of varying characters written in the faces of men. both are stamped with the spirit behind them. in visiting gardens it is not difficult to distinguish between the ones fashioned by "love's labor" and those made by the practical gardener. more and more we are getting away from the cold, stiff planting of canna, coleus, and salvia. few of us can tolerate the impression of newness and rigidity in the garden, and as father time cannot help us fast enough we try to emulate him by stamping his mark of mellowness in innumerable ways upon the youthful garden. then mother earth is consulted as to her unrivalled way for the grouping of her flower family, and she shows us the close company they keep--hand in hand over the whole meadow--nothing stands quivering alone, grasses and plants blending to fill all spaces. then above, in the rainbow, we learn the harmony for our color scheme, and unto no nation on earth need we apply for the latest theories dealing with these subjects for the beautifying of our gardens. the more of the nature scheme we bring into them the greater satisfaction will they give. we should build the garden with a setting of fine trees grouped upon the outskirts, otherwise it will seem as incomplete as a portrait without a frame. half of the charm attached to the beautiful old gardens of europe lies in the richness of their backgrounds of stately hedges and trees. if comparisons were to be made between such views as those shown in this book and the pictures of english gardens, for instance, the differences would not in every case be favorable to england, although it must be admitted that age has given a dignity and grandeur to many english gardens that could hardly be surpassed. time, doubtless, will add this dignity to our gardens, but can we not feel that we have already equalled some of the smaller english gardens when we consider the poetical beauty found in most of these illustrations? unfortunately, except in a few localities, our climate does not encourage the perfect development of the choicest of the evergreen hedge-plants, and yet with time we can produce some moderately fine effects in hedges. we may not hope soon to rival the best of the foreign gardens that have been maturing through generations of continuous care. favored not only by climate but by riches unknown to the early landowners of our states, the best of the old gardens across the sea stand for the combined dreams of the many minds which gradually evolved them, the loving handiwork of innumerable patient toilers who have successively ministered to them. just as there are gardens peculiar to other nations, dutch, french, italian, etc., might we not give serious consideration to evolving some day a type peculiarly american, inasmuch as it would embody the poetic and artistic sense of our country? such a result might be attained even should we claim the privilege of our individual liberty, to plant, each one for the expression of his own soul, thus keeping our gardens distinctly variable and original in type, and so ultimately national. ii climate in america few subjects are more bewildering than that of climate in the united states, and its effect on gardens in different sections is an ever interesting study. replying to the question as to which locality in the east might be said to have the longest continued flowering period, an expert in the agricultural department writes: "the question of plant life in relation to climate is a very large one and one about which it is hard to generalize without close study in the various parts of the country. some little work along these lines is being attempted, but as yet we have been unable to make any report upon it." correspondence with gardeners in the various states has furnished the brief data given in connection with the following chapters, showing that the local conditions as affecting garden culture are much more encouraging in some places than in others. not only are there the matters of latitude and altitude to be considered, but often quite as important is the influence of the gulf stream in the atlantic or of the japan current in the pacific ocean. again, there is the moist climate by the sea, or the quality of soil, the periodic torrential rainfall of one section, and elsewhere the long months of drought. generally speaking, our country is, in most parts, a land of sunshine, with usually sufficient rain and moisture to benefit plant life, and while we grumble at our sudden changes in temperature, how few of us realize the blessing of an abundant sunshine pervading the "great outdoors" and incidentally the gardens! nowhere do flowers grow more luxuriantly, in greater variety, or through a season more prolonged than on the coasts of oregon, washington, and california,--soil, moisture, and temperature combining to make gardening a simpler task than it is elsewhere. the shore country of southern california is a perpetual garden, with a climate almost unrivalled for plants and for humans. north of san francisco the near approach of the japan current produces a climate quite similar to that of england, and with the exception of possibly two months (and even then an occasional rose may bloom) flowers are found all the year round. this favored section of the northwest nevertheless is not visited with as much sunshine as is found elsewhere, but its gardens blossom with little assistance save from the frequent rainfall, more welcome to plants than to men. in kansas and the other flat and fertile states of the middle west the garden period, on account of the long, dry summers, is usually limited to the weeks from late march to late june. in the more northern temperature of the lake region gardens which flourish all summer are numerous. the atlantic states have a shorter blooming season than those on the pacific coast. throughout the south, east of new mexico, the warm weather season is as prolonged as on the pacific coast, and yet in the southern states garden bloom is checked half-way through the summer by excessive heat and drought (except in the favored mountainous localities), which at least interrupt the continuous succession of flowers. for this reason gardening in the south except in spring, or in high altitudes, is generally discouraged. although not stated as an indisputable fact, scientifically, we are inclined to believe that the seacoast section of the maryland peninsula is the locality in the east especially favorable to the most prolonged season of bloom. lying between sea and bay, this particular district in the latitude for early spring and late frost enjoys also the benefit of surrounding waters, escaping thereby the parching summer climate from which gardens of the interior suffer, to the west and south and to the north, almost as far as philadelphia. in maine conditions are different; april and may gardens are conspicuously absent. the flower season generally begins in mid-june and does not much exceed three months, but in that period the bloom is exceptionally luxuriant. the season is necessarily a short one, as it is throughout this latitude westward to oregon, where after reaching the coast or cascade range there is a change and the climate becomes more like that of england than maine. along the atlantic coast from maine to new jersey, where the climate is ideal for flowers, the greatest proportion of eastern gardens may be found, on the shore and inland as well. so much for the general climatic effects upon flowers of the more populous districts of our vast country. a few lines will suffice to treat the climate question in connection with hedge-plants. while the summer climate in the southern states has not generally a salutary effect upon the flowers, yet it has favored the best development of boxwood, holly, and certain other choice shrubs and trees, which do not thrive well north of philadelphia. fine specimens of boxwood are rare sights in new england, where the more severe winters have from time to time destroyed the top growth. many old new england gardens show the characteristic box-edged path, but the shrub is usually not over two feet high, and is likely to remain so unless eventually the winter climate should moderate. boxwood is seen on the pacific coast, north of san francisco, but not to the south, where cypress is popular. there is little boxwood in the latitude of new york city, except for edgings, where for tall hedges privet, arbor-vitæ, hemlock, and spruce are probably the most reliable evergreens. arbor-vitæ is unlikely to live longer than seventy years. although all of our states are not represented in this volume, these views are taken so generally from almost every section that the climatic conditions describing one state may usually stand as well at least for the states immediately adjoining. the only section of the union omitted is that part through which run the rocky mountains. as a rule, this part of the country is not in its nature open to the cultivation of formal gardens, although its wild flora is remarkable enough to deserve special treatment. in the brief chapters to follow there will be given more detail relating to climate, in order that we fellow gardeners in all parts of the union may know something more about one another's garden program, our several problems, and our privileges in this outdoor life that we lead. iii new england with dreams of the english gardens ever before them, our pilgrim fathers and mothers brought flower and vegetable seeds to the new land, and the earliest entries in old plymouth records contain mention of "garden plotes."[ ] john josselyn, fifty years later, wrote a book called "new england rarities discovered," including a list of plants originally brought from old england, mentioning those suitable or not for this climate, and showing that our ancestors had lost no time in planting not only vegetables for the benefit of their bodies but flowers as well for the cheer of their souls. the new england states naturally have the largest representation in this book, owing to the fact that the climate of numerous western and southern states causes many of the inhabitants to find summer homes near the north atlantic seaboard. it is not that the new englander is a more ardent gardener, but rather that ardent gardeners from elsewhere are tempted by the soil and climate to join the easterners in creating these flower "plotes," which beautify hundreds of hamlets in this section. on the coast particularly flowers grow most luxuriantly, even within a few hundred yards of the surf, where snug gardens protected by windbreak hedges blossom as serenely as in an inland meadow. not long ago most people believed that gardening or gardens near the sea were an impossibility; but when they realized the hardiness of certain dense shrubs that make perfect hedges and windbreaks, gardens on the shore sprang rapidly into existence, and we of the inland are apt to envy nature's partiality to seaside flowers. maine at bar harbor on the island of mount desert, maine, as in other places of this latitude, the season, of course, begins later and ends sooner than near new york city. the flowering period is from five to six weeks shorter at bar harbor. however, the wonderful summer climate somewhat atones for this briefer season, and the gardens of maine can boast of unusual luxuriance, in richness of color and size of plants, with but little heat or prolonged drought to affect their best development. the hardier seeds sown in the open will germinate in mid-may; tender annuals in june; the plants of tender annuals go out soon after june . daffodils appear about may , followed by late tulips; german iris appears in the week of june ; sweet william and roses in early july; delphinium in mid-july, and hollyhocks about july . late phlox is at its best by mid-august. thus the plants beginning to bloom near new york city in may and early june do not, on account of the colder spring, appear at bar harbor for several weeks to come, when they unite their bloom with the flowers of a later period. the slow-coming spring retards earlier bloom, but has less effect on that of midsummer. the summer residents owning gardens in maine rarely arrive much before the last of june, and consequently such early bloomers as tulips, etc., are not seen as often as in the milder climates. in this northern state frost usually destroys the garden by september . not only is it possible to grow all the favorite flowers along the shore, but even on the islands lying off the coast of maine there are innumerable little gardens, such as those at isleborough, which revel in the moist sea climate of midsummer and blossom most satisfactorily until frost. at this point it is interesting to contrast the climate of the north atlantic section with the region directly across the continent along the pacific coast, where at vancouver's island, for instance, plant life enjoys a climate similar to that of england, with a growing season quite as prolonged. there are beautiful gardens at bar harbor, on the estates along the shore as well as farther inland. most of them, screened by fine growths of trees and shrubbery from view of the highway, are equally well protected from sea-winds, blooming luxuriantly in spite of the fact that not very long ago the best authorities believed that gardens on this shore could never prosper. two of the most noted at mount desert are shown in the following pages. at kenarden lodge the garden in the clear atmosphere of this northern climate is most beautiful in form and coloring, and its background of distant hills combines to intensify the charm of this famous place, which is in bloom all summer. the centre beds are filled with annuals in prevailing colors of pink, blue, and white, noticeably snapdragon, ageratum, sweet alyssum, pink geranium, and begonia. planted in masses, these and other dependable annuals blossom as long as needed. the broad green sod paths act as a setting to the delicate hues covering the beds. the perennials are banked against the vine-covered walls. the blair eyrie garden on the high brook road is equally inviting and contains many other attractive features beyond the limits of this restricted view. peacefully retired behind its boundaries of trimmed hedge and dense woodland, it must always delight the flower lover. perennials abound with a good supply of enlivening annuals. its surroundings of evergreen trees are in strong contrast to the brilliant tones of phlox, lilies, hydrangeas, and hollyhocks, and this garden as seen from an upper terrace is a blaze of lovely color framed in green. in southern maine the garden at hamilton house has no rival in that section of new england. the hand of an artist has wrought a perfect scheme delightfully in accord with an ideal environment; but pictures cannot do it justice. within the grassy court of the main garden the several small open beds are filled with groups of annuals. the rear beds contain tall-growing perennials mixed with some annuals. there are weeks when the garden is all pink, and again all blue and white. it is surrounded on three sides with most artistic pergolas, from one side of which the view down the piscataqua river is a picturesque feature. stone steps on another side lead to an upper garden filled with bloom surrounding a quaint and ancient little building kept as a studio. in isolation, simplicity, and ripeness the atmosphere of the whole place breathes of olden days, and might well be taken as a model for a perfect american garden. its gates may be seen in a later section. [illustration: plate "kenarden lodge," mrs. john s. kennedy, bar harbor, maine] [illustration: plate "blair eyrie," bar harbor, maine garden of the late d. c. blair, esq.] [illustration: plate "hamilton house," south berwick, maine. mrs. george s. tyson] [illustration: plate end of pergola] [illustration: plate garden looking east "hamilton house," south berwick, maine. mrs. george s. tyson] new hampshire and vermont side by side, these twin states have much in common--climate, mountains, and old historical associations included. owing to the short, cool summers of this latitude and altitude, there may be less attention given to flowers than in other parts of new england. but the few illustrations in the following pages are fine evidences of garden art, at least in the region of cornish, the abode of artists, and where gardens are plentiful. the season opens about four weeks later than near new york city, and in early september frost lays waste the splendid bloom while still in its prime. although flowers are slow in appearing, a perfection of growth later makes up for lost time. in fact, climatic conditions are so favorable to summer plants that, once started, the garden tasks are lighter than in warmer climates, where drought and pests are more prevalent. possibly the most famous of cornish gardens is that of charles a. platt, esq., whose beautiful gardens in several states are numerous and noted. his own hillside place is a labyrinth of flowers, admirably suiting the environment, spacious and dignified in its rich simplicity. perfectly in accord also with the atmosphere of this mountain country is the lovely garden of stephen parrish, esq., delightfully unique and suggesting a little english garden. this enclosure of flowers is but a section of a broader plan where pool, grass, and trees are pleasant factors. mrs. hyde's garden is a mass of bloom composed chiefly of the longest-lived annuals and giving a charming color effect to this picturesque spot. the best gardens of vermont, with its still greater area of uplands, are probably those in and around manchester and bennington. they are usually of the simplest character, and lovely under the personal care of devoted owners. one worthy of special attention is seen in the view of longmeadow garden, which is an example of the great value of trees as a background, and a strong argument in their behalf. as a gem needs a setting, so the flowers, in even the most modest planting, are doubly fair when framed in luxuriant green. [illustration: plate cornish, n. h. charles a. platt, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate cornish, n. h. charles a. platt, esq.] [illustration: plate cornish, n. h. mrs. george rublee _from photographs by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate cornish, n. h. stephen parrish, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate cornish, n. h. mrs. william h. hyde _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate old bennington, vt. mrs. james a. eddy] massachusetts probably no other section of the union contains as many gardens, old and new, as does this fertile state, combining the advantages natural to the altitude of the beautiful berkshires with the favorable climate of the coast. people representing nearly every state help to form the summer colonies of new england, more especially in massachusetts. everywhere the luxuriance of bloom is very marked and most noticeable on the coast, where all plants, especially certain less long-lived annuals like poppies, salpiglossis, and mallows, reach their limit of perfection and continue at their best for an unusual period. in the latitude of boston the season starts two weeks later than near new york city, and the gardens, beginning in the german iris period, open about the fifth of june. the sweet william and its contemporaries follow by late june; the delphinium period is early july; hollyhocks come about july . tender annuals can be safely planted out soon after june . the garden season in the hill country opens a few days later than at boston, and in the berkshires the frost is apt to destroy the garden before september . where the thermometer may drop occasionally to twenty degrees below zero, ample winter covering is necessary, and snow adds its still better protection to the plants during most of the winter months. the average summer heat is not excessive and, although droughts must sometimes be reckoned with, the water supply is generally sufficient. it would be a serious matter to attempt to name the best gardens in this state, for who could judge where such an infinite variety exists? at least some of the best examples in photography can be given, although each view but hints at the fuller beauty to be found in the garden itself. of the many wonderful gardens in massachusetts possibly the most remarkable of all is weld, in brookline, which is known to gardeners far and wide. there is nothing in america more extensive and more richly planted. the numerous beds are filled with bloom for many weeks, and each bed contains a massing of one variety, whether perennials or annuals, which, when it has finished flowering, is replaced by something of another period. the french features in the garden are prominent and the planting may be considered american in some respects--altogether a most pleasant combination. of a distinctly opposite type but equally delightful is holm lea, near brookline, and a score of photographs would be necessary to depict this place of flowering shrubs and perennial bloom bordering the winding grass paths leading from one lovely spot to another. an extremely interesting and unusual type in america is the stately green garden at wellesley, at this time without a rival in its particular style of planting. because of its frequent appearance in various magazines of the country it is too well known to need further description. of still another class and very beautiful is one of the most noted gardens in the berkshires planned entirely by the owner of fairlawn, lenox. it is a series of formal gardens, in coloring and setting most perfectly devised. but how useless a photographic description when applied to a combination of gardens spread over one or two acres! several pools and many old shade-trees play an important part, and its charm is still more enhanced by the wide view of the distant hills fitting so perfectly into the garden scheme. three fine illustrations of bellefontaine but feebly suggest the beauty of a place made of splendid gardens, pools, and temple, long shaded grass walks lined with statuary and other features of roman art, blending with the natural attractions of this estate. gardens, lawns, and ponds have the rich woodlands as background, the hedges and shrubs are developed maturely, and everywhere there are charming effects in "green life." most of this work, it is interesting to add, has been accomplished under the direction of the owner. picturesque indeed are other lenox gardens, including white lodge. the latter place is noted for its little white garden enclosed in a tall green hedge, and the main garden, especially in june and august, contains a delicious color scheme. broad grass steps are another feature of the place. views were not obtainable in time for this volume. at fernbrooke is found the garden of an artist and sculptor, a study in color and in garden design most artistically planned, but rambling enough to prevent a connected view in photography. golden italian gourds pendent from the pergolas; standard currant bushes bordering a path and covered with red berries as late as september; dwarf fruit trees too, used decoratively, are among the happy points of interest. the scheme of the garden of a famous sculptor at chesterwood, in glendale, is not as dependent on flowers as on the well-considered adjustment of garden equipment to the natural beauty of the environment. sunshine mingling with the shadows of the spreading trees plays its part by giving life and color in changeful tones to the old stone seat and fountain. the vine-covered arch frames a view of the flower-bordered path which fades away into a woodland, and these with other sights gladsome to lovers of such art have given chesterwood its place in the ranks of beautiful gardens. at riverside farm, overhanging the beautiful tyringham valley, and possessing possibly the most wonderful of all berkshire views, is the dainty garden shown in the accompanying illustrations. it is the work of an artist, and truly a place of delight. the garden nestles to the hillside, enclosed in a low stone wall. on one side the sloping hill down which winding rough stone steps descend to the garden; on another side a rustic pergola and pool; the third side a line of old apple trees overhanging the wall; the fourth side contains the simple entrance, and beyond the boundaries on all three sides--the wonderful view. at naumkeag, stockbridge, the formal garden full of bloom, which is part of a larger plan, has a wide-spread reputation. it is especially noted for its battlement-cut hedge, and has as an accessory a splendid landscape background, so common to the berkshires and so desirable to the garden beautiful. "naumkeag" is the indian name for salem, meaning "haven of rest." recently completed at great barrington, the spacious garden at brookside is the best piece of italian work in this section. the accompanying illustration gives but a faint idea of its size, its flowers, and its many other fine points. the two pictures illustrating the garden at overloch, wenham, and at rock maple farm, hamilton, are still other good examples of the variety and charm of the flower planting of this coast state. both of these views are unique, and in fact how seldom do we find sameness in gardens! mr. longfellow's place at cambridge, doctor weld's at brookline, and the witch's place at salem are typical of new england--the paths all edged with box, which shrub, on account of frost blights, has never attained great height. these gardens are just simple, lovable little places filled with shadows and sunshine, some flowers, and the good scent of box, which latter always seems so especially essential to old gardens. footnotes: [ ] quoted from "old time gardens," by alice morse earle. [illustration: plate ii "fairlawn"] [illustration: plate iii "fairlawn," lenox, mass. miss kneeland _from autochrome photographs_] [illustration: plate "weld," brookline, mass. mrs. larz anderson _from a photograph by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate "weld," brookline, mass. mrs. larz anderson _from a photograph by thomas marr and son_] [illustration: plate "weld," brookline, mass. mrs. larz anderson _from a photograph by thomas marr and son_] [illustration: plate wellesley, mass. h. h. hunnewell, esq. _from a photograph by wurts bros._] [illustration: plate "holm lea," brookline, mass. professor c. s. sargent _from a photograph by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate "fairlawn," lenox, mass. miss kneeland _from a photograph by william radford_] [illustration: plate ] [illustration: plate "fairlawn," lenox, mass. miss kneeland _from photographs by william radford_] [illustration: plate "bellefontaine," lenox, mass. giraud foster, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "bellefontaine," lenox, mass. giraud foster, esq. _from a photograph, copyright, by the detroit publishing co._] [illustration: plate "bellefontaine," lenox, mass. giraud foster, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "overloch," wenham, mass. j. a. burnham, esq. _from a photograph by miss m. h. northend_] [illustration: plate "fernbrooke," lenox, mass. thomas shields clark, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "chesterwood," glendale, mass. daniel chester french, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "riverside farm," tyringham, mass. mrs. banyer clarkson] [illustration: plate "riverside farm," tyringham, mass. mrs. banyer clarkson _from photographs by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "riverside farm," tyringham, mass. mrs. banyer clarkson _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "naum keag," stockbridge, mass. joseph h. choate, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "brookside," great barrington, mass. mrs. h. hall walker _from a photograph lent by ferruccio vitali_] [illustration: plate "rock maple farm," hamilton, mass. george von l. meyer, esq. _from a photograph by miss m. h. northend_] [illustration: plate brookline, mass. doctor stephen weld _from a photograph by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate longfellow's garden, cambridge, mass. _from a photograph by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate old witch house, salem, mass. _from a photograph by g. a. spence_] rhode island limited space permits but a suggestion of the various types of planting along the atlantic coast, which promises to become almost a continuous garden by the sea from new jersey to maine. rhode island contains some of the most magnificent places in the country, the majority of them situated near bay or sea, where they thrive in congenial environment. the quality of the climate as it affects plant life will be easily realized after reading of the climatic conditions of massachusetts as well as of those to the south, on long island, for instance. the older gardens are found in the vicinity of providence, while at narragansett and newport those of a later period abound. newport by the sea, more famous than any other american summer resort, naturally possesses the greatest number of gardens on an elaborate scale. the coast at this point is somewhat sheltered, the air is mild, and there is sea moisture so beneficial to flowers. windbreaks of hedges or walls are used where the winds blow strong off the water. lovely and lovingly planned is the garden at mariemont, a poetical spot, overflowing with color and sunshine, yet with shadowy retreats, and the stillness that belongs to an enclosure of grass paths. it might be taken for a bit of foreign garden from any part of the world, and possesses a quality of beauty of which one could never tire. the long, broad path with its brilliant border and distant vista is the central division of a charming plan.[ ] few estates in america are as imposing and as suggestive of the grandeur of an italian or english country-seat as the elms, and it is probably among the oldest of newport's famous places. the illustration is limited to a narrow view of this great, green formal garden in some sections of which flowers are included in rich profusion. probably no place at newport is more noted for its beauty than vernon court, and, while necessity forces the omission of pictures showing many of its most elaborate features, a view of the stately formal garden is a welcome addition to this collection which aims to present a variety in types of planting in a few large formal gardens, as well as in those which are smaller and more personal. vernon court is not a new garden; it is unspoiled by garish accessories, and to the lover of the garden majestic it represents a perfect type. at warren, near providence, the place at villaserra is delightfully located, sloping to a bay. here is one of the favored gardens where old trees take an important part; in fact, of such consequence are they that the garden was undoubtedly made to the scheme of the trees and the water beyond--a beautiful sanctuary of blossoms and green life, shut in from the discord of the outside world. [illustration: plate "mariemont," newport, r. i. mrs. thomas j. emory _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "the elms," newport, r. i. edward j. berwind, esq. _from a photograph, copyright by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "vernon court," newport, r. i. mrs. richard gambrill _from a photograph by alman & co._] [illustration: plate "villaserra," warren, r. i. reverend joseph hutcheson _from a photograph lent by c. a. platt, esq._] connecticut connecticut gardens are many, both inland and along the shores of the sound. those of the hilly western section have the advantage of a somewhat cooler altitude. otherwise it is unnecessary to give further details as to climatic conditions,[ ] as the northern boundary is about a hundred miles distant from northern new jersey and the temperatures differ but little, although of course every hundred miles northward makes gardening a somewhat simpler proposition, because of slightly cooler conditions as well as a shortened flower season. in a reputed true story of the long-ago settlement of old saybrook there is mention of a woman's flower-garden, doubtless the earliest on long island sound. here the sheltered inlets and bays must have seemed a welcome haven to our pilgrim fathers from the wind-swept coast of plymouth, whence they had wandered, probably seeking fertile farmland. the gardens of this state, with some notable exceptions, are mainly those of a simpler type, made and tended by their owners, who living in them, will continue to beautify them more and more as time goes on. these unpretentious creations of flower lovers often show originality not always found in gardens of a more formal design, and might be considered typically american. following the idea of simplicity, the first two illustrations of this chapter portray the "lovesome spot," where flowers predominate, with nothing to recall the splendor of other lands. a place for the harboring of flowers for the sake of the flowers, and this was surely the thought that brooded over the first new england gardens planted in the early half of the seventeenth century, when american gardens had their beginning. the glimpse through the arched gateway of the garden at knock-mae-cree--in old irish, hill of my heart--(plate ), and the curtailed view of the flowery planting in the woodside garden stimulate a longing further to penetrate into these lovely sanctums. the garden at elmwood is partly illustrated in the accompanying picture--it is further gracefully adorned with pergola and pool. liberally designed without being elaborate, it has a charm that is all its own. of quite another character is the perfect formal garden at pomfret center, appealing to the garden lover for its surpassing beauty in flower bloom, enhanced by the graceful architectural lines of the buildings surrounding the enclosure, and giving it the sense of complete privacy. still another type of garden seen occasionally in america is that at branford house, a magnificent estate at groton near new london, and one of the famous places of that popular summer resort. this stately garden suggests some of the foreign gardens familiar to us through travel and books. footnotes: [ ] see also the frontispiece. [ ] these climatic conditions are explained in new jersey chapter. [illustration: plate "woodside," hartford, conn. walter l. goodwin, esq. _from a photograph by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate "elmwood," pomfret, conn. vinton freedley, esq. _from a photograph by miss e. m. boult_] [illustration: plate pomfret centre, conn. mrs. randolph m. clark _from a photograph by miss e. m. boult_] [illustration: plate "branford house," groton, conn. morton f. plant, esq.] [illustration: plate pomfret centre, conn. mrs. randolph m. clark _from a photograph by miss e. m. boult_] iv new york there are gardens, old and new, around the many wealthy cities of this great state, through the upper section, near buffalo, utica, syracuse, albany, etc., as well as to the south. it must suffice to give a few of the most picturesque views obtainable, almost all of which belong to places within one hundred miles of new york city. the garden at auburn offers a vision of flowers in glorious profusion, combined with perfect order, which latter condition is not always easily attainable when plants are allowed a certain amount of freedom. the location of this garden, in western new york not far from lake ontario, is in about the latitude of northern massachusetts--a climate congenial to flowers. a particular type of garden often predominates in some localities on account of the conformation of the land; as, for instance, in a mountainous section like tuxedo park, where the places are scattered over hilly woodland country, many of the gardens naturally develop into those of terraces, or else, ideal opportunities have created the rambling wild garden with winding paths, shaded pools, ferns and flowers. a glimpse of one of this kind is to be had in an accompanying illustration--an exquisite bit of semi-cultivated wildness that moves one to wish to see beyond the picture's limits. among its formal gardens, tuxedo at present has nothing more imposing than the one at woodland. the wall-beds contain perennials in mass against the vine-clad background, and the central fountain is framed in broad beds of roses, in bush and standard form. this garden's stately effects are enhanced by the richly developed forms of clipped evergreens in boxwood and various retinosporas, to all of which age, as must ever be the case, lends force and dignity. the cragswerthe garden, a spacious plan on three connecting terraces, charmingly exemplifies the results obtainable by the exercise of good taste upon desirable opportunities. each terrace illustrates, in harmony with the whole, a special beauty of its own. the hill gardens usually have also the advantage of a landscape background, as a rule a pleasant feature also in the mount kisco region of westchester county, with its numerous hilltop homes. a garden with a view possesses a setting all its own; one that can hardly be imitated in that particular landscape at least, varying under the changing clouds, and therefore never monotonous. such also is the opportunity in many hudson river places, and only those who have lived in the highlands by this most beautiful of american rivers know the charm of the mountainsides, with their deep ravines and river vistas. there is space for but a few of the river gardens in these limited pages. the one at blithewood, barrytown-on-hudson, is a charming example of a more modern garden, beautifully located and planted especially for may, june, and september. a vine-covered brick wall surrounds it on three sides, and a terra-cotta balustrade is the boundary on the river side. chinese junipers, not supposedly very hardy, are, however, the well-grown, clipped evergreens in sight. barrytown is about a hundred miles from new york. up on the beacon mountain the wodenethe gardens were begun about seventy-five years ago, remaining ever since in the same family, and always celebrated for their beauty, due doubtless to the devoted and skilful care continuously given them. trees, shrubs, and vines are rich in maturity; the impress of father time has so kindly marked the place, that of the older gardens wodenethe is probably the finest on the hudson. not far away there was once another garden. possibly there is nothing fairer than the dearest memories of childhood--sometimes doubtless wonderfully interwoven with the gossamer-like stuff of which air-castles are made--and so it is with deep satisfaction that the author can dwell upon views of an old garden relying on something more real than semi-dreams. to be able to duplicate this happy place for some other fortunate children would be a joy indeed, and some day the opportunity may be realized while the dream still lives. nearly three acres of land might be required to contain the broad beds bordered with peach, plum, pear trees and shrubs, and edged with flowers--the great centre spaces filled with vegetables or small fruits. the outer court of this garden, on three sides, was formed by two rows of arching apple trees, as shown in an accompanying illustration. the fourth side was a lane running between an evergreen hedge and a line of poplar and nut trees. the outer walks were broad, the inner intersecting paths were narrower; the tall planting in the various beds prevented a view from one path to another, and this was half of the garden's fascination to the children who played there in the games of make-believe. always there was something unexpected awaiting them around the corner. blissful the chance to become suddenly lost in grape vines, corn, or dense shrubbery when the world seemed to consist of just tree-tops, sunlight, flowers, fruits, and birds! what a contrast to the life of the average fortune-favored child of the present period! echo lawn is another lovely place near the river, as old, too, as wodenethe, extensive in acres, abounding in splendid trees, and full of a beauty and charm peculiarly characteristic of the old places on the hudson. the gardens, although of a later-date creation, are admirably fitted to the surroundings, and with pools, wall basins, and flower planting, hardly discernible in the illustration, are a rich addition to the noted river places. twenty miles to the west of the hudson river is meadowburn farm--famous through its owner, the author of "hardy garden" books. two photographs, not hitherto published, must alone represent the acres of bloom on this interesting place. in describing it, eight gardens must be considered rather than _the_ garden. the evergreen garden (shown here), the may flowering hillside, the lily and iris garden, the pool garden, the perennial garden, the cedar walk, the vegetable garden, bordered with flowers, and the rose garden. a rare treat for garden lovers who visit there by special arrangement. at ridgeland farm, in westchester county, the owner has shown that the smallest garden possible when fitted to artistic surroundings and filled with harmonious bloom can, as a garden and as a picture, satisfy our craving for the beautiful quite as completely as a subject on a much larger scale. this fair little plot, with its brick paths and gay blossoms, continues in bloom for several months, which, in spite of narrow beds, is always possible in a well-planned and carefully tended garden. new york includes within its borders the climate of all the new england states, and, besides, the atmosphere of its lake shores and the milder sea climate of new york city and long island. between the high altitudes of the adirondacks on the north and the sea-level of long island on the south there is a difference of nearly four weeks in the opening of spring. within a forty-mile radius of new york city and westward in the same latitude daffodils appear about april ; early tulips and phlox divaricata the last of april; late tulips may ; lilies-of-the-valley may ; german iris may (florentina alba a trifle earlier); and by may lupins, columbine, pyrethrum hybrid, and oriental poppies, etc., arrive; roses, peonies, etc., about june ; sweet william, anchusa, and their companions june ; campanula medium june ; delphinium june ; hollyhocks july or a few days earlier. at the eastern end of long island tulips, lily-of-the-valley, roses, shrubs and tree foliage appear about a week later than the same near the city of new york. in our extremely variable climate it is impossible to have fixed dates for the opening of bloom. it must depend upon whether spring is early or late, which sometimes causes a difference of a week or ten days in the appearance of the flowers. lily-of-the-valley and german iris seem less affected by variable springs than other plants. it is perfectly safe near manhattan island to plant out tender annuals may , and many venture it by may . killing frost may be expected between october and november --rarely earlier than october . forty-five miles north of the city of new york, in such higher altitudes as mount kisco or tuxedo park, the spring opens about a week later. within this radius of the city the summer thermometer occasionally rises above seventy-eight degrees, and in winter it may average possibly thirty to forty degrees above zero; only a few days know zero weather, and rarely does it drop below. at least once a winter there will come a period of weather as mild as fifty to sixty degrees, when one almost fears the premature appearance of some of the plants. it is on account of the thaws as well as the cold that the plants require a moderate covering to keep the ground as far as possible frozen hard and undisturbed by the sun, as frequent thawing injures the roots. a garden at the other extreme of the state, in the adirondack mountains, planted to begin with early tulips, phlox divaricata, and others of this period, will make its display about june . lilies-of-the-valley arrive soon after june ; german iris, lupin, pyrethrum, oriental poppy about june ; sweet william and roses near july ; delphinium july ; hollyhocks july . tender annuals are planted out about june , and a frost after that date is of rare occurrence. the first killing frost of autumn may be expected between the th and th of september. while the thermometer in summer fluctuates between sixty and eighty degrees, it often falls in winter to thirty degrees below zero. the hardy plants are well protected under the heavy snow covering which is usually the winter condition there. [illustration: plate iv an outer walk the author's childhood garden _from a photograph, colored by h. irving marlatt_] [illustration: plate auburn, n. y. mrs. c. d. macdougall] [illustration: plate auburn, n. y. mrs. c. d. macdougall _from photographs by emil j. kraemer, by courtesy of wadley & smythe_] [illustration: plate section of a wild garden at tuxedo park, n. y. _from a photograph by c. p. hotaling_] [illustration: plate "woodland," tuxedo, n. y. henry l. tilford, esq.] [illustration: plate a garden in three terraces "cragswerthe," tuxedo, n. y. mrs. samuel spencer _from photographs by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "blithewood," barrytown-on-hudson, n. y. mrs. andrew c. zabriskie] [illustration: plate "wodenethe," beacon-on-hudson, n. y. mrs. winthrop sargent _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "wodenethe," beacon-on-hudson, n. y. mrs. winthrop sargent _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate the centre section] [illustration: plate the outer boundary the author's childhood garden, newburgh-on-hudson, n. y.] [illustration: plate "echo lawn," newburgh-on-hudson, n. y. thaddeus beals, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate the evergreen garden] [illustration: plate a path in the perennial garden "meadowburn," warwick, n. y. mrs. helen rutherfurd ely] [illustration: plate "ridgeland farm," bedford, n. y. mrs. nelson williams _from a photograph by f. seabury_] long island, new york in considering the gardens belonging to the state of new york, its most favored garden centre is undoubtedly long island. here soil and climate combine to encourage both vegetables and flowers. and on the shores, particularly of the south side and eastern end, the most satisfactory bloom is obtainable as a rule with less trouble than is expended upon the flowers of the interior. not that long island is secure from periods of drought and visitations of rose-bugs, but on the whole the plants weather the obstacles better here than in other places of this latitude. there is a marked softness in the winter climate especially near the sea. possibly nowhere else except in southern california does the privet hedge make as remarkable growth as on the south shore, and near the west end there are highly prized specimens of old box. southampton, at the eastern end, in proportion to population has probably a greater number of gardens than any town in the state, almost all of them designed and developed by their owners, who have thus delightfully expressed their love for flowers. most soul-satisfying, unique in many points, and overflowing with bloom all summer is mrs. wyckoff's garden at southampton. within three hundred yards of the beach it is truly a seaside garden, but the great privet hedges, fourteen feet high, make perfect windbreaks for the protection of its bloom. connected by arched openings in the privet there are other enclosures for various planting schemes, and noticeable is the rather unusual variety of flowers growing in these several lovely gardens. the color grouping in the long, broad beds against the tall privet background is as perfect as any planting known. the arbors on either side of the garden proper are formed of arches of dorothy perkins and cedar trees alternating--the cedars are bent and strapped at the top to produce a curve. the effect is both unusual and delightful. in the same place but farther from the sea is another famous garden, at the orchard, the estate of james l. breese, esq. the garden was started about and is entirely original in design. the artistic sense of the owner is responsible for the dexterous touches which beautify the garden and pergolas. neither photography nor word-picture could do justice to the exquisite harmony of coloring throughout this wonderful place, where bloom is continuous over a long period. fashioned in box-edged parterres after the old-time plan and dear to the heart of americans is such a place as the sunny box garden at the appletrees, so charmingly portrayed in this chapter. there is a sweetness and trimness in its simplicity intermingling with the flowers to make it one of the fairest of garden-plots. we dwell with delight upon the picturesque view of a section of mrs. curtis's garden which might well have been taken from an english garden, so closely does it resemble that type which has been our inspiration more especially during the last ten years. in america the walled garden is found to be useful near the sea, and not undesirable in the cooler northern interior, but by many experts it is not advised in a warm climate, where it prevents the free circulation of air within its enclosure, from which condition some plants may suffer. in the near-by hamlet of east hampton, mrs. lorenzo woodhouse has an ingenious scheme of connecting formal gardens that are as remarkable in conception as they are exquisite in color harmony. in length the plan is considerably greater than the width, and the long vista from end to end presents to the artist's eye a lovely picture of flowers, pool, and arches. near by, on huntting lane, the wild garden belonging to r. cummins, esq., is considered the best piece of work of its kind in the country. it is wonderfully composed with natural pools and streams, tea-houses and rustic bridges suggestive of the japanese art, yet lovelier than the trim oriental type of water garden because so delightfully wild and overgrown with massive plants, vines, and shrubs, without, however, being disorderly in appearance. it is an especially rare treat in early july at the season of japanese iris. at the west end of long island, near new york, gardens are almost as plentiful as those in the region of the hamptons. for lack of space the illustrations of the lovely garden at manor house, glen cove, and the picturesque pool at cedarhurst must alone represent this section. later periods of bloom succeed the tulips at the manor house, giving continuous color all summer to this charming place. the view of mr. steele's garden at westbury is a fine example of an ideal hillside planting leading to the flower-beds on a lower level. * * * * * probably the oldest garden in new york state is the one at sylvester manor, on shelter island, between the shores of long island and connecticut. this charming little flower-plot is reached by a short flight of descending steps. some of its old boxwood appears in the illustration of the pool which is a part of the garden scheme. the original owners of shelter island were the manhasset indians. "in nathaniel sylvester came from england with his young bride, and here they planted the box, still one of the wonders of the place, and erected the first manor-house with its oak doors and panels and mantels fitted in england, and brick tiles brought from holland. the present house was built in with enough of the woodwork of the old house to maintain symmetry in traditions, and stands to-day as it has stood the better part of two centuries, filled with its old furniture, paintings, and curios. here is kept the cloth of gold left by captain kidd and many other things that time and space forbid mentioning." the old homestead has always remained in the family in direct descent. [illustration: plate v at the hour of sunset southampton, l. i. mrs. peter b. wyckoff _after an autochrome photograph by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate arbor of cedars and roses alternating southampton, l. i. mrs. peter b. wyckoff _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "the orchard," southampton, l. i. james lawrence breese, esq. _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "the orchard," southampton, l. i. james lawrence breese, esq. _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate ] [illustration: plate "the orchard," southampton, l. i. james lawrence breese, esq. _from photographs, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "the appletrees," southampton, l. i. mrs. henry e. coe _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "the appletrees," southampton, l. i. mrs. henry e. coe _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate southampton, l. i. mrs. g. warrington curtis] [illustration: plate east hampton, l. i. mrs. lorenzo e. woodhouse _from photographs by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate east hampton, l. i. mrs. lorenzo e. woodhouse _from a photograph by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate the wild garden _from photographs by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate the wild garden east hampton, l. i. stephen cummins, esq.] [illustration: plate "manor house," glen cove, l. i. mrs. john t. pratt _from a photograph by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate cedarhurst, l. i. samuel kopf, esq. _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate westbury, l. i. charles steele, esq.] [illustration: plate "manor house," glen cove, l. i. _from photographs by the j. horace mcfarland co._] [illustration: plate ancient boxwood "sylvester manor," shelter island _from a photograph by david humphreys_] v new jersey it would take much time and long travel to discover the state possessing the greatest number of fine gardens, but there is little risk of misstatement in placing new jersey as fourth or fifth on the list; new york, including long island, in the lead, then massachusetts, and possibly pennsylvania or california next. near the sea the climate is, of course, an especial incentive to flower-growing, and along the jersey coast, especially in monmouth county, there are numerous gardens. many excellent specimens are to be seen at princeton, trenton, short hills, and morristown, as well as in the country around bernardsville, in all of which places garden clubs are rapidly developing the cult. only about fifty miles separate trenton, princeton, and monmouth beach, in central jersey, from morristown, short hills, etc., at the north, so that spring gardens practically begin in both sections at the same time, with possibly not more than three or four days' difference between them. while the south jersey soil does not always encourage gardening, the northern half of the state may be considered on the whole quite fertile, and the summer temperature is not too hot for flowers. occasional droughts are to be expected, but the water-supply is usually adequate. in the northern part of the state the usual date for crocuses is march ; daffodils, april ; lily-of-the-valley, may ; late tulips, may ; german iris, may ; oriental poppy, columbine, lupin, and pyrethrum, may ; roses, peonies, anchusa, and sweet william, early june; delphiniums, june ; hollyhocks, july . in fact, the climatic condition, as it affects plant life, is very similar throughout the region surrounding new york city--not different enough to require special attention. the beautiful garden at glen alpine is one of prolonged bloom from may until frost, and its planting plans are shown in the author's "continuous bloom in america." both english and italian inspiration commingle in this beautiful spot. its setting of old trees on three sides, with the upsloping hill to the rear covered with choice blossom trees and evergreens, as well as the ancient hedge, furnish a background in keeping with the dignity of the place. the pergola is only the beginning of an interesting upper shrub and bulb garden with rambling paths. other views are given in plates and . at cherrycroft, the garden also blooms continuously, and some of its plans are likewise given in the book above-mentioned. the pergola and tea-house lead out to a maze formed by a tall arbor-vitæ hedge. adjoining is a rose garden, more or less continually in bloom, and near by a garden for cutting-flowers. the outlook over the formal garden, both from house and pergola, is upon a sea of flowers, possibly unequalled in its profusion of bloom. the four beds encircling the pool are first covered with pansies and english daisies, each bed containing one large clump of german iris, edged with cottage tulips. for later bloom, white petunias fill two beds, light pink petunias the other two beds. surrounding the rim of the pool there are campanula medium, alternating with fall-sown larkspur, the former replaced by balsam. the four large beds opposite the pool-beds are planted in predominating tones of yellow, blue, pink, and dark red respectively, with white freely intermixed. the beds on the upper level are treated rather similarly. at both glen alpine and cherrycroft nurseries of cold-frames abundantly supply the many annuals and perennials required to fill the broad beds. the prevailing colors required in both gardens are pink, dark red, blues, and yellows. of the latter, the stronger tones are used only in yellow and blue beds. if there is strict adherence to their planting schemes the richness of their bloom will continue through future seasons. but, alas! how uncertain the fulfilment, when the most necessary flowers may disappoint at the eleventh hour, or the gardeners fail to abide by the plans, especially concerning the color scheme! at ridgewood hill the planting is for spring and autumn bloom, and its three-terraced garden is an excellent piece of work, nestling to the hillside with its vista of hills beyond. this lovely nook deserves to rank among the best in terraced gardens. mrs. fraser's garden, enclosed within the semicircle of the house and a curving hemlock hedge, is veritably a gem in lovely color-blending. all the periods of the garden season are represented here, difficult as it is to accomplish continuous bloom in narrow beds. first pansies and early tulips, followed by the later ones, flood the little court with wonderfully tinted tones. then lupins, canterbury bells, sweet william, chinese delphinium and lilium candidum, followed by larkspur, zinnia, snapdragon, scabiosa, salpiglossis, heliotrope, ageratum, and compact petunias, gladioli, and september hardy chrysanthemum. constant ministration to the needs of this garden keeps it in a state of fresh bloom and order. the garden at "onunda," madison, attracts many visitors and has long been famous for its beauty and order. it is ablaze with color from may to october. annuals in richest massing fill all the small beds, and perennials with annuals are closely grouped in the wall beds. the color effect is unusual and the adjoining rose garden is complete with choicest bloom. the planting at blairsden, near peapack, is probably the most perfect in the state. the accompanying pictures give a limited idea of its beauty. the hill covered with wild shrubs sloping to the lake, the formal garden, the water garden and rose garden, with the long inclined pathway seeming to lead out to space immeasurable into the green garden of everyman, combine with the scenery to make it a place of remarkable beauty. the formal garden with vine-covered brick wall is like the villa, italian in design. the numerous gardens of short hills must be represented by one charming glimpse of brooklawn, an idyllic spot embodying the creative sense of a poet. its design is quite unusual in the garden world, and perfect in its simplicity. informal rather than strictly formal, with beds of curving lines and grass paths it may be considered the most original plan in this collection. old princeton, with its picturesque university, is additionally favored in possessing gardens worthy of such associations and equalling the best in our country. the one at drumthwacket is probably more reminiscent of english gardens than any other. the broad beds, profuse in glowing yet orderly bloom, are especially lovely in june. the garden has the benefit of ancient trees as a setting and the richness of its planting combined with the white balustrade lends a noble effect, comparing favorably with many of those abroad. the beautiful water garden, reached by a winding stone stairway, is encircled by willows and forest trees which fill the little lake with green reflections. a winter garden is a luxury so rare that one dwells with keenest pleasure upon the view from thornton--a most perfect specimen of its kind. this evergreen planting is the central scheme of an elaborate plan and divides the perennial and rose garden on one side from the "cutting" garden on the other. the best of the evergreens in clipped forms, barberry with its bright winter berries, laurel, and rhododendron foliage unite to enliven the winter scene in this pleasant space, when outside all is gray and lifeless. mrs. seabrook's garden belongs to still another distinctly different class, illustrating a planting which appeals strongly to the many americans who ardently admire simplicity in outdoor art. here we find a sweet place in which to live in idle hours, with favorite flowers well-kept, a pool, and shaded retreats from summer sun. [illustration: plate vi "glen alpine," morristown, n. j. mrs. charles w. mcalpin _from a photograph, colored by mrs. herbert a. raynes_] [illustration: plate "cherrycroft," morristown, n. j. dudley olcott, esq. _from an autochrome photograph by parker brothers_] [illustration: plate a three-terraced garden "ridgewood hill," morristown, n. j. mrs. frederic h. humphreys _from a photograph by parker brothers_] [illustration: plate morristown, n. j. mrs. george c. fraser _from a photograph by parker brothers_] [illustration: plate "blairsden," peapack, n. j. c. ledyard blair, esq. _reproduced by courtesy of doubleday, page & co._] [illustration: plate "blairsden," peapack, n. j. c. ledyard blair, esq. _reproduced by courtesy of doubleday, page & co._] [illustration: plate "blairsden," peapack, n. j. c. ledyard blair, esq. _reproduced by courtesy of doubleday, page & co._] [illustration: plate "brooklawn," short hills, n. j. mrs. edward b. renwick _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "drumthwacket," princeton, n. j. mrs. moses taylor pyne _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "drumthwacket," princeton, n. j. mrs. moses taylor pyne _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "drumthwacket," princeton, n. j. mrs. moses taylor pyne _from a photograph, copyright, by miss johnston--mrs. hewitt_] [illustration: plate "onunda," madison, n. j. mrs. d. willis james _from a photograph by parker brothers_] [illustration: plate "glen alpine," morristown, n. j. mrs. charles w. mcalpin _from a photograph by parker brothers_] [illustration: plate "thornton," rumson, n. j. mrs. j. horace harding _from a photograph by alman & co._] [illustration: plate highland, n. j. mrs. h. h. seabrook _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] vi pennsylvania the most zealous advocate of gardening in the early days was william penn, the original proprietor of the state, who persistently urged his quaker followers to plant gardens around the homesteads. with numerous old ones and an ever-increasing number of new gardens the state stands among the foremost as a garden centre. in olden times the quaker ideas against extravagant appearances resulted in the making of simpler places than those built by the people who settled in the southern states; but these modest pennsylvania gardens did not suffer the ravages of war, and many of them have lived serenely through the years. andalusia came into the possession of the family of its present owners in , and a village has gradually grown around the place. the garden is about one hundred years in age, and has been long noted for its trees and hedges, its fruits and old-fashioned flowers. the simplicity of its plan, so characteristic of the early gardens, detracts nothing from its charm, but rather is it filled with picturesque features that are truly american. at fancy field the formal garden is made somewhat on the plan of a type of small english garden that is becoming familiar to us through the english prints. this formal view is but one of a group or series of lovely enclosed and connecting gardens, all seemingly bound together by a long pergola bordering their rear;--a most pleasing study, as is also the garden at edgecombe, with its old box and perennials, shut in peacefully from the outer world and suggesting the type so dear to the heart of the lady of the olden time. krisheim was the name given by some early german settlers in to a locality where is now a famous garden. this beautiful enclosure, in its spring garb, so unique in style, and with an adjoining flower garden, has its place among the best of the many that adorn the state. the garden at willow bank is a charming home of flowers, and its attraction is enhanced by the spacious green court surrounding it, giving double privacy to the flowery sanctum within. typical of some of the splendid newer gardens of the state is the one at timberline, rich in its background of old trees, gracefully designed and planted. it is one of the best productions of a celebrated architect. the ballygarth garden, a section of which is shown in this chapter, is beautifully situated on one of the oldest estates near philadelphia, and is of the kind so evidently the creation of a garden lover. near philadelphia the climate is slightly warmer than in north new jersey, to which spring bloom comes at least a week later. in this vicinity german iris appears about may , sweet william, may , and delphiniums, june , hollyhocks, june . the time of the first frost is as variable as it is elsewhere. pansies are usually wintered in the open, with a certain amount of covering. tender annuals are set out about may . the soil is mostly fertile enough for good results in the garden. the best-known gardens lie chiefly in the neighborhood of philadelphia. [illustration: plate "allgates," haverford, pa. horatio g. lloyd, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate andalusia, pa. mrs. charles biddle] [illustration: plate andalusia, pa. mrs. charles biddle _from a photograph by c. r. pancoast_] [illustration: plate "edgecombe," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. mrs. j. willis martin] [illustration: plate "krisheim," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. dr. george woodward _from a photograph by j. w. kennedy_] [illustration: plate the outer court] [illustration: plate the inner garden "willow bank," bryn mawr, pa. mrs. joseph c. bright _from photographs by jessie tarbox beals_] [illustration: plate "fancy field," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. mrs. george willing, jr.] [illustration: plate "timberline," bryn mawr, pa. w. hinckle smith, esq. _from a photograph by julian a. buckly_] [illustration: plate "ballygarth," chestnut hill, philadelphia, pa. mrs. b. franklin pepper] vii maryland flower gardens adorn many of the places in maryland, most of them of the old-fashioned kind so characteristic of the southern states, and others of a more recent date. the latter, though less elaborate than those of new england, are quite as attractive in the studied simplicity of their design. conspicuous often are the ivy-edged paths sometimes replacing the low box border, and the great growths of box and rare shrubs, once imported luxuries from old england, speak the prosperity of early days. in the low country of the interior the midsummer climate is humid and hot enough to discourage the flowers of this season, but when certain annuals are kept sufficiently moist and mulched they may pass unscathed through the trying season and join the few fall perennials for several weeks of bloom. winter protection is not a matter of importance and pansies need but an ordinary covering of leaves. an extreme of cold, which is rare, might bring disaster to the leaf-covered canterbury bell in the open, but this is one of the gambles in garden life. in maryland, as generally elsewhere in this section, spring and june gardens prevail. the crocus season opens in early march; daffodils follow a little later; late tulips and german iris come near may ; sweet william and peonies about may ; and soon after the delphiniums and hollyhocks appear. spring work begins three weeks earlier than in the latitude of long island, and frost may finish the persistent marigold near november ; but, as elsewhere, by that time green life has had its day, vitality has been spent, and nothing satisfactory can be expected of any but the hardy late chrysanthemum. there is another region of this state to be separately accounted for that has been more or less overlooked, and where the climate is more inviting to summer gardening. from near snow hill, on the narrow peninsula south of delaware, a resident writes in part: "as to this eastern shore, its flowers, climate, etc., too much cannot be said in its praise. the wonder is that this section has been overlooked by wealthy people seeking homes. with proper planting one can have flowers in the garden ten months of the year. during the winter holly and other choice evergreens give plenty of color for the lawns." the distance across between the chesapeake bay and the sea is about thirty-five miles. near the shore the place has a climate of its own, and summer gardens need not wilt as they do inland, providing they can at times be moderately sprinkled. usually the summer climate is pleasant with an evening sea-breeze in hot weather; sometimes a prolonged dry spell causes many things to suffer, but as a rule all sorts of flowering plants succeed--roses, china asters, and bulbous plants especially grow to perfection. the illustrations representing maryland are gathered from the vicinity of baltimore, the particular garden region of the state. hampton is the oldest of them all, being an entailed estate and one of two old manor-houses in maryland still extant. a severe cold snap a few winters past did great damage to the box, which in consequence had to be cut back, but time, it is hoped, may restore its original form and beauty. the spring view of one of hampton's gardens was taken recently prior to the period of fullest bloom. this charming box-edged parterre, with its fine surroundings and associations, is possibly the best-known in the south. evergreen-on-avenue is delightfully located on the outskirts of baltimore, where many old country-seats abound. the lower garden only is discernible in the illustration, showing the dignity and charm of an evergreen garden, relieved by a massing of color in narrow beds which form a setting to the clipped box and other shrubs. the upper garden is full of bloom and kept chiefly as a place for cutting-flowers. some of the paths on this estate are edged with broad bands of ivy. the wild garden at roland park is a work of art too intricately devised to be treated satisfactorily by picture or pen. the eye can only absorb and memory retain it, but description will ever fail to present it. at every turn there is a delightful surprise, at every season it is lovely; even january finds it so dressed in evergreen that winter seems far away. a few years ago the hillside was a wooded and abandoned stone-quarry until purchased for the purpose of creating a place of beauty out of chaos. an inspired imagination only could have wrought this miracle. the old indian name for the cylburn plantation was cool waters; it covers two hundred acres, about five miles beyond baltimore. cylburn house is of stone with broad verandas, and stands majestically on a high plateau, surrounded by gardens, shrubbery, and an extensive lawn, which is fringed by a beautiful primeval forest that stretches away on three sides to the valley below. the garden is one of the old-fashioned rambling kind, made lovely with a combination of tall shrubs and flowers and occasional trees. the fair little glimpse of a section of the garden at ingleside breathes of spring perfume and color, with that indescribable sense of peace pervading especially a little enclosed garden where good taste and harmony prevail. so great is the impression of seclusion produced by the attractive picture that the farmer's cottage in the near background seems almost disconnected from this inviting spot. the four white standard wistarias are remarkable enough to demand special attention. the beds are early filled with the tulips of both periods, blooming in company with the wistaria. annuals follow, and the place is kept in long bloom under the careful supervision of the owner. at the blind, havre de grace, on the chesapeake, is a charming and typically southern garden with ancient box hedges for a background, and filled with the bloom of many old-fashioned hardy plants and shrubs. the property of two hundred acres is partly under cultivation and partly covered with holly and ancient trees. around the gray stone mansion in springtime the place is like a fairy-land, with hundreds of blossoming shrubs and fruit trees. originally the land belonged to the stumpp family, who acquired it by grant from one of the early english governors. it is now in the possession of a new yorker, who keeps it as a shooting-preserve and stock-farm. [illustration: plate vii a rock garden] [illustration: plate viii a rock garden roland park, baltimore, md. mrs. edward bouton _after autochrome photographs_] [illustration: plate "hampton," towson, md. mrs. john ridgely _from a photograph by laurence h. fowler_] [illustration: plate "evergreen-on-avenue," baltimore, md. mrs. t. harrison garrett _from a photograph by christhill studio_] [illustration: plate "cylburn house," cylburn, baltimore co., md. mrs. bruce cotten _from a photograph by art view co._] [illustration: plate "ingleside," catonsville, md. mrs. a. c. ritchie] [illustration: plate "the blind," havre de grace, md. james lawrence breese, esq.] viii virginia virginia was the first of the states to adopt a luxurious mode of living. its early men and women, so recently english, were not many of them of the strictly puritan type, but rather the ease and pleasure loving class, and shortly their fertile plantations, developed by countless slaves, yielded rich results, and virginia, followed soon by the neighboring states, became famous for homes and gardens on an extensive scale. one of the earliest and best of these estates was mount vernon, so well preserved and yet so familiar as not to need an introduction or even a space in this book. brandon, westover, shirley, berkeley, castle hill, and others on the river james, as well as some of the splendid places in the "hill country," have been renovated in recent years and should be considered among the treasures of america. mr. william du pont is the fortunate present owner of montpelier, the home of president madison, in orange county, and situated between charlottesville and richmond. this splendid garden was planned by mr. madison soon after . to quote mr. capen:[ ] "on the plan of our house of representatives, it is made in a series of horseshoe terraces leading down to a flat rectangular stretch of ground. the walk from the entrance to the garden passes first under a charming rustic arbor, and then through a dense box hedge in which some of the bushes have grown so high that their branches form an arch overhead ... and when one emerges from the arch of box he finds spread before him in panorama the entire garden ... the box-edged aisle down its centre and every bed in flower.... it must have been a rare garden, for trees and shrubs sent to mr. madison by admirers from all over the world were jealously guarded and nurtured." at rose hill the terraced garden, with its distant view of hills and valley, is among the best-known places of this section. here the flowers, most carefully tended, bloom considerably during the period from april to october, which is unusually prolonged for a southern garden. flowering plants and clipped evergreens border the broad, grassy terraces and an air of simple stateliness pervades this charming virginia garden. delightful indeed is the spacious formal garden at meadowbrook manor, on the james river. so cleverly arranged is the combination of trees and flowers that the latter do not suffer from near association with the trees--many of which are evergreens combining with the box border to gladden the winter garden with summer green, and giving the livable, homey sense to this lovely enclosure in summer-time. in the old days the property was known as sequin and belonged to relatives of sir thomas gates of the same name. upon this land in were operated the first iron-works in the country. characteristic of the gardens of the older period is the lovely view of the garden on the valentine place overgrown and ripe as only a garden can be that has lived through the years; unpretentious, yet richer in that mellowed growth than the most costly planting of modern date. in virginia, mountains cover a part of the state, and the temperature necessarily varies according to locality. the climate, at least of albemarle county, brings out the crocuses in february or early march; winter jessamine in early february, sometimes january; daffodils in mid-march; lily-of-the-valley and cottage tulip early in april; german iris in mid-april. roses and sweet william appear in early may; delphinium in late may; hollyhocks in early june; phlox, july . and thus before midsummer's heat many of the best hardy perennials have come and gone. while summer bloom in the highlands is not necessarily destroyed by hot weather, unless unusual drought occurs, yet the autumn garden is apt to be a more refreshing sight with its fresh crop of roses, the late chrysanthemum, cosmos, and indefatigable zinnia. of course to the south, and where altitude is lacking, the somewhat higher temperature will more or less alter these garden dates. footnotes: [ ] "country homes of famous americans." [illustration: plate ancient boxwood montpelier, va. mrs. william du pont _reproduced by permission of doubleday, page & co. from "country homes of famous americans"--oliver b. capen_] [illustration: plate montpelier, va. mrs. william du pont _reproduced by permission of doubleday, page & co. from "country homes of famous americans"--oliver b. capen_] [illustration: plate montpelier, va. mrs. william du pont] [illustration: plate montpelier, va. mrs. william du pont] [illustration: plate "rose hill"] [illustration: plate "rose hill," greenwood, va. mrs. w. r. massie] [illustration: plate "meadowbrook manor," drewry's bluff, va. mrs. thomas f. jeffress] [illustration: plate richmond, va. garden of mann s. valentine, esq. _from a photograph by jessie tarbox beals_] ix south carolina there are few new gardens in south carolina, but an untold number of old ones deserving to be revived. around charleston, especially, old-time mansions, quaint walls, and gateways abound that are an inspiration to lovers of graceful antiquities. to restore an abandoned garden must be indeed a joy to one with enough imagination to recreate flower places fitted to the surroundings. the illustrations in this chapter give some idea of the richness of the early gardens laid out by the wealthy owners of many generations past. magnolia-on-the-ashley, considered by some as one of the world's most beautiful sights, especially in springtime, is the most famous place in the state. it is owned by colonel drayton hastie, who inherited it from his grandfather, the reverend mr. drayton, an episcopalian minister, in whose family it had remained since the latter part of the seventeenth century. in the days of the reverend mr. drayton it was discovered that the garden had been laid out over land containing extremely valuable phosphate deposits, but neither he nor his descendants would have the place disturbed for the sake of an increased fortune, and the garden continues as it was, the delight in early spring of visitors from all over the world. to quote one who resides near by: "the garden first came into notice about a hundred years ago. in spite of all the cultivation, it still suggests the heart of the forest, with the old oak and gray moss and wild flowers mingling with cherokee roses, jessamine, etc. these magnolia gardens are not only wonderfully beautiful, but, i believe, quite unique. the great show is not magnolias, or even the camellias, although they are lovely--but the azaleas, which grow in such profusion and variety of shades that one loses all sense of individual plant and flowers and perceives only glowing, gleaming masses of color veiled by festoons of gray moss, giving one a delicious feeling of unreality, almost enchantment. in owen wister's 'lady baltimore' there is a beautiful description of magnolia. the coloring on the post-cards is not in the least exaggerated." live oaks over two centuries old draped with gray moss suspended from the branches! this wonderful growth is not an uncommon sight in the southern states. columbia, the capital, has the famous preston garden, and for many generations this beautiful property remained in the families of the hamptons and prestons. by a marriage a century ago the hampton estate came into the possession of the prestons, and for many years the stately garden with its aged box and shade trees, its choice shrubs and plants, has been an object of veneration to garden lovers. a descendant writes: "there is no interest of importance attached to the past history of the preston place, except that it has sheltered quite well known persons in its day, henry clay, thackeray, and miss martineau among others, for its owner had acquaintances among prominent people in this country as well as abroad, and delighted in showing them hospitality when they happened in his neighborhood." after the war it shared the fate of almost all the other southern estates that could no longer be maintained as in former years, and finally became a woman's college, and once more receives the needed care. in the low coastal country, including charleston, spring opens in february with camellias, daffodils, and bulbs. german iris appears at charleston soon after march , phlox in june. delphinium and hollyhock and some others do not thrive in this section. the flowers that are carried over for autumn bloom are hardy chrysanthemum, with cosmos, salvia, marigolds, and zinnias, and a few others able under care to resist the summer heat. frost may come by november , but in winter thin ice forms only about three times, with the thermometer at twenty-five degrees. white camellias sometimes begin to blossom at christmas time. such is the climate of this level. in the higher regions of the state climatic conditions are somewhat different and the summer heat is not as extreme. [illustration: plate azalea, magnolia, and camellia bloom "magnolia garden," charleston, s. c. colonel drayton hastie _from a photograph by the carolina arts and crafts, inc._] [illustration: plate live oaks, with gray moss suspended from branches "magnolia garden," charleston, s. c. colonel drayton hastie _from a photograph by the carolina arts and crafts, inc._] [illustration: plate "preston garden," columbia, s. c. _from a photograph by lyle & escobar_] [illustration: plate "preston garden"] [illustration: plate "preston garden," columbia, s. c. _from photographs by lyle & escobar_] x georgia and florida summer gardens, on account of the climate, are not attempted in the states of the far south; but as popular winter and spring resorts the grounds at these seasons about the villas and hotels are adorned with palms, roses, and other plants adapted to the climate. charming spring gardens in formal designs are found in georgia, where, because of its somewhat cooler climate and better soil, there are a greater number of private estates than in florida. the former state doubtless suffered more than any other in the civil war and, consequently, enforced neglect of the old gardens brought ruin to most of them. at present some of the finest places in georgia are delightfully located outside of the larger towns, and many gardens, some new and others renewed after a half-century of oblivion, adorn the home grounds of those who are so fortunate as to reside here at the most favored seasons. the illustrations of the gardens at green court are fair samples of the extensive planting in many places. spring bulbs begin to open in this lovely spot by the middle of february, camellias often come in january, german iris appears the middle of march, delphiniums in april. in georgia the summer heat finishes most of the bloom, and few would venture with autumn flowers. "the roses, however, when well tended, rest during summer to bloom gloriously again in october and until the time of light frost, which comes in december." the interior of the larger garden at green court, surrounded with its splendid outer court, is more spacious than the glimpse through the gateway would suggest. the charm of this enclosure, like southern hospitality, is a combination of bountifulness and grateful simplicity. green court deserves to stand as a representative garden of its state. with an almost similar climate the adjoining state of alabama has its gardens also, but, unfortunately, photographs are not now available. palms of every description are the characteristic plants of florida. the state is generally flat and open, but in the north the country is more wooded, often wild and swampy, with picturesque winding little rivers meandering to the coasts. the conditions in the populous districts of louisiana and texas are so similar to florida, where gardens are concerned, that it is unnecessary to use further space in describing plant life in these states. [illustration: plate the outer court surrounding the main garden "green court," augusta, ga. mrs. h. p. crowell] [illustration: plate a glimpse into the inner garden "green court," augusta, ga. mrs. h. p. crowell] [illustration: plate "green court," augusta, ga. mrs. h. p. crowell _from a photograph by a. h. chaffee_] [illustration: plate tropical growth, palm beach, fla. _from a photograph by brown brothers_] xi tennessee and missouri from tennessee the following description of its garden life is agreeably presented: "here in the south interest in this subject is always increasing. we have many old and beautiful gardens full of sentiment. the mistress of the place is always head gardener, and in no instance does she relinquish her position to another. i am filled with enthusiasm in garden matters, and would preach the gospel of the garden to all women." daffodils appear in february, lilies-of-the-valley and cottage tulips in mid-april, german iris soon after. the droughts of midsummer may injure but not necessarily destroy the flowers. the winter thermometer occasionally falls to twenty degrees above zero in the cooler districts, and such plants as snapdragon and campanula medium are more safely wintered in a slat-frame. but winter once over the tender annuals can be put out as early as april . these conditions apply almost equally to the neighboring states of kentucky and north carolina, having as well their records for old-time gardens. the planting at rostrevor speaks delightfully for the many others belonging to this section of the south. this garden, filled with lilies and other blossoms, shows that the southern woman is as truly a flower lover as were they who planted the early gardens in the days before the war. what more tantalizing to the garden devotee than the glimpse beyond the gates of longview garden as illustrated in this chapter, and again in a later section? such views as these, so exceedingly artistic in themselves, suggest a still more lovely interior, at present withheld because adequate photographs are lacking. in missouri, as in kansas and elsewhere in the middle west, there is great variableness of climate from year to year, and never is it an ideal district for _summer_ flower gardens. while much attention is being given to shrubbery and perennial beds bordering the lawn, there are few actual gardens, formal or otherwise. the discouragements of a trying summer climate limit the bloom in most of the places to the flowers of spring and june. early flowering plants and bulbs, german iris, foxglove, canterbury bells, columbine, peonies, lilium candidum, roses, and hollyhocks, give considerable satisfaction. but many other perennials are not at all permanent. to quote an experienced amateur gardener: "the climate of kansas city, missouri, is subject to every eccentricity, and at times is very trying. one of my experiences was a four or five inch snow-storm on the d of may after a month of warm spring weather, when german iris and many other things were in full bloom, and peonies in bud. everything was mashed down and then it froze. often when peonies have been in bloom torrential rains have nearly ruined them. the greatest trouble with the summer garden is the extreme heat and dryness of the air. the earth can be kept moist around the plants, but many things wither in the dry air. with the greatest care a garden of annuals might be kept looking fairly well through july and august, but i am glad to get away from mine early in july." the climate of these adjoining middle states is practically the same throughout, with possibly even more sunshine than in the eastern states. "in may and june there are frequent heavy showers, but rarely all-day rains. in the later summer and autumn cloudy days are exceptional. the eastern side of missouri is said to be slightly cooler than the western part; kansas city averages a somewhat higher summer temperature than washington, d. c., which is in the same latitude. spring bulbs and many spring perennials appear three weeks earlier than near new york city." the gardens usually look spent by september, but in the cooler sections, with an extra amount of summer care, there may be still seen flowers sufficient to adorn a garden during some weeks of autumn. the garden at hazelwood, near st. louis, is laid out with curving grass paths and broad beds. the bright display begins with daffodils, and the beds retain rich bloom into the middle of june. in september, after good care, marigolds, zinnias, snapdragon, cosmos, hardy asters, chrysanthemum, and helenium are the autumn decorations. frost usually finishes everything about october . the winter temperature is often ten degrees below, and the tender plants, like foxglove and pansies, are more safely wintered under slat-frames covered with straw, and larkspurs should have a light covering of leaves. surely the gardens that are faithfully tended through such changes and chances of climate as found in this section bespeak the highest degree of devoted patience. [illustration: plate "rostrevor," knoxville, tenn. mrs. william c. ross _from a photograph by james e. thompson_] [illustration: plate longview, tenn. mrs. james e. caldwell _from a photograph by g. c. dury co. reproduced by permission of the author of "your garden and mine"_] [illustration: plate "hazelwood," kinloch, mo. mrs. samuel w. fordyce] xii illinois and indiana illinois, with its claim to countless fine estates, includes a plentiful share of gardens, and more especially in the lake region, where luxuriant growths of trees tell of congenial soil and climate. as a background the great lake stretches like a sea beyond many of the beautiful flower-borders, which bloom almost as richly as those near the distant ocean. unfortunately some of the finest plantings are not illustrated in this book, which is limited to gardens of a formal design, and the type characteristic of illinois is mostly informal, as so frequently seen in america,--an arrangement which does not lend itself satisfactorily to photography. in such a plan the flowers are usually massed in long, broad beds bordering the lawn, the front lines are laid in irregular curves, with trees and shrubs for the background. groups of shrubs with other beds are sometimes used to break a wide stretch of lawn, and make a rambling and delightful sort of garden scheme. but in photography detail is lost when the camera is at sufficient distance to include more than a small section of such a design. for this reason pictures can never do full justice to the flower planting on such notable places as those of albert n. day, esq., lake forest; wm. c. egan, esq., egandale, highland park; george higginson, esq., meadow farm; and w. g. hibbard, esq., both at winnetka, and many others. the spring display of late tulips at highland park and lake forest is especially remarkable. masses of darwins and cottage varieties in perfect color blending are planted everywhere, in the woods, in shrubbery, and in borders. the illustration of the formal garden at lake forest, owned by harold mccormick, esq., gives a vivid idea of the form and finish of this charming place, which must always stand among the best of middle west gardens, well favored in the beauty of its surrounding trees and generously planted with perennials and shrubs. it has the charm of individuality rather uncommon to large gardens, and stands for that welcome type which seeks to be itself. hardin hall garden, with the great lake as a background, has recently joined the ranks of beautiful american gardens. every new garden is as a jewel added to the crown of its state, and this little gem in planting is noted throughout the north shore. stepping-stones in the grass lead to another green enclosure, designed on a less formal plan,--the whole scheme being most artistically conceived. the climate near the lake is slightly cooler than in other localities, spring opening from one to two weeks later than inland. the difference in time of spring bloom on this shore and near new york city is only about a week. the climate on the lake front is especially variable. the country is a flat upland broken with wooded ravines. out in central illinois, in piatt county, there are fifteen thousand acres belonging to a famous estate beyond monticello. the farms contains delightful gardens on an extensive scale, quite english in design, and as far as possible in keeping with the georgian architecture of the house. juniper hibernica is freely used over the main garden, enriching with its deep evergreen tones the broad expanse of flower-bordered beds. the walls are covered with chinese wistarias, japanese honeysuckle, trained peach trees, nectarines, pears, and plums. monticello is in the latitude of philadelphia; the blooming dates almost correspond, but frost destroys a trifle earlier. the highest summer thermometer rarely reaches one hundred degrees, sometimes dropping in winter to twenty-seven degrees below. tender annuals can usually be planted out after may . mulching and watering is necessary to preserve the summer bloomers. famous in the annals of southern indiana is the large estate at lexington known as englishton park, and for six generations the property of the english family. problems of insufficient rain, poor soil, and rocky ground have been overcome by most scientific measures, and now a pool filled with lilies and bordered with water-loving plants is a feature of a wonderful rock garden abundantly and tastefully planted with the perennials most suitable for rocks or for moisture. the rose garden near by and long path leading to the house, bordered with beds of perennials, are further delightful tributes to the devoted labor of one who has spent much time on this, her gladdest task. [illustration: plate lake forest, ill. harold mccormick, esq. _from a photograph by julian a. buckly_] [illustration: plate "hardin hall," hubbard's wood, ill. mrs. john h. hardin] [illustration: plate "the farms"] [illustration: plate "the farms," monticello, ill. robert allerton, esq.] [illustration: plate the rock garden, "englishton park"] [illustration: plate the rock garden, "englishton park," lexington, ind. mrs. w. e. english] xiii ohio the difference is slight between the climate of ohio and other states of its latitude in the east and middle west. while there is no mountainous region, northern ohio has the advantage of a great lake as its border. on a line with central connecticut, the temperature of cleveland is similarly favorable to flower growing, and garden enthusiasts are increasing. like most of the middle states, the country is rather flat and the soil fertile as a rule. but, except on the lake shore, the gardens suffer more or less from the hot weather and scarcity of moisture. in the northern half of ohio spring bulbs appear simultaneously with those in northern new jersey, and the later plants follow in the same succession. the southern half of ohio is in the latitude of maryland and its climatic conditions are almost similar. the spring and june gardens in the middle west give the best satisfaction. the climate is variable, as it is elsewhere throughout the country. one charming illustration conveys some idea of the garden at gwinn, which is eight miles from cleveland, and undoubtedly the most notable in this state. by early april the spring garden blooms with hepatica, crocus, chionodoxa, scilla, sundrops, pansy, english daisy, spring beauty, bloodroot, trillium, cypripedium, violet, tulip, hyacinth, and daffodil, followed soon by many later garden favorites. sufficient water is supplied to carry the bloom safely through midsummer and september, and year by year the beauty of this garden is increasing with the maturing of its trees and shrubbery, and all that tends to complete the dignity of so noble a design. so artistically wrought are all the various features contributing to the beauty of the clifton garden that choice of illustrations is made difficult when selection is limited to so few. this fact explains the omission of the little flower garden which even though charming must give place to the accompanying remarkable views. not far from cleveland shadyside, on the lake, is another place of interest to flower lovers, and here a small formal garden has been recently completed in addition to the older water garden. this delightful spot is worthy of particular attention not only on account of the variety of plants adorning its banks, but for its picturesque setting as well. indian hill offers a glimpse of a fair little garden, with no suggestion of display; a vine-covered bower surrounded with flowers,--a creation of simple loveliness. [illustration: plate "gwinn," cleveland, ohio. william g. mather, esq. _from a photograph by julian a buckly_] [illustration: plate a picturesque spot in mrs. taft's garden] [illustration: plate a corner in the pergola clifton, cincinnati, ohio. mrs. samuel h. taft] [illustration: plate the water garden clifton, cincinnati, ohio. mrs. samuel h. taft] [illustration: plate the water garden "shadyside," painesville, ohio. mrs. h. p. knapp] [illustration: plate "indian hill"] [illustration: plate "indian hill," mentor, ohio. mrs. john e. newell] xiv michigan and wisconsin favored indeed are the gardens of these states, which border on the great lakes, some five hundred and eighty feet above sea-level. the country in most parts is fertile and flat, with a climate superior to that of new england in summer, and winters equally as cold. to quote our well known garden friend, mrs. francis king, of alma, in central michigan: "we have a very fine summer climate, most favorable to gardening; no humidity whatsoever, but dry and bracing, and while a short summer, a merry one for flowers. we must plan for a late spring, and frost is due in early september; but when we have learned these things it is very simple to arrange for them. our rainfall is usually sufficient, and we practically never suffer from the heat. hardy chrysanthemums need a very sheltered position in winter. at detroit, one hundred and fifty miles southeast of alma, the trees are in spring foliage almost ten days earlier, partly owing to the distance southward and partly to the warming influence of lake st. clair." the garden at orchard house, alma, so vividly described in "the well-considered garden," is too familiar to most gardeners to need description. briefly, the planting over the large space is all balanced in predominating colors of rose, lavender, white, and palest yellow. gray foliage and white flowers are freely used, and through the entire summer there is not one week when the whole garden is not gay with flowers from june until frost. to the northeast of alma is the lovely garden at garra-tigh, where daffodils bloom, as in alma, three weeks later than near the city of new york. bay city is in the latitude of portland, maine, and central oregon. this attractive garden shows the effective combination of flowers and trees so well arranged that the trees are not detrimental to the vigor of the plants, and the sunny garden space is doubly radiant by contrast, lying within the trees' encircling shadows. garra-tigh is the gaelic for house with the garden. near detroit, at fairlawn, grosse pointe shores, on lake st. clair, where the country is flat and fertile, there is another delightful place of interest noted for the abundance of flowers covering several acres of land. the accompanying photograph was made in early september, when the best of the bloom had passed. in june and july the place is a glory with lilies, columbine, and delphinium that are counted in hundreds, and earlier there are tulips and daffodils by the thousands. behind the broad borders that edge the walks vegetables grow in great quantities. early tulips come the first week of may, late tulips about may . climate and soil combine to simplify the gardening tasks in this productive country. the house in the woods, on lake geneva, wisconsin, has a beautiful garden so well planned that it seems like an outdoor room to this charming villa. the planting scheme is moderate, easily maintained, and yet with beds broad enough to include without difficulty the plants for a long, continuous bloom. opposite the house the picturesque studio, standing out against the wooded background, borders the garden on this side so that it lies within an enclosed court. [illustration: plate "orchard house," alma, mich. mrs. francis king] [illustration: plate "garra-tigh," bay city, mich. mrs. william l. clements] [illustration: plate "fairlawn," grosse pointe shores, mich. mrs. benjamin s. warren] [illustration: plate studio from main house] [illustration: plate court from studio terrace "house-in-the-woods," lake geneva, wis. frederic clay bartlett, esq.] xv new mexico the mountainous states of the west, from montana to new mexico, from colorado almost to the pacific, have a climate of their own, varying naturally according to latitude. a resident of las cruces, new mexico, writes: "the first killing frost is usually to be expected from the th to the th of october, very often it is much later, and we have had tomatoes till december with the slightest possible protection. many flowers in a sheltered position bloom in winter, such as calendula, violets, wallflowers, and pansies. the highest ordinary summer thermometer is ninety-two to ninety-eight degrees. the lowest usually in winter is fifteen degrees--occasionally it has gone down to fifteen or twenty degrees below zero, but that is most exceptional. the climate is extremely dry. most of new mexico is at a high altitude--we are about three thousand eight hundred feet above sea-level here. "as some plants blossom through the winter, it is hard to say when the garden begins to bloom. but about the middle of march we have crocuses, followed the st of april by jonquils, narcissus, tulips, and other bulbs, also german iris, lilac, periwinkles, cornflower, mignonette. in the mountains near-by the california poppies bloom at the same time. then about mid-april come tea roses--and at the end of april or soon after the peonies and sweet peas. the st of may or a little later honeysuckles, phlox, snapdragon, zinnias, and annual larkspurs appear. almost everything that is not extremely tender can be wintered in open ground without protection. tender annuals should be planted out about the end of march. i transplanted some things last year the end of april, and the noonday sun was too much for them, though i shaded them for some time. we plant seeds of pansies, asters, sweet peas, etc., in the fall for best results." the garden at mr. barker's mountain home is delightfully fitted to its surroundings, where nature is supreme and all else studied simplicity. flowers revel in their freedom without the restriction of conventional beds. flowers, nature, and the simple life of the southern hills is the message from this distant home. [illustration: plate las cruces, n. m. percy w. barker, esq.] xvi california the garden section of this state extends the length of its coast, and possibly fifty miles inland, and much is conveyed in a few words when it is described as one garden throughout this whole region. in the hill country mountains are admirable settings to tropical gardens, and from there to the sandy shores a delectable climate with prevailing westerly sea-winds encourages phenomenal growth of the choicest plants. southern california is particularly blessed with a clear, dry, and balmy climate. quoting an authority in santa barbara: "there is practically no frost in southern california; in the north there is some. there are flowers in our gardens at all times of the year. tulips bloom in february and march; daffodils, german iris, and other hardies from february to may; also lilies-of-the-valley, which latter are more scarce on account of the dryness of the atmosphere. from march till autumn there is bloom from sweet william, phlox, and many others of their kind, while geranium, the common marguerite, and heliotrope grow all the year around and become large bushes. roses cover the tops of some villas; cosmos, california poppy, zinnia, nasturtium, and stock are among the favorite annuals; and all, whether hardy or tender, may be planted out in march when the winter rains are over. some of the favorite exotic shrubs used for their bloom are the acacias, genista, etc., solanums, and choisia ternata." quite common are the great poinsetta plants and the soft, trailing bougainvillea, with its exquisite red matching in tone the color of our autumn leaves. boxwood is little used in this climate. toward san francisco and northward it is found in greater quantity. to the south it is replaced by myrtus communis nanus, myrtus microphylla, veronica andersonii for low hedges; monterey cypress, eugenia myrtifolia, different species of ligustrum (privet), which are all evergreen here, duranta plumerii, and others. the highest temperature in santa barbara for a few days in fall is about eighty-six degrees fahrenheit and the lowest in winter is forty degrees for a few days. the summers are very cool. the climate of santa barbara is quite similar to sorrento, italy, only better. the farther north on the coast the more rain. in santa barbara there is sunshine continually, except for the brief period of rain in winter. the warmest months are august, september, and october. from may to august there are fogs at night along the coast which keep the temperature down during the day. in this paradise of sunshine and flowers are found a bewildering number of wonderful subjects for photography, some of which must give an idea of the favored vegetation of california. at kimberly crest, as in the other views, most conspicuous is the brilliant clearness of the atmosphere. this beautiful country-seat is a sample of many which are built more or less on a similar plan, and especially noted for their profusion of choicest shrubs, trees, and flowering plants. at glendessary is found one of california's favorite gardens, where the strong sunshine is moderated by the plentiful use of trees so carefully arranged that the shadows do not disturb the growths of flowers, which bloom abundantly throughout this lovely place. the flower garden at piranhurst, named for saint piran, an irish saint, is exceedingly picturesque. the wonderful greek theatre, with its wings of tall, clipped cypress, is without a rival in this country. the design was modelled after one at the villa gori, in italy. this remarkable planting, together with the roses and other flora in the adjoining garden, combine to make it one of the most famous places on the coast. the owner of piranhurst is also possessor of the garden at ross, partly shown in the view of a fountain, with its hill background covered with massively grouped hydrangeas and rose vines. perfectly complete in every detail is the lovely pool in doctor schiffman's garden. it seems more a product of the old world across the sea, while fitting so happily into the tropical atmosphere of pasadena. the marvellous growth of banksia and cherokee roses, the field of marguerites, and the background of snow-peaked mountains, all so characteristic of california, belong to cañon crest park, an estate well known to many travellers. wonderful, too, are the palms that overarch the driveway, and beautiful the gardens and panorama beyond. the cactus planting of a san diego garden is an interesting study in the horticulture of california--this most favored state of the great union. [illustration: plate "kimberly crest"] [illustration: plate "kimberly crest," redlands, cal. mrs. j. a. kimberly] [illustration: plate "glendessary," santa barbara, cal. mrs. r. c. rogers _from a photograph by brock-higgins_] [illustration: plate the greek theatre--the stage] [illustration: plate the greek theatre--the boxes "piranhurst," santa barbara, cal. mrs. henry bothin] [illustration: plate "piranhurst," santa barbara, cal. mrs. henry bothin] [illustration: plate ross, cal. mrs. henry bothin] [illustration: plate pasadena, cal. rev. mr. schiffman _from a photograph, copyright, by detroit publishing co._] [illustration: plate "cañon crest park"] [illustration: plate "cañon crest park," redlands, cal. mrs. daniel smiley] [illustration: plate "cañon crest park"] [illustration: plate "cañon crest park," redlands, cal. mrs. daniel smiley] [illustration: plate a cactus garden, riverside, cal. typical growth in california _from a photograph by brown brothers_] xvii oregon and washington in this coast region of the northwest, shrubs, trees, and vines develop rapidly and give sooner to the garden the appearance of completeness than is the case in the drier climates. an authority from portland says: "the growing season is long, lasting from march to november , and in the places where lawns are well kept they are green throughout the entire winter. at this period, however, the grass does not grow enough to require clipping. several shrubs, such as the laurestinus, remain in foliage throughout the entire winter. usually a few belated roses are found on the bushes as late as christmas, not the perfect blooms of summer, by any means, but sufficiently good-looking to adorn a vase in the drawing-room. the freezing weather would ordinarily come in january and be very limited in duration." in february the spring bulbs, daffodils and forsythia, appear. at tacoma and throughout the coast section of washington the climate differs but slightly from that of portland, oregon, the latter having probably less rain and mist, but the whole coast is ideal for flowers. the summer is the dryest season, when gardens will require some sprinkling but not to the extent necessary in most portions of the country. another authority states that in this northwest coast district it is clear per cent of the year between sunrise and sunset. on an average, clear days, partly clear days, cloudy days. a day which is up to three-tenths cloudy is classed as clear. a day four-tenths to seven-tenths cloudy is classed as partly clear. days in excess of four-tenths cloudy classed as cloudy. near tacoma, among majestic surroundings of forest and lake, with mount tacoma as a background, are the famous gardens of thornewood, rich in flowers and shrubs and splendid garden architecture. trees and hedges will wither and die, but the "everlasting hills" and the silver waters of american lake will form a perpetual background to this beautiful place, built in and standing as the pioneer great garden of the state. gardens even in the cities are becoming numerous, and attached to many fine residences the planting, though now in its youth, promises to add great adornment in the near future to these municipalities of the northwest. mr. merrill's spacious place in seattle, partly shown in two small views, illustrates the delightful possibilities of a town garden. the rose hedge and lovely rose garden at rose crest are typical of hundreds of others in portland. the hedges are usually made up of madame caroline testout roses, the most popular sort there; in fact, portland's official emblem. by june , along the curbing of the avenues, there are miles of roses in bloom, and, as may be imagined, the effect is very pleasing. the climate of western oregon is quite similar to favored portions of england, but has the advantage of more sunshine. the variety of vegetation is almost endless. plants native to england will grow here that will not thrive in other parts of the united states, and the gardening tasks are simple in comparison to the toil necessary where gardens are subject to greater extremes of heat, cold, drought, and similar problems. cliff cottage and high hatch, both about six miles south of portland, on the willamette river, possess gardens in their beginning, both interestingly planned and already known to garden lovers even beyond the limits of that state. the cliff cottage garden is designed in four terraces, with a rich background of primeval trees. dwarf fruit trees and vegetables fill the beds that are all bordered with flowers. the stone stairway leading to the several terraces is in keeping with the natural surroundings of a wooded hillside. rock planting is also a feature. the landscape in the distance is a beautiful outlook. high hatch has a combination of upper and lower garden, partly in a rock garden, spread out over considerable undulating land with winding gravel paths and stone stairs connecting the various parts. a wide white stone balustrade divides the broad lawn from the gardens below, and a fine growth of aged pines completes the adornment of the place. [illustration: plate "thornewood," tacoma, wash. mrs. chester thorne] [illustration: plate "thornewood"] [illustration: plate "thornewood," tacoma, wash. chester thorne, esq.] [illustration: plate seattle, wash. robert merrill, esq.] [illustration: plate seattle, wash. robert merrill, esq.] [illustration: plate section of a rose hedge bordering an avenue in portland, ore.] [illustration: plate "rosecrest," portland heights, portland, ore. mrs. f. i. fuller] [illustration: plate a garden in three terraces "cliff cottage," elk rock, portland, ore. peter kerr, esq.] [illustration: plate a rock garden leading to formal garden "high hatch," riverwood, portland, ore. thomas kerr, esq.] xviii alaska _last_, but not least, comes alaska; even if last to arrive on the map of the union, yet not least in size of territory or in flowers, and with still another condition of climate to be considered. alaskan gardens are as yet but tiny modest plots against the gray log cabins, suggesting the homes of our pilgrim fathers on the milder new england coast so long ago, and as we think of the stone and marble pergolas in modern new england, there comes the suggestion: "then why not alaska likewise some day?" to those who think of alaska only as a land of snow and ice, descriptions of its flower-surrounded log cabins seem like impossible dreams. quoting from reverend mr. lumpkin's paper: "in coming into alaska, you first awake to the beautiful reality in skagway. this is the point where the white pass road is taken to make connection with the river boats for the interior. your eyes rest upon the wonderful fulfilment of the flowers and your crag-weary soul is refreshed. "every growing thing in alaska seems to exemplify the alaskan spirit, and that is to make the very best of bad conditions, and to make the very most of the many good ones. with the dark winters and short summers, every ray of sunshine has to be used, and when in the summer the sun shines all day and nearly all night for three months, there is no time for loafing in flower land. "just take a walk down through fairbanks in july and you will begin to think that wonders will never cease. you will see flowers, that at home you had to coax and nurse into growth, here in radiant, luxuriant masses. the pansies are unusually large, whole borders of them, and paths bordered with beds a foot wide, filled to the edges with changeable velvet. sweet peas grow up to the tops of the fences, and then, if no further support is given them, over they go, back to the ground again. all summer the nasturtiums climb nearer and nearer the roofs of the cabins, and bloom and bloom in sheer delight. some paths are bordered with poppies, big stately red and white, and white and pink ones, or the golden california beauties. these natives of warmer climes seem perfectly at home in the northland. asters scorn hothouses and grow in profusion wherever they are planted, and wherever they are they are beautiful. they are as large as the chrysanthemums the easterner delights in, and of all the various changes of colors. by them, perhaps, will be dahlias as large and rich as any you have ever seen. the more beauty-loving and flower-loving the owner of the garden, the longer you will stay to look and wonder. candytuft, sweet alyssum, and mignonette will greet you from their accustomed places on the borders of beds of flowers, and you will almost smile at them as at some old-time friend. then you will see where some daring gardener has bordered the beds with phlox or snapdragon, and you will feel compelled to admire the result. "never have i seen such begonias. the flowers are like camellias, and the colors exquisite. shades of pale yellow to deep yellow, pale pink to deep pink, and the pure white. the geraniums, too, grow to giant size, and seem to be ever-blooming. one really is tempted to feel the stalks of some of them before it can be believed that they are not two plants tied together. there was a geranium in one of the small towns which filled the window of a store. "many cabins have five or more baskets hanging from the eaves. imagine gray log cabins with birch baskets filled with blue lobelias; flame-colored nasturtiums climbing to the roof, beds of velvet pansies, borders of crimson poppies leading to the gate, where golden california poppies make way for you to pass, and beyond, the distant alaskan mountains, snow-covered and glistening in the sun. imagine one cabin, and then think of streets of them; change your flower colors as you will, as a child changes his kaleidoscope, and you will have some idea of alaska flower land."[ ] footnotes: [ ] from _the alaskan churchman_. xix vancouver island the lure of the far-famed gardens of the island so close to our shores is enticing enough to make a happy excuse for giving the space of a page to one of its smaller gardens. in the heart of this fair garden, in the country of the englishman, at the end of this book on american gardens, the author, though a proud american, unhesitatingly admits that usually it is the englishman who has inspired us to make gardens as nearly as possible like those of the mother country. is it the old blood that is stirring within us, the common bond of past associations and brotherhood so often expressed in our physical resemblances as well as in many of our ideals? the garden in the accompanying illustrations shows a beautiful combination of flowers with picturesque old trees. the climate of this favored place is even more delightful and balmy than that of the mainland, and the charm of the great pacific is doubly felt along these quiet shores. the untravelled may picture it as isolated and forsaken, but rather is it just enough retired to be apart without loneliness; and, except, in a few cities, excluding the turmoil of the world, yet hospitably open to the friendly passer-by. there is more sunshine here than in england, although the climates are very similar. on vancouver island there are the four distinct, well-defined seasons; the temperature is more like that of portland than of tacoma. the island is generously covered with vegetation, and when its native wild flowers are considered, in addition to the gardens in rich cultivation, it may well be called a garden island. [illustration: plate victoria city, vancouver island, b. c.] [illustration: plate victoria city, vancouver island, b. c.] a few garden gates [illustration: plate longview, tenn. mrs. james e. caldwell _from a photograph by g. c. dury & co. reproduced by permission of the author of "your garden and mine"_] [illustration: plate "knock-mae-cree," westport, conn. mrs. william curtis gibson _from a photograph by brown brothers_] [illustration: plate ] [illustration: plate "hamilton house," south berwick, maine. mrs. george s. tyson] [illustration: plate ] [illustration: plate "glen alpine," morristown, n. j. charles w. mcalpin, esq.] [illustration: plate east hampton, l. i. mrs. theron g. strong] [illustration: plate "glendessary," santa barbara, cal. mrs. r. c. rogers] [illustration: plate "clifton," cincinnati, ohio. mrs. samuel h. taft] [illustration: plate "thornewood," tacoma, wash. chester thorne, esq.] scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. [illustration: book cover] garden ornaments [illustration: tall poplars lend dignity to a garden setting] garden ornaments by mary h. northend illustrated [illustration] new york duffield & company copyright, , by duffield & co. _i dedicate this garden book to my friend_ ekin wallick contents chapter page foreword i. the garden path and border ii. the pergola and arch iii. the tea house in the garden iv. the garden steps v. entrances vi. bird baths vii. garden seats viii. garden pools ix. the sun-dial in the garden x. the fountain illustrations tall poplars lend dignity to a garden setting _frontispiece_ let gutters of cobblestones line your path _facing p._ a successful grass path a brick-paved path flanked by many-hued iris the sunlight sifts through the sheltering vines of the pergola build your pergola with cobblestone supports and rustic top the moss grows between the stone walk a tea-house stepping-stones in a grass path lily ponds in a formal garden stone steps attractively planned a fountain that serves as a background for a lily pond marble steps leading to the water in a formal garden an old-fashioned garden is often entered under an arch of latticework a fine decorative iron gateway a successful entrance to a formal garden the central feature of the garden may be a bird-bath a well-placed bird-bath an ornament delightfully used to mark the opening of paths through woods a formal garden seat a simple and attractive garden seat stately lilies add charm and dignity to a gravelled walk a pond-lily pool of a very attractive shape a lily pond that fills charmingly a corner of a garden there is an ever-changing beauty to a garden whose paths are broken here and there by pools grassy paths lead pleasantly to the sun-dial the sun-dial is a feature in itself an old well used effectively as a decorative feature narcissus stands in the heart of the fountain a roman fountain placed against a very appropriate background an artistic fountain particularly well placed this wall fountain with its shell background and basin is most fittingly placed foreword doubtless we have all realized the allurement of the garden, as we walk between the beds, drinking in the sweet perfume of the many flowers, or as we watch the birds perched on the branches or lazily swinging on the flowers, twittering to their mates as they sip the nectar or prune their plumage, after bathing in the sparkling water of the pool. there is more than enjoyment that comes to the garden lover through his life among the plants. he grows broader and becomes forgetful of the trivial cares and prejudices of every-day life as he watches their development. he comes to the garden for inspiration and finds it among the flowers. we are by nature garden lovers, and though with some the feeling has not as yet been developed, yet deep in the depths of their soul is a yearning for intercourse with nature and her lessons--taught through the cultivation of flowers. it spells contentment, happiness and love. it is a delight to visit gardens, and study the character of the designer. it is no hard matter to read through varied planting likes and dislikes in the owner. it brings us closer together, this mutual love of floriculture, and it is in discussion of this theme that we forget the sordid phases of life. visit the gardens with me, listen to the anthem of the birds sung at morn and eventide. learn their habits, and make them friends, so that they will nestle into your often lonely life, bringing with them a gladness that is not only delightful but alluring. many a love story has been told among the flowers, many a real story has been developed as one sat gazing at some flower-laden field. joy and sadness has been our varied lot since we began our garden work, but as the years go on, gladness predominates. we grow to look forward with a tender longing for the coming spring. we hang lovingly over the opening buds of the early flowers. we are glad that we, too, have grown to know the flowers, that we have learned through their poetic language solace for the wounded soul, and how to live better lives, through intercourse with them. to my many friends who have made it possible for me to visit their gardens, and to reproduce their carefully thought out schemes in pictures, i extend my hearty thanks. it has done much to make not only my life but other lives happier. it is with the hope that others may find the same enjoyment in this work that i have that i send it forth to perform its mission and with the hope that it may encourage others to start gardens of their own and to give to them a happiness they have never known before. if i have accomplished this i have met the desire of my heart. the garden path and border [illustration: let gutters of cobblestones line your path] chapter i the garden path and border "all the world's a garden and we are garden lovers in it." this is not a new theme, for it has been in existence ever since the planting of the early flower plots, those that were in evidence in our grand-dames' time. there is a distinct atmosphere connected with those simple one-path gardens that is most delightful. it lies not only in the gravel paths and the stiff box-borders, but in the fragrant old-fashioned flowers that were grown promiscuously inside the trim line of box. perchance some dainty line of cinnamon pinks whose delicate blossoms when we find them in the twentieth-century gardens, carry us back vividly to the colonial days when they so often formed a part of the garden scheme. great changes have taken place in the evolution of the posy beds, for, with the passage of time, they have developed into wide expanses of floral landscape, subtly moulded into charming pictures and fascinating vistas. in the planting and the planning of the flower beds of the present day many of the general motives of the older gardens have been retained. they have, however, been enlarged upon and developed until they are perfected in every detail. the landscape architect of to-day realizes that the achievements of yesterday can be interwoven with the possibilities of to-morrow. as we saunter leisurely through the twentieth-century garden, we come occasionally upon a simple box-border, much more scientifically treated than those of long ago. this special feature of garden culture should be planted in the early spring that it may obtain deep rooting, so as to resist the ravages of the winter season. the plants should not overcrowd but be set three inches apart in narrow, shallow trenches, with plenty of mulching to insure the best results. unlike those found in the gardens of colonial days, they should be carefully clipped, sometimes for topiary effects. here and there, we come unexpectedly upon old-time flower plots, showing a box-border, not like those of the present day, carefully trimmed, but scraggly and unkempt, preserved for sentiment's sake. they still line the central walk, much as they did long years ago. in those days there was no laying-out of gardens or creating odd designs, but, instead, there was a simple, narrow, dividing line, worked out by the removal of turf and filling in with earth. few realize that garden culture can be divided into periods, each one of which is well defined, so that it is possible to determine where the old-fashioned ideas left off and the new-fashioned ones began. the earliest period has a straight, simple path, about six feet in width. these gardens came into existence when our shipping was greater on the sea and the merchant princes demanded large and more elegant houses with gardens laid out in the rear. many of these were planned by the mistresses of the stately homes, while some were designed by english or german gardeners, who in their planting reproduced the gardens across the seas. there are a few only that deviate from the general plan of the single walk dividing the beds and ending in a summer house, vine-clad, where the colonial dames during the summer months held afternoon teas. these garden houses were the nucleus of the garden furniture that has come into fashion with the passing of time. one of the distinctive features connected with these gardens is the border. this varies in width with the size of the plot and the flowers enclosed. it must be borne in mind that the gardeners of those days knew little of the theory of color schemes, yet the results were pleasing to the eye, so much so that to-day the old-fashioned garden stands in a class by itself. with the evolution of gardens, new ideas sprang into existence. all landscape architects realize the importance of giving particular attention to the laying-out of the path. here the bit of garden demands a straight path, yonder to bring gardens into unity a grass path should be laid, while level stretches demand charming floral treatment, wrought out through proper use of flowers in the borders. [illustration: a successful grass path] every ambitious gardener realizes that during the summer months, his particular garden will be on dress parade, and must be always at its best. therefore, he gives special attention to the trimming of the borders, the smoothing of the path and the right coloring in beds, so that no discordant note be found. every part must be kept in good condition, for there are no closed doors for untidiness to skulk behind. this he knows means constant and unremitting care and that he may avoid sameness, he changes the flower scheme every year, to give a fresh note to the planting of his own particular plot. the greatest care must be taken that borders are properly balanced, for any deviation from this rule results in lop-sided effects that spell failure. no walk in any part of the garden but should be planned to serve a definite purpose, either to connect other paths or at its end to bring out some carefully laid plan that will lend a picturesque effect to the finished design. let us take as an instance a curved path. first of all, we must realize that it is not following any haphazard plan but has a definite aim. perchance it has been most carefully laid out to avoid the felling of a tree that is needed for picturesque effect, but whatever the object may be, it is fulfilled by the design of this particular path. there are to be found, quite frequently on large, extensive grounds, grass paths that cut the lawn, connecting separated gardens. in any case like this, how much better to introduce english stepping stones. there is a picturesque coloring in their soft, gray hue, contrasting pleasingly with a line of grass between. they also break the monotony given by a solid mass of green and lend to this particular part of the ground an old-world aspect. have you ever stopped to think when planning for your next year's garden that designs can be easily varied to bring out some new thought and make a change that is alluring? it is the careful introduction of these novel ideas that gives zest to garden culture. every person has a different idea of what is right in garden culture and unconsciously treats the old plan in an individual manner. a little touch here and there goes a great way in producing odd effects. among the many materials that can be used for this feature of the garden is brick, and of this there are many kinds. for the old-fashioned garden the second-hand brick gives a colonial atmosphere. for the gardens of to-day it is generally better to use the hard, burned brick--these can be laid in straight lines or herring-bone fashion as fancy dictates, and should show a line of straight brick or headers as they approach the border. this feature should be used generally in formal types of garden landscape. great care should be taken, however, that the brick be laid perfectly dry and cemented in mortar. if you are looking for novelty, why not try cobblestones? they are very inexpensive, particularly if you live in a seaport town where the beaches are strewn with them. be sure to pick out those that are nearest the same size and shape, for this gives a better effect. there is nothing that gives a better backing for earth beds, especially as they are easily kept weeded. if the cobblestones prove too conspicuous for the scheme of the garden, it is a comparatively easy matter to plant as a background a flowering plant that will in time fall over them and hide them from view. a turf walk is, properly speaking, the most effective path. it also has many advantages, chief among them the fact that it is not hard to keep up and can be replaced with very little trouble, save the cutting of new sod. be very careful not to make the mistake of laying old sods that have been piled for a considerable length of time and have thus lost much of their vigor. in order to have them at their best they should be freshly cut and laid carefully in a rich foundation, the pieces joined as closely as possible together and the crevices filled in with either grass seed or dirt. plenty of watering means success; still one should not be impatient, for it is not until a second season that grass comes to its own. one difficulty in a border like this, which can, however, be easily remedied, is that it needs constant cutting to keep the grass from overrunning the beds. if you are planning a garden of the english type, it is well to carry out the idea of introducing irregular stones for the walk. it is desirable that the stones should not all be of the same size, otherwise there will be no chance for grass and moss to grow between them and give them the old-world aspect. in gardens of this type such a path is really imperative, for the flowers crowd against the dividing line and would be much less interesting if stones were not introduced. bear in mind, in dealing with this particular subject that the width of the walk depends in a great measure on the size of the garden. here a narrow path is all that is necessary to carry out the scheme; there, a wide one seems to fit appropriately into the plan. it is not always possible to have gardens large enough to allow a wide path, yet the effect of one can be produced by a little contriving; for instance, if you use grass for the central feature with an earth border on either side. if you desire a successful garden you should seek for variety, not only in the cutting of the walk, but in the planting of the borders. to-day everybody is striving for originality and to work out odd ideas that still are practical. one should remember, too, that no two gardens are exactly alike, any more than two faces bear an exact resemblance. in describing the border, one might liken it to the setting of a gem. doubtless, it might be said to be artificial but so is the planting of the flower plot. it is not nature's work, but designed by the hand of man and in it harmony should be developed in the highest degree. let us take as an example the damp garden. this is usually laid out in one corner of the estate. if we should treat it with a gravel walk, what would be the result--dampness and disappointment. now, let us change the whole plan and place stringers on which boards are laid, so nailed that they can be lifted during the winter season and stored away in a friendly barn or cellar. watch the result and you will find it is always dry and practical for usage. better still, if wearing properties do not have to be taken into consideration, use cedar boughs that resemble in contour miniature logs. they fit into place as if put there by nature, all the more if they are bordered by ferns. if you build at the further end a rustic summer house, it gives a refreshing touch. many garden lovers delight in collecting wild flowers, digging them up in the neighboring woods to blossom in their cultivated garden. why not give them a home by themselves in a rough rockery? this can easily be built from stones found on the estate. here we deviate from the stilted idea of paths and introduce stone steps. these should be large and rough enough to fit in with our plan. hardy ferns should be planted on either side and rock plants between the steps. you will then see the wisdom of creating a path like this which is in sympathy with the general idea of the garden. [illustration: a brick-paved path flanked by many-hued iris] landscape gardeners are at the present day endeavoring to work out results that are in harmony with any period that they are called upon to reproduce. occasionally they come upon a subject that is very difficult to treat, such as the concrete walk. this is an absolute necessity in some locations. yet, when finished, it presents a bare appearance and demands special treatment. very successful results are produced by bright borders of flowering plants, and if in addition to this an arch of wire or rustic boughs is made for the entrance and covered with rambler roses, of which to-day there are many varieties, a happy solution will be found to the perplexing problem of a colorless path. during the time of blossoming, the touch of brightness adds to the effect while later on the bright green of the leaves relieves the cold gray of the concrete. the late joseph jefferson, in speaking of gardens and their borders, once said, "they are all expectation." and so they are from the early spring when the first bulbs come into bloom until the falling of the late chrysanthemum. as we con the seedman's list to prepare for the spring gardening, we go through the procession of the seasons noting the colors and finding a joy in anticipation that is exhilarating. in order to give correct handling to your paths, the color scheme of the borders should be taken into consideration. different kinds of gardens demand varied treatment, and for this, the situation on the grounds and the type of the walk, should be carefully thought out. for earliest bloom, one should use bulbs. to have them at their best they should be planted in the fall, about six weeks before the hard frost sets in. trenches are first dug, from twelve to eighteen inches deep, enriched and topped with a layer of sand, to insure the bulbs touching nothing else. each bulb should be planted six inches deep and the same number of inches apart. they should be covered with from four to six inches of straw, dead leaves--hardwood ones being best for this purpose--or pine branches. great care should be taken that these are not removed too early in the spring. years of careful experiment have developed better colors and more strength in bulbs and have succeeded in producing a greater variety, both single to double. this evolution in bulbs makes it possible to choose suitable varieties for any border work. snow drops are the first to poke their tiny heads up through the cold, hard earth. they rise above the snow, bringing gladness in their train. then comes a procession of dainty bulbs including the hyacinth with its many hues, and the tulips, that stay by us until late in may, clothed in dolly varden gowns, or simple quaker garb. it is a good plan to plant pansies among the bulbs, so that they will show their painted faces before the last bloom has disappeared. many people in such borders use sweet alyssum for the outer row, but this, while it is decorative, is not always satisfactory for it grows so high that it is apt to shadow the major scheme. bulbs can be left in the ground for a second year's blossoming or if new varieties are desired they can be carefully lifted and replaced by potted plants, such as the scarlet geranium or the dusty miller, whose soft gray sheen makes an interesting note of color as a foreground for the bed that stretches down to touch it, a solid mass of one-toned flowers. within the last few years iris has become a popular accessory for border use. one reason for this is that it stays in bloom from the time of its first opening until the hot blast of the august sun touches its closed head. well may this be termed the "fairy's favorite flower," it is so dainty in its hues. the rose moss or portulaca is a valuable border plant. it grows luxuriantly in sandy soil, where no moisture is retained, and seems to draw sufficient sustenance from the dews that fall at night, rather than from the unkindly sand which touches its tiny roots. one advantage in its use is that it grows quickly from seed, that is, if it is planted in a dry spot. the needle-shaped foliage is inconspicuous, while the blossoms are as brilliant as poppies and are produced in large numbers. a serious fault, however, is that it closes during the afternoon. if one decides to use portulaca, choose solid colors rather than to mix a mass of varied ones. for a shady bit of garden, why not try out delphiniums? they are not expensive, the roots costing about a dollar and a quarter a dozen, but they are so graceful that they are effective for use of this sort. the plants chosen must be in harmonious contrast to those that fill the beds, otherwise one shudders as they view the completed scheme and wonders how it is that the gardener is so color-blind. hardy borders or annuals are used very often. each of them having a distinctive charm, some gardens demanding one, and others another, so that one cannot dictate to the owner of a garden which kind is best for his use, it lies with his own whims and fancies, to develop beautiful combinations, and to work out variations of the last year's scheme, so that the gardens of yesterday may differ essentially from those of to-day. it may be that long borders of bright-eyed verbenas greet our eyes as we gaze upon the vari-colored beds, or perchance gorgeous sweet williams, vieing in hue are shown. tall rosy spikes of lythrum lift their heads, while stately hollyhocks uncurl their silky petals, shaking out the tucks and wrinkles of the bud like newly awakened butterflies stretching their wings. there is a busy hum of bees as we saunter down the garden path, stopping now and again to watch their flight as they light on flowers to sip their nectar, furry with golden pollen dust. so we stand wondering what our grand-dames would say could they view, with us to-day, the transformation of the old-fashioned garden, into a magnificent show of rare plants in a well-developed design. the pergola and arch [illustration: the sunlight sifts through the sheltering vines of the pergola] chapter ii the pergola and arch "i have made me a garden and orchard, and have planted trees and all kinds of fruit." thus spake the wise solomon who in all his glory found time to enjoy his flowers. nowadays, blossoming plants are intermixed with marble fragments, and the garden contains many interesting features that were then unknown. sir william temple, on his return from a visit to holland, where he went for garden study, tells us that he found that four things were absolutely necessary in order to complete a perfect garden. "flowers, fruit, shade, and water." originality is to-day the key-note in every garden design. gardens have been developed with the passing of time so that instead of one type we find an infinite variety of styles, each one of them so distinctive that one need have little fear of repetition in results. here we find the formal, the italian garden while over yonder is the wild, and the rambling one. they are carefully designed to bring out some individual scheme. unlike the little posy plots of long ago with their unobtrusive green arbors, now we come upon a large space which has been laid out for picture effects. this is the work of the landscape architect, who takes as much pride in his garden structures, as does the architect in the design of his house. he vies with his rivals in producing odd effects with marble fragments and artistic combinations in his color scheme. each one of the many types, that are shown at the present day, shows distinctive features. these appear and disappear in endless variety, and among them are the pergola and the arch, the latter a grandchild of the green arbor that was in evidence in our grand-dames' time. unlike those seen in the old-fashioned gardens, it is not always built of wood. sometimes it is so placed as to define the terraces, leading with its shadowy treatment to delightful glimpses of vistas beyond, well laid out for this very purpose. again we find it shadowing the garden at one side, where it makes a covered walk, under which one can pass, and view the garden pleasantly. simple and unostentatious were the early gardens, for not until , was there found any trace of garden architecture in the north. it was about that year that one theodore hardingbrook, came to this country bringing with him a fund of information to strengthen and enlarge this line of work. he gathered around him a faithful, interested little band of students, and taught them new ideas, and awakened an ambition for new designs in colonial flower plots. then was evolved the little summer house with its cap of green, which stood generally at the foot of the garden path ending the central walk and it was then that the green arbor came into existence, spanning the centre of the little plot. covered with vines it made a pleasant break in the otherwise straight lines of the old-fashioned garden, and it also gave a touch of old-world gardens to the new-world plan. this was not the commencement of pergola construction, which had its origin in the vineyards of sunny italy. they were not like those of to-day, wonderfully beautiful in design but rude and rustic, roughly put together as a support for the vines. through the intersecting crevices fell glorious clusters of pale green and royal purple grapes, to ripen in the glimmering shade. these rough arbors, shadowed by hardy vines, graced the italian hillsides, when columbus as a wool comber's son frolicked the summer days away long years before he discovered the new country that lay across the sea. the birth of this feature was not romantic but plebeian, for it was built for practical use only. the hardy italian grape growers had come to a realizing sense that their fruit throve better if held aloft, and so they conceived the idea of a supporting arbor. as the bright sun filtered through the vines, the picturesqueness caught the attention of gardeners on large estates and from this was evolved the long pillared pathways over which cultivated vines were twined, casting their long shadows far over the path beyond in roman gardens. when larger and better gardens were demanded to meet the architecture of the large, square, colonial homes, green arbors were popular. they were crudely put together, often the work of the village carpenter, simple and unconventional in their treatment yet prettily draped with vines. during the summer months they were especially picturesque and inviting, with their little wooden seats placed on either side. to the garden came the gallant, dressed in knee breeches and wearing powdered wig, there to meet his lady love, bending low he plucked from the branches of the trailing vine a flower to deck his fair beloved's hair. [illustration: build your pergola with cobblestone supports and rustic top] these green arbors gave a distinct individuality to the old-time garden. over them were carefully twined the dutchman's pipe. it showed nestled away beneath its leaves, tiny, almost invisible little green pipes that were coveted by the little ones for "let's pretend smoke." invariably, the yellow and white baltimore belle rose sometimes known as the seven sisters, lent their charm, boldly peering out from under the vine to watch the lovers seated on the simple seats. they gave them a welcoming nod as they swayed to and fro in the passing breeze, mingling their blossoms, with a dainty scotch rose and the pink moss, that seemingly grew on the same stem. it is the former rose that was the greatest favorite, for it lasted longer, giving dashes of yellow like sunshine to light the dark, autumnal days. now and again, we come unexpectedly upon a garden such as this. it lies in the heart of a colonial city, hidden away from passers-by behind a high paling fence. the twentieth century pergola in the modern garden lends itself to a great variety of treatment. it is an important feature and should be properly treated in order to bring out the right effect. often the amateur, when dabbling with garden culture, neglects this feature on his grounds and gives it a wrong setting. it must be remembered that the mere setting out of a garden does not always bring about the best results. it should be done with some definite aim in view, such as color or suitability to situation. in this way only can one obtain perfection. there should be taken into consideration the formation of the different beds, especially those that are in close proximity. it cannot be a successful experiment unless carefully planned. if you have never tried to form combinations that will intensify the loveliness of the grounds by a happy gathering of right colors, you have missed a delightful experience. this idea does not come quickly to the amateur floriculturist, but once he fully grasps it, he turns as if by instinct to the structural part of the garden plan. it is then that he realizes that while he has not seemed to have progressed during his first year's work, yet he has laid a solid foundation that will stand him in good stead. in the midst of his garden he rears a house of flowers, placing it in a situation where he can watch the growth and maturing of the plants. each corner of the garden is given separate treatment. in some gardens, where the space is small, it would be impossible to carry out the pergola scheme. then it can be simplified and condensed into the child of the pergola, the arch, excellent for decorative effects. this means for flower showing can be made of wire, simply fastened to posts, bent into shape, or of wood and painted white; either of these methods is satisfactory and can, if properly used, be most successful. the arch, to fit in with the garden plan, should span the entrance. over it should be trained either a blossoming vine or many, to work out a succession of bloom. sometimes it will be the wisteria with its drooping clusters of lavender, or the rambler rose found in such a variety of colors to-day. these two with the clematis, are especially adapted for this purpose, if one is willing to use proper fertilizer and depth of planting. in order to insure better and more prolific growth, the vines should be cut back to about six or eight inches in height when first set out. it must be remembered in dealing with them that they are like little children, each one requiring individual care. we must also be sure that the soil is frequently stirred to avoid caking. properly placed, the curved trellis is a joy. it gives a decorative setting to the garden proper. as the eye travels down the path, it greets a charming bit of color in the bed of solid green that tops the roof. the arch would not be a proper note of setting for every garden. there are only certain kinds with which it blends. the narrow path demands it, for it needs a break to show it at its best. a judicious fashioning of a series of arches, extending here and there along the entire depth of the walk is sometimes attractive. they serve to break the monotony and add a flower note that is delightful. in the planning of these, great care should be taken that they are set at proper intervals. they should be on the same level and correspond in width, otherwise the result would be a wavy line that is most distressing. [illustration: the moss grows between the stone walk] the color scheme depends on garden planting. if lavender is chosen it should be reproduced all through the line. do not be so foolish as to choose one vine only but plant them in order to make a succession of bloom. one does not wish to view a spot of color now and a mass of green later on. there are so many different kinds of vines that can be planted for this use, each one of which is admirable, that it is hard to choose. commencing with the earliest why not take the american or the loose-cluster wisteria. it has many advantages over other vines, in that it is a strong grower and bears an abundant cluster of flowers resembling the sweet pea in formation. one can reasonably assert, that the wisteria is the leading flower for the pergola or arbor. it dons a rich and graceful foliage and unlike other vines, has two distinct seasons of bloom. it is especially good if one wishes to carry out a one-tone color scheme, making lavender the key-note, and using this particular vine for the early bloom in may, at which time the luxuriant clusters of drooping flowers show their wonderful shading as they peer through the arches dropping down below the leafy growth and making a note of exquisite beauty. in august, when they show their second season of bloom, the flowers are less abundant. they should be followed by the clematis jackman. this vine, if it reaches maturity, is most effective, but it has the distinct disadvantage that though it starts right, and sends out shoots, they are apt to blight early and disappoint the gardener by dying before putting forth its wonderfully beautiful flowers. june, the month of roses, is a suitable time for one to watch for the blossoming of this vine. many people avoid the coboea scandens on account of the large, conspicuous flowers it produces. they make a decided mistake when they shun this particular vine, for it has good qualifications for pergola covering. no vine grows more rapidly, as it reaches often from twenty-five to thirty feet in a single season. it bursts into blossom in july, in rich, purple, trumpet-shaped flowers. for the successful growth of vines many things have to be considered but principally the soil. the amateur makes a mistake in starving the ground, and thus losing half the quality it would otherwise have had. in order to obtain the best results, put plenty of barn-yard manure, or bone meal, at the foot of the trellis, and this should be plentifully renewed at the commencement of each year. rambler roses are one of the most effective treatments for arbor or pergola growth, and the most popular of these are the white, yellow, crimson and pink. each year new varieties are put upon the market and if one wishes to follow the new ideas they will be forced to constantly change the plants. in some cases, the pergola is used to form a trellised pavilion or summer house to shelter a marble statue and again with carved setting to outline a bed, as the central feature around which the flowers are arranged. thus the simple vineyard trellis has been transformed into a gem of graceful construction, and we find it to-day, with its slender marble columns, supporting a delicately carved marble roof of slabs, over and through which the green of the vine, and the glint of the flower hover, dipping down between the intervening sections, in festoons of green and color. it can well be called a distinctive summer structure, for with the sun streaming through its mass of vines, it shadows the walks from may until late october. in the long winter months boxed in it stands like a sentinel guarding the long, bare paths, and showing a leafless network of interlacing vines. the pergola of to-day is not like that of yesterday. when first introduced into our gardens it was taken up on many small estates, and so badly designed that it combined badly with the garden. it was then it fell into disfavor and was pronounced a failure for use in our garden plan. but landscape gardeners, with an eye to the unique, felt that it was a necessary rounding-out of the garden design, and rescued from ignominy, it took its place in right surroundings, in the heart of the garden with a border of elaborate flower designs. garden seats were placed inside and when it fronted on an italian garden, a fountain was often introduced, the musical tinkle of the spouting water giving a special charm. among the many designs the simplest is a simple rustic frame structure, appropriate for small or wild gardens. it is formed of cedar posts driven four feet into the ground, and reaching to the height of eight feet. this is covered with a beam or a slab roof structure over which is trained the morning glory, the california creeper, or the grape. this latter is much used, the picturesqueness of the ripening fruit adding to its attractiveness. these pergolas are generally eight feet wide and have for a flooring irregular flags through which peer grass or moss. this type of garden furniture is perfectly well adapted to italian, english, or colonial types of architecture, and is constructed often of marble. it is not merely an ornament but a useful adjunct to a garden, and can be made of concrete, or cobblestone, if one does not wish to go to the expense of using marble. there is a modern form of this feature that is a development from century-old customs, the porch-pergola which is fast supplanting the old covered porches of yesterday. this is designed with an open, vine-covered roof. it gives an added charm to the exterior of the house and furnishes a shady nook for sunny days, without the drawback of the old porch whose roof darkened the house in winter by withholding the sun. no one, no matter how small their grounds, need deny themselves a pergola. it is such an important feature and so decorative that it is almost a necessity. for the little backyard it may be simply a rustic porch planted in the middle of the garden. properly laid out, it can be used as an out-of-doors living room. across the end a hammock can be swung, while table and chairs can be fitted in at one side. the tea house in the garden [illustration: a tea-house] chapter iii the tea house in the garden there is a delightful imaginary intimacy that seemingly exists between we garden lovers who live in the twentieth century and those of early days. so closely are we connected by a common band of sympathy that we eagerly scan their books to glean here and there some important bit of garden lore that can be introduced into our work of to-day. it is this pleasant mingling of old and new-world gardens that gives to present-day designs such a delightful atmosphere. one of the old-time floriculturists, john lyle, tells us in his old-fashioned way, about the flowers that bloomed ages before our grand-dames were born. "gentlemen," he says, "what floure like you best in all this border? here be fine roses, sweete violets, fragrant primroses, gille floures, carnations, sops of wine, sweete john, and what may please you at sight." surely we see in retrospect, the gardens of that early day, and we come more and more to realize that all through the ages, the hand of man has fashioned nothing more beautiful than a garden of flowers. the most famous poets have not found any more ideal trysting spot in which to place their lovers. each individual part of the flower garden has its own distinctive charm. it lies not solely with the flowers that bloom so profusely in the beds nor with the marble fragments, for the romance of it all is centered in the little summer house, as it was quaintly named by our ancestors in the long ago. in these little tea houses, built in a retired part of the garden, the mistress loved to spend a pleasant summer afternoon, seated inside knitting flower thoughts into a shapely bag or reading some delightful book, which dropped from her hand, as she sat dreamily watching the unfolding of some favorite flower. let us enter one of these gardens, rich in its summer garb, walk slowly down the path, stopping now and again to view some bud slowly unfold its petals one by one, disclosing a new specimen to be added to the ever-increasing number that are comprised in the floral scheme, and waving a welcome as it is tossed to and fro by every passing breeze. over there against the white paling fence stands the stiff hollyhock nodding his satiny head to greet the dainty heliotrope who glances coquettishly up to meet his eye. nearby is a dialetrea or bleeding heart, the pet of the little ones, who pluck them to form tiny boats with snow white sails to float down the lily pond. bursting into bloom behind the stiff box border is the old-time "piny," sending bits of color into the sober green. none of the old colonial gardens were considered complete without an ever varying assortment of bloom. there were the sweet williams, bouncing bet, and perky little johnny-jump-up, sending greetings to his comrades nearby. flowers are everywhere, they peer out at us from hidden corners, swing their heads in very ecstasy of enjoyment of their being. simplicity was the key-note in the construction of those summer houses that came into existence during the latter part of the seventeenth century. they stand for the first type of garden furniture made in our country, coming into vogue after the close of the grim struggle for existence made by our puritan forbears. then when the tide turned, and money flowed into the colonies, houseowners had more time to devote to garden culture. behind the large colonial houses sprang into existence gardens devoted to flowers, the owners doing the best they could with the material at hand. these delightful little plots secluded from the world outside by high paling fences were the homes of the old-fashioned flowers, many of them descendants of the originals, brought over in the ships that first touched our shores. they were not like the twentieth-century ones constructed of marble or concrete clothed with vines and standing in a wealth of up-to-date blooms, showing slender marble columns and carved capitals supporting the marble roof. rather are they covered with plain, every-day vines, such as the dutchman's pipe with its heavy leaving, clambering roses and the bitter sweet or roxbury waxwork, whose drooping bunches of yellow and red poke their heads through the lattice work, making a bit of bright color all through the winter months. this when the ground is covered with snow livens up the surroundings. on either side are planted a wealth of timely flowers, these include the sweet william, the hooded larkspur, and the many-colored phlox. many of these little garden houses show such a variety of form that they are interesting, fitting into their surroundings as if they had always been there. some are square, formed like a large box, depending for their picturesqueness on their coverings of vines. others are round, and still again we find oblong summer houses, each one fitted up with seats and sometimes a rustic table. occasionally, we come upon a more pretentious one that is two stories in height. they were planned in the early nineteenth century, some of these are still standing and among them we find that of elias haskett derby, designed by samuel mcintyre, salem's noted architect and wood-carver. for years it stood on the grounds of the summer home of mr. derby and to-day is so well preserved that it seems as if it had been recently built. exquisite carving is a feature of this particular tea house, where rural images top the roof. it is only in the gardens of the rich, that elaborate tea houses are found, simple designs grace the little gardens and are in harmony with their surroundings. the rustic summer house has its own mission to fulfill. its cost can be determined by conditions. some are finished in elaborately decorative designs while others show plain treatment. the best kind of wood to be used for this purpose is the red cedar which has wonderful lasting qualities. it is more expensive than the locust but out-wears any wood on the market. great care should be taken that the supports be placed deep enough to avoid throwing by the heavy winter frost. holes should be dug at least four feet deep, and squares of stone or cement pounded into the bottom to prevent its coming in contact with the earth and rotting. this makes a solid foundation, and durable. do not have the roof made flat, so that water can stand upon it and rot it, but raise it slightly and either shingle or thatch it. this last is an old-time handicraft that has recently been revived. following the old english rule, reeds are more endurable, while straw is admissible. an advantage of its use is that it grows handsomer with age. in its second year it has collected moss, weeds and plants, and these, matted down and weather-beaten, give it the hue of a gray lichen. if properly treated it will last for years. [illustration: stepping-stones in a grass path] one should, if possible, when planning the garden, include a summer house. there is no more enjoyable feature that can be constructed on the grounds. its design, size, situation and type, must correspond with the period of the garden. a formal lay-out should, in order to be correct, receive entirely different treatment in its setting from the italian, while the rambling depends upon simpler characteristics to produce correct results. rustic tea houses fit into this project appropriately. they would be entirely incongruous if placed in italian gardens elaborate in their plan and full of wonderful bits of marble fragments transplanted from foreign lands. fortunately for us, there are so many different types of gardens that one is not continually finding a repetition. garden houses, covered with bark, fit into simple plans, such as the rambling and the wild gardens, their rustic effect being in harmony with the flowers and beds. it is one thing to plan a summer house but quite another to pick out a suitable situation. it should not be placed in the heart of the flowers more especially where there are tall blossoms. let the beds in the foreground be low and show quiet colors, shading the height and brightness as they go farther afield, the most conspicuous being used for the extreme edge. here, like a beautiful picture, they fit into the landscape and produce correct effects. level stretches do not always bring about right results. if your ground slopes to the garden edge why not design a rustic tea house to fit into the hillside? should you visit it of a clear afternoon, seat yourself on the wooden settle and glance around you, you will be delighted with the view obtained. below is the garden rolled out like a carpet brightly patterned at your feet, smooth stretches of lawn between rest the eyes as they gaze off to the horizon when the blue of the sky seems to melt into the masses of waving bloom. do not start this feature of the garden unless you have first planned situation, size and cost, otherwise you will be disappointed, and may feel it is more expensive than you wished. if you do not care to bed it underneath, you will be sorry. every house of this sort should have a hard ashes or cement foundation in order to keep out the dampness. this is a serious fault which if not carefully watched results in quick rotting of the wood and constant expense. it is better to start right and in the end it will cost less. posts used for supports should be made of cedar or locust, driven four feet into the ground and resting on stone supports, used as preservatives. they can be elaborately designed or simple in finish and if plenty of air and light are wished for, trellis supports can be used, but if it demands shade, shingles or canvas painted, are advisable, the former better for rounded effects and the latter when a flat surface is used. marble is used prominently in italian gardens, whose elaborate setting demands striking effects. give the tea house a cover of soft green vines, dotted here and there with a bit of color and it will be a joy forever, taking on a dignity that is in keeping with its surroundings. cement, no matter where it is used, is always effective. in coloring and lines it seemingly fits into the elaborate landscape scheme and it improves with age. there is an advantage in the use of cement, in that it costs nothing for repairs, is fireproof, does not collect vermin, and is never shabby. with its clinging vine cover, it is a desirable material for use in the construction of tea houses when wood and marble are not suitable. there is a romantic charm in vine-clad tea houses. the clinging vine lends a picturesqueness to the slender columns and the slanting roof emphasizes the beauty of it all. there are so many decorative vines that are suitable for its use that it would be impossible to name them all. for marble, delicate, tender climbers are the best. for concrete a larger leaf can be used to give more stable effects, while for rustic tea houses, the large, hardy vines and stronger climbers are more suitable. each one has its own use, and appears at its best in congenial environment. the tiny canary-bird vine would make little show if allowed to clamber over rustic supports, while the boston or japanese ivy are especially adapted for this treatment. this is on account of the small, flat leaf that clings to the side, helping out the design without a deep massing of leaves. [illustration: lily ponds in a formal garden] some summer houses depend upon hardy vines for their cover and others on tender climbers whose delicate tendrils wind in and out clouding but not hiding the exterior coloring. it is the wise man who is able to provide a suitable over-spread for houses of this description. it must be remembered that it is not the cover alone but the planting that surrounds it that aids in the picturesque effect. there is as much need of careful thought here as there would be in any part of the scheme. for right coloring, height, and time of blossoming help or mar the plan. there is as much difference in the growth of vines as there is in children. some to be at their best require a very rich soil, while others will do equally well if it is poorer. the important thing, if you wish successful results, is to give them plenty of food, plenty of water and look out for a proper insecticide, in order not to retard their growth. a general rule that is permissible for almost any grounds is to dig a ditch from three to four feet deep and put in the bottom a foot of rotted manure. this can better be attended to in the fall, leaving time for it to get well soaked into the ground and ripen before planting. fill in alternate layers of soil and manure until the trench is even with the ground. in clay soil, it is better in order to lighten it to mix in a little sand. for a rustic summer house, where heavy planting is needed, a honeysuckle is effective. the scarlet or sempervirens is a very decorative variety and this differs greatly from the japanese one, bearing tubular scarlet flowers that continue in blossom all summer. of the many varieties this is the freest and the best. its leaves are a blueish green which make a pleasing contrast with the coral color of the flower. the clematis is always effective and is the best vine of medium growth in existence. its small, white, star-shaped flowers, deliciously fragrant, cover the vine completely in august. the japanese clematis or paniculata is most attractive. it prefers a sunny position, the foliage is handsome and at the end of august it bursts into a wonderful mass of fragrant, pure white, star-like flowers that last nearly a month. for shady places, the helix or english ivy is advisable. this well-known, small-leafed ivy is perfectly hardy in this section and is much used for covering the ground in shady places where grass refuses to grow. young growth sometimes gets winter killed, but this is due to sunburn rather than frost. for tea houses painted white and for concrete, wisteria takes a prominent place. it grows equally well in city and country, being able to withstand the smoke of cities. of these the multijuga loose cluster is advisable. it is not so strong a grower as the chinese varieties but distinguished from them by long, loose clusters of purple flowers sometimes obtaining a length of two feet. the crimson glory grape vine, coignetiae, is a strong grower, showing large, heart-shaped leaves, ten inches long, deep rich green on top and bright yellow beneath, which assume a brilliant scarlet in autumn. the grapes are black and form a pleasing contrast to the bright colors of the leaves. the canary bird vine is suitable for either this kind of a tea house or a marble one. it is a beautiful, rapid, annual grower and when in blossom, the charming little canary-colored blooms bear a fancied resemblance to a bird with wings half expanded. do not forget the cardinal climber which is a cross between the cyprus vine and the star glory. it attains a height of thirty feet or more with a beautiful form like laciniated foliage and is literally covered with a blaze of circular fiery cardinal red flowers from midsummer until frost. the flowers are about one and one-half inch in diameter and are borne in clusters from five to seven blossoms each. wherever it has been grown it has attracted favorable comments. it delights in a warm sunshiny situation and good soil. the kudzu vine or peuraria thunbergiana is very popular. it came from japan and is still rare. its flowers are large clusters similar to a white hydrangea and when in flower during july and august make a wonderful display. it is one of the best of the flowering vines to plant against a wall as it clings naturally to any rough surface. the plants selected for either side of the tea house need as much care in choosing right colors as do the vines. the garden steps [illustration: stone steps attractively planned] chapter iv the garden steps the air was laden with the sweet fragrance of flowers. they wafted a delightful welcome to the hardy explorers, who, worn with the long voyage, viewed for the first time the rocky shores of new england. their soothing influence brought heart to the wearied men, as they revelled in the spicy odors that brought in their train pleasant thoughts of the wonderful gardens they had left behind them. from the sandy coast of florida to the bleak new england shores they felt its enticing power. so pungent was the perfume, that it touched the heart of barlow, one of the commanders of raleigh's expedition who wrote on landing on the newly discovered shore, "we smelt so sweet and strong a smell, as if we had been in the midst of some delicate garden. the woods were not such as we find in europe, barren and fruitless, but the highest and reddest cedars, pines, cypresses, and many others of excellent quality. of grapes we found a plenty climbing over every shrub and tree down to the waters very edge. i think in all the world there is not the like in abundance." among the earliest settlers, came a colony of spaniards choosing for their home the sunny shores of florida. here in the heart of the woodland they made clearings, laying out extensive grounds that followed no set plan, but with semblance of the old-world garden. here they planted for coolness and shade, vines and trees, laid out their grounds with walks, paved like mosaic with vari-colored stones. in these gardens no semi-tropical plants, such as abounded on every side, were planted. it has always been man's way when warring with the wilderness that lay beyond his door, to gather into the enclosure flowers and plants that had been dear to his heart in his far-away native land, to re-establish the atmosphere of his old home in new surroundings. the colonists who settled on the southern shores of virginia, were men of rank, wealthy men, who had left stately homes to settle in this unknown land. in the lay-out of their gardens they introduced the elizabethean style of floriculture, following the fashion of the english gardens of that day. these old gardens showed terraces, steps, leading from walk to walk, paths laid at right angles, through which one walked to view the spaces intricately designed with "knotted" beds and mazes, each one of which conformed to details in the buildings of their stately homes. there were the first steps laid out in gardens in america, a novel feature that has been evolved into elaborate designs with the passing of the years. to-day no garden is complete that does not show some form of steps or terrace. rockeries have come into vogue not only in large, elaborate garden plots but in simple little home grounds. they are approached by steps of stone that correspond with the rough, rural aspect of this feature of garden culture. shy wild flowers peep timidly out from their homes between the crevices of the rock. here in the early spring we find the cup-shaped crocus with its yellow tongue nestled contentedly in among the brown furred fern fronds, that soon will unfurl in dainty loveliness. leading from the steps are grass banks and low walks, surrounding the rockery and affording pleasant promenades, from which to view the garden in its entirety. like every other plan contrived by man, the garden step should be fashioned to fit into its proper place, adding and not detracting from the general picturesqueness. it depends upon the personality of the creator as to its success, for steps while seemingly a minor detail, can add or detract from a garden's beauty materially. one should never swerve from the thought that practicability should be the motive in planning stepping stones to connect different levels of your garden. they should not be added just for appearance sake, any more than one should wear a showy gown to attract attention. they should carry out some well-thought-out plan. it would be bad taste to introduce rustic steps into a formal garden, as much so as it would to place delicately wrought slabs of marble in the heart of a thicket. one should, that is if they wish to excel other creators in the introduction of original ideas, think out each individual part of the ground assigned for garden purposes and determine where each feature can make the best showing. it is then and then only that we come to a realizing sense not only of the kind of material that should be used but the shape and the setting. there should be a definite purpose in the use of this particular feature and the most important one is that it should be so arranged that one can reach different levels easily. there should be no precipitous pitch that makes one feel while ascending that they are performing tiresome gymnastic feats. this necessitates that they should be constructed on a gradual incline, thus making the ascent so easy that one is hardly conscious they are walking always upward until they have reached the top, and stand on level ground. this is often not enough considered and yet is most important. in laying the stepping stones, there should be definite proportions thought out between the risers, breadth of the treads and the height between. any variation would produce awkward results. great care should be taken in choosing slabs either of stone or marble that are of the same size. if the steps connect different parts of the garden scheme or lead to a rock garden, they should be cunningly introduced into the side of the ascent, placed so that they will add to the picturesqueness of the effect. they should break the hillside pleasingly, so that when completed they will form a pleasant picture, delightful for the eye to gaze upon. more than this, there should be planting, not only between the risers but on either side, and this requires careful thought, for a stately hollyhock rearing its gorgeous stock of rich coloring would be entirely out of place while delicate ferns or humble rock plants emphasize the desired effect. if the height of your step should be low, then risers, six inches in height would be in good form, and the treads in order to correspond must be twelve and a half inches in width. should, however, five inches be the height needed, then an additional inch and a half should be added to the treads. this point is such an important one that garden owners and landscape architects should see that it is properly carried out, if they wish to get the right results. [illustration: a fountain that serves as a background for a lily pond] ramping steps, if successfully developed, brings about an additional ease in mounting. this can be accomplished by placing the tread so that it shall imperceptibly slope downward. this is not an easy matter to accomplish successfully. it requires much care, so that the steps shall not slope too noticeably and yet enough to add to the comfort of the garden lover who walks from path to path using the steps to aid him in reaching the upper level of the ground. this idea of ramping is not original, for it has been carried out in the old italian gardens for centuries, but it is only within recent years that it has been successfully developed by landscape gardeners in our country. two important things connected with these stairways are ease and comfort. there is no doubt but within the last few years, marvels have been accomplished by introducing them into steep hillsides. in this way they connect the lower level and the terrace, making it practical to develop unused land for flower purposes. the placing of steps cannot be determined by cast-iron rules, rather should good taste predominate. nothing can give such an awkward look to your garden or terrace as a series of narrow, cramped stairs. if, however, you should in the same place introduce a flight ample in proportion, then even if it is a small space there will be imparted to it an agreeable air of breadth. be sure that each step should extend farther to the side than the one above it. they should be rectangular so that the outline of the stair mass is pyramidal or circular in formation. if stone is used, a very good result is brought about through the use of carefully selected field stone or cobble. there are sheltering crevices in which to plant tiny roots which when grown add much to the general appearance of the whole. if the garden is a formal one, a design in which architectural features play an important part, one should take great care in the arrangement of this flight. there is nothing that gives such a delightful atmosphere as a well-planned stairway. it conveys a much better picture than does a vista of successive flights of steps that ascend to higher grounds. the principal use for a feature such as this, is found to be in informal or unpretentious lay-outs, yet, fashioned in marble it is shown in the most elaborate italian gardens found in this country. it takes on such a variety of forms and is available for so many purposes that it is fascinating to study where it will give best effects. sometimes it helps out in the making of a garden pool. here it is specially alluring, forming as it does, a step from one little world into another. if you wish originality in your work, do not attempt to copy from the plans of others. surely there is no lack of material from which to draw and there is no reason why steps cannot be placed in any sort of a garden nook. the material depends on the style of garden, but wooden steps are not generally advisable on account of their rotting, which makes them need constant repair. it is far better to use stone, slabs of granite, concrete or marble, for each one of these has the lasting qualities that make them durable. measure the space carefully before the work is commenced. you should make allowances for crevices between each step so that suitable planting may be carried out. it is a very good idea to have the wide spreading plants placed near the bottom, graduating to those of more moderate growth at the top. careful consideration should also be given to the right planting on either side. low plants should border the step with a background of taller ones. they may, if you like, be used to express the idea of balusters on either side and are much more picturesque than real ones. do not forget that rich soil should be employed, for the plants need it to grow successfully. they require sustenance just as we need meat to feed our bodies. in many cases it can be rich loam taken from the woods, in other instances rotted manure can be used for a foundation with a heavy soil covering. great care should be taken to make proper planting, for delicate growth near hardy is disastrous, the stronger plants absorbing the strength of the weaker ones and doing permanent harm. do not flatter yourself that once planted nature will do the rest. this part of the ground demands continual care, for weeds--plants' enemies--will intrude and must be carefully removed lest they feed upon the soil, taking away the richness and starving the plants. water is a necessity, for plants like human beings grow thirsty all the more when exposed to the dry heat of the summer season. for best effects a sprinkler should be used and it should be borne in mind that the plants should be thoroughly soaked and not given merely a surface treatment. the importance of this cannot be over-estimated, or through lack of proper drink the plants will be in no condition to put out their full strength during their season of blossoming. better results will be obtained if each fall before the winter sets in, they should be given a heavy top dressing of grit. there is nothing that plants enjoy as much as this and it provides them with strength during the next year's growth. concrete may not find favor with many garden lovers. it covers the surface so thoroughly that there is no place to introduce growth, but a little ingenuity and common sense removes this difficulty. holes can be bored through the cement, and these should be large enough to allow the plants full scope to grow. many people for step planting prefer a succession of blossoming plants while others care for growth only. if the former plan is worked out, a charming early bloomer is the alpine anemone. of these the pulsatilla, or "pasque flower," is effective. it shows rich purple blossoms, which rising above the green leaves with their downy, feathery collarette of green, develop into handsome seed heads, which are decorative. they nestle into the crevices of the rocks, sending forth their exquisite blossoms nine inches in diameter during the months of april and may. variety is always delightful. for this decorative purpose why not use crocuses, "the heralds of spring." they thrive in any soil or situation, but in order to obtain the best growth, they should be planted in rich, deep, sandy loam. one of the choicest kinds is the baron von brunow. it is free flowering, putting forth large blossoms, dark blue in coloring. these can be mingled with a stripe variety such as la majestueuse, which shows large, violet markings, exquisite in shading. the giants, of which the mont blanc is a favorite, put out large, snow-white blossoms, forming an effective foil for the dark blue flowers of the other assortments. in planting your steps do not forget to have plenty of bulbs introduced among the other plants. the graceful dwarf anemone seemingly fit into this early scheme, their delicate blossoms giving a touch of daintiness. for the best results these should be planted in the fall six inches apart and three inches in depth. few bulbs exceed in loveliness the blanda-blue, winter wind flower. this is matchless in coloring, originating in the hills of greece, and has been naturalized in this country, where it takes kindly to the soil and produces flowers of charming hue. a feature of this special plant is that it blossoms during the winter months as well as the early spring. you make no mistake if you place it in every development of steps in your garden. it naturalizes best in grassy places in warm soil, and it can be distinguished by its round, bulb-like roots. should you, however, wish to have more than one variety, why not try the bride, that puts forth a single white flower, or the single fugens, "irish anemone," which is semi-double, found in shades of scarlet, blue and purple. [illustration: marble steps leading to the water in a formal garden] anyone can carry out their own idea as there are so many plants to draw from, each one of which is permissible for decorative effects. in our choosing let us not forget the lily of the valley. it is surely one of the most useful of our many spring flowers, pure white in coloring and delicately scented. for best development it should be planted in open ground, where it quickly spreads so that unless you wish masses of it, it will have to be separated almost every year. the dutch valley is an excellent kind to choose, as it sends forth so many flowering pits. this dainty little plant is a general favorite with everyone. its sprays of drooping, white, wax-like, fragrant bells give a bit of color that is picturesque. if you are looking for evening bloom there is the Ã�nothera or evening primrose; this has the advantage of blooming all through the summer months. there are so many kinds, each one so beautiful that it is a difficult matter to pick out the most decorative. of these the arendsii is very popular, showing, as it does, a profusion of lovely rose-colored flowers, and it is to be preferred to the speciosa. then there is the pilgrimi with its glorious golden clusters that seem to light the garden during the twilight hour. in your planting do not forget the acre, or golden moss. this is a creeping variety and especially suitable for rock work. its delicate growth makes it particularly appropriate for this use. the vinca minor can be mixed with this. this is evergreen, and excellent for covering or rockery, and can be combined with the moss pink, sometimes known as creeping phlox. this latter is in bloom in may or june. it shows broad sheets of rosy pink, white or lavender flowers, and an evergreen foliage. as it grows either in sun or shade, it is a very decorative plant to be used for step treatment. for the border can be used as a setting low, old-fashioned, hardy perennials, which are particularly adapted for grouping. in their planting use good soil, let them be placed where there is a reasonable amount of sunshine, keep them free from weeds and give them an occasional surface cultivation. it is better to set these out in the fall, so that some of them will blossom during april and may. the late blossomers, however, can be saved until early spring, like asters, and heleniums. in making the selection, consideration should be given to those that grow in certain settings, as while some will flourish luxuriantly in ordinary garden loam, others are not dependable unless very rich soil is given to them. for the outer border why not use hardy candytuft (iberis sempervirens), which sends forth a profusion of white flowers in april or may, showing a spreading foliage that is evergreen and very attractive. with this can be grown the rock cress or arabis albida, which from april to june sends out sheets of pure white, fragrant flowers. back of this one can plant the fleur-de-lis. they should be given a sunny position in any kind of soil. as they come in all sorts of colors, there is no trouble in getting them to carry out the scheme that you have in hand. the silver king, which is a silvery white with lavender shading, can be placed with the florantina, which is light lavender, and the pallida dalmatica, which is lavender bloom. if you wish to carry out this color scheme further, why not try the purpurea, which with its rich, royal purple, will make during the season one of the handsomest displays possible for a setting to the low growth decoratively used in steps. entrances [illustration: an old-fashioned garden is often entered under an arch of latticework] chapter v entrances we view our flower-plots at their best, gazing at them through the vine-clad entrance, as we glance down the gravel walk bordered on either side by masses of brilliant flowers. involuntarily, our eyes wander along farther afield till we meet the background of trees clad in verdant foliage, a fitting setting for the picture laid out in patches of color, fitting into the canvas with a well-defined plan. we can but feel as we stand looking down on this paradise of flowers that we are thankful for the thought that first created gardens. when they came into existence it is hard to determine, for mention is found of flowers and the traditions of wonderful gardens, laid out long before man had chiseled the hieroglyphics depicted on egyptian tombs. the love of flowers is a heritage handed down from generation to generation. homer, when speaking of laertes, trying in vain to find consolation in his flowers, while mourning the departure of telemachus, goes on to show us that great men turn to gardens to heal sorrow. philosophy was taught by epicurus surrounded by his beloved pupils among the flowers. from the early greeks the romans took their first lesson in floriculture. it was after their invasion of brittany that they introduced certain flowers and fruits, like grapes, roses and violets, into english gardens. the art of gardening advanced steadily, reaching its zenith in good queen elizabeth's time, when there were in england many pleasing gardens, formal and stiff, to be sure, but a fit setting for the architecture of that day. while the garden designs abounded in beautiful walks and flowers, yet the entrance to the grounds formed as it were the key-note to it all. has it ever occurred to you, as you stood hesitating at the portals of the gardens, that these were suggestive of some well-thought-out plan, as like grim sentinels they stand guarding the flower treasures? there is as much contrast in this part of the plan as there is in the design itself. here we find a narrow, forbidding entrance, giving no glimpse of the flowers within; again we come to a wide, welcoming one, beckoning, as it were, for us to pass through the portals and gaze with delight on the beauties hinted at beforehand and now disclosed to the eye. for colonial treatment there is nothing more dignified or stately than the square wooden posts, inclosing a locust inner one. they are built of white pine, one of the most lasting woods to be found in our country, and are colonial or georgian in design. many of them are ornamental, topped with balls, urns, or torch devices and with elaborate hand-carving, so wonderful in its design that architects copy them in their modified colonial houses of to-day. this was the work of one of the most noted wood-carvers in our country, samuel mcintyre, whose name is a household word to architects and landscape designers all over the country. there are two ways of treating the entrance. one of them is by adding an ornamental gate, corresponding in type with that of the posts. the other is to leave the posts gateless; while both are correct, yet the former way is more often used as it lends an air of privacy to the ground. it also helps out the effect planned by giving a touch of picturesqueness that would be otherwise lacking. a much too common mistake is the introduction of southern architecture into northern gateways; the lines and details do not always conform with the type of the house. most of these gates are hung by iron or brass hinges, but the earliest ones use the strap hinge, which carries out the colonial idea. the difficulty with the strap hinge is that it is not always strong enough to hold the gates without sagging, and the wider the entrance the heavier the strain. while the design varies, yet rarely do we find one constructed in the seventeenth century that is not simple and with picket effects. the pickets have pointed tops and are sometimes irregularly spaced, while the brace often shows an artistic curve. occasionally, we find the posts yoked, through a connecting arch. this is often latticed and if rightly designed adds to the ornamental effect. an old lantern is sometimes an attractive feature. the arch should be painted to match the color of the posts, a very good combination for this use is pure white lead, or zinc, combined with linseed oil. if you do not care to mix it yourself it can be bought ready for use. for the best effects, a thin coat should be used at first and it depends upon how easily it is covered as to how many coats to apply. if you wish to give a better finish, have an excess of turpentine over linseed oil in the last coat. there is more economy in covering it properly at first, as otherwise it will have to be re-painted each year. with the evolution of garden culture has come a similar change in the design and material used to form our entrances. on the large estates of to-day, rarely if ever, do we find the ornamental colonial. it would be as much out of place as if the mistress of the house affected silken brocades with wig and patches. the white paling fence, unless for simple cottages, has entirely gone out of style and in its place we find cement walls. often these are topped with a coping of limestone. the gate-posts, being formed over strong locust posts that have been driven firmly into the ground, are supported by brick or cement foundation. where the mansion shows in exterior brick, often with trimmings of limestone, the same idea is worked out in the wall. in cases like this an ornamental iron gate, hung on staples, supercedes the simple colonial ones of former days. occasionally, the name of the estate is interwoven in the ornamentation, or sometimes it is carved on the stone entrance posts. natural material is coming more and more to be used and we find a rubble wall, constructed from stone and boulders picked up on the grounds, left often rough, and again filled in with red cement to make it more stable. the rubble wall is generally topped with cement laid perfectly flat. the entrance posts follow this same line of treatment and while they are often left hollow for several inches down, these are packed solidly inside with small rocks to keep them in place. the excavation is filled in with rich soil and bright blossoming plants introduced. this gives a bit of color scheme that is very effective as a foil for the cold gray of the stone. vines are often planted at the foot of the posts, the turf being dug away for several inches, and rich loam introduced to better insure their growth. it depends entirely upon how heavy one wishes the covering to be as to the kind of vine planted. if it is the idea to hide it effectively from sight and produce massing of green, an entirely different planting should be made than if it was intended to have a delicate coloring of green that would only enhance the color of the background. [illustration: a fine decorative iron gateway] right combinations are very important in this line of work. it would be foolish to use woodwork combined with heavy stone or iron. it is sometimes in better form to have wide slabs of granite or cement defining several layers of brick. the height and width naturally depend upon what it intends to imply. low piers of masonry capped with a pointed effect should stand by themselves without any planting, as the latter often disfigures architectural effects. it is not always necessary that this feature of the exterior should be conspicuous, more particularly if the posts are constructed of wood. treat them to a light creosote stain, thus giving a picturesque background for the overlapping vines. sometimes combinations work out well in producing artistic results. with a rough stone pillar, it is sometimes in good taste to introduce gateways of oak, which while effective under certain conditions, are very bad under others. these are much more attractive the second year, when they have weathered to a picturesque pearly gray. this color harmonizes delightfully, not only with the walls but with the flowers and their foliage. an important thing that should not be forgotten is the use of wooden pegs and copper nails, neither of which are injured by rain. if you choose to use a wire fence, let the gate-post and gates correspond for it is far better than to combine materials inharmoniously. they are not only practical but light and in their construction there is a chance to work into the scheme ornamental designs. do not finish this with a square box top, rather give it a bit of ornamentation such as a ball or a lantern. there can be had to-day so many ornamental lanterns, constructed of wrought iron, that they can be purchased in almost any type desired. it is far better not to cover the posts with vines and thus conceal the beauty of the work. the most effective way would be to build up wire arches and plant rambler roses back of the posts for them to run on. the sweet briar, if one is looking for perfume, is desirable. they can be purchased in single and semi-double flowers, created through the developing and crossing of the old-fashioned variety. rambler roses are always in good taste. it is better to plant three or four kinds that show harmonious coloring. there is the lord penzance, a soft fawn, turning to lemon yellow in the center. this is particularly adaptable for covering arches as it is a strong grower and abundant blossomer. the meg merrilies fits into this color scheme, putting forth gorgeous crimson flowers during the six weeks of its flowering. combine with these the brenda, and you will find that this mixture lends a brightness that is very effective. many people object to roses on account of their many enemies. one of the most common is the powdery mildew. this is easily distinguished by a powdery growth of white that is found on both leaves and shoots. use sulphur very freely, and you will find it disappear. the stem cancer is a serious disease, and it is found on both the cane and the branches. in dealing with this the grower must not be afraid to use the pruning knife vigorously, so that the diseased parts can be thoroughly removed, in this way preventing spreading and the ruin of the vine. from the time of its planting the rambler needs constant attention, but it brings its own reward, in that there is no vine that can equal it in beauty. the advantage of having a variety of colors instead of one is readily seen, for it prevents a large mass of one individual color. there is a pleasure indescribable felt by lovers of plants when designing any feature of their grounds. this is particularly true with the gate and the planting. they must bear in mind, however, the true purpose of gates and their proper use on country estates. it is designed as a means of ingress, and as such, should be suited to the type of mansion. therefore, into its plan should be worked the atmosphere of the residence as well as the characteristics of the surrounding country. for instance, a wooden fence and gate-post would be entirely inappropriate if one were dealing with a beautiful summer estate where the house was to be built of brick. compositions should not be carelessly used and it should be remembered that there is great danger in our zeal for producing something unique, of going to the other extreme and giving an over-ornamental creation. one cannot be too particular in making the entrance and the adjoining fence accord with the idea one is trying to bring out in the whole plan. the driveway is of fully as much importance as the entrance. it should be kept scrupulously neat and free from weeds. to have it at its best it should be thoroughly under-drained, and for this the open-joint drain tile is advisable. it should be laid under ground and connected, if possible, with the sewer. properly attended to, this keeps the road-bed dry and in good condition. the bed itself should be dug down for several feet, a foundation of earth from six to ten inches should be laid, over which can be thrown a layer six inches thick of either broken limestone or chopped trap rock. cover the whole with a screening of limestone and finish it with gravel. have it rolled hard and you realize the advantage as the season ends. the drive should be sufficiently wide for carriages to pass through without besmearing your gate-posts with mud and dust. one should realize that the driveway is in reality a foot-path enlarged, and should always be kept immaculate. the gate, if you wish to prevent its sagging, should open in the center. a two-part gate gives often a better effect than one long one. nothing equals iron, which can be treated in so many different ways that there is little danger of repetition in design. the capping is as important as the post itself. simple square box treatment is advisable in some cases. balls fit into the scheme on some estates, while colonial urns are in keeping with wooden posts and lantern effects belong to iron gateways. the latter, of course, are effective for lighting at night. gas pipes can be laid under the roadway, connected with the ornamentation in such a way that they can be turned on from the house. in many entrances, side gates, similar to the main ones have been inserted, which relieve the main entrance from use by pedestrians. they can be so laid out as not to interfere with the use of the motor cars. they should be separated from the main driveway by a turf border and covered with gravel. planting is very effective for this feature of the ground, and trees, that is if the right sort are chosen, are admirable, used in this connection. white birches lend a picturesqueness that cannot be equaled, but they are short-lived. the elm with its graceful branches seems to fit into every landscape scheme. do not plant them too near the posts. if you do, their roots will reach out often causing upheaval and creating havoc. for best effects the trees should be used outside rather than inside the entrance. in the latter case they are too apt to cut off the view. [illustration: a successful entrance to a formal garden] many people prefer a hedge and this can be planted either with or without a fence. arbor-vitae is practical for such use as is the buckthorn and the berberis thunbergii (thunberg's japanese barberry). this is a japanese hedge with round, drooping habit. it leaves out in a fine brilliant green during the summer months and from autumn until december takes on a wonderful showing of color. during the winter months the branches, loaded with scarlet crimson berries, make an effective contrast with the white of the snow. its value as a hedge is because it is impenetrable and thickly set with spines, never growing bare. the most popular shrub for hedge treatment is privet-ligustrum. it is very ornamental with a rich dark green foliage that is nearly evergreen and remains on the plant until late winter. it is a good grower under the most adverse circumstances. in order to form the most effective hedge it should be planted from ten to twelve inches apart and pruned back during the first two seasons. the ampelopsis arborea woodbine is useful for entrances. it is a distinct variation from the other forms, making a spreading bush rather than a strong climber. its leaves are dark green and comparatively coarse, and its autumn coloring is superb. the boston ivy clings even to wood, its fine shoots cover walls and while it requires some covering during the first two or three winters of its life, yet it pays. in the fall, nothing can be so gorgeous as the varied colored tints of its foliage. the clematis paniculata should never be forgotten. it is a rapid and vigorous climber and can be depended upon to clothe large spaces quickly. originally, it was introduced from japan and is allied to our native virgin's bower. the flowers are effective, borne in long panicles which are white and their fragrance is perceptible a long distance away. they open the latter part of august, staying in bloom for nearly a month. combined with this should be the clematis coccinea (scarlet clematis), whose showy bell-shape, brilliant scarlet flowers are produced in great profusion. the wisteria is adapted to almost any purpose and can be used picturesquely on many types of entrances. the wisteria magnifica is admirable and resembles frutescens, but it varies from it in that the clusters are larger and denser while the yellow lilac colored flowers have yellow spots. among the other vines it is well to plant some that will give a touch of color during the dark, cold days of winter when the vines lie barren and bare, their leafless branches swaying in the wind. why not use for that the celastrus scandens (bitter sweet or wax work). it is one of our native climbing plants and can be found in almost any part of the new england woods, a rapid grower, with attractive, light green foliage and yellow flowers, followed by bright orange red berries that are cheering in the fall and lead us to forget the shedding of the foliage by the other vines. in order to hide the base of the vine, ferns can be planted. it is better to use the hardy varieties rather than the more tender ones, although a combination of the two is always attractive. take, for instance, the adiantum croweanum, which is one of the hardiest of the maiden hair species. this, like every other of its kind, should be well watered and fertilized, grown in a rich, open soil, with plenty of leaf mould. there is nothing difficult in their culture and they need absolutely no attention after planting. the polypodium vulgare, which is evergreen, showing smooth, shiny fronds resembling the boston fern, is another that is adapted for this purpose. with these can be combined the comptonia, or sweet fern, a native plant with fern-like, dark green scented foliage, very useful for foliage massing on rocky, barren places, and thriving best in dry, sterile soil. there are many more varieties and it would be impossible to mention them all. they are, each and every one, suitable for adding to the beauty of private gardens and estates. bird baths [illustration: the central feature of the garden may be a bird-bath] chapter vi bird baths john burroughs, in his description of a garden, has told us that "to love the birds, to appreciate their place in the landscape," is one of the most important things. it does much to bring happiness into our lives. in the forming of a perfect garden, many things are requisite and among them are birds, flowers, bees, and the flashing butterfly who darts joyously from flower to flower, a thing of beauty and perishable as the day. should anyone doubt the truth of these assertions, let him seat himself in some retired spot during a beautiful day in the month of roses. he can then listen to the song of the birds, caroling as they sway on the branches of the trees above our heads, nestling at our feet, or hidden away deep down in the heart of the flower beds. birds are everywhere, they flit in and out of the garden, sipping sweet nectar from the blossoming plants, and flaunting their bright colors when catching the sunshine as they swing by. god made nothing more interesting than birds and man should care for them, giving them a distinctive place in his garden, realizing that through their industry they free the plants from harmful insects and slugs. the birds can be coaxed into anyone's garden, that is, if care is taken in proper planting, giving to the plots trees and plants that they love. under the rose bushes place a bath, where they can come and preen their plumage, but if possible have it placed beyond the reach of intruding cats. when the custom of providing drinking cups to quench the thirst of our native birds first came into fashion, it is hard to determine. perchance, it was in the early days when in , the colonists built rail fences, to enclose their separate lots. over these they trained the wild morning glory and sweet-scented honeysuckle, the perfume of which doubtless carried them back to the beautiful english gardens that still existed in their native land. doubtless, during the life of william penn, when he encouraged the laying out of old english gardens, he included in the design a planting to attract bird life. this was still further encouraged when the first botanical garden came into existence in through the thought of bertram bartran, of philadelphia. he was a man who had traveled much and was thoroughly versed in the art of floriculture. in his garden he planted rare and practical seeds partly for the mere joy of carrying out his own whims. this garden, like many others, was individual in its planting, a quality that lent to it an additional charm. during the early seventeenth century there were imported into seaport towns principally at salem, massachusetts, unique bird baths. they came packed in among the cargo that was stowed away in the holds of the slow sailing ships that plied continuously between singapore and the new england shores. many of these were the result of orders given by the ship owners who wanted to set them in their posy beds, laid out at the rear of their stately homes. rare were these shells with their fluted framework, and hard to find, yet so spacious that a whole colony of feathered songsters could hold concourse within their pearly depths. underneath the shade of the drooping lilac, they peered out at us from the time the melting of the snow released the snow drops from their icy cover, thus allowing them to lift up their pure white heads as if in rejoicing to be free, to be followed later on by the gay little crocuses, clad in their gowns of many hues. few of these baths are still in existence. we come across them occasionally, however, in old-fashioned gardens where they are treasured for sentiment's sake. just as the rustic bird houses, constructed of weathered boards, and with floor covering of powdered sawdust or ground cork, have become a necessity in the twentieth-century garden, tempting the summer sojourners to rest their weary wings; so we must strive to create a homelike atmosphere so attractive to the little songsters that they will delight in revelling among the many flowers that are planted here. a barren waste of land has no pleasure for them, neither has a garden shorn of their favorite plants. there is no need of being deterred from using a feature such as this. a bird bath need not be expensive, just a simple box, zinc-lined and painted to correspond with the surroundings. the birds are not fussy as to the exterior of their outdoor bathroom; all they wish is comfort and a cooling drink during the hot summer days, when the dew has faded from the grass, and the sun hangs high in the heavens. it is then that all nature is panting from excessive heat. a simple zinc pan, large and wide enough, filled with fresh water daily, is as satisfactory to them, as a marble pool standing in the heart of the garden and surrounded by a bed of brilliant flowers. place this pan in the heart of a grassy knoll, at the edge of the garden proper and watch results. you will not have long to wait before softly tripping through the grass or dropping from their leafy covert, one by one, they show their gratitude by revelling in the bath thus placed for their use. the most common type, if you wish to buy a bird bath, is the cement one. it can be modeled in any shape and to follow any line of treatment that you prefer. the simple, plain, low-lying ones are suitable for placing under the shadowy bush or tree. hand carving would be as much out of place on a bath such as this, as if one used an expensive silver bowl for their benefit. to be sure a little ornamentation, simply worked out, makes them more artistic. this can be accomplished through proper planting. a delicate fern unfolding its fronds and drooping until it almost touches the water is appropriate, as is a low-lying pine that adds a bit of shade which is truly appreciated by your little visitors who perch on the curb, after shaking off the dust from their wings in the water below, and pour out their gratitude in a melody of song. for ornament why not use a cement bath that is shaped like a large vase. it makes an interesting feature in your twentieth-century garden, and gives a chance to depict a favorite flower from which the garden takes its name. rising stately and dignified from their floral bed, showing wonderful and delicate carving, are marble baths exquisitely shaped and resting on a shaft of the same material. these are fitting for an italian or a formal garden. they seem to blend in with an elaborate architectural scheme such as we find in the planning for the decoration of a large area. there is no particular place where they seemingly do not fit in. they are effective used as a central figure and surrounded with a circle of well-chosen blossoming plants and they harmonize in the landscape scheme even if used apart from the main gardens or designed to occupy a niche in the wall. here they are just as enjoyable as if they stood prominently forth, the main axis around which the rest of the garden revolves. [illustration: a well-placed bird-bath] they can be made much more picturesque if one trains over their side a delicate vine whose tendrils cling to the foundation and bring out the color effectively. plant for the birds' enjoyment and combine with this feature decorative beds, using not the strong colors, but the delicate, dainty, pink, blue, white and lavender, of the many varieties that are suitable for this purpose. do not let the base of your expensive bird bath rest on the earth, rather place under it a pedestal of marble, granite, or cement. it need not be conspicuous, a growth of turf, the planting of an ivy or some other vine, will add much to its attractiveness, making an artistic foundation for it. whoever lays out his garden plot with a thought of thorough enjoyment, he who looks forward to sitting under the vine, will take special thought of the birds. he will endeavor even if he is an amateur not to make an ugly muddle in his planting, but aim for picturesque garden vistas, and have his flowers properly balanced so they will show harmonious massing of colors. one should be as careful not to give sun-loving plants a shady place, as to put the shy little flowers in the glaring sunlight. it is a necessity if you are a bird lover, or if you wish to rid your plants of insects and your grounds of worms, to attract the birds. this can be accomplished by giving them not only proper planting but the right place where they may enjoy their daily bath. if you wish the best results, seek shade rather than sunshine. our little friends prefer shelter to warmth, so cater to their taste in the placing of their drinking pool. it is rather important that you seek a spot, just near enough to the grounds to be companionable, there to place a mulberry tree. there is no fruit that is more to their mind than this and it will be a source of delight to watch the shyest birds reward you by flaunting their colors before you as they flit in and out, feeding off the berries so temptingly displayed for their exclusive use. it is a mistake to look upon the robin as common and a pest. this fact has been firmly fixed in our minds through his thieving qualities. when you consider that he has been known to devour as many as seventy worms a day, and multiply that by the voracity of his mate and his children, you will then commence to realize what a benefit he is to your garden. try and cajole him into being a friend, and entice him to nest in the heart of your flower patch. listen to his song; there is a mellow quality to his voice and he can put more expression into his music than any other bird. there is a flash of color and a burst of sweet melody, listen--there is a scarlet tanager, singing love songs to his mate. he is a veritable bird of paradise and once sported fearlessly among our trees, but has now grown shy through being used as a target for the sportsman's gun. cultivate him by all means. toll him into your garden. darting in and out of the garden one finds the humming bird, so tiny that he measures only from three and a half to three and three-quarters inches, the smallest bird in our country. there is a glint of color as he dashes fearlessly from flower to flower, his brilliant metallic throat and breast sparkling in the sunlight like a precious gem. the trumpet flowers with their deep cup-shape blossoms are his special delight, although he never scorns the sweet-scented flowers that he finds on every side. for a moment he poises in the air motionless, sighting his flower, then winging his flight, he drains the nectar, uttering a shrill little squeak of delight, as he spies some especially fat aphides on the garden foliage. these he shoots off like a streak of lightning rapidly searching for more food. how to attract the birds is a question that all bird lovers are seeking to answer. it is such a simple matter that you do not have to look far afield to obtain what you wish. there are many fruit-growing shrubs each one of which is suitable for his majesty's needs. these should be planted somewhere in the garden. if you prefer them surrounding the bird bath, you will have more chance for bird study, but they will come without that if you give them a chance and plenty of edible berries all the year round. the red berried elder is one of their favorites, as is the canadensis or common elder, which flowers in june, and shows reddish purple berries during the autumn; then there is the arbutifolia or red chokeberry. this is a native dwarf shrub, which is particularly tempting to the feathered tribe. when planning for this feature, one should remember that these bird-attracting shrubs should not be planted with only one idea in view. they should be made to form a part of the decorative plan, and the situation chosen should be among flowers that would bring out its artistic value, far more than if they were grouped in a mass. one is apt, in their enthusiasm in arranging their garden for the birds' benefit, to forget that attractive color schemes must be worked out, otherwise it will be a heterogeneous mass that will be an eye-sore rather than a pleasure. [illustration: an ornament delightfully used to mark the opening of paths through woods] there is very little choice as to what kind of flowers to mix with the shrubs. take it all in all, the perennials stand first. the reason for this is that they are more suitable for this purpose than annuals, which have to be re-planted every year. like the shrubs the perennials die down in the fall and re-appear when the breath of spring sweeps over the land, in greater profusion and showing added vigor through having conserved their strength by resting during the winter months. you are very foolish if you have taken no thought for the future life of your shrub or perennial. once planted they do not take care of themselves and if neglected it only means the survival of the fittest. different species require different treatment, and a great many kinds need to be subdivided every two or three years. the scarlet and crimson phlox, spirea, and many other varieties should never be left longer than two years, they should then be carefully gone over and an experienced hand should determine how much should be left and what removed. if you have planting of iris, shaster daisies, and veronicas, they can readily wait until the third year. the ground is of just as much importance as the planting. just because you wish to grow flowers and shrubs, you must remember that they must have food to live on, that this food must be properly prepared and contain plenty of nourishment, otherwise you will have spent money and time for naught. first of all comes fertilizing. doubtless, in some part of the ground you can find a corner that will be the proper place for the compost heap. in its selection, it is better that it should be concealed by shrubs or trellis, vine covered. it would be a blot in the landscape if you treated it otherwise. every time you rake over the lawn or weed the garden, throw into a large basket the refuse and let it form part of the compost heap. the foundation for this should be plenty of manure and this, to be at its best, must be well rotted and mixed in with other material to lighten and bring about better results. you will be surprised, that is if you have never tried it, to see how quickly it grows. almost before you know it you have enough to use in the garden next year. no matter how rich it is, a liberal amount of coarse bone meal added will pay in the end. your fertilizer ready, as early as possible in the spring dig your ground to the depth of eighteen or more inches. it is better if the earth is pulverized; some people go so far as to sift it. next put in your fertilizer, mixing it with the earth previously removed. give it time to settle before planting and you will never be dissatisfied with results. opinions vary as to proper time for planting perennials. many people feel that the spring is the safest. it is foolish to follow this plan unless it can be accomplished as soon as the frost is well out of the ground. many of them are likely to die. therefore, if you pot them in the fall, and winter them under glass, the result will be much more satisfactory. it is simply the working out of the garden lover's idea as to what is correct and what incorrect as to the time of planting. many kinds are better massed. this applies to the sweet william, the hollyhock, delphinium, and other varieties, that seemingly belong to the same family. the hardy asters, which are late flowering, are invaluable for massing. they burst into blossom at a period when the early frosts have lolled the more tender plants, making their bright hues a dominant feature in the garden. it is better to shade colors than to plant one variety. for september and october blossoming why not use the abendrote or evening glow? it has a bright rosy red flower and is a very free bloomer. mix with that the glory of colwall, which is ageratum blue, showing double flowers, grown on stout, erect stems. the pink of the blossom contrasts admirably with the rosy red. the white queen will mix with these two colors very effectively. this is a pure, splendid white and comes into blossom at the same season of the year. a very interesting way of treating the defining line of the garden proper is by a low hedge. many of these are berry bearing, thus working into the bird scheme. the hawthorn oxyacantha is well suited for this purpose. it is used in england for hedges and during the time of its blossoming shows a pure white, sweet-scented flower followed by a scarlet fruit. the berberis is excellent for hedging. it blooms in the summer and is succeeded by a bright colored fruit that lasts into the winter. once interested in this feature of garden culture, by careful study one will realize what an inexhaustible theme it becomes. color shades in berries often help out landscape effects in winter, therefore it is best not to plant promiscuously. garden seats [illustration: a formal garden seat] chapter vii garden seats the ever-changing tide of fashion brings in its wake a constant development of new and original ideas in the furnishing of our garden plots. flowers have been with us ever since the first settlement of our country and so has a love for life in the open. this is an inheritance that has deepened with the passing years. so rapidly has this developed that to-day it demands our gardens as living rooms. it is this aspect of garden life that develops new and unusual features in equipment. while we may flatter ourselves that we as garden lovers have originated this idea, yet it is of ancient origin. history relates that in the gardens of the early romans and greeks, garden seats were found. with the changing of styles in floral-culture the ornate came into existence, much used during the italian renaissance. reproductions of their ideas are found in replica in many of the formal gardens of the twentieth century. logs, carelessly thrown on the ground, may have been the first seats used by our garden ancestors. later on with the development of the one-path posy bed, seats were hollowed out of old trees. they formed a picturesque bit, clothed during the summer months in their garments of green, for trailing vines were encouraged to run rampant over their sides. these with the green arbor or pergola and the vine-clad summer house were the three styles of seats favored by the colonial dames. styles and usage of furniture in this special way are as clearly defined as in interior decoration. the modern garden equipped with english, american or italian furniture, gives a pleasing variety. the principal materials necessary for manufacture are stone, marble, terra cotta or wood. of these, the latter suggests less expense, while the former can be purchased at any sum you wish. stone or marble are absolutely necessary in formal or italian gardens, as they provide a proper medium for expression that nothing else would satisfy. look at the gleam of the white marble shown up by its background of green trees and see what a charm it has in the furnishing of your garden plot. take it all in all, it is the only right setting for an elaborate garden, partly on account of its being a descendant of the italian renaissance period which makes it desirable in designs that follow out the character of that period. rarely, if ever, do we find this simple in form, but rather elaborately carved with representations of animals or figures. as an ornamental feature, it cannot be excelled, but as a garden seat it is not practical, being cold and hard to sit upon. properly speaking, it should be placed at the head of a walk or topping the garden steps. this is on account of its decorative character and the necessity of making it fit into the floral scheme. the price is prohibitive except to the rich, although it varies with the elaboration of the carving. terra cotta, while not as often used, has its advantages. it can be moulded readily into any form desired. while it is not always suitable, yet its warmth of color, which is either buff or red, makes it admirable when one desires to bring out certain effects in the planting of beds. it is, perhaps, the least used of any of the materials. a seat four feet in length can be purchased for from forty dollars upwards. concrete seats are the kind that are most commonly used for formal and informal gardens. we should remember, however, that we must not mix formal and informal furniture promiscuously, otherwise the result will be disastrous. one should bear in mind in treating this subject that formal pieces resemble well-bred people. they fit suitably into any place in their surroundings. it is far different, however, with informal pieces which are entirely wrong and out of place in formal settings. this fact applies to concrete which is suitable for almost any occasion for it possesses almost endless possibilities as far as form is concerned. rightly mixed, it can be moulded into almost any shape that you desire, which accounts for the fact that in its designs many of the elaborate garden seats are copied. this makes it popular and constantly in demand, on account of its less cost. to all intents and purposes, it is quite as durable as stone or marble. it has still another advantage, in that its neutral gray tint harmonizes picturesquely with almost any setting of shrubbery or flowers. the least expensive of any of the materials that is used for this purpose is wood. it has this advantage, that it can be formed in such a great variety of shapes that there is always found some piece that is suitable for every taste and occasion. if you contrast it with marble or stone, you will realize that it has the advantage of being lighter in weight, and capable of being carried around from place to place with little or no trouble. take it all in all, the best place for it to be at home in is the informal garden. the kind of garden that most of us live in and enjoy intimately is the plot where wooden settles and chairs are used. care should be taken, however, in the selection of material in order that it may have lasting qualities. one reason for its use is that unlike marble and stone it is not cold to sit upon, and is really comfortable. the best kind of wood, if you can afford it, is teakwood, which lasts for centuries. it is the most expensive, particularly the antique pieces. those of to-day are shoddily put together and cannot resist weathering as do the century-old ones. many people prefer pine on account of less cost. this is all right, provided great care is taken to keep it well covered with paint of the glossy kind. the advantage of this over the other is that it can be readily wiped clean before using. anyone who is a garden lover will appreciate this fact, for no matter how carefully placed, the seats will accumulate a reasonable amount of leaves and dirt. plain settles and benches which belong to the informal type can be placed anywhere, according to inclination. these need not, of necessity, be made of plain wooden strips, but can be varied by making them rustic in design. use for this purpose limbs of the same size without removing the bark. they require so little work in putting them together that a village carpenter can accomplish this task, or if you are a genius you can do it yourself. an objection which many people offer is that they need repairing often, or replacing. considering the cost, this is not a serious objection. for a simple colonial cottage, such pieces as these would be appropriate for use in your garden and you can add a tea table and a few chairs suggestive of afternoon tea, the position being determined by views, for the placing is of as much importance as the piece itself. if possible, have low-growing trees droop over it to give the required shade. [illustration: a simple and attractive garden seat] for the elegant mansion, the home of the wealthy, more elaborate pieces are a necessity. one thing should not be forgotten in their choice and that is they should be heavy enough to stay on the ground and resist the strong northeast winds that during a heavy rain sweep over your flower-plot. flagstone sometimes gives a variety as well as limestone, but there are several other materials that give a pleasing color and texture, such as the pink granite and the red, black and green slates. of these, the red is most effective when streaked with another color. do not choose the quincy granite; the texture is cold in appearance and the weather never softens the color. a fault that must not be overlooked is to build your seats too high, thirteen inches being the proper height. the back should always be taken into consideration and made tall enough to support the head so that you will be comfortable when you come to view your garden plot. it is not always possible to have this piece of furniture placed under the shade of a tree or shrubbery. this necessitates the planning of a summer house, arbor or pergola. over these, vines can be trained, so that in reality it is much more picturesque than if you had used simply the green shade. chairs can be used for this same purpose, in fact, they are very good as they provide a variation of the general theme. they are particularly advisable if it is a backyard garden where a settle might prove too overpowering. like the garden seat, they can be made of wood. cedar and locust are preferable if you wish pretty rustic effects. cypress also is lasting, and if you prefer to give it a coat of paint, it will do service for many years. for rustic chairs or seats, there is another idea for shelter that is practical. it is to roof it over and shingle the board. it has advantages over anything else in that it affords protection from the summer sun and acts as a windbreak on cold days, besides doing away with the dropping of insects from the leafy tangle of an arbor. no matter how charming a garden may be in its floral arrangement, it requires additions and accessories to display to the best advantage its worth. just as a house is cozy or barren according to the style of furniture employed, so a garden is beautiful in proportion to the type of ornaments used. probably the coming into style of the formal italian type of garden has done much to develop this feature. until late years, scant heed was paid to fitness, and in consequence much of the old-time charm found in the colonial garden was lost. when planning for your garden seat or chair, take into consideration the planting. in your choice of colors you should vary the scheme to fit in with the particular seat. a white requires different surroundings from a gray or a rustic type. wrong coloring brings about inharmonious effects and they should be carefully considered in the making a perfect whole. another thing should be thought out and that is as to whether there is a shade provided by the over-hanging limbs of a tree or by the trailing of vines. vines are always interesting. you can use them in a mass, showing one general effect, or you can combine them. nothing is so pretty in the early spring as the wisterias, on account of their being not only hardy, but tall growers. many people claim the best varieties are those grafted on to specially selected stock, thus making them sure bloomers. the soil should also be taken into consideration, for while they thrive in light, sandy conditions, yet deep, rich earth promotes stronger growth. the magnifica is, perhaps, as vigorous as any. it is such a rapid grower that it shoots up from thirty to forty feet in a season. it blossoms rather later than some varieties which show soft, lavender blue blooms. why not mix this with the chinese white, whose pure white flowers show long, drooping clusters. if you are looking for foliage in the early fall, the vitis henryana can be used. its leaves are decorative in effect, being a velvety green with veins of silvery white. it is of chinese origin and in the fall the foliage turns to a beautiful red. for july and august blossoming, there is the bignonia grandiflora or mammoth-flowered trumpet creeper. this is a splendid climbing vine, perfectly hardy, giving a growth of from eight to ten feet in a season. its flowers, which are shown during july and august, are orange red and trumpet-shaped, following as they do after the wisteria has faded, they bring about an entirely different color scheme. this makes it practical for one to plant a succession of bloom, making each set of flowers correspond with the coloring of the vines. a very pleasing contrast can be brought out by combining the magnolia-scented white moon flower, with a beautiful blue dawn. the former is a summer climber, growing from fifteen to twenty feet in height. it makes a beautiful shade for trellises and bears in the season a profusion of large trumpet-shape snow-white flowers that are richly scented and very beautiful. there is also a heavenly blue that combines artistically with the white. one feature of this vine is its thick, overlapping, glossy foliage, and its nightly scores of immense silky blooms which are of rare fragrance. by actual count a strong vine will bear from one to three thousand blossoms in a season. there has within the last few years been discovered a new variety that opens early in the morning and remains so nearly all day. the beautiful blue of the paradise flower is used when one wishes for this color in decorations. the clusters are large, showing from twenty to thirty at a time and it blossoms continually from the time it becomes established until frost. for a rustic seat, why not try the wild grape or crimson glory vine? it is so strong and hardy, notable for its heavy foliage which makes a splendid shade and in the fall is a mass of rich crimson. we have grown to think of morning glories as a pretty, small flower that grew in our grandmother's garden. many of us have not realized that they have been developed until now they show gigantic bloom as large as the moon flowers. they have wonderful coloring, marking and variations of indescribable beauty. as a flowering vine they cannot be surpassed, the flowers being borne by the hundreds and of enormous size, measuring often five and six inches across. many show a rich combination of shading blended together in an enchanting way, being spotted, penciled, mottled, and variegated in every conceivable manner. [illustration: stately lilies add charm and dignity to a gravelled walk] if your garden seat is low, let your planting follow the same line, but if it is high and conspicuous, it can be accentuated by tall plants. hollyhocks, with their stately stalks, are charming for this particular use. there is the hardy perennial with the foliage dwarf and compact. this is found in the heuchera, which is easily grown from seed and reaches a height of eighteen inches. of this variety, the sanguinea is admirable, being the finest of all the red varieties, the flowers taking on the shade of coral red. if you wish, instead of a solid color, to make a combination, why not use the sanguinea, sutton's hybrid, which is found in pretty shades of pink, as well as creamy white, rose and crimson. these blossom in july and august, their stately, well-filled cups, giving a distinction to the seat that could not well be missed. fleur-de-lis, sometimes spoken of as the fairy queen's home, is always satisfactory and never fails to bloom. no flower can surpass this in delicacy of texture and coloring, and it rivals even the orchids of the tropics in its beauty. they thrive in almost every soil, being one of the easiest plants to cultivate, although a fairly rich earth will materially increase the number and size of the bloom. in planting them, nearly cover the rhizomes. the earliest flowering ones are the germans, which come into bloom the latter part of may or early in june. these are followed by the japan variety which follow closely on the former and stay in blossom for a month. of the german, the lohengrin is the most vigorous, deep violet mauve in coloring, and the flowers are nearly five inches deep, showing petals two inches across. in direct contrast is the princess victoria louise, light sulphur yellow or rich violet red, edged with crimson, both of which varieties are very handsome. the double iris is particularly beautiful for some situations. there is the antelope with white ground flaked with purple; the diana, reddish purple flaked with white; the mount fell, grayish white, veined with blue and showing yellow center; and the victor, white veined, violet blue with purple center. each one of these is well worthy of cultivation. nothing is so beautiful as roses, be they climbing or dwarf. for the former, why not use the climbing jules graveraux, which is one of the most valuable, ever-blooming climbers ever introduced. the value of this is that the blooms are immense in size, being as large or larger than any other rose. it even exceeds the j. b. clark. these roses are perfectly double, white, tinged with blush pink, with a yellow base. in freedom of bloom, it is superior to either mrs. peary or climbing meteor. then there is the empress of china or appleblossom rose, a strong rampant grower, and a very free bloomer. the buds are pointed, being soft red, turning to lighter. it blooms from may to december in the open ground. tea roses, distinguished by the delicate tea fragrance, are absolutely ever-blooming. they are carried through the winter even in the northern states with careful protection. the most satisfactory method is the banking up with soil. of these, the yellow souvenir de pierre notting is the most beautiful. it has been introduced by one of the foremost firms of france and is not exceeded by any rose sent out from that country. the blossoms are large, well filled, and open easily. the buds are beautiful and elongated. when fully bloomed, they show an apricot yellow, tinged with golden and mixed with orange yellow. one charm of these flowers is that the edge of the petal shades to a beautiful carmine rose. the open flower is full and double, it being an extremely free blossomer. one of the latest introductions is the lady hillingdon, the color being beyond description. apricot yellow, shaded to orange on the outer edge of the petal, and becoming deeper and more intense as it reaches the center of the bloom. the buds are produced on long, strong, wiry stems, which are placed well above the foliage, thus giving it a slender and graceful effect. it is valuable in both the amateur and professional growers' gardens. it would be impossible to enumerate the different kinds that are used for this purpose. garden pools [illustration: a pond-lily pool of a very attractive shape] chapter viii garden pools with the revival of old-time garden features that has been brought about through interest in floriculture, fascinating specialties have been evolved. this is particularly true of the garden pool which lends itself to almost every kind of setting. it is no new idea, this introduction of pools into even small gardens. the ancient egyptians had great reverence for pools and we read of their interest in bringing into life the sacred lotus, giving it a prominent place in their gardens. this may be better known to moderns as "the rose lily." in the early days it was used for religious purposes and was a prominent feature in their festivals. it was also used ornamentally for feasts where the walls were decorated with the beautiful blossoms that were repeated in the centerpiece for the elaborately-spread table. not content with this use for decorative purposes, it was made in forms of garlands that were thrown over the shoulders of the assembled guests while wreaths of the same flower crowned their brows, great care being taken that a bud or cluster of blossoms was placed in the center of the forehead. ever since that period, we read of the constant introduction of water into gardens of every clime. while pools were not commonly used during the colonial period, they have to-day, with the coming in of the formal and italian gardens, grown to be one of the most interesting features. the form and the immediate surroundings have been carefully thought out and depend upon the type and the shape of the whole plan. when the mercury registers at ninety and the whirling dust rises in clouds, parching one's throat as it settles like a dingy pall on sun-burned grass and drooping foliage, it is a pleasure to come suddenly upon a pond where over-hanging plants cast lengthened shadows far over the surface. they shelter the waxen lily cups that gleam like pearls against a background of dark green pods--a perpetual joy and delight to the eye. there is no doubt but water, be it large or small in area, holds a charm for us all. how much more if it is inhabited and made beautiful through the use of aquatic plants and fish. these scattered apparently carelessly over the surface of the water add much to its picturesqueness. this is particularly true during the season of bloom when we find varied colored cups, resting on saucers of green, lifting their heads above the surface as if in delight with their surroundings. surely when you view a pond such as this you will find a double delight in watching a flutter of wings, a hopping about on the plants and glad dipping of little bills and uplifting of heads. these are the birds that form a part of garden life and who are attracted here by the flowers and the chance of a bath. splashing and sparkling in the sunlight, they dive into the water below, drying themselves on the large pads that float artistically on the surface. over yonder is a large gray cat bird calling to its mate. we can but note the fine proportion, the poise of the black head and the beauty of the satin gray coat which is pruned by the hour. there is the indigo bird, a delightful symphony of blue and cinnamon red. he sits swinging on a lily while his musical note comes to our listening ears. the ruby throated humming bird swings noiselessly over the pond, dipping his long beak here and there to gather honey from the wide-open flowers. it depends upon the size of the pool, the shape and the finish as to the planting. it is a great mistake to have it so thickly over-spread with leaves that no water is visible. a good rule to be observed is two-thirds water and one-third lilies. this gives a chance to watch the gold fish darting in and out for food. for a small beginning of a water garden, why not try a pocket in the rock? it is a very easy matter to arrange for lilies in a case like this. all you have to do is to cement the hollow, put in your loam and plant one or two roots. it is these diminutive water gardens that attract the birds more than the large pools, and they form a charming vista in the garden scheme. little pockets of earth can be made to surround them, and here we can plant rock-loving plants that will give a touch of picturesqueness to this cunning little scheme. the shape of the garden determines that of the pool. a square garden demands square treatment in the lay-out of your design. a round garden, to be correct, should have a circular formation for the planting of your lilies. then, too, the treatment of the planting should be determined by the formality or informality of the plan. great care should be taken that they are not aimlessly placed but form a part of the design. any attempt to digress from this rule is fatal for correct composition. great attention should be paid to the margin. it should not be stiff and formal; it should rather be broken here and there, so that there will be open spaces showing between. copy nature in this treatment and you will not go far astray. in order to make this pool successful, one thing should never be forgotten and that is that you are dealing with sun-loving plants to whom shadow is objectionable. there is another reason why the sunshine should fall unobstructed on the pond and that is that it shows reflections that are effective, and bring cheer to your garden plot. many people consider that stagnant pools should not exist, as they are mosquito breeders. they do not realize that the stocking of pools with both fish and plants, carefully carried out so that they are properly balanced, results in the water never being putrid but remaining fresh and sweet, making a delightful water garden that is healthful and not malaria breeding. there are two essentials if you wish your idea to be successful; first, that the bottom be water-tight and second, that it be proof against frost. while these two things are easy to accomplish, yet many people fail in them. cement is the only proper material to be used for foundation. some people have an idea that puddled clay is cheaper. it may be if properly handled, but great care has to be taken that it is thoroughly puddled or it melts away and your work has been for naught. cement is the most reliable material if correctly applied. before putting it on, the pool should be dug out to the proper depth and size. it should then be well packed for several inches with broken stone. over this should be put portland cement, using one part of the former to three of sand. some people cement it for six inches while others prefer to use two coats, each three inches thick. it should never be so high that it will come above the frost line which is two and a half feet in depth. water lilies, as well as all kinds of aquatics, will grow in any kind of good garden soil; that is, if one-fifth well-rotted manure is added to it. possibly this is not to be obtained and if so, a quart of ground bone allowed to each bushel of soil will bring about the right results. it should be remembered that the plants should be set out so they will get the greatest exposure to the sunlight. [illustration: a lily pond that fills charmingly a corner of a garden] we have supposed that you have chosen a spot for your water garden that obtains the greatest amount of sun, also that it is sufficiently sheltered from the winds. it has been dug down from fifteen to twenty-four inches and then carefully cemented. now you are ready to plant your pool, the soil being taken into consideration. if, by some chance, you are not able to secure the kind recommended, it can be made of three parts rotted sod and one part cow manure. remember that it should be thoroughly rotted if you do not wish ferment in the water. too many people take little care on this subject and then wonder at the disappointing results. possibly there is no place for your garden pool. in that case why not use half barrels or tubs? they have the advantage of taking up very little room, can easily be sunk in the ground and are really well worth the trial. nothing should be used that has a diameter of less than two feet and the greater the surface space the better will be the result. tub culture requires two-thirds filling of soil and covering with sand to have it the right depth. if more than one tub is used, why not make a rockery between? it has the advantage of making another feature for your garden, besides adding picturesqueness. there are two ways of planting as well as two kinds of tubers. they can be put directly in the soil, or they can be planted in tubs or boxes that can be sunk, but the latter recommends itself as more practical. the reason for this is that they are easily removed in winter and the water is kept much cleaner when the earth is free from tubers. it must be remembered that each plant requires from eight to nine square feet of surface room so that it would be bad taste to allow too many for an individual pool. if you wish, you can make the boxes yourself, using pieces of board for that purpose. next come the gold fish. for a tub, only two are necessary, but for a pond one hundred feet in diameter, twenty-five should be used. these fish spawn in june and have been known to breed enough to stock a large pond. there is an old theory,--doubted by many, that the old fish turn cannibals and devour their progeny. these people advise the putting of roots and stock into a tub, this is so the egg may be attached, removed, and hatched separately. in cases like this the small fish are allowed to grow considerably before being returned to the tub. there are two kinds of tubers, the tender and the hardy. the latter require practically no care during the winter months, that is, always provided the water is deep enough to allow no freezing of the crown of the plant. they should be planted about the first of may and both varieties can be given the same treatment, with the exception that the hardy variety do best when planted in soil two feet deep and covered with six inches of water. all pools should have planting in addition to the tubers of submerged plants. this is to aerate the water and keep it pure and sweet. the best kinds to be used for this purpose are anacharis canadensis gigantea, and canbomba viridifolia, ten of them being enough for a large pool. the former is a giant water weed with dark green ovate leaves and light stems. it is a quick grower and considered by authorities to be one of the best oxygenators in existence. the latter, sometimes known as washington grass, is also popular. it has brilliant glossy green leaves, fan-shaped and more beautiful than a delicate fern. in addition to this why not use the ludwigia munlerti, which is one of the prettiest submerged plants. it shows small ovate leaves that are green on the upper side and pink on the under. this makes it distinct from any other aquarium plant. a great help in the way of nourishment for these water lilies is the application when first planted or in the early spring of dried blood manure. the proper way of using this is to broad cast it on the surface of the water, using one pound to every ten square feet of surface. too many people make the mistake of keeping the water too cold. this necessitates the filling of the pool and the leaving it to grow warm through exposure to the sun for several days before planting. when additional water has to be added, it should be some that has stood in the sun for several days, as cold water injures the growth. the condition for growth is the same for both the tender and the hardy nymphæas with the exception that the former should not be planted until after warm weather sets in. it is well, however, to grow them in pots so that they will be of fair size by june first when the weather has become suitable for their outdoor existence. if the pond is to be large, why not use groups, but if small, single ones will do. for their planting, the hardy variety can be sown in either fall or spring, as one fancies. they should have a small hole cut through the shell of each seed with a sharp knife that they may do better. for the tender kind, do not put them out until they are well started. they should be sown in pots or pans, covering the seeds with one-fourth of an inch of sand, giving them a thorough watering and allowing them to drain for an hour. then submerge them under two inches of soil at a temperature of seventy degrees. these can be removed into separate pots when they have shown two leaves. this kind is very desirable for cutting, the best for this purpose being the night-blooming varieties. the pygmæa hybrid type and the laydekri, as well, are desirable for hardy variety. the former is the smallest water lily in cultivation, a free bloomer showing white flowers, one and a half inches in diameter, while the pygmæa helvola, yellow in coloring, is very dainty. a combination of these two colors is always interesting, while if you wish the latter kind, why not try the laydekria rosea, which is a french hybrid and one of the earliest in introduction. only a few specimen plants are found cultivated at the present time. the flowers are of delicate pink with a deep golden center that deepens into a dark shade of rose, presenting a novel feature in that it seemingly is one plant showing different colors. another variety of this same order is the laydekri lilacea, three to five inches across, shading from rosy lilac to bright carmine and sending forth a fragrance like a tea rose. the sultan is also very valuable on account of its free flowering, the plants showing never less than six flowers open daily. these are of good size solferina red with white shading and yellow stamens. this is very rare and therefore brings a high price. [illustration: there is an ever-changing beauty to a garden whose paths are broken here and there by pools] of the day-blooming varieties, we find the capensis with flowers of rich sky blue. this planted in contrast with the ovalifolia, a new variety from east africa, produces flowers eight to ten inches across of deep creamy white, faintly tinged with blue that deepen until the tips are a light corn flower blue with sulphur yellow stamens. the charm of this flower is its petals which are long and narrow, giving it a pretty star shape. for the night blooming nymphæas, why not use the dedoniensis, which throws out large, pure red flowers often showing from twelve to eighteen blooms at a single time, also the dentata whose white flowers measure from eight to twelve inches in diameter and open out horizontally. do not forget in your collection to include the royal water lily. of these, the victoria regia is a well-known species. while the plants are expensive, the seeds can be bought for a much more reasonable price and are more interesting as one can watch them from their start until blossoming. the victoria trickeri is also desirable. in good condition its leaves are from four and a half to five and a half feet across, a single plant having from twelve to fifteen leaves and producing three or four flowers in a single week. these flowers are picturesque, being white at the time of opening and changing to deep rose pink, admitting a strong fragrance not unlike that of a ripe pineapple. in addition to water lilies one should plant different aquatics, to make a variety. there is the sagittaria montevidensis, which attains gigantic proportions, growing four or five feet high with leaves fifteen inches long, the flower towering above, the foliage white with dark blotches at the base of each petal. then there is the butterfly lily, a tender sub-aquatic plant that forms a dense clump three to six feet high bearing masses of pure white fragrant flowers that look like large white butterflies borne in large terminal clusters. the water poppy must not be forgotten. it is a very pretty aquatic plant with floating leaves and large yellow poppy-like flowers, and a continual bloomer. the border of the lily pond is of almost as much importance as the flowers themselves. iris makes a good setting. of these, the iris hexagona, or blue flag, is interesting from the fact that it is a hardy southern kind, showing rich purple and blue with yellow markings three to four inches across and resembling the costliest and rarest orchid flowers. the dalmatica is one of the finest of the german type. it grows four feet high with exceptionally large flowers of fine lavender, the falls shaded blue. the japanese iris is the grandest of all the hardy ones and the best are the double varieties with six petals. kokinoiro, a rich royal purple with white veining is very satisfactory in growth. combine it with the sano-watashi, which is white with canary yellow center, and the tokyo, a magnificent large, white flower, and you will find one of the best combinations possible. ornamental grasses are very effective for this use. of these, there are so many varieties it would be impossible to name them all. one of the most ornamental kinds is the zebra grass, which has long, narrow green leaves, striped white and feathery plumed. mix it with the pampas grass and you will note the artistic result. this grows very rapidly from seed planted in the spring and is useful for decorative purposes. the feather grass, growing two feet in height, fits into this scheme as does the tricholæna rosea, which is rose tinted, making a color scheme when massed with the other ornamental grasses that is most fascinating. the form and surroundings of the pool, carefully thought out, make it a most desirable feature for both small and large gardens, and everyone, no matter how limited their means, can indulge in one if they wish. the sun-dial in the garden [illustration: grassy paths lead pleasantly to the sun-dial] chapter ix the sun-dial in the garden the life story of the sundial reads like a fascinating page from some old romance of an early century. the first record of its use was in the eighth century before christ, when it was employed by the babylonians for the purpose of marking time. later on, it came into use in england, attached to public buildings. one of the most interesting was shown late in the sixteenth century on the belton house, lincolnshire, england. it was a representation of old father time and cupid cutting stone. a passing fad at one time was diminutive sundials, so small that they folded and could be used much as watches are to-day. they soon became very popular and attracted the attention of royalty, when charles i was seated on the throne. his collection was the largest in existence and represented all sorts of odd shapes and forms. the stuarts were all interested in sundials, and charles ii had a large one designed and placed in the garden at holyrood. while the first invented were crude, yet, as time went on, they became more popular, and different materials were used, such as wood, bronze and metal. the hour spaces were computed to comply with the locality in which they were placed. this required a great deal of thought and it was necessary to employ an expert workman. flowers and hedge plants were occasionally used to represent this idea. one of these stood between the "shakespeare garden" and the "garden of friendship" at lady warwick's summer home. the gnomon being of yew while the dial was worked out by the use of box, the lettering was outside and spelled the following motto--"les heures heureuses ne se comptent pas." this, as far as we know, was the first attempt at the use of floriculture in time pieces. sundials might be divided into two kinds, the perpendicular and the horizontal. each one of these has its own special place, the former being used on buildings while the latter was for garden purposes solely. in new york, one of the old perpendicular dials may still be seen on the dutch reformed church. the horizontal was extremely popular in both england and scotland, so much so that no garden of any pretention was considered complete without one or more of these ornamental time-keepers. the high favor in which the "simple altar-like structure," with its "silent heart language," was held in england was well expressed by charles lamb, who said of the sundial, "it stood as the garden god of christian gardens." it is the revival of this old-time custom that has given a delightful touch of sentiment to the gardens of to-day, where sundials have become, more especially of late years, a permanent fixture. many of these have interesting mottoes, some repeating the legends of other days, while later designs bear on their face a modern inscription. "_let others tell of storm and showers, i'll only count your sunny hours._" "_time goes you say--ah, no! time stays, we go._" "_i mark the time, dost thou?_" "_tyme passeth and speaketh not, deth cometh and warneth not, amend to-day and slack not, to-morrow thyself cannot._" by the time the american colonists had leisure to devote to the laying out of beautiful gardens, the day of the sundial was drawing to a close. the introduction of clocks had done away with the necessity of depending upon such fair-weather time pieces, and furthermore, they were no longer popular in other lands. so, despite its charm and value as an ornament, it was not widely adopted in this country. of late years, however, in the general revival of old-time customs, this interesting feature for gardens has come into favor. the making of one of these time pieces can be carried out by a village carpenter, but the purchasing of an old one had better be done by an expert as there are so many reproductions placed to-day on the market. all that is essential in order to work out proper results is that the dial should have a firm and absolutely level base to rest on, and that the gnomon should point directly towards the north star, so that time may be accurately computed. a stone pedestal is correct, although concrete is often used. the design depends largely upon the type of garden and the owner's taste. the beautiful, carved pedestals imported from italy are suitable only for the formal garden, and for our simple, less pretentious ones, wood or stone can be used, although cement has become very fashionable. to soften the lines of a severely simple column, ivy and other clinging vines can be placed around the base. the location is a matter that requires some thought, as the sundial's charm depends upon harmonious setting. it should be exposed to the sun continuously and placed far enough away from trees or buildings to preclude the possibility of its being shaded. there is no set rule that can be laid down for its placing. one is usually safe, however, in locating it at the intersection of two paths near a vine-clad pergola or within sight of a summer house or garden seat. formal gardens use it frequently as a central feature. if, however, a water garden takes this central place, the sundial should be at the end of some alluring path surrounded by masses of bright bloom. the chief fault that we find in contrasting the sundials of a century ago with those of the twentieth century is that there is now too much sameness. they seem to follow the same lines, more perhaps, than any other form of garden furniture. this can be overcome by designing them yourself, working out new ideas in the decoration and its motto. here the gnomons offer a chance for variation for instead of a plain, simple shaft, it can be changed into an ornamental design that helps out in changing it from monotony to originality. for the simple garden, why not make one yourself? it is not a hard matter, that is if you have any ingenuity. the only thing we must consider is to have it set perfectly even, to be sure the pedestal is carefully laid so that it will not tip and spoil the marking of the hours. there are so many materials that you can construct one from, there is no need of sameness. the most inexpensive is the rustic sundial. this is made from a small tree trunk. it should be about six to eight inches in diameter, tapering at the top, and show branches irregularly cut within three or four inches of the main trunk. there is a reason for this; it adds picturesqueness to the effect and gives pegs for the vines to climb over. do not top it with a wooden dial. they are never satisfactory, for they are apt to warp and thus ruin the entire scheme. you need not go to great expense to procure a satisfactory one, for there are many materials to draw from, iron, brass and slate being the most desirable. the latter are not expensive as they cost simply the price of the material and engraving. it takes a piece that ranges from an inch to an inch and a half in thickness and should not be more than a foot square. for this, one should not pay more than seventy-five cents, although if it is cut round it will be a little more expensive. if you prefer to use brass it costs more and needs a machinist who is used to handling this material to put it together for you and burnish the surface. you must remember that this applies to the dial only, the pedestal being a separate proposition. [illustration: the sun-dial is a feature in itself] for a little inexpensive time piece for your garden you can make one of wood, coloring it any shade that you like but so that it will contrast prettily with the flowers. the only thing that you must bear in mind is that care should be taken in its setting. if it is out of plumb it will not keep good time. should you, by chance, be able to procure an old mill stone, it serves two purposes, first it is a practical foundation and second it lends an old-time setting that is appropriate. for a simple, every-day foundation, stones can be laid about six inches deep and filled in with mortar. cement is also appropriate and oftentimes bricks can be used to good advantage. for a pedestal, a rather good idea is to use second-hand bricks. these can be cemented together with mortar, the red giving a touch of color to the drapery of the sundial that is picturesque. sometimes a boulder is used for this purpose or a slab of stone. if you purchase a sundial, you should bear in mind that if it is a genuine antique, it may not be suitable for our latitude. in cases like that it is best to have it looked after by an expert and so placed that it will be a correct timekeeper. we tire of the same idea continuously reproduced so why not work out a design of your own? this is hard to do, however, unless cement is used, when some floral design or ornamentation that is appropriate for the garden can be introduced. for the dial the gnomon is made much more interesting if it shows a unique formation rather than a straight shaft, as in the sundial at didsbury, england, where a harp is introduced, and in another case where a dragon holds the uplifted shaft. the situation of this feature has much to do with its practicability. as it is a sun-loving formation, its proper place is necessarily in the open, but whether surrounded by lawn or flowers, is something that everyone must decide for themselves. one reason against the flower setting is that it serves to hide the dial's meaning until you approach it closely. the eye is attracted to the bright blooming flowers rather than to the dial itself. this is not so if it has only a sward setting. it then becomes a prominent piece of garden furniture, its pure white surface standing out vividly from its surrounding of soft green grass. occasionally, all attempt at floriculture or gardening is abandoned. this is when it stands in the heart of a garden at the intersection of two paths. then care should be taken that in immediate proximity there should be pure white pebbles picked up on the beach. this may re-act on the shaft, giving it an air of sameness, and in that case different colored stones can be introduced. one can even go so far as to work out mottos in this way, forming the letters out of highly colored pebbles. to give it a rural appearance, some people set it in the heart of a bed of ferns. these can be chosen from a single variety such as the boston fern, which is one of the most popular on account of its graceful fronds and the durability which causes it to keep green for a long time. should, however, a lower growth be necessary, there is the dreyii, which is a dwarf variety of the same species. a much better effect, however, is obtained by planting the dwarf fern as a border to the circle and placing inside the elegantissima, which belongs to the crested variety and is especially adapted for massing. for a delicate, dainty setting, there is nothing more beautiful than the adiantum ruhm von mordrecht, which is the most beautiful of all the maiden hair ferns and easily cultivated. it is so graceful that it seems to add an almost poetic touch to the foundation on which the sundial stands. have you ever considered placing your sundial in the heart of a rose garden? unconsciously, the sweet perfume of the rose does much to increase the sentiment of this particular feature of garden culture. it depends in part on the pedestal as to whether low roses or delicate climbing ones should be used. if it is a plain, simple shaft, it can be delicately draped to within a few inches of the dial, but great care should be taken to obtain delicate coloring that will bring out the whiteness of the marble. one should be very careful not to have the roses grow so high that only the dial is visible. this would spoil the idea which it represents--a sundial in a garden. one of the most artistic ways is to plant low, dwarf roses, near the pedestal just far enough away so there will be several inches of space between. the roses themselves should be planted in heavy clay loam, although light and sandy soil can be used for this purpose. many people make a mistake in having their rose beds too rich. the fertilizer can be replaced, if exhausted, by fine-ground bone, which can be used only once a year. the dwarf polyanthas are a charming class of ever-blooming roses with bushy habits. the flowers are double, delightfully fragrant and borne in large clusters, being covered with a large mass of bloom. for a combination planting, the baby dorothy is very effective; it is carnation pink, with the habit and growth similar to that of the baby rambler. the latter is very effective, rosy crimson in coloring, very free flowering, and useful in massing effects. add to that catherine zeimet, which is a great acquisition, to the baby ramblers, and produces an abundance of double white flowers. directly around the base of the pedestal, you can plant your climbing roses, taking great care to nip them back so that they will only show a tracery of leaves and flowers and allow the white of the sundial to peer through. for these, use the lady gay whose delicate cerise pink blossoms fade to soft white, making a most pleasing combination of white flowers, crimson buds and green foliage. in connection with that, why not plant the source d'or, which is deep yellow, gradually paling. this bears large clusters of double flowers, and shows fine foliage. for red, the wall flower is the best, as it shows a distinct coloring and has vigorous habits. mix with that the shower of gold, a fine coppery gold color with glossy foliage. for the outer edge of the rose bed, do not forget those used in our grandmother's time. they have lasted long and on account of their sterling qualities are still popular. they have a range of coloring and are so absolutely hardy, easy to grow and fragrant that they are advisable for this use. the clothilde soupert is a good color to choose. it is a strong, vigorous grower, putting forth large, double flowers like a ball of snow. the color blends from soft shell pink to pure satiny white. mix with these the souvenir de malmaison, which blooms well in hot weather, its rich colored flowers being of large size, doubled to the center and produced in abundance. [illustration: an old well used effectively as a decorative feature] for a hybrid, there is nothing more effective than the killarney, whose color is a sparkling brilliant pink, the buds long and pointed, the petals very large and of great substance, being just as handsome in the bud form as in the full-blown flower. for a soft, pearly white, the kaiserin augusta victoria is advisable, tinting to a soft lemon, its fragrance added to its beautifully formed flowers, make it a joy in your garden. a rustic sundial requires far different treatment, and only vines that bring forth white blossoms or pale colors should be used. if clematis is chosen, the duchess of edinburgh is suitable as it shows double white flowers that are very fragrant. mixed with this can be the jackmania alba, which is white, shaded with blue. the fair rosamond, if one wishes a combination, fits in with the color scheme, being tinted white with red stripes. the advantage of these flowers is that the blossoms open in masses that bring out the dark of the wood and lend themselves to picturesque effects. around the foot of the sundial, why not plant poppies, making a circle about five inches in width. the perennial poppies are among the most brilliant in coloring, the graceful bright-colored, cup-shaped flowers being borne on long stems. mix with them the oriental poppies, which are the most showy plants possible for decorative effects. to fill in the spaces put in a package of shirley, the combination of the three varieties giving a most fascinating touch of color. for the shirley, why not use the finest mixed, as it will bring out white, delicate pink, deep crimson, and handsomely striped varieties. the perennial is advantageous because it comes up every year while the oriental are magnificent in coloring, more especially the grand mogul with bright crimson flower of immense size, the princess ena, bearing large, bright, orange-scarlet and the marie studholme, which is a delicate shade of salmon with a silver sheen. nothing can give better effects for this style of sundial than the clematis with a poppy in the foreground. color makes a great difference in proper planting, the white marble or concrete and possibly wood painted white, demands a strong color to bring out effectively the white of the surface. the gray stone is not picturesque unless blues, yellows, or reds are used. these three colors can be blended so that they form a scheme that is most attractive. when it comes to brick you will have to depend upon white, or light blue for coloring. more care should be taken with the planting around this kind of a pedestal than any other. the red of the brick demands more covering than any other type. the hop vine fits into the scheme, but requires a great deal of trimming lest it overshadows the brick, making a mass of green without any hint of the brick below. the leaves are fine, three-lobed, and rough on both sides while the loose paper-like straw-yellow hop in the fall hang gracefully from the brick, making a fluffy but attractive covering. fragrance is necessary in the planting of a sundial, then why not use the honeysuckle? the brachypoda is particularly effective for this purpose. it shows white flowers in pairs, and sends forth a delicious perfume that attracts one even before the sundial is viewed. the hall evergreen honeysuckle is also good for this purpose, being a strong grower and constant bloomer. the flowers open white, change to buff, and are very delicate in appearance. this sundial should be set in a circle of green. at the edge of the border plant iris. this makes a more effective setting than if a whole bed of this should be used. the well-known, beautiful iris of japan displays a great variety of colors, the chief of which is white, maroon, dark blue and violet. most of them are veined, mottled or flaked with different colors. there are both single and double varieties. the beauty of this plant is that it succeeds in any good soil, that is if well drained and given plenty of water when dry. they can be planted either in the late summer or spring, as desirable, and should be shown in masses, growing from two to three feet in height and lasting in blossom for a month. for double use the antelope, which shows a white ground flaked with purple. mix with it the beauty which is a pure white. add to it the mount hood, light blue, shaded darker in the center. these can be intermixed with the crested iris, a dwarf, showing handsome, light-colored flowers, and the snow queen, whose large snow-white blossoms are free flowering. the planting around the sundial rests with the whim of the owner, though, if out-of-the-way ideas can be evolved, it will add much to the attractiveness of this feature of the garden. the fountain [illustration: narcissus stands in the heart of the fountain] chapter x the fountain have you ever seated yourself in your garden, more especially on a warm summer day, and dreamily listened to the musical tinkle of the water that flowed from the mouth of the fountain, dripping down from the over-flowing basin into the pool below? it is then you realize what an attractive ornament it is for your garden for it appeals not only to the eye but to the ear. lowell picturesquely describes his idea of this bit of garden furnishing when he speaks of it as "leaping and flashing," in the sunlight. while the pergola, the garden seat and the sundial each have their own appropriate use, they serve one purpose only. not so the fountain, which never fails to convey a delightful impression of coolness, as it gurgles and murmurs, on its way. surely there is nothing that gives to the garden a more picturesque charm than this, standing like a spot of color in a vivid setting of bright flowering plants. in the pool below one finds constantly changing pictures of the blue sky, snowy clouds or summer blossoms, each one worthy of its floral frame. as the garden fountain is merely an accessory and the beauty of the constantly dripping water and the rising of the spray are what constitutes its real charm, the conventional design can be simple or elaborate but it should follow the garden scheme. it depends upon its environment as to whether we make it the central feature in the design or a setting in the wall. lovely effects can easily be produced if one is careful in trying to work out a right treatment, for the placing is fully as much of importance as the planting. balance should be the main object. to the amateur who has had no special training in floriculture, the introduction of even a simple water spout is of interest. he watches its workings with a newly awakened enthusiasm, directing its course so that it falls artistically over the different levels of the rock garden into the home-made concrete pool below. the introduction of this water feature gives a distinctive touch to even the simplest little flower plot. for a larger garden, what is more alluring than a fountain sending forth a high, vapory stream, bursting into a cloud of filmy spray? this is especially true when it is viewed through a vista or at the ending of a vine-shaded pergola. around it should be planted a carefully selected combination of flowers or shrubs, great care being taken that they blend harmoniously. the size of the fountain and the breadth of the pool lend themselves more or less effectively to producing alternating sunshine and shade on the surface of the water. the basin is, in a way, of as much importance as the fountain design. it is generally round, although occasionally an oblong design fits better into the landscape effect. it should be from two to three feet deep and so constructed that the sides slope outward much like the ordinary wooden water bucket. there is a practical reason for this, as it prevents cracking during the winter months. the cost naturally varies, the size materially affecting the price. the background demands more than passing notice. nearness of trees is a decided drawback, as the falling leaves, especially in the autumn, mar the surface and clog the outlet and make it necessary to clean the basin frequently. the best time to plan for any garden ornament is just before the early fall. the flowers are in their prime and one can better determine placing than in the early spring when the garden lies bleak and desolate. many garden lovers with a desire for originality feel confident that they can rely upon their imagination to work out color schemes even during the winter months. fortunate is he who accomplishes this satisfactorily. there is great danger, however, that his castles in the air may fall to the ground through taking too much for granted. the grounds do not always meet requirements, and the result is not only wrong placing but an ornament that is either too large or too small for its allotted space. we are far too impatient to obtain results and it is this undue haste that often ruins the composition of gardens. there is a great satisfaction in adding to and improving our grounds, much more so than if the whole work were developed at once. almost every garden into which careful thought has been placed grows with its years. few, if any garden lovers, but have felt a keen sense of disappointment at the finished results of their garden schemes. what was satisfying the first year, has later brought about unhappy combinations. it is this fact that should be impressed on everyone's mind, if they wish a perfect lay-out. [illustration: a roman fountain placed against a very appropriate background] probably everybody who has become interested in floriculture finds the same difficulty in obtaining exactly what they wish. it is often hard to match ideas with reality. this is another reason for curbing one's impatience. the right things are sure to be found, that is if one is willing to take time. it is when comparing the gardens of the old world with those of to-day that we are impressed with the atmosphere of the twentieth-century garden, where nature is encouraged to be genuine rather than artificial. this is the height of success, the bringing into harmony of paths, ornaments, and flowers, omitting gaudy effects or over-crowding with marble fragments. simplicity should be the key-note in arranging this part of our ground, a simplicity that has been worked out by careful thought for it means hard study to obtain natural effects. there are many materials from which our fountain can be manufactured. the most expensive of these are marble, terra cotta and manufactured stone, the former leading the list, while the latter is better suited to the moderate purse. this last is, in reality, a composition of marble dust with cement, and the result is most satisfactory, the finished product showing a smooth surface resembling as nearly as possible that of unpolished marble. in rare cases, however, chemicals have been used to produce an antique look. many people are under the impression that manufactured stone is always white. as a matter of fact, in the finished product, there are as many as half a dozen neutral tints shown. these all incline to a soft, delicate gray, sometimes with a blueish cast. terra cotta comes next in cost. a detriment to its use is that, particularly when it is shown in deep bronze coloring, it does not lend itself artistically to landscape effect, through lack of contrast with its surroundings. we find this material with both glazed and unglazed surfaces, the former being more expensive but not as practical as the latter. the most strongly recommended coloring is limestone gray, whose soft, delicate finish brings out the tone of the vines, and emphasizes the color of the surrounding flowers. next comes the pompeian red, only to be used under certain conditions on account of its color. colonial yellow has also been introduced. the two last colors are rarely, if ever, used for fountain designs, the gray being considered much more advisable. there are many reasons why cement is considered practical; its cost, its wearing qualities, and its appropriate coloring. all these qualities lend themselves to constructive purposes, and making it decoratively most desirable. the architect who suits the design of the garden to the type of the house will take advantage of this particular material. he has his ideas concerning the effect that he wishes to bring out, to emphasize the design of the house. he realizes that there is something more than interest in botany to be shown if he wishes to make this part of his plan a success. we have grown to a realizing sense that for the best results it is better to employ a skilled man. no clever result can be brought out through an inexperienced person planning the grounds, that is, unless they have natural ability such as few people possess. we have only to go back to our colonial ancestors and study effects. it is then we realize the difference between home planting and architectural planting. cost is not the only thing to be taken into consideration when creating garden effects. character should be considered as well. in order to obtain this satisfactorily, the accessories should be planned by a connoisseur, such as an architect becomes after many years' study of the subject. the fountain is the most important detail and requires more careful thought than any other part of the garden setting. it makes no difference what its construction is, so that it fits in with the scheme. great care should be taken not to introduce different periods or materials when placing garden ornaments on our grounds. take, as an instance, a home-made fountain and place it in close proximity with an imported one and note the result. you will see the lack of harmony. the italian fountain belongs distinctively to the formal or italian lay-out, and should never be used, with the exception of making a central feature on a lawn, in any other way. if you place the greek fountain on a hillside where landscape effects have been worked out through the use of cascades that dash over terraces and under rustic bridges, you will see it is entirely out of place and in the wrong surroundings. [illustration: an artistic fountain particularly well placed] occasionally, we come across an iron fountain painted black or red. this metal is cheap and stock designs can be purchased, but the very best ones are private orders and can never be reproduced. the price varies as with every other bit of garden furniture from a few dollars up to as many thousands. the advantage of this metal is that it fits into places where marble should be avoided. pottery fountains have been used within the last few years, and many of them are very graceful, being turned and finished by hand. this type has a special mission in our garden, its proper placing being in new england where the gray rocks, hedges and evergreen predominate. this material is shown in more colors than almost any other. these include gray, brown, green, blue, and many shades of terra cotta. this variation of color makes it adapted to almost any situation. one advantage in their use is that, strongly reinforced as they are by galvanized steel wires, they are climate-proof and practically indestructible. the location of this special garden ornament demands serious attention. it is often placed where it will attract attention to some special feature that has been carefully worked out in detail. more especially is this true when it has been inserted as a part of the retaining wall and is surrounded by some choice vine whose flowers accentuate the architecture. there are so many forms and features connected with this special garden ornament that there need never be any sameness. it is an ideal medium with which to recreate the fauns, satyrs and nymphs of the garden. animals, too, are often used and so are cupids. the planting, which is of as much importance as the ornamentation, depends upon the size of the pool and its location. shade requires far different treatment from sunny exposures, while the heart of a grass plot lends itself to little or no floral embellishment. the finish of the pool influences the arrangement of the flowers. should it be very ornamental, the planting should be far enough away not to shut off its picture effect in the landscape. if it is simply a curbing, it should have a setting of green or of low-growing plants. often an effective treatment is worked out through a border of velvety turf outlined by plants. peonies never fail to bring out the right coloring of the fountain, that is if they are far enough away not to cut off the design. they are called rightly the aristocrats of the flower garden. for mass planting, they are most effective, their great gorgeous blossoms, daintily dyed and ranging from white to the deepest red, their wonderful fragrance and their decorative value are unsurpassed. they can either be planted in solid color or in a combination that is artistic. the couronne d'or, beautiful white in coloring and showing blossoms of red in the center with a halo of yellow around, makes a picturesque contrast to the deep green of the tree leaves. the large, double, ball-shape bloom of the felix crousse intermixed with white, gives one of the most fascinating combinations of red and white. the beauty of peonies is that they grow anywhere although they do best in rich, deep soil and with a sunny exposure. they are perfectly hardy, require no protection and unlike most other plants are not infested by either insects or disease. all they ask for is plenty of water during their growing season. grandmother's flowers, which are so fashionable to-day, are particularly desirable as a planting around a fountain. the sweet moss rose trailing through the grass and mixing its blossoms with the yellow of the scotch rose is often used for low effects, or where very little coloring is advisable. the amount of planting and the height naturally depend upon the design of the individual fountain. those that are ornamental are so effective that they need practically nothing to bring out right effects. iris is always in good form. we find it to-day so highly developed that in comparison to the little fleur-de-lis that grows unmolested in the neighboring swamp, it seems scarcely a variety of the same flower. as we are able to buy both double and single irises, we should make a choice and not mingle the two. the double with its flowers averaging from eight to ten inches across, is an artistic foil for the white of the fountain. commencing with the german, which comes into bloom about the middle of may, we can follow the time of blossoming through the introduction of the japanese iris which lasts through july. in their planting, better effects are produced if two colors only are used. this can be supplemented by a third if the coloring is broken by the introduction of a thread of white. for the german, why not use the honorabilis, which is a golden yellow with outside yellow petals shading to a mahogany brown, or the king of iris, which is a clear yellow. the florentina alba gives the white coloring, its flowers being very large and fragrant. these two colors can be enhanced by the adding of the camillian which is a delicate blue with falls tipped a little darker shade. these are more suited for a fountain with a low curbing or for an informal garden where cement is used. they give a very pretty effect, their flowers being pictured in the water below. [illustration: this wall fountain with its shell background and basin is most fittingly placed] pansies are never out of place. a very pretty idea is to have them massed for as many as eight inches around the curb. choose for these, bright-colored varieties rather than dark. the tufted pansies, which are one of the most important bedding plants in europe, are rapidly growing in favor in our country. one reason for this is that they flower continuously for nearly eight months in the year. the flowers are not as large as those of the single pansy, but their bright colors make them a welcome addition to our garden. the rich, golden yellow, the violet with a dark eye and the white, are all three admirable for this purpose. pansies love coolness and give their largest and finest flowers in early spring and late fall. they are so easy to grow, rioting in the cool, deep mellow beds they love, that everybody should use them. they will endure all winter long if protected by a few evergreen vines. the size needed for bedding for your fountain depends entirely upon the width of the bed. the most superb specimens are found among the orchid flowering ones. they take their name mainly from their tints and variation of color resembling the gorgeous shades seen in orchids. these are the most novel and distinctive strain that we have used for years. have you ever considered the graceful effect of ornamental grasses? they can be used with telling effects for the margin of the fountain, although care must be taken not to plant those that grow to enormous height. the euallia japonica is appropriate. its long, narrow, graceful green foliage, flowering into attractive plumes, give it a distinctive place for this purpose. mix with it the zebra grass, whose long blades are marked with broad yellow bands across the leaf. intermix with this the hardy fountain grass which grows only four feet in height and has narrow foliage, bright green in coloring, cylindrical flower-heads carried well above the foliage, tinged with a bronze purple and is one of the most valuable of the hardy grasses. in the planting of the grasses, to make the best effect give the taller ones the outside row, letting the low ones fall over the water, mirroring in the surface below. one of the advantages in using this is that it attracts birds and butterflies. nothing can attract the songsters quicker to your fountain than this kind of surrounding. occasionally, we find that instead of planting, beds are geometrically laid out to surround this, the axis of the garden design. in cases like this we have to depend upon the borders for effect. these can be hedge-loving plants or they can be a solid, low planting. scotch heather is very pretty. it should be grown in sunny places with moist surroundings. its racimes of dark rose pink petals, lasting from july to september, make it very effective for this purpose. the japanese barberry can also be included, nothing equals it in artistic value. it requires but little pruning to keep it in shape, while its fruit or berries, assuming rich brilliant colors in the fall, are most effective when used for a setting like this. if possible, try for flowers that have fragrance. it adds so much to the effect to breathe in the sweet odor as you sit watching the shading of the flowers, the swaying of the birds, and listening to the musical tinkle of the water as it drips into the basin below. garden design by the same alpine flowers for english gardens. second edition. the sub-tropical garden; or, beauty of form in the flower garden. second edition. hardy flowers. description of upwards of of the most ornamental species, with directions for their arrangement, culture, etc. fourth and cheaper edition. the wild garden; or, our graves and gardens made beautiful by the naturalisation of hardy exotic plants. illustrated by alfred parsons. second edition. john murray. the english flower garden: style, position, and arrangement. followed by a description of all the best plants for it--their culture and arrangement. second edition, . john murray. god's acre beautiful; or, the cemeteries of the future. third edition. with illustrations. london: john murray. new york: scribner & welford. published in a cheaper form and with additions under the name-- cremation and urn-burial. cassell & co., limited. the parks and gardens of paris. considered in relation to the wants of other cities, and of public and private gardens. being notes made in paris gardens. third edition. illustrated. london: john murray. journals the garden. an illustrated weekly journal of gardening in all its branches. vol. xl. gardening illustrated. for town and country. a weekly journal for amateurs and gardeners. vol. xiii. farm and home. a weekly illustrated journal of agriculture in all its branches. stock, dairy, tillage, stable, pasture, orchard, market-garden, poultry, house. vol. x. woods and forests. a weekly illustrated journal of forestry, ornamental planting, and estate management. vols. i. and ii. . garden design and architects' gardens two reviews, illustrated, to show, by actual examples from british gardens, that clipping and aligning trees to make them 'harmonise' with architecture is barbarous, needless, and inartistic by w. robinson, f.l.s. london: john murray, albemarle street to sir philip currie, k.c.b. preface that we might see, eyes were given us; and a tongue to tell accurately what we had got to see. it is the alpha and omega of all intellect that man has. no poetry, hardly even that of goethe, is equal to the true image of reality--had one eyes to see that.--t. carlyle, _letters to varnhagen von ense_. _the one english thing that has touched the heart of the world is the english garden. proof of this we have in such noble gardens as the english park at munich, the garden of the emperor of austria at laxenberg, the petit trianon at versailles, the parks formed of recent years round paris, and many lovely gardens in europe and america. the good sense of english writers and landscape gardeners refused to accept as right or reasonable the architect's garden, a thing set out as bricks and stones are, and the very trees of which were mutilated to meet his views as to "design" or rather to prove his not being able to see the simplest elements of design in landscape beauty or natural form. and some way or other they destroyed nearly all signs of it throughout our land._ _in every country where gardens are made we see the idea of the english garden gratefully accepted; and though there are as yet no effective means of teaching the true art of landscape gardening, we see many good results in europe and america. no good means have ever been devised for the teaching of this delightful english art. here and there a man of keen sympathy with nature does good work, but often it is carried out by men trained for a very different life, as engineers in the great paris parks, and in our own country by surveyors and others whose training often wholly unfits them for the study of the elements of beautiful landscape. thus we do not often see good examples of picturesque garden and park design, while bad work is common. everywhere--unhappily, even in england, the home of landscape gardening--the too frequent presence of stupid work in landscape gardening offers some excuse for the two reactionary books which have lately appeared--books not worth notice for their own sake, as they contribute nothing to our knowledge of the beautiful art of gardening or garden design. but so many people suppose that artistic matters are mere questions of windy argument, that i think it well to show by english gardens and country seats of to-day that the many sweeping statements of their authors may be disproved by reference to actual things, to be seen by all who care for them. we live at a time when, through complexity of thought and speech, artistic questions have got into a maze of confusion. even teachers by profession confuse themselves and their unfortunate pupils with vague and hyper-refined talk about art and "schools" and "styles," while all the time much worse work is done than in days when simpler, clearer views were held. to prove this there is the example of the great master's work and the eternal laws of nature, on the study of which all serious art must be for ever based. beneath all art there are laws, however subtle, that cannot be ignored without error and waste; and in garden design there are lessons innumerable both in wild and cultivated nature which will guide us well if we seek to understand them simply._ _these books are made up in great part of quotations from old books on gardening--many of them written by men who knew books better than gardens. where the authors touch the ground of actuality, they soon show little acquaintance with the subject; and, indeed, they see no design at all in landscape gardening and admit their ignorance of it. that men should write on things of which they have thought little is unhappily of frequent occurrence, but to find them openly avowing their ignorance of the art they presume to criticise is new._ _a word or two on the state of architecture itself may not be amiss. from gower street to the new law courts our architecture does not seem to be in a much better state than landscape gardening is, according to the architects to whom we owe the "formal garden" and "garden craft"! it is william morris--whose "design" these authors may respect--who calls london houses "mean and idiotic rabbit warrens:" so that there is plenty to do for ambitious young architects to set their own house in artistic order!_ _as regards "formal gardening," the state of some of the best old houses in england--longleat, compton-wynyates, brympton, and many others, where trees in formal lines, clipped or otherwise, are not seen in connection with the architecture--is proof against the need of the practice. as regards the best new houses, clouds, so well built by mr. philip webb, is not any the worse for its picturesque surroundings, which do not meet the architect's senseless craving for "order and balance"; while batsford, certainly one of the few really good new houses in england, is not disfigured by the fashions in formality the authors wish to see revived, and of which they give an absurd example in a cut of badminton. there is, in short, ample proof, furnished both by the beautiful old houses of england and by those new ones that have any claim to dignity, that the system they seek to revive could only bring costly ugliness to our beautiful home-landscapes._ w. r. july , . contents page garden design natural and false lines "uncultivated nature" the true landscape buildings in relation to the garden time and gardens true use of a garden formal gardening "nature," and what we mean by it "all our paths" are crooked! "the only garden possible!" "no design in landscape" no grass in landscape gardening! "improving" battersea park! nature and clipped yews no line in nature! "vegetable sculpture" illustrations rhianva to face page group of trees on garden lawn at golder's hill, hampstead page wakehurst to face page gilbert white's house at selborne " example of formal gardening page longleat to face page old place, lindfield " arundel castle " tailpiece page west dean to face page athelhampton hall, dorset " the vicarage garden, odiham " unclipped trees at the little trianon page westonbirt to face page thrumpton hall " tailpiece page goodwood to face page avenue in paris " clipped trees at the little trianon page the "grange," hartley wintney to face page a yew tree on mountain, n. england " building in paris " broadlands, hants " warren house, coombe wood " drummond castle " madresfield " tailpiece page "the number of those who really think seriously before they begin to write is small; extremely few of them think about _the subject itself;_ the remainder think only about the books that have been written on it."--arthur schopenhauer. garden design[ ] [ ] _the formal garden in england._ by reginald blomfield and f. inigo thomas. london: macmillan and co. a beautiful house in a fair landscape is the most delightful scene of the cultivated earth--all the more so if there be an artistic garden--the rarest thing to find! the union--a happy marriage it should be--between the house beautiful and the ground near it is worthy of more thought than it has had in the past, and the best ways of effecting that union artistically should interest men more and more as our cities grow larger and our lovely english landscape shrinks back from them. the views of old writers will help us little, for a wholly different state of things has arisen in these mechanical days. my own view is that we have never yet got from the garden, and, above all, the home landscape, half the beauty which we may get by abolishing the needless formality and geometry which disfigure so many gardens, both as regards plan and flower planting. formality is often essential in the plan of a flower garden near a house--_never_ as regards the arrangements of its flowers or shrubs. to array these in lines or rings or patterns can only be ugly wherever done! that men have never yet generally enjoyed the beauty that good garden design may give is clear from the fact that the painter is driven from the garden! the artist dislikes the common garden with its formality and bedding; he cannot help hating it! in a country place he will seek anything but the garden, but may, perhaps, be found near a wild rose tossing over the pigsty. this dislike is natural and right, as from most flower gardens the possibility of any beautiful result is shut out! yet the beautiful garden exists, and there are numbers of cottage gardens in surrey or kent that are as "paintable" as any bit of pure landscape! [illustration: _rhianva. terraced garden, but with picturesque planting and flower gardening_] why is the cottage garden often a picture, and the gentleman's garden near, wholly shut out of the realm of art, a thing which an artist cannot look at long? it is the absence of pretentious "plan" in the cottage garden which lets the flowers tell their tale direct; the simple walks going where they are wanted; flowers not set in patterns; the walls and porch alive with flowers. can the gentleman's garden then, too, be a picture? certainly; the greater the breadth and means the better the picture should be. but never if our formal "decorative" style of design is kept to. reform must come by letting nature take her just place in the garden. [illustration: _group of trees on garden lawn at golder's hill, hampstead; picturesque effect in suburban garden_] natural and false lines after we have settled the essential approaches, levels, and enclosures for shelter, privacy, or dividing lines around a house, the natural form or lines of the earth herself are in nearly all cases the best to follow, and in my work i face any labour to get the ground back into its natural level or fall where disfigured by ugly banks, lines, or angles. in the true italian garden on the hills we have to alter the natural line of the earth or "terrace" it, because we cannot otherwise cultivate the ground or move at ease upon it. such steep ground exists in many countries, and where it does, a like plan must be followed. the strictly formal in such ground is as right in its way as the lawn in a garden in the thames valley. but the lawn is the heart of the true english garden, and as essential as the terrace is to the gardens on the steep hills. english lawns have too often been destroyed that "geometrical" gardens may be made where they are not only needless, but harmful both to the garden and home landscape. sometimes on level ground the terrace walls cut off the view of the landscape from the house, and, on the other hand, the house from the landscape! i hold that it is possible to get every charm of a garden and every use of a country-seat without sacrifice of the picturesque or beautiful; that there is no reason why, either in the working or design of gardens, there should be a single false line in them. by this i mean hard and ugly lines such as the earth never follows, as say, to mention a place known to many, the banks about the head of the lake in the bois de boulogne. these lines are seen in all bad landscape work, though with good workmen i find it is as easy to form true and artistic lines as false and ugly ones. every landscape painter or observer of landscape will know what is meant here, though i fear it is far beyond the limits of the ideas of design held by the authors of the _formal garden_. also, that every charm of the flower garden may be secured by avoiding wholly the knots and scrolls which make all the plants and flowers of a garden, all its joy and life, subordinate to the wretched conventional design in which they are "set out." the true way is the opposite. we should see the flowers and feel the beauty of plant forms, with only the simplest possible plans to ensure good working, to secure every scrap of turf wanted for play or lawn, and for every enjoyment of a garden. [illustration: _wakehurst. elizabethan house with grounds not terraced_] "uncultivated nature" such views i have urged, and carry them out when i can, in the hope of bringing gardening into a line with art, from which it is now so often divorced. it is natural that these views should meet with some opposition, and the consideration of the _formal garden_ gives the opportunity of examining their value. the question, briefly stated, is this: are we, in laying out our gardens, to ignore the house, and to reproduce uncultivated nature to the best of our ability in the garden? or are we to treat the house and garden as inseparable factors in one homogeneous whole, which are to co-operate for one premeditated result? no sane person has ever proposed to ignore the house. so far from ignoring the house in my own work, where there is a beautiful house it tells me what to do! unhappily, the house is often so bad that nothing can prevent its evil effect on the garden. "_reproducing uncultivated nature_" is no part of good gardening, as the whole reason of a flower garden is that it is a home for cultivated nature. it is the special charm of the garden that we may have beautiful natural objects in their living beauty in it, but we cannot do this without care and culture to begin with! whether it be atlas cedar or eastern cypress, lily-tree or american mountain laurel, all must be cared for at first, and we must know their ways of life and growth if we are to treat them so that they will both grow well and be rightly placed--an essential point. and the more precious and rare they are the better the place they should have in the flower garden proper or pleasure ground,--places always the object of a certain essential amount of care even under the simplest and wisest plans. if we wish to encourage "uncultivated nature" it must surely be a little further afield! a wretched flowerless pinched bedding plant and a great yellow climbing tea rose are both cultivated things, but what a vast difference in their beauty! there are many kinds of "cultivated nature," and every degree of ugliness among them. sir c. barry's idea was that the garden was gradually to become less and less formal till it melted away into the park. compromises such as these, however, will be rejected by thoroughgoing adherents of the formal gardens who hold that the garden should be avowedly separated from the adjacent country by a clean boundary line, a good high wall for choice. (_the formal garden._) would any one put this high wall in front of gilbert white's house at selborne, or of golder's hill at hampstead, or many english houses where the erection of a high wall would cut off the landscape? not a word about the vast variety of such situations, each of which would require to be treated in a way quite different from the rest! there are many places in every county that would be robbed of their best charms by separating the garden from the adjacent country by a "good high wall." [illustration: _gilbert white's house at selborne. example of many gardens with lawn coming to windows and flowers on its margin_] the custom of planting avenues and cutting straight lines through the woods surrounding the house to radiate in all directions was a departure from that strictly logical system which separated the garden from the park, and left the latter to take care of itself, a system which frankly subordinated nature to art within the garden wall, but in return gave nature an absolutely free hand outside it. (_the formal garden._) nature an "_absolutely free hand_"! imagine a great park or any part of an estate being left to nature with an "absolutely free hand"! if it were, in a generation there would be very little to see but the edge of the wood. callous to the beauty of english parks, he does not know that they are the object of much care, and he abuses all those who ever formed them, brown, repton, and the rest. [illustration: _example of formal gardening, with clipped trees and clipped shrubs in costly tubs_] the true landscape mr. blomfield writes nonsense, and then attributes it to me-- that is to say, we go to claude, and having saturated our minds with his rocks and trees, we return to nature and try to worry her into a resemblance to claude. i am never concerned with claude, but seek the best expression i can secure of our beautiful english real landscapes, which are far finer than claude's. at least i never saw any painted landscape like them--say that from the chestnut walk at shrubland, looking over the lovely suffolk country. that is the precious heritage we have to keep. and that is where simple and picturesque gardening will help us by making the garden a beautiful foreground for the true landscape, instead of cutting it off with a "high wall" or anything else that is ugly and needless. the lawns are not to be left in broad expanse, but to have pampas grasses, foreign shrubs, etc., dotted about on the surface. i have fought for years against the lawn-destruction by the terrace-builders and bedding-out gardeners! but how are we to have our lawns in "broad expanse" if we build a high wall near the house to cut off even the possibility of a lawn? this has been done in too many cases to the ruin of all good effect and repose, often to shut out as good landscapes as ever were painted! there are flagrant cases in point to be found in private gardens in the suburbs of london. there is much bad and ignorant landscape work as there is bad building everywhere, but errors in that way are more easily removed than mistakes in costly and aimless work in brick and stone. at coombe cottage, when i first saw its useless terrace wall shutting out the beautiful valley view from the living rooms, i spoke of the error that had been made, but the owner thought that, as it had cost him a thousand pounds, he had better leave it where it was! buildings in relation to the garden the place of formal gardening is clear for ever. the architect can help the gardener much by building a beautiful house! that is his work. the true architect, it seems to me, would seek to go no farther. the better the real work of the architect is done, the better for the garden and landscape. if there are any difficulties of level about the house beautiful, they should be dealt with by the architect, and the better his work and the necessary terracing, if any, are done, the pleasanter the work of the landscape or other gardener who has to follow him should be. [illustration: _longleat. type of nobler english country seat with old house and picturesque planting_] that a garden is made for plants is what most people who care for gardens suppose. if a garden has any use, it is to treasure for us beautiful flowers, shrubs, and trees. in these days--when our ways of building are the laughing-stock of all who care for beautiful buildings--there is plenty for the architect to do without spoiling our gardens! most of the houses built in our time are so bad, that even the best gardening could hardly save them from contempt. our garden flora is now so large, that a life's work is almost necessary to know it. how is a man to make gardens wisely if he does not know what has to be grown in them? i do not mean that we are to exclude other men than the landscape gardener proper from the garden. we want all the help we can get from those whose tastes and training enable them to help us--the landscape painter best of all, if he cares for gardens and trees--the country gentleman, or any keen student and lover of nature. the landscape gardener of the present day is not always what we admire, his work often looking more like that of an engineer. his gardening near the house is usually a repetition of the decorative work of the house, of which i hope many artistic people are already tired. and as i think people will eventually see the evil and the wastefulness of this "decorative" stuff, and spend their money on really beautiful and artistic things, so i think the same often-repeated "knots" and frivolous patterns must leave the artistic garden, and simpler and dignified forms take their place. to endeavour to apply any one preconceived plan or general idea to every site is folly, and the source of many blunders. the authors are not blind to the absurdities of the architectural gardeners, and say, on page :-- rows of statues were introduced from the french, costly architecture superseded the simple terrace, intricate parterres were laid out from gardeners' pattern books, and meanwhile the flowers were forgotten. it was well that all this pomp should be swept away. we do not want this extravagant statuary, these absurdities in clipped work, this aggressive prodigality. but though one would admit that in its decay the formal garden became unmanageable and absurd, the abuse is no argument against the use. certainly not where the place calls for it, and all absolutely necessary stone-work about a house should be controlled by the architect; beyond that, nothing. to let him lay out our home landscapes again with lines of trees, as shown in the old dutch books, and with no regard to landscape design and to the relations of the garden to the surrounding country, would be the greatest evil that could come to the beautiful home landscapes of britain. [illustration: _old place, lindfield. picturesque garden of old english house, admitting of charming variety in its vegetation_] time and gardens not one word of the swift worker, time! its effect on gardens is one of the first considerations. fortress-town, castle, and moat all without further use! in old days gardens had to be set within the walls; hence, formal in outline, though often charming inside. to keep all that remains of such should be our first care; never to imitate them now! many old gardens of this sort that remain to us are far more beautiful than the modern formal gardening, which by a strange perversity has been kept naked of plants or flower life! when safety came from civil war, then came to us the often beautiful elizabethan house, free of all moat or trace of war. at one time it was rash to make a garden away from the protecting walls. now, any day in a country place beautiful situations may be found for certain kinds of gardens far away from the house, out of sight of it often. [illustration: _arundel castle. example of situation in which a certain amount of terracing is essential. this does not necessarily mean that the vegetation around should be in formal lines, as much better and more artistic effects are obtained otherwise_] again, in the home fighting days there was less art away from the home. rugged wastes and hills; vast woodland districts near london; even small houses moated to keep the cattle from wolves--fear of the rough hills and woods! in those days an extension of the decorative work of the house into the garden had some novelty to carry it off, while the kinds of cultivated trees and shrubs were few. hence if the old gardeners wanted an evergreen line, hedge, or bush of a certain height, they clipped an evergreen tree into the size they wanted. notwithstanding this we have no evidence that anything like the geometrical monotony often seen in our own time existed then. to-day the ever-growing city, pushing its hard face over the once beautiful land, should make us wish more and more to keep such beauty of the earth as may be still possible to us. the horror of railway embankments, where were once the beautiful suburbs of london, cries to us to save all we can save of the natural beauty of the earth. [illustration: tailpiece] true use of a garden it is surely flying in the face of nature to fill our gardens with tropical plants, as we are urged to do by the writers on landscape gardening, ignoring the entire difference of climate and the fact that a colour which may look superb in the midst of other strong colours will look gaudy and vulgar amongst our sober tints, and that a leaf like that of the yucca, which may be all very well in its own country, _is out of scale and character_ amidst the modest foliage of our english trees. (_the formal garden._) a passage full of nonsense! the true use and first reason of a garden is to keep and grow for us plants _not_ in our woods and mostly from other countries than our own! the yucca, we are told by the authors, is a "plant out of scale and character among the modest foliage of our english trees"! the yuccas of our gardens are natives of the often cold plains of eastern america, hardy in, and in every way fitted for, english gardens, but _not_ amidst english trees. is the aim of the flower-garden to show the "modest foliage" of english trees when almost every country house is surrounded by our native woods? according to such childish views, the noble cedars in the park at goodwood and on the lawn at pain's hill are out of place there! what is declared by mr. blomfield to be absurd is the soul of true gardening--to show, on a small scale it may be, some of the precious and inexhaustible loveliness of vegetation on plain or wood or mountain. this is the necessary and absolutely only true, just and fair use of a garden! [illustration: _west dean. example of country seat in which terracing is needless, and in which turf may and indeed must often come to at least one side of the house_] formal gardening the very name of the book is a mistake. "formal gardening" is rightly applied only to the gardens in which both the design and planting were formal and stupidly formal like the upper terrace of the crystal palace, kensington gore, as laid out by nesfield, crewe hall; and shrubland, as laid out by barry, in which, as in others of these architects' gardens, strict orders were given that no plants were to be allowed on the walls. the architect was so proud of his design, that he did not want the gardener at all, except to pound up bricks to take the place of flower colour! it may be necessary to explain to some that this pounded brick and tile in lieu of colours has frequently been laid down in flower-gardens in our own day. to old gardens like haddon and rockingham, in which the vegetation about the house is perfectly free and natural in form, the term "formal gardening" is quite unfitted. but those who attack the old english formal garden do not take the trouble to understand its very considerable differences from the continental gardens of the same period. no one has "attacked" old english gardens. part of my work has been to preserve much record of their beauty. the necessary terraces round houses like haddon may be and are as beautiful as any garden ever made by man. can anything be more unlike than the delicate veil of beautiful climbers and flowers over the grey walls of the courtyard at ightham mote and the walls of some gardens of our own day? the great dark rock-like feudal berkeley is clad with fig and vine and rose as far as they can reach. no trace in these old gardens of the modern "landscape architect," who said, my walls are not made for plants, and for my beds i prefer coloured brick! [illustration: _athelhampton hall, dorset. old english house with trees in their natural form_] what, then, is the kind of "formal gardening" that is bad? it is the purely formal or stone garden made for its own sake, often without a shadow of excuse. the garden of the crystal palace in part; the stone garden at the head of the serpentine; versailles; the grand trianon; caserta, schönbrunn are among the public gardens of europe where this kind of garden is seen. great harm has come to many a fair english lawn through this system. let us learn by one instance, easily seen, the harm done in formal gardening, even where the ground called for an amount of terracing not usual in the plains and mostly gentle lawns of england--i mean the flower-garden at shrubland park, laid out by sir charles barry, of which i have recently altered the plan and which i planted with graceful life where i found bare walls. we will assume that the main terrace lines here are right, as the place stands on a bluff, and speak of a secondary evil of this formal gardening, which arose, i think, about the time barry laid out shrubland. that was that the walls of the house or garden were _not_ to be graced by plants, and that to secure the keeping of the design, coloured gravels were to take the place of flowers. this rule, as is well known, has been carried out in many gardens--it was rigid here. i see it in some of the new gardens, and in asking at worth park why a long terra-cotta wall had not climbers on it, was told the designer would not allow it! yet nature clothes the rock walls with beautiful life, even to the snow line, where the gems of the flower world stain the rocks with loveliest flowers. the crag walls of every alpine valley are her gardens; the harebells toss their azure bells from the seams of the stones in the bridges across the mountain streams; the ruins of the temples of the great peoples of old, who really could build nobly, grow many a wild flower. even when we take the stone and build with it, tender colours of lowly plants soon come and clothe the stone. but the maker of these miserable garden walls, without use or need, says in effect, _here nature shall not come to hide my cleverness. i have built walls, and bare they must be!_ well, with this bareness of the wall there were the usual geometrical pattern beds, many filled with sand and broken stone, and only very low and formal beds of flowers pinched into very low carpets, with much box often edging beds a foot across. when i first went one spring day with mr. saumarez, we saw a large showy bed, and on going near, found it composed of pieces of broken brick painted yellow, blue, and red! so, apart from needless formality of design and bare walls where no walls were wanted, there was often an ugly formality of detail, a senseless attempt to leave nature out of the garden, an outrage against all that ever has or ever can make a garden delightful throughout the year by ruling that even the walls of the house should not shelter a rose! and that is only part of what we get by letting "builders and decorators" waste precious means in stone that should be devoted to the living treasures of garden, lawn, or wood. [illustration: _the formal garden, with its insistence on strong bounding lines, is, strictly speaking, the only "garden" possible._--r. f. blomfield _the vicarage garden, odiham. one of numerous british gardens in which the conditions here declared to be essential are absent_] "nature" and what we mean by it as to a natural school of landscape gardening, the authors say: a great deal is said about nature and her beauty, and fidelity to nature, and so on; but as the landscape gardener never takes the trouble to state precisely what he means by nature, and, indeed, prefers to use the word in half a dozen different senses, we are not very much the wiser so far as principles are concerned. they make this statement as if all beautiful natural landscape were a closed book; as if there were no stately yews, in natural forms, on the merrow downs, as well as clipped yews at elvaston; as if the tree-fringed mountain lawns of switzerland did not exist; or lovely evergreen glades on the californian mountains, or wild azalea gardens on those of carolina, or even naturally-grown planes in london squares. there are many gardens and parks which clearly show what is meant by the "natural" style; and though, like others, this art is too often imperfect, we have so many instances of its success, that it is curious to find any one shutting his eyes to them. there are lessons in picturesque gardening in every country in europe and in many parts of north america. mr. olmstead's work in america and mr. robert marnock's in england teach them; they may be learnt in many english gardens--from sir richard owen's little garden in richmond park to dunkeld--even small rectory and cottage gardens, wholly free of architectural aids, show the principle. it was but a few weeks ago, in the garden of the english embassy in paris, that i was struck with the simplicity of the lawn and plan of the garden there, and its fitness for a house in a city. to support their idea that there is and can be no natural school of landscape gardening, the authors suppose what does not exist, and describe a piece of ground laid out with a studied avoidance of all order, all balance, all definite lines, and the result a hopeless disagreement between the house and its surroundings. this very effect can be seen in the efforts of the landscape gardener, and in old country houses, such as barrington court, near langport, where the gardens have not been kept up. here, instead of taking one of the many good examples in britain, they take poor, beautiful old barrington, now an ill-kept farmhouse, with manure piled against the walls and the ceiling of the dining-room propped up with a fir pole! the foolish proposition here laid down, that, because a garden is picturesque there must necessarily be a "_studied avoidance of all order, all balance, all definite lines_," is disproved by hundreds of gardens in england. why did not the authors take miss alice de rothschild's garden at eythorpe, or any beautiful and picturesque english garden, to compare with their results in stone and clipped and aligned trees? [illustration: _unclipped trees at the little trianon. (compare with cut on p. .)_] "all our paths" are crooked! for instance, because nature is assumed never to show straight lines, all paths are to be made crooked; because in a virgin forest there are no paths at all, let us in our acre and a half of garden make as little of the paths as possible. deception is a primary object of the landscape gardener. (_the formal garden._) this, too, in the face of the facts of the case, of proof ready for the authors, in gardens in every country, from prospect park at brooklyn to the english park at munich. the fact that the phoenix park at dublin is laid out in a fine, picturesque way does not forbid a great straight road through it--a road finer than in any strait-laced park in france. the late robert marnock was the best landscape gardener i have known, and i never saw one of his many gardens where he did not make an ample straight walk where an ample straight walk was required--as, indeed, many may remember is the case in the botanic gardens in the regent's park, laid out by him. again, nature is said to prefer a curved line to a straight, and it is thence inferred that all the lines in a garden, and especially paths, should be curved. the utter contempt for design of the landscape gardener is shown most conspicuously in his treatment of paths. he lays them about at random, and keeps them so narrow that they look like threads, and there is barely room to walk abreast. the opposite of this is indeed the truth, for many gardens and parks laid out with some regard to landscape beauty are partly spoiled by the size and number of the walks, as in the gardens around paris--the parc monceau and buttes chaumont, for instance. the slightest knowledge of gardens would show that walks like threads are no necessary part of landscape gardening! [illustration: _westonbirt_] this error shows well the effect of men reading and writing about what they have not seen. the axiom on which landscape gardening rests is declared by messrs. blomfield and thomas to be _whatever nature does is right; therefore let us go and copy her (p. )._ here is a poor sneer at true art, not only at art in landscape gardening, but in all the fine arts. the central and essential idea of the landscape art is choice of what is beautiful--not taking the salt waste in utah, or a field of weeds, or a welsh slope of decayed slate, or the bog of allen, or the thousand other things in nature that are monotonous or dull to us, even though here and there beautiful as a wide bog may be. we can have in a garden a group of scotch firs as good in form as a fine group in wild nature, and so of the cedar of lebanon and many of the lovely trees of the world. we can have bits of rock alive with alpine flowers, or pieces of lawn fringed with trees in their natural forms and as graceful as the alpine lawns on the jura. so of all other true art. the venus of milo is from a noble type of woman--not a mean greek. the horses of the parthenon are the best types of eastern breed, full of life and beauty, not sickly beasts. great landscape painters like corot, turner, and troyon show us in their work the absurdity of this statement so impertinently used. they seek not ugly things because they are natural, but beautiful combinations of field, and hill, wood, water, tree, and flower, and grass, selecting groupings which go to make good composition, and then waiting for the most beautiful effects of morning, evening, or whatever light suits the chosen subject best, so give us lovely pictures! but they work always from faithful study of nature and from stores of knowledge gathered from nature study, and that is the only true path for the landscape gardener; as all true and great art can only be based on the eternal laws of nature. "the only garden possible!" the word "garden" itself means an enclosed space, a garth or yard surrounded by walls, as opposed to unenclosed fields and woods. the formal garden, with its insistence on strong bounding lines, is, strictly speaking, the only "garden" possible. all other gardens are, of course, impossible to the authors--the parc monceau, the informal gardens about paris, glasnevin, the botanic gardens in regent's park and at sheffield, golder's hill, greenlands, pendell court, rhianva, and the thousand cottage, rectory, and other british gardens where no wall is seen! the bamboo garden at shrubland, the primrose garden at munstead, the rock and other gardens, which we must keep in quiet places away from any sight of walls, are all "_impossible_" to these authors! how much better it would be for every art if it were impossible for men to write about things of which by their own showing they have not even elementary knowledge! [illustration: _thrumpton hall. a type of numerous english gardens with informal planting_] and the sketches in the book show us what these possible gardens are! they are careful architects' drawings, deficient in light and shade; not engraved, but reproduced by a hard process, some being mere reproductions of old engravings; and diagrams of old "knots" and "patterns," with birds and ships perched on wooden trellises, without the slightest reference to any human or modern use. a curious one of badminton will show fully the kind of plan the authors wish to see revived. some of the illustrations show the evils of the system which the authors advocate, notably one of levens hall, westmoreland, a very interesting and real old garden. interesting as it is from age, the ugliness of the clipped forms takes away from the beauty of the house. even in sketches of gardens like montacute and brympton, the beauty of the gardens is not well shown. the most interesting drawings, it is not surprising to find, are the informal ones! many of the others show the _evil_, not the good, of the system advocated, by their hard lines and the emphasising of ugly forms. "no design in landscape" horticulture stands to garden design much as building does to architecture. this book has been written entirely from the standpoint of the designer, and therefore contains little or no reference to the actual methods of horticulture. throughout the book it is modestly assumed that there can be no "design" in anything but in lines of stone, and clipped trees to "harmonise" with the stone, and to bring in "order" and "balance." a longleat, highclere or little trianon, or any of the many english places which are planted in picturesque ways can show no design; but a french town, with its wretched lines of tortured limes, is "pure" and "broad" in design. _the naiveté_ of the book in this respect is often droll. one amusing passage is on p. :-- however rich the details, there is no difficulty in grasping the principle of _a garden laid out in an equal number of rectangular plots_. everything is straightforward and logical; you are not bored with hopeless attempts to master the bearings of the garden. this is the kitchen gardener's view, and that of the market gardener of all countries, but the fun is in calling the idea of it "_grasping a principle_"! at this rate makers of chessboards have strong claims to artistic merit! no wonder that men who call a "principle" the common way of setting out kitchen and cabbage gardens from pekin to mortlake can see no design in the many things that go to make a beautiful landscape! equally stupid is the assumption, throughout the book, that the people the authors are pleased to term "landscapists" flop their houses down in the grass, and never use low walls for dividing lines, nor terraces where necessary, never use walls for shelter or privacy, have no "order" or "balance," and presumably allow the nettles to look in at the windows, and the cattle to have a fine time with the carnations! [illustration: tailpiece] no grass in landscape gardening! the following glaring piece of injustice is due to want of the most elementary consideration of garden design:-- grass-work as an artistic quantity can hardly be said to exist in landscape gardening. it is there considered simply as so much background to be broken up with shrubs and pampas grass and irregular beds (p. ). the opposite of this is the fact. grass-work as an "artistic quantity" did not exist in anything like the same degree before landscape gardening. one of the faults of the formal style of gardening still seen in france and austria is that there is little or no grass. compare the jardin des plantes in paris with the parc monceau, or the many other gardens about paris in which grass is an "artistic quantity." one of the most effective reasons indeed for adopting the english landscape garden was that it gave people some fresh and open grass, often with picturesque surroundings, and, nowadays, one can hardly travel on the continent and not see some pleasant results of this. in england, the landscape gardeners and writers have almost destroyed every trace of the stiff old formal gardens, and we cannot judge the ill effects of the builder's garden so easily as in france. as a rule, the want of rest and freshness in tropical and sub-tropical gardens is due to the absence of those broad and airy breadths of greensward which, in gardens at least, are largely due to landscape gardening. think of warwick without its turf and glorious untrimmed cedars! [illustration: _goodwood. example of large english places in which the grass sweeps up to the house_] consider the difference between a picturesque landscape like the emperor of austria's stately garden at laxenberg, near vienna, and the gardens in the same city formed of miserable clipped trees in lines! grass as an "artistic quantity" is finely visible at laxenberg; in the old clipped gardens gravel and distorted trees are the only things seen in quantity--we cannot call it "artistic." "landscapist" is used throughout the book as a term of contempt. the authors take some of the worst work that is possible, and condemn all in the same opprobrious terms, as if we were to condemn the noble art of the builders of the parthenon on seeing a "jerry" building in london. they may be quite sure that there _is_ a true and beautiful art of landscape gardening, notwithstanding their denunciations, and it is none the less real because there is no smug definition of it that pleases the minds of men who declare that it does not exist. the horticulturist and the gardener are indispensable, _but they should work under control_, and they stand in the same relation to the designer as the artist's colourman does to the painter, or, perhaps it would be fairer to say, as the builder and his workmen stand to the architect. what modesty! the men whose business it is to design gardens are heartily abused. how very graceful it would be on the part of one of them to write an essay telling architects how to build, and showing that to build well it is not necessary to know anything about the inhabitants or uses of a house! "improving" battersea park! perhaps after the cemetery, the ugliest things in the fair land of france are the ugly old lines of clipped limes which deface many french towns. readers who have not seen these things can have no idea of their abominable hardness and ugliness, the natural form of the trees being destroyed, and deformed and hideous trees resulting from constant clipping. these gouty lines of clipped trees are praised as "noble walls" "pure and broad" in design, while such a place, for instance, as battersea park is like a bad piece of architecture, full of details which stultify each other. the only good point in it is the one avenue, and this leads to nowhere. if this park had been planted out with groves and avenues of limes, like the boulevard at avallon, or the squares at vernon, or even like the east side of hyde park between the achilles statue and the marble arch, at least one definite effect would have been reached. there might have been shady walks, and noble walls of trees, instead of the spasmodic futility of battersea park. battersea park, like many others, may be capable of improvement; but here we have men who want to supplant its lawns, grassy playgrounds, and pretty retired gardens with lime trees like those of a french town, and lines and squares of trees like those at vernon, which i once saw half bare of leaves long before the summer was over! [illustration: _avenue in paris. showing that even in a land of clipped trees clipping is not essential_] the authors see with regret that the good sense of planters has for many years been gradually emancipated from the style (as old as the romans and older) of planting in rows. it was the very early and in a very real sense a barbarous way. since the days when country places were laid out "in a number of rectangular plots," whole worlds of lovely things have come to us--to give one instance only, the trees of california, oregon, and the rocky mountains. for men to talk of designing homes for such things, who say they have no knowledge of them, is absurdity itself! [illustration: _clipped trees at the little trianon_] "_an unerring perception told the greeks that the beautiful must also be the true, and recalled them back into the way. as in conduct they insisted on an energy which was rational, so in art and in literature they required of beauty that it, too, should be before all things rational._"--professor butcher, in _some aspects of the greek genius_. nature and clipped yews the remarks quoted below on nature and the clipping shears are not from josh billings, but from _the formal garden_, of which the literary merit, we are told in the preface, belongs to mr. blomfield. a clipped yew tree is as much a part of nature--that is, subject to natural laws--as a forest oak; but the landscapist, by appealing to associations which surround the personification of nature, holds up the clipped yew tree to obloquy as something against nature. so far as that goes, it is no more unnatural to clip a yew tree than to cut grass. i believe we cut grass when we want hay, or soft turf to play on, but disfiguring a noble tree is not a necessary part of our work either for our profit or pleasure. perhaps, as is probable, mr. blomfield has never noticed what a beautiful tree a yew in its natural form is. it is not only on the hills he may see them. if he will come and see them in my own garden in a high wind some day, or when bronzed a little with a hard winter, he may change his amusing notions about clipped yews. i think i can give mr. blomfield a rational explanation of why it is foolish to clip so fair a tree or any _tree_. i clip yews when i want to make a hedge of them, but then i am clipping a hedge, and not a tree. i hold up "the clipped yew tree to obloquy," as the tree in its natural form is the most beautiful evergreen tree of our western world--as fine as the cedar in its plumy branches, and more beautiful than any cedar in the colour of its stem. in our own day we have seen trees of the same great order as the yew gathered from a thousand hills--from british columbia, through north america and europe to the atlas mountains, and not one of them has yet proved to be so beautiful as our native yew when it is allowed to grow unclipped root or branch. but in gardens the quest for the strange and exotic is so constant, that few give a fair chance to the yew as a tree, while in graveyards where it is so often seen in a very old state, the frequent destruction of the roots in grave-digging prevents the tree from reaching its full stature and beauty, though there are yews in english churchyards that have lived through a thousand winters. [illustration: _the "grange," hartley wintney_] i do not clip my yews, because clipping destroys the shape of one of the most delightful in form of all trees, beautiful, too, in its plumy branching. it is not my own idea only that i urge here, but that of all who have ever thought of form, foremost among whom we must place artists who have the happiness of always drawing natural forms. let mr. blomfield stand near one of the cedar-like yews by the pilgrim's way on the north downs, and, comparing it with trees cut in the shape of an extinguisher, consider what the difference means to the artist who seeks beauty of form. clipping such trees does not merely deserve "obloquy"; it is worse than idiotic, as there is a sad reason for the idiot's ways. if i use what in the surrey nurseries are called "hedging yews" to form a hedge, high or low, i must clip them to form my hedge, and go on doing so if i wish to keep it, or the hedge would soon show me that it was "subject to natural laws," and escape from the shears. what right have we to deform things given us so perfect and lovely in form? no cramming of chinese feet into impossible shoes is half so wicked as the wilful distortion of the divinely beautiful forms of trees. the cost of this hideous distortion alone is one reason against it, as one may soon find out in places where miles of trees cut into wall-like shape have to be clipped, as at versailles and schönbrunn! this clipping is a mere survival of the day when gardens had very few trees, and it was necessary to clip the few they had to fit certain situations to conform to the architect's notion of "garden design." this is not design at all from any landscape point of view; and though the elements which go to form beautiful landscape, whether home landscape or the often higher landscape beauty of the open country, are often subtle, and though they are infinitely varied, they are none the less real. the fact that men when we had few trees clipped them into walls and grotesque shapes to make them serve their notions of "design" is surely not a reason why we, who have the trees of a thousand hills with trees of almost every size and shape among them, should violate and mutilate some of the finest natural forms! [illustration: _a yew tree on mountain, n. england_] thus while it may be right to clip a tree to form a wall, dividing-line, or hedge, it is never so to clip trees grown as single specimens or groups, as by clipping such we only get ugly forms--unnatural, too. last autumn, in hyde park, i saw a man clipping hollies at the rotten row end of the serpentine, and asking him why it was done, he said it was to "keep them in shape," though, to do him justice, he added that he thought it would be better to let them alone. men who clip so handsome a tree as the holly when taking no part in a hedge or formal line are blind to beauty of form. to tolerate such clipped forms is to prove oneself callous to natural beauty of tree form, and to show that we cannot even see ugliness. [illustration: _building in paris. showing that intimate association with buildings does not necessitate clipping or distortion of trees_] take, again, the clipped laurels by which many gardens and drives are disfigured. laurel in its natural shape in the woods of west country or other places, where it is let alone, is often fine in form, though we may have too much of it. but it is planted everywhere without thought of its stature or fitness for the spot, and then it grows until the shears are called in, and we see nearly every day its fine leaves and free shoots cut short back into ugly banks and sharp, wall-like, or formless masses, disfiguring many gardens without the slightest necessity. there is no place in which it is used clipped for which we could not get shrubs quite suitable that would not need mutilation. it is not only clipped trees that are ugly, but even trees like the irish yew, wellingtonia, and some arbor-vitæ, which frequently assume shapes like extinguishers or the forms of clipped trees. it often happens that these, when over-planted or planted near houses, so emphasise ugly forms about the house, that there is no beauty possible in the home landscape. many of such ugly, formless trees have been planted within the last generation, greatly to the injury of the garden landscape. in the old gardens, where, from other motives, trees were clipped when people had very few evergreens or shrubs of any kind, or where they wanted an object of a certain height, they had to clip. it is well to preserve such gardens, but never to imitate them, as has been done in various english and american gardens. if we want shelter, we can get it in various delightful ways without clipping, and, while getting it, we can enjoy the beautiful natural forms of the finest evergreens. hedges and wall-like dividing lines of green living things will now and then be useful, and even may be artistically used; they are sometimes, however, used where a wall would be better, walls having the great advantage of not robbing the ground near. a wall is easily made into a beautiful garden with so many lovely things, too, from great scrambling yellow roses to alpine flowers. to any one with the slightest sympathy with nature or art these things need not be said. no line in nature! now as a matter of fact in nature--that is, in the visible phenomena of the earth's surface--there are no lines at all; "a line" is simply an abstraction which conveniently expresses the direction of a succession of objects which may be either straight or curved. "nature" has nothing to do with either straight lines or curved; it is simply begging the question to lay it down as an axiom that curved lines are more "natural" than straight. then men must never again talk of the "lines" of a ship! perhaps mr. blomfield would accept a plumb line? one can hardly leave london an hour before a person who looks at the landscape may see the lines or boundaries between one mass and another. who could stand amongst downs or an alpine valley and say there are no lines in them, inasmuch as one of the most visible and delightful things in all such cases is the beauty of those lines? this is the key of the whole question of landscape gardening. there is no good landscape gardening possible without a feeling for the natural gradation and forms of the earth. it can be seen in little things, like the slope of a field as well as in the slope of a mountain, and it is the neglect of this which leaves us so little to boast of in landscape work. in a country slightly diversified it is, of course, more important than in a perfectly flat one, but in all diversified ground no good landscape work can be done without regarding the natural gradation of the earth, which will often tell us what to do. it is blindness to this principle which makes so many people cut their roads and walks crudely through banks, leaving straight sharp sides--false lines, in fact--when a little care and observation would have avoided this and given a true and beautiful line for a road or walk. once the necessary levels are settled and the garden walks by straight walls about the house are got away from, we soon come to ground which, whether we treat it rightly or not, will at once show whether the work done be landscape work or not. no plan, it seems to me, is so good as keeping to the natural form of the earth in all lawn, pleasure ground, and plantation work. roads, paths, fences, plantations, and anything like wood will be all the better if we are guided by natural lines or forms, taking advantage of every difference of level and every little accident of the ground for our dividing lines and other beginnings or endings. in the absence of any guidance of this sort, what we see is brutal cutting through banks, lines like railway embankments--without the justification there is for the sharpness of a railway embankment--and ugly banks to roads, very often ugly in their lines too. if we are ever to have a school of true landscape gardening, the study and observation of the true gradation of the earth must be its first task. [illustration: _broadlands, hants_] "vegetable sculpture"[ ] [ ] _garden craft, old and new._ by john d. sedding. london: kegan paul, trench, trübner and co. this gentleman, unfortunately without any knowledge of plants, trees, or landscape beauty, launches out into the dreary sea of quotations from old books about gardens, and knows so little of where he is going, that he is put out of his course by every little drift of wind. one goes through chapter after chapter thinking to get to the end of the weary matter only to find again nothing but quotations, even to going back to an old book for a song. when at last we come to a chapter on "_art in the garden,_" this is what is offered us as sense on a charming subject, familiar to many, so that all may judge of the depth of this foolish talk about it! such a writer discussing in this way a metaphysical or obscure subject might swim on in his inky water for ever, and no one know where he was! let us here point to the fact, that any garden whatsoever is but nature idealised, pastoral scenery rendered in a fanciful manner. it matters not what the date, size, or style of the garden, it represents an idealisation of nature. _real_ nature exists outside the artist and apart from him. the ideal is that which the artist conceives to be an interpretation of the outside objects, or that which he adds to the objects. the garden gives imaginative form to emotions the natural objects have awakened in man. the _raison d'être_ of a garden is man's feeling the _ensemble_. but we cannot allow him to bring the false and confusing "art" drivel of the day into the garden without showing the absurdity of his ideas. [illustration: _warren house, coombe wood_] the illustrations are of the most wretched kind produced by some process, the only interesting one being one of levens. the most childish ideas of the garden prevail--indeed we hardly like to call them childish, because children do put sensible questions and see clearly. for instance, for the author there is no art in gardening at all--the "art" consists entirely of building walls and planting yew hedges. thus the work of the late james backhouse, who knew every flower on the hills of northern england, and expressed that knowledge in his charming rock garden, is not art, but cutting a tree into the shape of a cocked hat _is_ art, according to mr. sedding! he assumes that landscape gardeners all follow artistic ways, and that only architects make terraces; whereas the greatest sinners in this respect have been landscape gardeners--nesfield and paxton. he has paid so little attention to the subject, that he says that the landscape gardener's only notion is to put grass all around the house! it does not even occur to him that there may be grass on one side of a house and gardens of various sorts at the others, as at goodwood, shrubland, knole, and that a house may have at each side a different expression of landscape gardening! [illustration: _drummond castle. example of beautiful garden in scotland, in position requiring terracing_] he takes the _english flower garden_ as the expression of landscape gardening practice; whereas the book, in all the parts that treat of design, is a protest against the formation by landscape gardeners of costly things which have nothing to do with gardening and nothing to do with true architecture. the good architect is satisfied with building a beautiful house, and that we are all the happier for. but what we have to deplore is that men who are not really architects, who are not gardeners, should cover the earth with rubbish like the crystal palace basins, the thing at the top of the serpentine, and the grand trianon at versailles. here is a specimen of mr. sedding's knowledge of the landscape art. for the "landscape style" does not countenance a straight line, or terrace, or architectural form, or symmetrical beds about the house, for to allow these would not be to photograph nature. as carried into practice, the style demands that the house shall rise abruptly from the grass, and the general surface of the ground shall be _characterised by smoothness and bareness (like nature!)_. if he had even taken the trouble to see a good garden laid out by mr. marnock or anybody worthy of the name of landscape gardener, he would find that they knew the use of the terrace very well. if he had taken the trouble to see one of my own gardens, he would find beds quite as formal, but not so frivolous as those described in the older books, and lines simple and straight as they can be. where barry left room for a dozen flowers at shrubland i put one hundred; so much for the "_bareness_"! [illustration: _madresfield. example of modern english garden_] on page he says:-- i have no more scruple in using the scissors upon tree or shrub, where trimness is desirable, than i have in mowing the turf of the lawn that once represented a virgin world. there is a quaint charm in the results of the topiary art, in the prim imagery of evergreens, that all ages have felt. and i would even introduce bizarreries on the principle of not leaving all that is wild and odd to nature outside of the garden paling; and in the formal part of the garden _my yews should take the shape of pyramids, or peacocks, or cocked hats, or ramping lions in lincoln green, or any other conceit i had a mind to, which vegetable sculpture can take_. after reading this i saw again some of the true "vegetable sculpture" that i have been fortunate to see; reed and lily, a model for ever in stem, leaf, and bloom; the grey willows of britain, sometimes lovelier than olives against our skies; many-columned oak groves set in seas of primroses, cuckoo flowers and violets; silver birch woods of northern europe beyond all grace possible in stone; the eternal garland of beauty that one kind of palm waves for hundreds of miles throughout the land of egypt,--a vein of summer in a lifeless world: the noble pine woods of california and oregon, like fleets of colossal masts on mountain waves--saw again these and many other lovely forms in garden and woodland, and then wondered that any one could be so blind to the beauty of plant and tree as to write as mr. sedding does here. from the days of the greeks to our own time, the delight of all great artists has been to get as near this divine beauty as the material they work with permits. but this deplorable "_vegetable sculptor's_" delight is in distorting beautiful natural forms; and this in the one art in which we enjoy the living things themselves, and not merely representations of them! the old people from whom he takes his ideas were not nearly so foolish, as when the yew tree was used as a shelter or a dividing line, and when a yew was put at a garden door for shelter or to form a hedge, it was necessary to clip it if it was not to get out of all bounds. but here is a man delighting for its own sake in what he calls with such delicate feeling "_vegetable sculpture_," in "cocked hats" and "ramping lions"! [illustration: tailpiece] printed by r. & r. clark, edinburgh * * * * * transcriber's note: minor punctuation errors and inconsistent hyphenation have been corrected without comment. all other variations in spelling and inconsistent hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original book. the melody of earth an anthology of garden and nature poems from present-day poets selected and arranged by mrs. waldo richards [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company copyright, , by gertrude moore richards all rights reserved _published march _ to my dear sister a lover of gardens foreword how many of us are conscious of the subtle melodies, "through which the myriad lispings of the earth find perfect speech"? our poets are listeners; their ears are tuned to the magic call of secret voices that we who are not singers may never hear. they capture the "melody" in chalices of song, and their message is: that whosoever will bend his ear to earth, may hear from field and furrow, from the many-bladed grass and the soft-petalled flowers--in the soughing of the pine tree or the rustle of leaves--an immortal music that revivifies the soul. in the quiet tilled spots of earth, from time immemorial, men have sown rare seeds of poetic thought that have flowered into song. amiel wrote in his _journal_: "all seed-sowing is a mysterious thing whether the seed fall into earth or into souls; man is a husbandman, and his work rightly understood is to develop life, to sow it everywhere." the poets are our seed-sowers, and _their_ work is to develop life and to enrich it. they are never happier than when writing about gardens and the growing things of earth--at once their symbol and their solace. in turn gardens have in the poets their happiest interpreters. here i have culled and gathered together songs and poems that reflect the melody and harmony of nature's forces. in these days of the world's travail, let us seek inspiration and content within the delightful confines of these gardens of poetry. gertrude moore richards _march_, acknowledgments mrs. richards tenders her sincere thanks to the publishers and poets who have so generously accorded their permission to use copyrighted poems: to the american tract society for "seeds" and "the philosopher's garden," john oxenham, from _bees in amber_. to messrs. d. appleton & co. for "the mocking-bird," frank l. stanton, from _songs of the soil_. to the baker & taylor co. for "june rapture" and "the rose," angela morgan, from _the hour has struck, and other poems_ and _utterance, and other poems_. to the biddle press for "the old-fashioned garden" and "poppies," john russell hayes, from _collected poems_. to the bobbs-merrill company for "thoughts fer the discuraged farmer," james whitcomb riley, from _complete works_. to edmund a. brooks, minneapolis, for "daffodils" and "from a car-window," ruth guthrie harding, from _the lark went singing, and other poems_. to messrs. burns & oates and to alice meynell (mrs. wilfrid meynell) for "to a daisy" and "the garden" from _collected poems_; for "rosa mystica," katharine tynan (mrs. henry albert hinkson), from _the flower of peace_. to the century co. for "larkspur," james oppenheim, from _war and laughter_; for "the tilling," cale young rice, from _trails sunward_; for "the haunted garden," louis untermeyer, from _challenge_. to messrs. constable & co. for "for these," edward thomas (edward eastaway), from _an annual of new poetry_. to _country life_ (london) and to mrs. gurney personally for "the lord god planted a garden" and "a garden in venice," by dorothy frances gurney, from _poems_. to messrs. thomas y. crowell company for "love planted a rose," katharine lee bates, from _america, and other poems_; for "an exile's garden," sophie jewett, from _collected poems_. to messrs. j. m. dent & sons for "the spring beauties," helen gray cone, from _the chant of love, and other poems_. to messrs. dodd, mead & co. for "in a garden," livingston l. biddle, from _the understanding hills_. to messrs. george h. doran company for "the cricket in the path," "herb of grace," and "rain in the night," amelia josephine burr, from _in deep places_ and _life and living_; for "a song in a garden," "shade," and "the poplars," theodosia garrison, from _the dreamers, and other poems_; for "trees," joyce kilmer, from _trees, and other poems_; for "june," douglas malloch, from _the woods_; for "where love is life," duncan campbell scott, from "the three songs" in _lundy's lane, and other poems_. to messrs. doubleday, page & co. for "a prayer," "the butterfly," and "before mary of magdala came," edwin markham, from _the man with the hoe, and other poems_ and _the shoes of happiness, and other poems_. to messrs. duffield & co. for "the sweet caresses that i gave to you," elsa barker, from _the book of love_; for "what heart but fears a fragrance?" ("zauber duft"), martha gilbert dickinson bianchi, from _gabrielle, and other poems_; for "spring," francis ledwidge, from _songs of the fields_; for "the white peacock," william sharp, from _songs and poems_. to messrs. e. p. dutton & co. for "the south wind," siegfried sassoon, from _the old huntsman, and other poems_; for "the tree," evelyn underhill, from _theophanies_. to messrs. h. w. fisher & co. for "a dream," "the autumn rose," "fireflies," and "an evening in old japan," antoinette de coursey patterson, from _sonnets and quatrains_ and _the son of merope, and other poems_. to messrs. harper & brothers for "roses in the subway," dana burnet, from _poems_; for "the wild rose," and "if i were a fairy," charles buxton going, from _star-glow and song_; for "the cardinal-bird," arthur guiterman, from _the laughing muse_; for "wild gardens," ada foster murray, from _flowers of the grass_; for "the message," helen hay whitney, from _sonnets and songs_. to hearst's international library company for "stairways and gardens" and "my flower-room," ella wheeler wilcox, from _world voices_. to mr. william heinemann for "the cactus," laurence hope, from _stars of the desert_; for "the july garden," r. e. vernède, from _war poems, and other verses_; for "a garden-piece," edmund gosse, from _collected poems_. to messrs. henry holt & co. for "the cloister garden at certosa," richard burton, from _poems of earth's meaning_; for "the furrow," padraic colum, from _wild earth, and other poems_; for "the three cherry trees," walter de la mare, from _the listeners, and other poems_; for "a late walk," "asking for roses," "the pasture," and "putting in the seed," robert frost, from _a boy's will_, _north of boston_, and _a mountain interval_; for "joe-pyeweed," louis untermeyer, from _these times_. to messrs. houghton mifflin company for "the blooming of the rose" and the selection from "under the trees," anna hempstead branch, from _the heart of the road_ and _the shoes that danced, and other poems_; for "spring patchwork" and "the flowerphone," abbie farwell brown, from _a pocketful of posies_ and _songs of sixpence_; for "the morning-glory" and "jewel-weed," florence earle coates, from _collected poems_; for "nightingales" and "a breath of mint," grace hazard conkling, from _afternoons of april_; for "the golden-rod," margaret deland, from _the old garden, and other verses_; for "a roman garden," florence wilkinson evans, from _the ride home_; for "cobwebs," louise imogen guiney, from _happy ending_; for "planting," robert livingston, from _murrer and me_; for "primavera," george cabot lodge, from _poems and dramas_; for "ever the same," "charm: to be said in the sun," and "but we did walk in eden," josephine preston peabody, from _the singing leaves_ and _the singing man_; for "at isola bella" ("a white peacock"), jessie b. rittenhouse, from _the door of dreams_; for "the goldfinch," odell shepard, from _a lonely flute_; for "daisies" and "witchery," frank dempster sherman, from _poems_; for "grandmother's gathering boneset," edith m. thomas, from _in sunshine land_. to mr. b. w. huebsch for "song from 'april,'" irene rutherford mcleod, from _songs to save a soul_. to messrs. george w. jacobs & co. for "vestured and veiled with twilight," rosamund marriott watson, from _the heart of a garden_. to mr. r. u. johnson (publisher) for "como in april," robert underwood johnson, from _collected poems_. to mr. mitchell kennerley for "a song to belinda," theodosia garrison, from _earth cry_; for "in a garden," horace holley, from _divinations and creations_; for "afternoon on a hill," "the end of summer," and "a little ghost," edna st. vincent millay, from _renascence, and other poems_; for "welcome," john curtis underwood, from _processionals_; for "Ære perennius," charles hanson towne, from _a quiet singer_. to mr. alfred a. knopf for "the rain" and "the ways of time," william h. davies, from _collected poems_. to the john lane company (new york) for "loveliest of trees," a. e. housman, from _a shropshire lad_; for "may is building her house," and "i meant to do my work to-day," richard le gallienne, from _the lonely dancer_; for "the joy of the springtime," and "the time of roses," sarojini naidu, from _the bird of time_ and _the broken wing_; for "heart's garden," norreys jephson o'conor, from _celtic memories_; for "serenade," marjorie l. c. pickthall, from _the lamp of poor souls_; for "there is strength in the soil," arthur stringer, from _open water_; for "midsummer blooms within our quiet garden ways," "it was june in the garden," and "within the garden there is healthfulness," emile verhaeren, from _the sunlit hours_ and _afternoon_; for "in a garden of granada," thomas walsh, from _gardens overseas_; for "the garden of mnemosyne," rosamund marriott watson, from _collected poems_; for "eden-hunger," william watson, from _retrogression, and other poems_; for "spring planting," helen hay whitney, from _herbs and apples_. to messrs. little, brown & co. for "to a weed," gertrude hall, from _the age of fairy gold_; for "the green o' the spring," denis a. mccarthy, from _voices from erin_; for "the baby's valentine," laura e. richards, from _in my nursery_. to messrs. lothrop, lee & shepard company for "god's garden," richard burton, from _dumb in june_. to mr. david mckay for "the blossomy barrow" and "da thief," thomas augustine daly, from _madrigali_; for "a soft day," w. m. letts, from _songs from leinster_. to the macmillan company for "old homes," madison cawein, from _poems_; for "up a hill and a hill," fannie stearns davis, from _myself and i_; for "in the womb," a. e. (george william russell), from _collected poems_; for "to the sweetwilliam," norman gale, from _collected poems_; for "roses," wilfrid wilson gibson, from _battle, and other poems_; for "rest at noon" and "the hummingbird," hermann hagedorn, from _poems and ballads_; for "the mystery," ralph hodgson, from _poems_; for "the dandelion" and "with a rose, to brunhilde," vachel lindsay, from _general william booth enters into heaven, and other poems_ and _a handy guide for beggars_; for "a tulip garden," "fringed gentians," and "the fruit garden path," amy lowell, from _sword blades and poppy seed_ and _the dome of many-coloured glass_; for "it may be so: but let the unknown be" and "drop me the seed," john masefield, from _lollingdon downs, and other poems_; for "samuel gardner," edgar lee masters, from _the spoon river anthology_; for "go down to kew in lilac-time" (selection from "the barrel-organ"), alfred noyes, from _poems_; for "the messenger," james stephens, from _songs from the clay_; for "the champa flower" and "the flower-school," rabindranath tagore, from _the crescent moon_; for "indian summer," "alchemy," "the fountain," "barter," and "wood song," sara teasdale, from _rivers to the sea_ and _love songs_; for "the message," george edward woodberry, from _poems_; for "the song of wandering aengus," w. b. yeats, from _poems_. to mr. elkin mathews and to mr. rowland thirlmere personally for "a shower," from _polyclitus, and other poems_. to the manas press, rochester, n.y., for "november night" and "arbutus," adelaide crapsey, from _verses_. to messrs. john p. morton & co., louisville, ky., for "conscience," margaret steele anderson, from _the flame in the wind_. to mr. thomas bird mosher for "beyond," "as in a rose-jar," and "my soul is like a garden-close," thomas s. jones, jr., from _the voice in the silence_ and _the rose-jar_; for "a seller of herbs," "the garden at bemerton," and "april weather," lizette woodworth reese, from _a handful of lavender_; for "frost to-night," edith m. thomas, from _the flower from the ashes_; for "in an oxford garden" and "old gardens," arthur upson, from _octaves in an oxford garden_ and _collected poems_. to messrs. g. p. putnam's sons for "in an old garden," madison cawein, from _moods and melodies_; for "if i could dig like a rabbit," rose strong hubbell, from _if i could fly_; for "the anxious farmer," burges johnson, from _rhymes of home_; for "in an august garden," "amiel's garden," and "the garden," gertrude huntington mcgiffert, from _a florentine cycle_. to the reilly & britton co. for "results and roses," edgar a. guest, from _heap o' livin'_. to mr. grant richards for "loveliest of trees," a. e. housman, from _a shropshire lad_. to mr. a. m. robertson (san francisco) for "how many flowers are gently met," george sterling, from _the testimony of the sun, and other poems_. to messrs. charles scribner's sons for "miracle," l. h. bailey, from _wind and weather_; for "four o'clocks" and "homesick," julia c. r. dorr, from _poems and last poems_; for "tell-tale," oliver herford, from _overheard in a garden_; for "in the garden" and "the deserted garden," pai ta-shun (frederick peterson), from _chinese lyrics_ (kelly & walsh, hongkong); for "the child in the garden," henry van dyke, from _collected poems_. to messrs. sherman, french & co. for "the trees," samuel valentine cole, from _the great gray king, and other poems_; for "her garden," eldredge denison, from _ballads and lyrics_; for "moth-flowers," jeanne robert foster, from _wild apples_; for "the little god," katharine howard, from _the little god, and other poems_; for "cloud and flower," agnes lee, from _the sharing, and other poems_; for "the dials" and "the secret," arthur wallace peach, from _the hill trails_; for "a garden prayer" and "in memory's garden," thomas walsh, from _the prison ships, and other poems_; for "prayer" and "with memories and odors," john hall wheelock, from _love and liberation_. to messrs. sidgwick & jackson for "a song of fairies," by elizabeth kirby, from _the bridegroom_. to messrs. small, maynard & co. for "trees," "the garden of dreams," and "an april morning," bliss carman, from _april airs_; for "the whisper of earth," edward j. o'brien, from _white fountains_; for "the dews" and "clover," john banister tabb, from _lyrics_. to messrs. stewart & kidd company, cincinnati, for "the golden bowl," mary mcmillan, from _the little golden fountain, and other poems_. to messrs. frederick a. stokes company for "a mocking-bird" and "the early gods," witter bynner, from _grenstone poems_; for "the proud vegetables" and "iris flowers," mary mcneil fenollosa, from _blossoms from a japanese garden_. to mr. t. fisher unwin for "autumnal," richard middleton, from _poems and songs_. to messrs. james t. white & co. for "flowers of june," james terry white, from _a garden of remembrance_; for "song of the weary traveller," blanche shoemaker wagstaff, from _narcissus, and other poems_. to the _atlantic monthly_ for "april rain," conrad aiken; for "yellow warblers," katharine lee bates; for "safe," robert haven schauffler; for "the lilies," george edward woodberry. to the _century magazine_ for "order," paul scott mowrer. to the _christian science monitor_ for "family trees," douglas malloch. to the _churchman_ for "the faithless flowers," margaret widdemer. to _contemporary verse_ for "the road to the pool," grace hazard conkling; for "the night-moth," marion couthouy smith. to the _craftsman_ for "the scissors-man," grace hazard conkling. to the _delineator_ for "in my mother's garden," margaret widdemer. to _everybody's magazine_ for "years afterward," nancy byrd turner. to _harper's monthly magazine_ for "progress," charlotte becker; for "oh, tell me how my garden grows," mildred howells; for "a song for winter," mrs. schuyler van rensselaer. to the _independent_ for "blind," harry kemp; for "the dusty hour-glass," amy lowell; for "a midsummer garden," clinton scollard. to the _los angeles graphic_ for "a white iris," pauline b. barrington. to _lyric_ for "july midnight," amy lowell. to _munsey's magazine_ for "a puritan lady's garden," sarah n. cleghorn; for "spring song," william griffith; for "the fountain," harry kemp. to _mushrooms_, published by the john marshall company, for "idealists," alfred kreymborg. to _others: a magazine of new verse_ for "reflections" ("chinoiseries"), amy lowell; for "lord, i ask a garden," r. arevalo martinez. to the _new york sun_ for "a colonial garden," james b. kenyon. to the _new york times_ for "grace for gardens," louise driscoll; for "the welcome," arthur powell. to _poetry: a magazine of verse_ for "spring song," hilda conkling; for "a lady of the snows," harriet monroe; for "the magnolia," josé santos chocano, translated by john pierrepont rice. to _punch_ for "lavender," w. w. blair fish. to _st. nicholas_ for "velvets," hilda conkling; for "when swallows build," catherine parmenter. to _scribner's magazine_ for "her garden," louis dodge; for "the path that leads to nowhere," corinne roosevelt robinson. to the _touchstone_ for "dawn in my garden," marguerite wilkinson. to the _yale review_ and to mr. brian hooker personally for "ballade of the dreamland rose" from _poems_; also to the _yale review_ for the selection from "earth," john hall wheelock. * * * * * personal acknowledgment is also made to the following poets and individual owners of copyrights:-- to miss zoë akins for "the snow-gardens." to mr. william stanley braithwaite and to mr. fletcher personally for "spring," john gould fletcher, printed in the _poetry review_. to m. g. brereton for "the old brocade" from _a celtic christmas_. to miss abbie farwell brown for "the wall" in manuscript. to mrs. grace hazard conkling for "the rose" in manuscript. to mr. miles m. dawson for "the thistle" from _songs of the new time_. to violet fane (lady curie) for "to a new sun-dial" from _collected poems_. to mrs. mary mcneil fenollosa for "birth of the flowers." to mr. arthur guiterman for "tulips" and "columbines" in manuscript. to miss mary r. jewett for "flowers in the dark," sarah orne jewett, from _verses_ (privately printed). to rev. arthur ketchum for "the spirit of the birch" in manuscript. to miss hannah parker kimball for "sun, cardinal, and corn flowers" from _soul and sense_. to mr. william lindsey for "two roses" from _apples of istakhar_. to catherine markham (mrs. edwin markham) for "a garden friend." to mr. lloyd mifflin for "draw closer, o ye trees" from _the flying nymph, and other verse_. to miss angela morgan for "the awakening" in manuscript. to e. nesbit (mrs. hubert bland) for "baby seed song." to mr. shaemas o sheel for "while april rain went by" from _the light feet of goats_ (the franklin press). to mr. clinton scollard for "the crocus flame," and "sunflowers," from _ballads patriotic and romantic_; for "in the garden-close at mezra" and "in an egyptian garden" from _the lutes of morn_. to mrs. emily selinger for "over the garden wall." to mrs. may riley smith for "sorrow in a garden" in manuscript. to the estate of frank l. stanton for "sweetheart-lady." to mr. charles wharton stork for "boulders" in manuscript, and for "color notes," printed in _lippincott's magazine_. to mr. charles hanson towne for "a white rose." to katharine tynan (mrs. henry albert hinkson) for "the choice," published by messrs. sidgwick & jackson in _the poems of to-day_, an anthology. to mr. frederic a. whiting for his own poems "a rose lover" and "a wonder garden" in manuscript and for "kinfolk" by kate whiting patch. to mr. clement wood for "rose-geranium" from _glad of earth_. to mr. henry a. wise wood for "the joy of a summer day." note with very few exceptions only the poets who are writing to-day, or who have written within a period of ten years, are represented in this collection; and certain favorite poems peculiarly suited to the spirit of this book which chanced to be included in _high tide_ may be missed here. g. m. r. contents within garden walls earth _john hall wheelock_ the furrow _padraic colum_ "there is strength in the soil" _arthur stringer_ in the womb "_a. e._" putting in the seed _robert frost_ the whisper of earth _edward j. o'brien_ "within the garden there is healthfulness" _emile verhaeren_ in a garden _horace holley_ a shower _rowland thirlmere_ the rain _william h. davies_ the dews _john b. tabb_ sonnet _john masefield_ charm: to be said in the sun _josephine preston peabody_ the dials _arthur wallace peach_ to a new sundial _violet fane_ the fountain _harry kemp_ the pageantry of gardens the birth of the flowers _mary mcneil fenollosa_ the welcome _arthur powell_ the joy of the springtime _sarojini naidu_ spring _john gould fletcher_ primavera _george cabot lodge_ the green o' the spring _denis a. mccarthy_ an april morning _bliss carman_ "with memories and odors" _john hall wheelock_ april rain _conrad aiken_ while april rain went by _shaemas o sheel_ spring _francis ledwidge_ april weather _lizette woodworth reese_ daffodils _ruth guthrie harding_ the crocus flame _clinton scollard_ the early gods _witter bynner_ a tulip garden _amy lowell_ tulips _arthur guiterman_ a white iris _pauline b. barrington_ may is building her house _richard le gallienne_ the magnolia _josé santos chocano_ "go down to kew in lilac-time" _alfred noyes_ beyond _thomas s. jones, jr._ june _douglas malloch_ june rapture _angela morgan_ columbines _arthur guiterman_ the morning-glory _florence earle coates_ the blossomy barrow _t. a. daly_ larkspur _james oppenheim_ the july garden _robert ernest vernède_ "mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways" _emile verhaeren_ poppies _john russell hayes_ the garden in august _gertrude huntington mcgiffert_ sun, cardinal, and corn flowers _hannah parker kimball_ sunflowers _clinton scollard_ the end of summer _edna st. vincent millay_ a late walk _robert frost_ color notes _charles wharton stork_ the golden bowl _mary mcmillan_ the autumn rose _antoinette de coursey patterson_ indian summer _sara teasdale_ "frost to-night" _edith m. thomas_ november night _adelaide crapsey_ the snow-gardens _zoë akins_ a song for winter _mrs. schuyler van rensselaer_ wings and song "i meant to do my work to-day" _richard le gallienne_ the hummingbird _hermann hagedorn_ spring song _william griffith_ nightingales _grace hazard conkling_ the goldfinch _odell shepard_ kinfolk _kate whiting patch_ a mocking-bird _witter bynner_ the cardinal-bird _arthur guiterman_ yellow warblers _katharine lee bates_ witchery _frank dempster sherman_ the spring beauties _helen gray cone_ the mocking-bird _frank l. stanton_ the messenger _james stephens_ fireflies _antoinette de coursey patterson_ july midnight _amy lowell_ the cricket in the path _amelia josephine burr_ rest at noon _hermann hagedorn_ order _paul scott mowrer_ the night-moth _marion couthouy smith_ the butterfly _edwin markham_ the secret _arthur wallace peach_ the gardens of yesterday the garden _gertrude huntington mcgiffert_ old homes _madison cawein_ a puritan lady's garden _sarah n. cleghorn_ the old-fashioned garden _john russell hayes_ a colonial garden _james b. kenyon_ in my mother's garden _margaret widdemer_ to the sweetwilliam _norman gale_ rose-geranium _clement wood_ four o'clocks _julia c. r. dorr_ asking for roses _robert frost_ the old brocade _m. g. brereton_ stairways and gardens _ella wheeler wilcox_ old mothers _charles ross_ pastures and hillsides song from "april" _irene rutherford mcleod_ the road to the pool _grace hazard conkling_ the wild rose _charles buxton going_ up a hill and a hill _fannie stearns davis_ the joys of a summer morning _henry a. wise wood_ south wind _siegfried sassoon_ to a weed _gertrude hall_ the pasture _robert frost_ the thistle _miles m. dawson_ clover _john b. tabb_ wild gardens _ada foster murray_ the dandelion _vachel lindsay_ joe-pyeweed _louis untermeyer_ to a daisy _alice meynell_ a soft day _w. m. letts_ arbutus _adelaide crapsey_ jewel-weed _florence earle coates_ the wall _abbie farwell brown_ boulders _charles wharton stork_ afternoon on a hill _edna st. vincent millay_ the golden-rod _margaret deland_ the path that leads to nowhere _corinne roosevelt robinson_ lovers and roses the message _george edward woodberry_ "where love is life" _duncan campbell scott_ the time of roses _sarojini naidu_ love planted a rose _katharine lee bates_ the garden _alice meynell_ cloud and flower _agnes lee_ progress _charlotte becker_ "but we did walk in eden" _josephine preston peabody_ a garden-piece _edmund gosse_ "how many flowers are gently met" _george sterling_ with a rose, to brunhilde _vachel lindsay_ "my soul is like a garden-close" _thomas s. jones, jr._ a dream _antoinette de coursey patterson_ the rose _grace hazard conkling_ prayer _john hall wheelock_ in a garden _livingston l. biddle_ a song of fairies _elizabeth kirby_ a song to belinda _theodosia garrison_ sweetheart-lady _frank l. stanton_ heart's garden _norreys jephson o'conor_ a rose lover _frederic a. whiting_ sonnet _elsa barker_ a song in a garden _theodosia garrison_ "it was june in the garden" _emile verhaeren_ two roses _william lindsey_ roses _wilfrid wilson gibson_ her garden _louis dodge_ Ære perennius _charles hanson towne_ ever the same _josephine preston peabody_ the message _helen hay whitney_ tell-tale _oliver herford_ da thief _t. a. daly_ results and roses _edgar a. guest_ underneath the bough miracle _l. h. bailey_ the awakening _angela morgan_ shade _theodosia garrison_ selection from "under the trees" _anna hempstead branch_ a garden friend _catherine markham_ (_mrs. edwin markham_) a lady of the snows _harriet monroe_ the tree _evelyn underhill_ "loveliest of trees" _a. e. housman_ the spirit of the birch _arthur ketchum_ family trees _douglas malloch_ idealists _alfred kreymborg_ "draw closer, o ye trees" _lloyd mifflin_ trees _bliss carman_ the trees _samuel valentine cole_ the poplars _theodosia garrison_ trees _joyce kilmer_ the lost gardens of the heart as in a rose-jar _thomas s. jones, jr._ in an old garden _madison cawein_ the garden of dreams _bliss carman_ homesick _julia c. r. dorr_ the ways of time _william h. davies_ a midsummer garden _clinton scollard_ the white rose _charles hanson towne_ a haunted garden _louis untermeyer_ the dusty hour-glass _amy lowell_ the song of wandering aengus _w. b. yeats_ the three cherry trees _walter de la mare_ old gardens _arthur upson_ the blooming of the rose _anna hempstead branch_ the garden of mnemosyne _rosamund marriott watson_ ballade of the dreamland rose _brian hooker_ the flowers of june _james terry white_ in memory's garden _thomas walsh_ serenade _marjorie l. c. pickthall_ "what heart but fears a fragrance?" _martha gilbert dickinson bianchi_ years afterward _nancy byrd turner_ autumnal _richard middleton_ "oh, tell me how my garden grows" _mildred howells_ her garden _eldredge denison_ the little ghost _edna st. vincent millay_ roses in the subway _dana burnet_ the garden over-seas a garden prayer _thomas walsh_ in the garden-close at mezra _clinton scollard_ the cactus _laurence hope_ the white peacock _william sharp_ at isola bella _jessie b. rittenhouse_ the fountain _sara teasdale_ the champa flower _rabindranath tagore_ in an egyptian garden _clinton scollard_ evening in old japan _antoinette de coursey patterson_ reflections _amy lowell_ in the garden _pai ta-shun_ the deserted garden _pai ta-shun_ a roman garden _florence wilkinson evans_ como in april _robert underwood johnson_ an exile's garden _sophie jewett_ the cloister garden at certosa _richard burton_ a garden in venice _dorothy frances gurney_ in a garden of granada _thomas walsh_ amiel's garden _gertrude huntington mcgiffert_ eden-hunger _william watson_ the garden at bemerton _lizette woodworth reese_ in an oxford garden _arthur upson_ the homely garden "grandmother's gathering boneset" _edith m. thomas_ a breath of mint _grace hazard conkling_ a seller of herbs _lizette woodworth reese_ lavender _w. w. blair fish_ dawn in my garden _marguerite wilkinson_ the proud vegetables _mary mcneil fenollosa_ the choice _katharine tynan_ thoughts fer the discuraged farmer _james whitcomb riley_ grace for gardens _louise driscoll_ silver bells and cockle shells planting _robert livingston_ spring patchwork _abbie farwell brown_ baby's valentine _laura e. richards_ baby seed song _e. nesbit_ rain in the night _amelia josephine burr_ a little girl's songs--i, spring song; ii, velvets (by a bed of pansies) _hilda conkling_ (_six years old_) when swallows build _catherine parmenter_ (_eleven years old_) spring planting _helen hay whitney_ if i could dig like a rabbit _rose strong hubbell_ the little god _katharine howard_ daisies _frank dempster sherman_ the anxious farmer _burges johnson_ over the garden wall _emily selinger_ the flowerphone _abbie farwell brown_ the faithless flowers _margaret widdemer_ the flower-school _rabindranath tagore_ iris flowers _mary mcneil fenollosa_ if i were a fairy _charles buxton going_ fringed gentians _amy lowell_ the scissors-man _grace hazard conkling_ the garden of life god's garden _richard burton_ "the lord god planted a garden" _dorothy frances gurney_ the lilies _george e. woodberry_ barter _sara teasdale_ sonnet _john masefield_ the tilling _cale young rice_ safe _robert haven schauffler_ sorrow in a garden _may riley smith_ moth-flowers _jeanne robert foster_ alchemy _sara teasdale_ flowers in the dark _sarah orne jewett_ welcome _john curtis underwood_ the child in the garden _henry van dyke_ a wonder garden _frederic a. whiting_ from a car-window _ruth guthrie harding_ song of the weary traveller _blanche shoemaker wagstaff_ cobwebs _louise imogen guiney_ blind _harry kemp_ herb of grace _amelia josephine burr_ before mary of magdala came _edwin markham_ conscience _margaret steele anderson_ rosa mystica _katharine tynan_ the mystery _ralph hodgson_ the rose _angela morgan_ for these _edward thomas_ (_edward eastaway_) samuel gardner _edgar lee masters_ seeds _john oxenham_ "lord, i ask a garden" _r. arevalo martinez_ my flower-room _ella wheeler wilcox_ "vestured and veiled with twilight" _rosamund marriott watson_ the fruit garden path _amy lowell_ wood song _sara teasdale_ a prayer _edwin markham_ the philosopher's garden _john oxenham_ index of titles index of authors * * * * * within garden walls earth _grasshopper, your fairy song and my poem alike belong to the deep and silent earth from which all poetry has birth; all we say and all we sing is but as the murmuring of that drowsy heart of hers when from her deep dream she stirs: if we sorrow, or rejoice, you and i are but her voice._ _deftly does the dust express in mind her hidden loveliness, and from her cool silence stream the cricket's cry and dante's dream: for the earth that breeds the trees breeds cities too, and symphonies, equally her beauty flows into a savior or a rose._ * * * * * _even as the growing grass up from the soil religions pass, and the field that bears the rye bears parables and prophecy. out of the earth the poem grows like the lily, or the rose; and all that man is or yet may be, is but herself in agony toiling up the steep ascent towards the complete accomplishment when all dust shall be, the whole universe, one conscious soul._ * * * * * _yea, and this my poem, too, is part of her as dust and dew, wherein herself she doth declare through my lips, and say her prayer._ john hall wheelock the furrow stride the hill, sower, up to the sky-ridge, flinging the seed, scattering, exultant! mouthing great rhythms to the long sea beats on the wide shore, behind the ridge of the hillside. below in the darkness-- the slumber of mothers-- the cradles at rest-- the fire-seed sleeping deep in white ashes! give to darkness and sleep: o sower, o seer! give me to the earth. with the seed i would enter. o! the growth thro' the silence from strength to new strength; then the strong bursting forth against primal forces, to laugh in the sunshine, to gladden the world! padraic colum "there is strength in the soil" there is strength in the soil; in the earth there is laughter and youth. there is solace and hope in the upturned loam. and lo, i shall plant my soul in it here like a seed! and forth it shall come to me as a flower of song; for i know it is good to get back to the earth that is orderly, placid, all-patient! it is good to know how quiet and noncommittal it breathes, this ample and opulent bosom that must some day nurse us all! arthur stringer in the womb still rests the heavy share on the dark soil: upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies: the horse waits patient: from his lowly toil the ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes. the unbudding hedgerows dark against day's fires glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim over the unregarding city's spires the lonely beauty shines alone for him. and day by day the dawn or dark unfolds and feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see how in her womb the mighty mother moulds the infant spirit for eternity. "a. e." (george william russell) putting in the seed you come to fetch me from my work to-night when supper's on the table, and we'll see if i can leave off burying the white soft petals fallen from the apple tree. (soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;) and go along with you ere you lose sight of what you came for and become like me, slave to a springtime passion for the earth. how love burns through the putting in the seed on through the watching for that early birth when, just as the soil tarnishes with weed, the sturdy seedling with arched body comes shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs. robert frost the whisper of earth in the misty hollow, shyly greening branches soften to the south wind, bending to the rain. from the moistened earthland flutter little whispers, breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain. little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses, little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring, little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness, little crying wind-sounds come before the king. powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus, cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone, seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily, god has heard the earth-cry and journeys to his throne. edward j. o'brien "within the garden there is healthfulness" within the garden there is healthfulness. lavishly it gives it us in light that cleaves to every movement of its thousand hands of palms and leaves. and the good shade where it accepts, after long journeyings, our steps, pours on the weary limb a force of life and sweetness like its mosses dim. when the lake is playing with the wind and sun. it seems a crimson heart within, all ardent, has begun to throb with the moving wave; the gladiolus and the fervent rose, which in their splendor move unshadowèd, upon their vital stems expose their cups of gold and red. within the garden there is healthfulness. emile verhaeren in a garden i stood within a garden during rain uncovering to the drops my lifted brow: o joyous fancy, to imagine now i slip, with trees and clouds, the social chain, alone with nature, naught to lose or gain nor even to become; no, just to be a moment's personal essence, wholly free from needs that mold the heart to forms of pain. arise, i cried, and celebrate the hour! acclaim serener gladness; if it fail, new courage, nobler vision, will survive that i have known my kinship to the flower, my brotherhood with rain, and in this vale have been a moment's friend to all alive. horace holley a shower you may have seen, when winds were high, that hesitant buds would not unfold in garden-borders chill and dry, bright with the easter-lilies' gold. then, suddenly, would come a shower-- the big breeze veering to the west-- and happier music filled the bower above the thrush's hidden nest: the elm-tree's inconspicuous bloom vanished amidst her little leaves; in box and bay a fragrant gloom inspired the wren's recitatives: the woods assumed their delicate green and spoke in songs that brought you bliss: ay, and your withered heart has been quickened on such a day as this! rowland thirlmere the rain i hear leaves drinking rain; i hear rich leaves on top giving the poor beneath drop after drop; 'tis a sweet noise to hear these green leaves drinking near. and when the sun comes out, after this rain shall stop, a wondrous light will fill each dark, round drop; i hope the sun shines bright; 'twill be a lovely sight. william h. davies the dews we come and go, as the breezes blow, but whence or where hath ne'er been told in the legends old by the dreaming seer. the welcome rain to the parching plain and the languid leaves, the rattling hail on the burnished mail of the serried sheaves, the silent snow on the wintry brow of the aged year, wends each his way in the track of day from a clouded sphere: but still as the fog in the dismal bog where the shifting sheen of the spectral lamp lights the marshes damp, with a flash unseen we drip through the night from the starlids bright, on the sleeping flowers, and deep in their breast is our perfumed rest through the darkened hours: but again with the day we are up and away with our stolen dyes, to paint all the shrouds of the drifting clouds in the eastern skies. john b. tabb sonnet it may be so; but let the unknown be. we, on this earth, are servants of the sun. out of the sun comes all the quick in me, his golden touch is life to everyone. his power it is that makes us spin through space, his youth is april and his manhood bread, beauty is but a looking on his face, he clears the mind, he makes the roses red. what he may be, who knows? but we are his, we roll through nothing round him, year by year, the withering leaves upon a tree which is each with his greed, his little power, his fear. what we may be, who knows? but everyone is dust on dust a servant of the sun. john masefield charm: to be said in the sun i reach my arms up, to the sky, and golden vine on vine of sunlight showered wild and high, around my brows i twine. i wreathe, i wind it everywhere, the burning radiancy of brightness that no eye may dare, to be the strength of me. come, redness of the crystalline, come green, come hither blue and violet--all alive within, for i have need of you. come honey-hue and flush of gold, and through the pallor run, with pulse on pulse of manifold new largess of the sun! o steep the silence till it sing! o glories from the height, come down, where i am garlanding with light, a child of light! josephine preston peabody the dials with fingers softer than the touch of death the sundial writes the passing of the day, the hours unfolding slow to twilight gray, the gleaming moments vanish in a breath. but sunny hours alone the sundial names; all unrecorded are the midnight spans and vain within the dusk the watcher scans the marble face; thereon no record flames. so on eternal dials that god may hold, and those more humble in the human heart, no bitter deeds their passing hours impart; kind deeds alone are marked in fadeless gold! arthur wallace peach to a new sundial oh, sundial, you should not be young, or fresh and fair, or spick and span! none should remember when began your tenure here, nor whence you sprung! like ancient cromlech notch'd and scarr'd, i would have had you sadly tow'r above this world of leaf and flower all ivy-tress'd and lichen-starr'd; ambassador of time and fate, in contrast stern to bud and bloom, seeming half temple and half tomb, and wholly solemn and sedate; till, one with god's own works on earth, the lake, the vale, the mountain-brow, we might have come to count you now whose home was here before our birth. but lo! a priggish, upstart thing-- set here to tell so old a truth-- how fleeting are our days of youth-- _you_, that were only made last spring! go to!... what sermon can you preach, oh, mushroom--mentor pert and new? we are too old to learn of you what you are all too young to teach! yet, sundial, you and i may swear eternal friendship, none the less, for i'll respect your youthfulness if you'll forgive my silver hair! violet fane the fountain i thought my garden finished. i beheld each bush bee-visited; a green charm quelled the louder winds to music; soft boughs made patches of silver dusk and purple shade-- and yet i felt a lack of something still. there was a little, sleepy-footed rill that lapsed among sun-burnished stones, where slept fish, rainbow-scaled, while dragon-flies, adept, balanced on bending grass. all perfect? no. my garden lacked a fountain's upward flow. i coaxed the brook's young naiad to resign her meadow wildness, building her a shrine of worship, where each ravished waif of air might wanton in the brightness of her hair. so here my fountain flows, loved of the wind, to every vagrant, aimless gust inclined, yet constant ever to its source. it greets the face of morning, wavering windy sheets of woven silver; sheer it climbs the noon, a shaft of bronze; and underneath the moon it sleeps in pearl and opal. in the storm it streams far out, a wild, gray, blowing form; while on calm days it heaps above the lake,-- pelting the dreaming lilies half awake, and pattering jewels on each wide, green frond,-- recurrent pyramids of diamond! harry kemp the pageantry of gardens the birth of the flowers _god spoke! and from the arid scene sprang rich and verdant bowers, till all the earth was soft with green,-- he smiled; and there were flowers._ mary mcneil fenollosa the welcome god spreads a carpet soft and green o'er which we pass; a thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen-- and that is grass. delightful music woos the ear; the grass is stirred down to the heart of every spear-- ah, that's a bird. clouds roll before a blue immense that stretches high and lends the soul exalted sense-- that scroll's a sky. green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests; their jubilee extols brave captains and their quests-- and that is sea. new-leaping grass, the feathery flute, the sapphire ring, the sea's full-voiced, profound salute,-- ah, this is spring! arthur powell the joy of the springtime springtime, o springtime, what is your essence, the lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose, the dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam, the voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes, the hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden watching the petals of gladness unclose? springtime, o springtime, what is your secret, the bliss at the core of your magical mirth, that quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder and hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth, that captures the heavens and conquers to blossom the roots of delight in the heart of the earth? sarojini naidu spring at the first hour, it was as if one said, "arise." at the second hour, it was as if one said, "go forth." and the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes sank below the white horizon at the north. at the third hour, it was as if one said, "i thirst;" at the fourth hour, all the earth was still: then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst; and the rain flooded valley, plain and hill. at the fifth hour, darkness took the throne; at the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried; at the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown, at the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died. at the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb; and the earth was then silent for the space of three hours. but at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers. john gould fletcher primavera spirit immortal of mortality, imperishable faith, calm miracle of resurrection, truth no tongue can tell, no brain conceive,--now witnessed utterly in this new testament of earth and sea,-- to us thy gospel! where the acorn fell the oak-tree springs: no seed is infidel! once more, o wonder, flower and field and tree reveal thy secret and significance! and we, who share unutterable things and feel the foretaste of eternity, haply shall learn thy meaning and perchance set free the soul to lift immortal wings and cross the frontiers of infinity. george cabot lodge the green o' the spring sure, afther all the winther, an' afther all the snow, 'tis fine to see the sunshine, 'tis fine to feel its glow; 'tis fine to see the buds break on boughs that bare have been-- but best of all to irish eyes 'tis grand to see the green! sure, afther all the winther, an' afther all the snow, 'tis fine to hear the brooks sing as on their way they go; 'tis fine to hear at mornin' the voice of robineen, but best of all to irish eyes 'tis grand to see the green! sure, here in grim new england the spring is always slow, an' every bit o' green grass is kilt wid frost and snow; ah, many a heart is weary the winther days, i ween but oh, the joy when springtime comes an' brings the blessed green! denis a. mccarthy an april morning once more in misted april the world is growing green. along the winding river the plumey willows lean. beyond the sweeping meadows the looming mountains rise, like battlements of dreamland against the brooding skies. in every wooded valley the buds are breaking through, as though the heart of all things no languor ever knew. the golden-wings and bluebirds call to their heavenly choirs. the pines are blued and drifted with smoke of brushwood fires. and in my sister's garden where little breezes run, the golden daffodillies are blowing in the sun. bliss carman "with memories and odors" with memories and odors the wind is warm and mild; the earth is like a mother where leaps the unborn child. the grackles flock returning like rain-clouds from the south. and all the world lies yearning toward summer, mouth to mouth. how soft the hills and hazy seen through the open door!-- the crocus shines, a virgin, white from the grassy floor. the children whirl around in a ring, and laugh and sing, and dance and sing: but the blackbird whistles clear, o clear, "the spring, the spring!" john hall wheelock april rain fall, rain! you are the blood of coming blossom, you shall be music in the young birds' throats, you shall be breaking, soon, in silver notes; a virgin laughter in the young earth's bosom. oh, that i could with you reënter earth, pass through her heart and come again to sun, out of her fertile dark to sing and run in loveliness and fragrance of new mirth! fall, rain! into the dust i go with you, pierce the remaining snows with subtle fire, warming the frozen roots with soft desire, dreams of ascending leaves and flowers new. i am no longer body,--i am blood seeking for some new loveliness of shape; dark loveliness that dreams of new escape, the sun-surrender of unclosing bud. take me, o earth! and make me what you will; i feel my heart with mingled music fill. conrad aiken while april rain went by under a budding hedge i hid while april rain went by, but little drops came slipping through, fresh from a laughing sky: a-many little scurrying drops, laughing the song they sing, soon found me where i sought to hide, and pelted me with spring. and i lay back and let them pelt, and dreamt deliciously of lusty leaves and lady-blossoms and baby-buds i'd see when april rain had laughed the land out of its wintry way, and coaxed all growing things to greet with gracious garb the may. shaemas o sheel spring the dews drip roses on the meadows where the meek daisies dot the sward. and Æolus whispers through the shadows, "behold the handmaid of the lord!" the golden news the skylark waketh and 'thwart the heavens his flight is curled; attend ye as the first note breaketh and chrism droppeth on the world. the velvet dusk still haunts the stream where pan makes music light and gay. the mountain mist hath caught a beam and slowly weeps itself away. the young leaf bursts its chrysalis and gem-like hangs upon the bough, where the mad throstle sings in bliss o'er earth's rejuvenated brow. envoi slowly fall, o golden sands, slowly fall and let me sing, wrapt in the ecstasy of youth, the wild delights of spring. francis ledwidge april weather oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, for here is april weather! the daffodils beneath the trees are all a-row together. the thrush is back with his old note; the scarlet tulip blowing; and white--ay, white as my love's throat-- the dogwood boughs are glowing. the lilac bush is sweet again; down every wind that passes, fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; the bees are in the grasses. and grief goes out, and joy comes in, and care is but a feather; and every lad his love can win, for here is april weather. lizette woodworth reese daffodils there flames the first gay daffodil where winter-long the snows have lain: who buried love, all spent and still? there flames the first gay daffodil. go, love's alive on yonder hill, and yours for asking, joy and pain, there flames the first gay daffodil where winter-long the snows have lain! ruth guthrie harding the crocus flame the easter sunrise flung a bar of gold o'er the awakening wold. what was thine answer, o thou brooding earth, what token of re-birth, of tender vernal mirth, thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold? under the kindling panoply which god spreads over tree and clod, i looked far abroad. umber the sodden reaches seemed and seer as when the dying year, with rime-white sandals shod, faltered and fell upon its frozen bier. of some rathe quickening, some divine renascence not a sign! and yet, and yet, with touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, the lyric south amid the bough-tops stirred, and one lone bird an unexpected jet of song projected through the morning blue, as though some wondrous hidden thing it knew. and so i gathered heart, and cried again: "o earth, make plain, at this matutinal hour, the triumph and the power of life eternal over death and pain, although it be but by some simple flower!" and then, with sudden light, was dowered my veilèd sight, and i beheld in a sequestered place a slender crocus show its sun-bright face. o miracle of grace, earth's easter answer came, the revelation of transfiguring might, in that small crocus flame! clinton scollard the early gods it is the time of violets. it is the very day when in the shadow of the wood spring shall have her say, remembering how the early gods came up the violet way. are there not violets and gods-- to-day? witter bynner a tulip garden guarded within the old red wall's embrace, marshalled like soldiers in gay company, the tulips stand arrayed. here infantry wheels out into the sunlight. what bold grace sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, with scarlet sabres tossing in the eye of purple batteries, every gun in place. forward they come, with flaunting colors spread, with torches burning, stepping out in time to some quick, unheard march. our ears are dead, we cannot catch the tune. in pantomime parades the army. with our utmost powers we hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. amy lowell tulips brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows, coming while breezes of april are cold, winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees you thrusting your spears through the redolent mold. jolly dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers, drink! ere the pageant of spring passes by! hold your carousals to robin's espousals, lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky! dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans, burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares, nodding so solemn by fountain and column, what is the talk of your weighty affairs? pollen and honey (for such is your money),-- gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,-- prospects of growing,--what colors are showing,-- news of rare tulips from over the sea? loitering near you, how often i hear you, just ere your petals at twilight are furled, laugh through the grasses while evelyn passes, "there goes the loveliest flower in the world!" arthur guiterman a white iris tall and clothed in samite, chaste and pure, in smooth armor,-- your head held high in its helmet of silver: jean d'arc riding among the sword blades! has spring for you wrought visions, as it did for her in a garden? pauline b. barrington may is building her house may is building her house. with apple blooms she is roofing over the glimmering rooms; of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, and, spinning all day at her secret looms, with arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall she pictureth over, and peopleth it all with echoes and dreams, and singing of streams. may is building her house of petal and blade; of the roots of the oak is the flooring made, with a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, each small miracle over and over, and tender, travelling green things strayed. her windows the morning and evening star, and her rustling doorways, ever ajar with the coming and going of fair things blowing, the thresholds of the four winds are. may is building her house. from the dust of things she is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; from october's tossed and trodden gold she is making the young year out of the old; yea! out of winter's flying sleet she is making all the summer sweet, and the brown leaves spurned of november's feet she is changing back again to spring's. richard le gallienne the magnolia deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter, perfect and bright is the magnolia born; white as a flake of foam upon still water, white as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn. hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned of grecian marble in an age remote. hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned, as when a woman bares her rounded throat. there is a tale of how the moon, her lover, holds her enchanted by some magic spell; something about a dove that broods above her, or dies within her breast--i cannot tell. i cannot say where i have heard the story, upon what poet's lips; but this i know: her heart is like a pearl's, or like the glory of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow. josÉ santos chocano (_translated by john pierrepont rice_) "go down to kew in lilac-time" go down to kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; go down to kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from london!) and you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; go down to kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from london!). the cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, the cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to london!) and there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky the cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for london. the dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him there at kew, at kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to london!) the linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo and golden-eyed _tu-whit_, _tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle london. for noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard at kew, at kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to london!) and when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out you'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for london:-- _come down to kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; come down to kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from london!) and you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; come down to kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from london!)._ alfred noyes beyond i wonder if the tides of spring will always bring me back again mute rapture at the simple thing of lilacs blowing in the rain. if so, my heart will ever be above all fear, for i shall know there is a greater mystery beyond the time when lilacs blow. thomas s. jones, jr. june i knew that you were coming, june, i knew that you were coming! among the alders by the stream i heard a partridge drumming; i heard a partridge drumming, june, a welcome with his wings, and felt a softness in the air half summer's and half spring's. i knew that you were nearing, june, i knew that you were nearing-- i saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing; the roses in the clearing, june, were blushing pink and red, for they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread. i knew that you were coming, june, i knew that you were coming, for ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming. i know that you are here, june, i know that you are here-- the fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year! douglas malloch june rapture green! what a world of green! my startled soul panting for beauty long denied, leaps in a passion of high gratitude to meet the wild embraces of the wood; rushes and flings itself upon the whole mad miracle of green, with senses wide, clings to the glory, hugs and holds it fast, as one who finds a long-lost love at last. billows of green that break upon the sight in bounteous crescendos of delight, wind-hurried verdure hastening up the hills to where the sun its highest rapture spills; cascades of color tumbling down the height in golden gushes of delicious light-- god! can i bear the beauty of this day, or shall i be swept utterly away? hush--here are deeps of green, where rapture stills, sheathing itself in veils of amber dusk; breathing a silence suffocating, sweet, wherein a million hidden pulses beat. look! how the very air takes fire and thrills with hint of heaven pushing through her husk. ah, joy's not stopped! 'tis only more intense, here where creation's ardors all condense; here where i crush me to the radiant sod, close-folded to the very nerves of god. see now--i hold my heart against this tree. the life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me. there's not a pleasure pulsing through its veins that does not sting me with ecstatic pains. no twig or tracery, however fine, can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine. praised be the gods that made my spirit mad; kept me aflame and raw to beauty's touch. lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate; gave me so often agony for mate; tore from my heart the things that make men glad-- praised be the gods! if i at last, by such relentless means may know the sacred bliss, the anguished rapture of an hour like this. smite me, o life, and bruise me if thou must; mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust, but keep me thus aquiver and awake, enamoured of my life for living's sake! _this were the tragedy_--that i should pass, dull and indifferent through the glowing grass. and this the reason i was born, i say-- that i might know the passion of this day! angela morgan columbines late were we sleeping deep in the mold, clasping and keeping yesterday's gold-- hoardings of sunshine, crimson and gold; dreaming of light till our dream became aureate bells and beakers of flame,-- splashed with the splendor of wine of flame. raindrop awoke us; zephyr bespoke us; chick-a-dee called us, bobolink called us,-- then we came. arthur guiterman the morning-glory was it worth while to paint so fair thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art each petal, taking the boon light and air of summer so to heart? to bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, then, like a passing fragrance or a smile, vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- was it, frail bloom, worth while? thy silence answers: "life was mine! and i, who pass without regret or grief, have cared the more to make my moment fine, because it was so brief. "in its first radiance i have seen the sun!--why tarry then till comes the night? i go my way, content that i have been part of the morning light!" florence earle coates the blossomy barrow antonio sarto ees buildin' a wall, but maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. eet sure wonta be teell flower an' tree an' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da fall. you see, deesa 'tonio always ees want' to leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'. i s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place, but shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace"; eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all, an' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall. mysal' i go outa for see heem wan day, an' dere i am catcha heem sweatin' away; he's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees land an' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand! i say to heem: "tony, why don'ta you gat som' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?" "o! com' an' i show you w'at's matter," he said, an' so we go look at hees tools een da shed. dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor, but w'at do you s'pose? from een under da door, som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed, an' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red, smile out from da vina so pretty an' green dat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine. i look at dees tony an' say to heem: "wal?" an' tony he look back at me an' say: "hal! i no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng; i work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!" antonio sarto ees buildin' a wall, but maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. eet sure wonta be teell flower an' tree an' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da fall. t. a. daly larkspur blue morning and the beloved, the hill-garden and i ... blue morning and the beloved, leaning, laughing and plucking, plucking wet roses ... (she among the roses, i among the larkspur, bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink, song, sun, and still morning air.) i snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue and held it, a blossom against the sky ... and heaven opened out in one small flower-face ... and the beloved, plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses, lifted her face with eyes of china-blue. (she among the roses, i among the larkspur, bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird: light, dew, and laughter of my love.) james oppenheim the july garden it's july in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles and french grey the willows that bow to every breeze; and deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles "i'm picking, i'm picking, i'm picking these!" so off i go to rout them, and find instead i'm gazing at clusters of delphiniums--the seed was small and brown, but these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down. and then some roses catch my eye, or may be some sweet williams or pink and white and purple peals of canterbury bells or pencilled violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells-- and while i stare at each in turn i quite forget or pardon the blackbirds--and the blackguards--that keep robbing me of pie; for what do such things matter when i have so fair a garden and what is half so lovely as my garden in july? robert ernest vernÈde "mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways" mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways; a golden peacock down the dusky alley strays; gay flower petals strew --pearl, emerald and blue-- the curving slopes of fragrant summer grass; the pools are clear as glass between the white cups of the lily-flowers; the currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers; a dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose, where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws, and airy as bubbles the thousands of bees over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please. the air is pearly, iridescent, pure; these profound and radiant noons mature, unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light; familiar roads to distances invite like slow and graceful gestures, one by one bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun. surely the summer clothes, with all her arts, no other garden with such grace and power; and 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts that cries its life aloud from every flaming flower. emile verhaeren poppies o perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days, the season's emblems ye, as nodding lazily ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, and soothe the tired gazer's sense with lulling surges of your softest somnolence. like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed with tender ruby glow. not any flowers that blow can match the glory of your gleaming red; such sunny-warm and dreamy hue before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew. bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, and bright the velvet vest on the nasturtium's breast; bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, and bright the coreopsis' eye;-- but none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. o soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well; your glorious crimson tide the mossy walk beside holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; and walking there we gladly bless your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness. john russell hayes the garden in august from corn-crib by the level pasture-lands to knoll where spruce and boulders hide the road i know it like a book, and when my heart is waste and dry and hard and choked with weeds, i come here till it gently blooms again. for gardens yield rich fruits that will outlast the autumn and the winter of the soul, richest to him who toils with loving hands. 'tis delving thus we learn life's secrets told but to those favored few who dig for them. the garden is an intimate and keeps in touch with us, yet hath its own high moods, and doth impose them on the mind of man to shame his pettiness. so do i love its shimmering august mood keyed to the sun, a harlequin of color, birds and bloom. nasturtiums, zinnias, balsams, salvias blaze by vivid dahlias; tiger-lilies burn in scarlet shadow of jerusalem-cross; beyond the queen-hydrangeas splendid rule barbaric marigolds; chrysanthemums outshine gladioli, and sunflowers flaunt their crests of gold beneath the giant gourds. within the arbor, script forgot, i muse, while gorgeous hollyhocks sway to and fro to mark the silences, and butterflies flit in and out like some bright memory, and blinding poppies kindle slow watch-fires before the golden altar of the sun. a spell lies on the garden. summer sits with finger on her lips as if she heard the steps of autumn echo on the hill. a hush lies on the garden. summer dreams of timid crocus thrust through drifted snow. gertrude huntington mcgiffert sun, cardinal, and corn flowers whence gets earth her gold for thee, o sunflower? her woven, yellow locks so fine must go to make that gold of thine. and whence thy red beside the stream, o cardinal-flower? she pricks some vein lies near her heart that thy rich, ruddy hue may start. and whence thy blue amid the corn, o corn-flower? her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee, the glories of her work to see. hannah parker kimball sunflowers my tall sunflowers love the sun, love the burning august noons when the locust tunes its viol, and the cricket croons. when the purple night draws on, with its planets hung on high, and the attared winds of slumber wander down the sky, still my sunflowers love the sun, keep their ward and watch and wait till the rosy key of morning opes the eastern gate. then, when they have deeply quaffed from the brimming cups of dew, you can hear their golden laughter all the garden through. clinton scollard the end of summer when poppies in the garden bleed, and coreopsis goes to seed, and pansies, blossoming past their prime, grow small and smaller all the time, when on the mown field, shrunk and dry, brown dock and purple thistle lie, and smoke from forest fires at noon can make the sun appear the moon, when apple seeds, all white before, begin to darken in the core, i know that summer, scarcely here, is gone until another year. edna st. vincent millay a late walk when i go up through the mowing field, the headless aftermath, smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, half closes the garden path. and when i come to the garden ground, the whir of sober birds up from the tangle of the withered weeds is sadder than any words. a tree beside the wall stands bare, but a leaf that lingered brown, disturbed, i doubt not, by my thought, comes softly rustling down. i end not far from my going forth by picking the faded blue of the last remaining aster flower to carry again to you. robert frost color notes the brown of fallen leaves, the duller brown of withered moss stubble and bared sheaves, and pale light filtering down the fields across. the gray of slender trees, the softer gray of melting skies. what sobering ecstasies one drinks on such a day with chastened eyes! charles wharton stork the golden bowl i stand upon the broad and rounded summit of a high hill in the full golden flood of an october day nearing to twilight. below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields, white strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance, all steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes. nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence, nearer a hawthorn tree drops its wee crimson apples into the lush green grass. i stand with head thrown back, seeing and breathing deep, my arms stretched out, in my two hands i hold a golden bowl. luscious fruits fulfil the yellow lustre of its hollow sphere, fruits like great gems, a pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach, a cluster of grapes-- amethysts from the dewy cave of night-- a sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine, and on them lies a rose. oh, empty golden bowl i call my soul, filled now with the precious fruits of life and time, topped with the rosy spray of grace, a rose, as though dropped to me from the sky above, a crowning thing, love, i lift and hold you out, an offering, and close my eyes. mary mcmillan the autumn rose a ghostly visitant, pale autumn rose, haunting my garden that you once loved well: ah, how you queened it ere the sweet june's close, and blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tell your loveliness was fairer than a dream! but now your pride of beauty is all gone, and like some poor sad penitent you seem, whose drooping head but hides a visage wan and wasted by the coldness of the world. upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh, within your petals lies a tear impearled; i hear you to my garden say good-bye. a sudden wind--the pale rose-petals blow hither and yon--or are they flakes of snow? antoinette de coursey patterson indian summer lyric night of the lingering indian summer, shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, ceaseless, insistent. the grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples the wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, under the moon waning and worn and broken, tired with summer. let me remember you, voices of little insects, weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, snow-hushed and heartless. over my soul murmur your mute benediction, while i gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, as those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, lest they forget them. sara teasdale "frost to-night" apple-green west and an orange bar, and the crystal eye of a lone, one star ... and, "child, take the shears and cut what you will. frost to-night--so clear and dead-still." then, i sally forth, half sad, half proud, and i come to the velvet, imperial crowd, the wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,-- the dahlias that reign by the garden-side. the dahlias i might not touch till to-night! a gleam of the shears in the fading light, and i gathered them all,--the splendid throng, and in one great sheaf i bore them along. in my garden of life with its all-late flowers i heed a voice in the shrinking hours: "frost to-night--so clear and dead-still ..." half sad, half proud, my arms i fill. edith m. thomas november night listen ... with faint dry sound, like steps of passing ghosts, the leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees and fall. adelaide crapsey the snow-gardens like an empty stage the gardens are empty and cold; the marble terraces rise like vases that hold no flowers; the lake is frozen, the fountain still; the marble walls and the seats are useless and beautiful. ah, here where the wind and the dusk and the snow are all is silent and white and sad! why do i think of you? why does your name remorselessly strike through my heart? why does my soul awaken and shudder? why do i seem to hear cries as lovely as music? surely you never came into these pale snow-gardens; surely you never stood here in the twilight with me; yet here i have lingered and dreamed of a face as subtle as music, of golden hair, and of eyes like a child's ... i have felt on my brow your finger-tips, plaintive as music ... o wonder of all wonders, o love-- wrought of sweet sounds and of dreaming!-- why do you not emerge from the lilac pale petals of dusk, and come to me here in the gardens where the wind and the snow are? beauty and peace are here-- and unceasing music-- and a loneliness chill and wistful, like the feeling of death. like a crystal lily a star leans from its leaves of silver and gleams in the sky; and golden and faint in the shadows you wait indistinctly,-- like a phantom lamp that appears in the mirror of distance that hovers by the window at twilight-- you have come--and we stand together, with questioning eyes-- dreaming and cold and ghostly in an empty garden that seems like an empty stage. zoË akins a song for winter speak not of snow and cold and rime now they prevail. would you have joy in winter-time, think of the pale new green that comes, of blossoming lilacs think, larkspur, and borders of the fringèd pink. and sing, if winter grants you heart to sing, of summer and of spring. would you secure some happiness in frosty hours, trust to the eye external less than to the powers of inward sight that even now may show opaline seas, blue hilltops, and the glow of daybreak on the glades where thrushes sing in summer and in spring. gaze not on fettered lake and brook and sullen skies, but in your happy memory look where beauty lies as once it was, as it shall be again when sunshine floods the fields of blowing grain, and sing, as must who would in winter sing, of summer and of spring. mrs. schuyler van rensselaer wings and song "i meant to do my work to-day" _i meant to do my work to-day-- but a brown bird sang in the apple-tree and a butterfly flitted across the field, and all the leaves were calling me._ _and the wind went sighing over the land, tossing the grasses to and fro, and a rainbow held out its shining hand-- so what could i do but laugh and go?_ richard le gallienne the hummingbird through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away! hi! little rover, stop and stay. merry, absurd, excited wag-- lilliput-bird in brobdingnag! wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier-- was ever a bee merrier, airier? wings folded so, a second or two-- was ever a crow more solemn than you? a-whirr again over the garden, away! who calls, little rover, bird or fay? agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss! what do you know that we humans miss? in the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell, in the rose's palace, what do they tell (when the door you bob in, airily) that they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?-- fearing the crew of chatter and song, and tell to you of the chantless tongue? chantless! ah, yes. is that the sting masked in gay dress and whirring wing? faith! but a wing of such airy stuff! what need to sing? here's music enough. a-whirr, and over tree-top, and through! hi! little rover, fair travel to you. sweet, absurd, excited wag-- lilliput-bird in brobdingnag! hermann hagedorn spring song softly at dawn a whisper stole down from the green house on the hill, enchanting many a ghostly bole and wood song with the ancient thrill. gossiping on the countryside, spring and the wandering breezes say god has thrown heaven open wide and let the thrushes out to-day. william griffith nightingales at sunset my brown nightingales hidden and hushed all day, ring vespers, while the color pales and fades to twilight gray: the little mellow bells they ring, the little flutes they play, are soft as though for practising the things they want to say. it's when the dark has floated down to hide and guard and fold, i know their throats that look so brown, are really made of gold. no music i have ever heard can call as sweet as they! i wonder if it _is_ a bird that sings within the hidden tree, or some shy angel calling me to follow far away? grace hazard conkling the goldfinch down from the sky on a sudden he drops into the mullein and juniper tops, flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold. lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, vividly restless, a fluttering gem, then with a flash of bewildering wings dazzles away up and down, and he sings clear as a bell at each dip as he flies bounding along on the wave of the skies. sunlight and laughter, a wingèd desire, motion and melody married to fire, lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, frailer than violets, how shall we find words that will match him, discover a name meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame? how shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, find us a wonderful music to sing with him fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily high in the burning blue, winging so airily? odell shepard kinfolk o, we are kinfolk, she and i,-- the little mother-bird all brown, who broods above her nest on high, and with her soft, bright eyes looks down to read the secret of my heart,-- we two from all the world apart! she dreams there in her swaying nest; i dream here 'neath my sheltering vine. the same love stirs her feathered breast that makes my heart-throb seem divine. we both dream 'neath the same kind sky,-- the small brown mother-bird, and i. kate whiting patch a mocking-bird an arrow, feathery, alive, he darts and sings,-- then with a sudden skimming dive of striped wings he finds a pine and, debonair, makes with his mate all birds that ever rested there articulate. the whisper of a multitude of happy wings is round him, a returning brood, each time he sings. though heaven be not for them or him yet he is wise, and daily tiptoes on the rim of paradise. witter bynner the cardinal-bird where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along, a flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song, my cardinal-bird of the frost-powdered wing, composing new lyrics to whistle in spring. a plump little prelate, the park is his church; the pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch; and there, in his rubicund livery dressed, arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest, he preaches, with most unconventional glee, a sermon addressed to the squirrels and me, commending the wisdom of those that display the brightest of colors when heavens are gray. arthur guiterman yellow warblers the first faint dawn was flushing up the skies, when, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes, i looked out to the oak that, winter-long,-- a winter wild with war and woe and wrong,-- beyond my casement had been void of song. and lo! with golden buds the twigs were set, live buds that warbled like a rivulet beneath a veil of willows. then i knew those tiny voices, clear as drops of dew, those flying daffodils that fleck the blue, those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles-- wee pilgrims of the sun, that measured miles innumerable over land and sea with wings of shining inches. flakes of glee, they filled that dark old oak with jubilee, foretelling in delicious roundelays their dainty courtships on the dipping sprays, how they should fashion nests, mate helping mate, of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate, to keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate. listening to those blithe notes, i slipped once more from lyric dawn through dreamland's open door, and there was god, eternal life that sings eternal joy, brooding all mortal things, a nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings. katharine lee bates witchery out of the purple drifts, from the shadow sea of night, on tides of musk a moth uplifts its weary wings of white. is it a dream or ghost of a dream that comes to me, here in the twilight on the coast, blue cinctured by the sea? fashioned of foam and froth-- and the dream is ended soon, and, lo, whence came the moon-white moth comes now the moth-white moon! frank dempster sherman the spring beauties the puritan spring beauties stood freshly clad for church; a thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. "happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, but presently a buff-coat bee came booming up to scold them. "vanity, oh, vanity! young maids, beware of vanity!" grumbled out the buff-coat bee, half parson-like, half soldierly. the sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, convinced that it was wicked to listen to the thrushes; and when, that shady afternoon, i chanced that way to pass, they hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. all because the buff-coat bee lectured them so solemnly:-- "vanity, oh, vanity! young maids, beware of vanity!" helen gray cone the mocking-bird he didn't know much music when first he come along; an' all the birds went wonderin' why he didn't sing a song. they primped their feathers in the sun, an' sung their sweetest notes; an' music jest come on the run from all their purty throats! but still that bird was silent in summer time an' fall; he jest set still and listened, an' he wouldn't sing at all! but one night when them songsters was tired out an' still, an' the wind sighed down the valley an' went creepin' up the hill; when the stars was all a-tremble in the dreamin' fields o' blue, an' the daisy in the darkness-- felt the fallin' o' the dew,-- there come a sound o' melody no mortal ever heard, an' all the birds seemed singin' from the throat o' one sweet bird! then the other birds went mayin' in a land too fur to call; for there warn't no use in stayin' when one bird could sing for all! frank l. stanton the messenger bee! tell me whence do you come? ten fields away, twenty perhaps, have heard your hum. if you are from the north, you may have passed my mother's roof of straw upon your way. if you came from the south you should have seen another cottage just inside the wood. and should you go back that way, please carry a message to the house among the trees. say--i will wait her at the rock beside the stream, this very night at eight o'clock. and ask your queen when you get home to send my queen the present of a honey-comb. james stephens fireflies fireflies, fireflies, little glinting creatures, making night lovely with a rain of gold, born of the moonbeams, children all unearthly, ah how you vanish from a look too bold! fireflies, fireflies, lovely as our dreams are, sewn with such fancies from the years gone by, wayward, elusive, as the playful zephyrs, hiding mid grasses, gleaming in the sky. fireflies, fireflies, like unto the silent brown nuns who gather for the dead to pray, as theirs your mission; holy, too, your tapers, souls of dead flowers lighting on their way. antoinette de coursey patterson july midnight fireflies flicker in the tops of trees, flicker in the lower branches, skim along the ground. over the moon-white lilies is a flashing and ceasing of small, lemon-green stars. as you lean against me, moon-white, the air all about you is slit, and pricked, and pointed with sparkles of lemon-green flame starting out of a background of great vague trees. amy lowell the cricket in the path she passed through the shadowy garden, so tall and so white, her eyes on the stars and her face like an angel's upturned, and it seemed to my thought that the dusk round her head with the light of an aureole burned. but where she had trodden unseeing, i found on the path a cricket, so frail that her light foot had maimed it, yet strong to valiantly pipe, tiny hero, a faint aftermath of its yesterday song. and i whispered, "alas, little brother, why must it befall that the passing of angels but cripples and leaves us to die? poor imp of the greensward, god trumpets me clear in thy call; thou art braver than i. "the bright ones of heaven have trodden me down as they passed; i crawl in their footsteps a trampled and impotent thing. i know not the reason, nor question henceforth. to the last, while i live, i will sing." amelia josephine burr rest at noon now with a re-created mind back to the world my way i find; fed by the hills one little hour, by meadow-slope and beechen-bower, cedar serene, benignant larch, hoar mountains and the azure arch where dazzling vapors make vast sport in god's profound and spacious court. the universe played with me. earth harped to high heaven her sweetest mirth; the clouds built castles for my pleasure, and airy legions without measure flung, spindrift-wise, across the sky to thrill my heart once and to die. i have held converse with large things; for cherubim with cooling wings brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view, called through the arras of the blue and clapped their hands: "these veils uproll! and see the comrades of your soul!" the very flowers that ringed my bed their little "god-be-with-you" said, and every insect, bird and bee brought cool cups from eternity. hermann hagedorn order it is half-past eight on the blossomy bush: the petals are spread for a sunning; the little gold fly is scrubbing his face; the spider is nervously running to fasten a thread; the night-going moth is folding his velvet perfection; and presently over the clover will come the bee on a tour of inspection. paul scott mowrer the night-moth my night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, so swift in the shifting of your elfin wings, so slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings, as a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails, pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,-- you gleam as a dream, by my window's light, my white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night. from the velvet screening of a great gray cloud the moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; the night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips-- her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; and you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips, athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars; you fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, my light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night. marion couthouy smith the butterfly o winged brother on the harebell, stay-- was god's hand very pitiful, the hand that wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? _yes, knowing i love so well the flowery way, he did not fling me to the world astray-- he did not drop me to the weary sand, but bore me gently to a leafy land: tinting my wings, he gave me to the day._ oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! i will go back now to the world of men. farewell, i leave thee to the world of air, yet thou hast girded up my heart again; for he that framed the impenetrable plan, and keeps his word with thee, will keep with man. edwin markham the secret o, little bird, you sing as if all months were june; pray tell me ere you go the secret of your tune? "i have no hidden word to tell, nor mystic art; i only know i sing the song within my heart!" arthur wallace peach the gardens of yesterday the garden _old gardens have a language of their own, and mine sweet speech to linger in the heart. a goodly place it is and primly spaced, with straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom. bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales of one who loved the gardens dante loved. magnolias edge the placid lily-pool and flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads to blaze of rhododendrons banked in green. azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up against the lustrous grape-vines trellised high to pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide first snowdrops and the bravest violets. a place of solitudes whose silences enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._ gertrude huntington mcgiffert old homes old homes among the hills! i love their gardens; their old rock fences, that our day inherits; their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens. i see them gray among their ancient acres, severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- like gentle-hearted, solitary quakers, grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- serene among their memory-hallowed acres. their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- where springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, and autumn coins her marigolds in showers, and all the hours are toilless as the lilies. i love their orchards where the gay woodpecker flits, flashing o'er you, like a wingèd jewel; their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker with half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, the wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. old homes! old hearts! upon my soul forever their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; like love they touch me, through the years that sever, with simple faith; like friendship, draw me after the dreamy patience that is theirs forever. madison cawein a puritan lady's garden this fairy pleasance in the brake-- this maze run wild of flower and vine-- our fathers planted for the sake of eyes that longed for english gardens amid the virgin wastes of pine. here, by the broken, moldering wall, where still the tiger-lilies ride, once grew the crown imperial, the tall blue larkspur, white queen margaret, prince's-feather, and mourning bride. beyond their pale, a humbler throng, grew bouncing bet and columbine; the mountain fringe ran all along the thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses, and overhung the eglantine. and sunday flowers were here as well-- adam-and-eve within their hood, the stately canterbury bell, and, oft in churches breathing fragrance, the sweet and pungent southernwood. when ships for england cleared the bay, if long beside these reefs of foam she stood, and watched them sail away, it was her garden first enticed her to turn, and call this country "home." sarah n. cleghorn the old-fashioned garden among the meadows of the countryside, from city noise and tumult far away, where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide and birds are warbling all the sunny day, there is a spot which lovingly i prize, for there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies. the gray old mansion down beside the lane stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around and scent the air with hay and ripening grain. behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound and close the garden in, or nearly close, for on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows. so bright and lovely is the dear old place, it seems as though the country's very heart were centered here, and that its antique grace must ever hold it from the world apart. immured it lies among the meadows deep, its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep. the morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge and fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge they love to wander from their meadow home, to take what little pleasure here they may ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday. the larkspur lifts on high its azure spires, and up the arbor's lattices are rolled the quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires; the tall carnation's breast of faded gold is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek. the old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes, with golden stars the coreopsis flames, and here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms, dear for the very fragrance of their names,-- poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks, cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks, harebells and peonies and dragon-head, petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, the bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines. * * * * * a sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, a calm asylum from the busy world, where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurled round half the globe; no noise of party feud disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude. but summer after summer comes and goes and leaves the garden ever fresh and fair; may brings the tulip, golden june the rose, and august winds shake down the mellow pear. man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,-- but scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years. * * * * * sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain in violet-days when spring opes her green heart; and sweet the apple trees along the lane whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart; and sweet the brimming dew that overfills the golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils. but sweeter far, in this old garden-close to loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers, to breathe the scent of lavender and rose, and with old poets pass the peaceful hours. old gardens and old poets,--happy he whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company! john russell hayes a colonial garden down this pathway, through the shade, lightly tripped the dainty maid, in her eyes the smile of june, on her lips some old sweet tune. through yon ragged rows of box, by that awkward clump of phlox, to her favorite pansy bed like a ray of light, she sped. satin slippers trim and neat gleamed upon her slender feet; round her ankles, deftly tied, ribbons crossed from side to side, here her pinks, old fashioned, fair, breathed their fragrance on the air; there her fluttering azure gown shook the poppy's petals down. here a rose, with fond caress, stooped to touch a truant tress from her fillet struggling free, scorning its captivity. there a bed of rue was set with an edge of mignonette, and the spicy bergamot meshed the frail forget-me-not. honeysuckles, hollyhocks, bachelor's buttons, four-o'clocks, marigolds and blue-eyed grass curtsied when the maid did pass. now the braggart weeds have spread through the paths she loved to tread, and the creeping moss has grown o'er yon shattered dial-stone. still beside the ruined walks some old flowers, on sturdy stalks, dream of her whose happy eyes roam the fields of paradise. james b. kenyon in my mother's garden there were many flowers in my mother's garden, sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than i, sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring, velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky; scentless portulacas crowded down the borders, white and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold, clustered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented, sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old. in my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places, nooks between the lilacs--oh, a pleasant place to play! still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it, though the long years lie between and i am far away; when the world is hard now, when the city's clanging tires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere, i can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing, i can be a child still and hide my heart from care. lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight, grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold-- grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness, locking one bright dream away for light when they are old! margaret widdemer to the sweetwilliam i search the poet's honied lines, and not in vain, for columbines; and not in vain for other flowers that sanctify the many bowers unsanctified by human souls. see where the larkspur lifts among the thousand blossoms finely sung, still blossoming in the fragrant scrolls! charity, eglantine, and rue and love-in-a-mist are all in view, with coloured cousins; but where are you, sweetwilliam? the lily and the rose have books devoted to their lovely looks, and wit has fallen in vital showers through england's most miraculous hours to keep them fresh a thousand years. the immortal library can show the violet's well-thumbed folio stained tenderly by girls in tears. the shelf where genius stands in view has brier and daffodil and rue and love-lies-bleeding; but not you, sweetwilliam. thus, if i seek the classic line for marybuds, 'tis, shakespeare, thine! and ever is the primrose born 'neath goldsmith's overhanging thorn. in herrick's breastknot i can see the apple-blossom, fresh and fair as when he plucked and put it there, heedless of time's anthology. so flower by flower comes into view kept fadeless by the olympian dew for startled eyes; and yet not you, sweetwilliam. * * * * * though gods of song have let you be, bloom in my little book for me. unwont to stoop or lean, you show an undefeated heart, and grow as pluckily as cedars. heat and cold, and winds that make tumbledown sallies, cannot shake your resolution to be sweet. then take this song, be it born to die ere yet the unwedded butterfly has glimpsed a darling in the sky, sweetwilliam! norman gale rose-geranium a pungent spray of rose-geranium-- a breath of the old life. it brings up the little five-room cottage where i was born, and where i grew through a smiling childhood. the white-bearded grandfather sits in his mended rocking-chair, his eyes far off, crooning "the sweet by and by," marked with the tapping of his toe upon the weathered porch-floor, while the sunshine drizzles through the great oaks. and there is my grandmother's kneeling figure, turning over the rich black earth with her trowel; and the kind wrinkles on her face, as she says: "didn't the pansies do finely this year, clem? and the scarlet verbenas, and the larkspurs, and the row of flaming salvia.... those roses ... they're maréchal niels ... my favorites. and little grandson, smell this spray of rose-geranium-- just think, when grandmother was a little tiny girl her grandmother grew them in her yard!" clement wood four o'clocks it is mid-afternoon. long, long ago each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn it blew so gayly on the hills of morn, and fainted in the noontide's fervid glow. gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart-- gone with the freshness of the early hours, the songs that filled the air with silver showers, the lovely dreams that were of morn a part. yet still in tender light the garden lies; the warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; the peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies. and here be four-o'clocks, just opening wide their many colored petals to the sun, as glad to live as if the evening dun were far away, and morning had not died! julia c. r. dorr asking for roses a house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, with doors that none but the wind ever closes, its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; it stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. i pass by that way in the gloaming with mary; "i wonder," i say, "who the owner of those is." "oh, no one you know," she answers me airy, "but one we must ask if we want any roses." so we must join hands in the dew coming coldly there in the hush of the wood that reposes, and turn and go up to the open door boldly, and knock to the echoes as beggars for roses. "pray, are you within there, mistress who-were-you?" 'tis mary that speaks and our errand discloses. "pray are you within there? bestir you, bestir you! 'tis summer again; there's two come for roses. "a word with you, that of the singer recalling-- old herrick: a saying that every man knows is a flower unplucked is but left to the falling, and nothing is gained by not gathering roses." we do not loosen our hands' intertwining (not caring so very much what she supposes), there when she comes on us mistily shining and grants us by silence the boon of her roses. robert frost the old brocade in a black oak chest all carven, we found it laid, still faintly sweet of lavender, an old brocade. with that perfume came a vision, a garden fair, enclosed by great yew hedges; a lady there, is culling fresh blown lavender, and singing goes up and down the alleys green-- a human rose. the sun glints on her auburn hair and brightens, too, the silver buckles that adorn each little shoe. her 'kerchief and her elbow sleeves are cobweb lace; her gown, it is our old brocade, worn with a grace. methinks i hear its soft frou-frou, and see the sheen of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, their leaves soft green, on a ground of palest shell pink, in garlands laid; but long dead the rose who wore it-- the old brocade. m. g. brereton stairways and gardens gardens and stairways; those are words that thrill me always with vague suggestions of delight. stairways and gardens. mystery and grace seem part of their environment; they fill all space with memories of things veiled from my sight in some far place. gardens. the word is overcharged with meaning; it speaks of moonlight, and a closing door; of birds at dawn--of sultry afternoons. gardens. i seem to see low branches screening a vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floor where sunlight swoons. stairways. the word winds upward to a landing, then curves and vanishes in space above. lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend. stairways; and some one at the bottom standing expectantly with lifted looks of love. then steps descend. gardens and stairways. they belong with song-- with subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk-- with dawn and dusk--with youth, romance, and mystery, and times that were and times that are to be. stairways and gardens. ella wheeler wilcox old mothers i love old mothers--mothers with white hair, and kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet with murmured blessings over sleeping babes. there is a something in their quiet grace that speaks the calm of sabbath afternoons; a knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes that far outreaches all philosophy. time, with caressing touch, about them weaves the silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age, while all the echoes of forgotten songs seem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech. old mothers!--as they pace with slow-timed step, their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength; sweet mothers!--as they pass, one sees again old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves. charles ross pastures and hillsides song from "april" _i know where the wind flowers blow! i know, i have been where the wild honey bees gather honey for their queen!_ _i would be a wild flower, blue sky over me, for an hour ... an hour! so the wild bees should seek and discover me, and kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me! not one of the dusky dears should miss me!_ _i know where the wind flowers blow! i know, i have been where the little rabbits run in the warm, yellow sun!_ _oh, to be a wild flower for an hour ... an hour ... in the heather! a bright flower, a wild flower, blown by the weather!_ _i know, i have been where the wild honey bees gather honey for their queen!_ irene rutherford mcleod the road to the pool i know a road that leads from town, a pale road in a watteau gown of wild-rose sprays, that runs away all fragrant-sandaled, slim and gray. it slips along the laurel grove and down the hill, intent to rove, and crooks an arm of shadow cool around a willow-silvered pool. i never travel very far beyond the pool where willows are: there is a shy and native grace that hovers all about the place, and resting there i hardly know just where it was i meant to go, contented like the road that dozes in panniered gown of briar roses. grace hazard conkling the wild rose summer has crossed the fields, and where she trod violets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod, and daisies blossom all across the sod. she passed the brook, and in their glad surprise the first forget-me-nots smiled at the skies and caught the very color of her eyes. but, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressed the dear wild rose so closely to her breast it stole her heart--and so she loves it best. charles buxton going up a hill and a hill up a hill and a hill there's a sudden orchard-slope, and a little tawny field in the sun; there's a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, and grasses nodding news one to one. up a hill and a hill there's a windy place to stand, and between the apple-boughs to find the blue of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, with the white charmèd ships sliding through. up a hill and a hill there's a little house as gray as a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; with a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, and a face at the window, checker-paned. i could climb, i could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet, just to find that tawny field above the sea! up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle's sweet! and the eyes at the window watch for me! fannie stearns davis the joys of a summer morning the smell of the morning that lurks in the hay, the swish of the scythe and the roundelay of the meadow-lark as he wings away, are the joys of a summer morning. the daisy's bloom on the meadow's breast, the wandering bee and his ceaseless quest of the tempting sweets in the clover's crest, are the joys of a summer morning. the lowing kine on a distant hill, the rollicking fall of the near-by rill and the lazy drone of the ancient mill, are the joys of a summer morning. the feathery clouds in a faultless sky, the new-risen sun with its kindly eye and the woodland breezes floating by, are the joys of a summer morning. henry a. wise wood south wind where have you been, south wind, this may-day morning, with larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow, or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? oh, i heard you like a tyrant in the valley; your ruffian hosts shook the young, blossoming orchards; you clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, and white your pennons streamed along the river. you have robbed the bee, south wind, in your adventure, blustering with gentle flowers; but i forgave you when you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn. siegfried sassoon to a weed you bold thing! thrusting 'neath the very nose of her fastidious majesty, the rose, even in the best ordainèd garden bed, unauthorized, your smiling little head! the gardener, mind! will come in his big boots, and drag you up by your rebellious roots, and cast you forth to shrivel in the sun, your daring quelled, your little weed's life done. and when the noon cools, and the sun drops low, he'll come again with his big wheelbarrow, and trundle you--i don't know clearly where, but off, outside the dew, the light, the air. meantime--ah, yes! the air is very blue, and gold the light, and diamond the dew,-- you laugh and courtesy in your worthless way, and you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay! you argue in your manner of a weed, you did not make yourself grow from a seed, you fancy you've a claim to standing-room, you dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom. the sun loves you, you think, just as the rose, he never scorned you for a weed,--he knows! the green-gold flies rest on you and are glad, it's only cross old gardeners find you bad. you know, you weed, i quite agree with you, i am a weed myself, and i laugh too,-- both, just as long as we can shun his eye, let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by! gertrude hall the pasture i'm going out to clean the pasture spring; i'll only stop to rake the leaves away (and wait to watch the water clear, i may): i sha'n't be gone long.--you come too. i'm going out to fetch the little calf that's standing by the mother. it's so young, it totters when she licks it with her tongue. i sha'n't be gone long.--you come too. robert frost the thistle ha, prickle-armèd knight, how oft the world hath cursed thee, thou pestilence of earth, the beldame who hath nursed thee! hath hellish proserpine her needs lent to arm thee that mischief-loving gods, pricked sorely, may not harm thee? or hath the mirthful love presented thee his pinions to dress thy tiny seeds, the curse of man's dominions! thou like a maiden art who best can find protection employed at needlework from idleness' infection. and like a prude thou art when he who loves embraces; thou dost repel with thorns and she with sharper phrases. and like the wraith thou art wherewith my heart is haunted; ye both take most delight where ye the least are wanted. miles m. dawson clover little masters, hat in hand, let me in your presence stand, till your silence solve for me this your threefold mystery. tell me--for i long to know-- how, in darkness there below, was your fairy fabric spun, spread and fashioned, three in one. did your gossips gold and blue, sky and sunshine, choose for you, ere your triple forms were seen, suited liveries of green? can ye--if ye dwelt indeed captives of a prison seed-- like the genie, once again get you back into the grain? little masters, may i stand in your presence, hat in hand, waiting till you solve for me this your threefold mystery? john b. tabb wild gardens on the ripened grass is a bloomy mist of silver and rose and amethyst where the long june wave has run. there are glints of copper and tarnished brass, and hyacinthine flames that pass from the green fires of the sun. this web of a thousand gleams and glows was woven silently out of the snows and the patient shine and rain. it was fashioned cunningly day by day from the silken spear to the pollened spray with its folded sheaths of grain. oh, garden of grasses deep and wild, so dear to the vagrant and the child and the singer of an hour. to the wayworn soul you give your balm, your cup of peace, your stringèd psalm, your grace of bud and flower. ada foster murray the dandelion o dandelion, rich and haughty, king of village flowers! each day is coronation time, you have no humble hours. i like to see you bring a troop to beat the blue-grass spears, to scorn the lawn-mower that would be like fate's triumphant shears. your yellow heads are cut away, it seems your reign is o'er. by noon you raise a sea of stars more golden than before. vachel lindsay joe-pyeweed and the name brings back those kindly hills and the drowsing life so new to me; and the welcome that those purple blossoms with their tiny trumpets blew to me. stout and tall, they raised their clustered heads, leaping, as a lusty fellow would, through the lowlands, down the twisting cow-paths; running past the green and yellow wood. how they come again--those rambling roads; and the weeds' wild jewels glowing there. richer than a paradise of flowers was that bit of pasture growing there. weeds--the very names call up those faint half-forgotten smells and cries again ... weeds--like some old charm, i say them over, and the rolling berkshires rise again: _basil, boneset, toadflax, tansy, weeds of every form and fancy; milk-weed, mullein, loose-strife, jewel-weed, mustard, thimble-weed, tear-thumb (a cruel weed). clovers in all sorts--nonesuch, melilot; staring buttercups, a bold and yellow lot. daisies rioting about the place with black-eyed susan and queen anne's lace...._ names--they blossom into colored hills; hills whose rousing beauty flows to me ... and with all its soundless, purple trumpets, lo, the joe-pyeweed still blows to me! louis untermeyer to a daisy slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide like all created things, secrets from me, and stand a barrier to eternity. and i, how can i praise thee well and wide from where i dwell--upon the hither side? thou little veil for so great mystery, when shall i penetrate all things and thee, and then look back? for this i must abide, till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled literally between me and the world. then i shall drink from in beneath a spring, and from a poet's side shall read his book. o daisy mine, what will it be to look from god's side even of such a simple thing? alice meynell a soft day a soft day, thank god! a wind from the south with a honeyed mouth; a scent of drenching leaves, briar and beech and lime, white elder-flower and thyme and the soaking grass smells sweet, crushed by my two bare feet, while the rain drips, drips, drips, drips from the eaves. a soft day, thank god! the hills wear a shroud of silver cloud; the web the spider weaves is a glittering net; the woodland path is wet, and the soaking earth smells sweet under my two bare feet, and the rain drips, drips, drips, drips from the eaves. w. m. letts arbutus not spring's thou art, but hers, most cool, most virginal, winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows rose-tinged. adelaide crapsey jewel-weed thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, traversed by toiling feet each day, what rare enchantment maketh thee appear so gay? thy sentinels, on either hand rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir, o'er the familiar shrubs that greet the wayfarer; but here's a magic cometh new-- a joy to gladden thee, indeed: this passionate out-flowering of the jewel-weed, that now, when days are growing drear, as summer dreams that she is old, hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells of mottled gold! thine only, these, thou lonely road! though hands that take, and naught restore, rob thee of other treasured things, thine these are, for a fairy, cradled in each bloom, to all who pass the charmèd spot whispers in warning: "friend, admire,-- but touch me not! "leave me to blossom where i sprung, a joy untarnished shall i seem; pluck me, and you dispel the charm and blur the dream!" florence earle coates the wall "_something there is that doesn't like a wall._" (robert frost) "not like a wall?" i sit above the meadow in the glowing fall tracing the grey redoubt from square to square which bound the acres harvest-ripe and fair,-- and wonder if it's true? nay, ask the sumac and the teeming vine, that lean upon the boulders, the crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders, the golden rod, the aster and the rue. ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek skipping from stone to stone by a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek, making the little viaduct his own. look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head between the rocks close by the cabbage bed; the honey-bees have built a secret hive in a forgotten chink; and there a grey cocoon is tucked away shrouding a miracle in mauve and pink to wait its easter day. the wall with pageantry is all alive! and i who gaze on the dark border here, drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, embroidered with the glory of the year,-- do i not like the wall? lo, i remember how in days of old my grandsire toiled with weariness and pain to dig the cumbering boulders from the mould; piled them in ordered rows again, fitting them firm and fast, a monument to last long after his own harried day was past. he cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain by which his children throve to carry on the race. we live by his life-giving. i see each stone, rough like his granite face,-- uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, dowered with little grace, grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living, but strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, and bolts that heaven let fall. built of a patriot's prime,-- i love the wall! abbie farwell brown boulders there is a look of wisdom in yon stones, great boulders basking in the noonday heat, their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweet fresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones. while through the glade an insect army drones and birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat, these patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete, rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones. a thousand or ten thousand years ago, shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might, these boulders hurtled from some toppling height and crashed through forests to the plain below. now, reconciled to nature's gentler mood, they lie on lowly earth and find it good. charles wharton stork afternoon on a hill i will be the gladdest thing under the sun; i will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one; i will look at cliffs and clouds with quiet eyes; watch the wind bow down the grass, and the grass rise; and when lights begin to show up from the town, i will mark which must be mine, and then start down. edna st. vincent millay the golden-rod o rod of gold! o swaying sceptre of the year-- now frost and cold show winter near, and shivering leaves grow brown and sere. the bleak hillside, and marshy waste of yellow reeds, and meadows wide where frosted weeds shake on the damp wind light-winged seeds, are decked with thee,-- the lingering summer's latest grace, and sovereignty. each wind-swept space waves thy red gold in winter's face-- he strives each star, in stormy pride to lay full low; but when thy bar resists his blow, will crown thee with a puff of snow! margaret deland the path that leads to nowhere there's a path that leads to nowhere in a meadow that i know, where an inland island rises and the stream is still and slow; there it wanders under willows and beneath the silver green of the birches' silent shadows where the early violets lean. other pathways lead to somewhere, but the one i love so well had no end and no beginning-- just the beauty of the dell, just the windflowers and the lilies, yellow striped as adder's tongue seem to satisfy my pathway as it winds their sweets among. there i go to meet the spring-time, when the meadow is aglow, marigolds amid the marshes,-- and the stream is still and slow.-- there i find my fair oasis, and with care-free feet i tread for the pathway leads to nowhere, and the blue is overhead! all the ways that lead to somewhere echo with the hurrying feet of the struggling and the striving, but the way i find so sweet bids me dream and bids me linger, joy and beauty are its goal,-- on the path that leads to nowhere i have sometimes found my soul! corinne roosevelt robinson lovers and roses the message _so fair the world about me lies, so pure is heaven above, ere so much beauty dies i would give a gift to my love; now, ere the long day close, that has been so full of bliss, i will send to my love the rose, in its leaves i will shut a kiss; a rose in the night to perish, a kiss through life to cherish; now, ere the night-wind blows, i will send unto her the rose._ george edward woodberry "where love is life" where love is life the roses blow, though winds be rude and cold the snow, the roses climb serenely slow, they nod in rhyme we know--we know where love is life the roses blow. where life is love the roses blow, though care be quick and sorrows grow, their roots are twined with rose-roots so that rosebuds find a way to show where life is love the roses blow. duncan campbell scott the time of roses love, it is the time of roses! in bright fields and garden-closes how they burgeon and unfold! how they sweep o'er tombs and towers in voluptuous crimson showers and untrammelled tides of gold! how they lure wild bees to capture all the rich mellifluous rapture of their magical perfume, and to passing winds surrender and their frail and dazzling splendor rivalling your turban-plume! how they cleave the air adorning the high rivers of the morning in a blithe, bejewelled fleet! how they deck the moonlit grasses in thick rainbow tinted masses like a fair queen's bridal sheet! hide me in a shrine of roses, drown me in a wine of roses drawn from every fragrant grove! bind me on a pyre of roses, burn me in a fire of roses, crown me with the rose of love! sarojini naidu love planted a rose love planted a rose, and the world turned sweet. where the wheat-field blows love planted a rose. up the mill-wheel's prose ran a music-beat. love planted a rose, and the world turned sweet. katharine lee bates the garden my heart shall be thy garden. come, my own, into thy garden; thine be happy hours among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, from root to crowning petal thine alone. thine is the place from where the seeds are sown up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. but ah, the birds, the birds! who shall build bowers to keep these thine? o friend, the birds have flown. for as these come and go, and quit our pine to follow the sweet season, or, new-comers, sing one song only from our alder-trees, my heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine, fit to the silent world and other summers, with wings that dip beyond the silver seas. alice meynell cloud and flower i saw the giant stalking to the sky, the giant cloud above the wilderness, bearing a mystery too far, too high, for my poor guess. away i turned me, sighing: "i must seek in lowlier places for the wonder-word. something more little, intimate, shall speak." a bright rose stirred. and long i looked into its face, to see at last some hidden import of the hour. and i had thought to turn from mystery-- but o, flower! flower! agnes lee progress there seems no difference between to-day and yesterday-- the forest glimmers just as green, the garden's just as gay. yet, something came and something went within the night's chill gloom: an old rose fell, her fragrance spent, a new rose burst in bloom. charlotte becker "but we did walk in eden" but we did walk in eden, eden, the garden of god;-- there, where no beckoning wonder of all the paths we trod, no choiring sun-filled vineyard, no voice of stream or bird, but was some radiant oracle and flaming with the word! mine ears are dim with voices; mine eyes yet strive to see the black things here to wonder at, the mirth,--the misery. beloved, who wert with me there, how came these shames to be?-- on what lost star are we? men say: the paths of gladness by men were never trod!-- but we have walked in eden, eden, the garden of god. josephine preston peabody a garden-piece among the flowers of summer-time she stood, and underneath the films and blossoms shone her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown to ripe magnificence in solitude; the wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed her shoulders with her shining hair out blown, and dyed her breast with many a changing tone of silvery green, and all the hues that brood among the flowers; she raised her arm up for her dove to know that he might preen him on her lovely head; then i, unseen, and rising on tiptoe, bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo! touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, among the flowers! edmund gosse "how many flowers are gently met" how many flowers are gently met within my garden fair! the daffodil, the violet, and lilies dear are there. they fade and pass, the fleeting flowers, and brief their little light; they hold not love's diviner hours, nor sower's human night. tho' one by one their bloom depart, no change thy lover knows, for mine the fragrance of thy heart, o thou my perfect rose! george sterling with a rose, to brunhilde brunhilde, with the young norn soul that has no peace, and grim as those that spun the thread of life, give heed: peace is concealed in every rose. and in these petals peace i bring: a jewel clearer than the dew: a perfume subtler than the breath of spring with which it circles you. peace i have found, asleep, awake, by many paths, on many a strand. peace overspreads the sky with stars. peace is concealed within your hand. and when at night i clasp it there i wonder how you never know the strength you shed from finger-tips: the treasure that consoles me so. begin the art of finding peace, beloved:--it is art, no less. sometimes we find it hid beneath the orchards in their springtime dress: sometimes one finds it in oak woods, sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows; in books, sometimes. but pray begin by finding it within a rose. vachel lindsay "my soul is like a garden-close" my soul is like a garden-close where marjoram and lilac grow, where soft the scent of long ago over the border lightly blows. where sometimes homing winds at play bear the faint fragrance of a rose-- my soul is like a garden-close because you chanced to pass my way. thomas s. jones, jr. a dream i dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathing their sweet souls out upon the summer night: the flowers i saw not, but their fragrance wreathing like clouds of incense filled me with delight. and then as if for my still further pleasure there came a flood of sweetest melody,-- but whence i knew not flowed the wondrous measure, for neither flute nor viol could i see. then in the vision love sublime, immortal, encircled all my soul with its pure stream; and though i saw thee not through dreamland's portal, i knew thou only hadst inspired the dream. 'tis thus thine influence itself discloses, in dreams of love, of music, and of roses! antoinette de coursey patterson the rose the rose-tree wears a diadem, both bud and bloom of gold and fire, too high upon the slender stem for baby hands that reach for them: and _roses!_ my brown elsa cries: her chubby arms in vain aspire. but rose-leaf hilda smiles and sighs and worships them with patient eyes. i gathered them a rose or two, but not the shy one hanging higher that brushed my lips with honey-dew! _that_ is the rose i send to you. grace hazard conkling prayer would that i might become you, losing myself, my sweet!-- so longs the dust that lies about the rose's feet. so longs the last, dim star hung on the verge of night;-- she moves--she melts--she slips-- she trembles into the light. john hall wheelock in a garden i sat one day within a garden fair pining for thee and sad because alone, wishing some fate could send thee to me there. all things appeared to share my saddened mood, each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view, the very birds in silence seemed to brood. then, as i day-dreamed with my eyes half closed, sudden the birds began to sing again, the flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed. thinking the sun had come once more for me and for all nature, to effect such change, i turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee. livingston l. biddle a song of fairies oh, the beauty of the world is in this garden, i hear it stir on every hand. see how the flowers keep still because of it! hear how it trembles in the blackbird's song! there is a secret in it, a blessed mystery. i fain would weep to feel it near me, my eyes grow dim before these unseen wings. and the secret is in other places, it is in songs and music and all lovers' hearts. hush now, and walk on tiptoe, for these are fairy things. elizabeth kirby a song to belinda belinda in her dimity, whereon are wrought pink roses, trips through the boxwood paths to me, a-down the garden-closes, as though a hundred roses came, ('twas so i thought) to meet me, as though one rosebud said my name and bent its head to greet me. belinda, in your rose-wrought dress you seemed the garden's growing; the tilt and toss o' you, no less than wind-swayed posy blowing. 'twas so i watched in sweet dismay, lest in that happy hour, sudden you'd stop and thrill and sway and turn into a flower. theodosia garrison sweetheart-lady de roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place; de climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face; de twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word, an' de south win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird. she sweetheart ter de springtime, w'en de dreamy roses stir, an' winter shine lak' summer an' wear a rose fer her. "sweetheart!" sing de medder, w'en lak' de light she pass; de river take de tune up: "make me yo' lookin'-glass!" but des who her true lover she never let 'em know; de win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de river run on so! but springtime come a-courtin' an' let de blossoms fall, an' summer say: "i loves you!" she sweetheart ter 'em all! frank l. stanton heart's garden i have a garden filled with many flowers: the mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose, daisies, and daffodils, whose color glows the fairer for the verdure which embowers their beauty, and sets forth their hidden powers to charm my heart, whenever at the close of day's dull hurry i would seek repose in my still garden through the darkening hours. thus, lady, do i keep a place apart, wherein my love for you cloistered shall be, far from the rattle of the city cart, even as my garden, where daily i may see the flowers of your love, and none from me may win the hidden secret of my heart. norreys jephson o'conor a rose lover do thou, my rose, incline thy heart to mine. if love be real ah, whisper, whisper low that i at last may know. quick! breathe it now! a sigh,--a tear,--a vow: oh, any lightest thing its cadences to sing that loved am i, and not, ah, not forgot! frederic a. whiting sonnet the sweet caresses that i gave to you are but the perfume of the rose of love, the color and the witchery thereof, and not the rose itself. each is a clue merely, whereby to seek the hidden, true, substantial blossom. like the jordan dove a kiss is but a symbol from above-- an emblem the reality shines through. the rose of love is ever unrevealed in all its beauty, for the sight of it were perilous with purpose of the world. the hand of life has cautiously concealed the pollen-chamber of the infinite flower, and its petals only half uncurled. elsa barker a song in a garden will the garden never forget that it whispers over and over, "where is your lover, nanette? where is your lover--your lover?" oh, roses i helped to grow, oh, lily and mignonette, must you always question me so, "where is your lover, nanette?" since you looked on my joy one day, is my grief then a lesser thing? have you only this to say when i pray you for comforting? now that i walk alone here where our hands were met, must you whisper me everyone, "where is your lover, nanette?" i have mourned with you year and year, when the autumn has left you bare, and now that my heart is sere does not one of your roses care? oh, help me forget--forget, nor question over and over, "where is your lover, nanette? where is your lover--your lover?" theodosia garrison "it was june in the garden" it was june in the garden, it was our time, our day; and our gaze with love on everything did fall; they seemed then softly opening, and they saw and loved us both, the roses all. the sky was purer than all limpid thought; insect and bird swept through the golden texture of the air, unheard; our kisses were so fair they brought exaltation to both light and bird. it seemed as though a happiness at once had skied itself and wished the heavens entire for its resplendent fire; and life, all pulsing life, had entered in, into the fissures of our beings to the core, to fling them higher. and there was nothing but invocatory cries, mad impulses, prayers and vows that cleave the archèd skies, and sudden yearning to create new gods, in order to believe. emile verhaeren two roses a fair white rose sedately grows within the garden wall. there blows no wind to ruff her petals white, no stain of earth, no touch of blight the pure face of my ladye shows. the queen of all the walls enclose might be mine own, an' if i chose; but yet, but yet i cannot slight my wild red rose. outside the garden wall she throws her clinging tendrils, and she knows how strong the winds of passion smite; she's fragrant, though not faultless quite; just as she is, none shall depose my wild red rose. william lindsey roses red roses floating in a crystal bowl you bring, o love; and in your eyes i see, blossom on blossom, your warm love of me burning within the crystal of your soul-- red roses floating in a crystal bowl. wilfrid wilson gibson her garden this friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,-- it was not ours, when she was here below; and so, in that low bed where she reposes, the beauty of it all she cannot know. but in the evening when the birds are calling the fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh, and in my empty heart, benignly falling, becomes a little prayer to send to her. so, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her, where nevermore the shadows rise or flee, i think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her-- of bloom and bird and bending bough ... and me. louis dodge Ære perennius as long as the stars of god hang steadfast in the sky, and the blossoms 'neath the sod awake when spring is nigh; as long as the nightingale sings love-songs to the rose, and the winter wind in the vale makes moan o'er the virgin snows-- as long as these things be i would tell my love for thee! as long as the rose of june bursts forth in crimson fire, and the mellow harvest-moon shines over hill and spire; as long as heaven's dew at morning kisses the sod; as long as you are you, and i know that god is god-- as long as these things be i would tell my love for thee! charles hanson towne ever the same king solomon walked a thousand times forth of his garden-close; and saw there spring no goodlier thing, be sure, than the same little rose. under the sun was nothing new, or now, i well suppose. but what new thing could you find to sing more rare than the same little rose? nothing is new; save i, save you, and every new heart that grows, on the same earth met, that nurtures yet breath of the same little rose. josephine preston peabody the message when one has heard the message of the rose, for what faint other calling shall he care? dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair; the vain world keeps her posturing and pose. he, with his crimson secret, which bestows heaven in his heart, to heaven lifts his prayer, and knows all glory trembling through the air as on triumphal journeying he goes. so through green woodlands in the twilight dim, led by the faint, pale argent of a star, what though to others it is weary night, nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him; and, leaning o'er the world's mysterious bar, his soul is great with everlasting light. helen hay whitney tell-tale the lily whispered to the rose: "the tulip's fearfully stuck up. you'd think to see the creature's pose, she was a golden altar-cup. there's method in her boldness, too; she catches twice her share of dew." the rose into the tulip's ear murmured: "the lily is a sight; don't you believe she _powders_, dear, to make herself so saintly white? she takes some trouble, it is plain, her reputation to sustain." said tulip to the lily white: "about the rose--what do you think?-- her color? should you say it's quite-- well, quite a natural shade of pink?" "natural!" the lily cried. "good saints! why, _everybody_ knows she paints!" oliver herford da thief eef poor man goes an' steals a rose een juna-time-- wan leetla rose-- you gon' su'pose dat dat's a crime? eh! w'at? den taka look at me, for here bayfore your eyes you see wan thief dat ees so glad an' proud he gona brag of eet out loud! so moocha good i do, an' feel from dat wan leetla rose i steal, dat eef i gon' to jail to-day dey could no tak' my joy away. so, lees'en! here ees how eet com': las' night w'en i am walkin' home from work een hotta ceety street, ees sudden com' a smal so sweet eet maka heaven een my nose-- i look an' dere i see da rose! not wan, but manny, fine an' tall, dat peep at me above da wall. so, too, i close my eyes an' find anudder peecture een my mind; i see a house dat's small an' hot where manny pretta theengs is not, where leetla woman, good an' true, ees work so hard da whole day through, she's too wore out, w'en com's da night, for smile an' mak' da housa bright. but, presto! now i'm home an' she ees settin' on da step weeth me. bambino, sleepin' on her breast, ees nevva know more sweeta rest, an' nevva was sooch glad su'prise like now ees shina from her eyes; an' all baycause to-night she wear wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. she ees so please'! eet mak' me feel i shoulda sooner learned to steal. eef "thief's" my name i feel no shame; eet ees no crime-- dat rose i got. eh! w'at? o! not een juna-time! t. a. daly results and roses the man who wants a garden fair, or small or very big, with flowers growing here and there, must bend his back and dig. the things are mighty few on earth that wishes can attain. whate'er we want of any worth we've got to work to gain. it matters not what goal you seek, its secret here reposes: you've got to dig from week to week to get results or roses. edgar a. guest underneath the bough miracle _yesterday the twig was brown and bare; to-day the glint of green is there to-morrow will be leaflets spare; i know no thing so wondrous fair no miracle so strangely rare._ _i wonder what will next be there!_ l. h. bailey the awakening you little, eager, peeping thing-- you embryonic point of light pushing from out your winter night, how you do make my pulses sing! a tiny eye amid the gloom-- the merest speck i scarce had seen-- so doth god's rapture rend the tomb in this wee burst of april green! and lo, 'tis here--and lo! 'tis there-- spurting its jets of sweet desire in upward curling threads of fire like tapers kindling all the air. why, scarce it seems an hour ago these branches clashed in bitter cold; what power hath set their veins aglow? o soul of mine, be bold, be bold! if from this tree, this blackened thing, hard as the floor my feet have prest, this flame of joy comes clamoring in hues as red as robin's breast waking to life this little twig-- o faith of mine, be big! be big! angela morgan shade the kindliest thing god ever made, his hand of very healing laid upon a fevered world, is shade. his glorious company of trees throw out their mantles, and on these the dust-stained wanderer finds ease. green temples, closed against the beat of noontime's blinding glare and heat, open to any pilgrim's feet. the white road blisters in the sun; now, half the weary journey done, enter and rest, oh, weary one! and feel the dew of dawn still wet beneath thy feet, and so forget the burning highway's ache and fret. this is god's hospitality, and whoso rests beneath a tree hath cause to thank him gratefully. theodosia garrison selection from "under the trees" the wonderful, strong, angelic trees, with their blowing locks and their bared great knees and nourishing bosoms, shout all together, and rush and rock through the glad wild weather. they are so old they teach me, with their strong hands they reach me, into their breast my soul they take, and keep me there for wisdom's sake. they teach me little prayers; to-day i am their child; the sweet breath of their innocent airs blows through me strange and wild. * * * * * i never feel afraid among the trees; of trees are houses made; and even with these, unhewn, untouched, unseen, is something homelike in the safe sweet green, intimate in the shade. * * * * * we are all brothers! come, let's rest awhile in the great kinship. underneath the trees let's be at home once more, with birds and bees and gnats and soil and stone. with these i must acknowledge family ties. our mother, the dust, with wistful and investigating eyes searches my soul for the old sturdiness, valor, simplicity! stout virtues these, we learned at her dear knees. friend, you and i once played together in the good old days. do you remember? why, brother, down what wild ways we traveled, when-- that's right! draw close to me! come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree. anna hempstead branch a garden friend o comrade tree, perhaps alive as i-- one process lacking of this mortal clay-- give me your constant outlook to the sky, the courtesy and cheer that fill your day. your noble gift of perfect service teach; your wisdom in the wild storm softly bent aware 'twill end; your patience that can reach across the years from clod to firmament. catherine markham (mrs. edwin markham) a lady of the snows the mountain hemlock droops her lacy branches oh, so tenderly in the summer sun! yet she has power to baffle avalanches-- she, rising slenderly where the rivers run. so pliant yet so powerful! oh, see her spread alluringly her thin sea-green dress! now from white winter's thrall the sun would free her to bloom unenduringly in his glad caress. harriet monroe the tree spread, delicate roots of my tree, feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing; sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere. into resistant earth your filaments forcing, down in the dark, unknown, desirous: the strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth, the corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will. tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty, folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant; i feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment, love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life. in the sweet curled buds of you, in the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light; veined, cut, perfect to type, each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race. the open hands of my tree held out to the touch of the air as love that opens its arms and waits on the lover's will; the curtsey, the sway, and the toss of the spray as it sports with the breeze; rhythmical whisper of leaves that murmur and move in the light; crying of wind in the boughs, the beautiful music of pain: thus do you sing and say the sorrow, the effort, the sweet surrender, the joy. come! tented leaves of my tree; high summer is here, the moment of passionate life, the hushed, the maternal hour. deep in the shaded green your mystery shielding, heir of the ancient woods and parent of forests to be, lo! to your keeping is given the father's life-giving thought; the thing that is dream and deed and carries the gift of the past. for this, for this, great tree, the glory of maiden leaves, the solemn stretch of the bough, the wise persistent roots into the stuff of the world their filaments forcing, breaking the earth to their need. * * * * * tall tree, your name is peace. you are the channel of god: his mystical sap, elixir of infinite love, syrup of infinite power, swelling and shaping, brooding and hiding, with out-thrust of delicate joy, with pitiless pageant of death, sings in your cells; its rhythmical cycle of life in you is fulfilled. evelyn underhill "loveliest of trees" loveliest of trees, the cherry now is hung with bloom along the bough, and stands about the woodland ride wearing white for eastertide. now, of my threescore years and ten, twenty will not come again, and take from seventy springs a score, it only leaves me fifty more. and since to look at things in bloom fifty springs are little room, about the woodlands i will go to see the cherry hung with snow. a. e. housman the spirit of the birch i am the dancer of the wood i shimmer in the solitude men call me birch tree, yet i know in other days it was not so. i am a dryad slim and white who danced too long one summer night, and the dawn found and prisoned me! captive i moaned my liberty. but let the wood wind flutes begin their elfin music, faint and thin, i sway, i bend, retreat, advance, and evermore--i dance! i dance! arthur ketchum family trees you boast about your ancient line, but listen, stranger, unto mine: you trace your lineage afar, back to the heroes of a war fought that a country might be free; yea, farther--to a stormy sea where winter's angry billows tossed, o'er which your pilgrim fathers crossed. nay, more--through yellow, dusty tomes you trace your name to english homes before the distant, unknown west lay open to a world's behest; yea, back to days of those crusades when turk and christian crossed their blades, you point with pride to ancient names, to powdered sires and painted dames; you boast of this--your family tree; now listen, stranger, unto me: when armored knights and gallant squires, your own belovèd, honored sires, were in their infants' blankets rolled, my fathers' youngest sons were old; when they broke forth in infant tears my fathers' heads were crowned with years, yea, ere the mighty saxon host of which you sing had touched the coast, looked back as far as you look now. yea, when the druids trod the wood, my venerable fathers stood and gazed through misty centuries as far as even memory sees. when britain's eldest first beheld the light, my fathers then were eld. you of the splendid ancestry, who boast about your family tree, consider, stranger, this of mine-- bethink the lineage of a pine. douglas malloch idealists brother tree: why do you reach and reach? do you dream some day to touch the sky? brother stream: why do you run and run? do you dream some day to fill the sea? brother bird: why do you sing and sing? do you dream-- _young man: why do you talk and talk and talk?_ alfred kreymborg "draw closer, o ye trees" o quiet cottage room, whose casements, looking o'er the garden-close, are hid in wildings and the woodbine bloom and many a clambering rose, sweet is thy light subdued, gracious and soft, lingering upon my book, as that which shimmers through the branchèd wood above some dreamful nook! leaning within my chair, through the curtain i can see the stir-- the gentle undulations of the air-- sway the dark-layered fir; and, in the beechen green, mark many a squirrel romp and chirrup loud; while far beyond, the chestnut-boughs between, floats the white summer cloud. through the loopholes in the leaves, upon the yellow slopes of far-off farms, i see the rhythmic cradlers and the sheaves gleam in the binders' arms. at times i note, nearby, the flicker tapping on some hollow bole; and watch the sun, against the sky, the fluting oriole; or, when the day is done, and the warm splendors make the oak-top flush, hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,-- the darling wildwood thrush. o sanctuary shade enfold one round! i would no longer roam: let not the thought of wandering e'er invade this still, reclusive home! draw closer, o ye trees! veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue; the world may be more fair beyond all these, yet i would know but you! lloyd mifflin trees in the garden of eden, planted by god, there were goodly trees in the springing sod,-- trees of beauty and height and grace, to stand in splendor before his face. apple and hickory, ash and pear, oak and beech and the tulip rare, the trembling aspen, the noble pine, the sweeping elm by the river line; trees for the birds to build and sing, and the lilac tree for a joy in spring; trees to turn at the frosty call and carpet the ground for their lord's footfall; trees for fruitage and fire and shade, trees for the cunning builder's trade; wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, the keel and the mast of the daring sail; he made them of every grain and girth, for the use of man in the garden of earth. then lest the soul should not lift her eyes from the gift to the giver of paradise, on the crown of a hill, for all to see, god planted a scarlet maple tree. bliss carman the trees there's something in a noble tree-- what shall i say? a soul? for 'tis not form, or aught we see in leaf or branch or bole. some presence, though not understood, dwells there alway, and seems to be acquainted with our mood, and mingles in our dreams. i would not say that trees at all were of our blood and race, yet, lingering where their shadows fall, i sometimes think i trace a kinship, whose far-reaching root grew when the world began, and made them best of all things mute to be the friends of man. held down by whatsoever might unto an earthly sod, they stretch forth arms for air and light, as we do after god; and when in all their boughs the breeze moans loud, or softly sings, as our own hearts in us, the trees are almost human things. what wonder in the days that burned with old poetic dream, dead phaëthon's fair sisters turned to poplars by the stream! in many a light cotillion stept the trees when fluters blew; and many a tear, 'tis said, they wept for human sorrow too. mute, said i? they are seldom thus; they whisper each to each, and each and all of them to us, in varied forms of speech. "be serious," the solemn pine is saying overhead; "be beautiful," the elm-tree fine has always finely said; "be quick to feel," the aspen still repeats the whole day long; while, from the green slope of the hill, the oak-tree adds, "be strong." when with my burden, as i hear their distant voices call, i rise, and listen, and draw near, "be patient," say they all. samuel valentine cole the poplars my poplars are like ladies trim, each conscious of her own estate; in costume somewhat over prim, in manner cordially sedate, like two old neighbours met to chat beside my garden gate. my stately old aristocrats-- i fancy still their talk must be of rose-conserves and persian cats, and lavender and indian tea;-- i wonder sometimes as i pass if they approve of me. i give them greeting night and morn, i like to think they answer, too, with that benign assurance born when youth gives age the reverence due, and bend their wise heads as i go as courteous ladies do. long may you stand before my door, oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, and bend with rustling welcome o'er the many friends who pass between; and where the little children play look down with gracious mien. theodosia garrison trees i think that i shall never see a poem lovely as a tree. a tree whose hungry mouth is prest against the earth's sweet flowing breast; a tree that looks at god all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray; a tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair; upon whose bosom snow has lain; who intimately lives with rain. poems are made by fools like me, but only god can make a tree. joyce kilmer the lost gardens of the heart as in a rose-jar _as in a rose-jar filled with petals sweet blown long ago in some old garden place, mayhap, where you and i, a little space drank deep of love and knew that love was fleet-- or leaves once gathered from a lost retreat by one who never will again retrace her silent footsteps--one, whose gentle face was fairer than the roses at her feet;_ _so, deep within the vase of memory i keep my dust of roses fresh and dear as in the days before i knew the smart of time and death. nor aught can take from me the haunting fragrance that still lingers here-- as in a rose-jar, so within the heart!_ thomas s. jones, jr. in an old garden old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago; old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams: within the quiet sunlight there, meseems, i see them walking where those lilies blow. the hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow; the salvia there with sudden scarlet streams, caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams, petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow. i seem to hear their whispers in each wind that wanders 'mid the flowers. there they stand! among the shadows of that apple tree! they are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind, this garden, planted by some lovely hand that keeps it fragrant with its memory. madison cawein the garden of dreams my heart is a garden of dreams where you walk when day is done, fair as the royal flowers, calm as the lingering sun. never a drouth comes there, nor any frost that mars, only the wind of love under the early stars,-- the living breath that moves whispering to and fro, like the voice of god in the dusk of the garden long ago. bliss carman homesick o my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, and i see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam with a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream! i can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, and the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, and the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, while overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by. i can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow, and the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, and the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, and butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil. o, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west! o, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole's nest! o, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep in a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep! just beyond the moonlit garden i can see the orchard trees, with their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, and the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars the white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars. o my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you, and i turn from storied castle, hoary fane, and ruined shrine, to the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies shine-- with a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in paradise, from the battlements of heaven i shall turn my longing eyes all the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through to my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew! julia c. r. dorr the ways of time as butterflies are but winged flowers, half sorry for their change, who fain, so still and long they live on leaves, would be thought flowers again.-- e'en so my thoughts, that should expand, and grow to higher themes above, return like butterflies to lie on the old things i love. william h. davies a midsummer garden there is a little garden-close, girdled by golden apple trees, that through the long sweet summer hours is haunted by the hum of bees. the poppy tosses here its torch, and the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire, and regally the larkspur lifts the slender azure of its spire. and from the phlox and mignonette rich attars drift on every hand; and when star-vestured twilight comes the pale moths weave a saraband. and crickets in the aisles of grass with their clear fifing pierce the hush; and somewhere you may hear anear the passion of the hermit-thrush. it is a place where dreams convene, dreams of the dead years gone astray, of love and loveliness borne back from some forgotten yesterday. it is a memory-hallowed spot where joy assumes its vernal guise, and two walk silent side by side, youth's glory shining in their eyes. clinton scollard the white rose this is the spirit flower, the ghost of an old regret; all night she stands in the garden-close, and her face with tears is wet. but i love the pale white rose, for she always seems to me a pallid nun who dreams all day of a distant memory. alas! how well i know that every garden spot is haunted by a gentle ghost who will not be forgot. in the garden of the heart, ere the sun of life is set, o many a wild rose blooms and dreams of many an old regret! charles hanson towne a haunted garden between the moss and stone the lonely lilies rise; wasted and overgrown the tangled garden lies. weeds climb about the stoop and clutch the crumbling walls; the drowsy grasses droop-- the night wind falls. the place is like a wood; no sign is there to tell where rose and iris stood that once she loved so well. where phlox and asters grew, a leafless thornbush stands, and shrubs that never knew her tender hands.... over the broken fence the moonbeams trail their shrouds; their tattered cerements cling to the gauzy clouds, in ribbons frayed and thin-- and startled by the light, silence shrinks deeper in the depths of night. useless lie spades and rakes; rust's on the garden-tools. yet, where the moonlight makes nebulous silver pools, a ghostly shape is cast-- something unseen has stirred ... was it a breeze that passed? was it a bird? dead roses lift their heads out of a grassy tomb; from ruined pansy-beds a thousand pansies bloom. the gate is opened wide-- the garden that has been, now blossoms like a bride ... _who entered in?_ louis untermeyer the dusty hour-glass it had been a trim garden, with parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers, and smooth-raked walks. silks and satins had brushed the box edges of its alleys. the curved stone lips of its fishponds had held the rippled reflections of tricorns and powdered periwigs. the branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns, and swayed to the music of flutes and violins. now, the fishponds are green with scum; and paths and flower-beds are run together and overgrown. only at one end is an octagonal summerhouse not yet in ruins. through the lozenged panes of its windows, you can see the interior: a dusty bench; a fireplace, with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it; a broken ball of worsted rolled away into a corner. _dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!_ amy lowell the song of wandering aengus i went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head, and cut and peeled a hazel wand, and hooked a berry to a thread; and when white moths were on the wing, and moth-like stars were flickering out, i dropped the berry in a stream, and caught a little silver trout. when i had laid it on the floor, i went to blow the fire a-flame, but something rustled on the floor, and some one called me by my name: it had become a glimmering girl, with apple-blossom in her hair, who called me by my name and ran and faded through the brightening air. though i am old with wandering through hollow lands and hilly lands, i will find out where she has gone, and kiss her lips and take her hands; and walk among long dappled grass, and pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. w. b. yeats the three cherry trees there were three cherry trees once, grew in a garden all shady; and there for delight of so gladsome a sight, walked a most beautiful lady, dreamed a most beautiful lady. birds in those branches did sing, blackbird and throstle and linnet, but she walking there was by far the most fair-- lovelier than all else within it, blackbird and throstle and linnet. but blossoms to berries do come, all hanging on stalks light and slender, and one long summer's day charmed that lady away, with vows sweet and merry and tender; a lover with voice low and tender. moss and lichen the green branches deck; weeds nod in its paths green and shady; yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, the ghost of that beautiful lady, that happy and beautiful lady. walter de la mare old gardens the white rose tree that spent its musk for lovers' sweeter praise, the stately walks we sought at dusk, have missed thee many days. again, with once-familiar feet, i tread the old parterre-- but, ah, its bloom is now less sweet than when thy face was there. i hear the birds of evening call; i take the wild perfume; i pluck a rose--to let it fall and perish in the gloom. arthur upson the blooming of the rose what is it like, to be a rose? _old roses, softly_, "try and see." nay, i will tarry. let me be in my green peacefulness and smile. i will stay here and dream awhile. 'tis well for little buds to dream, dream--dream--who knows-- say, is it good to be a rose? old roses, tell me! is it good? _old roses, very softly_, "good." i am afraid to be a rose! this little sphere wherein i wait, curled up and small and delicate, lets in a twilight of pure green, wherein are dreams of night and morn and the sweet stillness of a world where all things are that are unborn. _old roses_, "better to be born." i cannot be a bud for long. my sheath is like a heart full blown, and i, the silence of a song withdrawn into that heart alone, well knowing that it shall be sung. outside the great world comes and goes-- i think i doubt, to be a rose-- _old roses_, "doubt? to be a rose!" anna hempstead branch the garden of mnemosyne there are no roses in the garden now, the summer birds have vanished oversea, the ashen keys hang rusty on the bough, autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree. music and perfume sleep, and light is fled, autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know. where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead, when birds are silent, and the cold winds blow? the summer birds have vanished oversea, but memory's palace-courts are full of song; there sings a nightingale for you and me, and there a hidden lute plays all day long. there are no roses in the garden now, but memory's garden grows each day more fair; sun, moon, and stars her orchard close endow, and there bloom roses--roses everywhere. rosamund marriott watson ballade of the dreamland rose where the waves of burning cloud are rolled on the further shore of the sunset sea, in a land of wonder that none behold, there blooms a rose on the dreamland tree that stands in the garden of mystery where the river of slumber softly flows; and whenever a dream has come to be, a petal falls from the dreamland rose. in the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold, a silvern bird sings endlessly a mystic song that is ages old, a mournful song in a minor key, full of the glamour of faery; and whenever a dreamer's ears unclose to the sound of that distant melody, a petal falls from the dreamland rose. dreams and visions in hosts untold throng around on the moonlit lea: dreams of age that are calm and cold, dreams of youth that are fair and free-- dark with a lone heart's agony, bright with a hope that no one knows-- and whenever a dream and a dream agree, a petal falls from the dreamland rose. envoi princess, you gaze in a reverie where the drowsy firelight redly glows; slowly you raise your eyes to me ... a petal falls from the dreamland rose. brian hooker the flowers of june these flowers of june the gates of memory unbar; these flowers of june such old-time harmonies retune, i fain would keep the gates ajar, so full of sweet enchantment are these flowers of june. was it the bloom of the laurel sprays, that wakened remembrance of singing birds? or, was it the charm of remembered words, that set my heart singing through somber days? i longed for the summer-time, flower and tree; and lo! the summer-time came with thee. the bloom is no more, but the charm still stays. james terry white in memory's garden there is a garden in the twilight lands of memory, where troops of butterflies flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes. there through the silken hush come footfalls faint and hurried through the vague parterres, and sighs whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint like ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies. and by one lonely pathway steal i soon to find the flowerings of the old delight our hearts together knew--when lo, the moon turns all the cypress alleys into white. thomas walsh serenade dark is the iris meadow, dark is the ivory tower, and lightly the young moth's shadow sleeps on the passion-flower. gone are our day's red roses. so lovely and lost and few, but the first star uncloses a silver bud in the blue. night, and a flame in the embers where the seal of the years was set,-- when the almond-bough remembers how shall my heart forget? marjorie l. c. pickthall "what heart but fears a fragrance?" what heart but fears a fragrance? alien they who breathe in the white lilac only may; for there be other spirits unto whom fate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume! who mock at ghosts of odour--poor they be! bereft the scented balms of memory, for unto one in april's rain-blest earth there starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth; and love will find in rooms unbarred for years familiar sweetness loosing sudden tears, clasping the will in mastering embrace as in the presence of a phantom grace. then there be odours pungent--fires in fall the gipsying of boyhood to recall; and there be perfumes holy--nay, but one whose pang is like none other 'neath the sun to drown the sinking senses in a joy beyond all time to weaken or destroy! odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress-- elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless; each vagrant scent that holds the breath in fee doth wed the heart in life's eternity. who fear no wraiths of fragrance--sorry they; who breathe in lilac odours only may; for there be other mortals unto whom white magic wanders in each stray perfume. martha gilbert dickinson bianchi years afterward it is not sight or sound that, when a heart forgets, most makes it to remember: it's some old poignant scent re-found-- like breath of april violets, or apples of september. it isn't song or scene that stirs the tears again: it's brush smoke from the hills at night, spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen, long lost aroma of delight, fresh ploughed fields after rain. nancy byrd turner autumnal across the scented garden of my dreams where roses grew, time passes like a thief, among my trees his silver sickle gleams, the grass is stained with many a ruddy leaf; and on cold winds the petals float away that were the pride of june and her array. the bare boughs weave a net upon the sky to catch love's wings and his fair body bruise; there are no flowers in the rosary-- no song-birds in the mournful avenues; though on the sodden air not lightly breaks the elegy of youth, whom love forsakes. ah, time! one flower of all my garden spare, one rose of all the roses, that in this i may possess my love's perfumed hair and all the crimson secrets of her kiss. grant me one rose that i may drink its wine, and from her lips win the last anodyne. for i have learnt too many things to live, and i have loved too many things to die; but all my barren acres i would give for one red blossom of eternity, to animate the darkness and delight the spaces and the silences of night. but dreams are tender flowers that in their birth are very near to death, and i shall reap, who planted wonder, unavailing earth, harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep. i have had dreams, but have not conquered time, and love shall vanish like an empty rhyme. richard middleton "oh, tell me how my garden grows" oh, tell me how my garden grows, now i no more may labor there; do still the lily and the rose bloom on without my fostering care? do peonies blush as deep with pride, the larkspurs burn as bright a blue, and velvet pansies stare as wide i wonder, as they used to do? the tender things that would not blow unless i coaxed them, do they raise their petals in a sturdy row, forgetful, to the stranger's gaze? or do they show a paler shade, and sigh a little in the wind for one whose sheltering presence made their step-dame nature less unkind? oh, tell me how my garden grows, where i no more may take delight, and if some dream of me it knows, who dream of it by day and night. mildred howells her garden this was her dearest walk last year. her hands set all the tiny plants, and tenderly pressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and she it was who watered them at evening time. she loved them; and i too, because of her. and now another june has come, while i am walking in the shadow, sad, alone. yet when i reach the rose-path that was hers, and breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom, she stands beside; the murmur of the leaves, the well-remembered rustle of her gown, and low her whisper comes, "my dear! my dear!" this is her garden. only she and i-- but always we--may walk its hallowed ways; and all the thoughts she planted in my heart, sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears, again have blossomed--love's perennials. eldredge denison the little ghost i knew her for a little ghost that in my garden walked,-- the wall is high--higher than most-- and the green gate was locked; and yet i did not think of that till after she was gone; i knew her by the broad white hat, all ruffled, she had on, by the dear ruffles round her feet, by her small hands, that hung in their lace mitts, austere and sweet, her gown's white folds among. i watched to see if she would stay, what she would do,--and, oh, she looked as if she liked the way i let my garden grow! she bent above my favorite mint with conscious garden grace, she smiled and smiled,--there was no hint of sadness in her face; she held her gown on either side, to let her slippers show, and up the walk she went with pride, the way great ladies go; and where the wall is built in new, and is of ivy bare, she paused,--then opened and passed through a gate that once was there. edna st. vincent millay roses in the subway a wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes came stumbling down the crowded car, clutching her burden to her breast as though she held a star. roses, i swear it! red and sweet and struggling from her pinched white hands, roses ... like captured hostages from far and fairy lands! the thunder of the rushing train was like a hush.... the flower scent breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air like some dim sacrament-- i saw a garden stretching out and morning on it like a crown-- and o'er a bed of crimson bloom my mother ... stooping down. dana burnet the garden over-seas a garden prayer _that we are mortals and on earth must dwell thou knowest, allah, and didst give us bread-- and remembering of our souls didst give us food of flowers-- thy name be hallowed._ thomas walsh in the garden-close at mezra in the garden-close at mezra, when the cactus was in flower, we sat apart together through the languid noonday hour. i was her arab lover, (of course it was all in play!) and i called her "star-of-twilight," and i called her "dream-of-day." she--has she quite forgotten? soothly, i do not know if ever she tenderly opens the volume of long ago. but i--i can still remember her lips like the cactus flower in the garden-close at mezra at the languid noonday hour! clinton scollard the cactus the scarlet flower, with never a sister-leaf, stemless, springs from the edge of the cactus-thorn: thus from the rugged wounds of desperate grief a beautiful thought, perfect and pure, is born. laurence hope the white peacock here where the sunlight floodeth the garden, where the pomegranate reareth its glory of gorgeous blossom; where the oleanders dream through the noontides; and, like surf o' the sea round cliffs of basalt, the thick magnolias in billowy masses front the sombre green of the ilexes: here where the heat lies pale blue in the hollows, where blue are the shadows on the fronds of the cactus, where pale blue the gleaming of fir and cypress, with the cones upon them amber or glowing with virgin gold: here where the honey-flower makes the heat fragrant, as though from the gardens of gulistan, where the bulbul singeth through a mist of roses a breath were borne: here where the dream-flowers, the cream-white poppies silently waver, and where the scirocco, faint in the hollows, foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight, and lieth sleeping deep in the heart of a sea of white violets: here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly, white as a snow-drift in mountain-valleys when softly upon it the gold light lingers: white as the foam o' the sea that is driven o'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow: cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl, moves the white peacock, as though through the noontide a dream of the moonlight were real for a moment. dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight, dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations, shadows so pale in their delicate blueness that visions they seem as of vanishing violets, the fragrant white violets veined with azure, pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands. here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, white as the cloud through the heats of the noontide moves the white peacock. william sharp at isola bella once at isola bella, with sunset in the sky, we stood on the topmost terrace-- you and i. around us lago maggiore, incomparably fair, gave back the hues of heaven to the italian air. then up the marble terrace below the cypress trees came a flock of milk-white peacocks with fans spread to the breeze. rose-pink on each outspread feather, rose-pink upon the crest,-- never were birds in plumage so ravishingly drest! wherever we walked they followed, stately at our feet, no picture so enchanting will any hour repeat. and here in the murky city those milk-white peacocks seem to follow and follow me ever like ghosts of a haunting dream. jessie b. rittenhouse the fountain all through the deep blue night the fountain sang alone; it sang to the drowsy heart of the satyr carved in stone. the fountain sang and sang but the satyr never stirred-- only the great white moon in the empty heaven heard. the fountain sang and sang while on the marble rim the milk-white peacocks slept, and their dreams were strange and dim. bright dew was on the grass, and on the ilex, dew, the dreamy milk-white birds were all a-glisten, too. the fountain sang and sang the things one cannot tell; the dreaming peacocks stirred and the gleaming dew-drops fell. sara teasdale the champa flower supposing i became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? you would call, "baby, where are you?" and i should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet. i should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. when after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me. when after the midday meal you sat at the window reading _ramayana_, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, i should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading. but would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? when in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, i should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story. "where have you been, you naughty child?" "i won't tell you, mother." that's what you and i would say then. rabindranath tagore in an egyptian garden can it be winter otherwhere? forsooth, it seems not so! the moonlight on the garden square must be the only snow, for all about me, fragrant fair, the blooms of summer blow. wine-lipped and beautiful and bland, the rose displays its dower; the heavy-scented citron and the stainless lily-tower; and whiter than a houri's hand, el ful, the arab flower. in purple silhouette a palm lifts from a vine-wreathed plinth against a sky whose cloudless calm is hued like hyacinth; and echoes with a bulbul's psalm the jasmine labyrinth. in life's tumultuous ocean swell here is a charmèd isle; i hear a late muezzin tell his holy tale the while, and like the faint notes of a bell the boat-songs of old nile. across my spirit thrills no theme that is not marvel-bright; i see within the lotus gleam the nectar of delight, and, tasting it, i drift and dream adown the glamoured night! clinton scollard evening in old japan peaceful and mellow looks the sky to-night as some great buddha made of ivory, upon whose brow is set a moonstone white, the shining emblem of its purity. a dim blue haze like incense, rising high, merges together mountain, tree, and stream; but over all still broods an ivory sky cloudless as buddha's face, one gem agleam. antoinette de coursey patterson reflections when i looked into your eyes, i saw a garden with peonies, and tinkling pagodas, and round-arched bridges over still lakes. a woman sat beside the water in a rain-blue, silken garment. she reached through the water to pluck the crimson peonies beneath the surface. but as she grasped the stems, they jarred and broke into white-green ripples. and as she drew out her hand, the water drops dripping from it stained her rain-blue dress like tears. amy lowell in the garden do you remember, sister, the golden afternoon when we looked upon the lotus and listened to the croon of the doves that sat together among the flowers of june? and deep among the valleys a far, sweet sound was heard-- some fluter in the forest that like a magic bird sang of the unseen heavens and mystic way and word. pai ta-shun the deserted garden i hear no more the swish of silks along the marble walks; the autumn wind blows sharp and cold among the flowerless stalks. in place of petals of the peach fast drifts the yellow leaf; and looking in the lotus-pond i see one face of grief. pai ta-shun a roman garden all night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. below the sabine mountain the tossed and slender fountain will curve, a lily pale; and where the plumed pine soars tallest, 'tis there, o nightingale, thou callest; where the loud water leaps the highest. 'tis there, o nightingale, thou criest; in the dripping luscious dark, hark, oh, hark! wonderful, delirious, soul of joy mysterious. a garden full of fragrances, of pauses and of cadences, whence come they all? of cypresses and ilex-trees, plumes and dark candles like to these were long ago persephone's. all night within that garden the glimmering gods of stone, the satyrs and the naiads will laugh to be alone, in starless courts of shadows by silence overgrown, save for the nightingale's wild lyric thither blown. by pools and dusky closes dim shapes will move about, twirled wands and masks and faces, dancers and wreaths of roses, the moonlight's trick, no doubt. a naked nymph upon the stair, a sculptured vine that clasps the air,-- and then one bacchic bird somewhere will pour his passion out. all night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. down yonder velvet alley, floats daphne like a feather, a finger bidding silence, the dark and she together. look, where the secret fount is misting. apollo, thou shalt have thy trysting: for where a ruined sphinx lay smiling the wood-girl waits thee, white, beguiling. all night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. florence wilkinson evans como in april the wind is winter, though the sun be spring: the icy rills have scarce begun to flow; the birds unconfidently fly and sing. as on the land once fell the northern foe, the hostile mountains from the passes fling their vandal blasts upon the lake below. not yet the round clouds of the maytime cling above the world's blue wonder's curving show, and tempt to linger with their lingering. yet doth each slope a vernal promise know: see, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing. a snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow. * * * * * love, need we more than our imagining to make the whole year may? what though the wind be winter if the heart be spring? robert underwood johnson an exile's garden i live in the heart of a garden with cypresses all about; to the east and west, and the south and north, straight shadowy paths run out. there are ancient gods in my garden; they have faces young and pale; and a hundred thousand roses here enrapture the nightingale. yet, among the gods of the garden, the roses and gods, i think, daylong, of a far-off clover field, and the song of a bob-o-link. sophie jewett the cloister garden at certosa it is a place monastic, set above the city's pride and pleasuring below; the benediction of the sky breathes love over the olive trees and vines a-row. the old gray walls are delicate to prayer and silence; in the corridors dim-lit lurks many a painting, many a fresco rare done by some brother for the joy of it. pale lavender and red pomegranate trees, roses and poppies spilling garden sweets; and tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these, the cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats. by a sun-dial in the center, rests one brown-robed father; and his lips recite some holy word; little he heeds the jests of those who make the world their chief delight. while florence, far below, from dreamy towers throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours. richard burton a garden in venice there is a garden in a vineyard set beneath the spell of adriatic skies; a lovely place of dreams and ecstasies, of color tangled in a verdant net, the shimmer of the low lagoon whose fret washes the garden's length, and rose that vies with rose, pomegranate and tall flowers that rise above their fellows in one glory met. and there i think in the still summer night, when all the world is sleeping save the moon and the blest nightingale who shuns the noon, the closed flowers open out of sheer delight and the white lilies bow their slender stalks, for thro' them, 'neath the vines madonna walks. dorothy frances gurney in a garden of granada the city rumour rises all the day across the potted plants along the wall; the sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway, tossing the dust and shadows in a squall. the sun is old and weary--weary here upon the ageing roofs and miradors, the broken terraces and basins drear where each old bell its ancient echoes pours. ringing--what memories to ring--to those that linger here--the lizard and the cat, that haunt these solitudes in state morose through the long day their silent habitat. untroubled,--save when in the moonlight steals some voice in song across the lower wall, and sudden magic each old rafter feels, the while the echoes round it rise and fall. for as the wail of love or sorrow rings along the night soft steps are on the stair and pathway; in the broken window wings are stirring, and white arms are lolling there. and that old rose tree lifts its head anew, and there is perfume o'er the hills afar, from where alhambra's crescent cleaves the blue to where agleam genil and darro are. o voice!--what is thy necromantic word that all granada waits adown the years? is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?-- the cry of love amid the cry of tears?-- thomas walsh amiel's garden his garden! his bright candelabra trees en fête. his lilacs steeped in joy! his sky limpid and blue! the same flecked shadows lie athwart this path he paced. his reveries float in the air. his moods, his ecstasies still linger charmed. pale butterflies flit by-- were one his soul it had not found on high banquet more choice than those infinities he daily knew. and now no one to hear the hovering hours, the singing grass, to feel the wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to see god's shadow bend down from eternity-- his garden empty! yet i gently steal lest i disturb his dreams still smiling near. gertrude huntington mcgiffert eden-hunger o that a nest, my mate! were once more ours, where we, by vain and barren change untutored, could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers, and live the great, green life of field and orchard! from the cold birthday of the daffodils, e'en to that listening pause that is november, o to confide in woods, confer with hills, and then--then, to that palmland you remember, fly swift, where seas that brook not winter's rule are one vast violet breaking into lilies; there where we spent our first strange wedded yule, in the far, golden, fire-hearted antilles. william watson the garden at bemerton for a flyleaf of herbert's poems year after year, from dusk to dusk, how sweet this english garden grows, steeped in two centuries' sun and musk, walled from the world in gray repose, harbor of honey-freighted bees, and wealthy with the rose. here pinks with spices in their throats nod by the bitter marigold; here nightingales with haunting notes, when west and east with stars are bold, from out the twisted hawthorn-trees, sing back the weathers old. all tuneful winds do down it pass; the leaves a sudden whiteness show, and delicate noises fill the grass; the only flakes its spaces know are petals blown off briers long, and heaped on blades below. ah! dawn and dusk, year after year, 'tis more than these that keeps it rare! we see the saintly master here, pacing along the alleys fair, and catch the throbbing of a song across the amber air! lizette woodworth reese in an oxford garden as one whose road winds upward turns his face unto the valleys where he late hath stood, leaning upon his staff in peace to brood on many a beauty of the distant place, so i in this cool garden pause a space, reviewing many things in many a mood, accumulating friends in solitude from the assembly of my thoughts and days. arthur upson the homely garden "grandmother's gathering boneset" _grandmother's gathering boneset to-day; in the garret she'll dry and hang it away. next winter i'll "need" some boneset tea-- i wish she wouldn't think always of me!_ edith m. thomas a breath of mint what small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light lay on my heart that touch of elfin might? what spirals of sharp perfume do they fling, to blur my page with swift remembering? borne in a country basket marketward, their message is a music spirit-heard, a pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run of tawny singing water in the sun. their coolness brings that ecstasy i knew down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through my mellow meadows set with linden-trees loud with the summer jargon of the bees. their magic has its way with me until i see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill as once i saw: and draw sharp breath again, to feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain. o sudden urging sweetness in the air, exhaled, diffused about me everywhere, yours is the subtlest word the summer saith, and vanished summers sigh upon your breath. grace hazard conkling a seller of herbs black, comely, of abiding cheer, three times a week she fares, townward from gabled windermere, to sell her dainty wares. green balms she brings from winding lanes, and some in handfuls tall, of the old days of annes and janes, grown by a kitchen wall. keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, with spears of violet; and the spiced bloom of elder-twigs in a field's hollow set. my snatch of may i get from her, in white buds off a tree; june in one whiff of lavender, that breaks my heart for me. the swaying boughs of windermere, each gust that takes the grass, high over the town roar i hear, when that old stall i pass. what homely memories are mine, at sight of her quaint stalks; of grave dusks mellowing like wine down long, box-bordered walks; of garret windows eastward thrust, of rafters shining dim, and heaped with herbs as gray as dust all scented to the brim. this lady of the market-place, three times a week and more, i pray her seasons thick with grace; and ever at her door, shut from the road by wall of stone, and ample cherry trees, a garden fair as herrick's own, and just as full of bees! lizette woodworth reese lavender gray walls that lichen stains, that take the sun and the rains, old, stately, and wise: clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered, in ancient ways yet ordered; south walks where the loud bee plies daylong till summer flies-- here grows lavender, here breathes england. gay cottage gardens, glad, comely, unkempt, and mad, jumbled, jolly, and quaint; nooks where some old man dozes; currants and beans and roses mingling without restraint; a wicket that long lacks paint-- here grows lavender, here breathes england. sprawling for elbow-room, spearing straight spikes of bloom, clean, wayward, and tough; sweet and tall and slender, true, enduring, and tender, buoyant and bold and bluff, simplest, sanest of stuff-- thus grows lavender, thence breathes england. w. w. blair fish dawn in my garden i went into my garden at break of delight, before joy had risen in the eastern sky, to see how many cucumbers had happened over night, and how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high. i went into my garden when rest had fallen away from the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green, to see how far the beans had travelled up into the day, and whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean. i went into my garden when mirth was laughing low through the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines, through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row, where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines. oh, rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold, from the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night, but the big, round joy was rising, busy and bold, when i went into my garden at break of delight! marguerite wilkinson the proud vegetables in a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat, there lived a thriving family, its members all were fat; but some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round, and some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground. of these old father pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one. he claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun. "we both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he, "a stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see." old mrs. squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck, perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,--her nerves were quite a wreck. near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean, the young cucumbers climbed to swing their indian clubs of green. a big white _daikon_ hid in earth beneath his leafy crest; and mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest. above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kinds with pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds. there, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weaves great webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves. its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink, and lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink. now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolence till mrs. squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence; but not to earth she fell! alas,--but down, with all her force, upon old father pumpkin's head, and cracked his skull, of course. at this a fearful din arose. the pods began to split, cucumbers turned a sickly hue, the _daikon_ had a fit, the sweet potatoes rent the ground,--the egg-plant dropped his loom, while every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom. and, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them. he dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem, he piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way-- all this was told me by the cook,--we ate the last to-day. mary mcneil fenollosa the choice when skies are blue and days are bright a kitchen-garden's my delight, set round with rows of decent box and blowsy girls of hollyhocks. before the lark his lauds hath done and ere the corncrake's southward gone; before the thrush good-night hath said and the young summer's put to bed. the currant-bushes' spicy smell, homely and honest, likes me well, the while on strawberries i feast, and raspberries the sun hath kissed. beans all a-blowing by a row of hives that great with honey go, with mignonette and heaths to yield the plundering bee his honey-field. sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage and the delicious mint and sage, rosemary, marjoram, and rue, and thyme to scent the winter through. here are small apples growing round, and apricots all golden-gowned, and plums that presently will flush and show their bush a burning bush. cherries in nets against the wall, where master thrush his madrigal sings, and makes oath a churl is he who grudges cherries for a fee. lavender, sweet-briar, orris. here shall beauty make her pomander, her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes that wrap her as the leaves the rose. take roses red and lilies white, a kitchen-garden's my delight; its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, and its tall cote of irised doves. katharine tynan thoughts fer the discuraged farmer the summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees; and the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees, and they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly, tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly. the flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings and roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings; and the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, and the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tail they is. you can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow-- oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a carin' how; so they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing-- but theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: and it's when i git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, she's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; and a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right, seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite! they's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, and the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, and the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; it may rain again to-morry, but i don't think it will. some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, and propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; but the kind providence that has never failed us yet, will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, i bet! does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? does the quail set up and whissel in a disappointed way, er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day? is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--does he walk, er does he run? don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done? is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice? ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot; the june is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot. oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, and banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away! whatever be our station, with providence fer guide, sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, and the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you. james whitcomb riley grace for gardens lord god in paradise, look upon our sowing, bless the little gardens and the good green growing! give us sun, give us rain, bless the orchards and the grain! lord god in paradise, please bless the beans and peas, give us corn full on the ear-- we will praise thee, lord, for these! bless the blossom and the root, bless the seed and the fruit! lord god in paradise, over my brown field is seen, trembling and adventuring. a miracle of green. send such grace as you know, to keep it safe and make it grow! lord god in paradise, for the wonder of the seed, wondering, we praise you, while we tell you of our need. look down from paradise, look upon our sowing, bless the little gardens and the good green growing! give us sun, give us rain, bless the orchards and the grain! louise driscoll silver bells and cockle shells planting _the sky is blue and soft to-day, the grass is green this month of may, and muvver with her spade and rake my little garden helps me make; for every one must plant more seeds to grow the food that each one needs: potatoes, corn, green peas, and beets, the kind of beans that sister eats, we plant in rows marked by a string, for neatness is the one great thing; the earth is then raked smooth and pressed and nature 'tends to all the rest._ robert livingston spring patchwork if i could patch a coverlet from pieces of the spring, what dreams a happy child would have beneath so fair a thing! a center of the dear blue sky, a bordering of green, with patches of the yellow sun all chequered in between. bright ribbons of the silky grass laced prettily across, with satin of new little leaves, and velvet of the moss. in every corner, violets, half-hidden from the view, with many-flowered squares betwixt, of pinky tints and blue; of flossy silk and gossamer, of tissue and brocade; a warp of rosy morning mist, a woof of purple shade. embroideries of little vines, and spider-webs of lace, with tassels of the alder tied at each convenient place. with gold-thread i would sew the seams, and needles of the pine, oh, never child in all the world would have a quilt like mine! abbie farwell brown baby's valentine valentine, o valentine, pretty little love of mine; little love whose yellow hair makes the daffodils despair; little love whose shining eyes fill the stars with sad surprise: hither turn your ten wee toes, each a tiny shut-up rose, end most fitting and complete for the rosy-pinky feet; toddle, toddle here to me, for i'm waiting, do you see?-- waiting for to call you mine, valentine, o valentine! valentine, o valentine, i will dress you up so fine! here's a frock of tulip-leaves, trimmed with lace the spider weaves; here's a cap of larkspur blue, just precisely made for you; here's a mantle scarlet-dyed, once the tiger-lily's pride, spotted all with velvet black like the fire-beetle's back; lady-slippers on your feet, now behold you all complete! come and let me call you mine, valentine, o valentine! valentine, o valentine, now a wreath for you i'll twine. i will set you on a throne where the damask rose has blown, dropping all her velvet bloom, carpeting your leafy room: here while you shall sit in pride, butterflies all rainbow-pied, dandy beetles gold and green, creeping, flying, shall be seen, every bird that shakes his wings, every katydid that sings, wasp and bee with buzz and hum. hither, hither see them come, creeping all before your feet, rendering their homage meet. but 'tis i that call you mine, valentine, o valentine! laura e. richards baby seed song little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, are you awake in the dark? here we lie cosily, close to each other: hark to the song of the lark-- "waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; put on your green coats and gay, blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you-- waken! 'tis morning--'tis may!" little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, what kind of flower will you be? i'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother; do be a poppy like me. what! you're a sun-flower? how i shall miss you when you're grown golden and high! but i shall send all the bees up to kiss you; little brown brother, good-bye. e. nesbit rain in the night raining, raining, all night long; sometimes loud, sometimes soft, just like a song. there'll be rivers in the gutters and lakes along the street. it will make our lazy kitty wash his little dirty feet. the roses will wear diamonds like kings and queens at court; but the pansies all get muddy because they are so short. i'll sail my boat to-morrow in wonderful new places, but first i'll take my watering-pot and wash the pansies' faces. amelia josephine burr a little girl's songs i spring song i love daffodils. i love narcissus when he bends his head. i can hardly keep march and spring and sunday and daffodils out of my rhyme of song. do you know anything about the spring when it comes again? god knows about it while winter is lasting: flowers bring him power in the spring, and birds bring it, and children. he is sometimes sad and alone up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy. i bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary. i tell him how i used to wander out to study stars and the moon he made and flowers in the dark of the wood. i keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten, and that snowdrops are up. what can i say to make him listen? "god," i say, "don't you care! nobody must be sad or sorry in the spring-time of flowers." ii velvets _by a bed of pansies_ this pansy has a thinking face like the yellow moon. this one has a face with white blots: i call him the clown. here goes one down the grass with a pretty look of plumpness: she is a little girl going to school with her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. her name is sue. i like this one, in a bonnet, waiting-- her eyes are so deep! but these on the other side, these that wear purple and blue, they are the velvets, the king with his cloak, the queen with her gown, the prince with his feather. these are dark and quiet and stay alone. _i know you, velvets color of dark, like the pine-tree on the hill when stars shine!_ hilda conkling (_six years old_) when swallows build when apple-blossom time doth come and with their scent the air is filled, and fields are full of buttercups,-- 'tis then the swallows build. and when the rippling brooks are deep, filled to the overflowing, when o'er the hills and meadows fair the south wind's softly blowing, with sun a-shining, birds a-singing till their joyous throats are thrilled, and with all the world in laughter,-- 'tis then the swallows build. catherine parmenter (_eleven years old_) spring planting "what shall we plant for our summer, my boy,-- seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy? brave little cuttings of laughter and light? then shall our summer be flowery and bright." "nay!--you are wrong in your planting," said he, "have we not grass and the weeds and a tree? why should we water and weary away for sake of a flower that lives but a day!" so she made gardens which he would not dig, tended her apricot, apple and fig. then, when one morning he chanced to appear, sadly he noticed--"no trespassing here." helen hay whitney if i could dig like a rabbit if i could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit, d'you know what i'd do? well, i'd dig a deep hole-- right under that tree-- then i'd go down--and down, and find out where the tree starts, and i'd find out how it eats and drinks, and what makes it grow.... yes i would! p'r'aps i could dig a hole right up into that tree, and--see--it--grow!... but p'r'aps i couldn't. anyway i could dig 'way down, and see all the flower seeds, and all the grass seeds, and under that big rock there might be some rock seeds. and i'd see everything start growing. do all the seeds make noises when they start to grow? what do you s'pose about that? i s'pose they sing, 'cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine.... well, anyway i'd find out all about it, 'way down there, and then i'd want to come up home, and i'd have so much to tell to you! if i could dig holes like a rabbit, that's just what i would do. rose strong hubbell the little god mother says there's a little god lives in my garden. i asked her--"in the tree?"-- i asked her--"in the fountain?" and she said, yes, that she, plain as plain could be, everywhere could see the little god. "what's he look like, mother?" "oh," she said, "like the flowers, like the summer showers, like the morning dew,-- like you." she says he's everywhere in my garden--i can't see him there. katharine howard daisies at evening when i go to bed i see the stars shine overhead; they are the little daisies white that dot the meadow of the night. and often while i'm dreaming so, across the sky the moon will go; it is a lady, sweet and fair, who comes to gather daisies there. for, when at morning i arise, there's not a star left in the skies; she's picked them all and dropped them down into the meadows of the town. frank dempster sherman the anxious farmer it was awful long ago that i put those seeds around; and i guess i ought to know when i stuck 'em in the ground. 'cause i noted down the day in a little diary book,-- it's gotten losted somewhere and i don't know where to look. but i'm certain anyhow they've been planted most a week and it must be time by now for their little sprouts to peek. they've been watered every day with a very speshul care, and once or twice i've dug 'em up to see if they were there. i fixed the dirt in humps just the way they said i should; and i crumbled all the lumps just as finely as i could. and i found a nangle-worm a-poking up his head,-- he maybe feeds on seeds and such, and so i squushed him dead. a seed's so very small, and dirt all looks the same;-- how can they know at all the way they ought to aim? and so i'm waiting round in case of any need; a farmer ought to do his best for every single seed! burges johnson over the garden wall by the side of a wall in a garden gay, a little rose-bush grew; in the first dear days of the month of may, loved by the sun and dew. it gazed to the top of the wall so high with happy longing and pride, when it heard the children laugh and cry as they passed on the other side. and into its leaves and buds there came a beautiful thought of god. "i can climb to the heights of love and fame, if my roots are in the sod." then up and over the garden-wall, it clambered far and wide, shedding its sweetness for one and all as they passed on the other side,-- the weary laborer, the beggar cold, the wise man and the fool, the mother and daughter, the grandam old and the children going to school. the breezes scattered its pink and white in a perfumed shower for all, and the beautiful days of june were bright with the rose on the garden-wall. our hearts are like the roses of june, they can live for one and all, giving their love as a blessed boon, from a palace or cottage wall. emily selinger the flowerphone see the morning-glories hung on the vine for me to use: hark! a flower-bell has rung, i can talk now, if i choose. "hellow central! oh, hello! give me puck of fairyland-- mr. puck, i want to know what i cannot understand. "how the leaves are scalloped out; where's the den of dragon fly? what do crickets chirp about? where do flowers go when they die? "how far can a fairy see? why are woodsy things afraid? who lives in the hollow tree? how are cobweb carpets made? "why do fairies hide?--hello! what? i cannot understand--" that's the way they always do, they've cut me off from fairyland! abbie farwell brown the faithless flowers i went this morning down to where the johnny-jump-ups grow like naughty purple faces nodding in a row. i stayed 'most all the morning there--i sat down on a stump and watched and watched and watched them--and they never gave a jump! and golden-glow that stands up tall and yellow by the fence, it doesn't glow a single bit--it's only just pretence-- i ran down after tea last night to watch them in the dark-- i had to light a match to see; they didn't give a spark! and then the bouncing bets don't bounce--i tried them yesterday, i picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay, i took a piece of string i had and tied them in a ball, and threw them down as hard as hard--they never bounced at all! and tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone, all tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone, but they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog, or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog! i like the flowers very much--they're pleasant as can be for bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see, but still it doesn't seem quite fair--it does seem very queer-- they don't do what they're named for--not at any time of year! margaret widdemer the flower-school when storm clouds rumble in the sky and june showers come down, the moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos. then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee. mother, i really think the flowers go to school underground. they do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner. when the rains come down they have their holidays. branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white. do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are. haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? don't you know why they are in such a hurry? of course, i can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as i have my own. rabindranath tagore iris flowers my mother let me go with her, (i had been good all day), to see the iris flowers that bloom in gardens far away. we walked and walked through hedges green, through rice-fields empty still, to where we saw a garden gate beneath the farthest hill. she pointed out the rows of "flowers";-- i saw no planted things, but white and purple butterflies tied down with silken strings. they strained and fluttered in the breeze, so eager to be free; i begged the man to let them go, but mother laughed at me. she said that they could never rise, like birds, to heaven so blue. but even mothers do not know some things that children do. that night, the flowers untied themselves and softly stole away, to fly in sunshine round my dreams until the break of day. mary mcneil fenollosa if i were a fairy i'd love to sit on a clover-top and sway, and swing and shake, till the dew would drop in spray; to croon a song for the bumble-bee to leave his golden honey with me, and sway and swing, till the wind would stop to play. i'd weave a hammock of spider-thread loose-hung, where grasses nodded above my head and swung. and all day long, while the hammock swayed i'd twine and tangle the sun and shade, till the crickets' song, "it is time for bed!" was sung. then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloud i'd lie, while night winds sang to the stars that crowd the sky. and all night long, i would swing and sleep while fireflies lighted their lamps to peep-- "oh, hush!" they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud-- "oh hush-a-by!" charles buxton going fringed gentians near where i live there is a lake as blue as blue can be, winds make it dance as they go blowing by. i think it curtseys to the sky. it's just a lake of lovely flowers, and my mamma says they are ours; but they are not like those we grow to be our very own, you know. we have a splendid garden, there are lots of flowers everywhere; roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks, and hollyhocks, and evening stocks. mamma lets us pick them, but never must we pick any gentians--ever! for if we carried them away they'd die of homesickness that day. amy lowell the scissors-man as i was busy with my tools that make my garden neat, i heard a little crooked tune come drifting up the street. it didn't seem to have an end like others that are plain; you always felt it going on till it began again. it came quite near: i heard it call, and dropped my tools and ran to peer out through the gate; i thought it might be pan. but it was just the scissors-man who walked along and played upon a little instrument he told me he had made. now, if you hope to see a god as hard to find as pan, it's sad when it turns out to be a plain old scissors-man. but when my mother came to hear the crooked tune he made, she said his instrument was like some pipes that pan had played. and i must ask the scissors-man if he had ever known or met a queer old god who played on pipes much like his own. he would not tell: and when i asked who taught him how to play, he made that crooked tune again, and laughed and went away. grace hazard conkling the garden of life god's garden _the years are flowers and bloom within eternity's wide garden; the rose for joy, the thorn for sin, the gardener god, to pardon all wilding growths, to prune, reclaim, and make them rose-like in his name._ richard burton "the lord god planted a garden" the lord god planted a garden in the first white days of the world, and he set there an angel warden in a garment of light enfurled. so near to the peace of heaven, that the hawk might nest with the wren, for there in the cool of the even god walked with the first of men. and i dream that these garden-closes with their shade and their sun-flecked sod and their lilies and bowers of roses, were laid by the hand of god. the kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth,-- one is nearer god's heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth. dorothy frances gurney the lilies ever the garden has a spiritual word: in the slow lapses of unnoticed time it drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb, breathing an earthly sweetness, as a bird is in the porches of the morning heard; so, in the garden, flower to flower will chime, and with the music thought and feeling rhyme, and the hushed soul is with new glory stirred. beauty is silent,--through the summer day sleeps in her gold,--o wondrous sunlit gold, frosting the lilies, virginal array! green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold, warm, orient blooms!--how motionless are they-- speechless--the eternal loveliness untold! george e. woodberry barter life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things, blue waves whitened on a cliff, soaring fire that sways and sings, and children's faces looking up holding wonder like a cup. life has loveliness to sell, music like a curve of gold, scent of pine trees in the rain, eyes that love you, arms that hold, and for your spirit's still delight, holy thoughts that star the night. spend all you have for loveliness, buy it and never count the cost; for one white singing hour of peace count many a year of strife well lost, and for a breath of ecstasy give all you have been, or could be. sara teasdale sonnet drop me the seed, that i, even in my brain, may be its nourishing earth. no mortal knows from what immortal granary comes the grain, nor how the earth conspires to make the rose; but from the dust and from the wetted mud comes help, given or taken; so with me deep in my brain the essence of my blood shall give it stature until beauty be. it will look down, even as the burning flower smiles upon june, long after i am gone. dust-footed time will never tell its hour, through dusty time its rose will draw men on, through dusty time its beauty shall make plain man, and, without, a spirit scattering grain. john masefield the tilling the dull ox, sorrow, treads my heart, dragging the harrow, pain, and turning the old year's tillage under the sod again. so, well do i know the tiller will bring once more the grain; for grief comes never to the strong-- nor dull despair's benumbing wrong-- but from them spring a hidden throng of seeds, for new life fain. so heavily do i let the hoofs trample the deeps of me; for only thus is spirit brought to fecundity. but when the ox is stabled and the harrow set aside, with calm i watch a new world grow, sweetly green, up out of woe, and, glad of the tiller, then i know he too is satisfied. cale young rice safe now shall your beauty never fade; for it was budding when you passed beyond this glare, into the shade of fairer gardens unforecast, where, by the dreaded gardener's spade, beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last. now never shall that glorious breast wither, those deft hands lose their art, nor those glad shoulders be oppressed by failing breath or fluttering heart, nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed, the subtle ecstasy of hue depart. forever shall you be your best,-- nay, far more luminously shine than when our comradeship was blessed by what on earth seemed most divine, before your body passed to rest with what i then supposed this heart of mine. now shall your bud of beauty blow far lovelier than i knew before when, such a little time ago, i looked upon your face, and swore that helen's never moved men so when her white, magic hands enkindled war. as you sweep on from power to power shall every earthward thought you think irradiate my lonely hour till i shall taste the golden drink of life, and see the full-blown flower, whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink. robert haven schauffler sorrow in a garden here in this ancient garden when winter days had flown i came, with comrade sorrow to dwell with her alone. here in this sweet seclusion far from the world's cold stare what exquisite communings sorrow and i would share! what banquets of remembrance! what luxury of tears! with sorrow in a garden through the rose-scented years! but one day when she called me i did not hear her voice; i only heard the lilies which sang "rejoice, rejoice!" the world was gold and azure the air was sweet with birds; my garden laughed with rapture how could i hear her words? for june was in the garden and june was in my heart, and since that hour pale sorrow and i have dwelt apart. but often in the twilight when birds and gardens sleep i feel her presence with me her arms about me creep. and when the ghosts of summer with the dead roses talk, i hear her softly sobbing along the moonlit walk. i never can forget her so intimate were we! but sorrow, in my garden abides no more with me. may riley smith moth-flowers the pale moth trembles in the white moonlight; thus my heart trembles with love! the rose petals fall-- the red petals of my heart; oh, the breath of love! cool, sweet tears of honey, the jasmine weeps; burning fall the tears of love. oh, how bitter is the white poppy, death; there are no more dreams of love. jeanne robert foster alchemy i lift my heart as spring lifts up a yellow daisy to the rain; my heart will be a lovely cup altho' it holds but pain. for i shall learn from flower and leaf that color every drop they hold, to change the lifeless wine of grief to living gold. sara teasdale flowers in the dark late in the evening, when the room had grown too hot and tiresome with its flaring light and noisy voices, i stole out alone into the darkness of the summer night. down the long garden-walk i slowly went, a little wind was stirring in the trees; i only saw the whitest of the flowers, and i was sorry that the earlier hours of that fair evening had been so ill spent, because i said, "i am content with these dear friends of mine who only speak to me with their delicious fragrance, and who tell to me their gracious welcome silently." the leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet; i find the tall white lilies i love well. i linger as i pass the mignonette, and what surprise could clearer be than this: to find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss! sarah orne jewett welcome there is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended, below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light. and there beneath a cloudless sun when june is warm and splendid i see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white. alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark dolores showing her glowing marigolds; and iris last of all under the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories, bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall. alice with smiles along her lips; dolores still and tender; iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say; they offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender, bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day. into my study they have swept, and brasses from benares, vases from venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths around the portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil maries that perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned. "mother is coming home to-day." (the words themselves are singing.) "how long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat, making their last response to love, their last oblation bringing till at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet, tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet. john curtis underwood the child in the garden when to the garden of untroubled thought i came of late, and saw the open door, and wished again to enter, and explore the sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought and bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, it seemed some purer voice must speak before i dared to tread that garden loved of yore, that eden lost unknown and found unsought. then just within the gate i saw a child,-- a stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; he held his hands to me, and softly smiled with eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: "come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; i am the little child you used to be." henry van dyke a wonder garden "and a little child shall lead them" into her world, beneath her smiling skies; a little child with wide, wondering eyes deep with the mystery that in them lies. her soft hand plucks a stem asunder, and with the dream that is a part of childhood's heart, she questions: "now i want to wonder!" she "wants to wonder" how so fair a thing is born; from what it springs, and why it blooms: whence comes its sweet, elusive odor rare,-- the garnered fragrance of a hundred junes. was it all planned,--or just some lovely blunder? thus gazing, with the seeking look that lies in childhood's eyes, she questions: "now i want to wonder!" dear child, your groping mind seeks far and true: mankind and nature,--all "want to wonder" too. frederic a. whiting from a car-window pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses; gold in a pool, from the western glow; spread of wings where the last thrush passes-- and thoughts of you as the sun dips low. quiet lane, and an irised meadow ... (_how many summers have died since then?_) ... i wish you knew how the deepening shadow lies on the blue and green again! dusk, and the curve of field and hollow etched in gray when a star appears: sunset,... twilight,... and dark to follow,... and thoughts of you thro' a mist of tears. ruth guthrie harding song of the weary traveller i am weary. i would rest on the wide earth's swelling breast, nurtured by the quiet sod where the fragrant dew has trod, soothed by all the winds that pass, hearing voices in the grass of the little insect things happier than the mightiest kings! i am weary. i would sleep in some quiet perfumed deep where no human touch could bring tears to me or anything. there i would forget to weep and my silent cloister keep,-- there i would the earth embrace meeting beauty face to face. i am weary. i would go where the fields are white with snow, where the violets are lain far from human strife and pain-- far from longing and delight, thro' the endless starry night, there i would forget to weep, and my silent cloister keep. blanche shoemaker wagstaff cobwebs who would not praise thee, miracle of frost? some gesture overnight, some breath benign, and lo! the tree's a fountain all a-shine, the hedge a throne of unimagined cost; in wheel and fan along a wall embossed, the spider's humble handiwork shows fine with jewels girdling every airy line; though the small mason in the cold be lost. web after web, a morning snare of bliss starring with beauty the whole neighbourhood, may well beget an envy clean and good. when man goes too into the earth-abyss, and god in his altered garden walks, i would my secret woof might gleam so fair as this. louise imogen guiney blind the spring blew trumpets of color; her green sang in my brain-- i heard a blind man groping "tap--tap" with his cane; i pitied him his blindness; but can i boast, "i see?" perhaps there walks a spirit close by, who pities me,-- a spirit who hears me tapping the five-sensed cane of mind amid such unguessed glories-- that i--am worse than blind! harry kemp herb of grace i do not know what sings in me-- i only know it sings when pale the stars, and every tree is glad with waking wings. i only know the air is sweet with wondrous flowers unseen-- that unaccountably complete is june's accustomed green. the wind has magic in its touch; strange dreams the sunsets give. life i have questioned overmuch-- to-day, i live. amelia josephine burr before mary of magdala came now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in the garden a new sepulchre.... the first day of the week cometh mary magdalene early ... unto the sepulchre.... and ... she turned herself back, and saw jesus standing.... jesus saith unto her, mary. she turned herself, and saith unto him ... master. st. john. from silvering mid-sea to the syrian sand, it was the time of blossom in the land. on field and hill and down the steep ravine, ran foam and fire of bloom and ripple of green. the sepulchre was open wide, and thrown among the crushed, hurt lilies lay the stone. a light wind stirred the garden: everywhere the smell of myrrh was out upon the air. for three days he had traveled with the dead, and now was risen to go with stiller tread the old earth ways again, to stay the heart and build the hope of men. he made a luster in that leafy place, his form serene, majestical; his face touched with a cryptic beauty like the sea lit by the moon when night begins to be. the cold gray east was warming into rose beyond the steep ravine where kedron goes. now suddenly on the morning faint with flame jerusalem with all her clamors came-- a snarl of noises from the far-off street, dispute and barter and the clack of feet. a moment it brawled upward and was gone-- faded, forgotten in the deep still dawn. he passed across the morning: felt the cool, keen, kindling air blown upward from the pool. a busy wind brought little tender smells from barley fields and weeds by april wells. up in the tree-tops where the breezes ran the old sweet noises in the nests began; and once he paused to listen while a bird shouted the joy till all the garden heard. there in the morning, on the old worn ways-- new-risen from the sacrament of death-- he looked toward olivet with tender gaze: old things of the heart came back from other days-- the happy, homely shop in nazareth; the noonday shadow of a wayside tree that had befriended him in galilee; sweet talks in bethany by the chimney stone, and night-long lingering talks with john alone. and then he thought of all the weary men he would have gathered as a mother hen gathers her brood under her wings at night. and then he saw the ages in one flight, and heard as a great sea all of the griefs that had been and must be.... as he stood looking on the endless sky, over the garden went a sobbing cry. he turned, and saw where the tall almonds are his mary of magdala, wildly pale, fast-fleeting down the trail, and suddenly his face was like a star! he spoke; she knew--a blaze of happy tears; then "master!" ... and the word rings down the years! edwin markham conscience wisdom am i when thou art but a fool; my part the man, when thou hast played the clod; hast lost thy garden? when the eve is cool, harken!--'tis i who walk there with thy god! margaret steele anderson rosa mystica this rose so exquisite, so perfect, so complete, beauty beyond all price,-- with the hour it dies. god makes him roses fast, with such magnificent haste, multitudes, multitudes, in gardens, fields and woods. the roses tell his praise their little length of days; testify to his name, gold on gold, flame on flame. they are scarce here, scarce blown, but they are gone, are flown; the gardener's broom must sweep them and in the darkness heap them. drift of rose-leaves upon the garden-bed, the lawn: the exquisite thought of god is scattered, wasted abroad. what of the soul of the rose? it shall not die with those; it shall wake, shall live again in god's rose-garden. it shall climb rose-trellises before god's palaces; the eternal rose shall cover the house of god all over. she shall breathe out her soul and yet living, made whole, shall offer her oblation out of her purest passion. she shall know all bliss where god's garden is: the rose drinking her fill is of joy with her sister lilies. where the water of life sweet bathes her from head to feet, the river of life flows-- there is the rose. katharine tynan the mystery he came and took me by the hand up to a red rose tree, he kept his meaning to himself but gave a rose to me. i did not pray him to lay bare the mystery to me, enough the rose was heaven to smell and his own face to see. ralph hodgson the rose and so must life be many-veined; the loves that hurt, the fate that blent my life with myriad lives and ways, the processes that probed and pained, the pencillings of nights and days-- cross currents, tangling as they went, with oh, such conflict in my soul!-- how should i know that they were meant just to make living sweet and whole, just to unclose god's perfect rose? angela morgan for these an acre of land between the shore and the hills, upon a ledge that shows my kingdoms three, the lovely visible earth and sky and sea, where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills: a house that shall love me as i love it, well-hedged, and honoured by a few ash trees that linnets, greenfinches, and goldfinches shall often visit and make love in and flit; a garden i need never go beyond, broken but neat, whose sunflowers every one are fit to be the sign of the rising sun: a spring, a brook's bend, or at least a pond! for these i ask not, but neither too late nor yet too early, for what men call content,-- and also that something may be sent to be contented with, i ask of fate. edward thomas (edward eastaway) samuel gardner i who kept the greenhouse, lover of trees and flowers, oft in life saw this umbrageous elm, measuring its generous branches with my eye, and listened to its rejoicing leaves lovingly patting each other with sweet æolian whispers. and well they might: for the roots had grown so wide and deep that the soil of the hill could not withhold aught of its virtue, enriched by rain, and warmed by the sun; but yielded it all to the thrifty roots, through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk, and thence to the branches, and into the leaves, wherefrom the breeze took life and sang. now i, an under-tenant of the earth, can see that the branches of a tree spread no wider than its roots. and how shall the soul of a man be larger than the life he has lived? edgar lee masters seeds what shall we be like when we cast this earthly body and attain to immortality? what shall we be like then? ah, who shall say what vast expansions shall be ours that day? what transformations of this house of clay, to fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day? ah, who shall say? but this we know,-- we drop a seed into the ground, a tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, and, in the fulness of its time, is seen a form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned beyond the pride of any earthly queen, instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, the perfect emblem of its maker's care. this from a shrivelled seed?-- --then may man hope indeed! for man is but the seed of what he shall be, when, in the fulness of his perfecting, he drops the husk and cleaves his upward way, through earth's retardings and the clinging clay, into the sunshine of god's perfect day. no fetters then! no bonds of time or space! but powers as ample as the boundless grace that suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness, set wide the door, and passed himself before-- as he had promised--to prepare a place. yea, we may hope! for we are seeds, dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming. perchance, when comes the time of harvesting, his loving care may find some use for even a humble tare. we know not what we shall be--only this-- that we shall be made like him--as he is. john oxenham "lord, i ask a garden" lord, i ask a garden in a quiet spot where there may be a brook with a good flow, an humble little house covered with bell-flowers and a wife and a son who shall resemble thee. i should wish to live many years, free from hates, and make my verses, as the rivers that moisten the earth, fresh and pure. lord, give me a path with trees and birds. i wish that you would never take my mother, for i should wish to tend her as a child and put her to sleep with kisses, when somewhat old she may need the sun. r. arevalo martinez my flower-room my flower-room is such a little place, scarce twenty feet by nine, yet in that space i have met god; yea, many a radiant hour have talked with him, the all-embracing cause, about his laws. and he has shown me, in each vine and flower, such miracles of power that day by day this flower-room of mine has come to be a shrine. fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere, pale, tender shoots appear, rising to greet the light in that sweet room. one speeds to crimson bloom, one slowly creeps to unassuming grace, one climbs, one trails, one drinks the light and moisture, one exhales. up through the earth together, stem by stem, two plants push swiftly in a floral race, till one sends forth a blossom like a gem, and one gives only fragrance. in a seed, so small it scarce is felt within the hand, lie hidden such delights of scents and sights, when by the elements of nature freed, as paradise must have at its command. from shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things, what gorgeous beauty springs! such infinite variety appears, a hundred artists in a hundred years could never copy from a floral world the marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled. nor could the most colossal mind of man create one little seed of plant or vine without assistance from the first great plan, without the aid divine. who but a god could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold, and fashion in earth's mold, a multitude of blooms to deck one sod? who but a god? not one man knows just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose, or how its tints were blent; or why the white camellia, without scent, up through the same soil grows; or how the daisy and the violet and blades of grass first on wild meadows met. not one, not one man knows, the wisest but suppose. this flower-room of mine has come to be a shrine, and i go hence each day with larger faith and reverence. ella wheeler wilcox "vestured and veiled with twilight" vestured and veiled with twilight, lulled in the winter's ease, dim, and happy, and silent, my garden dreams by its trees. urn of the sprayless fountain, glimmering nymph and faun, gleam through the dark-plumed cedar, fade on the dusky lawn. here is no stir of summer, here is no pulse of spring; never a bud to burgeon, never a bird to sing. dreams--and the kingdom of quiet! only the dead leaves lie over the fallen roses under the shrouded sky. folded and fenced with silence mindless of moil and mart, it is twilight here in my garden, and twilight here in my heart. rosamund marriott watson the fruit garden path the path runs straight between the flowering rows, a moonlit path hemmed in by beds of bloom, where phlox and marigolds dispute for room with tall, red dahlias and the briar rose. 'tis reckless prodigality which throws into the night these wafts of rich perfume which sweep across the garden like a plume. over the trees a single bright star glows. dear garden of my childhood, here my years have run away like little grains of sand; the moments of my life, its hopes and fears have all found utterance here, where now i stand; my eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears, you are my home, do you not understand? amy lowell wood song i heard a woodthrush in the dusk twirl three notes and make a star-- my heart that walked with bitterness came back from very far. three shining notes were all he had, and yet they made a starry call-- i caught life back against my breast and kissed it, scars and all. sara teasdale a prayer teach me, father, how to go softly as the grasses grow; hush my soul to meet the shock of the wild world as a rock; but my spirit, propt with power, make as simple as a flower. let the dry heart fill its cup, like a poppy looking up; let life lightly wear her crown, like a poppy looking down, when its heart is filled with dew and its life begins anew. teach me, father, how to be kind and patient as a tree. joyfully the crickets croon under shady oak at noon; beetle, on his mission bent, tarries in that cooling tent. let me, also, cheer a spot, hidden field or garden grot-- place where passing souls can rest on the way and be their best. edwin markham the philosopher's garden "_see this my garden, large and fair!_" --thus, to his friend, the philosopher. "_'tis not too long_," his friend replied, with truth exact,-- "_nor yet too wide. but well compact, if somewhat cramped on every side._" quick the reply-- "_but see how high!-- it reaches up to god's blue sky!_" john oxenham index of titles Ære perennius, _charles hanson towne_, . afternoon on a hill, _edna st. vincent millay_, . alchemy, _sara teasdale_, . amiel's garden, _gertrude huntington mcgiffert_, . anxious farmer, the, _burges johnson_, . april morning, an, _bliss carman_, . april rain, _conrad aiken_, . april weather, _lizette woodworth reese_, . arbutus, _adelaide crapsey_, . as in a rose-jar, _thomas s. jones, jr._, . asking for roses, _robert frost_, . at isola bella, _jessie b. rittenhouse_, . autumn rose, the, _antoinette de coursey patterson_, . autumnal, _richard middleton_, . awakening, the, _angela morgan_, . baby seed song, _e. nesbit_, . baby's valentine, _laura e. richards_, . ballade of the dreamland rose, _brian hooker_, . barter, _sara teasdale_, . before mary of magdala came, _edwin markham_, . beyond, _thomas s. jones, jr._, . birth of the flowers, the, _mary mcneil fenollosa_, . blind, _harry kemp_, . blooming of the rose, the, _anna hempstead branch_, . blossomy barrow, the, _t. a. daly_, . boulders, _charles wharton stork_, . breath of mint, a, _grace hazard conkling_, . but we did walk in eden, _josephine preston peabody_, . butterfly, the, _edwin markham_, . cactus, the, _laurence hope_, . cardinal-bird, the, _arthur guiterman_, . champa flower, the, _rabindranath tagore_, . charm: to be said in the sun, _josephine preston peabody_, . child in the garden, the, _henry van dyke_, . choice, the, _katharine tynan_, . cloister garden at certosa, the, _richard burton_, . cloud and flower, _agnes lee_, . clover, _john b. tabb_, . cobwebs, _louise imogen guiney_, . colonial garden, a, _james b. kenyan_, . color notes, _charles wharton stork_, . columbines, _arthur guiterman_, . como in april, _robert underwood johnson_, . conscience, _margaret steele anderson_, . cricket in the path, the, _amelia josephine burr_, . crocus flame, the, _clinton scollard_, . da thief, _t. a. daly_, . daffodils, _ruth guthrie harding_, . daisies, _frank dempster sherman_, . daisy, to a, _alice meynell_, . dandelion, the, _vachel lindsay_, . dawn in my garden, _marguerite wilkinson_, . deserted garden, the, _pai ta-shun_, . dews, the, _john b. tabb_, . dials, the, _arthur wallace peach_, . "draw closer, o ye trees," _lloyd mifflin_, . dream, a, _antoinette de coursey patterson_, . dusty hour-glass, the, _amy lowell_, . early gods, the, _witter bynner_, . earth, _john hall wheelock_, . eden-hunger, _william watson_, . egyptian garden, in an, _clinton scollard_, . end of summer, the, _edna st. vincent millay_, . evening in old japan, _antoinette de coursey patterson_, . ever the same, _josephine preston peabody_, . exile's garden, an, _sophie jewett_, . faithless flowers, the, _margaret widdemer_, . family trees, _douglas malloch_, . fireflies, _antoinette de coursey patterson_, . flower-school, the, _rabindranath tagore_, . flowerphone, the, _abbie farwell brown_, . flowers in the dark, _sarah orne jewett_, . flowers of june, the, _james terry white_, . for these, _edward thomas_, . fountain, the, _harry kemp_, . fountain, the, _sara teasdale_, . four o'clocks, _julia c. r. dorr_, . fringed gentians, _amy lowell_, . from a car-window, _ruth guthrie harding_, . "frost to-night," _edith m. thomas_, . fruit garden path, the, _amy lowell_, . furrow, the, _padraic colum_, . garden, the, _gertrude huntington mcgiffert_, . garden, the, _alice meynell_, . garden at bemerton, the, _lizette woodworth reese_, . garden friend, a, _catherine markham_, . garden in august, the, _gertrude huntington mcgiffert_, . garden in venice, a, _dorothy frances gurney_, . garden of dreams, the, _bliss carman_, . garden of mnemosyne, the, _rosamund marriott watson_, . garden-piece, a, _edmund gosse_, . garden prayer, a, _thomas walsh_, . "go down to kew in lilac-time," _alfred noyes_, . god's garden, _richard burton_, . golden bowl, the, _mary mcmillan_, . golden-rod, the, _margaret deland_, . goldfinch, the, _odell shepard_, . grace for gardens, _louise driscoll_, . "grandmother's gathering boneset," _edith m. thomas_, . green o' the spring, the, _denis a. mccarthy_, . haunted garden, a, _louis untermeyer_, . heart's garden, _norreys jephson o'conor_, . her garden, _eldredge denison_, . her garden, _louis dodge_, . herb of grace, _amelia josephine burr_, . homesick, _julia c. r. dorr_, . "how many flowers are gently met," _george sterling_, . hummingbird, the, _hermann hagedorn_, . "i meant to do my work to-day," _richard le gallienne_, . idealists, _alfred kreymborg_, . if i could dig like a rabbit, _rose strong hubbell_, . if i were a fairy, _charles buxton going_, . in a garden, _livingston l. biddle_, . in a garden, _horace holley_, . in a garden of granada, _thomas walsh_, . in an egyptian garden, _clinton scollard_, . in an old garden, _madison cawein_, . in an oxford garden, _arthur upson_, . in memory's garden, _thomas walsh_, . in my mother's garden, _margaret widdemer_, . in the garden, _pai ta-shun_, . in the garden-close at mezra, _clinton scollard_, . in the womb, _a. e._, . indian summer, _sara teasdale_, . iris flowers, _mary mcneil fenollosa_, . "it was june in the garden," _emile verhaeren_, . jewel-weed, _florence earle coates_, . joe-pyeweed, _louis untermeyer_, . joy of the springtime, the, _sarojini naidu_, . joys of a summer morning, the, _henry a. wise wood_, . july garden, the, _robert ernest vernède_, . july midnight, _amy lowell_, . june, _douglas malloch_, . june rapture, _angela morgan_, . kinfolk, _kate whiting patch_, . lady of the snows, a, _harriet monroe_, . larkspur, _james oppenheim_, . late walk, a, _robert frost_, . lavender, _w. w. blair fish_, . lilies, the, _george e. woodberry_, . little ghost, the, _edna st. vincent millay_, . little girl's songs, a, _hilda conkling_, . little god, the, _katharine howard_, . "lord, i ask a garden," _r. arevalo martinez_, . love planted a rose, _katharine lee bates_, . "loveliest of trees," _a. e. housman_, . magnolia, the, _josé santos chocano_, . may is building her house, _richard le gallienne_, . message, the, _helen hay whitney_, . message, the, _george edward woodberry_, . messenger, the, _james stephens_, . "mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways," _emile verhaeren_, . midsummer garden, a, _clinton scollard_, . miracle, _l. h. bailey_, . mocking-bird, a, _witter bynner_, . mocking-bird, the, _frank l. stanton_, . morning-glory, the, _florence earle coates_, . moth-flowers, _jeanne robert foster_, . my flower-room, _ella wheeler wilcox_, . "my soul is like a garden-close," _thomas s. jones, jr._, . mystery, _ralph hodgson_, . new sundial, to a, _violet fane_, . night-moth, the, _marion couthouy smith_, . nightingales, _grace hazard conkling_, . november night, _adeline crapsey_, . "oh, tell me how my garden grows," _mildred howells_, . old brocade, the, _m. g. brereton_, . old gardens, _arthur upson_, . old homes, _madison cawein_, . old mothers, _charles ross_, . old-fashioned garden, the, _john russell hayes_, . order, _paul scott mowrer_, . over the garden wall, _emily selinger_, . oxford garden, in an, _arthur upson_, . pasture, the, _robert frost_, . path that leads to nowhere, the, _corinne roosevelt robinson_, . philosopher's garden, the, _john oxenham_, . planting, _robert livingston_, . poplars, the, _theodosia garrison_, . poppies, _john russell hayes_, . prayer, _john hall wheelock_, . prayer, a, _edwin markham_, . primavera, _george cabot lodge_, . progress, _charlotte becker_, . proud vegetables, the, _mary mcneil fenollosa_, . puritan lady's garden, a, _sarah n. cleghorn_, . putting in the seed, _robert frost_, . rain, the, _william h. davies_, . rain in the night, _amelia josephine burr_, . reflections, _amy lowell_, . rest at noon, _hermann hagedorn_, . results and roses, _edgar a. guest_, . road to the pool, the, _grace hazard conkling_, . roman garden, a, _florence wilkinson evans_, . rosa mystica, _katharine tynan_, . rose, the, _grace hazard conkling_, . rose, the, _angela morgan_, . rose-geranium, _clement wood_, . rose lover, a, _frederic a. whiting_, . roses, _wilfrid wilson gibson_, . roses in the subway, _dana burnet_, . safe, _robert haven schauffler_, . samuel gardner, _edgar lee masters_, . scissors-man, the, _grace hazard conkling_, . secret, the, _arthur wallace peach_, . seeds, _john oxenham_, . selection from "under the trees," _anna hempstead branch_, . seller of herbs, a, _lizette woodworth reese_, . serenade, _marjorie l. c. pickthall_, . shade, _theodosia garrison_, . shower, a, _rowland thirlmere_, . snow-gardens, the, _zoë akins_, . soft day, a, _w. m. letts_, . song for winter, a, _mrs. schuyler van rensselaer_, . song from "april," _irene rutherford mcleod_, . song in a garden, a, _theodosia garrison_, . song of fairies, a, _elizabeth kirby_, . song of the weary traveller, _blanche shoemaker wagstaff_, . song of wandering aengus, the, _w. b. yeats_, . song to belinda, a, _theodosia garrison_, . sonnet: "drop me the seed, that i, even in my brain," _john masefield_, . sonnet: "it may be so; but let the unknown be," _john masefield_, . sonnet: "the sweet caresses that i gave to you," _elsa barker_, . sorrow in a garden, _may riley smith_, . south wind, _siegfried sassoon_, . spirit of the birch, the, _arthur ketchum_, . spring, _john gould fletcher_, . spring, _francis ledwidge_, . spring beauties, the, _helen gray cone_, . spring patchwork, _abbie farwell brown_, . spring planting, _helen hay whitney_, . spring song, _hilda conkling_, . spring song, _william griffith_, . stairways and gardens, _ella wheeler wilcox_, . sun, cardinal, and corn flowers, _hannah parker kimball_, . sunflowers, _clinton scollard_, . sweetheart-lady, _frank l. stanton_, . sweetwilliam, to the, _norman gale_, . tell-tale, _oliver herford_, . "the lord god planted a garden," _dorothy frances gurney_, . "there is strength in the soil," _arthur stringer_, . thief, da, _t. a. daly_, . thistle, the, _miles m. dawson_, . thoughts fer the discuraged farmer, _james whitcomb riley_, . three cherry trees, the, _walter de la mare_, . tilling, the, _cale young rice_, . time of roses, the, _sarojini naidu_, . to a daisy, _alice meynell_, . to a new sundial, _violet fane_, . to a weed, _gertrude hall_, . to the sweetwilliam, _norman gale_, . tree, the, _evelyn underhill_, . trees, _bliss carman_, . trees, _joyce kilmer_, . trees, the, _samuel valentine cole_, . tulip garden, a, _amy lowell_, . tulips, _arthur guiterman_, . two roses, _william lindsey_, . "under the trees," selection from, _anna hempstead branch_, . up a hill and a hill, _fannie stearns davis_, . velvets, _hilda conkling_, . "vestured and veiled with twilight," _rosamund marriott watson_, . wall, the, _abbie farwell brown_, . ways of time, the, _william h. davies_, . weed, to a, _gertrude hall_, . welcome, _john curtis underwood_, . welcome, the, _arthur powell_, . "what heart but fears a fragrance?" _martha gilbert dickinson bianchi_, . when swallows build, _catherine parmenter_, . "where love is life," _duncan campbell scott_, . while april rain went by, _shaemas o sheel_, . whisper of earth, the, _edward j. o'brien_, . white iris, a, _pauline b. barrington_, . white peacock, the, _william sharp_, . white rose, the, _charles hanson towne_, . wild gardens, _ada foster murray_, . wild rose, the, _charles buxton going_, . witchery, _frank dempster sherman_, . with a rose, to brunhilde, _vachel lindsay_, . "with memories and odors," _john hall wheelock_, . "within the garden there is healthfulness," _emile verhaeren_, . wonder garden, a, _frederic a. whiting_, . wood song, _sara teasdale_, . years afterward, _nancy byrd turner_, . yellow warblers, _katharine lee bates_, . index of authors a. e., . aiken, conrad, . akins, zoË, . anderson, margaret steele, . bailey, l. h., . barker, elsa, . barrington, pauline b., . bates, katharine lee, , . becker, charlotte, . bianchi, martha gilbert dickinson, . biddle, livingston l., . branch, anna hempstead, , . brereton, m. g., . brown, abbie farwell, , , . burnet, dana, . burr, amelia josephine, , , . burton, richard, , . bynner, witter, , . carman, bliss, , , . cawein, madison, , . chocano, josÉ santos, . cleghorn, sarah n., . coates, florence earle, , . cole, samuel valentine, . colum, padraic, . cone, helen gray, . conkling, grace hazard, , , , , . conkling, hilda, , . crapsey, adelaide, , . daly, t. a., , . davies, william h., , . davis, fannie stearns, . dawson, miles m., . de la mare, walter, . deland, margaret, . denison, eldredge, . dodge, louis, . dorr, julia c. r., , . driscoll, louise, . e., a., . eastaway, edward, . evans, florence wilkinson, . fane, violet, . fenollosa, mary mcneil, , , . fish, w. w. blair, . fletcher, john gould, . foster, jeanne robert, . frost, robert, , , , . gale, norman, . garrison, theodosia, , , , . gibson, wilfrid wilson, . going, charles buxton, , . gosse, edmund, . griffith, william, . guest, edgar a., . guiney, louise imogen, . guiterman, arthur, , , . gurney, dorothy frances, , . hagedorn, hermann, , . hall, gertrude, . harding, ruth guthrie, , . hayes, john russell, , . herford, oliver, . hodgson, ralph, . holley, horace, . hooker, brian, . hope, laurence, . housman, a. e., . howard, katharine, . howells, mildred, . hubbell, rose strong, . jewett, sarah orne, . jewett, sophie, . johnson, burges, . johnson, robert underwood, . jones, thomas s., jr., , , . kemp, harry, , . kenyon, james b., . ketchum, arthur, . kilmer, joyce, . kimball, hannah parker, . kirby, elizabeth, . kreymborg, alfred, . ledwidge, francis, . lee, agnes, . le gallienne, richard, , . letts, w. m., . lindsay, vachel, , . lindsey, william, . livingston, robert, . lodge, george cabot, . lowell, amy, , , , , , . mccarthy, denis a., . mcgiffert, gertrude huntington, , , . mcleod, irene rutherford, . mcmillan, mary, . malloch, douglas, , . markham, catherine, . markham, edwin, , , . martinez, r. arevalo, . masefield, john, , . masters, edgar lee, . meynell, alice, , . middleton, richard, . mifflin, lloyd, . millay, edna st. vincent, , , . monroe, harriet, . morgan, angela, , , . mowrer, paul scott, . murray, ada foster, . naidu, sarojini, , . nesbit, e., . noyes, alfred, . o'brien, edward j., . o'conor, norreys jephson, . oppenheim, james, . o sheel, shaemas, . oxenham, john, , . pai ta-shun, . parmenter, catherine, . patch, kate whiting, . patterson, antoinette de coursey, , , , . peabody, josephine preston, , , . peach, arthur wallace, , . pickthall, marjorie l. c., . powell, arthur, . reese, lizette woodworth, , , . rice, cale young, . rice, john pierrepont, . richards, laura e., . riley, james whitcomb, . rittenhouse, jessie b., . robinson, corinne roosevelt, . ross, charles, . russell, george william, . sassoon, siegfried, . schauffler, robert haven, . scollard, clinton, , , , , . scott, duncan campbell, . selinger, emily, . sharp, william, . shepard, odell, . sherman, frank dempster, , . smith, marion couthouy, . smith, may riley, . stanton, frank l., , . stephens, james, . sterling, george, . stork, charles wharton, , . stringer, arthur, . tabb, john b., , . tagore, rabindranath, , . teasdale, sara, , , , , . thirlmere, rowland, . thomas, edith m., , . thomas, edward, . towne, charles hanson, , . turner, nancy byrd, . tynan, katharine, , . underhill, evelyn, . underwood, john curtis, . untermeyer, louis, , . upson, arthur, , . van dyke, henry, . van rensselaer, mrs. schuyler, . verhaeren, emile, , , . vernÈde, robert ernest, . wagstaff, blanche shoemaker, . walsh, thomas, , , . watson, rosamund marriott, , . watson, william, . wheelock, john hall, , , . white, james terry, . whiting, frederic a., , . whitney, helen hay, , . widdemer, margaret, , . wilcox, ella wheeler, , . wilkinson, marguerite, . wood, clement, . wood, henry a. wise, . woodberry, george edward, , . yeats, w. b., . the riverside press cambridge, massachusetts u. s. a. * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation and obvious spelling errors repaired, but variant spellings retained. inconsistent indentations within a poem were retained. in original, book title "melody of earth" appears twice at beginning, and "index of titles" and "index of authors" headings appear twice before their respective indexes. these redundancies were removed. shaemas o sheel: name occurs consistently with no punctuation after the o. spaces were removed from spaced contractions: for example, "'t was" to "'twas," "that 's" to "that's," "did n't" to "didn't." old time gardens [illustration] old-time gardens _newly set forth_ _by_ alice morse earle _a book of_ the sweet o' the year "_life is sweet, brother! there's day and night, brother! both sweet things: sun, moon and stars, brother! all sweet things: there is likewise a wind on the heath._" [illustration] new york the macmillan company london macmillan & co ltd mcmii _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped november, . reprinted december, ; january, . _norwood press_ _j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith_ _norwood, mass., u.s.a._ [illustration: to my daughter alice clary earle to whose knowledge of flowers and love of flower lore i owe many pages of this book....] contents chapter page i. colonial garden-making ii. front dooryards iii. varied gardens fair iv. box edgings v. the herb garden vi. in lilac tide vii. old flower favorites viii. comfort me with apples ix. gardens of the poets x. the charm of color xi. the blue flower border xii. plant names xiii. tussy-mussies xiv. joan silver-pin xv. childhood in a garden xvi. meetin' seed and sabbath day posies xvii. sun-dials xviii. garden furnishings xix. garden boundaries xx. a moonlight garden xxi. flowers of mystery xxii. roses of yesterday index list of illustrations the end papers of this book bear a design of the flower ambrosia. the vignette on the title-page is re-drawn from one in _the compleat body of husbandry_, thomas hale, . it represents "love laying out the surface of the earth in a garden." the device of the dedication is an ancient garden-knot for flowers, from _a new orchard and garden_, william lawson, . the chapter initials are from old wood-cut initials in the english herbals of gerarde, parkinson, and cole. page _garden of johnson mansion, germantown. photographed by henry troth_ facing _garden at grumblethorp, home of charles j. wister, esq., germantown, pennsylvania_ _garden of bartram house, philadelphia, pennsylvania_ _garden of abigail adams, quincy, massachusetts_ _garden at mount vernon-on-the-potomac, virginia. home of george washington_ facing _gate and hedge of preston garden, columbia, south carolina_ _fountain path in preston garden, columbia, south carolina_ _door in wall of kitchen garden at van cortlandt manor. croton-on-hudson, new york. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _garden of van cortlandt manor. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _garden at prince homestead, flushing, long island_ _old dutch garden of bergen homestead, bay ridge, long island_ facing _garden at duck cove, narragansett, rhode island_ _the flowering almond under the window. photographed by eva e. newell_ _peter's wreath. photographed by eva e. newell_ _peonies in garden of john robinson, esq., salem, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ facing _white peonies. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _yellow day lilies. photographed by clifton johnson_ facing _orange lilies. photographed by eva e. newell_ _preston garden, columbia, south carolina_ facing _box-edged parterre at hampton, county baltimore, maryland. home of mrs. john ridgely. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _parterre and clipped box at hampton, county baltimore, maryland. home of mrs. john ridgely. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _garden of mrs. mabel osgood wright, waldstein, fairfield, connecticut. photographed by mabel osgood wright_ _a shaded walk. in the garden of miss harriet p. f. burnside, worcester, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ facing _roses and larkspur in the garden of miss harriet p. f. burnside, worcester, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _the homely back yard. photographed by henry troth_ facing _covered well at home of bishop berkeley, whitehall, newport, rhode island_ _kitchen doorway and porch at the hedges, new hope, county bucks, pennsylvania_ _greenwood, thomasville, georgia_ _roses and violets in garden of greenwood, thomasville, georgia_ facing _water garden at sylvester manor, shelter island, new york. home of miss cornelia horsford_ _garden at avonwood court, haverford, pennsylvania. country-seat of charles e. mather, esq. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _terrace wall at drumthwacket, princeton, new jersey. country-seat of m. taylor pyne, esq._ _garden at drumthwacket, princeton, new jersey. country-seat of m. taylor pyne, esq._ _sun-dial at avonwood court, haverford, pennsylvania. country-seat of charles e. mather, esq. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _entrance porch and gate to the rose garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq. photographed by gustave lorey_ _pergola and terrace walk in rose garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq. photographed by gustave lorey_ _statue of christalan in rose garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq. photographed by gustave lorey_ _sun-dial in rose garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq. photographed by gustave lorey_ _bronze dial-face in rose garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq. photographed by gustave lorey_ _ancient pine in garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq. photographed by gustave lorey_ _house and garden at napanock, county ulster, new york. photographed by edward lamson henry, n. a._ facing _box parterre at hampton, county baltimore, maryland. home of mrs. john ridgely. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _sun-dial in box at broughton castle, banbury, england. garden of lady lennox_ _sun-dial in box at ascott, near leighton buzzard, england. country-seat of mr. leopold rothschild_ facing _garden at tudor place, georgetown, district of columbia. home of mrs. beverly kennon. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _anchor-shaped flower beds, kingston, rhode island. photographed by sarah p. marchant_ _ancient box at tuckahoe, virginia_ _herb garden at white birches, elmhurst, illinois_ _garden at white birches, elmhurst, illinois_ _garden of manning homestead, salem, massachusetts_ facing _under the garret eaves of ward homestead, shrewsbury, massachusetts_ _a gatherer of simples. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ facing _sage. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _tansy. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _garden of mrs. abraham lansing, albany, new york. photographed by gustave lorey_ facing _ladies' delights. photographed by eva e. newell_ _garden house and long walk in garden of hon. william h. seward, auburn, new york_ facing _sun-dial in garden of hon. william h. seward, auburn, new york_ _lilacs in midsummer. in garden of mrs. abraham lansing, albany, new york. photographed by gustave lorey_ facing _lilacs at craigie house, cambridge, massachusetts, the home of longfellow. photographed by arthur n. wilmarth_ _box-edged garden at home of longfellow, cambridge, massachusetts. photographed by arthur n. wilmarth_ _joepye-weed and queen anne's laces. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _boneset. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _magnolias in garden of william brown, esq., flatbush, long island_ facing _lilacs at hopewell_ _persian lilacs and peonies in garden of kimball homestead, portsmouth, new hampshire_ _opyn-tide, the thought of spring. garden of mrs. abraham lansing, albany, new york. photographed by pirie macdonald_ facing _a thought of winter's snows. garden of frederick j. kingsbury, esq., waterbury, connecticut_ _larkspur and phlox. garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts_ _sweet william and foxglove_ _plume poppy_ _meadow rue_ _money-in-both-pockets_ _box walk in garden of frederick j. kingsbury, esq., waterbury, connecticut_ _lunaria in garden of mrs. mabel osgood wright, fairfield, connecticut. photographed by mabel osgood wright_ facing _dahlia walk at ravensworth, county fairfax, virginia. home of mrs. w. r. fitzhugh lee. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _petunias_ _virgin's bower, in garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts_ _matrimony vine at van cortlandt manor. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ _white chinese wistaria, in garden of mortimer howell, esq., west hampton beach, long island_ _spiræa van houtteii. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _old apple tree at whitehall. home of bishop berkeley, near newport, rhode island_ "_the valley stretching below is white with blossoming apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow._" _photographed by t. e. m. and g. f. white_ _old hand-power cider mill. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _pressing out the cider in old hand mill_ _old cider mill with horse power. photographed by t. e. m. and g. f. white_ _straining off the cider into barrels_ _drying apples. photographed by t. e. m. and g. f. white_ facing _ancient apple picker, apple racks, apple parers, apple butter kettle, apple butter paddle, apple butter stirrer, apple butter crocks. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _making apple butter. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ facing _shakespeare border in garden at hillside, menand's, near albany, new york. photographed by gustave lorey_ _long border at hillside, menand's, near albany, new york. photographed by gustave lorey_ facing _the beauty of winter lilacs. in garden of mrs. abraham lansing, albany, new york. photographed by pirie macdonald_ _garden of mrs. frank robinson, wakefield, rhode island_ _the parson's walk_ _garden of mary washington_ _box and phlox. garden of sylvester manor, shelter island, new york_ _within the weeping beech. photographed by e. c. nichols_ facing _spring snowflake, garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _star of bethlehem, in garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _"the pearl" achillæa_ _pyrethrum. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _terraced garden of the misses nichols, salem, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _arbor in a salem garden_ _scilla in garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts_ _sweet alyssum edging of white border at indian hill, newburyport, massachusetts_ _bachelor's buttons in a salem garden. home of mrs. edward b. peirson_ _a "sweet garden-side" in salem, massachusetts, home of john robinson, esq._ facing _salpiglossis in garden at indian hill, newburyport, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _the old campanula, garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts_ _chinese bellflower. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _garden at tudor place, georgetown, district of columbia. home of mrs. beverly kennon. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ facing _light as a loop of larkspur, in garden of judge oliver wendell holmes, beverly, massachusetts_ _viper's bugloss. photographed by henry troth_ _the prim precision of leaf and flower of lupine. photographed by henry troth_ _the garden's friend. photographed by clifton johnson_ _edging of striped lilies in a salem garden. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _garden seat at avonwood court. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _terraced garden of the misses nichols, salem, massachusetts_ _"a running ribbon of perfumed snow which the sun is melting rapidly." at marchant farm, kingston, rhode island. photographed by sarah f. marchant_ _fountain garden at sylvester manor, shelter island, new york_ facing _hawthorn arch at holly house, peace dale, rhode island. home of rowland g. hazard, esq._ _thyme-covered graves. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ "_white umbrellas of elder_" _lower garden at sylvester manor, shelter island, new york_ facing "_black-heart amorous poppies_" _valerian. photographed by e. c. nichols_ _old war office in garden at salem, new jersey_ _crown imperial. page from gerarde's herball_ facing _the children's garden_ facing _foxgloves in a narragansett garden_ _hollyhocks in garden of kimball homestead, portsmouth, new hampshire_ facing _autumn view of an old worcester garden_ facing _hollyhocks at tudor place, georgetown, district of columbia. home of mrs. beverly kennon_ _an old worcester garden. home of edwin a. fawcett, esq._ facing _caraway_ _sun-dial of jonathan fairbanks, esq., dedham, massachusetts_ _bronze sun-dial on dutch reformed church, west end avenue, new york_ _sun-dial mounted on boulder, swiftwater, pennsylvania_ _buckthorn arch in garden of mrs. edward b. peirson, salem, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ facing _sun-dial at emery place, brightwood, district of columbia. photographed by william van zandt cox_ _sun-dial at travellers' rest, virginia. home of mrs. bowie gray. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _two old cronies; the sun-dial and bee skepe. photographed by eva e. newell_ _portable sun-dial from collection of the author_ _sun-dial in garden of frederick j. kingsbury, esq., waterbury, connecticut_ _sun-dial at morristown, new jersey. designed by w. gedney beatty, esq._ "_yes, toby, it's three o'clock._" _judge daly and his sun-dial at sag harbor, long island. drawn by edward lamson henry, n.a._ _face of dial at sag harbor, long island_ _sun-dial in garden of grace church rectory, new york. photographed by j. w. dow_ _fugio bank-note_ _sun-dial at "washington house," little brington, england_ _dial-face from mount vernon. owned by william f. havemeyer, jr._ _sun-dial from home of mary washington, fredericksburg, virginia. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _kenmore, the home of betty washington lewis, fredericksburg, virginia. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _sun-dial in garden of charles t. jenkins, esq., germantown, pennsylvania_ _sun-dial at ophir farm, white plains, new york. country-seat of hon. whitelaw reid_ _sun-dial at hillside, menand's, near albany, new york_ _old brass and pewter dial-faces from collection of author_ _beata beatrix_ facing _the faithful gardener_ _a garden lyre at waterford, virginia_ facing _a virginia lyre with vines_ _old iron gates at westover-on-james, virginia. photographed by george s. cook_ _ironwork in court of colt mansion, bristol, rhode island. photographed by j. w. dow_ _sharpening the old dutch scythe. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ facing _summer-house at ravensworth, county fairfax, virginia. home of mrs. w. h. fitzhugh lee. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _beehives at waterford, virginia. photographed by henry troth_ facing _beehives under the trees. photographed by henry troth_ _spring house at johnson homestead, germantown, pennsylvania. photographed by henry troth_ facing _dovecote at shirley-on-james, virginia. from_ some colonial mansions and those who lived in them. _published by henry t. coates & co., philadelphia_ _the peacock in his pride_ _the guardian of the garden_ _brick terrace wall at van cortlandt manor. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _rail fence corner_ _topiary work at levens hall_ _oval pergola at arlington, virginia. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ facing _french homestead, kingston, rhode island, with old stone terrace wall. photographed by sarah f. marchant_ _italian garden at wellesley, massachusetts. country-seat of hollis h. hunnewell, esq._ facing _marble steps in italian garden at wellesley, massachusetts_ _topiary work in california_ _serpentine brick wall at university of virginia, charlottesville, virginia. photographed by elizabeth w. trescot_ _chestnut path in garden at indian hill, newburyport, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ facing _foxgloves in lower garden at indian hill, newburyport, massachusetts. photographed by herschel f. davis_ _dame's rocket. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ _snakeroot. photographed by mary f. c paschall_ _title-page of parkinson's_ paradisi in solis, _etc._ facing _yuccas, like white marble against the evergreens_ _fraxinella in garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts_ facing _love-in-a-mist. photographed by henry troth_ _spiderwort in an old worcester garden. photographed by herschel f. davis_ facing _gardener's garters at van cortlandt manor. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ _garden walk at the manse, deerfield, massachusetts. photographed by clifton johnson_ facing _london pride. photographed by eva e. newell_ _white fritillaria in garden of miss frances clary morse, worcester, massachusetts_ _bouncing bet_ _overgrown garden at llanerck, pennsylvania. photographed by henry troth_ facing _fountain at yaddo, saratoga, new york. country-seat of spencer trask, esq._ _avenue of white pines at wellesley, massachusetts. country-seat of hollis h. hunnewell, esq._ _violets in silver double coaster_ _york and lancaster rose at van cortlandt manor. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing _cinnamon roses. photographed by mabel osgood wright_ _cottage garden with roses. photographed by mary f. c. paschall_ facing _madame plantier rose. photographed by mabel osgood wright_ _sun-dial and roses at van cortlandt manor. photographed by j. horace mcfarland_ facing old time gardens chapter i colonial garden-making "there is not a softer trait to be found in the character of those stern men than that they should have been sensible of these flower-roots clinging among the fibres of their rugged hearts, and felt the necessity of bringing them over sea, and making them hereditary in the new land." --_american note-book_, nathaniel hawthorne. after ten wearisome weeks of travel across an unknown sea, to an equally unknown world, the group of puritan men and women who were the founders of boston neared their land of promise; and their noble leader, john winthrop, wrote in his journal that "we had now fair sunshine weather and so pleasant a sweet aire as did much refresh us, and there came a smell off the shore like the smell of a garden." a _smell of a garden_ was the first welcome to our ancestors from their new home; and a pleasant and perfect emblem it was of the life that awaited them. they were not to become hunters and rovers, not to be eager to explore quickly the vast wilds beyond; they were to settle down in the most domestic of lives, as tillers of the soil, as makers of gardens. what must that sweet air from the land have been to the sea-weary puritan women on shipboard, laden to them with its promise of a garden! for i doubt not every woman bore with her across seas some little package of seeds and bulbs from her english home garden, and perhaps a tiny slip or plant of some endeared flower; watered each day, i fear, with many tears, as well as from the surprisingly scant water supply which we know was on board that ship. and there also came flying to the _arbella_ as to the ark, a dove--a bird of promise--and soon the ship came to anchor. "with hearts revived in conceit new lands and trees they spy, scenting the cædars and sweet fern from heat's reflection dry," wrote one colonist of that arrival, in his _good newes from new england_. i like to think that sweet fern, the characteristic wild perfume of new england, was wafted out to greet them. and then all went on shore in the sunshine of that ineffable time and season,--a new england day in june,--and they "gathered store of fine strawberries," just as their salem friends had on a june day on the preceding year gathered strawberries and "sweet single roses" so resembling the english eglantine that the hearts of the women must have ached within them with fresh homesickness. and ere long all had dwelling-places, were they but humble log cabins; and pasture lands and commons were portioned out; and in a short time all had garden-plots, and thus, with sheltering roof-trees, and warm firesides, and with gardens, even in this lonely new world, they had _homes_. the first entry in the plymouth records is a significant one; it is the assignment of "meresteads and garden-plotes," not meresteads alone, which were farm lands, but home gardens: the outlines of these can still be seen in plymouth town. and soon all sojourners who bore news back to england of the new-englishmen and new-englishwomen, told of ample store of gardens. ere a year had passed hopeful john winthrop wrote, "my deare wife, wee are here in a paradise." in four years the chronicler wood said in his _new england's prospect_, "there is growing here all manner of herbs for meat and medicine, and that not only in planted gardens, but in the woods, without the act and help of man." governor endicott had by that time a very creditable garden. and by every humble dwelling the homesick goodwife or dame, trying to create a semblance of her fair english home so far away, planted in her "garden plot" seeds and roots of homely english flowers and herbs, that quickly grew and blossomed and smiled on bleak new england's rocky shores as sturdily and happily as they had bloomed in the old gardens and by the ancient door sides in england. what good cheer they must have brought! how they must have been beloved! for these old english garden flowers are such gracious things; marvels of scent, lavish of bloom, bearing such genial faces, growing so readily and hardily, spreading so quickly, responding so gratefully to such little care: what pure refreshment they bore in their blossoms, what comfort in their seeds; they must have seemed an emblem of hope, a promise of a new and happy home. i rejoice over every one that i know was in those little colonial gardens, for each one added just so much measure of solace to what seems to me, as i think upon it, one of the loneliest, most fearsome things that gentlewomen ever had to do, all the harder because neither by poverty nor by unavoidable stress were they forced to it; they came across-seas willingly, for conscience' sake. these women were not accustomed to the thought of emigration, as are european folk to-day; they had no friends to greet them in the new land; they were to encounter wild animals and wild men; sea and country were unknown--they could scarce expect ever to return: they left everything, and took nothing of comfort but their bibles and their flower seeds. so when i see one of the old english flowers, grown of those days, blooming now in my garden, from the unbroken chain of blossom to seed of nearly three centuries, i thank the flower for all that its forbears did to comfort my forbears, and i cherish it with added tenderness. [illustration: garden of the johnson mansion, germantown, pennsylvania.] we should have scant notion of the gardens of these new england colonists in the seventeenth century were it not for a cheerful traveller named john josselyn, a man of everyday tastes and much inquisitiveness, and the pleasing literary style which comes from directness, and an absence of self-consciousness. he published in a book entitled _new england's rarities discovered_, etc., and in another volume giving an account of his two voyages hither in and . he made a very careful list of vegetables which he found thriving in the new land; and since his flower list is the earliest known, i will transcribe it in full; it isn't long, but there is enough in it to make it a suggestive outline which we can fill in from what we know of the plants to-day, and form a very fair picture of those gardens. "spearmint, rew, will hardly grow fetherfew prospereth exceedingly; southernwood, is no plant for this country, nor rosemary. nor bayes. white-satten groweth pretty well, so doth lavender-cotton. but lavender is not for the climate. penny royal smalledge. ground ivey, or ale hoof. gilly flowers will continue two years. fennel must be taken up, and kept in a warm cellar all winter horseleek prospereth notably holly hocks enula canpana, in two years time the roots rot. comferie, with white flowers. coriander, and dill, and annis thrive exceedingly, but annis seed, as also the seed of fennel seldom come to maturity; the seed of annis is commonly eaten with a fly. clary never lasts but one summer, the roots rot with the frost. sparagus thrives exceedingly, so does garden sorrel, and sweet bryer or eglantine bloodwort but sorrily, but patience and english roses very pleasantly. celandine, by the west country now called kenning wort grows but slowly. muschater, as well as in england dittander or pepperwort flourisheth notably and so doth tansie." these lists were published fifty years after the landing of the pilgrims at plymouth; from them we find that the country was just as well stocked with vegetables as it was a hundred years later when other travellers made lists, but the flowers seem few; still, such as they were, they formed a goodly sight. with rows of hollyhocks glowing against the rude stone walls and rail fences of their little yards; with clumps of lavender cotton and honesty and gillyflowers blossoming freely; with feverfew "prospering" to sow and slip and pot and give to neighbors just as new england women have done with feverfew every year of the centuries that have followed; with "a rose looking in at the window"--a sweetbrier, eglantine, or english rose--these colonial dames might well find "patience growing very pleasantly" in their hearts as in their gardens. [illustration: garden at grumblethorp, germantown, pennsylvania.] they had plenty of pot herbs for their accustomed savoring; and plenty of medicinal herbs for their wonted dosing. shakespeare's "nose-herbs" were not lacking. doubtless they soon added to these garden flowers many of our beautiful native blooms, rejoicing if they resembled any beloved english flowers, and quickly giving them, as we know, familiar old english plant-names. and there were other garden inhabitants, as truly english as were the cherished flowers, the old garden weeds, which quickly found a home and thrived in triumph in the new soil. perhaps the weed seeds came over in the flower-pot that held a sheltered plant or cutting; perhaps a few were mixed with garden seeds; perhaps they were in the straw or other packing of household goods: no one knew the manner of their coming, but there they were, motherwort, groundsel, chickweed, and wild mustard, mullein and nettle, henbane and wormwood. many a goodwife must have gazed in despair at the persistent plantain, "the englishman's foot," which seems to have landed in plymouth from the mayflower. josselyn made other lists of plants which he found in america, under these headings:-- "such plants as are common with us in england. such plants as are proper to the country. such plants as are proper to the country and have no name. such plants as have sprung up since the english planted, and kept cattle in new england." in these lists he gives a surprising number of english weeds which had thriven and rejoiced in their new home. [illustration: garden of the bartram house, philadelphia, pennsylvania.] mr. tuckerman calls josselyn's list of the fishes of the new world a poor makeshift; his various lists of plants are better, but they are the lists of an herbalist, not of a botanist. he had some acquaintance with the practice of physic, of which he narrates some examples; and an interest in kitchen recipes, and included a few in his books. he said that parkinson or another botanist might have "found in new england a thousand, at least, of plants never heard of nor seen by any englishman before," and adds that he was himself an indifferent observer. he certainly lost an extraordinary opportunity of distinguishing himself, indeed of immortalizing himself; and it is surprising that he was so heedless, for englishmen of that day were in general eager botanists. the study of plants was new, and was deemed of such absorbing interest and fascination that some rigid puritans feared they might lose their immortal souls through making their new plants their idols. [illustration: garden of abigail adams.] when josselyn wrote, but few of our american flowers were known to european botanists; indian corn, pitcher plant, columbine, milkweed, everlasting, and arbor-vitæ had been described in printed books, and the evening primrose. a history of canadian and other new plants, by dr. cornuti, had been printed in europe, giving thirty-seven of our plants; and all english naturalists were longing to add to the list; the ships which brought over homely seeds and plants for the gardens of the colonists carried back rare american seeds and plants for english physic gardens. in pennsylvania, from the first years of the settlement, william penn encouraged his quaker followers to plant english flowers and fruit in abundance, and to try the fruits of the new world. father pastorius, in his germantown settlement, assigned to each family a garden-plot of three acres, as befitted a man who left behind him at his death a manuscript poem of many thousand words on the pleasures of gardening, the description of flowers, and keeping of bees. george fox, the founder of the friends, or quakers, died in . he had travelled in the colonies; and in his will he left sixteen acres of land to the quaker meeting in the city of philadelphia. of these sixteen acres, ten were for "a close to put friends' horses in when they came afar to the meeting, that they may not be lost in the woods," while the other six were for a site for a meeting-house and school-house, and "for a playground for the children of the town to play on, and for a garden to plant with physical plants, for lads and lasses to know simples, and to learn to make oils and ointments." few as are these words, they convey a positive picture of fox's intent, and a pleasing picture it is. he had seen what interest had been awakened and what instruction conveyed through the "physick-garden" at chelsea, england; and he promised to himself similar interest and information from the study of plants and flowers by the quaker "lads and lasses" of the new world. though nothing came from this bequest, there was a later fulfilment of fox's hopes in the establishment of a successful botanic garden in philadelphia, and, in the planting, growth, and flourishing in the province of pennsylvania of the loveliest gardens in the new world; there floriculture reached by the time of the revolution a very high point; and many exquisite gardens bore ample testimony to the "pride of life," as well as to the good taste and love of flowers of philadelphia friends. the garden at grumblethorp, the home of charles j. wister, esq., of germantown, pennsylvania, shown on page , dates to colonial days and is still flourishing and beautiful. in was established, by john bartram, in philadelphia, the first botanic garden in america. the ground on which it was planted, and the stone dwelling-house he built thereon in , are now part of the park system of philadelphia. a view of the garden as now in cultivation is given on page . bartram travelled much in america, and through his constant correspondence and flower exchanges with distinguished botanists and plant growers in europe, many native american plants became well known in foreign gardens, among them the lady's slipper and rhododendron. he was a quaker,--a quaint and picturesque figure,--and his example helped to establish the many fine gardens in the vicinity of philadelphia. the example and precept of washington also had important influence; for he was constant in his desire and his effort to secure every good and new plant, grain, shrub, and tree for his home at mount vernon. a beautiful tribute to his good taste and that of his wife still exists in the mount vernon flower garden, which in shape, box edgings, and many details is precisely as it was in their day. a view of its well-ordered charms is shown opposite page . whenever i walk in this garden i am deeply grateful to the devoted women who keep it in such perfection, as an object-lesson to us of the dignity, comeliness, and beauty of a garden of the olden times. [illustration: garden at mount vernon-on-the-potomac. home of george washington.] there is little evidence that a general love and cultivation of flowers was as common in humble homes in the southern colonies as in new england and the middle provinces. the teeming abundance near the tropics rendered any special gardening unnecessary for poor folk; flowers grew and blossomed lavishly everywhere without any coaxing or care. on splendid estates there were splendid gardens, which have nearly all suffered by the devastations of war--in some towns they were thrice thus scourged. so great was the beauty of these southern gardens and so vast the love they provoked in their owners, that in more than one case the life of the garden's master was merged in that of the garden. the british soldiers during the war of the revolution wantonly destroyed the exquisite flowers at "the grove," just outside the city of charleston, and their owner, mr. gibbes, dropped dead in grief at the sight of the waste. the great wealth of the southern planters, their constant and extravagant following of english customs and fashions, their fertile soil and favorable climate, and their many slaves, all contributed to the successful making of elaborate gardens. even as early as south carolina gardens were declared to be "adorned with such flowers as to the smell or eye are pleasing or agreeable, as the rose, tulip, lily, carnation, &c." william byrd wrote of the terraced gardens of virginia homes. charleston dames vied with each other in the beauty of their gardens, and mrs. logan, when seventy years old, in , wrote a treatise called _the gardener's kalendar_. eliza lucas pinckney of charleston was devoted to practical floriculture and horticulture. her introduction of indigo raising into south carolina revolutionized the trade products of the state and brought to it vast wealth. like many other women and many men of wealth and culture at that time, she kept up a constant exchange of letters, seeds, plants, and bulbs with english people of like tastes. she received from them valuable english seeds and shrubs; and in turn she sent to england what were so eagerly sought by english flower raisers, our native plants. the good will and national pride of ship captains were enlisted; even young trees of considerable size were set in hogsheads, and transported, and cared for during the long voyage. [illustration: gate and hedge of preston garden.] the garden at mount vernon is probably the oldest in virginia still in original shape. in maryland are several fine, formal gardens which do not date, however, to colonial days; the beautiful one at hampton, the home of the ridgelys, in baltimore county, is shown on pages , and . in both north and south carolina the gardens were exquisite. many were laid out by competent landscape gardeners, and were kept in order by skilled workmen, negro slaves, who were carefully trained from childhood to special labor, such as topiary work. in camden and charleston the gardens vied with the finest english manor-house gardens. remains of their beauty exist, despite devastating wars and earthquakes. views of the preston garden, columbia, south carolina, are shown on pages and and facing page . they are now the grounds of the presbyterian college for women. the hedges have been much reduced within a few years; but the garden still bears a surprising resemblance to the garden of the generalife, granada. the spanish garden has fewer flowers and more fountains, yet i think it must have been the model for the preston garden. the climax of magnificence in southern gardens has been for years, at magnolia-on-the-ashley, the ancestral home of the draytons since . it is impossible to describe the affluence of color in this garden in springtime; masses of unbroken bloom on giant magnolias; vast camellia japonicas, looking, leaf and flower, thoroughly artificial, as if made of solid wax; splendid crape myrtles, those strange flower-trees; mammoth rhododendrons; azaleas of every azalea color,--all surrounded by walls of the golden banksia roses, and hedges covered with jasmine and honeysuckle. the azaleas are the special glory of the garden; the bushes are fifteen to twenty feet in height, and fifty or sixty feet in circumference, with rich blossoms running over and crowding down on the ground as if color had been poured over the bushes; they extend in vistas of vivid hues as far as the eye can reach. all this gay and brilliant color is overhung by a startling contrast, the most sombre and gloomy thing in nature, great live-oaks heavily draped with gray moss; the avenue of largest oaks was planted two centuries ago. i give no picture of this drayton garden, for a photograph of these many acres of solid bloom is a meaningless thing. even an oil painting of it is confused and disappointing. in the garden itself the excess of color is as cloying as its surfeit of scent pouring from the thousands of open flower cups; we long for green hedges, even for scanter bloom and for fainter fragrance. it is not a garden to live in, as are our box-bordered gardens of the north, our cheerful cottage borders, and our well-balanced italian gardens, so restful to the eye; it is a garden to look at and wonder at. the dutch settlers brought their love of flowering bulbs, and the bulbs also, to the new world. adrian van der donck, a gossiping visitor to new netherland when the little town of new amsterdam had about a thousand inhabitants, described the fine kitchen gardens, the vegetables and fruits, and gave an interesting list of garden flowers which he found under cultivation by the dutch vrouws. he says: "of the flowers. the flowers in general which the netherlanders have introduced there are the white and red roses of different kinds, the cornelian roses, and stock roses; and those of which there were none before in the country, such as eglantine, several kinds of gillyflowers, jenoffelins, different varieties of fine tulips, crown imperials, white lilies, the lily frutularia, anemones, baredames, violets, marigolds, summer sots, etc. the clove tree has also been introduced, and there are various indigenous trees that bear handsome flowers, which are unknown in the netherlands. we also find there some flowers of native growth, as, for instance, sunflowers, red and yellow lilies, mountain lilies, morning stars, red, white, and yellow maritoffles (a very sweet flower), several species of bell flowers, etc., to which i have not given particular attention, but _amateurs_ would hold them in high estimation and make them widely known." [illustration: fountain path in preston garden, columbia, south carolina.] i wish i knew what a cornelian rose was, and jenoffelins, baredames, and summer sots; and what the lilies were and the maritoffles and bell flowers. they all sound so cheerful and homelike--just as if they bloomed well. perhaps the cornelian rose may have been striped red and white like cornelian stone, and like our york and lancaster rose. tulips are on all seed and plant lists of colonial days, and they were doubtless in every home dooryard in new netherland. governor peter stuyvesant had a fine farm on the bouwerie, and is said to have had a flower garden there and at his home, white hall, at the battery, for he had forty or fifty negro slaves who were kept at work on his estate. in the city of new york many fine formal gardens lingered, on what are now our most crowded streets, till within the memory of persons now living. one is described as full of "paus bloemen of all hues, laylocks, and tall may roses and snowballs intermixed with choice vegetables and herbs all bounded and hemmed in by huge rows of neatly-clipped box-edgings." an evidence of increase in garden luxury in new york is found in the advertisement of one theophilus hardenbrook, in , a practical surveyor and architect, who had an evening school for teaching architecture. he designed pavilions, summer-houses, and garden seats, and "green-houses for the preservation of herbs with winding funnels through the walls so as to keep them warm." a picture of the green-house of james beekman, of new york, , still exists, a primitive little affair. the first glass-house in north america is believed to be one built in boston for andrew faneuil, who died in . mrs. anne grant, writing of her life near albany in the middle of the eighteenth century, gives a very good description of the schuyler garden. skulls of domestic animals on fence posts, would seem astounding had i not read of similar decorations in old continental gardens. vines grew over these grisly fence-capitals and birds built their nests in them, so in time the dutch housewife's peaceful kitchen garden ceased to resemble the kraal of an african chieftain; to this day, in south africa, natives and dutch boers thus set up on gate posts the skulls of cattle. mrs. grant writes of the dutch in albany:-- "the care of plants, such as needed peculiar care or skill to rear them, was the female province. every one in town or country had a garden. into this garden no foot of man intruded after it was dug in the spring. i think i see yet what i have so often beheld--a respectable mistress of a family going out to her garden, on an april morning, with her great calash, her little painted basket of seeds, and her rake over her shoulder to her garden of labours. a woman in very easy circumstances and abundantly gentle in form and manners would sow and plant and rake incessantly." we have happily a beautiful example of the old dutch manor garden, at van cortlandt manor, at croton-on-hudson, new york, still in the possession of the van cortlandt family. it is one of the few gardens in america that date really to colonial days. the manor house was built in ; it is one of those fine old dutch homesteads of which we still have many existing throughout new york, in which dignity, comfort, and fitness are so happily combined. these homes are, in the words of a traveller of colonial days, "so pleasant in their building, and contrived so delightful." above all, they are so suited to their surroundings that they seem an intrinsic part of the landscape, as they do of the old life of this hudson river valley. [illustration: door in wall of kitchen garden at van cortlandt manor.] i do not doubt that this van cortlandt garden was laid out when the house was built; much of it must be two centuries old. it has been extended, not altered; and the grass-covered bank supporting the upper garden was replaced by a brick terrace wall about sixty years ago. its present form dates to the days when new york was a province. the upper garden is laid out in formal flower beds; the lower border is rich in old vines and shrubs, and all the beloved old-time hardy plants. there is in the manor-house an ancient portrait of the child pierre van cortlandt, painted about the year . he stands by a table bearing a vase filled with old garden flowers--tulip, convolvulus, harebell, rose, peony, narcissus, and flowering almond; and it is the pleasure of the present mistress of the manor, to see that the garden still holds all the great-grandfather's flowers. there is a vine-embowered old door in the wall under the piazza (see opposite page ) which opens into the kitchen and fruit garden; a wall-door so quaint and old-timey that i always remind me of shakespeare's lines in _measure for measure_:-- "he hath a garden circummured with brick, whose western side is with a vineyard back'd; and to that vineyard is a planchéd gate that makes his opening with this bigger key: the other doth command a little door which from the vineyard to the garden leads." the long path is a beautiful feature of this garden (it is shown in the picture of the garden opposite page ); it dates certainly to the middle of the eighteenth century. pierre van cortlandt, the son of the child with the vase of flowers, and grandfather of the present generation bearing his surname, was born in . he well recalled playing along this garden path when he was a child; and that one day he and his little sister ann (mrs. philip van rensselaer) ran a race along this path and through the garden to see who could first "see the baby" and greet their sister, mrs. beekman, who came riding to the manor-house up the hill from tarrytown, and through the avenue, which shows on the right-hand side of the garden-picture. this beautiful young woman was famed everywhere for her grace and loveliness, and later equally so for her intelligence and goodness, and the prominent part she bore in the war of the revolution. she was seated on a pillion behind her husband, and she carried proudly in her arms her first baby (afterward dr. beekman) wrapped in a scarlet cloak. this is one of the home-pictures that the old garden holds. would we could paint it! in this garden, near the house, is a never failing spring and well. the house was purposely built near it, in those days of sudden attacks by indians; it has proved a fountain of perpetual youth for the old locust tree, which shades it; a tree more ancient than house or garden, serene and beautiful in its hearty old age. glimpses of this manor-house garden and its flowers are shown on many pages of this book, but they cannot reveal its beauty as a whole--its fine proportions, its noble background, its splendid trees, its turf, its beds of bloom. oh! how beautiful a garden can be, when for two hundred years it has been loved and cherished, ever nurtured, ever guarded; how plainly it shows such care! another dutch garden is pictured opposite page , the garden of the bergen homestead, at bay ridge, long island. let me quote part of its description, written by mrs. tunis bergen:-- "over the half-open dutch door you look through the vines that climb about the stoop, as into a vista of the past. beyond the garden is the great quince orchard of hundreds of trees in pink and white glory. this orchard has a story which you must pause in the garden to hear. in the library at washington is preserved, in quaint manuscript, 'the battle of brooklyn,' a farce written and said to have been performed during the british occupation. the scene is partly laid in 'the orchard of one bergen,' where the british hid their horses after the battle of long island--this is the orchard; but the blossoming quince trees tell no tale of past carnage. at one side of the garden is a quaint little building with moss-grown roof and climbing hop-vine--the last slave kitchen left standing in new york--on the other side are rows of homely beehives. the old locust tree overshadowing is an ancient landmark--it was standing in . for some years it has worn a chain to bind its aged limbs together. all this beauty of tree and flower lived till , when it was swept away by the growing city. though now but a memory, it has the perfume of its past flowers about it." the locust was so often a "home tree" and so fitting a one, that i have grown to associate ever with these dutch homesteads a light-leaved locust tree, shedding its beautiful flickering shadows on the long roof. i wonder whether there was any association or tradition that made the locust the house-friend in old new york! the first nurseryman in the new world was stern old governor endicott of salem. in he wrote to governor winthrop, "my children burnt mee at least trees by setting the ground on fire neere them"--which was a very pretty piece of mischief for sober puritan children. we find all thoughtful men of influence and prominence in all the colonies raising various fruits, and selling trees and plants, but they had no independent business nurseries. [illustration: garden at van cortlandt manor.] if tradition be true, it is to governor endicott we owe an indelible dye on the landscape of eastern massachusetts in midsummer. the dyer's-weed or woad-waxen (_genista tinctoria_), which, in july, covers hundreds of acres in lynn, salem, swampscott, and beverly with its solid growth and brilliant yellow bloom, is said to have been brought to this country as the packing of some of the governor's household belongings. it is far more probable that he brought it here to raise it in his garden for dyeing purposes, with intent to benefit the colony, as he did other useful seeds and plants. woadwaxen, or broom, is a persistent thing; it needs scythe, plough, hoe, and bitter labor to eradicate it. i cannot call it a weed, for it has seized only poor rock-filled land, good for naught else; and the radiant beauty of the salem landscape for many weeks makes us forgive its persistence, and thank endicott for bringing it here. "the broom, full-flowered and visible on every steep, along the copses runs in veins of gold." the broom flower is the emblem of mid-summer, the hottest yellow flower i know--it seems to throw out heat. i recall the first time i saw it growing; i was told that it was "salem wood-wax." i had heard of "roxbury waxwork," the bitter-sweet, but this was a new name, as it was a new tint of yellow, and soon i had its history, for i find salem people rather proud both of the flower and its story. oxeye daisies (whiteweed) are also by vague tradition the children of governor endicott's planting. i think it far more probable that they were planted and cherished by the wives of the colonists, when their beloved english daisies were found unsuited to new england's climate and soil. we note the woad-waxen and whiteweed as crowding usurpers, not only because they are persistent, but because their great expanses of striking bloom will not let us forget them. many other english plants are just as determined intruders, but their modest dress permits them to slip in comparatively unobserved. it has ever been characteristic of the british colonist to carry with him to any new home the flowers of old england and scotland, and characteristic of these british flowers to monopolize the earth. sweetbrier is called "the missionary-plant," by the maoris in new zealand, and is there regarded as a tiresome weed, spreading and holding the ground. some homesick missionary or his more homesick wife bore it there; and her love of the home plant impressed even the savage native. we all know the story of the scotch settlers who carried their beloved thistles to tasmania "to make it seem like home," and how they lived to regret it. vancouver's island is completely overrun with broom and wild roses from england. the first commercial nursery in america, in the sense of the term as we now employ it, was established about by robert prince, in flushing, long island, a community chiefly of french huguenot settlers, who brought to the new world many french fruits by seed and cuttings, and also a love of horticulture. for over a century and a quarter these prince nurseries were the leading ones in america. the sale of fruit trees was increased in (as we learn from advertisements in the _new york mercury_ of that year), by the sale of "carolina magnolia flower trees, the most beautiful trees that grow in america, and large catalpa flower trees; they are nine feet high to the under part of the top and thick as one's leg," also other flowering trees and shrubs. the fine house built on the nursery grounds by william prince suffered little during the revolution. it was occupied by washington and afterwards house and nursery were preserved from depredations by a guard placed by general howe when the british took possession of flushing. of course, domestic nursery business waned in time of war; but an excellent demand for american shrubs and trees sprung up among the officers of the british army, to send home to gardens in england and germany. many an english garden still has ancient plants and trees from the prince nurseries. the "linnæan botanic garden and nurseries" and the "old american nursery" thrived once more at the close of the war, and william prince the second entered in charge; one of his earliest ventures of importance was the introduction of lombardy poplars. in he advertises ten thousand trees, ten to seventeen feet in height. these became the most popular tree in america, the emblem of democracy--and a warmly hated tree as well. the eighty acres of nursery grounds were a centre of botanic and horticultural interest for the entire country; every tree, shrub, vine, and plant known to england and america was eagerly sought for; here the important botanical treasures of lewis and clark found a home. william prince wrote several notable horticultural treatises; and even his trade catalogues were prized. he established the first steamboats between flushing and new york, built roads and bridges on long island, and was a public-spirited, generous citizen as well as a man of science. his son, william robert prince, who died in , was the last to keep up the nurseries, which he did as a scientific rather than a commercial establishment. he botanized the entire length of the atlantic states with dr. torrey, and sought for collections of trees and wild flowers in california with the same eagerness that others there sought gold. he was a devoted promoter of the native silk industry, having vast plantations of mulberries in many cities; for one at norfolk, virginia, he was offered $ , . it is a curious fact that the interest in mulberry culture and the practice of its cultivation was so universal in his neighborhood (about the year ), that cuttings of the chinese mulberry (_morus multicaulis_) were used as currency in all the stores in the vicinity of flushing, at the rate of - / cents each. [illustration: garden at prince homestead, flushing, long island.] the prince homestead, a fine old mansion, is here shown; it is still standing, surrounded by that forlorn sight, a forgotten garden. this is of considerable extent, and evidences of its past dignity appear in the hedges and edgings of box; one symmetrical great box tree is fifty feet in circumference. flowering shrubs, unkempt of shape, bloom and beautify the waste borders each spring, as do the oldest chinese magnolias in the united states. gingkos, paulownias, and weeping trees, which need no gardener's care, also flourish and are of unusual size. there are some splendid evergreens, such as mt. atlas cedars; and the oldest and finest cedar of lebanon in the united states. it seemed sad, as i looked at the evidences of so much past beauty and present decay, that this historic house and garden should not be preserved for new york, as the house and garden of john bartram, the philadelphia botanist, have been for his native city. while there are few direct records of american gardens in the eighteenth century, we have many instructing side glimpses through old business letter-books. we find sir harry frankland ordering daffodils and tulips for the garden he made for agnes surriage; and it is said that the first lilacs ever seen in hopkinton were planted by him for her. the gay young nobleman and the lovely woman are in the dust, and of all the beautiful things belonging to them there remain a splendid portuguese fan, which stands as a memorial of that tragic crisis in their life--the great lisbon earthquake; and the lilacs, which still mark the site of her house and blossom each spring as a memorial of the shadowed romance of her life in new england. let me give two pages from old letters to illustrate what i mean by side glimpses at the contents of colonial gardens. the fine hancock mansion in boston had a carefully-filled garden long previous to the revolution. such letters as the following were sent by mr. hancock to england to secure flowers for it:-- "my trees and seeds for capt. bennett came safe to hand and i like them very well. i return you my hearty thanks for the plumb tree and tulip roots you were pleased to make me a present off, which are very acceptable to me. i have sent my friend mr. wilks a mmo. to procure for me or doz. yew trees, some hollys and jessamine vines, and if you have any particular curious things not of a high price, will beautifye a flower garden send a sample with the price or a catalogue of 'em, i do not intend to spare any cost or pains in making my gardens beautifull or profitable. "p.s. the tulip roots you were pleased to make a present off to me are all dead as well." we find richard stockton writing in from england to his wife at their beautiful home "morven," in princeton, new jersey:-- "i am making you a charming collection of bulbous roots, which shall be sent over as soon as the prospect of freezing on your coast is over. the first of april, i believe, will be time enough for you to put them in your sweet little flower garden, which you so fondly cultivate. suppose i inform you that i design a ride to twickenham the latter end of next month principally to view mr. pope's gardens and grotto, which i am told remain nearly as he left them; and that i shall take with me a gentleman who draws well, to lay down an exact plan of the whole." the fine line of catalpa trees set out by richard stockton, along the front of his lawn, were in full flower when he rode up to his house on a memorable july day to tell his wife that he had signed the declaration of american independence. since then catalpa trees bear everywhere in that vicinity the name of independence trees, and are believed to be ever in bloom on july th. [illustration: old box at prince homestead.] in the delightful diary and letters of eliza southgate bowne (_a girl's life eighty years ago_), are other side glimpses of the beautiful gardens of old salem, among them those of the wealthy merchants of the derby family. terraces and arches show a formality of arrangement, for they were laid out by a dutch gardener whose descendants still live in salem. all had summer-houses, which were larger and more important buildings than what are to-day termed summer-houses; these latter were known in salem and throughout virginia as bowers. one summer-house had an arch through it with three doors on each side which opened into little apartments; one of them had a staircase by which you could ascend into a large upper room, which was the whole size of the building. this was constructed to command a fine view, and was ornamented with chinese articles of varied interest and value; it was used for tea-drinkings. at the end of the garden, concealed by a dense weeping willow, was a thatched hermitage, containing the life-size figure of a man reading a prayer-book; a bed of straw and some broken furniture completed the picture. this was an english fashion, seen at one time in many old english gardens, and held to be most romantic. apparently summer evenings were spent by the derby household and their visitors wholly in the garden and summer-house. the diary keeper writes naïvely, "the moon shines brighter in this garden than anywhere else." [illustration: old dutch garden of bergen homestead.] the shrewd and capable women of the colonies who entered so freely and successfully into business ventures found the selling of flower seeds a congenial occupation, and often added it to the pursuit of other callings. i think it must have been very pleasant to buy packages of flower seed at the same time and place where you bought your best bonnet, and have all sent home in a bandbox together; each would prove a memorial of the other; and long after the glory of the bonnet had departed, and the bonnet itself was ashes, the thriving sweet peas and larkspur would recall its becoming charms. i have often seen the advertisements of these seedswomen in old newspapers; unfortunately they seldom gave printed lists of their store of seeds. here is one list printed in a boston newspaper on march , :-- lavender. palma christi. cerinthe or honeywort, loved of bees. tricolor. indian pink. scarlet cacalia. yellow sultans. lemon african marigold. sensitive plants. white lupine. love lies bleeding. patagonian cucumber. lobelia. catchfly. wing-peas. convolvulus. strawberry spinage. branching larkspur. white chrysanthemum. nigaella romano. rose campion. snap dragon. nolana prostrata. summer savory. hyssop. red hawkweed. red and white lavater. scarlet lupine. large blue lupine. snuff flower. caterpillars. cape marigold. rose lupine. sweet peas. venus' navelwort. yellow chrysanthemum. cyanus minor. tall holyhock. french marigold. carnation poppy. globe amaranthus. yellow lupine. indian branching coxcombs. iceplants. thyme. sweet marjoram. tree mallows. everlasting. greek valerian. tree primrose. canterbury bells. purple stock. sweet scabiouse. columbine. pleasant-eyed pink. dwarf mountain pink. sweet rocket. horn poppy. french honeysuckle. bloody wallflower. sweet william. honesty (to be sold in small parcels that every one may have a little). persicaria. polyanthos. different sorts of mixed tulip roots. ranunculus. gladiolus. starry scabiouse. curled mallows. painted lady topknot peas. colchicum. persian iris. star bethlehem. this list is certainly a pleasing one. it gives opportunity for flower borders of varied growth and rich color. there is a quality of some minds which may be termed historical imagination. it is the power of shaping from a few simple words or details of the faraway past, an ample picture, full of light and life, of which these meagre details are but a framework. having this list of the names of these sturdy old annuals and perennials, what do you perceive besides the printed words? i see that the old mid-century garden where these seeds found a home was a cheerful place from earliest spring to autumn; that it had many bulbs, and thereafter a constant succession of warm blooms till the coxcombs, marigolds, colchicums and chrysanthemums yielded to new england's frosts. i know that the garden had beehives and that the bees were loved; for when they sallied out of their straw bee-skepes, these happy bees found their favorite blossoms planted to welcome them: cerinthe, dropping with honey; cacalia, a sister flower; lupine, larkspur, sweet marjoram, and thyme--i can taste the thyme-scented classic honey from that garden! there was variety of foliage as well as bloom, the dovelike lavender, the glaucous horned poppy, the glistening iceplants, the dusty rose campion. [illustration: old garden at duck cove farm in narragansett.] stately plants grew from the little seed-packets; hollyhocks, valerian, canterbury bells, tree primroses looked down on the low-growing herbs of the border; and there were vines of convolvulus and honeysuckle. it was a garden overhung by clouds of perfume from thyme, lavender, sweet peas, pleasant-eyed pink, and stock. the garden's mistress looked well after her household; ample store of savory pot herbs grow among the finer blossoms. it was a garden for children to play in. i can see them; little boys with their hair tied in queues, in knee breeches and flapped coats like their stately fathers, running races down the garden path, as did the van cortlandt children; and demure little girls in caps and sacques and aprons, sitting in cubby houses under the lilac bushes. i know what flowers they played with and how they played, for they were my great-grandmothers and grandfathers, and they played exactly what i did, and sang what i did when i was a child in a garden. and suddenly my picture expands, as a glow of patriotic interest thrills me in the thought that in this garden were sheltered and amused the boys of one hundred and forty years ago, who became the heroes of our american revolution; and the girls who were daughters of liberty, who spun and wove and knit for their soldiers, and drank heroically their miserable liberty tea. i fear the garden faded when bitter war scourged the land, when the women turned from their flower beds to the plough and the field, since their brothers and husbands were on the frontier. but when that winter of gloom to our country and darkness to the garden was ended, the flowers bloomed still more brightly, and to the cheerful seedlings of the old garden is now given perpetual youth and beauty; they are fated never to grow faded or neglected or sad, but to live and blossom and smile forever in the sunshine of our hearts through the magic power of a few printed words in a time-worn old news-sheet. chapter ii front dooryards "there are few of us who cannot remember a front yard garden which seemed to us a very paradise in childhood. whether the house was a fine one and the enclosure spacious, or whether it was a small house with only a narrow bit of ground in front, the yard was kept with care, and was different from the rest of the land altogether.... people do not know what they lose when they make way with the reserve, the separateness, the sanctity, of the front yard of their grandmothers. it is like writing down family secrets for any one to read; it is like having everybody call you by your first name, or sitting in any pew in church." --_country byways_, sarah orne jewett, . old new england villages and small towns and well-kept new england farms had universally a simple and pleasing form of garden called the front yard or front dooryard. a few still may be seen in conservative communities in the new england states and in new york or pennsylvania. i saw flourishing ones this summer in gloucester, marblehead, and ipswich. even where the front yard was but a narrow strip of land before a tiny cottage, it was carefully fenced in, with a gate that was kept rigidly closed and latched. there seemed to be a law which shaped and bounded the front yard; the side fences extended from the corners of the house to the front fence on the edge of the road, and thus formed naturally the guarded parallelogram. often the fence around the front yard was the only one on the farm; everywhere else were boundaries of great stone walls; or if there were rail fences, the front yard fence was the only painted one. i cannot doubt that the first gardens that our foremothers had, which were wholly of flowering plants, were front yards, little enclosures hard won from the forest. [illustration: the flowering almond under the window.] the word yard, not generally applied now to any enclosure of elegant cultivation, comes from the same root as the word garden. garth is another derivative, and the word exists much disguised in orchard. in the sixteenth century yard was used in formal literature instead of garden; and later burns writes of "eden's bonnie yard, where yeuthful lovers first were pair'd." this front yard was an english fashion derived from the forecourt so strongly advised by gervayse markham (an interesting old english writer on floriculture and husbandry), and found in front of many a yeoman's house, and many a more pretentious house as well in markham's day. forecourts were common in england until the middle of the eighteenth century, and may still be seen. the forecourt gave privacy to the house even when in the centre of a town. its readoption is advised with handsome dwellings in england, where ground-space is limited,--and why not in america, too? [illustration: peter's wreath.] the front yard was sacred to the best beloved, or at any rate the most honored, garden flowers of the house mistress, and was preserved by its fences from inroads of cattle, which then wandered at their will and were not housed, or even enclosed at night. the flowers were often of scant variety, but were those deemed the gentlefolk of the flower world. there was a clump of daffodils and of the poet's narcissus in early spring, and stately crown imperial; usually, too, a few scarlet and yellow single tulips, and grape hyacinths. later came phlox in abundance--the only native american plant,--canterbury bells, and ample and glowing london pride. of course there were great plants of white and blue day lilies, with their beautiful and decorative leaves, and purple and yellow flower de luce. a few old-fashioned shrubs always were seen. by inflexible law there must be a lilac, which might be the aristocratic persian lilac. a syringa, a flowering currant, or strawberry bush made sweet the front yard in spring, and sent wafts of fragrance into the house-windows. spindling, rusty snowberry bushes were by the gate, and snowballs also, or our native viburnums. old as they seem, the spiræas and deutzias came to us in the nineteenth century from japan; as did the flowering quinces and cherries. the pink flowering almond dates back to the oldest front yards (see page ), and peter's wreath certainly seems an old settler and is found now in many front yards that remain. the lovely full-flowered shrub of peter's wreath, on page , which was photographed for this book, was all that remained of a once-loved front yard. the glory of the front yard was the old-fashioned early red "piny," cultivated since the days of pliny. i hear people speaking of it with contempt as a vulgar flower,--flaunting is the conventional derogatory adjective,--but i glory in its flaunting. the modern varieties, of every tint from white through flesh color, coral, pink, ruby color, salmon, and even yellow, to deep red, are as beautiful as roses. some are sweet-scented; and they have no thorns, and their foliage is ever perfect, so i am sure the rose is jealous. i am as fond of the peony as are the chinese, among whom it is flower queen. it is by them regarded as an aristocratic flower; and in old new england towns fine peony plants in an old garden are a pretty good indication of the residence of what dr. holmes called new england brahmins. in salem and portsmouth are old "pinys" that have a hundred blossoms at a time--a glorious sight. a japanese name is "flower-of-prosperity"; another name, "plant-of-twenty-days," because its glories last during that period of time. [illustration: peonies in a salem garden.] rhododendrons are to the modern garden what the peony was in the old-fashioned flower border; and i am glad the modern flower cannot drive the old one out. they are equally varied in coloring, but the peony is a much hardier plant, and i like it far better. it has no blights, no bugs, no diseases, no running out, no funguses; it doesn't have to be covered in winter, and it will bloom in the shade. no old-time or modern garden is to me fully furnished without peonies; see how fair they are in this salem garden. i would grow them in some corner of the garden for their splendid healthy foliage if they hadn't a blossom. the _pæonia tenuifolia_ in particular has exquisite feathery foliage. the great tree peony, which came from china, grows eight feet or more in height, and is a triumph of the flower world; but it was not known to the oldest front yards. some of the tree peonies have finely displayed leafage of a curious and very gratifying tint of green. miss jekyll, with her usual felicity, compares its blue cast with pinkish shading to the vari-colored metal alloys of the japanese bronze workers--a striking comparison. the single peonies of recent years are of great beauty, and will soon be esteemed here as in china. not the least of the peony's charms is its exceeding trimness and cleanliness. the plants always look like a well-dressed, well-shod, well-gloved girl of birth, breeding, and of equal good taste and good health; a girl who can swim, and skate, and ride, and play golf. every inch has a well-set, neat, cared-for look which the shape and growth of the plant keeps from seeming artificial or finicky. see the white peony on page ; is it not a seemly, comely thing, as well as a beautiful one? no flower can be set in our garden of more distinct antiquity than the peony; the greeks believed it to be of divine origin. a green arbor of the fourteenth century in england is described as set around with gillyflower, tansy, gromwell, and "pyonys powdered ay betwene"--just as i like to see peonies set to this day, "powdered" everywhere between all the other flowers of the border. [illustration: white peonies.] i am pleased to note of the common flowers of the new england front yard, that they are no new things; they are nearly all elizabethan of date--many are older still. lord bacon in his essay on gardens names many of them, crocus, tulip, hyacinth, daffodil, flower de luce, double peony, lilac, lily of the valley. a favorite flower was the yellow garden lily, the lemon lily, _hemerocallis_, when it could be kept from spreading. often its unbounded luxuriance exiled it from the front yard to the kitchen dooryard as befell the clump shown facing page . its pretty old-fashioned name was liricon-fancy, given, i am told, in england to the lily of the valley. i know no more satisfying sight than a good bank of these lemon lilies in full flower. below flatbush there used to be a driveway leading to an old dutch house, set at regular intervals with great clumps of lemon lilies, and their full bloom made them glorious. their power of satisfactory adaptation in our modern formal garden is happily shown facing page , in the lovely garden of charles e. mather, esq., in haverford, pennsylvania. the time of fullest inflorescence of the nineteenth century front yard was when phlox and tiger lilies bloomed; but the pinkish-orange colors of the latter (the oddest reds of any flower tints) blended most vilely and rampantly with the crimson-purple of the phlox; and when london pride joined with its glowing scarlet, the front yard fairly ached. nevertheless, an adaptation of that front yard bloom can be most effective in a garden border, when white phlox only is planted, and the tiger lily or cultivated stalks of our wild nodding lily rise above the white trusses of bloom. these wild lilies grow very luxuriantly in the garden, often towering above our heads and forming great candelabra bearing two score or more blooms. it is no easy task to secure their deep-rooted rhizomes in the meadow. i know a young man who won his sweetheart by the patience and assiduity with which he dug for her all one broiling morning to secure for her the coveted lily roots, and collapsed with mild sunstroke at the finish. her gratitude and remorse were equal factors in his favor. the tiger lily is usually thought upon as a truly old-fashioned flower, a veritable antique; it is a favorite of artists to place as an accessory in their colonial gardens, and of authors for their flower-beds of revolutionary days, but it was not known either in formal garden or front yard, until after "the days when we lived under the king." the bulbs were first brought to england from eastern asia in by captain kirkpatrick of the east india company's service, and shared with the japan lily the honor of being the first eastern lilies introduced into european gardens. a few years ago an old gentleman, mr. isaac pitman, who was then about eighty-five years of age, told me that he recalled distinctly when tiger lilies first appeared in our gardens, and where he first saw them growing in boston. so instead of being an old-time flower, or even an old-comer from the orient, it is one of the novelties of this century. how readily has it made itself at home, and even wandered wild down our roadsides! the two simple colors of phlox of the old-time front yard, white and crimson-purple, are now augmented by tints of salmon, vermilion, and rose. i recall with special pleasure the profuse garden decoration at east hampton, long island, of a pure cherry-colored phlox, generally a doubtful color to me, but there so associated with the white blooms of various other plants, and backed by a high hedge covered solidly with blossoming honeysuckle, that it was wonderfully successful. to other members of the phlox family, all natives of our own continent, the old front yard owed much; the moss pink sometimes crowded out both grass and its companion the periwinkle; it is still found in our gardens, and bountifully also in our fields; either in white or pink, it is one of the satisfactions of spring, and its cheerful little blossom is of wonderful use in many waste places. an old-fashioned bloom, the low-growing _phlox amoena_, with its queerly fuzzy leaves and bright crimson blossoms, was among the most distinctly old-fashioned flowers of the front yard. it was tolerated rather than cultivated, as was its companion, the arabis or rock cress--both crowding, monopolizing creatures. i remember well how they spread over the beds and up the grass banks in my mother's garden, how sternly they were uprooted, in spite of the pretty name of the arabis--"snow in summer." sometimes the front yard path had edgings of sweet single or lightly double white or tinted pinks, which were not deemed as choice as box edgings. frequently large box plants clipped into simple and natural shapes stood at the side of the doorstep, usually in the home of the well-to-do. a great shell might be on either side of the door-sill, if there chanced to be seafaring men-folk who lived or visited under the roof-tree. annuals were few in number; sturdy old perennial plants of many years' growth were the most honored dwellers in the front yard, true representatives of old families. the roses were few and poor, for there was usually some great tree just without the gate, an elm or larch, whose shadow fell far too near and heavily for the health of roses. sometimes there was a prickly semidouble yellow rose, called by us a scotch rose, a sweet brier, or a rusty-flowered white rose, similar, though inferior, to the madame plantier. a new fashion of trellises appeared in the front yard about sixty years ago, and crimson boursault roses climbed up them as if by magic. one marked characteristic of the front yard was its lack of weeds; few sprung up, none came to seed-time; the enclosure was small, and it was a mark of good breeding to care for it well. sometimes, however, the earth was covered closely under shrubs and plants with the cheerful little ladies' delights, and they blossomed in the chinks of the bricked path and under the box edges. ambrosia, too, grew everywhere, but these were welcome--they were not weeds. our old new england houses were suited in color and outline to their front yards as to our landscape. lowell has given in verse a good description of the kind of new england house that always had a front dooryard of flowers. [illustration: yellow day lilies.] "on a grass-green swell that towards the south with sweet concessions fell, it dwelt retired, and half had grown to be as aboriginal as rock or tree. it nestled close to earth, and seemed to brood o'er homely thoughts in a half-conscious mood. if paint it e'er had known, it knew no more than yellow lichens spattered thickly o'er that soft lead gray, less dark beneath the eaves, which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves. the ample roof sloped backward to the ground and vassal lean-tos gathered thickly round, patched on, as sire or son had felt the need. but the great chimney was the central thought. * * * * * it rose broad-shouldered, kindly, debonair, its warm breath whitening in the autumn air." sarah orne jewett, in the plaint of _a mournful villager_, has drawn a beautiful and sympathetic picture of these front yards, and she deplores their passing. i mourn them as i do every fenced-in or hedged-in garden enclosure. the sanctity and reserve of these front yards of our grandmothers was somewhat emblematic of woman's life of that day: it was restricted, and narrowed to a small outlook and monotonous likeness to her neighbor's; but it was a life easily satisfied with small pleasures, and it was comely and sheltered and carefully kept, and pleasant to the home household; and these were no mean things. the front yard was never a garden of pleasure; children could not play in these precious little enclosed plots, and never could pick the flowers--front yard and flowers were both too much respected. only formal visitors entered therein, visitors who opened the gate and closed it carefully behind them, and knocked slowly with the brass knocker, and were ushered in through the ceremonious front door and the little ill-contrived entry, to the stiff fore-room or parlor. the parson and his wife entered that portal, and sometimes a solemn would-be sweetheart, or the guests at a tea party. it can be seen that every one who had enough social dignity to have a front door and a parlor, and visitors thereto, also desired a front yard with flowers as the external token of that honored standing. it was like owning a pew in church; you could be a christian without having a pew, but not a respected one. sometimes when there was a "vendue" in the house, reckless folk opened the front gate, and even tied it back. i attended one where the auctioneer boldly set the articles out through the windows under the lilac bushes and even on the precious front yard plants. a vendue and a funeral were the only gatherings in country communities when the entire neighborhood came freely to an old homestead, when all were at liberty to enter the front dooryard. at the sad time when a funeral took place in the house, the front gate was fastened widely open, and solemn men-neighbors, in sunday garments, stood rather uncomfortably and awkwardly around the front yard as the women passed into the house of mourning and were seated within. when the sad services began, the men too entered and stood stiffly by the door. then through the front door, down the mossy path of the front yard, and through the open front gate was borne the master, the mistress, and then their children, and children's children. all are gone from our sight, many from our memory, and often too from our ken, while the lilacs and peonies and flowers de luce still blossom and flourish with perennial youth, and still claim us as friends. at the side of the house or by the kitchen door would be seen many thrifty blooms: poles of scarlet runners, beds of portulacas and petunias, rows of pinks, bunches of marigolds, level expanses of sweet williams, banks of cheerful nasturtiums, tangles of morning-glories and long rows of stately hollyhocks, which were much admired, but were seldom seen in the front yard, which was too shaded for them. weeds grew here at the kitchen door in a rank profusion which was hard to conquer; but here the winter's fuchsias or geraniums stood in flower pots in the sunlight, and the tubs of oleanders and agapanthus lilies. the flowers of the front yard seemed to bear a more formal, a "company" aspect; conventionality rigidly bound them. bachelor's buttons might grow there by accident, but marigolds never were tolerated,--they were pot herbs. sunflowers were not even permitted in the flower beds at the side of the house unless these stretched down to the vegetable beds. outside the front yard would be a rioting and cheerful growth of pink bouncing bet, or of purple honesty, and tall straggling plants of a certain small flowered, ragged campanula, and a white mallow with flannelly leaves which, doubtless, aspired to inhabit the sacred bounds of the front yard (and probably dwelt there originally), and often were gladly permitted to grow in side gardens or kitchen dooryards, but which were regarded as interloping weeds by the guardians of the front yard, and sternly exiled. sometimes a bed of these orange-tawny day lilies which had once been warmly welcomed from the orient, and now were not wanted anywhere by any one, kept company with the bouncing bet, and stretched cheerfully down the roadside. [illustration: orange day lilies.] when the fences disappeared with the night rambles of the cows, the front yards gradually changed character; the tender blooms vanished, but the tall shrubs and the peonies and flower de luce sturdily grew and blossomed, save where that dreary destroyer of a garden crept in--the desire for a lawn. the result was then a meagre expanse of poorly kept grass, with no variety, color, or change,--neither lawn nor front yard. it is ever a pleasure to me when driving in a village street or a country road to find one of these front yards still enclosed, or even to note in front of many houses the traces of a past front yard still plainly visible in the flourishing old-fashioned plants of many years' growth. chapter iii varied gardens fair "and all without were walkes and alleys dight with divers trees enrang'd in even rankes; and here and there were pleasant arbors pight and shadie seats, and sundry flowering bankes to sit and rest the walkers wearie shankes." --_faerie queene_, edmund spenser. many simple forms of gardens were common besides the enclosed front yard; and as wealth poured in on the colonies, the beautiful gardens so much thought of in england were copied here, especially by wealthy merchants, as is noted in the first chapter of this book, and by the provincial governors and their little courts; the garden of governor hutchinson, in milford, massachusetts, is stately still and little changed. [illustration: preston garden.] english gardens, at the time of the settlement of america, had passed beyond the time when, as old gervayse markham said, "of all the best ornaments used in our english gardens, knots and mazes are the most ancient." a maze was a placing of low garden hedges of privet, box, or hyssop, usually set in concentric circles which enclosed paths, that opened into each other by such artful contrivance that it was difficult to find one's way in and out through these bewildering paths. "when well formed, of a man's height, your friend may perhaps wander in gathering berries as he cannot recover himself without your help." the maze was not a thing of beauty, it was "nothing for sweetness and health," to use lord bacon's words; it was only a whimsical notion of gardening amusement, pleasing to a generation who liked to have hidden fountains in their gardens to sprinkle suddenly the unwary. i doubt if any mazes were ever laid out in america, though i have heard vague references to one in virginia. knots had been the choice adornment of the tudor garden. they were not wholly a thing of the past when we had here our first gardens, and they have had a distinct influence on garden laying-out till our own day. an elizabethan poet wrote:-- "my garden sweet, enclosed with walles strong, embanked with benches to sitt and take my rest; the knots so enknotted it cannot be expressed the arbores and alyes so pleasant and so dulce." these garden knots were not flower beds edged with box or rosemary, with narrow walks between the edgings, as were the parterres of our later formal gardens. they were square, ornamental beds, each of which had a design set in some close-growing, trim plant, clipped flatly across the top, and the design filled in with colored earth or sand; and with no dividing paths. elaborate models in complicated geometrical pattern were given in gardeners' books, for setting out these knots, which were first drawn on paper and subdivided into squares; then the square of earth was similarly divided, and set out by precise rules. william lawson, the izaak walton of gardeners, gave, as a result of forty-eight years of experience, some very attractive directions for large "knottys" with different "thrids" of flowers, each of one color, which made the design appear as if "made of diverse colored ribands." one of his knots, from _a new orchard and garden_ , being a garden fashion in vogue when my forbears came to america, i have chosen as a device for the dedication of this book, thinking it, in lawson's words, "so comely, and orderly placed, and so intermingled, that one looking thereon cannot but wonder." his knots had significant names, such as "cinkfoyle; flower de luce; trefoyle; frette; lozenge; groseboowe; diamond; ovall; maze." gervayse markham gives various knot patterns to be bordered with box cut eighteen inches broad at the bottom and kept flat at the top--with the ever present thought for the fine english linen. he has a varied list of circular, diamond-shaped, mixed, and "single impleated knots." [illustration: box-edged parterre at hampton.] these garden knots were mildly sneered at by lord bacon; he said, "they be but toys, you see as good sights many times in tarts;" still i think they must have been quaint, and i should like to see a garden laid out to-day in these pretty elizabethan knots, set in the old patterns, and with the old flowers. nor did parkinson and other practical gardeners look with favor on "curiously knotted gardens," though all gave designs to "satisfy the desires" of their readers. "open knots" were preferred; these were made with borders of lead, tiles, boards, or even the shankbones of sheep, "which will become white and prettily grace out the garden,"--a fashion i saw a few years ago around flower beds in charlton, massachusetts. "round whitish pebble stones" for edgings were parkinson's own invention, and proud he was of it, simple as it seems to us. these open knots were then filled in, but "thin and sparingly," with "english flowers"; or with "out-landish flowers," which were flowers fetched from foreign parts. the parterre succeeded the knot, and has been used in gardens till the present day. parterres were of different combinations, "well-contriv'd and ingenious." the "parterre of cut-work" was a box-bordered formal flower garden, of which the garden at hampton, maryland (pages , , and ), is a striking and perfect example; also the present garden at mount vernon (opposite page ), wherein carefully designed flower beds, edged with box, are planted with variety of flowers, and separated by paths. sometimes, of old, fine white sand was carefully strewn on the earth under the flowers. the "parterre à l'anglaise" had an elaborate design of vari-shaped beds edged with box, but enclosing grass instead of flowers. in the "parterre de broderie" the box-edged beds were filled with vari-colored earths and sands. black earth could be made of iron filings; red earth of pounded tiles. this last-named parterre differed from a knot solely in having the paths among the beds. the _retir'd gard'ner_ gives patterns for ten parterres. the main walks which formed the basis of the garden design had in ancient days a singular name--forthrights; these were ever to be "spacious and fair," and neatly spread with colored sands or gravel. parkinson says, "the fairer and larger your allies and walks be the more grace your garden should have, the lesse harm the herbes and flowers shall receive, and the better shall your weeders cleanse both the bed and the allies." "covert-walks," or "shade-alleys," had trees meeting in an arch over them. a curious term, found in references to old american flower beds and garden designs, as well as english ones, is the "goose-foot." a "goose-foot" consisted of three flower beds or three avenues radiating rather closely together from a small semicircle; and in some places and under some conditions it is still a charming and striking design, as you stand at the heel of the design and glance down the three avenues. [illustration: parterre and clipped box at hampton.] in all these flower beds box was the favorite edging, but many other trim edgings have been used in parterres and borders by those who love not box. bricks were used, and boards; an edging of boards was not as pretty as one of flowers, but it kept the beds trimly in place; a garden thus edged is shown on page which realizes this description of the pleasure-garden in the _scots gard'ner_: "the bordures box'd and planted with variety of fine flowers orderly intermixt, weeded, mow'd, rolled and kept all clean and handsome." germander and rosemary were old favorites for edging. i have seen snowy edgings of candy-tuft and sweet alyssum, setting off well the vari-colored blooms of the border. one of sweet alyssum is shown on page . ageratum is a satisfactory edging. thyme is of ancient use, but rather unmanageable; one garden owner has set his edgings of moneywort, otherwise creeping-jenny. i should be loth to use moneywort as an edging; i would not care for its yellow flowers in that place, though i find them very kindly and cheerful on dull banks or in damp spots, under the drip of trees and eaves, or better still, growing gladly in the flower pot of the poor. i fear if moneywort thrived enough to make a close, suitable edging, that it would thrive too well, and would swamp the borders with its underground runners. the name moneywort is akin to its older title herb-twopence, or twopenny grass. turner ( ) says the latter name was given from the leaves all "standying together of ech syde of the stalke lyke pence." the striped leaves of one variety of day lily make pretty edgings. those from a salem garden are here shown. we often see in neglected gardens in new england, or by the roadside where no gardens now exist, a dense gray-green growth of lavender cotton, "the female plant of southernwood," which was brought here by the colonists and here will ever remain. it was used as an edging, and is very pretty when it can be controlled. i know two or three old gardens where it is thus employed. sometimes in driving along a country road you are startled by a concentration of foliage and bloom, a glimpse of a tiny farm-house, over which are clustered and heaped, and round which are gathered, close enough to be within touch from door or window, flowers in a crowded profusion ample to fill a large flower bed. such is the mass of june bloom at wilbur farm in old narragansett (page )--a home of flowers and bees. often by the side of the farm-house is a little garden or flower bed containing some splendid examples of old-time flowers. the splendid "running ribbons" of snow pinks, on page , are in another narragansett garden that is a bower of blossoms. thrift has been a common edging since the days of the old herbalist gerarde. "we have a bright little garden, down on a sunny slope, bordered with sea-pinks and sweet with the songs and blossoms of hope." the garden of secretary william h. seward (in auburn, new york), so beloved by him in his lifetime, is shown on page and facing page . in this garden some beds are edged with periwinkle, others with polyanthus, and some with ivy which mr. seward brought from abbotsford in . this garden was laid out in its present form in , and the sun-dial was then set in its place. the garden has been enlarged, but not changed, the old "george ii. roses" and york and lancaster roses still grow and blossom, and the lovely arches of single michigan roses still flourish. in it are many flowers and fruits unusual in america, among them a bed of alpine strawberries. king james i. of scotland thus wrote of the garden which he saw from his prison window in windsor castle:-- "a garden fair, and in the corners set an herbere greene, with wandis long and small railit about." these wandis were railings which were much used before box edgings became universal. sometimes they were painted the family colors, as at hampton court they were green and white, the tudor colors. these "wandis" still are occasionally seen. in the berkshire hills i drove past an old garden thus trimly enclosed in little beds. the rails were painted a dull light brown, almost the color of some tree trunks; and larkspur, foxglove, and other tall flowers crowded up to them and hung their heads over the top rails as children hang over a fence or a gate. i thought it a neat, trim fashion, not one i would care for in my own garden, yet not to be despised in the garden of another. [illustration: garden of mrs. mabel osgood wright, waldstein, fairfield, conn.] a garden enclosed! so full of suggestion are these simple words to me, so constant is my thought that an ideal flower garden must be an enclosed garden, that i look with regret upon all beautiful flower beds that are not enclosed, not shut in a frame of green hedges, or high walls, or vine-covered fences and dividing trees. it may be selfish to hide so much beauty from general view; but until our dwelling-houses are made with uncurtained glass walls, that all the world may see everything, let those who have ample grounds enclose at least a portion for the sight of friends only. in the heart of worcester there is a fine old mansion with ample lawns, great trees, and flowering shrubs that all may see over the garden fence as they pass by. flowers bloom lavishly at one side of the house; and the thoughtless stroller never knows that behind the house, stretching down between the rear gardens and walls of neighboring homes, is a long enclosure of loveliness--sequestered, quiet, full of refreshment to the spirits. we think of the "old garden" of margaret deland:-- "the garden glows and 'gainst its walls the city's heart still beats. and out from it each summer wind that blows carries some sweetness to the tired streets!" [illustration: shaded walk in garden of miss harriet p. f. burnside, worcester, massachusetts.] there is a shaded walk in this garden which is a thing of solace and content to all who tread its pathway; a bit is shown opposite this page, overhung with shrubs of lilac, syringa, strawberry bush, flowering currant, all the old treelike things, so fair-flowered and sweet-scented in spring, so heavy-leaved and cool-shadowing in midsummer: what pleasure would there be in this shaded walk if this garden were separated from the street only by stone curbing or a low rail? and there is an old sun-dial too in this enclosed garden! i fear the street imps of a crowded city would quickly destroy the old monitor were it in an open garden; and they would make sad havoc, too, of the roses and larkspurs (page ) so tenderly reared by the two sisters who together loved and cared for this "garden enclosed." great trees are at the edges of this garden, and the line of tall shrubs is carried out by the lavish vines and roses on fences and walls. within all this border of greenery glow the clustered gems of rare and beautiful flowers, till the whole garden seems like some rich jewel set purposely to be worn in honor over the city's heart--a clustered jewel, not one to be displayed carelessly and heedlessly. [illustration: roses and larkspur in the garden of miss harriet p. f. burnside, worcester, massachusetts.] salem houses and gardens are like salem people. salem houses present to you a serene and dignified front, gracious yet reserved, not thrusting forward their choicest treasures to the eyes of passing strangers; but behind the walls of the houses, enclosed from public view, lie cherished gardens, full of the beauty of life. such, in their kind, are salem folk. i know no more speaking, though silent, criticism than those old salem gardens afford upon the modern fashion in american towns of pulling down walls and fences, removing the boundaries of lawns, and living in full view of every passer-by, in a public grassy park. it is pleasant, i suppose, for the passer-by; but homes are not made for passers-by. old salem gardens lie behind the house, out of sight--you have to hunt for them. they are terraced down if they stretch to the water-side; they are enclosed with hedges, and set behind high vine-covered fences, and low out-buildings; and planted around with great trees: thus they give to each family that secluded centring of family life which is the very essence and being of a home. i sat through a june afternoon in a salem garden whose gate is within a stone's throw of a great theatre, but a few hundred feet from lines of electric cars and a busy street of trade, scarce farther from lines of active steam cars, and with a great power house for a close neighbor. yet we were as secluded, as embowered in vines and trees, with beehives and rabbit hutches and chicken coops for happy children at the garden's end, as truly in beautiful privacy, as if in the midst of a hundred acres. could the sense of sound be as sheltered by the enclosing walls as the sense of sight, such a garden were a city paradise. [illustration: the homely back yard.] there is scant regularity in shape in salem gardens; there is no search for exact dimensions. little narrow strips of flower beds run down from the main garden in any direction or at any angle where the fortunate owner can buy a few feet of land. salem gardens do not change with the whims of fancy, either in the shape or the planting. a few new flowers find place there, such as the _anemone japonica_ and the japanese shrubs; for they are akin in flower sentiment, and consort well with the old inhabitants. there are many choice flowers and fruits in these gardens. in the garden of the manning homestead (opposite page ) grows a flourishing fig tree, and other rare fruits; for fifty years ago this garden was known as the pomological garden. it is fitting it should be the home of two robert mannings--both well-known names in the history of horticulture in massachusetts. [illustration: covered well at home of bishop berkeley, whitehall, rhode island.] the homely back yard of an old house will often possess a trim and blooming flower border cutting off the close approach of the vegetable beds (see opposite page ). these back yards, with the covered grape arbors, the old pumps, and bricked paths, are cheerful, wholesome places, generally of spotless cleanliness and weedless flower beds. i know one such back yard where the pump was the first one set in the town, and children were taken there from a distance to see the wondrous sight. why are all the old appliances for raising water so pleasing? a well-sweep is of course picturesque, with its long swinging pole, and you seem to feel the refreshment and purity of the water when you see it brought up from such a distance; and an old roofed well with bucket, such as this one still in use at bishop berkeley's rhode island home is ever a homelike and companionable object. but a pump is really an awkward-looking piece of mechanism, and hasn't a vestige of beauty in its lines; yet it has something satisfying about it; it may be its domesticity, its homeliness, its simplicity. we have gained infinitely in comfort in our perfect water systems and lavish water of to-day, but we have lost the gratification of the senses which came from the sight and sound of freshly drawn or running water. much of the delight in a fountain comes, not only from the beauty of its setting and the graceful shape of its jets, but simply from the sight of the water. sometimes a graceful and picturesque growth of vines will beautify gate posts, a fence, or a kitchen doorway in a wonderfully artistic and pleasing fashion. on page is shown the sheltered doorway of the kitchen of a fine old stone farm-house called, from its hedges of osage orange, "the hedges." it stands in the village of new hope, county bucks, pennsylvania. in the tract of which this farm of over two hundred acres is but a portion was deeded by the penns to their kinsman, the direct ancestor of the present owner, john schofield williams, esq. this is but one of the scores of examples i know where the same estate has been owned in one family for nearly two centuries, sometimes even for two hundred and fifty years; and in several cases where the deed from the indian sachem to the first colonist is the only deed there has ever been, the estate having never changed ownership save by direct bequest. i have three such cases among my own kinsfolk. [illustration: kitchen doorway and porch at the hedges.] another form of garden and mode of planting which was in vogue in the "early thirties" is shown facing page . this pillared house and the stiff garden are excellent types; they are at napanock, county ulster, new york. such a house and grounds indicated the possession of considerable wealth when they were built and laid out, for both were costly. the semicircular driveway swept up to the front door, dividing off box-edged parterres like those of the day of queen anne. these parterres were sparsely filled, the sunnier beds being set with spring bulbs; and there were always the yellow day lilies somewhere in the flower beds, and the white and blue day lilies, the common funkias. formal urns were usually found in the parterres and sometimes a great cone or ball of clipped box. these gardens had some universal details, they always had great snowball bushes, and syringas, and usually white roses, chiefly madame plantiers; the piazza trellises had old climbing roses, the queen of the prairie or boursault roses. these gardens are often densely overshadowed with great evergreen trees grown from the crowded planting of seventy years ago; none are cut down, and if one dies its trunk still stands, entwined with woodbine. i don't know that we would lay out and plant just such a garden to-day, any more than we would build exactly such a house; but i love to see both, types of the refinement of their day, and i deplore any changes. an old southern house of allied form is shown on page , and its garden facing page ,--greenwood, in thomasville, georgia; but of course this garden has far more lavish and rich bloom. the decoration of this house is most interesting--a conventionalized magnolia, and the garden is surrounded with splendid magnolias and crape myrtles. the border edgings in this garden are lines of bricks set overlapping in a curious manner. they serve to keep the beds firmly in place, and the bricks are covered over with an inner edging of thrifty violets. curious tubs and boxes for plants are made of bricks set solidly in mortar. the garden is glorious with roses, which seem to consort so well with magnolias and violets. [illustration: greenwood, thomasville, georgia.] i love a dutch garden, "circummured" with brick. by a dutch garden, i mean a small garden, oblong or square, sunk about three or four feet in a lawn--so that when surrounded by brick walls they seem about two feet high when viewed outside, but are five feet or more high from within the garden. there are brick or stone steps in the middle of each of the four walls by which to descend to the garden, which may be all planted with flowers, but preferably should have set borders of flowers with a grass-plot in the centre. on either side of the steps should be brick posts surmounted by dutch pots with plants, or by balls of stone. planted with bulbs, these gardens in their flowering time are, as old parkinson said, a "perfect fielde of delite." we have very pretty dutch gardens, so called, in america, but their chief claim to being dutch is that they are set with bulbs, and have delft or other earthen pots or boxes for formal plants or shrubs. sunken gardens should be laid out under the supervision of an intelligent landscape architect; and even then should have a reason for being sunken other than a whim or increase in costliness. i visited last summer a beautiful estate which had a deep sunken dutch garden with a very low wall. it lay at the right side of the house at a little distance; and beyond it, in full view of the peristyle, extended the only squalid objects in the horizon. a garden on the level, well planted, with distant edging of shrubbery, would have hidden every ugly blemish and been a thing of beauty. as it is now, there can be seen from the house nothing of the dutch garden but a foot or two of the tops of several clipped trees, looking like very poor, stunted shrubs. i must add that this garden, with its low wall, has been a perfect man-trap. it has been evident that often, on dark nights, workmen who have sought a "short cut" across the grounds have fallen over the shallow wall, to the gardener's sorrow, and the bulbs' destruction. once, at dawn, the unhappy gardener found an ancient horse peacefully feeding among the hyacinths and tulips. he said he didn't like the grass in his new pasture nor the sudden approach to it; that he was too old for such new-fangled ways. i know another estate near philadelphia, where the sinking of a garden revealed an exquisite view of distant hills; such a garden has reason for its form. [illustration: roses and violets in garden at greenwood, thomasville, georgia.] we have had few water-gardens in america till recent years; and there are some drawbacks to their presence near our homes, as i was vividly aware when i visited one in a friend's garden early in may this year. water-hyacinths were even then in bloom, and two or three exquisite lilies; and the lotus leaves rose up charmingly from the surface of the tank. less charmingly rose up also a cloud of vicious mosquitoes, who greeted the newcomer with a warm chorus of welcome. as our newspapers at that time were filled with plans for the application of kerosene to every inch of water-surface, such as i saw in these lily tanks, accompanied by magnified drawings of dreadful malaria-bearing insects, i fled from them, preferring to resign both _nymphæa_ and _anopheles_. [illustration: water garden at sylvester manor, shelter island, new york.] after the introduction to english folk of that wonder of the world, the victoria regia, it was cultivated by enthusiastic flower lovers in america, and was for a time the height of the floral fashion. never has the glorious victoria regia and scarce any other flower been described as by colonel higginson, a wonderful, a triumphant word picture. i was a very little child when i saw that same lovely lily in leaf and flower that he called his neighbor; but i have never forgotten it, nor how afraid i was of it; for some one wished to lift me upon the great leaf to see whether it would hold me above the water. we had heard that the native children in south america floated on the leaves. i objected to this experiment with vehemence; but my mother noted that i was no more frightened than was the faithful gardener at the thought of the possible strain on his precious plant of the weight of a sturdy child of six or seven years. i have seen the victoria regia leaves of late years, but i seldom hear of its blossoming; but alas! we take less heed of the blooming of unusual plants than we used to thirty or forty years ago. then people thronged a greenhouse to see a new rose or camellia japonica; even a night-blooming cereus attracted scores of visitors to any house where it blossomed. and a fine cactus of one of our neighbors always held a crowded reception when in rich bloom. it was a part of the "flower exchange," an interest all had for the beautiful flowers of others, a part of the old neighborly life. [illustration: terrace wall at drumthwacket, princeton, new jersey.] within the past five or six years there have been laid out in america, at the country seats of men of wealth and culture, a great number of formal gardens,--italian gardens, some of them are worthily named, as they have been shaped and planted in conformity with the best laws and rules of italian garden-making--that special art. on this page is shown the finely proportioned terrace wall, and opposite the upper terrace and formal garden of drumthwacket, princeton, new jersey, the country seat of m. taylor pyne, esq. this garden affords a good example of the accord which should ever exist between the garden and its surroundings. the name, drumthwacket--a wooded hill--is a most felicitous one; the place is part of the original grant to william penn, and has remained in the possession of one family until late in the nineteenth century. from this beautifully wooded hill the terrace-garden overlooks the farm buildings, the linked ponds, the fertile fields and meadows; a serene pastoral view, typical of the peaceful landscape of that vicinity--yet it was once the scene of fiercest battle. for the drumthwacket farm is the battle-ground of that important encounter of between the british and the continental troops, known as the battle of princeton, the turning point of the revolution, in which washington was victorious. to this day, cannon ball and grape shot are dug up in the drumthwacket fields. the lodge built in was, at washington's request, the shelter for the wounded british officers; and the washington spring in front of the lodge furnished water to washington. the group of trees on the left of the upper pond marks the sheltered and honored graves of the british soldiers, where have slept for one hundred and twenty-four years those killed at this memorable encounter. if anything could cement still more closely the affections of the english and american peoples, it would be the sight of the tenderly sheltered graves of british soldiers in america, such as these at drumthwacket and other historic fields on our eastern coast. at concord how faithfully stand the sentinel pines over the british dead of the battle of concord, who thus repose, shut out from the tread of heedless feet yet ever present for the care and thought of concord people. [illustration: garden at avonwood court, haverford, pennsylvania, country-seat of charles e. mather, esq.] we have older italian gardens. some of them are of great loveliness, among them the unique and dignified garden of hollis h. hunnewell, esq., but many of the newer ones, even in their few summers, have become of surprising grace and beauty, and their exquisite promise causes a glow of delight to every garden lover. i have often tried to analyze and account for the great charm of a formal garden, to one who loves so well the unrestrained and lavished blossoming of a flower border crowded with nature-arranged and disarranged blooms. a chance sentence in the letter of a flower-loving friend, one whose refined taste is an inherent portion of her nature, runs thus:-- "i have the same love, the same sense of perfect satisfaction, in the old formal garden that i have in the sonnet in poetry, in the greek drama as contrasted with the modern drama; something within me is ever drawn toward that which is restrained and classic." in these few words, then, is defined the charm of the formal garden--a well-ordered, a classic restraint. [illustration: garden at drumthwacket, princeton, new jersey.] some of the new formal gardens seem imperfect in design and inadequate in execution; worse still, they are unsuited to their surroundings; but gracious nature will give even to these many charms of color, fragrance, and shape through lavish plant growth. i have had given to me sets of beautiful photographs of these new italian gardens, which i long to include with my pictures of older flower beds; but i cannot do so in full in a book on old-time gardens, though they are copied from far older gardens than our american ones. i give throughout my book occasional glimpses of detail in modern formal gardens; and two examples may be fitly illustrated and described in comparative fulness in this book, because they are not only unusual in their beauty and promise, but because they have in plan and execution some bearing on my special presentation of gardens. these two are the gardens of avonwood court in haverford, pennsylvania, the country-seat of charles e. mather, esq., of philadelphia; and of yaddo, in saratoga, new york, the country-seat of spencer trask, esq., of new york. [illustration: sun-dial at avonwood court, haverford, pennsylvania.] the garden at avonwood court was designed and laid out in by mr. percy ash. the flower planting was done by mr. john cope; and the garden is delightsome in proportions, contour, and aspect. its claim to illustrative description in this book lies in the fact that it is planted chiefly with old-fashioned flowers, and its beds are laid out and bordered with thriving box in a truly old-time mode. it affords a striking example of the beauty and satisfaction that can come from the use of box as an edging, and old-time flowers as a filling of these beds. among the two hundred different plants are great rows of yellow day lilies shown in the view facing page ; regular plantings of peonies; borders of flower de luce; banks of lilies of the valley; rows of white fraxinella and lupine, beds of fringed poppies, sentinels of yucca--scores of old favorites have grown and thriven in the cheery manner they ever display when they are welcome and beloved. the sun-dial in this garden is shown facing page ; it was designed by mr. percy ash, and can be regarded as a model of simple outlines, good proportions, careful placing, and symmetrical setting. by placing i mean that it is in the right site in relation to the surrounding flower beds, and to the general outlines of the garden; it is a dignified and significant garden centre. by setting i mean its being raised to proper prominence in the garden scheme, by being placed at the top of a platform formed of three circular steps of ample proportion and suitable height, that its pedestal is also of the right size and not so high but one can, when standing on the top step, read with ease the dial's response to our question, "what's the time o' the day?" the hedges and walls of honeysuckle, roses, and other flowering vines that surround this garden have thriven wonderfully in the five years of the garden's life, and look like settings of many years. the simple but graceful wall seat gives some idea of the symmetrical and simple garden furnishings, as well as the profusion of climbing vines that form the garden's boundaries. [illustration: entrance porch and gate to the rose garden at yaddo.] this book bears on the title-page a redrawing of a charming old woodcut of the eighteenth century, a very good example of the art thought and art execution of that day, being the work of a skilful designer. it is from an old stilted treatise on orchards and gardens, and it depicts a cheerful little love, with anxious face and painstaking care, measuring and laying out the surface of the earth in a garden. on his either side are old clipped yews; and at his feet a spade and pots of garden flowers, among them the fritillary so beloved of all flower lovers and herbalists of that day, a significant flower--a flower of meaning and mystery. this drawing may be taken as an old-time emblem, and a happy one, to symbolize the making of the beautiful modern rose garden at yaddo; where love, with tenderest thought, has laid out the face of the earth in an exquisite garden of roses, for the happiness and recreation of a dearly loved wife. the noble entrance gate and porch of this rose garden formed a happy surprise to the garden's mistress when unveiled at the dedication of the garden. they are depicted on page , and there may be read the inscription which tells in a few well-chosen words the story of the inspiration of the garden; but "between the lines," to those who know the rose garden and its makers, the inscription speaks with even deeper meaning the story of a home whose beauty is only equalled by the garden's spirit. to all such readers the rose garden becomes a fitting expression of the life of those who own it and care for it. this quality of expression, of significance, may be seen in many a smaller and simpler garden, even in a tiny cottage plot; you can perceive, through the care bestowed upon it, and its responsive blossoming, a _something_ which shows the life of the garden owners; you know that they are thoughtful, kindly, beauty-loving, home-loving. [illustration: pergola and terrace walk in rose garden at yaddo.] behind the beautiful pergola of the yaddo garden, set thickly with crimson rambler, a screenlike row of poplars divides the rose garden from a luxuriant rock garden, and an old-fashioned garden of large extent, extraordinary profusion, and many years' growth. perhaps the latter-named garden might seem more suited to my pages, since it is more advanced in growth and apparently more akin to my subject; but i wish to write specially of the rose garden, because it is an unusual example of what can be accomplished without aid of architect or landscape gardener, when good taste, careful thought, attention to detail, a love of flowers, and _intent to attain perfection_ guide the garden's makers. it is happily placed in a country of most charming topography, but it must not be thought that the garden shaped itself; its beautiful proportions, contour, and shape were carefully studied out and brought to the present perfection by the same force that is felt in the garden's smallest detail, the power of love. the rose garden is unusually large for a formal garden; with its vistas and walks, the connected daffodil dell, and the rock garden, it fills about ten acres. but the estate is over eight hundred acres, and the house very large in ground extent, so the garden seems well-proportioned. this rose garden has an unusual attraction in the personal interest of every detail, such as is found in few american gardens of great size, and indeed in few english gardens. the gardens of the countess warwick, at easton lodge, in essex, possess the same charm, a personal meaning and significance in the statues and fountains, and even in the planting of flower borders. the illustration on page depicts the general shape of the yaddo rose garden, as seen from the upper terrace; but it does not show how the garden stretches down the fine marble steps, past the marble figures of diana and paris, and along the paths of standard roses, past the shallow fountain which is not so large as to obscure what speaks the garden's story, the statue of christalan, that grand creation in one of mrs. trask's idyls, _under king constantine_. this heroic figure, showing to full extent the genius of the sculptor, william ordway partridge, also figures the genius of the poet-creator, and is of an inexpressible and impressive nobility. with hand and arm held to heaven, christalan shows against the background of rich evergreens as the true knight of this garden of sentiment and chivalry. [illustration: statue of christalan in rose garden at yaddo.] "the sunlight slanting westward through the trees fell first upon his lifted, golden head, making a shining helmet of his curls, and then upon the lilies in his hand. his eyes had a defiant, fearless glow; against the sombre background of the wood he looked scarce human." the larger and more impressive fountain at yaddo is shown on these pages. it is one hundred feet long and seventy feet wide, and is in front of the house, to the east. its marble figures signify the dawn; it will be noted that on this site its beauties show against a suited and ample background, and its grand proportions are not permitted to obscure the fine statue of christalan from the view of those seated on the terrace or walking under the shade of the pergola. [illustration: sun-dial in rose garden at yaddo.] especially beautiful is the sun-dial on the upper terrace, shown on page . the metal dial face is supported by a marble slab resting on two carved standards of classic design representing conventionalized lions, these being copies of those two splendid standards unearthed at pompeii, which still may be seen by the side of the impluvium in the atrium or main hall of the finest græco-roman dwelling-place which has been restored in that wonderful city. these sun-dial standards at yaddo were made by the permission and under the supervision of the italian government. i can conceive nothing more fitting or more inspiring to the imagination than that, telling as they do the story of the splendor of ancient pompeii and of the passing centuries, they should now uphold to our sight a sun-dial as if to bid us note the flight of time and the vastness of the past. [illustration: bronze face of dial in rose garden at yaddo.] the entire sun-dial, with its beautiful adjuncts of carefully shaped marble seats, stands on a semicircular plaza of marble at the head of the noble flight of marble steps. the engraved metal dial face bears two exquisite verses--the gift of one poet to another--of dr. henry van dyke to the garden's mistress, katrina trask. these dial mottoes are unusual, and perfect examples of that genius which with a few words can shape a lasting gem of our english tongue. at the edge of the dial face is this motto: "hours fly, flowers die, new days, new ways, pass by; love stays." at the base of the gnomon is the second motto:-- time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice; but for those who love, time is eternity. i have for years been a student of sun-dial lore, a collector of sun-dial mottoes and inscriptions, of which i have many hundreds. i know nowhere, either in english, on english or scotch sun-dials, or in the continental tongues, any such exquisite dial legends as these two--so slight of form, so simple in wording, so pure in diction, yet of sentiment, of thought, how full! how impressive! they stamp themselves forever on the memory as beautiful examples of what james russell lowell called verbal magic; that wonderful quality which comes, neither from chosen words, nor from their careful combination into sentences, but from something which is as inexplicable in its nature as it is in its charm. [illustration: ancient pine in garden at yaddo.] to tree lovers the gardens and grounds at yaddo have glorious charms in their splendid trees; but one can be depicted here--the grand native pine, over eight feet in diameter, which, with other stately sentinels of its race, stands a sombrely beautiful guard over all this loveliness. chapter iv box edgings "they walked over the crackling leaves in the garden, between the lines of box, breathing its fragrance of eternity; for this is one of the odors which carry us out of time into the abysses of the unbeginning past; if we ever lived on another ball of stone than this, it must be that there was box growing on it." --_elsie venner_, oliver wendell holmes, . to many of us, besides dr. holmes, the unique aroma of the box, cleanly bitter in scent as in taste, is redolent of the eternal past; it is almost hypnotic in its effect. this strange power is not felt by all, nor is it a present sensitory influence; it is an hereditary memory, half-known by many, but fixed in its intensity in those of new england birth and descent, true children of the puritans; to such ones the box breathes out the very atmosphere of new england's past. i cannot see in clear outline those prim gardens of centuries ago, nor the faces of those who walked and worked therein; but i know, as i stroll to-day between our old box-edged borders, and inhale the beloved bitterness of fragrance, and gather a stiff sprig of the beautiful glossy leaves, that in truth the garden lovers and garden workers of other days walk beside me, though unseen and unheard. about thirty years ago a bright young yankee girl went to the island of cuba as a governess to the family of a sugar planter. it was regarded as a somewhat perilous adventure by her home-staying folk, and their apprehensions of ill were realized in her death there five years later. this was not, however, all that happened to her. the planter's wife had died in this interval of time, and she had been married to the widower. a daughter had been born, who, after her mother's death, was reared in the southern island, in cuban ways, having scant and formal communication with her new england kin. when this girl was twenty years old, she came to the little massachusetts town where her mother had been reared, and met there a group of widowed and maiden aunts, and great-aunts. after sitting for a time in her mother's room in the old home, the reserve which often exists between those of the same race who should be friends but whose lives have been widely apart, and who can never have more than a passing sight of each other, made them in semi-embarrassment and lack of resources of mutual interest walk out into the garden. as they passed down the path between high lines of box, the girl suddenly stopped, looked in terror at the gate, and screamed out in fright, "the dog, the dog, save me, he will kill me!" _no dog was there_, but on that very spot, between those box hedges, thirty years before, her mother had been attacked and bitten by an enraged dog, to the distress and apprehension of the aunts, who all recalled the occurrence, as they reassured the fainting and bewildered girl. she, of course, had never known aught of this till she was told it by the old box. [illustration: house and garden at napanock. county ulster, new york.] many other instances of the hypnotic effect of box are known, and also of its strong influence on the mind through memory. i know of a man who travelled a thousand miles to renew acquaintance and propose marriage to an old sweetheart, whom he had not seen and scarcely thought of for years, having been induced to this act wholly through memories of her, awakened by a chance stroll in an old box-edged garden such as those of his youth; at the gate of one of which he had often lingered, after walking home with her from singing-school. i ought to be able to add that the twain were married as a result of this sentimental memory-awakening through the old box; but, in truth, they never came very close to matrimony. for when he saw her he remained absolutely silent on the subject of marriage; the fickle creature forgot the box scent and the singing-school, while she openly expressed to her friends her surprise at his aged appearance, and her pity for his dulness. for the sense of sight is more powerful than that of smell, and the box might prove a master hand at hinting, but it failed utterly in permanent influence. those who have not loved the box for centuries in the persons and with the partial noses of their puritan forbears, complain of its curious scent, say, like polly peacham, that "they can't abear it," and declare that it brings ever the thought of old graveyards. i have never seen box in ancient burying-grounds, they were usually too neglected to be thus planted; but it was given a limited space in the cemeteries of the middle of this century. even those borders have now generally been dug up to give place to granite copings. the scent of box has been aptly worded by gabriel d'annunzio, in his _virgin of the rocks_, in his description of a neglected garden. he calls it a "bitter sweet odor," and he notes its influence in making his wanderers in this garden "reconstruct some memory of their far-off childhood." the old jesuit poet rapin writing in the seventeenth century tells a fanciful tale that-- "gardens of old, nor art, nor rules obey'd, but unadorn'd, or wild neglect betray'd;" that flora's hair hung undressed, neglected "in artless tresses," until in pity another nymph "around her head wreath'd a boxen bough" from the fields; which so improved her beauty that trim edgings were placed ever after--"where flowers disordered once at random grew." he then describes the various figures of box, the way to plant it, its disadvantages, and the associate flowers that should be set with it, all in stilted verse. queen anne was a royal enemy of box. by her order many of the famous box hedges at hampton court were destroyed; by her example, many old box-edged gardens throughout england were rooted up. there are manifold objections raised to box besides the dislike of its distinctive odor: heavy edgings and hedges of box "take away the heart of the ground" and flowers pine within box-edged borders; the roots of box on the inside of the flower knot or bed, therefore, have to be cut and pulled out in order to leave the earth free for flower roots. it is also alleged that box harbors slugs--and i fear it does. [illustration: box parterre at hampton.] we are told that it is not well to plant box edgings in our gardens, because box is so frail, is so easily winter-killed, that it dies down in ugly fashion. yet see what great trees it forms, even when untrimmed, as in the prince garden (page ). it is true that box does not always flourish in the precise shape you wish, but it has nevertheless a wonderfully tenacious hold on life. i know nothing more suggestive of persistence and of sad sentiment than the view often seen in forlorn city enclosures, as you drive past, or rush by in an electric car, of an aged bush of box, or a few feet of old box hedge growing in the beaten earth of a squalid back yard, surrounded by dirty tenement houses. once a fair garden there grew; the turf and flowers and trees are vanished; but spared through accident, or because deemed so valueless, the box still lives. even in washington and other southern cities, where the negro population eagerly gather box at christmas-tide, you will see these forlorn relics of the garden still growing, and their bitter fragrance rises above the vile odors of the crowded slums. box formed an important feature of the garden of pliny's favorite villa in tuscany, which he described in his letter to apollinaris. how i should have loved its formal beauty! on the southern front a terrace was bordered with a box hedge and "embellished with various figures in box, the representation of divers animals." beyond was a circus formed around by ranges of box rising in walls of varied heights. the middle of this circus was ornamented with figures of box. on one side was a hippodrome set with a plantation of box trees backed with plane trees; thence ran a straight walk divided by box hedges into alleys. thus expanses were enclosed, one of which held a beautiful meadow, another had "knots of plane tree," another was "set with box a thousand different forms." some of these were letters expressing the name of the owner of all this extravagance; or the initials of various fair roman dames, a very gallant pleasantry of young pliny. both plane tree and box tree of such ancient gardens were by tradition nourished with wine instead of water. initials of box may be seen to-day in english gardens, and heraldic devices. french gardens vied with english gardens in curious patterns in box. the garden of versailles during the reign of louis xiv. had a stag chase, in clipped box, with greyhounds in chase. globes, pyramids, tubes, cylinders, cones, arches, and other shapes were cut in box as they were in yew. a very pretty conceit in box was-- "horizontal dials on the ground in living box by cunning artists traced." reference is frequent enough to these dials of box to show that they were not uncommon in fine old english gardens. there were sun-dials either of box or thrift, in the gardens of colleges both at oxford and cambridge, as may be seen in loggan's _views_. two modern ones are shown; one, on page , is in the garden of lady lennox, at broughton castle, banbury, england. another of exceptionally fine growth and trim perfection in the garden at ascott, the seat of mr. leopold de rothschild (opposite page .) these are curious rather than beautiful, but display well that quality given in the poet's term "the tonsile box." [illustration: sun-dial in box at broughton castle.] writing of a similar sun-dial, lady warwick says:-- "never was such a perfect timekeeper as my sun-dial, and the figures which record the hours are all cut out and trimmed in box, and there again on its outer ring is a legend which read in whatever way you please: les heures heureuses ne se comptent pas. they were outlined for me, those words, in baby sprigs of box by a friend who is no more, who loved my garden and was good to it." box hedges were much esteemed in england--so says parkinson, to dry linen on, affording the raised expanse and even surface so much desired. it can always be noted in all domestic records of early days that the vast washing of linen and clothing was one of the great events of the year. sometimes, in households of plentiful supply, these washings were done but once a year; in other homes, semi-annually. the drying and bleaching linen was an unceasing attraction to rascals like autolycus, who had a "pugging tooth"--that is, a prigging tooth. these linen thieves had a special name, they were called "prygmen"; they wandered through the country on various pretexts, men and their doxies, and were the bane of english housewives. the box hedges were also in constant use to hold the bleaching webs of homespun and woven flaxen and hempen stuff, which were often exposed for weeks in the dew and sunlight. in a reason given for the disuse and destruction of "quicksetted arbors and hedges" was that they "agreed very ill with the ladies' muslins." box was of little value in the apothecary shop, was seldom used in medicine. parkinson said that the leaves and dust of boxwood "boyld in lye" would make hair to be "of an aborne or abraham color"--that is, auburn. this was a very primitive hair dye, but it must have been a powerful one. boxwood was a firm, beautiful wood, used to make tablets for inscriptions of note. the mottled wood near the root was called dudgeon. holland's translation of pliny says, "the box tree seldome hath any grain crisped damaske-wise, and never but about the root, the which is dudgin." from its esteemed use for dagger hilts came the word dudgeon-dagger, and the terms "drawn-dudgeon" and "high-dudgeon," meaning offence or discord. i plead for the box, not for its fragrance, for you may not be so fortunate as to have a puritan sense of smell, nor for its weird influence, for that is intangible; but because it is the most becoming of all edgings to our garden borders of old-time flowers. the clear compact green of its shining leaves, the trim distinctness of its clipped lines, the attributes that made pope term it the "shapely box," make it the best of all foils for the varied tints of foliage, the many colors of bloom, and the careless grace in growth of the flowers within the border. box edgings are pleasant, too, in winter, showing in grateful relief against the tiresome monotony of the snow expanse. and they bear sometimes a crown of lightest snow wreaths, which seem like a white blossoming in promise of the beauties of the border in the coming summer. pick a bit of this winter box, even with the mercury below zero. lo! you have a breath of the hot dryness of the midsummer garden. box grows to great size, even twenty feet in height. in southern gardens, where it is seldom winter-killed, it is often of noble proportions. in the lovely garden of martha washington at mount vernon the box is still preserved in the beauty and interest of its original form. [illustration: sun-dial in box at ascott.] the box edgings and hedges of many other southern gardens still are in good condition; those of the old preston homestead at columbia, south carolina (shown on pages and , and facing page ), owe their preservation during the civil war to the fact that the house was then the refuge of a sisterhood of nuns. the ridgely estate, hampton, in county baltimore, maryland, has a formal garden in which the perfection of the box is a delight. the will of captain charles ridgely, in , made an appropriation of money and land for this garden. the high terrace which overlooks the garden and the shallow ones which break the southern slope and mark the boundaries of each parterre are fine examples of landscape art, and are said to be the work of major chase barney, a famous military engineer. by the garden was an object of beauty and much renown. a part only of the original parterre remains, but the more modern flower borders, through the unusual perspective and contour of the garden, do not clash with the old box-edged beds. these edgings were reset in , and are always kept very closely cut. the circular domes of clipped box arise from stems at least a hundred years old. the design of the parterre is so satisfactory that i give three views of it in order to show it fully. (see pages , , and .) a box-edged garden of much beauty and large extent existed for some years in the grounds connected with the county jail in fitchburg, massachusetts. it was laid out by the wife of the warden, aided by the manual labor of convicted prisoners, with her earnest hope that working among flowers would have a benefiting and softening influence on these criminals. she writes rather dubiously: "they all enjoyed being out of doors with their pipes, whether among the flowers or the vegetables; and no attempt at escape was ever made by any of them while in the comparative freedom of the flower-garden." she planted and marked distinctly in this garden over seven hundred groups of annuals and hardy perennials, hoping the men would care to learn the names of the flowers, and through that knowledge, and their practise in the care of box edgings and hedges, be able to obtain positions as under-gardeners when their terms of imprisonment expired. the garden at tudor place, the home of mrs. beverley kennon (page ), displays fine box; and the garden of the poet longfellow which is said to have been laid out after the box-edged parterres at versailles. throughout this book are scattered several good examples of box from salem and other towns; in a sweet, old garden on kingston hill, rhode island (page ) the flower-beds are anchor-shaped. in favorable climates box edgings may grow in such vigor as to entirely fill the garden beds. an example of this is given on page , showing the garden at tuckahoe. the beds were laid out over a large space of ground in a beautiful design, which still may be faintly seen by examining the dark expanse beside the house, which is now almost solid box. the great hedges by the avenue are also box; between similar ones at upton court in camden, south carolina, riders on horseback cannot be seen nor see over it. new england towns seldom show such growth of box; but in hingham, massachusetts, at the home of mrs. robbins, author of that charming book, _the rescue of an old place_, there is a box bower, with walls of box fifteen feet in height. these walls were originally the edgings of a flower bed on the "old place." read dr. john brown's charming account of the box bower of the "queen's maries." [illustration: garden at tudor place.] box grows on long island with great vigor. at brecknock hall, the family residence of mrs. albert delafield at greenport, long island, the hedges of plain and variegated box are unusually fine, and the paths are well laid out. some of them are entirely covered by the closing together of the two hedges which are often six or seven feet in height. [illustration: anchor-shaped flower-beds. kingston, rhode island.] in spite of the constant assertion of the winter-killing of box in the north, the oldest box in the country is that at sylvester manor, shelter island, new york. the estate is now owned by the tenth mistress of the manor, miss cornelia horsford; the first mistress of the manor, grissel sylvester, who had been grissel gardiner, came there in . it is told, and is doubtless true, that she brought there the first box plants, to make, in what was then a far-away island, a semblance of her home garden. it is said that this box was thriving in madam sylvester's garden when george fox preached there to the indians. the oldest box is fifteen or eighteen feet high; not so tall, i think, as the neglected box at vaucluse, the old hazard place near newport, but far more massive and thrifty and shapely. box needs unusual care and judgment, an instinct almost, for the removal of certain portions. it sends out tiny rootlets at the joints of the sprays, and these grow readily. the largest and oldest box bushes at sylvester manor garden are a study in their strong, hearty stems, their perfect foliage, their symmetry; they show their care of centuries. [illustration: ancient box at tuckahoe.] the delightful box-edged flower beds were laid out in their present form about seventy years ago by the grandfather of the present owner. there is a lower garden, a terrace garden, which are shown on succeeding pages, a fountain garden, a rose garden, a water garden; a bit of the latter is on page . in some portions of these gardens, especially on the upper terrace, the box is so high, and set in such quaint and rambling figures, that it closely approaches an old english maze; and it was a pretty sight to behold a group of happy little children running in and out among these box hedges that extended high over their heads, searching long and eagerly for the central bower where their little tea party was set. over these old garden borders hangs literally an atmosphere of the past; the bitter perfume stimulates the imagination as we walk by the side of these splendid box bushes, and think, as every one must, of what they have seen, of what they know; on this garden is written the history of over two centuries of beautiful domestic home life. it is well that we still have such memorials to teach us the nobility and beauty of such a life. chapter v the herb garden "to have nothing here but sweet herbs, and those only choice ones too, and every kind its bed by itself." --desiderius erasmus, . in montaigne's time it was the custom to dedicate special chapters of books to special persons. were it so to-day, i should dedicate this chapter to the memory of a friend who has been constantly in my mind while writing it; for she formed in her beautiful garden, near our modern city, chicago, the only perfect herb garden i know,--a garden that is the counterpart of the garden of erasmus, made four centuries ago; for in it are "nothing but sweet herbs, and choice ones too, and every kind its bed by itself." a corner of it is shown on page . this herb garden is so well laid out that i will give directions therefrom for a bed of similar planting. it may be placed at the base of a grass bank or at the edge of a garden. let two garden walks be laid out, one at the lower edge, perhaps, of the bank, the other parallel, ten, fifteen, twenty feet away. let narrow paths be left at regular intervals running parallel from walk to walk, as do the rounds of a ladder from the two side bars. in the narrow oblong beds formed by these paths plant solid rows of herbs, each variety by itself, with no attempt at diversity of design. you can thus walk among them, and into them, and smell them in their concentrated strength, and you can gather them at ease. on the bank can be placed the creeping thyme, and other low-running herbs. medicinal shrubs should be the companions of the herbs; plant these as you will, according to their growth and habit, making them give variety of outline to the herb garden. [illustration: herb garden at white birches, elmhurst, illinois.] there are few persons who have a strong enough love of leaf scents, or interest in herbs, to make them willing to spend much time in working in an herb garden. the beauty and color of flowers would compensate them, but not the growth or scent of leafage. it is impossible to describe to one who does not feel by instinct "the lure of green things growing," the curious stimulation, the sense of intoxication, of delight, brought by working among such green-growing, sweet-scented things. the maker of this interesting garden felt this stimulation and delight; and at her city home on a bleak day in december we both revelled in holding and breathing in the scent of tiny sprays of rue, rosemary, and balm which, still green, had been gathered from beneath fallen leaves and stalks in her country garden, as a tender and grateful attention of one herb lover to another. thus did she prove shakespeare's words true even on the shores of lake michigan:-- "rosemary and rue: these keep seeming and savor all the winter long." there is ample sentiment in the homely inhabitants of the herb garden. the herb garden of the countess of warwick is called by her a garden of sentiment. each plant is labelled with a pottery marker, swallow-shaped, bearing in ineradicable colors the flower name and its significance. thus there is balm for sympathy, bay for glory, foxglove for sincerity, basil for hatred. a recent number of _the garden_ deplored the dying out of herbs in old english gardens; so i think it may prove of interest to give the list of herbs and medicinal shrubs and trees which grew in this friend's herb garden in the new world across the sea. arnica, anise, ambrosia, agrimony, aconite. belladonna, black alder, betony, boneset or thorough-wort, sweet basil, bryony, borage, burnet, butternut, balm, _melissa officinalis_, balm (variegated), bee-balm, or oswego tea, mild, false, and true bergamot, burdock, bloodroot, black cohosh, barberry, bittersweet, butterfly-weed, birch, blackberry, button-snakeroot, buttercup. costmary, or sweet mary, calamint, choke-cherry, comfrey, coriander, cumin, catnip, caraway, chives, castor-oil bean, colchicum, cedronella, camomile, chicory, cardinal-flower, celandine, cotton, cranesbill, cow-parsnip, high-bush cranberry. dogwood, dutchman's-pipe, dill, dandelion, dock, dogbane. elder, elecampane, slippery elm. sweet fern, fraxinella, fennel, flax, fumitory, fig, sweet flag, blue flag, foxglove. goldthread, gentian, goldenrod. hellebore, henbane, hops, horehound, hyssop, horseradish, horse-chestnut, hemlock, small hemlock or fool's parsley. american ipecac, indian hemp, poison ivy, wild, false, and blue indigo, wild yellow indigo, wild white indigo. juniper, joepye-weed. lobelia, lovage, lavender lemon verbena, lemon, mountain laurel, yellow lady's-slippers, lily of the valley, liverwort, wild lettuce, field larkspur, lungwort. mosquito plant, wild mint, motherwort, mullein, sweet marjoram, meadowsweet, marshmallow, mandrake, mulberry, black and white mustard, mayweed, mugwort, marigold. nigella. opium poppy, orange, oak. pulsatilla, pellitory or pyrethrum, red pepper, peppermint, pennyroyal, false pennyroyal, pope-weed, pine, pigweed, pumpkin, parsley, prince's-pine, peony, plantain. rhubarb, rue, rosemary, rosa gallica, dog rose. sassafras, saxifrage, sweet cicely, sage (common blue), sage (red), summer savory, winter savory, santonin, sweet woodruff, saffron, spearmint, wild sarsaparilla, black snakeroot, squills, senna, st.-john's-wort, sorrel, spruce fir, self-heal, southernwood. thorn apple, tansy, thyme, tobacco, tarragon. valerian, dogtooth violet, blue violet. witchhazel, wormwood, wintergreen, willow, walnut. yarrow. [illustration: garden at white birches. elmhurst, illinois.] it will be noted that some common herbs and medicinal plants are missing; there is, for instance, no box; it will not live in that climate; and there are many other herbs which this garden held for a short time, but which succumbed under the fierce winter winds from lake michigan. it is interesting to compare this list with one made in rhyme three centuries ago, the garland of herbs of the nymph lelipa in drayton's _muse's elyzium_. "a chaplet then of herbs i'll make than which though yours be braver, yet this of mine i'll undertake shall not be short in savour. with basil then i will begin, whose scent is wondrous pleasing: this eglantine i'll next put in the sense with sweetness seizing. then in my lavender i lay muscado put among it, with here and there a leaf of bay, which still shall run along it. germander, marjoram and thyme, which uséd are for strewing; with hyssop as an herb most prime here in my wreath bestowing. then balm and mint help to make up my chaplet, and for trial costmary that so likes the cup, and next it pennyroyal. then burnet shall bear up with this, whose leaf i greatly fancy; some camomile doth not amiss with savory and some tansy. then here and there i'll put a sprig of rosemary into it, thus not too little nor too big, 'tis done if i can do it." [illustration: garden of manning homestead, salem, massachusetts.] another name for the herb garden was the olitory; and the word herber, or herbar, would at first sight appear to be an herbarium, an herb garden; it was really an arbor. i have such satisfaction in herb gardens, and in the herbs themselves, and in all their uses, all their lore, that i am confirmed in my belief that i really care far less for botany than for that old-time regard and study of plants covered by the significant name, wort-cunning. wort was a good old common english word, lost now in our use, save as the terminal syllable of certain plant-names; it is a pity we have given it up since its equivalent, herb, seems so variable in application, especially in that very trying expression of which we weary so of late--herbaceous border. this seems an architect's phrase rather than a florist's; you always find it on the plans of fine houses with gardens. to me it annihilates every possibility of sentiment, and it usually isn't correct, since many of the plants in these borders are woody perennials instead of annuals; any garden planting that is not "bedding-out" is wildly named "an herbaceous border." herb gardens were no vanity and no luxury in our grandmothers' day; they were a necessity. to them every good housewife turned for nearly all that gave variety to her cooking, and to fill her domestic pharmacopoeia. the physician placed his chief reliance for supplies on herb gardens and the simples of the fields. an old author says, "many an old wife or country woman doth often more good with a few known and common garden herbs, than our bombast physicians, with all their prodigious, sumptuous, far-fetched, rare, conjectural medicines." doctor and goodwife both had a rival in the parson. the picture of the country parson and his wife given by old george herbert was equally true of the new england minister and his wife:-- "in the knowledge of simples one thing would be carefully observed, which is to know what herbs may be used instead of drugs of the same nature, and to make the garden the shop; for home-bred medicines are both more easy for the parson's purse, and more familiar for all men's bodies. so when the apothecary useth either for loosing rhubarb, or for binding bolearmana, the parson useth damask or white rose for the one, and plantain, shepherd's purse, and knot-grass for the other; and that with better success. as for spices, he doth not only prefer home-bred things before them, but condemns them for vanities, and so shuts them out of his family, esteeming that there is no spice comparable for herbs to rosemary, thyme, savory mints, and for seeds to fennel and caraway. accordingly, for salves, his wife seeks not the city, but prefers her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums." simples were medicinal plants, so called because each of these vegetable growths was held to possess an individual virtue, to be an element, a simple substance constituting a single remedy. the noun was generally used in the plural. you must not think that sowing, gathering, drying, and saving these herbs and simples in any convenient or unstudied way was all that was necessary. not at all; many and manifold were the rules just when to plant them, when to pick them, how to pick them, how to dry them, and even how to keep them. gervayse markham was very wise in herb lore, in the suited seasons of the moon, and hour of the day or night, for herb culling. in the garret of every old house, such as that of the ward homestead, shown on page , with the wreckage of house furniture, were hung bunches of herbs and simples, waiting for winter use. the still-room was wholly devoted to storing these herbs and manufacturing their products. this was the careful work of the house mistress and her daughters. it was not intrusted to servants. one book of instruction was entitled, _the vertuouse boke of distyllacyon of the waters of all manner of herbs_. thomas tusser wrote:-- "good huswives provide, ere an sickness do come, of sundrie good things in house to have some, good aqua composita, vinegar tart, rose water and treacle to comfort the heart, good herbes in the garden for agues that burn, that over strong heat to good temper turn." [illustration: under the garret eaves of the ward homestead. shrewsbury, massachusetts.] both still-room and simple-closet of a dame of the time of queen elizabeth or queen anne had crowded shelves. many an herb and root, unused to-day, was deemed then of sovereign worth. from a manuscript receipt book i have taken names of ingredients, many of which are seldom, perhaps never, used now in medicine. unripe blackberries, ivy berries, eglantine berries, "ashen keys," acorns, stones of sloes, parsley seed, houseleeks, unripe hazelnuts, daisy roots, strawberry "strings," woodbine tops, the inner bark of oak and of red filberts, green "broom cod," white thorn berries, turnips, barberry bark, dates, goldenrod, gourd seed, blue lily roots, parsnip seed, asparagus roots, peony roots. from herbs and simples were made, for internal use, liquid medicines such as wines and waters, syrups, juleps; and solids, such as conserves, confections, treacles, eclegms, tinctures. there were for external use, amulets, oils, ointments, liniments, plasters, cataplasms, salves, poultices; also sacculi, little bags of flowers, seeds, herbs, etc., and pomanders and posies. that a certain stimulus could be given to the brain by inhaling the scent of these herbs will not be doubted, i think, by the herb lover even of this century. in the _haven of health_, , cures were promised by sleeping on herbs, smelling of them, binding the leaves on the forehead, and inhaling the vapors of their boiling or roasting. mint was "a good posie for students to oft smell." pennyroyal "quickened the brain by smelling oft." basil cleared the wits, and so on. the use of herbs in medicine is far from being obsolete; and when we give them more stately names we swallow the same dose. dandelion bitters is still used for diseases caused by an ill-working liver. wintergreen, which was universally made into tea or oil for rheumatism, appears now in prescriptions for the same disease under the name of gaultheria. peppermint, once a sovereign cure for heartburn and "nuralogy," serves us decked with the title of menthol. "saffern-tea" never has lost its good standing as a cure for the "jarnders." in country communities scores of old herbs and simples are used in vast amounts; and in every village is some aged man or woman wise in gathering, distilling, and compounding these "potent and parable medicines," to use cotton mather's words. one of these gatherers of simples is shown opposite page , a quaint old figure, seen afar as we drive through country by-roads, as she bends over some dense clump of weeds in distant meadow or pasture. in our large city markets bunches of sweet herbs are still sold; and within a year i have seen men passing my city home selling great bunches of catnip and mint, in the spring, and dried sage, marjoram, and other herbs in the autumn. in one case i noted that it was the same man, unmistakably a real countryman, whom i had noted selling quail on the street, when he had about forty as fine quail as i ever saw. i never saw him sell quail, nor herbs. i think his customers are probably all foreigners--emigrants from continental europe, chiefly poles and italians. the use of herbs as component parts of love philters and charms is a most ancient custom, and lingered into the nineteenth century in country communities. i knew but one case of the manufacture and administering of a love philter, and it was by a person to whom such an action would seem utterly incongruous. a very gentle, retiring girl in a new england town eighty years ago was deeply in love with the minister whose church she attended, and of which her father was the deacon. the parson was a widower, nearly of middle age, and exceedingly sombre and reserved in character--saddened, doubtless, by the loss of his two young children and his wife through that scourge of new england, consumption; but he was very handsome, and even his sadness had its charm. his house, had burned down as an additional misfortune, and he lived in lodgings with two elderly women of his congregation. therefore church meetings and various gatherings of committees were held at the deacon's house, and the deacon's daughter saw him day after day, and grew more desperately in love. desperate certainly she was when she dared even to think of giving a love philter to a minister. the recipe was clearly printed on the last page of an old dream book; and she carried it out in every detail. it was easy to introduce it into the mug of flip which was always brewed for the meeting, and the parson drank it down abstractedly, thinking that it seemed more bitter than usual, but showing no sign of this thought. the philter was promised to have effect in making the drinker love profoundly the first person of opposite sex whom he or she saw after drinking it; and of course the minister saw hannah as she stood waiting for his empty tankard. the dull details of parish work were talked over in the usual dragging way for half an hour, when the minister became conscious of an intense coldness which seemed to benumb him in every limb; and he tried to walk to the fireplace. suddenly all in the room became aware that he was very ill, and one called out, "he's got a stroke." luckily the town doctor was also a deacon, and was therefore present; and he promptly said, "he's poisoned," and hot water from the teakettle, whites of eggs, mustard, and other domestic antidotes were administered with promptitude and effect. it is useless to detail the days of agony to the wretched girl, during which the sick man wavered between life and death, nor her devoted care of him. soon after his recovery he solemnly proposed marriage to her, and was refused. but he never wavered in his love for her; and every year he renewed his offer and told his wishes, to be met ever with a cold refusal, until ten years had passed; when into his brain there entered a perception that her refusal had some extraordinary element in it. then, with a warmth of determination worthy a younger man, he demanded an explanation, and received a confession of the poisonous love philter. i suppose time had softened the memory of his suffering, at any rate they were married--so the promise of the love charm came true, after all. [illustration: a gatherer of simples.] amos bronson alcott was another author of concord, a sweet philosopher whom i shall ever remember with deepest gratitude as the only person who in my early youth ever imagined any literary capacity in me (and in that he was sadly mistaken, for he fancied i would be a poet). i have read very faithfully all his printed writings, trying to believe him a great man, a seer; but i cannot, in spite of my gratitude for his flattering though unfulfilled prophecy, discover in his books any profound signs of depth or novelty of thought. in his _tablets_ are some very pleasant, if not surprisingly wise, essays on domestic subjects; one, on "sweet herbs," tells cheerfully of the womanly care of the herb garden, but shows that, when written--about --borders of herbs were growing infrequent. one great delight of old english gardens is never afforded us in new england; we do not grow lavender beds. i have of course seen single plants of lavender, so easily winter-killed, but i never have seen a lavender bed, nor do i know of one. it is a great loss. a bed or hedge of lavender is pleasing in the same way that the dress of a quaker lady is pleasing; it is reposeful, refined. it has a soft effect at the edge of a garden, like a blue-gray haze, and always reminds me of doves. the power of association or some inherent quality of the plant, makes lavender always suggest freshness and cleanliness. we may linger a little with a few of these old herb favorites. one of the most balmy and beautiful of all the sweet breaths borne by leaves or blossoms is that of basil, which, alas! i see so seldom. i have always loved it, and can never pass it without pressing its leaves in my hand; and i cannot express the satisfaction, the triumph, with which i read these light-giving lines of old thomas tusser, which showed me why i loved it:-- "faire basil desireth it may be hir lot to growe as the gilly flower trim in a pot that ladies and gentils whom she doth serve may help hir as needeth life to preserve." an explanation of this rhyme is given by _tusser redivivus_: "most people stroak garden basil which leaves a grateful smell on the hand and he will have it that stroaking from a fair lady preserves the life of the basil." this is a striking example of floral telepathy; you know what the basil wishes, and the basil knows and craves your affection, and repays your caress with her perfume and growth. it is a case of mutual attraction; and i beg the "gentle reader" never to pass a pot or plant of basil without "stroaking" it; that it may grow and multiply and forever retain its relations with fair women, as a type of the purest, the most clinging, and grateful love. one amusing use of basil (as given in one of my daughter's old herbals) was intended to check obesity:-- "to make that a woman shall eat of nothing that is set upon the table:--take a little green basil, and when men bring the dishes to the table put it underneath them that the woman perceive it not; so men say that she will eat of none of that which is in the dish whereunder the basil lieth." i cannot understand why so sinister an association was given to a pot of basil by boccaccio, who makes the unhappy isabella conceal the head of her murdered lover in a flower pot under a plant of basil; for in italy basil is ever a plant of love, not of jealousy or crime. one of its common names is _bacia, nicola_--kiss me, nicholas. peasant girls always place basil in their hair when they go to meet their sweethearts, and an offered sprig of basil is a love declaration. it is believed that boccaccio obtained this tale from some tradition of ancient greece, where basil is a symbol of hatred and despair. the figure of poverty was there associated with a basil plant as with rags. it had to be sown with abuse, with cursing and railing, else it would not flourish. in india its sanctity is above all other herbs. a pious indian has at death a leaf of basil placed in his bosom as his reward. the house surrounded by basil is blessed, and all who cherish the plant are sure of heaven. mithridate was a favorite medicine of our puritan ancestors; there were various elaborate compound rules for its manufacture, in which rue always took a part. it was simple enough in the beginning, when king mithridates invented it as an antidote against poison: twenty leaves of rue pounded with two figs, two dried walnuts and a grain of salt; which receipt may be taken _cum grano salis_. rue also entered into the composition of the famous "vinegar of the four thieves." these four rascals, at the time of the plague in marseilles, invented this vinegar, and, protected by its power, entered infected houses and carried away property without taking the disease. rue had innumerable virtues. pliny says eighty-four remedies were made of it. it was of special use in case of venomous bites, and to counteract "head-ach" from over indulgence in wine, especially if a little sage were added. it promoted love in man and diminished it in woman; it was good for the ear-ache, eye-ache, stomach-ache, leg-ache, back-ache; good for an ague, good for a surfeit; indeed, it would seem wise to make rue a daily article of food and thus insure perpetual good health. the scent of rue seems never dying. a sprig of it was given me by a friend, and it chanced to lie for a single night on the sheets of paper upon which this chapter is written. the scent has never left them, and indeed the odor of rue hangs literally around this whole book. summer savory and sweet marjoram are rarely employed now in american cooking. they are still found in my kitchen, and are used in scant amount as a flavoring for stuffing of fowl. many who taste and like the result know not the old-fashioned materials used to produce that flavor, and "of the younger sort" the names even are wholly unrecognized. sage is almost the only plant of the english kitchen garden which is ordinarily grown in america. i like its fresh grayness in the garden. in the days of our friend john gerarde, the beloved old herbalist, there was no fixed botanical nomenclature; but he scarcely needed botanical terms, for he had a most felicitous and dextrous use of words. "sage hath broad leaves, long, wrinkled, rough, and whitish, like in roughness to woollen cloth threadbare." what a description! it is far more vivid than the picture here shown. sage has never lost its established place as a flavoring for the stuffing for ducks, geese, and for sausages; but its universal employment as a flavoring for sage cheese is nearly obsolete. in my childhood home, we always had sage cheese with other cheeses; it was believed to be an aid in digestion. i had forgotten its taste; and i must say i didn't like it when i ate it last summer, in new hampshire. [illustration: our friend, john gerarde.] tansy was highly esteemed in england as a medicine, a cosmetic, and a flavoring and ingredient in cooking. it was rubbed over raw meat to keep the flies away and prevent decay, for in those days of no refrigerators there had to be strong measures taken for the preservation of all perishable food. its strong scent and taste would be deemed intolerable to us, who can scarce endure even the milder sage in any large quantity. a good folk name for it is "bitter buttons." gerarde wrote of tansy, "in the spring time, are made with the leaves hereof newly sprung up, and with eggs, cakes or tansies, which be pleasant in taste and goode for the stomach." [illustration: sage.] "to make a tansie the best way," i learn from _the accomplisht cook_, was thus:-- "take twenty eggs, and take away five whites, strain them with a quart of good sweet thick cream, and put to it a grated nutmeg, a race of ginger grated, as much cinnamon beaten fine, and a penny white loaf grated also, mix them all together with a little salt, then stamp some green wheat with some tansie herbs, strain it into the cream and eggs and stir all together; then take a clean frying-pan, and a quarter of a pound of butter, melt it, and put in the tansie, and stir it continually over the fire with a slice, ladle, or saucer, chop it, and break it as it thickens, and being well incorporated put it out of the pan into a dish, and chop it very fine; then make the frying-pan very clean, and put in some more butter, melt it, and fry it whole or in spoonfuls; being finely fried on both sides, dish it up and sprinkle it with rose-vinegar, grape-verjuyce, elder-vinegar, cowslip-vinegar, or the juyce of three or four oranges, and strow on a good store of fine sugar." to all of this we can say that it would certainly be a very good dish--without the tansy. another mediæval recipe was of tansy, feverfew, parsley, and violets mixed with eggs, fried in butter, and sprinkled with sugar. the minnow-tansie of old izaak walton, a "tanzie for lent," was made thus:-- "being well washed with salt and cleaned, and their heads and tails cut off, and not washed after, they prove excellent for that use; that is being fried with the yolks of eggs, the flowers of cowslips and of primroses, and a little tansy, thus used they make a dainty dish." the name tansy was given afterward to a rich fruit cake which had no tansy in it. it was apparently a favorite dish of pepys. a certain derivative custom obtained in some new england towns--certainly in hartford and vicinity. tansy was used to flavor the fast day pudding. one old lady recalls that it was truly a bitter food to the younger members of the family; miss shelton, in her entertaining book, _the salt box house_, tells of tansy cakes, and says children did not dislike them. tansy bitters were made of tansy leaves placed in a bottle with new england rum. they were a favorite spring tonic, where all physicians and housewives prescribed "the bitter principle" in the spring time. no doubt tansy was among the earliest plants brought over by the settlers; it was carefully cherished in the herb garden, then spread to the dooryard and then to farm lanes. as early as the traveller kalm noted tansy growing wild in hedges and along roads in pennsylvania. now it extends its sturdy growth for miles along the country road, one of the rankest of weeds. it still is used in the manufacture of proprietary medicines, and for this purpose is cut with a sickle in great armfuls and gathered in cartloads. i have always liked its scent; and its leaves, as gerarde said, "infinitely jagged and nicked and curled"; and its cheerful little "bitter buttons" of gold. some old flowers adapt themselves to modern conditions and look up-to-date; but to me the tansy, wherever found, is as openly old-fashioned as a betty-lamp or a foot-stove. [illustration: tansy.] on july , , an old grave was opened in the ancient "god's acre" near the halls of harvard university in cambridge, massachusetts. this grave was a brick vault covered with irregularly shaped flagstones about three inches thick. over it was an ancient slab of peculiar stone, unlike any others in the cemetery save those over the graves of two presidents of the college, rev. dr. chauncy and dr. oakes. as there were headstones near this slab inscribed with the names of the great-grandchildren of president dunster, it was believed that this was the grave of a third president, dr. dunster. he died in the year ; but his death took place in midwinter; and when this coffin was opened, the skeleton was found entirely surrounded with common tansy, in seed, a portion of which had been pulled up by the roots, and it was therefore believed by many who thought upon the matter that it was the coffin and grave of president mitchell, who died in july, , of "an extream fever." the skeleton was found still wrapped in a cerecloth, and in the record of the church is a memorandum of payment "for a terpauling to wrap mr. mitchell." the tansy found in this coffin, placed there more than two centuries ago, still retained its shape and scent. this use of tansy at funerals lingered long in country neighborhoods in new england, in some vicinities till fifty years ago. to many older persons the tansy is therefore so associated with grewsome sights and sad scenes, that they turn from it wherever seen, and its scent to them is unbearable. one elderly friend writes me: "i never see the leaves of tansy without recalling also the pale dead faces i have so often seen encircled by the dank, ugly leaves. often as a child have i been sent to gather all the tansy i could find, to be carried by my mother to the house of mourning; and i gathered it, loathing to touch it, but not daring to refuse, and i loathe it still." tansy not only retains its scent for a long period, but the "golden buttons" retain their color; i have seen them in new england parlors forming part of a winter posy; this, i suppose, in neighborhoods where tansy was little used at funerals. [illustration: garden of mrs. abraham lansing, albany, new york.] if an herb garden had no other reason for existence, let me commend it to the attention of those of ample grounds and kindly hearts, for a special purpose--as a garden for the blind. our many flower-charities furnish flowers throughout the summer to our hospitals, but what sweet-scented flowers are there for those debarred from any sight of beauty? through the past summer my daughters sent several times a week, by the generous carriage of the long island express company, boxes of wild flowers to any hospital of their choice. what could we send to the blind? the midsummer flowers of field and meadow gratified the sight, but scent was lacking. a sprig of sweet fern or bayberry was the only resource. think of the pleasure which could be given to the sightless by a posy of sweet-scented leaves, by southernwood, mint, balm, or basil, and when memory was thereby awakened in those who once had seen, what tender thoughts! if this book could influence the planting of an herb garden for the solace of those who cannot see the flowers of field and garden, then it will not have been written in vain. chapter vi in lilac tide "ere man is aware that the spring is here the flowers have found it out." --_ancient chinese saying._ "a flower opens, and lo! another year," is the beautiful and suggestive legend on an old vessel found in the catacombs. since these words were written, how many years have begun! how many flowers have opened! and yet nature has never let us weary of spring and spring flowers. my garden knows well the time o' the year. it needs no almanac to count the months. "the untaught spring is wise in cowslips and anemonies." while i sit shivering, idling, wondering when i can "start the garden"--lo, there are snowdrops and spring starting up to greet me. ever in earliest spring are there days when there is no green in grass, tree, or shrub; but when the garden lover is conscious that winter is gone and spring is waiting. there is in every garden, in every dooryard, as in the field and by the roadside, in some indefinable way a look of spring. one hint of spring comes even before its flowers--you can smell its coming. the snow is gone from the garden walks and some of the open beds; you walk warily down the softened path at midday, and you smell the earth as it basks in the sun, and a faint scent comes from some twigs and leaves. box speaks of summer, not of spring; and the fragrance from that cedar tree is equally suggestive of summer. but break off that slender branch of calycanthus--how fresh and welcome its delightful spring scent. carry it into the house with branches of forsythia, and how quickly one fills its leaf buds and the other blossoms. [illustration: ladies' delights.] for several years the first blossom of the new year in our garden was neither the snowdrop nor crocus, but the ladies' delight, that laughing, speaking little garden face, which is not really a spring flower, it is a stray from summer; but it is such a shrewd, intelligent little creature that it readily found out that spring was here ere man or other flowers knew it. this dear little primitive of the pansy tribe has become wonderfully scarce save in cherished old gardens like those of salem, where i saw this year a space thirty feet long and several feet wide, under flowering shrubs and bushes, wholly covered with the everyday, homely little blooms of ladies' delights. they have the party-colored petal of the existing strain of english pansies, distinct from the french and german pansies, and i doubt not are the descendants of the cherished garden children of the english settlers. gerarde describes this little english pansy or heartsease in under the name of _viola tricolor_:-- "the flouers in form and figure like the violet, and for the most part of the same bignesse, of three sundry colours, purple, yellow and white or blew, by reason of the beauty and braverie of which colours they are very pleasing to the eye, for smel they have little or none." in breck's _book of flowers_, , is the first printed reference i find to the flower under the name ladies' delight. in my childhood i never heard it called aught else; but it has a score of folk names, all testifying to an affectionate intimacy: bird's-eye; garden-gate; johnny-jump-up; none-so-pretty; kitty-come; kit-run-about; three-faces under-a-hood; come-and-cuddle-me; pink-of-my-joan; kiss-me; tickle-my-fancy; kiss-me-ere-i rise; jump-up-and-kiss-me. to our little flower has also been given this folk name, meet-her-in-the-entry-kiss-her-in-the-buttery, the longest plant name in the english language, rivalled only by miss jekyll's triumph of nomenclature for the stonecrop, namely: welcome-home-husband-be-he-ever-so-drunk. [illustration: garden house in garden of hon. william h. seward, auburn, new york.] these little ladies' delights have infinite variety of expression; some are laughing and roguish, some sharp and shrewd, some surprised, others worried, all are animated and vivacious, and a few saucy to a degree. they are as companionable as people--nay, more; they are as companionable as children. no wonder children love them; they recognize kindred spirits. i know a child who picked unbidden a choice rose, and hid it under her apron. but as she passed a bed of ladies' delights blowing in the wind, peering, winking, mocking, she suddenly threw the rose at them, crying out pettishly, "here! take your old flower!" the dandelion is to many the golden seal of spring, but it blooms the whole circle of the year in sly garden corners and in the grass. of it might have been written the lines:-- "it smiles upon the lap of may, to sultry august spreads its charms, lights pale october on its way, and twines december's arms." i have picked both ladies' delights and dandelions every month in the year. [illustration: sun-dial in garden of hon. william h. seward, auburn, new york.] i suppose the common crocus would not be deemed a very great garden ornament in midsummer, in its lowly growth; but in its spring blossoming it is--to use another's words--"most gladsome of the early flowers." a bed of crocuses is certainly a keen pleasure, glowing in the sun, almost as grateful to the human eye as to the honey-gathering bees that come unerringly, from somewhere, to hover over the golden cups. how welcome after winter is the sound of that humming. in the garden's story, there are ever a few pictures which stand out with startling distinctness. when the year is gone you do not recall many days nor many flowers with precision; often a single flower seems of more importance than a whole garden. in the day book of i have but few pictures; the most vivid was the very first of the season. it could have been no later than april, for one or two snowdrops still showed white in the grass, when a splendid ribbon of chionodoxa--glory of the snow--opened like blue fire burning from plant to plant, the bluest thing i ever saw in any garden. it was backed with solid masses of equally vivid yellow alyssum and chalk-white candy-tuft, both of which had had a good start under glass in a temporary forcing bed. these three solid masses of color surrounded by bare earth and showing little green leafage made my eyes ache, but a picture was burnt in which will never leave my brain. i always have a sense of importance, of actual ownership of a plant, when i can recall its introduction--as i do of the chionodoxa, about . it is said to come up and bloom in the snow, but i have never seen it in blossom earlier than march, and never then unless the snow has vanished. it has much of the charm of its relative, the scilla. we all have flower favorites, and some of us have flower antipathies, or at least we are indifferent to certain flowers; but i never knew any one but loved the daffodil. not only have poets and dramatists sung it, but it is a common favorite, as shown by its homely names in our everyday speech. i am always touched in _endymion_ that the only flowers named as "a thing of beauty that is a joy forever" are daffodils "with the green world they live in." in daffodils i like the "old fat-headed sort with nutmeg and cinnamon smell and old common english names--butter-and-eggs, codlins-and-cream, bacon and eggs." the newer ones are more slender in bud and bloom, more trumpet-shaped, and are commonplace of name instead of common. in virginia the name of a variety has become applied to a family, and all daffodils are called butter-and-eggs by the people. on spring mornings the tulips fairly burn with a warmth, which makes them doubly welcome after winter. emerson--ever able to draw a picture in two lines--to show the heart of everything in a single sentence--thus paints them:-- "the gardens fire with a joyful blaze of tulips in the morning's rays." "tulipase do carry so stately and delightful a form, and do abide so long in their bravery, that there is no lady or gentleman of any worth that is not caught with this delight,"--wrote the old herbalist parkinson. bravery is an ideal expression for tulips. [illustration: lilacs in midsummer in garden of mrs. abraham lansing, albany, new york.] it is with something of a shock that we read the words of philip hamerton in _the sylvan year_, that nature is not harmonious in the spring, but is only in the way of becoming so. he calls it the time of crudities, like the adolescence of the mind. he says, "the green is good for us, and we welcome it with uncritical gladness; but when we think of painting, it may be doubted whether any season of the year is less propitious to the broad and noble harmonies which are the secrets of all grand effects in art." and he compares the season to the uncomfortable hour in a household when the early risers are walking about, not knowing what to do with themselves, while others have not yet come down to breakfast. i must confess that an undiversified country landscape in spring has upon me the effect asserted by hamerton. i recall one early spring week in the catskills, when i fairly complained, "everything is so green here." i longed for rocks, water, burnt fields, bare trees, anything to break that glimmering green of new grass and new birches. but in the spring garden there is variety of shape and color; the peony leaf buds are red, some sprouting leaves are pink, and there are vast varieties of brown and gray and gold in leaf. let me give the procession of spring in the garden in the words of a lover of old new england flowers, dr. holmes. it is a vivid word picture of the distinctive forms and colors of budding flowers and leaves. "at first the snowdrop's bells are seen, then close against the sheltering wall the tulip's horn of dusky green, the peony's dark unfolding ball. "the golden-chaliced crocus burns; the long narcissus blades appear; the cone-beaked hyacinth returns to light her blue-flamed chandelier. "the willow's whistling lashes, wrung by the wild winds of gusty march, with sallow leaflets lightly strung, are swaying by the tufted larch. "see the proud tulip's flaunting cup, that flames in glory for an hour,-- behold it withering, then look up-- how meek the forest-monarchs flower! "when wake the violets, winter dies; when sprout the elm buds, spring is near; when lilacs blossom, summer cries, 'bud, little roses, spring is here.'" the universal flower in the old-time garden was the lilac; it was the most beloved bloom of spring, and gave a name to spring--lilac tide. the lilac does not promise "spring is coming"; it is the emblem of the _presence_ of spring. dr. holmes says, "when lilacs blossom, summer cries, '_spring is here_'" in every cheerful and lavish bloom. lilacs shade the front yard; lilacs grow by the kitchen doorstep; lilacs spring up beside the barn; lilacs shade the well; lilacs hang over the spring house; lilacs crowd by the fence side and down the country road. in many colonial dooryards it was the only shrub--known both to lettered and unlettered folk as laylock, and spelt laylock too. walter savage landor, when laylock had become antiquated, still clung to the word, and used it with a stubborn persistence such as he alone could compass, and which seems strange in the most finished classical scholar of his day. [illustration: lilacs at craigie house, the home of longfellow.] "i shall not go to town while the lilacs bloom," wrote longfellow; and what lilac lover could have left a home so lilac-embowered as craigie house! a view of its charms in lilac tide is given in outline on this page; the great lilac trees seem wondrously suited to the fine old revolutionary mansion. [illustration: box-edged garden at the home of longfellow.] there is in albany, new york, a lovely garden endeared to those who know it through the memory of a presence that lighted all places associated with it with the beauty of a noble life. it is the garden of the home of mrs. abraham lansing, and was planted by her father and mother, general and mrs. peter gansevoort, in , having been laid out with taste and an art that has borne the test of over half a century's growth. in the garden are scores of old-time favorites: flower de luce, peonies, daffodils, and snowy phlox; but instead of bending over the flower borders, let us linger awhile in the wonderful old lilac walk. it is a glory of tender green and shaded amethyst and grateful hum of bees, the very voice of spring. every sense is gratified, even that of touch, when the delicate plumes of the fragrant lilac blossoms brush your cheek as you walk through its path; there is no spot of fairer loveliness than this lilac walk in may. it is a wonderful study of flickering light and grateful shade in midsummer. look at its full-leaf charms opposite page ; was there ever anything lovelier in any garden, at any time, than the green vista of this lilac walk in july? but for the thoughtful garden-lover it has another beauty still, the delicacy and refinement of outline when the lilac walk is bare of foliage, as is shown on page and facing page . the very spirit of the lilacs seems visible, etched with a purity of touch that makes them sentient, speaking beings, instead of silent plants. see the outlines of stem and branch against the tender sky of this april noon. do you care for color when you have such beauty of outline? surely this lilac walk is loveliest in april, with a sensitive etherealization beyond compare. how wonderfully these pictures have caught the look of tentative spring--spring waiting for a single day to burst into living green. there is an ancient saxon name for springtime--opyn-tide--thus defined by an old writer, "whenne that flowres think on blowen"--when the flowers begin to think of budding and blowing; and so i name this picture opyn-tide, the thought of spring. for many years lilacs were planted for hedges; they were seldom satisfactory if clipped, for the broad-spreading leaves were always gray with dust, and they often had a "rust" which wholly destroyed their beauty. the finest clipped lilac hedge i ever saw is at indian hill, newburyport. it was set out about , and is compact and green as privet; the leaves are healthy, and the growth perfect down to the ground; it is an unusual example of lilac growth--a perfect hedge. an unclipped lilac hedge is lovely in its blooming; a beautiful one grows by the side of the old family home of mr. mortimer howell at west hampton beach, long island. to this hedge in may come a-begging dusky city flower venders, who break off and carry away wagon loads of blooms. as the fare from and to new york is four dollars, and a wagon has to be hired to convey the flowers from the hedge two miles to the railroad station, there must be a high price charged for these lilacs to afford any profit; but the italian flower sellers appear year after year. [illustration: joepye-weed and queen anne's lace.] lilacs bloom not in our ancient literature; they are not named by shakespeare, nor do i recall any earlier mention of them than in the essay of lord bacon on "gardens," published about , where he spelled it lelacke. blue-pipe tree was the ancient name of the lilac, a reminder of the time when pipes were made of its wood; i heard it used in modern speech once. an old narragansett coach driver called out to me, "ye set such store on flowers, don't ye want to pick that blue-pipe in pender zeke's garden?"--a deserted garden and home at pender zeke's corner. this man had some of the traits of mrs. wright's delightful "time-o'-day," and he knew well my love of flowers; for he had been my charioteer to the woods where rhododendron and rhodora bloom, and he had revealed to me the pond where grew the pink water lilies. and from a chance remark of mine he had conveyed to me a wagon load of joepye-weed and boneset, to the dismay of my younger children, who had apprehensions of unlimited gallons of herb tea therefrom. let me steal a few lines from my spring lilacs to write of these two "sisters of healing," which were often planted in the household herb garden. from july to september in the low lying meadows of every state from the bay of fundy to the gulf of mexico, can be found joepye-weed and boneset. the dull pink clusters of soft fringy blooms of joepye-weed stand up three to eight feet in height above the moist earth, catching our eye and the visit of every passing butterfly, and commanding attention for their fragrance, and a certain dignity of carriage notable even among the more striking hues of the brilliant goldenrod and vivid sunflowers. joe pye was an indian medicine-man of old new england, famed among his white neighbors for his skill in curing the devastating typhoid fevers which, in those days of no drainage and ignorance of sanitation, vied with so-called "hereditary" consumption in exterminating new england families. his cure-all was a bitter tea decocted from leaves and stalks of this _eupatorium purpureum_, and in token of his success the plant bears everywhere his name, but it is now wholly neglected by the simpler and herb-doctor. the sister plant, the _eupatorium perfoliatum_, known as thoroughwort, boneset, ague-weed, or indian sage, grows everywhere by its side, and is also used in fevers. it was as efficacious in "break bone fever" in the south a century ago as it is now for the grippe, for it still is used, north and south, in many a country home. neltje blanchan and mrs. dana parsons call thoroughwort or boneset tea a "nauseous draught," and i thereby suspect that neither has tasted it. i have many a time, and it has a clear, clean bitter taste, no stronger than any bitter beer or ale. every year is boneset gathered in old narragansett; but swamp edges and meadows that are easy of access have been depleted of the stately growth of saw-edged wrinkled leaves, and the boneset gatherer must turn to remote brooksides and inaccessible meadows for his harvest. the flat-topped terminal cymes of leaden white blooms are not distinctive as seen from afar, and many flowers of similar appearance lure the weary simpler here and there, until at last the welcome sight of the connate perfoliate leaves, surrounding the strong stalk, distinctive of the boneset, show that his search is rewarded. [illustration: boneset.] after these bitter draughts of herb tea, we will turn, as do children, to sweets, to our beloved lilac blooms. the lilac has ever been a flower welcomed by english-speaking folk since it first came to england by the hand of some mariner. it is said that a german traveller named busbeck brought it from the orient to the continent in the sixteenth century. i know not when it journeyed to the new world, but long enough ago so that it now grows cheerfully and plentifully in all our states of temperate clime and indeed far south. it even grows wild in some localities, though it never looks wild, but plainly shows its escape or exile from some garden. it is specially beloved in new england, and it seems so much more suited in spirit to new england than to persia that it ought really to be a native plant. its very color seems typical of new england; some parts of celestial blue, with more of warm pink, blended and softened by that shading of sombre gray ever present in new england life into a distinctive color known everywhere as lilac--a color grateful, quiet, pleasing, what thoreau called a "tender, civil, cheerful color." its blossoming at the time of election day, that all-important new england holiday, gave it another new england significance. there is no more emblematic flower to me than the lilac; it has an association of old homes, of home-making and home interests. on the country farm, in the village garden, and in the city yard, the lilac was planted wherever the home was made, and it attached itself with deepest roots, lingering sometimes most sadly but sturdily, to show where the home once stood. [illustration: magnolias.] let me tell of two lilacs of sentiment. one of them is shown on page ; a glorious lilac tree which is one of a group of many full-flowered, pale-tinted ones still growing and blossoming each spring on a deserted homestead in old narragansett. they bloom over the grave of a fine old house, and the great chimney stands sadly in their midst as a gravestone. "hopewell," ill-suited of name, was the home of a narragansett robinson famed for good cheer, for refinement and luxury, and for a lovely garden, laid out with cost and care and filled with rare shrubs and flowers. perhaps these lilacs were a rare variety in their day, being pale of tint; now they are as wild as their companions, the cedar hedges. [illustration: lilacs at hopewell.] gathering in the front dooryard of a fallen farm-house some splendid branches of flowering lilac, i found a few feet of cellar wall and wooden house side standing, and the sills of two windows. these window sills, exposed for years to the bleaching and fading of rain and sun and frost, still bore the circular marks of the flower pots which, filled with houseplants, had graced the kitchen windows for many a winter under the care of a flower-loving house mistress. a few days later i learned from a woman over ninety years of age--an inmate of the "poor house"--the story of the home thus touchingly indicated by the lilac bushes and the stains of the flower pots. over eighty years ago she had brought the tiny lilac-slip to her childhood's home, then standing in a clearing in the forest. she carried it carefully in her hands as she rode behind her father on a pillion after a visit to her grandmother. she and her little brothers and sisters planted the tiny thing "of two eyes only," as she said, in the shadow of the house, in the little front yard. and these children watered it and watched it, as it rooted and grew, till the house was surrounded each spring with its vivacious blooms, its sweet fragrance. the puny slip has outlived the house and all its inmates save herself, outlived the brothers and sisters, their children and grandchildren, outlived orchard and garden and field. and it will live to tell a story to every thoughtful passer-by till a second growth of forest has arisen in pasture and garden and even in the cellar-hole, when even then the cheerful lilac will not be wholly obliterated. a bunch of early lilacs was ever a favorite gift to "teacher," to be placed in a broken-nosed pitcher on her desk. and lilac petals made such lovely necklaces, thrust within each other or strung with needle and thread. and there was a love divination by lilacs which we children solemnly observed. there will occasionally appear a tiny lilac flower, usually a white lilac, with five divisions of the petal instead of four--this is a luck lilac. this must be solemnly swallowed. if it goes down smoothly, the dabbler in magic cries out, "he loves me;" if she chokes at her floral food, she must say sadly, "he loves me not." i remember once calling out, with gratification and pride, "he loves me!" "who is he?" said my older companions. "oh, i didn't know he had to be somebody," i answered in surprise, to be met by derisive laughter at my satisfaction with a lover in general and not in particular. it was a matter of lilac-luck-etiquette that the lover's name should be pronounced mentally before the petal was swallowed. [illustration: persian lilacs and peonies in garden of the kimball homestead, portsmouth, new hampshire.] in the west indies the lilac is a flower of mysterious power; its perfume keeps away evil spirits, ghosts, banshees. if it grows not in the dooryard, its protecting branches are hung over the doorway. i think of this when i see it shading the door of happy homes in new england. in our old front yards we had only the common lilacs, and occasionally a white one; and as a rarity the graceful, but sometimes rather spindling, persian lilacs, known since in gardens, and shown on page . how the old gardens would have stared at the new double lilacs, which have luxuriant plumes of bloom twenty inches long. the "pensile lilac" has been sung by many poets; but the spirit of the flower has been best portrayed in verse by elizabeth akers. i can quote but a single stanza from so many beautiful ones. "how fair it stood, with purple tassels hung, their hue more tender than the tint of tyre; how musical amid their fragrance rung the bee's bassoon, keynote of spring's glad choir! o languorous lilac! still in time's despite i see thy plumy branches all alight with new-born butterflies which loved to stay and bask and banquet in the temperate ray of springtime, ere the torrid heats should be: for these dear memories, though the world grow gray, i sing thy sweetness, lovely lilac tree!" another poet of the lilac is walt whitman. he tells his delight in "the lilac tall and its blossoms of mastering odor." he sings: "with the birds a warble of joy for lilac-time." that noble, heroic dirge, the _burial hymn of lincoln_, begins:-- "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd." the poet stood under the blossoming lilacs when he learned of the death of lincoln, and the scent and sight of the flowers ever bore the sad association. in this poem is a vivid description of-- "the lilac bush, tall growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, with many a pointed blossom, rising delicate with the perfume strong i love. with every leaf a miracle." thomas william parsons could turn from his profound researches and loving translations of dante to write with deep sympathy of the lilac. his verses have to me an additional interest, since i believe they were written in the house built by my ancestor in , and occupied still by his descendants. in its front dooryard are lilacs still standing under the windows of dr. parsons' room, in which he loved so to write. hawthorne felt a sort of "ludicrous unfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and grandfatherly lilac bush." he was dissatisfied with aged lilacs, though he knew not whether his heart, judgment, or rural sense put him in that condition. he felt the flower should either flourish in immortal youth or die. apple trees could grow old and feeble without his reproach, but an aged lilac was improper. i fancy no one ever took any care of lilacs in an old garden. as soon water or enrich the sumach and elder growing by the roadside! but care for your lilacs nowadays, and see how they respond. make them a _garden_ flower, and you will never regret it. there be those who prefer grafted lilacs--the stock being usually a syringa; they prefer the single trunk, and thus get rid of the lilac suckers. but compare a row of grafted lilacs to a row of natural fastigate growth, as shown on page , and i think nature must be preferred. "methinks i see my contemplative girl now in the garden watching the gradual approach of spring," wrote sterne. my contemplative girl lives in the city, how can she know that spring is here? even on those few square feet of mother earth, dedicated to clotheslines and posts, spring sets her mark. our lilacs seldom bloom, but they put forth lovely fresh green leaves; and even the unrolling of the leaves of our japanese ivies are a pleasure. our poor little strips of back yard in city homes are apt to be too densely shaded for flower blooms, but some things will grow, even there. some wild flowers will live, and what a delight they are in spring. we have a jack-in-the-pulpit who comes up just as jauntily there as in the wild woods; dog-tooth violet and our common wild violet also bloom. a city neighbor has trillium which blossoms each year; our trillium shows leaves, but no blossoms, and does not increase in spread of roots. bloodroot, a flower so shy when gathered in the woods, and ever loving damp sites, flourishes in the dryest flower bed, grows coarser in leaf and bloom, and blossoms earlier, and holds faster its snowy petals. corydalis in the garden seems so garden-bred that you almost forget the flower was ever wild. [illustration: opyn-tide, the thought of spring.] the approach of spring in our city parks is marked by the appearance of the dandelion gatherers. it is always interesting to see, in may, on the closely guarded lawns and field expanses of our city parks, the hundreds of bareheaded, gayly-dressed italian and portuguese women and children eagerly gathering the young dandelion plants to add to their meagre fare as a greatly-loved delicacy. they collect these "greens" in highly-colored kerchiefs, in baskets, in squares of sheeting; i have seen the women bearing off a half-bushel of plants; even their stumpy little children are impressed to increase the welcome harvest, and with a broken knife dig eagerly in the greensward. the thrifty park commissioners, in dandelion-time, relax their rigid rules, "keep off the grass," and turn the salad-loving italians loose to improve the public lawns by freeing them from weeds. the earliest sign of spring in the fields and woods in my childhood was the appearance of the willow catkins, and was heralded by the cry of one child to another,--"pussy-willows are out." how eagerly did those who loved the woods and fields turn, after the storm, whiteness, and chill of a new england winter, to pussy-willows as a promise of summer and sunshine. some of their charm ever lingers to us as we see them in the baskets of swarthy street venders in new york. magnolia blossoms are sold in our city streets to remind city dwellers of spring. "every flower its own bow-kwet," is the call of the vender. bunches of locust blossoms follow, awkwardly tied together. though the magnolia is earlier, i do not find it much more splendid as a flowering tree for the garden than our northern dogwood; and the dogwood when in bloom seems just as tropical. it is then the glory of the landscape; and its radiant starry blossoms turn into ideal beauty even our sombre cemeteries. the magnolia has been planted in northern gardens for over a century. gardens on long island have many beautiful old specimens, doubtless furnished by the prince nurseries. these seem thoroughly at home; just as does the locust brought from virginia, a century ago, by one captain sands of sands point, to please his virginia bride with the presence of the trees of her girlhood's home. these locusts have spread over every rood of long island earth, and seem as much at home as birch or willow. the three magnolia trees on mr. brown's lawn in flatbush are as large as any i know in the north, and were exceptionally full of bloom this year, this photograph (shown facing page ) being taken when they were past their prime. i saw children eagerly gathering the waxy petals which had fallen, and which show so plainly in the picture. but the flower is not common enough here for northern children to learn the varied attractions of the magnolia. the flower lore of american children is nearly all of english derivation; but children invent as well as copy. in the south the lavish growth of the magnolia affords multiform playthings. the beautiful broad white petals give a snowy surface for the inditing of messages or valentines, which are written with a pin, when the letters turn dark brown. the stamens of the flower--waxlike with red tips--make mock illuminating matches. the leaves shape into wonderful drinking cups, and the scarlet seeds give a glowing necklace. [illustration: a thought of winter's snows.] the glories of a spring garden are not in the rows of flowering bulbs, beautiful as they are; but in the flowering shrubs and trees. the old garden had few shrubs, but it had unsurpassed beauty in its rows of fruit trees which in their blossoming give the spring garden, as here shown, that lovely whiteness which seems a blending of the seasons--a thought of winter's snows. the perfection of apple blossoms i have told in another chapter. earlier to appear was the pure white, rather chilly, blooms of the plum tree, to the japanese "the eldest brother of an hundred flowers." they are faintly sweet-scented with the delicacy found in many spring blossoms. a good example of the short verses of the japanese poets tells of the plum blossom and its perfume. "in springtime, on a cloudless night, when moonbeams throw their silver pall o'er wooded landscapes, veiling all in one soft cloud of misty white, 'twere vain almost to hope to trace the plum trees in their lovely bloom of argent; 'tis their sweet perfume alone which leads me to their place." the lovely family of double white plum blossoms which now graces our gardens is varied by tinted ones; there are sixty in all which the nineteenth century owes to japan. the peach tree has a flower which has given name to one of the loveliest colors in the world. the peach has varieties with wonderful double flowers of glorious color. cherry trees bear a more cheerful white flower than plum trees. "the cherry boughs above us spread the whitest shade was ever seen; and flicker, flicker came and fled sun-spots between." i do not recall the judas tree in my childhood. i am told there were many in worcester; but there were none in our garden, nor in our neighborhood, and that was my world. orchids might have hung from the trees a mile from my home, and would have been no nearer me than the tropics. i had a small world, but it was large enough, since it was bounded by garden walls. almond trees are seldom seen in northern gardens; but the flowering almond flourishes as one of the purest and loveliest familiar shrubs. silvery pink in bloom when it opens, the pink darkens till when in full flower it is deeply rosy. it was, next to the lilac, the favorite shrub of my childhood. i used to call the exquisite little blooms "fairy roses," and there were many fairy tales relating to the almond bush. this made the flower enhaloed with sentiment and mystery, which charmed as much as its beauty. the flowering almond seemed to have a special place under a window in country yards and gardens, as it is shown on page . a fitting spot it was, since it never grew tall enough to shade the little window panes. with pussy-willows and almond blossoms and ladies' delights, with blossoming playhouse apple trees and sweet-scented lilac walks, spring was certainly paradise in our childhood. would it were an equally happy season in mature years; but who, garden-bred, can walk in the springtime through the garden of her childhood without thought of those who cared for the garden in its youth, and shared the care of their children with the care of their flowers, but now are seen no more. "oh, far away in some serener air, the eyes that loved them see a heavenly dawn: how can they bloom without her tender care? why should they live when her sweet life is gone?" i have written of the gladness of spring, but i know nothing more overwhelming than the heartache of spring, the sadness of a fresh-growing spring garden. where is the dear one who planted it and loved it, and he who helped her in the care, and the loving child who played in it and left it in the springtime? all that is good and beautiful has come again to us with the sunlight and warmth, save those whom we still love but can see no more. by that very measure of happiness poured for us in childhood in lilac tide, is our cup of sadness now filled. chapter vii old flower favorites "god does not send us strange flowers every year. when the spring winds blow o'er the pleasant places the same dear things lift up the same fair faces; the violet is here. "it all comes back; the odor, grace, and hue each sweet relation of its life repeated; no blank is left, no looking-for is cheated; it is the thing we knew." --adeline d. t. whitney, . not only do i love to see the same dear things year after year, and to welcome the same odor, grace, and hue; but i love to find them in the same places. i like a garden in which plants have been growing in one spot for a long time, where they have a fixed home and surroundings. in our garden the same flowers shoulder each other comfortably and crowd each other a little, year after year. they look, my sister says, like long-established neighbors, like old family friends, not as if they had just "moved in," and didn't know each other's names and faces. plants grow better when they are among flower friends. i suppose we have to transplant some plants, sometimes; but i would try to keep old friends together even in those removals. they would be lonely when they opened their eyes after the winter's sleep, and saw strange flower forms and unknown faces around them. [illustration: larkspur and phlox.] for flowers have friendships, and antipathies as well. how canterbury bells and foxgloves love to grow side by side! and sweet williams, with foxgloves, as here shown. and in my sister's garden larkspur always starts up by white phlox--see a bit of the border on this page. whatever may influence these docile alliances, it isn't a proper sense of fitness of color; for tiger lilies dearly love to grow by crimson-purple phlox, a most inharmonious association, and you can hardly separate them. if a flower dislikes her neighbor in the garden, she moves quietly away, i don't know where or how. sometimes she dies, but at any rate she is gone. it is so queer; i have tried every year to make feverfew grow in this bed, and it won't do it, though it grows across the path. there is some flower here that the pompous feverfew doesn't care to associate with. not the larkspur, for they are famous friends--perhaps it is the sweet william, who is rather a plain fellow. in general flowers are very sociable with each other, but they have some preferences, and these are powerful ones. [illustration: sweet william and foxglove.] it is amusing to read in no less than five recent english "garden-books," by flower-loving souls, the solemn advice that if you wish a beautiful garden effect you "must plant the great oriental poppy by the side of the white lupine." "thou say'st an undisputed thing in such a solemn way." the truth is, you have very little to do with it. that poppy chooses to keep company with the white lupine, and to that impulse you owe your fine garden effect. the poppy is the slyest magician of the whole garden. he comes and goes at will. this year a few blooms, nearly all in one corner; next year a blaze of color banded across the middle of the garden like the broad sash of a court chamberlain. then a single grand blossom quite alone in the pansy bed, while another pushes up between the tight close leaves of the box edging:--the poppy is _queer_. [illustration: plume poppy.] some flowers have such a hatred of man they cannot breathe and live in his presence, others have an equal love of human companionship. the white clover clings here to our pathway as does the english daisy across seas. and in our garden ladies' delights and ambrosia tell us, without words, of their love for us and longing to be by our side; just as plainly as a child silently tells us his love and dependence on us by taking our hand as we walk side by side. there is not another gesture of childhood, not an affectionate word which ever touched my heart as did that trustful holding of the hand. one of my children throughout his brief life never walked by my side without clinging closely--i think without conscious intent--with his little hand to mine. i can never forget the affection, the trust of that vanished hand. i find that my dearest flower loves are the old flowers,--not only old to me because i knew them in childhood, but old in cultivation. "give me the good old weekday blossoms i used to see so long ago, with hearty sweetness in their bosoms, ready and glad to bud and blow." even were they newcomers, we should speedily care for them, they are so lovable, so winning, so endearing. if i had seen to-day for the first time a fritillaria, a violet, a lilac, a bluebell, or a rose, i know it would be a case of love at first sight. but with intimacy they have grown dearer still. the sense of long-continued acquaintance and friendship which we feel for many garden flowers extends to a few blossoms of field and forest. it is felt to an inexplicable degree by all new englanders for the trailing arbutus, our mayflower; and it is this unformulated sentiment which makes us like to go to the same spot year after year to gather these beloved flowers. i am sensible of this friendship for buttercups, they seem the same flowers i knew last year; and i have a distinct sympathy with owen meredith's poem:-- "i pluck the flowers i plucked of old about my feet--yet fresh and cold the buttercups do bend; the selfsame buttercups they seem, thick in the bright-eyed green, and such as when to me their blissful gleam was all earth's gold--how much!" we have little of the intense sentiment, the inspiration which filled flower-lovers of olden times. we admire flowers certainly as beautiful works of nature, as objects of wonder in mechanism and in the profusion of growth, and we are occasionally roused to feelings of gratitude to the maker and giver of such beauty; but it is not precisely the same regard that the old gardeners and "flowerists" had, which is expressed in this quotation from gerarde of "the gallant grace of violets":-- "they admonish and stir up a man to that which is comelie and honest; for flowers through their beautie, varietie of colour and exquisite forme doe bring to a liberall and gentlemanly mind, the remembrance of honestie, comelinesse and all kinds of virtues." it was a virtue to be comely in those days; as it is indeed a virtue now; and to the pious old herbalists it seemed an impossible thing that any creation which was beautiful should not also be good. [illustration: meadow rue.] all flowers cannot be loved with equal warmth; it is possible to have a wholesome liking for a flower, a wish to see it around you, which would make you plant it in your borders and treat it well, but which would not be at all akin to love. for others you have a placid tolerance; others you esteem--good, virtuous, worthy creatures, but you cannot warm toward them. sometimes they have been sung with passion by poets (swinburne is always glowing over very unresponsive flower souls) and they have been painted with fervor by artists--and still you do not love them. i do not love tulips, but i welcome them very cordially in my garden. others have loved them; the tulip has had her head turned by attention. some flowers we like at first sight, but they do not wear well. this is a hard truth; and i shall not shame the garden-creatures who have done their best to please by betraying them to the world, save in a single case to furnish an example. in late august the bergamot blossoms in luxuriant heads of white and purplish pink bloom, similar in tint to the abundant phlox. both grow freely in the garden of sylvester manor. when the bergamot has romped in your borders for two or three years, you may wish to exile it to a vegetable garden, near the blackberry vines. is this because it is an herb instead of a purely decorative flower? you never thus thrust out phlox. a friend confesses to me that she exiled even the splendid scarlet bergamot after she had grown it for three years in her flower-beds; such subtle influences control our flower-loves. beautiful and noble as are the grand contributions of the nineteenth century to us from the garden and fields of japan and china, we seldom speak of loving them. thus the chinese white wistaria is similar in shape of blossom to the scotch laburnum, though a far more elegant, more lavish flower; but the laburnum is the loved one. i used to read longingly of the laburnum in volumes of english poetry, especially in hood's verses, beginning:-- "i remember, i remember, the house where i was born," ella partridge had a tall laburnum tree at her front door; it peeped in the second-story windows. it was so cherished, that i doubt whether its blooms were ever gathered. she told us with conscious pride and rectitude that it was a "yellow wistaria tree which came from china"; i saw no reason to doubt her words, and as i never chanced to speak to my parents about it, i ever thought of it as a yellow wistaria tree until i went out into the world and found it was a scotch laburnum. few garden owners plant now the snowberry, _symphoricarpus racemosus_, once seen in every front yard, and even used for hedges. it wasn't a very satisfactory shrub in its habit; the oval leaves were not a cheerful green, and were usually pallid with mildew. the flowers were insignificant, but the clusters of berries were as pure as pearls. in country homes, before the days of cheap winter flowers and omnipresent greenhouses, these snowy clusters were cherished to gather in winter to place on coffins and in hands as white and cold as the berries. its special offence in our garden was partly on account of this funereal association, but chiefly because we were never permitted to gather its berries to string into necklaces. they were rigidly preserved on the stem as a garden decoration in winter; though they were too closely akin in color to the encircling snowdrifts to be of any value. in country homes in olden times were found several universal winter posies. on the narrow mantel shelves of farm and village parlors, both in england and america, still is seen a winter posy made of dried stalks of the seed valves of a certain flower; they are shown on the opposite page. let us see how our old friend, gerarde, describes this plant:-- "the stalkes are loden with many flowers like the stocke-gilliflower, of a purple colour, which, being fallen, the seede cometh foorthe conteined in a flat thinne cod, with a sharp point or pricke at one end, in fashion of the moone, and somewhat blackish. this cod is composed of three filmes or skins whereof the two outermost are of an overworne ashe colour, and the innermost, or that in the middle whereon the seed doth hang or cleave, is thin and cleere shining, like a piece of white satten newly cut from the peece." in the latter clause of this striking description is given the reason for the popular name of the flower, satin-flower or white satin, for the inner septum is a shining membrane resembling white satin. another interesting name is pricksong-flower. all who have seen sheets of music of elizabethan days, when the notes of music were called pricks, and the whole sheet a pricksong, will readily trace the resemblance to the seeds of this plant. gerarde says it was named "penny-floure, money-floure, silver-plate, sattin, and among our women called honestie." the last name was commonly applied at the close of the eighteenth century. it is thus named in writings of rev. william hanbury, , and a boston seedsman then advertised seeds of honestie "in small quantities, that all might have some." in , josselyn found white satin planted and growing plentifully in new england gardens, where i am sure it formed, in garden and house, a happy reminder of their english homes to the wives of the colonists. since that time it has spread so freely in some localities, especially in southern connecticut, that it grows wild by the wayside. it is seldom seen now in well-kept gardens, though it should be, for it is really a lovely flower, showing from white to varied and rich light purples. i was charmed with its fresh beauty this spring in the garden of mrs. mabel osgood wright; a photograph of one of her borders containing honesty is shown opposite page . [illustration: money-in-both-pockets.] at belvoir castle in england, in the "duchess's garden," the satin-flower can be seen in full variety of tint, and fills an important place. it is carefully cultivated by seed and division, all inferior plants being promptly destroyed, while the superior blossoms are cherished. the flower was much used in charms and spells, as was everything connected with the moon. drayton's clarinax sings of lunaria:-- "enchanting lunarie here lies in sorceries excelling." as a child this lunaria was a favorite flower, for it afforded to us juvenile money. indeed, it was generally known among us as money-flower or money-seed, or sometimes as money-in-both-pockets. the seed valves formed our medium of exchange and trade, passing as silver dollars. through the streets of a new england village there strolled, harmless and happy, one who was known in village parlance as a "softy," one of "god's fools," a poor addle-pated, simple-minded creature, witless--but neither homeless nor friendless; for children cared for him, and feeble-minded though he was, he managed to earn, by rush-seating chairs and weaving coarse baskets, and gathering berries, scant pennies enough to keep him alive; and he slept in a deserted barn, in a field full of rocks and daisies and blueberry bushes,--a barn which had been built by one but little more gifted with wits than himself. poor elmer never was able to understand that the money which he and the children saved so carefully each autumn from the money plants was not equal in value to the great copper cents of the village store; and when he asked gleefully for a loaf of bread or a quart of molasses, was just as apt to offer the shining seed valves in payment as he was to give the coin of the land; and it must be added that his belief received apparent confirmation in the fact that he usually got the bread whether he gave seeds or cents. [illustration: box walk in garden of frederick j. kingsbury, esq. waterbury, connecticut.] he lost his life through his poor simple notion. in the village he was kindly treated by all, clothed, fed, and warmed; but one day there came skulking along the edge of the village what were then rare visitors, two tramps, who by ill-chance met poor elmer as he was gathering chestnuts. and as the children lingered on their way home from school to take toll of elmer's store of nuts, they heard him boasting gleefully of his wealth, "hundreds and hundreds of dollars all safe for winter." the children knew what his dollars were, but the tramps did not. three days of heavy rain passed by, and elmer did not appear at the store or any house. then kindly neighbors went to his barn in the distant field, and found him cruelly beaten, with broken ribs and in a high fever, while scattered around him were hundreds of the seeds of his autumnal store of the money plant; these were all the silver dollars his assailants found. he was carried to the almshouse and died in a few weeks, partly from the beating, partly from exposure, but chiefly, i ever believed, from homesickness in his enforced home. his old house has fallen down, but his well still is open, and around it grows a vast expanse of lunaria, which has spread and grown from the seeds poor elmer saved, and every year shoots of the tender lilac blooms mingle so charmingly with the white daisies that the sterile field is one of the show-places of the village, and people drive from afar to see it. [illustration: lunaria in garden at waldstein.] there grow in profusion in our home garden what i always called the mullein pink, the rose campion (_lychnis coronaria_). i never heard any one speak of this plant with special affection or admiration; but as a child i loved its crimson flower more than any other flower in the garden. perhaps i should say i loved the royal color rather than the flower. i gathered tight bunches without foliage into a glowing mass of color unequalled in richness of tint by anything in nature. i have seen only in a stained glass window flooded with high sunlight a crimson approaching that of the mullein pink. gerarde calls the flower the "gardener's delight or gardner's eie." it was known in french as the eye of god; and the rose of heaven. we used to rub our cheeks with the woolly leaves to give a beautiful rosy blush, and thereby i once skinned one cheek. snapdragons were a beloved flower--companions of my childhood in our home garden, but they have been neglected a bit by nearly every one of late years. plant a clump of the clear yellow and one of pure white snapdragons, and see how beautiful they are in the garden, and how fresh they keep when cut. we had such a satisfying bunch of them on the dinner table to-day, in a milk-white glazed chinese jar; yellow snapdragons, with "borrowed leaves" of virgin's-bower (_adlumia_) and a haze of gypsophila over all. a flower much admired in gardens during the early years of the nineteenth century was the plume poppy (_bocconia_). it has a pretty pinkish bloom in general shape somewhat like meadow rue (see page and page ). a friend fancied a light feathery look over certain of her garden borders, and she planted plentifully plume poppy and meadow rue; this was in . in the effect was exquisite; in the garden feathered out with far too much fulness; in all the combined forces of all the weeds of the garden could not equal these two flowers in utter usurpment and close occupation of every inch of that garden. the plume poppy has a strong tap-root which would be a good symbol of the root of the tree ygdrassyl--the tree of life, that never dies. you can go over the borders with scythe and spade and hoe, and even with manicure-scissors, but roots of the plume poppy will still hide and send up vigorous growth the succeeding year. we have grown so familiar with some old doubled blossoms that we think little of their being double. one such, symmetrical of growth, beautiful of foliage, and gratifying of bloom, is the double buttercup. it is to me distinctly one of our most old-fashioned flowers in aspect. a hardy great clump of many years' growth is one of the ancient treasures of our garden; its golden globes are known in england as bachelor's buttons, and are believed by many to be the bachelor's buttons of shakespeare's day. [illustration: dahlia walk at ravensworth.] dahlias afford a striking example of the beauty of single flowers when compared to their doubled descendants. single dahlias are fine flowers, the yellow and scarlet ones especially so. i never thought double dahlias really worth the trouble spent on them in our northern gardens; so much staking and tying, and fussing, and usually an autumn storm wrenches them round and breaks the stem or a frost nips them just as they are in bloom. a dahlia hedge or a walk such as this one at ravensworth, virginia, is most stately and satisfying. i like, in moderation, many of the smaller single and double sunflowers. under the reign of _patience_, the sunflower had a fleeting day of popularity, and flaunted in garden and parlor. its place was false. it was never a garden flower in olden times, in the sense of being a flower of ornament or beauty; its place was in the kitchen garden, where it belongs. peas have ever been favorites in english gardens since they were brought to england. we have all seen the print, if not the portrait, of queen elizabeth garbed in a white satin robe magnificently embroidered with open pea-pods and butterflies. a "city of london madam" had a delightful head ornament of open pea-pods filled with peas of pearls; this was worn over a hood of gold-embroidered muslin, and with dyed red hair, must have been a most modish affair. sweet peas have had a unique history. they have been for a century a much-loved flower of the people both in england and america, and they were at home in cottage borders and fine gardens; were placed in vases, and carried in nosegays and posies; were loved of poets--keats wrote an exquisite characterization of them. they had beauty of color, and a universally loved perfume--but florists have been blind to them till within a few years. a bicentenary exhibition of sweet peas was given in london in july, ; now there is formed a sweet pea society. but no societies and no exhibitions ever will make them a "florist's flower"; they are of value only for cutting; their habit of growth renders them useless as a garden decoration. we all take notions in regard to flowers, just as we do in regard to people. i hear one friend say, "i love every flower that grows," but i answer with emphasis, "i don't!" i have ever disliked the portulaca,--i hate its stems. it is my fate never to escape it. i planted it once to grow under sweet alyssum in the little enclosure of earth behind my city home; when i returned in the autumn, everything was covered, blanketed, overwhelmed with portulaca. since then it comes up even in the grass, and seems to thrive by being trampled upon. the portulaca was not a flower of colonial days; i am glad to learn our great-grandmothers were not pestered with it; it was not described in the _botanical magazine_ till . i do not care for the petunia close at hand on account of its sickish odor. but in the dusky border the flowers shine like white stars (page ), and make you almost forgive their poor colors in the daylight. i never liked the calceolaria. every child in our town used to have a calceolaria in her own small garden plot, but i never wanted one. i care little for chrysanthemums; they fill in the border in autumn, and they look pretty well growing, but i like few of the flowers close at hand. by some curious twist of a brain which, alas! is apt not to deal as it is expected and ought to, with sensations furnished to it, i have felt this distaste for chrysanthemums since i attended a chrysanthemum show. of course, i ought to love them far more, and have more eager interest in them--but i do not. their sister, the china aster, i care little for. the germans call asters "death-flowers." the empress of austria at the swiss hotel where she lodged just before she was murdered, found the rooms decorated with china asters. she said to her attendant that the flowers were in austria termed death-flowers--and so they proved. the aster is among the flowers prohibited in japan for felicitous occasions, as are the balsam, rhododendron, and azalea. [illustration: petunias.] those who read these pages may note perhaps that i say little of lilies. i do not care as much for them as most garden lovers do. i like all our wild lilies, especially the yellow nodding lily of our fields; and the lemon lily of our gardens is ever a delight; but the stately lilies which are such general favorites, madonna lilies, japan lilies, the gold-banded lilies, are not especially dear to me. i love climbing vines, whether of delicate leaf or beautiful flower. in a room i place all the decoration that i can on the walls, out of the way, leaving thus space to move around without fear of displacement or injury of fragile things; so in a limited garden space, grass room under our feet, with flowering vines on the surrounding walls are better than many crowded flower borders. a tiny space can quickly be made delightful with climbing plants. the common morning-glory, called in england the bell-bind, is frequently advertised by florists of more encouragement than judgment, as suitable to plant freely in order to cover fences and poor sandy patches of ground with speedy and abundant leafage and bloom. there is no doubt that the morning-glory will do all this and far more than is promised. it will also spread above and below ground from the poor strip of earth to every other corner of garden and farm. this it has done till, in our eastern states, it is now classed as a wild flower. it will never look wild, however, meet it where you will. it is as domestic and tame as a barnyard fowl, which, wandering in the wildest woodland, could never be mistaken as game. the garden at claymont, the virginia home of mr. frank r. stockton, afforded a striking example of the spreading and strangling properties of the morning-glory, not under encouragement, but simply under toleration. mr. stockton tells me that the entire expanse of his yards and garden, when he first saw them, was a solid mass of morning-glory blooms. every stick, every stem, every stalk, every shrub and blade of grass, every vegetable growth, whether dead or alive, had its encircling and overwhelming morning-glory companion, set full of tiny undersized blossoms of varied tints. it was a beautiful sight at break of day,--a vast expanse of acres jewelled with morning-glories--but it wasn't the new owner's notion of a flower garden. in my childhood flower agents used to canvass country towns from house to house. sometimes they had a general catalogue, and sold many plants, trees, and shrubs. oftener they had but a single plant which they were "booming." i suspect that their trade came through the sudden introduction of so many and varied flowers and shrubs from china and japan. i am told that the first chinese wistarias and a certain fringe tree were sold in this manner; and i know the white hydrangea was, for i recall it, though i do not know that this was its first sale. i remember too that suddenly half the houses in town, on piazza or trellis, had the rich purple blooms of the _clematis jackmanni_; for a very persuasive agent had gone through the town the previous year. of course people of means bought then, as now, at nurseries; but at many humble homes, whose owners would never have thought of buying from a greenhouse, he sold his plants. it gave an agreeable rivalry, when all started plants together, to see whose flourished best and had the amplest bloom. thoreau recalled the pleasant emulation of many owners in concord of a certain rhododendron, sold thus sweepingly by an agent. the purple clematis displaced an old climbing favorite, the trumpet honeysuckle, once seen by every door. it was so beloved of humming-birds and so beautiful, i wonder we could ever destroy it. its downfall was hastened by its being infested by a myriad of tiny green aphides, which proceeded from it to our roses. i recall well these little plant insects, for i was very fond of picking the tubes of the honeysuckle for the drop of pure honey within, and i had to abandon reluctantly the sweet morsels. we have in our garden, and it is shown on the succeeding page, a vine which we carefully cherished in seedlings from year to year, and took much pride in. it came to us with the ambrosia from the walpole garden. it was not common in gardens in our neighborhood, and i always looked upon it as something very choice, and even rare, as it certainly was something very dainty and pretty. we called it virgin's-bower. when i went out into the world i found that it was not rare, that it grew wild from connecticut to the far west; that it was climbing fumitory, or mountain fringe, _adlumia_. when mrs. margaret deland asked if we had alleghany vine in our garden, i told her i had never seen it, when all the while it was our own dear virgin's-bower. it doesn't seem hardy enough to be a wild thing; how could it make its way against the fierce vines and thorns of the forest when it hasn't a bit of woodiness in its stems and its leaves and flowers are so tender! i cannot think any garden perfect without it, no matter what else is there, for its delicate green rue-like leaves lie so gracefully on stone or brick walls, or on fences, and it trails its slender tendrils so lightly over dull shrubs that are out of flower, beautifying them afresh with an alien bloom of delicate little pinkish blossoms like tiny bleeding-hearts. [illustration: virgin's-bower.] another old favorite was the balloon-vine, sometimes called heartseed or heart-pea, with its seeds like fat black hearts, with three lobes which made them globose instead of flat. this, too, had pretty compound leaves, and the whole vine, like our virgin's-bower, lay lightly on what it covered; but the dutchman's-pipe had a leafage too heavy save to make a thick screen or arch quickly and solidly. it did well enough in gardens which had not had a long cultivated past, or made little preparation for a cherished future; but it certainly was not suited to our garden, where things were not planted for a day. these three are native vines of rich woods in our central and western states. the matrimony-vine was an old favorite; one from the porch of the van cortlandt manor-house, over a hundred years old, is shown on the next page. often you see a straggling, sprawling growth; but this one is as fine as any vine could be. patient folk--as were certainly those of the old-time gardens, tried to keep the rose acacia as a favorite. it was hardy enough, but so hopelessly brittle in wood that it was constantly broken by the wind and snow of our northern winters, even though it was sheltered under some stronger shrub. at the end of a lovely salem garden, i beheld this june a long row of rose acacias in full bloom. i am glad i possess in my memory the exquisite harmony of their shimmering green foliage and rosy flower clusters. miss jekyll, ever resourceful, trains the rose acacia on a wall; and fastens it down by planting sturdy crimson ramblers by its side; her skilful example may well be followed in america and thus restore to our gardens this beautiful flower. [illustration: matrimony-vine at van cortlandt manor.] one flower, termed old-fashioned by nearly every one, is really a recent settler of our gardens. a popular historical novel of american life at the time of the revolution makes the hero and heroine play a very pretty love scene over a spray of the bleeding-heart, the dielytra, or dicentra. unfortunately for the truth of the novelist's picture, the dielytra was not introduced to the gardens of english-speaking folk till , when the london horticultural society received a single plant from the north of china. how quickly it became cheap and abundant; soon it bloomed in every cottage garden; how quickly it became beloved! the graceful racemes of pendant rosy flowers were eagerly welcomed by children; they have some inexplicable, witching charm; even young children in arms will stretch out their little hands and attempt to grasp the dielytra, when showier blossoms are passed unheeded. many tiny playthings can be formed of the blossoms: only deft fingers can shape the delicate lyre in the "frame." one of its folk names is "lyre flower"; the two wings can be bent back to form a gondola. we speak of modern flowers, meaning those which have recently found their way to our gardens. some of these clash with the older occupants, but one has promptly been given an honored place, and appears so allied to the older flowers in form and spirit that it seems to belong by their side--the _anemone japonica_. its purity and beauty make it one of the delights of the autumn garden; our grandmothers would have rejoiced in it, and have divided the plants with each other till all had a row of it in the garden borders. in its red form it was first pictured in the _botanical magazine_, in , but it has been commonly seen in our gardens for only twenty or thirty years. [illustration: white wistaria.] these two flowers, the _dielytra spectabilis_ and _anemone japonica_, are among the valuable gifts which our gardens received through the visits to china of that adventurous collector, robert fortune. he went there first in , and for some years constantly sent home fresh treasures. among the best-known garden flowers of his introducing are the two named above, and _kerria japonica_, _forsythia viridissima_, _weigela rosea_, _gardenia fortuniana_, _daphne fortunei_, _berberis fortunei_, _jasminum nudiflorum_, and many varieties of prunus, viburnum, spiræa, azalea, and chrysanthemum. the fine yellow rose known as fortune's yellow was acquired by him during a venturesome trip which he took, disguised as a chinaman. the white chinese wistaria is regarded as the most important of his collections. it is deemed by some flower-lovers the most exquisite flower in the entire world. the chinese variety is distinguished by the length of its racemes, sometimes three feet long. the lower part of a vine of unusual luxuriance and beauty is shown above. this special vine flowers in full richness of bloom every alternate year, and this photograph was taken during its "poor year"; for in its finest inflorescence its photograph would show simply a mass of indistinguishable whiteness. mr. howell has named it the fountain, and above the pouring of white blossoms shown in this picture is an upper cascade of bloom. this wistaria is not growing in an over-favorable locality, for winter winds are bleak on the southern shores of long island; but i know no rival of its beauty in far warmer and more sheltered sites. many of the deutzias and spiræas which beautify our spring gardens were introduced from japan before fortune's day by thunberg, the great exploiter of japanese shrubs, who died in . the spiræa van houtteii (facing page ) is perhaps the most beautiful of all. dean hole names the spiræas, deutzias, weigelas, and forsythias as having been brought into his ken in english gardens within his own lifetime, that is within fourscore years. in new england gardens the forsythia is called 'sunshine bush'--and never was folk name better bestowed, or rather evolved. for in the eager longing for spring which comes in the bitterness of march, when we cry out with the poet, "o god, for one clear day, a snowdrop and sweet air," in our welcome to fresh life, whether shown in starting leaf or frail blossom, the forsythia shines out a grateful delight to the eyes and heart, concentrating for a week all the golden radiance of sunlight, which later will be shared by sister shrubs and flowers. _forsythia suspensa_, falling in long sweeps of yellow bells, is in some favorable places a cascade of liquid light. no shrub in our gardens is more frequently ruined by gardeners than these forsythias. it takes an artist to prune the _forsythia suspensa_. you can steal the sunshine for your homes ere winter is gone by breaking long sprays of the sunshine bush and placing them in tall deep jars of water. split up the ends of the stems that they may absorb plentiful water, and the golden plumes will soon open to fullest glory within doors. there is another yellow flowered shrub, the corchorus, which seems as old as the lilac, for it is ever found in old gardens; but it proves to be a japanese shrub which we have had only a hundred years. the little, deep yellow, globular blossoms appear in early spring and sparsely throughout the whole summer. the plant isn't very adorning in its usual ragged growth, but it was universally planted. it may be seen from the shrubs of popular growth which i have named that the present glory of our shrubberies is from the japanese and chinese shrubs, which came to us in the nineteenth century through thunberg, fortune, and other bold collectors. we had no shrub-sellers of importance in the eighteenth century; the garden lover turned wholly to the seedsman and bulb-grower for garden supplies, just as we do to-day to fill our old-fashioned gardens. the new shrubs and plants from china and japan did not clash with the old garden flowers, they seemed like kinsfolk who had long been separated and rejoiced in being reunited; they were indeed fellow-countrymen. we owed scores of our older flowers to the orient, among them such important ones as the lilac, rose, lily, tulip, crown imperial. [illustration: spiræa van houtteii.] we can fancy how delighted all these oriental shrubs and flowers were to meet after so many years of separation. what pleasant greetings all the cousins must have given each other; i am sure the wistaria was glad to see the lilac, and the fortune's yellow rose was duly respectful to his old cousin, the thorny yellow scotch rose. and i seem to hear a bit of scandal passing from plant to plant! listen! it is the bleeding-heart gossiping with the japanese anemone: "well! i never thought that lilac girl would grow to be such a beauty. so much color! do you suppose it can be natural? mrs. tulip hinted to me yesterday that the girl used fertilizers, and it certainly looks so. but she can't say much herself--i never saw such a change in any creatures as in those tulips. you remember how commonplace their clothes were? now such extravagance! scores of gowns, and all made abroad, and at _her_ age! here are you and i, my dear, both young, and we really ought to have more clothes. i haven't a thing but this pink gown to put on. it's lucky you had a white gown, for no one liked your pink one. here comes mrs. rose! how those rose children have grown! i never should have known them." chapter viii comfort me with apples "what can your eye desire to see, your eares to heare, your mouth to taste, or your nose to smell, that is not to be had in an orchard? with abundance and variety? what shall i say? of delights are in an orchard; and sooner shall i be weary than i can reckon the least part of that pleasure which one, that hath and loves an orchard, may find therein." --_a new orchard_, william lawson, . in every old-time garden, save the revered front yard, the borders stretched into the domain of the currant and gooseberry bushes, and into the orchard. often a row of crabapple trees pressed up into the garden's precincts and shaded the sweet peas. orchard and garden could scarcely be separated, so closely did they grow up together. every old garden book had long chapters on orchards, written _con amore_, with a zest sometimes lacking on other pages. how they loved in the days of queen elizabeth and of queen anne to sit in an orchard, planted, as sir philip sidney said, "cunningly with trees of taste-pleasing fruits." how charming were their orchard seats, "fachoned for meditacon!" sometimes these orchard seats were banks of the strongly scented camomile, a favorite plant of lord bacon's day. wordsworth wrote in jingling rhyme:-- "beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed their snow-white blossoms on my head, with brightest sunshine round me spread of spring's unclouded weather, in this sequester'd nook how sweet to sit upon my orchard seat; and flowers and birds once more to greet, my last year's friends together." the incomparable beauty of the apple tree in full bloom has ever been sung by the poets, but even their words cannot fitly nor fully tell the delight to the senses of the close view of those exquisite pink and white domes, with their lovely opalescent tints, their ethereal fragrance; their beauty infinitely surpasses that of the vaunted cherry plantations of japan. in the hand the flowers show a distinct ruddiness, a promise of future red cheeks; but a long vista of trees in bloom displays no tint of pink, the flowers seem purest white. looking last may across the orchard at hillside, adown the valley of the hudson with its succession of blossoming orchards, we could paraphrase the words of longfellow's _golden legend_:-- "the valley stretching below is white with blossoming apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow." in the darkest night flowering apple trees shine with clear radiance, and an orchard of eight hundred acres, such as may be seen in niagara county, new york, shows a white expanse like a lake of quicksilver. this county, and its neighbor, orleans county, form an apple paradise--with their orchards of fifty and even a hundred thousand trees. [illustration: apple trees at white hall, the home of bishop berkeley.] the largest apple tree in new england is in cheshire, connecticut. its trunk measures, one foot above all root enlargements, thirteen feet eight inches in circumference. its age is traced back a hundred and fifty years. at white hall, the old home of bishop berkeley in the island of rhode island, still stand the apple trees of his day. a picture of them is shown on page . the sedate and comfortable motherliness of old apple trees is felt by all apple lovers. john burroughs speaks of "maternal old apple trees, regular old grandmothers, who have seen trouble." james lane allen, amid his apostrophes to the hemp plant, has given us some beautiful glimpses of apple trees and his love for them. he tells of "provident old tree mothers on the orchard slope, whose red-cheeked children are autumn apples." it is this motherliness, this domesticity, this homeliness that makes the apple tree so cherished, so beloved. no scene of life in the country ever seems to me homelike if it lacks an apple orchard--this doubtless, because in my birthplace in new england they form a part of every farm scene, of every country home. apple trees soften and humanize the wildest country scene. even in a remote pasture, or on a mountain side, they convey a sentiment of home; and after being lost in the mazes of close-grown wood-roads apple trees are inexpressibly welcome as giving promise of a sheltering roof-tree. thoreau wrote of wild apples, but to me no apples ever look wild. they may be the veriest crabs, growing in wild spots, unbidden, and savage and bitter in their tang, but even these seedling pippins are domestic in aspect. on the southern shores of long island, where meadow, pasture, and farm are in soil and crops like new england, the frequent absence of apple orchards makes these farm scenes unsatisfying, not homelike. no other fruit trees can take their place. an orange tree, with its rich glossy foliage, its perfumed ivory flowers and buds, and abundant golden fruit, is an exquisite creation of nature; but an orange grove has no ideality. all fruit trees have a beautiful inflorescence--few have sentiment. the tint of a blossoming peach tree is perfect; but i care not for a peach orchard. plantations of healthy cherry trees are lovely in flower and fruit time, whether in japan or massachusetts, and a cherry tree is full of happy child memories; but their tree forms in america are often disfigured with that ugly fungous blight which is all the more disagreeable to us since we hear now of its close kinship to disease germs in the animal world. i cannot see how they avoid having apple trees on these long island farms, for the apple is fully determined to stand beside every home and in every garden in the land. it does not have to be invited; it will plant and maintain itself. nearly all fruits and vegetables which we prize, depend on our planting and care, but the apple is as independent as the new england farmer. in truth apple trees would grow on these farms if they were loved or even tolerated, for i find them forced into long island hedge-rows as relentlessly as are forest trees. the indians called the plantain the "white man's foot," for it sprung up wherever he trod; the apple tree might be called the white man's shadow. it is the vine and fig tree of the temperate zone, and might be chosen as the totem of the white settlers. our love for the apple is natural, for it was the characteristic fruit of britain; the clergy were its chief cultivators; they grew apples in their monastery gardens, prayed for them in special religious ceremonies, sheltered the fruit by laws, and even named the apple when pronouncing the blessings of god upon their princes and rulers. [illustration: "the valley stretching below is white with blossoming apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow."] thoreau described an era of luxury as one in which men cultivate the apple and the amenities of the garden. he thought it indicated relaxed nerves to read gardening books, and he regarded gardening as a civil and social function, not a love of nature. he tells of his own love for freedom and savagery--and he found what he so deemed at walden pond. i am told his haunts are little changed since the years when he lived there; and i had expected to find walden pond a scene of much wild beauty, but it was the mildest of wild woods; it seemed to me as thoroughly civilized and social as an apple orchard. [illustration: old hand-power cider mill.] thoreau christened the apple trees of his acquaintance with appropriate names in the _lingua vernacula_: the truant's apple, the saunterer's apple, december eating, wine of new england, the apple of the dell in the wood, the apple of the hollow in the pasture, the railroad apple, the cellar-hole apple, the frozen-thawed, and many more; these he loved for their fruit; to them let me add the playhouse apple trees, loved solely for their ingeniously twisted branches, an apple tree of the garden, often overhanging the flower borders. i recall their glorious whiteness in the spring, but i cannot remember that they bore any fruit save a group of serious little girls. i know there were no apples on the playhouse apple trees in my garden, nor on the one in nelly gilbert's or ella partridge's garden. there is no play place for girls like an old apple tree. the main limbs leave the trunk at exactly the right height for children to reach, and every branch and twig seems to grow and turn only to form delightful perches for children to climb among and cling to. some apple trees in our town had a copy of an elizabethan garden furnishing; their branches enclosed tree platforms about twelve feet from the ground, reached by a narrow ladder or flight of steps. these were built by generous parents for their children's playhouses, but their approach of ladder was too unhazardous, their railings too safety-assuring, to prove anything but conventional and uninteresting. the natural apple tree offered infinite variety, and a slight sense of daring to the climber. its possibility of accident was fulfilled; untold number of broken arms and ribs--juvenile--were resultant from falls from apple trees. [illustration: pressing out cider in old hand mill.] one of thoreau's apples was the green apple (_malus viridis_, or _cholera morbifera puerelis delectissima_). i know not for how many centuries boys (and girls too) have eaten and suffered from green apples. a description was written in which might have happened any summer since; i quote it with reminiscent delight, for i have the same love for the spirited relation that i had in my early youth when i never, for a moment, in spite of the significant names, deemed the entire book anything but a real story; the notion that _pilgrim's progress_ was an allegory never entered my mind. "now there was on the other side of the wall a _garden_. and some of the fruit-trees that grew in the garden shot their branches over the wall, and being mellow, they that found them did gather them up and oft eat of them to their hurt. so _christiana's_ boys, _as boys are apt to do_, being _pleas'd_ with the trees did _plash_ them and began to eat. their mother did also chide them for so doing, but still the boys went on. now _matthew_ the eldest son of _christiana_ fell sick.... there dwelt not far from thence one mr. _skill_ an ancient and well approved physician. so christiana desired it and they sent for him and he came. and when he was entered the room and a little observed the boy he concluded that he was sick of the gripes. then he said to his mother, _what diet has matthew of late fed upon_? _diet_, said christiana, _nothing but which is wholesome_. the physician answered, _this boy has been tampering with something that lies in his maw undigested_.... then said samuel, _mother, mother, what was that which my brother did gather up and eat. you know there was an orchard and my brother did plash and eat. true, my child_, said christiana, _naughty boy as he was. i did chide him and yet he would eat thereof._" the realistic treatment of mr. skill and matthew's recovery thereby need not be quoted. an historic apple much esteemed in connecticut and rhode island, and often planted at the edge of the flower garden, is called the sapson, or early sapson, sapson sweet, sapsyvine, and in pennsylvania, wine-sap. the name is a corruption of the old english apple name, sops-o'-wine. it is a charming little red-cheeked apple of early autumn, slightly larger than a healthy crab-apple. the clear red of its skin perfuses in coral-colored veins and beautiful shadings to its very core. it has a condensed, spicy, aromatic flavor, not sharp like a crab-apple, but it makes a better jelly even than the crab-apple--jelly of a ruby color with an almost wine-like flavor, a true sops-of-wine. this fruit is deemed so choice that i have known the sale of a farm to halt for some weeks until it could be proved that certain apple trees in the orchard bore the esteemed sapsyvines. under new england and new york farm-houses was a cellar filled with bins for vegetables and apples. as the winter passed on there rose from these cellars a curious, earthy, appley smell, which always seemed most powerful in the best parlor, the room least used. how schiller, who loved the scent of rotten apples, would have rejoiced! the cellar also contained many barrels of cider; for the beauty of the apple trees, and the use of their fruit as food, were not the only factors which influenced the planting of the many apple orchards of the new world; they afforded a universal drink--cider. i have written at length, in my books, _home life in colonial days_ and _stage-coach and tavern days_, the history of the vogue and manufacture of cider in the new world. the cherished apple orchards of endicott, blackstone, wolcott, and winthrop were so speedily multiplied that by cider was plentiful and cheap everywhere. by the opening of the eighteenth century it had wholly crowded out beer and metheglin; and was the drink of old and young on all occasions. [illustration: old horse-lever cider mill.] at first, cider was made by pounding the apples by hand in wooden mortars; then simple mills were formed of a hollowed log and a spring board. rude hand presses, such as are shown on pages and , were known in , and lingered to our own day. kalm, the swedish naturalist, saw ancient horse presses (like the one depicted on this page) in use in the hudson river valley in . in autumn the whole country-side was scented with the sour, fruity smell from these cider mills; and the gift of a draught of sweet cider to any passer-by was as ample and free as of water from the brookside. the cider when barrelled and stored for winter was equally free to all comers, as well it might be, when many families stored a hundred barrels for winter use. [illustration: "straining off" the cider.] the washingtonian or temperance reform which swept over this country like a purifying wind in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, found many temporizers who tried to exclude cider from the list of intoxicating drinks which converts pledged themselves to abandon. some farmers who adopted this much-needed movement against the all-prevailing vice of drunkenness received it with fanatic zeal. it makes the heart of the apple lover ache to read that in this spirit they cut down whole orchards of flourishing apple trees, since they could conceive no adequate use for their apples save for cider. that any should have tried to exclude cider from the list of intoxicating beverages seems barefaced indeed to those who have tasted that most potent of all spirits--frozen cider. i once drank a small modicum of jericho cider, as smooth as benedictine and more persuasive, which made a raw day in april seem like sunny midsummer. i afterward learned from the ingenuous long island farmer whose hospitality gave me this liqueur that it had been frozen seven times. each time he had thrust a red-hot poker into the bung-hole of the barrel, melted all the watery ice and poured it out; therefore the very essence of the cider was all that remained. it is interesting to note the folk customs of old england which have lingered here, such as domestic love divinations. the poet gay wrote:-- "i pare this pippin round and round again, my shepherd's name to flourish on the plain. i fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head, upon the grass a perfect l. is read." i have seen new england schoolgirls, scores of times, thus toss an "unbroken paring." an ancient trial of my youth was done with apple seeds; these were named for various swains, then slightly wetted and stuck on the cheek or forehead, while we chanted:-- "pippin! pippin! paradise! tell me where my true love lies!" the seed that remained longest in place indicated the favored and favoring lover. with the neglect in this country of saints' days and the puritanical frowning down of all folk customs connected with them, we lost the delightful wassailing of the apple trees. this, like many another religious observance, was a relic of heathen sacrifice, in this case to pomona. it was celebrated with slight variations in various parts of england; and was called an apple howling, a wassailing, a youling, and other terms. the farmer and his workmen carried to the orchard great jugs of cider or milk pans filled with cider and roasted apples. encircling in turn the best bearing trees, they drank from "clayen-cups," and poured part of the contents on the ground under the trees. and while they wassailed the trees they sang:-- "here's to thee, old apple tree! whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, and whence thou mayst bear apples enow! hats full! caps full, bushel--bushel--sacks full, and my pockets full too." another devonshire rhyme ran:-- "health to thee, good apple tree! well to bear pocket-fulls, hat-fulls, peck-fulls, bushel bag-fulls." the wassailing of the trees gave place in america to a jovial autumnal gathering known as an apple cut, an apple paring, or an apple bee. the cheerful kitchen of the farm-house was set out with its entire array of empty pans, pails, tubs, and baskets. heaped-up barrels of apples stood in the centre of the room. the many skilful hands of willing neighbors emptied the barrels, and with sharp knives or an occasional apple parer, filled the empty vessels with cleanly pared and quartered apples. when the work was finished, divinations with apple parings and apple seeds were tried, simple country games were played; occasionally there was a fiddler and a dance. an autumnal supper was served from the three zones of the farm-house: nuts from the attic, apples from the pantry, and cider from the cellar. the apple-quarters intended for drying were strung on homespun linen thread and hung out of doors on clear drying days. a humble hillside home in new hampshire thus quaintly festooned is shown in the illustration opposite page --a characteristic new hampshire landscape. when thoroughly dried in sun and wind, these sliced apples were stored for the winter by being hung from rafter to rafter of various living rooms, and remained thus for months (gathering vast accumulations of dust and germs for our blissfully ignorant and unsqueamish grandparents) until the early days of spring, when apple sauce, apple butter, and the stores of apple bin and apple pit were exhausted, and they then afforded, after proper baths and soakings, the wherewithal for that domestic comestible--dried apple pie. the swedish parson, dr. acrelius, writing home to sweden in an account of the settlement of delaware, said:-- "apple pie is used throughout the whole year, and when fresh apples are no longer to be had, dried ones are used. it is the evening meal of children. house pie, in country places, is made of apples neither peeled nor freed from their cores, and its crust is not broken if a wagon wheel goes over it." i always had an undue estimation of apple pie in my childhood, from an accidental cause: we were requested by the conscientious teacher in our sunday-school to "take out" each week without fail from the "select library" of the school a "sabbath-school library book." the colorless, albeit pious, contents of the books classed under that title are well known to those of my generation; even such a child of the puritans as i was could not read them. there were two anchors in that sea of despair,--but feeble holds would they seem to-day,--the first volumes of _queechy_ and _the wide, wide world_. with the disingenuousness of childhood i satisfied the rules of the school and my own conscience by carrying home these two books, and no others, on alternate sundays for certainly two years. the only wonder in the matter was that the transaction escaped my mother's eye for so long a time. i read only isolated scenes; of these the favorite was the one wherein fleda carries to the woods for the hungry visitor, who was of the english nobility, several large and toothsome sections of green apple pie and cheese. the prominence given to that apple pie in that book and in my two years of reading idealized it. on a glorious day last october i drove to new canaan, the town which was the prototype of queechy. hungry as ever in childhood from the clear autumnal air and the long drive from lenox, we asked for luncheon at what was reported to be a village hostelry. the exact counterpart of miss cynthia gall responded rather sourly that she wasn't "boarding or baiting" that year. humble entreaties for provender of any kind elicited from her for each of us a slice of cheese and a large and truly noble section of apple pie, the very pie of fleda's tale, which we ate with a bewildered sense as of a previous existence. this was intensified as we strolled to the brook under the queechy sugar maples, and gathered there the great-grandchildren of fleda's watercresses, and heard the sound of hugh's sawmills. [illustration: drying apples.] six hundred years ago english gentlewomen and goodwives were cooking apples just as we cook them now--they even had apple pie. a delightful recipe of the fourteenth century was for "appeluns for a lorde, in opyntide." opyntide was springtime; this was, therefore, a spring dish fit for a lord. apple-moy and apple-mos, apple tansy, and pommys-morle were delightful dishes and very rich food as well. the word pomatum has now no association with _pomum_, but originally pomatum was made partly of apples. in an old "dialog between soarness and chirurgi," written by one dr. bulleyne in the days of queen elizabeth, is found this question and its answer:-- "_soarness._ how make you pomatum? "_chirurgi._ take the fat of a yearly kyd one pound, temper it with the water of musk-roses by the space of foure dayes, then take five apples, and dresse them, and cut them in pieces, and lard them with cloves, then boyl them altogeather in the same water of roses in one vessel of glasse set within another vessel, let it boyl on the fyre so long tyll it all be white, then wash them with the same water of muske-roses, this done kepe it in a glasse and if you will have it to smell better, then you must put in a little civet or musk, or both, or ambergrice. gentil women doe use this to make theyr faces fayr and smooth, for it healeth cliftes in the lippes, or in any places of the hands and face." with the omission of the civet or musk i am sure this would make to-day a delightful cream; but there is one condition which the "gentil woman" of to-day could scarcely furnish--the infinite patience and leisure which accompanied and perfected all such domestic work three centuries ago. a pomander was made of "the maste of a sweet apple tree being gathered betwixt two lady days," mixed with various sweet-scented drugs and gums and rose leaves, and shaped into a ball or bracelet. the successor of the pomander was the clove apple, or "comfort apple," an apple stuck solidly with cloves. in country communities, one was given as an expression of sympathy in trouble or sorrow. visiting a country "poorhouse" recently, we were shown a "comfort-apple" which had been sent to one of the inmates by a friend; for even paupers have friends. "taffaty tarts" were of paste filled with apples sweetened and seasoned with lemon, rose-water, and fennel seed. apple-sticklin', apple-stucklin, apple-twelin, apple-hoglin, are old english provincial names of apple pie; apple-betty is a new england term. the apple slump of new england homes was not the "slump-pye" of old england, which was a rich mutton pie flavored with wine and jelly, and covered with a rich confection of nuts and fruit. [illustration: ancient apple picker, apple racks, apple parers, apple-butter kettle, apple-butter paddle, apple-butter stirrer, apple-butter crocks.] in pennsylvania, among the people known as the pennsylvania dutch, the apple frolic was universal. each neighbor brought his or her own apple parer. this people make great use of apples and cider in their food, and have many curious modes of cooking them. dr. heilman in his paper on "the old cider mill" tells of their delicacy of "cider time" called cider soup, made of equal parts of cider and water, boiled and thickened with sweet cream and flour; when ready to serve, bits of bread or toast are placed in it. "mole cider" is made of boiling cider thickened to a syrup with beaten eggs and milk. but of greatest importance, both for home consumption and for the market, is the staple known as apple butter. this is made from sweet cider boiled down to about one-third its original quantity. to this is added an equal weight of sliced apples, about a third as much of molasses, and various spices, such as cloves, ginger, mace, cinnamon or even pepper, all boiled together for twelve or fifteen hours. often the great kettle is filled with cider in the morning, and boiled and stirred constantly all day, then the sliced apples are added at night, and the monotonous stirring continues till morning, when the butter can be packed in jars and kegs for winter use. this apple butter is not at all like apple sauce; it has no granulated appearance, but is smooth and solid like cheese and dark red in color. apple butter is stirred by a pole having upon one end a perforated blade or paddle set at right angles. sometimes a bar was laid from rim to rim of the caldron, and worked by a crank that turned a similar paddle. a collection of ancient utensils used in making apple butter is shown on page ; these are from the collections of the bucks county historical society. opposite page is shown an ancient open-air fireplace and an old couple making apple butter just as they have done for over half a century. in new england what the "hired man" on the farm called "biled cider apple sass," took the place of apple butter. preferably this was made in the "summer kitchen," where three kettles, usually of graduated sizes, could be set over the fire; the three kettles could be hung from a crane, or trammels. all were filled with cider, and as the liquid boiled away in the largest kettle it was filled from the second and that from the third. the fresh cider was always poured into the third kettle, thus the large kettle was never checked in its boiling. this continued till the cider was as thick as molasses. apples (preferably pound sweets or pumpkin sweets) had been chosen with care, pared, cored, and quartered, and heated in a small kettle. these were slowly added to the thickened cider, in small quantities, in order not to check the boiling. the rule was to cook them till so softened that a rye straw could be run into them, and yet they must retain their shape. this was truly a critical time; the slightest scorched flavor would ruin the whole kettleful. a great wooden, long-handled, shovel-like ladle was used to stir the sauce fiercely until it was finished in triumph. often a barrel of this was made by our grandmothers, and frozen solid for winter use. the farmer and "hired men" ate it clear as a relish with meats; and it was suited to appetites and digestions which had been formed by a diet of salted meats, fried breads, many pickles, and the drinking of hot cider sprinkled with pepper. emerson well named the apple the social fruit of new england. it ever has been and is still the grateful promoter and unfailing aid to informal social intercourse in the country-side; but the apple tree is something far nobler even than being the sign of cheerful and cordial acquaintance; it is the beautiful rural emblem of industrious and temperate home life. hence, let us wassail with a will:-- "here's to thee, old apple tree! whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, and whence thou mayst bear apples enow!" [illustration: making apple butter.] chapter ix gardens of the poets "the chief use of flowers is to illustrate quotations from the poets." all english poets have ever been ready to sing english flowers until jesters have laughed, and to sing garden flowers as well as wild flowers. few have really described a garden, though the orderly distribution of flowers might be held to be akin to the restraint of rhyme and rhythm in poetry. [illustration: shakespeare border at hillside.] it has been the affectionate tribute and happy diversion of those who love both poetry and flowers to note the flowers beloved of various poets, and gather them together, either in a book or a garden. the pages of milton cannot be forced, even by his most ardent admirers, to indicate any intimate knowledge of flowers. he certainly makes some very elegant classical allusions to flowers and fruits, and some amusingly vague ones as well. "the flowers of spenser," and "a posy from chaucer," are the titles of most readable chapters in _a garden of simples_, but the allusions and quotations from both authors are pleasing and interesting, rather than informing as to the real variety and description of the flowers of their day. nearly all the older english poets, though writing glibly of woods and vales, of shepherds and swains, of buds and blossoms, scarcely allude to a flower in a natural way. herrick was truly a flower lover, and, as the critic said, "many flowers grow to illustrate quotations from his works." the flowers named of shakespeare have been written about in varied books, _shakespeare's garden_, _shakespeare's bouquet_, _flowers from stratford-on-avon_, etc. these are easily led in fulness of detail, exactness of information, and delightful literary quality by that truly perfect book, beloved of all garden lovers, _the plant lore and garden craft of shakespeare_, by canon ellacombe. of it i never weary, and for it i am ever grateful. shakespeare gardens, or shakespeare borders, too, are laid out and set with every tree, shrub, and flower named in shakespeare, and these are over two hundred in number. a distinguishing mark of the shakespeare border of lady warwick is the peculiar label set alongside each plant. this label is of pottery, greenish-brown in tint, shaped like a butterfly, bearing on its wings a quotation of a few words and the play reference relating to each special plant. of course these words have been fired in and are thus permanent. pretty as they are in themselves they must be disfiguring to the borders--as all labels are in a garden. in the garden at hillside, near albany, new york, grows a green and flourishing shakespeare border, gathered ten years ago by the mistress of the garden. i use the terms green and flourishing with exactness in this connection, for a great impression made by this border is of its thriving health, and also of the predominance of green leafage of every variety, shape, manner of growth, and oddness of tint. in this latter respect it is infinitely more beautiful than the ordinary border, varying from silvery glaucous green through greens of yellow or brownish shade to the blue-black greens of some herbs; and among these green leaves are many of sweet or pungent scent, and of medicinal qualities, such as are seldom grown to-day save in some such choice and chosen spot. there is less bloom in this shakespeare border than in our modern flower beds, and the flowers are not so large or brilliant as our modern favorites; but, quiet as they are, they are said to excel the blossoms of the same plants of shakespeare's own day, which we learn from the old herbalists were smaller and less varied in color and of simpler tints than those of their descendants. at the first glance this shakespeare border shines chiefly in the light of the imagination, as stirred by the poet's noble words; but do not dwell on this border as a whole, as something only to be looked at; read the pages of this garden, dwell on each leafy sentence, and you are entranced with its beautiful significance. it was not gathered with so much thought, and each plant and seed set out and watched and reared like a delicate child, to become a show place; it appeals for a more intimate regard; and we find that its detail makes its charm. such a garden as this appeals warmly to anyone who is sensitive to the imaginative element of flower beauty. many garden makers forget that a flower bed is a group of living beings--perhaps of sentient beings--as well as a mass of beautiful color. modern gardens tend far too much toward the display of the united effect of growing plants, to a striving for universal brilliancy, rather than attention to and love for separate flowers. there was refreshment of spirit as well as of the senses in the old-time garden of flowers, such as these planted in this shakespeare border, and it stirred the heart of the poet as could no modern flower gardens. [illustration: long border at hillside.] the scattering inflorescence and the tiny size of the blossoms give to this shakespeare border an unusual aspect of demureness and delicacy, and the plants seem to cling with affection and trust to the path of their human protector; they look simple and confiding, and seem close both to nature and to man. this homelike and modest quality is shown, i think, even in the presentation in black and white given on page and opposite page , though it shows still more in the garden when the wide range of tint of foliage is added. a most appropriate companion of the old flowers in this shakespeare border is the sun-dial, which is an exact copy of the one at abbotsford, scotland. it bears the motto [greek: erchetai gar nyx] meaning, "for the night cometh." it was chosen by sir walter scott, for his sun-dial, as a solemn monitor to himself of the hour "when no man can work." it was copied from a motto on the dial-plate of the watch of the great dr. samuel johnson; and it is curious that in both cases the word [greek: gar] should be introduced, for it is not in the clause in the new testament from which the motto was taken. it is a beautiful motto and one of singular appropriateness for a sun-dial. the pedestal of this sun-dial is of simple lines, but it is dignified and pleasing, aside from the great interest of association which surrounds it. [illustration: the beauty of winter lilacs.] i had a happy sense, when walking through this garden, that, besides my congenial living companionship, i had the company of some noble elizabethan ghosts; and i know that if shakespeare and jonson and herrick were to come to hillside, they would find the garden so familiar to them; they would greet the plants like old friends, they would note how fine grew the rosemary this year, how sweet were the lady's-smocks, how fair the gillyflowers. and gerarde and parkinson would ponder, too, over all the herbs and simples of their own physick gardens, and compare notes. above all i seemed to see, walking soberly by my side, breathing in with delight the varied scents of leaf and blossom, that lover and writer of flowers and gardens, lord bacon--and not in the disguise of shakespeare either. for no stronger proofs can be found of the existence of two individualities than are in the works of each of these men, in their sentences and pages which relate to gardens and flowers. this fair garden and shakespeare border are loveliest in the cool of the day, in the dawn or at early eve; and those who muse may then remember another presence in a garden in the cool of the day. and then i recall that gem of english poesy which always makes me pitiful of its author; that he could write this, and yet, in his hundreds of pages of english verse, make not another memorable line:-- "a garden is a lovesome thing, god wot; rose plot, fringed pool, ferned grot, the veriest school of peace; and yet the fool contends that god is not in gardens. not in gardens! when the eve is cool! nay, but i have a sign. 'tis very sure god walks in mine." shakespeare borders grow very readily and freely in england, save in the case of the few tropical flowers and trees named in the pages of the great dramatist; but this shakespeare border at hillside needs much cherishing. the plants of heather and broom and gorse have to be specially coddled by transplanting under cold frames during the long winter months in frozen albany; and thus they find vast contrast to their free, unsheltered life in great britain. [illustration: garden of mrs. frank robinson, wakefield, rhode island.] persistent efforts have been made to acclimate both heather and gorse in america. we have seen how broom came uninvited and spread unasked on the massachusetts coast; but gorse and heather have proved shy creatures. on the beautiful island of naushon the carefully planted gorse may be found spread in widely scattered spots and also on the near-by mainland, but it cannot be said to have thrived markedly. the scotch heather, too, has been frequently planted, and watched and pushed, but it is slow to become acclimated. it is not because the winters are too cold, for it is found in considerable amount in bitter newfoundland; perhaps it prefers to live under a crown. modern authors have seldom given their names to gardens, not even tennyson with his intimate and extended knowledge of garden flowers. a mary howitt garden was planned, full of homely old blooms, such as she loves to name in her verse; but it would have slight significance save to its maker, since no one cares to read mary howitt nowadays. in that charming book, _sylvana's letters to an unknown friend_ (which i know were written to me), the author, e. v. b., says, "the very ideal of a garden, and the only one i know, is found in shelley's _sensitive plant_." with quick championing of a beloved poet, i at once thought of the radiant garden of flowers in keats's heart and poems. then i reread the _sensitive plant_ in a spirit of utmost fairness and critical friendliness, and i am willing to yield the shelley garden to sylvana, while i keep, for my own delight, my keats garden of sunshine, color, and warmth. that keats had a profound knowledge and love of flowers is shown in his letters as well as his poems. only a few months before his death, when stricken with and fighting a fatal disease, he wrote:-- "how astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world impress a sense of its natural beauties upon me! like poor falstaff, though i do not babble, i think of green fields. i muse with greatest affection on every flower i have known from my infancy--their shapes and colors are as new to me as if i had just created them with a superhuman fancy. it is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of my life." near the close of his _endymion_ he wrote:-- "nor much it grieves to die, when summer dies on the cold sward. why, i have been a butterfly, a lord of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor roses; my kingdom's at its death, and just it is that i should die with it." in the summer of , under the influence of a happy day at hampstead, he wrote that lovely poem, "i stood tiptoe upon a little hill." after a description of the general scene, a special corner of beauty is thus told:-- "a bush of may flowers with the bees about them-- ah, sure no bashful nook could be without them-- and let a lush laburnum oversweep them, and let long grass grow round the roots to keep them moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets that they may bind the moss in leafy nets. a filbert hedge with wild-brier over trim'd, and clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind, upon their summer thrones...." then come these wonderful lines, which belittle all other descriptions of sweet peas:-- "here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight, with wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, and taper fingers catching at all things to bind them all about with tiny wings." keats states in his letters that his love of flowers was wholly for those of the "common garden sort," not for flowers of the greenhouse or difficult cultivation, nor do i find in his lines any evidence of extended familiarity with english wild flowers. he certainly does not know the flowers of woods and fields as does matthew arnold. [illustration: the parson's walk.] the autocrat of the breakfast table says: "did you ever hear a poet who did not talk flowers? don't you think a poem which for the sake of being original should leave them out, would be like those verses where the letter _a_ or _e_, or some other, is omitted? no; they will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new." the autocrat himself knew well a poet who never talked flowers in his poems, a poet beloved of all other poets,--arthur hugh clough,--though he loved and knew all flowers. from matthew arnold's beautiful tribute to him, are a few of his wonderful flower lines, cut out from their fellows:-- "through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, and round green roots and yellowing stalks i see pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep, and air-swept lindens yield their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers of bloom..., * * * * * "soon will the high midsummer pomps come on, soon will the musk carnations break and swell. soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, sweet-william with his homely cottage smell, and stocks in fragrant blow." oh, what a master hand! where in all english verse are fairer flower hues? and where is a more beautiful description of a midsummer evening, than arnold's exquisite lines beginning:-- "the evening comes; the fields are still; the tinkle of the thirsty rill." dr. holmes was also a master in the description of garden flowers. i should know, had i never been told save from his verses, just the kind of a cambridge garden he was reared in, and what flowers grew in it. lowell, too, gives ample evidence of a new england childhood in a garden. the gardens of shenstone's _schoolmistress_ and of thomson's poems come to our minds without great warmth of welcome from us; while clare's lines are full of charm:-- "and where the marjoram once, and sage and rue, and balm, and mint, with curl'd leaf parsley grew, and double marigolds, and silver thyme, and pumpkins 'neath the window climb. and where i often, when a child, for hours tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers, as lady's laces, everlasting peas, true-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease and goldenrods, and tansy running high, that o'er the pale tops smiled on passers by." a curious old seventeenth-century poet was the jesuit, rené rapin. the copy of his poem entitled _gardens_ which i have seen, is the one in my daughter's collection of garden books; it was "english'd by the ingenious mr. gardiner," and published in . hallam in his _introduction to the literature of europe_ gives a capital estimate of this long poem of over three thousand lines. i find them pretty dull reading, with much monotony of adjectives, and very affected notions for plant names. i fancy he manufactured all his tedious plant traditions himself. [illustration: garden of mary washington.] a pleasing little book entitled _dante's garden_ has collected evidence, from his writings, of dante's love of green, growing things. the title is rather strained, since he rarely names individual flowers, and only refers vaguely to their emblematic significance. i would have entitled the book _dante's forest_, since he chiefly refers to trees; and the italian gardens of his days were of trees rather than flowers. there are passages in his writings which have led some of his worshippers to believe that his childhood was passed in a garden; but these references are very indeterminate. the picture of a deserted garden, with its sad sentiment has charmed the fancy of many a poet. hood, a true flower-lover, wrote this jingle in his _haunted house_:-- "the marigold amidst the nettles blew, the gourd embrac'd the rose bush in its ramble. the thistle and the stock together grew, the hollyhock and bramble. "the bearbine with the lilac interlaced, the sturdy burdock choked its tender neighbor, the spicy pink. all tokens were effaced of human care and labor." these lines are a great contrast to the dignified versification of the old garden, by margaret deland, a garden around which a great city has grown. "around it is the street, a restless arm that clasps the country to the city's heart." no one could read this poem without knowing that the author is a true garden lover, and knowing as well that she spent her childhood in a garden. another american poet, edith thomas, writes exquisitely of old gardens and garden flowers. "the pensile lilacs still their favors throw. the star of lilies, plenteous long ago, waits on the summer dusk, and faileth not. the legions of the grass in vain would blot the spicy box that marks the garden row. let but the ground some human tendance know, it long remaineth an engentled spot." let me for a moment, through the suggestion of her last two lines, write of the impress left on nature through flower planting. "the garden long remaineth an engentled spot." you cannot for years stamp out the mark of a garden; intentional destruction may obliterate the garden borders, but neglect never. the delicate flowers die, but some sturdy things spring up happily and seem gifted with everlasting life. fifteen years ago a friend bought an old country seat on long island; near the site of the new house, an old garden was ploughed deep and levelled to a lawn. every year since then the patient gardeners pull up, on this lawn, in considerable numbers, mallows, campanulas, star of bethlehem, bouncing-bets and innumerable asparagus shoots, and occasionally the seedlings of other flowers which have bided their time in the dark earth. traces of the residence of sir walter raleigh in ireland may still be seen in the growth of richly perfumed wall-flowers which he brought from the azores. the affane cherry is found where he planted it, and some of his cedars are living. the summer-house of yew trees sheltered him when he smoked in the garden, and in this garden he planted tobacco. near by is the famous spot where he planted what were then called virginian potatoes. by that planting they acquired the name of irish potatoes. i have spoken of the prince nurseries in flushing; the old nurserymen left a more lasting mark than their nurseries, in the rare trees and plants now found on the roads, and in the fields and gardens for many miles around flushing. with the parsons family, who have been, since , distributors of unusual plants, especially the splendid garden treasures from china and japan, they have made flushing a delightful nature-study. in the humblest dooryard, and by the wayside in outlying parts of the town, may be seen rare and beautiful old trees: a giant purple beech is in a laborer's yard; fine cedars, salisburias, red-flowered horse-chestnuts, japanese flowering quinces and cherries, and even rare japanese maples are to be found; a few survivors of the chinese mulberry have a romantic interest as mementoes of a giant bubble of ruin. the largest scotch laburnum i ever saw, glorious in golden bloom, is behind an unkempt house. on the parsons estate is a weeping beech of unusual size. its branches trail on the ground in a vast circumference of feet, forming a great natural arbor. the beautiful vernal light in this tree bower may be described in andrew marvell's words:-- "annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade." [illustration: box and phlox.] the photograph of it, shown opposite page , gives some scant idea of its leafy walls; it has been for years the fit trysting-place of lovers, as is shown by the initials carved on the great trunk. great judas trees, sadly broken yet bravely blooming; decayed hedges of several kinds of lilacs, syringas, snowballs, and yuccas of princely size and bearing still linger. everywhere are remnants of box hedges. one unkempt dooryard of an old dutch farm-house was glorified with a broad double row of yellow lily at least sixty feet in length. everywhere is wistaria, on porches, fences, houses, and trees; the abundant dogwood trees are often overgrown with wistaria. the most exquisite sight of the floral year was the largest dogwood tree i have ever seen, radiant with starry white bloom, and hung to the tip of every white-flowered branch with the drooping amethystine racemes of wistaria of equal luxuriance. golden-yellow laburnum blooms were in one case mingled with both purple and white wistaria. these yellow, purple, and white blooms of similar shape were a curious sight, as if a single plant had been grafted. as i rode past so many glimpses of loveliness mingled with so much present squalor, i could but think of words of the old hymn:-- "where every prospect pleases and only man is vile." could the hedges, trees, and vines which came from the prince and parsons nurseries have been cared for, northeastern long island, which is part of the city of greater new york, would still be what it was named by the early explorers, "the pearl of new netherland." [illustration: within the weeping beech.] chapter x the charm of color "how strange are the freaks of memory, the lessons of life we forget. while a trifle, a trick of color, in the wonderful web is set." --james russell lowell. the quality of charm in color is most subtle; it is like the human attribute known as fascination, "whereof," says old cotton mather, "men have more experience than comprehension." certainly some alliance of color with a form suited or wonted to it is necessary to produce a gratification of the senses. thus in the leaves of plants every shade of green is pleasing; then why is there no charm in a green flower? the green of mignonette bloom would scarcely be deemed beautiful were it not for our association of it with the delicious fragrance. white is the absence of color. in flowers a pure chalk-white, and a snow-white (which is bluish) is often found; but more frequently the white flower blushes a little, or is warmed with yellow, or has green veins. where green runs into the petals of a white flower, its beauty hangs by a slender thread. if the green lines have any significance, as have the faint green checkerings of the fritillary, which i have described elsewhere in this book, they add to its interest; but ordinarily they make the petals seem undeveloped. the snowdrop bears the mark of one of the few tints of green which we like in white flowers; its "heart-shaped seal of green," sung by rossetti, has been noted by many other poets. tennyson wrote:-- "pure as lines of green that streak the white of the first snowdrop's inner leaves." [illustration: spring snowflake.] a cousin of the snowdrop, is the "spring snowflake" or leucojum, called also by new england country folk "high snowdrop." it bears at the end of each snowy petal a tiny exact spot of green; and i think it must have been the flower sung by leigh hunt:-- "the nice-leaved lesser lilies, shading like detected light their little green-tipt lamps of white." the illustration on page shows the graceful growth of the flower and its exquisitely precise little green-dotted petals, but it has not caught its luminous whiteness, which seems almost of phosphorescent brightness in each little flower. the star of bethlehem is a plant in which the white and green of the leaf is curiously repeated in the flower. gardeners seldom admit this flower now to their gardens, it so quickly crowds out everything else; it has become on long island nothing but a weed. the high-growing star of bethlehem is a pretty thing. a bed of it in my sister's garden is shown on page . it is curious that when all agree that green flowers have no beauty and scant charm, that a green flower should have been one of the best-loved flowers of my home garden. but this love does not come from any thought of the color or beauty of the flower, but from association. it was my mother's favorite, hence it is mine. it was her favorite because she loved its clear, pure, spicy fragrance. this ever present and ever welcome scent which pervades the entire garden if leaf or flower of the loved ambrosia be crushed, is curious and characteristic, a true "ambrosiack odor," to use ben jonson's words. a vivid description of ambrosia is that of gerarde in his delightful _herball_. "oke of jerusalem, or botrys, hath sundry small stems a foote and a halfe high dividing themselves into many small branches. the leafe very much resembling the leafe of an oke, which hath caused our english women to call it oke of jerusalem. the upper side of the leafe is a deepe greene and somewhat rough and hairy, but underneath it is of a darke reddish or purple colour. the seedie floures grow clustering about the branches like the yong clusters or blowings of the vine. the roote is small and thriddy. the whole herbe is of a pleasant smell and savour, and the whole plant dieth when the seed is ripe. oke of jerusalem is of divers called ambrosia." ambrosia has been loved for many centuries by englishwomen; it is in the first english list of names of plants, which was made in by one dr. turner; and in this list it is called "ambrose." he says of it:-- "botrys is called in englishe, oke of hierusalem, in duche, trauben kraute, in french pijmen. it groweth in gardines muche in england." ambrosia has now died out "in gardines muche in england." i have had many letters from english flower lovers telling me they know it not; and i have had the pleasure of sending the seeds to several old english and scotch gardens, where i hope it will once more grow and flourish, for i am sure it must feel at home. [illustration: star of bethlehem.] the seeds of this beloved ambrosia, which filled my mother's garden in every spot in which it could spring, and which overflowed with cheerful welcome into the gardens of our neighbors, was given her from the garden of a great-aunt in walpole, new hampshire. this walpole garden was a famous gathering of old-time favorites, and it had the delightful companionship of a wild garden. on a series of terraces with shelving banks, which reached down to a stream, the boys of the family planted, seventy years ago, a myriad of wild flowers, shrubs, and trees, from the neighboring woods. by the side of the garden great elm trees sheltered scores of beautiful gray squirrels; and behind the house and garden an orchard led to the wheat fields, which stretched down to the broad connecticut river. all flowers thrived there, both in the box-bordered beds and in the wild garden, perhaps because the morning mists from the river helped out the heavy buckets of water from the well during the hot summer weeks. even in winter the wild garden was beautiful from the brilliant bittersweet which hung from every tree. [illustration: "the pearl."] here ambrosia was plentiful, but is plentiful no longer; and walpole garden lovers seek seeds of it from the worcester garden. i think it dies out generally when all the weeding and garden care is done by gardeners; they assume that the little plants of such modest bearing are weeds, and pull them up, with many other precious seedlings of the old garden, in their desire to have ample expanse of naked dirt. one of the charms which was permitted to the old garden was its fulness. nature there certainly abhorred a vacant space. the garden soil was full of resources; it had a seed for every square inch; it seemed to have a reserve store ready to crowd into any space offered by the removal or dying down of a plant at any time. let me tell of a curious thing i found in an old book, anent our subject--green flowers. it shows that we must not accuse our modern sensation lovers, either in botany or any other science, of being the only ones to add artifice to nature. the green carnation has been chosen to typify the decadence and monstrosity of the end of the nineteenth century; but nearly two hundred years ago a london fruit and flower grower, named richard bradley, wrote a treatise upon field husbandry and garden culture, and in it he tells of a green carnation which "a certayn fryar" produced by grafting a carnation upon a fennel stalk. the flowers were green for several years, then nature overcame decadent art. there be those who are so enamoured of the color green and of foliage, that they care little for flowers of varied tint; even in a garden, like the old poet marvell, they deem,-- "no white nor red was ever seen so amorous as this lovely green." such folk could scarce find content in an american garden; for our american gardeners must confess, with shakespeare's clown: "i am no great nebuchadnezzar, sir, i have not much skill in grass." our lawns are not old enough. a charming greenery of old english gardens was the bowling-green. we once had them in our colonies, as the name of a street in our greatest city now proves; and i deem them a garden fashion well-to-be-revived. the laws of color preference differ with the size of expanses. our broad fields often have pleasing expanses of leafage other than green, and flowers that are as all-pervading as foliage. many flowers of the field have their day, when each seems to be queen, a short day, but its rights none dispute. snow of daisies, yellow of dandelions, gold of buttercups, purple pinkness of clover, innocence, blue-eyed grass, milkweed, none reign more absolutely in every inch of the fields than that poverty stricken creature, the sorrel. william morris warns us that "flowers in masses are mighty strong color," and must be used with much caution in a garden. but there need be no fear of massed color in a field, as being ever gaudy or cloying. an approach to the beauty and satisfaction of nature's plentiful field may be artificially obtained as an adjunct to the garden in a flower-close sown or set with a solid expanse of bloom of some native or widely adopted plant. i have seen a flower-close of daisies, another of buttercups, one of larkspur, one of coreopsis. a new field tint, and a splendid one, has been given to us within a few years, by the introduction of the vivid red of italian clover. it is eagerly welcomed to our fields, so scant of scarlet. this clover was brought to america in the years _et seq._, and is described in contemporary publications in alluring sentences. i have noted the introduction of several vegetables, grains, fruits, berries, shrubs, and flowers in those years, and attribute this to the influence of the visit of lafayette in . adored by all, his lightest word was heeded; and he was a devoted agriculturist and horticulturist, ever exchanging ideas, seeds, and plants with his american fellow-patriots and fellow-farmers. i doubt if italian clover then became widely known; but our modern farmers now think well of it, and the flower lover revels in it. the exigencies of rhyme and rhythm force us to endure some very curious notions of color in the poets. i think no saying of poet ever gave greater check to her lovers than these lines of emily dickinson:-- "nature rarer uses yellow than another hue; saves she all of that for sunsets, prodigal of blue. spending scarlet like a woman, yellow she affords only scantly and selectly, like a lover's words." i read them first with a sense of misapprehension that i had not seen aright; but there the words stood out, "nature rarer uses yellow than another hue." the writer was such a jester, such a tricky elf that i fancy she wrote them in pure "contrariness," just to see what folks would say, how they would dispute over her words. for i never can doubt that, with all her recluse life, she knew intuitively that some time her lines would be read by folks who would love them. [illustration: pyrethrum.] the scarcity of red wild flowers is either a cause or an effect; at any rate it is said to be connected with the small number of humming-birds, who play an important part in the fertilization of many of the red flowers. there are no humming-birds in europe; and the aquilegia, red and yellow here, is blue there, and is then fertilized by the assistance of the bumblebee. without humming-birds the english successfully accomplish one glorious sweep of red in the poppies of the field; parkinson called them "a beautiful and gallant red"--a very happy phrase. ruskin, that master of color and of its description, and above all master of the description of poppies, says:-- "the poppy is the most transparent and delicate of all the blossoms of the field. the rest, nearly all of them, depend on the texture of their surface for color. but the poppy is painted glass; it never glows so brightly as when the sun shines through it. whenever it is seen, against the light or with the light, it is a flame, and warms the wind like a blown ruby." there is one quality of the oriental poppies which is very palpable to me. they have often been called insolent--browning writes of the "poppy's red affrontery"; to me the poppy has an angry look. it is wonderfully haughty too, and its seed-pod seems like an emblem of its rank. this great green seed-pod stands one inch high in the centre of the silken scarlet robe, and has an antique crown of purple bands with filling of lilac, just like the crown in some ancient kingly portraits, when the bands of gold and gems radiating from a great jewel in the centre are filled with crimson or purple velvet. around this splendid crowned seed-vessel are rows of stamens and purple anthers of richest hue. we must not let any scarlet flower be dropped from the garden, certainly not the geranium, which just at present does not shine so bravely as a few years ago. the general revulsion of feeling against "bedding out" has extended to the poor plants thus misused, which is unjust. i find i have spoken somewhat despitefully of the coleus, lobelia, and calceolaria, so i hasten to say that i do not include the geranium with them. i love its clean color, in leaf and blossom; its clean fragrance; its clean beauty, its healthy growth; it is a plant i like to have near me. it has been the custom of late to sneer at crimson in the garden, especially if its vivid color gets a dash of purple and becomes what miss jekyll calls "malignant magenta." it is really more vulgar than malignant, and has come to be in textile products a stamp and symbol of vulgarity, through the forceful brilliancy of our modern aniline dyes. but this purple crimson, this amarant, this magenta, especially in the lighter shades, is a favorite color in nature. the garden is never weary of wearing it. see how it stands out in midsummer! it is rank in ragged robin, tall phlox, and petunias; you find it in the bed of drummond phlox, among the zinnias; the portulacas, balsams, and china asters prolong it. earlier in the summer the rhododendrons fill the garden with color that on some of the bushes is termed sultana and crimson, but it is in fact plain magenta. one of the good points of the peony is that you never saw a magenta one. this color shows that time as well as place affects our color notions, for magenta is believed to be the honored royal purple of the ancients. fifty years ago no one complained of magenta. it was deemed a cheerful color, and was set out boldly and complacently by the side of pink or scarlet, or wall flower colors. now i dislike it so that really the printed word, seen often as i glance back through this page, makes the black and white look cheap. if i could turn all magenta flowers pink or purple, i should never think further about garden harmony, all other colors would adjust themselves. it has been the fortune of some communities to be the home of men in nature like thoreau of concord and gilbert white of selborne, men who live solely in love of out-door things, birds, flowers, rocks, and trees. to all these nature lovers is not given the power of writing down readily what they see and know, usually the gift of composition is denied them; but often they are just as close and accurate observers as the men whose names are known to the world by their writings. sometimes these naturalists boldly turn to nature, their loved mother, and earn their living in the woods and fields. sometimes they have a touch of the hermit in them, they prefer nature to man; others are genial, kindly men, albeit possessed of a certain reserve. i deem the community blest that has such a citizen, for his influence in promoting a love and study of nature is ever great. i have known one such ardent naturalist, arba peirce, ever since my childhood. he lives the greater part of his waking hours in the woods and fields, and these waking hours are from sunrise. from the earliest bloom of spring to the gay berry of autumn, he knows all beautiful things that grow, and where they grow, for hundreds of miles around his home. [illustration: terraced garden of misses nichols, salem, massachusetts.] i speak of him in this connection because he has acquired through his woodland life a wonderful power of distinguishing flowers at great distance with absolute accuracy. especially do his eyes have the power of detecting those rose-lilac tints which are characteristic of our rarest, our most delicate wild flowers, and which i always designate to myself as arethusa color. he brought me this june a royal gift--a great bunch of wild fringed orchids, another of calopogon, and one of arethusa. what a color study these three made! at the time their lilac-rose tints seemed to me far lovelier than any pure rose colors. in those wild princesses were found every tone of that lilac-rose from the faint blush like the clouds of a warm sunset, to a glow on the lip of the arethusa, like the crimson glow of mullein pink. my friend of the meadow and wildwood had gathered that morning a glorious harvest, over two thousand stems of pogonia, from his own hidden spot, which he has known for forty years and from whence no other hand ever gathers. for a little handful of these flower heads he easily obtains a dollar. he has acquired gradually a regular round of customers, for whom he gathers a successive harvest of wild flowers from pussy willows and hepatica to winter berries. it is not easily earned money to stand in heavy rubber boots in marsh mud and water reaching nearly to the waist, but after all it is happy work. jeered at in his early life by fools for his wood-roving tastes, he has now the pleasure and honor of supplying wild flowers to our public schools, and being the authority to whom scholars and teachers refer in vexed questions of botany. i think the various tints allied to purple are the most difficult to define and describe of any in the garden. to begin with, all these pinky-purple, these arethusa tints are nameless; perhaps orchid color is as good a name as any. many deem purple and violet precisely the same. lavender has much gray in its tint. miss jekyll deems mauve and lilac the same; to me lilac is much pinker, much more delicate. is heliotrope a pale bluish purple? some call it a blue faintly tinged with red. then there are the orchid tints, which have more pink than blue. it is a curious fact that, with all these allied tints which come from the union of blue with red, the color name comes from a flower name. violet, lavender, lilac, heliotrope, orchid, are examples; each is an exact tint. rose and pink are color names from flowers, and flowers of much variety of colors, but the tint name is unvarying. edward de goncourt, of all writers on flowers and gardens, seems to have been most frankly pleased with the artificial side of the gardener's art. he viewed the garden with the eye of a colorist, setting a palette of varied greens from the deep tones of the evergreens, the junipers and cryptomerias through the variegated hollies, privets and spindle trees; and he said that an "elegantly branched coquettishly variegated bush" seemed to him like a piece of bric-a-brac which should be hunted out and praised like some curio hidden on the shelf of a collector. a lack of color perception seems to have been prevalent of ancient days, as it is now in some oriental countries. the bible offers evidence of this, and it has also been observed that the fragrance of flowers is nowhere noted until we reach the song of solomon. it is believed that in earliest time archaic men had no sense of color; that they knew only light and darkness. mr. gladstone wrote a most interesting paper on the lack of color sense in homer, whose perception of brilliant light was good, especially in the glowing reflections of metals, but who never names blue or green even in speaking of the sky, or trees, while his reds and purples are hopelessly mixed. some german scientists have maintained that as recently as homer's day, our ancestors were (to use sir john lubbock's word) blue-blind, which fills me, as it must all blue lovers, with profound pity. [illustration: arbor in a salem garden.] the influence of color has ever been felt by other senses than that of sight. in the _cotton manuscripts_, written six hundred years ago, the relations and effects of color on music and coat-armor were laboriously explained: and many later writers have striven to show the effect of color on the health, imagination, or fortune. i see no reason for sneering at these notions of sense-relation; i am grateful for borrowed terms of definition for these beautiful things which are so hard to define. when an artist says to me, "there is a color that sings," i know what he means; as i do when my friend says of the funeral music in _tristan_ that "it always hurts her eyes." musicians compose symphonies in color, and artists paint pictures in symphonies. musicians and authors acknowledge the domination of color and color terms; a glance at a modern book catalogue will prove it. stephen crane and other modern extremists depend upon color to define and describe sounds, smells, tastes, feelings, ideas, vices, virtues, traits, as well as sights. sulphur-yellow is deemed an inspiring color, and light green a clean color; every one knows the influence of bright red upon many animals and birds; it is said all barnyard fowl are affected by it. if any one can see a sunny bed of blue larkspur in full bloom without being moved thereby, he must be color blind and sound deaf as well, for that indeed is a sight full of music and noble inspiration, a realization of keats' beautiful thought:-- "delicious symphonies, like airy flowers budded, and swell'd, and full-blown, shed full showers of light, soft unseen leaves of sound divine." chapter xi the blue flower border "blue thou art, intensely blue! flower! whence came thy dazzling hue? when i opened first mine eye, upward glancing to the sky, straightway from the firmament was the sapphire brilliance sent." --james montgomery. questions of color relations in a garden are most opinion-making and controversy-provoking. shall we plant by chance, or by a flower-loving instinct for sheltered and suited locations, as was done in all old-time gardens, and with most happy and most unaffected results? or shall we plant severely by colors--all yellow flowers in a border together? all red flowers side by side? all pink flowers near each other? this might be satisfactory in small gardens, but i am uncertain whether any profound gratification or full flower succession would come from such rigid planting in long flower borders. william morris warns us that flowers in masses are "mighty strong color," and must be used with caution. a still greater cause for hesitation would be the ugly jarring of juxtaposing tints of the same color. yellows do little injury to each other; but i cannot believe that a mixed border of red flowers would ever be satisfactory or scarcely endurable; and few persons would care for beds of all white flowers. but when i reach the blue border, then i can speak with decision; i know whereof i write, i know the variety and beauty of a garden bed of blue flowers. in blue you may have much difference in tint and quality without losing color effect. the persian art workers have accomplished the combining of varying blues most wonderfully and successfully: purplish blues next to green-blues, and sapphire-blues alongside; and blues seldom clash in the flower beds. blue is my best beloved color; i love it as the bees love it. every blue flower is mine; and i am as pleased as with a tribute of praise to a friend to learn that scientists have proved that blue flowers represent the most highly developed lines of descent. these learned men believe that all flowers were at first yellow, being perhaps only developed stamens; then some became white, others red; while the purple and blue were the latest and highest forms. the simplest shaped flowers, open to be visited by every insect, are still yellow or white, running into red or pink. thus the rose family have simple open symmetrical flowers; and there are no blue roses--the flower has never risen to the blue stage. in the pea family the simpler flowers are yellow or red; while the highly evolved members, such as lupines, wistaria, everlasting pea, are purple or blue, varying to white. bees are among the highest forms of insect life, and the labiate flowers are adapted to their visits; these nearly all have purple or blue petals--thyme, sage, mint, marjoram, basil, prunella, etc. of course the blue border runs into tints of pale lilac and purple and is thereby the gainer; but i would remove from it the purple clematis, wistaria, and passion-flower, all of which a friend has planted to cover the wall behind her blue flower bed. sometimes the line between blue and purple is hard to define. keats invented a word, _purplue_, which he used for this indeterminate color. i would not, in my blue border, exclude an occasional group of flowers of other colors; i love a border of all colors far too well to do that. here, as everywhere in my garden, should be white flowers, especially tall white flowers: white foxgloves, white delphinium, white lupine, white hollyhock, white bell-flower, nor should i object to a few spires at one end of the bed of sulphur-yellow lupines, or yellow hollyhocks, or a group of paris daisies. i have seen a great oriental poppy growing in wonderful beauty near a mass of pale blue larkspur, and shirley poppies are a delight with blues; and any one could arrange the pompadour tints of pink and blue in a garden who could in a gown. [illustration: scilla.] let me name some of the favorites of the blue border. the earliest but not the eldest is the pretty spicy scilla in several varieties, and most satisfactory it is in perfection of tint, length of bloom, and great hardiness. it would be welcomed as we eagerly greet all the early spring blooms, even if it were not the perfect little blossom that is pictured on page , the very little scilla that grew in my mother's garden. the early spring blooming of the beloved grape hyacinth gives us an overflowing bowl of "blue principle"; the whole plant is imbued and fairly exudes blue. ruskin gave the beautiful and appropriate term "blue-flushing" to this plant and others, which at the time of their blossoming send out through their veins their blue color into the surrounding leaves and the stem; he says they "breathe out" their color, and tells of a "saturated purple" tint. [illustration: sweet alyssum edging.] not content with the confines of the garden border, the grape hyacinth has "escaped the garden," and become a field flower. the "seeing eye," ever quick to feel a difference in shade or color, which often proves very slight upon close examination, viewed on long island a splendid sea of blue; and it seemed neither the time nor tint for the expected violet. we found it a field of grape hyacinth, blue of leaf, of stem, of flower. while all flowers are in a sense perfect, some certainly do not appear so in shape, among the latter those of irregular sepals. some flowers seem imperfect without any cause save the fancy of the one who is regarding them; thus to me the balsam is an imperfect flower. other flowers impress me delightfully with a sense of perfection. such is the grape hyacinth, doubly grateful in this perfection in the time it comes in early spring. the grape hyacinth is the favorite spring flower of my garden--but no! i thought a minute ago the scilla was! and what place has the violet? the flower de luce? i cannot decide, but this i know--it is some blue flower. ruskin says of the grape hyacinth, as he saw it growing in southern france, its native home, "it was as if a cluster of grapes and a hive of honey had been distilled and pressed together into one small boss of celled and beaded blue." i always think of his term "beaded blue" when i look at it. there are several varieties, from a deep blue or purple to sky-blue, and one is fringed with the most delicate feathery petals. some varieties have a faint perfume, and country folk call the flower "baby's breath" therefrom. [illustration: bachelor's buttons in a salem garden.] purely blue, too, are some of our garden hyacinths, especially a rather meagre single hyacinth which looks a little chilly; and gavin douglas wrote in the springtime of , "the flower de luce forth spread his heavenly blue." it always jars upon my sense of appropriateness to hear this old garden favorite called fleur de lis. the accepted derivation of the word is that given by grandmaison in his _heraldic dictionary_. louis vii. of france, whose name was then written loys, first gave the name to the flower, "fleur de loys"; then it became fleur de louis, and finally, fleur de lis. our flower caught its name from louis. tusser in his list of flowers for windows and pots gave plainly flower de luce; and finally gerarde called the plant flower de luce, and he advised its use as a domestic remedy in a manner which is in vogue in country homes in new england to-day. he said that the root "stamped plaister-wise, doth take away the blewnesse or blacknesse of any stroke" that is, a black and blue bruise. another use advised of him is as obsolete as the form in which it was rendered. he said it was "good in a loch or licking medicine for shortness of breath." our apothecaries no longer make, nor do our physicians prescribe, "licking medicines." the powdered root was urged as a complexion beautifier, especially to remove morphew, and as orris-root may be found in many of our modern skin lotions. ruskin most beautifully describes the flower de luce as the flower of chivalry--"with a sword for its leaf, and a lily for its heart." these grand clumps of erect old soldiers, with leafy swords of green and splendid cuirasses and plumes of gold and bronze and blue, were planted a century ago in our grandmothers' garden, and were then flower de luce. a hundred years those sturdy sentinels have stood guard on either side of the garden gates--still flower de luce. there are the same clean-cut leaf swords, the same exquisite blossoms, far more beautiful than our tropical orchids, though similar in shape; let us not change now their historic name, they still are flower de luce--the flower de louis. the violet family, with its pansies and ladies' delights, has honored place in our blue border, though the rigid color list of a prosaic practical dyer finds these violet allies a debased purple instead of blue. our wild violets, the blue ones, have for me a sad lack for a violet, that of perfume. they are not as lovely in the woodlands as their earlier coming neighbor, the shy, pure hepatica. bryant, calling the hepatica squirrelcups (a name i never heard given them elsewhere), says they form "a graceful company hiding in their bells a soft aerial blue." of course, they vary through blue and pinky purple, but the blue is well hidden, and i never think of them save as an almost white flower. nor are the violets as lovely on the meadow and field slopes, as the mild innocence, the houstonia, called also bluets, which is scarcely a distinctly blue expanse, but rather "a milky way of minute stars." an english botanist denies that it is blue at all. a field covered with innocence always looks to me as if little clouds and puffs of blue-white smoke had descended and rested on the grass. [illustration: a "sweet garden-side" in salem, massachusetts.] i well recall when the aquilegia, under the name of california columbine, entered my mother's garden, to which its sister, the red and yellow columbine, had been brought from a rocky new england pasture when the garden was new. this aquilegia came to us about the year . i presume old catalogues of american florists would give details and dates of the journey of the plant from the pacific to the atlantic. it chanced that this first aquilegia of my acquaintance was of a distinct light blue tint; and it grew apace and thrived and was vastly admired, and filled the border with blueness of that singular tint seen of late years in its fullest extent and most prominent position in the great masses of bloom of the blue hydrangea, the show plant of such splendid summer homes as may be found at newport. these blue hydrangeas are ever to me a color blot. they accord with no other flower and no foliage. i am ever reminded of blue mould, of stale damp. i looked with inexpressible aversion on a photograph of cecil rhodes' garden at cape town--several solid acres set with this blue hydrangea and nothing else, unbroken by tree or shrub, and scarce a path, growing as thick as a field sown with ensilage corn, and then i thought what would be the color of that mass! that crop of hydrangeas! yet i am told that rhodes is a flower-lover and flower-thinker. now this aquilegia was of similar tint; it was blue, but it was not a pleasing blue, and additional plants of pink, lilac, and purple tints had to be added before the aquilegia was really included in our list of well-beloveds. [illustration: salpiglossis.] there are other flowers for the blue border. it is pleasant to plant common flax, if you have ample room; it is a superb blue; to many persons the blossom is unfamiliar, and is always of interest. its lovely flowers have been much sung in english verse. the salpiglossis, shown on the opposite page, is in its azure tint a lovely flower, though it is a kinsman of the despised petunia. how the campanulaceæ enriched the beauty and the blueness of the garden. we had our splendid clusters of canterbury bells, both blue and white. i have told elsewhere of our love for them in childhood. equally dear to us was a hardy old campanula whose full name i know not, perhaps it is the pyramidalis; it is shown on page , the very plant my mother set out, still growing and blooming; nothing in the garden is more gladly welcomed from year to year. it partakes of the charm shared by every bell-shaped flower, a simple form, but an ever pleasing one. we had also the _campanula persicifolia_ and _trachelium_, and one we called bluebells of scotland, which was not the correct name. it now has died out, and no one recalls enough of its exact detail to learn its real name. the showiest bell-flower was the _platycodon grandiflorum_, the chinese or japanese bell-flower, shown on page . another name is the balloon-flower, this on account of the characteristic buds shaped like an inflated balloon. it is a lovely blue in tint, though this photograph was taken from a white-flowered plant in the white border at indian hill. the giant bell-flower is a _fin de siècle_ blossom named _ostrowskia_, with flowers four inches deep and six inches in diameter; it has not yet become common in our gardens, where the _platycodon_ rules in size among its bell-shaped fellows. [illustration: the old campanula.] there are several pretty low-growing blue flowers suitable for edgings, among them the tiny stars of the swan river daisy (_brachycome iberidifolia_) sold as purple, but as brightly blue as scilla. the dwarf ageratum is also a long-blossoming soft-tinted blue flower; it made a charming edging in my sister's garden last summer; but i should never put either of them on the edge of the blue border. [illustration: chinese bell-flower.] the dull blue, sparsely set flowers of the various members of the mint family have no beauty in color, nor any noticeable elegance; the blue sage is the only vivid-hued one, and it is a true ornament to the border. prunella was ever found in old gardens, now it is a wayside weed. thoreau loved the prunella for its blueness, its various lights, and noted that its color deepened toward night. this flower, regarded with indifference by nearly every one, and distaste by many, always to him suggested coolness and freshness by its presence. the prunella was beloved also by ruskin, who called it the soft warm-scented brunelle, and told of the fine purple gleam of its hooded blossom: "the two uppermost petals joined like an old-fashioned enormous hood or bonnet; the lower petal torn deep at the edges into a kind of fringe,"--and he said it was a "brownie flower," a little eerie and elusive in its meaning. i do not like it because it has such a disorderly, unkempt look, it always seems bedraggled. the pretty ladder-like leaf of jacob's ladder is most delicate and pleasing in the garden, and its blue bell-flowers are equally refined. this is truly an old-fashioned plant, but well worth universal cultivation. in answer to the question, what is the bluest flower in the garden or field? one answered fringed gentian; another the forget-me-not, which has much pink in its buds and yellow in its blossoms; another bee larkspur; and the others _centaurea cyanus_ or bachelor's buttons, a local american name for them, which is not even a standard folk name, since there are twenty-one english plants called bachelor's buttons. ragged sailor is another american name. corn-flower, blue-tops, blue bonnets, bluebottles, loggerheads are old english names. queerer still is the title break-your-spectacles. hawdods is the oldest name of all. fitzherbert, in his _boke of husbandry_, , thus describes briefly the plant:-- "hawdod hath a blewe floure, and a few lytle leaves, and hath fyve or syxe branches floured at the top." in varied shades of blue, purple, lilac, pink, and white, bachelor's buttons are found in every old garden, growing in a confused tangle of "lytle leaves" and vari-colored flowers, very happily and with very good effect. the illustration on page shows their growth and value in the garden. in _the promise of may_ dora's eyes are said to be as blue as the bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not, and violets; so we know what flowers tennyson deemed blue. another poet named as the bluest flower, the monk's-hood, so wonderful of color, one of the very rarest of garden tints; graceful of growth, blooming till frost, and one of the garden's delights. in a list of garden flowers published in boston, in , it is called cupid's car. southey says in _the doctor_, of miss allison's garden: "the monk's-hood of stately growth betsey called 'dumbledores delight,' and was not aware that the plant, in whose helmet--rather than cowl-shaped flowers, that busy and best-natured of all insects appears to revel more than any other, is the deadly aconite of which she read in poetry." the dumbledore was the bumblebee, and this folk name was given, as many others have been, from a close observance of plant habits; for the fertilization of the monk's-hood is accomplished only by the aid of the bumblebee. [illustration: garden at tudor place.] many call chicory or succory our bluest flower. thoreau happily termed it "a cool blue." it is not often the fortune of a flower to be brought to notice and affection because of a poem; we expect the poem to celebrate the virtues of flowers already loved. the succory is an example of a plant, known certainly to flower students, yet little thought of by careless observers until the beautiful poem of margaret deland touched all who read it. i think this a gem of modern poesy, having in full that great element of a true poem, the most essential element indeed of a short poem--the power of suggestion. who can read it without being stirred by its tenderness and sentiment, yet how few are the words. "oh, not in ladies' gardens, my peasant posy, shine thy dear blue eyes; nor only--nearer to the skies in upland pastures, dim and sweet, but by the dusty road, where tired feet toil to and fro, where flaunting sin may see thy heavenly hue, or weary sorrow look from thee toward a tenderer blue." i recall perfectly every flower i saw in pasture, swamp, forest, or lane when i was a child; and i know i never saw chicory save in old gardens. it has increased and spread wonderfully along the roadside within twenty years. by tradition it was first brought to us from england by governor bowdoin more than a century ago, to plant as forage. in our common larkspur, the old-fashioned garden found its most constant and reliable blue banner, its most valuable color giver. self-sown, this larkspur sprung up freely every year; needing no special cherishing or nourishing, it grew apace, and bloomed with a luxuriance and length of flowering that cheerfully blued the garden for the whole summer. it was a favorite of children in their floral games, and pretty in the housewife's vases, but its chief hold on favor was in its democracy and endurance. other flowers drew admirers and lost them; some grew very ugly in their decay; certain choice seedlings often had stunted development, garden scourges attacked tender beauties; fierce july suns dried up the whole border, all save the larkspur, which neither withered nor decayed; and often, unaided, saved the midsummer garden from scanty unkemptness and dire disrepute. the graceful line of dr. holmes, "light as a loop of larkspur," always comes to my mind as i look at a bed of larkspur; and i am glad to show here a "loop of larkspur," growing by the great boulder which he loved in the grounds of his country home at beverly farms. i liked to fancy that dr. holmes's expression was written by him from his memory of the little wreaths and garlands of pressed larkspur that have been made so universally for over a century by new england children. but that careful flower observer, mrs. wright, notes that in a profuse growth of the bee larkspur, the strong flower spikes often are in complete loops before full expansion into a straight spire; some are looped thrice. dr. holmes was a minute observer of floral characteristics, as is shown in his poem on the _coming of spring_, and doubtless saw this curious growth of the larkspur. [illustration: "light as a loop of larkspur."] common annual larkspurs now are planted in every one's garden, and deservedly grow in favor yearly. the season of their flowering can be prolonged, renewed in fact, by cutting away the withered flower stems. they respond well to all caretaking, to liberal fertilizing and watering, just as they dwindle miserably with neglect. there are a hundred varieties in all; among them the "rocket-flowered" and "ranunculus flowered" larkspurs or delphiniums are ever favorites. a friend burst forth in railing at being asked to admire a bed of delphinium. "why can't she call them the good old-time name of larkspur, and not a stiff name cooked up by the botanists." i answered naught, but i remembered that parkinson in his _garden of pleasant flowers_ gives a chapter to delphinium, with lark's-heel as a second thought. "their most usual name with us," he states, "is delphinium." there is meaning in the name: the flower is dolphin-like in shape. of the perennial varieties the _delphinium brunonianum_ has lovely clear blue, musk-scented flowers; the chinese or branching larkspur is of varied blue tints and tall growth, and blooms from midsummer until frost. and loveliest of all, an old garden favorite, the purely blue bee larkspur, with a bee in the heart of each blossom. in an ancient garden in deerfield i saw this year a splendid group of plants of the old _delphinium belladonna_: it is a weak-kneed, weak-backed thing; but give it unobtrusive crutches and busks and backboards (in their garden equivalents), and its incomparable blue will reward your care. there is something singular in the blue of larkspur. even on a dark night you can see it showing a distinct blue in the garden like a blue lambent flame. "larkspur lifting turquoise spires bluer than the sorcerer's fires." mrs. milne-home says her old scotch gardener called the white delphinium elijah's chariot--a resounding, stately title. helmet-flower is another name. i think the larkspur border, and the blue border both gain if a few plants of the pure white delphinium, especially the variety called the emperor, bloom by the blue flowers. in our garden the common blue larkspur loves to blossom by the side of the white phlox. a bit of the border is shown on page . in another corner of the garden the pink and lilac larkspur should be grown; for their tints, running into blue, are as varied as those of an opal. i have never seen the wild larkspur which grows so plentifully in our middle southern states; but i have seen expanses of our common garden larkspur which has run wild. nor have i seen the glorious fields of wyoming larkspur, so poisonous to cattle; nor the magnificent larkspur, eight feet high, described so radiantly to us by john muir, which blues those wonders of nature, the hanging meadow gardens of california. i am inclined to believe that lobelia is the least pleasing blue flower that blossoms. i never see it in any place or juxtaposition that it satisfies me. when you take a single flower of it in your hand, its single little delicate bloom is really just as pretty as blue-eyed grass, or innocence, or scilla, and the whole plant regarded closely by itself isn't at all bad; but whenever and wherever you find it growing in a garden, you never want it in _that_ place, and you shift it here and there. i am convinced that the lobelia is simply impossible; it is an alien, wrong in some subtle way in tint, in habit of growth, in time of blooming. the last time i noted it in any large garden planting, it was set around the roots of some standard rose bushes; and the gardener had displayed some thought about it; it was only at the base of white or cream-yellow roses; but it still was objectionable. i think i would exterminate lobelia if i could, banish it and forget it. in the minds of many would linger a memory of certain ornate garden vases, each crowded with a pandanus-y plant, a pink begonia, a scarlet double geranium, a purple verbena or a crimson petunia, all gracefully entwined with nasturtiums and lobelia--while these folks lived, the lobelia would not be forgotten. you will have some curious experiences with your blue border; kindly friends, pleased with its beauty or novelty, will send to you plants and seeds to add to its variety of form "another bright blue flower." you will usually find you have added variety of tint as well, ranging into crimson and deep purple, for color blindness is far more general than is thought. the loveliest blue flowers are the wild ones of fields and meadows; therefore the poor, says alphonse karr, with these and the blue of the sky have the best and the most of all blueness. yet we are constantly hearing folks speak of the lack of the color blue among wild flowers, which always surprises me; i suppose i see blue because i love blue. in pure cobalt tint it is rare; in compensation, when it does abound, it makes a permanent imprint on our vision, which never vanishes. recalling in midwinter the expanses of color in summer waysides, i do not see them white with daisies, or yellow with goldenrod, but they are in my mind's vision brightly, beautifully blue. one special scene is the blue of fringed gentians, on a sunny october day, on a rocky hill road in royalston, massachusetts, where they sprung up, wide open, a solid mass of blue, from stone wall to stone wall, with scarcely a wheel rut showing among them. even thus, growing in as lavish abundance as any weed, the fringed gentian still preserved in collective expanse, its delicate, its distinctly aristocratic bearing. bryant asserts of this flower:-- "thou waitest late, and com'st alone when woods are bare, and birds are flown." but by this roadside the woods were far from bare. many asters, especially the variety i call michaelmas daisies, goldenrod, butter-and-eggs, turtle head, and other flowers, were in ample bloom. and the same conditions of varied flower companionship existed when i saw the fringed gentian blooming near bryant's own home at cummington. [illustration: viper's bugloss.] another vast field of blue, ever living in my memory, was that of the viper's bugloss, which i viewed with surprise and delight from the platform of a train, returning from the columbian exposition; when i asked a friendly brakeman what the flower was called, he answered "vilets," as nearly all workingmen confidently name every blue flower; and he sprang from the train while the locomotive was swallowing water, and brought to me a great armful of blueness. i am not wont to like new flowers as well as my childhood's friends, but i found this new friend, the viper's bugloss, a very welcome and pleasing acquaintance. curious, too, it is, with the red anthers exserted beyond the bright blue corolla, giving the field, when the wind blew across it, a new aspect and tint, something like a red and blue changeable silk. the viper's bugloss seems to have the pervasive power of many another blue and purple flower, lupine, iris, innocence, grape hyacinth, vervain, aster, spiked loosestrife; it has become in many states a tiresome weed. on the esopus creek (which runs into the hudson river) and adown the hudson, acre after acre of meadow and field by the waterside are vivid with its changeable hues, and the new york farmers' fields are overrun by the newcomer. i have seen the viper's bugloss often since that day on the railroad train, now that i know it, and think of it. thoreau noted the fact that in a large sense we find only what we look for. and he defined well our powers of perception when he said that many an object will not be seen, even when it comes within the range of our visual ray, because it does not come within the range of our intellectual ray. last spring, having to spend a tiresome day riding the length of long island, i beguiled the hours by taking with me thoreau's _summer_ to compare his notes of blossomings with those we passed. it was june , and i read:-- "the lupine is now in its glory. it is the more important because it occurs in such extensive patches, even an acre or more together.... it paints a whole hillside with its blue, making such a field, if not a meadow, as proserpine might have wandered in. its leaf was made to be covered with dewdrops. i am quite excited by this prospect of blue flowers in clumps, with narrow intervals; such a profusion of the heavenly, the elysian color, as if these were the elysian fields. that is the value of the lupine. the earth is blued with it.... you may have passed here a fortnight ago and the field was comparatively barren. now you come, and these glorious redeemers appear to have flashed out here all at once. who plants the seeds of lupines in the barren soil? who watereth the lupines in the field?" [illustration: the precision of leaf and flower of lupine.] i looked from a car window, and lo! the long island railroad ran also through an elysian field of lupines, nay, we sailed a swift course through a summer sea of blueness, and i seem to see it still, with its prim precision of outline and growth of both leaf and flower. the lupine is beautiful in the garden border as it is in the landscape, whether the blossom be blue, yellow, or white. thoreau was the slave of color, but he was the master of its description. he was as sensitive as keats to the charm of blue, and left many records of his love, such as the paragraphs above quoted. he noted with delight the abundance of "that principle which gives the air its azure color, which makes the distant hills and meadows appear blue," the "great blue presence" of monadnock and wachusett with its "far blue eye." he loved lowell's "sweet atmosphere of hazy blue, so leisurely, so soothing, so forgiving, that sometimes makes new england fit for living." he revelled in the blue tints of water, of snow, of ice; in "the blueness and softness of a mild winter day." the constant blueness of the sky at night thrilled him with "an everlasting surprise," as did the blue shadows within the woods and the blueness of distant woods. how he would have rejoiced in monet's paintings, how true he would have found their tones. he even idealized blueberries, "a very innocent ambrosial taste, as if made of ether itself, as they are colored with it." thoreau was ever ready in thought of proserpina gathering flowers. he offers to her the lupine, the blue-eyed grass, and the tufted vetch, "blue, inclining in spots to purple"; it affected him deeply to see such an abundance of blueness in the grass. "celestial color, i see it afar in masses on the hillside near the meadow--so much blue." i usually join with thoreau in his flower loves; but i cannot understand his feeling toward the blue flag; that, after noting the rich fringed recurved parasols over its anthers, and its exquisite petals, that he could say it is "a little too showy and gaudy, like some women's bonnets." i note that whenever he compares flowers to women it is in no flattering humor to either; which is, perhaps, what we expect from a man who chose to be a bachelor and a hermit. his love of obscure and small flowers might explain his sentiment toward the radiant and dominant blue flag. the most valued flower of my childhood, outside the garden, was a little sister of the iris--the blue-eyed grass. to find it blooming was a triumph, for it was not very profuse of growth near my home; to gather it a delight; why, i know not, since the tiny blooms promptly closed and withered as soon as we held them in our warm little hands. colonel higginson writes wittily of the blue-eyed grass, "it has such an annoying way of shutting up its azure orbs the moment you gather it; and you reach home with a bare stiff blade which deserves no better name than _sisyrinchium anceps_." the only time i ever played truant was to run off one june morning to find "the starlike gleam amid the grass and dew"; to pick blue-eyed grass in a field to which i was conducted by another naughty girl. i was simple enough to come home at mid-day with my hands full of the stiff blades and tightly closed blooms; and at my mother's inquiry as to my acquisition of these treasures, i promptly burst into tears. i was then told, in impressive phraseology adapted to my youthful comprehension, and with the flowers as eloquent proof, that all stolen pleasures were ever like my coveted flowers, withered and unsightly as soon as gathered--which my mother believed was true. the blossoms of this little iris seem to lie on the surface of the grass like a froth of blueness; they gaze up at the sky with a sort of intimacy as if they were a part of it. thoreau called it an "air of easy sympathy." the slightest clouding or grayness of atmosphere makes them turn away and close. the naming of proserpina leads me to say this: that to grow in love and knowledge of flowers, and above all of blue flowers, you must read ruskin's _proserpina_. it is a book of botany, of studies of plants, but begemmed with beautiful sentences and thoughts and expressions, with lessons of pleasantness which you can never forget, of pictures which you never cease to see, such sentences and pictures as this:-- "rome. my father's birthday. i found the loveliest blue asphodel i ever saw in my life in the fields beyond monte mario--a spire two feet high, of more than two hundred stars, the stalks of them all deep blue as well as the flowers. heaven send all honest people the gathering of the like, in the elysian fields, some day!" oh, the power of written words! when by these few lines i can carry forever in my inner vision this spire of starry blueness. to that writer, now in the elysian fields, an honest teacher if ever one lived, i send my thanks for this beautiful vision of blueness. chapter xii plant names "the fascination of plant names is founded on two instincts,--love of nature and curiosity about language." --_english plant names_, rev. john earle, . verbal magic is the subtle mysterious power of certain words. this power may come from association with the senses; thus i have distinct sense of stimulation in the word scarlet, and pleasure in the words lucid and liquid. the word garden is a never ceasing delight; it seems to me oriental; perhaps i have a transmitted sense from my grandmother eve of the garden of eden. i like the words, a garden of olives, a garden of herbs, the garden of the gods, a garden enclosed, philosophers of the garden, the garden of the lord. as i have written on gardens, and thought on gardens, and walked in gardens, "the very music of the name has gone into my being." how beautiful are cardinal newman's words:-- "by a garden is meant mystically a place of spiritual repose, stillness, peace, refreshment, delight." there was, in gerarde's day, no fixed botanical nomenclature of any of the parts or attributes of a plant. without using botanical terms, try to describe a plant so as to give an exact notion of it to a person who has never seen it, then try to find common words to describe hundreds of plants; you will then admire the vocabulary of the old herbalist, his "fresh english words," for you will find that it needs the most dextrous use of words to convey accurately the figure of a flower. that felicity and facility gerarde had; "a bleak white color"--how clearly you see it! the water lily had "great round leaves like a buckler." the cat-tail flags "flower and bear their mace or torch in july and august." one plant had "deeply gashed leaves." the marigold had "fat thick crumpled leaves set upon a gross and spongious stalke." here is the wake-robin, "a long hood in proportion like the ear of a hare, in middle of which hood cometh forth a pestle or clapper of a dark murry or pale purple color." the leaves of the corn-marigold are "much hackt and cut into divers sections and placed confusedly." another plant had leaves of "an overworne green," and pansy leaves were "a bleak green." the leaves of tansy are also vividly described as "infinitely jagged and nicked and curled with all like unto a plume of feathers." [illustration: the garden's friend.] the classification and naming of flowers was much thought and written upon from gerarde's day, until the great work of linnæus was finished. some very original schemes were devised. _the curious and profitable gardner_, printed in , suggested this plan: that all plants should be named to indicate their color, and that the initials of their names should be the initials of their respective colors; thus if a plant were named william the conqueror it would indicate that the name was of a white flower with crimson lines or shades. "virtuous oreada would indicate a violet and orange flower; charming phyllis or curious plotinus a crimson and purple blossom." s. was to indicate black or sable, and what letter was scarlet to have? the "curious ingenious gentleman" who published this plan urged also the giving of "pompous names" as more dignified; and he made the assertion that french and flemish "flowerists" had adopted his system. [illustration: edging of striped lilies in a salem garden.] these were all forerunners of ruskin, with his poetical notions of plant nomenclature, such as this; that feminine forms of names ending in _a_ (as prunella, campanula, salvia, kalmia) and _is_ (iris, amarylis) should be given only to plants "that are pretty and good"; and that real names, lucia, clarissa, etc., be also given. masculine names in _us_ should be given to plants of masculine qualities,--strength, force, stubbornness; neuter endings in _um_, given to plants indicative of evil or death. i have a fancy anent many old-time flower names that they are also the names of persons. i think of them as persons bearing various traits and characteristics. on the other hand, many old english christian names seem so suited for flowers, that they might as well stand for flowers as for persons. here are a few of these quaint old names, collet, colin, emmot, issot, doucet, dobinet, cicely, audrey, amice, hilary, bryde, morrice, tyffany, amery, nowell, ellice, digory, avery, audley, jacomin, gillian, petronille, gresel, joyce, lettice, cibell, avice, cesselot, parnell, renelsha. do they not "smell sweet to the ear"? the names of flowers are often given as christian names. children have been christened by the names dahlia, clover, hyacinth, asphodel, verbena, mignonette, pansy, heartsease, daisy, zinnia, fraxinella, poppy, daffodil, hawthorn. what power have the old english names of garden flowers, to unlock old memories, as have the flowers themselves! dr. earle writes, "the fascination of plant names is founded on two instincts; love of nature, and curiosity about language." to these i should add an equally strong instinct in many persons--their sensitiveness to associations. i am never more filled with a sense of the delight of old english plant-names than when i read the liquid verse of spenser:-- "bring hether the pincke and purple cullembine ... with gellifloures, bring hether coronations and sops-in-wine worne of paramours. sow me the ground with daffadowndillies and cowslips and kingcups and loved lilies, the pretty pawnce the chevisaunce shall match with the fayre flour delice." why, the names are a pleasure, though you know not what the sops-in-wine or the chevisaunce were. gilliflowers were in the verses of every poet. one of scant fame, named plat, thus sings:-- "here spring the goodly gelofors, some white, some red in showe; here pretie pinks with jagged leaves on rugged rootes do growe; the johns so sweete in showe and smell, distinct by colours twaine, about the borders of their beds in seemlie sight remaine." if there ever existed any difference between sweet-johns and sweet-williams, it is forgotten now. they have not shared a revival of popularity with other old-time favorites. they were one of the "garland flowers" of gerarde's day, and were "esteemed for beauty, to deck up the bosoms of the beautiful, and for garlands and crowns of pleasure." in the gardens of hampton court in the days of king henry viii., were sweet-williams, for the plants had been bought by the bushel. sweet-williams are little sung by the poets, and i never knew any one to call the sweet-william her favorite flower, save one person. old residents of worcester will recall the tiny cottage that stood on the corner of chestnut and pleasant streets, since the remote years when the latter-named street was a post-road. it was occupied during my childhood by friends of my mother--a century-old mother, and her ancient unmarried daughter. behind the house stretched one of the most cheerful gardens i have ever seen; ever, in my memory, bathed in glowing sunlight and color. of its glories i recall specially the long spires of vivid bee larkspur, the varied poppies of wonderful growth, and the rioting sweet-williams. the latter flowers had some sentimental association to the older lady, who always asserted with emphasis to all visitors that they were her favorite flower. they overran the entire garden, crowding the grass plot where the washed garments were hung out to dry, even growing in the chinks of the stone steps and between the flat stone flagging of the little back yard, where stood the old well with its moss-covered bucket. they spread under the high board fence and appeared outside on chestnut street; and they extended under the dense lilac bushes and cedars and down the steep grass bank and narrow steps to pleasant street. the seed was carefully gathered, especially of one glowing crimson beauty, the color of the mullein pink, and a gift of it was highly esteemed by other garden owners. old herbals say the sweet-williams are "worthy the respect of the greatest ladies who are lovers of flowers." they certainly had the respect and love of these two old ladies, who were truly lovers of flowers. [illustration: garden seat at avonwood court.] i recall an objection made to sweet-williams, by some one years ago, that they were of no use or value save in the garden; that they could never be combined in bouquets, nor did they arrange well in vases. it is a place of honor, some of us believe, to be a garden flower as well as a vase flower. this garden was the only one i knew when a child which contained plants of love-lies-bleeding--it had even then been deemed old-fashioned and out of date. and it also held a few sunflowers, which had not then had a revival of attention, and seemed as obsolete as the love-lies-bleeding. the last-named flower i always disliked, a shapeless, gawky creature, described in florists' catalogues and like publications as "an effective plant easily attaining to a splendid form bearing many plume-tufts of rich lustrous crimson." it is the "immortal amarant" chosen by milton to crown the celestial beings in _paradise lost_. poor angels! they have had many trying vagaries of attire assigned to them. i can contribute to plant lore one fantastic notion in regard to love-lies-bleeding--though i can find no one who can confirm this memory of my childhood. i recall distinctly expressions of surprise and regret that these two old people in worcester should retain the love-lies-bleeding in their garden, because "the house would surely be struck with lightning." perhaps this fancy contributed to the exile of the flower from gardens. [illustration: terraced garden of the misses nichols, salem, massachusetts.] there be those who write, and i suppose they believe, that a love of nature and perception of her beauties and a knowledge of flowers, are the dower of those who are country born and bred; by which is meant reared upon a farm. i have not found this true. farm children have little love for nature and are surprisingly ignorant about wild flowers, save a very few varieties. the child who is garden bred has a happier start in life, a greater love and knowledge of nature. it is a principle of froebel that one must limit a child's view in order to coördinate his perceptions. that is precisely what is done in a child's regard of nature by his life in a garden; his view is limited and he learns to know garden flowers and birds and insects thoroughly, when the vast and bewildering variety of field and forest would have remained unappreciated by him. it is a distressing condition of the education of farmers, that they know so little about the country. the man knows about his crops and his wife about the flowers, herbs, and vegetables of her garden; but no countrymen know the names of wild flowers--and few countrywomen, save of medicinal herbs. i asked one farmer the name of a brilliant autumnal flower whose intense purple was then unfamiliar to me--the devil's-bit. he answered, "them's woilets." violet is the only word in which the initial v is ever changed to w by native new englanders. every pink or crimson flower is a pink. spring blossoms are "mayflowers." a frequent answer is, "those ain't flowers, they're weeds." they are more knowing as to trees, though shaky about the evergreen trees, having little idea of varieties and inclined to call many spruce. they know little about the reasons for names of localities, or of any historical traditions save those of the revolution. one exclaims in despair, "no one in the country knows anything about the country." this is no recent indifference and ignorance; susan cooper wrote in her _rural hours_ in :-- "when we first made acquaintance with the flowers of the neighborhood we asked grown persons--learned perhaps in many matters--the common names of plants they must have seen all their lives, and we found they were no wiser than the children or ourselves. it is really surprising how little country people know on such subjects. farmers and their wives can tell you nothing on these matters. the men are at fault even among the trees on their own farms, if they are at all out of the common way; and as for smaller native plants, they know less about them than buck or brindle, their own oxen." [illustration: kitchen dooryard at wilbour farm, kingston, rhode island.] in that delightful book, _the rescue of an old place_, the author has a chapter on the love of flowers in america. it was written anent the everpresent statements seen in metropolitan print that americans do not love flowers because they are used among the rich and fashionable in large cities for extravagant display rather than for enjoyment; and that we accept botanical names for our indigenous plants instead of calling them by homely ones such as familiar flowers are known by in older lands. two more foolish claims could scarcely be made. in the first place, the doings of fashionable folk in large cities are fortunately far from being a national index or habit. secondly, in ancient lands the people named the flowers long before there were botanists, here the botanists found the flowers and named them for the people. moreover, country folk in new england and even in the far west call flowers by pretty folk-names, if they call them at all, just as in old england. the fussing over the use of the scientific latin names for plants apparently will never cease; many of these latin names are very pleasant, have become so from constant usage, and scarcely seem latin; thus clematis, tiarella, rhodora, arethusa, campanula, potentilla, hepatica. when i know the folk-names of flowers i always speak thus of them--and _to them_; but i am grateful too for the scientific classification and naming, as a means of accurate distinction. for any flower student quickly learns that the same english folk-name is given in different localities to very different plants. for instance, the name whiteweed is applied to ten different plants; there are in england ten or twelve cuckoo-flowers, and twenty-one bachelor's buttons. such names as mayflower, wild pink, wild lily, eyebright, toad-flax, ragged robin, none-so-pretty, lady's-fingers, four-o'clocks, redweed, buttercups, butterflower, cat's-tail, rocket, blue-caps, creeping-jenny, bird's-eye, bluebells, apply to half a dozen plants. the old folk-names are not definite, but they are delightful; they tell of mythology and medicine, of superstitions and traditions; they show trains of relationship, and associations; in fact, they appeal more to the philologist and antiquarian than to the botanist. among all the languages which contribute to the variety and picturesqueness of english plant names, dr. prior deems maple the only one surviving from the celtic language. gromwell and wormwood may possibly be added. [illustration: "a running ribbon of perfumed snow which the sun is melting rapidly."] there are some anglo-saxon words; among them hawthorn and groundsel. french, dutch, and danish names are many, arabic and persian are more. many plant names are dedicatory; they embody the names of the saints and a few the names of the deity. our lady's flowers are many and interesting; my daughter wrote a series of articles for the _new york evening post_ on our lady's flowers, and the list swelled to a surprising number. the devil and witches have their shares of flowers, as have the fairies. i have always regretted deeply that our botanists neglected an opportunity of great enrichment in plant nomenclature when they ignored the indian names of our native plants, shrubs, and trees. the first names given these plants were not always planned by botanists; they were more often invented in loving memory of english plants, or sometimes from a fancied resemblance to those plants. they did give the wonderfully descriptive name of moccasin-flower to that creature of the wild-woods; and a far more appropriate title it is than lady's-slipper, but it is not as well known. i have never found the lady's-slipper as beautiful a flower as do nearly all my friends, as did my father and mother, and i was pleased at ruskin's sharp comment that such a slipper was only fit for very gouty old toes. pappoose-root utilizes another indian word. very few indian plant names were adopted by the white men, fewer still have been adopted by the scientists. the _catalpa speciosa_ (catalpa); the _zea mays_ (maize); and _yucca filamentosa_ (yucca), are the only ones i know. chinkapin, cohosh, hackmatack, kinnikinnik, tamarack, persimmon, tupelo, squash, puccoon, pipsissewa, musquash, pecan, the scuppernong and catawba grapes, are our only well-known indian plant names that survive. of these maize, the distinctive product of the united states, will ever link us with the vanishing indian. it will be noticed that only puccoon, cohosh, pipsissewa, hackmatack, and yucca are names of flowering plants; of these yucca is the only one generally known. i am glad our stately native trees, tupelo, hickory, catalpa, bear indian names. a curious example of persistence, when so much else has perished, is found in the word "kiskatomas," the shellbark nut. this algonquin word was heard everywhere in the state of new york sixty years ago, and is not yet obsolete in families of dutch descent who still care for the nut itself. we could very well have preserved many indian names, among them hiawatha's "beauty of the springtime, the miskodeed in blossom," i think miskodeed a better name than claytonia or spring beauty. the onondaga indians had a suggestive name for the marsh marigold, "it-opens-the-swamps," which seems to show you the yellow stars "shining in swamps and hollows gray." the name cowslip has been transferred to it in some localities in new england, which is not strange when we find that the flower has fifty-six english folk-names; among them are drunkards, crazy bet, meadow-bright, publicans and sinners, soldiers' buttons, gowans, kingcups, and buttercups. our italian street venders call them buttercups. in erudite boston, in sight of boston common, the beautiful fringed gentian is not only called, but labelled, french gentian. to hear a lovely bunch of the arethusa called swamp pink is not so strange. the sabbatia grows in its greatest profusion in the vicinity of plymouth, massachusetts, and is called locally, "the rose of plymouth." it is sold during its season of bloom in the streets of that town and is used to dress the churches. its name was given to honor an early botanist, tiberatus sabbatia, but in plymouth there is an almost universal belief that it was named because the pilgrims of first saw the flower on the sabbath day. it thus is regarded as a religious emblem, and strong objection is made to mingling other flowers with it in church decoration. this legend was invented about thirty years ago by a man whose name is still remembered as well as his work. [illustration: fountain garden at sylvester manor.] chapter xiii tussy-mussies "there be some flowers make a delicious tussie-mussie or nosegay both for sight and smell." --john parkinson, _a garden of all sorts of pleasant flowers_, . no following can be more productive of a study and love of word derivations and allied word meanings than gardening. an interest in flowers and in our english tongue go hand in hand. the old mediæval word at the head of this chapter has a full explanation by nares as "a nosegay, a tuzzie-muzzie, a sweet posie." the old english form, _tussy-mose_ was allied with _tosty_, a bouquet, _tuss_ and _tusk_, a wisp, as of hay, _tussock_, and _tutty_, a nosegay. thomas campion wrote:-- "joan can call by name her cows, and deck her windows with green boughs; she can wreathes and tuttyes make, and trim with plums a bridal cake." tussy-mussy was not a colloquial word; it was found in serious, even in religious, text. a tussy-mussy was the most beloved of nosegays, and was often made of flowers mingled with sweet-scented leaves. my favorite tussy-mussy, if made of flowers, would be of wood violet, cabbage rose, and clove pink. these are all beautiful flowers, but many of our most delightful fragrances do not come from flowers of gay dress; even these three are not showy flowers; flowers of bold color and growth are not apt to be sweet-scented; and all flower perfumes of great distinction, all that are unique, are from blossoms of modest color and bearing. the calycanthus, called virginia allspice, sweet shrub, or strawberry bush, has what i term a perfume of distinction, and its flowers are neither fine in shape, color, nor quality. i have often tried to define to myself the scent of the calycanthus blooms; they have an aromatic fragrance somewhat like the ripest pineapples of the tropics, but still richer; how i love to carry them in my hand, crushed and warm, occasionally holding them tight over my mouth and nose to fill myself with their perfume. the leaves have a similar, but somewhat varied and sharper, scent, and the woody stems another; the latter i like to nibble. this flower has an element of mystery in it--that indescribable quality felt by children, and remembered by prosaic grown folk. perhaps its curious dark reddish brown tint may have added part of the queerness, since the "mourning bride," similar in color, has a like mysterious association. i cannot explain these qualities to any one not a garden-bred child; and as given in the chapter entitled the mystery of flowers, they will appear to many, fanciful and unreal--but i have a fraternity who will understand, and who will know that it was this same undefinable quality that made a branch of strawberry bush, or a handful of its stemless blooms, a gift significant of interest and intimacy; we would not willingly give calycanthus blossoms to a child we did not like, or to a stranger. [illustration: hawthorn arch at holly house, peace dale, rhode island. home of rowland g. hazard, esq.] a rare perfume floats from the modest yellow flowering currant. i do not see this sweet and sightly shrub in many modern gardens, and it is our loss. the crowding bees are goodly and cheerful, and the flowers are pleasant, but the perfume is of the sort you can truly say you love it; its aroma is like some of the liqueurs of the old monks. the greatest pleasure in flower perfumes comes to us through the first flowers of spring. how we breathe in their sweetness! our native wild flowers give us the most delicate odors. the mayflower is, i believe, the only wild flower for which all country folk of new england have a sincere affection; it is not only a beautiful, an enchanting flower, but it is so fresh, so balmy of bloom. it has the delicacy of texture and form characteristic of many of our native spring blooms, hepatica, anemone, spring beauty, polygala. the arethusa was one of the special favorites of my father and mother, who delighted in its exquisite fragrance. hawthorne said of it: "one of the delicatest, gracefullest, and in every manner sweetest of the whole race of flowers. for a fortnight past i have found it in the swampy meadows, growing up to its chin in heaps of wet moss. its hue is a delicate pink, of various depths of shade, and somewhat in the form of a grecian helmet." it pleases me to fancy that hawthorne was like the arethusa, that it was a fit symbol of the nature of our greatest new england genius. perfect in grace and beauty, full of sentiment, classic and elegant of shape, it has a shrinking heart; the sepals and petals rise over it and shield it, and the whole flower is shy and retiring, hiding in marshes and quaking bogs. it is one of our flowers which we ever regard singly, as an individual, a rare and fine spirit; we never think of it as growing in an expanse or even in groups. this lovely flower has, as landor said of the flower of the vine, "a scent so delicate that it requires a sigh to inhale it." the faintest flower scents are the best. you find yourself longing for just a little more, and you bury your face in the flowers and try to draw out a stronger breath of balm. apple blossoms, certain violets, and pansies have this pale perfume. in the front yard of my childhood's home grew a larch, an exquisitely graceful tree, one now little planted in northern climates. i recall with special delight the faint fragrance of its early shoots. the next tree was a splendid pink hawthorn. what a day of mourning it was when it had to be cut down, for trees had been planted so closely that many must be sacrificed as years went on and all grew in stature. there are some smells that are strangely pleasing to the country lover which are neither from fragrant flower nor leaf; one is the scent of the upturned earth, most heartily appreciated in early spring. the smell of a ploughed field is perhaps the best of all earthy scents, though what bliss carman calls "the racy smell of the forest loam" is always good. another is the burning of weeds of garden rakings, "the spicy smoke of withered weeds that burn where gardens be." a garden "weed-smother" always makes me think of my home garden, and my father, who used to stand by this burning weed-heap, raking in the withered leaves. many such scents are pleasing chiefly through the power of association. [illustration: thyme-covered graves.] the sense of smell in its psychological relations is most subtle:-- "the subtle power in perfume found, nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned; on grecian shrine or aztec mound no censer idly burned. "and nature holds in wood and field her thousand sunlit censers still; to spells of flower and shrub we yield against or with our will." dr. holmes notes that memory, imagination, sentiment, are most readily touched through the sense of smell. he tells of the associations borne to him by the scent of marigold, of life-everlasting, of an herb closet. notwithstanding all these tributes to sweet scents and to the sense of smell, it is not deemed, save in poetry, wholly meet to dwell much on smells, even pleasant ones. to all who here sniff a little disdainfully at a whole chapter given to flower scents, let me repeat the oriental proverb:-- "to raise flowers is a common thing, god alone gives them fragrance." balmier far, and more stimulating and satisfying than the perfumes of most blossoms, is the scent of aromatic or balsamic leaves, of herbs, of green growing things. sweetbrier, says thoreau, is thus "thrice crowned: in fragrant leaf, tinted flower, and glossy fruit." every spring we long, as whittier wrote-- "to come to bayberry scented slopes, and fragrant fern and groundmat vine, breathe airs blown o'er holt and copse, sweet with black birch and pine." all these scents of holt and copse are dear to new englanders. i have tried to explain the reason for the charm to me of growing thyme. it is not its beautiful perfume, its clear vivid green, its tiny fresh flowers, or the element of historic interest. alphonse karr gives another reason, a sentiment of gratitude. he says:-- "thyme takes upon itself to embellish the parts of the earth which other plants disdain. if there is an arid, stony, dry soil, burnt up by the sun, it is there thyme spreads its charming green beds, perfumed, close, thick, elastic, scattered over with little balls of blossom, pink in color, and of a delightful freshness." thyme was, in older days, spelt thime and time. this made the poet call it "pun-provoking thyme." i have an ancient recipe from an old herbal for "water of time to ease the passions of the heart." this remedy is efficacious to-day, whether you spell it time or thyme. there are shown on page some lonely graves in the old moravian burying-ground in bethlehem, overgrown with the pleasant perfumed thyme. and as we stand by their side we think with a half smile--a tender one--of the never-failing pun of the old herbalists. spenser called thyme "bee-alluring," "honey-laden." it was the symbol of sweetness; and the thyme that grew on the sunny slopes of mt. hymettus gave to the bees the sweetest and most famed of all honey. the plant furnished physic as well as perfume and puns and honey. pliny named eighteen sovereign remedies made from thyme. these cured everything from the "bite of poysonful spidars" to "the apoplex." there were so many recipes in the english _compleat chirurgeon_, and similar medical books, that you would fancy venomous spiders were as thick as gnats in england. these spider cure-alls are however simply a proof that the recipes were taken from dose-books of pliny and various roman physicians, with whom spider bites were more common and more painful than in england. _the haven of health_, written in , with a special view to the curing of "students," says that wild thyme has a great power to drive away heaviness of mind, "to purge melancholly and splenetick humours." and the author recommends to "sup the leaves with eggs." the leaves were used everywhere "to be put in puddings and such like meates, so that in divers places thime was called pudding-grass." pudding in early days was the stuffing of meat and poultry, while concoctions of eggs, milk, flour, sugar, etc., like our modern puddings, were called whitpot. many traditions hang around thyme. it was used widely in incantations and charms. it was even one of the herbs through whose magic power you could see fairies. here is a "choice proven secret made known" from the ashmolean mss. how to see fayries "rx. a pint of sallet-oyle and put it into a vial-glasse but first wash it with rose-water and marygolde-water the flowers to be gathered toward the east. wash it until teh oyle come white. then put it in the glasse, _ut supra_: then put thereto the budds of holyhocke, the flowers of marygolde, the flowers or toppers of wild thyme, the budds of young hazle: and the time must be gathered neare the side of a hill where fayries used to be: and take the grasse off a fayrie throne. then all these put into the oyle into the glasse, and sette it to dissolve three dayes in the sunne and then keep for thy use _ut supra_." [illustration: "white umbrellas of elder."] "i know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows"--it is not in old england, but on long island; the dense clusters of tiny aromatic flowers form a thick cushioned carpet under our feet. lord bacon says in his essay on gardens:-- "those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed are three: that is, burnet, wild thyme, and water-mints. therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread." here we have an alley of thyme, set by nature, for us to tread upon and enjoy, though thyme always seems to me so classic a plant, that it is far too fine to walk upon; one ought rather to sleep and dream upon it. great bushes of elder, another flower of witchcraft, grow and blossom near my thyme bank. old thomas browne, as long ago as called the elder bloom "white umbrellas"--which has puzzled me much, since we are told to assign the use and knowledge of umbrellas in england to a much later date; perhaps he really wrote umbellas. now it is a well-known fact--sworn to in scores of old herbals, that any one who stands on wild thyme, by the side of an elder bush, on midsummer eve, will "see great experiences"; his eyes will be opened, his wits quickened, his vision clarified; and some have even seen fairies, pixies--shakespeare's elves--sporting over the thyme at their feet. i shall not tell whom i saw walking on my wild thyme bank last midsummer eve. i did not need the elder bush to open my eyes. i watched the twain strolling back and forth in the half-light, and i heard snatches of talk as they walked toward me, and i lost the responses as they turned from me. at last, in a louder voice:-- he. "what is this jolly smell all around here? just like a mint-julep! some kind of a flower?" she. "it's thyme, wild thyme; it has run into the edge of the lawn from the field, and is just ruining the grass." he (_stooping to pick it_). "why, so it is. i thought it came from that big white flower over there by the hedge." she. "no, that is elder." he (_after a pause_). "i had to learn a lot of old arnold's poetry at school once, or in college, and there was some just like to-night:-- "'the evening comes--the fields are still, the tinkle of the thirsty rill, unheard all day, ascends again. deserted is the half-mown plain, and from the thyme upon the height, and from the elder-blossom white, and pale dog roses in the hedge, and from the mint-plant in the sedge, in puffs of balm the night air blows the perfume which the day foregoes-- and on the pure horizon far see pulsing with the first-born star the liquid light above the hill. the evening comes--the fields are still.'" then came the silence and half-stiffness which is ever apt to follow any long quotation, especially any rare recitation of verse by those who are notoriously indifferent to the charms of rhyme and rhythm, and are of another sex than the listener. it seems to indicate an unusual condition of emotion, to be a sort of barometer of sentiment, and the warning of threatening weather was not unheeded by her; hence her response was somewhat nervous in utterance, and instinctively perverse and contradictory. she. "that line, 'the liquid light above the hill,' is very lovely, but i can't see that it's any of it at all like to-night." he (_stoutly and resentfully_). "oh, no! not at all! there's the field, all still, and here's thyme, and elder, and there are wild roses!--and see! the moon is coming up--so there's your liquid light." she. "well! yes, perhaps it is; at any rate it is a lovely night. you've read _lavengro_? no? certainly you must have heard of it. the gipsy in it says: 'life is sweet, brother. there's day and night, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there is likewise a wind on the heath.'" he (_dubiously_). "that's rather queer poetry, if it is poetry--and you must know i do not like to hear you call me brother." whereupon i discreetly betrayed my near presence on the piazza, to prove that the field, though still, was not deserted. and soon the twain said they would walk to the club house to view the golf prizes; and they left the wild thyme and elder blossoms white, and turned their backs on the moon, and fell to golf and other eminently unromantic topics, far safer for midsummer eve than poesy and other sweet things. [illustration: lower garden at sylvester manor.] chapter xiv joan silver-pin "being of many variable colours, and of great beautie, although of evill smell, our gentlewomen doe call them jone silver-pin." --john gerarde, _herball_, . garden poppies were the joan silver-pin of gerarde, stigmatized also by parkinson as "jone silver-pinne, _subauditur_; faire without and foule within." in elizabeth's day poppies met universal distrust and aversion, as being the source of the dreaded opium. spenser called the flower "dead-sleeping" poppy; morris "the black heart, amorous poppy"--which might refer to the black spots in the flower's heart. clare, in his _shepherd's calendar_ also asperses them:-- "corn-poppies, that in crimson dwell, called head-aches from their sickly smell." forby adds this testimony: "any one by smelling of it for a very short time may convince himself of the propriety of the name." some fancied that the dazzle of color caused headaches--that vivid scarlet, so fine a word as well as color that it is annoying to hear the poets change it to crimson. [illustration: "black heart, amorous poppies."] this regard of and aversion to the poppy lingered among elderly folks till our own day; and i well recall the horror of a visitor of antique years in our mother's garden during our childhood, when we were found cheerfully eating poppy seeds. she viewed us with openly expressed apprehension that we would fall into a stupor; and quite terrified us and our relatives, in spite of our assertions that we "always ate them," which indeed we always did and do to this day; and very pleasant of taste they are, and of absolutely no effect, and not at all of evil smell to our present fancy, either in blossom or seed, though distinctly medicinal in odor. returned missionaries were frequent and honored visitors in our town and our house in those days; and one of these good men reassured us and reinstated in favor our uncanny feast by telling us that in the east, poppy seeds were eaten everywhere, and were frequently baked with wheaten flour into cakes. a dislike of the scent of field poppies is often found among english folk. the author of _a world in a garden_ speaks in disgust of "the pungent and sickly odor of the flaring poppies--they positively nauseate me"; but then he disliked their color too. there is something very fine about a poppy, in the extraordinary combination of boldness of color and great size with its slender delicacy of stem, the grace of the set of the beautiful buds, the fine turn of the flower as it opens, and the wonderful airiness of poise of so heavy a flower. the silkiness of tissue of the petals, and their semi-transparency in some colors, and the delicate fringes of some varieties, are great charms. "each crumpled crêpe-like leaf is soft as silk; long, long ago the children saw them there, scarlet and rose, with fringes white as milk, and called them 'shawls for fairies' dainty wear'; they were not finer, those laid safe away in that low attic, neath the brown, warm eaves." and when the flowers have shed, oh, so lightly! their silken petals, there is still another beauty, a seed vessel of such classic shape that it wears a crown. i have always rejoiced in the tributes paid to the poppy by ruskin and mrs. thaxter. she deemed them the most satisfactory flower among the annuals "for wondrous variety, certain picturesque qualities, for color and form, and a subtle air of mystery." there is a line of poppy colors which is most entrancing; the gray, smoke color, lavender, mauve, and lilac poppies, edged often and freaked with tints of red, are rarely beautiful things. there are fine white poppies, some fringed, some single, some double--the bride is the appropriate name of the fairest. and the pinks of poppies, that wonderful red-pink, and a shell-pink that is almost salmon, and the sunset pinks of our modern shirley poppies, with quality like finest silken gauze! the story of the shirley poppies is one of magic, that a flower-loving clergyman who in sowed the seed of one specially beautiful poppy which had no black in it, and then sowed those of its fine successors, produced thus a variety which has supplied the world with beauty. rev. mr. wilks, their raiser, gives these simply worded rules anent his shirley poppies:-- " , they are single; , always have a white base; , with yellow or white stamens, anthers, or pollen; , and never have the smallest particle of black about them." the thought of these successful and beautiful poppies is very stimulating to flower raisers of moderate means, with no profound knowledge of flowers; it shows what can be done by enthusiasm and application and patience. it gives something of the same comfort found in keats's fine lines to the singing thrush:-- "oh! fret not after knowledge. i have none, _and yet the evening listens_." notwithstanding all this distinction and beauty, these fine things of the garden were dubbed joan silver-pin. i wonder who joan silver-pin was! i have searched faithfully for her, but have not been able to get on the right scent. was she of real life, or fiction? i have looked through the lists of characters of contemporary plays, and read a few old jest books and some short tales of that desperately colorless sort, wherein you read page after page of the printed words with as little absorption of signification as if they were choctaw. but never have i seen joan silver-pin's name; it was a bit of elizabethan slang, i suspect,--a cant term once well known by every one, now existing solely through this chance reference of the old herbalists. [illustration: valerian.] no garden can aspire to be named an old-fashioned garden unless it contains that beautiful plant the garden valerian, known throughout new england to-day as garden heliotrope; as setwall it grew in every old garden, as it was in every pharmacopoeia. it was termed "drink-quickening setuale" by spenser, from the universal use of its flowers to flavor various enticing drinks. its lovely blossoms are pinkish in bud and open to pure white; its curiously penetrating vanilla-like fragrance is disliked by many who are not cats. i find it rather pleasing of scent when growing in the garden, and not at all like the extremely nasty-smelling medicine which is made from it, and which has been used for centuries for "histerrick fits," and is still constantly prescribed to-day for that unsympathized-with malady. dr. holmes calls it, "valerian, calmer of hysteric squirms." it is a stately plant when in tall flower in june; my sister had great clumps of bloom like the ones shown above, but alas! the cats caught them before the photographer did. the cats did not have to watch the wind and sun and rain, to pick out plates and pack plate-holders, and gather ray-fillers and cloth and lens, and adjust the tripod, and fix the camera and focus, and think, and focus, and think, and then wait--till the wind ceased blowing. so when they found it, they broke down every slender stalk and rolled in it till the ground was tamped down as hard as if one of our lazy road-menders had been at it. valerian has in england as an appropriate folk name, "cats'-fancy." the pretty little annual, nemophila, makes also a favorite rolling-place for our cat; while all who love cats have given them catnip and seen the singular intoxication it brings. the sight of a cat in this strange ecstasy over a bunch of catnip always gives me a half-sense of fear; she becomes such a truly wild creature, such a miniature tiger. in _the art of gardening_, by j. w., gent., , the author says of marigolds: "there are divers sorts besides the common as the african marigold, a fair bigge yellow flower, but of a very naughty smell." i cannot refrain, ere i tell more of the marigold's naughtiness, to copy a note written in this book by a massachusetts bride whose new husband owned and studied the book two hundred years ago; for it gives a little glimpse of old-time life. in her exact little handwriting are these words:-- "planted in potts, : an almond stone, an english wallnut, cittron seeds, pistachica nutts, red damsons, leamon seeds, oring seeds and daits." poor anne! she died before she had time to become any one's grandmother. i hope her successor in matrimony, our forbear, cherished her little seedlings and rejoiced in the lemon and almond trees, though anne herself was so speedily forgotten. she is, however, avenged by time; for she is remembered better than the wife who took her place, through her simple flower-loving words. i am surprised at this aspersion on the marigold as to its smell, for all the traditions of this flower show it to have been a great favorite in kitchen gardens; and i have found that elderly folk are very apt to like its scent. my father loved the flower and the fragrance, and liked to have a bowl of marigolds stand beside him on his library table. it was constantly carried to church as a "sabbath-day posy," and its petals used as flavoring in soups and stews. charles lamb said it poisoned them. canon ellacombe writes that it has been banished in england to the gardens of cottages and old farm-houses; it had a waning popularity in america, but was never wholly despised. how edward fitzgerald loved the african marigold! "its grand color is so comfortable to us spanish-like paddies," he writes to fanny kemble in letters punctuated with little references to his garden flowers: letters so cheerful, too, with capitals; "i love the old way of capitals for names," he says--and so do i; letters bearing two surprises, namely, the infrequent references to omar khayyam; and the fact that nasturtiums, not roses, were his favorite flower. the question of the agreeableness of a flower scent is a matter of public opinion as well as personal choice. environment and education influence us. in olden times every one liked certain scents deemed odious to-day. parkinson's praise of sweet sultans was, "they are of so exceeding sweet a scent as it surpasses the best civet that is." have you ever smelt civet? you will need no words to tell you that the civet is a little cousin of the skunk. cowper could not talk with civet in the room; most of us could not even breathe. the old herbalists call privet sweet-scented. i don't know that it is strange to find a generation who loved civet and musk thinking privet pleasant-scented. nearly all our modern botanists have copied the words of their predecessors; but i scarcely know what to say or to think when i find so exact an observer as john burroughs calling privet "faintly sweet-scented." i find it rankly ill-scented. the men of elizabethan days were much more learned in perfumes and fonder of them than are most folk to-day. authors and poets dwelt frankly upon them without seeming at all vulgar. of course herbalists, from their choice of subject, were free to write of them at length, and they did so with evident delight. nowadays the french realists are the only writers who boldly reckon with the sense of smell. it isn't deemed exactly respectable to dwell too much on smells, even pleasant ones; so this chapter certainly must be brief. i suppose nine-tenths of all who love flower scents would give violets as their favorite fragrance; yet how quickly, in the hothouse violets, can the scent become nauseous. i recall one formal luncheon whereat the many tables were mightily massed with violets; and though all looked as fresh as daybreak to the sight, some must have been gathered for a day or more, and the stale odor throughout the room was unbearable. but it is scarcely fair to decry a flower because of its scent in decay. shakespeare wrote:-- "lilies festered smell far worse than weeds." many of our compositæ are vile after standing in water in vases; ox-eye daisies, rudbeckia, zinnia, sunflower, and even the wholesome marigold. delicate as is the scent of the pansy, the smell of a bed of ancient pansy plants is bad beyond words. the scent of the flowers of fruit-bearing trees is usually delightful; but i cannot like the scent of pear blossoms. i dislike much the rank smell of common yellow daffodils and of many of that family. i can scarcely tolerate them even when freshly picked, upon a dinner table. some of the jonquils are as sickening within doors as the tuberose, though in both cases it is only because the scent is confined that it is cloying. in the open air, at a slight distance, they smell as well as many lilies, and the poet's narcissus is deemed by many delightful. [illustration: old "war office."] i have ever found the scent of lilacs somewhat imperfect, not well rounded, not wholly satisfying; but one of my friends can never find in a bunch of our spring lilacs any odor save that of illuminating gas. i do wish he had not told me this! now when i stand beside my lilac bush i feel like looking around anxiously to see where the gas is escaping. linnæus thought the perfume of mignonette the purest ambrosia. another thinks that mignonette has a doggy smell, as have several flowers; this is not wholly to their disparagement. our cocker spaniel is sweeter than some flowers, but he is not a mignonette. there be those who love most of all the scent of heliotrope, which is to me a close, almost musty scent. i have even known of one or two who disliked the scent of roses, and the rose itself has been abhorred. marie de' medici would not even look at a painting or carving of a rose. the chevalier de guise had a loathing for roses. lady heneage, one of the maids of honor to queen elizabeth, was made very ill by the presence or scent of roses. this illness was not akin to "rose cold," which is the baneful companion of so many americans, and which can conquer its victims in the most sudden and complete manner. even my affection for roses, and my intense love of their fragrance, shown in its most ineffable sweetness in the old pink cabbage rose, will not cause me to be silent as to the scent of some of the rose sisters. some of the tea roses, so lovely of texture, so delicate of hue, are sickening; one has a suggestion of ether which is most offensive. "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet," but not if its name (and its being) was the persian yellow. this beautiful double rose of rich yellow was introduced to our gardens about . it is infrequent now, though i find it in florists' lists; and i suspect i know why. of late years i have not seen it, but i have a remembrance of its uprootal from our garden. mrs. wright confirms my memory by calling it "a horrible thing--the skunk cabbage of the garden." it smells as if foul insects were hidden within it, a disgusting smell. i wonder whether poor marie de' medici hadn't had a whiff of it. a persian rose! it cannot be possible that omar khayyam ever smelt it, or any of the rose singers of persia, else their praises would have turned to loathing as they fled from its presence. there are two or three yellow roses which are not pleasing, but are not abhorrent as is the persian yellow. one evening last may i walked down the garden path, then by the shadowy fence-side toward the barn. i was not wandering in the garden for sweet moonlight, for there was none; nor for love of flowers, nor in admiration of any of nature's works, for it was very cold; we even spoke of frost, as we ever do apprehensively on a chilly night in spring. the kitten was lost. she was in the shrubbery at the garden end, for i could hear her plaintive yowling; and i thus traced her. i gathered her up, purring and clawing, when i heard by my side a cross rustling of leaves and another complaining voice. it was the crown-imperial, unmindful or unwitting of my presence, and muttering peevishly: "here i am, out of fashion, and therefore out of the world! torn away from the honored border by the front door path, and even set away from the broad garden beds, and thrust with sunflowers and other plants of no social position whatever down here behind the barn, where, she dares to say, we 'can all smell to heaven together.' "what airs, forsooth! these twentieth century children put on! smell to heaven, indeed! i wish her grandfather could have heard her! he didn't make such a fuss about smells when i was young, nor did any one else; no one's nose was so over-nice. every spring when i came up, glorious in my dress of scarlet and green, and hung with my jewels of pearls, they were all glad to see me and to smell me, too; and well they might be, for there was a rotten-appley, old-potatoey smell in the cellar which pervaded the whole house when doors were closed. and when the frost came up from the ground the old sink drain at the kitchen door rendered up to the spring sunshine all the combined vapors of all the dish-water of all the winter. the barn and hen-house and cow-house reeked in the sunlight, but the pigpen easily conquered them all. there was an ancient cesspool far too near the kitchen door, underground and not to be seen, but present, nevertheless. a hogshead of rain-water stood at the cellar door, and one at the end of the barn--to water the flowers with--they fancied rotten rain-water made flowers grow! a foul dye-tub was ever reeking in every kitchen chimney corner, a culminating horror in stenches; and vessels of ancient soap grease festered in the outer shed, the grease collected through the winter and waiting for the spring soap-making. the vapor of sour milk, ever present, was of little moment--when there was so much else so much worse. there wasn't a bath-tub in the grandfather's house, nor in any other house in town, nor any too much bathing in winter, either, i am sure, in icy well-water in icier sleeping rooms. the windows were carefully closed all winter long, but the open fireplaces managed to save the life of the inmates, though the walls and rafters were hung with millions of germs which every one knows are all the wickeder when they don't smell, because you take no care, fancying they are not there. but the grandfather knew naught of germs--and was happy. the trees shaded the house so that the roof was always damp. oh, how those germs grew and multiplied in the grateful shade of those lovely trees, and how mould and rust rejoiced. well might people turn from all these sights and scents to me. the grandfather and his wife, when they were young, as when they were in middle age, and when they were old, walked every early spring day at set of sun, slowly down the front path, looking at every flower, every bud; pulling a tiny weed, gathering a choice flower, breaking a withered sprig; and they ever lingered long and happily by my side. and he always said, 'wife! isn't this crown-imperial a glorious plant? so stately, so perfect in form, such an expression of life, and such a personification of spring!' 'yes, father,' she would answer quickly, 'but don't pick it.' why, i should have resented even that word had she referred to my perfume. she meant that the garden border could not spare me. the children never could pick me, even the naughtiest ones did not dare to; but they could pull all the little upstart ladies' delights and violets they wished. and yet, with all this family homage which should make me a family totem, here i am, stuck down by the barn--i, who sprung from the blood of a king, the great gustavus adolphus--and was sung by a poet two centuries ago in the famous _garland of julia_. the old jesuit poet rapin said of me, 'no flower aspires in pomp and state so high.' "read this page from that master-herbalist, john gerarde, telling of the rare beauties within my golden cup. "a very intelligent and respectable old gentleman named parkinson, who knew far more about flowers than flighty folk do nowadays, loved me well and wrote of me, 'the crown-imperial, for its stately beautifulnesse deserveth the first place in this our garden of delight to be here entreated of before all other lilies.' he had good sense. it was not i who was stigmatized by him as joan silver-pin. he spoke very plainly and very sensibly of my perfume; there was no nonsense in his notions, he told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: 'the whole plant and every part thereof, as well as rootes as leaves and floures doe smell somewhat strong, as it were the savour of a foxe, so that if any doe but near it, he can but smell it, yet is not unwholesome.' "how different all is to-day in literature, as well as in flower culture. now there are low, coarse attempts at wit that fairly wilt a sensitive nature like mine. there is one miserable man who comes to this garden, and who _thinks_ he is a poet; i will not repeat his wretched rhymes. but only yesterday, when he stood looking superciliously down upon us, he said sneeringly, 'yes, spring is here, balmy spring; we know her presence without seeing her face or hearing her voice; for the skunk cabbage is unfurled in the swamps, and the crown-imperial is blooming in the garden.' think of his presuming to set me alongside that low skunk cabbage--me with my 'stately beautifulness.' [illustration: crown imperial. a page from gerarde's _herball_.] "little do people nowadays know about scents anyway, when their botanists and naturalists write that the privet bloom is 'pleasingly fragrant,' and one dame set last summer a dish of privet on her dining table before many guests. privet! with its ancient and fishlike smell! and another tells of the fragrant delight of flowering buckwheat--may the breezes blow such fragrance far from me! but why dwell on perfumes; flowers were made to look at, not to smell; sprays of sweet balm or basil leaves outsweeten every flower, and make no pretence or thought of beauty; render to each its own virtues, and try not to engross the charm of another. "i was indeed the queen of the garden, and here i am exiled behind the barn. life is not worth living. i won't come up again. she will walk through the garden next may and say, 'how dull and shabby the garden looks this year! the spring is backward, everything has run to leaves, nothing is in bloom, we must buy more fertilizer, we must get a new gardener, we must get more plants and slips and seeds and bulbs, it is fearfully discouraging, i never saw anything so gone off!' then perhaps she will remember, and regret the friend of her grandparents, the crown-imperial--whom she thrust from her garden of delight." chapter xv childhood in a garden "i see the garden thicket's shade where all the summer long we played, and gardens set and houses made, our early work and late." --mary howitt. how we thank god for the noble traits of our ancestors; and our hearts fill with gratitude for the tenderness, the patience, the loving kindness of our parents; i have an infinite deal for which to be sincerely grateful; but for nothing am i now more happy than that there were given to me a flower-loving father and mother. to that flower-loving father and mother i offer in tenderest memory equal gratitude for a childhood spent in a garden. winter as well as summer gave us many happy garden hours. sometimes a sudden thaw of heavy snow and an equally quick frost formed a miniature pond for sheltered skating at the lower end of the garden. a frozen crust of snow (which our winters nowadays so seldom afford) gave other joys. and the delights of making a snow man, or a snow fort, even of rolling great globes of snow, were infinite and varied. more subtle was the charm of shaping certain _things_ from dried twigs and evergreen sprigs, and pouring water over them to freeze into a beautiful resemblance of the original form. these might be the ornate initials or name of a dear girl friend, or a tiny tower or pagoda. i once had a real winter garden in miniature set in twigs of cedar and spruce, and frozen into a fairy garden. in summertime the old-fashioned garden was a paradise for a child; the long warm days saw the fresh telling of child to child, by that curiously subtle system of transmission which exists everywhere among happy children, of quaint flower customs known to centuries of english-speaking children, and also some newer customs developed by the fitness of local flowers for such games and plays. the countess potocka says the intense enjoyment of nature is a sixth sense. we are not born with this good gift, nor do we often acquire it in later life; it comes through our rearing. the fulness of delight in a garden is the bequest of a childhood spent in a garden. no study or possession of flowers in mature years can afford gratification equal to that conferred by childish associations with them; by the sudden recollection of flower lore, the memory of child friendships, the recalling of games or toys made of flowers: you cannot explain it; it seems a concentration, an extract of all the sunshine and all the beauty of those happy summers of our lives when the whole day and every day was spent among flowers. the sober teachings of science in later years can never make up the loss to children debarred of this inheritance, who have grown up knowing not when "the summer comes with bee and flower." [illustration: milkweed seed.] a garden childhood gives more sources of delight to the senses in after life than come from beautiful color and fine fragrance. have you pleasure in the contact of a flower? do you like its touch as well as its perfume? do you love to feel a lilac spray brush your cheek in the cool of the evening? do you like to bury your face in a bunch of roses? how frail and papery is the larkspur! and how silky is the poppy! a locust bloom is a fringe of sweetness; and how very doubtful is the touch of the lily--an unpleasant thick sleekness. the clove carnation is the best of all. it feels just as it smells. these and scores more give me pleasure through their touch, the result of constant handling of flowers when i was a child. there were harmful flowers in the old garden--among them the monk's-hood; we never touched it, except warily. doubtless we were warned, but we knew it by instinct and did not need to be told. i always used to see in modest homes great tubs each with a flourishing oleander tree. i have set out scores of little slips of oleander, just as i planted orange seeds. i seldom see oleanders now; i wonder whether the plant has been banished on account of its poisonous properties. i heard of but one fatal case of oleander poisoning--and that was doubtful. a little child, the sister of one of my playmates, died suddenly in great distress. several months after her death the mother was told that the leaves of the oleander were poisonous, when she recalled that the child had eaten them on the day of her death. oleander blossoms were lovely in shape and color. edward fitzgerald writes to fanny kemble: "don't you love the oleander? so clean in its leaves and stem, as so beautiful in its flower; loving to stand in water which it drinks up fast. i have written all my best mss. with a pen that has been held with its nib in water for more than a fortnight--charles keene's recipe for keeping pens in condition--oleander-like." this, written in , must, even at that recent date, refer to quill pens. the lines of mary howitt's, quoted at the beginning of this chapter, ring to me so true; there is in them no mock sentiment, it is the real thing,--"the garden thicket's shade," little "cubby houses" under the close-growing stems of lilac and syringa, with an old thick shawl outspread on the damp earth for a carpet. oh, how hot and scant the air was in the green light of those close "garden-thickets," those "lilac ambushes," which were really not half so pleasant as the cooler seats on the grass under the trees, but which we clung to with a warmth equal to their temperature. [illustration: the children's garden.] let us peer into these garden thickets at these happy little girls, fantastic in their garden dress. their hair is hung thick with dandelion curls, made from pale green opal-tinted stems that have grown long under the shrubbery and box borders. around their necks are childish wampum, strings of dandelion beads or daisy chains. more delicate wreaths for the neck or hair were made from the blossoms of the four-o'clock or the petals of phlox or lilacs, threaded with pretty alternation of color. fuchsias were hung at the ears for eardrops, green leaves were pinned with leaf stems into little caps and bonnets and aprons, foxgloves made dainty children's gloves. truly the garden-bred child went in gay attire. that exquisite thing, the seed of milkweed (shown on page ), furnished abundant playthings. the plant was sternly exterminated in our garden, but sallies into a neighboring field provided supplies for fairy cradles with tiny pillows of silvery silk. one of the early impulses of infancy is to put everything in the mouth; this impulse makes the creeping days of some children a period of constant watchfulness and terror to their apprehensive guardians. when the children are older and can walk in the garden or edge of the woods, a fresh anxiety arises; for a certain savagery in their make-up makes them regard every growing thing, not as an object to look at or even to play with, but to eat. it is a relief to the mother when the child grows beyond the savage, and falls under the dominion of tradition and folk-lore, communicated to him by other children by that subtle power of enlightenment common to children, which seems more like instinct than instruction. the child still eats, but he makes distinctions, and seldom touches harmful leaves or seeds or berries. he has an astonishing range: roots, twigs, leaves, bark, tendrils, fruit, berries, flowers, buds, seeds, all alike serve for food. young shoots of sweetbrier and blackberry are nibbled as well as the branches of young birch. grape tendrils, too, have an acid zest, as do sorrel leaves. wild rose hips and the drupes of dwarf cornel are chewed. the leaf buds of spruce and linden are also tasted. i hear that some children in some places eat the young fronds of cinnamon fern, but i never saw it done. seeds of pumpkins and sunflowers were edible, as well as hollyhock cheeses. there was one slippery elm tree which we know in our town, and we took ample toll of it. cherry gum and plum gum are chewed, as well as the gum of spruce trees. there was a boy who used sometimes to intrude on our girl's paradise, since he was the son of a neighbor, and he said he ate raw turnips, and something he called pig-nuts--i wonder what they were. those childish customs linger long in our minds, or rather in our subconsciousness. i never walk through an old garden without wishing to nibble and browse on the leaves and stems which i ate as a child, without sucking a drop of honey from certain flowers. i do it not with intent, but i waken to realization with the petal of trumpet honeysuckle in my hand and its drop of ambrosia on my lips. [illustration: foxgloves in a narragansett garden.] children care far less for scent and perfection in a flower than they do for color, and, above all, for desirability and adaptability of form, this desirability being afforded by the fitness of the flower for the traditional games and plays. the favorite flowers of my childhood were three noble creatures, hollyhocks, canterbury bells, and foxgloves, all three were scentless. i cannot think of a child's summer in a garden without these three old favorites of history and folk-lore. of course we enjoyed the earlier flower blooms and played happily with them ere our dearest treasures came to us; but never had we full variety, zest, and satisfaction till this trio were in midsummer bloom. there was a little gawky, crudely-shaped wooden doll of german manufacture sold in worcester which i never saw elsewhere; they were kept for sale by old waxler, the german basket maker, a most respected citizen, whose name i now learn was not waxler but weichsler. these dolls came in three sizes, the five-cent size was a midsummer favorite, because on its featureless head the blossoms of the canterbury bells fitted like a high azure cap. i can see rows of these wooden creatures sitting, thus crowned, stiffly around the trunk of the old seckel pear tree at a doll's tea-party. by the constant trampling of our childish feet the earth at the end of the garden path was hard and smooth under the shadow of the lilac trees near our garden fence; and this hard path, remote from wanderers in the garden, made a splendid plateau to use for flower balls. once we fitted it up as a palace; circular walls of balsam flowers set closely together shaped the ball-room. the dancers were blue and white canterbury bells. quadrilles were placed of little twigs, or strong flower stalks set firmly upright in the hard trodden earth, and on each of these a flower bell was hung so that the pretty reflexion of the scalloped edges of the corolla just touched the ground as the hooped petticoats swayed lightly in the wind. [illustration: hollyhocks in garden of kimball homestead, portsmouth, new hampshire.] we used to catch bumblebees in the canterbury bells, and hear them buzz and bump and tear their way out to liberty. we held the edges of the flower tightly pinched together, and were never stung. besides its adaptability as a toy for children, the canterbury bell was beloved for its beauty in the garden. an appropriate folk name for it is fair-in-sight. healthy clumps grow tall and stately, towering up as high as childish heads; and the firm stalks are hung so closely in bloom. nowadays people plant expanses of canterbury bells; one at the beautiful garden at white birches, elmhurst, illinois, is shown on page . i do not like this as well as the planting in our home garden when they are set in a mixed border, as shown opposite page . our tastes in the flower world are largely influenced by what we were wonted to in childhood, not only in the selection of flowers, but in their placing in our gardens. the canterbury bell has historical interest through its being named for the bells borne by pilgrims to the shrine at canterbury. i have been delighted to see plants of these sturdy garden favorites offered for sale of late years in new york streets in springtime, by street venders, who now show a tendency to throw aside callas, lilies, tuberoses, and flowers of such ilk, and substitute shrubs and seedlings of hardy growth and satisfactory flowering. but it filled me with regret, to hear the pretty historic name--canterbury bells--changed in so short a residence in the city, by these italian and german tongues to gingerbread bells--a sad debasement. native new englanders have seldom forgotten or altered an old flower name, and very rarely transferred it to another plant, even in two centuries of everyday usage. but i am glad to know that the flower will bloom in the flower pot or soap box in the dingy window of the city poor, or in the square foot of earth of the city squatter, even if it be called gingerbread bells. i think we may safely affirm that the hollyhock is the most popular, and most widely known, of all old-fashioned flowers. it is loved for its beauty, its associations, its adaptiveness. it is such a decorative flower, and looks of so much distinction in so many places. it is invaluable to the landscape gardener and to the architect; and might be named the wallflower, since it looks so well growing by every wall. i like it there, or by a fence-side, or in a corner, better than in the middle of flower beds. how many garden pictures have hollyhocks? sir joshua reynolds even used them as accessories of his portraits. they usually grow so well and bloom so freely. i have seen them in connecticut growing wild--garden strays, standing up by ruined stone walls in a pasture with as much grace of grouping, as good form, as if they had been planted by our most skilful gardeners or architects. many illustrations of them are given in this book; i need scarcely refer to them; opposite page is shown a part of the four hundred stalks of rich bloom in a portsmouth garden. there is a pretty semidouble hollyhock with a single row of broad outer petals and a smaller double rosette for the centre; but the single flowers are far more effective. i like well the old single crimson flower, but the yellow ones are, i believe, the loveliest; a row of the yellow and white ones against an old brick wall is perfection. i can never repay to the hollyhock the debt of gratitude i owe for the happy hours it furnished to me in my childhood. its reflexed petals could be tied into such lovely silken-garbed dolls; its "cheeses" were one of the staple food supplies of our dolls' larder. i am sure in my childhood i would have warmly chosen the hollyhock as my favorite flower. the sixty-two folk names of the foxglove give ample proof of its closeness to humanity; it is a familiar flower, a home flower. of these many names i never heard but two in new england, and those but once; an old irish gardener called the flowers fairy thimbles, and an english servant, pops--this from the well-known habit of popping the petals on the palm of the hand. we used to build little columns of these foxgloves by thrusting one within another, alternating purple and white; and we wore them for gloves, and placed them as foolscaps on the heads of tiny dolls. the beauty of the foxglove in the garden is unquestioned; the spires of white bloom are, as cotton mather said of a pious and painful puritan preacher, "a shining and white light in a golden candlestick improved for the sweet felicity of mankind and to the honour of our maker." opposite page is a glimpse of a box-edged garden in worcester, whose blossoming has been a delight to me every summer of my entire life. in my childhood this home was that of flower-loving neighbors who had an established and constant system of exchange with my mother and other neighbors of flowers, plants, seeds, slips, and bulbs. the garden was serene with an atmosphere of worthy old age; you wondered how any man so old could so constantly plant, weed, prune, and hoe until you saw how he loved his flowers, and how his wife loved them. the roses, peonies, and flower de luce in this garden are sixty years old, and the box also; the shrubs are almost trees. nothing seems to be transplanted, yet all flourish; i suppose some plants must be pulled up, sometimes, else the garden would be a thicket. the varying grading of city streets has left this garden in a little valley sheltered from winds and open to the sun's rays. here bloom crocuses, snowdrops, grape hyacinths, and sometimes tulips, before any neighbor has a blossom and scarce a leaf. on a sunday noon in april there are always flower lovers hanging over the low fences, and gazing at the welcome early blooms. here if ever, "winter, slumbering in the open air, wears on his smiling face a dream of spring." a close cloud of box-scent hangs over this garden, even in midwinter; sometimes the box edgings grow until no one can walk between; then drastic measures have to be taken, and the rows look ragged for a time. [illustration: an autumn path in a worcester garden.] i think much of my love of box comes from happy associations with this garden. i used to like to go there with my mother when she went on what the japanese would call "garden-viewing" visits, for at the lower end of the garden was a small orchard of the finest playhouse apple trees i ever climbed (and i have had much experience), and some large trees bearing little globular early pears; and there were rows of bushes of golden "honeyblob" gooseberries. the apple trees are there still, but the gooseberry bushes are gone. i looked for them this summer eagerly, but in vain; i presume the berries would have been sour had i found them. [illustration: hollyhocks at tudor place.] in many old new england gardens the close juxtaposition and even intermingling of vegetables and fruits with the flowers gave a sense of homely simplicity and usefulness which did not detract from the garden's interest, and added much to the child's pleasure. at the lower end of the long flower border in our garden, grew "mourning brides," white, pale lavender, and purple brown in tint. they opened under the shadow of a row of gooseberry bushes. i seldom see gooseberry bushes nowadays in any gardens, whether on farms or in nurseries; they seem to be an antiquated fruit. i have in my memory many other customs of childhood in the garden; some of them i have told in my book _child life in colonial days_, and there are scores more which i have not recounted, but most of them were peculiar to my own fanciful childhood, and i will not recount them here. one of the most exquisite of mrs. browning's poems is _the lost bower_; it is endeared to me because it expresses so fully a childish bereavement of my own, for i have a lost garden. somewhere, in my childhood, i saw this beautiful garden, filled with radiant blossoms, rich with fruit and berries, set with beehives, rabbit hutches, and a dove cote, and enclosed about with hedges; and through it ran a purling brook--a thing i ever longed for in my home garden. all one happy summer afternoon i played in it, and gathered from its beds and borders at will--and i have never seen it since. when i was still a child i used to ask to return to it, but no one seemed to understand; and when i was grown i asked where it was, describing it in every detail, and the only answer was that it was a dream, i had never seen and played in such a garden. this lost garden has become to me an emblem, as was the lost bower to mrs. browning, of the losses of life; but i did not lose all; while memory lasts i shall ever possess the happiness of my childhood passed in our home garden. [illustration: an old worcester garden.] chapter xvi meetin' seed and sabbath day posies "i touched a thought, i know has tantalized me many times. help me to hold it! first it left the yellowing fennel run to seed." --robert browning. my "thought" is the association of certain flowers with sunday; the fact that special flowers and leaves and seeds, fennel, dill, and southernwood, were held to be fitting and meet to carry to the sunday service. "help me to hold it"--to record those simple customs of the country-side ere they are forgotten. in the herb garden grew three free-growing plants, all three called indifferently in country tongue, "meetin' seed." they were fennel, dill, and caraway, and similar in growth and seed. caraway is shown on page . their name was given because, in summer days of years gone by, nearly every woman and child carried to "meeting" on sundays, bunches of the ripe seeds of one or all of these three plants, to nibble throughout the long prayers and sermon. it is fancied that these herbs were anti-soporific, but i find no record of such power. on the contrary, galen says dill "procureth sleep, wherefore garlands of dill are worn at feasts." a far more probable reason for its presence at church was the quality assigned to it by pliny and other herbalists down to gerarde, that of staying the "yeox or hicket or hicquet," otherwise the hiccough. if we can judge by the manifold remedies offered to allay this affliction, it was certainly very prevalent in ancient times. cotton mather wrote a bulky medical treatise entitled _the angel of bethesda_. it was never printed; the manuscript is owned by the american antiquarian society. the character of this medico-religious book may be judged by this opening sentence of his chapter on the hiccough:-- "the hiccough or the hicox rather, for it's a teutonic word that signifies to sob, appears a lively emblem of the battle between the flesh and the spirit in the life of piety. the conflict in the pious mind gives all the trouble and same uneasiness as hickox. death puts an end to the conflict." [illustration: caraway.] parson mather gives tansy and caraway as remedies for the hiccough, but far better still--spiders, prepared in various odious ways; i prefer dill. peter parley said that "a sprig of fennel was the theological smelling-bottle of the tender sex, and not unfrequently of the men, who from long sitting in the sanctuary, after a week of labor in the field, found themselves tempted to sleep, would sometimes borrow a sprig of fennel, to exorcise the fiend that threatened their spiritual welfare." old-fashioned folk kept up a constant nibbling in church, not only of these three seeds, but of bits of cinnamon or lovage root, or, more commonly still, the roots of sweet flag. many children went to brooksides and the banks of ponds to gather these roots. this pleasure was denied to us, but we had a flag root purveyor, our milkman's daughter. this milkman, who lived on a lonely farm, used often to take with him on his daily rounds his little daughter. she sat with him on the front seat of his queer cart in summer and his queerer pung in winter, an odd little figure, with a face of gypsylike beauty which could scarcely be seen in the depths of the shaker sunbonnet or pumpkin hood. if my mother chanced to see her, she gave the child an orange, or a few figs, or some little cakes, or almonds and raisins; in return the child would throw out to us violently roots of sweet flag, wild ginger, snakeroot, sassafras, and apples or pears, which she carried in a deep detached pocket at her side. she never spoke, and the milkman confided to my mother that he "took her around because she was so wild," by which he meant timid. we were firmly convinced that the child could not walk nor speak, and had no ears; and we were much surprised when she walked down the aisle of our church one sunday as actively as any child could, displaying very natural ears. her father had bought a home in the town that she might go to school. he was rewarded by her development into one of those scholars of phenomenal brilliancy, such as are occasionally produced from new england farmers' families. she also became a beauty of most unusual type. at her father's death she "went west." i have always expected to read of her as of marked life in some way, but i never have. of course her family name may have been changed by marriage; but her christian name, appoline, was so unusual i could certainly trace her. if my wild and beautiful little milk girl reads these lines, i hope she will forgive me, for she certainly was queer. [illustration: sun-dial of jonathan fairbanks.] when her residence was in town, appoline did not cease her gifts of country treasures. she brought on spring sundays a very delightful addition to our sabbath day nibblings and browsings, the most delicious mouthful of all the treasures of new england woods, what we called pippins, the first tender leaves of the aromatic checkerberry. in the autumn the spicy berries of the same plant filled many a paper cornucopia which was secretly conveyed to us. it was also a universal custom among the elder folk to carry a sunday posy; the stems were discreetly enwrapped with the folded handkerchief which also concealed the sprig of fennel. dean hole tells us that a sprig of southernwood was always seen in the sunday smocks of english farm folk. mary howitt, in her poem, _the poor man's garden_, has this verse:-- "and here on sabbath mornings the goodman comes to get his sunday nosegay--moss rose bud, white pink, and mignonette." this shows to me that the church posy was just as common in england as in america; in domestic and social customs we can never disassociate ourselves from england; our ways, our deeds, are all english. thoreau noted with pleasure when, at the last of june, the young men of concord "walked slowly and soberly to church, in their best clothes, each with a pond lily in his hand or bosom, with as long a stem as he could get." and he adds thereto almost the only decorous and conventional picture he gives of himself, that he used in early life to go thus to church, smelling a pond lily, "its odor contrasting with and atoning for that of the sermon." he associated this universal bearing of the lily with a very natural act, that of the first spring swim and bath, and pictured with delight the quiet sabbath stillness and the pure opening flowers. he said the flower had become typical to him equally of a sunday morning swim and of church-going. he adds that the young women carried on this floral sunday, as a companion flower, their first rose. [illustration: bronze sun-dial on dutch reformed church. west end avenue, new york.] this sabbath bearing of the early water lilies may have been a local custom; a few miles from walden pond and concord an old kinsman of mine throughout his long life (which closed twenty years ago) carried water lilies on summer sundays to church; and starting with neighborly intent a short time before the usual hour of church service, he placed a single beautiful lily in the pew of each of his old friends. all knew who was the flower bearer, and gentle smiles and nods of thanks would radiate across the old church to him. these lilies were gathered for him freshly each sabbath morning by the young men of his family, who, as thoreau tells, all took their morning bath in the pond throughout the summer. [illustration: sun-dial on boulder, swiftwater, pennsylvania.] there were conventions in these sunday posies. i never heard of carrying sprays of lemon verbena or rose geranium, or any of the strong-scented herbs of the mint family; but throughout eastern massachusetts, especially in concord and wayland, a favorite posy was a spray of the refreshing, soft-textured leaves from what country folk called the tongue plant--which was none other than costmary, also called beaver tongue, and patagonian mint. as there has been recently much interest and discussion anent this tongue plant, i here give its botanical name _chrysanthemum balsamita_, var. _tanacetoides_. a far more popular sunday posy than any blossom was a sprig of southernwood, known also everywhere as lad's-love, and occasionally as old man and kiss-me-quick-and-go. it was also termed meeting plant from this universal sunday use. a restless little child was once handed during the church services in summer a bunch of caraway seeds, and a goodly sprig of southernwood. the little girl's mother listened earnestly to the long sermon, and was horrified at its close to find that her child had eaten the entire bunch of caraway, stems and seeds, and all the bitter southernwood. she was hurried out of church to the village doctor's, and spent a very unhappy hour or two as the result of her nebuchadnezzar-like gorging. like many new englanders, i dearly love the scent of southernwood:-- "i'll give to him who gathers me, more sweetness than he knows without me--more than any lily could, i, that am flowerless, being southernwood." southernwood bears a balmier breath than is ever borne by many blossoms, for it is sweet with the fragrance of memory. the scent that has been loved for centuries, the leaves that have been pressed to the hearts of fair maids, as they questioned of love, are indeed endeared. [illustration: buckthorn arch in an old salem garden.] southernwood was a plant of vast powers. it was named in the fourteenth century as potent to cure talking in sleep, and other "vanityes of the heade." an old salem sea captain had this recipe for baldness: "take a quantitye of suthernwoode and put it upon kindled coale to burn and being made into a powder mix it with oyl of radiches, and anoynt a bald head and you shall see great experiences." the lying old _dispensatory_ of culpepper gave a rule to mix the ashes of southernwood with "old sallet oyl" which "helpeth those that are hair-fallen and bald." [illustration: sun-dial at emery place, brightwood, district of columbia.] far pleasanter were the uses of the plant as a love charm. pliny did not disdain to counsel putting southernwood under the pillow to make one dream of a lover. a sprig of southernwood in an unmarried girl's shoe would bring to her the sight of her husband-to-be before night. sixty years ago two young country folk of new england were married. the twain built them a house and established their home. since a sprig of southernwood had played a romantic part in their courtship, each planted a bush at the side of the broad doorstone; and the husband, william, often thrust a bit of this lad's-love from the flourishing bushes in the buttonhole of his woollen shirt, for he fancied the fresh scent of the leaves. [illustration: sun-dial at traveller's rest.] the twain had no children, and perhaps therefrom grew and increased in hetty a fairly passionate love of exact order and neatness in her home--a trait which is not so common in new england housewives as many fancy, and which does not always find equal growth and encouragement in new england husbands. william chafed under the frequent and bitter reproofs for the muddy shoes, dusty garments, hanging straws and seeds which he brought into his wife's orderly paradise, and the jarring culminated one night over such a trifle, a green sprig of lad's-love which he had dropped and trodden into the freshly washed floor of the kitchen, where it left a green stain on the spotless boards. the quarrel flamed high, and was followed by an ominous calm which was not broken at breakfast. it would be impossible to express in words hetty's emotions when she crossed her threshold to set her shining milk tins in the morning sunlight, and saw on one side of the doorstone a yawning hole where had grown for ten years william's bunch of lad's-love. he had driven to the next village to sell some grain, so she could search unseen for the vanished emblem of domestic felicity, and soon she found it, in the ditch by the public road, already withered in the hot sun. when her husband went at nightfall to feed and water his cattle, he found the other bush of lad's-love, which had been planted with such affectionate sentiment, trodden in the mire of the pigpen, under the feet of the swine. they lived together for thirty years after this crowning indignity. the grass grew green over the empty holes by the doorside, but he never forgave her, and they never spoke to each other save in direst necessity, and then in fewest words. yet they were not wicked folk. she cared for his father and mother in the last years of their life with a devotion that was fairly pathetic when it was seen that the old man was untidy to a degree, and absolutely oblivious of all her orderly ways and wishes. at their death he sent for and "homed," as the expression ran, a brother of hers who was almost blind, and paid the expenses of her nephew through college--but he died unforgiving; the sight of that beloved southernwood--in the pigpen--forever killed his affection. chapter xvii sun-dials "'tis an old dial, dark with many a stain, in summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, and white in winter like a marble tomb. "and round about its gray, time-eaten brow lean letters speak--a worn and shattered row:-- 'i am a shade; a shadowe too arte thou; i mark the time; saye, gossip, dost thou soe?'" --austin dobson. a century or more ago, in the heart of nearly all english gardens, and in the gardens of our american colonies as well, there might be seen a pedestal of varying material, shape, and pretension, surmounted by the most interesting furnishing in "dead-works" of the garden, a sun-dial. in public squares, on the walls of public buildings, on bridges, and by the side of the way, other and simpler dials were found. on the walls of country houses and churches vertical sun-dials were displayed; every english town held them by scores. in scotland, and to some extent in england, these sun-dials still are found; in fine old gardens the most richly carved dials are standing; but in america they have become so rare that many people have never seen one. in many of the formal gardens planned by our skilled architects, sun-dials are now springing afresh like mushroom growth of a single night, and some are objects of the greatest beauty and interest. [illustration: two old cronies, the sun-dial and bee skepe.] if the claims of antiquity and historical association have aught to charm us, every sun-dial must be assured of our interest. the most primitive mode of knowing of the midday hour was by a "noon mark," a groove cut or line drawn on door or window sill which indicated the meridian hour through a shadow thrown on this noon mark. a good guess as to the hours near noon could be made by noting the distance of the shadow from the noon mark. i chanced to be near an old noon mark this summer as the sun warned that noon approached; i noted that the marking shadow crossed the line at twenty minutes before noon by our watches--which, i suppose, was near enough to satisfy our "early to rise" ancestors. meridian lines were often traced with exactness on the floors of churches in continental europe. an advance step in accuracy and elegance was made when a simple metal sun-dial was affixed to the window sill instead of cutting the rude noon mark. soon the sun-dial was set on a simple pedestal near the kitchen window, so that the active worker within might glance at the dial face without ceasing in her task. such a sun-dial is shown on page , as it stands under the "buttery" window cosily hobnobbing with its old crony of many years, the bee skepe. one could wish to be a bee, and live in that snug home under the syringa bush. portable sun-dials succeeded fixed dials; they have been known as long as the christian era; shepherds' dials were the "kalendars" or "cylindres" about which treatises were written as early as the thirteenth century. they were small cylinders of wood or ivory, having at the top a kind of stopper with a hinged gnomon; they are still used in the pyrenees. pretty little "ring-dials" of brass, gold, or silver, are constructed on the same principle. the exquisitely wrought portable dial shown on this page is a very fine piece of workmanship, and must have been costly. it is dated , and is eleven inches in diameter. it is a perfect example of the advanced type of dial made in italy, which had a simpler form as early certainly as a.d. . the compass was added in the thirteenth century. the compass-needle is missing on this dial, its only blemish. the italians excelled in dial-making; among their interesting forms were the cross-shaped dials evidently a reliquary. [illustration: portable sun-dial.] portable dials were used instead of watches. there is at the washington headquarters at morristown a delicately wrought oval silver case, with compass and sun-dial, which was carried by one of the french officers who came here with lafayette; george washington owned and carried one. the colonists came here from a land set with dials, whether they sailed from holland or england. charles i had a vast fancy for dials, and had them placed everywhere; the finest and most curious was the splendid master dial placed in his private gardens at whitehall; this had five dials set in the upper part, four in the four corners, and a great horizontal concave dial; among these were scattered equinoctial dials, vertical dials, declining dials, polar dials, plane dials, cylindrical dials, triangular dials; each was inscribed with explanatory verses in latin. equally beautiful and intricate were the dials of charles ii, the most marvellous being the vast pyramid dial bearing different dial faces. those who wish to learn of english sun-dials should read mrs. gatty's _book of sun-dials_, a massive and fascinating volume. no such extended record could be made of american sun-dials; but it pleases me that i know of over two hundred sun-dials in america, chiefly old ones; that i have photographs of many of them; that i have copies of many hundred dial mottoes, and also a very fair collection of the old dial faces, of various metals and sizes. i know of no public collection of sun-dials in america save that in the smithsonian institution, and that is not a large one. several of our historical societies own single sun-dials. in the essex institute is the sun-dial of governor endicott; another, shown on page , was once the property of my far-away grandfather, jonathan fairbanks; it is in the dedham historical society. [illustration: sun-dial in garden of frederick j. kingsbury, esq.] all forms of sun-dials are interesting. a simple but accurate one was set on robins island by the late samuel bowne duryea, esq., of brooklyn. taking the flagpole of the club house as a stylus, he laid the lines and figures of the dial-face with small dark stones on a ground of light-hued stones, all set firmly in the earth at the base of the pole. thus was formed, with the simplest materials, by one who ever strove to give pleasure and stimulate knowledge in all around him, an object which not only told the time o' the day, but afforded gratification, elicited investigation, and awakened sentiment in all who beheld it. a similar use of a vertical pole as a primitive gnomon for a sun-dial seems to have been common to many uncivilized peoples. in upper egypt the natives set up a palm rod in open ground, and arrange a circle of stones or pegs around it, calling it an _alka_, and thus mark the hours. the ploughman leaves his buffalo standing in the furrow while he learns the progress of time from this simple dial--and we recall the words of job, "as a servant earnestly desireth a shadow." [illustration: sun-dial at morristown, new jersey.] the labrador indians, when on the hunt or the march, set an upright stick or spear in the snow, and draw the line of the shadow thus cast. they then stalk on their way; and the women, heavily laden with provisions, shelter, and fuel, come slowly along two or three hours later, note the distance between the present shadow and the line drawn by their lords, and know at once whether they must gather up the stick or spear and hurry along, or can rest for a short time on their weary march. this is a primitive but exact chronometer. there are serious objections to quoting from charles lamb: you are never willing to end the transcription--you long to add just one phrase, one clause more. then, too, the purity of the pearl which you choose seems to render duller than their wont the leaden sentences with which you enclose it as a setting. still, who could write of sun-dials without choosing to transcribe these words of lamb's? "what a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead or brass, its pert or solemn dulness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old dial! it stood as the garden god of christian gardens. why is it almost everywhere banished? if its business use be suspended by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance. it spoke of moderate labors, of pleasures not protracted after sunset, of temperance and good hours. it was the primitive clock, the horologe of the first world. adam could scarce have missed it in paradise. the 'shepherd carved it out quaintly in the sun,' and turning philosopher by the very occupation, provided it with mottoes more touching than tombstones." [illustration: yes, toby! it's three o'clock.] sun-dial mottoes still can be gathered by hundreds; and they are one record of a force in the development of our literate people. for it was long after we had printing ere we had any general class of folk, who, if they could read, read anything save the bible. to many the knowledge of reading came from the deciphering of what has been happily termed the literature of the bookless. this literature was placed that he who ran might read; and its opening chapters were in the form of inscriptions and legends and mottoes which were placed, not only on buildings and walls, and pillars and bridges, but on household furniture and table utensils. the inscribing of mottoes on sun-dials appears to have sprung up with dial-making; and where could a strict moral lesson, a suggestive or inspiring thought, be better placed? even the most heedless or indifferent passer-by, or the unwilling reader could not fail to see the instructive words when he cast his glance to learn the time. the mottoes were frequently in latin, a few in greek or hebrew; but the old english mottoes seem the most appealing. abuse me not i do no ill i stand to serve thee with good will as careful then be sure thou be to serve thy god as i serve thee. a clock the time may wrongly tell i never if the sun shine well. as a shadow such is life. i count none but sunny hours. be the day weary, be the day long soon it shall ring to even song. scriptural verses have ever been favorites, especially passages from the psalms: "man is like a thing of nought, his time passeth away like a shadow." "my time is in thy hand." "put not off from day to day." "oh, remember how short my time is." some of the latin mottoes are very beautiful. [illustration: face of dial at sag harbor, long island.] poets have written special verses for sun-dials. these noble lines are by walter savage landor:-- in his own image the creator made, his own pure sunbeam quickened thee, o man! thou breathing dial! since the day began the present hour was ever marked with shade. the motto, _horas non numero nisi serenas_, in various forms and languages, has ever been a favorite. from an old album i have received this poem written by professor s. f. b. morse; there is a note with it in professor morse's handwriting, saying he saw the motto on a sun-dial at worms:-- to a. g. e. _horas non numero nisi serenas._ the sun when it shines in a clear cloudless sky marks the time on my disk in figures of light; if clouds gather o'er me, unheeded they fly, i note not the hours except they be bright. so when i review all the scenes that have past between me and thee, be they dark, be they light, i forget what was dark, the light i hold fast; i note not the hours except they be bright. samuel f. b. morse, washington, march, . the sun-dial seems too classic an object, and too serious a teacher, to bear a jesting motto. this sober pun was often seen:-- life's but a shadowe man's but dust this dyall sayes dy all we must. [illustration: sun-dial in garden of grace church rectory, new york.] the sun-dial does not lure to "idle dalliance." nine-tenths of the sun-dial mottoes tersely warn you not to linger, to haste away, that time is fleeting, and your hours are numbered, and therefore to "be about your business." in a single moment and at a single glance the sun-dial has said its lesson, has told its absolute message, and there is no reason for you to gaze at it longer. its very position, too, in the unshaded rays of the sun, does not invite you to long companionship, as do the shady lengths of a pergola, or a green orchard seat. still, i would ever have a garden seat near a sun-dial, especially when it is a work of art to be studied, and with mottoes to be remembered. for even in hurrying america the sun-dial seems--like a guide-post--a half-human thing, for which we can feel an almost personal interest. [illustration: fugio bank-note.] the figure of a sun-dial played an interesting part in the early history of the united states. in the first set of notes issued for currency by the american congress was one for the value of one third of a dollar. one side has the chain of links bearing the names of the thirteen states, enclosing a sunburst bearing the words, _american congress, we are one_. the reverse side is shown on this page. it bears a print of a sun-dial, with the motto, _fugio, mind your business_. the so-called "franklin cent" has a similar design of a sun-dial with the same motto, and there was a beautiful "fugio dollar" cast in silver, bronze, and pewter. though this design and motto were evidently franklin's taste, the motto in its use on a sun-dial was not original with franklin, nor with any one else in the congress, for it had been seen on dials on many english churches and houses. in the form, "begone about your business," it was on a house in the inner temple; this is the tradition of the origin of this motto. the dialler sent for a motto to place under the dial, as he had been instructed by the benchers; when the man arrived at the library, he found but one surly old gentleman poring over a musty book. to him he said, "please, sir, the gentlemen told me to call this hour for a motto for the sun-dial." "begone about your business," was the testy answer. so the man painted the words under the dial; and the chance words seemed so appropriate to the benchers that they were never removed. it is told of dean cotton of bangor that he had a cross old gardener who always warded off unwelcome visitors to the deanery by saying to every one who approached, "go about your business!" after the gardener's death the dean had this motto engraved around the sun-dial in the garden, "goa bou tyo urb us in ess, ." thus the gardener's growl became his epitaph. another form was, "be about your business," and it is a suggestive fact that it was on a dial on the general post-office in london in . franklin's interest in and knowledge of postal matters, his long residence in london, and service under the crown as american postmaster general, must have familiarized him with this dial, and i am convinced it furnished to him the notion for the design on the first bank-note and coins of the new nation. an interesting bit of history allied to america is given to us in the finding of a sun-dial which gives to american students of heraldic antiquities another dated shield of the washington "stars and stripes." [illustration: sun-dial at "washington house," little brington, england.] in little brington, northamptonshire, stands a house known as "the washington house," which gave shelter to the washingtons of sulgrave after the fall of their fortunes. within a stone's throw of the house has recently been found a sun-dial having the washington arms (argent) two bars, and in chief three mullets (gules) carved upon it, with the date . the existence of this stone has been known for forty years; but it has never been closely examined and noted till recently. it is a circular slab of sandstone three inches thick and sixteen inches in diameter. the gnomon is lacking. the lines, figures, and shield are incised, and the letters r. w. can be dimly seen. these were probably the initials of robert washington, great uncle of the two emigrants to virginia. [illustration: dial-face from mount vernon.] through the kindness of mr. a. l. y. morley, a faithful antiquary of great barrington, i have the pleasure of giving, on page , a representation of this interesting dial. it is shown leaning against the "pump-stand" in the yard of the "washington house"; and the pump seems as ancient as the dial. [illustration: sun-dial of mary washington, fredericksburg, virginia.] in this book are three other sun-dials associated with george washington. at mount vernon there stands at the front of the entrance door a modern sun-dial. the fine old metal dial-face, about ten inches in diameter, which in washington's day was placed on the same site, is now the property of mr. william f. havemeyer, jr., of new york. it was given to him by mr. custis; a picture of it is shown on page . this dial-face is a splendid relic; one closely associated with washington's everyday life, and full of suggestion and sentiment to every thoughtful beholder. the sun-dial which stood in the old fredericksburg garden of mary washington, the mother of george washington, still stands in fredericksburg, in the grounds of mr. doswell. a photograph of it is reproduced on page . the fourth historic dial is on page . it is the one at kenmore, the home built by fielding lewis for his bride, betty washington, the sister of george washington, on ground adjoining her mother's home. a part of the garden which connected these two washington homes is shown on page . these three american sun-dials afford an interesting proof of the universal presence of sun-dials in virginian homes of wealth, and they also show the kind of dial-face which was generally used. another ancient dial (page ) at travellers' rest, a near-by virginian country seat, is similar in shape to these three, and differs but little in mounting. in pennsylvania and virginia sun-dials have lingered in use in front of court-houses, on churches, and in a few old garden dials. in new england i scarcely know an old garden dial still standing in its original place on its original pedestal. four old ones of brass or pewter are shown in the illustration on page . these once stood in new england gardens or on the window sills of old houses; one was taken from a sunny window ledge to give to me. perhaps the attention paid the doings of the american philosophical society, and the number of scientists living near philadelphia, may account for the many sun-dials set up in the vicinity of the town. godfrey, the maker of godfrey's quadrant, was one of those scientific investigators, and must have been a famous "dialler." [illustration: kenmore, the home of betty washington lewis.] on page is shown an ancient sun-dial in the garden of charles f. jenkins, esq., in germantown, pennsylvania. this sun-dial originally belonged to nathan spencer, who lived in germantown prior to and during the revolutionary war. hepzibah spencer, his daughter, married, and took the sun-dial to byberry. her daughter carried the sun-dial to gwynedd when her name was changed to jenkins; and their grandson, the present owner, rescued it from the chicken house with the gnomon missing, which was afterward found. its inscription, "time waits for no man," is an old punning device on the word gnomon. at one time dialling was taught by many a country schoolmaster, and excellent and accurate sun-dials were made and set up by country workmen, usually masons of slight education. in scotland the making of sun-dials has never died out. in america many pewter sun-dials were cast in moulds of steatite or other material. a few dial-makers still remain; one in lower new york makes very interesting-looking sun-dials of brass, which, properly discolored and stained, find a ready sale in uptown shops. i doubt if these are ever made for any special geographical point, but there is in a small pennsylvania town an old quaker who makes carefully calculated and accurate sun-dials, computed by logarithms for special places. i should like to see him "sit like a shepherd carving out dials, quaintly point by point." i have a very pretty circular brass dial of his making, about eight inches in diameter. he writes me that "the dial sent thee is a good students' dial, fit to set outside the window for a young man to use and study by in college," which would indicate to me that my quaker dialler knows another type of collegian from those of my acquaintance, who would find the time set by a sun-dial rather slow. [illustration: sun-dial in garden of charles f. jenkins, esq., germantown, pennsylvania.] there have been those who truly loved sun-dials. sir william temple ordered that after his death his heart should be buried under the sun-dial in his garden--where his heart had been in life. 'tis not unusual to see a sun-dial over the gate to a burial ground, and a noble emblem it is in that place; one at mount auburn cemetery, near boston, bears a pleasing motto written originally by john g. whittier for his friend, dr. henry ingersoll bowditch, and inscribed on a beautiful silver sun-dial now owned by dr. vincent y. bowditch of boston, massachusetts. a facsimile of this dial was also placed before the manor house on the island of naushon by mr. john m. forbes in memory of dr. bowditch. the lines run thus:-- with warning hand i mark time's rapid flight from life's glad morning to its solemn night. yet, through the dear god's love i also show there's light above me, by the shade below. a sun-dial is to me, in many places, a far more inspiring memorial than a monument or tablet. let me give as an example the fine sun-dial, designed by w. gedney beatty, esq., and shown on page , which was erected on the grounds of the memorial hospital at morristown, new jersey, by the society of the daughters of the american revolution, to mark the spot where washington partook of the communion. what dignified and appropriate church appointments sun-dials are. a simple and impressive bronze vertical dial on the wall of the dutch reformed church on west end avenue, new york, is shown on page . the sun-dial standing before the rectory of grace church on broadway, new york, is on page . [illustration: sun-dial at ophir farm, white plains, new york, country-seat of hon. whitelaw reid.] there is ever much question as to a suitable pedestal for garden sun-dials: it must not stand so high that the dial-face cannot be looked down upon by grown persons; it must not be so light as to seem rickety, nor so heavy as to be clumsy. a very good rule is to err on the side of simplicity in sun-dials for ordinary gardens. what i regard as a very satisfactory pedestal and mounting in every particular may be seen in the illustration facing page , showing the sun-dial in the garden of charles e. mather, esq., at avonwood court, haverford, pennsylvania. sometimes the pillars of old balustrades, old fence posts, and even parts of old tombs and monuments, have been used as pedestals for sun-dials. how pleasantly sylvana in her _letters to an unknown friend_, tells us and shows to us her cheerful sun-dial mounted on the four corners of an old tombstone with this fine motto cut into the upper step, _lux et umbra vicissim sed semper amor_. i mean to search the stone-cutters' waste heap this summer and see whether i cannot rob the grave to mark the hours of my life. charles dickens had at gadshill a sun-dial set on one of the pillars of the balustrade of old rochester bridge. from italy and greece marble pillars have been sent from ancient ruins to be set up as dial pedestals. if possible, the pedestal as well as the dial-face of a handsome sun-dial should have some significance through association, suggestion, or history. at ophir farm, white plains, new york, the country-seat of hon. whitelaw reid, may be seen a sun-dial full of exquisite significance. it is shown on page . the signs of the zodiac in finely designed bronze are set on the symmetrical marble pedestal, and seem wonderfully harmonious and appropriate. this sun-dial is a literal exemplification of the words of emerson:-- "a calendar exact to days, exact to hours, counted on the spacious dial yon broidered zodiac girds." the dial-face is upheld by a carefully modelled tortoise in bronze, which is an equally suggestive emblem, connected with the tradition, folk-lore, and religious beliefs of both primitive and cultured peoples; it is specially full of meaning in this place. the whole sun-dial shows much thought and æsthetic perception in the designer and owner, and cannot fail to prove gratifying to all observers having either sensibility or judgment. occasionally a very unusual and beautiful sun-dial standard may be seen, like the one in the rose garden at yaddo, saratoga, new york, a copy of rarely beautiful pompeian carvings. a representation of this is shown on page . copies of simpler antique carvings make excellent sun-dial pedestals; a safe rule to follow is to have a reproduction made of some well-proportioned english or scotch pedestal. the latter are well suited to small gardens. i have drawings of several scotch sun-dials and pedestals which would be charming in american gardens. in the gardens at hillside, by the side of the shakespeare border is a sun-dial (page ) which is an exact reproduction of the one in the garden at abbotsford, the home of sir walter scott. this pedestal is suited to its surroundings, is well proportioned; and has historic interest. it forms an excellent example of charles lamb's "garden-altar." [illustration: sun-dial at hillside, menand's, near albany, new york.] on a lawn or in any suitable spot the dial-face can be mounted on a boulder; one is here shown. i prefer a pedestal. for gardens of limited size, much simplicity of design is more pleasing and more fitting than any elaborate carving. in an italian garden, or in any formal garden whose work in stone or marble is costly and artistic, the sun-dial pedestal should be the climax in richness of carving of all the garden furnishing. i like the pedestal set on a little platform, so two or three steps may be taken up to it from the garden level; but after all, no rules can be given for the dial's setting. it may be planted with vines, or stand unornamented; it may be set low, and be looked down upon, or it may be raised high up on a side wall; but wherever it is, it must not be for a single minute in shadow; no trees or overhanging shrubs should be near it; it is a child of the sun, and lives only in the sun's full rays. [illustration: old brass and pewter dial-faces.] in the lovely old garden at the home of frederick j. kingsbury, esq., at waterbury, conn., is a sun-dial bearing the motto, "_horas non numero nisi serenas_," and the dates - ,--the dates of the building of the old and new houses on land that has been in the immediate family since . around this dial is a crescent-shaped bed of zinnias, and very satisfactory do they prove. this garden has fine box edgings; one is shown on page , a box walk, set in with ancient box brought from the garden of mr. kingsbury's great-great-grandfather. the gnomon of a sun-dial is usually a simple plate of metal in the general shape of a right-angled triangle, cut often in some pierced design, and occasionally inscribed with a motto, name, or date. sometimes the dial-maker placed on the gnomon various masonic symbols--the compass, square, and triangle, or the coat of arms of the dial owner. one old english dial fitting we have never copied in america. it was the taste of the days of the stuart kings, days of constant jesting and amusement and practical jokes. concealed water jets were placed which wet the clothing of the unwary one who lingered to consult the dial-face. the significance of the sun-dial, as well as its classicism, was sure to be felt by artists. in the paintings of holbein, of albert dürer, dials may be seen, not idly painted, but with symbolic meaning. the mystic import of a sun-dial is shown in full effect in that perfect picture, _beata beatrix_, by dante gabriel rossetti. i have chosen to show here (facing page ) the _beata beatrix_ owned by charles l. hutchinson, esq., of chicago, as being less photographed and known than the one of the british gallery, from which it varies slightly and also because it has the beautiful predella. in this picture, in the words of its poet-painter:-- "love's hour stands. its eyes invisible watch till the dial's thin brown shade be born--yea, till the journeying line be laid upon the point." [illustration: beata beatrix.] andrew marvell wrote two centuries ago of the floral sun-dials which were the height of the gardening mode of his day:-- "how well the skilful gardener drew of flowers and herbs this dial new. when from above the milder sun does through a fragrant zodiac run; and as it works the industrious bee computes its time as well as we! how could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!" these were sometimes set of diverse flowers, sometimes of mallows. two of growing box are described and displayed in the chapter on box edgings. [illustration: the faithful gardener.] linnæus made a list of forty-six flowers which constituted what he termed the horologe or watch of flora, and he gave what he called their exact hours of rising and setting. he divided them into three classes: meteoric, tropical, and equinoctial flowers. among those which he named are:-- =========================================================== | opening hour. | closing hour. ----------------------------------------------------------- dandelion | - a.m. | - p.m. mouse-ear hawkweed | a.m. | p.m. sow thistle | a.m. | - p.m. yellow goat-beard | - a.m. | - (?) white water lily | a.m. | p.m. day lily | a.m. | - p.m. convolvulus | - a.m. | mallow | - a.m. | pimpernel | - a.m. | portulaca | - a.m. | pink (_dianthus prolifer_) | a.m. | p.m. succory | - a.m. | calendula | a.m. | - p.m. =========================================================== of course these hours would vary in this country. and i must say very frankly that i think we should always be behind time if we trusted to flora's horologe. this floral clock of linnæus was calculated for upsala, sweden; de candolle gave another for paris, and one has been arranged for our eastern states. chapter xviii garden furnishings "furnished with whatever may make the place agreeable, melancholy, and country-like." --_forest trees_, john evelyn, . quaint old books of garden designers show us that much more was contained in a garden two centuries ago, than now; it had many more adjuncts, more furnishings; a very full list of them has been given by batty langley in his _new principles of gardening_, etc., . some seem amusing--as haystacks and woodpiles, which he terms "rural enrichments." of water adornments there were to be purling streams, basins, canals, fountains, cascades, cold baths. there were to be aviaries, hare warrens, pheasant grounds, partridge grounds, dove-cotes, beehives, deer paddocks, sheep walks, cow pastures, and "manazeries" (menageries?); physic gardens, orchards, bowling-greens, hop gardens, orangeries, melon grounds, vineyards, parterres, fruit yards, nurseries, sun-dials, obelisks, statues, cabinets, etc., decorated the garden walks. there were to be land gradings of mounts, winding valleys, dales, terraces, slopes, borders, open plains, labyrinths, wildernesses, "serpentine meanders," "rude-coppices," precipices, amphitheatres. his "serpentine meanders" had large opening spaces at proper distances, in one of which might be placed a small fruit garden, a "cone of evergreens," or a "paradice-stocks,"--about which latter mysterious garden adornment i think we must be content to remain in ignorance, since he certainly has given us ample variety to choose from without it. other "landscapists" placed in their gardens old ruins, misshapen rocks, and even dead trees, in order to look "natural." in henry ballard brought out _the gardener's labyrinth_--a pretty good book, shut away from the most of us by being printed in black letter. he says:-- "the framing of sundry herbs delectable, with waies and allies artfully devised is an upright herbar." herbars, or arbors, were of two kinds: an upright arbor, which was merely a covered lean-to attached to a fence or wall; and a winding or "arch-arbor" standing alone. he names "archherbs," which are simply climbing vines to set "winding in arch-manner on withie poles." "walker and sitters there-under" are thereby comfortably protected from the heat of the sun. these upright arbors were in high favor; ballard says they offered "fragrant savours, delectable sights, and sharpening of the memory." [illustration: a garden lyre at waterford, virginia.] tree arbors were in use in elizabethan times, platforms built in the branches of large trees. parkinson called one that would hold fifty men, "the goodliest spectacle that ever his eyes beheld." a distinction was made between arbors and bowers. the arbor might be round or square, and was domed over the top; while the long arched way was a bower. in our southern states that special use of the word bower is still universal, especially in the term rose bowers. a quaint and universal furnishing of old southern gardens were the trellises known as garden lyres. two are shown in this chapter, from waterford, virginia; one bearing little foliage and another embowered in vines, in order to show what a really good vine support they were. garden lyres and rose bowers are rotting on the ground in old virginia gardens, and i fear they will never be replaced. the word pergola was seldom heard here a century ago, save as used by the few who had travelled in italy; but pergolas were to be found in many an old american garden. an ancient oval pergola still stands at arlington, that beautiful spot which was once the home of the virginia lees, and is now the home of the honored dead of our civil war. this old pergola has remained unharmed through fierce conflict, and is wreathed each spring with the verdure of vines of many kinds. it is twenty feet wide between the pillars, and forms an oval one hundred feet long and seventy wide, and when in full greenery is a lovely thing. it was called--indeed it is still termed in the south--a "green gallery," a word and thing of mediæval days. [illustration: a virginia lyre with vines.] there are many pretty trellises and vine supports and arbors which can be made of light poles and rails, but i do not like to hear the pretentious name, pergola, applied to them. a pergola must not be a mean, light-built affair. it should be of good proportions and substantial materials. it need not be made with brick or marble pillars; natural tree trunks of good size serve as well. it should look as if it had been built with care and stability, and that the vines had been planted and trained by skilled gardeners. a pergola may have a dilapidated present and be endurable; but it should show evidences of a substantial past. little sisters of the pergola are the _charmilles_, or bosquets, arches of growing trees, whose interlaced boughs have no supports of wood as have the pergolas. when these arches are carefully trained and pruned, and the ground underneath is laid with turf or gravel, they form a delightful shady walk. charming covered ways can be easily made by polling and training plum or willow trees. arches are far too rare in american gardens. the few we have are generally old ones. in mrs. pierson's garden in salem the splendid arch of buckthorn is a hundred and twenty five years old. similar ones are at indian hill. cedar was an old choice for hedges and arches. it easily winter-kills at the base, and that is ample reason for its rejection and disuse. the many garden seats of the old english garden were perhaps its chief feature in distinction from american garden furnishings to-day. in a letter written from kenilworth in the writer told of garden seats where he sat in the heat of summer, "feeling the pleasant whisking wynde." i have walked through many a large modern garden in the summer heat, and longed in vain for a shaded seat from which to regard for a few moments the garden treasures and feel the whisking wind, and would gladly have made use of the temporary presence of a wheelbarrow. [illustration: old iron gate at westover-on-james.] seats of marble and stone are in many of our modern formal gardens; a pretty one is in the garden at avonwood court. grottoes, arbors, and summer-houses were all of importance in those days, when in our latitude and climate men had not thought to build piazzas surrounding the house and shadowing all the ground floor rooms. we are beginning to think anew of the value of sunlight in the parlors and dining rooms of our summer homes, which for the past thirty or forty years have been so darkened by our wide piazzas. now we have fewer piazzas and more peristyles, and soon we shall have summer-houses and garden houses also. there are preserved in the south, in spite of war and earthquake, a number of fine examples of old wrought-iron garden gates. king william of england introduced these artistic gates into england, and they were the height of garden fashion. among them were the beautiful gates still at hampton court, and those of bulwich, northamptonshire. they were called _clair-voyees_ on account of the uninterrupted view they permitted to those without and within the walls. these were often painted blue; but in america they were more sober of tint, though portions were gilded. one of the old gates at westover-on-james is here shown, and on page the rich wrought-iron work in the courtyard at the home of colonel colt in bristol, rhode island. this is as fine as the house, and that is a splendid example of the best work of the first years of the nineteenth century. fountains were seen usually in handsome gardens in the south; simple water jets falling in a handsome basin of marble or stone. statuary of marble or lead was never common in old american gardens, though pretentious gardens had examples. to-day, in our carefully thought-out gardens, the garden statuary is a thing of beauty and often of meaning, as the figure shown on page . usually our statues are of marble, sometimes a japanese bronze is seen. [illustration: iron-work in court of colt mansion, bristol, rhode island.] in the old black letter _gardener's labyrinth_, a very full description is given of old modes of watering a garden. there was a primitive and very limited system of irrigation, the water being raised by "well-swipes"; there were very handy puncheons, or tubs on wheels, which could be trundled down the garden walk. there was also a formidable "great squirt of tin," which was said to take "mighty strength" to handle, and which looked like a small cannon; with it was an ingenious bent tube of tin by which the water could be thrown in "great droppes" like a fountain. the author says of ordinary means of garden watering:-- "the common watring pot with us hath a narrow neck, a big belly, somewhat large bottome, and full of little holes with a proper hole forced in the head to take in the water; which filled full and the thumbe laid on the hole to keep in the aire may in such wise be carried in handsome manner." garden tools have changed but little since tudor days; spade and rake were like ours to-day, so were dibble and mattock. even grafting and pruning tools, shown in books of husbandry, were surprisingly like our own. scythes were much heavier and clumsier. an old fellow is here shown sharpening in the ancient manner a scythe about three hundred years old. the art of grafting, known since early days, formed an important part of the gardener's craft. large share of ancient garden treatises is devoted to minute instructions therein. to this day in new england towns a good grafter is a local autocrat. [illustration: summer-house at ravensworth.] beehives were once found in every garden; bee-skepes they were called when made of straw. picturesque and homely were the old straw beehives, and still are they used in england; the old one shown in the chapter on sun-dials can scarcely be mated in america. they served as a conventional emblem of industry. they were made of welts or ropes of twisted straw, as were the heavy winnowing skepes once used for winnowing grain. in maine, in a few out-of-the-way communities, ancient men still winnow grain with these skepes. i saw a man last autumn, a giant in stature, standing in a dull light on the crown of a hill winnowing wheat in one of these great skepes with an indescribably free and noble gesture. he was a classic, a relic of homer's age, no longer a farmer, but a husbandman. bees and honey were of much value in ancient days. honey was the chief ingredient in many wholesome and pleasing drinks--mead, metheglin, bragget (or braket), morat, erboule--all very delightful in their ingredients, redolent of meadows and hedge-rows; thus cowslip mead was made of cowslip "pips," honey, lemon juice, and "a handful of sweetbrier." "athol porridge," demure of name, was as potent as pleasing--potent as good honey, good cream, and good whiskey could make it. [illustration: sharpening the old dutch scythe.] rows of typical southern beehives are shown in the two succeeding illustrations. from their home by the side of a white rose and under an old sweet apple tree these waterford bees did not wish to swarm out in a hurry to find a new home. these beehives are not very ancient in shape, but when i see a row of them set thus under the trees, or in a hive-shelter, they seem to tell of olden days. the very bees flying in and out seem steady-going, respectable old fellows. such hives have a cosy look, with rows of hollyhocks behind them, and hundreds of spires of larkspur for these old bees to bury their heads in. [illustration: beehives at waterford, virginia.] the sadly picturesque old superstition of "telling the bees" of a death in a family and hanging a bit of black cloth on the hives as a mourning-weed still is observed in some country communities. whittier's poem on the subject is wonderfully "countrified" in atmosphere, using the word chore-girl, so seldom heard even in familiar speech to-day and never found in verse elsewhere than in this rustic poem. i saw one summer in narragansett, on stony lane, not far from the old six-principle church, a row of beehives hung with strips of black cloth; the house mistress was dead--the friend of bird and beast and bee--who had reared the guardian of the garden told of on page _et seq._ [illustration: beehives under the trees.] a pretty and appropriate garden furnishing was the dove-cote. the possession of a dove-cote in england, and the rearing of pigeons, was free only to lords of the manor and noblemen. when the colonists came to america, many of them had never been permitted to keep pigeons. in scotland persistent attempts at pigeon-raising by folks of humble station might be punished with death. the settlers must have revelled in the freedom of the new land, as well as in the plenty of pigeons, both wild and domestic. in old england the dove-cote was often built close to the kitchen door, that squab and pigeon might be near the hand of the cook. dove-cotes in america were often simple boxes or houses raised on stout posts. occasionally might be seen a fine brick dove-cote like the one still standing at shirley-on-the-james, in virginia, which is shaped without and within like several famous old dove-cotes in england, among them the one at athelhampton hall, dorchester, england. the english dove-cote has within a revolving ladder hung from a central post while the virginian squab catcher uses an ordinary ladder. the shelves for the birds to rest upon and the square recesses for the nests made by the ingenious placing of the bricks are alike in both cotes. [illustration: spring house at johnson homestead, germantown, pennsylvania.] a beautiful and fitting tenant of old formal gardens was the peacock, "with his aungelis federys bryghte." on large english estates peacocks were universally kept. a fine peacock, with full-spread tail, makes many a gay flower bed pale before his panoply of iridescence and color. the peahen is a demurely pretty creature. peacocks are not altogether grateful to garden owners; on the old narragansett farm whose garden is shown on page , they were always kept, and it was one of the prides and pleasures of formal hospitality to offer a roasted peacock to visitors. but, save when roasted, the vain creatures would not keep silence, and when they squawked the glory of their plumage was forgotten. they had an odious habit, too, of wandering off to distant groves on the farm, usually selecting the nights of bitterest cold, and roosting in some very high tree, in some very inaccessible spot. they could not be left in this ill-considered sleeping-place, else they would all freeze to death; and words fail to tell the labor in lowering twilight and temperature of discovering their retreat, the dislodging, capturing, and imprisoning them. [illustration: dove-cote at shirley-on-james.] in narragansett there is a charming old farm garden, which i often visit to note and admire its old-time blossoms. this garden has a guardian, who haunts the garden walks as did the terrace peacock of old england; no watch-dog ever was so faithful, and none half so acute. when i visit the garden i always ask "where is job?" i am answered that he is in the field with the cattle. sometimes this is true, but at other times job has left the field and is attending to his assumed duties. as he is not encouraged, he has learned great slyness and dissimulation. immovable, and in silence, job is concealed behind a syringa hedge or in a lilac ambush, and as you stroll peacefully and unwittingly down the paths, sniffing the honeyed sweetness of the dense edging of sweet alyssum, all is as balmy as the blossoms. but stoop for an instant, to gather some leaves of sweet basil or sweet brier, or to collect a dozen seed-pods of that specially delicate sweet pea, and lo! the enemy is upon you, like a fierce whirlwind. he looks mild and demure enough in his kitchen yard retreat, whereto, upon piercing outcry for help, the farmer and his two sons have haled him, and where the camera has caught him. but far from meek is his aspect when you are dodging him around the great tree peony, or flying frantically before him down the side path to the garden gate. this fierce wild beast was once that mildest of creatures--a pet lamb; the constant companion of the farm-wife, as she weeded and watered her loved garden. her husband says, "he seems to think folks are stealing her flowers, if they stop to look." the wife and mother of these three great men has gone from her garden forever; but a tenderness for all that she loved makes them not only care for her flowers, but keeps this rampant guardian of the garden at the kitchen door, just as she kept him when he was a little lamb. i knew this new england farmer's wife, a noble woman, of infinite tenderness, strength, and endurance; a lover of trees and flowers and all living things, and i marvel not that they keep her memory green. [illustration: the peacock in his pride.] chapter xix garden boundaries "a garden fair ... with wandis long and small railèd about, and so with treès set was all the place; and hawthorne hedges knet, that lyf was none walking there forbye that might within scarce any wight espy." --_kings qubair_, king james i of scotland. one who reads what i have written in these pages of a garden enclosed, will scarcely doubt that to me every garden must have boundaries, definite and high. three old farm boundaries were of necessity garden boundaries in early days--our stone walls, rail fences, and hedge-rows. the first two seem typically american; the third is an english hedge fashion. throughout new england the great boulders were blasted to clear the rocky fields; and these, with the smaller loose stones, were gathered into vast stone walls. we still see these walls around fields and as the boundaries of kitchen gardens and farm flower gardens, and delightful walls they are, resourceful of beauty to the inventive gardener. i know one lovely garden in old narragansett, on a farm which is now the country-seat of folk of great wealth, where the old stone walls are the pride of the place; and the carefully kept garden seems set in a beautiful frame of soft gray stones and flowering vines. these walls would be more beautiful still if our climate would let us have the wall gardens of old england, but everything here becomes too dry in summer for wall gardens to flourish. [illustration: the guardian of the garden.] rhode island farmers for two centuries have cleared and sheltered the scanty soil of their state by blasting the ledges, and gathering the great stones of ledge and field into splendid stone walls. their beauty is a gift to the farmer's descendants in reward for his hours of bitter and wearying toil. one of these fine stone walls, six feet in height, has stood secure and unbroken through a century of upheavals of winter frosts--which it was too broad and firmly built to heed. it stretches from the post road in old narragansett, through field and meadow, and by the side of the oak grove, to the very edge of the bay. to the waterside one afternoon in june there strolled, a few years ago, a beautiful young girl and a somewhat conscious but determined young man. they seated themselves on the stone wall under the flickering shadow of a great locust tree, then in full bloom. the air was sweet with the honeyed fragrance of the lovely pendent clusters of bloom, and bird and bee and butterfly hovered around,--it was paradise. the beauty and fitness of the scene so stimulated the young man's fancy to thoughts and words of love that he soon burst forth to his companion in an impassioned avowal of his desire to make her his wife. he had often pictured to himself that some time he would say to her these words, and he had seen also in his hopes the looks of tender affection with which she would reply. what was his amazement to behold that, instead of blushes and tender glances, his words of love were met by an apparently frenzied stare of horror and disgust, that seemed to pierce through him, as his beloved one sprung at one bound from her seat by his side on the high stone wall, and ran away at full speed, screaming out, "oh, kill him! kill him!" now that was certainly more than disconcerting to the warmest of lovers, and with a half-formed dread that the suddenness of his proposal of love had turned her brain, he ran after her, albeit somewhat coolly, and soon learned the reason for her extraordinary behavior. emulous of the tempting serpent of old, a great black snake, mr. _bascanion constrictor_, had said complaisantly to himself: "now here are a fair young adam and eve who have entered uninvited my garden of eden, and the man fancies it is not good for him to be alone, but i will have a word to say about that. i will come to her with honied words." so he thrust himself up between the stones of the wall, and advanced persuasively upon them, behind the man's back. but a yankee eve of the year a.d. is not that simple creature, the eve of the year ---- b.c.; and even the father of evil would have to be great of guile to succeed in his wiles with her. a farm servant was promptly despatched to watch for the ill-mannered and intrusive snake who--as is the fashion of a snake--had grown to be as big as a boa-constrictor after he vanished; and at the end of the week once more the heel of man had bruised the serpent's head, and the third party in this love episode lay dead in his six feet of ugliness, a silent witness to the truth of the story. throughout narragansett, locust trees have a fashion of fringing the stone walls with close young growth, and shading them with occasional taller trees. [illustration: terrace wall at van cortlandt manor.] these form an ideal garden boundary. the stone walls also gather a beautiful growth of clematis, brier, wild peas, and grapes; but they form a clinging-place for that devil's brood, poison ivy, which is so persistent in growth and so difficult to exterminate. the old worm fence was distinctly american; it had a zigzag series of chestnut rails, with stakes of twisted cedar saplings which were sometimes "chunked" by moss-covered boulders just peeping from the earth. this worm fence secured to the nature lover and to wild life a strip of land eight or ten feet wide, whereon plant, bird, beast, reptile, and insect flourished and reproduced. it has been, within a few years, a gardening fashion to preserve these old "virginia" fences on country places of considerable elegance. planted with clematis, honeysuckle, trumpet vine, wistaria, and the free-growing new japanese roses, they are wonderfully effective. [illustration: rail fence corner.] on long island, east of riverhead, where there are few stones to form stone walls, are curious and picturesque hedge-rows, which are a most interesting and characteristic feature of the landscape, and they are beautiful also, as i have seen them once or twice, at the end of an old garden. these hedge-rows were thus formed: when a field was cleared, a row of young saplings of varied growth, chiefly oak, elder, and ash, was left to form the hedge. these young trees were cut and bent over parallel to the ground, and sometimes interlaced together with dry branches and vines. each year these trees were lopped, and new sprouts and branches permitted to grow only in the line of the hedge. soon a tangle of briers and wild vines overgrew and netted them all into a close, impenetrable, luxuriant mass. they were, to use wordsworth's phrase, "scarcely hedge-rows, but lines of sportive woods run wild." in this close green wall birds build their nests, and in their shelter burrow wild hares, and there open violets and other firstlings of the spring. the twisted tree trunks in these old hedges are sometimes three or four feet in diameter one way, and but a foot or more the other; they were a shiftless field-border, as they took up so much land, but they were sheep-proof. the custom of making a dividing line by a row of bent and polled trees still remains, even where the close, tangled hedge-row has disappeared with the flocks of sheep. [illustration: topiary work at levens hall.] these hedge-rows were an english fashion seen in hertfordshire and suffolk. on commons and reclaimed land they took the place of the quickset hedges seen around richer farm lands. the bending and interlacing was called plashing; the polling, shrouding. english farmers and gardeners paid infinite attention to their hedges, both as a protection to their fields and as a means of firewood. there is something very pleasant in the thought that these english gentlemen who settled eastern long island, the gardiners, sylvesters, coxes, and others, retained on their farm lands in the new world the customs of their english homes, pleasanter still to know that their descendants for centuries kept up these homely farm fashions. the old hedge-rows on long island are an historical record, a landmark--long may they linger. on some of the finest estates on the island they have been carefully preserved, to form the lower boundary of a garden, where, laid out with a shaded, grassy walk dividing it from the flower beds, they form the loveliest of garden limits. planted skilfully with great art to look like great nature, with edging of elder and wild rose, with native vines and an occasional congenial garden ally, they are truly unique. [illustration: oval pergola at arlington.] yew was used for the most famous english hedges; and as neither yew nor holly thrive here--though both will grow--i fancy that is why we have ever had in comparison so few hedges, and have really no very ancient ones, though in old letters and account books we read of the planting of hedges on fine estates. george washington tried it, so did adams, and jefferson, and quincy. osage orange, barberry, and privet were in nurserymen's lists, but it has not been till within twenty or thirty years that privet has become so popular. in southern gardens, cypress made close, good garden hedges; and cedar hedges fifty or sixty years old are seen. lilac hedges were unsatisfactory, save in isolated cases, as the one at indian hill. the japan quinces, and other of the japanese shrubs, were tried in hedges in the mid-century, with doubtful success as hedges, though they form lovely rows of flowering shrubs. snowballs and snowberries, flowering currant, altheas, and locust, all have been used for hedge-planting, so we certainly have tried faithfully enough to have hedges in america. locust hedges are most graceful, they cannot be clipped closely. i saw one lovely creation of locust, set with an occasional rose acacia--and the locust thus supported the brittle acacia. if it were successful, it would be, when in bloom, a dream of beauty. hemlock hedges are ever fine, as are hemlock trees everywhere, but will not bear too close clipping. other evergreens, among them the varied spruces, have been set in hedges, but have not proved satisfactory enough to be much used. [illustration: french homestead with old stone terrace, kingston, rhode island.] buckthorn was a century ago much used for hedges and arches. when josiah quincy, president of harvard college, was in congress in , he obtained from an english gardener, in georgetown, buckthorn plants for hedges in his massachusetts home, which hedges were an object of great beauty for many years. the traveller kalm found privet hedges in pennsylvania in . in scotland privet is called primprint. primet and primprivet were other old names. box was called primpe. these were all derivative of prim, meaning precise. our privet hedges, new as they are, are of great beauty and satisfaction, and soon will rival the english yew hedges. i have never yet seen the garden in which there was not some boundary or line which could be filled to advantage by a hedge. in garden great or garden small, the hedge should ever have a place. often a featureless garden, blooming well, yet somehow unattractive, has been completely transformed by the planting of hedges. they seem, too, to give such an orderly aspect to the garden. in level countries hedges are specially valuable. i cannot understand why some denounce clipped hedges and trees as against nature. a clipped hedge is just as natural as the cut grass of a lawn, and is closely akin to it. others think hedges "too set"; to me their finality is their charm. hedges need to be well kept to be pleasing. chaucer in his day in praising a "hegge" said that:-- "every branche and leaf must grow by mesure pleine as a bord, of an height by and by." in england, hedge-clipping has ever been a gardening art. [illustration: italian garden at wellesley, massachusetts.] in the old english garden the topiarist was an important functionary. besides his clipping shears he had to have what old-time cooks called _judgment_ or _faculty_. in english gardens many specimens of topiary work still exist, maintained usually as relics of the past rather than as a modern notion of the beautiful. the old gardens at levens hall, page , contain some of the most remarkable examples. in a few old gardens in america, especially in southern towns, traces of the topiary work of early years can be seen; these overgrown, uncertain shapes have a curious influence, and the sentiment awakened is beautifully described by gabriele d' annunzio:-- "we walked among evergreens, among ancient box trees, laurels, myrtles, whose wild old age had forgotten its early discipline. in a few places here and there was some trace of the symmetrical shapes carved once upon a time by the gardener's shears, and with a melancholy not unlike his who searches on old tombstones for the effigies of the forgotten dead, i noted carefully among the silent plants those traces of humanity not altogether obliterated." the height of topiary art in america is reached in the lovely garden, often called the italian garden, of hollis h. hunnewell, esq., at wellesley, massachusetts. vernon lee tells in her charming essay on "italian gardens" of the beauty of gardens without flowers, and this garden of mr. hunnewell is an admirable example. though the effect of the black and white of the pictured representations shown on these pages is perhaps somewhat sombre, there is nothing sad or sombre in the garden itself. the clear gleam of marble pavilions and balustrades, the formal rows of flower jars with their hundreds of century plants, and the lovely light on the lovely lake, serve as a delightful contrast to the clear, clean lusty green of the clipped trees. this garden is a beautiful example of the art of the topiarist, not in its grotesque forms, but in the shapes liked by lord bacon, pyramids, columns, and "hedges in welts," carefully studied to be both stately and graceful. i first saw this garden thirty years ago; it was interesting then in its well thought-out plan, and in the perfection of every inch of its slow growth; but how much more beautiful now, when the garden's promise is fulfilled. [illustration: steps in italian garden at wellesley, massachusetts.] the editor of _country life_ says that the most notable attempt at modern topiary work in england is at ascott, the seat of mr. leopold de rothschild, but the examples there have not attained a growth at all approaching those at wellesley. mr. hunnewell writes thus of his garden:-- "it was after a visit to elvaston nearly fifty years ago that i conceived the idea of making a collection of trees for topiary work in imitation of what i had witnessed at that celebrated estate. as suitable trees for that purpose could not be obtained at the nurseries in this country, and as the english yew is not reliable in our new england climate, i was obliged to make the best selection possible from such trees as had proved hardy here--the pines, spruces, hemlocks, junipers, arbor-vitæ, cedars, and japanese retinosporas. the trees were all very small, and for the first twenty years their growth was shortened twice annually, causing them to take a close and compact habit, comparing favorably in that respect with the yew. many of them are now more than forty feet in height and sixty feet in circumference, the hemlocks especially proving highly successful." this beautiful example of art in nature is ever open to visitors, and the number of such visitors is very large. it is, however, but one of the many beauties of the great estate, with its fine garden of roses, its pavilion of splendid rhododendrons and azaleas, its uncommon and very successful rock garden, and its magnificent plantation of rare trees. there are also many rows of fine hedges and arches in various portions of the grounds, hedges of clipped cedar and hemlock, many of them twenty feet high, which compare well in condition, symmetry, and extent with the finest english hedges on the finest english estates. [illustration: topiary work in california.] through the great number of formal gardens laid out within a few years in america, the topiary art has had a certain revival. in california, with the lavish foliage, it may be seen in considerable perfection, though of scant beauty, as here shown. [illustration: serpentine brick wall at university of virginia, charlottesville.] happy is the garden surrounded by a brick wall or with terrace wall of brick. how well every color looks by the side of old brick; even scarlet, bright pink, and rose-pink flowers, which seem impossible, do very well when held to the wall by clear green leaves. flowering vines are perfect when trained on old soft-red brick enclosing walls; white-flowered vines are specially lovely thereon, clematis, white roses, and the rarely beautiful white wistaria. how lovely is my virgin's-bower when growing on brick; how hollyhocks stand up beside it. brick posts, too, are good in a fence, and, better still, in a pergola. a portion of the fine terrace wall at van cortlandt manor is shown facing page . this wall was put in about fifty years ago; ere that there had been a grass bank, which is ever a trial in a garden; for it is hard to mow the grass on such a bank, and it never looks neat; it should be planted with some vine. a very curious garden wall is the serpentine brick wall still standing at the university of virginia, at charlottesville. it is about seven feet high, and closes in the garden and green of the row of houses occupied by members of the faculty; originally it may have extended around the entire college grounds. i present a view from the street in order to show its contour distinctly; within the garden its outlines are obscured by vines and flowers. the first thought in the mind of the observer is that its reason for curving is that it could be built much more lightly, and hence more cheaply, than a straight wall; then it seems a possible idealization in brick of the old virginia rail fence. but i do not look to domestic patterns and influences for its production; it is to me a good example of the old-time domination of french ideas which was so marked and so disquieting in america. in france, after the peace of , the marquis de geradin was revolutionizing gardening. his own garden at ermenonville and his description of it exercised important influence in england and america, as in france. jefferson was the planner and architect of the university of virginia; and it is stated that he built this serpentine wall. whether he did or not, it is another example of french influences in architecture in the united states. this french school, above everything else, replaced straight lines with carefully curving and winding lines. chapter xx a moonlight garden "how sweetly smells the honeysuckle in the hush'd night, as if the world were one of utter peace and love and gentleness." --walter savage landor gardens fanciful of name, a saint's garden, a friendship garden, have been planted and cherished. i plant a garden like none other; not an everyday garden, nor indeed a garden of any day, but a garden for "brave moonshine," a garden of twilight opening and midnight bloom, a garden of nocturnal blossoms, a garden of white blossoms, and the sweetest garden in the world. it is a garden of my dreams, but i know where it lies, and it now is smiling back at this very harvest moon. the old house of hon. ben. perley poore--indian hill--at newburyport, massachusetts, has been for many years one of the loveliest of new england's homes. during his lifetime it had extraordinary charms, for on the noble hillside, where grew scattered in sunny fields and pastures every variety of native tree that would winter new england's snow and ice, there were vast herds of snow-white cows, and flocks of white sheep, and the splendid oxen were white. white pigeons circled in the air around ample dove-cotes, and the farmyard poultry were all white; an enthusiastic chronicler recounts also white peacocks on the wall, but these are also denied. on every side were old terraced walls covered with roses and flowering vines, banked with shrubs, and standing in beds of old-time flowers running over with bloom; but behind the house, stretching up the lovely hillside, was the garden, and when we entered it, lo! it was a white garden with edgings of pure and seemly white candytuft from the forcing beds, and flowers of spring snowflake and star of bethlehem and jonquils; and there were white-flowered shrubs of spring, the earliest spiræas and deutzias; the doubled-flowered cherries and almonds and old favorites, such as peter's wreath, all white and wonderfully expressive of a simplicity, a purity, a closeness to nature. i saw this lovely farmstead and radiant white garden first in glowing sunlight, but far rarer must have been its charm in moonlight; though the white beasts (as english hinds call cattle) were sleeping in careful shelter; and the white dog, assured of their safety, was silent; and the white fowl were in coop and cote; and "only the white sheep were sometimes seen to cross the strips of moon-blanch'd green." but the white garden, ah! then the garden truly lived; it was like lightest snow wreaths bathed in silvery moonshine, with every radiant flower adoring the moon with wide-open eyes, and pouring forth incense at her altar. and it was peopled with shadowy forms shaped of pearly mists and dews; and white night moths bore messages for them from flower to flower--this garden then was the garden of my dreams. thoreau complained to himself that he had not put duskiness enough into his words in his description of his evening walks. he longed to have the peculiar and classic severity of his sentences, the color of his style, tell his readers that his scene was laid at night without saying so in exact words. i, too, have not written as i wished, by moonlight; i can tell of moonlight in the garden, but i desire more; i want you to see and feel this moonlight garden, as did emily dickinson her garden by moonlight:-- "and still within the summer's night a something so transporting bright i clap my hands to see." but perhaps i can no more gather it into words than i can bottle up the moonlight itself. this lovely garden, varied in shape, and extending in many and diverse directions and corners, bears as its crown a magnificent double flower border over seven hundred feet long; with a broad straight path trimly edged with box adown through its centre, and with a flower border twelve feet wide on either side. this was laid out and planted in by the parents of major poore, after extended travel in england, and doubtless under the influences of the beautiful english flower gardens they had seen. its length was originally broken halfway up the hill and crowned at the top of the hill by some formal parterres of careful design, but these now are removed. there are graceful arches across the path, one of honeysuckle on the crown of the hill, from which you look out perhaps into paradise--for indian hill in june is a very close neighbor to paradise; it is difficult to define the boundaries between the two, and to me it would be hard to choose between them. standing in this arch on this fair hill, you can look down the long flower borders of color and perfume to the old house, lying in the heart of the trees and vines and flowers. to your left is the hill-sweep, bearing the splendid grove, an arboretum of great native trees, planted by major poore, and for which he received the prize awarded by his native state to the finest plantation of trees within its bounds. turn from the house and garden, and look through this frame of vines formed by the arch upon this scene,--the loveliest to me of any on earth,--a fair new england summer landscape. fields of rich corn and grain, broken at times with the gray granite boulders which show what centuries of grand and sturdy toil were given to make these fertile fields; ample orchards full of promise of fruit; placid lakes and mill-dams and narrow silvery rivers, with low-lying red brick mills embowered in trees; dark forests of sombre pine and cedar and oak; narrow lanes and broad highways shaded with the livelier green of elm and maple and birch; gray farm-houses with vast barns; little towns of thrifty white houses clustered around slender church-spires which, set thickly over this sunny land, point everywhere to heaven, and tell, as if speaking, the story of new england's past, of her foundation on love of god, just as the fields and orchards and highways speak of thrift and honesty and hard labor; and the houses, such as this of indian hill, of kindly neighborliness and substantial comfort; and as this old garden speaks of a love of the beautiful, a refinement, an æsthetic and tender side of new england character which _we_ know, but into which--as mr. underwood says in _quabbin_, that fine study of new england life--"strangers and kiplings cannot enter." seven hundred feet of double flower border, fourteen hundred feet of flower bed, twelve feet wide! "it do swallow no end of plants," says the gardener. [illustration: chestnut path in garden at indian hill.] in spite of the banishing dictum of many artists in regard to white flowers in a garden, the presence of ample variety of white flowers is to me the greatest factor in producing harmony and beauty both by night and day. white seems to be as important a foil in some cases as green. it may sometimes be given to the garden in other ways than through flower blossoms, by white marble statues, vases, pedestals, seats. we all like the approval of our own thoughts by men of genius; with my love of white flowers i had infinite gratification in these words of walter savage landor's, written from florence in regard to a friend's garden:-- "i like white flowers better than any others; they resemble fair women. lily, tuberose, orange, and the truly english syringa are my heart's delight. i do not mean to say that they supplant the rose and violet in my affections, for these are our first loves, before we grew _too fond of considering_; and too fond of displaying our acquaintance with others of sounding titles." in japan, where flowers have rank, white flowers are the aristocrats. i deem them the aristocrats in the gardens of the occident also. having been informed of tennyson's dislike of white flowers, i have amused myself by trying to discover in his poems evidence of such aversion. i think one possibly might note an indifference to white blossoms; but strong color sense, his love of ample and rich color, would naturally make him name white infrequently. a pretty line in _walking to the mail_ tells of a girl with "a skin as clean and white as privet when it flowers"; and there were white lilies and roses and milk-white acacias in maud's garden. in _the last tournament_ the street-ways are depicted as hung with white samite, and "children sat in white," and the dames and damsels were all "white-robed in honor of the stainless child." a "swarthy one" cried out at last:-- "the snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year, would make the world as blank as wintertide. come!--let us gladden their sad eyes with all the kindlier colors of the field. so dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast variously gay.... so dame and damsel cast the simple white, and glowing in all colors, the live grass, rose-campion, king-cup, bluebell, poppy, glanced about the revels." [illustration: foxgloves in lower garden at indian hill.] in the garden borders is a commonplace little plant, gray of foliage, with small, drooping, closed flowers of an indifferently dull tint, you would almost wonder at its presence among its gay garden fellows. let us glance at it in the twilight, for it seems like the twilight, a soft, shaded gray; but the flowers have already lifted their heads and opened their petals, and they now seem like the twilight clouds of palest pink and lilac. it is the night-scented stock, and lavishly through the still night it pours forth its ineffable fragrance. a single plant, thirty feet from an open window, will waft its perfume into the room. this white stock was a favorite flower of marie antoinette, under its french name the julienne. "night violets," is its appropriate german name. hesperis! the name shows its habit. dame's rocket is our title for this cheerful old favorite of may, which shines in such snowy beauty at night, and throws forth such a compelling fragrance. it is rarely found in our gardens, but i have seen it growing wild by the roadside in secluded spots; not in ample sheets of growth like bouncing bet, which we at first glance thought it was; it is a shyer stray, blossoming earlier than comely betsey. the old-fashioned single, or slightly double, country pink, known as snow pink or star pink, was often used as an edging for small borders, and its bluish green, almost gray, foliage was quaint in effect and beautiful in the moonlight. when seen at night, the reason for the folk-name is evident. last summer, on a heavily clouded night in june, in a cottage garden at west hampton, borders of this snow pink shone out of the darkness with a phosphorescent light, like hoar-frost, on every grassy leaf; while the hundreds of pale pink blossoms seemed softly shining stars. it was a curious effect, almost wintry, even in midsummer. the scent was wafted down the garden path, and along the country road, like a concentrated essence, rather than a fleeting breath of flowers. one of these cottage borders is shown on page , and i have named it from these lines from _the garden that i love_:-- "a running ribbon of perfumed snow which the sun is melting rapidly." at sundown the beautiful white day lily opens and gives forth all night an overwhelming sweetness; i have never seen night moths visiting it, though i know they must, since a few seed capsules always form. in the border stand-- "clumps of sunny phlox that shine at dusk, and grow more deeply sweet." these, with white petunias, are almost unbearably cloying in their heavy odor. it is a curious fact that some of these night-scented flowers are positively offensive in the daytime; try your _nicotiana affinis_ next midday--it outpours honeyed sweetness at night, but you will be glad it withholds its perfume by day. the plants of nicotiana were first introduced to england for their beauty, sweet scent, and medicinal qualities, not to furnish smoke. parkinson in writes of tobacco, "with us it is cherished for medicinal qualities as for the beauty of its flowers," and gerarde, in , after telling of the beauty, etc., says that the dried leaves are "taken in a pipe, set on fire, the smoke suckt into the stomach, and thrust forth at the noshtrils." snake-root, sometimes called black cohosh (_cimicifuga racemosa_), is one of the most stately wild flowers, and a noble addition to the garden. a picture of a single plant gives little impression of its dignity of habit, its wonderfully decorative growth; but the succession of pure white spires, standing up several feet high at the edge of a swampy field, or in a garden, partake of that compelling charm which comes from tall trees of slender growth, from repetition and association, such as pine trees, rows of bayonets, the gathered masts of a harbor, from stalks of corn in a field, from rows of foxglove--from all "serried ranks." i must not conceal the fact of its horrible odor, which might exile it from a small garden. [illustration: dame's rocket.] among my beloved white flowers, a favorite among those who are all favorites, is the white columbine. some are double, but the common single white columbines picture far better the derivation of their name; they are like white doves, they seem almost an emblematic flower. william morris says:-- "be very shy of double flowers; choose the old columbine where the clustering doves are unmistakable and distinct, not the double one, where they run into mere tatters. don't be swindled out of that wonder of beauty, a single snowdrop; there is no gain and plenty of loss in the double one." there are some extremists, such as dr. forbes watson, who condemn all double flowers. one thing in the favor of double blooms is that their perfume is increased with their petals. double violets, roses, and pinks seem as natural now as single flowers of their kinds. i confess a distinct aversion to the thought of a double lilac. i have never seen one, though the ranoncule, said to be very fine, costs but forty cents a plant, and hence must be much grown. [illustration: snake-root.] there is a curious influence of flower-color which i can only explain by giving an example. we think of iris, gladiolus, lupine, and even foxglove and poppy as flowers of a warm and vivid color; so where we see them a pure white, they have a distinct and compelling effect on us, pleasing, but a little eerie; not a surprise, for we have always known the white varieties, yet not exactly what we are wonted to. this has nothing of the grotesque, as is produced by the albino element in the animal world; it is simply a trifle mysterious. white pansies and white violets possess this quality to a marked degree. i always look and look again at growing white violets. a friend says: "do you think they will speak to you?" for i turn to them with such an expectancy of something. the "everlasting" white pea is a most satisfactory plant by day or night. hedges covered with it are a pure delight. do not fear to plant it with liberal hand. be very liberal, too, in your garden of white foxgloves. even if the garden be small, there is room for many graceful spires of the lovely bells to shine out everywhere, piercing up through green foliage and colored blooms of other plants. they are not only beautiful, but they are flowers of sentiment and association, endeared to childhood, visited of bees, among the best beloved of old-time favorites. they consort well with nearly every other flower, and certainly with every other color, and they seem to clarify many a crudely or dingily tinted flower; they are as admirable foils as they are principals in the garden scheme. in england, where they readily grow wild, they are often planted at the edge of a wood, or to form vistas in a copse. i doubt whether they would thrive here thus planted, but they are admirable when set in occasional groups to show in pure whiteness against a hedge. i say in occasional groups, for the foxglove should never be planted in exact rows. the white iris, the iris of the florentine orris-root, is one of the noblest plants of the whole world; its pure petals are truly hyaline like snow-ice, like translucent white glass; and the indescribably beautiful drooping lines of the flowers are such a contrast with the defiant erectness of the fresh green leaves. small wonder that it was a sacred flower of the greeks. it was called by the french _la flambe blanche_, a beautiful poetic title--the white torch of the garden. a flower of mystery, of wonderment to children, was the evening primrose; i knew the garden variety only with intimacy. possibly the wild flower had similar charms and was equally weird in the gloaming, but it grew by country roadsides, and i was never outside our garden limits after nightfall, so i know not its evening habits. we had in our garden a variety known as the california evening primrose--a giant flower as tall as our heads. my mother saw its pale yellow stars shining in the early evening in a cottage garden on cape ann, and was there given, out of the darkness, by a fellow flower lover, the seeds which have afforded to us every year since so much sentiment and pleasure. the most exquisite description of the evening primrose is given by margaret deland in her _old garden_:-- "there the primrose stands, that as the night begins to gather, and the dews to fall, flings wide to circling moths her twisted buds, that shine like yellow moons with pale cold glow, and all the air her heavy fragrance floods, and gives largess to any winds that blow. here in warm darkness of a night in june, ... children came to watch the primrose blow. silently they stood hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around, and saw her slyly doff her soft green hood and blossom--with a silken burst of sound." [illustration: the title-page of parkinson's _paradisi in solis_, etc.] the wild primrose opens slowly, hesitatingly, it trembles open, but the garden primrose flares open. the evening primrose is usually classed with sweet-scented flowers, but that exact observer, e. v. b., tells of its "repulsive smell. at night if the stem be shaken, or if the flower-cup trembles at the touch of a moth as it alights, out pours the dreadful odor." i do not know that any other garden flower opens with a distinct sound. owen meredith's poem, _the aloe_, tells that the aloe opened with such a loud explosive report that the rooks shrieked and folks ran out of the house to learn whence came the sound. the tall columns of the yucca or adam's needle stood like shafts of marble against the hedge trees of the indian hill garden. their beautiful blooms are a miniature of those of the great century plant. in the daytime the yucca's blossoms hang in scentless, greenish white bells, but at night these bells lift up their heads and expand with great stars of light and odor--a glorious plant. around their spire of luminous bells circle pale night moths, lured by the rich fragrance. even by moonlight we can see the little white detached fibres at the edge of the leaves, which we are told the mexican women used as thread to sew with. and we children used to pull off the strong fibres and put them in a needle and sew with them too. when i see those yuccas in bloom i fully believe that they are the grandest flowers of our gardens; but happily, i have a short garden memory, so i mourn not the yucca when i see the _anemone japonica_ or any other noble white garden child. [illustration: yucca, like white marble against the evergreens.] here at the end of the garden walk is an arbor dark with the shadow of great leaves, such as gerarde calls "leaves round and big like to a buckler." but out of that shadowed background of leaf on leaf shine hundreds of pure, pale stars of sweetness and light,--a true flower of the night in fragrance, beauty, and name,--the moon-vine. it is a flower of sentiment, full of suggestion. did you ever see a ghost in a garden? i do so wish i could. if i had the placing of ghosts, i would not make them mope round in stuffy old bedrooms and garrets; but would place one here in this arbor in my moonlight garden. but if i did, i have no doubt she would take up a hoe or a watering-pot, and proceed to do some very unghostlike deed--perhaps, grub up weeds. longfellow had a ghost in his garden (page ). he must have mourned when he found it was only a clothes-line and a long night-gown. it was the favorite tale of a swedish old lady who lived to be ninety-six years old, of a discovery of her youth, in the year , of strange flashes of light which sparkled out of the flowers of the nasturtium one sultry night. i suppose the average young woman of the average education of the day and her country might not have heeded or told of this, but she was the daughter of linnæus, the great botanist, and had not the everyday education. then great goethe saw and wrote of similar flashes of light around oriental poppies; and soon other folk saw them also--naturalists and everyday folk. usually yellow flowers were found to display this light--marigolds, orange lilies, and sunflowers. then the daughter of linnæus reported another curious discovery; she certainly turned her nocturnal rambles in her garden to good account. she averred she had set fire to a certain gas which formed and hung around the fraxinella, and that the ignition did not injure the plant. this assertion was met with open scoffing and disbelief, which has never wholly ceased; yet the popular name of gas plant indicates a widespread confidence in this quality of the fraxinella and it is easily proved true. another new england name for the fraxinella, given me from the owner of the herb-garden at elmhurst, is "spitfire plant," because the seed-pods sizzle so when a lighted match is applied to them. the fraxinella is a sturdy, hardy flower. there are some aged plants in old new england gardens; i know one which has outlived the man who planted it, his son, grandson, and great-grandson. the fraxinella bears a tall stem with larkspur-like flowers of white or a curious dark pink, and shining ash-like leaves, whence its name, the little ash. it is one of the finest plants of the old-fashioned garden; fine in bloom, fine in habit of growth, and it even has decorative seed vessels. it is as ready of scent as anything in the garden; if you but brush against leaf, stem, flower, or seed, as you walk down the garden path, it gives forth a penetrating perfume, that you think at first is like lemon, then like anise, then like lavender; until you finally decide it is like nothing save fraxinella. as with the blossoms of the calycanthus shrub, you can never mistake the perfume, when once you know it, for anything else. it is a scent of distinction. through this individuality it is, therefore, full of associations, and correspondingly beloved. [illustration: fraxinella.] chapter xxi flowers of mystery "let thy upsoaring vision range at large this garden through: for so by ray divine kindled, thy ken a magic flight shall mount." --cary's translation of dante. bogies and fairies, a sense of eeriness, came to every garden-bred child of any imagination in connection with certain flowers. these flowers seemed to be regarded thus through no special rule or reason. with some there may have been slight associations with fairy lore, or medicinal usage, or a hint of meretriciousness. sometimes the child hardly formulated his thought of the flower, yet the dread or dislike or curiosity existed. my own notions were absolutely baseless, and usually absurd. i doubt if we communicated these fancies to each other save in a few cases, as of the monk's-hood, when we had been warned that the flower was poisonous. i have read with much interest dr. forbes watson's account of plants that filled his childish mind with mysterious awe and wonder; among them were the spurge, henbane, rue, dogtooth violet, nigella, and pink marsh mallow. the latter has ever been to me one of the most cheerful of blossoms. i did not know it in my earliest childhood, and never saw it in gardens till recent years. it is too close a cousin of the hollyhock ever to seem to me aught but a happy flower. henbane and rue i did not know, but i share his feeling toward the others, though i could not carry it to the extent of fancying these the plants which a young man gathered, distilled, and gave to his betrothed as a poison. there has ever been much uncanny suggestion in the cypress spurge. i never should have picked it had i found it in trim gardens; but i saw it only in forlorn and neglected spots. perhaps its sombre tinge may come now from association, since it is often seen in country graveyards; and i heard a country woman once call it "graveyard ground pine." but this association was not what influenced my childhood, for i never went then to graveyards. in driving along our new england roads i am ever reminded of parkinson's dictum that "spurge once planted will hardly be got rid out again." for by every decaying old house, in every deserted garden, and by the roadside where houses may have been, grows and spreads this cypress spurge. i know a large orchard in narragansett from which grass has wholly vanished; it has been crowded out by the ugly little plant, which has even invaded the adjoining woods. i wonder why every one in colonial days planted it, for it is said to be poisonous in its contact to some folks, and virulently poisonous to eat--though i am sure no one ever wanted to eat it. the colonists even brought it over from england, when we had here such lovely native plants. it seldom flowers. old new england names for it are love-in-a-huddle and seven sisters; not over significant, but of interest, as folk-names always are. i join with dr. forbes watson in finding the nigella uncanny. it has a half-spidery look, that seems ungracious in a flower. its names are curious: love-in-a-mist, love-in-a-puzzle, love-in-a-tangle, puzzle-love, devil-in-a-bush, katherine-flowers--another of the many allusions to st. katherine and her wheel; and the persistent styles do resemble the spokes of a wheel. a name given it in a cottage garden in wayland was blue spider-flower, which seems more suited than that of spiderwort for the tradescantia. spiderwort, like all "three-cornered" flowers, is a flower of mystery; and so little cared for to-day that it is almost extinct in our gardens, save where it persists in out-of-the-way spots. a splendid clump of it is here shown, which grows still in the worcester garden i so loved in my childhood. in this plant the old imagined tracings of spider's legs in the leaves can scarce be seen. with the fanciful notion of "like curing like" ever found in old medical recipes, gerarde says, vaguely, the leaves are good for "the bite of that great spider," a creature also of mystery. perhaps if the clear blue flowers kept open throughout the day, the spiderwort would be more tolerated, for this picture certainly has a japanesque appearance, and what we must acknowledge was far more characteristic of old-time flowers than of many new ones, a wonderful individuality; there was no sameness of outline. i could draw the outline of a dozen blossoms of our modern gardens, and you could not in a careless glance distinguish one from the other: cosmos, _anemone japonica_, single dahlias, and sunflowers, gaillardia, gazanias, all such simple rose forms. [illustration: love-in-a-mist.] there was a quaint and mysterious annual in ancient gardens, called shell flower, or molucca balm, which is not found now even on seedsmen's special lists of old-fashioned plants. the flower was white, pink-tipped, and set in a cup-shaped calyx an inch long, which was bigger than the flower itself. the plant stood two or three feet high, and the sweet-scented flowers were in whorls of five or six on a stem. it is a good example of my assertion that the old flowers had queerer shapes than modern ones, and were made of queer materials; the calyx of this shell flower is of such singular quality and fibre. the dog-tooth violet always had to me a sickly look, but its leaves give it its special offensiveness; all spotted leaves, or flower petals which showed the slightest resemblance to the markings of a snake or lizard, always filled me with dislike. among them i included lungwort (pulmonaria), a flower which seems suddenly to have disappeared from many gardens, even old-fashioned ones, just as it has disappeared from medicine. not a gardener could be found in our public parks in new york who had ever seen it, or knew it, though there is in prospect park a well-filled and noteworthy "old-fashioned garden." let me add, in passing, that nothing in the entire park system--greenhouses, water gardens, italian gardens--affords such delight to the public as this old-fashioned garden. the changing blue and pink flowers of the lungwort, somewhat characteristic of its family, are curious also. this plant was also known by the singular name of joseph-and-mary; the pink flowers being the emblem of joseph; the blue of the blessed virgin mary. lady's-tears was an allied name, from a legend that the virgin mary's tears fell on the leaves, causing the white spots to grow in them, and that one of her blue eyes became red from excessive weeping. it was held to be unlucky even to destroy the plant. soldier-and-his-wife also had reference to the red and blue tints of the flower. a cousin of the lungwort, our native _mertensia virginica_, has in the young plant an equally singular leafage; every ordinary process of leaf progress is reversed: the young shoots are not a tender green, but are almost black, and change gradually in leaf, stem, and flower calyx to an odd light green in which the dark color lingers in veins and spots until the plant is in its full flower of tender blue, lilac, and pink. "blue and pink ladies" we used to call the blossoms when we hung them on pins for a fairy dance. the alstroemeria is another spotted flower of the old borders, curious in its funnel-shaped blooms, edged and lined with tiny brown and green spots. it is more grotesque than beautiful, but was beloved in a day that deemed the tiger lily the most beautiful of all lilies. [illustration: spiderwort.] the aversion i feel for spotted leaves does not extend to striped ones, though i care little for variegated or striped foliage in a garden. i like the striped white and green leaves of one variety of our garden iris, and of our common sweet flag (calamus), which are decorative to a most satisfactory degree. the firm ribbon leaves of the striped sweet flag never turn brown in the driest summer, and grow very tall; a tub of it kept well watered is a thing of surprising beauty, and the plants are very handsome in the rock garden. i wonder what the bees seek in the leaves! they throng its green and white blades in may, finding something, i am sure, besides the delightful scent; though i do not note that they pierce the veins of the plant for the sap, as i have known them to do along the large veins of certain palm leaves. i have seen bees often act as though they were sniffing a flower with appreciation, not gathering honey. the only endeared striped leaf was that of the striped grass--gardener's garters we called it. clumps of it growing at van cortlandt manor are here shown. we children used to run to the great plants of striped grass at the end of the garden as to a toy ribbon shop. the long blades of grass looked like some antique gauze ribbons. they were very modish for dolls' wear, very useful to shape pin-a-sights, those very useful things, and very pretty to tie up posies. under favorable circumstances this garden child might become a garden pest, a spreading weed. i never saw a more curious garden stray than an entire dooryard and farm garden--certainly two acres in extent, covered with striped grass, save where a few persistent tiger lilies pierced through the striped leaves. even among the deserted hearthstones and tumble-down chimneys the striped leaves ran up among the roofless walls. let me state here that the suggestion of mystery in a flower did not always make me dislike it; sometimes it added a charm. the periwinkle--ground myrtle we used to call it--was one of the most mysterious and elusive flowers i knew, and other children thus regarded it; but i had a deep affection for its lovely blue stars and clean, glossy leaves, a special love, since it was the first flower i saw blooming out of doors after a severe illness, and it seemed to welcome me back to life. [illustration: gardener's garters, at van cortlandt manor.] the name is from the french pervenche, which suffers sadly by being changed into the clumsy periwinkle. everywhere it is a flower of mystery; it is the "violette des sorciers" of the french. sadder is its tuscan name, "flower of death," for it is used there as garlands at the burial of children; and is often planted on graves, just as it is here. a far happier folk-name was joy-of-the-ground, and to my mind better suited to the cheerful, healthy little plant. an ancient medical manuscript gives this description of the periwinkle, which for directness and lucidity can scarcely be excelled:-- "parwyke is an erbe grene of colour, in tyme of may he bereth blue flour. ye lef is thicke, schinede and styf, as is ye grene jwy lefe. vnder brod and uerhand round, men call it ye joy of grownde." on the list of the boston seedsman (given on page _et seq._) is venus'-navelwort. i lingered this summer by an ancient front yard in marblehead, and in the shade of the low-lying gray-shingled house i saw a refined plant with which i was wholly unacquainted, lying like a little dun cloud on the border, a pleasing plant with cinereous foliage, in color like the silvery gray of the house, shaded with a bluer tint and bearing a dainty milk-white bloom. this modest flower had that power of catching the attention in spite of the high and striking colors of its neighbors, such as a simple gown of gray and white, if of graceful cut and shape, will have among gay-colored silk attire--the charm of quaker garb, even though its shape be ugly. you know how ready is the owner of such a garden to talk of her favorites, and soon i was told that this plant was "navy-work." i accepted this name in this old maritime town as possibly a local folk-name, yet i was puzzled by a haunting memory of having heard some similar title. a later search in a botany revealed the original, venus'-navelwort. i deem it right to state in this connection that any such corruption of the old name of a flower is very unusual in massachusetts, where the english tongue is spoken by all of massachusetts descent in much purity of pronunciation. there is no doubt that all the flowers of the old garden were far more suggestive, more full of meaning, than those given to us by modern florists. this does not come wholly from association, as many fancy, but from an inherent quality of the flower itself. i never saw honeywort (cerinthe) till five years ago, and then it was not in an old-fashioned garden; but the moment i beheld the graceful, drooping flowers in the flower bed, the yellow and purple-toothed corolla caught my eye, as it caught my fancy; it seemed to mean something. i was not surprised to learn that it was an ancient favorite of colonial days. the leaves of honeywort are often lightly spotted, which may be one of its elements of mystery. honeywort is seldom seen even in our oldest gardens; but it is a beautiful flower and a most hardy annual, and deserves to be reintroduced. [illustration: garden walk at the manse, deerfield, massachusetts.] a great favorite in the old garden was the splendid scarlet lychnis, to which in new england is given the name of london pride. there are two old varieties: one has four petals with squared ends, and is called, from the shape of the expanded flower, the maltese cross; the other, called scarlet lightning, is shown on a succeeding page; it has five deeply-nicked petals. it is a flower of midsummer eve and magic power, and i think it must have some connection with the crusaders, being called by gerarde floure of jerusalem, and flower of candy. the five-petalled form is rarely seen; in one old family i know it is so cherished, and deemed so magic a home-maker, that every bride who has gone from that home for over a hundred years has borne away a plant of that london pride; it has really become a family pride. another plant of mysterious suggestion was the common plantain. this was not an unaided instinct of my childhood, but came to me through an explanation of the lines in the chapter, "the white man's foot," in _hiawatha_:-- "whereso'er they tread, beneath them springs a flower unknown among us; springs the white man's foot in blossom." after my father showed me the plantain as the "white man's foot," i ever regarded it with a sense of its unusual power; and i used often to wonder, when i found it growing in the grass, who had stepped there. i have permanently associated with the plantain or waybred a curious and distasteful trick of my memory. we recall our american humorist's lament over the haunting lines from the car-conductor's orders, which filled his brain and ears from the moment he read them, wholly by chance, and which he tried vainly to forget. a similar obsession filled me when i read the spirited apostrophe to the plantain or waybred, in cockayne's translation of Ælfric's _lacunga_, a book of leech-craft of the eleventh century:-- "and thou waybroad, mother of worts, over thee carts creaked, over thee queens rode, over thee brides bridalled, over thee bulls breathed, all these thou withstoodst, venom and vile things, and all the loathly things, that through the land rove." i could not thrust them out of my mind; worse still, i kept manufacturing for the poem scores of lines of similar metre. i never shall forget the plantain, it won't let me forget it. [illustration: london pride.] the orpine was a flower linked with tradition and mystery in england, there were scores of fanciful notions connected with it. it has grown to be a spreading weed in some parts of new england, but it has lost both its mystery and its flowers. the only bed of flowering orpine i ever saw in america was in the millyard of miller rose at kettle hole--and a really lovely expanse of bloom it was, broken only by old worn millstones which formed the doorsteps. he told with pride that his grandmother planted it, and "it was the flowering variety that no one else had in rhode island, not even in greenhouses in newport." miller rose ground corn meal and flour with ancient millstones, and infinitely better were his grindings than "store meal." he could tell you, with prolonged detail, of the new-fangled roller he bought and used one week, and not a decent johnny-cake could be made from the meal, and it shamed him. so he threw away all the meal he hadn't sold; and then the new machinery was pulled out and the millstones replaced, "to await the lord's coming," he added, being a second adventist--or by his own title a "christadelphian and an old bachelor." he was a famous preacher, having a pulpit built of heavy stones, in the woods near his mill. a little trying it was to hear the outpourings of his long sermons on summer afternoons, while you waited for him to come down from his pulpit and his prophesyings to give you your bag of meal. a tithing of time he gave each day to the lord, two hours and a half of preaching--and doubtless far more than a tithe of his income to the poor. in sentimental association with his name, he had a few straggling roses around his millyard--all old-time varieties; and, with orpine and sweetbrier, he could gather a very pretty posy for all who came to kettle hole. we constantly read of fritillaries in the river fields sung of matthew arnold. in a charming book of english country life, _idlehurst_, i read how closely the flower is still associated with oxford life, recalling ever the iffley and kensington meadows to all oxford men. the author tells that "quite unlikely sorts of men used to pick bunches of the flowers, and we would come up the towpath with our spoils." fritillaries grew in my mother's garden; i cannot now recall another garden in america where i have ever seen them in bloom. they certainly are not common. on a succeeding page are shown the blossoms of the white fritillary my mother planted and loved. can you not believe that we love them still? they have spread but little, neither have they dwindled nor died. each year they seem to us the very same blossoms she loved. our cyclopædias of gardening tell us that the fritillaries spread freely; but e. v. b. writes of them in her exquisite english: "slow in growth as the fritillaries are, they are ever sure. when they once take root, there they stay forever, with a constancy unknown in our human world. they may be trusted, however late their coming. in the fresh vigor of its youth was there ever seen any other flower planned so exquisitely, fashioned so slenderly! the pink symmetry of kalmia perhaps comes nearest this perfection, with the delicately curved and rounded angles of its bloom." in no garden, no matter how modern, could the fritillaries ever look to me aught but antique and classic. they are as essentially of the past, even to the careless eye, as an antique lamp or brazier. quaint, too, is the fabric of their coats, like some old silken stuff of paduasoy or sarsenet. all are checkered, as their name indicates. even the white flowers bear little birthmarks of checkered lines. they were among the famous dancers in my mother's garden, and i can tell you that a country dance of fritillaries in plaided kirtles and green caps is a lively sight. another name for this queer little flower is guinea-hen flower. gerarde, with his felicity of description, says:-- "one square is of a greenish-yellow colour, the other purple, keeping the same order as well on the back side of the flower as on the inside; although they are blackish in one square, and of a violet colour in another: in so much that every leafe (of the flower) seemeth to be the feather of a ginnie hen, whereof it took its name." a strong personal trait of the fritillaries (for i may so speak of flowers i love) is their air of mystery. they mean something i cannot fathom; they look it, but cannot tell it. fritillaries were a flower of significance even in elizabethan days. they were made into little buttonhole posies, and, as parkinson says, "worn abroad by curious lovers of these delights." in california grow wild a dozen varieties; the best known of these is recurved, but it does not droop, and is to all outward glance an anemone, and has lost in that new world much the mystery of the old herbalist's "checker lily," save the checkers; these always are visible. [illustration: white fritillaria.] the cyclamen and dodecatheon lay their ears back like a vicious horse. both have an eerie aspect, as if turned upside down, as has also the nightshade. i knew a little child, a flower lover from babyhood, who feared to touch the cyclamen, and even cried if any attempt was made to have her touch the flower. when older, she said that she had feared the flower would sting her. i have often a sense of mysterious meaning in a vine, it seems so plainly to reach out to attract your attention. i recall once being seated on the doorstep of a deserted farm-house, musing a little over the sad thought of this lost home, when suddenly some one tapped me on the cheek--i suppose i ought to say some thing, though it seemed a human touch. it was a spray of matrimony vine, twenty feet long or more, that had reached around a corner, and helped by a breeze, had appealed to me for sympathy and companionship. i answered by following it around the corner. it had been trained up to a little shelf-like ledge or roof, over what had been a pantry window, and hung in long lines of heavy shade. it said to me: "here once lived a flower-loving woman and a man who cared for her comfort and pleasure. she planted me when she, and the man, and the house were young, and he made the window shelter, and trained me over it, to make cool and green the window where she worked. i was the symbol of their happy married love. see! there they lie, under the gray stone beneath those cedars. their children all are far away, but every year i grow fresh and green, though i find it lonely here now." to me, the matrimony vine is ever a plant of interest, and it may be very beautiful, if cared for. on page is shown the lovely growth on the porch at van cortlandt manor. with a sentiment of wonder and inquiry, not unmixed with mystery, do we regard many flowers, which are described in our botanies as garden escapes. this matrimony vine is one of the many creeping, climbing things that have wandered away from houses. honeysuckles and trumpet-vines are far travellers. i saw once in a remote and wild spot a great boulder surrounded with bushes and all were covered with the old coral or trumpet honeysuckle; it had such a familiar air, and yet seemed to have gained a certain knowingness by its travels. this element of mystery does not extend to the flowers which i am told once were in trim gardens, but which i have never seen there, such as ox-eye daisies, scotch thistles, chamomile, tansy, bergamot, yarrow, and all of the mint family; they are to me truly wild. but when i find flowers still cherished in our gardens, growing also in some wild spot, i regard them with wonder. a great expanse of coreopsis, a field of grape hyacinth or star of bethlehem, roadsides of coronilla or moneywort, rows of red day lily and tiger lily, patches of sunflowers or jerusalem artichokes, all are matters of thought; we long to trace their wanderings, to have them tell whence and how they came. bouncing bet is too cheerful and rollicking a wanderer to awaken sentiment. how gladly has she been welcomed to our fields and roadsides. i could not willingly spare her in our country drives, even to become again a cherished garden dweller. she rivals the succory in beautifying arid dust heaps and barren railroad cuts, with her tender opalescent pink tints. how wholesome and hearty her growth, how pleasant her fragrance. we can never see her too often, nor ever stigmatize her, as have been so many of our garden escapes, as "now a dreaded weed." [illustration: bouncing bet.] one of the weirdest of all flowers to me is the butter-and-eggs, the toad-flax, which was once a garden child, but has run away from gardens to wander in every field in the land. i haven't the slightest reason for this regard of butter-and-eggs, and i believe it is peculiar to myself, just as is dr. forbes watson's regard of the marshmallow to him. i have no uncanny or sad associations with it, and i never heard anything "queer" about it. thirty years ago, in a locality i knew well in central massachusetts, butter-and-eggs was far from common; i even remember the first time i saw it and was told its quaint name; now it grows there and everywhere; it is a persistent weed. john burroughs calls it "the hateful toad-flax," and old manasseh cutler, in a curious mixture of compliment and slur, "a common, handsome, tedious weed." it travels above ground and below ground, and in some soils will run out the grass. it knows how to allure the bumblebee, however, and has honey in its heart. i think it a lovely flower, though it is queer; and it is a delight to the scientific botanist, in the delicate perfection of its methods and means of fertilization. the greatest beauty of this flower is in late autumn, when it springs up densely in shaven fields. i have seen, during the last week in october, fields entirely filled with its exquisite sulphur-yellow tint, one of the most delicate colors in nature; a yellow that is luminous at night, and is rivalled only by the pale yellow translucent leaves of the moosewood in late autumn, which make such a strange pallid light in old forests in the north--a light which dominates over every other autumn tint, though the trees which bear them are so spindling and low, and little noted save in early spring in their rare pinkness, and in this their autumn etherealization. and the moosewood shares the mystery of the butter-and-eggs as well as its color. i should be afraid to drive or walk alone in a wood road, when the moosewood leaves were turning yellow in autumn. i shall never forget them in dublin, new hampshire, driving through what our delightful yankee charioteer and guide called "only a cat-road." this was to me a new use of the word cat as a prænomen, though i knew, as did dr. holmes and hosea biglow, and every good new englander, that "cat-sticks" were poor spindling sticks, either growing or in a load of cut wood. i heard a country parson say as he regarded ruefully a gift of a sled load of firewood, "the deacon's load is all cat-sticks." of course a cat-stick was also the stick used in the game of ball called tip-cat. myself when young did much practise another loved ball game, "one old cat," a local favorite, perhaps a local name. "cat-ice," too, is a good old new england word and thing; it is the thin layer of brittle ice formed over puddles, from under which the water has afterward receded. if there lives a new englander too old or too hurried to rejoice in stepping upon and crackling the first "cat-ice" on a late autumn morning, then he is a man; for no new england girl, a century old, could be thus indifferent. it is akin to rustling through the deep-lying autumn leaves, which affords a pleasure so absurdly disproportioned and inexplicable that it is almost mysterious. some of us gouty ones, alas! have had to give up the "cat-slides" which were also such a delight; the little stretches of glare ice to which we ran a few steps and slid rapidly over with the impetus. but i must not let my new england folk-words lure me away from my subject, even on a tempting "cat-slide." [illustration: overgrown garden at llanerck, pennsylvania.] though garden flowers run everywhere that they will, they are not easily forced to become wild flowers. we hear much of the pleasure of sowing garden seeds along the roadside, and children are urged to make beautiful wild gardens to be the delight of passers-by. alphonse karr wrote most charmingly of such sowings, and he pictured the delight and surprise of country folk in the future when they found the choice blooms, and the confusion of learned botanists in years to come. the delight and surprise and confusion would have been if any of his seeds sprouted and lived! a few years ago a kindly member of our united states congress sent to me from the vast seed stores of our national agricultural department, thousands of packages of seeds of common garden flowers to be given to the poor children in public kindergartens and primary schools in our great city. the seeds were given to hundreds of eager flower lovers, but starch boxes and old tubs and flower pots formed the limited gardens of those irish and italian children, and the government had sent to me such "hats full, sacks full, bushel-bags full," that i was left with an embarrassment of riches. i sent them to narragansett and amused myself thereafter by sowing several pecks of garden seeds along the country roadsides; never, to my knowledge, did one seed live and produce a plant. i watched eagerly for certain plantings of poppies, candytuft, morning-glories, and even the indomitable portulaca; not one appeared. i don't know why i should think i could improve on nature; for i drove through that road yesterday and it was radiant with wild rose bloom, white elder, and meadow beauty; a combination that thoreau thought and that i think could not be excelled in a cultivated garden. above all, these are the right things in the right place, which my garden plants would not have been. i am sure that if they had lived and crowded out these exquisite wild flowers i should have been sorry enough. [illustration: fountain at yaddo.] the hardy colchicum or autumnal crocus is seldom seen in our gardens; nor do i care for its increase, even when planted in the grass. it bears to me none of the delight which accompanies the spring crocus, but seems to be out of keeping with the autumnal season. rising bare of leaves, it has but a seminatural aspect, as if it had been stuck rootless in the ground like the leafless, stemless blooms of a child's posy bed. its english name--naked boys--seems suited to it. the colchicum is associated in my mind with the indian pipe and similar growths; it is curious, but it isn't pleasing. as the indian pipe could not be lured within garden walls, i will not write of it here, save to say that no one could ever see it growing in its shadowy home in the woods without yielding to its air of mystery. it is the weirdest flower that grows, so palpably ghastly that we feel almost a cheerful satisfaction in the perfection of its performance and our own responsive thrill, just as we do in a good ghost story. [illustration: avenue of white pines at wellesley, mass., the country-seat of hollis h. hunnewell, esq.] many wild flowers which we have transplanted to our gardens are full of magic and charm. in some, such as thyme and elder, these elements come from english tradition. in other flowers the quality of mystery is inherent. in childhood i absolutely abhorred bloodroot; it seemed to me a fearsome thing when first i picked it. i remember well my dismay, it was so pure, so sleek, so innocent of face, yet bleeding at a touch, like a murdered man in the blood ordeal. the trillium, wake-robin, is a wonderful flower. i have seen it growing in a luxuriance almost beyond belief in lonely canadian forests on the laurentian mountains. at this mining settlement, so remote that it was unvisited even by the omnipresent and faithful canadian priest, was a wealth of plant growth which seemed fairly tropical. the starry flowers of the trillium hung on long peduncles, and the two-inch diameter of the ordinary blossom was doubled. the painted trillium bore rich flowers of pink and wine color, and stood four or five feet from the ground. i think no one had ever gathered their blooms, for there were no women in this mining camp save a few french-indian servants and one irish cook, and no educated white woman had ever been within fifty, perhaps a hundred, miles of the place. every variety of bloom seemed of exaggerated growth, but the trillium exceeded all. an element of mystery surrounds this plant, a quality which appertains to all "three-cornered" flowers; perhaps there may be some significance in the three-sided form. i felt this influence in the extreme when in the presence of this canadian trillium, so much so that i was depressed by it when wandering alone even in the edge of the forest; and when by light o' the moon i peered in on this forest garden, it was like the vision of a troop of trembling white ghosts, stimulating to the fancy. it was but a part of the whole influence of that place, which was full of eerie mystery. for after the countless eons of time during which "the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the earth," the waters at last were gathered together and dry land appeared. and that dry land which came up slowly out of the face of the waters was this laurentian range. and when at god's command "on the third day" the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielded seed--lo, among the things which were good and beautiful there shone forth upon the earth the first starry flowers of the white trillium. chapter xxii roses of yesterday "each morn a thousand roses brings, you say; yes, but where leaves the rose of yesterday?" --_rubaiyat of omar khayyam_, translated by edward fitzgerald, . the answer can be given the persian poet that the rose of yesterday leaves again in the heart. the subtle fragrance of a rose can readily conjure in our minds a dream of summers past, and happy summers to come. many a flower lover since chaucer has felt as did the poet:-- "the savour of the roses swote me smote right to the herte rote." the old-time roses possess most fully this hidden power. sweetest of all was the old cabbage rose--called by some the provence rose--for its perfume "to be chronicled and chronicled, and cut and chronicled, and all-to-be-praised." its odor is perfection; it is the standard by which i compare all other fragrances. it is not too strong nor too cloying, as are some rose scents; it is the idealization of that distinctive sweetness of the rose family which other roses have to some degree. the color of the cabbage rose is very warm and pleasing, a clear, happy pink, and the flower has a wholesome, open look; but it is not a beautiful rose by florists' standards,--few of the old roses are,--and it is rather awkward in growth. the cabbage rose is said to have been a favorite in ancient rome. i wish it had a prettier name; it is certainly worthy one. the hundred-leaved rose was akin to the cabbage rose, and shared its delicious fragrance. in its rather irregular shape it resembled the present duke of sussex rose. one of the rarest of old-time roses in our gardens to-day is the red and white mottled york and lancaster. it is as old as the sixteenth century. shakespeare writes in the _sonnets_:-- "the roses fearfully in thorns did stand one blushing shame, another white despair. a third, nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both." they are what chaucer loved, "sweitie roses red, brode, and open also." roses of a broad, flat expanse when in full bloom; they have a cheerier, heartier, more gracious look than many of the new roses that never open far from bud, that seem so pinched and narrow. what ineffable fragrance do they pour out from every wide-open flower, a fragrance that is the very spirit of the oriental attar of roses; all the sensuous sweetness of the attar is gone, and only that which is purest and best remains. i believe, in thinking of it, that it equals the perfume of the cabbage rose, which, ere now, i have always placed first. this york and lancaster rose is the _rosa mundi_,--the rose of the world. a fine plant is growing in hawthorne's old home in salem. [illustration: violets in silver double coaster.] opposite page is an unusual depiction of the century-old york and lancaster rose still growing and flourishing in the old garden at van cortlandt manor. it is from one of the few photographs which i have ever seen which make you forgive their lack of color. the vigor, the grace, the richness of this wonderful rose certainly are fully shown, though but in black and white. i have called this rose bush a century old; it is doubtless much older, but it does not seem old; it is gifted with everlasting youth. we know how the persians gather before a single plant in flower; they spread their rugs, and pray before it; and sit and meditate before it; sip sherbet, play the lute and guitar in the moonlight; bring their friends and stand as in a vision, then talk in praises of it, and then all serenade it with an ode from hafiz and depart. so would i gather my friends around this lovely old rose, and share its beauty just as my friends at the manor-house share it with me; and as the persians, we would praise it in sunlight and by moonlight, and sing its beauty in verses. this york and lancaster rose was known to parkinson in his day; it is his _rosa versicolor_. i wonder why so few modern gardens contain this treasure. i know it does not rise to all the standards of the modern rose growers; but it possesses something better--it has a living spirit; it speaks of history, romance, sentiment; it awakens inspiration and thought, it has an ever living interest, a significance. i wonder whether a hundred years from now any one will stand before some crimson rambler, which will then be ancient, and feel as i do before this york and lancaster goddess. [illustration: york and lancaster rose.] the fragrance of the sweetest roses--the damask, the cabbage, the york and lancaster--is beyond any other flower-scent, it is irresistible, enthralling; you cannot leave it. you can push aside a syringa, a honeysuckle, even a mignonette, but there is a magic something which binds you irrevocably to the rose. i have never doubted that the rose has some compelling quality shared not by other flowers. i know not whether it comes from centuries of establishment as a race-symbol, or from some inherent witchery of the plant, but it certainly exists. the variety of roses known to old american gardens, as to english gardens, was few. the english eglantine was quickly established here in gardens and spread to roadsides. the small, ragged, cheerful little cinnamon rose, now chiefly seen as a garden stray, is undoubtedly old. this rose diffuses its faint "sinamon smelle" when the petals are dried. nearly all of the roses vaguely thought to be one or two hundred years old date only, within our ken, to the earlier years of the nineteenth century. the seven sisters rose, imagined by the owner of many a southern garden to belong to colonial days, is one of the family _rosa multiflora_, introduced from japan to england by thunberg. its catalogue name is greville. i think the seven sisters dates back to . the clusters of little double blooms of the seven sisters are not among our beautiful roses, but are planted by the house mistress of every southern home from power of association, because they were loved by her grandmothers, if not by more distant forbears. the crimson boursaults are no older. they came from the swiss alps and therefore are hardy, but they are fussy things, needing much pruning and pulling out. i recall that they had much longer prickles than the other roses in our garden. the beloved little banksia rose came from china in . the madame plantier is a hybrid china rose of much popularity. we have had it about seventy or eighty years. in the lovely garden of mrs. mabel osgood wright, author of _flowers and trees in their haunts_, i saw, this spring, a giant madame plantier which had over five thousand buds, and which could scarcely be equalled in beauty by any modern roses. its photograph gives scant idea of its size. what gratitude we have in spring to the sweetbrier! how early in the year, from sprouting branch and curling leaf, it begins to give forth its pure odor! gracious and lavish plant, beloved in scent by every one, you have no rival in the spring garden with its pale perfumes. the sweetbrier and shakespeare's musk rose (_rosa moschata_) are said to be the only roses that at evening pour forth their perfume; the others are what bacon called "fast of their odor." the june rose, called by many the hedgehog rose, was, i think, the first rose of summer. a sturdy plant, about three feet in height; set thick with briers, it well deserved its folk name. the flowers opened into a saucer of richest carmine, as fragrant as an american beauty, and the little circles of crimson resembling the _rosa rugosa_ were seen in every front dooryard. [illustration: cinnamon roses.] in the walpole garden from whence came to us our beloved ambrosia, was an ample box-edged flower bed which my mother and the great-aunt called the rosery. one cousin, now living, recalls with distinctness its charms in ; for it was beautiful, though the vast riches of the rose-world of china and japan had not reached it. there grew in it, he remembers, yellow scotch roses, sweetbrier (or eglantine), cinnamon roses, white scotch roses, damask roses, blush roses, dog roses (the canker-bloom of shakespeare), black roses, burgundy roses, and moss roses. the last-named sensitive creatures, so difficult to rear with satisfaction in such a climate, found in this rosery by the river-side some exact fitness of soil or surroundings, or perhaps of fostering care, which in spite of the dampness and the constant tendency of all moss roses to mildew, made them blossom in unrivalled perfection. i remember their successors, deplored as much inferior to the roses of , and they were the finest moss roses i ever saw blooming in a garden. an amusing saying of some of the village passers-by (with smaller gardens and education) showed the universal acknowledgment of the perfection of these roses. these people thought the name was morse roses and always thus termed them, fancying they were named for the family for whom the flowers bloomed in such beauty and number. among the other roses named by my cousin i recall the white scotch rose, sometimes called also the burnet-leaved rose. it was very fragrant, and was often chosen for a sunday posy. there were both single and double varieties. the blush rose (_rosa alba_), known also as maiden's blush, was much esteemed for its exquisite color; it could be distinguished readily by the glaucous hue of the foliage, which always looked like the leaves of artificial roses. it was easily blighted; and indeed we must acknowledge that few of the old roses were as certain as their sturdy descendants. the damask rose was the only one ever used in careful families and by careful housekeepers for making rose-water. there was a velvet rose, darker than the damask and low-growing, evidently the same rose. both showed plentiful yellow stamens in the centres, and had exquisite rich dark leaves. the old black rose of the rosery was so suffused with color-principle, so "color-flushing," that even the wood had black and dark red streaks. its petals were purple-black. the burgundy rose was of the cabbage rose family; its flowers were very small, scarce an inch in diameter. there were two varieties: the one my cousin called little burgundy had clear dark red blossoms; the other, white with pink centres. both were low-growing, small bushes with small leaves. they are practically vanished roses--wholly out of cultivation. we had other tiny roses; one was a lovely little rose creature called a fairy rose. i haven't seen one for years. as i recall them, the rose plants were never a foot in height, and had dainty little flower rosettes from a quarter to half an inch in diameter set in thick clusters. but the recalled dimensions of youth vary so when seen actually in the cold light of to-day that perhaps i am wrong in my description. this was also called a pony rose. this fairy rose was not the polyantha which also has forty or fifty little roses in a cluster. the single polyantha rose looks much like its cousin, the blackberry blossom. another small rose was the garland rose. this was deemed extremely elegant, and rightfully so. it has great corymbs of tiny white blossoms with tight little buff buds squeezing out among the open roses. another old favorite was the rose of four seasons--known also by its french name, _rose de quartre saisons_--which had occasional blooms throughout the summer. it may have been the foundation of our hybrid perpetual roses. the bourbon roses were vastly modish; their round smooth petals and oval leaves easily distinguish them from other varieties. among the several hundred things i have fully planned out to do, to solace my old age after i have become a "centurion," is a series of water-color drawings of all these old-time roses, for so many of them are already scarce. the michigan rose which covered the arches in mr. seward's garden, has clusters of deep pink, single, odorless flowers, that fade out nearly white after they open. it is our only native rose that has passed into cultivation. from it come many fine double-flowered roses, among them the beautiful baltimore belle and queen of the prairies, which were named about by a baltimore florist called feast. all its vigorous and hardy descendants are scentless save the gem of the prairies. it is one of the ironies of plant-nomenclature when we have so few plant names saved to us from the picturesque and often musical speech of the american indians, that the lovely cherokee rose, indian of name, is a chinese rose. it ought to be a native, for everywhere throughout our southern states its pure white flowers and glossy evergreen leaves love to grow till they form dense thickets. people who own fine gardens are nowadays unwilling to plant the old "summer roses" which bloom cheerfully in their own rose-month and then have no more blossoming till the next year; they want a remontant rose, which will bloom a second time in the autumn, or a perpetual rose, which will give flowers from june till cut off by the frost. but these latter-named roses are not only of fine gardens but of fine gardeners; and folk who wish the old simple flower garden which needs no highly-skilled care, still are happy in the old summer roses i have named. [illustration: cottage garden with roses.] a rose hedge is the most beautiful of all garden walls and the most ancient. professor koch says that long before men customarily surrounded their gardens with walls, that they had rose hedges. he tells us that each of the four great peoples of asia owned its own beloved rose, carried in all wanderings, until at last the four became common to all races of men. indo-germanic stock chose the hundred-leaved red rose, _rosa gallica_ (the best rose for conserves). _rosa damascena_, which blooms twice a year, and the musk rose were cherished by the semitic people; these were preferred for attar of roses and rose water. the yellow rose, _rosa lutea_, or persian rose, was the flower of the turkish mongolian people. eastern asia is the fatherland of the indian and tea roses. the rose has now become as universal as sunlight. even in iceland and lapland grows the lovely _rosa nitida_. we say these roses are common to all peoples, but we have never in america been able to grow yellow roses in ample bloom in our gardens. many that thrive in english gardens are unknown here. the only yellow garden rose common in old gardens was known simply as the "old yellow rose," or scotch rose, but it came from the far east. in a few localities the yellow eglantine was seen. the picturesque old custom of paying a rose for rent was known here. in manheim, pennsylvania, stands the zion lutheran church, which was gathered together by baron william stiegel, who was the first glass and iron manufacturer of note in this country. he came to america in , with a fortune which would be equal to-day to a million dollars, and founded and built and named manheim. he was a man of deep spiritual and religious belief, and of profound sentiment, and when in he gave the land to the church, this clause was in the indenture:-- "yielding and paying therefor unto the said henry william stiegel, his heirs or assigns, at the said town of manheim, in the month of june yearly, forever hereafter, the rent of _one red rose_, if the same shall be lawfully demanded." nothing more touching can be imagined than the fulfilment each year of this beautiful and symbolic ceremony of payment. the little town is rich in roses, and these are gathered freely for the church service, when one red rose is still paid to the heirs of the sainted old baron, who died in , broken in health and fortunes, even having languished in jail some time for debt. a new church was erected on the site of the old one in , and in a beautiful memorial window the decoration of the red rose commemorates the sentiment of its benefactor. the rose tavern, in the neighboring town of bethlehem, stands on land granted for the site of a tavern by william penn, for the yearly rental of one red rose. in england the payment of a rose as rent was often known. the bishop of ely leased ely house in to sir christopher hatton, queen elizabeth's handsome lord chancellor, for a red rose to be paid on midsummer day, ten loads of hay and ten pounds per annum, and he and his episcopal successors reserved the right of walking in the gardens and gathering twenty bushels of roses yearly. in france there was a feudal right to demand a payment of roses for the making of rose water. two of our great historians, george bancroft and francis parkman, were great rose-growers and rose-lovers. i never saw mr. parkman's rose garden, but i remember mr. bancroft's well; the tea roses were especially beautiful. mr. bancroft's rose garden in its earliest days had no rivals in america. the making of potpourri was common in my childhood. while the petals of the cabbage rose were preferred, all were used. recipes for making potpourri exist in great number; i have seen several in manuscript in old recipe books, one dated . the old ones are much simpler than the modern ones, and have no strong spices such as cinnamon and clove, and no bergamot or mints or strongly scented essences or leaves. the best rules gave ambergris as one of the ingredients; this is not really a perfume, but gives the potpourri its staying power. there is something very pleasant in opening an old china jar to find it filled with potpourri, even if the scent has wholly faded. it tells a story of a day when people had time for such things. i read in a letter a century and a half old of a happy group of people riding out to the house of the provincial governor of new york; all gathered rose leaves in the governor's garden, and the governor's wife started the distilling of these rose leaves, in her new still, into rose water, while all drank syllabubs and junkets--a pretty watteau-ish scene. the hips of wild roses are a harvest--one unused in america in modern days, but in olden times they were stewed with sugar and spices, as were other fruits. sauce saracen, or sarzyn, was made of rose hips and almonds pounded together, cooked in wine and sweetened. i believe they are still cooked by some folks in england, but i never heard of their use in america save by one person, an elderly irish woman on a farm in narragansett. plentiful are the references and rules in old cookbooks for cooking rose hips. parkinson says: "hippes are made into a conserve, also a paste like licoris. cooks and their mistresses know how to prepare from them many fine dishes for the table." gerarde writes characteristically of the sweetbrier, "the fruit when it is ripe maketh most pleasant meats and banqueting dishes, as tarts and such-like; the making whereof i commit to the cunning cooke, and teeth to eat them in the rich man's mouth." children have ever nibbled rose hips:-- "i fed on scarlet hips and stony haws-- hard fare, but such as boyish appetite disdains not." the rose bush furnished another comestible for the children's larder, the red succulent shoots of common garden and wild roses. these were known by the dainty name of "brier candy," a name appropriate and characteristic, as the folk-names devised by children frequently are. [illustration: madame plantier rose.] on the post-road in southern new hampshire stands an old house, which according to its license was once "improved" as a tavern, and was famous for its ghost and its roses. the tavern was owned by a family of two brothers and two sisters, all unmarried, as was rather a habit in the mason family; though when any of the tribe did marry, a vast throng of children quickly sprung up to propagate the name and sturdy qualities of the race. the men were giants, and both men and women were hard-working folk of vast endurance and great thrift, and, like all of that ilk in new england, they prospered and grew well-to-do; great barns and out-buildings, all well filled, stretched down along the roadside below the house. joseph mason could lay more feet of stone wall in a day, could plough more land, chop down more trees, pull more stumps, than any other man in new hampshire. his sisters could bake and brew, make soap, weed the garden, spin and weave, unceasingly and untiringly. their garden was a source of purest pleasure to them, as well as of hard work; its borders were so stocked with medicinal herbs that it could supply a township; and its old-time flowers furnished seeds and slips and bulbs to every other garden within a day's driving distance; but its glory was a garden side to gladden the heart of omar khayyam, where two or three acres of ground were grown over heavily with old-fashioned roses. these were only the common cinnamon rose, the beloved cabbage rose, and a pale pink, spicily scented, large-petalled, scarcely double rose, known to them as the apothecaries' rose. farmer-neighbors wondered at this waste of the masons' good land in this unprofitable rose crop, but it had a certain use. there came every june to this rose garden all the children of the vicinity, bearing milk-pails, homespun bags, birch baskets, to gather rose petals. they nearly all had roses at their homes, but not the mason roses. these rose leaves were carried carefully to each home, and were packed in stone jars with alternate layers of brown or scant maple sugar. soon all conglomerated into a gummy, brown, close-grained, not over alluring substance to the vision, which was known among the children by the unromantic name of "rose tobacco." this cloying confection was in high repute. it was chipped off and eaten in tiny bits, and much treasured--as a love token, or reward of good behavior. the mason house was a tavern. it was not one of the regular stopping-places on the turnpike road, being rather too near the town to gather any travel of teamsters or coaches; but passers-by who knew the house and the masons loved to stop there. everything in the well-kept, well-filled house and barns contributed to the comfort of guests, and it was known that the masons cared more for the company of the traveller than for his pay. there was a shadow on this house. the youngest of the family, hannah, had been jilted in her youth, "shabbed" as said the country folks. after several years of "constant company-keeping" with the son of a neighbor, during which time many a linen sheet and tablecloth, many a fine blanket, had been spun and woven, and laid aside with the tacit understanding that it was part of her wedding outfit, the man had fallen suddenly and violently in love with a girl who came from a neighboring town to sing a single sunday in the church choir. he had driven to her home the following week, carried her off to a parson in a third town, married her, and brought her to his home in a triumph of enthusiasm and romance, which quickly fled before the open dislike and reprehension of his upright neighbors, who abhorred his fickleness, and before the years of ill health and ill temper of the hard-worked, faded wife. many children were born to them; two lived, sickly little souls, who, unconscious of the blemish on their parents' past, came with the other children every june, and gathered rose leaves under hannah mason's window. hannah mason was called crazy. after her desertion she never entered any door save that of her own home, never went to a neighbor's house either in time of joy or sorrow; queerer still, never went to church. all her life, her thoughts, her vast strength, went into hard work. no labor was too heavy or too formidable for her. she would hetchel flax for weeks, spin unceasingly, and weave on a hand loom, most wearing of women's work, without thought of rest. no single household could supply work for such an untiring machine, especially when all labored industriously--so work was brought to her from the neighbors. not a wedding outfit for miles around was complete without one of hannah mason's fine tablecloths. every corpse was buried in one of her linen shrouds. sailmakers and boat-owners in portsmouth sent up to her for strong duck for their sails. lads went up to dartmouth college in suits of her homespun. many a teamster on the road slept under hannah mason's heavy gray woollen blankets, and his wagon tilts were covered with her canvas. her bank account grew rapidly--she became rich as fast as her old lover became poor. but all this cast a shadow on the house. sojourners would waken and hear throughout the night some steady sound, a scratching of the cards, a whirring of the spinning-wheel, the thump-thump of the loom. some said she never slept, and could well grow rich when she worked all night. [illustration: sun-dial and roses at van cortlandt manor.] at last the woman who had stolen her lover--the poor, sickly wife--died. the widower, burdened hopelessly with debts, of course put up in her memory a fine headstone extolling her virtues. one wakeful night, with a sentiment often found in such natures, he went to the graveyard to view his proud but unpaid-for possession. the grass deadened his footsteps, and not till he reached the grave did there rise up from the ground a tall, ghostly figure dressed all in undyed gray wool of her own weaving. it was hannah mason. "hannah," whimpered the widower, trying to take her hand,--with equal thought of her long bank account and his unpaid-for headstone,--"i never really loved any one but you." she broke away from him with an indescribable gesture of contempt and dignity, and went home. she died suddenly four days later of pneumonia, either from the shock or the damp midnight chill of the graveyard. as months passed on travellers still came to the tavern, and the story began to be whispered from one to another that the house was haunted by the ghost of hannah mason. strange sounds were heard at night from the garret where she had always worked; most plainly of all could be heard the whirring of her great wool wheel. when this rumor reached the brothers' ears, they determined to investigate the story and end it forever. that night their vigil began, and soon the sound of the wheel was heard. they entered the garret, and to their surprise found the wheel spinning round. then joseph mason went to the garret and seated himself for closer and more determined watch. he sat in the dark till the wheel began to revolve, then struck a sudden light and found the ghost. a great rat had run out on the spoke of the wheel and when he reached the broad rim had started a treadmill of his own--which made the ghostly sound as it whirred around. soon this rat grew so tame that he would come out on the spinning-wheel in the daytime, and several others were seen to run around in the wheel as if it were a pleasant recreation. the old brick house still stands with its great grove of sugar maples, but it is silent, for the masons all sleep in the graveyard behind the church high up on the hillside; no travellers stop within the doors, the ghost rats are dead, the spinning-wheel is gone, but the garden still blossoms with eternal youth. though children no longer gather rose leaves for rose tobacco, the "roses of yesterday" bloom every year; and each june morn, "a thousand blossoms with the day awake," and fling their spicy fragrance on the air. index abbotsford, ivy from, ; sun-dial from, , . achillæa, . aconite, . acrelius, dr., quoted, . adam's needle. _see_ yucca. adlumia, . agapanthus, . ageratum, as edging, , . ague-weed, . akers, elizabeth, quoted, . alcott, a. b., cited, . alka, . alleghany vine. _see_ adlumia. allen, james lane, quoted, . almond, flowering, , , . aloe, . alpine strawberries, . alstroemeria, . alyssum, sweet, - , ; yellow, . ambrosia, , _et seq._ _anemone japonica_, , . annunzio, g. d', quoted, . apple betty, . apple butter, - . apple frolic, _et seq._ apple hoglin, . apple-luns, . apple mose, . apple moy, . apple paring, . apple pie, . apple sauce, . apple slump, . apple stucklin, . apple tansy, . aquilegia, . arabis, . arbors, . arbutus, trailing, , , . arches, , , . arch-herbs, . arethusa, _et seq._, , _et seq._ arlington, pergola at, . arnold, matthew, quoted, , . ascott, sun-dial at, . asters, , . athol porridge, . azalea, . baby's breath, . bachelor's buttons, , , , . back-yard, flowers in, . bacon-and-eggs, . bacon, lord, cited, - , , , . balloon flower. _see_ _platycodon grandiflorum_. balloon vine, - . balsams, . baltimore belle rose, . bancroft, george, rose garden of, . banksia rose, . bare-dames, . barney, major, landscape art of, . bartram, john, . basil, sweet, _et seq._ battle of princeton, . batty langley, cited, . bayberry, . beata beatrix, . beaver-tongue, - . beech, weeping, . bee-hives, , _et seq._ beekman, james, greenhouse of, . bee larkspur, , . bell-bind, , . bell flower, chinese or japanese. _see_ _platycodon grandiflorum_. belvoir castle, lunaria at, - . bergamot, . bergen homestead, garden of, . berkeley, bishop, apple trees of, - . bitter buttons. _see_ tansy. bitter-sweet, , . black cohosh, - . black roses, . bleeding-heart. _see_ dielytra. blind, herb-garden for, . bloodroot, , . bluebottles, . blue-eyed grass, - . blue-pipe tree, . blue roses, . blue sage, . blue spider-flower, . bluetops, . bluets, . blue-weed. _see_ viper's bugloss. blush roses, . bocconia. _see_ plume poppy. boneset, _et seq._ bosquets, . botrys. _see_ ambrosia. boulder, sun-dial mounted on, . bouncing bet, , . bourbon roses, . boursault roses, , . bowers, . bowling greens, . bowne, eliza southgate, diary of, . box. _see_ chapter iv.; also , , , , , , , , . break-your-spectacles, . brecknock hall, box at, - . bricks for edging, , ; for walls, - , _et seq._ brier candy, . british soldiers, graves of, _et seq._ broom. _see_ woad-waxen. broughton castle, box sun-dial at, , . brown, dr. john, cited, . browne, sir thomas, quoted, . brunelle. _see_ prunella. buck-thorn, , . bulbs, . burgundy roses, , , . burnet, . burnet-leaved rose, . burroughs, j., quoted, , - . burying-grounds, box in, ; dogwood in, ; thyme in, ; spurge in, . butter-and-eggs. _see_ toad-flax. buttercups, , , . cabbage rose, , , , , . calceolarias, . calopogon, . calycanthus, . cambridge university, sun-dial at, . camden, south carolina, gardens at, . camellia japonica, . camomile, . campanula, , . candy-tuft, as edging, . canker-bloom, . canterbury bells, , , , _et seq._ caraway, , . carnation, green, . catalpas, , , . cat-ice, . catnip, . cat road, . cat's-fancy, . cat-slides, . cat-sticks, . cedar hedges, . cedar of lebanon, . centaurea cyanus. _see_ bachelor's buttons. cerinthe. _see_ honeywort. charles i. sun-dials of, . charles ii. sun-dials of, . charlottesville, virginia, wall at, . charmilles, . chaucer, geoffrey, quoted, flowers of, . checkerberry, . checker lily. _see_ fritillaria. chenopodium botrys. _see_ ambrosia. cherokee rose, . cherry blossoms, , , . cheshire, connecticut, apple tree in, . chicory, _et seq._ chinese bell flower. _see_ _platycodon grandiflorum_. chionodoxa, . chore-girl, . christalan, statue of, , . chrysanthemums, . cider, manufacture of, _et seq._ cider soup, . cinnamon fern, . cinnamon roses, , . civet, . clair-voyées, . clare, john, quoted, , . claymont, virginia, garden at, , . claytonia, . clematis, jackmanni, . clove apple, . clover, . clover, italian, . codlins and cream, . cohosh. _see_ snakeroot. colchicum, . columbia, south carolina, gardens at, . columbine, , - . comfort apple, . concord, massachusetts, british dead at, ; sunday observance in, _et seq._ cooper, susan, quoted, . corchorus, . cornel, . cornelian rose, . cornuti, dr., list of plants, . corydalis, . costmary, - . covert walks, . cowslips, . cowslip mead, . crab apple trees, . craigie house, . crape myrtle, , . creeping jenny, . crocus, . crown imperial, ; _loquitur_, _et seq._ culpepper, n., cited, . cupid's car, . currant, flowering, . cyanus, . cyclamens, . cylindres, . cypress, . daffodil dell, . daffodils, _et seq._; . dahlias, _et seq._ daisies, . damask roses, , , . dames' rocket, . dandelion, , , - , . dante's garden, . deland, margaret, quoted, , , , . delphinum. _see_ larkspur. derby family, gardens of, - . deutzias, . devil-in-a-bush, . devil's-bit, . dialling, taught, . dicentra. _see_ dielytra. dickens, charles, sun-dial of, . dickinson, emily, quoted, , . dielytra, _et seq._ dill, , - . dodocatheon, . dog roses, . dogtooth violet, , . dogwood, . double buttercups, . double flowers, . douglas, gavin, quoted, . dovecotes in england, ; at shirley-on-james, _et seq._ draytons, garden of, . drumthwacket, garden at, _et seq._ drying apples, . dudgeon, - . dutch gardens, , _et seq._, _et seq._ dutchman's pipe, . dumbledore's delight, . dyer's weed. _see_ woad-waxen. egyptians, sun-dials of, . elder, . election day, lilacs bloom on, . elijah's chariot, . ely place, rental of, . emerson, r. w., quoted, , . endicott, governor, garden of, ; nursery of, ; bequest of woad-waxen, , ; sun-dial of, . erasmus quoted, . evening primrose, , , . everlasting pea, . fairbanks, jonathan, sun-dial of, , . fairies, charm to see, . fair-in-sight, . fairy roses, . fairy thimbles, . faneuil, andrew, glass house of, . fennel, , _et seq._ fitchburg, massachusetts, garden at jail, , . fitzgerald, edward, quoted, , . flag, sweet, striped, ; blue, . flagroot, _et seq._ flax, . flower closes, . flower de luce, _et seq._ flowering currant, . flower-of-death, . flower-of-prosperity, . flower toys, . flushing, long island, nurseries at, ; _et seq._, , _et seq._ fore court, . forget-me-not, . formal garden, _et seq._ forsythia, , , . forth rights, . fortune, robert, _et seq._ fountains, , - , , . fox, george, bequest of, ; at sylvester manor, . foxgloves, , . frankland, sir henry, . franklin cent, . fraxinella, . fringed gentian, , , . fritillaria, , , _et seq._ fuchsias, , . fugio bank note, , . fumitory, climbing, . funerals, in front yard, ; tansy at, _et seq._ funkias, . gardener's garters, . garden heliotrope, . garden of sentiment, . garden pink. _see_ pinks. garden, significance of name, . garden-viewing, . gardiner, grissel, . garland of julia, . garland roses, . garrets with herbs, . garth, . gas-plant. _see_ fraxinella. gate of yaddo, , ; at westover-on-james, , ; at bristol, rhode island, . gatherer of simples, . gaultheria, . gem of the prairies rose, . genista tinctoria. _see_ woad-waxen. geraniums, . germander, . germantown, pennsylvania, gardens at, , ; sun-dial at, _et seq._ ghosts in gardens, . gilly flowers, . ginger, wild, . _girls' life eighty years ago_, . glory-of-the-snow, . gnomon of sun-dial, _et seq._ goethe, cited, . goncourt, edmond de, quoted, , . gooseberries, , _et seq._ goosefoot, . gorse, , . grace church rectory, sun-dial of, , . grafting, . grape hyacinth, _et seq._ graveyard ground-pine, . green apples, _et seq._ green, color, , _et seq._ green galleries, . greenhouse, of james beekman, ; of t. hardenbrook, . ground myrtle, . groundsel, . guinea-hen flower, . gypsophila, . hair-dye, of box, . hampton court, box at, . hampton, garden at, , , , , . hancock garden, . hawdods, . hawthorn, , . hawthorne, nathaniel, quoted, , . headaches, . heart pea, . heather, , . hedgehog roses, . hedgerows, _et seq._, _et seq._ hedges, of box, ; of lilac, - , ; of privet, , ; of locust, . heliotrope, scent of, . hermerocallis. _see_ lemon lily. hemlock hedges, . henbane, . hepatica, . herbaceous border, _et seq._ herber, , . herbert, george, quoted, . herb twopence, . hermits, . herrick, flowers of, . hesperis, - . hiccough, . higginson, t. w., quoted, . hips of roses, . holly, . holmes, oliver wendell, quoted, , - , , , , . hollyhocks, , , , , _et seq._, . honesty. _see_ lunaria. honeyblob gooseberries, . honey, from thyme, ; in drinks, . honeysuckle, , , . honeywort, , . hood, quoted, - . hopewell, lilacs at, . houstonia, . howitt garden, . howitt, mary, quoted, , , . humming-birds, . hundred-leaved rose, , . hutchinson, governor, garden of, . hyacinths, . hydrangea, ; blue, ; at capetown, . hyssop, . iberis. _see_ candy-tuft. independence trees. _see_ catalpa. indian hill, , _et seq._ indian pipe, . indian plant names, _et seq._ innocence. _see_ houstonia. iris, . _see_ also flower de luce. italian gardens, _et seq._ jack-in-the-pulpit, . jacob's ladder, . james i., quoted, . japan, flowers from, , , , , . jenoffelins, . jewett, s. o., quoted, , . joepye-weed, _et seq._ johnson, dr. samuel, dial motto of, . jonquils, . joseph and mary, , . josselyn, john, quoted, _et seq._, . joy-of-the-ground, . judas tree, . june roses, . kalendars, . kalm, cited, , , . karr, alphonse, quoted, , , , . katherine flowers, . keats, cited, _et seq._ kiskatomas nut, . kiss-me-at-the-garden-gate, . kitchen door, . knots, described, _et seq._ labels, . labrador indians, sun-dials of, . laburnum, , , . ladies' delights, , _et seq._ lad's love. _see_ southernwood. lady's slipper, . lafayette, influence of, ; dial of, . lamb, charles quoted, . landor, walter savage, quoted, , - , , . larch, . larkspur, , , _et seq._ latin names, . lavender, , , . lavender cotton, , . lawns, , . lawson, william, quoted, . lebanon, cedar of, . lemon lily, , . lennox, lady, box sun-dial of, - . leucojum, - . lilacs, at hopkinton, , also - , _et seq._, . lilies, . linen, drying of, ; bleaching of, . linnæus, classification of, ; horologe of, - ; discovery of daughter of, _et seq._ liricon-fancy, . little burgundy rose, . live-forever. _see_ orpine. live oaks, . lobelia, , - . loch, . locust, as house friend, - ; blossoms sold, ; on long island, ; in narragansett, _et seq._; in a hedge, - . loggerheads, . lombardy poplars, . london pride, , . longfellow, quoted, ; garden of, , . lotus, . lovage-root, . love divination, with lilacs, ; with apples, _et seq._; with southernwood, . love-in-a-huddle, . love-in-a-mist, . love lies bleeding, . love philtres, _et seq._ lowell, j. r., quoted, - , , , . luck-lilac, . lunaria, , , _et seq._ lungwort, - . lupines, , , , _et seq._ lychnis. _see_ mullein pink; also london pride. lyre flower. _see_ dielytra. lyres, , . madame plantier rose, , , . magnolia-on-the-ashley, gardens at, . magnolias, , , - . maiden's blush roses, . maize, - . maltese cross, . manheim, rose for rent in, . maple, only celtic plant name, . marigolds, , , _et seq._ maritoffles, . markham, gervayse, cited, , , . marsh mallow, . marsh marigold, . marvell, andrew, quoted, , , . mather, cotton, quoted, , . matrimony vine, , - . mayflower, , , . maze, described, - ; in america, ; at sylvester manor, . meadow rue, - . meet-her-in-the-entry, kiss-her-in-the-buttery, . meeting-plant, . meet-me-at-the-garden-gate, . meredith, owen, quoted, . meresteads, . meridian lines, . mertensia, . michigan roses, , . mignonette, scent of, . milkweed silk, , . mills, for cider-making, . minnow-tansy, . mint family, - . miskodeed, . missionary plant, . mitchell, dr., disinterment of, _et seq._ mithridate, . moccasin flower, . mole cider, . molucca balm, - . money-in-both-pockets, _et seq._ moneywort, - . monkshood, , , . moon vine, - . moosewood, _et seq._ morning-glory, - . morristown, sun-dial at, , . morris, william, quoted, , . morse, s. b. f., lines on sun-dial motto, . mosquitoes, . moss roses, , , . mottoes on sun-dials, , , _et seq._ mountain fringe. _see_ adlumia. mount atlas cedar, . mount auburn cemetery, sun-dial at, . mount vernon, garden at, - ; sun-dial at, . mourning bride, , _et seq._ mulberries, . mullein pink, . musk roses, , . names, old english, _et seq._ naked boys, . napanock, garden at, - . naushon, gorse on, ; sun-dial at, . nemophila, . new amsterdam, flowers of, - . _new england's prospect_, . new england's rarities, . nicotiana, . nigella, , , . night-scented stock, - . nightshade, . night violets, . noon-marks, . none-so-pretty, . oak of jerusalem. _see_ ambrosia. obesity, cure for, . old man. _see_ southernwood. oleanders, , - . olitory, . open knots, - . ophir farm, sun-dial at, _et seq._ opyn-tide, meaning of, . orange lily, . orchard seats, . orpine, - . orris-root, . osage orange, , . ostrowskia, . "out-landish flowers," . oxeye daisies, introduction to america, . oxford, sun-dial at, . pansies, , . pappoose-root, . parkman, francis, rose garden of, . parley, peter, quoted, . parsons, t. w., on lilacs, . parterre, _et seq._ pastorius, father, . patagonian mint, - . patience, . paulownias, . peach blossoms, . peacocks, _et seq._ pear blossoms, scent of, . pedestals for sun-dials, _et seq._ pennsylvania, sun-dials in, _et seq._ penn, william, encouraged gardens, . peony, _et seq._ peppermint, as medicine, . pergolas, - , _et seq._ peristyle, . periwinkle, , _et seq._ perpetual roses, . persians, colors of, ; plant names of, ; flower love of, . persian lilac, . persian yellow rose, , . peter's wreath, - . petunias, , . phlox, , , , . piazzas, - . pig-nuts, . _pilgrim's progress_, quotations from, . pinckney, e. l., floriculture by, . pine at yaddo, . pink-of-my-joan, . pinks, as edgings, , , , , - . pippins, . plane trees in pliny's garden, . plantain, , - . plant-of-twenty-days, . _platycodon grandiflorum_, . playhouse apple tree, . pliny, quoted, , ; gardens of, - . plum blossoms, - . plume poppy, _et seq._ plymouth, massachusetts, early gardens at, . poet's narcissus, . pogonia, . poison ivy, . polling, of trees, . polyantha rose, . polyanthus, as edging, . pomander, . pomatum, - . pompeii, standards at, _et seq._ pond lily, . pony roses, . poppies, - , - , _et seq._, . pops, . portable dials, - . portulaca, - . potatoes, planted by raleigh, . potocka, countess, quoted, . pot-pourri, . preston garden, - , , , . prick-song plant. _see_ lunaria. primprint. _see_ privet. prince nurseries, _et seq._, . privet, , , , . provence roses, . prunella, - . prygmen, . pudding, . pulmonaria, - . pumps, old, - . pussy willows, , . puzzle-love, . pyrethrum, . _quabbin_, . queen anne, hatred of box, . queen's maries, bower of, . queen of the prairies rose, . quincy, josiah, . ragged robin, . ragged sailors, . rail fences, _et seq._ railings, . raleigh, sir walter, garden of, . rapin, rené, quoted, , ; on gardens, . red, influence of, . remontant roses, . rent, of a rose, _et seq._ _rescue of an old place_, cited, , . rhodes, cecil, garden of, . rhododendrons, , , , . ridgely garden, , , , . ring dials, . rock cress. _see_ arabis. rocket. _see_ dames' rocket. rose acacia, , . rose campion, , , . rose garden, at yaddo, _et seq._ rosemary, , , , . rose of four seasons, . rose of plymouth, . rose tavern, . rose tobacco, . rose-water, . rossetti, d. g., picture by, ; quoted, . roxbury waxwork. _see_ bittersweet. rue, , , _et seq_, . ruskin, john, quoted, , , , , . sabbatia, . saffron-tea, . sage, _et seq._ sag harbor, sun-dial at, . salpiglossis, . salt box house, . sand, in parterres, , . santolina. _see_ lavender cotton. sapson apples, - . sassafras, . satin-flower, _et seq._ sauce saracen, . scarlet lightning, . scilla, . scotch roses, , , . scott, sir walter, sun-dial of, , . scythes, . seeds, sale of, _et seq._ serpentine walls, . setwall. _see_ valerian. seven sisters, . seven sisters rose, . shade alleys, . shaded walks, . shakespeare border, _et seq._ sheep bones, as edgings, - . shelley, garden, . shell flower, - . shirley poppies, , . simples, . skepes, , _et seq._ slugs, in box, . smithsonian institution, sun-dials in, - . snakeroot, - . snapdragons, , . snowballs, . snowberry, . snowdrops, . snow in summer, . snow pink. _see_ pinks. soldier and his wife, . sops-o'-wine. _see_ sapson. sorrel, , , . south carolina, gardens of, . southernwood, , , _et seq._ southey, robert, quoted, . spenser, edmund, quoted, ; flowers of, , . spider-flower. _see_ love-in-a-mist. spiders in medicine, , . spiderwort, - . spiræas, . spitfire plant. _see_ fraxinella. spring beauty, . spring snowflake, , . spruce gum, . spurge, cypress, _et seq._ squirrel cups, . squirt, for water, . star of bethlehem, , . star pink. _see_ pink. statues in garden, , . stockton, richard, letter of, - . stones, for edging, . stonecrop, . stone walls, _et seq._ strawberry bush. _see_ calycanthus. striped grass, - . striped lily, . stuyvesant, peter, garden of, - . succory. _see_ chicory. summer-houses, . summer roses, . summer savory, . summer-sots, . sun-dials of box, , , , , _et seq._ sun-flowers, , . sunken gardens, - . sunshine bush, . swan river daisy, , . sweet alyssum. _see_ alyssum. sweet brier, , , , , , . sweet fern, . sweet flag, . sweet johns, . sweet marjoram, . sweet peas, , , . sweet rocket, . sweet shrub. _see_ calycanthus. sweet williams, , , _et seq._ sylvester manor, gardens at, _et seq._ syringas, . tansy, , _et seq._ tansy bitters, . tansy cakes, . tasmania, thistles in, . tea roses, , . telling the bees, . temperance reform, . tennyson, on blue, ; on white, - . thaxter, celia, cited, . thistles, in tasmania, . thomas, edith, quoted, . thoreau, h. d., quoted, , , , , , , , , . thoroughwort, _et seq._ thrift, sun-dials in, ; as edging, - . thyme, , , _et seq._ tiger lilies, , . toad-flax, _et seq._ tobacco. _see_ nicotiana. tongue-plant, - . topiary work in england, ; at wellesley, _et seq._; in california, . tradescantia. _see_ spiderwort. trailing arbutus, . traveller's rest, sun-dial at, , . tree arbors, , - . tree peony. _see_ peony. trillium, , , . trumpet vine, - . tuckahoe, box at, , . tudor gardens, . tudor place, garden at, . tulips, , , . turner, cited, , . tusser, thomas, quoted, . twopenny grass, . valerian, , _et seq._ van cortlandt manor, garden at, _et seq._ van cortlandt, pierre, . vancouver's island, . van der donck, adrian, quoted, - . velvet roses, . vendue, - . venus' navelwort, , - . versailles, box at, . victoria regia, - . vinca. _see_ periwinkle. viola tricolor, . violets, edgings of, ; in backyard, ; gallant grace of, ; scent of, , - . viper's bugloss, - . virginia allspice. _see_ calycanthus. virginia, sun-dials in, - ; rose-bowers in, ; lyres in, . virgin's bower. _see_ adlumia. wake robin. _see_ trillium. walden pond, , . walpole, new hampshire, garden in, _et seq._, _et seq._ walton, izaak, . wandis, . warwick, lady, sun-dial of, ; gardens of, , , ; shakespeare border of, . washings, semi-annual, . washington, betty, sun-dial of, . washington family, in england, ; sun-dial of, _et seq._ washington, george, sun-dials of, , . washington, martha, garden of, - . washington, mary, sun-dial of, ; garden of, . wassailing, . waterbury, connecticut, sun-dial at, . waterford, virginia, bee-hives at, . water gardens, - . watering-pot, . watson, forbes, cited, , . waybred, - . weed-smother, . weeds of old garden, , , . wellesley, gardens at, _et seq._ well-sweeps, , . white animals on farm; _et seq._ white garden, _et seq._ whitehall, home of bishop berkeley, , . white man's foot, - . white satin, _et seq._ white, value in garden, , , . whiteweed, . _see_ oxeye daisy. whitman, walt, quoted, - . whittier, j. g., sun-dial motto by, - . wild gardens, _et seq._, - . wine-sap. _see_ sapson. winter, in a garden, _et seq._ winter posy, . winthrop, john, quoted, , . wistaria, , , _et seq._, . woad-waxen, , . wordsworth, w., quoted, . wort, . wort-cunning, . yaddo, garden at, _et seq._ yew, . york and lancaster rose, , _et seq._ yucca, , - . zodiac, signs of, on sun-dial, . transcriber's note: a prescription symbol on page is represented in this text as "rx". obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been corrected without comment. one example of an obvious error is on page where the word "perservation" was changed to "preservation" in the phrase: "... preservation of all perishable food...." with the exception of obvious errors, inconsistencies in the author's spelling and use of punctuation and hyphenation are left unchanged, as in the original text. one error which has been retained in this version is on page , where the attribution line for the poem reads "walter savage landor" while the correct author of the poem is alfred lord tennyson. illustrations have been moved to the nearest, most appropriate paragraph break. making a rose garden _the house & garden making books_ it is the intention of the publishers to make this series of little volumes, of which _making a rose garden_ is one, a complete library of authoritative and well illustrated handbooks dealing with the activities of the home-maker and amateur gardener. text, pictures and diagrams will, in each respective book, aim to make perfectly clear the possibility of having, and the means of having, some of the more important features of a modern country or suburban home. among the titles already issued or planned for early publication are the following: _making a lawn_; _making a tennis court_; _making a garden bloom this year_; _making a fireplace_; _making roads and paths_; _making a poultry house_; _making a hotbed and cold-frame_; _making built-in bookcases_, _shelves and seats_; _making a rock garden_; _making a water garden_; _making a perennial border_; _making a shrubbery group_; _making a naturalized bulb garden_; with others to be announced later. [illustration: an english rose garden that is nearly ideal in its arrangement. all the paths are of grass, the beds being sunk a few inches below the turf level in order to conserve the moisture.] making a rose garden _by_ henry h. saylor new york mcbride, nast & company copyright, , by mcbride, nast & co. published february, contents page introduction classification location and soil preparation and planting fertilizing pruning pests propagation winter protection lists of dependable roses glossary of terms the illustrations a rose garden with the ideal arrangement of grass paths _frontispiece_ facing page ulrich brunner, a red hybrid perpetual rose marÉchal neil, a tender climbing tea rose killarney, one of the best hybrid teas a garden for roses only a dormant tea rose as it comes from the grower a stock of manetti grafted with an improved variety a "standard" rose introduction i well remember the caution given me by a noted horticulturist when, in the sudden awakening to the joys of gardening, i was about to attempt the cultivation of nearly everything named in the largest seed and plant catalogue i could find: "leave the rose alone; it is not worth fighting for." and leave it alone i did, until one day i was browsing about an old book shop and came upon a well-thumbed copy of good old dean hole's "a book about roses." let me tell you that there is something radically wrong with the person who can read that book and then go on plodding along his dreary, roseless way. but why, if there is such a book as that to be had, do i presume to put forth what can at best be but a feeble ray in its predecessor's blaze of inspiration? merely because dean hole's book, and a later volume by the rev. andrew foster-melliar that is almost as inspiring, with perhaps even more helpful guidance, are both written for the english rosarian and for a cool, moist climate that necessitates a somewhat different method of procedure throughout as compared with that which would bring success in growing roses here in america. then too, there is to my mind something encouraging in a very small book, a book that will merely attempt to lay the foundations for the superstructure that, after all, only experience can bring. perhaps there are those who, like myself, are content with the bare essentials of classification, content to be told the basic rudiments of cultivation, and who are in haste to be done with all of these homely means to an end, that they may begin growing roses. making a rose garden classification when one considers the fact that the majority of botanists recognize over a hundred species of the genus _rosa_, and that a french botanist lists and describes , species from europe and western asia alone, it will readily be understood that this chapter can give but a rough, working knowledge of groups and species. fortunately the amateur rosarian in the united states is concerned with very few of the species, largely for the reason that the efforts of our rosegrowers have naturally been confined to a few important groups where general merit is most strongly marked. indeed, for the purposes of a modest rose garden, one would not go far wrong if he limited his choice of varieties to the hybrid teas, hybrid perpetuals and a few of the teas, with several of the _wichuraiana_ and _rugosa_ hybrids for trellis and hedge. the name hybrid perpetual is borne by an enormous group of roses which have been derived from various species, crossed and recrossed until the parentage is in most cases hopelessly involved. the "perpetual" half of the name signifies that the rose continues to bloom more or less frequently throughout the summer. as a matter of fact, it is usually _less_. teas or tea-scented china roses form a distinct group that is readily recognized by the characteristic scent of the flowers and by the smoothness of its leaves. teas are, in a way, the aristocrats of the rose garden. they bloom with no great blare of trumpets in june, like the perpetuals, but they keep steadily at their work of producing exquisite blooms, one or two at a time, throughout the summer. their one serious handicap is a lack of hardiness, which they possess only in a slight and very variable degree; and they must be very carefully protected in the north to bring them safely through the winter. even though i were forced to buy new plants each spring, however, i would not have a rose garden without teas. [illustration: ulrich brunner, a red hybrid perpetual that has achieved an excellent reputation. the h.p. type is characterized by hardiness and great freedom of bloom in june. thereafter throughout the summer the burden of display must be borne by the teas and hybrid teas.] hybrid teas, as the name signifies, are successful crosses between the tea and roses in the hybrid perpetual group. this class combines the persistence of the tea with the sturdier growth of the perpetuals, and from it we shall probably get the great bulk of our garden roses for some years to come. the moss rose, of which you will surely want a representative in your garden, belongs in the provence group, as will be seen in the tabular classification at the end of this chapter. who does not know its beautiful buds in their setting of mossy stems? this rose, like many a one that has not gotten such a grip on our affections, has refused steadfastly to mix its blood with another species, and has retained its good points and its bad ones for over three hundred years. it is quite hardy but is rather susceptible to mildew. there are other roses, too, outside the larger and best-known groups--roses that, because of some superlative merit in one direction or because of past associations, lay a strong hand on our heart-strings and plead for an obscure corner of the new rose garden: the bristling scotch rose, the fragrant damasks, the sweetbrier or eglantine with its inimitable fragrant foliage, the penzance brier hybrids, the white banksian of southern gardens with its odor of violets, the persian yellow of our grand-mothers' gardens, and the hundred-petaled cabbage rose, parent of the moss. climbing roses are to be found in many of the groups--wichuraiana, ayrshire, polyantha, musk, noisette and as sports in the hybrid perpetual, tea and hybrid tea groups. it is in another class, however, that we may look for the ideal american roses of the future. not many years ago, came to us three natives of japan, _rosa wichuraiana_, _rosa multiflora_ and _rosa rugosa_. from the first two has been developed by our american hybridizers the race of ramblers, while from the third has come such sturdy children as conrad f. meyer, perhaps the ideal hedge rose for our northern climate. in the estimation of professor charles s. sargent, the dean of american horticulture, it is along the line of _rugosa_ hybrids that we shall succeed in filling our gardens with large, beautiful, hardy and continuously flowering roses. the climate of the south and california seems ideally suited to the teas, producing a wealth of exquisite bloom that fills those of us that live in more trying surroundings with envy. in the south also they have the cherokee rose (_rosa lævigata_ or _sinica_), flourishing along roadsides and in great masses on the prairies, its long, arching stems bearing a wealth of pure white, single flowers, four or five inches across, in a setting of brilliant, evergreen foliage. it is one of our american hybridizers' hopes and aims to cross this with a hardy rose to gain sufficient stamina for the north. and out in oregon, the hybrid perpetuals and hybrid teas grow to a size and beauty that is unsurpassed the world over. practically every kind of rose can be grown in the puget sound district, and the amateurs of that locality seem to have as little trouble with rose pests as we do here with our hardy decorative shrubs. [illustration: marechal neil, a tender climbing tea rose, dark golden-yellow in color, requires winter protection in the north. the tea is the aristocrat of the rose garden, unapproached for delicate fragrance, refined form of the individual blooms, and continued flowering throughout the summer.] to sum up the whole matter of classification and to show the relative positions of many groups that, for lack of space, have not even been mentioned above, the following tabular key is given--a slightly modified form of the classification given in the cyclopedia of american horticulture: _i. summer-flowering roses, blooming once only_ a. large-flowered (double). . growth branching or pendulous; leaf wrinkled. _provence_ moss pompon sulphurea . growth firm and robust; leaf downy. _damask and french_ hybrid french hybrid provence hybrid bourbon hybrid china . growth free; leaf whitish above; spineless. _alba_ b. small-flowered (single and double). . growth climbing; flowers produced singly. _ayrshire_ . growth short-jointed, generally, except in alpine. _briers_ austrian scotch sweet penzance prairie alpine . growth climbing; flowers in clusters. _multiflora_ polyantha . growth free; foliage persistent (more or less shiny). _evergreen_ sempervirens wichuraiana cherokee banksian . growth free; foliage wrinkled. _pompon_ _ii. summer- and autumn-flowering roses, blooming more or less continuously_ a. large-flowered. . foliage very rough. _hybrid perpetual_ _hybrid tea_ _moss_ . foliage rough. _bourbon_ _bourbon perpetual_ . foliage smooth. _china_ tea lawrenceana (fairy) b. smaller-flowered. . foliage deciduous a. habit climbing. _musk_ noisette _ayrshire_ _polyantha_ wichuraiana hybrids b. habit dwarf, bushy. _perpetual briers_ rugosa lucida microphylla berberidifolia scotch . foliage more or less persistent. _evergreen_ macartney wichuraiana location and soil if there is any secret in connection with the growing of beautiful roses in abundance, it lies in the strict observance of a few fundamental principles through which the rose plants, or bushes if you will, are given a location and soil which they will find congenial and nourishing. if for one moment you may have thought that success depends upon some particular insecticide for the annihilation of the aphis, or some hard-and-fast rule for pruning, or the use of a fertilizer having magical attributes, dismiss that thought from your mind, once and for all time. insecticides, judicious pruning and suitable manuring have each an important part in the campaign, but transcending all of these is the first choice of location and the preparation of the garden in which the roses are to grow. warfare against the rose's enemies can be but a one-sided, hopeless struggle if we are working against nature all the way through. far easier and more certain in effect will be our first efforts to establish the rose plants themselves so firmly in healthful, congenial surroundings that they, rather than we, will bear the brunt of the battle against the insect pests. in china i am told that a custom once prevailed whereby the emperor paid his physician a good salary as long as the ruler kept his good health. if he fell ill the physician's pay stopped; if he died, off came the practitioner's head. be generous in the amount of thought and care you give in providing health, food and strength for your rose plants, and as a result you will have to give very little thought and care to curing disease and killing off the rose-bugs and slugs. in the first place let us take up the matter of situation. unfortunately most of us will have little leeway in this, for the average suburban place is not one that will offer hill and valley, windswept open space and warm shelter. the ideal location is to be found neither on a hilltop where the winter winds would play havoc with our winter protection, nor in a low hollow where frosts are always more frequent. a gentle slope to the south, well above nearby low spots into which the cold air will drain, sheltered in some way from the north, would be all that we could ask. in the matter of this shelter, however, we meet a further difficulty, for our rose garden must be kept well away from any trees. it is a matter of common knowledge that the root system of a tree will, as a rule, extend as far out from the base as the tree rises about the ground. obviously it would be merely a waste of time and effort to locate the rose garden where the hungry roots of trees would rob it of the food supply furnished the roses. in general, therefore, we shall have to use the wall of a house or a garden wall for our needed protection, though in case of necessity we could sink a masonry wall or an iron plate as a barrier between the upper rich soil of our rose beds and the roots of the sheltering trees. [illustration: killarney, the comparatively new hybrid tea rose, having a beautiful shell-pink color, has achieved a wide popularity. the hybrid tea combines in a measure the hardiness of the hybrid perpetual with the continuous flowering habit of the tea.] sun, it is perhaps unnecessary to say, is essential, though it will be found that if the beds are in shade for the first part of the morning one will have greater opportunity of enjoying the roses at their best--before the dew has been drunk from their petals by the thirsty midsummer rays. the matter of the size and design of the rose bed is of comparatively little importance; what really is vital, however, is that the roses be permitted to have the beds to themselves--absolutely. but recently i read a magazine article purporting to be good advice for the rose-growing amateur. therein appeared words of regret that the rose must needs have such bare, gaunt stalks, and suggesting as a remedy the growing of some vine about the base of the bush--i am not sure, indeed, that the honeysuckle was not specifically named for the place. i can well imagine that the result might be a very beautiful honeysuckle, but we should look there for the rose in vain. [illustration: keep the roses by themselves; they will not only thrive better, but their beauty seems not to be increased by comparison with other flowers.] the queen of flowers will brook no liberties of this kind. she insists upon reigning alone in her glory, and anyone who dares presume to introduce even a low-growing, shallow-rooted ground cover with the intention of making the rose bed seem less bare, will never see his roses at their best. personally i have never felt that a rose garden need be in the least unattractive. there is one type of beauty that might be represented by a carpet of creeping phlox; there is another that belongs to the rose garden, bearing its single blooms here and there, sparsely, among the green foliage and thorny stems. in the former instance one looks at the mass effect without a thought of the beauty of individual flowers; in the latter case one's glance seeks out instinctively the single bloom to drink in its beauty and fragrance. ah, but you say, how about the time when there is not a single rose in sight? there need be no such time between spring and fall if you plant your rose garden to best advantage. there is no need nor reason to put all the june-blooming roses together, with the teas and hybrid teas off by themselves in another place. if the remontant types are interspersed throughout your garden you need never, between may and october, look for a rose in vain. the shape of the beds, too, may be such as to avoid an appearance of "too much dirt" in the rose garden. for my own part i would have a rectangular garden and simple parallelograms for the beds, although the rose garden about a central feature has its strong attractions. but if you arrange the beds in long narrow units--four feet wide for a double row of plants or twenty inches wide for a single row, and as long as your purse will allow, having the paths between the rows of turf rather than gravel or brick, and the beds slightly sunk below this turf, the rose garden need never be less than most attractive. avoid beds wider than will accommodate two rows of plants, for it is essential that every rose bush in the garden be immediately accessible from a path. [illustration: a suggestion for a rectangular rose garden with paths of turf. the beds are about forty inches wide, the paths four feet, excepting the center one, which is five feet in width. a hedge, which might be of _rugosa_, contributes a desirable air of seclusion.] to those intensely practical persons who object to walking through dew-wet paths in the morning tour of the rose garden, let me point out the obvious impossibility of having gravel paths immediately adjacent to the rose beds, and the continued care required to keep in a presentable condition a narrow strip of sod between path and bed. now as to the preparation of the rose bed itself. first of all, dig the soil out to a depth of two feet at least, keeping the top soil and sods and the subsoil in separate piles as they are taken out. loosen up the floor of the trench with a pick and on this, if the ground needs draining, which it will if it is a compact, sodden surface, put a layer of stones, cinders and other material that will not decompose. on top of this place the best of the sub-soil mixed with a generous dressing of well-rotted manure. finally, add the sod, well broken up, and the top soil, also enriched with manure. then fill in the bed with enough good top soil, unmanured, to bring it two or three inches above the adjoining surface. make sure that the surface of the bed, after it has settled, will be about one inch below that of the adjoining sod in order to retain the moisture from rain. this preparation of the bed should be done at least several weeks in advance of planting time. in composing the soil for the rose bed, it is well to remember that the hybrid perpetuals require a heavy soil containing some clay. for teas and hybrid teas a lighter, warmer soil is better. in his most admirable "book of the rose," the rev. andrew foster-melliar tells an amusing incident in connection with soil. the good rector was dining out and had been served with a generous portion of plum pudding. it was very dark, rich, strong and greasy. absent-mindedly he sat back in his chair gazing at the dish intently. his hostess, noticing his hesitancy, asked if anything were wrong with the pudding. "oh, no," replied the rector unthinkingly, "i was thinking what rare stuff it would be to grow roses in." top soil from an old pasture, if it be a moderately heavy loam, taken with the grass roots and chopped very fine, will do excellently for the hybrid perpetuals. for the teas and hybrid teas, mix with soil of this kind about one-quarter of its bulk of sand and leaf mold to lighten it. remember that all the manure that is used should be incorporated with the lower two-thirds of the bed; the upper third should not contain any recently added manure as it is apt to harm the roots of new plants. preparation and planting in the vicinity of new york and further north, i think it will be found that spring planting is best. south of philadelphia many roses are set out in the fall, for here they become well established before cold weather sets in, and are therefore ready to start active growth at the first touch of spring. if spring planting is chosen the plants must be put in the ground early--at the very first opportunity--so that they will have time to become firmly established before hot weather. pot-grown plants from a greenhouse cannot, of course, be set out until all danger from frost is past. roses that are planted so late cannot be expected to show really satisfying results in bloom the first year. roses that are planted early in the spring, if field-grown stock as explained below, will with proper cultivation give at least a reasonable amount of bloom the first year, though not so much as in later years. one hears a great deal of argument on the question of whether roses are best grown on their own roots or when grown on a sturdier stock, such as manetti for hybrid perpetuals and brier for hybrid teas, which are probably the best rose stocks for this country. it seems to be the general consensus of opinion that roses budded on these stocks will thrive much more luxuriantly and give much better blooms than those which depend upon their own root systems. it is necessary, however, to set the point at which the shoot is budded to the stock about two inches beneath the surface; otherwise there is the constant danger that suckers will spring from the root and, if overlooked for a time, these will kill the more desirable shoots. several kinds of roses are offered by the dealers for setting out in the spring. there are the pot-grown roses mentioned above--the only form in which many of the climbers may be readily obtained. mail-order houses make a practice of sending out the hybrid perpetuals, hybrid teas and teas also in this form of very young plants grown from cuttings under glass during the winter. costing more, and surely far more dependable, are the field-grown roses that have originally been budded on manetti or brier and, usually in two-year-old form, taken out of the ground the previous fall while dormant, to lie in cold houses until ready for planting. such roses as these will surely bloom the first season and are far better equipped for the shock of being set into the open ground again than the pot-grown plants that have never had a taste of real garden life. a word of warning might profitably be uttered against the cheap roses budded on _multiflora_ stock, grown in holland and sold in some of the department stores. they are short-lived and very poor in comparison with plants on brier and manetti. _multiflora_ has been entirely discarded as a stock by english and irish growers. roses on their own roots have the advantage of being cheaper, due to the saving of labor in striking cuttings rather than budding--one-year-old plants costing a dollar for six to a dozen; two-year and three-year-old bushes, which are, of course, far more desirable, cost more in proportion. dormant, field-grown budded roses cost, in the two-year-old size, from thirty-five cents to a dollar each. [illustration: a dormant tea rose as it is received from the grower for planting in march. after planting it should be still further pruned.] before setting the plants examine each carefully and cut off the broken roots with a sharp knife, as well as all eyes that may appear on the root stock, in order to forestall suckers. the plants should be set immediately upon their receipt from the nurseryman, so that they will not become dried out. if they seem dry it may be well to puddle the roots in thin mud just before setting. make the hole large enough to accommodate all of the plant's roots without crowding, remembering to put the budding point not less or more than two inches below the surface and with the roots spread out nearly horizontally, but inclining downward towards their ends and without crossing one another. this will not be an easy matter, for in shipment the roots will have probably been so compressed that they extend almost directly downward from the collar. after the plants have been firmly set and the earth carefully packed in around the roots, rake the soil to loosen it up over the whole surface. the soil will probably be moist enough at the time to need no watering. with the pot-grown plants, the moist ball of earth that comes about the roots is carefully retained intact and placed in the hole prepared for the plant. set the plant firmly in place by pressure with the soles of your shoes, give a generous watering and finally break up the surface of the soil with a rake. it is absolutely essential to keep the surface of the ground loosened with a hoe and a sharp steel rake throughout the summer. after very hard rain loosen the soil as soon as it is dry enough to work, to conserve the moisture. fertilizing in striking contrast to the exquisite beauty of the rose is the food that we must give it in abundance if we would have the most healthy plants. but for the true rose enthusiast the turning over of a muck heap to find manure in just the right form, or the dilution of the by-products of the cow barn with water to make the best stimulant, have nothing about them that is in the least objectionable. if the soil at our disposal is inclined to be rich in clay, we can probably do no better than incorporate well-decomposed stable manure with it, by raking it, well pulverized, into the surface in the early spring. in sandy or gravelly soils, however, cow manure or that from the pigsty will serve far better. it must be remembered that when properly set out the rose plant is comparatively shallow-rooted, so that this raking of fine old manure into the soil must be just that, and _not_ the deep digging of half-rotted manure into the bed with a spading-fork. the aim in the method advocated is to put the solid manure where the spring rains will carry it in time to the feeding roots, and in the liquid form in which it is readily assimilated. the theory of this manurial feeding will make clear the fact that a proper application of liquid manure has practically all the advantages of the former method without its drawbacks. for solid manure, if applied to the beds in quantities sufficient to be of real value, has a tendency to keep the needed air out of the top soil, and to bring in its train an abundance of weeds that will be hard to exterminate. so that, with the exception of light sandy soils, where the humus is needed, we shall do well to feed the rose garden liquid nourishment. the time when this stimulant will be most effective is in the months of may and june, when most of the plants are putting all their efforts into the forming buds. withhold the liquid in dry spells, for it is most appreciated immediately after a good, soaking rain. avoid getting the manure on the foliage, and make sure that it errs on the side of weakness rather than strength. suspending a burlap sack containing a bushel of cow manure in a barrel of water for two days, will give a solution that needs dilution with its own bulk of water. a half-gallon to a plant each week will be a sufficient normal feeding. immediately after dosing the beds go over them with a rake or prong-hoe and loosen up the surface to prevent evaporation. a vital principle in feeding rose plants is one that seems to be overlooked instinctively by seven out of ten amateur gardeners. it is this: a strong-growing, healthy plant needs and will absorb a large quantity of liquid manure; a sickly plant, or one that is not yet well established, does not need and cannot absorb even the normal quantity of this food. yet how often are we tempted to feed to excess this weakling and withhold food from that nearby sturdy bush, because the latter "doesn't need it." just bear in mind the fact that we do not give burgundy to a puny child that is struggling against the effects of malnutrition, but that a healthy, growing boy can consume an astonishing amount of food and drink. to review the year's activities in fertilizing: let us put a top dressing of rough manure over the beds in the fall, about three inches deep, with further protection where the climate demands it. in the spring we shall rake off the coarse portion of this covering, leaving the finely pulverized manure to be raked gently into the top soil if it needs this additional humus (the manure's food value will have been washed down by the winter's rain and snow). if our soil is clayey the whole top dressing will be hoed off. in may and june come the generous applications of the liquid manure, and for the teas and perpetuals that really do continue to flower, these applications may well be continued through the summer at less frequent intervals, leaving off at the end of august, let us say, so as not to encourage unnecessarily the late summer's growth of wood. although not many of us, in all probability, will meet the unusual condition of having for our rose gardens only an over-fertilized soil in a long-used garden, it may be well to mention the fact that such a soil will not produce good roses. treatment with lime will help matters for a time, but if within the range of possibility we should remake the garden with virgin soil. the use of nitrate of soda and like stimulants may be undertaken sparingly in the spring, but these are better left to those gardeners who have learned, possibly through disastrous experiences, how properly to use them. pruning the rose is one of those plants that seem to need the firm hand of man to direct them in the way they should grow. if left to their own devices, most of the highly cultivated roses revert quickly to lower types; they need the pitiless pruning-knife to spur them to their best endeavor. it will readily be seen that severe pruning, as a general principle, tends towards greater beauty of individual blooms, while light pruning is conducive to a better rounded-out form of bush at the expense of the flowers. or, again, the severe pruning gives quality of bloom as opposed to quantity of bloom. always cut back the plants severely when first setting them out--teas and hybrid teas less than the hybrid perpetuals, and the climbers least of all. unreasonable as it may seem, the plants of vigorous habit of growth need less pruning than the less active ones. pruning may be started with the dwarf hybrid perpetuals in march--leaving four or five canes three feet in length if large masses of bloom are wanted. the result will be a large number of small flowers. if, on the other hand, fewer and larger flowers are wanted, all weak growth should be removed and every healthy cane retained and cut back in preparation for the plant's development. the weakest should not have more than four inches of wood left on the root, while the strongest may have eight or nine inches. always prune a cane about a quarter of an inch above an outside bud unless the cane is very far from the vertical, when an inside one should be left for the terminal shoot. see that the wood is not torn or bruised in the operation. the pruning of hybrid teas and teas had better be postponed until the first signs of life appear. the bark becomes greener and the dormant buds begin to swell. dead or dying wood will then readily be noticeable and it may be removed. remember that these two classes do not need such severe pruning as do the hybrid perpetuals; twice the amount of wood may safely be left if it seems promising. dormant rose plants bought in the spring will arrive from the growers already partly pruned. in general, from one-half to two-thirds of the remaining length of cane should be cut off when the plants are set out, removing entirely all bruised or dead wood. bear in mind always, if your conscience revolts at such severe cutting, that the strongest dormant buds are nearest the base of the plant and it is these we want to force into growth to bear the prize blooms. with the ramblers very little cutting is needed; merely cut back the shoots that seem to be outdistancing their neighbors by too much, and cut out entirely the dead canes. the _rugosa_ is intended to be a bush rather than a strong, lean plant for prize blooms. merely cut out old, dry wood and trim back the longer shoots to the desired form. use a first-class pair of pruning shears in order that the work may be done quickly and, above all, with clean cuts that show no tearing or abrasion of the bark. pests once more let me repeat the fact that by far the most effective campaign against the insects and other pests that infest rose plants is to be found, not in sprayings and dustings, but rather in maintaining to the best of our ability a condition of health in the plant itself. prevention here, as always, is better than cure. nor can it be too strongly emphasized that the daily use of a powerful but finely divided spray from the hose will make life on the rose plant miserable for practically all of the parasites. the following are the chief enemies that we may encounter in the rose garden. they are briefly described so as to be recognizable when found, and for the annihilation or keeping in check of each is given one of the many remedies. practically every rosarian develops, after a time, his own pet formulæ for these poisons, so that rose books will be found to contain a wonderfully varied assortment of weapons--so numerous in fact that one would think the army of rose pests could never live to continue their depredations another season. _aphis or green fly_ a small, pale green louse, winged or wingless, with a soft, fat, oval body apparently too big for its legs. a single aphis in five generations may become the progenitor of , , , . tobacco smoke is an excellent weapon, or, if a spray is found more convenient to apply, a solution of oz. of tobacco stems boiled for min. in gal. of soft water, will do. the same weight of quassia chips may be substituted for the tobacco. if the tobacco is used, the cheapest that can be bought is the best for the purpose. strain the solution and add oz. of soft soap while it is still hot, stirring well to dissolve the soap. another remedy-- qt. of soft soap boiled in qts. of soft water, adding pt. of paraffin before cooling--is well recommended. it should be applied diluted with soft water to ten times its bulk. the paraffin acts as an astringent which, together with the soft soap, cleanses the plant of honey-dew, which is exuded by the aphis to protect its feet against cold and wet. _mildew_ a fungous disease that may appear when the rose plants are in a damp, shady or ill-ventilated location. although some varieties are more susceptible than others to this disease, the rose garden located out in the open, where the air has unobstructed access, will not be troubled much by mildew. when the disease appears late in the autumn it need not be feared. dusting flowers of sulphur upon the foliage, taking care to reach the under side of leaves as well as the upper, and upon the ground about the plants, is a well established remedy. it will be found convenient to shake the powder from a baking-powder can, the end of which is punched with holes, if a regular powder gun is not at hand. use the sulphur in the early morning, when the dew will help to hold it on the leaves, or else spray the plants with water beforehand. _rose thrip_ a small, yellowish white insect with transparent wings, usually found on the _under_ side of the rose leaves. this pest appears in swarms and in an astonishingly short time turns the foliage yellow. if the pest appears, spray the rose plants daily with a hose as suggested above. if this does not prove efficacious, dust the under side of the leaves with white hellebore in a powder gun. whale oil soap solution, in the proportions of oz. of soap to gal. of water, is a very good remedy. it is easier to dissolve the soap if the water is hot. _rose caterpillar or leaf-roller_ several kinds of caterpillars may appear, varying from one-half to three-quarters of an inch in length, and either green, yellow or brown in color. they have a habit of enveloping themselves in the rose leaves, or boring their way into the flower buds. in the latter case they are very apt to be overlooked. powdered hellebore will hinder their progress, but by far the most effective weapons are the finger and thumb--gloved, if you insist. _rose chafer or rose-bug_ this brown beetle, less than one-half inch in length, is one of the best-known rose pests. it is a slow-moving creature that appears suddenly in armies in the blooming season in june, and is the more annoying for the reason that it devotes its attention almost entirely to the flowers themselves. paris green, dusted over the plants, will kill the pest, but this poison has a disagreeable way of showing no intelligent discrimination in the choice of its victims. really the only satisfactory method of attack is to knock the stupid creatures off the flowers into a tin of kerosene and then burn it. _rose slug_ the larvæ of a saw-fly which comes up out of the ground in may and june. the female makes incisions in the leaves and deposits her eggs, which hatch out in about two weeks. the slugs will eat an astonishing amount of leaf if not checked. they are about a half-inch long, green, and will be found on the upper side of the leaf. powdered white hellebore, dusted on the foliage, or the solution of whale oil soap mentioned for the rose thrip, will keep it in check. _white grub_ an underground enemy that feeds on the roots of rose plants. the withering or sickliness of the plant is sufficient reason to cause a thorough search to be made by lifting it. the grub, which is provided with six legs near the head, and which coils itself into a crescent shape when in repose, is particularly fond of strawberry plants, so it will be well to keep these some distance away from the rose garden. there is no insecticide that will be effective, because of the underground point of attack. lifting the plant and removing the grub is the only thing that can be done. _bark louse or white scale_ this appears when the rose bush is grown in a damp, shady place. it is snow white and individual scales are about one-tenth of an inch in diameter, irregularly round. cut off and burn badly infested shoots. spray with lb. of soap in gal. of water in early winter and again in early spring. weaker summer applications may be used also-- lb. in or gal. once in three weeks throughout the season will reach all the larvæ. _our allies_ it is well to remember that there are friends of the rose in the lower animal world as well as enemies--the toad, lady-bug, ground-bird and swallow, particularly. the toad is sometimes brought by the english gardeners from a distance to help wage war on the pests; the lady-bug may be passed thankfully by when seen; and it may be well to try attracting the birds to the rose garden by scattering a few crumbs there daily--not too many, but just enough to arouse a real appetite for insect pests. propagation the propagation of his own stock is a task for which the expert is better fitted than the beginner for whom this book is written. nevertheless, i doubt whether the amateur will pass through his first year of rose growing without wishing to make an attempt to multiply the stock of those roses which have with him been most successful, or to bud a choice variety from a friend's garden on the foster-parent stock for his own place. whereas in england the process of budding is carried on very widely and with fair success among amateur and professional rosarians alike, with us this means of propagation seems fraught with greater difficulty. excepting in the case of varieties that do not readily root from cuttings, this latter method of propagation is generally adopted where roses on their own roots are desired. the best time for taking cuttings from a plant is towards the end of the summer, when the ripe wood of the current year's growth will be available. ten inches is a convenient length for the pieces and some rosarians feel that if a "heel," or portion of older wood, remains on the lower end there will be greater likelihood of rooting. remove all but the two top leaves and set the cutting in a light soil, or even in pure sand, so that only the two upper buds are exposed. leave the cuttings in the ground until the following autumn, when those that have taken root may be transplanted and set at a less depth in their permanent quarters. budding is a far more interesting process to carry through, and by it we may have sturdier roses on a stock like manetti or brier. a very sharp knife is required, with some raffia for tying the bud securely into the stock. in the limited scope of this book i can but indicate very roughly the general procedure, and, indeed, budding is far more readily learned by watching a skilled rosarian do it than by reading many pages of description. briefly, then, a bud, which may be found under any petiole, is carefully sliced, with its surrounding bark and backing of wood, from the half-ripe stalk of the variety to be propagated, leaving the petiole in place to serve as a handle. this is probably best done in july. after removing very gently the wood backing from the bark and bud, the latter are slipped into a t-shaped incision in the foster stock, this incision to be made through the bark to the actual wood of the stalk. the bud and its supporting bark are inserted between the wood and bark of the stock, the latter then being wrapped with a few turns of raffia to hold the bud in place. after a period of a month the bud will either have taken hold or failed, and the tie may be removed. the rose plants that we buy already budded on manetti or brier are produced in this way, excepting that the bud is inserted very low on the stock, so that the junction will be underground. this is the more desirable place for budding, insuring, if we nip the suckers as they may appear, a plant that above ground shows only the shoots of the desired variety. [illustration: a shoot of an improved variety of rose grafted and held in place with raffia to the stock of a sturdy growth like manetti. at the right is a "sucker" or growth from the root, and it must be cut off as soon as it appears.] grafting is practiced only in the case of roses grown under glass, when the scions are cleft into stocks of manetti or brier grown in pots for the purpose. layering is used as a means of increasing the stock only in the case of roses that do not readily strike from cuttings. it consists of bending down a long shoot so that a section of it may be pegged underground to take root. propagation by seed is limited to the efforts to obtain new varieties after cross-fertilization, and is a discouragingly slow and uncertain process. winter protection it will be a red-letter day for amateur rosarians when the existing favorites among rose plants shall have been so improved by cross-breeding that we can leave off all the winter overcoats of straw, brush and earth, with the happy knowledge that spring will find as many live plants in the rose garden as we rejoiced in during the previous season. [illustration: in england the "standard" rose, having a long stem of the foster stock, is quite common. with us it is less frequently seen on account of the bother of proper winter protection.] although the hybrid perpetuals are, for the most part, sufficiently hardy to withstand an ordinary winter unprotected, it is still the part of wisdom to conserve their energy and health by hoeing up the earth about their bases and putting over all a top dressing of rough manure when protecting the hybrid teas and teas. in the northern states it will be well to tie up the tops of the latter with straw or to surround the bed with a border of boards or wire netting, after winter has set in, and cover the plants with a thick blanket of leaves held down by brush. this protection should be removed gradually in march. where the winters are particularly severe, a still more certain precaution is to dig up the plants and lay them in well-drained trenches, covering them with earth and a further layer of leaves, straw or brush. the aim is not to protect the plants from freezing at all, but to prevent the alternate freezing and thawing that is so disastrous. another treatment for tender roses is to winter them in boxes of soil in a cool cellar. in case this is done, see that the earth is not allowed to dry out entirely. at planting time in the spring the dormant plants will be taken out, dipped in a bucket of thin mud and replanted in the garden. while we may be willing for the present to take such precautions with the garden roses, most of us will not care to coddle the climbers to anything like this extent. beyond hoeing up a mound of earth about the bases of these and top-dressing them, we shall let the climbers fight their own battles, and leave the result to the principle of the survival of the fittest. lists of dependable roses it is a difficult matter, indeed, to select, from the experience of rose growers and from the long lists of the nurserymen's catalogues, a few that may be safely named as the best roses. in fact, it is a task that no one would care to undertake. it may be helpful, however, to add the following list; these are by no means the only good roses, but in choosing any or all of these the amateur cannot well go astray. for the benefit of his experience and advice regarding these lists, i am indebted, among others, to dr. robert huey, of philadelphia--probably the most experienced amateur grower of roses in the united states. it has been thought best not to attempt individual descriptions nor to go very far into details of color. the lists, then, are grouped into rough sub-divisions under the main colors, and it will be understood that "pink," for instance, will include a rather wide range of varying tints. hybrid perpetuals _white_--merveille de lyon, white baroness, frau karl druschki, margaret dickson, mabel morrison, gloire lyonnaise (in reality a hybrid tea, but as it blooms only in june it may be included in the hybrid perpetual class). _pink_--baroness rothschild, caroline d'arden, heinrich schultheis, her majesty, lady arthur hill, mrs. george dickson, mrs. harkness, susan marie rodocanachi, mrs. john laing, paul neyron, marie finges, marquise de castellane, mrs. r. s. sharman-crawford, souvenir de la malmaison. _red_--captain hayward, fisher holmes, general jacqueminot, oscar cordel, ulrich brunner, duke of edinburgh, duke of teck, anne de diesbach, duke of fife, Étienne levet, prince arthur, ard's rover (climber). prince camille de rohan is the best of the very dark roses, among which also are sultan of zanzibar, louis van houtte, and xavier olibo. these, however, are weak growers and frequently do not bring their blossoms to perfection. teas _white_--white maman cochet, hon. edith gifford. _pink_--william r. smith, maman cochet, souvenir d'un ami, duchesse de brabant, mrs. b. r. cant. _yellow_--harry kirk, Étoile de lyon, francisca krueger, isabelle sprunt, safrano, marie van houtte. hybrid teas _white or light-colored and mixed_--viscountess folkestone, pharisaer, molly sharman-crawford, ellen wilmot, grace molyneaux, antoine revoire, joseph hill, mrs. a. r. waddell, betty, prince de bulgarie, la tosca, kaiserin augusta victoria. _pink_--killarney, lady alice stanley, lady ursula, dean hole, lyon rose, dorothy page roberts, madame edmée metz, lady ashtown, mrs. charles custis harrison, caroline testout, la france. _yellow_--duchess of wellington, mrs. aaron ward, madame ravary, madame mélanie soupert, madame hector leuillot, melody. _red_--george c. waud, lawrent carle, gruss an teplitz, château de closvoges, Étoile de france. moss roses _white_--blanche moreau. _pink_--crested moss. rugosa and its hybrids _white_--blanc double de coubert; _rosa rugosa_, var. _alba_. _pink_--conrad f. meyer. _red_--arnold; _rosa rugosa_, var. _rubra_. wichuraiana hybrids _white_--wichuraiana, white dorothy. _pink_--lady gay, dorothy perkins, w. c. egan, sargent. _red_--hiawatha. noisettes _yellow_--cloth of gold, rêve d'or (climber), fortune's yellow. polyanthas _white_--trier, catherine ziemet. _pink_--tausendschön, clothilde soupert. _red_--carmine pillar. prairie roses _white_--baltimore belle. _pink_--rosa _setigera_. austrian briers _yellow_--harrison's yellow, persian yellow, austrian copper. a glossary of terms anther--a rounded knob-like form at the top of the stamen, containing the pollen. callus--a swelling which occurs at the base of a cutting previous to the formation of roots. calyx--the narrow green leaves or sepals forming the covering for the bud. corymb--a group of flower stalks arising from a common stalk and forming a level top. cutting--a section of a stalk containing several eyes or dormant buds, taken for the propagation of a new plant. disbud--to deprive a stalk of flower buds by pinching or rubbing these off. it is done in order to throw more energy into the remaining bud or buds. hep or hip--the seed pod. hybrid--a new species resulting from the cross-fertilization of two species. leaflet--a single member of the compound leaf borne by all rose plants. maiden plant--a plant blooming for the first time after being budded or grafted to a stock. ovary--the hollow lower end of a pistil, containing the embryo seeds. panicle--a cluster of flowers borne irregularly on a stem. petiole--the stalk to which the several leaflets are attached. pistil--the seed-bearing organ in the center of a flower, consisting of one or more styles, one or more stigmas and the ovary. pollen--the powdery substance found in the anthers. remontant--applied to roses that flower the second time in a summer. sepals--the narrow green leaves of a pithy texture forming the calyx. sport--a shoot or sucker from a plant, showing some peculiar feature or features distinguishing it from its parent. stamens--the male organs surrounding the pistil. stigma--the upper end of the pistil, capable of receiving the pollen and connected with the ovary by a tube extending down through the style. style--the erect columnar support of the stigma. sucker--a branch or shoot proceeding from the root or stem of a plant, below the surface of the ground. frequently used as meaning a shoot from the root-stock of a budded or grafted plant. canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from page images generously made available by the digital media repository, archives and special collections, ball state university libraries (http://libx.bsu.edu) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the digital media repository, archives and special collections, ball state university libraries. see http://libx.bsu.edu/cdm /item_viewer.php?cisoroot=/chapbks&cisoptr= &cisobox= &rec= woodbine-arbor; or the little gardeners. a story of a happy childhood. [illustration] new haven. published by s. babcock. . [illustration: building the arbor.] woodbine arbor; or the little gardeners. let me tell you, my dear young reader, about a happy little family of three brothers and three sisters, who lived in a pleasant home, not far from the great city of new-york. their father, mr. howard, was a wealthy merchant, and had his store in the city, to which he usually rode early in the morning, directly after breakfast, and returned home in season to take tea with his family. he had six children, the little folks whom i am now going to tell you about. the girls were named maria, elizabeth, and harriet. the boys were henry, charles, and john.--henry was the oldest, then charles, maria, john, elizabeth, and harriet. their home was a beautiful country-seat, situated not far from the east river, with fine old shade trees in front of it. in the rear was a very large garden, laid out with great neatness and taste, and well stocked with fruits and flowers. then there were walks and borders, and summer-houses, and arbors, and almost every thing which could render it a delightful place. one portion of his grounds mr. howard had laid out for a garden for his children. this was to be their own, and in it they were to dig, and hoe, and rake, and plant, and transplant, and water, just as they pleased, so long as they were attentive to their lessons, obedient to their parents, and kind to each other. when any of them misbehaved,--which was very seldom,--that child was forbidden to visit the garden for one or two days, or a week, according to the nature of its offence. [illustration: transplanting.] mr. and mrs. howard were both anxious that their children should grow up, not only good and intelligent, but that they should acquire active and industrious habits; they therefore encouraged them all, girls as well as boys, to pass their play-hours in the healthy and delightful employment of gardening. well, our young friends heartily seconded the wishes of their parents, and except in cold or stormy weather, their little garden was the scene of great industry, as soon as their several lessons for the day were recited. they had a complete set of garden tools, just the right size for such little folks: spades, hoes, rakes, watering-pots, and a wheelbarrow. i assure you they did not let these tools lie idle. their garden, which produced flowers of all kinds, and many varieties of fruit, always presented a neat and workman-like appearance. the boys usually took upon themselves the most laborious part of the work, such as digging, and hoeing, and raking, while their sisters planted and transplanted, and watered, and pruned and trimmed, as occasion required. [illustration: the little gardeners.] one day, early in the spring, the little folks took it into their heads to build an arbor in their garden. so, getting their mother's consent, they applied to the gardener, who furnished them with some stout poles and strips of boards necessary for their purpose. accordingly, they were soon industriously engaged in their first essay at building. henry planned the shape and the frame, and then he and charles, with mallet and hammer in hand, drove the poles into the ground, and nailed on the strips of board; while maria and elizabeth held the materials for them, and harriet and john handed up such things as were needed. in four or five days, "woodbine arbor," as the little folks named it, was quite finished. in the center of it they had placed a table, and built seats around the sides of the arbor. these the girls covered very neatly with cloth, which their mamma gave them for the purpose. at each corner of the arbor, our young gardeners set out a fine large woodbine, which the gardener gave them, and at the sides several beautiful climbing roses. these vines they trained up to, and over the top of the arbor, in such a way as to shade the inside from the rays of the sun. when these plants were in full bloom, the arbor presented a lovely appearance, and was filled with the most delightful fragrance. here our little gardeners retired when they were fatigued with their labors, or when the heat of the sun prevented their working in the garden. [illustration: arranging the bouquets.] on the anniversary of the wedding day of mr. and mrs. howard, the children always selected from their garden the choicest flowers, as an offering to their beloved parents; indeed, each of them cultivated several rare and beautiful kinds for this particular occasion. gathering the flowers together, they exerted their utmost skill in forming two fine large bouquets for their father and mother, which were presented as an offering from all the children, and which were designed to grace the vases on the parlor mantle-piece. when these two bouquets were arranged to the satisfaction of all the little folks, each one made two of a smaller size, just alike, which they presented in their own name. you may be sure these little gifts of affection were duly prized by the fond parents, and were kept from fading as long as possible. they were rewarded, too, by some suitable present to each child, accompanied by kind wishes, and such words of advice and instruction as the occasion called for. these words of advice, given at such times, made a lasting impression; they were remembered by the little ones as long as they remembered the happy events which called them forth. but you must not suppose these little masters and misses were so fond of gardening as to spend all their play-hours there. oh, no; like most other children, they liked play and play-things. the girls all had dolls, and a pet rabbit and two little white poodles to amuse themselves with. henry made kites, bows, arrows, and other toys, and charles was quite fond of making and sailing little toy ships, while john, the youngest, liked nothing much better than playing with a ball or trundling his hoop. still, the garden, after all, afforded them more real and lasting pleasure than any thing else. [illustration: the toy ship.] but the year i am telling you about,--the year in which our little friends built their arbor,--instead of presenting the bouquets as usual, they begged their parents to visit them at the arbor. the invitation was readily accepted, and the children accordingly made the necessary preparations. having selected the very choicest fruits from their garden, they arranged it to the best advantage on the table, placing the two large bouquets in the center; they then each held the two smaller ones in their hands, and presented them, with their best wishes, as their parents entered the arbor. i shall not attempt to tell you how delighted the young people all were on this occasion, when their neat little arbor, the work of their own hands, was thus honored with a visit from their parents. with some crowding, there was room for the eight persons, but mamma made a little more by taking the youngest up in her lap. then the different fruits were handed round, and all partook of such as suited them best. never were happier children assembled, or happier parents. not even the finest fruit raised by their experienced gardener, ever tasted half as sweet as that which was eaten at the little feast in "woodbine arbor." when it was over, mamma, at the urgent request of the children, sang one of her sweetest songs, and then they all took a walk through the garden. many, very many, were the words of praise and encouragement spoken by the parents, as they beheld the neatness and good order in which every thing was kept. the handsomely laid out beds and borders, the straight rows of plants, the well-trained vines, the beautiful flowers, and the luxuriant growth of the little trees and shrubbery, without a single weed to mar the beauty of the garden, excited their highest admiration. "my dear little ones," said mr. howard, "let the care which you have bestowed upon this sweet little spot, and the success which has attended your efforts, incite you to higher and nobler aims, which will most certainly be rewarded with higher and nobler results. with the same care and industry which you have bestowed upon your garden, cultivate your _minds_, and raise in them the lovely and unfading flowers of piety and virtue. root out from them the noxious weeds of vice and evil habits, and train all your thoughts upward to your heavenly father and benefactor. assist each other in this mental cultivation, with the same kindness which you have all shown in cultivating your garden; be ready at all rimes to share with the poor and needy the blessings which you enjoy, as freely as you have this day shared the productions of your garden with your parents. then, like the plants which you have here cultivated, you will bear fruit and flowers to bless and cheer your fellow-men; and when you are removed from earth you will be transplanted in heaven, and blossom forever in the _garden of the lord_." end. babcock's no. toy books, new series, moral, instructive, and entertaining, all beautifully embellished with superior engravings. edited by thomas teller. children's books of every description constantly publishing. [illustration: back cover] * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation and spelling errors were corrected. [illustration: the hollyhock bed] a garden with house attached by sarah warner brooks author of "my fire opal," "poverty knob," etc "i never had any desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which i have had always, that i might be master at least of a small house, and a large garden."--abraham cowley. boston: richard g. badger the gorham press copyright by sarah warner brooks _all rights reserved_ printed at the gorham press boston, u. s. a. to my summer child contents page _chapter one_ _a garden with house attached_ _chapter two_ _the man with the hoe_ _chapter three_ _the "lady's" conservatory_ _chapter four_ _the house garden, the selection, arrangement, and culture of house plants_ _chapter five_ _at easter-time_ _chapter six_ _burglar-proof_ _chapter seven_ _perennials_ _chapter eight_ _hollyhocks and violets_ _chapter nine_ _the rose_ _chapter ten_ _border bulbs_ _chapter eleven_ _annuals_ _chapter twelve_ _climbers_ _chapter thirteen_ _gardens "in spain"_ _chapter fourteen_ _the cerebral processes of plants_ _chapter fifteen_ _"auf wiedersehen"_ a garden with house attached chapter i "_a garden with house attached_" when, by an unlooked-for sequence of events, i became manager of "the garden with house attached" (as an important preliminary) along with "the third son"[ ] i went over from cambridge to take account of its possibilities. and here be it stated that from the time of his first trousers "the third son" had been my assistant gardener; and in all my horticultural enterprises, might still be counted in as "aider and abettor." "mother," said this astute young person--on our return from this inspection--"it is a big job; but there is yet another week of my vacation. let us make a beginning." in shaping the ground plan of this quaint old garden, its long-dead projectors had shown a capability which came within an ace of genius itself! hence, so far as laying out went, there was absolutely no call for improvement. all had been so well and effectively outlined, that the landscape gardener himself must have approved. the long south walk--leading past the front door of the "mansion house"--passing orchard and kitchen garden on its way up the long, gradual ascent towards the western boundary of the estate, and then turning a corner, followed the low stone wall hedged with sturdy purple lilacs (free to all the country round) and making a second turn, skirted the low northern ledge, where in june the locust hangs its tassels of perfumed snow, and, in autumn time, the wild barberry perfects its coral clusters. there, all summer long, the wind blows cool and sweet, and, resting on low, mossy boulders, you may sight, on the left, middlesex fells, and, across the blue distance, glimpse tufts college on its broad, grassy hill, with the mystic river (if the tide be in) creeping leisurely between you and that ancient seat of learning. following the walk down the lazy declivity, you take a turn with it beneath two aged pines, with the big lily-of-the-valley patch nestling in their shade; and (hard by) the well-appointed triangular flower plot, from time immemorial "bedded out" with "the lady's" house plants. turning on your track, you take a stroll through "the lover's walk"--a little, lilac-embowered pathway--and turning, follow, past the back of the house, the long, rocky ledge, with its glorious crown of white lilac trees--their tall tops touching the very ridge-pole of the roof. there orange toadstools, like fairy parasols, push up through the damp mosses. there a giant norway spruce drops its cones and spreads its brown carpet of needles; and in summer-time you may dream away the hours upon the cool stone steps and, harkening to an ancient pine singing its slow song, may "eat of the lotus, and dream, and forget." the rough wagon road on the east takes you from the high road to the big old-fashioned barn, beneath whose eaves, year after year, the punctual swallow nests; while, high among the rafters within, immemorial pigeons rear their toothsome squabs. the flower-borders of this garden--anciently edged with box (which, of late, gave up, piece by piece, the long struggles of existence)--had, no doubt, in their prime, been well worth seeing. lovely blue-eyed periwinkle yet wandered among the tangled shrubs. a persistent day-lily and a stunted flowering almond still held their own; and in may-time a single root of double english violet made shift to perfect a scented flower or two,--"dim, but sweeter than the lids of juno's eyes." thrifty old-time shrubs still flourished in the wide borders. alicanthus sent far and wide its fruity odor. yellow globe flowers straggled here and there. waxberry bushes stoutly thrived, and, in early springtime, an aged pyrrhus japonica put on its blaze of scarlet bloom. big domes of tartarean honeysuckle--all rosy pink with bloom--yet held their own. creamy syringas made sweet the summer air, and as for lilacs (white and purple) they were like "the rats of bingen," _everywhere_--dominating the entire grounds! it was a blessed day for us all when, in the sixteenth century, this darling persian shrub was introduced into english gardens. in persia they called it the "lilag" (which means simply a flower) and from this we have our word _lilac_. surely, "by no other name"--save by the dear country one of _laylock_--would it "smell as sweet." the native west indian has a pretty superstition in regard to this familiar flower. he holds that lilac branches, when in blossom, if hung up around the room, protect from malignant influences. he believes that the "jumbies," or evil spirits, will not enter a house where there are lilac blooms. i like to borrow from the pagan this harmless belief; and, each morning throughout their flowering time, i cut big "bowpots" of blown lilacs, and setting them about the house, idly fancy that--thus kept at bay--no evil thing "with spell or charm" may enter the dear home. and, further to guard it, i have named our place "the lilacs." a garden is hardly complete without the restful shade of trees--the loveliness of interchanging sunshine and shadow. therefore was it good to find trees, many and thrifty, hobnobbing together in our new holding. a big sturdy hornbeam, with song-birds nesting high among its branches, shaded the eastern lawn, while close beside the kitchen porch a graceful rose-acacia reared its slender trunk, and every may-time wove its garlands of rosy bloom. all about us grew maple and ash trees. tall pines to hold the song of the wind among their boughs. spruces and arbor vitæs (these absolutely upon their last legs, but still persistent), and, fairest of them all, two glorious tulip-trees towering upward, like sturdy masts, towards the blue heaven, flinging to the winds their high leafy boughs, like pale green pennants, picked out (in blooming time) with shapely miracles of color. here and there an apple or a pear tree had strayed from orchard to lawn; and in the very midst of things a huge cherry tree rendered its yearly tale of juicy blackhearts--enough and to spare for neighbors and robins, and for our own preserve jars. on a bleak northern rise behind the house, an ancient juniper (like another "cleopatra's needle") stood slenderly against the sky--as perfect a pyramid as if shaped by the gardener's shears, instead of the keen-edged winter wind. chapter ii "_the man with the hoe_" as before our advent at the "mansion house" the man-of-all-work--after a long administration of its out-door affairs in the soft service of an easily-gratified mistress (the dear "lady of the wheeled chair") had been abstracted from the family circle, the first step in our gardening was to call in the local "man with the hoe." this useful personage (let it here be said) was not--like mr. markham's terrible hero--"brother to the ox." his "jaw" and "forehead" were all right, and, owing to the use of a hoe with proper length of handle, "the weight of the centuries" had not disturbed the contour of his back. one could not swear that he knew his "plato" (alas, how few of us _do_!) and as to "the swing of the pleiades," it was not his immediate concern. his it was, rather, to interest himself with the hoeing and edging of graveled walks, the weeding of kitchen and flower-gardens, the pruning of shrubs and vines, and the "making of two" lilies "grow where but one grew before." and so far from being (like markham's man) "fraught with menace to the universe" _our_ "man with the hoe"--in that small section of it within his immediate radius--was considered a positive _blessing_! was it not on _his_ good right arm that we--"the deserving poor"--to whom providence had apportioned vegetable patches, flower-borders, and bits of lawn with intersecting graveled paths, and denied the luxury of a resident "hired man"--depended for the presentability of our "outdoors"? poor millet! one fancies his astonishment at markham's terrible presentation of his peasant model! himself of their guild, he painted his brother peasants in all honesty; and being neither pessimist nor anarchist, but working simply from the standpoint of the artist, has so made them immortal. but to return to our own undertaking--our first task was the dislodgment of the stubborn tangle of persistent thimbleberry vines, sturdy saplings of ash and chestnut, and long-established waxberries. this done, we made, on the south, facing the "king's highway" and near enough to give delight and perfume to the foot-passenger, a brand new flower bed. in the middle of each square of lawn a raised circle, edged with stone, was made for the spring hyacinths and tulips (these to be succeeded later with cannas and bright summer flowers). relegating the kitchen garden to a less conspicuous place, we prepared the cabbage-patch for our little rose-garden. all this heavy work done--"the man with the hoe" was, for the time, discharged. our cambridge home had, for nearly two decades, been the property of one who in the harvard botanical garden had "a friend at court" and had thus found it possible to secure for his grounds many choice shrubs and hardy herbaceous plants. himself a skilled and enthusiastic horticulturist--after twenty years of painstaking cultivation, his garden close, with its mellow low-lying site and unobstructed southern exposure, had become a miracle of productiveness. it had not, like the medford garden, been "laid out." flowers, fruit, and vegetables, were all in a riotous jumble; yet each the perfection of its kind. the marvel was that one small garden could carry such a load of growth! pears, early and late, of the juiciest and sweetest; big yellow quinces, currants, white and red, raspberries, thimbleberries, and blackberries by the bushel! and (crowning glory of all) a huge gravenstein with fruit fair as the famous golden apples tended by the "daughters of the evening star." to this garden, for many years, my good husband had devoted his leisure hours. two years before our removal to "the garden with house attached" he had left us for the far-off unknown land; and it was therefore with tender touch that we uprooted the shrubs and plants of his care--together with the flowers that _i_ had tended. the cold frame was full of thrifty seedlings--primroses, iceland poppies, and other beauties. in the open, there were lilies, peonies--rose-pink and creamy white--big drummond phloxes, and roses _ad infinitum_--two heaped cartloads in all--carried over by "the third son," and before the earliest frost, so well bestowed by his able hands, as to have rooted themselves in the mellow soil of the new garden. not one of these succumbed to the perils of transplantation--not even the five-year-old peach tree, whose certain dissolution all had prophesied, but which bravely withstood the risk of removal, and now, each spring, puts on its crown of pink splendor, which duly turns to juicy fruit beneath the sun that shines upon the grave of him whose hand, long years ago, planted its tiny stone. later on, we put in the tulip and hyacinth bulbs, and, when at last the entire garden, beneath its warm coverlet of dressing and leaves, composed itself for a long winter nap--like the poet's "goose-woman"--we "blessed ourselves, and cursed ourselves, and rested from our labors." chapter iii _the "lady's" conservatory_ meantime, the dear "lady" (who had anticipated our coming to the mansion house, by a sudden resolve to commit her burden of housekeeping to younger and abler hands--and retain of her old establishment but a single personal attendant--as faithful friend, companion, and amanuensis) wheeled into the very thick of action--had watched with anxious eyes this removal of ancient landmarks--this general upheaval of things. an almost helpless invalid--wheeled daily through eight patient summers into her beloved garden--she had sat with her beautiful silver hair arranged in careful curls, a big white sun-bonnet shading her kind old face, to receive her friends (both gentle and simple) with a cordial hospitality, and an old-time courtesy in fine keeping with herself and her surroundings. innately conservative, the lady was scarce in touch with innovation of any sort. a passionate lover of flowers, but scantily endowed with horticultural talent, and without a spark of creative genius, she smiled with dubious complacency on this awful devastation--comforting herself with the sweet anticipation of spring tulips and summer roses, in her very own garden! dear lady--her absolute trust in my gardening ability was indeed touching! one must "live up to the blue china" of one's reputation; so i did my very best; and when all was done, and the out-door darlings nestled safely beneath their winter coverlet, came the pleasure of looking after the house-plants--(by this time well-recovered from the vicissitudes of repotting and removal) and the bestowal of each in its winter quarters; and this leads me to a description of "the conservatory." in a warm southwestern angle of "the mansion house" there nestled a narrow piazza-like structure--opening, by long french windows, from both drawing and sitting room, and leading by a short flight of steps into the old garden. this erection--having been enclosed by sash-work of glass--and furnished with rugs, a big easy chair, a round table, and a penitential hair-cloth sofa, and supplied with rocking chairs, was, when the temperature permitted, the favorite lounging place of family and guest. though warmed only by the sun, it had always been known as "the conservatory" (probably because herein every autumn, the lady's geraniums and fuchsias, taken in from the early frost, stood on the corner table, recovering from the fall potting on their way to winter quarters on the broad ledge of a sunny south window of her own bed chamber). through the winter this unwarmed place was neither available for plant or man. long before the possibility of ever moving to the mansion house had entered my head, i had looked upon this conservatory with loving eyes, and, in fancy, pictured it, warmed and filled all winter long with lovely flowering plants. a conservatory had been the dream of my life! and when _this_ fell to my lot, and, abolishing the stuffy cylinder stoves that had, heretofore, warmed the mansion house, we put in a big furnace, i had directed the leading of a roomy pipe to this glass-enclosed quarter, and the out-door work well over, i pleased myself with arranging this new winter home for my darlings. the light sashes--warped by time--had become "ram-shackly." i wedged them securely, and stuffing gaps with cotton batting carefully listed the outer door against "the west wind mudjekeewis," and when all was done delightedly watched the vigorous growth of my well-housed darlings. alas! short and sweet was my day of content. one fatal january night the mercury dropped suddenly to zero, and (as luck would have it) the furnace fire followed suit, and, in the morning, i awoke to find my precious plants stark and stiff against the panes. we promptly showered them with ice-cold water ("a hair of the dog that bit you" advises the old proverb). in vain! the blighted foliage stood black and shriveled in the morning sunshine! "all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't bring humpty dumpty up again!" all that could be done was to clip away the frost-bitten members, mellow the soil, and await a fresh supply of sap from the uninjured roots. as a matter of course the slowly recuperating plants could no longer be left to the random winter gambols of tricky "mudjekeewis," but must be relegated to the old-time safety of window-seat and flower-stand. thus ended my day-dream of a conservatory! under this dispensation i consoled myself by nursing the invalids back to health and comparative prosperity, and, in late february, they amply repaid my care by abundant leafage and wealth of bloom. meantime, the freesias, and narcissi, the hyacinths and tritelias, came one after another from the dark cellar, to sit in the sun, and cheer our wintry days with odor and bloom, and give delight to the dear invalid lady. and here let me say that of all winter gardening i have found the house cultivation of bulbs most interesting and repaying. first there is the eager looking over the autumn catalogues and the well-considered selection of your bulbs. if your purse is long enough to warrant it, you may put on your list the costly _named_ varieties of your favorite colors among the hyacinths; if otherwise, you may still have the satisfaction of making a dollar or two go a long way; since after putting on your list a few choice bulbs, you get, at the department store, oceans of five-cent hyacinth bulbs, and, taking your chance as to color, have the added pleasure of the surprises thus secured. as the other desirable bulbs are comparatively inexpensive, you can finish your list from the catalogue, and thus have as many as you desire. the oxalis has, presumably, been saved over from last winter's stock, and so, too, have the best of the freesias. these are, no doubt, well-started about the first of september. early in october some of the newly bought freesias and some of all the other bulbs may be planted. the remainder may be potted in instalments, two or three weeks apart, the _last_ as late as december. you may use for hyacinths, at a pinch, quite small pots--say four-inch ones; but success is more certain in the five or six-inch sizes. the smaller bulbs may be planted in clumps in such sized pots as you like, about two inches apart. you may use prepared soil furnished very reasonably by the florist, or, if preferred, prepare it yourself after this formula: one-half mellow garden loam, one-quarter well-rotted cow manure, and for the remainder use leaf-mold, well-pulverized peat, and a good trowel-full of fine beach sand. bulbs, though needing rich food, should never come directly in contact with their manure supply. in potting the larger bulbs leave about quarter of an inch above ground, but entirely bury the smaller ones. the big bulbs should be pressed firmly down, as they have a way of working up from the covering soil. water well, and set in a cool, dark cellar. the oxalis and freesia sprout more quickly, and must not be left to send long pale shoots up in the dark, but the hyacinths and narcissi, though promised in six weeks, are often two months, and even longer, getting ready to come into the light. this should be done with caution, as they must first be greened in a shaded window, and not until later exposed to the direct beams of the sun. they may be given water in moderate supplies, and i have sometimes found a weekly allowance of "bowker's flower food" desirable. my own selection of house bulbs usually comprises oxalis, freesia, the narcissi, hyacinth, and tritelia; many other desirable ones are to be had, but with a good supply of the above-named varieties, including a generous number of such inexpensive bulbs as the paper-white narcissus, and the yellow "daffies," one may count on a sweet succession of bloom from christmas to may-time. in this connection i add a reprint of a paper long ago published in the "american garden." it was originally prepared by me for the "cambridge plant club," whose members were so kind as to assure me that they found it helpful and entertaining. it was copied from the "garden" by the _cambridge tribune_, but may, nevertheless, be new to the present reader: chapter iv _the house garden. the selection, arrangement, and culture of house plants_ apart from that æsthetic satisfaction which house plants afford, the principle of growth, which they exemplify, has its own strong and almost universal attraction. thus it is that we behold in dust-blurred windows of squalid tenements rows of dented tomato cans, desolately holding their stunted geraniums, fuchsias, and other feeble bits of greenery. such half-pathetic attempts at floriculture are, indeed, "touches of nature" that "make us kin" to the forlorn inmates of these shabby, ill-conditioned dwellings who, amid poverty and its possible degradation, have still courage for, at least, _one fine endeavor_. the sole purpose of this paper is to impart some simple knowledge gained through a long and earnestly-loving experience in the beautiful art of plant-culture. our first step is the choice of our plants; and we shall do wisely to select such as will best accommodate themselves to the somewhat adverse conditions of furnace-heated and gas-lighted rooms such as most of us occupy. first and foremost in our collection should stand sweet-scented plants; not only because these impart to our rooms a delicious air of summer, and etherealize the atmosphere of our homes, but also because of their sanitary value, medical authority having distinctly declared that the perfume of growing flowers, exhaling on the in-door air, tends to neutralize fever and other disease-germs. for delicacy of perfume and continuity of bloom the heliotrope may take the first rank among odorous house plants. its very name--derived from two greek words, helio, the sun, and trope, to turn--is charmingly suggestive of summer-time. the plant does not belie its name. it cannot have too many sun-kisses. as a cut-flower it is perishable and unsatisfactory, but its growing bloom lasts long, and holds its odor even in decay; it is delightful up to its very last breath. to secure good winter bloom from the heliotrope, begin in early summer with the plant while in the ground, and by repeated pinching-back make it sturdy and robust. this done, choose some cloudy afternoon, about the middle of august, for potting. your soil should be thus prepared: one-third good loam, one-third leaf-mold, and one-third well-rotted manure; a few pinches of soot may be added, and enough white sand mixed through the whole to keep it light and dainty. pot carefully, and with as little root disturbance as may be. water thoroughly, and keep the plant in shade until its leaves recover their tone. after this it may stand in the sun, if given plenty of water, for a week or two, while the buds get under way. be sure to house before the faintest suspicion of frost, as this sun-lover is extremely tender, and the slightest nipping harms it. give it a southern exposure in your room, and place close to the glass; and if you have not a double window, leave the fly-screen in to save the leaves and blossoms from immediate contact with frosty panes. a heliotrope should never once become wholly dry, and should have a weekly drink of manure-water, which must be about the color of moderately strong coffee. for insect pests, dust the leaves with a light feather-brush, and then wash thoroughly. this process must be repeated as often as the insects appear. the odorous sacred lily of china we all, no doubt, grow yearly in water, with a bottom layer or two of pebbles. it is well to make incisions lengthwise of the bulb with a sharp knife before planting, and there should be lumps of charcoal among the pebbles to keep the water sweet. a single bulb, thus treated, will give one seven flower-stalks. the old-fashioned plant, the calla, though less common than it was twenty years ago, if grown in an artistic vase and given an entire window, is beautiful. it has been said of the calla that "it needs water like a mill, heat like a furnace, food like an army, and absolute rest during the summer." "keep its feet in water," says the florist. in its native habitat it is in water to the depth of a foot or more, in broad open sunlight, and in soil as rich as decayed vegetation can make it. soon after flowering season the water subsides, and the soil becomes as dry as it is possible to get in the tropics. here, nature teaches us how to cultivate the calla. the canna thrives admirably as a house plant, and has a happy way of accommodating itself to circumstances, which makes it especially desirable for decorative effect. in a sunny window it will flower all winter if given abundant heat. in a north window of the same room it will give one beautiful foliage, and it will, "at a pinch," take a back seat and hold its own in the shade, grouped with the statuary and screens, where, with its large, handsome leaves, it will impart to the drawing-room a certain air of oriental languor and magnificence. the canna should be lifted early in september and placed in rich loam, in a large, well-shaped pot or vase, and kept for a week or two in the open, in partial shade, and well watered. it must be carefully housed before the lightest frost appears. its vigor and beauty are increased by the addition of wood soot to the soil. all the begonias thrive well as house plants. my experience with the new and choice varieties has not been sufficient to enable me to give valuable advice in regard to their culture. i had formerly supposed that a north window might suit a begonia. it was a mistaken impression. the plant, i find, needs sunlight and a warm atmosphere. it must be regularly and carefully watered, and i have found it best to give the small-leaved begonia its water from the saucer. the smooth-leaved begonias are said to affect a sunday morning cup of coffee by way of gloss to their foliage. i have seen a superb one thus treated, but have never tried the experiment. the plant likes an occasional watering with soot tea while making its summer growth in the garden. the coleus, as a window plant, affords fine color effects, but the plant is too tender to be agreeable for house-culture. it requires an invariably high temperature, a fair amount of sunlight, regular moisture, and very rich soil. this given it will grow superbly, but if overtaken, in some unguarded hour, with the slightest chill, it loses its beauty and vigor. the house coleus is almost sure to become infested with mealy-bugs. these may be picked off, and thereafter the plant should be given a careful wash of kerosene water, which must be repeated as often as the pests appear. the formula for this spray, which is used for roses at mount auburn, was thus given me by an expert. it is simply one wine-glass of kerosene oil to a gallon of water. ferns, as decorative plants, are beautiful and easily grown, though all do not succeed with the maidenhair. all ferns should have an abundance of light, but not too much sun. i have found an eastern exposure the very best possible. ferns should be placed in the full light of a window, given a high temperature and watered evenly, but not too much. the soil should be partially renewed annually, and care should be taken with the roots, which do not like disturbance; especially is this to be observed with the maidenhair, which, if possible, should _never_ be transplanted, and should have its stated period of entire rest, during which it should be kept almost dry. the fuchsia is, properly, an out-door bloomer, but with care can be brought to flower in winter. to this end, pinch back in summer, and in september house, and place in a north or east window. give much light, water freely with warm water, and give liquid manure and soot tea about twice a week. if given an entire window both flower and foliage will be superb, with this treatment. time would fail me to enumerate all the desirable plants for house-culture; there is the orange tree, the costly palm, the delicate asparagus, the achyranthes, anthericum, and curculigo, the aspidistra, cyclamen, and many more equally beautiful and practicable, and last, but not least, the inevitable rubber plant, a little stiff and heavy perhaps, but as a single plant decidedly effective. in arranging a table or stand of mixed plants, care should be taken to give each its proper growing place without marring the general effect. heliotrope, that ardent sun-lover, should have the front row, close to the window-glass. beside it should sit a begonia or two, and some flowering geraniums. a petunia and a bridal-rose might come next--the petunia twined among the others to hide its scraggy limbs. a nicotiana, well in the light, might make the evenings sweet with its perfume, and if the room be not over-warm, a pot of mignonette might sweeten the air by day, and at night be removed to cooler quarters. in the "middle aisle" an achyranthes or two may stand with sunlight sifting through its fiery leaves, which have thus all the color-effect of blossoms without their perishability. further back, anthericum may flourish, with curculigo spreading queenly its fluted palm-like leaves, and always craving moisture. and in the "pauper's pew" wandering jew will contentedly sit, like charity, kindly covering the entire defects of staring pots that needs must hold its betters; and on the floor, at the foot of all, aspidistra may seem to "choose darkness rather than light." if you need a growing amaryllis or two to eke out your foliage display, they will take a shady place, though to bring them into flower you need a strong, steady sunlight. nicotiana, or tobacco plant, is another fragrant and desirable plant. it thrives in about the same soil as the heliotrope, but needs an entirely different exposure, being one of the few plants that flower perfectly in a sunless window. experimenting with the nicotiana as a house plant, i found that in a south window the plant was not robust, was scant of bloom, and the flowers quite perishable in comparison with the blossoms in a north window, where the plants grew to a height of more than five feet, and, together, produced one hundred and fifty-six flowers. through the entire winter no ray of sunlight reached them. they were trained on stout strings quite close to the glass of a double window, kept moist, and given an even temperature of from sixty-five to seventy degrees, and were watered well with liquid manure. [illustration: the circle on the lawn] at evening the blossoms expand, and all through the night it is as if the room were "perfumed from an unseen censer, swung by angels." among the sweet-scented tribe mignonette ranks high as an out-door plant, and as a window bloomer it is exquisite. it rarely outlives transplanting, but may be sown in pots about mid-summer, and pinched back for the house. another method is to obtain the plant from the florist when in bud. the cost is trifling, and if kept cool and in a sunny window, it will continue in bloom for weeks. mignonette needs much sunlight, but not too high a temperature, and the plant is much weakened by a single day's omission in watering. another--now almost obsolete--fragrant house plant is the night-blooming jasmine. its odor is peculiar and intense, and--as its name implies--is only emitted by night. its foliage is not especially delicate, but nothing can be more dainty than its slender spikes of pale, greenish-white bloom. it is a thrifty plant, making in a single summer a growth of five or six feet. it is a shrub, but one could fancy that, ages ago, it must have been a "sport" of a climber, so slender and rapid is its habit of growth. after flowering-time, which begins late in july and continues until late in october, it drops most of its foliage, which is soon replaced by young, delicate shoots and fresh leaves and buds. the daphne odora, which combines in its small clusters of bloom the exquisite perfume of many sweet flowers, may not be lightly passed by. it is not an easy plant to manage, and often drops its buds just as they seem ready to open. by placing it in the sunny window of a cool room, and watering evenly and not too copiously, it may be brought into flower; and then nothing can be finer than its fragrance. the more homely and familiar hyacinth is not only delightful in form, color, and odor, but may be recommended as a "safe investment," as it seldom fails to flower and needs comparatively little care. the mahernia is another desirable fragrant plant. it is very effective in a hanging-basket. it comes in flower about the first of february, and its tiny yellow cups are brimful of delicious odor. a home-bred mahernia makes fine foliage, but seldom blooms abundantly; it is, therefore, best to procure the plant from the florist when fully budded. it will then flower well in a sunny window, and for three or four weeks one's room will be as sweet as summer. the wax-plant, though properly a summer blooming plant, sometimes flowers in winter. its blossoms are very odorous, especially by night, and in structure and color they are exquisite. it is a long-lived plant, easily raised and tended, and, being a climber, may be tastefully trained on a trellis, where, with its glossy, rubber-like leaves, it is very effective. the petunia, as a window plant, blooms freely, and the white variety is fragrant--especially by night. the plant is rather ungainly in its habit of growth. to conceal its scragginess of structure twine its stems among other foliage on your stand, and place it close to the glass, and you will find it pretty and effective. and now that sweet-smelling plants are under consideration, may i not give you the details of an experiment with the common lilac as a house plant? it was made some fifteen years ago, and before i had the slightest knowledge of lilac-forcing, which is now quite common among our florists. early in december a stout, low bush of the hardy purple variety was, with the aid of a pickaxe, dislodged from the frost-bound earth, and with its frozen ball of sod still adhering, thus treated: a large nail-keg, having an auger-hole in its bottom on which some bits of crock were strewn, was filled to about half its depth with warm stable manure; on this the dry leafless bush, with its frozen soil, was set, and the keg filled in with mellow loam. after a good watering, the keg was placed in a deep pan, which was then filled with boiling water, and the whole set near a huge hall stove. the hot water was daily renewed at the bottom, and before many days leaf and flower-buds began to swell on the hard, bare stems of the bush. when these were well formed and the tiny buds quite distinguishable among the pale green foliage, the lilac was removed from its dim corner beside the stove, and given an entire east window in the long hall, where the temperature ranged from forty to sixty, and sometimes as high as seventy degrees. in about two months from the time of housing fourteen large and perfect clusters of pearl-white lilacs rejoiced our eyes. these blossoms were far more delicate in odor than out-door lilacs, and made a delightful atmosphere of spring-time in the homely old farm-house which was then our dwelling-place. we had, too, the novel pleasure of surprising our friends with clusters of fresh lilac in february. french florists, who give much attention to lilac-forcing, lay great stress upon the necessity of keeping the bush in the dark in order to bleach the flowers--white lilacs being most marketable, and the common purple lilac most available for forcing on account of its superior vitality. fortunately i stumbled upon the right treatment, and mine seemed to come white of their own sweet will. for a hanging-basket use the oxalis, of which there are many beautiful varieties. it flowers abundantly, but as the season advances, must be stimulated with repeated applications of liquid manure and soot tea, that its foliage may not lose its vigor and become straggly. wandering jew, though structurally coarse, is a good hanging plant, and will accommodate itself to any exposure, really doing its very best in a north window. ivy geranium is another hanging plant, beautiful in structure, and with its double rose-pink blossoms, as in the improved varieties, most fair to see. it demands strong food, much moisture, and oceans of sunlight. madeira vine and german ivy both make effective hanging-baskets. the latter is too alluring to the green fly to make its house-culture easy or satisfactory. smilax, if trained on strings, in a sunny window, is exquisitely delicate, and its blossom is odorous. the english ivy, as in-door greenery, is delightful. i have attempted its culture, but my experience being but a series of ignoble defeats, is not commendable. i wish it were! the odious scale has at last compelled me to abandon the field. i must also confess to repeated failure with in-door geraniums. mine have not bloomed well, and a geranium without its blossoms is a poor affair (not including the scented varieties). last autumn, after having tried many methods with many kinds, i turned over a new leaf in geranium culture. all my best geraniums were consigned to an upper room, where no furnace heat could reach them, and where, in cold nights, the temperature falls perilously near to freezing point. the plants have a southern window, and through the day the room is moderately warmed from the ascending heat of the kitchen. geraniums (and fuchsias and nasturtiums as well) have taken kindly to this low temperature, the geraniums blooming as finely as in the open during summer. many of us have, no doubt, seen floating about in print, the little story of that pot of geranium which was the sole bequest of a dying man to his family, who carefully tended this precious, though not pecuniarily valuable legacy. when spring came the pot was reverently committed to the cemetery lot to summer close beside the grave of the buried husband and father. on removing it in autumn, the plant was found to have outgrown its quarters, and was tenderly dislodged for repotting. to the great surprise of these good people a hollow false bottom was found in the original pot, and on its removal a little fortune in bank notes was disclosed, which, as the story ran, had obligingly kept themselves intact for the heirs in this odd storing-place. this tale has been cited of late by a scientific floriculturist, as evidence of the deplorable ignorance of the common mind in regard to absolutely necessary conditions for growth demanded by a plant. "a geranium," he authoritatively tells us, "cannot exist without drainage, hence an account which asserts that one has for months survived the ordeal of a tight-bottom pot can have no foundation in fact." so we have been taught, but, alas for the infallibility of time-honored theories! in the material world new discoveries are continually upsetting old conclusions; and we are now told that our geraniums and fuchsias have a natural affinity for tight-bottomed tomato cans! the finest geranium in my present collection has the proud distinction of growing in a water-tight lard kettle. though a young and blooming plant, it was held in light esteem by its owner because of a vicious tendency to magenta, and in the autumn, no pot being at hand, was given this apparently thin chance of survival. not only has it carried its buds and blossoms straight on through the entire winter, but it has graciously overcome its perversity in the matter of color, changing from a glaring magenta to a deep and lovely rose. in the same group is a large white geranium three years old, which, after blooming all summer in the garden, has never once, throughout the winter, been out of bud and blossom. this well-behaved plant grows in an old butter tub which stands squarely on its "own" sound "bottom," unmutilated by gimlet or auger. the plant had, in late winter, ten clusters of bud and bloom, while its small neighbor of the lard kettle had six. a nasturtium, in the same window, flowers abundantly, and a fuchsia beside it is a paragon among plants. all these have had weekly applications of manure water and soot tea, and have not been kept over-wet. especially is this true of the geraniums--which may, perhaps, partly explain their dispensing with drainage. the finest hyacinth i have ever grown in the house perfected in a handleless fancy pitcher which had no outlet at the bottom. having no pot of the right size, some lumps of charcoal were thrown into this make-shift affair, the soil tossed in, and the bulb, not without serious misgivings, carefully planted. it flowered late, but its foliage was abundant and its bloom exquisite. it gave me five perfect rose-colored spikes. these all, in common with my other plants (excepting ferns and aspidistras) were well fed with liquid manure and soot tea, and, in potting, a little wood ashes was added to the soil. that very old-fashioned plant, the bridal-rose, is a free winter bloomer, and has a kindly way of sending up a perpetual supply of shoots for one's neighbors and friends. but, taking roses altogether, they are not profitable house plants. the constant battle with insect pests is fatiguing, and one cannot spray and fumigate and spray and fumigate incessantly, as the florist does. now and then, after hard labor, virtue has its reward in the shape of an exquisite rose or two, but even then, "the play is scarce worth the candle." the same may be said of carnations, which not only teem with insects, but require a much lower temperature than we have in our living rooms, as also do winter violets. as to the finer uses of house plants, i have but time to suggest, in conclusion, that whoever cultivates them from sheer material satisfaction in their growth, from mere pleasure in their structural perfection, or with an eye single to their market value (as a florist naturally must), overlooking their poetical--i had almost said their religious side--has grasped but a small portion of the delight to be derived from floriculture, and has wholly missed that divine inspiration, that mental help, which emanates from "a thing of beauty" and makes it "a joy forever." chapter v _at easter-time_ april was two weeks old. already passion-week had come. easter-time would soon begin. crocuses dotted the short new grass on the lawn. mated robins chose nesting places in the old orchard, and the big cherry tree had put on its crown of snow-tipped buds. on that cheery spring morning--wheeled out for her daily airing--"the lady" looked expectantly at the bulbs' circles, where the newly uncovered hyacinths and tulips--pushing vigorously up for the sun's warm kisses--already showed bud and leaf of pale tender green. dear patient lady! would that god had spared her to see another "spring put on its bloom," but ere the day had done he called her to the "immortal gardens where angels are the wardens." with scarce a pang, her tired old heart ceased beating. it had been the fancy of this dear cousin of my husband to select me among her relatives as the superintendent of her funeral--to "lay her away," as she quaintly expressed it--and it had long been impressed upon me that i must "save myself" for that responsible trust. often when i came over from cambridge to share her mid-day meal, she looked compassionately at my tired face, as i arranged the big basket of flowers brought for her vases (among which she especially doted on the pansies, with their charming variety of color), and holding up a warning finger, said discouragedly: "cousin, you over-work. take more rest, or you will pass on before me, and _then_, who will lay me away?" and so it was, that on easter sunday--not altogether without that "pomp and circumstance" which, from time immemorial, had attended the mansion house funerals--i arranged her burial. with the sweet spring air coming in at the open sunny window--flowers perfuming and brightening the house and clasped loosely in her folded hands, and with so sweet a smile upon her lips that it half seemed a welcome to the neighbors and friends who looked their last upon her benignant face, still untouched by "the finger of decay"--i gave her grudgingly to the cold dark grave, where among her dear kindred (in a self-chosen site) we laid her--"ashes to ashes, dust to dust." the simple head-stone appointed by herself marks the spot; it holds this tender legend, prepared by one who knew her: "her life was sweet with charity and patience." i like to fancy her "homing shade" still, in the long summer afternoons, haunting the old garden of her love; watching, as of old, the flitting of butterflies, listening to the glad singing of birds, and marking upon the lawn the lovely shadows lengthen in the west'ring sun. "only the forgotten are dead." chapter vi _burglar-proof_ that strain in the new england make-up which manifests itself in "taking care of things" ran in the blood of the dear lady. her provident forbears--intent upon "getting the best" of any burglar bent upon the acquisition of the family silver--had protected many of the first floor windows with prison-like bars of iron. later on, when the "conservatory," with its long southern exposure of glass, had been added to the mansion, there arose the necessity of some invincible protection of _that_ quarter from midnight prowlers. to this end, jacobs--the family carpenter--was called in. this good man having constructed six stout wooden trellises--all precisely alike--they were set along the southern flower border, giving upon the exposed glass stretch of conservatory. in front of these trellises were planted six thrifty young _"akebia quinata" vines_--funereal of flower, and dense and clover-like in foliage. these greedy feeders, gradually crowding out the more dainty flowering perennials, were ultimately joined by a tangled growth of coarse encroaching shrubs and vigorous self-sown saplings, the whole interlaced by a strong poison-ivy vine. meantime, the outer door of the conservatory had but the protection of a common lock, at which, as we all know, any enterprising burglar would derisively snap his capable fingers. be that as it may, the dear lady found in this leafy barricade her chief defense against midnight robbery. now that the conservatory was to be widened and made into a piazza--early one may morning, during the "third son's" week of vacation, he put his capable shoulder to the wheel, along with that of the "man with the hoe"--who, like the sexton in cock robin, equipped with "his little spade and shovel," fell upon this tangled border. although in most respects a very lion of valor, the "man" would run like a frighted girl from a troop of yellow jackets--and before poison ivy he "shook in his shoes." so work was delayed while he went for his pruning gloves, and thus armed and equipped, came stoutly to the onset. and now carefully removing the few bulbs of japan lily that year after year found strength to hold their own on the outskirts of this jungle, the two fell mightily on the trellised vines, the shrubs, the young trees, and the insidious ivy, and when the town clock that day told the hour of noon, the "burglar barricade" was among the things that _had been_, and were _not_; and the unharmful ashes of poison ivy lay blackened on its funeral pyre. since the dear lady had gone where the burglar ceases from troubling, we held it no disrespect to her honored memory to demolish the "barricade" preparatory to the widening of the old conservatory, and the turning of the whole into a roomy piazza--where, all summer long, one may take after-dinner coffee and naps, may read, write, and sew, have afternoon tea with friend or neighbor--breathing, meantime, invigorating out-door air. and now began the earnest work of "putting to rights" the entire garden; and if in this little account of that undertaking (without adding one iota to the reader's botanical knowledge) i may furnish some useful hints to the amateur, and may, incidentally, entertain with such various bits of information in regard to the works and ways of flowering plants, the origin and fitness of their names, and their relations to human life, as come of the "reading of many books," and so encourage in my fellow-woman that habit of spending much time "with body and with spirit," in "god's out-of-doors," which is one of van dyke's beautiful steps "in the footpath of peace," my end in making this book will be well attained. chapter vii _perennials_ to begin with the hardy perennials--which, to be effective, should be in a border of their own. at the outset, this should be made free of stones, then mellow the earth as far down as two feet. at the bottom put in about one foot of well-seasoned manure. now add leaf-mold, a little peat, a sprinkling of wood ashes, and a top layer of sifted garden loam. if the soil be clayey, add some fine pure sand, to keep it friable. seeds of perennials are naturally slow in germinating--their time of coming up being a period varying from one week to two months. it may here be stated that all perennial plants undergo a period of rest. it is not certain that this "_rest_" is in any sense a recuperation. it is supposed to be a hereditary trait induced by natural environment--a means by which the plant resists untoward circumstances of climate. in the tropics, plants rest during dry seasons, in much the same manner as during our northern winters. investigations--so far--show that this hereditary trait has not been entirely overcome by culture. any attempt of the cultivator to ignore this resting period is apt to injure the plant, from the fact that any energy used in abnormal development may be subtracted from subsequent growth or development. before i had taken this "old-time garden" in hand--fashioning new borders, and freeing the old from encumbering jungles--many plants, both annual and perennial, had, no doubt, found place in it as before stated. groups of blue-eyed periwinkle still held their own among usurping forces. a discouraged day-lily looked forlornly out of the tangle, where year by year a courageous double english violet shyly perfected a blossom or two. here and there a straggling bush of blush roses reached out for the june sunshine, and, to my delight, i found--half strangled among the over-growth--my old acquaintance, a pink flowering almond. the dear old thing was "on its last legs." we carefully removed it to kindlier quarters. straightway it took heart, and sending up new green shoots, gave us, that very year, upon "the parent stem" a tuft or two of rosy bloom. now, after ten years of high living, it has become an illustrious shrub; and to sit in the old garden in the may-time while the shadows and sunshine dance together on the lawn and vernal odors sweeten all the air, watching the long pink wreaths of flowering almond sway in the south wind, is to lend one's self to the divine gladness of spring, and know that simple joy in living, that is the birthright of all god's creatures in this--his beautiful and perfect--world. the flowering almond has been often divided, and all about the garden its rosy wreaths may now be seen. * * * * * here, too, was another old friend, the yellow globe flower--a shrub too large and straggling of habit to find a home in the perennial beds. it has taken a front seat among the tall shrubs and repeated itself many times. it has a long period of blooming, and is a most satisfactory inhabitant of the garden. and now, as a possible help in the selection and arrangement of the perennial border, let me tell you what i have learned in regard to those under my care, in respect to their habit of growth, their treatment, and characteristics. * * * * * the rose is, as we know, crowned queen of the flowers, and has her own separate place in the garden; but as the lily kindly fraternizes with all her sister-flowers, and is easily queen among the _social perennials_, i give her the first place in this catalogue of my border favorites. the lily--we are told--derives its name from the celtic word _li_--signifying whiteness and purity. quick to seize upon symbolic accessories to their art, the old painters put in the hand of the angelic messenger who brought to the virgin mary tidings of her divine motherhood, this chaste and exquisite flower. hence the _lilium candidum_ was known as the "lily of annunciation" and as the madonna lily, which last is, i think, the more poetic and beautiful of the two names. as the genus _lilium_ embraces about fifty distinct species one may not aspire to a large show of lilies in a moderate-sized garden. "it does not seem necessary," says mr. c. l. allen (an expert in lily cultivation) "to improve, or rather, to attempt an improvement on that which is already perfect, as the lily is, wherever found in its natural habitat. it seems to us that nature has exhausted her resources in the perfection of the species, and regards as an interference all efforts of man to improve her work." "l. candidum," says the same authority, "is older than history, as the first notice made of plants speaks of it as a 'well-known plant.' it is the loveliest, as well as the oldest, and if we were to have but one lily candidum would be the one." i quite agree with this decision. the madonna has ever been the lily dearest to my heart. although its native habitat is the levant, the candidum has adapted itself to our colder temperature, and is easily perfected in our temperate climate, and in the hardy garden. some twenty years ago this lily was extensively forced for the easter market. in the present decade the bermuda lily (l. longiflorum) is almost exclusively forced for the easter trade, and popularly known as the "easter lily." its cultivation for that april festival has now become one of the established industries of that lovely clime. the bulbs--there grown in wide flowery fields--are, early in autumn, received by our florists and directly potted for the easter harvest. a lady passing the winter in bermuda brought from that island some bulbs of l. longiflorum, which finally coming into the possession of mr. h. k. harris of philadelphia, he honored the flower by bestowing upon it his own name, and as l. harrisii, brought it into prominent notice among our florists, who now force it for easter-time. the bermuda-grown bulbs are preferred by them to the dutch-grown ones, as they are earlier ripened and come into bloom quicker. for myself i prefer the madonna, with its more open flower, to the trumpet-like bermuda. it is, too, an old acquaintance, has a more delicate odor, and hangs its sprays more gracefully. the bermuda needs much coaxing to live through our bleak northern winters, but the candidum is absolutely hardy. the madonna holds to her corner with the tenacity of a family cat--she is a long time settling herself in a "strange garret." mine had undergone the vicissitude of three moving days before settling in their present quarters. i distributed them well through my sunniest border. their next neighbors were some elderly bee larkspurs. the first and second year the lovely blue delphiniums did most of the blooming. after that the lilies and larkspurs punctually celebrated together the "great and glorious fourth"--the tall madonnas (some years in throngs of two hundred) leading the fair procession--the larkspurs like swarms of blue butterflies flitting about among the snow of the lilies. then, for a time, every friend in the neighborhood had a dainty spray of summer lilies for decorative uses. finally, it befell that the coarser perennials elbowed the lilies too closely. they grew chary of bloom, and sometimes the bulbs quite gave up the struggle for existence. then it was that, calling in the aid of "the man with the hoe," i made for my "queen lilies" a new home, with better drainage. the madonna after her july flowering takes a rest. her favorite moving day is about the last of july. i have not an extensive knowledge of lily-culture, having but few varieties of this lovely plant in my garden. all, excepting the japanese (lilium auratum) take kindly to my borders, and "increase an hundred fold." my list includes a few plants of the japanese found here in the purlieus of the old "burglar barricade." i am indebted to mrs. ely for this information in regard to l. auratum: "as soon as planted in this country a microbe disease attacks the bulb and they gradually disappear under its ravages." this, no doubt, accounts for the unhealthy appearance of my few l. auratums, their scant tale of blossoms, and their sad tendency, year by year, to "grow beautifully less." america, after all, is but the step-mother of this charming flower, and nature somewhat repudiates this much calumniated tie. in english gardens they are said to thrive well, which may, in part, be due to better climatic conditions. in my borders the _candidum_ takes the front seat. here and there i make place for l. tigrinum (the well-known tiger-lily). in shady places sits the day lily. i have a single plant of the tall nankin-colored lily, variously named (lilium excelsum, testacum, isabellinum). the stalk is sometimes nearly five feet high, and produces from three to twelve reflex flowers of a dainty nankin hue--delicately shaded and fragrant. in flowering it immediately follows the madonna. the excelsum is not of japanese origin. how, when, or where it was born is yet unknown. it is said to be easy of culture, and this season i intend to remove mine to a less crowded situation, as i should long ago have done, but for dread of taking chances with the one plant. there may be a garden where nankin lilies are "thick as blackberries," but it has been my fortune to see but one plant, and i have found that the flower is a stranger to all who have met it in my border. the nankin lily came from our cambridge garden, and presumably was originally grown in the harvard botanic garden. i have, too, the old-fashioned, sweet-scented, early-blooming yellow lily. i have never known it by its latin name, but believe it to be hansoni--a japanese lily, as it answers in every particular to the description of that plant. were the flower more lasting it would be more desirable. its bloom, which comes in clusters, has, singly, but the short life of a day. with delight i found this dear lily of my far-away childhood in one of these old-time borders. it is perfectly hardy, and wonderfully prolific in bulbs. my garden has now scant room for all its yellow lilies, and _this_ after friends and neighbors have kindly relieved me of some of this "embarrassment of riches." the lilies-of-the-valley must be kept to their own beds, where they double and treble themselves incontinently. last, but not of least place in my heart, comes that flower thus charmingly vended by "perdita"--in "winter's tale"-- "lilies of all kinds--the flower de luce being one." the familiar old-time flower de luce, a vigorous clump of which i found in the "attached garden" (growing along with the yellow lily and the "live-forever" plants), is with us a native product, and absolutely hardy. the smaller varieties grow wild in swamp and meadow, and are, i think, invariably, blue as the noon-day heaven. these are sometimes known as "flags." the cultivated hardy irises are of several colors. mine is a lively blue, shading off to bluish white. in these days we grow in our gardens many lovely foreign irises--some of them so beautiful that they have been called "the connecting link between the lilies and the orchids." the flower of the spanish iris is very lovely and of various colors, quite fragrant, and appears in june. it is classed by dutch bulb growers as perfectly hardy, but in our trying climate needs to be protected by a slight winter covering. the (so named) english iris is a native of the pyrenees, but, as we are told, has been common in english gardens since . the flowers are of varied color--blue, white, lavender, crimson, and yellow. _l. germanica_, or german iris, is one of the most valuable of the early-flowering sorts for the herbaceous border. this iris is bulbous-rooted, easily propagated, and (though classed as hardy) is greatly benefited by a light winter covering of leaves. in color the flowers are blue, bright yellow, purple, of all shades, and white. japanese iris (i. kæmpferi) is with us fully acclimated, a gross feeder, and a strong grower, and an abundant bloomer. its flowers are from six to ten inches in diameter, in various shades of color--pure white, dark purple, porcelain blue, maroon, violet, plum, and so on--all with very distinct pencilings and marblings, and exquisitely beautiful. i have no japanese irises in my garden, but a kind neighbor sends me superb cut-blooms from his perfect iris border. mr. allen says that the well-cultivated seedling of japan iris "has no superior in the floral world." iris is named from iris, the goddess of the rainbow--in classic mythology the swift-footed olympian messenger. the root of the florentine iris is fragrant. it has a charming violet-like odor, and is the well-known sweet orris root (the name corrupted from iris) of commerce. in shakespeare's day the iris and the daffodil were both included among the lilies. some species of iris have from early times been called _fleur de lis_, or in english, flower de luce. the fleur de lis adopted by louis the viith of france as the emblem for his shield during the crusades was, probably, the white iris. older monarchies in eastern countries, considering the iris an emblem of power, used it--in a conventionalized form--as an emblem, on their scepters, and in this form the manufacturer still patterns it on table-linen. in the mysterious representations of antique egypt the iris was placed on the brow of the sphinx. altogether considered it is a most desirable ornament of the garden, and a flower "of mark and likelihood." it is recorded in the greek legends that the physician pæon cured pluto of a wound with the common peony; hence it is called after him in almost every country in europe. the ancient greeks are said to have held the plant in high repute, believing it to be of divine origin, and an emanation from the moon. pagan superstitions die hard, and in our christian civilization still hold their own among the ignorant masses. mrs. pratt tells us that in england "the lower classes turn beads of the peony root, which form necklaces for their children, and are supposed to aid dentition, and prevent convulsions." we learn from her that at the end of the th century the double red peony--at that time introduced into antwerp from switzerland--was too expensive a flower for any but the rich man's garden, a single plant selling for twelve pounds! "the mongols," she tells us, "use the seed of the wild peony in tea, and flavor their broth with its roots." among ourselves no garden is complete without this lovely hardy perennial. from my childhood the big red peony--coming in late may-time--has been, to my mind, the very embodiment of spring! of all the peonies this flower of my early love is most precious--beloved less for its dear blowsy self than for its sweet associations--memories of by-gone springs when life and joy went hand in hand, and grass was not greening on the graves of my dead. i have in my borders but four colors of this fine flower--red, white, pink, and pink with white center--this last a single variety, and an indefatigable bloomer. the red, white, and rose pink are all the doublest of their kind, and the two latter are deliriously odorous. of late, peonies of many colors are to be had from the seedsman--pink, purple, and salmon-colored varieties of exquisite form and color. the peony is greatly disquieted by removal, and, though sturdily tenacious of life, refuses for a year or two after transplanting, to "do its level best." it is increased by division of tubers, or may be propagated by seed. the division and replanting should be done in october, and one should see that there is, at least, one eye on each tuber. the peony may be commended to the perennial grower, not only as a lovely flower, but as a plant to "tie to." it never gets winter-killed, blossoms punctually, and has no pernickity notions in regard to situation. it will grow in any soil, but to do its best requires to be well fed and to have the loam about it kept loose and friable, the same as for the rose. * * * * * the foxglove (digitalis) beautifully repays one's care. unhappily it has a tendency to succumb to the harshness of our climate, and often gets winter-killed; surviving this ordeal, it is--with its charming spikes of white, purple, and pinkish lilac bloom--the pride of the garden. four years ago i had, in the western end of a southward-facing border, a superb clump of this lovely biennial. many times a day i went to look at these exquisite flowers. as i stood before them in admiration a friend often joined me, and while we stood admiring them, i thought of the persian flower-worship--an account of which i had come across in my reading and stored in my collection of "useful clippings." here it is. i cannot now recall the name of its author: "a persian saunters into a garden and stands and meditates on each flower before him, as in a half vision. "when the vision is fulfilled, and the ideal flower sought for found, he spreads his mat and sits before it until the setting of the sun, then folding his mat he goes home. "the next night he returns with friends--in ever-increasing troops, and they sit before it playing the lute, or guitar, and then all together join in prayer. "after prayer they still sit before it sipping sherbet and chatting late in the moonlight, and so again every evening until the flower dies." this oriental vein of plant and flower-worship seems to have been found in all persians--even in royalty itself! it is related of xerxes the great that he lost a battle by delaying a whole day with his army under the shade of a gigantic plane tree, which so charmed him that he caused it to be adorned with a golden circlet. but, to return to the foxgloves--five or six years ago one in my border made a new departure. it "sported"! it should perhaps be explained that to _sport_ is to produce a flower, or a shoot, of abnormal growth. long ago i read a most interesting paper "on sports." i do not remember the name of its writer, nor of the english magazine in which i found it, and after an exhaustive search in our town library have not been able to find a second paper on the subject, or to obtain further information in regard to this curious tendency from any botanist. i remember that the english article stated that this tendency in plant or shrub to ignore nature and take things into its own hands, was sometimes utilized by the horticulturist as an opportunity to propagate from the "sport" a new variety of the normal plant, or shrub. here then was my chance! from the seed of this enterprising _digitalis_ (which bore at its apex a flower almost as flat as a daisy) i would develop a new variety--a radiate foxglove. i confided my ambition to a friend who, although himself a teacher of botany, had never included in his research the subject of "sports." this botanical expert took great interest in my "sport"--watching it with me from day to day. alas, vain were my hopes of giving to the world a new flower! the radiate foxglove declined the honor of reproduction; dropping its mottled petals, and slowly shrinking away without forming a seed pod! a queer characteristic of the "sport" was thus asserted in the english article before mentioned: "when a plant _sports_, all plants of its kind, wherever growing, also _sport_." now one may admit the fact of a single plant having (as it were) flown in the face of mother nature, but when it comes to the whole family--"all the aunts and cousins," from dan to beersheba, joining in the frolic, one can but wonder and doubt the munchausen-like statement. calling that summer on a cambridge friend (a member of our plant club, whose flower-garden is a miracle of beauty): "one of my foxgloves has sported," i proudly boasted. "so has one of _mine_," she said, "and it is the first _sport_ i have ever seen." so the magazine statement was, after all, believable! yes, away across the atlantic, in english gardens, the foxglove--obedient to this marvelous natural impulse of its being--was trying its hand at a radiate flower! i find it well that my _sport_ did not germinate, since the regularly formed foxglove suits the tall spike "to a t," and is far lovelier than any freak of a flower could be. since making a record of my foxglove _sport_ i have learned that this flower often produces at the tip of its blossom stalk an abortive radiate flower. i wonder if the foxglove did not originally start out as a radiate, and if this freak is not a wild tendency of the plant to escape that evoluted form (which is its civilization) and lapse into its primitive barbarism? the foxglove comes in bloom late in june and continues flowering about four weeks. though classed as a biennial, it sometimes lingers on through a third summer, and continues flowering. it is named from its finger-shaped corolla. the dried leaf of _digitalis purpurea_ is a specific for disturbance of circulation, and is used in heart disease. its colors are pure white, white mottled with pencil-color, purple, lavender, from the palest to the deepest shades--some almost pink--all curiously mottled on the inside of the flower, which grows in tall spikes. sow foxgloves in seed bed about last of april, and, late in september, transplant to their permanent place. they will bloom the following year. both foxgloves and canterbury bells sow themselves profusely if stalk is left to perfect its seeds. the self-sown plants are said to be stronger than the hand-sown ones, and may be transplanted for the next year's blooming. canterbury bells, _campanula medium_ it has been suggested that "the name of canterbury bells may have been given to the giant species of campanula from its resemblance to the hand-bells which were placed on poles, and rung by pilgrims while proceeding to the shrine of thomas à becket." chaucer, in his "canterbury tales," has described in detail these processions to the tomb of the "blisful martir." the canterbury bell is, like the foxglove, a biennial, and may be sown in the seed bed at the same time, or the self-sown plants may be used. it needs winter protection (not too heavy), for it is easily winter-killed. i have, at times, had in my garden most lovely campanulas--both double, single, and "cup and saucers." the most beautiful variety is the single. in color mine were white, purple, and lavender, of many shades, but the pride of my heart was a rose-pink canterbury bell. "beautiful as a dream!" said the garden visitor, moved to admiration at the sight of these pink beauties. lovely as they are, canterbury bells have not the grace to die nicely. their dead blossoms cling, withered and unsightly, to the parent stem, and unless one has time and patience to go among the plants daily and remove the dead bells it is, for this reason, well to cultivate them in inconspicuous beds apart by themselves. another most desirable plant for the perennial border is phlox (from the greek _flame_). time was when we had but the white and purple, the latter tending to that odious color magenta, which some one has happily said is "a color that has no right to be." the above varieties i found in the old border, growing amicably together. it is not without touches of remorse that i deliberately uproot anything that bears the name of flower, but, since i could remember, there has been a deadly feud between purple phlox and myself. i keep a single root for old-time sake, which it gives me a megrim to look at. the white has been transplanted and has grown apace, until there are oceans of it in my borders. i have, too, some of the fine varieties of "phlox drummondi." one of them, a deep salmon red, with a dark eye, is literally a bit of "_flame_." there are pinks with maroon-colored eyes, whites with pinkish eyes, pure white, lilac shaded with carmine, and light salmon with wine-colored eyes. i love best the pure white and dark salmon pink, but scarce could spare any of these from my color-scheme. the phlox is the hardiest of herbaceous perennials, easily propagated by division, or from seed. with me, the seed-grown phloxes have not come true in color. it is, i think, wisest to select plants in flowering time among varieties in a florist's collection, and order them at once. they are so tough that any moving day suits them, and one can scarce have too many, as they begin blooming in early august, when the border is somewhat forlorn, and last until frost. * * * * * day-lily is the common name of a species of the asphodelus. the ancients planted asphodels near graves to supply the manes of their dead with nourishment. the poets, probably taking their cue from this, have celebrated the asphodel in song as the flower of the immortals. i have thought that the bloom of the day-lily, exquisite in form and odor, needs but the added charm of immortality to fit it for "angel gardens," but alas, its only defect is its evanescence--a single day bounds its life on this planet. its foliage is very ornamental, and for grouping with perennials it is a plant greatly to be desired. it is easily propagated. from one sickly root found in the old garden i have grown for my own garden day-lilies ad infinitum, and easily spared many for those of my neighbors. it needs to be well fed, and will accept any respectable situation, and, though doing well in the sun, is most eligible for shady spots where other plants refuse to grow. * * * * * the sweet-william--dianthus--is hardy enough and perennial enough, profuse of bloom, and gay in color, yet nevertheless from the show places of my garden i have banished it "for good and all," because of its tendency to sprawl about the borders after flowering time, wan and withered, and making faces at the freshly-gowned foxgloves and canterbury bells, then thronging the borders. the sweet-william has quietly taken a back seat, and, owing me no grudge, contentedly blooms on, as if to "blush unseen" were its special province. [illustration: the man with the hoe] with those tough little members of the dianthus family, china pinks, i have been most successful. it is a perennial, but too low-growing to make any marked show among the taller flowers. it is prettily varied in color, but lacks the odor of the clove pink. it is a profuse bloomer, and makes a desirable pot-plant for the window garden. "the flower of the family" is the old clove pink, to which the parentage of our carnation is by some accorded. the elizabethan poet drayton calls these sweet-smelling flowers "cloves of paradise," and lawson--at the close of the sixteenth century--thus extols it: "of all the flowers save the damask rose they are the most pleasant to sight and smell." "their use," continues he, "is much in ornament, and comforting the spirits by the sense of smelling." a syrup made of clove pinks (with the probable addition of some stimulant) and called by our english forbears "sops-in-wine," because of its use in giving flavor to the festive cup, gave to this flower its rather material appellation of sops-in-wine. thus sings spenser: "bring carnations and sops-in-wine worn of paramours" (lovers--wooers). bacon informs us that "sops-in-wine, quantity for quantity, inebriate more than wine itself." a precious clove pink of botanic garden origin, for a time bloomed in my border. it has, long since, died of old age. * * * * * shakespeare says in othello: "not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou had'st yesterday." keats and many others have immortalized it in their verse. burns thus points a moral with the flower: "pleasures are like poppies spread, you seize the flower, its bloom is shed." the papaver family has wrought much ill in its day. it is from p. _somniferum_, one of its members, that the opium of commerce is collected. it is the milky juice of the capsule, or of any other part of the plant which exudes from incisions in the cortical part. this juice, scraped off, is worked in the sun's heat till it is of a consistency to form cakes. the oriental and iceland poppy are both perennial. although like the irishman, "not born in their own native country," they take kindly to our soil. ten years ago i carefully sowed some seed of oriental poppy. two of them consented to germinate, and now, from this small beginning, i have in my garden orientals galore. last spring these beauties kept my borders all aflame with their splendor. i counted, in a single border, eighty-five buds and blooms, and felt well-repaid for their careful nurture. nevertheless, oriental poppies raised from seed mean much patient care, and many failures, but once thoroughly established they are "real estate," and have a kindly way of sowing themselves. as the poppy, with its long "_tap_ root," is most impatient of removal, this habit especially commends them to the grower. the iceland poppy, though far less considerable in size, is very hardy, and with its dainty bloom of lemon, orange, red, and white, makes a pretty show in a bed by itself; and the iceland is one of the few poppies available for one's vases. mrs. thaxter, in the beautiful account of her isle of shoals gardening, tells us that by cutting poppies in the dew of the morning, with the right hand, and plumping them straight into water with the left, she had great success with them as cut flowers. following her method--unsuccessfully--i am forced to believe that the long and beautiful survival of her cut poppies depended largely on the crisp cool air of her island home. here the summer is many degrees hotter, and has far less moisture in its air, and, though morning after morning, tempted by their exquisite shades of color, i gather shirley poppies for the house, and like the persian, fall down and worship them; in their slender vases they scarce outlive the day. a friend making a pilgrimage to stratford-on-avon brought me some seed supposedly from anne hathaway's garden. i sowed madame shakespeare's poppies with reverent care, but these english-born seeds patriotically refused to quicken in alien soil. no matter! they may have been but half-wild wind-sown things, and with my shirleys, icelands, and glorious orientals, i can spare them. with the ancient greeks, the poppy with its crowded capsules was an emblem of fertility. cybele, the mother of the gods, wears a crown of poppies. in roman gardens somnus, the god of slumber, was anciently figured as reclining on a mass of snowy poppies, with a posy of these emblems of oblivion in his motionless hand. mexican indians are pictured as returning home after a day of toil, dancing and singing to the music of a guitar, and crowned with wreaths of this "forgetful flower." in the shops of constantinople poppy juice mixed with rich fruit syrups is sold as a sweetmeat, or in the form of small lozenges on which are stamped "_mash allah_" (the work of god). tartar couriers, traveling immense distances, and with marvelous speed and endurance, often, it is said, take no other nourishment than the famous "mash allah" of the turks, in which the juice of hemp is mingled with that of the poppy. * * * * * the columbine (aquilegia) is a desirable plant for the border. mine came from choice seed sent the plant club from mr. childs, a philadelphia florist. they soon germinated, but were two years coming to bloom. there are now many beautiful colors to be had. i have but the yellow and white, the purple and white, and pure yellows. once well-established, columbines come to stay, and are most lovely! the garden plants flowering from the middle of may until late in june, and having the same graceful carriage of the wild variety, with flowers double their size, and with elegant long "spurs." its name is from the latin columbinas (dove-like) so called from the beak-like spurs of its flowers. * * * * * in my mention of early-blooming perennials i had forgotten the crown imperial. it is a resident of most old gardens, and has the distinction of remote antiquity. mention is made of it in an herbal of for its "stately beautifulness," and the herbalist accords it a "first place in the _garden_ of _delight_." i have but a single plant of this early flower, which punctually leads off in the spring procession along with its neighbor, the red peony. the eupatorium is not, i think, extensively cultivated in the garden. it is one of the hardiest of the later perennials. mine was raised from seed. having but one clump of it, i am always meaning to sow and to raise more plants of this dainty white flower, which comes with the phloxes at the most flowerless time of the borders, but (to borrow an excuse from my slack old colored woman-of-all-work) "i haint jus' fetch roun' to it." i find the eupatorium's name in my seed catalogue. it is not, there, classed with the hardy perennials. it grows high enough to make a fair show among the border plants. as will be seen, i have not in my borders a large assortment of perennials. my purse forbids a costly collection, and i think it well to undertake no more plants than can be well cared for in my hands, when much extra help cannot be afforded. to my list let me add a few low-growing beauties. the italian peasant twines wreaths of the periwinkle around the head of the departed infant or young maiden, and calls it _fler di morte_ (death's flower). because of the laurel-like tint and texture of its glossy leaves the greek has termed it _daphnoides_. in olden times it was highly valued for its medicinal virtues. lord bacon tells us that, in _his_ day, bands of green periwinkle were bound about the limbs to prevent cramps. by americans it is often miscalled _myrtle_. it carpets finely the bare spaces in borders, especially the shady ones, where other perennials will not thrive. the periwinkle is not an "up-to-date" plant. the seedsman of today gives it no place in his catalogue. i have several thrifty clumps of this pretty blue-eyed darling, and delight greatly in its bloom and its glossy trailing foliage. periwinkle is one of the oldest flowers of the english garden. chaucer in describing a garden of the olden time speaks of it as "fresh periwinkle, rich of hue," and places it on the same plane with the rose and violet. * * * * * the forget-me-not is another low-growing perennial which may prettily carpet the bare spots between the taller occupants of the border. we have all associated the name of this charming little flower with the story of the chivalrous knight who wandered beside a stream with the lady of his love. in the attempt to procure for her some of its much-desired flowers growing on the opposite shore he was borne away by the current while returning to her side with the gathered blossoms, and, making a last effort, threw them on the margin of the engulfing flood, and crying "forget-me-not," sank beneath the waters. miss strickland gives a less romantic but more probable narrative of the origin of the name. the exiled henry of lancaster, whose fortunes are related by shakespeare in "king john," according to this writer, first gave to the forget-me-not its emblematic meaning by writing it on his collar with the initial letter of his _mot_, or watchword, and on his restoration from banishment continued this heraldic use of the flower, adopted in his homesickness, even when raised to the fatal eminence of a king. * * * * * some of the showiest of the annuals may be, in june, transplanted from the seed beds to brighten the borders through august and september, as the yellow marigolds, the zinnias, the nicotianas, the cosmos, and the seedling single dahlias, which will bloom the first year, and if that dictum of linnæus ("a double flower is a vegetable monster") may be accepted, are the beauties of the family. they are certainly more lovely for one's vases than the double dahlias, and the white ones are, as a table decoration, scarce less charming than the white cosmos. the dahlia is named after andrew dahl, a swedish botanist, and is a native of mexico and central america. it shows a natural disposition to _sport_ from its original form (single). florists directed their attention to raising new forms of this flower. first attempts finally resulted in semi-double varieties, and early in the th century m. doukelan, botanic gardener at louvain, produced from seed three perfectly double plants. these are said to be the very first double dahlia plants ever produced. the dahlia is decidedly progressive. its up-to-date achievement is the elegant cactus variety. i sowed, this year, some seeds of double dahlia. it is now october and a few of them (some very beautiful and quite cactus-like) are in bloom. * * * * * once upon a time there were in this garden thrifty borders of box. these the dear lady tried hard to keep intact. every spring the failing rows were reset with small plants from the ancient stock, and were, first and last, the plague and despair of "the man's" busy life. at first i made the same futile attempt to restore the box bordering. now i have given up this idea of repairing the withered sections, but some six or eight large plants still in their beautiful perfection delight my heart. some there are who object to the odor of box, to others it is very pleasant and grateful. i am very fond of it, partly, i suppose, from its association with some much-admired gardens that i knew in childhood. common box has but two varieties, one of which is the dwarf box, used as an edging for flower-beds--the other (tree box) is described as of surprising thickness, and as tall as the beech tree. this tree is of great antiquity. it is mentioned in the bible, with the fir tree and the pine, as affording wood for the temple of king solomon. the wood of the box tree is very valuable and durable. virgil has thus sung its virtues: "smooth-grained and proper for the turner's trade, which curious hands may carve, and steel invade." mrs. pratt tells us that "in the north of england the old custom of each mourner carrying a sprig of box at a funeral and throwing it in the grave still lingers." wordsworth thus baldly refers to this practice, in his verse-- "fresh sprigs of boxwood, not six months before, filled the funeral basin at timothy's door." in turkey, the widow, who goes weekly to pray at the tomb of her husband, plants a sprig of box at the head of the grave. chapter viii _hollyhocks and violets_ hard by the lover's walk, in an old-time bed, a blue flower-de-luce, some roots of white and purple phlox, a bunch or two of "leaf-for-ever," and another of scented yellow lilies, had long stoutly held their own. here, every spring-time, the lady caused to be planted her dahlia bulbs--by no means the choicest of their kind, but taking amicably to the situation, and every autumn generously contributing their scarlet, lavender, and purple bloom to the color scheme of the big bowpots that adorned the side table in the "mansion house" hall. four years ago, late in july, to deaden the pain of a new bereavement, i prepared this bed for the reception of a few dozen hollyhock plants. it was the place suggested for this use by him who had left me, and with many tender thoughts of the beloved one i undertook the carrying out of his wishes. removing to other quarters the old inhabitants of the bed "the man with the hoe" dug deep and spared not for manure. this done, on a cloudy day we set the young plants. it seemed a risky undertaking to transplant at midsummer, but, covered for a time from the sun and faithfully watered, they all adjusted themselves to their new home, and have, ever since, thriven to my heart's content. the bed is long and of moderate width. the plants were set in two rows, about one foot apart, and in the space between the outer rows we put, here and there, smaller plants. in late autumn they all had a covering of litter and boughs, and were made snug for their winter nap. as the situation is high and exposed to "all the airts the wind may blow," it was not without misgivings that i waited for the spring uncovering and the after development. in due time the hardy darlings showed their pretty green shoots, and before midsummer they stood up in budded rows, ready to be staked, and about the thirteenth of july the bed burst into splendid bloom. my color scheme called for but two colors, pink and white, and wonderful it was to see the shading of the roseate flowers, varying, as it did, from wine color to such faint pink as lives between the dainty lips of a sea shell. on some stalks (more than eight feet high) the flowers came double as a cabbage rose; on others they were half double, and the out-and-out single ones had the sheen of satin and the transparency of gauze, and all were more or less creamy or lemon-hued at the center. i think it must be from the old association of hollyhocks with village fourth of july celebrations that the flower has to my mind a distinctly festal appearance. standing at the end of my bed and looking down the rows of pink and white is to me like watching a holiday procession. not a commonplace ordinary one, keeping step to the music of a brass band, with doughty policemen hustling the hoodlums in its rear, but one of chaste and joyous maidens gowned gayly in pink and white, such as may of old have been led by "jephthah's daughter," what time she "went forth with timbrel and dances" to meet her rash, exultant father fresh from his victory over israel's uncircumcised foes. yes, the hollyhock, though lacking the delicacy of the lily and the fragrance of the rose, is a flower "most fair to see." the yellows and purples are both beautiful, but for massing give me the reds, pinks, and whites. sow in the seed bed each spring and thus have new plants to supply places made vacant in the show bed, and to bestow on neighbors who are starting rows of this fine hardy perennial. hollyhock--o e holihoc--"holy mallow"--"blessed mallow"--is probably so named because brought from the holy land. * * * * * no garden is complete without its violet bed. ours was started eight years ago. we selected for it a spot "half in shade and half in shine," with a southern frontage, sheltered from the north by tall shrubs. two packets of choice russian violet seed were then sown in friable soil, well sifted, and made rich with a bottom layer of old cow manure. the bed had been laid out, prepared, and sown by the dear hands of one whose gardening is now "all done." after all his care the seed never germinated, and early in the following autumn the bed was set with well-grown double russian violet plants bought of the florist. for a year or two these plants throve finely, blossomed abundantly, and increased fourfold. the third year the flowers degenerated in size and beauty, and though still, at may-time, the bloom punctually puts in an appearance, the russians are, on the whole, far less satisfactory than the single english violets brought from the cambridge garden and growing in the end of the same bed. these flower most generously and come into bloom about ten days earlier than the russians. the violet has an obliging way of sowing its own seed, projecting them from its capsule with dynamic force. my english darlings have a lavish habit of scattering themselves about the lawn, in that fashion, and filling in the bare places in the bed. the russians choose rather to be propagated from runners. friends i have who grow year after year big velvety russian violets. would that i had the skill to do likewise, but to me heaven denies the power of bringing these beauties to perfection. yet (such as they are) i hold my violets dear, and without them spring would scarce be spring. in all the old floral usages of the english the violet holds a place next to the rose. it was used at weddings, and had its place in other and sadder religious ceremonials. with the troubadours it was an emblem of constancy. their prize of a golden violet to the best versifier of the flower's graces and beauties proves in how much esteem they held this april blossom. * * * * * the pansy, one of the _violas_, was much celebrated by the elder english poets, who gave it the charming name of "heartsease." pansies may be easily grown from seed. as they are less troubled by cold than most flowers--being half hardy--the seedlings may be treated as biennials. transplant them from seed bed in september, and in november cover well with old manure, then add piled leaves and evergreen boughs, and the minute spring opens uncover. the young plants should not be allowed to flower in the autumn. pick off the buds as they appear and they will be likely to give you bloom all summer long. i confess to an impatience that prompts to the buying of many baskets of pansies in may, and thus securing flowers on the spot, besides selecting my favorite colors. these plants will not achieve much after their first season, but will grow "beautifully less" in size, and finally become like lady's delights, those pretty plebeian violas that accept any soil, or situation, and show their cheery little faces among the cabbages, and even in the skimpy soil of the gravel walks. "there's pansy, that's for thought," says perdita, in "winter's tale." pansy--french _pensee_, fancy or thought, from _penser_, to think. heartsease--ease of heart--tranquillity of mind--is the poet's name of the flower. of the common names one may choose between "johnny jump-up" and the more elegant lady's delight. the violet, though but a tiny unassuming flower, is (both in verse and prose) often classed with the regal rose. both are delightful in perfume, and in that respect equally popular. having small knowledge of rose-growing i do not presume to hold forth on "rose culture." books on that subject are many and excellent, and i should but say with "denis," the "minister's double," when his turn came to make a speech at the committee meeting: "so much has been said, and so well said, that i will not further pursue the subject." nevertheless, my next chapter shall be devoted to this "queen-flower." chapter ix _the rose_ the rose is no mushroom queen. her ancestry dates away back to the garden of eden, and if eve did not there gather a rosebud _boutonniere_ for adam, it was because that primitive young man had not a buttonhole "to his name." the rose of all flowers has been most praised by poets. from isaiah's day to our own they have celebrated its charms. in english history it figured as the badge in the feuds between the houses of york and lancaster. among the ancients the rose was the symbol of secrecy, and was hung up at entertainments as a token that nothing there said was to be divulged--hence the well-known phrase "under the rose" (sub rosa). the romans at their voluptuous entertainments suspended roses in golden network from the ceiling, which, throughout the feast, fell slowly upon the reclining guest. all day, while the skillful roman _chef_ busied himself with his _ragouts_ of flamingo tongues, his _patés_ of locusts and honey, and his roasts garnished with "chilled mushrooms," slaves, in garden or forcing-house (as the season might be), wove fresh wreaths of roses for the invited guests, which beautiful youths, with hair in golden nets, waiting at the door of the _triclinium_, put upon their heads, warning them, as the custom was, to pass the threshold "right foot foremost." one sees, in fancy, the couches of these recumbent feasting voluptuaries, with the roses dropping, dropping, all night long, while the wine cup brimmed and "the hours went by on velvet feet." the flower-loving persians held annually a "feast of roses," which, we are told, continued the whole time of their remaining in bloom, and still another known as "the scattering of the roses." groups of beautiful children then went through the streets strewing these delicious flowers. tom moore tells us that "every part of the city was then as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from khoten had passed through it." my own rose garden is not much to brag of, having been made up of such miscellaneous rose bushes as were (without outlay) attainable. the greater part of these had come over with us from the cambridge garden. most plentiful of all are the blush roses. (bushels of their scented petals are yearly cured by me for potpourri.) one or two bushes of it still straggled on in the old-time border, and brought up to their possibilities by transplantation and sufficient food, soon became good to see, as also did the lone rose bush from the edge of the grass-plot, dear to the lady's heart as the gift of a dead friend, and, summer after summer feeding the delusive hope of bloom, nursed in her optimistic soul. now there is a second bush of its kind, both bravely blooming. i have never learned the name of the lone rose. it is so very double that i have fancied it might be a descendant of the persian "gul sad buk," the rose of a hundred leaves, a particular species much prized in the vale of cashmere. be that as it may, it is a lovely flower. its petals are legion, and its buds so rounded and compact as to have the appearance of big pink "alleys." more exquisite still is a single rose rescued from choking in a snarl of waxberry bushes. it has since taken to itself a big slice of the rose garden, and, enlarged by good living to twice its ancient size, its daintily shaded flowers, for decorative use, are simply perfection. unhappily their bloom is evanescent. they seldom outlast in water a day and a night. among the cambridge roses was a little half-wild pink darling "unknown to fame." i found it at farm hill (weymouth town), where it ran riot among the vegetables in a carelessly ordered garden patch, and straggling through the picket fence, held its own among the seldom-trodden wayside weeds and grasses. its color is bright pink, and it has the size and habit of the scotch rose, and is in full bloom when other roses are but buds. another early pink rose which we found in the cambridge garden is the next earliest. it flowers about the th of june. i have no clue to its name. it must have been one of the botanic garden roses. its blossom is exquisite in form, but not over fragrant. in habit it is straggling, almost a climber, and does not take kindly to pruning. then there are the well-known damask roses, which must have come long, long ago from the harvard collection. in their own habitat the damasks are cultivated for their mercantile value, being, as we are told, the special roses from which the costly foreign attar is obtained. i had thought that the damask rose had in the family three colors, but bacon sets me right. he says: "it is large, _pink_, hardy, and has not been known in england (at the time of his writing) above one hundred years." it is by no means a distinguished-looking rose, but seems to have conserved within its sweet heart the perfume of a thousand summers. a yellow scotch rose takes kindly to my garden. a rose bought of a cambridge florist for the beloved daughter, gone home to god (whose latest care it was), and now known as "mary's rose," bore well its second uprooting. it has come to be a tall bush, bearing abundant clusters of deep pink bloom, and all summer putting forth crisp shoots, with leaves red as a sunset cloud, and lovely as flowers for decorative uses. a sweetbriar--rifled years ago from the wildwood--after a fourth transplanting knew three summers of thrifty growth in its latest home, and then gave up, without notice, the experiment of being cultivated. not so a sturdy wilding brought all the way from maine, as a dear souvenir of happy seaside "days that are no more." it still accommodates itself to massachusetts soil and bears with fortitude the exigencies of massachusetts "culchure." last and best is my heart's joy--the white rose of my childhood. it has never revealed to me the secret of its botanic name; i simply know it as the "white rose." fifty years ago its sister roses might have been found in many dooryards--side by side with ragged pink cinnamon roses--thriving untended, loaded with bloom, and covering the low fronts of roadside farm-houses. its flowers are lovely in form, with creamy petals, and just the faint suspicion of a blush at their heart. its odor is all its own--a strong, chaste, wholesome scent, yet sweet withal as the "honey of hymettus." all my life long it had been the desire of my heart to have a bush of this old-time white rose in my _very own_ garden. time after time i had bought and planted it, but to watch it die; at last, when half a century of my life had gone, it surprised me in the cambridge garden! the bush had evidently seen its best days, and when we moved to the lilacs opinions varied as to the wisdom of transplanting so old a settler. we could but try, and so we tried and succeeded. the big scraggly bush is (ten years after) bravely holding its own, and summer after summer scantily bearing the same dear old roses. a second bush, propagated from the parent root, has been put in our mt. auburn burying lot. it is one of my idle fancies to have a white rose tree near my grave. surely when "petals of its blown roses" fall upon the grass above my head "my heart will hear them and beat tho' lain for a century dead." and now it is on my conscience that, in this authentic history, i have not yet confessed my disgraceful failure with perpetual roses. in the little bed, started ten years ago, but six decadent specimens now "hold the fort." i cannot state whether this shameful fact is the result of unfitness of soil, mistaken pruning, insufficient winter protection, or simply the malice of opposing fate. innumerable "rose-grower's guides" have been consulted in regard to loam, manure, and phosphates since i made this venture. naturally, then, the soil cannot be greatly at fault, and as to "winter protection" i have, as directed, stacked the bushes in straw, covered the ground with good manure, topped by a covering of leaves held in place by strips of board. this failing, i have tried omitting the stacking, and using manure, leaves, and boards, and finally have fallen back on manure and leaves as a permanent "winter arrangement." in regard to pruning i have consulted many authorities, but "who shall decide when doctors disagree?" my perpetuals have been pruned in early spring, at mid-summer, and in autumn--have been pruned a little and pruned a good deal, and with the same dreary result, and my ultimatum is--_prune not at all_. this final decision is in direct opposition to the convictions of "the man with the hoe," who, once the pruning shears are in his hand, is prone to emulate the insatiate old fellow of the new england primer, commended to our childish attention by this awesome couplet: "time cuts down all, both great and small." this propensity to "trim things up" is the one flaw in the character of this useful person. on such days as he takes up his shears i follow anxiously in his wake, and with mild remonstrance stay his ruthless hand. so many perpetuals have, first and last, lived out their little day in my garden that my poor brain refuses the task of recalling their names. of the six bushes that still survive, two are jacques, one an unreliable pink rose (name forgotten), which blooms when "so dispoged," usually drops its shrunken buds right and left, and, if quite convenient, perfects annually two or three lovely flowers of delicate pink and of marvelous size. next in order are the two cherished white roses, the gift of a kind neighbor, that, regardless of early frosts, bear their pretty clusters up to the very last days of october. lastly comes the tall thrifty bush procured years ago along with five sister bushes in the prize collection of a florist; the latter all died young. i cannot recall the name of the survivor, nor tell its color, for never once has it put forth bud or bloom. hope, however, dies hard in the plant-lover's breast. like the scriptural proprietor of the barren fig tree i still "dig about and dung" this incorrigible rose. last year i sowed single dahlias in the bare spaces in this untoward rose bed, and when these and the two obliging white roses blossomed together i looked with complacency upon the effect and thanked heaven that matters were no worse. meantime my flower-loving neighbor, summer after summer, is bringing perpetual roses into perfect bloom--red roses, pink roses, and roses of waxy whiteness--large, fragrant, and altogether exquisite! to walk among his tea roses and sniff the scented air is like going out to "afternoon tea." the fine foliage of his bushes (in itself only less beautiful than their bloom) is the result of neither hellebore, insect powder, nor emulsion, but is simply kept immaculate with pure cold water. at early morning the bushes are vigorously showered. at nightfall the ever-ready hose is again in play. under this heroic treatment the red spider gives up the fight and hostile insects of every variety hide their diminished heads. for the rest i think this marvelous success (which extends to every plant, shrub, and tree in his garden) is mainly due to a wise understanding of their individual needs, a fond love of them all, and a never-tiring patience. i have never cared for the standard roses. like boys walking on stilts their performance is odd, but unbecoming. from isaiah's day to our own the rose has been well praised by poets. here are some of the many stanzas, lines, and couplets that celebrate this beautiful queen: "the desert shall blossom as the rose." --_isaiah._ before the hebrew poet sung eve was thus pictured in paradise: "veiled in a cloud of fragrance where she stood half-spied, so thick the roses blushing round about her glowed." --_milton._ "gather ye rosebuds while ye may; old time is still a-flying, and that same flower that smiles today tomorrow may be dying." --_herrick._ "what's in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." "but earthlier happy is the rose distilled than that which, withering on the virgin stem, grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness." --_shakespeare._ "die of a rose in aromatic pain." --_pope._ "the budding rose above the rose full blown." --_wordsworth._ "the rose is sweetest washed with morning dew." --_scott._ "as though a rose should shut and be a bud again." --_keats._ "you may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not in his constant heart for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose." --_janie._ there is an eastern legend telling that when paradise was fading from earth an angel plucked and saved a single rose, which from that day has transmitted to its kind an immortal fragrance. no other flower has so many intimate relations to our humanity. it goes to the altar with the bride--to the tomb with the dead. young happy hearts rejoice at its coming, and aged pulses ("slowed down" by time's relentless hand) quicken anew with memories of long-past junes. in the primal garden eve herself must have given it its lovely, fitting name, and juliet was wrong--by no "other" would it "smell as sweet." chapter x _border bulbs_ the salvias, grouped in the perennial border, make a fine color show. coming when the earlier brightness of the season has passed, their scarlet clumps last from late august to the time of frost. raised from seed their flowering season is briefer, and, as the plants are comparatively inexpensive, it is well to get their full worth by setting out well-grown salvia plants in early june. the gladiolus is another effective flower, and should find place in the perennial borders. plant bulbs about the middle of may, and again in july, and thus secure a long flowering time, as a light frost does no harm to the plant. gladiolus prefers a light loam, or a _moist_ sandy soil. fresh manure will prove injurious. mr. allen tells us, in his book on "bulbs, etc.," that "flowering bulbs of this plant may be produced from seed with a certainty of a greater variety and a chance for some remarkable forms. there is," declares he, "no other pleasure in gardening equal to that which comes from the growing of gladiolus from seed." it is claimed for the gladiolus that if cut for decorative use when the first flower on the stalk opens the spike will develop better in water than if left out in the open sun. i have no experimental knowledge of this assertion. take up early in october, and store bulbs in cellar. "the gladiolus belongs to the genera iridaceæ. the genus contains about ninety species, nearly all of which are natives of the cape of good hope." the tuberose may be used in the garden with the same effect as the gladiolus. mexico is the land of its nativity, and two species make up the genus. in a quaint old book published in and entitled "the garden of pleasant flowers" it is classed with the "greater indian knobbed hyacinth." "i have," says parkinson (an old-time author), "thought it best to begin with this jacinth (hyacinth) because it is the greatest and highest, and also because the flowers hereof are in some likeness neare unto a daffodille, although his root be tuberous, and not bulbous, as the rest are. the indian jacinth hath a thicke knobbed roote, yet formed into several heades, somewhat like unto bulbous rootes, with many thick fibres at the bottom of them. the toppes of the stalkes," he goes on to inform us, "are garnished with many faire, large, white flowers, each whereof are composed of six leaves, lying spread open as the flowers of the white daffodille, with some short threads in the middle, and of a very sweet scent, or rather strong and headey." as may be seen in the above statement the tuberose was first known as a "jacinth" (hyacinth) and was at that time a single flower. the double variety was raised as a seedling by m. le cour of leyden, in holland, who for many years would not under any circumstances part with a root of it. even if after propagating a desired quantity, there was a surplus, he would cause every tuber to be cut in pieces and destroyed, in order to be the only possessor of so valuable a plant, and one which he considered the finest in the world. the tuberose is a gross feeder, and succeeds best in light loam, but will grow in any moist rich soil. its complete requisites are heat, water, and manure. if these are proportionate, no matter how much there may be, the plant will consume it. and here is an incident in tuberose culture (backed by good authority) where nature, scorning slower methods of evolution, "got on a hustle" and produced a new variety on the spot. i copy it verbatim from mr. allen's book: "in john henderson of flushing, n. y. (a tuberose cultivator), discovered growing in his field a number of plants of strong habit of growth, and with dark broad foliage. these he determined to keep apart from his main stock in order to see what the result would be. "cultivating them in the same manner as his other tuberose bulbs he discovered a distinct type of dwarf habit and much larger flowers. this he at once named the 'pearl,' and from the then small stock the trade in what is known as 'excelsior pearl' is now wholly supplied. the pearl is the favorite of the buyer, and takes the first place in the seedsman's catalogue." the single dahlia, flowering as it does after the early summer beauties have had their day, is an inexpensive "stop-gap" for the perennial border. one may plant, in late april, kept-over bulbs or propagate from seed sown first of may, and sure to flower the same year. the nicotiana, though an annual, may be used freely in the perennial border. it is an evening bloomer and opens an hour or two before sunset, and looks and smells its divinest by the light of the full round moon. the young plants take kindly to removal, and may, with care, be changed from seed bed to border while flowering. chapter xi _annuals_ a well-ordered garden is, in a measure, dependent upon the annuals, coming in bloom (as they do) after most of the perennials have had their short summer hour. as february days lengthen the seedsman's catalogues come pouring in. turning a resolute back on the allurements and temptations of "prize collections" i find it safer to pin my hopes to some well-tried seedsman, and selecting in accordance with experience and the length of my purse, send in an early order. time was when i anticipated the season by starting, in early march, window boxes of asters, petunias, cosmos, and nasturtiums; experience has since taught me to await the slower seed time appointed for me by wise mother nature and sow in the open about the first week in may. the nasturtiums and sweet peas may be soaked over night and put in earlier, the _latter_ the moment frost is out of the ground, the _former_ about mid-april. if one can command a cold frame still earlier sowing of transplantable annuals is desirable. seedlings thus raised are hardier than window growths and may be set in the open bed before may is over; with the house-sown annual one loses more of vigor than is gained by "forehandedness." most annuals may be sown in the seed bed, which is the necessary appendage to the show beds--indeed, all excepting the cosmos and poppy, which cannot well bear removal. the transplanting may be done late in june, and, indeed, if a cloudy day be chosen for the work, on any afternoon throughout the summer. i have found that not only annuals but herbaceous plants, vines, and even shrubs may be moved at one's convenience without regard to the popular idea which restricts one to spring and fall transplanting. my own method is--first, have a coolish cloudy day, then dig holes and put oceans of water in them. having made the soil of the seedling quite wet one may keep a little ball of it about the plant. cover quickly with moist loam, then screen from sun with newspaper, a big basket, or a box in which airholes have been made, and keep well-watered until apparently rooted. a few high-growing annuals, as marigolds, coxcombs, zinnias, and four-o'clocks, may be used with effect in the empty spaces in perennial beds, where oriental poppies and candidums have died down and have had their stalks cut. for this purpose let not the stiff-necked zinnia be despised. easy of culture, ready to move at any date, and without a moment's notice and (if one save seed) in such cheap abundance that the undesirable colors and shades may be pulled up as soon as the blossom shows its face and cast aside with the weeds. the dreadful magentas are never once permitted a foothold in my garden; the whites, yellows, true pinks, salmon-pinks, and bright scarlets are all effective. that out-of-date annual, dear to our grandmothers, the four-o'clock should find a place in the perennial border. as will be inferred from its name, it is an afternoon bloomer. "motley is its wear," and its color surprises more than repays one for the pains of raising. it has a faint delicate odor all its own, recalling the enchanted gardens of one's childhood, and that time of day when "school was out," and one went skipping home to pull nosegays. i lack space to give here the long list of desirable annuals. most of these are low-growing and look best in their own beds, as mignonette, lady slipper, escholzia, poppies, and so on. centaurea (bachelor's button) should especially have an entire bed to itself. mrs. pratt tells us that in germany it has been brought from the field to the garden bed, and by the gardener's skill has increased the number of its flowerets, and sometimes varied their hue. "it is the pet of the german ladies, who have given it the pretty name of _bluet_. with us it is sometimes known as the 'corn flower.'" the centaurea, according to pliny, "is that famous hearbe wherewith charon, the centaure, as the report goeth, was cured; at what time having entertained hercules in his cabin he would needs be handling and tampering with the weapons of his said guest so long, untille one of the arrows light upon his foote and wounded him dangerously." to this legend the plant may probably refer its name. [illustration: winter corner at the lilacs] some of the low-growing annuals may effectively border the show beds where late in may the geraniums are set on the removal of spring bulbs, which i find it best to lift and dry off for fall planting. clumps of narcissi and daffodils may remain permanently in the borders to make their summer growth, and the half-grown bulbs may be put in beds made in some out-of-the-way place for their especial propagation. in central positions on the lawn build raised circles for show bulbs; border with stone. avoid turf borders, which imply a continual fight with tough grass roots. have good loam, sifted fine, and well enriched with old cow manure. make holes four inches deep, and put in each a sprinkling of fine sand to prevent the bulb coming in direct contact with manure in the soil. plant bulbs in october, but do not cover with the final dry leaves and pine boughs until the very last of november, and be sure to uncover in spring as soon as the young sprouts push up for the sun. in summer, with two or three choice cannas in the center, some bright geraniums, and coleuses next, and a filling out of asters, petunias, and low drummond phlox from the seed bed, the circles will make a lovely show of color up to the very last day of summer and all through the month of september, and, on their groundwork of green lawn, be indeed fair to see. in back places of the garden sow seed for flower-cutting; among the best of these is the "white branching aster," the single dahlia, and (if one can bring enough of these beauties into bloom) the white cosmos. the yellow daffodil, although in our climate it does not, as in shakespeare's england, "come before the swallow dares and take the winds of march with beauty," is among the earliest of our spring flowers and laughs our raw east winds to scorn. "yellow," says mrs. jameson, "symbolizes the goodness of god." we cannot be better reminded of this divine attribute than by the daffodil's smiling face looking up to us from the edge of perennial beds. the single white variety of narcissi, known as poet's narcissus, must, i think, be the identical flower into which the vain beautiful youth of mythological notoriety (enamored of his own image reflected in a fountain) was changed. the gods did well by him. to this day it makes our may-time sweet, and as a cut flower it is perfection itself. later, as the plants die down, one can remove its dead tops and sow shirley poppies above the bulbs, while they increase beneath and get ready for the next "spring opening." the asphodel of the greek poets, by some declared to be the day lily, is by others supposed to be the _narcissus poeticus_. the tulip, as a bulb, is historically famous. it was brought to europe from persia in and was cultivated at constantinople. from this city it found its way over europe under the name of the turkish tulip. about a century after its first introduction it became, as we know, the object of commercial speculation. it is said that enormous prices were paid for a single bulb, and that as much as $ , was offered and refused in one instance. speculators were even more excited and reckless than the growers, and many of the dutch florists were ruined by their ventures. this mania happily wore itself out and the industry finally assumed a healthy tone. at the present time, according to the statement of mr. c. l. allen, to whom i am indebted for the above facts, more than seven hundred acres of dutch soil are devoted to tulip culture. tulips have been grown from the seed by the millions. the named varieties are so great that it would be impossible to enumerate. one dealer alone boasts of more than eighteen hundred varieties. the seed bed's important part it is to furnish fresh plants to take the place of such perennials and biennials as are winter-killed or have outlived their flowering time. it should have light rich soil and, if possible, should have half the day in shade. chapter xii _climbers_ the originator of the "mansion house" was compelled to obey literally the scripture injunction and "build upon a rock." a substratum of that safe "foundation" lay directly beneath the site chosen for his home and must have been hewn or exploded out previous to the placing of its corner stone. consequently within a good foot or more of the house there is found but a thin layer of soil, where climbers may not obtain a foothold. i had formerly great success with perennial vines and creepers, among them may be counted bignonia radicans (trumpet creeper), "baltimore belle" (rose), matrimony (now nearly obsolete), which i once trained with yellow flowering currant over the entire length and breadth of a veranda. this method of growing the currant i claim as entirely my own. we latticed the piazza with copper wire, and its combination with the matrimony (or "tea vine") was most effective and made a very dense screen. my prairie rose was also a marked success. so was my hop vine, my scarlet honeysuckle, and a pink climbing rose given me by a neighbor. i cannot recall its name, but well remember how it ran riot over an entire lattice, arched over the long french window in my first parlor, and how the june west wind blew its petals in from the raised window, in scented showers, about the parlor floor. among the annual vines i have had fine coboea scandens--climbing like "jack's bean" to the very top of things. with moonflower i have failed, although i soaked the big seed over night and sowed with great care. it is an exquisite flower, and i have seen it brought into beautiful bloom. the common native morning glory, which "grows and takes no care," as a matter of course does well with all. not so the japanese (ipomoea imperialis). lured by the seedsman's pictures of this wonder, year after year i waste good money on seed packets of that disappointing flower. my seed germinates after a fashion and sometimes i get a flower or two a trifle larger than those on the native vines, but about the same in color. three summers ago i potted a seedling and gave it a small trellis. to my great delight it bore a few precious flowers of cerulean hue daintily striped with white. thus encouraged i still include japanese morning glories in my list of annuals, ordering them from one seedsman after another, if, peradventure, i might hit the man who furnishes the marvels which i have read about--the fluted, fringed, and rainbow-hued, the _bona fide ipomoea imperialis_. when, fifteen years ago, after a long absence, i went for a summer outing to my native town it was the time of honeysuckles--the evening air was loaded with their perfume, for _there_ not to have a honeysuckle is to be poor indeed. glad was i to walk in the june moonlight and again revel in the dear familiar odor. when i again left my old home i bore with me three thrifty roots of this lovely vine given me by kind friends. these were carefully planted in a sheltered corner of our cambridge garden. from that hour i have had honeysuckles to spare. grown to big precious vines the three came with us to this garden, where they now cover four wooden trellises, a bit of the garden wall, and an irregular arch at the end of our piazza. their runners have supplied the entire neighborhood with young vines, twelve of which have already come into bloom, not counting one in malden and another in chelsea. last winter in common with many others i suffered a partial loss of my honeysuckles from winter-killing. the roots were, however, still intact, and, though we missed their full bloom, their foliage is now (middle of august) as fine as ever. it is but lately that i have learned that the honeysuckle and the woodbine of england are one and the same. the english honeysuckle blooms monthly; the japanese honeysuckle is _not_ a monthly bloomer. it blossoms with the june roses, and sometimes bears a spray or two of bloom in late autumn. it differs in other ways from the english--has not its pink shading nor its dainty scent. milton, in lycidas, calls it "the well-attired woodbine"--perhaps this is because of its continuous flowering. the oriental variety has in this day superseded the english. more rapid in growth and easier of culture it falls in with the hurrying sentiment of the time. it has been my good fortune to possess in my day three english honeysuckles--_now_, mine are _all_ japanese. the poets, from chaucer down to wordsworth, have sung the praises of the woodbine. the elder poet drew his image of constant affection from the clinging nature of the woodbine (or "bind") and its enduring hold on the wedded tree. contrary to the habit of most other vines the honeysuckle follows, in its windings, the sun. the weigelia, a shrub belonging to the honeysuckle family, was introduced from china, and is named after weigel, a german naturalist. here end my hints in regard to the selection and culture of such everyday herbaceous plants, shrubs, annuals, and vines as are attainable to the garden-lover of moderate means. many rarer specimens are (as a matter of course) within reach of one with a longer purse, who holds (with me) that victor hugo "hit the nail on the head" when he paradoxically asserted that "the beautiful is as useful as the useful, perhaps more so." to me one of the beautiful uses of flowers is to cut them for interior decoration. our grandmothers had no vocation for out-of-door life. a garden was to them a place to "grow things" in, to work and walk in, but to sit in? never! all the same the big "bowpots" were duly filled, and although less artistically arranged than the vases of today, were a part of the housewife's plan of living, and bore witness to the divine truth that "man cannot live by bread alone." lafcadio hearn tells us that "to the japanese the arranging of a bough of blossoms is a serious act of life. that the placing of flowers is indeed an exact science, to the study of which a man may devote seven years, even fourteen years, before he will be acknowledged a master." as a rule avoid painted china vases in arranging cut flowers. let the vase be artistic in shape and well adapted to the flowers it holds, but never so gay in color as to rival them. single flowers arrange best, and, as a general rule, put each variety in a glass by itself. roses, nasturtiums, and sweet peas seem especially well-suited to table decoration. they are all "good enough to eat." chapter xiii _gardens "in spain"_ the poorest of us have our "castles in spain." why not have our _gardens_? such a garden i have "in my mind's eye," but before i make bold to describe this airy creation (which, for lack of leisure and "hard cash," is doomed never to materialize) let me explain that my garden in spain is not purely ornamental; that its beds and walks, although tastefully laid out, are strictly devoted to "the useful," to culinary and medicinal ends. in earlier times our _materia medica_ (including though it did the unsavory pills and potions now become somewhat out of date) pinned its faith largely to nature's ready-to-hand specifics. "simples," as these herbs were then called (probably in contradistinction to the complex preparations of the doctor), were even in our own generation zealously gathered by our grandmothers; and i well remember the time when to be without dried herbs--boneset, hoarhound, wormwood, motherwort, catnip, and gentian--was to be shiftless indeed. in laying out this imaginary garden plot i have covered a good half acre of rich soil, which i have, in fancy, divided into pretty beds of various size and shape, with neat intersecting gravel walks. there i have sown or planted such herbs as once hung in generous bunches, drying leisurely, in all respectable garrets, when such minor ailments as "flesh is heir to" were cured on the spot and only on alarming occasions the doctor, with his pill boxes, his blisters, and lancet, called in. various are the uses and virtues of these medicinal herbs. "gentian," says an old herbalist, "will worke admirable cures for the stomache and lungs. it is also a special counter-poison against any poison, as against the violence of a mad dog's tooth." modern physicians find one species of gentian soporific and use it to procure sleep for the weary sufferer. g. latea is the gentian of commerce, and is used as a tonic. the old herbalists commend the common centaury as a cure for jaundice and ague, and tell us that an infusion of the plant removes freckles. of jacob's ladder (a plant of the genus smilax) pliny tells us that the name by which it is known to us is derived from polimis (war), because two kings having each claimed the merit of discovering the great uses of the herb had recourse to arms to settle the disputed question. the old "simplers" (herbalists) commend penny royal tea as a remedy for coughs and colds--"goode and wholesome for the lungs"--and add that "a garlande of the plant worn about the heade will cure giddeness." foxglove (digitalis) was praised by old herbalists for its various medicinal uses, "divers having been cured thereby of falling sickness." later, skillful practitioners have discovered its power over the action of the heart, and digitalis has come to be a highly-valued medicine. common vervain rivals the mistletoe in its occult usages. "many old wives' fables tending to witchcraft and sorcerie," says gerarde, "are written of vervayne." "the druids," according to pliny, often used vervain in "casting lots, telling fortunes, and foreshadowing future national events." its gathering was attended with peculiar ceremonies. "it was to be sought for at the rising of the great dog-star, and when plucken an offering of honeycomb was to be made to the earth as a recompense for depriving her of so goodly an herb." the ancients believed that "if the hall or dining chamber be sprinkled with the water wherein vervain lay steeped all that sate at the table should be very pleasant, and make merry more jocundly." the romans considered it a sacred plant, placing it in the hands of ambassadors who were about to enter on important embassies; and the floors of their houses were rubbed with vervain to drive away evil spirits. in england, at a later time, the plant was called "_holy herb_," and had its superstitious usages intimating a belief in its magical properties. of late years it is there tied round the neck as a charm to cure ague. vervain is still believed to possess great medicinal virtues, and is described as a remedy for thirty different maladies. it had of old the expressive name of "simpler's joy." the verbena tribe of this plant is cultivated in our gardens for its showy clusters of pink, purple, white, and dazzling scarlet blossoms, and the lemon variety for its delicately fragrant leaves. according to the old "simplers" "the roote of the caraway may be eaten like the parsnip, and helpeth digestion and strengtheneth the stomaches of ancient (aged) people exceedingly, and they need not make a whole meal of them neither." in some countries angelica is (we are told) called by a name signifying the "holy ghost." in ancient times its leaf stalks were blanched like those of celery and eaten as a salad, or they were dried and preserved as a sweet-meat, "candied angelica." the laplander believes that the use of angelica prolongs life, and chews it as he would do tobacco. the highlanders have the same opinion of the virtues of lovage. the simplers have advised "gentlewomen" "to nourse it up in their kitchen gardens to helpe their own family and their poore neighbors that are faire remote from phisitions and chirurgeons." they also affirm that "if a man carry about him angelica root the witches doe have no power over him." the nourishment in the roots of wild herbs has often kept the indian tribes from starvation in times of scarcity of game, when they had to depend on these and on crows, eagles, and devil fish to sustain life while awaiting the "coming of the salmon," that in fishing time leaped in prodigious numbers in their rivers. i remember reading of an especially providential instance where in a region desolated by grasshoppers the people were, for the time, sustained on the _roots_ of herbs which these greedy cormorants had, necessarily, left intact. for an interesting and exhaustive treatment of this branch of botanical information the reader is referred to anna pratt's "british flowering plants," a work from which much of my own knowledge has been obtained. "if," says an old writer, "i shoulde set down all the sortes of herbes that are usually gathered for sallets i should not only speake of garden herbes, but of many herbes which grow wilde in the fieldes, or else be but weedes in a garden." george herbert, in his "priest to the temple," while enumerating the duties of the parson and his family, thus writes: "for salves his wife seeks not the city, but prefers her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums; and surely hyssop, valerian, adder's tongue, melilot, and st. john's-wort, made into a salve, and elder, comfrey, and smallage made into poultice, have done great and rare cures." and he piously adds: "in curing of any, the parson and his family, use to premise with prayer; for this is to cure like a parson, and this raiseth the action from the shop to the church." catmint or catnip is the "new wine" of the grimalkin family. it is said that it is not intoxicating to them until its odor is perceptible to their smell by breaking or bruising the plant. catnip is fabled to make the most gentle human beings fierce and wrathful, and it is related of a certain pusillanimous hangman that he only gained courage to perform the duties of his wretched vocation by chewing catnip root. one who experimented with catnip as an incitement to ferocity assures us that "for hours after a dose of this root she retained a perfect equanimity of temper and feeling." but enough space has already been given to the healing herbs that plant themselves in my garden in spain, and now let me tell you of the dear little imaginary beds devoted to my sweet-scented "pot-herbs." in these i please myself with tending coriander, mint, anise, and cumin, dill, lovage, thyme, lavender, angelica, sweet sicily, rosemary, comfrey, fennel, sweet basil, penny royal, and balm. here, too, may be found less poetical herbs of solid worth in the cuisine--as sage, parsley, summer savory, sweet marjoram, and so on. many fragrant pot-herbs are dear to my heart simply from long association, others are widely distinguished by historical eminence. coriander has the especial claim of "long descent." its pedigree dates back to the time of the egyptian pharaohs, and it is possibly coeval with the sphinx and the pyramids. it would seem to have been in common use among the hebrews at the time of their exodus from egypt, as moses, in the book of numbers, tells us that manna was in appearance like coriander seed. it is said to have been in use by the ancients both as a condiment and a medicine. in our day it forms an ingredient in curry powder, and is used in confectionery. mint, rue, and cumin have each a delightful flavor of antiquity. the tithe or tax upon these ancient herbs paid so scrupulously by the pharisees bears testimony to their commercial value full nineteen centuries ago. to think of these miserable hypocrites having mint-sauce to their "spring lamb" and, possibly, "peppermint creams" to their dessert! it is, however, good to know that the dear little babies of the time were privileged with anise seed tea in the stress of colic. how bitter-flavored cumin served them i cannot say, but it is to be hoped that these "scribes and pharisees" (whom even their imitators frankly anathematize) what time they had "spring feelin's" were not let off with homemade decoctions of innocent "simples," but were mercilessly dosed, by the "holy land" doctors, with nasty potions of senna and salts. lavender, rosemary, basil, and sweet marjoram have all been celebrated in verse. keats has sent cold shivers down our backs with his gruesome story of "isabella" and her flower-pot of sweet basil, with its ghastly hiding: "and she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, and she forgot the blue above the trees, and she forgot the dells where waters run, and she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; she had no knowledge when the day was done, and the new moon she saw not: but in peace hung over her sweet basil evermore, and moisten'd it with tears unto the core." sweet marjoram in england produces its fragrant blossom at such elevations as to have gained the pretty name "joy of the mountains." shakespeare has added interest to it by making it the password in the tragedy of "king lear." in fancy one can see the faithful edgar with his mutilated father, the duke, climbing to the "dread summit of that chalky bourn," and hear edgar saying to his father: "hark! do you hear the sea?" "the swete marjoroms," says an old writer, "are not only much used to please the outward senses in nosegaies, and in the windows of houses, as also in swete powders, swete bags, and swete washing waters, but are also of much use in physick, to comfort the inward members." caraway calls up the cookies dear to childhood, and a spray of green fennel brings back, as if by touch of the enchanter's wand--"minister garner" in the old meetin'-house under the big "sounding board" (relentless as fate) pursuing his theme to the bitter end, while seated, in the pen-like box pew, beside our devout grandmother, we tone ourselves down to the solemn occasion, with no higher aspiration than the wish to be butterflies sailing gayly in the outside sunshine. virtue has, at last, its reward. at about the minister's soporific "fifthly" our grandmother catches herself nodding. opening her roomy black silk workbag she gives herself a saving nibble of fennel and passes a delicious spray of this spicy herb to each of her three grandchildren. dear old grandma! a full half century ago her soul went home to god, yet still i recall my childish picture of her angel sweeping with wide wings the blue eternal spaces, with never-withering sprays of fennel in her hand. one lingers lovingly over these pretty "herbs o' grace," of which the half has not here been told. but, already it is time to write _finis_ at the end of this vagary--"my garden in spain." chapter xiv _the cerebral processes of plants_ i find it good to think of plants as mysterious fellow-existences, about which the half is not yet known--to speculate on their psychological properties--on what has been called "the cerebral processes of plants." darwin has thus expressed himself on this interesting question: "it has," he says, "always pleased me to exalt plants in the scale of organized beings, and i therefore felt especial pleasure in showing how many and what admirably well-adapted movements the tip of a root possesses.... it was impossible in accordance with the principle of evolution," he goes on to say, "to account for climbing plants having been developed in so many widely different groups, unless all plants possess some slight power of movement of an analogous kind. this i proved to be the case." in his "power of movement in plants" he still farther expresses this conviction: "the tips of all young growing parts of the higher plants continually revolve, bowing successively towards every point of the compass." and he declares that "it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the tip of the radicle endowed with such diverse kinds of sensitiveness and having the power to direct the movements of the adjoining parts, acts like the brain of one of the lower animals, the brain being seated within the anterior end of the body, receiving impressions from the sense-organs and directing the several movements." great truths gain ground by inches. this assumption of the great scientist is not yet generally admitted, although, as i think, well established by experimental proof. an interesting paper in "forest and garden," prepared by t. d. ingersoll of erie, pennsylvania, and entitled "signs of intelligence in a madeira vine." i here copy verbatim: "two or three years ago i began, without any great seriousness, an experiment on some madeira vines, which presently began to prove more interesting than was anticipated. before this my attention had been attracted to peculiar movements made by this plant in the course of its spiral ascent of a stick. if allowed to grow a few inches above the support the extremity of the plant will sway backward and forward a few hours and then will enter upon a regular revolving movement, always from right to left, or contrary to the direction in which the hands of a watch move. one revolution consumes about three hours. one of my plants began to grow on april first, and at the end of fourteen days was twelve inches tall and showing signs of uneasiness--now bending away from a vertical position and again standing nearly upright. on the th it was eighteen inches high, and, being too top-heavy to stand erect, it began to fall away from the pot, which stood upon a table, towards the floor. this was done gradually and apparently with conscious care. it seemed to feel at times that it was letting itself down too fast, when it would stop with a jerk, like a nodding child half asleep. when near the floor it began describing ellipses, about three inches in diameter, with its upturned extremity. on the th it was twenty-six inches in length, and would describe a crescent-shaped loop, seventeen inches in length by six inches in breadth, in about two hours. on the d it was three feet four inches long, revolving with less regularity, and at times drooped as if weary or discouraged in trying to find something upon which it might entwine itself. thus far no opportunity had been given the plant to climb, since it was desirable to see what it would do to meet the absence of some support. on the th a new route of traverse was undertaken at a.m., and at nine o'clock the extremity, which was near the floor at the left side of the pot, had described a circle six inches in diameter. it then slowly swept around to the right side and made another irregular circle, and then returned to the left side of the pot; these movements occupied just twelve hours. the track of the tip of the vine was carefully traced with a pencil upon a sheet of paper laid beneath it, and the entire line of traverse measured no less than six feet nine inches. during the evening the plant became quiet, and probably remained so all night. at a.m. the next day, however, it began pointing its tip in various directions, and at noon assumed the form of a corkscrew, about four inches long, which posture it retained until night and then straightened out. on may first the vine was lifted and tied to a vertical support--a large thread--where it remained entirely quiescent for two days. then it began growing again as if it had recovered from what had been for six days a condition near the point of death. "another vine was observed carefully during several days of cloudy weather. it uncoiled itself from the stick and reached away toward the light at an angle with the horizon of forty-five degrees. it was carefully recoiled about its stick, but after it had grown some three inches more it unwound itself and stood away toward the window as before. time after time during the continuance of the cloudy weather it was brought back to its support but invariably left it. then followed a fortnight of bright sunny weather, during which the vine showed no disposition to escape from its stick or stop its twining growth. attempts were made to induce another plant to twine in the direction opposite to its normal one, but no ingenuity could deceive the plant as to its proper course. all the experiments seemed to show how much like an animal was the plant in its sensitiveness, not only to changes of light and temperature, but to harsh treatment. whenever restrained or forced, no matter how tenderly, out of its natural method of growth, all progress was retarded and the health of the vine disturbed in a marked degree. plants seem to be creatures of feeling and the similarity of movement and apparent purpose between them and the lower orders of animals are used to strengthen their theory by those who hold to the doctrine of the identity of life in the two kingdoms." dr. dwight, in his paper in "scribner's" entitled "right-handedness" still further develops the theory of brain power in plants. "the spiral growth," says this writer, "of a graceful climbing plant, at first sight, suggests nothing like right or left-handedness, but the analogy when once seen is very striking. as the young plant begins its upward course it is clear that to make the coils which it is its nature to describe, it must either turn to the right or left. it might be supposed that its deviation to either side is the result of an accident, but this is impossible, for, though the individual plants of some kinds do twine indiscriminately to either side, some only curl to the right and others to the left. more remarkable still, some species twist in the opposite direction to that of the larger families to which they belong, and finally, sometimes a particular plant grows the wrong way. this is analogous to being left-handed." from mrs. pratt's "flowering plants of england" i take this account of the curious movements of the seed-vessel of the "musk stork's bill." it is a relation of mr. mallet of dublin of his personal observation of the capsule movements of this remarkable flower. "each seed," says the writer, "of which there are five to each flower, is enclosed in a carpel, attached by its upper extremity to a tail or awn, which possesses the most wonderful hygrometric sensibility, as, indeed, does every other part of the plant. these five awns lie in grooves in the receptacle of the flowers, and this receptacle is central to and is the axis of all parts of the flower and the fruit. "when the whole system has arrived at a certain point of aridity the awns, which are provided with an exquisite power of torsion, hoist themselves out from their grooves and at the same moment a number of downy filaments, hidden in the back or inward face of the awns, bristle forth; they all now become detached and fall to the ground. but here they still continue to twist, and from the position in which they always lie keep tumbling over and over, and thus receding from the parent plant until at length they become perfect balloons, ready to be wafted away by every zephyr." the theory that "plants can see," or, at any rate, manage to find food and support by some special sense, which the unscientific mind cannot better name than to call it sight, has been corroborated in the "rural press" by mrs. king, who thus describes her husband's observation of this interesting habit on the part of a creeping plant in india: "he was sitting on the veranda, with one foot up against a large pillar near to which grows a kind of convolvulus. its tendrils were leaning over into the veranda, and, to robert's surprise, he presently noticed that they were visibly turning toward his leg. he remained in the same position and in less than an hour the tendrils had laid themselves over his leg. "this was in the early morning, and when at breakfast he told me of this discovery we determined to make further experiments. when we went out into the veranda the tendrils had turned their heads back to the railing in disgust. we got a pole and leaned it up against the pillar quite twelve inches from the nearest sprays of convolvulus. "in ten minutes they had begun to curve themselves in that direction and acted exactly as you might fancy a very slow snake would do if he wished to reach anything. the upper tendrils bent down, and the side ones curved themselves until they touched the pole, and in a few hours were twisted quite round it. "it was on the side away from the light, and, excepting the faculty of sight, we can think of no other means by which the tendrils could be aware that the pole had been placed there. they had to turn away from the light to reach it, and they set themselves in motion visibly within a few minutes of the pole's being there." my own experience with climbing plants has long since convinced me that they have "a will of their own," and that if their will differs from my own no amount of coaxing will induce them to take the path which is laid out for them. well, if plants had but tongues they could, no doubt, tell us things well worth hearing in regard to their special mode of existence. chapter xv "_auf wiedersehen_" it seems but yesterday that the punctual year brought back her daffodils--that hyacinth and tulip pushed up green shoots for the spring sunshine--and now the syringa bushes are white with bloom. in one short week midsummer will have come, that beautiful holiday of the summer solstice, whose festal observance is, in england, of great antiquity. the old practice of lighting bonfires in london and in other towns (and even in villages) is probably a remnant of the pagan rites once observed on that day. later, the christian monks dedicated this festival to one of their saints, and, accordingly, the people on that day made their houses gay with st. john's-wort and other flowers and at evening kept the "vigil of st. john the baptist," lighting bonfires in honor of this saint. every man's door was then hung with birch boughs and lamps of glass, whose oil burnt on through the night. an old parish entry--dating so far back as the reign of edward ivth--thus stands: "for birch at midsummer viii d"; and again, "various payments for birch bowes at midsummer." old english poets commemorate in verse the hanging at this season of birch branches over the sign boards of shop doors. perhaps in our increasing demand for holidays we may yet adopt this charming festival of our english forbears, as we have that of their yule-tide. it would fall at the same season as did that pretty persian festival, "the feast of roses." today, in after-dinner "idlesse," with the unread morning paper in my hand, i sit beneath the blossomed tulip trees, taking in so much of the beauty and perfection of the hour as my limited being will hold. shadow and sunshine interchange upon the lush green lawn, where today the syringa sprinkles its first light snow. the breath of blown peonies scents the summer air along with the languorous odor of the mock-orange flowers. yonder, in the old pear tree hard by the lover's bowery walk, a happy thrush sings out his little heart while his silent mate broods patiently the family nest. a distant robin pipes cheerily among the apple boughs, and somewhere among the treetops a gurgling oriole sings--sings as if in this whole wide world of ours there were neither pain nor death, but only life, and joy, and never-ending summer. last night a damask rose opened in the garden-- "god's in his heaven; all's right with the world!" for myself--attuned to the blessed influences of the hour--i am at peace with all mankind. my enemies, one and all, are forgiven on the spot, and i meekly consider the advisability of "turning the other cheek" for a second "smite." for what saith the old herbalist--combining in his ancient book floriculture and ethical instruction? "flowers, through their beautie, variety of color, and exquisite forme, doe bring to a liberal and gentlemanly minde the remembrance of honestie, comeliness, and all kinds of virtues. for it woulde be an unseemly thing for him that dothe looke upon and handle faire and beautiful things to have his minde not faire, but filthy and depraved." the japanese, in their days of heathendom, celebrated with great care their ancient "festival of departed spirits." a fire was then built in front of every house in the empire as a signal or invitation for all the departed members of the house to revisit their old homes. so tonight, with pulses slowed down to peace, musing in the quiet of this sleepy garden, i keep the "festival of departed spirits," and, signaling to the unseen, hear in the tender silence faint footfalls of the departed along the familiar garden ways. said the dear lady (who at one time in her life was much fascinated by spiritualism, and wont to map out with great accuracy the "undiscovered country" with its pursuits and privileges), referring to that time when this house and garden should no longer know her in the flesh: "i shall not forget my home on earth, i shall still be around." and thou, "my summer child"[ ] (best loved and last to go), born with the roses and gifted with the sunny sweetness of a thousand junes, but yesterday we trod together these garden paths, whose improvement was thy latest care. the echo of thy parting footfall yet lingers in this garden, making it "holy ground." "they sin who tell us love can die." "auf wiedersehen," my "summer child." footnotes: [ ] a nickname suggested by this item in a bill of our german cobbler--which ran thus--"to souling shues for _tird sun_ sense." [ ] miss bremer in "the home." * * * * * transcriber's notes the following variant spellings are used in this text: ) midsummer ( times) and mid-summer (twice) ) springtime (once) and spring-time (twice) ) sweetmeat and sweet-meat (once each). the two occasions on which the [oe] ligature is used have been rendered as "oe": "coboea" and "ipomoea", both on p. . the following amendments to the text have been made: ) "remaider" changed to "remainder" on p. . ) "eastern" changed to "easter" on p. . ) a double quotation mark (") has been added after "shrine of thomas à becket" on p. . ) "stratford-on avon" changed to "stratford-on-avon" on p. . ) a double quotation mark (") has been deleted before "o e holihoc" on p. . transcriber's notes (more notes at the end of this file) small capitals have been changed to all capitals. italics have been represented between underscores thus: _italic text_. bold text has been represented between equals signs thus: =bold text=. oe ligatures have been represented as per this example: bel[oe]il triangular symbol represented thus: /_\ asterisms are represented thus: [***] tables have been split into two in order to retain reasonably short line lengths. some spaces between words in the tables have been deleted in order to maintain length of lines. it is suggested that tables be viewed using a fixed-width font. journal of a horticultural tour through germany, belgium, and part of france, in the autumn of . to which is added, a catalogue of the different species of cacteÆ in the gardens at woburn abbey. by james forbes, a.l.s., corresponding member of the horticultural society, author of "hortus woburnensis," etc. london: james ridgway and sons, piccadilly. . chelsea: printed by william blatch, , exeter street, sloane street. to m. otto, director of the royal botanic gardens, berlin, the following pages are most respectfully dedicated, as a slight testimony of gratitude for his kindness, and as a tribute to his indefatigable zeal in the promotion of botanical science, by his obliged and faithful servant, james forbes. preface. the continental gardens and botanical collections having been rarely visited by the british gardener, his grace the duke of bedford, with his usual anxiety for the promotion of useful knowledge, very liberally and kindly proposed in the autumn of that i should undertake a horticultural tour, through several parts of germany, belgium, and france, with a view of inspecting the different collections and productions cultivated in some of the most celebrated horticultural establishments in these countries. the notes which are now submitted to the public contain a cursory detail of the various gardens and objects that came under my observation during a tour occupying a space of eight weeks,--a period of time which the reader will readily understand required the utmost diligence on my part to fulfil the objects i had in view. yet i was enabled to investigate such modes of culture as were adopted in the principal gardens, where the produce appeared in any way superior to our own; to become thoroughly acquainted with the different systems practised at various seasons of the year would have required an actual residence of many months. in the mode of forcing fruits and management of the kitchen garden department, the english gardener will find but little abroad superior to what he is daily accustomed to see at home. it must however be observed that the zeal and anxiety displayed throughout germany in the cultivation and increase of their collections of plants are in no way inferior to our own. in fact, in succulent plants they far surpass us; more particularly in their collections of cacteæ, which appeared to be a favourite tribe in the principal establishments on the continent. they are certainly deserving of a more extensive cultivation in this country than they have hitherto obtained. their various shapes, numerous spines, angles, and the splendid flowers of many of the species, form an interesting and pleasing addition to our botanical establishments; and of all plants requiring the protection of the greenhouse and artificial heat, the cacteæ may be cultivated at the least expense, and exact less attendance than is generally requisite for hothouse plants. the palmæ are also extensively cultivated throughout the continent, and notwithstanding many of them are planted in gloomy habitations they were in general very healthy, and evidently more suitable inhabitants for such structures than the deciduous or hard-wooded species. the hothouses erected for the cultivation of plants throughout the prussian dominions consist of opaque roofs, furnished only with upright lights, which are ill adapted for the flowering or bringing to perfection many of the tender species. in most parts of germany the pleasure grounds are very deficient in evergreens, frost being so intense in that country that the _rhododendron ponticum_, _arbutus_, _laurustinus_, _daphne_, _portugal_, and even common _laurel_, require the protection of the greenhouse during the winter season. if these grounds, however, are deficient in evergreens, they are richly decorated, in most instances, with ornamental vases, statues, and numerous groups of fine sculpture, which contribute greatly to the embellishment of a pleasure-ground. as far as architecture and sculpture are concerned, the continental royal gardens far surpass those in england; but there did not appear to me in the quarters i visited to be a spirit for garden-improvement equal to that which is so generally prevalent in this country. it now only remains for me to take this opportunity of returning my thanks to those whose kindness afforded me considerable facilities in viewing the different gardens described in this tour; they are, however, more especially due to those horticulturists of germany by whose liberality i have been enabled to add above six hundred new and curious plants to the splendid collection at woburn abbey, entrusted to my care; and i must add, that i found a cheerful inclination, in most instances, to enter into a correspondence for the mutual exchange of plants and seeds. the few remarks on different objects, not immediately connected with horticulture, which i have ventured to introduce, will it is hoped be received with that indulgence which my imperfect acquaintance with such matters may require. j. f. journal of a horticultural tour, in . august th. left the custom house at six o'clock, a. m., by the william joliffe steam-packet, for hamburgh; but having a strong easterly wind a-head, we did not pass the sunk light until a little past four o'clock in the afternoon. th. sailing at the rate of six miles per hour; still a strong easterly wind a-head, but a beautiful day, and the sky clear from clouds; about twelve o'clock we were about twenty-five miles off the texel, with a fresh breeze still right a-head. st. a beautiful day, but the wind still continuing against us, we sailed only at the rate of seven miles per hour. about nine o'clock in the morning the small isle of heligoland made its appearance, much to the gratification of the passengers, this island being only a hundred miles from hamburgh. it is said to contain from three to four thousand inhabitants, who are chiefly occupied in fishing; haddocks and lobsters are very abundant in its immediate neighbourhood, which are taken in great numbers to the hamburgh as well as the london markets. the island is said to be nearly a mile in length, and about half a mile in breadth, and now belongs to the british government. at twenty minutes past twelve o'clock we entered the elbe, where two light ships are stationed, in consequence of the sandbanks, which are rather dangerous in that part of the passage. the island of newark-farm is distant only from three to four miles from the mouth of the elbe; the houses and cattle were now pleasing objects in view. about three o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at cuxhaven, which is a small sea-port town, and is in the territory belonging to the town of hamburgh. it is a very fashionable bathing spot: and a large concourse of ladies and gentlemen assembled at the haven when the steam packet neared the shore. about four o'clock we experienced some heavy drops of rain, with very loud claps of thunder, and towards evening numerous broad flashes of lightning, very vivid, which appeared to skirt along near the ground. on passing along the elbe, we found it much crowded with numerous sailing vessels, making the best of their way to and from hamburgh. these, with a variety of handsome church-spires peeping out amongst various clumps of trees on both sides of the river, gave the scenery a pleasing and picturesque appearance. we have also here at the same time in view a part of the king of denmark's dominions, as well as a portion of the hanoverian territories. august nd. arrived in the harbour at hamburgh at half-past twelve o'clock in the morning; but by the time we got out our luggage, and boats to take us ashore, it was getting close on to eight o'clock. shortly after my arrival i proceeded to flottbeck, to see the nursery gardens of mr. booth, which are situated close by the banks of the elbe, about four english miles from hamburgh. in this nursery i was much gratified by the extensive collection of plants; there are about one hundred acres of ground under nursery stock, consisting principally of ornamental trees and shrubs, including a great variety of new species, that i had not previously seen in any of our british nurseries. mr. booth is a most enthusiastic practical botanist, and spares no expence for the introduction of new and rare plants to his collection. he has arranged along the edges of a walk which is nearly a mile in length a collection of hardy trees and shrubs, which are so planted that the different species of each genus are brought at once under view for comparison. the whole are arranged according to the _natural system_ of _jussieu_. the herbaceous ground contains above four thousand species of hardy perennial plants: there are also above twelve hundred different varieties of roses. the hothouses allotted for the growth of exotics and cape plants are about five hundred feet in length, with a range of pits nearly four hundred feet long for the low and half-hardy species. the collection of _cacteæ_ here amounts to nearly four hundred different species; amongst them are many curious and interesting sorts. there are also some fine specimens of palms, and numerous fine exotics; the collection of cape and new holland plants is likewise very extensive. the passion for _orchideæ_ has also extended to this part of germany; mr. booth has a great variety of this tribe of plants, and is building a house solely for their cultivation: he is likewise constructing pits, for the growth of the pine-apple. he has a very fine collection of the _genus pinus_, and shewed me several new species that he had raised from seeds, which were considered to be new and undescribed sorts. i saw a species much resembling our _pinus palustris_, with fine long foliage. mr. booth calls it the palustris _excelsa_, and informs me that it grows to a great height, and is perfectly hardy, having stood this winter ten degrees of frost, reaumur, which is equal to twenty three fahrenheit, without sustaining the least injury, although quite exposed. i could not but admire the neatness in which the plants and grounds in this extensive establishment were kept, and notwithstanding the extreme dryness of the weather, (not having had any rain for nine weeks in that part of the country,) the plants were looking all in a healthy and flourishing state; but the watering of such a collection for so many weeks must have been attended with an enormous expence. august rd. being accompanied by mr. booth, we proceeded along the banks of the elbe to the villa of m. de la camp, which is situated close by the road, commanding a most beautiful view of the elbe and its shipping, as well as finkenwarder, an island on the opposite side of the elbe, the one half of which belongs to hanover, and the other half to hamburgh. this island produces a very hardy species of oak, which was found there some years ago, and is called the _quercus falkenbergense_. m. de la camp has formed a very complete vineyard on the banks of the elbe, which was in a very prolific state, as were also the vines that formed an arbour to the front of this gentleman's house. from this we next proceeded some miles further along the elbe banks, to the seat of mr. baur at blankanese. this gentleman is a wealthy merchant, and has expended an immense sum of money in the formation of his grounds, according to the english system of gardening. he has formed numerous walks and artificial banks, that command extensive views of the elbe. these walks and banks, were staked out by mr. baur personally, who, i have no hesitation in saying, has displayed a very superior taste; they are remarkably well executed: in short, the banks and valleys appeared as if they had been formed by nature, but they are principally the work of art. i however regretted not to find a corresponding taste for good plants, to keep pace with the other extensive ground improvements that this gentleman has completed and is proceeding with. close by the elbe are situated several small forcing houses for fruits, a greenhouse, orangery, and some low pits for the cultivation of the pine-apple, which has been grown here for several years; but they do not seem yet to have made much progress in the cultivation of this fruit. in front of these houses there is a terrace-wall, that separates the garden-ground from the elbe, which washes up against it. the stones with which this wall was built were brought a distance of from four to five hundred miles (from saxony) for this purpose; and it is executed in a very superior manner. on the highest part of the grounds there has been lately erected a handsome chinese pagoda, which commands a beautiful prospect of the elbe and its shipping, as well as the opposite island and hanoverian dominions. a round tower also been lately built, which forms a pretty object in these grounds; several other objects of interest are also to be seen dispersed in various parts, which are considered superior to any other gardens in the neighbourhood of hamburgh, and are consequently much frequented every sunday by visitors, as on that day it is open to the public. we were obliged to take our departure from them much sooner than i could have wished, owing to a very heavy shower of rain which continued for a considerable time; and it being the only rain of any consequence that had fallen in the course of nine weeks, it was very agreeable to that part of the country. mr. baur has recently built in these grounds a very handsome house, according to the english style of building, but it is not yet inhabited. it was impossible not to admire the very superior and substantial manner in which the works are all executed in this gentleman's establishment. on my return from this place to flottbeck, i then proceeded back to hamburgh: when on my way i was much surprised to observe bricklayers in some places busy at work, although sunday. towards the evening, the rain had quite abated; i then made the best of my way for the botanic gardens, which are situated in the suburbs of the town, on a part of the ground which, during the reign of buonaparte, formed a strong fortification, but these have recently been demolished: they are now laid out as a public promenade for the inhabitants of the town, and likewise a botanical establishment for the cultivation of plants, and from its beautiful situation, it is certainly one of the best chosen sites for this purpose that has come under my observation. it appeared to be of considerable extent, and irregular form, sloping in part of it, down to the old rampart ditch, which now forms a handsome piece of water, bounding the garden, and separating it from the promenade on the opposite side, which being laid out as a pleasure ground, with clumps of trees and shrubs on the grass, when viewed from the botanic garden, gives a stranger the idea that it is a part of the botanical establishment, giving the latter a much more extensive appearance than it actually possesses. the extent of hothouses for the growth of exotic and cape plants, is rather limited, and did not seem to be more than about two hundred and fifty feet in length. i here observed some very fine specimens of _cacteæ_, and likewise several rare species of _palms_, such as the _zamia_, _frideriis_, _guilielmi_, _Ætensteinii_, _lehmanii_, _caffra_, and _horrida_. i also was much delighted by seeing in flower, a very pretty plant, called the _olendorfia procumbens_, which i believe has not yet made its appearance in england. a great portion of the ground in this establishment is occupied by trees and shrubs, which are cultivated for sale, for the support of the garden, consequently much ground is taken up by these, which ought to be assigned to single specimens. in the herbaceous ground, there is also an extensive collection of hardy perennial plants. august th. went at five o'clock in the morning, to see the fruit and vegetable market, which seemed to be well supplied with fruit and culinary vegetables. i observed large quantities of the new orleans plum, summer bergamot pear, and the black cherries, which appeared to be larger than the same sort (hertford blacks,) grown in this country. the _haricot bean_, is also in great repute in germany, and certainly deserves to be more extensively cultivated in this country, than it hitherto has been, as it forms an excellent substitute for the _french bean_ or the _scarlet runner_, which is cultivated here in preference. after seeing the fruit and vegetable market, i next proceeded to view the promenade which surrounds the greater part of the town, and adds greatly to the comfort of the inhabitants, as well as to the beauty and scenery of the immediate vicinity of hamburgh. this promenade is laid out very tastefully with numerous clumps of trees and shrubs, various capacious walks leading to different points of view, and objects around the town, sloping towards the old rampart ditch, which is now formed into a handsome irregular piece of water, which enlivens the scenery, and gives the promenade an appearance equal to any pleasure ground in this country. the side facing the town of altona, is really beautiful; the space of ground leading from the hamburgh gate, at the altona side of the town, is very picturesque, especially as we approach towards the harbour or docks, whither we are guided by a broad walk, leading to a high projection, or point of view, where we have a delightful prospect of the shipping on the elbe, with its surrounding scenery for several miles in extent. the formation of this promenade was commenced about sixteen years ago, is now annually progressing, and advancing towards completion, under the superintendance of mr. altuman, who has displayed great taste, in his arrangement of the walks, clumps of trees, and shrubs, as well as the formation of the water. the _alster lake_, is situated at the north side of the town, extending about twelve miles in that direction, and adds considerably to the beauty of the scenery in that neighbourhood. it also contributes greatly to the convenience of the town, as numerous boats, with various commodities, are brought to hamburgh on its surface. the promenades leading to the town of altona, are also deserving of notice; long avenues intersecting each other are here formed, by double rows of the lime, elm, and poplar trees, with large spaces of grass lawn, intervening betwixt them. after making a tour round the promenade, i next proceeded to view the principal parts of the town, and its churches, which are very splendidly fitted up. the streets of hamburgh are narrow and paved with round stones, which are not very agreeable to those unaccustomed to walk upon them; the most fashionable part of the town is the side next the alster lake, which is much frequented in the evenings. after getting my passport examined and signed, and securing a place in the diligence for berlin, i next accompanied mr. booth the seedsman, (brother to the nursery man,) in a drive round the outskirts of the town, where there are some pretty villas, and also various tea gardens, which, although a week day, appeared to be well attended. i was rather surprised to find at o'clock in the afternoon, a large concourse of ladies and gentlemen assembled in front of a small theatrical performance, which it appeared was the daily practice in that part of the country, the ladies being occupied sewing and knitting, and others drinking coffee. the town of hamburgh is said to contain above a hundred thousand inhabitants, and they certainly appeared to me to be in a very flourishing state. in short the general appearance and respectability of the inhabitants, that prevailed throughout the town and its vicinity was very striking. at eight o'clock in the evening, i took my departure from hamburgh, by the _schnell-post_, (diligence) for berlin, which was accomplished in one day and two nights travelling; here i had a good specimen of diligence _expedition_, especially for the first eight hours, being placed in one of the bye chaises, which is only calculated to hold four passengers, and is of much less dimensions than the main diligence, and much lighter; i fully expected every moment to be upset, as a great part of this road between hamburgh and boisenburgh, is full of large deep ruts that kept us completely on the rock for many miles, but after we passed the latter town, we then had an excellent road, yet the speed of our crawling conveyance was but very little increased. the roads throughout all the prussian territories that i have travelled on, appeared to be in excellent repair. august th. arrived at a small town called _ludwigslust_, about one o'clock, where we dined, and stopped nearly an hour, which enabled me to make a hasty visit to the grounds, attached to the beautiful palace of the grand duke of mecklenburgh, who generally resides here. in front of the palace are pretty jets of water, but the most imposing sight, is a fine avenue of limes, that leads from a large piece of lawn adjoining the palace; the avenue appeared to be nearly a mile in length, and had several walks branching from the right and left, through a shrubbery, or rather plantation, where there were also several small pieces of water. close to the palace is an old orangery, with some good trees standing in front of it. at a short distance, and nearly opposite to the palace, is a handsome building, called the "augusta villa," with an extensive piece of pleasure ground, laid out after the english mode of gardening, with numerous clumps of trees, and shrubs dispersed on the lawn; the walks and grounds appeared to be in very good order, but i was unable to examine the extent of the collection of plants that it contained. in the vicinity of ludwigslust, there were several orchards, and large pieces of ground under vegetable culture. the country from this town as far as warnow, was rather more varied than that we previously passed, but the soil appeared light and sandy, and scotch firs, the only trees observed in the plantations in view. at warnow our luggage was examined by the police, and our passports demanded, and detained until we arrived in the town of perlebergh, when they were again examined, and then returned to us. august th. arrived at half past three, a. m. at nauen, a small town about twenty five english miles from berlin; this place appeared conspicuous, from the number of small flour mills, situated in the river havel, which passes close to the town. about o'clock in the morning, we had reached to a small town, called spandau, which is said to contain about inhabitants, and appeared to be strongly fortified: it is only ten miles distant from berlin, where we happily arrived at about o'clock in the morning. as we approached the city, the country looked more cheerful, and in a better state of cultivation, the soil also was of a more fertile quality, and trees and plantations more numerous. i was very much pleased by observing growing by the road side, several species of alpine plants which are not easily to be met with in this country, in an indigenous state. the _gentiana pneumonanthe_, appeared in great abundance, and with its brilliant blue flowers was to me pleasingly conspicuous; but the diligence, although slow, was yet too fast to allow me time to procure a few specimens. on passing the magnificent palace of charlottenburg, i was much struck with its extensive appearance, and fine park, leading from it all the way to berlin, through the brandenburg gate, and along the linden or lime tree walk, to the splendid university, armoury, museum, and other large buildings, and handsome bridges, with the statues placed on them, its magnificent palaces, which all appear in view from the diligence, by this the hamburgh line of road, and to the eye of a stranger has a grand effect, giving him the idea of a great and noble city, by seeing so many magnificent buildings immediately as he enters the town. within a few stages of berlin i met with mr. parker, bookseller, from oxford, travelling in the main diligence, where i joined him; on our arrival in the city, we took up our abode, in the st. petersburgh hotel, after breakfast we separated, he in search of books, while i went to visit the royal botanic gardens at schoenburgh, which are situated about three english miles from berlin, where i was much gratified by the many fine specimens of plants that i saw. having letters of introduction to m. otto, from sir w. hooker and dr. lindley, as well as from his old friend mr. hunneman, i experienced the greatest attention from him, he took great pains in pointing out to me the various new and curious plants in this extensive collection. there were some very fine species of _palms_, in great beauty, nearly reaching to the top of the hothouse, which is about thirty feet in height. the _latania borbonica_, was particularly fine, and had attained nearly twenty five feet in height, its foliage or fronds extending from ten to twelve feet on each side from its stem. the _gomutus saccharifer_, had also reached to the height of twenty five feet, and numerous other choice specimens of the palmæ, were in an equally healthy and luxuriant state, and of little less dimensions than those specified. the _aristolochia brasiliensis_ was particularly fine, covered with long beautiful speckled flowers, that extended over a large part of the rafters. many new and fine specimens of the _gesneras_ were also in flower; they appeared different from any that i had previously seen in this country. some of the _melaleucas_; in the conservatory had grown to the height of nearly forty feet; the _magnolia grandiflora_, which requires the protection of the conservatory during the winter months was now covered with fine large flowers. numerous other species of new holland plants, had grown to an amazing height in the conservatory. the hothouses in this garden are placed in several separate ranges, and are very substantially built in comparison to our erections in england. the quantity of timber employed in the rafters is immense, but giving them a very heavy appearance; yet i have rarely met with a more healthy collection of plants anywhere; they may be considered the most extensive on the continent of europe. in short, i never before saw so many plants cultivated in pots. the numerous species of new holland and cape _genera_ were quite astonishing, as well as the hardy and alpine species. as to the cacteæ, there can be no hesitation in saying that the collection in these gardens of this curious tribe of plants really comprises the most beautifully grown specimens that i have ever seen; the different species that have grown to a considerable size have a very interesting appearance, particularly the _mammillaria_ and _echinocactus_ tribes; with their numerous spines and angles, they form a pleasing object either in or out of flower. m. otto has long been celebrated for his ardent love to this curious tribe of plants, and he certainly has succeeded in forming a valuable collection. the species of _ferns_ in these gardens are likewise very numerous, and there are many very fine specimens amongst them, which have grown to a great size. i could not but admire the very tasteful manner in which the cape and new holland plants were arranged out of doors in the summer months, and which were neatly plunged to the rims of the pots, to prevent them from being blown about by the wind. the _bignonia radicans_ formed a very prominent object against the end wall of one of the hothouses; the luxuriance and brilliancy of its flowers far surpassed any that i had previously seen. a fine specimen of the _laurus indica_, which must have been fully twenty feet in height, was standing out of doors, and obliged to be cut down, as it was getting too high for the house in which it stood in the winter season. the _robinia pseudacacia_, _inermis_ and _tortuosa_ were both splendid trees, which ornamented the grass lawn. the _magnolia acuminata_, also a beautiful specimen, as well as the _quercus palustris_, and _rubra_; both had attained a great size, and were handsome trees, as well as several other species of this genus. mr. otto having kindly requested mr. w. brackenridge, who had been for some time from scotland, residing in the neighbourhood of berlin, and was then employed in the botanic gardens, to accompany me the following day to such places as he considered most deserving of notice, i arranged with him to be ready betwixt six and seven o'clock in the morning, to proceed to the different gardens. august th. we started at seven o'clock in the morning, to the royal gardens at charlottenburg palace, which are situated about four english miles from berlin. the grounds attached to this royal palace, are said to contain four hundred english acres, laid out with various walks, clumps of trees and shrubs, as well as several pieces of water, embracing some very fine views from different points notwithstanding its being a flat surface, but it is much diversified by trees, bridges, and sheets of water that intersect the lawn. there are several bridges leading across the stream to the most ornamental and picturesque parts. the palace is also seen to great advantage from several points in the grounds. a very fine specimen of the _quercus palustris_ was in great beauty on the grass. i also saw some very large trees of the _populus alba_, which were considerably larger than any tree of this species that i had previously seen. m. fintelman, the superintendant of the royal gardens, pointed out to us a very complete _fructiferum_, that he had lately formed in these grounds, comprising a collection of all the hardy fruits. nearly adjoining to the palace, is a very handsome little flower garden, lately executed for the growth of the dwarf flowering perennials and annuals. i was much pleased by an arbour formed with the different species of cape and new holland plants, that are rather flexible in their growth; the pots in which the plants grew, were all plunged round the back, the branches tied closely to it and thickly covered, producing a great variety of foliage, and pleasing effect, and having the appearance of growing there permanently throughout the season. opposite to this botany bay, or cape arbour, is a pretty summer house, which is chiefly composed of reeds. in the centre of the flower garden, there are various posts with iron rods extended from them for the training of creepers. again, at the extremity, is an artificial grass bank, considerably elevated above the flower beds, planted with the dwarf china rose, which has a very good and natural effect. the orange-house is an oblong building, of great length, with opaque roof and backwall, upright lights only in the front, completely covered with grape vines, having a very fine crop of fruit all over them. the orange trees were all in excellent health, some of them bearing separately nearly two hundred fruit; there are about three hundred of these trees cultivated here. i also saw a fine variety of dahlias, and various other beautiful flowering plants in great perfection; these dahlias are fully as good as any i had seen in england; great attention is paid to these flowers by m. fintelman, who took great delight in pointing out the various objects most worthy of notice in these grounds. having devoted several hours to the inspection of this extensive establishment, we then took our leave of m. f. and proceeded back to berlin, when i had another opportunity of observing more fully the various improvements, that are now going forward in the thier-garten, or park, which extends from the royal palace of charlottenburg, to the brandenburg gate. this park is considered one of the finest in europe, and is now undergoing extensive alterations, the grounds forming in several places so as to harmonize with the english style of landscape gardening; numerous walk and rides leading in various directions, with groups of sculpture, make this an interesting promenade for the public, by whom it is much thronged, particularly in the evenings. it is approached from berlin by the brandenburg gate, which cannot fail to attract the stranger's notice. it has a most magnificent appearance; on the top of this gate stand the celebrated bronze horses, removed by buonaparte to paris, but were again replaced by the prussians in their original site. in front of the royal museum, is a very handsome marble vase, which measures about sixty four feet in circumference, and four feet in depth; a handsome fountain is also playing, throwing the water to a great height. the ground floor of the museum is occupied as a sculpture gallery, which contains numerous statues, and busts; but it appeared to me to be deficient of the finer groups. i was however much pleased with the beautiful imitation marble columns of various colours, which have a polish equal to the original. the picture gallery is above that devoted to the sculpture, and i could not but admire the beautiful state of preservation of the paintings, and their very admirable arrangement. from hence we proceeded to the nursery grounds of m. bouschie, which are not of much extent, nor yet is there much for the horticulturist to admire, except some very fine specimens of the _cacteæ_ (_opuntia_) tribe; some of the species are from eight to ten feet in height. after visiting this nursery, we then proceeded to the forcing gardens of m. bouschie, who grows a large quantity of pine apples and peaches for the berlin market; the pine apples were very small, and much inferior to our english grown fruit; the crop of peaches was very abundant, but not of a large size, the trees old, and the hothouses of a very inferior description. we next proceeded to the nursery garden of m. touissaint, which appeared to contain a much better collection of the cape and new holland plants, than any of the other nurseries i had previously seen in berlin. here was a good collection of the more hardy species of _rhododendrons_; the forcing of flowers is likewise extensively practised in this establishment, and the grounds in very good order. i next visited the nursery ground of m. mathieu, where there were some good specimens, but none that i had not previously met with. august th. went at six o'clock in the morning to see the fruit and vegetable market, but was rather disappointed in observing so very inferior a supply in comparison with what is to be seen in covent garden market. in fact for some time i thought that i had gone to the wrong place, as the market is held every alternate day in two different parts of the town; but on enquiry i found it was seldom better supplied. large quantities of grapes grown out of doors, or on trellis, were in the market; also a pretty good supply of peaches, but these were of a small size. i only observed one solitary pine apple, about one pound weight. the mode of preserving the fish, which were also brought to the market where the fruit and vegetables were exposed for sale, was new to me. they are kept alive in water in oval shaped wooden tubs or vessels, and each sort is kept separate. large quantities of game, poultry, butcher's meat, as well as cart-loads of hay and straw, are found abundantly in the market. after making a tour through the principal parts of the town, and getting my passport signed by the police and english ambassador, i made a second visit to mr. otto, and also then called on dr. kloytch, to whom i had a letter of introduction from sir w. hooker. dr. kloytch has the charge of the royal herbarium, which is situated opposite and nearly adjoining the botanic gardens, containing several apartments for dried specimens of all the plants that flower in the royal botanic gardens, which are gathered and preserved as they appear in flower. attached to the royal herbarium house is a piece of pleasure ground, one side of which is enclosed by a good brick wall that has projecting piers, betwixt which grape vines are trained, and confined to the spaces of about twelve feet between the projecting piers; each sort is thus prevented from intermixing with another; a wooden pailing enclosing another part of this garden is likewise adapted to the same purpose. dr. kloytch was once a pupil of sir w. hooker's at glasgow, and is considered an eminent botanist, he has certainly formed a very natural arrangement of the different species in the genus _ericæ_, arranged according to the form and structure of the flower. he shewed me several native specimens of this genus that i have not yet seen in england, but seeds of which i hope to receive from him before long. i was much gratified by the excellent method he described to me, in preserving the specimens of _fungi_, which appears to be the most effectual mode of drying these plants that i have yet seen. after looking over various specimens in the herbarium, dr. kloytch accompanied me to the botanic gardens, where i again saw mr. otto, and was enabled to see more minutely the extent of this noble collection of plants. it is proper to observe that the space of ground allotted for this garden, is not sufficiently large for such an extensive collection of plants. many of the oaks and several other fine trees are too much crowded, and not seen to advantage. after examining all that i wished to see here, mr. otto, dr. kloytch, and mr. brackenridge, accompanied me into berlin, where we passed through another fine part of the "_thiergarten_," and being joined by mr. cuming, the celebrated zoologist, we spent a very pleasing evening in the discussion of botanical pursuits, and the cultivation and beauty of the _cacteæ_ in the berlin gardens. august th. left berlin at seven o'clock in the morning for potsdam, where i arrived at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, a distance of eighteen english miles. every stranger must be forcibly struck with the scenery as he approaches potsdam, particularly in passing prince charles's villa and grounds, with the view of the handsome bridge lately erected across the river havel, at this side of the town expanding itself to a very capacious sheet of water. on my arrival at potsdam i proceeded to the royal gardens at _sans-souci_, which are situated about one english mile distant. having a letter of introduction from m. otto to m. linne, the principal director, i was disappointed in not finding him at home. free access was afforded to the various departments, and i then made the best use of my time in examining the different gardens attached to this residence, which required considerable diligence to get through a portion of the departments. i first inspected the kitchen garden, which is very extensive, and contains several ranges of low houses, and pits, for the forcing of cherries, plums, and apricots, with a good collection of standard fruit trees, as well as the walls being well stocked. the length and breadth of the principal range of houses in this garden, is feet long, and about feet in width; the upright sashes are eight feet high, placed in a slanting position; the roof-lights were about six feet long, but these lights were at this time all removed from the house, the trees being planted as standards in the interior border; the sashes are removed as soon as the fruit is gathered, in order to expose the trees to the full effect of the atmosphere. in another garden at a short distance from this vegetable one, there are numerous other ranges of hothouses for the forcing of fruits, which are in great request for the royal table. the structures here used for this purpose are about six feet high in front, and about ten feet in width; the length of the roof sashes were from nine to ten feet. in these houses the flues are placed at the back, running parallel to the backwall. some of the houses are heated by hot-water pipes, rather of a novel construction, and i much fear not calculated to give any great command of heat; they consist of two round copper pipes, about two inches only in diameter, which run parallel along the front of the house about two feet apart from each other. the peach trees are planted inside the house, within one foot of the front wall, and are trained perpendicular to the trellis, to the height of six feet, being as high as the upright glass. a rider is then carried in general, close under the roof lights, trained to a lath trellis which is nailed to the underside of the rafter. as soon as the frosty nights are over, the houses are generally stripped of the sashes, and the trees and fruit left fully exposed to the sun and weather, while the fruit is maturing; but such fruits as are wanted at an early period, are of course not thus exposed. i here observed various trees of plum, cherry, and apricot, thus treated, a more congenial mode of treatment, than by having recourse to pots or tubs, as is in general practised in this country, especially where there can be houses spared for this purpose, as the trees will get established in the ground, and be enabled to produce a more abundant crop and larger fruit than if their roots were confined to a small space for nourishment. i also saw here a great quantity of very fine melons, all trained over moss, and at this season these also were exposed to the weather. the appearance of the fine terraces in front of sans-souci palace, gave me more gratification than anything of the kind that i had previously seen. this palace, originally erected by _frederic the great_, is now a favourite summer residence of the crown prince. it is situated so as to command a most beautiful view of the surrounding country, with six tier of terraces in front of it, each terrace falling about twelve feet under another towards the south from the palace. along the top are flower borders and broad gravel walks, with a row of very fine orange trees placed along the edge of the gravel walk on each of the terraces, which give them a magnificent appearance. against these walls are trained principally grape vines, provided with a frame in front for covering them with glass; peaches and apricots are likewise here grown. in the centre of each terrace is a noble flight of steps thirty-six feet wide at the bottom, but at the top the width is only fifteen feet; containing in each from twenty-five to twenty-seven steps. the view of these from the avenue or road by m. lennie's house, is really grand: the different flights of steps from this point of view appear to form one connected tier leading to the palace, which, with its magnificent orange trees and groups of sculpture, strike the eye of every stranger with admiration. i here congratulated myself on being alone, and left to examine and take the dimensions of the various objects, without being hurried. at a short distance from the lower terrace is an oval basin of water, surrounded by a grass lawn and a gravel walk, or rather carriage drive; and on the exterior side of the circular sweep of the gravel, are placed twelve large statues. this basin was originally intended for a fountain; the reservoir for supplying it was formed by frederic the great on an eminence on the north side of sans-souci palace, where it must be several hundred feet above the level of the basin of water where the fountain was intended to be placed. the effect from the palace windows and from several other points of view, if it had been completed, would have been very magnificent when the water was playing. at a short distance from the palace is another large building, which was occupied by a part of the establishment; in front is a large piece of pleasure ground, in which are placed also a number of very fine orange trees; one of them, pointed out to me, is named after _frederic the great_, his majesty being a great admirer of these trees, insomuch, that during the war he took possession of all the best that came in his way, and sent them to his royal gardens at potsdam. the head of this tree, named frederic the great, was equal to one of our ordinary sized portugal laurels, its branches extend over seventeen yards of ground in diameter. i should imagine there must be fully trees grown in this establishment, all of large dimensions. the soil in which they are grown consists of a black sandy loam, well incorporated with cow-dung and rotten leaf mould, with a mixture of bone dust, in some cases horn shavings. the houses for the protection of the orange trees in the winter season, are simply a long range or ranges of red tiled roofed buildings, with merely upright lights in the front or south side, which are provided with wooden shutters that are closed during frosty weather. the flues run along in the floor of the house, and are not calculated to give out much heat, but the roof and back wall being opaque, and the front furnished with shutters, little heat is required for preserving the trees from the frost. they are generally turned out of doors in the month of may, and not taken in again until october. arranged along with the orange trees i observed a very fine specimen of the _nerium oleander_, covered with blossom, also several fine plants of the pomegranate, covered with flowers. the figs were also in prolific state against a wall and growing in light sandy loam. at the opposite end of the palace is situated the picture gallery, which opens into another garden department, with hornbeam hedges, and numerous box edging scrolls; but this piece of ground is evidently not much attended to: the walks, flowers, borders, are not in good order. the collection of paintings, however, in the gallery will infinitely repay the visitor for the disappointment he may experience in the badly kept garden. this gallery is two hundred and fifty-two feet long, and thirty-six feet wide; the dome and cove ceiling are richly gilt, the floor and walls inlaid with marble. the paintings are very numerous, and in beautiful preservation. those taken from this gallery by buonaparte and again replaced in the spot they originally occupied, are particularly pointed out to the visitor. i observed on each side of the door, as we entered this gallery, two very fine marble statues, one of _diana_, the other of _louis_ xvi. a straight avenue or drive leading from the potsdam road, in a direct line by the front of the terraces at sans-souci, to the new palace, is of considerable length. at the extremity of this avenue is the magnificent palace built by _frederic_, after the completion of the wars in which he was engaged. it is said to have been erected with the english subsidy; however this may be, it is undoubtedly a very magnificent building. the grounds leading from this and sans-souci palace are all laid out as pleasure-ground, with numerous walks and roads, leading in various directions, which are very well kept; but the grass lawn here is rather rough, and not much attended to. the quantity of sculpture placed throughout these grounds is truly astonishing; at almost every intersection of the walks, various statues or busts are placed, and likewise in different recesses that are formed out of the road and walk edges. along the front of the new palace, facing towards potsdam, is arranged a row of very fine orange trees, with several pieces of sculpture. the garden ground extends considerably to the north of the palace, where it is much varied, and commands an extensive view of the adjoining scenery and country. the belvidere and terraces here are also prominent objects. i was much pleased with a piece of trellissing that surrounded the oval spot of ground at the south side of the palace. this trellis projects about twenty-one feet on one side, and forms an oblong square about forty-two feet long. the side next the oval consists of eight round columns, formed by thin flat iron bars, opposite to which are openings to correspond, that look into a running stream of water, that separates the park or pleasure ground from a piece of kitchen-garden ground on the opposite side. the peculiarity of this trellissing is in its handsome projecting cornice, with columns at nine feet apart, formed by the flat iron bars. arched recesses are likewise made between these columns, about five feet wide, and nine feet in height. the entire height of this trellis with the cornice is twelve feet, and was evidently originally gilt, but it is now in a corroded and decaying state; not a vestige of paint is even to be seen upon it. at a very short distance from this splendid palace is a piece of vegetable ground enclosed with formal clipt hornbeam hedges, which ought to be removed, as it disfigures that part of the grounds, and is much too close to the palace. the walks and lawn adjoining were in pretty good order, especially the former. leading from the palace to a royal chateau that has been lately erected, is a very fine carriage drive, winding through a flat piece of ground, which is laid out principally after the english fashion. this residence is also inhabited by one of the royal princes. i was much pleased with the quantity of grapes growing on a double terrace, or rather covered walk, which was completely crowded with vines and its fruits; the lower walk ran alongside of a wall, and the trellis and arches projected about twelve feet from it, and were twelve feet in height. over the top of this wall is another trellissed walk, which is also completely covered with grapes; it leads up to the palace windows, and is about two hundred feet in length. adjoining it, and in front of the windows, is a small flower-garden, elevated above the ground level i should imagine about twelve feet: we ascend to it by a flight of steps at the furthest end; the side next the palace is nearly on the same level as the window sills. there are several fountains in it, and a few clumps of the _petunia violacea_, but nothing else of interest. connected with this terrace garden, but on the ground level, is a piece of ground laid out in various beds, principally furnished with dahlias. here is a handsome marble fountain or column, and a well formed sheet of water. about three hundred yards from this spot is _charlottenhoff_, a handsome erection, which is used occasionally as a tea or coffee room. this building is surrounded by numerous walks, and columns with vines trained against them. ascending a flight of steps, that leads to a point of view looking down upon a fountain, playing with great force. this spot is tastefully laid out, and in very neat order. several other ornamental erections are placed in these grounds, but to attempt to describe them all would require an actual residence for some weeks. the royal palace of potsdam is a magnificent building, in the form of a quadrangle. the interior apartments contain numerous objects of interest, which as being highly estimated by _frederic the great_, are particularly pointed out to the stranger. the arm chair which he was in the habit of using, is still in a good state of preservation; i was much pleased with the magnificence of the rooms; the paintings and furniture are very splendid, and in good preservation. the ground attached to this palace consists of a flat surface, extending towards the south, as far as the river havel, and is laid out in clumps of trees, various walks; the space next the palace is a larger piece of gravel, which is daily used for the exercise of the military. adjoining it are numerous avenues of horse chesnuts, and busts of ornamental sculpture placed along the first row of trees, as well as some in various other positions. opposite the south, or principal front of the palace, is an oblong piece of water, in the middle of which is placed a noble group of neptune and his sea horses, which has a very grand effect, but the water is kept rather low and filthy, which might be easily remedied, as the river havel passes within a few yards of it. by the edge of the river, in a marshy spot of ground, i observed a large quantity of the _hydrocharis morsus-ranæ_ (frogbite,) and _stratiotes aloides_, (water soldier,) growing in great abundance. i should however have observed that the fine marble group of neptune was much injured by the french army, during the time they occupied potsdam. in short it is really grievous to see the depredations that were committed by that army on the sculpture about potsdam and sans-souci, whilst they resided there. the soldiers for amusement were in the habit of firing musket balls at the different groups and statues. august th. left potsdam at eight o'clock in the morning, for the _pfauen insel_, or peacock island, where i had appointed to meet mr. cuming at nine o'clock. we had to cross a branch of the river havel to get to the island, which contains a collection of plants and animals somewhat resembling the zoological gardens in regent's park. i was here more fortunate in finding m. fintelman at home, than i was at sans-souci, and having a letter of introduction to him from his uncle, who superintends the royal gardens at charlottenburg, i found him remarkably attentive, and an intelligent young man. i was here surprised to find the _robinia pseudacacia_ had attained seven feet in circumference, at four feet from the ground, the branches of which extend over thirty two yards of ground in diameter. i also observed some fine specimens of the oak, which were little inferior to our largest english oaks. the conservatory is an oblong building, about one hundred and twenty feet by forty, and forty two feet high, and consists of several tiers of front sashes, with a span roof, the north side being a dead wall with a gallery for resting in behind it, which commands a full view of the plants underneath. i was much gratified, by the very flourishing state of the plants, and their remarkable neatness. a very fine collection of the _palmæ_, is cultivated in this stove or conservatory, some of which have made a rapid progress in their growth. the _latania borbonica_ measured twenty seven feet in height, spreading over a space of equal dimensions in diameter. i understood that his majesty the king of prussia frequently breakfasts in the summer season in this conservatory, under the shade of the palm fronds (or leaves). i remarked also the _pandanus utilis_ twenty three feet high; the _dracæna draco_, (dragon tree) had likewise grown thirty six feet high; _pandanus sylvestris_ thirteen feet in height, and eleven feet in diameter across its branches; the _bambusa arundinacea_, forty feet high; a shoot of this cane, grew seven feet six inches in the course of three weeks; the _corypha umbraculifera_, a very magnificent specimen. the _latania borbonica_ is placed in the centre of the conservatory; the tub in which it grows is completely concealed by planting around it various _ferns_, and other low growing plants, which are tastefully arranged, and form a nice little stage round the tub, having a very neat appearance, with the walk round it, which shews the palm to the best advantage. opposite to this spot is a recess in which is placed a small fountain tastefully decorated by _ferns_ that succeed well in a shady situation. there is likewise in this recess, a very handsome marble screen, richly carved and ornamented. the grounds are very judiciously laid out in various clumps of flowering shrubs and summer flowers, and were at this time in full perfection. one of the finest hydrangeas that i have seen, was in full bloom, and its large purple-blue flowers were very conspicuous. the grass lawn was in a much better state than any other that i had previously seen in germany, or even met with during my tour on the continent, and the whole garden ground very neatly kept. the island is said to contain about four hundred english acres. the erections for the different animals and birds are judiciously placed, and consist of handsome structures, arranged from two to three hundred yards or more apart; these apartments were kept remarkably clean and in good order. an extensive collection of beasts and birds are preserved in this establishment. the grounds are considerably varied, and some fine views are to be seen from several parts of it, as well as from the top of some prospect towers. the effect of the river havel, and surrounding plantations at the opposite sides, adds expressive features to this landscape. after seeing the various objects most deserving of notice, both in the botanical and zoological departments, we proceeded across the river, to the grounds of prince charles, still accompanied by m. fintelman; they were laid out, principally, in the english style, his royal highness being particularly partial to it. this spot consists of a great variety of surface, with several beautiful vistas, and is really very tastefully planted, and the grounds formed, and kept in very excellent order. the public road from berlin to potsdam passes close by the front of the grounds, and there is a low wall, with an invisible wire fence on the top of it, betwixt the road, where the views of the grounds are seen to most advantage. one side of them extends close to the havel, where a handsome summer house is erected, which commands a fine prospect of potsdam, the new bridge, and shipping, and likewise the scenery on the opposite side of the river, which is much varied. under this building are two colonnades covered with creepers, which have a very pretty effect. on the one side of a hill nearly opposite to this villa, is a new residence erecting for prince william; the views from it must be very extensive, as it is situated on a commanding spot. we next proceeded to the magnificent edifice called _marmorpallast_, or marble palace, which is situated at a very short distance from potsdam, and close to the margin of the havel. it is a splendid building, the greater part of which is constructed with marble. the cornice appeared to be about five or six feet deep; it is of white marble, as also is the base above the ground for several feet; the door and window jambs are likewise of the same material. the intervening spaces of the walls are built with red brick. the colonnade at the principal entrance consists of handsome marble columns. the pleasure-ground and gardens attached to it are said to contain two hundred and fifteen german acres of ground, throughout which are dispersed various clumps of trees and shrubs, with extensive walks and rides branching through it in different directions. these grounds are very flat, and have but little variety or picturesque appearance in them. the number of good exotics and new holland plants is considerable, as well as a very fine collection of healthy orange trees, with some fine specimens of hardy trees growing singly on the grass. i here observed the _juglans fraxinifolia_ bearing a number of good sized fruit. in the flower garden some good german stocks, then in full bloom. the borders and grass lawn were in a rough state. we next proceeded to sans-souci, mr. cuming not having previously seen it. i was delighted in having another opportunity of looking round this truly magnificent spot; and being accompanied by mr. fintelman, who kindly devoted the entire day in conducting us to the various objects best worth our notice, we proceeded through the grounds attached to sans-souci palace, and then to charlottenhoff, the new palace, &c., and were much gratified by the numerous objects of interest we had pointed out to us in the various places that we inspected. on our return to potsdam, we went to the top of breuchensberg, or hill of brewers, where a prospect tower is erected. the view from this spot is really grand in the extreme; we look down upon potsdam and the numerous palaces that are in its environs. sans-souci and the new palace are both prominent objects in view from this prospect; but the most pleasing features are the numerous small green islands that are formed by the river havel, near the bridge at potsdam; the intricacy and variety of outline of water, and the number of boats and small sailing vessels making their way to berlin through this place, form a pleasing sight. the evening was now drawing to a close, and little more remained to be seen by daylight. m. fintelman took his departure for the island of peacocks, and mr. cuming started in an hour after for berlin. i was thus again left alone to muse over the different objects that had occupied my attention during the day. august st. not having previously seen the pine-apple forcing department, i walked out early this morning to sans-souci, where this fruit is cultivated. i was rather surprised to find a great extent of low houses and pits devoted to the growth of the pine, without observing a single fruit amongst the whole stock that was scarcely worth cutting. there cannot be less than one thousand feet in length of houses and pits adapted to the pine-apple, and these varying from eight to twelve feet in width. the principal range was heated by smoke flues, and the plants plunged in saw-dust, with tan under; which practice is frequently adopted in this country, especially when tan is scarce. the young plants in the pits appeared pretty healthy, but such fruit as was fit for cutting, or advancing to maturity, would bear no comparison to our english produce. after satisfying myself with what was to be seen in this department, i returned to potsdam, from whence the diligence to dresden, my next place of destination, did not start till twelve o'clock. the time i had to spare before my conveyance came up, was employed in inspecting the town, which consists, it is said, of houses, and , inhabitants. the streets are in general very clean; one leading from the palace to sans-souci is inlaid with planks for the wheels of the different vehicles to run on, similar to the russian manner. i also saw in the vicinity a russian colony, which was inhabited by natives, sent as a present some years ago by the emperor to the king of prussia; they are now becoming pretty numerous, and their colony is extending. potsdam is intersected by various small canals, that lead from the havel, and are very convenient for the conveyance of turf and other materials by water carriage. the greater number of the houses are handsomely built; there was then erecting opposite to the palace a magnificent church. at the other end of this palace is an iron bridge, crossing the havel; the piers consist of stonework, there are eight arches, one of which is used as a drawbridge for the passing and repassing of boats going this way to berlin. this town is the principal depot for military, who are exercised daily in great numbers in front of the palace. at twelve o'clock the diligence arrived, when i took my departure in it for dresden. the road leading from potsdam to the latter town was lined on each side with fine poplar trees, of a considerable size, for several miles of the journey. the soil in this part of the country appeared to be a light sandy loam: the plantations were chiefly composed of the scotch fir; but close by the road side, in several places between potsdam and herzberg, were large quantities of plum trees, loaded with fruit. we arrived at herzberg at half-past ten o'clock; but owing to the darkness of the night i was unable to see, or form any opinion of the size of the town or quality of the houses. september st. at three o'clock in the morning we reached another small town, called elsterwerda, which was said to contain about inhabitants. the next stage we came to was grossenhayn, where we arrived at half-past five o'clock, a.m. this town is situated in the kingdom of saxony, and contains nearly inhabitants. at this stage we were transferred to another diligence. the country from grossenhayn to dresden is much more varied than any i had previously seen in germany. the scenery as we approach to dresden is very picturesque, both as regards distant views and variety of surface: when within a few miles of the town, we meet with a very fine avenue of lime trees, extending for a considerable distance, and then is continued by horse-chesnuts. on descending a hill, a fine prospect of dresden presents itself to the eye. the soil now appears more of a black colour, and less free from sand, than what i had previously observed. i also saw several beech trees intermixed with the scotch-fir. arrived at dresden, at nine o'clock a.m. after getting breakfast, i immediately proceeded to the house of professor hughes, who was then engaged, but mrs. hughes asked mr. west to accompany me to the principal gardens; this gentleman, a school colleague of lord cosmo russell, and an admirer of plants, very cheerfully accompanied me to several of the gardens in the vicinity of the town. we first proceeded to the botanic garden, belonging to the university, which is very limited in extent. i was however much pleased with the fine collection of cacteæ that are grown in this establishment, as well as a large collection of cape, and other green house plants. the number of species of hardy perennial plants in this small space of ground is truly astonishing; there is also a great variety of cape bulbs and _gramineæ_. the extent of glass is confined to a very long conservatory, stove, and several pits for _cacteæ_. having been introduced by mr. west to m. lehman, the superintendant of the garden, he accompanied us to the gardens of lieut. weber, situated at a short distance from the town, and considered the most extensive for glass and space, of any about _dresden_. i should imagine by its appearance there could not be above seven or eight english acres of ground under nursery culture. the collection of plants for sale comprises chiefly _camellias_, young orange trees, cape and new holland plants, many of the scarcer sorts of which i observed had been lately introduced to that establishment, from mr. low's nursery at clapton. a fine specimen of the uhria speciosa was in great vigour of health. a great variety of dahlias, and dwarf china roses in full flower were in these grounds. i was much pleased by the simple mode of grafting the _camellia_ and orange trees, which appeared to be very successful, and is generally practised by m. liebig the gardener, which method is what we term in this country crown grafting; by this mode the shoot or graft, after insertion in the stock, is only tied neatly to the stock, with a bit of worsted thread, and then sealed over as well as the top of the stock, by a little bees-wax, (without clay as practised here); when this operation is completed, the plants are put into a frame or pit, with a little moist heat, until the graft and stock begin to coalesce, when they are shortly afterwards gradually exposed to the air of the greenhouse. in this establishment there are several very good hothouses for plants. in one of the ranges is placed a circular shaped conservatory, heated by hot water, on rather a novel construction; these hot water pipes being formed into perpendicular columns, rising from the floor to the height of from ten to twelve feet. these pipes, thus constructed, gave out a great command of heat, and answered the original intention very satisfactorily. the plants in this nursery garden were very well grown, and all in a healthy state. i next visited the nursery of m. hofrath kreyssig, which is only a short distance from the botanic garden. i saw likewise some good kinds of greenhouse plants, as well as many rare species of the rhododendron tribe; the _rhododendron campanulatum_, a fine specimen; a collection of orchideous plants is also forming in this nursery garden. there are several small hothouses for the growth of cape and tropical plants, which are also cultivated for sale; but the space of ground is much too limited, as well as confined by houses to do justice to a collection of hardy species. after visiting these gardens and grounds, i took my leave of mr. west, to whom i was much indebted for the kind interest he took in the object i had in view, and who appears devotedly attached to plants and gardening. professor hughes having recommended me to see the chateau erected on the banks of the elbe by the late lord findlater, an english nobleman, i expected to have found some fine gardens, or collection of plants, but, to my surprise, on my arrival, i found it now occupied as a tea garden; it is much frequented by the inhabitants of dresden, in consequence of its romantic situation on the banks of the elbe, commanding a prospect of the country, studded with small villages situated in the valleys between the hills, or rather eminences; but these are not to be compared with our scotch mountains. along the elbe is a great extent of vineyard, which did not appear to be in a very prolific state, the soil being of a poor sandy texture. many pretty villas were also situated along these banks, which had very pleasant prospects from them. september nd. having agreed to meet mr. lehman early this morning, we proceeded to the catholic church, which belongs to the court, and is certainly a magnificent building, the interior richly ornamented, and well worth the stranger's notice; we next visited the protestant church, which is likewise a splendid erection. the museum and post office are also very magnificent buildings. i was however surprised at the appearance of the royal palace, which consists of a dark gloomy looking old fashioned residence, and with little in its exterior appearance, calculated to give a stranger the idea of its being the seat of royalty. through the assistance of mr. lehman, who procured tickets of admittance to the gallery of paintings, i was favoured with a sight of this celebrated collection, which is considered to be amongst the finest in europe, and is said to contain one thousand five hundred pictures; among so many there are undoubtedly some very splendid ones. on our return from the gallery, we passed through his majesty's coach-house, which must at least have contained no less than sixty different carriages; a very splendid one lately presented to the king by prince metternich, was pointed out to us. from hence we proceeded to the museum or repository of minerals, birds and animals. the collection of the feathered tribe in this establishment is particularly extensive; some very large blocks of petrified wood, that were much prized, were pointed out as remarkable curiosities. in one of the departments was a table four feet in diameter, of a solitary piece of wood of the _tamarindus indicus_, (tamarind tree.) in front of the building various orange trees are arranged along the edge of the walks. what is called _bruehl's_ garden is also deserving of notice; it forms a public promenade for the inhabitants, and is pleasantly situated, containing a picture gallery, which is denominated the gallery of duplicates. dresden is said to contain about , inhabitants, and is much admired for its fine houses and streets. it is considered by many as one of the finest towns in europe; but i must confess that in my opinion it is inferior to either berlin, munich, or brussels. it is situated on a flat spot of ground with the river elbe running through it; the bridge over which is said to be feet long. the arsenal is a large building, but i had no time to see it, as the diligence left this day at twelve o'clock for munich, and as these conveyances only go twice or three times a week at most from the principal towns throughout germany, the losing of an hour to see an object might detain one for two or three days. having taken my leave of mr. lehman, i seated myself in the diligence for munich, a journey which occupied us three days and three nights. the road winds along the river side from dresden to the first stage on our way to munich, and is very beautiful, the scenery much diversified, and resembling that of some of our scotch mountains; the plantations of forest trees comprise a mixture of silver fir, beech and scotch-fir. the hill and dale that continued for a considerable way along this line of road rendered the scenery very interesting and picturesque, and which appeared so to continue until it became quite dark, when all view of the country was lost. we passed through freyberg, a small town situated on the river mulde, and is said to be feet above the level of the sea. the next town or village that we came to was chimnitz, where we stopped for supper. september rd. arrived at one o'clock in the morning at zwickau, at which town the road from leipsic joins the one from dresden, where the diligences from both towns meet, and the passengers are transferred from the leipsic diligence to the one from dresden. whilst waiting for the vehicle getting ready to start, i was agreeably surprised to find mr. parker, seated at the same inn; he had arrived from leipsic by that diligence: when we parted at berlin we had no expectation of again meeting each other so soon. one of my fellow travellers from dresden was a frenchman, but he was evidently as awkwardly situated whilst travelling for want of a knowledge of the german language as i was myself; consequently we both kept mr. parker pretty busy in acting as an intermediate interpreter whilst we were together. the scenery about zwickau is beautifully varied with hill and dale, and woods, with a small river called the mulde running along by the bottom of the rocks. the houses are neatly built, and of considerable number, containing a population of from seven to eight thousand. the roads in the vicinity of this town are rather mountainous, but not so much so as in the preceding stages. the next small village that we passed through was plauen, where we arrived about seven o'clock in the morning: it is said to contain about inhabitants. we next proceeded to hof, where we arrived at ten o'clock, changed diligences, and had to stop for several hours before we could again get on our journey. on entering this town we passed by a large tea garden, situated on the side of a hill, at the bottom of which is a small river, that tends greatly to enliven the scenery. the town of hof is in the kingdom of bavaria, and the population is said to amount to , , living in handsomely built houses. the main street that leads through it i should imagine is nearly a mile in length, and very wide; there appeared to be a fair in the town on this day, which occupied a great part of this street. the cathedral is an ancient building; the entrance consists of a handsome gothic door, the walls of which must be about eighteen feet in thickness. the town-hall is likewise a fine erection, and the houses and streets appeared all in clean and neat order. from dresden to hof the country productions principally consist of agricultural produce; the potatoe and oats are extensively cultivated. a sharp frost this morning blackened all the potatoe tops. at one o'clock we got into a bavarian diligence, and proceeded to berneck, a small town surrounded with beautiful scenery, that much reminded me of the derbyshire rocks, to which in picturesque appearance it was fully equal. arrived next at bayreuth, at eight o'clock in the evening; it is a town of considerable size, said to contain , inhabitants. on the diligence driving up to the inn door we found the space in front of it completely covered with a military band, and a large concourse of people listening to their music; this band belonged to a cavalry regiment that was on its march through the town. we next started for nuremberg, where we arrived at half-past eight o'clock the following morning. september th. on our arrival at nuremberg, we found that we had to remain here for several hours before the diligence started again: we made the best use of our time, proceeding to st. laurence's church, a gothic building, the doors and windows richly ornamented with groups of sculpture and other carved work in bronze; the painted glass is very handsomely executed. this church was begun in and is a most magnificent building. the tabernacle consists of a beautifully carved and richly ornamented spire, executed in of carved stonework. although it has been converted into a protestant church, yet the catholic ornaments are still remaining. we next proceeded to view the catholic church, which is likewise a very splendid gothic building, erected in , and the exterior walls richly ornamented. in the market place, we were much gratified with a very pretty spiral fountain, richly carved, erected in . the town-house is also a very fine old structure, containing many good paintings in the large and small hall. the fresco paintings in the latter apartment are beautifully executed on the ceilings and walls, which are also highly ornamented by gilt mouldings. the paintings in the great hall consist of various pieces of fresco, by the celebrated albert durer. the triumphal car of the emperor maximilian, drawn by twelve horses, in beautiful fresco painting, and a very fair picture of the present king of bavaria, by byng of munich, is also to be seen here. from hence we went to the cathedral, in which is st. sebald's tomb, highly deserving of the stranger's notice. this church contains the oldest metal font in germany; it was formerly used in baptising the emperor's children. the saint's tomb, by fisher, is a masterpiece of workmanship, executed in ; there is also a curious figure of the artist himself. the tomb is a pretty gothic structure, cast in bronze, and the body of the saint enclosed in a silver coffin, under an elegant gothic canopy. we next proceeded to the picture gallery, which contains a good collection of paintings by german artists, in good preservation. from hence we went to the imperial castle, where there is growing a lime tree, _tilia europæa_, said to be seven hundred years old. i measured the girth of this tree, at four feet from the ground, and found it to be fifteen feet in circumference; it still appeared in a pretty healthy state. the dining room in this ancient castle, formerly used by the king, is of large dimensions, and contains a large number of old paintings, which are in good preservation; the rooms although uninhabited for the last four hundred years are still in good condition. from the windows in this castle we have a beautiful prospect of the town as well as of a considerable extent of country. on our return from hence we visited the house in which albert durer resided, which is now converted into a gallery for modern paintings, exhibited for sale, many of which appeared to be most beautiful pieces of art, and objects of great interest to numerous visitors who were then present admiring them. by this time it was drawing near the hour we had to start by the diligence. we made the best of our way back to the hotel, and got all ready by one o'clock, the appointed hour of our departure from nuremberg, which is a town of considerable size, containing a population of upwards of thirty thousand people. in the environs are large tracts of ground under vegetable culture, but i was unable to learn of the existence of any botanic garden or good nursery establishment in the immediate neighbourhood. large fields of tobacco were cultivated in the suburbs, as well as extensive plantations of the _hop_, which appeared very prolific. the soil we passed from nuremberg to munich was more sandy than it previously had been; the scenery is also more flat and less varied than in our preceding stages. sept. . arrived at pfaffenhofen, at six o'clock in the morning. near to this town large quantities of the _genista germanica_, were growing close by the road-side, also the _dipsacus laciniatus_, in great abundance. approaching nearer to munich, i observed growing in a plantation the _vaccinium vitis idæa_, in great plenty, reminding me, from its occurrence, of the mountains of scotland. the scenery in the vicinity of munich, is of a great sameness, but the tyrolese mountains appearing in the distance considerably add to its picturesque effect. we reached munich at eleven o'clock, where we found some difficulty in getting apartments, the hotels being then so full of strangers. in the afternoon i was accompanied by mr. parker to the botanic garden, which is situated close to the town, having a very handsome entrance with ionic columns, and neat iron railing, which encloses a large part of this garden. the _arboretum_ of trees and shrubs is confined to the two ends of the garden, it being an oblong square, but the south side is much the longest. the space of ground is very confined for the growth of large trees; the entire space devoted for this purpose is not an acre of ground, consequently the different sorts are much crowded together. the interior of the garden, in front of the range of hot-houses, is laid out in numerous oblong squares, with gravel walks intervening; in the centre walk are three round basins of water. these squares are again divided into beds for the herbaceous plants, wherein a good collection are cultivated. in one of the divisions there is an _aquarium_ for aquatic plants, which consists of oblong square troughs, lined with brickwork for retaining the water; these are about two feet wide by two deep, and an intervening space of ground, of from six to eight feet, in which are grown such species as do not require the water: but a damp situation, notwithstanding, is requisite: in the apartments where the hardy perennial plants are cultivated, are numerous apple trees, all in full bearing; these ought to be eradicated and their places supplied with ornamental trees or shrubs. apple-trees, however useful, are not in character with a botanical collection; more especially as the apple is so common by the road sides through germany; a collection of this fruit should find a place elsewhere than in the botanic garden, where the space of ground is already much too limited for the collection of plants. a lofty range of hothouses about five hundred feet in length, has a very good effect; they are only furnished with upright sashes in the front, the back and roof opaque, the latter finished in the semi-cove form, and neatly plastered. i was surprised to find the palms looking remarkably healthy, notwithstanding these dark houses, many of the species had really grown from twenty to twenty five feet in height. the collection of the brazilian species is very numerous, but many of them appeared drawn and too much crowded for want of light and room in the pits. the cape and new holland kinds were then out of doors, very healthy and well grown. i was much pleased also with some very fine specimens of _cacteæ_, the variety of which is reckoned but little inferior to that of berlin. in short, there is an extensive assortment of the various species of _succulentæ_ in this establishment. the director, m. seitz, having been long a collector, has succeeded in forming a great variety of this curious tribe; he was extremely liberal in parting with any of his duplicates. sept. th. m. seitz having the kindness to accompany us to the royal gardens at nymphenburg, which are situated about four english miles from munich; we proceeded thither immediately after breakfast, and found that these grounds required no little time to make even a hasty inspection. the french garden in front of the palace consists of straight and broad gravel walks, with long stripes of grass lawn, and borders about twelve feet wide of shrubs running parallel to the avenues of horse-chesnut trees. along the edges of the walks various vases and other ornamental sculpture are arranged; leading from these walks, a straight piece of water, more in the form of a canal, than an ornamental lake, runs parallel in two different directions; the one parallel to the palace, is crossed by two wooden bridges, which are prominent features from several points of view. the centre, or main canal, leads in a straight direction for a considerable distance, and is broken by several very pretty cascades, and handsome marble basins, as well as different groups or figures of sculpture. the water comes rushing over the marble ledges with great force, and was certainly the brightest and purest that i had ever previously seen. there are also some very fine jets in which the water is propelled to a great height by machinery. a well formed lake nearly adjoins the bathing house, said to occupy about fifty bavarian acres of ground, the outline of which is much varied with different projections of land, islands, and the banks of turf tastefully planted with trees and shrubs, forms a very pleasing contrast. a curious bark is placed on this sheet of water, consisting of two small boats, with a platform, on which is placed a chair, so that a person may sit and read, or fish, and at the same time guide this boat by his feet, that are resting generally on the paddles. close by the margin of this lake, is a very pretty circular temple, with a figure of apollo, that forms a prominent object from several points of view. a small cascade passing under a ledge of rockwork, on the top of which is placed a marble figure of pan, and a goat at his feet, forms another object of interest in this part. the grounds from the south west of the bathing house, (or pavilion, which is ornamented by paintings and statues) have been lately much improved, and are now considerably varied with different clumps of trees and shrubs, undulations and rockwork. the surface is naturally a flat, but art has, during the last three years, created great inequalities and alterations in this part of the grounds; the banks and undulations are very judiciously formed, the trees and shrubs tastefully grouped together; the walks and rides are of great extent, and very neatly kept and gravelled. the range of plant houses at nymphenburg is the most extensive and substantially built of any that i had previously seen in germany, about one thousand feet in length, and varying from twenty to twenty four feet in width, the height not exceeding twenty-eight feet. i was here surprised to find that the hothouse in which a fine collection of _palmæ_, and other brazilian plants were grown, was heated by very small hot water pipes, which i imagined were far too small to sustain the temperature of such a house, although the back and roof are opaque, and of course require considerably less artificial heat than if constructed with glass on all sides. the boiler that heats this house is about seven feet long, three deep, and three feet six inches wide, and consequently contains a large body of water, when once heated it gives out a great portion of caloric from its sides and surface, being placed at the back of the house, but in the interior, and concealed by the plants. the pipes branch right and left from the boiler and appeared to be only two inches in diameter, yet, i was informed, they were found quite sufficient for the heating of this conservatory. undoubtedly the boiler being so very large rendered pipes of greater dimensions unnecessary. the frost is, however, much more intense in germany than in england; the _lauristinus_, _arbutus_, _rhododendrons_, _portugal_ and _common laurel_, were cultivated at nymphenburg as green-house plants; they are too tender to endure the winters there. in front of this botanical range, or more directly opposite to the palm house, is an arboretum of hardy trees and shrubs, but the site, for that purpose, is badly chosen, and by far too contracted, and should have been selected in the pleasure ground, at some distance from these houses, where there is ample space, and would have formed an interesting feature. as at present the more common kinds of trees and underwood are the only hardy species of decoration in many parts of the ground. opposite to the east end of the range of plant houses is an oblong piece of ground, laid out in narrow beds by the edge of the walks, which are occupied with a collection of dahlias, and other herbaceous flowering plants. on our return from this botanical range we visited a small private garden, close by the palace, which has also a very pretty cascade at its extremity, and ornamented by sculpture. the palace of nymphenburg forms almost a semicircle of a large radius on the munich side, or principal front, but that facing the gardens is more of an oblong square, and in consequence of the numerous roofs appearing from the semicircular front, that are disconnected and of various elevation from the main building, it has more the appearance of a number of small villas, than of a royal residence, particularly as we approach it from munich, by the side of the straight canal that leads to the principal entrance. nearly opposite the centre of the palace on this side is a circuitous basin of water with a fountain in the centre and rockwork around it. this water is conveyed into the gardens, and must be of great extent from the appearance of the course it was running, which leads a considerable way towards munich. after our return from nymphenburg gardens, we proceeded to the english garden, which is said to contain about five hundred english acres of ground, and is a favorite promenade for the inhabitants of munich. this park, or pleasure ground, is rather of a flat surface, but much diversified by clumps of various trees and shrubs, and fine sheets of water, the margins of which are much varied, but unfortunately full of weeds. the drives and walks that lead through these grounds in different directions are very extensive, some of them being nearly five miles in length. the grounds adjacent to the queen's palace are very well kept, and deserving of notice; but a piece of water in view from it is very filthy, which is the more extraordinary, as it might be easily kept clean by turning into it a branch of the river that runs through these grounds. we observed some very fine specimens of the _juglans fraxinifolia_ with fruit on them, and very large trees of the _salix alba_, which were here in greater size than any i had ever seen. numerous clumps of various kinds of trees and shrubs are grouped together; but these are in most instances rather crowded, and not enough of lawn is seen to intervene between them. a handsome observatory was erecting, situated on an artificial mound, which, when finished, will command a fine prospect over these grounds. we also visited several of the churches. st. mary's church is very splendidly fitted up, and has handsome marble columns. in it is placed a very superior statue of eugene beauharnois. st. michael's church is likewise deserving of notice from the beautiful marble columns. the choirs of the different churches were this day all decorated with orange trees, _hydrangeas_, and other flowering plants. sept. th. i appointed to be in the botanic gardens with m. seitz, by eight o'clock in the morning. immediately on my arrival i met with mr. forster, nephew to the vice president of the linnean society, who is also much attached to botany. the greater part of the day was spent with m. seitz, looking over the numerous species of _cacteæ_, and _succulentæ_, and after having finished my visit here, he had the kindness to conduct me to the glyptothek, which is a very magnificent quadrangular building, containing a fine collection of antique sculpture; the floors and walls are inlaid with various marbles, the ceilings richly ornamented with gilt mouldings, and fresco paintings. it has twelve apartments, one of which is devoted to modern sculpture, and possesses some fine specimens in this art. i next proceeded to the pinakothek, which is situated at a short distance from the glyptothek, and is likewise a very splendid building, but it is not yet finished. it is intended as a repository for paintings, and consists of a number of very capacious apartments with gilt ceilings of extraordinary splendour. the suite of rooms is said to be feet in length, and on the south side is a long passage or gallery, the ceiling of which is ornamented with fine fresco paintings. the exterior of this pinakothek is equally magnificent, and when finished will undoubtedly be one of the most attractive objects in europe. sept. th. this being a holiday and inclined to rain, we visited the royal palace, which is at present undergoing great alterations and additions. the first object that attracted my notice, was the granite steps of the king's staircase, which measured twenty one feet in width; at the top is the body guard room, and then an inner ante-room, the walls of which are beautifully ornamented with fresco paintings, as is likewise the adjoining room, in which are represented as though suspended from the ceiling and cornice, fresco painting of numerous fishes. the family dining room, with cove ceiling and fresco paintings, and most beautiful inlaid floor, must attract general admiration. the throne room is however still more capacious, and the walls are ornamented by various alto-relievos in plaster. i observed in several of the windows that the squares of glass used were five feet long by three feet in width. his majesty's cabinet is also splendidly fitted up. the apartments intended for the queen are still more superbly finished, and represent subjects in fresco painting taken from the german poets. the surbase of her majesty's room is of fine marble; the room is about forty feet square, the dressing room of rather larger dimensions. the queen's throne room is really most splendidly finished, the walls and mouldings gilt, and the surbase of fine blue marble. there are several other apartments intended for her majesty, representing in fresco paintings various subjects from the poems of burgher; with the pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre in fresco. the grand staircase is most magnificent; the walls and steps are of fine marble, with four ionic marble columns at the top, the whole furnished in the most superb style. the lower suite of apartments is equally splendid; the walls are decorated with paintings in fresco of several of the emperors of germany. the magnificence of the decorations on the walls and ceilings of the new apartments in this palace are such that no one can form any idea of their grandeur without a visit. adjoining to this, is the statue gallery of antiquities, which measures about three hundred and thirty six feet in length, by forty five in width, with a cove ceiling painted in fresco. i here saw a beautiful florentine mosaic table, for which napoleon offered sixteen thousand florins. there is also a bavarian almanack of the fifteenth and sixteenth century, in form of a circular table, about seven feet in diameter, inlaid with brass; but the letters and figures almost obliterated. the entrance to this antique gallery consists of a handsome grotto in shell work, with various figures, birds, and devices, in alto-relievo. there is placed opposite the new addition to the palace a colossal figure in bronze of the late emperor, with a huge lion at his feet. near this palace is a magnificent post-office, now building. there is also the theatre, which is likewise a very splendid structure. we next visited the gallery of paintings, which is well deserving of notice, and contains a very valuable collection of pictures. the space of ground called the hof garden, which is a fashionable promenade, and consists of numerous rows of trees and gravel walks, is bounded on one side by a very long gallery, highly ornamented with various frescos. although denominated a garden, i could see neither flowers nor shrubs; only rows of trees, that formed a shady promenade in the summer months, when it is much frequented by tea-parties. in the afternoon we made another visit to the english garden, and round the environs of the town; but this being a holiday, all the principal establishments were shut. i was however unable to hear of there being any other garden establishment worth seeing, that i had not previously seen: we therefore procured our passports, and secured our places in the diligence for stuttgard. sept. th. left munich at six o'clock a.m. the scenery for the first stage was rather flat, but as we approached augsburg it became considerably more varied. by the side of the road on this route i observed the _gentiana pneumonanthe_, in great abundance; i here had an opportunity of collecting several specimens, whilst the diligence was ascending a long hill, which was well planted, and where some fine trees of the spruce fir were in view. the houses in augsburg have old-fashioned red tiled roofs, with numerous windows projecting like skylights, even five rows deep on the sides, in very bad taste. augsburg contains , inhabitants; and several ancient buildings, particularly the episcopal palace, cathedral, and town-hall. the cathedral, a gothic building, contains some curious old tapestry and paintings, representing the apostles sleeping whilst our saviour was praying. there are also some curious old tombs, with models; and several handsome fonts with large bronze figures. the town-house, which contains a picture gallery over the ground floor, is a very fine building; the gallery where the paintings are kept is feet long, feet wide, and feet high, with a carved wood ceiling, richly gilt. the pictures were many of them of immense dimensions, and in fine preservation, but of the old german school. we here also visited the german literary gazette printing-office, and also the steam engine which is used for throwing up the water to supply the different fountains in the town. whilst mr. parker was making purchases of books here, i proceeded to the garden of m. schatzle, which is situated in the suburbs. this garden is very well kept, and contains some good exotic and cape plants, and a good shew of summer flowers, with several straight avenues of trees planted so as to form an arbour or shady walk. in this garden is placed a colossal group in bronze that weighs , pounds, executed by chirardi in honour of fugger. the first of the fugger family was an augsburg merchant, and is said to have left his heirs above six millions of golden crowns, besides other property. from thence i proceeded to the nursery of m. schultz, which contains vegetables as well as nursery stock: there are two or three small hothouses, or rather pits, for the growth of the tender species, but i saw but little in this establishment worth notice, although considered the best nursery garden about augsburg. it was now drawing near the hour that we were to take our departure from augsburg in the diligence; whence we started at o'clock p.m. for ulm, the next town of any note. i omitted to mention that we were accompanied through the different departments in augsburg by the french gentleman who travelled with us from dresden to munich, and also by mr. withy, who was returning from a tour, and going then to heidelberg; he travelled with us as far as stuttgard, where we all parted. sept. th. arrived at ulm at half-past four o'clock in the morning. this is a pretty town, situated on the left bank of the danube, in the kingdom of wurtemberg, and is said to contain , inhabitants. we stopped here about an hour. the first stage beyond ulm consists of a fine agricultural district. the second stage presented rocky and fine scenery, planted with hard wood, the birch and beech trees intermixed, but the latter sort pre-hills on both sides, which is particularly picturesque, and surpasses the much admired matlock scenery, for many miles. when we arrived at geislingen we had time to admire the huge rocks peeping out amongst the trees opposite this village, where there is also a very fine prospect tower, which overlooks the town, and great extent of country. i observed, growing on the banks of geislingen glen, the _asclepius vincetoxicum_, _helleborus officinalis_, and several other scarce plants. along this country numerous orchards of fruit trees prevailed, such as plums, pears, and the apple, which were very abundant, all growing close by the road side and full of fruit. the road through geislingen to goppingen is very beautiful, being a great vineyard country for many miles, commencing about plockingen, and extending along the face of the hills to stuttgard. we passed through an old fashioned town called esslingen, which is situated on the necker, a river that heightens in a great degree the beauty of the whole valley along which it winds. cobbett's corn appears to be extensively cultivated in this district, particularly near to stuttgard, where we arrived at six o'clock in the evening. here i lost all my travelling companions, mr. parker starting for frankfort immediately, and mr. withy the following morning for heidelberg; both which towns i afterwards visited. sept. th. m. hertz, who has a small nursery garden in stuttgard, and whom i had previously seen in kew gardens, very kindly volunteered to accompany me to the royal botanic gardens here, which are situated at a short distance from the palace, and contain a number of old hothouses, and a good collection of plants in a very healthy state. in short, i was surprised to see the plants looking so healthy in such old worn out opaque roofed houses. there are also cultivated here many very fine specimens of the _cacteæ_. i saw one of the _cacteæ senilis_ above eighteen inches long, a very fine healthy plant. the _echinocactus cornigerus_ measured about six inches in circumference, and some other kinds were also nearly as fine. the pleasure ground belonging to this palace contains about two hundred and sixty german acres; it is tastefully planted, and laid out in numerous drives and rides, forming a pleasant promenade for the public. a very fine orangery, with dark roof, is situated at a considerable distance from the botanic gardens, and near it a very complete flower house was erecting, the rafters of which were of metal, and the sashes all wood, heated with smoke flues, that pass under the pit, where an arched cellar is formed, so that mushrooms or other vegetables may be accelerated. i regretted that this house was not heated by hot-water, which would have rendered it very complete. it is intended to remove near to it the kitchen garden, which is situated at a very different part of the town, and in a very dilapidated state. numerous pits for melons, and pines, are in these gardens, but in this state of intended transition they are not kept in good repair. after going through these different departments, m. bosch, the superintendent of all the royal gardens, then returned to the botanic garden, while m. hertz conducted me to a small villa garden, containing a very choice collection of _cacteæ_, some fine large specimens of the _opuntia_ tribe and _cereuses_ were here. having called on the baron de meyendorff, the russian ambassador at stuttgard, his excellency accompanied me to a small nursery garden, which contained some good specimens of plants of the more hardy sorts of the new holland and cape species, but little of novelty amongst them. from hence we proceeded to the chateau of general spizenberg, which has been lately erected on the side of a hill, commanding a most delightful and extensive prospect of stuttgard and its varied scenery. i was much gratified to find that the old warrior, after undergoing the fatigues of many campaigns, was now devoting his leisure hours to the pursuit of botany and horticulture. baron meyendorff informed me that the general acts entirely as his own gardener, and he has certainly succeeded in forming a very choice collection of plants, consisting of hardy shrub, perennials, and exotics. there are grown in this small spot, sixty sorts of _camellias_, a good variety of _ericas_, and numerous other cape plants, with some very curious _cacteæ_. in a little stove, divided in two divisions, i observed also a few pine apples, but of a very inferior size, and not worth the trouble even of eating, let alone rearing. the other description of plants looked healthy, the peach-trees against the low wall were very well managed and neatly trained. the vines were also judiciously trained to a wooden trellising against the wall. on the whole it is an interesting collection, and well worth the stranger's notice. on my return i proceeded in the afternoon to rosenstein palace, which is about two english miles from stuttgard; but his excellency having the kindness to send his carriage, and being again accompanied by m. hertz, we soon arrived there, and again met with m. bosch. this palace is a magnificent building, placed on a fine situation, commanding beautiful views of the swabian alps, also of carstadt, where there are found buildings of the romans, and large pieces of fossils, particularly of the mammoth. the necker also forms a fine feature from this palace. the grounds are very extensive, and the drives and walks well kept; the ground is now formed into beautiful sloping turf, which i understood was formerly in a very unlevel and rough state. it is beautifully diversified with various fine drives, which i could not but admire, being destitute of the fantastic twists, that are so often thrown in without the the least meaning. at present the grounds around this palace have rather a naked appearance, for want of trees and shrubs, but this defect m. bosch is rapidly removing, so that a few years will produce a very different effect; much difficulty is however experienced in getting the trees established, owing to the high elevation of the ground, and the general droughts in summer. at rosenstein, i saw one of the most complete vineyards that i ever met with, formed on the slope of a hill, with wooden trellisses, so constructed as to have the greatest degree of the sun's rays, at that season when the fruit requires it most. these trellisses are arranged about six feet apart each other, and are formed thus, /_\, so that the vines are laid on an inclined plane, and the fruit appearing on all sides, have really a delightful effect. the trellis is five feet high, and six feet wide at bottom, and the whole constructed something like a parabola, and continued along the slope of ground in a curved line. i did not observe the vine in such a prolific state any where else, and the whole looked remarkably neat. at a considerable distance from the palace, some very extensive fruit terraces were forming on the slope of a hill, near the town of carstadt; nearly two hundred men were busily employed blasting rock, and forming the terraces, which are intended for the vine, fig, peach, apricot, &c., and from the fine sheltered situation in which they are placed, i imagine the success will be fully equal to their expectations. on approaching these terraces i was at first surprised to observe the workmen surrounded by a number of soldiers, who were stationed at different parts, throughout them. i however soon observed that this precaution was necessary, as many of the workmen so employed, were convicts, and heavily loaded with chains round their legs. i walked over a great part of these extensive grounds, and was much pleased with the different objects i saw, and improvements proceeding with. sept. th. started this morning, for hohenheim palace, which is situated about six english miles from stuttgard; it is now occupied as an agricultural establishment, and has attached to it a thousand acres of ground, devoted to agricultural experiments. i was much gratified by seeing the granary of seeds, consisting of a great variety of the different kinds used in husbandry, which was said to amount to five hundred sorts. the stock of cattle and sheep, is very fine and extensive. the repository of agricultural implements contains the various instruments used in farming, from every known country, and are all kept in excellent order. the different domestic apartments in the palace, are occupied by numerous pupils, who congregate here from all parts of germany. i was happy to learn that the produce of the establishment was sufficient to meet all the expences, attending its cultivation. in the pleasure ground, or rather nursery, a great quantity of the more common sorts of shrubs is cultivated. i observed a fine tree covered with fruit of the _prunus cirrhifera_, an excellent plum, quite round, and of a purple colour. i also saw a fine specimen of the _tilia alba_, that was planted by duke charles the _fraxinus juglandifolia_, was a particularly noble plant, as well as the _quercus macrocarpa_, and various other species of this genus. there are about sixty _arpents_ of ground here, under young fruit tree cultivation, which are grown for sale. during the time that duke charles resided at hohenheim, the gardens were much celebrated, and attracted numerous visitors from all parts of germany. there is a fine piece of ground called the english garden, that was much admired, but now we have only the forlorn remains of it left. at the front of the palace, are still several of the old flower beds, and the balustrade wall, which forms a fine sweep, at the principal or entrance front. it was in duke charles's time well stocked with orange trees, but none are now in existence. the ground falls considerably, towards the south, from the palace, and when under garden cultivation, it must have had a very pretty effect. the view from the windows, over a small town called boblingen, and the surrounding scenery, is very fine, the swabian alps appearing in the distance. i should imagine hohenheim palace, about sixty years ago, must have been one of the most magnificent in wurtemberg, but the apartments are rapidly going to decay. the new road lately formed near to stuttgard, winding through the vineyard plantations, with their numerous small huts or watch boxes, has also a very pretty effect, although rather fatiguing from its steep ascent. on my return from hohenheim, i again called on mr. koster, the british secretary of legation, who accompanied me to the house of m. de kerner, where i saw eighty-three volumes of the splendid botanical work, executed by the late m. de kerner, which consists of above one thousand drawings of the various fruits, and other exotic flowering plants, which are undoubtedly exquisite specimens of that gentleman's abilities as a draughtsman. these volumes were only purchased by the royal libraries of vienna, st. petersburg, munich, stuttgard, and copenhagen, at a price of seventeen hundred pounds; only six or seven copies were executed, one of which is still on hand, in the possession of m. de kerner. after again procuring my passport, i started about eight o'clock in the evening, for carlsruhe, where i arrived at five the next morning. sept. th. on my arrival i found that the diligence would start in the course of twenty minutes for baden. i started by it, and arrived there at ten o'clock. his excellency lord george william russell, kindly gave me a note of introduction to sir john frost, the late secretary of the medico-botanical society of london, who was then residing at baden, and practising as a physician. this gentleman furnished me with several notes of introduction, to some of his botanical friends, and also kindly shewed me the different objects of interest about the town; amongst which was the fountain of mineral-water, so much celebrated, for various diseases. it is of a very high temperature; so much so, that i was unable to drink a glass of it, without first letting it cool; from the appearance of the fountain, one would imagine that a strong fire was burning under it. from the baths we proceeded to the castle garden, and from hence, a considerable way up the hill, where is a most delightful prospect of the town, and its very romantic scenery. the old castle forms a prominent object of attraction, which, with the tremendous precipices of rock, and plantations, render this spot the most picturesque that i had previously met with on my tour through germany. an excellent promenade, called the english garden, with neatly kept walks and pieces of lawn, is much frequented by the inhabitants and visitors. situated in the promenade is a magnificent building called the "conversation house," with numerous orange trees arranged in front of it. in the interior, i was much surprised to see in a very capacious room, splendidly furnished, a large concourse of ladies and gentlemen, during sunday, very busy at the gambling tables; in fact the ladies appeared to be fully as expert gamblers as the gentlemen. i also made a visit to the convent, where two skeletons of saints decorated with numerous pearls, rings, and other costly ornaments are exhibited; the skull and teeth appeared to be in pretty good preservation, but these superstitious decorations, so perfectly incongruous, might be well dispensed with. the number of strangers calculated to have visited baden, during the season of , are said to have amounted to thirteen thousand. the scenery for a great part of the way from carlsruhe to baden, is considerably varied, and the old castle of eberstein appearing on an eminence, with well planted hills, forms a lively contrast. we also passed through a handsome town called rastadt, situated on the river murg, where a palace, belonging to the grand duke of baden, appears conspicuous from the road. sept. th. i called this morning on mr. kennedy (brother to the marquess of ailsa,) and delivered to him a note of introduction that i received from lord g. w. russell. mr. kennedy very kindly accompanied me to the botanic garden, and introduced me to m. held, the gardener, a very intelligent man; here the enormous height that the _melaleuca stipulacea_ had attained, which was nearly forty feet, is truly astonishing. various other _melaleucas_ and _banksias_ were nearly as high; the _dracæna draco_ (dragon-tree,) was about twenty feet in height; and the _pomaderis apetala_ almost thirty feet. in this garden are various ranges of houses for the cultivation of tropical and other green-house plants, which are extensively cultivated. the houses have all dark roofs, with glass only in front; yet the greater part of their inmates looked very healthy, particularly the greenhouse plants; but these had the advantage of being exposed to the weather during the summer months. various pits were also in this establishment for the growth and protection of the half-hardy species. the _succulentæ_ are extensively cultivated; there are nearly one hundred and forty species of _mesembryanthemums_, and about one hundred different kinds of _aloes_, besides a pretty good collection of the _cacteæ_. the _rhododendron_ and _azalea_, are cultivated out of doors, which is rarely the case in any other garden in germany. the herbaceous ground is formed into oblong squares, and these again divided into narrow beds, which are well stocked with a great variety of hardy flowering perennials. the whole of this botanical department was remarkably neat and clean, having, it is understood, been much improved since m. held was appointed. it appeared to me, however, to be much too crowded with these heavy looking houses, which are too numerous for a space of ground, undoubtedly too contracted and confined for such a collection of plants. the park, or pleasure-ground, adjoins the garden, and although of a dull flat surface, yet it contains many very fine specimens of ornamental trees and shrubs. i observed, for instance, the _salisburia adiantifolia_, sixty feet high, and several very large tulip trees, and the _sophora japonica_; a fine specimen of the _acer dasycarpum_, measured no less than a space of ground of twenty yards regular diameter. i was much pleased with a small flower garden, close to the palace windows, which was well stocked with flowers in full bloom. the grounds are laid out with numerous avenues radiating from the palace, which extend in a straight line for a considerable distance; i reckoned twenty-seven of these avenues, which had certainly rather an imposing effect, and various walks and rides that branch off through the grounds in different directions. there is also an extensive piece of ground enclosed with a high wall, occupied as a nursery, and well stocked with various hardy species of trees and shrubs. the front of the palace, next carlsruhe, was ornamented with large orange trees. the orangery was a large building, the front of which was well covered with grape-vines in a prolific state. sept. th. left carlsruhe at six o'clock, a.m. for heidelberg, passing through a fine fertile country, chiefly occupied with green crops. the mangel wurtzel, indian corn, and fine crops of tobacco, are cultivated here, as well as in many other parts of germany. arrived at heidelberg at eleven o'clock, and proceeded to the botanic garden, which has been only recently established, and contains a neat range of hot-houses, about one hundred and sixty feet long, besides a large sized pit in front of the range, one hundred feet long. this garden, although small, is pleasantly situated, and well arranged. in the centre is an oblong piece of water, the banks around which are considerably elevated, and planted with standard fruit trees, such as peaches, apricots, plums, and pears. the garden forms an oblong square, with a range of hot-houses and gardener's house at the north end, close to the heidelberg gate. these hothouses were the best and neatest-built that i had met with in germany, and contain a pretty fair collection of plants, with some very fine species of _cacteæ_. along by the east side of the garden is an avenue of very fine specimens of the _robinia inermis_, which is also continued along the south side of the town for a considerable distance. i next proceeded to schwetzingen, another magnificent establishment, belonging to the grand duke of baden. the palace and gardens are situated about five english miles from heidelberg, and are unquestionably well worth the stranger's visit. in the approach to them by an arch-way at the palace, we have a view of a large circular piece of ground, divided into various divisions, in which are cultivated a good collection of flowering plants; there are also in this spot a number of fine orange trees, arranged along the edges of broad gravel walks; several of them forming a straight avenue, extending in various directions. the centre walk or avenue, leading from the palace, is terminated by an extensive sheet of water, where is placed a fine group of sculpture, as well as another at the commencement of the avenue, at the end of the grass, next to the circular piece of ground, where the orange trees are arranged. on each side of this principal avenue is situated an oblong piece of ground, laid out in the french style of gardening, with numerous straight walks, and circular spaces at their junctions. the exterior of the ground, and that by the lake, is laid out in the english style, and consists of various clumps of trees; and the very fine irregular sheet of water has really a very good effect. i was much pleased with a very fine ruin, which is ascended by steps to a very considerable height, from whence is a delightful prospect of the gardens and adjoining scenery. the temple of apollo, with the stupendous blocks of rock, and the water dashing against them, is another object deserving of notice. the temple of minerva is also a very pretty erection. a roman aqueduct forms a very prominent object of attraction, but at this season of the year it appeared to be but indifferently supplied with water, which might be occasioned by the long and universal drought. a temple botanique, and a very handsome kiosk, formed objects of interest and ornaments to the garden. an extensive arched trellising covered with creepers also attracted my notice: in it were numerous arborial openings on both sides. the collection of cape and new holland plants is pretty extensive, and numerous species of the _genus erica_ are also cultivated. in the kitchen garden various pyramidal-formed pear trees are grown; and the hothouses are of a better description than are usually to be met with in germany; the south-side glass, and the back opaque, with span roofs. the pine-apples here were the best that i had previously met with during my tour in germany. to give an accurate description of the various objects of interest that are to be seen in these grounds would require one well acquainted with the premises, and several days' actual residence on the spot. the orange houses are substantial built houses, with dark roofs, and the collection of trees, from their appearance, from four to five hundred, which were in a healthy state. having a letter of introduction from sir john frost and m. kilter from the neighbourhood of vienna (who visited woburn abbey last summer) to the principal director, i experienced the greatest attention from him; the greatest pains were taken in pointing out to me every thing worthy of notice. returned to heidelberg, and visited the ruins of an old castle, situated on the face of a hill overlooking the town, and the river necker, and surrounded by high hills well planted, which form an eminence considerably above the castle, where there is a platform or resting place: the view of the extent of country and its romantic scenery is really grand. on the top of two of these hills are high towers, the prospect from which must be still more extensive. on approaching the old castle, i was agreeably surprised to observe some fine walks, with a collection of trees or arboretum, with printed labels attached to them, and the ground in good order. from this we still continued to descend to the old castle, which, even in its present state, must strike the stranger with regret that such a magnificent building should have been permitted to go to decay, particularly as the stone work appears in a good state of preservation. the prospect from the terrace, on the north-side of the castle, is really grand, commanding the circuitous course of the necker, the lofty and undulating hills on each side, which i imagine must be elevated at least two thousand feet above the level of the site of the castle. in the interior of the building is the celebrated _heidelberg tun_, which was formerly used in making the rhenish wine, with the great machine that was in use for that purpose, and from its size the quantity made daily must have been very great; near to it stands a figure of one of the wine makers, who was in the habit of drinking fifteen bottles every day. the approach of night prevented me from inspecting the interior of this old castle so minutely as i could have wished. descending from a hill considerably elevated above this building, i passed through a grove of fine trees (sweet chesnuts) all in full bearing. the country and romantic scenery in the vicinity of heidelberg pleased me more than anything of the kind i had previously met with. sept. th. left heidelberg at six o'clock a. m. for frankfort, the road winding along the river necker, for a considerable distance, through a flat country to the left; but the high hills on the right as we passed from this to darmstadt formed a pleasing contrast. the scenery for the first ten or twelve miles is very picturesque, from the high undulating hills, having numerous old romantic castellated ruins on their summits, or commanding points, which form prominent features of attraction. these hills are likewise well planted with forest trees; and large tracts are under vineyard culture. arrived at darmstadt at half-past one o'clock. i was much pleased with the cleanliness and elevated situation of this town, which is said to contain above twenty thousand inhabitants; the houses are handsomely built, the streets wide, and in good proportion to the height and size of the houses; they have also flag pavements, which is a rarity in germany. the opera-house is a splendid building, as well as the cathedral. the palace is also a fine old building, and has attached to it an extensive pleasure ground and kitchen garden. having but a very short time to stop here i made but a hasty visit through the gardens. the kitchen garden walls were well stocked with trees in full bearing, and large crops of vegetables appeared to be extensively cultivated: from thence i went to the extremity of the grounds, near which is a small herbaceous ground, with a good collection of plants in it, but i observed but little in the ornamental way in the arboretum department. about the centre is prettily formed, although dirty, a sheet of water, with a fanciful boat, for passing to and from a small island in the centre. the grounds are very flat and not varied, but possess numerous walks and rides which are frequented by the inhabitants. i here observed a large number of horses, belonging to the grand duke, passing through the town to the ducal stables. there are military barracks, and a large establishment of soldiers stationed here. this is evidently not a town of trade, but is principally occupied by the military. left darmstadt at three o'clock for frankfort; the country betwixt these towns is not much varied, but the soil appears very fertile, and produces good crops. i was, however, quite astonished at the number of carriages and other vehicles passing and re-passing betwixt frankfort and heidelberg; the road appeared to be nearly as much crowded as any of the english roads leading to london, and amongst these travellers were many english families. arrived at frankfort at six o'clock in the evening; the hotels were all so crowded with strangers that it was with difficulty i procured a bed, but at last the landlord of the hotel d'angleterre obtained me a room in a private house. sept. th. in the morning i visited the catholic cathedral, which is said to be one thousand years old, and contains a curious clock and almanac, made and placed in it about four hundred years ago; and then proceeded to the banking-house of messrs. koch and co., and delivered to them a letter of introduction from his excellency lord g. w. russell. they kindly furnished me with notes of introduction to several of the best gardens in frankfort. i then visited the nursery gardens of m. rintz, which are situated in the suburbs of the town, and contain about eighteen english acres, chiefly occupied with fruit trees. there are also several hothouses and pits for cape and other plants, which are pretty extensively cultivated, with a good variety of _ericas_ and other greenhouse plants, as well as several fine specimens of _cacteæ_, and a very extensive variety of the _camelliæ_; but unfortunately none of these being at this season in flower, i had not the pleasure of seeing m. rintz's celebrated variety, which is said to be very fine. this gentleman then accompanied me to the garden of m. andreæ willemer, which is close to the town, but is very limited in extent; it contains a very good greenhouse, and low pits and frames, which were then well stocked with a very fine collection of _cacteæ_, amongst which were many very scarce species. this gentleman devotes much attention to the cultivation of this tribe of plants, and appeared to put a higher value on many of them than they are actually worth; for instance, the _cactus senilis_ he would not part with for fifty pounds, although possessing duplicates. there was also a good assortment of cape plants and a number of _ericas_, which are now beginning to be more extensively cultivated in germany than they previously were. i then paid a visit to the frankfort botanic garden, which is of very limited extent, and its collection of plants also very contracted. these is, however, attached to it, the senkenberg society, which contains a splendid collection of objects in natural history, such as birds, fishes, shells, minerals, and animals, which are well worth the stranger's notice. from this i proceeded to the gardens of m. gogel, situated about four english miles from frankfort, containing twenty-four german acres, with several hothouses and pits for the growth of the pine-apple and other tropical plants, which are extensively cultivated here. this gentleman has a very fine collection of the hardy grapes on the garden walls, with a large space of vegetable ground, well cropped. the lawn in front of the house appears, from the river main, to much advantage, as well as a fine avenue of lime trees, that have grown to a large size. at the lower end of this avenue is a fine vista of the river and packets, or boats, that pass to and from frankfort and mayence. on my return, i called at the villa garden of m. stern, which is a pretty little spot, with a great variety of pelargoniums and dahlias, and other green-house plants, and contains some small green-houses and pits for their protection; there is also a good collection of camellias, all in a healthy state. adjoining this is another villa, belonging to m. cronelius, that has also several good hothouses and pits, with a large variety of _ericas_, _camellias_, _dryandrias_, and _geraniums_, as well as other new holland plants. there are likewise several espalier divisions, in which the pear tree is extensively cultivated, and appeared to be in a very prolific state. there is a considerable extent of ground under kitchen cropping, and also a pleasure ground, which was very well kept. the garden of baron rothschild, close to the town of frankfort, is undoubtedly the best in this neighbourhood that came under my observation; it contains thirty-five german acres, with several green-houses, besides an extensive range then building, about two hundred feet long, which was also intended for plants, and is divided into seven apartments, in order that those kinds that require different temperatures may be kept separately; this range when completed will have a very fine effect. in front of the mansion were placed two large stands well stocked with geraniums, and some very good orange trees, in tubs, which are removed from this site to the green-house early in autumn. i here observed a very fine specimen of the _araucaria excelsa_, which was beautifully feathered to the ground; this is unquestionably one of the finest specimens of this plant that i have seen on the continent or in england, with the exception of that at dropmore, which is much finer in every respect. baron rothschild's _araucaria_ is little inferior to the one at prince de linge's at belial. opposite to the house is a prospect tower, that commands a fine view of frankfort and surrounding country; there is also an arched walk completely covered with grape vines. the grass lawn was well kept, and various clumps of trees and shrubs dispersed through it. a small piece of water is enclosed at the lower end of the ground for water fowl. in this garden i observed a good collection of green-house plants and _ericas_. the fortifications that formerly surrounded the town are now demolished, and formed into a public promenade for the inhabitants, and are well laid out, with various clumps of trees and shrubs, broad walks, and benches. frankfort is a town of great traffic, and is said to contain about , inhabitants. sept. th. left frankfort at ten o'clock for mayence, and passed through a fertile sandy country, which is well stocked with grape vines, but the country not much varied; the scenery as we approach mayence is more picturesque, particularly when we get in view of the town. we pass through a handsome barrack, situated on the verge of the river, proceeding across a long wooden bridge that leads to the town. opposite to this wooden bridge, are placed seventeen watermills for grinding flour, which were then busily at work. the town is surrounded by very deep rampart ditches, faced with strong stone walls, a very good promenade, and a number of small gardens with clipt hedges, near the edge of the rhine, where there is an avenue that extends along its banks formed by large trees of poplar and robinias. at a short distance from mayence, but on the opposite side and close to the banks of the river is a very fine old castellated building, and a small village adjoining, which form a prominent feature in the scenery from the mayence bridge. sept. th. left mayence per steam packet for bonn. for the first two hours, we made scarcely any progress, owing to the dense fog, which we were all anxious to see disperse, in order that the beautiful scenery might be seen to full advantage: it was however not before nine o'clock, that the banks of the rhine were quite clear, when the packet began to make a rapid progress, and passing rapidly along between numerous stupendous rocks, old castles, and small towns situated close by the river side. the banks of the rhine are extensively cultivated as vineyards. when we arrived at katz, which is considered about the middle of the best scenery, we met the other steam packet, coming up at werlau. the scenery here is truly grand; the high mountainous rocks and old castellated ruins, with the various undulations and other objects, render this region highly picturesque. there is a pretty town close by the water edge, with white houses, and corresponding village on the opposite side, and another appearing just at the extremity of a deep valley in prospect. the old castle called marksburg, is a prominent object, but to attempt to describe or enumerate all the various features of interest that come under observation in passing along the rhine, would be an endless task. the scenery at coblentz is very beautiful, with its bridge of boats across the rhine, similar to that at mayence. a large rock called the stromberg, is very picturesque, with the castellated ruins at the top, and several other rocks of smaller dimensions in its vicinity, nearly opposite to which the rhine surrounds a small island. this may be considered about the last of the romantic scenery that comes in view, as we pass down the rhine. arrived at bonn, about five o'clock, where i experienced some difficulty in getting a lodging, in consequence of the great meeting of scientific professors having been here congregated. after at last finding admittance in a hotel, i proceeded to the botanic garden, which is situated about a mile from the town, surrounding the south and east sides of the university, and containing a very handsome range of hothouses, from three to four hundred feet in length, which also form nearly a line, or a range, with the principle front of the university. the hothouses are in five divisions, and contain an extensive collection of _ferns_ and _graminea_; many of the stove plants were in a very luxuriant state, and looked very healthy. behind this range is the annual ground, where the different species are cultivated, which appeared to occupy about an acre: there are several low pits placed in this department, for the growth of _cacteæ_, and _orchideæ_, and other dwarf-growing species; but the collection of _cacteæ_ and _orchideæ_ is very limited. immediately in front of the range of hothouses, is an arboretum of hardy trees and shrubs, much too crowded, and planted too close to the hothouses, and is continued in a manner round the two ends and south side of the garden. opposite the principal front of the university, is arranged the collection of _herbaceous_ plants, according to the natural system, but the beds are all of an oblong form, with broad alleys or foot-paths, betwixt them: an extensive collection of the hardy flowering perennial plants was grown in the _herbaceous_ ground, but the variety of hardy trees and shrubs appeared to be very limited. there were placed along the front of the university several clumps of green-house plants, and orange trees. the university was formerly a royal palace, but the lower apartments are now devoted to collections of natural history; the length of the front measures eighty eight yards, and appeared to be about square, with an inner court. on my return, i met with professor treveranes, and gave him a letter of introduction that i had from sir w. hooker. i learned from the professor, that the prince of salm-dyck was then in bonn, attending the scientific meeting, and if i did not see him that evening, i should not be able to see him at all; having a letter of introduction to his highness from sir w. hooker, and from mr. sabine, and being anxious to see the prince, if possible, i made the best of my way back to bonn, to the hotel where the prince was stated to be residing; but on enquiring there, finding he had gone out, i immediately proceeded in search of the prince to another hotel to which i had been directed. after waiting some time, i found his highness had not arrived, but was expected very soon. i therefore amused myself in looking through several splendid apartments which were then occupied by a large number of ladies and gentlemen, who meet at this hotel or club-house every night, to supper and various amusements. at last i was informed that the prince had just arrived, when i delivered my letters of introduction, and apologised for intruding at that unseasonable time. the prince appointed me to be with him at nine o'clock the following morning, when his highness was pleased to give me a letter to his gardener at salm-dyck, directing him to shew me the grounds and collections under his care. sept. th. after my return from the prince, i made another excursion to the botanic garden, where i again saw the professor treveranes, who had not accompanied his learned brethren to cologne, who to the number of about four hundred had departed that morning for that town. i took a walk on my return from the botanic gardens round the environs, and was much pleased by the objects of interest that displayed in different directions. the scenery around bonn is particularly fine, and some good prospects from a hill, at a short distance from the town; but as i intended starting by the early steam packet, i had not time to reach its summit, although very inviting. the cathedral is a very fine building, and its interior handsomely fitted up. the packet arrived at half-past two o'clock: i took my departure for dusseldorf, and passed by cologne, where, i imagine, there must have been several thousand people assembled on the harbour and bridge. we now changed packets for one of less dimensions and splendour, and arrived at dusseldorf about half-past ten o'clock. the scenery from cologne to dusseldorf was flat, and but little varied; in short bonn is the termination of picturesque scenery. at dusseldorf, i had but little difficulty in finding a hotel, as they were not so much crowded as at bonn. sept. st. started at six o'clock, a. m. for prince salm-dyck's château, which is situated about ten miles from dusseldorf, on the opposite side of the rhine, which is crossed in a flat barge, and passes through the ancient town of neuss, at which place buonaparte's design of connecting the rhine, scheldt, and meuse, is nearly completed. the suburbs of neuss abound in numerous vegetable gardens, enclosed with well clipt hedges. the ground in this part of the country, is a strong rich looking yellowish loam, and produces strong crops of corn, clover, and potatoes. the road however leading through a part of this country to the prince's palace, is very much out of repair, and appeared to have been neglected for a considerable time. on arriving at the palace, i immediately found out m. funck, the prince's gardener, and delivered to him my letters of introduction from the prince, and from m. otto, of berlin. the garden ground attached to this residence, contains one hundred and eighty german acres; the surface is considerably varied, and consists of numerous fine trees and shrubs grouped together on the lawn, the rising ground being judiciously planted with the loftiest growing sorts, and kept towards the extremity of the arboretum; amongst these i observed some very fine specimens of beeches and oaks; the beeches were particularly fine. i saw here the _gleditschia tricantha_, feet high, and the _populus canadensis_ eleven feet in circumference, by about sixty in height; also a fine specimen of _acer dasycarpum_. the trees in this arboretum are arranged according to the system of _jussieu_; there is likewise a natural arrangement of herbaceous plants nearer to the palace and green houses. i here observed a good collection of _pæonias_, but the prince excels most in the _succulent_ tribe of plants, such as the _cacteæ_, _mesembryanthemum_, and _aloes_. although the _cacteæ_ are very numerous they were not such fine specimens as in the berlin garden. a sheet of water encloses, in a manner, the greater part of the palace and its offices, and from the windows it has a very fine effect, with its bold sweeping banks extending along the arboretum, where a pretty wooden bridge appears in view. the hothouses are rather in a decayed state; but m. funck informed me that the prince intended re-building them. in the greenhouse are some very rare specimens of _yuccas_ and _aloes_. i understood from m. funck that mr. hitchen, of norwich, had the greater part of his celebrated collection from this garden, whence i also anticipate receiving, ere long, not a few rarities. in going through the interior of the palace i saw a number of very old paintings, many of which represented former princes of salm-dyck, but they are not in a good state of preservation; the rooms and furniture are of antique appearance, as well as the exterior of the palace. after spending several hours in inspecting the plants and grounds, i returned to dusseldorf, to see the botanic garden belonging to that town, which is certainly neither difficult to get over, nor to see its contents, the space of ground being very contracted, and the plants also few in number. they principally consisted of annuals; with a few rare species of _cacteæ_, not easily to be met with. i was, however, more pleased with the public garden or promenade, which surrounds the town, and is very extensive; it is particularly well laid out with fine broad walks, clumps of trees and shrubs, and lawn intervening, and great variation of surface, with different points of view commanding fine prospects of the rhine, with its boats and steam packets. there is in this promenade a fine avenue of _populus dilatata_, as well as the _tilia europæa_, (lime tree,) also several pieces of water, the outline of some formed with much taste and intricacy, while others are left rather formal; but, on the whole, little room is left for criticism. dusseldorf is a handsome town, and contains about , inhabitants; with good streets and well built houses. sept. nd. left dusseldorf by diligence at eight o'clock, a.m.; and passed by the palace of prince frederic, which is situated close by the road side, in front of which the orange trees and sheets of water appear very conspicuous. the gardens are said to contain a good collection of plants. arrived at cologne at one o'clock. this town is of considerable extent and traffic, and has a population of upwards of , inhabitants. the great object of attraction for the stranger is the magnificent church, or cathedral, one of the finest in europe, the dome one hundred and eighty feet high, and the interior illuminated with beautiful stained glass windows; the portraits as large as life, and magnificently executed. i was, however, more pleased by the exquisite architecture of the exterior; when finished, the effect will be grand in the extreme. on the south side of the town are strong fortifications, opposite to which is a promenade, that runs along a narrow slip of plantation on the exterior side of them. there are also numerous fields for the growth of vegetables. i here observed a small nursery garden well stocked with fruit trees and shrubs. at a short distance from this i saw a large building which i concluded to be a military barrack or magazine, which was guarded by soldiers. by the time that i had completed my survey of the town, i found that it was approaching to the hour that the diligence was to leave for aix-la-chapelle. i started about seven o'clock in the evening for this town, where we arrived at four o'clock the following morning. sept. rd. having a few hours to stop before the diligence set out, i proceeded to the cathedral, where the celebration of the mass was performing. it is a very splendid building, the interior highly ornamented on the ceiling with fine fresco paintings. the town hall, or now police office, is also a very magnificent building; i observed some fine paintings in the interior. the several celebrated mineral springs in this town are nearly as hot as those at baden; leading from the baths, is a handsome street and a number of good houses, that appeared to have been recently erected. at a short distance from the town is a prettily planted hill, which must command a fine prospect from its top of the surrounding country and scenery; but my time would not permit a visit to it. in the vicinity of aix-la-chapelle are numerous market gardens, but i observed no nursery stock. the road leading from hence to liege is considerably varied, and the ground apparently of a rich fertile nature. the town of liege is situated in a beautiful valley, at the junction of the river meuse with the ourthe, and surrounded by hills and fertile pasture, the latter being watered by three rivers, the ourthe, the vestre, and the meuse. this city contains a great many very fine built houses, and is much celebrated for its various manufactories, which principally consist of marble, coal, iron, and various other hardware articles. the old palace is a fine antique building of the ionic order; the different apartments in it were then undergoing a thorough repair. the viranda that surrounds the inner square is now formed into an arcade of shops. from this palace i proceeded to the old citadel on mount st. walburgh, which commands a fine view of the town, the river meuse, and the surrounding scenery, for several miles in extent. sept. th. went this morning to the cathedral, the architectural arrangements of which are very imposing; the interior decorations are well deserving of the stranger's notice, as well as its richly ornamented ceiling, and beautifully painted windows, and several fine pictures and groups of sculpture. i next proceeded to m. makoy's nursery, which is situated about two or three english miles from the town. it contains an extensive collection of plants, which are extremely well grown, and all in fine saleable condition. the spirited proprietor was then erecting another extensive range of hothouses, and heating it with hot water, which, together with the numerous houses he has already, will extend his plant houses to about six hundred feet in length. in this nursery i observed one of the best collections of green-house plants, that i met with on the continent; they were undoubtedly not surpassed in their growth by any collection that i have seen; the _camellias_, _cacteæ_, and orchideous plants, also form a prominent feature in this establishment, as well as the collection of _azaleas_, and _rhododendrons_, which were all in fine condition, the nursery ground in good keeping, and well stocked with fruit trees. on my return i visited the botanic garden, which surrounds the university, and contains nearly two english acres of ground, in which is cultivated a good collection of hardy perennials, and _gramineæ_ plants. there are also three hothouses for the growth of tropical and cape plants. in the stove i observed a very fine specimen of the _dracæna draco_, (dragon tree,) which was twenty two feet high; the _caladium lacerum_ had also attained the height of fifteen feet; there was likewise a very fine plant of the _crinum amabile_, then in flower. the university is a magnificent building, and is at present having large additions made to it. i started at twelve o'clock for namur. the road, leading along the river meuse, is extremely picturesque, the large rocks and varied surface give it a fine appearance. along the banks by the road side i observed the common box growing in great abundance. we skirted an extensive tract of vineyards, which are cultivated along the banks or rising ground on the right side of the river meuse, as we pass from liege to huy. at this town we cross the river by a stone bridge. huy contains a number of well built houses, and is pleasantly situated, being surrounded by lofty rocks, with a strong fortification. the road skirting the river meuse from huy to namur, appeared to me to be of the most romantic and beautiful scenery that i had previously met with, particularly a part of it, when approaching within a few miles of namur, where the rocks and varied surface give it a most interesting appearance. in a picturesque spot on this line of road we have in full view the summer chateau of the prince d'aremberg, as well as various other handsome residences. arrived at seven o'clock in the evening at namur, when there commenced a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning and rain, which continued for several hours. namur is a strongly fortified town, situated in a valley, at the junction of the rivers meuse and sambre. the cathedral is an object of interest; but as i left the same evening by diligence for mons, i was unable to see this noble structure. the view from the bridge opposite the fortifications has a grand appearance to the eye of the stranger. left namur at half past nine o'clock, and arrived at mons at ten o'clock the following morning. sept. th. mons is a strongly fortified town, and abounds with market gardens in the environs. it appeared to be the centre of a great agricultural district. coal-works are likewise very abundant in its vicinity. i proceeded from this town to bel[oe]il in a cabriolet; passing through a fertile country, and a fine plantation belonging to the prince de ligne, which contained some fine beech trees, with numerous avenues, but a horrid road; the wheels of the cabriolet sinking up near to the axeltree for the greater part of the journey. on my arrival at bel[oe]il i was unfortunate in not finding the prince at home, as i had a letter of introduction to his highness from sir robert adair. i found some difficulty in obtaining admittance into the gardens; but on the arrival of a gentleman belonging to the establishment, he gave orders to one of the guards to conduct me through the grounds to the kitchen garden. the palace is surrounded by water, and at the principal front is a large oblong sheet of water, with a large mass of sculpture at its extremity. the prospect from the palace windows, along this piece of water and the avenue, which is formed by high clipped hornbeam hedges, as well as by the lime-tree, appeared very fine, and extended for several miles in a straight direction. the grounds are very extensive, and intersected by numerous avenues of hornbeam hedges, which are of great height, with various arborial windows cut in them from eight to ten feet from the ground. in short, the number of avenues and well-clipt hedges that lead in every direction through these grounds, render it a place well worthy of a visit, and constitute a different feature in gardening from what is generally to be met with elsewhere. the prince has an extensive range of houses for the growth of exotics, all connected with a large opaque-roofed orangery, which forms a centre to the range; the wings are of different heights, and have a very good effect. i here observed a more magnificent _araucaria excelsa_ than i had previously seen, with the exception of that at dropmore, which is much larger, and more beautiful. this orangery is a capacious building, principally erected with red brick, with upright lights only in front, the roof being slated. it contains a large assortment of orange trees, in good health. there is also a house devoted to _camellias_, containing about two hundred and forty sorts. the botanic stoves are well stocked with healthy plants, but there are very few of the new or lately introduced species amongst them. i observed here a very fine specimen of the _coccoloba pubescens_, the leaves of which appeared to me to be more luxuriant than on any other plant of this species that i had previously seen. the _urania speciosa_ was also particularly fine, and several other kinds in a flourishing state. in the same compartment with the plant-houses is placed an extensive range of pine-apple and melon-pits, as well as several structures of peach and vine framing. in the kitchen-garden a large assortment of the hardy fruits are cultivated, especially pears and apples; the former are trained as standards along the borders, in a pyramidal form, and appeared to produce excellent crops. the kitchen-gardens and pleasure-grounds, although very extensive, were in a very rough state; the only part kept in good order seemed to be the plant-houses and hedges. from bel[oe]il i proceeded to ath, a very strongly fortified town. the country from prince de ligne's to ath is very fine, and consists of a rich agricultural soil in a high state of cultivation, producing excellent crops. the town is said to contain about , inhabitants; the ancient tower of brabant forms a prominent object, and the church of julien is well worth notice. sept. th. left ath at eight o'clock in the morning, in a cabriolet, for enghien, which is only a small town; but the fine park, and gardens belonging to the duke d'aremberg, which are situated close to the town, are objects of general attraction. unfortunately the castle or mansion was burned down during the late revolution, and his highness now chiefly resides in an ancient mansion near louvain. the duke has lately built a very fine range of hothouses for the growth of tropical plants; they are four hundred and sixty feet long, and are divided into several divisions; the centre, which is occupied as a stove for the more lofty of the tropical plants, is sixty-six feet long, thirty four high, and twenty five wide. in this house the _urania speciosa_ had attained the height of thirty three feet; the _displotanium argenteum_ also thirty three feet; this is a beautiful _palm_. the _caryota urens_ had likewise grown to the height of thirty two feet; the circumference of its stem at six inches from the ground is three feet three inches, gradually tapering towards the top. _cycas circinalis_, fourteen feet in height and very healthy; the _corypha umbraculifera_ twenty four feet in height, a very beautiful palm; and a very fine specimen of the _latania rubra_, the _carolina princeps_, had reached the top of the house, and had been cut back. numerous other species were here in a very healthy state, and a very extensive collection of cape and new holland plants. this extensive range is handsomely finished with cut stone parapet walls, and projecting cornice over the top lights. there is another range about one hundred and thirty feet long, with span roof, separate from the principal range, in which are cultivated pines, bulbs, and various other plants. in front of these ranges of hothouses is a large lawn, with several clumps of the different species of hardy plants, which are also extensively cultivated in this establishment. a handsome temple is situated at a short distance from the gardens, which is surrounded by water, from this temple diverge seven fine beech and horse-chesnut avenues, looking in as many directions; between each are smaller avenues parallel to them, which are terminated by handsome stone vases. at a short distance from the avenues is the orangery, which is of large dimensions, with an opaque roof; the orange trees were very healthy, and formed an avenue in front of the house. m. bedinghans, the gardener, informed me that they only shifted them once in five years, in a mixture of loam and leaf-mould, with a little cow-dung intermixed. at the back of the orangery are several arched walks, formed by hornbeam hedges, with arborial windows cut in them; they form a pleasant and shady promenade during the summer months. the park is also very extensive and considerably varied in its surface. m. bedinghans is a native of germany, and a very intelligent young man, seemingly much attached to his business. he accompanied me to the nursery garden of m. parmentier, which is situated in the town of enghien. in this establishment, there is a celebrated collection of plants, amongst which i observed a fine specimen of the _melocactus mitriformis_ which measured three feet in circumference, and eighteen inches in height; and _melocactus hystrix_ also a very fine plant. the _echinocactus boutillieri_, is a beautiful specimen; _cereus bonplandia_, _mammillaria acanthoplegma_, _melocactus macrocanthus_; for a plant of this latter species m. parmentier asked three hundred francs. the _zamia furfuracea_ is also very fine; as well as beautiful specimens of the following, _wallichia caryotoides_, _borassus flabelliformis_, _latania glaucophylla_, _pandanus turbinatus_, _amaryllifolius_, _f[oe]tidus_, _bromelifolius_, _glaucus_, _candalabrium_. the _pinus damara_ m. parmentier valued at fifty guineas, and the _magnolia plumieri_, from the island of st. domingo, at eighty guineas: the _butea superba_ a fine plant, and fine specimens of the following species: _sterculia villosa_, _stanhopea occulenta_, _careya sphærica_, _theoprastus americanus_, _gesnera barbata_, _boronia grandiceps_, _pinus pinnata_, and _mexicana_; with numerous other rare species. above four hundred sorts of _camellias_, and upwards of five hundred kinds of _cacteæ_, are cultivated in this fine collection. the hothouses are very extensive, but getting rather into a decayed state, and are not kept in good repair. after visiting this establishment, i started by the diligence for brussells, where i arrived in time to see a splendid display of fireworks, which was exhibited about ten o'clock; the town was likewise brilliantly illuminated in celebration of the late revolution. it contains a number of fine capacious streets, and well built houses. in the course of the present year, , it was stated that not less than thirty thousand strangers had visited brussells. sept. th. having a letter of introduction from his excellency lord g. w. russell to sir george hamilton, i waited on him this morning; and afterwards proceeded to visit several of the churches; amongst which was the celebrated notre-dame-de-la-chapelle, which is a beautiful gothic structure. the marble altar, which is executed from the designs of rubens, is extremely beautiful, as is likewise the pulpit. st. michael's church is also a fine gothic building. i visited this in the evening, whilst they were engaged singing, and various clergymen were then present. this ancient structure is richly ornamented with beautiful pictures and painted glass windows. the oak pulpit attracts much attention on account of the richness of its carving, which represents the expulsion of adam and eve. i also visited the duke d'aremberg's town-house, which is much celebrated for its library and antiquities, and contains several fine paintings in the various apartments, together with a collection of etruscan vases, and a head of laocoon. attached to this mansion his grace has a very fine riding-house, where several paintings were deposited. i next proceeded to see a representation of st. petersburgh, which was then exhibiting in brussells, consisting of a model of the various streets, squares, houses and gardens of that splendid city, which appeared to attract many visitors. i proceeded in the afternoon to the botanic garden; but as it was wet i was unable to find any one to accompany me through the grounds, owing to the absence of the gardener; i therefore deferred going through them until a better opportunity, when i paid them another visit. sept. th. started at six o'clock in the morning by diligence for waterloo, where we arrived at half-past eight; and having procured a guide, i was conducted over this celebrated field of action, which is now all under a fine system of agriculture. i proceeded to the noted chateau at hougoumont, which is enclosed by a brick wall, and still exhibits the marks of bullets. about the centre of the field of battle is a large mount, raised in commemoration of that eventful day; it measures feet in circumference at the base, and is about feet high. on the top is placed the belgic lion, said to weigh , lbs. on my return through the little village of waterloo, i visited the church, which contains a large number of tombs, in memory of the british officers who fell in the field of battle. i got back to brussells about one o'clock, when i proceeded to the palace of lacken, and having a letter of introduction to the gardener, from mr. m'intosh at claremont, ready access was obtained to the gardens and grounds attached to this royal residence. the palace stands on an eminence, commanding a fine view of brussells and the adjoining country, particularly towards the south. the antwerp road leading to brussells is very conspicuous from several points of view from the grounds. from the palace towards the south the pleasure ground falls very considerably, and is much varied in surface, with several very pretty vistas, intersected by numerous walks, leading to different objects of interest. a large sheet of water, which appears in view from the palace windows, as well as from several other points in the grounds, forms a very pretty feature: over a part of this lake a fine wooden bridge crosses to a small island, and at the other extremity is a large grotto, formed by very large rough stones. various improvements are in constant progress in the pleasure-ground, the whole of which is kept in very good order, a circumstance of rare occurrence in belgium. two fine hothouses for plants have been erected during the last two years, from plans furnished by mr. m'intosh, the gardener at claremont, who has also superintended the erection of several pine-pits, and contemplates the addition of an extensive range of forcing-houses at the king's palace of lacken. from mr. m'intosh's well known abilities as a scientific and practical gardener, the superintendance could not be entrusted to a more suitable person. the houses lately erected there are very neatly finished, and well adapted to their purpose, as well as the pine pits; the pine-apples grown here by m. forkhall, the gardener at lacken, were superior to any that i had previously met with on the continent. the young plants were also clean and healthy, and the exotic plants were in a very flourishing state, many of them in fine flower. there is likewise an extensive orangery, with a fine collection of healthy trees, which are much cultivated in belgium, as well as in germany. near the orange-house were several clumps of flowering plants, amongst them some fine varieties of the dahlia. his majesty's taste for plants and horticultural pursuits has not abated since he came to the throne; consequently numerous good plants are daily added to his collection. i observed a fine specimen of the _k[oe]lreuteria paniculata_, in fine flower, the _catalpa syringifolia_ in great beauty, and several other fine growing hardy species. sept. th. left brussells, for baron de hoogarts's, which is about nine english miles from the town, and whose garden contains several hothouses, in which are forced pines, grapes, and peaches. there are likewise several low pits for the cultivation of the pine, vine and peach. the pit used here for accelerating the peach, is nine feet wide, and the back wall five feet above the ground level; the front wall is only twenty one inches high, above the level of the ground, and consists of brick piers, with wood boards betwixt them, which are taken out, when the trees are removed or introduced into these pits, which operation is generally performed annually. towards the back, is a flue for giving heat, which is applied as well as that from dung, for the forwarding of the fruit. there is also here a good kitchen garden, with a high circular wall, well stocked with good peach, apricot and pear-trees; amongst the latter i observed the _beurre dore_ very fine, _glout morceau_, _cuisse madame_, also fine showy fruits and prolific bearers, the _poire de melon_, _cale basse_ were likewise fine fruit, and producing great crops. a fine collection of the standard pears, was also growing in this garden. adjoining to it is situated the orangery, which stands on an eminence, and commands a pretty view of the grounds, and sheet of water. there is likewise a good collection of cape and other plants from botany bay, and several clumps of rhododendrons throughout the grounds in a flourishing state. the park is but of limited extent, considerably varied. adjoining to baron de hoogart's, is the seat of count de beaufforts, to which miss hoogart had the goodness to send their gardener to accompany me. at this place is an old castle, situated by the side of a lake which was undergoing great alterations and additions. the grounds attached to this ancient castle, although of limited extent, are much varied, and prettily planted, with different clumps of trees and shrubs dispersed through them. in the kitchen garden is a very handsome range of hothouses, about feet in length, chiefly occupied with plants; one of the divisions is allotted for the pine apple, and in front of the range are also several pits, for pines, vines, and peaches. the pits used for the forcing of the vine and peach have each a flue that runs parallel to the back wall, and about eighteen inches from it. the front of those for the vine and peach has no front wall, only piers and boards fixed betwixt them, for the facility of removing and taking in the trees, which are planted betwixt the piers, when the boards are again placed in their former position over the stem of the trees, the roots running in a border on the outside of the pit. on my return in the afternoon to brussels, i visited the museum, the collection in which is well deserving of notice; there is a numerous variety of insects, a large collection of birds and animals, as well as minerals. the picture gallery is a fine apartment, situated in the same building, and contains a large number of splendid paintings; a very magnificent painting of the belgic revolution, which nearly covered the entire end of the gallery, was exhibiting, and seemed to attract a vast number of visitors. in another wing of the building is a repository of the various articles of belgic manufacture, which was much crowded by spectators. i should imagine from the appearance of the numerous articles of commerce exhibited in these apartments that there can scarcely be a single article of manufacture that is not to be met with in this repository of commerce. having a letter of introduction from mr. m'intosh to mr. bigwood, a partner of mr. salter, the banker, in brussells, i called on him in the evening, when he very kindly accompanied me to several of the diligence offices, and pointed out to me the best routes to take in order to save time; i then engaged a place for paris for the following saturday--a precaution found necessary, owing to the number of strangers then in brussells; some of whom it was understood had been detained for several days in consequence of the diligences being so crowded. i also took a place for ghent, the next town i intended visiting, which is situated about twenty-four miles from brussells. sept. th. immediately on my arrival at ghent i proceeded to the nursery garden of m. vangeert, which contains several hothouses, and a good collection of plants; there are also in this nursery several pits for the dwarf growing species; a good collection of _camellias_ appeared to be grown here, and also some _cacteæ_ and orchideous plants, with some _magnolias_ new to our english collections. the ghent _azaleas_ have now become celebrated for the profusion of their flowers and various colours; they were in great abundance in the nurseries here, beset with flower buds. the _magnolia conspicua_ and _magnolia norbertiana_ are fine specimens. the soil in the vicinity of ghent appears peculiarly adapted for the _magnolia_, _azalea_, and other american plants. i next visited the nursery of m. verleeuwen, which contains about two english acres of ground, and from eight to ten different small hothouses, with a fine collection of plants, that were all very well grown. a choice collection of _camellias_ is also cultivated here, as well as _azaleas_, _rhododendrons_, and other hardy plants well worthy of notice. i then proceeded to the ghent botanic garden, but was unfortunate in not finding m. donkelar (the gardener) at home; this garden appeared to contain only from two to three english acres of ground: it is too much crowded with large trees and shrubs for so confined a space. there are two hothouses devoted to the growth of tropical plants which were in a very flourishing state, but deficient of the more showy and new species of late introduction. the orangery is a large building, with ionic columns and dark roofs; the trees appeared very healthy. there are also some low houses, or rather pits, in front of the principal range, which were well stocked with pines and low growing plants. i next visited the nursery grounds of m. a. verschaffelt, which are more extensive than any of the other nurseries i had yet seen, and contain about the best collection of plants in ghent; he has some fine _magnolias_, amongst which i observed the _magnolia triumphans_, _glauca_, _arborea_, and _gigantea_. his collection of _camellias_ is also very choice and deserving of notice, amongst which were the _camellia compacta-rubra_, _alexandria_, and _magnificum_; a plant of this species he values at one hundred francs. there are also many other choice sorts; and his collection of cape and new-holland plants is likewise extensive: he is forming a collection of _orchideæ_, and has erected a small house for their growth; he has likewise a good collection of _cacteæ_, a choice assortment of the ghent _azaleas_, and other hardy plants, that appear to flourish well in belgium. the nursery i next visited was that of m. verschaffelt, sen., which appeared to be about an acre of ground, but it contained a good assortment of _rhododendrons_, also a large green-house with span-roof, as well as several other small houses; a great stock of myrtles was likewise cultivated in this establishment. i next proceeded to the nursery of f. j. spæ-fils, which contains about two acres and a half, with a range of hothouses one hundred and fifty feet long. i here observed a large stock of seedling _azaleas_ and _kalmias_, also a well-stocked wall of trained peach trees. the standard fruit trees are also extensively cultivated, the situation being evidently well calculated for the growth of the different plants in demand in that country. after leaving this nursery i went to that of m. p. byls, whose ground contains several small hothouses, but little of novelty in them; a few good hardy shrubs were, however, in the grounds. attached to this nursery is a piece of ground under vegetable cultivation, which is extensively pursued in the neighbourhood of ghent. i visited one or two other nurseries of small extent, but met with nothing of much importance in them, as they were more limited than either of those mentioned. the cathedral of ghent is considered one of the most handsome gothic buildings in belgium. the pulpit is a most beautiful specimen of workmanship, and is composed of white marble and richly-carved oak; near the great altar are magnificent antique candelabras, said formerly to have belonged to charles the first of england, and were suspended in the old church of st. paul's in london. amongst the splendid paintings that ornament this cathedral are lazarus rising from the dead, by otto vennius, st. john the baptist, the virgin mary, and the paschal lamb. our saviour is also represented on a throne holding a crystal sceptre. there are likewise two marble statues that represent the apostles st. paul and st. peter, and numerous other beautiful paintings. i took my departure at ten o'clock for antwerp, where we arrived at six the following morning. oct. . immediately on my arrival i proceeded to the top of the antwerp steeple, or tower, which consists of six hundred and twenty two steps, and is four hundred and sixty-six feet in height, from the top of which a beautiful view of the town is seen, and a vast extent of fertile country. the island of walcheren and some of the dutch steeples were pointed out to me in the distance. the citadel, which now appears to be all covered with grass, is very plainly seen from the top of this steeple, and the number of vessels in the scheldt add life to the scene. the cathedral is reckoned one of the finest gothic buildings in europe; the interior is superb, and richly ornamented by the magnificent paintings of rubens. i observed numerous very splendid marble columns. the altar is executed with marble, and ornamented with a representation of the assumption. there is also a splendid painting of the disciples at emmaus, by herreyns, portraits of luther and calvin, and numerous other celebrated objects, which to attempt to particularize would require one more intimately acquainted with the subject than i can pretend to be. the painted windows are equally elegant. i next visited st. james's church, which is a very splendid building, and richly decorated with fine paintings and superb marble columns; the altar is inlaid with black and white marble, and supported by handsome twisted columns, and various groups of sculpture. the pulpit is most elegantly sculptured, and the beautiful specimens of carved oak are deserving of notice, as likewise is the splendour of the painted windows. there is also a fine picture of the last supper, by otto vennius, one of the last judgment, by willemsen, the tomb of rubens, and a painting by him, of our saviour on his mother's knees, surrounded by a number of figures, all of which are said to be portraits of the painter's wives and family. after seeing these two magnificent churches, i proceeded to the nursery garden of m. vangeert, which is situated about two english miles from the city; it contains a very good collection of hardy perennial plants, as well as _azaleas_ and other american shrubs. the hothouses here are about one hundred and fifty feet long, in several divisions, and a good-sized pit for the half-hardy sorts. i here observed the best crop and finest bunches of hothouse grapes that i had previously met with on the continent. i was much indebted to m. vangeert, jun., for his attention in accompanying me to the various gardens that he considered to be most deserving of notice in the neighbourhood of antwerp. we proceeded to the antwerp botanic garden, which is but of limited extent, i think not above an acre of ground in it. there is a green-house placed about the centre of the garden, but its occupants appeared to be of rather distant introduction, and little amongst them of novelty except a very fine specimen of the _araucaria braziliensis_, which was growing in a tub, and then standing out of doors. there were likewise two or three other small houses for tropical plants, which were in a very flourishing state, particularly those cultivated in the stove. they have in this garden a tolerably good collection of the _genus pinus_, amongst which is a dwarf sort, named there the _pinus monstrosa_, but it appears to be only a variety of the _pinus cembra_. it formed a very close bush, not exceeding two feet in height. the next garden we visited was that of the late m. jean veanhal, which, during his time, was much celebrated for rare and good plants. although there was but a small piece of ground in this garden, yet it contained a good collection, and several very good hothouses, in which were cultivated pine-apples and other tropical plants, which were in a very flourishing state, and the whole neatly kept. we next proceeded to m. moen's nursery ground, which is also but of limited extent, but contains a number of good _magnolias_, _azaleas_, and other hardy plants, as well as many good greenhouse species. in this nursery there is a fine collection of _camellias_. m. moen informed me he had about two hundred seedling varieties and species. i saw here a fine specimen of the _camellia reticulata_, about five feet high; m. moen valued this plant at sixty guineas. there are some pretty good greenhouses in this nursery, also a good collection of pears that were in full bearing, and producing fine crops. we proceeded next to the seat of m. caters de-wolfe, which is several miles from antwerp; the grounds attached to this residence are prettily laid out, particularly a sheet of water, which is amongst the best i have seen; it is formed so as to produce a picturesque effect from several points of view. at a contracted part of it a wooden bridge is constructed across, springing on both sides on elevated well-formed artificial pieces of rockwork. in the pleasure ground are three very pretty curvilinear iron-bar hothouses, erected by baily, of london, and devoted to the growth of exotic plants and pine-apples, which evidently fully answered in that climate their intended purpose. here is also a good kitchen garden, with numerous low houses and pits for the growth of the pine, vine and peach, as well as one devoted to orchideous plants, a collection of which was just then forming. the pines and exotic plants in this establishment were all in a very flourishing state, and the gardens in pretty fair keeping. we next proceeded to the seat of le chevalier parthon divan, whom i found devotedly attached to horticultural pursuits. the grounds attached to his château are very prettily formed, and are situated about four english miles from antwerp. this gentleman pointed out to me the _rhododendron ferrugineum_, with white flowers, which i believe is hardly to be met with in any other collection. he has many good and rare species of greenhouse plants. i saw from five to seven species of _scotia_, also a fine specimen of the _scotia angustata_; a collection of _orchideæ_ is also cultivated here; and he has lately introduced many new and curious species of this tribe of plants, as well as some new _cacteæ_. the variety of dahlias cultivated here was particularly fine; a very complete arrangement of herbaceous plants growing along the face of a bank in their natural arrangement forms also an interesting feature in these grounds, the exterior of which is bounded by a plantation, in which are formed various beech avenues. this gentleman disposes of his duplicate plants to any one who will purchase them, but did not seem inclined to make any exchanges. we next visited the gardens of madame smetz, which are situated about four miles from the last place. these grounds are celebrated for their extent of hot houses and other garden ornaments, which may justly entitle them to be considered as presenting a greater variety of picturesque objects than any garden in belgium. there is a very good greenhouse, with a pretty fair collection of plants in very neat order, and a corresponding house for the growth of stove plants. i here observed the _pandanus odoratissimus_, fifteen feet high, with four large branches diverging from it. a large orangery, that runs parallel to the north ends of the stove and greenhouse, forms a centre betwixt the two latter buildings, that appear like two projecting wings to the orange-house; there are also several low houses and pits for pines, vines, and peaches. the pines in these gardens were amongst the best grown that i had previously met with on the continent. i observed a plant with seven fruits on it all branching from the top of a single stem. there were also some very fine dwarf cockscombs growing in a pit. the superb chinese tower is more deserving of notice than anything of the kind that i have yet seen, being of a considerable height, from sixty to eighty feet i should imagine from its appearance, with a handsome staircase leading to the top, from whence there is a fine prospect of these extensive grounds, which are curiously laid out; in this chinese building a couple of handsomely fitted up rooms are occasionally used for taking tea or coffee. there are numerous walks leading through various parts of the grounds to secluded spots, where we come unexpectedly on groups of figures in stone, such, for instance, as a group of boys at play, figures of old men, and groups of sheep grazing in the grounds, which are very naturally executed, and at a short distance formed a very good deception; there are also numerous marble busts and pieces of sculpture. a sheet of water, with rock-work and a wooden bridge, appear prominent objects from the chinese temple. opposite to the south and north sides of the mansion are curiously clipped box hedges, with pyramidal formed bushes on their top; the intervening spaces being clipped into irregular figures, presenting a curious appearance. a rock bridge, over the narrow part of a sheet of water, is deserving of notice; but the wooden bridges here and elsewhere in belgium are made more for the intention of permitting ships to pass under them, than for the ease of the visitors in walking over them. i also observed several painted arbours and recesses in different parts of the grounds, and one of the finest specimens of the purple beech that i have ever seen, which is a truly magnificent tree. the kitchen cropping, such as cabbages, asparagus, &c., being carried close up to the house, is in very bad taste; these vegetables all appearing in view from the principal windows do not harmonize with the ornamented ground, which, in such an extensive piece, might easily be cultivated in a much more appropriate spot. oct. nd. left antwerp at six o'clock a.m., passing through a beautiful fertile country, which abounds in vegetable and other green crops; we arrived at malines about eight o'clock; it contains about twenty thousand inhabitants, and has some pretty churches, and an ancient cathedral. the rail-road from brussels to malines had been completed for some time, and was expected to be finished as far as antwerp by the end of another month, and to proceed from hence to paris. at malines i quitted my tedious mode of conveyance for the rail road--a much more pleasant and expeditious mode of travelling. we were about forty minutes going by it the distance of twelve english miles; a heavy train of carriages and a strong wind right ahead, prevented our accomplishing the distance in the usual time, which was said in general to occupy the space of from twenty to thirty minutes. on my arrival at brussells i proceeded to the establishment of m. j. f. vandermaelen, which consists of an extensive collection of geographical books, minerals, birds, insects, and plants, from various climates, which this gentleman offers for mutual exchanges, with the view of furthering the interests of science and natural history. the grounds attached to it are rather confined, but prettily varied, with water, and rising and undulating ground. there are also several very good hothouses, and a choice collection of plants. m. vandermaelen's catalogue enumerates nearly two hundred and forty sorts of _camellias_ and above four hundred and fifty sorts of _pelargoniums_. i here observed a specimen of the _cactus senilis_, about two feet in height; several other very fine and curious species were likewise to be seen here. m. vandermaelen has also sent out a collector in search of _cacteæ_ and other orchideous plants. i next proceeded to the brussells botanic garden, which contains the most ornamental range of hothouses that i have seen, and some noble specimens of palms. the _caryota urens_ about forty-five feet high, its girth at eighteen inches from the ground, four feet. the _arenga saccharifera_ and the _carica papaya_ both forty feet in height. the _elate sylvestris_ had also reached to the glass. the _latania borbonia_, about eighteen feet high, the fronds spreading in the like proportion. the _pandanus odoratissimus_, a fine specimen, and various other species equally luxuriant. this magnificent range of plant houses are all heated with steam, and the sash bars formed of wrought iron;--the effect of it from the boulevards is really grand. the principal range being situated on a terrace, with several fountains and broad flights of steps in front of it, has a very imposing appearance; on a lower level in front of these houses and terrace, are two ranges constructed with curvilinear iron bars, which are occupied by pine-apple plants and other dwarf tropical species. opposite to the hothouses are the herbaceous grounds, which are laid out in a circular form, divided in small divisions, for the linnean arrangement of the hardy perennial plants, each class forming a separate piece of ground radiating from the centre. this garden consists of a fine irregular piece of ground, and is much varied in its surface, having five different levels, and is placed in a fine situation; but i regretted to see the ground occupied by a quantity of common forest trees and shrubs, and but little of novelty or good plants in it: the common sorts were grown principally for sale, and for the support of the garden, which practice i understood was extensively adopted in this establishment. the hothouse and greenhouse species were ticketed with the price required for the different plants. i next called on mr. bigwood, who kindly procured me a sight of the prince of orange's splendid residence, which is justly considered one of the finest finished palaces in europe, with most beautiful polished oak floors, and the walls of several of the apartments inlaid with marble: in one of the rooms that belonged to the princess is a table of siberian lapis lazuli, valued at fifty thousand pounds. the chairs, tables, paintings, and other superb furniture in the interior of this palace, with its magnificent staircase, are beyond my powers of description. the park at brussells is situated in front of the king's palace, and is said to contain about fourteen acres of ground, which are laid out as a public promenade for the inhabitants, with several avenues, and various groups of sculpture, which are considered of superior execution, especially the statues of alexander the great, and cleopatra, and the groups of diana, apollo, narcissus, and venus. in the avenue fronting the king's palace are statues of the twelve roman emperors, and a fountain, which throws the water from twelve to fifteen feet high. i proceeded next to louvain. the entrance to brussells from the louvain gate is very fine, and commands extensive views of the adjacent country, as well as a part of the town. the small villas leading from this entrance towards louvain are handsomely ornamented with tastefully planted gardens; the road, winding along through a fine agricultural country, is more varied than in the antwerp district; the soil consisting of a deep red loam, produces abundantly red clover, rape, and other green crops. october rd. the town of louvain is situated on the river dyle, which runs through it. the grand appearance of the stadt-huis, or now police-office, is very imposing; the numerous carved figures and spires that adorn the front are beautiful specimens of workmanship: in the interior a large apartment is occupied as a picture gallery, in which are deposited some very fine old paintings: the wainscot ceilings of some of the rooms are also well worthy of notice. there are likewise several churches in this town, which are richly ornamented with paintings and other costly decorations, such as marble columns. the botanic garden adjoins the town, and contains from two to three acres of ground; the space in front of the range of hot houses is occupied with a collection of hardy perennial plants, and the exterior of the garden planted by trees and shrubs. the range of plant houses consists of a long dark-roofed green house, with a circular stove projecting in front of it at each end, which has a very good effect; these stoves are constructed with iron bars, and appeared to stand remarkably well; in one of them was a very fine specimen of the _latania rubra_, which was in great luxuriance; the _maxillaria harrissonia_, was quite covered with large flowers. the _cactus macrocanthus_, was here four feet in circumference; several other species were also very fine; in short, the whole collection were in a healthy and flourishing state. i found m. donkelar, the gardener, to be a very intelligent young man, devotedly attached to his business. i next proceeded to see the collection of fruits and trees at professor van mons, where i was shewn a large assortment of pears, which the professor had raised from seed, also many sorts of apples, and several good seedling grapes and peaches. the professor has long been distinguished for his attachment to horticultural pursuits; but i unfortunately did not find him at home; he has, however, forwarded to me, since my return home, his "arbres fruitiers," which describes many of the fruits cultivated in belgium. i was much gratified by the fine collection of pears in the fruit room, and the fine healthy trees in the professor's gardens, which are well stocked with seedlings, as well as others in a bearing state. i next proceeded to the duke d'aremberg's, which is situated at a short distance from louvain, having a letter of introduction from sir r. adair, to his highness, whom i found particularly attached to botany and horticultural pursuits. the kitchen garden here is very extensive, and large quantities of vegetables are cultivated; several pits for the growth of the pine and peach were also in this establishment; but the collection of choice pears pleased me more than any i had previously seen, and certainly produced very fine fruit; the following sorts were pointed out to me as the best deserving of cultivation, which were then in the fruit room. beurre wirtemberg grande bretagne sucre-vert beurre rance beey vaet beurre bosque bergamotte de la penticote beurre d'hiver double d'automne comperete kanneck passe colmar bezyda chaumontelle fondante de charnusee colmar jaminette beurre d'angleterre bergamotte de paques st. germain roi de louvain beurre d'aremberg beurre de yelle st. bernard and many other sorts, and fine collections of apples which were also extensively grown here. i also observed a very fine collection of seedling dahlias, many of which were very choice flowers, and formed a gay appearance in the kitchen garden borders in this season. his highness pointed out to me a noble specimen of the _platanus accidentalis_, which measured, at four feet from the ground, thirteen feet in circumference, and its branches spreading over a space of ground twenty two yards in diameter; this was a beautiful grown tree, and appeared in great luxuriance. the grounds attached to this ancient mansion are very extensive, and have several fine straight avenue walks, leading in various directions, one of which is formed by the purple beech planted on each side of the walk for a considerable distance; but this being a very wet forenoon, i was unable to see the grounds to advantage. they are a little varied as we approach the house, and a small stream of water enlivened the scenery: they appeared to me, however, of much less extent than his highness's grounds and park at enghien, where his splendid range of plant-houses and extensive collection of plants are fixed and deposited. i left louvain about four o'clock, and arrived in brussells just in time to get my luggage taken to the diligence office, from whence the diligence started at half-past nine o'clock for paris. oct. th. arrived at valenciennes, a good sized town: here another passport was furnished, and my former one taken from me, and retained by the police until the evening i left paris. the country between brussells and valenciennes, as far as i could observe, appeared to be of considerable sameness, but the ground was well cultivated, with good crops of rape clover; the turnip was evidently a failure here, and in other parts of the continent, as well as in england. we arrived at cambray at two o'clock, a strong fortified town. the country from brussells hitherto appeared to be but very thinly planted, and of little picturesque scenery: as we approached paris there appeared very few plantations or trees worthy of notice, and much less variety of scenery than i passed through in the latter part of my tour through germany. oct. th. arrived at paris at half-past ten o'clock, a.m. after a ride of twenty-four hours. on my arrival i proceeded to the gardens of the tuilleries, where there is a large collection of orange trees, and several capacious gravel walks, or avenues, with numerous ornamental groups of sculpture. a space of ground, running parallel to the palace, about sixty yards wide, has been lately laid out with flower borders, and is separated from the public promenade by a grass _ha-ha_, with a slight wire fence on the top of it; in this inclosure are some very fine orange trees, bronze figures, and ornamental sculpture, arranged along the edges of the walks. a very fine walk leads from the palace towards a piece of water at the entrance from the place louis xv., where there are various groups of sculpture and terrace walks, which have a very imposing effect. the walks and flower borders in the promenade were in very neat order, and the triangular pieces of grass not so roughly kept as some i had previously seen about the seats of royalty. the walk or road leading from the place louis xv. to the magnificent arch now nearly completed on the rising ground near to the barrier neuilly, has a fine effect, and the prospect from this arch, which is much elevated above the town, is very grand. oct. th. this morning i proceeded to the seed establishment of messrs. andrieux and vilmorin, to whom i had a letter of introduction from mr. lawson, of edinburgh; these gentlemen very kindly furnished me with a note of the various gardens and objects most worthy of notice. i then proceeded to the _jardin des plantes_, where i was much gratified with numerous fine specimens from all quarters of the globe. mr. w. douglas, a young man lately sent to this garden from chatsworth by the duke of devonshire, conducted me through the various departments. i was much pleased with the elegant appearance of two very fine houses that were then nearly completed, one of which was just receiving the plants. these houses are seventy-two feet long each by forty-two feet wide, and about fifty feet high; the space where the tubes stand is sunk about six feet under the floor or foot-path level, so that the whole of the tubs, boxes, and pots may be concealed, and the plants have the appearance of being planted out in the border. there is a very handsome marble cistern about the centre of the house for supplying the plants with water. these houses consist of a double span roof, are constructed with iron bars, and heated by steam; the under-ground work is very judiciously arranged: it appeared from the excavations that were here proceeding, that the range of glass was to extend to the _galerie d'histoire naturelle_. there are numerous other hothouses on different elevations well stocked with healthy plants, one of which is devoted to _succulentæ_, where i observed several fine specimens of _cacteæ_. the curvilinear iron bar appeared to be the favourite material used for the erection of plant-houses in this establishment, which must evidently be the most economical and substantial for large houses. i observed this bar used in various parts of belgium and germany, where they apprehended no fear of the breakage of glass by expansion or contraction, although the frost is much more intense in those countries than in this. i here saw a very fine plant of the _araucaria cunninghamia_, which appeared to be from nine to ten feet high, beautifully feathered from the pot to the top. the _araucariæ excelsæ_ were tall plants, but evidently drawn up, and had been too much confined, as they were not feathered equal to the specimens at baron rothschild's and at prince de ligne's. the ground in this far-famed _jardin des plantes_ appeared to be too contracted for the various purposes that it is devoted to. an enclosed apartment is under a nursery of trees and shrubs, another for hardy herbaceous plants, and one planted with a collection of the various fruits, particularly of pears, in beds about four or five feet wide, with four feet in width of paths between them; these beds were covered with short dung, to prevent the roots of the trees from becoming too dry. the fruit was, unfortunately, all gathered, so that i had not the pleasure of seeing the various sorts that are here cultivated: nearly adjoining to the fruit tree department is the zoological establishment, with a very numerous collection of animals. the museum of natural history is situated at the extremity of the new range of hothouses; the collection of birds, minerals, quadrupeds, shells, &c. is really astonishing: there are also numerous specimens of _fungi_ preserved in one of the departments. i next visited the nursery garden of m. noisette, which is well stocked with _camellias_ and stove plants; the former had numerous seed vessels perfecting on them. the small low hothouses are in a very dilapidated condition, and the plants in a crowded state for want of more room; although there is a great extent of glass, such as it is. the grounds are likewise crowded with fir trees, which were evidently planted for shelter and shade from the effects of the sun, but they give the ground a cheerless and contracted appearance. i next proceeded to the vegetable garden of m. de coufle, which is considered amongst the best in the neighbourhood of paris for culinary forcing, but i saw but very little in it at this season of the year at all worthy of a visit. at a short distance from the latter is the garden of prince d'esling; the neatness of this little spot, which was very gay with dahlias and other autumnal flowers, was very pleasing. there is also cultivated here a very extensive collection of pine-apples evidently for sale, as at this season of the year, there must have been nearly two hundred fruit, and some thousands of young plants, which for health and well-swelled fruit were but little inferior to any in england. the largest fruit was grown in a low span-roofed house, and planted out into the beds into a mixture of sandy peat; the house was six feet six inches high, with a foot path in the centre, and the beds for plants along each side. the succession pines are grown in wooden frames with dung linings around them, and were in great vigour of health. the _providence_ and _montsserats_ were extensively cultivated. a very complete stove for exotic plants is also here. the _aristolochia braziliensis_ was beautifully in flower, and the other plants in a very healthy state. i next visited the pantheon, a noble edifice, with magnificent architectural columns, and cornice: it is reckoned one of the finest erections in paris. oct. th. went at six o'clock this morning to see the fruit and vegetable market: the display of pears, grapes, and wallnuts was very fine, there were also a number of peaches, but these were rather of an inferior size to those grown on the open walls in england. the fruit market was really so crowded with baskets of pears and women that it was with much difficulty that i could pass through it: there was an abundant display of vegetables. cardoons were now brought to market, and a few bunches of small asparagus; celery appeared in great abundance and of good quality; various baskets of the alpine strawberry and a few pretty good looking melons were also to be had. i started at eight o'clock for versailles, passing through a beautiful part of the country, well planted with numerous handsomely erected villas, and the road winding along for a considerable distance by the river seine. on my arrival i proceeded to the gardens, where i was quite astonished at the extent of these magnificent grounds; there were numerous groups of sculpture and bronze, and fountains ornamented with various figures, such as sea monsters, dolphins, &c. which spout the water into the basons, the effect of which, when the water-works are playing, must be grand in the extreme. the various terraces, parterres, and avenues, the latter leading in every direction, with their beautiful groups of sculpture, are very grand. under the south terrace is situated the orangery, and from the terrace walk we look down upon at least several hundred magnificent trees, which for number and vigour of health, were undoubtedly surpassed by none that i had previously met with on the continent; i am, however, inclined to think that there were some at sans-souci fully as large. the orange-houses are all formed under the south terrace, and appear like arched cellars, with only glass windows in front; i could perceive no means of applying artificial heat, but the windows were furnished with shutters, which appeared to be the only protection they had against frost; they were busy at this time removing trees to their winter quarters. from the orangery i proceeded through various other parts of the grounds, and also to the _grand trianon_, which is situated about two english miles from the palace of versailles; the grounds attached to it are laid out according to the english style of gardening, with fine pieces of water, rock-work, temples, and rustic erections. they contain a fine assortment of hardy trees and shrubs, planted on the grass, which gave it the appearance of an arboretum, but there seemed to be no regular arrangement of the plants. there is a green-house attached to these grounds, and a good show of autumnal flowers in front of it, such as dahlias and other annuals. the gardener was not at home. on my return from the garden i took another route through the grounds attached to versailles; but to attempt to describe them would have required much longer time than my cursory visit would permit, or to enumerate the different objects of interest and magnificence that are dispersed throughout them. i then visited the kitchen garden department, which consists of an extensive piece of ground, subdivided into numerous divisions by walls, on which are trained vines and peaches; the fontainbleau grape appeared to ripen and swell its fruit remarkably well, and was very abundant in its production; it seemed to be more generally cultivated than any other sort; in front of the vine-wall it is also grown to a trellising, and produced very fine fruit considering its being grown out of doors. in one of the compartments devoted to the peach trees i observed the royale peach extending over a space of wall forty-two feet long, and from eighteen to twenty feet high; it was in excellent health, and regularly furnished with fine bearing shoots. in another compartment is a collection of standard pear trees. the forcing ground contains numerous low houses and pits for the growth of the pine, vine, and peach. the pine-apple in this establishment was remarkably well grown and fine fruit, and little if any inferior to those that i have seen. the fruiting plants were also planted out into beds in light sandy peat soil, which evidently suited them well. the succession pines at this time were undergoing a shifting and disrooting,--a practice not generally adopted at this season in england. vegetables are extensively cultivated in the gardens, and a good collection of the hardy fruits, which were all gathered by this time, consequently i had not the pleasure of seeing the quality or produce from the different trees. on my return to paris i visited the luxemburg gardens, which contain some fine old orange trees and _nerium oleanders_, arranged on the side of the walks; the grass-plats are surrounded by flowerbeds and various avenues of horse chesnuts, ornamented by sculpture, which lead in different directions, forming a pleasant promenade. oct. th. this morning i proceeded to m. boursalt's, who was then residing out of town; his collection of plants was formerly very celebrated, but he has lately disposed of the greater part of them, and an extensive range of plant houses: there being now only two small flower houses left, which contained some fine specimens of _camellias_, and some beautiful marble statues. the noisette and chinese roses were in great beauty, as well as some fine _magnolias_. this spot of ground, although apparently not above two acres in extent, is prettily varied with rock-work, water, and artificial banks. from hence i visited the burying-ground at montmartre, which is thickly planted with trees and shrubs. i then proceeded to the louvre, where i was much gratified by the magnificence of the gallery of paintings, as well as the incomparable marbles. i next visited the cemetry of père la chaise, which is an extensive piece of ground, with numerous walks leading through it, and the different tombs enclosed by the upright cyprus, thujas, and other shrubs. on my arrival a funeral service was performing in a small chapel, situated about the centre of the ground, and which was then lit up by candles. after taking a cursory view of this cemetry i made the best of my way to montreuil, to see the celebrated peach-tree gardens; on my approach to it, i was surprised at the extent of white walls in this part of the country, which were all chiefly covered with peach trees and grape vines. after ascertaining that the most celebrated garden at montreuil belonged to the préfet, and was situated at the top of the hill, i made the best of my way to this spot; i found the owner a good practical gardener. he took great pains in pointing out to me his method of pruning and training his peach trees: the english gardener, however, has nothing to learn in france in the management of the peach tree; in fact, we can hardly enter into a garden in england that we cannot find trees more tastefully trained, and fully as well furnished from the bottom of the wall to the extremity of the tree, as any that i met with in the neighbourhood of paris. the peaches on the walls in this country are much larger than any in france or belgium, although the soil and climate in these countries are more congenial to the growth of this tree, and maturity of its fruit, than our more northern atmosphere. the roots of the peach tree and vines were all covered this season with half rotten dung, for the space of from three to four feet from the wall, which kept the roots in a moist state; the walls generally averaged from eight to nine feet in height, and were well sheltered by the number of cross walls that were in the different gardens. i visited one or two other gardens in the vicinity of the préfet's, but they appeared very similar to the one already described. on my return from montreuil i made a cursory visit to two small nurseries, which attracted my attention by the quantity of large orange trees exhibited for sale, and were to be sold at a very trifling sum in comparison to what they cost in england. i also made a hasty visit through messrs. vilmorin and andreux' seed ground, where there was a large stock of annuals growing for seed, and a good collection of hardy perennial plants. oct. th. started for the vitry nurseries, which are about six miles from paris; the extent of nursery ground under fruit-tree cultivation in this part of the country extends nearly five miles in length, and the number of nurseries amount to about two hundred. the paris markets are principally supplied from this part of the country. m. chatenay is considered the most extensive grower in that line, and has certainly a fine collection of peach trees and other hardy fruits, which were in a very healthy moveable condition, as also numerous fine standard rose trees, these being out of flower i was unable to judge of their merits. the prices of the fruit trees were very little less than in the london nurseries for similar sized trees. i observed but little new in ornamental trees or shrubs, these nurseries being chiefly devoted to the culture of fruit trees, the soil being peculiarly adapted thereto, being a rich reddish loam, yet it was in some cases undergoing a strong manure and fallow. a portion of what was previously occupied by nursery stock was under the plough. m. chatenay informed me that they found great difficulty in procuring a suitable soil for their different fruit trees. i did not observe any hothouses about vitry for tender plants. the nursery grounds extend as far as choisey, over a large tract of beautiful ground. i saw large crops of grapes which were used in making the wine, which is produced in considerable quantities at vitry. on my return from these nurseries i proceeded to the nursery establishment of m. cels, which contains a fine collection of stove and greenhouse plants, as well as many rare and hardy species; in short the collection here is more choice than extensive, and the plants were very well grown. there are several hothouses and low pits well stocked with good plants, and a range of new houses then building. this nursery is considered to contain the best collection of plants about paris; the extent of ground is but limited, and not very well kept. i next desired my guide to conduct me to the flower market, when, after a considerable walk, i found myself in the flour market, which was well stocked with sacks of flour and grain. i was, however, much pleased with the fine circular building, with lofty dome, and the quantity of grain it contained. i then proceeded to the real flower market, which was held this afternoon at the magdalen, a most magnificent building. the quantity of flowers fell far short of my expectation: the neapolitan violet and the more common sorts of autumnal flowers were the principal stock exposed for sale this day. left paris at seven o'clock in the evening for rouen, where i arrived on the morning of the th, about ten o'clock. i immediately proceeded to the nursery garden of mr. calvert, where i found an extensive range of hothouses rapidly falling into a state of dilapidation for want of paint and other repairs. the nursery ground was also principally in a waste state, except a part in which dahlias were cultivated, and which were certainly very fine, containing both the french and english collections. mr. calvert's son informed me that his father was then clearing the ground of the stock with the intention of removing it to england, where he intended commencing the nursery business. i was also informed that the rouen botanic garden was contemplated to be formed on the site of this nursery, which is unquestionably a fine situation for it. i then visited the nursery of m. vallet, which contains a large quantity of very fine orange trees, that he was very anxious to dispose of at £ per tree. there is likewise a good collection of greenhouse plants and hardy shrubs, as well as standard roses; the latter m. vallet frequently brings to england to be disposed of in the london markets. i next proceeded to the botanic garden, which appeared to contain about an english acre of ground, with two or three old hothouses for plants, with but a limited stock in them. there appeared to be a pretty good collection of hardy perennials and annuals, but few shrubs, or ornamental trees. i then made the best of my way to m. prevost's nursery, which is undoubtedly the most extensive and contains the best collection of plants about rouen. the quantity of standard roses cultivated in this nursery is immense; a priced catalogue of them has been lately printed, the prices specified in it are very moderate. the blood peach was here with plenty of fruit on it, but it evidently will not get soft or fit for use in the open air. i also observed several other ornamental trees in this establishment; it was likewise well stocked with a large assortment of fruit trees. the scenery about rouen is very beautiful and picturesque, and is varied by some large white chalk hills: the river, with numerous small vessels, tends greatly to enliven the scene. oct. th. went to see the ancient cathedral, said to have been commenced by william the conqueror. i was much pleased with its fine gothic appearance, as well as with the paintings, stained glass, and other ornaments. there is another church in this town, called st. ouen, deserving of the stranger's notice, which appeared to me but little inferior to the cathedral. the _palais de justice_ is also a curious old building. left rouen at eleven o'clock for dieppe, where we arrived at five in the evening, passing through a fine varied country, richly clothed with fruit trees and agricultural produce, which appeared to be in a very flourishing state. oct. th. being confined all this day at dieppe by contrary winds i made an excursion round the vicinity of the town, which is very picturesque and considerably varied, i also visited the nursery garden of m. racine, which contained a very fine collection of dahlias, standard roses, a fine assortment of pears, and other hardy plants; and a small greenhouse, in which a few good _cacteæ_, and other showy plants, were cultivated and in good order. the cathedral in dieppe is an ancient building, and worth the notice of the stranger. oct. th. left dieppe at two o'clock in the morning for brighton, when we experienced a pretty tossing for the space of twenty-five hours, in consequence of contrary winds. the passage is generally performed in ten or eleven hours when the weather is favourable. oct. th. we arrived about three o'clock this morning at shoreham, a small port, about three miles from brighton: as soon as day dawned i made an excursion through the town, and got my luggage ready by ten o'clock, when i started for london, where i arrived at five in the afternoon. upon the whole, in regard to the general state of horticulture in the countries which i visited, the following conclusion must be drawn: the plants in the hothouses are in most of the establishments kept in excellent order and in a healthy state; the _succulentæ_ also appeared to be much more extensively cultivated than they have hitherto been in england; but the general order and neatness of the grounds (with only a very few exceptions) were but little attended to. nor did they appear to me to well understand the forcing of fruits, except in one or two places in france; neither did i perceive that nicety in the training of fruit trees that is thought indispensable in this country. vegetables are, however, in large establishments, more extensively grown; but there certainly did not appear to be such a general spirit for horticultural improvement as is now prevailing in this country. at no period was gardening and the collecting of plants ever pursued with greater spirit in england than at this moment; insomuch, that we can scarcely visit a nobleman or gentleman's gardens without observing very extensive improvements and alterations proceeding in every direction. and this we cannot but regard as an indication of application and attachment to rural improvements highly honourable to our nobility and gentry, as superseding many of those pursuits that used to prevail to a great extent with gentlemen residing in the country, which had but little tendency to the improvement of their grounds or estates. appendix. the cacteæ have not hitherto obtained in this country that attention which is paid to them on the continent, where certainly a greater number of fine specimens are to be found of this interesting genus than is to be seen in our collections. mr. hitchen of norwich devoted much attention to their cultivation, and certainly had formed the best collection at that time in england. being under the necessity of breaking up his establishment, he disposed of his cacteæ and other succulent plants to mr. mackie, nurseryman, of norwich, from whom the duke of bedford purchased a considerable number in the spring of . since that period his grace's collection has been increased by the liberality of several continental collectors during my tour; and i feel it but justice more particularly to mention m. otto, of berlin, who contributed many valuable species, and m. lehmann, of dresden, from whom i have also received about two hundred. m. seitz of munich, m. bosch of stuttgard, mr. booth, of flottbeck nursery, hamburgh, and professor lehmann, as well as the curators of the edinburgh, glasgow, and dublin college botanic gardens, have added greatly to the collection; and with some recent acquisitions from mr. tweedie, of buenos ayres, obtained through the intervention of lord edward russell, have now rendered this collection superior to any one existing in this country, and little inferior to any on the continent. the cultivation of the cacteæ possesses considerable advantage over most of the hothouse plants, requiring little room, a matter in general of considerable importance where space is necessarily limited. they will also flourish and flower in a lower temperature than most other hothouse plants: most of the species will not require to be kept in a higher degree of heat than from ° to °; some of the south american species, however, succeed best in a higher temperature. they should be kept rather in a dry state, and water used but sparingly, as these plants are very impatient of wet. the houses most suitable for the cultivation of this singular tribe should be so glazed as to effectually exclude the intrusion of water. in the extensive range of plant-houses now erecting at woburn abbey, one is intended to be exclusively devoted to the cultivation of cacteæ. the soil most suitable for their growth is a mixture of sandy-peat, leaf-mould and lime rubbish, well incorporated together. the annexed list enumerates the different species now in cultivation at woburn abbey. icosandria monogynia. cacteÆ, dc. _mammilla'ria. mammilla'ria._ cal. superior, coloured, - -lobed. cor. of - petals, united in a short tube. stam-filiform. style thread-shaped. stigma - cleft. berry smooth, seeds small and numerous. the flowers are produced from the _axillæ_, or base, of the _mammillæ_, or teats, and the seed vessels appearing the following year. i. flavispinÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+---------------- lanífera, dc. wool-bearing stem-glob. *divarícata divaricated stm. cyl. forked andréæ ott. andrea's stm. cyl.-obov. cuneiflóra hitch. wedge-fld. stm. subcyl. grándis hitch. handsome stm. sub-glob flavéscens hitch. yellow stm. obov-cyl. stramínea haw. straw col. stm-subcyl. _flavescens_ dc. chrysacántha ott. gold-spined stm. sub-glob cylíndrica hitch. cylindrical stm. obov-cyl. subcrócea dc. yellowish stm. sub-cyl. neglécta neglected stm. glob. rhodántha ott. rose-fld. stm. sub-cyl _atrata_ hort. nívea wend. white stm. sub-glob. nivòsa snowy stm. sub-glob. *pulchérrima handsome stm. sub-cyl. dichótoma forked stm. cyl. *lutéscens yellowish stm. sub-glob. eriacántha ott. wool.-spin. stm. cyl. púlchra b. r. showy stm. obl.-cyl. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+-------------------+-------+--------+---------- lanífera, dc. spines - . ye. _re._ mexico d.s.s. rigid. *divarícata sp. ext. wh. _pk._ ...... .... d.s.s. centr. ye. andréæ ott. sp. ext. wh. centr. .. ...... d.s.s. ye. cuneiflóra hitch. sp. ext. wh. centr. .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. grándis hitch. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. flavéscens sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. apex re. stramínea haw. sp. ext. wh. cent. _ye._ s. am. d.s.s. - wh. _flavescens_ dc. chrysacántha ott. sp. ext. wh. cent .. ------ d.s.s. - ye. ap. re. cylíndrica hitch. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. subcrócea dc. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. li-ye. neglécta sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. - ye. rhodántha ott. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. - ap. re. _atrata_ hort. nívea wend. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. - ye. nivòsa sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. li-ye. *pulchérrima sp. ext. wh. cent. _re._ ...... .... d.s.s. ye. ap. dichótoma sp. ext. wh. cent _pk._ ...... .... d.s.s. ye. *lutéscens sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. eriacántha ott. sp. ext wh. cent. .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. púlchra b. r. sp. ext. wh. centr. _ro._ ...... .... d.s.s. ye. ii. fulvispinÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+-------------- fuscáta ott. brown stm. sub-glob. corioídes bosch. leather-like stm. glob. coronáta dc. crowned stm. cyl. pyramidális ott. pyramidal stm. oblg. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+------------------+-------+--------+---------- fuscáta ott. sp. ext. ye. .. s. am. d.s.s. cent. br. corioídes bosch. sp. ext. wh. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. br. ye. coronáta dc. sp. ext. wh. cent. _sc._ mexico d.s.s. li. br. pyramidális ott. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ---- d.s.s. - . ye. br. iii. rufispinÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+--------------------------- parvimámma haw. small teated stm. sub-glob símplex haw. simple stm. sub-glob. tentaculáta stinging stm. glob. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+-------------------+-------+--------+---------- parvimámma haw. mam. obt. sp. .. s. am. d.s.s. - . dk. símplex haw. sp. ext. wh. re. .. missouri d.s.s. cent. re-bk. tentaculáta sp. ext. wh. _sc._ ...... d.s.s. cent. br. re. iv. arachnoideÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+-------------- acanthophlégma lehm. lance-sp. stm. glob. bícolor lehm. two-col. stm. sub-glob. díscolor haw. discoloured stm. glob. vétula mart. oldish stm. obov. supertéxta mart. cobweb stm. glob. intertéxta interwoven stm. glob. geminispína haw. two-spined stm. cyl. pusílla dc. dwarf stm. subrot. _stelláris_ haw. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ --------------------+------------------+--------+--------+---------- acanthophlégma lehm. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. apex. re. bícolor lehm. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. li. br. díscolor haw. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. s. am. d.s.s. - bk. br. vétula mart. sp. ext. wh. cent. _li. sc._ ...... d.s.s. - y. br. supertéxta mart. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... d.s.s. - y. br. intertéxta sp. ext. wh. cent. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. - wh. geminispína haw. sp. ext. wh. cent. _re_ mexico ---- d.s.s. . elon. pusílla dc. sp. ext. wh. cent. .. s. am. d.s.s. wh. ye. _stelláris_ haw. v. paucispinÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ -----------------------+-----------------+------------------ anguláris otto. angular. stm. glob.-ob. polyédra mart. many-based stm. glob. magnimámma haw. la. teated stm. cyl. glau. zuccariniana mart. zuccarini's stm. glob. karwinskii zucc. karwinsk's stm. glob. glau. subpolyédra salm. sub many-ba. stm. sub. cyl. cirrhífera mart. tend.-bear. stm. glob. ...._spinis fuscís_ _br.-spined_ stm. glob. quadrispína mart. four-spined stm. sub. cyl. seitziana mart. seitz's stm. obov. columnáris mart. col.-shaped stm. sub-cyl. pycnacántha mart. close-spined stm. cyl. loricáta mart. harnessed stm. cyl. polythéle mart. many-teat. stm. glob. cárnea zucc. flesh-col. stm. cyl. longimámma dc. long-teated stm. cyl. glau. macrothéle mart. large-teat. stm. cyl. t. elo. lehmanni ott. lehm. teats. ovat elong. sphaceláta mart. finger-sh. stm. cyl. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ---------------------+------------------+---------+--------+---------- anguláris otto. sp. - . cent. .. ...... d.s.s. el. re-ap. bk. polyédra mart. sp. - wh. .. ...... d.s.s. apex re. magnimámma haw. sp. - wh. .. ...... d.s.s. apex bk. zuccariniana mart. sp. -elong br. .. ...... d.s.s. ye. jun. wh. pu. karwinskii zucc. sp. . wh. .. ...... d.s.s. ap. bk. subpolyédra salm. sp. . br. bk. _li. sc. gr._ ...... ---- d.s.s. cirrhífera mart. sp. - wh. .. ...... d.s.s. apex re. bk. ...._spinis fuscís_ sp. - . .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ye. br. quadrispína mart. sp. . dk. br. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. apex bk. seitziana mart. sp. . wh. pk. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. apex re. columnáris mart. sp. . li. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. pycnacántha mart. sp. . ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. apex bk. loricáta mart. sp. - ye. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. polythéle mart. sp. - ye. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. cárnea zucc. sp. - ye. _car._ ...... ---- d.s.s. apex pk. longimámma dc. sp. ext. - . .. ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. . elong macrothéle mart. sp. . wh. y. .. ...... d.s.s. apex br. lehmanni ott. sp. wh. apex bk. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. sphaceláta mart. sp. - wh. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. apex red vi. stellispinÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+----------- cæspitósa salm. tufted stm. cyl. _densa_ ott. stella-auráta m. gold-star stm. cyl. ténuis slender stm. cyl. elongáta dc. elongated stm. cyl. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+-------------------+-------+--------+---------- cæspitósa salm. sp. den. ye. _ye._ s. am. d.s.s. cent. elong _densa_ ott. stella-auráta m. sp. stel. ye. _ye._ ...... d.s.s. ap. br. cent. o. ténuis sp. li. re. cent. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. . elong. br. elongáta dc. sp. stellate .. ...... .... d.s.s. ye. apex li. br. vii. glochidatÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+------------ criníta dc. hairy teats ovat. elong _ancistroides_ lehm. _glochidata_ mart. _rubra_ _red-fld._ ...... wildiána ott. wild's teats cyl. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+------------------+---------+--------+---------- criníta dc. sp. centr. ye. _wh. ye._ ...... .... d.s.s. br. hooked _ancistroides_ _rubra_ .. .. .. .. _re._ ...... .... d.s.s. wildiána ott. sp. ye. br. .. ...... .... d.s.s. apex br. meloca'ctus. meloca'ctus. cal. superior, -cleft, coloured. cor. of petals, inserted in calyx. stamens numerous. style ; stigma -cleft. berry of cell. seed small angular. flowers expanding amongst the tomentum on the apex of the plant. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+------------- amóenus hffsg. pleasant ribs - . commùnis ott. common ribs-erect . _viridis_ ott. _green_ ...... grengélii grengel's ribs - . meonacánthus lk. sm.-spined ribs -acute macracánthus salm large-sp. ribs - . pyramidális ott. pyramidal ribs - . _spinis rubris_ _red-spined_ .... salmiánus lk. ott. salm's ribs . *octogónus eight-ang. ribs . remote *excavátus hol.-crown. -ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+------------------+---------+--------+----------- amóenus hffsg. sp. recurv. _li. sc._ ...... d.s.s. dk. br. commùnis ott. sp. -ye. _re._ w. indies. d.s.s. br. _viridis_ ott. .. .. .. .. .. ...... d.s.s. grengélii sp. - ye. .. s. th. is. ---- d.s.s. meonacánthus lk. sp. -ye. br. .. jamaica d.s.s. macracánthus salm sp. -ye. apex .. s. domingo d.s.s. br. pyramidális ott. sp. . elong .. curaçao d.s.s. br. re. _spinis rubris_ .. .. .. .. .. ...... .... d.s.s. salmiánus lk. ott. sp. ext. . c. .. ...... d.s.s. . elon. y. re *octogónus sp. - br. ye. .. mexico d.s.s. *excavátus sp. ext. - .. ------ ---- d.s.s. cent. . re. ye. _echinoca'ctus. echinoca'ctus_. invol. tubular imbricated. cal. superior, inserted in the involuc. cor. of many petals. stam. numerous. style ; stigma many parted. flowers bursting from the apexes of the ribs, behind the fascicules of spines. globosi. i. tenuispini. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+------------ ottónis lk. otto's ribs - . tenuispínus ott. slender.-sp. ribs . línkii lehm. link's ribs . corynódes ott. claved ribs . *montevidensis. mt. video. ribs -obt. rhodánthus rose-fld. ribs - . acutanguláris hb. acute-ang. ribs . acuátus ott. sharp-rib. ribs acute _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+------------------+--------+--------+----------- ottónis lk. sp. ext. wh. _ye._ mexico d.s.s. centr. br. tenuispínus ott. sp. ext. wh. _ye._ brazil d.s.s. cent. ye. br. línkii lehm. sp. ext. wh. _ye._ mexico ---- d.s.s. cent. bk. corynódes ott. sp. ext. wh. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. br. *montevidensis. sp. ye. apex br. .. mt. video ---- d.s.s. rhodánthus sp. ext. wh. _ro._ ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. br. acutanguláris hb. sp. ext. wh. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. br. acuátus ott. sp. ye. - _ye._ mt. video d.s.s. ii. aculeis erectis. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+--------------- pachycéntrus lehm. thick-sp. ribs - . obt. centetérius lehm. awl-sp. ribs tuber. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+------------------+--------+--------+---------- pachycéntrus lehm. sp. ye. apex br. .. ...... d.s.s. centetérius lehm. sp. ext. - . _li. re._ ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. . iii. aculeis recurvatis. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ -------------------+-----------------+--------------------- sessiliflórus sessile-fld. stm. depr. r. - coccíneus h. berol. scarlet st. dep. ribs - spirális karw. spiral st. erect. ribs recúrvus haw. recurved st. glo. r. - gl. cornígerus dc. horn-bearg. stm. depr. _latispinus_ hamátus hooked stm. dep. ribs sellówii dc. sellow's st. glo. depr. gibbósus dc. gibbous stm. ov. r. obt. robústus salm. robust stm. cyl. ribs crispátus dc. curled st. cyl. r. - _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -------------------+------------------+-------+--------+----------- sessiliflórus sp. - . wh. .. ...... d.s.s. coccíneus h. berol. sp. - . br. re. .. ...... d.s.s. spirális karw. sp. varieg. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. recúrvus haw. sp. ye. re. .. mexico d.s.s. cornígerus dc. sp. ye. rec. cent. _pk._ mexico d.s.s. flat. ro. _latispinus_ hamátus sp. . grey .. b. ayres d.s.s. sellówii dc. sp. . centr. .. mt.video d.s.s. elon. br. gibbósus dc. sp. - . bk. br. _wh._ jamaica d.s.s. robústus salm. sp. - ye. slend. .. ...... d.s.s. crispátus dc. sp. - cent. .. mexico d.s.s. . br. iv. aculeis subrecurvatis. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+---------------------- tuberculátus tubercled stm. glo. r. obt. platyacánthus flat-spined st. glo. r. - . polyacánthus many-sp. st. ov. glo. r. ob. *xanthacánthus yellow-sp. st. depr. ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ---------------+---------------------+-------+--------+---------- tuberculátus sp. . ext. sp. elon. .. mexico d.s.s. platyacánthus sp. - . cent. . .. mexico d.s.s. polyacánthus sp. . spread. .. brazil ---- d.s.s. *xanthacánthus sp. y. elong. .. ...... d.s.s. sub-globosi. v. aculeis elongatis. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+------------------------- gilliésii gillies's stm. s. glo. obo. rib. formósus h. ang. handsome ov. cyl. ri. - *theléphorus nipple-bear. st. glo. ribs gladiátus dc. sword-sp. st. glo. ri. - _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+----------------------+-------+--------+---------- gilliésii sp. transp. .. mexico d.s.s. formósus h. ang. sp. - . re. br. .. ------ .... d.s.s. *theléphorus sp. - ye. br. .. ...... d.s.s. gladiátus dc. sp. . centr . elon. .. ...... d.s.s. polyacanthi. vi. cylindracei aculeis rigidis. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+----------- exsculptus ott. exsculpted ribs . *anconiánus anconian ribs . *spinosíssimus many-sp. ribs - . *echinátus hedge-hog. lik. ribs . *oxyacánthus sharp-sp. ribs . *cylíndricus cylindrical ribs . . _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ---------------+----------------------+--------+--------+----------- exsculptus sp. dense ye. apex .. ...... d.s.s. ott. br. *anconiánus sp. ext. wh. cent. . .. ancona d.s.s. dk. br. *spinosíssimus sp. ext. wh. c. - . .. ...... ---- d.s.s. re. br. elon. *echinátus sp. li. br. elong. .. mexico d.s.s. *oxyacánthus sp. ext. ye. cent. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. - . re. br. *cylíndricus sp. ext. wh. cent. .. mexico d.s.s. li. br. vii. albiseti. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+----------- scòpa ott. broom. stm. cyl. _spinis-albis_ _white-spined_ _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+---------------------+-------+--------+---------- scòpa ott. sp. den. ex. wh. ct. _ye._ brazil d.s.s. - . dk. pu. _spinis-albis_ .. .. .. .. _ye._ ------ d.s.s. _ce'reus. ce'reus_. cal. of many leaves, imbricated on an elongated tube, exterior sepals short, the middle and inner ones coloured and petal-like. stam. numerous. style filiform, the apex many parted. berry tuberculated, and scaly. i. globosi. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ---------------------------+-----------------+----------- oxygonus ott. furrowed ribs - . _echin. sulcatus._ hort eyriesii turp. eyries's. ribs . _echin. eyriesi._ turbinátus pfr. turbinated ribs . _echin. turbinatus_ hort. multiplex ott. many-fold. ribs . _echin. multiplex_ leucánthus gill. white ribs - . _echin. ambiguus hort. melocact. ambiguus._ ht. tubiflórus pfr. tube-fld. ribs . _echin. tubiflorus_ hort. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+------------------+---------+--------+----------- oxygonus ott. sp. ext. wh. _pk._ brazil d.s.s. cent. br. _echin. sulcatus._ hort. eyriesii turp. sp. bk. toment. _wh. gr._ ...... ---- d.s.s. short. _echin. eyriesi._ turbinátus pfr. sp. ext. wh. .. ...... d.s.s. cent. br. _echin. turbinatus_ hort. multiplex ott. sp. ye. apex _ca. sc._ ...... d.s.s. br. _echin. multiplex_ leucánthus gill. sp. br. _wh. pu._ ...... ---- d.s.s. recurv. _echin. ambiguus hort. melocact. ambiguus._ ht. tubiflórus pfr. sp. - . ye. _wh._ ...... ---- d.s.s. ba & ap. bk. _echin. tubiflorus_ hort. ii. macracanthi. _caule erecto subobovato._ _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+--------------- candicans white -an. ribs obt. macracánthus large-sp. -an. ribs obt. ochroleúcus ochre-col. -an. r. obt. chiloénsis colla chil[oe] -an. r. obt. _fl.-luteo._ _yellow-flo._ chiloensóides chilo.-like -an. r. obt. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+-------------------+--------+--------+---------- candicans sp. - br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ye. macracánthus sp. - br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ye. ochroleúcus sp. br. apex _och._ ...... d.s.s. bk. chiloénsis colla sp. - . ye. .. chili d.s.s. br. _fl.-luteo._ _yellow-flo._ _ye._ ------ d.s.s. chiloensóides sp. br. .. ------ .... d.s.s. pelluc. iii. capillares. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+------------ sénilis haw. grey-headed ribs - _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ---------------+-------------------+--------+--------+---------- sénilis haw. sp. elong. wh. _re._ mexico d.s.s. hairs elon. iv. lanuginosi. _caule_ - -_angulari erecto_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+------------- lanuginósus l. woolly -ang. gl. royéni haw. royen's. -ang. glauc. _gloriosis_ salm. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+------------------+--------+---------+----------- lanuginósus l. sp. ye. _wh._ w. indies d.s.s. elong. royéni haw. sp. slen. _wh._ s. amer. d.s.s. ye. br. _gloriosis_ salm. v. sublanuginosi. _caule_ - -_angulari erecto_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+--------------- albispínus salm. white sp. - -an. r. obt crenulátus salm. crenulated -ang. cren. _gracilior_ salm. slender - -ang. nígricans dark -an. rib. den. níger salm. black -an. r. compr. hawórthii d.c. haworth's -ang. r. obt. flavispínus haw. yellow-sp. - -an. ri. ob. fulvispinósus ha. tawney-sp. -an. sulca. *russelliánus duke of bed. - -ang. cren. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+------------------+--------+---------+---------- albispínus salm. sp. wh. apex ye. .. s. amer. .... d.s.s. crenulátus salm. sp. wh. apex ye. .. w. indies d.s.s. gracilior salm. sp. wh. apex bk. .. ...... d.s.s. nígricans sp. - br. .. ...... d.s.s. níger salm. sp. - ye. .. s. amer .... d.s.s. hawórthii d.c. sp. - br. .. caribees d.s.s. flavispínus haw. sp. - ye. .. w. indies d.s.s. fulvispinósus ha. sp. br. thick .. s. amer. d.s.s. *russelliánus sp. bk. short. .. demarara d.s.s. cen. ang. vi. glabri. _caule_ - -_angulari erecto_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+----------------- hystrix salm. porcupine - -ang. stríctus w. erect - -an. rib. com. pellúcidus ott. pellucid -ang. r. com. olférsii ott. olfers's -ang. r. com. spinibárbis ott. bearded - ang. obt. undulátus haw. waved -ang. r. com. *nigrospínus dark-sp. -ang. r. obt. *heteracánthus va. col. sp. - -ang. tortuósus twisted - ang. affínis h. berol. allied - -ang. r. ob. gemmátus zucc. gemmate -ang. r. rem. incrustátus -ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+-------------------+-------+--------+---------- hystrix salm. sp. grey-apex bk. .. ...... d.s.s. stríctus w. sp. br. apex ye. .. s. amer. d.s.s. pellúcidus ott. sp. br. apex ye. .. ...... d.s.s. olférsii ott. sp. br. ye. .. brazils d.s.s. spinibárbis ott. sp. ex. - c. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. - el. a. b. w. undulátus haw. sp. - . bk. _wh._ china d.s.s. *nigrospínus sp. - bk. .. b. ayres d.s.s. *heteracánthus sp. ex. . va. cen. .. ----- ---- d.s.s. wh. ap. br. tortuósus sp. - slen. .. ----- ---- d.s.s. affínis h. berol. sp. - br. _wh._ ...... .... d.s.s. gemmátus zucc. sp. short wh. .. ...... d.s.s. incrustátus sp. br. wh. slen. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. elong. vii. glaucescentes. _caule_ - -_angulari erecto_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+--------------- glaúcus salm. glaucous. -an. r. com. jamacáru salm. jamacárus - -a. r. com. *caésius grey -an. r. acute grándis haw. great -ang. formósus beautiful -ang. r. com. peruviánus d.c. peruvian - -ang. _hexagonus w. heptagonus_ haw. monstròsus monstrous irreg-fur. ebúrneus salm. ivory - -ang. r. obt. tetragónus flaw. four-ang. -an. r. remo. *amblygónus obtus-rib. -an. gl. r. obt. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+-----------------+---------+--------+------------ glaúcus salm. sp. ext. .. brazil d.s.s. - cent. jamacáru salm. sp. ext. - . _wh._ ----- ---- d.s.s. cent. . br. y. *caésius sp. - . apex .. ...... d.s.s. ye. bas. br. grándis haw. sp. - erect. _wh. y._ brazil ---- d.s.s. ye. & br. formósus sp. - . ye. _wh._ s. am. d.s.s. br. peruviánus d.c. sp. - . br. _wh. pk._ peru d.s.s. apex ye. _hexagonus w. heptagonus_ haw. monstròsus sp. br. _re. wh._ s. am. d.s.s. ebúrneus salm. sp. slen. ...... d.s.s. tetragónus flaw. sp. - br. .. ----- d.s.s. ye. *amblygónus sp. ext. -cent. .. b. ayres d.s.s. dk. br. viii. subglaucescentes. _caule_ - -_angulari erecto_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+----------------- laetevirens salm. br. green - an. ribs com. obtùsus haw. obtuse - an. ribs ott. pitahaya jacq. pitahaya -ang. variábilis ott. variable -an. ribs com. pentagónus five-ang. -ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+-----------------+---------+--------+----------- laetevirens salm. sp. - br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. obtùsus haw. sp. - -br. ye. _wh. gr._ ...... ---- d.s.s. pitahaya jacq. sp. - erect .. cartha. ---- d.s.s. ye. br. variábilis ott. sp. - br. ye. .. ...... d.s.s. pentagónus sp. wh. y. .. s. am. d.s.s. ix. tuberculati. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+---------------- déppei ott. deppi's -ang. ribs obt. propínquus salm. allied -ang. ribs obt. leptacánthus dc. thin-spined -ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+------------------+--------+--------+---------- déppei ott. sp. - wh. .. mexico d.s.s. propínquus salm. sp. - wh. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. leptacánthus dc. sp. elon. wh. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. apex br. x. cylindraceo-attenuati. _caule_ - -_angulari erecto_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+----------------- repándus dc. repand - an. rib. und. _aúreus_ _yellow-spined_ subrepándus haw. subrepand - ang. c[oe]ruléscens nob. blue - ang. glau. *glaucéscens glauces. - an. ribs obt. fimbriátus dc. fimbriated -ang. ribs obt. erióphorus h. berol. woolly -ang. ribs obt. divaricátus dc. divaricated - an. r. obt. serpentínus haw. serpentine -ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -------------------+-------------------+--------+--------+---------- repándus dc. sp. - wh. _wh._ w. in. d.s.s. & bk. _aúreus_ ...... d.s.s. subrepándus haw. sp. - elon. br. .. carib. d.s.s. apex bk. c[oe]ruléscens nob. sp. elon. bk. .. brazil .... d.s.s. jun. wh. *glaucéscens sp. bk. .. b. ayr. d.s.s. fimbriátus dc. sp. - wh. _w._ s. dom. d.s.s. apex bk. erióphorus h. berol. sp. - wh. _re._ ...... d.s.s. apex bk. divaricátus dc. sp. - wh. .. ...... d.s.s. apex bk. serpentínus haw. sp. slen. wh. _pu. wh._ peru d.s.s. ap. br. xi. multangulares. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+--------------------- multángularis ha. many-an. stm. cycl. _spinis albis_ _whitespined_ myriophyllus myriad-led. stm. cyl. spotted strigósus gill. strigose stm. cyl. -a. n. s. myriacánthus myriad-sp. stm. cy. - -a. spinósus hitch. spiny st. erect. c. - a. *bonariensis bu. ayres st. erect. - -a. *tenuátus slender-sp. stm. erect -ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+------------------+--------+--------+----------- multángularis ha. sp. dense .. s. am. d.s.s. ye. br. _spinis albis_ ...... ---- d.s.s. myriophyllus sp. ye. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. strigósus gill. sp. wh. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. myriacánthus sp. - / -inch .. chili ---- d.s.s. long br. spinósus hitch. sp. ye. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. *bonariensis sp. ye. red at .. b. ayr. d.s.s. base *tenuátus sp. ext. . re. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. br. c. xii. flagelliformes. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ -------------------+--------------+--------------------- flagellifórmis haw. rod-shaped -an. tuberc-c. _minor_ _smaller_ *costatus ribbed - ang. flagrifórmis zucc. whip-sh. -ang. tuburc. not so crowded as in last martiánus martins's -ang. tuberc. leptóphis dc. thin serpent - -an. t. remote smithïi smith's tuberc. none tenuissimus very slender - ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -------------------+-------------------+--------+--------+---------- flagellifórmis haw. sp. br. ye. _pk._ ...... d.s.s. _minor_ ...... ---- d.s.s. *costatus sp. slender white .. peru d.s.s. flagrifórmis ...... d.s.s. martiánus sp. wh. _pu._ ...... d.s.s. leptóphis dc. sp. wh. & ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. smithïi sp. br. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. tenuissimus sp. wh. slen. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. hair-like xiii. radicantes. _caule_ - -_angulari articulato_. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+------------- rádicans dc. rooting - ang. húmilis dwarf - ang. grandiflòrus haw. long-fld. - ang. myriacaulon mart. myriad-st. -ang. nycticalius lk. night-beau. - ang. schrankii zun. schranks - ang. *arcuátus arched - ang. sinu. napoleónis salm. napoleon's - ang. triangulàris l. three-ang. -ang. _pictas_ _variegated_ lanceanus lance's -ang. speciosissimus shewy - ang. prismáticus salm. prismatic - ang. trípterus salm. three-wing. -ang. tríqueter haw. three-sided -ang. exténsus salm. extended -ang. coccineus salm. scarlet - ang. setáceus salm. bristly -ang. setósus setose -ang. ramósus karw. branching -ang. myosúrus salm. mouse-tail -dented-ang. quadrangularis ha. quadran. - ang. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+-------------------+--------+--------+------------ rádicans dc. sp. short dk. br. .. b. ay. d.s.s. húmilis sp. wh. slender .. s. am. d.s.s. grandiflòrus haw. sp. wh. ye. _ye. wh._ jamai. d.s.s. myriacaulon mart. ...... d.s.s. nycticalius lk. sp. erect .. ...... d.s.s. slender wh. schrankii zun. sp. - sh. .. ...... d.s.s. dk. br. *arcuátus sp. dk. br. _wh._ ...... ---- d.s.s. napoleónis salm. sp. remote _gr. wh._ ...... d.s.s. sh. br. triangulàris l. mexico d.s.s. _pictas_ ...... ---- d.s.s. lanceanus sp. ye. wh. _sc._ ...... d.s.s. & br. speciosissimus sp. cent. - .. mexico d.s.s. ye. erect prismáticus salm. sp. dark br. .. ...... d.s.s. trípterus salm. sp. dk. br. .. ...... d.s.s. tríqueter haw. sp. dk. br. .. s. am. d.s.s. exténsus salm. sp. ext. w. sl. .. ...... d.s.s. c. - w. ye. coccineus salm. sp. ext. wh. sl. _sc._ brazil d.s.s. cent. ye. setáceus salm. sp. ext. w. slen. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. cent. - setósus sp. br. setac. .. ...... d.s.s. wh. ramósus karw. sp. br. ye. .. ...... d.s.s. remote myosúrus salm. wool-white .. ...... d.s.s. quadrangularis ha. sp. - .. amer. d.s.s. xiv. alati. _epiphyllum haw._ _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ------------------+-----------------+----------------------------- ackermánni haw. ackerman's br. elon. compr. serr. cyl. at base alátus winged br. obl. compr. crenate coccíneus scarlet br. compr. glau. crenate crispátus haw. curled br. obl. compr. cren. invol. hookéri sir w. hooker's br. comp. lin. lanc. sinuate phyllanthoídes dc. phyllanthus-like br. comp. sinuat. cyl. at base _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+------------------+-------+---------+---------- ackermánni haw. _sc._ mexico d.s.s. alátus _wh. gr._ jama. d.s.s. coccíneus _sc._ brazil d.s.s. crispátus haw. _pu._ mexico d.s.s. hookéri _wh._ s. am. ---- d.s.s. phyllanthoídes dc. _pk._ mexico d.s.s. hybrids. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ ---------------+-----------------+----------------------------- _aurantíacus_ _orange-coloured_ .. _ignéscens_ _fiery_ .. _colvilli_ _colvill's_ _jenkinsóni_ _jenkinson's_ .. _kiardi_ _kiard's_ .. _lóthi_ _loth's_ .. _mackoyi_ _mackoy's_ .. _oxypétalus_ _sharp-petaled_ .. _guillardieri_ _guillardier's_ .. _smíthii_ _smith's_ .. _vandésii_ _vandes's_ .. rhómbeus salm. rhomboid br. elong. comp. sinuated ramulósus salm. branching stm. cyl. bran. com. o. lan. truncátus truncated br. com. thin d. n. at apex _coccineus_ _scarlet_ _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+-------------------+-------+--------+------------- _aurantíacus_ .. _or._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _ignéscens_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _colvilli_ .. _jenkinsóni_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _kiardi_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _lóthi_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _mackoyi_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _oxypétalus_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _guillardieri_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _smíthii_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _vandésii_ .. _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. rhómbeus salm. .. ...... d.s.s. ramulósus salm. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. truncátus _sc._ brazil d.s.s. _coccineus_ _sc._ ...... ---- d.s.s. _opu'ntia. opu'ntia_. cal. of many leaves, united to the ovary, the inner sepals petal-like obovate. stamens shorter than petals. style cylind. constricted at the base. stigma many erect thick. berry ovate, often spiny. i. cylindraceÆ. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+-------------------- cylindrica dc. cylindrical st. erect cyl. tuber. clavarióides batoon-like stm. erect cyl. decípiens dc. deceptive stm. erect gl. r. imbricáta dc. imbricated tuber. imbricated kleini dc. klein's st. erect tuber. r. leptocáulis dc. thin-stem. st. erect ramose ramulífera nob. branching stm. erect tunicàta tunicated stm. ramose pubescens wend. pubescens stm. erect slend. virgata twiggy st. erect ramose _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ---------------+---------------------+-------+--------+---------- cylindrica dc. sp. wh. hairy .. peru d.s.s. clavarióides sp. wh. setac. .. ...... d.s.s. depres. decípiens dc. sp. wh. ye. elong. .. ...... d.s.s. imbricáta dc. sp. - wh. .. ...... d.s.s. kleini dc. sp. li. br. elong. .. ...... d.s.s. leptocáulis dc. sp. small br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ramulífera nob. sp. br. ye. arcol. .. mexico ---- d.s.s. crowd. tunicàta sp. - wh. & pk. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. pubescens wend. sp. wh. apex br. .. ...... d.s.s. virgata sp. li. br. elong. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ii. divaricatÆ. _caule articulato, et articulis subcylindraceis._ _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+----------------- articuláta ott. jointed st. erect ramose alpína gill. alpine stm. ramose br. stapélia dc. stapelia stm. ramose corrugáta gill. corrugated br. erect cy. com. dichotoma forked joints cyl. elong. curassávica how. curassa joints. cyl. com. _elongáta_ _elongated_ andícola joints cyl. foliósa haw. leafy jnts. comp. ramos. fragilis nut. brittle joints cyl. obl. glomeráta haw. glomerated joints cyl. exténsa extended joints cyl. horizontális ott. horizontal jnts. cyl. ramose platyacántha flat-spined joints cycl. ov. pusílla haw. dwarf jnts. divar. cyl. sulphúrea gill. sulphur-fld. joints erect aurantiáca orange-col. jnts. com. elon. missouriénsis dc. missouri joints com. ob. o. media haw. intermediat. jnts. cyl. elong. attulica jnts. elon. cyl. sabíni sabine's jnts. com. obov. ciliósa ciliated jnts. com. glau. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -----------------+--------------------+---------+--------+---------- articuláta ott. sp. -wh. pelluc. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. alpína gill. sp. wh. recurv. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. stapélia dc. sp. - wh. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. corrugáta gill. sp. wh. apex br. .. chili d.s.s. dichotoma sp. br. apex wh. .. b. ayr. d.s.s. curassávica how. sp. - ye. wh. .. curas. d.s.s. _elongáta_ ...... ---- d.s.s. andícola sp. wh. elong. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. foliósa haw. sp. - elong. wh. _ye._ s. am. d.s.s. fragilis nut. sp. wh. slend. .. n. am. d.s.s. glomeráta haw. sp. flat .. ...... ---- d.s.s. pellucid exténsa sp. wh. apex br. _li. ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. horizontális ott. sp. wh. elong. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. platyacántha sp. wh. elong. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. apex bk. pusílla haw. sp. - twisted _ye._ s. am. d.s.s. wh. sulphúrea gill. sp. twist. ap. .. chili d.s.s. re. aurantiáca sp. - br. ap. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. wh. y. missouriénsis dc. sp. br. & wh. _ye._ missou. ---- d.s.s. media haw. sp. wh. recurv. .. n. am. ---- d.s.s. attulica sp. wh. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. tomen. br. sabíni sp. wh. deflex. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ciliósa sp. ye. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. iii. spinosissimÆ. _articulis oblongis._ _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ -------------------+-----------------+------------------- spinosíssima haw. very-spiny joints obl. dolabríformis hatchet-fd. jnts. obl. dk. gr. leucacántha ott. white-spin. jnts. erect obl. calacántha ott. pretty-spin. joints obl. _rúbra_ _red-sp._ leucotríche dc. white-hairy jnts. erect obl. senílis parm. grey jnts. obov. obl. longíssima longest jnts. obl. obov. polyántha dc. many-fld. joints obov. polyacántha haw. many-sp. joints obov. megacántha nob. large-sp. joints obov. glau. albicáns nob. white-sp. jnts. obov. gl. obl. triacántha haw. three-sp. joints obov. obl. nígricans haw. dark joints obl. sp. húmilis flaw. dwarf jnts. obov. obl. lasiacántha woolly-sp. jnts. obov. glau. dillenii haw. dillenius's jnts. obov. gl. und. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ------------------+-------------------+-------+--------+---------- spinosíssima haw. sp. elong. ye. .. jama. d.s.s. dolabríformis sp. wh. ye. .. ...... d.s.s. leucacántha ott. sp. wh. setac. _wh._ s. ame. ---- d.s.s. ye. calacántha ott. sp. - wh. ye. .. ...... d.s.s. _rúbra_ ...... ---- d.s.s. leucotríche dc. sp. flex. wh. .. mexico ---- d.s.s. elong. senílis parm. sp. elon. wh. .. ...... d.s.s. hairs wh. longíssima sp. ye. elon. .. ...... d.s.s. depr. polyántha dc. sp. ye. setac. ye. .. s. am. d.s.s. polyacántha haw. sp. - wk. ye. .. n. am. d.s.s. megacántha nob. sp. - long ones .. mexico d.s.s. ye. albicáns nob. sp. wh. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. triacántha haw. sp. wh. .. s. am. d.s.s. nígricans haw. sp. - ro. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. bk. ap. ye. húmilis flaw. sp. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. lasiacántha sp. - wh. apex .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ye. dillenii haw. sp. ye. .. s. am. d.s.s. iv. setaceÆ, or subspinescentes. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ -------------------+------------------+----------------------- microdasys lehm. small-hairy joints obov. _minor_ _o. pulvinata_ dc. parvúla nob. small joints ellip. ob. glau. strícta haw. upright joints obl. obov. tuberculáta haw. tubercled joints obov. vulgáris haw. common joints ov. _major_ _larger_ italica italian joints obov. obl. glaúca glaucous joints erect obov. decúmbens salm. decumbent joints obov. compr. _irrorata_ _h. ber._ cochenillífera haw. cochineal fi. joints obov. obl. lanceoláta haw. lanceolat jnts. obov. lanc. rubéscens salm. rubescent joints elon. red-gr. tomentósa lk. hairy joints lanc. comp. mexicána mexican joints obl. lanc. elon. eláta ott. tall jnts. er. ob. la. a. re. salmii salmdyck's jnts. obov. ob. gl. decumána haw. great-ob. jnts. ov. obl. gl. candelabrifórmis candlestick-fd. jnts. obov. ott. grandis great jnts. ellip. ob. gl. americana american jnts. ellip. glau. amcylcea dc. neapolitan jnts. ob. ellip. c. tuna haw. tuna jnts. ov. obl. ficus indica indian fig. joints obl. crassa haw. thick-lobed joints obov. obl. bonplandi bonpland's jnts. obov. orb. horrida salm. horrid jnts. ob. repand. pseudo tuna salm. false tuna joints obov. longispina haw. long-spin. jnts. ellip. ob. li. gy. hitchenii hitchin's jnts. ob. ellip. gl. parote? jnts. obov. glau. spinulifera salm. small-spin. joints obov. dejecta nob. dejected joints obl. elon. monacantha haw. single-sp. jnts. obl. obov. flexibilis flexibile jnts. ob. orb. gl. sericea g. dom. silky jnts. obov. glau. _cærulea_. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ -------------------+--------------------+-------+--------+---------- microdasys lehm. ye. setac. dense .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ye. _minor_ parvúla nob. setac. br. .. chili d.s.s. strícta haw. setac. ye. _ye._ s. am. d.s.s. tuberculáta haw. setac. why. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. vulgáris haw. stm. creep. setac. _ye._ s. eur. d.s.s. re. br. _major_ italica setac. short ye. _ye._ ...... d.s.s. glaúca sp. ye. ap. br. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. decúmbens arcol. dk. gr. .. mexico d.s.s. _irrorata_ cochenillífera haw. nearly unarmed _pk._ s. am. d.s.s. lanceoláta haw. sp. ye. short. _ye._ ...... d.s.s. setac. ye. rubéscens salm. red-gr. setac. wh. .. brazils d.s.s. tomentósa lk. sp. wh setac. ye. _yo._ s. am. d.s.s. mexicána setac. wh. .. mexico d.s.s. eláta ott. sp. -wh. .. s. am. d.s.s. salmii sp. - wh. setac. .. ...... d.s.s. br. decumána haw. sp. wh. setac. .. ...... d.s.s. ye. candelabrifórmis sp. - wh. setac. .. ...... d.s.s. ye. grandis sp. -wh. setac. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. ye. americana sp. -wh. setac. .. amer. ---- d.s.s. ye. amcylcea dc. sp. wh. .. naples d.s.s. tuna haw. sp. elon. ye. _ye._ s. am. d.s.s. ficus indica sp. setac. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. crassa haw. glau. setac. ye. _ye._ mexico d.s.s. br. bonplandi sp. - ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. horrida salm. sp. ye. _ye._ s. am. ---- d.s.s. pseudo tuna salm. sp. br. ye. _ye._ ...... ---- d.s.s. longispina haw. sp. - elon. gr. .. brazil d.s.s. br. hitchenii sp. - elon. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. parote? sp. - wh. ye. .. ...... ---- d.s.s. spinulifera salm. sp. deflex. wh. ye. .. mexico d.s.s. dejecta nob. sp. - br. ye. _ye._ havan. ---- d.s.s. monacantha haw. sp. - br. ye. .. s. am. ---- d.s.s. flexibilis sp. -ye. .. ...... d.s.s. sericea g. dom. sp. ye. setac. re. _ye._ chili d.s.s. br. _cærulea_. v. paradoxeÆ. salm. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+------------------+----------------- braziliénsis brazil jnts. com. fl. ov. _tenuifolia_ _slender-leaved_ _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+--------------------+-------+--------+---------- braziliénsis sp. - strong. _ye._ brazils d.s.s. _tenuifolia_ _pere'skia. pere'skia._ cal. many-leaved united to the ovary. cor. rotate. style filiform. stigma aggreg. berry globose. _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+-----------------+---------------------------- aculeáta haw. prickly los. ellip. acum. ent. smth. bleo bleo obl. acum. ent. base attenu. grandifólia haw. large-leaved obl. la. dott. ben. grandispína large-spin. ellip. ent. portulacaefólia purslan-ld. obov. cuneat. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ ----------------+------------------+--------+--------+----------- aculeáta haw. _wh._ w. ind. d.s.s. bleo _wh._ ...... ---- d.s.s. grandifólia haw. sp. elon. bk. _wh._ brazil d.s.s. grandispína sp. in clust. _wh._ ...... ---- d.s.s. elon. bk. portulacaefólia sp. bk. / -inch _wh._ w. ind. d.s.s. long. _rhipsa'lis. rhipsa'lis._ cal. - parted, very short, the teeth acuminated. petals oblong. stam. - . style filiform: stig. - . _systematic english form of name. name. stems, &c._ --------------------+----------------+---------------------------- spathuláta ott. spathulated stm. cyl. fasciculáris haw. fascicled br. cyl. jnts. nearly an inch long _parasitica salm._ mesembryanthoídes mesembry-like br. erect cyl. jnts. crowd. hairy pendula salm. pendulous br. vertic. pend. cyl. elong. pentaptéra ott. five-winged stm. erect -ang. smth. dent. salicornóides haw. salt-wort-like joints erect short obov. cyl. grandiflóra haw. large-fld. br. cyl. smth. jnts. obl. calamifórmis reed-shaped br. erect vertic. cyl. smth. _systematic no. and colour of col. of native year of name. spines. flower. country. introduc._ --------------------+------------------+-------+--------+---------- spathuláta ott. sp. wh. br. .. ...... d.s.s. woolly fasciculáris haw. .. ...... d.s.s. _parasitica salm._ mesembryanthoídes _wh._ ...... d.s.s. pendula salm. _wh._ ...... ---- d.s.s. pentaptéra ott. _wh._ ...... d.s.s. salicornóides haw. _ye._ ...... d.s.s. grandiflóra haw. _wh._ s. am. d.s.s. calamifórmis .. ...... d.s.s. the following species of cacteæ are daily expected from germany, but whether they will prove distinct from those in the preceding pages, i am unable to determine until the plants arrive at woburn abbey. _mammilla'ria._ anisacántha canéscens compréssa eriacántha _flore albo_ erinácea hoffmanséggii hýstrix parote polyédra sp. colúmbia crucígera dyckiána rutíla exsúdans heteráctis uberifórmis caput medúsæ gladiata uncinata recurva setosa sphacelata tortolensis _meloca'ctus._ ceratites coronatus coccineus pyramidalis ---- _spinis albis_ ---- _spinis fuscis_ ---- _spinis longis_ proliferus _echinoca'ctus._ dicracanthus muricatus tortuosus agglomeratus anfractuosus niger karwinskii oxypterus pfeifferi phyllacanthus pulchellus multiplex flore rubro ingens spina christi _ce'reus._ boxamus bonplandii boydii brundii bayanensis columnæ c[oe]ruleus denudatus elegans formosus ---- _gemmatus_ glaucéscens hórridus hýbridus nòthus ovàtus platyacánthus polygonàtus scottii spectábilis tubiflòrus dichracánthus geométricans schelhasii aureus azùreus cineráscens cognàtus grìseus knightii lividus mallisónii redúctus róridus sublanàtus subsquamàtus tilophòrus truncàtus _altensteinii_ _epiphy'llum._ latifròns platycárpum _opu'ntia._ carolìna coccínea leucostàta máxima poeppigii polymórpha præcox splendens stricta triacántha albispinòsa demorènia poeppigii _pere'skia._ acárdia cruénta pititache those kinds marked thus (*) were sent here, as new and undescribed species, i have therefore designated them by these names, until i can ascertain correctly whether they have been previously named or not. contents. aremberg, duke de , aix-la-chapelle antwerp ---- botanic garden augsburg baden beaufforts, count de bel[oe]il berlin ---- botanic gardens blankanese bonn ---- botanic gardens boursoult's, m. garden brussells ---- botanic garden carlshrue cels', m. nursery charlottenberg palace gardens cologne darmsdadt dieppe dresden ---- botanic garden dusseldorf enghien , esling, prince de flottbeck nursery frankfort ---- botanic gardens ghent ---- botanic garden ---- nurseries , hamburgh ---- botanic gardens heidelberg hohenheim hoogart's, baron de jardin des plantes lacken palace liege ---- botanic garden ligne's, prince de, gardens louvain ---- botanic gardens luxemburg gardens mackoy's nursery maen's, m., nursery malines montemartre mayence montreuil peach gardens munich ---- botanic gardens namur noisette's nursery nuremberg nymphenburg paris parmentier's nursery pêre la chaise pfauen insel or peacock island potsdam prevost's, m., nursery rhine rosenstein palace rouen ---- botanic garden salm-dyck's, prince, gardens sans-souci schwetzingen smetz', madame, garden stuttgard ---- botanic gardens vallet's, m., nursery vitry nurseries valenciennes vandermaelin, m. j. f. van mons, professor 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"the action of russia on turkey--the treaty of adrianople, of unkiar skelessi--the convention of st. petersburgh, have been so completely laid bare, in 'england, france, russia, and turkey,' that we need offer no remark on the subject; no attempt has been made to controvert any of its positions; no doubt seems even to remain as to their truth. that essay is too succinct to admit of useful citation; it cannot be analysed, because it is itself a condensed analysis of an overwhelming subject. we must content ourselves with urging it on our reader's attention."--_british and foreign review_, no. i. "the effect of this publication on opinion in england, is, perhaps unparalleled. the question interests now, because rendered intelligible."--_foreign quarterly review_, no. xxx. * * * * * the sultan mahmoud, and mehemet ali pacha, by the author of _england, france, russia, and turkey_. third edition. _s._ eastern affairs.--a statement of facts. by a resident at constantinople. vo. second edition. _s._ _d._ "... and a clearer or more incontrovertible statement as to the present posture of affairs in the east was certainly never penned. it is evidently the production of a man who has not only been a long time in turkey, but has lived there under auspices which gave him access to the most infallible sources of information."--_times, oct_. . * * * * * a summary of the history of the east india company, from the grant of their first charter, by queen elizabeth, to the present period. by captain thornton, r.n. vo. _s._ boards. "it may be used as a manual by all parties. it is a succinct collection of materials for information and discussion. the details of the burmese war are from the original memoranda and recollections of the author, who was present in it."--_asiatic journal_. * * * * * =joint-stock banks.= in octavo, _s._ thoughts upon the principles of banks, and the wisdom of legislative interference. "the late multiplication of banking companies in both parts of the united kingdom, an event by which many people have been much alarmed, instead of diminishing, increases the security of the public."--_adam smith_. * * * * * third edition. with the late pressure on the money market, _s._ _d._ an examination of the report on joint-stock banks. third edition. with an account of the late pressure in the money market, and embarrassment of the northern and central bank of england. by t. joplin. third edition. this pamphlet was recommended to the attention of the house by the chancellor of the exchequer, in his speech of the th instant, as follows:--"before i sit down, i am anxious to call the attention of the house to a very interesting document which i hold in my hand. it is published to the world in the shape of a commentary on the report of the committee which had sat upon this subject last session," &c. * * * * * second edition. price _s._ _d._ speech of william clay, esq., m.p., on moving for the appointment of a committee to inquire into the operation of the act permitting the establishment of joint-stock banks; to which are added, reflections on limited liability, paid-up capital, and publicity of accounts, as applied to such associations: with some remarks on an article on joint-stock companies, in the last number of the _edinburgh review_. "we are thus particular in enumerating the contents of this well-timed publication, because we are desirous that it should be referred to by such of our readers as feel particular interest in monetary affairs, at the earliest moment."--_constitutional, oct_. . * * * * * report of the committee of the house of commons on joint-stock banks, august , . price _d._ * * * * * the bank charter. a digest of the evidence before the secret committee of the house of commons, in , on the renewal of the bank of england charter; arranged, together with the tables, under proper heads, with strictures, &c. by thomas joplin. vol. vo. _s._ "thus the report is not only much abridged, without the omission of any essential fact, but it is reduced to a methodical form, and rendered of easy reference."--_times, march_ . * * * * * reflections on the approaching crisis, silver standard, and local acceptances. by a man of straw. _d._ * * * * * =currency and corn questions.= an analysis and history of the currency question. with the origin and growth of joint-stock banking in england, &c. by thomas joplin. _s._ _d._ "it contains such a masterly exposition of the currency question, in all its shapes and bearings, and is conveyed to the reader in so comprehensive a form, that the task of perusing it is anything but that which is generally apprehended by those who are desirous of perfectly understanding this important subject."--_mark lane express_. * * * * * the currency question in a nut shell. _d._ * * * * * an argument against the gold standard; with an examination of the principles of the modern economists--theory of rent--corn laws, &c. &c. addressed to the landlords of england. by d. g. lubÈ, m.a. trinity college, dublin, and of lincoln's inn, barrister at law. _s._ boards. "money is an universal commodity, and as necessary to trade as food is to life."--_locke_. * * * * * paper money, banking, and over trading; with the scotch system of banking explained. by the right hon. sir henry parnell, bart. m.p. new edition. _s._ _d._ boards. * * * * * the power of the bank of england, and the use it has made of it; with a refutation of the objections made to the scotch system of banking; and a reply to the "historical sketch of the bank of england." second edition. _s._ _d._ * * * * * influence of the public debt on the prosperity of the country. by m. b. _s._ * * * * * the revenue and the expenditure of the united kingdom. by samuel wells, barrister-at-law. vo. _s._ cloth. "a truly able and useful work."--_morning herald_. "a work of much skill and merit, coupled with great labour and research."--_gentleman's magazine_. * * * * * corn and currency; in an address to the landowners. by the right hon. sir james graham, bart. m.p. new edition. _s._ _d._ * * * * * earl fitzwilliam's first and second addresses to landowners on the corn laws. new editions. _s._ _d._ * * * * * corn laws complete to . a compendium of the laws passed from time to time for regulating and restricting the importation, exportation, and consumption of foreign corn, from ; and a series of accounts, from the date of the earliest official records, showing the operation of the several statutes, the average prices of corn, &c. &c. presenting a complete view of the corn trade of great britain, compiled from public documents, and brought down to the present time. fifth edition. _s._ * * * * * free trade in corn, the real interest of the landlord, and the true policy of the state. by a cumberland land-owner. second edition. _s._ _d._ * * * * * an inquiry into the expediency of the existing restrictions on the importation of foreign corn; with observations on the present social and political prospects of great britain. by john barton. _s._ _d._ * * * * * key to agricultural prosperity. in closely printed vo. pages. price _s._ _d._ state and prospects of british agriculture; being a compendium of the evidence given before a committee of the house of commons, appointed in , to inquire into agricultural distress. with a few introductory observations. by a member of parliament. "we can confidently recommend this publication to our readers as a most useful compendium of the evidence, much of it highly curious, taken before the agricultural committee; and we trust it will be extensively circulated throughout the country."--_chronicle, march ._ * * * * * remarks on the present state of agriculture; in a letter to his constituents. by charles shaw lefevre, esq., m.p., chairman of the select committee appointed to inquire into the state of agriculture, session . eleventh edition, _s._ _d._ [***] an edition is printed for purposes of general distribution, at _s._ per dozen, or _s._ per hundred. * * * * * second edition. _s._ cloth. practical farming and grazing, with observations on the breeding and feeding of sheep and cattle; on rents and tithes; on the maintenance and employment of agricultural labourers; on the poor law amendment act; and on other subjects connected with agriculture. by c. hillyard, esq. president of the northamptonshire farming and grazing society. * * * * * new series. with a fine portrait of an italian bull, by thomas landseer, _s._ the british farmer's magazine (quarterly), no. i. of vol. i. (new series) for april. contents: mr. s. taylor, on the manufacture of beet-root sugar in france. on the use of chalk as manure--mr. donaldson's observations on the causes which retard the advancement of agriculture--on gypsum as a manure--mr. towers, on the improvement of agriculture--mr. taylor, in reply to mr. donbavand--extracts from the diary of a late eminent agriculturist--on manures, their use and composition--on beet-root sugar--on land draining--mr. gray, on the statistic history of --liverpool agricultural society's third annual ploughing match--remarks on the management of an essex farm--mr. stent, on the failure of the potato crop--two months at kilkee--mr. percivall, on the epidemics of --norfolk quarterly report--general report for england--miscellaneous. "the practical and inquiring farmer can have no better manual of reference than this useful publication, which treats on subjects connected with all the various branches of agriculture." [***] a few complete sets of the first series in vols. have been perfected, and may now be had neatly half-bound, _s._ _d._ each vol. no. ii. will be published on july , . * * * * * =miscellaneous works=. new edition, in two small volumes, _s._ lord collingwood's memoirs and correspondence, public and private. by g. l. newnham collingwood, esq. f.r.s. fifth edition. in the press. "the portrait of one english worthy more is now secured to posterity."--_quarterly review._ "we do not know when we have met with so delightful a book as this, or one with which we are so well pleased with ourselves for being delighted. its attraction consists almost entirely in its moral beauty."--_edinburgh review._ "having thus referred to lord collingwood's life, i may be allowed to say that the publication of that volume is indeed a national good; it ought to be in every officer's cabin, and in every statesman's cabinet."--_southey's life of lord nelson_, new edition, p. . * * * * * mr. canning. the speeches of the right honourable george canning, corrected and revised by himself, with memoirs of his life; illustrated by a fine portrait, fac-similes of his hand writing, a plate exhibitive of his mode of correcting and revising his speeches, &c. in two important passages in the celebrated one on portugal. six vols. vo. third edition. £. _s._ the late right hon. w. huskisson, in a letter to the editor, alluding to the work, says, "it is a work which is destined to convey to posterity the remains of his splendid talents as an orator--to exhibit his principles as a statesman--and to show with what energy and success he carried those principles into execution as a minister of the crown." * * * * * lord brougham. in one volume, vo. _s._ _d._ boards. selections from the speeches and writings of the right hon. henry, lord brougham, with a brief sketch of his life. "the memoir, which precedes these selections, seems to be more complete than any we have hitherto met with, and contains many interesting particulars."--_literary guardian._ "we have no doubt that the present will be a very acceptable volume to a large class of readers."--_examiner._ * * * * * the liberty of the press, &c. the speeches of the honourable thomas (afterwards lord) erskine, when at the bar, on subjects connected with the liberty of the press, and against constructive treason. vols. vo. _l._ _s._ "we take the opinion of the country, and of every part of the world where the language is understood, to be that of the most unbounded admiration of these exquisite specimens of judicial oratory, and of great obligations to the editor of the collection."--_edin. rev._ vol. xix. * * * * * parliamentary manual for the year ; containing the present and last parliaments, authentic results of the various polls in england, wales, scotland, and ireland; and a summary of the act william iv. cap , to amend the representation of the people in england and wales; forms of lists and notices, &c. also a list of the changes in administration, from the commencement of the present century; a summary account of the duties of the great officers of state; a table of the duration of the several parliaments, from henry viii. to the present time; a list of those places which formerly sent members to parliament; a list of the deaths of the principal personages since ; and a complete abstract of the election laws. _s._ boards. * * * * * the peerage of the united kingdom, with the arms of the peers. published annually, and corrected to the latest period. _s._ _d._ bds. * * * * * the baronetage of the united kingdom, with the arms of the baronets. published annually, and corrected to the latest period. _s._ _d._ boards. [***] possessors of old editions of debrett's, and other peerages or baronetages, require only those works to render them correct. * * * * * in a small volume, _s._ _d._ cloth, or _s._ bound, gilt leaves. the court and country companion, containing the most authentic tables of precedence among all british ranks and departments, both male and female. also, directions for epistolary correspondence, with forms of addresses, memorials, and petitions: together with instructions for presentations at court, and for attending royal levees and drawing rooms. "messrs. ridgway and sons have conferred an obligation upon the public by publishing their court and country companion."--_court journal._ "this little publication will be found to be of very great utility in the every day business of civilized life; as every one, of whatever rank in society she or he may be, may derive correctness and advantage in using it as a _vade mecum_." * * * * * phenomena of the earth. in one volume, post vo. pages, with two plates, _s._ the revolutions of the globe familiarly described: by alexander bertrand, m.d. &c. &c. &c. the above work, it is hoped, will prove to the general reader in this department of science what dr. lindley's "ladies' botany" is doing for that delightful pursuit. "'the revolutions of the globe,' by dr. bertrand, is one of the most agreeable we have met with. the object of the author is to convey to the idlest and least learned reader an idea of the wonders of geology. to accomplish his intention in a manner which requires the easiest, and admits with propriety of the most trifling mode of treatment, he addresses his nineteen letters to a lady. this matter consists of the striking facts of geology, rather than of a view of the principles, or a statement of the evidence, on which they rest. his manner of discussion will be best shown by some specimens. the surface of the globe is not a new subject; yet see how interesting our author makes it."--_spectator, january ._ * * * * * the mosaic deluge. mr. george fairholme's new and conclusive natural demonstrations both of the fact and period of the mosaic deluge, and of its having been the only event of the kind that has ever occurred upon the earth; illustrated by numerous wood-cuts, &c., executed in the best manner, will be published early in may, in vol. vo. * * * * * the cartoons of raphael. second edition, in vo. _s._ _d._ cloth boards. cartonensia; or an historical and critical account of the tapestries in the vatican; copied from the designs of raphael of urbino, and of such of the cartoons whence they were woven, as are now in preservation. with notes and illustrations. to which are subjoined, remarks on the causes which retard the progress of the higher departments of paintings in this country. by the rev. w. gunn, b.d. second edition, with additions. "mr. gunn's commentary upon this beautiful production (the nativity) is well written, and contains canons of criticism which we conceive to be in the most correct taste.... indeed we would strongly recommend 'cartonensia' to general attention. it bears about it all the marks of a liberal and accomplished mind, cordially devoted to the prosperity of the fine arts; and we trust that its criticisms, founded, as they generally are, in good sense, and always elegantly expressed, will exercise a salutary influence upon the public taste."--_monthly review._ "in dismissing this work, we would recommend it most cordially to our friends. the artist will find much information, coupled with much admirable advice, in its pages, while the general reader will be amused with its details, and instructed by the remarks, both historical and theological, which he will meet with in perusing it. mr. gunn is a man of much critical acumen, softened down and polished by his gentlemanly feelings, and amiable spirit; and we think that few will arise from his book without sensations of gratitude for his labours in its compilation, and of satisfaction for the information he so pleasingly communicates."--_arnold's magazine of the fine arts_. * * * * * _mr. forbes's new work on horticulture._ horticultural tour through germany, belgium, and france, in . by james forbes, f.h.s. &c., author of "hortus woburnensis; or, the gardens and grounds of woburn abbey." in royal and demy vo. * * * * * new poem. in vo. _s._ _d._, cloth boards. alfred the great. a poem. by g. l. newnham collingwood, esq., editor of the '_life and correspondence of admiral lord collingwood._' "at any other time than the present, when the tide of literary taste is running against poetry of the severely heroic character, the appearance of such a work as 'alfred the great' would have excited a general interest, and ensured the author a high place among the writers of his country. * * * we may add that the interest of the poem never flags, and has the additional merit of keeping pace with the progress of the story from its commencement to its conclusion."--_new monthly mag., august ._ * * * * * the hon. and rev. william herbert's new work, on amaryllidaceÆ. illustrated by numerous plates, coloured and plain, with a treatise on hybrid vegetables subjoined, may be certainly expected in the course of the present month. vol. royal vo. _l._ _s._; or coloured _l._ _s._ * * * * * personal safety from lightning, &c. _s._ directions for ensuring personal safety during storms of thunder and lightning; and for the right application of conductors to houses and other buildings. by john leigh, esq. third edition. with the instructions of the humane society. "the whole of the little tract being of that plain, sensible, and accurate character, as particularly to enlighten not only the ignorant peasant, but the public in general, as to the best ascertained means of escaping destruction, or damage, from thunder storms."--_monthly review, may ._ * * * * * third edition, with a plate and two diagrams. _s._ or _s._ _d._ bound and gilt. what is a comet, papa? or, a familiar description of comets; more particularly halley's comet. to which is prefixed, a concise account of the other heavenly bodies. by rosina maria zornlin. "a timely question, answered after the german fashion, by telling plainly, 'all, how, and about it.' the first, a conversation among a family of clever children, the boy relating the leading truths of astronomy to his sisters, while they are waiting the return of their parents: the second part is papa's own account of the passing comet, in answer to the question which forms the title. both are very well done, and the authoress deserves great credit for the thought and its realization."--_atlas, august ._ also, by the same author, the solar eclipse; or, the two almanacs; containing more inquiries in astronomy. plate and diagrams, _s._; or _s._ _d._ bound and coloured. "just the sort of book we love to put into the hands of young persons. it invites them to inquiry, and makes them laudably curious. there is in this little work much valuable information, both on the solar system and on comets, which, just now, will be peculiarly attractive."--_london journal._ "there are editions on common paper which may be had for a trifle, and one of which should be in every family within the nation, where ignorance or children may be found. we cannot conceive of any means by which the majesty and power of the almighty is to be so easily and forcibly impressed upon the uninformed mind, as by putting this little tract into the hands of such. that must be a heartless and wicked parent, who will not enjoy the earnestness and ingenuity of the thousand interrogatories that will thereafter be innocently proposed by the same inquirer."--_monthly review._ * * * * * the young horsewoman's compendium of the modern art of riding. in progressive lessons; designed to give a secure and graceful seat on horseback; at the same time so effectually to form the hand, that, in a short time, perfect command of the horse may be obtained. by edward stanley; with illustrative plates, _s._ bds. "but we have said enough of this manual, and have only to add that it is a very sensible and judicious publication."--_literary gazette._ * * * * * the english race horse. a treatise on the care, treatment, and training of the english race horse; with important details applicable to bettering the condition of horses in general. by r. darvill, v.s. to the seventh hussars. illustrated by plates. vols. i. and ii. vo. £ . _s._ each. [***] the third and concluding volume is in the press, and will shortly be published, together with a second edition of _vol. i_. "never before was such a book written in any language, so replete with those minute but indispensable particulars of practice; and by a writer who has personally performed his part throughout the whole of the practice. this is the true book of reference for every stud and training groom, and every jockey."--vide _lawrence on the horse_, p. ; also, _the sporting magazine and british farmer's magazine._ * * * * * grouse, partridge, and pheasant shooting. post octavo, _s._ _d._ the oakleigh shooting code; containing chapters relative to shooting grouse, partridges, pheasants, &c. by thomas oakleigh, esq., with numerous notes. edited by the author of _nights at oakleigh old manor hall._ "we would advise all our sporting friends to buy this admirable digest, the first time they see it in any bookseller's shop; or--why--as well order it at once. it is the best thing of the kind extant."--_chambers's edinburgh journal._ "we have scarcely ever met with a volume containing so much light reading, and at the same time such a fund of instruction and practical advice to sportsmen, as the one now before us." * * _wigan gazette, oct. ._ "two hundred and twenty chapters of very useful hints."--_atlas._ "since the publication of daniel's _rural sports_ we have seen nothing worthy to be compared with the canons or the _oakleigh code_."--_essex mercury._ "containing such a mass of information relative to shooting, that it ought to be in every sportsman's hands. who would not wish to spend a week at the ancient and hospitable hall of the worthy 'tom oakleigh?'"--_chambers's edinburgh journal, sept. ._ * * * "timely, therefore, is the appearance of _oakleigh shooting code_; a manual for the tyro, and a book of reference to the veteran sportsman, who, though he may sneer at 'book-shooting,' as old farmers do at 'book-farming,' may yet condescend to pick up some useful hints in its pages." * * "it bears internal evidence of being the production of a real sportsman--one who has gleaned his knowledge from experience, who tests the value of theory by practice, and who, to a scientific acquaintance with his subject adds a hearty enthusiasm for the sport."--_spectator._ * * * * * prison discipline. charge of the recorder to the grand jury of the city of worcester, delivered at the last epiphany sessions. published at the request of the magistracy and council of the city. _s._ * * * * * in vo. with an illustrated title, price _s._ cloth boards. laocoon; an essay on the relative limits of poetry and painting; translated from the original german of gotthold ephraim lessing, by william ross, late professor of painting and sculpture in the andersonian university, glasgow. "we believe that this work is justly considered to have been lessing's _coup d'essai_; and certainly, as translated by mr. ross, it is one of the most graceful and elegant pieces we ever perused. its canons of criticism too, we cannot but feel, are the result of the profoundest reflection and most refined taste, being admirably calculated to enlighten the critic, and to facilitate the studies of the artist."--_monthly review._ "a very elegant version of a beautiful critical essay, which has originated some of the finest views of art."--_literary gazette._ "lessing, if still living, might feel cause to rejoice at the exhibition of his treatise in a dress so likely to preserve its value. the original notes show a refined taste and correct judgment."--_new monthly magazine, sept. ._ * * * * * sketches in greece and turkey, with the present condition & future prospects of the turkish empire. vo. _s._ _d._ "this is a charming volume, for it embraces both the useful and the beautiful." * *--_spectator._ * * * * * record commission. price _s._ _d._ report of the select committee of the house of commons, appointed to inquire into the management and affairs of the record commission, with illustrative notes; and remarks on the secretary's (c. p. cooper) attempted alteration of his evidence. * * * * * the factory question and the ten hours' bill. by robert hyde greg, esq. _s._ this pamphlet contains a concise history of factory legislation down to the present time, with copious extracts from the evidence and reports of the factory commissioners of , and from the various reports, to the secretary of state, of the factory inspectors since that period. it enters fully into the argument of the comparative healthiness of factory employment, and into the policy of further curtailing the hours of labour. it contains also the most recent and authentic information respecting the progress of foreign manufactures--the quantity produced by the machinery in the continental and american cotton mills, compared with those of england; and it shows the precarious tenure on which the cotton manufacture of this country is at present held. * * * * * in the press. in octavo, _s._ _d._ an historical account of the university of cambridge, and its colleges. by b. d. walsh, m.a., fellow of trinity college. contents:--introduction--the "_must not_" argument against a commission--the "_need not_" argument--the university prior to the colleges--the hostels--religious tests not anciently exacted--the office of chancellor--the senate--the college of tribunes, called the "capul," and their "veto"--the innovations and usurpations of the heads of colleges upon the university, in the various offices of . high steward; . vice chancellor; . the proctors; . the taxors; . scrutators; . the bedells; . the guardians and auditors of the public chest; . the public orator; . the registry; . the barnaby lectures; . the m. p.'s university lectures; system of compulsory lectures; ancient disputations; modern examinations; degrees; introduction of modern sciences into the examinations; the colleges; their tutors; their lecturers; fellows; compulsory holy order; ridiculous absurdities in statutes, sworn to by all, &c. &c. * * * * * free and safe government, traced from the origin and principles of the british constitution. by a cumberland land-owner, author of _free trade in corn, &c._ vol. _s._ bds. * * * * * some remarks on the present studies and management of eton school. by a parent. fifth edition. _s._ * * * * * =new works on botany=. dr. lindley's botanical register; or, ornamental flower garden and shrubbery. publishing the first of every month, price _s._ each number contains eight finely-coloured portraits, from life, of the handsomest flowering plants and shrubs grown in this country, accompanied by their history, treatment in cultivation, propagation, &c. no. v. of vol. x., new series, was published may , . the previous volumes may be had separately, £. _s._ each. [***] all the numbers which were out of print are now re-printed. "this series, placed under the superintendence of professor lindley, comes forth with increased splendour of illustration, and increased accuracy of description. the present number contains many plants and shrubs, of extreme beauty, delineated and coloured, so as almost to rival the tints of nature, and bestow perpetuity on her loveliest, yet most transitory, productions. the letter-press, in addition to the ordinary information, as to the habits, mode of culture, and organization of the plant, occasionally introduces points of vegetable physiology, or observations respecting its economical uses, which possess much interest."--_athenæum._ "the botanical register, from containing most or all of the new plants introduced by the horticultural society, from the great care with which its plates are executed, and the judicious remarks on culture and general habit, by dr. lindley, is, in consequence, the superior publication."--_loudon's magazine of botany, &c._ "too much praise cannot be bestowed upon this work."--_horticultural cabinet._ * * * * * ladies botany. in two volumes. by dr. lindley, editor of the _botanical register, fossil flora of great britain, &c. &c._ third edition. vo. vol. i, with numerous illustrative plates, _s._, and finely coloured, _s._ "we consider it quite needless to recommend this work: it must find its way into the library of every lady, and it ought to be in the coat pocket of every young gardener."--_gardener's magazine._ "let it be known--let it be introduced into every library, reading-room, and seminary throughout britain; let it become the class-book of botanical study."--_horticultural register._ the second volume, which will complete the work, will be published in may. * * * * * second edition. one volume, royal vo. with eighteen coloured plates. _s._ cloth boards. rosarum monographia; or, a botanical history of roses. to which is added, an appendix for the use of cultivators, in which the most remarkable garden varieties are systematically arranged; with nineteen plates, eighteen beautifully coloured. by john lindley, ph.d. f.l.s. r.s. &c. &c. * * * * * dedicated to the patrons and patronesses of village schools. a catechism of gardening, intended for the use of village schools and cottagers, containing plain and brief directions for cultivating every kind of vegetable in common use. by an old practitioner. second edition, enlarged, _s._ _d._ "this is a cheap little work, and far better adapted for its avowed purpose than any of the tracts which have preceded it. the small type and closely-printed page of the catechism show that the author is perfectly serious in his wish to extend a knowledge of horticulture to the humblest classes of society."--_loudon's gardener's magazine._ "this is not only a useful, but a cheap publication, and excellently adapted for its purpose."--_analyst._ * * * * * gardens and grounds of woburn abbey. illustrated by numerous views, plans, &c. one vol. medium vo. _s._ hortus woburnensis; a descriptive catalogue, comprising generic and specific character, colour of the flower, native country, year of introduction, soil, and mode of propagation, of upwards of six thousand of the finest ornamental plants and shrubs, both exotic and indigenous, for the decoration of the british flower garden, greenhouse, plant stove, &c.; with an account of the routine of culture pursued in the forcing department throughout the year, a list of the fruits cultivated; including short treatises on the management of the superior fruits, vegetables, &c. together with designs for the erection of forcing houses, melon, and culinary pits, and a mode of heating by hot water pipes, by which a genial steady heat is produced, with a great saving of fuel, and the houses left with perfect safety, for full fifteen hours, at even degrees of frost, fahrenheit. by james forbes, a.l.s. c.m. h.s. &c., principal gardener at woburn abbey. _a few copies are printed on royal paper, for such of the nobility as may desire them. proofs_, _l._ _s_. _ditto, coloured_, _l._ _s._ _d._ "the plan of this work is good. the objects of cultivation, the routine of cropping, the periods of forcing fruits and flowers, and the hothouses employed for such purposes, are nearly the same in all large gardens; and a well-digested and accurate account of what is found most useful or beautiful in one, will serve as a rule of practice in nearly all the others. the duke of bedford's garden is one of the best in england, and mr. forbes is one of the most experienced gardeners; so that a better model, or a better man, could hardly be found, to illustrate the most efficient plans which are followed in the management of horticultural affairs in england * * * we can recommend mr. forbes's work to our gardening friends."--_athenæum._ * * * * * fruit and fruit trees. second edition, in one volume, price _s._ the fruit cultivator. by john rogers, nurseryman, formerly of the royal gardens. "directions are given for planting, pruning, training, the formation of fruit-tree borders, and orchards, the gathering and storing of fruit; in a word, every thing which can be desired is handled in a plain instructive manner, in such a way as a practical man alone is capable of doing it."--_irish farmer's and gardener's magazine._ "it remains only to say, that we think mr. rogers has here produced a most valuable practical work, which deserves to be in universal use; and which adds to its other recommendation that of cheapness."--_gardener's magazine._ * * * * * _printed by t. brettell, printer, rupert street, haymarket._ transcriber's notes several punctuation errors have been repaired and are not listed here. apostrophes within capitalised latin names should be regarded as highlighting accented syllables: e.g. "ce'reus" corrected typos: page : "whieh" changed to "which" (which has been grown here for several years) page : "flotbeck" changed to "flottbeck" (on my return from this place to flottbeck) page : "cultivaed" changed to "cultivated" (i never before saw so many plants cultivated) page : "cieling" changed to "ceiling" (dome and cove ceiling) page : "forms" changed to "formed" (eight round columns, formed) page : "receses" changed to "recesses" (arched recesses) page : "plauean" changed to "plauen" (plauen, where we arrived) page and : "cielings" changed to "ceilings" (with gilt ceilings) page : "inintelligent" changed to "intelligent" (a very intelligent man) page : "uuquestionably" changed to "unquestionably" (unquestionably well worth the stranger's visit) page : "pelarganiums" changed to "pelargoniums" (pelargoniums and dahlias) page : "castelated" changed to "castellated" (old castellated ruins) page : "popula-" changed to "population" (has a population of) page : "cieling" changed to "ceiling" (highly ornamented on the ceiling) page : "parellel" changed to "parallel" (smaller avenues parallel to them) page : "acccompany" changed to "accompany" (to send their gardener to accompany me) page : "workmanhsip" changed to "workmanship" (a most beautiful specimen of workmanship) page : "vennus" changed to "vennius" (lazarus rising from the dead, by otto vennius) page : "airrved" changed to "arrived" (we arrived at malines) page : "grande bretage" changed to "grande bretagne" page : "succulent[oe]" changed to "succulentæ" page : "curvilenear" changed to "curvilinear" (the curvilinear iron bar) page : repeated word "at" removed (the gardener was not at home) page : "hamburg" changed to "hamburgh" page : "darmsdadt" changed to "darmstadt" page : "luxemberg" changed to "luxemburg" (luxemburg gardens) page : "nursersies" changed to "nurseries" (vitry nurseries) page : "vandermaelin" changed to "vandermaelen" the following spelling instances have not been corrected, but are retained as per the original: stuttgard, chesnuts, pseudacacia, potatoe, belvidere, leipsic, wallnuts, cemetry, frankfort. this book contains many other instances of differing spelling of unusual or non-english words, differing accents, incorrect accents, differing hyphenation etc., e.g.: page : "chateau", page : "château" page : "boursalt", index: "boursoult" page : "andrieux", page : "andreux" page : "beurre dore" (should be "doré") page : "good-sized", page : "good sized" these have been retained and have not been comprehensively listed within these notes. the letters "d.s.s." in the last column of the tables refer to dry stove shrubs. these plants require very little water. transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_. gardening for little girls practical arts for little girls a series uniform with this volume _each book, illustrated, cents net_ cookery for little girls sewing for little girls work and play for little girls housekeeping for little girls gardening for little girls [illustration: puzzle picture,--find the little girl] gardening for little girls by olive hyde foster author of "cookery for little girls" "sewing for little girls" "housekeeping for little girls" [illustration] new york duffield & company copyright, by house and garden copyright, , by housewives magazine copyright, , by st. nicholas the century co. copyright, , by countryside magazine the independent co. copyright, , by olive hyde foster _dedicated to junior and allan, two of the dearest children that ever showed love for the soil._ preface children take naturally to gardening, and few occupations count so much for their development,--mental, moral and physical. where children's garden clubs and community gardens have been tried, the little folks have shown an aptitude surprising to their elders, and under exactly the same natural, climatic conditions, the children have often obtained astonishingly greater results. moreover, in the poor districts many a family table, previously unattractive and lacking in nourishment, has been made attractive as well as nutritious, with their fresh green vegetables and flowers. ideas of industry and thrift, too, are at the same time inculcated without words, and habits formed that affect their character for life. a well-known new york city public school superintendent once said to me that she had a flower bed every year in the children's gardens, where a troublesome boy could always be controlled by giving to him the honor of its care and keeping. the love of nature, whether inborn or acquired, is one of the greatest sources of pleasure, and any scientific knowledge connected with it of inestimable satisfaction. carlyle's lament was, "would that some one had taught me in childhood the names of the stars and the grasses." it is with the hope of helping both mothers and children that this little book has been most lovingly prepared. contents chapter page i first steps toward a garden ii planning and planting the flower beds iii flowers that must be renewed every year (annuals) iv flowers that live through two years v flowers that come up every year by themselves (perennials) vi flowers that spring from a storehouse (bulbs and tubers) vii that queen--the rose viii vines, tender and hardy ix shrubs we love to see x vegetable growing for the home table xi your garden's friends and foes xii a morning-glory playhouse xiii the work of a children's garden club xiv the care of house plants xv gifts that will please a flower lover xvi the gentlewoman's art--arranging flowers illustrations puzzle picture,--find the little girl, _frontispiece_ facing page first work in the spring kim and columbine taking care of table ferns cleaning up around the shrubs all ready to hoe an outgrown playhouse spring beauties line drawings in text page plan for a small back yard an artistic arrangement of a narrow city lot flowers that will bloom from early summer until frost blossoms in japanese arrangement note as the desire is to give the widest possible range of information about the plants and flowers mentioned herein, and space forbids going into details in each case, the writer has endeavored to mention all the colors, extremes of height, and entire season of bloom of each kind. but the grower must find out the particular variety obtained, and not expect a shrubby clematis to climb, or a fall rose to blossom in the spring! gardening for little girls a garden is a lovesome thing, god wot! rose plot, fringed pool, fern'd grot-- the veriest school of peace; and yet the fool contends that god is not-- not god! in gardens! when the eve is cool? nay but i have a sign: 'tis very sure god walks in mine. --_thomas edward brown._ gardening for little girls chapter i first steps toward a garden and because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where it comes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air. --_bacon._ if you want a flower garden, you can begin work as early as march. does that sound strange,--with cold winds and occasional snow? ah, but the plans should all be laid then, and many things started in the house. four steps must be taken before starting actual work: _first._--find out what space you can have for your garden. _second._--consider the soil, situation, surroundings. _third._--make a list of seeds, bulbs, etc., desired. _fourth._--decide on planting with view to height and color. as to the first step, find out positively where you can have your garden. it makes considerable difference whether you can have the whole back yard, a plot along the walk, a round bed in the center of the lawn (only worse than none at all!), or a window-box. you can not very well decide on a single plant until this is settled. as to the second step, learn all you can about the soil, situation, surroundings. is your ground rich or poor? if light and sandy, you can grow such flowers as nasturtiums and mignonette. by adding fertilizer you can have poppies, roses, and dahlias. if the ground is heavy and stiff with clay, you can still have your roses and dahlias if you will add both manure and sand. so find out what kind of earth you are going to work with. quite poor soil will grow sweet alyssum, california poppies, coreopsis and geraniums, while rich soil is needed for asters, larkspur, zinnias and marigolds. and think about your location (a dry spot being necessary for portulaca, and a cool, moist place for lily-of-the-valley), as well as bear in mind whether your garden is sheltered and warm or exposed to the chilly winds. any desert can be made to blossom as the rose,--if you only know how. as to the third step, make the list of the seeds, bulbs, etc., that you would like, with the idea of having some flowers in bloom the whole summer long. if you are lucky enough to have a kind friend or neighbor give you of her store, they will probably be good and come up as they should. if you have to buy, though, be sure to go to a first-class, reliable dealer, for you don't want to waste your time and money on old things that won't grow. then last of all, decide on your planting from this list with a view to height and color, so that you will arrange to the best advantage,--the nasturtiums which climb, for instance, going to the back of the bed against wall or trellis, while the dwarf variety should be at the front. big words for common things to select your flowers intelligently, though, you must know something about their nature, habits, and tendencies, and certain words always found in seed catalogues and garden books may be puzzling to a beginner. a. _annuals_, for example, are the plants that live but a year or a single season. b. _biennials_, however, continue for two years before they perish, making roots and leaves the first year and usually flowering the second. c. _perennials_ are the kind that continue for more than two years. d. _deciduous_ refers to the shrubs and trees that lose their leaves in the fall. e. _evergreens_ are those that keep their verdure the whole year round. f. _herbaceous_ plants may be annual, biennial or perennial, but they have a stem that does not become woody, and that dies down after flowering. g. _hybrids_ are plants produced by "crossing," or mixing two distinct varieties. plant needs all plant life, you must understand, requires five things,--warmth, light, air, water and food. but plants differ as much as people, and some need more of one thing than they do of another. some grow best in sunlight, others in the shade; some in sand, others in rich soil. you will have to find out what each kind requires. the food properties needed in the soil have some big names, too,--_nitrogen_, _potash_, and _phosphoric acid_, all of which are found in farm manures. if you can not conveniently get these, however, florists and seed-men can supply you with other fertilizers more easily handled. the seed nursery if you are just getting ready to start your garden, the annuals,--the plants that flower from seed the first season though they do not come up again,--will probably interest you most as they give the quickest returns. many kinds can be started in the house in march, and for this purpose any kind of a shallow box will answer. bore holes in the bottom and put in a layer of broken pottery or stones, to permit drainage, so the roots will not rot. fill three or four inches deep with good soil, after pulverizing and taking out all sticks and stones. rules for indoor planting mark grooves in seed boxes (or "flats") with a stick, in parallel lines. plant seeds only about their own depth. scatter thinly to avoid crowding. press soil down firmly after seeds have been covered. keep the earth moist by means of a fine spray, or sprinkle with a whisk broom. the ordinary sprinkler lets out the water with such force as to wash the seeds clear out of the ground. the very finest seeds should be _sprinkled_ lightly--and thinly--over the pulverized soil and then pressed into the earth with a small board. the different seeds should be sown in separate rows, and the names plainly marked on the edge of the box, so you will not become confused, or forget what you are growing. cover the boxes with glass or a newspaper for the first week, to keep the earth moist and warm until the seeds sprout. familiar annuals even as early as march you can start in the boxes in this way any of the following annuals, which will bloom at the time mentioned or even earlier:-- ageratum, blue, good for edging; blooms for three months during summer. asters, white, pink, red, purple; early in the fall. alyssum, sweet, white; from may to november. amethyst, blue, violet, white; flowers all summer. balsam, white, red, yellow; from july to middle of september. chrysanthemum, tricolor; august to middle of october. cosmos, white, pink, crimson; august to november. cypress vine, red, and white starry blossoms; june and july. godetia, red, white; july to october. moonflower (japanese morning-glory), white, a vine; august to september. pansy, all shades and combinations, of white, yellow, purple; july on. chinese pink, white, rose, maroon; may to august. salvia, red; august to frost. ten weeks' stock, white, pink, purple; june and july. zinnia, red, yellow, magenta; july to november. easily grown perennials both the perennials and the biennials following should all blossom the first year if started in the house in march:-- gaillardia, red, yellow. forget-me-not, lovely blue. larkspur, blue. snapdragon, white, red, purple, yellow, pink. sweet william, white, pink, red, maroon, plain, varigated. coreopsis, yellow. cupid's dart, blue. iceland poppy, yellow, white, scarlet. get as many as you can--and your space will permit,--of all the lovely old perennials and the bulbs that come up every season with little or no care. one of the oldest,--now deserted--farmhouses on long island, still carries in its dooryard the impress of some gentle flower-lover long since passed away, in its annual spring beauty of daffodils and lilies-of-the-valley. and the few bulbs and pips transplanted from there to my own garden, have thrived and spread so profusely that i, too, can pass them on to others. hardy flowers all summer with carefully chosen bulbs and perennials alone, it is possible to have a succession of lovely blooms. in march your heart will be made happy with snowdrop and crocus; in april with violet, daffodil, narcissus, hyacinth and tulip; in may and june with spirea, peony, iris, forget-me-not, columbine, baby's breath, bleeding heart, mountain pink, candytuft, chinese pink; in july and august, golden glow, hollyhock, larkspur, hardy phlox, snap-dragon; september and october, sunflower, dahlia, gladiolus and aster, with november closing the season with all kinds of beautiful chrysanthemums. and many of these often come earlier than expected, or stay later. how easily raised are they by the person with little time! chapter ii planning and planting the flower beds god the first garden made.--_cowley._ while the snow is on the ground, you can be deciding on the best place for your garden, and finding out the kind of flowers and vegetables best suited to your soil and locality. write to your representative at washington, requesting the seeds he may have to give away. write to two or three prominent seed firms for catalogues, and look over the garden books at your public library. then if you do not quickly find yourself suffering from a violent attack of garden fever, you might as well give up, and not attempt to have a garden, for you will be lacking the real love and enthusiasm that count for success. did you ever realize that gardens differ as much as people? "no two gardens, no two human faces, were ever quite alike," says one writer, and you want to make yours expressive of yourself. so before taking another step, study your grounds, large and small,--for if you can have only part of a tiny plot, you still have many possibilities of expressing your own ideas and taste. the garden is for the personal pleasure of the family, so don't put it out in front, for the careless passerby. choose a more secluded spot where, if you wish, you can train a vine to shade your seat when you want to sit down and enjoy the birds, butterflies and flowers. easy rules for artistic planting right here is the place to stop and draw a map of your proposed garden, and mark off the spaces for your chosen plants. you might draw half a dozen plans, and then choose the most suitable. only never forget the simple rules of a famous landscape gardener:-- . plant in masses, not isolated. . avoid straight lines. . preserve open lawn centers. when you have decided on the location of your garden, coax some one stronger than yourself to dig up the ground thoroughly, and spade in some fertilizer,--preferably farmyard manure. plants live on the tonic salts they draw out of the soil through their roots, as much as they do on the carbonic acid gas which they take out of the air through their leaves. so have the ground nourishing, and also nicely pulverized and free from sticks and stone, that the little rootlets can easily work their way through and find their needed nutriment. never forget that third rule before mentioned,--"preserve open lawn centers." a beautiful lawn is as satisfying to the eye as flowers, so never spoil one by cutting it up with beds. they can be put along the sides, used for bordering walks, and nestled close to the house. plan for small back yard one of the loveliest gardens i know is at the back end of a city lot, not more than thirty feet square, with a plot of velvety grass in the center. the irregular border surrounding this bit of lawn is a mass of flowers from earliest spring until black frost,--from march until december,--and delights the whole neighborhood. the secret lies in the fact that the owner knows how to plant for succession of bloom. the ground is laid out this way. [illustration: plan for a small back yard] if you can have only a single flower bed, however, try to get it in a sunny, protected spot, preferably facing south, where the cold winds of early spring and late fall will do the least damage. make a list of the flowers that like such conditions,--and most of them do,--and then pick out those you prefer, writing after each name the time that it blooms. be sure to select some of each of the early spring, late spring, summer, early fall, and late fall, so that you will have flowers to enjoy the whole season through. succession of bloom for example, you can choose first from the crocus, snowdrop, scilla, the hardy candytuft that rivals the snow for whiteness, and the tiny creeping phlox that will carpet your bed with pink; next, from the daffodil, narcissus and jonquil groups, with the tulips,--all of which must be set out in the fall for bloom in april and may: then the iris in may and june. sweet alyssum, nasturtiums, corn flowers, shirley poppies and cosmos (all annuals), you can count on blooming around new york from july to black frost; dahlias from august to black frost, and monthly roses the entire summer,--with a tidal wave in june. (i know, for i have seen them all, over and over again.) many of the annuals can be started indoors, or in a glass-covered box outside. then when the early flowering bulbs have faded, you can turn their green tops under the ground, first to allow the sap to run back into the bulb (the storehouse for next year), and next to decay and fertilize the soil. the annual seedlings can then be placed right on top! you thus avoid bare, ugly spots, and keep your garden lovely. dahlias planted out about the first of june will bloom from early fall until cold weather sets in; and certain roses, like the mrs. john laing and all of the hybrid teas, will flower nearly as late. in fact, in the famous rose garden of jackson park, chicago, as well as in private grounds around new york, i have seen roses blooming in december. you hardly need be afraid of crowding, either, if you will be particular to keep out the weeds, and occasionally work into the soil some bone-meal for fertilizer. water in dry weather. this does not mean top sprinkling, for that is decidedly injurious. when the ground is dry, soak it thoroughly. a city garden [illustration: an artistic arrangement of a narrow city lot] [illustration: first work in the spring] if you live in a city, you may be interested in a garden i have seen, which ran along the side and rear end of a long, narrow lot. the tallest flowers,--dahlias and hollyhocks,--were at the back of the bed, at the extreme end, and although late in flowering, formed a beautiful green background for the rest all summer. the first irregular section was given up to the blues, and--planted with both annual and perennial larkspur, and cornflowers,--kept the dining-table supplied with blossoms to match the old blue china until the frost came. frost, by the way, you will find of two kinds,--hoar frost, which the psalmist so vividly described when he said, "he scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes," and which injures only the tenderest flowers; and black frost, which is of intense enough cold to freeze the sap within the plant cells, so that when the sun's heat melts this frozen sap the plant--leaf and stalk--wilts down and turns black. therefore, both in the early spring and the late fall, you must watch out for jack, whichever garb he dons, and give your tender plants some nighty covering. a little bed for a little girl if you can have only one small bed, however, you can get a lot of pleasure out of it most of the season if you will carefully choose your plants. pansies set along the outer edge will blossom until mid-summer if you keep them picked and watered every day; and verbenas, which have the same harmonizing shades, you can count on blooming until late in the fall. they would be attractive in either of the following simple designs: [illustration: flowers that will bloom from early summer until frost] candytuft for a border, with petunias in the center, is another combination that should blossom from june until frost. poppies and cornflowers would also last all summer if you would keep out part of the seed and sow a couple of times at intervals of several weeks. the combinations of red and blue is very pretty, too. sweet alyssum, with red or pink geraniums, would be lovely all season. for an all yellow bed, plant california poppies to bloom early in the border, and african marigolds, or tom thumb nasturtiums to bloom in the center from july on late into the fall. with any of the combinations suggested you could gather flowers almost any time you pleased, for they are all profuse bloomers. window boxes if you are a little city child, and can have only a flower box in a window or along a porch-rail, cheer up! there is still a chance for you to have posies all the long hot days. after having your box filled with good, rich soil on top of a layer of broken crockery or stones,--for drainage, you know,--you can plant running nasturtiums along the edge for a hanging vine. inside of that plant a row of the blue lobelia, or set in a few pansies already in bloom. then you would have room for still another row of taller plants,--say pink and white geraniums, with a fern or two. another pretty box could be made by putting wandering jew or "inch plant" along the edge for the drooping vine, then blue ageratum for your edging, with next a row of lovely pink begonias. as it takes a number of weeks for any seeds to grow and come to flower, you might better save your candy pennies and buy a few blooming plants from the spring pedlar. they will gladden your heart while waiting. all kinds of green add to these little boxes, and all the white flowers soften and help to blend the bright colors. china asters, in white, pink, and lavender, are lovely in a window box, and if started in shallow trays or old pots early in the spring, can be transplanted later. then when your early flowers have seen their best days, you can remove them, put in your asters, and have beauties all fall. chapter iii flowers that must be renewed every year--(annuals) and 'tis my faith that every flower enjoys the air it breathes. --_wordsworth._ if you want flowers that grow quickly, plant annuals! some will bloom within six weeks, so if you can help out meantime with some transplanted roots and bulbs, you will have flowers from the first of the season. "plant thickly," says one writer. "it is easier and more profitable to grow flowers than weeds." the following annuals can be sown outdoors late in april, as far north as new york, in ordinary seasons,--only remember that those marked with a * do not like to be transplanted:-- alyssum aster candytuft chrysanthemum (annual) coreopsis (annual) cosmos godetia larkspur (annual) marigold nicotiana pansy petunia phlox drummondi pink, chinese salvia stock, ten weeks' zinnia * california poppy * cornflower * mignonette * morning glory * nasturtium * portulaca * sweet sultan outdoor planting have the soil in your flower bed made fine and light with sand and fertilizer, and entirely free from sticks and stones. if it should happen to be already too sandy, add black loam or leaf mold. (either father or brother will probably have time to help you get this right.) plant your seeds evenly, and rather sparingly if you do not want to pull up a lot later on account of being crowded. and you can plant either in lines or scatter in patches in bed or border, as you prefer, only be sure that the seed is covered about four times its own depth. a few things, like poppies and portulaca, have such tiny seeds that it is best to mix them with half a teaspoonful of fine soil, and scatter it where you wish, afterwards pressing down firmly with a small board. transplanting--annuals when your plants have developed a few leaves, and are big enough to handle, prepare to transplant them. this exercise does them good, and while a few resent it, the rest will grow better and be stronger. choose morning or evening for the work, although it can be done at any time on a cloudy day. (one of my friends loves to do her transplanting in the rain!) be sure that the ground is thoroughly damp, even if you have to sprinkle it well beforehand. puddling lift each seedling with a spoon, so as to keep a ball of the moist earth around the roots, set it in a hole made where you want your flower to grow, and then fill up this hole with water before you begin to put in the rest of the soil. this is called puddling, and will enable you to do your transplanting with the least possible disturbance to the roots. next add all the soil necessary to fill up the hole, and press firmly around the plant. then cover with an old can or berry box, or even a cone of newspaper held in place with stones, until the seedling has had time to get used to its new surroundings. and remember that this "puddling," followed by protection from the sun, will enable you to transplant almost anything you wish, successfully. sweet peas sweet peas require peculiar treatment for an annual. as early as the ground can be worked,--about the middle of march around new york,--get some one to dig you a trench (and it is best to have it run north and south), about fifteen inches deep. have put in this trench a layer of well-rotted manure, then a layer of soil, a sprinkling of wood ashes, and then another layer of soil, filling the trench until it is left only six or eight inches deep. soak your seeds over night in warm water to make them start more quickly, and then plant them two inches apart, in a double row. cover with only a few inches of soil until they sprout, and then gradually fill up the trench as the vines grow. train them on brush or chicken wire, and keep them well watered in order to get the best results. the latest method i have had recommended for growing sweet peas,--but which i have not tried,--is to have the soil just as carefully prepared, but then to rake it smooth, make a straight drill only half an inch deep, and plant seeds every inches in the row. if all three grow, pull up the two weakest, leaving only the best plant every inches apart. this way,--with plenty of water and cultivation, is said to produce the very finest kind of flowers. you might try a few on the side. during the hot weather put grass clippings around the roots to help keep them moist and protected from the hot sun. cut the flowers every day in order to prolong their blooming. a word about names, though, before we go a step farther. i intended at first to give you only the common names, despite the protests of a very good friend,--an english botanist. to clinch her argument one day, she exclaimed with considerable heat, "why, what they call 'baby's breath' here on long island might be 'infant's sneeze' up in connecticut! but if you tell the children it's real name is gypsophila, they'll never be mistaken." and later, when i found that foxglove (originally folk's glove, alluding to the "little folk," or fairies) has been known also--according to holland--as thimbles, fairy cap, fairy fingers, fairy thimbles, fairy bells, dog's fingers, finger flowers, lady's glove, lady fingers, lady's thimble, pop dock, flap dock, flop dock, lion's mouth, rabbit's flower, cottages, throatwort, and scotch mercury, i concluded i would better urge you to remember its latin name, digitalis, by which the plant is known the world over. the botanical terms will easily stick in your mind, too, because they are unusual. then people who are familiar with flowers will know exactly what you are talking about, and you yourself will always have a certain pride in the scientific knowledge that enables you to call things by their right name. you will see, if you study the lists given, what a simple matter it is to plan for a garden, big or little, and with reasonable care you will be rewarded with flowers throughout the season. the following list will give you more explicit information about the ones people like best:-- flowers that must be renewed every year a guide to the common annuals note.--the time that they will bloom and the quality of your flowers will depend on the time you sow your seed, on your soil, your location, and your care. the dates given apply to the locality around new york, and will be earlier if you are south, and later if north, of this section. both the height and the flowering time of the same plants vary with the different varieties, so find out the particular kind you get. the richer the soil, the finer the flowers, as a rule, and therefore fertilizer of some kind should be applied at least once a season, about the time the buds are forming. ================+=======+=======+==========+===========+=========+========+======== | | | sow | sow | good | |blooming name | color |height | indoors | outdoors | for | place | season ----------------+-------+-------+----------+-----------+---------+--------+-------- ageratum |blue | in. | march | may | edging | sun |june to (_ageratum |white | | | | | |frost conyzoides_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | alyssum, sweet |white | to | march | april to | edging | sun |june to | | in. | | sept. | | |frost | | | | | | | antirrhinum, | | | | | | | see | | | | | | | snapdragon | | | | | | | | | | | | | | aster, china |white | to | march | april, | bed | sun |aug. to (_callistephus |pink | in. | | may | | |sept. hortensis_) |violet | | | | | | | | | | | | | baby's breath |white | to | | april | border | sun |may (_gypsophila_) | | ft. | | | | |(sow | | | | | | |again) | | | | | | | bachelor's | | | | | | | buttons, see | | | | | | | cornflower | | | | | | | | | | | | | | balsam |white | to | march | may | border | sun |july to (_impatiens |red | ft. | april | | bed | |oct. balsamina_) |yellow | | | | | | | | | | | | | california |yellow | in. | | april | edging | sun |june to poppy |white | | | (sow in | | |frost (_eschscholtzia|orange | | |succession)| | | californica_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | candytuft | white | to | | april, | edging | sun |june to (_iberis_) | pink | in. | | and every | | |frost | red | | | two weeks | | | | | | | after | | | | | | | | | | castor-oil bean | | to | | april |tropical | sun | until (_ricinus_) | | ft. | | | effects | | frost | | | | | | | china aster, | | | | | | | see aster | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]coreopsis |yellow | to | | april | border | sun |june to (_coreopsis | | ft. | | | bed | |oct. lanceolata_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | cornflower | blue | to | | april | border | sun |june to (_centaurea | | ft. | | | bed | |frost cyanus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | cosmos | white | to | march | april | back of | sun |july to | pink | ft. | | | border | |frost |crimson| | | | | | | | | | | | | cypress vine | red | to | april | may | screen | sun |june, (_ipom[oe]a | white | ft. | | | | |july quamoclit_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | eschscholtzia, | | | | | | | see california| | | | | | | poppy | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [b]forget-me-not| blue | to | | april to | bed | half |april to (_myosotis_) | | in.| | july | | shade |fall | | | | | | | floss flower, | | | | | | | see ageratum | | | | | | | | | | | | | | gilliflower, | | | | | | | see ten weeks'| | | | | | | stock | | | | | | | | | | | | | | godetia |white | to | march | may | border | shade |july to | red | ft. | | | bed | or |oct. | | | | | | sun | | | | | | | | gypsophila, | | | | | | | see | | | | | | | baby's breath | | | | | | | | | | | | | | hyacinth bean |purple | to | | may | screen | sun |july to (_dolichos_) | white | ft. | | | | |frost | | | | | | | lady's slipper, | | | | | | | see balsam | | | | | | | | | | | | | | larkspur, annual|white | to | | april | border | sun |july to (_delphinium_)| pink | ft | | | bed | |frost | blue | | | | | | | | | | | | | lobelia | blue | to | march | may | edging | sun |june to (_lobelia | | in. | | | | |nov. erinus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | lupin |most | ft. |successive|from may on| border |partial |from (_lupinus_) | shades| | sowing | | bed | shade |june on | | | | | | | marigold, |yellow | ft. | march | may | border | sun | african | | | | | bed | |aug. to (_tagetes | | | | | | |frost erecta_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | mignonette |white | ft. | | april | border | sun |june to (_reseda | red | | | and july | bed | |oct. odorata_) | yellow| | | | | | | | | | | | | morning-glory |white | to | | april | vine | sun |july to (_convolvulus_)| pink | ft.| | | | |frost | purple| | | | | | | | | | | | | myosotis, see | | | | | | | forget-me-not | | | | | | | | | | | | | | nasturtium |yellows| to | | april |climber | sun |july to (_tropæolum_) |to reds| ft.| | may | dwarf | |frost | | | | | | | nicotiana, see | | | | | | | tobacco plant | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]pansy (_viola|no red | to | feb. | april | bed | half |may to tricolor_) | | in.| | may | | shade |oct. | | | | | | | petunia | white | to | |on surface | border | sun |june to (_petunia | to | ft.| | in may | bed | |frost hybrida_) |magenta| | | | | | | | | | | | | phlox, annual | white | ft.| march | may | border | sun |june to (_phlox | pink | | | | bed | |frost drummondi_) | red | | | | | | | | | | | | | [b]pink, chinese|white | ft. | feb. | march | border | sun |all (_dianthus | pink | | | april | bed | |summer chinensis_) | rose | | | | | | | | | | | | | poppy, shirley | white | to | | march, | bed | sun |june to (_papaver | pink | ft. | | april | | |oct. rhæas_) | red | | |later for | | | | | | |succession | | | | | | | | | | portulaca |no blue| to | | may st |carpeting| in |all (_portulaca | | in. | | | | dry, |summer grandiflora_) | | | | | | sunny | | | | | | |position| | | | | | | | rose moss, | | | | | | | see portulaca | | | | | | | | | | | | | | sage, blue or | | | | | | | scarlet, | | | | | | | see salvia | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]salvia | white | ft. | march | may | border | sun |july to | blue | | | | bed | |frost |scarlet| | | | | | | | | | | | | scarlet runner | red | ft. | | april |climber | sun |july to bean | | | | | | |frost | | | | | | | [a]snapdragon |no blue| to | march | may | border | sun |july to (_antirrhinum_)| | ft. | | | bed | |frost | | | | | | | stock, |white | to | march | may | border | sun |july to ten weeks' | pink | ft. | | | bed | |frost (_matthiola | purple| | | | | | incana_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | sunflower |yellow | to | | april |back of | sun |july to (_helianthus | | ft. | | | bed | |frost annus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | sun plant, | | | | | | | see portulaca | | | | | | | | | | | | | | sweet pea | all | to | | march | back of | sun |july to (_lathyrus |colors | ft. | | | border | |oct. odoratus_) | | | | | vines | | | | | | | | | [b]sweet william|white | to | | april | border | sun |july to (_dianthus | | in. | | | bed | |oct. barbatus_) | pink | | | | | | | red | | | | | | | | | | | | | tobacco plant |white | to | | may | border | sun |july to (_nicotiana_) | pink | ft. | | | | |oct. | red | | | | | | |purple | | | | | | | | | | | | | verbena |no blue| ft. | march | may | border | sun |june to | | | | | bed | |oct. | | | | | | | zinnia |yellows| to | march | may | border | sun |june to (_zinnia |to reds| ft. | | | bed | |oct. elegans_) | | | | | | | ----------------+-------+-------+----------+-----------+---------+--------+-------- footnotes: [a] a tender perennial, flowering the first year from seed sown early. [b] a biennial, flowering the first year from seed sown early. chapter iv flowers that live through two years in all places then, and in all seasons, flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, teaching us by most persuasive reasons, how akin they are to human things. --_longfellow._ between the flowers that we have to plant every year,--the annuals,--and those that after once being started continue to greet us summer after summer,--the perennials,--comes a little group of old favorites that has to be planted one summer (and then generally protected from the cold), in order to bring them to their full beauty the second year. and as few of them self-sow, it is necessary to plant and carry over every season. the biennial seeds are best sown in the seed nursery, where they can be watched and protected. in the late summer the young plants will be big and strong enough to set out in the border, although you must give them a light covering of leaves and litter. the seeds started in july and august, however, better be left protected in the nursery and moved in the early spring. the dainty blue forget-me-not, or myosotis, is one of the best loved of this class. some varieties are hardy, and often found growing wild. it generally does best in a damp, partly shaded location. it grows from to inches high, according to the different kinds, which blossom most of the summer. the seeds of biennials seldom produce flowers the first summer, but several--and among them the myosotis,--after being grown a few years in the same spot, come up like perennials, on account of sowing themselves. the foxglove is another of the few biennials that are hardy, and it also likes a cool, shady spot. if the plants come up thickly, transplant part of them to any well-prepared, rich ground, and keep moist and well cultivated until the middle of september, when you should move them again to their permanent home. foxgloves, like forget-me-nots, sow themselves, and the little plants coming up this way should be transplanted and given plenty of room to grow and become strong before their time to bloom. do not forget to cover during the winter! english daisies (which are tender perennials), and pansies (which generally are grown as annuals), can both be started in the seed nursery in august, thinned out and protected before cold weather sets in, and then moved to where you wish them to bloom, in the early spring. canterbury bells do best when the seed is sown the middle of april in ground that is rich, well prepared, moist, and partly shady. the middle of july move to a temporary place, and set the plants to inches apart. then early in october transplant to where you want them to blossom the next season. but before the frost comes, protect these tender little plants with some old berry boxes, then straw or leaves over the top, and in the spring work a small quantity of fertilizer around the roots. tie the stalks as they begin to get tall, to stout stakes, to prevent their being blown over by storms: and if you will keep cutting off the old flowers so they will not go to seed, you can coax your plants to bloom an extra month or six weeks. properly treated, they will last from july to the middle of september. but to enjoy these lovely visitors regularly, it is necessary to plant the seed every year. of the border carnations, the chabaud and marguerite types are hardy enough to stand the winter if slightly covered, and will flower profusely the second year, but they make off-shoots, which bring to bloom a few weeks after sowing. hollyhocks from seed do not blossom until the second year, but they make off-shoots, which bring flowers every season thereafter. and as they sow themselves, people often mistake them for perennials. they come both single and double, and are especially lovely against a wall or a green background. the evening primrose, tall and stately, with large yellow flowers, is easily grown in almost any soil. it thrives in almost any soil, and blooms the entire summer. of the wallflowers, the biennial variety will blossom most of the summer if grown in a moist, shady place and not allowed to go to seed. these come in yellows, reddish brown and purplish brown. they need winter protection. the horned poppy, though a biennial, will flower the first year if started indoors in march. it likes an open, sunny spot, and if old flowers are kept picked off, will bloom all summer. sweet william is another old-fashioned garden favorite that is usually considered a perennial, but which does its best the second year from seed. as it self-sows, it goes on forever, like tennyson's brook, once it gets started. in protecting, however, do not get fertilizer directly over the crown, or it will cause decay. mullein pink, or rose campion as it is often called, is another of our grandmothers' pets, and if started very early, will flower the first season. now all of the biennials i have described are easily grown, and sure to bring great pleasure. and really it is worth while to curb one's impatience, and wait, when necessary, until the second season, for the sake of these lovely hardy beauties. flowers that live through two years a guide to the common biennials note.--english daisies (a perennial), forget-me-nots, hollyhocks and pansies are often started about the st of august. most of the biennials need slight protection during the winter. remember that in nearly every case seed must be sown every year in order to secure succession of bloom. -----------------+-------+----------+---------+--------+--------+-----+-------- | | | sow | sow | | |blooming name | color | height | indoors |outdoors|good for|place|season -----------------+-------+----------+---------+--------+--------+-----+-------- [a]canterbury |white | ½ ft. | march | may | border | sun |june, bells |pink | | st | june | | |july (_campanula |blue | | | | | | medium_) |purple | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]carnation, |white | to ft.| | may | border | sun |august border |pink | | | | | | (_dianthus | | | | | | | caryophyllus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [d]english daisy |white | to in.| | july | border | sun |april, (_bellis |pink | aug. | | | bed | |may perennis_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | evening primrose |yellow | ft. | many | may | border | sun |june to (_oenothera | | |varieties| june | | |sept. biennis_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | forget-me-not |blue | to ft.|self-sows| may |border |half |april to (_myosotis_) | | | | june | |shade|sept. | | | | | | | foxglove |pinkish| to ft.| |april to|border |half |june, (_digitalis_) |purple | | |june |clumps |shade|july |white | | | | |or | |yellow | | | | |sun | | | | | | | | hollyhock |white | to ft.|self-sows| may, |back of |sun |july, (_althæa |pink | |also | june or|border | |aug. rosea_) |rose | |makes | aug. |or | | |yellow | |offsets | |clumps | | |red | | | | | | | | | | | | | horned poppy |yellow | in. | |may |border |sun |july (_glaucium |orange | | |june | | |to sept. luteum_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [c]mullein pink |white | to | |may st |border |sun |june, (_lychnis | to | ½ ft. | | |rockery | |july coronaria_) |crimson| | | | | | | | | | | | | rose campion, see| | | | | | | mullein pink | | | | | | | | | | | | | | wallflower |yellow | to | |may |border |sun | may (_cheiranthus |to | ½ ft. | |june |rockery | or | cheiri_) |browns | | | | |part | |and | | | | |shad | |purples| | | | | | | | | | | | | pansy, more | | | | | | | easily treated | | | | | | | as an annual | | | | | | | -----------------+-------+----------+---------+--------+--------+-----+------- footnotes: [c] will blossom the first year from seed that is sown as early as possible. [d] a perennial often started in august, so it will bloom the next spring. chapter v flowers that come up every year by themselves (perennials) no, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets, but as truly loves on to the close; as the sunflower turns on her god when he sets the same look which she turn'd when he rose. --_moore._ that big word aristocracy simply means "those who rise above the rest of the community in any important respect,"--and rightly, indeed, are the perennials called "the aristocrats of the garden." they are strong and sturdy (good points in both people and flowers), and can be depended on to appear about a certain time, make us a nice visit with all their loveliest clothes, and show their appreciation of our attention and care by returning every season with increased beauty and grace. a few of the perennials, such as the peony and the iris, grow so slowly that generally people haven't the patience to wait for them to flower from seed, and instead try to get some roots from their more fortunate friends, or buy from a florist. but i will tell you more about this class in connection with the bulb and tuber families. the seed bed while a small number of these beauties will bloom the first year if started early in the spring, most of them make their début in garden society the second summer. before that they have to be watched, or they might meet with accident. a good way, therefore, is to have a little bed (preferably a cold frame) for a seed nursery off to one side, in a safe place, where the baby plants can be cared for, protected from cold, and tended like the infants they are, until grown up and old enough to enter the society of bed or border. in such a place the seeds should be planted in fine, rich soil, preferably from the middle of may to the st of july, and all carefully marked. sow thinly, and then cover the seed by sifting over with fine soil from / to / inch deep. sprinkle very lightly by means of a whisk broom dipped in water, so as not to wash out the seed, and if you possibly can, cover with a piece of glass. keep in the shade at first, and never let dry out. some of this seed will germinate in less than a week, while some may take so long that you will think it is not going to grow at all! but don't give up; and maybe some day when you have forgotten all about it, you will discover a lot of new babies in your nursery. transplanting perennials as soon as your seedlings are big and strong enough to be handled, they must be carefully lifted and set in another part of the nursery, not less than inches apart, protected from the hot sun, and left until they become strong, sturdy children. then early in the fall, before the middle of september, you can take them up very gently, without disturbing their tiny rootlets, and put them with their friends and relatives in the garden, wherever you wish them to bloom the following summer. of course you couldn't,--and you wouldn't want to grow everything you ever saw or heard about! just think of the fun, however, of picking out a small number that will be sure to give you flowers, one after another, from earliest spring until cold weather! yet the following list, suggested by one authority, is easy to get and little trouble to care for: perennials for a whole season's bloom creeping phlox (_phlox subulata_); white, rose, lavender; bloom april and may. lily-of-the-valley (_convallaria majalis_); white; may, june. bleeding heart (_dicentra spectabilis_); rose pink; april through june. iris (_fleur-de-lis_); white, purple, yellow; april to july. peony (_pæonia officinalis_); white, rose to crimson; may, june. larkspur (_delphinium_); blues; june, july, september. balloon flower (_platycodon_); blue, purple, white; july to october. phlox, hardy (_phlox paniculata_); no blue nor real yellow; june through september. golden glow (_rudbeckia laciniata_); yellow; august. blanket flower (_gaillardia aristata_); yellow, red; july to october. boltonia (_boltonia latisquama_); lilac; august to october. sunflower (_helianthus_); yellow; july to october. [illustration: kim and columbine] the fault that i would find with the gentleman's list is that he has omitted chrysanthemums, which could be substituted for sunflowers to most people's satisfaction,--and which also would bloom as late as november. also i should prefer columbine to his bleeding hearts,--and the golden-spurred variety will bloom from early may to early august! above all, instead of boltonia, i would use the adorable snapdragons, which, although considered a "tender perennial," will survive cold weather if well protected. but then, as i once heard, "a man's garden is like his wife, whom he never would think of comparing with anybody else's." so you don't have to follow any one's choice. just make a list of the flowers that you like, find out when they bloom, and then choose as few or as many as you have room for, remembering to plan for something lovely every month of the blooming season. one note of warning, however. after you have made your list, consult some friend that is a successful gardener, and make sure that what you have chosen will thrive in your particular locality. if you find it does not, strike it off, and put in something that will. flowers that come up every year by themselves a guide to the common perennials note.--a few of these will blossom the first summer, if started early. also, some varieties of the same plant will flower in the spring, others in the fall. make sure which kind you get. ------------------+--------+-------+-------+--------+-----------+------+---------- | | | sow | sow | | |blooming name | color |height |indoors|outdoors| good for |place | season ------------------+--------+-------+-------+--------+-----------+------+---------- alyssum (_alyssum |rich | ft. | | may |rockery |half |april, saxatile_) |yellow | | | june |edging |shade | may | | | | |or sun | | | | | | | | | anemone, japanese |rose | to | | may |border |half |sept., (_anemone |white | ft. | | june |bed |shade | oct. japonica_) | | | | | |or sun| | | | | | | | aster, hardy |white | to | | may |anywhere |shade |aug. to (_aster novæ- |pink | ft. | | june | |or sun| oct. angliæ_) |lavender| | | | | | |purple | | | | | | | | | | | | | baby's breath |white | to | | may |rockery | sun |june, (_gypsophila | | ft. | | june |border | | july paniculata_) | | | | | | | balloon flower |white | to | | may |border | sun |july to (_platycodon_) |blue | ft. | | june | | | oct. | | | | | | | begonia, hardy |white | to | | may |border | sun |june to (_begonia |pink | ft. | | june | | | aug. evansiana_) |rose | | | | | | | | | | | | | bellflower |white | to | | may |border | sun |june, (_campanula_) |blue | ft. | | june | | | july | | | | | | | [a]blanket flower |red | to | | may |border | sun |july to (_gaillardia | yellow | ft. | | june |bed | |oct. aristata_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | bleeding heart |pink | ft. | | may |border |likes |may, (_dicentra | | | | june |bed | half |june spectabilis_) | | | | | | shade| | | | | | | | boltonia |lilac | to | | may |border | sun |aug. to (_boltonia | | ft. | | june |bed | | oct. latisquama_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | candytuft, hardy |white | to | | may |border | sun |april, (_iberis | | in.| | june |edging | |may sempervirens_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | chrystmas rose |white | to | | may |border |half |dec. to (_helleborus | | in.| | june | | shade|march, niger_) | | | | | | |_outdoors_ | | | | | | | chrysanthemum, |no | to | | may |border | sun |sept. to hardy |blue | ft. | | june | bed | | nov. | | | | | | | columbine |all | to | | may |rockery | sun |may to (_aguilegia_) |shades | ft. | | june |bed | | aug. | | | | | | | coreopsis |yellow | to | | may |border | sun |june to (_coreopsis | | ft. | | june |bed | | oct. lanceolata_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | daisy, english |pink | to | | may |bed | sun |april to (_bellis |white | in. | | june | | | june perennis_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | delphinium |blue | to |march | may |border | sun |june, (_delphinium |to | ft. | | june |bed | |july, sep. formosum_, |white | | | | | |oct. cut _d. belladonna_,| | | | | | |down after _d. chinense_) | | | | | | |each | | | | | | |flowering | | | | | | | flag, see iris | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [b]forget-me-not, |blue | to | | may |border |shade |may to perennial | | in.| | june | |or sun| fall (_myosotis | | | | | | | palustris_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [c]foxglove |white | to | | may |border | half |june, (usually |purple | ft. | | june |bed | shade|july biennial) |rose | | | | | | (_digitalis_) |yellow | | | | | | | | | | | | | fraxinella, | | | | | | | see gas plant | | | | | | | | | | | | | | gaillardia, see | | | | | | | blanket flower | | | | | | | | | | | | | | gas plant |rose | ½ ft |long | may |border | sun |june, (_dictamnus |white | | lived | june |bed | |july albus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | golden glow |yellow | to | | may |back of | sun |july to (_rudbeckia | | ft. | | june | border | | sept. laciniata_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [b]hollyhock |all | to | | may |back of | sun |july, (_althæa rosea_)|shades | ft. | | june | border | |august | | | | | or bed | | | | | | | | | iris |white | to | | may |border | sun |may to |purple | ft. | | june |bed | | july |yellow | | | |clump | | |maroon | | | | | | | | | | | | | larkspur, | | | | | | | see delphinium | | | | | | | | | | | | | | lupin |white | to | | may |border |sun or|may, (_lupinus_) |blue | ft. | | june |bed | half |june |pink | | | |clump | shade| |yellow | | | | | | | | | | | | | madwort, | | | | | | | see alyssum | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]mallow, musk |white | to | | may |border |sun or|july to (_malva|rose | | ft. | | june | | shade| sept. moschata_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | michaelmas daisy, | | | | | | | see aster | | | | | | | | | | | | | | monk's-hood |blue to | to |slow to| may |_poisonous_|sun or|july to (_aconitum |white | ft. | start | june | |shade |sept. napellus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | moss pink, see | | | | | | | _phlox subulata_| | | | | | | | | | | | | | mullein pink |white | to | | may |border |sun |june, (_lychnis |red | ft. | | june |bed | |july coronaria_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | myosotis, see | | | | | | | forget-me-not | | | | | | | | | | | | | | myrtle, see | | | | | | | periwinkle | | | | | | | | | | | | | | pansy |white | to |march | april |border |sun or|all (_viola |blue | in. | | may |bed |half |summer, tricolor_) |yellow | | | | |shade |with |purple | | | | | |care | | | | | | | peony |white | ft. |slow | may |border |sun or|may, (_pæonia |rose | |grower | june |clumps |half |june officinalis_) |crimson | | | | |shade | | | | | | | | periwinkle |blue | to |march | may |trailing |shaded|all (_vinca minor_) |white | in.| | june | vine |bare |summer | | | | | |spots | phlox, perennial |no blue | to |slow | may |border | sun |aug., (_phlox | or | ft. | | june | bed | |sept. paniculata_) | yellow | | | | | | (_phlox |white | in. | | may |carpeting | sun |april, subulata_) |pink | | | june |border | |may |lavender| | | | | | | | | | | | | pink, grass |white | ft. | | may |rockery | sun |may, (_dianthus |vari- | | | june |border | |june plumaris_) |colored | | | | | | | | | | | | | platycodon, | | | | | | | see bellflower | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]poppy, iceland |white | ft. | | april |border | sun |june to (_papaver |red | | | may |bed | | oct. nudicaule_ |yellow | | | | | | | | | | | | | poppy, oriental |scarlet | ft. | | march |border | sun |june, (_papaver |orange | | | april |bed | |july orientale_) |to pink | | | | | | | | | | | | | pyrethrum |white | ft. | | may |border | sun |june, (_chrysanthemum |rose | | | june |bed | |july coccineum_) |crimson | | | | | | | | | | | | | [a]rocket, sweet |white | to | | may |border | sun |june to (_hesperis_) |to | ft. | | june |clump | | aug. |purple | | | | | | | | | | | | | rockmadwort, | | | | | | | see alyssum | | | | | | | | | | | | | | rose campion, | | | | | | | see mullein pink| | | | | | | | | | | | | | rudbeckia, | | | | | | | see golden glow | | | | | | | | | | | | | | sage, see salvia | | | | | | | | | | | | | | salvia |white | to | | may |border | sun |may to (perennial) |blue | ft. | | june |bed | | sept. | | | | | | | [f]snapdragon |no | to |march |may st |border | sun |june to (_antirrhinum_) |blues | ft. | | |bed | | oct. | | | | | | | sunflower |yellow | to | | may |back of | sun |sept. to (_helianthus_) | | ft. | | june |border | |nov. | | | | | | | [e]sweet william |white | ft. | | may |border | sun |june to (_dianthus |pink | | | june |bed | | aug. barbatus_) |maroon | | | | | | | | | | | | | tickseed, see | | | | | | | coreopsis | | | | | | | | | | | | | | [g]wallflower |yellows | to | | may |rock |part |may (_cheiranthus | to | ½ ft.| | june |garden | shade| cheiri_) |browns | | | | or | | | and | | | |border | | |purples | | | | | | | | | | | | | windflower, |white | to | | may |clump |part |april snowdrop | | ½ ft.| | june |border |shade |to (_anemone | | | | | |or sun|july sylvestris_) | | | | | | | ------------------+--------+-------+-------+--------+-----------+------+---------- footnotes: [e] will bloom the first year from seed sown in march. [f] perennial in the south, but should be grown annually in the north. [g] really a biennial. chapter vi flowers that spring from a storehouse (bulbs and tubers) consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet i say unto you that even solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. --_matthew_ vi, , . if you are going to be a really-truly gardener, you will want to know something about the plants and flowers that you try to grow, so let's have a few words right here about the difference between the bulb and tuber families. they can be classed together because they both spring from what is in fact a storehouse filled one season with food to help them through the next season's bloom! hyacinths and daffodils, for example, come from bulbs, which are built up, layer on layer, exactly like an onion. dahlias and cannas, however, grow from a tuber, which is an underground knob on the stem, quite a little like a sweet potato, and which sends out the shoots that make new plants. the crocus and the gladiolus both spring from a corm, which differs from the bulb in that it is solid (not in layers), and from the tuber in that it is not like a potato in shape but oval. the iris, though, grows from a rhizome, a thickened root running along the ground (often half exposed), which throws up the new plants as it spreads. the bulb and tuber families are treated very much alike. some of each are left in the ground year after year, like the daffodils and the lilies, while others, like the cannas and dahlias, have to be dug up, allowed to dry a little in the open air, and then stored in a cool, dark place for the winter. the rhizomes do not have to be "lifted," but are increased generally by root division,--cutting off a piece of the root soon after flowering, and planting where it will get a good start before next season's time to bloom. some people today would follow mohammed's advice: "he that hath two cakes of bread, let him sell one of them--for bread is only food for the body, but the narcissus is food for the soul;" but few individuals--let alone a nation--would grow so wildly enthusiastic as once did the dutch, as to spend every last possession to buy tulips! but we dearly love all of these groups, and are using them in increasing numbers every season. the fascinating work of growing certain kinds indoors during the winter i tell you about in the chapter on "the care of house plants," so here we will consider the outdoor culture. the delicate snowdrop is the very earliest of these visitors, and planted in groups in half-shady places,--like under trees,--where they will not be disturbed, will thereafter take care of themselves. then quickly follow the lovely crocuses, white, yellow, lavender, purple, and the varigated, which often are planted right where they fall after being scattered broadcast over the lawn,--though if the head of the house cuts the grass before the middle of april they should be set in a bed where they will not be touched. hyacinths are beautiful, but personally i do not care much about them in the garden, as they generally have to be planted in masses to get any effect, and need, therefore, to be used in large numbers, are more expensive than the other bulbs, and should be taken out of the ground soon after blooming and stored in a cool place until fall. however, one enthusiast that i know plants in rings of , and leaves them in the ground! the daffodil, jonquil and narcissus are three types of the narcissus family, the daffodils usually being distinguished by their long trumpets, while the jonquils and narcissi have the little cup-like centers, and, moreover, are fragrant. they should be planted in the late fall, in. below the surface, in soil that has been enriched in. below the bulb. they increase rapidly, and do not have to be taken up, or even divided for years. if set in a border where their room is needed after they bloom, simply turn the tops down under the soil, and sow over them any low-growing annual, such as candytuft or poppies. my friend of the tiny "handkerchief" garden described in chapter ii, has--think of it!--over of these various spring-flowering bulbs in her border that are treated this way, and never taken up! yet a few weeks after they have bloomed, the space they occupied is filled with new beauties. tulips--but as i told you, they once drove a whole country mad! today we have probably far more beautiful ones,--and many can be bought in the fall at planting time, for $ . per hundred! some bloom early, some late; some are short, some tall; some are cheap, some expensive. they will grow in partial shade or sun, and can be planted in groups in the border, or in marginal rows for edging. by carefully choosing from both the early and late varieties, you can enjoy your tulips for nearly two months; and by as carefully choosing your colors, have all sorts of artistic combinations. they should be planted or in. deep if the soil is heavy, and an inch deeper in soil that is light, and set in. apart. they will prove a joy to your heart. tuberous-rooted begonias supply a much-felt want for lovely flowers in half-shady or shady places. if the bulbs are started in the house in sand in february, they will be in full leaf when ready to set out in may, and will bloom from june until frost. don't, please don't, plant them upside down, but be sure that the rounded part rests on the soil. they require light, rich earth, with plenty of water, given after sundown. cannas only too often are planted in big, showy beds where they break our rule of "open lawn centers." in fact, they are a little hard to place, but look well in a corner, in beds along a drive, or outlining a boundary. the ground should be spaded ft. deep, well fertilized, and then kept watered. set plants ft. apart. the iris is one of the most beautiful and most satisfactory of all the hardy plants. it grows in almost any soil, and any situation, but does best in rich ground, with plenty of water. it may be planted either in early spring or after august. the dwarf varieties, from to in. high, bloom during march, april and may; the german iris, standing often ft. high, in may; and the marvelous japanese kinds, sometimes ft., with blossoms to in. across, closing the season in july! (in heavy soil they are not so tall.) when used alone in beds, one prominent grower suggests that the german iris be combined with hardy asters (set in between), and the japanese with gladioli, to keep a succession of bloom until late fall. lilies for the garden are of many varieties, requiring different kinds of treatment. as a general rule, however, when the soil is heavy, set your bulb in a nice little nest of sand, and give a blanket of the same before filling in with the ordinary earth. lilies-of-the-valley will grow almost anywhere, but do well in a half-shady position. they should be planted in masses, and fertilized in september. when too thick, they can be transplanted in the early spring. they increase rapidly. the gladiolus (accent on the i, please,) can get along in almost any kind of soil,--though it does best in rich,--if only it is planted in the sunshine. the ground should be well dug up and fertilized beforehand and around new york the corms set as early as april. then, for succession of bloom, plant at least every days up to july st. after they are well started, fertilize with (preferably) sheep manure, dug in around the roots, every two weeks. cultivate often, and keep well watered. plant gladioli at least in. apart, and in. deep, and tie up for protection to -ft. stakes. lift your bulbs,--corms, i should have said,--late in the fall, let them dry in the air a few days, and then store in a cool, dark place, free from frost. narcissi are described with the daffodils. peonies are classed with the perennials, in chapter iii. their tuberous roots are best divided and set out in september. they can be left undisturbed for five or six years. tuberoses can now be procured which will bloom from may until frost. they are easily grown, with no particular care, and take up very little room. stake for safety from storms. the dahlia next,--saved until the last for all the space i could possibly give it! and so popular is this flower today, that some growers raise nothing else!! one man offers us over _named_ varieties!!! moreover, a great big club, known as the american dahlia society, has been formed by people who are interested in--and wish to help along--the growing of dahlias. and it's no wonder that they are popular, for no other flower can be grown in the garden that will give as many, as large, as vari-colored and as beautiful flowers as the dahlias. coming in every shade but true blue, and ranging from the tiny button pom-pon to the largest prim show or the formal decorative,--from the unique collarette to the ragged pæony-flowered, the amateur gardener can hardly believe that they really all belong to one family! of such easy culture, too. anybody can grow them! any good, well-drained garden soil will do, but must have manure spaded in in. deep and the tubers must be planted in the sun. the poorer the ground, though, the more fertilizer will you have to use. heavy soil should be dug up and mixed with ashes to make it light. plant the tubers _lengthwise_--not up and down!--in a drill at least in. deep, and not less than ½ ft. apart. for early flowering, put in your bulbs as soon as all danger of frost is past, but do not set near trees or shrubs that would take their nourishment. when they sprout, pull up all shoots but one or two, in order to produce the finest flowers. keep the ground well cultivated, but do not water until after the buds have formed, otherwise you will have principally stalks and leaves. but once the buds do show, water frequently in order to enrich the color, and dig in fertilizer around the roots several times during the flowering season, to produce fine, big blossoms. [illustration: taking care of table ferns] tie each plant to a -ft. stake, to protect from the wind, but in driving be careful not to pierce--and ruin--your tuber. nip off all the buds that are imperfect or weak, and cut your flowers with their attendant buds and foliage. they will look better, and no further disbudding of the plants will be necessary. and the more you cut, the better your dahlias will bloom! soon after frost has killed the leaves, carefully dig up the tubers with a spading fork. you will be surprised to find often half-a-dozen where you set but one! allow them to dry in the air for a day or two, then put away in a cool, dark cellar, with a bag or paper thrown over them, and leave for the winter. in the spring when ready to plant again, cut each tuber so it will have a little bit of the heart of the clump on its end, as it is close to this that the new shoots start. growing dahlias from seed is a most fascinating pastime, for there is no telling what you may get! the child is rarely, if ever, like its mother,--and this is the only way that we get the new varieties. you might happen to grow one of the finest yet! the seed is started early indoors, and very easily grown. certainly it is worth trying. chapter vii that queen--the rose gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying. --_herrick._ every one longs for roses, the most highly prized of all the flowers; and roses today can be grown almost anywhere. rose growers have finally succeeded in budding the tender tea rose on to the hardy briar and also on to the more recent manetti stock, and in crossing the teas with the hybrid perpetuals,--developed from the old june favorites. the result is ideal roses, that are hardy and bloom all season, with the desired lovely coloring and fragrance. many of the so-called june roses also have been coaxed to bloom all season, while all those that i draw to your attention are among the loveliest and most easily grown. with even three or four, well taken care of, you should be able,--as far north as new york,--to cut a bud any time you wish from may to november. these hybrid teas and hybrid perpetuals are the most satisfactory for growing in this climate. field-grown stock, in dormant condition, is brought here from holland every spring early in march, and good plants can be bought as low as fifteen or twenty cents apiece. the weather is usually fit for them to be set out by the th of march, and they will produce more and better roses than the costlier potted plants procurable later. the american grown roses, however, are really the best, as they are adapted to our soil and climatic conditions, and produce both more and better flowers. of these potted plants, though, just a word. the richmond, a deep, rich red, and the single white killarney, i have found exceptionally good, free bloomers; and with little winter covering they should, on account of a season's rest, be better the second year. the -inch or "bench plants," as they are termed, sell for only cents each. these can be set out from april on all summer. as soon as a rose bush comes into your hand, whether from a dealer or a friend, get it into the ground as quickly as possible. if its permanent home is not ready, dig a little trench and cover it entirely with the moist earth for a few days. but never, oh, never! allow the roots to dry out. while a few specimen roses may be set out anywhere (as long as they do not cut up the lawn and so violate the landscape rule, "preserve open lawn centers"), a number of rose bushes are usually preferred set together in a bed, from to ft. wide. making a rose bed have your rose bed with a south or east exposure if possible, as many roses so planted will not "winter kill," and others need but little protection. dig a trench about ½ ft. deep, and put in the bottom a layer of cow manure, as this will be lasting. over this put a layer of good top soil for the plants to rest on, so that they do not directly touch the fertilizer. then hold your rose with your left hand while you straighten out the roots, and sprinkle enough fine soil to hold it in position while you set the next bush. be sure that your budding point is inches below the level of the ground,--and baily says even ! when all are in place, fill the trench half full of soil, and then nearly to the top with water. after this has sunk in, add the rest of your rich top soil, and pack down hard with your foot, so as to shut out the air from the roots, leaving the packed earth at least an inch below the surrounding surface to catch and hold the moisture. potted roses, however, should be sunk with as little disturbance to the roots as possible. then over the smoothly raked surface of the bed spread leaves, litter or grass clippings, to keep the sun from drying out the earth. some gardeners for this purpose cover the bed with pansies, english daisies, and similar low flowers, though many like better to see nicely cultivated soil. to have splendid roses, however, you must supply plenty of food and drink! when the buds start, dig in around the roots every two weeks, two tablespoonfuls of bonemeal, and wet thoroughly. manure from the chicken house is especially good as the chickens are meat eaters, and it is, therefore, better adapted to the needs of the roses and easily absorbed by the rootlets. but use carefully--not more than a small trowelful at a time, and that well mixed with the soil. one of the very best foods is cheaply made as follows: rose fertilizer lbs. sheep manure, lbs. bonemeal, lb. scotch soot. mix well. give a level trowelful to roots of each rosebush every two weeks, after buds start, and wet down thoroughly. being hearty feeders, roses need a rich, light soil, and they do best in an open, sunny spot, away from the roots of trees and shrubs that would steal their food. and while they do not thrive in low, damp ground, neither do they stand being set "high and dry." too damp beds should be drained with a first layer of small stones or gravel. cultivate your roses every week or ten days, and keep the ground covered with grass clippings unless it is protected from the sun by the shade of other plants. cut off close to the parent stem any wild shoots or "suckers,"--generally recognizable by their briary stems,--as they will cause the budded part to die. fall protection late in the fall mound up the earth well around the roots of all your roses, and give them a good covering of coarse manure or leaves. the more tender kinds can be laid over and protected with litter or boughs. spring pruning then early in the spring, before the first of april, cut back the hardy roses, keeping only the strong canes, which, however, should be shortened to about inches. the middle of april prune the more tender varieties. but remove from both all shoots growing in toward the center, and cut all weak plants back to the third or fourth eye, to promote stronger growth and larger flowers. climbing roses need only the weak branches and tips removed. date new climbing canes with wired wooden tags each spring, and cut out all over three years old. this renews the stock, restrains ambitious climbing, and produces better flowers. spraying about this time a spraying first of bordeaux mixture to prevent disease, and a little later a spraying of whale-oil soapsuds as warning to the great army of bugs, slugs, etc., will give your roses a good start toward a successful season of bloom. watch for that robber, the rose bug! talk about salt on a bird's tail! the surest way to end his majesty is to take a stick and knock him into a cup of kerosene. slow process? yes, but sure. the leaf-roller, too, is most effectively disposed of by physical force,--pressure of thumb and forefinger. clear, cold water, twice a day through a hose, comes with force enough to wash off many of the rose's foes; but if they get a start, fall back on strong soapsuds, pulverized tobacco, or some other popular remedy. the garden club of philadelphia is said to recommend the following: effective spray for rose bugs pts. sweet milk. pts. kerosene. qt. water. shake well in a jug, then put one-half pint of the fluid to one gallon of water. stir well and both spray the bushes thoroughly and wet the ground around the roots. repeat every ten days from may st to june th, by which time the pests seem to get discouraged and give up the fight! and the reward for all this care and attention? "a devoted cottager," says neltje blanchan, "may easily have more beautiful roses than the indifferent millionaire." the following lists comprise a few of the best of the different classes mentioned. i wish you success in your choice. roses a few of the best of each kind =teas.= (tenderest of roses, needing winter protection. noted for delicate shades and fragrance.) maman cochet, free bloomer, hardiest of the teas; rose-pink. marie van houtte, also a free bloomer and quite hardy; canary yellow. souvenir de catherine guillot, a rose of excellence; copper-carmine. white maman cochet, a strong grower, like the pink; white. =hybrid teas.= (best for the garden, as they combine the best qualities of the teas and the hybrid perpetuals,--color, hardiness, and steady bloom.) caroline testout, one of the most popular, slightly fragrant; rose pink. etoile de france, continuous bloomer and fragrant; crimson. gruss an teplitz, the best dark rose, and fragrant; velvety crimson. kaiserin augusta victoria, blooms of lovely shape, on long stems; pearly white. killarney, very popular and one of the best of its color; lovely pink. killarney, a "sport," same as the pink; white. la france, especially good form, fragrant; bluish-pink. mrs. aaron ward, a vigorous plant, of compact growth, very popular; pinkish-yellow. richmond, a steady bloomer all summer, with a beautiful bud; rich deep red. =hybrid perpetuals.= (commonly known as june roses, and hardy. the following will bloom most of the summer.) anna de diesbach (_gloire de paris_), splendid in the garden and fragrant; rich carmine. american beauty, successful in most localities; rose-carmine. frau karl druschki, very large and fragrant; snowy white. general jacqueminot, a favorite that does well everywhere; crimson. louis van houtte, very desirable and fragrant; deep red. mrs. john laing, late blooming and hardy, fragrant; lovely pink. mrs. r. g. sharman-crawford, a splendid bloomer; rose-pink. ulrich brunner, large, fragrant, with well-formed flowers; cherry red. =moss.= (loved for the beautiful fragrant buds with their mossy covering.) blanche moreau, flowers in clusters; white. countess de murinais, one of the best; white. crested moss, finely crested; rose pink. henry martin, very vigorous; crimson. luxembourg, exceptionally good; crimson. =climbing and rambler.= (used over walls, fences, pillars, arbors and trellises.) baby ramblers, in. to in. high, are good for hedges, beds, or carpeting, and can be bought in white, pink, salmon pink, red and yellow. climbing american beauty, well worth growing; rose-pink. dorothy perkins, a profuse bloomer and rapid grower; shell-pink. crimson rambler, first of the ramblers, but disliked by many gardeners today; crimson. dr. van fleet, one of the best, resisting mildew and insects,--a gem; flesh-pink. excelsa, an improvement on the formerly popular crimson rambler; crimson. hiawatha, most brilliant of all, between and roses to the spray; carmine. tausendschoen, roses in. across, graceful in form, and or to the truss; pink. white dorothy, like satisfactory dorothy perkins, except for color; white. yellow rambler, new variety called "aviator bleriot," the first hardy yellow; yellow. =briar, austrian and hybrids.= (loved by our grandmothers, and some known here in this country as far back as . they must not be crowded.) austrian copper, beautiful single reddish-copper and one of the oldest; copper. austrian yellow, lovely single flowers (introduced late in ); deep yellow. english sweet briar, or eglantine, loved for its fragrance, also single; pink. anne of gerstein, very graceful; dark crimson. brenda, very dainty; peach. refulgence, fragrant foliage,--deepens in color on developing; scarlet to crimson. american grown roses the american grown rose, however, i find is considered by many people to be by far the best. while its slender brown stems are not as attractive to the ignorant gardener as the thick, green of the imported, it is much more adapted to our soil and climatic conditions. it is cheaper, too, and splendid varieties, in ½-in. and -in. pots, can be bought as low as $ . or $ . a hundred from expert growers, by the person willing to start a rose garden and then wait a year for really fine results. in lots of fifteen, however, many of these fine varieties of one-year-old plants can be bought for $ . , with the growers' guarantee that "they will bloom the first and each succeeding year, from early spring until severe frost." the plants are small, of course, but who could ask for more at that price! the (probably) best informed man in the eastern united states recommends the following list of teas and hybrid teas,--and it has been adopted by a number of firms as suggestions for planting. don't go looking for these plants at the - and -cent stores, for they never carry such specialties. they are cheap, though, and well known throughout this section, but they should be procured from people who make a business of growing roses! a specialist's list of teas and hybrid teas white grossherzogin alexandra kaiserin augusta victoria marie guillot white bougere yellow blumenschmidt etoile de lyon lady hillingdon sunburst light pink col. r. s. williamson helen good mrs. foley hobbs souvenir du president carnot wm. r. smith yvonne vacherot dark pink aurora f. r. patger jonkheer j. l. mock lady alice stanley maman cochet mme. jules grolez mrs. george shawyer radiance red crimson queen etoile de france mme. eugene marlitt general mcarthur helen gould laurent carle rhea reid chapter viii vines, tender and hardy they shall sit every man under his vine and under his figtree. --_micah_ iv, . everybody likes a pretty vine, and there is sure to be some place where you will want to plant at least one. where? why, at one corner of the porch where you like to play; round the pillar at the front door, where you read, or by the window where you sit to sew; in the backyard to cover the clothespoles, hide the chicken fence, or screen some old, ugly building. the common annual vines you probably know pretty well,--the climbing nasturtium, morning glory, moonflower, cypress vine, scarlet runner, hyacinth bean, wild cucumber, gourds and hops. they are treated very much alike, grow with little care if they only have something to climb on, and spread rapidly. the hardy vines are not so easily disposed of. for instance, the clematis (with accent on the _clem_,) numbers throughout the world about one hundred and fifty species,--generally climbers,--in white, blue, purple, red and yellow, and ranges from the -ft. shrubby kind to the -ft. vine. while our common mountain clematis (montana grandiflora) flowers as early as april, the jackmani in mid-summer, and the paniculata often as late as september, the henryi is seen even in november. and while some can be grown from seed, the rest have to be propagated by cutting or grafting. warning right here let me again urge you to make sure of the particular kind of flower, plant or vine that you get, so that you will know how to treat it, and not count on flowers in june from a variety that blossoms in september, or expect purple posies from the white sort. the gentleman printing this book will not let me take space enough to go into details about every thing i mention (he says paper is too dear!) so the only way out of the difficulty is for me to make the lists include all the colors, all the heights, all the months of bloom, and then impress on you the necessity of ascertaining the particular kind you want to grow. books that will help as the people you would ask might make a mistake about these things, get in the habit of looking them up for yourself. go to the public library and just see the fascinating books that have been written about plants and flowers,--many for children and in the form of stories. for real facts, though, given in few words and easily found from a complete index in the back, ask for "the american flower garden," by neltje blanchan, or "the garden month by month," by mabel cabot sedgwick. this latter gives a little description of all the _hardy_ plants and flowers, and is filled with beautiful pictures. and some of the big seed dealers and nurserymen get out fine catalogues that are really garden books in themselves, chock full of information accompanied by colored illustrations, which can be had for the asking! vines that must be renewed every year the annual climbers =============================================================================== name | color |height| sow | sow | good for |place|blooming | | |indoors|outdoors| | | season -----------------+--------+------+-------+--------+-------------+-----+-------- balloon vine |white | to | |may st | rapid | sun | (_cardiospermum|seeds in| ft.| | in. | growing | | halicacabum_) |tiny | | |apart | | | |balloons| | | | | | | | | | | | | balsam apple |has | ft.| |may | trellis or | sun | (_momordica_) |curious | | | in. | rock-work | | |fruit | | |apart | | | | | | | | | | cardinal climber |cardinal| to | march |may | rapid | sun |june (new) (_ipomoea| | ft.| | | growing | | quamoclit | | | | | | | hybrid_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | cypress vine | red | to | march |may | dense mass | sun |june (_ipomoea | white | ft.| april | | | | quamoclit_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | fire bean, | | | | | | | see scarlet | | | | | | | runner | | | | | | | | | | | | | | gourds, | odd | to | |may |over arbor or| sun | ornamental | shapes | ft.| | |summer-house | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | hop, japanese | green | to | |may |rapid growing| sun | (annual) | | ft.| | | arbors and | | (_humulus_) | | | | | screens | | | | | | | | | hyacinth bean | purple | to | |may | arbors and | sun |july (_dolichos_) | white | ft.| | | trellises | | | | | | | | | moon flower | white | to |feb. or|may | rapid | sun |july (_ipomoea | | ft.|march | | growing | |to frost bona-nox_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | morning glory | white | to | |may | rapid | sun |july, (_ipomoea | pink | ft.| | | growing | |aug. purpurea_) | purple | | | | | | | blue | | | | | | | | | | | | | nasturtium, tall | yellows| to | |may | screens and | sun |july (_tropæolum | to reds| ft.| | | trellises | |to oct. majus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | scarlet runner |scarlet | to | |april | screens | sun |july (_phaseolus | | ft.| |may | | |to frost multiflorus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | sweet pea |all | to | |march | train on | sun |july (_lathyrus | colors | ft. | | | brush o | |to sept. odoratus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | wild cucumber | white | to | |may st | screens or | sun |july, (_echinocystis_)| | ft.| | | coverings | |aug. -----------------+--------+------+-------+--------+-------------+-----+-------- vines that live on from year to year the hardy climbers note.--different varieties of same kind will bloom at different times. ==================+=========+=======+========+========+============+========== | | | start | | | blooming name | color |height |outdoors|good for| place | season ------------------+---------+-------+--------+--------+------------+---------- akabia | violet- | | |light | | may, june (_akabia | brown | | | screen | | quinata_) | | | | | | | | | | | | bittersweet | yellow | ft. |in the |sun or | |bright (_celastrus | | | fall |shade | |seeds scandens_) | | | | | |for winter | | | | | | cinnamon vine | white | to |plant |rapid | sun |july, aug. (_dioscorea_) | | ft. |roots in|growth | | | | |early | | | | | |spring | | | | | | | | | clematis | white | to |start in|rapid |stands part |different (numerous | red | ft. |early |growth | shade |kinds at varieties) | purple | |spring | | |different | | | | | |times. | | | | | |june | | | | | |to frost | | | | | | creeping spindle |evergreen|varies |procure |wall | | (_euonymus | trailer |in |roots |covering| | radicans_) | |height | |like ivy| | | | | | | | dutchman's pipe |brownish-|grows | may |dense | anywhere | (_aristolochia_)| yellow |to | |shade | | | | ft. | | | | | | | | | | honeysuckle, | yellow- | ft. |procure |trellis | |june to japanese | white | | plants |fence | |aug. (_lonicera | | | |walls | | halliana_) | | | | | | | | | | | | hop, perennial | green | to |procure |trellis | sun | (_humulus | | ft. | roots | | | lupulus_) | | | | | | | | | | | | ivy, boston or | |spreads|procure |covers | sun or | japan | |rapidly|plants |walls | shade | (_ampelopsis or | | | |or trees| | veitchii_) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ivy, english |evergreen| |procure |wall |shade-loving| (_hedera | | |plants |covering| | helix_) | | | | | | | | | | | | kudzu vine, |rosy- | ft. |early |thick | sun |august japanese |purple |first |spring |screen | | (_pueraria | |year | | | | thunbergiana_) | |from | | | | | |seed | | | | | | | | | | matrimony vine |purplish |shrubby|procure |ornament| sun |late (_lycium | | | roots |and use | |summer barbaum_) | | | | | | | | | | | | pea, everlasting | red | to |plant |trellis | sun |august (_lathyrus | white | ft. |tuber or|or rough| | latifolius_) | | |seed |places | | ------------------+---------+-------+--------+--------+------------+--------- chapter ix shrubs we love to see "every yard should be a picture. the observer should catch the entire effect and purpose, without analyzing its parts." --_bailey._ of course you want to know something about shrubs. for what? possibly just to make a tiny hedge around your garden, or a taller one to shut out the view of some neighbor's untidy backyard. more likely for a lovely specimen plant for your own grounds. in that case, don't, oh, don't! set it out in the middle of the lawn! and two or three thus dotted around (in "spotty planting," so called) are the acme of bad taste, and violate the fundamental principles of landscape gardening. [illustration: cleaning up around the shrubs] our grandmothers all loved the tall syringa, honeysuckle, snowball, strawberry shrub, weigela, rose of sharon and lilac, while they hedged both their yards and gardens with box, privet and evergreens. today we use a good deal of the japanese barberry, while uncle sam's recent free distribution has widely introduced that pretty little annual bush-like plant--the kochia, or summer cypress, good for low hedges. but there is that publisher cutting off my space again! so i can just add a word about the lovely new summer lilac or buddleia. a tiny plant of this, costing only cents, grows into a nice four-foot bush the first summer, and blooms until late in the season. most of these shrubs can be easily grown from cuttings, however, so just ask your friends to remember you when they do their pruning. shrubs ================+==========+===========+===============+================ name | color | height | grown from |blooming season ----------------+----------+-----------+---------------+---------------- althea, see | | | | rose of sharon| | | | | | | | azalea |no blues | to ft. | |spring, early | | | |summer | | | | barberry, japan | red | ft. | seed |red berries all (_berberis | berries | | |winter thunbergii_) | | | | | | | | boxwood | green | to ft.| | (_buxus | | | | sempervirens_)| | | | | | | | bridal wreath, | | | | see spirea | | | | (_thunbergii_)| | | | | | | | buddleia | lavender | to ft. | cuttings |july to frost | | | | currant, | yellow | ft. | |may flowering | | | | (_ribes | | | | aureum_) | | | | | | | | deutzia | white, | to ft.| cuttings |may, june | pink | | | | | | | forsythia |yellow | to ft.|cuttings or |earliest spring | | |seed | | | | | golden bell, | | | | see forsythia | | | | | | | | honeysuckle |white, | to ft.|cuttings or | march to june (numerous |yellow | |seed | varieties) |pink, red | | | (_lonicera_) | | | | | | | | hydrangea | white | to ft.| cuttings |july to november (_paniculata | | generally | | grandiflora_) | | | | | | | | japanese quince | scarlet | ft. | | may (_cydonia | | | | japonica_) | | | | | | | | kochia (small | | ft. | seed |bush reddens in annual bush) | | | |fall | | | | lilac (_syringa |lavender, | to | |may, june vulgaris_) | white | ft. | | | | | | mock orange | white | ft. | |may, june (_philadelphus| | | | coronarius_) | | | | | | | | privet | green | ft. | cuttings | (_ligustrum | | unless | | ovalifolium_) | |sheared | | | | | | rose of sharon | white, | up to | |august to (_hibiscus | pink to | ft. | |october syriacus_) | purple | | | | | | | snowball, | white | to | cuttings |may, june japanese | | ft. | | (_viburnum | | | | tomentosum_) | | | | | | | | spirea | white | to | |may (_thunbergii_)| | ft. | | | | | | spirea (numerous| white, | to | |different months other |pink, rose| ft. | |from may to varieties) | | | |september | | | | strawberry shrub|chocolate-| to | by division |may | colored | ft. | | syringa, | | | | see mock | | | | orange | | | | | | | | viburnum, | | | | see snowball | | | | | | | | weigela |white, | ft. | |june (_diervilla |pink, red | | | florida_) | | | | ----------------+----------+-----------+---------------+---------------- chapter x vegetable growing for the home table the life of the husbandman,--a life fed by the bounty of earth, and sweetened by the airs of heaven. --_jerrold._ it is predicted that this year,-- ,--will be the greatest year for gardening that the country ever has known! the high cost of living first stimulated interest. then after war was declared, the slogan, "food as important as men or munitions," stirred young and old. garden clubs sprang up everywhere, and in free lectures people were instructed how to prepare, plant and cultivate whatever ground they could get, from small backyards to vacant lots. in our neighborhood last year a man with a plot of ground less than half the size of a tennis court, grew $ . worth of vegetables,--enough to supply his whole family! he got his planting down to a science, however,--what he called "intensive gardening," so that every foot of the soil was kept busy the whole summer. he fertilized but once, too, at the beginning of the season, when he had a quantity of manure thoroughly worked in. then between slow growing crops, planted in rows as closely as possible, he planted the quick-growing things, which would be out of the way before their space was needed. incidentally he worked out a chart (which he afterwards put on the market), ruled one way for the months, and the other for the number of feet, with name cards for the vegetables that could be fitted in so as to visualize--and make a record of the entire garden the entire season. such a plan means a great saving of both time and space. garden soil must be warm, light and rich. it must be well spaded to begin with, well fertilized, well raked over, and kept well cultivated. vegetables require plenty of moisture, and during dry weather especially must be thoroughly watered. as i have said before, simply wetting the surface of the ground is almost useless, and often, by causing the ground then to cake over the top as it dries, worse than none at all, if the soil were cultivated instead. pests must be watched for on all the crops, and treated according to the special needs of each variety when whale-oil, soapsuds, tobacco dust or insect powder seem ineffective. then with weeding, and reasonable care, you can safely expect to keep your table supplied with that greatest of all luxuries,--your own green vegetables, fresh from the soil. vegetable guide _beans. bush_ plant from early may on, every two weeks, for succession of crops. drop beans in. apart, in -in. deep drills, allowing ft. between rows. hoe often, drawing the earth up towards the roots. be sure that the ground is warm and dry before planting, however, or the beans will rot. _beans. pole_ set stakes to feet high, in rows ft. apart each way; or plant in drills to grow on a trellis. put four or five beans around each stake, and when well started, thin out the poorest, leaving but three at each pole. a cheap trellis is made by stretching two wires (one near the ground and the other six feet above), and connecting them with stout twine for the vines to run on. _beans. lima_ as these are more tender, they should be planted a couple of weeks later than other beans. they need especially good, rich soil, with plenty of humus or the fine soft earth that is full of decayed vegetable matter. allow each plant in. in the row, and make rows ft. apart. give a good dose of fertilizer about the time they start, and keep well cultivated. beans are among the easiest of all vegetables to grow, and as they can be dried for winter use, are especially valuable. _beets._ any well-tilled, good garden soil will produce nice beets. make drills or rows in. apart, and plant the seed about in. deep if earth is light and sandy, but only half an inch if heavy and sticky, as early as the ground can be put in condition. cultivate often, and thin out the plants to about in. apart. sow at intervals of two or three weeks for successive crops up to the middle of july. an extra early lot can be had by starting seed in the house in boxes in february or march, and then setting the young plants out at time of first outdoor planting. _cabbage._ for early crop, start seed indoors in february or march and transplant, when four leaves appear, to another seed box until you can plant in open ground in may. for later crop sow seeds in rows in open ground during april and may, and transplant during july and august, to in. apart, in rows ft. apart. cultivate often, to keep moisture in the soil. prepare to fight pests, early and late. after the seventy or more remedies suggested by one authority, for maggots alone, the amateur might feel like abandoning cabbage, but at the price this moment of $ . a ton, wholesale, in new york city, a person with even a handkerchief bed feels like attempting this luxury. _carrots._ hardy and easily grown, they can be sown in rows that are in. apart, and thinned out to in. apart in the row. they can be started as early as april, and sown for succession up to the middle of july. cultivate often. _cauliflower._ treat like cabbage, except that you must start as early as possible, to get ahead of the hot weather, and give the plants plenty of water. when the heads are well-formed and firm, bring the outside leaves up and tie together, to shut out the sun and keep the heads white and tender. and don't forget,--plenty of water! _celery._ seed for an early crop can be started in february, in a shallow box in a sunny window, then transplanted to another box, pinching off the tall leaves. in may or june dig a shallow trench in good rich soil, and set plants, in. apart at bottom. fill up the trench as the plants grow, to within a few inches of the tip leaves, in order to bleach out white. set up boards against the rows to exclude light, or cover in the easiest way. for winter keeping, take up plants with roots and place on damp soil in boxes in a cool, dark cellar. _chicory witloof--or french endive._ often seventy-five cents a pound in the market, but easily grown by the amateur. seed is sold under name of witloof chicory, and should be sown in open ground, during may or june, in rows a foot apart. allow to grow until november, cultivating and keeping moist. then dig up roots,--long, thick tubers,--trim down tops to within ½ in., and cut off bottom of root so that whole plant will be less than a foot long. place upright in separate pots or a long box in a cool cellar, fill up to within a couple of inches from tops of roots, and cover each top with an inverted pot or box, to exclude the light. make thoroughly damp and never allow to dry out. in about four weeks the new tops can be cut for the table, and by covering and keeping wet, often three or four successive crops can be secured. a friend of mine keeps two families supplied most of the winter, at little cost or trouble. a delicious salad. _corn. sweet_ plant early and then every two weeks for succession, in good rich soil, dropping the seed in. apart in rows ft. apart (for hand cultivation). start early in may, and hoe often. golden bantam, evergreen and country gentleman are especial favorites. _cucumbers._ plant as soon as weather is settled, and warm, (early in may around new york,) in hills at least ft. each way. give good rich soil, and keep moist. leave only two or three plants to a hill, and do not allow cucumbers to ripen on vines. plant for succession. the japanese climbing variety runs up a pole or trellis, is free from blight, and produces especially fine, big cucumbers. _endive._ see chicory _lettuce._ can be started in boxes indoors, in march. make sowing in the open ground from april to november, if you protect the first and last. put in nice, rich soil, in warm spot, and transplant when big enough to handle, into rows, setting in. apart. don't forget to weed! _melons._ muskmelons are most easily grown, but both the weather and the ground must be warm. give them a light, rich soil,--which, if you haven't, you must make by mixing the heavy soil with old manure. make hills ft. apart, putting a few shovelfuls of fertilizer in each, and planting about a dozen seeds to a hill. after well started, and when most of the pests have had their fill and disappeared, thin out so as to leave only four or five of the strongest vines to each hill. spray repeatedly with some good mixture. _watermelons._ these take up so much room that not many people try to grow them. the culture, however, is about the same as for muskmelons, only make hills to ft. apart. [illustration: all ready to hoe] _onions._ plant seed in fine, rich, well-prepared soil, as early as possible, in shallow drills, in. apart. firm down with the back of your spade, and when well started, thin out to in. apart in the rows. hoe often without covering the bulbs, and water freely. _parsley._ this requires a rich, mellow soil. sow early in april, in rows ft. apart, after soaking the seed a few hours in warm water to make it come up more quickly. plant seed ½ in. deep, and thin out the little plants to in. apart in the drills. _parsnips._ sow as early as you can in well-prepared ground, ½ in. deep, in rows ft. apart. when well started, thin out to in. apart in the row. parsnips are improved by being left in the ground over winter, for spring use. _peas._ the early smooth varieties are the first seeds to put into the garden, though the wrinkled are a better quality. dig furrows in. deep in earliest spring, but when weather is warm, in. deep; and ft. apart. select the kind of peas desired, scatter in the rows, and cover with a hoe. they need good soil, plenty of cultivation, and the tall sorts should be given brush for support. sow several times for succession. early crop may be hurried by first soaking the seed. _potatoes._ selling as they are today (february, ), for cents a pound, one is strongly tempted to turn the flower garden into a potato patch! the early varieties need especially rich soil. drop a couple of pieces about every foot, in to in. deep drills that are ft. apart. cultivate often, and fight the vast army of potato bugs with paris green, or bordeaux mixture. _radishes._ a light, rich, sandy soil will grow the early kinds in from four to six weeks. sow in drills a foot apart (scatteringly, so as not to require thinning,) every two weeks, keep free from weeds, and water in dry weather. start outdoors in early april. _spinach._ sow in early spring in drills made / in. deep, and ft. apart, as early as the ground can be worked. thereafter, every two weeks for succession. good rich soil is necessary. _squash._ be sure of rich, warm soil. plant in well-fertilized hills, like melons or cucumbers, at least or ft. apart. sow eight to ten seeds to a hill, and after the insects have had their feast, keep only three or four of the vines that are strongest. to repress the ardor of the squash vine borer, scatter a handful of tobacco dust around each plant. _tomatoes._ most easily started by getting the young plants grown under glass, and setting out in the open ground in may. put ft. apart, in rich, mellow soil, and water freely. seed can be started, however, in the house, in march, then the seedlings transplanted into old berry-boxes or flowerpots, and allowed to grow slowly until about may th (around new york), when they can be set in the open ground. plants are attractive when tied to stakes or a trellis, and produce earlier, better and higher grade tomatoes, without the musty taste of those that are allowed to sprawl over the ground. _turnips._ sow early in the open ground, in drills in. apart, and thin out to in. apart in the row. up to june, sow every two weeks for succession. chapter xi your garden's friends and foes a cow is a very good animal in the field; but we turn her out of a garden. --_johnson._ your garden's friends and foes,--have you ever thought about them as such? you go to a lot of trouble to raise fine flowers and vegetables, and then, if you are not on the lookout, before you know it something has happened! your rose leaves are discovered full of holes, and your potato vines almost destroyed; your tomato plants are being eaten up by the big, ugly "tomato worm," while your choicest flowers are dying from the inroads of green or brown insects so tiny that at first you do not notice them; and strong plants of all kinds are found cut off close to the ground. what further proof do you need that your beloved garden has its enemies? here indeed "eternal vigilance is the price of liberty." if you would be free and escape such ravages, you can not wait until your foes are full-fledged and hard at work, because usually considerable damage has then been done. instead, you should learn at the time you begin gardening all about the many difficulties you have to contend with, including the various things that prey upon your plants. when you plant seed, for instance, and it fails to come up, you are apt to blame either the dealer or the weather man. just as likely as not, though, some insect had attacked the seed before it was planted, or else the grubs got busy and enjoyed a full meal. these pests, with their various relations, are the most difficult of all to control, but poisoned bait (freshly cut clover that has been sprayed with paris green,) scattered on the ground where cut worms come out at night to feed, will destroy many of them. when your plants have begun to grow, however, and you find them being nipped off close to the ground, dig close to the stem and you will probably bring to light a cut worm curled up in his favorite position, and you can end him then and there from doing further damage. the wire worm, on the contrary, works entirely below the surface, and when you spade up a long, slender, jointed, brownish, wriggling worm, quite hard, you will know that he is one of the kind to be immediately destroyed. these grubs and worms are the different kind of caterpillars,--the children,--of several varieties of moths that fly by night, the shining brown beetle that bumps against the ceiling on a summer evening, and the funny "snap-bug." crawling or flying, young or old, parent or child, they generally do their worst after dark. equal parts of soot and lime, well mixed, scattered in a four-inch ring around each stem on the top of the soil, will keep away the things that crawl, while white hellebore (a poison that must not get on little fingers,) dusted on the plants will keep off most of the things that fly. rose bugs, however, seem to come in a class by themselves! apparently, they don't mind any of the well-known deterrents and about the only way to really get rid of them is to "go bugging," which means knocking them off into a cup of kerosene or a box where they can be killed. caterpillars, naked or hairy, eat vegetation, and are consequently most unwelcome visitors. the sowbug or pill-bug, while disagreeable to look at, is not quite so injurious as often thought, but the mite called the red spider can do a lot of damage. most of the beetles seriously injure the vegetables. the saw-flies with their offspring, and certain kinds of ants (especially the "soldier ants") are as troublesome as the caterpillars, while the next family group, the grasshoppers, locusts, katydids and crickets are all great feeders,--the grasshoppers and locusts often becoming an actual plague and destroying whole crops. to get rid of the caterpillars and beetles various means are employed, such as spraying with paris green, bordeaux mixture, kerosene emulsion, or even strong suds made with whale-oil soap; and paris green is also applied dry. a pretty good poison is bran-and-arsenic mixture, but the different liquids and powders make a story by themselves, and require great care in using; so you better consult some successful gardener-friend about the best one (and the way to use it,) for your particular foe. of the sucking insects,--those that draw out the juice or sap of the plant,--the aphides or "plant lice" do inestimable damage to all kinds of plants and flowers, while the chinch bug and garden tree-hopper seem to prefer to attack vegetables. the most familiar aphides are green, and they have tiny, soft, pear-shaped bodies, with long legs and "feelers." they usually live on the under side of the leaves and along the stems, and one good way to get rid of them is to spray with kerosene emulsion or tobacco water, or else sprinkle with clear water and then dust with tobacco dust. not all of the live things that you find about your plants and flowers are injurious, however, and you must learn to recognize those which are beneficial. the ladybug, although a beetle, lives on aphides, and so is your helper in destroying them. several beetles, like the fiery ground beetle, subsist on cutworms, and the soldier bug dines on the destructive offspring of beetles and moths. the daddy-long-legs and the spider are also friends to your garden, together with many wasps. as for the bees, many, many plants are dependent on them for fertilization, as the insects in their search for honey go clear down into the flowers and carry with them the necessary pollen from one blossom to another. two stories i have heard illustrate this point. in australia many years ago people tried to introduce clover, but they could not make it grow until some one thought of importing the bees also. the native insects did not have a proboscis long enough to reach to the bottom of the flower, so that the pollen had never been properly placed. then, not very long ago, a farmer living near a railroad had his crop of tomatoes ruined because the railroad used soft coal, the soot of which--settling on the tomato blossoms--kept away the bees so that the flowers were not fertilized! he sued the company and recovered damages. so you see the bee is really necessary for the success of your garden. toads eat many of your small enemies, and should be encouraged by providing an upturned box or some cool, shady place in your garden where they can rest during the day,--for much of this "dog-eat-dog" business, sometimes termed "the law of the jungle," goes on at night. birds, however, wage open warfare, in broad daylight, and wherever the soil has been cultivated, in the fields or among the plants and flowers, the feathered tribe seek the very things you want destroyed. a well-known nurseryman, when the english sparrow was first introduced in this country, noticed many of the birds among his choice roses, and to satisfy himself that they were not injuring the plants, killed one of the fattest. an investigation of his little stomach showed it to be chock-full of rose slugs and aphides,--the rose's worst enemies! the robins, of the thrush family, live almost entirely on worms and insects, and the bluebirds, orioles, tanagers and starlings, with the various songsters, should all be given a most cordial invitation to pay you a long visit. and this invitation? a place to live, if only a box nailed up on a tree, with an opening small enough to keep out intruders. a bird house more attractive in your own eyes is easily made by any boy or girl handy with a knife or a jig-saw, and really artistic houses, suited to particular birds, are described in various books and magazines, made from pieces of bark, sections of limb, or fir cones. a little study of the kind of nest each bird makes for itself may enable you to select your guests. the swallow, the cat-bird, the blackbird, the finch,--all should be welcomed: and suet tied on the branches, bread crumbs scattered around your door, grain sprinkled where you especially want them to come, will encourage the winter birds to pay you a daily visit. a bird bath is sure to prove an irresistible attraction. i have seen my back yard full of starlings and sparrows, pushing and crowding each other to get into a little pool where the snow has melted around a clothes-pole! a shallow pan, with an inch or two of water, will often draw so many birds that it has to be filled again and again during the day. birds suffer, too, in winter from thirst, and greatly appreciate a drinking place. a bird fountain, with its running water, is a delight for the rich; but a pretty enamelled tray, white or gray, and round, square or oval, can be bought in a department store for less than a dollar, and it can be sunk in the top of a vine-covered rockery or securely placed on a mossy stump, where it will bring both joy and birds to the smallest gardener. so cheer up. though your foes, as described, seem a formidable army, remember all the friends that will rally to your aid, and with reasonable watchfulness and care, you and your garden will come out victorious. chapter xii a morning glory playhouse small service is true service while it lasts. of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one; the daisy, by the shadow that it casts, protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. --_wordsworth._ you children love a playhouse, don't you? yet it isn't always easy to get one. a morning glory bower, however, is a perfect delight, and very easy to make. persuade some big brother to drive a few long stakes in the ground so as to mark out either a square or a circle, as you prefer. then ask him to fasten some heavy cord from the bottom of one stake to the top of the next nearest, and then across the top, leaving only a place at one side for an entrance. soak your morning glory seeds over night, so that they will germinate more quickly, and then plant them along the line of the circle or square marked on the ground. as soon as they begin to grow, train the vines on the cords, and if necessary tie in a few more strings near the bottom, to help the baby climbers get started. the morning glory grows very rapidly, and is justly popular because of its lovely blossoms which come in the most beautiful shades. and as the flowers always turn away from the sun, you will find them soon completely lining the inside of your playhouse. the most common kind (convolvulus major,) grows from to ft., and will do well in almost any location. it costs only five cents per packet, and will flower all summer. who could ask more! the rarer kinds are known as the japanese morning glory, which grows from to ft., and has blossoms measuring from to inches across. these range from snowy white to darkest purple through the pinks, both plain and with all kinds of variations. they grow and spread very fast, and love a sunny location. if you prefer, you can use the trunk of some tree for the center pole of your playhouse. (possibly some of you at the opera may have seen siegmund draw the magic sword from the big tree-trunk in the center of his sweetheart's home.) well, you could attach cords from pegs driven in a circle around the base, to the tree at any height desired, and here plant either the scarlet runner or the hyacinth bean. still another way is to plant two poles or ft. apart, and have a stick nailed across the top, like the ridge pole of a tent. drive pegs into the ground along each side, in parallel lines or ft. apart, and tie heavy cords from the pegs on one side to the pegs on the other,--carried, of course, over the ridgepole. plant your seeds close to the pegs, and in a few weeks your vines will form a flower tent. for this purpose, you might use the climbing nasturtiums or the wild cucumber vine. or, if you can save up the fifteen cents necessary, buy the new cardinal climber, which has clusters of five to seven blossoms each, of a beautiful cardinal red, from july until late fall. the vine grows rapidly, and often more than ft. long, so that when it reaches the ridge-pole, you can let it run over the other side, and make a good thick roof. the seeds are very hard, however, and so should either be soaked over night, or slightly nicked with a file. if you get a firm, strong framework for your playhouse, you might like to plant a hardy vine that would live through the winter and be ready for use early next summer without further trouble. in that case, you could use the dutchman's pipe, which is a fast growing climber having peculiar yellow-brown flowers the shape of a pipe. though these seeds are only ten cents per packet, the young plants are sold by the nurserymen for fifty cents apiece: so if you grow them yourself you can figure out what a valuable little house you will have! the everlasting pea is a sprawling, quick grower, having many flowers in a cluster, and blooming in august. it thrives in even the most common soil, and gets better every year. it comes in white, pink and red, and a package of the mixed colors can be bought for five cents. other things besides vines are good for flower playhouses. hollyhocks, planted in a square or a circle, will soon be high enough to screen you from the curious butcher-boy or the neighbor's maid. while most kinds are biennials, and so do not bloom until the second summer, you can either coax a few plants from some grown-up friend that has a lot already established, or you can buy seed of the new annual variety, which, if sown in may, will flower in july! sunflowers, too, are to be found in several varieties, ranging from to ft. in height, which you could use for a sort of a stockade, a là robinson crusoe. those having the small blossoms are nice for cutting, while the old-fashioned kind furnishes good feed for the chickens,--in which case your plants would be well worth growing for the seed. it will never do, however, for you simply to get your flower playhouse started, and then leave it to take care of itself! you must watch the baby plants as soon as they peep out of the ground, help the vines to grow in the right direction and water thoroughly whenever there is a dry spell. cultivate around the roots every few days, as this breaking up of the hard crust which forms on top will prevent the moisture from escaping through the air channels in the soil, and keep the roots moist. several times during the season dig in a trowelful of bonemeal around each plant, and then give a good wetting. while the hardy vines, after once getting started, bloom every year without much more attention, the annuals have one advantage,--you can have a different kind every time. in other words, you would then be able to give your house a fresh coat of paint,--i should say, flowers--every summer. chapter xiii the work of a children's garden club i am ever being taught new lessons in my garden: patience and industry by my friends the birds, humility by the great trees that will long outlive me, and vigilance by the little flowers that need my constant care. --_rosaline neish._ did you ever see the boy or girl that did not want to get up a club? i never did; and the reason is that people, young and old, like to both work and play together. now a garden club is really worth while, and although i might simply tell you how to proceed after getting your friends to meet and agree on the purpose, you probably will get a much clearer idea if i relate what a certain group of little folks actually did accomplish. fifteen boys and girls living in old greenwich village,--today one of the poor, crowded sections of new york city, where even the streets are darkened by a tall, unsightly elevated railroad,--were invited to form a club that would be taken once a week out on long island to garden. a vacant lot, one hundred by one hundred and ten feet, in flushing, about twelve miles away, had been offered for their use, and some of the older people saw that the ground was first properly ploughed up, for, of course, the children couldn't be expected to do that kind of hard work. but they could, and they eagerly did see that the soil was then properly prepared by breaking up the clods, removing all the sticks and stones, and getting the earth raked beautifully smooth. several flushing ladies agreed to help, making out lists of the flowers and vegetables most easily grown there, getting the seeds free by asking for them from their congressman at washington, and then showing the children how to plant. first a five-foot border was measured off clear around the lot, for a flower bed, and each child had its own section. after finding out what each one wanted to grow, one bed was planted to show how the work should be done,--the depth to put in the seeds, the distance the rows should be apart, the way to cover, besides the placing of the tallest flowers at the back or outer edge, and the lowest or edging plants along the foot path. this -in. path ran clear around the lot, leaving a large plot in the center. this plot was then marked off by string or wire to divide it into the vegetable gardens, with little walks between. the vegetable beds measured about by ft., but as ft. proved wide for small arms to reach over and cultivate, this year the beds are to be made by ft. at first, too, each child grew its own few stalks of corn on its own bed, but it was difficult to manage, so now all the corn will be grown in one patch, where it can be more easily hoed. the radishes and lettuce, of course, grew most quickly, and within five or six weeks were ready for the table. on that memorable first day, from the fifteen beds, over one thousand radishes alone were picked, and that original planting continued to produce for nearly a month. successive plantings brought on plenty for the rest of the season. the lettuce, too, grew abundantly, while the cucumbers were especially fine. string beans were ready very early, and three plantings during the season produced sometimes two to three quarts a week for each child. tomatoes grew in such profusion that once during the hot weather when they ripened faster than usual, a neighboring hospital was given two bushels! and flowers! the children actually could not carry them away. they took home all they wanted, and made up the rest into thousands of little bunches which the city plant, flower and fruit guild gladly called for and distributed to the new york city hospitals, jails and missions. freshly cut, they would last a week, until the children's next visit to their gardens. with hollyhocks, dahlias, cannas and cosmos at the back of the border, and in front stocks, poppies, sweet alyssum, japanese pinks, nicotiana, and the loveliest blue cornflowers imaginable, they offered a choice variety. how the children loved the work! one poor little lame boy took some of his morning glory seed back to the slums and planted--where? in a box on the window ledge of a dark court that never saw a ray of sunshine. (the woman in the tenement below objected to having it on the fire escape in front and he had no other place.) and there it actually bloomed, dwarfed like its little owner, fragile beyond words, with a delicate flower no bigger than a dime, but answering the call of love. the gardens thrived in spite of the only once-a-week care. a pipe line, with a faucet, ran to the center of the lot, and plenty of watering cans were provided for the weekly use, but during any extra hot weather a friendly neighbor would turn on her hose in between times to save the crops. and a children's outgrown playhouse, donated for the purpose, served as a convenient place to keep the garden tools. the garden work created general interest in all nature study, and the children would go on trips to gather all kinds of grasses, wild flowers, and swamp treasures. these were dried, then classified, and later presented to the public library for the use of teachers and students of botany. and the little lame boy mentioned made a really beautiful collection of butterflies. if the club you organize wants a community garden, almost any owner of a vacant lot will give you its use,--especially if you offer in return to give him some fresh flowers and vegetables. if you prefer, however, you can have your gardens on your own grounds. then a committee of your elders could be invited to give you suggestions as to the flowers and vegetables best adapted to your location and soil, and also to act as judges at your show. for, of course, when everything is at its best you will want to have an exhibition. perhaps some father or mother will offer a prize,--a book on gardening, a vase or a plant for winter blooming. [illustration: an outgrown playhouse held the tools used by the children in these gardens] remember that both the department of agriculture at washington, and your state college of agriculture are anxious to help this kind of work. the former gives you all the seeds you need, free of charge. write to some well-known seed houses for catalogues, and you will get particulars about all the different varieties. go to your public libraries, and you will find the most fascinating books, many written especially for children, telling you just what to do. "when mother lets us garden," by frances duncan, is one of the best and simplest, while "little gardens for boys and girls," by higgins, "mary's garden and how it grew," by duncan, "children's library of work and play gardening," by shaw, and "the school garden book," by weed-emerson, are all intensely interesting. if you find yourself so successful in your work that you have more flowers and vegetables than you can use, remember that there are always plenty of poor people in your own town who would gladly accept your gifts, and any church organization would tell you how to reach them. if, however, you are trying to earn some money for yourself, you can always find regular customers glad to buy things fresh from the garden. for a meeting place during the summer, why not plan a flower club-house? perhaps some of the dear old grandmothers will give you a few hollyhock roots, which you can plant in a circle big enough to hold your little club. leave an opening in the ring just big enough to enter through, and before the season is very far along, the hollyhocks will be tall enough to screen you from the passerby. the hollyhocks sow themselves, and come up every year, and hybridized by the bees, show different colors every season. better still, go to the woods for a lot of brush, stick it in the ground to form a square room, and cover with a brush roof. over this you can train wild honeysuckle, which you can find in lengths of ten and twelve feet. or you can buy a package or two of the varigated japanese hop, which will grow ten feet in a month or six weeks,--and sowing itself, come up and cover your house every year. a garden club proves a source of pleasure through the winter, too. you can go on with the care and cultivation of house plants, and the growing of all kinds of bulbs. you can meet regularly at the different homes, and have the members prepare and read little papers such as "how to grow roman hyacinths in water," "the best flowers for a window-box," "raising plants from cuttings," "starting seeds indoors," "how to make a table water-garden," etc. in case you wish to know exactly how to organize and conduct a club, just like big folks do,--get from your public library a book called "boys' clubs," by c. s. bernheimer and j. m. cohen. this has also a chapter on girls' clubs, and it tells you all about club management, so that you can have a lot of fun at your meetings, besides learning a great many important things in a way that you will never forget. chapter xiv the care of house plants who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. --_cowper._ "if you are one of those people who love flowers and can make them grow," said a fifth avenue florist to me recently, "you can do almost anything you please with them, and they will thrive." "so, then," i laughed, "you think love has a great deal to do with the matter?" and he replied, "i most certainly do!" therefore, if you love to see "the green things growing," enough to give them the least bit of intelligent care, you can reasonably hope to raise all you have room for. the main points to bear in mind are light, heat and moisture. flowering plants need sunlight at least part of the day, and generally do best in a south window. most of the decorative or foliage plants, on the other hand, will keep looking well with only a reasonable amount of light, as when near a north or east window, if they have the proper amount of heat and moisture. but don't, please, set any plant back in the room, away from the light, and expect it to succeed very long,--for it never will! select, then, growing things suited to your living quarters, and learn their needs. the heat of many living-rooms is too great,--and too dry,--for some plants to do their best in, and they should be kept near the windows, although out of draughts. they usually will stand as much cold at night as they are likely to get in an ordinary house, so it is best not to overheat them during the day, but instead, keep them in a cool part of the room. moreover, they thrive better if, when suitably placed, they are allowed to remain undisturbed. the atmosphere should be kept moist by means of water kept on stove, register or radiator, but water to the roots should be applied to most plants only when the soil is dry. this during the winter generally means two or three times a week. with few exceptions, plants should not be watered while still showing dampness. "i often wonder," said another florist, "that women with gardens do not try to save some of their flowering plants that might easily be moved into the house. perhaps they think it isn't worth while." if they can afford to buy all they want to, that may be the reason, but the real flower lover will delight in coaxing some favorite to go on blooming indoors. heliotropes cut back, petunias and salvias, by being carefully lifted with a ball of earth so as not to disturb the roots, and then kept in the shade for a couple of days, ought to continue to bloom for some time. begonias i have moved this way without affecting them for a single day. a small canna, thus potted, will last a long time and help out among the more expensive foliage plants. geraniums, however, are the old stand-by of window gardeners. if "slipped" during the summer, by cutting off a tender shoot just below a joint, and putting it in a pot of light, rather sandy soil, and kept moist, it should bloom during the winter. it does best in sunshine. the kind of soil best adapted to houseplants generally, is given by one authority as two parts loam, one part leaf mould, one part sharp sand. the variation of different growers simply proves what i have seen contended, that it is the proper temperature and moisture that really count. the city girl, with little space to spare, will find the begonias, in their many varieties, most satisfactory. they respond quickly to house treatment, and a small plant from the florist's will grow so rapidly as to soon need repotting. these favorites are of a large family, and some will stand considerable shade. a large, lovely specimen now about three years old, in my own home has developed from a little thing costing fifteen cents. get cultural directions for the kind you buy, as they differ. a couple of stalks broken from an old plant early in the season, and stuck in a small pot, if kept thoroughly damp, will soon root, and blossom in a very little while. fuchsias are another old favorite easily grown from cuttings, and thriving well in a window. primroses are easily grown from seed, and when started in february or march, should begin blooming in november and under careful treatment, last through the winter. the crab cactus or "christmas cactus," as i have heard it called, is one of the most easily grown houseplants, and sends out bright red flowers at the ends of the joints, making an attractive plant for the holidays. of the ferns, i have found several varieties exceptionally satisfactory. a little boston, costing only twenty-five cents when bought for a small table decoration four or five years ago, and changed from one pot to another as growth demanded, today is five feet in diameter,--and the despair of the family on account of the room it requires. it has always stood near either an east or a west window during the winter, in a furnace-heated, gas-lighted house, and been moved to a north porch during the summer. this type needs considerable moisture, and does best when watered every day. i have even seen it growing in a large basket placed in a pan of water. the leaves of this group must be kept clean, and i wash mine occasionally with a small cloth and warm water, using a little soap and then rinsing, if i discover any trace of scale,--that little hard-shelled, brown pest often found on both stems and leaves. both of the asparagus ferns,--the plumosus and the sprengeri, i have grown from tiny pots until they became positively unwieldy, by giving about the same kind of treatment. none of these should be allowed to dry out, as they then turn brown and wither. the asparagus plumosus can be either pinched back to keep as a pot plant, or encouraged to grow as a vine. the asparagus sprengeri is especially valuable for boxes and baskets, on account of its long, drooping sprays, and if allowed to develop naturally during the summer, should be well covered with its lovely berries at christmas time. the holly fern is especially beautiful, while also quite hardy and--to its advantage--not so common as the varieties already mentioned. several small specimens found planted at the base of a christmas poinsettia were afterwards set out in small pots, and grew with surprising rapidity. they stood the dry heat of a steam-heated house, and kept a lovely glossy green when other plants were seriously affected. fern dishes are frequently filled with the spider ferns, though often combined with the others mentioned. on a certain occasion, when a neglected fern dish had to be discarded, i discovered in the center a tiny plant still growing that looked so hardy i decided to repot it. it grew and, to my surprise, soon developed into an attractive little kentia palm, now three or four years old and eighteen inches high. i think that one reason the ordinary fern dish does not last long is that it is kept on table or sideboard all the time, too far away from the light. often, too, it is not properly watered. if every morning after breakfast it were sprinkled in the sink, and then set near a window, though not in the sun, it would soon be getting too big for its quarters, and need dividing. it is well to remember that the container is shallow and holds very little earth, hence its roots are in danger of drying out. all these ferns mentioned i have seen grown repeatedly, under varying conditions, in a furnace-heated house as well as a steam-heated apartment; and with a reasonable amount of light, and water enough to keep them thoroughly moist, i have had them green and beautiful the year around. palms and the popular foliage plants can be grown satisfactorily with little or no sunlight. the kentia palm before mentioned is one of the very hardiest, and will thrive where few others will grow. both the cocoanut and date varieties can be easily grown from seed,--an interesting experiment. none of them require any particular treatment. a place by a north or east window will suit them perfectly; they will stand a temperature of forty-five degrees at night; but they do require plenty of water, and cleanliness of leaf. water them as the earth becomes dry, but do not leave standing in half-filled jardinieres, (as people often do,) as much soaking spoils the soil. a good plan for plants of this class is to set them in a pail of warm water and leave for a few hours or over night, about once a week, and then when they become dry in between times, pour water enough around the roots to wet thoroughly. the rubber plant grows quickly compared with the palm, and requires very little attention. it does best in good soil, and thrives on being set in a half shady place outdoors during the summer. one that i have watched for four years has stood during the winter near a west window, only a few feet from a steam radiator. it would get quite dry at times, but never seemed to be affected at all. when a plant gets too tall for a room, and looks ungainly, make a slanting cut in the stem at the height desired, slip in a small wedge, and wrap the place with wet sphagnum moss, which must be then kept wet for several weeks. when you find a lot of new roots coming through this wrapping, cut off just below the mass and plant the whole ball in a pot with good soil. keep in a shady place for a few days, and in a short time you will have two nice, well-shaped plants instead of the single straggly one. a group of three long, slender-leaved plants are the next of those easily grown for their foliage. the hardiest is the aspidistra, with its drooping dark green leaves, each coming directly from the root stalk, and it will stand almost any kind of treatment. from one plant costing a dollar and a half five years ago, i now have two that are larger than the original and have given away enough for five more. it has an interesting flower, too,--a wine-colored, yellow-centered, star-shaped blossom that pushes up through the earth just enough to open, and which often is hidden by the mud of excessive watering. the pandanus produces long, narrow leaves from one center stem, and can be bought in plain green, green and white or green and yellow. it needs good drainage, but takes a rich soil and plenty of water. it stands exceedingly well the dust, dryness and shade of an ordinary living-room, so is a valuable addition to any collection of houseplants. it is easily multiplied by using the suckers as cuttings. the dracænas are quite similar to the pandanus, only they are usually marked with a beautiful red. they are equally suitable for living quarters, and will thrive under the same conditions. the umbrella plant requires an unusual amount of water, and will grow nicely in a water garden. its tall, graceful umbrellas make it an especially attractive plant. the norfolk island pine is another popular houseplant that asks only to be kept cool and moist. beautifully symmetrical, it fits especially well in certain places, and will respond gratefully to even a reasonable amount of attention. for a small plant, the saxifraga i like very much, with its beautifully marked leaves and the runners which make it so effective for a bracket or basket. the "inch plant," or "wandering jew," as some people call it, in both the green and the variegated, looks and does well in wall pockets or when grown on a window sill in a fine, thin glass. smilax is also recommended for the window garden, and will grow in quite shady places, though it needs to be trained up. all the ferns and green plants mentioned are likely to prove more satisfactory than the flowering ones to the amateur doomed to live in sunless rooms,--which, however, can be made most attractive with what is suitable. simple indoor novelties the prettiest kind of a little hanging basket is made by cutting off the top of a big carrot, carefully scraping out the inside, running a cord through holes made near the rim, and keeping it full of water. it will soon resemble a mass of ferns. a lovely little water garden for the dining-room table is made by slicing a / -in. thick piece from the top of a beet and a carrot, and laying them in a shallow dish or bowl, with half an inch of water,--to not quite cover the slices. set in the light for a few days and you will have soon a beautiful mass of feathery green and sword-like dark red foliage that will last for months. grape fruit pips will sprout in a bit of soil very quickly, and make a mass of attractive green often where ferns have failed to grow. winter blooming bulbs of all the bulbs for winter blooming, the chinese lily is one of the most satisfactory, as it flowers in a few weeks, and is grown in a shallow bowl in water, with pebbles to hold it in position. it is best to set it in a dark place for a week or two until the roots start, when it can be brought to a light window. the paper white narcissus and the roman hyacinth can also be grown in water, or placed in soil if preferred. they will blossom in about eight weeks. the other "dutch" bulbs will take longer, although the hyacinths are easily grown in water by setting each bulb in a hyacinth glass or an open-mouth pickle bottle, with water enough to just touch the bottom of the bulb, and then putting away in a cold, dark place (like a cellar), until the roots nearly touch the bottom of the glass. a few pieces of charcoal help to keep the water sweet. bring gradually to a light window, and when flower buds are well started, put in the sun. by bringing out this way in the order of their best development, flowers can be had for a long season. the hyacinth bulbs can be bought from five cents to twenty-five cents apiece, according to their fine breeding. [illustration: spring beauties,--tulips, daffodils, crocuses, pussy willows and forsythia,--blooming indoors against a snowy background] tulips, daffodils and hyacinths when grown in good soil in the shallow "pans," should be set deeply enough to be just covered, quite closely together if wanted in a group, thoroughly watered, and then put in a cold, dark place (frost free, however). keep moist for from two to four mos.--when you can begin bringing them into the warm living-room as desired, and place in the sunlight after buds form. with this method is secured a succession of bloom from january until the spring flowers come out-of-doors. the freesia and the oxalis are of the "cape" group of bulbs, and when started in the fall should blossom in four or five months. plant in good, rich soil (half a dozen to a -in. pot), set away in a cool but light place, and leave until some leaf growth has started. then bring into a light, warm room as desired for different periods of bloom. the amaryllis is another foreign bulb that comes into market in the late fall. pot it in rich soil, rather sandy, do not cover the top of the bulb, and keep rather dry until it gets a good start. when buds are noticed, put the plant where it will get the sunlight, and water regularly. spring beauties as i look up from my work, my eyes rest on the different spring bulbs blooming this th day of february, in my south window, against their snowy background,--purple crocus, both red and white tulips, and that loveliest of daffodils, the white-tipped queen victoria. they were potted last october, covered up in an ash-lined trench outdoors until after the holidays, then carried into a cold but light attic for a week, before finally being brought into a warm room. the daffodils cost but three cents apiece, yet each fills an ordinary pot, and produces three lovely blossoms, four inches across. a new fibre is now on the market at a very low price that can be used exactly like earth, only it does not sour, and consequently can be put in any fine bowl or jar, as it does not need drainage. once thoroughly wet, it has only to be kept moist and the plants do as well as in soil. i, personally, prefer to plant in soil. the family living in an apartment with no cold place to start the bulbs that take so long, could easily fix a box or egg-crate under the coldest window and darken it with a small rug, hiding there for a few weeks the roman hyacinths and narcissi. books for the indoor gardener however successful you are with your window gardening, you are sure to enjoy knowing what other people have learned and written on the subject, and a number of simple, interesting books are available. your librarian will be glad to point out the best she has to offer, and there are several you may want to own. "manual of gardening," by l. h. bailey, formerly dean of the agricultural college at cornell university, is one of the most comprehensive, covering every phase of gardening, summer and winter, indoors and out; "the flower garden," by ida d. bennett, devotes considerable space to house plants, window gardens, hot beds, etc.; "green house and window plants," by chas. collins, is a little book by an english authority, and goes quite fully into soils, methods of propagating, management of green houses, and also the growing of house plants; "practical horticulture," by our own peter henderson, while especially valuable to the large commercial grower, contains much interesting information for the amateur; "house plants and how to grow them," by p. t. barnes, however, is one of the simplest and best, and sure to suit the busy school-girl, in a hurry to find out the proper way to make her particular pet plant do its very best. and just as surely as she would not attempt to make a new kind of cake without a reliable recipe, just so surely ought she not to expect to grow flowers successfully without finding out first how it should be done. flowers, like friends, have to be cultivated, and consideration of their needs produces similar delightful results. chapter xv gifts that will please a flower lover you may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, but the scent of the roses will hang round it still. --_moore._ christmas giving to the flower lover is a matter of delight, for if you stop to think you will know what the recipient will be sure to appreciate. cut flowers always afford joy, from an inexpensive bunch of carnations to the choicest american beauties. the christmas blooming plants, however, last much longer, and the rich scarlet berries of the ardesia will survive the holiday season by several months. poinsettia has been steadily increasing in popularity, and can be surrounded by ferns that will live on indefinitely. all the decorative foliage plants are sure to be welcomed, for with care they will last for years, and improve in size and beauty. the growing fad for winter-blooming bulbs affords another opportunity for pleasing. if you did not start in time to grow to flower yourself, give your friend one of the new flat lily bowls, procurable from fifty cents up, and with it a collection of bulbs for succession of bloom. these may be started in any kind of dishes with pebbles and water, set in a cool, dark place until the roots start, and then brought out to the light as desired. with narcissi at three cents each, chinese lilies at ten cents, and fine hyacinths up to twenty cents, for named varieties, a dollar's worth will keep her in flowers for the rest of the winter. pretty little stem holders, made in pottery leaves, mushrooms, frogs, etc., cost only from forty cents to fifty cents, and will be nice to use in the bowl afterward, for holding any kind of cut flowers. we are adopting more and more the japanese method of displaying a few choice specimens artistically, and assuredly this way they do show up to better advantage. many new vases are displayed for the purpose. a charming japanese yellow glaze, ten in. high, with a brown wicker cover, i saw for only a dollar and a quarter, while the graceful japanese yellow plum blossom shown with it at thirty-five cents a spray, was a delight to the eye. a slender ground glass vase in a plated cut silver holder was only twenty-five cents, while the sheffield plate bud vase was but fifty cents. these could be duplicated in cut glass and sterling silver at almost any price one wished to pay. venetian glass is quite fashionable, and can be had in all colors--red, blue, green, yellow and black, and while expensive, has been imitated in domestic ware at reasonable prices. some of the new pottery bowls come in unusual shapes, in white, gray, green, blue, and many are small enough for a single bulb. a lover of the narcissus myself, i am delighted with the idea of bringing out my paper whites one at a time, so as to keep a lovely gray-green piece in use all winter. one of my friends, on the other hand, is growing hers in groups of half-a-dozen, the warm brown of the bulbs harmonizing most artistically with her delicately colored stones in a brown wicker-covered japanese glazed dish. this brown japanese wicker, by the way, is most decorative, and can be found in various kinds of baskets, metal-lined, for cut flowers or plants of that grow in water,--some as low as ten cents apiece. a tall-handled basket of this kind is now standing on my buffet, beautiful with the varigated trailing sprays of the wandering jew. one could not ask for a more satisfying arrangement. enamelled tinware, hand-painted, is new, too, and comes in many pottery shapes, though strange to say, often at higher prices. hand-painted china butterflies, bees and birds, at from twenty-five cents to fifty cents, are among this year's novelties, and look very realistic when applied invisibly with a bit of putty to the edge of bowl or vase. some of the birds are painted on wood, life-sized, and mounted on long sticks, to be stuck in among growing plants or on the tiny trellises used for indoor climbers. many novelties in growing things can be found at the florist's--from the cheapest up to all you feel like paying. a dainty new silver fern, big enough for a small table, comes in a thumb pot at only ten cents. haworthia is cheap, too, and has the advantage of being uncommon. more and more do we see of the dwarf japanese plants, many quite inexpensive. the japanese cut leaf maple, for example, can be bought for seventy-five cents. all are hardy, and suitable for small table decorations. the new "air plant," or "wonder of the orient" (really an autumn crocus), surprises every one not acquainted with it, as it flowers during the late fall and early winter, without either soil or water, as soon as put in the sunlight for a few days. better still, when through blooming, it will live through the year if put in soil, and store up enough energy to repeat the performance when taken out next season. costing a dollar each when first introduced here, it can now be bought as low as ten cents a bulb. japanese fern balls, black and unpromising as they look when purchased, respond to plenty of light, heat and water by sending out the daintiest kind of feathery ferns in a few weeks, and will last for several years. they cost only thirty-five cents, too. quaint, square pottery jars, suspended in pairs by a cord over a little wheel, like buckets on a well rope, make unusual hanging baskets and can be filled with your favorite vines and flowers. garden tools are always acceptable as the old ones wear out or get lost, and you can choose from the three-prong pot claw at a nickel up to the fully equipped basket at several dollars. handwoven cutting baskets, mounted on sharp sticks for sticking in the ground when you are cutting your posies, cost two dollars and a half, but will last for years. small hand-painted, long-spouted watering cans, for window sprinkling, cost less than a dollar and look pretty when not in use. and for the person with only a window garden, the self-watering, metal-lined window boxes, that preclude dripping on the floor, will be a boon indeed. goldfish are pretty sure to please, for your flower lover is also the nature lover. even the tiniest bowl is attractive, and one i saw recently had been in the house over two winters. the globe, however, does not meet our modern ideas for the reason that the curved glass reduces the area of water exposed to the air, so is bad for the fish. the new all-glass aquariums can be bought in either the square or cylindrical shapes, from a dollar and a quarter up, according to size and quality, while the golden inmates can be found from five cents, for the child's pet up to the fancier's japanese prize-winner at one thousand dollars. your aquarium will require no change of water, either, if properly balanced. put in for the fishes' needs such oxygen-producing plants as milfoil, (millefolium,) fish grass, (cabomba,) common arrow head, (sagittaria natans,) and mud plant, plantain, (heteranthera reniformis,) the first and third being especially good together. these in turn will thrive on the carbonic acid gas the fish exhale, so that one supports the other. a snail or two (the japanese red, at twenty-five cents, preferred for looks,) and a newt will act as scavengers, and keep the water clear as crystal. for food, put in a small quantity of meat once a week, as the commercial "fish food" eventually causes tuberculosis. birds, too, are generally popular with flower lovers. canaries probably are the stand-bys, though in the cities the uncommon little beauties often are preferred. polly, however, holds her own, and with many people is the favorite. books,--always a safe and inexpensive gift,--are obtainable for the flower lover, in the most fascinating editions. they cover all phases of the subject, indoors and out, from the window garden to the vast estate, the amateur to the professional grower. and no true gardener could sit down by a blazing log on a blizzardy night, with helena rutherford ely's "the practical flower garden," or l. b. holland's "the garden blue book," filled with wonderful photographs and colored plates, without quickly becoming lost to the storm outside, and conscious only of sun-kissed lawns with blossoms nodding in the breeze. heaven? your friend will already be in imagination's paradise, with an increasing sense of gratitude over your thoughtful selection. chapter xvi the gentlewoman's art--arranging flowers in eastern lands they talk in flowers, and they tell in a garland their loves and cares; each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, on its leaves a mystic language bears. --_percival._ the above is almost literally true! you may be surprised to know that the arranging of flowers has not only long been considered an art, but that for centuries it has been closely connected with the whole life of a nation. away back in , a certain ruler of japan became so interested in this fascinating subject that he resigned his throne in order to study that and the other fine arts! one of his friends,--a great painter,--worked out the scientific rules which are still generally accepted, and the study became the pastime of cultured people. moreover, japan's greatest military men have always practised the art, claiming that it calmed their minds so that they could make clearer decisions on going into battle! [illustration: blossoms in japanese arrangement] briefly put, the japanese ideas are as follows: first, to use very few flowers (preferably three, five, or seven, with their foliage), and but one kind together. then to arrange these so that the three main blossoms form a triangle,--the highest point of which they usually call heaven, the middle point man, and the lowest point earth. if five or seven flowers are used, the others are the unimportant ones, and used as "attributes," placed near the important points. and as many of their favorite flowers, like the iris and the chrysanthemum, have quite straight stems, people have to learn how to bend them without breaking. each flower is studied, selected for its place in this triangle, and then, oh! so very delicately, shaped to the desired line. and then as so few flowers would be apt to slip around, they skilfully hold them in place by means of slender sticks, cut the exact size, split at one end, and then sprung into place across the vase or bowl. if the stems curve to one side, it is called the male style, if to the other, the female style; the arrangement must look not like cut flowers, but like the living plant, and suggest the growth by the use of buds, open flowers and withered leaves. good and evil luck are connected with the placing, as well as with the colors and the numbers chosen,--even numbers and red being ill-omened. certain arrangements also suggest the seasons, one style, for instance, representing spring and another autumn. while we today are not interested in japanese symbolism, we, many of us, are quite interested in japanese methods on account of their artistic effects. many books have been written by the japanese on their favorite subject,--some as far back as the thirteenth century! of course you never could read them even if you could find them here; but a western woman spent a long time over there, studying under the guidance of their priests, and recently wrote a book ("japanese flower arrangement," by mary averill,) which explains everything and is full of illustrations, so that you can see for yourself the results of following the japanese way. her most interesting message for you may be one method they have of making their flowers last. during moderate weather it can be done in this country by simply holding the stems of the flowers in a gas or candle flame until black and charred, and then putting the flowers in very cold water for seven or eight hours. another book, with a lot of beautiful pictures showing us how to arrange flowers to please better, perhaps, our american taste, is "the flower beautiful," by clarence moores weed. it illustrates most of our own familiar flowers, in all kinds of artistic holders, and is sure to give us new ideas about arranging them so as to enable us to bring out their full loveliness. both of these books should be found in any good public library, and in looking them over, you will have a treat. a prominent new york florist, in showing our garden club his methods of arranging flowers, advised (for one thing) filling a low bowl with broken twigs or branches, to hold the stems and keep the flowers in position without crowding. breaking up a few ferns to illustrate; he dropped them in a cut glass dish, and then stuck in a dozen stalks of pale pink primroses. the result was an inexpensive table decoration as beautiful as any costly display of roses. personally, i did not approve of his ferns, as they would very quickly decay in the water: but as a child i had learned from my grandmother his better idea of half-filling the dish with clean sand. it holds the stems exactly as placed, and can be entirely hidden by the foliage. roses, the gentleman also told us, draw up water above the surface only one-half the length of the stem in the water, and consequently should not extend more than that height above the water,--else the "forcing power" (as it is called) will not carry it far enough to sustain the flowers at the end of the stems. (this may account for my own success in keeping roses often for a week, for i usually take them out of the water, lay them in a wet box or paper, and place them flat in the ice-box over night so the water in the stems can flow to the extreme end.) he also said they should never be crowded together, but rather be separated as the primroses were. both the leaves and the thorns under water should be removed, as the leaves quickly foul the water, and the breaking off of the thorns opens new channels for nourishment to reach the flowers. the flat japanese bowls so popular the past few years, are not only artistic, but good for the flowers, which in them are not crowded, and so can get their needed oxygen. they can be held in place by the transparent glass holders if one objects (as the florist did,) to the perforated frogs, turtles, mushrooms, etc., now to be bought wherever vases and other flower holders are sold. any one who has tried to arrange even half a dozen blooms in this simple way will never go back to the crude, old-fashioned mixed bouquet! on the tables of the fine restaurants in new york city one most often sees only a simple, clear glass vase, with perhaps only two or three flowers; but they can be enjoyed for their full beauty. the secret of the whole subject is _simplicity_!--and you never know what you can do until you try. at our last garden show i had expected to make a well-studied arrangement of wild flowers for that class of table decorations, but did not have the time. at the last moment i took an odd little glass basket, filled it with damp sand, and stuck it full of cornflowers, (what you might call ragged robins or bachelor buttons, and which i grow to go with my blue china,) so that the holder was nearly hidden. on seeing it in place, on the show table, i frankly confess i was quite ashamed of my effort, it looked so very modest: and you can imagine my great surprise when i discovered later that it was decorated with a coveted ribbon! there is one way, however, in which the mixed bouquet can be put together so as to look its best, and our florist-guest demonstrated it. on coming to the close of his remarks he began picking up the flowers he had been using in his various arrangements with his right hand and placing in his left,--paying no attention whatever to what he took, nor even looking at what he was already holding. rose, daisy, jonquil, primrose, everything, just as he chanced to find it at hand, went together. _but_,--and here was the secret of the successful result--he grasped them all at the extreme lower end of their stems, whether long or short, so that the bouquet on being completed had that beautiful irregular outline as well as the mixed color that mother nature herself offers us in the garden! so if you ever have to put a quantity of mixed flowers together, remember to do it this way. and now a last word about flower growing. don't you know that old adage, ending "try, try again?" when you think of the great burbank, growing thousands upon thousands of a single kind of plant or flower in order to develop one to perfection, you can have patience in spite of pests and weather. i hope you will have quantities of the loveliest blossoms, and for the happiest occasions of life. may you realize all your fondest expectations. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. this text prefers "varigated" (three times) to "variegated" (once). this was retained. preface, "nutritous" changed to "nutritious" (well as nutritious) table of contents, "flower-beds" changed to "flower beds" to match usage in text (the flower beds) page , smallcaps added to first word of chapter to match rest of text. page , in the "good for" column for "hollyhock" the word "or" was repeated. the original read back of border or or clumps page , "paeonia" changed to "pæonia" (pæonia officinalis) the brochure series japanese gardens february, [illustration: plate xi daimio's garden at shinjiku] the brochure series of architectural illustration. . february	 no. . japanese gardens. the japanese garden is not a flower garden, neither is it made for the purpose of cultivating plants. in nine cases out of ten there is nothing in it resembling a flower-bed. some gardens may contain scarcely a sprig of green; some (although these are exceptional) have nothing green at all and consist entirely of rocks, pebbles and sand. neither does the japanese garden require any fixed allowance of space; it may cover one or many acres, it may be only ten feet square; it may, in extreme cases, be much less, and be contained in a curiously shaped, shallow, carved box set in a veranda, in which are created tiny hills, microscopic ponds and rivulets spanned by tiny humped bridges, while queer wee plants represent trees, and curiously formed pebbles stand for rocks. but on whatever scale, all true japanese gardening is landscape gardening; that is to say, it is a living model of an actual japanese landscape. but, though modelled upon an actual landscape, the japanese garden is far more than a mere naturalistic imitation. to the artist every natural view may be said to convey, in its varying aspects, some particular mental impression or mood, such as the impression of peacefulness, of wildness, of solitude, or of desolation; and the japanese gardener intends not only to present in his model the features of the veritable landscape, but also to make it express, even more saliently than the original, a dominant sentimental mood, so that it may become not only a picture, but a poem. in other words, a japanese garden of the best type is, like any true work of art, the representation of nature as expressed through an individual artistic temperament. through long accumulation of traditional methods, the representation of natural features in a garden model has come to be a highly conventional expression, like all japanese art; and the japanese garden bears somewhat the same relation to an actual landscape that a painting of a view of fuji-yama by the wonderful hokusai does to the actual scene--it is a representation based upon actual and natural forms, but so modified to accord with accepted canons of japanese art, so full of mysterious symbolism only to be understood by the initiated, so expressed, in a word, in terms of the national artistic conventions, that it costs the western mind long study to learn to appreciate its full beauty and significance. suppose, to take a specific example, that in the actual landscape upon which the japanese gardener chose to model his design, a pine tree grew upon the side of a hill. upon the side of the corresponding artificial hill in his garden he would therefore plant a pine, but he would not clip and trim its branches to imitate the shape of the original, but rather, satisfied that by so placing it he had gone far enough toward the imitation of nature, he would clip his garden pine to make it correspond, as closely as circumstances might permit, with a conventional ideal pine tree shape (such a typical ideal pine tree is shown in the little drawing on page ), a shape recognized as the model for a beautiful pine by the artistic conventions of japan for centuries, and one familiar to every japanese of any pretensions to culture whatsoever. and, as there are recognized ideal pine tree shapes, there are also ideal mountain shapes, ideal lake shapes, ideal water-fall shapes, ideal stone shapes, and innumerable other such ideal shapes. [illustration: plate xii "river view," koraku-en, koishikawa] in like manner in working out his design the gardener must take cognizance of a multitude of religious and ethical conventions. the flow of his streams must, for instance, follow certain cardinal directions; in the number and disposition of his principal rocks he must symbolize the nine spirits of the buddhist pantheon. some tree and stone combinations are regarded as fortunate, and should be introduced if possible; while other combinations are considered unlucky, and are to be as carefully avoided. [illustration: model pine tree] but endless and complex and bewildering to the western mind as are the rules and formulæ, æsthetic, symbolistic and religious, by which the japanese landscape gardener is bound, it is apparent that most of them were originally based upon purely picturesque considerations, and that the earliest practitioners of this very ancient art, finding that certain types of arrangement, certain contrasts of mass or line, led to harmonious results, formulated their discoveries into rules, much as the rules of composition are formulated for us today in modern artistic treatises. moreover, as japanese gardening was at first, and for many years, practised only as a sacred art and by the priests of certain religious cults, it was but natural that they should impart to these laws which they had discovered symbolic and religious attributes. to preserve the arts in their purity, and to prevent the vulgar from transgressing æsthetic laws, combinations productive of beauty were represented as auspicious, and endowed with moral significance, while inharmonious arrangements were condemned as unlucky or inauspicious. it is one of the cardinal principles of japanese philosophy, for example, that the inanimate objects of the universe are endowed with male or female attributes, and that from a proper blending of the two sex essences springs all the harmony, good fortune and beauty in this world. when, therefore, two contrasting shapes, colors, or masses, such as those of the sturdy pine tree and the graceful willow, were found conducive of a pleasing combination, they were named respectively male and female, and it became almost a religious observance to thereafter place them together in their attributed sex relations. it will be apparent, therefore, that with an art of such antiquity, originally practised as a religious ceremony, and in a country in which inherited tradition has such binding force, that there should have grown up around the craft of landscape gardening, a code of the most complex laws, rules, symbolism, formulæ and superstitions, which the artistic gardener is bound to learn and to implicitly obey. and yet it must not be considered that the art of the japanese gardener has, through the accumulation of its limiting rules, become a mere science, or that its practice is only a mechanical expression of pre-established artistic conventions. on the contrary, the landscape gardener must be, first of all, a student and lover of nature, for his art is founded on nature; he must be next a poet, in order to appreciate and re-express in his garden the moods of nature, and he must thereafter be a lifelong student of his craft, that he may design in accordance with its established principles. but the very number of these precepts makes a wide range of choice among them possible; and in almost every instance, even the most apparently superstitious and fanciful of them will be found, upon examination, to make in some way for beauty in the final result. to those who can understand it, moreover, the mystical symbolism of a japanese garden design is an added source of pleasure, just as a knowledge of symphonic form makes a symphony more enjoyable to the musician. "after having learned," writes mr. lafacdio hearn, "something about the japanese manner of arranging flowers, one can thereafter consider european ideas of floral decoration only as vulgarities. somewhat in the same way, and for similar reasons, after having learned what a japanese garden is, i can remember our costliest and most elaborate gardens at home only as ignorant displays of what wealth can accomplish in the creation of incongruities that violate nature." the japanese artist who is called upon to design a new garden will first examine the site, and confer with his patron regarding its proposed size and character. if the site be large, and already furnished with natural hills, trees and water, the gardener will, of course, take advantage of these features. if it possess none of them, he will inquire the amount of money that can be placed at his disposal for the construction of artificial hills, lakes and the like; and this amount of money will also determine another important point, namely, the degree of elaboration with which the whole is to be treated. for all works of japanese art whatsoever are rigorously divided into three styles, the "rough" style, the "finished" style and the "intermediate" style; and the adoption of any one style governs the degree of elaboration to which any part of the design may be carried. if the "rough" style is chosen, even the smallest accessory detail--a rustic well, or a stone lantern--must be rude to harmonize; if the "finished" style, no detail that does not correspond can be admitted,--a restriction greatly conducive to harmony, and one to which the almost invariable congruity and unity of japanese compositions is due. [illustration: plate xiii daimio of satsuma's garden, kagoshima] knowing, then, the size and character of the site, and his patrons' wishes as to expense and elaboration, the landscape gardener will next choose the model landscape, or landscapes, upon which he is to base his design. he will find them divided by convention into two classes: those representing "hill gardens" and "flat gardens." (there is a third class, the "tea garden," but as this is of a separate genus altogether, it will be considered later.) [illustration: detail of garden, fukagawa showing some important features of arrangement close to a dwelling,--the water basin with its rock-hidden drain, the lantern, with its fire-box partially concealed by the trained branches of the pine tree.] the "hill garden" class is the more elaborate of the two, and that best adapted for large gardens, and for those where the natural site is undulating, or where money can be spent in artificial grading. the "hill garden" has many different species, such, for instance, as the "rocky-ocean" style, which represents in general an inlet of the sea surrounded by high cliffs, the shores spread with white sea-sand, scattered with sea rocks and grown upon with pine trees trained to look as if bent and distorted with the sea wind; or the "wide-river" style, showing a spreading stream issuing from behind a hill and running into a lake; or the "reed-marsh" style, in which the hills are low, rounded sand dunes bordering a heath or moor in which lies a marshy pool overgrown with rushes; and many other such "styles," all well recognized, all carefully discriminated and all modelled upon actual landscapes. in any case, however, the true "hill garden" must present, in combination, mountain or hill, and water scenery. if on the contrary the site be small and flat, and the garden is to be less elaborate, the "flat" style is usually chosen. the "flat garden" is generally supposed to represent either the floor of a mountain valley, a moor, a rural scene, or the like; and as in the case of "hill gardens," there are a number of well recognized and classical examples. having, then, determined that the garden is to be of one of these types, and having also determined the degree of elaboration with which it is to be treated, the gardener will next proceed to fix the scale upon which it is to be constructed,--and this scale (a most important factor) is decided by the size of the garden area, and the number of features which must be introduced into the scene; for it is clear that if the site be large, and one in which natural hills or large bodies of water are already present, the scale will be a normal one; whereas if a whole valley, with hills, a river, a water-fall, a lake and a wooded slope is to be presented in a space of some fifty or sixty square yards, the scale of the whole must be miniature. but whatever scale is adopted, every tree, every rock, every pool, every accessory detail must be made exactly to correspond to it. a hill that might in a large garden be a natural elevation of considerable size, with full sized trees planted upon it, might in a smaller one modelled after the same design, be only a hillock, planted with dwarfed trees or shrubs; or in a still smaller area become only a clump of thick-leaved bushes trimmed to resemble a hill-shape, or even a large boulder flanked by tiny shrubs. so skilfully and completely do japanese gardeners carry out any scale that they have determined upon, however, that mr. hearn describes a garden of not much above thirty yards square, that when viewed through a window from which the garden alone was visible, seemed to be really an actual and natural landscape seen from a distance,--a perfect illusion. [illustration: plate xiv merchant's garden, awomori] having determined upon the natural model and the scale for it, the gardener will begin by imitating on the given site the main natural land conformations of his original, building hills or grading slopes, excavating lake basins and cutting river channels. these natural features he will next proceed to elaborate, and it is in this process of elaboration that he must most carefully observe all those complex laws and conventions to which we have before alluded. [illustration: detail of a merchant's villa garden, fukagawa showing some characteristic garden accessories,--stepping-stones, a lantern, a common variety of bamboo fence. the lantern and plum tree conventionally mark the approach to a little shrine reached through a shinto archway by means of a row of stepping-stones.] almost every japanese garden, be it hilly or flat, large or small, rough or elaborate, must be made to contain, in some form, water, rocks and vegetation, as well as such architectural accessories as bridges, pagodas, lanterns, water-basins, stepping-stones and boundary fences or hedges. water may be made to present the sea, lakes, rivers, brooks, water-falls, springs, or combinations of them. it is not, of course, possible to imitate the open sea with any degree of realism; and when a coast scene is presented, it is customary to fashion the body of water as an ocean inlet, the supposed juncture with the sea being hidden by a cliff or hill. lake scenes are much more common. there are six "classical" shapes into which lake forms are divided, some of them more formal for use near buildings, others more natural for use in wilder landscapes. it is an axiom that every lake, or pool, or stream represented must have both its source and outlet indicated. sometimes the inflow is indicated by a stream issuing from behind a hillock which conceals its artificial source, sometimes a deep pool of clear water may suggest a spring, sometimes a water-fall (at least ten individual and distinct forms of water-fall are recognized as admissible into a properly planned garden) supplies the water; but water showing no inflow or outlet is termed "dead" water, and is regarded with the contempt bestowed upon all shams and falsities in art. in cases where it is impossible to introduce actual water into a garden its presence is often imitated by areas of smooth or rippled sand, the banks of the sand bed treated to simulate the banks of a natural lake or stream, and islands and bridges introduced to further the illusion. [illustration: plate xv shirase-no-niwa, niigata] extreme importance is attached to the use in gardens of natural stones, rocks and boulders; and some teachers of the craft go so far as to maintain that they constitute the skeleton of the design, and that their proper disposition and selection should receive the primary consideration. in large gardens there may be as many as one hundred and thirty-eight principal rocks and stones, each having its special name and function; but in smaller ones as few as five rocks will often suffice. whatever the style of landscape composition, three stones, the "guardian stone," the "stone of worship," and the "stone of the two deities" must never be dispensed with, their absence being regarded as inauspicious. on the same principle there are certain stone forms which are considered unlucky, and are therefore invariably avoided. the raised parts of a japanese garden are supposed to represent the nearer eminences or distant mountains of natural scenery, and the stones which adorn them are intended to imitate either minor undulations and peaks, or rocks or boulders on their slopes. in like manner there are no less than twenty "water" stones, which have their places in lake and river scenery, as well as nine varieties of "cascade" stones alone. there are also sixteen stones which have their functions solely in the adornment of islands. after the contours of land and water and the principal rocks and stones have been arranged, the distribution of garden vegetation is considered; for the garden rocks form only the skeleton of the design and are only complete when embellished with vegetation. [illustration: typical arrangements of stones with foliage] in the grounds of the larger temples, avenues and groves of trees are planted with the same formality adopted in western gardens, but in true landscape gardening such formal arrangements are never resorted to. indeed it is an axiom that when several trees are planted together they should never be placed in rows, but always in open and irregular groups. the rules for planting the clumps are rigidly determined; and these clumps may be disposed in double, triple or quadruple combinations, while these combinations may be again regrouped according to recognized rules based upon contrasts of form, line and color of foliage. occasionally, when it is the designer's purpose to represent a natural forest or woodland, formulas are, of course, disregarded, and the trees are grouped together irregularly. [illustration: typical varieties of garden lantern] the architectural accessories of the japanese garden,--bridges, pagodas, lanterns, water-basins, wells and boundary fences or hedges, we have no space to consider in detail. it must suffice to say that their use is rather ornamental than to aid in the landscape imitation, and that they are generally placed in the foreground of the scene. there are many beautiful designs for each of them, and their use and disposition is formally regulated. [illustration: plate xvi public garden of shuzenji, kumamato] important accessories in the japanese garden are stepping-stones. turf is not used in the open spaces, but these are spread with sand, either pounded smooth or raked into elaborate patterns. this sand, kept damp at all times, presents a cool and fresh surface, and to preserve its smoothness, which the marks of the japanese wooden clogs would sadly mar, a pathway is invariably constructed across such areas with stones called "stepping-stones," or "flying stones" as they are occasionally termed, on account of the supposed resemblance in their composition to the order taken by a flight of birds. in the simpler and smaller gardens such stones form one of the principal features of the design. as nothing could be less artistic than a formal arrangement of stones at regular intervals, not to speak of the difficulty of keeping one's balance while walking upon them, the japanese gardener therefore uses certain special stones and combinations having definite shapes and dimensions, the whole being arranged with a studied irregularity. the sketch on this page exhibits three typical arrangements. the left hand group shows stepping-stones as arranged to lead from a tea room. the centre group shows stepping-stones combined with a "pedestal stone" which marks the point from which a typical cross view in the garden is to be observed. the right hand group shows the stones near a veranda with a "shoe-removing" stone terminating the series. [illustration: arrangements of stepping-stones] a third main type of garden, neither "flat" nor "hilly," to which we have before referred, properly speaking, is called the "tea garden." "tea gardens" are used for the performance of the "tea ceremony," and to explain the principle of its design would require a preliminary explanation of the intricacies of that ceremony itself, to which an entire volume might easily be devoted. a most cursory indication of the principal use and requirements must here suffice. "tea gardens" are divided into outer and inner inclosures separated by a rustic fence. the outermost inclosure contains a main entrance gate, and behind this there is often a small building in which it is sometimes the custom to change the clothing before attending the ceremony. the outer inclosure also contains a picturesque open arbor, called the "waiting shed," which plays an important part in tea ceremonies, for here the guests adjourn at stated intervals to allow of fresh preparations being made in the tiny tea room. the tea room is entered from the garden through a low door, about two and one-half feet square, placed in the outer wall and raised two feet from the ground, through which the guests are obliged to pass in a bending posture indicative of humility and respect. the rustic well forms an important feature of the inner garden, as do the principal lantern and the water-basin. a portion of the inner inclosure of a "tea garden" in the tamagawa, or winding-river style, showing the stream, bridge, lantern, water-basin, and an arrangement of stones, including the indispensable "guardian stone," is represented in the drawing on this page. all these separate features are connected, according to very rigid principles, by stepping-stones which make meandering routes between them, and form the skeleton of the whole design. [illustration: inner inclosure of a tea garden, "tamagawa" style] we can, perhaps, no better summarize this necessarily sketchy review of a complex subject, than by reproducing here, from professor conder's very elaborate monograph, "landscape gardening in japan," (tokio, )--from which most of the information in this article has been derived, and to which the student of the subject is referred,--a figured model of an ordinary "hill garden" in the finished style. the numbers refer to the titles of the principal hills, stones, tree clumps and accessories, the positions of which are all relatively established by rule. [illustration: plate xvii daimio of mito's garden, honjo] [illustration: figured model of an ordinary hill garden in the finished style hills: , near mountain. , companion mountain. , mountain spur. , near hill. , distant peak. stones: , guardian stone. , cliff stone. , worshipping stone. , view stone. , waiting stone. , "moon-shadow" stone. , cave stone. , seat of honor stone. , pedestal stone. , idling stone. trees: , principal tree. , "view perfecting" tree. , tree of solitude. , cascade-screening tree. , tree of setting sun. , distancing pine. , stretching pine. accessories: a, garden well. b, lantern. c, garden gate. d, boarded bridge. e, plank bridge. f, stone bridge. g, water basin. h, lantern, i, garden shrine.] hill represents a mountain of considerable size in the middle distance, in front of which should be placed the cascade which feeds the lake; while hills and are its companions, the depressions between them being planted with shrubs giving the idea of a sheltered dale. hill represents a distant peak in the perspective. the model shows ten important stones. the "guardian stone," , representing the dedication stone of the garden, occupies the most central position in the background, and in this case forms the flank of the cliff over which the cascade pours. the broad flat "worshipping stone," , indicating the place for worship, is placed in the foreground, or some open space. the "moon-shadow stone," , occupies an important position in the distant hollow between two hills and in front of the distant peak, its name implying the sense of indistinctness and mystery attached to it. the term "tree" as used in the diagram often refers to an arrangement or clump of trees. the "principal tree," , is placed in the centre of the background, and is usually a large and striking specimen. the "view perfecting tree," , generally stands alone, and its shape is carefully trained to harmonize with the foreground accessories. the "tree of solitude," , is a group to afford a shady resting place. the "tree of the setting sun," , is planted in the western part of the garden to intercept the direct rays of the sunset. the titles of the other features in the model will probably be found self explanatory. errata. by an unfortunate misprint in the preceding issue of the brochure series, prof. a. d. f. hamlin, author of the article on the "ten most beautiful buildings in the united states," was announced as professor of architecture in "cornell" university, instead of in "columbia" university. mr. hamlin's correct title is: "adjunct-professor of architecture, columbia university." in the same issue (page ), it was stated that the terraces and approaches to the capitol at washington were the work of mr. edward clark. this was an error: they were designed by mr. frederick law olmstead, and elaborated by mr. thomas wisedell under mr. olmstead's supervision. [illustration: plate xviii daimio's garden, kanazawa] transcriber's note: small capitals have been rendered in full capitals. a number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). a year in a lancashire garden. [decoration] a year in a lancashire garden. by henry a. bright. second edition. london: macmillan and co. . the right of translation is reserved. london: r. clay, sons, and taylor, bread street hill. preface. this volume is but a collection of notes, which, at the request of the editor, i wrote, month by month, in , for the columns of the _gardeners' chronicle_. they pretend to little technical knowledge, and are, i fear, of but little horticultural value. they contain only some slight record of a year's work in a garden, and of those associations which a garden is so certain to call up. as, however, i found that this monthly record gave pleasure to readers, to whom both the garden and its owner were quite unknown, i printed off some fifty copies to give to those, whom i have the happiness to number among my friends, and for whom a garden has the same interest that it has for me. four years have passed since then, and i am still asked for copies which i cannot give. i have at last, rather reluctantly, for there seems to me something private and personal about the whole affair, resolved to reprint these notes, and see if this little book can win for itself new friends on its own account. one difficulty, i feel, is that i am describing what happened five years ago. but this i cannot help. to touch or alter would be to spoil the truthfulness of all. the notes must stand absolutely as they were written. but after all, i believe, the difficulty is only an apparent one. the seasons, indeed, may vary--a spring may be later, a summer may be warmer, an autumn may be more fruitful,--but the seasons themselves remain. the same flowers come up each year, the same associations link themselves on to the returning flowers, and the verses of the great poets are unchanged. the details of a garden will alter, but its general effect and aspect are the same. nevertheless, something has been learnt, and something remembered, since these notes were written, and this, also communicated from time to time to the _gardeners' chronicle_, i have condensed into a supplementary chapter. if, as i have heard from a friendly critic, there is too much _couleur de rose_ in my descriptions, i am tempted to retort that this is a colour not perhaps altogether inappropriate to my subject; but, be this as it may, i have described nothing but as it really appeared to me, and i have only wished that others should receive the same impressions as myself. for my very open egotism i make no apology; it was a necessity of the plan on which i wrote. i have added notes on the roman viola, and on the sunflower of the classics, and have given some extracts respecting the solanum and the fly-catching azalea. i have also reprinted, by the editor's kind permission, part of an article of mine that appeared in the _athenæum_ on "flowers and the poets." contents. i. page introductory--the house--the latest flowers--the arbutus --chrysanthemums--fallen leaves--planting--the apple-room--the log-house--christmas ii. gardening blunders--the walled garden and the fruit walls-- spring gardening--christmas roses--snowdrops--pot plants iii. frost--the vineries and vines--early forcing--orange trees--spring work--aconites--the crocus iv. the rookery--daffodils--peach blossoms--spring flowers-- primroses--violets--the shrubs of spring v. the herbaceous beds--pulmonaria--wallflowers--polyanthus --starch hyacinths--sweet brier--primula japonica-- early annuals and bulbs--the old yellow china rose vi. ants and aphis--fruit trees--the grass walk--"lilac-tide" --narcissus--snowflakes--columbines--kalmias-- hawthorn bushes vii. the summer garden--the buddleia--ghent azaleas--the mixed borders--roses--the green rose viii. the fruit crop--hautbois strawberries--lilium auratum --sweet williams--carnations--the bedding-out ix. weeds--tomatos--tritomas--night-scented flowers-- tuberoses--magnolia--asters--indian corn x. st. luke's summer--the orchard--the barberry--white haricot beans--transplanting--the rockery xi. the wood and the withered leaves--statues--sun-dials--the snow--plans for the spring--conclusion supplementary chapter. flowering shrubs--yuccas--memorial trees--ranunculus-- pansies--canna indica--summer flowers--bluets--fruit blossoms and bees--strawberry leaves--garden sounds-- mowing--birds--the swallow--pleasures of a garden notes. i.--on the viola of the romans ii.--on the azalea viscosa iii.--on the solanum tribe iv.--on the sunflower of the classics v.--on flowers and the poets a year in a lancashire garden. i. introductory--the house--the latest flowers--the arbutus-- chrysanthemums--fallen leaves--planting--the apple-room-- the log-house--christmas. _december ._--these notes are written for those who love gardens as i do, but not for those who have a professional knowledge of the subject; and they are written in the hope that it may not be quite impossible to convey to others some little of the delight, which grows (more certainly than any bud or flower) from the possession and management of a garden. i cannot, of course, by any words of mine, give the hot glow of colour from a bed of scarlet ranunculus with the sun full upon it, or bring out the delicious scent of those double tuberoses, which did so well with me this autumn; but i can at least speak of my plans and projects, tell what i am doing, and how each month i succeed or fail,--and thus share with others the uncertainty, the risks and chances, which are in reality the great charm of gardening. and then, again, gardening joins itself, in a thousand ways, with a thousand associations, to books and literature, and here, too, i shall have much to say. * * * * * lancashire is not the best possible place for a garden, and to be within five miles of a large town is certainly no advantage. we get smoke on one side, and salt breezes on another, and, worst of all, there comes down upon us every now and then a blast, laden with heavy chemical odours, which is more deadly than either smoke or salt. still we are tolerably open, and in the country. as i sit writing at my library window, i see, beyond the lawn, field after field, until at last the eye rests on the spire of a church three miles away. a long red-gabled house, with stone facings, and various creepers trained round it,--a small wood (in which there is a rookery) screening us from a country road, and from the west,--lawns with some large trees and several groups of evergreens,--and the walled garden, the outer garden, and the orchard;--it is to these that i invite you. exclusive of meadow-land there are only some four acres, but four acres are enough for many gardening purposes, and for very great enjoyment. these are certainly what the american poet bryant calls "the melancholy days, the saddest in the year." the late autumn flowers are over;--the early spring ones are still buried under the soil. i could only find this morning a single blighted monthly rose, a wallflower or two, an uneasy-looking polyanthus, and some yellow jasmine against the house--and that was all. two days of early frost had killed the rest. oddly enough, however, a small purple flower caught my eye on the mixed border; it was a virginian stock,--but what it was doing at this unwonted season who can say? then, of course, the arbutus is still in bloom, as it has been for the last two months, and very beautiful it is. there is a large bush of it just as you enter the walled garden, and, though the pink clusters of blossom are now past their best, they are more welcome than ever in the present dearth of flowers. can any one tell me why my arbutus does not fruit? it has only borne one single berry in the last four years; and yet the arbutus fruits abundantly in other places in lancashire, and at lytham, close to the sea, i saw clusters of berries only the other day. sometimes i fancy there is a better chance of the fruit setting if the pollen is from another tree, and i have lately planted a second arbutus for the experiment. i am very fond of the arbutus; it carries me back to the days of horace, for we remember how his goats, wandering along the lower slopes of lucretilis, would browse upon the thickets of arbutus that fringed its side. lastly, the chrysanthemums are in flower, though not in the inner garden. some i have tended and trained, and they are now looking handsome enough in the porch and vestibule of the house. some i have planted, and allowed to grow as they like, in front of the shrubbery borders; these have failed very generally with me this year--they look brown and withered, and the blooms are small, and the stems long and ragged, while many have entirely disappeared. the best of them all is bob, with his bright, red, merry face, only surpassed by a trained julia lagravière in the porch. another favourite chrysanthemum of mine is the fleur de marie, with its large white discs, all quilled inside and feathered round the edge. fastened up against a wall, i have seen it, year after year, a mass of splendid snowy blossom. the chrysanthemum has three merits above almost every flower. it comes in the shortest and darkest days; it blooms abundantly in the smoke of the largest cities; it lasts longer than any flower when cut and put into water. if flowers have their virtues, the virtue of the chrysanthemum is its unselfish kindliness. in the outer garden, we have been busy with the fallen leaves, brushing them away from the walks and lawn, leaving them to rot in the wood, digging them into the shrubbery borders. this work is finished now, and we have swept up a great stack for future use at the end of two years. the beech and the oak leaves we (in opposition to some authorities) hold to be the most valuable, but of course we cannot keep them distinct from the rest. these fallen leaves--of which we make our loam for potting purposes--what endless moralities they have occasioned! the oldest and the youngest poets speak of them. it is homer, who compares the generations of men to the generations of the leaves, as they come and go, flourish and decay, one succeeding the other, unresting and unceasingly. it is swinburne, who says in his poems-- "let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, cast forth without fruit upon air; take rose-leaf, and vine-leaf, and bay-leaf blown loose from the hair." during this open weather we have been getting on with our planting. those beds of rhododendrons just under the drawing-room windows have become too thick. they are all good sorts--john waterer, lady emily cathcart, and the rest--and must have sufficient room. we move a number of them to the other side of the house, opposite the front door, where till now there has been a bed of the common rhododendrons, and this in turn we plant as a fresh bed elsewhere. there will be now some space to spare in the hybrid beds, and i shall plant in them a number of roots of the lilium candidum--the dear old white lily of cottage gardens. they will come up each year from between the rhododendrons, and will send their sweet subtle odour through the open windows into the house. and as i write i am told of a recipe showing how, in the wortlore of old, the firm white petals were esteemed of use. you must gather them while still fresh, place them unbroken in a wide-necked bottle, packed closely and firmly together, and then pour in what brandy there is room for. in case of cut or bruise no remedy, i am told, is more efficacious, and certainly none more simple. _december ._--the weather is still mild and open. we have had three days' sharp frost, but it soon passed, and, while it lasted, it spared even the chrysanthemums. "bob" looks better than ever. during the frost was the time to look over the apple-room, the mushroom-bed, and the log-house. the pears we are now using are the winter nelis, which i believe is known also as the bonne de malines. it is a capital pear at this season of the year, and in these parts, and trained on my south-west walls, bears well, though the trees are young. i only planted them some four years ago, and, as all the world knows,-- "you plant pears for your heirs." the mushrooms are late this year; the spawn appeared less good than usual, and i expected a total failure, but, after all, there is promise of a dish for christmas day. i do not care to grow mushrooms when the green vegetables are in full glory but now they are very welcome. as for the log-house, it is full. we have cut down several trees, and huge yule logs lie in heaps, ready for the hall fire. we shall want them before the winter is over. if horace had to say to thaliarchus in italy (this is lord denman's version)-- "dissolve the cold, while on the dogs with lavish hand you fling the logs,"-- surely in these northern latitudes, and in this dearth of coal, the advice is doubly seasonable. and then a log fire is so charming. it does more than warm and blaze--it glows and sparkles. but mr. warner, the american, has just given us in his _backlog studies_ long pages about wood-fires, and i need only refer to that very pleasant little book. one quotation, however, i will give:-- "we burn in it hickory wood, cut long. we like the smell of this aromatic forest timber and its clear flame. the birch is also a sweet wood for the hearth, with a sort of spiritual flame, and an even temper--no snappishness. some prefer the elm, which holds fire so well; and i have a neighbour who uses nothing but apple-tree wood--a solid, family sort of wood, fragrant also, and full of delightful associations. but few people can afford to burn up their fruit-trees." but besides the dead wood, we have just cut our fresh christmas boughs. up against an outhouse i have an immense ivy, almost as large as one you see growing up some old castle: it spreads along the wall, covering it all over on both sides; then it climbs up a second wall at right angles to the first, and throws its trailing branches down to the very ground: and now they are one mass of blossom. it is from this ivy that we gather our best christmas greenery; but there are also cuttings from the box, yew, and holly;--and one variegated holly has been beautiful, for its mottled leaves have in some sprays become of a perfectly clear and creamy white--the colour of fine old ivory. mistletoe does not grow with us, and we have to buy it in the market of our town. by the way, how strangely the idea of an english mistletoe bough now associates itself with that very uncomfortable italian story of the bride and the oaken chest. how curious, too, that, in this country at least, the memory of poor ginevra is due not to rogers's poem, but to haynes bayly's ballad. to-morrow will be christmas eve, and to-morrow (so the legend says), in the vale of avalon,--at the old abbey, where king arthur was buried and st. dunstan lived--"outbuds the glastonbury thorn"--the sacred thorn, which sprang from the staff st. joseph planted there. unhappily no such thorns grow in my lancashire garden. ii. gardening blunders--the walled garden and the fruit walls-- spring gardening--christmas roses--snowdrops--pot plants. _january ._--what wonderful notions some people have about gardens! in a clever novel i have just been reading, there occurs this description:--"the gardens at wrexmore hall were in a blaze of beauty, with geraniums and chrysanthemums of every hue." in the published letters of mr. dallas, who was formerly united states' minister here, there is something still more marvellous. he had been staying with lord palmerston at broadlands in the end of september, and he speaks of "the glowing beds of roses, geraniums, rhododendrons, heliotropes, pinks, chrysanthemums." i shall have to make a pilgrimage to broadlands. meanwhile, why should we not more often bed out chrysanthemums in masses, as in the temple gardens? a "winter garden" is generally nothing more than a garden of small evergreens, which, of course, is an improvement on bare soil, but which is in itself not singularly interesting. since last i wrote, we have had storms of wind and rain, and some little snow and frost, but the weather has, on the whole, been very genial for the time of year. i have finished my planting, and am now busy re-sodding the grass terrace which runs along the south and east of the house; the grass had become full of weeds, and in places was bare and brown. but my most important work has been within the walled garden. this garden is entered by a door in the south-east wall, and two walls, facing south-west and north-east, run at right angles to it. a thick hedge, guarded by wire netting to keep out the rabbits, is at the further or north-west side, and divides us from the home-croft. along the south-east wall we have two vineries, and between them a small range of frames and hotbeds. against the sheltered wall between the vineries we have a magnolia grandiflora, which flowered with me last year; a banksian rose, which has done no good as yet; and a général jacqueminot, which is always beautiful. a camellia (woodsii), which flowered abundantly last spring, i have moved elsewhere, and have planted a maréchal niel in its place. beyond the vineries on both sides are my best peaches and nectarines. on the south-west wall are peaches and nectarines, apricots, plums and pears, and on the north-east cherries and currants. in front of the vine border is a broad gravel walk, which reaches along the whole breadth of the garden, and on the other side of it are the flower-beds. there are about forty of them in all, of different shapes and sizes, and divided from each other by little winding walks of red jersey gravel. as you come upon them all at once, but cannot see the whole at a glance, i have no temptation to sacrifice everything to monotonous regularity and a mere effect of colour. i take bed by bed, and make each as beautiful as i can, so that i have a constant variety, and so that at no season of the year am i entirely bare of flowers. box hedges three feet high and some two and a half feet thick, and a screen of rhododendrons, separate the flower garden from the kitchen garden, which is beyond; and right through both flower garden and kitchen garden, from the front of the vine border to the far hedge by the croft, we have just been extending a grass walk, and planting, along the part that skirts the kitchen garden, pears, plums, and (for sake of a very uncertain experiment) a walnut and a medlar. my spring gardening is on no great scale. a bed of mixed hyacinths, another of single van thol tulips, and another of golden prince tulips, two beds of wallflowers, one of red daisies edged with white, and one of polyanthus, are all i have at present planted. there will be more by and by. meanwhile the spring flowers i really care about are those that come up every year on the mixed borders,--the outside borders of the flower garden. they are old friends that never fail us; they ask only to be left alone, and are the most welcome "harbingers of spring," bringing with them the pleasant memories of former years, and the fresh promise of the year that is to come. i never saw such christmas roses as i have just now. clustering beneath their dark serrated leaves rise masses of bloom,--bud and blossom,--the bud often tinged with a faint pink colour, the blossom a snowy white guarding a centre of yellow stamens. i have counted from thirty to forty blooms upon a single root, and i sometimes think the eucharis itself is not a finer flower. the christmas rose, the helleborus niger, has been celebrated by pliny, by spenser, and by cowley; but i confess my own favourite association with it is of a later date. i never see it without recalling the description poor anne brontë gives in her strange wild story of _the tenant of wildfell hall_. just at the end, when helen, after her sad unhappy life, is free at last, and wishes to tell gilbert that what remains of her life may now be his, she turns to "pluck that beautiful half-blown christmas rose that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping from the snow that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was now melting away in the sun." and then, "having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves," she says, "this rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through hardships none of them could bear: the cold rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it. look, gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals. will you have it?" nowhere in the whole of the brontë novels (so far as i remember) is a flower described as this one is. it is suggestive enough of dark and drowsy winter, that the two flowers which most enliven it should bear the deadly names of black hellebore and winter aconite (though, indeed, the eranthis is itself allied rather to the hellebores than to the aconites); as yet, however, my aconites are still below the sod. _january ._--it is st. agnes's eve, and never was there a st. agnes's eve so unlike that one which witnessed the happy adventure of young porphyro. _then_ "st. agnes' eve; ah! bitter chill it was; the owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; the hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, and silent was the flock in woolly fold." _now_ the weather is soft, and almost warm. i always seem to connect the idea of a snowdrop with st. agnes; and tennyson speaks of "the first snowdrop of the year" lying upon her bosom. this year our first snowdrop appeared on the th, and now each day brings out fresh tufts on the herbaceous borders, where the sun strikes most warmly. another week will pass, and, under the lime trees which shade the orchard, i shall find other tufts of the double variety, planted in bygone years i know not by whom, and now springing up half wild and quite uncared for. and these snowdrops gave me a hint a year or two ago. i found that my gardener was in the habit of throwing away his old bulbs--hyacinths and tulips--which had served their turn and lived their season. there was, of course, no good in keeping them for garden purposes; but this throwing them away seemed sadly wasteful. we now, therefore, plant them in the orchard grass, and each year they come up half wild like the snowdrops, and each year they will be more numerous and more effective. but the best way of growing snowdrops is, i believe, on a lawn itself. i have planted several hundreds of them in groups and patches, in a corner, where i can see them from the library window. the green spears are now piercing the grass, and in a few days there will be a broken sheet of snowy white, which will last for at least a fortnight, and which, from a distance, will seem like the lingering relic of some snowdrift still unmelted by the sun.[ ] by the way, was it not mrs. barbauld who spoke of the snowdrop as "an icicle changed into a flower?" the conceit is not a particularly happy one, for the soft white petals have nothing in common with the hard sparkle of the icicle. [ ] as matter of fact, the snowdrops were less abundant this year than they usually are.--has it ever been noticed that the colour of the winter flowers, as that of the arctic animals, is almost always white? we have not been fortunate this winter with the pot-plants which we require for the house. the primulas have been singularly shabby. we had got some white sand from an excavation in the road near us, and it seems to have checked the growth of several of our plants. the roman hyacinths, too, have done less well than usual with us. there was a gummy look about many of the bulbs, which made us fear at the time that they were not properly ripened, and the result has proved that we were right. for dinner-table decoration can anything be prettier at this season than small orange-trees--japanese oranges, i think they are--laden with their wealth of green and golden fruit? i have only just taken to them, and certainly i have seen nothing of the kind i like so well. iii. frost--the vineries and vines--early forcing--orange-trees-- spring work--aconites--the crocus. _february ._--we have had no morning so beautiful this winter. a clear, bright frost is in the air, and on the grass, and among the trees. not a spray but is coated with crystals, white as snow and thick as moss; not a leaf of holly or of ivy but is fringed with frosted fretwork. there is not a breath of wind, and the birds, that were singing yesterday, have all vanished out of sight. it is wonderfully beautiful while it lasts, but it will be over before night. meanwhile, i am thankful for any touch of frost, if it will only come now instead of later. it will help to kill some few of the eggs and larvæ, which, in the different form of noxious insects, will plague us through the summer. it will keep back the fruit-tree buds, which are sadly too forward, and which will run a poor chance unless they are checked betimes. the apricots especially look almost ready to open, and i can see colour even on the nectarines. we are beginning to force our first vinery. the year before last we had renewed the vine border, and last year we did not venture any forcing; this year i hope we may be repaid. our black hamburghs are old vines of rather a good sort, with fine large berries and very few stones. the muscats--canon hall, alexandria, and troveren--are vines which i planted some three years ago. in the same house there is also an old syrian vine, bearing big bunches, but otherwise worth but little. in the second vinery are black hamburghs again, black princes, grizzly frontignan, and a sweetwater,--all old vines; and to these i have added a mrs. pince's muscat, a foster's seedling, and a madresfield court. both vineries are of old construction, with clumsy flues, and require a thorough re-arranging, which i must give them some day. quite the best grape, so far as flavour goes, is, i contend, the grizzly frontignan, which has now comparatively gone out of fashion. the bunches, it is true, are not handsome, the berries are not large, and the colour is not good; but has any muscat a finer or more aromatic flavour? it was sir william temple who first introduced it, and he speaks of it with pride as "the noblest of all grapes i ever ate in england." the sweetwater is of value in another way; it is of all grapes the most grateful and refreshing to an invalid. only the autumn before last i was asked by an old friend whether anywhere in our neighbourhood the sweetwater was still grown. he had been very ill, and was longing for grapes,--but the rich luscious muscats, with their highly-flavoured and thickly-sugared juice, had been forbidden. he had searched in vain among the vineries of many great houses, where the sweetwater has been long discarded, and it was a pleasant surprise to find that in my small vineries this once favourite old grape could still be found. we are now bringing on our strawberries; the duc de malakoff and sir charles napier are the two we are forcing this year. last year we had oscar as well, but we found it a bad hanger, the first fruit damping away if it were not at once gathered. we are forcing also french beans, fulmer's forcing,--and tomatos, the orangefield dwarf. the prettiest thing in our vinery is a large orange-tree, laden with last year's fruit, and soon to be covered with this spring's flowers. the fruit itself is only good for preserving, but it is wonderfully handsome, and no orange-tree could be more prolific. surely the old plan of having a separate orangery is dying out in england, except of course in the very stately places. thirty or forty years ago i think these orangeries were more common in gardens of less pretension. i recall one, half green-house, half summer-house, with its large sashed windows opening to a lawn--windows round which a dozen creepers twined and blossomed;--inside stood the great orange-trees in their huge tubs, waiting till the full summer, when they would be arranged along the broad terrace walk--in themselves beautiful, and calling up a thousand fragrant memories of southern france and italy. now, i generally see trimmed bays or laurels arranged in porcelain pots, looking at once shabby and artificial. of course i do not suppose oranges worth growing except (a rather large exception) for their beauty; with lemons it is different--they are certainly worth growing,--but then they do best trained up against the back of a moderately heated house, and not moved out in summer. _february ._--since i wrote we have had the sharpest and keenest frost--sharper than we have had all the winter; and an east wind which at once dried and froze up everything. now spring has come again, and (as horace says) has "shivered" through the trees. the elders are already unfolding their leaves, and a lonicera is in freshest bud. i remember when, a few years ago, mr. longfellow, the american poet, was in england, he told me that he was often reminded by the tender foliage of an english spring of that well-known line of watts, where the fields of paradise "stand dressed in _living green_;" and i thought of this to-day when i looked, as i remember he was looking, at the fresh verdure of this very lonicera. but all things are now telling of spring. we have finished our pruning of the wall-fruit; we have collected our pea-sticks, and sown our earliest peas. we have planted our ranunculus bed and gone through the herbaceous borders, dividing and clearing away where the growth was too thick, and sending off hamperfuls of pæony, iris, oenothera, snowflake, japanese anemone, day lily, and many others. on the other hand we have been looking over old volumes of curtis's _botanical magazine_, and have been trying to get, not always successfully, a number of old forgotten plants of beauty, and now of rarity. we have found enough, however, to add a fresh charm to our borders for june, july, and august. on the lawn we have some aconites in flower. they are planted at the foot of two great beech trees, and last year they lay there--a soft yellow light upon the grass. this year they are doing badly. i suspect they must have been mown away last spring before their tubers were thoroughly ripe, and they are punishing us now by flowering only here and there. i know no flower so quaint as this--the little yellow head emerging from its deeply-cut elizabethan ruff of green. then, too, the crocuses are bursting up from the soil, like byron's assyrian cohorts, "all gleaming in purple and gold." nothing is more stupid than the ordinary way of planting crocuses--in a narrow line or border. of course you get a line of colour, but that is all, and, for all the good it does, you might as well have a line of coloured pottery or variegated gravel. they should be grown in thick masses, and in a place where the sun can shine upon them, and then they open out into wonderful depths of beauty. i am afraid dr. forbes watson's most charming book on _flowers and gardens_ is too little known. no modern author, not even excepting ruskin, has studied the form and the beauty of flowers so closely and lovingly as he has done, and he entirely bears out my view. he says-- "this is one of the many plants which are spoilt by too much meddling. if the gardener too frequently separates the offsets the individual blooms may possibly be finer, but the lover of flowers will miss the most striking charms of the humbler and more neglected plant. the reason is this: the bloom, when first opening, is of a deeper orange than afterwards, and this depth of hue is seemingly increased where the blossoms are small from crowded growth. in these little clusters, therefore, where the flowers are of various sizes, the colour gains in varieties and depth, as well as in extent of surface, and vividness of colour is the most important point in the expression of the yellow crocus." besides the clusters along the shrubberies and the mixed borders, i have a number on the lawn beneath a large weeping ash; the grass was bare there, and, though this is hidden in summer by the heavy curtains of pendent boughs and crowding leaves, it was well to do something to veil its desolation in the spring. nothing can be more successful than a mass of crocus, yellow, white, and purple. i sometimes think that the crocus is less cared for than it deserves. our modern poets rarely mention it; but in homer, when he would make a carpet for the gods, it is of lotus, hyacinth, and crocus; and virgil's bees find their honey among cassia and lime blossoms, and "iron-grey hyacinths and glowing crocus." virgil speaks, too, of the scent of the crocus (whatever that may be), and all latin authors, when they wish to express a bright deep orange colour, call it the colour of the crocus. our cool vinery is now gay with stages of narcissus, tulips, and hyacinths, which have been brought on in heat, and are well rewarding us for what care we have given to them. iv. the rookery--daffodils--peach blossoms--spring flowers-- primroses--violets--the shrubs of spring. _march ._--we have a tradition, or, if you will, a superstition, in this part of the world, that rooks always begin to build on the first sunday in march. last year my rooks were punctual to a day. this year, although they began a day or two earlier, it was not till the morning of sunday the st that they showed real activity. then the belt of trees which they frequent, and which for want of any better name we call "our wood," was all alive and clamorous. these rooks are only with us from march to the end of may, and then they are off again for the rest of the year to the woods which cluster thickly round the stately hall of the great nobleman of our county. but they never quite forget their nests among our elms; and it is pleasant to see them in summer, and oftener still in late autumn, winging their way across the fields, and then wheeling down upon the trees. who was it, who so happily applied to rooks the lines from the sixth Æneid, where virgil, speaking of the descent of Æneas and his guide upon the elysian plains, says "devenere locos lætos, et amoena vireta fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas"? "and down they came upon the happy haunts, the pleasant greenery of the favoured groves-- their blissful resting-place." there are many secrets about the rooks which i can never solve. why do they build in the elm rather than the beech? my best trees are beeches, but there are only two nests in them, whereas in a single elm there are no less than ten. why, again, do the old birds prevent the young ones from building in some particular tree? sometimes, no doubt, there may be an unhappy association of the past, as in a case mentioned in hawthorne's _english note book_, where in a garden, which i took him to see, not very far from this, some nests were once destroyed in a clump of trees, and never since has nest been built there. sometimes, i think, because the rooks like to reserve certain trees as storehouses, from whence to gather their sticks. again, how far is rook-shooting good for a rookery? it is commonly believed that, if a certain number are not shot, the rooks will desert. is this so, and, if so, what should be the proportion? i have some sixty nests, and i wish to keep about this number. i have planted many wild daffodils in the wood; they are now coming into flower, but they do not seem to flourish as they should. i am told that daffodils do not do well under a rookery, but i hardly think this likely. if, as i said last month, the crocus has been neglected by english poets, the daffodil has no right to complain. some of the most charming lyrics in the language are connected with this flower. who does not remember herrick's "fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon;" or wordsworth's "host of golden daffodils beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze"? jean ingelow, too, in her _persephone_, makes the daffodil the flower which tempts the unhappy maiden from her companions as they ramble along the fields of enna-- "the daffodils were fair to see, they nodded lightly on the lea, persephone, persephone! lo! one she marked of rarer growth than orchis or anemone; for it the maiden left them both and parted from her company. drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, and stooped to gather by the rill the daffodil, the daffodil." the end of the story we all know right well, for "perdita" told us long ago how persephone let her daffodils all fall "from dis's waggon." _march ._--again we have had frost and snow, and this time it has done us harm. the early bloom of the apricot has turned black, and our chance of a crop rests with the later buds. however, there are plenty still; and now, in words familiar to half the children of england, "the crimson blossoms of the peach and the nectarine are seen, and the green leaves sprout." here our promise is not so good, and we have nothing like the bloom of last year; in fact, a crop of peaches and nectarines in the open air is very uncertain in this lancashire climate, and many of my neighbours have given in entirely, and have taken to glass-houses. i still go on; but certainly last year, in spite of the show of blossom, was not encouraging. whether it is the increase of smoke or of chemical works i cannot say, but formerly wall fruit answered far better in these parts than it does at present. it is remarkable, however, that sir william temple, writing just years ago, objects to growing peaches farther north than northampton, and praises a staffordshire friend for not attempting them, and "pretending no higher, though his soil be good enough, than to the perfection of plums." we have been busy renewing the box edgings to our flower-beds where it was required. last year we had carelessly laid down salt on the narrow walks to destroy some weeds, and it has injured a good deal of the box; some injury, too, has been caused by the growth of several strong plants, which got out of bounds and smothered it. our garden is not a good spring garden. the soil is cold and heavy, and the delicate spring flowers do not thrive; but, on the other hand, no garden about is a better summer garden. it is a regular sun-trap, and yet even in the hottest weather the plants keep fresh and unburnt. meanwhile the white scilla, the double daffodil, the arabis, and some others, are doing well enough. a bed of daisies and another of polyanthus are far from satisfactory. hepaticas i have tried over and over again, and they always fail. in front of one of the beds of evergreens on the lawn i planted some double primroses--yellow, white, red, and lilac; some of them are showing their blossoms, but they are not vigorous. by the way, i found it very difficult to get these primroses, and had to pay what seemed an excessive price for them. they are, i fear, among the old neglected flowers, which we run a good chance of losing altogether, if gardeners will confine themselves entirely to bedding plants. there is a charmingly fantastic conceit in one of herrick's poems, "to primroses filled with morning dew." he thinks they may be weeping, because "ye have not seen as yet the violet." my primroses at least have not this excuse, for we have violets in abundance, and they scent all the air as we pass through the garden door. even in winter a faint fragrance lingers among their leaves--a shadowy memory of a perfume, which haunts them even when no single flower can be found. bacon says that "the flower which above all others yields the sweetest smell in the air is the violet; specially the double white violet which comes twice a-year: about the middle of april and about bartholomew-tide." where is the double white violet grown now? one of the greatest floral heresies of modern days is as regards the violet. both ruskin and lord stanhope have asserted that the violet of the greek and latin poets was an iris! if so, we are to believe that athens was crowned with iris; that the revellers at banquets decked themselves with wreaths of iris; that wine was flavoured with iris juice; and that a violet is nowhere mentioned! fortunately, however, pliny makes it clear that there were violets and irises both, in old classic times; and the city of the violet-crown is fragrant as of yore.[ ] [ ] see note i. on the viola of the romans. some of the flowering shrubs are now coming out and looking gay. there is the mezereon with its upright shoots, all purpled over with their blossom; there is the rhododendron dauricum with its beautiful lilac bloom; there, the oldest favourite of all, is the pyrus japonica, with its bunches of cherry-coloured flowers, breaking out all along the hard-twisted branches. this pyrus is no doubt most effective when trained up against a wall, and then, of course, it flowers earlier; but one bush of it is quite worth growing in any garden. the last bit of planting we have done this year is an addition to our flowering-trees. we have got two of the best robinias--the glutinosa and the hispida--and i shall be much disappointed if they do not prove a great success. v. the herbaceous beds--pulmonaria--wallflowers--polyanthus-- starch hyacinths--sweet brier--primula japonica--early annuals and bulbs--the old yellow china rose. _april ._--is any moment of the year more delightful than the present? what there is wanting in glow of colour is more than made up for in fulness of interest. each day some well-known, long-remembered plant bursts into blossom on the herbaceous borders, and brings with it pleasant associations of days that are no more, or of books that cannot die. it is, i think, alphonse karr who says we should watch closely and rejoice greatly over the slow procession of the flowers, as one by one they appear, bloom, and fade; if we are past middle life, it is a sight which, at best, we can only see some twenty or thirty times again. the common double daffodils are already past, but we have still the variety which, from its blended hues of dark orange and pale citron, the children call--as they call the wild linaria--"the butter-and-egg flower." here is the saxifraga crassifolia, with its huge broad leaves and its thick spikes of pink bell-blossom. it is almost too coarse growing, however, for the border, and does better on a rude rockery, or rather "loggery," which i have elsewhere. here is the pulmonaria or lungwort, with its varied bloom of red and blue, and with the white markings on its leaves, which were supposed to look like lungs, and from which it takes its name. this pulmonaria is one of the large class of plants, which, it was believed, had a healing power, and indicated that healing power by the form of leaf, or root, or blossom. these herbs of grace--and it is doubtful whether any plant would be entirely excepted--bore about with them, plain for all to see, outward and visible signs of their secret and subtle virtue. thus the liverwort (hepatica) had the shape of a liver in its leaves, the eyebright (euphrasia) looked up to you with an eye like your own--and each had potency of healing for that part of the human body, of which the image was expressed in its own frail form. farther on are close green tufts of the corydalis, with its delicate lilac flowers. then come bushes of wallflower of the richest red-brown colour--a colour like nothing else, and indeed without a name, that would convey the depth and beauty of the dark tawny hue. what a contrast to the little wild yellow flower, which draws its scanty life from the wall of some grey old castle like that of conway! few scents are more delicious than that of wallflowers. bacon says of them that they "are very delightful, to be set under a parlour or lower chamber window." it is an old controversy whether the wallflower and the gillyflower are the same; but it seems tolerably clear that the latter name was rather loosely used, and meant sometimes the wallflower, but sometimes also the stock or the clove carnation. the polyanthus on the borders has done better than those on the separate bed; the pretty _tortoise-shell_ blossoms (to use a good expression of forbes watson) are just now in full perfection, and i have also a perfectly white hose-in-hose polyanthus, which is really charming. there is a droll passage in one of sterne's love-letters to his future wife, in which he says--and he means to be sentimental and pathetic-- "the kindest affections will have room to shoot and expand in our retirement.--let the human tempest and hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is beyond the horizon of peace. my l. [the lady's name was lydia] has seen a polyanthus blow in december! some friendly wall has sheltered it from the biting wind.--no planetary influence shall reach us but that which presides over and cherishes the sweetest flowers." there is still one other flower of which i must speak. it grows so abundantly, it flowers so luxuriantly with me;--it comes up like a weed on almost every border, and i have given it one entire bed to itself. it is the starch or grape hyacinth, known also, i believe, as the plum or cluster hyacinth. its lower bells are of the darkest indigo, but towards the top it melts into the softest sky-blue tints, and when in masses it is beautiful. ruskin says it is "as if a cluster of grapes and a hive of honey had been distilled and compressed together into one small boss of celled and beaded blue." upon the wall by the vinery a corchorus (kerria) japonica is laden with wreaths of golden blossom. an almond-tree near the front door is just shedding its pink petals. the double gorse will be in flower in a week. but after all there is no flowering shrub, which we care for more just now than the still unflowering sweet brier. towards the end of the walled garden i have laid out a miniature herb garden, with its separate little beds for thyme and marjoram, and sage and borage, and the rest, and inclosed it within a hedge of sweet brier. this sweet brier is now in leaf, and, after rain especially, it fills all that corner of the garden with whiffs and snatches of sweetest perfume. the sweet brier is the true eglantine of the poets, for though milton seems to confound "twisted eglantine" with the honeysuckle, shakspeare has it right, and titania's bower is, as we all know, "quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk roses, and with eglantine." by the way, is the musk rose still found in english gardens, and what is it? two years ago i got, with infinite trouble, a root or two, but they have died down again, and i begin to doubt whether i shall ever know its scent--a scent which bacon says comes next to the violet in perfuming the garden's air. _april ._--the stages in the cool vinery are now gay with spiræas and cinerarias. the lilies of the valley are over, but they have done exceedingly well this year. i wonder whether the trillium grandiflorum or canadian wood-lily is generally known. i believe it to be hardy, but it was new to me, and i had grown it in a pot in the vinery, and a very pretty little flower it is, with its three green leaves, its three green sepals, and its three white petals. i have grown in the same way, for the first time, the primula japonica, and surely nothing can be more beautiful than its five circles of crimson blossoms, one whorl above another. i have been so pleased with it, that i have just given orders for an entire bed of it to be made, which shall remain permanently, and between the plants i am dropping in gladiolus bulbs, so that the bed will be in beauty for many weeks. as i have before explained, you can hardly see the various beds of my flower-garden at a glance, so that i can go to work independently of the effects of the colour produced by elaborate bedding out. to tell the truth, too, i am heartily weary of the monotony of modern gardens, with their endless pelargoniums, calceolarias, and verbenas. some few such beds i cannot of course dispense with, but i am always glad when i can _reclaim_ a bed for permanent herbaceous plants, as in this case of the primula japonica. another bed, i trust, may be successful in another way--it is a bed of the blue nemophila insignis. two years ago i saw in the people's garden at dublin, in the beginning of may, two beds, which struck me as being almost the most effective in their colouring of any i had ever seen. one was of nemophila, the other of virginian stock; one was a mass of the most brilliant blue, the other a blending of shades of tenderest lilac. the blooms were thick and close as possible, and the size of the flowers much finer than that of the ordinary spring-sown annuals. the manager of these gardens kindly explained to me his secret: the seeds were sown in autumn, pricked out in spring, protected during the early months, and then finally bedded out. last year we tried with the nemophila, but we were too soon, and the frost caught us and destroyed our plants. this year we are later, and, by giving some protection against cold and sun for a few days longer, i hope to reproduce what i saw in dublin. another year i may make trial of the virginian stock as well. the hyacinth bed has done fairly well, but there were too many pinks among the spikes for it to be quite successful. the van thol tulips are a terrible failure. some mice got to the bed, and, though we have killed thirteen of them, they had already eaten away so many of the crowns that some dozen tulips, appearing here and there, are all i have. the bed of golden prince tulips is, however, doing better; this always seems to me a very handsome tulip, and i sometimes fancy has a sweetness of scent beyond all other kinds--a something, which at times half reminds one of the odour of some tea rose. by the bye, i have had a tea rose in blossom in the vinery--of a sort i rarely see, and of which i really do not know the proper name. it used to grow over a cottage in herefordshire, which i knew many years ago, and the herefordshire nurseryman, from whom i got my standard, calls it "the old yellow china." is this the right name, and is the rose more common than i imagine? its petals are loose and thin, and of a pale primrose colour, and before it is fully out it is at its best. its leaves are large and handsome, and of glossy green. its blossom has a certain half-bitter scent of tea about it, to which the scent of no other tea rose can at all compare--it is so strong and aromatic. we gathered our first forced strawberries on the th; our first forced french beans on the th, and our first asparagus on april . this is early for us, but we are having the finest weather. vi. ants and aphis--fruit trees--the grass walk--"lilac-tide"-- narcissus--snowflakes--columbines--kalmias--hawthorn bushes. _may ._--may set in this year with (as horace walpole somewhere says) "its usual severity." we felt it all the more after the soft warm summer weather we had experienced in april. the lilac, which is only due with us on the st of may, was this year in flower on the th of april. green gooseberry tarts, which farther south are considered a may-day dish, we hardly hope to see in this colder latitude for ten days later, and now these cold east winds will throw back everything. i have been going over the fruit walls. the apricots have, after all, done fairly well, and, if they do not fall off at the "stoning," we shall have nothing to complain of. peaches and nectarines are even worse than i had feared. there was not much bloom to begin with; then what bloom there was has set but badly; and now my most promising trees are overrun with aphis and with ants. we are doing everything that can be done to check the plague, but with only a partial success. i am told that ants do no harm, and, indeed, are useful as against the aphis. i do not know how this is. they seem to be most excellent friends, and the more ants there are the more the leaves curl up, and the more the aphis seems to thrive.[ ] last year one peach-tree was completely killed, and this year two of them are looking very miserable. there has been no want of care or attention, but the enemy increases faster than we can destroy it. is it a disease (so to speak) in a particular tree, which spreads to other trees? or is it a blight in the air, against which we cannot guard? and what remedy is there when we have used tobacco-powder and gishurst compound, and all in vain? [ ] i have since learned that the fact of the ant and the aphis being constantly together is well known; and further, that a sweet juice exudes from the aphis, on which the ant feeds. pierre huber declares that the aphis is the _milch-cow_ of the ant; and adds, "who would have supposed that the ants were a _pastoral people_?" two fig-trees against the wall, in the sunniest corners, are promising a full crop for this district; another fig-tree of a smaller variety close by bears nothing. the old arabic proverb, which emerson quotes, that "a fig-tree looking upon a fig-tree becometh fruitful," has not held good in this case. lancashire, of course, is not the climate for figs, but i should doubt whether fig-trees are anywhere so common in england as they were years ago, when batty langley of twickenham wrote. he recommends them to be grown as dwarfs or standards as well as against a wall, and says they "are either white, black, yellow, grey, green, brown, purple, or violet-coloured, consisting of sixteen different kinds,"--but he adds that the white and the long purple do the best. the pears against the wall have but little fruit, but the standards are setting well, and the apples will not, i hope, have suffered from this spell of cold. the new grass walk, of which i wrote on january as passing right through the garden, is shaded by some apple-trees, and it is pleasant to see their flakes of rosy snow falling softly on the fresh green beneath. between these old apple-trees and the young standards i have planted, there was room, which i am making ornamental with cones of scarlet runners. we have some five circles on each side of the walk, and shall train up the bean tendrils by strings fastened to a centre pole, so that in summer we shall have a succession of tents of scarlet and green. i tried this method of training scarlet runners on a smaller scale last year. the effect was excellent. then, too, close along the grass on either side i am planting a broad belt of violets, so that this new walk will one day be the sweetest part of the garden. lastly, to give colour to the end of the walk, where it is bounded by the hedge of the croft, i am sowing the large everlasting pea, and the strongest growing nasturtium, that they may climb and trail among the hawthorn and the clipped beech. the outside borders and the lawn clumps are beautiful with flowering shrubs. no season is like "lilac-tide," as it has been quaintly called, in this respect. besides the lilac itself, there are the long plumes of the white broom, the brilliant scarlet of the hybrid rhododendrons, the delicious blossoms, both pink and yellow, of the azaleas, the golden showers of the laburnum, and others too numerous to mention. a judas-tree at an angle of the house is in bud. the général jacqueminot between the vineries has given us a rose already. the cuckoo has been calling for days past among the trees beyond the orchard, and the song birds seem to be awake half through the night. the foliage of the large forest-trees is particularly fine this year. the horse chestnuts were the first in leaf, and each branch is now holding up its light of waxen blossom. the elms came next, the limes, the beeches, and then the oaks. yet still "the tender ash delays to clothe herself when all the woods are green," and is all bare as in mid-winter. this, however, if the adage about the oak and the ash be true, should be prophetic of a fine hot summer. _may ._--i wonder if any effect of bedding out is finer than that which my mixed borders have now to show. they are at their very best, for it is the reign of the pæony and the iris. great clumps of each, the one bowed down with the weight of its huge crimson globes, the other springing up erect with its purple-headed shafts, appear at intervals along the borders, and each lends a fresh grace to the form and colour of the other. among other flowers in rare beauty just now are (as once in the garden of "the sensitive plant,") "narcissi, the fairest among them all, who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess till they die of their own dear loveliness." was it, i wonder, owing to this story of narcissus, and as an emblem of self-seeking, that the greeks twined the white stars of this flower among the tangled locks of the eumenides? the snowflakes have been flowering abundantly, but they are now passing. the greek name for the snowflake is the leucoion--literally the white violet--and i think it possible that in a passage of ovid, where he speaks of the violet, the poppy, and the lily being broken by a storm, he is really thinking of the snowflake. i am satisfied, as i have already said, that the _iris_ is never (as lord stanhope asserted) called the violet. my auriculas are not as good as they should be in a lancashire garden, for of all flowers it is the old lancashire favourite. it is still known as the basier (a corruption, no doubt, of bear's ear), and a pretty lancashire ballad ends every verse with the refrain, "for the basiers are sweet in the morning of may." the old-fashioned columbine is in full bloom, as is also the aquilegia glandulosa. i have planted the aquilegia coerulea, but both the plant and some seeds which i have sown have failed me, and i half fear i may never be successful with this finest of the columbines. before i leave the columbine, let me mention a mistake in one of jean ingelow's very prettiest poems, which her _literary_ critics seem never to have detected. she says-- "o columbine, open your folded wrapper, where two twin turtle-doves dwell." but she is confusing the columbine with the monk's hood. the doves of the columbine cluster round the centre like the doves of pliny's vase. the doves of the monk's hood are only seen as you remove the "wrapper," and then the old idea was that they are drawing a "venus' chariot." the accidental grouping of plants on a mixed border is often very happy. a week or two back i found growing out of a tuft of forget-me-not a plant of the black fritillary. the blue eyes of the forget-me-not seemed to be looking up into the hanging bells of the fritillary, and were a pleasant contrast to the red-brown of its petals. gerarde's name for the fritillary was the "turkie or ginnie-hen flower," and the name of the fritillary was itself derived from the _fritillus_ or dice-box, which the common fritillary was supposed to resemble in its markings. in the middle of each group of beds, which the grass walk divides, is a circular bed full of american shrubs. among these shrubs are several rather fine kalmias. very often they do not flower at all, or at best bear a bloom only here and there. this year they are laden with blossom, which is now just ready to burst, and i shall have a show of kalmia flowers such as i have not seen, since two-and-twenty years ago, i wandered among the kalmia brakes in the forests of virginia; and the flower is so beautiful--pink outside, and, as ruskin says, inside "like the beating out of bosses in hollow silver, beaten out apparently in each petal by the stamens instead of a hammer." another bed, which will be very effective in a day or two, is a bed of the double persian brier, pegged and trained. the festoons of yellow buds are all but out, and will be one mass of sweet and lovely little roses. the nemophila bed has done very well, but we did not plant it as thickly as we should have done, and there are bare places here and there. i have still to mention the great bushes, or rather trees, of hawthorn, of which some stand in front of the dining-room windows, while others fling their perfume across the hedge that divides the garden and the croft. there is another lancashire may song, from which i cannot but quote a few lines, as it is but little known. the mayers come to the door and sing (or sang, rather, for the custom no longer holds with us):-- "we have been rambling all this night, and almost all this day; and now, returned back again, we've brought you a branch of may. a branch of may we have brought you, and at your door it stands; it is but a sprout, but it's well budded out, by the work of our lord's hands." vii. the summer garden--the buddleia--ghent azaleas--the mixed borders--roses--the green rose. _july ._--there is a longer interval than usual since my last notes; but i have been away among the soldanellas and the gentians of switzerland, and i have had to leave my garden to the gardener's care. now that i have returned, i find how much has gone on, and how much i must have missed. the nemophila bed, i hear, gradually filled up and became a perfect sheet of brilliant blue. the anemone bed was very good, and that of ranunculus very fair; but best of all, as i knew it would be, was the bed of brier roses, with their trained branches laden with sweet little yellow blossoms. the kalmias too are over, and the alpine rhododendrons (roses des alpes) are also nearly at an end; but i have just found them wild upon the wengern alp, and that must be my consolation. there is nothing i am more sorry to have missed than the great shrub--almost tree--of buddleia globosa, which grows in the centre of one of the herbaceous borders. it has been, as it always is, covered with its golden balls, smelling of honey, and recalling an old garden in somersetshire which i knew years ago. it is certainly true that nothing calls up associations of the past as does the sense of smell. a whiff of perfume stealing through the air, or entering into an open window, and one is reminded of some far-off place on some long-past day when the same perfume floated along, and for one single moment the past will seem more real than the present. the buddleia, the magnolia, and one or two other flowers always have this power over me. i have still one azalea, and only one, in blossom; it has a small and very fragrant white flower. i have been lately reading several articles about the fly-catching flowers. is it generally known that no fly-catcher is more cruel and more greedy than the common ghent azalea, especially, i think, the large sweet yellow one? on one single blossom, which i gathered just before leaving home, at the end of may, i found no less than six flies; four of them were quite dead, and of one or two nothing remained but a shred of wing. two others were still alive, but the azalea had already nearly drained their life away, and held them so tightly with its viscid hairs that i could hardly release them from its grasp. on the other blossoms in the truss were other flies, three, four, or five; so that the entire azalea shrub had probably caught some hundreds.[ ] [ ] see note ii. on the azalea viscosa. the mixed borders are almost past their best,--at least the hairy red poppy, the day lily, and the early purple gladiolus are over, and, of course, the irises and pæonies. at present various canterbury bells, valerian (which i saw bedded out the other day at liége), and the white and orange lily, are the gayest things we have. there is a mullein, too, which is well worth a corner in any garden. not long since i saw, in some book of rambles through our southern counties, the spire of a cathedral with its pinnacles and crockets compared to a spike of mullein flower. it is certainly the mullein (the distinctive name of which i do not know) which is now in bloom with me; and, indeed, the resemblance had occurred to me before i had read the book. but i hardly care to linger over other flowers, when the rose-beds are in their fullest splendour. the summer roses must have been better a fortnight back, but the perpetuals are as good as can be, and many of the summer roses yet remain. i sometimes fear that the passion for large, well-formed blossoms, and the desire of novelty, will make some of the dear old roses of our childhood pass into entire neglect; yet, when we think of a rose, of which any poet has written, it will not be la france, or sénateur vaisse, or alfred colomb--beautiful as they are. when herrick warns us-- "gather ye rosebuds while ye may," or when hood tells us-- "it was the month of roses, we plucked them as we passed," --their roses were other than the favourite roses of to-day. perhaps they were the old cabbage rose, a great bush of which grows next to a bed of lavender, and pleasantly scents the garden as you enter it. perhaps they were the portland rose, of which i have some three beds, and than which no rose is better for the making of pot pourri, as the young ladies in mr. leslie's picture may learn to their advantage. perhaps they were the moss rose, with its mossed buds and fragrant blossoms, of which i have another bed entirely for itself. perhaps they were the maiden blush, or the york and lancaster, or the sweet old china, with its pink shell petals, which comes so soon and lingers on so late--the last rose, not of summer but of autumn.[ ] then there are other old roses which should not be neglected. the rose unique, which is a white cabbage rose, is one; the rose celeste, the thin delicate buds of which are so beautiful, is another. then there is the little rose de meaux, and the old damask, which indeed seems to have nearly disappeared. [ ] it is mentioned in the _baroness bunsen's life_ how mrs. delany loved to fill her china bowls with the pink buds of the monthly rose, surrounded by sea-green shoots of the young lavender. it must have been one of these roses, be sure, and not a tea or a perpetual, which lady corisande finds in her garden for lothair. not of course that we are not grateful for the new roses, with their brilliant colouring and their perfect form, but we are unwilling that the old should be forgotten. the gloire de dijon and général jaqueminot seem to me the most vigorous and most useful, if not the finest; but i have two old standards which are at the moment more effective than anything i have. one is boule de nantes, the other an old summer rose, the name of which i do not know, but which, when fully out, much resembles the comtesse de jaucourt. they are not trained in any way, and i find, measuring round their heads, that one has a circumference of feet, and the other of - / feet. in the south of england it is no doubt different, but for us these are large dimensions; and certainly nothing i now get from the nursery gardens seems inclined to attain to half the size. there is one rose in my garden which flourishes abundantly, but which is the only rose, of which i should decline to give a cutting. it is so ugly that it is worth nothing, except as a curiosity; and if it ceased to be a curiosity it would be quite valueless. it is a _green_ rose. i got a small plant from baltimore, in america, some years ago, and i find it perfectly hardy. it flowers very freely, and all through the summer; the bud is a perfect rose bud in appearance, but the open flower shows that the rose is of monstrous and not natural growth; the petals are, it seems to me, no real petals at all, but an expansion of the green heart, which often appears in roses, and which has here been so cultivated as to take the place of the natural rose. these petals are coarse and irregular, and have serrated edges, with a very faint scent.[ ] [ ] mr. buist, of the rosedale nurseries, philadelphia, has since written to the _gardeners' chronicle_ on the origin of the green rose:--"there appears to be some uncertainty in regard to the origin of this rose. it is a sport from rosa indica (the china rose of england and daily rose of america). it was caught in charleston, s.c., about , and came to baltimore through mr. r. halliday, from whom i obtained it, and presented two plants to my old friend, thomas rivers, in ." how the rose twines itself around all history and all literature! there are the rose gardens of persia, and the loves of the rose and nightingale; there are those famous roses once plucked in the temple garden, of which "the pale and bloody petals" (to use a fine expression of hawthorne's) were strewed over many an english battle-field; there is the golden rose which the pope gives as the best of gifts to the foremost among catholic monarchs--emblem at once of a fading earthly life, and of the unfading life in heaven. of english poets is there one, who does not celebrate the rose, and of all is there one, who draws from it a more tender morality than waller in "go, lovely rose"? but no nation ever loved the rose as did the greeks, and it was _their_ legend that told us how the rose sprang to birth. bion's "lament for adonis" has been translated by mrs. browning, and i know no translation equal to it in general fidelity and vigour of expression. it appears to me, on the whole, perhaps the very best translation in the language. here are the lines which tell this part of the story:-- "ah, ah, cytherea! adonis is dead; she wept tear after tear with the blood which was shed, and both turned into flowers for the earth's garden close,-- her tears to the windflower, his blood to the rose." another still more famous greek poem about the rose is one by sappho, which mrs. browning has also most beautifully translated--a fit task, which unites the names of the two great poetesses of greece and england. the poem begins:-- "if zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth, he would call to the rose and would royally crown it: for the rose, ho! the rose, is the grace of the earth; is the light of the plants that are growing upon it." no wonder the greeks wove their wreaths of the rose, or that "under the rose" they passed many a gay and happy hour, to be kept in memory, if untold in words. my bedding-out is of course finished, but of this i must speak on the next occasion. the weather has been hot, and rain will now be welcome. viii. the fruit crop--hautbois strawberries--lilium auratum--sweet williams--carnations--the bedding-out. _august ._--it is, i find, a dangerous thing to leave a garden masterless for even a month. the best of gardens will probably fall short in some respect, and i certainly discover several matters which would have been otherwise had i remained at home. my readers will hardly be interested by the details of my grievances; it is pleasanter to tell where we have been successful. the wall fruit, however, i must mention. the ants and the aphis, and possibly some frost, have destroyed the peach crop utterly. there is not a single peach, and the nectarines, which are certainly a hardier fruit with us, only number thirty in all! the apricots have done fairly, and were so early that we gathered three or four in the last days of july--a full month before their usual time. the moorpark apricot, which we owe to sir william temple, is still the best. by the way, he tells us that the roman name for apricots is mala epirotica. is this the root of the word apricot, or may we still look upon it as from "apricus," the "sunny fruit,"--the fruit that loves the sun and has caught its own bright colour?[ ] [ ] i believe, as a matter of fact, that the more received derivation of apricot is "præcox." of the smaller fruit cherries have been a failure, with the exception indeed of the morellos. gooseberries have done well, though i fear i cannot compete with the giant gooseberries of a lancashire gooseberry show. the currants, whether against the wall or on bushes, have been capital, and the black currants would take a prize at any show. we now net up some currant bushes for the later autumn. the raspberries, which we train in arches, have done tolerably, and we should have a second crop of the white ones in october. the strawberries have been an average crop, and the little alpines have been capital--so large, so highly flavoured, and so redolent of switzerland! i am trying, too, for the first time, to grow hautbois strawberries, which are almost unknown with us. we are as yet not very successful, and i well know how capricious a fruit it is as regards setting. a year or two ago i was breakfasting with a well-known and most courtly physician in london, who is since dead. a dish of beautiful hautbois was on the table. we were all admiring. "yes," said our host, "they are now getting very rare. sometimes a patient says to me, 'may i not have a little fruit?' 'certainly not!' is my answer. 'surely a few strawberries?' then, that i may not seem a great curmudgeon, i say, 'well, a few strawberries, but be sure they are hautbois;' _and i know they can't get them!_" to ordinary strawberries a hautbois is what a tea rose is to ordinary roses; it has an aroma all its own, and unlike all others. in the flower garden the finest bed is one which i have now had for the last three years. it is a bed of lilium auratum, with the dark heliotrope growing in between. i take up the lily bulbs for the winter, bring them on in heat, and then plant them out. they are really beautiful, and each year they seem more vigorous. some have four blossoms, some have six or eight, and one has as many as ten. the strong perfume lies heavy on that end of the garden, and i think this lily should never be brought inside the house. it is curious how the blossoms vary; in some the golden stripes are so much deeper, in some the dark claret spots are so much more numerous. another bed is of lilium speciosum, planted to take the place of a bed of sweet william, which was quite a glow of colour in the earlier part of the summer. this dear old sweet william, which was the favourite in the old cottage gardens, and which, with the lad's-love and the pink, was the chosen flower for the buttonhole of the country boy, is now far too much neglected. its rich velvet clusters of twenty different shades make a bed of exquisite beauty. it is over too soon, but it can be _supplanted_ (may i say?) by something else. in a second bed of sweet williams i placed gladiolus bulbs, and now they are coming into flower from out the green cushion, from which we have cut the withered blossoms. a bed of the sweet little pink pinks has of course been over some time, and though the bed is now quite bare of bloom--for i cannot disturb the roots--it is well worth sacrificing some colour in autumn for the three summer weeks of delicious perfume. clusters of white pinks have been no less sweet on the herbaceous borders, and now the clove carnations take their place. it is curious that so familiar a flower as the pink should be scarcely mentioned by the great poets. shakspeare only just names it, and i do not think marvell does. milton, in his _lycidas_, barely alludes to "the white pink," and cowley has no separate poem in its praise. indeed, one may say generally that, with the exception of the rose, the flowers in which the poets have rejoiced, and which they have immortalised, are the flowers of spring. cowley, who wrote as a horticulturist, is the almost solitary exception. there is, however, a rather pretty and fanciful little song of herrick's "to carnations:"-- "stay while ye will, or goe; and leave no scent behind ye: yet trust me, i shall know the place where i may find ye: within my lucia's cheek, whose livery ye weare, play ye at hide or seek, i'm sure to find ye there." for the ordinary bedding-out of ordinary gardens i have a real contempt. it is at once gaudy and monotonous. a garden is left bare for eight months in the year, that for the four hottest months there shall be a blaze of the hottest colour. the same combinations of the same flowers appear wherever you go. calceolarias, verbenas, and zonal pelargoniums, with a border of pyrethrum or cerastium--and that is about all. there is no thought and no imagination. the "bedding-stuff" is got together and planted out, and each year of planting is a repetition of the year before; and thus, as forbes watson says so truly, "gardeners are teaching us to think too little about the plants individually, and to look at them chiefly as an assemblage of beautiful colours. it is difficult in those blooming masses to separate one from another; all produce so much the same sort of impression. the consequence is, people see the flowers on our beds without caring to know anything about them, or even to ask their names." any interest in the separate plants is impossible, and then they are, almost without exception, scentless plants, to which no association attaches, and which are cared for merely because they give a line or patch of red or yellow to the garden. "the lust of the eye and the pride of life,"--there is little purer pleasure to be drawn from "bedding stuff" than those words convey. however, there is already a reaction setting in, and the use of echeverias and the like gives evidence at least of a more refined taste in colour, though in themselves nothing can be less interesting. meanwhile, as some bedded-out beds will always be necessary, we may try to diversify them as much as possible. the following are among my most successful:--a bed of agapanthus, with its beautiful foliage and sky-blue umbels, is surrounded with bright yellow peacock gazania; a bed of scarlet lobelia cardinalis (is this the "cardinal flower" that american writers speak of?) is edged with the white ribbon-grass, and that again with the blue lobelia speciosa; and a second bed of the same lobelia cardinalis, the bronze foliage of which harmonises so well with the spikes of glowing red, has the lobelia speciosa next to it, and the golden pyrethrum as a border. another bed is of humea elegans, edged with the white variegated-leaved miss kingsbury pelargonium, and that again with the blue lobelia. into other beds i have introduced the variegated aloe and the aralia, as centres for the more dwarf and brightly-coloured verbenas. of the variegated pelargoniums i find the beauty of calderdale the most effective and most vigorous, and though i am told "mrs. pollock has a most excellent constitution," she does less well with me. one other bed, which is now over, has been too pretty for me not to mention; it was a bed of antirrhinums of all colours, and i shall certainly repeat it another year. lastly, i have a large bed of clematis jackmanii in full glory. last year it did fairly well, but the plants were comparatively weak, and the flowers trailed upon the ground. this year the plants have grown vigorously, and i have trained withies all across the bed, so that the purple blossoms twine and cling around them, and are now a perfect mass of blossom. on the house a clematis lanuginosa, with its large discs of lilac-grey, is also very handsome, and seems to be doing as well as possible. in the outer garden a great cluster of yellow broom has made the border near the front door aglow with golden light; and in the vinery a beautiful clethra arborea--the lily of the valley tree--has been laden with bunches of its delicate and delicately-scented flowers. the weather has broken completely during the last fortnight, and it is now too much, and not too little rain, of which we are complaining. ix. weeds--tomatos--tritomas--night-scented flowers--tuberoses --magnolia--asters--indian corn. _september ._--"the rain it raineth every day." it finds its way through the old timbers of my first vinery, and the grapes have to be cut out by dozens. it drenches the pelargoniums and verbenas, till their blossoms are half washed away. it soaks the petals of the great lilies, and turns them into a sickly brown. the slugs, i suppose, like it, for they crawl out from the thick box hedges and do all the harm they can. weeds, too, of every kind flourish luxuriantly, and we find it no easy work to keep ahead of them. the author of _my summer in a garden_--the most humorous little book about gardening ever written--never had such trouble with "pusley" (what is "pusley"?) as i have with groundsel. i have enough to feed all the canary birds in the parish. then, besides the more ordinary and vulgar weeds, i have two varieties of willow-herb, which have seeded themselves all over the borders, and are for ever appearing where i had fondly imagined they had been utterly uprooted. a yellow oxalis, too, has turned into a nuisance, and spreads where it was never wanted. meanwhile the summer fruits are over. the few nectarines we had have been gathered, and most of the figs. the apple-room begins to fill with keswick codlings for cooking purposes, and franklin's golden pippin for dessert. as yet none of our pears are ripe. the mulberry tree in the orchard drops its fruit before it is mature, but it is rather too much shaded with the orchard trees, and, were it otherwise, there has been but little sun to get to it. we use the mulberries, however, for tarts and for mulberry ice, which i can thoroughly recommend. the tomatos are reddening in numbers along the garden walls. we grow two sorts, keye's prolific and the orangefield dwarf, and i hardly know which is best. formerly the tomato was known as the pomum amoris, or love-apple, and was apparently grown only as a garden ornament, and not for use.[ ] cowley mentions it in his "flora," with the foxglove and the canna. gerarde says of it, "in spaine and those hot regions they use to eate the apples prepared and boiled with pepper, salt, and oil; but they yeelde very little nourishment to the bodie, and the same naught and corrupt." nor does batty langley, writing in , mention tomatos, though he gives long lists of "raw sallets," which include nasturtium blossoms, tarragon, borage flowers, and sorrel. [ ] see note iii. on the "solanum" tribe. the handsomest of our beds at present (except always the beds of jackman's clematis and scarlet lobelia) is a permanent bed of tritomas, which hold up their orange and crimson maces thickly as possible. these tritomas would, however, show to most advantage if planted with the arundo conspicua, the white plumes of which form the happiest contrast to their glowing spikes. the pampas-grass would be better still, but i have not been able to make them blossom together. a patch of tritomas on the corner of the lawn has been a failure, owing to the carelessness of a gardener, who cut them down with the grass in mowing. one other bed, also a permanent one, i have still to mention. it is a mass of anemone japonica[ ] alba with statice latifolia round it. this anemone, with its white blossoms surrounding a yellow centre, and looking just like some very perfect white wild rose, is a beautiful flower, and the grey branched sprays of the statice harmonise wonderfully with it. [ ] why is this anemone called _japonica_? it was first brought from _simla_ by lady amherst (the wife of the governor-general of india), as her granddaughter assures me. all along the vinery border has been a long row of stocks, asters, and mignonette, and the scent has been delicious, especially towards evening, or after a warm shower of rain. in hot weather the garden is almost too hot when the sun is full upon it, and i have always taken care to grow the night-scented stock and other flowers of the kind, so that the garden, as evening comes on, may be as sweet as can be; but this year these annuals, with several others, have done no good. on the other hand, the large tall oenothera opens hundreds of yellow stars each night; and, better still, the beautiful oenothera taraxacifolia, on the herbaceous borders, unfolds a number of its large white blossoms, which gleam out among the rich green foliage close upon the ground. next year i think i will have an entire bed of this white oenothera; it will be worth the space. the dahlias have been good with me this year, but i have done badly in hollyhocks. the tobacco-plants, which i generally grow, and which were last year so handsome, have also failed me; and so have the ice-plants, the egg-plants, and the amaranthus salicifolius, nor do i see any sufficient reason for it. the tuberose, the flower which, even in the perfect garden of the "sensitive plant," was said to be "the sweetest flower for scent that grows," has been very sweet with us. but we dare not leave it in our garden; we bring the pots, with their tall green wands tipped with delicious tufts of bloom, into the centre hall, and the warm perfume rises up the staircase, and floats along the open gallery above. _september ._--i have just gathered from the wall between the vineries the finest blossom i ever happen to have seen of what i maintain is the finest flower in the world--the magnolia grandiflora--so large and round is it, of such a rich cream colour, and with such a rich strong scent. the tuberose even seems a plebeian flower by the side of the magnolia. once only have i seen this magnolia growing upon a lawn as a standard, and i never saw any flowering tree so grand, as its dark green leaves lifted up the large white chalices to catch the freshest dews from heaven. but what must it be where this beautiful tree grows wild, as on the "hills with high magnolia overgrown," where gertrude of wyoming was used to wander? and, as i gather this magnolia, the feeling comes across me that now the year is over as regards the garden. we may have another month of flowers, but they are the flowers that linger on, not the flowers that open out new pleasures for us; the michaelmas daisy alone remains,--for "the michaelmas daisy blows lonely and late,"--before we reach the chrysanthemums and winter. we have now had all that summer and autumn had to give us, and it seems as though nature had exhausted all her energies, and were ready for a long rest. the fuchsias, that come up year by year, are still in great beauty. the jasmine, with variegated leaves, that clings round an old brick pedestal in the middle of a kalmia bed, still opens its white blossoms. the escallonia, that grows up the house, will hang its red flowers in front of the library windows for a fortnight still to come. but the year is virtually at an end, and we talk only of the bulbs for the spring, or of the moving of shrubs in the early winter. yet i find two things, of which i have still to speak. the asters have been good. i had planted them in among the standard rose beds, and very gay they are. many years have passed since i found the wild aster of america growing on the hill-side at concord behind hawthorne's house, and was reminded of emerson's lines-- "chide me not, laborious band, for the idle flowers i brought; every aster in my hand goes home loaded with a thought." then, by the side of the vinery, is growing a little row of indian corn. the plants stand each from to feet high, and each bears its flowering plume above, and its tasselled ears below. there are two varieties, one yellow and one red. i brought them on in heat, and planted them out when they were about a foot in height. this year, as for three years past, they have ripened with me, and on one plant, strangely enough, a piece of the flower has itself fructified! i am not botanist enough to understand how this has happened.[ ] [ ] the editor of the _gardeners' chronicle_ explains--"it is simply an admixture of the seed-bearing flowers with the pollen-forming flowers--a not very uncommon event, though ordinarily the male and female blossoms are borne in distinct spikes or panicles." the effect is certainly very curious. x. st. luke's summer--the orchard--the barberry--white haricot beans--transplanting--the rockery. _october ._--this is st. luke's summer, or the "indian summer" as it is called in america. the air is soft and warm and still. the yellow leaves fall from the beeches in countless numbers, but slowly and noiselessly, and as if reluctant to let go their hold. the rooks come back to us again across the fields, and clamour among the empty nests, which were their homes in spring. the "remontant" roses are putting out their latest blooms, and the antirrhinums, mulleins, and some few other flowers, show themselves "remontant" also. there is an aromatic fragrance everywhere from the withering leaves and from the lingering flowers. but there is sadness with it all. we cannot deceive ourselves, but we know that all is now over, and that at any moment the frost may come, and leave us nothing but decay and death. there are some lines in morris's _earthly paradise_--the very best lines, i think, in the whole poem--which speak of some old men's last peaceful days, as "--like those days of later autumn-tide, when he who in some town may chance to bide opens the window for the balmy air, and, seeing the golden hazy sky so fair, and from some city garden hearing still the wheeling rooks the air with music fill-- sweet, hopeful music--thinketh, is this spring? surely the year can scarce be perishing. but then he leaves the clamour of the town, and sees the withered scanty leaves fall down; the half-ploughed field, the flowerless garden plot; the full dark stream, by summer long forgot; the tangled hedges where, relaxed and dead, the twining plants their withered berries shed, and feels therewith the treachery of the sun, and knows the pleasant time is well-nigh done." was picture ever more truly painted?--and any day it may be true for us. our apple harvest has been over for nearly a fortnight; but how pleasant the orchard was while it lasted, and how pleasant the seat in the corner by the limes, whence we see the distant spire on the green wooded slopes. the grey, gnarled old apple-trees have, for the most part, done well. the ribston pippins are especially fine, and so is an apple, which we believe to be the king of the pippins. on the other hand, we have some poor and worthless sorts--probably local varieties,--which no pomologist, however able and obliging, would undertake to name. one of the prettiest of apples--and one of the best, too--is the delaware. it has an orange-red colour, and reminds one almost of an orange as it hangs upon the tree. it has a crisp, delicious flavour, but requires to be eaten as soon as it is ripe, for otherwise it soon gets mealy. indeed all eating apples, with but few exceptions, are best when freshly gathered, or, better still, when, on some clear soft day, they have just fallen on the grass, and lie there, warmed by the rays of the autumn sun. of my pears i have not much to say: the new trees i have planted have hardly come into bearing, and the old ones are of inferior quality. in another year or two, however, i shall hope to be supplied through all the winter months up to the middle of the spring. plums have done but little, and damsons, which are supposed to succeed so well in lancashire, are an absolute failure. i must not forget the red siberian crab, which has been laden with fruit, and one tree of which should find its corner in every garden. last of all, i have to speak of the barberry. there is a great bush which stands by the grass walk in the walled garden. in the summer it was a mass of scented yellow blossoms, round which bees were always buzzing. then, as the year grew older, bunches of bright coral hung over it from top to bottom. we consider our barberries as not the least important of our fruit crop. we preserve them, some in bunches, some picked like currants. we crystallize them in sugar, and they become delicious _bonbons_. we steep them in salt and water, and they keep as a gay garnish for cold meat or game. our barberry-tree is not looking its best at present; a big branch has withered, and i must cut it in. _october ._--since i wrote we have had a great gale, which has swept over us, and torn down an elm in the wood and a fine chestnut in the croft. i could ill spare either of them, and it is but poor comfort to think that our piled-up logs will outlast the winter. it was the "wild west wind," of which shelley sings, which has done the mischief; and smaller branches, lying scattered all over the lawn and walks, show us where it passed. we are now preparing our mushroom bed, for we shall need it as the green vegetables fail us. i have said but little about the kitchen garden, for i do not suppose it differs much from that of other people. our peas have, however, served us particularly well, and we had our last dish on october --later than i ever before have known them here. one excellent vegetable i have generally grown, and i would thoroughly recommend it to any one who has space to spare: it is the french white haricot. it is not often seen with us though it is so very common in france. it is a species of french bean, of which you eat the white bean itself instead of slicing up the pod. i suspect that, taking england through, there are very few gardens where the white haricot is found. we are now busy with our planting. some rhododendrons and aucubas in the borders near the front gate have been pining away--starved by the elm-tree roots around them. we are trenching up the ground, cutting away what smaller roots we can, and putting in manure and some new shrubs. we are planting a row of hollies to screen a wall towards the lane. we are moving a salisburia adiantifolia, with its strange foliage like a gigantic maidenhair fern, from a corner into a more prominent place. we shall then set to work to re-arrange the rockery. this, i think, i have never mentioned. in the middle of the little wood was once a pond, but i found the stagnant water and the soaking leaves, which fell and rotted there, no advantage to the place; i therefore drained away the water and planted beds of azaleas and rhododendrons along the slopes, with primroses, violets, and blue bells, and in the middle of all i have lately placed a tuft of pampas-grass. on one slope i have managed a rockery with a stone tank in the centre, where for three summers past has flowered an aponogeton distachyon. i have means of turning on fresh water into the tank, and i am well repaid for any trouble, as the little white boat-blossoms, laden with delicious spicy scent, rise up to the surface of their tiny lake. the rockery is, however, too much under the shade and drip of trees, and i cannot hope that delicate alpine flowers should grow there. sedums and saxifragas, aquilegias, aubrietias, the white arabis, and the yellow moneywort, besides ferns of various kinds, all do well. in another part of the wood is a loggery, which i have entirely covered with the large white bindweed, which rambles about at its own will, and opens its blossoms, sometimes a dozen at a time, all through the summer months. past that, there is a little patch of bluebells, then more beds of rhododendrons, and then a short walk, which takes us by a private path to the village church, and then by another branch returns again towards the house. in this part of the grounds there is still room for planting, and i shall probably try some tree rhododendrons. a standard honeysuckle, which i have endeavoured to grow, has done no good as yet; its shoots get nipped by the north-east winds, but i do not yet despair. the most useful undergrowth i find is the elder; it thrives wonderfully, and is covered with blossom and with berry. one variety, the parsley-leaved elder, is here equally hardy with the common elder, and much more graceful in its growth. we have now to take in our tender and half-hardy plants, for fear of a sudden frost. the large myrtles, which have stood out in their boxes, must be placed in safety, and the lobelia cardinalis and other bedding-plants, which we may need next year, must be removed. xi. the wood and the withered leaves--statues--sun-dials--the snow--plans for the spring--conclusion. _november ._--the soft autumn weather still spares what flowers the rains have left us, and here and there are signs as if of another spring. violets along the grass walks, strawberries in flower, and to-day a little yellow brier rose blossoming on an almost leafless spray, remind us of the early months of the year that is no more. but here, too, are some of the flowers of november. the arbutus has again opened its bunches of waxen pink, and the chrysanthemums are again blooming on the shrubbery beds. the year has all but completed its circle since first i wrote these notes, and i speak to-day of the flowers, the same, yet not the same, as those of which i wrote eleven months ago. the trees have lost nearly every leaf, and our little wood is bare as the wood wherein poor millevoye, so soon to die, once strolled when "de la dépouille de nos bois l'automne avait jonché la terre; le bocage était sans mystère le rossignol était sans voix." "the autumn's leafy spoil lay strewn the forest paths along; the wood had lost its haunted shade, the nightingale his song." had there been in happier days a "mystère" beyond the charm of waving branches and whispering leaves? another french poem on a withered leaf is better known, for it was macaulay who translated arnault's verses, and rendered the last three lines so perfectly:-- "je vais où va toute chose, où va la feuille de rose, et la feuille de laurier." "thither go i, whither goes glory's laurel, beauty's rose." among my ideas--i cannot call it plan, for my mind is not quite made up about it--i half fancy putting up a statue of some sort in a nook in the little wood, where the beeches grow the tallest and the elders are the thickest. such things were once common, and then they got so common, and often so out of place, that they became absurd. every villa garden had its statue and its rockery. batty langley has an amusing chapter about statues. he says--"nothing adds so much to the beauty and grandeur of gardens as fine statues, and nothing is more disagreeable than when they are wrongly placed; as neptune on a terrace walk, mound, &c.; or pan, the god of sheep, in a large basin, canal, or fountain;" and then, "to prevent such absurdities," he gives the most elaborate directions. mars and jupiter, fame and venus, muses and fates, atlas, hercules, and many more, are for open centres or lawns. sylvanus, actæon, and echo, are among those recommended for woods. neptune, oceanus, and the naiades, will do for canals and fish-ponds. pomona and the hesperides for orchards, flora and runcina ("the goddess of weeding") for flower-gardens, bacchus for vineyards, Æolus for high terrace walks, and "the goddess vallonta" for valleys. he gives the right deities for paddocks, for wheat-fields, for "ambuscados," and for beehives. in short there is no place for which he does not think a statue ornamental and appropriate. i hope he would approve of my own very humble idea, which is a statue of hyacinthus,--for, where i thought of placing it, the wild hyacinths or bluebells will come clustering up, and make the grass all blue. the poetry of gardens is so entirely neglected in these days of "bedding stuff," that it is well to do anything that can properly be done, without extravagance of taste or method, to revive it. in the inner garden i think also of placing a sun-dial, which would be in good keeping with the rather formal character of the beds. mrs. gatty's beautiful book on sun-dials should help me to a motto. they are of two sorts--the mottoes that warn, and the mottoes that console. "the night cometh,"[ ] or "pereunt et imputantur," are good examples of the one; "horas non numero nisi serenas," or "post tenebras lucem spero," are the best instances of the other. but there is a verse by mrs. browning, which (if i may so adapt it by a slight alteration in the second line) would make a finer inscription still-- "see, the shadow on the dial, in the lot of every one, marks the passing of the trial, proves the presence of the sun." [ ] many years ago miss martineau told me of this motto, and i see that in her "autobiography" she speaks of it as "perfect in its way." she however finally adopted for her own sun-dial the happier "come, light! visit me!" _nov. ._--we wake to find snow all thick upon the ground, over lawn and flower-bed, and the children are out betimes rolling up huge snowballs on the grass. this snow is the best thing possible for the garden, for we have already had a night or two of sharp frost, which killed all it could reach of our herbaceous plants. "autumn's last delights were nipped by early cold," as in the garden of lord houghton's "old manorial hall," and the dahlias and the fuchsias were all shrivelled into brown unsightly tufts. we have covered up the fig-trees on the wall. we have trenched up the shrubbery borders. we have done our last planting--a catalpa in one place, a paulownia in another--and some more fruit-trees in the orchard. we have planted our bulbs and sowed our autumn annuals for spring gardening. i was so pleased with the nemophila bed of last may that i am repeating the experiment on a larger scale. i shall have one bed of nemophila, and another of virginian stock. i shall have a bed of pink saponaria edged with white. along the vine border i shall stretch a ribbon of white saponaria, blue myosotis, pink silene, and many-coloured sweet peas. then again, at the end of the grass walk, where it runs up against the hedge of the croft, i am fixing an arched trelliswork of wire, with a wire seat inside, and over it i shall train and trail the broad leaves of the aristolochia and the scarlet blossoms of the tropæolum speciosum. the vineries are of course at rest; but in them are roman hyacinths, now ready for the house, and pots of polyanthus narcissus will be also ready within a week. the porch of the house is filled on either side with stages of chrysanthemums, and the fine glossy foliage of an aralia looks well in the inside vestibule. and now i bring these notes to an end. my aim has been to show how much interest and pleasure may be gathered out of a garden of moderate pretensions, and with no great appliances in the way of glass, nor any advantage in the way of climate. i have endeavoured, too, to reclaim for our english gardens those old flowers, which shakespeare and milton and marvell and cowley loved. they have been far too long neglected for flowers, whose only charm is charm of colour and a certain evenness of growth. the ordinary bedded garden of to-day is as inferior to the elizabethan gardens of old, as all gardens anywhere must be to the delights, which fancy conjures up in the enchanted gardens of armida, or the bowered pleasance of boccaccio. meanwhile we can only do what best we can, and when all else fails we can say, like candide, "il faut cultiver _notre_ jardin." and so i bid a hearty farewell to those readers, who for months past have followed the fortunes, and shared with me the hopes, of a year in a lancashire garden. supplementary chapter. flowering shrubs--yuccas--memorial trees--ranunculus-- pansies--canna indica--summer flowers--bluets-- fruit-blossoms and bees--strawberry leaves--garden sounds-- mowing--birds--the swallow--pleasures of a garden. almost more interesting than herbaceous plants are the flowering shrubs. most beautiful of all, if, indeed, it may be called a shrub, is the buddleia globosa, in the inner garden, which i have already mentioned. when june draws to its close, it is laden with thousands of blossoms like little golden oranges, and fills the air with honied scent. it is the largest buddleia i ever happen to have seen, for it stands sixteen feet high, and stretches its branches over a round bed of blue iris to a circumference of seventy feet. and just about the time when the buddleia is in bloom, masses of the sweet homely english elder, screening off the little wood, will perfume all the approach to the house. common enough it is, but delightful in its dark foliage, its rich creamy blossoms, its clusters of purple berries. we do not make the use of it we should, and elderberry water and elderberry wine are known to me by name alone, but the berries are excellent for tarts and puddings. one shrub which i planted a year or two ago has answered far better than i had any right to hope. it is the desfontainea spinosa. it is so like a holly that it puzzles everybody who sees, for the first time, the scarlet and yellow tubes of blossom which stand out among the prickly leaves. the year before last it flowered twice with me, but the cruel winter we have just had has cut it sadly, and it will be long before it will recover. i have spoken of trying whether by the planting of a second arbutus i could make my beautiful old shrub fruit. the result has been quite successful, and i have had for two years past bright red berries hanging down among the pale waxen blossoms and the dark-green leaves. the magnolia between the vineries has become prodigal of flowers as it has grown older, and last year i had no less than ten blossoms from it, and it is still young. the magnolia (also a grandiflora) on the house has also begun to flower, but i had nearly lost it altogether, and the story is rather a curious one. i had noticed that both it and other creepers were looking unhappy, and i could not guess the reason. the escallonia showed bare branches in many places, the ceanothus seemed shrunken and brown, and a gloire de dijon rose did no good. at last it occurred to my gardener that the galvanised wire, which i had put up to avoid driving nails into the stone work of the windows, was to blame. i pulled it all down, coated it thickly over with paint, and, when it was again put up, all the creepers seemed to start into fresh life, and grew strong and vigorous. on a patch of green grass near the house stands a yucca gloriosa, which i am always hoping will flower, but it has never done so yet. not long ago i was at a stately place in shropshire, and at the end of a broad walk, where a circle of yuccas had been planted, there were no less than five in full flower, throwing up pale jets of blossom, like fountains, towards the sky. i never saw anything more perfect in its way. but it is said that the right time to see a yucca is by moonlight. there is a very striking passage in one of the letters of the most remarkable of american women, margaret fuller (afterwards countess d'ossoli), in which she says:-- "this flower" (it was the yucca filamentosa) "was made for the moon as the heliotrope is for the sun, and refuses other influences, or to display her beauty in any other light. many white flowers are far more beautiful by day. the lily, for instance, with its firm thick leaf, needs the broadest light to manifest its purity, but these transparent leaves of greenish white, which look dull in the day, are melted by the moon to glistening silver...." the second evening i went out into the garden again. in clearest moonlight stood my flower, more beautiful than ever. the stalk pierced the air like a spear; all the little bells had erected themselves around it in most graceful array, with petals more transparent than silver, and of softer light than the diamond. their edges were clearly but not sharply defined--they seemed to have been made by the moon's rays. the leaves, which had looked ragged by day, now seemed fringed by most delicate gossamer, and the plant might claim, with pride, its distinctive epithet of _filamentosa_. on another grass-plot near i have one of the beautiful retinosporas of japan, which was one day planted for me by a friend. he is the poet, who says that-- "eastward roll the orbs of heaven, westward tend the thoughts of men: let the poet, nature-driven, wander eastward now and then:--" and this tree, while it lives, will remind me of the east, and of him who wrote these lines. but there are other pleasant ways of recalling one's friends to memory. i never stay anywhere, where there is a garden, without bringing back with me some one or more shrubs, as a remembrance of a beautiful place or happy hours; and, when i plant them, i fasten to them a label, mentioning their old home, and thus i am reminded--now of a quaint low house covered with creepers and nestling among the hills of wales--now of a magnificent castle with its pleasance in the north of ireland,--now of a great hall in scotland, where a wild glen runs down past the garden to the woods,--now of an old english abbey, where the flowers of to-day spring up among the ruins of a thousand years ago. among the flowers in the inner garden, which have well repaid me during the last year or two, have been the anemones--delightful old flowers--"pied wind-flowers," shelley calls them,--which first sprang to birth when venus wept adonis. then i have had two successful beds of ranunculus; one was prettily and fancifully mottled; the other was of the finest scarlet,--a scarlet so intense that it seemed to be almost black in the inner shadows of the petals. a gifted american lady once said to me--"does not black seem to underlie all bright scarlet?" and i have thought of this as i have looked at this bed of ranunculus, and i think of it often as i see the red coats of our soldiers passing by. i have often noticed, too, that, in an evening, when there is still light enough to see flowers, that are yellow, or blue, or pink, the blossoms of a scarlet pelargonium give forth no colour, but look as if cut out of some soft black velvet. another spring bed, from which i had hoped much, has disappointed me. it was a bed of crown imperials, but for some reason they flowered irregularly and produced no effect. but the individual flowers of some were magnificent. i had never examined a crown imperial properly before, and never knew that its great beauty lay in the little circlet of pearls--nectaries, i suppose they are--which lie at the bottom of each orange bell. they are quite exquisite in their grey and white glittering movement, as the light plays upon them, and are more like pearls than anything else in nature. among my humbler flowers, of which i have somehow made no mention, is the pansy, yet few flowers have more associations connected with them. the pansy--the _heartsease_ we still sometimes call it--is shakespeare's "love in idleness," and milton's "pansy freak'd with jet." the american poet, edgar poe, speaks of the "beautiful puritan pansies;" and i remember a fine wild passage in one of this same poet's little-known essays, where two angels are talking, and one of them says--"we will swoop outward into the starry meadows beyond orion, where for pansies, and violets, and heartsease, are the beds of the triplicate and triple-tinted suns." last year my finest bed was one of the canna indica, in which every plant threw up grand broad leaves and spikes of crimson or yellow blossom. why is not the canna far more common in all our gardens? at present one sees it in public parks, or where gardening on a great scale is carried on, but in smaller gardens it is very rare, and yet it is easy enough to grow; and once i think it must have been more known than it is at present. gerarde speaks of it as "the flowering reed," and gives a very fair illustration of it. he adds, however, "myself have planted it in my garden divers times, but it never came to flowering or seeding, for that it is very impatient to endure the injury of our cold climate." cowley, too, speaks of the "lustre of the indian flowering reed;" and dr. darwin, in his _loves of the plants_, gives it (with its single pistil and stamen), as the best type of the conjugal fidelity of flowers, and tells how-- "the tall canna lifts his curlèd brow, erect to heaven;" adding, in prose, that "the seeds are used as shot by the indians, and are strung for prayer-beads in some catholic countries." indeed, the plant is often called the "indian shot," and as the seeds, shining, hard and black, ripened with me last year, i can understand how appropriate is the name. a bed of double potentillas, some red, some yellow, and some with the two colours mingled, has been very fine; and so has a bed of hybrid bulbous begonias, which seem quite hardy. i plant the blue lobelia between them, and it contrasts pleasantly with their crimson and orange bells. a long row of sweet peas of every variety of colour extends along the border in front of the vinery, and fills the garden with its scent; and not far off is a wire screen, which i cover with the large convolvulus, and through the summer months the "morning glories," as the blossoms were once called, display all their short-lived beauty. on either side of the grass-walk, which runs down the garden, at a right angle to the vineries, i am making rustic trellises of logs of wood, round which i shall plant vegetable marrows and gourds, and at intervals clumps of the great sunflower.[ ] in another corner i am sowing a bed of the bluet, or corn-flower, the favourite flower of the emperor of germany. for some reason the violets of napoleon, of which i once had abundance, have not been so successful with me during the last few years,--will the corn-flower do better?--what a glorious blue it is! and how much we have neglected it! because, i suppose, it is too common, and grows wild amid the ripening corn and the scarlet poppy. [ ] see note iv. on the sunflower of the classics. turning to the fruit-garden, my great discovery has been that i _must_ have bees--not at all for the honey, but for the proper setting of the fruit. a large may duke cherry is always covered with blossom, but scarcely anything has ever come from it. last year i examined its blossom closely, and found that the pistil is so much longer than the stamens that it cannot fertilise itself, and must be dependent on insects. this is not the case with other varieties of cherries, so far as i can see, and i am curious to find out whether my remedy of a bee-hive will this year have the desired effect. i believe it will be of service to the other wall-fruit too, and i have already seen the affection the bees have for the blossoms of the apricot. how beautiful a garden is when all the fruit-trees are in bloom! and how various that bloom is! each pear-tree bears a different blossom from its neighbour, and the handsomest of all, in size and shape of flower and form of cluster, is the jargonelle. but no pear-blossom can compare with the beauty of blossom on the apple-trees;--and of all apple-trees the pomeroy is most beautiful, when every bough is laden with clusters of deep-red buds, which shade off into the softest rosy white, as, one by one, the blossoms open out. of other fruit i have nothing new to notice, unless it be to ask whether any one now living can smell the scent of dying strawberry leaves? we all remember how mrs. gaskell in her delightful story gives lady ludlow the power, but now we all seem to have lost it. certainly my dying strawberry leaves give me no sense of sweetness. was it a mere fond and foolish fancy? or were the strawberries of elizabethan gardens different from those we are now growing? bacon tells us that, next to the white double violet and the musk rose, the sweetest perfume in the open air is "strawberry leaves dying, which yield a most excellent cordiale smell;" and i find in an old play by sir john suckling-- "wholesome as dying leaves of strawberries." but there are sounds that haunt a garden hardly less delightful than its sights and scents. what sound has more poetry in it than when in the early morning one hears the strong sharp sweep of the scythe, as it whistles through the falling grass, or the shrill murmur of the blade upon the whetstone; and, in spite of mowing machines, at times one hears the old sound still. how fond andrew marvell was of mowing and the mowers! he has given us "damon the mower," "the mower to the glow-worm," "the mower's song," "the mower against gardens," and "ametas and thestylis making hay-ropes;" and again, in his fine poem, on "appleton house," he describes the "tawny mowers" dividing the "grassy deeps," "with whistling scythe and elbow strong." one of our latest poets too, mr. allingham, has a delicious little mower's song, with a quite perfect refrain of-- "a scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep, we mow the grass together." and again, what does not the garden owe to the voice of birds; the deep cawing of the rook in its "curious flight" around the elm-trees; the clear note of the cuckoo from the limes that bound the orchard; and, best of all, the rich, full melody of the thrush! the nightingale's song may be sweeter and stronger, but the nightingale only sings in certain places (certainly not with us), and the thrush is everywhere. the nightingale sings later in the night, but the thrush will go on till nine, and begin again at four, and surely that is all we need. can anything be truer, or better said, than these lines of browning's about a thrush?-- "hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge leans to the field, and scatters on the clover blossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray's edge-- that's the wise thrush--he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture." but there is one bird dearer to us than the thrush, and that is the swallow, which for some years past has built its nest in our porch. it has been pretty to mark her skimming round and round with anxious watching, till we have left the place. prettier still, when we have kept ourselves concealed, to see her darting upwards to the nest, which was fringed by four little heads all in a row, and, going from one to the other, give each its share. we could hear the sharp little cry of satisfaction as each nestling was attended to. how much the poets have written about swallows! there is the charming passage in longfellow's "golden legend," where the old monk is speaking; he is the librarian, whose duty it is to illuminate the missals for the convent's use and pride:-- "how the swallows twitter under the eaves! there, now there is one in her nest; i can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, and will sketch her thus in her quiet nook, for the margin of my gospel-book." then how delightful is the boast, which mr. courthope, in his _paradise of birds_, puts into the nightingale's mouth, that a bird is better than a man, for-- "he never will mount as the swallows, who dashed round his steeples to pair, or hawked the bright flies in the hollows of delicate air." and, long before this, banquo had marked their "pendent beds" on macbeth's castle, and noticed that-- "where they most breed and haunt, i have observed the air is delicate." and who does not recall tennyson's-- "swallow, swallow, flying, flying south," and bearing on swift wing the message that-- "dark and true and tender is the north"? or who, that has once read it, can forget _les hirondelles_ of béranger, and how the french captive among the moors questions the swallows about his country, his home, his friends, which they perhaps have seen? lastly, what a felicitous line is this of the american poet lowell, when he describes "the thin-winged swallow _skating_ on the air." i must bring these notes, such as they are, to a close, and yet i feel i have scarcely even yet described the pleasures of a garden. but my memory at least can do it justice. it recalls summer afternoons, when the lawn tennis went merrily on on the lawn, by the weeping ash-tree, and summer evenings, when the house was too hot, and we sat out after dinner upon the terrace with the claret and the fruit. the air was all perfume, and the light lingered long in the east over the church steeple three miles away, and no sound but of our own voices broke the silence and the peace. again, there were fine bright autumn days--days when the garden was full of warm scent and warmer colour--days when the children could swing for hours in the hammock, which hangs between two large sycamores, and have their tea-table beneath the trees,--days when the still air was only stirred by the patter of a falling chestnut, or the note of some solitary bird, or the sound of church bells far away. beyond the grass-field, which comes nearly up to the house, was a field of wheat, and we could watch the harvesting, and follow with our eyes the loaded waggons as they passed along by the hedge-row trees. but such recollections grow thicker as i write, and words, such as i at least can command, do them little justice. i cannot really share with my readers these pleasures of the past, though i like to fancy that they may feel some kindly sympathy, as they remember happy days in gardens dear to them as mine to me. notes. note i. on the viola of the romans. i contributed the following note on "the viola of the romans," to the _gardeners' chronicle_ of september , , as i found a correspondent had been adopting lord stanhope's views. * * * * * mr. ruskin in his _queen of the air_ wrote, "i suspect that the flower whose name we translate 'violet' was in truth an iris" (he is speaking of the greek _ion_, but the viola no doubt is whatever the _ion_ was). in lord stanhope's _miscellanies_, second series, which was published in , a paper, which had been previously (in ) read before the society of antiquaries, treats of the "viola of the ancients." lord stanhope identifies it with the iris, and on the following grounds:-- . because when riding through sicily in the winter of , he saw many irises and no violets, and heard that the country people called the iris viola. . because pliny speaks of violæ luteæ, whereas there are no violets of that colour. . because pliny also describes the violet as growing in sunny and barren places ("apricis et macris locis"), whereas really violets always grow in the shade. . because he speaks of the violet as springing from a fleshy root-stock ("ab radice carnoso"), whereas the violet root is fibrous. . because ovid couples the violet with the poppy and the lily as flowers which, when broken off, hang their heads to the ground. i need not say much as to lord stanhope's not finding violets in sicily in winter, for the question is, whether he would not find them in italy in spring. nor does the fact of the sicilian peasants speaking of the iris as a violet disturb me any more than when i hear a scotch peasant speak of the "harebell" as a "bluebell." the real authority is pliny, and pliny settles the question completely. he says (i quote for convenience from bohn's translated edition):--"next after the roses and the lilies, the violet is held in the highest esteem. of this there are several varieties, the purple, the yellow, and the white, all of them reproduced from plants, like the cabbage. the purple violet, which springs up spontaneously in sunny spots with a thin meagre soil, has larger petals than the others, springing immediately from the root, which is of a fleshy substance. this violet has a name, too, distinct from the other wild kinds, being called 'ion,' and from it the ianthine cloth takes its name." he goes on to say that of cultivated kinds the yellow violet is held in most esteem. he speaks then of the tusculan and marine violet as having broader petals than the others, but being less sweet, while the calathian violet is also without scent. a little farther on he describes the iris itself, and says "the stem of this plant is a cubit in length and erect, the flower being of various colours like the rainbow, to which circumstance it is indebted for its name." it is, he adds, a plant of a caustic nature, and the root is used in perfumery and medicine, but the flower is _never employed for garlands_. after this, perhaps, it is needless to add that of course lord stanhope is mistaken in supposing that there are no yellow violets (he may find any number half-way up the rigi), or that violets do not often grow in sunny and sterile places, or that the purple violet has not a fleshy root-stock. that the sweet violet, which pliny says was used for wreath-making, was generally cultivated is certain from horace's "tum _violaria_ et myrtus, et omnis copia narium spargent olivetis odorem." _odes_, ii. . then, again, the sweet violet was used for the flavouring of wine--the "vinum violatum." there are other passages in which pliny speaks of the sweetness of the violet. he says it is sweetest at a distance, and that it has no scent except in the flower itself. there can be no doubt then whatever (i conceive) that the greeks, when they spoke of the "ion," or the romans of the "viola," generally meant our violet, and that the violet-wreaths were made from this familiar flower. still the name was perhaps loosely used, and it is highly probable that the flower to which ovid refers, in the passage which lord stanhope quotes, was the snowflake or leucoion (literally, "white violet"). note ii. on the azalea viscosa. i was much pleased to see my observations on the azalea as a fly-catcher confirmed by a subsequent paragraph (october , ,) in the _gardeners' chronicle_. it is interesting, and i now reprint it. * * * * * azalea viscosa a fly-catcher. under this heading mr. w. w. bailey gives the following observations in the current number of the _american naturalist_:-- "the many curious observations published of late in regard to vegetable fly-catchers have opened my eyes to such phenomena as are presented in my forest walks. as is well known to all botanists, our sweet swamp azalea (azalea viscosa) has its corolla covered on the outside with innumerable clammy and glandular hairs. each hair is a prolongation of the cuticle, and is surmounted by a purple and globular band. in the bud these hairs appear to cover the whole surface of the flower, but when the corolla expands they are seen to occupy the midrib of the petals as well as the tube of the corolla. these glandular hairs are efficacious fly-catchers, but what the object is in thus securing insect prey i will not pretend to state. i have been amusing myself, if any such apparently cruel occupation can be considered entertaining, in watching the capture of flies by the azaleas. when i first brought the flowers home, many small insects, as winged ants, were entrapped amidst the hairs. these have remained alive several days, still vainly struggling for freedom. as the house-flies are abundant in my room, it occurred to me that i might extirpate the pests, and at the same time learn something of the process of insect-catching. i have not noticed that the powerful fragrance of the blossoms attracts the house-fly, although i have no doubt that it does the smaller insects. it seemed to be accidental when the house-flies were captured. i exposed a number of buds and fully-opened blossoms on a sunny window-sill thronged with flies. it was not many minutes before i had several captives. a mere touch of a fly's leg to the glutinous hairs was sufficient for his detention. a struggle only made matters worse, as other legs were by this means brought in contact with the glands. these emit long glairy threads, which fasten to the hairs of the flies' legs. they may be drawn out to a great length and tenuity, still retaining their strength. if two buds are pressed together, and then drawn apart, innumerable threads may be seen to bind them. there is a complete network of them between the various glands. they will confine the strongest fly; he is at once held like gulliver among the lilliputians. under the microscope the legs of the fly are seen to be covered with the secretion, which is perfectly white and transparent. in one attempt to escape, a house-fly lifted a flower bodily from the window-sill, perhaps a quarter of an inch, but at once sank back exhausted amidst the hairs. one, after long efforts, escaped, but seemed incapable of using its legs; it flew away readily. in one instance i have found the dried remains of a small insect embedded amidst the hairs, but cannot say whether its juices were in any way absorbed by the plant. if such assimilation takes place, what is its purpose? can this phenomenon of fly-catching be accidental, or is some nice purpose concealed in it? i merely state the facts as i have observed them; perhaps others can supply further information." note iii. on the solanum tribe. it is very curious to compare the two following passages of two great masters of style--ruskin and michelet--both writing of the tribe to which belongs the tomato. ruskin, in _the queen of the air_, p. , says:-- "next, in the potato, we have the scarcely innocent underground stem of one of a tribe set aside for evil, having the deadly nightshade for its queen, and including the henbane, the witch's mandrake, and the worst natural curse of modern civilisation--tobacco. and the strange thing about this tribe is, that though thus set aside for evil, they are not a group distinctly separate from those that are happier in function. there is nothing in other tribes of plants like the form of the bean blossom; but there is another family with forms and structure closely connected with this venomous one. examine the purple and yellow bloom of the common hedge nightshade;--you will find it constructed exactly like some of the forms of the cyclamen; and getting this clue, you will find at last the whole poisonous and terrible group to be--sisters of the primulas. "the nightshades are, in fact, primroses with a curse upon them, and a sign set in their petals by which the deadly and condemned flower may always be known from the innocent one,--that the stamens of the nightshades are between the lobes, and of the primulas opposite the lobes of the corolla." now for m. michelet. in _la sorcière_, p. , he writes of the herbs used by the witches:-- "ce que nous savons le mieux de leur médecine, c'est qu'elles employaient beaucoup, pour les usages les plus divers, pour calmer, pour stimuler, une grande famille de plantes, équivoques, fort dangereuses, qui rendirent les plus grands services. on les nomme avec raison, les _consolantes_ (solanées). "famille immense et populaire, dont la plupart des espèces sont surabondantes, sous nos pieds, aux haies, partout. famille, tellement nombreuse, qu'un seul de ses genres a huit cents espèces. rien de plus facile à trouver, rien de plus vulgaire. mais ces plantes sont la plupart d'un emploi fort hasardeux. il a fallu de l'audace pour en préciser les doses, l'audace peut-être du génie. "prenons par en bas l'échelle ascendante de leurs énergies. les premières sont tout simplement potagères et bonnes à manger (les aubergines, les tomates, mal appelées pommes d'amour). d'autres de ces innocentes sont le calme et la douceur même, les molènes (bouillon blanc), si utiles aux fomentations. "vous rencontrez au dessus une plante déjà suspecte, que plusieurs croyaient un poison, la plante miellée d'abord, amère ensuite, qui semble dire le mot de jonathas: 'j'ai mangé un peu de miel, et voilà pourquoi je meurs.' mais cette mort est utile, c'est l'amortissement de la douleur. la douce-amère, c'est son nom, dut être le premier essai de l'homoeopathie hardie, qui, peu à peu, s'éleva aux plus dangereux poisons. la légère irritation, les picotements qu'elle donne purent la désigner pour remède des maladies dominantes de ces temps, celles de la peau." speaking of magical herbs reminds one of the "moly," which mercury gives to ulysses, and which enabled him to withstand the enchantments of circe. this "moly" with its white blossom is particularly well known to me, for, when i first came to my present house, the wood near the lodge was so full of it that it seemed as if a dinner of onions was for ever being cooked: i found it exceedingly hard to eradicate. "moly" is none other than the garlic, and circe had apparently the same objection to it as had the wife of the merchant of bagdad in the _arabian nights_. by the way, what could mr. tennyson have been thinking of when he describes his lotus-eaters as "propt on beds of amaranth and _moly_"? another poet too, now a well-known divine, once spoke of "--souls that pure and holy live and love and prosper well, leaning aye on myrrh and _moly_, melilote and asphodel." note iv. on the sunflower of the classics. i have been much puzzled to know what was the sunflower of classical story,--in other words, what was the flower into which, according to the legend, clytie was so sadly changed. i had always supposed, as nearly every one supposes, that it was what _we_ call the sunflower (the helianthus), with its upright stem and large radiated disc. but, first of all, i found, as a matter of fact, that the helianthus does _not_ follow the course of the sun, and that various blossoms of the same plant may at the same time be facing in different directions. and then i found, what of course was fatal, that the helianthus is not a european plant at all, and first came to us from north america. having consulted _notes and queries_ in vain, i determined to look into the matter more closely, as it seemed to me a rather curious question. if the sunflower of the classics was not the helianthus, and if this, as i imagine, only obtained its name from its flowers, which in some way resemble the old pictures of the sun, could it be the plant we know as _heliotrope_? the name of course means "turning sunward," but again the name is no guide to us; the scented flowers of the heliotrope do not, so far as i know, turn to the sun, and in any case the plant is of peruvian and not of european origin. i then fell back upon the classical authors themselves. i got nothing very distinct from theophrastus, and moreover it is ovid, to whom we chiefly owe our knowledge of the story. he tells us that when her lover phoebus left her, poor clytie "still gazed on the face of the departing god, and bent her looks on him. it is said that she remained rooted to the ground; of her fresh bloom ('color'), part is turned by livid pallor into bloodless leaves, on part a blush remains, and a flower most like a violet has covered all her face. held firmly by the root, she still turns to the sun she loves, and, changed herself, she keeps her love unchanged." pliny says the heliotropium "turns with the sun, in cloudy weather even, so great is its sympathy with that luminary. at night, as though in regret, it closes its blue flowers." what then can this flower be, a blue flower, which turns towards the sun? i next examined the magnificent volumes of sibthorp's _flora græca_. there is there indeed a european "heliotropium," "heliotropium supinum," but this surely cannot be the flower of clytie; the blossom is quite insignificant ("flore minimo") and _white_. then there are two crotons (tinctorium and villosum) which are also locally called heliotropium, and which grow in crete and lemnos ("ex quâ paratur tournesol"), but their flowers again are hardly more noticeable and are _yellow_. foiled at every point, i thought i would at least see what in _england_ was the traditionary sunflower, but i am hardly any wiser. gerarde says that valerius cordius calls the dwarf cistus helianthemum, and solis flos or sunne-flower. he quotes pliny as calling it also "heliocalliden, or the beautie of the sunne;" and adds, "which if it be the sunneflower, yet there is another of the same name, but which may be taken for the right it is hard to tell (but that experience teacheth us), seeing plinie is so breefe." gerarde has also a chapter on the "tornesole," and says, "there be five sorts of tornesole, differing one from another in many notable points, as in greatnesse and smallnesse, in colour of flowers, in forme and shape," and then he describes the varieties of "tornesoles" or "heliotropium." he says, "the græcians call it heliotropium;"--"it is named heliotropium, not because it is turned about at the daily motion of the sunne, but by reason it flowreth in the summer solstice, at which time the sunne being farthest gone from the equinoctiale circle, returneth to the same;" but he adds that the french and italians call it "turnesol," and says, "it is also called herba clitiæ, whereof the poet hath these verses, "'herba velut clitiæ semper petit obvia solem, sic pia mens christum, quo prece spectet, habet.'" cowley's sunflower is called in a foot-note chrysanthemum peruvianum, but is probably a form of helianthus. the flower is supposed to speak, and claims to be a _child_ of the sun, for, "my orb-like aspect bound with rays the very picture of his face displays; and again, "i still adore my sire with prostrate face, turn where he turns, and all his motions trace." so after all i am as much in the dark as ever. was the mysterious flower, as some suggest, a calendula (marygold), or an aster? i cannot tell, and only know that neither answers the description. on the whole then i am disposed to wonder whether either ovid or pliny knew much more about the matter than ourselves, and i may some day come to doubt whether clytie was ever turned into a sunflower at all.[ ] [ ] one of our very best living authorities on such a subject has sent me the suggestion that the common salsafy, or possibly the anagallis, may be the flower, but he adds (agreeing with gerarde), "the word heliotropium does not mean a flower which turns to the sun, but which flowers at the solstice." note v. flowers and the poets. both the flowers of the garden and what campbell calls "wildings of nature" have had their bards, and in the case of certain flowers the association with a poet is so strong that the sight of the flower will recall the verse. of course this is chiefly so as regards the less familiar flowers. no one, not even sappho, has an exclusive possession in the rose; but who would care to dispute shelley's right to the sensitive plant, or wordsworth's to the lesser celandine? the poets, however, have sometimes more of a love than a knowledge of plants, and milton talks of the "twisted eglantine" in confusion between the sweetbrier and the honeysuckle. it is interesting to see the different ways in which flowers are treated by the poets. shakspeare, no doubt, loved them in his way, but after all, there are but few passages in which flowers are used otherwise than as an illustration or an emblem. there are, indeed, titania's flowered bank, and perdita's garden,--redolent of herbs and gay with violets, primroses, and daffodils, but where no gillyflower was allowed to grow,--and poor ophelia's melancholy blossoms, and the song in _love's labour's lost_, and that is nearly all. shakspeare often speaks of roses, but almost always, excepting in the scene at the temple gardens, by way of compliment or comparison. the _musk_-rose, indeed, appears in the _midsummer night's dream_, and this rose, which is now quite unknown to most of us, was evidently a favourite in elizabethan gardens, for bacon says of it that, next the white double violet (which is also almost lost), the musk-rose "yeelds the sweetest smell in the aire." but shakspeare's favourite flowers seem to have been the primrose, the violet, the pansy, and, above all, the cowslip. he must often have recalled his boyish walks in spring along the avon, and remembered how the low-lying fields of stratford were all sweet and yellow with the cowslip. and so it is within a cowslip's bell that ariel hides, and cowslips are titania's pensioners on whose ears the fairies must hang pearls, and when the fields of france are desolated the "freckled cowslip" does not grow there any more, and the mole on imogen's breast is "like the crimson drops i' the bottom of a cowslip." before passing from shakspeare, i should like to call the attention of the directors or managers of new place to the absurdity of the garden, which they are supposed to keep up in remembrance of shakspeare. i chanced to visit it a summer or two ago, and, instead of finding an elizabethan garden with flowers associated with shakspeare and his times, i saw little but a wretched ribbon border of starveling calceolarias, scrubby pelargoniums, and miserable perillas. such a garden is a mockery, and would be more suggestive and more pathetic if left wild to the growths of nature. if milton enjoyed more completely the luxury of gardens, it is safe to say that he knew less of separate flowers than shakspeare. he not only speaks of the eglantine as "twisted," but he calls the cowslip "wan," the violet "glowing," and the reed "balmy." he makes roses and crocuses bloom together in paradise, and hyacinths and roses in the gardens of hesperus, while lycid's "laureate hearse" is to be strewn with primrose and woodbine, daffodil and jessamine. paradise and the gardens of hesperus are, of course, ideal gardens, which may be superior to our times and seasons, but the same excuse cannot hold good for the flowers of the "lycidas," and it is tolerably clear that milton's special knowledge was somewhat vague. but, on the other hand, what a sensuous pleasure he has in gardens! he is not thinking of elizabethan gardens, but such gardens as he may have seen in italy, or read of in tasso or boccaccio. the west winds fling around the cedared alleys sweet smells of nard and cassia, or the covert is of inwoven shade of laurel and myrtle fenced by acanthus and odorous shrubs. the rich rhythm of his lines seems to breathe perfume and delight. and the reason why, in later years at least, the scent rather than the sight of flowers was dear to milton, is known to all of us, for has he not himself told us how, "not to me returns day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, or _sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose_?" he could still drink in the perfumed air of gardens, though only memory could recall the form and colour of those flowers, which he would never see again.[ ] [ ] i remember how years ago i was struck with a beautiful little poem about a blind man, written by mr. james payn, the well-known novelist. the lines are quite worth repeating, and will be new to many:-- "there an old man, far in his wintry time, sits under his porch, while the roses climb; but the breath of its sweetness is all he knows of the glory about the fair round rose; the lilies that sway in the brook beneath, so cold and white in the beauty of death, are to him far less than the rushes tall when the wind is bowing them one and all, like the voice of nature so soft and kind, that whispers how fair she is to _the blind_." only one english poet has surpassed milton in his love of gardens. like milton he probably knew little of particular flowers, but he revelled in the scent and colour of roses and of lilies. it is andrew marvell; who, it is to be feared, is far less remembered than he deserves to be. marvell's gardens are all of the true english character, and his description of lord fairfax's, though somewhat quaint and fanciful, has many touches as natural as they are graceful. that the flowers should stand on parade, like soldiers, through the day, and fold up at night in tents, in which bees remain as sentinels, is a far-fetched conceit enough; but nothing can be better than many of his lines. was it his own garden at highgate of which he thought, when he spoke of the garden in which sylvio's fawn was wont to hide? "i have a garden of my own, but so with roses overgrown and lilies, that you would it guess to be a little wilderness." cowley's love of a garden was of quite another kind. he cared about it as a horticulturist, and knew the various plants and their qualities; but he never luxuriated in it like milton or like marvell. his elaborate poem is interesting, if only to show the flowers that were cultivated in his day, and it is curious to find the tomato (or love-apple) grown for beauty and not for use, and the _canna indica_, which is hardly common with us even now, mentioned as among the ordinary flowers of his time. on the whole, however, there are very few lines of cowley about flowers (we are not speaking of anything else) which are worth quoting or remembering. herrick's use of flowers is very different. he loved them, no doubt, and is always talking about them, and making them useful. "he twists his coronals of fancy out of all blossoms," if i may so misapply a line from lord houghton's _letters of youth_. he makes moralities out of daffodils, and compliments from carnations, and warnings from rosebuds. charming as many of his poems about flowers are, it is impossible not to feel that the motive of the poem is not the flower itself, but the anthea or sappho or julia, to whom the flower is to teach a lesson of the power of love or the uncertainty of life. it is, of course, impossible to speak of all the poets who have written about flowers, for probably the list would include them all; but the five i have mentioned are perhaps the most characteristic, though there are memorable lines in chaucer, spenser, burns, and keats, and more especially in wordsworth. from byron there is singularly little to quote; but no english poet has given so perfect a description of a garden as has shelley in "the sensitive plant." how delicately he paints each flower, and how he makes us see them all, as we tread with him "the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss which led through the garden along and across; some open at once to the sun and the breeze, some lost among bowers of blossoming trees." of living english poets perhaps mr. tennyson alone shows any real love for flowers. and this love is scarcely shown so much in the well-known song in "maud" as by little touches here and there--the "long green box of mignonette" which the miller's daughter has set on her casement edge,--the "wild marsh-marygold" which "shines like fire in swamps" for the happy may queen,--or the water-lilies which blossom round the island of shalott. and who can forget the stanza in "in memoriam"?-- "bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, the little speedwell's darling blue, deep tulips dasht with fiery dew, laburnums, dropping-wells of fire." of american poets, mr. longfellow has, rather strangely, written nothing very memorable about flowers; but there are some pretty verses of mr. bryant's, and an occasional good line of mr. emerson's, as where he speaks of the gentian as "blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover." as we once again look round upon the poets that have sung, it is clear that their favourite flowers have been the rose and the daisy,--the one recalling all the delights of the summer garden, the other all the freshness of the open field,--the one loved for its beauty, the other cherished for its constancy. "the rose has but a summer reign, the daisy never dies;" says montgomery, in one of the best known of his poems. cowslips, violets, daffodils, and pansies are probably the next favourites. painters have done more for lilies than the poets have; and carnations and the later flowers of the year have never made much place for themselves in the poetry of england. the english garden of to-day still awaits its laureate, and, except where, in mr. allingham's "therania," "vase and plot burn scarlet, gold and azure," i scarcely know of a description of modern "bedding-out," and sincerely hope that the present fashion may disappear before the thankless task is undertaken. london: r. clay, sons, and taylor, printers. * * * * * transcriber's note: in general every effort has been made to replicate the original text as faithfully as possible, including possible instances of no longer standard spelling and punctuation, and variable spelling (notably, shakspeare/shakespeare). variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. the following changes were made to correct apparently typographical errors: p. x "mowing--brds--the swallow" brds changed to birds p. "there is another lancahire" lancahire changed to lancashire p. "bed of clematis jackmanni" jackmanni changed to jackmanii p. "epithet of _filamentosa_."" quotation mark removed p. "can undertand how appropriate" undertand changed to understand a little garden calendar [illustration] a little garden calendar _for boys and girls_ by albert bigelow paine _author of "the little lady, her book," "the arkansaw bear," etc._ with forty-six illustrations philadelphia henry altemus company _copyright, , by henry altemus published march, _ by the same author the little lady, her book, $ . the arkansaw bear, . the wanderings of joe and little em, . a word to teachers and parents when dr. s. p. langley, secretary of the smithsonian institution, established the children's room in that great museum, he took for his motto, "knowledge begins in wonder," and he put into this room a selection of specimens especially intended to excite interest in the young mind. the biggest bird and the littlest were placed side by side; curious eggs, nests, and insects--not many in number, but temptingly displayed--were ranged about to attract attention and to awake the desire to know more. it was the same dr. langley who had once declared that his chief interests in life were children and fairy stories, and it is in the little washington room that we seem to find the thought embodied, for the children are there, and the fairy stories of nature are suggested on every hand. it is with dr. langley's motto in mind that the "little garden calendar" is offered to parents and teachers, and to children themselves who are old enough to read. the author has tried to tell in simple language a few of the wonders of plant life, and to set down certain easy methods of observation, including planting, tending, and gathering the harvests, from month to month, throughout the year. along with this it has been his aim to call attention to the more curious characteristics of certain plants--the really human instincts and habits of some, the family relations of others, the dependence of many upon mankind, animals, and insects, and the struggle for existence of all. simple botany plays a part in the little narrative, which forms a continuous story from chapter to chapter, interwoven with a number of briefer stories--traditions, fairy tales, and the like, all relating to plant life and origin. these are presented by way of entertainment--to illuminate fact with fancy--to follow, as it were, the path of knowledge through the garden of imagination. the illustrations in this book are from excellent photographs--especially made for the various chapters--that the student of plant life may compare and identify with some degree of assurance as to varieties and particular specimens, especially in the matter of plant organisms. the volume is divided according to the calendar, for the reason that in the plant world there is interest for every month in the year if only someone is by to point the way, and it is for this purpose that the little story of prue and davy and their garden is offered to instructors in the schoolroom and at home, and to the young people themselves, with the greetings and good wishes of the author. contents page january, i you may begin your garden right away ii your garden may not look as i have it here iii many seeds are given wings iv i think seeds know the months february, i little plants won't stand much handling ii hey for the merry little sweet pease iii even clover belongs to the pulse family iv beans and morning-glories twine to the right v the honeysuckle twines always to the left march, i still it was really a radish ii the sun swings like a great pendulum iii long before there were any railroads and cities iv did you ever see the little man in the pansy? april, i the yellow dust is a food for the seed ii the coming of the corn iii cross by name and cross by nature iv a peppery family v for in that dish was davy's corn may, i sweet pease have to be put down pretty deep ii different families of ants have different droves of cows iii there are many ways of producing species june, i then they went down into the strawberry patch ii how the rose became queen iii the sun is the greatest of all july, i a plant is divided into three principal parts ii there are exogens and endogens iii i don't see what weeds are for, anyway august, i there are just two kinds of leaves ii sometimes i think plants can see and hear iii there are plants which do not bloom iv the princess by the sea september, i a flower really has clothes ii a flower has many servants iii a flower may really reason iv some flowers live off other flowers and plants v the prince and the thread of gold october, i seeds are made to be planted ii there are bitter nuts and sweet ones iii there are many things called fruits november, i there are annuals, biennials, and perennials ii plants know how to spread iii all thanks for the plants december, i new gardens in the windows ii to the garden of sleep iii in the gardens of christmas iv some verses, and then good-by illustrations page _frontispiece_ davy's window--prue's window the beans at the end of two weeks the morning-glories two weeks old the pot of radishes the pease two weeks old the corn at the end of two weeks the pease run up straight ladders a member of the pulse family the morning-glory twines to the right the nasturtiums began to hide the little pot the very small lettuce leaves davy's pot of radishes "davy's corn sent out a plume at the top" "the morning-glories had bloomed and already had seed pods" "cabbage" was the fat fellow's name "they called it nasturtium" alyssum--the sweetest of the "cross" family "don't you think the blackberry looks a little like a wild rose?" "and the apple blossom, too?" budding the chief gardener's strawberries big, big berries that looked so good the rose stamens and pistil which produce the seed "gardeners often take a rose of one kind and shake it gently over a rose of another kind" "sometimes the gardener takes up the pollen on a soft brush and lays it gently on the stigma of another rose" the pistil and stamens of the lily a pistil and calyx and a complete flower a group of endogens--the lily, hyacinth, and daffodil some simple leaves pine-needles are leaves there is a lot of kinds and shapes "beware of the vine with the three-part leaf" the dandelion is bound to spread its seed "so it blooms below the lawn-mower's cutting-wheel" "they cling to everything that passes" three members of the acorn family the apple is a calyx. the pistil is the core inside of it a raspberry is a cluster of pistils without the core the seed and sets of the onion a black raspberry vine preparing to spread "what are stuck-ins?--oh, slips!" the wool that grows on the sheep's back is there because the sheep feeds on the green grass in summer a japanese fern-ball the kind of a tree that nobody but santa claus ever raises january a little garden calendar january i you may begin your garden right away this is the story of a year, and begins on new year's day. it is the story of a garden--a little garden--and of a little boy and girl who owned the garden, and of the chief gardener, who helped them. and the name of the little boy was david, after his grandfather. so they called him davy, because when grandfather was a little boy, he had been called davy, and this little boy wanted to be just as his grandfather had been--just the same kind of a little boy, with the same name and all. and the name of the little girl was prudence, and she was called prue. for when her mother was a little girl, _she_ had been called prue, and the chief gardener still called her that, sometimes, when he did not call her just mamma. and the little girl was five years old, and the little boy was 'most seven--"going-on seven" the little boy always said, when you asked him. the garden was in a window, at first--in two windows, side by side--called a double window. it had to be in a window, because outside it was very cold, and the snow was white and deep on the beds where the chief gardener had flowers and vegetables in summer-time. prue and davy were looking out on this white, snow-covered garden on new year's afternoon. christmas was over, and spring seemed far away. and there had been _so_ much snow that they were tired of their sleds. "i wish it would be warm again," said davy, "so there would be strawberries and nice things to eat in the garden; don't you, prue?" "and nice green grass, and dandelions and pinks and morning-glories," said prue, who loved flowers. then the little girl went over to where the chief gardener was reading. she leaned over his knee and rocked it back and forth. "will it _ever_ be warm again?" she asked. "will we _ever_ have another garden?" the chief gardener turned another page of his paper. prue rocked his knee harder. "i want it to be warm," she said. "i want it to be so we can plant flowers." "and things," put in davy, "_nice_ things, to eat; pease and berries and radishes." "oh, davy, you always want things to eat!" said the little girl. "we've just had our new year's dinner!" "but i'd be hungry again before the things grew, wouldn't i? and you like strawberries, too, and short-cake." the chief gardener laid down his paper. "what's all this about strawberry short-cake and morning-glories?" he asked. "we want it to be warm," said prue, "so we can have a garden, with pinks and pansies--" "and pease--" began davy. "and a short-cake tree," put in the chief gardener, "with nice short-cakes covered with whipped cream, hanging on all the branches. that would suit you, wouldn't it, davy boy?" the very thought of a tree like that made davy silent with joy; but prue still rocked the knee and talked. "when _will_ it be warm? when _can_ we have a garden?" she kept asking. "it is warm, _now_, in this room," said the chief gardener, "and you may begin your garden right away, if you like." the children looked at him, not knowing just what he meant. "in the window," he went on. "there are two, side by side. they are a part of the garden, you know, for we always see the garden through them, in summer. you remember, we said last year they were like frames for it. now, suppose we really put a little piece of garden in the windows." prue was already dancing. "oh, yes! and i'll have pansies, and roses, and hollyhocks, and pinks, and morning-glories, and--" "and i'll have peaches, and apples, and strawberries, and pease--" "and a field of corn and wheat," laughed the chief gardener, "and a grove of cocoanut trees! what magic windows we must have to hold all the things you have named. they will be like the pack of santa claus--never too full to hold more." "but can't we have all the things we like?" asked davy, anxiously. "not _quite_ all, i'm afraid. the hollyhocks and roses that prue wants do not bloom the first year from seed. it would hardly pay to plant them in a window-garden, and as for peach and apple trees, i am afraid you would get very tired waiting for them to bear. it takes at least five years for apple-trees to give us fruit, often much longer. peach-trees bear about the third year. i think we would better try a few things that bloom and bear a little more quickly." ii your garden may not look as i have it here the chief gardener took his pencil and a piece of paper, and drew a little plan. he was not much of an artist, and sometimes when he drew things he had to write their names below, so that prue and davy could tell which was the rabbit and which was the donkey, and so they wouldn't think the kitten was a lion. but a window was not so hard, and then he could put names under the plants, too. on the next page is the picture that the chief gardener drew. while he was making the picture, the children had been asking questions. "which is my side? oh, what's that in the center--that tall plant? what are those vines? what will we have in those littlest pots? oh, i know what those are! those are morning-glories! oh, goody!" [illustration: davy's window prue's window] the last was from prue, when she saw the artist putting the flowers along the vines that he had made climbing up the sides of her window. "yes," said the chief gardener, "those are morning-glories. you can have two vines in each pot, if you wish, and in that way get four colors--blue, white, purple, and pink. on davy's side i have made climbing beans--scarlet and white runners--because they are very pretty, and also very good to eat. davy's is a vegetable, and yours a flower, garden. then, if davy wants some flowers, and you get hungry, you can give him flowers for vegetables." "oh, that will be playing 'market,' won't it? i just love to play 'store' and 'going to market.'" "my beans look a good deal like prue's morning-glories, all but the flowers," said davy. "so they do, davy; and they really look something the same in the garden. the leaves are nearly the same shape, only that the morning-glory's is more heart-shaped, and then beans have three leaves to the stem instead of one. sometimes i have taken a morning-glory for a bean, just at first." "what else have we?" asked prue. "what are the little flowers, and the big one in the center?" if the chief gardener felt hurt because his pictures did not show just what all the flowers were, without telling, he did not say so. he said: "well, in the center of your window, prue, the big flower is made for a sunflower. not the big kind, but the small western sunflower, such as we had along the back fence last summer. i think we can raise those in the house." "i just love those," nodded prue. "then those two slender plants are sweet-pease on your side, and garden-pease on davy's. i put two in each window, because i know that you love sweet-pease, while davy is very fond of the vegetable kind." "i'd like a whole bushel of sweet-pease!" said prue. "and i wish i had a bushel of eating pease!" said davy, "and i know that's sweet corn in the middle of my window. i just love it!" "yes," said the chief gardener, "and a little pot of radishes on one side, and a pot of lettuce salad on the other. do you think you like that, davy?" "can't i have strawberries, instead of the salad?" asked davy. "strawberries don't bear from seed the first season, and i can't remember any fruit that does, unless you call tomatoes fruit, and i don't think a tomato vine would be quite pleasant in the house. it doesn't always have a sweet odor." "oh, well, i can eat lettuce," said davy. "i can eat anything that's good." "what are in my other little pots?" asked prue for the third or fourth time. "well, one is meant for a pot of pansies--" "oh, pansies! pansies! can't i have two pots of pansies?" "you can have three or four plants in one pot--perhaps that will do. then you can put nasturtiums in the other little pot. they are easy to grow, and very beautiful." "yes," said prue, "i never saw anything so _lovely_ as your nasturtiums by the house, last year." the chief gardener looked at the sketch and tapped it with his pencil. [illustration: the beans at the end of two weeks] "of course," he said, "your garden may not look just as i have it here. i don't draw very well, but i can make things about the right sizes to fit the windows, and that isn't so hard to do with a pencil as it is with the plants themselves. plants, like children, don't always grow just as their friends want them to, and they are not always well behaved. you see--" "but won't my bean vines and corn grow up like that?" asked davy. "and won't my morning-glories have flowers on them?" asked prue. "i hope they will, and we will try to coax them. but you see things may happen. sometimes it comes a very cold night when the fires get low, and then plants are likely to chill, or perhaps freeze and die. we can only try to be very careful." "how long will it take them to grow?" asked davy. "that is not easy to say. when everything is just right, some seeds start very soon. i have known radishes to pop up within three days, when the weather was warm and damp. corn will sprout in about a week, in warm weather. sweet-pease take a good deal longer, though we can hurry them a little by soaking them in warm water before we plant them. but we will talk about all that later. first, let's see about the pots and earth, and the seeds." iii many seeds are given wings the chief gardener took davy and prue down in the basement, where in one corner he kept his flower-pots and garden-tools. "i'm going to use the hoe," said davy, reaching for the long handle. "i'll have the rake for my garden," said prue. the chief gardener smiled. "i don't think we'll need either for this gardening. a small weeder or an old kitchen-knife will be about the largest tool you can use." then he picked out some pots, set them side by side on a table, and measured them to see how long a row they made. then he changed them and measured again. "there," he said, "those will just fit one window. now, another set for the other window and we are ready for the soil." "where will you get dirt? everything is frozen hard," said davy. the chief gardener took up a spading-fork from among the tools. "we'll get our hats and coats, first," he said, "then we'll see what we can find." outside it was really very cold, but the children, with their thick wraps, did not mind. they raced in the snow across the empty little garden, and followed the chief gardener to a small mound in one corner. here he pushed away the snow, and with the fork lifted up a layer of frozen-looking weeds; then another layer, not quite so frozen and not quite so weedy; then still another layer that did not seem at all frozen, but was just a mass of damp leaves and bits of grass. and under this layer it must have been quite warm, for steam began to rise white in the cold air. "oh, see!" said prue. "what makes the smoke?" "that's steam," said davy, wisely; "but what makes it warm?" [illustration: the morning-glories two weeks old] "fever," said the chief gardener, "just as you had, davy, that night you ate too much layer-cake. you said you were burning up, but it was only nature trying to burn up the extra food. that is what nature is doing here--trying to burn up and turn to earth the pile of weeds and grass i threw here last summer for compost. next spring the fire will be out, and leave only a heap of rich soil for the garden." beneath the last layer there was warm, dark earth. the chief gardener filled the basket he had brought, and they hurried back to the basement to fill the pots. "not too full--we must leave room at the top for digging and watering, without spilling dirt and water on the floor. then the plants will help fill up by and by, too, and i think we would better put in a little of this compost at the bottom. when the roots run down they will be glad to find some fresh, rich food. don't pack the earth too tightly, davy; just jar the pot a little to settle it, and it should be fine and quite dry. perhaps we'd better dry it a little," the chief gardener added, as he saw by the children's hands that some of the earth was rather damp and sticky. so he brought out a flat box, emptied all the pots into it, and set the box on top of the furnace. "while it's drying, we'll go upstairs and pick out the seeds," he said. "oh, see my beans! how pretty they are!" cried davy, as the chief gardener pointed out the purple-mottled seeds of the scarlet runners. prue looked a little envious. she was fond of pretty things. "but my pease are better-looking than those crinkly things of yours," she said; "mine are most like little beads; and see my nasturtium seed! they look good to eat, like little peanuts." it was davy's turn now to be envious. anything that looked like peanuts must be very good to eat. "people often pickle nasturtium pods," said the chief gardener. "they are fine and peppery. so prue will really have something to eat in her garden, while davy will have beautiful flowers on his scarlet runners." "see my morning-glory seed, like quarters of a little black apple, and how tiny my pansy seeds are!" cried prue, holding out the papers. davy was looking at the little round, brown kernels that the chief gardener had said were radish seeds, and the light little flakes that were to grow into lettuce. "what makes seeds so different?" he asked soberly. "ah, davy, that is a hard question," answered the chief gardener. "a great many very great people have tried to answer it." he opened a little paper and held it out for them to see. "what funny little feather-tops!" said prue. "like little darts," said davy. "what are they?" "marigold seeds. they are very light, and the little tufts or wings are to carry them through the air, so they will be scattered and sown by the wind. many seeds are given wings of different kinds. maple seeds have a real pair of wings. others have a tuft of down on them, so light that they are carried for miles. but many seeds are hard to explain. plants very nearly alike grow from seeds that are not at all alike, while plants as different as can be grow from seeds that can hardly be told apart, even under the magnifying-glass." the pots filled with the warm earth were brought up and ranged in the windows. "how deep, and how many seeds in a pot?" asked davy. "that depends," the chief gardener answered. "i believe there is a rule that says to plant twice as deep as the seed is long, though sweet-pease and some other things are planted deeper; and you may plant more seeds than you want plants, so that enough are pretty sure to grow; four beans in each pot, davy--two white and two colored, and three grains of corn in the large center pot." the children planted the seeds--the chief gardener helping, showing how to cover them with fine earth--the corn and beans quite deeply, the sweet-pease still deeper, fully an inch or more, the smaller seeds thinly and evenly: then how to pat them down so that the earth might be lightly but snugly packed about the sleeping seeds. "now we will dampen them a little," he said, "and when they feel their covering getting moist, perhaps they will think of waking." so he brought a cup of warm water, and the children dipped in their fingers and sprinkled the earth in each pot until it was quite damp. then they drew up chairs and sat down to look at their garden, as if expecting the things to grow while they waited. iv i think seeds know the months but the seeds did not sprout that day, nor the next, nor for many days after they were planted. prue and davy watered them a little every morning, and were quite sure the room had been warm, but it takes sunshine, too, to make seeds think of waking from their long nap, and the sun does not always shine in january. even when it does, it is so low in the sky, and stays such a little time each day, that it does not find its way down into the soil as it does in spring and summer time. "you said that corn sprouts in a week," said davy to the chief gardener, one morning, "and it's a week to-day since we planted it, and even the radishes are not up yet." prue also looked into her little row of pots, and said sadly that there was not even a little teeny-weeny speck of anything coming up that she could see. "i'm sorry," said the chief gardener, "but you know i really can't make the sun shine, and even if i could, perhaps they would be slow about coming, at this season. sometimes i think seeds know the months as well as we do, for i have known seeds to sprout in june in a place where there was very little warmth or moisture and no sunshine at all. yes, i think the seeds know." "and won't my pansies come at all?" whimpered little prue. "oh, i think so. they only need a little more coaxing. suppose we see just what is going on. you planted a few extra radish seeds, davy. we will do as little folks often do--dig up one and see what has happened." so the chief gardener dug down with his pocket-knife and lifted a bit of the dirt, which he looked at carefully. then he held it to the light and let the children look. sticking to the earth there was a seed, but it was no longer the tiny brown thing which davy had planted. it was so large that davy at first thought it was one of his pease, and on one side of it there was an edge of green. "it's all right, davy boy. they'll be up in a day or two," laughed the chief gardener. "now, we'll try a pansy." "oh, yes, try a pansy! try a pansy!" danced little prue, who was as happy as davy over the sprouting of the radish. [illustration: the pot of radishes] so the chief gardener dug down into the pansy-pot, but just at first could not find a pansy seed, they were so small. then he did find one, and coming out of it were two tiny pale-green leaves, and a thread of white rootlet that had started downward. prue clapped her hands and wanted the chief gardener to dig in all the pots, but he told them that it would not be good gardening to do that, and that they must be patient now, and wait. so then another anxious week went by. and all at once, one morning very early, prue and davy came shouting up the stairs to where the chief gardener was shaving. "they're up! they're up!" "my pansies!" "and my radishes! they've lifted up a piece of dirt over every seed, and there's one little green point in the corn-pot, too!" the chief gardener had to leave his shaving to see. sure enough! davy's radishes and prue's pansies were beginning to show, and one tender shoot of davy's corn. and in less than another week davy's lettuce and pease and beans were breaking the ground above each seed, while prue's garden was coming too, all but the sweet-pease, which, because of their hard shell, sprouted more slowly, even though they had been soaked in warm water before planting. but in another week they began to show, too, and everything else was quite above ground. [illustration: the pease two weeks old] then the chief gardener dug up one each of the extra seeds, root and all, and showed them just how they had sprouted and started to grow. he showed them how the shell or husk of the seed still clung to the two first leaves of some of the morning-glory and radish plants, how when the little plant had awakened from its long nap, it had stretched, just as a little boy would stretch, getting up out of bed, and how, being hungry, it had made its breakfast on a part of the tender kernel packed about it in the seed, and then pushed its leaves up for light and air. he also showed them how the grain of corn and the pea stayed below the ground to feed the little shoots that pushed up and the sprangled roots that were starting down to hunt for richness. but they all laughed at the beans, for the beans left only the husk below and pushed the rich kernel up into the air--coming up topsy-turvy, davy said, while prue thought the leaves must be very greedy to take the kernel all away from the roots, instead of leaving it where both could have a share. and now another week passed, and other tiny leaves began to show on most of the plants. these were different shaped from the first oval or heart-shaped seed-leaves--real, natural leaves, prue said, such as they would have when they were grown. only the corn did not change, but just unfolded and grew larger. and so in every pot there were tender green promises of fruit and flower. the little garden was really a garden at last. february february i little plants won't stand much handling yet the little garden seemed to grow slowly. the sun in february was getting farther to the north, and came earlier and stayed later than it had in january, and was brighter, too. but for all that, to davy and prue, each new leaf came quite slowly--just a tiny point or bud at first, then a little green heart or oval or crinkly oblong with a wee stem of its own. it was very hard to see each morning, just what had grown since the morning before. of course they did grow--little by little, and inch by inch--just as children grow, and a good deal faster, for when they measured their bean and morning-glory vines, they found one morning that they had grown at least a half an inch since the day before, and that would be a good deal for a little boy or girl to grow in one day. but davy perhaps remembered the story of "jack and the beanstalk" and how jack's bean had grown to the sky in a very short time; and, of course, remembering a story like that is apt to make anybody impatient with a bean that grows only half an inch a day. "i think it would be a good plan," he said one morning, "to tie a rubber band to the top of each of my bean vines, and then fasten the other end higher up the window to help pull the vines along." and little prue said: "i pulled my morning-glories along yesterday a little, with my fingers. i know they grew a tiny speck then, but they don't look quite so nice this morning." the chief gardener came over to see what was going on. "i don't think we'd better try any new plans," he said. "i'm afraid if we pull our plants to make them grow, we will have to pull them up altogether, pretty soon, and plant new ones. tender little plants won't stand much handling." the chief gardener was not cross, but his voice was quite solemn. little prue looked frightened and her lip quivered the least bit. "oh, will my morning-glories die now?" she asked; "and i pulled the pansies just a tiny speck, too. will they die?" "not this time, i think; but i wouldn't do it again. just give them a little water now and then, and dig in the pots a little, and turn them around sometimes so that each side of the plant gets the light, and nature will do the rest. of course you can't turn the bean and morning-glory pots after they get to climbing the strings, but they will twine round and round and so turn themselves. your garden looks very well for the time of year. perhaps if you did not watch it so much it would grow faster. they say that a watched pot never boils, so perhaps a watched plant does not grow well. i am sure they do not like to be stretched up to a measuring-stick every morning at eight o'clock. suppose now we put up the strings for the morning-glories and beans to climb on, and some nice branchy twigs for the pease, then water them well and leave them for a few days and see what happens." so then the chief gardener and the two little gardeners went down in the basement, where they found some tiny screw-hooks and some string, and where they cut some nice sprangly little limbs from the christmas tree that still stood in one corner, and was getting very dry. then they all came up again and put up strings for the scarlet runners and morning-glories, by tying one end of each string to a stout little stick which the chief gardener pushed carefully into the soil between the plants, and then carried the string to the small screw-hooks, which were put about half-way up, and at the top of the window-casings. the branchy twigs were stuck carefully into the pots where the pease grew, and stood up straight and fine--like little ladders, prue said--for the pease to climb. [illustration: the corn at the end of two weeks] "it's just like a circus," said davy. "the beans and morning-glories will be climbing ropes, and the pease will be running up straight ladders." "and while we are waiting for the performance to begin," added the chief gardener, "suppose you let me tell you something about the performers--where they came from, and some stories that are told of them." ii hey for the merry little sweet-pea the chief gardener went into the next room, which was the library, and drew a cozy little settee up before the bright hickory fire. it was just wide enough for three, and when he sat down, davy and little prue promptly hopped up, one on each side. in a low rocker near the window big prue was doing something with silks and needles and a very bright pair of scissors. the chief gardener stirred the fire and looked into it. then he said: "speaking of pease, i wonder if you ever heard this little song about 'the two peas 'oh, a little sweet-pea in the garden grew-- hey, for the merry little sweet-pea! and a garden-pea, it grew there, too-- hi, for the happy little eat-pea! in all kinds of weather they grew there together-- ho, for the pease in the garden! hey, for the sweet-pea! hi, for the eat-pea! hey, he, hi, ho, hum! 'oh, the sweet-pea bloomed and the eat-pea bore-- hey, for the merry little sweet-pea! and they both were sent to a poor man's door-- hi, for the happy little eat-pea! in all kinds of weather they came there together! ho, for the pease from the garden! hey, for the sweet-pea! hi, for the eat-pea! hey, he, hi, ho, hum! 'now, the poor man's poor little girl lay ill-- what a chance for a merry little sweet-pea! and there wasn't a cent in the poor man's till-- good-by to the jolly little eat-pea! in all kinds of weather they brought joy together when they came from the happy little garden! hey, for the sweet-pea! hi, for the eat-pea! hey, he, hi, ho, hum!'" "was there really ever a poor man and a little sick girl who had pease sent to them?" asked little prue, as the chief gardener finished. "oh, i am sure there must have been! a great many of them." "but the ones you sung about. those really same ones--did they ever really live, or did you make it up about them?" "i don't think my pease would be quite enough for a poor man who didn't have a cent of money," said davy, after thinking about it. "but my sweet-pease will be enough, only i want to know if there is really such a little girl, so i can send them. is there, papa?" "well, i am sure we can find such a little girl, if we try. and i know she'd be glad for some sweet-pease. and now here's a little story that i really didn't make up, but read a long time ago. "once upon a time there were two friars--" "what are friars?" asked prue. "do they fry things?" "well, not exactly, though one of these did do some stewing, and the other, too, perhaps, though in a different way. a friar is a kind of priest, and these two had done something which the abbot, who is the head priest, did not like, so he punished them." "what did they do?" asked prue, who liked to know just what people could be punished for. "i don't remember now. it's so long--" "what do you _s'pose_ it was?" "well, i really can't s'pose, but it may have been because they forgot their prayers. abbots don't like friars to forget their prayers--" "if i should forget my prayers, i'd say 'em twice to make up." "oh, prue!" said davy, "_do_ let papa go on with the story!" "but i would. i'd say 'em sixty times!" "yes," said the chief gardener, "friars have to do that, too, i believe; but these had to do something different. they had to wear pease in their shoes." "had to wear pease! in their shoes!" "yes, pease, like those we planted, and they had to walk quite a long ways, and, of course, it wouldn't be pleasant to walk with those little hard things under your feet. "well, they started, and one of them went limping and stewing along, and making an awful fuss, because his feet hurt him so, but when he looked at the other he saw that instead of hobbling and groaning as he was, he was walking along, as lively as could be, and seemed to be enjoying the fine morning, and was actually whistling. "'oh, dear!' said the one who was limping, 'how is it you can walk along so spry, and feel so happy, with those dreadful pease in your shoes?' "'why,' said the other, 'before i started, i took the liberty to _boil my_ pease!'" "but, papa," began little prue, "i don't see--" "i do," said davy, "it made them soft, so they didn't hurt." "what kind of pease were they?" asked prue. "like davy's or mine?" [illustration: the pease run up straight ladders] "well, i've never heard just what kind they were. there are a good many kinds of pease, and they seem to have come from a good many places. besides the sweet-pease and garden-pease, there are field-pease, used dry for cattle, and in england there is what is called a sea-pea, because it was first found growing on the shore of a place called sussex, more than three hundred and fifty years ago, in a year of famine. there were many, many of them and they were in a place where even grass had not grown before that time. the people thought they must have been cast up by some shipwrecked vessel, and they gathered them for food, and so kept from going hungry and starving to death. the garden-pea is almost the finest of vegetables, and there are many kinds--some large, some small, some very sweet, some that grow on tall vines and have to have stakes, and some that grow very short without stakes, and are called dwarfs. there are a good many kinds of sweet-pease, too, different sizes and colors, but i think all the different kinds of garden-pease and sweet-pease might have come from one kind of each, a very, very long time ago, and that takes me to another story which i will have to put off until next time. i have some books now to look over, and you and davy, prue, can go for a run in the fresh air." iii even clover belongs to the pulse family it was on the same evening that prue and davy asked for the other story. and of course the chief gardener had to tell it, for he had promised, and little prue, especially, didn't like to put off anything that had been promised. so this is the story that the chief gardener told: "the pulse family is a very large one. i don't know just where the first old great-grandfather pulse ever did come from, but it is thought to be some place in asia, a great country of the far east. it may be that the first pulse lived in the garden of eden, though whether as a tree or a vine or a shrub, or only as a little plant, we can't tell now." "i think it's going to be a fairy story," said prue, settling down to listen. "is it, papa? a real, true fairy story?" "well, perhaps it is a sort of a fairy story, and i'll try to tell it just as truly as i can. anyway, the story goes, that a long time after the garden of eden was ruined and the pulse family started west, there were two cousins, and these two cousins were vines, though whether they were always vines, or only got to be vines so they could travel faster, i do not know. some of their relations were trees then, and are now; the locust tree out in the corner of the yard is one of them." davy looked up, and was about to ask a question. the chief gardener went on. "the cousins i am talking about, being vines, traveled quite fast in the summer-time, but when it came winter, they lay down for a long nap, and only when spring came they roused up and traveled on. one of them was a very fine fellow, with gay flowers that had a sweet smell, and people loved him for his beauty and fragrance. the other brought only greenish-white flowers, not very showy, but some thought him far more useful than his pretty cousin, for he gave the people food as he passed along. "so they journeyed on, down by the way of the black sea, which you will know about when you are a little older, and still farther west until at last the pretty pulse cousin and the plain but useful pulse cousin had spread their families all over europe, and were called p's, perhaps because the first letter of their family name began with p. then by and by it was spelled p-e-a, and they were called garden-pease and sweet-pease, and were planted everywhere, one for the lovely flowers, and the other for food. now we have them side by side in your windows, just as they were when they first started on their travels, so very, very long ago." "did they really travel as you have told?" asked davy, looking into the fire. "well, i have never been able to find any printed history of their travels, so it may have been something like that." "they did, didn't they, papa?" insisted little prue, who always wanted to believe every word of every fairy story. "they went hand in hand, just as davy and i do when we go walking, didn't they?" "and davy is the garden-pea and you the sweet-pea, is that it? well, they did come a long way--that is true--and they do belong to a very large family. why, even the clover belongs to the pulse family, and the peanut, and the locust, and the laburnum, and there is one distant branch of the family that is so modest and sensitive that at the least touch its members shrink and hide, and these are called sensitive plants." "aren't beans of the pulse family, too?" asked davy. "why do you think so?" asked the chief gardener. "well, i remember that the flowers are something alike, and then they both have pods." [illustration: a member of the pulse family] "and you are right, davy. both the flowers are what is called butterfly-shaped, and pods of that kind are called legumes. whenever you see a flower of that shape, or a pod of that kind, no matter how small or how large, or whether they grow on a plant or a tree or a shrub, you will know you have found one of the pulse family and a relative of the pea. your scarlet runners are about second cousins, i should think, and i have something to tell about them, too, but it is too late this evening." iv beans and morning-glories twine to the right "my morning-glories are climbing! my morning-glories are climbing up the strings!" "and so are my scarlet runners! two of them have gone twice around already, and one of them three times! but oh, papa, something has broken one of my stalks of corn, right off close to the ground!" it was two days after the strings had been put up, and prue and davy had tried very hard not to look at their garden during all that time. then they just had to look, and found that the beans and morning-glories were really starting up the strings. but what could have happened to davy's corn! the chief gardener hurried down to see. then with an old knife he dug down into the pot a little, and up came, what do you suppose? why, a white, fat ugly worm--a cut-worm, the chief gardener called him. "they are a great enemy to young corn," he said, "especially in cool weather. sometimes almost whole fields have to be replanted. blackbirds will kill them, but many times the farmer thinks the blackbird is pulling up his corn, and drives him away with a gun, when the blackbird is only trying to help the farmer." "do you suppose there are any more?" asked davy anxiously. the chief gardener dug carefully around the other stalk, until the white roots began to show. "no, i think your other stalk is safe," he said, "at least from cut-worms." grown-up prue came to see the gardens. yes, the vines were really making a nice start, as well as the other things. one of davy's pease had sent out some tiny tendrils that were reaching toward the slender twig-branches, but thoughtful davy was looking first at his beans, then at prue's morning-glories. "they all go around the strings just alike," he said at last; "all the same way. why don't some go the other way?" "you ask such hard questions, davy," the chief gardener answered. "i have never known anybody to tell why all the beans and morning-glories twine to the right, any more than why all the honeysuckles twine to the left." the chief gardener turned to the little woman beside him. "there must be some reason, of course; some law of harmony and attraction. i suppose it would be quite simple to us if we knew. why, where did davy go?" davy came in, just then, with his hat and coat on. "i'm going to look at the honeysuckles," he said, "those out on the porch." the others put on wraps, too, and went with him. it was crisp and bright out there, and dry leaves still clinging to the vines whispered and gossiped together in the wintry breeze. "they do!" said davy, "they every one turn the other way--every single one! how do you suppose they can tell which way to start--which is right, and which is left?" the chief gardener shook his head. "perhaps a story might explain it," he said. "stories have to explain a good many things until we find better ways." so then they went inside to see if a story would really tell why the morning-glory and scarlet runner always twined to the right, and why the honeysuckle always twined to the left. and this was the chief gardener's story: v the honeysuckle twines always to the left "away back in the days that came after eden, the time i told you of, when the garden was given up to weeds and the plants went wandering out through the world, a certain morning-glory and climbing-bean were good friends, and were often found together--twining up the same little tree or trellis, and very happy. of course they were not called morning-glory and bean then, and the honeysuckle that grew near was not called honeysuckle either, though it had just the same sweet flowers, and the humming-birds came to suckle honey from them, just as they do now, in summer-time. i don't know what the old names were. it has been so long since then, i suppose they are all forgotten. "now the honeysuckle was very proud of its sweet flowers, that scented all the air around and drew the beautiful humming-birds, while the morning-glory and bean had only very pale little flowers that the humming-birds did not care for at all. "and the honeysuckle used to laugh at them, and tell them how plain and useless they were. how they lived only a little while in summer, and withered when the frost came, while it only shed its leaves, and stood strong and sturdy against the wind and cold of winter, ready to grow larger and more useful each spring. and this, of course, made the two friends feel very sorry, and wish they could be beautiful and useful, too. [illustration: the morning-glory twines to the right] "now, one day in early spring, the sun, who makes the plants grow and gives the colors to the flowers, heard the honeysuckle, which was putting out green leaves on its strong vines, laughing at the bean and morning-glory, that were just peeping from the earth. "and the sun said, 'this is too bad. it is not fair for one who has so much to make fun of those who have so little. i must give them more.' "so, lo and behold, when the morning-glory vine began to bloom, instead of having pale little flowers, they were a beautiful white and blue and purple and rose color, and when the bean blossomed, it had a fine scarlet flower, and both were more beautiful than the honeysuckle, though the honeysuckle still had its sweet perfume, and its honey for the humming-birds." "but what about the twining?" asked davy. "that is what you started to tell." "why, yes, of course. i forgot that. well, when the sun came to look at them he said, first to the honeysuckle, 'because you have been so proud, you must follow me,' and to the bean and morning-glory, 'because you have been meek, you shall turn always to meet me,' and since that day, the honeysuckle has turned always to the left, following the sun, while the bean and the morning-glory have twined always to the right, to meet it on every turn." the chief gardener paused, seeing that davy was making circles in the air with his finger--first circles to the right, then more circles to the left. then the circles got slower and slower, showing that he was thinking very hard. "that's right," he said at last. "if they turned to the right, they would meet the sun every time around, and if they turned to the left they would be following it." the chief gardener was glad he had told his story right. "and then, by and by," he said, "i suppose people must have given them their names--the honeysuckle's because of the humming-birds that came to suckle the flowers, and the morning-glory's because it made each morning bright with its beautiful flowers, while the bean they called the scarlet runner, and when they found that its pods held good food, they planted it both for its flowers and its usefulness, and valued it very highly, indeed. just where all this happened i do not know. the honeysuckle and morning-glory now grow wild, both in europe and the united states, and the scarlet runner is said to have been found wild in these countries, too, though i have never seen it except in gardens." "papa," asked little prue, "haven't my morning-glories any useful relations, like my sweet-pease?" "why, yes, of course, let me see. the sweet potato belongs to that family. it is really about a first cousin, and useful drugs are made from the juice and root of a wild morning-glory. there are hardly any families that do not have both useful and ornamental members, and most of them, i am sorry to say, have troublesome ones, too, which we call weeds. but i must run away now, and all that will have to wait until another time." march march i still, it was really a radish and so the month of february passed. once the vines had started up the strings, they seemed to grow faster--almost as if they were running races, while the pease reached out and clung to the little twigs, and stood up straight and trim, like soldiers. the pansies and nasturtiums, too, and the lettuce and radishes all sent out more and more leaves, and began to hide the little pods. davy was wild to pull up just one radish to see if it wasn't big enough to eat, but on the first day of march, when the chief gardener told him that he might do so, he was grieved to find only a pale little root, just a bit larger and a trifle pinker at the top, instead of the fat, round vegetable he had expected. still, it was really a radish, davy said, and he cut the thickest part in two and gave half to little prue, who brought out her little dishes and set her table that santa claus left under the christmas tree. then she put her piece on one little plate, and davy's piece on another, and picked one tiny pansy leaf and one from the nasturtiums to make bouquets. and davy picked a lettuce leaf--a very small lettuce leaf--for a salad, so that when their little table was all spread and ready, with some very small slices of bread, and some cookies--some quite large cookies--and some animal crackers, with milk for tea, it really looked quite fresh and pretty and made you hungry just to look at it. [illustration: the nasturtiums began to hide the little pot] and, oh, yes, i forgot to say that there was some salt, the least little bit, in two of the tiniest salt dishes, and when they sat down at last to the very first meal out of their garden, all on the first day of march, when no other gardens around about had been planted yet, they dipped the tiny bits of radish into the tiny salt dishes, and nibbled it, just a wee bit at a time to make it last, and last, ever so long. and they said it tasted real radishy, and that the lettuce leaf, with one drop of vinegar and a speck of salt, was just fine. and little prue held her doll and made her taste, too, and then the chief gardener and grown-up prue must each have a tiny, tiny bite. and so, of course, davy got to be really quite proud of his first radish, and said that after all it wasn't so bad for the first one, and that it was almost as big as a slate-pencil, in the thickest part. pretty soon they might have a radish that would be big enough for each one to have quite a piece, and they would serve it on a whole leaf of salad. he felt sure that on his birthday, which would be on the tenth, they might really have something very nice. then prue was very quiet for a minute, thinking. by and by she asked: "and do you think i will have flowers for davy's birthday? davy can just pick his lettuce and radishes any time. my 'sturtiums and pansies are as big as his things, but i have to wait for them to bloom." "why, that's so, prue." the chief gardener went over to her pansies and looked at them very closely, but if he saw anything he did not speak of it. "oh, well," he said, "if you don't have flowers for davy's birthday, maybe you will for mine. it comes in march, too, you know. and then it's ten days yet till davy's, and you never can tell what will happen in ten days." alas, this was too true. it got quite warm during the second week of march, and the fire in the furnace was allowed to get low. then one night it suddenly turned cold--as cold as january. "oh, what makes some of my pea leaves look so dark?" asked davy, as they stopped in the icy sitting-room for a moment, before hurrying through to the warm dining-room, where a big open fire was blazing. the chief gardener shook his head, rather solemnly. "i'm afraid they are bitten a little by jack frost," he said. "oh, mine are all dark, too," whispered prue, sorrowfully. "i am going to take them right out to the dining-room fire, and warm them." "and that would be the very worst thing you could do," said the chief gardener. "let them stay right where they are, and we will heat the room slowly by opening the register just the least bit at a time, and draw the shades to keep out the sun. perhaps if we do that the frost will come out so gently that the plants will not be killed. if you should warm them quickly they would be very apt to die, or at least to be badly injured." so they did as the chief gardener said, and kept the sitting-room quite cool all day. then by another day the pease and all the others looked about as well as ever, only a few of the tenderest leaves withered up and dropped off because jack frost had breathed harder on these than on the others. as for the radishes and lettuce and pansies, they hadn't minded it the least bit, for they can stand a good deal of cold, and the corn and sunflower and nasturtiums didn't lose any leaves, so, perhaps, they didn't care for a touch of frost either. ii the sun swings like a great pendulum and now with each day there was brighter sunshine that came earlier and stayed longer. from a high east window they saw the sun rise each morning, when it was bright weather, and when they happened to be awake in time, and they saw how the big red ball crept farther and farther to the north, along the far fringe of trees, beyond all the houses which they could see. "it rose away down beyond that little white house on christmas morning," said davy, who was always up early. "i remember very well. now it's got past the tall pine by the red barn. how much farther will it go?" the chief gardener pointed to a dim pencil-mark on the window-sill. "that was the angle of the shadow," he said, "on the twenty-first of june, and points to just where the sun will rise on the longest day of the year. you will have to be up very early to see it on that day." he pointed to another faint line. "that," he said, "was the angle on the twenty-first of december, the shortest day. the sun swings like a great pendulum from one point to the other and gives us winter and summer, and all the seasons between. half-way between these marks is due east, and there the sun will rise on the twenty-first of march, which is the first day of spring." "do you think our garden things are looking at it, and wishing it would hurry and get farther toward the june mark," said little prue. "i think they are," the chief gardener answered. "they don't have eyes, as we have, but they have a way of seeing the sun, and of knowing just where it is, for most of them turn toward it as they grow, and some of them follow it all the way across the sky, from morning until night, and then turn back and wait for it to rise again. your sunflower would do that, prue, if it were out under the open sky." [illustration: the very small lettuce leaves] "oh, it does now. i mean it looks toward the sun in the morning, with its top leaves, and keeps them turned toward it as far as it can." "so you have noticed that, have you? well, i'm glad, for i have read in books--books written by very wise men--that the sunflower did not really do this, but that it was just an old fable. i think those wise men, perhaps, never saw the wild western sunflowers, but only the big tame ones that have heavy, coarse stems and are so big and clumsy and fat that they couldn't well turn, even if they wanted to. i have seen whole fields of wild sunflowers--little ones like yours, and long before they were in bloom--with every stem bent toward the sunrise, when there was not a breath of wind blowing; and i have seen the same flowers straighten their little stems as the sun rose higher, and then bend them again to the west in the evening; and the little bend would be so tight and firm that you could hardly straighten the stalk without breaking it. very wise men make mistakes sometimes, mistakes that even a little girl would not make, just because they have not happened to see something which a little girl with sharp eyes has seen and thought about. it is a wonderful and beautiful sight on the prairies of the west to see miles of wild sunflowers in full bloom. they are like a great sea of gold, and in the early morning, when the air is still, every bloom is faced toward the sunrise, as bright and fresh and faithful as the sun itself." "i should think there would be a story about the sunflower," said davy, half speaking to himself. "oh, there have been many stories about it, davy. after breakfast i will try and remember the one i like best." so then they hurried down to the dining-room, pausing just long enough to see that the garden was all safe, and to notice that the upper leaves of prue's sunflower were really faced so far to the sun that there was a sharp little crook in the stem, then out to the big dining-room fire, for the fragrant breakfast that was waiting, and back to the library fire for the story that was to be told. iii long before there were any railroads and cities "once upon a time--" "oh," said prue, "once upon a time--i just love 'once upon a time.'" "yes," nodded davy, solemnly, "and once upon a time there was a little girl who couldn't keep still so that her papa could tell a story." prue snuggled down, and the chief gardener began all over. "once upon a time, long before there were any railroads, and cities such as ours, long before columbus ever sailed over the ocean to a new world--when all this great wide country, as you know, was held by indians, who hunted and fished, and made war sometimes, when they had disputes--there lived away in the far west two very friendly tribes. their lands joined and they hunted together, and when one tribe was at war the other joined in and helped to fight the enemy. so they became almost as one tribe and their children grew up together. "now, in one tribe there was a little indian boy, a chief's son, who was very fond of a little indian girl of the other tribe. their mothers had always been great friends, and often for a whole day at a time the little indian boy and girl played together, and as they grew up they cared for each other more and more, and the indian boy, ahlogah, said that when he was older and a chief he would make the little indian girl, laida, his wife. "but it happened that in laida's tribe there was also a chief's son, a jealous-hearted and cruel boy that laida did not like. but this boy cared for laida, and like ahlogah made up his mind that some day she should be his wife. "so they all grew up, and ahlogah and laida loved each other more dearly every day, and kapoka, the other youth, grew more jealous and more cruel-hearted. and when one day his father died, and he became chief of his tribe, he said that if she did not give up ahlogah, he would make war on ahlogah's tribe. "so then ahlogah and laida met one evening just before sunset to say good-by for the last time. their tribes had never been at war, and they were willing to part forever to keep kapoka from making a war now. laida had not promised to marry kapoka, she had only promised not to see ahlogah again. and now they parted, just as the sun was going down, and they both turned to see it for the last time side by side. and then ahlogah said: "'to-morrow just at sunrise go to the high rocks above the river and look to the east. and where the river passes through our lands, i will go also to see some high rocks, and i will look to the east, too, when the sun rises, and i will know that though we are apart, we are watching the sun rise together, and it will be always our message of love to each other as it travels across the sky.' "so laida went back to her tribe and ahlogah to his, and every morning they watched from their high rocks above the river, and held out their arms to the rising sun, as a message it should bear between them. "and kapoka found out that laida went every morning to the high rocks, and held out her arms to the sun. and he found that ahlogah also went every morning to the high rocks farther up the river. then kapoka knew that laida would never be his wife as long as ahlogah was alive. and one morning very early kapoka left his wigwam and crept across to the lands of the other tribes, and to the high rocks where ahlogah stood waiting for the sunrise. and just as the sun rose, and kapoka knew that ahlogah would not hear him, he slipped up behind ahlogah, and gave him a great push that sent him over into the swift river, hundreds of feet below. "and the swift river caught him and tossed him and whirled him about, and finally carried him down past the high rocks where laida was sending her message to the sun. and laida looked down and saw him coming. she saw his chieftain's dress and plumes tossed and whirled by the water. she knew it was ahlogah, and she waited for him. then, when he just was below the high rocks where she stood, she gave a great cry, 'ahlogah!' and she was in the whirling, tossing water beside him. "then the tribes searched together, and they found ahlogah and laida far below, cast up on a place of white pebbles, side by side. and they buried them, side by side, and both the tribes mourned. but when the spring came there grew upon their graves two strange flowers with bright, beautiful faces that turned each morning to the sunrise. and these they named ahlogah and laida, but in another year there were more of them, so they called them sunflowers, and after that the land in september, the month when they had died, was like gold with the beautiful flowers of the sun." "but what became of the wicked kapoka? what did they do with him?" asked prue, anxiously. "they never saw him again. i suppose he was ashamed to come back, and by and by his brother, who was good and noble, ruled the tribe, and they dwelt in peace for many generations." "do sunflowers belong to a family now?" asked davy. "oh, yes, to the very largest of all families--a family that spreads all over the world, and the sunflower has been found to be so perfect in form that the family is sometimes called the sunflower family. its true name is the composite family, which means flowers with thick, bunchy centers, formed of a lot of very tiny little flowers, with a rim of petals around the whole--rays they are called--making it into one big flower." "the black-eyed susans must belong to that family, too," said davy. "they do, and the daisy, and the marigold, and the zinnia, and the aster, and your lettuce, too, davy, and many, many more. whenever you see a flower with a round bunchy center and a rim of petals, like a sunflower--no matter what color or how small it is--you will know it belongs to the composite family. i suppose there are more of this family in america than in any other country, but the sunflower is the finest of them all, and the most generally useful. its seeds are full of fine oil, and are excellent food for cattle and poultry. the indians sometimes use them for bread. the flowers themselves are full of honey, the leaves, too, are good for cattle, and the stalks make fine fuel. in many places and many countries the sunflowers are cultivated and valued highly. of course, there are other useful members, and your lettuce is one of the finest salads in the world." iv did you ever see the little man in the pansy? march was really an exciting month in the little window gardens. with longer and brighter suns, everything grew faster, until the windows began to look full and green, and the children often went outside to look in, and were very proud, indeed, of the pretty show of vines and leaves beyond the glass. the race of vines became very close. davy had one bean and prue one morning-glory which kept ahead of the others, and grew about the same each day. they grew so fast that davy thought if he would only watch very closely he would be able to see them grow a little, but watch as he would, he never could catch the little vine turning or sending out a new leaf. it was like the short hand of the clock. it went twice around each day, but nobody could see it move. the corn and the sunflower were having a race, too, and the sunflower was a little ahead, though davy's corn was a good deal taller when he lifted the points of the leaves. "i don't think that is fair," said prue, and the chief gardener was called to decide. "no," he said, "the corn must be measured from where the leaves turn over, until it sends up its tassel, or bloom. then it may be measured to the top of that. and that may be sooner than you think, too," he added, as he looked down into the healthy-looking green stalk that was fully two feet high. "and just see those vines; why they are more than half-way up the casings already!" it was the day before davy's birthday, and prue was looking anxiously at her pansies. all at once she gave a joyous cry. "oh, papa, a bud! oh, it truly is, a real sure enough bud!" the chief gardener looked with care. "yes," he said, "it is really a bud, and quite a large one, too. it begins to show the color. it's going to be a purple one, i believe." prue was fairly wild with excitement. [illustration: davy's pot of radishes] "oh, may i pick it to-morrow for davy's birthday?" she asked. "i don't believe i would, prue. it won't be open for a week or more, perhaps. i would wait until it opens." so davy's birthday came and passed without flowers from their garden, but they did have radishes, two of them, and these were cut in two and divided around so that each had quite a nice taste, and a leaf of salad, too. the radishes were nearly as big as marbles, little marbles, of course, and very red and beautiful, and prue put her pansy-pot on the table, and showed the bud, with its purple tip, every time davy made any mention of his radishes or his lettuce, and with a big cake and other good things they had a very happy time indeed. but now things began to happen in real earnest. the pansy bloomed--a big velvety, purple bloom, and then there was a yellow bud and a yellow bloom with a purple spot in the center. little prue was simply too happy to keep still, and danced in front of her garden almost from morning until night. then suddenly they found a bud on the bean vines, and then on the morning-glories, and then there were blooms--pink and purple blooms on the morning-glories, and scarlet and white ones on the beans. then davy's corn sent out a plume at the top, a wonderful tassel, and when davy measured to the top of it he found that it was over three feet high. "my birthday will be a regular feast of flowers," said the chief gardener, and really there was good reason for saying so, for the window casings were white, scarlet, pink, and purple, and the tasseling corn and the broad green leaves of the sunflower were fair and lovely. and prue's pansy-pot was again on the table, and when the dinner was over, the chief gardener drew it toward him, and picking one of the purple blooms that was nearly ready to fall, said: "did you ever see the little man in the pansy?" "no, oh, no," said prue and davy together. "show him to us, papa." so then the chief gardener pulled off carefully all the petals of the flower, and there, sure enough, sat a little round-bodied man, in a wonderful green chair, made of the outer part, or calyx, of the flower. his head was light green, his coat pale yellow, and he wore a rich, brown collar. just below him was a round green sack or tube, filled with water, and when the chief gardener slitted it down, why there, truly, were two little legs and feet that had been in the little vessel. the children were delighted. "oh, tell us about him!" they said. "who is he?" "he was a king," said the chief gardener, "a poor, feeble king, who always sat on a green throne, with his feet in a tub of water. and his wife and daughters, all very splendidly dressed, used to perch themselves around him on the throne and ask for more money to spend on their fine clothes, and they were often cruel to him because he wouldn't give it to them, crowding him and almost smothering him with their velvet dresses. [illustration: "davy's corn sent out a plume at the top"] "so one day the fairies heard of it, and came to see. and they took pity on the poor king, and the next time the wife and daughters were crowding him on his throne they changed the king and his throne and all the others, with their fine dresses, into a flower. and the flower was the pansy. the velvet petals are the wife and daughters. the calyx is the green throne, and this little man is the poor, sick king with his feet and legs still in the little tub of water, though he can never be worried and scolded again." "i know that story is true," said little prue, "for there is the very little man, himself, and oh, see, you can take his coat off, and there is a little green body inside." sure enough, it was as prue had said, and the chief gardener explained. "that little body becomes a pod to hold the seeds by and by. the little coat helps to make the seed, too. i won't tell you all the names of these things now, for you could not remember so much. only try to remember that the green throne is called the calyx, and each little piece of it is a sepal, while the beautiful wife and daughters are called petals, and when taken together are called a corolla, and that this is true of every complete flower." and so march, too, slipped away. and on one day near the very end of the month, when it had been warm and bright for nearly a week, the chief gardener went out into his garden and turned over some of the earth which was getting dry. davy said that it smelled all new and springy, and reminded him of kite-time. and then the chief gardener made two little beds of his own, and in one he sowed some lettuce, and in the other some radish seed, because these were the things most likely to grow from an early planting. davy and prue watched and helped, and were very anxious to have little beds of their own, but the chief gardener told them that they would better wait at least another month before they did any outside gardening. their window gardens were just coming to their best time, he said, and planting outside so early was always risky. and that night when the wind went to the northeast, and a cold rain set in, that turned to snow before morning, and made the ground all white and glassy like december, they were very glad they had not made any beds, and were sorry for the chief gardener's little beds of vegetables, outside beneath the cold, cold snow. april april i the yellow dust is a food for the seed april showers began early. the sun shone out brightly on the morning of the first day, but by breakfast time the rain was pattering down, and all the rest of the day there were showers, one after another, that streamed down the garden windows and made a little river of the path outside. davy said he had never seen it rain so much in one day, and prue said it was too bad. the chief gardener said it was an april fool. but there was reason to be happy, after all. whether it was the shower outside; or the sun that was trying to shine; or just because it was april, prue and davy did not know, but prue all at once found a bud on her sunflowers and davy about the same time discovered a tiny brown silky bunch on his corn, the beginning of the ear. then they forgot all about the rain, or at least they did not care so much, and got their books and their little table and sat down by their garden, which was now a real garden, of real flowers and vegetables, and read some stories about other little people, and looked at the pictures and talked about what they would do when warm weather came and they had a still bigger garden outside. and that night, when the chief gardener came home, he had to look at the corn and the sunflower the first thing, and say, "well, well," every time prue told him how she had first seen the bud, which was a good many times, and he had to explain to davy all about the corn silk, and the little ear that was still behind the rough green leaf, and how the dust, or pollen, dropping down from the tassel above helped to make the corn swell and grow on the ear. "it is so in every flower, the yellow dust is a food for the seed. in most plants the seed-pod and the food-dust or pollen are all in one flower, but with the corn they are separate, as you see. did you ever notice, davy, how much a cornstalk looks like an indian, with plumes, and its ear, like a quiver for holding arrows?" "oh, is that why people sometimes call it indian corn?" asked davy. "no, that is not the reason. at least, there is a better one which i will tell you when we have had our dinner." so by and by, when dinner was over, and prue had two servings of pudding because she didn't care for chocolate cake--one very little serving, of course, the chief gardener and davy, and big prue and little prue all went into the library, and the chief gardener told the story of ii the coming of the corn "you remember," said the chief gardener, "how i told you about the first sunflowers--" "yes," put in prue, "about that wicked kapoka, who pushed poor ahlogah from the high rocks. oh, i hope he is not in the corn story, too." "no, he isn't in the corn story, but it was, perhaps, about that time that the corn came to the american indian tribes, for the corn was first found in america, and it is a true indian plant like the sunflower. like the sunflower, too, it came once upon a time. "well, then, once upon a time, there was a year of famine. the winter had been very cold, and almost all the wild game, upon which the indians then lived, had either died or gone out of the country. the fish, too, seemed scarce and hard to catch, and the wild fruit had been winter-killed. there was little to eat during the winter, and even when spring came it was not much better, though by and by some of the game came back and there were more fish in the streams. "still it was very hard to get enough food, and every bird and animal was killed wherever found, and brought to the camps to be eaten. "but one day there flew down very close to one of the very large camps a big bird, such as no one of the tribe had ever seen before. it was not a hawk, nor an eagle, for it was a golden yellow, and it seemed to have come a very long way. it sat quite still, and its wings drooped, and it did not seem frightened when the wondering and hungry indians came nearer to look at it. "then one or two indians began stringing their bows to shoot the great bird for food. but others said, 'no, let us not harm the stranger. he has come from a far country. and see, the color is golden, like the sun. perhaps, the sun has sent a messenger, as a good omen.' "so they did not kill the bird, but even brought it food, little as they had, and the bird ate and rested through the day. then just at evening he lifted his great wings and flew away into the sunset, and was seen no more. "but when a week had gone by, there came up where the bird had rested a strange new plant which grew very fast in the warm sun and shower and sent out long graceful leaves, and at last a plume at the top like that of an indian chief, and from behind the graceful drooping leaves, tufts of silk that became ears, and were like indian quivers. and when the summer was past, the tribe gathered these ears, and pulled away the husk, and lo, there were the rows of ripened corn, golden like the great bird. "then the tribes from far and near were called together, and there was great rejoicing and thanks for this new gift, brought to them by the wonderful bird of the sun. and to each chief was given a few of the grains for planting, so that the next year all the tribes around about were watching and tending the tall green stalks that were to give them abundance of seed against another famine. "and that is the legend of the corn. after the third year there was seed for all, and corn became the best and surest food for all the indian tribes. when the white men came, they ate it, too, and by cultivation made new kinds and colors. now we have the sweet or sugar corn, the davy's, and we have popcorn, too, which is only a dwarf corn with a hard, flinty shell which pops open with heat." "do they raise corn in any other country except america?" asked davy. "oh, yes, there is a great deal raised in other countries now, and i believe they claim to have found some grains of it in a very old tomb in greece, and a picture of it in a very old book in china, so, perhaps, it was from some place in the far east that the great bird of the indians came with the seed." "and does it belong to a family, too?" asked little prue. "it is claimed by the grass family, and, of course, it is something like big grass. wheat and oats and, indeed, all the grains, belong to that wonderful family, too. then there is broom-corn, useful for making brooms, while sugar-cane, which is also a grass, gives us our best sugar and molasses, but corn not only gives us the ears for food, but the leaves are used for cattle, and the husks for making cushions and mattresses, and for packing fruits. syrup also is made from the young stalks, and the dry stalks are used for thatching, stable-bedding and fuel. in fact, every part of the corn is valuable, and i think we might call it the king, or, perhaps, being an indian, the chief of the tribe of grasses." "i know the best of all the things that comes from it," said little prue. "what?" asked davy. "pop-corn balls," said prue. iii cross by name and cross by nature what wonderful things happened to the little window-garden in april! the nasturtium bloomed early in the month--first a red one then a yellow one, then a lot of red and yellow ones. they were so beautiful that almost every meal the little pot stood on the table, and sometimes the pansy-pot, too. and then the sweet-pease bloomed, beautiful pink and white and purple blooms that were so sweet you could smell them as soon as you came into the room. davy's garden-pease had bloomed even sooner, and had little pods on them by april. before many days the tiny pease inside began to swell, and you could see every one quite plainly when you turned the pod flat side to the light. as for the beans and morning-glories, they had bloomed and bloomed, and already had seed-pods hanging all the way up the vines that now reached to the top of the casings and looped down and joined in a long festoon which hung between. and how proud the children were of their two beautiful windows. and how happy they were when passers-by stopped to look in, and perhaps wondered about the gardens, and maybe thought that the rosy-cheeked boy and girl looking out between the blossoms and leaves and vines were the brightest and best flowers that bloomed there. and davy's corn sent out another ear, a little one, and both ears grew and the pollen from above sifted down, and davy knew that inside the green husks the sweet kernels were forming. "when can we eat it?" he asked almost every day. "don't you think it's about big enough now?" "when the silk turns brown," said the chief gardener. "that is about the best rule. i think you'll have pease and beans, too, pretty soon, so you can have quite a feast." [illustration: "the morning-glories had bloomed and already had seed-pods"] "just in time for my birthday," said big prue, who had been an april baby a long time ago. "it's ever so long till my birthday," said little prue, rather sadly. "i don't think we'll have anything left by august." "oh, but i'll have a fine garden outside by then," said the chief gardener, "and you will, too. i'll have radishes and lettuce now before you know it;" for in spite of the cold snow and freeze, the chief gardener's first planting had sprouted fairly well, and was rapidly filling his first two little beds. "papa, you haven't told us a word about my nasturtiums yet, and they're so lovely. not a single story or anything, nor about their family relations, or where they came from--not a thing." "well, that's so," said the chief gardener, "perhaps because i wanted to make a family affair of it. you see, davy's radish is a sort of a name-cousin of your nasturtium, and i've been thinking that when i told about one i'd tell of the other, too, and that i'd call the story iv a peppery family [illustration: "cabbage" was the fat fellow's name] "nobody seems to know just where the cross family came from. you can find them in every part of the world now, some of them growing as weeds, some as flowers, and some as very fine vegetables. but wherever they came from, in the beginning, they were certainly of very sharp, biting natures, and never could agree. why, they were so cross that even their flowers were shaped like little crosses, and people called them cruciferous, which means cross-shaped, and used to say of them, "'cross by name and cross by nature, cross of fibre, face, and feature,' and did not want them in their gardens, because they disturbed the other vegetables and flowers, and might make them cross, too. "well, the cross family became tired of this, at last, and made up their minds to be either useful or ornamental: at least, most of them did. so they got together, and after a great deal of quarrelling among themselves to begin with, for, of course, they couldn't help that when they had been unpleasant so long, they at last began to work together and decide what each wanted to be, and how it could be brought about. "'i think,' said a fat one who was always better-natured than any of the others, 'i should like to be a nice sweet vegetable that people were very fond of and gave a good place to, in their gardens, where i should be well taken care of.' "so the clerk of plants, who was alive then, like the weather clerk, you know, put down 'cabbage,' which was the fat fellow's name, and wrote after it, 'sweet vegetable--needs care.' "'i,' said another, 'would like to be a sweet vegetable, too, but i want to grow mostly under the ground, so that i will need less care to keep off insects and worms.' "so then the clerk of plants wrote 'turnip,' and put after it, 'vegetable with sweet, wholesome root; needs little care.' "so they went on with those who wanted to be vegetables. but most of the others did not want to be quite so sweet in their nature as the turnip and the cabbage. they said they liked people with a little temper of their own, so the radish, who was a fat, red little chap, was put down as a vegetable rather sweet, but with sharp flavor, and 'horseradish' was put down, 'very sharp and biting, to be used only for seasoning.' the clerk was about to turn to those who wanted to be flowers, when a little green plant, who had been named 'nose torment,' because he made people's noses itch and burn, spoke up and said, 'i should like to be beautiful and useful, too--a pretty green dressing that people like, and i will grow in the water, which may wash away some of my ill manners.' "so then the clerk of plants dropped the name of 'nose torment' and wrote down, 'water cross, a fine table-salad--grows in clear streams.' "'but i don't like the name "cross,"' said the little plant. "'oh, well,' said the clerk, 'spell it with an "e" then--make it cress.' so water-cress it became, and all the others spelled their family name with an 'e,' too, and became the cress family instead of the cross family, just as people often change the spelling of their names to-day. "but the clerk of plants wasn't through, for there were a good many who wanted to be flowers. some of them wanted to be very sweet flowers, and some, like mustard, wanted to be flowers and useful, too. so the clerk wrote down 'wallflower,' and 'stock' and candy tuft,' and a good many others, but there was one gentle little blossom which said, 'oh, i want to be white and pure, and have a sweet and delicate perfume that all people will love.' and this was 'alyssum,' and when the clerk wrote it down, he wrote it 'sweet alyssum,' and so it has been called ever since. "and then, when the clerk was all through, he said, 'there are some who have not come to the meeting. where is your brother, mustard? and yours, alyssum, the one we call pepper-grass, because he is so fiery?' "mustard and alyssum shook their heads sadly. "'well,' said the clerk, 'they have had their chance. they are wild and will always be,' so he wrote down. 'wild mustard' and pepper-grass,' and after these names he put the word 'weeds.'" "but my nasturtium, papa, what about that?" "why, that's so, i forgot all about your nasturtium. well, you see, it doesn't really belong to the cress family, but is only a name-relative. the word nasturtium comes from two latin words, _nasi tormentum_, which means nose torment, and it was nasturtium that little water-cress had sometimes been called." "but," said prue, "my nasturtium isn't water-cress." [illustration: "they called it nasturtium"] "no, but when it was discovered, and the people tasted the leaves and the flowers, and sometimes used them for salad, and especially when they found it had a sharp-tasting seed, they called it cress, indian cress, and then they took the name that little water-cress had dropped and called it nasturtium. so you see it isn't really a cress or a nasturtium. it is only called that. it's true name is acriviola, or sharp violet, because of its taste, and the flower, which is shaped something like a violet. all the true cress family have a corolla of but four petals, shaped like a cross, and nearly all the flowers, and especially the seed-pods, have a sharp flavor. even the sweet alyssum has the least touch of the old flavor, and mustard is very sharp. on the whole, the cress family has become a most useful and ornamental family, and the acriviola or nasturtium, which is neither a violet nor a nasturtium, but a geranium--of the geranium family, i mean--need not be at all ashamed of its adopted names." v for in that dish was davy's corn when big prue's birthday came, there was much excitement. of course, there were the presents which must be hidden until the very morning, but even the presents were not of the very greatest importance this year. oh, no, this year it was the garden. big prue's birthday was to be a regular garden feast. [illustration: alyssum--the sweetest of the "cross" family] for now the days had become warm and bright. already the children had been to the woods for hepaticas and violets, and everywhere the trees were tinged with green. the little garden had fairly filled the window so that now you had to look between the vines to see. even in the garden outside, the chief gardener had made some more beds, and the first ones--the radishes and lettuce--were so well along, that early on the morning of big prue's birthday he brought in some tiny radishes and some tender green salad leaves, almost as good, davy said, as the first ones from his garden. "these are for breakfast," he said. "you and prue will have to supply the birthday dinner." and that is just what they did. first of all there was a lovely bunch of sweet-pease on big prue's plate--these, of course, being from prue's garden. there was a little bunch of pansies for prue, while for the chief gardener and davy there were round, bright sunflowers, one each for their buttonholes. in the center of the table there was a wonderful little glass bowl of nasturtium flowers, that were so fresh and pretty that one must be hungry just to look at them. then it was davy's turn. in a pretty salad-dish on a little side table, there was a lettuce salad that looked like a great green bloom, and lying upon another smaller dish at the side, were four of the roundest, reddest radishes imaginable, the very last of the little garden crop. but now something came in in two small covered dishes, something that steamed, and behold, when they were opened, in one were davy's beans, ever so many, white and mottled, all cooked and hot and ready to be eaten, and in the other davy's pease! but that was not all. still another steaming dish came in, and when that was opened, everybody fairly shouted, "oh, my!" for in that dish was davy's corn! think of it! two whole ears of corn, one large one to be divided between little prue and davy. never was there such a birthday dinner as that. the flowers were beautiful, the beans and the pease splendid, while the corn, why the corn was just the sweetest and best corn that was ever raised. they all said so, and davy got excited and said he was going to plant a thousand acres of corn just as soon as the chief gardener would let him. and then they began to plan for the new garden of summer-time, which was to be made outside. most of their things they thought they would take out of the windows, and reset in the open garden, but, of course, there were no radishes or lettuce to take now, and the corn and pease were no longer of value, while the vines would be hard to move. so they decided to take out all but the vines. prue could reset her pansies and nasturtiums and sunflower, and the sweet-pease, which would bloom all summer, perhaps, leaving the morning-glories and scarlet runner in the windows, to bloom as long as they would. "my windows would look very bare without even the vines left of the little gardens," said big prue, "but it is getting so green outside, that we won't miss them so much now, and, of course, everything must go, sometime." "and we are going to have them next year," said davy. "we will begin then earlier, and have other things, too, but first we are going to have ever and ever so much outside, in the real garden. prue is going to have flowers, and i am going to have, oh, ever and ever so many good things to eat!" and so with big prue's birthday dinner, the little garden in the windows saw its greatest glory, and the month of april, which had been its happiest season, came to a happy end. may may i sweet-pease have to be put down pretty deep it was may and the apple-trees were in bloom. in the garden outside was the chief gardener, with prue and davy--one on each side--hoeing and digging and raking. the early plantings, like radishes and lettuce and pease, were already well along, but it was just time, now, for a second planting of these things, and for the first planting of such things as corn and beans, and most of the kinds of flowers. some sweet-pease, it is true, little prue had planted earlier, one warm day in april, when the chief gardener had dug for her a trench along the fence, and she had put in the pease, one at a time, and just so far apart, so that they wouldn't crowd, she said, or get in each other's way. the trench was quite deep--most too deep, prue thought, but then sweet-pease have to be put down pretty deep, and the soil dragged up to the vines as they grow, to give them strength. now, she planted some sweet-williams, and pansies, and mignonettes, and alyssum, and had brought most of her pots from the house, and set the things in a little row by themselves, so that they might still be company as they had been through the long winter and late spring. davy, too, had made a fine garden, with six hills of sweet-corn, one hill of cantaloupes, a row of pease, a little row of onions, lettuce, and radishes, besides a very small row of sweet herbs, such as marjoram, fennel, and thyme. each garden was fully eight feet square, which is really quite a good-sized garden, when you remember that it must be kept nicely tilled and _perfectly clean_ of weeds. "i think i will have a hill of cucumbers, too," said davy. "i like cucumbers." "but they won't do, near your cantaloupes," said the chief gardener. "you see, cucumbers and cantaloupes belong to the same family, and one of the most twining, friendly families i know of. each member left to itself is very good in its way, and often ornamental, but let them run together ever so little and before you know it they begin to mix up and look like one another, and even have tastes alike. a cucumber-hill there, davy, would spoil the taste of your cantaloupes, and the cucumbers would not be good either. it's the same way with watermelons, and citrons, and pumpkins, and all the rest of the gourds." "gourds!" "why, yes, they all belong to the gourd family, and they will all look and taste like gourds if you give them a chance. it's really, of course, because the pollen of one blows into the bloom of the other, and the members of the gourd family are so closely related that pollens blend and mix. different kinds of corn will do the same thing. that is why we have our popcorn as far from our sweet corn as we can get it. there are other families that do not mix at all. we grow apples and plums and peaches and roses, side by side--even different kinds of each--and they never mix." "but apples and plums and peaches are not roses, are they?" asked little prue. "just as much as strawberries, and pears and quinces are," said the chief gardener. the children looked at him rather puzzled. "how about blackberries and raspberries?" asked the chief gardener. "don't you think they look a little, a very little, like wild roses, only the flowers are smaller and white, instead of pink?" "why, yes, so they do!" nodded davy. "and doesn't the bloom of a blackberry look like the bloom of a plum, and a cherry, and a pear, and an apple, and all those things?" "a good deal," said prue, "and wild crab blossoms look just like little wild roses, and they smell so sweet, too." "and the wild crab has thorns like a rose, only not so sharp," said davy. [illustration: "don't you think the blackberry looks a little like a wild rose?"] "and a rose has little apples after the bloom falls," said the chief gardener. "i have known children to eat rose apples, though i don't think they could be very good." davy had run down to the corner of the garden and came back now with something in his hand. it was a wild rose that grew by the hedge there; a pretty, single pink blossom. then he stopped and picked a strawberry bloom, and one from the apple-tree that hung over the fence. these he brought over to the little bench where prue and the chief gardener had sat down to rest. the chief gardener took them and held them side by side. "there, you will see they are all very much alike," he said. the children looked at them. then prue ran across the lawn and came back with a little yellow bloom. "isn't this flower one of them, too?" she asked. "some people call it wild strawberry, and some sink-field." "that," said the chief gardener, "is cinque-foil. i suppose the name sink-field comes from that. it is french, and means five-leaved, but sink-field is not so bad a name either, for it often grows in moist places. yes, that is a rose, too." "then buttercups must be roses," said davy. "they look just like that." "no, davy, that is one place where our eyes must look sharp. can you find a buttercup?" "oh, plenty," said prue, and ran to bring them. then the chief gardener took a buttercup and an apple-bloom, and held them side by side. there was a difference, but not very great. then he took his knife, and divided the blossoms in half. "now look again," he said, and he took a small magnifying-glass from his pocket and held it so that they could see. "the petals and the sepals (that make the corolla and the calyx, you know) are a good deal the same," he said, "but, you see, there are many more stamens in the buttercup, and then the seed pod or pods, which we call the pistils, are not at all alike. the buttercup has a lot of tiny pods or pistils inside the flower, while the apple-bloom has one round pod below the flower, and this forms the fruit. the buttercup does not make fruit. it belongs to the crowfoot family, and is a cousin of the hepatica and of the larkspur, which you would not think from the shape of the larkspur's bloom. the crowfoot family is not so beautiful nor so useful as the rose family, which is, perhaps, the most useful family next to the grass family, and certainly one of the most beautiful families in the world." "i think the rose family is nicer than the grass family," said prue. "oh, no," said davy. "we couldn't do without wheat and corn, and we could do without fruit and flowers--that is, of course, if we had to," he added with a sigh. "i couldn't," said little prue. "i like flowers best, and jelly and jam to eat on my biscuits, and you like all those things, too, davy, and shortcake, and berry pie." "of course! but how would you have biscuits and shortcake without wheat to make the flour of?" the chief gardener smiled. [illustration: "and the apple-blossom, too"] "we can't decide it," he said. "they go together. it is said that we shall not live on bread alone, and i don't think we could live altogether on fruit and flowers, though i believe some people try to do so. jam and bread go together, and a shortcake must have both crust and fruit to be a real shortcake. wheat fields and orchards march side by side, and taking these together we have peach pudding and apple tart." prue was looking out over her little garden where the smoothly patted rows of beds made her quite happy, just to see them. "i've got four things that begin with sweet," she said. "sweet-pease, sweet-williams, sweet-mignonette, and sweet-alyssum." "and my little sweetheart is the sweetest flower of all," said the chief gardener. ii different families of ants have different droves of cows it seemed wonderful to the chief gardener how much the children had learned just from the little pots of their window-garden. he had let them begin these gardens merely as an amusement, at first, but during those long winter weeks while the plants were growing and being cared for daily, little by little, prue and davy had been learning the how and why. when the seeds began to come now, he had to tell them very little about the care of the plants. it is true that davy was a little too anxious to hoe his rows of pease and salad almost before they were out of the ground, and hoed up a few plants, while prue wanted to water her garden when the bright sun was shining, which would have baked the ground and done more harm than good. but they both knew so much more than they had known a year ago, that the chief gardener was glad of those little window-gardens which were now gone. "you see, i was remembering the worm that cut off one of my cornstalks," said davy one morning when the chief gardener found him digging carefully around the tender shoots. "i found one, too, but he hadn't done any harm yet." "i'm crumbling the hard dirt around my little plants," said prue, "it's so sharp and cakey, and i pull out every little weed i see, so they won't have a chance to get big." the chief gardener looked on approvingly. then he walked over to his own rows and looked carefully at his pease, which were just now beginning to bloom. then he got down and looked more closely. then he called davy and prue. they left their work and came quickly. "look here," said the chief gardener, "i have a whole drove of cattle in my garden." "cattle!" said davy. "oh, papa's just fooling," said prue. "why, no," said the chief gardener, "don't you see them. there is a whole drove of cows," and he pointed to some little green bug-like things that clustered on the tips of his pea-vines. the children looked closely and then turned to him to explain. "there are some ants there, too," said davy. "they are crawling up and down." "yes," said the chief gardener. "they own the cows. the cows are those green things--aphides, they are called, and the ants milk them. look very carefully now." prue and davy watched and saw an ant go to one of the green insects and touch with its bill first one, and then the other, of two little horns that grew from the aphid's back. and then the ant went to another aphid, and did the same thing. then they saw that tiny drops of fluid came from the ends of these tiny green horns. "that," said the chief gardener, "is honeydew, or ant's milk. the ants are very fond of it, and wherever you find these aphides, you will find ants, milking them. in fact, i believe the ants keep these aphides during the winter in some of their houses, and drive them in the spring to tender green feeding-places like these pea-vines, so that the milk will be sweet and plentiful. i have heard that different families of ants have different droves of cows, and fight over them, too." the children were very much interested in all this, and watched the ants run up and down the vines and milk their cows. then the chief gardener said, "i'm sorry, but i'm afraid we'll have to get rid of these. they are very bad for young plants, and ants are, too. they suck the juice, and ruin them. i must give them a mixture." he went into the basement and cut up a few ounces of whale-oil soap, and dissolved it in hot water. then when it was cool and weakened, he sprinkled the pease with it. the next day all the cows were gone, and most of the ants. but about a week later, just after a shower, there they were again, and the chief gardener said that the ants must have driven up a new herd. so he had to sprinkle them again, and even once more before the end of the month; and while he was sprinkling, he sprinkled the little gardens, too, for whale-oil soap when it isn't used strong enough to hurt the young plants is a fine thing for little gardens, and big ones, too. iii there are many ways of producing species there were a good many rains in may. the weeds grew and grew, and it was hard to keep them down when it was wet and warm, and the plants were still so small. prue and davy had to get down close and pull them out carefully with their fingers, and this left the little green rows so straight and trim, and the earth smelled so nice when the sun came out warm, after a shower, that the children grew happy in the work, and wanted to plant new things almost every day. around the house prue had planted a border of nasturtiums on one side, and a border of marigolds on the other, and they were all coming up and looked as if they would grow into strong, fine plants. davy had planted some hills of castor beans in the garden, because the chief gardener had said that they were good for the three ms--moles, malaria, and mosquitoes. he was also attending very faithfully to a row of strawberries which the chief gardener had told him he might have for his own. the little boy was quite skillful with a hoe, and could take care of his vegetables almost as well as the chief gardener, so the chief gardener thought. "you must not hoe your beans when the dew is on them, davy," he said one morning. "the vines are tender and it causes them to rust or blight, but you may hoe most of the other things, and you may hoe around most of your vegetables as often as you want to. loosening up the soil about young plants makes them grow. it gives the roots a chance to spread, and lets sun and air into the soil. you must be a little more careful with flowers, prue, for they are usually more tender, and it is better to dig with an old knife or a small, weeding rake. you must thin out your plants, too. keep pulling from between, as they grow larger, so that they stand farther and farther apart. where plants grow too thickly they are small, and the flowers and vegetables poor. people sometimes try to raise more on a small piece of ground by having more plants on it, but it does not pay, for the plants do not produce as much as if there were only half as many on the same soil. give everything plenty of room and air, and they will grow and thrive like children who have a good playground and plenty of wholesome food." "papa," said prue, "you were talking the other day of the different kinds of one thing: what makes them?--the different kinds of roses, i mean, and pansies, and--" "and peaches and apples," interrupted davy, "i want to know that, too." the chief gardener did not answer just at first. then he said, "i am afraid that is a pretty big subject for little people. there are a good many ways of producing species of flowers, and some of them are not easy to understand. but i can tell you, perhaps, about the fruits now, and we will try to understand about some of the flowers another time. "to begin with, the upper part and the lower parts of our fruit-trees are different. the root and a little of the lower stalk is from a seed, and upon this has been grafted or spliced with soft bands and wax, a bud from some choice kind of peach or apple or plum, or whatever the tree is to be, and this new bud grows and forms the tree. sometimes a bud of the choice kind is merely inserted beneath the bark of another tree and grows and forms a new limb. by and by, when it bears fruit, the fruit will be of the kind that was on the choice tree, but the seed, though it looks just the same, may be altogether different. if a seed like that is planted, it may make a tree like the root part of the one from which it came, or it may make a tree like the upper part, or it may make something different from either one. no one can tell what that seed will bring. so fruit growers plant a great many such seeds each year, and once in a great while some new peach, or apple, or plum, or cherry, finer than anything ever grown before, comes from one of those seeds. then every little limb of that tree is saved and grafted or spliced to a lot of sturdy little roots that have come from other seeds, and this new kind of fruit goes out all over the world and is grafted, and re-grafted, until there are trees everywhere of the new kind." [illustration: the bark is slit to receive the bud the bud is inserted in the opening the limb is then closely bound budding] "and wouldn't i get those same fine peaches we had last year if i planted the seeds?" asked davy. "you might, davy, but there are a hundred chances to one that you would get a very poor, small peach, which you would not care to eat." davy looked disappointed. "well," he said, "i might as well pull it up, then." "why, did you plant one, davy?" asked the chief gardener. "yes, last summer. i didn't know then, and after i ate my peach i planted the seed over there in the corner, and now it's just coming up, and i was going to keep it for a surprise for you." "that's too bad, davy, but let it grow, anyway. perhaps it will make some new and wonderful kind. even if it doesn't, we can have the limbs grafted when it is larger." "oh, and can you have more than one kind on a tree?" "why, yes, i have seen as many as three or four kinds of apples on one tree." "and peaches, and apples, and plums, and pears, all on one tree, too?" said prue. "why that would be a regular fairy tree!" "we could hardly have that," laughed the chief gardener, "though i have heard of peaches, and nectarines, and plums being all on one tree, though i have never seen it. i don't think such things do very well." they went over to look at davy's little peach-tree, which was fresh and green and tender, and seemed to be growing nicely. "it should have fruit on it in three years," said the chief gardener. davy and prue did not look very happy at this. it seemed such a long time to wait. "it will pass before you know it," the chief gardener smiled. "i shall be as old as nellie taber," said little prue, who had been counting on her fingers, "but nellie will be older, too," she added with a sigh. "so i'm afraid i can't catch up with her." the chief gardener led them over to another part of the garden, where there was a bunch of green leaves, like the leaves of a violet, but when they got down to look, they found that the flowers, instead of being all blue, were speckled and spotted with white. "oh, papa, where did you get those funny violets?" asked prue. "what makes them all speckly?" "i think," said the chief gardener, "that this is one of nature's mixtures. i found it in the crescent lake woods last spring, and brought it home. there may be others like it, but i have never seen them. so you see, nature makes new kinds herself, sometimes. you know, don't you, that the pansies you love so much, prue, are one kind of violet, cultivated until they are large and fine?" "why, no, are they violets? are my pansies violets?" "yes, they are what is called the heartsease violets. they were a very small flower at first, and not so brightly colored. they will become small again if you let them run wild a year or two." prue was looking at the variegated violet in her hand. "i should think there's a story about this," she said, nodding her busy, imaginative little head. "suppose you tell it to us, prue," said the chief gardener. "well, i think it's this way," said prue. "once upon a time there was a little girl named bessie. and she lived way off--way over by crescent lake--with an old witch-woman who was poor. and bessie had to carry milk to sell, every day, because they had a cow, and bessie couldn't drink the milk, because they had to sell it. "and one day when bessie was going with the milk through the woods, she stopped to pick some flowers, because she liked flowers, all kinds, and specially violets. and when she stooped over to pick the violets, a little of her milk spilled out of her pail, and it went on the violets, right on the blue flowers. and when bessie saw them all spattered with the milk she says, 'oh, how funny you look! i wish you'd stay that way all the time.' and there was a fairy heard her say that, and she liked bessie because she was so good, so she made the violets stay just that way with the white spots on them, and bessie went home, and one day when the old witch-woman died the fairy brought a prince on a white horse, and bessie went away with him to be a princess, in a palace covered with gold and silver, and lived happy ever after." the chief gardener looked down at the little girl beside him. "why, what an exciting story! did you make it all just now?" "yes, just now. it just came of itself," said little prue. "and didn't bessie want her violets?" asked davy. "she took some of them along with her in a basket, and planted them around her new palace." "and the rest she left for us," said the chief gardener. "i know now what to call them. we shall call them bessie's violets." june june i then they went down into the strawberry patch june, the month of roses, and strawberries. the beautiful month when spring is just turning to summer, and summer is giving us her first rare gifts. in davy's garden the corn was up, and had grown more in two weeks than the corn planted in the house had grown in four. it was the long sunny days that did this, and the showers that seemed to come almost too often, but perhaps the gardens didn't think so, for they grew, and the weeds grew, too, and kept prue and davy busy pulling and hoeing and cultivating. davy's radishes were big enough to eat just a month from the day they were planted--think of it!--when those planted in the house had taken ever and ever so long. prue's pansies and sweet-pease, and her other three "sweets" were all up, too, and so green and flourishing. but perhaps the thing that made them both happiest, at this season, was the chief gardener's strawberry-patch. either that or big prue's roses--they were not sure which. "when i grow up, i am going to have acres and acres of strawberries," said davy. "and miles and miles of roses," said prue. "and herds and herds of little jersey cows that only give the richest cream," said the chief gardener. "and we'll put wreaths of roses about the cows' necks," said big prue, "and drive them home at evening, and milk the rich creamy milk and put it on the fresh strawberry shortcake, just out of the oven--" [illustration: the chief gardener's strawberries (members of the rose family)] "and eat and eat forever," interrupted davy. "and be happy ever after," finished little prue. after that nobody said anything for quite a long time--thinking how fine all that would be, when it came. then they went down into the strawberry-patch where the big red berries were ripening on the broad, green leaves. and little prue and her mamma went into the house and came out with two bowls--one quite large bowl--white, with blue vines and flowers on it, and one quite small bowl--white, with blue kittens on it, chasing one another around and around on the outside. and the chief gardener and big prue picked the ripe red berries and put them in the big bowl. and davy and little prue picked the ripe red berries and put them into the little bowl. and sometimes the chief gardener would eat a berry--a real, real ripe one--just to see if they were good, he said. and sometimes big prue would eat a berry--a real, real little one--just to see if little berries would do for a shortcake, she said. and sometimes little prue would eat a berry, and sometimes davy would eat a berry--big, big berries--just because they looked so good, and tasted so good, that a little boy and a little girl could not help eating them, even if it took some of the berries out of the shortcake they were going to have for tea. but they didn't eat all of the berries they picked. oh, no. they put some of the berries into the little white bowl with the blue kittens chasing one another around and around on the outside. and the chief gardener and big prue put most of their berries into the big bowl with the blue flowers and vines on it. and by and by both of the bowls were full--full clear to the top and heaping--so that no more berries, not even the very little ones, would lay on. and then big prue took the big bowl, and little prue the little bowl, and they went up the little garden step into the house, carrying the bowls very carefully, so as not to spill any of the red berries that were heaped up so high that no more, not even very little ones, would lay on. and the chief gardener and davy followed along behind, talking of the fine june evening, and saying how long the days were now and how far to the north the sun was setting. then they looked around at the garden, and wondered if they would have green corn by the middle of july, and when they looked under the bean vines they found that some pods were quite large, and the chief gardener said that by sunday they could have beans, and pease, with lettuce and several other green things--a regular garden dinner. and then little prue came out and called them to come--right off. and they saw that she was dressed in a fresh white dress, and that her hair was tied with a bright blue ribbon, and her face was as rosy as a strawberry. "we have got the deliciousest shortcake that ever was!" she called, as they came closer, "and i helped, and rolled the dough and picked over some of the berries!" "you didn't put all the berries in," said the chief gardener. "oh, i did--i did, papa--all but two." [illustration: big, big berries that looked so good] "and i will have those," said the chief gardener, and he lifted the little girl in his arms and gave her a big, big kiss, on each rosy cheek. "i think june is the best month that ever was!" said davy a little later, as he finished his second large piece. "it always seems the queen month to me," said big prue, "perhaps because it is the month of the rose--the queen of the flowers." "is the rose really the queen of the flowers?" asked little prue. "i have always heard so." "how did she get to be queen? did she just happen to be queen, or did the other flowers choose her?" little prue's mamma looked thoughtfully out the garden window, where a great climbing rambler was a mass of red blossoms. "do you think any other flower could be queen over that?" she asked. "why, no, but--but don't folks have to choose queens, or something?" "they do presidents," said davy. "i think you'll have to tell us about it," laughed the chief gardener. "it's your turn for a story, anyway." so then big prue took them all out on the wide veranda, where they could watch the sunset, that came very late now, and there she told them ii how the rose became queen "once upon a time there was a very great garden that lay between two ranges of blue, blue hills. and the sky above was blue, as blue as the hills, so that you could hardly tell where the sky ended and the hills began, and underneath was the great, beautiful garden which covered all the lands between. "and in this rare garden there were all the choicest flowers and fruit that the world knew, and when the flowers were all in bloom, under that blue, blue sky--in all the wonderful colors of gold and crimson, and royal purple, and with all the banks of white daisies, and all the sweet orchards of apple-bloom, there was nothing like it in the whole world, and the sweet perfume went out so far that sailors on the ships coming in from sea, a hundred miles away, could smell the sweet odors, and would say, 'the wind blows from the garden of the princess beautiful.' for i must tell you that the garden was owned by a great princess, and she was called beautiful by all who knew of her, and every traveler to that distant country made his way to her white marble palace to seek permission to look upon the most wonderful garden in all the world. "and many who came there were of high rank, like herself, and some of them tried to win her love, for the princess was like her name and as beautiful as the rarest flower in all that marvelous garden. but to princes and even kings she would not listen, for her heart and pride were only in her flowers, and she wished to remain with them forever and be happy in their beauty. she was only sad when she saw that some of those who came went away with heavy hearts because she would not leave her palace for theirs. "now once there came to the palace of the princess beautiful a great queen. she had traveled far to see the splendid garden, and when she came, the princess led her with all her court among the flowers. and all that sunlit day, under the blue, blue sky, the great queen and her court lingered in the garden--up and down the paths of white shells, where hyacinths and lilies and daffodils and azaleas grew on every side--and rested in the shade of the blossoming orchard trees. and when it was evening, and they had gone, and the flowers were left alone, they whispered and murmured together, for never before had they seen a queen and her court. "and by and by as the days passed, the flowers decided that they, too, must have a queen--some rare flower, fine and stately, whom they would honor, even as they had seen their beautiful princess honor her royal guest. and night after night they talked of these things, but never could decide which of their number should be chosen for the high place. "and then one day a great sadness came upon the fair garden between the hills. a young traveler from an unknown country had come to the white palace, and one sunny afternoon the princess beautiful had led him among the beds of primroses and lilies and daffodils. and when the sun was going down and she turned and looked into his face, and saw how fair he was, and how the sun made his hair like gold, how it shimmered on his beautiful garments of velvet and fine lace, she felt for the first time a great love arise within her heart. then, all at once, she forgot her garden, her palace and her pride--forgot everything in all the world except the fair youth who stood there with her in the sunset--and she told him her great new love. "and as she spoke, softly and tenderly, the words she had never spoken to any one before, the breeze died, and the sun slipped down behind the far-off hills. and then, as the light faded, it seemed to the princess beautiful that the fair youth before her was fading, too. his face grew dim and misty--his hair became a blur of gold--his rare garments melted back into the beds of bloom. and behold, instead of the fair youth there stood before her in the twilight only a wonderful golden lily with a crimson heart. "then the princess beautiful knew that because she had cared only for her garden, and had sent from her those who had offered a great love like her own, that this wonderful lily had come to her as a youth with a face of radiant beauty, and with hair of gold, to awaken a human love in her heart. and each day she mourned there by the splendid lily, and called upon it to return to her as the fair youth she had loved; and at last when its flowers faded and the stem drooped, the white palace of the princess beautiful was empty, for the princess lay dead beside the withered lily in the rare garden between the hills. "and there they made her grave, and above it they built a trellis where a white climbing rose might grow. but when the rose bloomed, instead of being white, it was a wonderful crimson, such as no one had ever seen before. and when the other flowers saw those beautiful crimson blossoms, they no longer mourned, for they said, 'this is our princess beautiful who has returned to be our queen.' "and so it was the red rose became the queen of flowers, and a symbol of great human love. the poet burns sings, 'my love is like a red, red rose that's newly blown in june,' and it was always in june that the great crimson rose bloomed on the grave in the garden of the princess beautiful." "and did the lily ever bloom again?" asked little prue. "i'm sure it must have done so. we always speak of roses and lilies as belonging together, and there is a great golden lily called the superbus, which i think might have been the beautiful youth that came to the white palace." "does the story mean that we shouldn't care too much for our gardens?" asked davy. "more than for folks, i mean?" "do you know, davy," said the chief gardener, "i was just wondering about that, too." iii the sun is the greatest of all chemists it was about a week later, that one afternoon little prue and davy and the chief gardener were helping big prue with her roses, and admiring all the different kinds. little prue had been thinking a good deal about roses since the story of the princess beautiful, and wondering just which of the climbing red ones had grown about her grave. then she began to wonder about all the kinds, and how they came. she spoke about this now, as her mamma pointed out one which she said was a new rose--just offered for sale that year. "where did it come from?" asked the little girl, "where do new roses come from?" "from seed," answered the chief gardener, "like the new peaches and apples i told you of. roses belong to the same family, you know, and they are grafted much in the same way. then the seeds are planted, and from these, fine new kinds are likely to come. rose-growers are always trying hard to make new kinds by mixing the pollen. the pollen, you remember, is the yellow powder on the little tips of the stamens. these tips, as i believe i told you, are called anthers, and the slender part of the stamen is the filament. it is the pollen falling from the anthers upon the single green stem or pistil in the center of the flower that produces the seed. the pistil is divided in parts, too. the little top piece is called the stigma, and the slender green stem is called the style. the pollen falls on the stigma and is drawn down through the style to give life to the seed-pod below." [illustration: the rose stamens and pistil which produce the seed] the chief gardener picked the bloom of a single bramble rose and pulled it apart to show the children all these things. "now," he went on, "gardeners often take a rose of one kind and color and shake it gently over a rose of another kind and color, so that the pollen will fall from the anthers of one upon the stigma of the other. in this way the seeds are mixed and it may happen that wonderful new roses come from those seeds. sometimes, instead of shaking the rose, the gardener carefully takes up the pollen on a tiny soft brush and lays it gently on the stigma of the other rose, all of which has to be done as soon as the bloom is open. of course, such roses are kept to themselves, and labeled, and the seeds are carefully labeled also." davy and prue were both interested. "oh, can i make some new kinds of roses," asked little prue, greatly excited. "can i, mamma?" "you may try, but i am afraid you will not be very successful where all the roses are out here in the open air. still, it will do no harm to see what will happen, and you might get something very wonderful." "i am already trying for a new kind of peach," said davy. "and if you get a good one we will call it the 'early david,'" laughed the chief gardener. "and what will you call my rose?" "why, 'the princess prue,' of course." "do seeds from the same bush make the different roses?" asked davy. "yes, and from the same pod." "but are the seeds just alike?" "they are so far as anybody can see, but when they come to grow and bloom, one may be a white rose, another pink, and another red. some may be dwarfs in size, and others giants. all may have the same sun, the same water, the same air, and the same soil. it is only the tiny little difference which we cannot see that makes the great difference in the plant, by and by." davy was thinking very hard. soon he said: "and where do sweet and sour and all the pepper and mustard and horseradish tastes come from? the air and the water don't taste. i never tasted much dirt, but i don't believe any of it would bite like a red pepper." [illustration: "gardeners often take a rose of one kind and shake it gently over a rose of another kind"] the chief gardener laughed. "no, davy, i don't believe it would," he said. "and i think the sun is the only one who could answer your question. it is a chemistry which no one of this world has been able to explain. chemistry is a magic which you will understand by and by, and you will know then that the sun is the greatest of all chemists. suppose we go down into your gardens and see what he is doing there." [illustration: "sometimes the gardener takes up the pollen on a soft brush and lays it gently on the stigma of another rose"] they all went down the little steps that led to the chief gardener's enclosure, where prue and davy had their gardens, side by side with his. there just as they entered was a great mass of morning-glory vines that every morning were covered with a splendor of purple, and pink, and white, and blue, and just beyond these was a mass of dianthus pinks of every hue and shade. bachelor-buttons, petunias, and verbenas were all there, too, besides prue's sweet-pease by the fence, and her alyssum and mignonette. then came davy's things, all fresh and growing, and beyond these the chief gardener had ever so many things, from beets to beans, from parsley to parsnips, from carrots to corn. in one small corner by the strawberry-bed there grew a little bed of pepper plants, and near-by a row of tomatoes. the chief gardener stopped in the midst of all these things. "here is the sun's chemistry," he said. "we put some tiny bits of life in the ground. the same earth holds them, the same rain wets them, the same air is above them. then the sun shines, and with that earth and water and air and that tiny seed, it makes something different of its own. of one it makes a flower, of another a fruit, and of another a vegetable. of the flowers it makes many kinds and colors--of the fruits and vegetables it makes many shapes and flavors. the sweet red strawberry and the fiery red pepper grow side by side. it makes food of the roots of the beet, and the parsnip, and carrot, and of the seed of the bean, and of the corn. it fills the mustard, and the horseradish, and the pepper, with a flavor so that we may season our meats and soups, and it gives to thyme, and marjoram, and fennel, a sweet savor that is like an odor of by-gone days. into the flowers it pours the color and perfume that make them delicious and beautiful, and into the fruit and vegetables the starch and phosphates that make them pleasant to the taste and nourishing to our bodies. where do all these things come from? we do not see the colors, or smell the perfumes, or taste the sweet and the sour and the bitter in the air and water, and we could not see, or smell, or taste, them in the earth. yet they must be there, and only the sun knows just how and where to find them, and how to make the best use of them for the world's good, and comfort, and happiness. without the sun the earth would be bare and cold, and there would be no life--at least, not such life as we know. every breath we draw, every bite we eat, every step we take, every article of clothing we wear, comes to us through the sun." "papa, we _can_ see the sun's colors," said davy. "when it shines through the cut-glass berry-dish it makes all its colors on the table-cloth." "so it does, davy, i didn't remember that. a glass prism shows us all the colors in the sunlight, and these are the colors that it puts into the flowers and fruit--just how, i am afraid we shall never know, though like all great wonders, i suppose, it is really a very simple thing. when plants grow without sunlight, they grow without color, and it is the same with little boys and girls. open air, sunlight, fresh water, and good food--these are what make plants and people strong and happy and beautiful." and so june passed and half the year was gone. prue and davy were brown from working and playing out of doors, and were growing so fast that davy said it was hard for his corn to keep up with him. they took great pride in the flowers and vegetables that came to the table from their gardens and always wanted them in separate dishes from those that came from the larger garden. when any of their friends came to dine with them, it was prue's flowers that were to be worn and davy's vegetables that were first to be served. by the end of june some of the early things were gone, and had been replanted. other things had grown so big that they were beginning to crowd in their rows and beds, so that by the first of july, the little gardens that grew side by side, and could be seen like a picture through the windows where the winter gardens had been, reminding little prue of alice's garden in wonderland, had become almost a wonderland jungle. july july i a plant is divided into three principal parts "class in botany will please rise." davy and prue looked up quickly from their little corner by the peach-tree. it was a warm day, and they were resting in what they called their "house," because it was a shut-in nook behind the corn, and with tall sunflowers on the other side. just now when the chief gardener came upon them they were pulling some flowers to pieces and talking about them very earnestly. "class in botany please rise," he said again, taking a seat himself on a bench close by. "but i can't--it's too warm," said little prue, "and besides i've got my lap full of flowers." "can't the class in botany sit by the teacher?" asked davy. the teacher moved over. prue gathered her dress into an apron, and presently the children were perched one on each side of the chief gardener, who fanned himself with his straw hat, for it was a real july day. "we've been seeing how many of the parts of a plant we knew," said davy. "we know all the parts, i guess, but of some plants we can't tell which are which." "suppose you name the parts for me," said the chief gardener. "oh, let me! let me!" began prue. "i asked first!" davy looked a little disappointed, but waited. "very well, suppose you try, prue." the little maid was excited. "why--why, there's the c'roller and the calyx and the pistil and the panthers, and--" the chief gardener laughed in spite of himself, and davy looked rather shocked. "she always calls the anthers 'panthers,'" he said, sorrowfully, "and she never will say 'corolla' right." "and those are not the parts of a plant either," added the chief gardener, "but the parts of a flower. a plant is divided into three principal parts. now, davy, it's your turn. see if you can tell me what they are." "well," began davy, "the root is one." "the root is one, davy; quite right. now for the others." "the leaves are another." "the leaves, yes, the leaves are another." "and the flower makes three, doesn't it? but then there's the stalk, too. that makes four. there must be four parts." "there are a great many parts," nodded the chief gardener, "but there are only three principal parts--the root, the stem, and the leaf. to a botanist--one who studies plants and how they grow--the flower is only a branch of the stem, and its parts are leaves." "i suppose that is why rose-petals are called leaves," said little prue. "i think it is." "but--but don't you think a flower _ought_ to be a principal part?" asked davy. "well, it is in a way. it is a particular kind of a principal part, made for a special purpose. but after all, it is really a branch, for it comes from a bud, just as other branches do, and it comes just where any branch would come. many times you cannot tell whether a bud is going to make a flower or just leaves until it opens. and there are a few queer flowers in the world that can hardly be told from leaves even after they do open." ii there are exogens and endogens "now let us tell the parts of a flower. that was what we were doing when you came up," said davy. "and let me tell again," said little prue. "i know i can get them right, this time." so little prue told again, and got it almost right, though she did call anthers "panthers" again, just as the first time. "now, davy, it's your turn," said the chief gardener. davy picked up a little pink flower which he had found in the grass. it was oxalis, or sorrel, and sometimes the children nibbled the sour leaves, calling it sour-grass. of course, you must not forget that davy was older than prue, and perhaps a little more thoughtful. "this," he began, picking off the little green flower-casing, "is the calyx, and each little piece is called a sepal. this flower has five sepals in its calyx, and five petals in its corolla. these are the petals," and he pulled out the little pink flower-leaves, and laid them by the green sepals. then he held it up for the chief gardener and little prue to see. "look at the stamens," he said. "they all grow together at the bottom." "that's because your sorrel is a monadelphian," said the chief gardener. davy looked puzzled. [illustration: the pistil and stamens of the lily] "i know what a philadelphian is," said prue. davy laughed. "the words are very much alike," smiled the chief gardener. "they both mean brotherhood, and come from some old greek words. philadelphia means brotherly love, and monadelphia means brotherly union. you see those stamens are all brothers and are joined together as one. all plants with such stamens are called monadelphians." "a stamen has three parts," davy went on, "its filament, its anther, and its pollen. the filament is the stem, the anther is its cap, and the pollen is the dust which falls on the pistil and helps to make the seed." [illustration: a pistil and calyx and a complete flower] very carefully davy took away the ring of stamens, and left only the little yellowish-green center of the sorrel flower. "this is where we get the seed," he said, as gravely as an old college professor lecturing to a class. "this is the pistil, and it has three parts, too: the pod, the style, and the stigma. the stigma is the little piece at the top which catches the pollen from the anthers. the style is the stem, and the pod is the big part below which holds the seeds." he held up the little stripped flower again. "this pistil has five styles and five stigmas," he went on. "a good many flowers have more than one. it has ten stamens, too--two stamens for each style, and five petals and five sepals. you can divide it by five all the way through." "even to the seed-pod," added the chief gardener. "it has five divisions," and he cut the tiny green pulp and showed them with his magnifying-glass. "the little sorrel flower is one of the most perfect of flowers--one of the most perfect in a great class of flowers called ex-o-gens. there is one other class called end-o-gens. those words are from the greek, too. exogen means outward-growing. endogen means inward-growing. the stem of an exogen grows by layers, as most trees grow." "oh, yes," said prue, "i know. we counted the rings on that big oak that was cut down over by the lake last year. it had one ring for each year." [illustration: a group of endogens--the lily, hyacinth, and daffodil] "that's right, prue, and the stem of the endogen grows inside a shell, and is often just a soft pith, like the inside of a cornstalk. these are the two great classes of all flowering plants and trees. you can always tell the difference by their stems; nearly always from their leaves; always from their seeds, if you have a strong magnifying-glass, for the little germ of the exogen has two leaves like the morning-glory, and the germ of the endogen has but one like the lily, or corn. but the easiest way for you to tell is by the flowers. an exogen flower nearly always goes by fives, like the little sorrel bloom, sometimes by fours, but hardly ever by threes. the endogen flower is nearly always divided in threes, like the lily, which has six petals. it very seldom has four parts, and never five. so, you see, we know right away that the sorrel and the rose and buttercup are exogens, and that the lily and the hyacinth and the daffodil are endogens. of course, there are many flowers not so easy to place as these, and i am afraid i am giving you too hard a lesson for one time, especially for such a hot day." "but i'm not hot now," said davy. "there's a fine breeze, and i like to sit here and talk." so they talked on about the different kinds and classes of plants, and by and by when big prue found them, little prue had much to tell her about all the new things she had learned. and she was careful not to pronounce anything wrong, and to explain that an exogen was a plant that grew on the outside, and that an endogen was another plant that grew on the inside, and big prue said that davy must be an exogen, because he was getting so fat, and that little prue must be an endogen, because she was growing so smart. then everything had to be told over, and then it was tea-time, with a dainty table all spread under the arbor, and delicious raspberries, and very, very delicious ice-cream. iii i don't see what weeds are for, anyway and the very next day was fourth of july, with all the fire-crackers and torpedoes and sky-rockets that always come on that day. but there was something else. for when big prue and the chief gardener come to the breakfast-table, they found that davy and little prue had arranged what prue called a "susprise." the room was all red, white, and blue--not with flags or bunting, but with flowers. there were bowls of red and white and blue morning-glories on the sideboard, and in the center of the table there was a very large bowl of red, white, and blue sweet-pease, so nicely arranged that each color was separate, and the whole looked like a cake of flowers cut in three equal parts. and there were other red and white and blue flowers, too, but the sweet-pea bowl in the center was the finest of all. there was not much gardening that day, of course, for there were parades to see and music to hear, and fireworks in the evening. the chief gardener had brought home the fireworks, and when all the rockets had been fired and the roman candles, he brought out something larger than the rest, and when it was lighted, it all at once turned into a great flower-pot and sent out hundreds of the most beautiful fiery flowers, such as no garden would grow, no matter how hot it was. "that is to pay for the sus-prise you gave us this morning," said the chief gardener, when little prue was through dancing and squealing and jumping up and down with delight. "they grew in that hot sun yesterday." but little prue didn't believe it, though she did ask if some of the stars which came out of the rockets didn't stay in the sky with the other stars. she was quite certain she had never seen so many in the sky before. july was a great month in the little gardens. almost everything bloomed and bore. the pinks, the pansies, the alyssum, the sweet-williams and the morning-glories--they grew and then bloomed and crowded each other in their beds until some of them had to be moved into new places, while as for davy's things, his corn grew taller and taller, until it shaded his tomato vines, and he was afraid they would not do well for want of sun. but the sun was up so high, and was so hot in july, that perhaps they got enough anyway, for they grew so big they had to be tied up, and the tomatoes on them were so large that davy thought one was almost enough for a whole family. as for his beans--well, davy will plant fewer beans next year. they began to bear just a little at first, and then, all at once, there were beans enough on his few hills, not only for himself and prue, but for the rest of the family, and then for the neighbors, too. davy picked nearly all one hot afternoon to keep up with his bean crop, and then nearly trotted his fat legs off carrying little baskets to the different people that he knew, explaining to each that these were really from his own garden--his own beans that he had planted and tended himself. then he and prue carried some vegetables and flowers to a little hospital not far away, where there were some sick children, and some who were just getting well. and it was a happy, happy time for the little boy and girl when they took the things they had planted and cared for to the other little boys and girls who seemed so glad to have them come. but as the weather grew warmer and summer showers came the weeds got worse and worse. sometimes when davy and prue had tried very hard to get them all out and found that new ones had come almost over night, while some of the old ones they had cut down had taken root again, they were almost discouraged. "i don't see what weeds are for anyway," davy said one warm morning, almost crying, and little prue, whose face was very red and hot, flung herself down in the shady peach-tree house, too tired to talk. "now, there's that old pursley, i pull and pull and cut, and unless i carry every bit of it away, it all takes root again and grows right along as if i hadn't touched it." "yes," said the chief gardener, "it is a nuisance. i suppose its pretty sister is very much ashamed of it." "its sister! why, who is its sister?" asked davy, while little prue sat up and forgot she was tired. "miss portulaca purslane, of course, sometimes called rose-moss, because her flower is something like a wild rose and her stem and leaves a little like overgrown moss." "oh, is my sweet rose-moss just old pursley weed?" whimpered little prue, who was very proud of a little bunch of portulaca that was just in full bloom. she had chosen the pretty flower from a catalogue, and it had been one of her best growers. "why, no, prue, your rose-moss is not a weed at all, but she belongs to the purslane family, and like a good many other families it has a member who has run wild and become a disgrace to its relatives and a trouble to everybody. there is another wild purslane, but it is not a weed. it is just a little wild-wood cousin of portulaca. her name is claytonia, and she lives in pleasant places in the woods, and hides under the leaves in winter-time. most people call her spring-beauty." "oh, spring-beauty! oh, i know! just bushels of them--davy and i found over by the lake last spring! little white flowers with pink lines in them, and smell--just a little tiny smell--so--so springy and wild. oh, i just love spring-beauties! but i'm sorry my nice rose-moss is pursley. is it, papa? is it really a sister to that ugly weed?" "suppose you bring a branch of each over to the bench here--one with flowers on it." prue brought a sprig of her precious rose-moss, and davy a large piece of the pursley from the pile he had just cut down. the chief gardener took them and put them together. "you see, they are a good deal alike," he said, "though the leaves are different--miss portulaca's being the finer." then he took one of the tiny pursley flowers and put it under the magnifying-glass, and let the children look. yes, it was almost exactly like the beautiful flower of the rose-moss, only smaller. each flower had two green sepals and five colored petals, also five stamens, so they knew it was an exogen, though it would have been harder to tell this from the thick, pulpy leaves and stem. the little seed-pod of each had a tiny cap which lifted off when the seeds were ripe, leaving a perfect cup, heaping full. "you see, children," said the chief gardener, "weeds do not care to be either useful or ornamental. so they become rank and common, and lose their beautiful flowers. but somehow they never have any less seed. they want to grow just as thickly as they can, and however small their flowers are, the seed-pods are always full to the brim." "well," said prue, "i'm sure there can't be any of my flowers relation to chickweed. i never can get that out of my beds." the chief gardener thought a minute. "why, yes, prue," he said, "that's cousin stella; i suppose she came to see the beautiful dian and to make her all the trouble she can." "oh, papa! what do you mean by stella and dian?" "well, stellaria is chickweed, and she's a cousin to dianthus, your lovely pinks. i suppose you might call them stella and dian, for short. they are not very nearly related, but they do belong to the same family, and perhaps they were once more alike. i don't suppose beautiful dian would own stella, but stella (or perhaps her weed friends call her chick), is a great nuisance and makes dian and _her_ friends all the trouble she can." "papa," said davy, who had been silent all this time, "are there really any plant families that don't have wild members who behave badly and become just weeds?" "i don't remember any real weeds in the lily family, davy, though almost any plant will become a weed if allowed to run wild and live in fence corners, like a tramp. they become prodigals then, like the man's son in the bible. and sometimes they come back to the garden, as the prodigal son did, to become well-behaved and useful flowers again. of course, there are many others that have always lived wild in the woods and fields, and are not called weeds, because they do not spread and destroy other plants. these are our wild flowers, and the world would be poor, indeed, without them. sometimes we bring them into the garden, and make them grow larger and call them by a new name. and sometimes, i am sorry to say, a sweet wild flower will suddenly spread and overrun the fields and become almost a weed. i am afraid our beautiful daisies are becoming a weed to a good many farmers. those fields that are like banks of snow, and so beautiful to us, must worry the man who owns them and cannot get rid of the millions of 'rare marguerites!'" little prue sighed. "oh, dear," she said, "it's just too bad that there isn't some flower, or somebody, or something that can be just every bit good, all the time, to everybody." the chief gardener smiled. "we can only do our very best," he said. august august i there are just two kinds of leaves a good many things were ripe in august, and some of the things were through blooming. prue did not plant a great deal. it was too hot to dig long in the sun, and then there did not seem to be much in the way of flowers that could be planted so late. davy planted a few turnips and some late beans and salad, because there was time for these, but even davy found it pleasanter to sit in the shade, where there was a breeze, and pull plants to pieces and talk about exogens and endogens and the different parts of things, than to hoe and dig and rake on an august day. the chief gardener heard quite loud voices under the peach-trees, one warm afternoon. prue and davy were not really quarreling, but they seemed to be a good deal in earnest about something. the chief gardener went over there. "what is all the excitement?" he asked. davy held up and waved a large stem of very coarse grass. "it's an endogen," he said, very decidedly, "isn't it, papa?" "it isn't at all, is it, papa?" eagerly asked little prue. the chief gardener took the plumey stem and sat down. "why do you think it is an endogen, davy?" he asked. "because it's a grass, and belongs to the grass family. and corn belongs to the grass family, too, and corn is an endogen, for it has a big pith instead of rings. so if corn is an endogen, grass is, too." the chief gardener smiled. "well, that's pretty good, davy, and is true enough, but it isn't just the best way to reason. now, prue, why did you think it was an exogen?" "because the stem is hollow, and makes a ring when you cut off a little slice of it, and because the bloom part is in five pieces." "sharp eyes," nodded the chief gardener, "but davy is right. there is not always a pith in the endogens. pipe-stems and fish-poles are hollow, but the cane we make them of is an endogen, too. and as for the bloom part of this grass, it is a sort of a tassel, like that of the corn. the real blooms are very tiny--too small for us to examine. and then, perhaps, some insect or bird has nipped some of it away. i think i must tell you a little more about leaves, so davy won't have to know that grass is an endogen because corn is, and so you won't be mistaken. suppose, davy, you try to tell me how many kinds of leaves there are." davy looked quite helpless. "it would take a hundred years," he said. "why, no," said prue. "there are just two kinds. exogens and endogens." davy laughed, and the chief gardener laughed with him. "but you are right, prue, in one way," he said. "there are just two kinds of leaves--simple and compound. a simple leaf is a leaf of just one blade, like a grass leaf, or the leaf of a morning-glory. a compound leaf is a leaf made up of several blades, like a bean leaf, which you know is divided into three parts. of course, there are hundreds of shapes and thousands of species of leaves, but there are just two great kinds, simple and compound. suppose, davy, you look about and bring me three compound leaves, and you, prue, try to find three simple leaves, and let's see what they are." the children jumped up quickly, and wandered out into the sunny garden, looking as they went. the chief gardener heard them chatting, as they looked this way and that. presently they returned with what they had found. little prue climbed up in his lap. "look at mine first!" she said, holding them out, and fanning herself with her little hat. davy sat down by them, and looked his collection over to be sure they were right. "well, prue, let's see what you have," began the chief gardener. "one peach leaf--that's simple enough. then here's a lily leaf--that's simple, too. but what's this? it looks as if it came from a virginia creeper. but where's the rest of it? that's only part of a leaf." "i told prue that," said davy, "and i brought a whole one for one of my compound leaves." davy held up what he had brought. the chief gardener took the stem of the virginia creeper. branching from it were five little stems with a small leaf on each. prue had taken one of these to be a complete leaf, when it was really only a part of one compound leaf divided into five parts. "you see, prue, there is only one stem that joins the main stalk," explained the chief gardener. "whatever branches out from that stem is a part of that leaf. what else have you brought, davy?" davy held up a blackberry leaf, and the leaf of a tomato. "those are both right," said the chief gardener. "the blackberry has three parts like the bean, and the tomato has a good many parts. there are some leaves that are compounded as many as four times--each little stem being compounded over and over until there are hundreds of little parts, and yet all are connected with the main leaf-stem which joins the stalk or branch, making really only one leaf. of course, it is not always easy to tell about leaves, any more than about flowers. sometimes shapes are so peculiar that it is almost impossible to tell just what they are. pine-needles are leaves, but it is hard to tell whether they are simple or compound, and it would be hard to tell whether the pine was an exogen or an endogen if we had only the needles to go by." "but you haven't told us how to tell that by the leaves at all," said davy. "that is what we started to find out." [illustration: some simple leaves] "that's so, davy. it's hard to keep to the subject in botany. there are so many things, and all so interesting." the chief gardener took up the lily leaf and that of the blackberry, and held them up to the light. "do you see the difference?" he asked. "why, yes," said prue, "the blackberry is all criss-crossy, and the lily leaf runs straight and smooth." "those are the veins," said davy; "i heard mamma say so." [illustration: pine-needles are leaves] "yes, they are the veins," nodded the chief gardener, "and when they form a network, or run criss-crossy, as prue says, it means that the plant is an exogen. when they run side by side smoothly, as they do in corn and grass, it means that the plant is an endogen. there are a few of both kinds which do not quite follow this rule, like the pine-tree, which is an exogen, but has its little straight-grained needles, or like smilax, which has netted leaves, but is an endogen." ii sometimes i think plants can see and hear it was about a week after this that davy and prue came to the chief gardener with their hands filled with leaves. "we want you to tell us about them," they said. "there is a lot of kinds and shapes, and some we can't tell whether they are simple or compound, or anything." the chief gardener looked over their collection. "well," he said, "i am afraid you are getting ahead too fast. it would take a real sure-enough botanist to tell all about these leaves." davy picked up a daisy leaf. "is that simple or compound?" he asked. "it's mostly ribs," laughed the chief gardener. "there really isn't much leaf about a daisy leaf, but what there is of it is simple, only it is so cut and sprangly that it might almost be called a compound leaf." they looked at many others in the collection, and the chief gardener explained as far as he could. "you will learn all the names of the different shapes some day," he said, "but it is too much for little folks. i suppose, though, you might remember the parts of a leaf. they are the blade, the stem, and the stipules." "this is the blade, and this is the stem," said davy, "but what are stipules?" the chief gardener picked up a red clover leaf, and pointed to a little thin pale-green husk where the stem joined the main stalk. "those are stipules," he said. "in the clover they grow together, as one. the stipules are a part of the outside of the leaf-bud. when the bud opens, and the leaf goes out into the world, the stipules stay behind. sometimes they are like little leaves, and take up air for the plant, just as the leaves do. sometimes they almost take the place of leaves, and are quite large. sometimes they are very tiny, and some plants have no stipules at all." [illustration: "there is a lot of kinds and shapes"] "but leaves have veins, too," said davy. "those are parts of the blade. the blade has ribs--they make a framework which holds it together; also veins--the fine threads which help to carry the sap. you see, plants are a good deal like ourselves, and live much in the same way. some leaves have only one strong rib through the center--a sort of a backbone. some have as many as six or seven." they talked about these things, and looked at the different leaves and stems. then they spoke of the stalks of different plants, and the chief gardener explained how the tender stalk of the lowliest plant, that of the tall twining vine, and the trunk of the giant oak, were all one one and the same, only different in kind. each came at some time from a tiny seed. each put forth buds and leaves and branches. each was made to withstand the storm--the oak by its strength, the vine by its fast hold on the wall or lattice, the tender plant through its lowliness. "oh," said davy suddenly, "that makes me think of something. our virginia creeper on the front lattice has three ways to climb." "what are they, davy?" "why, it twists, for one way." "twines, you mean." "yes, twines, and then it has little curlers, like a grape-vine." "tendrils, they are called, davy." "and little clingers, like an ivy." "feet, you should say. yes, i have noticed that. a lattice is not very well suited to a virginia creeper, and ours has to try every way known to vines, to hold on. i have never known all three ways on one vine before. but vines are very curious things. sometimes i think they can see and hear. i know they can feel, for a honeysuckle shoot will grow perfectly straight until it touches something that can be climbed. then it will begin to twist so fast you can almost see it." "but why do you think they can see and hear?" asked little prue. "i don't know that i do really think so, but i have tried every way i can think of to keep those morning-glories of yours from running up my little pear-tree. i have pushed them away, and tied them away, and i have even cut some of them away. but if i turn my back for a day, or even a half a day, there is one of them starting up the stalk, or, at least, reaching out for it as hard as ever it can." little prue laughed, and ran over to see. yes, there it was--a fuzzy green shoot half-way up the little pear-tree, and three more reaching out in the same direction. "a vine will grow in the direction of a tree or shrub, if it is half way across the garden from it. whether it hears or sees, or, perhaps, smells it, i do not know. some vines will turn out of their way for a drink." "for a drink! oh, papa!" "yes, certain melon vines. in dry weather they will turn to find a pan of water set several feet away. i suppose they can sense the moisture from it." the children talked the rest of the afternoon about these curious things. they found where a scarlet runner had traveled several feet through the grass to reach a peach-tree, and had climbed far up into its branches. then davy happened to remember the story about the vines which the chief gardener had told them during the winter, and told it all over to little prue--how the honeysuckle had laughed at the scarlet runner and the morning-glory, and had been punished by being made to twine to the left, away from the sun, instead of to the right, toward it, like the morning-glory and the bean. so the happy summer day passed, and in the cool of the evening big prue came out to watch the sun go down, and in the pleasant arbor they all had tea together. iii there are plants which do not bloom but during the last two weeks of august the chief gardener and big prue and little prue and davy all went to the seashore, which was not far away. they lived in a pretty cottage near the beach, and there were meadows behind that stretched away to the blue hills. davy and prue loved the sea, with all its curious shells and star-fishes and other wonderful creatures. they loved the white sand, where they found these things, and where the great waves billowed and broke over them when they bathed on hot afternoons. they loved the meadows, too, for here there were birds building in the grass, and flowers unlike any in their gardens, and little streams of clear water that went singing to the sea. it was when they came from the meadow one afternoon, that they hurried to the chief gardener with the little basket which they always carried. "we have found some things," said davy, "and want you to look at them." the chief gardener took the basket. on top were some mushrooms--two kinds. one had whity-brown tops, and was pink or brown or almost black underneath, while the other had yellow tops with white spots on them, and was very pale underneath. the chief gardener looked sharply at the children when he saw these yellow mushrooms. "go and wash your hands, quickly," he said, "and i hope neither of you have put your hands to your mouth since you touched these." "i haven't," said davy, "and i picked the yellow ones." "they are deadly poison," said the chief gardener, "they are called the amanita, and even to touch the tongue with your fingers after handling them might make you very ill. the others are meadow mushrooms and harmless. but even they could not be eaten after being in the basket with the amanitas." the children ran to wash their hands, and were presently back to ask questions. meantime the chief gardener had found a lot of beautiful moss and ferns in the bottom of the basket, and some lichens, which the children had gathered from a rocky cliff not far away. "papa, _aren't_ mushrooms toad-stools, and _don't_ they build them to sit on, in pleasant weather, and to get under, when it rains?" this was little prue, and she was quite excited. "i think they are some kind of plants," said davy, "but i don't see where the flowers are, or how they make seeds." "how about the ferns?" asked the chief gardener. "did you find any flowers on the ferns?" "no, but we found seeds." davy turned one of the fern leaves over, and, sure enough, there were a lot of little brown seeds under the ends of some of the leaflets. then the chief gardener turned over one of the meadow mushrooms, and divided the little layers beneath with the tip of his pencil. "that is where the mushroom keeps its seeds, too," he said. "we do not call them seeds, though, but spores. fern seeds are called spores, also." "but toads do sit under mushrooms, don't they?" insisted little prue. "why, yes, i suppose a great many toads have done that, but they are really plants, as davy says." davy had become thoughtful. "are they exogens?" he asked, "or endogens? i should think the mushrooms might be endogens from their stems, and the fern exogens from their leaves." "well, davy, that is very well said, but they are really neither one. they belong to a great class of their own. exogens and endogens are only the two kinds of flowering plants. these mushrooms and ferns and mosses and lichens all belong to the flowerless plants, and are called crip-tog-a-mous--a very long word, which i do not expect you to remember. the divisions of flowerless plants are too hard a study for little folks, but the plants are all very interesting, and we can gather them, and see how they grow. in fact, i think we will have to call our meadow and our beach your august garden." "but there isn't anything on the beach," said prue. "how about all that seaweed you were gathering yesterday?" "but does that really grow like our plants on the shore?" asked davy. "very much the same, and it belongs to the flowerless class, too, along with the mosses and lichens and ferns and mushrooms. it has spores instead of seeds, and is really a sort of a moss of the sea." "oh, call us not weeds, we are flowers of the sea, for lovely and bright and fresh-tinted are we," sang little prue, with a memory of her kindergarten. "yes, they are flowers of the sea, though they do not bloom," said the chief gardener, "and are very beautiful in color and form. i will give you some white cards and you can gather specimens to dry. you spread out the little branches with a tooth-pick, and the cards make pretty little books afterwards." "but do seaweeds and mosses and lichens and ferns and mushrooms all belong to one family?" asked davy. "oh, by no means. not even all to the same division of flowerless plants. but it is too hard a study for a little boy, and it is enough to learn now that they do all belong to the big flowerless or crip-tog-a-mous class." "papa, is it true that if you put fern seeds in your shoes, nobody can see you?" asked little prue. "why, i don't very well see how '_nobody_' could see you, but i think somebody might." "it says in my fairy book that the princess put fern seed in her shoe, and then there wasn't any one who could see her. i wish it was like that. i'm going to try it," and the little girl pulled off some of the brown spores and tucked them in her dusty ties. "can you see me? can you see me, now?" she asked, dancing about. "why, no," said the chief gardener, who pretended to be looking for her in another direction. "can you, davy? can you see me?" "not very well, when _you_ go so fast," laughed davy. "stand still, and let me try." just then big prue came out on the porch, and little prue danced up to her. "can _you_ see me? can you _see_ me, mamma? you mustn't, you know, because i've got fern seed in my shoe." big prue shut her eyes, and put out her arms. "no, i can't see you," she said, "but you feel like the same little girl," and she kissed the little round tanned face on her shoulder. iv the princess by the sea "i heard you talking about flowerless plants," big prue went on, "as i sat there by the window. i wonder if you would like to hear a little story of how they came to be without flowers." "please, yes!" and little prue forgot her fern seed and hugged closer. "well, once upon a time there was a princess with a beautiful garden--" "is this the same princess that turned into a red rose?" "oh, no, this is another princess. there have been a great many princesses with gardens. this princess lived by the sea, where there was a meadow, and a cliff not far away, much like it is here. she loved her flowers more than anything in the world, and her garden was so beautiful that even the fairies loved it better than their own gardens of fairyland and came at midnight to dance in the moonlight, after the princess was asleep. "and the princess knew that they danced there, for once a gentle fairy had come to her and told her of it, and warned her never to try to see them, for whoever sees the fairies dance by the midnight moon may meet with some dreadful misfortune, which even the fairies themselves cannot help. "but when the princess heard about the fairy dance, she wanted to see it very much. instead of trying to forget it and going to bed before it began, she thought of it all the time, and the more she thought, the more she made up her mind to see it, no matter what might happen afterwards. "so one night, just before twelve o'clock, she crept into a large cluster of blooming ferns--" "but ferns do not bloom--" "they did then, and their sweet odor filled the still night air; the moon was white and round in the sky, and the level sea had a path of glory that led close to where she lay. "the princess thought how beautiful was all the world, and especially her garden, and she grew sad to think that perhaps some time she would not be there to see it all. and then all at once she forgot everything else, for there in the moonlight were the fairies, dancing in a great glittering ring. "the princess looked, hardly daring to breathe. then it seemed to her that she could not see so well. she rubbed her eyes, but the world about her only grew dimmer still. she thought the moon had gone under a cloud, but it was sailing high in the sky. and then everything faded out, the world became dark and the princess gave a great cry of grief, for she knew that her punishment had come, and she was _blind_! "the fairies heard the cry, too, and vanished, but the gentle little fairy who was her friend came and guided her in sorrow to her palace, and said, 'i can grant you one wish, but it must not be to see again--that i cannot grant.' "'then,' said the princess, 'if i cannot see my flowers, i wish that they may never bloom again until some one, who cares more for them than i, shall wish to see them.' "and the wish came true. never a flower in the garden of the princess bloomed from that day. their buds dropped, their leaves shrank, and many of them hid away where they would not be seen by passers-by. some slipped away into the water and became seaweeds. some hid in the deep woods, and crept into dark places, and became ferns. others, growing smaller each year, became moss. some hid among the rocks of the cliff and became lichens. and some, who wanted to be useful if they could not bloom, scattered themselves over the woods and fields and became mushrooms. but some of these were of bitter or sharp nature, and these we cannot eat. and some grew wicked and vicious, and these are poison. one of them, the amanita, which had bloomed as a great golden white-spotted flower in the garden of the princess, became the most vicious of all. it kept much of its color, which now makes people shun it because it is a sign of deadly poison." "and will the flowers that grew in the garden of the princess never bloom again?" "never, unless some one who cares more for them than she did shall wish to see them." "but how can i care so much unless i can see them?" asked little prue. "perhaps that is why they will never bloom again," said davy. september september i a flower really has clothes the little gardens were in quite a bad way when davy and prue came back from the seashore. everything had done well, even to the weeds, and that was just the trouble. it took two whole days, working when the sun was not so very hot, to get the beds in shape, and the chief gardener had to work, too, very hard. but by and by everything was clean and beautiful again, and the seat under the peach-tree was a finer place than ever, because there were more things in bloom, and everything had become more beautiful. one day davy came to the seat, where little prue and the chief gardener were resting, with a double carnation in his hand. "i wish you would look at this," he said. "i can't tell petals from stamens." the chief gardener took the flower, and slowly pulled it to pieces. "well, no," he said; "it isn't the easiest thing to do, though, of course, those anther-looking things must belong to stamens." "but the filaments are like petals," objected davy. "yes, and here are others like them, though they have no anthers. those are supposed to be stamens, too, or, at least, they were stamens, once." davy looked puzzled. "you remember i told you once, davy, that a flower was only one form of a leaf--a leaf intended to make the plant beautiful, and to make it bear seed. well, in some plants, especially cultivated ones, the flower-leaves seem to get rather mixed in their parts." the chief gardener picked a scarlet canna that grew near. "here is a flower which has three little petals and four large flower-leaves which you would think were petals, wouldn't you? but the stamens and petals and sepals are so mixed that even botanists can hardly decide which is which. in a water-lily, too, the petals gradually become stamens, so, perhaps, the leaf came first, ages and ages ago, and little by little it has changed, first to sepals, then petals, then to stamens and pistils, so that it could make seeds and scatter them to the wind. gardeners make double flowers out of single ones by a process of turning stamens and even pistils into petals. the double flower is sometimes very beautiful, but it is not the most perfect flower. the wild rose is more perfect than the finest double american beauty. perhaps double flowers came before single ones, a long time ago, when the leaves were turning to blossoms, so that the gardeners who make the wonderful double blooms now are really going backward instead of forward. but that is all too hard. i'm afraid--especially for a little girl who likes very double carnations." "i know everything you're talking about, just as well as davy does," said the little girl, sitting up quite straight. "and i like single flowers, 'specially lilies, and wild roses; but i think double flowers are nice, too, because they seem dressed up, like folks--queens and princesses, all with nice dresses--velvet and chiffon and lacey stuff." "why, that is just what they are, prue. they are dressed up, and, of course, the more anything, or anybody, is dressed up the less they are really like themselves. the petals and sepals of a flower are really fine clothes, you know, just as you sometimes play they are, when you make hollyhock dolls, and it wears them for just about the same reason that we wear ours. it might grow and be useful without them, but it would not be very attractive, and some of its friends and servants might pass by without seeing it." "servants! but flowers don't really have servants. that must be just a story." "no--at least, it is all very true. flowers are like people in very many ways. they really have servants and friends, and some of them live off other flowers and plants, and some of them eat and sleep, very much as we do. i will tell you something about that another time." ii the flower has many servants it was about a week after this that little prue was picking some sweet-pease for the table when davy came along with the chief gardener. "the servants are busy this morning," said the chief gardener. "do you mean me?" asked little prue. "i am trying to pick some flowers, but there are so many bees around that i'm afraid." "those are the servants i mean. i do not think they will hurt you if you are careful. they are only collecting their wages, and working at the same time." davy and prue looked close. "what do you mean by their working?" asked davy. "do you mean for the flower, or for themselves?" "for both. watch this bee. you see, he pushes open the flower for honey, but to get it he has to cover his legs with the pollen from the anthers, which are placed down in this little lower part called a keel, just where his legs and body will be covered. then he comes out and goes to another flower and carries this pollen, and really rubs it on the stigma there as he crawls in and out, and takes more pollen, and so goes on from one to another--a real servant, doing a real duty and getting his pay as he goes." "but he doesn't have to do it. the pollen would fall on the stigma anyway, wouldn't it?" "it might with the sweet-pea, but even if it did, the pollen from the same flower is not as good as the pollen from another flower from a different plant, and the seed would be poor and the plants would grow weaker every year. there are many insects that act as servants to the flowers, and the wind is one of the servants, too. it shakes the corn-tassel so that the pollen falls on the silk and makes the ear, and it carries the pollen of one stalk to the silk of another--sometimes from one field to another." "but, of course, the bee doesn't know that he does it," said prue, who was still very intently watching the little servants of the sweet-pease. "i am not so certain of that," the chief gardener said musingly. "the flower must know, for it dresses in bright colors so that the bee may see it, and offers honey as pay for his work. and if the flower knows, why shouldn't the bee?" "but don't you think it might all just happen so?" asked davy. "i don't think anything in nature just 'happens so,' davy, and i am sure that the bee's work for the flower doesn't, for there are too many flowers that would have no seed and would die out if it were not for the bees that carry the pollen, and most of these flowers have grown just to fit in every way the especial little bee, or big bee, or insect, that comes to work for them. there are some flowers, like the sweet-pea, that the bee cannot get into without getting pollen on his legs, and there are others that drop it upon his back. some flowers have stamens that wither before the pistil is ready for the pollen. in such flowers the little servants go from one to the other--from a new flower to an old one--carrying the pollen which would not be of any use in the flower where it grew." "and is that really all that the flower's pretty color and sweet smell and delicious honey are for?" asked little prue, "just to get bees to work for it?" "no, prue, i don't think so. i think all the world of nature is harmony, like sweet music, and the flowers with their beauty and sweetness are part of it, but i think that just as we may attract friends and good servants by kindness and offering something in return, so the flowers attract the bees and butterflies, and even a little girl and boy to keep the weeds away. the more a flower depends on an insect to carry its pollen, the gayer or sweeter that flower always is. the orchids, which are almost the finest flowers in the world, seem to be made especially for the insects, and they could not do without them, any more than the insects could do without the flowers." "and is that what makes some flowers such funny shapes, too?" "i think it is. the foxglove, and the horse mint, and many others, have curious shapes and forms, just to fit their little helpers, and the milkweed has a funny little saddle-bag which it hangs to the bee's feet, so that he can carry it to another plant. there is another kind of a milkweed which is very cruel, for it attracts small insects by its odor, and when they come they are caught by a sticky substance and held until the weed sucks them down and really eats them, much as we eat our food. so, you see, plants are a good deal like people, just as i told you the other day." "you said they could sleep, too." "yes, your rose-moss closes up every night, shuts its eyes just as you do, and rests. many flowers close at night, and some even droop their heads quite low, like the bird, which sleeps with its head beneath its wing." iii a flower may really reason how beautiful was the september garden! the wild sunflowers were all in bloom like a wall of gold. a bunch of black-eyed susans at the corner of the house seemed trying to imitate its large cousins, and was just as bright and yellow, too, in a small way. the little susans had not been planted, but had strayed in out of the field somewhere, perhaps longing to be with people. a row of bright red cockscombs made a crimson line of plumes down one side of a garden-path, and just beyond them davy's third planting of beans was in full bearing. prue's pinks and sweet-pease bloomed on and on, and her alyssums and the other sweets became sweeter every day. "do you think all these things like to be together?" prue asked, one afternoon, as they sat looking at them from the shade of the peach-tree. "i think those that grow well do," said davy. "they seem to, anyway." "and they do, davy," said the chief gardener. "a plant that doesn't like a place will not grow in it, and in the woods and fields we only find those plants together which like that particular spot. down below the hillside yonder you will find golden-rod and several kinds of tall blue and white daisies and grasses that all belong there, and seem very happy together. they would not grow well in the wet woods, and would soon die out, but there are other plants that grow and tangle and are happiest where the ground is damp and the shade overhead. so, you see, there we have another way that plants are like people--they have their proper company, and, perhaps, their societies and friendships. i am sure they have their friendships, for there are certain little plants, and big ones, too, that you will nearly always find together. violets and spring-beauties and adder-tongues must love each other, i am sure, for you seldom see one without the others, and there are certain vines, like the virginia creeper and the poison-ivy, that are nearly always together, though why the virginia creeper should care for the poison-ivy i don't see. perhaps it doesn't seem poison to the creeper, but only to us." "it seemed poison enough to me," said davy, "when i got a dose of it last year. it nearly itched me to death." [illustration: "beware of the vine with the three-part leaf"] "yes, it is terrible stuff, and little folks, and big ones, too, have to be very careful, for it looks very much like its friend, the creeper, only that its compound leaf is divided into three parts instead of five. you can always tell by that, and you must always _beware of the vine with the three-part leaf_." "do poison-ivy and virginia creeper belong to the same family?" asked davy. "no, though they look so much alike. the poison-ivy belongs to the sumach family, while the creeper belongs to the grape family. the families are quite close together, but are separate. often members of different families are better friends than members of the same family, and that is still another way that plants are like people." "do you suppose the poison-ivy knows that it is poison?" asked prue, who liked to believe that plants were really _just_ like people. "perhaps it does. we can never be quite sure how much a plant knows. i told you once how i believed they could feel and hear, and even see. i am almost sure that the dandelion can reason." davy looked interested, and the chief gardener went on. "you will remember, davy, how when the dandelions first bloomed they had quite tall stems. then we mowed the lawn, and when they tried to bloom again the stems were shorter. we mowed again, and the stems grew still shorter, and so they became shorter and shorter each time, until they bloomed flat against the ground, so low that we could not mow them. they were bound to bloom, and they did bloom, and then all at once almost in a day they shot up long pale stems with balls of white-winged seeds that were ready when we mowed again to float away at a touch or a puff, to be ready to sprout and grow another year. the dandelion is bound to spread its seed. by and by it learns that the lawn-mower cannot cut below a certain level. so it blooms below the lawn-mower's cutting-wheel, and then when it is ready to seed, it pops up as high as ever it can, and stands waiting for the mower to come around and help scatter its seed. perhaps it doesn't really reason, but it does something exactly like it, and there are people in the world who would be happier if they could do the same thing." [illustration: the dandelion is bound to spread its seed] and just then big prue came out into the garden, and they all sat on the bench under the peach-tree, and watched the sun going down, away off over the purple hills. and they thought how the summer was nearly over, and how soon the glory of the little garden would be fading, and how the snow would be sifting down among the withered leaves. [illustration: "so it blooms below the lawn-mower's cutting-wheel"] iv some flowers live off other flowers and plants so summer with its song and its blossom came to an end. autumn clad in gold and purple came across the land, and the gentle haze of indian summer lay upon the fields. from the banks of golden-rod below the hill, prue and davy filled jars and vases, and one day they brought in great bunches all linked and bound together with something like a tangle of golden thread. the chief gardener was not at home that day, so they brought their discovery to big prue to explain. "why," she said, "that is dodder, or love-vine. it is what is called a parasite, for it has no root in the ground, but lives from the plant it grows on." then she showed them where the small, tough little rootlets were really embedded in the stalk of the golden-rod from which it drew its strength and life. "oh," said prue, "that is what papa meant when he told us once that some flowers lived off other flowers and plants, just as some people live off other people." big prue nodded. "there are a good many such plants," she said. "the mistletoe we get for christmas grows on several sorts of trees. its seed lodges under the bark and sprouts there, just as it would in the ground. then the wood grows up around the root, and the mistletoe becomes almost a part of the tree. then there are many kinds of mosses, and the indian pipe--that white, waxy flower which you found in the woods not long ago, and thought you had found a flowering mushroom. it is a sort of a relation of the mushroom, for it springs from damp, decaying leaves, and has no real root, but it is more of a parasite, for it feeds mainly on roots of living trees and plants. this dodder blooms and drops its seeds to the ground, where they sprout, but as soon as it finds a weed to cling to, the root dies and it lives only on the weed." "why do they call it love-vine?" asked little prue. her mother took the long golden tendril and twined it about her slender white finger. then she told them the story of v the prince and the thread of gold "there was once a prince," she began, "who lived in a far country between blue seas. and all the land the prince owned, and a great palace, but he was not happy, because there was a little fisher girl more beautiful than the sunrise, who would not come and dwell in his palace and be his princess. "when this fisher girl saw the prince coming toward her, she would dance away laughing, like a ripple of sunlight on the water, and there were some who said she was not a real child, but a sea-fairy, for she had been found as a babe by the fisher's wife, cast up on the sand, after a great storm. "but the prince did not care whether she was a human being or not. he thought only of her, as each day she grew taller and always more beautiful. he went every morning to the fisher's hut to beg that they would give her to him, and this they would have been glad to do had dodora been willing, but always she laughed and danced away when they spoke of it, and sometimes they did not see her again until evening. "but one morning, when she was eighteen years old, and they spoke to her, she said, laughing: "'tell the prince to tie a knot in the thread of love. if he will tie a knot in the thread of love it will hold me fast,' and again she danced away, while her laugh came as the tinkle of the tide among the pebbles on a still evening. "so when the prince came that day they told him, and he went away sadly, for he thought she was only playing with him for her amusement. "but that night, as he walked alone in the moonlight by the shore, he suddenly saw on the sand in front of him a radiant fairy, spinning on a silver spinning-wheel a wonderful thread of gold. without daring to breathe he stood and looked at her, and then he saw that it was from the rays of moonlight that she was spinning the thread. all at once she rose and came to where he was standing. "'here is the thread of love,' she said to him, and then she showed him how to tie the true lover's knot in it. 'with this you may win our dodora,' the fairy added, and then suddenly like a breath of perfume she was gone, leaving the thread of gold in the prince's hands. "and all that night the prince tied and retied the true lover's knot, as the fairy had showed him, and next morning he hurried with it to the fisherman's cottage where dodora lived. and when dodora saw him coming, she did not dance away as she had always done before, but went forward to meet him, and took his hand. then suddenly she snatched the golden thread from him and ran, with the prince after her. she ran fast, but he was about to overtake her, when dodora dropped the knot into the weeds, and then all at once she stopped, for the wonderful thread had suddenly become a great tangle of gold that held dodora fast, and she could not get away. so the prince overtook her, and led her to his palace, where they lived happily for a long time. and the thread of love grew as a wonderful vine that had no root in the earth, but twined about the weeds and spread over the country in many places. some called it dodora, after the princess, and this was changed at last to 'dodder' by those who did not know. others called it golden thread, and still others called it love-vine, and tied true lover's knots in it which they threw over their shoulders on moonlight nights. if these knots grew they won their sweethearts. they did not always grow, but about the palace of the prince the vine flourished in a golden mass, and the prince, never forgetting the wonderful night when it had been spun for him out of moonbeams, let it grow through all the world, to become the golden thread of love." october october i seeds are made to be planted october brought seedtime in the little garden. many seeds had ripened during the summer, and prue had already gathered some of the tiny black flakes from the opened pods of her precious pinks, and davy had saved some seed pease. but october was the real harvest-time. the children took a lot of white envelopes, and upon them davy printed the names of all the seeds they expected to gather. into these envelopes they put carefully the different little black and brown and white seeds after they had picked and blown the husks all away, so, as davy said, they would look just like seeds bought at the store. and some of the seeds were big flat beans, or little long round beans; and some, like the sweet-pease, were very round, like shot; and some, like the cockscomb seeds, were tiny and shiny and black and so slippery that prue lost more than she got in her envelope, though she got enough, for there is _such a lot of seed_ on a cockscomb. some seeds were in funny little pods that snapped when you touched them, and sent the little black or brown shot flying in every direction, like a charge out of a bomb, and these had to be gathered very carefully. then there were seeds with little wings, made to help them to fly, and there were seeds with little claws made to catch and hold on, so they would be carried and planted in many places. but these were mostly weed seeds, and were only gathered because they clung to the children's clothes, and stuck so fast that it was hard to pick them off. [illustration: "they cling to everything that passes"] "you see," said the chief gardener, who was watching them, "everything has a way of taking care of itself. just as i told you about the dandelion, the plants have something which is very much like reason, or instinct, to guide them. these zinnia seeds do not have the little prongs, because the zinnia does not need them. it is a garden flower, and the seed will be taken care of. but those brown two-pronged little things you are picking off your coat-sleeve came from its very near relation, the spanish needle, which is a weed, and must look out for its own planting. those wild sunflowers turn top-side down, and the little yellow birds that peck and chirp about them all day are scattering the seed so thickly that next spring the garden will be covered with the young plants. the big tame sunflower doesn't take care of itself nearly so well. of course, you remember how the dandelion seeds go drifting on the wind, while the thistle-down that goes floating by is carrying seed to some farmer's field, or fence corner. then there are the maple seeds, which have two wings, or keys, as they are called, and there are many of these key seeds that are tossed here and there when the wind blows. the wind and the birds are the servants that sow the wild seeds, just as the bees and butterflies helped to make them." "but there are some thistles," said little prue, "that are not blown by the wind. they have stickery balls, and i make baskets out of them." "those are burs, and they are carried by sheep and cows, and by people. they cling to everything that passes. i have seen a horse's mane so full of them that it had to be cut off. the burdock is a very bad weed, and there ought to be a story about it, but i suppose if there was one, it must have been so unpleasant that it has been forgotten. there are many other weeds almost as bad. there are seeds with all kinds of hooks and claws to grab and stick, and there are many that are carried in the dirt which clings to the feet of animals and men and even birds." "i should think some weeds would make their seeds look like flower seeds, to fool people." "well, that is just about what they do. there are cockle seeds in the wheat, and so nearly the same size that the threshing-machine will not take them out, and there are many little plants in the grass that have seeds so nearly like those of the grass itself that we are obliged to sow them with the grass seed. so, you see, men, too, become servants of the wise, persevering weeds. certain beans and grains have been carried by water, and have been known to be brought across stretches of the sea to be scattered and planted upon a new shore." "how many kinds of seeds are there?" asked davy. "about as many as plants, davy." "i don't mean that. i mean how many principal kinds--like flowers, you know--they are exogens and endogens." "oh, i see. you mean classes. well, i suppose we might say two, fleshy and dry. then we might divide the dry into seeds and nuts, and the fleshy into fruits and vegetables." davy and prue were both thinking. "i suppose my beans are dry," davy said at last. "yes, of course." "but we ate them green, and they were not dry then." "that was before they were ripe. there are a number of things that are fleshy when eaten green, that become pods or hulls when the fruit is really ready to gather. of course, there are fruits and nuts and vegetables that, like flowers, are hard to put in any class. take the almond--you would call that a nut, of course." "i just love almonds," said little prue. "and aren't they nuts?" asked davy. "yes, the almond is a nut, but you would hardly call the peach a nut; yet they grow exactly alike, except that the outside of the almond is tough and not fit to eat. the walnut is a nut, too, of course, but the hull is quite fleshy, even after the nut is ripe; and there are certain sorts of foreign plums that have a sweet kernel, so they are really fruit and nut in one. but i think we shall have to go nutting next week, and then we can tell more what we think about them." "nutting! oh, yes, we'll go nutting!" cried little prue. "and we'll take baskets, and mamma, and stay all day and bring home just bushels." "we must take plenty of dinner in the baskets," said davy, who remembered one time when the dinner had been less than he thought it should be. so then they ran into the house to put away their envelopes of seeds, and to tell the news. ii there are bitter nuts and sweet ones how splendid it was in the october woods. some of the trees were almost bare, some of them were a fine russet brown, and some were all crimson and gold; and the gold was so beautiful against the blue sky that it seemed to davy and prue that october, after all, might be the very best month of the year. there was a brook that wound through the woods. on both sides of it were bottom lands, and here the hickory and walnut and butternut trees grew. near the hillsides there were groves of hazel with their brown clusters, half opened by the frost, ripe for gathering. camp was made near the brook, and then all hurried to the nut-trees; the children kicking their feet through the rustling leaves that covered the ground. the chief gardener found quite a large section of a young tree which he put on his shoulder for a battering-ram. then he walked several steps, and butted one end of it against a tall hickory-tree, and down showered the nuts, clattering in the leaves--the hulls bursting and flying in all directions. then how the children scrambled and gathered. "let's clear the leaves away first, next time," said davy, "so they will be easier to find." and this they did, and so they went from tree to tree, gathering hickory-nuts, large and small, and walnuts, butternuts, and chestnuts, and these they emptied into sacks they had brought in the little wagon that was not hitched far away. by and by, davy spied a patch of hazel, and each with a basket, prue and he gathered until they were tired, and it was lunch-time. how very hungry they were! is there really anything like nutting to make a little boy and girl hungry? and there was plenty of luncheon, this time. davy ate until he did not care to get up right away, but was glad to lean back against a tree, and talk, while the chief gardener smoked and little prue and big prue put away the things, and hulled some of the hazelnuts, which little prue said seemed to be more hulls than nuts, for there was only about enough to cover the bottom of one basket when they were all hulled. "what makes all the nuts have such big, thick hulls, anyway?" she asked, as she tried to pound open a thorny chestnut-bur. "i think the hulls must be to protect the young nuts from birds and squirrels," answered her mother. "the trees do not like to have them carried off until they are quite ripe, so they hold them very tight and enclose them in a very tough shell, and the shell is very bad-tasting, too. but when the nuts are ripe and sweet they let go of them very easily, just as other seeds are dropped, and the hulls open and the harvest is ready for whoever may come to gather it." the chief gardener picked up a hickory-nut from one of the baskets. "you see, we are eating flower-pistils all the time," he said. "are we? i don't believe i ever thought about that," said davy. [illustration: three members of the acorn family] the chief gardener pointed to the little black tip on the top of the nut. "that was once the stigma," he said. "you see, it is quite like one, even now. of course, it was soft then, and the pistil below was soft, too. then as it grew it became harder and harder until the shell formed, and it was really a nut. the calyx hardened, and made the hull. the pistil and the calyx of a flower are the parts that last longest, but the stamens and the corolla are just as useful in their way. they form a separate flower on the nut-trees. we will have to come to the woods next spring when they are in bloom." "papa, don't hazelnuts and chestnuts belong to the same family?" asked little prue, who had some of each in her chubby hands. "why, yes, but why did you think so, prue?" "well, you see, they both have those white spots on them, and i thought mebbe it was a kind of family mark." "wise little head, prue. and now what else is there that has the family mark--we might call it the family seal?" the children were silent a moment, thinking. they were sitting under a big oak tree, and all at once davy's eye caught something in the leaves, just by his hand. "this!" he shouted, and held up an acorn. "right you are, davy boy! the nut that stands at the head of the family. few acorns are fit to be eaten, except by animals, but you see how round and perfect the family seal is, and though the acorn-cup is nothing like the chestnut-bur, or the husk of the hazel, it perhaps would be, if the green acorn itself was not so bitter that it does not need any other protection. the oak is one of the finest and most useful of all trees, and the hazel and chestnut and beech are probably very proud of belonging to the oak family." "and how about hickory and walnuts?" asked davy. "they are in a family together--the walnut family. there are three kinds of walnuts--the english walnuts, the butternuts, and these. there are as many as half a dozen kinds of hickory nuts, and some of them are as bitter as the bitterest acorns." "pignuts--i know those," said davy. "they're awful. i tried to eat some last year." "you gave me one, too," said prue. "i don't think that was very nice of you." davy blushed and grinned, as he recollected the round, puckered face of little prue, after she had tasted the bitter nut. "never mind, prue; we'll give him a mock-orange some day," said her mother. "the pecan is a hickory-nut, too," said the chief gardener, "a nut that has left all its bitterness in the shell." "davy is a pecan-nut," said little prue. "he's just bad outside." then the little party made ready to go home. they had a good way to drive, and it grows chilly on october evenings. how still it seemed to have grown in the woods when they were ready to go. a squirrel scrambled up a hickory-tree, and sat chattering at them as they drove away. "he is scolding us for carrying off his winter food," said big prue. "oh, let's leave him some!" said little prue, the tender-hearted. "pshaw!" said davy. "there are enough nuts in these woods to feed all the squirrels in the world." iii there are many things called fruits truly october was harvest-time in the little garden. the winter apple-tree yielded several bushels of bright red fruit, and davy's pumpkin-vine had great yellow pumpkins scattered all about. some of them davy could hardly lift, and when they were carried into the cellar, on the very last day of the month, they made a real pyramid of gold. then there were some late tomatoes, too, and peppers, which big prue made into pickles; also, a last gathering of green corn, besides several ears of ripe corn, for seed, and all the pop-corn--fifty-five ears of it from davy's little patch. there were some things to be taken up, too, and put into little pots for the window-gardens, which davy and prue were going to have all through the winter, this time. there was a good open fire in the dining-room when davy came in, after picking his pumpkins, for the nights were getting colder, and the bright blaze seemed so friendly and cheerful. "i am going to try some of my pop-corn," he said suddenly, and started for the popper. "i'll get some apples," said little prue. "i'll bring some nuts," added the chief gardener. "and i'm afraid if you have all those things now, you won't care for tea afterwards," objected big prue. "never mind tea," said davy. "these are the very best things for a fire like this, and then if we don't want tea afterwards it'll save trouble." so the pop-corn and apples and nuts were brought, and the little family gathered about the bright blaze. [illustration: the apple is a calyx. the pistil is the core inside of it] "just think," said davy, "it's only a few months ago that i planted this corn, and saw it come up, just little green sprouts, and now it's ripe and in the popper." "and just think," said his mother, "it's a little while ago that the apple-trees were all in bloom so sweet, and now the apples are ripe, and we have them here on a plate." "i like to think about the summer," said little prue. "it all seems so nice and shiny. it was hot, though, too, sometimes, in the garden." the chief gardener picked up one of the apples. "that is a pretty good calyx, davy," he said. davy stopped popping corn a minute. his face was rather hot, anyway, from the glowing coals. "why, i thought that was the pistil," he said. "the pistil is the core inside of it. it is the calyx of the apple-bloom that grows fleshy and makes the best part of the apple." the chief gardener cut the apple in half, and showed the faint line that marked the core. "that was the pistil," he said, "and at the end you see there are still the tips of the sepals and little traces of the stamens. the apple is one of our very finest fruits, and we ought to be glad that at least one of the rose family has such a fine calyx. the rose itself gives us sweet flowers, but its apples would be pretty poor eating. they are called hips." "but is the peach a calyx, too?" asked davy. "it belongs to the same family." [illustration: a raspberry is a cluster of pistils without the core. a blackberry is the end of a flower-stem with a cluster of pistils around it.] "no, the peach is just the pistil, and it is the same with the plum and apricot and cherry. in the pear and quince it is the calyx, like the apple; in the raspberry each little part is a separate pistil with one seed, as i believe i showed you once, last summer." "how about the strawberries?" asked prue. "i like those best." "i think i showed you that, too, but perhaps you have forgotten. the strawberry is still different. it is neither a calyx nor a pistil, but just the pulpy top of the stem that the flowers rest upon. it is covered with tiny pistils, though, of one seed each." "that is why strawberry seeds are on the outside," said davy. "yes, and the little pistils are called akenes, though you need not try to remember that now." "it is strange," said big prue, "how many things become fruits." "yes," said the chief gardener. "a fig, for instance, is simply a hollow stalk which grows thick and pulpy, and has a lot of little flowers inside that turn to seed when the fig ripens. a pineapple is a cluster of flower-leaves. a strawberry is the end of a flower-stem. a blackberry is the same, with a little cluster of pulpy pistils on the outside. a raspberry is the little cluster of pistils without the core; so that the blackberry is really the connecting-link between the strawberry and the raspberry. in gooseberries, grapes, cranberries, and huckleberries we eat the entire pistil, seeds and all. in peaches, plums, and cherries we eat only the outer part, and in apples, pears, and quinces we eat only the calyx, unless we eat the core." "well," interrupted davy, "i am going to eat a nice big red calyx, now, core and all, and i'm going to eat some hickory-nut and pop-corn pistils, all but the shells and cob, and i feel hungry enough to eat those, too." so then they drew closer around the bright blaze as evening gathered on the little faded garden outside. november november i there are annuals, biennials, and perennials but november was not all brown and dry. the warm days lingered. the lawn kept green, and suddenly about the house there was the most wonderful glory of yellow and rose and white and crimson, for the radiant flower of autumn, the chrysanthemum, was in full bloom. how beautiful the flowers were when the sun was bright, and when it was cloudy they seemed to have kept some of the sunlight and cheer to make the dooryard glad. "i don't remember when you planted the chrysanthemums," said prue, one bright morning to the chief gardener. "no, it was when you were a very little girl--about four years ago." "i remember," said davy. "i helped you." "why don't you have to plant them every year?" asked prue. "because they are perennials--they live on, year after year." prue did not seem to understand very well, so the chief gardener explained. "there are three kinds of plants," he said: "annuals, biennials, and perennials. the annuals live but one season. they come from the seed each spring, and when they have grown and bloomed and made seed for another year they die. sweet-pease and sunflowers and davy's corn are annuals." "and radishes and beets," said davy. "no, davy. that is where you are mistaken." "but we have to plant them every spring," said davy. "we do so to get good vegetables for our table. but if we were planting only for seed we would leave the roots in the ground, or take them up and reset them in the spring. then they would send up long stalks to bloom and bear seed. beets and radishes and turnips and most such things are biennials, which means that they bloom the second year and then die. they spend all the first year in laying up strength in the roots, to use in making seed the second summer. some biennials, like the cabbage, lay up this strength in the thick stalk. the strength which they take up from the earth and from the air, through their leaves, they do not spend in flowers and show, but turn it into food for themselves, and the food is so good that men gather it for their own use." "i don't think that is quite right," said prue, "after the poor thing has worked so hard all summer to be ready to bloom next year, for us to take it and eat it." the chief gardener smiled and shook his head. "i'm afraid we do not think much about the plant's rights," he said, "unless they happen to be the same as our own. and after all there are plenty of seeds saved every year--more than are ever planted." "and are potatoes biennials, too?" asked davy. "no, potatoes are perennials. in the right climate they would live on year after year, laying up new strength each year for the next season's growth. dahlias are perennials, too, and most of the grasses, and, of course, all trees, and shrubs. your pinks, prue, and sweet-williams, and the hollyhocks, are perennial, and live through the winter, though they bear a great deal of seed, which shows how determined they are to live on. these chrysanthemums also bear seed, and most plants have at least two ways, and some as many as four ways of producing others like them. your onions, davy, can be produced in four different ways. they can be grown from seed, from sets--which are little seed-onions taken out of the ground and kept through the winter--from bulblets--which are the little onions you saw growing on the top of the stalk last summer--and from multipliers--which are large bulbs broken into several small parts." [illustration: the seed and sets of the onion] "i should think an onion was surely perennial enough," said davy, "with four ways of keeping alive." "can you name the three kinds of plants now?" asked the chief gardener, turning to little prue. "yes," said prue, putting out three fingers. "annuals that have to die every fall, like my sweet-pease. bi-yennials, that have to die every other fall, like davy's turnips. only we don't let 'em die--we kill 'em and eat 'em just when they are ready for their best time. perennials, that have a lot of ways to live and never die at all." the chief gardener laughed. "well, that's pretty good for a little girl. i think we might almost make a poem out of it. "the annuals we plant each spring-- they perish in the fall; biennials die the second year, perennials not at all." "i've made a rhyme, too," said prue. "it's about the kinds of plants in a different way. this is it: "the kinds of plants are these-- herbs, shrubs, and trees." "why, i think we shall have to make up some more," said the chief gardener. "it will help us to remember." ii plants know how to spread it was not many days after this that the chief gardener was digging among his vines, and he called to the children, who came running. "we were talking the other day," he said, "about the many ways that old plants have of making new ones. see how this black raspberry vine is spreading." the chief gardener pointed to a long branch that had bent over until the end touched the earth. this end had taken root, and now a new little plant was there all formed and ready to grow the coming year. "there is another just like it," said davy, "and another--why, there are lots of them!" "yes, the vine sends out many of those long slender branches with a heavy little bud at the end of each to weigh it down. such branches are called stolons, and when the bud touches the earth it sends out roots. strawberries have runners which do the same thing. you will find plenty of them if you look in the patch." davy and prue went over to the strawberries and found that the vines, now red and brown from frost, had sent out runners, and made little new plants, like the black raspberries. "you see," said the chief gardener, "we pick the berries, which are the seeds, so all berry vines must have some other way of spreading. the red raspberries do it in a different way. they send out runners, too, but they are from the roots, and when the sprouts come up, we call them suckers. many kinds of plants have suckers, and there are some kinds of trees sprout so badly that they cannot be used for shade." "what a lot of ways there are for plants to start!" said davy. "suppose we try to think of as many as we can," said the chief gardener. "you begin, prue." "seeds and roots and bend-overs and stuck-ins," said prue. "that's four." [illustration: a black raspberry vine preparing to spread] davy and the chief gardener laughed. "well, that is a good start, but there are a good many kinds of roots and 'bend-overs,' and what are 'stuck-ins?'" "why, pieces stuck in the ground to grow. mamma does it with her geraniums." "oh, slips! i see. why, prue, your answer covers about everything, after all. now, davy, suppose we hear from you." "well, seeds--that's one. bulbs, all the kinds, like the three onion kinds, and maybe other kinds, roots like the red raspberries, that make suckers and other kinds of roots, like potatoes, and then all the runners and suckers that prue calls 'bend-overs,' and slips and grafts and buds." "stuck-ins," nodded the chief gardener. "prue was about right after all, for there are so many kinds of each different thing, and so many ways, that i am afraid we should never remember all the kinds and ways. 'seeds and roots and bend-overs and stuck-ins' take in about all of them, and we are not apt to forget it. if you'll come now, we'll look at some of the kinds of roots." they went down into the garden, and the chief gardener opened a hill of potatoes which had not been dug. then he picked up one of the potatoes and showed it to davy and prue. [illustration: "what are stuck-ins?--oh, slips!"] "that kind of a root is called a tuber," he said. "those little spots on it are eyes, and make the sprouts. you remember we cut the potatoes we planted into little pieces, with one eye on each." "i remember," said prue, "and i asked if they had eyes so they could see which way to grow." "the pieces we planted sprouted, and kept the sprout growing until it could send out roots. besides the roots, there were little underground branches, and a potato formed on the end of each branch. when the soil and the season are both good there will be a great many of these branches and new tubers, but when the soil is poor and the season bad there will be very little besides roots." the children followed the chief gardener, and dug up a bunch of thick dahlia roots, and he told them how these were really roots, and not tubers, like the potatoes. then he dug up some sweet-flag, and they saw how the rough root-pieces were joined one to the other, in a sort of chain of roots, and these he told them were root-stalks, and that they kept a store of nourishment for the new plants, in the spring. "there is a grass," he said, "which has such a root, and every time it is cut it sends up a new plant, so that every time the farmer tries to get it out of his grain-field he only makes more plants, unless he pulls up every piece and destroys it. you see, that grass has to fight to live, and it makes one of the very best fights of any plant i know, except the canada thistle, which does very much the same thing. and that is what all plant life is. it is the struggle to live and grow and spread. the struggle with men and animals and heat and cold and with other plants. and in the struggle the plants, and especially the weeds, which have to fight hardest, have grown strong and persevering, and have learned a thousand ways to multiply their roots and to scatter their seed." iii all thanks for the plants thanksgiving brought the usual good dinner, and upon the table and the sideboard there were many things to remind the little family of their garden and their summer-time. there was a large plate of red apples and a dish of nuts, and there was a pot of pinks, which prue had saved for her window-garden. then there was a fine little jar of pickles, made from davy's tomatoes, besides dishes of tomatoes and turnips, all from the little garden that had come and gone, leaving these good things and many pleasant memories behind. and after the dinner was over, and the pudding eaten and the nuts passed, the little family sat around the table to talk, as they often did. "i am sure we have a great deal to be thankful for this year," said big prue. "two such nice healthy children, with plenty to eat and wear, and a fire to keep us warm, and a good roof over our heads." "and all from the plants," said the chief gardener. "if we are thankful for the plants, we are thankful for almost everything we have." davy sat thinking silently about this, but little prue did not quite understand. "i suppose you mean that the plants made us healthy to work in them," she said. "i mean that, and i mean a great many other things. in the first place, plants furnish all the food in the world. not only the vegetables, but the animal-food. our turkey would not have been here to-day if he had not been fed on grain, and even the oysters must live from a sort of plant-food in the sea. every creature that walks or flies or swims lives either on plants themselves or from some creature that does live on them." "do sharks live on plants, too?" asked prue. "of course!" said davy. "sharks eat men, and men eat plants." "i don't suppose sharks live altogether on men," laughed big prue, "and the little fish they eat may live on other little fish, but if you go far enough you will find that somewhere the beginning is plant-life." "plants also warm and light us," went on the chief gardener. "every stick of wood, or bit of coal, or drop of oil we burn, comes from plant-life. the coal was vegetation long ago--very long ago--and the heat and light that come from it were stored there in that far-away time by the green leaves that drew in life and light from the sunbeams." "do the leaves really take up light?" asked davy. "they really do. with every particle of vegetable matter that is made, a portion of the sun's heat and light is laid up in it. the light is still in the coal, though it looks so black. we have only to burn it, to get back the sunlight." that was a very wonderful thought to the children, and they had to talk about it a great deal before the chief gardener went on. "every bit of clothing we wear comes from the plants," he said at last. "the cotton grows like the down about the thistle seed, and the wool that grows on the sheep's back is there because the sheep feeds on the green grass in summer and upon hay and grain in the winter-time. silk is made by worms from mulberry leaves, linen is from the flax plant, and leather from the cattle that grow in the same way that the sheep grows. [illustration: the wool that grows on the sheep's back is there because the sheep feeds on the green grass in summer] "then there is our house. a great deal of it is made from wood, and even the bricks have vegetable matter in them, while the stones are shaped by tools that have wooden handles, and the bricks and stones are hauled in wooden carts." "but the iron doesn't grow, papa," said little prue. "no, but without heat to forge it--heat that comes from wood and coal--it would be of no use." "but there is one other thing that is more to us than all the rest. plants purify the air we breathe. air that we have breathed once is not fit for us again. we have used the oxygen from it, and turned it into carbonic acid gas. but carbonic acid gas is just what the plants need, so they take our breathed air and turn it into oxygen again and give it back to us fresh and pure, so that we can keep our life and health." "don't forget the flowers, papa," said little prue. "i haven't forgotten them. if it were not for the flowers many of the plants would die out, and besides being so useful, the flowers feed the bees and make the world beautiful, and our lives happier and sweeter, by filling them with color and perfume and loveliness. no, i could hardly forget the flowers, prue. they are the crowning glory of the plants that feed and clothe and warm and shelter us. so let us be thankful for the plants, every part of them, and especially for the flowers." "we ought to be thankful for the sun that makes them grow, too," said davy. "and we must not forget the one to whom all thanks are due," added his mother. and as the november day closed in they gathered around the big open fire, and were happy and cheerful in the blaze of the same sunbeams that had shone on the great forests which had perished so many ages ago. december december i new gardens in the windows december was a month for putting things away. the envelopes of seeds which davy and prue and the chief gardener had gathered were all put into separate tin boxes, and these boxes were put in a dry place on the top cupboard shelf, where they would not be disturbed. the bulbs and roots were also put into dry boxes in the basement, and the different kinds labelled in large plain letters by davy, who could print very nicely indeed. the bulbs were quite interesting. some, like those of the easter lily, had small bulbs formed inside of them. others, like the crocus, had tiny bulbs formed on the outside, and then there were bulblets which had formed above the ground, just where the leaf joins the stalk. these were little lily bulbs. so all the seeds and bulbs and roots were put away for the winter, except a few that davy and prue planted in some pots for their window-gardens. they decided to have different things this year. instead of scarlet runners to climb on the sides of his window, davy had decided to have melon vines. his cantaloupes had not done very well in the garden, for the reason that the pumpkin had sent its long tendrils across the cantaloupe bed, and the pollen had been carried from the flowers of one to the other by the busy bees, and this caused all his cantaloupes to have a flavor of pumpkin. davy had eaten them, though, and even little prue had said they were not so _very_ bad, and had really eaten nearly all of one piece. now, davy was going to have two cantaloupe vines, and let them climb on each side of his window, and see if he couldn't raise some melons that folks would be glad to get a piece of. in the middle of his window he was going to have an eggplant, which he very much wanted to try, and in the little pots at the sides, there were to be a peanut, which he wanted to try, too, and a special little red pepper which had looked very nice in the seed-catalogue. then there were two little pots, one holding a small turnip and the other a radish, which davy wanted to see bloom and go to seed. so, you see, davy's garden was going to be quite different this year, and prue's was different, too. for prue did not have morning-glories to climb, this winter. not because she did not like them, but because she wanted her window, like davy's, to be different from the window of the winter before. she had a cypress vine planted this year, on one side, and a moon vine on the other. and in the center of her window, she was to have a cosmos flower, with a fuchsia and a hyacinth and a tulip at the sides, and one of her precious pinks brought in from the summer garden. of course, the tulip and the hyacinth were to grow from little bulbs, while the fuchsia was a small plant which she had bought at the greenhouse. and in this way both the windows were to be very different from the winter before, and many new things were to be learned in seeing the seeds and the bulbs and the roots sprout and grow and bloom. [illustration: a japanese fern-ball] and there was one thing more which was to be different, for prue and davy had put their money together and bought a japanese fern-ball to hang between the windows, and a hook to hang it on. the ball they soaked in warm water, as the directions had said, and then hung it on the hook. as often as it seemed dry they soaked it again, and one day it was sending out little green points, and soon, even before the rest of their window-garden was fairly started, there were feathery little fern leaves all over the ball, and before christmas it was very beautiful indeed. ii to the garden of sleep _december_ was not a very bright month for davy and prue. very little snow fell, so they could not use their sleds. if it had not been for their gardens and their lessons, which took several hours each day, they would have been rather lonely, looking out on brown woods and meadows. but there was the joy of christmas coming, and this thought made them happier, as each day brought it nearer. they counted the weeks first, then the days, and at last the hours. and then they had secrets. secrets from big prue and the chief gardener, and secrets from each other. sometimes little prue whispered to big prue, and did not want davy to hear. sometimes davy whispered to the chief gardener, and stopped very quick and began to whistle, if prue came into the room. packages began to be brought in after dark, or when everybody else was upstairs, and then, one afternoon--the afternoon of that wonderful eve when stillness and mystery seem to gather on the fields--there was a row of stockings along the mantel, hanging ready for somebody to fill. santa claus, of course, must do that, but there were packages hidden here and there for the good old saint to find and put where they belonged. and prue and davy were in bed almost before dark, because you see the time passes quicker if you are asleep, and the sooner to bed the sooner to sleep. but when big prue came in to kiss them good-night she told them a story--the old sweet story of the little child who was born so long ago, and to whom the first gifts were brought by the wise men. and then she told how that little baby boy in the manger had become a sweet child, with games and playmates like other children, with toys and, perhaps, a little garden of his own, something as they had made during the summer-time. and she told also a little story which, perhaps, is only a story, but it is what it would seem might have happened to the little child of bethlehem. "once," she said, "when he was playing he grew very tired and thirsty, and his playmate was very thirsty, too. so jesus ran to the well for a cup of water, and hurried back with it without stopping to drink. but his playmate was greedy, for he seized the cup and drank it all, except a few drops at the bottom. then he gave the empty cup to jesus, who took it and let the last few drops fall on the grass, when suddenly from where they fell there flowed a little clear stream of water, with lilies-of-the-valley blooming along its banks." "please sing the verse about the story of old," said davy, when she had finished. so his mother sang: "i think, when i read that sweet story of old, how jesus was here among men, how he called little children as lambs to his fold, i should like to have been with them then." and it was only a moment longer that the christmas saint had to wait on the sand-man, for presently the door closed softly on the singer. davy and prue had entered the fair garden of sleep. iii in the gardens of christmas _i cannot_ tell you all the wonders of that christmas. i can only tell you that the presents which the little family had bought for one another were all in their proper places next morning, and that there were ever so many things that nobody but santa claus could possibly have brought. there was a christmas tree, for one thing, the kind of a tree that nobody but santa claus ever raises, or brings, and there was everything upon it and about it that a little boy and girl could want, unless they wanted a great deal more than a little boy and girl ought to have, at one time. but the very finest christmas gift of all was a splendid great big snow-storm, which had begun in the night and was still going on, as fast and as thick as the big, soft, fleecy flakes could fall. every few minutes the children left the beautiful tree to look at the beautiful snow. they could hardly wait until breakfast was over, and the chief gardener had made a photograph of the tree with them in it, before they wanted to rush out with their sleds. all at once davy called prue to the window. "look," he said, "some of these flakes on the window-sash are like little white flowers!" then every one came to see, and, sure enough, some of the snowflakes that had fallen next to the glass were wonderfully shaped, and did look like tiny blossoms. the chief gardener got a magnifying-glass and they looked at them through it, when they saw how really beautiful they were. "i have heard them called 'the flowers of winter,'" said big prue. "there is a little story about how the flowers complained that they must all die when cold weather came, and never see the winter. so then their spirits were allowed to come back as snowflakes." [illustration: the kind of a tree that nobody but santa claus ever raises] that was a glorious christmas. all day the snow came down outside, and all day the big fire blazed and the christmas tree gleamed and shimmered and sparkled inside. and then, in the afternoon, there was a christmas dinner which was quite as good as any of the rest of the things, even to the snow. and after the dinner was over, and they sat around the fire, the chief gardener said: "we have had a happy year. i know it has been happy, for the time has gone so fast. it seems not more than a few weeks ago that we were keeping last christmas, and almost no time at all since prue and davy started their first little gardens in the window. yet, a week from to-day, and that will be a year ago, too. now, i have a plan. it was prue who made me think of it. she said something not long ago that i made into a little verse, about annuals, biennials, and perennials. then prue made one, too, about herbs and shrubs and trees. now i propose that we each make some rhymes for new year's day to celebrate the starting of the window-garden, and also the little garden which prue and davy had outside. the rhymes must tell something that has been learned during the year, and they must be short, and easy to remember. of course, we won't expect very much, but prue has done so well, that i am sure the rest of us can do something, too." "i never made any rhymes," said davy. "i'll help you," said prue. "it's just as easy." so they all agreed, and during the holidays, when the children were not busy with their sleds or books or gardens, they were making rhymes. iv some verses and then good-by and these are the rhymes that were read and recited after dinner on new year's day, just a year after the first little window-garden was started. i shall not tell you whose they were. of course, you will all remember little prue's: "the kinds of plants are these, herbs and shrubs, and trees," and the chief gardener's: "the annuals we plant each spring-- they perish in the fall; biennials die the second year, perennials not at all," but the writers of the others you will have to guess. the plant the parts of every plant are three-- the root, and stem, and leaf they be. the flowers are only leaves more fair, which nature makes, to bloom and bear. the root most roots are hidden in the ground, as they should _always_ be, by rights, but some in other plants are found, and these belong to parasites. the stem the stem may be a stalk or vine to stand erect, or creep, or twine-- for frailest plant, or firmest oak that's ne'er by storm of winter broke. the leaf a leaf has a stem, and of stipules a pair, though the stipules are often quite small, or not there. a leaf has a blade, and of ribs one or more; while of veins and of veinlets it has many score. a leaf may be simple, or it may be compound, and a million small pores for its breathing are found. the flower the blossom has a calyx that is very often green, and just above the sepals the corolla bright is seen. and above the pretty petals may be stamens eight or nine-- slender filaments, and anthers, to hold the pollen fine. while in the blossom's center doth the sturdy pistil grow, with stigma and with style that lead to seed-cups just below. how plants increase from seed and from runner, from stolon bent low-- from sucker and slip and from layer they grow-- from bulb and from bulblet--from tuber and root, they give us the flower and the grain and the fruit. all thanks to the plants for the clothes that we wear-- the food that we eat and the home that we share-- for the air that we breathe and the fuel we burn-- all thanks to the plants, 'tis our only return. davy rather objected to the last line of these verses. he said that it was some return to take good care of plants, especially in the hot summer-time, when it was ever so much nicer to sit in the shade. so another little rhyme was made, like this: a plant should have the sun and air and water, and the proper care. if it has these, and doesn't die, we'll reap the harvest, by and by. then to end the day they all sang a little song about the snowflakes, that jack frost sends out of his gardens of winter-time: the snowflakes jack frost, he makes the snowflakes, he paints the snowflakes white. he sent them christmas morning to make our landscape bright. for in the deepest winter the world is bleak and bare-- jack frost, he sends the snowflakes to make our winter fair. and so ends the story of a year, and of its little gardens. also of prue and davy, who owned the little gardens, and of her who was called big prue and of him who was called the chief gardener. other years will bring other gardens, and other summers. prue and davy will grow older, and learn more and more with each year that passes. but no year will ever be happier and no gardens ever brighter than those to which we are now saying good-by. * * * * * transcriber's notes minor punctuation errors corrected on pages , , , , , , , , , , . slight discrepancies in some of the titles given in the table of contents and those given at the beginning of each section have been retained here. original spellings and hyphenation have been retained except in the cases of these apparent typographical errors: page , "lovelly" changed to "lovely." (i never saw anything so lovely...) page , "no" changed to "not." (...not to look at their garden...) note to the ppver and wwer the tables have been left as a replica of the original because there is no way to ensure a clear reading if the size is reduced. the vegetable garden [illustration: a good collection of home-grown vegetables] [illustration: lettuce maturing in home-made cold frame] the vegetable garden what, when, and how to plant _reprinted from "the farmer's cyclopedia"_ garden city new york doubleday, page & company _copyright, , by_ agricultural service company washington, d. c. _all rights reserved_ table of contents page its importance location plan and arrangement fertilizers preparation of the soil time of planting selection of seed sowing and planting tools mulching irrigation thinning transplanting setting in the open ground protection of plants harvesting, packing and shipping canning vegetables on the farm storing early plants in hotbeds handling plants frames used in truck growing ventilation soils and fertilizers watering crops garden products: anise artichoke asparagus beans beans, lima beets borage broccoli brussels sprouts cabbage calabash cantaloupe cardoon carrot cauliflower celeriac celery cetewayo chayote chervil chicory chile chive citron collards corn salad cress cucumbers dandelion dill egg plant endive fennel garlic ginger herbs horse radish ice plant kale kohl-rabi leek lettuce lleren martynia melon--muskmelon melon--watermelon mustard nasturtium new zealand spinach okra onions parsley parsnip peas peppers physalis potato pumpkin radish rhubarb ruta-baga salsify scolymus skirret sorrel spinach squash stachys sweet basil sweet corn sweet marjoram sweet potato swiss chard thyme tomatoes turnips vegetable marrow quantity of seed to plant composition of roots authorities consulted list of illustrations a good collection of home-grown vegetables. lettuce maturing in home-made cold frame _frontispiece_ facing page liquid manure is one of the best acting fertilizers the wheel hoe is the handiest garden tool the easiest running wheel hoe valuable for maintaining a dust mulch temporary hotbeds in a city back yard showing vegetables growing in hotbed celery banked with earth to blanch it japanese climbing cucumbers, nearly six feet from the ground well-grown cucumbers thorough cultivation of the growing crop is an essential of successful potato raising the vegetable garden the vegetable garden perhaps the most characteristic feature of northern and eastern farms is the home vegetable garden. even where no orchard has been planted, and where the ornamental surroundings of the home have been neglected, a fairly well-kept garden in which are grown a number of the staple kinds of vegetables is generally to be found. in many cases the principal interest in the garden is manifested by the women of the household and much of the necessary care is given by them. a small portion of the garden inclosure is generally devoted to the cultivation of flowers, and a number of medicinal plants is invariably present. throughout the newer parts of the country it is seen that the conditions governing the maintenance and use of the vegetable garden are somewhat different, and, while a number of vegetable crops may be grown somewhere on the farm, there is wanting that distinction so characteristic of the typical new england kitchen garden. it would be impossible to make an accurate estimate of the value of crops grown in the kitchen gardens of the united states, but from careful observation the statement can safely be made that a well-kept garden will yield a return ten to fifteen times greater than would the same area and location if devoted to general farm crops. a half acre devoted to the various kinds of garden crops will easily supply a family with $ worth of vegetables during the year, while the average return for farm crops is considerably less than one-tenth of this amount. a bountiful supply of vegetables close at hand where they may be secured at a few moments' notice is of even more importance than the mere money value. fresh vegetables from the home garden are not subjected to exposure on the markets or in transportation and are not liable to become infected in any way. many of the products of the garden lose their characteristic flavor when not used within a few hours after gathering. by means of the home garden the production of the vegetable supply for the family is directly under control, and in many cases is the only way whereby clean, fresh produce may be secured. the home vegetable garden is worthy of increased attention, and a greater number and variety of crops should be included in the garden.--(f. b. .) the development and extension of truck farming in the atlantic coast states have been coincident with the development of transportation facilities throughout that section. in the beginning the points affording water connection with the great consuming centers of the north were those at which truck farming first became established. the phenomenal growth of the great consuming centers of the country has stimulated a corresponding growth and extension of the food-producing territory, especially that capable of producing perishable truck crops. the demands for vegetables out of season, followed later by the continuous demand for fresh vegetables throughout the year by the great cities, led first to the market gardeners located near the cities supplementing their field operations by extensive forcing-house enterprises. naturally, the products from the greenhouses were expensive and available only to the few who were able to pay fancy prices for green products out of season. the improvement and extension of the transportation facilities which came with the great railway-building era of the united states made it possible to take advantage of the wide diversity of climate offered along the atlantic coast of the united states to furnish these perishable products to the great cities of the north and east. transportation facilities, together with cheap labor and cheap lands at the south, have made it possible to produce in extreme southern locations products out of season at the north in competition with greenhouse products. the greater land area and the smaller amount of capital involved in the production of crops at the south, even though transportation charges were high, have enabled southern growers to produce much larger quantities of the desired crops than could be grown profitably under glass. it was therefore not many years before lettuce, celery, tomatoes, radishes, beets, and bunch beans came to be regular winter and early spring products of gardens located at great distances from the centers of consumption.--(y. b. .) it is only necessary to look around the village and town gardens in the south to become convinced of the great need that exists for information in regard to the proper care of the garden, and particularly that part which is intended to give supplies to the table. there town gardeners are very active in the early spring, and their enthusiasm often leads them to go ahead and plant a great many things at a season too early for their safety, so that a return of cold often compels the almost entire replanting of the garden. but with the production of the early crops in the garden, the enthusiasm of the gardeners oozes out under the influence of the summer's heat, and the garden that at first looked so neat in its spring dress becomes merely a weed patch. few people realize the advantage that long summers and sunny autumns give for the production of a constant succession of crops in the garden, and still fewer realize that in this climate the garden need at no season of the year be abandoned to the weeds. one of the greatest troubles that results from the common practice of allowing the garden to grow up in weeds after the first peas, corn, cabbage, and tomatoes are secured, is that these weeds are the places where the larvæ of the cut-worm hide, and are ready to begin their destructive work as soon as the garden plants are set in the spring. if the garden is kept clean and cropped continuously all the year round, as it may and should be here, there will be no cut-worms to bother the early plants. from january to january there is no need in the south for any space in the garden unoccupied by crops. from the time the earliest peas go into the ground in january up to the time it is necessary to prepare for them the following year there can be a constant succession of fresh vegetables from the garden, by the exercise of a little forethought. and this succession can be made still more perfect if there be added a frame with some hotbed sashes for the production of lettuce, cauliflower, radishes, carrots, etc., during the colder months; while all through the winter there can be celery, kale, spinach and turnips.--(n. c. bul. .) location. the question of the proximity to the house or other buildings is of great importance when locating the garden. caring for a garden is usually done at spare times, and for this reason alone the location should be near the dwelling. in case the site chosen for the garden should become unsuitable for any cause, it is not a difficult matter to change the location. many persons prefer to plant the garden in a different location every five or six years. the lay of the land has considerable influence upon the time that the soil can be worked, and a gentle slope toward the south or southeast is most desirable for the production of early crops. it is an advantage to have protection on the north and northwest, by either a hill, a group of trees, evergreens, a hedge, buildings, a tight board fence, or a stone wall to break the force of the wind. good natural drainage of the garden area is of prime importance. the land should have sufficient fall to drain off surplus water during heavy rains, but the fall should not be so great that the soil will be washed. the surface of the garden should not contain depressions in which water will accumulate or stand. waste water from surrounding land should not flow toward the garden, and the fall below should be such that there will be no danger of flood water backing up. the garden should not be located along the banks of a creek or stream that will be liable to overflow during the growing season. a good fence around the garden plot is almost indispensable, and it should be a safeguard against all farm animals, including poultry, and should be close enough to keep out rabbits. a tight board fence will accomplish, this result and also serve as a wind-break.--(f. b. .) plan and arrangement. the garden should be planned with a view to furnishing a large assortment and continuous supply of vegetables through the entire season. its size will depend primarily upon the amount of land available. on the farm, where any amount of land the owner desires can be reserved, for a garden, vegetables to be stored for winter as well as the summer supply, should be grown. on the village lot, space may be insufficient to grow more than the summer's supply, and it may also be necessary to leave out certain vegetables that require a large amount of space. on a city lot, the space available for growing vegetables is necessarily small, and plantings must usually be confined to those vegetables which produce a large amount of edible product for the space occupied. whether the garden is on the farm, in the village, or on the city lot, the principles governing its planting and care are the same although the distances of planting, methods of tillage, and intensity of cropping may differ widely. on the farm, the saving of labor is more important than the saving of space; even the small vegetables are planted in long rows rather than in beds; and horse power is substituted for hand power wherever possible. in the village and the city, the vegetables must usually be planted as closely as the nature of their growth will permit, and hand tillage employed almost exclusively. much loss of time in planting a garden can be avoided by making a definite plan of the garden several weeks or even months before the planting is to begin. after measuring the area to be used for the garden, the next step is to decide what vegetables are to be grown. if space is ample, this will be determined primarily by the personal tastes of the gardener and his family. however, if only a limited amount of time and attention can be given the garden, it may be wise not to undertake the growing of some of the more exacting crops. whatever the space to be devoted to gardening, the crops to be grown should be decided upon long before the time of planting. in planning the garden, it is well to arrange the vegetables in the order in which they are to be planted. this facilitates the preparation of the land for planting, and makes it possible to maintain the unplanted portion in a good friable condition with the least expenditure of labor. in order that the vegetables may be so arranged, it is necessary to know the proper time for planting each crop. this depends primarily upon the temperature and moisture requirements of the particular crop in question. if any of the small fruits, such as raspberries, currants, and gooseberries, are to be planted within the garden enclosure, they should be included with the permanent crops. the area devoted to the hotbed, cold frame, and seed bed should be decided upon, but these may be shifted more or less from year to year or located in some convenient place outside of the garden. where there is any great variation in the composition of the soil in different parts of the garden it will be advisable to take this into consideration when arranging for the location of the various crops. if a part of the land is low and moist, such crops as celery, onions, and late cucumbers should be placed there. if part of the soil is high, warm, and dry, that is the proper location for early crops and those that need quick, warm soil. in planning the location of the various crops in the garden, due consideration should be given to the matter of succession in order that the land may be occupied at all times. as a rule it would not be best to have a second planting of the same crop follow the first, but some such arrangement as early peas followed by celery, or early cabbage or potatoes followed by late beans or corn, and similar combinations, are more satisfactory. in the south as many as three crops may be grown one after the other on the same land, but at the extreme north, where the season is short, but one crop can be grown, or possibly two by some such combination as early peas followed by turnips.--(f. b. .) fertilizers. the kind of fertilizer employed has a marked influence upon the character and quality of the vegetables produced. for the garden only those fertilizers that have been carefully prepared should be used. fertilizers of organic composition, such as barnyard manure, should have passed through the fermenting stage before being used. the use of night soil generally is not to be recommended, as its application, unless properly treated for the destruction of disease germs, may prove dangerous to health. barnyard manure. for garden crops there is no fertilizer that will compare with good, well-rotted barnyard manure. in localities where a supply of such manure can not be secured it will be necessary to depend upon commercial fertilizers, but the results are rarely so satisfactory. in selecting manure for the garden, care should be taken that it does not contain any element that will be injurious to the soil. an excess of sawdust or shavings used as bedding will have a tendency to produce sourness in the soil. chicken, pigeon, and sheep manures rank high as fertilizers, their value being somewhat greater than ordinary barnyard manures, and almost as great as some of the lower grades of commercial fertilizers. the manure from fowls is especially adapted for dropping in the hills or rows of plants. commercial fertilizers. commercial fertilizers are sold under a guaranteed analysis, and generally at a price consistent with their fertilizing value. no definite rule can be given for the kind or quantity of fertilizer to be applied, as this varies with the crop and the land. at first the only safe procedure is to use a good high-grade fertilizer at the rate of from , to , pounds to the acre and note the results. market gardeners frequently apply as much as , pounds of high-grade fertilizer per acre each year. farmers who do not have sufficient barnyard manure for their crops should begin gradually to use the commercial fertilizers.--(f. b. .) profits from the use of fertilizers. the aim usually in the use of artificial fertilizers is to so supplement soil supplies of plant-food as to obtain a profit, and, as already intimated, the profits for the different crops will be in proportion to their economical use of the desired constituent. still, one should not be deterred from the use of fertilizing materials, even if the conditions should render the application apparently wasteful--that is, the farmer should estimate the increase that it is necessary for him to obtain, in order to be regarded as profitable, and if only this is obtained, he should not be discouraged. many persons seem to have gotten the impression that the use of fertilizers is a gamble at best, and are not satisfied unless the returns from the investment in fertilizers are disproportionately large. we very often hear the statement that by the use of certain fertilizers the crop is doubled or tripled, as if this were a remarkable occurrence, and partook of the nature of a mystery. such results are not mysterious; they can be readily explained. in an experiment on celery it is shown that the weight of celery from an application of pounds per acre of nitrate of soda is two and one-half times greater than on the land upon which no nitrate was used, and that very great profit followed its use. this result is not mysterious--the nitrogen applied, if all had been used by the crop, would have given a still greater increase; it simply shows that where no extra nitrogen had been applied the plant was not able to obtain enough to make the crop what the conditions of the season and soil, in other respects, permitted. these favorable conditions, however, are not uniform, and variations in return from definite application must be expected. it is quite possible to have a return of $ per acre from the use of $ worth of nitrate of soda on crops of high value, as, for example, early tomatoes, beets, cabbage, etc. this is an extraordinary return for the money invested and labor involved; still, if the value of the increased crop from its use was but $ , it should be regarded as a profitable investment, since no more land is required, and but little more capital with this return. the waste of nitrogen does not result in loss. danger of loss of nitrates by leaching. the chief difficulties in the use of nitrate of soda are due to promptness in its solubility and availability. the fact that it is so soluble carries with it the very grave danger that losses by leaching may occur if the conditions of soil and crop at the time of its application are not favorable for a rapid absorption of the nitrate by the plant. this danger is greater if it is applied to the soil before rapid growth, when there is a limited number of plants that have not made much growth, or whose roots have not taken possession of the soil, as in the case of the vegetable crops. in meadows, on the other hand, or in grain crops, where there are a large number of plants per unit of area, and in orchards or berry patches, where there are fewer plants, but a wider distribution of the feeding roots, losses are not so liable to occur. there may be, therefore, great disappointment in the returns from the use of nitrate of soda, if opinions as to its usefulness are based entirely upon its availability. nevertheless, because no unknown conditions enter in, in reference to its availability, it is possible to avoid, in a great degree, the losses liable to occur, and thus to secure a maximum return from the application of this form of nitrogen. the influence of quantity applied and method of application. if the quantity applied is too small to meet the demands of the crop, unless all seasonal conditions are favorable, the chances are that the results will not be completely satisfactory, as weather conditions are not likely to be perfect; it may be too wet or too dry, too cold or too hot, and hence, during certain periods, the plants would not be able to obtain their food--that is, it would be impossible for the plant to absorb always its food uniformly, or in such amounts and at such times as would result in the best development of the plant. in all cases an amount should be applied that would exceed the needed requirement under perfect conditions. [illustration: liquid manure is one of the best acting fertilisers] in the second place, if the quantity found to be necessary for a definite increase of crop, under average conditions, were all applied at once, say in the early spring, a greater opportunity would be offered for losses from leaching than would be the case if the material were given in successive dressings, so that the losses due to the escape of the nitrogen would be minimized; on the other hand, if no losses occurred, the plant might take up more than could be utilized in a normal development, thus defeating the purpose, because resulting in a product of less commercial value. this would apply, of course, only in the case of those crops that are injured by abnormal development in certain directions, as, for example, too large a proportion of straw in cereal grains, too large a root in sugar beets, etc. all these difficulties may be obviated by a fractional application, or, in other words, by supplying the nitrogen at the time and in the quantity best adapted for the plant and for the purpose in view in its growth. the results from the use of nitrogen may be also unsatisfactory if nitrogen only of the elements essential is used. the best results from the use of nitrate can come only when there exist in the soil, or are applied with it, sufficient amounts of the mineral elements to enable the plant to obtain a food suited to its needs--nitrogen is but one element of plant food.--(n. j. a. e. sta., .) preparation of the soil. where there is considerable choice in the location of the garden plot, it is often possible to select land that will require very little special preparation. on the other hand, it may be necessary to take an undesirable soil and bring it into suitable condition, and it is generally surprising to note the change that can be wrought in a single season. _plowing._--autumn is the time for plowing hard or stiff clay soils, especially if in a part of the country where freezing takes place, as the action of the frost during the winter will break the soil into fine particles and render it suitable for planting. sandy loams and soils that contain a large amount of humus may be plowed in the spring, but the work should be done early in order that the soil may settle before planting. in the southern states, where there is not sufficient frost to mellow the soil, this process must be accomplished by means of frequent cultivations, in order that the air may act upon the soil particles. it is desirable to plow the garden early, at least a few days sooner than for general field crops. sandy soils will bear plowing much earlier than heavy clay soils. the usual test is to squeeze together a handful, and if the soil adheres in a ball it is too wet for working. in the garden greater depth of plowing should be practiced than for ordinary farm crops, as the roots of many of the vegetables go deeply into the soil. subsoiling will be found advantageous in most cases, as the drainage and general movement of the soil moisture will be improved thereby. hand spading should be resorted to only in very small gardens or where it is desirable to prepare a small area very thoroughly. _smoothing and pulverizing the soil._--after plowing, the next important step is to smooth and pulverize the soil. if the soil be well prepared before planting, the work of caring for the crops will be very materially lessened. it is not sufficient that the land be smooth and fine on top, but the pulverizing process should extend as deep as the plowing. some gardeners prefer to thoroughly cut the land with a disk harrow before plowing, so that when it is turned by the plow the bottom soil will be fine and mellow. after the plow the disk or cutting harrow is again brought into play and the pulverizing process completed. if the soil is a trifle too dry and contains lumps, it may be necessary to use some form of roller or clod crusher to bring it down. for smoothing the surface and filling up depressions a float or drag made from planks or scantlings will be found serviceable. time of planting. no definite rule can be given regarding the time for planting seeds and plants in the garden, for the date varies with the locality and the time that it is desired to have the crop mature. a little practice will soon determine when and how often sowings should be made in order to escape frost and mature the crop at a time when it will be most useful. certain crops will not thrive during the heated part of the summer, and their time of planting must be planned accordingly. the selection and purchase of garden seeds. in order to have a good garden it is necessary to plant good seeds. it is not alone essential that the seeds be capable of growing; they must be capable of producing a crop of the desired quality, under the conditions existing where the gardening is to be done. some varieties of vegetables are restricted in their adaptations, while others thrive over a wide range of territory and under widely different conditions of soil and climate. if the behavior of different varieties in a given locality is not known, the safe plan to follow in selecting varieties for planting is to choose mainly those that have proved themselves adapted to a wide range of conditions and have thereby become recognized as standard sorts. the newer varieties may be tested in small quantities until their suitableness for a given place and purpose has been determined. particular care should be taken to select varieties that are capable of yielding a product of high quality. such varieties are numerous, and some are better for one region than another. it is always a safe plan to have a little more seed on hand than is actually needed to plant the area desired. sometimes the first planting of a given crop is destroyed by frost or insects, making replanting necessary. in such a case, delay in replanting could be avoided by having the seeds on hand. the additional expense is slight compared with the value of the crop. in the case of many seeds, an ounce costs but little more than a packet; and in such cases, it is the part of wisdom to purchase an ounce, even though a packet might contain sufficient seed to barely plant the desired area. the more expensive seeds may be purchased in smaller quantities, with less margin between the actual amount required and the quantity purchased.--(u. ill. b. .) seed sowing. garden seeds should always be sown in straight rows regardless of where the planting is made. if a window box is employed for starting early plants in a dwelling, the soil should be well firmed and then laid off in straight rows about inches apart. the same method holds good for planting seeds in a hotbed, cold frame, or bed in the garden, except that the rows should be farther apart than in the window box. by planting in straight rows the seedlings will be more uniform in size and shape, and thinning and cultivating will be more easily accomplished. in all cases where the soil of the seed bed is not too wet it should be well firmed or pressed down before laying off and marking for sowing the seeds. after the seeds are sown and covered, the surface should again be firmed by means of a smooth board. no definite rule can be given for the depth to which seeds should be planted, for the depth should vary with the kind of seed and with the character and condition of the soil. in heavy clay and moist soils the covering should be lighter than in sandy or dry soils. in all cases the depth should be uniform, and when planting seeds in boxes or a bed the grooves in which the seeds are planted should be made with the edge of a thin lath.--(f. b. .) _planting._--the most distinctive feature of the garden on the farm should be the reduction of hand labor to a minimum. in planting the garden, therefore, it should be laid out in long rows, sufficiently far apart to permit the use of a horse and cultivator in tending the crops. time and confusion will also be saved if the vegetables are grouped according to their cultural requirements, and the number of plantings made as small as is consistent with the demands of the various crops. each group of crops may then be planted and tended as one crop, and the garden operations thus greatly simplified. when more than one planting of a given crop is desired for the sake of securing a succession, the second planting may be put in at the same time that other crops are being planted, so that even in this case, the number of plantings need not be multiplied. the use of two or more varieties of the same vegetable, differing in their time of maturity, will also aid in keeping down the number of different plantings. the arrangement of the garden as to length of rows and time of planting, is not the only labor saving feature that should characterize the typical farmer's garden. field methods should be practiced in preparing the land for planting, and as much preliminary work done in the fall as is possible, for the sake of both securing an early garden and reducing the amount of labor in spring. after the land is cleared of refuse from preceding crops, it should be heavily manured, and plowed in the fall. the amount of manure to be applied will depend somewhat upon the fertility of the land, but more largely upon the trueness of the farmer's conception of the plant food requirements of garden crops. the best gardens are possible only where plant is supplied much more liberally than is considered ample for field crops. forty tons of manure per acre is a very moderate application for garden crops, and this amount should be applied annually, even on soils already rich, if maximum crops of vegetables are to be grown. the plowing under of manure in the fall hastens the drying out of the soil in the spring, so that planting may begin earlier than if the manuring and plowing were deferred until spring. this is both because the soil actually dries out earlier, and also because no time is lost in manuring or plowing after the soil has reached workable condition. it often happens that early in the spring when the cool season crops should be planted, the soil remains in ideal condition for working only a brief period, and then becomes so thoroughly wet by copious rains that further garden work is precluded for two or three weeks. if the manuring and plowing have been done in the fall, it is often possible to plant the early vegetables in the brief period during which the soil is fit to work, while otherwise this entire period might be expended in making preparations, and the actual planting necessarily deferred until the next time the soil was dry. since the success of many of the early crops depends upon early planting, the wisdom of fall preparation is apparent. if the land has been manured and plowed in the fall, and is worked at the proper time in spring, very little labor is necessary in the preparation of a seed-bed for the early planting. soil containing sufficient humus to grow vegetable crops advantageously, can be fitted for planting without the use of hand tools, if the precaution is taken to work it at the exact time it reaches the right degree of dryness. it will then crumble readily, and a seed-bed can be prepared by the use of a disk, harrow, and planker. the use of these tools saves an enormous amount of labor, and is a vast improvement over the old method of using a hoe and rake. the actual planting of the garden is a simple matter, provided a definite plan has previously been made, so that no time is lost in deciding which vegetable to plant first, where to plant it, or how much to plant. in the home garden, only a small amount of seed of each kind is planted, so that a seed drill cannot be used to advantage, and the planting is therefore almost invariably done by hand. for the small vegetables, sown in drills, the planting involves four distinct operations: ( ) making the drills, ( ) dropping the seed, ( ) covering, and ( ) firming. the most rapid way of making the drills in a garden to be planted in long rows is to use a marker that makes three or four drills each time it is drawn across the area to be planted. with a medium weight marker, and the soil in proper condition for planting, the marks will be of the proper depth for planting seeds of any of the smaller vegetables usually sown in drills. for peas or beans a deeper drill may be made with the plow attachment of a wheel hoe. after the seed is dropped, it is covered with a rake, or in the case of deep planting, with a hoe, or a wheel hoe. the soil is firmed over the seed by the use of the feet, the back of a hoe, or a garden roller. whatever the means employed, the firming must be thorough, especially in light soil or dry weather; for unless the soil is brought in close contact with the seeds, they will not germinate.--(u. ill. b. .) _cultivation._--by the proper cultivation of the garden there is accomplished three things: ( ) the weeds are kept out so that they do not shade or take away valuable plant food and moisture from the plants which one desires to perfect. ( ) the surface soil is brought into the best condition to resist drouth; that is, into the best condition for availing itself to the utmost of the stores of water in the subsoil and to prevent the evaporation of this water from the surface soil. ( ) the stores of insoluble plant food are made soluble by the chemical action and fermentation, which are increased by loosening the soil, thereby letting in the air. _keeping out the weeds._--the methods best adapted for keeping the weeds out of the garden are many and varied, and depend much upon the condition and kind of soil in which the weeds grow; upon the kind of crop and upon the habits of the weeds themselves. the most important step in making easy the prevention of weeds in the garden is the harrowing or other thorough cultivation of the land just before the planting of the seed, to kill the young weeds. if this is done thoroughly, the weeds do not have a better chance than the crop. if this is not done, the weeds will be ahead of the crop in growth, and if started even ever so little when the crop is planted, the result generally is that the crop is seriously overgrown by them before it is large enough to be cultivated. _this is a common mistake, and is, perhaps, responsible for more failures in the garden than any other factor which enters into the consideration of this subject_; and it is a very simple matter to prevent any trouble from this source if a little foresight is exercised. _early cultivation to kill weeds._--the next most important factor in the prevention of weeds in the garden is early cultivation. in the case of seeds that require a long time to germinate, it is an excellent plan to lightly rake over the land with an ordinary fine-toothed rake, even before the crop appears above the ground, providing the work is so carefully done as not to disturb the seeds. when the seed is sown with a drill, the line of the row may be plainly seen even before the plants come up, thus making it easy to commence cultivating it in advance of the weeds. in case of such crops as carrots, onions, parsnips and beets, which are quite delicate when young, cultivation should begin with some hand garden cultivator, even if it is intended later on to cultivate with a horse, and the crop is planted with this purpose in view. such close and careful work cannot be done with any horse implement now in use as with the best hand implements. with proper tools, the work may be done nearly as quickly by hand as by horse power, and far more perfectly when the plants are small. careful early cultivation is of the utmost importance, since, if the weeds are removed when they are young, the work of weeding is very small. if allowed to remain until well rooted, their removal is often a very serious matter, and frequently, if neglected at this early stage, the weeds become so firmly established as to make it a question whether to remove them or plow under the whole crop; and often it is the part of wisdom to adopt the latter alternative. aside from its effect in the prevention of weeds, early cultivation is of great value in breaking up the crust that packs firmly around the tender growing stems of plants, and that seriously interferes with their growth. it is also, like all surface cultivation, of aid in the conservation of moisture in the soil. _importance of not allowing weeds to go to seed._--a common source of weed infection is often found in the few weeds that are allowed to go to seed toward the end of the growing season in the maturing crop or after the crop has been gathered. to some farmers it often seems a small matter to allow a few plants of pig-weed, purslane, tumble weed and weeds of other kinds to go to seed in the garden, but absolute cleanliness should be the only rule in this particular, and it is by far the most economical in practice in the long run. it requires but little labor and saves much useless expense to destroy weeds that are going to seed. if the preventives for weeds suggested are closely followed hand weeding will be reduced to a minimum and will often be unnecessary with any crop. _weed seeds in manure for the garden._--the manure applied to the garden is often coarse and contains many weed seeds, and is a fruitful source of weed infection. the manure intended for the garden that contains the seeds of weeds should be piled up and allowed to ferment until the whole mass is thoroughly rotted. by this means the seeds in it will be killed. but in order to rot manure to best advantage, it should be forked over occasionally when well warmed up by fermentation, and the whole turned over, with the outside of the pile thrown into the center. if dry, it should be watered enough to enable fermentation to continue, and to prevent "fire-fanging." it is seldom advisable to use fresh manure in the garden, and manure should only be applied in this condition when free from weeds, and then only for some late-maturing crops, in which case there will be time for it to rot before the crops need it. all early crops need well rotted manure, and require it in much larger quantities than do the late-maturing crops.--(u. minn. a. e. s. .) _general cultivation._--the methods to be pursued in the general cultivation of garden crops will vary somewhat, according to the soil, season and crop. however, it is very important to remember that the destruction of weeds is but a small part of the work of cultivation. the most important part is to so fit the soil that it may best withstand drouth. this is accomplished by frequent shallow cultivation during the period of growth. the first implements to use in the care of such crops as are generally cultivated by hand are those that work the soil to only a very slight depth, close to the plants. such implements may be used just as the seedlings are breaking ground. as soon as the plants have gained some little strength, implements should be used that will go deeper, until a depth of two or three inches can be easily worked without endangering the safety of the crop by covering the plants with dirt. it is doubtful if any of our garden crops should ever be cultivated more than three inches deep, and it is very certain that many crops are injured by cultivating deeply very close to the plants, in which case the roots are cut off near their upper ends and thus wholly destroyed. cultivation in a period of drouth results in forming a mulch or blanket of dry earth on the surface of the land, which prevents the moisture from passing into the atmosphere, and a rather shallow blanket, say two inches deep, accomplishes this purpose. a compact subsoil readily transmits the water upwards to the surface soil, in the same manner that a lamp wick carries the oil to the flame. at the surface the soil water is prevented from evaporating by a blanket of loose earth, and is thus saved in the upper subsoil and lower and middle parts of the furrow slice for the roots of the crop; loose surface soil is a good non-conductor of water. during the growth of a crop, the surface of the ground should never be left long with a crust on it, but should be stirred after each rain or after artificially watering. tools. there are a number of one-horse cultivators that are especially adapted for work in the garden. these may be provided with several sizes of teeth and shovels, and are easily transformed for various kinds of work. in working the crops while they are small the harrow or smaller teeth may be used, and later when the plants become larger the size of the shovels may be increased. many gardeners, however, prefer to use the harrow teeth at all times. when it is desirable to ridge up the soil around a crop, the wings, or hillers, may be put on either side of the cultivator. a one-horse turning plow is useful for running off rows or throwing up ridges. aside from the horse tools in general use on the farm, there are only one or two cultivators that will be required for the garden, and these are not expensive. the outfit of hand tools for the garden should include a spade, a spading fork, a cut-steel rake, a -foot measuring pole, a line for laying off rows, a standard hoe, a narrow hoe, dibbles, a trowel, an assortment of hand weeders, a watering can, a wheelbarrow, and if the work is to be done largely by hand the outfit should also include some form of wheel hoe, of which there are a number on the market. mulching. the term mulch as generally used means a layer of litter applied to the surface of the ground primarily for the purpose of retarding evaporation from the soil. mulches are thus used as a substitute for cultivation to conserve the moisture in the soil in summer and to keep down weeds. they are also used as winter and spring coverings for low-growing small fruits to retard flowering and fruiting and thus to protect them from injury by late frosts. what is termed a "soil mulch" or "dust mulch" is maintained by frequent cultivation of the surface soil, and, like the ordinary mulch, is an effective means of retarding evaporation. among the common materials used for mulching crops are straw, marsh hay, and leaves. these materials are usually applied to the whole surface of the soil in layers to inches deep. mulching crops with straw or other litter is not very common. on a large scale it is too expensive. it frequently happens on a farm, however, that spring finds an old straw stack in the barnyard that will be practically valueless for feed the following winter. can it be used profitably as a mulch? this question was investigated quite thoroughly by the nebraska station. experiments were made to determine how mulching vegetables compares with the most thorough cultivation as a general farm practice. old straw was the material used. after settling, the layer applied was about inches deep. a large number of different vegetables were grown. in general it was found that mulching in nebraska gave much better results in normal or dry seasons than in wet seasons. the value of the mulch in conserving the soil moisture was found to be quite marked. soil samples taken one season in july and august showed the moisture content to a depth of inches to be . per cent, as compared with . per cent in cultivated soil. when the mulch was applied early in the season before the ground became thoroughly wet, it often had a retarding effect on the growth of the vegetables. with early spring vegetables, like lettuce, which require only a few cultivations, it was found cheaper and better to cultivate than to mulch; but with longer-growing crops that require frequent cultivation throughout the season, such as cabbage, tomatoes, etc., mulching usually proved more effective and cheaper than cultivation. the fact that most vegetables, especially the more tender kinds, can not be mulched, until they have become well established and the weather has become warm, thus requiring some preliminary cultivation, certainly increases the labor required in growing mulched vegetables over what would be necessary if the mulch could be applied earlier. but, if the impracticability of early mulching is a serious drawback to the use of mulches, so is the impracticability of midsummer cultivation under farm conditions a serious objection to dependence upon cultivation alone. for most vegetables mulching should be used to supplement cultivation rather than to displace it. such cultivation as is commonly given farm gardens is better for most vegetables in early spring than mulching; but mulching is just as surely better in midsummer than the neglect which is the common thing in farm gardens at that time of year. the experiment station tests have indeed shown mulching to be better in many cases than the most thorough cultivation throughout the summer. the station tests indicate that it is unwise to mulch drilled onions, lettuce, or sweet corn. the stand of the onions and lettuce is injured by mulching, while so few cultivations are required for sweet corn that mulching is hardly profitable, and in wet seasons the yield was decidedly decreased by mulching. with transplanted onions, beets, salsify, parsley, peas, and melons the labor required and yield obtained were found to be about the same by either method of culture. with cabbage, tomatoes, beans, cucumbers, potatoes, and sweet potatoes, very favorable results were secured by mulching. the yields of each of these crops were considerably increased by mulching and the labor required was considerably less than in case of cultivation alone. mulched cabbage produced larger heads than cultivated cabbage, and there was less injury from rot. the vigor of tomato plants was decreased by mulching, but the yield of fruit increased. the fruit was also cleaner and less subject to rot. mulched cucumbers produced perfect fruits during dry periods when the fruit from the cultivated plants was small and imperfect. the quality of potatoes was not hurt by mulching except in wet places. [illustration: the wheel hoe is the handiest garden tool] [illustration: the easiest running wheel hoe valuable for maintaining a dust mulch] in a special test of a -inch and -inch straw mulch and early and late mulching for potatoes a -inch mulch applied late in summer after several cultivations gave the best results. in the case of sweet potatoes the vines did not take root through the straw mulch as they do on cultivated ground, which was considered a decided advantage for mulching. on the whole this work seems to indicate that on the farm where cultivation of the garden is likely to be neglected in midsummer, a mulch of straw can be used profitably as a substitute. for the best results the mulch should not be applied until the ground has become thoroughly warmed up and after two or three cultivations have been given. the mulch may then be safely applied to such vegetables as cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes, and beans, and the garden left to take care of itself the rest of the season. the same plans were worked at the new jersey stations. one season it was found that mulching increased the yield of sound fruits of eggplants . per cent and of tomatoes and peppers about per cent each. the keeping quality of cucumbers also appeared to be slightly benefited by the use of a mulch. the season following, which was considerably more rainy, no advantage resulted from mulching. in this experiment there was no noticeable difference in the effectiveness of new salt hay, old hay, or excelsior as a mulch. several of the experiment stations have carried out experiments in mulching potatoes. the favorable results obtained in such experiments in dry seasons at the nebraska station have already been referred to. at the michigan station the following yields were obtained: mulched, bushels of potatoes per acre; cultivated, bushels per acre. with another variety the yield of mulched potatoes was bushels, and of cultivated, bushels. the cost of cultivation was less than the cost of mulching, and the profit in both instances was in favor of cultivation. it should be stated, however, that there was a large amount of rain during this season, and that the straw used as a mulch contained a considerable amount of grain, which came up on the mulched plats, both of which conditions were unfavorable to mulching. at the oklahoma station the total potato crop was increased about per cent by mulching, the marketable crop nearly per cent, and the size of the tubers about per cent. mulching potatoes with old shavings at the new jersey stations increased the total number of tubers on a small plat about per cent and the weight of the crop about per cent. at the georgia station mulching potatoes with pine straw was not found to be of sufficient value to recommend the practice. these conflicting results secured with potatoes would seem to confirm the conclusion reached at the nebraska station that mulching is of greatest value in a dry season. there is, however, a drawback to mulching that may not at first occur to the reader, viz., the danger it involves from fire. in dry weather a lighted match or cigar dropped upon the mulch may easily start a conflagration that it may be impossible to stop until the orchard is destroyed. it gives disaffected trespassers in the orchard an excellent opportunity to take vengeance upon the owner. the cost of the mulch will of course depend much upon the price at which the material may be obtained. clean wheat, rye, or oats straw would answer the purpose well, and in many localities would be cheaper than marsh hay. in some seasons oats sown as a second crop would grow fast enough to make mulching material by the time of frost. in the vicinity of marshes the coarser marsh grasses that have no value as hay may be cut after the ground freezes in autumn and would make excellent material for mulching. cornstalks have been suggested, but they are probably too coarse to keep down weeds. it has been suggested that by sowing rye in september, and harvesting the crop the following june, and then sowing the same ground to millet, the rye straw with the millet would mulch an area of plums equal to that on which the two crops were grown, and would leave the thrashed rye to compensate for the labor. this is certainly worth trying by those who have no better source from which to obtain mulching.--(nebr. sta. bul., , .) irrigation. throughout the portions of the country where rains occur during the growing season it should not be necessary to irrigate except occasionally in order to produce the ordinary garden crops. in arid regions, where irrigation must be depended upon for the production of crops, the system best adapted for use in that particular locality should be employed in the garden. wherever irrigation is practiced the water should not be applied until needed, and then the soil should be thoroughly soaked. after irrigation, the land should be cultivated as soon as the surface becomes sufficiently dry, and no more water should be applied until the plants begin to show the need of additional moisture. constant or excessive watering is very detrimental in every case. apply the water at any time of the day that is most convenient and when the plants require it. by the subirrigation method of watering, lines of farm drain tiles or perforated pipes are laid on a level a few inches below the surface of the soil. this system is especially adapted for use in backyard gardens where city water is available and where the area under cultivation is small. subirrigation is expensive to install, as the lines of tiles should be about feet apart, or one line for each standard row. by connecting the tiles at one end by means of a tile across the rows the water may be discharged into the tiles at one point from a hose, and will find its way to all parts of the system, entering the soil through the openings. thinning. where plants are not to be transplanted twice, but remain in the plant bed until required for setting in the garden, it may be necessary to thin them somewhat. this part of the work should be done as soon as the plants are large enough to pull, and before they begin to "draw" or become spindling from crowding. when thinning plants in the plant bed it should be the aim to remove the centers of the thick bunches, leaving the spaces as uniform as possible. when thinning the rows of seedlings in the garden the best plants should be allowed to remain, but due consideration should be given to the matter of proper spacing. failure to thin plants properly will invariably result in the production of an inferior crop. there is a tendency for some gardeners to leave the plants of carrots, onions, and similar vegetables too thick, or to defer the thinning too long, with the intention of making use of the thinnings. usually this is a serious error, except in the case of beets, which can be used quite young for greens. the crowded seedlings do not reach edible size as soon as they would if not crowded; and the removal of part of the crowded plants when they are wanted for the table is likely to seriously disturb and impair the growth of those which remain. a better plan is to make at least a preliminary thinning as early as possible, leaving the plants perhaps twice as thick as they are eventually to stand; and then to pull out every other plant after they reach edible size. this method of thinning is especially adapted to beets, carrots, lettuce and onions. the other root crops, like parsnips and salsify, should be thinned to the full distance at the first thinning.--(u. wis. cir. ; f. b. .) transplanting. at the north, where the growing season is short, it is necessary to transplant several of the garden crops in order to secure strong plants that will mature within the limits of the growing season. in the southern states the season is longer, and transplanting, while desirable, may not be necessary, as many crops that must be started indoors at the north can be planted in the garden where they are to remain. transplanting should be done as soon as the seedlings are large enough to handle, and again when the plants begin to crowd one another. aside from producing more uniform and hardy plants, the transplanting process has several other very marked influences. certain crops which are grown for their straight roots are often injured by having their roots bent or broken in transplanting. on the other hand, such plants as celery, which at first have a straight root and are grown for their tops, are greatly benefited by transplanting. in all cases transplanting has a tendency to increase the number of small roots, and these are the main dependence of the plant at the time it is set in the open ground. a large number of garden crops, including melons, cucumbers, and beans, do not transplant readily from the seed bed to the open ground, and some special means for handling the plants must be employed where extra early planting is desired. a common practice among gardeners is to fill pint or quart berry boxes with good soil and plant a single hill in each box. another method is to cut sods into pieces about inches thick and inches square and place them, root side upward, on the greenhouse bench or in the hotbed, the hills being planted in the loamy soil held in place by the roots of the grass. when the weather becomes sufficiently warm, and it is desired to set the plants in the garden, the berry boxes or pieces of sod are placed on a flat tray and carried to the place where the planting is to be done. holes of sufficient size and depth are dug and the boxes or sods are simply buried at the points where it is desired to have the hills of plants. the boxes should be placed a little below the surface and fine earth worked in around the plants. if it is thought desirable, the bottoms of the boxes may be cut away when set in the garden. setting in the open ground. a few hours before removing plants from the seed bed or plant bed they should be well watered and the water allowed to soak into the soil. this will insure a portion of the soil adhering to the roots and prevent the plants from wilting. if the plants have been properly thinned or transplanted it is often possible to run a knife or trowel between them, thus cutting the soil into cubes that are transferred with them to the garden. where the soil does not adhere to the roots of the plants it is well to puddle them. in the process of puddling, a hole is dug in the earth near the plant bed, or a large pail may be used for the purpose, and a thin slime, consisting of clay, cow manure, and water, is prepared. the plants are taken in small bunches and their roots thoroughly coated with this mixture by dipping them up and down in the puddle a few times. puddling insures a coating of moist earth over the entire root system of the plant, prevents the air from reaching the rootlets while on the way to the garden, and aids in securing direct contact between the roots and the soil. previous to setting out plants, the land should be worked over and put in good condition, and everything should be ready for quick operations when a suitable time arrives. the rows should be measured off, but it is well to defer making the furrows or digging the holes until ready to plant, in order to have the soil fresh. the time best suited for transferring plants from the plant bed to the open ground is when there is considerable moisture in the air and clouds obscure the sun, and if the plants can be set before a shower there will be no difficulty in getting them to grow. during seasons when there is very little rain at planting time, or in irrigated regions, evening is the best time to set the plants. it is possible to set plants in quite dry soil, provided the roots are puddled and the earth well packed about them. when water is used in setting plants it should be applied after the hole has been partially filled, and the moist earth should then be covered with dry soil to prevent baking. where water is available for irrigation it will be sufficient to puddle the roots and then irrigate after the plants are all in place. plants should be set a trifle deeper in the garden than they were in the plant bed. the majority of plants require to be set upright, and where the dibble is used for planting care should be taken that the soil is well pressed around the roots and no air spaces left. precautions to avoid attacks of insects and diseases. in the control of insects and diseases that infest garden crops it is often possible to accomplish a great amount of good by careful sanitary management. in the autumn, after the crops have been harvested, or as fast as any crop is disposed of, any refuse that remains should be gathered and placed in the compost heap, or burned if diseased or infested with insects. several of the garden insects find protection during the winter under boards and any loose material that may remain in the garden. dead vines or leaves of plants are frequently covered with spores of diseases that affect those crops during the growing season, and these should be burned, as they possess very little fertilizing value. protection of plants. some plants require protection from the direct rays of the sun in summer or from cold in winter, and there are many that need special protection while they are quite small. seedlings of many of the garden crops are unable to force their way through the crust formed on the soil after heavy rains, and it is necessary either to break the crust with a steel rake or soften it by watering. in parts of the country where the sunshine is extremely hot during a part of the summer, some plants, especially those that are grown for salad purposes, are benefited by shading. shading is often used in the care of small plants when they are first transplanted. where boards are available they can be used for protecting plants that have been set in rows in the garden by placing them on the south side of the row at an angle that will cast a shadow over the plants, and holding them in place by short stakes driven in the ground. laths, wooden slats, cotton cloth, or shaded sash are frequently used to protect plant beds from the heat of summer. for protecting plants from cold in winter several kinds of materials are used, such as boards, cloth, pine boughs, straw, manure, or leaves. there are a number of crops of a tropical nature that may be grown far north, provided they are properly protected during the winter. several of the annual crops can be matured much earlier in the spring if they are planted in the autumn and protected during the winter. plants of this kind can often be protected by means of boards set at an angle on the north side of the row instead of on the south. a mulch of manure, straw, or leaves forms a good protection, but care should be taken that the mulch does not contain seeds of any kind or serious trouble will attend the further cultivation of the crop. plants are like animals in that they require air, and care should be exercised in putting on the winter covering not to smother them. coarse, loose materials are better for a winter covering than fine, easily compacted substances.--(f. b. .) harvesting, packing and shipping. as a rule the crop should be harvested just before it reaches maturity. the time for this depends somewhat upon the distance from the market and the method of shipment. remember that it costs just as much freight for a package of poor goods as for the best, and while there is a market for good produce, poor stuff not only does not bring good prices, but reacts upon the superior article, reducing its price. it is, therefore, poor policy to ship inferior goods. inspect and assort rigorously, retaining all doubtful product for canning, or to be otherwise disposed of. better lose it entirely than send it to market to undermine the good. learn what kind of package the market you are selling in prefers. provide that package, and pack the goods securely and honestly. be sure the package is full. not only is this more honest, but your produce will arrive upon the market in better condition if this is done. have the goods in each package as near the same size as possible, and as near the same degree of ripeness. do not make the error of placing the best on top. remember that every package is examined by the buyer until he learns whether you are honest or not, and this practice fools no one, and only serves to make the buyer wary of your goods. pack neatly in a neat clean package. nail it up securely, stencil your name and post office, and the name of the consignee upon it, and ship as promptly, and by the most direct route possible. notify the consignee promptly of the shipment in order that he may know it is on the way, and have a chance to provide for its reception and disposal. the shipment of perishable goods by freight in refrigerator cars is preferable. very early in the season ventilated cars may give satisfaction. except with a few packages of very early vegetables or fruits, express shipments will not, as a rule, be found profitable. not only will the charges be four or five fold, but the packages are handled so often, and so roughly, that they invariably reach their destination in poor condition. besides this, there is no assurance as to the temperature being kept low, and a low temperature, while in transit, is essential to the arrival of your produce upon the market in good condition. careful selection, packing and shipping cannot be too strongly urged. upon the intelligence and care with which this is done, depends, largely, the success of the shipper. remember that after leaving your hands, and before reaching the consumer, these perishable goods are subjected to their greatest ordeal, and too much care cannot be given to make this test as light as possible. a proper understanding of this by the shipper would save many a disappointment, and many a hard word for the consignee. of course, all else being equal, it is much safer and more satisfactory to sell on the track. however, this is not always possible, nor is it always advisable when possible. it would be unjust to demand or to expect the buyer to pay you the net price of the big city market for your goods at your home town. in buying from you there, he takes the risk of transportation, of the fluctuations of the market, and pays all selling charges, and it is but just and right that he should be allowed a fair margin for these risks. on the other hand, human nature is the same the world over, and unless you watch mr. buyer closely, you will find he shows a decided tendency to make this margin unnecessarily large. to sell on track, intelligently and advantageously, therefore, you must make a close study of the market conditions. it is not enough to know what stuff sold for last week. you should know what it sold for the day before, and what the conditions of supply and demand are. is the crop a large one? is the movement to your market large or light? is the demand brisk or dull? is your railroad service efficient? all these questions should be considered, and unless the farmer recognizes that the disposal of his crop is a business, and adopts business methods, he is sure to come to grief. in order to do this, it is necessary to have some reliable source of information. for this purpose, select some reliable commission house, and if necessary, pay them to furnish you daily market reports by wire during the shipping season. do not begrudge the little money these telegrams will cost, for they will frequently save you many a dollar, even on one carload.--(la. st. u. & a. & m. col. .) canning vegetables in the home. one of the many problems that confront the american housewife is the supply of vegetables for her table during the winter months. "what can i have for dinner today?" is a question often heard. since the advent of the modern greenhouse and the forcing of vegetables under glass, fresh vegetables can usually be found at any time in the markets of the large cities. but the cost of forcing vegetables or growing them out of season is and will continue to be very great. this makes the price so high as almost to prohibit their use by people of moderate means, except as a luxury. a healthful diet, however, must include vegetables, and therefore the housewife turns to canned goods as the only alternative. these are sometimes poor substitutes for the fresh article, especially the cheaper commercial grades, which necessarily lack the delicate flavor of the fresh vegetable. there is practically no danger, however, from contamination with tin or other metals providing the containers are made of proper materials and handled carefully. in some cases the proper care is not taken in packing vegetables for market. the decayed and refuse portions are not so carefully removed as they should be and the requisite degree of cleanliness is not observed in their packing. happily, however, such carelessness is not general. every housewife may run a miniature canning factory in her own kitchen, and on the farm this is especially economical and desirable, the economy being less pronounced in the case of city dwellers, who must buy their fruits and vegetables. enough vegetables annually go to waste from the average farm garden to supply the table during the entire winter. but usually the farmer's wife cans her tomatoes, preserves her fruits, and leaves her most wholesome and nutritious vegetables to decay in the field, under the impression that it is impossible to keep them. this is a great mistake. it is just as easy to keep corn or string beans as it is to keep tomatoes, if you know how. _sterilization._--the great secret of canning or preserving lies in complete sterilization. the air we breathe, the water we drink, all fruits and vegetables, are teeming with minute forms of life which we call bacteria, or molds, or germs. these germs are practically the sole cause of decomposition or rotting. the exclusion of air from canned articles, which was formerly supposed to be so important, is unnecessary provided the air is sterile or free from germs. the exclusion of air is necessary only because in excluding it we exclude the germ. in other words, air which has been sterilized or freed from germs by heat or mechanical means can be passed continuously over canned articles without affecting them in the least. if a glass bottle is filled with some vegetable which ordinarily spoils very rapidly--for instance, string beans--and, instead of a cork, it is stoppered with a thick plug of raw cotton and heated until all germ life is destroyed, the beans will keep indefinitely. the air can readily pass in and out of the bottle through the plug of cotton, while the germs from the outside air cannot pass through, but are caught and held in its meshes. this shows that the germs and their spores or seeds are the only causes of spoilage that we have to deal with in canning. germs which cause decay may be divided into three classes--yeasts, molds and bacteria. all three of these are themselves plants of a very low order, and all attack other plants of a higher order in somewhat the same way. every housewife is familiar with the yeast plant and its habits. it thrives in substances containing sugar, which it decomposes or breaks up into carbonic acid and alcohol. this fact is made use of in bread making, as well as in the manufacture of distilled spirits. yeasts are easily killed, so they can be left out of consideration in canning vegetables. molds, like yeasts, thrive in mixtures containing sugar, as well as in acid vegetables, such as the tomato, where neither yeasts nor bacteria readily grow. although more resistant to heat than yeasts, they are usually killed at the temperature of boiling water. as a general rule, molds are likely to attack jellies and preserves and are not concerned with the spoiling of canned vegetables. the spoiling of vegetables is due primarily to bacteria. the reproduction of bacteria is brought about by one of two processes. the germ either divides itself into two parts, making two bacteria where one existed before, or else reproduces itself by means of spores. these spores may be compared with seeds of an ordinary plant, and they present the chief difficulty in canning vegetables. while the parent bacteria may be readily killed at the temperature of boiling water, the seeds retain their vitality for a long time even at that temperature, and upon cooling will germinate, and the newly formed bacteria will begin their destructive work. therefore it is necessary, in order to completely sterilize a vegetable, to heat it to the boiling point of water and keep it at that temperature for about one hour, upon two or three successive days, or else keep it at the temperature of boiling water for a long period of time--about five hours. the process of boiling upon successive days is the one that is always employed in scientific work and is much to be preferred. the boiling on the first day kills all the molds and practically all of the bacteria, but does not kill the spores or seeds. as soon as the jar cools these seeds germinate and a fresh crop of bacteria begin work upon the vegetables. the boiling upon the second day kills this crop of bacteria before they have had time to develop spores. the boiling upon the third day is not always necessary, but is advisable in order to be sure that the sterilization is complete. among scientists this is called fractional sterilization, and this principle constitutes the whole secret of canning. if the housewife will only bear this in mind she will be able with a little ingenuity to can any meat, fruit, or vegetable. _exclusion of the air._--even after sterilization is complete the work is not yet done. the spores of bacteria are so light that they float about in the air and settle upon almost everything. the air is alive with them. a bubble of air no larger than a pea may contain hundreds of them. therefore it is necessary after sterilizing a jar of vegetables to exclude carefully all outside air. if one bacterium or one of its spores should get in and find a resting place, in the course of a few days the contents of the jar would spoil. this is why the exclusion of air is an important factor, not because the air itself does any damage but because of the ever-present bacteria. all of this may seem new fashioned and unnecessary to some housekeepers. persons have quite often heard it said: "my grandmother never did this, and she was the most successful woman at canning that i ever knew." possibly so, but it must be remembered that grandmother made her preserves--delicious they were, too--and canned her tomatoes, but did not attempt to keep the most nutritious and most delicately flavored vegetables, such as lima beans, string beans, okra, asparagus, or even corn. _so-called "preserving powders."_--there are a great many brands of so-called "preserving powders" on the market. these are sold not only under advertised trade names but by druggists and peddlers everywhere. in the directions for use the housewife is told to fill the jar with the fruit or vegetable to be canned, to cover with water, and to add a teaspoonful of the powder. it is true that these powders may prevent the decay of the fruit or vegetable, but they also encourage uncleanly, careless work, and in the hands of inexperienced persons may be dangerous. while with small doses the influence may not be apparent in an adult in normal health, with a child or an invalid the effect may be of a serious nature. the proper way to sterilize is by means of heat, and as this can be done very easily and cheaply the use of chemical preservatives in canning is not to be recommended. _kinds of jars._--the first requisite for successful canning is a good jar. glass is the most satisfactory. tin is more or less soluble in the juices of fruits and vegetables. even the most improved styles of tin cans which are lacquered on the inside to prevent the juice from coming in contact with the tin are open to this objection. while the amount of tin dissolved under these conditions is very small, enough does come through the lacquer and into the contents of the can to be detected in an ordinary analysis. while the small amount of tin may not be injurious, it gives an undesirable color to many canned articles. tin cans can not readily be used a second time, while glass with proper care will last indefinitely. there are a great many kinds of glass jars on the market, many of them possessing certain distinct points of advantage. the ordinary screw-top jar is the one in most common use. although cheap in price, these jars are the most expensive in the long run. the tops last only a few years and, being cheaply made, the breakage is usually greater than that of a better grade of jar. the tops also furnish an excellent hiding place for germs, which makes sterilization very difficult. the most satisfactory jar is the one which has a rubber ring and glass top, held in place by a simple wire spring. there are several brands of these jars on the market, so no difficulty should be experienced in obtaining them. vegetables often spoil after being sterilized because of defective rubbers. it is poor economy to buy cheap rubbers or to use them a second time. as a general rule black rubbers are more durable than white ones. buy a good grade of jar. the best quality usually retails at from a dollar to a dollar and twenty-five cents a dozen. the initial expense may be, therefore, somewhat high, but with proper care they should last many years. the annual breakage should be less than per cent on the average. in selecting a jar always give preference to those having wide mouths. in canning whole fruit or vegetables and in cleaning the jars the wide mouth will be found to be decidedly preferable. _containers for sterilizing._--a tin clothes boiler with a false bottom made of wire netting cut to fit may be used as a container for sterilizing. the netting is made of medium-sized galvanized wire (no. ) with one-half inch mesh. a false bottom is absolutely necessary, as the jars will break if set flat upon the bottom of the boiler. narrow strips of wood, straw, or almost anything of this nature may be used for the purpose, but the wire gauze is clean and convenient. there are several varieties of patent steamers or steam cookers in common use. these have either one or two doors and hold a dozen or more quart jars. they are ideal for canning, but they are somewhat expensive and can be easily dispensed with. a common ham boiler or clothes boiler with a tight-fitting cover will answer every purpose.--(f. b. .) _selection and preparation of vegetables._--the first step in successful canning is the selection and preparation of the vegetables. never attempt to can any vegetable that has matured and commenced to harden or one that has begun to decay. as a general rule, young vegetables are superior in flavor and texture to the more mature ones. this is especially true of string beans, okra, and asparagus. vegetables are better if gathered in the early morning while the dew is still on them. if it is impossible to can them immediately, do not allow them to wither, but put them in cold water, or in a cold, damp place and keep them crisp until you are ready for them. do your canning in a well-swept and well-dusted room. this will tend to reduce the number of spores floating about and lessen the chances of inoculation. storing. the assortment of vegetables which can be made available for winter use is much larger than is ordinarily supposed. no less than thirty distinct kinds of vegetables can be preserved for winter use by proper methods of storing, canning, and pickling. of these, at least twenty may be kept in the fresh state, without canning or pickling. besides the staple crop, potatoes, the list includes the root crops (beets, carrots, horse-radish, parsnips, winter radish, ruta-baga, salsify, turnips), kohl-rabi, cabbage, celery, leeks, chicory, parsley, onions, dry beans, pumpkins, squashes and sweet potatoes. the vegetables most commonly canned are rhubarb, tomatoes, corn, peas and string beans; those commonly preserved by pickling are cauliflower, cucumbers (both green and ripe), citron, green peppers and green tomatoes. when vegetables are to be canned or pickled, it is not usually necessary to grow them especially for that purpose, except to make sure that a suitable variety is planted in sufficient quantity. when the vegetables have reached the right stage of maturity and the supply is abundant, part of the crop is simply canned or pickled without special regard to the particular time in the season it may be done. however, with vegetables to be preserved in the fresh state for winter use it is essential that they be planted at such a time that they will reach the right stage of development at the proper season for storing. this means that in the case of some of the crops they will be planted considerably later than if designed for summer use, since the product is of better quality if not allowed to continue growth after reaching the desired stage of development, and this stage should not be reached before the arrival of the storage season. since most vegetables usually keep best if put into storage comparatively late, it should be the aim of the gardener to mature the vegetables for winter use as late in the season as he can, and yet have them harvested before they are injured by cold. of the vegetables stored for winter, some require entirely different conditions in storage than do others, so that attempts to store all vegetables under the same conditions would result only in failure. in order that the root crops may be stored without wilting, rotting or starting into growth, they must be kept cool, fairly moist, and away from contact with circulating air. cabbage may be successfully stored under the same conditions. onions must be kept at a low temperature, but differ from the root crops in that they must be in a dry atmosphere and have free circulation of air. in a moist atmosphere, under high temperature, they would either rot or sprout. vegetables that are expected to continue growth while in storage, such as celery, leeks, brussels sprouts, chicory and parsley, must be planted in dirt and the roots kept moist. air should circulate freely about the tops, and the temperature must be low. on the other hand, sweet potatoes, pumpkins and squashes demand a high temperature and dry atmosphere, with free circulation of air. the conditions of storage favorable to the different crops are secured in various ways. market gardeners use outdoor pits or specially constructed cellars for their root crops, cabbage and celery. onions are commercially stored in slatted crates piled in tiers in frost-proof houses provided with means for ventilation so that the temperature can be maintained at slightly above freezing. sweet potatoes and squashes are also stored in specially constructed houses, in which the temperature can be controlled; but since a high temperature is demanded for these crops, artificial heat is usually employed. circulation of air about these products in storage is facilitated by the use of slatted bins, and allowing ample space between the bins and the side walls of the building. for home use the root crops and cabbage can best be stored in outdoor pits for late winter use, and in the cellar for use early in the season. the chief objection usually urged against storing root crops in the cellar is that they are likely to wilt. this difficulty can be obviated by packing the roots in boxes with alternate layers of earth or sand, and placing the boxes in the coolest part of the cellar. the earth will absorb any odors in case the vegetables should start to decay, and thus avoid endangering the health of the family. cabbage can be stored in the same way if the roots and outer leaves are removed and merely the heads are packed in boxes or barrels of earth. cabbage intended for late winter use, however, will keep better in an outdoor pit than in a cellar. the same is true of parsnips, salsify, horse-radish and some of the other root crops. except where the ground is especially well drained, the pits are usually made entirely above ground. for storing cabbage in this manner, the plants are pulled with the roots and leaves on, and placed upside-down in regular order on a level piece of ground. usually three plants are placed side by side, with two above, and this arrangement repeated so that the final result is a long, low pile of cabbage showing five plants in a cross section. earth is piled against and over this array of cabbage until the plants, including the roots, are entirely covered. in a severe climate, a layer of manure may be added when cold weather arrives. for storing parsnips, salsify and horse-radish, which are uninjured by freezing, the roots may be placed in a pile on the ground and covered with about six inches of earth. the advantage of storing in this manner, instead of allowing the roots to remain where they grew, is the saving in time of digging, when a few roots are wanted during the winter. it is much easier to open the pit when the ground is frozen than to dig roots from the garden with a pick. in fact, the difficulty of digging almost precludes the use of these crops in midwinter unless they are more accessible than in the place where they grew. beets, carrots, turnips, ruta-bagas, kohl-rabi and irish potatoes can also be stored in outdoor pits, but they must be covered sufficiently to prevent freezing. one of the best ways of handling these crops is to place them in a conical pile and cover first with six or eight inches of hay or straw, then with earth to a similar depth. if extremely cold weather is expected, a layer of manure should be placed outside of the earth. in getting vegetables from pits of this kind in midwinter, the manure is removed slightly from one side of the pit near the bottom and a hole about a foot square chopped through the frozen earth with an old ax. sufficient hay is then pulled out by means of an iron hook, to enable a person to thrust his arm into the opening and reach the vegetables.--(u. ill. .) early plants in hotbeds. the most common method of starting early plants in the north is by means of a hotbed. the hotbed consists of an inclosure covered with sash and supplied with some form of heat, usually fermenting stable manure, to keep the plants warm and in a growing condition. as a rule, the hotbed should not be placed within the garden inclosure, but near some frequently used path or building where it can receive attention without interfering with other work. the hotbed should always face to the south, and the south side of either a dwelling, barn, tight board fence, hedge, or anything affording a similar protection, will furnish a good location. the hotbed should be started in february or early in march, in order that such plants as the tomato and early cabbage may be well grown in time to plant in the open ground. there are two or three forms of hotbeds that are worthy of use. a temporary hotbed, such as would ordinarily be employed on the farm, is easily constructed by the use of manure from the horse stable as a means of furnishing the heat. select a well-drained location, where the bed will be sheltered, shake out the manure into a broad, flat heap, and thoroughly compact it by tramping. the manure heap should be or feet wide, to inches deep when compacted, and of any desired length, according to the number of sash to be employed. the manure for hotbed purposes should contain sufficient litter, such as leaves or straw, to prevent its packing soggy, and should spring slightly when trodden upon. after the manure has been properly tramped and leveled, the frames to support the sash are placed in position facing toward the south. these frames are generally made to carry standard hotbed sash, and the front board should be to inches lower than the back, in order that water will drain from the glass. three to five inches of good garden loam or specially prepared soil is spread evenly over the area inclosed by the frame, the sash put on, and the bed allowed to heat. at first the temperature of the bed will run quite high, but no seeds should be planted until the soil temperature falls to ° f., which will be in about three days. in most farmhouses enough heat is wasted throughout the winter to sustain a small hothouse to say nothing of a hotbed. hotbeds having more or less permanence may be so constructed as to be heated either with fermenting manure, a stove, a brick flue, or by means of radiating pipes supplied with steam or hot water from a dwelling or other heating plant. for a permanent bed in which fermenting manure is to supply the heat, a pit to inches in depth should be provided. the sides and ends of the pit may be supported by brick walls or by a lining of -inch plank held in place by stakes. standard hotbed sash are by feet in size, and are usually constructed of white pine or cypress. as a rule, hotbed sash can be purchased cheaper than they can be made locally, and are on sale by seedsmen and dealers in garden supplies. in the colder parts of the country, in addition to glazed sash either board shutters, straw mats, burlap, or old carpet will be required as a covering during cold nights. it is also desirable to have a supply of straw or loose manure on hand to throw over the bed in case of extremely cold weather. during bright days the hotbed will heat very quickly from the sunshine on the glass and it will be necessary to ventilate during the early morning by slightly raising the sash on the opposite side from the wind. care should be taken in ventilating to protect the plants from a draft of cold air. toward evening the sash should be closed in order that the bed may become sufficiently warm before nightfall. hotbeds should be watered on bright days and in the morning only. watering in the evening or on cloudy days will have a tendency to chill the bed and increase the danger from freezing. after watering, the bed should be well ventilated to dry the foliage of the plants and the surface of the soil and prevent the plants being lost by damping-off fungus or mildew. handling of plants. successful transplanting of indoor-grown plants to the garden or field depends largely upon their proper treatment during the two weeks preceding the time of their removal. spindling and tender plants will not withstand the exposure of the open ground so well as sturdy, well-grown plants, such as may be secured by proper handling. plants grown in a house, hotbed, or cold frame will require to be hardened off before planting in the garden. by the process of hardening off, the plants are gradually acclimated to the effects of the sun and wind so that they will stand transplanting to the open ground. hardening off is usually accomplished by ventilating freely and by reducing the amount of water applied to the plant bed. the plant bed should not become so dry that the plants will wilt or be seriously checked in their growth. after a few days it will be possible to leave the plants uncovered during the entire day and on mild nights. by the time the plants are required for setting in the garden they should be thoroughly acclimated to outdoor conditions and can be transplanted with but few losses.--(f. b. ; u. mo. col. ag. & mech. arts ; n. la. ; kan. st. ag. col. ; s. dak. ; u. idaho .) [illustration: temporary hotbeds in a city back yard] frames used in truck growing. intensive gardening under sash or cloth covers has become one of the most popular and, in certain localities where the conditions are suitable, one of the most profitable lines of outdoor work. the trucker and the market gardener of the present day have been compelled by keen competition and a constantly increasing demand for high-grade products out of season to provide special facilities for increasing and improving the product, as well as to take advantage of every favorable natural condition. many localities are especially favored with an abundance of sunshine at all seasons of the year, and at the same time their climate, due to the influence of large streams or near-by bodies of water, is mild and free from extremes of temperature. in such localities it would be possible to grow lettuce, radishes, and similar crops during the entire winter without protection were it not for a few cold days and nights. a very slight covering or the application of a small amount of heat will, as a rule, carry the plants through in good condition. this industry may readily be combined with regular truck farming, as it furnishes remunerative employment during the winter months. a comparatively small area is necessary for the frames, but several times that acreage of land should be available, so that the site of the frames may be changed every few years to safeguard against diseases and insect injuries. _cloth-covered frames._--the type of frame or bed varies with the different localities and is ordinarily no more elaborate or expensive than is necessary to protect the crops. in north carolina and south carolina the type of frame generally used is that having for the sides two lines of -inch boards set on edge and held in place by means of stakes driven into the ground. the covering of cheap unbleached muslin is supported on strips of wood inch thick and - / or inches wide, which are raised in the center by being carried over the top of a stake; the ends are held down by nailing to the sides of the bed. most of these frames are temporary and are taken apart and stored during the summer months. before placing the frames in position in the autumn the soil is plowed, thoroughly fitted, and given a liberal dressing of well-rotted stable manure and commercial fertilizers. the placing of the boards will cause some trampling of the bed, and before putting in the ends and nailing on the rafters or strips to support the cloth it is desirable to loosen the soil again by means of a harrow or cultivator. the stakes for supporting the cross strips or rafters are then driven through the center and the strips nailed in place at intervals of feet. the ends are inclosed by means of -inch boards, and the bed is then ready for the cloth cover. the cloth is first stitched, with the strips running lengthwise of the bed, into one great sheet large enough to cover the entire bed. this sheet is fastened on the north side of the frame by nailing over it plastering laths or similar strips of wood. the cloth should not be fastened to the top edge of the board but on the side, or inches below the top. for fastening the sheet on the south side of the frame short loops of string or cloth are attached to its edge and these are looped over nails driven into the side of the bed. _sash-covered frames._--in the tidewater region of virginia the frames are covered with hotbed sash. the climate of norfolk is a little too severe for the use of cloth except for early autumn and spring crops. a number of growers in the vicinity of norfolk handle sash-covered frames occupying as much as , , or acres each season. for the sides and ends of these frames the same class of cheap lumber as for the cloth-covered frames is used. _heated frames._--farther north, near chicago, st. louis, cleveland, detroit, baltimore, philadelphia, cincinnati, new york, and boston, sash-covered frames are extensively used for growing early vegetables. this work is practically the same as that found at norfolk, except that the frames are constructed over an excavation which is filled with fermenting manure to provide heat. where manure-heated beds are extensively used for growing early vegetables a long, shallow pit is opened, the manure is trodden in, and -inch boards are fastened to stakes to form the sides. the board on the north side is raised a little higher than the one on the south side in order to form a slope for the glass. a few strips are nailed across the bed to prevent the sides from coming in by the pressure of the manure or soil that is banked on the outside, and the sash simply rest on the sides without any guide or supporting strips between them. straw mats and board shutters are employed as a protection for the sash during cold weather. _temperature of frames._--the temperature at which the air of the beds should be carried will depend entirely upon the crop being grown. thermometers should be placed at intervals in the beds, as it is not safe to judge the temperature by personal sensation. if lettuce, parsley, or radishes are growing in the beds, the temperature should not go above ° f. before ventilation is given; on the other hand, if the frames are filled with cucumbers, eggplant, or peppers, the temperature may run or degrees higher. it should be borne in mind that any covering, whether cloth or sash, will exclude a part of the light, and every precaution is necessary to prevent the plants becoming "drawn." the safest plan is to keep the temperature a trifle low and thus retain the plants in a strong, thrifty condition. where tender plants are being grown under cloth there is greater danger of injury from keeping them covered too tightly than from exposure to moderate cold. [illustration: showing vegetables growing in hotbed] ventilation. _open-air._--in the care of cloth-covered frames the covers are left off during bright weather and the plants subjected to open-air conditions. when there is danger of cold the covers are put on at night, and during unfavorable weather they are frequently left on during the day. while the cloth covers conserve the heat, they at the same time exclude the sunlight, and if they are kept on too great a portion of the time the crops will become drawn and spindling. with sash-covered frames the matter of ventilation is of prime importance. the glass admits and holds the heat of the sun's rays, and during bright weather it is necessary to open the frames quite early in the morning. ventilation is accomplished by propping up one end or one side of the sash on a notched stick. the rule to be followed is to ventilate on the side away from the wind, so that the wind will blow over the opening and not into the bed. _protection of frames._--the area occupied by the frames is often surrounded by a high board fence or a hedge of evergreens to break the force of the wind. if a large area is devoted to frames it is sometimes subdivided by numerous cross fences to break up air currents and lessen the force of storms. where no heat is applied to the frames the control over temperature will not be great except in the prevention of too high temperature by means of ventilation during bright weather. in many instances straw and burlap mats are kept ready at hand for throwing over sash-covered frames to prevent loss from freezing, but this would not be practicable on a large scale. sometimes the glass is covered by shoveling one-half or three-fourths of an inch of soil over it, but this involves considerable labor and frequently results in the breakage of a great deal of glass. it is possible to ward off frost by the use of a number of orchard heaters in the frame yard. these heaters burn kerosene or crude oil and give off both heat and a smudge which will prevent injury from a reasonable degree of cold. _crops grown in frames._--the crops most commonly grown in frames are lettuce, radishes, cucumbers, garden beets, parsley, eggplant, peppers, and snap beans. the crops grown in the sash-covered frames do not differ materially from those grown under cloth. in the spring, however, many growers devote their beds almost entirely to cucumbers and eggplant instead of to lettuce and radishes. to the southward the cloth covers are sufficient to protect the more hardy crops throughout the winter. to the northward the hardy crops may be grown under sash in midwinter, and those requiring more heat are grown in the spring. _marketing crops grown in frames._--crops grown in frames are usually superior in quality and appearance to those grown in the open and should be given more care in handling and marketing. the cost of production is somewhat higher than for outdoor crops, and it is essential that they be put up in neat packages in order to bring the highest market price. the more successful growers give the work of gathering, grading, and packing the crop their closest personal attention and use only clean, attractive packages for handling and shipping. the packages employed for handling the frame products are generally the same as those used for marketing outdoor vegetables, of the same kinds. in a few instances a distinctive package has been employed. the use of special shipping packages that would give the frame-grown produce special recognition on the markets would be a decided advantage to the grower.--(f. b. .) soil and fertilizers. the greater portion of the work with frames is conducted on light or sandy loam soils which are naturally well drained and adapted to intensive trucking. the original soil is usually employed, but when necessary rich soil is hauled and placed in the beds. the first essential is good drainage, and if the land is not naturally well drained it should be tiled or provided with numerous open ditches to carry off the water. the surface of the soil should be graded and all depressions filled in and leveled. for best results the land should be subjected to two or three years of preparation by manuring and planting to leguminous crops. the presence of plenty of organic matter in the soil is very important, especially where large quantities of commercial fertilizers are to be used. this organic matter may be added in the form of stable manure, but more satisfactory results will be obtained where leguminous crops are included in the preparatory treatment. for green manure nothing is better than cowpeas as a summer crop and crimson clover as a winter crop. the crimson clover should be turned under about the time it comes into full bloom in the spring, the land planted to cowpeas, and the resulting crop plowed under or mowed for hay during the month of august in ample time to prepare the land for frame work during the autumn. when heavy crops of green manure are turned under it is essential that lime be used to improve the mechanical condition and to sweeten the soil; a dressing of , pounds to the acre should be sufficient. large quantities of stable manure are used in growing crops in frames, sometimes as much as to cartloads to the acre. the manure is generally spread in a broad, flat pile to compost before it is applied to the soil on which frames are to be located. where manure is employed for heating the beds it may afterwards be mixed with the soil for the growing of subsequent crops. poultry and sheep manure is excellent fertilizer for frame work, but the quantity obtainable is very small. in the application of natural manures of all kinds it is essential that the manure should be fine; that it be what is termed "short" manure. watering crops. to insure success in the cultivation of plants in frames it is necessary to provide some means of applying water to the soil. occasionally the supply of water can be obtained from the system of some city, but more often it must be pumped from a well or stream and stored for use in an elevated tank. watering is generally done during the late afternoon, but should be completed early enough to permit the foliage to become reasonably dry before closing the frames for the night. if the plants are young and very tender it will be important to avoid too great a degree of moisture. serious losses from "damping-off" often result from excessive moisture, especially at night, when evaporation is not so rapid as during the day. many gardeners make the mistake of watering too often and not doing the work thoroughly. under ordinary conditions twice a week will be often enough to apply water, and in winter, when evaporation is at its lowest point, once a week will be sufficient. in watering the sash-covered frames it is necessary either to remove the sash or to prop them up high enough to permit working under them. as a rule the sash are taken off early in the morning of a bright day, the soil is stirred, sometimes a little fertilizer is added, later in the day the bed is watered, and toward night the sash are replaced. anise. this is an annual. leaves used as a garnish. the seeds are the source of anise oil. this plant grows well and gives a good yield of seed. seeds should be soaked over night in warm water and sown thickly.--(u. idaho .) artichoke, globe. this plant requires a deep, rich sandy loam, with a liberal supply of well-rotted manure, is best suited for growing artichokes. plant the seeds as soon as the soil is warm in the spring, and when the plants have formed three or four leaves they may be transplanted to rows feet apart and feet apart in the row. the plants do not produce until the second season, and in cold localities some form of covering will be necessary during the winter. this crop is not suited for cultivation north of the line of zero temperature. after the bed is once established the plants may be reset each year by using the side shoots from the base of the old plants. if not reset the bed will continue to produce for several years, but the burs will not be so large as from new plants. the bur, or flower bud, is the part used, and the burs should be gathered before the blossom part appears. if they are removed and no seed is allowed to form, the plants will continue to produce until the end of the season. artichoke, jerusalem. this useful and productive plant will grow in any good garden soil, and should be planted three to four feet apart each way, with three or four small tubers in a hill. if large tubers are used for planting they should be cut the same as irish potatoes. plant as soon as the ground becomes warm in the spring and cultivate as for corn. a pint of tubers cut to eyes will plant about thirty hills. the tubers will be ready for use in october, but may remain in the ground and be dug at any time during the winter.--(f. b. ; u. idaho .) asparagus. this valuable plant was formerly a luxury on the tables of the rich, but is now during the season a vegetable seen daily upon the tables of people of moderate or even small incomes. it is also frequently recommended as an article of diet for the sick and convalescent. to the asparagus grower there are two methods by which plants can be secured, ( ) by purchasing or saving the seed from which to raise them, and ( ) by purchasing the plants from either a seedsman or some grower. taking the second method, as being the quickest way to start a bed as well as the most easily disposed of, it is suggested that roots over two years old be rejected, and only one-year-old roots selected if a sufficient number can be secured, as the latter are much better and will in the course of a few years produce more and larger spears to the plant and yield profitable crops for a longer period. it is best to deal with reliable firms; they will be more likely to supply plants of both the kind and age desired. _seed._--only reliable seedsmen should be trusted, or the seed should be procured from some neighbor who has the desired variety and has taken proper care in producing and saving the seed, if the first plan is to be followed. if one already has an asparagus bed of the desired sort, producing fine spears, and of the proper age ( to years old) for seed production, it is always best to save seed from it for new plantings. the growing of one's own plants is preferable, both because of the extra year intervening between the determination to plant and the actual setting out of the bed, thereby permitting the soil of the proposed bed to be put in a better and more friable condition, and because, good seed having been secured and proper care given to the young plants, a more satisfactory supply of the young roots is obtained. that there are objections to growing one's own seed is undoubtedly true, but there are also compensating advantages, and if proper care is exercised it will pay the grower to raise his own seed (from beds which are satisfactory) even if seed can be bought in the open market for much less than the trouble of attending to the home grown may cost. if, however, a grower is unwilling or unable to exercise the necessary care in the production of seed, he would do much better not to attempt it, but depend upon some reliable dealer, studiously avoiding those whose claims to patronage are based upon cheapness of stock. good seed are worth good money; poor seed should not be accepted under any conditions. _soil._--asparagus will grow on most soils, and will yield large crops upon stiff soils; but for the purpose of the grower for market, a light sandy soil of fair fertility is much to be preferred, both because of the earliness with which it produces marketable spears and the ease with which it is cultivated. a soil on which water stands after rain, or under which the standing subsurface water is near the surface, into which the roots are liable to penetrate, is to be avoided. of course, such a soil, if otherwise suitable, can be made fit by a thorough system of under drainage, since an occasional overflow, or even a submergence of the beds for several days, is not necessarily injurious if the drainage, either natural or artificial, is good. the soil should be free of roots, stones, or any trash that will not readily disintegrate or that will interfere with the growth of the spears. a rather stiff but naturally well-drained soil which produces early and fine asparagus, notwithstanding the fact that it is full of large gravel, some of the stones being twice the size of a man's fist. _shade._--fruit or other trees or high shrubs must not be allowed in the asparagus bed, because of the shade they throw over the beds and because their roots make heavy drafts upon the soil. nor should high trees, hedges, hills, or buildings be so near as to throw a shadow upon the beds, because all the sunshine obtainable is needed to bring the spears quickly to the surface. the land should be protected from the north or east (or from the direction of the prevalent winds) and so slope that the full benefit of the sunshine will be obtained during the whole day. freedom from weeds is very desirable, even more so than great fertility, for the latter can be produced by the heavy manuring which the future cultivation will require; and to the end that weeds may be few, it is well that for a year or two previous to planting the land should have been occupied by some hoed crop, such as potatoes, beets, cabbages, etc. _cultivation._--in the late fall or early winter the selected area, should be a light sandy loam as described above, needs to be deeply plowed, and if the subsoil is not already of an open and porous nature, through which surface water will readily drain and the roots easily penetrate, a subsoil plow should follow, breaking the soil to the depth of at least inches. after harrowing the field, a good compost of well-rotted horse, cow, sheep, or other manure should be spread broadcast and left to the action of the weather until as early in the spring as the ground is in condition to be worked, when the manure should be plowed in, the surface carefully harrowed, and the soil put in a light and friable condition. as early in the spring as the condition of the ground will permit work to be done--when it is dry enough to bear plowing and the soil will break up fine--rows should be marked off to feet apart and opened up with a large plow, going a sufficient number of times to make a furrow from to inches deep. loose soil that the plow does not throw up should be taken up with a shovel or wide-bladed hoe. it is in these furrows that the crowns are to be set, the distance to be left between plants varying, according to the opinion of the grower, from inches to feet. _planting._--rows should be run north and south, so that the full benefit of the sunshine will be secured. if the rows run east and west, they will be shaded by the ridges in early spring, when the sun is low in the south, and later in the season they will be completely shaded on one side by the tall foliage. this delays sprouting in the spring, and prevents the best development of the plants at all times. of course, any conditions, such as the slope of the land, etc., which make it inadvisable to run the rows north and south must be considered, but southeast to northwest or northeast to southwest is better than due east or west, or, in short, the natural conditions permitting, the course should be as far from east and west as possible. this is especially important to those who ridge the rows to produce white asparagus. early in the spring of each year, after the plants are old enough to cut, there must be a ridge made over the rows to blanch the shoots, if white asparagus is to be cut; and once ridging is not sufficient, but after the spears begin to appear the ridges will need renewing every week or ten days during the cutting season, as the rains beat them down and the sun bakes a crust upon the top. the grower of green asparagus has about the same work, less the ridging and plowing down. as it is necessary to keep down all weeds, some hoeing may be necessary as supplementary to a free use of the -horse cultivator. after the cutting season, a cutaway harrow run twice diagonally across the rows loosens up the soil and destroys a vast number of weeds without injury to the crowns, although some spears may be broken off. _brush._--the bushes should be cut as soon as the berries are fully colored, as the growth will be sufficiently matured so that no injury will be done the roots by removing the tops, thus avoiding a further drain upon the roots to mature the seed, and preventing the dropping of seed, followed by the springing up of innumerable young asparagus plants. all brush should be promptly collected and burned, that there may be no lodging places for insects and diseases. in case the fields were not leveled, harrowed, and manured at the close of the cutting season, now is a convenient time to perform this work, although if the soil is rather too moist it is well to leave the surface firm, that the winter rains may run off rather than penetrate to the already too damp subsoil around the roots. _manuring._--in nothing relating to asparagus has there been a greater change than in the practice of manuring. formerly it was thought necessary to place large quantities of manure in the bottom of the deep trenches in which the young plants were set out in order that sufficient fertility might be present for several years for the roots, as after the plants were once planted there would be no further opportunity to apply the manure in such an advantageous place; it was also considered necessary to use much manure every autumn to bank the beds in order that the crowns should not be injured by the winter's frost. these applications, especially that given prior to planting the young crowns, made the outlay so great, and that for so many years before any return would be received from the bed, that only small plantings were possible to those who were without considerable capital. although asparagus is still heavily manured, the amount now used is much less than was formerly supposed to be necessary, only about double the quantity ordinarily used upon root crops, such as potatoes, beets, etc. it is not a good practice to put manure in the bottom of the trenches or furrows when setting out the crowns, because it is demonstrated to be rather a waste of manure than otherwise, and besides the roots of asparagus thrive better when resting upon a more compact soil; nor is it necessary that the soil should contain great amounts of humus or be in an extremely fertile condition when the plants are first put out, since by the present system of top dressing a moderately fertile soil soon becomes exceedingly rich and equal to the demands which the plants make upon it. considerable improvement is produced in the mechanical condition of the soil by the use of stable manure upon beds. by the addition of humus, porous sandy soil is made somewhat more binding and its ability to take up and retain moisture thereby increased; while, on the other hand, cold, heavy soils are made warmer and more porous. all organic manures are suitable for use on the beds; but care must be exercised in the use of any of these lest they be too hot and injure the plants, especially if applied directly to the roots and immediately over the crowns. where the young shoots come up through it, fresh, hot manure is likely to produce rust or to render the shoots unsightly and thus injure their sale. especially is this true in light, sandy soils. the time of applying manure on beds, and the position where it should be placed, are of some importance. in the use of stable manure, both writers upon the subject and growers actually engaged in producing asparagus for the market almost unanimously state that "in the autumn, after the stalks have matured and have been cut, manure should be applied on top of the rows." some give the caution not to put it just over the crowns, lest the shoots next spring be injured by contact with it. this plan of top dressing beds during the autumn or early winter is gradually giving way to the more rational mode of top dressing in the spring and summer. it was believed that autumn dressing strengthened the roots and enabled them to throw up stronger shoots during the following spring. this is a mistake. it is during the growth of the stalks after the cutting season is over that the crowns form the buds from which the spears of next season spring, and it is probable that it is principally during this period that the roots assimilate and store up the material which produce these spears. this being true, the plant food added to the soil and becoming available after the cessation of vegetation in the autumn can have little, if any, effect upon the spears which are cut for market the following spring; it first becomes of use to the plant after the crop has been cut and the stalks are allowed to grow. in the use of hot, or fresh, manure it may be that the winter season is none too long to permit the fertilizing elements to become available and well distributed throughout the soil, but if well-rotted manure is used there is danger of the fertility being leached out of the soils by the rains and melted snows of winter. those growers who apply a liberal dressing of stable manure or fertilizer immediately after the cutting season supply the required nourishment to the plants at the time they most need it and can most profitably utilize it in the production of spears. manure thus applied will also act as a mulch, preventing the growth of weeds, keeping the soil light and cool, and preserving the moisture intact. it should not be made on top of the row. this suggestion the writer wishes to emphasize. manuring in november in many cases does more harm than good, as the mass of manure causes many roots to decay, and those which do survive are weak and only produce small spears. it would be much better to rely upon liberal supplies of food through the growing season than to give manure when the bushes are cut, as at the former period the roots can more readily absorb the food given. by feeding in spring and summer the crowns are built up for the next season's supply of grass. the roots of the asparagus are perhaps always active, but much less so in winter than at any other season, and they will obtain as much nutriment from the soil as they can then use. if heavily covered with manure sunshine is excluded, growth is checked, and the roots have to fight hard for existence at a time when they are none too strong. in the culture of green spears the manure is best utilized by broadcasting, this application to be followed by a thorough harrowing of the field. when white asparagus has been cut, either manuring in the trench between the ridges before disturbing them or harrowing down the ridges and then manuring broadcast is perhaps the most rational way. as between manuring in the row and between the rows, the latter should be selected as the evidently advisable one by which the feeding roots of the plants are most easily reached. placing the manure in the row only reaches those feeding roots which are to be found about midway between the crowns, as just around the crowns are nothing but storage roots, besides it is not desirable to place manure too close to the crowns, but manuring between the rows puts the manure right where the summer rains can carry the fertility directly down into the (as it were) open mouths of the feeding roots. _green crop._--if green asparagus is desired, the stalks need be cut only so far beneath the surface as to furnish a or inch spear, the major part of which, say inches or more, will be green, and of course above ground. if white asparagus is sought for, the rows will have been ridged from to inches above the crowns, and the spears must be cut as soon as they show at, and before they peep above, the surface. this means cutting or inches below the surface. to accomplish this, long chisel-like knives of various shapes are used. cutting should be done at least every day, and when vegetation is rapid twice each day will be necessary for white asparagus, and is often desirable when the green sort is being cut. _harvesting and marketing._--asparagus is one of the earliest vegetables, especially if the roots are near to the surface or the soil above them has been temporarily removed so that the rays of the sun can easily penetrate to them. some varieties are earlier than others, and this difference in time of appearance varies from a day or two to several weeks. for instance, the early argenteuil is about ten days earlier than the ordinary asparagus grown in the same locality, and the late argenteuil at least ten days later; so that there would be nearly three weeks between the early and late argenteuil. among the ordinary varieties, however, there is only a short period between the earliest and the latest.--(f. b. , ; u. cal. ; u. mo. ; u. kans. ; u. miss. .) beans. _kinds._--for convenience in reference and for discussion, beans may be divided into two general groups--"field" and "garden" beans--which are by no means distinctly separate either in appearance or in characteristics. each of these groups can again be divided into bush and pole beans. bush beans of the field type are recognized, for commercial purposes, under three well-marked types, known as kidney, marrow, and pea beans, each of which may be subdivided into two groups, colored and white. the garden beans, like the field beans, may be divided into bush and pole types; these again into kidneys and limas, the term "kidney" in this case including all of the common garden beans whether of one type or another, and this group may again be divided into wax and green pod. the same subdivision may also be recorded under pole beans, as is suggested in the following classification: {kidney...........{colored. { {white. {bush.....{marrow...........{colored. { { {white. field beans.........{ {pea..............{colored. { {white. {pole or corn hill. white or colored. {kidney..........{wax. {bush......{lima {green pod. garden beans........{ {kidney..........{wax. {pole......{lima {green pod. {runner (scarlet runner). _soil._--while clay loams or soils overlying limestone are most desirable, sandy and even gravelly loams may be used, but these latter soils should contain more or less humus and the gravelly soil should not be too coarse. beans may be grown on heavy clay soils but the surface or underground drainage, or both, must be good and special attention must also be given cultural methods to produce a fine, mellow seed bed. muck soils or those with a superabundance of humus are not suitable as they tend to produce vines at the expense of the seed. it is also true that this crop will not thrive on low, wet, poorly drained soils. beans seem to produce good crops on soils somewhat deficient in nitrogen when well supplied with potash and phosphorus. contrary to a somewhat prevalent notion, beans will not produce well on very poor soils, but require a fair degree of fertility. _seed._--care should be exercised in the selection of beans for seed. none but the best hand-picked beans should be used for planting, as the success of the crop is quite largely dependent on the vitality of the seed. _tilth._--since the bean is a warm-season crop and can not safely be planted until after danger from killing frost has passed, the preparation of the soil for field beans should be deferred until the vegetation covering the area has made considerable growth, so that it may be as completely destroyed as possible during the operations of plowing, harrowing, and fitting the land for the reception of the seed. the short-season character of the bean crop enables the land to be occupied during the winter months by some cover crop, such as wheat or rye, and if the same land is used year after year for the production of beans, the turning under of winter cover crops furnishes an important means by which the store of organic matter in the soil can be maintained, a consideration of great moment in sections chiefly dependent upon commercial fertilizers as a source for available plant food. after the land has attained proper dryness in the spring it should be plowed from to inches in depth, and immediately compacted and harrowed, so as to prevent the loss of moisture. the surface of the seed bed should be made smooth and fine, so that the drill or planter can be economically used upon it. if dry weather follows at this season of the year, a good practice is, immediately preceding the planting of the crop, to run a heavy land roller over the area, particularly if the planting is done with an ordinary grain drill. if the planting is done with a planter similar to the ordinary corn planter and the land has been rolled previously, it is advisable to go over it with a spike-tooth harrow or some other type of smoothing harrow after the crop has been planted, in order that the land may not possess a compacted condition from the substratum to the surface. _planting._--growers have found that it is better to postpone planting the crop until as late in the season as is practicable and yet be able to safely harvest the crop before the vines are injured by fall frost. the late planted crop has the advantage of escaping the most serious attacks of the bean rust. while there are undoubtedly varieties which are more or less resistant to this trouble, yet the general practice of late planting has been found to be of decided advantage. in planting the field crop the distance between the rows varies from to inches, according to the implements used in harvesting the crop, inches being a very satisfactory and not an unusual distance for placing the rows. the seeds are so scattered as to fall from to inches apart in the row. the ideal distance would be undoubtedly inches, if it were possible to obtain a perfect stand of plants at this distance. for distributing the seed in the row at these distances a bean planter or a check row corn planter may be set to drop the seeds in drills. a common practice is to use an ordinary grain drill and stop a sufficient number of tubes to enable two or three rows of beans to be planted at the proper distance apart without the necessity of purchasing a special implement. _quantity of seed._--the quantity required to plant an acre of beans varies with the size of the beans; that is, a half-bushel of small pea beans is sufficient to plant an acre of ground, while a bushel of red kidney beans is hardly sufficient to plant an acre when the seed is distributed in the ordinary fashion in drills rather than in hills. in planting beans of the pea and marrow types the quantity of seed varies from one-half to a bushel per acre, depending upon the quality of the beans and upon the preferences of the planter. for kidney beans the quantity varies from a bushel to as much as six pecks per acre. ordinarily, with rows inches apart, a bushel is a sufficient quantity for seeding an acre. _depth of planting._--the depth at which beans should be planted is determined by the character of the soil and the season of the year at which they are planted. in heavy, retentive soils planting should be made comparatively shallow, as the peculiar habit of growth of the bean is such that it can not readily reach the surface if planted deep in such soils. upon light soils and early in the season, planting can be made quite deep. three inches is not too deep upon such soils, but an inch and a half or inches is the maximum depth for planting upon retentive soils. all things considered, a satisfactory depth for planting beans is about - / inches. _cultivation._--like all other hoe crops field beans require frequent, shallow cultivation. the stirring of the soil for the purpose of holding the weeds in check and preserving a soil mulch over the area occupied by the growing crop, is the important factor to be considered in culture. at the last cultivation the plants may be slightly hilled; that is, the soil may be thrown toward the plants with small wings. this has the advantage of leaving the plants on a slight ridge, which facilitates the work of harvesting when such work is done by mechanical means. in the cultivation of beans it is traditional that they should not be cultivated when the dew is on the vines. this undoubtedly has a slight foundation for the reason that moisture is a conveyor of spores of disease and might have a tendency to distribute them more widely than would be the case if moisture were allowed to dry off the leaves without being disturbed. _harvesting._--for many years the handling of hoe crops, such as field beans, upon an extensive scale was impossible because of the great amount of hand labor necessary to gather the crop. within recent years, however, labor-saving devices have been invented so that now the once laborious practice of hand-pulling individual plants can be done away with by the use of a bean harvester. after the plants are thrown together by the harvester it is customary for men with ordinary pitchforks, either or tined, to follow the harvester and place the beans in small heaps to cure for several days before storing them in barns or sheds for thrashing. in some instances, where the work is done upon a very extensive scale and where the loss from shelling is not considered sufficient to justify the employment of hand labor for bunching the beans with forks, an ordinary horserake is employed for the purpose. where the beans are to remain for a longer period and to become more thoroughly cured in the field and where the work of harvesting is done entirely by hand, the crop is frequently placed in shocks which are built about a pole or feet in height, both ends of which have been sharpened and one end firmly placed in the ground. a small quantity of straw, grass, or other material is placed around the base of the stake, and the beans as they are pulled are piled around the pole until a compact miniature stack about or feet high is formed. the curing process in any case is carried far enough to prevent the vines molding after storing them in the barn prior to thrashing. if the vines are thoroughly ripened in the field before harvesting, they can be stored in from two to three days if the weather is satisfactory. if, however, the vines have some green leaves upon them and the pods are not thoroughly dry, the period for curing in the field is of necessity much longer than with thoroughly ripened plants. _storage._--after the crop has been properly cured in the field it is customary to store the beans in barn lofts or in sheds until the weather has become quite cool before the work of thrashing is done. in some instances, however, if the beans are thoroughly field cured they may be thrashed in the field; but ordinarily, in those regions where beans are extensively grown, weather conditions will not permit of their being cured and left in the field a sufficient period to enable the entire work of harvesting and thrashing to be carried on in the open. _care necessary._--all operations connected with the harvesting and field management of beans should be done as carefully as possible, in order to avoid injury to the plants while in the growing condition and to prevent shelling the beans after they have ripened. most varieties of beans shell more or less easily after the pods have become thoroughly matured. most extensive growers of beans consider the loss by shelling resulting from the use of labor-saving machinery of less money value than the added cost of carrying on all operations by hand in the most careful way. in other words, the loss from the use of labor-saving machinery is not sufficient to justify the return to hand labor in the care and management of the crop. _threshing._--beans are now threshed by a special machine or beaner which has been instrumental in materially increasing the acreage of beans grown. these machines are usually introduced into localities where beans are grown commercially and offered for hire on a plan similar to that used by grain threshers. _cleaning and grading._--while the farm operations in connection with the preparation of field beans for market usually cease with the thrashing of the crop, the cleaning and grading of the product is a very important item and requires much hand work. besides the removal of sticks and straws from the grain by the use of the fan, the beans are passed through a machine which is provided with a broad, slow-moving belt placed at such an angle that split beans and peas, dirt, and stones which are not removed by the fan adhere to the belt and are thrown out, while the smooth, perfect seeds fall back into another receptacle and are thus separated from the dirt and broken seeds. after this the beans are usually subjected to a third operation, which consists in removing by hand all broken and discolored seeds, as well as foreign matter, which were not removed in the other operations. _garden beans._--the type as well as the variety of garden bean to be grown is determined by the purpose for which it is to be used. if it is to be used as a snap or string bean for early market, quick-maturing green or wax-podded varieties are selected. if for canning purposes, a different variety is selected, which may have either green or wax pods, while as a rule green beans which are required late in the season for table use belong to the pole type. for early beans, however, the bush type is the one most commonly used. _fertilizers._--while beans are quick-growing and early-maturing plants requiring an abundance of available plant food in the soil, yet, because of their family relations, being legumes, they make the soil better for having been grown upon it. they are nitrogen-gathering plants, and for this reason require only a small percentage of this element in any fertilizer used upon them. while heavy applications of fertilizers containing nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and potash are used by truck growers in the production of beans, as a rule such fertilizers should be relatively richer in phosphoric acid and potash than in nitrogen. the production of garden beans for snap or string beans, however, demands a larger percentage of immediately available nitrogen than does the production of field beans for the dry grain, as in the former case the crop occupies the land a shorter time and therefore gives it less opportunity to provide itself with a supply of nitrogen from the atmosphere. the fertilizer, if used in the form of commercial fertilizer, may be distributed broadcast over the area occupied by the crop with a grain drill or a fertilizer distributer, or it may be scattered along the row at the time the seeds are sown by one of the many types of seed drill having a fertilizer attachment. _planting._--garden beans, like field beans, may be planted either in hills or in drills. the customary practice, however, is to plant the seeds in drills so that they shall fall or inches apart in rows far enough apart to admit of cultivation with either one or two horse implements. because of their peculiar habit of germination--the elongation of the part between the root and the seed leaves, called the hypocotyl--the seed leaves or cotyledons are lifted out of the soil. a large expenditure of energy on the part of the plant is necessary to accomplish this, and the more compacted the soil and the deeper the seed is planted the more time and energy are required in accomplishing this result. it is evident, therefore, that the shallower the beans can be planted without retarding satisfactory germination, the better. upon thoroughly fine and compacted soils the seeds are planted from - / to inches deep. shallower planting does not as a rule give as satisfactory germination as planting within the range above mentioned. while garden beans are planted in extensive areas, they are, nevertheless, frequently used as a catch crop between other plants, such as squashes and cucumbers. the bean, being a quick-growing plant, matures its crop and is out of the way before the entire area is demanded by the companion crop. _harvesting._--from the nature of the product the harvesting of garden beans for use as string or snap beans must necessarily be done by hand. their extensive culture is therefore restricted to areas in which an abundant labor supply which can be commanded at short notice is available. after the beans are picked they are carried to a convenient sorting table, either in the open or under shelter, where they are looked over, all diseased and broken beans rejected, and the baskets uniformly filled and shaken down preparatory to covering them for shipment. lima beans. under the name of lima beans two distinct types are now recognized: pole limas and dwarf, or bush, limas. lima beans are of very great commercial value, but are not sufficiently appreciated as a table food because it is not generally known that in a dry state they can be used in practically the same manner as are the common beans. in reality they are richer and more delicate in flavor than the common beans, and can be used in as many different ways. the virtues of these types as green beans need only a passing mention, and their value as an accompaniment of corn in succotash is well known to every consumer of canned goods. _planting._--the common method of handling the lima bean in the climate of the northern tier of states, outside of the irrigated belt, is to plant from three to five beans in hills to inches apart, with the rows - / to feet apart, and after all danger from cold and from insect enemies is past the beans are thinned to about three plants to the hill. as the beans are exceedingly tender, it is necessary to delay planting in the open until about a week or ten days after the time for planting the common garden beans. after the second cultivation, when the tendency to climb has manifested itself, the plantation is supplied with poles from to feet high, or with a trellis running from end to end of the row, which may be made by stretching two or three wires lengthwise of the row and weaving between them strands of ordinary wool twine. if the trellis is employed the beans can be planted in practically continuous rows, so that they stand about a foot apart. toward the northern limit for cultivating this crop, one is fortunate if one-half to two-thirds of the pods which set upon the plants mature the seed. farther south the crop is proportionally heavier. in california and in other irrigated regions where there are well-marked wet and dry seasons, the dry season, accompanied by heavy fogs, occurring during the summer months, it is possible to cultivate lima beans somewhat as follows: upon moderately rich, somewhat sandy valley land, cultivation can be carried out by planting the beans as soon as all danger from rains has ceased and the plantation will remain dry except for irrigation. if there has not been sufficient winter rain to thoroughly moisten the land it should be well watered and allowed to dry to a good cultural condition before planting. seed can then be planted in hills about - / or feet apart each way, or in drills, the beans scattered about a foot apart in rows feet apart. after the beans have germinated it may be necessary to cultivate them once or twice with a sweep of some type, to destroy any weeds which may have sprung up from the moist ground. all moisture should be withheld and a dust mulch over the surface preserved by running a sweep over the plantation once or twice more, and then the vines should be allowed to take possession of the territory. this obviates the necessity of using poles, and the crop can grow to maturity under these conditions without irrigation, without cultivation, and without poles. at harvest time a root cutter is passed under the lines of the rows, severing the roots of the plants, and after the plants have dried and become somewhat cured they are thrown into convenient heaps for loading on wagons and are allowed to remain in these heaps until near the approach of the rainy season. then they are carried to the thrashing floors, where they are beaten out by the tramping of animals or by driving over the heap a device somewhat similar to the ordinary cutaway harrow. the dwarf lima beans, because of their habit of growth, are planted and cultivated practically the same as are field beans. they are slightly hardier than pole limas, and for that reason toward the northern limit of the range of this crop can be planted somewhat earlier in the season than the pole limas.--(f. b. ; u. mich. ; s. c. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. , ; iowa e. s. ; miss. e. s. .) beets. the red garden beet may be grown in any good soil, but rich, sandy loam will give the best results. sow the seeds in the spring as soon as danger of frost has passed. beets should be planted in drills to inches apart, and when the plants are well up they should be thinned to or inches in the row. if desirable to plant in rows feet apart for horse cultivation, the seeds may be sown in a double drill with inches between, leaving inches for cultivation. two ounces of beet seed are required to plant feet of row, or pounds to the acre. as a rule each seed ball contains more than one seed, and this accounts for beets coming up very thickly. the seed should be covered to a depth of about inch. for a succession of young beets during the summer, plantings should be made every four or five weeks during the spring months. beets intended for winter storage should not be sown until late in the summer, the crop being harvested and stored in the same manner as turnips. sugar beets are often substituted for the ordinary garden beet, especially for winter use. a soil that is well adapted to growing the usual vegetables will be found good for this one. it may be slightly heavier than that for the crops that are grown for their foliage, as lettuce. a good cabbage soil will be found of about the right consistency. wet or soggy land will not raise a crop. plow deep and prepare the ground well; the seedlings are quite small and need considerable coaxing before they will make a good start. use plenty of fertilizer of some well prepared kind. rough or undecomposed material should not be used. a sprinkling of powdered nitrate soda as a top dressing when the plants are one-third grown will produce a rapid growth. in applying, be careful not to apply so as to touch the foliage, unless during a rain. it is not profitable to transplant beets; it may be done on a small scale, but it is too expensive to practice on a large scale. _varieties._--according to shape of the root one may divide beets into two classes, viz., long rooted and globular. if color is made the basis of classification you have red, white and yellow kinds. extra early blood turnip, eclipse and extra early egyptian are good varieties to grow for market. the first named is probably the best; the last named has the disadvantage of becoming stringy if it matures during a long, dry spell, or if allowed to stand too long. the deep red varieties are preferred in the markets, and those that are turnip shaped sell better than the long. _marketing._--the usual method is to use barrels or large boxes; this is a clumsy way, and one not calculated to bring the best price. the usual vegetable crate will be found handy and desirable. in districts where there are pickling factories, and near large cities, small beets, with greens, are raised with profit, but these can not be shipped to a distant market. for a distant market gather tops and all; carry to the packing-house; remove the tops with a sharp knife, leaving about an inch of the leaf-stalk on the beet. remove the dirt, and pack in vegetable crates. the leaves put in a compost heap will pay for the trouble of hauling, or they can be fed to domestic animals with profit. the beet itself makes one of the best feeds for milch cows, and is excellent for other domestic animals.--(f. b. ; n. c. a. e. s. ; fla. e. s. ; u. idaho ; n. h. col. , ; n. j. a. col. rpt. .) borage. the leaves are used for flavoring. broccoli. broccoli is simply a variety of cauliflower that is more commonly grown for fall use, as it is rather more hardy than the true cauliflower. lee's sprouting broccoli is a branching sort that is esteemed in some places. there is a great deal of misunderstanding regarding the cauliflower and broccoli. both are the same in their general make up and growth, both producing heads in the same manner and to the casual observer are taken one for the other. the difference is that cauliflower is a more tender variety and therefore will not stand a very low temperature. the seed is sown in early spring and will produce heads during the summer. the broccoli will stand a temperature as low as without much injury to the plant. the seed is sown in the spring, the plants set out in june or early part of july and continue to grow until the spring following, some varieties producing heads at intervals during winter and up to as late as may. attention needs to be directed during the winter to such plants as are about to produce heads. these should have the outer leaves turned over the head to protect it from frost to which it is very susceptible. the seed may be sown and the plants treated in every way as for the cabbage. they thrive well in a deep, rich soil. much better results would be had if more attention were given to the matter of deep cultivation, that is, in deep spading or plowing of the ground. manure that has been well composted should be used plentifully and plowed in deep. by so doing the roots of the plants are encouraged to penetrate deep into the soil where they can find moisture as well as food. the shallow plowing in of manure has the tendency to keep the feeding roots of plants near the surface and will therefore soon dry out and turn blue, and when once the plants are stricken with the blues no further growth will be made and they might as well be discarded.--(oreg. e. s. ; n. c. e. s. .) brussels sprouts. this crop is closely related to cabbage and cauliflower. instead of a single head, brussels sprouts form a large number of small heads in the axils of the leaves. as the heads begin to crowd, the leaves should be broken from the stem of the plant to give them more room. a few leaves should be left at the top of the stem where the new heads are being formed. brussels sprouts are more hardy than cabbage, and in mild climates may remain in the open ground all winter, the heads being removed as desired. for winter use in cold localities, take up plants that are well laden with heads and set them close together in a pit, cold frame, or cellar, with a little soil around the roots. the uses of brussels sprouts are similar to those of cabbage, but they are considered to be of a superior flavor. they require the same treatment as cabbage. the soil must be rich and requires considerable moisture. the small sprouts must grow rapidly or they will be tough. sow the seed in hotbed and transplant, or scatter seed in hills and thin. the plants must have plenty of room. rows should be thirty inches apart and the plants not closer than two feet.--(f. b. ; u. idaho e. s. ; cornell u. e. s. .) cabbage. cabbage is one of the most universally cultivated of the garden plants. although it is one of the coarser vegetables it finds a place in the home garden as well as in the market garden and truck farm. in some sections of the united states it is extensively grown as a farm crop. early cabbage is practically all consumed as a green vegetable. the late crop, on the other hand, is handled as a fresh vegetable, as a storage crop, and for the manufacture of sauerkraut. it is always in demand, and under present conditions is always available, either as the product of a southern truck farm or a northern farm, garden, or storage house. the group of cultivated plants which has been derived from the wild cabbage presents a greater diversity of form than that derived from any other single ancestral type. wild cabbage is a robust-growing broad-leaved plant enjoying the low, moist areas near the seacoast of southern europe. the most closely allied form now in cultivation is the collard. the wide variation in the group is illustrated by the diversity of form shown in collards, kale, tree cabbage, marrow kale, cauliflower, and brussels sprouts. it is almost beyond the bounds of reason to believe that all these forms have been derived from a common parentage, yet such is the fact. _seed._--in no truck crop does the character of the seed count for more than in cabbage. it is very essential that the crop come to marketable maturity early, that the heads be uniform in size and character, and that they mature so that the whole crop can be harvested at two cuttings. the small saving made by the purchase of cheap or inferior seed is usually paid for a hundred times over in the lessened value of the crop. a grower can not afford to risk his crop for so small a saving. the best seed that can be obtained is none too good, and anything short of this is not good business. without highly viable seed of a good strain, true to type, the best results can not be expected. for early spring cabbage in the south, sow the seeds in an outdoor bed and transplant to the garden before january . in the north, plant the seeds in a hotbed during february and set the plants in the open ground as early as the soil can be worked. for a late crop in the north, plant the seeds in a bed in the open ground in may or june and transplant to the garden in july. early cabbages require a rich, warm soil in order that they may mature early. for late cabbages the soil should be heavier and more retentive of moisture and not so rich as for the early crop, as the heads are liable to burst. cabbages should be set in rows to inches apart and to inches apart in the row. where the plants are set out in the autumn and allowed to remain in the ground over winter, they are usually placed on top of ridges. _soil._--the soil for cabbage must necessarily vary in different localities. in one area it may be of an alluvial character, while in another it may be sedentary, and in still another it may be characteristic glacial drift. the fact that cabbage grows well in all these soils indicates its adaptation to a wide range of conditions. the main thing with cabbage is an abundant supply of immediately available plant food. market gardeners rely chiefly upon stable manure for their supply of plant food. _cultivation._--among market gardeners it is a common expression that "cabbage should be hoed every day." perhaps no other crop responds more quickly to good cultivation and an ample food supply. this is undoubtedly the explanation of the above quoted expression. in cultivating cabbage the work should be frequent and thorough, but the cultivation should not be deep. the aim should be to destroy all competing weeds and to maintain a loose, friable layer of soil about inches deep over the surface of the area devoted to cabbage. _storage._--early cabbage must be used soon after it has formed solid heads, as it will not keep during hot weather. late cabbage may be buried in pits or stored in cellars or specially constructed houses. the usual method of storing cabbage is to dig a trench about inches deep and feet wide and set the cabbage upright, with the heads close together and the roots bedded in soil. as cold weather comes on, the heads are covered slightly with straw and then or inches of earth put on. slight freezing does not injure cabbage, but it should not be subjected to repeated freezing and thawing. if stored in a cellar or building, the heads are generally cut from the stems and stored on slatted shelves or in shallow bins. while in storage, cabbage should be well ventilated and kept as cool as possible without freezing. _varieties._--the varieties of cabbage used in the trucking section are practically limited to the wakefield type. there are two strains of this type of cabbage now extensively employed: the true jersey wakefield, with its small, acutely pointed tip and very firm, tender flesh of high quality, and the charleston wakefield, which is broader, somewhat flatter, more obtusely pointed, and slightly more angular in cross section than the jersey type. the varieties which may be used for field cultivation depend upon the purpose for which the cabbage is intended. if for sauerkraut or for immediate consumption, the flat dutch type from american-grown seed is extensively employed in the eastern part of the united states. in the irrigated section of colorado, in the vicinity of greeley, where cabbage is grown for sauerkraut, a variety known as scotch cross is almost universally grown. if the cabbage is intended for storage the danish ball head from imported seed is almost exclusively used.--(f. b. , ; colo. e. s. ; md. ag. col. e. s. ; tex. e. s. , ; ga. e. s. ; kans. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. .) calabash.[ ] the increasing popularity of calabash pipes made from the fruits of a south african calabash, or gourd, has aroused a widespread interest in the growing of this vine. [ ] see page , for illustration. calabash pipes made from imported south african gourds have been the fashion in england for some time and are now coming into vogue in america. these pipes are formed from the crooked necks of a large gourd (_lagenaria vulgaris_) belonging to the well-known group of plants which includes the cucumber, the melons, and the squashes. pipes made from the imported gourds are expensive, american dealers usually charging $ to $ apiece for them. they are the lightest pipes made for their size, are graceful in shape, color like meerschaums, and are delightful smokers. unlike the cheap pipes which are turned out by machinery, no two of these calabash pipes are alike. in this lies much of their charm. in this, likewise, lies their cost, for, unlike the great mass of pipes turned out by machinery, the crook of the calabash varies so that each mouthpiece must be made to fit it and each lining of meerschaum or plaster of paris must be specially adapted. in our land of labor-saving machinery and expensive hand labor this is what makes the pipes costly. the vine forms a very satisfactory cover for unsightly brush heaps or fences, though its rather rank odor might prove objectionable if used for an arbor too near the dwelling. to grow the vine for the sake of its gourds is where the chief interest lies, however, and to do this well it should not be trained on a trellis, but allowed to trail over the ground. if the fruits are allowed to lie on the ground they form their crooked necks quite naturally without assistance, and while not all of them by any means make suitable necks for pipes a good proportion do. it seems to induce a more perfect neck to stand the gourds up when half grown so that they rest on their big ends. unless care is exercised in doing this the necks snap off, for they are extremely brittle even when fully grown. it is only when almost mature that they become hard and then they are indeed almost unbreakable. much could doubtless be done to perfect the methods of culture, insuring perhaps a greater percentage of properly crooked necks and more perfect surfaces. it could not be seen that inheritance plays any material part in this matter of percentage of crooks. if left to themselves the majority will crook their necks, but some few will remain quite straight, and this on the same vine with perfectly formed crooks. the gourds should be left as long as possible on the vines to thoroughly thicken their shells. if picked green the shell will be no thicker than stiff cardboard and in drying it is very liable to crack. frost will injure the gourds if they are left on the vines too long.--(b. p. i. cir. .) cantaloupe. cantaloupe growing, as developed since its origin near rockyford, colorado, in , requires unusual judgment and cultural skill on the part of the farmer. co-operative organization and good business management are also essential, for only by these means can the crop be properly timed and prepared for shipment, and necessary arrangements made with transportation and selling agencies. _seed._--seed should be most carefully selected with reference to flavor and appearance of the fruit; to good shipping characters, including small cavities and heavy netting; and to a tendency to produce melons of standard size. early strains are desired for some situations; but in arizona rust resistance is not a necessary character as this class of diseases is little to be feared under the arid conditions. seed should be purchased only from most reliable sources. rockyford growers are at present the principal means of supply. _soil._--experience has proven that a sandy loam is the soil best suited for cantaloupes, and that its condition of tilth and the available fertility are the prime essentials in bringing cantaloupes to quick maturity. the secret of getting soil in that ashy, mellow condition so desirable for cantaloupes is largely one of experience, for hardly two farms can be handled the same. in general, there must be moisture in the soil over winter to get the disintegrating effect of frost, and plowing should not be done until the ground is dry enough to pulverize mellow. barnyard manure has long been the means of supplying fertility to force cantaloupes to early maturity. old alfalfa ground is most excellent for cantaloupe culture. bermuda sod plowed up and exposed to the sun without irrigation the preceding summer makes excellent cantaloupe ground, the intensive cultivation necessary serving both to benefit the crop and to restrain this formidable weed. _planting._--the first requisite aside from moisture for a good start is warm weather, as cantaloupe seed cannot germinate when the ground is cold and freezing; and if perchance the days are warm enough to germinate the seed that is planted in march or april, the cold nights that are sure to follow will offset the advantage of early planting. if there is a secret in getting early cantaloupes it is in growing the crop from start to finish with a uniform unchecked growth; the cantaloupe does not seem to have the power to rally from a check in growth or an injury from an insect and still makes its normal development. the back-set not only cuts off the production of early cantaloupes but seriously affects the size and quality of the melon. there are numerous instances where unfavorable conditions of growth have produced a large quantity of pony melons, while under more favorably growing conditions the same seed and soil have yielded standard sized cantaloupes. one of the first signs of promise for early cantaloupes is a quick germination and rapid development of large cotyledons. seed that germinates slowly with small, yellow appearing seed leaves has never made early cantaloupes. _irrigation._--moisture for the cantaloupe hill is generally supplied by the irrigation furrow. it should always reach the seed or plant by soaking through the soil. irrigation should never be allowed to over-soak or flood the ground, as the soil will then become hard and not permit a good growth. the relation of irrigation to an early set of cantaloupes is a somewhat mooted question. there are growers who argue the use of frequent irrigations during the setting period to secure a good set, and there are others who prefer to keep the vines rather dry and even letting them show the need of water before they will irrigate during the setting stage. there have been results that seemed to support both theories, yet close observation would not warrant following either plan to an extreme, but rather a medium course of supplying enough moisture for an even, healthy growth, which seems to be the essential condition all the way through. an excess of irrigation during the hot weather in july will doubtless tend to grow vines at the expense of early fruit; but the most disastrous result of too much water--having the ground so soaked that the surface is nearly all wet, and affording the moist, dewy condition which is favorable to its development--is in the development of rust. the rust problem is a serious one in cantaloupe culture in colorado. controlling it by proper application of irrigation is only a palliative measure, yet a marked contrast is often seen in two portions of a field; one over-irrigated, and the other comparatively dry, aside from the moisture necessary to the growth of the vines. rainy weather and dewy nights afford the proper conditions for the growth of the rust spore, and while the farmer cannot change climatic conditions, yet by careful attention in the application of water, having the rows well ditched, and with adequate waste laterals to prevent over-soaking and flooding, the surface of the ground will dry rapidly after a rain or an irrigation. thus the dews at night will be less, and in a measure alleviate the effects of rust.--(u. ariz. cir. ; ag. col. colo. , , and .) cardoon. the cardoon is a thistle-like plant, very similar in appearance to the globe artichoke, but is grown as an annual. the seeds are sown in early spring in a hotbed or cold frame and the plants transplanted later to the open ground. the cardoon should be planted in rows feet apart and inches apart in the row on rich soil, where it can secure plenty of moisture and make rapid growth. toward autumn the leaves are drawn together and the center blanched in the same manner as endive. if intended for winter use, the leaves are not blanched in the garden, but the plants are lifted with considerable earth adhering to the roots and stored closely in a dark pit or cellar to blanch. the blanched leaf stems are used for making salads, soups, and stews.--(f. b. .) carrot. the culture of the carrot is practically the same as the parsnip, except that carrots are not thinned so much and are allowed to grow almost as thickly as planted. carrots should be dug in the autumn and stored the same as parsnips or turnips. any surplus can be fed sparingly to horses, mules or cattle. the roots of the carrot are used at all times of the year, mostly in soups, but they may be boiled and served with butter or creamed. carrots are planted in rows inches apart and the plants thinned out to inches in the row. chantenay is an excellent table carrot of medium size and dark orange color, slightly tapering and abruptly terminating with a short, fine taproot. the flesh is orange colored, brittle, juicy and mild flavored. what it lacks in size it makes up in quality and good shape. scarlet intermediate, somewhat larger than chantenay, is of good size for table use. in shape more tapering and with a longer taproot. it is dark orange colored; flavor and quality good. flesh is quite brittle and orange colored with a white center. to these two are added two varieties principally grown for stock feed, similar varieties being grown for table use in many parts of europe, and more especially those of the white belgian variety. both varieties are of slender shape, - / to inches in diameter, holding their size well, although averaging inches in length, to inches of which grows above ground and which as a consequence is colored light green on the outside. white belgian is the sweeter of the two, and while the flesh is somewhat coarse, the flavor of it, when well stewed and mashed, is sweeter and not unlike that of the parsnip. victoria, the other variety, is of the same texture, fairly sweet and with a more pronounced carrot flavor, the flesh instead of white, being light orange colored. this vegetable can be grown to perfection in porto rico almost any time of the year. it prefers a rich loam and grows very well on a heavy clay which is not too wet, but a light sandy soil is not well adapted to it. for fertilizer, stable manure will do when nothing else is available, but a commercial fertilizer, rich in potash and phosphoric acid, is much to be preferred for this crop.--f. b. , ; mich. e. s. ; n. c. e. s. ; u. idaho e. s. ; p. r. a. e. s. . cauliflower. this plant requires a very rich, moist soil. land that will produce only a fair crop of cabbage is unfit for cauliflower. if the land is very rich and well fertilized it may be reasonably expected that the returns from the crop of cauliflower will more than repay the cost of putting the land in good condition. _seed._--no more important element enters into the success of the cauliflower crop than the quality of the seed and to the seed alone is often due the difference between success and failure, profit and loss. the best seed that can be secured is the cheapest at any reasonable price, and it should always be obtained from a well-known, reputable seedsman. _seed-bed._--this should be carefully prepared. the soil should be enriched with a liberal application of commercial fertilizer, or thoroughly decomposed stable manure. after the fertilizer is applied it should be thoroughly worked in to a depth of three or four inches. from a few days to two weeks should elapse before the seed is sown for there is great danger in planting seed too soon after applying commercial fertilizer as the seed is likely to be destroyed by the action of the mineral substance unless it has been dissolved and thoroughly incorporated with the soil. the time between the application of the fertilizer and the sowing of the seed will depend upon the amount of rainfall and it is often better to wet down the seed-bed each day for four or five days before planting and not to depend upon the uncertain rainfall. the rows should be about three inches apart. in six or seven days the young plants should begin to appear and the ground between the drills should be cultivated. do not allow the soil to dry out as the cauliflower plant from seed to head should never be checked. neither should the bed be kept too wet, else there is danger of "damping off." the bed should be carefully watched and if the disease does break out it may be checked by removing the diseased plants, working the soil, scattering dry sand and sulphur along the rows and withholding water until the surface soil becomes dry. it might be pointed out here that about six months must be allowed from the sowing of the seed until the crop matures. _transplanting._--the plants should not be allowed to remain long in the seed rows. if left too long they will soon crowd and become weak and spindling. when they have reached the height of one inch, they should be pricked off and set in another portion of the bed. they may be set in rows four inches apart with the plants one and a half to two inches apart in the rows. here they should remain until ready for the field. if care has been exercised all the way through, the plants will be short, stocky and vigorous. by the time they are four or five inches high or when the leaves have lapped they are ready for the field. it is not best to let them get too large, because there is often a delay of a few days in order to obtain good climatic conditions for setting out. if left too long in the seed bed, greater care must be exercised in transplanting, else the plants may suffer a severe check and will button or break irregularly instead of forming smooth well shaped heads. _soils and preparation._--work should be started on the ground at least a month before the plants are set out. the cauliflower is a deep rooted plant, consequently the soil should be prepared deeply. it is not advisable to turn under the good surface soil and to obviate this ground may be plowed shallow and then stirred and opened with a bull-tongue to a depth of seven or eight inches. after this the surface should be cultivated to a depth of two or three inches. give thorough preparation by frequent cultivation before the fertilizer is applied, preparatory to setting out the plants. _setting out._--it is best that the plants be set out either just before or immediately after a rain, but if this can not be done they should be set out late in the evening and watered, giving each plant about a quart of water. a cloudy day is much preferable to a clear one and if the day on which the plants are set out is followed by cloudy weather, so much the better. the ground should be leveled or smoothed over, for which purpose a roller or float may be used. after this the ground may be marked off. two markers should be constructed, one with the teeth three feet apart, the other with the teeth two feet apart. these may be made of wood after the pattern of an ordinary garden rake. in place of a marker a line may be used or the ground may be checked off with a light hand plow. only a limited number of plants should be removed from the seed-bed at one time. the leaves should be cut back about one-half or one-third, using for the purpose a large pair of shears. sprinkle the plants with water as soon as removed from the bed, place in a shallow box or basket and keep them shaded from the sun. _cultivation and care._--the field should be frequently cultivated and the ground should be scarified at least every week and after every rainfall. the best tool for cultivating is an ordinary cultivator and the ground should not be worked to a greater depth than two and one-half or three inches. this will preserve a surface mulch of dry earth and prevent loss of moisture by evaporation. as soon as the heads commence to form the leaves should be drawn together at the top and loosely tied near their tips with a piece of cord or twine. rafia makes a good substitute for twine and is preferable because there is less danger of cutting the leaves. the practice of breaking down the leaves over the head has been tried, but found not quite so satisfactory. if the heads are left uncovered they become yellow through the action of the sun and rain but when the leaves are drawn together and tied, they bleach out pure white, and curd-like. _gathering._--cauliflower may be cut before it is mature, but the flavor is not so well developed as it is when the heads are full grown. for winter shipment heads from four to six inches in diameter are of a desirable size and the market will take them fully as well or better than large ones. the field should be picked over at least every two or three days during the season, though heads will remain in good condition for nearly a week if the weather be cold. examine the head by separating the leaves on the side. as soon as the head is well rounded up in the center and developed so as to force the leaves outward, and assumes a grained appearance, it will be found to be fully matured. the heads should be cut, preferably, when dry. if moist they are likely to decay in transit. the best time of day is the afternoon if they are intended for long distance shipment. about an inch of stem should be left on the head and three rows of leaves. after cutting, the heads should be carefully placed in a wagon and carried to the packing house or on dry pleasant days packing may be done in the field. _packing._--the package recommended for general use is the ordinary lettuce basket. before packing, the leaves should be cut back to stubs. each head should be carefully wrapped in a large sheet of white glazed paper. the baskets should be packed snug and tight without bruising the heads, and only those of uniform size should be placed in each basket. never place different sizes in the same package and always discard inferior or injured heads; the compost heap is the place for them.--(f. b. ; fla. e. s. ; tex. e. s. ; cornell u. e. s. .) celeriac. this vegetable, which is also known as turnip-rooted celery, or knot celery, is closely related to our ordinary celery, being indeed a cultural variety of the same original plant grown under conditions which have developed the root rather than the stalk. in europe it is by far the most common form of celery, but has never been extensively cultivated in the united states, though it is found in the larger markets. the roots are white and more or less globular in shape, closely resembling turnips in appearance. this vegetable deserves to be more widely known, being extremely hardy and of easy cultivation. it is mostly used for flavoring soups, except by the germans who use it in the same manner as potatoes for potato salad. planted or inches apart and feet between the rows it will yield abundantly, and succeed best where celery will. the edible portion develops into a bulbous root weighing to ounces when trimmed, and these bulbs when properly packed away in the cellar will keep almost until spring. where the ground but slightly freezes, the plants may be safely left unharvested for spring use.--(f. b. , ; mich. e. s. .) celery. the ideal climatic conditions for the production of celery are bright sunshine, pure air, cool nights, and a well-distributed rainfall of about inches during the growing period in the field or garden. _soils._--in the production of celery for domestic use, a rich, mellow, sandy loam will give the best results. the soil of the seed bed should contain plenty of leaf mold and should be passed through a sieve having not less than six meshes to the inch. the soil of the transplanting bed need not be sifted so fine, and some well-rotted barnyard manure should replace a part of the leaf mold; in other respects it should be the same as that of the seed bed. any fertile, well-drained soil will grow celery, but a loose, sandy loam is preferable. if nothing but clay soil is available, it may be made to produce good celery by the liberal application of well-rotted barnyard manure. on clay soils there is likely to be injury caused by the soil becoming washed into the hearts of the plants while they are yet small. _fertilizers._--for the production of the home supply of celery there is no fertilizer that is so satisfactory as well-rotted barnyard manure. in many localities the supply of manure is limited, and it may be necessary to depend almost entirely upon commercial fertilizers. if fresh stable manure is used, it should be plowed under in the autumn. if the manure is well rotted, it may be plowed under early in the spring or used as a top-dressing a short time before planting in order to bring the manure to the surface. from to tons of manure to the acre should be applied each year that the land is planted to celery. the application of lime will improve most soils. following the use of stable manure an application of , pounds of ground quicklime as a top dressing will be beneficial. soils that are liable to leach during the winter can be held by planting to rye and the crop turned under quite early in the spring. when applied to clay soils the lime has a tendency to lighten them, and sandy soils are rendered more retentive of moisture by the addition of lime. an application of to pounds of common salt to the acre is considered desirable by some growers. celery will take up a limited quantity of salt, and its flavor is improved thereby. one to tons of high-grade fertilizer to the acre may be profitably applied on most soils in addition to the stable manure and lime. as a rule, the quick-acting fertilizers are used, and a mixture suitable for growing celery should contain about per cent of nitrogen, per cent of available phosphoric acid, and per cent of potash. _time and method of plowing._--as a rule the land should be plowed several weeks before planting. at the north it is desirable to plow the celery land in the autumn and allow the soil to lie exposed to the action of frost during the winter. at the south it will be necessary to plow but a short time before planting. the plowing should be very thorough, and in most cases with a somewhat heavier plow than that generally used for other crops. _smoothing and pulverizing._--a few days before the land is required for planting, the surface should be cut with a disk or cutting harrow, followed by such tools as are necessary to pulverize the soil to a depth of or inches. just before planting, the land should either be rolled or gone over with a float, or drag, made by nailing together planks or scantlings, in order to secure an even surface for planting. _marking rows._--the rows in which the celery plants are to be set should not be marked until a short time before planting, in order that the soil may remain fresh. a marking device similar to the ordinary corn marker may be used, but some form of roller with a number of projecting pegs to form holes in which to set the plants is desirable. a device of this character can be constructed by replacing the wheel of an ordinary wheelbarrow with a roller having a series of pegs. _selection of seed._--the first and most important consideration when preparing to grow a crop of celery is the securing of good seed, not merely seed of which a large percentage will germinate, but that having strength and vigor sufficient to give the seedling a good start. as the seeds of celery are very small, it is necessary that only a small percentage of the number usually sown should actually grow in order to secure an abundance of plants; but as low germination and the necessary vigor are seldom both to be found in the same packet of seed that seed which has a high percentage of germination is preferable. _sowing for an early crop._--for sowing seed during the early part of the season, the plan best suited to the requirements of the farmer or amateur grower of celery is to secure a wooden flat or tray about by inches in size and inches deep, with several small holes in the bottom for drainage. after filling with sifted soil level it off even with the top, and either shake down the soil or press it down by means of a board before the seeds are sown. either sow in drills inches apart or scatter broadcast, and cover the seed by sprinkling through a fine sieve a very small quantity of leaf mold or sand. this tray can be placed in the window of a moderately warm room in the dwelling, and the soil should be watered by sprinkling very lightly as often as necessary to keep the surface from showing dryness, but the soil should not become waterlogged. _sowing for a late crop._--the method now in use by most large growers is to prepare a tract of land by pulverizing with horse tools and then raking by hand, after which the seed is sown broadcast by means of a wheelbarrow grass-seed drill. the soil is sometimes pressed down with a plank after the seeds are scattered, but some growers maintain that there is a decided advantage in leaving the soil slightly uneven, as the seeds fall into the shaded places and are protected from the direct rays of the sun. the seed will become sufficiently covered by rains or by watering. should more than per cent of the seed usually sown germinate, it is necessary to thin out to prevent overcrowding, with its attendant injury. to prevent the surface of the soil becoming too dry, it may be necessary to partially shade the young plants during the warm days of early summer, but the shading should never be so dense as to cause them to become "drawn." _transplanting._--in case the grower adopts the plan of transplanting twice, the seedlings will be ready for the first handling in from four to six weeks from the time the seed is sown. the seedlings may be transplanted to trays or to beds in the open ground. this transplanting answers two purposes: ( ) the seedling plant of celery has a straight root, or taproot, which is broken in transplanting, causing a large mass of fibrous roots to be formed. in the case of a plant allowed to remain in the seed bed until planting-out time this taproot has gone far down into the soil and the plant has formed very few side roots; consequently it suffers a great shock in the process of planting in the field, and a large number of plants will need to be replaced. ( ) when transplanting twice is practiced there is no necessity for thinning, and a more uniform lot of plants is obtained. two handlings can not be recommended when celery is grown on a large scale, as the cost of labor is too great. it is better to have a surplus of plants and to renew those that fail. _watering._--when the seed bed is prepared, the soil of which it is composed should contain as much moisture as possible and yet be in good condition to handle. after sowing and covering the seeds the bed should be sprinkled lightly. during the period between seeding and the appearance of the plants the bed should be watered only as often as it shows indications of dryness; however, the surface should never become dry. during the first few days a moist cloth may be spread over the surface of the seed bed in order to conserve the moisture, but this covering should be removed before the seedlings begin to appear. after the plants are up, care should be taken not to water too heavily, as the seedlings are liable to "damp off"; but the ground should never become so dry as to check their growth. celery requires the most water while making its greatest growth, which occurs late in the summer. as the crop approaches maturity the water should be applied sparingly, and it should be withheld altogether for some time before blanching. among the methods of applying the water, the most simple and usually the most desirable practice, especially where the surface of the soil is even, is to run the water along the rows by means of small furrows, or inches distant on either side of the row. this method is well adapted to use on a gentle slope with the rows running up and down the incline. when the water is sprinkled over the entire surface it should be done late in the day, so that the soil may, during the night, absorb the moisture and prevent a crust being formed, as would be the case were the water applied under the direct heat of the sun. _growing without irrigation._--for a home supply of celery it is often possible to select a rather moist but well-drained piece of land whereon it may be grown without artificial watering. in this case the plants should be set while the atmosphere is filled with moisture, preferably between gentle showers, and the moisture afterwards retained in the soil by frequent shallow cultivation or by the application of a mulch around the plants. this method can not be followed in climates where irrigation is necessary for the production of crops, but is applicable in regions that have an ordinary rainfall during the growing season. _planting._--for domestic use, where plenty of land is available, it will be found most economical to plant in single or double rows , or feet apart, with the plants or inches apart in the row. if the space is limited, solid beds about feet wide will be found suitable, with the plants set or inches apart each way. by planting in rows the crop may be worked with a horse cultivator or a wheel hoe and the banking more easily done, and thus the cost of production is lessened. with the solid-bed system the work must all be done by hand. if possible, the planting should be done when the soil is rather moist and the atmospheric conditions suitable to the subsistence of the plants until the roots can again furnish sufficient moisture to supply them. the bed should be thoroughly watered a few hours before the plants are removed, and a knife or trowel should be run between the plants so that they may be lifted with a clump of earth and with most of their roots attached. _mulching._--in muck soils it will not be found necessary to mulch the ground around the plants after setting, but some kind of a covering is desirable on sandy and clay soils. as soon as the plants are in position and before any water is applied, cover the ground for a distance of or inches on either side with any finely divided material that will shade the top of the soil and prevent a crust being formed after watering; half-rotted manure is preferable for this, as it aids the growth by its fertilizing qualities. good celery can be grown on clay upland with but one watering--at the time of planting--provided that plenty of mulch is applied as soon as the plants are set. the roots of celery, after it is once transplanted, run close to the surface, and the mulch will protect them from the heat of the sun. among materials that may be used for a mulch may be mentioned pine needles, leaves of any kind, straw, cornstalks run through the cutter, clippings from the lawn, etc., none of which, however, are as good as barnyard manure. have the material to be used as a mulch near at hand, and as the plants are set cover the soil around them to a depth of inches, bringing the mulching material up close to the plant, but being careful to allow none to get into the heart. apply the mulch before watering, if possible. where celery is planted in single rows and mulched it will only be necessary to maintain shallow cultivation between the rows, not allowing the cultivator teeth to come nearer the plants than the edge of the mulch. where no mulch is used the cultivation may be carried a little closer to the plants, but should be very shallow, and at no time should deep cultivation be practiced, as the roots are to be found very near the surface of the soil. if a mulch is used no hand cultivation will be required, either along the side or between the plants in the row, except to pull any weeds that may spring up. where no mulch is used it will be necessary lightly to stir the surface with a wheel hoe or iron rake, to prevent a crust being formed after each rain or watering. keep the surface of the soil smooth and in no case allow lumps of earth to remain near the plants. _blanching._--in its original wild state the stems of celery are tough, full of woody strands, of a rank flavor, and green in color, being similar to the outside stems or trimmings of our present varieties. the object of blanching is to secure leafstalks free from woody strands, crisp and tender, and without the rank flavor found in those that are green. of the cultivated plant there are two classes of varieties, the large-growing, or giant, and the dwarf sorts. these are again divided into those which must be blanched by excluding all the light and those which are in a measure self-blanching. of the former the giant pascal variety is a type, and of the latter the golden self-blanching variety is a good illustration. blanching is accomplished by the same general method that is employed for destroying the coloring matter in any plant tissue, that is, by excluding the light and allowing the growth to proceed in the dark. the particular method to be adopted must be determined largely by the time when the crop is to be used. if for early use or marketing, the blanching must be completed where the plants are grown; but if the celery be for winter use the blanching may take place after the crop has been removed from the field and placed in storage. in fact, it is best to blanch as little as possible before storing when the product is to be kept until late, as the keeping qualities are better while it is unblanched. when planting for early use it is necessary to choose one of the self-blanching varieties, such as may be conveniently blanched by the use of boards or other similar means. for early blanching on a small scale, such as would be employed on the farm or in the garden of the amateur horticulturist, there are several methods. one of the most common is by means of boards placed on edge along each side of the row. after the boards are in position it is a good plan to run a celery hiller between the rows and to throw a little soil against the lower edges of the boards to close any openings that may result from the uneven surface of the soil. two or three weeks' time will be required to complete the blanching of the early varieties, and the boards must be kept in position until the crop is removed from the ground, after which they may be used again two or three times during the season. if the celery is allowed to remain in the boards too long after it has reached a marketable stage, it loses in weight and flavor and is liable to be injured or even destroyed by the attacks of blight. this is especially true during the earlier part of the season, when the weather is warm. at the end of the season the boards should be piled flat, with strips inserted at every fourth or fifth course, and the whole pile roofed over to shed off rain; treated in this manner they will last from ten to twelve years. perhaps the most satisfactory way of blanching early celery on a small scale is by means of ordinary farm drain tiles of about inches inside diameter, placed over the plants after they have become almost fully grown. to facilitate the work of placing the tiles over the plants, some of the outside leaves should be pulled away and the main part of the plant loosely tied together by means of a soft string, or, better, with what is known as paper twine, being a string made by twisting a strip of soft paper. this string will lose its strength as soon as it becomes wet, and will offer no resistance to the further growth of the plant. if the common, unglazed tiles are used the evaporation from their surface has a tendency to keep the plant cool during the heat of the day, and a very crisp and tender product is the result. this method of blanching is desirable also on account of its cleanliness, as celery treated in this way will need very little washing before marketing. the most common method for blanching celery on a small scale is that of banking with soil, and it is by this means that the finest flavor can be obtained. where the plants are set in single rows the soil can often be partially thrown up by means of a plow, or, better, by a celery hiller. before the plow or banking machine is used a small quantity of dirt must be placed around the plants by hand to hold them in position while the earth is being thrown around them. this may also be accomplished by tying up the plants with paper twine, as previously recommended for use in connection with tiles. _storing._--the plan usually adopted where but a small quantity of celery is to be stored for winter use is to bank up with earth and cover the plants where grown. place enough earth around the base of the plants to hold them in good form, and then allow them to remain without any further banking as long as there is not danger of a hard frost. celery may be safely stored in cellars provided the temperature is kept low and plenty of ventilation maintained. the warmth and dampness of the ordinary cellar have a tendency to cause the celery to decay, but these conditions can frequently be overcome. celery will readily absorb any odor that may be present in the atmosphere of the storage place, and care should be taken to provide sanitary conditions. when storing in a cellar, the plants should have most of their roots attached, and a bed of moist sand in which to set them should be provided. [illustration: celery banked with earth to blanch it] _preparing celery for market._--in preparing it from the rows where grown, it is not necessary to remove the entire root from the earth, but it may be cut off just below the surface of the soil by means of a stiff knife. remove the outside leaves and trim the root evenly, pack in boxes, and load on the wagon for removal to the washing house. the blanching boards should not be removed till necessary, and the trimmed celery must not be allowed to lie exposed to the sun or wind for any length of time. it is well also to have a piece of canvas to protect the celery while it is on the wagon on the way to the washing house. in marketing from the trenches the process is practically the same as from the rows, except that the celery is already loosened from the soil and the roots can be removed more easily. upon reaching the washing room the celery is placed upon a rack consisting of wooden slats over a large trough and subjected to a spray of cold water to cool it and to remove the adhering soil. after washing, it is allowed to drain; then it is tied in bunches of or more plants each, according to the size. the bunches are packed in a box for first-grade celery and or for second or third grades. these boxes should be practically air-tight, and a lining of paper should be placed in them before packing the celery, or each bunch should be wrapped separately. the celery should be nearly dry before it is placed in the boxes, and throughout the entire handling must be kept as cool as possible. _sanitary conditions._--it is essential that the celery should be washed in pure water to prevent the transmission of disease germs. any germ, such as that producing typhoid fever, which is found in contaminated water, is readily carried to the digestive system of the consumer, and may or may not produce an attack of the disease, according to the strength of the person to resist it. the washhouse and its surroundings should be kept clean and free from any decomposing materials. shippers and dealers alike lose sight of the fact that the edible portion of celery is constantly being exposed to the contaminating effects of dirty wagons, unclean cars, and dusty markets. many persons have discontinued the use of celery on account of the unclean condition in which it is served. this statement holds good for all vegetables that are served in the raw state, but it is especially applicable to celery. _estimates of returns._--anyone contemplating making a start in celery growing will do well to first investigate the market prospects, and unless satisfactory shipping arrangements can be made beforehand the crop should be planted only on a small scale for one or two years, until a local trade can be established. it is fair to estimate a return of , dozen from acre; and this should bring cents per dozen, at the lowest average estimate; this will yield a gross income of $ to the acre, leaving a net balance of $ to cover the interest on the investment and the profit. as a matter of fact, the growers who are making a success of celery raising--and many are doing so--receive a net profit of $ an acre over and above the interest on the investment. on the other hand, hundreds of acres are grown annually which do not much more than pay expenses, but this is due to the fact that the soil has become exhausted and the product is consequently undersized and inferior.--(f. b. , ; cornell e. s. ; colo. e. s. .) cetewayo, or zulu, potatoes. the cetewayo, or zulu, potato, a wild variety of _solanum tuberosum_ found in africa, is sometimes grown as a garden vegetable for its flavor and novelty. it has practically the same percentage composition as the ordinary potato. when cooked, the flesh is purple in color, but when brought in contact with vinegar, as in salads, it turns red.--(f. b. .) the chayote. the chayote suggests the cucumber rather than any other of the cultivated plants of the same family, but is a larger and more vigorous plant, climbing widely by means of numerous branched tendrils. when grown under ordinary garden conditions the cultural requirements of the chayote may be said to be two in number: ( ) a somewhat sheltered situation and ( ) something to climb upon. while the vine will not refuse to grow without these advantages, the results will not be satisfactory. like many climbing plants, the chayote is very susceptible to injury from the wind, while, unlike many cucurbitaceae, it does not seem to take kindly to creeping upon the ground, at least in the tropics. in the different parts of the world the chayote has been found to grow upon a great variety of soils, though it is generally considered to thrive best in a loose sandy or loamy substratum, providing sufficient humus or other fertilizing material be at hand. although it has been found possible to secure plants from the seed when planted alone, or even from the embryo when carefully extracted from its seed coats, it is the universal practice to plant the entire fruit. the fruit should be gathered before fully matured, because of the tendency to germinate. it is like the cucumber, edible at any stage of growth, and may be picked when large enough. the chayote is a good shipper and may be shipped in bulk in vegetable crates, wrapped and well packed; cold storage will not be necessary.--(dept. ag., div. of botany ; p. rico a. e. s. ). chervil. under the name of chervil two distinct plants, known as salad chervil and the turnip-rooted chervil, are cultivated. the seeds of the salad chervil are sown in spring and the crop will thrive on any good garden soil. the seeds of the turnip-rooted chervil should be sown in the early autumn, but they will not germinate until the following spring. the edible part of this plant is the root, which somewhat resembles the carrot and is used in the same manner. the leaves are used the same as parsley for garnishing and in flavoring soups.--(f. b. .) chicory. chicory is grown for two or three purposes. the root of this plant is the common adulterant of coffee, and large quantities are used for this purpose. the commercial growing of chicory is confined to a few sections, as the crop will not thrive on every kind of soil. a deep, rich loam, without excessive amounts of clay or sand, is desirable, and soil that is not too rich in nitrogenous matter is best suited to the production of roots. the roots are frequently placed in soil under a greenhouse bench or in a warm cellar and covered with a foot or more of straw, or with a light covering of straw and then several inches of warm manure. under this covering the leaves will be formed in a solid head, which is known on the market as witloof. chicory has run wild in some parts of the country and is considered a bad weed. the handsome blue flowers, which are borne the second season, are very attractive. as a pot herb chicory is used like spinach, but the leaves should be boiled in two waters to remove the bitter taste. as a salad the roots are dug in the autumn and planted in cellars or under a greenhouse bench, where they produce an abundance of blanched leaves, which are eaten raw. the blanched leaves are also boiled and used as greens.--(f. b. ; u. idaho e. s. .) chile. the chile is used in many different ways and it is quite an important article of food among the spanish speaking population in the southwest and in mexico. it is eaten both in the green and ripe state. it may be grown on ridges or in level plats. the former method is the more common in new mexico. in the spring after the ground has been plowed and leveled (the plowing of the land can be done in the fall or winter) and just a little before planting the ridges are made. these ridges may vary in height from to inches. it is better to irrigate the ridges before planting, though this is not always done. the object of irrigating before planting is to get the water mark on the side of the ridges and to settle the newly plowed soil somewhat. as soon as the soil is dry enough so it can be worked, which is generally from four to seven days, the seed is planted usually on one side of the ridge and just above the water mark. the seed is planted by hand in hills about every two feet in the row. the chile does not stand freezing weather, though it will stand a little more cold than tomatoes. for the convenience of intending chile growers the following table which gives the number of hills per acre at different distances has been prepared: number of distance. hills per acre. - / feet between rows × feet in the row - / feet between rows × - / feet in the row feet between rows × feet in the row feet between rows × - / feet in the row _planting._--the seed is planted on the side of the ridge, when the ridge method is practiced. the southern exposure of the ridge is always preferable since this is usually warmer and the germination, other factors being uniform, is quicker. if level culture is practiced there is no choice of exposure. whatever method of planting is followed care should be taken not to bury the seed too deeply. as a general thing the seed should not be deeper than three-fourths of an inch to an inch and a half. shallower planting, if the moisture is kept normal, will give quicker and better germination. more seed is required per acre when the planting is done by hand on the ridges than when it is drilled with a garden drill in plats. _thinning._--chile started from seed planted in the field must be thinned to one or three plants to the hill. when the chile has been thinned out properly the plant or plants in the hill branch out considerably and produce a heavier and better crop. if too many plants are left to the hill there is a marked tendency for the plants to grow too tall and more or less top heavy. the chile is thinned out when about to inches high. if a good germination takes place it is more difficult to thin the chile, because there are more small plants to the hill to be pulled out. care should be had in selecting the strongest plants in the hill and in injuring as little as possible the roots of those which remain. while the common way of growing chile is to plant the seed out in the field in the spring, it can also be grown by starting the plants in cold frames early in the season and transplanting to the field as soon as danger of frost is over. _irrigation._--after the irrigations to get the crop started have been given, the frequency of the subsequent irrigations depends upon the weather and soil conditions, and for that reason no specific statement can be made just when and how often the chile should be irrigated. one thing, however, is important to keep in mind, and that is that the chile plant keeps bearing as long as it is growing. if the growth should be checked by the lack of irrigation the plant stops bearing and the blossoms and the very small pods are likely to drop off. the grower himself should study his local conditions and decide for himself when and how much to irrigate. while the chile plant resists considerable drought, at the same time, it should not be allowed to suffer from the lack of irrigation. when the chile is grown on ridges the space between the ridges should be allowed to fill with water almost up to the plant. if the water is simply turned in and allowed to rush down the furrow to the other end the ridges will remain practically dry, necessitating frequent irrigations to keep the plants from suffering. in irrigating the chile on ridges always aim to hold the water long enough in the furrow for the ridges to get fairly well soaked through. in the level plat the irrigation is more simple and the soil around each hill gets wet sufficiently while the water is running down to the end of the plat. when the plats are quite long and are made up of a series of squares as soon as each square is filled with water the border, dividing that square from the next one, is cut and the water rushes into the next square which is treated the same as the one before.--(n. mex. col. ag. and mech. arts .) chive. this is a small onion-like plant having flat, hollow leaves which are used for flavoring soups. the chive rarely forms seeds, and it is propagated by the bulbs, which grow in clusters. the leaves may be cut freely and are soon replaced by others.--(f. b. ; s. dak. e. s. .) citron. the citron is a type of watermelon with solid flesh which is used for preserves and sweet pickles. the rind of the watermelon is frequently substituted for citron. the cultivation of the citron is the same as for the watermelon.--(f. b. ; u. idaho e. s. .) collards. the culture and uses of collards are the same as for cabbage and kale. collards withstand the heat better than either cabbage or kale, and a type known as georgia collards is highly esteemed in the southern states. collards do not form a true head, but instead a loose rosette of leaves, which, when blanched, are very tender and of delicate flavor.--(f. b. ; u. idaho e. s. ; p. rico a. e. s. .) corn salad. corn salad is also known as lamb's-lettuce and fetticus. sow the seed during the early spring in drills to inches apart and cultivate the same as for lettuce or mustard. for an extra early crop the seed may be planted during the autumn and the plants covered lightly during the winter. in the southern states the covering will not be necessary and the plants will be ready for use during february and march. the leaves are frequently used in their natural green state, but they may be blanched by covering the rows with anything that will exclude the light. corn salad is used as a salad in place of lettuce, or mixed with lettuce or water cress. the flavor of corn salad is very mild, and it is improved by mixing with some other salad plant for use. it is also boiled with mustard for greens.--(f. b. .) cress. under the name of cress there are two forms, the water cress and the upland cress. the upland cress, sometimes called peppergrass, is easily grown from seed sown in drills a foot apart. as the plants last but a short time, it will be necessary to make a sowing every few days if a continuous supply is desired. water cress can be grown all the year in small open ditches containing running spring water. it is best and most easily produced in water from rather warm springs in limestone regions. a sufficient supply for family use can be grown in a small spring-fed brook, and the plants may be started either from small pieces of plants or from seed. cress is used in salads, to which it imparts a pleasant pungency.--(f. b. ; u. idaho e. s. ; p. rico a. e. s. .) cucumbers. _soil._--the soil best adapted to the cultivation of cucumbers in the open is a light sandy loam, one which responds quickly to temperature and fertilizer. such soils are prepared early in the season and thrown into gentle undulations, so as to produce slight ridges upon which to plant the seed to insure good surface drainage. _fertilizers._--the soil for cucumbers should be made very rich by the annual application of heavy dressings of stable manure to be incorporated with the soil. during the time it is not occupied by cucumbers or lettuce, cowpeas are frequently grown upon the area and turned under prior to planting a fall crop of lettuce. in addition to this, liberal applications of a fertilizer carrying a considerable percentage of nitrogen are employed. _planting._--there are almost as many methods of planting cucumbers as there are growers. some plant in hills the standard distance of feet apart each way; others plant in hills feet apart in one direction and or feet apart in the row, while others plant in drills or broad belts feet apart and chop out the plants to stand about a foot apart in the row after all danger from insect depredation has ceased. the methods which seem most economical under the conditions at hand will of course be adopted by the grower. in outdoor culture the cucumber is frequently used as a companion crop to other crops, like beans. beans being of rapid growth come on quickly and form a partial protection or wind-break for the young cucumber plants. when arranged in this way, cucumbers are planted in drills or in hills feet apart and a row of beans is placed between two rows of cucumbers, a method which insures a very complete and satisfactory use of the ground. the quick maturity of the beans allows them to be harvested and entirely removed from the area before it is required for the cucumbers. _harvesting._--cucumbers intended for pickling purposes are harvested when they have attained a length of from - / to inches. because such cucumbers are bought by weight it will readily be seen that the small-sized pickles are less profitable to the grower than the larger ones, and in order to secure them before they have attained an unsalable size it is necessary that the picking be repeated at frequent intervals, as cucumbers grow rapidly and a delay of twenty-four to forty-eight hours in harvesting would render many of them unsalable. it is therefore necessary to have regular intervals to harvest certain areas of the patch and to continue this routine throughout the bearing season. another point which is of prime importance in the management of the cucumber patch is that none of the fruits be allowed to come to maturity. the ripening process, which means the development and maturing of the seeds, produces a heavy strain upon the growing plant, the life and yield of the plant being in proportion to the number of fruits which are allowed to ripen. if no fruits are allowed to come to maturity the plants will remain green and in an active vegetative condition longer and will produce a much larger aggregate number of fruits. _dill pickles._--dill pickles, which are much prized and command the highest price among pickles, can be made from fresh cucumbers as they come from the vines, or from vat stock which has been carried for some time at the salting station. _cucumbers grown in cold frames for market._--soil for use in cold frames should be a well-enriched sandy loam of the type of the usual sandy loam. if it can be dark in color, this is an advantage. if normally light, the color can be changed by the addition of muck or by incorporating well-decomposed stable manure with the surface soil. a dark color is of some advantage in helping to raise the temperature in the frames under the glass. _watering._--since the glazed sash prevent the soil beneath them being moistened by natural means--that is, by rain or dew--it is necessary that means be provided for watering or irrigating the plants. this can be done by arranging pipes upon the surface of the ground or at a convenient height overhead, so as not to interfere with cultivation, from which water can be drawn to sprinkle the surface of the beds at desired intervals and as the plants may require. the work of watering should, however, be very carefully done. the same general precautions necessary for the care of plants in cold frames should be observed--that is, to do the watering in the morning on bright days only, when air can be admitted and when the sun will soon dry the moisture from the leaves of the plants. in this way much can be done to protect the plants from injury from such diseases as the damping-off fungus and mildew. [illustration: japanese climbing cucumber nearly six feet from the ground] [illustration: well-grown cucumbers] _ventilation._--besides the precautions to be observed in watering plants in cold frames, extreme care is necessary to give the plants sufficient air to keep them in a healthy condition. if the atmosphere is allowed to become close and very hot, the plants will be weakened and thus rendered more susceptible to the attacks of plant diseases. _forcing cucumbers under glass._--forcing is a technical term used by gardeners to designate the growing of plants out of their normal season under an artificial environment. the cucumber is one of the few garden plants which lend themselves to this manner of cultivation in addition to their more extensive cultivation in the open ground. under the stimulus of forcing work, two distinct types of cucumbers have been developed. these are recognized in the trade as the english type and the american type. the english type is purely a product of forcing-house conditions, as the climate of england is not congenial to the growth and development of the cucumber in the open. the american type of cucumber is primarily a product of field conditions, and the few varieties which have been developed to meet the requirements of the forcing house are simply modifications of the existing field or outdoor forms. the english type of cucumber is a long, cylindrical, uniformly green fruit, with few seeds and a very fleshy seed cavity; in fact, the normal seed cavity of the forced cucumber is almost entirely wanting. the triangular shape characteristic of the normal outdoor cucumber has been lost, and the cylindrical outline almost perfected. there is considerable difference in the size and length of the various english varieties of cucumbers. the american type of cucumber is primarily grown in the field, the product to be used either for pickling or for slicing. forcing cucumbers in america is confined to those varieties which produce large fruits suitable for slicing. only three or four of the better and larger field varieties are adapted to this purpose. notable among these is the white spine, the arlington white spine being the variety which has been especially developed for forcing. the long green, or a modification of it, is also sometimes used, but aside from these two varieties there are few that ever find their way into the forcing house. such varieties as the boston pickling, chicago pickling, and the cluster varieties in general are not adapted to forcing purposes. the forcing of cucumbers presupposes that an adequate forcing house or greenhouse is at hand for such work. the chief desideratum in a forcing house for cucumbers is a maximum amount of light, sufficient headroom, and adequate radiation to maintain a temperature varying from ° to ° f. the amount of radiation will, of course, depend upon the style of heating employed, whether steam or hot water, and upon the location of the greenhouse, whether at the north or the south; the outside temperature determining to a considerable extent the amount of radiation required in the house to maintain a given degree of heat. _propagation._--there are a number of methods of propagation followed by successful cucumber growers, all of which have some advantages. three of the more common practices are as follows: ( ) to plant the seeds of cucumbers in the soil of the bench where the plants are to grow and mature; ( ) to plant the seeds of the cucumbers in -inch or -inch pots filled about half full of soil and after the seeds have germinated and the hypocotyl or stem of the seedling has elongated to fill the pots well up to the seed leaves with soil; and ( ) to plant the seeds in cups similar to those used for harvesting strawberries, except that the cups for this purpose are usually made of georgia pine. in the first case, where the seeds are planted directly in the soil on the benches, cucumbers are usually employed as a crop to follow lettuce, seeds being planted in the lettuce benches before the crop is entirely removed, heads of lettuce being taken out at proper distances to allow for the correct spacing of the cucumber plants, and the seeds of cucumbers planted in the areas so left. in the other two cases the rearing of the plants for forcing purposes can be carried on in a small house especially designed for this purpose or in a general propagating house, thus obviating the necessity of heating and maintaining normal conditions in the growing house during the period previous to which the plants begin to run. _planting on the benches._--as soon as the plants show well-developed runners and are to inches long they should be placed in their permanent position upon the greenhouse benches. plants grown in pots must be carefully removed from these receptacles to the bench, but those grown in the wooden cups above referred to can be planted, cup and all, in the soil of the bench. the utmost care should be exercised to keep the plants of the cucumber growing rapidly at all times. if cucumbers receive a severe check or are placed under conditions which are not entirely congenial to them, they are liable to become dwarfed and stunted, and as soon as vigorous growth ceases they become the prey of the melon aphis, mildew, and other pests and diseases which are so annoying to growers of cucumbers under artificial conditions. _distance to plant._--after the plants have attained a height of or inches and are in a vigorous growing condition they should be placed about or inches apart in single rows upon the side benches of the greenhouse, which are normally - / feet wide, or if planted on -foot benches they should be planted about or inches from the edge of the bench and to inches apart and parallel with the edge of the bench. in the broad benches, where more than a double row can be carried, plants can be set about inches apart and in rows about feet apart. a satisfactory plan for an -foot bench will be a row parallel with and inches from each edge of the bench and a double row inches apart through the middle of the bench. it is well, however, to allow as much space as possible. the cucumber is a rank-growing plant and many side branches will develop if sufficient space is allowed. _training the plants._--as soon as the plants show a tendency to run they should be trained so as to keep them from becoming unduly tangled and in order to fill all the space upon the trellis. galvanized wires no. can be run lengthwise of the house and stapled to the supports, which should be placed about feet apart. upon side benches which are elevated it will be necessary to train the cucumbers to the framework of the greenhouse. for this purpose screw eyes about inches in length can be placed in the sash bars at intervals of or feet and the parallel wires to which the vines are to be tied stretched inches apart lengthwise of the house through these screw eyes and firmly fastened at the ends. the vines should then be loosely tied to the supporting wires with raffia or soft cotton yarn. when the fruits become heavy, as in the case of the english varieties, it will become necessary to truss them to prevent their weight breaking the vines. heavy fruits will cause the supporting wires or bands of raffia to break or girdle the vines unless they are supported independently. the american varieties seldom attain sufficient size to require this precaution. fruits of these varieties as soon as they are to inches in length and inches in diameter are harvested for market. the vines are usually sufficiently strong to withstand the weight of fruit of this size. _pollination._--the cucumber, like the other members of the gourd family to which it belongs, bears two kinds of blossoms on widely separated parts of the plant. the staminate or nonfruit-bearing flower is the first to appear and is in general borne near the base of the plant. the pistillate blossom with the embryo cucumbers at its base appears later and is borne near the extremity of the newly forming and rapidly growing shoots. since these flowers are normally produced in this way, it is necessary that a transfer of pollen be made from the staminate to the pistillate flowers throughout the agency of insects or by other artificial means. under greenhouse conditions and at the time of year that the cucumber is forced it is necessary to provide for pollination. in small establishments this work can be done by hand. the staminate blossoms are removed, the petals turned back so as to allow the anthers to project, and the pencil thus produced is then thrust into the cup of the pistillate flower in such a way as to distribute pollen upon the stigma of the pistillate flower. in large establishments where hand pollination is out of the question a colony of honey bees is placed in each house to accomplish the work.--(f. b. , ; mass. ag. col. e. s. ; iowa ag. col. e. s. .) dandelion. sow the seed of dandelion in spring in drills inches apart, covering it one-half inch deep. thin the plants to about inches apart and give good clean cultivation throughout the summer. in the colder parts of the country it may be desirable to mulch slightly during the winter to prevent the plants heaving out of the soil. early the following spring the plants will be ready for use as greens, but they are greatly improved if blanched by setting two boards in the forms of an inverted letter v over the row. the blanching not only makes the leaves more tender but destroys a part of the bitter taste. dandelion greens should be boiled in two waters to remove the bitterness.--(f. b. - ; s. dak. ; u. id. e. s. .) dill. grown as fennel which it greatly resembles, both being well known herbs used for flavoring pickles, and both being of unsurpassed hardiness.--(mich. e. s. .) egg plant. this delicious vegetable is not so much cultivated in our gardens as it should be. this has arisen largely from the difficulty of getting the plants from seed in the open ground. if you have no greenhouse, hotbed, nor frame, it will be best to buy the plants at setting-time from some one who grows them early in pots. plants pulled from a bed are seldom worth planting, as the egg plant is slow to recover from a serious check. _kind of soil._--a sandy loam will be found excellent soil; this should be well drained and have a moist subsoil. land that has been drained, if all other conditions are proper, will make an excellent field. this plant is a deep feeder, so that the land should be plowed as deeply as possible. a new field should not be taken, while one might succeed, the chances are not so good as on an old and well-tried piece of land. be sure that all rubbish and matter that could interfere with cultivation has been removed. fertilize the field broadcast; there is little or no danger of the plants failing to get the food if it is in the soil. the best way is to apply the fertilizer just before plowing the field, and then apply a smaller amount where the plants are to stand; work the fertilizer in well a week or two before setting out. lay the land off into rows four feet apart, and set the plants three or four feet apart in the row. at convenient distances a row may be skipped to make a road to gather the crop. after the crop has been planted there is little or no use for a hoe; the plow can and ought to do the work. no weeds should be allowed to show more than the seed leaves, and the ground should be kept mellow enough to let a person sink nearly to the ankles in dry times. when the fertilizer has been applied properly the roots will seek the deeper soil, and the ordinary horse cultivator will not reach them at all. eggplant raising pays best under high cultivation. by replenishing the fertilizer, plants may be kept in bearing until frost kills them in the fall, but it will be found more profitable to renew the field, if a summer or fall crop is desired.--(u. id. e. s. ; n. c. e. s. ; fla. e. s. ; f. b. ; iowa e. s. .) endive. the endive is a form of chicory. sow the seeds thinly in drills, and when the plants are well established thin to inches. water and cultivate thoroughly in order that a good growth of leaves may be made. when the leaves are to inches in length draw them together and tie them so the heart will blanch. the leaves should not be tied up while wet or decay will follow. the heads should be used as soon as blanched. for winter use sow the seeds rather late and remove the plants, with a ball of earth adhering to the roots, to a cellar or cold frame, and blanch during the winter as required for use. endive is used as a salad at times of the year when lettuce and similar crops are out of season.--(f. b. ; u. id. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. .) fennel. cultivated for the sweet aromatic foliage and fruit is an herb used for flavoring pickles.--(mich. e. s. .) garlic. garlic is closely allied to the onion, but will remain in the ground from one year to another if undisturbed. garlic is planted by setting the small bulbs, or cloves, either in the autumn or early spring. the culture is practically the same as for the onion. the bulbs are used for flavoring purposes.--(f. b. .) ginger. ginger, the underground root stock of _zingiber officinale_, is perhaps most commonly used dry as a spice, though the fresh root or green ginger is common in autumn, being used in pickle making, preserving, and in other ways. the young and tender ends of the branching root or rhizome, called ginger buds, are the most delicate portion as regards both texture and flavor. large quantities of ginger root are preserved in rich sugar syrup, the round stone jars of "canton ginger" being an old-fashioned confection which is still much prized. the crystallized or candied ginger is even more common and is frequently served as a sweetmeat, and is also used in making deserts of various sorts.--(f. b. .) herbs. to this group belong a number of plants hardly recognized as vegetables in the common use of the term, yet of sufficient importance to entitle them to a corner in the family garden. the herb garden or "patch" is too often considered a worthless gift or fashion handed down from grandmother's day. in every well ordered garden there should be a few of the common herbs. the same conditions concerning care, cultivation, etc., will answer for all. the site selected should be out of the way so that it may not be disturbed. as the bed is to be permanent it should be made fertile and cultivated deeply. in sowing classify according to whether they are annuals or perennials. the plants may be grown from seed but whenever possible, propagation by root division is much more easy and certain. in autumn before frost the leaves and stems of those desired for winter use should be gathered, tied in small bunches and hung up to dry in an airy room. where the seed is desired, it should be allowed to ripen and harvested.--(u. id. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. ; n. c. e. s. .) ice plant. this plant (_mesembryanthemum cristallinum_) gets its name from the crystalline ice-like covering of the leaves. in hot countries the leaves are used as a salad or boiled the same as spinach.--(s. dak. e. s. .) horse-radish. this plant will thrive best in a deep, rich soil, where there is plenty of moisture. the rows should be feet apart and the plants to inches apart in the row. tops cut from large roots or pieces of small roots are used for planting. a comparatively few hills of horse-radish will be sufficient for family use, and the roots required for starting can be secured of seedsmen for or cents a dozen. this crop will require no particular cultivation except to keep down the weeds, and is inclined to become a weed itself if not controlled. the large fleshy roots are prepared for use by peeling and grating. the grated root is treated with a little salt and vinegar and served as a relish with meats, oysters, etc. the roots should be dug during the winter or early spring before the leaves start. after being treated with salt and vinegar the grated root may be bottled for summer use. as this has always been considered strictly a cold-weather plant, is would seem useless to try to grow it in porto rico, but, as it gave very favorable results at this station, it can no doubt be produced for local consumption. it is practically unknown in porto rico, but most people acquire a taste for it, and foreigners, who are used to it in their native country, will find it very gratifying that they can grow it here. in the north it thrives in any soil from a light sand to a heavy clay, but prefers a medium heavy loam. here it grows luxuriantly in heavy clay but may not do so well in sand. it is planted from cuttings of the lateral roots, which should be from to inches long and planted at a distance of to inches in rows to inches apart. root cuttings can be obtained either in spring or fall from any seed firm, and these should be planted when received. the roots can be dug when large enough for use or can be left in the ground until wanted.--(f. b. : u. id. e. s. ; p. rico e. s. .) kale, or borecole. there are a large number of forms of kale, and these are thought by some to be the original type of the cabbage. kale does not form a head and has convoluted leaves and thick leaf stems. it is cultivated the same as cabbage, but may be set somewhat closer. this crop is very hardy and will live through the winter in the open ground in localities where freezing it not too severe. the flavor of kale is improved by frost. kale is used for greens during the winter, and as a substitute for cabbage.--(f. b. ; n. car. e. s. ; u. id. e. s. .) kohl-rabi. kohl-rabi belongs to the same class as cabbage and cauliflower, but presents a marked variation from either. it is, perhaps, half-way between the cabbage and turnip, in that its edible part consists of the swollen stem of the plant. for an early crop, plant and cultivate the same as for early cabbage. for a late crop or for all seasons in the south the seed may be sown in drills where the crop is to be grown and thinned to about inches apart in the row. the rows should be from to inches apart, according to the kind of cultivation employed. the fleshy stems should be used while they are young and quite tender. prepare kohl-rabi for the table in the same manner as turnips, which it very much resembles when cooked.--(f. b. ; u. id. e. s. ; mich. e. s. ; n. c. e. s. ; la. e. s. .) leek. this plant belongs to the same class as does the onion, but requires somewhat different treatment. leeks can be grown on any good garden soil and are usually sown in a shallow trench. the plants should be thinned to stand about inches apart in the row and the cultivation should be similar to that for onions. after the plants have attained almost full size the earth is drawn around them to the height of or inches to blanch the fleshy stem. the leek does not form a true bulb like the onion, but the stem is uniformly thick throughout. leeks are marketed in bunches like young onions, and they may be stored the same as celery for winter. leeks are used for flavoring purposes and are boiled and served with a cream dressing the same as young onions.--(n. car. e. s. ; la. e. s. ; f. b. .) lettuce. this crop attains its best development in a rich sandy loam in which there is plenty of organic matter. lettuce thrives best during the early spring or late autumn and will not withstand the heat of summer. in order that the leaves may be crisp and tender, it is necessary to force the growth. the usual method of growing lettuce for home use is to sow the seeds broadcast in a bed and remove the leaves from the plants as rapidly as they become large enough for use. a much better method is either to thin or transplant the seedlings and allow the plants to form rather compact heads and then cut the entire plant for use. in the southern states the seeds may be sown during the autumn and the plants allowed to remain in the ground over winter. at the north the seeds may be sown in a hotbed or cold frame and the seedlings transplanted to the open ground, or the seeding may be in rows in the garden and the plants thinned to or inches in the row. lettuce may be grown in rows about inches apart. in order to produce crisp and tender lettuce during the summer months, it may be necessary to provide some form of partial shading.--(f. b. ; n. y. e. s. ; n. car. e. s. ; tenn. e. s. ; purdue ind. e. s. and ; kas. e. s. .) lleren (_calathea allouya_). this vegetable, although cultivated in porto rico for a long time, is not extensively known. the plant at a cursory glance resembles a canna. the edible tubers, which are formed in great profusion, can be eaten boiled like potatoes; but, unlike potatoes, they do not become soft, but appear hard and crisp after prolonged boiling. lleren somewhat resembles boiled sweet corn in taste, and most people pronounce it delicious without needing to acquire a taste for it. the best soil for lleren is a rich, moist, well-drained loam, which is usually benefited by an application of wood ashes or sulphate of potash; an excess of nitrogen causes the production of large tops and few tubers. the stools or roots immediately adhering to stalks are the parts used for propagating; the tubers will not germinate. lleren should be planted at intervals of feet in rows feet apart, and cultivated like any other vegetable. it requires ten to fifteen months to mature tubers, which are / to inch in diameter, and may be harvested at any time when large enough, but can be left in the ground for a long time without spoiling. it is a good shipper and if introduced into the northern market it would soon create a demand.--(p. rico e. s. .) martynia (_unicorn plant_). the curious, long beaked fruit is used for pickles. the plants are quite hardy and ornamental, the fruit being no less conspicuous for its odd shape than the large wax-like flowers of whitish color with purple and yellow spots.--(mich. e. s. .) melon--musk. _soil and location._--the soil for muskmelons must be well drained and contain an abundance of humus and readily available plant food. if these conditions are met, it matters little what the particular type of soil may be. a knoll or ridge sloping gently to the south and protected by timber on the north and west furnishes an ideal site for melons. such a location will usually produce earlier melons than a north or west slope and is better than a level area because the soil dries out more quickly after a rain, thus permitting more timely tillage in a wet season, and resulting in the production of melons of better flavor. it is only in dry seasons that low, flat land, unless thoroughly tile-drained, produces good melons. the condition of the soil in reference to its supply of humus has a marked influence upon the welfare of the melon crop. because of its abundance of humus, newly cleared timber land is well adapted to melon culture, but is difficult to work on account of the stumps and roots. land slightly deficient in humus can be put in condition for growing melons by plowing under a clover sod, or a crop of cowpeas or rye, or a coat of manure applied broadcast. if melons are to be grown as one of the crops in a regular rotation, they should constitute the crop immediately following the leguminous crop designed to add humus and nitrogen to the soil. in regions where winter wheat and clover are grown, a rotation of wheat, clover and melons is highly satisfactory. another good rotation would be: oats, clover, melons, corn. in regions where clover does not thrive and wheat and oats are not grown, a rotation of corn, cowpeas, and melons may be employed, or the rotation extended by seeding to grass after the melons are harvested. even with careful attention to rotation and the incorporation of humus by plowing under catch crops or manure, ordinary farm land--including good corn land--is not sufficiently rich to produce a satisfactory crop of melons without the use of fertilizing material in the hills. it is only on garden soil that has been made exceedingly rich by repeated applications of manure, that it is wise to attempt to grow melons without special treatment of the hills. _manure for the hills._--the manure for use in the melon hills is ricked up in the fall in long low piles, about eight feet wide and two or three feet deep. the sides of the pile are made as nearly perpendicular as possible and the top is flattened so that rains will soak in instead of running off. sometimes a layer of dirt about three inches deep is placed on top of the manure to help retain the moisture. early in the spring, work is commenced on the manure to put it in condition for use. the pile must be cut down and the manure turned and mixed until it is thoroughly decomposed and of fine texture. formerly this work was done by hand with a fork, and entailed a large amount of labor. now some of the large growers do all this turning of the manure with a disk and plow. the pile is worked three or four times at intervals of one or two weeks. _time of planting._--the melon is a warm season crop, and unless the soil is warm and the weather favorable the seeds will not germinate nor the plants grow. it is therefore usually unwise to plant in advance of the normal season in the hope of securing an early crop. occasionally, such plantings do well, but usually the stand is poor, necessitating much replanting, and the early plants which do survive are likely to be so badly stunted by reason of the cool weather that they do not mature their crop much in advance of the later plantings which have had the benefit of warm weather from the start. _preparations for planting._--melon ground should be plowed early in the spring, or replowed if it was broken in the fall. after plowing, it should be thoroughly pulverized by the use of a disk or harrow, or both, and then kept in good, friable condition by occasional working until planting time arrives. shortly before planting is to begin, the field should be furrowed out both ways with a single-shovel plow or a one-horse turning plow. the furrows should be about six inches deep, and as far apart as the hills are to be placed. on some soils melon vines make only a moderate growth and the hills may be planted as close as four feet apart each way; but on rich soil, where they make a stronger growth, they should be at least five by five, and in some cases six by six. after the land is furrowed out the rotted manure is applied at the intersections of the furrows. from a quart to a half-peck of manure is used for each hill, depending upon the quality of the manure and also the quantity available. the manure is dropped into the bottom of the furrow, and either mixed thoroughly with the soil there, and covered with a layer of pure soil in which to plant the seed, or is merely covered with the soil without any mixing. the latter method seems to give fully as good results as the former, especially when a small quantity of manure is used, and is a great saving of labor. in either case, especial care should be taken to compact the soil over the manure so that when the seed is planted it will not suffer from lack of moisture by reason of any vacant air space in or about the mass of manure. sometimes the manure is covered with soil by merely plowing a furrow on each side of the furrow containing the manure, but unless the soil is in exceedingly fine condition, this method is not as satisfactory as using a hoe and giving each hill individual attention. in making the hill, some planters compact the soil with the hoe, while others use the feet. when ready for planting, the hill should be practically level with the general surface of the field. if too low, the hill will become water-soaked in case of rain and the seeds or plants injured; if too high, there is likely to be insufficient moisture to insure proper germination and growth. _planting the seed._--if the hills have been made more than a few minutes before the seed is dropped, the top layer of dry soil should be scraped aside with a hoe so that the seed may be placed in immediate contact with moist soil. the area thus prepared for planting the seed should be at least six inches across, and should be smooth and level. from ten to fifteen seeds should be scattered uniformly over this area, and covered with about half an inch of fine, moist soil. this should be firmed with the back of the hoe and then covered with a sprinkle of loose dirt to serve as a mulch. if a heavy rain packs the top of soil and a crust is formed before the plant appears, it is wise to go over the field and carefully break the crust over each hill by means of a garden rake. the method of preparing the hills and planting the seed described above applies to field rather than garden conditions and to soils of medium rather than excessive fertility. in a market garden where the soil is exceedingly rich as a result of repeated manuring for onions or cabbage, and is in fine tilth, it is a common practice to sow the melon seed in drills six to eight feet apart, by means of a garden seed drill. this is done without any special preparation of the soil where the plants are to stand, or application of fertilizing material other than manure applied broadcast before plowing. _thinning._--while ten to fifteen seeds are planted per hill for the sake of insuring a full stand, only two, or at most three, plants are left to make the crop. thinning is usually deferred until the plants have become fully established, and the struggle against the striped beetle is nearly over. however, the plants must be thinned before they begin to crowd badly, or those which are to remain will be stunted in growth. usually the thinning is completed by the time the plants have four rough leaves. if the seed has been well scattered in planting, so that each plant stands apart by itself, the superfluous plants may be pulled with the fingers, but extreme care must be taken to avoid disturbing the roots of the remaining plants. sometimes the plants are cut off with a knife or shears, instead of being pulled, and thus all danger of disturbing the roots is avoided. if the seeds have been sown with a drill as in market gardening practice, the plants are usually thinned to one in a place at distances of two to two and one-half feet in the row. _transplanting._--since it is impossible to increase the earliness of the crop to any great extent by early planting in the field, growers have adopted the transplanting method. this makes it possible to plant the seed three or four weeks earlier than would otherwise be feasible, and to grow the plants under controlled conditions of temperature and moisture during their most critical period. it also simplifies the matter of protection from striped beetles. the main objections to this method are the expense for sash, and the difficulties attending the transplanting. a melon plant will not survive transplanting if the root system is disturbed. for this reason the seed is sown on inverted sod, in pots or in dirt bands. the dirt bands are used almost exclusively by commercial growers. these are thin strips of wood veneer, three inches wide and eighteen inches long, scored at intervals of four inches so that they can be bent without breaking. when folded ready for use, each band resembles a small strawberry box without the bottom. these bands are placed close together in a hotbed and filled level full with fine, rich soil. with a block of wood shaped for the purpose, the soil within the bands is pressed until it is / to / inch below the top of the band. if only part of the dirt is put in at first, and is pressed down firmly, then the rest of the dirt put on and pressed, the soil in the band will be more compact throughout and will hold together better in the transplanting than if the dirt were pressed only once. unless the soil used was very moist, the bed is then thoroughly watered. next, three seeds are placed in each band. these are covered with fine, loose soil deep enough to fill the band. this soil is not firmed. the hotbed for melon plants should have full exposure to light and be maintained at a high temperature--about degrees f. during the day and to degrees at night. as much ventilation should be given as the weather will permit, and care exercised to avoid overwatering. as soon as the plants are well started, they are thinned to two in a band by cutting off the extra plant with a sharp knife. when the plants are about four weeks old from the planting of seed they will be in the right condition for transplanting to the field. they are then compact, stocky plants with about four rough leaves. if allowed to remain longer in the bed they begin to stretch for light and are of little value for planting, for the long naked stems, unable to support themselves and unaccustomed to direct sunlight, would easily be sun-burned, and the plants seriously checked if not killed outright. _cultivation._--whether the melons are transplanted from a hotbed or grown from seed planted in the field, the tillage of the crop should begin as soon as the plants can be seen. in the case of transplanted plants, this will be the same day that they are set in the field. the early tillage should be deep, and as close to the plant as it is feasible to run the cultivator. the object of this deep tillage is to establish a deep root system so that the plants will not suffer so severely from dry weather later in the season. in the case of a field planted crop it is not feasible to cultivate so close to the plants early in the season because of the danger of tearing out the little plants. for this deep tillage a one-horse five-shovel cultivator, often weighted with a rock, is the tool most commonly used. it is customary to follow this with a "boat" or a -tooth cultivator to more fully pulverize the soil. tillage is usually given after each rain or at least once each week so that the soil is maintained in a loose friable condition. in addition to the cultivation with a horse, much hand hoeing is required close about the plants. any crust forming after a rain, is broken, and fresh, moist soil drawn up about the plant. crab grass and weeds appearing in the hill are removed by hand. most growers cease tillage and lay-by the crop as soon as the vines have run enough to interfere with the cultivator. the experience of a few growers who have turned the vines and kept them in windows so that tillage could be continued until the picking season opened, indicates that a departure from the old method is likely to insure better development of the melons and a longer picking season, though the first fruits may not ripen so early. there is another distinct advantage in this turning of the vines, in that the gathering of the crop is greatly facilitated and there is no injury to the vines from tramping. _seed._--no matter what variety of melon is grown, it is extremely important that pure seed be planted if good melons are to be produced. the melon deteriorates very rapidly under careless methods of seed selection. none but the very choicest specimens of the desired type, from productive vines, should be selected for seed. it is unsafe to cut seed from a field in which more than one variety of melon is grown; for seed from such a field would likely be very badly mixed, and the product undesirable for market. if a grower has sale for all his good melons, it may be cheaper for him to purchase his seed than to save it. but here again there is danger of procuring inferior seed, for much of the melon seed on the market is cut without careful selection, in order to meet the demand for cheap seed. even cull melons are used to supply this demand. such seed is expensive at any price. the difference in the cost of good seed and poor seed is insignificant when compared with the advantages to be derived from the use of seed which can be depended upon to produce melons of a given type. _picking._--there is considerable difference of opinion as to the exact stage of maturity at which melons should be picked for shipment. if allowed to become too ripe before picking, they become soft by the time they reach the market, and often must be sacrificed in order to effect an immediate sale. if picked too green, the melons reach market in firm condition, but are lacking in flavor, and are not desired by the best trade. it is a nice point to pick melons at such a degree of ripeness that they will reach the market in firm condition, and yet possess the requisite flavor. the farther from market the melons are produced, the less mature they must be when picked. furthermore, the rapidity of softening after picking varies with the temperature to which the melons are subjected. the cooler they can be kept after picking, the longer they can be allowed to remain on the vines and the better flavor they will have. it is, therefore, essential that the melons be placed in the shade as soon as possible after picking, and be kept shaded until they are loaded into the car. for the same reason, riper melons can be shipped under the refrigeration than in ventilated cars. it is also true that melons shipped during excessively hot weather, unless under refrigeration, will soften more rapidly than those shipped during cooler weather. the condition of the vines and the rapidity of ripening of the melons in the field will also have a bearing upon the stage of maturity at which they should be picked. early in the shipping season, when the vines are in full vigor and the melons ripening slowly, the fruits may safely be left upon the vines until more mature than would be safe later in the season when the plants have become somewhat weakened, or, by reason of excessive heat, the melons are ripening very rapidly. melons should not be picked at the same degree of maturity under different conditions of ripening, methods of transportation, and distances from market. while it is true that no rule can be given for picking melons that will apply under all conditions, and that the grower must exercise judgment in reference to each day's picking, the ideal will be attained when the conditions are such that the melons will reach the market in the best condition if picked as soon as the fruit will part readily from the stem when the latter is pressed with the thumb or finger. there is a tendency among some growers to pick considerably before this point has been reached, in order to run no risk of the melons becoming soft in transit. in fact, some growers make a practice of picking the melons before a crack appears about the stem or any change of color takes place, even on the under side of the fruit. _market demands._--while various types of muskmelon may be disposed of upon a local market, there are certain types which are recognized as standards in the large city markets; and it is seldom wise to attempt to force upon a general market a variety not recognized as a standard in that particular market. in the chicago market the sorts most in demand are the netted gem, or rocky ford type, and the osage.--(ill. e. s. , ; f. b. ; s. dak. e. s. ; n. hamp. e. s. , ; n. y. e. s. ; n. mex. e. s. .) melon--watermelon. the cultivation of the watermelon is practically the same as for the muskmelon, except that the plants grow larger and require more room for development than those of the muskmelon. watermelons require that the soil should contain a larger percentage of sand than muskmelons, and that the land should be quite rich. watermelons should be planted feet each way between the hills, or in drills feet apart and thinned to feet apart in the drills. the watermelon seedlings must be protected from the cucumber beetle until the foliage becomes toughened. watermelons readily group themselves into six classes based upon the color or characteristics of the skin or external appearance. it does not necessarily follow that in the proposed classification the fruit of each variety will all be of the same form to which it is referred; for, as every melon grower knows, the fruits in each hill vary more or less; but if everything is normal and favorable for their development the characteristic form or that typifying the variety will predominate. the larger the experience of the grower, the easier it is for him to understand these various types. in order to get the true type of each variety, it is important that the seeds be secured directly from the seedsman who first introduced them thus avoiding complications or errors.--(f. b. ; n. h. e. s. ; ind. e. s. ; n. mex. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. .) i. light green { sweet heart type class { (oval shape) { ---- ---- { (medium shape) { monarch type, { (long shape) ii. medium green { icing type, class { (oval shape) { ---- ---- { (medium shape) { jackson type, { (long shape) iii. dark green { black spanish type class { (oval shape) { ---- ---- { (medium shape) { boss type, { (long shape) iv. light striped { kolb's gem type, class { (oval shape) { cuban queen type, { (medium shape) { rattlesnake type, { (long shape) v. dull striped { pride of georgia type, class { (oval shape) { christmas type, { (medium shape) { favorite type, { (long shape) vi. mottled green { nabob type, class { (oval shape) { phinney type, { (medium long shape) mustard. almost any good soil will produce a crop of mustard. the basal leaves of mustard are used for greens, and as the plants require but a short time to reach the proper stage for use frequent sowings should be made. sow the seeds thickly in drills as early as possible in the spring, or for late use sow the seeds in september or october. the forms of white mustard, of which the leaves are often curled and frilled, are generally used. mustard greens are cooked like spinach.--(f. b. ; mich. e. s. ; la. e. s. .) nasturtium. the hardiness and unsurpassed beauty of this plant should make it a favorite near every home. the seed pods just before beginning to ripen make a delicious flavoring for pickles.--(mich. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. .) new zealand spinach. the plant known as new zealand spinach is not a true spinach, but grows much larger and should be planted in rows feet apart, with the plants to inches apart in the row. some difficulty may be experienced in getting the seeds to germinate, and they should be soaked one or two hours in hot water before planting. new zealand spinach is satisfactory for growing in warm climates, as it withstands heat better than the ordinary spinach. the fleshy leaves and tender stems are cooked the same as spinach. okra (_gumbo_). this plant may be grown throughout the greater portion of the united states, but only one crop can be produced during a season in the northern part of the country. in the region around new orleans successive plantings are made and a constant supply is maintained. the plant is of a tropical nature and will not endure frost, but the pods begin to be produced very soon after the plants start into rapid growth and continue to form for several weeks, especially if all pods are removed while young and no seeds allowed to ripen upon the plants. _soil and its preparation._--the soil upon which okra can be most successfully grown is a rich mellow loam, plowed rather deeply and well worked over with pulverizing tools. after the seedlings become established and the roots get a firm hold of the soil, the growth is very rapid and a large amount of available plant food, especially of a nitrogenous nature, is required. quick-acting commercial fertilizers may be applied in moderate quantities, but these should be well mixed with the soil. the same conditions that will produce good cotton or corn will be found suitable for the production of okra. _planting the seed._--throughout the northern states planting should be done as early as possible in spring, or as soon as the soil is warm enough for the planting of general garden seeds. in the southern states, where a continuous supply is desired, successive seedings of four or five weeks apart should be made. plant in rows - / feet apart for the dwarf types, and - / feet for the larger-growing varieties. scatter the seeds in drills, or plant loosely in hills, as with corn, and cover to a depth of or inches, according to the compactness and moisture content of the soil. the seeds may be planted with any good seed drill, but when placed in hills they should be separated or inches to allow space for the development of the stems. if the soil is reasonably warm, germination will take place within a few days, but should there be a heavy rainfall in the mean time the soil should be lightly cultivated between the rows and the crust broken over the seed by means of an iron rake. _cultivation._--as soon as the plants are well established they may be thinned to three or four in a hill, or, if grown in drills, to or inches for the dwarf and to inches for the larger growing varieties. where vacant places occur from failure in germination they may be filled in by transplanting. cultivate as in the case of corn or cotton, keeping the ground well stirred and the surface soil loose, especially while the plants are small. after the leaves begin to shade the ground, very little cultivation is necessary except to keep the land free from weeds. a poor soil and insufficient moisture will yield pods of inferior size and quality, and irrigation may often be desirable in order to produce a marketable crop. okra is sometimes grown as a mixed crop with cotton, the okra being removed before the cotton begins to mature; but this practice is not to be recommended, as both crops draw heavily upon the nitrogenous matter of the soil. the okra plants will usually continue to grow until late in the season, but after a time the pods are not so large or tender as those produced earlier in the season. as the pod is the only part of the plant ordinarily used for food, it is desirable to secure a rapid and continuous growth in order to produce the greatest quantity of marketable pods. _gathering and marketing._--as soon as the plants begin to set fruit the pods should be gathered each day, preferably in the evening. the flower opens during the night or early morning and fades after a few hours. the pollen must be transferred during the early morning, and the pod thus formed will usually be ready for gathering during the latter part of the following day, although the time required to produce a marketable pod varies according to the age of the plant and the conditions under which it is grown. the pods should always be gathered, irrespective of size, while they are still soft and before the seeds are half grown.--(f. b. .) _cultivation for seed._--if okra is to be grown for seed alone, only one variety should be planted, or if more than one variety is grown each should be separated from the other by at least one-fourth mile to prevent mixing. when several varieties of okra are grown near each other no seed should be saved except that produced by the method of bagging and hand pollination. to secure seed in this way is a rather simple matter when only a small quantity is required, as the pods formed on a single day when the plants are at their best will produce enough seed. the bags should be tied over the flower buds in the evening and the pollen transferred early the following day. replace the bags immediately, as an insect or the wind may at any moment bring to the flower the pollen of another variety. after going over all the flowers of a variety it is well to return to the first three or four and repollinate them in order that they may receive pollen from different individual flowers of the same variety and to insure perfect fertilization. before beginning upon another variety the brush used for transferring the pollen should be thoroughly cleaned. if a brush is not available, use a portion of a young leaf, folded together between the thumb and finger, to convey the pollen. this improvised brush should be discarded and a new one adopted for each variety. the bags need remain only during the day on which the pollen is transferred and may be replaced by a tag to mark the pod. the seed should remain on the plant until fully ripe. the common bumblebee is a frequent visitor to the flowers of the okra, and a single bee was on one morning observed to pollinate over flowers, comprising more than separate samples. in this instance practically every flower in the field was visited and pollinated, although no pollen had previously been transferred. this observation demonstrated the necessity of great care to prevent cross-pollination. our variety tests with okra have shown that seed growers have not always succeeded in keeping the varieties separate, and as a result there has been a gradual blending together of all the sorts. in many of the samples all the sorts usually grown are represented. _uses._--the principal use of okra is in soups and various culinary preparations in which meats form an important factor, as in the so-called gumbo soups, to which the young pods impart an excellent flavor, besides giving a pleasant mucilaginous consistency. the young seeds are occasionally cooked in the same way as green peas, and the very young and tender pods are boiled and served as a salad with french dressing. both the stem and the mature pod contain a fibre which is employed in the manufacture of paper. no copper, brass, or iron cooking vessels should be employed in preparing okra, as the metal will be absorbed and the pods discolored or even rendered poisonous. the cooking should be done in agate, porcelain, or earthen ware.--(f. b. .) _varieties._--there are three general types of okra, viz., tall green, dwarf green, and lady finger. each of these is again divided according to the length and color of the pods, making in all six classes or varieties, namely, tall green, long pod; tall green, short pod; dwarf green, long pod; dwarf green, short pod; lady finger, white pod; and lady finger, green pod. all variations from these are merely the results of mixtures, no true crosses or hybrids being formed. these mixtures are easily separated and referred to the parent type, and a little attention to roguing and selection is necessary in order to keep the varieties pure. it is essential that the parietal strain should be pure in order that a uniform and marketable lot of pods may be produced.--(f. b. , ; u. id. e. s. .) onions. the onion is exceptional in that it will thrive under a very wide range of climatic and soil conditions. there is perhaps no extended area in the united states, except the mountainous regions, where the onion can not be successfully grown. for best results a temperate climate without great extremes of heat and cold should be selected. onion culture is rarely profitable in regions where the climate does not change or has no definite seasons of heat and cold or wet and dry. naturally the onion does best under rather cool conditions, with plenty of moisture during its early stages, but requires a reasonable degree of heat, together with dryness of both soil and atmosphere, for its proper ripening. _soils._--the essential requirements of a soil upon which to grow onions profitably are a high state of fertility, good mechanical condition in order that the crop may be easily worked, sufficient drainage, and freedom from weeds. if a soil has the proper mechanical properties--that is, if it contains sufficient sand and humus to be easily worked, is retentive of moisture and fertilizers, and is capable of drainage--all other requirements can be met. as a general rule new land is not adapted to onion growing until it has been worked one or two years with other crops. onions should follow some crop that has been kept under the hoe and free from weeds the previous season. corn, beans, and potatoes are suitable crops with which to precede onions. muck and sandy soils may in some cases be brought to a suitable condition for onions the first season, but the fitting will have to be very thoroughly performed. the land should be plowed in the autumn, then replowed in the spring, after which numerous harrowings and doubtless some hand work will be required to get the soil in suitable shape. if necessary to manure the land heavily before planting to onions, it will be desirable to plant to some farm crop one season, then apply the manure during the autumn in order to give it time to become incorporated with the soil. owing to the value of good onion land it would not be advisable to devote it to general farm crops for any extended period, although corn is frequently planted and oats or rye are sometimes used in the north. cowpeas may be of great service in bringing new land into shape for planting to onions. _preparation of the soil._--assuming that the land intended for planting to onions is capable of being brought to a good mechanical condition, fertile, well drained, and reasonably free from weed seeds, the first step in the production of the crop will be to plow moderately deep, then harrow, disk, roll, and drag until the soil is smooth and mellow to a depth of or inches. on soils that are naturally well drained and where surface water can not accumulate, the plowing may be done in large blocks, but where the opposite conditions are found or irrigation is practiced it may be necessary to plow the land in narrow beds. in the case of insufficient drainage it will be desirable to throw the soil together into beds, leaving a double furrow between each bed to carry off surplus water. where the flooding system of irrigation is practiced the beds must be leveled and a system of ditches and ridges provided for distributing and controlling the water. _crop rotation._--onions should not be planted on the same piece of land year after year, and some system of crop rotation should be maintained. care should be taken, however, to use crops in the rotation that will not be exhaustive of the high fertility necessary in the onion land. during the years when the land is not devoted to onions it can be planted to some truck crop that will give a return that will justify the application of large quantities of fertilizers, or, better to a leguminous crop to be turned under as green manure. continuous cropping with onions will cause the land to become infested with both disease and insect enemies that will sooner or later injure the crop to such an extent as to render it unprofitable. _fertilizers._--as the onion is an intensive crop and yields great quantities of marketable bulbs for the area planted, the grower is justified in manuring heavily. it would be difficult indeed to make the soil too rich for onions, provided the manures are thoroughly incorporated with the soil. a heavy application of fresh raw manure just before planting would have an injurious effect, but where the manure is well rotted and uniformly applied there is nothing to be feared. _animal manures._--there is perhaps no fertilizer so well adapted to the production of onions as plenty of clean, well-composted stable manure, and the quantity and frequency of application will depend upon the nature of the land under cultivation. all stable manure used on onion land should be well composted before use and then spread upon the land several months before planting to onions. in the northern states the manure may be applied during the autumn and well disked into the soil. the land can then be allowed to lie in the rough state and exposed to the action of frost during the winter, or it can be smoothed and seeded to rye, in which case it will be necessary to replow during the early springtime. large quantities of fresh manure applied to onion land just before planting will have a tendency to produce an overgrowth of tops at the expense of the bulbs. this is especially true on irrigated lands and soils that are naturally moist. _commercial fertilizers._--where there is an abundance of humus matter in the soil the onion crop will be greatly benefited by moderate applications of high-grade commercial fertilizers. many growers follow the practice of applying only a part of the fertilizer at planting time, reserving the balance to be put on as a top-dressing at some time during the period of cultivation. this plan is especially desirable where onions are grown during the winter, as the application of highly nitrogenous fertilizers in the autumn is liable to promote a soft growth that will be injured by cold. if the fertilizer is not put on until cold weather is over, the crop may be forced without danger of injury. for this purpose only those fertilizers of a very available form will answer. _planting and thinning._--experienced growers are frequently able by using extreme care in regulating the drills to distribute onion seed in rows where the crop is to mature so that little thinning will be necessary. thinning is generally left until the time of the first hand weeding, when all thick bunches along the rows are thinned to a uniform stand of eight or ten plants to the foot. it is always well, however, to allow for considerable loss of plants, and unless the plants are so thick as to actually crowd, thinning will not be necessary. _transplanting._--the transplanting process, often spoken of as the "new onion culture," is merely a modification of the regular seeding method. the objects gained by transplanting are an earlier crop, a uniform stand, and bulbs of more regular size. where a small area is to be grown, the transplanting process is the ideal method, but for large acreages and where labor is difficult to obtain, this would not be practical. after transplanting, the seedlings will require rain or watering in order that they may start, and for this reason the transplanting process is practically limited to areas where some form of irrigation is available. in growing onions by the transplanting method the seed is sown in greenhouses, hotbeds, cold frames, or specially prepared beds at the rate of - / or pounds for each acre to be planted. when the seedlings are grown under cover, they are given the necessary attention regarding watering and ventilation and kept growing quite rapidly until near the time for setting them in the open ground. as planting time approaches, the seedlings are "hardened" or prepared for transplanting by increased ventilation and exposure and by withholding water. when ready to transplant, the seedlings should be somewhat smaller than a lead pencil and rather stocky. the plants are lifted from the seed bed and the roots and tops both trimmed somewhat. _methods of tillage._--the cultural requirements of the onion are frequent shallow stirring of the soil and freedom from weeds. the feeding roots of the onion run close to the surface of the soil and should not be disturbed by deep cultivation. sometimes a heavy rain immediately after seeding will so pack the surface that the seedlings can not break through. under such circumstances it will be necessary to slightly break the surface by means of a steel rake or a rake-like attachment on a cultivator. as soon as the plants are up and the rows can be followed the cultivator should be started to loosen the soil, which is always more or less compacted during seeding. it is well-nigh impossible to produce a crop of onions without some hand weeding. during favorable seasons the strictly hand work may be reduced to but one or two weedings, but a greater number will be necessary during rainy seasons. the work of hand weeding may be facilitated by the use of some of the small hand tools designed for the purpose. among these tools might be mentioned the onion hoe, the hand weeder, and the thinning or weeding hook. _irrigation._--outside of the areas where irrigation methods are depended upon for the production of general crops it is not customary to use artificial watering in the growing of onions. _harvesting._--in the north the bulbs are allowed to become as ripe as possible before removing them from the soil. growers prefer that the tops ripen down and shrivel and that the outer skin of the bulbs be dry before they are pulled. to the southward, where the onions are not cured so thoroughly, they are often pulled about the time that the tops begin to break and fall. the ripening process may often be hastened by rolling a very light roller or a barrel over the tops to break them down. this process is frequently spoken of as "barreling." where the bulbs are practically upon the surface they may be pulled by hand and thrown in windrows consisting of eight or ten onion rows. if the onion bulbs are considerably covered with soil it will be necessary to employ a one-horse plow or a cultivator with a sweep attached for lifting them. in any case it will be necessary to gather them from the soil by hand. after lying in the windrows for several days and being stirred occasionally with wooden rakes they are gone over and the tops removed either by twisting or cutting with ordinary sheep shears. in cases where very bright color is important as with fancy white globe onions, and this would be injured by exposure to the sun and rain, the bulbs are cured in long, narrow, low ricks formed by two rows of onions laid with the bulbs regularly to the center, tops to the outside, the rows a few inches apart at the bottom of the rick but coming together at the top, and the top of the rick covered by straw or boards to shed the rain. as the tops are removed the bulbs are generally placed in crates for drying. in some sections onion-topping machines are employed, the bulbs being hauled from the field to a central location and run through the topper. these machines remove the tops, grade the bulbs, and deliver them into the crates or bags. if crates are not employed for curing, the bulbs are allowed to lie in the windrows for some time, and are then either put into sacks or hauled to slat cribs, where they complete the curing process. too long exposure to hot sunshine will injure the bulbs. where the bulbs are extremely dry at the time of their removal from the soil, they may be allowed to lie in the windrows for a few days only, and then sorted and cleaned in the field ready for packing and marketing. _storage._--in order that onions should keep well when stored they must be well ripened and thoroughly cured. those that are immature, soft, or "thick necks" should never be placed in storage but sold as soon as gathered for whatever price they will bring. good storage onions will rattle almost like blocks of wood when poured from one crate to another. in order that the bulbs may remain bright and of attractive appearance they should not be allowed to lie exposed to the weather, but should be hauled and stored in open sheds just as soon as they may safely be placed in one-bushel crates. after the bulbs have remained in drying sheds or cribs for several weeks they will be ready for screening and removal to the storehouse. in handling onions it is the rule to pass them over a screen each time they are moved, as in this way the loose skins are removed and any soft or decaying bulbs may be sorted out. the essentials for the successful storage of onions are plenty of ventilation, storing in small quantities, a comparatively low temperature, dryness, and safety from actual freezing. any building wherein the above conditions may be secured will answer. _marketing._--large quantities of onions are sold and shipped direct from the fields where they are grown. a part of the crop is held in temporary storage until late autumn or early winter. during recent years the winter storage of onions has become of great importance and the finest stock is held for late winter deliveries. the bermuda crop from the southwestern part of the country comes upon the market during april and may, so that most of the storage onions are disposed of before that time. in marketing onions the first essential is to properly grade and clean the bulbs, in order that they may present an attractive appearance when offered for sale. ordinarily the bulbs are separated into three grades--primes, seconds, and picklers. the primes include all those of - / inches, in diameter and larger, and the seconds consist of those from / inch to - / inches in diameter, while all those that will pass through a / -inch screen are sold for pickling purposes. the grading is generally done in the field during the cleaning process, but as onions shrink considerably while in storage it is necessary to regrade before placing upon the market. _weight of onions._--the legal weight of onions per bushel varies somewhat in different states, but pounds of dry onions are generally considered a standard bushel. _important commercial varieties._--the varieties of onions that have distinctively yellow, white, and red skins and are of the globular type are of greatest commercial importance. among the varieties that belong to the yellow globe class are the prizetaker, yellow danvers, yellow globe, danvers, southport yellow globe, and ohio yellow globe. the principal white varieties are southport white globe, new queen, italian tripoli, silver skin, and white silver king. among the more important red sorts are red globe, red wethersfield, and australian brown. the principal bermuda varieties are red bermuda, white bermuda and crystal wax. the bermuda onions are all of the more or less flat type. the red coloration of the bermuda onion is not distinctive like that of the red wethersfield or red globe varieties, but is lighter in color. the famous denia onion is somewhat of the prizetaker type, is light yellow in color, grows to a large size, and is mild in flavor. in the selection of varieties for any particular locality the soil conditions and market requirements should both be considered. those adapted to the muck soils are the yellow and red sorts. for alluvial and prairie soils the red and brown varieties are to be preferred, while all kinds do well on the sandy loams and light soils. a cleaner, better grade of white onions can generally be produced on light or sandy soils than on muck or clay loams. those of the bermuda, spanish, and egyptian types flourish on the deep, rich alluvial soils of the river bottoms and delta regions. certain of our markets show a decided preference for onions belonging to a particular type. the red and brown varieties find ready sale on the markets of the middle west, while onions of the yellow and white varieties are preferred in the eastern cities. onions will withstand long-distance shipment, those of the red globe type being generally more subject to injury than the yellow and brown sorts. some of the white varieties also have a thin skin and are easily injured. it should be the aim of every grower to employ varieties that will withstand handling and at the same time find ready sale on the market. other types of onions are top onions, multipliers, garlic, and leeks, which are planted to some extent for marketing purposes. _bermuda onions._--the production of bermuda onions in the united states is a comparatively new industry and has thus far been undertaken mainly in texas and california. soils of a silty or alluvial nature are suited to the production of bermuda onions, and those containing considerable sand are most desirable. the bermuda requires a very rich soil for the best results, and this can only be obtained by first selecting a good soil and then manuring heavily. the bermuda onion as grown in this country is a winter crop; therefore, mild climatic conditions are required. while the plants would withstand considerable freezing, their growth is seriously checked by cold weather, and the crop will not mature in time for the early market if grown to the northward. the cultural methods employed in the growing of bermuda onions are essentially the same as those for ordinary onions. as the greater portion of the crop is grown in a region which has no regular rainfall, irrigation methods are employed almost universally. the greater part of the crop is grown by the transplanting process and a great amount of hand labor is required. bermuda onions are harvested as early as possible, generally before the tops have become fully ripened. phenomenal yields of , and , pounds of bermuda onions are frequently made on an acre of land, but this is far above the general average, which is in the neighborhood of , or , pounds to the acre. many fields, especially when planted for the first time, do not yield as much as , pounds to the acre. on land that has been heavily manured and planted to onions for several years the yield averages about , pounds. the best bermuda-onion farms are valued at $ to $ an acre. in order to prove profitable, the growing of bermuda onions should be conducted on a comparatively large scale. the necessary land and irrigation facilities will require the initial outlay of from $ , to $ , , and the running expenses are quite heavy. labor can be secured at a low price, but is correspondingly inefficient and often not to be had in sufficient quantities. furthermore, the markets are now pretty well supplied with bermuda onions, and persons who desire to engage in their production are advised to investigate every phase of the industry before embarking too heavily in it. the expansion of the bermuda-onion industry is limited by the facts that a large supply of bulbs can be grown on a comparatively small area, that the distance to market is great, that the product is perishable, and that the markets will consume only a limited quantity at the prices at which the crop can be sold with profit. _green onions for bunching._--another phase of onion culture that is of considerable importance in certain localities is the production of young bunching onions for the early spring trade. in several sections along the south atlantic coast the growing of this class of onions is quite an enterprise. many persons who are engaged in other lines of work follow the practice of growing a small area of bunching onions as a side issue. the varieties known as multipliers and top onions are generally employed for this purpose; however, bunching onions are sometimes grown from ordinary sets, from inferior and damaged large onions, and from seed. the multipliers and top onions are the only kinds adapted for this work on a large scale. for growing bunching onions the bulbs or sets are planted during the autumn either in beds or in rows or inches apart with the bulbs quite close in the rows. the bulbs will start growing within a short time and make more or less growth during the winter. as soon as the weather becomes warm during the first months of spring the onions make a rapid growth and are ready for marketing about the time peach trees begin to bloom. in marketing this class of onions the young shoots are pulled, the roots trimmed, and the outside peeled off, leaving the stem white and clean. the onions are then tied in small bunches by means of a soft white string, the tops trimmed slightly, and the bunches packed in crates or baskets for shipment or sale on the local market. this phase of the onion industry is limited to small plantings and is well suited to the needs of the general market garden. during the springtime and early summer large quantities of ordinary young onions are pulled when the bulb is about the size of a fifty-cent piece, the roots and tops are trimmed, and they are then bunched and sold for stewing purposes. so far as known, this class of onions is not shipped to any great extent, but is sold mainly on local markets. _home production of onion seed._--the bulbs, or "mother bulbs," as they are commonly called, for the production of onion seed should be grown in the same manner as those intended for marketing, except that more care should be taken throughout. some seed growers prefer to use pounds of seed to an acre for the production of seed bulbs instead of pounds, as ordinarily used in growing for market, in order that the bulbs may crowd and not become too large. the planting, culture, and harvesting of the bulbs are practically the same as for first-class marketable stock. onion-seed growing is a two-year process and two crops are constantly to be cared for. after growing the bulbs the first summer they must be stored over winter and replanted the following spring for the production of seed. meantime the crop for the next year's planting must be coming on in order to have a crop of seed every year. the first requisite for the growing of the best seed is a clear-cut ideal of the exact shape, form, color, and general characteristics sought in the variety being grown. the second requisite is the growing of seed from bulbs of that exact type for the greatest possible number of generations. two selections should be made, the first to include but a small number of the very finest and most ideal bulbs from which to produce the stock seed to be used the following year for the growing of the seed bulbs, and the second to include the bulbs from which to grow the supply of seed for the market. by keeping the very best stock separate and using the product for propagation the entire strain will be gradually improved. bulbs a trifle below the ideal market size, or about - / to inches in diameter, are the most profitable for seed production. bulbs that are to be used for seed productions should be allowed to become thoroughly ripe in the field. after pulling they should be stored in crates under a roof where they will have plenty of ventilation and be protected from sun and rain. before freezing weather begins the onions should be graded and removed to a house where both ventilation and temperature can be controlled. the temperature of the storage house should at no time be so low as to cause the bulbs to become frosted. a temperature of ° f. for a short period will do no harm, but should not be allowed to continue. if the bulbs become frosted, heated, or sweated in storage they will sprout before planting time and be greatly injured for seed purposes. in general, the storage conditions should be the same as for marketable onions. the proper time to gather the seed is when the inside of the grain has reached the dough stage. onion seed assumes its black color very early; in fact, before it has passed the watery stage and formed milk in the grain. this change of color is no indication of ripeness and very often deceives the inexperienced grower. the heads should be harvested just before the first-formed seed begins to shatter in handling. _curing the seed heads._--any building having a tight floor and in which a free circulation of air can be maintained will serve as a curing place for onion seed. in localities where rains do not occur during the curing period the seed heads are frequently dried on sheets of canvas stretched over frames or spread upon the ground. for curing the seed in houses, wire-bottomed racks or trays placed one above the other are generally employed. as the seed is stirred from time to time during the curing process considerable of it will be shattered and fall upon the tray below or finally upon the floor. the main essentials in the curing of onion seed are to spread the heads very thinly, not over two heads in depth, and to give free ventilation. even at a depth of inches in the trays it will be necessary to stir them very often, especially during damp weather. _thrashing and cleaning the seed._--the date for gathering the seed depends upon the locality and climate, but as a rule this will be about midsummer. the thrashing and cleaning of the seed are often deferred until quite late in the autumn, except where the curing is done in the open air. where large quantities of seed are produced the thrashing is done with machines similar to regular grain thrashers, but when grown on a small scale the seed is removed by beating with a flail. after the seed has been thrashed, there is still considerable danger of its heating or molding if left in too great bulk. the usual practice is to run it through a fanning mill to remove the dust and small particles of the heads or chaff that are broken up in thrashing. in former years the method of cleaning was to place the seed in a tank of water the heavy seed settling to the bottom of the tank while the chaff and lighter portions could be floated off. this process is no longer used to any great extent, owing to the improvement in cleaning machinery, and the danger of injuring the seed by the water. after the seed is fanned and most of the foreign matter removed, it should be spread thinly on the floor or canvas and stirred from time to time. about the only test that can be applied in order to detect moisture in the seed is that of feeling it with the hand, and anyone experienced in the handling of seed will soon become expert at determining when it is safe to bag it ready for storage or shipment. _production of seed for onion-set growing._--frequently the seed for onion-set growing is produced from bulbs selected from the sets themselves; in other words, the bulbs or mother bulbs are the overgrown sets. owing to the great quantity of seed employed in set growing it is desirable to secure it cheaply, and the bulbs selected from the sets, being small, will produce a larger quantity of seed per bushel from mother bulbs than when grown in the usual manner. the stock seed bulbs should, however, be well matured, small necked, uniform in size, and selected according to an ideal shape. onion seed from undersized bulbs is not so desirable, even for set growing, as that from standard bulbs. the length of time that onion seed will retain its vitality depends largely upon maturity and climatic conditions. well-matured seed will always keep better than poorly ripened and inferior seed. under ordinary conditions onion seed loses its vitality very rapidly after the second year, especially if stored in a damp climate. it will often pay to ship the seed to a dry climate for storage. _production of onion sets._--the term "set," as applied to the onion, indicates a small, undersized bulb which, when replanted in the ground, will produce a large onion. this method of producing onions is perhaps the oldest and now the most universally employed for the growing of small areas of onions in the garden where an early crop is desired. the common method of producing sets is to plant a large quantity of seed on a small area of rather rich land and thus procure a great number of bulbs that are undersized, owing to crowding and lack of plant food. the greater number of these bulbs do not attain sufficient size or maturity to produce seed the following season and are really plants in which the process of growth has been arrested. the climatic conditions governing the production of onion sets are practically the same as those for standard onions, although it is not necessary to plant quite so early in the spring. as the essential feature of growing onion sets is the crowding together of the plants in the rows, a large quantity of seed is required to plant an acre. the quantity of seed required varies with the different localities. the ideal onion set is almost globular in shape and a trifle less than half an inch in diameter. the color should be bright and the surface free from smut or spots. the term "pickler" is applied to the onion just above sets in size, or, in other words, one-half to three-fourths of an inch in diameter. the term "boiler," or "stewer," is applied to the size next larger than picklers, which are too small for sale as standard onions, or from three-fourths of an inch to - / inches in diameter. _varieties used for sets._--seed of almost any variety of onion may be used for the production of sets, but a greater demand exists for the distinctly yellow, white, and red colors. in the trade the sets are recognized by their color rather than by actual varietal names. the demand for the yellow and the white sets is greater than for the red, and those of the globular type are generally preferred. onion sets are sometimes grown from left-over seed, in which case a large number of varieties may be included. in the principal set-growing districts, where the seed has been locally grown for many years, the varieties are more or less distinct from those of seedsmen's catalogues.--(f. b. , , ; ariz. e. s. cir. ; colo. e. s. , cir. ; n. mex. e. s. , ; oreg. e. s. ; n. y. e. s. ; u. id. e. s. ; n. dak. e. s. ; s. dak. ; mich. e. s. ; kans. e. s. .) parsley. after soaking the seeds of parsley for a few hours in warm water, they may be sown in the same manner as celery seed and the plants transplanted to the open ground. at the north, parsley will live over winter in a cold frame or pit, and in the south it will thrive in the open ground during the winter, but it can not withstand the heat of summer. the plants should be set in rows inches apart and every inches in the row. the leaves of parsley are used for garnishings around meats and for flavoring soups.--(f. b. , ; n. car. e. s. ; u. id. e. s. .) parsnip. sow the seeds of parsnip as early as convenient in the spring in drills inches to feet apart. thin the plants to stand inches apart in the rows. the parsnip requires a rich soil and frequent cultivation. the roots can be dug late in the fall and stored in cellars or pits, or allowed to remain where grown and dug as required for use. it is considered best to allow the roots to become frozen in the ground, as the freezing improves their flavor. as soon as the roots begin to grow the following spring they will no longer be fit for use. all roots not used during the winter should be dug and removed from the garden, as they will produce seed the second season and become of a weedy nature. when the parsnip has been allowed to run wild the root is considered to be poisonous.--(f. b. , ; mich. e. s. ; u. id. e. s. ; n. car. e. s. .) peas. garden peas require a rather rich and friable soil with good drainage in order that the first plantings may be made early in the spring. fertilizers that are high in nitrogenous matter should not be applied to the land immediately before planting, as they will have a tendency to produce too great growth of vines at the expense of pods. land that has been well manured the previous year will be found satisfactory without additional fertilizer. a sandy loam is to be preferred for growing peas, but a good crop may be produced on clay soils; however, the pods will be a few days later in forming. peas are easily grown and form one of the most palatable of garden products. for the best results peas should be planted in the bottom of a furrow inches in depth and the seeds covered with not more than or inches of soil. if the soil is heavy the covering should be less than inches. after the plants attain a height of or inches the soil should be worked in around them until the trench is filled. the rows for peas should be feet apart for the dwarf sorts and feet apart for the tall kinds. a pint of seed will plant about feet of single row. many growers follow the practice of planting in a double row with a -inch space between. the double-row method is especially adapted for the varieties that require some form of support, as a trellis can be placed between the two rows. brush stuck in the ground will answer for a support for the peas to climb upon. three-foot poultry netting makes a desirable trellis. if peas are planted for autumn use, the earliest varieties should be employed. the first plantings should be of such varieties as alaska or gradus, which make a small but quick growth, and may or may not be provided with supports. the dwarf sorts like american wonder come on later, require very little care, and produce peas of fine quality. the tall-growing sorts of the telephone type are desirable for still later use on account of their large production and excellent quality. sugar peas have tender pods and if gathered very young the pods may be eaten in the same manner as snap beans. in order to maintain a continuous supply of fresh peas, plantings should be made every ten days or two weeks during the spring months, beginning as soon as the ground can be worked. in the extreme south peas may be grown during the entire winter.--(f. b. ; n. c. e. s. ; mich. e. s. , ; s. dak. e. s. , ; del. e. s. ; colo. e. s. .) peppers. plant the seed of peppers in a hotbed, and transplant to the open ground as soon as it is warm, or sow the seeds in the garden after all danger of frost is past. when grown in the garden the plants should be in rows feet apart and to inches apart in the row. the plants require about the same treatment as the tomato. peppers are divided into two classes--the sweet varieties, which are eaten as vegetables, and the pickling varieties, which are used for pickles or dried and powdered, in which form they are much used in mexico. of the sweet peppers the varieties sweet mountain, ruby king, and large bell are good standard varieties; and of the pickling peppers, the cayennes and chilies are largely used. the pickling varieties are all more or less pungent and should never be prepared with bare hands, because the burning sensation is very difficult to eliminate.--(f. b. ; b. p. i. ; p. rico ; iowa, e. s. ; n. c. e. s. .) physalis. the physalis is also known as the ground-cherry or husk-tomato. sow the seed in a hotbed or cold frame and transplant to the garden after danger of frost is past, or the seeds may be sown in the row where the plants are to remain and thinned to or inches. no particular care is required except to keep them free from weeds. there are a large number of varieties of the physalis, and the fruits vary in size and color. the variety commonly used in gardens produces a bright-yellow fruit, which is about the size of an ordinary cherry. toward fall the fruits will drop to the ground and will be protected for some time by their husks. if gathered and placed in a cool place the fruits will keep for a long time. the physalis will self-sow and may become a weed, but it is easily controlled. a few of the volunteer plants may be lifted in the spring and placed in rows instead of making a special sowing of seed. ten plants will produce all the husk-tomatoes desired by the average family. the fruits are excellent for making preserves and marmalade.--(f. b. ; s. dak. e. s. .) potato. the term "potato," when not modified by an adjective, suggests to the mind of an american the so-called potato (_solanum tuberosum_). when the name is modified by the word "sweet," reference is made to a different plant, belonging to the morning-glory family and known botanically as _ipomoea batatas_. attention is here directed entirely to the irish potato. _soil and rotation._--the potato is grown in every state and territory, and naturally on a great variety of soils. indeed, it has been grown on nearly every class of soils, but this fact does not minimize the importance of selecting for the potato the kind of soil best adapted to it. the ideal soil for this crop should be one so light as to offer no great resistance to the enlargement of the tubers, so supplied with organic matter as to be rather moist without being wet, and so rich as to furnish an unfailing supply of fertilizing ingredients. a rich, sandy loam abundantly supplied with organic matter and naturally well drained is preferable. stiffer soils may be rendered suitable for the potato by drainage and by the incorporation of farm manures; or better, by plowing under green crops. very heavy clay should be avoided if the farm contains any lighter soil. recently cleared ground suits the potato. sandy soils, if not too subject to drought, may be fitted for this plant by the addition of organic matter. it is claimed that potatoes grown on sandy land are of better quality than those grown on stiffer soil. the potato requires a rich soil, but even more important than natural fertility is a proper mechanical condition of the soil. artificial fertilizers may be substituted in part for natural fertility, but they are effective only when the soil is in such a condition as to furnish a constant supply of water. the potato should have the best soil on the farm, since it is more exacting in this respect than the other staple crops and since the product of an acre is generally of greater value. the success of the potato is largely dependent on the crops preceding it in the rotation. if clover, cowpeas, or other leguminous plant is grown just preceding potatoes, its stubble furnishes organic matter and adds to the store of available nitrogen in the soil. corn after sod frequently precedes potatoes, and this is generally regarded as the best rotation. rye is sometimes sown in late summer or fall and plowed under so as to lighten a heavy soil. buckwheat and other plants have also been used for the same purpose. on light soils and in rather mild climates, crimson clover for green manuring may advantageously take the place of rye where early planting of potatoes is not specially desirable. one year, or at most two years, is as long as a field should be devoted to continuous potato culture, although this crop is sometimes grown for more than two years in succession on the same land. this latter course taxes heavily the fertility of the soil and necessitates liberal manuring; moreover it involves considerable risk of injury from fungous diseases, especially from potato scab. a clean crop of potatoes can not, as a rule, be grown on land which in the preceding year produced scabby tubers. the germs of the disease once in the soil must be starved out by growing on the infected field other crops, such as grass or grain, for several years. in certain localities in the central part of the united states and elsewhere the following three years' rotation has given highly satisfactory results on farms where potatoes are extensively grown; fall wheat, in which clover is seeded in the spring; second year, clover, plowed under in fall or winter; and third year, potatoes. in some localities the uncertainty in obtaining a catch of clover renders this rotation inexpedient. detailed directions for the preparation of one class of soils would not apply to others, hence it can only be said that preparation should be deep and thorough, and that unnecessary compacting of the soil should be avoided. plowing can scarcely be too deep, provided that much of the subsoil is not brought to the surface; when practicable, the depth should be gradually increased from year to year. though the tubers are usually formed within inches of the surface of the ground, the roots feed deeper. practical experience, as well as the extent of the distribution of potato roots in the soil, emphasize the importance of deep and thorough preparation of the soil for this crop. whether fall plowing is advisable depends on a variety of local considerations. in general in a mild climate fall plowing of light land exposes it to leaching; on the other hand, fall plowing is sometimes necessary, as, for example, when a field is badly infested with injurious insects. _fertilizing._--the potato requires liberal manuring. barnyard manure usually affords a large increase in the crop, for not only does it supply nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and potash, but it improves the mechanical conditions of the soil. however, its direct application to the potato affords conditions favorable to potato diseases, and thus injures the quality of the crop. for this reason the best practice is to apply barnyard manure to corn or grass the year before the potatoes are grown. if it is considered necessary to apply it directly to the potato crop it should first be well rotted. if for several years before potatoes are planted the land has been properly manured with farm manures, or with green crops plowed under, commercial fertilizers can be advantageously used on most soils. generally, a complete fertilizer should be used--i. e., one which contains nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and potash. the farmer is justified in supplying all three of these fertilizing ingredients, unless by previous tests he has learned that on his soil a certain one of them can be safely omitted. of nitrogenous fertilizers, one of the best for potatoes is the quick-acting nitrate of soda. of phosphatic fertilizers, superphosphate is preferred. among potash fertilizers the sulphate of potash has been found to afford a better quality of potato than kainit and muriate of potash. ashes, are extensively and effectively used to supply potash to potatoes. as little farmyard manure is available in the southern states where the early crop of potatoes is chiefly produced, this seldom enters as a factor in the production of the crop. commercial fertilizers of a nature especially adapted to the potato crop form the chief reliance of the growers. a fertilizer carrying to per cent of nitrogen, to per cent of phosphoric acid, and to per cent of potash is used at the rate of to , pounds to the acre, depending upon the crop which is to follow the potato crop and the liberality of the grower. the fertilizer may be applied broadcast if put on at the rate of , pounds or more to the acre. when less than , pounds to the acre are used it is almost universally applied along the line of the row, a furrow being opened for the reception of the fertilizer; which is scattered by hand or by a distributor which can be used to fertilize several rows at a time. after the fertilizer has been distributed, a cultivator is run along the line of the rows to incorporate the fertilizer with the soil in order to prevent its coming in contact with the seed when planted. sometimes the furrow is refilled and reopened prior to the planting of the seed, so as to incorporate the fertilizer more completely with the soil. still another plan is to open the furrow, distribute about one-half the quantity of fertilizer to be used in the bottom, incorporate it with the soil, plant the potatoes, partially cover them, and scatter the remainder of the application on the seed bed above the seed. _planting._--the rows should be laid off as close together as practicable without interfering with horse cultivation. generally the seed pieces should be dropped in furrows made in the level field and not on ridges. however, low ridges are advantageous for an early crop and on poorly drained land. in covering the seed pieces, whether they are planted flat or on ridges, it is well to leave a small, sharp ridge marking the line of the row. in some localities, however, where excessive moisture is not feared, the opening furrows are only partially filled after planting, leaving a depression along the row to be filled by the use of the smoothing harrow or other implement. in planting late in the season this course is sometimes advisable. the pieces may be dropped by hand in the open furrow, or a potato planter may be used, dropping and covering the seed pieces at one operation. there are several potato planters that do very satisfactory work, but their cost restricts their use to those who plant a large acreage in potatoes or to cases where several farmers can use one together. their more extended use is perhaps desirable, since they save a considerable amount of labor and enable the potato grower to take full advantage of even a brief period of favorable weather at planting time regardless of scarcity of labor. in the preparation of the ground and in planting, the earth along the line of the row should be compacted as little as possible consistent with thorough work, and hence the team should be made to walk between the rows whenever possible instead of along the drill. there is a simple potato coverer constructed somewhat like a triangular snowplow, with the wide end forward and a portion of the point or apex cut away so as to leave a narrow opening at the rear. no special implement, however, is required for this purpose. _planting machines._--planting potatoes by hand on any large scale is out of the question on account of the expense. the large potato grower can of course afford the most modern machinery. in a community of small potato growers it is possible for them to own machinery jointly, and thus avoid any large expense to the individual farmer. the two most expensive machines connected with potato growing are the planter and the digger. a word of caution about the type of planter is perhaps desirable. there are some planters which pick up the seed potatoes by means of a prong or fork which breaks the skin of the tuber. this exposes the potato to any germs of potato diseases which may be present in the soil. furthermore, it carries any germ disease that may be on some of the seed potatoes to others. there are planters which pick up the potatoes in such a way as not to break the skin. this point is especially important in planting whole seed. in planting cut seed there is still the danger of transferring the disease from one piece of potato to another. whatever planter may be used, some one should ride on the machine in order to see that it works regularly, so as to give as nearly a perfect stand as possible. the improved planters of today open the furrow, drop the seed, cover it, firm the dirt over the seed, and mark the next furrow. such a planter is drawn by two horses. experiments with potatoes planted in rows all the way from to inches apart indicate that the best distance depends upon the seasonal conditions and type of soil; it is a problem for each grower to solve for himself. the distance apart the potatoes should be planted in the row also depends so much upon the variety, the fertility of the soil, the availability of water, etc., that each farmer must determine this from his own experience. _time of planting._--each community is the best judge of the proper date for planting. where potatoes are grown for the early market the aim is to plant as early as possible, without subjecting the young plants to severe cold. the crop should be planted at such a date as to bring the stage of growth during which the tubers are rapidly developing at a time when there is ordinarily an adequate supply of moisture. the month when dry weather is most certain varies with the locality, and each potato grower should so time his planting as to be least affected by drought. where the growing season is long the crop that is to be stored over winter should be planted very late, so that it may remain in the ground until cool weather. on the other hand, where the season is short, late varieties should be planted in time to ripen before frost. _depth of planting._--the toots of a young potato plant grow, not directly from the seed piece, but from the underground joints or nodes of the stem. from these underground nodes also grow the short stems which bear the tubers at their extremities. hence the seed pieces should be placed deep enough in the soil to permit several of these joints to form below the surface, so as to afford room for an ample supply of roots and tuber-bearing stems to grow. many experiments have been made to ascertain the best depth for planting. the results, with some exceptions, favor planting not less than inches deep. the favorable effects of deep planting were especially marked on well-prepared, friable soil and in dry seasons. very deep planting is open to objection because of the increased labor of harvesting and the danger of a deficient stand when weather conditions are unfavorable. very shallow planting reduces the yield and injures the quality of the crop. _growing seed potatoes under mulch._--the nebraska experiment station reported an interesting comparison of the value for seed purposes of potatoes grown under mulch with those grown with ordinary cultivation under like conditions, which indicates that the mulch method offers a convenient and practical means of producing good home-grown seeds under nebraska conditions. the theory of the method and the results obtained in the comparative tests are thus stated: potatoes are a cool-weather crop. it is because of this that they succeed so well in the far north. moreover, potatoes require for their best development fairly uniform conditions, especially as regards soil moisture and soil temperature. this being the case, why should not potatoes grown under a litter mulch be especially well developed and therefore make strong seed? the soil beneath a mulch not only has a moderately low temperature during summer, but its temperature is also exceptionally uniform, varying not more than a degree or two between day and night and only a few degrees from day to day. the soil moisture beneath a good mulch is also more abundant and much more nearly uniform in amount than in case of bare ground, even though the latter is given good tillage. the value for seed purposes of tubers grown under a litter mulch has been tested during two seasons at the experiment station. in a plat of potatoes was mulched with straw and an adjoining plat was given careful cultivation. the soil of the two plats was practically uniform and the seed planted on the two plats was taken from the same lot of tubers. seed was saved from the mulched and cultivated plats separately, kept under the same conditions during winter, planted on adjoining plats in the spring of , and given identical cultivation during the summer. in the experiment was repeated with seed grown in mulched and in cultivated ground the year before. the same precautions were observed as in the first test. uniform seed was used to start with in . the seed saved from the mulched and from the cultivated plats was taken as it came, without selection, and was kept over winter under the same conditions. both kinds of seed were cut in the same way, planted in the same way, on adjoining plats, and treated alike as regards tillage, spraying, etc. under these conditions any constant differences in yield between the two plats must be ascribed to the effect of the methods of culture employed the previous season. the yields obtained from the mulched and from the cultivated seed were as follows: cultivated seed, pounds in ; mulched seed, pounds in ; cultivated seed, pounds in ; mulched seed, pounds in . the use of seed that had been grown under a mulch the preceding year increased the yield of potatoes per cent in and per cent in . if further tests confirm the results reported here, it would seem that mulching might be used for the production of high-grade seed potatoes at home. moreover, mulching usually results in increased yields if properly handled. mulching potatoes on a large scale is of course impracticable, but most farmers could easily mulch enough of their potato field to produce the seed that they would require the following year, and in doing so they would not necessarily increase the cost of production per bushel. _time to cut seed potatoes._--at least three american experiment stations have conducted tests to learn the effect of cutting seed potatoes several days or weeks in advance of planting. the results varied somewhat according to the length of time that the cut sets remained unplanted, but on the whole indicated no marked difference in productiveness between planting freshly cut pieces and those that had been cut for a week or less. the investigations of kraus and of wollny in germany led to the conclusion that a slight wilting of the seed pieces increased the yield on moist soils and in wet seasons, but reduced it on soils not retentive of water and in dry seasons. on the whole it appears that the storing of cut pieces for several days, which sometimes becomes necessary, is attended with no great disadvantages. of course due care should be taken in such instances to prevent heating, and it may be well to dust the cuttings with gypsum (land plaster) to prevent excessive wilting. _seed end v. stem end._--when potatoes are cut in half through their smaller diameter there is a seed or bud end more or less crowded with eyes and a stem or butt end on which there are few eyes. experiments to determine the relative values of cuttings from the stem end and from the seed end of the tuber have been numerous. the majority of these showed that the yield was greater when the seed end was used. the superior productiveness of the seed end as compared with the stem end was maintained, whether the halves of the potatoes, the thirds, or smaller cuttings were employed. _effect of sprouting._--the growth of sprouts before planting is made at the expense of the tubers from which they draw their support. hence if these shoots are rubbed off before planting there is a total loss of the nutriment contained in them. moreover, numerous weak shoots grow from the injured eye. to prevent these evil consequences of premature sprouting, seed potatoes are stored in a dark, dry, cool place. in spite of all precautions the tubers sometimes sprout; but when practicable only potatoes that have not sprouted should be selected for planting. if the eyes appear dormant in spring, seed potatoes may be exposed to the light and warmth for a few days before planting so as to promote germination and prompt growth. if long exposed, sprouts will form and careful cutting and planting by hand become necessary, so as to avoid breaking of these sprouts. _quantity of seed potatoes per acre._--a bushel of potatoes ( pounds) may contain quarter-pound tubers. when the seed pieces are planted a foot apart in -foot rows an acre requires , sets. when tubers averaging ounces are employed an acre requires at these distances bushels for planting whole potatoes, bushels when halves are used, and bushels when quarters are planted. in a number of tests the amount of seed cut to eyes, spaced by feet, averaged bushels per acre, the usual range being from to bushels. in experiments with many varieties the average amount of seed cut to single eyes was at these distances . bushels per acre, the usual range being from to bushels, though the varieties with large tubers bearing few eyes required considerably more seed. _size of seed pieces._--in the size of the seed piece planted the practice of different farmers varies widely, some advocating a liberal use of seed and others claiming equally good results from small cuttings. to aid in settling this question the state agricultural experiment stations have made numerous tests of seed pieces of different sizes. taken separately these experiments show certain amount of divergence in results, as might naturally be expected of tests conducted under widely different conditions. however, the majority of these tests, and especially the figures expressing the average results of all available american experiments, may be safely taken as indications of what the farmer, under ordinary conditions, will generally, but not always obtain. the effect of size of seed pieces on yield of crop will be treated here under three distinct heads: ( ) on the total yield; ( ) on the gross yield of salable potatoes, and ( ) on the net yield of salable potatoes, i. e., after deducting the amount of seed planted. _effect on total yield._--in making up the averages below it was found practicable to use the results of tests of single eyes _v._ -eye pieces, tests of -eye cuttings _v._ quarters, comparisons of quarters and halves, and tests of halves _v._ whole potatoes. the results of other experiments less completely reported were used for the purpose of corroboration. the following table shows the _average_ results of these tests, including potatoes of all sizes: bushels. per cent. excess from use of-- -eye pieces over -eye pieces quarters over -eye pieces halves over quarters whole tubers over halves if there are compared all the total yields with the total yield produced by single eyes there appears an increase of per cent for -eye pieces, per cent for quarters, per cent for halves, and per cent for entire tubers. the total yield resulting from planting whole potatoes is practically double that obtained by planting single eyes. thus far there is considered only the total yield, i. e., large and small potatoes, and it is found that the total yield increases somewhat uniformly as the size of the seed piece is increased. the farmer and gardener, however, have to consider other factors than the total yield, for a heavy crop may consist very largely of tubers too small for the market, or the great expenditures for seed when large pieces are planted may more than counterbalance the increased yield. before noting the gross and net yields of large or salable tubers, resulting from seed pieces of different sizes, it is well to consider the causes inducing a somewhat regular increase in total yield accompanying the use of larger seed pieces. several causes operate to increase the yield when large seed pieces are planted. the larger the cutting the greater generally the number of eyes and the number of stalks. the young shoot, before it develops a strong system of feeding roots, is dependent for nutriment on the material stored up in the seed piece; hence the more abundant this supply the more vigorous the growth of the plant and this increased luxuriance is not confined to the early stages of growth, but is marked throughout the growing season. investigation has shown that severing the connection between the seed piece and the growing vine, even after the latter is thoroughly rooted, reduces the yield of potatoes. the danger of partial or entire failure resulting from an imperfect stand is much greater with small cuttings than with large seed pieces. the small pieces with extensive cut surfaces are liable to perish should the season be unfavorable, either through excessive moisture or drought. the sprouts from small cuttings being weaker reach the surface with difficulty, or fail entirely on soil not properly prepared. _effect on gross salable yield._--by averaging the results of the experiments referred to above, it is found that the actual increase in the potatoes of salable size due to using larger seed pieces was as follows, every increase in the size of the seed pieces being followed by an increased gross salable yield: bushels. per cent. excess from use of-- -eye pieces over -eye pieces quarters over -eye pieces halves over quarters whole tubers over halves _effect on net salable crop._--before concluding that the largest seed pieces are the most profitable it becomes necessary to deduct from the crop the amount of seed planted. it is plain that the increased amount of seed potatoes required when larger pieces are used may more than counterbalance the increase in yield obtained. the true test of profit is the market value of the crop produced, less the cost of seed planted. should the quantity of seed potatoes used be subtracted from the total yield of large and small potatoes or from the salable crop? if small or unsalable seed potatoes are planted, then the former course is the proper one, but since large or medium tubers (either entire or cut) are generally selected for seed purposes, it seems best to subtract the seed from the salable crop, thus ascertaining the net salable yield. the following table shows the actual average results for the net salable yield; that is, the crop after deducting the small potatoes and the seed used: bushels. per cent. excess from use of-- -eye pieces over -eye pieces . quarters over -eye pieces . halves over quarters . halves over whole tubers . the amount of the net salable crop rose with the increase in the size of the cutting employed, but when the whole potato was planted the figures declined on account of the large amount of seed potatoes which had to be deducted. the above figures indicate a very slight advantage in planting halves rather than quarters when the price of seed and crop produced are the same. as a matter of fact, spring prices are usually somewhat higher than fall prices. a high price for seed potatoes may make it profitable to plant smaller pieces (as, for example, quarters) than would be economical where seed and crop command the same price per bushel. _amount of seed potatoes._--in the following diagram represents the total yield from planting single eyes. the figures may be read as bushels per acre, if it is constantly borne in mind that there are being considered soils of such character as to average bushels of large and small potatoes per acre when planted with -eye pieces. the first group answers the question, "what size of seed piece generally affords the largest yield of large and small potatoes?" the second group answers the query: "what size of seed piece generally gives the greatest yield exclusive of small potatoes?" the third group offers an answer to a still more important question: "what size of seed piece generally produces the largest yield after deducting both the small potatoes and the amount of seed planted?" _yield from planting different seed pieces, assuming as the total yield from single eyes._ relative total yield. eye...........| |______________ eyes..........| |____________________ quarters........| |____________________________ halves..........| |____________________________________ wholes..........| |___________________________________________ relative gross salable yield. eye...........| |_____________ eyes..........| |___________________ quarters........| |___________________________ halves..........| |_____________________________________ wholes..........| |_____________________________________________ relative net salable yield. eye...........| |______________ eyes..........| |___________________ quarters........| |______________________ halves..........| |___________________________ wholes..........| |_____________________ taking as the correct measure of profit the yield of salable potatoes less the amount of seed used, there is seen by the third section of the diagram that with seed and crop at the same price per bushel it was more profitable in these tests to plant halves than smaller cuttings and whole potatoes. if there be taken account of the yield of small potatoes the advantage of large seed pieces is even greater than the figures in the last section of the diagram would indicate, for the yield of small potatoes is greater with large than with small seed pieces. where large quantities of small potatoes can be profitably utilized, as, for example, as seed for the second crop, the potato planter may therefore use quite large seed pieces with advantage. on the other hand, the higher price of potatoes in spring rather than in fall is an argument in favor of planting quarters rather than halves or whole tubers. a number of investigators have noted that large seed pieces (either large cuttings or entire potatoes) afford an earlier crop than very small cuttings, a matter of much interest to growers of early potatoes. however, some growers have reported that uncut potatoes germinate more slowly than large cuttings. most of those who raise potatoes for the early market use large cuttings rather than whole potatoes. in this connection it may be said that the seed-end half gives an earlier crop than the other half. this suggests the expediency of cutting a potato lengthwise when halves or quarters are to be planted, thus securing on each piece one or more of the eyes which germinate first. another advantage of cutting lengthwise is that it insures a more even distribution of the eyes on the several pieces. of course this system is not practicable when very small cuttings are to be made from long, slender potatoes, since the large amount of exposed surface would render the long pieces susceptible to injury both from moisture and dryness. if it is desired to cut the potato into small pieces the operator should begin at the stem end, and the pieces should be cut in a compact shape, and of as nearly equal size as is practicable without leaving any piece entirely devoid of eyes. there are special implements for cutting potatoes, and their use is reported as enabling a man to cut four or five times as many bushels of seed per day as by hand. the character of the work is said to be satisfactory. no definite rule can be given as to the best size of seed piece, for this depends somewhat on the distance between the hills and on the character of the soil and season. another important factor in determining the proper amount of seed is variety. some varieties are able to produce a crop almost as large from small cuttings as from large pieces. _size of seed tubers._--a study of more than a hundred experiments testing the relative values of large, medium, and small uncut tubers confirms the general law that an increase in the weight of seed planted affords an increase in the total crop. the yield of salable potatoes increases less rapidly than the total yield. with whole potatoes as seed the salable yield reached its extreme upward limit in one test when tubers weighing about half a pound were planted; in another when those weighing - / ounces were employed. the limit of profitable increase was reached with tubers weighing - / and ounces respectively. the size of seed tubers selected becomes a matter of importance when they are to be cut, for we have seen that the heavier the cutting the larger the total yield, and seed tubers for cutting should be of such size that their halves, quarters, or other divisions shall not be extremely small. _small potatoes for planting._--whether or not to use uncut small potatoes for seed is an important question on which farmers are divided. some present the plausible argument that the use of undersized potatoes results in degeneration. if this claim is based on the results of experience it should determine practice, but if the conclusion is simply a generalization based on the fact that large seed usually give best results the reasoning is defective, and the question remains open. the potato tuber is not a seed, but an underground stem, and the relations existing between seeds and their progeny do not necessarily exist between a tuber and its descendants. others hold that potatoes just below marketable size, if shapely and sufficiently mature, may be used without serious deterioration, and that for economic reasons their use is especially desirable, because if not planted or used at home they must be lost or fed to stock, for which purpose their value is usually smaller than the market price. the result of tests at a number of experiment stations have uniformly indicated that small tubers uncut can be used for seed purposes without detriment to the succeeding crop. it may still be urged, however, that the choice of small seed year after year will result in degeneration. on this question the information is meager, but two experiments, extending over four and eight years, respectively, have been reported in which no degeneration resulting from the continued use of small potatoes from the preceding crop was apparent. although the evidence seems fairly conclusive that small uncut seed potatoes may sometimes be used with profit, it cannot be advised that small seed tubers be selected year after year from a crop which has been grown from small potatoes. potatoes of irregular shape and injured tubers should be rejected as unfit for planting. _number of eyes and weight per set._--many potato growers cut tubers into pieces containing one, two, or more eyes, laying greater stress on the number of eyes than on the size of the cutting. extensive experiments at the indiana station and elsewhere prove that of the two factors, number of eyes and weight of piece, the latter is the more important. of course it is desirable that each piece, whether large or small, should contain at least one eye, and it has been generally profitable for it to be of such size as to contain at least several eyes; but whether it has one or many eyes it is important that the seed piece be heavy enough to furnish abundant nutriment to the shoots which spring from it. a single eye may give rise to several stalks, for each eye is a compound bud or cluster of buds. an eye can be bisected, and each half may then grow successfully if it is not a victim to dryness or decay, to which its exposed condition subjects it. in one series of experiments it was found that the number of stalks growing in a hill was less dependent on the number of eyes than on the size of the seed piece, whether cut or entire. in general, as the number of eyes per piece increased each eye became less prolific in sending up stalks, so that there was less crowding of stalks where large seed pieces with many eyes were used than would be expected from the large number of eyes planted. after numerous experiments touching on almost every aspect of this subject the investigator advised that tubers be cut so as to make each piece of a constant size or weight, whatever the number of eyes that might fall to its share. _cuttings per hill._--a custom not uncommon among those who plant small cuttings is to drop two pieces in each hill. they usually get a larger yield by so doing than by planting single pieces, the increase generally, though not always, being sufficient to pay for the excess of seed. this does not prove the practice profitable, for better results may be secured by planting a single piece weighing as much as the combined weight of the two pieces which would have been dropped in one hill. thus the labor of cutting is considerably reduced and, what is more important, larger pieces improve the chances of getting a good stand in an unfavorable season, because they have less exposed surface than two small pieces of equivalent weight, hence are less liable to dry out excessively when drought follows planting. they are also better able to resist rotting if wet weather prevails. _stalks per hill._--the most common objection urged against planting large seed pieces is, next to the expense, the danger of having the hills so crowded with stalks, and consequently with tubers, that a large proportion of the potatoes never develop to marketable size. this objection is probably valid for entire tubers, and also for halves planted very close in the row. the evidence available does not permit us to conclude that in the case of quarters used as seed there results any injurious crowding, and it may be questioned whether halves give rise to this trouble when planted under favorable conditions and at considerable distance apart. the number of stalks that can be advantageously grown in each hill varies greatly with variety, season, soil, and distance apart. _distance between plants._--in deciding on the proper distance at which to plant potatoes it is necessary to take into consideration the size of the seed piece that is to be employed. in general, small seed pieces should be planted close and the distance allotted to each hill should be greater as the weight of the piece is increased. close planting for small cuttings is best attained, not by narrowing the row to less than about - / or feet (for if the distance is much less horse cultivation becomes difficult), but by planting the seed pieces close together in the row. to frame a general rule giving best distances for seed pieces of different sizes is plainly impossible, for the distance at which the largest yields is obtained depends also on the variety, the season, the soil, and the fertilizers. however, the results of some of the investigations covering this matter afford help in deciding on the proper distance under varying conditions. it has been shown that if very small cuttings are used, and if the soil is fertile, the distance can be reduced to or inches without sacrificing the yield, provided the season happens to be favorable, but this is not generally advisable. on rich soil cuttings of considerable size can be advantageously planted as close as inches. checking effects a saving of labor in cultivation, and also in planting and harvesting, when these latter operations are performed by hand; hence expensive labor and the absence of machines for planting and harvesting the crop are conditions in favor of checking. for planting in checks a variety can be chosen which makes a large growth of vines and which forms many tubers in each hill, thus more completely utilizing the space at its disposal than could a variety with small vines and few tubers. in checking there is danger on rich soil that some of the tubers may grow to an objectionable size. potato growers in attempting to obtain a phenomenal yield, as in contests for prizes, almost universally plant in drills rather than in hills, and place the seed pieces from to inches apart. the advocates of planting in drills claim that by this method a larger yield can be obtained, and experience seems to confirm the correctness of this view. the few experiments that have been made on this question are not entirely conclusive, though the majority of them favor drills. although no fixed rule regarding distance of planting can be given, the following general considerations are widely applicable: ( ) for maximum yield of salable potatoes plant in rows as narrow as can be conveniently cultivated. ( ) crowd small seed pieces close together in the row, increasing the distance with every increase in the size of the seed piece; avoid on the one hand such close planting as to greatly reduce the average weight of the tubers, and on the other such wide spacing as to leave any considerable portion of the soil unshaded by the full-grown vines. ( ) as a rule, the richer the land the less the required distance between sets. ( ) varieties with strong growth of vines or which set many tubers in a hill should have greater distance between plants than is necessary with less vigorous varieties. _cultivation._--soon after planting, and again just as the young plants are beginning to appear above ground, the field should be harrowed, inclining the teeth of the harrow backward. this is a cheap method of cultivation, since a wide space is covered. it is also effective in destroying small weeds, in leveling the ridges left in planting, in preventing the formation of a surface crust, and in keeping the land covered with a mulch of dry earth, thus conserving moisture within the soil below. subsequent cultivation should be frequent so as to accomplish these same ends. almost any pattern of cultivator may be used, provided it is made to do shallow work. however, if the ground has become packed the first cultivation may be deeper. experience and exact experiments generally favor flat or nearly flat cultivation. excessive hilling during cultivation intensifies the injurious effects of dry weather. it also results in breaking many of the feeding roots between the rows. the frequent use of the cultivator should be substituted as far as possible for hoeing. if a severe frost is apprehended soon after the plants come up, the tops should be covered by throwing a furrow to each row. _mulching._--while mulching with hay, straw, leaves, or other litter frequently increases the yield and is specially valuable in tiding over a season of drought, it is not generally practicable on farms where potatoes are grown on a large scale. its place is in the garden rather than in the field. it is a substitute for cultivation, and it is generally cheaper to maintain a soil mulch by frequent cultivation than to apply litter. if a mulch is employed, it can be applied over the entire surface or in the furrow above the seed pieces, or between the rows. mulching in the furrow is not commended by the results of tests in colorado, louisiana, and michigan. in striving for a large yield, with little regard to cost, or to insure against drought, mulching is useful. material intended to serve as a mulch should first be exposed to the weather, so as to cause the sprouting of any seed it may contain. it is better to apply a mulch after potato plants have made some growth, as an earlier application may result in smothering some plants and in injury from late frosts. _harvesting and storing._--the death of the vines is the signal for digging the main crop. for the early market potato growers do not wait for this, but are governed by the size of the tubers. as long as any portion of the vine is green the tubers can continue to grow. in gardens very early potatoes are sometimes obtained by carefully removing a few of the larger tubers from the growing plant, replacing the soil and allowing the smaller potatoes to continue growing ("grabbing"). the large amount of labor required prohibits "grabbing" except when early potatoes are selling at a price very much higher than can be expected from the later crop. in harvesting a large area a high-priced potato digger is frequently used; hand digging with a four-tined fork is probably the best method on small areas, though many make use of a potato hoe or of a plow. careful handling always pays, and extreme carefulness is necessary, especially with the early crop, to prevent injury to the tender skin of the immature potatoes. in harvesting, as well as in storage, potatoes should be exposed to light as little as possible. in storing potatoes a low temperature is required. the potato tuber is uninjured by a temperature of ° f., and one authority gives the freezing temperature of potatoes . ° f. warmth favors sprouting, which injures potatoes both for planting and eating. most of the farmers have potato houses or cellars constructed for storing their stock and holding the unsold portion of the crop through even the coldest weather until they can market it. some growers, especially those near town, depend on the warehouses of the dealers alongside the railroad tracks. the common type of storehouse on the farm is a cellar walled up with concrete or stonework, about or feet deep, with a low wooden roof above it, giving a considerable space for the storage of tools, barrels, etc., on the floor above the cellar portion. these cellars are usually built on the side of a hill, so that the potatoes are unloaded down through the floor in the fall and taken out at a lower doorway during the winter. [illustration: _photo by verne morton, groton, n. y._ thorough cultivation of the growing crop is an essential of successful potato raising] _grading._--the grading of early potatoes is quite as important as the grading of fruits. large and small tubers should not be mixed in the same barrel. the pickers should be taught to gather the large and merchantable tubers in one basket and the small or seed potatoes in another, and these if placed upon the market should go in separate receptacles and be clearly marked so as to represent the grade. if a mechanical sorter is used this work will be more effectively accomplished than if left to the pickers. the type of grader usually used is similar to that employed in some sections for grading apples and peaches, although the common type of potato grader is a rotary screen which separates the earth from the tubers and allows the small tubers to fall through the large meshes of the screen before reaching the general outlet which carries away those of merchantable size. the objection to a mechanical grader of this type is that it bruises the immature tubers and renders them somewhat less attractive than when not so handled and probably also shortens the length of time they can be safely held on the market. _marketing._--the perishable nature of the immature potato renders it necessary to place it upon the market in such quantities only as will admit of immediate consumption. producers in regions where the growing of early potatoes has been extensively developed appreciate this and have provided for this condition by organizing shippers' associations through which the crop is graded, often trade-marked, and distributed chiefly in carload lots. the officers of the association being in constant telegraphic communication with the various markets are thus informed regarding the most satisfactory destination for every consignment which may be necessary. it is the purpose of these associations, however, to conduct their business in such a way that the product can be sold f. o. b. shipping point instead of by consignment, and the best organized associations are usually able to do this. the great advantage of such a system of selling is that it enables the brokers in a small city or town to buy direct from the producer instead of through another city broker. it enables the consumer to obtain fresh products, as they are shipped direct from the point of production to the place of consumption. the plan carries other benefits which are of great moment to the producer. he is enabled to sell in carload lots at shipping point, thus saving to himself the cost of transportation, which ranges from to per cent of the gross selling price. the exchange secures a much wider distribution of the crop, with the result that overstocked markets are much less likely than under the consignment system. transportation companies provide better service, and claims are more promptly settled through the exchange than in the case of individuals. this plan enables the producer to be his own salesman. it transfers the distributing point from the city to the field, where it should be. it brings the market to the fields instead of the product to the market. the exchange becomes the farmer's commission house, and it is much easier to keep informed regarding the transactions of a home association than of a foreign concern. _varieties._--the following are among the most widely known varieties: _early_, early ohio, early rose, beauty of hebron, and triumph. _medium and late_, burbank, rural new yorker no. , empire state, mammoth pearl, white star, and dakota red. these are standard varieties, and though not necessarily the best, they seem to have given general satisfaction. _second-crop potatoes for seed at the south._--within recent years there has been a marked increase in the use of second crop potatoes for seed throughout the southern potato-growing sections. this crop is frequently grown on the same land from which the first crop of potatoes was harvested. in most instances, however, it follows beans or cucumbers, as the seed for this second potato crop is not usually planted until july or august. the seed for this crop is, as a rule, saved from the early crop, the small tubers being stored in a well-ventilated shed, where they are protected from the direct action of the sun and from storms until about ten days or two weeks before the time of planting, when they are spread thinly upon the ground and lightly covered with straw or litter to partially protect them from the sun. under these conditions the tubers quickly "green" and all those suitable for seed will develop sprouts. as soon as the sprouts are visible, and before they are large enough to be rubbed off in handling, the potatoes are ready to plant. the product of this planting gives a crop of partially matured tubers which are held over winter for spring planting. this practice gives excellent results in many localities and is found to be more economical than the purchase of northern-grown seed. to what extent it is safe to follow this practice without renewing the seed from the north by the use of fully matured tubers has not been determined. those following the method should carefully observe the quality and yield of the crop for the purpose of determining whether or not it is deteriorating under this treatment. in general, it is believed that it will be within the limits of good practice to secure every second or third year enough northern-grown seed to supply seed for the second crop; in fact, some of the most successful growers of potatoes who use second-crop seed get enough northern-grown seed each year to supply planting material for the second crop. in this practice it will be economy to err on the side of safety and obtain fresh seed frequently from reliable northern sources. in a majority of instances it is found that second-crop home-grown seed is slower to germinate and later in maturity than northern-grown seed, and as quick development is an important element in the crop at the south, growers are urged to consider this point carefully. _held-over seed._--the consensus of opinion is that in southern localities it is impracticable to keep early potatoes from harvest time to the next season's planting period. the conclusions of those who have given this problem careful study are that the exposure of the tubers to the sun at harvest time is the chief factor in determining their keeping qualities. in other words, it is possible to keep potatoes in the extreme south from season to season provided the tubers are not exposed to the sun after being dug. they should be immediately carried to a protected place where there is ample ventilation and where they will receive only diffused light, such as a cyclone or other cellar, or the basement of a house, or even where brush protection will prevent the sun shining directly upon them. it is, of course, necessary that the tubers be well matured before being dug and that they be the product of disease-free plants. plants killed by blight yield tubers which seldom keep well even under the most favorable conditions. _methods of securing extra-early potatoes._--one of the most important factors having an influence on the profitableness of market garden crops is that of earliness. a difference of two or three days or a week in placing a crop on the market often makes the difference between profit and loss, and the prices obtained for extra-early crops have stimulated cultural experiments with every kind of fruit and vegetables. some interesting results along this line with potatoes have recently been reported by the kansas and rhode island stations. at the kansas station seed tubers of four different varieties of medium-sized potatoes were placed in shallow boxes with the seed ends up in february. they were packed in sand, leaving the upper fourth of the tubers exposed, and the boxes were placed in a room with rather subdued light, having a temperature of ° to ° f. vigorous sprouts soon pushed from the exposed eyes. the whole potatoes were planted in furrows in march in the same position they occupied in the boxes. the same varieties of potatoes taken from a storage cellar were planted in parallel rows. the sand-sprouted potatoes took the lead from the start in vigor and strength of top and produced potatoes the first of june, a week earlier than the storage-cellar potatoes. at the final digging they showed better potatoes and gave a per cent larger total yield. in other experiments part of the potatoes was treated the same as in the first test, except that the sand was kept moistened, and the other part was placed in open boxes and kept in a light room having a temperature of ° f. the tubers placed in sand developed strong sprouts and nearly all rooted. when planted in the field they outstripped both the tubers sprouted in open boxes and the storage-cellar tubers in vigor of growth. the tubers started in the open boxes gave earlier yields than were obtained from the storage-cellar tubers, but not as early as the tubers sprouted in moist sand. the tubers sprouted in moist sand produced table potatoes from to days earlier than the storage-cellar seed. at the rhode island station medium-sized whole potatoes sprouted on racks, in a fairly warm and light room, gave a per cent better yield at the first digging than potatoes kept in a cold cellar until planting time; and this was increased to per cent at the final digging. the percentage of large tubers was also greater at each digging with the sprouted tubers. the results of these experiments are suggestive. the handling of seed potatoes in such manner as to secure strong, stocky sprouts before the tubers are planted out is shown to be an important factor in increasing both the earliness and the total yield of the crop. by planting only well-sprouted seed, a full stand is assured. one of the objections to this method of growing potatoes is the large amount of space required for exposing the tubers to the light for sprouting. this objection has been overcome in part by the use of trays and racks. at the rhode island station the rack used held trays. each tray was - / feet long and - / feet wide, and would hold about bushel of potatoes when spread out in a single layer for sprouting. the bottoms of the trays were made of pieces of lath placed about inch apart. nine trays were placed in a rack over each other, leaving about inches of space between each tray. this method of arrangement has the advantage of securing a very uniform distribution of light, heat, and air for all the trays. it greatly facilitates the handling of the potatoes and lessens the danger of breaking off the sprouts and transferring to the field for planting. another method of securing early potatoes in rhode island on a commercial scale is that of sprouting tubers in a cold frame and planting out as soon as danger of frost is past. the tubers are cut into pieces, not smaller than an english walnut, after rejecting the two or three eyes nearest the stem end, which have been found to start late. the pieces are placed side by side in the bed, skin side upward, and covered about inches deep with fine, rich earth. their growth can be controlled by proper regulation of the cold-frame sash. at planting time the tubers, the sprouts of which should be just breaking the surface of the soil, are carefully lifted with manure forks, separated by hand, and placed in well-fertilized rows, and entirely covered with soil; or, if danger of frost is past, they are placed with the apex of the sprout just at the surface of the soil. about square feet of cold frame is required to sprout sufficient potatoes to plant an acre in to inch rows, inches apart. eight men can transplant an acre in a day. on the island of jersey, where early potatoes are raised in large quantities for the london market, the potatoes destined for seed are placed side by side in shallow boxes and stored, as soon as cold weather sets in, in a light and well-sheltered loft or shed, out of danger of frost. the position of the boxes is changed from time to time so that the sprouts will be of equal length and strength at the planting season. medium-sized tubers selected from the best of the crop and allowed to lie in the field in the fall until they become greenish are used. _potatoes on western irrigated farms._--with thorough cultivation, for potatoes planted the first of may, irrigation is seldom necessary until july. generally speaking irrigation water is cold and it is highly important not to irrigate too frequently, since the water not only causes the soil to run together but lowers the temperature to a point that is not favorable to the growth of potatoes. irrigation water is applied only when the condition of the plants indicates that they are in need of water, as by darkening of the foliage. or one may dig down in the hill and press a handful of soil in the hand; if it fails to retain its form, irrigation is needed. care should be taken not to wait until the ground is too dry, because one can not cover the whole field of potatoes in one day's irrigation, and some are likely to suffer for water before being reached. experience shows that if potatoes are grown as rapidly as possible, so as to become strong and well established early in the season, they withstand the maximum of unfavorable weather conditions later on, when the hot dry winds becomes a menace to the crop. when the time for irrigation arrives, a v-shaped trench half-way between the rows should be opened in alternate middles with an or inch lister plow; that is, a narrow plow with a double mold-board which throws the dirt each way. in these furrows the irrigation water is run so that the soil will not become solidified by flooding, and the necessary amount of water may be properly distributed. for the second irrigation furrows are opened in the middles that were not opened at the first irrigation, and this alternation is continued for succeeding irrigations. at the head of each field is a feeder ditch from which the water is admitted to these irrigation furrows between the rows. it is essential that the right quantity of water be used, and that it be uniformly distributed. cultivation should commence as soon after irrigation as the soil will permit so as to insure rapid and uniform growth without check. this will not only result in the production of smooth, uniform tubers of attractive appearance, which are always in demand at high prices, but will also result in large, profitable yields and at the same time keep the soil in good mechanical condition for future crops. do not irrigate after august , so as to give fifty or sixty days for ripening in dry earth. there is no line of farming in the irrigated districts that gives such marvelous profits as that of scientific potato production. with scientific knowledge which can certainly be acquired by experiments in supplying perfectly balanced plant food and maintaining soil fertility, the scientific principles of which are similar to those used by every successful breeder in feeding and fitting prize-winning stock; and with the proper proportions of plant foods--phosphates, nitrogen, and potash--in the soil as found in many parts of the west; and by the use of clover and alfalfa, there is no reason for those who contemplate engaging in the potato industry to fear the outcome. too much stress can not be put upon the value and importance of livestock in keeping up favorable soil conditions, as no country now known has been continuously successful in crop production without the use of manures from the feeding of forage and grain crops. _varieties._--years of experience have demonstrated that comparatively few varieties of potatoes are really adapted to western or mountain conditions. among the early varieties none has been so universally successful as the early ohio. this potato is of fine quality and uniform in size and shape, though not a heavy yielder. another good potato, though not so early, is the rose seedling. for a medium to late variety, the dalmeny challenge, a scotch variety, is being used quite extensively on the western slope of colorado. for later varieties, the white pearl and rural new york no. are more extensively used at greeley, in the san luis valley, and in the uncompahgre valley; and the perfect peachblow is the favorite in the upper grand valley. pumpkin. the true pumpkin is hardly to be considered as a garden crop, and, as a rule, should be planted among the field corn. plant where the hills of corn are missing and cultivate with the corn. however, some of the better sorts of pie pumpkins should be grown in the garden for cooking purposes, because they are productive and much superior in quality to the common field pumpkins.--(f. b. ; mich e. s. , .) radish. the radish is quite hardy and may be grown throughout the winter in hotbeds at the north, in cold frames in the latitudes of washington, and in the open ground in the south. for the home garden the seed should be sown in the open ground as soon as the soil is moderately warm. plant in drills to inches apart, and as soon as the plants are up thin them slightly to prevent crowding. radishes require to be grown on a quick, rich soil, and some of the earlier sorts can be matured in two to three weeks after planting. if the radishes grow slowly they will have a pungent flavor and will not be fit for table use. for a constant supply successive plantings should be made every two weeks, as the roots lose their crispness and delicate flavor if allowed to remain long in the open ground. as a rule a large percentage of radish seed will grow, and it is often possible by careful sowing to avoid the necessity of thinning, the first radishes being pulled as soon as they are of sufficient size for table use, thus making room for those that are a little later. radishes will not endure hot weather and are suited to early spring and late autumn planting. there are a number of varieties of winter radishes, the seed of which may be planted the latter part of summer and the roots pulled and stored for winter use. these roots should remain in the ground as long as possible without frosting and should then be dug and stored the same as turnips. this type of radish will not compare with the earlier summer varieties, which may be easily grown in a hotbed or cold frame during the winter. one ounce of radish seed is sufficient to plant feet of row, and when grown on a large scale to pounds of seed will be required to the acre.--(f. b. , ; u. id. e. s. ; mich. e. s. ; n. car. e. s. .) rhubarb (pie plant). the soil for rhubarb should be deep, and there is little danger of having it too rich. like asparagus the seedling plants of rhubarb can be grown and transplanted. ten to twelve good hills are sufficient to produce all the rhubarb required by the average family, and these are most easily established by planting pieces of roots taken from another bed. good roots may be secured from dealers and seedsmen at about $ . a dozen. the old hills may be divided in the early spring or late fall by digging away the earth on one side and cutting the hill in two with a sharp spade, the part removed being used to establish a new hill. the usual method of planting rhubarb is to set the plants in a single row along the garden fence, and the hills should be about feet apart. if more than one row is planted the hills should be - / or feet each way. the thick leaf stems are the part used, and none should be pulled from the plants the first year after setting. rhubarb should receive the same treatment during winter as asparagus, and the plants should never be allowed to ripen seed. the roots may be brought into the greenhouse, pit, cold frame, or cellar during the winter and forced. rhubarb does not thrive in warm climates. the use of rhubarb is principally during the early spring for making pies and sauces, and the stems may be canned for winter use.--(f. b. ; n. car. e. s. ; u. id. e. s. .) ruta-baga (swedes). the culture of the ruta-baga is the same as for the turnip, except that the former requires more room and a longer period for its growth. the roots are quite hardy and will withstand considerable frost. the ruta-baga is used like the turnip, and also for stock feed. two pounds of seed are required for one acre.--(f. b. ; mich. e. s. .) salsify (vegetable oyster). sow seeds of salsify during the spring in the same manner as for parsnips or carrots. at the south, a sowing may be made in summer to produce roots for winter use. one ounce of seed is required to plant feet of row, and on a large scale pounds to the acre. after the plants are well established they should be thinned sufficiently to prevent their crowding. the cultivation should be the same as for parsnips or carrots, and frequent use of a wheel hoe will avoid the necessity for hand weeding. salsify may be dug in the autumn and stored or allowed to remain in the ground during the winter, as its treatment is the same as for parsnips. salsify is a biennial, and if the roots are not dug before the second season they will throw up stems and produce seed. it is of a weedy nature and care should be taken that it does not run wild by seeding freely. salsify is deserving of more general cultivation, as it is one of the more desirable of the root crops for the garden. the uses of salsify are similar to those of the parsnip, and when boiled and afterwards coated with rolled crackers and fried in butter it has a decided oyster flavor, from which the name vegetable oyster is derived.--(f. b. , ; n. car. e. s. ; idaho e. s. .) scolymus. scolymus is a vegetable with spiny, thistle-like leaves, from spain, with roots much like a small parsnip and keeping equally well in winter.--(s. dak. e. s. .) skirret. this is called "zuckerwurzel" (sugar root) in germany. the plump, fleshy roots are sweet and used boiled during winter, the same as salsify.--(s. dak. e. s. .) sorrel. this plant resembles the weed "sour dock" of the fields. the leaves are large, tender and juicy, very broad and often inches long, retaining the pleasant acid flavor of the original weed. much prized in france where it is cultivated as a spring vegetable and used singly or mixed with spinach.--(mich. e. s. ; u. idaho e. s. .) spinach. spinach thrives in a rather cool climate and attains its best development in the middle south, where it can be grown in the open ground during the winter. large areas are grown near norfolk, va., cuttings being made at anytime during the winter when the fields are not frozen or covered with snow. when the weather moderates in the early spring the plants make a new growth, and a large crop of early greens is available. north of the latitude of norfolk, spinach can be planted in the autumn and carried over winter by mulching with straw or leaves. sow the seeds in drills foot apart at the rate of ounce to feet of row or to pounds to the acre. to produce good spinach, a rich loam which will give the plants a quick growth is required. as ordinarily grown, it occupies the land during the autumn and winter only and does not interfere with summer cultivation. it is an easily grown garden crop, and there is, perhaps, no other of its kind that will give as good satisfaction. three or four ounces of seed, planted in the autumn after a summer crop has been harvested from the land, will produce an abundance of greens for the average family during the late autumn and early spring. in gathering spinach the entire plant is removed rather than merely cutting off the leaves. the larger plants are selected first, and the smaller or later ones are thus given room to develop. no thinning is required if this plan of harvesting is practiced.--(f. b. ; mich. e. s. ; u. id. e. s. ; n. c. e. s. .) squash. there are two types of the squash, the bush varieties, which may be planted in hills or feet apart each way, and the running varieties, which will require from to feet for their development. squashes may properly be grown in the garden, as or hills will produce all that are required for family use. they require practically the same soil and cultural methods as the muskmelon. a number of varieties are used during the summer in the same manner as vegetable marrow, but squashes are principally used during the winter, in much the same way as pumpkins, to which they are superior in many respects. squashes are also used extensively for pie purposes. the varieties known as hubbard and boston marrow are most commonly grown. squashes, like pumpkins, should be handled carefully to avoid bruising, and should be stored in a moderately warm but well ventilated room.--(f. b. ; mich. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. , .) stachys. this vegetable, known to the botanists as _stachys sieboldi_, has been introduced into america from japan and has a number of different names, such as japanese potato, chinese artichoke, chorogi, etc., but the name stachys seems to have been adopted as the common one in this country. the plant is a small perennial belonging to the mint family and produces just below the ground a multitude of small, white, crisp edible tubers, varying from an inch to two and one-half inches in length, and about one-half an inch in thickness and marked by irregular spiral rings, which give them a corkscrew-like appearance. stachys has been tested at the new york (cornell) and a number of the other agricultural experiment stations, and proved so easy of cultivation and pleasant in taste (the flavor resembling artichokes) that the vegetable has made many friends and is now procurable at the markets in most of our larger cities. the agreeable quality is in considerable measure due to the crispness of the tubers, and as this disappears when they are exposed to the air they should be stored in sand or sawdust. they are ready for use when the plant dies down in the autumn, though they may be easily carried over the winter and are prepared for the table like potatoes or other vegetables, or may be eaten raw like radishes.--(f. b. .) sweet basil. the leaves are used for flavoring purposes. sweet corn. plant sweet corn as soon as the soil is warm in the spring, and make successive plantings every two weeks until july, or the same result can be attained to some extent by a careful selection of early, medium, and late varieties. plant the seeds in drills feet apart and thin to a single stalk every to inches, or plant to seeds in hills feet apart each way, and thin out to to stalks in a hill. cover the seeds about inches deep. cultivate frequently and keep down all weeds, removing suckers from around the base of the stalk. sweet corn should be planted on rich land, and the method of cultivation is practically the same as for field corn, but should be more thorough. there are a number of good early varieties, and for a midsummer and late sort there is none better than stowell's ever-green.--(f. b. ; n. j. e. s. ; s. dak. e. s. .) sweet marjoram. leaves and ends of shoots used for seasoning. sweet potato. owing to the tropical nature of the sweet potato it naturally thrives best in the south atlantic and gulf coast states, but it may be grown for home use as far north as southern new york and westward along that latitude to the rocky mountains. the climatic requirements for the production of sweet potatoes on a commercial scale are ( ) a growing period of at least four and half months without frost, ( ) warm nights and abundant sunshine during the day, and ( ) a moderate rainfall during the growing period. where irrigation is depended upon for the supply of moisture, the greatest quantity of water should be applied between the time the plants are set in the field and the time when the vines practically cover the ground. if too much water is applied during the latter part of the season the result may be an abundant growth of vine and a small yield of stringy potatoes. for some time before harvesting the crop the water should be withheld altogether, in order that the roots may ripen properly. _soil._--sweet potatoes thrive on a moderately fertile sandy loam which does not contain an excess of organic matter. they are frequently grown upon almost pure sand, especially where the subsoil is a yellow clay. soils containing considerable calcium or underlain with limestone are well adapted to the growing of the crop. the sweet potato is exceptional in that a fairly good crop can be grown upon soils that are too poor for the production of the majority of farm crops. sweet potatoes yield a fair crop on the "worn-out" tobacco and cotton lands of the south, especially when used in a rotation including some leguminous crop for increasing the humus in the soil. like many other crops, the sweet potato thrives on newly cleared land, but the crop should not be planted continuously in the same place. with the sweet potato, as with other crops, rotation is the keynote of success. good drainage is essential, the original idea of planting upon high ridges being for the purpose of securing better drainage. the surface soil should extend to a depth of or inches, and the subsoil should be of such a nature that it will carry off excessive moisture without leaching away the fertilizers applied to the land. too great a depth of loose surface soil or an alluvial soil having no subsoil will produce long, irregular potatoes that are undesirable for marketing. planting upon land having a loose, sandy surface soil underlain by a well-drained clay subsoil will tend to produce the type of rather thick, spindle-formed potato that commands the highest price. the depth of plowing is a prominent factor in the preparation of land for sweet potatoes, and on soils of too great depth before the subsoil is reached very shallow plowing should be practiced, leaving the soil firm beneath, against which the roots must force their way. if the surface soil is of insufficient depth, it should be gradually increased by plowing a little deeper each year or by subsoiling in the furrow behind the regular turning plow. _fertilizers._--the root portion of the plant is the part having the greatest value, though the foliage and vines have some value as food for certain kinds of stock. it has been found that an excessive amount of organic matter in the soil will frequently produce an abundant growth of vines at the expense of the roots. it has also been noted that the potatoes will be small and the yield unsatisfactory on soils that do not contain sufficient organic matter to produce a fair growth of vine. the use of stable manure as a fertilizer for sweet potatoes is recommended on lands that are deficient in organic matter. heavy applications of fresh manure shortly before planting the land to sweet potatoes will stimulate not only the growth of weeds but also of the vines at the expense of the roots. well-rotted stable manure may be used at the rate of to carloads to the acre, spread broadcast or beneath the ridges and harrowed into the soil, but it is always well to apply the manure with the crop grown the previous season. by this method the manure will become thoroughly incorporated with the soil and become somewhat reduced before the sweet potatoes are planted upon the land. stable manure will be found most beneficial on worn-out soils, but on the more fertile soils its use should be restricted and the method of application carefully studied. the sweet potato is one of the few crops that thrive equally as well (or better) upon commercial fertilizers as upon stable manure. a fertilizer for use on the majority of sweet potato lands should contain to per cent of nitrogen, or per cent of phosphoric acid, and to per cent of potash. every grower should make a study of the requirements of his soil and apply the fertilizer that will give the best results. many growers purchase the ingredients and mix their own special fertilizers, or use a standard fertilizer as a base and increase the percentage of certain elements by adding high-grade elementary ingredients. some soils require that certain elements should be in a more available form than others; in the case of nitrogen it is often desirable to have a portion of that contained in the fertilizer quickly available and the remainder more slowly in order to feed the plants throughout the season. a mixture adapted to the growing of sweet potatoes on most soils may be made by combining the following: pounds of high-grade sulphate of ammonia, per cent pure. pounds of dried blood, or pounds of fish scrap. , pounds of acid phosphate, per cent pure. pounds of high-grade muriate of potash, per cent pure. the quantity of fertilizer that may be profitably applied will be governed entirely by local conditions. many growers do not depend upon commercial fertilizers, but merely apply from to pounds to each acre as a supplement to the organic matter and natural fertility of the soil. others apply from to , pounds, according to the condition of the soil, while a few growers use a ton to the acre. the general rule is to apply the fertilizer in the row where the crop is to be grown, but where large quantities are used it should be distributed at least ten days before planting and thoroughly incorporated with the soil. an application of , pounds of high-grade fertilizer placed in the row at planting time has been known to injure seriously or kill the plants. for the best results the fertilizer should be applied at least ten days before planting, or a portion of the fertilizer may be applied a month or more in advance and the remainder at the time of preparing the land for planting. hardwood ashes are desirable for use on sweet potato land and may be applied at the rate of from , to , pounds to the acre. the value of wood ashes depends upon how much they have become leached, but hardwood ashes should contain from to per cent of available potash. wood ashes also contain considerable lime. where large quantities of any green crop are plowed into the soil there is a tendency to sourness, and occasional applications of from to tons of lime to the acre are beneficial. the presence of an abundance of lime in soils devoted to the growing of sweet potatoes hastens the maturity of the crop and increases the yield. on poor soils the lime and potash work together to produce potatoes of uniform size and shape, but on rich or alluvial soils the tendency is toward the production of over-large and irregular roots. the lime should be applied the previous season, or at least the autumn before planting the land to sweet potatoes. _propagation of plants._--the more common varieties of the sweet potato have for a great many years been propagated by cuttings, or sets, taken either from the potatoes themselves or from growing vines, and as a result the plants have ceased to flower and produce seed. the greater portion of the commercial crop is grown from sets, or "draws," produced by sprouting medium-sized potatoes in a warm bed of soil. where only a small area of sweet potatoes is to be grown for home use, the necessary plants can generally be secured from some one who makes a business of growing them. if an acre or more is to be planted it will in most cases be more economical to prepare a bed and grow the plants. the method of starting the plants will depend upon the locality and the acreage to be planted, the essentials being a bed of warm earth and a covering to protect the young plants during the early springtime. _selection of seed._--the potatoes that are to serve as seed from which to grow the plants for the next season's crop should always be selected at the time of digging and housing the crop. for seed purposes it is the custom to select the medium or undersized potatoes, such as are too small for marketing. those potatoes that will pass through a -inch ring or can be circled by the thumb and first finger of a man having a hand of average size are used for seed purposes. the seed potatoes should be uniform in size and of the shape desired in the following year's crop. the seed should be free from cuts, bruises, decay, or disease of any kind. throughout the handling of the seed potatoes they should not receive any treatment that would break eggs. the seed should always be handled and kept separate from the regular crop. the oftener the seed is handled the greater the danger of decay, and it should not be sorted over until everything is ready for bedding. the best seed is grown from cuttings taken from the regular plants after they have begun to form vines. these cuttings produce large numbers of medium or small-sized potatoes that are free from diseases and adapted for use as seed the following year. _hotbeds._--toward the northern part of the area over which sweet potatoes are grown it is necessary to start the plants in a hotbed in order that the length of season may be sufficient to mature the crop. the roots that are too small for marketing are used for seed, and these are bedded close together in the hotbed and covered with about inches of sand or fine soil, such as leaf mold. the seed should be bedded about five or six weeks before it will be safe to set the plants in the open ground, which is usually about may or may . toward the last the hotbed should be ventilated very freely in order to harden off the plants. _drawing the sets._--as a general rule sweet potato plants are set in the field shortly after a rain. in order to avoid delay in planting, the hands should begin to get out the sets as soon as the rain ceases falling and place them in crates or baskets ready for transportation to the field. the sets are not all produced at once, and only those that have formed good roots are "drawn," the others being left until later. in drawing the sets the seed potato is held down with one hand while the plants are removed with the thumb and finger of the other hand. it often happens that five or six plants will cling together at the base, and these should be separated in order to avoid loss of time in the field. the roots should all be kept in one direction, and if the tops are long or irregular they may be trimmed off even by means of a knife. while drawing the sets it is a good plan to have at hand a large pail or tub containing water to which there has been added a quantity of clay and cow manure which has been stirred until it forms a thin slime. as the plants are pulled from the bed they are taken in small bunches and their roots dipped into this mixture. this process, termed "puddling," covers the roots with a coating which not only prevents their becoming dry in handling but insures a direct contact with the soil when they are planted in the field or garden. after removing the sets that are ready, the bed should be watered to settle the soil where it has become disturbed and then left for the younger plants to develop. _packing for shipment._--in preparing sweet potato plants for shipment or for sale, they are "drawn" from the bed and tied in bunches of each with soft string. sweet potato plants will not withstand excessive moisture and should always be packed while the tops are dry. a little damp moss or paper may be placed in the crate or basket and the roots bedded in it, but the tops should remain dry and have free ventilation. if the roots of sweet potato plants are carefully puddled without the mixture coming in contact with the tops, they will keep in good condition for a week or ten days. _preparation of land._--the character of soil devoted to sweet potato culture is generally quite easy to prepare. in preparing land for planting to sweet potatoes the plowing and fitting are practically the same as for corn. it should be borne in mind, however, that the work necessary for thorough preparation will be well repaid by the increased ease in handling the crop later. it is always desirable that a crop like sweet potatoes be grown as a part of the regular farm rotation. in the northern portion of the sweet-potato-growing area the crop will occupy the land the entire growing season, and a three or four year rotation should be practiced. where the climate will permit, a crop of early snap beans, peas, or cabbage may precede the sweet potatoes, but in any case the land should not be planted to sweet potatoes oftener than once every three years. a good rotation is to devote the land to corn one year, sowing crimson clover in the alleys between the rows at the time the corn is given the last cultivation. during the following spring the crimson clover should be turned under and sweet potatoes planted; then in the autumn, after the potatoes are harvested, the land may be plowed, fitted and sown to rye or winter oats with plenty of grass seed. in this way a crop of grain may be obtained during the time that the grass is becoming established. allow the land to remain in grass one or two years and then repeat the rotation. where corn is followed by sweet potatoes in the rotation, stable manure should be applied while fitting the land for the corn, and commercial fertilizers should be applied with the sweet potato crop. the usual depth of plowing in preparing land for corn will prove satisfactory for sweet potatoes. the fact that sweet potatoes are not planted in the field until quite late in the spring makes it possible for the grower to select a time when conditions are favorable for the preparation of the land. plowing may be deferred until the soil has become sufficiently dry to break up fine and mellow. it is important that the land should be harrowed within a few hours after plowing; further fitting may be deferred until later, and if the soil is inclined to be lumpy the work of pulverizing may best be done shortly after a shower and while the lumps are mellow. when the primary work of preparation is finished, the soil should be mellow to a depth of or inches and the surface smooth and even. subsequent handling of the soil preparatory to planting will depend upon whether ridge or level culture is to be followed. _preparation for planting._--after plowing and fitting the land it is generally allowed to lie several days before being put in shape for planting. if level culture is to be practiced, the only thing necessary will be to run the harrow over the soil once and then mark in both directions at the desired distances for planting. the marking is generally done with either a one-horse plow, a flat-soled marker, or a disk marker. the disk marker is well adapted to this work, as it throws up a slight ridge which furnishes fresh earth in which to plant. some growers who practice level culture mark the ground with a small one-horse plow and throw up a slight ridge upon which to plant; behind the plow a roller is used to compress this ridge to a low, flat elevation. where the more universal ridge method of planting is employed the soil is thrown up by means of a turning plow or a disk machine. the ridges should be made at least one week before planting, in order that the soil may become settled and compact. the majority of sweet-potato growers make the ridges whenever the land is in good condition to work and then either roll or drag the tops just ahead of the planters. _setting the plants._--the success of the crop depends largely upon the way in which the plants start after being removed from the bed and set in the field or garden. practical growers always plan to set the plants during a "season" or period when the conditions are suitable to a quick start into growth, either just before a rain or as soon afterward as the soil can be worked. the method of setting will depend entirely upon local conditions and the acreage to be grown, the essential features, however, being to get the roots in contact with moist earth and the soil firmly pressed about the plants. the use of water around the roots of the plants is desirable under most circumstances, as it not only moistens the soil but assists in settling it about the roots. a large quantity of water is not necessary, one-half pint to each plant being generally considered sufficient. where level culture is practiced, the plants are set from to inches apart in each direction. on the eastern shore of virginia the greater portion of the crop is planted inches apart each way, requiring about , plants to an acre. by planting inches apart each way, only about , plants are required to set one acre. where the crop is grown on ridges it is customary to have the ridges from to inches apart from center to center and to place the plants to inches apart in the row. by this method an acre will require from , to , plants. an acre of good sweet potato land will readily support , to , plants, and the number most commonly planted by the several methods will fall within these figures. _cultivation._--the methods of handling a crop of sweet potatoes do not differ materially from those employed with ordinary farm and garden crops. within a few days after planting, a sweep or one-horse plow should be run in the alleys to break out the strip of earth left in ridging. the loose earth in the alleys should be worked toward the rows until a broad, flat ridge is formed upon which a small-tooth cultivator can be run quite close to the plants. after each rain or irrigation the soil should receive a shallow cultivation, and during dry weather frequent cultivations are necessary in order to retain moisture. about two hand hoeings are generally necessary in order to keep the rows free from weeds and the soil loose around the plants. as hand labor is expensive, it should be the aim to perform the greater part of the work by means of horse tools. where sweet potatoes are planted in check rows and worked in both directions the hand work required will be reduced to a minimum, but a certain amount of hoeing is always necessary. when the vines begin to interfere with further cultivation the crop may be "laid by," i. e., given a final working in which the soil is drawn well up over the ridges and the vines then allowed to take full possession of the land. to do this it is often necessary to turn the vines first to one side of the row and then to the other by means of a stick or a wooden rake. after "laying by," very little attention is required until time for harvesting the crop. _harvesting._--the harvesting and marketing of sweet potatoes direct from the field begins about the middle of august and continues until the crop is all disposed of or placed in storage for winter marketing. during the early part of the harvesting season the yield is light, but as a rule the prices paid are good. the supply for home use and those potatoes that are to be kept in storage should not be dug until just before frost. in the localities where frosts do not occur until quite late in the season the sweet potatoes ripen and the vines show a slight tinge of yellow when ready for handling. _effect of frost._--the foliage of the sweet potato is very tender and is easily injured by frost. a light frosting of the leaves will do no harm, but should the vines become frozen before digging they should be cut away to prevent the frozen sap passing down to the roots and injuring them. where there is a heavy yield of potatoes the soil is frequently cracked or the ends of the potatoes protrude above ground and are liable to injury from severe frost. if on account of rainy weather or for any other cause the potatoes can not be dug before frost or immediately afterwards, the vines should be cut away and the potatoes removed at the first opportunity. if cold weather continues it may be necessary to draw a little extra soil over the hills to protect the potatoes, or the vines may be piled in a ridge over the row. a very slight frosting of the potatoes will cause them to decay within a short time after being placed in storage. it is desirable that the soil should be comparatively dry at the time of harvesting sweet potatoes, and bright, drying weather is essential to the proper handling of the crop. sweet potatoes differ from irish potatoes in that they are not so easily injured by sunlight. however, they should not be exposed for any length of time if the sunshine is very warm. during the handling in the field it should be the purpose to remove all soil and surface moisture from the potatoes. sweet potatoes should not lie exposed upon the surface of the ground during the night. _grading and packing._--in sorting sweet potatoes preparatory to packing, about four grades are recognized, as fancy, primes, seconds and culls. those packed as fancy include only the most select, both in size and shape. the primes include all those adapted to general first-class trade, while the seconds include the smaller and more irregular stock which goes to a lower priced trade. the culls are not marketed unless good stock is exceedingly scarce, and as a rule are used for feeding to hogs. sweet potatoes are usually shipped in barrels holding eleven pecks each. some markets require that the barrels be faced and headed, while for others the tops are slightly rounded and covered with burlap. small lots of extra-fancy sweet potatoes are sometimes shipped in one-bushel crates having raised tops; also in patent folding crates. throughout the process of handling care must be exercised to see that the sweet potatoes do not become bruised, for upon this their shipping and keeping qualities greatly depend. _storage._--unlike most perishable products, the sweet potato requires warmth and a dry atmosphere while in storage. the method of storing will depend both upon the locality and the quantity of potatoes to be cared for. the temperature and conditions of a rather cool living room are admirably adapted for keeping sweet potatoes intended for home use in the north, while in the south they may be placed in pits or stored in outdoor cellars. the home supply may be placed in crates and stored in a loft over the kitchen part of the dwelling. sweet potatoes should not be stored in bags or in barrels without ventilation. the seed stock for planting the following year should be selected and stored separately in a small bin. as the potatoes are separated into their respective grades they are put into baskets and carried to the bins. some growers prefer to do the grading in the field, but this necessitates the employment of a larger percentage of expert labor and delays the work of getting the potatoes hauled to the storehouse. women and children can pick up the potatoes in the field, and two or three experienced men can do the sorting and grading at the house in a much shorter time and in a more satisfactory manner. before starting to fill a bin, or inches of dry pine needles, straw, or chaff should be placed upon the floor. beginning at the back of the bin the potatoes are piled to a depth of or inches until the entire floor space is covered and a number of slats are required to be placed across the doorway opening. a few grain bags filled with straw should be placed upon the potatoes at intervals from front to back of the bin, and upon these planks on which the men may walk while carrying in the next layer of potatoes may be laid. in this way a bin may be filled to a depth of or feet by about three layers. by dumping them in layers the potatoes have an opportunity to become thoroughly dry before a new layer is placed over them. _temperature and ventilation of storage houses._--two or three days before beginning to bring in the potatoes, the storage house should be thoroughly cleaned and the heating appliance put in working order and started, in order to have the house both warm and dry when the crop comes in. throughout the time of storing and for about ten days after the potatoes are all in the bins a temperature of ° or ° f. should be maintained in the house, with plenty of ventilation. this constitutes what is known as the sweating or curing process, and the keeping qualities of the potatoes depend upon the thoroughness with which this part of the work is done. wood-burning stoves are frequently employed for heating sweet potato storage houses, but a hot-water boiler with coils of pipes along the walls of the building is very satisfactory. after the crop is all in and thoroughly cured, the temperature of the storage house should be gradually lowered and may vary between ° and ° f., but considerable ventilation should be maintained. sweet potatoes should be handled very carefully and as few times as possible, the essentials to good keeping being a reasonable degree of warmth, a dry atmosphere, and careful handling. great care should be taken with the seed for the next year's planting to see that it is carefully handled and properly stored. while a temperature of ° or ° f. is required to properly start the seed into growth in the spring, a higher temperature during a long period of time in storage is liable to injure or even kill the buds. potatoes intended for seed should not be stored in too great quantities, and where but a small supply is needed they can often be kept buried in dry sand after having first been thoroughly cured. the sand used for this purpose should be baked to insure the driving off of moisture, and may be placed around the potatoes while slightly warm. in controlling the ventilation of the storage house during the winter months, outside air should be admitted only when quite dry and when its temperature is lower than that of the air in the storage house. if warm, moist air is admitted considerable moisture will be deposited upon the potatoes, thus injuring their keeping qualities. _loss from shrinkage in storage._--under proper storage conditions sweet potatoes will shrink from to per cent, but the loss in weight will be greater if the temperature of the house is carried too high. if the potatoes are not mature when dug from the field the loss from shrinkage may be as much as per cent, and immature stock should be marketed early in the winter. _marketing during winter months._--for marketing from outside pits it is desirable to have the quantity stored in one pit small enough to permit of all being removed at one time. the potatoes may be removed from outdoor cellars as desired. in marketing from heated storage houses the potatoes should not be disturbed until they are barreled or crated, and then they should be placed directly upon the market and sold without delay. when shipping during cold weather the barrels should at least be lined with paper, and a covering of heavy brown paper over the outside of the barrels will form a safeguard. if the potatoes are shipped in carload lots during the winter the cars should be either of the regular refrigerator type or felt lined. _varieties._--of the large number of varieties of the sweet potato there are not more than ten that are now of great commercial importance in the united states. for the markets that require a dry, mealy-fleshed potato those varieties belonging to the jersey group are suitable. for the southern trade and where a moist-fleshed potato is desired those commonly designated as yams are in demand. among the jerseys that are extensively grown are the big-stem jersey, the yellow jersey and the red jersey. the principal varieties of the yam group are the southern queen, the pumpkin yam, the georgia, the florida, and the red bermuda. of the varieties mentioned there are a large number of special strains, known under many local names. in the selection of varieties for home use one must be governed largely by locality. as a rule those of the jersey group will thrive farther north than those of the so-called yam types. for market purposes the particular variety or strain grown in the vicinity should first be selected, and afterward other varieties may be experimented with in a small way.--(f. b. , , ; tuskegee e. s. , , ; ariz. e. s. ; n. mex. e. s. ; s. car. e. s. , ; s. dak. e. s. .) swiss chard. the part eaten is not the root, but the midrib of the leaf which is prepared much the same as asparagus. the flavor is distinct from that of the ordinary beet root. give the same culture as required for beets. the soil should be richer. in the fall cover with straw. this will aid an early growth and help blanch the stems. this is a very valuable plant and should be cultivated more extensively. thyme. the leaves are used for seasoning, and a tea is also made therefrom for nervous headache. tomatoes. because of the tropical origin of the tomato it requires a long season for its growth and development, and on this account it is necessary in the northern states, in order to secure paying crops, to resort to methods which lengthen the growing season. it is much easier for the gardener to accomplish this while the plant is small than when it is large, and because early fruits are as a rule more valuable than late ones it is of advantage to the gardener to secure his crop as early in the season as practicable. the season is, therefore, lengthened at the beginning rather than at the end. this is accomplished by sowing seeds in hotbeds or greenhouses several weeks in advance of the time when they could be safely planted in the open. _the tomato as a field crop at the north._--east of the mississippi river and north of the latitude of washington, d. c., the tomato is handled as an annual, the seeds being sown in hotbeds about the middle of march. the young plants, as soon as they have developed their first true leaves, are transplanted to stand about inches apart each way and are allowed to develop in these quarters until they have attained a height of from to inches and the leaves begin to crowd considerably. they are then transplanted to pots, or inches in diameter. _training plants to stakes._--for earliest returns it is desirable to train forced plants to a single stem by tying them to a stake or feet in height. these stakes should be driven firmly into the ground beside the plants and the plants carefully tied to them to prevent whipping and to keep the fruits off the ground. all side shoots should be kept pinched out and only the central leading stem allowed to develop to bring larger results. if the plants are to be trained in this way they can be set from inches to feet apart in the row, and about - / to feet between the rows. _training plants on frames._--another plan sometimes followed in the training of tomatoes is to place a flaring frame, about inches square at the base and inches square at the top over the plants before they begin to spread. the shoots as they become heavy with fruit fall over against the sides of the rack and are prevented from coming in contact with the earth. for a kitchen garden where but few plants are grown this is a very satisfactory plan. the plants can be set somewhat closer than is the case where no supports are provided. for commercial plantations, however, the cost of the frames is prohibitive. the common commercial practice is to place the plants about feet apart each way in check rows so as to allow them to be cultivated in both directions. under intensive cultivation in a small garden, however, the first method, that of tying the vines to stakes, will be found very satisfactory. where tomatoes are grown on a large scale and where the product brings only a small price per bushel, expensive methods of handling and training can not be profitably followed. the common practice in growing tomatoes for the general market and for canning purposes in localities north of new york city is to sow the seed very thinly in a hotbed about march and allow the plants to grow slowly without transplanting them until they can be put in the field about june . the plants, even with the most careful attention, when grown under these conditions will become long and thin stemmed, with a small tuft of leaves at the top. _setting the plants._--plants more than a foot high which have been grown under these conditions should be treated somewhat as follows: instead of attempting to set the plant deeply and maintain it in an upright position, remove all except three or four of the top-most leaves about the growing point. dig a shallow trench along the row--a trench or inches deep--slightly sloping from a deep point at one end to the surface of the ground at the other. place the bare stem of the tomato and the root in this trench, with the root in the deepest portion, cover the stem throughout its length with fresh soil, and pack this firmly. under these conditions the plant will take root throughout the length of the buried stem, and in a short time the added root system which is thus given the plant will force it into vigorous growth. plants of this character which are to be grown on an extensive scale are never trained. they are allowed to grow at will, and the fruits are gathered as they ripen without special attention to keep them off the ground or otherwise to care for them. _length of season._--the season of fruit production is longer in the higher than in the lower latitudes. this is a rather interesting and unexpected condition. normally one would expect to find that the tomato would begin maturing its fruit earlier and would continue bearing longer in the latitude of the city of washington than it would in the latitude of boston; but this is not the case. tomatoes in the latitude of washington and south of this point come into bearing, quickly produce a heavy flush of fruit, and then refuse to do more, and in order to have a continuous supply throughout the season it is necessary for market gardeners and truckers to plant seeds in succession so as to keep up a continuous supply. _fertilizers._--since the tomato is grown exclusively for its fruit, those fertilizers which induce a large growth of plant and foliage are not desirable in the production of this crop. soils vary greatly in regard to the quantity of available plant food they contain. the use of a fertilizer is determined largely by the character, mechanical condition, and composition of the soil. if a soil is deficient in all the essential elements of plant food--nitrogen, potash, and phosphoric acid--the application of any one or even two of them will not materially influence the yield of the crop. on the other hand, on soils deficient only in potash or phosphoric acid, or both, little would be gained by adding nitrogen, which is already in excess, to the other element or elements to be applied. economy of operation, as well as the general effect upon the soil, must also be considered. this may be influenced by the character of the season, but should be based on the increased yield and increased net receipts of the crop. as a general rule, readily soluble, "quick-acting" fertilizers which produce an early growth and early ripening of the crop are most desirable. heavy dressings of stable manure tend to produce too much vine, and are seldom or never employed. if stable manure is used it is at a moderate rate, usually not more than one or two shovelfuls to a plant. this, if well decomposed and thoroughly incorporated with the soil, is very stimulating to the young plant and consequently very beneficial. any fertilizer used should be applied, in part at least, at the time the plants are transplanted to the field. _cultivation._--as soon as the young seedling plants from the hotbed or greenhouse are transferred to the field they should be given clean cultivation with implements which stir the surface of the soil but do not produce ridges or furrows. when the plants are set in check rows feet apart each way it is possible in field culture to keep the plantation almost free from weeds by the use of horse hoes. if, however, the plants are set so that cultivation can be carried on only in one direction, hand hoeing will be necessary to keep down weeds between the plants in the row. where land is not expensive, and where labor costs heavily, the cost of producing a crop of tomatoes can be decidedly lessened by planting in check rows and carrying on the cultivation by horsepower. the grower should bear in mind, however, that the object of cultivation is not merely to kill weeds. the destruction of weeds is an important factor and in itself sufficient to justify clean culture, but the preservation of a soil mulch for the purpose of husbanding the moisture of the soil during periods of drought is of even greater value. with care in the choice of implements both results can be attained with the same expenditure of labor. _harvesting and marketing._--the fruits should be gathered two or three times a week if the tomato is grown as a truck crop. when used for canning purposes the harvesting periods need not be quite so close, and when the fruits are to be shipped some distance they should be gathered as soon as partially colored, instead of allowing them to become colored on the vine. the fruit of the tomato is velvet green up to the time the ripening process begins, and at this stage, if the products are to be shipped long distances, the fruits should be harvested. for home markets, however, the fruits should be allowed to ripen upon the plant. in harvesting, none except sound fruits of a similar stage of maturity should be harvested and packed in any one receptacle. leaky fruits and deformed fruits should be rejected. in packing tomatoes for the market, those that are symmetrical in form and uniform in size and of a like degree of ripeness should be selected for filling any one receptacle. _varieties for the north._--there are a large number of sorts of tomatoes, each one possessing some points of merit or difference which distinguish it from all others. these differences enable the intelligent cultivator to select sorts for special purposes, as well as for special soils and climates. the varying demands of the markets and the different soil and climatic conditions presented in the various sections of the united states where the tomato is grown can only be satisfied by a variety list as variable as are the conditions. early ripening sorts are frequently irregular in shape, have comparatively thin walls, large seed cavities, and numerous seeds. the fruit is apt to color and ripen unevenly, remaining green around the stem, or to contain a hard green core. later-ripening sorts, while not all superior to the others, have as a rule thicker and firmer walls, smaller seed cavities, and few seeds. the most highly developed varieties now make few seeds and ripen evenly. these characteristics of the fruits are important factors in determining their fitness for special purposes. medium-sized, smooth, spherical fruits, which ripen evenly and have small seed cavities and thick walls are especially suited to long-distance shipment. these qualities should enter into every sort selected to the greatest possible degree consistent with earliness, lateness, heavy yield, or any other special quality which gives the variety a marked commercial advantage. the following list is made up of varieties possessing some markedly distinct character, such as earliness, great size, purple, red, or yellow color, dwarf habit, etc.: _early ripening varieties._--sparks' earliana, atlantic prize, early freedom. _large-fruited varieties._--ponderosa, beefsteak. _purple-fruited varieties._--beauty, acme, imperial. _red-fruited varieties._--favorite (late), honor bright, matchless, stone, royal red, new jersey. _yellow-fruited varieties._--golden queen, lemon blush. _dwarf or tree types._--dwarf champion, station upright tree, aristocrat. _potato-leaf types._--livingston's potato-leaf, mikado, turner's hybrid. _the tomato as a field crop at the south._--commercial tomato growing in the southern states is almost exclusively confined to the production of tomatoes at a season when they can not be grown at the north, except in greenhouses. on this account the commercial production of this crop is restricted to areas where there is very little, if any, freezing during the winter months. _time of planting._--at the extreme southern limit of the commercial cultivation of this crop in florida the plants are grown so as to be ready for setting in the open about december . the date of seed sowing advances as the cultivation of the crop progresses northward, so that in northern florida the seeds are sown early in january and the young plants placed in the field in march. where frost conditions do not form barriers against the production of seedling plants in the open, the seed beds for the young plants are prepared in some sheltered situation where partial shade can be given and where the seed bed can be frequently watered. the young plants, as soon as they have attained the proper size--that is, from to inches in height--are transferred to the field in practically the same manner as are the hotbed-grown plants produced for general field culture at the north, and except for a specially early crop they are not transplanted or potted. the young seedlings in the cold frame will require careful attention in the way of watering and ventilation; otherwise many plants will be lost by damping off or from sun-scorching during bright days unless the sash are lifted or entirely removed. _yield._--the yield of fruit in the south, under the conditions mentioned, is much less than it is in regions having the long growing periods characteristic of higher latitudes. yields vary from to bushels to the acre, but the high price obtained for the fruits which are thus produced at a season when the sole competition comes from the products of northern greenhouses renders the crop, when well handled, very remunerative. _soil._--the soil which is preferred for the production of this crop is one which contains a comparatively high percentage of sand. in this region sandy loam or a sandy soil is preferred to bottom land for the cultivation of tomatoes. an area with a gentle slope to the south is considered more desirable than that with other exposure. if a wind-break can be secured along the north and west sides of the area very early crops can frequently be preserved through a wind-storm when the temperature, while not low enough to freeze the plants, will, when accompanied by a high wind, chill and destroy them. _varieties for the south._--in the south, where the tomato is handled as a short-season crop, certain varieties are found to give best results in certain districts. along the atlantic seaboard the growers of tomatoes use such sorts as beauty, stone, perfection, aristocrat, and paragon. in the truck regions of eastern texas the dwarf champion is perhaps more universally grown than any other variety, but in this same region the success is found to be a more profitable late-season or fall crop than the champion. _forcing tomatoes._--in the forcing of plants, which means the growing of a plant out of its natural season and in an artificial environment, the first requirement for success is a properly constructed protective structure or greenhouse. because of the tropical nature of the tomato more than ordinary provisions must be made in order to meet the demands of this crop. in the forcing of most vegetables a lower temperature and benches without bottom heat are satisfactory, but with the tomato the house must be piped so as to maintain a minimum temperature of degrees f., and the benches should be so constructed as to admit of applying bottom heat. _type of greenhouse._--the type of house that is generally employed for the forcing of tomatoes is the even-span or a three-fourths span house. if the even-span house is used it is preferable to have the ridge running north and south; if the three-fourths span house is employed it is best to have the long side sloping toward the south. the tomato when grown in the forcing house, because of its long fruiting season and the fact that its clusters of fruit are borne one above the other, requires a considerable amount of head room. low houses are therefore not desirable in the production of this crop. the side walls of a house designed for the forcing of tomatoes should be at least feet in height, and the distance from the top of the middle bench to the ridge of the house should be at least feet. _soil._--the soil for the production of this crop should be well decomposed loam, made, if possible, from sods from an old pasture, the soil of which is a rather light clay loam or a heavy sandy loam. with this should be incorporated about one-fourth its bulk of well-rotted stable manure, preferably cow manure. by composting these two materials for from four to six months before they are required for use a very satisfactory soil for the forcing of tomatoes will result. care should be exercised to allow the soil that is used for forcing tomatoes to be frozen each year. the depth of soil required for the successful growth of tomatoes is considerably more than that employed for roses, although the temperature and other requirements are very similar to those demanded by the rose. while or inches of soil are adequate to produce a crop of roses, the soil for tomatoes should be at least or inches in depth; inches is preferable. it is not well to allow the soil to remain in the greenhouse longer than a single season. it becomes somewhat exhausted and is likely to become infested with injurious forms of life, particularly nematodes, which cause root-knots upon the tomato plants, thus defeating the work of the gardener. this trouble, however, can be easily overcome by subjecting the soil to freezing. _seedling plants._--two types of plants are used for forcing purposes--seedling plants and cutting plants. the former are, of course, seedlings grown from seed especially sown for the purpose of raising plants to be grown in a greenhouse. it is customary in the latitude of new york and northward to sow the seed for a forcing crop of tomatoes in the month of august. the young seedling plants, as soon as they develop the first true leaves, are then transplanted from the seed bed to small pots, preferably -inch pots. they are planted deeply at this time and are kept growing rapidly but not sufficiently to produce a soft, succulent growth. as soon as the -inch pots are filled with roots the plants are shifted to -inch pots, and when the plants have attained a height of or inches, and have developed their first blossoms, they are usually placed on the benches of the greenhouse, where they are to produce their crop. the plants are then set or inches apart each way in a soil prepared as previously described. _cutting plants._--cuttings should be taken from strong, healthy, vigorous-growing plants in the field, and placed in the cutting bed about the last of august, where they will quickly take root. as soon as the roots have developed to a length of from one-half to inch the young plants are shifted to or inch pots, where they are allowed to develop until the blossom buds are well formed or the blossoms have expanded, when they should be planted on the bench where they are to mature their crop, in like manner as noted for seedling plants. _pollination._--in the field, where the tomato plants are exposed to the action of wind and to the visits of insects, no special attention is necessary in order to secure the pollination of the flowers and the setting of the fruits. under the conditions existing in a greenhouse, however, it is necessary to artificially pollinate the flowers of the tomato; otherwise only a very small percentage of fruits will set and the object of the work will be defeated. it is therefore necessary to allow the temperature of the house to become quite high in the middle of the day on bright sunshiny days while the plants are in bloom, and to pass through the house at this time with a little stick, inches or feet in length, with which to strike the supporting strings or wires and thus to set the plants in motion and liberate the pollen and cause it to fertilize the flowers. a more satisfactory way, however, is to use a watch glass, - / or - inches in diameter, embedded in putty, at the end of a handle composed of a light material, preferably white pine, which shall be or inches long. grasp this spatula in the left hand and, with a light pine stick of equal length in the right hand, pass through the house, tapping each open flower lightly with the wand, at the same time holding the watch glass under the flowers to catch the pollen. before removing the watch glass from this position lift it sufficiently to cause the stigma of the flower to dip into the pollen contained in the glass. by carefully going through the house from day to day during the blooming period nearly per cent of the blossoms which develop can be caused to set. during dark, cloudy, stormy weather, however, a smaller percentage of plants will be fertilized than during bright, comparatively dry weather. the conditions in the greenhouse can not be modified so as to entirely overcome the adverse conditions existing on the outside, although with care much can be done in this direction. _manuring._--it is desirable to keep plants of the tomato which are designed for forcing growing at a moderately rapid rate throughout the whole forcing period. growth should be strong and robust at all times, yet slow enough to produce close-jointed plants which bear their fruit clusters at near intervals. there is considerable difference in varieties of tomatoes in this respect, and those which naturally bear their fruit clusters close together should be selected for forcing purposes. the manuring of the plants should, therefore, take a form which will be conducive to this strong, vigorous growth, yet not sufficiently heavy to produce plants which run to wood at the expense of fruit bearing. _ventilating and watering._--if careful attention is given to keeping the plants in a healthy condition by never allowing them to suffer from overwatering or from becoming too dry, and if sufficient ventilation is given without allowing draughts of cold air upon the plants, much can be done to prevent the development of mildew. if the plants are to be sprayed it should be done once a week or once in ten days, and then only in the mornings of bright days. ordinarily, however, the atmosphere of the house should be kept dry rather than moist, as a very moist atmosphere is liable to produce a soft, succulent growth, which brings on a disease known to gardeners as oedema. this, however, can be prevented by care in keeping the house rather dry. the temperature of the house, too, should not be allowed to fluctuate through too wide a range. the night temperature for tomatoes should range between ° and ° f., while the day temperature should run from ° to ° f. _varieties for forcing._--the comparatively limited use of tomatoes for forcing purposes in this country has not resulted in the development of many sorts especially suited for this purpose. the lorillard is the one american sort which is now almost exclusively confined to this use, and it is perhaps more generally cultivated in forcing houses than any other single variety. _the tomato as a field crop for canneries._--owing to the fact that in canned tomatoes it is difficult for the average consumer to note any deficiencies in the appearance of the original fruit, many labor under the delusion that any variety will answer for this purpose. this is a mistaken idea, as quality in canned goods is now an important factor, and it is quite as necessary that a good quality of product should be used for canning as for growing for the early or general market, although from the field side it is natural that tonnage should be a primary consideration. in the matter of varieties, as in the case of early tomatoes, too much dependence should not be placed upon the name or upon the fact that a neighboring farmer secures good results from a given variety. there are so many variations in the character of soils, even in the same locality, which exert an influence upon the size and quality of crop that the best variety is usually one that is, in part at least, developed by the individual grower. the main point is to select varieties that produce large, smooth, solid fruits, which do not remain green or crack on the shaded side near the stem. those which possess size as their chief characteristic are frequently of poor quality, as they are likely to possess large seed cavities and to ripen unevenly. the conditions in some sections are such as to prevent the canners from making as much distinction between good and poor varieties as they would like. canneries are in a measure obliged to receive all that come, unless they can control absolutely the land upon which the crop is grown. the variation in the quality of the crops of different farmers will make a difference of from to cans on a ton of fruit, or from to per cent--a very considerable item. in good seasons and with good fruit cans may be regarded as the maximum number to be derived from a ton, though late in the season, and with poor varieties, as already stated, the pack from a ton is very much less. the interests of the grower and the canner are really identical in this regard. an improvement in the quality of the fruit will result in an improvement of the canned product and a consequent increase in the price of both the raw and manufactured products. less expense is involved in growing suitable plants for cannery purposes than for other crops. this is due to the fact that earliness is not so important a factor as it is in the market garden crop. _fertilizing and cultivating the soil._--in manuring and fertilizing, the character of the crop and the season of its growth should be remembered. hence, recommendations that were made for an early crop do not apply in all cases except perhaps on the poorer classes of soils. in the first place, the plants are not put in the soil until summer, when the conditions are most favorable for the rapid change of organic forms of nitrogen into nitrates, and thus, if the soil has been manured or is naturally rich in vegetable matter, the additional application of nitrogen in immediately available forms is not so important. in the second place, the object of the growth is not early maturity, but the largest yield of mature fruit. _setting and cultivating the plants._--the plants should be set from to - / feet apart each way and cultivation should begin immediately. the first cultivation should be deep, in order to conserve the moisture, and each subsequent cultivation shallower, in order not to destroy the roots, which will fill the soil as soon as the plants reach maturity. the crop in good seasons should begin to ripen in august, and picking will continue from that time until the last of september. _cost, yield, and value of crop._--the cost of production per acre is much less for fruit for canning than in the case of early tomatoes, the chief difference being in the production of the plants. the several items may be classified as follows: _cost of growing an acre of tomatoes for canning:_ plants $ . manures and fertilizers . preparation of land, setting plants and cultivation . picking and carting . _____ total $ . the yield, as in the case of the early tomatoes, varies widely, ranging from to as high as tons per acre, even tons per acre having been reported in exceptional cases, although the average for a series of years on average land will probably be under tons. where all conditions are carefully observed, -ton yields are frequently obtained, and at the prices received at the cannery, ranging from $ to $ . per ton, according to the locality, the crop is a fairly good one and the net profits are quite as large as for other field crops. turnips. a great variety of turnips is grown throughout temperate climates, some of which being coarse in texture are used as food for farm animals while other varieties are raised as table vegetables. there is considerable variation in the color, flavor, and composition of the turnip, the yellow-fleshed sorts as a group being commonly distinguished from the white by the name "swedes" or "ruta-bagas." in the summer the early white varieties are usually preferred in spite of the fact that they are more watery, while in winter the yellow turnips are more commonly used. the turnip requires a rich soil, and may be grown either as an early or a late crop. for an early crop, sow the seeds in drills to inches apart as early in the spring as the condition of the soil will permit. two pounds of seed are required to plant an acre. after the plants appear, thin to about inches. the roots will be ready for use before hot weather. for late turnips the seeds are usually sown broadcast on land from which some early crop has been removed, generally during july or august, but later in the south. turnips are quite hardy, and the roots need not be gathered until after several frosts. turnips may be stored in a cellar or buried in a pit outside. before storing, the tops should be removed.--(f. b. , ; u. id. e. s. ; mich. e. s. .) vegetable marrow. the so-called vegetable marrows are a valuable product and closely allied to the pumpkin, both as to species and habit of growth, the principal difference being that the vegetable marrows are used while quite young and tender, and may be baked and served very much the same as sweet potatoes. the vegetable marrows should receive thorough cultivation in order that a tender product may be secured, and should be gathered while the outside skin is still so tender that it may easily be broken by the finger nail. the flesh is either boiled and mashed or baked in the oven and served with butter while hot.--(f. b. ; oreg. e. s. b. .) _quantity of seeds or number of plants required for a row feet in length, with distances to plant, times for planting, and period required for production of crop_. brackets indicate that a late or second crop may be planted the same season. --------------------+---------------+------------------------------------------+-------------+-----------------------------------------------+-----------------+ | | distance for plants to stand---- | | time of planting in open ground. | | | seeds or +---------------------------+--------------+ depth +------------------------+----------------------+ ready for use | | plants | rows apart. | | of | | | after planting. | kind of vegetable. | required +-------------+-------------+ plants | planting. | south | north | | | for feet | horse | hand | apart | | | | | | of row. | cultivation.| cultivation.| in rows. | | | | | --------------------+---------------+-------------+-------------+--------------+-------------+------------------------+----------------------+-----------------+ artichoke, globe | / ounce | to ft.| to ft. | to ft. | to in. | spring | early spring | months. | artichoke, jerusalem| qts. tubers | to ft.| to ft. | to ft. | to in. | spring | early spring | to months. | asparagus, seed | ounce | to in.| to ft. | to in. | to in. | autumn or early spring | early spring | to years. | asparagus, plants | to plants| to ft.| to in.| to in. | to in. | autumn or early spring | early spring | to years. | beans, bush | pint | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / to in.| february to april. | | | | | | | | | [august to september.]| april to july | to days. | beans, pole | / pint | to ft.| to ft. | to ft. | to in. | late spring | may and june | to days. | beets | ounces | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| to in. | february to april. | | | | | | | | | [august to september.]| april to august | to days. | brussels sprouts | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | january to july | may and june | to days. | cabbage, early | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | october to december | march and april. | | | | | | | | | (start in hotbed | | | | | | | | | during february) | to days. | cabbage, late | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | june and july | may and june | to days. | cardoon | / ounce | ft. | ft. | to in. | to in. | early spring | april and may | to months. | carrot | ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / in. | march and april. | | | | | | | | | [september] | april to june | to days. | cauliflower | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | january and february. | april to june. | | | | | | | | [june] | (start in hotbed | | | | | | | | | during february | | | | | | | | | or march) | to days.| celeriac | / ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / in. | late spring | may and june. | | | | | | | | | (start in cold | | | | | | | | | frame during april) | to days.| celery | / ounce | to ft.| to in.| to in. | / in. | august to october | may and june. (start | | | | | | | | | in hotbed or cold | | | | | | | | | frame during march | | | | | | | | | or april) | to days.| chervil | ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| in. | autumn | autumn | year. | chicory | / ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / in. | march and april | may and june | to months. | citron | ounce | to ft.| to ft.| to ft. | to in. | march and april | may and june | to days.| collards | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | may and june | late spring | to days.| corn salad | ounces | in. | to in.| or to ft.| / to in.| january and february. | | | | | | | | | [september and october]| march to september | days. | corn, sweet | / pint | to in.| to in.| to in. | to in. | february to april | may to july | to days. | cress, upland | / ounce | in. | to in.| or to ft.| / to in.| january and february. | march to may | | | | | | | | (autumn) | [september] | to days. | cress, water | / ounce | broadcast | | | on surface | early spring | april to september | to days. | cucumber | / ounce | to ft.| to ft. | to ft. | to in. | february and march. | | | | | | | | | [september] | april to july | to days. | dandelion | / ounce | in. | to in.| to in. | / in. | early spring or autumns| early spring | to months. | eggplant | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / to in.| february to april | april and may. (start| | | | | | | | | in hotbed during | to days.| | | | | | | | march) | endive | ounce | in. | in. | to in. | / to in.| february to april | april [july] | to days.| horse-radish | roots | to in.| to in.| to in. | to in. | early spring | early spring | to years| kale or borecole | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | october to february | august and september.| | | | | | | | | [march and april] | to days.| kohl-rabi | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | september to march | march to may | to days.| leek | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in | in. | may to september | march to may | to days.| lettuce | / ounce | in | to in.| to in | / in. | september to march | march to september | to days.| melon, muskmelon | / ounce | to ft. | to ft.| hills ft. | to in. | february to april | april to june (start | | | | | | | | | early plants in | | | | | | | | | hotbed during march)| to days.| melon, watermelon | ounce | to ft.| to ft.| hills ft. | to in. | march to may | may and june | to days.| mustard | / ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / in. | autumn or early spring | march to may. | to days. | | | | | | | | [september] | | new zealand spinach | ounce | in. | to in.| to in. | to in. | early spring | early spring | to days.| okra, or gumbo | ounces | to ft. | to ft.| to in. | to in. | february to april | may and june | to days.| onion, seed | ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / to in.| october to march | april and may | to days.| onion, sets | qt. of sets.| to in.| to in.| or to ft.| to in. | early spring | autumn and february | | | | | | | | | to may | to days.| parsley | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | september to may | september and early | to days.| | | | | | | | spring | | parsnip | / ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| / to in.| | april and may | to days.| peas | to pints. | to ft. | to in.| to ft. | to in. | september to april | march to june | to days. | pepper | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | early spring | may and june (start | | | | | | | | | early plants in | | | | | | | | | hotbed during march)| to days.| physalis | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / in. | march to may | may and june | to days.| potato, irish | lbs. (or | | | | | | | | | bu. per acre) | to in.| to in.| to in. | in. | january to april | march to june | to days.| potato, sweet | lbs. (or | | | | | | | | | slips) | to ft. | to ft.| in. | in. | april and may | may and june (start | | | | | | | | | plants in hotbed | | | | | | | | | during april) | to days.| pumpkin | / ounce | to ft.| to ft.| hills to | to in. | april and may | may to july | to days.| | | | | ft. | | | spring | | radish | ounce | to in.| to in.| to to ft| / to in.| september to april | march to september | to days. | rhubarb, seed | / ounce | in. | to in.| to in. | / to in.| | early spring | to years. | rhubarb, plants | plants | to ft. | to ft.| ft. | to in. | | autumn or early | to years. | | | | | | | | spring | | ruta-baga | / ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / to in.| august and september | may and june | to days. | salsify | ounce | to in.| to in.| to in. | / to in.| | early spring | to days.| spinach | ounce | to in.| to in.| or to ft.| to in. | september to february | september or very | | | | | | | | | early spring | to days. | | squash, bush | / ounce | to ft. | to ft.| hills to | to in. | spring | april to june | to days. | | | | | ft. | | | | | squash, late | / ounce | to ft.| to ft.| hills to | to in. | spring | april to june | to days.| | | | | ft. | | | | | tomato | / ounce | to ft.| to ft. | ft. | / to in.| december to march | may and june (start | | | | | | | | | early plants in | | | | | | | | | hotbed during | to days.| | | | | | | | february and march) | | turnip | / ounce | to in | to in | or to ft | / to / in| august to october | april. [july] | to days. | vegetable marrow | / ounce | to ft.| to ft.| hills to | to in. | spring | april to june | to days.| | | | | ft. | | | | | --------------------+---------------+-------------+-------------+--------------+-------------+------------------------+----------------------+-----------------+ average composition of succulent roots. ----------------------+-------+-------------------------------------------------------- | | edible portion | +-------+-------+-------+---------------+------+--------+ | | | | | carbohydrates | | | | | | | +-------+-------+ | | kind of vegetable |refuse | | | |sugar, |crude | |fuel | | | water |protein| fat |starch,|fiber | ash |value | | | | | | etc. | | |per | | | | | | | | |pound | ----------------------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+--------+ |per ct.|per ct.|per ct.|per ct.|per ct.|per ct.|per ct|calories| | | | | | | | | | beets, fresh | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | beets, cooked | .... | . | . | . | . | ....| . | | celeriac | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | carrots, fresh | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | carrots, desiccated | .... | . | . | . | . | ....| . | , | parsnips | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | salsify "oyster plant"| . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | black salsify | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | radishes | .... | . | . | . | . | . | . | | turnips, white | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | turnips, yellow | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | (ruta-bagas) | | | | | | | | | kohl-rabi | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | onions | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | garlic | .... | . | . | . | . | . | . | | potatoes | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | | ----------------------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+--------+ (authorities consulted in the chapter on vegetable garden.--colo. ag. col. e. s.; u. ill. a. e. s.; u. idaho a. e.; purdue u. a. e. s.; n. h. col. a. e. s.; mich. st. a. e. s.; mass. ag. col. e. s.; ohio ag. e. s.; s. c. a. e. s.; okla. a. e. s.; texas a. e. s.; va. a. e. s.; w. va. u. a. e. s.; cornell u. a. e. s.; r. i. col. of ag. and mech. arts e. s.; n. c. col. of ag. and mech. arts; n. y. a. e. s.; u. tenn. a. e. s.; pa. st. col. a. e. s.; mich. st. ag. col. a. e. s.; s. dak. a. e. s.; u. wyo. e. s.; b. p. i.; kans. st. ag. col. e. s.; n. j. a. e. s.; tuskegee normal & industrial inst. e. s.; s. s. e. s. clemson ag. col.; n. mex. col. of ag. and mech. arts e. s.; fla. a. e. s.; iowa ag. col. e. s.; u. minn. a. e. s.; u. nevada a. e. s.; n. dak. e. s.; oreg. a. e. s.; del. col. a. e. s.; ark. ag. col. e. s.; u. nebr. a. e. s.; ga. e. s.; md. a. e. s.; miss. ag. e. s. the entire article on vegetable garden was taken bodily from the best portions of the above bulletins, etc.) the country life press garden city, n. y. transcriber's note: for reasons of clarity the illustration labels and tables have been moved to the end of the relative paragraph. the oe ligature has been expanded. the following changes have been made: page the word 'in' was repeated and deleted. page havings is now having. page to is now too. page tumber is now number page maturty is now maturity. page conditons is now conditions. page flshy is now fleshy. page bettles is now beetles. page the word 'as' was repeated and deleted. page cutlivated is now cultivated. page necessisity is now necessity. page toughtened is now toughened. an enchanted garden fairy stories by mrs molesworth illustrations by w.j. hennessy published by t. fisher unwin. an enchanted garden, by mrs molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ an enchanted garden, by mrs molesworth. chapter one. madam wren. "no," said alix, "that's not a good plan at all. it's perfectly stupid. if you've no better ideas than that, rafe, we needn't talk about it any more." rafe looked and felt very snubbed indeed. he was ten, she was nine. but she generally took the lead; not always, as i daresay you will see when you hear more about them, but _generally_. they were a nice little pair, and they were constantly together, at lessons, at play, at everything. this was a convenient arrangement, for they were a good deal younger than the other brothers and sisters of the family, and what rafe would have been without alix, or alix without rafe, it would be difficult to imagine. but there is not much use in thinking over about might-have-beens, or would-have-beens, unless to make us more thankful for what _is_. so it is enough to say that as things really were, they were very happy children. still they had their troubles, and it was one of these they were discussing this lovely spring morning, when they were sitting under their favourite tree--a magnificent ilex in the garden, at one corner of the great lawn which was one of the beauties of their home. it was a lovely day, clear and bright and joyous, full of its own delights, and yet almost fuller of the summer ones to come! this is, i suppose, the real secret of the charm of spring-time--the promise and hope it tells of. everything seemed bursting with good news, the birds most of all perhaps, though the smiling faces of the early flowers, and the tender whispers of the gentle wind through the branches, were not behindhand. but the children's faces were clouded. this was their trouble. they could not get any one to tell them any more stories! they had read all their books through, over and over again, and besides, books aren't _quite_ as nice as "told" stories. at least not when they have to be shared by two. rafe and alix had tried several plans--reading aloud did not answer _very_ well, and looking over the pages was worse. they never managed to keep quite together, and then the one who got down to the last line first was sure to fidget or to try in some way to hurry up the other, which was apt to lead to unpleasant results. and besides this, at present there was no question of story-books, for, as i said, the children had read all they possessed really _too_ often. hitherto perhaps they had been a little spoilt about having stories told to them. papa, who was an old soldier, had a good many tales of adventure; mamma had some lovely ones about "when she was a little girl." and the big brothers and sisters were very kind too, especially if rafe or alix, or both, as sometimes was the case, happened to be ill. but their stories were mostly out of books; now and then indeed they would unluckily turn out to be already known to the children, and though they did not altogether object to them on this account--i have noticed that children rather enjoy a book story retold by voice--it was not always so pleasant for ena or jean, or eric when he was at home from college. for rafe and alix were so exceedingly particular. "no," one of them would say, just when eric had got to the most thrilling part of a robber story, "the entrance to the inner cave was at the _left_ side of the big one;" or if jean was describing her heroine's dress, "it wasn't green--i'm sure it was blue--blue with tiny rosebuds on," so that sometimes jean would reply, "really, children, if you interrupt so i can't go on," or eric would go off with a grunt and tell them to provide stories for themselves. this had happened the evening before, and this it was which put the idea into rafe's mind which alix snubbed so. "suppose," he said, "that we make stories for each other--you for me, alix, and i for you?" it sounded rather nice, but it did not find favour in her eyes at all. "i know exactly what they'd be," she said; "just mixings up of all our other ones. it might do to amuse stranger children with, perhaps--but not for us ourselves. i know all that's in your head, and you know what's in mine, far too well. so it would be perfectly stupid." and rafe had no more to say. it was easter holidays--easter was as late as it could be that year--and the weather was so beautiful that it really felt like summer. you would think the children should have been content; but they weren't. they had no lessons at all to do, and a whole fortnight of nothing you really must do is, in my opinion, a mistake. during the long summer holidays miss brander, their governess, always left them _something_ to do, just enough to give a nice fresh taste to the holidaying the rest of their time, and to prevent their feeling the reins _quite_ loose on their necks like runaway ponies. and even without this, in the summer it was different, for they generally went to the seaside or to some hilly place for a month or so, to have a change of air, and away from home in a new place time seldom hangs much on children's hands. this easter it was certainly doing so a good deal. there were other reasons too why the little couple felt rather at a loose end, rather tired of themselves. the big people were all unusually busy, for ena was going to be married in june; and she and their mother or she and jean were always going somewhere or other to order things, or to give their opinion about the doing up of the pretty old house, ten miles or so away, which was to be her new home. and though ena was very kind when she had time, and the new brother-to-be held out grand promises of the visits they were to pay to their sister, and the fun they should have, still, all that seemed a good way off, and in the meantime rafe and alix felt rather out of it all. i am not sure but that they were just a little jealous of the new brother. "it's only a pretence sort of brother," said alix one day when her feelings had been ruffled. i am afraid they felt as if he had some how put both their small noses out of joint. so now you understand why rafe and alix were sitting rather disconsolately under the ilex, though the sun was shining brightly enough to melt away all clouds and mists inside as well as outside, any one would have thought. in spite of alix's snub, rafe looked up again in a minute or two. "why don't you think of a better plan, then, if you don't like mine?" he said. "it's always easy to say things won't do," (which is exceedingly true!), "but why don't you find something that _will_ do?" alix turned round. she was sitting on the end of the rustic bench, swinging her legs, which was not difficult, as they scarcely reached the ground, and staring up at the thickly-growing branches overhead. but now she looked at rafe--he felt a little nervous; was she going to take offence at his speech? no--she had heard what he said, but she was not vexed. "i know what i wish we _could_ find," she said. "do you remember, rafe, the story of a white lady, up, up in a room at the very top of a castle somewhere, who was always spinning stories? they came out of the hum of her spinning-wheel somehow, and the children could hear them when they sat down on the floor beside her. _oh_, if we could find somebody like that!" "it was fairies," said rafe doubtfully. "at least the white lady was a fairy, and there aren't any really, i suppose." "everybody says so," alix replied doubtfully, "but i don't quite see why there mightn't be. if there have never been any, what began all the fairy stories? and i know one thing--papa said so himself one day when he was telling some--what's the word?--it means a sort of a fairy story that's been told over and over since ever, _ever_ so long ago, ledge--_what_ is it?" "legends, you mean," said her brother. "yes, i remember papa telling us some very queer ones he had heard in india." "and he said there were fairy stories in _every_ country," alix went on. "so what _i_ say is there must have been something to make them begin!" this sounded very convincing to rafe--alix certainly had clever ways of putting things. "oh!" he said, with a deep sigh. "if we could but find some one old enough to remember the beginnings of them--something like the white lady, you know." both children sat silent for a moment or two, their eyes gazing before them. suddenly on the short green turf appeared a tiny figure, a wren, so tame that she hopped fearlessly to within a very short distance of the little brother and sister, and then, standing still, seemed to look up at them with her bright eyes, her small head cocked knowingly on one side. "rafe," exclaimed alix eagerly, though in a low voice. "alix," said rafe in his turn. then they looked at each other, thinking the same thoughts. "rafe," whispered alix, while the wren still stood there looking at them, "just look at her; she's not a bird, she's a fairy--or at least if she's not a fairy she's got some message for us from one." the wren hopped on a few steps, still looking back at them. the children slipped off the seat and moved softly after her without speaking. on she went, hopping, then fluttering just a little way above the ground, then hopping again, till in this way she had led them right across the wide stretch of lawn to some shrubberies at the far side. here a small footpath, scarcely visible till you were close to it, led through the bushes to a strip of half-wild garden ground, used as a sort of nursery for young trees, which skirted a lane known by the name of the "ladywood path." and indeed it was little more than a path nowadays, for few passed that way, though the story went that in the old days it had been a good road leading to a house that was no longer in existence. over the low wall clambered the children, to find to their delight that the wren was in the lane before them, just a little way ahead. but now she took to flying higher and faster than she had yet done; to keep up with her at all they had to run, and even with this they sometimes lost sight of her altogether for a minute or two. but they kept up bravely-- they were too eager and excited to waste breath by speaking. the race lasted for some minutes, till at last, just as alix was about to give in, rafe suddenly twitched her arm. "stop, alix," he panted--truth to tell, the running was harder on him than on his sister, for rafe was of an easy-going disposition, and not given to violent exercise--"stop, alix, she's lighted on the old gateway." they both stood still and looked. yes, there was madam wren on the topmost bar of a dilapidated wooden gate, standing between two solid posts at what had once been the entrance to the beautiful garden of an ancient house. how beautiful neither the children nor any one now living knew, for even the very oldest inhabitants of that part of the country could only dimly remember having been told by their grandparents, or great-grandparents perhaps, how once upon a time ladywood hall had been the pride of the neighbourhood. the wren flapped her wings, then rose upwards and flew off. this time, somehow, the children felt that it was no use trying to follow her. "she's gone for good," said rafe dolefully; but alix's eyes sparkled. "you _are_ stupid," she said. "don't you see what she's told us. we're to look for--for something, or some one, i don't quite know what, in the lady's garden." for so somehow the grounds of the vanished house had come to be spoken of. "i think it was very dull of us not to have thought of it for ourselves, for it is a very fairy sort of place." "if it is that way," said rafe, "_they_ must have heard us talking, and sent the wren to tell us." "of course," said alix, "that's just what i mean. perhaps the wren is one herself." "shall we go on now?" said rafe. "no"--for just at that moment the clear sound of a bell ringing reached them from the direction of their own home--"for there's our dinner." and dinner was an important event in rafe's eyes, even when rivalled by a fairy hunt. "how provoking," said alix. "_how_ quickly the morning has gone. we must go in now or they will come hunting us up and find out all about it; and you know, rafe, if it has anything to do with fairies we must keep it a secret." rafe nodded his head sagely. "of course," he replied. "when do you think we had best come? this afternoon we are going a walk with nurse, and she'd never let us off." "no," said alix, with a sigh, for a walk with nurse was not a very interesting affair. "but i'll tell you what, rafe; if i can get hold of mamma to-night, just even for a minute, i'll ask her if we mayn't take something for dinner out with us to-morrow, and not come in till tea-time--the way we sometimes did last summer; for just now it's really as fine and warm as if it was june. i think she'll let us." "i do hope she will," said the boy. chapter two. tapping. the children were not very fortunate in their nurse. perhaps this helped to make them feel lonely and dull sometimes, when there scarcely seemed real reason for their being so. she was a good woman, and meant to be kind, and their mother trusted her completely. but she was getting old, and was rather tired of children. she had had such a lot to bring up--the four big brothers and sisters of rafe and alix, and before them a large family of their cousins. and i don't think she was really very fond of children, though she was devoted to tiny babies. she didn't in the least understand children's fancifulnesses or many of their little ways, and was far too fond of saying, "stuff and nonsense, master rafe," or "miss alix," as the case might be. the walk this afternoon would not have been any livelier than usual, so far as nurse was concerned, but the children were so brimful of their new ideas that they felt quite bright and happy, and after a while even nurse was won over to enter into their talk, or at least to answer their questions pretty cheerfully. for though of course they had not the least idea of telling her their secret, it was too much on their minds for them not to chatter round about it, so to say. "have you ever seen a fairy, nurse?" said alix; and, rather to her surprise, nurse answered quite seriously: "no, my dear. time was, i suppose, as such things were to be seen, but that's past and gone. people have to work too hard nowadays to give any thought to fairies or fairyland." but on the whole this reply was rather encouraging. "you must have heard of fairies, though," said rafe. "can't you remember any stories about them?" nurse had never been great at story-telling. "oh dear no, master rafe," she replied; "i never knew any except the regular old ones, that you've got far prettier in your books than i could tell them. _sayings_ i may have heard, just countryside talk, when i was a child. my old granny, who lived and died in the village here, would have it that, for those that cared to look for them, there were odd sights and sounds in the grounds of the old house down the lane. beautiful singing _her_ mother had heard there when she was a girl; and once when a cow strayed in there for a night, they said when she came out again she was twice the cow she had been before, and that no milk was ever as good as hers." the children looked at each other. "i wonder they didn't turn all the cows in there," said rafe practically. "why didn't they, nurse?" "oh dear me, master rafe, that's more than i can tell. it was but an old tale. you can't expect much sense in such." "whom did the old house belong to? who lived there?" said alix. "nobody knows," said nurse. "it's too long ago to say. but there's always been good luck about the place, that's certain. you've seen the flowers there in the summer time. some of them look as beautiful as if they were in a proper garden; and it's certain sure there's no wood near here like it for the nightingales." this was very satisfactory so far as it went, but nurse would say no more, doubtless because she had nothing more to say. "i do believe, rafe," said alix, when they were sitting together after tea, "that the old garden is a sort of entrance to fairyland, and that it's been waiting for us to find it out." her eyes were shining with eagerness, and rafe, too, felt very excited. "i do hope mamma will let us have all to-morrow to ourselves," he said. "you see, one has to be very careful with fairies, alix--all the stories agree about that. we must go to work very cautiously, so as not to offend them in any way." "you're always cautious," said alix, with a little contempt; "rather too cautious for me. of course we shall be very _polite_, and take care not to spoil any of the plants, but we'll have to be a little venturesome too. and," she went on, "you may count that they've invited us. the wren brought a regular message. i only hope they're not offended with us for not going to-day." "if they're good kind of fairies," said rafe sagely--"and i think they're sure to be--they wouldn't have liked us to be disobedient; and you know mamma's awfully particular about our coming in the moment we hear the bell ring." "yes," said alix; "that's true." mamma's heart was extra soft that evening, i think. she had seen so little of the children lately that she was feeling rather sorry for them, and all the more ready to agree to any wish of theirs. so they had no difficulty in getting her consent to their picnic plan for to-morrow. and the weather was wonderfully settled, as it sometimes is even in england, though early in the year. so the next morning saw them set off, carrying a little basket of provisions and a large parasol, full of eagerness and excitement as to what might be before them. they did not cross the lawn as they had done the day before, for they had a sort of feeling that they did not wish anyone to see them start, or to know exactly which way they went. it added to the pleasant mystery of the expedition. so they went straight out by the front gates, and after following the high road for a quarter of a mile or so, entered a little wood which skirted the grass-grown lane along one side, and from which they made their way out with some scrambling and clambering at only a few yards' distance from the entrance to the deserted garden where they had last seen the wren. the sight of the gate-posts reminded alix of the bird, and she stopped short with some misgiving. "rafe," she said, "do you think perhaps we should have waited for her at the ilex tree? i never thought of it before." "oh no," said rafe; "i'm sure it's all right. we've come to the place she led us to. she didn't need to show us the way twice! fairies don't like stupid people." "you seem to know a great lot about fairies," said alix, who had no idea of being snubbed herself, though she was fond of snubbing other people; "so i think you'd better settle what we're to do." "i expect we'll find the wren inside the gate," said rafe; and they made their way on in silence. there was no difficulty in getting into the grounds, for though the gate on its rusty hinges would have been far too heavy for the children to move, there was a space between it and the posts where the wood had rotted away, through which it was easy for them to creep. first came rafe, then the basket, next alix, and finally the big parasol. it was a good while since they had been in the ladywood garden, and when they had got on to their feet again, they stood still for a minute or two looking round them. it was a curious-looking place certainly; the very beauty of it had something strange and dream-like about it. here and there the old paths were clearly to be traced. the main approach, or drive, as we should now call it, leading to where the house had been, was still quite distinct, though the house itself was entirely gone--not even any remains of ruins were to be seen, for all the stone and wood of which it had been built had long since been carted away to be used elsewhere. but the children knew where the old hall had actually stood--a large, square, level plateau, bordered on three sides by a broad terrace, all grass-grown, showing in two or three places where stone steps had once led down to the lower grounds, told its own tale. along the front of this plateau, supporting it, as it were, there was still a very strongly-built stone wall banked up into the soil. the children walked on slowly till they were near the foot of this wall, and then stood still again. it was about five feet high; they seemed attracted to it, they scarcely knew why--perhaps because it was the only remaining thing actually to show that here had been once a home where people had lived. "i daresay," said alix, looking up, "that the children used to run along the terrace at the top of that wall, and their mammas and nurses would call after them to take care they didn't fall over. doesn't it seem funny, rafe, to think there have _always_ been children in the world?" "i daresay the boys jumped down sometimes," said rafe. "i'd like to try, but i won't to-day, for i promised mamma to take care of you, and if i sprained my ankle it would be rather awkward." they had forgotten their little quarrel, and for the moment they had forgotten about the wren. she was nowhere to be seen. what was to be done? "if we were only looking for a nice place for our picnic," said rafe, "nothing could be better than the shelter of this wall. with it on one side, and the parasol tilted up on the other, it would be as good as a tent." "but we're not only looking for a picnic place," said alix impatiently. "the only thing to do is to poke about till we find _something_, for i'm perfectly certain the wren didn't bring us here for nothing; and then, you know, there's even what nurse told us about this garden." alix's words roused rafe's energy again; for he was a trifle lazy, and wouldn't have been altogether disinclined to sit down comfortably and think about dinner. but once he got a thing in his head, he was not without ideas. "let's follow right along the wall," he said, "and examine it closely." "i don't know what you expect to find," said alix. "it's just a wall, as straight and plain as can be." and so indeed it seemed from where they stood. "i'll look all along the ground, in case there might be a ring fixed in a stone somewhere, like in the _arabian nights_. that's a regular fairy sort of plan," said alix. "very well," agreed rafe; "you can do that, and i'll keep tapping the wall to see if it sounds hollow anywhere." and so they proceeded, alix carrying the basket now, and rafe the parasol, as it came in handy for his tapping. for some moments neither of them spoke. alix's eyes were fixed on the ground. once or twice, where it looked rough and uneven, she stooped to examine it more closely, but nothing came of it, except a little grumbling from rafe at her stopping the way. to avoid this she ran on a few paces in front of him, so that when, within a few yards of the end of the wall, her brother suddenly stopped short, she wasn't aware that he had done so till she heard him calling her in a low but eager voice. "what is it?" she said breathlessly, hurrying back again. "alix," he said, "there's some one tapping back at us from the other side. listen." "a woodpecker," said alix hastily; "or the echo of your tappings." she was in such a hurry that she didn't stop to reflect what silly things she was saying. to tell the truth, she didn't quite like the idea of rafe having the honour and glory of the discovery, if such it was. "a woodpecker," repeated rafe. "what nonsense! do woodpeckers tap inside a wall? and an echo wouldn't wait till i had finished tapping to begin. it's just like answering me. listen again." he tapped three times, slowly and distinctly, then stopped. yes, sure enough there came what seemed indeed like an answer. three clear, sharp little raps--clearer and sharper, indeed, than those he made with the parasol handle. alix was now quite convinced. "it sounds like a little silver hammer," she said. "oh, rafe, _suppose_ we've really found something magic!" and her bright eyes danced with eagerness. rafe did not reply. he seemed intent on listening. "alix," he said, "the tapping is going on--a little farther off now, and then it comes back again, as if it was to lead us on. it must be on purpose." chapter three. the caretaker. "let's follow it along," said alix, after another moment or two's hesitation. they were standing, as i said, not many yards from the end of the wall, and thither the sound seemed to lead them. when they got quite to the corner the tapping had stopped. but the children were not discouraged. "that's what fairies do," said alix, as if all her life she had lived on intimate terms with the beings she spoke of. "they show you a bit, and then they leave you to find out a bit for yourself. we must poke about now and see what we can find." rafe had already set to work in this way: he was feeling and prodding the big, solid-looking stones which finished off the corner. "alix," he exclaimed, "one of these stones shakes a little; let's push at it together." yes, there was no doubt that it yielded a little, especially at one side. the children pushed with all their might and main, but for some time an uncertain sort of wobbling was the only result. rafe stood back a little to recover his breath, and to look at the stone more critically. "there may be some sort of spring or hinge about it," he said at last. "give me the parasol again, alix." he then pressed the point of it firmly along the side of the stone, down the seam of mortar which appeared to join it to its neighbour in the wall. he need not have pressed so hard, for when he got to the middle of the line the stone suddenly yielded, turning inwards so quickly and sharply that rafe almost fell forward on the parasol, and a square dark hole was open before them. alix darted forward and peeped in. "rafe," she cried, "there's a sort of handle inside; shall i try to turn it?" she did so without waiting for his answer. it moved quite easily, and then they found that the two or three stones completing the row to the ground, below the one that had already opened, were really only thin slabs joined together and forming a little door. it was like the doors you sometimes see in a library, which on the outside have the appearance of a row of books. the opening was now clear before them, and they did not hesitate to pass through. they had to stoop a little, but once within, it was easy to stand upright, and even side by side. alix caught hold of rafe's hand. "let's keep fast hold of each other," she whispered. for a few steps they advanced in almost total darkness, for the door behind them had noiselessly closed. but this was in the nature of things, and quite according to alix's programme. "i only hope," she went on, "that we haven't somehow or other got inside the cave where the pied piper took the children. it might have an opening into england somehow, even though i think hamelin was in germany; but, of course, there's nothing to be frightened at, is there, rafe?" though her own heart was beating fast. rafe's only answer was a sort of grunt, which expressed doubt, though we will not say fear. perhaps it was the safest answer he could make under the very peculiar circumstances. but no doubt it was a great relief to both when, before they had time really to ask themselves whether they were frightened or not, a faint light showed itself in front of them, growing stronger and brighter as they stepped on, till at last they could clearly make out in what sort of a place they were. it was a short, fairly wide passage, seemingly hollowed out of the ground, and built up in the same way as the wall outside into the soil-- in fact it was like a small tunnel. the light was of a reddish hue, and soon they saw the reason of this. it came from an inner room, the door of which was half open, where a fire was brightly burning, and by the hearth sat a small figure. the children looked at each other, then they bent forward to see more. noiseless though they were, the little person seemed to know they were coming. she lifted her head, and though her face was partly hidden by the hood of the scarlet cloak which covered her almost entirely, they saw that it was that of a very old woman. "welcome, my dears," she said at once. "i have been looking for you this long time." her voice, though strange--in what way it was strange the children could not have told, for it seemed to come from far away, and yet it seemed to them that they had often heard it before--encouraged them to step forward. "good-morning," alix began, but then she hesitated. was it morning, or evening, or night, or what? it was difficult to believe that only a few minutes ago they had been standing outside in the warm sunshine, with the soft spring breeze wafting among the fresh green leaves, and the birds singing overhead. _that_ all seemed a dream. "i beg your pardon," the little girl began again; "i don't quite know what i should say, but thank you for speaking so kindly. how did you know we were coming?" "i heard you," replied the old woman. "i heard your little footsteps up to the gateway yesterday, and i knew you'd come again to-day." by this time rafe had found his tongue too. "did you send the wren?" he said. "never mind about that just now," she answered. "i've many a messenger; and what's better still, i've quick eyes, and even quicker ears, for all that i'm so very old. i know what you want of me, and if you're good children you shall not be disappointed. i've been getting ready for you in more ways than one." "do you mean you've got stories to tell us?" exclaimed the children eagerly. "of course," she replied, with a smile. "i wouldn't be much good if i hadn't stories for you." all this time, i must tell you, the old woman had been busily knitting. her needles made a little silvery click, but there was nothing fidgeting about this sound; now and then her words seemed to go in a sort of time with it. what she was knitting they could not see. alix gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. "how beautiful!" she said; "and may we come every day, and may we stay as long as we like, and will you sometimes invite us to tea, perhaps? and--" "alix!" said rafe, in a tone of reproval. "nay, nay," said their hostess. "let her chatter. all in good time, my love," she added to alix, and the click of the needles seemed to repeat the words, "all in good time," like a little song. rafe's eyes, which were sometimes more observant than alix's, as his tongue did not use up so much of his attention as hers, had meanwhile been wandering round the room. it can, i think, be best described as a very cosy kitchen, but, unlike many kitchens, it was fresh and not the least too hot. there was a strange, pleasant fragrance in the air that made one think of pine woods. afterwards the children found out that this came from the fire, for it was entirely of fir-cones, of which a large heap stood neatly stacked in one corner. along chain hung down the chimney, with a hook at the end, to which a bright red copper pan was fastened; a little kettle of the same metal stood on the hearthstone, which was snowy white. the walls of the room were of rough stone, redder in colour than the wall outside, or else the firelight made them seem so. behind where the old woman sat hung a grass-green curtain, closely drawn; there was no lamp or candle, but the firelight was quite enough. a wooden dresser ran along one side, and on its shelves were arranged cups and plates and jugs of the queerest shapes and colours you could imagine. i must tell you more about these later on. there was a settle with a very curious patchwork cushion, but besides this and the rocking-chair on which sat the old woman--i forgot to say that she was sitting on a rocking-chair--the only seats were two little three-legged stools. the middle of the floor was covered by matting of a kind the children had never seen; it was shaded brown, and made you think of a path strewn over with fallen leaves in autumn. the old woman's kindly tone encouraged rafe to speak in his turn. "may i ask you one or two things," he said, "before you begin telling us the stories?" "as many as you like, my boy," she replied cheerfully. "i don't say i'll answer them all--that's rather a different matter--but you can ask all the same." "it's so puzzling," said rafe, hesitating a little. "i don't think it puzzles alix so much as me; she knows more about fairy things, i think. i do so want to know if you've lived here a very long time. have you always lived here--even when the old house was standing and there were people in it?" "never mind about always," replied the old woman. "a very, very long time? yes, longer than you could understand, even if i explained it! long before the old house was pulled down? yes, indeed, long before the old house was ever thought of! i'm the caretaker here nowadays, you see." "the caretaker!" rafe repeated; "but there's no house to take care of." "there's a great deal to take care of nevertheless," she replied. "think of all the creatures up in the garden, the birds and the butterflies, not to speak of the flowers and the blossom. ah, yes! we caretakers have a busy time of it, i can tell you, little as you might think it. _and_ the stories--why, if i had nothing else to do, the looking after them would keep me busy. they take a deal of tidying. you'd scarcely believe the state they come home in sometimes when they've been out for a ramble--all torn and jagged and draggle-tailed, or else, what's worse, dressed up in such vulgar new clothes that their own mother, and i'm as good as their mother, would scarcely know them again. no, no," and she shook her head, "i've no patience with such ways." alix looked delighted. she quite understood the old woman. "how nicely you say it," she exclaimed. "it's like something papa told us the other day about legends; don't you remember, rafe?" rafe's slower wits were still rather perplexed, but he took things comfortably. somehow he no longer remembered any more questions to ask. the old woman's bright eyes as she looked at him gave him a pleasant, contented feeling. "have you got a story quite ready for us?" asked alix. "one, two, three, four," said the old woman, counting her stitches. "i'm setting it on, my dear; it'll be ready directly. but what have you got in your basket? it's your dinner, isn't it? you must be getting hungry. wouldn't you like to eat something while the story's getting ready?" "are you going to _knit_ the story?" said alix, looking very surprised. "oh dear no!" said the old woman, smiling. "it's only a way i have. the knitting keeps it straight, otherwise it might fly off once i've let it out. now open your basket and let's see what you've got for your dinner. there, set it on the table, and you may reach down plates and jugs for yourselves." "it's nothing much," said alix, "just some sandwiches and two hard-boiled eggs and some slices of cake." "very good things in their way," said the old woman, as alix unpacked the little parcels and laid them on the plates which rafe handed her from the dresser. "and if you look into my larder you'll find some fruit, maybe, which won't go badly for dessert. what should you say to strawberries and cream?" she nodded towards one corner of the kitchen where there was a little door which the children had not before noticed, so very neatly was it fitted into the wall. the opening of it was another surprise; the "larder" was quite different from the room inside. it was a little arbour, so covered over with greenery that you could not see through the leaves to the outside, though the sunshine managed to creep in here and there, and the twittering of the birds was clearly heard. on a stone slab stood a curiously-shaped basket filled with--oh! such lovely strawberries! and beside it a bowl of tempting yellow cream; these were the only eatables to be seen in the larder. "strawberries!" exclaimed rafe; "just fancy, alix, and it's only april." "but we're in fairyland, you stupid boy," said alix; "or at least somewhere very near it." "quick, children," came the old woman's voice from the kitchen. "you bring the strawberries, alix, and rafe the cream. there'll be no time for stories if you dawdle!" this made them hurry back, and soon they were seated at the table, with all the nice things neatly before them. they were not greedy children fortunately, for, as everybody knows, fairy-folk hold few things in greater horror than greediness; and they were orderly children too. they packed up their basket neatly again when they had finished, and alix asked if they should wash up the plates that had been lent to them, which seemed to please their old friend, for she smiled as she replied that it wasn't necessary. "my china is of a different kind from any you've ever seen," she said. "_whiff_, plates," she added; and then, to the children's amusement, there was a slight rattle, and all the crockery was up in its place again, shining as clean and bright as before it had been used. there was now no doubt at all that they were really in fairyland. chapter four. the story of the three wishes. "and now for a story," said alix joyfully. "may we sit close beside you, mrs--oh dear! mayn't we call you something?" "anything you like," replied the old woman, smiling. "i know," cried alix; "mrs caretaker--will that do? it's rather a nice name when you come to think of it." "yes," agreed their old friend; "and it should be everybody's name, more or less, if everybody did their duty. there's no one without something to take care of." "no," said rafe thoughtfully; "i suppose not." "draw the two little stools close beside me--one at the right, one at the left; and if you like, you may lean your heads on my knee, you'll hear none the worse." "oh, that's beautiful," said alix; "it's like the children and the white lady. do you know about the white lady?" she went on, starting up suddenly. mrs caretaker nodded. "oh yes," she said; "she's a relation of mine. but we mustn't chatter any more if you're to have a story." and the children sat quite silent. click, click, went the knitting-needles. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the story of the three wishes. that was the name of the first of mrs caretaker's stories. once upon a time there lived two sisters in a cottage on the edge of a forest. it was rather a lonely place in some ways, though there was an old town not more than a mile off, where there were plenty of friendly people. but it was lonely in this way, that but seldom any of the townsfolk passed near the cottage, or cared to come to see the sisters, even though they were good and pretty girls, much esteemed by all who knew them. for the forest had a bad name. nobody seemed to know exactly why, or what the bad name meant, but there it was. even in the bright long summer days the children of the town would walk twice as far on the other side to gather posies of the pretty wood-flowers in a little copse, not to be compared with the forest for beauty, rather than venture within its shade. and the young men and maidens of a summer evening, though occasionally they might come to its outskirts in their strolls, were never tempted to do more than stand for a moment or two glancing along its leafy glades. only the sisters, arminel and chloe, had sometimes entered the forest, though but for a little way, and not without some fear and trembling. but they had no misgiving as to living in its near neighbourhood. custom does a great deal, and here in the cottage by the forest-side they had spent all their lives. and the grandmother, who had taken care of them since they had been left orphans in their babyhood, told them there was no need for fear so long as they loved each other and did their duty. all the same, she never denied that the great forest was an uncanny place. this was the story of it, so far as any one knew. long, long ago, when many things in the world were different from what they are now, a race of giants, powerful and strong, were the owners of the forest, and so long as they were just and kindly to their weaker neighbours, all went well. but after a while they grew proud and tyrannical, and did some very cruel things. then their power was taken from them, and they became, as a punishment, as weak and puny as they had been the opposite. now and then, so it was said about the countryside, one or two of them had been seen, miserable-looking little dwarfs. and the seeing of them was the great thing to be dreaded, for it was supposed to be a certain sign of bad luck. but the grandmother had heard more than this, though where, or when, or how, she could not remember. the spell over the forest dwarfs was not to be for ever; something some day was to break it, though what she did not know. "and who can tell," she would say now and then, "how better things may come about for the poor creatures? there's maybe a reason for your being here, children. keep love and pity in your hearts, and never let any fear prevent you doing a kind action if it comes in your way." but till now, though they had gone on living in the old cottage since their grandmother's death in the same way, never forgetting what she had said, arminel and chloe had never caught sight of their strange neighbours. true, once or twice they had seen a small figure scuttering away when they had ventured rather farther than usual along the forest paths, but then it might have been only some wild wood creature, of whom, no doubt, there were many who had their dwellings in the lonely gloom. sometimes a strange curiosity really to see one of the dwarfs for themselves would come over them; they often talked about it in the long winter evenings when they had nothing to amuse them. but it was only to each other that they talked in this way. to their friends in the town, for they had friends there whom they saw once a week on the market-day, they never chattered about the forest or the dwarfs; and when they were asked why they went on living in this strange and lonely place, they smiled and said it was their home, and they were happier there than anywhere else. and so they were. they were very busy to begin with, for their butter and eggs and poultry were more prized than any to be had far or near. arminel was the dairy-woman, and chloe the hen-wife, and at the end of each week they would count up their earnings, eager to see which had made the more by their labours. fortunately for their happy feelings to each other, up till now their gains had been pretty nearly equal, for there is no saying where jealousy will not creep in, even between the dearest of friends. but quite lately, for the first time, things had not been going so well. it was late in the autumn, and there had been unusually heavy rains, and when they ceased the winter seemed to begin all at once, and before its time, and the animals suffered for it. the cow's milk fell off before arminel had looked for its doing so, and some great plans which she had been making for the future seemed likely to be disappointed. she had hoped to save enough through the winter to buy another cow in the spring, so that with the two she would have had a supply of butter for her customers in the town all the year round. and chloe's hens were not doing well either. one or two of them had even died, and she couldn't get her autumn chickens to fatten. worst of all, the eggs grew fewer day by day. these misfortunes distressed the sisters very much. sadder still, they grew irritable and short-tempered, each reproaching the other, and making out that she herself had managed better. "it is all your want of foresight," said arminel to chloe one market-day when the egg-basket looked but poorly filled. "everybody knows that hens stop laying with the first cold. you should have potted some eggs a few weeks ago when they were so plentiful." "my customers don't care for potted eggs," said chloe. "till now i have always had a pretty fair supply of fresh ones, except for a week or two about christmas time. how should i have known that this year would be different from other years? if you are so wonderfully wise, why did you not bring strawberry indoors a month sooner than usual? it is evident that she has caught cold. you need not sneer at my eggs when you count your pats of butter. why, there are not above half what you had two months ago." "when you manage your own affairs properly, you may find fault with mine," said arminel snappishly. and they felt so unamiable towards each other that all the way to market and back they walked on separate sides of the road without speaking a word. such a state of things had never been known before. it was late when they got home that afternoon, and being a dull and cloudy day it was almost dark. the poor girls felt tired and unhappy, for each was sad with the double sadness of having to bear her troubles alone. and besides this, there is nothing more tiring than ill-temper. arminel sat down weariedly on a chair. the fire was out; the cottage felt very chilly; the one little candle which chloe had lighted gave but a feeble ray. arminel sighed deeply. chloe, whose heart was very soft, felt sorry for her, and setting down her basket began to see to the fire. "leave it alone," said her sister. "we may as well go to bed without any supper. i'm too tired to eat; and it's just as well to get accustomed to scanty fare. it is what is before us, i suppose." "you need not be quite so downhearted," said chloe, persevering in her efforts. "things may mend again. i sold my eggs for more than ever before. it seems that everybody's hens are doing badly. i'll have the fire burning in a minute, and some nice hot coffee ready, and then you'll feel better." but arminel was not to be so easily consoled. "if you've done well with your eggs it's more than i did with my butter," she said. "dame margery, the housekeeper from the castle, says she'll take no more from me if i can't promise as much as last year. she doesn't like to go changing about for her butter, she says; and mine was enough for the ladies." "i'm sure you've enough for two ladies still," said chloe. "yes; but if i don't keep a little for my other customers, they won't come back to me when i have plenty again," answered her sister, who seemed determined to look on the black side of things. then, unluckily, in spite of chloe's care, the cold and the damp of the chimney made the fire smoke; great clouds puffed out, almost filling the kitchen. "i wish you had let me go to bed," said arminel hastily; and chloe's patience being exhausted, she retorted by calling her sister unkind and ungrateful. the smoke was very disagreeable, no doubt. arminel opened the window wide to let it clear off. the wind was blowing from the forest which lay on this side of the house. all looked dark and gloomy, and arminel gave a little shiver as she glanced out. suddenly she started. "chloe," she said, "did you hear that?" "what?" said chloe. "a cry--yes, there it is again, as if some one was in great trouble." chloe heard it too, but she was feeling rather sulky and contradictory. "it's nothing," she said. "only a hare or some wild creature; they often scream," and she turned back to the table where she was preparing coffee. but though the room was now pretty clear of smoke and the fire was behaving better, arminel did not close the window. she still stood by it listening. and again there came the strange shrill yet feeble cry, telling unmistakably of anguish, or whether of beast or man no one could have told. and this time chloe stood still with the kettle in her hand, more startled than she had been before. "sister," said arminel decidedly, "that is not the squeal of a hare; it is something worse. perhaps some child from the town may have strayed into the forest and got benighted. it is possible at least. and the forest is not like other places. who knows what might happen to one astray there?" "what could we do in such a case?" said chloe. "we're not all-powerful." she spoke more out of a little remaining temper than from cowardice or indifference, for like her sister she was both brave and kind. "remember what our grandmother said," said arminel, and she repeated the grandmother's words: "`never hang back from doing a kind action; no harm can come to you while you love each other and do your duty.' i am going alone to the forest if you will not come," she went on, and she turned towards the door as she spoke. "of course i will come with you," said chloe, reaching down her mantle and hood which she had hung up on a nail. "close the window, arminel," she said. "i'll leave the coffee on the hob. the fire is burning nicely now, and we shall find it bright and warm when we come back." as they stepped outside, closing the door behind them, the cry broke out again. tired though they were with their long day at market, the sisters set off running. two or three fields lay between them and the edge of the wood, and part of the way the ground was very rough, but they were nimble and sure-footed. and ever as they ran came the cries, feebler yet more distinct, and before long they could distinguish the words, "help! comrades, help!" "it is not a hare, you see," said arminel. "no, indeed," answered chloe, and both felt a thrill of fear, though they only ran the faster. the cries, though now they grew rarer, becoming indeed mingled with groans, still served to guide them. soon they were in the midst of the trees, making their way more by a sort of instinct, for it was almost dark. suddenly a ray of moonlight glimmered through the firs, and a few paces in front of them they saw lying on the ground a small dark object writhing and groaning. just here the trees were not so thick. it was like a little clearing. the girls stepped onwards cautiously, catching hold of each other. "it is--" whispered arminel--"oh, chloe, it is one of the dwarfs." "courage," murmured chloe in return, though her own heart was beating very fast. "he seems in no state to hurt us now, if only it be not a trick." the groans had ceased, and when they got close to the strange figure on the ground it seemed quite motionless. the moonlight had grown stronger. they stooped down and examined the dwarf. his eyes were closed; his face was wrinkled and brown; he was brown all over. he wore a furry coat, much the same colour as his own skin. arminel lifted one of his queer clawlike hands; it fell down again by his side. "i believe he is dead," she said. "i didn't know the dwarfs ever could die. what shall we do, chloe? we cannot leave him here, in case he should be still living." "we must carry him home, i'm afraid," said chloe. "yes, i'm afraid we must, for see, arminel, he's opening his eyes," as two bright black beads suddenly glanced up at them. "nimbo, hugo," said a weak, hoarse little voice. "are you there? no," and the dwarf opened his eyes more widely, and tried to sit up. "no," he went on, "it is not my comrades! who are you?" and he shuddered as if with fear. chapter five. the story of the three wishes--continued. it was indeed a turning of the tables for a dwarf to be afraid of them. it gave the sisters courage to speak to him. "we heard your cries," said arminel. "ever so far off in our cottage across the fields we heard them. what is the matter? have you hurt yourself?" the little man groaned. "i have had a fall," he said, "from a branch of the tree under which i am lying. i climbed up to shake down some large fir-cones, and lost my footing. i have hurt myself sadly. i feel bruised all over. how i shall ever get back to my comrades i do not know," and again he groaned. he was not a very courageous dwarf evidently; perhaps the courage of the race had been lost with its stature! but the sisters felt very sorry for him. "have you broken any bones, do you think?" said chloe, who was very practical. the dwarf turned and twisted himself about with many sighs and moans. "no," said he, "i think i am only bruised and terribly cold. i have been lying here so long, so long. i cannot go home; they are miles away in the centre of the forest." arminel and chloe considered. they did not much like the idea of the uncanny creature spending a night under their roof, even though they no longer feared that he was playing them any trick. if the mere sight of a dwarf brought ill-luck, what might not they expect from the visit of one of the spell-bound race? but their grandmother's words returned to their mind. "you must come home with us," they said, speaking together. "we can at least give you shelter and warmth, and a night's rest may do you much good." "there is the salve for bruises which granny taught us to make," added chloe. "we have some of it by us, i know." the dwarf gave a sigh of relief. "maidens," he said, "you shall never have cause to regret your kindness. i know your cottage. we have often watched you when you little knew it. i think i could make shift to walk there if you will each give me an arm." they got him to his feet with some difficulty. he was so small, hardly reaching up to their elbows, that it ended in their almost carrying him between them. and they seemed to get home much more quickly than they had come, even though they walked slowly. the dwarf knew every step of the way, and his queer bead-like eyes pierced through the darkness as if it had been noonday. "a little to the right," he would say, or, "a few paces to the left, the ground is better." and almost before they knew where they were they found themselves before their own door. the wind had gone down, all was peaceful and still, and inside the kitchen was a picture of comfort, the fire burning red and cheerily. "ah," said the little man, when they had settled him on a stool in front of the hearth, "this is good!" and he stretched out his small brown hands to the ruddy glow. "it is long since i have seen such a fire, and very long since i have been in a room like this." but then he grew quite silent, and the sisters did not like to ask him what he meant. chloe busied herself with the coffee which boiled up in no time; and in the larder, to her surprise, when she went in to fetch a loaf of bread intended for the sisters' supper, she found a pat of butter and a jug of cream which she had not known were there. she was very pleased, for both she and arminel had hospitable hearts, and she would have been sorry to have had nothing for their guest but dry bread and skim-milk coffee. "arminel," she said, as she came back into the kitchen, "you had forgotten this cream and butter, fortunately so, for now we can give our friend a nice supper." arminel looked quite astonished. "i took all the butter there was with me to market this morning, and i never keep cream except for our sunday treat." but there was another surprise in store. arminel in her turn went into the larder. "chloe!" she called out, "see what _you_ have forgotten. eggs!" and she held up three large, beautiful brown eggs. "i don't know where they have come from," said chloe. "i'm certain they were not there when i packed my basket. besides, none of my hens lay eggs of that colour." "never mind," said the dwarf; "here they are, and that is enough. we shall now have an omelette for supper. an omelette and hot coffee! that is a supper for a king." he seemed to be getting quite bright and cheerful, and complained no more of his bruises as he sat there basking in the pleasant warmth of the fire. supper was soon ready, and the three spent a pleasant evening; the little man asking the sisters many questions about their life and occupations. they told him all about their present troubles, and he told them to keep up heart, and never forget their good grandmother's counsel. "did you know our grandmother?" they asked in surprise. "i have heard of her," was all he said; and though they were curious to know more, they did not venture to question him further. after supper they made up a bed for him on the kitchen settle, where he said he was sure he would sleep most comfortably. "and now farewell," he added; "i shall be off in the morning before you are stirring. your kindness has so refreshed me that i feel sure i shall be able to make my way home without difficulty." he gave a little sigh as he spoke. "i would fain do what i can in return for your goodness," he continued. "some things are still in my power. i can give you three wishes which, under certain conditions, will be fulfilled." the sisters' eyes sparkled with delight. "oh, thank you a thousand times," they said. "pray tell us what we must do, and we will follow your orders exactly." "three wishes between you are all i can give," he replied. "one each, and the fulfilment of these depends upon the third, to which a secret is attached, and this secret you must discover for yourselves. the key of it is, i trust, in your own hearts." "we will do our best to find it," said arminel. "if it has to do with our love for each other you may trust us. chloe and i never quarrel." but suddenly, as she said this, the remembrance of that day struck her, and she grew red, feeling the dwarfs eyes fixed upon her. "at least," she added hurriedly, "i should say we seldom quarrel, though i'm afraid our anxieties lately have not sweetened our tempers." "beware, then, for the future," said the dwarf. "all will depend on yourselves." the sisters went to bed full of eagerness and hopefulness, longing for the next day to come that they might decide how to use their strange friend's gift. "i shall not be able to sleep," said arminel; "my head is so full of the three wishes." "and so is mine," said her sister. "you shall have the first, arminel, and i the second. the third will be the one to ponder over." "i shall have no difficulty in deciding," said arminel. "and you, chloe, being the younger, must, of course, be guided partly by my advice." "i don't see that at all," said chloe. "the dwarf said nothing about elder or younger, and--" at this moment a loud snore from the kitchen reminded them that their guest was still there. "dear, dear," said chloe. "what would he think if he heard us beginning to quarrel already? we must beware." but arminel was not so ready to give in, and there is no saying what might not have befallen, had it not happened that the moment her head touched the pillow she fell fast asleep. and chloe quickly followed her example. they awoke later than usual the next morning, feeling quite rested and refreshed. "i never slept so soundly in my life," said arminel. "i suppose it was with being so tired." "i don't know," said chloe. "i have an idea that our friend had something to do with our falling asleep so quickly to prevent us quarrelling. now, arminel, whatever we do, let us remember his warning." "of course, i don't want to quarrel," her sister replied. "we didn't need the dwarf to come here to tell us to be good friends. but, after all, his promise of fulfilling our wishes may be nonsense. i long to test it. i wonder if he is still there, by the bye." no, he was gone; the little bed they had made up for him on the settle, of some extra blankets and pillows, was neatly folded away. the fire was already lighted and burning brightly, the kettle singing on the hearth--the room showed signs of having been carefully swept and dusted, and the window was slightly open to admit a breath of the fresh morning air. "good little dwarf!" exclaimed arminel. "i wish he would pay us a visit often if he helps us so nicely with our work." they sat down to breakfast in the best of spirits; and when the meal was over, and they went out, they found that the dwarf's good offices had not been confined to the house. the cow was carefully foddered, and looking most prosperous and comfortable--the poultry had been seen to, the hen-house cleaned out, and already, early as it was, several lovely cream white eggs had been laid in the nests. all this was very encouraging. "there can be no sort of doubt," said chloe, "that our friend, dwarf though he be, has a kind heart and magic power. i feel certain his promises are to be relied upon. but remember, arminel, the first two wishes will be no good unless we agree about the third. what shall we do?" "i propose," said arminel, who had plenty of good sense, "that we go about our work as usual till this evening. then each of us will have had time to decide as to her own wish, and each of us can propose something for the third. as to the third, we can then consult together." to this chloe agreed. they spoke little to each other during the day, but when the light began to fail their work was over. they sat down together by the fire. "now for a good talk," said chloe. "we have the whole evening before us." "five minutes would be enough for me," said arminel. "i've got my wish cut and dry. i have been longing to tell you all day, but i thought it best to keep to our determination of this morning." "how strange!" said chloe. "i am just in the same condition. i decided upon my wish almost immediately. tell me what yours is, and i will tell you mine." "my wish," said arminel, "is to have a cow. a dun-coloured cow i think i should prefer--i can picture her so sweet and pretty--who would give milk all the year round without ever running short." "excellent," cried chloe; "my wish goes well with yours. for what i want is a dozen hens who would each lay an egg every morning in the year without fail. i should thus have as many fresh eggs as i could possibly want, and enough to spare for setting whenever i liked. some of my present hens are very good mothers, and would hatch them beautifully." "i think your wish a very good one," said arminel. "but now as to the fulfilment. we have now expressed our wishes distinctly, but there is no use as yet in going to look for the new cow in the shed or hens in the hen-house, seeing that there remains, alas! the third one! what can it be?" "could it be for a hen-house?" said chloe; "my poor hens are not very well off in their present one, and it is right to make one's animals comfortable; so this would be a kind-hearted wish." "not more than to wish for a warm shed for my cows," said arminel. "cows require much more care than hens. i daresay that is what we are meant to wish for." "i am certain it is not," said chloe. "at least, if you wish for a cow-shed, _i_ wish for a hen-house." "that, of course, is nonsense," said arminel. "i feel sure the dwarf meant we were to agree in what we wished for. and if you were amiable and unselfish you would join with me, chloe." "i might say precisely the same thing to you," said chloe coldly. and though they went on talking till bedtime they came to no conclusion. indeed, i fear a good many sharp and unkind words passed between them, and they went to bed without saying good-night to each other. so far it did not seem as if the dwarf's gift was to bring them happiness. chapter six. the story of the three wishes--concluded. when they woke in the morning they were in a calmer state of mind, and began to see how foolish they had been. "chloe," said arminel, as they sat at breakfast, "we were very nearly quarrelling last night; and if we quarrel we shall certainly never find out the secret of the third wish; and all our hopes will be at an end. now, let us think over quietly what the third wish is likely to be. let me see--what were the dwarf's exact words?" "he said we must seek for it in our own hearts," replied chloe. "that means, of course, that it must be something kind." "perhaps he meant that it must be something to do us both good," said arminel. "what is there we are equally in want of? oh! i know; suppose we wish for a good stack of fuel for the winter. that would certainly benefit us both." "it can do no harm to try," said chloe; "so i agree to the wish for a stack of fuel." arminel's eyes sparkled. "i daresay we have guessed it," she exclaimed, jumping up. "come out at once to see, chloe." but, alas! the heap of brushwood for their winter's firing, in the corner of the yard, had grown no bigger than the day before. no fresh sounds of cheerful cackling reached them from the hen-house; and strawberry stood alone in her stall. the wishes were still unfulfilled. the sisters returned to the house rather crestfallen. "what can it be?" said arminel; and this time chloe made a suggestion. "supposing we wish that the copper coins we have put aside for our christmas charities should be turned into silver," she said. "that would be a kind thought for the very poor folk we try to help a little." "as you like," said her sister; "but i doubt its being any use. we are always told that charity which costs us nothing is little worth." she was right. when they opened the little box which held the coins she spoke of, there they still were, copper as before, so this time it was no use to look outside for the new cow and hens. and all through the day they went on thinking first of one thing, then of another, without any success, so that by the evening their work had suffered from their neglect, and they went tired and dispirited to bed. the next day they were obliged to work doubly hard to make up, and one or two new ideas occurred to them which they put to the test, always, alas! with the same result. "we are wasting our time and our temper for no use," said arminel at last. "i am afraid the truth is that the dwarf was only playing us a mischievous trick." and even chloe was forced to allow that it seemed as if her sister was in the right. "we will try to forget all about it," said arminel. "it must be indeed true that having anything to do with the dwarfs only brings bad luck." but though she spoke courageously, chloe was wakened in the night by hearing her sister crying softly to herself. "poor dear arminel," thought chloe, though she took care to lie quite still as if sleeping. "i do feel for her. if i had but my hens i could soon make up to her for her disappointment." but of course as the dun cow did not come, neither did the fairy hens, and a time of really great anxiety began for the sisters. strawberry's milk dwindled daily; so did the number of eggs, till at last something very like real poverty lay before them. they were almost ashamed to go to market, so little had they to offer to their customers. never had they been so unhappy or distressed. but out of trouble often comes good. their affection for each other grew stronger, and all feelings of jealousy died away as each felt more and more sorry for her sister. "if only we had never gone near the wood," said arminel one evening when things were looking very gloomy indeed, "none of these worst troubles would have come upon us, i feel sure. i begin to believe everything that has been said about those miserable dwarfs. it is very good of you, dear chloe, not to blame me as the cause of all our misfortunes, for it was i who heard the cries in the wood and made you come with me to see what was the matter." "how could i blame you?" said chloe. "we did it together, and it was what grandmother would have wished. if we had not gone we should always have reproached ourselves for not doing a kind action, and even as things are, even supposing we are suffering from the dwarfs spitefulness, it is better to suffer with a clear conscience than to prosper with a bad one." her words comforted her sister a little. they kissed each other affectionately and went to bed, sad at heart certainly, but not altogether despondent. in the night arminel awoke. there was bright moonlight in the room, and as she glanced at her sleeping sister, she saw traces of tears on chloe's pale face. "my poor sister!" she said to herself. "she has been crying, and would not let me know it. i do not care for myself, if only dear chloe could have her hens. i could bear the disappointment about my cow. how i wish it might be so." as the thought passed through her mind, a sweet feeling of peace and satisfaction stole over her. she closed her eyes and almost immediately fell asleep, and slept soundly. very soon after this in her turn chloe awoke. she, too, sat up and looked at her sister. there was a smile on arminel's sleeping face which touched chloe almost more than the traces of tears on her own had touched her sister. "poor dear arminel," she thought. "she is dreaming, perhaps, of her dun cow. how little i should mind my own disappointment if i could see her happy. oh! i do wish she could have her cow!" and having thought this, she, too, as her sister had done, fell asleep with a feeling of peace and hopefulness such as she had not had for long. the winter sun was already some little way up on his journey when the sisters awoke the next morning, for they had slept much later than usual. arminel was the first to start up with a feeling that something pleasant had happened. "chloe!" she exclaimed. "we have overslept ourselves. and on such a bright morning, too! how can it have happened?" chloe opened her eyes and looked about her with a smile. "yes, indeed," she replied. "one could imagine it was summer time, and i have had such a good night, and such pleasant dreams." "so have i," answered her sister. "and i am so hungry!" that was scarcely to be wondered at, for they had gone almost supperless to bed, and there was little if anything in the larder for their breakfast. "i am hungry too," said chloe. "but i am afraid there isn't much for our breakfast. however, i feel in much better spirits, though i don't know why." chloe was ready a little before her sister, and hastened into the kitchen, to light the fire and prepare such food as there was. but just as arminel was turning to follow her, she was startled by a cry from chloe. "sister!" she called. "come quick! see what i have found!" she was in the larder, which served them also as a dairy. arminel hurried in. there stood chloe, her face rosy with pleasure and surprise, a basket in her hands full of beautiful large eggs of the same rich browny colour as those which had come so mysteriously the evening of the dwarfs visit. "after all," said chloe, "i believe the little man meant well by us. it must be he who has sent these eggs. oh, arminel! do let us try again to discover the secret of the third wish!" but arminel didn't seem to hear what her sister was saying. her eyes were fixed in amazement on the stone slab behind where chloe was standing. there were two large bowls filled to the brim with new milk; it was many weeks since such a sight had been seen in the cottage. "chloe," was all she could say as she pointed it out to her sister. chloe did not speak; she darted outside closely followed by arminel. the same idea had come to them both, and they were not mistaken in it. there in the cow-house, in the hitherto unused stall beside strawberry's, stood the dearest little cow you could picture to yourself, dun-coloured, sleek, and silky, as if indeed she had just come from fairyland. she turned her large soft brown eyes on arminel as the happy girl ran up to her, and gave a low soft "moo," as if to say--"you're my dear mistress. i know you will be kind to me, and in return i promise you that you shall find me the best of cows." but arminel only waited to give her one loving pat, and then hurried off to the poultry yard. there too a welcome sight awaited them. twelve beautiful white hens were pecking about, and as chloe drew near them she was greeted with clucks of welcome as the pretty creatures ran towards her. "they know they belong to you, chloe, you see," said arminel. "they are asking for their breakfast! see, what is that sack in the corner? it looks like corn for them." so it was, and in another moment chloe had thrown them out a good handful, in which her old hens were allowed to share. poor things, they had not had too much to eat just lately, and evidently the new-comers were of most amiable dispositions. all promised peace and prosperity. the sisters made their way back to their little kitchen, but though they had now eggs in plenty and new milk for their coffee they felt too excited to eat. "how can it have come about?" said arminel. "chloe, have you wished for anything without telling me?" "have you?" said chloe, in her turn. "one of us wishing alone would not have been enough. all i know is, that in the night i felt so sorry for you that i said to myself if only _your_ wish could be fulfilled i would give up my own." "how strange!" exclaimed arminel; "the very same thing happened to me. i woke up and saw traces of tears on your face, and the thought went through me that if _your_ wish could come to pass, i should be content." "then we have found the secret," said chloe. "each of us was to forget herself for the sake of the other; and the dwarf has indeed been a good friend." it would be difficult to describe the happiness that now reigned in the cottage, or the pride with which the sisters set off to market the next time with their well-filled baskets. and all through the winter it was the same. never did the little cow's milk fail, nor the number of eggs fall off, so that the sisters became quite famous in the neighbourhood for always having a supply of butter, poultry, and eggs of the best quality. one evening, when the spring-time had come round again, the sisters were strolling in the outskirts of the forest, everything was looking calm and peaceful--the ground covered with the early wood-flowers, the little birds twittering softly before they settled to roost for the night. "how sweet it is here," said arminel. "i never feel now as if i could be the least afraid of the forest, nor of a whole army of dwarfs if we met them." "i wish we could meet our dwarf," said chloe. "i would love to thank him for all the happiness he has given us." this was a wish they had often expressed before. "somehow," said arminel, "i have an idea that the dwarfs no longer inhabit the forest. everything seems so much brighter and less gloomy than it used to do here. besides, if our friend were still anywhere near, i cannot help thinking we should have seen him." as she said the words, they heard a rustling beside them. where they stood there was a good deal of undergrowth, and for a moment or two they saw nothing, though the sound continued. then suddenly a little figure emerged from among the trees and stood before them. it was their friend the dwarf. at first sight he looked much the same as when they had last seen him; but the moment he began to speak they felt there was a difference. his voice was soft and mellow, instead of harsh and croaking; his brown eyes had lost the hunted, suspicious look which had helped to give him such a miserable expression. "i am pleased that you have wished to see me again," he said, kindly. "oh yes, indeed!" the sisters exclaimed; "we can never thank you enough for the happiness you have given us." "you have yourselves to thank for it as much as me, my children," said the little man; "and in discovering the secret which has brought you prosperity, you have done for others also what you had no idea of. the spell under which i and my comrades have suffered so long is broken, now that one of us has been able to be of real and lasting benefit to some beings of the race who, ages ago, were the victims of our cruelty. we are now leaving the forest for ever. no longer need the young men and maidens shrink from strolling under these ancient trees, or the little children start away in terror from every rustle among the leaves for fear of seeing one of us." "are you going to be giants again?" said arminel, curiously. the dwarf smiled. "that i cannot tell you," he said, as he shook his head; "and what does it matter? in some far-off land we shall again be happy, for we shall have learnt our lesson." and before the sisters had time to speak, he had disappeared; only the same little rustle among the bushes was to be heard for a moment or two. then all was silent, till a faint "tu-whit--" from an owl waking up in the distance, and the first glimmer of the moonlight among the branches, warned arminel and chloe that it was time for them to be turning homewards. chapter seven. the summer princess. all was silent too in the little kitchen as the old woman's voice died away and the click of her knitting-needles ceased. alix was the first to speak. "that was a lovely story," she said approvingly. "it will give rafe and me a lot to talk about. it is so interesting to think what we would wish for if we had the chance." "i'm afraid you mustn't stay with me any longer to talk about it to-day," said the old woman. "it is quite--time--for you--to go home;" and somehow her voice seemed to grow into a sort of singing, and the needles began to click again, though very faintly, as if heard from some way off. what was the matter? alix felt as if she were going to sleep. she rubbed her eyes, but rafe's voice speaking to her quite clearly and distinctly woke her up again. "alix," he was saying, "don't you see where we are?" and glancing up, she found that she and her brother were sitting on a moss-grown stone in the old garden, not very far from the gate by which the wren had invited them to enter. it was growing towards evening. already the "going to bed" feeling seemed about in the air. the birds' voices came softly; a little chill evening breeze made the children shiver slightly, though it only meant to wish them "good-night." "it feels like the end of the story," said alix. "let's go home, rafe." this was how the next story came to be told. the days had passed happily for rafe and alix; the weather had been very fine and mild, and they had played a great deal in the old garden, which grew lovelier every day. "i hardly feel as if we had anything to wish for just now," said alix, one afternoon, when, tired with playing, she and her brother were resting for a little while on the remains of a rustic bench which they had found in a corner under the trees. "we've been so happy lately, rafe; haven't we? ever since that day!" somehow they had not talked very much to each other of their visit to the old caretaker; but now and then they had amused themselves by planning what they would have wished for had they come across a dwarf with magic power. rafe did not answer for a moment. he was looking up, high up among the branches. "hush," he said, in a half whisper. "do you hear that bird, alix? i never heard a note like it before." "two notes," said alix, in the same low voice. "it's two birds talking to each other, i feel certain." "it does sound like it," said rafe. "oh, i say, alix, wouldn't you like to understand what they're saying?" "yes," said his sister. "i do wish we could. there must be some sense in it. it sounds so real and--look, rafe," she went on, "they're coming nearer us;" and so they were. still chirping, the birds flew downwards till they lighted on a branch not very far above the children's heads. suddenly alix caught hold of rafe's arm. "be quite, quite still," she whispered. "i have an idea that if we listen very carefully we can make sense of what they're saying." she almost held her breath, so eager was she; and rafe, too, sat perfectly motionless. and alix was not mistaken. after a while the birds' chirps took shape to the children's ears. bit by bit the "tweet, tweet" varied and changed, like a voice heard in the distance, which, as it draws nearer, grows from a murmur into syllables and words. one bird was answering the other; in fact, there was a lively discussion going on between them. "no, no," said the first. "i tell you it is my turn to begin, brother. i have my story quite ready, just as i heard it down there in the sunny lands from one of my companions, and i must tell it at once before i forget it." "mine is ready too," replied the other bird. "at least almost. i have just to--think over a few little points, and i am just as anxious as you to amuse the dear children. however, it would be setting them a bad example if we began to quarrel about it, so i will give in. i will fly to a higher branch to meditate a little undisturbed, while you can hop lower still and attract their attention." alix and rafe looked at each other with a smile as the little fellow fluttered downwards and alighted on a branch still nearer them. there he flapped his wings and cleared his throat. "cheep, cheep," he began. at least that is what it would have sounded to any one else, but the children knew it meant "good-afternoon." "thank you," they said. that was not exactly a reply to "good-afternoon," certainly; but they meant to thank him for his kind intentions. "oh, so you know all about it, i see," said the bird. "if you do not mind, i should prefer your making no further observations. it interrupts the thread of my narration." the children were perfectly silent. one has to be very careful, you see, when a bird is telling a story; you can't catch hold of him and push him back into the arm-chair, as if he was a big person to be coaxed into entertaining you. "the title of my story," began the bird, "is `the summer princess,'" and again he cleared his throat. once upon a time, in a country far to the north of the world, lived a king and a queen, who had everything they could wish for except an heir to their throne. when i say they had everything they could wish for, that does not mean they had no troubles at all. the queen thought she had a good many; and the king had one which was more real than any of her fancied ones. he had a wife who was a terrible grumbler. she was a grumbler by nature, and besides this she had been a spoilt child. as she was very beautiful and could be very sweet and charming when in a contented mood, the king had fallen deeply in love with her when he was on his travels round the world, and had persuaded her to leave her own home in the sunny south to accompany him to his northern kingdom. there she had much to make her happy. her husband was devoted to her, and while the first bright summer lasted, she almost forgot to grumble, but when the winter came, fierce and boisterous as it always is in those lands, she grew very miserable. she shivered with the cold and instead of bracing herself to bear it, she wrapped herself in her furs and sat from morning till night cowering over a huge fire. in vain the king endeavoured to persuade her to go out with him in his beautiful sledge drawn by the fleetest reindeer, or to make one in the merry skating parties which were the great amusement of his court. "no, no," she cried fretfully. "it would kill me to do anything of the kind." and though she brightened up as each summer came round, with the return of each winter it was again the same sad story. as the years passed on another and more real trouble came upon the discontented young queen. she had no children. she longed so grievously to have a little baby that sometimes she almost forgot her other causes for complaint and left off looking out for the signs of the winter's approach in the melancholy way she was wont to do. so that one day late in the autumn she actually forgot her terror of the cold so far as to remain out walking in the grounds of the palace, though the snow clouds were gathering thick and heavy overhead. she was alone. for sometimes in her saddest moods she could bear no one, not even the most faithful of her ladies, near her. "if only i had a little baby, a dear little baby of my own, i would never complain of anything again." no doubt she quite meant what she said. and i must say if her only complaints had been of the cold northern winter, i could indeed find it in my heart to pity her--not that i have any experience of them myself (and the bird gave a little shiver), but i can imagine how terrible they must be. indeed the friend from whom i have this story has often described his sufferings to me, one year when he was belated in the north, owing to an injured wing. that is how he came to know the story. as the queen uttered her wish, she raised her eyes upwards, and was startled to see some snowflakes already falling; she turned to hasten indoors, exclaiming as she went: "to think that winter is upon us already; i shall no longer have even the small pleasure of a stroll in the garden. but if i had a little baby to play with and care for, even the dreary winter would not seem long. everything would be bright and sunshiny to me." "are you sure of that?" said a voice beside her, and glancing up the queen saw a lovely figure. it was that of a beautiful woman, with golden hair wreathed with flowers. but her face was somewhat pale and she drew round her a mantle of russet brown as if to protect her from the cold. "i am the spirit of the summer," she said. "i knew you well in your childhood in the south, and here too i have watched you, though you did not know it. your wish shall be fulfilled. when i return to my northern home, i will bring you the child you are longing for. but remember, the gift will lead to no lasting happiness unless you overcome your habit of discontent. for i can only do my part. my brother, the powerful spirit of the winter, though good and true and faithful, is stern and severe. he has heard your murmurings already, and if, when your great wish is granted, you still continue them, i tremble for the fate of your child." the queen could hardly speak, so overcome was she with delight. "thank you, oh, thank you, sweet spirit," she said. "i will indeed take heed for the future and never murmur again." "i trust so," replied the fairy, "for listen what will happen if you forget your resolution. the slightest touch of snow would, in that case, put the baby into my stern brother's power, and you would find yourself terribly punished. beware, therefore! now i must hasten away. i have lingered too long this year, and though my brother and i work together and trust each other, he brooks no interference." and as she said this, the gracious figure seemed to disappear in a rosy haze, and almost at the same moment a cold blast, driving the snowflakes before it, came with a rush from behind where the young queen stood, almost lifting her from her feet. "that must surely be the spirit of the winter himself," she thought as she hurried indoors. but her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. it was whispered in the palace that evening that for the first time the young queen had the brave and fearless air of a true daughter of the north. and that winter was far the happiest that the king and his wife had yet spent. scarce a murmur was heard to escape from the queen's lips, and in her anxiety to win the good-will of the winter spirit, she often went out sleighing and joined in the other amusements which hitherto she had refused to take any part in during the cold season. more than once, even, she was heard to express admiration of the snow-covered mountains, or of the wonderful northern sunsets and clear star-bespangled skies. nevertheless, the return of the warm and sunny days was watched for by her most eagerly. and the summer spirit was true to her promise. on the loveliest morning of all that year was born a baby princess, the prettiest baby that ever was seen, with dark-blue eyes and little golden curls all over her head. "a true child of the summer," said the happy queen. "and strong to brave and enjoy the winter too, i trust," added the king. "she must be a true princess of the north, as her mother is fast becoming, i hope," he went on with a smile. but his words did not please the queen, though they were so kindly meant. with the possession of the baby, though she was so overjoyed to have her, the young queen's wayward and dissatisfied spirit began to return. she seemed to think the princess was to be only hers, that the nation and even the king, who naturally felt they had a share in her, must give way, in everything that concerned the child, to its mother's will. she was even displeased one day when she overheard some of her ladies admiring the beautiful colour of the baby's hair and saying that it showed her a true daughter of the north. "no such thing," said the queen. "it shows her a child of the sunshine and the summer. my sweet rose!" for so, to please the queen, the baby had been named. on the whole, however, while the summer lasted the queen was too happy with her baby to give way to any real murmuring, and once or twice when she might perhaps have done so, there was wafted to her by the breeze the sound of a gentle "beware!" and she knew that the summer fairy was near. so for the first winter of the baby's life she was on her guard, and nothing went wrong, except now and then when the king reproached his wife with overcare of the child when the weather was at all severe. "do you wish to kill her?" the queen would reply, angrily. "i wish to make her brave and hardy, like all the daughters of our race," replied the king. but not wishing to distress his wife, he said no more, reflecting that it would be time enough when the little girl could walk and run to accustom her to the keen and bracing air of the northern winter. but in some strange, mysterious way, the princess, baby though she was, seemed to understand what her father felt about her. it was noticed that before she could speak at all, she would dance in her nurse's arms and stretch out her little hands with glee at the sight of the snowflakes falling steadily. and once or twice when a draught of the frosty air blew upon her she laughed with delight, instead of shrinking or shivering. but so well were the queen's feelings understood that no one ventured to tell her of these clear signs that little rose felt herself at home in the land of the snow. chapter eight. the summer princess--continued. the winter passed and the summer came again--the second summer of the baby's life. she had grown like the flowers, and was as happy as the butterflies. never was a sweeter or a merrier child. the queen idolised her, and the king loved her quite as dearly, though in a wiser way. and that summer passed very happily. unfortunately, however, the warm fine days came to an end unusually early that year. many of the birds took flight for the south sooner than their wont, and the flowers drooped and withered as if afraid of what was coming. the queen noticed these signs with a sinking heart. standing one chilly morning at the palace windows, she watched the grey autumn sky and sighed deeply. "alas, alas!" she said. "all the beauty and brightness are going again." she did not know that the king had entered the room, and was standing behind her. "nay," he said, cheerfully. "you have no reason to feel so sad. if you have no other flower you have our little rose, blooming as brightly in the winter as in the warmth." he meant it well, but it would have been wiser if he had said nothing. the queen turned towards him impatiently. "it is not so," she said angrily. "rose is like me. she loves the summer and the sunshine! i do not believe she would live through your wretched northern winters but for my incessant care and constant watchfulness. and the anxiety is too much for me; it will wear me to death before she is grown up. indeed there are times when i almost regret that she ever was born. the life in this country is but half a life. would that i had known it before i ever came hither." it was rarely, discontented and complaining though she was, that the queen had so yielded to her temper. the king was deeply hurt and disappointed, and he left the room without speaking. he was generally so kind and patient that this startled her, and brought her to her senses. "how wrong of me to grieve him so by my wild words," she thought, penitently. "and--" a sudden horror came over her. what had she been saying? what had she done? and the fairy's warning returned to her memory: "if you forget your resolution, the slightest touch of snow will put the baby into my stern brother's power, and you will find yourself terribly punished." the poor queen shivered. already to her excited fancy, as she glanced at the sky, it seemed that the lurid grey which betokened snow was coming over it. "oh, sweet summer spirit!" she cried; "forgive me and plead for me." but a melancholy wail from the cold wind blowing through the trees in the grounds of the palace was the only reply; the summer fairy was far away. the sky cleared again later that day, and for some short time the cold did not increase. but it would be difficult to describe what the queen went through. it was useless to hope that the winter would pass without snow; for, so far north, such a thing had never been known. still, no doubt, its coming appeared to be delayed, and the weather prophets felt somewhat at fault. the queen began to breathe rather more freely again, in the hope that possibly her appeal to the summer spirit had, after all, been heard. every one had noticed her pale and anxious looks; every one had noticed also how very gentle and uncomplaining she had become. she was so eager to make all the amends she could, that one day, when the king remarked that he thought it very wrong for the princess to be so guarded from the open air as she had been lately, the queen, though with fear and trembling, gave orders that the baby should be taken out. "i will accompany her myself," she said to the attendants; so the little princess was wrapped up in her costly furs and placed in her tiny chariot drawn by goats, the queen walking beside her. the little girl laughed with delight, and chattered in her baby way about everything she saw. she seemed like a little prisoner suddenly set at liberty; for the last few weeks had been spent by the poor little thing in rooms specially prepared, where no breath of the outer air could find its way in. "for who knows," thought the queen, "how some tiny flake of snow might be wafted down the chimney, or through the slightest chink of the window." to-day, in spite of her anxiety, the baby's happy face made her mother's heart feel lighter. "surely," she said to herself, "it must be a sign that i am forgiven, and that all will yet be well." and to please her little daughter she took her farther than she had intended, even entering a little way into a pine wood skirting the palace grounds at one side, a favourite resort of hers in the summer. the princess's nurse picked up some fir-cones and gave them to the little girl, who threw them about in glee and called out for more. they were all so busy playing with her that they did not notice how, above the heads of the tall fir-trees, the sky was growing dark and overcast, till suddenly a strange, chill blast made the queen gather her mantle round her and gaze up in alarm. "we must hasten home," she said; "it is growing so cold." "yes, indeed," said one of the ladies; "it almost looks like--" but the queen interrupted her; she could not bear even the mention of the fatal word. "wrap up the princess!" she exclaimed. "cover her over, face and all! never mind if she cries! my darling, we shall be home directly. the cold wind would hurt you," added she to the little girl. then they hurried back to the palace as quickly as the goats could be persuaded to go, even the queen herself running fast to keep up with the little carriage. they were within a short distance of the palace before any snow fell, though it was clear to be seen that it was not far off; and the queen was beginning to breathe again more freely, when suddenly princess rose, who had behaved beautifully till now, with a cry of baby mischief, pushed away the shawl that was over her face, shouting with glee. at that very moment the first fluttering snowflakes began to fall. the little princess opened wide her eyes as she caught sight of them, and smiled as if in greeting; and alas! before the terrified queen had time to replace the covering the child had thrown off, one solitary flake alighted on her cheek, melting there into a tiny drop which looked like a tear, though still the little princess smiled. the queen seized the child in her arms, and, though her heart had almost ceased beating with terror, rushed up the long flights of steps, all through the great halls and corridors like a mad creature, nor stopped even to draw breath till she had reached the princess's apartments, and had her safe in the rooms specially prepared for her during the winter. but was she safe? was it not already too late? with trembling dread the queen drew away the furs and shawls wrapped round the baby, almost expecting to find her changed in some strange way, perhaps even dead; and it was with thankfulness that she saw that little rose was still herself--sweet and smiling in her sleep. for she was fast asleep. "the darling, the precious angel," thought the poor mother as she laid her in her little cot, just as the ladies, and nurses, and all the attendants came trooping into the room. "she is only asleep," said the queen, in a whisper. "nothing has happened to her--she is sleeping sweetly." the ladies stared--the queen's behaviour had been so strange they could not understand her. "it is a pity to be so anxious about the child," they said to each other. "it will bring no blessing," for they thought it all came from the queen's foolish terror lest the little princess should catch cold, and they shook their heads. but the queen seemed full of thankfulness, very gentle, and subdued. many times that afternoon she came back to see if little rose was well-- the baby looked a picture of health, but--she was still sleeping. "the fresh keen air has made her drowsy, i suppose," said the head nurse, late in the evening when the queen returned again. "and she has had nothing to eat since the middle of the day," said the mother, anxiously. "i almost think if she does not wake of herself in an hour or so, you will have to rouse her." to this the nurse agreed. but two hours later, on the queen's next visit to the nursery, there was a strange report to give her. the nurse had tried to wake the baby, but it was all in vain. little rose just smiled sweetly and rolled over on her other side, without attempting in the least to open her eyes. it seemed cruel to disturb her. she was so very sleepy. "i think we must let the princess have her sleep out--children are like that sometimes," said the nurse. and the queen was forced to agree to it, though she had a strange sinking at the heart, and even the king when he came to look at his little daughter felt uneasy, though he tried to speak cheerfully. "no doubt she will awake in the morning quite bright and merry," he said,--"all the brighter and merrier for sleeping a good round and a half of the clock." the morning dawned--the slow-coming winter daylight of the north found its way into the princess's nursery through the one thickly glazed window--a tiny gleam of ruddy sunshine even managed to creep in to kiss her dimpled cheek, but still the baby slept--as soundly as if the night was only beginning. and matters grew serious. it was no use trying to wake her. they all did their best--king, queen, ladies, nurses; and after them the great court physicians and learned men of every kind. all were summoned and all consulted, and as the days went on, a hundred different things were tried. they held the strongest smelling salts to her poor little nostrils; the baby only drew up her small nose the least bit in the world and turned over again with a tiny snore. they rang the bells, they had the loudest german bands to be found far or near to play all at once in her room; they fetched all the pet dogs in the neighbourhood and set them snarling and snapping at each other close beside her; as a last resource they lifted her out of bed and plunged her into a cold bath--she did not even shiver! and with tears rolling down their faces, the queen and the ladies and the nurses wrapped her up again and put her back cosily to bed, where she seemed as contented as ever, while they all sat down together to have a good cry, which, sad to say, was of no use at all. "she is bewitched," said the cleverest of all the doctors, and as time went on, everybody began to agree with him. even the king himself was obliged to think something of the kind must be at the bottom of it, and at last one day the queen, unable to endure her remorse any longer, told him the whole story, entreating him to forgive her for having by her discontent and murmuring brought upon him so great a sorrow. the king was very kind but very grave. "i understand it now," he said. "the summer fairy told you true. our northern winter spirit is indeed stern and implacable; we must submit-- if we are patient and resigned it is possible that in the future even his cold heart may be melted by the sight of our suffering." "it is only i who deserve it," wept the poor queen. "the worst part of it all is to know that i have brought this sorrow upon you, my dear husband." and so repentant was she that she almost forgot to think of herself-- never had she been so sweet and loving a wife. she did everything she possibly could to please and cheer the king, concealing from him the many bitter tears she shed as she sat for hours together beside the sleeping child. the winter was terribly severe--never had the snow lain more thickly, never had the wind-blasts raged and howled more furiously. often did the queen think to herself that the storm spirits must be infuriated at her very presence in their special domain. "they might pity me now," she thought, "now that i am so punished;" but she bore all the winter cold and terrors uncomplainingly, nay, even cheerfully, nerving herself to go out alone in the bitterest weather with a sort of hope of pleasing the winter fairy; possibly if she could but see him, of making an appeal to him. but for many months he held his icy sway--often indeed it seemed as if gentler times were never to return. then suddenly one night the frost went; a mild soft breeze replaced the fierce blast; spring had come. and wonderful to relate, the very next morning the queen was roused by loud knockings and voices at her door; trembling, she knew not why, she opened it; and the head nurse fell at her feet laughing and crying at once. the princess had awakened! yes; there she was, chattering in her baby way, smiling and rosy, as if nothing had been the matter. she held out her arms to her mother, calling "mamma," in the most delightful way; she knew her father again quite well; she was very hungry for her breakfast. oh! the joy of her parents, and the jubilation all through the palace! i could not describe it. and all through the summer little rose was wide awake, in the day-time that is to say, just like other children. she was as well and strong and happy as a baby could be. but--the summer will not last for ever; again returned the autumn bringing with it the signs of the approaching winter, and one morning when her nurse went to awaken the princess, she found it was no use--rose was sleeping again, with a smile on her face, calm and content, but alas! not to be awakened! and then it was remembered that the first snow had fallen during the night. more to satisfy the queen than with the hope of its doing any good, all the efforts of the year before were repeated, but with no success. and gradually the child's distressed parents resigned themselves to the sad truth: their daughter was to be theirs only for half her life; for full six months out of every twelve, she was to be in a sense as far away from them as if the winter monarch had carried her off to his palace of ice altogether. but no; it was not quite so bad as that would have been. and the queen, who was fast learning to count her blessings instead of her troubles, smiled through her tears as she said to the king what a mercy it was that they were still able to watch beside their precious child--to kiss her soft warm cheek every morning and every night. and so it went on. in the spring the princess woke up again, bright and well and lively, and in every way six months older than when she had fallen asleep; so that, to see her in the summer time, no one could have guessed the strange spell that was over her. she became the sweetest and most charming girl in the world; only one thing ever saddened her, and that was any mention of the winter, especially of snow. "what does it mean?" she would ask sometimes. "what are they talking of? show me this wonderful thing! where does it grow? i want to see it." but no one could make her understand; and at these times a very strange look would come into her blue eyes. "i must see it," she said. "some day i shall go away and travel far, far, till i find it." these words used to distress her mother more, than she could say; and she would shower presents and treasures on her daughter, of flowers and singing-birds, and lovely embroidered dresses--all to make her think of the sunshine and the summer. and for the time they would please the girl, till again she shook her head and murmured--"i want the snow." so the years followed each other, till rose was sixteen. every winter the queen had a faint hope, which, however, grew ever fainter and fainter, that the spell was perhaps to be broken. but it was not so. and strange stories got about concerning the princess--some saying she was a witch in disguise; others that she had no heart or understanding; others that she turned into a bird or some animal during half her life-- so that the neighbouring princes, in spite of her beauty and sweetness, were afraid to ask her in marriage. and this brought new sorrow to her parents. for she was their only child. "what will become of her after we are dead and gone?" they said. "who will care for and protect our darling? who will help her to rule over our nation? no people will remain faithful to a sovereign who is only awake half the year. there will be revolts and rebellion, and our angel rose may perhaps be put to death, or driven away." and they fretted so over this, that the hair of both king and queen grew white long before its time. but rose only loved them the more on this account, for she had heard some one say that white hair was like snow; though she kept the fancy to herself, for she knew it troubled the queen if ever she mentioned the strange, mysterious word. she was so lovely that painters came from many countries just to see her face, and, if possible, be allowed to make a picture of her. and one of these portraits found its way to the court of a king who was a distant cousin of her father, and who had heard the strange things said of the princess. he was very angry about it, for he had two sons, and he was afraid of their falling in love with the beautiful face. so he ordered the picture to be destroyed before the elder prince, who was away on a visit, came home. but the servant who was to burn the picture thought it such a pity to do so, that he only hid it away in a lumber-room; and thither, as fate would have it, came the younger prince one day in search of a pet kitten of his sister's which had strayed away; for he was a prince of a most kind and amiable nature. the moment he saw the picture he fell in love with it. he made inquiry, and heard all there was to tell. then he arrayed himself for a journey, and came to bid his father farewell. "i go," he said, "to woo the princess rose for my bride." and in spite of all the king could say he kept firm. "if she is a witch," he said, "i would rather perish by her hands than live with any other." and amidst tears and lamentations he set out. he was received with great delight at the court of princess rose's parents, though he came without any pomp or display; for he lost no time in telling the king and queen the reason of his visit. knowing him to be a prince of most estimable character, they were overjoyed to hear of his resolve. "i only trust," said the queen, "that all may go well. but, as you have doubtless heard, our darling child, despite her beauty and goodness, is under a strange spell." she then proceeded to tell him the whole matter, of which he had already heard garbled accounts. he was relieved to find that the enchantment was of no worse a nature, and declared that it made no difference in his intentions, but rather increased his love for the princess. and when he first set eyes on her (more beautiful by far than even the beautiful portrait), he felt that his whole life would not be too much to devote to her, even considering her strange affliction. "and who knows," he said to himself, "but that such love as mine may find out a way to release her from the spell?" the princess quickly learned to like him. she had never before had a companion so near her own age, and the last days of the summer passed most happily, till the time came when the prince thought he might venture to ask her to be his wife. they were walking on the terrace in front of the castle when he did so. it had been a lovely day, but the afternoon had grown chilly; and as the princess listened to his words, a cold breath of wind passed near them. the princess started; and, aware of the queen's anxiety about her, the prince hastily proposed that they should return to the house; but rose looked at him with a light in her eyes which he had never before seen, and a strange smile broke over her face. "it is new life to me," she said. "can you not understand, you who are yourself a child of the north? yes, prince, i will marry you on one condition, that you will show me the snow--but on no other." then she turned, and, without another word, walked slowly back to the palace. prince orso, for so he was called, felt terribly distressed. "the spell is upon her," he thought to himself. "she asks me to do what would probably kill her, or separate her for ever from all who love her." and the king and queen, when they heard his story, were nearly as disappointed as he. but that very night the prince had a strange dream. he thought he was walking in the wood near the castle, when again a chill blast, but still more icy, swept past him, and he heard a voice speaking to him. it sounded hoarse and stern. "orso," it said, "you're as foolish as the rest. have you no trust? see what came of rebellion against me, who, after all, love my many children as dearly as does my sister of the summer. leave the princess to the leadings of her own heart, and dare not to interfere." then with a crash as of thunder the spirit went on his way. and the prince awoke to find that the window of his room had been dashed in by the force of a sudden gale which had arisen. but the next morning all was again calm. it almost seemed as if the milder weather was returning again; and the queen looked brighter; but it was not so with the princess, who was silent and almost sad. and so things continued for some days. at last the prince could bear it no longer. one afternoon when he found himself alone with the princess, he turned to her suddenly. "princess," he said, "can you not give me another answer? you must know that i would fain promise anything you wish; but i dare not bind myself to what might perhaps do you some injury." rose turned towards him impatiently. "that is just it," she said. "i am always met by excuses when i ask for the one thing i really desire. what is there about me different from others? why should i so often hear of what others seem to understand, and not have it explained to me? i am no longer a child; in my dreams i see things i cannot put in words; and beautiful as the world is, i feel that i only half know it. i long for what they call the winter, and what they call the snow, and they never come. only the cold wind, which i have felt once or twice, brings new life to me, and fills me with strange joy." the prince hesitated. he understood her perfectly, for he was himself of the same brave and hardy race. yet the queen's forebodings made him tremble. the princess's words reminded him of his own dream; and again he felt as if he heard the voice of the stern winter spirit. and as if in answer to his uncertainty, at that moment the howl of the cold blast sounded near them among the trees, and lurid clouds began to gather overhead. the princess's face lighted up. "ah," she exclaimed, "it is coming again!" "i fear so indeed," said orso; and in his terror for her he caught her hand and would have hurried her back to the palace. but at that moment a shrill little cry was heard overhead not far from where they stood, and glancing up they saw a bird of prey clutching a smaller one in his claws. with a terrible effort the captive managed to free himself, but he was sadly wounded; and as rose gazed upwards in great concern, she saw him fall fluttering feebly to the ground. all else was forgotten in the sight. "poor bird," she cried. "let me go, prince; i must find him where he has fallen, or a cruel death of slow suffering will be his." the prince loosed her hand; he dared not hold her back, though he could have done so. "leave her to the guidings of her own heart," resounded in his ears. almost at once she was lost to his sight among the trees which grew very closely; almost at the same moment, to his horror, something cold and soft touched his face, and lifting his eyes, he saw that the snowflakes were falling thickly. if harm was to betide, it was too late to save her; but he pressed forward in unspeakable anxiety. it was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. it was the princess's robe; and there, indeed, she lay motionless--her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands. and now i may tell you that this wounded bird was the friend from whom i had the story; for, as you will hear, he had plenty of opportunity of learning it all. orso threw himself on the ground beside the princess. "ah," he exclaimed, "my carelessness has killed her. how can i ever dare to face the king and queen? oh! winter spirit, you have indeed deceived me." but as he said the words the princess opened her eyes. "no, prince," she said. "i am not dead. i am not even asleep. it was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and i must have sunk down without knowing. but now i feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that i have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country, now that i have breathed the winter air i have been longing for always," and she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her. "orso," she went on, half shyly, "you have done what i asked you; through you i have seen the snow," and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it. the prince was overjoyed, but he hesitated. "i fear," he said, "that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart." "poor little bird," she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. "it is not dead. i will do all i can for it! let us hasten home, prince, so that i may bind up its poor wing. my father and mother too will be anxious about me." and together they returned to the palace. one glance at the princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the queen that the spell was at last broken. and her joy was past all words. my friend recovered slowly. he spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the princess rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. he pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and tells me that in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far northern land. "thank you," said the children, "thank you, oh so much!" but whether the bird heard them or not they could not tell--he had already flown away. chapter nine. the christmas surprise. for some days the story of the bewitched princess gave rafe and alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds. besides, by this time the easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. the children had not _too_ many lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. so some hours of every day--of every fine day at least--were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them--knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole. it would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. but fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. there was something that brought good luck with it about the lady wood grounds. no ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhaps _that_ had a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles. they were growing "quite to be trusted," nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which--next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since alix--her heart delighted. so the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody. but after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. there was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. and at last they came to the conclusion that if mrs caretaker didn't want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if she _did_, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them. "unless, of course," said alix, "she has gone. perhaps she's like the birds, you know--only turned the other way. i mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she's started everything, and all the plants and things _are_ growing beautifully now, in their wild way. you see she's not like a regular trim gardener--she doesn't want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere." "still she must take great care of them somehow," said rafe thoughtfully, "for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. and the birds--it's always here the nightingales are heard the best." alix looked up. they were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees. "if we'd had any sense," she said, "we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here." the mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed. "rafe," she went on, "do you know i've seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in a _talking_ sort of way. i forgot to tell you. i wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there were _two_ birds that wanted to tell us stories." "per--" began rafe in his slow fashion. but before he had time to get to "haps" his sister caught hold of his arm. "hush!" she whispered, "there he is." yes, there he was, and "he" _was_ a robin. he hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp. "i believe," said alix, still in a whisper, "i believe he wants us to speak to him." "try," replied rafe. "robin," said alix, clearly though softly, "robin, have you come to see us? have you got a message for us from mrs caretaker, perhaps?" the bird looked at her reproachfully. i don't know that she could see it was _reproachfully_, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased. then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. to tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined rafe and alix were asleep. for there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood--alix's head resting on her brother's shoulder, and his arm thrown round her--_quite_ motionless. but they weren't asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them. "so you had forgotten all about me," in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. "i gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. i suppose you don't care to hear mine." "oh, dear robin, of course we do," said alix. "but you see we didn't understand." "i've been following you about all these days. i'm sure you might have seen me, and i've been asking you over and over again if you didn't want to listen." "but you see, dear robin, we couldn't understand what you said. it takes a good while to get used to--to your way of speaking, you know," said alix. she was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more. "i am afraid that is not the real reason. you think a robin's story is sure to be stupid. you see i am not one of those fine travelled fellows--the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them--who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. i'm only a home bird. here i was hatched and here i have lived, and mean to live till i die. it's quite true that my story is a very stupid one. i've made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and i've never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect." he seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been. "please begin," said rafe. "i'm sure we shall like your story. we don't want always to hear the same kind." the robin cleared his throat. "such as it is," he began, "i can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. i didn't `have it' from any one else. and in my own mind i have given it the name of `the christmas surprise.'" and after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on. "i have often noticed," he began, "that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. this applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. there is a great charm about absence. in the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with christmas. i am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn't think it. and of all birds, i think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. we really love christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season--how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. and except by _very_ thoughtless people we are generally cared for well. during a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. i myself," and here he plumed himself importantly, "i myself have been most fortunate in this respect. there are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of ladywood where i am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs." "but," began alix, rather timidly, "please don't mind my interrupting you, but doesn't mrs caretaker look after you? i thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden." "exactly so, exactly so," said the robin, hastily, "far be it from me to make any complaint. i would not change my home for the garden of a palace. but, as i have said, i think we robins have much sympathy with your race. human beings interest me extremely. i like to study their characters. so i go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus i know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. thus comes it that i have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. well, as i was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, i daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to christmas time. most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. the christmas of which i am going to tell you was what is called an `old-fashioned one,'--though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again--ah, it _was_ cold! i was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers i did shiver, i can tell you. still i enjoyed it; i was strong and hearty, and i began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window. "there was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. it had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and i often regretted that it was not inhabited. for the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. and one morning our wishes were fulfilled. i met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement. "`the manor house is open again,' he told me. `come quickly. through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry christmas. no doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.' "i flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. the house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. we--for several of us were there--hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. so one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. but i remained behind; i was not very busy, being a young bird, and i felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for i am of what some people call a `curious' disposition; i myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful. "i perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. there were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. after a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out. "oh, how cold it is," said one of them shivering, "i wish papa and mamma had not come back to england. i liked india much better." "so did i," said the other little girl. "i don't want to go a walk when it's so cold. need we go, miss meadows? and yet i don't know what to do in the house. i'm tired of all our toys. we shall have new ones next week when christmas day comes; that's a good thing." the young lady they called miss meadows looked rather troubled. in her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long. "i don't care much for christmas except for the toys," said the first little girl. "do you, miss meadows?" "yes, indeed i do, norna dear," she said. "and i think in your heart you really care for it too--and ivy also. you both know _why_ it should be so cared for." "oh, yes; in that sort of a way, i know it would be naughty not to care for it," said norna, looking a little ashamed. "but it's different when you've lived in england, i suppose. mamma has told us stories of christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice--all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. but we haven't any cousins to play with. had you, miss meadows, at your own home?" miss meadows' eyes looked rather odd for a moment. she turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again. "i had lots of brothers and sisters," she said, "and that's even better than cousins." it was her first christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with norna and ivy. "i wish we had!" sighed norna, who always wanted what she had not got. "but surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up," said miss meadows. "perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?" "no," sighed ivy. "mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. it's rubbish giving each other presents just to say they're presents." "yes," said miss meadows. "i think it is. but--" she said no more, for just then ivy touched her, and whispered softly,-- "i do believe there's a real little robin redbreast. don't let's frighten him away." the child's eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different. "it's the first _real_ one we've ever seen," said she and norna together. "poor little man!" said their governess; "he must be hungry to be so tame. let us throw crumbs every morning, children. i am sure your mamma won't mind. this terrace is a splendid place." the idea pleased them mightily. i hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when i came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. so i flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. the window was still open, and i heard some words that miss meadows murmured to herself: "i wish i could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first christmas," she said. "they would be so much happier, poor little things! dear robin, i am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs." she looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and i wished i could help her. and at that moment an idea struck me. you will soon hear what it was. i had another visit to pay that morning; indeed i had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the manor house attracted me thither. but now i flew off, to the little home where i was always welcome. it was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. in this cottage lived a couple and their two children--a boy and a girl. they had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. but now, alas! things had changed for the worse. a bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. i made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. but this morning--not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the manor house--there were none; and as i alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. no fire was lighted; the two children, jem and joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. they looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little. "there's robin," said joyce. "poor robin! we've nothing for you this morning." a small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so i could hear what they said. "no indeed," said jem; "we've had nothing ourselves--not since yesterday at dinner time. and it is so cold." i stood still on one leg, and chirped that i was very sorry. i think they understood me. "mother's gone to farmer bantry's," said joyce, as if she was glad to have some one--"even a bird," some folk who know precious little about us would say--to tell her troubles to. "they're cleanin' up for christmas, and she'll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. so we're tryin' to go to sleep again to make the time pass." "there was two sixpences yesterday," said jem, mournfully; "and one would 'a got some coal, and t'other some bread and tea. but the doctor said as father must have somefin'--" (jem was only five and joyce eight)--"queer stuff--i forget the name--to wunst. so mother she went to the shop, and father's got the stuff, and he's asleep; but we've not had nuffin'." "and christmas is coming next week, mother says," joyce added. "last christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner." i was sadly grieved for them. joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. but i hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, i flew off. "robin doesn't care to stay," said jem, dolefully. later in the day i met the children's mother trudging home. she looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so i hoped the farmer's wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time. now i had a plan in my head. late that afternoon, after flying all round the manor house and peeping in at a great many windows, i perched in the ivy--there was ivy over a great part of the walls--just outside one on the first floor. it was the children's bedroom. i waited anxiously, afraid that i might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in i flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. i found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there i had time for a nap before norna and ivy came to bed. then when all was silent for the night, i flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of norna's bed; and when i had spent an hour or so beside her, i gently fluttered across to her sister; and though i was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire. but my chirping did more than soothe my little friends' slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. you don't know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you're asleep, or what dreams really are. you speak of being "sleepy," or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. now it is not my business to teach you things you're perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this i can tell you--if i perched on your pillows at night when you're asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you'd have no difficulty in understanding me. and this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first christmas in england. they thought they had had a wonderful dream--each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it. i (for it was i myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window, _partly_, i allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen. they did not forget me--us, perhaps i should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news i had scattered about--and as soon as those within had risen from table, miss meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. it was not so cold this morning. i hopped close to them, for i wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room. the pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating. "yes, miss meadows; it was quite wonderful. ivy dreamed it, and i dreamed it. i believe it was a fairy dream." "and please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here," said ivy. "i don't think there _could_ be; do you, miss meadows?" miss meadows shook her head. "i'm afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. but when we go out a walk to-day, we'll try and inquire a little. it would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first christmas in england." she looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, i noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that norna and ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and i must confess i felt pleased to think i had had some hand in this improvement. miss meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. so she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this christmas time. but i had no intention of letting them go so far--no indeed--i knew what i was about. the cottage of my little friends, joyce and jem, was about half-way between the manor house and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. a lane led from the high road to the cottage. just as the three reached the corner of the lane, ivy gave a little cry. "miss meadows, norna," she said, "there is the robin. i'm sure it's our robin. don't you think it is, miss meadows?" the governess smiled. "there are a great many robins, ivy dear. it's not very likely it's the same one. we human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see." but, as _you_ know, ivy was right. "do let's follow him a little way down the lane," she said. "he keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. i wonder if his home is down here." no, it was not _my_ home, but it was my little friends' home; and soon i managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where i had perched. "what a nice cottage," said norna; and so it looked at the first glance. but in a moment or two she added: "oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!" it was joyce. miss meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. things were even worse with them to-day; for jem's feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. the governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt norna and ivy, and then they all went in to see poor jem; and miss meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. when she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too. "children," she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, "i don't think we need go on to the village. we have found what we were looking for." then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the manor house. "i know your mamma won't mind," she said. "i will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. she will like you to try to do something for these poor children,"--which was quite true. the lady of the manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in india had got her out of english ways. so that evening, when the woodcutter's wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. and for some days to come, for christmas was very near, ivy and norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in india, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols miss meadows was teaching them. things improved at the cottage from that day. but it is about christmas morning i want to tell you. joyce and jem woke early--long before it was light--but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. there was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before. "it's christmas, jem," said joyce; "and we shall have a nice fire. they've sent mother some coals from the great house; and i _believe_ we're going to have meat for dinner." jem sighed with pleasure. he could scarcely believe it. "shall we go to church like last christmas, joyce?" he asked. "my boots is so drefful bad, i don't know as i could walk in them." "so's mine," said joyce. "but p'r'aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage." and so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. the children looked about them--somehow they had a feeling that things could not look _quite_ the same on christmas morning! but what they did see was something very wonderful. on the floor near the window were two _very_ big brown paper parcels; and joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, "joyce," on the other, "jem." "_jem_," she cried, "it must be fairies," and with trembling fingers they undid the packages. it is difficult to tell you their delight! there was a new frock of warm linsey for joyce, and a suit of corduroy for jem, boots for both--stockings and socks--two splendid red comforters, one knitted by ivy and one by norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake. never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a christmas surprise. i was so pleased that i could not remain hidden any longer. out i came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a christmas carol in my own way. and i must say children are very quick. "dear robin," said joyce; "do you know, jem, i do believe he's a fairy! i shouldn't wonder if he'd somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us." there was a pause. rafe and alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. he was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been. "thank you _very_ much, dear robin," they said. "it is a very pretty story indeed; and then it's so nice to know it's quite true." the robin looked pleased. "yes," he said, "there's that to be said for it. it's a very simple, homely story; but it's my own experience. but now i think i must bid you good-bye for the present, though there's no saying but what we may meet again." he flew off. "rafe," said alix, "besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn't it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?" "yes," rafe agreed, "i think it would be." chapter ten. the magic rose. the days and weeks and months went on, till it was full summer time again; more than full summer indeed. for it was august, and in a day or two rafe and alix were to go to the seaside for several weeks. they were very pleased of course, but still there is always a _little_ sad feeling at "going away," especially from one's own home, even though it is only for a short time. they went all round the garden saying good-bye, as well as to the stables and the poultry yard and all the familiar places. then a sudden thought struck alix. "rafe," she said--it was the very evening before they left--"do let's say good-bye to the old garden too. and perhaps if we stood close to the corner of the wall and called through very loud, _perhaps_ mrs caretaker would hear us. it seems so funny that we've never seen her again. i think she _must_ be away." "i don't know, i'm sure," rafe replied. "i've sometimes had a feeling like you, alix, that she was there all the time." "and of course it was she who made the birds tell us their stories," said alix, "so we really should be very much obliged to her. just think what nice games we've made out of them; and what nice things we've begun to get ready for the poor children next christmas. i do think, rafe, we've _never_ felt dull since we've played so much in the lady wood garden." rafe quite agreed with her, and they made their way down the lane and through the well-known old gateway. it was the first time they had been in the deserted grounds so late of an evening. for they had had tea long ago, and it was not so _very_ far off bedtime: already the bushes and shrubs began to look shadowy and mysterious in the twilight, and the moon's profile--for it was about half-way to full--to gleam pearl-like up among the branches. "we mustn't stay very long," said rafe. "nurse won't mind our being a little later than usual, as she's busy packing," said alix. "and it's still so hot, indoors at least. last night i _couldn't_ get to sleep, though i pushed off everything except one sheet. i was just boiling. and when i told mamma she said it was no use going to bed only to toss about, and that we might as well sit up a little later." "i hope it will be cooler at the seaside," said rafe. "it's pretty sure to be," alix replied. "if it was just about as cool as it is here just now. isn't it lovely? and that breeze is so refreshing." they were standing near the walled-up mound as she spoke, and the wind came with a long sighing sound through the trees. it seemed at first like a sigh, but by degrees it changed into a soft kind of laughter, which did not fade away, but grew, as they listened, more and more distinct. and then it sounded as if coming not from up among the trees overhead, but from somewhere underground. and it was not the wind after all, for by this time everything was perfectly, strangely still. the children looked at each other; they were used to odd things happening in the garden. they just stood still and waited to see what was going to take place. the laughing ceased, and there came a voice instead, and the voice grew clearer as the hidden door in the wall which they had sought for so often, swung round, and out from the dark passage came the small figure, red cloak, hood, and all, of mrs caretaker. she was still laughing just a little, and her laugh was so bright and rippling that it made the children laugh too, though they did not know why. "and so you are going away, my dears," said their old friend. how she got up so quickly to where they stood they did not see, but there she was, as alert as possible. and again she laughed. "if you please, if it's not rude, we'd like to know what you're laughing at," said alix, not quite sure if she was pleased or not. "only a little joke, my dear; only a little joke i was having all to myself. i hear so many funny stories, you see. they all have to tell me them: the wind and the rain often chatter to me, as well as the birds and the bees and all the others that _you_ call living creatures. and the sea, ah! the sea has grand stories to tell sometimes." "we're going to the seaside," said rafe. mrs caretaker nodded. "i know," she said, "i know most things about my friends. i thought you would come to say good-bye before you left. i've been waiting for you. and if there is anything you would like me to take care of for you while you're away, you have only to tell me." "thank you," said the children. but alix did not feel quite pleased yet. "mrs caretaker," she said, "you shouldn't speak as if this was the only time we've come to see you. we've been and been _ever_ so often, but we never could find the door. and we've always kept saying how kind you'd been; making the birds tell us stories too." "it's all right, my dear," said the old woman. "yes, i heard you on the other side of the wall. but i'm very busy sometimes; too busy for visitors. i'm not busy to-night though, and it's getting chilly out here. come inside with me for a while, and tell me about where you're going to." "we mustn't stay long," said the children. "it's later than usual for us to be out, but it's been so hot all day; we got leave to stay a little longer." "i will see you home. don't be uneasy," said mrs caretaker. she led the way to the wall--almost without her seeming to touch it, the door opened, and they followed her along the little passage into the kitchen. the fire was pleasantly low; the curtains were drawn back, and through the open window the moonlight, much clearer and fuller than in the garden outside, fell on a little lake of water, where two or three snow-white swans were floating dreamily. rafe and alix almost screamed with surprise, but mrs caretaker only smiled. "you didn't know what a view i had out of my window," she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools--one on each side for the children. "yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight--the great sea itself." "do you love the sea?" they asked. "sometimes," mrs caretaker replied. "you said it told you stories," said alix. "will you tell us one of them? just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in." mrs caretaker did not speak for a moment. then she said--and her voice sounded rather sad--"i can't tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. they're not of the laughing kind, and it's best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. but i will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. did you ever hear tell of mermaids?" "oh yes!" cried the children, eagerly; "often. there are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we do _so_ wish we could see them." mrs caretaker smiled. "i can't promise you that you ever will," she said; "but you shall have my story. yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees." "you're not knitting to-night," said alix. "the last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct." "it will be all right, never fear," said the old woman. and as she spoke, she gently stroked the children's heads. then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which mrs caretaker's clear voice began to tell. "it is called `the magic rose,'" said she; "but it is a story of those that live in the sea. down, deep down below the waves, all is calm and still, and there is the country of the mermen. strange things have happened before now down there among the sea-folk. some who have been thought drowned have been cared for there, and lived their lives long after those who had known them up above were past and gone. for the mer-folk are long-lived; what men count age is to them but youth; their days follow each other in a calm that human beings could scarce imagine. they live now in these stirring times as their forbears lived when men and women had their homes in the forests, long before there were houses or towns, or roads, or any of the things which you now think the commonest necessities. "but the sea-folk have their troubles too, sometimes; and my story has to do with trouble. the queen--the beautiful queen of the sea-country-- was ill, and the king was in despair. now i must tell you that the queen was not quite one of the sea race--so at least it was believed. her grandmother--or her great-grandmother, maybe--was a maiden of the land, who had fallen into the sea as a little baby, and had been brought back to life and cared for by the mer-folk; and when she grew up, a great lord among them loved her for her beauty and made her his bride. she had no memory of her native land, of course; but still there were strange things about her and her children, and their children again, which told whence they had come. "and now that the young queen was so ill, one of these old feelings had awakened." "i shall die," she said. "i shall surely die unless i can smell the scent of a rose--a deep-red rose, such as the land maidens love. it has come to me in my dreams. though i have never seen one, i know what it must be like, and i feel that life would return--life and strength that are fast fading away--if i could breathe its exquisite fragrance and bury my face among its soft petals." they were amazed to hear her speak thus. the great court physicians at first said she was wandering in her mind, and no attention should be paid to her. but she kept on ever the same entreaty; and the king, who loved her devotedly, at last could bear it no longer. "it all comes of her ancestor having been so foolish as to wed a human bride," said one of the doctors, feeling in a very bad temper, as they all were. the sea-doctors are not very wise, i fear, because they have so very little experience. it happens so rarely that any of the mer-folk fall ill. and so, as they had nothing to propose, the most sensible thing to do was to get angry. but the king was not to be so put off. "whatever it comes from," he said, "i am determined that the queen's wish shall be complied with if it is in any way possible. what is this thing she is longing for?--what is a rose?" the doctors did not know; but seeing that the king was so much in earnest they agreed that they would try to find out. and after a great deal of consultation together, and looking up in their learned books, they did find out something. the queen, meanwhile, soothed by her husband's promise that all was being done to carry out her entreaty, grew a shade better; at least for some days she did not get any worse, which was always something. and on the fourth day the wise men asked for an audience of the king in order to tell him what they had discovered. the king awaited them eagerly. "well," he said, "have you found out what the queen means by a rose? and if so, how is one to be procured?" yes; they were able to describe pretty well what a rose was; for of course, down below, they are not without gardens and flowers, though of very different kinds from ours. but a great difficulty remained. even if any one was daring enough to swim up to the surface and venture on land in search of the flower, and even if it was procured, how could it be brought, alive and fragrant, to the queen? "why not?" asked the king. for he had never been up to the surface of the sea. it is one of the sea-people's laws that their royal folk must stay down below, so he knew nothing of the land or the things that grow there. the learned men explained to him that, without air, and exposed to the salt water of the ocean, a flower of the earth must quickly fade and die; and as the king listened, his face grew sadder and sadder. but after a few moments' silence, one of the doctors spoke again. they were never in a hurry, you see, and they felt that it added dignity to their words to dole them out sparingly. "it has occurred to us," he said, "that it might be well to consult the wise woman of the sea--the ancient mermaid who lives in the anemone cave. not that as a rule, the advice of a member of her sex is of much use, but the ancient mermaid has lived long and--" "of course! of course!" exclaimed the king, impatiently; "she is the very person. why did i not think of her before? why--the story goes that she nursed the queen's human ancestress when, as a baby, she came among us." "i wish she had stayed away," muttered the wisest of the wise men, though he spoke too low for the king to hear. then the king ordered his chariot and his swiftest steeds--they were dolphins--to be got ready at once, and off he set. it was rather a long swim to the anemone cave. i wish i could give you any idea of the wonderful things the king passed by on his way--the groves of coral and forests of great branching seaweeds of all shapes and colour, the strangely formed creatures whom he scarcely glanced at. for of course it was not wonderful to him, and to-day his mind was so full of his trouble that he would have found it difficult to notice or admire anything. the wise woman of the sea was at home. the king's heart beat faster than usual as he was ushered into her presence, not from cowardice, but because he was feeling so very anxious about his dearly-loved wife. and king though he was, he made as low an obeisance before the ancient mermaid as if he had been one of the humblest of his own subjects. she was very strange to behold. mermaids, as your stories tell you, are often very beautiful, and possibly this aged lady may have been so in her day, but now she was so very old that she looked like the mummy of a mermaid; her hair was like a thin frosting of hoar on a winter morning; her eyes were so deep down in her head that you could scarcely see them; the scales on her tail had lost all their glitter. still there was something dignified about her, and she received the king as if quite prepared for his visit. she was not the least surprised. very wise people, whether on land or in the sea, never are, and she listened to the king's story as if she knew all about it. "yes," she replied, in a thin croaking voice like a frog's, "you have done well to come to me. when the human baby, the great-grandmother of the queen, was confided to my charge, i studied her fate and that of her descendants. the sea-serpent was an admirer of mine in those days, and he was very obliging. he noted the position of the stars when he went up above, and reported them to me. between us we found out some of the future. i read that a descendant of the stranger should be seized with mortal illness while still young, and that her life should only be saved by the breath of an earth-flower that they call the rose, but that great difficulties would attend the procuring it for her, and that some conditions attach to the matter which i was unable to understand fully. all i know is this, the flower must be sought for by a beautiful and youthful mermaid, but the first efforts will not succeed. now you know all i have to tell you. farewell, you have no time to lose." and not another word would the wise mermaid say. the king had to take leave. his dolphins conducted him home again still more quickly than they had brought him, for the words rang in his ears, "you have no time to lose." yet he knew not what to do. the conditions he had already been told were difficult enough, for it was not a very easy task to swim to the surface, as, calm though the ocean always is down below in the sea-folks' country, there is no telling how stormy and furious it may be up above. and for a young and beautiful mermaid to undertake such an adventure would call for great courage. it was quite against the usual customs of the sea-people. for the old stories and legends we hear about troops of lovely creatures seen floating on the water, combing their hair and singing strange melodies, were only true in the very-long-ago days. now that mankind has spread and increased so that there are but few solitary places in the world, few shores where only the sea-gull and the wild mew dwell, the daughters of the ocean stay in their own domain, whence it comes that in these modern times many people do not believe in their existence at all. the king went straight to the queen's bower, where she lay surrounded by her ladies. she was sleeping, and though so pale and thin, her face was very sweet and lovely, her golden hair sparkling on the soft cushions of sea moss on which she lay. even as she was, she was more beautiful than any of the mermaids about her. yet some of them were very beautiful. the king's glance fell especially on two who were noted as the most charming among the queen's attendants. their names were ila and orona. a sudden idea struck the king. "i will cause it to be announced that a great reward shall be given to any young and beautiful mermaid who will undertake the quest of the red rose on which depends the queen's recovery," he thought, and the idea raised his hopes. and as he stooped over the sleeping queen, she smiled and whispered something as if she were dreaming. "the gift of love," were the only words he could distinguish. but he took the smile as a good omen. the next morning there was great excitement amongst the fair young mermaids. for it was announced that whoever of them should succeed in bringing, blooming and fragrant, a red rose to the suffering queen, should be rewarded by the gift of a pearl necklace, which was considered one of the most precious of the crown jewels, and that furthermore the fortunate mermaid should take the highest rank of all the sea-ladies next to the queen herself. ila and orona were both beautiful and courageous, and before the day was many hours older they had offered themselves for the task. the king was delighted, and as ila was the elder of the two it was decided that she must be the first to try. she received many compliments on her daring, and the king thanked her most warmly. she accepted all that was said to her, but to orona, who was her chosen confidante, she owned that she would never have dreamt of making the attempt but for her intense wish to possess the necklace, which she had often admired on the young queen's fair skin. "i would do anything to win it," she said. "there is nothing in the world i admire so much as pearls, but if i gain it, orona, i promise to lend it to you sometimes." "many thanks," orona replied, "but i do not care for jewels as you do. if _i_ have the chance of seeking the rose--that is to say if you fail-- my motive will not be to gain the necklace, but to win the position of the highest rank next to the queen. _that_ i should care far more for." both mermaids, however, kept their ambitions secret from every one else, and calmly accepted the praises showered upon them. and the very next day ila started on her upward journey. chapter eleven. the magic rose--continued. ila found it trying and toilsome, for she was not accustomed to swimming upwards so long together, and she did not like to lose time by resting on the way. but when at last she reached the surface, her surprise at all she saw there took away her fatigue. it was a lovely summer day, the sunshine was deliciously warm, and as the mermaid lay on some smooth rocks a little way from the shore she could see the green fields, and trees, and houses, and gardens bordering the coast, quite plainly. she could even perceive some people walking along, and she thought their way of moving most extremely awkward and ungraceful. "thank goodness i am a mermaid and not a woman," she thought. "i cannot believe that anything to be found on land is as beautiful as our sea-treasures. how splendid the great pearls in the centre of the necklace would look in this brilliant light! when they are mine i must carry them up here some day for the sake of seeing them glisten on my neck in the sunshine." and her thoughts were so full of the jewels that she almost forgot what she had come for. suddenly the sight of some red blossoms on a tree growing close to the water's edge reminded her of what she was there to do, and she looked about her wondering how best to set to work. the wise men had described roses to her; they had even found a picture of one in a book about the plants of the land, so she knew very fairly well what it should be like and that it must have a delicious scent. but that was all, and though she saw fields and gardens not far off, she knew not how to get to them. suddenly glancing in another direction she caught sight of a barge, its white sails gleaming like the wings of a great bird, at anchor some little way from the shore. to and from this barge little boats were coming and going, laden with baskets and cases. ila swam quietly towards it, taking care to keep almost entirely under water, so that she should not be seen. when she got quite close to the barge she saw that one of the little boats was approaching it, and this boat was filled with flowers and rowed by but one boy. the little vessel was in fact preparing for a pleasure trip, and the boats were employed in bringing all that could be wanted of decorations and provisions. the boy rowed quite close to the barge, and then throwing a rope on deck from his boat, he himself sprang on board to call some one to help him to unload his flowers. now was the mermaid's chance--she swam up to the boat and stretching out her hand drew from a basket, filled with roses of all shades, the most beautiful red one she could see. she had no doubt of its being a rose, for the perfume had reached her even some little way off. the boy turned round at that moment and gave a cry of terror as he caught sight of a shining white arm and hand taking a flower from the basket of roses, and for long after, a story went about that the spirit of some one shipwrecked off that coast haunted that part of the bay. but ila only laughed at the boy's fright, and swam off as fast as she could, delighted to have succeeded. she hid the rose carefully in the folds of the gauzy robe she wore, and after one breath of its fragrance prepared to hasten home as fast as she could go. "the pearls are mine," she thought with exultation, giving no thought to the poor queen. "i can fancy already that i feel their smooth touch against my skin--so adorned i shall certainly be the most beautiful mermaid that has ever been seen." but alas for vain ila's hopes! no sooner had she reached the bottom of the sea than she hastened to the palace, and sought at once for an audience of the king. eager past words for her return, he hurried out to the hall where she stood. "i have got it," she exclaimed, and she slid her hand into the folds of her dress and drew out--a little crumpled rag--a few miserable leaves, sodden and colourless, with no scent or fragrance--the poor wretched ghost of what had once been a magnificent rose! the king's face fell. ila gave a cry of despair. "i brought it so carefully," she said. "your care was in vain," replied the king. "it is evident that some condition has not been complied with. how did you get the rose?" she told him all, and orona, who had followed her, listened eagerly. "it may be," said the king, "that you took it without paying for it. i wish i had thought of that." but his hopes revived when he remembered that the "first effort was not to succeed." and too anxious to give much thought to ila's disappointment, he turned to orona. "now," he said, "it is for you to try. but you must take with you payment." "yes," said orona calmly, "i have thought of that. i will select two or three of our most valuable shells, for i have been told that rare shells are greatly esteemed by the land-folk. i am not surprised that ila has been punished for taking what was not hers without paying for it." she looked so calm and confident that the king felt as if she must succeed. it was too late to set off that day; but the next morning orona started. she was far more business-like than ila; when she reached the surface, instead of wasting time in dreaming about the pearl necklace, she swam round the bay as near the shore as she dared venture, peering about in all directions. and at last she came to a little creek, which worked its way into the land till it became a small stream, whose banks were bordered by trees. this the mermaid followed for some distance; till, tasting the water, she found it had almost lost its briny flavour altogether. this startled her, for no sea-folk could live many hours in fresh water, and she began to think she must turn back. but just then she saw that a few yards farther on the stream turned suddenly; and swimming still a little way, she discovered that here it entered a beautiful park, through which it wound its way till lost to view. and close to where orona now was, stood a pretty cottage, whose garden at the back sloped down to the water, and here were growing in profusion flowers of many kinds; among them roses, red, white, and all shades between. for this was the cottage of the gardener of the great house, and he liked to have choice specimens of the flowers he tended near his own home. it was easy for the mermaid to choose and gather a beautiful rose, for no one was about, it being still what human beings call very early in the morning. orona did so, selecting carefully a rose not too fully blown, and wrapping it in some large cool green leaves which she found growing on the bank. and there, just where she had plucked the flower, she laid down two magnificent shells, which she had brought, as payment. in her calm way, quite as triumphant as her sister mermaid had been, orona swam back with all possible swiftness. she reached her own country without misadventure, and, smiling confidently, entered the great hall of the palace, where the king was awaiting her with intense eagerness. "success!" she exclaimed, as she drew out her leafy parcel. the outside looked green and fresh enough, but, alas! inside there was only the same miserable little bundle of colourless rags as ila had brought back the day before--nay, of the two, to-day's withered flower looked even less like a rose than the former one! orona clenched her hands in rage; the king's face sank into utter despair, for the queen's state was considered worse this morning. "alas, alas!" he cried, as he turned away, "it is hopeless." but among those who overheard his words was one who was not satisfied with feeling very sorry for the poor king. this was a little mermaid named chryssa. she was younger than ila and orona, and she was of far less exalted position; in fact, she was scarcely more than a little servant in the queen's household. and probably no one would have spoken of her as beautiful if asked to describe her. but she _was_ beautiful, nevertheless, and wonderfully sweet and loving; and the living being she loved the most in the world was the queen. of course, like every one else, chryssa had heard all about the quest of the rose which was to cure the queen; and now the thought struck her, could _she_, unknown to any one, try in her turn to bring the earth-flower fresh and fragrant which alone would have magic power to save her royal mistress's life? there seemed something lucky in being the _third_ to try, "and, at least," thought chryssa, "it would be, so far as i am concerned, `the gift of love,' as the poor queen keeps murmuring." she determined to make the endeavour; and late that night, just for fear of being seen--though she was so insignificant a person that there was not much chance of her being missed--she set off. she was not by nature so strong or courageous as ila and orona; she knew very little, indeed, of anything but her own sea home, as she had been treated like a child, and had never heard the stories and descriptions of the world above, which were often related to entertain the queen and her ladies. no wonder her poor little heart almost failed her through the long dark journey up to land. and at first when she reached the surface all was still as dark there as below. but as she lay there panting, almost doubting if she had done well to come, up above, over the land, there shone out a marvellous light, which at once filled her with hope and joy. it was the moon--slowly the silvery lamp glided out from behind the clouds, and the little mermaid almost cried aloud for joy. "oh, beautiful light," she said, "thank you for coming. show me what to do; i will follow your guidance," and a gleaming streak across the water shone out as if inviting her to follow it. swiftly the mermaid swam in the direction of the land, full in the glow of the light; and a girl--an earth-maiden--standing at her window in the summer night thought that she saw a vision, and scarce knew if she were awake or dreaming. "it is late," she thought. "i must get to sleep or i shall be growing too fanciful." but before she lay down on her little bed she carefully unfastened a beautiful red rose which was pinned to her bodice and placed it in a glass of water, kissing it as she did so, for it was the first gift of her betrothed. poor chryssa reached the shore; but though the moonlight still shone pale and pure and clear, it gave her no help. for the radiance was now spread all over the land; and before her there stretched a steep and rocky coast, beyond which--far off it looked to the mermaid--she could dimly see trees and bushes and some darker, harder form among them. "it may be a house, such as the earth-folk live in," she thought. "and there perhaps these flowers they call roses are growing. but how am i to get there? and how should i find the flower if i were there?" still she must try. slowly and painfully she drew herself some little way up the shore, catching hold of the stones with her hands; then she stopped to rest, and set off again. it was really not very distant, but to poor chryssa it seemed terrible: she could only go a few yards at a time without resting. the night was far gone, the dawn at hand, when the little mermaid, gasping and exhausted, her tender hands bruised and bleeding, sank for the last time, unable to drag herself any farther, on a grass plot just below the window whence the young girl had seen her in the moonlight like a vision, floating towards the shore. hebe, for so the maiden was called, woke early, and after glancing at her rose, threw open the window and leant out to watch the sunrise. "how lovely it is," she thought, "and how happy i am!" for her betrothal had only taken place the day before. "dear rose, i will keep you always--even when withered--always, till--" but a low sob or wail, just below the window, startled her. what could it be? leaning farther out, she saw at first nothing but a long tangle of shining hair covering some unseen object, for chryssa's hair was like a golden cloak. "what is it? who is lying there?" a faint voice answered-- "oh, lady, i think i am dying! i have lain here all night, torn and bleeding, and none of my race can live many hours on land." half-terrified at the strange words, but still more pitiful, hebe hastened out. the window opened on to a little balcony, and steps led down to the garden. she would almost have been too frightened to approach chryssa--for though there were old legends of mer-folk about that coast, generations had passed since any had actually been seen--but for the sweet expression in the little mermaid's face and eyes, dying though she seemed. this gave hebe courage to go near her, and with the ointment and linen she quickly fetched, to bind up her cuts and bruises. then chryssa told her story in gasping words. "if i could but live to take a rose to the queen," she said, "i would not mind dying; though, for one of my race, life should last for full five hundred years, and life is very beautiful." "alas!" said the earth-maiden, "there are no roses in our garden, the soil does not suit them; and before i could procure one for you, you would die, i fear. but,"--and she made a great effort--"i will do for you what i had thought i could never do but a few minutes ago. i will give you my own rose--the first gift of my best beloved." and with the words, she ran back to her chamber and returned, the red rose fresh and blooming in her hand. she kissed it as she gave it to chryssa. "carry healing in your fragrance," she murmured. and, strange to say, as a breath of its perfume reached the mermaid, she herself in some magical way began to revive. her eyes sparkled as she blessed hebe for her generous sacrifice. "i feel," she said, "that the conditions are all fulfilled. my queen will be saved." but hebe's eyes looked over the fields to where the waves were lapping the shore. "the tide is coming in," she said, "you will not now have so far to go. but i must help you. clasp me firmly round the neck, and i will carry you to the nearest creek, where already you will find the ocean water, which is to you what this fresh, balmy air is to us." and little chryssa did as she was told, and hebe, lifting the light burden in her strong young arms, carried the daughter of the strange unknown race of the sea as tenderly as if she had been a fragile sister of her own. for, after all, there was the greatest of all bonds between them--love and self-sacrifice in their hearts. all went well. chryssa reached the sea-king's palace feeling stronger and better than when she set out, and the rose, too, seemed to have gained fresh beauty and fragrance by its contact with the waves. no sooner did the almost dying queen breathe its perfume than her strength began to return, and in a few hours she was cured. no reward would have been too great for the king and queen to bestow upon the little mermaid; but she asked for none save to be her mistress's constant attendant. they say--so, at least, the waves, who told me the story, whispered-- that down in the ocean depths, somewhere in a wonderful palace, there blooms still a flower of earth--a red rose--endowed with a magic gift of health and healing. mrs caretaker's voice stopped. for a moment or two the children did not move. then she laid her hand gently on their heads, and they lifted them. "it is a lovely story," said alix, with a sigh of content. "do you think, dear mrs caretaker, that _perhaps_ we may see chryssa some day when we are bathing?" mrs caretaker shook her head. "at least we may _look_ for her; perhaps she comes up to the shore sometimes--we _might_ catch a peep of her face among the surf. you might send her a message by one of the fishes you know, mrs caretaker." the old woman smiled. but suddenly rafe started. "i was forgetting," he said. "haven't we been here a great while? what _will_ nurse say?" "never mind," said their friend. "remember, i promised to see you home," and again she stroked their heads. and that was all that happened, till-- "you must be getting up, my dear; to-day you are going to the sea, remember," sounded first by one little bedside and then by the other. "were we very late of coming in last night?" asked the children at breakfast. "not so very, i don't think," nurse replied. "but you see i can't tell exactly, as i found you both undressed and in bed fast asleep when i came up from my supper. you did give me a surprise." rafe and alix looked at each other and smiled. nurse thought it was only that they were pleased at the trick they had played her. the seaside visit was delightful. but before it came to an end a very unexpected thing happened. the children's father, who was a very clever man, was chosen for an important post out of england. it all came about in a great hurry, and rafe and alix have never since returned to the country house where, for most of the years of their life, they had been so happy. and all this time their home has been a long way off. they often speak of ladywood, and declare that when they come back to england they _must_ go there and try to find the old caretaker again. but i almost hope they will not do so; for, i am sorry to say, ladywood has been bought and all changed. a new house has been built at last on the site of the old one, and the foundations all opened out. i feel sure mrs caretaker is no longer there. still, there is no saying but that rafe and alix may come across her again _some_ day and _some_ where. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. the augustan reprint society [william gilpin] a dialogue upon the gardens of the right honourable the lord viscount _cobham_ at stow in buckinghamshire _( )_ _introduction by_ john dixon hunt publication number _ _ william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles _ _ general editors william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles david s. rodes, university of california, los angeles advisory editors james l. clifford, columbia university ralph cohen, university of virginia vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university earl miner, princeton university samuel h. monk, university of minnesota everett t. moore, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, william andrews clark memorial library james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library corresponding secretary beverly j. onley, william andrews clark memorial library introduction stowe is certainly the most documented of all english augustan gardens,[ ] and william gilpin's _dialogue_ probably one of the most important accounts of it. he was at stowe in and published his record of that visit anonymously the following year.[ ] the _dialogue_ reached a second edition, with some slight alterations in the text, in and a third in , when the dialogue was transformed into narrative. the _dialogue_ recommends itself both to the historian of the english landscape movement, in which stowe was a prime exhibit, and to the student of the later vogue for the picturesque, in which gilpin was a major participant. his account of cobham's gardens illuminates some of the connections between the cult of the picturesque that gilpin fostered with his publications of the s and the earlier eighteenth-century invocation of pictures in gardens. perhaps in no other art form were the tensions and transformations in the arts more conspicuous than in landscape gardening. gilpin is especially rewarding in his instinctive attention to these shifting patterns; although the dialogue form is not very skillfully handled, it yet allows some play between the rival attitudes. thus his characters attend to both the emblematic and the expressive garden;[ ] to both its celebration of public worth and its commendation of private virtue. while gilpin seems sufficiently and indeed sharply aware of set-piece views in the gardens, the three-dimensional pictures contrived among the natural and architectural features, he also reveals himself as sensitive towards the more fluid psychological patterns, what one might term the _kinema_ of landscape response. above all, his obvious delight in the landscape garden and appreciation of it vie with an equally strong admiration for scenery outside gardens altogether. at the time of gilpin's visit, lord cobham's gardens were substantially as they are represented in the engravings published in by the widow of charles bridgeman, one of stowe's designers. in the year of gilpin's visit work had just started in the northeast part of the grounds upon the natural glade that came to be known as the grecian valley.[ ] whether it is the work of lancelot ("capability") brown, who was then a gardener at stowe, or only prophetic of it, the grecian valley was a hint of the less architectural, the more carefully "natural" gardens of the next decades. although gilpin would presumably have seen little of this most advanced example of gardening style, he would still have observed what were, in the terms customarily invoked, formal and informal ingredients at stowe. from the rotunda, for example, he looked over the (now vanished) queen's pool, "laid out with all the decorations of art" (p. ), including the oblong canal itself and various statues; the first body of water encountered beside the lake pavillions (p. ) was octagonally shaped and bore an obelisk at its centre. yet elsewhere there was frequent occasion to praise prospects that obviously seemed much less artificial. if there is any distinction between the two participants in the _dialogue_, it is certainly between the one's taste for the evidence of art and the other's penchant for natural beauties. if their opposition is not very conspicuously maintained by gilpin, it is surely because his own loyalties were divided and were to be reconciled only with some subtlety and ingenuity later in his career. callophilus, who cites pope's balanced instructions on the mixture of art and nature (p. ), is more inclined to appreciate these elements in the garden where nature's defective compositions have been improved; the love of beauty that his name announces is of beauty methodized, though without exceeding "a probable nature" (p. ). on the other hand, his enthusiastic companion, polypthon, directs his eponymous ill-will mostly against the decorations of art: the "hewn stone" of dido's cave particularly offends him (p. ), and he "cannot very much admire" the canal below the rotunda (p. ). yet he seems to share callophilus' notions about "mending" nature (p. ), and it is he who proposes a landscape that, substituting farm-houses for temples (p. ), approximates most clearly to that prettiest of eighteenth-century landscape ideas, the _ferme ornée_. polypthon's predilection for scenery outside gardens seems equally compromised by his ready assent to callophilus' praise of the carefully studied contrasts in stowe gardens: so that he may turn from the less agreeable vista down the queen's pool and look instead over home park, earlier noted for its "rural scene" (p. ), and now admired as a natural field--though the cattle prominent in rigaud's drawings[ ] are not mentioned. but what is artless for polypthon is studied by his companion in terms of art: "the field is _formed_ by that semi-circle of trees into a very grand theatre" (p. , _my italics_), and his eye registers an architectural feature--vanbrugh's pyramid--as the apt centre of that field of vision. this particular exchange at the rotunda suggests that the usual modern discussion of landscape gardens in terms of their diminishing formality or escalating informality is less gilpin's concern than the mind's involvement with the various landscapes. callophilus and polypthon can apparently both contemplate the same scene from the rotunda, southwest towards kent's temple of venus and vanbrugh's pyramid, yet adjudge its artifice differently. what is evidently at work in gilpin's record of this garden is the mental experience of it, and in his case the ambiguities of his visual response. the complicated geometry that began on bridgeman's drawing board[ ] and then was transferred to shape the grounds is certainly a survival of the old-fashioned french style in gardens. its presence is registered by gilpin, who allows callophilus to note how the gibbs building, like many other objects at stowe designed to be seen along a variety of axes, "has its use ... in several prospects" (p. ). but the psychology of the viewer has at least equal weight in gilpin with the many-faceted object viewed from different positions.[ ] and in those circumstances the presence of formal or informal designs upon the ground or the drawing-board matters less than the variety of objects and scenes within a garden and even, as at the rotunda, the variety of viewpoint and interpretation within one vista. variety had, of course, always been essential to the english garden and is a special feature of stowe, as pope implies in the _epistle to burlington_ and as the writer of the appendix to defoe's tour of explicitly stated.[ ] what we have in gilpin's _dialogue_ is both valuable evidence of response to garden structures, the visitor's rather than the designer's or client's account, and some hints of how the idea of variety, itself a painterly term, presented itself to gilpin in the days before his picturesque tours. gilpin's path through the gardens at stowe is recorded in the _dialogue_ as a journal of the mind's responses: the _advertisement_ (p. iv) prepares the reader for this with its insistence upon the role memory has played in its composition. the varieties of mental experience are sometimes registered by the dialogue form; more often the two visitors share responses which correspond to the changes of stowe's scenes. this is most amusingly illustrated by the "impertinent hedge" that suddenly blocks their view (p. ); callophilus' ingenious explanation, a curious parallel to sterne's blank page in _tristram shandy_, is that thereby the visitor's "attention" is kept awake (p. ). more strenuous is their intellectual involvement with the monuments, statues, and inscriptions in the elysian fields (pp. ff), emblems that provoke in callophilus "a variety of grand ideas" (p. ). yet, as the text of the third edition makes precisely clear (p. ), in face of the same objects his companion is more fascinated than he with the formal elements of an art--contrasts in landscape textures, style of inscriptions (p. ), or unadmirable workmanship in bas-reliefs (p. ). the "subject[s] for ... rapsody" (p. ) that polypthon mocks were an essential aspect of any augustan garden, and six pages later they divert even polypthon himself into moralizing. but his stronger inclination is to ignore the iconographical problems of the saxon busts (p. ) and gaze "into the country" where his companion solicitously directs his attention to the elegant woods (p. ). the _dialogue_ allows these and related distinctions to emerge, even though it does not grapple with their implications. as callophilus explains, there should be a grand terrace for strangers, and the shade of a "close vista" for friends (p. ). stowe provided both, just as it catered to the propensity for retirement--the hermitage, the temple of friendship, or the temple of sleep--as well as for the obligations of public life--the temple of british worthies, the gothic temple of liberty. the most emblematic items in the gardens, upon which callophilus predictably expatiates because they were designed to be easily "read," are in the public places, where they firmly control the visitors' mental reactions and leave less scope for the private and enthusiastic reveries of polypthon. it is a fair assumption that most visitors to the temples of liberty or ancient and modern virtue would have understood their meanings just as callophilus did (pp. and - ). but the aesthetic taste of polypthon for the forms and shapes rather than the meanings of landscape betrays a potential for less controlled and more private rhapsodies. his quest "after beautiful objects" (p. ) takes him as much to the northern parts of great britain as to gardens like stowe, and is obviously prophetic of gilpin's own picturesque travels. like warton's _enthusiast or the lover of nature_ ( ), polypthon rejects "gardens deck'd with art's vain pomps." this is because he is fascinated with the more radical landscapes of solely formal elements--the serpentine windings of the river at stirling (p. ) or what has been called the abstract garden[ ] that comes to fruition only in the decades after gilpin's visit under the management of "capability" brown. but the fact that polypthon finds sufficient abstract patterns to engage his attention at stowe suggests that the brownian mode was already latent among the richnesses of the buckinghamshire gardens. the "rejection" of stowe by polypthon as by warton also signals their desire to indulge the enthusiastic fit. his very first reaction upon arrival at stowe is an "exclamation" that expresses _his_ expectations of aesthetic delight (p. ). although his companion is equally susceptible and is accused by polypthon of being an "enthusiast" (p. ) and in the third edition of the _dialogue_ (p. ) determines himself to "indulge the thrilling transport," it seems to be polypthon whom gilpin intends to characterize by expressive as opposed to explanatory outbursts as they proceed round the gardens. and it is he who concludes their visit (p. ) with a catalogue of the various human moods for which the gardens cater, rather more extravagant in its expressive fervour than callophilus' traditional identification of the passions on faces of other visitors (p. ). gilpin's attention to his characters' intellectual and emotional reactions illuminates the roles of poetry and painting that have always been associated with the rise of the english landscape garden.[ ] if milton's description of the garden of eden, so frequently invoked by eighteenth-century gardenists, implied an informal structure for designers to emulate, it equally encouraged associationist activity in gardens. the visual reminders of literary texts at stowe--_il pastor fido_ (pp. ff) or spenser (pp. - )--which are sometimes accompanied by inscriptions which articulate the "dumb poetry" of the decorations (e.g., p. ) serve mainly to provoke the imagination of visitors. sometimes, as at the hermitage, stowe's designers force specific associations upon the mind; elsewhere they are content to manipulate the feelings in such a way as to stimulate merely general fancies to which the visitor himself must put whatever name he wishes. it is consistent with gilpin's attempt to identify polypthon with the less public aspects of stowe that it is he who twice formulates his own responses to a scene: the quotations from milton (pp. and - ) may both describe the formal features of landscape, but they are also expressive of his emotional reactions. pictures, too, provided associationist focus when recalled in a garden: the most obvious instance being the probable allusion to claude at stourhead.[ ] yet the actual influence of pictures on landscape gardens has been generally exaggerated.[ ] where they were perhaps a force seems to have been in articulating the mental and emotional reaction of visitors. when walpole praises william kent for realizing in gardens "the compositions of the greatest masters in painting",[ ] i suspect that he is in part rationalizing his own associationalist instinct, when at hagley he was reminded of sadeler's prints or of the samaritan woman in a picture by nicolas poussin. allusions to pictures were a means of focusing evanescent mood. gilpin, too, organizes his characters' responses in pictorial focus. the _advertisement_ again alerts the reader to these studied painterly aims. once inside the gardens callophilus sees pictures everywhere: variously disposed objects "make a most delightful picture" (p. ), while on at least three occasions in the first half-dozen pages the ruins, prospects, and "claro-obscuro" of trees are discussed in terms that suggest how his habits of vision have been educated in front of painted or engraved landscapes which in their turn are recalled to provide a suitable vocabulary for his experiences.[ ] even polypthon invokes the syntax of painting (pp. and ) to formulate his reactions to scenery. it is in these painterly preconceptions of the characters and in polypthon's account of scottish scenery (pp. - ) that hints of gilpin's later career are announced: the second edition of the _dialogue_ even talks of his "observations" on stowe, a term that became a standard ingredient in the titles of his picturesque tours. the education of sight by the study of paintings and prints was clarified and expounded in the _essay on prints_, written at least by and published ten years later. the picturesque tours themselves were started in the s and published from onwards. in them gilpin refines and enlarges upon the methods and ideas of his stowe _dialogue_. the adjudication between a taste for natural beauties (what his _three essays_ term the "correct knowledge of objects")[ ] and the inclination to adjust them according to painterly criteria (in termed "scenes of fancy") is more sophisticated and consistent. he still delights in the variety of a landscape; but the roughness that stowe only occasionally allowed becomes one of his guiding rules in appraising scenery. perhaps the most significant items in the _dialogue_ for readers of gilpin's later writings will be his psychological emphasis and his attention to verbal and visual associations. although his picturesque tours never entirely neglected the topographical obligation to describe actual localities, it is increasingly an imaginative response to landscape that is his concern.[ ] in the _dialogue_ he explained how a good imagination will "improve" upon the sight of a grand object, just as burke a few years later was to discuss the essential vagueness of the sublime and its appeal to the private sensibility. polypthon's reactions at stowe suggest something of this potential in contradistinction to callophilus' ability to read the message of each temple or vista. what gilpin displays in is more intricately adumbrated in the _three essays_ of : a scene may strike "us beyond the power of thought ... and every mental operation is suspended. in this pause of intellect, this deliquirium of the soul, an enthusiastic sensation of pleasure over spreads it ...".[ ] as the final pages of _dialogue_ suggest, that experience was also available in the gardens of stowe. but the more mature imagination in gilpin is tempted simultaneously in two directions, which perhaps explains why one contemporary was moved to commend the published tours for being "the ne plus ultra of the pen and pencil united."[ ] at stowe he is attentive to the expressive potential of scenery and its associations ("the eye naturally loves liberty" [p. ]), which are best expounded in the written commentary. but he also delights in the shapes and forms of scenery, the abstract qualities of the stowe landscape that please the eye rather than the mind's eye. these are best recorded in his watercolours and the illustrations which become a main feature of his later books. bedford college university of london notes to the introduction [ ] before there was no guide to any english garden except stowe; by then the stowe guidebook had gone through sixteen editions (one in french) plus two pirated editions, the _dialogue_ itself which mentions the guidebook on p. , and two sets of engraved views. for a modern account of stowe see christopher hussey, _english gardens and landscapes, - _ (london: country life, ), pp. - . as a companion piece to this facsimile of _dialogue_, ars plans to publish in its - series a facsimile of the _beauties of stowe_ ( ), with an introduction by george clarke. [ ] gilpin's authorship is argued by william d. templeman, _the life and works of william gilpin ( - ), illinois studies in language and literature_, xxiv. - (urbana, ), pp. - . [ ] the distinction is made by thomas whately, _observations on modern gardening_, th ed. (london, ), pp. - . [ ] the grecian valley is seen first on bickham's engraved plan of . this and other plans of stowe are reproduced by george clarke, "the gardens of stowe," _apollo_ (june, ), pp. - . [ ] see peter willis, "jacques rigaud's drawings of stowe in the metropolitan museum of art," _eighteenth-century studies_, ( ), - . [ ] see george clarke, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] on this topic see two essays by ronald paulson: "hogarth and the english garden: visual and verbal structures," _encounters, essays on literature and the visual arts_, ed. john dixon hunt (london: studio vista, ), and "the pictorial circuit and related structures in eighteenth-century england," _the varied pattern_, ed. peter hughes and david williams (toronto: hakkert, ). [ ] "there is more variety in this garden, than can be found in any other of the same size in _england_, or perhaps in _europe_" (p. ). [ ] derek clifford, _a history of garden design_ (london: faber, ), pp. - . [ ] "poetry, painting, and gardening, or the science of landscape, will forever by men of taste be deemed three sisters, or the _three new graces_ who dress and adorn nature": ms. annotation to william mason's _satirical poems_, published in an edition of the relevant poems by paget toynbee (oxford: clarendon, ), p. . for an anthology of similar comments see _the genius of the place: the english landscape garden - _, ed. john dixon hunt and peter willis (london: elek, ). [ ] see kenneth woodbridge, _landscape and antiquity_ (oxford: oxford univ. press, ), plates a, b, and . [ ] on this see derek clifford, _op. cit._, pp. and . [ ] i. w. u. chase, _horace walpole: gardenist. an edition of walpole's 'the history of the modern taste in gardening' with an estimate of walpole's contribution to landscape architecture_ (princeton: princeton univ. press, ), p. . [ ] this is an apt example of the psychological theory of sight proposed by e. h. gombrich, _art and illusion_ (new york: pantheon, ). [ ] _three essays: on picturesque beauty; on picturesque travel; and on sketching landscape_ (london, ), p. . [ ] carl paul barbier, _william gilpin, his drawings, teaching and theory of the picturesque_ (oxford: oxford univ. press, ), pp. , and . [ ] _op. cit._, p. . [ ] cited by templeman, _op. cit._, p. . bibliographical note the facsimile of [william gilpin's] _a dialogue upon the gardens ... at stow_ ( ) is reproduced from a copy (shelf mark: .e. [ ]) in the british library. the total type-page (p. ) measures x mm. a dialogue upon the gardens of the right honourable the lord viscount _cobham_, at stow in buckinghamshire. _here order in variety we see, where all things differ, yet where all agree._ mr. pope. [illustration] _london_: printed for b. seeley, bookseller in _buckingham_, and sold by j. and j. rivington, in _st. paul's church-yard_. m dcc xlviii. [price one shilling.] the advertisement. _we read of a great prince of antiquity, who would suffer his portrait to be taken only by the greatest artist. and he thought justly without question: a great object ought ever to be handled by a great master. but yet i am apt to think that if apelles had not offered his service, the monarch, rather than have had his form unknown to posterity, would have been glad to have employed some meaner hand.----if stow had been as fortunate in this particular as alexander, i need not now have taken up my pencil: but as this charming landskip is yet untouched by a titian, or a poussin, a mere bungler has been tempted to venture upon it._ _but in excuse for the meaning of the performance it may be said, that it is not designed to be considered as a finished piece: this view was not taken upon the spot, as it ought to have been, but only from my memory and a few loose scratches; if the public therefore will call it only a rough draught, or at best a coloured sketch, my ambition will be fully satisfied. the curious therefore must purchase it rather from their necessity than its merit; as they do meaner engravings of the cartoons, where dorigny's are not to be had: "'tis true, gentlemen, says the print-seller, they are far from being good, but take my word for it, you will meet with no better."_ a dialogue upon the gardens _of the right honourable the_ lord viscount cobham, _&c._ _polypthon_ was a gentleman engaged in a way of life, that excused him two months in the year from business; which time he used generally to spend in visiting what was curious in the several counties around him. as he had long promised his friend _callophilus_ to pass away his vacancy, at some time or other, in _buckinghamshire_, he determined upon it this year; and accordingly paid him a visit at * * *. _stow_ was one of the first places where his curiosity carried him; and indeed he had scarce got his foot within the garden-door, before he broke out into the following exclamation. why, here is a view that gives me a kind of earnest of what my expectation is raised to! it is a very fine one indeed (replied _callophilus_:) i do not wonder it should catch your sight: the old ruin upon the left of the canal, the opening to the pyramid, the view towards the house, the river, the beautiful disposition of the trees on the other side of it, and that venerable old temple, make a fine variety of objects. but your eye is so taken up with views at a distance, that you neglect something here at hand very well worth your notice. what do you think of these two pavilions? _polypth._ why really they are light, genteel buildings enough. i like these rough paintings too; they are done in a very free, masterly manner. pray, sir, do you know the stories? _calloph._ they are both taken from _pastor fido_; the disconsolate nymph there, poor _dorinda_, had long been in love with _sylvio_, a wild hunter, of barbarous manners, in whose breast she had no reason to believe she had raised an answering passion. as she was roving in the woods, she accidentally met his dog, and saw her beloved hunter himself at a distance hollowing, and running after it. she immediately calls the hound to her, and hides it amongst the bushes. _sylvio_ comes up to her, and enquires very eagerly after his dog: the poor nymph puts him off, and tries all her art to inspire him with love, but to no purpose; the cold youth was quite insensible, and his thoughts could admit no other object but his dog. almost despairing, she at length hopes to bribe his affections, and lets him know she has his dog, which she will return if he will promise to love her, and give her a kiss; _sylvio_ is overjoyed at the proposal, and promises to give her ten thousand kisses. _dorinda_ upon this brings the dog: but alas! see there the success of all her pains: the youth transported at the sight of his dog, throws his arms round its neck, and lavishes upon it those kisses and endearments, in the very sight of the poor afflicted lady, which she had been flattering herself would have fallen to her share.--on this other wall disdain and love have taken different sides; the youth is warm, and the nymph is coy: poor _myrtillo_ had long loved _amarillis_; the lady was engaged to another, and rejected his passion. gladly would he only have spoke his grief, but the cruel fair one absolutely forbid him her presence. at length a scheme was laid by _corisca_, the young lover's confidant, which was to gain him admission into his dear _amarillis_'s company. the lady is enticed into the fields with some of _corisca_'s companions, (who were let into the plot) to play at blindman's buff, where _myrtillo_ was to surprize her. see there he stands hesitating what use to make of so favourable an opportunity, which love has put into his hands.----if you have satisfied your curiosity here, let us walk towards the temple of _venus_. but hold: we had better first go down towards that wilderness, and take a view of the lake. _polypth._ upon my word here is a noble piece of water! _calloph._ not many years ago i remember it only a marsh: it surprized me prodigiously when i first saw it floated in this manner with a lake. observe, pray, what a fine effect that old ruin has at the head of it: its ornaments too, the cascade, the trees and shrubs, half concealing, and half discovering the ragged view, and the obelisk rising beyond if, are objects happily disposed. _polypth._ yes, indeed, i think the ruin a great addition to the beauty of the lake. there is something so vastly picturesque, and pleasing to the imagination in such objects, that they are a great addition to every landskip. and yet perhaps it would be hard to assign a reason, why we are more taken with prospects of this ruinous kind, than with views of plenty and prosperity in their greatest perfection: benevolence and good-nature, methinks, are more concerned in the latter kind. _calloph._ yes: but cannot you make a distinction between natural and moral beauties? our social affections undoubtedly find their enjoyment the most compleat when they contemplate, a country smiling in the midst of plenty, where houses are well-built, plantations regular, and every thing the most commodious and useful. but such regularity and exactness excites no manner of pleasure in the imagination, unless they are made use of to contrast with something of an opposite kind. the fancy is struck by _nature_ alone; and if _art_ does any thing more than improve her, we think she grows impertinent, and wish she had left off a little sooner. thus a regular building perhaps gives us very little pleasure; and yet a fine rock, beautifully set off in claro-obscuro, and garnished with flourishing bushes, ivy, and dead branches, may afford us a great deal; and a ragged ruin, with venerable old oaks, and pines nodding over it, may perhaps please the fancy yet more than either of the other two objects.--yon old hermitage, situated in the midst of this delightful wilderness, has an exceeding good effect: it is of the romantick kind; and beauties of this sort, where a probable nature is not exceeded, are generally pleasing.----this opening will lead us again into the terrace.----that large building, the inscription lets you see, is a temple dedicated to _venus_. _polypth._ upon my word a master has been at work here! i cannot say i have met with any modern touching, this long time, that has pleased me better. i see very little to be cavilled at, with regard either to the design, colouring, or drawing. these stories are taken from the _fairy-queen_ i dare say; they look like _spencer_'s ideas. _calloph._ yes: that lady is the fair _hellinore_, who having left a disagreeable husband, and wandering in the woods, was met by the polite sett of gentry she is dancing with: she likes their manner of life, and resolves to enjoy it with them. her old spouse _malbecco_ is inconsolable for his loss: he wanders many days in search of her, and at length finds her (you see him at a distance peeping from behind a tree) revelling with a beastly herd of satyrs. when the evening comes on, he follows the company to their retirement, takes a commodious stand, and to his great torment sees every thing that passes among them. after they were all laid asleep, he creeps gently to his lady, and you see him in the other painting offering to be reconciled to her again, if she will return back with him. but _hellinore_ threatens to awake the satyrs, and get him severely handled if he does not immediately leave her. upon which the poor cuckold is obliged to fly, and soon after runs distracted. _polypth._ this loose story, these luxurious couches, and the embellishments round the walls, give the place quite a _cyprian_ air, and make it a very proper retreat for its incontinent inhabitant upon the roof.----but let us move forward towards yon cubico-pyramidical building. it looks like a mighty substantial one: i fancy it is sir _john_'s; he is generally pretty liberal of his stone. however, it terminates this terrace extremely well: the ascent up to it too has a good effect.----pray, do you know what that field there, upon the right, is to be improved into? _calloph._ i am surprized the beauty of it, in its present form, does not strike you at first sight. it is designed, like a glass of bitters before dinner, to quicken your appetite for the elegant entertainment that is to follow. for my part, i assure you, i find it a very great relief to my eye, to take it from these grand objects, and cast it for a few minutes upon such a rural scene as this. do not you think that haycock contrasts extremely well with this temple? such oppositions, in my opinion, are highly pleasing.----that building there is called, _the belvidere_. whatever you may think of it, from this stand, it has its use, i assure you, in several prospects in the gardens.----there is a very good copy of the _roman_ boxers. _polypth._ i like its situation extreamly: it terminates these alleys, and that opening from the terrace, very beautifully; much better, i think, than the fighting gladiator, and _sampson_ killing the _philistine_, do that other vast terrace; the objects there, in my opinion, are too small for the distance: here both are justly proportioned. _calloph._ your criticism, i think, is rather too refined: i cannot see what occasion there is always for a confined view; a more open one sometimes makes variety. _polypth._ you mistake me: i am not against a prospect's being bounded even by the blue hills in the country. all i mean is this, that where objects are set up to terminate a view, they ought to be of such a nature as to afford pleasure at any distance they are designed to be viewed from. these statues i have been mentioning, are objects so small, that at one end of the terrace it is impossible to make out what is offered you at the other.----i have too much envy in my temper, you must know, to bear to see any thing perfect; and i came in here fully determined to cavil, if i saw the least grounds. but this is a sad place, i find, for a malicious spirit to enter: he whose chief _entertainment_ is finding fault, will here meet with a very slender _repast_: as the devil did at sight of the creation, in spite of envy he must cry out, _terrestrial heaven!---- with what delight could i have walk'd thee round, if i could joy in ought: sweet interchange of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains! now land, now sea, and shores with forest crown'd, rocks, dens, and caves._---- but what have we got here? _calloph._ this is the building we took notice of from the temple of _venus_. i know you are no friend to a cloathed statue; so i question whether you will meet with any thing here to your taste. _polypth._ there is something extremely grand and noble, i have always thought, in several of the old cloathed statues, and particularly in some of the _roman_ consular ones; yet i must confess i am always better pleased when i find them without their finery. marble, tho' admirably fitted to express the roundness of a muscle, very often fails when it attempts to give you the folds of drapery. the ancients, it must be owned, even in their draperies are often successful; but amongst our modern attempts in this way, how many horrid pieces of rock-work have i beheld! ------------ _atram desinet in_ rupem _mulier_---- _michael angelo_, whenever he found himself obliged to cloath his statues, used to do it with wet linnen; which is unquestionably the most advantageous kind of cloathing for a statue. _calloph._ since you are not to be pleased here, let us pass on to something else. there is no occasion to turn down to that pyramid; it is an object not designed to be viewed at a yard's distance; but you will see its use by and by, in a variety of beautiful views: let us pursue our walk along this terrace. _polypth._ why here we entirely lose sight of the garden; our elegant prospects are all vanished: i cannot conceive what this impertinent hedge does here. _calloph._ did you never experience in a concert vast pleasure when the whole band for a few moments made a full pause? the case is parallel: you have already had a great many fine views, and that you may not be cloyed, this hedge steps in to keep your attention awake. one extreme recommends another: the moralists observe, that a little adversity quickens our relish for the enjoyment of life; and it is the man of taste's care not to distribute his beauties with too profuse a hand, for a reason of the same kind. _let not each beauty every where be spy'd, where half the skill is decently to hide._ but if you must have something to look at, the park there upon your left hand affords you some very fine views. i like that equestrian statue extremely: it is, in my opinion, a very beautiful circumstance. what a number of fine vistas it terminates thro' the trees, varying its appearance in each of them.--there you have a charming view struck out towards the temple of ancient virtue. _polypth._ methinks that statue of the faun stands a little aukwardly: he might at least, i should think, have fixed himself in the middle of the semi-circle. _calloph._ you do not certainly attend to his use: he stands there to receive the eye placed at the other end of that opening.--that elegant little building i think they call _nelson_'s seat. _polypth._ the painting is done masterly enough: the inscriptions, i see, explain the designs. those boys fixing the trophies are prettily imagined. from hence that round building terminates the view extremely well. let us walk to it. _calloph._ hold----turn to the right a little: we must first pay a visit here to the temple of _bacchus_. _polypth._ we have had a pretty long walk, suppose we sit down here a moment: these walls seem to promise us some entertainment. _calloph._ here, sir, you see represented the triumphs and happiness of drunkenness. those musical ladies too are not improper companions to this mirthfully-disposed deity. _polypth._ some of those smaller figures are really done extremely well: and those two vases are delightfully touched. i cannot say i am so much pleased with the jolly inhabitant: even _bacchus_ himself certainly never made so enormous a figure. _calloph._ i am admiring the fine view from hence: so great a variety of beautiful objects, and all so happily disposed, make a most delightful picture. don't you think this building too is a very genteel one, and is extremely well situated? these trees give it an agreeable, cool air, and make it, i think, as elegant a retreat for the enjoyment of a summer's evening, as can well be imagined.----but it is mere trifling to sit here: let us walk towards the rotunda.----this little alley will carry us to _dido_'s cave. _polypth._ _dido_'s cave! why 'tis built of hewn stone! here she is however, and her _pious_ companion along with her. _calloph._ those two cupids joining their torches, i never see but i admire extremely: they are very finely painted. _polypth._ i think they are indeed. but let us be a little complaisant, and not interrupt these kind lovers too long. i want to see this rotunda. _calloph._ there then you have it: i hope you cannot complain of an heavy building here. i do not know any piece of stone-work in the whole garden that shews itself to more advantage than this does, or makes a more beautiful figure in a variety of fine views from several parts of the garden: several parts of the garden likewise return the compliment, by offering a great many very elegant prospects to it. there you have an opening laid out with all the decorations of art; a spacious theatre; the area floated by a canal, and peopled with swans and wild-ducks: her late majesty is the principal figure in the scene, and around her a merry company of nymphs and swains enjoying themselves in the shade. _polypth._ i must confess i cannot very much admire---- _calloph._ come; none of your cavils.--observe how this view is beautifully contrasted by one on the opposite side of a different kind; in which we are almost solely obliged to nature. you must know i look upon this as a very noble prospect! the field is formed by that semi-circle of trees into a very grand theatre. the point of sight is centred in a beautiful manner by the pyramid, which appears to great advantage amongst those venerable oaks: two or three other buildings, half hid amongst the trees, come in for their share in the prospect, and add much to the beauty of it. _polypth._ i agree with you entirely; nor do i think this other view inferior to it. that variety of different shades amongst the trees; the lake spread so elegantly amongst them, and glittering here and there thro' the bushes, with the temple of _venus_ as a termination to the view, make up a very beautiful landskip. _calloph._ here is a vista likewise very happily terminated by the canal, and the obelisk rising in the midst of it. there is another close view likewise towards _nelson_'s seat. _polypth._ upon my word, we have a variety of very elegant prospects centred in this point. i could sit here very agreeably a little longer. _calloph._ nay, if you are inclined to rest, come along with me: i'll carry you to where you may indulge your humour with great propriety. deep in the retirement of that wood, the god of sleep has reared his habitation, where he will afford you every convenience to make a nap agreeable----it comes into my head that i forgot to carry you to a little place, which it is hardly worth while to travel back to from this distance: it is called _st. austin_'s cave, and answers its title very well; it appears quite cell-like, stands retired, and is made of no other materials but roots and moss. in the inside a straw couch offers you an hard seat, and the walls three humorous inscriptions, in monkish verse. you may buy them, bound up with copies of all the other inscriptions, in a six-penny pamphlet, that will be offered us at the inn.----there, sir, is the temple of sleep. _polypth._ why really i must confess _ovid_ himself could scarce have buried the senseless god in an happier retirement. this gloomy darkness, these easy couches, and that excellent _epicurean_ argument above the door, would incline me wonderfully to indulge a little, if these beautiful ornaments did not keep my attention awake. there is wanting too a purling stream, to sing a requiem to the senses; tho' the want is in some measure made up by the drowsy lullibies of that murmuring swarm, which this shade has invited to wanton beneath it. you would laugh at me, or i should certainly throw myself down upon one of these couches; i am persuaded i should need no opium to close my eyes. _calloph._ i own sleeping is a compliment as much due to this place, as admiration and attention are to _raphael_ at _hampton-court_. but try if your curiosity cannot keep you awake. come, leave these drowsy abodes, they are infectious; like luscious food they will blunt your appetite before the entertainment is half over. walk down that alley, and pop your head into the first door you come to. _polypth._ what the d----l have we got here? what wretched scrawler has been at work upon these walls? _calloph._ i assure you, sir, i look upon this as a very great master-piece. you must know this house is inhabited by a necromancer; and that inscription lets you see the hand that has been employed to paint it. the composition, drawing, and pencilling, i can allow you, are not the most elegant; yet if the design and figures are the artist's own, i can assure you he has shewn excellent humour, and an exceeding good invention. that consultation is well imagined; and so are these witches and wizards; their employments likewise, their forms and attitudes are well varied.---- but i see this is a scene not suited to your taste: our next, i hope, will please you better. _polypth._ pray, what building is that before us? i cannot say i dislike the taste it is designed in. it seems an antique. _calloph._ it is the temple, sir, of ancient virtue; the place i am now conducting you to. you will meet within it a very illustrious assembly of great men; the wisest lawgiver, the best philosopher, the most divine poet, and the most able captain, that perhaps ever lived. _polypth._ you may possibly, sir, engage yourself in a dispute, by fixing your epithets in such an absolute manner; there are so many competitors in each of these ways, that altho' numbers may be called truly eminent, it will be a difficult matter to fix pre-eminence upon any. _calloph._ you will hardly, i fancy, dissent from me, when i introduce you to these great heroes of antiquity: there stands _lycurgus_; there _socrates_; there _homer_; and there _epaminondas_. illustrious chiefs, who made virtue their only pursuit, and the welfare of mankind their only study; in whose breasts mean self-interest had no possession. to establish a well-regulated constitution; to dictate the soundest morality, to place virtue in the most amiable light; and bravely to defend a people's liberty, were ends which neither the difficulty in overcoming the prejudices, and taming the savage manners of a barbarous state; the corruptions of a licentious age, and the ill-usage of an invidious city; neither the vast pains of searching into nature, and laying up a stock of knowledge sufficient to produce the noblest work of art; nor popular tumults at home, and the most threatening dangers abroad, could ever tempt them to lose sight of, or in the least abate that ardency of temper with which they pursued them. _polypth._ a noble panegyric upon my word! why, sir, these great spirits have inspired you with the very soul of oratory. however, in earnest, i confess your encomium is pretty just; and i am apt to believe that if any of those worthy gentlemen should take it into his head to walk from his nitch, it would puzzle the world to find his equal to fix in his room.----that old ruin, i suppose, is intended to contrast with this new building. _calloph._ yes, sir, it is intended to contrast with it not only in the landskip, but likewise in its name and design. walk a little nearer, and you will see its intention. _polypth._ i can see nothing here to let me into its design, except this old gentleman; neither can i find any thing extraordinary in him, except that he has met with a fate that he is entirely deserving of, which is more than falls to the share of every worthless fellow. _calloph._ have you observed how the statue is decorated? _polypth._ o! i see the whole design: a very elegant piece of satyr, upon my word! this pompous edifice is intended, i suppose, to represent the flourishing condition, in which ancient virtue still exists; and those poor shattered remains of what has never been very beautiful (notwithstanding, i see, they are placed within a few yards of a parish-church) are designed to let us see the ruinous state of decayed modern virtue. and the moral is, that glory founded upon true worth and honour, will exist, when fame, built upon conquest and popular applause, will fade away. this is really the best thing i have seen: i am most prodigiously taken with it. _calloph._ i intend next to carry you to a scene of another kind. i am going to shew you the grotto, a place generally very taking with strangers.----i thought that piece of satyr would catch your attention: i hope likewise you will be as well pleased here. this gate will carry us into the romantic retirement. what do you think of this scene? _polypth._ why really, sir, it is quite a novelty: this profusion of mirrors has a very extraordinary effect: the place seems divided into a thousand beautiful apartments, and appears fifty times as large as it is. the prospects without are likewise transferred to the walls within: and the sides of the room are elegantly adorned with landskips, beyond the pencil of _titian_; with this farther advantage, that every view, as you change your situation, varies itself into another form, and presents you with something new. _calloph._ don't you think that serpentine river, as it is called, is a great addition to the beauty of the place? _polypth._ undoubtedly it is. water is of as much use in a landskip, as blood is in a body; without these two essentials, it is impossible there should be life in either one or the other. yet methinks it is a prodigious pity that this stagnate pool should not by some magic be metamorphosed into a crystal stream, rolling over a bed of pebbles. such a quick circulation would give an infinite spirit to the view. i could wish his lordship had such a stream at his command; he would shew it, i dare say, to the best advantage, in its passage thro' the gardens. but we cannot _make_ nature, the utmost we can do is to _mend_ her.----i have heard a _scotch_ gentleman speak of the river, upon which the town of _sterling_ stands, which is as remarkable a meander as i have ever heard of. from _sterling_ to a little village upon the banks of this river, by land it is only four miles, and yet if you should follow the course of the water, you will find it above twenty.----there is an house likewise that stands upon a narrow isthmus of a peninsula, formed by this same river, which is mighty remarkable: the water runs close to both ends of it, and yet if you sail from one to the other, you will be carried a compass of four miles.----such a river winding about this place, would make it a paradise indeed! as we are got into the north, i must confess i do not know any part of the kingdom that abounds more with elegant natural views: our well-cultivated plains, as you observed before, are certainly not comparable to their rough nature in point of prospect. about three years ago i rode the northern circuit: the weather was extremely fine; and i scarce remember being more agreeably entertained than i was with the several charming views exhibited to me in the northern counties. curiosity indeed, rather than business, carried me down: and as i had my time pretty much to myself, i spent it in a great measure in hunting after beautiful objects. sometimes i found myself hemmed within an amphitheatre of mountains, which were variously ornamented, some with scattered trees, some with tufted wood, some with grazing cattle, and some with smoaking cottages. here and there an elegant view likewise was opened into the country.----a mile's riding, perhaps, would have carried me to the foot of a steep precipice, down which thundered the whole weight of some vast river, which was dashed into foam at the bottom, by the craggy points of several rising rocks: a deep gloom overspread the prospect, occasioned by the close wood that hung round it on every side.--i could describe to you a variety of other views i met with there, if we _here_ wanted entertainment in the way of landskip. one, however, i cannot forbear mentioning, and wishing at the same time that his lordship had such materials to work with, and it could not be but he would make a most noble picture.----the place i have in view is upon the banks of the river _eden_ (which is indeed one of the finest rivers i ever saw). i scarce know a fitter place for a genius in this way to exert itself in. there is the greatest variety of garnished rocks, shattered precipices, rising hills, ornamented with the finest woods, thro' which are opened the most elegant vales that i have ever met with: not to mention the most enchanting views up and down the river, which winds itself in such a manner as to shew its banks to the best advantage, which, together with very charming prospects into the country, terminated by the blue hills at a distance, make as fine a piece of nature, as perhaps can any where be met with. _calloph._ i admire your taste in landskip extremely; you have marked out just such circumstances as would take me most in a view. i am i find almost as enthusiastic a lover of nature as you are. yet tho' i can allow her to have an excellent _fancy_, i do not think she has the best _judgment_. tho' nature is an admirable _colourist_, her _composition_ is very often liable to censure. for which reason i am for having her placed under the direction of _art_: and the rule i would go by should be mr. _pope_'s; --_treat the goddess like a modest fair, not over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare._ suppose, therefore, we leave your romantic nature, and continue our view of her here, where she is treated according to this prescription of the poet.----that building is called the temple of contemplation; those bas-relief heads it is adorned with, are, i assure you, extremely good ones. _polypth._ pray, sir, what kind of a building have we yonder, that struck our sight as we crossed that alley? _calloph._ we will walk up to it if you please: it is a _chinese_ house. _polypth._ a mighty whimsical appearance it makes truly. _calloph._ in my opinion it is a pretty object enough, and varies our view in a very becoming manner. its cool stand upon the lake, and those canvas windows, designed as well to keep out the sun, as let in the air, give us a good notion of the manner of living in an hot country. it is finely painted in the inside: will you look into it? _polypth._ finely painted indeed! our travellers tell us the _chinese_ are a very ingenious people; and that arts and sciences flourish amongst them in great beauty. but for my part, whenever i see any of their paintings, i am apt, i must confess, in every thing else to call their taste into question. it is impossible for one _art_ to be in perfection, without introducing the rest. they are all _links_ of the same _chain_: if you draw up one, you must expect the rest will follow. _cognoscitur ex socio_, is an old rule you know in judging of _men_; and i believe it may be applied with as much propriety in judging of _arts_. it is hardly to be imagined that any _art_, perfect in its kind, would claim any kindred, or even bear to keep company with such a wretched _art of painting_ as prevails amongst the _chinese_: its whole mystery consists in dawbing on glaring colours: correctness of drawing, beauty of composition, and harmony of colouring, they seem not to have even the least notion of. _calloph._ i like your reflections extremely. we should certainly have some more elegant productions from _china_, if they were able to answer the character i have sometimes heard given of them. they have very little of true, manly taste, i fancy, among them: their ingenuity lies chiefly in the knick-knack way; and is, i imagine, pretty much of the _dutch_ kind.----hold, sir: this way if you please. we will walk again towards the river, and pursue it to the canal.----it is divided, you see, into three parts; one takes its rise from the grotto; another from the pebble bridge (as it is called) which is, i think, a pretty object; and the third issues from a dark wood.----there, sir, let me present you to an illustrious set of your gallant countrymen. this place is called the temple of _british_ worthies; and is gloriously filled, you see, with the greatest wits, patriots, and heroes, that are to be met with in our chronicles. _unspotted names, and memorable long! if there be force in virtue, or in song._ does not your pulse beat high, while you thus stand before such an awful assembly? is not your breast warmed by a variety of grand ideas, which this sight must give birth to?----there you have a view of the calm philosophers, who sought virtue in her retirement, and benefited mankind by thought and meditation.----some took the human mind for their theme, examined the various powers it is endowed with, and gave us, _to know ourselves_.----others took _nature_ for their subject, looked thro' all her works, and enlarged our notions of a god----while others, warmed with a generous resentment against vice and folly, made morality their care: to the cool reasoner serious philosophy, without any ornament but truth, was recommended: to the gayer disposition the moral song was directed, and the heart was improved, while the fancy was delighted: to those who were yet harder to work upon, the force of example was made use of: folly is put to the test of ridicule, and laughed out of countenance, while the moral scene, like a distorting mirror, shews the villain his features in so deformed a manner, that he darts at his own image with horror and affright.----on the other side you are presented with a view of those illustrious worthies, who spent their lives in action; who left retirement to the cool philosopher, entered into the bustle of mankind, and pursued virtue in the dazzling light in which she appears to patriots and heroes. inspired by every generous sentiment, these gallant spirits founded constitutions, stemmed the torrent of corruption, battled for the state, ventured their lives in the defence of their country, and gloriously bled in the cause of liberty. _polypth._ what an happy man you are, thus to find an opportunity of moralizing upon every occasion! what a noble view you have displayed before me; when perhaps if i had been alone, i should have entertained myself no otherwise than in examining the busts; or if i read the inscriptions, they would only have drawn a remark from me, that they were well wrote.--the assembly yonder on the opposite side of the water, will be, i suppose, the next subject for your rapsody. pray what titles are those gentry distinguished by? at this distance i can hardly find out whether they are philosophers or milk-maids. _calloph._ why, sir, you have there a view of the kingdom of _parnassus_: that assembly is composed of _apollo_, and his privy-council. but as i believe they will hardly pay us, by any beauty in their workmanship, for our trouble, should we go round and make them a visit; it is my advice that we walk directly from hence to the temple of friendship, and so return by that terrace back again to those parts of the garden that remain yet unseen. _polypth._ with all my heart: but let us turn in here, i beseech you, and walk as much in the shade as possible, for the day grows vastly warm. _calloph._ i am ready to follow you amongst the trees, not more out of complaisance than inclination: i like a cool retreat as well as you. when i plan a garden, i believe, i shall deal much in shady walks; wherever i open a grand terrace, i intend to lengthen out by its side a close vista: through the one i shall lead strangers, in the other enjoy my friends. i am a great admirer of walking in a shade; it is a kind of emblem of the most agreeable situation in life, the retired one: every fantastic view is hid from us, and we may if we please, be poets, or philosophers, or what we will. i own i admire the taste of these buzzing insects, sporting themselves in the shade; a glaring sun-shine neither in the world, nor in a walk, is agreeable to my way of thinking. _polypth._ if all the world thought as you do, we should have neither statesmen to mend our laws, nor coblers to mend our shoes: we should all run and hide ourselves amongst trees, and what then would become of society? _calloph._ if i thought you did not will-fullyy mistake my meaning, i would take the trouble of telling you that i am an advocate for no other _retirement_ than such as is consistent with the duties of life. a love for which kind of retirement, _properly qualified_, is _health_ to the mind; but when it is _made up_ unskillfully, it throws us into a _fatal lethargy_, from whence begins the date of an useless life. every virtuous mind, in a greater or a less degree, has a turn this way, and the _best_, i believe, ought to be at the _most_ pains to guard against carrying this inclination into the extreme. _polypth._ and yet the annals of most nations let us see that their greatest men have often indulged it; and much for the benefit of mankind too; witness many of the illustrious worthies we have just been visiting: you forget the panegyric you bestowed upon them. _calloph._ no, sir: but do you remember that i placed these cool reasoners on the best side of a comparison with those who entred into the world, and spent their lives in action? on the contrary, this latter kind of men have always stood fairest in my esteem. the life of a recluse i would recommend to none but a valetudinarian. we were intended to assist each other as much as we are able. for my part, it has always been my opinion, that _one good man_ does more service in the world, than _a thousand good books_.----but we'll drop our argument at present, because i see we have finished our walk. _polypth._ is that building the temple of friendship? i cannot say that i extremely admire it: but i hope i shall meet with more entertainment within, than i am able to do without----well: this is elegant i must confess. _calloph._ ay, look round, and tell me if you are not struck by several very beautiful objects. those busts i assure you are _all_ pretty well done, and _some_ of them extremely well. _polypth._ so they are indeed: but i am chiefly intent upon the painting, which i am much taken with: it is by the same hand, i dare say, with that in the temple of _venus_. that emblem of friendship above the door, those of justice and liberty, and those other ornaments upon the walls, are well touched. what is that painting upon the cieling? i do not rightly understand it. _calloph._ why, sir, it is a piece of satyr: i am sure you will like it if you will give yourself the trouble to examine it: it is in your taste i know exactly.----there you see sits _britannia_; upon one side are held the glory of her annals, the reigns of queen _elizabeth_ and _edward_ iii. and on the other is offered the reign of----, which she frowns upon, and puts by with her hand. _polypth._ excellent, upon my word! faith, this is good! never accept it, honest lady, till corruption is at an end, and public spirit revives. _calloph._ with so little malevolence as i know you are possessed of, i do not think i ever met with any body in my life so eager to catch at any thing to blame; or to whom an opportunity of that kind afforded a more seeming real pleasure than it does to you.----but i know it proceeds from an honest nature.----well: suppose we continue our walk.----i look upon that statue as one of the finest in the world: i would give all the money in my pocket for a sight of the original. _polypth._ the posture always to me appears a little too much strained. i can scarce throw myself into such an attitude. yet it is fine i must confess. _calloph._ you have the best view of it, sir, from hence. most of the engravings i have met with give us the back view, but i think the statue appears infinitely to the best advantage when taken in front. the air of the head is delightful, and cannot be hid without depriving the figure of half its life.----i am leading you now to that genteel piece of building which goes by the name of the palladian bridge. _polypth._ i have seen, i think, something like it at my lord _pembroke_'s. _calloph._ i believe, sir, the model was taken from thence. tho' if i remember right, the roof is there supported by pillars on both sides. _polypth._ i think it is.----but what have we got there? you are taking me past something curious. _calloph._ i beg your pardon: indeed i had almost forgot the imperial closet: and i wonder i should, for i assure you i have the greatest veneration for its inhabitants.--there, sir, is a noble triumvirate. _titus_, _trajan_, and _aurelius_, are names which want not the pomp of title to add a lustre to them. _polypth._ i wish you could persuade all the kings in _europe_ to take them as patterns. but, god knows, public spirit is now at a low ebb amongst us: there is more of it in that single honest sentiment, _pro me: si merear, in me_, than i believe is to be found in this degenerate age in half a kingdom. _calloph._ i see, my good friend, you can moralize upon occasion too. _polypth._ moralize! the d----l take me, if i would not this moment, in spite of-- _calloph._ nay, come, don't grow serious: you know i have long since laid it down as a rule, to stop my ears when you get into your political vein. i am not now to learn that there is no keeping you within the bounds of temperance upon that topic. _polypth._ well then, let us have something else to talk about.----yon wall at this distance seems to promise us some bass-relief. _calloph._ yes, sir; you are there presented with a view of the different quarters of the world, bringing their various products to _britannia_. it is a pretty ornament enough for a bridge, which, like the art of navigation, joins one land to another. _polypth._ i can't say i much admire the workmanship. there is a great degree of awkwardness in several of the figures. _calloph._ why really i am so far of your way of thinking, that i must own i am no great admirer of this kind of work, except it be extremely fine.----the best thing in this way, that ever i met with, is a piece of alt-relief which his lordship keeps within doors. we shall scarce, i believe have time now, but we must take an opportunity of seeing it before you leave the country. you will meet with likewise in those apartments several very good pictures: i remember spending an afternoon about half a year ago, in a very agreeable manner amongst them. but this piece of alt-relief struck me beyond every thing. the story is _darius_'s tent; and it is so charmingly told, that i have had, i can tell you, a meaner opinion of _le brun_ upon that subject, ever since i have seen it: the composition is so just, the figures so graceful and correct, nay, the very drapery so free and easy, that i declare i was altogether astonished at the sight of it. _polypth._ well; i shall find some opportunity of paying it a visit. there is so much art required, and so much difficulty attends doing any thing in this way as it ought to be, that when we do meet with a good piece of workmanship of this kind, it affords us an extreme pleasure.----so, sir _william_, have i met you here! i should rather have expected to have seen you among the _british_ worthies.----this same _penn_, sir, i assure you, is a great favourite of mine. i esteem him one of the most worthy legislators upon record. his laws, i am told, act still with great force in _pensylvania_, and keep the honest, inoffensive people there in extreme good order. _calloph._ our sailors mention his colony as a very happy set of people; they live entirely at peace amongst themselves; and (bred up in a strict observance of probity) without any knowledge of an art military amongst them, are able to preserve the most sociable terms with their neighbours.----these busts seem to have escaped your observation. _polypth._ no, sir, i am not so incurious as to suffer any thing that has been in _italy_ to slip my notice: some of those particularly that stand on the side next _rawleigh_, i was exceedingly taken with. _calloph._ pray what is your opinion of checquered marble's being made use of in busts? _polypth._ why, sir, i never see any of these party-coloured faces, but i am moved with indignation at the sculptor's ridiculous humour. it is so absurd a taste, that i cannot conceive how it should ever enter into a workman's head, to make every feature of a man's face of a different colour; and it amazes me, i assure you, that we meet with daily so many instances of such absurdity.----in several parts of the garden, i have had various views of that old _gothic_ building; we are now at last i hope moving towards it. i am so wonderfully pleased with its outward appearance, that i shall be disappointed if i don't meet something answerable within. _calloph._ why, sir, as old as it looks, i assure you it is not yet finished. you will meet with nothing ornamental in the inside; so i would have you persuade yourself it has already done all in its power to entertain you. and upon my word i think it has done a great deal: without it, i am sure this part of the garden would be quite naked and lifeless; nor would any other part appear with so much beauty. it puts one in mind of some generous patriot in his retirement; his own neighbourhood feels most the effects of that bounty, which in some measure spreads itself over a whole country. _polypth._ i like this disposition within, i assure you, altogether as well as its form without.----there are two or three pieces of the best painted glass that i have any where met with: those little historical pieces are exceedingly beautiful; and so are those landskips likewise.----this hill i think appears rather too naked. _calloph._ throw your eye over it then, and tell me if you are not ravished with the view before you. nothing certainly in the kind can be more beautiful or great, than that pompous pile rising in so magnificent a manner above the wood. the building cannot possibly be shewn to greater advantage: the appearance it _makes_ presents you with an idea sufficiently grand; yet your imagination cannot be persuaded but that it is in fact much grander, and that the wood hides a great part of what is to be seen from your eye. this is a most delightful manner of pleasing: a grand object left to a good imagination to improve upon, seldom loses by its assistance. our view likewise is greatly added to in point of beauty, by those several other smaller buildings which offer themselves, some only half hid amongst the branches, and others just peeping from amongst tufted trees, which make very beautiful little garnished dishes in this most elegant entertainment. _polypth._ as you have thus painted the near objects, let my pencil, i beg, come in for a few rough touches in the backgrounds: without something of an off-skip, your man of art, you know, seldom esteems his view perfect. and in this landskip there are as many beautiful objects thrown off to a distance as can well be imagined: that variety of fine wood; that bright surface of water, with the pointed obelisk in the midst of it; those two pavilions upon the banks of the canal; and the still more distant view into the country, are objects which, in my opinion, make no small addition to the beauty of your landskip; or, to carry on your allusion, may very well come in as a second course in your entertainment.----our attention, i think, in the next place, is demanded by this venerable assembly. that old gentleman there sits with great dignity: i like his attitude extremely: if i understood the _runic_ character, i might have known probably (for this inscription i fancy would inform me) by what title he is distinguished. but the gracefulness of his posture discovers him to have been nothing less than an hero of the first rank. he puts me in mind of a _roman_ senator, sitting in his curule chair to receive the _gauls_. _calloph._ why, sir, you have done him great honour i must own; but you have not yet honoured him according to his dignity: he is nothing less, sir, i assure you, than the representative of a _saxon_ deity. you see here __thor_ and _woden_ fabled gods_---- with the whole system of your ancestor's theology. walk round the assembly, they will smile upon a true _briton_, and try if you can acknowledge each by his distinct symbol. _polypth._ i must confess they do not to me seem accoutered like gods: for my part, i should rather suspect them to be statues of heroes and lawgivers, metamorphised into divinities by the courtesy of the place: i shall not however go about to dispute their titles; but like my good ancestors before me, acquiesce piously in what other people tell me.----tho' i cannot say but that lady there, bearing the sun (who represents i suppose _sunday_) looks whimsical enough; and makes just such an appearance as i could imagine the misled conception of an enthusiastic _saxon_ might mould his deities into. but in these other figures i must own i cannot see superstition at all characterized, which you may observe generally forms its objects of worship into the most mis-created things that can possibly enter the imagination of man. _calloph._ why, sir, amongst the _greeks_ and _romans_, you may observe several very well-shaped deities: the _hercules_, the _apollo_, and the _venus_, are at this day standards of beauty. _polypth._ yes; but i am apt to attribute this rather to the imagination of their sculptors, than their priests. to _shew art_, rather than to _express religion_, was the point aimed at in these enchanting pieces of workmanship.----but when superstition acted without controul; when the fantastic notions of priests were put into the hands of ordinary workmen, even amongst the polite _greeks_ and _romans_ themselves, lord! what misshapen monsters crouded into temples, and reared themselves aloft above altars! search other countries likewise, _egypt_ and _africa_, _china_ and _japan_, or any place either ancient or modern, where superstition prevails, and i dare engage in the whole catalogue of their deities you will scarce meet with one that bears any thing like the human shape. _calloph._ why their demi-gods, or canonized heroes, of which all pagan nations had abundance, were generally i fancy represented in the human form. and these _saxon_ divinities, i suppose, pretend not to any superior rank----but however, as no degree of veneration is exacted from you, you may i think let them rest quietly upon their pedestals, without any farther molestation.----we have a good view into the country from hence. those woods are extremely elegant in their kind; we must certainly contrive to take a ride thither some evening. they are laid out in a very fine manner, and cut into very beautiful ridings. _polypth._ ay, that is the kind of improvement that takes most with me (let us step in here a moment, we are caught i see in a shower). i am altogether of the poet's opinion, that _'tis _use_ alone that sanctifies expence._ were i a nobleman, i should endeavour to turn my estate into a garden, and make my tenants my gardiners: instead of useless temples, i would build farm-houses; and instead of cutting out unmeaning vistas, i would beautify and mend highways: the country should smile upon my labours, and the public should partake in my pleasures. what signifies all this ostentatious work? is any man the better for it? is it not money most vilely squandered away? _calloph._ so far from it, that i assure you, considered even in a public light, i look upon it as an expence that may very properly be said to be sanctified by _use_. _polypth._ i suppose you are going to tell me that it feeds two or three poor labourers; and when you have said this, i know not what more you can say to defend it. but how is it possible for a man to throw away his money without doing some service in the world? _calloph._ how? why by spending it in gaming, to the encouragement of cheats and sharpers: by squandering it away upon lusts and appetites, in the support of stews and bawdy-houses: or by dealing it out in bribes, in opposition to honesty, and to advance corruption. in arts like these, what numbers consume their wealth! it is not enough for them to prevent mankind's being benefited by their affluent circumstances; but they do their utmost, while they diminish their fortunes, to make all they can influence as worthless as themselves. so that i assure you i should look upon it as a very great point gained, if all our men of fortune would only take care that their wealth proves of no disservice to mankind. tho' i am far from desiring they should stop there: i would have them endeavour to turn it into some useful channel. and in my opinion, it is laid out in a very laudable manner, when it is spent, as it is here, in circulating thro' a variety of trades, in supporting a number of poor families, and in the encouragement of art and industry. _polypth._ well, sir, i confess wealth thus laid out, is beneficial to a country; but still you keep from the point: i ask whether all these good ends would not be answered, and more too, were this wealth laid out according to my scheme, in public works, or something of an _useful_ nature. _calloph._ and so you have no notion of any use arising from these elegant productions of art: you cannot conceive how they should be of any service to the public. why you are a mere _goth_, an unpolished _vandal_; were you impowered to reform the age, i suppose i should see you, like one of those wild misguided people, coursing furiously round the land, and laying desolate every thing beautiful you met with. but in my opinion, sir, these noble productions of art, considered merely as such, may be looked upon as works of a very public nature. do you think no _end_ is answered when a nation's taste is regulated with regard to the most innocent, the most refined, and elegant of its pleasures? in all polite countries the amusements of the people were thought highly deserving a legislator's inspection. to establish a just taste in these, was esteemed in some measure as advancing the interest of virtue: and can it be considered as a work entirely of a private nature, for a superior genius to exert itself in an endeavour to fix a true standard of beauty in any of these allowed and useful kinds of pleasure? in the way of gardening particularly, the taste of the nation has long been so depraved, that i should think we might be obliged to any one that would undertake to reform it. while a taste for painting, music, architecture, and other polite arts, in some measure prevailed amongst us, our gardens for the most part were laid out in so formal, aukward, and wretched a manner, that they were really a scandal to the very genius of the nation; a man of taste was shocked whenever he set his foot into them. but _stow_, it is to be hoped, may work some reformation: i would have our country squires flock hither two or three times in a year, by way of improvement, and after they have looked about them a little, return home with new notions, and begin to see the absurdity of their clipped yews, their box-wood borders, their flourished parterres, and their lofty brick-walls.----you may smile, but i assure you such an improvement of public taste, tho' there is no occasion to consider it as a matter of the first importance, is certainly a concern that ought by no means to be neglected. perhaps indeed i may carry the matter farther than the generality of people; but to me i must own there appears a very visible connection between an _improved_ taste for pleasure, and a taste for virtue: when i sit ravished at an oratorio, or stand astonished before the cartoons, or enjoy myself in these happy walks, i can feel my mind expand itself, my notions enlarge, and my heart better disposed either for a religious thought, or a benevolent action: in a word, i cannot help imagining a taste for these exalted pleasures contributes towards making me a better man. _polypth._ good god! what an enthusiast you are! polite arts improve virtue! an assertion indeed for a philosopher to make. why are they not always considered as having a natural tendency to luxury, to riot, and licentiousness? _calloph._ no more, in my opinion, than a wholesome meal has to a surfeit, or reading the scriptures to heresy: all things are capable, we know, of abuse; and perhaps the best things the most capable: and tho' this may indeed argue a depravity in _us_, yet it by no means, i think, argues a tendency in _them_ to deprave us. however, (to let what i have yet said stand for nothing) i can tell you one very great piece of service arising to the country from wealth laid out in this elegant manner, which you seem so much to grumble at; and that is, the money spent in the neighbourhood by the company daily crouding hither to satisfy their curiosity. we have a kind of a continual fair; and i have heard several of the inhabitants of the neighbouring town assert, that it is one of the best trades they have: their inns, their shops, their farms, and shambles, all find their account in it: so that, in my opinion, viewed in this light only, such productions of art may be considered as very great advantages to every neighbourhood that enjoys the lucky situation of being placed near them.----to this advantage might be added, the great degree of pleasure from hence derived daily to such numbers of people: a place like this is a kind of keeping open house, there is a repast at all times ready for the entertainment of strangers. and sure if you have any degree of benevolence, you must think an _useful end_ answered in thus affording an innocent gratification to so many of your fellow-creatures. a _sunday_ evening spent here, adds a new relish to the day of rest, and makes the sabbath appear more chearful to the labourer after a toilsome week. for my part, i assure you i have scarce experienced a greater pleasure than i have often felt upon meeting a variety of pleased faces in these walks: all care and uneasiness seems to be left behind at the garden-door, and people enter here fully resolved to enjoy themselves, and the several beautiful objects around them: in one part a face presents itself marked with the passion of gaping wonder; in another you meet a countenance bearing the appearance of a more rational pleasure; and in a third, a sett of features composed into serene joy; while the man of taste is seen examining every beauty with a curious eye, and discovering his approbation in an half-formed smile.--to this i might still add another advantage, of a public nature, derived from these elegant productions of art; and that is their tendency to raise us in the opinion of foreigners. if our nation had nothing of this kind to boast of, all our neighbours would look upon us a stupid, tasteless set of people, and not worth visiting. so that for the credit of the country, i think, something of this kind ought to be exhibited amongst us. our public virtues, if we have any, would not, i dare say, appear to less advantage when recommended by these embellishments of art. _polypth._ i wonder you should not know me better than to imagine i am always in earnest when i find fault. my thoughts and yours, i assure you, agree exactly upon this subject. i only wanted to engage you in some discourse till the shower was over; and as the sky seems now quite clear, if you will, we'll venture out, and visit what we have yet to see. _calloph._ you are a humorous fellow: this is not the first time you have made me play my lungs to no purpose.----as we walk along this terrace, you may observe the great advantage of low walls: by this means the garden is extended beyond its limits, and takes in every thing entertaining that is to be met with in the range of half a county. villages, works of husbandry, groups of cattle, herds of deer, and a variety of other beautiful objects, are brought into the garden, and make a part of the plan. even to the _nicest_ taste these rural scenes are highly delightful. _polypth._ nay you may add, that whoever has no relish for them, gives reason for a suspicion that he has no taste at all. _straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, whilst the landskip round it measures; russet lawns, and fallows gray. where the nibbling flocks do stray; mountains, on whose barren breast the labouring clouds do often rest; meadows trim with daisies pide, shallow brooks, and rivers wide: towers and battlements it sees bosom'd high in tufted trees, where perhaps some beauty lies, the cynosure of neighbouring eyes. hard by a cottage chimney smokes, from betwixt two aged oaks._ _calloph._ can you repeat no more? i could have listened with great pleasure if you had gone on with the whole piece. it is quite nature: that view of an old castle, _bosom'd high in tufted trees_, pleases me exceedingly: and the two following lines, _where perhaps some beauty lies, the cynosure of neighbouring eyes,_ give it an elegant, romantic air; and add greatly to the idea before conceived.----but to pursue our former argument: it must be owned indeed that these walks want such openings into the country as little as any place can well be imagined to do; yet even _stow_ itself, i assure you, is much improved by them. they contrast beautifully with this more polished nature, and set it off to greater advantage. after surfeiting itself with the feast here provided for it, the eye, by using a little exercise in travelling about the country, grows hungry again, and returns to the entertainment with fresh appetite. besides, there is nothing so distasteful to the eye as a confined prospect (where the reasonableness of it does not appear) especially if a dead wall, or any other such disagreeable object steps in between. the eye naturally loves liberty, and when it is in quest of prospects, will not rest content with the most beautiful dispositions of art, confined within a narrow compass, but (as soon as the novelty of the sight is over) will begin to grow dissatisfied, till the whole limits of the horizon be given it to range through. _polypth._ the eye, according to your account, seems to be something like a bee: plant as many flowers as you will near its hive, yet still the little insect will be discontented, unless it be allowed to wander o'er the country, and be its own caterer.----i have got a few very severe exclamations at my tongue's end, which i will not vent till you have told me the architect's name, who has loaded the ground with that monstrous piece of building, tho' i believe i can guess him without your information. _calloph._ suffer me to intercede in his behalf. you are so unmerciful a reprover, that i have not patience to hear you. the room above is designed, i am told, to be fitted up in a very elegant manner; but as very little is yet done to it, we shall find nothing i fancy to answer the trouble of going up stairs.----this part of the garden, you see, is yet unfinished. if we have the pleasure of your company in this country next year, you will see i dare say great alterations here. that _base_ is to shoot up into a lofty monument: and several of those objects you see before you are to take new forms upon them. _polypth._ yonder likewise seems to be a monument[ ] rising: pray who is it intended to do honour to? _calloph._ why, sir, it is intended to do honour to a gentleman, who has done honour to his country: it is dedicated to the memory of captain _grenville_, and joins with the nation in applauding a man, who pushed forwards by honour, and a love for his country, met danger and death with the spirit of a _roman_.----well, how do you like the plan which you see laid out before you? [ ] since this view of the gardens was taken, the monument here spoken of has been finished. the following lines are a translation of its inscription, which in the original is wrote in latin. as a monument to testify both his applause and grief, richard lord viscount cobham erected this naval pillar to the memory of his nephew captain grenville, who commanding a ship of war in the _british_ fleet under admiral anson, in an engagement with the _french_, was mortally wounded upon the thigh by a fragment of his shattered ship; yet with his last breath had the bravery to cry out, how much more desireable is it thus to meet death, "than, convicted of cowardice, to meet justice!" may this noble instance of virtue prove instructive to an abandoned age, and teach _britons_ how to act in their country's cause! _polypth._ as far as i can judge of the future landskip from this sketch, it will be an admirable one. i am extremely taken with it. that bason has a very fine effect.--i could return back the same round with great pleasure, but my watch informs me that mr.----, has been expecting us this half hour. _calloph._ is it so late? the time has stole off very slily. however you need be under no apprehensions; that honest gentleman is seldom very hasty in his motions. having thus finished their round, our two gentlemen directed their faces back again towards the gate. _polypthon_, notwithstanding the sour humour he had given so many evidences of in his walk, began now to relent, and could talk of nothing but the agreeable entertainment that had been afforded him. sometimes he would run out into the highest encomiums of the many beautiful terminations of the several walks and vistas; and observe how many uses each object served, and in how many different lights it was made to vary itself. "for instance, says he, the pavilion you shewed me from the temple of _venus_, terminates that terrace in a very grand manner; and makes likewise a very magnificent appearance, where it corresponds with another of the same form, at the entrance into the park: yet the same building, like a person acquainted with the world, who can suit his behaviour to time and place, can vary itself upon occasion into a more humble shape, and when viewed thro' a retired vista, can take upon it the lowly form of a close retreat."----when he had enlarged pretty copiously upon this subject, he would next launch out into the highest praises of the vast variety of objects that was every where to be met with: "men of all humours, says he, will here find something pleasing and suited to their taste. the thoughtful may meet with retired walks calculated in the best manner for contemplation: the gay and chearful may see nature in her loveliest dress, and meet objects corresponding with their most lively flights. the romantic genius may entertain itself with several very beautiful objects in its own taste, and grow wild with ideas of the inchanted kind. the disconsolate lover may hide himself in shady groves, or melancholy wander along the banks of lakes and canals; where he may sigh to the gentle zephyrs; mingle his tears with the bubbling water; or where he may have the best opportunity, if his malady be grown to such an height, of ending his despair, and finishing his life with all the decency and pomp of a lover in a romance. in short, says he, these gardens are a very good epitome of the world: they are calculated for minds of every stamp, and give free scope to inclinations of every kind: and if it be said that in some parts they too much humour the debauched taste of the sensualist, it cannot be denied on the other hand, but that they afford several very noble incitements to honour and virtue."----but what beyond all other things seemed most to please him, was the amicable and beautiful conjunction of _art_ and _nature_ thro' the whole: he observed that the _former_ never appeared stiff, or the _latter_ extravagant. upon many other topicks of praise _polypthon_ run out with great warmth. _callophilus_ seemed surprized, and could not forbear asking him, by what means his opinions became so suddenly changed? "why, says he, sir, i have said nothing now that contradicts any thing i said before. i own i met with two or three objects that were not entirely to my taste, which i am far from condemning for that reason; tho' if i should, it is nothing to the purpose, because i am now taking a survey of the whole together; in which light i must confess i am quite astonished with the view before me. besides, i hate one of your wondering mortals, who is perpetually breaking out into a note of admiration at every thing he sees: i am always apt to suspect his taste or his sincerity. it is impossible that all genius's can alike agree in their opinions of any work of art; and the man who never _blames_, i can scarce believe is qualified to _commend_. besides, finding fault now and then, adds weight to commendation, and makes us believed to be in earnest. however, notwithstanding what you may think of my frequent cavils, i assure you, with the greatest sincerity, i never before saw any thing of the kind at all comparable to what i have here seen: i shall by no means close this day with a _diem perdidi_; nor would the _roman_ emperor himself, i believe, have made the reflection if he had spent his condemned hours in this place." by this time the gentlemen were come to the gate, thro' which _polypthon_ assured his friend he passed with the greatest reluctance, and went growling out of this delightful garden, as the devil is said to have done out of paradise. _finis._ william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles the augustan reprint society publications in print the augustan reprint society publications in print - . henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ ( ). . "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. ( ), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ ( ). - . susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ ( ). . samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ ( ), and two _rambler_ papers ( ). . john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ ( ). - . charles macklin, _the man of the world_ ( ). . thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ ( ), and _the eton college manuscript_. - . bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ ( ). - . john tutchin, _selected poems_ ( - ). . _political justice_ ( ). . t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ ( ). - . daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_ ( , , , ). . charles macklin, _the convent garden theatre_ ( ). . sir roger l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ ( ). . henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ ( ). . bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ ( ). - . _the female wits_ ( ). - . john courtenay, _a poetical review of the literary and moral character of the late samuel johnson_ ( ). . thomas sheridan, _a discourse being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language_ ( ). . arthur murphy. _the englishman from paris_ ( ). - . [catherine trotter] _olinda's adventures_ ( ). . john ogilvie, _an essay on the lyric poetry of the ancients_ ( ). . _a learned dissertation on dumpling_ ( ) and _pudding and dumpling burnt to pot or a compleat key to the dissertation on dumpling_ ( ). . sir roger l'estrange, selections from _the observator_ ( - ). . anthony collins, _a discourse concerning ridicule and irony in writing_ ( ). . _a letter from a clergyman to his friend, with an account of the travels of captain lemuel gulliver_ ( ). . _the art of architecture_, a poem ( ). - - . thomas shelton,_ a tutor to tachygraphy, or short-writing_ ( ) and _tachygraphy_ ( ). - . _deformities of dr. samuel johnson_ ( ). . _poeta de tristibus: or the poet's complaint_ ( ). . gerard langbaine, _momus triumphans: or the plagiaries of the english stage_ ( ). - - . evan lloyd, _the methodist. a poem_ ( ). . _are these things so?_ ( ), and _the great man's answer to are these things so?_ ( ). . arbuthnotiana: _the story of the st. alb-ns ghost_ ( ), and _a catalogue of dr. arbuthnot's library_ ( ). - . a selection of emblems from herman hugo's _pia desideria_ ( ), with english adaptations by francis quarles and edmund arwaker. - . william mountfort, _the life and death of doctor faustus_ ( ). . colley cibber, _a letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope_ ( ). . [catherine clive] _the case of mrs. clive_ ( ). . [thomas tryon] _a discourse ... of phrensie, madness or distraction_ from _a treatise of dreams and visions_ [ ]. . robert blair, _the grave. a poem_ ( ). . [bernard mandeville] _a modest defence of publick stews_ ( ). - . [william rider] _an historical and critical account of the lives and writings of the living authors of great britain_ ( ). . thomas edwards, _the sonnets of thomas edwards_ ( , ). . hildebrand jacob, _of the sister arts; an essay_ ( ). . _poems on the reign of william iii_ [ , , , ] . kane o'hara, _midas: an english burletta_ ( ). . [daniel defoe] _a short narrative history of the life and actions of his grace john, d. of marlborough_ ( ). - - . samuel richardson, _the apprentice's vade-mecum_ ( ). . james bramston, _the man of taste_ ( ). - . walter charleton, _the ephesian matron_ ( ). . bernard mandeville, _the mischiefs that ought justly to be apprehended from a whig-government_ ( ). x. john melton, _astrologaster_ ( ). publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers - ) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $ . per unit from kraus reprint company, east th street, new york, n. y. . publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $ . for individuals and $ . for institutions per year. prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus. _make check or money order payable to_ the regents of the university of california _and send to_ the william andrews clark memorial library cimarron street, los angeles, california transcriber's note. the original punctuation and spelling have been retained. the augustan reprint society an explanatory discourse by tan chet-qua, of quang-chew-fu, gent. sir william chambers ( ) _introduction by_ richard e. quaintance, jr. publication number _ _ william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles _ _ general editor david stuart rodes, university of california, los angeles editors charles l. batten, university of california, los angeles william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles advisory editors james l. clifford, columbia university ralph cohen, university of virginia vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university earl miner, princeton university samuel h. monk, university of minnesota everett t. moore, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, william andrews clark memorial library james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library corresponding secretary beverly j. onley, william andrews clark memorial library editorial assistant frances m. reed, university of california, los angeles introduction this "explanatory discourse" first appeared, in the latter part of march , annexed to the second and last edition of sir william chambers' _dissertation on oriental gardening_ of the preceding may. as an effort, curiously hedged, to impersonate a chinese spokesman it seeks to exploit the satiric vantage points of philosophic naivety and trenchant candor enjoyed by goldsmith's observer lien chi altangi in london a dozen years earlier. but chambers' ventriloquism is both more defensive and more aggressive than what we find in _the citizen of the world_; the preface here in his own voice admits sensitivity to the "abuse" which the dissertation had incurred for its scenic fantasy, its brief opening and closing attacks on "capability" brown, and its pervasive criticism of the blandness of brownian landscaping. by assuming the voice of tan chet-qua chambers is able to pretend to more authoritative familiarity with actual chinese gardens even as he deplores his readers' misapprehension that his interest lay mainly in masquerade, entertainment, or "the mere recital of a traveller's observation" (p. ). it was probably a strategic error to entrust the substance of his genuine and quite respectable challenging of brownian style, to what he terms the "vehicle" of alleged first-hand reports of preferable "chinese" lay-outs. by this date, some two decades after the chinoiserie fad had crested in england, most of his readers might fairly be termed rather jaded. they preferred to overreact to the frivolity and whimsey they had come to think essentially chinese, rather than to ponder what chambers seriously urges from behind his silken "screen": his interest in a variegated emotional response to deliberately variegated landscape. an admirer of burke's sublime, chambers saw advantage in complicating the suavity of brown's gentle contours, shaven lawns, free-form reflecting lakes, and still short tree-clumps, through a program of landscaped stimulation of contrasting associative moods. this is the essence of that argument which chambers "cloathed ... in the garb of fiction, to secure it a patient hearing" (p. ) in three publications appearing over sixteen years. there is no evidence that he was better understood through publication of this "discourse," the last of the three.[ ] of course, it is not as a satirist, an aesthetician of landscape, or even as a masquerading orientalist that sir william chambers ( - ) has been best known in his time and since: with robert adam, he led the british architectural profession virtually from the time he undertook his first commissions around . the two buildings for which he is justly best remembered are the chinese pagoda at kew gardens and somerset house, between london's strand and waterloo bridge. yet from that solid palladian structure now housing the general register office it takes more than the dozen miles up thames to reach the pagoda which in reared its eighty bright wing-displaying dragons on ten successive roofs, and from the height of fifty meters flashed its glazed tiles across suburbia. chambers developed simultaneously and maintained through his career two contrasted sensibilities. the dignified town house he designed for his family in fronted berners street with a massive rusticated doorway, yet had interior chimney-pieces and a rear elevation modelled in "fanciful" papier-maché which his biographer john harris supposes was painted and varnished chinoiserie. he made his way to the top of his profession and earned royal recognition through tectonic skills that absorbed him with somerset house, for instance, during the last two decades of his life. but as early as he had ventured the striking practice--standard by the century's end through his pioneering and adam's--of drawing elevations of a building proposed as it would appear if already conditioned by time, decaying and overgrown by vegetation.[ ] deciding what to make of his three publications on chinese gardens will not be eased by polarizing his sources of inspiration or consigning his life into stretches during which the dominant interest was product or process, structure or affect. here is no schizoid or frustrated pre-romantic--a chatterton who somehow survived his suicide attempt to edit copy for the _gentleman's magazine_--but a consummate professional.[ ] the mythic "cina" of which this "discourse" was chambers' latest account grew and changed with him from his first-hand experience of canton at the age of twenty, through his architectural training in paris and rome, and throughout his practice and success as the establishment architect of his age in england. the recent thorough harris biography leaves it appropriate here only to survey the facts most pertinent to his publications on chinese gardens and to advance a few speculations. the first son of a well-to-do scottish sutler to the armies of charles xii of sweden, chambers early left his native gothenburg for schooling supervised by relatives in yorkshire. between the ages of and his cosmopolitan rearing proceeded with his apprenticeship to supercargoes or agents aboard three successive vessels of the swedish east india company trading in ports along the indian coast and as far east as canton. although his eye and sketchbook were thus early busied with oriental sights, what chambers later wrote of peking (or much else chinese beyond the docks of canton) was, as he admitted, based upon the observations of others. yet it must have been rare and significant enough in those days that when this westerner determined to devote his earnings from the final voyage to an education in architecture, he had seen proportionately so much of non-european building. even before enrolling in j.-f. blondel's ecole des arts for the - winter, chambers may have met frederick, prince of wales, in london, and been encouraged by frederick's exotic interests.[ ] it was during his second of five springs in rome, living with his english wife over the shop of piranesi, that chambers learned of frederick's death in march and designed for him a mausoleum based on the ancient and neo-classical shapes before his eyes; in one of his sections for this project he depicted it decaying like some of them, with cypress trees beginning to grow out of the rubble that was to have been its roof! though this design was never executed, chambers did meet with royal patronage upon his return to london and dedicated to the new prince of wales--soon his pupil in drawing, and three years later, george iii--his first book, _designs of chinese buildings, furniture, dresses, machines and utensils_ in . the opening sentences which samuel johnson contributed to chambers' _designs_ scorned the "power" with which "novelty attracts regard"[ ]--a ground-note directly contrary to chambers' sarcastic apology for "the monster novelty" here in his preface. but in he could expect his crisp text and twenty-one plates to administer a calming dose of authenticity to the chinoiserie fever then raging. in fact, this large and handsome volume appears to have driven from the market the pattern-books of "william halfpenny" and others, with their ridiculous dragon-finials atop georgian hip-roofs and venetian windows bordered by crockets--the carpentry trade trying to sustain a mood for renovations waning by the early fifties. chambers hoped to put a stop "to the extravagancies that daily appear under the name of chinese, though most of them are mere inventions, the rest copies from the lame representations found on porcelain and paper-hangings." this sniffy professionalism would broaden by into mockery of the "kitchen gardeners, well skilled in the culture of sallads, but little acquainted with the principles of ornamental gardening"[ ]--which everyone took for a swipe at launcelot "capability" brown, "yon stately gentleman in the black perriwig" (p. below). yet probably a more general and generous motive prompted chambers to boost in this public way, on the last five pages introducing his _designs_, a landscape-style in which he could hardly expect to exercise his training or build the career just beginning. the lay-outs of kent and brown took inspired advantage of topography, plants and climate peculiar to the south of england, but to anyone coming like chambers from the gardens in and near paris and rome it might appear by that the english style risked parochial self-exaggeration to the point where all anecdotal human interest would be suppressed in the name of a "nature" literally isolated. cosmopolitanism, more enlightened than ever, befitted a britain engaged in pitt's "great war for the empire" which would extend its holdings from montreal to madras. was there not an earlier empire whose leader had left visible tokens of his eclecticism? "[h]adrian, who was himself an architect, at a time when the grecian architecture was in the highest esteem among the romans, erected in his villa, at tivoli, certain buildings after the manner of the egyptians and of other nations."[ ] it was timely to identify a pure "original" example of culture native to quite another organic whole, and then to transplant it intact to a british scene large enough to sustain it. botanically viewed, this is the principle on which arduous horticultural experiments were being performed at this stage in england's imperial history: the removal to kew of lebanese cedars, oriental ginkgoes, persimmons and sophoras, or american locusts in the earlier s, and later, the infamous bounty venture to transplant in jamaica breadfruit from the south seas. architecturally applied, it would seem to be the principle on which chambers developed his designs for a score of buildings after the manner of the romans, chinese, moors, and of other nations, erected at kew gardens by the time the treaty of paris was signed in .[ ] in this concern he seconded but went beyond the hopes of horace walpole and william mason that "this whole kingdom might soon become one magnificant vast garden, bounded only by the sea" (below, page ). the syntax of lewis mumford seems apposite: of frederick law olmsted, the designer of new york's central park just a century later, mumford has remarked that "by making nature urbane he naturalized the city."[ ] at kew, by making the garden cosmopolitan, chambers helped to globalize the capital of empire and proposed the world as enlightened eden. it was not, of course, such national or global edenic visions which chiefly exercised readers of chambers' essay "of the art of laying out gardens among the chinese" and brought down upon his _dissertation_ the ridicule which prompted the "explanatory discourse." rather, it was the lurid details through which both accounts maintained that "the chinese artists, knowing how powerfully contrast operates on the mind, constantly practise sudden transitions, and a striking opposition of forms, coulours, and shades." though this principle earned sympathetic response from theorists like burke and karnes at home and delille on the continent, chambers pressed his luck too far when he described what he claimed to have observed, or heard from chinese observers, of "three different species of scenes, to which they give the appellations of pleasing, horrid, and enchanted." particularly vulnerable were the programmed _frissons_ of "their scenes of horror": "some miserable huts dispersed in the mountains serve, at once to indicate the existence and wretchedness of the inhabitants."[ ] by the _schadenfreude_ has deepened: "their scenes of terrour are composed of gloomy woods, &c. gibbets, crosses, wheels, and the whole apparatus of torture are seen from the roads. here too they conceal in cavities, on the summits of the highest mountains, foundries, lime-kilns, and glass-works, which send forth large volumes of flame, and continued columns of thick smoke, that give to these mountains the appearance of volcanos." this was the sort of opening which william mason exploited in his _heroic epistle to sir william chambers_ of march, : now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, join we the groves of horrour and affright; this to achieve no foreign aids we try, thy gibbets, bagshot! shall our wants supply; hounslow, whose heath sublimer terrour fills, shall with her gibbets lend her powder mills.[ ] mason's _heroic epistle_ was one of the century's most popular poems and, cheered on by walpole, a viscously successful effort to tar with chambers' lavish brush his patron george bute and other assorted scots, any critic of brown, and the tory establishment at large. yet behind chambers' oriental screen the novelty, enduring interest, and even the practicality of some of his ideas can be observed. that concern to naturalize the smoky mills of industrialization may be developing a hint (concerning middleton dale, in the peak district) on page of thomas whately's supremely influential _observations on modern gardening_ ( ). if chambers' generation was neither the first nor last to grapple with what "progress" had done to the land, the english landscaping movement presented a new stage for that encounter. while chet-qua's proposal to frame the dreary tracts around a metropolis "into scenes of terror" seems less than helpful, how neatly he anticipates cézanne's transfer of his easel into the abandoned bibémus quarry (pp. - ). foreshadowing william cowper's satire of "th' omnipotent magician, brown" in _the task_, chambers had warned that estate-"improvement" could lead to irreparable devastation of the nation's woodland. several of chambers' means to certain effects sound more like a practical landscape architect at work than a disneyland impressario parading his promised thrills: when he urges diversification of material relative to seasonal change or human entertainments, for instance, or the use of wire fencing and other substitutes for the ha-ha. his interest in the harmonizing of diverse but massed hues and textures has been recognized as an early glimpse of the "english" effects secured by gertrude jekyll a century and a quarter later.[ ] though extravagances of chambers' language distracted attention from the liberalism of his views, such passages of the _dissertation_ as pp. - read like the picturesque identified by william gilpin, uvedale price, and richard payne knight in the s and ' s. far from the (sino-british) imperial privity which mason tartly mocked are chet-qua's suggestions that the country-house owner drop his palings and open his grounds to "holy-day folks," as he opens his park to his kitchen-garden. more than this, he should offer "meats for every palate," plan not for his family or honored guests alone, but for tastes more susceptible to surprise than theirs. likewise the circuit plan would be well replaced by another less coercive.[ ] points like these reveal in chambers a solicitude on behalf of a general public of garden-strollers not at all necessarily landholding, nor self-conscious as "connoisseurs." perhaps this is why, when the planners grouped around nikolaus pevsner and his _architectural review_ surveyed their task in postwar england, they would find fresh applications for the term "picturesque" and fresh relevance in this tory's "chinese" gardens.[ ] sinologists and landscape-historians have long recognized, to be sure, that chambers' descriptions (like most of what the west has wrought in the name of chinese gardening since sir william temple enunciated his shadowy _sharawadgi_ principle in ), while they may correctly celebrate specific details, or the general principles of surprise and variety, register no sensitivity to the taoist or buddhist teleology crucial to oriental planning. what chet-qua calls "supernatural scenery" is hence "enchanted" by the same spirit of diversion animating the druid or dark walk and subterranean fairy music of vauxhall gardens, across the thames from somerset house.[ ] enlightened secularization of the genuine oriental principles of immanence and affect may, however, be exactly what makes a paragraph on page of the _dissertation_ sound so much like a ground-plan for a short story of strollers' interwoven and inconsequential conversations and interior monologues, virginia woolf's "kew gardens." if allowances are made for the persistent difficulty of transcribing chinese phonemes, and for chambers' dependence upon cantonese rather than mandarin dialect, the oriental dress of the _discourse_ is less bogus than might be assumed. chambers' varying spellings of the then reigning emperor's name would exemplify the first problem, my failure to authenticate the poem on pages - the second. (over , unindexed poems in mandarin are attributed to this emperor, now known here as ch'ien-lung.) proustian though they may seem to westerners, the synesthetic effects of tea-taking and the evocativeness of the scents and hues of "mei-hoa" (plum-blossom), "fo-cheou" (chrysanthemum), and pine are indeed celebrated in much chinese poetry.[ ] whoever wrote the poem, it aptly dramatizes the suggestible ethos which chambers recommends to english artists and their public. this "discourse" is appreciably more puckish in tone than the earlier two-thirds of chambers' published "chinese" work. the half-title here, page [ ] of the second edition, heaps chambers' own initialed honors[ ] upon the canton "gent." chet-qua, and with the ironies of his preface and elaborate courtesies of the introduction, the fun has begun. identification of a chinese alter ego enables chambers to claim a kind of diplomatic immunity for both his enthusiasms and his judgments against the english style. by half-heartedly ascribing the preceding pages of _dissertation_ also to chet-qua, and receding as mere "editor" of the lovable old gourmet's remarks (page n), he trusts to keep one step ahead of his whig adversaries. with exemplary tolerance such as had enhanced the european stereotype of the chinese sage throughout the century, chet-qua finds more to commend in french and italian gardens, more to tease disarmingly in the dutch, than chambers had earlier. finally, since an actual chinese artist-about-town usually known as chitqua had only recently returned to canton, chambers may have hoped his masquerade could stir british hospitality for his ideas. within weeks of reaching london in august , chitqua had had a royal audience. the miniature portrait busts he modelled in clay at ten guineas apiece, as well as his delicate manners and physique ("the eyelashes almost always in motion") earned the admiration of wedgwood's friend thomas bentley. one of his busts was shown in the royal academy exhibition, and during that year he visited oxford, met chambers and bishop percy, and sat down with horace walpole among others at the first official academy dinner. lashes and all, he figures in zoffany's "life school of the royal academy," painted in . but what peculiarly recommends chitqua to chambers' purposes here is perhaps a mob's intervention at the start of his homeward voyage to canton that spring, when xenophobia and "the superstitious fears of the mariners" forced him to return to london for another ship. on page chambers differs from the _gentleman's magazine_ reporter who had chitqua "accidentally ... fall overboard" at gravesend, but whatever the facts, the parallel to jonah at joppa might be as clear to chet-qua's adversaries as it was to that reporter and win the "discourse" a more candid hearing than the _dissertation_ had enjoyed.[ ] to an unidentified reader of his first edition chambers had justified such artfulness, and his entire "chinese" myth for the promotion of a change in landscaping-style, this way: "i thought it necessary to move in an exalted sphere. our gardeners, and i fear our connoisseurs too, are such _tame_ animals, that much sparring is necessary to keep them properly on their haunches."[ ] such quixotic energy even mason had to salute, in the last line of his _heroic epistle_. douglass college rutgers university notes to the introduction [ ] the "explanatory discourse" is the last of chambers' works to be reissued in th-century facsimile. chambers' _designs of chinese buildings_ (london, ), rpt. in facsim. (new york: benjamin blom, ), concludes its text with his essay "of the art of laying out gardens among the chinese," pp. - , rpt. in john dixon hunt and peter willis, eds., _the genius of the place_ (new york: harper & row, ), pp. - . _a dissertation on oriental gardening_ (london, ), of which the illus. title-page reappeared in the nd ed. (london, ), hence here, was rpt. in facsim. ed. john harris (farnborough, hants.: gregg international, ). i quote from pp. - of "an explanatory discourse"; chet-qua drops his mask on p. below. concerning the fad see hugh honour, _chinoiserie: the vision of cathay_ (london: john murray, ), esp. ch. vi. [ ] john harris, _sir william chambers, knight of the polar star_ (university park: pennsylvania state univ. press, ), p. and pls. , (not to be confused with the earlier accepted practice of designing ruins: pls. , ). for the "fanciful" aspects of his town house see pp. , . [ ] for the evidence of correspondence esp. from - see heather martienssen, "chambers as a professional man," _architectural review_, , ( ), - . [ ] harris gathers evidence for the meeting with frederick, pp. - , and on pp. - , surmises that blondel's teaching "may well have been the foundation of chambers's eclecticism.... the choice of a parisian education underlines chambers' european character." [ ] _boswell's life of johnson_, ed. george birkbeck hill and l. f. powell (oxford: clarendon press, ), iv, . [ ] _designs_, first page of unpaginated preface; _dissertation_ ( ), p. iii. cf. "william and john halfpenny" [michael hoare], _chinese and gothic architecture properly ornamented_ (london, ), e.g. pl. . [ ] _designs_, second page of unpaginated preface. [ ] w. j. bean, _the royal botanic gardens, kew_ (london: cassell, ), pp. - , following sir john hill, _hortus kewensis_ (london, ); chambers, _plans, elevations, sections and perspective views of the gardens and buildings at kew_ (london, ). [ ] "frederick law olmsted's contribution," _roots of contemporary american architecture_, ed. lewis mumford (new york: reinhold, ), p. . _dissertation_ ( ), p. and cf. his letter of may in harris ( ), p. ; walpole, _on modern gardening_, ed. w. s. lewis (new york: young books, ), p. ; mason, _the english garden_, book i ( ), final line. [ ] _designs_, p. (ed. hunt and willis, p. ). [ ] chambers' prose is cited _dunciad_-fashion in the _epistle, minor english poets, - : a selection from alexander chalmers'_ the english poets [_ _], ed. david p. french (new york: benjamin blom, ), viii, . see isabel w. chase, "william mason and sir william chambers' dissertation on oriental gardening," _jegp_, ( ), - ; r. c. bald, "sir william chambers and the chinese garden," _jhi_, ( ), - . [ ] cowper, book iii, "the garden," . , in _a collection of english poems - _, ed. ronald s. crane (new york: harper, ), p. ; _dissertation_ ( ), pp. xi, - , - , - ; cf. derek clifford, _a history of garden design_, rev. ed. (new york: praeger, ), pp. - . [ ] "discourse," pp. - , , - , , - ; _dissertation_ ( ), pp. vi, ; harris, p. . [ ] pevsner, "the other chambers," _architectural review_, ( ), - . [ ] temple, "upon the gardens of epicurus," ed. hunt and willis, p. ; osvald sirén, _china and gardens of europe of the eighteenth century_ (new york: ronald, ), p. iv; "discourse," pp. - . [ ] i owe this information to prof. ching-i tu of livingston coll. and dr. nelson chou of the east asian lib., both at rutgers univ. likewise helpful but in no way blameworthy in my remarks on matters chinese were prof. king-lui wu and mr. antony marr of yale univ. and prof. andrew plaks of princeton univ. though some of the proper names chet-qua uses eluded verification, the worst blunder noted was "ty," which means "emperor," at p. _n_. endowing chet-qua with "nine whiskers" instead of the traditional five beards sorts with the unusually narrow proportions and numerous stories of the kew pagoda. rhymes and short syntactic groupings in italics, pp. , , are not confucian; the th year of ch'ien-lung's reign (p. [ ]) would be . yet the idiom in the final n., p. , is authentic. [ ] the initials stand for fellow of the royal soc. of sweden; member of the royal acad. of arts, paris; member of the italian acad. of arts, florence; treasurer of the royal acad.; comptroller general of his majesty's works; architectural tutor to the queen. chambers' international reputation was assured by his _treatise on civil architecture_ ( ). [ ] "historical chronicle," g.m., ( ), - ; william t. whitley, _artists and their friends in england, - _ (boston: medici society, ), i, - ; "johnson, percy, and sir william chambers," _bodleian library record_, ( - ), - . [ ] harris, p. (chambers' emphasis). bibliographical note the facsimile of "an explanatory discourse" is reproduced from a copy (shelf mark: pml ) "annexed to" the second and last edition of _a dissertation on oriental gardening_ ( ) in the pierpont morgan library. the total type-page (p. ) measures × mm. a dissertation on _oriental gardening_; by s^r: william chambers, kn^t _comptroller general of his majesty's works._ [illustration: jacket cover] london: printed by w. griffin, printer to the royal academy; sold by him in _catharine-street_: and by t. davies, bookseller to the royal academy, in _russel-street, covent garden_: also by j. dodsley, _pall mall_: wilson and nicoll, _strand_: j. walter, _charing cross_: and p. elmsley, _strand_. . a dissertation on _oriental gardening_; by s^r william chambers, comptroller-general of his majesty's works, _&c._ the second edition, with additions. to which is annexed, an explanatory discourse, by tan chet-qua, of quang-chew-fu, gent. london: printed by w. griffin, printer to the royal academy; sold by him in _catharine-street_; and by t. davies, bookseller to the royal academy, in _russel-street, covent-garden_: also by j. dodsley, _pall-mall_; wilson and nicoll, _strand_; j. walter, _charing-cross_; and p. elmsley, _strand_. . an explanatory discourse, by tan chet-qua, of quang-chew-fu, gent. frss, mraap; also, miaaf, tra, cghmw and attq. wherein the principles laid down in the foregoing dissertation, are illustrated and applied to practice. preface. every new system naturally meets with opposition; when the monster novelty appears, all parties, alarmed at the danger, unite to raise a clamour: each cavils at what it doth not like, or doth not comprehend, till the whole project is pulled to pieces, and the projector stands plumed of every feather; not only robbed of the praise due to his labour and good intentions, but, like a common enemy, branded with scorn and abuse. in the first hurry of criticism, every deviation is accounted an error; every singularity an extravagance; every difficulty a visionary's dream: warm with resentment, biassed by interests and prejudices, the angry champions of the old, rarely show mercy to the new; which is almost always invidiously considered, and too often unjustly condemned. sensible of these difficulties, the author of the foregoing dissertation, written in direct opposition to the stream of fashion, harboured no sanguine hopes of fame from his publication: far from expecting at the first, either applause or encouragement, he even judged artifice necessary to screen him from resentment; and cloathed truth in the garb of fiction, to secure it a patient hearing. the success of his little work, however, in one sense, far exceeded expectation: at its first appearance here, it found not only a patient, but a very indulgent reception; and it has since been equally fortunate in france, and other parts of europe; where monsieur delarochette's elegant translation has made it known. yet flattering as this extensive suffrage may seem, it is in reality rather mortifying to the author; who finds, from the nature of the encomiums bestowed upon his performance, that it has been more generally liked than understood; and that, whilst a few have honoured it with a deliberate reading, and separated the substance from the vehicle in which it was contained, far the greater number have mistaken the mask for the reality, and considered it simply as a pleasing tale; as the mere recital of a traveller's observation; or, as the luxuriant effusions of a fertile imagination, a splendid picture of visionary excellence. whether these misapprehensions arose from want of perspicuity in the writer, or want of attention in the readers, admits of no dispute; the former was most probably the case. the author therefore, who wishes to be perfectly understood, and is more ambitious of being useful than entertaining, humbly begs leave to offer, at the end of this second edition, such reasons and explanations as seem necessary, either to remove doubts, or clear obscurities; he flatters himself they will be found sufficient, and serve to place the work in its true, its most advantageous light. of these illustrations he saw the necessity some time ago, and framed them into a discourse supposed to be pronounced by chet-qua, then in england; judging it, at that time, a sort of propriety to put in the mouth of a chinese, what farther information was wanted relative to his country. but as there is now no longer any necessity for disguise, both the dissertation and explanatory discourse ought certainly to appear in their natural dress. to new-model them, however, would require more time than the author can possibly spare; he therefore has republished the dissertation, in its original form, and the discourse as it was originally written; hoping the indulgent reader will pardon these defects, and gather the fruit, if there be any to gather, without minding the trees on which it grows. _introduction._ all the world knew chet-qua, and how he was born at quang-chew-fu,[ ] in the fourth moon of the year twenty-eight; also how he was bred a face-maker, and had three wives, two of whom he caressed very much; the third but seldom, for she was a virago, and had large feet. he dressed well, often in thick sattin; wore nine whiskers and four long nails, with silk boots, callico breeches, and every other ornament that mandarins are wont to wear; equalling therein the prime macarones, and sçavoir vivres, not only of quang-chew, but even of kyang-ning, or shun-tien-fu. of his size; he was a well-spoken portly man, for a chinese; a pretty general scholar; and, for a heathen, a very compleat gentleman. he composed a tieh-tse, or billet-doux, at pleasure; recited verses, either in mantchou or chinese, and sung love-songs in many languages. he likewise danced a fandango, after the newest taste of macao, played divinely upon the bag-pipe, and made excellent remarks; which, when he lodged at mr. marr's, in the strand, he would repeat to his friends over a pipe, as often as they pleased; for he was fond of smoaking, provided the tobacco was good; and, upon these occasions, was always vastly pleasant, and very communicative. amongst his favourite topics were painting, music, architecture and gardening; to the last of which he seemed most affected, often disserting thereon till he was tired, and the audience fast asleep; for the tone of his voice was like opium to the hearers; his method was diffuse, and the subject, though a good one, not generally interesting. one day he launched out into a long description of the eastern gardens, especially those of his own country, to which he was exceedingly partial; and, in the conclusion, compared them to a splendid feast, at which there were pleasures for every sense, and food for every fancy; whilst our gardens, he said, were like spartan broth, which was disgustful to all but spartan palates; or like the partial niggardly treats of the fable, adapted only to organs of a peculiar construction: he advanced many other odd positions, spoke very freely, as well of our gardeners, as gardens, and ended recommending the chinese taste, in preference to all others. we were diverted with the discourse, from its singularity, and the variety of new ideas in which it abounded; yet as it ran in direct opposition to the general opinion and usage of england, and recommended a system which appeared to us rather visionary than practicable, we animadverted upon all its parts with the utmost freedom; neither sparing the speech nor speaker in any particular. the severity of our criticism at first disconcerted poor chet-qua, who remained silent, and in apparent confusion; but, after a short pause, he reassumed his usual good humour, his countenance cleared up, he arose, bowed to the company, and stroking his nine whiskers, began the following discourse. discourse, _&c._ _tan lou ty tchan yué[ ] ko ou, pou ko choué. ou yun king tai pan fou fou teou lo ty_ if, in the hurry and warmth of speaking, chet-qua has used expressions that seemed disrespectful, or inadvertently started notions that appeared extravagant, as you, gentlemen, are pleased to assert, it is more than he intended; his sole aim at this meeting, has been to point out a style of gardening preferable to your's; and to shew how much more may be done in that art, than has hitherto been thought on, by your or any other european nation: to enumerate impossibilities, or amuse an audience with golden dreams and glittering shadows, would answer no useful purposes; and could, therefore, neither be the business nor intention of chet-qua, who speaks not for the pleasure of speaking, nor with a desire of tickling the ear, but with the hope of being serviceable; he laments his want of perspicuity, to which alone your misapprehensions must be imputed; and begs leave to trespass on your patience a few moments longer, to explain himself more clearly, and endeavour to remove your prejudices against him. he is sorry to have been under a necessity of censuring, even in a distant manner, what seemed to him imperfect amongst you; but whoever would be instrumental in the advancement of science, must declare his mind freely, and sometimes enforce his precepts by examples that exist: his observations have been as general as the subject would permit; for it is never his inclination to give offence; yet where truth is to be investigated, the truth must necessarily be told; else little or no progress can ever be made: where men play the sycophants, and tacitly suffer, or meanly applaud, what they do not approve; no amendment can ever be expected. it is true, that dissentions in opinion, however well meant, will often bear an invidious aspect, and always must offend some interested individuals; yet, to the community, they are generally advantageous, and should always be favourably received, as they give birth to new discoveries, and ultimately point out the highest perfection: had no man ever ventured to dissent from his neighbour, our age would be as dark as were those of fo-hii, shing tong, or whoang-tii;[ ] and i am firmly persuaded, that your english gardening would now have been much more perfect, had any one ever dared to dispute its excellence: but to dissent, is an unthankful business; a dangerous talk, that few have spirits to undertake, particularly where party-rage is violent, at it now and then seems to be amongst you.--but i come to the point. in china, our large gardens are obtained at an almost incredible expence, and attended with many inconveniencys: amongst you, whose policy, whose manners are totally different from ours, they might often be had at a moderate charge, and without much trouble; for formidable as they may at first appear, it is certain that most of their scenery is easily executed, when proper opportunities occur, which is frequently the case in europe, particularly in england; where your illustrious families have large domains; where agriculture is neater and more various than in other countries; and where the face of nature is in general more luxuriant; as well as better contrasted. it is natural enough for a stranger to be dazzled with the splendor of our oriental plantations; upon a cursory inspection, to conclude them too vast, too magnificent, too expensive for european imitation; and that, in your part of the world, the greatest princes should not be indulged with such articles of luxury, calculated, as they seem, to exhaust their treasures, waste their lands, rob and oppress their subjects: but a more attentive examination will probably give birth to more favourable opinions, and serve to prove, that not only your princes, but even your private gentlemen, may emulate us in this particular very safely; and that our style of gardening may be adopted amongst you, even in its whole extent, without being attended with any of the inconveniences just now recited. it is not the fence that constitutes the garden; cobham, stourton, blenheim, would still be what they are, though the pales or walls by which they are enclosed were taken away: neither is privacy necessary to the essence of a garden; for richmond and kew are surely the same, when open to all the world, as when they are only accessible to the royal family; nor is useful or profitable culture incompatible with the idea, either of our chinese, or your english gardening. any tract of land, therefore, whose characteristick expressions have been strengthened by art, and in which the spontaneous arrangements of nature have been corrected, improved and adorned by the hand of taste, ought to be considered as a garden, though only fenced with common hedges, and although the roads or paths passing through it be publick, and the grounds of which it is composed cultivated to the utmost advantage. there remains then no obstacle to your rivalling the chinese, either in the grandeur or extent of their gardens: in which, you seem to fix, the insuperable difficulties of the imitation; since you have parks, forests, manors and royalties, some even in private hands, more extensive than is necessary; and since these may be so improved, and converted into gardens upon the plan now mentioned, without waste of land, without invasion of property, without annoyance or seclusion of the public, and certainly with less damage or expence to the owner, than are usually incurred in the article of your common gardening; as no chargeable keeping or fencing would be necessary, no grounds unprofitably employed, no considerable assistance from art wanted: for the features of real nature, being in themselves generally more perfect, as well as greater than the finest imitations, require very few helps; seldom any that are expensive. every artist, therefore, who has the fortune to meet with patrons of large possessions, and liberal sentiments, may give full scope to his imagination, and boldly apply whatever he has seen, heard, or his own fancy may have suggested, that is great, extraordinary, or surprising: instead of confining his views to a few acres, to form a trifling composition, scarcely superior to the desert at a festival; and which, insignificant as it would be, none but the healthful and vigorous could ever see; he may convert a whole province into a garden; where the spectator, instead of toiling on foot, as usual, to see a few nothings, and performing more revolutions than a horse in a mill, may wander over a whole country at his ease, in ships or in barges, in carriages or on horse-back, feasting the sight with scenes of the boldest dimensions, and contemplating the luxuriant varied productions of nature, improved and nobly enriched by art. and permit me to say, that gardens of this sort, would not only be more magnificent, but also much more beautiful and perfect in every respect, than any even amongst the best of your artificial performances. in the great style of gardening, neatness is not only superfluous, but destructive of the principal intent: the common roads, bridleways and paths, of a country, however wild, are always preferable to the stiff, formal, made walks of a garden; they are, in themselves, grander, more natural, and may, with a very little assistance; a few accompanyments, be made as commodious, as rich, as varied, and as pleasant. fields covered with corn, turneps, beans, potatoes, hemp, or productions of a similar nature; meadows, pasture lands, hop grounds, orchards, and other parts of english culture; interwoven with common hedges, or blended with accidental plantations, require little, if any assistance from art, to be more picturesque than lawns the most curiously dotted with clumps; and villages, country churches, farm-houses or cottages, when placed with judgement, and designed with taste, enrich and adorn a landscape as well as more expensive structures. the rivers of nature flow in forms that art can never equal: their natural modifications, particularly in mountainous places, are sufficiently numerous; a little management heightens or diminishes all their expressions, varies their appearances, and adapts them to scenes of any character: their banks are soon adorned, even in the richest manner; for roses, a thousand other shrubs, and most perennial flowers, will grow as easily, and with as little culture, as primroses and briars do. a few of these, a little planting properly employed, and blended with rural buildings, bridges, ruins, monumental urns, and other trifling decorations, spread over the whole an appearance that equals, even surpasses the most elaborate cultivation. in every large tract of land, there generally are some places abundantly supplied with water, which often flows through uncouth marshy bottoms of little use or value to the owner: by raising heads at their extremities, these are easily overflowed; and lakes of very considerable dimensions may thus be obtained, often without much trouble, always with great advantages, as well in point of profit as of pleasure; and wherever it may be necessary to dig, in order to give a proper depth to the water, the earth may be raised into islands of various shapes, which serve to complicate the forms, to enrich and beautify the scenery. though woods, from various causes, are now more rare than heretofore amongst you, yet are there, in most parts, some still remaining; their natural beauties are many, and little more is left for art to do in them, than to form roads, to thin or thicken them occasionally; where it may be wanting, to intersperse, amongst the plantations, a few proper shrubs and flowers; to open recesses, and to decorate them with objects; this done, they will be infinitely superior, in every respect, to any of the gaudy trifling confused plantations with which all your english-made gardens are so crouded. england abounds with commons and wilds, dreary, barren, and serving only to give an uncultivated appearance to the country, particularly near the metropolis: to beautify these vast tracts of land, is next to an impossibility; but they may easily be framed into scenes of terror, converted into noble pictures of the sublimest cast, and, by an artful contrast, serve to enforce the effect of gayer and more luxuriant prospects. on some of them are seen gibbets, with wretches hanging in terrorem upon them; on others, forges, collieries, mines, coal tracts, brick or lime kilns, glass-works, and different objects of the horrid kind: what little vegetation they have, is dismal; the animals that feed upon it, are half-famished to the artist's hands; and the cottagers, with the huts in which they dwell, want no additional touches, to indicate their misery: a few uncouth straggling trees, some ruins, caverns, rocks, torrents, abandoned villages, in part consumed by fire, solitary hermitages, and other similar objects, artfully introduced and blended with gloomy plantations, would compleat the aspect of desolation, and serve to fill the mind, where there was no possibility of gratifying the senses. in prosecuting a plan of this extensive nature, many other opportunities would present themselves to the able artist, of dignifying nature, and of heightening his compositions with all the force of novelty and grandeur; stone quarries, chalk pits, mines, might as easily be framed into vast amphitheatres, rustic arcades and perystiles, extensive subterraneous habitations, grottos, vaulted roads, and passages, as into other shapes; hills might, without much difficulty, be transformed into stupendous rocks, by partial incrustations of stone, judiciously mixed with turf, fern, wild shrubs and forest trees; gravel pits, or other similar excavations, might be converted into the most romantic scenery imaginable, by the addition of some planting, intermixed with ruins, fragments of sculpture, inscriptions, or any other little embellishments; and, in short, there would be no deviation, however trifling, from the usual march of nature, but what would suggest, to a fruitful imagination, some extraordinary arrangement, something to disguise her vulgarity, to rouse the attention of the spectator, and to excite in his mind a succession of strong and opposite sensations. it is thus that far the noblest part of our chinese gardens, and those which at first sight appear most impracticable, may be obtained even amongst the common dispositions of english nature; and the great might thus have pleasure-grounds, extensive and extraordinary as those of the east, without any very considerable expence: men of less note would naturally imitate their superiors, by embellishing their possessions in the same manner; and instead of spending large sums to fence and to lard a little field with twigs, to give it the name of a garden, they would beautify their whole estate; which, by a proper attention to the [oe]conomical precepts of our chinese gardeners, might be done in such a manner as to encrease its value, as well as improve its appearance. by these means this whole kingdom might soon become one magnificent vast garden, bounded only by the sea; the many noble seats and villas with which it abounds, would give uncommon consequence to the scenery; and it might still be rendered more splendid, if, instead of disfiguring your churches with monuments, our chinese manner of erecting mausoleums by the sides of the roads was introduced amongst you; and if all your public bridges were adorned with triumphal arches, rostral pillars, bas-reliefs, statues, and other indications of victory, and glorious atchievements in war: an empire transformed into a splendid garden, with the imperial mansion towering on an eminence in the center,[ ] and the palaces of the nobles scattered like pleasure-pavilions amongst the plantations, infinitely surpasses any thing that even the chinese ever attempted: yet vast as the design appears, the execution is certainly within your reach. such, as far as i am able to judge, continued our orator, is the true application of nature to horticulture; perhaps the only one that can be attempted with success: wherever she is made in little, or introduced upon a confined plan, the effect is always trifling and bad, as will appear to any man of real taste, who inspects the artificial scenery even of your most approved gardens: nature admits of no reduction in her dimensions; trees will not grow in miniature; nor are her bold movements to be expressed upon the surface of a few acres: and not to mention any of your performances, it is scarcely in the power of the most consummate art, to imitate nature perfectly; nor were it possible, could the most skilful arrangements acquire their true effect, till after the expiration of many years: our children may see the perfection of what we plant; we never can. our eastern artists, therefore, seldom attempt to create, but rather imitate the tonsor, the habit-maker, the posture-master, and all the other polishers of man; who dispose, decorate, cleanse, clip, and add grace to what is already formed to their hands: to make nature, they say, is tedious and difficult beyond conception; but she may soon be embellished, her redundancys suppressed, her faults corrected, her wants supplied, her beauties improved, and set to view. the truth of these assertions is, i think, apparent in many of your famous plantations; but the beauties of improved natural scenery, the defects of artificial, are no where so strongly marked as at b----m, the most magnificent seat i have yet seen in europe. on our entrance into the park, we were astonished at the sight of a stupendous palace, surrounded with one of the noblest scenes of nature that can be imagined; the extent is vast, the parts uncommonly large, the grounds naturally well contrasted, the transitions bold, the plantations in perfect maturity: what assistance was necessary from art, has hitherto been judiciously administered; the removal of some trees, has exposed to view beauties that seem before to have been concealed; the addition of some others, has enriched parts that were bare; and the trifling, though very judicious circumstance of raising a head at the end of a valley, has obtained a very considerable lake of water, which enriches and enlivens all the prospects; and which, by following the natural bent or windings of the valley, has taken, without any assistance from art, the most picturesque forms that could be desired: in short, the whole is now admirable; and, when improved to the utmost, according to the design of the munificent owner, will yet be more so. ornaments to characterize the garden more strongly, are yet wanting, and some masterly finishing touches still very necessary: one only little twining path, within ten cubits of the fence, is certainly not in character with the grandeur of the place; but the fence may be removed; and there is room, even now, on the declivity of the banks, and by the sides of the lake, for more considerable walks, with many recesses, which, when made and decorated, will add variety to grandeur, and render the whole as entertaining and splendid, as it is now great. you enjoy the sight of this noble prospect for more than a mile; when the little path is suddenly turned into a little wood, whence, after having advanced a few paces, you behold a piece of scenery, all artificial, which i cannot venture to describe in this presence: some of you, gentlemen, have seen what it is; and, with all your national partiality, must allow, either that it proves the impossibility of creating nature with any degree of success; or, that the ablest of your countrymen have no talent that way; to create, or to improve, are indeed very different operations; the former of which requires infinitely the most skill: it is ten times more difficult to paint a picture, than to judge, or suggest improvements, in one already painted. hitherto i have only described of b----m, what strangers usually see; but the whole park, above twelve miles in circumference, and several farms adjoining to it, are uncommonly beautiful, rich in old planting, in water, and in a great variety of picturesque sites and points of view; so that, with a very little dressing, with some assistance from the sister arts of architecture and sculpture, the whole might easily be converted into one large magnificent garden. and give me leave to observe, that these advantages are by no means peculiar to b----m; england boasts at least a hundred other places, many as extensive, most of them as capable of improvement, in various ways; which, under the management of true artists, might soon be made to rival the tse-hiu and chang-lin[ ] of ancient days, the yven ming, the tchang tchun yven,[ ] or any of the present splendid pleasure gardens of our sublime emperor, kieng-long; the torch of the east, and true descendant of tay-tsoy, the providence of heaven, whom joss[ ] preserve in flesh and good spirits. it must, however, be confessed, that there is an inconveniency subsisting amongst you, which will always retard, and often prevent the execution of this extensive plan of gardening; it is the licentiousness of your youth and common people, who delight in destroying every extraordinary thing that comes in their way: if a great man plants trees to shade and beautify a road, the people cut them down; if statues, or other pieces of sculpture, are set to adorn places of public resort, the boys pelt at them with stones, till all their extremities are demolished: wherever there are buildings, or seats, even in your royal gardens, we see them constantly disfigured with scurrilous inscriptions, or obscene rhimes; and where there are any uncommon trees, they are divested of every branch within reach; the shrubs are robbed of their blossom; the flowers are trodden under foot; the birds and animals are destroyed: in short, no mischief, that drunken mirth or deliberate malevolence can suggest, is left undone. what pity that such destructive brutality should exist in a country so particularly favoured by nature, and so capable of improvement in the highest degree; whilst, in every other part of the world, it is unknown, almost unheard of! but there is a strong tincture of the rhubarb in all human competitions; and liberty, which has so many advantages, is, nevertheless, attended with some inconveniencies, of a very serious nature; amongst which, the ferocity of its lowest votaries is none of the least formidable. since our arrival here last july, i have seen at least twenty of their boisterous pranks; in which, not to enumerate the broken windows, the bloody noses, the kicks, and the bastinadoes of other gentlemen, i have myself been a melancholy sufferer upon various occasions; particularly at portsmouth, where i was thrown into the sea, and narrowly escaped drowning, for the diversion of the company. would to heaven!--as i say to the mistress chet-quas in a morning--would to heaven, my ducks, we were well at quang-chew-fu again, with all our long nails, and all our whiskers about us! the rigours of an emperor are less frightful to me, than the frolics of a savage mob, elevated to madness with songs of freedom, and tons of strong beer: it is easier to please a man with one good head, than a monster with ten thousand, all bad ones. _miao kao faan-quai_[ ] _tsat paat quai-tsai_ pardon this digression, which the terrors of a disturbed imagination have drawn me into; and permit your servant to re-assume the thread of his discourse. wherever the extent is considerable, and the lands properly formed for the purpose, the mode of natural gardening, just recommended, ought certainly to be employed in preference to any other, as it surpasses all others in perfection, and is yet most easily executed: but in or near great cities, where property is much divided, on flats, where nature has no play, in all tame situations; the richer and more artificial manner of our gardening is preferable: because it may contain much variety in a small compass, and corrects the natural defects of the ground more speedily, more effectually, with less charge than any other. this manner is also properest for grounds that immediately surround elegant structures, where order and symmetry are absolutely necessary; and for many little enclosures, or resting-places of various kinds, that must always be dispersed in different parts of extensive plantations; where nicety of dress, and excessive decoration are in character; and where they may be conveniently secured with stronger fences, to guard them from public intrusion. these choice pieces of cultivation are appropriated to the owner and his select friends; set aside for convivial pleasures, and enjoyments that can only be tasted in private: they may be considered as more spacious apartments, as habitations adapted to the milder seasons of the year, in which art and nature unite to furnish a variety of whatever is beautiful, elegant, extraordinary or entertaining; whilst the larger improvements are suited to the more open amusements of the owner, contrived upon a bolder system, for a more distant and cursory inspection: they are a noble indication of his consequence; a benevolent, as well as artful tribute to the community; which, whilst it serves to multiply the conveniencys, or promote the innocent amusements of the public, secures the popularity of the benefactor, and marks, in the strongest colours, his power, wealth and munificence. how these considerations operate in england, i, who am a stranger, cannot determine; but in the kingdoms of the east they have great weight. your connoisseurs will, i know, object to our artificial scenery; which they consider as unnatural, and represent as too expensive for imitation. on the former of these points you have already heard my sentiments; i need not now repeat them: those who are not yet convinced, may still feed on crabs, and leave ananas to better heads. till my arrival in england, i never doubted but the appearance of art was admissible, even necessary to the essence of a splendid garden: and i am more firmly of that opinion, after having seen your english gardens; though the contrary is so violently maintained by your countrymen, in opposition to the rest of the world, to the practice of all other polished nations, all enlightened ages; and, as far as i am able to judge, in opposition to reason. but your people delight in extremes; and, whenever they get upon a new scent, pursue it with such rage, that they always overshoot the bounds. we admire nature as much as you do; but being of a more phlegmatick disposition, our affections are somewhat better regulated: we consider how she may be employed, upon every occasion, to most advantage; and do not always introduce her in the same garb; but show her in a variety of forms; sometimes naked, as you attempt to do; sometimes disguised; sometimes decorated, or assisted by art; scrupulously avoiding, in our most artless dispositions, all resemblance to the common face of the country, with which the garden is immediately surrounded; being convinced, that a removal from one field to another, of the same appearance, can never afford any particular pleasure, nor ever excite powerful sensations of any kind. if i must tell you my mind freely, gentlemen, both your artists and connoisseurs seem to lay too much stress on nature and simplicity; they are the constant cry of every half-witted dabbler, the burthen of every song, the tune by which you are insensibly lulled into dullness and insipidity. if resemblance to nature were the measure of perfection, the waxen figures in fleet-street, would be superior to all the works of the divine buonarotti; the trouts and wood-cocks of elmer, preferable to the cartoons of raphael: but, believe me, too much nature is often as bad as too little, as may be deduced from many examples, obvious to every man conversant in polite knowledge. whatever is familiar, is by no means calculated to excite the strongest feelings; and though a close resemblance to familiar objects may delight the ignorant, yet, to the skilful, it has but few charms, never any of the most elevated sort; and is sometimes even disgusting: without a little assistance from art, nature is seldom tolerable; she may be compared to certain viands, either tasteless, or unpleasant in themselves: which, nevertheless, with some seasoning, become palatable; or, when properly prepared, compose a most exquisite dish. and with respect to simplicity, wherever more is admitted than may be requisite to constitute grandeur, or necessary to facilitate conception, it is always a fault. to the human mind, some exertion is always necessary: it must be occupied to be pleased; and is more satisfied with a treat, than with a frugal repast: for though it doth not delight in intricacies, yet, without a certain, even a considerable degree of complication, no grateful sensations can ever be excited. excessive simplicity can only please the ignorant or weak, whose comprehensions are slow, and whose powers of combination are confined. simplicity must therefore be used with discretion, and the dose be adapted to the constitution of the patients, amongst savages and hottentots; where arts are unknown, refinements unheard of, an abundant portion may be necessary; but wherever civilization has improved the mental faculties, a little, with proper management, will go a very great way: need i prove what the music, poetry, language, arts and manners, of every nation demonstrate, beyond the possibility of a doubt. another favourite word of your virtuosi, is purity; a word of which, being a stranger, i do not perhaps know the full value; nor exactly in what sense it is applied to the art in question. we are told, that in the purity of gardening, you were never equalled by any nation; even that this boasted purity never appeared in any country but england: it may be so; your gardens have certainly been purged to the quick, freed of every encumberance, and cleansed of every extrinsick redundancy; so that nothing now remains but the genuine carcass, in its native purity: yet whether this quality, which i apprehend is the only one that can positively be implied, is a perfection or a blemish, will always be disputed; for though pure wine[ ] is, without doubt, a delicious beverage, and preferable to that which is mixed, yet pure water is very insipid, and may be much mended, by the additions of arrack, lemon and sugar, to turn it into punch; and ninety-nine persons in a hundred will maintain, that your pure gardens might be much improved by the addition of embellishments proper to produce variety, and set off the vegetation to advantage: for vary your trees and shrubs as much as possible, combine them in every imaginable arrangement, they are still but trees and shrubs; they can impress but a very few images upon the mind of the spectator, and only affect his senses with very slight perceptions. that our artificial stile of gardening is expensive, is doubtless true; yet certainly not ruinously so. in my former voyage, i knew an unfortunate prince, who, on a very moderate allowance from his relations, supported a court in splendour; and, with the surplus, formed one of the most extraordinary, as well as magnificent artificial gardens i ever saw. it is surprizing what good management will do, where management is necessary; but you are too rich ever to need it in any thing. i have seen more money expended here, in digging an ugly pond, than would have compleated a whole garden elsewhere; yet, after all, the pond would never hold water. but, to proceed--you have all seen what the french have done at versailles, marli, trianon, saint cloud, liancourt, and chanilly; the italians near rome, at tivoli, at frescati, and in many other parts of italy: i do not here enter into the merit of these works; but they are certainly as costly, perhaps more so, than any of ours; yet these were done by foreigners, of different denominations; all without the least help of magick: you are richer than they; you may, with some trouble, acquire their skill; it is hoped you have already more than their spirit: be not, therefore, afraid to attempt, what they have already long since accomplished. i have formerly told you what sort of art we employ in our chinese gardening; i now recommend it to your imitation; and though in general your european artificial manner appears not to me perfect, yet doth it contain many things highly deserving notice, which you have imprudently laid aside, without substituting any equivalent. to instance the gardens of france; they are, i will allow, sufficiently extravagant: you hear of nothing but islands of love, or halls of festivity; every recess is the retreat of a god, every prospect a scene of enchantment: like their petit maitres, they are all out of nature, all affectation; yet it is an affectation often delightful, and absurdity generally overflowing with taste and fancy: in their best works there is such a mysterious, pleasing intricacy in the disposition, such variety in the objects, so much splendour and animation in the scenery, and so much skill apparent in the execution of every part, that the attention of the spectator never flags; the succession is so rapid, that he is hurried on from one exhibition to another, with his mind constantly upon the stretch: he has only time to be pleased; there is no leisure to reflect, none to be disgusted with the extravagance of what he sees. if their gardens are less rational than yours, they are certainly much more entertaining; and though, upon the whole, they can by no means be proposed as models for imitation, yet are there many things to be borrowed from them, which might be adopted by you with considerable advantage. i may say the same with regard to the italian gardens, of which the style is less affected, less extravagant than in those of france: the heat of the climate obliges the inhabitants to seek for shade; the walks are sheltered, the plantations close, whence their compositions have a gloom, and an air of solitude that are exceedingly awful. there is a grandeur of manner in all their works, seldom to be met with elsewhere; which, about rome, and in some other parts of italy, is greatly heightened by the majestick face of nature, framed upon a larger scale, and broken into nobler forms, than in most other countries. their vegetation too is uncommonly picturesque; the abundance of water with which they are every where supplied, enables them to form a thousand pleasing combinations; and the venerable vestiges of ancient structures, which rear their decaying heads above the plantations, add surprizingly to the dignity of the scenery. at every step, the admiration of the spectator is excited by statues, therms, bas-reliefs, sarcophagi urns, vases, and other remains of ancient splendour; or he is delighted with the productions of modern artists, ingeniously imagined, well executed, and skilfully disposed. it is not easy to conceive any thing more entertaining, to a man of taste, than an italian garden; in which, amidst a profusion of pleasing objects, the same elegance of choice, the same elevation of style so conspicuous in the sculpture and painting of the great italian schools, is every where prevalent. to branch out into farther descriptions of your continental gardens, is perhaps superfluous, and may be thought foreign to the present purpose; as some of them differ very little from those just mentioned; and others are too trifling, or imperfect, to deserve any notice: yet permit me, before i finish, to give a slight sketch of the dutch gardening; from which i am apt to believe your ideas of the artificial style are chiefly collected, and your extraordinary aversion to it principally owing. in holland, parterres, embroidered in box, brick-dust, sea-coal, and broken porcelain, are every where admired. no garden is perfect, that is not surrounded with a wet ditch, and many _lusthouses_ hanging over it, for smoking tobacco; nor is there any elegance, without some tons of lead, transformed into skating dutchmen, harlequins, and fluting shepherdesses, all richly painted, in proper colours: azure flower-pots, with gilt handles, are seen in every corner; and golden mercury are perched, like birds, upon every pinnacle: every pass is guarded by pasteboard grenadiers; and fame, straddling over the entrance, displays a dutch label to the passenger, telling the name and beauties of the place, the virtues and moral opinions of the proprietor. these particularities, with all the formal absurd parts of the french gardening, make an eden in holland; a thing too ridiculous to be out of humour with any where; 'tis a pity it has had so serious an effect upon you. you are a wise people; yet, in the reformation of gardening, you have followed the beaten road of ignorance: to avoid one fault, you have run headlong into another, its opposite: because, in the old gardening, art, order and variety, were carried to an extravagant excess, you have, in the new, almost totally excluded them all three: to mend an exuberant, fantastick dress, you have stripped stark naked: and, to heal a distempered limb, you have, like some famous surgeons of our day, chopped it entirely off. all connoisseurs amongst you, and even amongst us, agree in despising our enchanted, or supernatural scenery; which, they say, is trifling, absurd, extravagant, abounding in conceits and boyish tricks; that operating chiefly by surprize, it has little or no effect, after a first or second inspection, and consequently can afford no pleasure to the owner: yet our best artists, who have no excessive reverence for the decrees of connoisseurs[ ], and who think the owner is not the only person to be entertained, often introduce it; either where the plan is extensive, and admits of many changes; or, where the ground is barren of natural varieties: saying, in their vindication, that it serves as an interlude between more serious expositions; that, at a treat, there should be meats for every palate; in a shop of general resort, goods for every fancy; in a garden, designed for publick inspection, exhibitions of every kind; that all may find something to their liking, and none go away disappointed or dissatisfied: and, as at a feast, men eat of what they best relish, without mumbling the rest of the dishes, but leave them untainted for others to feed upon, so, in a garden, if a man be too wise to laugh, or be pleased with trifles, he may pass them over unnoticed: amongst the multitude, there are many fancies to gratify; children, old women, eunuchs, and pleasure-misses, ought to be diverted, as well as sages, mandarines, or connoisseurs. it is not every one, say they, that enjoys the force or fierceness of grand compositions; to some they are even terrifying: weak minds delight in little objects, which are easiest adapted to their confined comprehensions; as children are better pleased with a puppet-show, than with more serious or noble performances. thus they reason; and say moreover, that, as the principal parts of this supernatural gardening consists in a display of many surprizing phenomena, and extraordinary effects, produced by air, fire, water, motion, light, and gravitation, they may be considered at a collection of philosophical experiments, exhibited in a better manner, upon a larger scale, and more forcibly than is common: in that light they think, even men of sense may venture to look at them, without impeachment of their understanding; to admire what is ingenious, new or extraordinary; and stare at what they do not comprehend. whether the connoisseurs or the artists are most in the wrong, i will not decide; you, gentlemen, must determine for yourselves. some free expressions, relative to your gardeners, constitute a heavy part of the charge exhibited against me: it seems therefore necessary, in alleviation of this high offence, to declare, that whatever has been said on that subject, was with an eye to the general character of the fraternity; and by no means levelled at yon stately gentleman in the black perriwig, as he has been pleased to maintain. it could not be my business to mark out individuals, either by excessive praise, which was perhaps expected, or by more poignant censure: such conduct must have been fawning in one in instance, invidious in both; for there is no exalting one ph[oe]nomenon, without proportionably degrading the rest: as in a draw-well, one bucket can never rise, but when the other sinks. if a man far outstrips his brothers, he will of course be distinguished; if only a little, his safest station is in the croud. and really it is odd that any one should officiously have stepped out of the ranks, insisting, like master dogberry in the play, upon his exclusive title; where nothing partial was even distantly hinted at, no names mentioned, nor any thing said, that was not full as applicable to the brotherhood in general, as to the sagacious claimant in particular: but _man lup jao kai_ _tai kup tao baï._ there is reason to believe, from various hints which have been dropped by gentlemen here present, that the veracity of chet-qua's description is doubted; nay, that the gardens described, are supposed to have no existence but in chet-qua's brain: be it so, my friends; i shall not seek to refute what you seem so strongly disposed to believe; it is not at present material: for the end of all that i have said, was rather as an artist, to set before you a new style of gardening; than as a traveller, to relate what i have really seen: and, notwithstanding your strictures, you all seemed satisfied, even entertained with the description: there is no doubt, but the reality, like all other realities, would affect you still more strongly than the picture. i have endeavoured to shew, how that may be obtained: the rest is left to those it most concerns; the ingenious, the wealthy, and the great; who have power and inclinations to execute what i attempt to plan: my part is done, as far as i am able to do it; theirs may begin when they think fit. and although they may at first be embarrassed in the execution of a system so much more complicated and dependant on genius, on skill, and on nice judgement, than that which has hitherto been pursued; yet there is no doubt, but practice and perseverance will, by degrees, dispel every difficulty: it is at least glorious to hazard arduous attempts; and more honourable even to fail in manly pursuits, than to succeed in trifling, childish enterprizes. let the timid or the feeble meanly creep upon the earth, with uniform, sluggard pace; but the towering spirit must attempt a nobler flight, and climb the paths that lead to fame: now gayly sporting on the slippery surface, as doth the gentle, graceful lizard; now thundering up the precipice, with the tremendous dragon's stride; now soaring to the top, stately and splendid as the imperial bird;[ ] when, with his glittering crest and twelve irradiant wings, he comes upon the morning's light, while myriads of the warbling tribes, at awful distance, crowd the vaulted air, adore their king, and, with loud songs of frantick joy, shake the firm earth, and all yon starry heaven. from the whole tenour of this discourse, and indeed from the substance of the first dissertation, it is evident, gentlemen, that your servant chet-qua has no aversion to natural gardening; but is, on the contrary, a zealous advocate in its favour, wherever there is room to expand, and work upon a great scale, or where it can conveniently, and with propriety be introduced. the style which in england has been adopted, preferable to others, is not what appears to him reprehensible; but he laments the little use you have made of your adoption, and apprehends your partiality is too excessive, while you obstinately refuse the assistance of almost every extraneous embellishment, and persist in an indiscriminate application of the same manner, upon all occasions, however opposite, or ill adapted; and often where no probability of success appears. natural gardening, when treated upon an extensive plan, when employed with judgement, and conducted with art, is perhaps as superior to all other sorts of culture, as heroick verse is to every other species of writing; but there are many occasions, where neither the one nor the other can, with the least propriety, be employed; where they would only serve to give a ridicule to the whole composition; and where different or less elevated modes of expression are, on all accounts, preferable. artists of other professions, vary their manners of applying to the human affections; suiting them to the circumstances or nature of the subjects before them; and they are oftenest indebted to these variations for their success; why then should gardeners always confine themselves to the same tract, and torture all dispositions to adapt them to the same method, like that tyrant of old, who stretched or mutilated every guest, till he fitted a particular bed? can they hope to succeed by means, which others have found ineffectual; or is it reasonable to suppose, that nature will change her course to please their fancy? variety is a powerful agent, without the assistance of which, little can be effected; it captivates even with trifles; and, when united to perfection, has charms which nothing can resist: the most exquisite pictures of nature, receive additional beauties from a judicious opposition of art; and the confined, uniform, tasteless walk of imitation, which you have unfortunately fallen into, must have many helps to make it even tolerable; a thousand enlivening additions, to animate its native dulness. thus i have considered every part of my first discourse, and offered in its vindication, what immediately occurs to me: perhaps, with more leisure, i might have contrived a better speech, and a stronger defence; but the hurry of face-making[ ] is such, that there is scarcely time to eat rice, or drink brandy,[ ] much less to think: i never frequent my wives but by night; i have only heard one of them scold, and seen the others by twilight, these six months: judge then, what can be expected from chet-qua; the little knowledge he has, or thinks he has, is freely communicated to his neighbours; he wishes it were more and better; yet such as it is, he flatters himself it will be kindly received; and that his neighbours will use what may be useful, without kicking too violently at the rest. finis. footnotes: [ ] _quang-chew-fu_--canton. _for she was a virago, and had large feet_--both which are accounted great defects in china. _nine whiskers, &c._--all beaus wear whiskers in china; and all gentlemen long nails, to shew that they are idle. _kyang-ning, or_ nang-king--capital of kyang-nang. _shun-tien-fu_--peking. [ ] _tan lou ty tchan yué, &c._--the motto which chet-qua has made choice of, is part of a poem written by kien-long, reigning emperor of china, in praise of drinking tea: and published, by his imperial edict, bearing date the twelfth day, of the ninth moon, of the thirteenth year of his reign; in thirty-two different types, or characters; under the inspection of yun-lou, and houng-yen, princes, by the title of tsin-ouang; fouheng, grandee, by the title of taypao; count, by the title of valiant; and first president of almost all the great tribunals of the empire: whose deputies were akdoun and tsing-pou, grandees, by the title of tay-tsee chaopao; and these were again assisted by isan, fouki, elguingue, tetchi, mingté, tsoungmin, tchangyu, tounmin, and about a dozen other mandarines of rank and reputation; so that there is no doubt but the work is perfectly correct. here follows the exact copy of it, with an english translation, for the entertainment and instruction of the curious in poetry. there is a french translation of the same work, by father amiot, published at paris, in , from which the present publication is in a great measure taken; the editor having found it easier to translate from the french copy, than from the chinese original. mei-hoa ché pou yao fo-cheou hiang tsie kié, soung-che ouei fang ny; san pin tchou tsing kûé; pong y tché kio tang, ou tché tcheng koang hiué houo heou pien yu hié, ting yen y cheng mié. yué ngueou po sien jou, tan lou ty tchan yué, ou yun king tai pan ko ou, pou ko choué. fou fou teou lo ty ho ho yun kiang tché ou-tsuen y ko tsan lin-fou chang ché pié. lan ku tchao-tcheou ngan pó siao yu-tchouan kiu han siao ting sing leou kou yué kan hiuen tsué, joan pao tchen ki yu tsiao king sing ou kié, kien-long ping-yn siao, tchun yu ty. translation the colours of the mei hoa are never brilliant, yet is the flower always pleasing: in fragrance or neatness the fo-cheou has no equal: the fruit of the pine is aromatick, its odour inviting. in gratifying at once the sight, the smell and the taste, nothing exceeds these three things: and if, at the same time, you put, upon a gentle fire, an old pot, with three legs, grown black and battered with length of service, after having first filled it with the limpid water of melted snow; and if, when the water is heated to a degree that will boil a fish, or redden a lobster, you pour it directly into a cup made of the earth of yué, upon the tender leaves of superfine tea; and if you let it rest there, till the vapours which rises at first in great abundance, forming thick clouds, dissipate by degrees, and at last appear merely as a slight mist upon the surface; and if then you gently sip this delicious beverage, it is labouring effectually to remove the five causes of discontent which usually disturb our quiet: you may feel, you may taste, but it is impossible to describe the sweet tranquillity which a liquor, thus prepared, procures. retired, for some space of time, from the tumults of business, i sit alone in my tent, at liberty to enjoy myself unmolested: in one hand holding a fo-cheou, which i bring nearer to my nose, or put it farther off, at pleasure; in the other hand holding my dish of tea, upon which some pretty curling vapours still appear: i taste, by intervals the liquor; by intervals, i consider the mei-hoa--i give a fillip to my imagination, and my thoughts are naturally turned towards the sages of antiquity.--i figure to myself the famous ou-tsuen, whose only nourishment was the fruit of the pine; he enjoyed himself in quiet, amidst this rigid frugality! i envy, and wish to imitate him.--i put a few of the kernels into my mouth; i find them delicious. sometimes, methinks, i see the virtuous lin-fou, bending into form, with his own hands, the branches of the mei-hoa-chou. it was thus, say i to myself, that he relieved his mind, after the fatigues of profound meditation, on the most interesting subjects. then i take a look at my shrub, and it seems as if i were assisting lin-fou, in bending its branches into a new form.--i skip from lin-fou to tchao-tcheon, or to yu-tchouan; and see the first in the middle of a vast many tea-cups, filled with all kinds of tea, of which he sometimes tastes one, sometimes another; thus varying incessantly his potation: while the second drinks, with the profoundest indifference, the best tea, and scarcely distinguishes it from the vilest stuff.--my taste is not their's; why should i attempt to imitate them?---- but i hear the sound of the evening bell; the freshness of the night is augmented; already the rays of the moon strike through the windows of my tent, and with their lustre brighten the few moveables with which it is adorned. i find myself neither uneasy nor fatigued; my stomach is empty, and i may, without fear, go to rest.----it is thus that, with my poor abilities, i have made these verses, in the little spring of the tenth moon of the year ping-yn, of my reign kien-long. [ ] _fo-hii_, _shing-tong_, or _whoang-tii_--some of the first emperors of china; who invented the eight qua's, together with the kay-tse, and created colsus. [ ] _an eminence in the center_--meaning windsor, probably. [ ] _tse-hiu and chang-lin_--two celebrated parks, which belonged to the emperors of the ty. [ ] _yven-ming-yven, and tchang-tchun-yven_--are gardens near pe-king, belonging to the present emperors of china. [ ] _joss_--a corruption of dios, god. [ ] _miao kao, etc._--muttering expressions from hoang-fou-tse, or confucius. [ ] _for though pure wine, etc._--it is remarkable, that our orator draws most of his similes and allusions either from the kitchen or the cellar; whether this particularity proceeded from any skill of his in the culenary art, from his affection for good living, or from any other hidden motive; or whether it was merely accidental, the editor never could learn with any degree of certainty. [ ] in china they have an innumerable multitude of connoisseurs and criticks; who, with a very superficial knowledge, a few general maxims, and some hard words, boldly decide on subjects they do not understand: hence the whole fraternity is fallen into disrepute. they have, indeed, like us, some real connoisseurs amongst them; but these are very rare in china. [ ] _the imperial bird_, or foung hoang, is a fabulous being, of the nature of the ph[oe]nix, by the chinese poets, accounted the emperor of birds, as the dragon is of all the scaly tribe: he is said never to appear, but in great pomp, attended by a numerous train of all the most brilliant and extraordinary of the volatile race. [ ] _hurry of face-making_--the chinese call portrait painting, or modelling portraits in coloured clay, which was chet-qua's particular profession, face-making. [ ] _eat rice or drink brandy_--the chinese call dining, eating rice; and their common liquors, at meals, are spirits, of various sorts. .... transcriber's note: in this etext the ^ indicates superscript. .... garden-craft old and new by the late john d. sedding with memorial notice by the rev. e. f. russell _with nine illustrations_ new edition london kegan paul, trench, trÜbner & co., ltd. paternoster house, charing cross road [illustration: a garden enclosed.] preface. "_what am i to say for my book?" asks mr stevenson in the preface to "an inland voyage." "caleb and joshua brought back from palestine a formidable bunch of grapes; alas! my book produces naught so nourishing; and, for the matter of that, we live in an age when people prefer a definition to any quantity of fruit._" _as this apology is so uncalled for in the case of this fruitful little volume, i would venture to purloin it, and apply it where it is wholly suitable. here, the critic will say, is an architect who makes gardens for the houses he builds, writing upon his proper craft, pandering to that popular preference for a definition of which mr stevenson speaks, by offering descriptions of what he thinks a fine garden should be, instead of useful figured plans of its beauties!_ _and yet, to tell truth, it is more my subject than myself that is to blame if my book be unpractical. once upon a time complete in itself, as a brief treatise upon the technics of gardening delivered to my brethren of the art-worker's guild a year ago, the essay had no sooner arrived with me at home, than it fell to pieces, lost gravity and compactness, and became a garden-plaything--a sort of gardener's "open letter," to take loose pages as fancies occurred. so have these errant thoughts, jotted down in the broken leisure of a busy life, grown solid unawares and expanded into a would-be-serious contribution to garden-literature._ _following upon the original lines of the essay on the for and against of modern gardening, i became the more confirmed as to the general rightness of the old ways of applying art, and of interpreting nature the more i studied old gardens and the point of view of their makers; until i now appear as advocate of old types of design, which, i am persuaded, are more consonant with the traditions of english life, and more suitable to an english homestead than some now in vogue._ _the old-fashioned garden, whatever its failings in the eyes of the modern landscape-gardener (great is the poverty of his invention), represents one of the pleasures of england, one of the charms of that quiet beautiful life of bygone times that i, for one, would fain see revived. and judged even as pieces of handicraft, apart from their poetic interest, these gardens are worthy of careful study. they embody ideas of ancient worth; they evidence fine aims and heroic efforts; they exemplify traditions that are the net result of a long probation. better still, they render into tangible shapes old moods of mind that english landscape has inspired; they testify to old devotion to the scenery of our native land, and illustrate old attempts to idealise its pleasant traits._ _because the old gardens are what they are--beautiful yesterday, beautiful to-day, and beautiful always--we do well to turn to them, not to copy their exact lines, nor to limit ourselves to the range of their ornament and effects, but to glean hints for our garden-enterprise to-day, to drink of their spirit, to gain impulsion from them. as often as not, the forgotten field proves the richest of pastures._ _j. d. s._ the croft, west wickham, kent, _oct. , _. memoir. the manuscript of this book was placed complete in the hands of his publishers by john sedding. he did not live to see its production. at the wish of his family and friends, i have, with help from others, set down some memories and impressions of my friend. my acquaintance with john sedding dates from the year . he was then years of age, and had been practising as an architect almost exclusively in the south-west of england. the foundations of this practice were laid by his equally talented brother, edmund sedding, who, like himself, had received his training in the office of mr street. edmund died in , and john took up the business, but his clients were so few, and the prospect of an increase in their number so little encouraging, that he left bristol and came to london, and here i first met him. he had just taken a house in charlotte street, bedford square, and the house served him on starting both for home and office. the first years in london proved no exception to the rule of first years, they were more or less a time of struggle and anxiety. john sedding's happy, buoyant nature, his joy in his art, and invincible faith in his mission, did much to carry him through all difficulties. but both at this time, and all through his life, he owed much, very much, to the brave hopefulness and wise love of his wife. rose sedding, a daughter of canon tinling, of gloucester, lives in the memory of those who knew her as an impersonation of singular spiritual beauty and sweetness. gentle and refined, sensitive and sympathetic to an unusual degree, there was no lack in her of the sterner stuff of character--force, courage, and endurance. john sedding leaned upon his wife; indeed, i cannot think of him without her, or guess how much of his success is due to what she was to him. two days before his death he said to me, "i have to thank god for the happiest of homes, and the sweetest of wives." many will remember with gratitude the little home in charlotte street, as the scene of some of the pleasantest and most refreshing hours they have ever known. john sedding had the gift of attracting young men, artists and others, to himself, and of entering speedily into the friendliest relations with them. he met them with such taking frankness, such unaffected warmth of welcome, that they surrendered to him at once, and were at once at ease with him and happy. on sundays, when the religious duties of the day were over, he was wont to gather a certain number of these young fellows to spend the evening at his house. no one of those who were privileged to be of the party can forget the charming hospitality of these evenings. the apparatus was so simple, the result so delightful; an entire absence of display, and yet no element of perfect entertainment wanting. on these occasions, when supper was over, mrs sedding usually played for us with great discernment and feeling the difficult music of beethoven, grieg, chopin, and others, and sometimes she sang. more than one friendship among their guests grew out of these happy evenings. in course of time the increase of his family and the concurrent increase of his practice obliged him to remove, first his office to oxford street, and later on his home to the larger, purer air of a country house in the little village of west wickham, kent. this house he continued to occupy until his death. work of all kinds now began to flow in upon him, not rapidly, but by steady increase. his rich faculty of invention, his wide knowledge, his skill in the manipulation of natural forms, the fine quality of his taste, were becoming more and more known. he produced in large numbers designs for wall-papers, for decoration, and for embroidery. these designs were never repetitions of old examples, nor were they a réchauffé of his own previous work. something of his soul he put into all that he undertook, hence his work was never commonplace, and scarcely needed signature to be known as his, so unmistakably did it bear his stamp, the "marque de fabrique," of his individuality. i have known few men so well able as he to press flowers into all manner of decorative service, in metal, wood, stone or panel, and in needlework. he understood them, and could handle them with perfect ease and freedom, each flower in his design seeming to fall naturally into its appointed place. without transgressing the natural limits of the material employed, he yet never failed to give to each its own essential characteristics, its gesture, and its style. flowers were indeed passionately loved, and most reverently, patiently studied by him. he would spend many hours out of his summer holiday in making careful studies of a single plant, or spray of foliage, painting them, as mr ruskin had taught him, in siena and white, or in violet-carmine and white. leaves and flowers were, in fact, almost his only school of decorative design. this is not the place to attempt any formal exposition of john sedding's views on art and the aims of art. they can be found distinctly stated and amply, often brilliantly, illustrated in his lectures and addresses, of which some have appeared in the architectural papers and some are still in manuscript.[ ] but short of this formal statement, it may prove not uninteresting to note some characters of his work which impressed us. [footnote : it is much to be wished that these lectures and addresses should be collected and published.] following no systematic order, we note first his profound sympathy with ancient work, and with ancient work of all periods that might be called periods of living art. he never lost an opportunity of visiting and intently studying ancient buildings, sketching them, and measuring them with extraordinary care, minuteness, and patience. "on one occasion," writes mr lethaby, "when we were hurried he said, 'we cannot go, it is life to us.'" a long array of sketch-books, crowded with studies and memoranda, remains to bear witness to his industry. in spite of this extensive knowledge, and copious record of old work, he never literally reproduced it. the unacknowledged plagiarisms of art were in his judgment as dishonest as plagiarisms in literature, and as hopelessly dead. "he used old forms," writes mr longden, "in a plastic way, and moulded them to his requirements, never exactly reproducing the old work, which he loved to draw and study, but making it his starting-point for new developments. this caused great difference of opinion as to the merit of his work, very able and skilful judges who look at style from the traditional point of view being displeased by his designs, while others who may be said to partake more of the movement of the time, admired his work." his latest and most important work, the church of the holy trinity, sloane street, is a case in point. it has drawn out the most completely opposed judgments from by no means incompetent men; denounced by some, it has won the warmest praise from others, as, for instance, from two men who stand in the very front rank of those who excel, william morris has said of it, "it is on the whole the best modern interior of a town church"; and the eminent painter, e. burnes-jones, writing to john sedding, writes: "i cannot tell you how i admire it, and how i longed to be at it." speaking further of this sympathy with old work, mr longden, who knew him intimately, and worked much with him, writes, "the rather rude character of the cornish granite work in the churches did not repel him, indeed, he said he loved it, because he understood it. he has made additions to churches in cornwall, such as it may well be imagined the old cornishmen would have done, yet with an indescribable touch of modernness about them. he also felt at home with the peculiar character of the devonshire work, and some of his last work is in village churches where he has made a rather ordinary church quite beautiful and interesting, by repairing and extending old wooden screens, putting in wooden seats, with an endless variety of symbolic designs, marble font and floor, fine metal work, simple but well-designed stained glass, good painting in a reredos, all, as must be with an artist, adding to the general effect, and falling into place in that general effect, while each part is found beautiful and interesting, if examined in detail." "the rich somersetshire work, where the fine stone lends itself to elaborate carving, was very sympathetic to sedding, and he has added to and repaired many churches in that county, always taking the fine points in the old work and bringing them out by his own additions, whether in the interior or the exterior, seizing upon any peculiarity of site or position to show the building to the best advantage, and never forgetting the use of a church, but increasing the convenience of the arrangements for worship, and emphasizing the sacred character of the buildings on which he worked." in his lectures to art students, no plea was more often on his lips than the plea for living art, as contrasted with "shop" art, or mere antiquarianism. the artist is the product of his own time and of his own country, his nature comes to him out of the past, and is nourished in part upon the past, but he lives in the present, and of the present, sharing its spirit and its culture. john sedding had great faith in the existence of this art gift, as living and active in his own time, he recognised it reverently and humbly in himself, and looked for it and hailed it with joy and generous appreciation in others. hence the value he set upon association among art workers. "les gens d'esprit," says m. taine, speaking of art in italy, "n'ont jamais plus d'esprit que lorsqu'ils sont ensemble. pour avoir des oeuvres d'art il faut d'abord des artistes, mais aussi des ateliers. alors il y avait des ateliers, et en outre les artistes faisaient des corporations. tous se tenaient, et dans la grande société, de petites sociétés unissaient étroitement et librement leurs membres. la familiarité les rapprochait; la rivalité les aiguillonnait."[ ] [footnote : _philosophie de l'art en italie_ (p. ).--h. taine.] he gave practical effect to these views in the conduct of his own office, which was as totally unlike the regulation architect's office, as life is unlike clockwork. here is a charming "interior" from the pen of his able chief assistant and present successor, mr h. wilson:-- "i shall not readily forget my first impressions of mr sedding. i was introduced to him at one of those delightful meetings of the art workers' guild, and his kindly reception of me, his outstretched hand, and the unconscious backward impulses of his head, displaying the peculiar whiteness of the skin over the prominent temporal and frontal bones, the playful gleam of his eyes as he welcomed me, are things that will remain with me as long as memory lasts. "soon after that meeting i entered his office, only to find that he was just as delightful at work as in the world. "the peculiar half shy yet eager way in which he rushed into the front room, with a smile and a nod of recognition for each of us, always struck me. but until he got to work he always seemed preoccupied, as if while apparently engaged in earnest discussion of some matter an under-current of thought was running the while, and as if he were devising something wherewith to beautify his work even when arranging business affairs. "this certainly must have been the case, for frequently he broke off in the midst of his talk to turn to a board and sketch out some design, or to alter a detail he had sketched the day before with a few vigorous pencil-strokes. this done, he would return to business, only to glance off again to some other drawing, and to complete what would not _come_ the day before. in fact he was exactly like a bird hopping from twig to twig, and from flower to flower, as he hovered over the many drawings which were his daily work, settling here a form and there a moulding as the impulse of the moment seized him. "and though at times we were puzzled to account for, or to anticipate his ways, and though the work was often hindered by them, we would not have had it otherwise. "those 'gentillesses d'oiseaux,' as hugo says, those little birdy ways, so charming from their unexpectedness, kept us constantly on the alert, for we never quite knew what he would do next. it was not his custom to move in beaten tracks, and his everyday life was as much out of the common as his inner life. his ways with each of us were marked by an almost womanly tenderness. he seemed to regard us as his children, and to have a parent's intuition of our troubles, and of the special needs of each with reference to artistic development. "he would come, and taking possession of our stools would draw with his left arm round us, chatting cheerily, and yet erasing, designing vigorously meanwhile. then, with his head on one side like a jackdaw earnestly regarding something which did not quite please him, he would look at the drawing a moment, and pounce on the paper, rub all his work out, and begin again. his criticism of his own work was singularly frank and outspoken even to us. i remember once when there had been a slight disagreement between us, i wrote to him to explain. next morning, when he entered the office, he came straight to the desk where i was working, quietly put his arm round me, took my free hand with his and pressed it and myself to him without a word. it was more than enough. "he was, however, not one of those who treat all alike. he adapted himself with singular facility to each one with whom he came in contact; his insight in this respect was very remarkable, and in consequence he was loved and admired by the most diverse natures. the expression of his face was at all times pleasant but strangely varied, like a lake it revealed every passing breath of emotion in the most wonderful way, easily ruffled and easily calmed. "his eyes were very bright and expressive, with long lashes, the upper lids large, full, and almost translucent, and his whole face at anything which pleased him lit up and became truly radiant. at such times his animation in voice, gesture, and look was quite remarkable, his talk was full of felicitous phrases, happy hits, and piquant sayings. "his was the most childlike nature i have yet seen, taking pleasure in the simplest things, ever ready for fun, trustful, impulsive, and joyous, yet easily cast down. his memory for details and things he had seen and sketched was marvellous, and he could turn to any one of his many sketches and find a tiny scribble made twenty or thirty years ago, as easily as if he had made it yesterday. "his favourite attitude in the office was with his back to the fireplace and with his hands behind him, head thrown back, looking at, or rather through one. he seldom seemed to look at anyone or anything, his glance always had something of divination in it, and in his sketches, however slight, the soul of the thing was always seized, and the accidental or unnecessary details left to others less gifted to concern themselves with. "his love of symbolism was only equalled by his genius for it, old ideas had new meanings for him, old symbols were invested with deeper significance and new ones full of grace and beauty discovered. in this his intense, enthusiastic love of nature and natural things stood him in good stead, and he used nature as the old men did, to teach new truths. for him as well as for all true artists, the universe was the living visible garment of god, the thin glittering rainbow-coloured veil which hides the actual from our eyes. he was the living embodiment of all that an architect should be, he had the sacred fire of enthusiasm within, and he had the power of communicating that fire to others, so that workmen, masons, carvers could do, and did lovingly for him, what they would not or could not do for others. we all felt and still feel that it was his example and precept that has given us what little true knowledge and right feeling for art we may possess, and the pity is there will never be his like again. "he was not one of those who needed to pray 'lord, keep my memory green,' though that phrase was often on his lips, as well as another delightful old epitaph: 'bonys emonge stonys lys ful steyl quilst the soules wanderis where that god will.'"[ ] [footnote : in thornhill church.] this delightful and assuredly entirely faithful picture is in itself evidence of the contagion of john sedding's enthusiasm. beyond the inner circle of his own office, he sought and welcomed the unfettered co-operation of other artists in his work; in the words of a young sculptor, "he gave us a chance." he let them say their say instead of binding them to repeat his own. god had his message to deliver by them, and he made way that the world might hear it straight from their lips. the same idea of sympathetic association, "fraternité généreuse--confiance mutuelle--communauté de sympathies et d'aspirations," has found embodiment in the art workers' guild, a society in which artists and craftsmen of all the arts meet and associate on common ground. john sedding was one of the original members of this guild, and its second master. of his connection with the guild the secretary writes: "no member was ever more respected, none had more influence, no truer artist existed in the guild." and mr walter crane: "his untiring devotion to the guild throughout his term of office, and his tact and temper, were beyond praise." it must not be inferred from these facts that john sedding's sympathies were only for the world of art, art-workers, and art-ideals. he shared to the full the ardour of his socialist friends, in their aspirations for that new order of more just distribution of all that makes for the happiness of men, the coming "city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is god." he did not share their confidence in their methods, but he honoured their noble humanity, and followed their movements with interest and respect, giving what help he could. the condition of the poor, especially the london poor, touched him to the quick sometimes with indignation at their wrongs, sometimes with deep compassion and humbled admiration at the pathetic patience with which they bore the burden of their joyless, suffering lives. his own happy constitution and experience never led him to adopt the cheap optimism with which so many of us cheat our conscience, and justify to ourselves our own selfish inertness. the more ample income of his last years made no difference in the simple ordering of his household, it did make difference in his charities. he gave money, and what is better, gave his personal labour to many works for the good of others, some of which he himself had inaugurated. john sedding was an artist by a necessity of his nature. god made him so, and he could not but exercise his gift, but apart from the satisfaction that comes by doing what we are meant for, it filled him with thankfulness to have been born to a craft with ends so noble as are the ends of art. to give pleasure and to educate are aims good indeed to be bound by, especially when by education we understand, not mind-stuffing, but mind-training, in this case the training of faculty to discern and be moved by the poetry, the spiritual suggestiveness of common everyday life. this brought his calling into touch with working folk. as a man, john sedding impressed us all by the singular and beautiful simplicity and childlikeness of his character, a childlikeness which never varied, and nothing, not even the popularity and homage which at last surrounded him, seemed able to spoil it. he never lost his boyish spontaneity and frankness, the unrestrained brightness of his manners and address, his boyish love of fun, and hearty, ringing laugh. mr walter crane speaks of his "indomitable gaiety and spirits which kept all going, especially in our country outings." "he always led the fun," writes mr lethaby, "at one time at the head of a side at 'tug of war,' at another, the winner in an 'egg and spoon race.'" his very faults were the faults of childhood, the impulsiveness, the quick and unreflecting resentment against wrong, and the vehement denunciation of it. he trusted his instincts far more than his reason, and on the whole, his instincts served him right well, yet at times they failed him, as in truth they fail us all. there were occasions when a little reflection would have led him to see that his first rapid impressions were at fault, and so have spared himself and others some pain and misunderstanding. let a thing appear to him false, unfair, or cowardly, he would lower his lance and dash full tilt at it at once, sometimes to our admiration, sometimes to our amusement when the appearance proved but a windmill in the mist, sometimes to our dismay when--a rare case--he mistook friend for foe. no picture of john sedding could be considered at all to represent him which failed to express the blameless purity of his character and conduct. i do not think the man lives who ever heard a tainted word from his lips. there was in him such depth and strength of moral wholesomeness that he sickened at, and revolted against the unseemly jest, and still more against the scenes, and experiences of the sensuous (to use no stronger word) upon which in the minds of some, the artist must perforce feed his gift. with his whole soul he repudiated the idea that art grew only as a flower upon the grave of virtue, and that artists could, or desired to, lay claim to larger moral licence than other less imaginative men. i have kept till last the best and deepest that was in him, the hidden root of all he was, the hallowing of all he did. i mean his piety--his deep, unfeigned piety. in his address at the annual meeting of the confraternity of the blessed sacrament, a singularly outspoken and vigorous exhortation to laymen to keep their practice abreast of their faith, he used the following words: "in the wild scene of th century work, and thought, and passion, when old snares still have their old witchery, and new depths of wickedness yawn at our feet, when the world is so wondrous kind to tired souls, and neuralgic bodies, and itself pleads for concessions to acknowledged weakness; when unfaith is so like faith, and the devil freely suffers easy acquiescence in high gospel truth, and even holds a magnifying-glass that one may better see the sweetness of the life of the 'son of man,' it is well in these days of sloth, and sin, and doubt, to have one's energies braced by a 'girdle of god' about one's loins! it is well, i say, for a man to have a circle of religious exercises that can so hedge him about, so get behind his life, and wind themselves by long familiarity into his character that they become part of his everyday existence--bone of his bone." out of his own real knowledge and practice he spoke these words. the "circle of religious exercise," the girdle of god, had become for him part of his everyday existence. i can think of no better words to express the unwavering consistency of his life. it is no part of my duty to tell in detail what and how much he did, and with what whole-heartedness he did it. turning to outward things, every associate of john sedding knew his enthusiasm for the cause of the catholic revival in the english church. it supplied him with a religion for his whole nature. no trouble seemed too great on behalf of it, though often his zeal entailed upon him some material disadvantage. again and again i have known him give up precious hours and even days in unremunerated work, to help some struggling church or mission, or some poor religious community. it was a joy to him to contribute anything to the beauty of the sanctuary or the solemnity of its offices. from the year to he was sidesman, from to churchwarden of st. alban's, holborn, doing his work thoroughly, and with conspicuous kindliness and courtesy. it was one of the thorns to the rose of his new life in the country that it obliged him to discontinue this office. for eleven years he played the organ on sunday afternoons for a service for young men and maidens, few of whom can forget the extraordinary life and pathos that he was wont by some magic to put into his accompaniment to their singing. this present year, , opened full of promise for john sedding. in a marvellously short time he had come hand over hand into public notice and public esteem, as a man from whom excellent things were to be expected,--things interesting, original, and beautiful. mr burne jones writes: "my information about sedding's work is very slight,--my interest in him very great, and my admiration too, from the little i had seen. i know only the church in sloane street, but that was enough to fill me with the greatest hope about him ... i saw him in all some half-dozen times--liked him instantly, and felt i knew him intimately, and was looking forward to perhaps years of collaboration with him." work brought work, as each thing he did revealed, to those who had eyes to see, the gift that was in him. at art congresses and all assemblies of art workers his co-operation was sought and his presence looked for, especially by the younger men, who hailed him and his words with enthusiasm. to these gatherings he brought something more and better than the sententious wisdom, the chill repression which many feel called upon to administer on the ground of their experience.[ ] he put of the fire that was in him into the hearts that heard him, he made them proud of their cause and of their place in it, and hopeful for its triumph and their own success. it was a contribution of sunshine and fresh air, and all that is the complete opposite of routine, red-tape, and the conventional. [footnote : qu'est-ce l'expérience? une pauvre petite cabane construite avec les débris de ces palais d'or et de marbre appelés nos illusions.--_joseph roux._] we who have watched his progress have noticed of late a considerable development in his literary power, a more marked individuality of style, a swifter and smoother movement, a richer vocabulary, and new skill in the presentation of his ideas. he was exceedingly happy in his illustrations of a principle, and his figures were always interesting, never hackneyed. a certain "bonhomie" in his way of putting things won willing hearers for his words, which seemed to come to meet us with a smile and open, outstretched hands, as the dear speaker himself was wont to do. something of course of the living qualities of speech are lost when we can receive it only from the cold black and white of print, instead of winged and full of human music from the man's own lips. yet, in spite of this, unless i am mistaken, readers of this book will not fail to find in it a good deal to justify my judgment. it seems to have taken some of his friends by surprise that john sedding should write on gardens. they knew him the master of many crafts, but did not count garden-craft among them. as a matter of fact, it was a love that appeared late in life, though all along it must have been within the man, for the instant he had a garden of his own the passion appeared full grown. every evening between five and six, save when his work called him to distant parts, you might have seen him step quickly out of the train at the little station of west wickham, run across the bridge, and greeting and greeted by everybody, swing along the shady road leading to his house. in his house, first he kissed his wife and children, and then supposing there was light and the weather fine, his coat was off and he fell to work at once with spade or trowel in his garden, absorbed in his plants and flowers, and the pleasant crowding thoughts that plants and flowers bring. after supper he assembled his household to say evening prayers with them. when all had gone to rest he would settle himself in his little study and write, write, write, until past midnight, sometimes past one, dashing now and again at a book upon his shelves to verify some one or other of those quaint and telling bits which are so happily inwoven into his text. one fruit of these labours is this book on garden-craft. but i have detained the reader long enough. all is by no means told, and many friends will miss, i doubt not, with disappointment this or that feature which they knew and loved in him. it cannot be helped. i have written as i could, not as i would, within the narrow limits which rightly bound a preface. how the end came, how within fourteen days the hand of god took from our midst the much love, genius, beauty which his hand had given us in the person of john and rose sedding, a few words only must tell. on easter monday, march th, john sedding spent two hours in london, giving the last sitting for the bust which was being modelled at the desire of the art workers' guild. the rest of the day he was busy in his garden. next morning he left early for winsford, in somersetshire, to look after the restoration of this and some other churches in the neighbourhood. winsford village is ten miles from the nearest railway station dulverton; the road follows the beautiful valley of the exe, which rising in the moors, descends noisily and rapidly southwards to the sea. the air is strangely chill in the hollow of this woody valley. further, it was march, and march of this memorable year of . lines of snow still lay in the ditches, and in white patches on the northern side of hedgerows. within a fortnight of this time men and cattle had perished in the snow-drifts on the higher ground. was this valley the valley of death for our friend, or were the seeds of death already within him? i know not. next morning, wednesday, he did not feel well enough to get up. his kind hostess, and host, the vicar of the parish, did all that kindness--kindness made harder and therefore more kind by ten miles' distance from a railway station--could do. john sent for his wife, who came at once, with her baby in her arms. on saturday at midnight he received his last communion. the next day he seemed to brighten and gave us hopes. on monday there was a change for the worse, and on tuesday morning he passed away in perfect peace. at the wish of his wife, his grave was prepared at west wickham. the solemn requiem, by her wish also, was at the church he loved and served so well, st. alban's, holborn. that church has witnessed many striking scenes, but few more impressive than the great gathering at his funeral. the lovely children's pall that john sedding had himself designed and rose sedding had embroidered, covered the coffin, and on the right of it in a dark mass were gathered his comrades of the art workers' guild. the tragedy does not end here. on that day week, at that very same hour and spot, beneath the same pall, lay the body of his dear and devoted wife. side by side, near the tall elms of the quiet kentish churchyard, the bodies of john and rose sedding are sleeping. the spot was in a sense chosen by rose sedding, if we may use the term 'choice' for her simple wish that it might be where the sun shines and flowers will grow. the western slope of the little hill was fixed upon, and already the flowers they loved so well are blooming over them. among the papers of rose sedding was found, pencilled in her own handwriting, the following lines of a th century poet: "'tis fit one flesh one house should have, one tomb, one epitaph, one grave; and they that lived and loved either should dye, and lye, and sleep together."[ ] [footnote : the words "'tis fit one flesh one house should have," &c., form part of the epitaph of richard bartholomew and his wife in the parish church of burford. how strange that the words should have found in her own case such exact fulfilment. e. f. russell. st alban's clergy house, brooke street, holborn. _june ._ it stands thus:-- lo hudled up, together lye gray age, greene youth, white infancy. if death doth nature's law dispence, and reconciles all difference, 'tis fit one flesh one house should have, one tombe, one epitaph, one grave; and they that lived and loved either should dye and lye and sleep together. goe reader, whether goe or stay, thou must not hence be long away.] contents. chap. page i. the theory of a garden ii. art in a garden iii. historical and comparative sketch iv. the stiff garden v. the "landscape-garden" vi. the technics of gardening vii. the technics of gardening (_continued_) on the other side. viii. a plea for savagery ix. in praise of both list of illustrations. a garden enclosed _frontispiece_ plan of rosary with sundial to face p. plan of tennis lawn, terraces, and flower garden general plan of the pleasaunce, villa albani, rome plan showing arrangement of sunk flower garden, yew walk, and tennis court plan of sunk flower garden and yew hedges plan showing arrangement of fountain, yew walk, and flower beds for a large garden perspective view of garden in the preceding plan perspective view of a design for a garden, with clipped yew hedges and flower beds garden-craft chapter i. on the theory of a garden. "come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall he see no enemy but winter and rough weather." some subjects require to be delineated according to their own taste. whatever the author's notions about it at starting, the subject somehow slips out of his grasp and dictates its own method of treatment and style. the subject of gardening answers to this description: you cannot treat it in a regulation manner. it is a discursive subject that of itself breeds laggard humours, inclines you to reverie, and suggests a discursive style. this much in defence of my desultory essay. the subject, in a manner, drafts itself. like the garden, it, too, has many aspects, many side-paths, that open out broken vistas to detach one's interest and lure from the straight, broad terrace-platform of orderly discourse. at first sight, perhaps, with the balanced beauty of the thing in front of you, carefully parcelled out and enclosed, as all proper gardens are, the theme may appear so compact, that all meandering after side-issues may seem sheer wantonness. as you proceed, however, it becomes apparent that you may not treat of a garden and disregard the instincts it prompts, the connection it has with nature, its place in art, its office in the world as a sweetener of human life. true, the garden itself is hedged in and neatly defined, but behind the garden is the man who made it; behind the man is the house he has built, which the garden adorns; and every man has his humours; every house has its own conditions of plan and site; every garden has its own atmosphere, its own contents, its own story. so now, having in this short preamble discovered something of the rich variety and many-sidedness of the subject, i proceed to write down three questions just to try what the yoke of classification may do to keep one's feet within bounds: ( ) what is a garden, and why is it made? ( ) what ornamental treatment is fit and right for a garden? ( ) what should be the relation of the garden to the house? forgive me if, in dealing with the first point, i so soon succumb to the allurements of my theme, and drop into flowers of speech! to me, then, a garden is the outward and visible sign of man's innate love of loveliness. it reveals man on his artistic side. beauty, it would seem, has a magnetic charm for him; and the ornamental display of flowers betokens his bent for, and instinctive homage of beauty. and to say this of man in one grade of life is to say it of all sorts and conditions of men; and to say it of one garden is to say it of all--whether the garden be the child of quality or of lowliness; whether it adorn castle, manor-house, villa, road-side cottage or signalman's box at the railway siding, or japanese or british tea-garden, or babylonian terrace or platonic grove at athens--in each case it was made for eye-delight at beauty's bidding. even the puritan, for all his gloomy creed and bleak undecorated life, is romanticist here; the hater of outward show turns rank courtier at a pageant of flowers: he will dare the devil at any moment, but not life without flowers. and so we have him lovingly bending over the plants of his home-garden, packing the seeds to carry with him into exile, as though these could make expatriation tolerable. "there is not a softer trait to be found in the character of these stern men than that they should have been sensible of their flower-roots clinging among the fibres of their rugged hearts, and have felt the necessity of bringing them over sea and making them hereditary in the new land." (hawthorne, "our old home," p. .) but to take a higher point of view. a garden is, in many ways, the "mute gospel" it has been declared to be. it is the memorial of paradise lost, the pledge of paradise regained. it is so much of earth's surface redeemed from the scar of the fall: "who loves a garden still keeps his eden." its territories stand, so to speak, betwixt heaven and earth, so that it shares the cross-lights of each. it parades the joys of earth, yet no less hints the joys of heaven. it tells of man's happy tillage of his plot of ground, yet blazes abroad the infinite abundance of god's wide husbandry of the world. it bespeaks the glory of earth's array, yet publishes its passingness.[ ] [footnote : think of "a paradise not like this of ours with so much pains and curiosity made with hands"--says evelyn, in the middle of a rhapsody on flowers--"eternal in the heavens, where all the trees are trees of life, the flowers all amaranths; all the plants perennial, ever verdant, ever pregnant, and where those who desire knowledge may taste freely of the fruit of that tree which cost the first gardener and posterity so dear." (sylva, "of forest-trees," p. .)] again. the punctual waking of the flowers to new life upon the ruin of the old is unfavourable to the fashionable theory of extinction, for it shows death as the prelude of life. nevertheless, be it admitted, the garden-allegory points not all one way; it is, so to speak, a paradox that mocks while it comforts. for a garden is ever perplexing us with the "riddle of the painful earth," ever challenging our faith with its counter-proof, ever thrusting before our eyes the abortive effort, the inequality of lot (two roses on a single stem, the one full-blown, a floral paragon, the other dwarfed and withered), the permitted spite of destiny which favours the fittest and drives the weak to the wall--ever preaching, with damnable iteration, the folly of resisting the ills that warp life and blight fair promise. and yet while this is so, the annual spectacle of spring's fresh repair--the awakening from winter's trance--the new life that grows in the womb of the tomb--is happy augury to the soul that passes away, immature and but half-expressed, of lusty days and consummate powers in the everlasting garden of god. it is this very garden's message, "the best is yet to be," that smothers the self-pitying whine in poor david gray's elegy[ ] and braces his spirit with the tonic of a wholesome pride. to the human flower that is born to blush unseen, or born, perchance, not to bloom at all, but only to feel the quickening thrill of april-passion--the first sweet consciousness of life--the electric touch in the soul like the faint beatings in the calyx of the rose--and then to die, to die "not knowing what it was to live"--to such seemingly cancelled souls the garden's message is "trust, acquiesce, be passive in the master's hand: the game of life is lost, but not for aye-- ... "there is life with god in other kingdom of a sweeter air: in eden every flower is blown." [footnote : "my epitaph." "below lies one whose name was traced in sand-- he died, not knowing what it was to live; died while the first sweet consciousness of manhood and maiden thought electrified his soul: faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. bewildered reader, pass without a sigh in a proud sorrow! there is life with god, in other kingdom of a sweeter air; in eden every flower is blown. amen." david gray ("a poet's sketch-book," r. buchanan, p. .)] to come back to lower ground, a garden represents what one may call the first simplicity of external nature's ways and means, and the first simplicity of man's handling of them, carried to distinction. on one side we have nature's "unpremeditated art" surpassed upon its own lines--nature's tardy efforts and common elementary traits pushed to a masterpiece. on the other side is the callow craft of adam's "'prentice han'," turned into scrupulous nice-fingered art, with forcing-pits, glass-houses, patent manures, scientific propagation, and the accredited rules and hoarded maxims of a host of horticultural journals at its back. or, to run still more upon fancy. a garden is a place where these two whilom foes--nature and man--patch up a peace for the nonce. outside the garden precincts--in the furrowed field, in the forest, the quarry, the mine, out upon the broad seas--the feud still prevails that began as our first parents found themselves on the wrong side of the gate of paradise. but "here contest grows but interchange of love"-- here the old foes have struck a truce and are leagued together in a kind of idyllic intimacy, as is witnessed in their exchange of grace for grace, and the crowning touch that each puts upon the other's efforts. the garden, i have said, is a sort of "betweenity"--part heaven, part earth, in its suggestions; so, too, in its make-up is it part nature, part man: for neither can strictly say "i made the garden" to disregard the other's share in it. true, that behind all the contents of the place sits primal nature, but nature "to advantage dressed," nature in a rich disguise, nature delicately humoured, stamped with new qualities, furnished with a new momentum, led to new conclusions, by man's skill in selection and artistic concentration. true, that the contents of the place have their originals somewhere in the wild--in forest or coppice, or meadow, or hedgerow, swamp, jungle, alp, or plain hillside. we can run each thing to earth any day, only that a change has passed over them; what in its original state was complex or general, is here made a chosen particular; what was monotonous out there, is here mixed and contrasted; what was rank and ragged there, is here taught to be staid and fine; what had a fugitive beauty there, has here its beauty prolonged, and is combined with other items, made "of imagination all compact." man has taken the several things and transformed them; and in the process, they passed, as it were, through the crucible of his mind to reappear in daintier guise; in the process, the face of nature became, so to speak, humanised: man's artistry conveyed an added charm. judged thus, a garden is, at one and the same time, the response which nature makes to man's overtures, and man's answer to the standing challenge of open-air beauty everywhere. here they work no longer in a spirit of rivalry, but for the attainment of a common end. we cannot dissociate them in the garden. a garden is man's transcript of the woodland world: it is common vegetation ennobled: outdoor scenery neatly writ in man's small hand. it is a sort of twin-picture, conceived of man in the studio of his brain, painted upon nature's canvas with the aid of her materials--a twin-essay where nature's ... "primal mind that flows in streams, that breathes in wind" supplies the matter, man the style. it is nature's rustic language made fluent and intelligible--nature's garrulous prose tersely recast--changed into imaginative shapes, touched to finer issues. "what is a garden?" for answer come hither: be fancy's guest a moment. turn in from the dusty high-road and noise of practical things--for "not wholly in the busy world, nor quite beyond it, blooms the garden that i love"; descend the octagonal steps; cross the green court, bright with great urns of flowers, that fronts the house; pass under the arched doorway in the high enclosing wall, with its gates traceried with rival wreaths of beaten iron and clambering sprays of jasmine and rose, and, from the vantage-ground of the terrace-platform where we stand, behold an art-enchanted world, where the alleys with their giddy cunning, their gentle gloom, their cross-lights and dappled shadows of waving boughs, make paths of fantasy--where the water in the lake quivers to the wind's soft footprints, or sparkles where the swallows dip, or springs in jets out of shapely fountain, or, oozing from bronze dolphin's mouth, slides down among moss-flecked stones into a deep dark pool, and is seen anon threading with still foot the careless-careful curved banks fringed with flowering shrubs and trailing willows and brambles--where the flowers smile out of dainty beds in the sunny ecstasy of "sweet madness"--where the air is flooded with fragrance, and the mixed music of trembling leaves, falling water, singing birds, and the drowsy hum of innumerable insects' wings. "what is a garden?" it is man's report of earth at her best. it is earth emancipated from the commonplace. earth is man's intimate possession--earth arrayed for beauty's bridal. it is man's love of loveliness carried to excess--man's craving for the ideal grown to a fine lunacy. it is piquant wonderment; culminated beauty, that for all its combination of telling and select items, can still contrive to look natural, debonair, native to its place. a garden is nature aglow, illuminated with new significance. it is nature on parade before men's eyes; flodden field in every parish, where on summer days she holds court in "lanes of splendour," beset with pomp and pageantry more glorious than all the kings'. "why is a garden made?" primarily, it would seem, to gratify man's craving for beauty. behind fine gardening is fine desire. it is a plain fact that men do not make beautiful things merely for the sake of something to do, but, rather, because their souls compel them. any beautiful work of art is a feat, an essay, of human soul. someone has said that "noble dreams are great realities"--this in praise of unrealised dreams; but here, in the fine garden, is the noble dream and the great reality. here it may be objected that the ordinary garden is, after all, only a compromise between the common and the ideal: half may be for the lust of the eye, yet half is for domestic drudgery; half is for beauty, half for use. the garden is contrived "a double debt to pay." yonder mass of foliage that bounds the garden, with its winding intervals of turf and look of expansiveness, it serves to conceal villadom and the hulking paper-factory beyond; that rock-garden with its developed geological formation, dotted over with choice alpine plants, that the stranger comes to see. it is nothing but the quarry from whence the stone was dug that built the house. those banks of evergreens, full of choice specimens, what are they but on one side the screen to your kitchen stuff, and on the other side, the former tenant's contrivance to assist him in forgetting his neighbour? even so, my friend, an it please you! you are of those who, in sainte-beuve's phrase, would sever a bee in two, if you could! the garden, you say, is a compromise between the common and the ideal. yet nobility comes in low disguises. we have seen that the garden is wild nature elevated and transformed by man's skill in selection and artistic concentration--wild things to which man's art has given dignity. the common flowers of the cottager's garden tell of centuries of collaboration. the flowers and shrubs and trees with which you have adorned your own grounds were won for you by the curiosity, the aspiration, the patient roaming and ceaseless research of a long list of old naturalists; the design of your garden, its picturesque divisions and beds, a result of the social sense, the faculty for refined enjoyment, the constructive genius of the picked minds of the civilised world in all ages. the methods of planting approved of to-day, carrying us back to the admirably-dressed grounds of the ancient castles and abbeys, to the love of woodland scenery, which is said to be a special characteristic of teutonic people, which is evidenced in the early english ballads; to the slowly acquired traditions of garden-masters like bacon, temple, evelyn, gilpin, and repton, as well as to the idealised landscapes of constable, gainsborough, linnell, and turner; it is, in fact, the issue of the practical insight, the wood-craft, and idealistic skill of untold generations. in this matter of floral beauty and garden-craft man has ever declared himself a prey to the "malady of the ideal"; the japanese will even combine upon his trees the tints of spring and autumn.[ ] but everywhere, and in all ages of the civilised world, man spares no pains to acquire the choicest specimens, the rarest plants, and to give to each thing so acquired the ideally best expression of which it is capable. it is as though eden-memories still haunted the race with the solicitude of an inward voice that refused to be silenced, and is satisfied with nothing short of the best. [footnote : "this strange combination of autumn and spring tints is a very usual sight in japan.... it is worth noting that in japan a tree is considered chiefly for its form and tint, not for use.... i heard the cherry-trees were now budding, so i hurried up to take advantage of them, and found them more beautiful than i had ever imagined. there are at least fifty varieties, from delicately tinted white and pink to the richest rose, almost crimson blossom."--alfred east's "trip to japan," _universal review_, march, .] and yet, as some may point out, this homage of beauty that you speak of is not done for nought; there enters into gardening the spirit of calculation. a garden is a kind of investment. the labour and forethought man expends upon it must bring adequate return. for every flower-bed he lays down, for every plant, or shrub, or tree put into the ground, his word is ever the same, "be its beauty its sole duty." it was not simply to gratify his curiosity, to serve as a pretext for adventure, that the gardener of old days reconnoitred the globe, culled specimens, and spent laborious days in studying earth's picturesque points; it was with a view to the pleasure the things would ultimately bring. and why not! had man not served so long an apprenticeship to nature on her freehold estate, the garden would not so directly appeal to our imaginations and command our spirits. a garden reveals man as master of nature's lore; he has caught her accents, rifled her motives; he has transferred her bright moods about his own dwelling, has tricked out an ordered mosaic of the gleanings of her woodland carpet; has, as it were, stereotyped the spontaneous in nature, has entrapped and rendered beautifully objective the natural magic of the outer world to gratify the inner world of his own spirit. the garden is, first and last, made "for delectation's sake." so we arrive at these conclusions. a garden is made to express man's delight in beauty and to gratify his instincts for idealisation. but, lest the explanation savour too much of self-interest in the gardener, it may be well to say that the interest of man's investment of money and toil is not all for himself. what he captures of nature's revenues he repays with usury, in coin that bears the mint-mark of inspired invention. this artistic handling of natural things has for result "the world's fresh ornament,"[ ] and for plant, shrub, or tree subject to it, it is the crowning and completion of those hidden possibilities of perfection that have lain dormant in them since the world began. an artist has been defined as one who reproduces the world in his own image and likeness. the definition is perhaps a little high-flown, and may confer an autobiographical value to an artist's performances that would astonish none more than himself. yet if the thought can be truthfully applied anywhere, it is where it occurred to andrew marvell--in a garden. [footnote : "if you look into our gardens annexed to our houses" (says william harrison in holinshed's "chronicles") "how wonderful is their beauty increased, not only with flowers, which columella calleth _terrena sydera_, saying 'pingit et in varias terrestria, sydera flores,' and variety of curious and costly workmanship, but also with rare and medicinable herbs.... how art also helpeth nature in the daily colouring, doubling and enlarging the proportions of our flowers it is incredible to report, for so curious and cunning are our gardeners now in these days that they presume to do, in a manner, what they list with nature, and moderate her course in things as if they were her superiors. it is a world also to see how many strange herbs, plants, and annual fruits are daily brought unto us from the indies, americans, taprobane, canary isles, and all parts of the world, the which, albeit that his respect of the constitutions of our bodies, they do not grow for us (because god hath bestowed sufficient commodities upon every country for her own necessity) yet for delectation's sake unto the eye, and their odoriferous savours unto the nose, they are to be cherished, and god also glorified in them, because they are his good gifts, and created to do man help and service. there is not almost one nobleman, gentleman, or merchant that hath not great store of these flowers, which now also begin to wax so well acquainted with our evils that we may almost account of them as parcel of our own commodities."--(from "elizabethan england," pp. - .)] "the mind, that ocean where each kind does straight its own resemblance find; yet it creates, transcending these, far other worlds and other seas, annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade." and where can we find a more promising sphere for artistic creation than a garden? do we boast of fine ideas and perceptions of beauty and powers of design! where can our faculties find a happier medium of expression or a pleasanter field for display than the garden affords? nay, to have the ideas, the faculties, and the chance of their exercise and still to hold back were a sin! for a garden is, so to speak, the compliment a man of ideas owes to nature, to his friends, and to himself. many are the inducements to gardening. thus, if i make a garden, i need not print a line, nor conjure with the painter's tools, to prove myself an artist. again, a garden is the only form of artistic creation that is bound by the nature of things to be more lovely in realisation than in the designer's conception. it is no mere hint of beauty--no mere tickling of the fancy--that we get here, such as all other arts (except music) are apt to give you. here, on the contrary, we are led straight into a world of actual delights patent to all men, which our eyes can see, and our hands handle. more than this; whilst in other spheres of labour the greater part of our life's toil and moil will, of a surety, end as the wise man predicted, in vanity and vexation of spirit, here is instant physical refreshment in the work the garden entails, and, in the end, our labour will be crowned with flowers. nor have i yet exhausted the scene of a garden's pleasures. a man gets undoubted satisfaction in the very expression of his ideas--"the joy of the deed"--in the sense of nature's happy response, the delight of creation,[ ] the romance of possibility. [footnote : here is emerson writing to carlyle of his "new plaything"--a piece of woodland of forty acres on the border of walden pond. "in these may mornings, when maples, poplars, walnut, and pine are in their spring glory, i go thither every afternoon and cut with my hatchet an indian path thro' the thicket, all along the bold shore, and open the finest pictures." (john morley's essays, "emerson," p. .) but, as mr morley points out, he finds the work too fascinating, eating up days and weeks; "nay, a brave scholar should shun it like gambling, and take refuge in cities and hotels from these pernicious enchantments."] some joy shall also come of the identity of the gardener with his creation.[ ] he is at home here. he is intimate with the various growths. he carries in his head an infinity of details touching the welfare of the garden's contents. he participates in the life of his plants, and is familiar with all their humours; like a good host, he has his eye on all his company. he has fine schemes for the future of the place. the very success of the garden reflects upon its master, and advertises the perfect understanding that exists between the artist and his materials. the sense of ownership and responsibility brings him satisfaction, of a cheaper sort. his the hand that holds the wand to the garden's magic; his the initiating thought, the stamp of taste, the style that gives it circumstance. let but his hand be withdrawn a space, and, at this signal, the gipsy horde of weeds and briars--that even now peer over the fence, and cast clandestine seeds abroad with every favouring gust of wind--would at once take leave to pitch their tents within the garden's zone, would strip the place of art-conventions, and hurry it back to its primal state of unkempt wildness. [footnote : "i like your essays," said henry the third to montaigne. "then, sire, you will like me. i am my essays."] someone has observed that when wonder is excited, and the sense of beauty gratified, there is instant recreation, and a stimulus that lifts one out of life's ordinary routine. this marks the function of a garden in a world where, but for its presence, the commonplace might preponderate; 'tis man's recreation ground, children's fairyland, bird's orchestra, butterfly's banquet. verse and romance have done well, then, to link it with pretty thoughts and soft musings, with summer reveries and moonlight ecstasies, with love's occasion, and youth's yearning. no fitter place could well be found than this for the softer transactions of life that awaken love, poesy, and passion. indeed, were its winsomeness not balanced by simple human enjoyments--were its charmed silences not broken by the healthy interests of common daily life--the romps of children, the clink of tea-cups, the clatter of croquet-mallets, the _mêlée_ of the tennis-courts, the fiddler's scrape, and the tune of moving feet, it might well seem too lustreful a place for this work-a-day world. apart from its other uses, there is no spot like a garden for cultivating the kindly social virtues. its perfectness puts people upon their best behaviour. its nice refinement secures the mood for politeness. its heightened beauty produces the disposition that delights in what is beautiful in form and colour. its queenly graciousness of mien inspires the reluctant loyalty of even the stoniest mind. here, if anywhere, will the human hedgehog unroll himself and deign to be companionable. here friend smith, caught by its nameless charm, will drop his brassy gabble and dare to be idealistic; and jones, forgetful of the main chance and "bulls" and "bears," will throw the rein to his sweeter self, and reveal that latent elevation of soul and tendency to romance known only to his wife! "there be delights," says an ancient writer, "that will fetch the day about from sun to sun, and rock the tedious year as in a delightful dream." this tells, in terse english, the pleasures of a garden and the instincts that are gratified in its making. for a garden is arcady brought home. it is man's bit of gaudy make-believe--his well-disguised fiction of an unvexed paradise--standing witness of his quest of the ideal--his artifice to escape the materialism of a world that is too actual and too much with him. a well-kept garden makes credible to modern eyes the antique fable of an unspoiled world--a world where gaiety knows no eclipse, and winter and rough weather are held at bay. in this secluded spot the seasons slip by unawares. the year's passing-bell is ignored. decay is cheated of its prize. the invading loss of cold, or wind, or rain--the litter of battered nature--the "petals from blown roses on the grass"--the pathos of dead boughs and mouldering leaves, the blighted bloom and broken promise of the spring, autumn's rust or winter's wreckage are, if gardeners be brisk sons of adam, instantly huddled out of sight, so that, come when you may, the place wears a mask of steady brightness; each month has its new dress, its fresh counterfeit of permanence, its new display of flowers or foliage, as pleasing, if not so lustrous as the last, that serves in turn to prolong the illusion and to conceal the secret irony and fond assumption of the thing. "i think for to touche also the world which neweth everie daie, so far as i can, so as i maie." this snatch of gower's rhyme expresses in old phrase the gardener's desire, or clothed in modern prose by mr robinson ("english flower-garden," murray), it is "to make each place at various seasons, and in every available situation, an epitome of the great flower-garden of the world." we hinted a moment ago of the interest that a garden gathers from the mark of man's regard and tendence; and if this be true of a modern garden, how much more true of an old one! indeed, this is undeniable in the latter case, for time is ever friendly to gardens. ordinarily his attitude towards all that concerns the memories of man is that of a jealous churl. look at history. what is history but one long record of men who, in this sphere or that, have toiled, striven, sold their souls even, to perpetuate a name and have their deeds written upon the tablets of eternity, not reckoning upon the "all oblivious enmity" of time, who, with heedless hand, cuts their past into fragments, blots out their name, confuses their story, and frets with gnawing tooth each vestige of their handiwork. how, then, we ask-- "how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower?" yet so it is. he who has no respect for antique glories, who snaps his fingers at earth's heroes, who overturns the statues of the laurelled cæsars, encrusts the hieroglyphics of the pharaohs, and commits their storied masonry to the mercies of the modern philistine, will make exception in a garden. "time's pencil" helps a garden. in a garden not only are the solemn shapes and passing conceits of grey epochs treasured up, even to their minutest particulars, but the drift of the years, elsewhere so disastrous, serves only to heighten their fascination and power of appeal. thus it comes to pass, that it were scarcely possible to name a more pathetic symbol of the past than an old garden,[ ] nor a spot which, by its tell-tale shapes, sooner lends itself to our historic sense if we would recall the forms and reconstruct the life of our ancestors. for we have here the very setting of old life--the dressed stage of old drama, the scenery of old gallantry. upon this terrace, in front of these flower-beds with these trees looking on, was fought out the old battle of right and wrong--here was enacted the heroic or the shameful deeds, the stirring or the humdrum passages in the lives of so many generations of masters, mistresses, children, and servants, who in far-off times have lived, loved, and died in the grey homestead hard by. "now they are dead," as victor hugo says--"they are dead, but the flowers last always." [footnote : time does much for a garden. there is a story of an american plutocrat's visit to oxford. on his tour of the colleges nothing struck him so much as the velvety turf of some of the quadrangles. he asked for the gardener, and made minute enquiries as to the method of laying down and maintaining the grass. "that's all, is it?" he exclaimed, when the process had been carefully described. "yes, sir," replied the gardener with a twinkle in his eye, "that's all, but we generally leave it three or four centuries to settle down!"] admit, then, that for their secret quality, no less than for their obvious beauty, these old gardens should be treasured. for they are far more than they seem to the casual observer. like any other piece of historic art, the old garden is only truly intelligible through a clear apprehension of the circumstances which attended its creation. granted that we possess the ordinary smattering of historical knowledge, and the garden will serve to interpret the past and make it live again before our eyes. for the old place is (to use the journalist's phrase) an "object lesson" of old manners; it is a proof of ancient genius, a clue to old romance, a legacy of vague desire. the many items of the place--the beds and walks with their special trick of "style" the parterre, the promenoir, the maze, the quincunx, the terraces, the extravagances in ever-green sculptures of which pope spoke--what are they but the mould and figure of old-world thought, down to its most characteristic caprice! the assertive air of these things--their prominence in the garden-scenery--bespeak their importance in the scenery of old life. it was _thus_ that our forefathers made the world about them picturesque, _thus_ that they coloured their life-dreams and fitted an adjunct pleasure to every humour, _thus_ that they climbed by flower-strewn stairs to the realm of the ideal and stimulated their sense of beauty. and if further proof be needed of the large hold the garden and its contents had of the affections of past generations, we have but to turn to the old poets, and to note how the texture of the speech, the groundwork of the thought, of men like milton, herrick, vaughan, herbert, donne (not to mention prose-writers) is saturated through and through with garden-imagery. in the case of an old garden, mellowed by time, we have, i say, to note something that goes beyond mere surface-beauty. here we may expect to find a certain superadded quality of pensive interest, which, so far as it can be reduced to words, tells of the blent influences of past and present, of things seen and unseen, of the joint effects of nature and man. the old ground embodies bygone conceptions of ideal beauty; it has absorbed human thought and memories; it registers the bequests of old time. dead men's traits are exemplified here. the dead hand still holds sway, the pictures it conjured still endure, its cunning is not forgotten, its strokes still make the garden's magic, in shapes and hues that are unchanged save for the slow moulding of the centuries. _really_, not less than metaphorically, the garden-growths do keep green the memories of the men and women who placed them there, as the flower that is dead still holds its perfume. and few will say that the chronicles of the dead do not "shine more bright in these contents than unwept stone besmeared with sluttish time." there is a wealth of quiet interest in an old garden. we feel instinctively that the place has been warmed by the sunshine of humanity; watered from the secret spring of human joy and sorrow. sleeping echoes float about its glades; its leafy nooks can tell of felicities sweeter than the bee-haunted cups of flowers; of glooms graver than the midnight blackness of the immemorial yews. it is their suggestion of antique experiences that endues the objective elements in an old garden like haddon, or berkeley, or levens, or rockingham, with a strange eloquence. the recollections of many a child have centred round these objects: the one touch of romance in a narrow, simple life is linked with them. hearts danced or hearts drooped in this vicinity. eyes that brimmed over with laughter or that were veiled with tears looked on these things as we look on them now--drank in the shifting lights and shadows on the grass--watched the waving of the cedar's dark layers of shade against an angry sky, "stern as the unlashed eye of god," and all the birds were silent--once took in the sylvan vistas of trees, lawn, fir-ridge, the broad-water where the coots and moor-hens now play (as then) among the green lily-pads and floating weeds, regardless of regulas in lead standing in their midst; once dwelt upon the lustrous flower-beds, on the sundial on the terrace--noonday rendezvous of fantails--on the "alley of sighs," with its clipped beeches, its grey-stone seat half-way down, its rustle of dying leaves, and traditions of intrigue; on the lime avenue full of perfume in the sweet-o'-the-year, on the foot-bridge across the moat, on the streak of blue autumn mist that tracks the stream in yonder meadows where the landrail is croaking, and that brings magically near the beat of hoofs, the jingle of horses' bells, the rumble of homeward wagons on the road, and whiffs of the reapers' songs; on the brief brilliance of the garden-panorama as the wintry-moon gives the black clouds the slip and suddenly discloses a white world of snow-muffled forms, that gleams with the eerie pallor of a ghost, and is as suddenly dissolved into darkness. simple sights, you will say, and familiar! and yet, when connected with some unique occasion, some epoch of a life, when seen on such a day, at such a supreme, all-absorbing moment from window, open door, terrace, arbour; in the stillness or in the wild rhetoric of the night, the familiar scene, momentarily flashed upon the brain's retina, may have subtly and unconsciously influenced the act, or coloured the thought of some human being, and the brand of that moment's impress may have accompanied that soul to the edge of doom. because of its hoarded memories we come to look upon an old garden as a sort of repository of old secrets; wrapped within its confines, as within the covers of a sacred book, repose so many pages of the sad and glad legend of humanity. we have before us the scenery of old home idylls, of old household reverences and customs, of old life's give and take--its light comedy or solemn farce, its dark tragedy, its summer masque, its stately dance or midnight frolic, its happy wedlock or its open sorrow, its endured wrong. the place is identified with the fortunes of old families: for so many generations has the old place been found favourable for lovers' tales, for youths' golden dreams, for girls' chime of fancy, for the cut and thrust of friendly wrangles, for the "leisures of the spirit" of student-recluse, for children's gambols and babies' lullabies. seated upon this mossy bank, children have spelt out fairy tales, while birds, trees, brooks, and flowers listened together. the marvel of its cloistered grace has been god-reminder to the saint; its green recesses have served for enoch's walk,[ ] for poet's retreat; as refuge for the hapless victim of broken endeavour; as enisled shelter for the tobacco-loving sailor-uncle with a wrecked fame; as invalid's elysium; as haunt of the loafing, jesting, unambitioned man ("alas, poor yorick!"); as death's sweet ante-room for slow-footed age. [footnote : "there is no garden well contrived, but that which hath an enoch's walk in it."--sir w. waller.] what wonder that sir william temple devised that his heart should rest where its memories were so deep-intrenched--in his garden; or that waterton should ask to be buried between the two great oaks at the end of the lake! (norman moore's introduction to "wanderings in south america.") and if human affections be, as the poets declare, immortal, we have the reason why an old garden, in the only sense in which it ever is old, by the almanack, has that whisper and waving of secrecy, that air of watchful intentness, that far-reaching, mythological, unearthly look, that effect of being a kind of twilighted space common to the two worlds of past and present. who will not agree with me in this? it matters not when you go there--at dawn, at noonday, no less than when the sky is murky and night-winds are sighing--and although you shall be the only visible human being present, it is not alone that you feel. a thrill comes over you, a mysterious sense warns you that this is none other than the sanctuary of "the dead," as we call them; the place where, amid the hush of passionless existence, the wide leisure of uncounted time, the shades of once familiar presences keep their "tongueless vigil." they fly not at the "dully sound" of human footsteps; they ask no sympathy for regret which dare not tell the secret of its sorrow; but, with the gentle gait of old-world courtesy, they move aside, and when you depart resume occupation of ground which, for the sake of despairing wishes and memories of an uneffaced past, they may not quit. after life's fitful fever these waifs of a vanished world sleep not well; here are some consumed with covetousness, who are learning not to resent the word "mine" applied by the living owner of hall and garden, field and store; some that prey on withered bliss--the "bitter sweet of days that were"--this, the miser whose buried treasure lies undiscovered here, and who has nothing in god's bank in the other world; this, the author of the evil book; and this loveless, unlovely pair, the ruined and ruiner, yoked for aye; a motley band, forsooth, with "satan's sergeants" keeping guard! it is ever the indirect that is most eloquent. someone says: hence these tokens of a dead past open out vistas for one's imagination and drop hints of romance that would make thrilling reading in many volumes, but which shall never reach mudie's. even nature is not proof against the spell of an old garden. the very trees have an "ancient melody of an inward agony": "the place is silent and aware it has had its scenes, its joys, and crimes, but that is its own affair"-- even nature forgets to be her cold, impassive self, and puts on a sympathetic-waiting look in a spot so intricately strewn and meshed over with the fibres of human experience. long and close intimacy with mankind under various aspects--witness of things that happened to squires, dames, priests, courtiers, servitors, page, or country-maid, in the roundabout of that "curious, restless, clamorous being which we call life"--has somehow tinged the place with a sensibility (one had almost said a _wizardry_) not properly its own. and this superadded quality reaches to the several parts of the garden and is not confined to the scene as a whole. each inanimate item of the place, each spot, seems invested with a gift of attraction--to have a hidden tongue that could syllable forgotten names--to possess a power of fixing your attention, of fastening itself upon your mind, as though it had become, in a sense, humanised, and claimed kindred with you as related to that secret group with whose fortunes it was allied, with whose passions it had held correspondence, and were letting you know it could speak an if it would of "all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy." chapter ii. on art in a garden. "o world, as god has made it! all is beauty." robert browning. in dealing with our second point--the ornamental treatment that is fit and right for a garden--we are naturally brought into contact with the good and bad points of both the old and the new systems of gardening. this being so, it may be well at once to notice the claims of the modern "landscape-gardener" to monopolise to himself all the right principles of garden-craft: all other moods than his are low, all figures other than his are symbols of error, all dealings with nature other than his are mere distortions. if you have any acquaintance with books upon landscape-gardening written by its professors or their admirers, you will have learnt that in the first half of the eighteenth century, two heaven-directed geniuses--kent and brown--all of a sudden stumbled upon the green world of old england, and, perceiving its rural beauties, and the hitherto unexplored opportunities for ornamental display that the country afforded, these two put their heads together, and out of their combined cogitations sprang the english garden. this, in brief, is what the landscape-gardener and his adherents say, and would have you believe; and, to prove their point, they lay stress upon the style of garden in vogue at the time kent and brown began their experiments, when, forsooth, traditional garden-craft was in its dotage and had lost its way in the paths of pedantry. should you, however, chance to have some actual knowledge of old gardens, and some insight into the principles which, consciously or unconsciously governed their making, it may occur to you to ask the precise points wherein the new methods claim to be different from the old, what sources of inspiration were discovered by the new school of gardeners that were not shared by english gardeners from time immemorial. are there, then, _two_ arts of gardening? or two sorts of englishmen to please? is not modern garden-craft identical with the old, so far, indeed, as it hath art enough to stand any comparison with the other at all? let us here point to the fact, that any garden whatsoever is but nature idealised, pastoral scenery rendered in a fanciful manner. it matters not what the date, size, or style of the garden, it represents an idealisation of nature. _real_ nature exists outside the artist and apart from him. the ideal is that which the artist conceives to be an interpretation of the outside objects, or that which he adds to the objects. the garden gives imaginative form to emotions the natural objects have awakened in man. the _raison d'être_ of a garden is man's feeling the _ensemble_. one fine day you take your architect for a jaunt along a country-lane, until stopping shyly in front of a five-barred gate, over which is nailed an ominous notice-board, you introduce him to your small property, the site of your new house. it is a field very much like the neighbouring fields--at least, so think the moles, and the rooks, and the rabbits; not you, for here is to be your "seat" for life; and before you have done with it, the whole country far and near will be taught to look as though it radiated round the site and the house you will build upon it--an honour of which, truth compels me to say, the land betrays not the remotest presentiment just now! the field in question may be flat or undulating, it may be the lap of a hillside, the edge of a moor, a treeless stretch of furrowed land with traces of "rude mechanical's" usage, or suggestions of mutton or mangels. the particular character of the place, or its precise agricultural past, matters not, however; suffice it to say that it is a bit of raw, and more or less ungroomed, nature. upon this plain, unadorned field, you set your man of imagination to work. he must absorb both it and its whole surroundings into his brain, and seize upon all its capabilities. he must produce symmetry and balance where now are ragged outlines of hillocks and ridges. he must trim and cherish the trees here, abolish the tree there; enlarge this slope, level that; open out a partial peep of blue distance here, or a gleam of silver water there. he must terrace the slope, step by step, towards the stream at the base, select the sunniest spots for the flower-beds, and arrange how best the gardens at their varying levels shall be approached or viewed from the house. in this way and that he must so manoeuvre the perspective and the lights and shades, so compose or continue the sectional lines and general bearings of the ground as to enforce the good points that exist, and draw out the latent possibilities of the place, and this with as easy a hand, and as fine tact as the man can muster. and now to come to our point. a dressed garden, i said, is nature idealised--pastoral scenery put fancifully, in man's way. a gardener is a master of what the french writer calls "the charming art of touching up the truth." emerson observes that all the arts have their origin in some enthusiasm; and the art of gardening has for its root, man's enthusiasm for the woodland world. it indicates a taste for flowers and trees and landscapes. it is admiration that has, so to speak, passed from the stage of emotion to that of form. a garden is the result of the emulation which the vision of beauty in the world at large is ever provoking in man-- "straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures while the landskip round it measures." what of nature has affected man on various occasions, what has pleased his eye in different moods, played upon his emotions, pricked his fancy, suggested reverie, stirred vague yearnings, brought a sense of quickened joy--pastoral scenery, the music of leaves and waters, the hues and sweetness of country flowers, the gladness of colour, picturesque form of tree or contour of land, spring's bright laugh, autumn's glow, summer's bravery, winter's grey blanched face--each thing that has gone home to him has, in its way, fostered in man the garden mania. inspired by their beauty and mystery, he has gathered them to himself about his home, has made a microcosm out of the various detached details which sum up the qualities, features, and aspects of the open country; and the art of this little recreated world is measured by the happy union of naturalness and of calculated effect. what sources of inspiration were discovered by the new school of gardeners, i asked a moment ago, which were not shared by english gardeners from time immemorial? the art of gardening, i said, has its root in man's enthusiasm for the woodland world. see how closely the people of old days must have observed the sylvan sights of nature, the embroidery of the meadows, the livery of the woods at different seasons, or they would not have been capable of building up that piece of hoarded loveliness, the old-fashioned english garden! the pleasaunce of old days has been mostly stubbed up by the modern "landscape gardener," but if no traces of them were left we have still here and there the well-schemed surroundings of our english homes--park, avenue, wood, and water--the romantic scenery that hems in tintern, fountains, dunster, to testify to the inborn genius of the english for planting. if the tree, shrub, and flower be gone from the grounds outside the old tudor mansion, there still remains the blue-green world in the tapestries upon the walls, with their airy landscapes of trees and hills, hanging-gardens, flower-beds, terraces, and embowered nooks--a little fantastical it may be, but none the less eloquent of appreciation of natural beauty not confined to the gardener, but shared by the artist-maid, who ... "with her neeld composes nature's own shape, of bird, branch, or berry, that even art sisters the natural roses." and should these relics be gone, we still have the books in the library, rich in nature-allusion. the simple ecstasies of the early ballad in the opening stanzas of "robin hood and the monk"-- "in somer when the shawes be sheyne, and leves be large and longe, hit is full mery in feyre foreste to here the foulys song; to se the dere draw to the dale, and leve the hilles hee, and shadow hem in the leves grene, under the grene-wode tre"; or in a "musical dreame"-- "now wend we home, stout robin hood, leave we the woods behind us. love passions must not be withstood, love everywhere will find us. i livde in fielde and downe, and so did he; i got me to the woods, love followed me." or shall we hear tell from chaucer how "when that aprille, with his showrës swoot the drought of march hath pierced to the root, * * * * * then longen folk to gone on pilgrimages." or hear from stowe how the cockney of olden days "in the month of may, namely, on may-day in the morning, every man, except impediment, would walk in the sweet meddowes and green woods, ther to rejoyce their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweet flowers and with the harmonie of birds praysing god in their kinde." or shall we turn to shakespeare's bright incidental touches of nature-description as in perdita's musical enumeration of the flowers of the old stiff garden-borders "to make you garlands of," or the queen's bit in "hamlet," beginning "there is a willow grows aslant a brook, that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream." or to the old herbals of wyer, and turner, and gerard, whom richard jefferies[ ] pictures walking about our english lanes in old days? "what wonderful scenes he must have viewed when they were all a tangle of wild flowers, and plants that are now scarce were common, and the old ploughs and the curious customs, and the wild red-deer--it would make a good picture, it really would, gerard studying english orchids!" [footnote : "field and hedgerow," p. .] or shall we take down the classic volumes of bacon, temple, evelyn, cowley, isaak walton, gilbert white, each in his day testifying to the inborn love of the english for woodland scenery, their study of nature, and their taste in trees, shrubs, and flowers. what a vindication is here of the old-fashioned garden and gardener! what nonsense to set up kent and brown as the discoverers of the green world of old england, when, as mr hamerton remarks in "the sylvan year" (p. ), chaucer hardly knows how or when to stop whenever he begins to talk about his enjoyment of nature. "chaucer," he says, "in his passion for flowers, and birds, and spring mornings in the woods, and by streams, is hard to quote, for he leads you down to the bottom of the page, and over the leaf, before you have time to pause." the question now before us--"what ornament is fit and right for a garden?"--of itself implies a tendency to err in the direction of ornament. we see that on the face of it the transposition of the simple of nature into the subtle of art has its dangers. something may be put, or something may be left, which were best absent. this may be taken as an established fact. in making a garden you start with the assumption that something must be sacrificed of wild nature, and something must be superadded, and that which is superadded is not properly of this real, visible world, but of the world of man's brain. the very enclosure of our garden-spaces signifies that nature is held in duress here. nature of herself cannot rise above nature, and man, seeing perfections through her imperfections, capacities through her incapacities, shuts her in for cultivation, binds her feet, as it were, with the silken cord of art-constraint, and puts a gloss of intention upon her every feature. in a garden nature is not to be her simple self, but is to be subject to man's conditions, his choice, his rejection. let us briefly see, now, what conditions man may fairly impose upon nature--what lengths he may legitimately go in the way of mimicry of natural effects or of conventionalism. both books and our own observation tell us that where the past generations of gardeners have erred it has been through a misconception of the due proportions of realism and of idealism to be admitted into a garden. at this time, in this phase, it was _art_, in that phase it was _nature_, that was carried too far; here design was given too much rein, there not rein enough, and people in their silly revolt against art have gone straight for the "veracities of nature," copying her features, dead or alive, outright, without discrimination as to their fitness for imitation, or their suitableness to the position assigned to them. to what extent, we ask, may the forms of nature be copied or recast? what are the limits to which man may carry ideal portraiture of nature for the purposes of art? questions like these would, of course, only occur to a curious, debating age like ours; but put this way or that they keep alive the eternal problems of man's standing to the world of nature, the laws of idealism and realism, the nice distinctions of "more and less." now, it is not everything in nature that can, or that may be, artificially expressed in a garden; nor are the things that it is permissible to use, of equal application everywhere. it were a palpable mistake, an artistic crime, so to speak, to follow the wild flights of salvator rosa and gaspar poussin, and with them to attempt a little amateur creation in the way of rent rocks, tumbled hillsides, and ruins that suggest a recent geological catastrophe, or antique monsters, or that imply by the scenery that we are living in the days of wattled abodes and savages with flint hatchets. much, of course, may be done in this line in these days as in the past, if only one have sufficient audacity and a volcanic mind; yet, when it is done, both the value and the rightness of the art of the thing is questionable. "canst thou catch leviathan with a hook?" the primæval throes, the grand stupendous imagery of nature should be held in more reverence. it were almost as fit to harness a polar bear to the gardener's mowing-machine as seek to appropriate the eerie phenomena of nature in her untamed moods for the ornamental purposes of a garden. and as to the result of such work, the ass draped in the lion's skin, roaring horribly, with peaked snout and awkward shanks visible all the while, is not more ridiculous than the thinly-veiled savagery of an italian garden of the seventeenth century. here, then, i think we have some guidance as to the principles which should regulate the choice of the "properties" that are fit for the scenic show of a garden. we should follow the dictates of good taste and of common sense. of things applied direct from nature the line should be drawn at the gigantesque, the elemental, the sad, the gruesome, the crude. true, that in art of another kind--in architecture or in music--the artistic equivalents of these qualities may find place, but as garden effects they are eminently unsuitable, except, indeed, where it is desired to perpetrate a grim joke. beyond these limitations, however, all is open ground for the imaginative handling of the true gardener; and what a noble residue remains! nature in her health and wealth--green, opulent, lusty nature is at his feet. of things gay, debonair, subtle, and refined--things that stir poetic feelings or that give joy--he may take to himself and conjure with to the top of his bent. it is for him as for the poet in sir philip's sidney's words--"so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of his own wit. nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too-much loved earth more lovely: her world is brazen, _the poets only deliver a golden_." animated with corresponding desire, the gardener resorts to lovely places in this "too-much loved earth," there to find his stock-in-trade and learn his craft. we watch him as he hies to the bravery of the spring-flowers in sunny forest-glades; to meadow-flats where lie the golden host of daffodils, the lady-smocks, and snake-spotted fritillaries; we see him bend his way to the field of bluebells, the hill of primroses that with "their infinitie make a terrestrial gallaxie as the smal starres do the skie;" we follow him to the tangled thicket with its meandering walks carpeted with anemones and hung over with sweet-scented climbers; to the sombre boskage of the wood, where the shadows leap from their ambush in unexpected places and the brown bird's song floats upon the wings of silence: to the green dell with its sequestered pool edged round with alders, and willow-herb, and king-fern, and mountain-ash afire with golden fruit: to the corn-field "a-flutter with poppies": to the broad-terraced downs--its short, springy turf dotted over with white sheets of thorn-blossom: to the leaping, shining mountain-tarn that comes foaming out of the wood: to the pine-grove with its columned blackness and dense thatch of boughs that lisp the message of the wind, and "teach light to counterfeit a gloom"; to the widespread landscape with its undulating forest, its clumps of foliage, its gleams of white-beam, silver-birch, or golden yew, amid the dark blue of firs and hollies; its emerald meadows, yellow gorse-covers and purple heather; the many tones of leafage in the spring and fall of the year. and here i give but a few random sketches of nature, taken almost at random from the portfolio of her painted delights--a dozen or more vignettes, shall we say?--ready-made for garden-distribution in bed, bank, wilderness, and park; things which the old gardener freely employed; features and images which he transferred to his dressed grounds, not copying them minutely but in an ideal manner; mixing his fancy with their fact, his compulsion with their consent; flavouring the simple with a dash of the strange and marvellous, combining dreams and actualities, things seen, with things born "within the zodiac of his own wit"; frankly throwing into the compacted glamour of the place all that will give _éclat_ to nature and teach men to apprehend new joy. so, then, after separating the brazen from the golden in nature--after excluding "properties" of the woodland world which are demonstrably unfit for the scenic show of a garden, how ample the scope for artistic creation in the things that remain! and, given an acre or two of land that has some natural capabilities, some charm of environment--given a generous client, a bevy of workmen, horses and carts, and, prime necessity of all, a pleasant homestead in the foreground to prompt its own adornment and be the centre of your efforts, and, upon the basis of these old tracks of nature and old themes of art, what may not one hope to achieve of pretty garden-effects that shall please the eye, flatter the taste, and captivate the imagination of such as love beauty! chapter iii. historical and comparative sketch of the english garden. "the earth is the garden of nature, and each fruitful country a paradise."--sir thomas browne. in the last chapter i observed that in dealing with our second point--the ornamental treatment that is fit for a garden--we should be brought into contact with the good and bad points of both the old and new systems of gardening. hence the following discursus upon the historic english garden, which will, however, be as short as it can well be made, not only because the writer has no desire to wander on a far errand when his interest lies near home, but also because an essay, such as this, is ever bound to be an inconclusive affair; and 'twere a pity to lay a heavy burden upon a light horse! at the outset of this section of our enquiry it is well to realise that there is little known about the garden of earlier date than the middle of the sixteenth century. our knowledge of the mediæval garden is only to be acquired piecemeal, out of casual references in old chronicles, and stray pictures in illuminated manuscripts, and in each case allowance must be made for the fluent fancy of the artist. moreover, early notices of gardens deal mostly with the orchard, or the vegetable or herb garden, where flowers grown for ornament occur in the borders of the ground. it is natural to ascribe the first rudiments of horticultural science in this country to the romans; and with the classic pastorals, or pliny the younger's letter to apollinaris before us, in which an elaborate garden is minutely and enthusiastically described, we need no further assurance of the fitness of the roman to impart skilled knowledge in all branches of the science. loudon, in his noble "arboretum et fruticetum britannicum," enters at large into the question of what trees and shrubs are indigenous to britain, and gives the probable dates of the introduction of such as are not native to this country. according to whitaker, whose authority loudon adopts, it would appear that the romans brought us the plane, the box, the elm, the poplar, and the chestnut. (the lime, he adds, was not generally planted here till after the time of le nôtre: it was used extensively in avenues planted here in the reign of charles the second.) of fruit trees, the roman gave us the pear, the fig, the damson, cherry, peach, apricot, and quince. the aboriginal trees known to our first ancestors are the birch, alder, oak, wild or scotch pine, mountain-ash or rowan-tree, the juniper, elder, sweet-gale, dog-rose, heath, st john's wort, and the mistletoe. authorities agree in ascribing the introduction of many other plants, fruit trees, and trees of ornament or curiosity now common throughout england, to the monks. and the extent of our indebtedness to the monks in this matter may be gathered from the fact that monasteries abounded here in early times; and the religious orders have in all times been enthusiastic gardeners. further be it remembered, many of the inmates of our monasteries were either foreigners or persons who had been educated in italy or france, who would be well able to keep this country supplied with specimens and with reminiscences of the styles of foreign gardens up to date. the most valuable authority on the subject of early english gardens is alexander necham, abbot of cirencester ( - ). his references are in the shape of notes from a commonplace-book entitled "of the nature of things," and he writes thus: "here the gardens should be adorned with roses and lilies, the turnsole (heliotrope), violets and mandrake; there you should have parsley, cost, fennel, southern-wood, coriander, sage, savery, hyssop, mint, rue, dittany, smallage, pellitory, lettuces, garden-cress, and peonies.... a noble garden will give thee also medlars, quinces, warden-trees, peaches, pears of st riole, pomegranates, lemons, oranges, almonds, dates, which are the fruits of palms, figs, &c."[ ] here, in truth, is a delightful medley of the useful and the beautiful, just like life! yet the very use of the term "noble," as applied to a garden, implies that even the thirteenth-century englishman had a standard of excellence to stir ambition. other garden flowers mentioned in alexander's observations are the sunflower, the iris and narcissus. [footnote : see "the praise of gardens."] the garden described by necham bespeaks an amount of taste in the arrangement of the herbs, plants, and fruit-trees, but in the main it corresponds with our kitchen-garden. the next english writer upon gardens in point of date is johannes de garlandia, an english resident in france; but here is a description of the writer's garden at paris. the ground here described consists of shrubbery, wood, grove, and garden, and from the account given it is inferred that both in matters of taste and in the horticultural and floral products of the garden, france had advanced farther than england in garden-craft in the fourteenth century, which is the date of the book. in mr hudson turner's "observations on the state of horticulture in england"[ ] in olden times he gives notices of the early dates in which the rose was under cultivation. in the thirteenth century king john sends a wreath of roses to his lady-love. chronicles inform us that roses and lilies were among the plants bought for the royal garden at westminster in ; and the annual rendering of a rose is one of the commonest species of quit-rent in ancient conveyances, like the "pepper-corn" of later times. the extent to which the culture of the rose was carried is inferred from the number of sorts mentioned in old books, which include the red, the sweet-musk, double and single, the damask, the velvet, the double-double provence rose, and the double and single white rose. and the demand for roses seems to have been so great in old days that bushels of them frequently served as the payment of vassals to their lords, both in france and england. england has good reason to remember the distinction between the red and the white rose. [footnote : "archæological journal," vol. v. p. .] of all the flowers known to our ancestors, the gilly-flower was perhaps the most common. "the fairest flowers o' the season are our carnations and streak'd gilly flower." _winter's tale._ "their use," says a quaint writer, "is much in ornament, and comforting the spirites by the sence of smelling." the variety of this flower, that was best known in early times, was the wall gilly-flower, or bee-flower. another flower of common growth in mediæval gardens and orchards is the periwinkle. "there sprang the violet all newe, and fresh periwinkle, rich of hewe, and flowers yellow, white and rede, such plenty grew there nor in the mede." it is not considered probable that much art was expended in the laying out of gardens before the fifteenth century; but i give a list of illuminated mss. in the library of the british museum, where may be found illustrations of gardens, and which i take from messrs birch and jenner's valuable dictionary of principal subjects in the british museum[ ] under the head of garden. [footnote : "early drawings and illuminations." birch and jenner. (bagster, , p. .) "gardens. d. i. ff. i. etc. a. xvii. f. b. b. ii. f. . f. . f. . f. . b. f. i. harl. . f. . b. kings . f. . e. ix. f. . b. e. vi. f. . e. iii. f. . e. vi. f. . g. v. f. . f. i. f. _b_. a. vi. f. . . c. vii. f. i. c. v. ff. . _etc._ eg. . f. . _b_. harl. . f. _b_. . a. vi. f. ."] there is also a typical example of a fourteenth-century garden in the romaunt d'alexandre (bodleian library). here the flower garden or lawn is separated by a wooden paling from the orchard, where a man is busy pruning. an old painting at hampton court, of the early part of the sixteenth century, gives pretty much the same class of treatment, but here the paling is decorated with a chevron of white and red colour. to judge from old drawings, our forefathers seem to have been always partial to the greensward and trees, which is the landscape garden in the "egg"! a good extent of grass is always provided. formal flower-beds do not often occur, and, where shown, they are sometimes surrounded by a low wattled fence--a protection against rabbits, probably. seats and banks of chamomile are not unusual. a bank of earth seems to have been thrown up against the enclosing wall; the front of the bank is then faced with a low partition of brick or stone, and the mould, brought to an even surface, is planted in various ways. numerous illustrations of the fifteenth century give a bowling-green and butts for archery. about this date it is assumed the style of english gardening was affected by french and flemish methods, which our connection with burgundy at that time would bring about. to this period is also ascribed the introduction of the "mount" in england, although one would almost say that it is but a survival of the celtic "barrow." it is a feature that came, however, into very common use, and is thus recommended by bacon: "i wish also, in the very middle, a fair mount, with three ascents and alleys, enough for four to walk abreast, which i would have to be perfect circles, without any bulwarks or imbossments, and the whole mount to be thirty foot high, and some fine banqueting house with some chimneys neatly cast, and without too much glass." the "mount" is said to have been originally contrived to allow persons in the orchard to look over the enclosing wall, and would serve not only as a place from which to enjoy a pretty view, but as a point of outlook in case of attack. moreover, when situated in a park where the deer grazed, the unscrupulous sportsman might from thence shoot a buck. in early days the mounts were constructed of wood or of stone, and were curiously adorned within and without. later on they resumed the old barrow shape, and were made of earth, and utilized for the culture of fruit trees. lawson, an old writer of the sixteenth century, describes them as placed in divers corners of the orchard, their ascent being made by "stares of precious workmanship." when of wood, the mount was often elaborately painted. an account of works done at hampton court in the time of henry viii., mentions certain expenses incurred for "anticke" works; and referring to bailey's dictionary, published early in the last century, the word "antick," as applied to curiously-shaped trees, still survives, and is explained as "odd figures or shapes of men, birds, beasts, &c., cut out." from the above references, and others of like nature, we know that the topiary art ("opus topiarum"), which dealt in quaintly-shaped trees and shrubs, was in full practice here throughout the latter half of the middle ages. samuel hartlib, in a book published in , writes thus: "about fifty years ago ingenuities first began to flourish in england." lawson, writing in a jocose vein, tells how the lesser wood might be framed by the gardener "to the shape of men armed in the field ready to give battell; or swift-running greyhounds, or of well-scented and true-running hounds to chase the deere or hunt the hare"; adding as a recommendation that "this kinde of hunting shall not waste your corne, nor much your coyne!" i find that john leland in his itinerary, , further confirms the use of highly-decorated mounts: as at wressel castle, yorkshire, he tells of the gardens with the mote, and the orchards as exceeding fair; "and yn the orchardes were mounts writhen about with degrees, like the turnings in cokil shelles, to come to the top without payne." there is still to be seen, or according to murray's guide, , was then to be seen, at wotton, in surrey, an artificial mount cut into terraces, which is a relic of evelyn's work. the general shape of an old-fashioned garden is a perfect square, which we take to be reminiscent of the square patch of ground which, in early days, was partitioned off for the use of the family, and walled to exclude cattle, or to define the property. it also repeats the quadrangular court of big tudor houses. we may also assume that the shape would commend itself to the taste of the renascence school of the elizabethan and jacobean eras, as being that of classic times; for the antique garden was fashioned in a square with enclosures of trellis-work, espaliers, and clipt box hedges, regularly ornamented with vases, fountains, and statuary. the square shape was common to the french and italian gardens also. old views of du cerceau, an architect of the time of charles ix. and henry iii., show a square in one part of the grounds and a circular labyrinth in another: scarcely a plot but has this arrangement. the point to note, however, is, that while the english garden might take the same general outline as the foreign, it had its own peculiarities; and although each country develops the fantastic ornament common to the stiff garden of the period in its own way, things are not carried to the same pitch of extravagant fancy in england as in france, holland, or italy. upon a general review of the subject of ornamental gardens, english and foreign, we arrive at the conclusion that the type of garden produced by any country is a question of soil and physical features, and a question of race. the character of the scenery of a country, the section of the land generally, no less than the taste of the people who dwell in it, prescribes the style of the type of garden. the hand of nature directs the hand of art. thus, in a hilly country like italy, nature herself prompts the division of the garden-spaces into wide terraces, while art, on her side, provides that the terraces shall be well-proportioned as to width and height, and suitably defined by masonry walls having balustraded fronts, flights of steps, arcades, temples, vases, statues, &c. lady mary montagu's description of the _giardino jiusti_ is a case in point: she depicts, as far as words can, how admirably it complies with the conditions of the scenery. the palace lies at the foot of a mountain "near three miles high, covered with a wood of orange, lemon, citron, and pomegranate trees, which is all cut up into walks, and divided into terraces that you may go into a separate garden from every floor of the house, diversified with fountains, cascades, and statues, and joined by easy marble staircases, which lead from one to another." it is a hundred years since this description was written, but the place is little altered to this day: "who will now take the pains to climb its steep paths, will find the same charm in the aged cypresses, the oddly clipped ilexes and boxes, the stiff terraces and narrow, and now overgrown, beds."[ ] [footnote : "the garden."--walther howe.] in france, where estates are larger, and the surface of the country more even and regular, the ornamental grounds, while following the italian in certain particulars, are of wider range on the flat, and they attain picturesqueness upon lines of their own. the taste of the people, conveniently answering to the conditions of the country, runs upon long avenues and spacious grounds, divided by massive trellises into a series of ornamental sections--_bocages_, _cabinets de verdure_, &c., which by their form and name, flatter the arcadian sentiment of a race much given to idealisation. "i am making winding alleys all round my park, which will be of great beauty," writes madame de sévigné, in . "as to my labyrinth, it is neat, it has green plots, and the palisades are breast-high; it is a lovable spot." the french have parks, says the travelled heutzner, but nothing is more different, both in compass and direction, than those common to england. in france they invented the parks as fit surroundings to the fine palaces built by mansard and le nôtre, and the owners of these stately chateaux gratified their taste for nature in an afternoon promenade on a broad stone terrace, gazing over a carved balustrade at a world made truly artificial to suit the period. the style of le nôtre is, in fact, based upon the theory that nature shall contribute a bare space upon which man shall lay out a garden of symmetrical character, and trees, shrubs, and flowers are regarded as so much raw material, out of which art shall carve her effects. indeed, the desire for symmetry is carried to such extravagant lengths that the largest parks become only a series of square or oblong enclosures, regularly planted walks, bounded by chestnuts or limes; while the gardens are equally cut up into lines of trellises and palisades. in describing the paris gardens horace walpole says, "they form light corridors and transpicuous arbours, through which the sunbeams play and checker the shade, set off the statues, vases, and flowers, that marry with their gaudy hotels, and suit the gallant and idle society who paint the walks between their parterres, and realise the fantastic scenes of watteau and durfé!" in another place he says that "many french groves seem green chests set upon poles. in the garden of marshall de biron, at paris, consisting of fourteen acres, every walk is button-holed on each side by lines of flower-pots, which succeed in their seasons. when i saw it there were nine thousand pots of asters or la reine marguerite." in holland, which butler sarcastically describes as "a land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd, in which they do not live, but go aboard"-- the conditions are not favourable to gardening. man is here indebted to nature, in the first place, for next to nothing: air, earth, and water are, as it were, under his control. the trees grow, the rivers run, as they are directed; and the very air is made to pay toll by means of the windmills. to begin with, holland has a meagre list of indigenous trees and shrubs, and scarcely an indigenous ligneous flora. there is little wood in the country, for the heavy winds are calculated to destroy high-growing trees, and the roots cannot penetrate into the ground to any depth, without coming to water. the land is flat, and although artificial mountains of granite brought from norway and sweden have been erected as barriers against the sea, there is scarcely a stone to be found except in the island of urk. the conditions of the country being so unfavourable to artistic handling, it needs a determined effort on man's part to lift things above the dead-level of the mean and commonplace. yet see how nature's defects may only prove art's opportunity! indeed, it is singular to note how, as it were, in a spirit of noble contrariness, the dutch garden exhibits the opposite grace of each natural defect of the land. the great plains intersected with sullen watercourses yield up only slight strips of land, _therefore_ these niggardly strips, snatched from "an amphibious world" (as goldsmith terms it), shall be crammed with beauty. the landscape outside gapes with uniform dulness, _therefore_ the garden within shall be spick and span. the flat treeless expanse outside offers no objects for measuring distance, _therefore_ the perspective of the garden shall be a marvel of adroit planning and conjured proportions. the room is small, _therefore_ its every inch shall seem an ell. the garden is a mere patch, _therefore_ the patch shall be elaborately darned and pattern-stitched all over. the eye may not travel far, or can get no joy in a distant view, _therefore_ it shall rest in pure content, focussed upon a scene where rich and orderly garniture can no farther go. thus have the ill-conditions of the land proved blessings in disguise. necessity, the mother of invention, has produced the dutch garden out of the most untoward geography, and if we find in its qualities and features traces of the conditions which surrounded its birth and development it is no wonder. who shall blame the prim shapes and economical culture where even gross deception shall pass for a virtue if it be successful! or the regular strips of ground, the long straight canals, the adroit vistas of grassy terraces long-drawn out, the trees ranged in pots, or planted in the ground at set intervals and carefully shorn to preserve the limit of their shade! nay, one can be merciful to the garden's usual crowning touch, which you get at its far end--a painted landscape of hills and dales and clumps of trees to beguile the enamoured visitor into the fond belief that holland is not holland: and, in the foreground the usual smiling wooden boy, shooting arrows at nothing, happy in the deed, and tin hares squatting in likely nooks, whose shy hare eyes have worn the same startled gaze these sixty years or more, renewed with fresh paint from time to time as rust requires. yet the earth is richer and mankind happier for the dutch garden! and, as though out of compassion for the dutchman's difficulties, kind nature has put into his hands the bulb, as a means whereby he may attain the maximum of gaudy colour within the minimum of space. given a few square yards of rescued earth and sufficient manure, and what cannot the neat-handed, frugal-minded, microscopic-eyed dutchman do in the way of concentrated design with his bulbs, his clipt shrubs, his trim beds, his trickles of water, and strips of grass and gravel! and should all other resources fail he has still his pounded brick-dust, his yellow sand, his chips of ores and spars and green glass, which, though they may serve only remotely to suggest nature, will at all events carry your mind off to the gay gardens of precious stones of fairyland literature! indeed, once embarked upon his style of piquancy-at-any-price, and it is hard to see where the dutch gardener need stop! in this sophisticated trifling--this lapidary's mosaic--this pastry-cook's decoration--this child's puzzle of coloured earth, substituted for coloured living flowers--he pushes art farther than the plain englishman approves. it is, however, only one step farther than ordinary with him. all his dealings with nature are of this abstract sort: his details are clever, and he is ingenious, if not imaginative, in his wholes. still, i repeat, the earth is richer, and mankind happier for the dutch garden. there is an obvious excuse for its over-fancifulness in george meredith's remark that "dulness is always an irresistible temptation for brilliance." that the dutchman should be thus able to compete with unfriendly nature, and to reverse the brazen of the unkind land of his birth, is an achievement that reflects most creditably upon the artistic capacities of his nation. but england-- "this other eden, demi-paradise"-- suggests a garden of a less-constrained order than either of these. not that the english garden is uniformly of the same type, at the same periods. the variety of the type is to be accounted for in two ways: firstly, by the ingrained eclecticism of the british mind; secondly, by the changeful character of the country--this district is flat and open, this is hilly--so that mere conformity to the lie of the land would produce gardens which belong now to the french type, now to the italian. it is the same with british art of all kinds, of all times: in days long before the norman visitation and ever since, the english designer has leant more or less upon foreign initiative, which goes to prove either how inert is his own gift of origination, or how devious may be the tastes of a mixed race. but if the english garden cannot boast of singular points of interest, if its art reflects foreign countries, it bears the mark of the english taste for landscape, which gives it distinction and is suggestive of very charming effects. the transcendent characteristic of the english garden is derived from and gets its impulse from the prevailing influence of nature at home. it has the characteristics of the country. it is, i know, commonly held now-a-days that the taste for landscape is wholly of modern growth. so far as england is concerned it came in, they say, with thomson in poetry, and with brown in gardens. so far as relates to the _conscious_ relish for nature, so far as relates to the love of nature as a mirror of the moods of the mind, or as a refuge from man, this assertion may be true enough. yet, surely the _conscious_ delight in landscape must have been preceded by an _unconscious_ sympathy this way: it could not have sprung without generation. artistic sight is based upon instinct, feeling, perceptions that reach one knows not how far back in time, it does not come by magic. see also what a rude, slatternly affair this much-lauded landscape-garden of the "immortal brown" was! here are two sorts of gardens--the traditional garden according to bacon, the garden according to brown. both are nature, but the first is nature in an ideal dress, the second is nature with no dress at all. the first is a garden for a civilised man, the second is a garden for a gipsy. the first is a picture painted from a cherished model, the second is a photograph of the same model undressed. brown's work, in fact, represents the garden's return to its original barbaric self--the reinauguration of the elemental. let it not be said, then, that brown discovered the model, for her fairness was an established fact or she would not have been so richly apparelled when he lighted upon her. in other words, the love of the earth--"that green-tressed goddess," coleridge calls her--was no new thing in brown's day: the sympathy for the woodland world, the love of tree, flower, and grass is behind the manipulated stiff garden of the fifteenth and two succeeding centuries, and it is the abiding source of all enthusiasm in garden-craft. how long this taste for landscape had existed in pre-thomsonian days it does not fall to us to determine. suffice it to say that so long as there has been an english school of gardening this sympathy for landscape has found expression in the english garden.[ ] the high thick garden-walls of the old fighting-days shall have ample outlooks in the shape of "mounts," from whence views may be had of the open country. the ornamental value of forest trees is well-known and appreciated. even in the thirteenth century the english gardener is on the alert for new specimens and "trees of curiosity," and he is a master of horticulture. in chaucer's day he revels in the greensward, "ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete." and the early ballads as i have already shown are full of allusion to scenery and woodland. in the days of fine gardens the englishman must still have his four acres "to the green," his adjuncts of shrubbery, wilderness, and park. nay, henry viii.'s garden at nonsuch, had its wilderness of ten acres. "chaucer opens his clerke's tale with a bit of landscape admirable for its large style," says mr lowell, "and as well composed as any claude" ("my study windows," p. ). "what an airy precision of touch is here, and what a sure eye for the points of character in landscape." so, too, can milton rejoice in "nature boon poured forth profuse on hill and dale and plain," and herrick: "sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, of april, may, of june, and july flowers." [footnote : "english scenery of that special type which we call homely, and of which we are proud as only to be found in england, is, indeed, the production of many centuries of that conservatism which has spared the picturesque timber, and of that affectionate regard for the future which has made men delight to spend their money in imprinting on the face of nature their own taste in trees and shrubs." ("vert and venery," by viscount lymington; _nineteenth century_, january, .)] nor is this taste for landscape surprising in a country where the natural scenery is so fair and full of meaning. there are the solemn woods, the noble trees of forest and park: the "fresh green lap" of the land, so vividly green that the american hawthorne declares he found "a kind of lustre in it." there is the rich vegetation, and "in france, and still less in italy," walpole reminds us, "they could with difficulty attain that verdure which the humidity of our climate bestows." there are the leafy forest ways gemmed with flowers; the vast hunting-grounds of old kings, the woodland net of hazel coppice, the hills and dales, sunned or shaded, the plains mapped out with hedgerows and enlivened with the glitter of running water: the heather-clad moors, the golden gorse covers, the rolling downs dotted over with thorns and yews and chalk cliffs, the upland hamlets with their rosy orchards, the farm homesteads nestling in green combes, the grace of standing corn, the girdle of sea with its yellow shore or white, red, or grey rocks, its wolds and tracts of rough uncultivated ground, with bluffs and bushes and wind-harassed trees--nature's own "antickes"--driven like green flames, and carved into grotesque shapes by the biting gales. there are the "russet lawns, and fallows grey where the nibbling flocks do stray, mountains on whose barren breast the labouring clouds do often rest, meadows prim with daisies pied, shallow brooks and rivers wide"-- the land that richard jefferies says "wants no gardening, it _cannot_ be gardened; the least interference kills it"--english woodland whose beauty is in its detail. there is nothing empty and unclothed here. says jefferies, "if the clods are left a little while undisturbed in the fields, weeds spring up and wild flowers bloom upon them. is the hedge cut and trimmed, lo! the bluebells flower the more, and a yet fresher green buds forth upon the twigs." "never was there a garden like the meadow," cries this laureate of the open fields; "there is not an inch of the meadow in early summer without a flower." and if the various parts and details of an english landscape are so beautiful in themselves, what shall we say of the scenery when nature, turned artist, sweeps across it the translucent tints of dawn or sunset, or wind and cloud-fantasy; or veil of purple mist, or grey or red haze, or drift of rain-shower thrown athwart the hills, for the sunbeams to try their edge upon; or any of the numberless atmospheric changes, pure and tender, stern and imperious, that our humid climate has ever ready to hand! shut in, as we in england are, with our short breadths of view ("on a scale to embrace," remarks george meredith), folded, as it were, in a field-sanctuary of nature-life--girt about with scenery that is at once fair, compact, sweetly familiar and companionable, yet so changefully coloured, so full of surprises as the day jogs along to its evensong as to hold observation on the stretch, to force attention to nature's last word, to fill the fallow-mind of lonely country folk with gentle wonder, and swell the "harvest of a quiet eye," is it strange that a land like ours should have bred an unrivalled school of nature-readers among gardeners, painters, and poets? "as regards grandeur," says hawthorne, "there are loftier scenes in many countries than the best that england can show; but, for the picturesqueness of the smallest object that lies under its gentle gloom and sunshine, there is no scenery like it anywhere." ("our old home," p. .) the _real_ world of england, then, is, in the englishman's opinion, itself so fair "it wants no gardening." our school of gardeners seem to have found this out; for the task of the gardener has been rather that of translator than of creator; he has not had to labour at an artificial world he himself had made, but only to adorn, to interpret the world as it is, in all its blithe freedom. "the earth is the garden of nature, and each fruitful country a paradise;" and in england, "the world's best garden," man has only had to focus the view and frame it. flowers, odours, dews, glistening waters, soft airs and sounds, noble trees, woodland solitudes, moonlight bowers, have been always with us. it might seem ungenerous to institute a comparison between the french and english styles of gardening, and to put things in a light unfavourable to the foreigner, had not the task been already done for us by a frenchman in a most outspoken manner. speaking of the french gardens, diderot, in his encyclopædia (_jardin_) says: "we bring to bear upon the most beautiful situations a ridiculous and paltry taste. the long straight alleys appear to us insipid; the palisades cold and formless. we delight in devising twisted alleys, scroll-work parterres, and shrubs formed into tufts; the largest lots are divided into little lots. it is not so with a neighbouring nation, amongst whom gardens in good taste are as common as magnificent palaces are rare. in england, these kinds of walks, practicable in all weathers, seem made to be the sanctuary of a sweet and placid pleasure; the body is there relaxed, the mind diverted, the eyes are enchanted by the verdure of the turf and the bowling-greens; the variety of flowers offers pleasant flattery to the smell and sight, nature alone, modestly arrayed, and never made up, there spreads out her ornaments and benefits. how the fountains beget the shrubs and beautify them! how the shadows of the woods put the streams to sleep in beds of herbage." this is poetry! but it is well that one french writer (and he so distinguished) should be found to depict an english garden, when architects like jussieu and antoine richard signally failed to reproduce the thing, to order, upon french soil! and the _petit trianon_ was in itself an improvement upon, or rather a protest against, the sumptuous splendour of the _orangerie_, the basins of latona and of neptune, and the superb _tapis vert_, with its bordering groves of clipt trees and shrubs. yet here is arthur young's unflattering description of the queen's _jardin anglois_ at trianon: "it contains about acres, disposed in the taste of what we read of in books of chinese gardening, whence it is supposed the english style was taken. there is more of sir william chambers here than of mr brown,[ ] more effort than nature, and more expense than taste. it is not easy to conceive anything that art can introduce in a garden that is not here; woods, rocks, lawns, lakes, rivers, islands, cascades, grottoes, walks, temples, and even villages." truly a _jardin anglois_! [footnote : miss edwards (and i quote from her edition of young's "travels in france," p. ) has a note to the effect that the mr brown here referred to is "robert brown, of markle, contributor to the _edinburgh magazine_, - ." yet, surely this is none other than mr "capability" brown, discoverer of english scenery, reputed father of the english garden!] we may well prefer diderot's simile for the english garden as "the sanctuary of a sweet and placid pleasure" to the bustling crowd of miscellaneous elements that took its name in vain in the _petit trianon_! for an english garden is at once stately and homely--homely before all things. like all works of art it is conventionally treated, and its design conscious and deliberate. but the convention is broad, dignified, quiet, homogeneous, suiting alike the characteristics of the country and of the people for whom it is made. compared with this, the foreign garden must be allowed to be richer in provocation; there is distinctly more fancy in its conceits, and its style is more absolute and circumspect than the english. and yet, just as browning says of imperfection, that it may sometimes mean "perfection hid," so, here our deficiencies may not mean defects. in order that we may compare the english and foreign garden we must place them on common ground; and i will liken each to a pastoral romance. nature is idealised, treated fancifully in each, yet how different the quality of the contents, the method of presentment, the style, the technique of this and that, even when the design is contemporaneous! a garden is, i say, a sort of pastoral romance, woven upon a background of natural scenery. in the exercise of his pictorial genius, both the foreign and english artist shall run upon natural things, and transcribe nature imaginatively yet realisably; each composition shall have a pastoral air, and be rustic after its fashion. but how different the platform, how different the mental complexion, the technique of the artists! how different the detail and the atmosphere of the garden. the rusticity of the foreign garden is dished up in a more delectable form than is the case in the english, but there is not the same open-air feeling about this as about that; it does not convey the same sense of unexhausted possibilities--not the same tokens of living enjoyment of nature, of heart-to-heart fellowship with her. the foreign garden is over-wrought, too full: it is a passionless thing--like the gaudy birds of india, finely plumed but songless; like the prize rose, without sweetness. of the garden of italy, who shall dare to speak critically. child of tradition: heir by unbroken descent, inheritor of the garden-craft of the whole civilised world. it stands on a pinnacle high above the others, peerless and alone: fit for the loveliest of lands-- ... "woman-country, wooed not wed, loved all the more by earth's male-lands, laid to their hearts instead"-- and it may yet be seen upon its splendid scale, splendidly adorned, with straight terraces, marble statues, clipped ilex and box, walks bordered with azalea and camellia, surrounded with groves of pines and cypresses--so frankly artistic, yet so subtly blending itself into the natural surroundings--into the distant plain, the fringe of purple hills, the gorgeous panorama of the alps with its background of glowing sky. with such a radiant country to conjure with, we may truly say "the richly provided, richly require." if we may speak our mind of the french and dutch gardens, they in no wise satisfy english taste as regards their relation to nature. diderot has said that it is the peculiarity of the french to judge everything with the mind. it is from this standpoint that the frenchman treats nature in a garden. he is ever seeking to unite the accessory portions with the _ensemble_. he overdoes design. he gives you the impression that he is far more in love with his own ideas about nature than with nature herself; that he uses her resources not to interpret them or perfect them along their own lines, but express his own interesting ideas. he must provide stimulus for his imagination; his nature demands food for reverie, point for ecstasy, for delicious self-abandonment, for bedazzlement with ideal beauty, and the garden shall supply him with these whatever the cost to the materials employed. hence a certain unscrupulousness towards nature in the french garden; hence the daring picturesqueness, its legerdemain. nature edited thus, is to the englishman but nature in effigy, nature used as a peg for fantastical attire, nature with a false lustre that tells of lead alloy--nature that has forgotten what she is like. in an english garden, as diderot notes, nature is handled with more reverence, her rights are more respected. i am willing to allow that something of the reserve traceable in english art is begotten of the phlegmatic temper of the race that rarely gets beyond a quiescent fervour; and this temper, exhibited in a garden would incline us always to let well alone and not press things too hard. if the qualities of an english garden that i speak of are to be attributed to this temper, then, to judge by results, _laissez faire_ is not a bad motto for the gardener! certain it is that the dominance of man is more hinted at here than proclaimed. compared with foreign examples we sooner read through its quaintnesses and braveries their sweet originals in nature: nay, even when we have idealised things to our hearts' full bent, they shall yet retain the very note and rhythm of the woodland world from whence they sprang--"english in all, of genius blithely free."[ ] [footnote : lowell's "ode to fielding."] and this is true even in that extreme case, the jacobean garden, where we have much the same quips and cranks, the same quaint power of metrical changes and playful fancy of the poetry of herbert, vaughan, herrick, and donne; even the little clean-cut pedantries of this artfullest of all phases of english garden-craft make for a kind of bland stateliness and high-flown serenity, that bases its appeal upon placid beauty rather than upon mere ingenuity or specious extravagance. the conventionalities of its borders, its terraces and steps and images in lead or marble, its ornamental water, its trim geometrical patterns, its quincunx, clipped hedges, high hedges, and architectural adornments shall be balanced by great sweeps of lawn and noble trees that are not constrained to take hands, as in france, across the road and to look proper, but are left to grow large and thick and wide and free. true that there is about the jacobean garden an air of scholarliness and courtliness; a flavour of dreamland, arcadia, and italy--a touch of the archaic and classical--yet the thing is saved from utter affectation by our english out-of-door life which has bred in us an innate love of the unconstrained, a sympathy that keeps its hold on reality, and these give an undefinable quality of freshness to the composition as a whole.[ ] [footnote : "mr _evelyn_ has a pleasant villa at _deptford_," writes gibson, "a fine garden for walks and hedges (especially his holly one which he writes of in his 'sylva') ... in his garden he has four large round philareas, smooth-clipped, raised on a single stalk from the ground, a fashion now much used. _part of his garden is very woody and shady for walking_; but his garden not being walled, has little of the best fruits."] to sum up. the main difference in the character of the english and the foreign schools of gardening lies in this, that the design of the foreign leans ever in the direction of artificiality, that of england towards natural freedom. and a true garden should have an equal regard for nature and art; it should represent a marriage of contraries, should combine finesse and audacity, subtilty and simplicity, the regular and the unexpected, the ideal and the real "bound fast in one with golden ease." in a french or dutch garden the "yes" and "no" of art and nature are always unequally yoked. nature is treated with sparse courtesy by art, its individuality is ignored, it sweats like a drudge under its load of false sentiment. "sike fancies weren foolerie." but in england, though we hold nature in duress, we leave her unbound; if we mew her up for cultivation, we leave her inviolate, with a chance of vagrant liberty and a way of escape. thus, you will note how the english garden stops, as it were, without ending. around or near the house will be the ordered garden with terraces and architectural accessories, all trim and fit and nice. then comes the smooth-shaven lawn, studded and belted round with fine trees, arranged as it seems with a divine carelessness; and beyond the lawn, the ferny heather-turf of the park, where the dappled deer browse and the rabbits run wild, and the sun-chequered glades go out to meet, and lose themselves "by green degrees" in the approaching woodland,--past the river glen, the steep fields of grass and corn, the cottages and stackyards and grey church tower of the village; past the ridge of fir-land and the dark sweep of heath-country into the dim waving lines of blue distance. so that however self-contained, however self-centred the stiff old garden may seem to be, it never loses touch with the picturesque commonplaces of our land; never loses sympathy with the green world at large, but, in a sense, embraces and locks in its arms the whole country-side as far as eye can see. chapter iv. historical sketch--continued. the stiff garden. "all is fine that is fit." the english garden, as i have just tried to sketch it, was not born yesterday, the bombastic child of a landscape-gardener's recipe. it epitomises a nation's instincts in garden-craft; it is the slow result of old affection for, old wonder at, beauty in forms, colours, tones; old enthusiasm for green turf, wild flower, and forest tree. take it at its best, it records the matured taste of a people of nature-readers, nature-lovers: it is that which experience has proved to be in most accord with the character and climate of the country, and the genius of the race. landscape has been from the first the central tradition of english art. life spent amidst pictorial scenery like ours that is striking in itself and rendered more impressive and animated by the rapid atmospheric changes, the shifting lights and shadows, the life and movement in the sky, and the vivid intense colouring of our moist climate, has given our tastes a decided bent this way, and fashioned our arts of poetry, painting, and gardening. out-of-door life among such scenery puts our senses on the alert, and the impressions of natural phenomena supply our device with all its images. the english people had not to wait till the eighteenth century to know to what they were inclined, or what would suit their country's adornment. from first to last, we have said, the english garden deals much with trees and shrubs and grass. the thought of them, and the artistic opportunities they offer, is present in the minds of accomplished garden-masters, travelled men, initiated spirits, like sir thomas more, bacon, shaftesbury, temple, and evelyn, whose aim is to give garden-craft all the method and distinctness of which it is capable. however saturated with aristocratic ideas the courtier-gardener may be, however learned in the circumspect style of the italian, he retains his native relish for the woodland world, and babbles of green fields. a sixteenth-century english gardener (gerarde) adjured his countrymen to "go forwarde in the name of god, graffe, set, plant, and nourishe up trees in every corner of your grounde." a seventeenth-century gardener (evelyn) had ornamental landscape and shady woods in his garden as well as pretty beds of choice flowers. "there are, besides the temper of our climate," writes another seventeenth-century garden-worthy (temple), "two things particular to us, that contribute to the beauty and elegance of our gardens, which are the gravel of our walks and the fineness and almost perpetual greenness of our turf; the first is not known anywhere else, which leaves all their dry walks in other countries very unpleasant and uneasy; the other cannot be found in france or in holland as we have it, the soil not admitting that fineness of blade in holland, nor the sun that greenness in france during most of the summer." and following upon this is a long essay upon the ornamental disposition of the grounds in an english garden and the culture of fruit trees. "i will not enter upon any account of flowers," he says, "having only pleased myself with the care, which is more the ladies' part than the men's,[ ] but the success is wholly in the gardener." [footnote : this remark of temple's as to the small importance the flower-beds had in the mind of the gardener of his day, is significant: as indicating the different methods employed by the ancient and modern gardener. it was not that he was not "pleased with the care" of flowers, but that these were not his chiefest care; his prime idea was to get broad, massive, well-defined effects in his garden generally. hence the monumental style of the old-fashioned garden, the carefully-disposed ground, the formality, the well-considered poise and counter-poise, the varying levels and well-defined parts. and only inwoven, as it were, into the argument of the piece, are its pretty parts, used much as the jewellery of a fair woman. i should be sorry to be so unjust to the modern landscape gardener as to accuse him of caring over-much for flowers, but of his garden-device generally one may fairly say it has no monumental style, no ordered shape other than its carefully-schemed _disorder_. it is not a masculine affair, but effeminate and niggling; a little park-scenery, curved shrubberies, wriggling paths, emphasised specimen plants, and flower-beds of more or less inane shape tumbled down on the skirts of the lawn or drive, that do more harm than good to the effect of the place, seen near or at a distance. how true it is that to believe in art one must be an artist!] and bacon is not so wholly enamoured of arcadia and with the embodiment of far-brought fancies in his "prince-like" garden as to be callous of nature's share therein. "the contents ought not well to be under thirty acres of ground, and to be divided into three parts; a green in the entrance, a heath or desert in the going forth, and the main garden in the midst, besides alleys on both sides; and i like well that four acres be assigned to the green, six to the heath, four and four to either side, and twelve to the main garden. the green hath two pleasures: the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn; the other, because it will give you a fair alley in the midst, by which you may go in front upon a stately hedge, which is to enclose the garden." "for the heath, which was the third part of our plot, i wished it be framed as much as may be to a natural wildness," &c. of which more anon.[ ] [footnote : nonsuch had its wilderness of ten acres.] whether the garden of bacon's essay is the portrait of an actual thing, whether the writer--to use a phrase of wordsworth--"had his eye upon the subject," or whether it was built in the man's brain like tennyson's "palace of art," we cannot tell. from the singular air of experience that animates the description, the sure touch of the writer, we may infer that gorhambury had some such garden, the fruit of its master's "leisure with honour," or "leisure without honour," as the case may be. but what seems certain is, that the essay is only a sign of the ordinary english gentleman's mind on the subject at that time; and in giving us this masterpiece, bacon had no more notion of posing as the founder of the english garden (_pace_ brown) than of getting himself labelled as the founder of modern science for his distinguished labours in that line. "i only sound the clarion," he says, "but i enter not into the battle." moderns are pleased to smile at what they deem the over-subtilty of bacon's ideal garden. for my own part, i find nothing recommended there that a "princely garden" should not fitly contain (especially as these things are all of a-piece with the device of the period), even to those imagination-stirring features which one thinks he may have described, not from the life, but from the figures in "the dream of poliphilus" (a book of woodcuts published in venice, ), features of the enchanted island, to wit the two fountains--the first to spout water, to be adorned with ornaments of images, gilt or of marble; the "other, which we may call a bathing-pool that admits of much curiosity and beauty wherewith we will not trouble ourselves; as that the bottom be finely paved with images, the sides likewise; and withal embellished with coloured glass, and such things of lustre; encompassed also with fine rails of low statues."[ ] [footnote : _nineteenth century magazine_, july, .] no artist is disposed to apologise for the presence of subtilty in art, nor i for the subtle device of bacon's garden. all art is cunning. yet we must not simply note the deep intent of the old master, but must equally recognise the air of gravity that pervades his recommendations--the sweet reasonableness of suggestions for design that have as much regard for the veracities of nature, and the dictates of common-sense, as for the nice elegancies and well-calculated audacities of consummate art. "i only sound the clarion, but i enter not into the battle." even so, master! we will hold thy hand as far as thou wilt go; and the clarion thou soundest right well, and most serviceably for all future gardeners! i like the ring of stout challenge in the opening words, which command respect for the subject, and, if rightly construed, should make the heretic "landscape gardener,"--who dotes on meagre country-grass and gipsy scenery--pause in his denunciation of art in a garden. "god almighty first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of humane pleasures. it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man, without which buildings and palaces are but gross handyworks. and a man shall ever see, that when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely: as if gardening were the greater perfection." this first paragraph has, for me, something of the stately tramp and pregnant meaning of the opening phrase of "at a solemn music." the praise of gardening can no further go. to say more were impossible. to say less were to belittle your subject. i think of ben jonson's simile, "they jump farthest who fetch their race largest." for bacon "fetches" his subject back to "in the beginning," and prophesies of all time. thus does he lift his theme to its full height at starting, and the remainder holds to the same heroic measure. if the ideal garden be fanciful, it is also grand and impressive. nor could it well be otherwise. for when the essay was written fine gardening was in the air, and the master had special opportunities for studying and enjoying great gardens. more than this, bacon was an apt craftsman in many fields, a born artist, gifted with an imagination at once rich and curious, whose performances of every sort declare the student's love of form, and the artist's nice discrimination of expression. then, too, his mind was set upon the conquest of nature, of which gardening is a province, for the service of man, for physical enjoyment, and for the increase of social comfort. yet was he an englishman first, and a fine gardener afterwards. admit the author's sense of the delights of art-magic in a garden, none esteemed them more, yet own the discreet economy of his imaginative strokes, the homely bluntness of his criticisms upon foreign vagaries, the english sane-mindedness of his points, his feeling for broad effects and dislike of niggling, the mingled shrewdness and benignity of his way of putting things. it is just because bacon thus treats of idealisms as though they were realisms, because he so skilfully wraps up his fanciful figures in matter-of-fact language that even the ordinary english reader appreciates the art of bacon's stiff garden, and entertains art-aspirations unawares. every reader of bacon will recognise what i wish to point out. here, however, are a few examples:-- "for the ordering of the ground within the great hedge, i leave it to a variety of device. advising, nevertheless, that whatsoever form you cast it into; first it be not too busie, or full of work; wherein i, for my part, do not like images cut out in juniper, or other garden stuffs; _they are for children_. little low hedges, round like welts, with some pretty pyramids, i like well; and in some places fair columns upon frames of carpenters' work. i would also have the alleys spacious and fair." "as for the making of knots or figures, with divers coloured earths, that they may lie under the windows of the house, on that side which the garden stands, _they be but toys, you may see as good sights many times in tarts_." "for fountains, they are a great beauty and refreshment, _but pools mar all, and make the garden unwholesome and full of flies and frogs_." "for fine devices, of arching water without spilling, and making it rise in several forms (of feathers, drinking glasses, canopies, and the like) (see "the dream of poliphilus") _they be pretty things to look on, but nothing to health and sweetness_." thus throughout the essay, with alternate rise and fall, do fancy and judgment deliver themselves of charge and retort, making a kind of logical see-saw. at the onset fancy kicks the beam; at the middle, judgment is in the ascendant, and before the sentence is done the balance rides easy. and this scrupulousness is not to be wholly ascribed to the fastidious bent of a mind that lived in a labyrinth; it speaks equally of the fineness of the man's ideal, which lifts his standard sky-high and keeps him watchful to a fault in attaining desired effects without running upon "trifles and jingles." the master-text of the whole essay seems to be the writer's own apothegm: "nature is commanded by obeying her." that a true gardener should love nature goes without saying. and bacon loved nature passionately, and gardens only too well. he tells us these were his favourite sins in the strange document--half prayer, half apologia--written after he had made his will, at the time of his fall, when he presumably concluded that _anything_ might happen. "thy creatures have been my books, but thy scriptures much more. i have sought thee in the courts, fields, and gardens, but i have found thee in thy temples." three more points about the essay i would like to comment upon. first, that in spite of its lofty dreaming, it treats of the hard and dry side of gardening as a science in so methodical a manner that but for what it contains besides, and for its mint-mark of a great spirit, the thing might pass as an extract from a more-than-ordinary practical gardener's manual. bacon does not write upon the subject like a man in another planet, but like a man in a land of living men. secondly, as to the attitude of bacon and his school towards external nature. in them is no trace of the mawkish sentimentality of the modern "landscape-gardener," proud of his discoveries, bustling to show how condescending he can be towards nature, how susceptible to a pastoral melancholy. there is nothing here of the maundering of shenstone over his ideal landscape-garden that reads as though it would be a superior sort of pedants' cremorne, where "the lover's walk may have assignation seats, with proper mottoes, urns to faithful lovers, trophies, garlands, etc., by means of art"; and where due consideration is to be given to "certain complexions of soul that will prefer an orange tree or a myrtle to an oak or cedar." the older men thought first of the effects that they wished to attain, and proceeded to realise them without more ado. they had no "codes of taste" to appeal to, and no literary law-givers to stand in dread of. they applied nature's raw materials as their art required. and yet, compared with the methods of the heavy-handed realist of later times such unscrupulousness had a merit of its own. to suit their purposes the old gardeners may have defied nature's ways and wont; but, even so, they act as fine gentlemen should: they never pet and patronise her: they have no blunt and blundering methods such as mark the nature-maulers of the brown or batty-langley school: if they cut, they do not mince, nor hack, nor tear, they cut clean. in one's better moments one can almost sympathise with the "landscape-gardener's" feelings as he reads, if he ever does read, evelyn's classic book "sylva; or, a discourse of forest-trees," how they trimmed the hedges of hornbeam, "than which there is nothing more graceful," and the cradle or close-walk with that perplext canopy which lately covered the seat in his majesty's garden at hampton court, and how the tonsile hedges, fifteen or twenty feet high, are to be cut and kept in order "with a scythe of four feet long, and very little falcated; this is fixed on a long sneed or straight handle, and _does wonderfully expedite the trimming of these and the like hedges_." thirdly, bacon's essay tells us all that an english garden _can_ be, or _may_ be. bacon writes not for his age alone but for all time; nay, his essay covers so much ground that the legion of after-writers have only to pick up the crumbs that fall from this rich man's table, and to amplify the two hundred and sixty lines of condensed wisdom that it contains. its category of effects reaches even the free-and-easy planting of the skirts of our dressed grounds, with flowers and shrubs set in the turf "framed as much as may be to a natural wildness"--a pretty trick of compromise which the modern book-writers would have us believe they invented themselves. on one point the modern garden has the advantage and is bound to excel the old, namely in its employment of foreign trees and shrubs. the decorative use of "trees of curiosity," as the foreign trees were then called, and the employment of variegated foliage, was not unknown to the gardener of early days, but it was long before foreign plants were introduced to any great extent. loudon has taken the trouble to reckon up the number of specimens that came to england century by century, and we gather from this that the imports of modern times exceed those of earlier times to an enormous extent. thus, he computes that only new specimens of foreign trees were introduced into england in the seventeenth century as against in the following century. yet, to follow up this interesting point, we may observe that heutzner, writing of english gardens in , specially notes "the great variety of trees and plants at theobalds." furthermore, to judge by worlidge's "systema horticulturæ" ( ) it would seem that the practice of variegating, and of combining the variegated foliage of plants and shrubs, was in existence at that time. "dr uvedale, of enfield, is a great lover of plants," says gibson, writing in , "and is become master of the greatest and choicest collection of exotic greens that is perhaps anywhere in this land.... his flowers are choice, his stock numerous, and his culture of them very methodical and curious; but to speak of the garden in the whole, it does not lie fine to please the eye, his delight and care lying more in the ordering particular plants, than in the pleasing view and form of his garden." "_darby_, at _hoxton_, has but a little garden, but is master of several curious greens.... his fritalaria crassa (a green) had a flower on it of the breadth of half-a-crown, like an embroidered star of many colours.... he raises many striped hollies by inoculation," &c. ("gleanings in old garden literature," hazlitt, p. .) and yet one last observation i would like to make, remembering bacon's subtilty, and how his every utterance is the sum of matured analytical thought. this yearning for wild nature that makes itself felt all through the essay, this scheme for a "natural wildness" touching the hem of artificiality; this provision for mounts of some pretty height "to look abroad in the fields"; this care for the "heath or desart in the going forth, planted not in any order;" the "little heaps in the nature of molehills (such as are in wild heaths) to be set with pleasant herbs, wild thyme, pinks, periwinkle, and the like low flowers being withall sweet and sightly"--what does it imply? primarily, it declares the artist who knows the value of contrast, the interest of blended contrariness; it is the cultured man's hankering after a many-faced nature readily accessible to him in his many moods; it tells, too, of the drift of the englishman towards familiar landscape effects, the garden-mimicry which sets towards pastoral nature; but above and beyond all else, it is a true baconian stroke. is not the man's innermost self here revealed, who in his eagerest moments struggled for detachment of mind, held his will in leash according to his own astute maxim "not to engage oneself too peremptorily in anything, but ever to have either a window open to fly out of, or a secret way to retire by"? in a sense, the garden's technique illustrates its author's personality. to change montaigne's reply to the king who admired his essays, bacon might say, "i am my garden." many references to old garden-craft might be given culled from the writings of sir thomas more, john lyly, gawen douglas, john gerarde, sir philip sidney, and others; all of whom are quoted in mr sieveking's charming volume, "the praise of gardens." but none will serve our purpose so well as the notes of heutzner, the german traveller, who visited england in the th century, and sir william temple's description of the garden of moor park. according to heutzner, the gardens at theobalds, nonsuch, whitehall, hampton court, and oxford were laid out with considerable taste and extensively ornamented with architectural and other devices. the palace at nonsuch is encompassed with parks full of deer, with delicious gardens, groves ornamented with trellis-work, cabinets of verdure, and walks enclosed with trees. "in the pleasure and artificial gardens are many columns and pyramids of marble, two fountains that spout water one round the other like a pyramid, upon which are perched small birds that stream water out of their bills. in the grove of diana is a very agreeable fountain, with actaeon turned into a stag, as he was sprinkled by the goddess and her nymphs, with inscriptions." theobalds, according to heutzner's account, has a "great variety of trees and plants," labyrinths, fountains of white marble, a summerhouse, and statuary. the gardens had their terraces, trellis-walks, and bowling-greens, the beds being laid out in geometrical lines, and the hedges formed of yews, hollies, and limes, clipped and shaped into cones, pyramids, and other devices. among the delights of nonsuch was a wilderness of ten acres of extent. of hampton court, he says: "we saw rosemary so planted and nailed to the walls as to cover them entirely, which is a method exceeding common in england." no book on english gardens can afford to dispense with temple's description of the garden of moor park, which is given with considerable relish, as though it satisfied the ideal of the writer. "the perfectest figure of a garden i ever saw, either at home or abroad."--"it lies on the side of a hill (upon which the house stands), but not very steep. the length of the house, where the best rooms and of most use or pleasure are, lies upon the breadth of the garden, the great parlour opens into the middle of a terras gravel-walk that lies even with it, and which may be, as i remember, about paces long, and broad in proportion, the border set with standard laurels, and at large distances, which have the beauty of orange-trees, out of flower and fruit: from this walk are three descents by many stone steps, in the middle and at each end, into a very large parterre. this is divided into quarters by gravel-walks, and adorned with two fountains and eight statues in the several quarters; at the end of the terras-walk are two summer-houses, and the sides of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters, open to the garden, upon arches of stone, and ending with two other summer-houses even with the cloisters, which are paved with stone, and designed for walks of shade, there are none other in the whole parterre. over these two cloisters are two terrasses covered with lead and fenced with balusters; and the passage into these airy walks, is out of the two summer-houses, at the end of the first terras-walk. the cloister facing the _south_ is covered with vines, and would have been proper for an orange-house, and the other for myrtles, or other more common greens; and had, i doubt not, been cast for that purpose, if this piece of gardening had been then in as much vogue as it is now. "from the middle of this parterre is a descent by many steps flying on each side of a grotto, that lies between them (covered with lead, and flat) into the lower garden, which is all fruit-trees ranged about the several quarters of a wilderness, which is very shady; the walks here are all green, the grotto embellished with figures of shell-rock work, fountains, and water-works. if the hill had not ended with the lower garden, and the wall were not bounded by a common way that goes through the park, they might have added a third quarter of all greens; but this want is supplied by a garden on the other side of the house, which is all of that sort, very wild, shady, and adorned with rough rock-work and fountains." ("upon the garden of epicurus, or of gardening.") the "systema horticulturæ" of john worlidge ( ) was, says mr hazlitt ("gleanings in old garden literature," p. ), apparently the earliest manual for the guidance of gardeners. it deals with technical matters, such as the treatment and virtue of different soils, the form of the ground, the structure of walls and fences, the erection of arbours, summer-houses, fountains, grottoes, obelisks, dials, &c. "the scots gardener," by john reid ( ) follows this, and is, says mr hazlitt, the parent-production in this class of literature. it is divided into two portions, of which the first is occupied by technical instructions for the choice of a site for a garden, the arrangement of beds and walks, &c. crispin de passe's "book of beasts, birds, flowers, fruits, &c.," published in london ( ), heralds the changes which set in with the introduction of the dutch school of design. to speak generally of the subject, it is with the art of gardening as with architecture, literature, and music--there is the mediæval, the elizabethan, the jacobean, the georgian types. each and all are english, but english with a difference--with a declared tendency this way or that, which justifies classification, and illustrates the march of things in this changeful modern world. the various types include the mediæval garden, the square garden, the knots and figures of elizabethan times, with their occasional use of coloured earths and gravels; the pleach-work and intricate borders of james i.; the painted dutch statues as at ham house; the quaint canals, the winding gravel-walks, the formal geometrical figures; the quincunx and _étoile_ of william and mary; later on, the smooth, bare, and bald grounds of kent, the photographic copyism of nature by brown, the garden-farm of shenstone, and other phases of the "landscape style" which served for the green grave of the old-fashioned english garden. in the early years of george iii. a reaction against tradition set in with so strong a current, that there remains scarcely any private garden in the united kingdom which presents in all its parts a sample of the original design. levens, near kendal, of which i give two illustrations, is probably the least spoiled of any remaining examples; and this was, it would seem, planned by a frenchman, but worked out under the restraining influences of english taste. a picture on the staircase of the house, apparently dutch, bears the inscription, "m. beaumont, gardener to king james ii. and colonel james grahme. he laid out the gardens at hampton court and at levens." the gardener's house at the place is still called "beaumont hall." (see an admirable monograph upon "col. james grahme, of levens," by mr joscelin bagot, kendal.) one who is perhaps hardly in sympathy with the quaintness of the gardens, thus writes: "there along a wide extent of terraced walks and walls, eagles of holly and peacocks of yew still find with each returning summer their wings clipt and their talons; there a stately remnant of the old promenoirs such as the frenchman taught our fathers,[ ] rather i would say to _build_ than plant--along which in days of old stalked the gentlemen with periwigs and swords, the ladies in hoops and furbelows--may still to this day be seen." [footnote : with regard to this remark, we have to note a certain amount of french influence throughout the reigns of the jameses and charleses. here is beaumont, "gardener to james ii.;" and we hear also of andré mollet, gardener to james i.; also that charles ii. borrowed le nôtre to lay out the gardens of greenwich and st james' park.] with the pictures of the gardens at levens before us, with memories of arley, of brympton, of wilton,[ ] of montacute, rockingham, penshurst, severn end, berkeley,[ ] and haddon, we may here pause a moment to count up and bewail our losses. wolsey's garden at hampton court is now effaced, for the design of the existing grounds dates from william iii. nonsuch in surrey, near epsom race-course, is a mere memory. in old days this was a favourite resort of queen elizabeth; the garden was designed by her father, but the greater part carried out by the last of the fitzalans. evelyn, writing of nonsuch, says: "there stand in the garden two handsome stone pyramids and the avenue planted with rows of fair elms, but the rest of these goodly trees, both of this and of worcester adjoining, were felled by those destructive and avaricious rebels in the late war." [footnote : the gardens at wilton are exceedingly beautiful, and contain noble trees, among which are a group of fine cedars and an ilex beneath which sir philip sidney is supposed to have reclined when he wrote his "arcadia" here. the italian garden is one of the most beautiful in england.] [footnote : of berkeley, evelyn writes: "for the rest the forecourt is noble, so are the stables; and, above all, the gardens, which are incomparable by reason of the inequality of the ground, and a pretty _piscina_. the holly-hedges on the terrace i advised the planting of."] theobalds, in hertfordshire, had a noble garden; it was bought in by cecil, and became the favourite haunt of the stuarts, but the house was finally destroyed during the commonwealth. my lord _fauconbergh's_ garden at _sutton court_ is gone too. as described by gibson in , it had many charms. "the maze, or wilderness, there is very pretty, being set all with greens, with a cypress arbour in the middle," &c. sir _henry capell's_ garden at kew, described by the same writer, "has as curious greens, and is as well kept as any about london.... his orange trees and other choice greens stand out in summer in two walks about fourteen feet wide, enclosed with a timber frame about seven feet high, and set with silver firs hedge-wise.... his terrace walk, bare in the middle and grass on either side, with a hedge of rue on one side next a low wall, and a row of dwarf trees on the other, shews very fine; and so do from thence his yew hedges with trees of the same at equal distance, kept in pretty shapes with tonsure. his flowers and fruits are of the best, for the advantage of which two parallel walls, about fourteen feet high, were now raised and almost finished," &c. sir _stephen fox's_ garden at _chiswick_, "excels for a fair gravel walk betwixt two yew hedges, with rounds and spires of the same, all under smooth tonsure. at the far end of this garden are two myrtle hedges that cross the garden. the other gardens are full of flowers and salleting, and the walls well clad." wimbledon house, which was rebuilt by sir thomas cecil in , and surveyed by order of parliament in , was celebrated for its trees, gardens, and shrubs. in the several gardens, which consisted of mazes, wildernesses, knots, alleys, &c., are mentioned a great variety of fruit trees and shrubs, particularly a "faire bay tree," valued at £ ; and "one very faire tree called the irish arbutis, very lovely to look upon and worth £ , s." (lysons, i., .) the gardens at sherborne castle were laid out by sir walter raleigh. coker, in his "survey of dorsetshire," written in the time of james i., says that sir walter built in the park adjoining the old castle, "a most fine house which hee beautified with orchardes, gardens, and groves of much varietie and great delight; soe that whether that you consider the pleasantness of the seate, the goodnesse of the soyle, or the other delicacies belonging unto it, it rests unparalleled by anie in those partes" (p. ). this same park, magnificently embellished with woods and gardens, was "improved" away by the "landscape-gardener" brown, who altered the grounds. cobham, near gravesend, still famous in horticultural annals as nonsuch is for its apples, was the seat of the brookes. the extent to which fruit was cultivated in old time is seen by the magnitude of the orangery at beddington house, surrey, which was two hundred feet long; the trees mostly measured thirteen feet high, and in some ten thousand oranges were gathered. ham is described with much gusto by evelyn: "after dinner i walked to ham to see the house and garden of the duke of lauderdale, which is indeed inferior to few of the best villas in italy itself; the house furnished like a great prince's, the parterres, flower-gardens, orangeries, groves, avenues, courts, statues, perspectives, fountains, aviaries, and all this at the banks of the sweetest river in the world, must needs be admirable." bowyer house, surrey, is described also by evelyn as having a very pretty grove of oaks and hedges of yew in the garden, and a handsome row of tall elms before the court. this garden has, however, made way for rows of mean houses. at oxford, where you would have expected more respect for antiquity, the walks and alleys, along which laud had conducted charles and henrietta, the bowling-green at christ church of cranmer's time--all are gone. the ruthless clearance of these gardens of renown is sad to relate: "for what sin has the plough passed over your pleasant places?" may be demanded of numberless cases besides blakesmoor. southey, writing upon this very point, adds that "feeling is a better thing than taste,"--for "taste" did it at the bidding of critics who had no "feeling," and who veered round with the first sign of change in the public mind about gardening. not content with watching the heroic gardens swept away, he must goad the vandals on to their sorry work by flattering them for their good taste. for what horace walpole did to expose the poverty-stricken design and all the poor bankrupt whimsies of the garden of his day, we owe him thanks; but not for including in his condemnation the noble work of older days. in touching upon lord burleigh's garden, and that at nonsuch, he says: "we find the _magnificent though false taste_ was known here as early as the reigns of henry viii. and his daughter." this is not bad, coming from the man who built a cockney gothic house adorned with piecrust battlements and lath-and-plaster pinnacles; who spent much of his life in concocting a maze of walks in five acres of ground, and was so far carried away by mock-rustic sentiment as to have rakes and hay-forks painted as leaning against the walls of his paddocks! but then walpole, in his polished way, sneered at everybody and everything; he "spelt every man backward," as macaulay observes; with himself he lived in eminent self-content. so too, after quoting temple's description of the garden at moor park with the master's little rhapsody--"the sweetest place i think that i have seen in my life, either before or since, at home or abroad"--walpole has this icy sneer: "any man might design and _build_ as sweet a garden who had been born in and never stirred out of holborn. it was not peculiar in sir william temple to think in that manner." it is not wise, however, to lay too much stress upon criticisms of this sort. after all, any phase of art does but express the mind of its day, and it cannot do duty for the mind of another time. "the old order changeth, yielding place to new," and to take a critical attitude towards the forms of an older day is almost a necessity of the case; they soon become curiosities. yet we may fairly regret the want of tenderness in dealing with these gardens of the elizabethan and jacobean eras, for, by all the laws of human expression, they should be masterpieces. the ground-chord of the garden-enterprise of those days was struck by bacon, who rates buildings and palaces, be they never so princely, as "but gross handiworks" where no garden is: "men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection"--the truth of which saying is only too glaringly apparent in the relative conditions of the arts of architecture and of gardening in the present day! by all the laws of human expression, i say, these old gardens should be masterpieces. the sixteenth century, which saw the english garden formulated, was a time for grand enterprises; indeed, to this period is ascribed the making of england. these gardens, then, are the handiwork of the makers of england, and should bear the marks of heroes. they are relics of the men and women who made our land both fine and famous in the days of the tudors; they represent the mellow fruit of the leisure, the poetic reverie, the patient craft of men versed in great affairs--big men, who thought and did big things--men of splendid genius and stately notions--past-masters of the art of life who would drink life to the lees. as gardeners, these old statesmen were no dabblers. they had the good fortune to live in a current of ideas of formal device that touched art at all points and was well calculated to assist the creative faculty in design of all kinds. they lived before the art of bad gardening had been invented; before pretty thoughts had palled the taste, before gardening had learnt routine; while nature smiled a virgin smile and had a sense of unsolved mystery. more than this, garden-craft was then no mere craze or passing freak of fashion, but a serious item in the round of home-life; --gardening was a thing to be done as well as it could be done. design was fresh and open to individual treatment--men needed an outlet for their love of, their elation at, the sight of beautiful things, and behind them lay the background of far-reaching traditions to encourage, inspire, protect experiment with the friendly shadow of authority. an accomplished french writer has remarked that even the modest work of art may contain occasion for long processes of analysis. "very great laws," he says, "may be illustrated in a very small compass." and so one thinks it is with the ancient garden. looked at as a piece of design, it is the blossom of english genius at one of its sunniest moments. it is a bit of the history of our land. it embodies the characteristics of the mediæval, the elizabethan and jacobean ages just as faithfully as do other phases of contemporary art. it contains the same principle of beauty, the same sense of form, that animated these; it has the same curious turns of expression, the same mixture of pedantry and subtle sweetness; the same wistful daring and humorous sadness; the same embroidery of nice fancy--half jocund, half grave, as--shall we say--shakespeare's plays and sonnets, spenser's "faërie queene," milton's "comus," more's "utopia," bacon's essays, purcell's madrigals, john thorpe's architecture at longleat. the same spirit, the same wit and fancy resides in each; they differ only in the medium of expression. to condemn old english gardening, root and branch, for its "false taste" (and it was not peculiar to walpole to think in that manner), was, in truth, to indict our nation on a line of device wherein we excelled, and to condemn device that represents the inspired dreams of some of england's elect sons. to our sorry groundling minds the old pleasaunce may seem too rich and fantastic, too spectacular, too much idealised. and if to be english one must needs be _bourgeois_, the objection must stand. here is developed garden-craft, and development almost invariably means multiplicity of forms and a marked departure from primæval simplicity. grant, if you will, that art is carried too far, and nature not carried far enough in the old garden, yet did it deserve better treatment. judged both from its human and its artistic side, the place is as loveable as it is pathetic. it has the pathos of all art that survives its creators, the pathos of all abandoned human idols, of all high human endeavour that is blown upon. what is more, it holds, as it were, the spent passion of men of utopian dreams, the ideal (in one kind) of the spoiled children of culture, the knight-errantry of the renascence--whose imagination soared after illimitable satisfaction, who were avowedly bent upon transforming the brazen of this world into the golden, to whom desire was but the first step to attainment, and failure an unknown experience. but even yet some may demur that the interest of the antique garden, as we see it, is due to nature direct, and not to art-agencies. it is nature who gives it its artistic qualities of gradation, contrast, play of form and colour, the flicker of sunshine through the foliage, the shadows on the grass--not the master who begot the thing, for has he not been dead, and his vacant orbits choked with clay these two hundred years and more! to him, of course, may be ascribed the primal thought of the place, and, say, some fifty years of active participation in its ordering and culture, but for the rest--for its poetic excitement, for its yearly accesses of beauty--are they not to be credited in full to the lenience of time and the generous operations of nature? grant all that should rightly be granted to the disaffected grumbler, and yet, in mr lowell's words for another, yet a parallel case, i plead that "poets are always entitled to a royalty on whatever we find in their works; for these fine creations as truly build themselves up in the brain as they are built up with deliberate thought." if a garden owed none of its characteristics to its maker, if it had not expressed the mind of its designer, why the essential differences of the garden of this style and of that! properly speaking, the music of all gardens is framed out of the same simple gamut of nature's notes--it is but one music poured from myriad lips--yet out of the use of the same raw elements what a variety of tunes can be made, each tune complete in itself! and it is because we may identify the maker in his work; because, like the unfinished air, abruptly brought to a close at the master's death, the place is much as it was first schemed, one is jealous for the honour of the man whose eye prophesied its ultimate magic even as he initiated its plan, and drafted its lines. many an english house has been hopelessly vulgarised and beggared by the banishment of the old pleasaunces of the days of elizabeth, or of the jameses and charleses, and their wholesale demolition there and then struck a blow at english gardening from which it has not yet recovered. it may be admitted that, in the case of an individual garden here and there, the violation of these relics may be condoned on the heathen principle of tit for tat, because art had, in the first instance, so to speak, turned her back on some fair landscape that providence had provided upon the site, preferring to focus man's eye _within_ rather than _without_ the garden's bounds, therefore the vengeance is merited. yet, where change was desirable, it had been better to modify than to destroy. "cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, and burned is apollo's laurel bough." certain it is that along with the girdle of high hedge or wall has gone that air of inviting mystery and homely reserve that our forefathers loved, and which is to me one of the pleasantest traits of an old english garden, best described as "a haunt of ancient peace." chapter v. the "landscape-garden." "'pealing from jove to nature's bar bold alteration pleades large evidence; but nature soon her righteous doom areads."--spenser. why were the old-fashioned gardens destroyed? firstly, because the traditional garden of the early part of the eighteenth century, when the reaction set in, represented a style which had run to seed, and men were tired of it; secondly, because the taste for foreign trees and shrubs, that had existed for a long time previously, then came to a head, and it was found that the old type of garden was not fitted for the display of the augmented stock of foreign material. here was a new element in garden-craft, a new chance of decoration in the way of local colours in planting, which required a new adjustment of garden-effects; and as there was some difficulty in accommodating the new and the old, the problem was met by the abolition of the old altogether. as to this matter of the sudden increase of specimen plants, loudon remarks that in the earlier century the taste for foreign plants was confined to a few, and they not wealthy persons; but in the eighteenth century the taste for planting foreign trees extended itself among rich landed proprietors. a host of amateurs, botanists, and commercial gardeners were busily engaged in enriching the british arboretum, and the garden-grounds had to be arranged for new effects and a new mode of culture. in loudon's "arboretum" (p. ) is a list of the species of foreign trees and shrubs introduced into england up to the year . he calculates that the total number of specimens up to the time that he wrote was about , but the numbers taken by centuries are: in the sixteenth century, ; in the seventeenth century, ; in the eighteenth century, ; and in the first three decades of the nineteenth century, ! men stubbed up the old gardens because they had grown tired of their familiar types, as they tire of other familiar things. the eighteenth century was essentially a critical age, an age of enquiry, and gardening, along with art, morals, and religion, came in for its share of coffee-house discussion, and elaborate essay-writing, and nothing was considered satisfactory. as to gardening, it was not natural enough for the critics. the works of salvator and poussin had pictured the grand and terrible in scenery, thomson was writing naturalistic poetry, rousseau naturalistic prose. garden-ornament was too classical and formal for the varnished _littérateur_ of the _spectator_ and the _guardian_--too symmetrical for the jingling rhymester of a sing-song generation--too artificial for the essayist "'pealing from jove to nature's bar," albeit he is privately content to go on touching up his groves and grottoes at twickenham, securing the services of a peer "to form his quincunx, and to rank his vines." gardens are looked upon as so much "copy" to the essayist. what affected tastes have these critics! what a confession of counterfeit love, of selfish literary interest in gardens is this of addison's: "i think there are as many kinds of gardening as of poetry. your makers of parterres and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and sonneteers in this art; contrivers of bowers and grottoes, treillages and cascades, are romance writers." how beside nature, beside garden-craft, are such pen-man's whimsies! "nothing to the true pleasure of a garden," bacon would say. walpole's essay on gardening is entertaining reading, and his book gives us glimpses of the country-seats of all the great ladies and gentlemen who had the good fortune to be his acquaintances. his condemnation of the geometrical style of gardening common in his day, though quieter in tone than pope's, was none the less effective in promoting a change of style. he tells how in kip's views of the seats of our nobility we have the same "tiring and returning uniformity." every house is approached by two or three gardens, consisting perhaps of a gravel-walk and two grass plats or borders of flowers. "each rises above the other by two or three steps, and as many walks and terrasses; and so many iron gates, that we recollect those ancient romances in which every entrance was guarded by nymphs or dragons. at lady orford's, at piddletown, in dorsetshire, there was, when my brother married, a double enclosure of thirteen gardens, each, i suppose, not a hundred yards square, with an enfilade of correspondent gates; and before you arrived at these, you passed a narrow gut between two terrasses that rose above your head, and which were crowned by a line of pyramidal yews. a bowling-green was all the lawn admitted in those times, a circular lake the extent of magnificence." such an air of truth and soberness pervades walpole's narrative, and to so absurd an extent has formality been manifestly carried under the auspices of loudon and wise, who had stocked our gardens with "giants, animals, monsters, coats of arms, mottoes in yew, box, and holly," that we are almost persuaded to be vandals. "the compass and square, were of more use in plantations than the nursery-man. the measured walk, the quincunx, and the étoile imposed their unsatisfying sameness.... trees were headed, and their sides pared away; many french groves seem green chests set upon poles. seats of marble, arbours, and summer-houses, terminated every vista." it is all very well for temple to recommend the regular form of garden. "i should hardly advise any of these attempts" cited by walpole, "in the form of gardens among us; _they are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands_." the truth will out! the "dainter sense" of garden-craft has vanished! according to walpole, garden-adventure is to be henceforth journeyman's work, and brown, the immortal kitchen-gardener, leads the way. it were unfair to suspect that the exigencies of sprightly writing had carried walpole beyond the bounds of accuracy in his description of the stiff-garden as he knew it, for things were in some respects very bad indeed. at the same time he is so engrossed with his abuse of old ways of gardening, and advocacy of the landscape-gardener's new-fangled notions, that his account of garden-craft generally falls short of completeness. he omits, for instance, to notice the progress in floriculture and horticulture of this time, the acquisitions being made in the ornamental foreign plants to be cultivated in the open ground, the green-house, and the stove. he omits to note that loudon and wise stocked our gardens with more than giants, animals, monsters, &c., in yew and box and holly. because the names of these two worthies occur in this gardening text-book of walpole's, all later essayists signal them out for blame. but evelyn, who ranks as one of the three of england's great gardeners of old days, has a kindlier word for them. he is dilating upon the advantage to the gardener of the high clipped hedge as a protection for his shrubs and flowers, and goes on to particularise an oblong square, palisadoed with a hornbeam hedge "in that inexhaustible magazine at brompton park, cultivated by those two industrious fellow-gardeners, mr loudon and mr wise." this hedge protects the orange trees, myrtles, and other rare perennials and exotics from the scorching rays of the sun; and it equally well shelters the flowers. "here the indian narcissus, tuberoses, japan lillies, jasmines, jonquills, periclimena, roses, carnations, with all the pride of the parterre, intermixt between the tree-cases, flowery vases, busts, and statues, entertain the eye, and breathe their redolent odours and perfumes to the smell." clearly there is an advantage in being a gardener if we write about gardens (provided you are not a mere "landscape-gardener!"). one cannot deny that horace walpole did well to expose the absurd vagaries which were being perpetrated about his time under dutch influences. close alliance with holland through the house of orange had affected every department of horticulture. true, it had enriched our gardens and conservatories with many rare and beautiful species of flowers and bulbs, and had imbued the english collector with the tulip-mania. so far good. but to the same source we trace the reign of the shears in the english garden, which made art in a garden ridiculous, and gave occasion to the enemy to blaspheme. "the gardeners about london," says mr lambert, writing to the linnæan transactions in , "were remarkable for fine cut greens, and clipt yews in the shapes of birds, dogs, men, ships, &c. mr. parkinson in lambeth was much noticed for these things, and he had besides a few myrtles, oleanders, and evergreens." "the old order changeth ... lest one good custom should corrupt the world." and now is art in a garden become ridiculous. since the beginning of things english gardeners had clipped and trimmed their shrubs; but had never carried the practice beyond a reasonable extent, and had combined it with woody and shady effects. with the onset of dutch influence country-aspects vanish. nature is reduced to a prosaic level. the traditional garden, whose past had been one long series of noble chances in fine company, now found content as the pedant's darling where it could have no opening for living romance, but must be tricked out in stage conventions, and dwindle more and more into a thing of shreds and patches! having arrived at such a pass, it was time that change should come, and change did come, with a vengeance! but let us not suppose that the change was from wrong to right. for, indeed, the revolution meant only that formality gone mad should be supplanted by informality gone equally mad. and we may note as a significant fact, that the point of departure is the destruction of the garden's boundaries, and the substitution of the ha-ha. it was not for the wild improvers to realise how art that destroys its own boundaries is certainly doomed to soon have no country to boast of at all! it proved so in this case. from this moment, the very thought of garden-ornament was clean put out of mind, and the grass is carried up to the windows of the great house, as though the place were nothing better than a farm-shanty in the wilds of westmoreland! but to return to the inauguration of the "landscape-garden." the hour produced its men in kent, and "the immortal brown," as repton calls him. like many another "discovery," theirs was really due to an accident. just as it was the closely-corked bottle that popped that gave birth to champagne, so it was only when our heroes casually leaped the ha-ha that they had made that they realised that all england outside was one vast rustic garden, from whence it were a shame to exclude anything! so began the rage for making all the surroundings of a house assume a supposed appearance of rude nature. levelling, ploughing, stubbing-up, was the order of the day. the british navvy was in great request--in fact the day that kent and brown discovered england was this worthy's natal day. artificial gardens must be demolished as impostures, and wriggling walks and turf put where they had stood. avenues must be cut down or disregarded; the groves, the alleys, the formal beds, the terraces, the balustrades, the clipt hedges must be swept away as things intolerable. for the "landscape style" does not countenance a straight line, or terrace or architectural form, or symmetrical beds about the house; for to allow these would not be to photograph nature. as carried into practice, the style demands that the house shall rise abruptly from the grass, and the general surface of the ground shall be characterised by smoothness and bareness (like nature)! hence in the grounds of this period, house and country "wrapt all o'er in everlasting green make one dull, vapid, smooth and tranquil scene." there is to my mind no more significant testimony to the attractiveness and loveableness of the _regular_ garden as opposed to the opened-out barbarism of the landscape-gardener's invention, than horace walpole's lament over the old gardens at houghton,[ ] which has the force of testimony wrung from unwilling lips:-- "when i had drank tea i strolled into the garden. they told me it was now called the '_pleasure-ground_.' what a dissonant idea of pleasure! those groves, those _alleys_, where i have passed so many charming moments, are now stripped up, or overgrown; many fond paths i could not unravel, though with a very exact clue in my memory. i met two gamekeepers and a thousand hares! in the days when all my soul was tuned to pleasure and vivacity, i hated houghton and its solitude; _yet i loved this garden_; as now, with many regrets, i love houghton;--houghton, i know not what to call it: a monument of grandeur or ruin!"--(walpole's letters.) [footnote : houghton was built by sir r. walpole, between and . the garden was laid out in the stiff, formal manner by eyre, "an imitator of bridgman," and contained acres. the park contains some fine old beeches. more than cedars were blown down here in february .] "what a dissonant idea of pleasure," this so-called "pleasure-ground of the landscape-gardener!" "those groves, those alleys where i have passed so many charming moments, stripped up! how i loved this garden!" here is the biter bit, and it were to be more than human not to smile! with all the proper appliances at hand it did not take long to transform the stiff garden into the barbaric. it did not take long to find out how _not_ to do what civilization had so long been learning how to do! the ancient "geometric or regular style" of garden--the garden of the aristocrat, with all its polished classicism--was to make way for the so-called "naturalesque or landscape style," and the garden of the _bourgeois_. hope rose high in the breasts of the new professoriate. "a boon! a boon!" quoth the critic. and there is deep joy in navvydom. "under the great leader, brown," writes repton ("landscape gardening," p. ), "or rather those who patronised his discovery, we were taught that nature was to be our only model." it was a grand moment. a daniel had come to judgment! nay, did not brown "live to establish a fashion in gardening which might have been expected to endure as long as nature should exist!" the landscape school of gardeners, so-called, has been the theme of a great deal of literature, but with the exception of walpole's and addison's essays, and pope's admirable chaff, very little has survived the interest it had at the moment of publication. the other chief writers of this school, in its early phase, are george mason, whately,[ ] mason the poet, and shenstone, our moon-struck friend quoted above, with his "assignation seats with proper mottoes, urns to faithful lovers," &c. dr johnson did not think much of shenstone's contributions to gardening: "he began from this time to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters, which he did with such judgement and such fancy as made his little domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skilful--a place to be visited by travellers and _copied by designers_. whether to plant a walk in undulating curves, and to place a bench at every turn where there is an object to catch the view, to make water run where it will be heard, and to stagnate where it will be seen; to leave intervals where the eye will be pleased, and to thicken the plantation where there is something to be hidden--demand any great powers of the mind, i will not enquire; perhaps a surly and sullen spectator may think such performances rather the sport than the business of human reason."--(dr johnson, "lives of the poets," shenstone.) [footnote : thomas whately's "observations on modern gardening," was published in , fifteen years before walpole's "essay on modern gardening." gilpin's book "on picturesque beauty," though published in part in , belongs really to the second phase of the landscape school. shenstone's "unconnected thoughts on the garden" was published in , and is written pretty much from the standpoint of kent. "an essay on design in gardening," by g. mason, was published in .] whately's "observations on modern gardening," published in , are well written and distinctly valuable as bearing upon the historical side of the subject. it says little for his idea of the value of art in a garden, or of the function of a garden as a refining influence in life, to find whately recommending "a plain field or a sheep-walk" as part of a garden's embellishments--"as an agreeable relief, and even wilder scenes." but what astounds one more is, that a writer of whately's calibre can describe kent's gardens at stowe, considered to be his masterpiece, as a sample of the non-formality of the landscape-gardener's art, while he takes elaborate pains to show that it is full of would-be artistic subterfuges in nature, full of architectural shams throughout. these gardens were begun by bridgman, "begun," whately says, "when regularity was in fashion; and the original boundary is still preserved on account of its magnificence, for round the whole circuit, of between three and four miles, is carried a very broad gravel-walk, planted with rows of trees, and open either to the park or the country; a deep sunk-fence attends it all the way, and comprehends a space of near acres. but in the interior spaces of the garden few traces of regularity appear; where it yet remains in the plantations it is generally disguised; every symptom almost of formality is obliterated from the ground; and an octagon basin at the bottom is now converted into an irregular piece of water, which receives on one hand two beautiful streams, and falls on the other down a cascade into a lake." and then follows a list of sham architectural features that are combined with sham views and prospects to match. "the whole space is divided into a number of scenes, each distinguished with taste and fancy; and the changes are so frequent, so sudden and complete, the transitions so artfully conducted, that the ideas are never continued or repeated to satiety." in the front of the house two elegant doric pavilions. on the brow of some rising grounds a corinthian arch. on a little knoll an open ionic rotunda--an egyptian pyramid stands on its brow; the queen's pillar in a recess on the descent, the king's pillar elsewhere; all the three buildings mentioned are "peculiarly adapted to a garden scene." in front of a wood three pavilions joined by arcades, all of the ionic order, "characteristically proper for a garden, and so purely ornamental." then a temple of bacchus, the elysian fields, british remains; misshaped elms and ragged firs are frequent in a scene of solitude and gloom, which the trunks of dead trees assist. then a large gothic building, with slated roofs, "in a noble confusion"; then the elysian fields, seen from the other side, a palladian bridge, doric porticoes, &c, the whole thing finished off with the temple of concord and victory, probably meant as a not-undeserved compliment to the successfully chaotic skill of the landscape-gardener, who is nothing if not irregular, natural, non-formal, non-fantastical, non-artificial, and non-geometrical. two other points about whately puzzle me. how comes he to strain at the gnat of formality in the old-fashioned garden, yet readily swallow the camel at stowe? how can he harmonise his appreciation of the elaborately contrived and painfully assorted shams at stowe, with his recommendation, of a sheep-walk in your garden "as an agreeable relief, and even wilder scenes"? whether the beauty of the general disposition of the ground at stowe is to be attributed to kent or to bridgman, who began the work, as whately says, "when regularity was in fashion," i cannot say. it is right to observe, however, that the prevailing characteristic of kent's and brown's landscapes was their smooth and bald surface. "why this art has been called 'landscape-gardening,'" says the plain-spoken repton, "perhaps he who gave it the title may explain. i can see no reason, unless it be the efficacy which it has shown in destroying landscapes, in which, indeed, it seems infallible." (repton, p. .) "our virtuosi," said sir william chambers, "have scarcely left an acre of shade, or three trees growing in a line from the land's end to the tweed." it did not take the wiser spirits long to realise that nature left alone was more natural. and this same repton, who began by praising "the great leader brown," has to confess again and again that, so far as results go, he is mistaken. the ground, he laments, must be everlastingly moved and altered. "one of the greatest difficulties i have experienced in practice proceeds from that fondness for levelling so prevalent in all brown's workmen; every hillock is by them lowered, and every hollow filled, to produce a level surface." (repton, p. .) or again (p. ): "there is something so fascinating in the appearance of water, that mr brown thought it carried its own excuse, however unnatural the situation; and therefore, in many places, under his direction, i have found water, on the tops of the hills, which i have been obliged to remove into lower ground _because the deception was not sufficiently complete to satisfy the mind as well as the eye_." indeed, in this matter of levelling, brown's system does not, on the face of it, differ from le nôtre's, where the natural contour of the landscape was not of much account; or rather, it was thought the better if it had no natural contour at all, but presented a flat plain or plateau with no excrescences to interfere with the designer's schemes. so much, then, for the pastoral simplicity of nature edited by the "landscape-gardener." and let us note that under the auspices of the new _régime_, not only is nature to be changed, but changed more than was ever dreamt of before; the transformation shall at once be more determined in its character and more deceptive than had previously been attempted. we were to have an artistically natural world, not a naturally artistic one; the face of the landscape was to be purged of its modern look and made to look primæval. and in this doing, or undoing, of things, the only art that was to be admitted was the art of consummate deceit, which shall "satisfy the mind as well as the eye." yet call the man pope or presbyter, and beneath his clothes he is the same man! there is not a pin to choose as regards artificiality in the _aims_ of the two schools, only in the _results_. the naked or _undressed_ garden has studied irregularity, while the _dressed_ garden has studied regularity and style. the first has, perhaps, an excessive regard for expression, the other has an emphatic scorn for expression. one garden has its plotted levels, its avenues, its vistas, its sweeping lawns, its terraces, its balustrades, colonnades, geometrical beds, gilded temples, and sometimes its fountains that won't play, and its fine vases full of nothing! the other begins with fetching back the chaos of a former world, and has for its category of effects, sham primævalisms, exaggerated wildness, tortured levellings, cascades, rocks, dead trunks of trees, ruined castles, lakes on the top of hills, and sheep-runs hard by your windows. one school cannot keep the snip of the scissors off tree and shrub, the other mimics nature's fortuitous wildness in proof of his disdain for the white lies of art. and all goes to show, does it not? that inasmuch as the art of gardening implies craft, and as man's imitation of nature is bound to be unlike nature, it were wise to be frankly inventive in gardening on art lines. success may attend one's efforts in the direction of art, but in the direction of nature, never. the smooth, bare, and almost bald appearance which characterises brown and kent's school fails to satisfy for long, and there springs up another school which deals largely in picturesque elements, and rough intricate effects. the principles of the "picturesque school," as it was called, are to be found in the writings of the rev. william gilpin and sir uvedale price. their books are full of careful observations upon the general composition of landscape-scenery, and what was then called "landscape architecture," as though every english building of older days that was worth a glance had not been "landscape architecture" fit for its site! gilpin's writings contain an admirable discourse upon "forest scenery," well illustrated. this work is in eight volumes, in part published in , and it consists mainly in an account of the author's tours in every part of great britain, with a running commentary on the beauties of the scenery, and a description of the important country seats he passed on the way. price helped by his writings to stay the rage for destroying avenues and terraces, and we note that he is fully alive to the necessity of uniting a country-house with the surrounding scenery by architectural adjuncts. the taste for picturesque gardening was doubtless helped by the growing taste for landscape painting, exhibited in the works of the school of wilson and gainsborough, and in the pastoral writings of thomson, crabbe, cowper, and gray. it would farther be accelerated, as we suggested at the outset of this chapter, by the large importation of foreign plants and shrubs now going on. what is known as the picturesque school soon had for its main exponent repton. he was a genius in his way--a born gardener,[ ] able and thoughtful in his treatments, and distinguished among his fellows by a broad and comprehensive grasp of the whole character and surroundings of a site, in reference to the general section of the land, the style of the house to which his garden was allied, and the objects for which it was to be used. the sterling quality of his writings did much to clear the air of the vapourings of the critics who had gone before him, and his practice, founded as it was upon sound principles, redeemed the absurdities of the earlier phase of his school and preserved others from further development of the silly rusticities upon which their mind seemed bent. although some of his ideas may now be thought pedantic and antiquated, the books which contain them will not die. passages like the following mark the man and his aims: "i do not profess to follow le nôtre or brown, but, selecting beauties from the style of each, to adopt so much of the grandeur of the former as may accord with a palace, and so much of the grace of the latter as may call forth the charms of natural landscape. each has its proper situation; and good taste will make fashion subservient to good sense" (p. ). "in the rage for picturesque beauty, let us remember that the landscape holds an inferior rank to the historical picture; one represents nature, the other relates to man in a state of society" (p. ). [footnote : loudon calls this school "repton's," the "_gardenesque_" school, its characteristic feature being "the display of the beauty of trees and other plants _individually_."] repton sums up the whole of his teaching in the preface to his "theory and practice of landscape gardening" under the form of objections to prevailing errors, and they are so admirable that i cannot serve the purposes of my book better than to insert them here. objection no. . "there is no error more prevalent in modern gardening, or more frequently carried to excess, than taking away hedges to unite many small fields into one extensive and naked lawn before plantations are made to give it the appearance of a park; and where ground is subdivided by sunk fences, imaginary freedom is dearly purchased at the expense of actual confinement." no. . "the baldness and nakedness round the house is part of the same mistaken system, of concealing fences to gain extent. a palace, or even an elegant villa, in a grass field, appears to me incongruous; _yet i have seldom had sufficient influence to correct this common error_." no. . "an approach which does not evidently lead to the house, or which does not take the shortest course, cannot be right. (this rule must be taken with certain limitations.) the shortest road across a lawn to a house will seldom be found graceful, and often vulgar. a road bordered by trees in the form of an avenue may be straight without being vulgar; and grandeur, not grace or elegance, is the expression expected to be produced." no. . "a poor man's cottage, divided into what is called a _pair of lodges_, is a mistaken expedient to mark importance in the entrance to a park." no. . "the entrance-gate should not be visible from the mansion, unless it opens into a courtyard." no. . "the plantation surrounding a place called a _belt_ i have never advised; nor have i ever willingly marked a drive, or walk, completely round the verge of a park, except in small villas, where a dry path round a person's own field is always more interesting than any other walk." no . "small plantations of trees, surrounded by a fence, are the best expedients to form groups, because trees planted singly seldom grow well; neglect of thinning and removing the fence has produced that ugly deformity called a _clump_." no. . "water on a eminence, or on the side of a hill, is among the most common errors of mr brown's followers; in numerous instances i have been allowed to remove such pieces of water from the hills to the valleys, but in many my advice has not prevailed." no. . "deception may be allowable in imitating the works of nature. thus artificial rivers, lakes, and rock scenery can only be great by deception, and the mind acquiesces in the fraud after it is detected, but in works of art every trick ought to be avoided. sham churches, sham ruins, sham bridges, and everything which appears what it is not, disgusts when the trick is discovered." no. . "in buildings of every kind the _character_ should be strictly observed. no incongruous mixture can be justified. to add grecian to gothic, or gothic to grecian, is equally absurd; and a sharp pointed arch to a garden gate or a dairy window, however frequently it occurs, is not less offensive than grecian architecture, in which the standard rules of relative proportion are neglected or violated." the perfection of landscape-gardening consists in the fullest attention to these principles, _utility_, _proportion_, and _unity_, or harmony of parts to the whole. (repton, "landscape gardening," pp. - .) the best advice one can give to a young gardener is--_know your repton_. the writings of the new school of gardening, of which repton is a notable personage in its later phase, are not, however, on a par with the writings of the old traditional school, either as pleasant garden literature, or in regard to broad human interest or artistic quality. they are hard and critical, and never lose the savour of the heated air of controversy in which they were penned. indeed, i can think of no more sure and certain cure for a bad attack of garden-mania--nothing that will sooner wipe the bloom off your enjoyment of natural beauty--than a course of reading from the classics of landscape-garden literature! "i only sound the clarion," said the urbane master-gardener of an earlier day, "but i enter not into the battle." but these are at one another's throats! who enters here must leave his dreams of fine gardening behind, for he will find himself in a chilly, disenchanted world, with nothing more romantic to feed his imagination upon than "remarks on the genius of the late mr. brown," critical enquiries, observations on taste, difference between landscape gardening and painting, price upon repton, repton upon price, repton upon knight, further answers to messrs price and knight, &c. but all this is desperately dull reading, hurtful to one's imagination, fatal to garden-fervour.[ ] and naturally so, for analysis of the processes of garden-craft carried too far begets loss of faith in all. analysis is a kill-joy, destructive of dreams of beauty. "we murder to dissect." that was a true word of the cynic of that day, who summed up current controversy upon gardening in the opinion that "the works of nature were well executed, but in a bad taste." the quidnuncs' books about gardening are about as much calculated to give one delight, as the music the child gets out of the strings of an instrument that it broke for the pride of dissection. even addison, with the daintiest sense and prettiest pen of them all, shows how thoroughly gardening had lost ... "its happy, country tone, lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note of men contention-tost,"-- as he thrums out his laboured coffee-house conceit. "i think there are as many kinds of gardening as poetry; your makers of parterres and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and sonneteers in this art; contrivers of bowers and grottoes, treillages, and cascades, are romance writers. wise and loudon are our heroic poets." nor is his elaborate argument meant to prove the gross inferiority of art in a garden to unadorned nature more inspiring. nay, what is one to make of even the logic of such argument as this? "if the products of nature rise in value according as they more or less resemble those of art, we may be sure that artificial works receive a greater advantage from their resemblance of such as are natural." (_spectator._) but who _does_ apply the art-standard to nature, or value her products as they resemble those of art? and has not sir walter well said: "nothing is more the child of art than a garden"? and loudon: "all art, to be acknowledged, as art must be avowed." [footnote : a candid friend thus writes to repton: "you may have perceived that i am rather _too much_ inclined to the price and knight _party_, and yet i own to you that i have been often so much disgusted by the affected and technical language of connoisseurship, that i have been sick of pictures for a month, and almost of nature, when the same jargon was applied to her." (repton, p. .)] one prefers to this cold pindaric garden-homage the unaffected, direct delight in the sweets of a garden of an earlier day; to realise with old mountaine how your garden shall produce "a jucunditie of minde;" to think with bishop hall, as he gazes at his tulips, "these flowers are the true clients of the sunne;" to be brought to old lawson's state of simple ravishment, "what more delightsome than an infinite varietie of sweet-smelling flowers? decking with sundry colours the green mantle of the earth, colouring not onely the earth, but decking the ayre, and sweetning every breath and spirit;" to taste the joys of living as, taking robert burton's hand, you "walk amongst orchards, gardens, bowers, mounts and arbours, artificial wildernesses, green thickets, groves, lawns, rivulets, fountains, and such like pleasant places, between wood and water, in a fair meadow, by a river side, to disport in some pleasant plain or park, must needs be a delectable recreation;" to be inoculated with old gerarde of the garden-mania as he bursts forth, "go forward in the name of god: graffe, set, plant, nourishe up trees in every corner of your grounde;" to trace with temple the lines and features that go to make the witchery of the garden at moor park, "in all kinds the most beautiful and perfect, at least in the figure and disposition, that i have ever seen," and which you may follow if you are not "above the regards of common expence;" to hearken to bacon expatiate upon the art which is indeed "the purest of all humane pleasure, the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man;" to feel in what he says the value of an ideal, the magic of a style backed by passion--to have garden precepts wrapped in pretty metaphors (such as that "because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air--_where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick_--than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air;")--to be taught how to order a garden to suit all the months of the year, and have things of beauty enumerated according to their seasons--to feel rapture at the sweet-breathing presence of art in a garden--to learn from one who knows how to garden in a grand manner, and yet be finally assured that beauty does not require a great stage, that the things thrown in "for state and magnificence" are but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden--this is garden-literature worth reading! compared with the frank raptures of such writings as these, the laboured treatises of the landscape-school are but petty hagglings over the mint and cummin of things. you go to the writings of the masters of the old formality, to come away invigorated as by a whiff of mountain air straight off helicon; they shall give one fresh enthusiasm for nature, fresh devotion to art, fresh love for beautiful things. but from the other-- "the bloom is gone, and with the bloom go i"-- they deal with technicalities in the affected language of connoisseurship; they reveal a disenchanted world, a world of exploded hopes given over to the navvies and the critics; and it is no wonder that writings so prompted should have no charm for posterity; charm they never had. they are dry as summer dust. for the honour of english gardening, and before closing this chapter, i would like to recall that betweenity--the garden of the transition--done at the very beginning of the century of revolution, which unites something of the spirit of the old and of the new schools. here is sir walter scott's report of the kelso garden as he _first_ knew it, and _after_ it had been mauled by the landscape-gardener. it was a garden of seven or eight acres adjacent to the house of an ancient maiden lady: "it was full of long straight walks between hedges of yew and hornbeam, which rose tall and close on every side. there were thickets of flowering shrubs, a bower, and an arbour, to which access was obtained through a little maze of contorted walks, calling itself a labyrinth. in the centre of the bower was a splendid platanus or oriental plane, a huge hill of leaves, one of the noblest specimens of that regularly beautiful tree which we remember to have seen. in different parts of the garden were fine ornamental trees which had attained great size, and the orchard was filled with fruit-trees of the best description. there were seats and trellis-walks, and a banqueting-house. even in our time this little scene, intended to present a formal exhibition of vegetable beauty, was going fast to decay. the parterres of flowers were no longer watched by the quiet and simple _friends_ under whose auspices they had been planted, and much of the ornament of the domain had been neglected or destroyed to increase its productive value. we visited it lately, after an absence of many years. its air of retreat, the seclusion which its alleys afforded was gone; the huge platanus had died, like most of its kind, in the beginning of this century; the hedges were cut down, the trees stubbed up, and the whole character of the place so much destroyed that i was glad when i could leave it."--("essay on landscape gardening," _quarterly review_, .[ ]) [footnote : "the praise of gardens," pp. - .] another garden, of later date than this at kelso, and somewhat less artistic, is that described by mr henry a. bright in "the english flower garden."[ ] "one of the most beautiful gardens i ever knew depended almost entirely on the arrangement of its lawns and shrubberies. it had certainly been most carefully and adroitly planned, and it had every advantage in the soft climate of the west of england. the various lawns were divided by thick shrubberies, so that you wandered on from one to the other, and always came on something new. in front of these shrubberies was a large margin of flower-border, gay with the most effective plants and annuals. at the corner of the lawn a standard _magnolia grandiflora_ of great size held up its chaliced blossoms; at another a tulip-tree was laden with hundreds of yellow flowers. here a magnificent _salisburia_ mocked the foliage of the maiden-hair; and here an old cedar swept the grass with its large pendent branches. but the main breadth of each lawn was never destroyed, and past them you might see the reaches of a river, now in one aspect, now in another. each view was different, and each was a fresh enjoyment and surprise. "a few years ago and i revisited the place; the 'improver' had been at work, and had been good enough to _open up_ the view. shrubberies had disappeared, and lawns had been thrown together. the pretty peeps among the trees were gone, the long vistas had become open spaces, and you saw at a glance all that there was to be seen. of course the herbaceous borders, which once contained numberless rare and interesting plants, had disappeared, and the lawn in front of the house was cut up into little beds of red pelargoniums, yellow calceolarias, and the rest." [footnote : _ibid._, p. .] in this example we miss the condensed beauty and sweet austerities of the older garden at kelso: nevertheless, it represents a phase of workmanship which, for its real insight into the secrets of garden-beauty, we may well be proud of, and deplore its destruction at the hands of the landscape-gardener. all arts are necessarily subject to progression of type. "man cannot escape from his time," says mr morley, and with changed times come changed influences. but, then, to _progress_ is not to _change_: "to progress is to live," and one phase of healthy progression will tread the heels of that which precedes it. the restless changeful methods of modern gardening are, however, not to be ascribed to the healthy development of one consistent movement, but to chaos--to the revolution that ensued upon the overthrow of tradition--to the indeterminateness of men who have no guiding principles, who take so many wild leaps in the dark, in the course of which, rival champions jostle one another and only the fittest survives. in treating of modern english gardening, it is difficult to make our way along the tortuous path of change, development it is not, that set in with the banishment of art in a garden. critical writers have done their best to unravel things, to find the relation of each fractured phase, and to give each phase a descriptive name, but there are still many unexplained points, many contradictions that are unsolved, to which i have already alluded. loudon's introduction to repton's "landscape gardening" gives perhaps the most intelligible account of the whole matter. the art of laying out grounds has been displayed in two very distinct styles: the first of which is called the "ancient roman, geometric, regular, or architectural style; and the second the modern, _english_,[ ] irregular, natural, or landscape style." [footnote : this is a little unpatriotic of loudon to imply that the _english_ had no garden-style till the th century, but one can stand a great deal from loudon.] we have, he says, the italian, the french, and the dutch schools of the geometric style. the modern, or landscape style, when it first displayed itself in english country residences, was distinctly marked by the absence of everything that had the appearance of a terrace, or of architectural forms, or lines, immediately about the house. the house, in short, rose abruptly from the lawn, and the general surface of the ground was characterised by smoothness and bareness. this constituted the first school of the landscape style, introduced by kent and brown. this manner was followed by the romantic or picturesque style, which inaugurates a school which aimed at producing architectural tricks and devices, allied with scenery of picturesque character and sham rusticity. the conglomeration at stowe, albeit that it is attributed to kent, shows what man can do in the way of heroically wrong garden-craft. to know truly how to lay out a garden "_after a more grand and rural manner than has been done before_," you cannot do better than get batty langley's "new principles of gardening," and among other things you have rules whereby you may concoct natural extravagances, how you shall prime prospects, make landscapes that are pictures of nothing and very like; how to copy hills, valleys, dales, purling streams, rocks, ruins, grottoes, precipices, amphitheatres, &c. the writings of gilpin and price were effective in undermining kent's school; they helped to check the rage for destroying avenues and terraces, and insisted upon the propriety of uniting a country-house with the surrounding scenery by architectural appendages. the leakage from the ranks of kent's school was not all towards the picturesque school, but to what loudon terms repton's school, which may be considered as combining all that was excellent in what had gone before. following upon these phases is one that is oddly called the "_gardenesque_" style, the leading feature of which is that it illustrates the beauty of trees, and other plants _individually_; in short, it is the _specimen_ style. according to the practice of all previous phases of modern gardening, trees, shrubs, and flowers were indiscriminately mixed and crowded together, in shrubberies or other plantations. according to the gardenesque school, all the trees and shrubs are arranged to suit their kinds and dimensions, and to display them to advantage. the ablest exponents of the school are loudon in the recent past, and messrs marnock and robinson in the present, and their method is based upon loudon. to know how to lay out a garden after the most approved modern fashion we have but to turn to the deservedly popular pages of "the english flower garden." this book contains not only model designs and commended examples from various existing gardens, but text contributed by some seventy professional and amateur gardeners. even the gardener who has other ideals and larger ambitions than are here expected, heartily welcomes a book so well stored with modern garden-lore up to date, with suggestions for new aspects of vegetation, new renderings of plant life, and must earnestly desire to see any system of gardening made perfect after its kind-- ... "i wish the sun should shine on all men's fruits and flowers, as well as mine." gardening is, above all things, a progressive art which has never had so fine a time to display its possibilities as now, if we were only wise enough to freely employ old experiences and modern opportunities. people are, however, so readily content with their stereotyped models, with barren imitations, with their petty list of specimens, when instead of half-a-dozen kinds of plants, their garden has room for hundreds of different plants of fine form--hardy or half-hardy, annual and bulbous--which would equally well suit the british garden and add to its wealth of beauty by varied colourings in spring, summer, and autumn. at present "the choke-muddle shrubbery, in which the poor flowering shrubs dwindle and kill each other, generally supports a few ill-grown and ill-chosen plants, but it is mainly distinguished for wide patches of bare earth in summer, over which, in better hands, pretty green things might crowd." the specimen plant has no chance of displaying itself under such conditions. * * * * * into so nice a subject as the practice of landscape-gardening of the present day it is not my intention to enter in detail, and for two good reasons. in the first place, the doctrines of a sect are best known by the writings of its representatives; and in this case, happily, both writings and representatives are plentiful. secondly, i do not see that there is much to chronicle. landscape-gardening is, in a sense, still in its fumbling stage; it has not increased its resources, or done anything heroic, even on wrong lines; it has not advanced towards any permanent, definable system of ornamentation since it began its gyrations in the last century. its rival champions still beat the air. even repton was better off than the men of to-day, for he had, at least, his protestant formulary of ten objections to swear by, which "mark those errors or absurdities in modern gardening and architecture to which i have never willingly subscribed" (p. , "theory and practice of landscape gardening," , quoted in full above). but the present race of landscape-gardeners are, it strikes me, as much at sea as ever. true they threw up traditional methods as unworthy, but they had not learnt their own art according to nature before they began to practise it; and they are still in the throes of education. their intentions are admirable beyond telling, but their work exhibits in the grossest forms the very vices they condemn in the contrary school; for the expression of their ideas is self-conscious, strained, and pointless. to know at a glance their position towards art in a garden, how crippled their resources, how powerless to design, let me give an extract from mr robinson. he is speaking of an old-fashioned garden, "one of those classical gardens, the planners of which prided themselves upon being able to give nature lessons of good behaviour, to teach her geometry and the fine art of irreproachable lines; but nature abhors lines;[ ] she is for geometers a reluctant pupil, and if she submits to their tyranny she does it with bad grace, and with the firm resolve to take eventually her revenge. man cannot conquer the wildness of her disposition, and so soon as he is no longer at hand to impose his will, so soon as he relaxes his care, she destroys his work" (p. viii., "english flower garden"). this is indeed to concede everything to nature, to deny altogether the mission of art in a garden. [footnote : for which reason, i suppose, mr robinson, in his model "non-geometrical gardens" (p. ), humbly skirts his ground with a path which as nearly represents a tortured horse-shoe as nature would permit; and his trees he puts in a happy-go-lucky way, and allows them to nearly obliterate his path at their own sweet will! no wonder he does not fear nature's revenge, where is so little art to destroy!] and even the school that is rather kinder to art, more lenient to tradition, represented by mr milner--even he, in his admirable book upon the "art and practice of landscape gardening" ( ), is the champion of nature, not of art, in a garden. "nature still seems to work in fetters," he says, and he would "form bases for a better practice of the art" (p. ). again, nature is the great exemplar that i follow" (p. ). they have not got beyond brown, so far as theory is concerned. "under the great leader brown," writes repton, with unconscious irony, "or rather those who patronised his discovery, we were taught that nature was to be our only model"--and brown had his full chance of manipulating the universe, for "he lived to establish a fashion in gardening, which might have been expected to endure as long as nature should exist"; and yet repton's work mostly consisted in repairing brown's errors and in covering the nakedness of his hungry prospects. so it would seem that art has her revenges as well as nature! "the way of transgressors is hard!" the landscape-gardener, i said, gets no nearer to maturity of purpose as time runs on. he creeps and shuffles after nature as at the first--much as the benighted traveller after the will-o'-the-wisp. he may not lay hands on her, because you cannot conquer her wildness, nor impose your will upon her, or teach her good behaviour. he may not apply the "dead formalism of art" to her, for "nature abhors lines." hence his mimicry can never rise above nature. indeed, if it remains faithful to the negative opinions of its practitioners, landscape-gardening will never construct any system of device. it has no creed, if you except that sole article of its faith, "i believe in the non-geometrical garden." a monumental style is an impossibility while it eschews all features that make for state and magnificence and symmetry; a little park scenery, much grass, curved shrubberies, the "laboured littleness" of emphasised specimen plants--the hardy ones dotted about in various parts--wriggling paths, flower-borders, or beds of shapes that imply that they are the offspring of bad dreams, and its tale of effects is told. but as for "fine gardening," that was given up long ago as a bad job! the spirit of walpole's objections to the heroic enterprise of the old-fashioned garden still holds the "landscape-gardener" in check. "i should hardly advise any of those attempts," says walpole; "_they are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands_." it is not so much at what he finds in the landscape gardener's creations that the architect demurs, but at what he misses. it is not so much at what the landscape-gardener recommends that the architect objects, as at what moving in his own little orbit he wilfully shuts out, basing his opposition to tradition upon such an _ex parte_ view of the matter as this--"there are really two styles, one strait-laced, mechanical, with much wall and stone, or it may be gravel, with much also of such geometry as the designer of wall-papers excels in--often poorer than that, with an immoderate supply of spouting water, and with trees in tubs as an accompaniment, and, perhaps, griffins and endless plaster-work, and sculpture of the poorer sort." why "poorer"? "the other, with _right desire_, though _often awkwardly_ (!) accepting nature as a guide, and endeavouring to illustrate in our gardens, _so far as convenience and knowledge will permit_, her many treasures of the world of flowers" ("english flower garden"). how sweetly doth bunkum commend itself! it is not that the architect is small-minded enough to cavil at the landscape-gardener's right to display his taste by his own methods, but that he strikes for the same right for himself. it is not that he would rob the landscape-gardener of the pleasure of expressing his own views as persuasively as he can, but that he resents that air of superiority which the other puts on as he bans the comely types and garnered sweetness of old england's garden, that he accents the proscription of the ways of interpreting nature that have won the sanction of lovers of art and nature of all generations of our forefathers, and this from a school whose prerogative dates no farther back than the discovery of the well-meaning, clumsy, now dethroned kitchen-gardener, known a short century since as "the immortal brown." there is no reviewer so keen as time! chapter vi. the technics of gardening.[ ] "nothing is more the child of art than a garden." sir walter scott. [footnote : these notes make no pretence either at originality or completeness. they represent gleanings from various sources, combined with personal observations on garden-craft from the architect's point of view.--j. d. s.] "for every garden," says sir william temple, "four things are to be provided--flowers, fruit, shade, and water, and whoever lays out a garden without these, must not pretend it in any perfection. nature should not be forced; great sums may be thrown away without effect or honour, if there want sense in proportion to this." briefly, the old master's charge is this: "have common-sense; follow nature." following upon these lines, the gardener's first duty in laying out the grounds to a house is, to study the site, and not only that part of it upon which the house immediately stands, but the whole site, its aspect, character, soil, contour, sectional lines, trees, &c. common-sense, economy, nature, art, alike dictate this. there is an individual character to every plot of land, as to every human face in a crowd; and that man is not wise who, to suit preferences for any given style of garden, or with a view to copying a design from another place, will ignore the characteristics of the site at his disposal. equally unwise will he be to follow that school of gardening that makes chaos before it sets about to make order. features that are based upon, or that grow out of the natural formation of the ground, will not only look better than the created features, but be more to the credit of the gardener, if successful, and will save expense. the ground throughout should be so handled that every natural good point, every tree, mound, declivity, stream, or quarry, or other chance feature, shall be turned to good account, and its consequence heightened, avoiding the error of giving the thing mock importance, by planting, digging, lowering declivities, raising prominences, planting dark-foliaged trees to intensify the receding parts, forming terraces on the slope, or adding other architectural features as may be advisable to connect the garden with the house which is its _raison d'être_, and the building with the landscape. what folly to throw down undulations in order to produce a commonplace level, or to throw up hills, or make rocks, lakes, and waterfalls should the site happen to be level! what folly to make a standing piece of water imitate the curves of a winding river that has no existence, to throw a bridge over it near its termination, so as to close the vista and suggest the continuation of the water beyond! nay, what need of artificial lakes at all if there be a running stream hard by?[ ] [footnote : "all rational improvement of grounds is necessarily founded on a due attention to the character and situation of the place to be improved; the _former_ teaches what is advisable, the _latter_ what is possible to be done. the _situation_ of a place always depends on nature, which can only be assisted, but cannot be entirely changed, or greatly controlled by art; but the _character_ of a place is wholly dependent on art; thus the house, the buildings, the gardens, the roads, the bridges, and every circumstance which marks the habitation of man must be artificial; and although in the works of art we may imitate the forms and graces of nature, yet, to make them truly natural, always leads to absurdity" (repton, p. ).] it is of the utmost importance that art and nature should be linked together, alike in the near neighbourhood of the house, and in its far prospect, so that the scene as it meets the eye, whether at a distance or near, should present a picture of a simple whole, in which each item should take its part without disturbing the individual expression of the ground. to attain this result, it is essential that the ground immediately about the house should be devoted to symmetrical planning, and to distinctly ornamental treatment; and the symmetry should break away by easy stages from the dressed to the undressed parts, and so on to the open country, beginning with wilder effects upon the country-boundaries of the place, and more careful and intricate effects as the house is approached. upon the attainment of this appearance of graduated formality much depends. one knows houses that are well enough in their way, that yet figure as absolute blots upon god's landscape, and that make a man writhe as at false notes in music, and all because due regard has not been paid to this particular. by exercise of forethought in this matter, the house and garden would have been linked to the site, and the site to the landscape; as it is, you wish the house at jericho![ ] [footnote : not so thinks the author of "the english flower garden":--"imagine the effect of a well-built and fine old house, seen from the extremity of a wide lawn, with plenty of trees and shrubs on its outer parts, and nothing to impede the view of the house or its windows but a refreshing carpet of grass. if owners of parks were to consider this point fully, and, as they travel about, watch the effect of such lawns as remain to us, and compare them with what has been done by certain landscape-gardeners, there would shortly be, at many a country-seat, a rapid carting away of the terrace and all its adjuncts." marry, this is sweeping! but repton has some equally strong words condemning the very plan our author recommends: "in the execution of my profession i have often experienced great difficulty and opposition in attempting to correct the false and mistaken taste for placing a large house in a naked grass field, without any apparent line of separation between the ground exposed to cattle and the ground annexed to the house, which i consider as peculiarly under the management of art. "this line of separation being admitted, advantage may be easily taken to ornament the lawn with flowers and shrubs, and to attach to the mansion that scene of 'embellished neatness' usually called a pleasure-ground" (repton, p. . see also no. of repton's "objections," given on p. ).] as the point of access to a house from the public road and the route to be taken afterwards not infrequently determines the position of the house upon the site, it may be well to speak of the approach first. in planning the ground, care will be taken that the approach shall both look well of itself and afford convenient access to the house and its appurtenances, not forgetting the importance of giving to the visitor a pleasing impression of the house as he drives up. in elizabethan and jacobean times, the usual form of approach was the straight avenue, instances of which are still to be seen at montacute, brympton, and burleigh.[ ] the road points direct to the house, as evidence that in the minds of the old architects the house was, as it were, the pivot round which the attached territory and the garden in all its parts radiated; and the road ends, next the house, in a quadrangle or forecourt, which has either an open balustrade or high hedge, and in the centre of the court is a grass plot enlivened by statue or fountain or sundial. and it is worthy of note that they who prefer a road that winds to the very door of a house on the plea of its naturalness make a great mistake; they forget that the winding road is no whit less artificial than the straight one. [footnote : as an instance of how much dignity a noble house may lose by a meanly-planned drive, i would mention hatfield.] the choice of avenue or other type of approach will mainly depend upon the character and situation of the house, its style and quality. repton truly observes that when generally adopted the avenue reduces all houses to the same landscape--"if looking up a straight line, between two green walls, deserves the name of a landscape." he states his objections to avenues thus--"if at the end of a long avenue be placed an obelisk or temple, or any other eye-trap, ignorance or childhood alone will be caught and pleased by it; the eye of taste or experience hates compulsion, and turns away with disgust from every artificial means of attracting its notice; for this reason an avenue is most pleasing which, like that at langley park, climbs up a hill, and passing over the summit, leaves the fancy to conceive its termination." the very dignity of an avenue seems to demand that there shall be something worthy of this procession of trees at its end, and if the house to which this feature is applied be unworthy, a sense of disappointment ensues. provided, however, that the house be worthy of this dignity, and that its introduction does not mar the view, or dismember the ground, an avenue is both an artistic and convenient approach. should circumstances not admit of the use of an avenue, the drive should be as direct as may well be, and if curved, there should be some clear and obvious justification for the curve or divergence; it should be clear that the road is diverted to obtain a glimpse of open country that would otherwise be missed, or that a steep hill or awkward dip is thus avoided. the irregularity in the line of the road should not, however, be the occasion of any break in the gradient of the road, which should be continuously even throughout. in this matter of planning roads, common sense, as well as artistic sense, should be satisfied; there should be no straining after pompous effects. except in cases where the house is near to the public road, the drive should not run parallel to the road for the mere sake of gaining a pretentious effect. nor should the road overlook the garden, a point that touches the comfort both of residents and visitors; and for the same reason the entrance to the garden should not be from the drive, but from the house. the gradient recommended by mr milner,[ ] to whose skilled experience i am indebted for many practical suggestions, is in . the width of a drive is determined by the relative importance of the route. thus, a drive to the principal entrance of the house should be from to ft., while that to the stables or offices ft. walks should not be less than ft. wide. the width of a grand avenue should be ft, and "the trees may be preferably elm, beech, oak, chestnut, and they should not be planted nearer in procession than ft., unless they be planted at intervals of half that distance for the purpose of destroying alternate trees, as their growth makes the removal necessary." [footnote : milner's "art and practice of landscape-gardening," pp. , .] the entrance-gates should not be visible from the mansion, repton says, unless it opens into a courtyard. as to their position, the gates may be formed at the junction of two roads, or where a cross-road comes on to the main road, or where the gates are sufficiently back from the public road to allow a carriage to stand clear. the gates, as well as the lodge, should be at right angles to the drive, and belong to it, not to the public road. where the house and estate are of moderate size, architectural, rather than "rustic," simplicity best suits the character of the lodge. it is desirable, remarks mr milner, to place the entrance, if it can be managed, at the foot of a hill or rise in the public road, and not part of the way up an ascent, or at the top of it. if possible, the house should stand on a platform or terraced eminence, so as to give the appearance of being well above ground; or it should be on a knoll where a view may be had. the ground-level of the house should be of the right height to command the prospect. should the architect be so fortunate as to obtain a site for his house where the ground rises steep and abrupt on one side of the house, he will get here a series of terraces, rock-gardens, a fernery, a rose-garden, &c. the ideal site for a house would have fine prospects to the south-east and to the south-west "the principal approach should be on the north-western face, the offices on the north-eastern side, the stables and kitchen-garden beyond. the pleasure-gardens should be on the south-eastern aspect, with a continuation towards the east; the south-western face might be open to the park" (milner). if it can be avoided, the house should not be placed where the ground slopes towards it--a treatment which suggests water draining into it--but if this position be for some sufficient reason inevitable, or should it be an old house with this defect that we are called to treat, then a good space should be excavated, at least of the level of the house, with a terrace-wall at the far end, on the original level of the site at that particular point. and as to the rest of the ground, repton's sound advice is to plant up the heights so as to increase the effect of shelter and seclusion that the house naturally has, and introduce water, if available, at the low-level of the site. the air of seclusion that the low-lying situation gives to the house is thus intensified by crowning the heights with wood and setting water at the base of the slope. the hanging-gardens at clevedon court afford a good example of what can be done by a judicious formation of ground where the house is situated near the base of a slope, and this example is none the less interesting for its general agreement with lamb's "blakesmoor"--its ample pleasure-garden "rising backwards from the house in triple terraces; ... the verdant quarters backwarder still, and stretching still beyond in old formality, the firry wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel and the day-long murmuring wood-pigeon, with that antique image in the centre." before dealing with the garden and its relation to the house it may be well to say a few words upon planting. trees are among the grandest and most ornamental effects of natural scenery; they help the charm of hill, plain, valley, and dale, and the changes in the colour of their foliage at the different seasons of the year give us perpetual delight. one of the most important elements in ornamental gardens is the dividing up and diversifying a given area by plantations, by grouping of trees to form retired glades, open lawns, shaded alleys, and well-selected margins of woods; and, if this be skilfully done, an impression of variety and extent will be produced beyond the belief of the uninitiated who has seen the bare site before it was planted. to speak generally, there should be no need of apology for applying the most subtle art in the disposal of trees and shrubs, and in the formation of the ground to receive them. "_all art_," as loudon truly says (speaking upon this very point), "_to be acknowledged as art, must be avowed._" this is the case in the fine arts--there is no attempt to conceal art in music, poetry, painting, or sculpture, none in architecture, and none in geometrical-gardening. in modern landscape-gardening, practised as a fine art, many of the more important beauties and effects produced by the artist depend on the use he makes of foreign trees and shrubs; and, personally, one is ready to forgive brown much of his vile vandalism in old-fashioned gardens for the use he makes of cedars, pines, planes, gleditschias, robinias, deciduous cypress, and all the foreign hardy trees and shrubs that were then to his hand. loudon--every inch a fine gardener, true lineal descendant of bacon in the art of gardening--recommends in his "arboretum" (pp. , ) the heading down of large trees of common species, and the grafting upon them foreign species of the same genus, as is done in orchard fruit-trees. hawthorn hedges, for instance, are common everywhere; why not graft some of the rare and beautiful sorts of tree thorns, and intersperse common thorns between them? there are between twenty and thirty beautiful species and varieties of thorn in our nurseries. every gardener can graft and bud. or why should not scarlet oak and scarlet acer be grafted on common species of these genera along the margins of woods and plantations? * * * * * in planting, the gardener has regard for character of foliage and tints, the nature of the soil, the undulations of ground and grouping, the amount of exposure. small plantations of trees surrounded by a fence are the best expedients to form groups, says repton, because trees planted singly seldom grow well. good trees should not be encumbered by peddling bushes, but be treated as specimens, each having its separate mound. the mounds can be formed out of the hollowed pathways in the curves made between the groups. the dotting of trees over the ground or of specimen shrubs on a lawn is destructive of all breadth of effect. this is not to follow nature, nor art, for art demands that each feature shall have relation to other features, and all to the general effect. in planting trees the variety of height in their outline must be considered as much as the variety of their outline on plan; the prominent parts made high, the intervening bays kept low,[ ] and this both in connection with the lie of the ground and the plant selected. uniform curves, such as parts of circles or ovals, are not approved; better effects are obtained by forming long bays or recesses with forked tongues breaking forward irregularly, the turf running into the bays. trees may serve to frame a particular view and frame a picture; and when well led up to the horizon will enhance the imaginative effect of a place: a _beyond_ in any view implies somewhere to explore. [footnote : "one deep recess, one bold prominence, has more effect than twenty little irregularities." "every variety in the outline of a wood must be a _prominence_ or a _recess_" (repton, p. ).] all trees grow more luxuriantly in valleys than on the hills, and on this account the tendency of tree-growth is to neutralise the difference in the rise and fall of the ground and to bring the tops of the trees level. but the perfection of planting is to get an effect approximating as near as may be to the charming undulations of the forest of dean and the new forest. care will be taken, then, not to plant the fast-growing, or tall-growing trees in the low-ground, but on the higher points, and even to add to the irregularity by clothing the natural peaks with silver fir, whose tall heads will increase the sense of height. the limes, planes, and elms will be mostly kept to the higher ground, bunches of scotch fir will be placed here and there, and oaks and beeches grouped together, while the lower ground will be occupied by maples, crabs, thorns, alders, &c. "fringe the edges of your wood with lines of horse-chestnut," says viscount lymington in his delightful and valuable article on "vert and venery"--"a mass in spring of blossom, and in autumn of colour; and under these chestnuts, and in nooks and corners, thrust in some laburnum, that it may push its showers of gold out to the light and over the fence." as to the nature of the soil, and degree of exposure suitable to different forest-trees, the writer just quoted holds that, for exposure to the wind inland, the best trees for all soils are the beech, the austrian pine, and the scotch fir. for exposure in hedgerows, the best tree to plant ordinarily is the elm. for exposure to frost, the insignis pine, which will not, however, stand the frosts of the valley, but prefers high ground. for exposure to smoke, undoubtedly the best tree is the western plane. the sycamore will stand better than most trees the smoke and chemical works of manufacturing towns. for sea-exposure, the best trees to plant are the goat willow and pineaster. among the low-growing shrubs which stand sea-exposure well are mentioned the sea-buckthorn, the snow-berry, the evergreen barberry, and the german tamarisk; to which should be added the euonymus and the escallonia. with regard to the nature of the soil, lord lymington says: "strong clay produces the best oaks and the best silver fir. a deep loam is the most favourable soil for the growth of the spanish chestnut and ash. the beech is the glorious weed of the chalk and down countries; the elm of the rich red sandstone valleys. coniferous trees prefer land of a light sandy texture; ... but as many desire to plant conifers on other soils, i would mention that the following among others will grow on most soils, chalk included: the _abies excelsa_, _canadensis_, _magnifica_, _nobilis_, and _pinsapo_; the _pinus excelsa_, _insignis_, and _laricio_; the _cupressus lawsoniana_, _erecta_, _viridis_, and _macrocarpa_; the _salisburia adiantifolia_, and the _wellingtonia_. the most fast-growing in england of conifers is the douglas fir.... it grows luxuriantly on the slopes of the hills, but will not stand exposure to the wind, and for that reason should always be planted in sheltered combes with other trees behind it. "in moist and boggy land the spruce or the willow tribes succeed best." "in high, poor, and very dry land, no tree thrives so well as the scotch fir, the beech, and the sycamore." avoid the selfishness and false economy of planting an inferior class of fast-growing trees such as firs and larches and lombardy poplars, on the ground that one would not live to get any pleasure out of woods of oaks and beech and chestnut. how frequently one sees tall, scraggy planes, or belts of naked, attenuated firs, where groups of oaks and elms and groves of chestnut might have stood with greater advantage. avoid the thoughtlessness and false economy of not thoroughly preparing the ground before planting. "those that plant," says an old writer, "should make their ground fit for the trees before they set them, and not bury them in a hole like a dead dog; let them have good and fresh lodgings suitable to their quality, and good attendance also, to preserve them from their enemies till they are able to encounter them." avoid trees near a house; they tend to make it damp, and the garden which is near the house untidy. writers upon planting have their own ideas as to the fitness of certain growths for a certain style of house. as regards the relation of trees to the house, if the building be of gothic design with the piquant outline usual to the style, then trees of round shape form the best foil; if of classic or renascence design, then trees of vertical conic growth suit best. so, if the house be of stone, trees of dark foliage best meet the case; if of brick, trees of lighter foliage should prevail. as a backing to the horizontal line of a roof to an ordinary two-storey building, nothing looks better than the long stems of stone pines or scotch firs; and pines are health-giving trees. never mark the outline of ground, nor the shape of groups of trees and shrubs with formal rows of bedding plants or other stiff edging, which is the almost universal practice of gardeners in the present day. this is a poor travesty of bacon's garden, who only allows low things to grow naturally up to the edges. from the artist's point of view, perhaps the most desirable quality to aim at in the distribution of garden space is that of breadth of effect--in other words, simplicity; and the larger the garden the more need does there seem for getting this quality. one may, in a manner, _toy_ with a small garden. in the case of a large garden, where the owner in his greed for prettiness has carried things further than regulation-taste would allow, much may be done to subdue the assertiveness of a multiplicity of interesting objects by architectural adjuncts--broad terraces, well-defined lines, even a range of sentinel yews or clipt shrubs--things that are precise, grave, calm, and monotonous. where such things are brought upon the scene, a certain spaciousness and amplitude of effect ensues as a matter of course. one sees that the modern gardener, with his augmented list of specimen-plants of varied foliage, is far more apt to err in the direction of sensationalism than the gardener of old days who was exempt from many of our temptations. add to this power of attaining sweetness and intricacy the artist's prone aspirations to work up to his lights and opportunities, and we have temptation which is seductiveness itself! the garden at highnam court, dear to me for its signs and memories of my late accomplished friend, mr t. gambier parry, is the perfectest modern garden i have ever seen. but here, if there be a fault, it is that art has been allowed to blossom too profusely. the attention of the visitor is never allowed to drop, but is ever kept on the stretch. you are throughout too much led by the master's cunning hand. every known bit of garden-artifice, every white lie of art, every known variety of choice tree or shrub, or trick of garden-arrangement is set forth there. but somehow each thing strikes you as a little vainglorious--too sensible of its own importance. we go about in a sort of pre-raphaelite frame of mind, where each seemly and beauteous feature has so much to say for itself that, in the delightfulness of the details, we are apt to forget that it is the first business of any work of art to be a unit. there is nothing of single specimen, or group of intermingled variety, or adroit vista that we may miss and not be a loser; the only drawback is that we see what we are expected to see, what everyone else sees. here is greenery of every hue; every metallic tint of silver, gold, copper, bronze is there; and old and new favourites take hands, and we feel that it is perfect; but the things blush in their conscious beauty--every prospect is best seen "_there_!" england has few such beautiful gardens as highnam, and it has all the pathos of the touch of "a vanished hand," and ideals that have wider range now. as to this matter of scenic effects, it is of course only fair to remember that a garden is a place meant not only for broad vision, but for minute scrutiny; and, specially near the house, intricacy is permissible. yet the counsels of perfection would tell the artist to eschew such prettiness and multiplied beauties as trench upon broad dignity. sweetness is not good everywhere. variations in plant-life that are over-enforced, like variations in music, may be inferior to the simple theme. a commonplace house, with well-disposed grounds, flower-beds in the right place, a well-planted lawn, may please longer than a fine pile where is ostentation and unrelieved artifice. of lawns. everything in a garden, we have said, has its first original in primal nature: a garden is made up of wild things that are tamed. the old masters fully realised this. they sucked out the honey of wild things without carrying refinement too far before they sipped it; and in garnering for their _house beautiful_ the rustic flavour is left so far as was compatible with the requirements of art--"as much as may be to a natural wildness." and it were well for us to do the same in the treatment of a lawn, which is only the grassy, sun-chequered, woodland glade in, or between woods, in a wild country idealised. a lawn is one of the delights of man. the "teutonic races"--says mr charles dudley warner, in his large american way--"the teutonic races all love turf; they emigrate in the line of its growth." flower-beds breed cheerfulness, but they may at times be too gay for tired eyes and jaded minds; they may provoke admiration till they are provoking. but a garden-lawn is a vision of peace, and its tranquil grace is a boon of unspeakable value to people doomed to pass their working-hours in the hustle of city-life. the question of planting and of lawn-making runs together, and nature admonishes us how to set about this work. every resource she offers should be met by the resources of art: avoid what she avoids, accept and heighten what she gives. nature in the wild avoids half-circles and ovals and uniform curves, and they are bad in the planted park, both for trees and greensward. nature does not of herself dot the landscape over with spies sent out single-handed to show the nakedness of the land, but puts forth detachments that befriend each the other, the boldest and fittest first, in jagged outlines, leading the way, but not out of touch with the rest. and, since the modern landscape-gardener is nothing if not a naturalist, this is why one cannot see the consistency of so fine a master as mr marnock, when he dots his lawns over with straggling specimens. (see the model garden, by mr marnock in "the english flower-garden," p. xxi, described thus--"here the foreground is a sloping lawn; the flowers are mostly arranged near the kitchen garden, partly shown to right; the hardy ones grouped and scattered in various positions near, or within good view of, the one bold walk which sweeps round the ground.") a garden is ground knit up artistically; ground which has been the field of artistic enterprise; ground which expresses the feeling of beauty and which absorbs qualities which man has discovered in the woodland world. and the qualities in nature which may well find room in a garden are peace, variety, animation. a good sweep of lawn is a peaceful object, but see that the view is not impeded with the modern's sprawling pell-mell beds. and in the anxiety to make the most of your ground, do not spoil a distant prospect. remember, too, that a lawn requires a good depth of soil, or it will look parched in the hot weather. and since a lawn is so delightful a thing, beware lest your admiration of it lead you to swamp your whole ground with grass even to carrying it up to the house itself. "nothing is more a child of art than a garden," says sir walter, and he was competent to judge. if only out of compliment to your architect and to the formal angularities of his building, let the ground immediately about the house be of an ornamental dressed character. avoid the misplaced rusticity of the fashionable landscape-gardener, who with his nebuchadnezzar tastes would turn everything into grass, would cart away the terrace and all its adjuncts, do away with all flowers, and "lawn your hundred good acres of wheat," as repton says, if you will only let him, and if you have them. in his devotion to grass, his eagerness to display the measure of his art in the curves of shrubberies and the arrangement of specimen plants that strut across your lawn or dot it over as the sunday scholars do the croft when they come for their annual treat, he quite forgets the flowers--forgets the old intent of a garden as the house beautiful of the civilised world--the place for nature-rapture, colour-pageantry, and sweet odours. "here the foreground is a sloping lawn; the _flowers are mostly arranged near the kitchen garden_." anywhere, anywhere out of the way! or if admitted at all into view of the house, it shall be with little limited privileges, and the stern injunction-- "if you speak you must not show your face, or if you show your face you must not speak." so much for the garden-craft of the best modern landscape-gardener and its relation to flowers. if this be the garden of the "gardenesque" style, as it is proudly called, i personally prefer the garden without the style. chapter vii. the technics of gardening--(_continued._) "i cannot think nature is so spent and decayed that she can bring forth nothing worth her former years. she is always the same, like herself; and when she collects her strength is abler still. men are decayed, and studies; she is not."--ben jonson. the old-fashioned country house has, almost invariably, a garden that curtseys to the house, with its formal lines, its terraces, and beds of geometrical patterns. but to the ordinary landscape-gardener the terrace is as much anathema as the "kist o' whistles" to the scotch puritan! so able and distinguished a gardener as mr robinson, while not absolutely forbidding any architectural accessories or geometrical arrangement, is for ever girding at them. the worst thing that can be done with a true garden, he says ("the english flower garden," p. ii), "is to introduce any feature which, unlike the materials of our world-designer, never changes. there are positions, it is true, where the _intrusion of architecture_ and embankment into the garden is justifiable; nay, now and then, even necessary." if one is to promulgate opinions that shall run counter to the wisdom of the whole civilised world, it is, of course, well that they should be pronounced with the air of a moses freshly come down from the mount, with the tables of the law in his hands. and there is more of it. "there is no code of taste resting on any solid foundation which proves that garden or park should have any extensive stonework or geometrical arrangement.... let us, then, use as few oil-cloth or carpet patterns and as little stonework as possible in our gardens. the style is in doubtful taste in climates and positions more suited to it than that of england, but he who would adopt it in the present day is an enemy to every true interest of the garden" (p. vi). so much for the "deadly formalism" of an old-fashioned garden in our author's eyes! but, as horace walpole might say, "it is not peculiar to mr robinson to think in that manner." it is the way of the landscape-gardener to monopolise to himself all the right principles of gardening; he is the angel of the garden who protects its true interests; all other moods than his are low, all figures other than his are symbols of errors, all dealings with nature or with "the materials of our world-designer" other than his are spurious. for the colonies i can imagine no fitter doctrines than our author's, but not for an old land like ours, and for methods that have the approval of men like bacon, temple, more, evelyn, sir joshua, sir walter, elia, wordsworth, tennyson, morris, and jefferies. and, even in the colonies, they might demand to see "the code of taste resting on any solid foundation which proves" that you shall have any garden or park at all! "if i am to have a system at all," says the author of "the flower garden" (murray, ), whose broad-minded views declare him to be an amateur, "give me the good old system of terraces and angled walks, the clipt yew hedges, against whose dark and rich verdure the bright old-fashioned flowers glittered in the sun." or again: "of all the vain assumptions of these coxcombical times, that which arrogates the pre-eminence in the true science of gardening is the vainest.... the real beauty and poetry of a garden are lost in our efforts after rarity. if we review the various styles that have prevailed in england from the knotted gardens of elizabeth ... to the landscape fashion of the present day, we shall have little reason to pride ourselves on the advance which national taste has made upon the earliest efforts in this department" ("the praise of gardens," p. ). "large or small," says mr w. morris, "the garden should look both orderly and rich. it should be well fenced from the outer world. it should by no means imitate either the wilfulness or the wildness of nature, but should look like a thing never seen except near a house" ("hopes and fears"). the whole point of the matter is, however, perhaps best summed up in hazlitt's remark, that there is a pleasure in art which none but artists feel. and why this sudden respect for "the materials of our world-designer," when we may ask in repton's words "why this art has been called landscape-gardening, perhaps he who gave the title may explain. i see no reason, unless it be the efficacy which it has shown in destroying landscapes, in which indeed it is infallible!" but, setting aside the transparent shallowness of such a plea against the use of art in a garden, it argues little for the scheme of effects to leave "nothing to impede the view of the house or its windows but a refreshing carpet of grass." to pitch your house down upon the grass with no architectural accessories about it, to link it to the soil, is to vulgarise it, to rob it of importance, to give it the look of a pastoral farm, green to the door-step. to bring nature up to the windows of your house, with a scorn of art-sweetness, is not only to betray your own deadness to form, but to cause a sense of unexpected blankness in the visitor's mind on leaving the well-appointed interior of an english home. as the house is an art-production, so is the garden that surrounds it, and there is no code of taste that i know of which would prove that art is more reprehensible in the garden than in the house. but to return. the old-fashioned country house had its terraces. these terraces are not mere narrow slopes of turf, such as now-a-days too often answer to the term, but they are of solid masonry with balustrades or open-work that give an agreeable variety of light and shade, and impart an air of importance and of altitude to the house that would be lacking if the terrace were not there. [illustration: plan of rosery, with sundial.] the whole of the ground upon which the house stands, or which forms its base, constitutes the terrace. in such cases the terrace-walls are usually in two or more levels, the upper terrace being mostly parallel with the line of the house, or bowed out at intervals with balconies, while the lower terrace, or terraces, serve as the varying levels of formal gardens, pleasure-grounds, labyrinths, &c. the terraces are approached by wide steps that are treated in a stately and impressive manner. the walls and balustrades, moreover, conform, as they should, to the materials employed in the house; if the house be of stone, as at haddon, or brympton, or claverton, the balustrade is of stone; if the house be of brick, as at hatfield or bramshill, the walls and balustrades will be of brick and terra-cotta. the advantage of this agreement of material is obvious, for house and terrace, embraced at one glance, make a consistent whole. there is not, of course, the same necessity for consistency of material in the case of the mere retaining walls. as one must needs have a system in planning grounds, there is none that will more certainly bring honour and effect to them than the regular geometrical treatment. this is what the architect naturally prefers. the house is his child, and he knows what is good for it. unlike the imported gardener, who comes upon the scene as a foreign agent, the architect works from the house outwards, taking the house as his centre; the other works from the outside inwards, if he thinks of the "inwards" at all. the first thinks of house and grounds as a whole which shall embrace the main buildings, the outbuildings, the flower and kitchen-gardens, terraces, walls, forecourt, winter-garden, conservatory, fountain, steps, &c. the other makes the house common to the commonplace; owing no allegiance to art, a specialist of one idea, he holds that the worst thing that can be done is to intrude architectural or geometrical arrangement about a garden, and speaks of a refreshing carpet of grass as preferable. as to the extent, number, and situation of terraces, this point is determined by the conditions of the house and site. terraces come naturally if the house be on an eminence, but even in cases where the ground recedes only to a slight extent, the surface of a second terrace may be lowered by increasing the fall of the slope till sufficient earth is provided for the requisite filling. the surplus earth dug out in forming the foundations and cellars of the house, or rubbish from an old building, will help to make up the terrace levels and save the cost of wheeling and carting the rubbish away. like all embankments, terrace walls are built with "battered" fronts or outward slope; the back of the wall will be left rough, and well drained. a backing of sods, mr milner says, will prevent thrust, and admit of a lessened thickness in the wall. the walls should not be less than three feet in height from the ground-level beneath, exclusive of the balustrade, which is another three feet high. [illustration: plan of tennis lawn, terraces, and flower garden.] the length of the terrace adds importance to the house, and in small gardens, where the kitchen-garden occupies one side of the flower-garden, the terrace may with advantage be carried to the full extent of the ground, and the kitchen-garden separated by a hedge and shrubs; and at the upper end of the kitchen-garden may be a narrow garden, geometrical, rock, or other garden, set next the terrace wall. the treatment of the upper terrace should be strictly architectural. if the terrace be wide, raised beds with stone edging, set on the inner side of the terrace, say alternately long beds with dwarf flowering shrubs or hydrangeas, and circles with standard hollies, or marble statues on pedestals, that shall alternate with pyramidal golden yews, have a good effect, the terrace terminating with an arbour or stone pavilion. modern taste, however, even if it condescend so far as to allow of a terrace, is content with its grass plot and gravel walks, which is not carrying art very far. laneham tells of the old pleasaunce at kenilworth, that it had a terrace ft. high and ft. wide on the garden side, in which were set at intervals obelisks and spheres and white bears, "all of stone, upon their curious bases," and at each end an arbour; the garden-plot was below this, and had its fair alleys, or grass, or gravel. the lower terrace may well be twice the width of the upper one, and may be a geometrical garden laid out on turf, if preferred, but far better upon gravel. here will be collected the choicest flowers in the garden, giving a mass of rich colouring. although in old gardens the lower terrace is some ft. below the upper one, this is too deep to suit modern taste; indeed, ft. or ft. will give a better view of the garden if it is to be viewed from the house. at the same time it is undeniable that the more you are able to look _down_ upon the garden--the higher you stand above its plane--the better the effect; the lower you stand, the poorer the perspective. modern taste, also, will not always tolerate a balustraded wall as a boundary to the terrace, but likes a grass slope. if this poor substitute be preferred, there should be a level space at the bottom of the slope and at the top; the slope should have a continuous line, and not follow any irregularity in the natural lie of the ground, and there should be a simple plinth to in. high at the bottom of the slope. but the mere grass slope does not much help the effect of the house, far or near; a house standing on a grass slope always has the effect of sliding down a hill. to leave the house exposed upon the landscape, unscreened and unterraced, is not to treat site or house fairly. there exists a certain necessity for features in a flat place, and if no raised terrace be possible, it is desirable to get architectural treatment by means of balustrades alone, without much, or any, fall in the ground. the eye always asks for definite boundaries to a piece of ornamental ground as it does for a frame to a picture, and where definite boundaries do not exist, the distant effect is that of a house that has tumbled casually down from the skies, near which the cattle may graze as they list, and the flower-beds are the mere sport of contingencies. [illustration: general plan of the pleasaunce, villa albani, rome.] good examples of terrace walls are to be found at haddon, claverton, brympton, montacute, bramshill, wilton, and blickling hall. if truth be told, however, all our english examples dwindle into nothingness by the side of fine italian examples like those at villa albani,[ ] villa medici, or villa borghese, with their grand scope and array of sculpture. (see illustration from percier and fontaine's "_choix des plus célèbres maisons de plaisance de rome et de ses environs_." paris, mdccciv.) [footnote : see accompanying plans.] the arrangement of steps is a matter that may call forth a man's utmost ingenuity. the scope and variety of step arrangement is, indeed, a matter that can only be realised by designers who have given it their study. as to practical points. in planning steps make the treads wide, the risers low. long flights without landings are always objectionable. some of the best examples, both in england and abroad, have winders; as to the library quadrangle, trinity coll., cambridge; donibristle castle, scotland; villa d'este, tivoli; the gardens at nîmes. the grandest specimen of all is the trinità di monte steps in rome (see notes on gardens in _the british architect_, by john belcher and mervyn macartney). it is impossible to lay down rules of equal application everywhere as to the distribution of garden area into compartments, borders, terraces, walks, &c. these matters are partly regulated by the character of the house, its situation, the section and outline of the ground. but gardens should, if possible, lie towards the best parts of the house, or towards the rooms most commonly in use by the family, and endeavour should be made to plant them so that to step from the house on to the terrace, or from the terrace to the various parts of the garden, should only seem like going from one room to another. of the arrangement of the ground into divisions, each section should have its own special attractiveness and should be led up to by some inviting artifice of archway, or screened alley of shrubs, or "rosery" with its trellis-work, or stone colonnade; and if the alley be long it should be high enough to afford shade from the glare of the sun in hot weather; you ought not, as bacon pertinently says, to "buy the shade by going into the sun." again, the useful and the beautiful should be happily united, the kitchen and the flower garden, the way to the stables and outbuildings, the orchard, the winter garden, &c., all having a share of consideration and a sense of connectedness; and if there be a chance for a filbert walk, seize it; that at hatfield is charming. "i cannot understand," says richard jefferies ("wild life in a southern country," p. ), "why filbert walks are not planted by our modern capitalists, who make nothing of spending a thousand pounds in forcing-houses." a garden should be well fenced, and there should always be facility for getting real seclusion, so much needed now-a-days; indeed, the provision of places of retreat has always been a note of an english garden. the love of retirement, almost as much as a taste for trees and flowers, has dictated its shapes. hence the cedar-walks,[ ] the bower, the avenue, the maze, the alley, the wilderness, that were familiar, and almost the invariable features of an old english pleasaunce, "hidden happily and shielded safe." [footnote : one of the finest and weirdest cedar-walks that i have ever met with is that at marwell, near owslebury in hampshire. here you realise the wizardry of green gloom and sense of perfect seclusion. it was here that henry viii. courted one of his too willing wives.] this seclusion can be got by judicious screening of parts, by shrubberies, or avenues of hazel, or yew, or sweet-scented bay, with perhaps clusters of lilies and hollyhocks, or dwarf alpine plants and trailers between. and in all this the true gardener will have a thought for the birds. "no modern exotic evergreens," says jefferies, "ever attract our english birds like the true old english trees and shrubs. in the box and yew they love to build; spindly laurels and rhododendrons, with vacant draughty spaces underneath, they detest, avoiding them as much as possible. the common hawthorn hedge round a country garden shall contain three times as many nests, and be visited by five times as many birds as the foreign evergreens, so costly to rear and so sure to be killed by the first old-fashioned frost." another chance for getting seclusion is the high walls or lofty yew hedge of the quadrangular courtyard, which may be near the entrance. such a forecourt is the place for a walk on bleak days; in its borders you are sure of the earliest spring flowers, for the tender flowers can here bloom securely, the myrtle, the pomegranate will flourish, and the most fragrant plants and climbers hang over the door and windows. what is more charming than the effect of hollyhocks, peonies, poppies, tritomas, and tulips seen against a yew hedge? the paths should be wide and excellently made. the english have always had good paths; as mr evelyn said to mr pepys, "we have the best walks of gravell in the world, france having none, nor italy." the comfort and the elegance of a garden depend in no slight degree upon good gravel walks, but having secured gravel walks to all parts of the grounds, green alleys should also be provided. nothing is prettier than a vista through the smooth-shaven green alley, with a statue or sundial or pavilion at the end; or an archway framing a peep of the country beyond. as to the garden's size, it is erroneous to suppose that the enjoyments of a garden are only in proportion to its magnitude; the pleasurableness of a garden depends infinitely more upon the degree of its culture and the loving care that is bestowed upon it. if gardens were smaller than they usually are, there would be a better chance of their orderly keeping. as it is, gardens are mostly too large for the number of attendants, so that the time and care of the gardener are nearly absorbed in the manual labour of repairing and stocking the beds, and maintaining and sweeping the walks. [illustration: plan shewing arrangement of sunk flower garden, yew walk, and tennis court.] but if not large, the grounds should not have the appearance of being confined within a limited space; and art is well spent in giving an effect of greater extent to the place than it really possesses by a suitable composition of the walks, bushes, and trees. these lines should lead the eye to the distance, and if bounded by trees, the garden should be connected with the outer world by judicious openings; and this rule applies to gardens large or small. ground possessing a gentle inclination towards the south is desirable for a garden. on such a slope effectual drainage is easily accomplished, and the greatest possible benefit obtained from the sun's rays. the garden should, if possible, have an open exposure towards the east and west, so that it may enjoy the full benefit of morning and evening sun; but shelter on the north or north-east, or any side in which the particular locality may happen to be exposed, is desirable. the dimensions of the garden will be proportionate to the scale of the house. the general size of the garden to a good-sized house is from four to six acres, but the extent varies in many places from twelve to twenty, or even thirty acres. (see an admirable article on gardening in the "encyclopædia.") before commencing to lay out a garden the plan should be prepared in minute detail, and every point carefully considered. two or three acres of kitchen garden, enclosed by walls and surrounded by slips, will suffice for the supply of a moderate establishment.[ ] the form of the kitchen garden advocated by the writer in the "encyclopædia" is that of a square, or oblong, not curvilinear, since the work of cropping of the ground can thus be more easily carried out. on the whole, the best form is that of a parallelogram, with its longest sides in the proportion of about five to three of the shorter, and running east and west. the whole should be compactly arranged so as to facilitate working, and to afford convenient access for the carting of heavy materials to the store-yards, etc. [footnote : as the walls afford valuable space for the growth of the choicer kinds of hardy fruits, the direction in which they are built is of considerable importance. "in the warmer parts of the country, the wall on the north side of the garden should be so placed as to face the sun at about an hour before noon, or a little to east of south; in less favoured localities it should be made to face direct south, and in the still more unfavourable districts it should face the sun an hour after noon, or a little west of south. the east and west walls should run parallel to each other, and at right angles to that on the north side."] there can, as we have said, be no fixed or uniform arrangement of gardens. some grounds will have more flower-beds than others, some more park or wilderness; some will have terraces, some not; some a pinetum, or an american garden. in some gardens the terraces will lie immediately below the main front of the house, in others not, because the geometrical garden needs a more sheltered site where the flowers can thrive. [illustration: plan of sunk flower garden and yew hedges.] of the shapes of the beds it were of little avail to speak, and the diagrams here given are only of use where the conditions of the ground properly admit of their application. the geometrical garden is capable of great variety of handling. a fair size for a geometrical garden is ft. by ft. this size will allow of a main central walk of seven feet that shall divide the panel into two equal parts and lead down to the next level. the space may have a balustrade along its length on the two sides, and on the garden side of the balustrade a flower-bed of mixed flowers and choice low-growing shrubs, backed with hollyhocks, tritoma, lilies, golden-rod, etc. the width of the border will correspond with the space required for the steps that descend from the upper terrace. for obtaining pleasant proportions in the design, the walks in the garden will be of two sizes, gravelled like the rest--the wider walk, say, three feet, the smaller, one foot nine inches. the centre of the garden device on each side may be a raised bed with a stone kerb and an ornamental shrub in the middle, and the space around with, say, periwinkle or stonecrop, mixed with white harebells, or low creepers. or, should there be no wide main walk, and the garden-plot be treated as one composition, the central bed will have a statue, sundial, fountain, or other architectural feature. each bed will be edged with box or chamfered stone, or terra-cotta edging. or the formal garden may be sunk below the level of the paths, and filled either with flowers or with dwarf coniferæ. both for practical and artistic reasons, the beds should not be too small; they should not be so small that, when filled with plants, they should appear like spots of colour, nor be so large that any part of them cannot be easily reached by a rake. nor should the shapes of the beds be too angular to accommodate the plants well. in sir gardner wilkinson's book on "colour" (murray, , p. ), he speaks of design and good form as the very _soul_ of a dressed garden; and the very permanence of the forms, which remain though successive series of plants be removed, calls for a good design. the shapes of the beds, as well as the colours of their contents, are taken cognisance of in estimating the general effect of a geometrical garden. this same accomplished author advises that there should always be a less formal garden beyond the geometrical one; the latter is, so to speak, an appurtenance of the house, a feature of the plateau upon which it stands, and no attempt should be made to combine the patterns of the geometrical with the beds or borders of the outer informal garden, such combination being specially ill-judged in the neighbourhood of bushes and winding paths. of the proper selection of flowers and the determination of the colours for harmonious combination in the geometrical beds, much that is contradictory has been preached, one gardener leaning to more formality than another. there is, however, a general agreement upon the necessity of having beds that will look fairly well at all seasons of the year, and an agreement as to the use of hardy flowers in these beds. mr robinson has some good advice to give upon this point ("english flower garden," p. ): "the ugliest and most needless parterre (!) in england may be planted in the most beautiful way with hardy flowers alone." (why "needless," then?) "are we not all wrong in adopting one degree, so to say, of plant life as the only fitting one to lay before the house? is it well to devote the flower-bed to one type of vegetation only--low herbaceous vegetation--be that hardy or tender?... we have been so long accustomed to leave flower-beds raw, and to put a number of plants out every year, forming flat surfaces of colour, that no one even thinks of the higher and better way of filling them. but surely it is worth considering whether it would not be right to fill the beds permanently, rather than to leave them in this naked or flat condition throughout the whole of the year.... if any place asks for permanent planting, it is the spot of ground immediately near the house; for no one can wish to see large, grave-like masses of soil frequently dug and disturbed near the windows, and few care for the result of all this, even when the ground is well covered during a good season." again our author, on p. , states that "he has very decided notions as to arrangement of the various colours for summer bedding, which are that the whole shall be so commingled that one would be puzzled to determine what tint predominates in the entire arrangement." he would have a "glaucous" colour, that is, a light grey or whitish green. such a colour never tires the eye, and harmonises with the tints of the landscape, "particularly of the lawn." this seems to be neutralising the effects of the flowers, and this primal consideration of the lawn is like scorning your picture for the sake of its frame! sir gardner wilkinson, who writes of gardens from quite another point of view, says: "it is by no means necessary or advisable to select rare flowers for the beds, and some of the most common are the most eligible, being more hardy, and therefore less likely to fail, or to cover the bed with a scanty and imperfect display of colour. indeed, it is a common mistake to seek rare flowers, when many of the old and most ordinary varieties are far more beautiful. the point to note in this matter of choosing flowers for a geometrical garden is to ascertain first the lines that will best accord with the design, and make for a harmonious and brilliant effect, and to see that the flowers best suited to it blossom at the same periods. a succession of those of the same colour may be made to take the place of each, and continue the design at successive seasons. they should also be, as near as possible, of the same height as their companions, so that the blue flowers be not over tall in one bed, or the red too short in another.... common flowers, the weeds of the country, are often most beautiful in colour, and are not to be despised because they are common; they have also the advantage of being hardy, and rare flowers are not always those best suited for beds" (wilkinson on "colour," p. ). with regard to the ornamental turf-beds of our modern gardens. to judge of a garden upon high principles, we expect it to be the finest and fittest expression that a given plot of ground will take; it must be the perfect adaptation of means to an end and that end is beauty. are we to suppose, then, that the turf-beds of strange device that we meet with in modern gardens are the best that can be done by the heir of all the ages in the way of garden-craft? a garden, i am aware, has other things to attend to besides the demands of ideal beauty; it has to embellish life to supply innocent pleasure to the inmates of the house as well as to dignify the house itself; and the devising of these vagrant beds that sprawl about the grounds is a pleasure that can be ill spared from the artistic delights of a modern householder. it is indeed wonderful to what heights the british fancy can rise when put to the push, if only it have a congenial field! so here we have flower-beds shaped as crescents and kidneys--beds like flying bats or bubbling tadpoles, commingled butterflies and leeches, stars and sausages, hearts and commas, monograms and maggots--a motley assortment to be sure--but the modern mind is motley, and the pretty flowers smile a sickly smile out of their comic beds, as though paradise itself could provide them with no fairer lodgings! and yet if i dare speak my mind "sike fancies weren foolerie;" and it were hard to find a good word to say for them from any point of view whatever. their wobbly shapes are not elegant; they have not the sanction of precedent, even of epochs the most barbarous. and though they make pretence at being a species of art, their mock-formality has not that geometric precision which shall bind them to the formal lines of the house, or to the general bearings of the site. not only do they contribute nothing to the artistic effect of the general design, but they even mar the appearance of the grass that accommodates them. design they have, but not design of that quality which alone justifies its intrusion. no wonder "nature abhors lines" if this base and spurious imitation of the "old formality," that charles lamb gloats over, is all that the landscape-garden can offer in the way of idealisation. one other feature of the old-fashioned garden--the herbaceous border--requires a word. it is worthy of note that, unlike the modern, the ancient gardener was not a man of one idea--his art is not bounded like a barrel-organ that can only play one invariable tune! while the master of the "old formality" can give intricate harmonies of inwoven colours in the geometric beds--"all mosaic, choicely planned," where nature lends her utmost magic to grace man's fancy--he knows the value of the less as well as the more, and finds equal room for the unconstrained melodies of odd free growths in the border-beds, where you shall enjoy the individual character, the form, the outline, the colour, the tone of each plant. here let the mind of an earlier generation speak in george milner's "country pleasures": "by this time i have got round to the old english flower-bed, where only perennials with an ancient ancestry are allowed to grow. here there is always delight; and i should be sorry to exchange its sweet flowers for any number of cartloads of scentless bedding-plants, mechanically arranged and ribbon-bordered. this bed is from fifty to sixty yards long, and three or four yards in width. a thorn hedge divides it from the orchard. in spring the apple-bloom hangs over, and now we see in the background the apples themselves. the plants still in flower are the dark blue monkshood, which is ft. high; the spiked veronica; the meadow-sweet or queen-o'-the-meadow; the lady's mantle, and the evening primrose. this last may be regarded as the characteristic plant of the season. the flowers open about seven o'clock, and as the twilight deepens, they gleam like pale lamps, and harmonise wonderfully with the colour of the sky. _on this bed i read the history of the year._ here were the first snowdrops; here came the crocuses, the daffodils, the blue gentians, the columbines, the great globed peonies; and last, the lilies and the roses." and now to apply what has been said. since gardening entails so much study and experience--since it is a craft in which one is so apt to err, in small matters as in large--since it exists to represent passages of nature that have touched man's imagination from time immemorial--since its business is to paint living pictures of living things whose habits, aspects, qualities, and character have ever engaged man's interest--since the modern gardener has not only not found new sources of inspiration unknown of old, but has even lost sensibility to some that were active then--it were surely wise to take the hand of old garden-masters who did large things in a larger past--to whom fine gardening came as second nature--whose success has given english garden-craft repute which not even the journeyman efforts of modern times can quite extinguish. these men--bacon, temple, evelyn, and their school--let us follow for style, elevated form, noble ideals, and artistic interpretation of nature. for practical knowledge of trees and shrubs, indigenous or exotic--to know _how_ to plant and _what_ to plant--to know what to avoid in the practice of modern blunderers--to know the true theory and practice of landscape-gardening, reduced to writing, after ample analysis--turn we to those books of solid value of the three great luminaries of modern garden-craft, gilpin, repton, loudon. and it were not only to be ungenerous, but absolutely foolish, to neglect the study of the best that is now written and done in the way of landscape-gardening, in methods of planting, and illustration of botany up to date. one school may see things from a different point of view to another, yet is there but one art of gardening. it is certain that to gain boldness in practice, to have clear views upon that delicate point--the relations of art and nature--to have a reliable standard of excellence, we must know and value the good in the garden-craft of all times, we must sympathise with the point of view of each phase, and follow that which is good in each and all without scruple and doubtfulness. that man is a fool who thinks that he can escape the influence of his day, or that he can dispense with tradition. i say, let us follow the old garden-masters for style, form, ideal, and artistic interpretation of nature, and let us not say what horace walpole whimpered forth of temple's garden-enterprise: "these are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands." have we not seen that at the close of bacon's lessons in grand gardening he adds, that the things thrown in "for state and magnificence" are but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden? the counsels of perfection are not to be slighted because our ground is small. in gardening, as in other matters, the true test of one's work is the measure of one's possibilities. a small, trim garden, like a sonnet, may contain the very soul of beauty. a small garden may be as truly admirable as a perfect song or painting. let it be our aim, then, to give to gardening all the method and distinctness of which it is capable, and admit no impediments. a garden not fifty yards square, deftly handled, judiciously laid out, its beds and walks suitably directed, will yield thrice the opportunity for craft, thrice the scope for imaginative endeavour that a two-acre "garden" of the pastoral-farm order, such as is recommended of the faculty, will yield. the very division of the ground into proportionate parts, the varied levels obtained, the framed vistas, the fitting architectural adjuncts, will alone contribute an air of size and scale. as to "codes of taste" (which are usually in matters of art only someone's opinions stated pompously), these should not be allowed to baulk individual enterprise. "long experience," says that accomplished gardener and charming writer, e. v. b., in "days and hours in a garden" (p. ), "long experience has taught me to have nothing to do with principles in the garden. little else than a feeling of entire sympathy with the diverse characters of your plants and flowers is needed for 'art in a garden.' if sympathy be there, all the rest comes naturally enough." or to put this thought in temple's words, "the success is wholly in the gardener." if a garden grow flowers in abundance, _there_ is success, and one may proceed to frame a garden after approved "codes of taste" and fail in this, or one may prefer unaccepted methods and find success beyond one's fondest dreams. "all is fine that is fit" is a good garden motto; and what an eclectic principle is this! how many kinds of style it allows, justifies, and guards! the simplest way or the most ornate; the fanciful or the sweet austere; the intricate and complex, or the coy and unconstrained. take it as true as gospel that there is danger in the use of ornament--danger of excess--take it as equally true that there is an intrinsic and superior value in moderation, and yet the born gardener shall find more paths, old and new, that lead to beauty in a plot of garden-ground than the modern stylist dreams of. the art of gardening may now be known of all men. gardening is no longer a merely princely diversion requiring thirty wide acres for its display. everyone who can, now lives in the country, where he is bound to have a garden; and i repeat what i said before, let no one suppose that the beauty of a garden depends on its acreage, or on the amount of money spent upon it. nay, one would almost prefer a small garden plot, so as to ensure that ample justice shall be done to it.[ ] in a small garden there is less fear of dissipated effort, more chance of making friends with its inmates, more time to spare to heighten the beauty of its effects. [footnote : "embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would desire the interference of another plant."--leigh hunt.] to some extent the success of a garden depends upon favourable conditions of sun, soil, and water, but more upon the choiceness of its contents, the skill of its planting, the lovingness of its tendence. love for beauty has a way of enticing beauty; the seeing eye wins its own ranges of vision, finds points of vantage in unlikely ground. "i write in a nook," says the poet cowper, "that i call my boudoir; it is a summerhouse, not bigger than a sedan-chair; the door of it opens into the garden that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honeysuckles, _and the window into my neighbour's orchard_. it formerly served an apothecary as a smoking-room; at present, however, it is dedicated to sublimer uses." what a mastery of life is here! "as if life's business were a summer mood; as if all needful things would come unsought to genial faith, still rich in genial good; * * * * * by our own spirits are we deified." but i must not finish the stanza in this connection. a garden is pre-eminently a place to indulge individual taste. "let us not be that fictitious thing," says madame roland, "that can only exist by the help of others--_soyons nous_!" so, regardless of the doctors, let me say that the best general rule that i can devise for garden-making is: put all the beauty and delightsomeness you can into your garden, get all the beauty and delight you can out of your garden, never minding a little mad want of balance, and think of proprieties afterwards! of course, this is to "prove naething," but never mind if but the garden enshrine beauty. to say this is by no means to allow that the garden is the fit place for indulging your love of the out-of-the-way; not so, yet a little sign of fresh motive, a touch of individual technique, a token, however shyly displayed, that you think for yourself is welcome in a garden. thus i know of a gardener who turned a section of his grounds into a sort of huge bear-pit, not a sunk-pit, but a mound that took the refuse soil from the site of his new house hollowed out, and its slopes set all round with alpine and american garden-plants, each variety finding the aspect it likes best, and the proportion of light and shade that suits its constitution. this is, of course, to "intrude embankments" into a garden with a vengeance, yet even mr robinson, if he saw it, would allow that, as in love and war, your daring in gardening is justified by its results, where, as george herbert has it-- "who shuts his hand, hath lost its gold; who opens it, hath it twice told." a garden is, first and last, a place for flowers; but, treading in the old master's footsteps, i would devote a certain part of even a small garden to nature's own wild self, and the loveliness of weed-life. here art should only give things a good start and help the propagation of some sorts of plants not indigenous to the locality. good effects do not ensue all at once, but stand aside and wait, or help judiciously, and the result will be a picture of rude and vigorous life, of pretty colour and glorious form, that is gratifying for its own qualities, and more for its opposition to the peacefulness of the garden's ordered surroundings. a garden is the place for flowers, a place where one may foster a passion for loveliness, may learn the magic of colour and the glory of form, and quicken sympathy with nature in her higher moods. and, because the old-fashioned garden more conduces to these ends than the modern, it has our preference. the spirit of old garden-craft, says: "do everything that can be done to help nature, to lift things to perfection, to interpret, to give to your art method and distinctness." the spirit of the modern garden-craft of the purely landscape school says: "let be, let well alone, or extemporise at most. brag of your scorn for art, yet smuggle her in, as a stalking-horse for your halting method and non-geometrical forms." and, as we have shown, art has her revenges as well as nature; and the very negativeness of this school's art-treatments is the seal to its doom. mere neutral teaching can father nothing; it can never breed a system of stable device that is capable of development. but old garden-craft is positive, where the other is negative; it has no niggling scruples, but clear aims, that admit of no impediment except the unwritten laws of good taste. hence its permanent value as a standard of device--for every gardener must needs desire the support of some backbone of experience to stiffen his personal efforts--he must needs have some basis of form on which to rest his own device, his own realisations of natural beauty--and what safer, stabler system of garden-craft can he wish for than that of the old english garden--itself the outcome of a spacious age, well skilled in the pictorial art and bent upon perfection? the qualities to aim at in a flower-garden are beauty, animation, variety, mystery. a garden's beauty, like a woman's beauty, is measured by its capacity for taking fine dress. given a fine garden, and we need not fear to use embellishment or strong colour, or striking device, according to the adage "the richly provided richly require." [illustration: (perspective view). plan shewing arrangement of fountain, yew walk, and flower beds for a large garden.] because art stands, so to speak, sponsor for the grace of a garden, because all gardening is art or nothing, we need not fear to overdo art in a garden, nor need we fear to make avowal of the secret of its charm. i have no more scruple in using the scissors upon tree or shrub, where trimness is desirable, than i have in mowing the turf of the lawn that once represented a virgin world. there is a quaint charm in the results of the topiary art, in the prim imagery of evergreens, that all ages have felt. and i would even introduce _bizarreries_ on the principle of not leaving all that is wild and odd to nature outside of the garden-paling; and in the formal part of the garden my yews should take the shape of pyramids or peacocks or cocked hats or ramping lions in lincoln-green, or any other conceit i had a mind to, which vegetable sculpture can take. [illustration: perspective view of garden in plan following.] as to the other desirable qualities--animation, variety, mystery--i would base my garden upon the model of the old masters, without adopting any special style. the place should be a home of fancy, full of intention, full of pains (without showing any); half common-sense, half romance; "neither praise nor poetry, but something better than either," as burke said of sheridan's speech; it should have an ethereal touch, yet be not inappropriate for the joyous racket and country cordiality of an english home. it should be "a miniature of loveliness, all grace summ'd up and closed in little"-- something that would challenge the admiration and suit the moods of various minds; be brimful of colour-gladness, yet be not all pyramids of sweets, but offer some solids for the solid man; combining old processes and new, old idealisms and new realisms; the monumental style of the old here, the happy-go-lucky shamblings of the modern there; the page of bacon or temple here, the page of repton or marnock there. at every turn the imagination should get a fresh stimulus to surprise; we should be led on from one fair sight, one attractive picture, to another; not suddenly, nor without some preparation of heightened expectancy, but as in a fantasy, and with something of the quick alternations of a dream. [illustration: perspective view of a design for a garden, with clipped yew hedges and flower beds.] your garden, gentle reader, is perchance not yet made. it were indeed happiness if, when good things betide you, and the time is ripe for your enterprise, art ... "shall say to thee i find you worthy, do this thing for me." chapter viii. on the other side.--a plea for savagery. "i am tired of civilised europe, and i want to see a wild country if i can."--w. r. greg. "howsoever these things be, a long farewell to locksley hall!"--tennyson. we have discussed the theory of a garden; we have analysed the motives which prompt its making, the various treatments of which it is susceptible; we have made a kind of inventory of its effects, its enchantments, its spendthrift joys. now we will hear the other side, and find out why the morbid, tired man, the modern hamlet, likes it not, why the son of culture loathes it as a lack-lustre thing, betokening to him the sedentary and respectable world in its most hostile form. having made our picture now we will turn it round, and note why it is that the garden, with its full complement of approved ornament, its selected vegetation, its pretty turns for nature, its many-sided beauty-- "or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern was there not less than truth designed" --shall never wholly satisfy. your garden will serve you in many ways. it will give a sense of household warmth to your home. it will smile, or look grave, or be dreamily fanciful almost at your bidding. if your bent be that way it will minister to your imaginative reverie, and almost surfeit you with its floods of lazy music. if you are hot, or weary, or dispirited, or touched with _ennui_, its calm atmosphere will lay the dust and lessen the fret of your life. yet--let us not blink the fact--just because _all_ nature is not represented here; because the girdle of the garden walls narrows our view of the world at large, and excludes more of nature's physiognomy than it includes; because the garden is, as sir walter truly says, entirely "a child of art"; the place, be it never so fair, falls short of man's imaginative craving, and, when put to the push, fails to supply the stimulus his varying moods require. art's sounding-line will never fathom human nature's emotional depths. nay, one need not be that interesting product of civilisation, the over-civilised artist who writes books, and paints pictures, and murmurs rhyme that-- "beats with light wing against the ivory gate, telling a tale not too importunate to those who in the sleepy region stay, lulled by the singer of an empty day." there is the _ennuyé_ of the clubs whom you are proud to meet in pall mall, not a hair of his hat turned, not a wrinkle marring the sit of his coat; meeting him thus and there you would not dream of supposing that this exquisite trophy of the times is a prey to reactionary desires! yet deep down in the hidden roots of his being lies a layer of unscotched savagery--an unextinguished, inextinguishable strain of the wild man of the woods. scratch him, and beneath his skin is rousseau-thoreau. scratch him again in the same place, and beneath his second skin see the brown hide of the aboriginal briton, the dweller in wattled abodes, who knew an earlier england than this, that had swamps and forests, roadless wastes and unbridled winter floods, and strange beasts that no man could tame. even he ("the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear") will prate to you of the bohemian delights of an ungardened country, where "the white man's poetry" has not defiled the landscape, and the britisher shall be free to take his pleasure sadly. let us not be too hard, then, on that dislike of beauty, that worship of the barbaric which we are apt to condemn as distempered vagaries, for they denote maladies incident to the age, which are neither surprising nor ignoble. this disdain for art in a garden, this abhorrence of symmetry, this preference for the rude and shaggy, what is it but a new turn given to old instincts, the new don quixote sighing for primævalism! this ruthlessness of the followers of the "immortal brown" who would navvy away the residue of the old-fashioned english gardens; who live to reverse tradition and to scatter the lessons of the past to the winds; what is it but a new quest of the bygone, the knight-errantry of the civilized man, when turned inside out! and for yet another reason is the garden unable to meet the moods of the age. in discussing the things it may rightly contain, we saw that the laws of artistic presentment, no less than the avowed purpose for which a garden is made, require that only such things shall be admitted, or such aspects be portrayed there, as conduce to gladness and poetic charm. and, so far as the garden is concerned, the restriction is necessary and desirable. as with other phases of art, sculpture, painting, or romance, the things and aspects portrayed must be idealistic, not realistic; its effects must be select, not indiscriminate. the garden is a deliberately contrived thing, a voluntary piece of handicraft, purpose-made; and for this reason it must not stereotype imperfections; it may toy with nature, but must not wilfully exaggerate what is ordinary; only nature may exaggerate herself--not art. it must not imitate those items in nature that are crude, ugly, abnormal, elementary; it may not reproduce the absolutely repellent; or at most, the artist may only touch them with a light hand, by way of imaginative hint, but not with intent to produce a finished picture out of them. on this point there is a distinct analogy between the guiding principles of art and religion. art and religion both signify effort to comply with an ideal standard--indeed, the height of the standard is the test of each--and what makes for innocence or for faultiness in the one, makes for innocence or faultiness in the other. innocence is found in each, but to be without guile in art or in religion means that you must be either flawlessly obedient to a perfect standard, or be beyond the pale of law through pure ignorance of wrong. where no law is, there can be no transgression. between these two points is no middle-ground, either in the fields of art or of religion. to apply this to a garden. untaught, lawless nature may present things indiscriminately, as they are, the casual, the accidental, the savage, in their native dress, or undress, in all their rugged reality, and not be ashamed. but the artist-gardener, knowing good and evil, exercising free-will in his garden-craft, must choose only what he may rightly have, and employ only what his trained judgment or the unwritten commandments of good taste will allow. there you have the art of a garden. but because of its necessary exclusiveness, because all nature is not there, the garden, though of the best, the most far-reaching in its application of art-resources, fails to satisfy all man's imaginative cravings. your garden, i said, will serve you many a good turn. here one may come to play the truant from petty worries, to find quiet harbourage in the chopping sea of life's casual ups and downs; but when _real_ trouble comes, on occasions of spiritual tension, or mental conflict, or heavy depression, then the perfect beauty of the garden offends; the garden has no respect for sadness--then it almost mocks and flaunts you; it smiles the same, though your child die, and then instinct sends you away from the lap of art to the bosom of nature-- "knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her." all of man, then, asks for all of nature, and is not content with less. just as a stringed instrument, even when lying idle, is awake to sympathetic sound but refuses to vibrate to notes that are not kindred to its compass, so the garden, with all its wakeful magic, will voice only such of your moods as it is in touch with; and there are many chords missing in the cunningly encased music of a garden--many human notes find no answering pulsation there. let us not blink the fact, then; art, whether of this sphere or of that, is not all. if you want beauty ready-made, obvious gladness of colour, heightened nobleness of form, suggested romance, nature idealised--all these things are yours in a garden; and yet the very "dressing" of the place which heightens its appeal to one side of man's being is the bar to its acceptance on another side. to have been baptised of art is to have received gifts rich and strange, that enable the garden's contents to climb to ideal heights; and yet not all men care for perfectness; the most part prefer creatures not too bright or good for human nature's daily food. so, to tell truth, the wild things of field, forest, and shore have a gamut of life, a range of appeal wider than the gardens; the impunities of lawless nature reach further than man's finished strokes. nay, when man has done his best in a garden, some shall even regret, for sentimental reasons, that he brought art upon the scene at all. "even after the wild landscape, through which youth had strayed at will, has been laid out into fields and gardens, and enclosed with fences and hedges; after the footsteps, which had bounded over the flower-strewn grass have been circumscribed within firm gravel-walks, the vision of its former happiness will still at times float before the mind in its dreams." ("guesses at truth.") beauty, romance, and nature await an audience with you in the garden; but it is beauty after she has been sent to school to learn the tricks of conscious grace; beauty that has "the foreign aid of ornament," that walks with the supple gait of one who has been well drilled; but gone are the fine careless raptures, gone the bounding step, the blithe impulses of unschooled freedom and gipsy life out of doors. romance awaits you, holding in her hand a picture of things bright and jocund, full of tender colour and sweet suggestion; a picture designed to prove this world to be unruffled arcadia, a sunlit pageant, a dream of delectation, a place for solace, a herrick-land "of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers;" and human life a jewelled tale with all the irony left out. nature awaits you, but only as a fair captive, ready to respond to your behests, to answer to the spring of your imaginings. to man's wooing, "i love you, love me back," she resigned herself, not perceiving the drift of homage that was paid, not so much to the beauty that she had, but to the beauty of a heightened sort that should ensue upon his cultivation, for the sake of which he sought her. so now her wildness is subdued. the yew and the holly from the tangled brake shall feel the ignominy of the shears. the "common" thorn of the hedge shall be grafted with one of the twenty-seven rarer sorts; the oak and maple shall be headed down and converted into scarlet species; the single flowers, obedient to a beautiful disease, shall blow as doubles, and be propagated by scientific processes that defy nature and accomplish centuries of evolution at a stride. the woodbine from the vernal wood must be nailed to the carpenter's trellis, the brook may no more brawl, nor violate its limits, the leaves of the hollybush and the box shall be variegated, the forest tree and woodland shrub shall have their frayed hedges shorn, and their wildness pressed out of them in art's dissembling embrace. and as with the green things of the earth, so with the creatures of the animal world that are admitted into the sanctuary of a garden. here is no place for nonconformity of any kind. true, the spruce little squirrel asks no leave for his dashing raids upon the beech-mast and the sweet chestnuts that have escaped the range of the gardener's broom; true, the white and golden pheasant and the speckled goligny may moon about in their distraught fashion down the green alleys and in and out the shrubberies; the foreign duck may frisk in the lake; the white swan may hoist her sail, and "float double, swan and shadow;" the birds may sing in the trees; the peacock may strut on the lawn, or preen his feathers upon the terrace walls; the fallow deer may browse among the bracken on the other side of the ha-ha--thus much of the animal creation shall be allowed here, and not the most fastidious son of adam will protest a word. but note the terms of their admission. they are a select company, gathered with nice judgment from all quarters of the globe, that are bound over to respectable behaviour, pledged to the beautiful or picturesque; they are in chains, though the chains be aerial and not seen. it is not that the gardener loves pheasants or peacocks, ducks or swans or guinea-fowls for themselves, or for their contribution to the music of the place. not this, but because these creatures assist the garden's magic, they support the illusion upon which the whole thing is based; as they flit about, and cross and recross the scene, and scream, and quack, and cackle, you get a touch of actuality that adds finish to the strangeness and piquancy that prevail around; they verify your doubting vision, and make valid the reality of its ideality; they accord with the well-swept lawn, the scented air, the flashing radiance of the fountain, the white statuary backed by dark yews or dim stone alcoves, with the clipt shrubs, the dreaming trees, the blare of bright colours, in the shapely beds, the fragrant odours and select beauties of the place. these living creatures (for they _are_ alive), prowling about the grounds,[ ] looking fairly comfortable in artificial surroundings from whence their clipped wings will not allow them to escape, incline you to believe that this world is a smooth, genteel, beneficent world after all, and its pastoral character is here so well sustained that no one would be a bit surprised if pan with his pipe of reeds, or corydon with his white-fleeced flock, should turn the corner at any moment. [footnote : lord beaconsfield adds macaws to the ornament of his ideal garden. "sir ferdinand, when he resided at armine, was accustomed to fill these pleasure grounds with macaws and other birds of gorgeous plumage." but lord beaconsfield is benjamin disraeli--a master of the ornate, a bit of a dandy always. in italy, too, they throw in porcupines and ferrets for picturesqueness. in holland are our old friends the tin hare and guinea-pigs, and the happy shooting boy, in holiday attire, painted to the life.] it is only upon man's terms, however, and to suit his scheme of scenic effects, that these tame things are allowed on the premises. they are not here because man loves them. woe to the satin-coated mole that blindly burrows on the lawn! woe to the rabbit that sneaks through the fence, or to the hare that leaps it! woe to the red fox that litters in the pinetum, or to the birds that make nests in the shrubberies! woe to the otter that takes license to fish in the ponds at the bottom of the pleasaunce! woe to the blackbirds that strip the rowan-tree of its berries just when autumn visitors are expected! woe to the finches that nip the buds off the fruit-trees in the hard spring frost, presuming upon david's plea for sacrilege! death, instant or prolonged, or dear life purchased at the price of a torn limb, for the silly things that dare to stray where the woodland liberties are forbidden to either plant or animal! so much for the results of man's manipulation of the universe in the way of making ornamental grounds! and the sketch here given applies equally to the new style or to the old, to the garden after loudon or to the garden after bacon; the destiny of things is equally interfered with to meet the requirements of the one or the other; the styles are equally artificial, equally remorseless to primal nature. but one may go farther, and ask: what wonder at the outcry of the modern nature-lovers against a world so altered from its original self as that hawthorne should say of england in general that here "the wildest things are more than half tame? the trees, for instance, whether in hedgerow, park, or what they call forest, have nothing wild about them. they are never ragged; there is a certain decorous restraint in the freest outspread of their branches!" nay, so far does this mistaken man carry his diseased appetite for english soil, marred as it is, that he shall write: "to us americans there is a kind of sanctity even in an english turnip-field, when we think how long that small square of ground has been known and recognised as a possession, transmitted from father to son, trodden often by memorable feet, and utterly redeemed from savagery by old acquaintance with civilised eyes" ("our old home," p. ). what wonder, i say, that a land that is so hopelessly gardened as this--a land so sentimentalised and humanised that its very clods, to the american, are "poesy all ramm'd with life"--shall grate the nerves of the hamlets of to-day, who live too much in the sun, whom man delights not, nor woman neither! what a land to live in! when its best landscape painters--men like gainsborough or constable--are so carried away by the influence of agriculture upon landscape, so lost to the superiority of wild solitude, that they will plainly tell you that they like the fields the farmers work in, and the work they do in them; preferring nature that was modified by man, painting a well-cultivated country with villages and mills and church-steeples seen over hedges and between trees![ ] [footnote : see p. g. hamerton's "sylvan year," p. .] what a land to live in! when even nature's wild children of field and forest hug their chains--preserve their old ways and habits up to the very frontier-line of civilisation. for here is jefferies (who ought to know) writing thus: "modern progress, except where it has exterminated them, has scarcely touched the habits of bird or animal; so almost up to the very houses of the metropolis the nightingale yearly returns to her old haunts. if we go a few hours' journey only, and then step just beyond the highway, where the steam ploughing-engine has left the mark of its wide wheels on the dust, and glance into the hedgerow, the copse, or stream, there are nature's children as unrestrained in their wild, free life as they were in the veritable backwoods of primitive england." what wonder that a land where nature has thus succumbed wholesale to culture, should exasperate the man who has earned a right to be morbid, or that he should cry aloud in his despair, "i am tired of civilised europe, and i want to see a _wild_ country if i can." too many are our spots renowned for beauty, our smiling champaigns of flower and fruit. for "fair prospects wed happily with fair times; but, alas, if times be not fair!" hence the comfort of oppressive surroundings over-sadly tinged, to men who suffer from the mockery of a place that is too smiling! hence the glory of a waste like egdon to mr hardy! ("the return of the native," pp. , ). for egdon heath, "haggard egdon appealed to a subtler and scarcer instinct, to a more recently learnt emotion than that which responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair. indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty is not approaching its last quarter. the new vale of tempe may be a gaunt waste in thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and closer harmony with external things wearing a sombreness distasteful to our race when it was young. the time seems near, if it has not actually arrived, when the chastened sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain will be all of nature that is absolutely in keeping with the moods of the more thinking of mankind. and ultimately, to the commonest tourist, spots like iceland may become what the vineyards and myrtle-gardens of south europe are to him now; and heidelberg and baden be passed unheeded as he hastens from the alps to the sand-dunes of scheveningen." i admit that it is strange that time should hold in reserve such revenges as this ascetic writing denotes--strange that man should find beauty irksome, and that he should feel blasted with the very ecstasy himself has built up in a garden! strange this sudden recoil of the smooth son of culture from the extreme of art, to the extreme of nature! stranger still that the "yes" and "no" of the _ideal_ hyde and the _real_ jekyll should consist in the same bosom, and that a man shall be, as it were, a prey to contrary maladies at one and the same time! yet we have found this in bacon--prince of fine gardeners, who with all his seeming content with the heroic pleasaunce that he has made, shall still betray a sneaking fondness for the maiden charms of bohemia outside. earthly paradise is fine and fit, but there must needs be "mounts of some pretty height, leaving the wall of the enclosure breast high to look abroad in the fields"--there must be "a window open, to fly out at, a secret way to retire by." nay, after all, what are to him the charms that inspire his rhapsody of words--the things that princes add for state and magnificence! they are delilah's charms, and "but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden!" "our gardens in paris," says joubert, "smell musty; i do not like these ever-green trees. there is something of blackness in their greenery, of coldness in their shade. besides, since they neither lose anything, nor have anything to fear, they seem to me unfeeling, and hence have little interest for me.... those irregular gardens, which we call english gardens, require a labyrinth for a dwelling." "i hate those trees that never lose their foliage" (says landor); "they seem to have no sympathy with nature; winter and summer are alike to them." says thomson, ... "for loveliness needs not the foreign aid of ornament, but it is when unadorned adorn'd the most." or cowley's "my garden painted o'er with nature's hand, not art's; and pleasures yield, horace might envy in his sabine field." or addison: "i have often looked upon it as a piece of happiness that i have never fallen into any of these fantastical tastes, nor esteemed anything the more for its being uncommon and hard to be met with. for this reason i look upon the whole country in spring-time as a spacious garden, and make as many visits to a spot of daisies, or a bank of violets, as a florist does to his borders or parterres. there is not a bush in blossom within a mile of me which i am not acquainted with, nor scarce a daffodil or cowslip that withers away in my neighbourhood without my missing it." or rousseau: "i can imagine, said i to them, a rich man from paris or london, who should be master of this house, bringing with him an expensive architect to spoil nature. with what disdain would he enter this simple and mean place! with what contempt would he have all these tatters uprooted! what fine avenues he would open out! what beautiful alleys he would have pierced! what fine goose-feet, what fine trees like parasols and fans! what finely fretted trellises! what beautifully-drawn yew hedges, finely squared and rounded! what fine bowling-greens of fine english turf, rounded, squared, sloped, ovaled; what fine yews carved into dragons, pagodas, marmosets, every kind of monster! with what fine bronze vases, what fine stone-founts he would adorn his garden! when all that is carried out, said m. de wolmar, he will have made a very fine place, which one will scarcely enter, and will always be anxious to leave to seek the country." or gautier, upon nature's wild growths: "you will find in her domain a thousand exquisitely pretty little corners into which man seldom or never penetrates. there, from every constraint, she gives herself up to that delightful extravagance of dishevelled plants, of glowing flowers and wild vegetation--everything that germinates, flowers, and casts its seeds, instinct with an eager vitality, to the wind, whose mission it is to disperse them broadcast with an unsparing hand.... and over the rain-washed gate, bare of paint, and having no trace of that green colour beloved by rousseau, we should have written this inscription in black letters, stonelike in shape, and threatening in aspect: 'gardeners are prohibited from entering here.' "such a whim--very difficult for one to realise who is so deeply incrusted with civilisation, where the least originality is taxed as folly--is continually indulged in by nature, who laughs at the judgment of fools." or thoreau--hero of the walden shanty, with his open-air gospel--all nature for the asking--to whom a garden is but nature debauched, and all art a sin: "there is in my nature, methinks, a singular yearning towards wildness.... we are apt enough to be pleased with such books as evelyn's 'sylva,' 'acetarium,' and 'kalendarium hortense,' but they imply a relaxed nerve in the reader. gardening is civil and social, but it wants the vigour and freedom of the forest and the outlaw.... it is true there are the innocent pleasures of country-life, and it is sometimes pleasant to make the earth yield her increase, and gather the fruits in their season, but the heroic spirit will not fail to dream of remoter retirements and more rugged paths. it will have its garden-plots and its _parterres_ elsewhere than on the earth, and gather nuts and berries by the way for its subsistence, or orchard fruits with such heedlessness as berries. we should not be always soothing and training nature.... the indian's intercourse with nature is at least such as admits of the greatest independence of each. if he is somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of a familiar. there is something vulgar and foul in the latter's closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the former's distance.... there are other savager, and more primeval aspects of nature than our poets have sung. it is only white man's poetry." to sum up the whole matter, this unmitigated hostility of the cultured man (with jacob's smooth hands and esau's wild blood) to the amenities of civilised life, brings us back to the point from whence we started at the commencement of this chapter. while men are what they are, art is not all. man has viking passions as well as eden instincts. man is of mixed blood, whose sympathies are not so much divided as double. and all of man asks for all of nature, and is not content with less. to the over-civilised man who is under a cloud, the old contentment with orthodox beauty must give place to the subtler, scarcer instinct, to "the more recently learnt emotion, than that which responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair." fair effects are only for fair times. the garden represents to such an one a too careful abstract of nature's traits and features that had better not have been epitomised. the place is to him a kind of fraud--a forgery, so to speak, of nature's autograph. it is only the result of man's turning spy or detective upon the beauties of the outer world. its perfection is too monotonous; its grace is too subtle; its geography too bounded; its interest too full of intention--too much sharpened to a point; its growth is too uniformly temperate; its imagery too exacting of notice. these prim and trim things remind him of captive princes of the wood, brightly attired only that they may give romantic interest to the garden--these tame birds with clipped wings, of distraught aspect and dreamy tread--these docile animals with their limp legs and vacant stare, may contribute to the scenic pomp of the place, but it is at the expense of their native instincts and the joyous _abandon_ of woodland life. if this be the outcome of your boasted editing of nature, give us dead nature untranslated. if this be what comes of your idealisation of the raw materials of nature--of the transference of your own emotions to the simple, unsophisticated things of the common earth, let us rather have nature's unspoilt self--"god's art," as plato calls nature--where "visions, as prophetic eyes avow, hang on each leaf, and cling to each bough." * * * * * "but stay, here come the gardeners!" (_enter a gardener and two servants!_)--_king richard ii._ chapter ix. in praise of both. "in small proportions we just beauties see, and in short measures life may perfect be."--ben jonson. "the common all men have."--george herbert. what shall we say, then, to the two conflicting views of garden-craft referred to in my last chapter, wherein i take the modern position, namely, that the love of art in a garden, and the love of wild things in nature's large estate, cannot co-exist in the same breast? is the position true or false? to see the matter in its full bearings i must fetch back a little, and recall what was said in a former chapter (p. ) upon the differing attitudes towards nature taken by the earlier and later schools of gardening. there is, i said, no trace in the writings, or in the gardening, of the earlier traditional school, of that mawkish sentiment about nature, that condescending tenderness for her primal shapes, that has nursed the scruples, and embarrassed the efforts of the "landscape-gardener" from kent's and brown's days to now. the older gardener had no half-and-half methods; he made no pretence of nature-worship, nursed no scruples that could hinder the expression of his own mind about nature, or check him from fathoming all her possibilities. yet with all his seeming unscrupulousness the old gardener does not close his eyes or his heart to nature at large, but whether in the garden sanctuary or out of it, he maintains equally tender relations towards her. but the scruples of the earlier phase of the landscape school, about tampering with nature by way of attaining art effects, are as water unto wine compared with what is taught by men of the same school now-a-days. we have now to reckon with an altogether deeper stratum of antipathy to garden-craft than was reached by the followers of brown. we have not now to haggle with the quidnuncs over the less or more of art permissible in a garden, but to fight out the question whether civilisation shall have any garden at all. away with this "white man's poetry!" the wild indian's "intercourse with nature is at least such as admits of the greatest independence of each. if he is somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of a familiar. there is something vulgar and foul in the latter's closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the former's distance." "alas!" says newman, "what are we doing all through life, both as a necessity and a duty, but unlearning the world's poetry, and attaining to its prose?" one does not fear, however, that the english people will part lightly with their land's old poetry, however seductive the emotion which we are told "prefers the oppression of surroundings over-sadly tinged, and solitudes that have a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities to the old-fashioned sort of beauty called charming and fair." the lesson we have to learn is the falsehood of extremes. the point we have to master is, that in the prodigality of "god's plenty" many sorts of beauty are ours, and nothing shall be scorned. god's creation has a broad gamut, a vast range, to meet our many moods. "there are, it may be, so many kinds of music in the world, and none of them is without signification." "o world, as god has made it! all is beauty." there is nothing contradictory in the variety and multiformity of nature, whether loose and at large in nature's unmapped geography, or garnered and assorted and heightened by man's artistry in the small proportions of a perfect garden. man, we said, is of mixed blood, whose sympathies are not so much divided as double, and each sympathy shall have free play. my inborn eden instincts draw me to the bloom and wonder of the world; my viking blood drives me to the snap and enthusiasm of anarchic forms, the colossal images, the swarthy monotony, the sombre aspects of nature in the wild. "yet all is beauty." thus much by way of preamble. and now, after repeating that the gardener of the old formality, however sternly he discipline wild nature for the purposes of beauty, is none the less capable of loving and of holding friendly commerce with the things that grew outside his garden hedge, let me bring upon my page a modern of moderns, who, by the wide range of his sympathies, recalls the giants of a healthier day, and redeems a generation of lopsided folk abnormally developed in one direction. and the poet wordsworth, self-drawn in his own works, or depicted by his friends, is one of the old stock of sane, sound-hearted englishmen, who can be equally susceptible to the _inward_ beauties of man's created brain-world, and the _outward_ beauties of unkempt nature. so the combination we plead for is not impossible! the two tastes are not irreconcilable! blessed be both! we may trust wordsworth implicitly as an authority upon nature. no one questions his knowledge of wild woodland lore. there is no one of ancient or of modern times who in his outward mien, his words, his habits, carries more indisputable proof of the prophet's ordination than the man who spent a long noviciate in his native mountain solitudes. there is no one so fully entitled, or so well able to speak of and for her, as he who knows her language to the faintest whisper, who spent his days at her feet, who pored over her lineaments under every change of expression, who in his writings drew upon the secret honey of the beauty and harmony of the world, telling, to use his own swinging phrases, of "the joy and happiness of loving creatures, of men and children, of birds and beasts, of hills and streams, and trees and flowers; with the changes of night and day, evening and morning, summer and winter; and all their unwearied actions and energies." of all nature's consecrated children, he is the prince of the apostolate; he is, so to speak, the beloved disciple of them all, whose exalted personal love admits him to the right to lean upon her breast, to hear her heart-beats, to catch knowledge there that had been kept secret since the world began. none so familiar with pastoral life in its varied time-fulness, sweet or stern, glad or grim, pathetic or sublime, as he who carries in his mind the echoes of the passion of the storm, the moan of the passing wind with its beat upon the bald mountain-crag, the sighing of the dry sedge, the lunge of mighty waters, the tones of waterfalls, the inland sounds of caves and trees, the plaintive spirit of the solitude. there are none who have pondered so deeply over "the blended holiness of earth and sky," the gesture of the wind and cloud, the silence of the hills; none so free to fraternise with things bold or obscure, great or small, as he who told alike of the love and infinite longings of margaret, of the fresh joy of "the blooming girl whose hair was wet with points of morning dew," of the lonely star, the solitary raven, the pliant hare-bell, swinging in the breeze, the meadows and the lower ground, and all the sweetness of a common dawn. thus did wordsworth enter into the soul of things and sing of them "in a music sweeter than their own." nay, says arnold, "it might seem that nature not only gave him the matter of his poem, but wrote his poem for him" ("essays in criticism," p. ). so much for wordsworth upon nature out of doors; now let us hear him upon art in a garden, of which he was fully entitled to speak, and we shall see that the man is no less the poet of idealism upon his own ground, than the poet of actuality in the woodland world. writing to his friend sir geo. beaumont,[ ] with all the outspokenness of friendship and the simplicity of a candid mind, he thus delivers himself upon the art of gardening: "laying out grounds, as it is called, may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting, and its object is, or ought to be, to move the affections under the control of good sense; that is, those of the best and wisest; but, _speaking with more precision, it is to assist nature in moving the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauties of nature, who have the most valuable feelings, that is, the most permanent, the most independent, the most ennobling with nature and human life_." [footnote : see myres' "wordsworth," english men of letters series, p. .] hearken to nature's own high priest, turned laureate of the garden! how can this thing be? here is the man whose days had been spent at nature's feet, whose life's business seemed to be this only, that he should extol her, interpret her, sing of her, lift her as high in man's esteem as fine utterance can affect the human soul. yet when he has done all, said all that inspired imagination can say in her praise, in what seems an outburst of disloyalty to his old mistress, he deliberately takes the crown himself had woven from off the head of nature and places it on the brows of art in a garden! not bacon himself could write with more discernment or with more fervour of garden-craft than this, and the pronouncement gains further significance as being the deliberately expressed opinion of a great poet, and him the leader of the modern school of naturalists. and that these two men, separated not merely by two centuries of time, but by the revolutionary influences which coloured them, should find common ground and shake hands in a garden, is strange indeed! both men loved nature. bacon, as dean church remarks,[ ] had a "keen delight in nature, in the beauty and scents of flowers, in the charm of open-air life;" but his regard for nature's beauties was not so ardent, his knowledge of her works and ways not so intimate or so scientifically verified, his senses not so sympathetically allured as wordsworth's; he had not the same prophet's vision that could see into the life of things, and find thoughts there "that do often lie too deep for tears." that special sense wordsworth himself fathered. [footnote : "bacon," english men of letters series, r. w. church.] points like these add weight to wordsworth's testimony of the high rank of gardening, and we do well to note that the wreath that the modern man brings for art in a garden is not only greener and fresher than the garland of the other, but it was gathered on loftier heights; it means more, it implies a more emphatic homage. and wordsworth had not that superficial knowledge of gardening which no gentleman's head should be without. he knew it as a craftsman knows the niceties of his craft. "more than one seat in the lake-country," says mr myres ("wordsworth," p. ), "among them one home of pre-eminent beauty, have owed to wordsworth no small part of their ordered charm." of wordsworth's own garden, one writes: "i know that thirty years ago that which struck me most at rydal mount, and which appeared to me its greatest charm, was the union of the garden and the wilderness. you passed almost imperceptibly from the trim parterre to the noble wood, and from the narrow, green vista to that wide sweep of lake and mountain which made up one of the finest landscapes in england. nor could you doubt that this unusual combination was largely the result of the poet's own care and arrangement. _he had the faculty for such work._" here one may well leave the matter without further labouring, content to have proved by the example of a four-square, sane genius, that those instincts of ours which seem to pull contrary ways--art-wards or nature-wards--and to drive our lopsided selves to the falsehood of extremes, are, after all, not incompatible. the field, the waste, the moor, the mountain, the trim garden with its parterres and terraces, are one nature. these things breathe one breath, they sing one music, they share one heart between them; the difference between the dressed and the undressed is only superficial. the art of gardening is not intended to supersede nature, but only "to assist nature in moving the affections of those who have the deepest perceptions of the beauties of nature, who have the most valuable feelings, ... the most ennobling with nature and human life." one need not, if wordsworth's example prove anything, be less the child of the present (but rather the more) because one can both appreciate the realities of rude nature, and that deliberately-contrived, purpose-made, piece of human handicraft, a well-equipped garden. one need not be less susceptible to the black forebodings of this contention-tost, modern world, nor need one's ear be less alert to nature's correspondence to "the still, sad music of humanity," because one experiences, with old mountaine, "a jucunditie of minde" in a fair garden. there is an unerring rightness both in rude nature and in garden grace, in the chartered liberty of the one, and the unchartered freedom of unadjusted things in the other. blessed be both! it is worth something to have mastered truth, which, however simple and elementary it seem, is really vital to the proper understanding of the relation of art to nature. it helps one to appraise at their proper value the denunciations of the disciples of kent and brown against art in a garden, and to see, on the other hand, why bacon and the early school of gardeners loved nature in the wild state no less than in a garden. it dispels any lingering hesitation we may have as to the amount of art a garden may receive in defiance of dryasdust "codes of taste." it explains what your artist-gardener friend meant when he said that he had as much sympathy with, and felt as much interest in, the moving drama of nature going on on this as on that side of his garden-hedge, and how he could pass from the rough theme outside to the ordered music inside, from the uncertain windings in the coppice-glade to the pleached alley of the garden, without sense of disparagement to the one or the other. it explains why it is that nothing in nature goes unobserved of him; how you shall call to see him and hunt the garden over, and at last find him idling along the bridle-path in the plantation, his fist full of flowers, his mind set on nature's affairs, his ear in such unison with local sounds that he shall tell you the dominant tone of the wind in the tree-tops. or he is in the covert's tangle enjoying "simple nature's breathing life," surprising the thorn veiled in blossom, revelling in the wealth of boundless life there, in the variety of plant-form, the palpitating lights, the melody of nesting birds, the common joy and sweet assurance of things. "society is all but rude to this delicious solitude." or it may be he is on the breezy waste, lying full length among the heather, watching the rabbits' gambols, or the floating thistle-down with its hint of unseen life in the air, or sauntering by the stream in the lower meadows, learning afresh the glory of weed life in the lush magnificence of the great docks, the red sorrel, the willow-herb, the purple thistles, and the gay battalions of fox-gloves thrown out in skirmishing order, that swarm on each eminence and hedgerow. or you may meet him hastening home for the evening view from the orchard-terrace, to see the solemn close of day, and the last gleam of sunshine fading over the hill. it is worth something, i say, to win clear hold of the fact that nature in a garden and nature in the wild are at unity; that they have each their place in the economy of human life, and that each should have its share in man's affections. the true gardener is in touch with both. he knows where this excels or falls behind the other, and because he knows the range of each, he fears no comparison between them. he can be eloquent upon the charms of a garden, its stimulus for the tired eye and mind, the harmony that resides in the proportions of its lines and masses, the gladness of its colour, the delight of its frankly decorative arrangement, the sense of rest that comes of its symmetry and repeated patterns. he will tell you that for halcyon days, when life's wheels run smooth, and the sun shines, even for life's average days, there is nothing so cheery, nothing so blithely companionable, nothing that can give such a sense of household warmth to your home as a pleasant garden. and yet none will be more ready to warn you of the limits of a garden's charms, of its sheer impotence to yield satisfaction at either end of the scale of human joy or sorrow. and so it is. let but the mist of melancholy descend upon you, let but the pessimistic distress to which we moderns are all prone penetrate your mind, let you be the prey of undermining sorrow, or lie under the shadow of bereavement, and it is not to the garden that you will go for nature's comfort. the chalices of its flowers store not the dew that shall cool your brow. nay, at times like these the garden poses as a kind of lovely foe, to mock you with its polite reticence, its look of unwavering complacency, its gentle ecstasy. then the ear refuses the soft and intimate garden-melodies, and asks instead for the rough unrehearsed music of nature in the wild, the jar and jangle of winds and tides, the challenge of discords, "the conflict and the sounds that live in darkness," the wild rhetoric of the night upon some "haggard egdon," or along the steep wild cliffs when the storm is up, and the deeps are troubled, and the earth throbs and throbs again with the violence of the waves that break and bellow in the caves beneath your feet; and then it perhaps shall cross your mind to set this brief moment of your despair against the unavailing passion of tides that for ten thousand years and more have hurled themselves against this heedless shore. or you shall find some sequestered corner of the land that keeps its scars of old-world turmoil, the symptoms of the hustle of primeval days, the shock of grim shapes, long ago put to sleep beneath a coverlet of sweet-scented turf; and the unspoiled grandeur of the scene will prick and arouse your dulled senses, while its peaceful face will assure you that, as it was with the troubled masonry of the hills in the morning of the world, even so shall it be with you--time shall tranquillise and at length cancel all your woes. or again, "should life be dull, and spirits low 'twill soothe us in our sorrow that earth has something yet to show, the bonny holms of yarrow." better tonic, one thinks, for the over-wrought brain than the soft glamour of the well-swept lawn, the clipt shrubs, the focussed beauty of dotted specimens, the ordered disorder of wriggling paths and sprawling flower-beds of strange device, the ransacked wardrobe of the gardener's stock of gay bedding-plants, or other of the permitted charms of a modern garden; better than these is the stir and enthusiasm of nature's broad estate, the boulder-tossed moor, where the hare runs races in her mirth, and the lark has a special song for your ear; or the high transport of hours of indolence spent basking in the bed of purple heather, your nostrils filled with gladsome air and the scent of thyme, your eyes following the course of the milk-white clouds that ride with folded sails in the blue heavens overhead and cast flying shadows on the uplands, where nothing breaks the silence of the hills but the song in the air, the tinkle of the sheep-bells, and the murmur of the moorland bee. and the upshot of the matter is this. the master-things for the enjoyment of life are: health, a balanced mind that will not churlishly refuse "god's plenty," an eye quick to discern the marvel of beautiful things, a heart in sympathy with man and beast. possessing these we may defy fortune-- "i care not, fortune, what you me deny: you cannot rob me of free nature's grace, you cannot shut the windows of the sky through which aurora shows her brightening face; you cannot bar my constant feet to trace the woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, and i their toys to the great children leave; of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave." * * * * * printed by turnbull and spears edinburgh harper's a-b-c series a-b-c of housekeeping. by christine terhune herrick a-b-c of electricity. by william m. meadowcroft a-b-c of gardening. by eben e. rexford a-b-c of manners. by anne seymour mo, cloth harper & brothers, new york a-b-c of gardening by eben e. rexford harper & brothers publishers new york & london copyright, , by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published march, contents chap. page i. making the garden ii. making a lawn iii. the border iv. annuals v. vines vi. spring work in the garden vii. midsummer in the garden viii. window-boxes ix. the use of growing plants for table decoration x. decorative plants xi. the bulb-bed xii. getting ready for winter xiii. bulbs for winter flowering xiv. the winter window-garden xv. the insect enemies of plants xvi. gardening for children xvii. home and garden conveniences xviii. garden don'ts xix. a chapter of helpful hints a-b-c of gardening a-b-c of gardening i making the garden the first thing to do in making a garden is to spade up the soil to the depth of a foot. the second thing to do is to work this spaded-up soil over and over until it is thoroughly pulverized. the third thing to do is to add to it whatever fertilizer you decide on using. this may be old, well-rotted manure from the cow-yard, if you can get it, for it is the ideal fertilizer for nearly all kinds of plants. but if you live in city or village the probabilities are that you will be obliged to make use of a substitute. bone meal--the finely ground article--is about as good as anything i know of for amateur use. the amount to use will depend on the condition of the soil to which you apply it. if of simply ordinary richness, i would advise a teacupful of the meal to a yard square of ground. if the soil happens to be poor, a large quantity should be used. it is not possible to say just how much or how little, because no two soils are exactly alike. one can decide about this when he sees the effect of what has been used on the plants whose cultivation he has undertaken. i speak of using it by measure rather than by weight because the gardener will find it easier to use a cup than a set of scales. when the soil has been thoroughly pulverized and the fertilizer has been well worked into it you are ready for sowing seed--that is, if the weather conditions are favorable. it is always advisable to wait until all danger from frost is over and the ground is warm enough to facilitate prompt germination. at the north the seed of our hardier plants can safely be put into the ground about the middle of may, but the tenderer kinds can well afford to wait until the first of june. in sowing seed don't follow the old way of making a furrow an inch deep in the soil, by drawing the hoe-handle along it, and then covering the seed deeply. fine seed often fail to germinate when given this treatment. simply scatter the seed _on the surface_, and then sift a little fine soil over it, or press the ground down firmly with a smooth board, thus imbedding the seed in the ground to a depth that is sufficient to insure enough moisture to facilitate the process of germination. large seed, like that of the sweet-pea, nasturtium, mirabilis, and morning-glory can be covered with half an inch of soil. weeding should begin as soon as you can tell the weeds and the flowering plants apart. it is absolutely necessary to keep the beds clean if you would have good flowers. allow weeds to remain, and in an incredibly short time they will get such a start of the other plants in the bed that these will have received a check from which it will take them a long time to recover, when given an opportunity to do so by the removal of the enemy. there can be no compromise between weeds and flowering plants. one must give way to the other, and weeds will have it all their own way if given the ghost of a chance. every gardener should be the owner of a wheelbarrow, a hoe, a spade, an iron rake, a watering-pot, and a weeding-hook. the last, which will cost ten or fifteen cents, will enable you to destroy as many weeds in half an hour as you could pull in half a day by hand, and it will leave the soil in as light and porous a condition as would result from going over it with rake or hoe. ii making a lawn most home-makers labor under the impression that it would be useless for them to undertake the making of a lawn, thinking it requires the knowledge and experience of the professional gardener to make such an undertaking successful. this is where they make a mistake. anybody can make a lawn that will afford a great deal of pleasure if he sets about it, provided he is willing to do some hard work. the first thing to do is to make the surface of the ground level. this can be done by the use of spade and hoe. take off the tops of the hillocks, if there happens to be any, and fill the hollows with the soil thus obtained. when you have a fairly even surface, go over it with an iron-toothed rake and make it fine and mellow. it is very important that all stones and rubbish of every kind should be removed if you want a good sward. after reducing the soil to the necessary degree of fineness, add whatever fertilizer to it you propose to make use of, and then go over the ground again with the rake and work this fertilizer in thoroughly. it is necessary to have it evenly distributed. if it is not, there will be patches where the grass will be thick and luxuriant, and others where it will be scanty and poor. such a result should be guarded against by working the fertilizer into the soil so evenly that no part of it will be without its proper share. then you are ready for sowing the seed. the seed to sow is the very best kind in the market. this will cost you a little more than the inferior kind that is offered each season, but it is worth a good deal more, and it is what you must have if you would make your lawn a thing of beauty. procure it from some reliable dealer who makes a specialty of "lawn-grass mixtures." if you tell the dealer the size of your lawn and ask how much seed you will need, he will give you what he considers a fair estimate. i would advise you to double the amount, for this reason: a thickly seeded lawn will have the appearance, by the middle of the first season, of a lawn a year or two old. and because of the thickness of the grass it will be better able to stand the effect of drought and heat. you will find that the extra money invested in seed was a wise investment, and you will never have cause to regret making it. sowing seems, to the amateur gardener, a matter of so little importance that it requires no special attention. all there is to do is to scatter the seed over the ground. but nine out of ten amateurs who do the work with this idea in mind will speedily discover their mistake. when the grass comes up thickly here and there, with vacant places between, they will come to the conclusion that sowing grass seed evenly isn't the easiest thing in the world, for the seed is so light that the slightest puff of air will blow it away, and some will settle where you want it to, and some will lodge where other seed has already lodged, and the result will be very unsatisfactory. in order to prevent such a condition of things as far as possible, i would advise sowing from north to south, and then from east to west. do this on a still, damp day, if possible, and hold your hand close to the ground as you scatter the seed. don't attempt to broadcast it, as you may have seen some gardener do, but be content to scatter it over a small portion of soil each time you sow a handful of it. by doing this you will prevent most of it from being blown away. iii the border the owner of a small lot is often puzzled to know what to do with it. of course there must be flowers, but where shall they be put? as a general thing, they are set out here and there, indiscriminately, and the result of such haphazard planting is far from pleasing. there ought always to be at least a suggestion of system in all garden arrangements. to scatter shrubs all over the lawn breaks up the sense of breadth and dignity which should characterize it, however small it may be. this being the case, the best place for shrubs and perennials is at the sides of the lot, leaving the rear for the vegetable garden. a border extending along the sides of the lot will serve as a frame for the home picture, and will be found the most satisfactory arrangement possible for small places. it ought to be at least four feet wide--six or eight will be found much better if ground can be spared for it--and a pleasing effect can be secured by letting it increase in width as it approaches the rear of the lot. it will be far more attractive if its inner edge curves a little here and there than if it is confined to straight lines. i would advise a "mixed border." by that is meant one in which shrubs and perennials are grown together and where annuals and spring-flowering bulbs can be used effectively to "fill in." the soil for such a border must be made and kept quite rich, for almost always we put so many plants into it that great demands are made upon the nutriment contained in it, and in order to have fine plants they must get all the food they can make good use of. you can't grow plants to perfection unless you feed them well. every season--preferably in spring--manure should be applied liberally. in setting out shrubs one should take a look ahead and endeavor to see, with the mind's eye, what they will be likely to be when fully developed. if this is not done we are pretty sure to plant them so close that by and by we have a thicket of them, in which none of them can properly display their charms. between the shrubs plant perennials and such summer-flowering plants as dahlias and gladioli. plant the taller perennials at the rear, and those of medium height in the center, of the row, with low-growing kinds in front. by doing this we secure a sort of banklike effect which will be very pleasing. in order to plant intelligently, study the catalogues of the florists, for most of them give the height of each plant listed in them. if i were asked to name the best shrubs for amateur use, i would choose these: spiræa (especially the _van houttei_ variety), weigelia deutzia, lilacs in variety, flowering currant, and golden elder--the last a shrub with rich yellow foliage, capable of producing a most delightful effect when planted among richly colored flowering plants like the hollyhock and delphinium. from the perennial list i would select peonies, phlox, delphinium, iris, and hollyhocks. my selection would include the kinds named above because of their hardiness and ease of culture as well as their beauty. there are many other kinds which richly deserve a place in all gardens that are large enough to allow of free selection, but the owner of the average home lot will be obliged to draw a line somewhere, and he will be safe in confining his choice to the kinds i have mentioned. they are among the very best plants we have in their respective classes. iv annuals the owner of a garden that is so small that but few plants can be grown in it naturally desires to confine her selection to such kinds as will be likely to give the greatest amount of bloom and require the least amount of care. at the head of the list it is quite safe to place the sweet-pea. this old and universal favorite blooms profusely and throughout the entire season if prevented from ripening seed. it is beautiful, wonderfully varied as to coloring, and so fragrant that it is almost a rival of the rose in this respect. it requires a treatment so unlike that of ordinary plants that it is really in a class by itself, if one would secure the best results from it. it likes to get a start early in the season and to have its roots deep in the soil, where they will be cool and moist when the hot, dry, midsummer season comes. to gratify this desire on the part of the plant we sow its seed in trenches four or five inches deep, about the middle of april, at the north, or as soon as the ground is free from frost. these trenches are v-shaped, and can easily be made by drawing the corner of a hoe through the soil. sow the seed quite thickly, and cover with an inch of soil, trampling it down firmly. when the young plants are about three inches tall draw in about them some of the soil thrown out from the trench, and continue to do this from time to time as the plants reach up, until the trench is full. in this way we succeed in getting the roots of the plant deep enough to prevent them from drying out if the season happens to be one of drought. the best support for the sweet-pea is brush. the next best is woven-wire netting with a large mesh. another plant that the amateur gardener cannot afford to overlook is the nasturtium. it is a most profuse and constant bloomer. its colors run through all shades of yellow, orange, and red. it has a delicious spicy fragrance quite unlike that of any other flower i have any knowledge of. fine for cutting. the aster must also be given a place in all gardens, large or small, because of its beauty, its wide range of color, and its ease of culture. there are several quite distinct varieties, all good, but none better than the long-stalked "branching" kind. this is the ideal sort for cutting. its flowers rival those of the chrysanthemum in general effect and lasting quality. _phlox drummondii_ is an old favorite that holds its own against any of the new-comers. so is the verbena, and the calliopsis, and the good old "bachelor's-button," which you will find masquerading in the florists' catalogues as centaurea. it must not be blamed for this, as it has no reason to be ashamed of its old-fashioned name. the seedsmen alone are responsible for the change in nomenclature. other stand-bys among the annuals are poppies, larkspur, petunias, ten-week stock, marigolds, scabiosa, mignonette, eschscholtzia (better known as california poppy). of course the list of really desirable kinds could be extended almost indefinitely, but i do not think it advisable to make mention of other kinds here, because it is not the part of wisdom for the amateur gardener to attempt growing "a little of everything." it is better to confine one's attention to a few of the kinds with which success is reasonably sure until experience justifies one in undertaking the culture of those which are not so self-reliant and unexacting as the kinds mentioned. v vines if any one were to ask me to tell him what vine i considered best adapted to amateur culture _in all respects_, i would decide in favor of the ampelopsis--better known in many localities as virginia creeper. my decision would be based on the beauty of the vine, its rapid growth, its hardiness, and its ability to furnish its own support on walls of wood, brick, or stone. its foliage is very pleasing in summer, but it is doubly so in autumn, when its green gives place to a brilliant crimson and a rich maroon. at that season of the year all our flowering vines are eclipsed by its magnificent coloring. it grows well in all kinds of soil--better, of course, in a good one than a poor one--and it will go to the eaves of a three-story house if given an opportunity to do so, and cover every inch of the wall unless special efforts are made to prevent it from doing this. if you do not want your windows hidden under its luxuriance it will be necessary for you to cut away a good many of its branches during the summer. the dorothy perkins rose--one of the rambler class--is a most charming vine when in full bloom, and it has the merit of being quite attractive at other periods, as its foliage is a rich, dark, shining green--something that cannot truthfully be said of some of the other members of this class of roses. it is the only rambler i would advise for use about porches and verandas. it blooms in wonderful profusion. its flowers are a soft pink, borne in large, loose clusters or sprays. the general habit of the plant is all that could be desired. it is the only member of the rambler class that is really vinelike. there are two varieties of clematis that i am always glad to speak a good word for. one is the native variety, catalogued as _c. flammula_. this is a very rampant grower, and well adapted for use wherever a dense shade is desired. it blooms in august. its flowers are white. they are succeeded by seed with a feathery tail which makes the plant look as if covered with gray smoke. this variety is always greatly admired because of this peculiarity. the other variety that i have a special fondness for is _c. paniculata_. this is a late bloomer, being in the prime of its flowering period long after the plants in the garden have completed the work of the season. its flowers are of the purest white. they are small, individually, but they are borne in such profusion that the upper portion of the vine will be completely covered with them. it will look as if a fall of snow had tried to hide it. i consider this one of our very best flowering vines. unlike the hybrid members of the clematis family, with their enormous flowers of rich colors and scanty foliage, it is perfectly healthy, and it has ample foliage to make a charming background for its blossoms. the trumpet honeysuckle is a favorite wherever grown. it is one of our best vines for porch use, as it does not climb to a great height. it bears its scarlet-and-orange flowers throughout the entire season. it is an especial favorite because its foliage is always clean and seldom attacked by insects. the good old morning-glory is, all things considered, our best annual flowering vine. it grows rapidly, reaching to the windows of the second story by midsummer. it is a free and constant bloomer. it is excelled by no other vine in richness and variety of color--white, pink, purple, blue, violet, and crimson flowers will make a veritable "morning glory" of it. care should be taken to provide it with stout cord to climb by. a light twine is not strong enough to support the weight of its heavy vines. another good flowering vine is the hyacinth bean. why it should be given this name i do not know, as there is nothing about it suggestive in the remotest degree of the hyacinth. its flowers are a brilliant scarlet. it seldom grows to a greater height than seven or eight feet, and is therefore well adapted to use about porches where a rampant grower is not wanted. the wild cucumber, catalogued as echynocystis, is a good vine for covering tall buildings and screens. it will make a growth of twenty-five or thirty feet in a season. its foliage is pretty, as are its white flowers, which make the vines look as if covered with foam. these give place to prickly fruit, somewhat resembling some varieties of cucumber, hence its popular name. the wild grape that is found growing along creeks and rivers in almost all parts of the country is a most excellent vine for covering summer-houses and for planting where it can have trees to clamber over. its flowers are so small and so pale in color as to be scarcely distinguishable, but they are so delightfully fragrant that every one knows when the vine is in bloom without looking at it. its fragrance has much of the pervading quality that characterizes mignonette, and is quite unlike that of any other plants i can call to mind. it seems to have the very spirit of the spring in it--vague, elusive, and sweet beyond description. i would not class the crimson-rambler rose among the vines, though the majority of our florists have done so. i treat it as a shrub, and find it most satisfactory when grown in that manner. i allow the young canes to reach a length of seven or eight feet. then i nip off the tops of them. this causes side branches to develop. a central support is provided for these branches. in this way i succeed in getting flowers all over the plant--in other words, of making it a shrub instead of a vine. if it is used to cover summer-houses, the canes can be allowed to grow to suit themselves. celastrus _scandens_, more commonly known as bittersweet, is a native vine that can easily be domesticated. it is well worth a place about every home. its foliage is bright and clean, its flowers inconspicuous, but its fruit makes the vine a favorite wherever grown. this is a bright crimson, each berry being inclosed in an orange shell which splits apart in three pieces, revealing the fruit inside. as this fruit remains on the plant until late in the season, it makes the vine quite as attractive as if it were covered with flowers at a time of the year when bits of brightness are greatly appreciated in the garden. vi spring work in the garden there will be a good deal of work to do in the garden, no matter how small it is. a good deal of this work will consist in cleaning up and removing rubbish, unless attention was given to this in the fall. the tops of last year's perennials should be cut away close to the ground, and dead annuals should be pulled up and added to the refuse-heap. if a covering was provided for your plants, it should be removed altogether or dug into the soil about the roots of the plants it protected. never allow it to remain upon the ground about the plants unless it is of a kind that is not particularly noticeable. this should not be done, however, until the season is so far advanced that all danger of severe freezing is over. a plant that has had winter protection will not be in as good condition to resist the effect of severe cold as it would have been if that protection had not been given it. therefore do not be in that haste which may result in waste. rome wasn't built in a day, and spring isn't confined to a week. there will be plenty of time for uncovering plants when the weather will justify it. the bulb-bed should not have its covering taken off until you are quite sure that the weather will not be severe enough to injure the tender plants just peeping through the soil. of course one cannot be quite sure when it is safe to do this, as our northern seasons are subject to frequent and sometimes severe relapses. but if we keep an eye on the weather we can generally tell when uncovering is advisable. if, after the beds have been uncovered, a cold spell happens along and there seems to be danger in the air, spread blankets, old carpeting, or something of a similar nature over them. but before doing this drive pegs into the ground for the covering to rest on. its weight should not be allowed to fall upon the young shoots, which will be so tender at this period as to be easily broken. go through the garden with a view to finding what changes can be made advantageously. we often make sad mistakes in the location of our plants, and do not discover them until it is too late to unmake them that season. sometimes a plant that has got into the wrong place so disappoints us that we think of throwing it out, but if we give it a place where its merits have an opportunity to assert themselves properly it turns out to be extremely satisfactory. the aim should be to get every plant into the place just suited to its peculiarities. it may take several seasons to bring about so desirable a result, but something along this line should be part of every season's work. old clumps of perennials will be greatly benefited by a division of their roots about once in three years. take them up, cut their roots apart, discard all but the youngest and strongest ones, and reset in a soil that has been made rich and mellow. shrubs should be looked over with a view to doing whatever pruning may seem necessary. i do not advise much pruning, however. a shrub knows better than i do what shape to grow in to be most effective, and i prefer to let it train itself. about all the pruning i do is to cut away weak wood and to thin out the branches if there seems too many of them. early-flowering shrubs should never be pruned until after their flowering period is over. manure should be applied to all plants each spring. the older it is the better if you procure it from the barn-yard. on no account should fresh manure be used. spread your fertilizer out about the plants, and then work it into the soil with spade or hoe. you will doubtless find many seedling plants in the beds where they germinated last fall. these should be transplanted to places where they are to bloom as early in the spring as possible. all perennials that got a start last year will bloom this season, but those grown from seed sown this spring will not bloom until next year. therefore make liberal use of self-sown plants. we are generally in such a hurry to do garden work in spring that we begin it before the ground is in proper condition to make good work possible. if it is spaded up before the surplus water from early rains and melting snows has had a chance to drain out of it, no attempt should be made to pulverize it then. it simply will not pulverize, but the result of your attempt to make it do so will be a lot of lumps and chunks. but if left exposed to the disintegrating action of wind and sunshine and possible showers for a few days, it will be in a condition that will make it an easy matter to reduce it to fineness under the application of hoe or rake. plan your garden. never trust to "the inspiration of the moment" in making it. go over the ground and decide where you think this or that plant would be most effective. make a diagram of it, locating each plant that you propose to make use of, and when seeding-time comes you will have something definite to work to. haphazard gardening is never satisfactory. vii midsummer in the garden we somehow get the impression that when our garden is made in spring that's about all there will be for us to do. our share of the work has been done, and if nature does _her_ share, well and good. but in our endeavor to shirk further responsibility on to nature we lose sight of the fact that gardening isn't a thing of periods. it is, on the contrary, a thing of one period, and that period covers the entire season. we soon discover that weeds will need attention every day. it really seems, sometimes, as if the pulling of one weed gave a score of others an opportunity to take its place, and that these were waiting impatiently to step into the shoes of their predecessors, if such a figure of speech is allowable in this connection. neglect weeding for a week and you will be pretty sure to find that your seedlings of flowering plants are "out of sight" in more senses of the term than one. but weeding is not all that needs to be done. there will be more or less transplanting to do in the early part of the season. this should be done on a cloudy day, if possible. if no such day happens along at the time when it is absolutely necessary that this phase of gardening should be attended to, do it after sundown. before lifting the young plants, water them well to make the soil adhere to their roots. as little exposure to the air as possible is desirable. also have the ground in which they are to be set ready to receive them, that the work of transplanting may be completed with the least possible delay. every gardener ought to provide herself with a little trowel that will enable her to lift a plant without breaking apart the soil about its roots. drop the seedling into the place prepared for it, and press the soil about it firmly but gently. then water well. if the next day is a warm and sunshiny one, some shade should be given the newly set plants. by tacking pieces of pasteboard six inches wide and eight or ten inches long to sticks a foot in length a very practical shade can easily be made. the stick to which the pasteboard is fastened by carpet-tacks is to be inserted in the ground by each plant. the pasteboard is to be bent over in such a manner as to prevent the sun's rays from striking the plant. by this method the plant gets all the protection it needs and the air is allowed free circulation about it. the hoe ought to be used daily in all gardens. if the season happens to be a dry one, don't forego its use under the impression that stirring the soil will result in its drying out. if you want to keep moisture _out_ of the soil, there is no way of doing it more effectually than by allowing it to become crusted over. but if you want to get all possible moisture _into_ it, keep it light and porous. such a condition will make it possible for it to absorb whatever moisture there may be in the air. make it a rule to go over your plants when they come into bloom and cut off every faded flower, to prevent the formation of seed. most plants will give but one general flowering period if left to manage their own affairs. all their energies will be expended in the production of seed. as a natural consequence they will give you few or no flowers after the early part of summer. but, thwart them in their seed-producing intent and they will at once set about getting the start of you by making another effort to carry forward to completion their original plan. the result will be satisfactory to you, if it isn't to them. see that all plants needing support are provided with it. never allow plants of slender habit to sprawl all over the ground. they give the garden an untidy, "mussy" look, and constantly accuse you of neglect. a bit of brush inserted by the side of such plants will furnish all the support required by them. in watering the garden in a dry season make the application after sundown. this will allow the plants to get the benefit of the water before the sun has a chance to draw the moisture out of the soil, as it will rapidly do if watering is done in the morning. what every gardener needs is a watering-pot with a long spout. this will make it an easy matter to apply the water close to the plant, where none will be wasted. never use a nozzle on your pot when watering plants in the garden. that will scatter the water over a wide surface, and so thinly that but little good will result from the application. viii window-boxes blessed be window boxes! they are excellent substitutes, on a small scale, for a garden, and almost any woman can have them, while a _real_ garden is out of the question for a majority of the women who love flowers. a garden on the ground is one of the impossibilities for most women in the city who could well afford one, so far as financial ability is concerned, but she can make her windows so attractive with flowers and "green things growing" that she will not greatly miss the garden in a crowded city whose every foot of land is worth thousands of dollars and therefore cannot be given up to anything as unprofitable, from a pecuniary standpoint, as flower-growing. the culture of plants in a window-box seems an easy thing to the person who sees plants growing luxuriantly in it. but it is not as easy as it looks, because the beginner in this phase of gardening seldom studies conditions before undertaking it. it generally takes one or two seasons of mistakes and consequent failures to make one a successful grower of plants in window-boxes. but after repeated failures the amateur generally discovers what was wrong in her treatment, and after that the probabilities of failure are slight. the cause of failure nine times out of ten is lack of sufficient moisture in the soil. a box exposed to air on all sides, as most window-boxes are, parts rapidly with the water that has been applied to it, and before one suspects the actual condition of things the soil in the box becomes so dry that the plants wilt. then a little more water is applied, and the plants revive temporarily, but next day they wilt again, and shortly this alternation of a good deal of drought and a small amount of moisture results in the death of the plants. a box a foot wide and a foot deep and four or five feet long will require a large pailful of water daily. if you want to grow good plants in boxes don't form the habit which prevails to a great extent among amateur gardeners--that of applying a small quantity of water whenever you happen to think of it. a small amount makes the soil look wet on its surface and deceives one into thinking that because it looks wet there it must be in proper condition below. examination will convince you of this mistake. always apply enough water each time to saturate all the soil in the box, and make it a rule to do this every morning or evening. if you go on the "every-time-you-think-of-it" plan the chances are that you will not think of it at the right time or as frequently as you ought to. be regular in caring for your plants. if those who complain of failure with window-boxes will use more water and use it frequently, they will have no trouble in growing plants in them, and growing them as well as they can be grown in pots. and they can grow almost any kind of plant. the soil used should be rich, to begin with, and later on in the season fertilizers should be applied to keep the plants well supplied with nutriment. ix the use of growing plants for table decoration the woman who takes pride in making the family table attractive at all times finds nothing quite so effective for this purpose as flowers, and these she cannot always afford. but she need not be without material for beautifying the home table if she has windows in which plants can be grown, for there are many plants that are quite as attractive as flowers. but a good many persons have not yet learned that they can be made satisfactory substitutes for cut flowers, because they have not taken the trouble to study the thing out. they have heretofore depended on cut flowers for table decoration, as have their friends, and it has not occurred to them to get out of the rut they are in and think out new ways and means for making home pleasant. a well-shaped, medium-sized plant with fine foliage will add quite as much to the appearance of any table as a vaseful of flowers that would cost several times as much. true, it may lack the brilliant coloring of the flowers whose place it takes, but that does not prevent it from being beautiful, and beauty is what we aim at when we supplement the attractions of fine table-linen, sparkling cut glass, silver, and dainty china of the well-arranged table with the added attraction of plants and flowers. one of the best plants for this purpose is the variety of asparagus catalogued as _plumosus nanus_. it is more commonly known as asparagus fern, though it is not even a most distant relative of the fern family. it has foliage so fine that it has all the delicacy of lace, and is more like a mist of green than like ordinary foliage. it sends up frondlike growth that spreads out symmetrically on all sides of the pot. pruning is seldom required to bring it into or keep it in proper shape. a plant of it, with its pot hidden by a pretty jardinière or wrapped in tissue-paper will be in perfect harmony with any table fittings. if a bit of bright color is desired, three or four roses or half a dozen carnations with their stems thrust into the soil in the pot will furnish it. if the housewife provides herself with three or four plants of this asparagus, she will at all times have something at hand with which to make her table attractive. in this way she will become independent of the florist and his fancy prices. these plants are of the easiest culture, and succeed wherever geraniums can be grown. at holiday-time several plants that make excellent table decorations are on the market. one is ardisia, with rich, dark-green foliage, and scarlet berries that are quite as brilliant as flowers. another is the jerusalem cherry, with pretty foliage and a profusion of crimson fruit. these plants remain in attractive condition for weeks, and the woman who invests in them has something with which to make her table as attractive as it would be if two or three dollars had been expended in flowers that would last for only a few days. it will be seen that it is economy to buy plants of this kind. where there are several there is opportunity for variety, thus ruling monotony out of the question. _cocos weddelliana_ is a small-growing palm with delicate, feathery foliage. one might call it a "baby" palm because of its small size. a plant of it always adds distinction to the table on which it is used. this, like the asparagus, the ardisia, and the jerusalem cherry, readily adapts itself to ordinary window culture. _begonia gloire de lorraine_ is a most beautiful flowering plant. it bears its dainty pink blossoms so profusely and in such wide-spreading panicles that the pot in which it grows is often entirely hidden by it. its color is charming by daylight, and under artificial light it is lovely beyond description. i know of no other pink flower that is as satisfactory by lamplight. when an especially dainty and out-of-the-common decoration is wanted for the table, nothing superior to it can be found. this begonia can be obtained from most florists in fall. if care is taken to remove it from the table to the window after it has done decorative duty, it will remain in bloom during the greater part of winter. but it must not be left on the table long at a time. neither should any of the other plants named, for they will suffer if kept away from good light very long. _primula obconica_ is a most satisfactory plant for table use when in full bloom. its trusses of pale lilac, soft pink, or pure white have such a wild-woodsy air about them that they are always sure of such attention as american beauties seldom get. the baby primrose is a miniature edition of _p. obconica_, and it is one of the most lovable flowers imaginable. like its larger relative, it is a free and constant bloomer, and on this account will be found very useful as a table ornament. small specimens of auricaria, with heavy, dark-green foliage much like that of our native hemlocks and balsam, make a novel decoration. this is the plant that the children delight in calling the christmas-tree plant, because of its shape and its evergreen foliage. during fall and winter, when fruit and vegetables are plentiful, very pleasing table decorations can be made from them. on thanksgiving day such an arrangement will be found very appropriate. a friend of mine who has no windows at which flowers can be grown well, but who, in spite of that, is determined to make her table attractive, lays in a supply of bittersweet berries during the fall, and "everlasting flowers," like gomphrena, helichrysum, cockscomb, and others whose petals are strawlike in texture, and from these she contrives some really charming decorations for her table. where there is a will there is always a way, you know. it will be seen from what i have said above that many plants can be grown in the windows of the living-room that can be used with fine effect in table decoration. i would advise making a collection of such varieties as i have named for this especial purpose. with such a collection to draw from no woman need be at loss for decorative material, and while her plants are not doing duty on the table they will be making her windows attractive, thus serving a double purpose. x decorative plants there are few homes nowadays in which at least one plant of ornamental foliage cannot be found. i know of many in which some have had place so long that they have come to be considered as members of the family. especially is this true among german people, who have an especial fondness for bride's myrtle and english ivy. in many of these homes i have found finer plants than i have seen in any greenhouse. i am not sure that they do not get more care than the children of the family. the myrtle to which i refer has small, fine foliage, evergreen in character, of a rich, glossy green. it branches freely, and in two or three years becomes a good-sized shrub. it does not bloom very freely, but this does not detract much from the value of the plant, as its flowers are small and not at all showy, though really quite pretty in their snow-white purity. the real value of the plant is in its foliage. it can be kept growing the year round, or it can be wintered in the cellar. in summer a plant of this kind will be found very effective for porch decoration. the english ivy is our best evergreen vine. it is one of the few plants that can be grown successfully in rooms where there is not much direct light. indeed, i have seen it trained across the ceiling, in german homes, where the light seemed insufficient to meet the requirements of any plant, and there its leaves were as dark in color as those of most other plants are when standing close to the glass, and seemed to be quite as healthy. two or three times a year, the owners told me, the vine was taken down, coiled up for convenience in transit, and taken out of doors. there it was spread out upon the grass and left until the rain had washed it clean. because of the thick, firm, leathery texture of its foliage it seemed immune from the bad effects of dust, hot, dry air, and the absence of direct light. when well grown it is a plant that any one might well be proud of. for training up about the ceiling of the bay-window it stands at the head of the list of vines adapted to house culture. sometimes scale attacks both myrtle and ivy. when this happens heroic measures must be resorted to in order to head off permanent injury. in the chapter on "the insect enemies of plants" a remedy is suggested that seldom fails to produce most satisfactory results. palms are universal favorites. there are but three varieties that i feel justified in recommending for amateur culture. these are the arecas, especially _a. lutescens_, _latania borbonica_, better known as the "fan palm," and the kentias, _belmoreana_ and _fosteriana_. of these three varieties i would advise the kentias for beginners in palm-culture, as they are more robust than any of the others and quite as ornamental. they are of somewhat coarser habit than _areca lutescens_, which is an almost ideal sort for general use. _latania borbonica_ has large, almost circular leaves borne on short, stout stalks, thrown out from the center of the plants. it does not grow tall like the kentias or the arecas. it is the variety from which our palm-leaf fans are made. one who has never seen this plant can get a fairly good idea of the shape of its foliage by looking at one of these fans. the three varieties mentioned are all of comparatively easy culture. give them a loamy soil, well drained, and enough water to keep the soil always moist. keep them out of strong sunshine. don't experiment with them, hoping to hasten development. as long as they keep on producing three or four new leaves during the year, let them alone. if they lift the crown of the plant out of or above the soil, and the roots give them the appearance of a plant on stilts, don't be frightened, and repot them, setting them low in the soil to cover the roots. it's natural for them to grow in that way. wash the foliage at least once a week. add a little sweet milk to the water. this will give a gloss to the foliage that will add much to its attractiveness. next to the palm in popularity is the boston fern. this is a favorite with every one who succeeds in growing it well, because of its great profusion of fronds, three or four feet long, which droop over the pot gracefully and make the plant a veritable fountain of foliage. another reason for its great popularity is its ease of culture. give it a light, spongy soil and a moderate amount of water and it will make quite a rapid growth. it is not an exacting plant in any respect, and will do well in almost any kind of soil except those which contain a large amount of clay. but it does best in a soil that is light and porous. never give enough water to make the soil muddy. the third place on the list ought to be given to the ficus, more commonly known as rubber-plant. this is also of easy culture. it never fails to attract attention by its large, thick, glossy, dark-green foliage. the aspidistra ought not to be overlooked. because it does not grow to a considerable height, like the ficus, it has not attained the popularity of that plant, as yet, but it will be a universal favorite as soon as its merits become fully known. its great masses of dark-green foliage are extremely ornamental, and the fact that it is the one plant in the list of decorative plants suitable for amateur use that can be said to almost take care of itself will appeal to those who want something that can always be depended on to look well. give it enough water to keep the soil in its pot moist at all times, and that is about all it will ask of you. it is not at all particular as to the soil given it, and it seems to care very little for direct light. it will stand more abuse and neglect, and flourish under it, than any other plant i have any knowledge of. xi the bulb-bed the bulb-bed should be located in some part of the yard where there is good, natural drainage or where it will be an easy matter to secure an artificial one by excavating the soil to the depth of a foot and a half and filling the bottom of it with material that will not readily decay, such as broken brick, crockery, or crushed stone. the object is to provide escape for surplus water from the soil above in spring. no bulb can be grown successfully in a soil that is unduly retentive of water about its roots. in arranging for artificial drainage, after filling the bottom of the excavation with five or six inches of drainage material, the soil that was thrown out should be returned to it, working into it, as this is done, a liberal amount of good manure. the best of all fertilizers for all bulbs is old, well-rotted barn-yard soil. if this cannot be obtained make use of some good commercial fertilizer. as soils differ greatly, and not all commercial fertilizers are adapted to all soils, i would suggest that some person in the community who understands the nature of its soil and the kind of fertilizer which suits it best should be consulted, and that the maker of a bulb-bed should be governed by his advice as to what kind to make use of. it is not well to let guesswork govern in the matter. if possible, choose a location that slopes toward the south. this will give the bed the benefit of sun warmth early in the season, and the plants in it will be greatly helped by it. it is quite important that the soil for bulbs should be made fine and mellow and that whatever fertilizer is used should be thoroughly incorporated with it. while it is true that most bulbs will do fairly well in soils of only moderate richness, it is impossible for them to do themselves anything like justice in it. keep this fact in mind, and be generous in your supply of plant food. the proper time to plant bulbs is in late september and early october. this enables them to make a strong root-growth before winter sets in. such a growth puts them in proper condition for flowering in spring. late planting does not admit of the completion of root-growth in fall, consequently some of it has to be made in spring. this obliges the plants to divide their work at that season between root-growth and flower production, and as these processes ought not to go on at the same time the result is an inferior crop of flowers and unsatisfactory bulb-development. i cannot urge too strongly the advantages of early planting. the best bulbs for the amateur gardener are holland hyacinths, tulips, and the narcissus. these are very hardy and floriferous, and succeed in almost all soils. and they are so beautiful that they deserve a place in all collections. they should be set about four inches below the surface, and about that distance apart. before winter sets in the bed should be covered with leaves, straw, or coarse litter from the barn-yard. let the covering be about six inches deep. it will not prevent the ground from freezing, but it will prevent it from freezing and thawing alternately. if this takes place the bulbs are pretty sure to be torn from their places, and their tender, recently formed roots broken off. of course there are other bulbs than those of which i have made mention that are well worth growing, but they are not as well adapted to amateur culture as those are, therefore i would advise the beginner in bulb-growing to confine her attention to the hardiest and least particular kinds until she feels that her success with them justifies her in "branching out" and making an attempt to grow those which require greater care and a good deal more of it. xii getting ready for winter a supply of good potting-soil should be put into the cellar for use during the winter if needed. often a plant will have outgrown its pot, thus making immediate repotting necessary in order to continue the healthy condition of it, but if there is no good soil at hand it will be obliged to do the best it can until spring comes, and by that time it will have received a check from which it will be a long time in recovering, and quite often it will die as the result of failure to give it proper attention when it was in most need of it. if you have a supply of potting-soil in stock there will be no excuse for not caring for your plants promptly when the advisability of repotting is indicated. a very satisfactory potting-soil is composed of garden loam, two parts; leaf-mold or its substitute, one part; and clean, coarse sand, one part. to this should be added some well-rotted cow manure, if obtainable. work the compost over until all its ingredients are thoroughly mixed. the quantity of manure required to make the compost sufficiently rich to suit all kinds of plants will depend on the quality of the loam used. if that is quite rich, do not add much manure to it. if only of moderate richness, more can be used. this is a matter which will have to be decided largely by results. if the plants you put into the compost make a strong, healthy growth, the soil is rich enough. if the growth does not seem strong, more plant food is required. a good substitute for cow manure is fine bone-meal in the proportion of a pound to a bushel of soil. a good substitute for leaf-mold will be found in that portion of old sward from pasture or roadside which contains fine grass roots. turn the sward over and cut away this part of it, to mix with the loam and sand. these roots will be found almost as rich in vegetable matter as pure leaf-mold. some persons may wonder why i advise the liberal use of sand, which is not supposed to contain much nutriment. i do it because i have found from long experience in growing plants that sand not only facilitates good drainage, but enables air to get to the roots of the plants as it never can do when the soil is not light and porous. and sand is a sweetener of soil, as is charcoal. of course not all plants are alike in their requirements. roses, for instance, like a rather heavy, compact soil. in growing them use the loam without sand. if i had to choose between sand and manure in making potting-soil for nearly all plants adapted to window culture, i would take the sand. it is not too late to set out seedling plants of such perennials as phlox and hollyhock if care is taken to lift enough soil with them to insure against disturbance of their roots. work of this kind can be done to better advantage now than in spring. now is a good time to go over the shrubs and give such pruning as may seem necessary. as a general thing, the less pruning given a shrub the better, for if left to itself it will do a much better job of training than we are capable of doing for it. but it is advisable that all shrubs should have the old, weak wood cut away each season. this is pruning for health--not for symmetry. nature has a keener eye for the symmetrical than we have, therefore we are justified in leaving the training of our shrubs to her, or to the shrubs, acting under her advice. oleanders, fuchsias, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums--in fact, all hard-wooded plants that are summer and autumn bloomers--should be wintered in the cellar. here, if the temperature is kept low, they will be practically dormant for several months, thus getting the same kind of a resting-spell that comes to deciduous plants out of doors during winter. give just enough water to prevent the soil from becoming dust-dry. do not be frightened if some of them shed their foliage while in cold storage; outdoor plants do that. if the place in which they are kept can be made dark, all the better. dahlia roots should be spread out on swinging-shelves of wire netting when stored away. never heap them together, and never put them on the cellar-bottom, for it is likely to be too damp there. mold, which is largely the result of dampness, must be guarded against, hence the advantage of hanging-shelves which will allow a free circulation of air about the roots spread out on them. look them over at least every week. if you find any that show signs of mold or decay, separate them immediately from the healthy ones. if allowed to remain, the diseased condition will surely be communicated to the entire mass of roots. all plants that seem to need repotting should be attended to before winter sets in. this will give them plenty of time to become thoroughly re-established before the winter campaign is on, and it will not be necessary to disturb them in the middle of the busy season. all the windows at which plants are kept should be looked over before cold weather comes, and made proof against cracks and crevices that will let in cold air. it is a good plan to provide these windows with storm-sash. if this is done, the plants can be allowed to stand with their leaves against the glass, as the air space between window and storm-sash will prevent frost from forming on the inner panes. gladiolus roots should be stored in boxes of perfectly dry sawdust or buckwheat hulls and kept in a dry and rather cool place. never put them in the cellar. be careful to see that no frost gets to them. or they can be wrapped in paper and put into paper bags and hung in a closet. if kept in a very warm place over winter they frequently become so dry that there is little vitality left in them by spring. tuberous begonias and gloxinias will most likely have ended their flowering season by this time. allow the soil in their pots to become dry. then set them away in a dark closet without in any way disturbing the tubers. treated in this manner, they winter much more satisfactorily than when the roots are taken out of the soil. in spring, when the plants are brought to the light and water is given, they will soon send up new sprouts. then the roots should be shaken out of the old soil and supplied with fresh earth. in covering roses do not make use of leaves if there happens to be anything else at hand that will afford the necessary protection. leaves would make an ideal covering were it not for the fact that it is almost impossible to keep mice from working in them. last season i lost every rose-bush that was covered with leaves. the mice had gnawed all the bark from them. covering the bushes with dry earth is preferable. xiii bulbs for winter flowering whenever any one writes me that she is fond of flowers, and would be delighted if she could have some in winter, but that she fails to get satisfaction from the ordinary house-plant, i always advise her to try bulbs. for i know that one is reasonably sure of getting fine flowers from this class of plants, provided we are willing to give them the right kind of treatment. one will get more flowers from them than she can expect from the ordinary collection found in the average window garden--we can have them through the entire winter if we plan for a succession--and we have few flowers that equal those of the bulbs in beauty. and, last but not least, they require really less care than is demanded by the majority of house-plants. three things are essential to success in the culture of bulbs in the house: _first_--good stock. _second_--good soil. _third_--root development before top growth takes place. the first essential is readily met if you order your bulbs from reliable dealers--dealers who have established a reputation for honesty and the handling of bulbs of the best quality only. each season we see advertisements in which large collections of bulbs are offered at very low prices. beware of them. as a general thing the wonderfully cheap ones are as cheap in quality as they are in price, and from such a grade of bulbs you cannot expect fine flowers. the best bulbs are imported ones, grown largely in holland, where both soil and climate are admirably adapted to the production of first-class stock, and where the matter of bulb-growing has been reduced to almost a science. these will cost a little more than american-grown ones, but they are well worth the difference in price. inferior stock will give inferior flowers every time, and what one wants in forcing bulbs in winter is the best flowers possible. the item of good soil is a most important one. bulbs can be grown, after a fashion, in almost any kind of soil, but they can only be grown to perfection in a soil whose basis is a sandy loam made quite rich with some good fertilizer. heavy soils can be made lighter by mixing sharp, coarse sand with them until the mixture, after being squeezed tightly in the hand, will readily fall apart after pressure is relaxed. the ideal fertilizer for all bulbs is old, thoroughly rotted cow manure. on no account should fresh manure of any kind be used. but it is not always possible to procure manure from the cow-yard, and those who are unable to do so will find fine bone meal a good substitute. use this in the proportion of a pound to a half-bushel of soil. whatever fertilizer is used should be thoroughly mixed with the soil. be very sure that the latter is free from lumps. in potting bulbs for winter use i would advise putting several in the same pot. fill the pot loosely with soil, then press such bulbs as those of the hyacinth, tulip, and narcissus down into it just their depth. as many can be used in a pot as can be set on the surface of the soil in it so that they just touch one another. do not attempt to make the soil firm about them or beneath them. if this is done their tender roots will often fail to penetrate it, and the consequence will be that the bulbs are hoisted upward as the roots develop. this should be guarded against by having the soil so light that the young roots will find no difficulty in making their way into it. i advise the use of several bulbs in the same pot because it gives a greater amount of bloom in a limited space, and greatly economizes in soil, pots, and labor. when you have put your bulbs into the soil, water them well, and then set the pots away in a place that is _cool_ and _dark_. some persons consider this unnecessary, and put their plants in the window as soon as potted. this is all wrong. storage in a cool, dark room until roots have formed is absolutely necessary to success. the reason for it is plain if we stop to think that the bulbs must have roots before they can make a satisfactory growth of top. roots first, flowers afterward. as a general thing bulbs will have to remain in cold storage at least six weeks before it will be safe to bring them to the windows in which they are to bloom. but no definite time can be assigned. one must examine the plants from time to time, and on no account should they be taken to the light until the pot is filled with roots and indications of top growth are seen. it may sometimes be necessary to water them while in the dark room, but as a general thing one watering--the one given at potting-time--will be sufficient. too much water while in the dark may cause serious trouble. but this, like the length of time allowed for root formation, is a matter that must be left largely to the good judgment of the grower. when plants have been brought from the cellar, or wherever they have been placed while roots were forming, they should not be put into very warm rooms. too much heat, combined with the effects of light and water, will result in rapid growth, which is not a healthy one. in warm rooms the flowers will be short-lived. i have spoken of planting for a succession of bloom. this is important if you want flowers throughout the winter. pot a few at intervals of ten days or two weeks, beginning the middle of september or first of october. if this is done it is an easy matter to keep the window supplied with flowers from the holidays to the advent of spring. a little calculation will enable one to plant enough to meet the demand and to regulate the planting intervals in such a manner as to bring about the succession necessary to cover the season. what has been said above may seem so elaborate to the person who has never grown bulbs for winter flowering that it may give the impression that what is really a simple matter is too difficult for the amateur. but if what i have written is read over carefully and given a little thought you will readily see, i think, that most of what i have said has been devoted to giving reasons for the treatment outlined, so that the "whys and wherefores" may be understood. and it will be seen that it all resolves itself into a very simple proposition--_viz._, good stock, good soil, and cold storage until roots have formed--the three essentials spoken of at the beginning of this chapter. nothing is required that the beginner in floriculture is not equal to. potting the bulbs is a much simpler matter than potting a plant, and the preparation of soil for them involves no more labor or skill than the preparation of a soil for a geranium to grow in. now as to kinds to grow. i advise the holland hyacinth, preferably the single varieties; the roman hyacinth, the white variety only; early tulips; and five varieties of the narcissus--van sion, horsfeildii, empress, trumpet-major, and paper-white--and the bermuda, or, as it is more commonly called, easter lily. the double holland hyacinths are too double to be pleasing to a person who likes individuality in a flower. the roman hyacinth is more graceful than any other member of the family. the early tulip is much surer to bloom well than any of the others described in the florist's catalogue. the easter lily requires a treatment somewhat different from that advised for the other bulbs. it sends forth two sets of roots, one from the base of the bulb and one from the stalk sent up from the bulb. in order to give each set of roots a chance we have to set the bulb deep down in the soil. let the pot be only half filled with earth when the lily is put into it, press it down as directed for the other bulbs, and add no more soil until growth begins. then, as the stalk reaches up, put more soil into the pot, and continue to do this until it is full. in this way give the two sets of roots the support they need. if bone meal is used as a fertilizer, be sure to get the finely ground article. coarse bone meal is not what you need, as it does not give an immediate effect. xiv the winter window-garden in fall, when we bring in the plants that have been growing out of doors during the summer, they usually look healthy, and we congratulate ourselves that we are likely to have a fine crop of flowers from them later on. but soon we see some of their leaves turning yellow and falling off, and though they may make considerable growth, it is unsatisfactory because it is spindling and weak. if buds form, they are pretty sure to blight before reaching maturity, and, instead of having the fine, floriferous plants we had counted on, we have a window-garden that is more noticeable for its discouraged look than for anything else. the owner of such a garden too often aims to remedy the unfavorable conditions which exist in it by applying some kind of fertilizer to her plants. by doing this she simply makes a bad matter worse, for the application of any kind of plant food to weak and debilitated plants is on a par with giving rich food to a person whose stomach is not in a condition to make proper use of it. no fertilizer should ever be given to a plant that is not in healthy condition; neither should it be given to dormant plants. when active growth begins, then, and then only, should they be stimulated to stronger growth by feeding them well. but care must be taken to not overfeed them. give only enough to bring about a vigorous growth, but not a rapid one, for that is pretty sure to be a weak one from which there will be a reaction by and by, from which your over-stimulated plants will suffer severely. most growers of house plants are too kind to them. in this respect they are like a good many mothers who injure their children by over-indulgence through mistaken ideas of kindness. in applying fertilizers, begin by giving them in small quantities. watch their effect upon the plants. if their leaves increase in size and take on a rich color, be satisfied that you are feeding your plants quite enough for their good. the impression prevails to a considerable extent that by fertilizing plants we secure more flowers from them than we would be likely to do if no fertilizer was used. such is not the case. feed a plant rich food and it will be likely to make a vigorous growth of branches and foliage at the expense of flowers. the aim should be to simply keep the plants growing well. if this is done, whatever flowers they produce will share in the general benefit of the application, but they will not be increased in quantity by it. one reason why the plants in the winter window-garden fail at the time when we think they ought to be doing their best is lack of fresh air. if one stops to think about it one will not wonder that her plants have a sickly look. we keep our windows closed tightly, thus keeping out the air that the plants need, and we put storm-doors on every entrance. in fact, we do everything in our power, seemingly, to prevent fresh air from getting to them, and then we wonder why our plants do not flourish. we lose sight of the fact that plants breathe, the same as human beings do. a little intelligent consideration of the conditions under which we undertake to grow them ought to convince us of the mistake we make in expecting them to do well without a regular supply of fresh air. while it is well to make the windows at which plants are kept tight enough to prevent draughts of cold air from coming in upon them, it is not only advisable but absolutely necessary, if we would grow healthy plants, to give them a liberal supply of fresh air every day, and preferably several times a day. this can be done by opening a door or a window at some distance from them, and letting fresh, pure air rush into and fill the room. if possible, let down a window a few inches from the top on the side of the room opposite from where the air comes in, to allow the vitiated air of the room to readily escape before the onrush of outdoor air. in this way it is an easy matter to completely change the character of the air in a room in a few minutes, and in doing it we benefit the human occupants of the room quite as much as we do the plants in it. if the owner of every window-garden would make it a daily practice to give her plants an air-bath she would be surprised at the speedy improvement that would be noticeable in them. we weaken our plants, as we do ourselves, by keeping the temperature of our rooms too high. we are not satisfied with a comfortable warmth. we want heat enough to keep us constantly conscious of it by its intensity. this is all wrong from the health point of view. what ought to be done is to install a thermometer in every room, and so regulate the amount of heat that all are kept at summer warmth by arranging for a system of ventilation that will act automatically when the thermometer goes above a certain point. this system is speedily coming into general use, and gives most excellent satisfaction. where it is not in use, the temperature can be kept somewhere near where it ought to be by opening doors or windows from time to time, as already spoken of. keep in mind that too much heat and too little fresh air will kill almost any plant in time, and the two, working together, will, nine times out of ten, make any window-garden a comparative failure. care must be taken in watering plants in winter. those which are dormant, or are making but little growth, will require very little water. those in active growth will need more. the only way to tell how much to give is to watch your plants closely, and observe the effect of the applications given. when the surface of the soil takes on a dry look it is safe to conclude that the roots of the plant in the pot have made use of most of the moisture in it, and that more water should be given. then give enough to make the soil moist all through, and withhold further applications until the dry look appears again. never form the habit of watering your plants every time you happen to think about it, and then apply just enough to make the soil look wet on its surface. if this is done you will never grow good plants, for only the surface roots will get the moisture they need. have a stated time for watering, and let the appearance of the soil govern the amount used. xv the insect enemies of plants every woman who attempts to grow flowers in the house will sooner or later have to wage warfare against insects. perhaps the first battle will have to be fought with the aphis, or plant-louse. this insect sucks the sap--the life-blood of the plant--from stalk and leaf, and soon, if let alone, it will exhaust the vitality of the plant to a degree that is wholly incompatible with health. in fact, if allowed to have its way, it will kill your plants, for it propagates its species with such rapidity that a plant will soon be literally covered with them. we used to kill off these insects by fumigating the plants infested with them with tobacco smoke, and in doing it we made ourselves about as sick as the insects were, and the nauseating fumes of it clung to everything in and about the house for days. nowadays we make use of the nicotine principle of tobacco in our warfare against the aphis, but in a manner that leaves out the objectionable features of fumigation. tobacco manufacturers have prepared an extract of the nicotine in the plant, and put it on the market under the name of nicoticide. all we have to do when we want to make use of it is to put a small quantity in water, and spray our plants with the mixture. every aphis that it touches will die, and those that it fails to reach will take the hint that they are not wanted and that their presence will not long be tolerated, and the first you know they will have disappeared. instead of waiting for the attack of the enemy i consider it good policy to anticipate it by frequent applications of the tobacco-bath. it will be found easier to keep the enemy away than to rout it after it has established itself on your plants. the red spider is another insect that does deadly work in the window-garden, especially in rooms where the temperature is high and there is little moisture in the air--a condition that generally prevails in the ordinary living-room. this pest is so small that its presence is seldom suspected until considerable injury has been done to the plants it works on. if you notice that leaves are turning yellow and dropping off, and that more and more of them fall each day, you had better look into the matter. examine some of the fallen leaves. if you find tiny webs on the under side of them you may be quite sure that the spider is responsible for the condition your plants are in. look at some of the leaves that are yellowing, but have not yet let go their hold, and you will be quite likely to find little red specks on them. these specks resemble grains of fine cayenne pepper more than anything else. watch them for a while and you will find that they are living organisms. it seems hardly possible that such tiny creatures can do much harm to a strong plant, but the fact is that there is no more voracious enemy of plant life in existence. here the tobacco-bath does not come in play. cold water is all the insecticide we need. spray it over every portion of the infested plants daily, until they again take on a healthy look and begin to grow. the spider will not stay long in a moist atmosphere. make it moist and keep it so by the liberal use of water sprayed upon your plants, and you will have very little trouble with this dangerous pest. but if you neglect to use water regularly and freely the probabilities are that your window-garden will look rather sickly by spring. scale is an insect that often attacks plants having thick, firm-textured foliage, like the oleander, lemon, ivy, ficus, and palm. it is a flat creature, looking more like a fish-scale than anything else, hence its name. it attaches itself to the leaf and sucks the life out of it. the best weapon to fight this enemy with is an emulsion made as follows: shave thinly half a pound of white soap; pour a little water over it and set it on the stove to liquefy. when the soap is melted, add to it a pint of water and bring to a boil. when boiling, add a teacupful of kerosene and three tablespoonfuls of the tobacco extract. these ingredients, under the effect of heat, will form an emulsion that will unite readily with water. use in the proportion of one part emulsion to fifteen parts water. apply to the infested plants with a soft cloth or a camel's-hair brush. be sure that some of it gets to all parts of the plant. two or three applications may be necessary. prepare a quantity of it and keep it on hand for use when needed. the emulsion spoken of above is an excellent remedy for the ills the rose is heir to during the early part of the season. if paris green is sprayed onto the plants the foliage is frequently burned by it. if kerosene is mixed with water and applied, the oil will seldom emulsify perfectly with the water, and wherever a drop of it falls on leaf or bud it will do quite as much damage as would the bug or worm you are fighting. hellebore is never to be depended on. the kerosene-tobacco-soap emulsion will be found safe and effective. worms in the soil of pot plants can be got rid of by the use of lime-water. put a piece of _perfectly fresh_ lime as large as the ordinary coffee-cup in ten quarts of water. if fresh, as it must be to be of any benefit, the water will seem to boil for a little while. by and by a white sediment will settle to the bottom of the vessel, and the water above will be clear. pour this off and apply enough of it to each plant to saturate all the soil in the pot. plug up the drainage hole in the bottom of the pot before the application is made, that the water may be retained long enough to do its work. repeat the application if necessary. xvi gardening for children if you want to keep children out of mischief give them a little garden. one that they can call their own will afford them far more pleasure than they get out of working in _your_ garden. of course they will not be expected to go ahead with garden work at first and make much success at it without assistance from some one, and by object-lessons, but they will soon master the fundamental points of it, and when they have done that they will surprise you by the facility with which they pick up the information that grows out of their early experience and the amount of work that they will accomplish all by themselves. and you will be pleased to see how interested they are in the new undertaking. it will not seem like work to them. it will be play, and play of such a healthy character that you can well afford to ignore soiled clothes, and hands that have caught the grime of the soil, and faces on which sweat and soil have met on common ground and formed an intimate partnership. the healthy color of the faces of the children who work out of doors, and the excellent appetites that they bring to the table, will convince you that gardening is the best of all tonics for them. and you will be gratified to know that they are learning more from the great book of nature than they would ever learn in the schools. they are learning things at first hand, for nature will take charge of the little pupils and not trust her kindergarten work to an assistant. nine children out of ten who have a garden to work in will become more interested in it than in all the fairy-books that were ever written. for are not the processes of germination and growth going on before their eyes akin to magic? the miracle of life is being performed before them every day, and they are taking part in it. that is what will make it so delightful to them. they have formed a partnership with nature in miracle-making. parents who have only a hazy notion of garden-work may think themselves incompetent to teach their children. but if they set out to do so they will soon find that they are daily learning enough to make them safe teachers for the little folks. and the best of it will be that they themselves are getting quite as much good and pleasure out of it as the children are. give the boys and girls good tools to work with. never ask them to make use of those you have worn out or found worthless. something quite as good as you would provide for yourself is what should be provided for them. they will appreciate a good thing, be very sure, and the fact that they have it will be one of the best possible incentives to work. supply them with good seed. and do not fail to encourage them by giving all the credit justly due them for what they accomplish. children like to know that their efforts are properly appreciated. we grownups and the children are very much alike in that respect. xvii home and garden conveniences there are many ways in which work in the garden and about the home can be varied in such a manner as to give a variety of comparatively new and pleasing effects with so little trouble and expense that the amateur gardener and home-maker who would like "something new" will, i feel sure, be delighted to undertake some of them. one is a floral awning for the windows which are exposed to strong sunshine. a frame is made of lath, the width of the window and half its depth, by nailing four of the strips together in a square and then fastening other strips across it in a diamond or lattice fashion. attach this frame to the top of the window-casing by door-butts. then push the lower part of it away from the window until you have it at the angle at which a cloth awning would hang when dropped, and support it in that position by running strips of wood from each corner to the sides of the window-frame. if such vines as morning-glory, flowering bean, and cypress are trained up each side of the window until they reach these supports, it will be an easy matter to coax them up them and from them to the awning's framework, which they will soon cover with foliage and flowers. such an awning will be found quite as satisfactory as one of cloth, so far as shade is concerned, and, as for beauty, there is no comparison between them, for the ordinary awning of striped cloth is never ornamental. a floral awning is to the upper part of the window what the window-box of plants is to the lower portion of it, and the two can be used in combination with most delightful results. indeed, they belong together, and one without the other only half carries out the scheme of window decoration. such awnings will be found as satisfactory for exposed doors as for windows. the boys of the family--or the women of it--can make them and put them in place, and the cost of them will be so small, compared with their ornamental and practical value, that one season's trial of them will make them permanent features of home-beautifying thereafter. i would advise planing the strips of lath and giving the frames a coat of green or white paint before putting them in place. green paint will make them unobtrusive, and white will give a pleasing color contrast. if they are taken down in fall and stored in a dry place over winter they will last for a good many seasons. * * * * * as a general thing the front gate, if there is one, is not particularly ornamental. but it can easily be made so by setting posts ten or twelve feet tall at either side, and attaching to the top of them a double awning-frame similar to that advised for windows. let these frames meet at the top and slope outward and downward, roof fashion, and have supports running to each outer corner from the posts. when vines are trained up the posts and over the frames, and are allowed to droop in graceful festoons of foliage and flower from them, the effect will be charming. here is where the wild cucumber--the most rapid climber of all our annuals--will be able to do most effective work. i would advise the use of hardy vines for positions of this kind, as they will be attractive from the beginning of the season, while an annual has to be given considerable time to grow before it becomes equal to the task assigned it. garden-seats ought to be a feature of all home grounds large enough to admit of them. and these seats can be made as ornamental as the gateway just described by providing them with awnings large enough to afford complete shade. of course, where there are trees to furnish shade such awnings will not be needed--and the logical place for a garden-seat is under a tree, if there is one--but on grounds where there are no trees to furnish shade, such protection from the heat of summer sunshine as these awnings will afford becomes more a necessity than a luxury. as it is, they are both ornamental and useful, and the ease and cheapness with which they are made commends them to all who believe in the value of "little things" in making home attractive and pleasant. * * * * * often it is desirable to furnish certain portions of the home grounds with screens large enough to shut off the public view. these should have frames of a size that guarantees strength. lath put on in lattice fashion will make a good covering for them, but it will not be strong enough to insure durability in itself, hence the necessity of a more substantial framework. it is always advisable to paint them before covering them with vines. as screens of this kind are generally built with a view to permanence, i would advise covering them with hardy vines, like ampelopsis, _clematis flammula_ and _c. paniculata_, aristolochia, or trumpet honeysuckle. * * * * * if low screens are wanted anywhere about the place, as a dividing factor between the flower and vegetable gardens, for instance, sweet-peas will make a charming covering for them. large screens that are intended to separate the ornamental portions of the home grounds from the not generally attractive yards at the rear can be made extremely effective by training rambler roses over them. * * * * * one of the most attractive features about the home of the author of this book is the fence which divides it from the property of his next-door neighbor. when the lawn was made, cedar posts were set along one side of it, and on these woven-wire netting was stretched. this netting was about four feet wide and of a rather heavy grade of wire. small plants of ampelopsis were set out along it, about twenty feet apart. as fast as branches were thrown out they were trained out and in through the meshes of the netting. in one season the plants made enough growth to meet one another, and the second season the netting was completely covered. the result has been extremely satisfactory. throughout the summer this fence has the appearance of a closely clipped hedge of luxuriant green. in fall it is a mass of scarlet and crimson, quite as brilliant as the bed of geraniums near by. it is vastly more ornamental than a fence of wood or iron, and makes an entirely satisfactory substitute for a hedge that it would take years to grow. in some respects it is more satisfactory than such a hedge would be, as it requires no annual shearing to keep it in proper shape and condition. xviii garden don'ts don't let your springtime enthusiasm lead you to undertake more than you _feel quite sure_ of being able to carry out. keep in mind the fact that there will be work to do all through the season in order to make your garden a success, and think over what the result will be if you fail to give your plants all the care they need after you have got them well under way. don't give them a chance to say that you haven't given them fair treatment because your enthusiasm waned with the season. * * * * * don't attempt to grow all the plants that the florists describe so attractively in their catalogues. concentrate your efforts on the best ones--that is, the ones best adapted to amateur gardening. give these the best possible care. this advice applies with equal pertinence to all phases of gardening, outdoors or indoors. * * * * * don't pattern your garden after your neighbor's. think out original features for the garden you propose to make, if you choose to do so, but don't aim to be so extremely original that the originality of it will attract more attention than the flowers in it. these should receive first consideration always. * * * * * don't waste your time on "carpet-bedding" unless you make use of plants with colored foliage in carrying out your designs. flowering plants are practically worthless for this purpose, as they have such a tendency to reach out beyond the limits assigned them that all distinctness in the outline of your pattern will soon be lost sight of. about all that seems worth while for the amateur gardener to do in the arrangement of her plant is to so use them that strong masses of color can be produced. if care is taken to choose those of harmonious colors, these can be so arranged as to heighten the general effect by contrast. * * * * * don't set out to have a garden or to grow house plants unless you have the true gardening instinct. by that i mean a love for plants and flowers that would make you _attempt_ to grow them under circumstances which your own judgment tells you make success impossible. the woman who tries to grow a geranium in a tin can in a window four or five stories up in the air because of her love for flowers would be almost sure to make a splendid success of a garden on the ground if she had one. but the woman who attempts to grow a plant because her neighbors do so, and who is honest enough to say to herself that "it's more bother than it's worth," will fail because she lacks the true incentive. such persons ought not to undertake the cultivation of flowers. they cannot grow them with any degree of success, for flowers know who loves them, and will absolutely refuse to flourish under the care of those who do not want them for their own sweet sakes. * * * * * don't fill your windows to overflowing. give each plant enough elbow-room to admit of its displaying its charms effectively. a crowded plant is never a symmetrical one, and one really symmetrical is worth a score of poorly shaped ones. the fact is, a window of ordinary size cannot satisfactorily accommodate more than eight or ten plants of ordinary size without crowding. there should be space enough between them to allow the sunshine to get to all portions of them. a free circulation of air among them is quite important. * * * * * don't be a plant-beggar. by that i do not mean that you are not to "swap" plants with your neighbors if it is mutually agreeable to do so. when i speak of a "plant-beggar" i have in mind the person who depends upon her plant-growing friends for enough plants to keep her window well stocked, and her garden also. as soon as she discovers that you have a plant that she would like she does not hesitate to ask for a root or a cutting of it. she never stops to think that you are trying to grow the plant for your own pleasure. it doesn't matter to her how much it interferes with its satisfactory development in complying with her request. if she gets what she wants she is satisfied. the probabilities are that when her plant gets to be as large as yours was when she asked you to divide it with her she'll not hesitate to refuse the woman who suggests that she'd "like one just like it--won't you let me have a slip?" that there are persons quite as selfish as this cannot be denied. but they ought not to be encouraged. don't gratify them in their unreasonable demands simply because you are afraid of being considered "small" and "stingy." * * * * * don't fail to have a corner in your garden devoted expressly to plants from which to cut for friends and the sick and shut-ins. perhaps it is more a fancy of mine than anything else, but it has always seemed to me that plants grown for this purpose know what use they are to be put to and do their best in order to help carry out the plan of the person who grows them. if we who have all the flowers of our own that we care for could only know what a vast amount of pleasure we can give our less fortunate neighbors by dividing our supply with them, we would be more liberal than we are. * * * * * don't keep fuchsias in the window in winter, for they are not winter-flowering plants, and the space they will occupy might better be given up to plants from which we can reasonably expect blossoms. they should go into the cellar in november, along with oleanders, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums, and plants of similar habit, there to remain until march. then they can be brought to the light, watered, and again started into growth. it is well to cut most plants that have been wintered in the cellar back at least half, and allow them to renew most of their branches. while in cold storage they should be given just enough water to prevent the soil from becoming really dry, and no more. keep them in the dark, if possible, and in a cool place. do not allow the temperature to go below the frost-point, however. * * * * * don't think because you have only a little bit of ground that it isn't worth while to attempt having a garden. some of the most delightful gardens i have ever seen were small ones. you will be surprised to find how many plants can be grown in a very small space. utilize all the nooks and corners about the place for plants. * * * * * don't depend on home-grown seed if you want the best in flowers. the seedsman knows just what to do to secure the best results in seed, and just how to do it. he also knows what _not_ to do in raising seed for the market, and this the amateur gardener really knows nothing about. while we often grow fine flowers from seed of our saving, the fact remains that home-grown seed seldom gives entire satisfaction to the person who wants the best. * * * * * don't invest your money in new plants until you are satisfied that they have all the merit claimed for them. as a general thing, the "novelties" sent out every spring at a high price are greatly inferior to the good old stand-bys. we seldom hear anything about them after the second season. put your money into plants that you know can be depended on. * * * * * don't attempt the culture of hanging-plants unless you are willing to give them the care they must have in order to be satisfactory. plants suspended in the window, where the temperature is considerably higher than at the sill, speedily dry out, and after this has happened a few times they become diseased and finally die. it will be necessary to apply water daily and in sufficient quantity to saturate all the soil in the pot or basket. because it requires special effort on the part of the owner to get to suspended plants, they are generally neglected. it is a most excellent plan to have them arranged in such a manner that they can be let down into a tub of water and left there until the soil has absorbed all the water it can retain. this can be done by cords running over pulleys in the ceiling. try it. hanging-plants are always pleasing when healthily grown, and the window-garden that is without them is not living up to its privileges. * * * * * don't "fuss" with your plants too much. see that they get all the water they need, as much sunshine as possible, plenty of fresh air, an occasional application of some good fertilizer, and shower them frequently to keep them clean, and be satisfied with this treatment. they object to being treated as some mothers treat their children, who would be much better off if they were let alone after actual wants were provided for. don't coddle your plants. * * * * * don't start dahlias into growth in the house early in the season, thinking that you are going to "get the start of the season" by so doing. we used to think that, because the dahlia came from a country where the summer was long, we must get it to growing in march or april, and we set the tubers out in pots and boxes and forced them to make a rapid and weak growth so early in the season that long before it was safe to put them out in the garden they were poor, spindling things, with just enough vitality in them to make it possible to say that they were alive. when they were planted out the change from indoors to outdoors had such a debilitating effect on them that for weeks they were undecided whether to live or die. if they lived we considered ourselves fortunate if we got a dozen flowers from each plant. nowadays we understand the plant better. we don't attempt to start it in the house. we wait until the weather and the ground are warm and then we plant the tubers in the garden where they are to grow and bloom. we make the soil very rich. the plants begin to grow shortly after being planted, and in late august they come into bloom, and all through september they yield such a profusion of flowers as we never thought of getting from the plants when grown after the old method. the dahlia is one of our very best late-summer flowering plants when well grown. it must have a rich soil--it must not be allowed to get dry at the roots at any time--and it must be given substantial support, as its stalks are extremely brittle and easily broken down by hard winds and heavy rains. dahlias are very effective when planted in the border among shrubs and perennials. there are few plants with a wider range of rich and brilliant color. by all means give them a place in your garden. * * * * * don't sow hollyhock seed in the spring expecting to get flowers from your plants the same season. they will not bloom the first year from seed. * * * * * don't allow your pansies to bloom--or _try_ to bloom--during the hot, dry, midsummer season. they may produce _some_ flowers, but they will be so inferior in quality that you will get no pleasure from them. i would advise cutting away all the old branches the latter part of july and encouraging the plants to renew themselves preparatory to fall flowering. if this is done, and strong, healthy growth results from the liberal application of a good fertilizer during august, you may expect a generous crop of large, fine flowers all through the autumn. if it is _not_ done, and the plants are allowed to keep on trying to grow through the trying period of late summer, you will get few flowers and no really good ones. * * * * * don't allow any plant to develop seed if you want it to keep on blooming after its first flowering period. the aim of all plants is to reproduce themselves, and this can only be done by seed development. if we interfere with the ordinary process of seed production by cutting away all flowers as soon as they begin to fade, the plants will at once make another effort to perpetuate their kind, and, as the first step in this direction is the production of flowers, it will be readily seen that it is possible to make many of them bloom all through the season. * * * * * don't expect good flowers of any kind unless you are willing to give them the care and attention they require. if you are not willing to do this, or if, for any reason, you _cannot_ do it, don't attempt gardening. have enough regard for the flowers to not undertake their culture unless you can do them justice. * * * * * don't throw away plants of any kind. somebody will always be glad to get those you have no use for. * * * * * don't neglect a plant to-day and think you can make up for that neglect by being very good to it to-morrow. plants must receive care _when it is needed_, and this care should be given regularly, instead of spasmodically, to be effective. * * * * * don't begin to water your plants in your garden in a dry season unless you can keep on doing so as long as the dry spell lasts. * * * * * don't fail to keep close watch of your asters. of late years many failures have resulted from the attack of a black beetle, which comes from no one knows where--comes so suddenly and does such deadly work in so short a time that the plants are often ruined before the presence of the pest is suspected. there is but one way of getting rid of this pest, and that is to make use of nicoticide, the standard remedy for all plant troubles of this kind. a small quantity of this extract of tobacco, diluted with water and sprayed over all portions of each plant, will effectually rout the enemy if applied promptly and thoroughly. unless something is done as soon as the beetle is discovered, it will destroy every plant. be on the lookout for it constantly, acting on the supposition that it will be sure to put in an appearance some time during the summer. get ready in advance for prompt action against it by laying in a supply of the insecticide at the beginning of the summer. * * * * * don't think that your house plants need repotting two or three times a year if they are growing in good-sized pots. once a year is quite often enough if you apply fertilizers at intervals of four or five months. plants in small pots may outgrow their quarters, and these should be shifted to those of larger size when they have filled the old ones with roots. * * * * * don't make the mistake of putting small plants in large pots, thinking that they will be benefited by it. wait for them to signify a desire for more room by filling all the soil of a small pot with roots. a plant with a small, weak root-system is often seriously injured by giving it a large pot to grow in, as it is not in a condition to make use of all the nutriment in a large amount of soil. a plant treated in this manner will often develop a sort of vegetable dyspepsia as a result of giving it more food than it can digest properly. * * * * * don't be in too great a hurry to obtain results. some persons think to accomplish this by frequent applications of strong fertilizers in large quantities. this will force plants to a rapid and always unhealthy growth, from which, later on, there is sure to be a most discouraging reaction. be content with a healthy growth, and give your plants a chance to make that naturally. more plants are injured by overfeeding than from any other cause. * * * * * don't think that you can learn all there is to know about gardening from books. books will furnish the theory. you must contribute experience in order to attain success. * * * * * don't neglect your plants while they are growing. then is just the time to give them the training that is necessary to make them shapely. the fact is, plants are very much like children in the family. let them have their own way about everything while they are growing up and you will find that when they have grown up they are not at all like what you would like to have them, in many respects, and you don't see how you are going to make them conform to your ideas of what they ought to be, since it is impossible to make children of them again and give you another chance at their development. begin with the training of your plants while they are small, and train them as they grow. * * * * * don't treat all your plants alike. study their peculiarities and give them such treatment as will fit those peculiarities. to illustrate this idea: a calla likes a good deal of water; a geranium is satisfied with a moderately moist soil; a cactus does best when allowed to get really dry at certain seasons. if we were to treat these three plants alike, what do you suppose the result would be? don't ignore the peculiarities of your plants if you want them to do well. * * * * * don't neglect to prepare for an annual invasion of your roses by bugs, worms, and insects. you can safely count on their coming, but if you are prepared for it you can speedily put the enemy to rout. the best plan is to act on the offensive. head off the pests by making applications of nicoticide before they make their appearance. you can do this, for, if their advance-agent arrives and finds the tang of tobacco all over the plants, he will go back and advise the others to seek more agreeable quarters. begin to spray your bushes early in the season, and keep on doing so until after the flowering period is over. there will be no likelihood of an invasion after that, as the enemies of the rose do their deadly work early in the season. * * * * * don't get the idea for a moment, as so many do, that all you need to do to have a fine lot of plants is to put some soil--any kind that happens to be handiest--in a pot, set out a plant in it, and, presto! you will have just as fine a lot of plants as your neighbor who searches here and there and everywhere until she finds just the kind of soil that experience tells her the plants must have if she would have good ones. she gives some of her time daily to caring for them, while you expect your plants to take care of themselves. that will never answer. if you do your share of the work the plants will do theirs, but you must not expect them to do all, any more than you must expect them to make a strong, healthy growth in a soil that is unsuited to their requirements or sadly lacking in nutriment. * * * * * don't build up a great fire in stove or furnace if you discover that your plants have been nipped by frost, thinking to save them by "thawing them out." heat at such a time is the very thing needed to complete the misfortune. put them at once in a room where the temperature can be kept just a little above the frost-point, and shower them thoroughly with cold water. this will extract the frost from them so gradually that it will be possible to save many of them unless they are badly frozen. keep them in a cool room for three or four days. it may be necessary to cut away most, or all, of the branches of some of them. unless the degree of cold to which they were subjected was sufficient to freeze the soil in the pot, many of them will throw up new shoots from their roots after a little; therefore don't throw out a plant that has been obliged to part with all its top until it has been given a chance to make a new start in life. * * * * * don't put your house plants out of doors for the summer until the weather has become warm and can be depended on to remain so. the first of june will be quite early enough. * * * * * don't plant them out in the garden-beds, thinking thereby to save yourself the work of taking care of them during the summer and of benefiting them at the same time. of course they will take care of themselves there, and very likely make a much more luxuriant growth than they would in pots, but when fall comes and you have to lift and repot them you will find that more hard work is required of you than you would have expended on them throughout the summer if you had kept them in pots. as for the benefit to the plants--where will it come in? they will have made such a rampant growth of roots that most of them will have to be sacrificed in reducing the earth containing them to the size of the pots you put them into, and this at the very time when the poor plants ought to be at their best in order to successfully withstand the unfavorable conditions resulting from the change from outdoors to indoors. plants treated in this manner receive a check that they seldom fully recover from during the entire winter. instead of saving yourself work and doing a kindness to your plants, you have done just the contrary. xix a chapter of helpful hints in some of the foregoing chapters i have had something to say about the advisability of using seed in which each color is kept by itself in order to secure the greatest possible degree of color-harmony in the garden. many persons tell us that they cannot afford to pay the extra prices which the seedsmen put on unmixed seed. it is true that it costs more than the seed in which all colors are jumbled together, and it is also true that plants grown from it are really no better than those grown from mixed seed, but the fact remains that it gives so much more satisfactory results, from an artistic standpoint, that it is not throwing money away, as some claim, to make use of it. of course if one gets as much pleasure from a mass of color without regard to harmony as from fewer colors all in perfect harmony with one another, it would hardly be worth while to invest more money in such seed. but where the finest possible effects are desired i contend that unmixed seed is cheapest, in that sense of the term that means the greatest satisfaction. there is a way by which unmixed seed can be obtained without its really costing each person more than mixed seed. every amateur gardener knows that more plants of a kind can be grown from one package of seed than a person cares for in the average-sized garden. nine times out of ten only part of the seed in the package is sown and the rest is either discarded or given away to friends. now if those who would like to secure the best results in gardening will get up a seed club among their flower-loving friends, and confine their selection to packages in which each color is by itself, the seed in those packages can be divided among the various members of the club, and each person will have enough to meet her requirements, and this at a less price than she would have to pay for ordinary mixed seed if she were to order alone, because none of the seed would be wasted. try the seed-club plan for a season and see if it doesn't work out to your satisfaction. if you are likely to have more plants of a kind than you care for, don't throw any of the seedlings away when you thin them out. there are poor children in every neighborhood that would be delighted to get them. never waste any plants that are worth growing. if a plant is wanted for low beds under the windows of the dwelling or near the paths, portulacca is about as satisfactory as anything i know of. it blooms with great profusion throughout the entire season. its colors range from pure white through pink, yellow, and violet to dark crimson. it is a plant that seems to delight in locations exposed to the hottest sunshine, and in soils so lacking in moisture that ordinary plants would live but a short time in it. it is enabled to do this because of the succulent nature of its foliage. indeed, the portulacca is a vegetable salamander so far as its ability to stand heat and drought is concerned. those who have had experience with purslane in the vegetable garden will understand something about the nature of this plant, for the two are closely related. in furnishing support for vines that clamber over the walls of the house, do not use strips of cloth, as so many do. the cloth is good for a season only. after the vines have become large and heavy their weight will be sufficient to tear the cloth loose from the tacks that held it in place, especially after a heavy rain or in strong winds, and down will come the plant. it will be found impossible to put it back in place in anything like a satisfactory manner. for supporting large, stiff vines i make use of screw-hooks, which are easily inserted in wooden walls. turn the hooks in until there is just enough room between their points and the wall to admit of slipping the vine in. not one vine in fifty will work loose from the grip of the hooks. some vines are not adapted to this treatment. these i support by using strips of leather instead of cloth. the leather should be soaked in oil for twenty-four hours before using, to make it pliable and water-resisting. do not use small tacks, as these do not have sufficient hold on the wood to make them dependable. use nails at least an inch long, with good-sized heads. some persons object to the use of vines about the house, especially if it is of wood, claiming that they retain moisture to such an extent as to soon injure the walls. i have convinced myself that facts are directly contrary to this theory. the overlapping leaves act as shingles--shedding rain and preventing it from getting to the walls against which the vines are trained. try to interest the children in the making of a fern-garden and a collection of native plants. a little encouragement at the beginning will do this, and after the project is well under way it will not need encouraging, for the little folks will be so fascinated by it that there will be little likelihood of their abandoning the undertaking. take half a dozen or more children to the woods with you, with baskets in which to bring home their specimens. show them how to take up the plants in such a manner that a considerable amount of soil will adhere to their roots. help them pack them snugly into the baskets to prevent their being shaken about in transit, thereby losing the soil taken up with them. if the day happens to be a warm and sunny one, have them sprinkle the plants and pack some wet moss about them to keep them as fresh as possible until they can be planted in the home garden. discourage them from taking large plants in preference to small ones, as they will most likely be eager to do. explain that the small ones stand the best chance of living, and that nothing is gained by choosing large ones, because these will be sure to lose their foliage, and that, even if they live, which nine out of ten will not, they will receive such a check by removal that the small plants will soon get the start of them. it will greatly add to the pleasure of plant-collecting if you make a kind of picnic excursion of it. take along something good to eat, and spend half a day in the woods, if possible. you will enjoy it as much as the children will. don't dig your plants, however, until you are about ready to start for home, for it is quite important that they should be planted as soon as possible after being taken up. when they are set out, water them well and shade them for several days. give all plants taken from shady places a location as nearly like that from which they were taken as possible. a fern that grew in shade will be pretty sure to die if planted in a place fully exposed to the sun. it helps matters very much if you can have a load of woods earth drawn to the home garden to plant these children of the forest in. they do not take kindly to loam, after having been grown in loose, porous soil, though many of them are strong enough to adapt themselves to ordinary garden conditions. i know of many neighborhoods in which clubs for collecting native plants have been formed, and the children who are in these clubs have become intensely interested in their gardens of native plants. this is as it should be, for we have many beautiful wild flowers that are better worth growing than foreign kinds for which large prices are asked. pride in our home plants ought to be encouraged, and there is no better way of doing this than by interesting the boys and girls in the making of a wild garden. the tuberose is a plant which everybody admires, but which is seldom seen in amateur gardeners' collections. i think the general impression is that it is not an easy plant to grow. such is not the case, however. it can be grown successfully by any one who is willing to give it a little attention. tubers should be obtained in march or april. they should be planted in pots containing sandy garden loam into which a liberal amount of good fertilizer has been thoroughly worked. if the tubers are small, two or three can be put into each seven-inch pot used. before planting them the mass of dried roots which will generally be found adhering to the base of the tuber should be cut away with a thin, sharp-bladed knife. if this is not done, these roots often decay and the diseased condition will be communicated to the tuber and cause it to die, or, if death does not result, to become so unhealthy that it will fail to bloom. the plants can be turned out of their pots when the weather becomes warm, and grown on in the garden through the summer, but i would not advise this, for it will be necessary to lift and pot them before frosty nights come, as they are very tender, and a little disturbance of their roots at this time may cause their buds to blast. i would urge keeping them in pots throughout the season, as, if this is done, you always have them under control. the flowers of the tuberose are ivory-white in color. they are of thick, waxen texture, and have that heavy, rich fragrance that characterizes the magnolia and the cape jasmine of the south. they are borne in a spike at the extremity of tall stalks, thus being very effective for cutting. because of their thick texture they last for a long time after cutting. plants in pots remain in bloom for a month or six weeks. every lover of deliciously fragrant flowers will do well to grow at least half a dozen of them to do duty in the window-garden in fall. a second crop of flowers need not be expected from a tuber that has borne one crop. in order to make sure of bloom it will be necessary to purchase fresh tubers each spring. the abutilon is an old favorite among house plants, and its popularity is well deserved. it is of as easy culture as a geranium. give it a good soil--preferably loam--drain its pot well, keep the soil evenly moist but never wet, and that is about all the care it will require. it may be necessary to prune it now and then during its early stages of growth in order to secure symmetrical shape, but this is easily done by pinching off the ends of such branches as seem inclined to get the start of others, and keeping them from making more growth until the others have caught up with them. pinching back branches that do not develop side shoots will generally result in their branching freely. in this way you secure a bushy, compact plant. in order to make a little tree of the abutilon--and it is most satisfactory when grown in that manner--train it to one straight stalk until it reaches the height where you want the head to form. allow no side branches to grow during this period of the plant's development. when three or four feet tall, nip off the top and keep it nipped off until as many branches as you think necessary have started at the top of the stalk. allow none to grow below. by persevering in this treatment you will succeed in getting a number of branches with which to form a treelike head. there are several varieties of abutilon. some have orange flowers, some red, some yellow, some pink, and some pure white. these flowers are bell-shaped and pendent. one name for the plant is the chinese bell-flower because of its bell-like blossoms. another is flowering maple, because of the resemblance in shape of its foliage to our native maple. there are two or three varieties with beautifully variegated foliage in which green and white and yellow are about equally distributed. i am always glad to speak a good word for this plant because of its beauty, its ease of culture, its constancy of bloom, and the fact that it is seldom attacked by insects. another most deserving old plant is the rose geranium. this used to be found in nearly all collections of house plants. it is as easily grown as the flowering geranium. its foliage is very pleasing, being as finely cut as some varieties of fern. it is delightfully fragrant. a leaf or two will be found a most desirable addition to a buttonhole or corsage bouquet. it can be grown in tree form by giving it the pinching-back treatment advised for the abutilon, or it can be grown as a bush by beginning the pinching process when it is only three or four inches high, thus obliging it to throw out several stalks near the base of the plant. old plants of oleander may easily be renewed when they have become so large as to be unwieldy, or have outgrown the space that can be given up to them. cut away _all_ the branches to within four or five inches of the main stalk, leaving nothing but a mass of stubs. in a very short time new branches will be sent out. there will be so many of them that it will be necessary to remove the larger share of them. if this pruning is done in early spring, when the plant is brought from cold storage, the new growth ought to bear a crop of flowers in late summer. the following season the plant should be literally covered with bloom during the greater part of summer, these blossoms being as large and fine in all respects as those borne by the plant when young. i know of no plant that is more tractable than this one, and certainly we have few that are more beautiful. large specimens are magnificent for porch and veranda decoration in summer. in december they should go into the cellar, to remain there until march. plants with variegated foliage are becoming more in demand yearly. japanese maize, with long leaves striped with white and cream, is very effective when grown in a mass in the center of a bed. the japanese hop, with foliage heavily marbled with creamy white, is quite as attractive without flowers as many of our flowering vines are. ricinus, with enormous foliage of a lustrous coppery bronze, will be found far more "tropical" in effect then the cannas and caladiums we see so much of nowadays. the leaves of this plant often measure a yard across. if you want it to be most effective, plant it in some exposed place where it will have plenty of room to spread its branches. from what i have said in a preceding chapter it will be readily understood that i am not an admirer of "carpet-bedding" except where plants with small, richly colored foliage are made use of. these can be pruned in such a manner as to keep each color inside its proper limit, but flowering plants will straggle across the lines assigned them, and all clearness of outline in the "pattern" will soon be lost. but when plants are located with a view to securing color contrast, very fine effects can be obtained from them. a circular bed filled with pink, white, and pale-yellow _phlox drummondii_ in rows of each color will be found pleasing, and it has the merit of being easily made. if a round bed has scarlet salvia for its center, surrounded with yellow calliopsis, or california poppy, it will afford a mass of most intense color that will produce a most brilliant effect. a bed of pink flowering geraniums--pink, mind you, not scarlet or any shade of red--bordered with lavender ageratum, will be found extremely attractive if care is taken to cut away all trusses of bloom from the geraniums as soon as they have begun to fade. if this is not done the bed will have a draggled, slovenly effect. scarlet salvia combined with euphorbia, better known as "snow-on-the-mountain," will be found very effective, the white and green of the euphorbia bringing out the scarlet of the salvia most vividly, and affording such a strong contrast that a bed of these two plants will always challenge admiration. the euphorbia will be found a very useful plant for almost any place in beds or borders where something seems needed to relieve the prevailing color. it deserves more attention than it gets. the impression seems to prevail that many plants ought to retain their old leaves indefinitely. they will not do this, however. leaves ripen after a time, and the plant will shed them, as all deciduous plants shed theirs in fall. therefore if you find the lower leaves on your ficus turning, yellow and dropping, don't be frightened. the plant is simply going through one of the processes of nature. but if a good many of the leaves fall all at once it will be well to look for some other explanation of the plant's action. the loss of foliage may come from lack of moisture in the soil, or the roots of the plant may be pot-bound. examination will show if either is the case. if the soil is found to be dry, more water should be given. if the pot is filled with roots, repot the plant, giving it more root room. the owners of plants should take all these things into consideration before coming to any conclusion as to what the cause of trouble is. unless they do so there will have to be "guesswork" relative to it, and that is never safe or satisfactory. trouble may come from overwatering, or from lack of good drainage, or a soil deficient in nutrition. you see, it is necessary to study these matters from several angles, so to speak, as the trouble complained of may have its origin in any one of the conditions mentioned, and not much can be done to remedy matters until one has made an examination that brings to light the facts in the case. these known, it will be a comparatively easy matter to determine the treatment required, for the conditions that are found to exist will, to a great extent, indicate in almost every instance the remedy needed. * * * * * some good vines for window-box culture are: madeira vine.--heart-shaped foliage of a rich, glossy green. very rapid grower. tradescantia.--green, green striped with white, and olive striped with indian red. quick grower. vinca harrisonii.--dark-green foliage, edged with yellow. senecio.--more commonly known as german ivy. pretty, ivy-shaped foliage of a clear, bright green. very rapid grower. needs frequent pinching back to make it branch freely. glechoma.--green, variegated with bright yellow. othonna.--better known as "pickle-plant" because of its cylindrical foliage, which resembles a miniature cucumber. has pretty yellow flowers. saxifraga.--leaves of graying olive sprinkled with white. ivy-leaved geraniums.--there are many varieties, some with pink, some with white, and others with red flowers. these are excellent where flowering plants of drooping habit are desired. a box edged with these plants, especially the pink variety, with white marguerites--better known as paris daisies--in the center, will be found especially pleasing. in window-boxes having a northern exposure such plants as boston and whitman fern, _asparagus plumosus_, _asparagus sprengerii_, and any of the fibrous-rooted begonias will be found very effective. these plants can be turned out of their pots and planted in the earth in the box, or the pots in which they grow can be sunk in the soil. this is in several respects the best way, as in fall, when the window-box has to be discontinued, the plants will not have to be repotted. petunias are excellent plants for window-box culture. they can be made to grow in upright form by giving them a little support, or they can be allowed to droop over the sides of the box. a combination of purple and white varieties will be found pleasing. this plant comes into bloom early in the season, when grown from seed, and it continues to bloom until cold weather comes. the end transcriber's note -plain print and punctuation errors fixed. +-------------------------------------------+ | note: | | | | = around word indicates bold =capsule.= | | _ around word indicated italics _erebus_ | +-------------------------------------------+ [illustration: aristolochia elegans.] the illustrated dictionary of gardening, a practical and scientific _encyclopædia + of + horticulture_ for gardeners and botanists. edited by george nicholson, _of the royal botanic gardens, kew_. assisted by professor j. w. h. trail, a.m., m.d., f.l.s., in the parts relating to insects and fungi; and j. garrett in the fruit, vegetable, and general garden work portions. division i.--a to car. published by l. upcott gill, , strand, london, w.c. sole agent for the united states and canada, james penman, new york. . london: printed by a. bradley, , strand. preface. the illustrated dictionary of gardening aims at being the best and most complete work on gardening and garden plants hitherto published. the aim is, indeed, a high one; but the publisher, whose taste for flowers has rendered the production a labour of love, has, on his part, spared no expense that the typography and illustrations should be of a very high class. it is to be hoped that earnest efforts to attain accuracy, by consulting the best authorities, combined with no small amount of original research, have contributed to render the _matter_ of the work not unworthy of the _form_ in which it is presented to the reader. the large number of illustrations is an important feature; and it is believed that the figures quoted, and the references given to various works--in which more detailed information is contained than is desirable, or, indeed, possible, in these pages, on account of space--will greatly add to the interest and value of the work. considerable trouble has been taken in revising the tangled synonymy of many genera, and clearing up, as much as possible, the confusion that exists in garden literature in connection with so many plants, popular and otherwise. in the matter of generic names, bentham and hooker's recently-completed "genera plantarum" has, with few exceptions, been followed; that work being the one which will, for a long time to come, undoubtedly remain the standard authority on all that relates to generic limitation. with regard to the nomenclature of species, i have endeavoured to consult the latest and most trustworthy monographs and floras, and to adopt the names in accordance with them. now and then, certain plants are described under their common garden names; but they will, in such cases, be also found mentioned under the genus to which they really belong. a case in point may be cited: _an�ctochilus lowii_ is given under _an�ctochilus_, but the name it must now bear is _dossinia_, and a reference to that genus will explain matters pretty fully, as far as the present state of knowledge goes. i am greatly indebted to professor j. w. h. trail, m.d., f.l.s., &c., for his valuable contributions on insects, fungi, and diseases of plants, branches of science in which he has long been specially interested, and in which he is an undoubted authority. mr. j. garrett, of the royal gardens, kew, late of the royal horticultural society's gardens, is responsible for fruit and vegetable culture, for most of what appertains to florists' flowers, and for general gardening work. for information on many special subjects--begonias may be cited as an example--i am obliged for much assistance to mr. w. watson, also of the royal gardens, kew; in fact, the article _begonia_, in its entirety, was written by him. mr. w. b. hemsley, a.l.s., has, throughout, given me aid and advice; and i have to acknowledge constant help from several other colleagues. the rev. percy w. myles, m.a., has taken no little trouble in working out the correct derivations of very many of the generic names; unfortunately, in a number of instances, lack of time prevented me from obtaining the benefit of his knowledge. i have to record my gratitude for help in so difficult a task, this special study being one to which mr. myles has paid much attention. george nicholson. royal gardens, kew. [illustration] reference to illustrations of plants other than those figured in this work. it has been suggested, by an eminent authority, that many readers would be glad to be informed where reliable illustrations could be found of those plants which are not figured in this work. to meet this want, references to the figures in standard authorities have been given, the titles of the works referred to being, for economy of space, abbreviated as follows: a. b. r. andrews (h. c.). botanist's repository. london, - . vols. to. a. e. andrews (h. c.). coloured engravings of heaths. london, - . vols. to. a. f. b. loudon (j. c.). arboretum et fruticetum britannicum.... london, . vols. vo. a. f. p. allioni (c.). flora pedemontana. aug. taur., . vols. fol. a. g. aublet (j. b. c. f.). histoire des plantes de la guiane française. londres, . vols. to. a. h. andrews (h. c.). the heathery. london, - . vols. to. b. maund (b.). the botanist.... london, . vols. to. b. f. f. brandis (d.). forest flora of ... india. london, , vo. atlas, to. b. f. s. beddome (r. h.). flora sylvatica. madras [ - ]. vols. to. b. h. la belgique horticole.... ghent, , &c.* b. m. botanical magazine. london, , &c. vo.* b. m. pl. bentley (r.) and trimen (h.). medicinal plants. london, - . vo. b. o. bateman (james). a monograph of odontoglossum. london, . fol. b. r. botanical register. london, - . vols. vo. b. z. botanische zeitung. berlin, vols. i.-xiii. ( - ). vo. leipzig, vol. xiv. ( ).* c. h. p. cathcart's illustrations of himalayan plants. london, . fol. enc. t. & s. loudon (j. c.). encyclopædia of trees and shrubs.... london, . vo. e. t. s. m. _see_ t. s. m. f. a. o. fitzgerald (r. d.). australian orchids. sydney, . fol.* f. d. flora danica--usually quoted as the title of the work, icones plantarum ... daniæ et norvegiæ.... havniæ. to . fol. f. d. s. la flore des serres et des jardins de l'europe. - . vols. vo. fl. ment. moggridge (j. t.). contributions to the flora of mentone.... london, - . flora flora oder allgemeine botanische zeitung. - . vols. vo. [new series] , &c.* f. m. floral magazine. london, - , vo. - , to. f. & p. florist and pomologist. london, - . vo. g. c. the gardeners' chronicle and agricultural gazette. london, - . fol. g. c. n. s. the gardeners' chronicle. new series, , &c. fol.* g. g. gray (a.). genera floræ americæ.... boston, - . vols. vo. g. m. the gardeners' magazine. conducted by shirley hibberd. london. g. m. b. the gardeners' magazine of botany.... london, - . vols. vo. gn. the garden. london, , &c. to.* g. w. f. a. goodale (g. l.). wild flowers of america. boston, . to. h. b. f. hooker (w. j.). the british ferns. h. e. f. hooker (w. j.). exotic flora. edinburgh, - . vols. vo. h. f. b. a. hooker (w. j.). flora boreali-americana.... london, - . vols. to. h. f. t. hooker (j. d.). flora tasmaniæ. london, . vols. to. this is part of "the botany of the antarctic voyage of h.m. discovery ships _erebus_ and _terror_, in the years - ." h. g. f. hooker (w. j.). garden ferns. london, . vo. h. s. f. hooker (w. j.). species filicum. i. h. l'illustration horticole. gand, , &c. vo.* i. h. pl. _see_ c. h. p. j. b. journal of botany.... london, . vo.* j. f. a. jacquin (n. j.). floræ austriacæ.... icones.... viennæ, - . vols. fol. j. h. journal of horticulture and cottage gardener. conducted by dr. robert hogg. london. j. h. s. journal of the horticultural society. london, . vo.* k. e. e. kotschy. die eiche europas und des orients. l. b. c. loddiges (c.). botanical cabinet. london, - . vols. to. l. c. b. lindley (j.). collectanea botanica.... london, . fol. l. e. m. la marck (j. b. p. a. de m. de). encyclopédie methodique ... botanique. paris, - . vols. to. l. j. f. lemaire (c.). le jardin fleuriste. gand, - . vols. vo. l. r. lindley (j.). rosarum monographia. london, . vo. l. s. o. lindley (j.). sertum orchidaceum.... london, . fol. l. & p. f. g. lindley (j.) and paxton (j.). flower garden.... london.... - . vols. to. m. a. s. salm-dyck. monographia generum aloes et mesembryanthemi. bonnæ, - . to. n. burbidge (f. w.). the narcissus: its history and culture. with a scientific review of the genus by j. g. baker, f.l.s. london, . vo. n. s. nuttall (t.). north american sylva.... philadelphia, . vols. vo. p. f. g. _see_ l. & p. f. g. p. m. b. paxton (j). magazine of botany. london, - . vols. vo. ref. b. saunders (w. w.) refugium botanicum.... london, - . vo. r. g. regel (e.). gartenflora. , &c.* r. h. revue horticole.... paris, .* r. s. h. hooker (j. d.). the rhododendrons of sikkim-himalaya. london, - . fol. r. x. o. reichenbach, _fil._ (h. g.). xenia orchidacea. leipzig, . to.* s. b. f. g. sweet (r.). british flower garden. london, - . vols. vo. second series. london, - . vols. vo. s. c. sweet (r.). cistineæ. london, - . vo. s. e. b. smith (j. e.). exotic botany.... london, - . vols. vo. s. f. a. sweet (r.). flora australasica.... london, - . vo. s. f. d. j. siebold (p. f. de) and vriese (w. h. de). flore des jardins du royaume des pays-bas. leide, - . vols. vo. s. f. g. sibthorp (j.). flora græca.... london, - . vols. fol. s. h. ivy hibberd (shirley). the ivy: a monograph. london, . vo. sw. ger. sweet (robert). geraniaceæ, the natural order of gerania. - . sy. en. b. syme (j. t. b.), _now_ boswell. english botany.... ed. . london, - . vols. vo. s. z. f. j. siebold (p. f. von) and zuccarini (j. g.). flora japonica.... lugd. bat., - . fol. t. h. s. transactions of the horticultural society. london, - . vols. to. t. l. s. transactions of the linnæan society. london, - . vols. to.* t. s. m. emerson (g. b.). trees and shrubs ... of massachusetts. boston, ed. , . vols. vo. w. d. b. watson (p. w.). dendrologia britannica. london. . vols. vo. w. f. a. _see_ g. w. f. a. w. o. a. warner (r.) and williams (b. s.). the orchid album. london, . to.* w. s. o. warner (r.). select orchidaceous plants. london, series i, - . fol. series ii, - . fol. w. & f. woods and forests. - . vol. to. * is still in course of publication. the dictionary of gardening, an encyclopædia of horticulture. the following are the abbreviations used:--_fl._ flowers; _fr._ fruit; _l._ leaves; _h._ height; _deg._ degrees; _rhiz._ rhizomes; _cau._ caudex; _sti._ stipes. the asterisks (*) indicate plants that are especially good or distinct. =a.= in compound words from the greek the initial _a_ has usually a privative meaning; as _aphyllus_, without leaves; _acaulis_, without a stem, &c. =aaron's beard.= _see_ =hypericum calycinum= and =saxifraga sarmentosa=. =aaron's rod.= _see_ =verbascum thapsus=. =abele tree.= white poplar. _see_ =populus alba=. =abelia= (named after dr. clarke abel, physician to lord amherst's embassy to china, in , and author of a "narrative of a journey to china" ( ); died ). ord. _caprifoliaceæ_. very ornamental shrubs. corolla tubular, funnel-shaped, five-lobed. leaves petiolate, dentately crenated. well suited for the cold greenhouse, either as trellis or pot plants; free-flowering when well grown, and of easy culture. may be treated in sheltered and warm climates as hardy; and can be grown out of doors during summer in less favoured spots. they thrive in a compost of peat and loam in equal parts, to which a small quantity of silver sand may be added. increased by cuttings in summer, and by layers in spring, under a frame. only two species, _floribunda_ and _rupestris_, are much grown in england. =a. floribunda= (many-flowered).* _fl._ rosy-purple, about in. long, in axillary clusters. march. _l._ opposite, oblong. _h._ ft. mexico, . the best and freest flowering evergreen species. =a. rupestris= (rock).* _fl._ sweet-scented, small, pink, in pairs at the ends of the branches; sepals of leafy texture, with a reddish tinge. september. _l._ small, oblong. _h._ ft. china, . a deciduous, branching, hairy shrub. =a. serrata= (serrate-leaved). _fl._ pretty pale red, sweet-scented, very large, in one-flowered terminal peduncles; sepals leafy. march. _h._ ft. china, . a fine evergreen species. =a. triflora= (three-flowered).* _fl._ pale yellow, tinged with pink, small, arranged in threes at the ends of the branches; sepals long and linear, clothed with long hairs. september. _l._ small, lanceolate. _h._ ft. hindostan, . a small evergreen branching shrub. =aberrant.= deviating from the natural or direct way; applied, in natural history, to species or genera that deviate from the usual characters of their allies. =abies= (from _abeo_, to rise; alluding to the aspiring habit of growth of the tree; or, according to some, from _apios_, a pear-tree, in allusion to the form of the fruit). spruce fir. the synonymy of this genus is much confused, plants belonging to several genera being frequently referred to _abies_ in nurserymen's catalogues and gardening periodicals. ord. _coniferæ_. a genus of about twenty-five species, widely distributed over the mountainous regions of the northern hemisphere. cones cylindrical, or but slightly tapering, erect; catkins generally solitary; the carpels not thickened at the tip; and the leaves solitary, partially scattered in insertion, and more or less two-ranked in direction. scales deciduous, falling off as soon as the seed is ripe, leaving the axis on the tree. all the species bear seeds at a comparatively early age; most are hardy. for culture, _see_ =pinus=. =a. amabilis= (lovely).* _shoots_ rather rigid, furrowed with elongated cushions, covered with numerous small dark hairs. _l._ scattered, crowded, - / in. to in. long; linear obtuse, dark green above, silvery beneath. the cones are described as cylindrical, and about in. long. _h._ ft. california, . a magnificent conifer, very massive in appearance. =a. baborensis.=* _l._ linear, dark green, silvery on the under surface, very numerous, those of the larger branches shortly pointed, and those of the branchlets more obtuse and pointless, / in. to in. long. _cones_ erect, cylindrical, usually in clusters of four or five, in. to in. long, and about in. in diameter; scales reniform, greyish-brown, inclosing a thin, dry, and shrivelled bract. _h._ ft. to ft. algiers, . this is a very beautiful medium-sized tree. syn. _a. numidica_. =a. balsamea= (balm of gilead or balsam fir).* _l._ silvery beneath, apex emarginate or entire, somewhat recurved and spreading, / in. long. _cones_ cylindrical, violet-coloured, pointing upwards, in. to in. long, and / in. broad; scales / in. broad, and the same in length. _h._ ft. to ft. united states and canada, &c., . a medium-sized slender tree. =a. bifida= (bifid). identical with _a. firma_. =a. brachyphylla= (short-leaved).* _l._ linear, spirally inserted round the branchlets, but pointing laterally in two directions, / in. to - / in. in length; lower ones longest, obtusely pointed or emarginate, bright green above, with two silvery lines beneath. _cones_ in. to in. long, purple. _h._ ft. japan, . a recently introduced magnificent fir, with an erect stem, regularly whorled horizontal branches. =a. bracteata= (bracted).* _l._ rigid, linear, flat, distichous, in. to in. long, bright glossy green above, and glaucous beneath. _cones_ about in. long, with the bracts developed into long rigid leaf-like linear spines, in. long, and slightly curved inwards. _h._ ft. southern california, . a very handsome tall slender tree, but, owing to its very early growth of new shoots, it is much injured by the spring frosts. =a. brunoniana= (brown's). synonymous with _tsuga brunoniana_. =a. canadensis= (canadian). a synonym of _tsuga canadensis_. =a. cephalonica= (cephalonian).* _l._ subulate, flat, dark green above, and silvery beneath, acute. _cones_ erect, cylindrical, green when young, afterwards reddish, and brown when ripe, in. to in. in length, and about - / in. in diameter; scales broad, thin, and rounded, shorter than the bracts. _h._ ft. to ft. mountains of greece, . a very desirable tree for growing in exposed situations. =a. cilicica= (cilician). _l._ linear, slightly curved or straight, in. to - / in. long, dark green above, and glaucous beneath, crowded, in two ranks. _cones_ cylindrical, in. to in. long; scales broad, thin, entire, coriaceous. _h._ ft. to ft. mount taurus, in asia minor. this species seldom produces a good specimen tree in england, and cannot, therefore, be recommended for general cultivation. =a. concolor= (one-coloured).* _l._ linear, flat, obtuse, glaucous green, distichously arranged in double rows, those in the lower rows in. to in. long, upper ones shorter, channelled above. _cones_ cylindrical, obtuse both at base and top, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. in diameter; scales numerous, imbricated, larger than the bracts. _h._ ft. to ft. california, &c., . a very beautiful species, with yellow bark on the young branches. syns. _a. lasiocarpa_ and _a. parsonii_. =a. douglasii= (douglas'). a synonym of _pseudotsuga douglasii_. =a. dumosa= (short-leaved). synonymous with _tsuga brunoniana_. =a. excelsa= (tall). a synonym of _picea excelsa_. =a. firma= (solid).* _l._ rigid, coriaceous, spirally arranged around the branchlets, but point laterally in two directions, in. to - / in. long, very variable in young and old trees. _cones_ cylindrical, obtuse at both ends, in. to in. long; scales imbricated, bearing protruding keeled bracts. _h._ ft. japan, . an erect tree, of great beauty. =a. fortunei= (fortune's). it is said that in its native country, its aspect is peculiar rather than handsome, and that but one living representative is believed to be in existence in this country--at veitch's nursery. syn. _keteleeria fortunei_. =a. fraseri= (fraser's). double balsam spruce fir. _l._ linear, emarginate, silvery beneath. _cones_ oblong, squarrose, somewhat leafy, obcordate, mucronate, half exserted, reflexed. _h._ ft. to ft. north carolina, . this species closely resembles _a. balsamea_, from which it differs in having shorter and more erect leaves, and smaller cones. =a. grandis= (splendid).* _l._ in double rows, on each side of the branchlets, flat, obtuse, emarginate, pectinate, silvery beneath, from / in. to in. long. _cones_ lateral, solitary, cylindrical, obtuse at base and apex, in. to. in. long, in. wide; bracts ovate, acuminate, irregularly dentate, very short. _h._ ft. california, . a handsome tree of symmetrical habit, and rapid growth. =a. lasiocarpa= (woolly-coned). synonymous with _a. concolor_. =a. magnifica= (magnificent).* _l._ densely crowded, two-rowed, in. to nearly in. long, olive green, very glaucous on the upper surface when young, becoming duller with age, and marked with two silvery lines beneath. _cones_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. in diameter; scales, outer edge incurved. _h._ ft. north california, . a very tall and stately species, with, at successive intervals, whorls of horizontal branches. =a. mariesii= (maries'). _l._ erect, evenly disposed around the stem, linear-oblong, obtuse; apex notched, / in. to not quite in. long; bracts ovate, oblong, retuse. _cones_ erect, cylindrical, - / in. to - / in. long, - / in. to in. wide, narrowed at the base and apex, blackish purple; scales entire, nearly in. wide, not quite so long as wide. japan, . a tall, pyramidal tree. =a. mertensiana= (merten's). synonymous with _tsuga mertensiana_. =a. miniata= (vermilion). synonymous with _picea eremita_. =a. morinda= (morinda). synonymous with _picea morinda_. =a. nobilis= (noble).* _l._ linear, mostly on one side of the branches, falcate, short, acute, silvery beneath, - / in. long. _cones_ cylindrical, erect, sessile, - / in. long, - / in. broad, brownish; scales triangular, without the bractea, - / in. long, and the same in breadth; bractea spathulate, imbricated backwards, / in. long. _h._ ft. to ft. california, . a majestic tree. =a. nordmanniana= (nordmann's).* _l._ linear, rigid, flat, and minutely bifid at the apex, on young trees spreading in two rows, with a half-twist at the base, in. long. _cones_ erect, slightly ovoid, pedunculate, in. to in. long, and - / in. to - / in. wide; bracts large, coriaceous, three-lobed, fringed, greatly exceeding the scales. _h._ ft. to ft. crimea, &c., . a magnificent and stately tree, of regular growth. =a. numidica= (numidian). synonymous with _a. baborensis_. =a. obovata= (reversed-egg-coned). a synonym of _picea obovata_. =a. orientalis= (eastern). synonymous with _picea orientalis_. =a. parsonii= (parson's). synonymous with _a. concolor_. =a. pectinata= (comb-like).* _l._ linear, solitary, flat, obtuse, stiff, turned-up at the points, two-ranked, / in. to in. long, shining green above, with two lines of silvery white on each side of the midrib beneath. _cones_ axillary, cylindrical, erect, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, when ripe, brown; scales with a long dorsal bractea, / in. to - / in. long, and - / in. broad. _h._ ft. to ft. a very noble silver fir, of slow growth when young only. central europe, . there are several unimportant varieties of this splendid species. =a. pindrow= (pindrow). in its native home, the himalayas, this is a very beautiful tree, attaining the height of ft., but it has generally failed in england, in consequence of our late spring frosts destroying the young growth. it comes very near _a. webbiana_, but is readily distinguished by its longer and more acutely bidented leaves, and smaller cones. =a. pinsapo= (pinsapo).* the spanish silver fir. _l._ linear, disposed around the branches, nearly terete, and entire at the apex, not quite / in. long, bright green, with faint silvery lines on the inner side. _cones_ sessile, oval, or oblong, in. to - / in. long, about in. wide; bracts short, concealed by the broad rounded scales. _h._ ft. to ft. south spain, . a very magnificent species, very regular and symmetrical in habit. the one or two varieties offered for sale are not desirable. =a. polita= (neat).* _l._ arranged spirally, short, erect, rigid, falcate, acute at the apex, tetragonal, but compressed. _cones_ ellipsoid, in. to in. long; scales light brown, coriaceous, minutely notched at the edge. island of nippon, . this is a beautiful species, admirably adapted as a specimen tree for lawns. =a. religiosa= (sacred). _l._ linear, acute, quite entire, - / in. long. _cones_ roundish-oval, - / in. long, and - / in. broad; scales trapezoided-cordate; bracts the length of the scapes, spathulate-oblong. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . a very handsome species, but not hardy in this country. =a. sachalinensis= (sachalin). _l._ in many rows, in. or very slightly more long, / in. broad, twisted to one side, rigid, linear, obtuse. _cones_ sessile, erect, cylindrical, bluntly rounded at the apex, in. long, in. wide; scales transversely oblong, reniform; margin inflexed, denticulate; bracts / in. wide, / in. long, obovate, serrulate, terminating in a reflexed angular point, exceeding the scale. japan, . a tall pyramidal robust species. =a. schrenkiana= (schrenk's). synonymous with _picea schrenkiana_. =a. sibirica= (siberian). like the last, this species is not recommended; its growth is very slow, even under the most favourable circumstances. siberia. =a. smithiana= (smith's). a synonym of _picea morinda_. =a. subalpina= (sub-alpine).* on the high mountains of colorado, &c., a tree ft. to ft. in height. has not been long enough in english gardens for any decided opinion to be formed as to its merits as an ornamental tree. =a. tsuga= (tsugan). a synonym of _tsuga sieboldi_. =a. veitchii= (veitch's).* _l._ crowded, lateral ones spreading in a distichous manner, those on the upper side much shorter and pointing forwards, / in. to in. long, linear, flat, glaucous above, silvery beneath; emarginate on the sterile branches, entire on the fertile ones. _cones_ erect, sub-cylindrical, purplish-brown, in. to - / in. long, / in. to nearly in. wide; scales horizontal, reniform, densely packed, each enclosing a short, wedge-shaped bract as long as the scale. _h._ ft. to ft. japan, , and again in . described as a beautiful and interesting tree, as well as perfectly hardy; it should be planted on elevated spots open to the south or south-east. =a. webbiana= (webb's).* _l._ two-rowed, linear, flat, obtusely emarginate, silvery beneath, - / in. to - / in. long. _cones_ cylindrical, - / in. to in. long, in. or more broad, deep purple; scales kidney-shaped, roundish, closely compressed, imbricated, about in. long, and - / in. broad; bracts oblong, apiculate. _h._ ft. to ft. himalayan mountains, . a large handsome pyramidal tree, with numerous branches spreading horizontally, much divided, and densely clothed. =a. williamsoni= (williamson's). a synonym of _tsuga pattoniana_. =abobra= (its brazilian name). ord. _cucurbitaceæ_. a genus of stove or greenhouse plants, having solitary axillary di�cious flowers, and finely divided leaves. the only species in cultivation is a very pretty half-hardy climbing perennial, having a fleshy root about ft. or more beneath the surface of the soil. it thrives well in warm sunny spots, and in a light soil; seeds may be sown in pots or pans of light soil early in april; the young plants can be planted out about the middle of june. the fleshy tuberous roots may be stored during winter in a greenhouse or frame. _see_ also =gourds=. =a. viridiflora= (green-flowered). _fl._ pale green, fragrant; females succeeded by small oval scarlet fruits, which are about as large as a filbert. _l._ dark green, glossy, much divided into narrow segments. south america. a rapid growing plant, admirably adapted for training over arbours or trellis-work. it is a very pretty form of ornamental gourd. =abortion.= an imperfect formation, or the non-formation of an organ; any fruit or produce that does not come to maturity, or anything which fails in its progress before it is matured, frequently from a defect in the male or female flowers. =abraxas grossulariata.= _see_ =gooseberry or magpie moth=. =abricock.= a former mode of writing apricot. =abroma= (from _a_, not, and _broma_, food; from its unwholesomeness). ord. _sterculiaceæ_. handsome, free-flowering evergreen trees, with hairy lobed leaves, and extra axillary or terminal few-flowered peduncles. of easy culture, in a stove temperature, in loam and peat soil. propagated by seeds or cuttings, the former sown in march, the latter made in april from half-ripened wood, and placed under a bell glass. =a. augusta= (smooth-stalked).* _fl._ dingy purple, drooping. august. _l._ lower, cordate, three to five lobed; upper, ovate-lanceolate, undivided. _h._ ft. east india, . =a. fastuosa= (prickly-stalked). _fl._ dark purple. june. _l._ lower, cordate, acutely five lobed; upper, ovate, entire. _h._ ft. new holland, . =abronia= (from _abros_, delicate; referring to its involucrum). sand verbena. ord. _nyctaginaceæ_. a small genus of seven species, mostly natives of california, four of which only are known in general cultivation. they are of a dwarf trailing habit, producing showy blossoms in dense verbena-like clusters. corolla funnel-shaped; limb spreading. they succeed best in light sandy soil, in a position fully exposed; if well drained, the rockery is perhaps the best place. increased by seeds, the outer skin of which should be peeled off before sowing; sow during autumn in pots of sandy soil, and keep in a frame until the following spring, when they may be placed in their flowering quarters; or by young cuttings, set in spring, and also in sandy soil. [illustration: fig. . abronia umbellata, showing flower and habit.] =a. arenaria= (sand-loving).* _fl._ lemon-yellow, about / in. long, in dense clusters, with a honey-like fragrance. july. _l._ broadly ovate, or reniform, on short, thick petioles. _h._ in. to in. . half-hardy perennial. syn. _a. latifolia_. =a. fragrans= (fragrant).* _fl._ pure white, in terminal and axillary clusters, very delicately perfumed, expanding in the evening. may. . a perennial, more or less erect in growth, forming large branching tufts from ft. to ft. high. imported seeds only of this species will grow. =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved). a synonym of _a. arenaria_. =a. pulchella= (pretty). _fl._ pink. july. _h._ in. . =a. rosea= (rose-coloured). _fl._ rose-coloured. june. _h._ in. . an unimportant species. =a. umbellata= (umbel-flowered).* _fl._ rosy pink, in dense terminal clusters, slightly scented. april. _l._ oval or oblong. _h._ in. to in. . an elegant prostrate half-hardy annual; but under greenhouse culture it is a perennial. syn. _tricratus admirabilis_. see fig . =abrupt.= suddenly terminating, as abruptly pinnate; when pinnate leaves are without a terminal or odd leaflet. =abrus= (from _abros_, soft, in reference to the extreme softness of the leaves). ord. _leguminosæ_. a very ornamental and delicate much branched deciduous stove climber, whose roots have the virtues of the common liquorice. leaves abruptly pinnate, bearing many pairs of leaflets. requires a strong heat to keep it in a growing, healthy condition, and to flower it well; and thrives best in sandy loam. increased by cuttings under a hand glass, in sand, or seeds raised in heat. =a. precatorius= (prayer). _fl._ pale purple, butterfly-shaped, disposed in axillary clusters. seeds bright scarlet, with a black spot at the base, used by the buddhists for making rosaries, whence the specific name. march to may. _l._ leaflets ligulate, oblong. _h._ ft. east indies, . varieties are now and then met with having rose coloured or white flowers. =absorption.= the action by which liquids and gases become incorporated with various bodies, through molecular or other invisible means, to which function all parts of a growing plant contribute, the roots more especially. =abuta= (native name). ord. _menispermaceæ_. a strong growing ornamental stove evergreen climber. used medicinally in cayenne. flowers di�cious, fascicled, males racemosely panicled; females loose and simply racemose. it grows freely in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings will root readily if planted in a pot of sand, with a hand glass placed over them, in heat. about half-a-dozen species are known. =a. rufescens= (rusty-coloured). _fl._ grey-velvety on the outside, dark purple on the inside. march. _l._ ovate; under surface brownish. _h._ ft. cayenne, . =abutilon= (arabic name for a plant analogous to the marsh mallow). ord. _malvaceæ_. very showy, decorative, and free-growing shrubs, both for the greenhouse and outside culture. calyx naked, five-cleft, usually angular; style multifid at apex. the many beautiful hybrids (of which fig. represents a group) now in cultivation, far supersede the true species. cultivation: few plants are more easily grown and worthy of liberal treatment than these. the best soil for them is equal parts turfy loam, peat, and leaf mould, with some gritty sand. they may either be grown in pots, or planted out; but in all cases thorough drainage is indispensable, as they require an abundance of water, and stagnancy must be guarded against. at the end of may they may be planted outside, when they will flower profusely through the summer. in a free growing and flowering state they enjoy weak manure water. from the latter part of autumn till early spring they may be kept almost dry without injury, though in a warm conservatory some of the later struck plants will go on flowering throughout the greater part of the winter; or plants may be specially prepared for winter flowering. they are admirably adapted for forming standards of various heights, from ft. to ft. some of the taller sorts are very useful for training under roof rafters. as pillar plants, too, very loosely trained, so as to allow the upper and side branches to droop to a considerable distance from the pillar, they are very effective. propagation: they strike readily from cuttings made of the young wood, at almost any season; the best time, however, is early spring and september. inserted in pots, in a compost of equal parts peat, leaf mould, loam, and sand, and placed in a temperature of from deg. to deg., they will then quickly root, and form good plants. seeds may be sown in pans filled with soil as recommended for cuttings, and placed in a similar temperature. those followed by a dagger (�) are the best for training to pillars, roofs, &c. =a. bedfordianum= (bedford's). _fl._ yellow and red. november. _l._ deeply-lobed. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. darwini= (darwin's).�* _fl._ bright orange, with darker veinings, fine cupped form. april. _l._ large, broad. _h._ ft. brazil, . a handsome species, of good habit, equally suitable as a stove or greenhouse plant during winter, and for outdoor culture during summer months. there are a great number of garden hybrids from this. =a. globiflorum= (globe-flowered). _fl._ solitary, large, globose, cream-coloured. november. _l._ on long stalks, cordate, serrate. _h._ ft. to ft. mauritius, . =a. igneum= (bright). synonymous with _a. insigne_. =a. insigne= (handsome-flowered).* _fl._ large, purplish crimson, with dark venation, in axillary pendulous racemes; petals short, broad, much reflexed. winter. _l._ large, cordate, thick, rugose. stem deep green, with short brown hairs. _h._ ft. new grenada, . syn. _a. igneum_. see fig. . =a. megapotamicum= (big river).�* _fl._ small, bell-shaped, singularly beautiful, the sepals being dark red, petals pale yellow, and stamens dark brown. autumn and winter. _l._ small, pointed. _h._ ft. rio grande, . a free-flowering species, with a graceful drooping habit; the shoots should be well pressed in during spring. syn. _a. vexillarium_. =a. pæoniflorum= (pæony-flowered). _fl._ pink, smaller than those of _a. insigne_, but very distinct. january. _l._ large, ovate. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. pulchellum= (pretty).�* _fl._ white, on few-flowered axillary racemes. july. _l._ cordate, unequally crenated, downy beneath. _h._ ft. habit very branching. new holland, . =a. striatum= (striped).* _fl._ orange yellow, with a thick veining of blood-red, on long curving stalks. _l._ large, lobed, on long slender petioles. brazil, . a free grower, and makes an excellent greenhouse plant. in sheltered positions, in the south-west of england, this species proves to be almost hardy. it requires to be freely pinched. a very continuous bloomer. =a. thompsoni= (thompson's). _fl._ striated yellow, large. summer. _l._ small, vine-like, richly mottled with yellow and dark green. _h._ ft. or ft. habit very neat and erect. =a. venosum= (veined).�* _fl._ orange, with red veins, very large, bell shaped, in. long; pedicels nearly in. long. july. _l._ large, deeply palmate. _h._ ft. this splendid species is distinguished by its unusually large flowers. =a. vexillarium= (standard). synonymous with _a. megapotamicum_. =a. vitifolium= (vine-leaved).* _fl._ porcelain blue, large, cupped. may. _l._ cordate, five to seven lobed, assuming, towards the autumn, a fine golden hue. _h._ ft. chili, . this fine shrub, or tree, is hardy in ireland and the south of england, but should have a protection from frost. it is not a fast grower. the following are some of the best varieties, which, although they do not include all the newest sorts, yet afford a good selection of first-rate kinds, which will give general satisfaction. they are arranged according to their respective colours. those marked with a dagger (�) are best for roofs and pillars. =orange-flowered.= aureum globosum,* flowers deep orange, heavily red shaded, of medium size, with good form and substance; darwini majus,* bright orange, deeply veined, extremely free, and of good form and size; fleur d'or,� light orange, veined pale red, very free and dwarf; grandiflorum,* deep orange, red shaded, deeply veined with red, a robust, large-flowered variety; leo, flowers pale below, deeper above, red-veined, of medium size; prince of orange,�* a strong grower, and very free. =ornamental-foliaged.= darwini tesselatum,�* foliage mottled with yellow, invaluable for sub-tropical bedding; sellowianum marmoratum,* very large maple-like foliage, heavily mottled with bright yellow, a most effective variety; thompsoni, leaves very freely blotched with yellow; vexillarium igneum,�* very free, of good habit, prettily blotched. all these ornamental-foliaged varieties are invaluable for bedding purposes. [illustration: fig. . group of abutilons.] =purple-coloured.= emperor,* flowers large, rich purple magenta shaded, habit vigorous; louis van houtte, very free, rosy purple; purpurea,* deep purple shaded lake, very attractive; souvenir de st. maurice, flowers medium size, very profuse; violet queen,* bright violet purple, very distinct and free. =red and crimson-flowered.= brilliant,* flowers of good form and substance, brilliant red inside, rather paler outside, dwarf and free; crimson banner,* rich crimson, dwarf, very floriferous; fire king,* bright red, orange shaded, veined with crimson; lustrous,* brilliant red crimson, large, most profusely produced, habit dwarf; ne plus ultra,* intense crimson, of excellent form; scarlet gem,* flowers medium sized, brilliant scarlet, habit dwarf and free. =rose-coloured.= admiration, light pink, shaded salmon, of good form and shape; anna crozy,* deep pink, lilac shade, veined white, very showy; clochette,* deep rosy pink, with crimson veins, very dwarf and free; delicatum, pale salmon rose, with deeper vein, flowers very large; king of the roses,* rich deep rose, of good size and substance, habit dwarf and very free; lady of the lake,* flowers medium sized, rich pink; louis marignac, pale pink, veined white, splendid habit, a charming variety; princess marie,�* flowers rich rosy lake, very profuse, of excellent form; ros�florum,�* pale salmon rose, veined with crimson. =white-flowered.= boule de niege,�* very fine pure white flowers, the best in its class; purity,* very free, of good habit, and pure white; seraph,* dwarf, and very floriferous. [illustration: fig. . flower of abutilon insigne.] =yellow-flowered.= canary bird,�* similar in habit to boule de niege, bright primrose, very lovely; couronne d'or,* bright yellow, of the finest form and substance, very bold foliage; golden gem, rich canary yellow, extremely free, of dwarf habit; lemoinei,� very fine, pale yellow, good size; queen of the yellows,* very large, lemon yellow, good substance; yellow prince,* rich golden yellow, of medium size, very profuse. =abyssinian primrose.= a common name for =primula boveana= (which _see_). =acacia= (from _ac_, a point, in celtic; or from _akazo_, to sharpen; many of the species are furnished with spines). _see_ also _albizzia_. ord. _leguminosæ_. shrubs or trees, very variable in habit and leaves. flowers yellow, white, rarely red, disposed in globular heads or spikes, decandrous or polyandrous. spines stipular, scattered, or wanting. this is a very polymorphous genus, and the majority of species described are known in this country only from herbarium specimens. it is very doubtful whether the entire genus is represented in our gardens by more than about fifty species, many of which are only to be found in botanic gardens; but this number is, without doubt, sufficiently characteristic. the number of species is close upon , and the genus one of the largest known. in our enumeration, we have strictly confined ourselves to describing such as are unquestionably in cultivation, and to this end we have adopted the only accurate method of deciding which are and which are not grown, viz., by consulting the trade lists of nurserymen, both in this country and on the continent. such lists, however, are not always correct, from a scientific point of view, in the matter of nomenclature. the species best deserving of cultivation are all natives of australia, new south wales, or other temperate regions, and are among the hardiest and most easily cultivated of all greenhouse plants. they are very floriferous. the greenhouse species are sufficiently hardy to withstand the winter in a temperature very little higher than freezing point. cultivation: some have a tendency to make long straight shoots; these should be selected for training upon rafters or pillars, on which they thrive well and form splendid ornaments in spring; whilst the more shrubby kinds will be equally at home in pots in the form of bushes. roots and tops grow with great rapidity, and an abundance of water is required at all times. immediately after flowering (usually about may) is the best time to prune acacias; they may then be placed in the open air, and fully exposed to the sun, until october. they make a far healthier, cleaner growth, and ripen their wood much better outside than under glass; all they require is copious waterings, never allowing them to become dry, and keeping clear of weeds. in the first week in october house the plants, and winter in a temperature of deg. to deg. they delight in a light rich compost of equal parts turfy loam and leaf mould, freely intermixed with sand, or peat may be used instead of the leaf mould. propagation: cuttings of the half-ripened wood, put in with a heel, root readily during the summer. they do not bear heat well, nor do they require it. the soil should be equal parts peat and sand, covered with pure sand, thoroughly consolidated. insert the cuttings as soon as made; water home, and leave them in the shade till dry. then place the bell glasses over them, shade and water so as to prevent flagging. pot off as soon as rooted, and keep in a close pit or house until the plants are thoroughly established. seeds should be sown as soon as ripe, in sandy peat; about / in. deep, or a little more, for large seeds. a temperature of deg. to deg. suits them well. pot off when large enough to handle, and place in a cool close pit or house until quite established. the culture and propagation of the stove species are the same as for the greenhouse sorts, but the former require, of course, greater heat. their flowers, however, are much less frequently produced than their more temperate congeners, consequently they are not so much grown. =a. affinis.=* _fl._ yellow. may. _h._ ft. new holland, . greenhouse species. =a. albicans= (whitish).* _fl._ white; heads, two to five, aggregate, rising in racemes from the axils to the leaves. _l._ with eight to nine pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing nineteen to twenty-two pairs of oblong linear-leaflets. _h._ ft. swan river. =a. am�na= (pleasing). this closely resembles _a. heterophylla_. =a. angustifolia= (narrow-leaved). _fl._ yellow, in heads two to four together, pedunculate. april. _l._ with fifteen to twenty pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing thirty to forty pairs of linear-acute, ciliated leaflets. _h._ ft. new south wales, . one of the numerous varieties of _a. longifolia_. =a. arabica= (arabian).* gum arabic. _fl._ white; heads pedunculate, axillary, usually in threes. _l._ with four to six pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing ten to twenty pairs of oblong-linear leaflets. _h._ ft. arabia, east indies, &c., . greenhouse species. see fig. . =a. argyrophylla= (silver-leaved). a synonym of _a. brachybotrya_. =a. armata= (armed, simple leaved).* _fl._ yellow, in solitary globular heads. april. _l._ phyllodia obliquely ovate-oblong, quite entire, one-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. australia, . =a. benthami= (bentham's). a synonym of _a. cochlearis_. =a. brachybotrya= (short-bunched).* _fl._ yellow, in axillary stalked globular heads. april. _l._ phyllodia silvery silky, obliquely obovate, or oblong. _h._ ft. swan river. syn. _a. argyrophylla_. =a. catechu= (catechu). _fl._ yellow; spikes cylindrical, solitary, twin, or tern, axillary. march. _l._ with ten pairs of pinnæ, each of which bears forty to fifty pairs of linear pubescent leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. east indies, . =a. cavenia= (cavenia).* _fl._ yellow, disposed in globose heads, peduncles, axillary, aggregate. _l._ with usually about five pairs of pinnæ, each of which bears nine to ten pairs of linear-oblong leaflets, clothed with scabrous pubescence. _h._ ft. chili. greenhouse species. =a. cochlearis= (spoon-leaved). _fl._ yellow, in solitary globular heads. april. _l._ phyllodia linear lanceolate, many-nerved at the base, quite entire, mucronate. _h._ ft. west australia, . syn. _a. benthami_. =a. cultriformis= (knife-formed).* _fl._ yellow, in crowded heads, disposed in either axillary or terminal racemes. april. _l._ phyllodia eight to ten lines long, four lines broad, cultriform, ending in an acute hooked point, which bears to one side. _h._ ft. new south wales, . =a. cuneata= (wedge-shaped).* _fl._ yellow. april. swan river, . greenhouse species. =a. cyanophylla= (blue-leaved). _fl._ yellow; racemes axillary; heads globose. march. _l._ phyllodia lanceolate, often ft. long, glaucous green, almost blue; branches drooping. _h._ ft. swan river, . arboreous. =a. dealbata= (whitened).* the silver wattle. _fl._ yellow, in pedicellate heads, disposed in racemes along the axillary branches. july. _l._ from ten to twenty pairs of pinnæ, each of which bears thirty to thirty-five pairs of linear, much crowded pubescent leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. australia and tasmania, . =a. diffusa= (spreading). _fl._ yellow, in globular heads, which are usually twin. may. _l._ phyllodia linear, one-nerved, ending in an oblique acumen; branches diffusely procumbent, angular. _h._ ft. victoria and tasmania, . =a. drummondi= (drummond's).* _fl._ pale lemon; spikes axillary, drooping, cylindrical, simple. april. _l._ with two pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing two to three pairs of linear obtuse leaflets. plant unarmed, silky. _h._ ft. swan river. very handsome and one of the best grown, forming a somewhat dwarf shrub. [illustration: fig. . acacia arabica (_a_) flowering branch, (_b_) seed-pod.] =a. farnesiana= (farnesian). _fl._ yellow, sweet-scented, disposed in axillary, usually twin, unequally pedunculate heads. july. _l._ with five to eight pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing from fifteen to twenty pairs of linear glabrous leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. st. domingo, . greenhouse species. =a. glauca= (milky white).* _fl._ white; spikes globose, stalked, axillary, usually twin. july. _l._ with four to six pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing about twelve to fifteen pairs of linear, distant, acute leaflets, which are glaucous beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . =a. glaucescens= (greyish). _fl._ yellow; spikes twin, but solitary on the peduncles, axillary. june. _l._ phyllodia linear-lanceolate, attenuated at both ends, falcate, three-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. queensland, . syn. _a. homomalla_. =a. grandis= (great).* _fl._ yellow; heads globular; peduncles solitary or twin, axillary, one-headed. february to may. _l._ with one pair of pinnæ, each pinna bearing eight to ten pairs of linear-lanceolate leaflets; branches hairy. _h._ ft. west australia, . a variety of _a. pulchella_. =a. heterophylla= (variable-leaved).* _fl._ yellow, in heads, disposed in a kind of raceme. may. _l._ phyllodia linear, attenuated at both ends, many-nerved. _h._ ft. isle of bourbon, . _a. am�na_ is very like this. =a. hispidissima= (hairiest). a variety of _a. pulchella_. =a. holosericea= (all silky). _fl_. yellow, in axillary spikes, usually twin. may. _l._ in. long, oblong-lanceolate, ending in a soft point at the apex, three-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. australia, . the whole aspect of this tree is silky. syn. _a. leucophylla_. =a. homomalla= (equal-woolled). a synonym of _a. glaucescens_. =a. hugelii= (baron hugel's). _fl._ pale yellow. february. west australia, . greenhouse species. =a. ixiophylla= (ixia-leaved). _fl._ yellow; heads about twenty-flowered; peduncles downy, shortly racemose or solitary. march. _l._ narrow, oblong-lanceolate, sub-falcate, obtuse, obliquely mucronate, much branched. _h._ ft. new south wales, . =a. juniperina= (juniper-leaved). _fl._ yellow, in solitary heads. may. _l._ linear-subulate, ending in a pungent point; branches terete, pubescent. _h._ ft. australia and tasmania, . greenhouse. =a. lebbek= (lebbek).* _fl._ yellow, sweet-scented; heads many-flowered, pedunculate, three or four together, from the crowded upper nodes. may. _l._ with two to four pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing about six to eight pairs of oval, somewhat dimidiate leaflets, which are obtuse at both ends. _h._ ft. east and west indies, . stove species. =a. leprosa= (leprous). _fl._ yellow, mostly five-parted, numerous in a globular head; peduncles mostly in pairs or clusters, / in. long. may. _l._ narrow, linear-lanceolate, acute or obtuse with a small callous point, narrowed at base, - / in. to in. long, those of the barren shoots broader. branchlets pendulous, more or less glutinous. australia, . (b. r. .) =a. leucophylla= (white-leaved). a synonym of _a. holosericea_. =a. lineata= (lined). _fl._ yellow, mostly five-parted, ten to fifteen or rarely more in a small, globular head; peduncles slender, rarely exceeding the leaves. april. _l._ linear, with a small hooked point, about / in., rarely / in., long, one-nerved. branches nearly terete, usually pubescent or villous. _h._ ft. australia, . (b. m. .) =a. l. longissima= (longest). synonymous with _a. longissima_. =a. longifolia= (long-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; spikes loose, axillary, cylindrical. march. _l._ phyllodia linear-lanceolate, narrowed at each end, three-nerved, striated. _h._ ft. australia, . a fine erect-growing greenhouse species. =a. longissima= (longest-leaved). _fl._ yellow; spikes several, axillary, generally branched. may. _l._ phyllodia very long, filiform, one-nerved, spreading. _h._ ft. new south wales, . stove species. syn. _a. linearis longissima_. =a. lunata= (half-moon).* _fl._ yellow; heads disposed in racemes, which are longer than the phyllodia. april. _l._ phyllodia obliquely oblong, rather falcate, narrowed at the base, terminating in an oblique callous mucrone. _h._ ft. to ft. australia, . greenhouse species. syn. _a. oleæfolia_. =a. melanoxylon= (black wooded). _fl._ yellow; heads few, disposed in a kind of raceme. april. _l._ phyllodia lanceolate-oblong, rather falcate, obtuse, quite entire, many-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. australia, . greenhouse species. =a. mollissima= (softest-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; heads pedicellate, disposed in racemes along the axillary peduncles. july. _l._ with eight to eighteen pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing thirty to forty pairs of linear, much crowded, pubescent leaflets, which are clothed with yellowish velvety down when young; branches and petioles angular. _h._ ft. to ft. van diemens land, . =a. oleæfolia= (olive-leaved). a synonym of _a. lunata_. =a. oxycedrus= (sharp-cedrus).* _fl._ yellow; spikes axillary, solitary, elongated. april. _l._ phyllodia scattered, or somewhat verticillate, lanceolate-linear, ending in a pungent point, three-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. new south wales, . greenhouse species. =a. paradoxa= (paradoxical). _fl._ yellow, disposed in solitary heads. march. _l._ phyllodia obliquely oblong-lanceolate, entire, wavy, one-nerved; branches clammy, glabrous. _h._ ft. new holland. greenhouse species. =a. penninervis= (feather-nerved). _fl._ yellow; heads about the size of a pea, racemose. april. _l._ phyllodia oblong, acuminated at both ends, straight, in. to in. long, / in. broad, feather veined. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . =a. platyptera= (broad-winged).* _fl._ yellow; heads solitary, on short peduncles. march. _l._ phyllodia short, bifarious, decurrent, obliquely truncate, mucronate; branches broadly winged. _h._ ft., swan river, . greenhouse species. =a. pubescens= (downy).* _fl._ yellow; heads small, globose pedicellate, disposed in racemes along the axillary peduncles. march. _l._ with three to ten pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing six to eighteen pairs of linear glabrous leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. branches terete, hairy. new holland, . =a. pulchella= (pretty).* _fl._ yellow; heads solitary. april. _l._, pinnæ bearing five to seven pairs of oblong-ovate, obtuse leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . greenhouse species. the variety _hispidissima_ has white flowers. =a. riceana= (rice's).* _fl._ pale yellow, in long, solitary, axillary spikes. may. _l._ linear, in clusters, dark green, scattered or whorled. _h._ ft. tasmania. habit graceful, like a weeping willow. very handsome and distinct. syn. _a. setigera_. see fig. . =a. rotundifolia= (round-leaved). _fl._ yellow; heads globose, solitary, on long peduncles. march. _l._ phyllodia on short petioles, obliquely rounded, obtuse or retuse, mucronate. branches angular, puberulous. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. saligna= (willow-like). _fl._ yellow; heads solitary, on short peduncles. march. _l._ phyllodia linear, attenuated at both ends, quite entire, almost nerveless. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . greenhouse species. =a. senegal= (senegal). gum senegal. _fl._ white, small, glabrous, distant; spikes axillary, solitary, slender. _l._ with five to eight pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing fifteen to eighteen pairs of oblong-linear, obtuse, glabrous leaflets; branches white; prickles sometimes wanting. _h._ ft. arabia, . stove species. =a. setigera= (bristly). synonymous with _a. riceana_. =a. sophoræ= (sophora-podded). _fl._ yellow; spikes usually twin, axillary. may. _l._ phyllodia obovate, oblong or lanceolate, quite entire, many nerved; sometimes there are bipinnate leaves at the tops of the branches. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. sphærocephala= (round-headed).* _fl._ yellow; racemes axillary, usually twin, ovate-roundish. _l._ with numerous close-set linear falcate pinnules, which are usually tipped by a glandular yellow "food body;" spines twin, hollow. mexico. a very remarkable stove species, inhabited by ants during certain seasons in its native country. =a. uncinifolia= (hook-leaved). _fl._ yellow; spikes usually twin, dense, on short peduncles, cylindrical. march. _l._ phyllodia long, linear-subulate, flat, recurved, mucronate, three-nerved; branches angular. _h._ ft. swan river, . =a. vera= (true). egyptian thorn; gum arabic. _fl._ white, usually in twin heads, pedunculate, axillary. july. _l._ with two pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing eight to ten pairs of oblong linear leaflets; branches and spines red. _h._ ft. egypt, . [illustration: fig. . a flowering branch of acacia riceana.] =a. verticillata= (whorl-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; spikes axillary, solitary, oblong. march. _l._ phyllodia linear, ending in a pungent mucrone, disposed somewhat verticillately. _h._ ft. to ft. a spreading, prickly, greenhouse species, of variable habit. new holland, . =a. vestita= (clothed).* _fl._ yellow, in loosely racemose heads, along the peduncles; upper ones solitary. june. _l._ phyllodia obliquely elliptic-lanceolate, one-nerved, ending in an awnlike mucrone, hispid. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. viscidula= (clammy).* _fl._ yellow; heads globular, on short stalks, axillary, solitary or twin. february. _l._ linear, clammy; branches slender, clammy. _h._ ft., erect. new south wales, . =ac�na= (from _akaina_, a thorn; in allusion to the slender spines on the calyx or fruit). ord. _rosaceæ_. a genus of dwarf sub-shrubby plants. flowers capitate, or interruptedly spicate, uninteresting; petals absent. leaves alternate, impari-pinnate. excepting for rockwork, or as edgings to flower beds, they are not of much value; their habit is, however, very compact and neat. they require similar treatment to other hardy herbaceous plants, in ordinary soil. increased by cuttings, creeping rootlets, divisions, and by seeds. =a. microphylla= (small-leaved).* _fl._ green, small, in close heads, furnished with showy, long crimson spines. summer. _l._ small, pinnate. _h._ in. to in. new zealand. a neat evergreen with a compact and cushion-like growth; it is a very effective subject for the rock garden, and grows freely in most situations. the crimson globular heads of spine-formed calyces form a conspicuous and ornamental feature of the plant. syn. _a. novæ zealandiæ_. see fig. . =a. millefolia= (myriad-leaved).* _fl._ inconspicuous. a very distinct species with finely-cut pale green leaves. the fruiting spikes of this are not collected in globular heads, as in the others, and their presence detract from its value as an ornamental plant. otherwise, it is very graceful. [illustration: fig. . ac�na microphylla.] =a. myriophylla= (many-leaved).* _fl._ green, small, in rounded spikes. june. _l._ pinnate; leaflets deeply cut. _h._ in. to ft. chili, . small, fern-like. =a. novæ zealandiæ= (new zealand). a synonym of _a. microphylla_. =a. ovalifolia= (oval-leaved). _fl._ green. summer. _h._ in. chili, . good for rock gardens. =a. pulchella= (pretty).* _fl._ inconspicuous. a pretty bronzy-leaved species, admirably suited for rockwork crevices, where space is no object. it grows very rapidly, and forms handsome tufts. =acalypha= (the name given by hippocrates to the nettle). ord. _euphorbiaceæ_. stove ornamental and variegated nettle-like leaved shrubs. flowers greenish or reddish, inconspicuous, in erect or drooping bracted axillary or terminal spikes; those of the upper portion sterile, of the lower, fertile. the undermentioned only are those most worthy of cultivation. they are very easily grown, with ordinary stove treatment, and in a peat and loam compost. when well cultivated, the leaves of the hybridised varieties are highly coloured, but rather coarse than otherwise. increased by cuttings under a glass in sandy soil, in stove heat, during april. =a. macafeeana= (macafee's). _l._ red, blotched with bronzy crimson. . =a. macrophylla= (large-leaved).* _l._ cordate ovate, russet brown, blotched with paler spots. the best and handsomest stove species. =a. marginata= (margined). _l._ large, very hairy, ovate-acuminate, centre brown, with a distinct margin of rosy carmine, about / in. wide. fiji islands, . =a. musaica= (mosaic).* _l._ bronzy green, variegated with orange and dull red. polynesia, . =a. torta= (twisted). _l._ dark olive, tinted green; margin cut into blunt, oblong segments. samoan islands. remarkable for its curiously contorted foliage. it has erect stems, which are terete, and covered by the leaves in a very singular way. =a. tricolor= (three-coloured). a synonym of _a. wilkesiana_. =a. wilkesiana= (wilkes').* _l._ ovate-acuminate, curiously blotched, mottled, and splashed with red and crimson; ground colour coppery green. _h._ ft. to ft. new hebrides, . syn. _a. tricolor_. =a. w. marginata= (wilkes's margined).* _l._ large, olive brown, margined with rosy carmine. fiji islands, . =acanthace�.= a large order of soft-wooded, herbaceous plants, usually having gamopetalous axillary flowers; calyx composed of deeply imbricated scales; bracts large, leafy. =acanthephippium= (the derivation of this word is not apparent). ord. _orchideæ_. a peculiar class of terrestrial stove orchids. flowers rather large, racemose, few; sepals combined in a broad oblique pitcher, including the petals, which are adnate to the base of the column; column short, produced into a long foot. pseudo-bulbs oblong. leaves few, large, longer than the scapes. the best species are the two first-mentioned. they will thrive well in sandy peat, with a quantity of small stones, broken pots, or gravel. a great deal of heat and moisture are absolutely essential during the growing period. propagated, as soon as growth commences, by dividing the pseudo-bulbs. =a. bicolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ purple and yellow, about in. long, campanulate, produced in clusters of three or four together; petals oblong-lanceolate, acutish; lateral lobes of lip rounded. june. _h._ in. ceylon, . =a. curtisii= (curtis's).* _fl._ same shape as above (except the lip), with numerous purple spots, light rose, and flush; column white, nail of lip yellow, keels yellowish, laciniæ white with purple. malay archipelago, . the five keels between the side laciniæ distinguish it from the foregoing species and _a. sylhetense_. =a. javanicum= (javanese).* _fl._ yellow and red, with distinct longitudinal stripes; petals triangular; lip three-lobed; lateral lobes truncate; intermediate lobe constricted in middle, ovate, and tuberculate at the apex, fleshy on both sides at base, with truncate emarginate inflexed teeth. september. _h._ - / ft. java, . =a. sylhetense= (sylhet). _fl._ white, with many irregular spots and blotches towards the extremities of the outer portions. june. _h._ in. sylhet, . =acantholimon= (from _akanthos_, a spine, and _limon_, sea lavender). ord. _plantagineæ_. dwarf hardy tufted evergreen plants, distinguished from allied genera in having sharp-pointed rigid leaves. they are of rather slow growth, thriving best in a sandy soil, and sunny position, on rockwork more particularly. the flowers are similar to _statice_ and _armeria_. increased by seeds (which germinate slowly), sown carefully on a warm but rather shaded border, and transplanted when large enough to handle; or by cuttings and very carefully made divisions. the cuttings should be made in late summer, and placed in a frame, to remain there during the winter. =a. glumaceum= (prickly).* _fl._ rose, spicate, about / in. across, six to eight in a spikelet. summer. _l._ densely packed and sharply pointed with spines. _h._ in. armenia, . very compact and distinct. syn. _statice ararati_. =a. kotschyi= (kotschy's). _fl._ white. a good species, but very rarely seen in british gardens. [illustration: fig. . acantholimon venustum.] =a. venustum= (charming).* _fl._ rose, spicate, from twelve to twenty in each spike. summer. _l._ broader than in the last, and glaucous. _h._ in. or in. cilicia, . a rare and handsome alpine. larger than the preceding. see fig. . =acanthoph�nix= (from _akantha_, a spine, and _phoinix_, the date palm). ord. _palmæ_. a very elegant stove palm, differing from _areca_ principally in habit, and requiring a light sandy soil and a summer temperature of deg. to deg., winter deg. to deg. increased by seeds only; these germinate best in a moist bottom heat, and a well decomposed compost of one part loam, one of peat, one of leaf mould, and the remainder of sand. they may remain in this soil for two or three years. =a. crinita= (hairy).* _fl._ spirally arranged, in threes, the central one being female. _l._ the fronds are arched, broadly ovate in outline, pectinately pinnate in division, with long linear acuminate segments, paler beneath. the stem is densely armed with black, needle-shaped spines, and much swollen towards the base. seychelles, . =acanthorhiza= (from _akantha_, a spine, and _rhiza_, a root). ord. _palmæ_. a small genus of stove palms, differing from _trithrinax_ by the aërial roots of the trunk hardening into spines (which are horizontal or pointed upwards), and by the blade of the leaf being divided down to the petiole. they delight in a rich loamy soil, and are propagated by seeds, in a moist, sweet hotbed, in spring. =a. aculeata= (spiny).* _l._ orbicular, palmately slit into numerous linear-lanceolate, glabrous segments, deep-green above, silvery beneath; petioles slender; the trunk is covered with a network of branching spines. mexico, . syn. _chamærops stauracantha_. =a. wallisii= (wallis's).* a recent introduction from tropical america, and not yet much cultivated; it is a tall palm with orbicular palmate leaves. =a. warzcewiczii= (warzcewicz's).* this differs from the preceding species by its more irregularly divided leaf blade, which is white below. tropical america. =acanthostachyum= (from _akanthos_, a spine, and _stachys_, a spike). ord. _bromeliaceæ_. a monotypic genus of stove evergreen herbaceous plants; of easy culture in a compost of equal parts sand, decayed wood, and rotten leaves. propagated by suckers, which strike readily in bottom heat. =a. strobilacea= (cone-fruited). _fl._ red and yellow; scape simple, long, scurfy; bracts coloured. june. _l._ radical, very long, incurved, narrow, thick, pungent, channelled, spiny-toothed, covered with white scurf. _h._ ft. brazil, . =acanthus= (from _akanthos_, a spine; several species being spiny or prickly). bear's breech. ord. _acanthaceæ_. a group of stately, ornamental perennial plants, mostly hardy, remarkable for their vigorous growth and beautiful foliage. flowers sessile, crowded, spicate; corolla tubular, one-lipped; lip three lobed. to attain perfection they require a deep soil, and a situation fully exposed to the sun. they will, however, thrive moderately well in common soil and partial shade. the habit being generally a bold one, they are most suited for isolated tufts, backgrounds of mixed borders, and the wild garden. propagated by seeds, sown in gentle heat, or by division of the roots, in autumn or early spring. =a. carduifolius= (thistle-leaved). _fl._ blue. august. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . greenhouse species. =a. hispanicus= (spanish). _fl._ white. august. _l._ large, shining, and deeply cut. _h._ ft. spain, . =a. longifolius= (long-leaved).* _fl._ purple, rose, in the axils of the bracts, which are oval, acuminate, spiny, of a reddish hue, forming a spike nearly ft. long. june. _l._ radical, ft. to ft. long; numerous. _h._ ft. to - / ft. dalmatia, . =a. lusitanicus= (portugal). synonymous with _a. mollis latifolius_. =a. mollis= (soft).* _fl._ white or rose, sessile in the axils of the deeply-toothed bracts; spikes about - / ft. summer. _l._ sinuated, unarmed, heart-shaped in outline, ft. long by ft. broad. _h._ ft. to ft. italy, . =a. m. latifolius= (broad-leaved).* a variety of _a. mollis_, but larger and more robust in every part. this very handsome form is probably the best grown; it is one of the most suitable for sub-tropical gardening. a warm sunny spot is needful. syn. _a. lusitanicus_. see fig. . =a. montanus= (mountain).* _fl._ rose. august. _h._ ft. west africa, . a shrubby species. =a. niger= (black). _fl._ purplish white. july to september. _l._ sinuated, unarmed, glabrous, shining green. _h._ ft. portugal, . =a. spinosissimus= (most spiny).* _fl._ rosy, sessile, on a very handsome spike, with acute, recurved spines. autumn. _l._ laciniate, pinnatifid, blistered, spiny; spines white. _h._ - / ft. south europe, . [illustration: fig. . acanthus mollis latifolius.] =a. spinosus= (spiny).* _fl._ purplish, spicate; sepals spiny. summer. _l._ deeply and regularly cut, each division terminated by a short spine. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe. see fig. . =acaulescent.= with apparently no stem. =accessory.= something additional, not usually present. =accrete.= fastened with another body, and growing with it. =accumbent.= lying against anything, in distinction to _incumbent_, or lying upon. =acer=, (from _acer_, hard or sharp; wood is extremely hard, and was formerly much used for making pikes and lances). maple. ord. _sapindaceæ_. a genus comprised, for the most part, of handsome hardy deciduous shrubs, or trees, adapted for forming shrubberies, plantations, &c. flowers greenish, except where mentioned. _a. pseudo-platanus_ is one of our most useful forest trees. several of the species produce very useful timber; sugar is one of the constituent parts of the sap of all of them, and is obtained in large quantities from _a. saccharinum_, in north america. they all prefer a somewhat sheltered position. the most satisfactory soil is one free, deep, loamy, and well drained; the latter is especially desirable with some of the japanese varieties. the varieties of _a. japonicum_, and _palmatum_ are well worth growing in pots for conservatory decoration. propagation: by seeds, sown either in autumn or spring, covering them not more than a / in. deep; the common varieties may be sown outside, while the rarer ones should be sown in a frame. by layers, and by grafting; the latter method is adopted with many of the rarer species and varieties, especially the variegated kinds; they are also readily increased by budding in summer. =a. austriacum= (austrian). synonymous with _a. campestre austriacum_. =a. campestre= (field).* common maple. _fl._ on erect racemes. may. _fr._ wings of fruit much divaricated. _l._ small, cordate, with five-toothed lobes. _h._ ft. britain. a small tree with rough bark, full of deep fissures; wood often beautifully veined, when it is highly valued. =a. c. austriacum= (austrian).* _fl._ much larger than those of the species. _fr._ smooth. lobes of leaves somewhat acuminated. syn. _a. austriacum_. =a. c. collinum= (hill-loving).* _fl._ smaller. _fr._ smooth. lobes of leaves obtuse. france. =a. c. hebecarpum= (downy-fruited).* _fr._ clothed with velvety pubescence. [illustration: fig. . leaf and flower spike of acanthus spinosus.] =a. c. lævigatum= (smooth-leaved). _l._ very smooth and shining. =a. c. nanum= (dwarf). dwarf habit. =a. c. tauricum= (taurian).* _l._ larger and less divided than in the species. =a. c. variegatum= (variegated).* _l._ beautifully variegated with blotches and stripes of white or whitish yellow; very distinct. =a. circinatum= (circinate).* _fl._ deep red, umbellate. april. _l._ seven to nine-lobed, serrulated. _h._ ft. to ft. north west america, . a very beautiful species, having pendulous branches clothed with leaves, which change into a bright scarlet colour in the autumn. =a. creticum= (cretan). _fl._ on few-flowered erect corymbs. may. _fr._ smooth, with the wings hardly diverging. _l._ cuneated at the base, acutely three-lobed at the top. _h._ ft. levant, . nearly evergreen. =a. dasycarpum= (thick-fruited).* _fl._ conglomerate, on short pedicels, apetalous. april. _l._ truncate at the base, palmately five-lobed, with blunt recesses, and unequally and deeply-toothed lobes. _h._ ft. north america, . syns. _a. eriocarpon_, _a. tomentosum_, _a. glaucum_, and _a. virginianum_. =a. douglasii= (douglas). synonymous with _a. glabrum_. =a. eriocarpon= (hairy-fruited). synonymous with _a. dasycarpum_. =a. ginnala= (ginnalian).* _fl._ on compound, crowded, erect racemes. amur river. this is generally classed as a variety of _a. tartaricum_, but its habit is much more graceful, and in this form the leaves are prettily cut and lobed, whilst the leafstalks and midrib are more deeply coloured. =a. glabrum= (smooth).* _fl._ corymbose, on short two-leaved branchlets, greenish-yellow. june. _l._ roundish-cordate, deeply three to five-lobed, or partite; the lobes biserrate, of a light green. _h._ ft. to ft. north west america. syns. _a. douglasii_, _a. tripartitum_. =a. glaucum= (glaucous). synonymous with _a. dasycarpum_. =a. heterophyllum= (various-leaved).* _fl._ corymbose. may. _l._ small, ovate, entire, and three-lobed, slightly serrated, smooth. _h._ ft. levant, . an evergreen. syn. _a. sempervirens_. =a. ibericum= (iberian). _fl._ corymbose. may. _l._ bluntly three-lobed; lobes with one or two teeth, lateral ones marked with the middle nerve to the insertion of the petiole. _h._ ft. iberia, . =a. japonicum= (japanese).* _fl._ deep purplish-red, large. april. _l._ many-lobed, in early spring very light green. _h._ ft. japan, . the varieties of this species, although not well fixed in many cases, rank amongst the most handsome of the deciduous small shrubs grown, but often change in character as they attain any considerable size. plants from - / ft. to ft. high are very useful in cool conservatories, and in the highly kept grounds surrounding the house. =a. laurifolium= (laurel-leaved). synonymous with _a. oblongum_. =a. lobelii= (lobel's). _l._ very slightly heart-shaped, irregularly toothed, five-lobed; lobes more or less abruptly pointed. =a. macrophyllum= (large-leaved).* _fl._ on erect, compound, racemes. may. _l._ digitately five-palmate, with roundish recesses; lobes somewhat three-lobed. _h._ ft. northern california, . =a. monspessulanum= (montpelier).* _fl._ on few-flowered corymbs, erect. may. _l._ cordate, three-lobed; lobes almost or quite entire, equal. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . =a. montanum= (mountain). _fl._ on compound, erect racemes. may. _l._ cordate, three or slightly five-lobed, unequally and coarsely serrated. _h._ ft. canada, . syn. _a. spicatum_. =a. negundo.= _see_ =negundo fraxinifolium=. =a. oblongum= (oblong). _fl._ on compound racemes, pale yellow. february. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acuminated, quite entire. _h._ ft. nepaul, . syn. _a. laurifolium_. =a. obtusifolium= (obtuse-leaved). _fl._ drooping, corymbose. may. _l._ rounded, bluntly three-lobed, crenately serrulate, about the length of the petioles. _h._ ft. crete. =a. opalus= (opalus). a synonym of _a. opulifolium_. =a. opulifolium= (guelder-rose-leaved).* _fl._ on nearly sessile corymbs. may. ovaries and fruit smooth. _l._ cordate, five-lobed; lobes obtuse, bluntly and coarsely toothed. _h._ ft. france, . syn. _a. opalus_. =a. o. obtusatum= (bluntish).* a larger, strong growing, round-headed tree, with dark green leaves, which are covered with a whitish or rusty tomentum on the under surface. =a. palmatum= (palmate-leaved).* _fl._ on five to seven-flowered umbels. may. _l._ palmately divided into five to seven lobes beyond the middle; lobes oblong, acuminated, serrated. _h._ ft. japan, . =a. p. atropurpureum= (dark purple).* a vigorous handsome plant, with bold dark purple foliage. japan. =a. p. crispum= (crispy or waved).* _l._ green, with red stalked, convoluted edges. japan, . very distinct, and like a miniature lombardy poplar in habit of growth. =a. p. dissectum= (finely-divided).* _fl._ red, on terminal-stalked racemes, five to six-flowered. may. _l._ nine to ten parted; lobes oblong, acuminated, deeply serrated. _h._ ft. japan, . =a. p. ornatum= (beautiful).* very ornamental, having finely cut deep red leaves, with lighter midribs. japan, . this variety is also known as _dissectum_. =a. p. palmatifidum= (palmatifid).* _l._ very finely palmately divided, the lobes cut down quite to the midrib, of a beautiful light green colour. . =a. p. reticulatum= (netted).* _l._ palmately seven-lobed; lobes unequal, sharply serrate, emerald green, with dark green veins. japan, . a very elegant variety, with slender branches. =a. p. roseo-marginatum= (rose-margined).* _l._ freely divided, the lobes deeply cut, light green, margined with rose. japan, . a very distinct and charming variety. =a. p. sanguineum= (blood-red).* _l._ deeply five-lobed, the lobes serrated, of a deep reddish-crimson colour, much brighter than the variety _atropurpureum_. . this presents a very striking contrast to the last. =a. p. septemlobum= (seven-lobed).* _fl._ purplish, on numerous flowered umbels. spring. _l._ varying much, from palmately five-lobed, with toothed undivided lobes, to deeply seven to nine-lobed, with more or less finely cut divisions. japan, . there are numerous beautiful forms of this variety. there are many varieties of this much varying species, but we have only mentioned those best known; many are only known by their native names, and there is some doubt as to their distinctive characteristics. they are all extremely handsome. =a. pennsylvanicum= (pennsylvanian).* _fl._ in long drooping, simple racemes. may. _l._ cordate, three-lobed, acuminated, finely and acutely serrated. _h._ ft. trunk elegantly striped with white lines. north america, . syn. _a. striatum_. =a. pictum= (painted).* _fl._ corymbose, stalked. _l._ five to seven-lobed; lobes triangular or oblong, entire, acuminated. _h._ ft. to ft. temperate asia, . _a. p. connivens_ (converging), _a. p. marmoratum_ (spotted), _a. p. rubrum_ (red), and _a. p. variegatum_ (variegated), are varieties differing principally in the colouring of the leaves. all are very desirable. =a. platanoides= (plane-like).* the norway maple. _fl._ on nearly erect stalked corymbs. may, june. _l._ cordate, smooth, five-lobed; lobes acuminated, with a few coarse acute teeth. _h._ ft. europe, . a very ornamental hardy tree, growing with great rapidity when young. it prefers a deep, well-drained soil. =a. p. aureo variegatum= (golden-variegated).* _l._ variegated with yellow. europe, . this, to retain the variegation, requires to be propagated by budding or grafting. the same remarks are equally applicable to the other varieties. =a. p. laciniatum= (cut-leaved).* _l._ deeply and variously cut, green and yellow. =a. p. schwedleri= (schwedler's).* _l._ very large, deep bronzy-red. a vigorous grower, and most effective. =a. p. variegatum= (variegated).* _l._ variegated with white. there are several other varieties, but of less importance than the foregoing. =a. pseudo-platanus= (mock-plane tree).* sycamore. _fl._ on rather compound pendulous racemes. may. _l._ cordate, with five acuminated unequally-toothed lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. europe. there are few deciduous trees so well adapted for standing singly in rough exposed situations. a deep, soft, dry soil is most suitable for it, but it will grow in soils of very opposite qualities. =a. p. albo variegata= (white-variegated).* a very beautiful form, in spring especially. _l._ white and green. =a. p. flavo variegata= (yellow-variegated). _l._ variegated with yellow. =a. p. longifolia= (long-leaved).* _l._ more deeply cut, and the petioles much longer than in the species. =a. p. purpureum= (purple).* _l._ purple underneath. the tree, when slightly ruffled by the wind, alternately appearing clothed in purple and pale green. numerous other varieties of more or less excellence are grown. =a. rubrum= (red).* scarlet maple. _fl._ scarlet, handsome, conglomerate, corymbose. _l._ cordate at the base, deeply and unequally toothed, palmately five-lobed, with acute recesses. branches and fruit also scarlet. _h._ ft. canada, . a variety with leaves splashed with yellow is rare. an excellent species, thriving well in damp, swampy situations, and is commonly increased by layers. =a. rufinerve= (red-nerved).* "the leaves vary both in size and outline, from - / in. to in. each way; three to five-lobed, with irregularly toothed margins, glabrous above, but with reddish hairs along the nerves beneath. the young branches are conspicuous on account of the bluish-grey glaucescence with which they are covered." =a. r. albo-limbatum= (white-margined).* differs only from the species in having a very distinct white margin--not always constant. japan, . =a. saccharinum= (sugar maple).* _fl._ yellow, on drooping corymbs, on short peduncles; pedicels pilose. april. _l._ cordate, smooth, palmately five-lobed; lobes accuminated, sinuately toothed. _h._ ft. n. america, . =a. s. nigrum= (blackish).* _fl._ on sessile corymbs, nodding. april, may. _l._ cordate, with the recess closed; palmately five-lobed. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. semenovi= (semenov's).* a slender and graceful species, with leaves closely resembling those of _a. ginnala_, but smaller. turkestan, . =a. sempervirens= (evergreen). synonymous with _a. heterophyllum_. =a. spicatum= (spiked). synonymous with _a. montanum_. =a. striatum= (striated). synonymous with _a. pennsylvanicum_. =a. tartaricum= (tartarian).* _fl._ white, on crowded, erect, compound racemes. may. _l._ more or less cordate, acuminated, serrated, with obsolete lobes. _h._ ft. . this species is one of the first to expand its leaves in spring. =a. tomentosum= (tomentose). synonymous with _a. dasycarpum_. =a. tripartitum= (three-parted). synonymous with _a. glabrum_. =a. van volxemii= (van volxem's). _fl._ not known in england. _l._ palmately three to five-lobed, very large, light green above, silvery and quite glabrous beneath. caucasus, . distinct and fine. =a. villosum= (hairy). _fl._ fragrant, on lateral racemes. april. buds, fruit, and young leaves, silky, villous. _l._ cordate, five-lobed, villous beneath as well as the petioles; lobes ovate acute. _h._ ft. himalaya, at high elevations. not hardy. =a. virginianum= (virginian). synonymous with _a. dasycarpum_. =acerace�.= an order of very ornamental hardy trees, of which the sycamore and maple are well-known representatives. =aceras= (from _a_, without, and _keras_, a horn; the lip having no spur). ord. _orchidaceæ_. an interesting genus of terrestrial orchids. calyx of three ovate, equal, converging sepals; petals two, narrow, oblong; lip spurless, much longer than the calyx, narrow, oblong, with four linear lobes. the most interesting species is the native one. indigenous to dry, chalky pastures in the south-east of england, and it will only thrive in similar soils when grown in gardens. propagated by careful divisions of tubers only. [illustration: fig. . flower of aceras anthropophora.] =a. anthropophora= (the green man orchis). _fl._ greenish, on a long spike, lip longer than the ovary; lip and petals often margined with red. june. _l._ lanceolate. _h._ ft. see fig. . =aceratium= (from _a_, not, and _keras_, a horn; the stamens being destitute of the terminal bristles so conspicuous in its near ally, _elæocarpus_). ord. _tiliaceæ_. an interesting stove evergreen tree, very closely allied to _tilia_. it thrives well in a mixture of loam and peat, and is increased by ripe cuttings, which root readily if placed in sand, under a hand glass, in heat. =a. oppositifolium= (opposite-leaved).* _fl._ white, on terminal three-flowered peduncles. june. _l._ opposite, elliptic-oblong, furnished with a few mucronated teeth. _h._ ft. amboyna, . =acerose, acerosus.= needle-pointed, fine, and slender, with a sharp point. =acetarious.= an adjective applied to plants used in salads. =aceus.= a termination expressing a resemblance to the thing whose name it terminates--_foliaceus_, leaf-like, of the texture of a leaf or _folium_. =achania.= _see_ =malvaviscus=. =achene.= a hard, dry, one-seeded, superior seed-vessel. =acherontia atropos.= _see_ =sphinx atropos=. =achillea= (named after achilles, who is said to have first discovered the medicinal qualities of this plant). including _ptarmica_. milfoil. ord. _compositæ_. a large genus (about fifty species), containing numerous hardy, border and alpine plants. flower-heads small, corymbose; involucral scales oblong, often with a shrivelled appearance; receptacle with membranous scales, resembling chaff; ray florets few, sometimes rather large and showy; pappus none. leaves ternate, simple or compound. all the species are easily cultivated in ordinary garden soil. _a. eupatorium_ and other large-growing kinds are well suited for borders or groups, whilst the alpine section should be planted on the rockery. a great number of species, although excellent for naturalising in rough shrubberies, are totally unfitted for garden culture. propagated, during spring, by root divisions, cuttings, and seeds. =a. ægyptiaca= (egyptian).* _fl.-heads_ rich bright yellow, in closely packed terminal corymbs, which are from in. to in. across. summer. _l._ pinnate; leaflets obtusely lanceolate, serrate, silvery white, in. to in. long. _h._ - / ft. to - / ft. levant, . handsome perennial, thriving best in a warm position. =a. ageratum= (ageratum-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ pure white, large, borne singly on stalks about in. or in. high. summer. _l._ narrow, arranged in a dense silvery rosette, the margins prettily crimped. greece. a pretty alpine, of compact habit. =a. asplenifolia= (asplenium-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ rose-coloured, small, in a compound corymb. june to september. _l._ lower ones stalked, pinnatifid, lobes pinnate; upper ones pinnate. _h._ in. north america, . =a. atrata= (black-cupped).* _fl.-heads_ white. august. _l._ in a rosette, pinnatifid, deep shining green. austria, . a pretty alpine. =a. aurea= (golden-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ golden yellow, borne singly on stems in. high. summer and autumn. _l._ larger than in _a. ageratifolia_, with which species it is sometimes confused. levant, . habit tufted. requires a warm position. [illustration: fig. . achillea clavenn�, showing habit and detached flower-heads.] =a. clavennæ= (clavenna's).* _fl.-heads_ white, in neat and compact heads. spring and summer. _l._ bipinnatifid; segments linear, obtuse, slightly denticulated at the apex. _h._ in. austria, . a very neat and pretty species, having dwarf tufted habit and a hoary appearance. see fig. . =a. decolorans= (staining). _fl.-heads_ whitish yellow. july. _l._ undivided. _h._ ft. native country unknown. . [illustration: fig. . achillea eupatorium, showing habit and detached flower-head.] =a. eupatorium= (fern-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ brilliant yellow, in dense convex, compound corymbs, which are often in. across, lasting two months in full beauty. june to september. _l._ numerous, linear, pinnate, lobed and serrated, hairy, rough. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus, . this noble plant should be grown at the back of the border, and kept neatly staked. syn. _a. filipendula_. see fig. . =a. filipendula= (dropwort-leaved). synonymous with _a. eupatorium_. =a. herba-rota= (herba-rota).* _fl.-heads_ white, in lax corymbs, on slender stems. may. _l._ lanceolate, serrated. _h._ in. france, . when touched, this pretty little plant gives off an agreeable aromatic perfume. to attain full beauty it requires sandy loam and a sunny position. _a. macrophylla_ (large-leaved). _fl.-heads_ white. july. _l._ long and broad pinnate; leaflets horizontal. _h._ ft. italy, . =a. millefolium roseum= (rosy).* _fl.-heads_ rose-coloured, in small ovoid heads, which are produced continuously for several months. _l._ strap-shaped; segments very narrow. _h._ ft. to ft. england. it is well worth growing, both as a border plant, and for cutting purposes. =a. mongolica= (mongolian). _fl.-heads_ white. july. _l._ undivided. _h._ - / ft. siberia, . =a. moschata= (musky).* _fl.-heads_ white, in lax corymbs. june. _h._ in. _l._ bright green, about in. long, pinnatifid. italy, . a pretty tufted alpine. =a. nana= (dwarf). _fl.-heads_ white. june to august. _l._ pinnate; leaflets horizontal. _h._ in. italy, . a rockery species. =a. odorata= (sweet-scented). _fl.-heads_ white, fragrant. june to august. _l._ bipinnate. _h._ in. spain, . =a. pectinata= (comb-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ white. june. _l._ bright green, about in. long, pinnatifid. italy, . a pretty tufted alpine. =a. ptarmica flore-pleno= (double sneezewort).* _fl.-heads_ pure white, freely produced in terminal corymbs. all through the summer and autumn. _l._ lanceolate, serrulate. _h._ ft. to ft. england. this is one of the most useful white border perennials grown, increasing very readily. when out of flower the stems should be cut down to the surface. =a. santolinoides= (lavender-cotton-like). _fl.-heads_ white. july. _l._ pinnate; leaflets transverse. _h._ ft. spain. =a. serrata= (serrated).* _fl.-heads_ clear white, large, in small corymbose clusters, forming a somewhat spreading panicle. summer. _l._ white, with adpressed hairs, sessile, lanceolate, deeply serrated. _h._ in. switzerland, . [illustration: fig. . achillea tomentosa, showing habit and detached portion of inflorescence.] =a. tomentosa= (downy).* _fl.-heads_ bright yellow, in repeatedly compound corymbs. summer. _l._ woolly, bipinnatifid; segments linear, acute. _h._ in. to in. europe. one of the best yellow-flowered species for the rock garden, having a dense habit. see fig. . =a. umbellata= (umbel-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ white, six to eight in a simple umbel. june. _l._ regularly lobed; lobes obovate, entire; clothed with a dense, silvery pubescence, on which account the plant is chiefly cultivated. _h._ in. to in. greece. a very pretty, dwarf rock plant. =a. vallesiaca= (vallesian). _fl.-heads_ white. june to august. _l._ pinnate; leaflets horizontal. _h._ ft. switzerland, . =achimenes= (from _cheimaino_, to suffer from cold; alluding to the general tenderness of the species). including _scheeria_. ord. _gesneraceæ_. a large genus of handsome, stove or warm greenhouse, branched, generally hairy, herbaceous perennials, with scaly, catkin-like stolons underground (see fig. ), and sometimes from the axils of the leaves. corolla funnel-shaped; tube rather oblique, gibbous behind at the base; pedicels one-flowered, axillary, solitary or fasciculated, bracteated. leaves opposite, or three in a whorl, serrated. [illustration: fig. . root of the achimene, showing tubercles.] [illustration: fig. . bouquet of various achimenes.] to be successfully cultivated, they must be started and grown in stove heat till they commence flowering, when they may be removed to the conservatory or greenhouse, there to remain till after flowering. batches of tubercles should be started in heat from february till the end of april, so as to give a succession of blossom. shake each variety out of the old compost and insert separately in light, sandy soil; water sparingly at first, but when active they may receive more frequent supplies. when the shoots are about in. high, the tubercles may be transplanted to the pots, pans, or baskets in which it is intended to grow them, using as potting compost fibrous peat and leaf-soil in equal proportions, with about a sixth part of sheep's or rotten cow manure, and sufficient silver sand to make the whole porous and of a whitish appearance. thorough drainage is indispensable, and a layer of the rougher soil, or sphagnum, should be placed over the potsherds, to prevent the loose soil stopping the drainage. place the pans as near the glass as possible, and shade from bright sunshine. give liberal supplies of water, with occasional doses of liquid manure; and, as the shoots lengthen, they may be pinched, to induce sturdy growth and a larger number of flowering branches. place neat stakes to each stem, and keep well tied, arranging the stakes as symmetrically as possible, so as to ensure an even outline, but do not allow them to be seen. light syringing with clear water, morning and evening, is beneficial. after the plants have done flowering, they should gradually have less water as the foliage and stems decay; a light airy situation is needed to mature and ripen the tubers. when the tops are quite dead, they may be removed, and the pots stored on the sides in any warm dry corner where the temperature will not fall below deg., keeping the plants quite dry until the time of starting again. achimenes are liable to attacks of thrips, red-spider, and green-fly, especially if the atmosphere is kept dry; these are easily destroyed by fumigation with tobacco. this must only be done when the foliage is quite dry, otherwise the plants will suffer. achimenes are especially beautiful when well arranged, especially if two or three varieties are mixed together, as white, red, and purple (fig. ). there are several methods of increasing these:--( ) by cuttings; these need not be cut off at a joint, as they will root from any portion of the stem. insert them thickly in well-drained pots of sandy soil--say a mixture of equal parts of peat and sand--and place in bottom heat. ( ) by leaves, which should be severed from the stems, and pricked in pots of similar soil to the cuttings, placing all the petiole below the surface; stand the pots in bottom heat. ( ) by scales from the corms, which should be carefully rubbed off and sown, like seeds, in pots or pans of the same compost, barely covered with sand, and placed in bottom heat. ( ) by seeds, which are very small, and, consequently, require to be carefully sown. the pans must be thoroughly drained and filled nearly to the rim, levelled, and well watered with a fine rose, after which the seed should be thinly scattered, covered very lightly with sand, and placed in a shady position. keep nicely moist, and apply water very lightly, or the tiny germs will be disturbed. place a sheet of glass over the seed-pans. when the seedlings are large enough to handle, they may be pricked off and afterwards treated like rooted cuttings. the best time for all modes of propagating is early spring. [illustration: fig. . flower of achimenes longiflora.] =a. atrosanguinea= (dark-crimson).* _fl._ crimson; tube of corolla - / .in. long, cylindrical, saccate at base, pilose; limb small, spreading; peduncle one-flowered. july, august. _l._ pilose, oblong, sub-cordate, serrated, unequal. _h._ - / ft. guatemala, . =a. candida= (white).* _fl._ white; tube of corolla gibbous at base; limb oblique, the front segment largest; peduncles axillary, pilose, three-flowered. june. _l._ unequal, oblique at base, serrated, pilose. _h._ - / ft. guatemala, . =a. coccinea= (scarlet).* _fl._ scarlet; peduncles solitary, axillary. august. _l._ three in a whorl, ovate, acuminated, serrated, with minute leaves in the axils. _h._ - / ft. jamaica, . =a. cupreata= (coppery). _fl._ scarlet; calyx spotted inside, with a fringed mouth; petals ciliately toothed; peduncles one-flowered. april. _l._ elliptic, serrated, wrinkled, coloured. _h._ in. mexico, . plant creeping, downy. =a. gloxiniæflora= (gloxinia-flowered).* _fl._ whitish, large, axillary; tube of corolla in. long; limb broad, spreading; lobes finely serrated, dotted with purple inside. june. _l._ serrated from middle to top. stem slender, flexuous. _h._ ft. mexico, . =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ violet purple, very large, solitary, axillary; limbs of corolla spreading. june. _l._ equal, ovate, oblique at base, sparingly serrated. _h._ - / ft. mexico, . =a. heterophylla= (various-leaved). _fl._ solitary or twin; corolla scarlet; lobes ciliated. july. _l._ opposite, one smaller than the other, cordate ovate, acuminated, coarsely serrated. _h._ ft. mexico. plant rather hairy. =a. hirsuta= (hairy). _fl._ reddish, with yellow eye; limb of corolla flat, with rounded serrulate segments; peduncles one-flowered. july. _l._ cordate, serrated. _h._ - / ft. stem bulbiferous. guatemala, . plant hairy. =a. kleei= (klee's).* _fl._ lilac; corolla dark near the mouth, with a dash of yellow in the throat; calyx downy; peduncles one-flowered. august. _l._ ovate, acuminate, serrated. _h._ in. guatemala, . plant hairy. =a. longiflora= (long-flowered).* _fl._ violet; segments of calyx lanceolate, erect; corolla with a long tube, and an ample spreading limb; pedicels one-flowered. july and august. _l._ three to four in a whorl, ovate or oblong, coarsely serrated. _h._ ft. guatemala, . plant hairy. see fig. . =a. multiflora= (many-flowered).* _fl._ pale lilac; sepals linear; corolla funnel-shape; tube curved; lobes roundish, lower one fringed; peduncles axillary, three to five-flowered. august. _l._ opposite, or three in a whorl, ovate, deeply and doubly serrated. _h._ ft. brazil, . plant hairy. =a. ocellata= (eye-spotted).* _fl._ reddish yellow, with dark spots, solitary, drooping; petals nearly equally spotted. autumn. _l._ on longish petioles, ovate, acuminate, serrated, wrinkled, coloured beneath. _h._ - / ft. . plant hairy. =a. patens= (spreading). _fl._ violet, blue; calyx downy; tube of corolla shorter than limb, which is spreading. june. _l._ ovate, acuminate, hispid above, serrate. _h._ ft. mexico, . =a. pedunculata= (long-stalked).* _fl._ scarlet, with yellow eye; corolla drooping, gibbous at base; peduncles in the axils of the upper leaves. july. _l._ rather unequal, obliquely cordate, ovate, serrated. _h._ ft. stem simple, downy. guatemala, . =a. picta= (painted).* _fl._ scarlet, with yellow eye; tube of calyx turbinate; lobes of corolla roundish, three lower ones smallest; peduncles solitary or two-flowered, axillary one-flowered. july. _l._ opposite, or three in a whorl, cordate-ovate, coarsely serrated, velvety, and elegantly painted. _h._ - / ft. mexico, . =a. rosea= (rosy). _fl._ rose, pilose; limb of corolla equal to tube; peduncles filiform, many-flowered. june. _l._ sometimes three in a whorl, pilose. _h._ - / ft. guatemala, . the foregoing are the most important species known. hybrid varieties are innumerable, and even surpass the species in beauty, the best of which are enumerated below in their respective colours. =blue and purple flowered.= advance,* flowers reddish-purple, lighter at the eye, dwarf, and free habit; argus,* rich plum, with deep orange eye, large and free; dr. buenzod,* flowers rich crimson purple, spotted with orange in the centre, very free; excelsior, rich violet-purple, very large and free, with compact habit; gem,* flowers small, of good form, rich carmine-purple; gibsoni,* flowers very large, clear mauve, with the tube white outside; grandis, rich violet purple, with large orange eye, carmine shaded, a charming variety; lady scarsdale,* flowers of fair size, very free, rich plum purple, shaded carmine; longiflora major,* a stronger grower than the type, freely producing large rich blue flowers, one of the finest varieties grown; madame george, deep purple shaded crimson; mauve queen,* flowers very large, of a distinct mauve, with a brownish eye-shade, very profuse, with a grand habit, one of the best; purpurea elegans,* deep claret purple, orange throat with dark spots, a very attractive variety; rollisonii,* flowers large, deep lavender-blue, yellow throat, spotted with deep crimson, very effective; vivicans,* dark carmine-purple, with crimson eye, a few blue rays streaking from the eye, habit good, and very free. =crimson and scarlet flowered.= aurora,* rich rosy-scarlet, with yellow throat, very large, fully in. across; carl woolforth,* deep crimson, shaded lighter at the eye, very free; dazzle, flowers small, brilliant scarlet, pale yellow eye, very pretty and free; diadem,* crimson lake, shaded carmine, with deep yellow eye; eclipse,* rich orange-scarlet, spotted with carmine, extremely floriferous, with a good habit; firefly,* deep carmine red, golden eye, spotted with crimson, one of the best; harry williams,* bright cerise red, yellow, maroon spotted, the edge prettily fringed, a very charming variety; loveliness, rich magenta crimson, golden eye, spotted with maroon; meteor, flowers rather large, bright crimson-scarlet, yellow eye, spotted carmine, very dwarf and free; scarlet perfection,* rich carmine-scarlet, deep orange eye, very beautiful; sir trehern thomas,* deep crimson-lake, very profuse, with a good habit; stella, deep magenta, with orange eye, the margins fringed, very large and free, in. or more across; williamsii,* flowers large, stout, brilliant scarlet, orange throat, habit dwarf and free-branching, one of the finest varieties grown. =orange-flowered.= georgiana discolor, flowers large, bright orange, with a distinct yellow centre; hendersoni,* rich orange-salmon, with yellow eye; magnet,* deep orange, spotted with crimson, with a distinct carmine zone, a very free-flowering and beautiful variety; parsonsi* is a decided improvement upon the last. =rose-flowered.= admiration, deep rose, white throat, spotted with carmine; carminiata splendens,* bright rose yellow, spotted in the centre, a charming variety; leopard, bright magenta rose, freely spotted at the throat; longiflora rosa,* rich lilac rose, deeper in centre, of medium size, very free and dwarf; masterpiece,* deep rose, violet shaded, with a distinct white throat; _pink perfection_,* rich rose, the eye rich carmine and violet rayed, one of the best; rosea magnifica,* bright rose, with a yellow eye, very finely spotted, a very lovely variety; rose queen,* flowers very large, rich rosy-lake, shaded deep purple, with a well defined orange throat; unique,* rosy-pink, deep yellow eye, spotted crimson, a very charming variety. =white-flowered.= ambrose verschaffelt,* flowers of good size, pure white, with a dark rayed centre; longiflora alba,* similar in form and habit to longiflora, but with large white flowers, slightly marked in the centre; madame a. verschaffelt,* flowers large, pure white ground, heavily veined with purple, a very attractive variety; margaretta,* flowers of medium size, pure white, and destitute of any markings whatever. =achlamydeous.= without floral envelope. =achras.= _see_ =sapota=. =achyranthes.= _see_ =chamissoa= and =iresine=. =achyronia.= included under =priestleya= (which _see_). =achyropappus.= included under =schkuhria= (which _see_). =acicular.= needle-shaped. =acineta= (from _akineta_, immovable; the lip being jointless). ord. _orchideæ_. a small genus of cool house, robust, sub-terrestrial orchids allied to _peristeria_. flowers sub-globose, fleshy, arranged on stout, pendulous racemes. leaves lanceolate, membranous, ribbed. pseudo-bulbs angular, about as large as hens' eggs. the compost should consist of equal parts of fibrous peat and living sphagnum. in planting, first place a somewhat thick layer of the moss all round the inside of the basket, and press the soil firmly round the plant. during the growing season, the baskets should be taken down twice or three times a week and dipped into a tub of water, so that the whole may become saturated. in addition, the plants should be sprinkled with the syringe morning and evening, for they delight in an abundant supply of water and plenty of shade. when the growth is finished, they must be kept very dry, an occasional syringing, to keep the leaves from shrivelling, being all that is necessary. =a. arcei= (arce's). _fl._ yellow. central america, . =a. barkeri= (barker's).* _fl._ yellow and dark crimson, on stout scapes, produced from the base of the bulbs, and bearing fifteen to thirty fragrant flowers. midsummer. _l._ broadly lanceolate, ft. long. pseudo-bulbs in. to in. long. mexico, . syn. _peristeria barkeri_. =a. chrysantha= (yellow-flowered).* _fl._ yellow, white, and crimson, fragrant; lower part of the lip having a blunt, papillose horn; racemes erect. may. _h._ ft. mexico, . =a. densa= (dense-flowered).* _fl._ sub-globose, and of a waxy consistence, lemon-yellow, dotted brown, sweet-scented; racemes rather short. costa rica, . a robust-growing species, very like _a. barkeri_. syn. _a. warczewiczii_. =a. humboldtii= (humboldt's).* _fl._ straw-colour, dotted with brown; scapes ft. long. may. _l._ broadly lanceolate, generally four. columbia, . a handsome species, but the flowers speedily fade. syns. _anguloa superba_, _peristeria humboldtii fulva_. =a. sulcata= (grooved). _fl._ bright yellow. columbia, . very like the last species, from which it differs in mere botanical detail. =a. warczewiczii= (warczewicz's). a synonym of _a. densa_. =acinos.= _see_ =calamintha=. =aciotis= (from _akis_, a point, and _ous_, an ear; in allusion to the shape of the petals). ord. _melastomaceæ_. a small genus of pretty, stove, evergreen plants. flowers small; panicles slender, loose, terminal; petals four, obliquely awned at the apex. leaves thin, membranous. for culture, _see_ =melastoma=.. =a. aquatica= (water-loving). _fl._ white, small, on loose, terminal, filiform panicles. june. _l._ cordate, ovate-oblong. _h._ in. to in. south america, . the pots in which this species is grown should be kept in pans of water. =a. discolor= (various-coloured).* _fl._ small, red, in spicate racemes. _l._ petiolate, elliptic-oblong, purple beneath, deep shining green above. _h._ ft. trinidad, . =aciphylla= (from _ake_, a point, and _phyllon_, a leaf, referring to the sharply pointed segments of the leaf). ord. _umbelliferæ_. a genus of curious and remarkable erect hardy perennials, with densely fascicled, spicate, or panicled umbels of flowers; and pinnate or bi-tripinnate leaves. they are most suited for the rockwork, in a light sandy soil. propagated by seeds or divisions in spring. =a. colensoi= (colenso's).* _fl._ white. this extraordinary evergreen forms a circular bush, ft. or ft. in. diameter, of bayonet-like spines, having flowering stems ft. to ft. high, covered with spreading spinous leaflets. new zealand, . =a. squarrosa= (rough-headed).* _fl._ white. _h._ ft. to ft. new zealand. more frequently met with than the preceding, of very dense growth. commonly known as the bayonet plant. =acis= (named after acis, shepherd of sicily, son of faunus and the nymph simæthis). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. a genus of very pretty dwarf bulbous plants, suitable for the rockery, in sunny sheltered situations. this genus was formerly included with _leucojum_, from which it is distinguished by its dwarf slender habit, filiform style, and membranous capsule. all are delicate little plants, with narrow linear leaves and bell-shaped flowers. they require a free, open, rich soil, and should remain and bloom undisturbed for years; divide the clumps every three or four years, and renew the soil. =a. autumnalis= (autumn-blooming).* _fl._, perianth white, delicate pink at the base, preceding the leaves; two to three on a stem. autumn. _l._ few in number, very slender, sheathing the stems at the base. _h._ in. to in. portugal, . a charming species, and the only one at all common. =a. grandiflorus= (large-flowered).* _fl._, perianth white, larger than those of the last. august. _h._ in. numidia, . somewhat rare in cultivation. =a. roseus= (rose-coloured).* _fl._, perianth rose red, not more than / in. long; scape one to three-flowered. august. _l._ narrow, blunt, linear. _h._ in. corsica, . very rare. =a. tingitanum= (tangiers). of recent introduction; has a many-flowered umbel, and very long leaves. =a. trichophyllus= (hair-leaved).* _fl._, perianth white, about / in. long; segments loosely nerved, with a faint flush of red at the base. january. _h._ in. spain, . =acisanthera= (from _akis_, a point, and _anthera_, an anther; anthers jointed). ord. _melastomaceæ_. a monotypic stove genus allied to rhexia, of semi-shrubby habit. it grows well in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat; and cuttings root freely in the same soil in stove temperature. =a. quadrata= (square-branched). _fl._ purple, ventricose, alternate, axillary, solitary. july. _l._ three-nerved, ovate, crenated; branches square. habit erect, branched at the apex. _h._ ft. to - / ft. jamaica, . more curious than ornamental. =acmadenia= (from _akme_, a point, and _aden_, a gland; in allusion to the anthers being terminated by pointed glands). ord. _rutaceæ_. a small genus of beautiful greenhouse shrubs. flowers terminal, solitary, or few, furnished with imbricate sepal-like bracts; petals five, with long claws, which are bearded on the inside. leaves imbricate, linear-oblong, or roundish. they thrive best in a mixture of peat and sand, with a little turfy loam; thorough drainage is also necessary. young cuttings pricked in a pot of very sandy soil, covered with a bell glass, and shaded, will root freely in a cool house. =a. tetragona= (four-angled).* _fl._ white, large, sessile, solitary. june. _l._ roundish-rhomboidal, with scabrous margins. _h._ ft. to ft. cape of good hope, . =acmena= (from _acmenæ_, nymphs of venus, who had an altar at olympia). ord. _myrtaceæ_. a small genus of greenhouse evergreen shrubs. flowers in dense trichotomous cymes, with five small distant petals, and very conspicuous and pretty berries. they grow well in an equal mixture of peat, loam, and sand. propagated readily by placing half-ripened cuttings in sand, under a glass, without heat. =a. floribunda= (many-flowered).* _fl._ white, in threes, disposed in a terminal panicled thyrse. may to september. _l._ full of pellucid dots, oval-lanceolate, acuminated at both ends. berries globose, bright purple. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. ovata= (ovate-leaved).* a new species, having, according to mr. w. bull, ovate leaves, which, along with the stems and petioles, are dark purple, giving the plants, when making new growth, a striking appearance. it has a neat habit. =acokanthera.= _see_ =toxicophl�a=. =aconiopteris.= _see_ =acrostichum=. =aconite.= _see_ =aconitum=. =aconite, winter.= _see_ =eranthis=. =aconitum= (from _aconæ_, or _acone_, a harbour of heraclea, in bithynia, near where it is said to abound). aconite; monk's hood; wolf's bane. ord. _ranunculaceæ_. an extensive genus of very ornamental hardy perennials. flowers in terminal racemes; sepals five, the upper one helmet shaped, the two sides broader than the two back ones; petals five, small, the two upper with long claws hooded at the tip; the three inferior smaller or undeveloped. leaves palmate. they thrive well in any ordinary garden soil. if left undisturbed for several years, they will attain a goodly size, and produce fine panicles of handsome flowers. they are invaluable for growing beneath the shade of trees, where they succeed better than almost any other class of plants. all are very easily propagated by divisions of the roots and seeds; the latter should be sown as soon as ripe in a cold frame. care should be taken not to leave pieces of the roots about, for, with but one exception, those of all the species are very poisonous. although very unlike horse-radish, they have frequently been mistaken for it, with fatal results; and none of the species should be cultivated in or near the kitchen garden. sect. i. roots tuberous. =a. acuminatum= (taper-pointed). _fl._ bluish purple; spur capitate; helmet closed, conical, beaked. july. _l._ with cuneate, bipinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. switzerland, . =a. album= (white-flowered).* _fl._ pure white, large, with erect helmet, very freely produced. _l._ dark green, with oblong-cuneate divisions. august. _h._ ft. to ft. levant, . this is a rare and very handsome species. =a. alpinum= (alpine). synonymous with _a. rostratum_. =a. ampliflorum= (large-flowered). _fl._ bluish-purple, large; spur obtuse, straight. june. _l._ with blunt segments. _h._ ft. to ft. austria, . =a. angustifolium= (narrow-leaved).* _fl._ deep blue, in spiked panicles; spur capitate; helmet closed, hemispherical; lip bifid. june. _l._ palmately cut into linear lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . =a. biflorum= (twin-flowered).* _fl._ pale blue, usually twin, sessile, the middle rather obscure and with yellowish edges, covered on the back with spreading down; spur truncate; helmet depressed; beak drawn out. june. _l._ lower ones on long stalks, with linear segments. _h._ in. siberia, . a very rare alpine species. =a. cammarum= (cammarum). _fl._ rich deep purple, on rather loose spikes; spur capitate; helmet closed, hemispherical. july to september. _l._ with short, bluntish lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. austria, . =a. cernuum= (drooping). _fl._ violet, large, on nodding, loose, hairy racemes; spur capitate, or a little hooked; helmet large, arched, beaked. july and august. _l._ with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. branches axillary, spreading. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . =a. delphinifolium= (delphinium-leaved).* _fl._ pale bluish purple, large, on loose racemes; spur a little hooked; helmet hemispherical. june. _l._ smooth, deeply cut into five parts. stems slender. _h._ in. to ft. north america, . a rare alpine species. =a. elatum= (tall). _fl._ blue, very large, in loose panicled spikes; peduncles pubescent; spur capitate, inclining. june. _l._ with linear acute segments. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . =a. eminens= (eminent).* _fl._ blue, on erectly spreading pubescent peduncles; spur capitate; helmet closed; lip very long, refracted. june. _l._ with cuneate bipinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . =a. eriostemon= (woolly-stamened). _fl._ bluish-purple, disposed in long, beautiful, erect-spreading spikes; spur capitate; helmet closed, arched. june. _l._ with cuneate, bipinnate lobes. _h._ ft. switzerland, . =a. exaltatum= (exalted). _fl._ blue, on loose panicles, with ascending stiff branches; spur thick, somewhat hooked; helmet conical; beak elongated. july. _l._ with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. pyrenees, . syn. _a. hamatum_. =a. flaccidum= (flaccid). _fl._ pale violet, large, on erect spreading peduncles; racemes branched; spur hooked at the apex; helmet high, arched, inclining forwards, gaping. july and august. _l._ multifid, ciliated (as well as the petioles), when young. _h._ ft. siberia, . =a. gibbosum= (swollen). synonymous with _a. nasutum_. =a. gmelini= (gmelin's). _fl._ cream-coloured, middle-sized, on very long loose racemes; spur straight, obtuse; bottom of the helmet rounded, cylindrical. july. _l._ on long stalks, villous beneath and shining above; lobes divided into narrow segments. _h._ ft. siberia, . syn. _a. nitidum_. =a. gracile= (slender).* _fl._ pale blue or violet, large, on loose racemes; spur erect, clavated-hooked; helmet with a middle sized beak. june. _l._ smooth, with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. stems slender. _h._ ft. italy, &c. =a. halleri= (haller's).* _fl._ opaque violet, on elongated, loose racemes, with a few lateral ascending ones; spur capitate; helmet convex-hemispherical, gaping. june. _l._ lobes linear, dilated, very long. stem straight, long, branched. _h._ ft. to ft. switzerland, . =a. h. bicolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ white, variegated with blue, disposed in spikes or panicles. june. [illustration: fig. . flower of aconitum napellus, nearly full size.] =a. hamatum= (hooked). synonymous with _a. exaltatum_. =a. hebegynum= (blunt-styled). synonymous with _a. paniculatum_. =a. heterophyllum= (various-leaved). _fl._ pale yellow, and deep blue in front, large, numerous, dense. august. _l._ petiolate below, sessile above, broadly cordate, coarsely toothed at the edge, and deep green. _h._ ft. himalayas, . a new introduction, said to be non-poisonous, and used as a tonic in india. =a. illinitum= (anointed). _fl._ pale or deep violet, on very loose and much branched panicles, large; spur thick, long, abruptly pointed; beak blunt; helmet sub-conical. july. _l._ with broad cuneiform lobes, and obtuse lobules. _h._ ft. . =a. intermedium= (intermediate). _fl._ blue, on a loose panicle, with ascending stiff branches; spur supine, somewhat hooked; helmet arched. june. _l._ with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. alps of europe, . =a. japonicum= (japanese).* _fl._ flesh-coloured, on loose panicles, with ascending branches; helmet exactly conical, abruptly mucronate; beak acute, straight. july to september. _l._ stalked, trifid; lateral lobes bifid, middle lobe trifid, all blunt and deeply toothed. stem round, smooth. _h._ ft. japan, . one of the best species grown. =a. j. c�ruleum= (blue). _fl._ blue. japan. =a. laciniosum= (jagged). _fl._ pale blue, or with a white base, large, on somewhat contracted racemes; spur clavated-hooked; helmet arched, conical. june. _l._ with jagged, trapeziform pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. switzerland, . =a. lycoctonum= (true wolf's-bane).* _fl._ livid-violet, rather large; racemes more or less pubescent, branched at the base; bottom of helmet cylindrical; beak elongated. july. _l._ large, seven-parted. stem slender, simple, upright. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . =a. maximum= (largest). _fl._ pale blue; panicle loose, furnished with a few long distant, few-flowered, pubescent branches; spur short, incurved; helmet hemispherico-conical, obtuse. july. _l._ multifid, large, smooth. _h._ ft. kamtschatka, . =a. meloctonum= (badger's-bane). _fl._ cream-coloured, loose, pubescent; panicle large, with diverging branches; spur arched; bottom of helmet conico-cylindrical. july. _l._ five to seven-parted, deep green. _h._ ft. to ft. piedmont, . =a. meyeri= (meyer's). _fl._ bluish purple, on pubescent peduncles; spur capitate, inclining. june. _l._ with cuneate bipinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. bavaria, . =a. molle= (soft). _fl._ violet, large, puberulous; racemes panicled, pubescent; helmet irregularly conical, obtuse; front erect; spur capitate, or a little hooked. june. _l._ smooth, with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. . [illustration: fig. . aconitum napellus, showing root, seed-pod, flower-spike, leaf, and flower with sepals removed.] =a. napellus= (little turnip).* common monk's hood. _fl._ blue, large, on a large terminal raceme; peduncles erect, pubescent; spur capitate; helmet convex-hemispherical, gaping, smoothish; lip revolute. summer. _l._ pedately five-lobed. _h._ ft. to ft. there are a great number of varieties of this species cultivated and introduced. the following are some of the names representing slightly varying forms which have, however, been regarded as species by reichenbach and other authors: _acutum_, _am�num_, _bernhardianum_, _braunii_, _callibotryon_, _clusianum_, _commutatum_, _firmum_, _formosum_, _funkianum_, _hians_, _hoppeanum_, _k�hleri_, _lætum_, _laxiflorum_, _laxum_, _mielichhoferi_, _napelloides_, _neomontanum_, _neubergense_, _oligocarpus_, _rigidum_, _strictum_, _tenuifolium_, _venustum_, _virgatum_. one of the most virulent of poisonous plants, both to cattle as well as human beings; and, notwithstanding its eminently handsome appearance, it should only be planted in places where no danger is likely to arise from its presence. see figs. and . =a. nasutum= (great-nosed). _fl._ violet; panicle contracted, quite smooth; spur elongated, arched; helmet conical, bending forward; beak short. june. _l._ with broad, trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. caucasus, &c., . syn. _a. gibbosum_. =a. nitidum= (shining). synonymous with _a. gmelini_. =a. ottonianum= (otto's).* _fl._ blue, variegated with white; young peduncles nodding; spur supine, somewhat hooked; helmet arched. july, august. _l._ with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. carpathian mountains, . =a. paniculatum= (paniculate).* _fl._ large, violet; panicle terminal, much branched, loose or contracted, more or less pubescent; helmet conical, beaked; front sinuate. june to september. _l._ smooth, with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. france and switzerland, . syn. _a. hebegynum_. =a. plicatum= (folded). synonymous with _a. tauricum_. =a. productum= (long-lipped). _fl._ violet, downy, on few-flowered, loose, pubescent racemes; helmet straight, irregularly convex-conical, with a drawn-out beak; spur capitate. june. _l._ on long stalks with three-parted lobes. _h._ ft. siberia. =a. rostratum= (beaked).* _fl._ violet; panicle rather loose; spur thick, depressed, globose; helmet conical, elongated, abruptly pointed in front; beak stretched out. june. _l._ with trapeziform, pinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. switzerland, . syn. _a. alpinum_. =a. schleicheri= (schleicher's). _fl._ blue or violet, middle sized, on short racemes; spur capitate; helmet convex-hemispherical, gaping, smoothish. summer. _l._ with finely jagged lobes. stem straight (or infracted), simple, slender. _h._ ft. to ft. europe. syn. _a. vulgare_. =a. semigaleatum= (half-helmeted). _fl._ pale blue, pubescent when young, on very loose racemes; peduncles elongated; spur hooked; helmet convex, navicular. june. _l._ multifid, few, membranous, smooth; root about the size and form of a pea. _h._ in. to ft. kamtschatka, . =a. sprengelii= (sprengel's). _fl._ bluish purple; spur obtuse, straight. june. _l._ with blunt, bipinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . =a. tauricum= (taurian).* _fl._ deep blue, disposed in dense racemes; peduncles erect, smooth; lateral sepals smooth inside; spur blunt; helmet closed, hemispherical. june. _l._ segments almost pedately disposed and divided into linear acuminate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. germany, . syn. _a. plicatum_. =a. tortuosum= (twisting). _fl._ pale or deep violet, large; panicle loose, few flowered; spur thick, long, abruptly pointed (neither arched, nor convolute). july. _l._ smooth, with narrow wedge-shaped lobes, and acute lobules. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . =a. toxicum= (very poisonous). _fl._ violet, large, pubescent, on loose, also pubescent, racemes; spur hooked; helmet large, arched, with a blunt beak. june. _l._ smooth, with trapeziform pinnate lobes. stem flexuous, almost simple. _h._ ft. america, . =a. uncinatum= (hooked).* _fl._ generally lilac, large, smooth; racemes loose, rather umbellate at the apex, very rarely panicled; spur somewhat spiral, inclined; helmet regularly conical, compressed. july. _l._ with trapeziform pinnate lobes. stem with branches rising from the axils of the leaves. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . [illustration: fig. . aconitum variegatum, showing habit and flower.] =a. variegatum= (variegated).* _fl._ blue, large, smooth; racemes panicled, loose; spur erect, clavated-hooked; helmet bent forward, inflated; beak ascending. july. _l._ lower, on long stalks; upper, sessile, smooth, thickish. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . see fig. . =a. v. albiflorum= (white-flowered).* _fl._ white, small; helmet straight. =a. v. bicolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ white, edged with blue or lilac; helmet straight. =a. vulgare= (common). a synonym of _a. schleicheri_. =a. willdenovii= (willdenow's).* _fl._ bluish-purple; peduncles pubescent; spur obtuse, straight. june. _l._ with blunt segments. _h._ ft. to ft. carniola, . sect. ii. roots fibrous or napiform. =a. anthora= (anthora).* _fl._ pale yellow; panicles generally pubescent; spur refracted; lip obcordate; helmet arched. july. _l._ palmately cut into linear lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. pyrenees, . the following varieties of _a. anthora_ are erroneously classed as species by some authors: =a. a. decandollii= (decandolle's). _fl._ yellow; panicle and flowers pubescent; helmet rather conical, bent, with a short, abrupt, and acuminated beak. _l._ with rather large dark green lobes. alps of jura, . =a. a. eulophum= (well-crested). _fl._ yellow; panicles and flowers puberulous; helmet conical. caucasus, . =a. a. grandiflorum= (large-flowered). _fl._ yellow, large; panicle, flowers, and fruit pubescent; helmet rather conical. alps of jura, . =a. a. jacquinii= (jacquin's). _fl._ yellow, smooth; helmet somewhat conical, drawn out into an elongated beak. =a. a. nemorosum= (grove-loving).* _fl._ yellow; panicle and flowers pubescent; helmet somewhat conical, bent; beak short. _l._ with broad lobes. =a. autumnale= (autumn-flowering).* _fl._ bluish-purple, in loose panicles; peduncles rigidly spreading; spur capitate; helmet closed; lip very long, refracted. july. _l._ with cuneate, bipinnate lobes. _h._ ft. to ft. europe. =a. barbatum= (bearded).* _fl._ cream coloured, middle sized; racemes dense, puberulous; spur straightish, obtuse; bottom of helmet conical; middle sepals densely bearded. july. _l._ opaque, with the lobes divided into many linear segments, on long stalks, which are villous as well as the nerves. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . syn. _a. squarrosum_. =a. chinense= (chinese).* _fl._ intense and very bright blue, in large compound racemes; pedicels slightly hairy above. summer. _l._ lower ones large, deeply cut into three wedge-shaped segments, tapering at the base; upper ones sessile, gradually becoming more entire. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . =a. lamarckii= (lamarck's). _fl._ cream-coloured, pubescent; racemes long, cylindrical, crowded, branched at the base; spur spiral; helmet constricted, clavate. july. _l._ large, seven to nine-parted, with the lobes unequally cleft. _h._ ft. to ft. pyrenees, . =a. lupicidum= (wolf's-bane). synonymous with _a. vulparia_. =a. macrophyllum= (large-leaved). _fl._ yellow, numerous, panicled; spur arched; helmet large, somewhat ventricose at the apex. july. _l._ large, more or less dissected. _h._ ft. to ft. germany. =a. nuttallii= (nuttall's). synonymous with _a. ochroleucum_. =a. ochroleucum= (yellowish-white).* _fl._ cream coloured, large; spur arched; bottom of helmet conico-cylindrical; middle sepals covered with short hairs; racemes puberulous, rather loose. july. _l._ five to seven-parted, deep green, the first ones are puberulous above. _h._ ft. to ft. russia, . syns. _a. nuttallii_, _a. pallidum_. =a. pallasii= (pallas'). probably a mere variety, with a continuous spur, of _a. anthora_. =a. pallidum= (pale). synonymous with _a. ochroleucum_. =a. pyrenaicum= (pyrenean).* _fl._ yellow, rather large; spur hooked; bottom of helmet cylindrical, rounded; racemes elongated, dense, puberulous. june. _l._ parted almost to the base, with pinnatifid lobes, rather hispid beneath, but smooth above, on long stalks. _h._ ft. pyrenees, &c., . =a. squarrosum= (rough). synonymous with _a. barbatum_. =a. vulparia= (fox-bane).* _fl._ pale yellow, smooth; spur spiral; helmet cylindrical, large; beak stretched out, acute; racemes crowded. july. _l._ three or five-lobed, ciliated. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . syn. _a. lupicidum_. the principal varieties of this species are:-- =a. v. carpaticum= (carpathian). _fl._ panicled, of a lurid colour, sometimes variegated with yellow; helmet conico-cylindrical, compressed; peduncles smooth. _l._ profoundly cut. stems smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. carpathian mountains, . =a. v. cynoctonum= (tall dog's-bane). _fl._ (and stem) yellow, smoothish, numerous, panicled. _h._ ft. to ft. france, . =a. v. moldavicum= (moldavian). _fl._ violet, panicled; helmet cylindrical, compressed. _h._ ft. to ft. moldavia. =a. v. rubicundum= (reddish). _fl._ livid violet, panicled, villous, variegated with yellow; helmet conico-cylindrical, compressed. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . =a. v. septentrionale= (northern).* _fl._ blue, panicled, villous; helmet conico-cylindrical, compressed. _h._ ft. north europe, . =acontias.= _see_ =xanthosoma=. =acorn.= the seed or fruit of the oak. _see_ =quercus=. =acorus= (from _a_, without, and _kore_, the pupil of the eye; in allusion to its reputed medicinal qualities). ord. _aroideæ_. a small genus of hardy herbaceous plants. flowers on a sessile spadix; perianth six-cleft, inferior, persistent. they thrive best in a moist soil, and are very suitable for the banks of water, or even as aquatics in shallow water. propagated easily by divisions during spring. =a. calamus= (sweet-flag).* _fl._ yellowish, small, borne on a cylindrical spadix in. to in. long. summer. _l._ sword-shaped, erect, striated ft. long. the root is cylindrical, channelled, and very fragrant. europe. the variety with gold-striped leaves is more useful as a decorative plant. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . acorus calamus.] =a. gramineus= (grass-leaved). china, . this is much smaller in all its parts than the above, but very pretty. =a. g. variegatus.=* a pretty variety with white striped leaves, forming handsome little tufts. =acotyledons.= plants having no cotyledons, or seed leaves, as in _cuscuta_, but usually applied to cryptogamic or flowerless plants, such as ferns, mosses, &c. =acradenia= (from _akra_, top, and _aden_, a gland; referring to the five glands on the top of the ovary). ord. _rutaceæ_. an excellent neat and compact evergreen bush, suitable for the cool conservatory. it requires a rich loam and leaf mould. propagated by seeds and cuttings under a bell glass. =a. frankliniæ= (lady franklin's).* _fl._ white, produced in great profusion, in terminal clusters. august. _l._ fragrant, opposite, trifoliate, gland-dotted. _h._ ft. tasmania, . =acre= (from _agros_, an open field). the english statute acre consists of square rods (perches, poles, roods, or lugs); or square yards; or , square feet. the following list shows the differentiation in the number of square yards per acre in the various districts of great britain and ireland: cheshire, , ; cornish, ; cunningham, ; derby (w.), ; devonshire, ; herefordshire, - / ; irish, ; leicestershire, - / ; scotch, ; wales, north (customary), ; ditto (erw), ; westmoreland, ; wiltshire, . =acridocarpus= (from _akris_, a locust; and _karpos_, fruit; meaning not obvious). ord. _malpighiaceæ_. a handsome sub-tropical or warm greenhouse climber, requiring plenty of water, and a very free drainage. increased by imported seeds, and by cuttings in bottom heat. =a. natalitius= (natal).* _fl._ pale yellow; petals five, rounded, wedge-shaped, crenately-toothed at the edge; racemes simple, elongated, terminal. july. _l._ oblong or obovate, obtuse, leathery. natal, . =acriopsis= (from _akros_, top, and _opsis_, eye). ord. _orchidaceæ_. a small genus of pretty stove epiphytal orchids, almost unknown to cultivation. flowers small, arranged in loose panicles; lip adnate to the very curious column, from which it projects at right angles. =a. densiflora= (crowded-flowered).* _fl._ green and pink. may. _l._ linear-lanceolate. _h._ in. borneo, . =a. javanica= (javanese). _fl._ yellow, green. may. _l._ linear-lanceolate. _h._ in. java, . =a. picta= (painted).* _fl._ white, green, and purple. may. _l._ solitary, linear. _h._ in. bantam, . =acroclinium= (from _akros_, top, and _kline_, a bed; referring to the open flowers). ord. _compositæ_. a small genus of elegant half hardy annuals with "everlasting" flower heads, which are solitary, terminal, and consist of tubular florets; involucrum many-leaved, imbricated. leaves numerous, linear, smooth, acuminated. stems numerous, erect. they thrive best in a loamy soil, and constitute very neat summer flowering annuals if sown out of doors in patches in june; they are also useful as winter decorative greenhouse plants if seed is sown in august in pots placed in a cold frame. the flower-heads should be gathered when young, if it is desired to preserve them. [illustration: fig. . acroclinium roseum, showing habit and flower-head.] =a. roseum= (rosy).* _fl.-heads_ pretty rose, solitary, terminal, on erect, slender, and gracefully disposed branches. _l._ linear, acute. _h._ ft. to ft. s. w. australia, . see fig. . =a. r. album= (rosy white).* a very pretty white form of the preceding. =a. r. grandiflorum= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ rose, larger than in the type. =acrocomia= (from _akros_, top, and _kome_, tuft; referring to the position of the leaves). ord. _palmeæ_. a genus of south american palms, containing about eleven species, which are not easily distinguished, but having the following general characteristics: trunk from ft. to ft. high, and clad with long prickles. the flowers, which appear in the axils of the lower leaves, are greenish or yellow, and their drupes are much the same colour. leaves pinnate, with seventy to eighty leaflets on each side of the pinnæ. they require a warm greenhouse and rich sandy loam. increased by suckers. two species only are in general cultivation. =a. aculeata= (prickly). _h._ ft. west indies, . =a. fusiformis= (spindle-shaped). _h._ ft. trinidad, . =a. globosa= (globular). =h.= ft. st. vincent, . =a. horrida= (horrid). _h._ ft. trinidad, . =a. lasiospatha= (hairy spathed). _l._ drooping. trunk about ft. high, smooth and ringed. para, . =a. sclerocarpa= (hard-fruited).* a very elegant species bearing a head of spreading pinnate leaves, with the rachises and petioles aculeate, and the leaflets linear, taper-pointed, glaucous underneath, about ft. long. _h._ ft. west indies, . syn. _cocos fusiformis_. =a. tenuifolia= (fine-leaved). _h._ ft. brazil, . =acrogens.= plants increasing at the summit, as ferns, &c. =acronychia= (from _akron_, tuft, and _onux_, a claw; referring to the curved points of the petals). ord. _rutaceæ_. an ornamental rue-like greenhouse evergreen shrub. petals and sepals four; stamens eight, inserted on a disk; fruit berry-like. it requires ordinary greenhouse treatment. increased by cuttings in july in sand, under a bell glass. =a. cunninghami= (cunningham's).* _fl._ white, in clusters, resembling those of an orange, with an exquisite fragrance. july. _h._ ft. moreton bay, . =acropera.= _see_ =gongora=. =acrophorus.= _see_ =davallia=. =acrophyllum= (from _akros_, top, and _phyllon_, a leaf; referring to the way in which the leaves are produced at the summit of the branches, above the flowers). ord. _cunoniaceæ_. handsome greenhouse small, erect-growing, evergreen shrubs, flowering profusely during the spring months. they require a mixture of fibrous peat, a little loam, and sharp sand; thorough drainage, an airy situation, and as little artificial heat as possible, are important to its well-being. re-pot in february. propagated by cuttings of the half ripened shoots, which strike freely in a soil of sand and peat, if covered with a hand glass, and placed in a cool house. the roots should not be allowed to get dry, and light syringing during late spring and summer will be found beneficial in assisting to keep down thrips. =a. verticillatum= (whorled). a synonym of _a. venosum_. =a. venosum= (veined).* _fl._ pinkish white, in dense axillary spikes, which are borne on the upper part of the stems and branches. may and june. _l._ nearly sessile, oblong, cordate, acute, serrate, in whorls of threes. _h._ ft. new south wales. syn. _a. verticillatum_. =acropteris.= _see_ =asplenium=. =acrostichum= (from _akros_, top, and _stichos_, order; meaning very obscure). ord. _filices_. this genus includes _aconiopteris_, _chrysodium_, _egenolfia_, _elaphoglossum_, _gymnopteris_, _olfersia_, _photinopteris_, _p�cilipteris_, _polybotrya_, _rhipidopteris_, _soromanes_, _stenochlæna_, _stenosemia_. a large and almost entirely tropical genus; it includes groups with a wide range in venation and cutting. sori spread over the whole surface of the frond or upper pinnæ, or occasionally over both surfaces. the species having long fronds, are admirably suited for growing in suspended baskets, and the dwarfer sorts do well in wardian cases. a compost of peat, chopped sphagnum, and sand, is most suitable. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. =a. acuminatum= (taper-pointed).* _rhiz._ thick, climbing. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, scaly throughout. _barren fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad, deltoid, bipinnate; upper pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, slightly lobed, truncate on the lower side at the base, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad; lower pinnæ, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with several small pinnules on each side; light green, with a firm texture. _fertile fronds_ ft. long, deltoid, tripinnate. brazil. stove species. syn. _polybotrya acuminatum_. =a. alienum= (foreign). _rhiz._ woody. _sti._ in. to in. long, scaly downwards. _barren fronds_ ft. to ft. long, often ft. broad, the upper part deeply pinnatifid, with lanceolate lobes, the lower part pinnate, with entire or deeply pinnatifid lower pinnæ. _fertile fronds_ much smaller, with distant narrow linear or pinnatifid leafy pinnæ. tropical america. stove species. syn. _gymnopteris aliena_. =a. apiifolium= (parsley-leaved).* _cau._ stout, woody, erect. _sti._ of barren fronds in. to in. long, erect, densely clothed with tomentum. _barren fronds_ in. to in. each way, deltoid, tripinnate; pinnæ close, only the lowest pair with pinnatifid pinnules, ultimate divisions oblong-rhomboidal, / in. to / in. long, the base cuneate, the outer edge slightly toothed. _fertile fronds_ on a slender naked stem in. to in. long, the fronds panicled with a few distant, slender, simple, or compound branches. philippine islands, . stove species. syn. _polybotrya apiifolia_. =a. apodum= (stemless).* _cau._ thick, woody, the scales dense, linear, brown, crisped. _sti._ tufted, very short, or obsolete. _barren fronds_ ft. or more long, - / in. to in. broad, the apex acuminate, the lower part narrowed very gradually, the edge and midrib densely fringed with soft, short, brown hairs. _fertile fronds_ much smaller than the barren ones. west indies to peru, . stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum apodum_. =a. appendiculatum= (appendaged).* _rhiz._ firm, woody. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate. _sti._ in. to in. long, erect, naked, or slightly scaly; pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, the edge varying from sub-entire to cut half-way down to the midrib of the blunt lobes, the upper side often auricled, the lower one obliquely truncate, dark green. _fertile fronds_ narrower, on a longer spike, the pinnæ roundish or oblong, often distinctly stalked. india, &c., . stove species. syn. _egenolfia appendiculata_. =a. aureum= (golden).* _cau._ erect. _sti._ erect, ft. to ft. long, strong. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. to ft. broad, the upper pinnæ fertile, rather smaller than the barren ones, which are usually stalked, ligulate oblong, in. to ft. long, / in. to in. broad, acute or blunt, sometimes retuse with a mucro; edge quite entire, base sub-cuneate. widely distributed in the tropics of both hemispheres, . an evergreen aquatic stove species, requiring abundance of heat and moisture. syn. _chrysodium aureum_. =a. auritum= (eared).* _cau._ erect, woody. _barren fronds_ with a stipe in. to in. long, deltoid, in. to in. each way, ternate, the central segments deeply pinnatifid, with lanceolate entire lobes; the lateral ones unequal sided, with lanceolate oblong-lobed lower pinnules. _fertile fronds_ with a stem in. to in. long, deltoid, with distant linear pinnæ half line broad; upper simple, lower pinnatifid. philippine islands. stove species. syn. _stenosemia aurita_. =a. axillare= (axillary). _rhiz._ slender, wide scandent. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, about in. broad, simple, the point bluntish, the edge entire, the lower half tapering very gradually to the base or short stem. _fertile fronds_ in. to in. long, one to three lines broad, flexuose, on a stem in. to in. long. himalayas. greenhouse species. syn. _chrysodium axillare_. =a. barbatum= (bearded). synonymous with _a. scolopendrifolium_. =a. bifurcatum= (twice-forked). _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long, slender, stramineous, naked. _fronds_ in. to in. long, about / in. broad, pinnate; lower pinnæ of fertile fronds two or three cleft, with linear divisions; those of the barren pinnæ broader, and not so deep. st. helena. greenhouse species. syn. _polybotrya bifurcata_. =a. blumeanum= (blume's).* _rhiz._ woody, wide climbing. _sti._ of barren fronds in. long, scaly. _barren fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad, with numerous sessile pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, in. broad; apex acuminate, the edge slightly toothed; base rounded. _fertile fronds_ with distant pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad. assam. greenhouse species. syn. _chrysodium blumeanum_. =a. callæfolium= (calla-leaved). a form of _a. latifolium_. =a. canaliculatum= (channelled).* _rhiz._ woody, wide climbing, spinulose and scaly. _sti._ ft. or more long, scaly throughout. _fertile fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, tripinnate; lower barren pinnæ, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, stalked, with oblong segments, both surfaces naked; fertile pinnules close, the segments / in. long, bearing three to four sessile balls of sori. venezuela. stove or greenhouse species. syn. _polybotrya canaliculata_. =a. caudatum= (tailed). a synonym of _a. petiolosum_. =a. cervinum= (stag-horned).* _rhiz._ woody, creeping, scaly. _sti._ ft. or more long, scaly. _barren fronds_ ft. to ft. long, pinnate; pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, entire or nearly so, unequal at the base; fertile pinnæ distant, linear, lanceolate, bipinnate, with short spreading sub-cylindrical pinnules. brazil, . stove species. syn. _olfersia cervina_. =a. conforme= (conformed). _rhiz._ wide creeping, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, stramineous, naked or slightly scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, acute or bluntish, the base cuneate or spathulate, the edge entire. _barren fronds_ narrower than the fertile one. _a. laurifolium_, _a. obtusilobum_, and several others, are identical with the foregoing. tropical america, also in the old world. stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum conforme_. =a. crinitum= (hairy).* _cau._ woody, erect. _sti._ of barren fronds in. to in. long, densely clothed with long scales. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. wide, broadly oblong; apex blunt, base rounded, edge entire and ciliated, texture subcoriaceous, both sides scattered over with scales like those of the stipes. _fertile fronds_ like the others, but much smaller, the stipes longer. west indies, &c., . stove species. syns. _chrysodium_ and _hymenodium crinitum_. =a. cylindricum= (cylindrical). synonymous with _a. osmundaceum_. =a. dombeyanum= (dombey's). a form of _a. lepidotum_. =a. flagelliferum= (rod-shaped). _rhiz._ woody, creeping. _sti._ of barren fronds in. to in. long, nearly naked. _barren fronds_ simple or with one to three pairs of pinnæ, the terminal one ovate lanceolate, entire or repand, often elongated and rooting at the point, the lateral ones in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; fertile pinnæ in. to in. long, about / in. broad. india, &c., . stove species. syn. _gymnopteris flagellifera_. =a. f�niculaceum= (fennel-leaved).* _rhiz._ slender, creeping. _sti._ distant, slender, in. to in. long, scaly. _barren fronds_ in. to in. broad, usually dichotomously forked, with filiform divisions. _fertile fronds_ / in. broad, two-lobed. andes of ecuador. stove species. (for culture, see _a. peltatum_). syn. _rhipidopteris f�niculaceum_. =a. herminieri= (herminier's).* _rhiz._ stout, creeping. _sti._ very short, or none. _barren fronds_ - / ft. to ft. long, in. to - / in. broad, simple, acuminate, the lower part narrowed very gradually. _fertile fronds_ short-stalked, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad. tropical america, . stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum herminieri_. =a. heteromorphum= (various-formed). _rhiz._ slender, wide creeping, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, slender, slightly scaly. _barren fronds_ - / in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, simple, bluntish, the base rounded, both surfaces scattered over with linear dark castaneous scales. _fertile fronds_ much smaller, and the stipes much longer. columbia and ecuador. stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum heteromorphum_. =a. langsdorffii= (langsdorff's). synonymous with _a. muscosum_. =a. latifolium= (broad-leaved).* _rhiz._ thick, woody, creeping, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, naked, or scaly. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simple, acute, gradually narrowed below, entire; texture leathery. _fertile fronds_ considerably narrower than the barren ones. _a. longifolium_, _a. callæfolium_, &c., are only varieties of this species. mexico, brazil, &c. stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum latifolium_. =a. lepidotum= (scaly).* _rhiz._ thick, woody, very scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, scaly throughout. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, about / in. broad, simple, usually blunt, the base cuneate or rather rounded, both surfaces and midrib very scaly. _a. dombeyanum_, of garden origin, is a varietal form of this, of which there are several others. tropical america. stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum lepidotum_. =a. longifolium= (long-leaved). a form of _a. latifolium_. =a. meyerianum= (meyer's). synonymous with _a. tenuifolium_. =a. muscosum= (mossy).* _rhiz._ woody, densely scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, clothed with large pale brown scales. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, simple, narrowed at both ends; upper surface slightly scaly; lower quite hidden by imbricated brownish scales. _barren fronds_ much smaller than the others, the stipes longer. madeira. greenhouse species. syn. _a. langsdorffii_. =a. neitnerii.= synonymous with _a. quercifolium_. =a. nicotianæfolium= (tobacco-leaved).* _rhiz._ woody, wide creeping, scaly. _sti._ - / ft. to ft., scaly below. _barren fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad, with a large terminal pinna, and one to three lateral pairs, which are in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, acuminate, entire, or nearly so, the base slightly rounded, fertile pinnæ distant, in. to in. long, / in. broad. cuba, &c. stove species. syn. _gymnopteris nicotianæfolium_. =a. osmundaceum= (osmunda-like).* _rhiz._ woody, wide scandent, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, scaly at the base. _barren fronds_ ample, bi- or tripinnate; the lower pinnæ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules stalked, lanceolate, with closely set sub-entire segments, of a light green colour; both surfaces naked. _fertile fronds_ nearly or quite as large as the barren ones; segments linear cylindrical, / in. to / in. long. tropical america. stove species. syns. _a. cylindricum_, and _polybotrya osmundaceum_. =a. paleaceum= (chaffy). synonymous with _a. squamosum_. [illustration: fig. . acrostichum peltatum.] =a. peltatum= (peltate-leaved).* _rhiz._ slender, wide creeping. _sti._ distant, slender, in. to in. long, scaly throughout. _barren fronds_ in. to in. each way, repeatedly dichotomously forked, with narrow linear ultimate divisions, quarter to half line broad. _fertile fronds_ / in. broad, often two-lobed. west indies. stove or greenhouse species. this elegant little fern requires a liberal supply of water all the year round, and is best grown in a well drained pan of good fibrous peat, leaf soil, and sand, with some nodules of sandstone raised above the rim of the pan; do not disturb it more than is necessary. syn. _rhipidopteris peltata_. see fig. . =a. petiolosum= (petioled). _rhiz._ woody, wide scandent. _sti._ woody, erect, scaly at the base. _fronds_ bipinnate, or tripinnatifid, ft. to ft. long, ft. to ft. broad, deltoid; the upper barren pinnæ lanceolate, pinnatifid, the longest sometimes in. long, and in. to in. broad; pinnules with long falcate lobes reaching half-way down to the midrib, both surfaces naked; fertile pinnules very narrow, and dangling, continuous or beaded. west indies, mexico, &c. stove species. syns. _polybotrya_ and _a. caudatum_. =a. piloselloides= (mouse ear-leaved). synonymous with _a. spathulatum_. =a. platyrhynchos= (broad-beaked). _sti._ tufted, scarcely any. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. broad, simple. _sori_ in a patch at the apex, in. to in. long, / in. broad, which does not reach to the entire edge; the lower part narrowed gradually, with naked surfaces, and a coriaceous texture. philippines. stove species. syn. _hymenolepis platyrhynchos_. =a. quercifolium= (oak-leaved).* _rhiz._ stout, wide creeping. _sti._ of barren fronds in. to in. long, clothed with brownish hairs. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, the terminal pinnæ with blunt rounded lobes. _fertile fronds_ with a terminal pinna, in. to in. long, one line broad, and a pair of smaller lateral ones, with slender stipes in. to in. long, hairy at the base. ceylon. stove species. syns. _a. neitnerii_ (of gardens), _gymnopteris quercifolia_. =a. scandens= (climbing).* _rhiz._ woody, wide climbing. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, naked. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad, simply pinnate; barren pinnæ, in. to in. long, / in. to - / in. broad, acuminate, the edge thickened and serrulate, the base cuneate, sessile, or slightly stalked, articulated; fertile pinnæ, in. to in. long, one and a half to two lines broad, the lower ones distant. himalayas, &c., . stove or greenhouse species. syn. _stenochlæna scandens_. =a. scolopendrifolium= (scolopendrium-leaved).* _rhiz._ woody, creeping, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, densely clothed with blackish scales. _barren fronds_ often ft. long, - / in. to in. broad, simple, acute, the base narrowed gradually; edge and midrib scaly. _fertile fronds_ much smaller than the barren ones. guatemala, &c. stove species. syn. _a. barbatum_. =a. serratifolium= (serrate-leaved). _rhiz._ woody, short creeping. _sti._ of barren fronds in. to in. long, slightly scaly. _barren fronds_ ft. long, in. to in. broad, with numerous sessile pinnæ on each side, in. to in. long, / in. to - / in. broad, inciso-crenate, the base cuneate; fertile pinnæ distant, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, blunt, entire. venezuela, &c. stove species. syn. _chrysodium serratifolium_. =a. simplex= (simple-leaved). _rhiz._ woody, creeping, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, naked. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, about - / in. broad, very acute, the lower part narrowed very gradually. _fertile fronds_ narrower than the barren ones, with longer stipes. cuba to brazil, . stove species. syn. _elaphoglossum simplex_. =a. sorbifolium= (service-leaved).* _rhiz._ thick, woody, often ft. to ft. long, clasping trees like a cable, sometimes prickly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate; barren pinnæ in. to in. long, about / in. broad, three to twenty on each side, articulated at the base, entire or toothed; fertile pinnæ in. to in. apart, in. to in. long, about / in. broad. west indies, . there are several varieties of this species, chiefly differing in the number of pinnæ. stove species. syn. _stenochlæna sorbifolia_. =a. s. cuspidatum= (cuspidate).* this is only a variety of the above species with long-stalked, ligulate-cuspidate pinnæ; but it is usually regarded as a distinct species in gardens. =a. spathulatum= (spoon-shaped). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, firm, erect, scaly. _barren fronds_ / in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, obovate-spathulate, blunt, tapering narrowly or gradually at the base, with a coriaceous texture; both surfaces and the margins copiously scaly. _fertile fronds_ smaller than the barren, with longer stipes. tropical america, south africa, &c. stove species. syn. _a. piloselloides_. =a. spicatum= (spiked). _rhiz._ woody, short creeping. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, the upper part contracted and fertile, entire, the lower part narrowed very gradually. himalayas, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _hymenolepis brachystachys_. =a. squamosum= (scaly).* _rhiz._ woody, densely scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, densely clothed with pale or dark-coloured scales. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, about in. broad, simple, acute, the base narrowed gradually; both sides matted, and the edge densely ciliated with reddish scales. _fertile fronds_ as long as the barren ones, but much narrower, the stipes much longer. widely distributed in both hemispheres. stove or greenhouse species. syn. _a. paleaceum_. =a. subdiaphanum= (semi-transparent).* _cau._ woody, erect. _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, firm, erect, scaly. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, simple, both ends narrowed, the edge entire. _fertile fronds_ much narrower, on longer stipes. st. helena. greenhouse species. syn. _aconiopteris subdiaphana_. =a. subrepandum= (slighty-waved).* _rhiz._ woody, wide-creeping. _sti._ of barren fronds stout, erect, nearly naked. _barren fronds_ from ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, copiously pinnate, with linear-oblong entire or subrepand pinnæ on each side, which are sometimes in. to in. long, and in. broad. _fertile fronds_ like the others, but smaller. isle of luzon, &c. stove species. syn. _gymnopteris subrepanda_. =a. taccæfolium= (yew-leaved).* _cau._ woody, densely scaly. _sti._ of barren fronds in. to in. long, scaly. _barren fronds_ from ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, simple, oblong-lanceolate, entire, copiously pinnate, with oblong-lanceolate pinnæ, in. to in. long, / in. to - / in. broad, the upper ones narrowly decurrent, the lower ones forked at the base on the under side. _fertile fronds_ simple, in. to in. long, / in. broad, or pinnate, with forked linear pinnæ. the three-lobed form of this species is sometimes known as _a. trilobum_. philippines. stove species. syn. _gymnopteris taccæfolia_. =a. tenuifolium= (narrow-leaved).* _rhiz._ wide scandent, woody, slightly scaly. _barren fronds_ simply pinnate, the stipes in. to in. long, naked, firm, erect, the fronds ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. to - / in. broad, acuminate, the edge thickened and serrulate, short-stalked. _fertile fronds_ bipinnate, with longer stipes; pinnæ long-stalked, with numerous distant pinnules. south africa. stove or greenhouse species. syns. _a. meyerianum_ and _stenochlæna tenuifolia_. =a. trilobum= (three-lobed). a form of _a. taccæfolium_. =a. villosum= (hairy).* _rhiz._ woody, densely scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, slender, densely clothed with scales. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, acute, the lower part narrowed gradually; both surfaces scaly, and the edge more or less ciliated. _fertile fronds_ much smaller than the others. mexico, &c. stove species. =a. viscosum= (clammy).* _rhiz._ woody, creeping, densely scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, scaly, often viscous. _barren fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, simple, acute, the lower part narrowed gradually; both surfaces more or less viscid, and minutely scaly. _fertile fronds_ smaller, with longer stipes. tropical america and the tropics of the old world, . very variable in form. stove species. =acrotriche= (from _akros_, top, _i.e._, outermost--and _thrix_, a hair; the tips of the petals are bearded). ord. _epacridaceæ_. a genus of eight or nine species of dwarf, much branched, ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrubs. flowers white or red; spikes axillary, short; corolla funnel-shaped; petals with deflexed hairs at apex. cultivated in an equal mixture of sandy loam and peat, and propagated by cuttings made of the young shoots, pricked in sand, covered with a bell glass, and placed in a cool house; afterwards treated like _epacris_. =a. cordata= (heart-leaved).* _fl._ white, small, axillary, twin, or solitary. april. _l._ cordate, flat, striated below. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. divaricata= (straggling).* _fl._ white, small, in axillary spikes. may. _l._ lanceolate, mucronate, divaricate, flat, both surfaces green. _h._ in. to ft. new south wales, . =a. ovalifolia= (oval-leaved). _fl._ white, small, in axillary spikes. march. _l._ ovate and oval, obtuse, flat, with smooth margins. _h._ in. to ft. new holland, . =act�a= (from _aktaia_, an elder; in allusion to the resemblance of the foliage to that of the elder). baneberry. ord. _ranunculaceæ_. a small genus of perennial herbaceous plants, with bi- or triternate leaves, and long, erect racemes of whitish flowers, which are succeeded by poisonous berries. they are excellent subjects for shady places, beneath trees, or in the wild garden. easily increased by division of the roots, and seed during spring. =a. alba= (white).* _fl._ white; racemes simple. may, june. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, serrate or cut. berries white, ovate-oblong, _h._ ft. to - / ft. n. america. [illustration: fig. . act�a spicata, showing habit and raceme of flowers.] =a. spicata= (spiked).* _fl._ white, or bluish; racemes ovate. summer. _l._ bi- or triternate, serrated. berries oblong, black, poisonous. _h._ ft. england. see fig. . =a. s. rubra= (red).* this differs from the type in having bright red berries, which are disposed in dense clusters on spikes overtopping the foliage. north america. a very handsome hardy perennial. =actinella= (from _aktin_, a ray; small rayed). syn. _picradenia_. ord. _compositæ_. a small genus of hardy herbaceous plants, having radiate capitules. the only species worth cultivating is _a. grandiflora_. it thrives in an open border with a light soil. increased by divisions of the root in spring. =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, large, and handsome, in. in diameter. summer. _h._ in. to in. colorado. a very pretty branched perennial, suitable for the alpine garden. =a. lanata= (woolly). _see_ =eriophyllum cæspitosum=. =actinidia= (from _aktin_, a ray; the styles radiate like the spokes of a wheel). ord. _ternstr�miaceæ_. a genus of ornamental hardy deciduous climbing shrubs, with axillary corymbs of flowers; sepals and petals imbricate. leaves entire. excellent for trellis-work or walls, and thriving best in a light rich soil. increased by seeds, layers, or cuttings; the latter should be put in under a hand light in autumn, in sandy soil. [illustration: fig. . actinidia volubilis.] =a. kolomikta= (kolomikta).* _fl._ white, solitary, axillary, or cymose, / in. in diameter; peduncles about / in. long. summer. _l._ ovate-oblong, petiolate, rounded or sub-cordate at the base, and tapering into a long point, serrate; the autumnal tints are very handsome, changing to white and red. n. e. asia, . rarely met with. =a. polygama= (polygamous). _fl._ white, fragrant. summer. _l._ cordate, serrate, petiolate. japan, . the berries of this species are edible. =a. volubilis= (twining).* _fl._ white, small. june. _l._ oval on flowering branches, elliptic on climbing stems. japan, . a very free growing species. see fig. . =actiniopteris= (from _aktin_, a ray, and _pteris_, a fern; the fronds are radiately cut into narrow segments). ord. _filices_. sori linear-elongated, sub-marginal; involucres (= indusia) the same shape as the sorus, folded over it, placed one on each side of the narrow segments of the frond, opening towards the midrib. a small genus of beautiful and distinct stove ferns. they thrive in a compost of equal parts crocks and charcoal, about the size of peas, which must be mixed with silver sand and a very small portion of loam and peat. about half the pot should be filled with crocks, perfect drainage being necessary. a moist atmosphere is also essential, and the plants may be syringed two or three times a day. a mean summer temperature of deg. to deg., with a night one of not less than deg., is desirable. in winter, a mean temperature of about deg., and a night one of not less than deg., should be maintained. =a. radiata= (rayed).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ fan shaped, in. to - / in. each way, composed of numerous dichotomous segments, half line broad, those of the fertile frond longer than those of the barren one. india, &c. (very widely distributed), . in form this elegant little species is a perfect miniature of the fan palm, _latania borbonica_. =a. r. australis= (southern).* _fronds_, segments fewer, larger, and subulate at the point. plant much larger and more vigorous. =actinocarpus= (from _aktin_, a ray, and _karpos_, fruit; referring to the curiously radiated fruit, resembling a star fish). ord. _alismaceæ_. pretty little aquatic perennials, with habit and inflorescence of _alisma_. carpels six to eight, connate at base, spreading horizontally. excellent for naturalising in bogs and pools. increased by seeds and divisions during spring. =a. damasonium= (damasonium). ray pod. _fl._ white, very delicate; each petal has a yellow spot at the base; scapes with a terminal umbel. june. _l._ radical, on long petioles, sometimes floating, elliptical, five-nerved. a native aquatic. the proper name of this plant is _damasonium stellatum_. =a. minor= (smaller).* this greenhouse species, also with white flowers, from new south wales, is smaller. =actinomeris= (from _aktin_, a ray, and _meris_, a part; referring to the radiated aspect of the plants). syn. _pterophyton_. ord. _compositæ_. a small genus of herbaceous perennials allied to _helianthus_, but with compressed and winged achenes. flower-heads corymbose, coreopsis-like. leaves ovate or lanceolate, serrate. they are hardy, ornamental plants, and of easy cultivation, in a loamy soil. increased in spring, by seeds and division of the roots, on a warm border, with or without hand lights, or in cold frames. with the exception of _a. helianthoides_, they are but little known in this country. =a. alata= (wing-stalked). _fl.-heads_ yellow. july. _h._ ft. america. . =a. helianthoides= (sunflower-like).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, in. across, july to september. _h._ ft. s. america, . =a. procera= (tall).* _fl.-heads_ yellow. september. _h._ ft. n. america, . =a. squarrosa= (rough-headed).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, in loose terminal panicles. july and august. _l._ decurrent, broadly lanceolate, coarsely toothed. stem square, winged. _h._ ft. north america, . syn. _verbesina coreopsis_. =actinophyllum.= _see_ =sciadophyllum=. =actinostachys.= included under =schizæa= (which _see_). =actinotus= (from _actinotos_, furnished with rays; referring to the involucre). ord. _umbelliferæ_. an australian genus of greenhouse herbaceous perennials. flowers shortly pedicellate, numerously disposed in simple umbels; petals none. leaves alternate, petiolate. they thrive best in loam and peat, and are increased by root division and seeds. the latter should be sown on a hotbed, in spring, and in may the seedlings may be transplanted out in the open border in a warm situation, where they will flower and seed freely. =a. helianthus= (sunflower).* _fl._ white, in many-flowered capitate umbels; involucre many leaved, radiating, longer than the flowers. june. _l._ alternate, bipinnatifid; lobules bluntish. _h._ ft. . syn. _eriocalia major_. =a. leucocephalus= (white-headed). _fl._ white. june. _h._ ft. . [illustration: fig. . ada aurantiaca.] =aculeatus.= armed with prickles. =aculeolatus.= armed with small prickles. =aculeus.= a prickle; a conical elevation of the skin of a plant, becoming hard and sharp-pointed. =acumen.= an acute terminal angle. =acuminate.= extended into an acute terminal angle; this word is confined to considerable extension. =acunna oblonga.= _see_ =bejaria æstuans=. =acute.= sharp-pointed. =acyntha.= a synonym of =sanseviera= (which _see_). =ada= (a complimentary name). ord. _orchideæ_. an evergreen orchid, very closely allied to _brassia_, from which it differs chiefly in having the lip parallel with, and solidly united to, the base of the column. some authorities now refer the plant to the genus _mesospinidium_. it requires to be potted in peat and sphagnum, in equal parts. the drainage must be perfect, and, during summer, the water supply profuse. although in winter far less will suffice, the plant should not be allowed to become dry. propagated by divisions as soon as the plant commences growth. =a. aurantiaca= (orange).* _fl._ orange-scarlet, in long terminal nodding racemes, each bearing from six to ten blossoms; petals elongated, streaked with black inside. winter and spring. _l._ two or three to each plant, linear, dark green, about in. in length. habit erect, with somewhat cylindrical pseudo-bulbs, which taper upwards. see fig. . =adamia= (named after john adam, some time governor-general of india, and a promoter of natural history). ord. _saxifrageæ_. a small genus of hydrangea-like greenhouse evergreen shrubs, having many flowered terminal corymbs of flowers, and opposite, petiolate, oblong-lanceolate, serrated leaves. they thrive well in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand; and cuttings will root readily in a similar compost, under a hand glass. =a. cyanea= (blue-berried). _fl._ whitish, or pink. june. _h._ ft. nepaul, in rocky places, . =a. sylvatica= (wood). _fl._ blue; cymes nearly undivided, on short peduncles, disposed in a close panicle. june. _h._ ft. java, . =a. versicolor= (many-coloured). _fl._ blue. august. china, . =adam's apple.= _see_ =citrus limetta= and =musa paradisiaca=. =adamsia.= _see_ =geum=, =puschkinia=, =sieversia=. =adam's needle.= _see_ =yucca=. =adansonia= (named after michael adanson, an eminent french botanist). baobab tree. ord. _sterculiaceæ_. this is reputed to be one of the largest trees in the world, as far as the girth of the trunk is concerned; but it is seldom seen in cultivation in this country. =a. digitata= (finger-leaved). _fl._ white, about in. across, with purplish anthers, on long, axillary, solitary pedicels. _l._ palmate, with three leaflets in the young plants, and five to seven in adult ones. _h._ ft. africa. =adder's fern.= _see_ =polypodium vulgare=. =adder-spit.= _see_ =pteris aquilina=. =adder's tongue.= _see_ =ophioglossum=. =adelobotrys= (from _adelos_, obscure, and _botrys_, a cluster). ord. _melastomaceæ_. stove climbing shrubs with terete branches. flowers white, crowded in cymose heads at the tops of the branches. leaves clothed with rufous hairs on both surfaces when young, but in the adult state glabrous, except the nerves, petiolate, ovate, cordate, acuminated, ciliately serrated, five-nerved. for general culture, _see_ =pleroma=. =a. lindeni= (linden's).* _fl._ white, changing to purple. brazil, . =a. scandens= (climbing).* this, the original species, possibly not now in cultivation, is a native of french guiana. =adenandra= (from _aden_, a gland, and _aner_, a male; the anthers terminate in a globose gland). ord. _rutaceæ_. very beautiful little greenhouse shrubs from the cape of good hope. flowers large, usually solitary at the tops of the branches; stamens ten, the five opposite the petals sterile, five fertile ones similar in form, but shorter. leaves usually alternate, flat, glandularly dotted. they thrive in a mixture of sand and peat, with a little turfy loam. the young tops, before they begin to throw out their buds, made into cuttings, and planted in a pot of sand, with a bell glass placed over them, will root without bottom heat. =a. acuminata= (acuminate). synonymous with _a. am�na_. =a. am�na= (pleasing).* _fl._ large, whitish above, and reddish beneath, solitary, sessile, terminal. june. _l._ scattered, oblong or oval, bluntish, smooth, dotted beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. . syn. _a. acuminata_. =a. coriacea= (leathery-leaved). _fl._ large, pink, usually solitary on the tops of the branches. june. _l._ scattered, oblong, obtuse, revolute, quite smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. fragrans= (fragrant).* _fl._ rose colour, on long peduncles, fragrant; pedicels clammy, aggregate, umbellate. may. _l._ scattered, smooth, spreading very much, ovate-oblong, glandular, a little crenulated. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. linearis= (linear-leaved). _fl._ white, terminal, on long, usually solitary, pedicels. june. _l._ opposite, linear, obtuse, spreading; branches and pedicels smooth. _h._ ft. . =a. marginata= (margined).* _fl._ pale flesh-colour, on long peduncles; umbels terminal. june. _l._ scattered, smooth, transparent, cordate, lower ones ovate, upper ones lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. umbellata= (umbel-flowered).* _fl._ pink, almost sessile, terminal, umbellate, petals fringed. june. _l._ oblong or obovate, dotted beneath, fringed on the edges. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. u. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._ large, pink, nearly sessile, terminal, umbellate. june. _l._ scattered, oblong or obovate, revolute, dotted beneath, smooth, but a little fringed on the edges. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. uniflora= (one-flowered).* _fl._ large, whitish inside, and pinkish outside, nearly sessile, solitary, terminal. june. _l._ scattered, oblong-lanceolate, somewhat pointed, revolute, smooth, dotted beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. villosa= (shaggy).* _fl._ pink, nearly sessile, terminal, umbellate; sepals, petals, and stamens fringed. june. _l._ crowded, ovate-oblong, fringed, pubescent and glandular beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. . =adenanthera= (from _aden_, a gland, and _anthera_, an anther; in reference to the anthers, which are each terminated by a deciduous, pedicellate gland). ord. _leguminosæ_. a small genus of stove evergreen trees, with racemose spikes of small flowers and bipinnate or decompound leaves. they thrive well in a mixture of peat and loam. increased by cuttings, which should be taken off at a joint and planted in heat in a pot of sand, placing a bell glass over them. =a. chrysostachys= (golden-spiked). _fl._ golden. _h._ ft. mauritius, . =a. falcata= (sickle-shaped). _fl._ yellowish. _h._ ft. india, . =a. pavonina= (peacock-like).* peacock flower fence. _fl._ white and yellow mixed. may. _l._ leaflets oval, obtuse, glabrous on both surfaces. _h._ ft. india, . =adenanthos= (from _aden_, a gland, and _anthos_, a flower; referring to the glands on the flowers). ord. _proteaceæ_. ornamental greenhouse evergreen pilose shrubs, thriving in sandy peat. propagated in spring by cuttings, which should be placed in sandy soil under a bell glass, with a gentle bottom heat. =a. barbigera= (bearded).* _fl._ red, axillary, solitary, pedunculate; perianth pilose, bearded at top; involucre spreading, villous. june. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, obtuse, triple-nerved. _h._ ft. swan river, . =a. cuneata= (wedge-leaved). _fl._ red. july. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. obovata= (obovate-leaved).* _fl._ red. july. _h._ ft. new holland, . =adenium= (from aden, where it is found). ord. _apocynaceæ_. greenhouse evergreen succulent shrubs. the species mentioned below is remarkable in having a globose thick caudex or stem; branches dichotomous; corolla salver-shaped. they require a well-drained compost of sand and loam. half-ripened cuttings strike root readily in sand, under a hand glass. but little water is required when the plants are not in a growing state. =a. obesum= (fat). _fl._ pinky-crimson, downy; corymbs terminal, many-flowered; pedicels short. june. _l._ close together at the tops of the branches, in. long, oblong, narrowed at the base, abruptly terminated by a hard, short point. _h._ ft. or ft. aden, . =adenocalymna= (from _aden_, a gland, and _calymna_, a covering; referring to the conspicuous glands on the leaves and floral coverings). ord. _bignoniaceæ_. an elegant genus of stove evergreen climbers. flowers racemose, trumpet-shaped, bracteate. leaves ternate or binate. stems slender. they require a hot and moist temperature to grow them successfully, and thrive best in a compost of loam and peat. cuttings will root in sand, if placed under a bell glass, with bottom heat. =a. comosum= (hairy).* _fl._ yellow; racemes spicate, axillary, and terminal; bracts comose. september. _l._ trifoliate and conjugate, tendrilled; leaflets ovate, leathery, glandular. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. longeracemosum= (long-racemed). _fl._ yellow. october. brazil. =a. nitidum= (shining).* _fl._ yellow; racemes axillary, nearly terminal, velvety; corolla velvety; bracts narrow, glandular. february. _l._ trifoliate or conjugate, tendrilled; leaflets elliptic, oblong. _h._ ft. brazil, . =adenocarpus= (from _aden_, a gland, and _karpos_, a fruit; in reference to the legumes being beset with pedicellate glands). ord. _leguminosæ_. shrubs, with numerous racemes of yellow flowers; divaricate branches, trifoliate usually aggregate leaves, having petiolar stipulas, and complicated leaflets. all the species are elegant when in flower, and well suited for ornamenting the fronts of shrubberies. except where otherwise mentioned, all are hardy. they thrive best in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand; and may be readily increased by seeds or layers, or by grafting the rarer on the commoner kinds. young cuttings will root freely in sand, covered by a hand glass, which should be taken off and wiped occasionally. seeds may be sown in march, the hardy species out of doors, and the others in a cold house. =a. foliolosus= (slightly-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; racemes terminal; calyx covered with glandless hairs, with the lower lip elongated and trifid at the apex; the segments equal. may. _l._ (and branches) much crowded, hairy, trifoliate. _h._ ft. to ft. canary islands, . a half-hardy evergreen species. =a. frankenioides= (frankenia-like).* _fl._ yellow, crowded; racemes terminal; calyx beset with glandular pubescence, with the lower lip having the middle segment longer than the lateral ones, and exceeding the lower lip. april. _l._ trifoliate, much crowded, hairy; branches velvety. _h._ ft. to ft. teneriffe, . requires protection in winter; an evergreen. =a. hispanicus= (spanish).* _fl._ yellow, crowded; racemes terminal; calyx beset with glands and hairs; lower lip of calyx with three equal segments, hardly longer than the upper lip. june. _l._ trifoliate, grouped; branchlets hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. spain, . deciduous. =a. intermedius= (intermediate).* _fl._ yellow, not crowded; racemes terminal; calyx beset with glandular pubescence, with the lower lip trifid, the lateral segments shorter than the middle ones, and much exceeding the upper lip. may. _l._ trifoliate, grouped; branches rather shaggy. _h._ ft. to ft. sicily and naples, on mountains, . deciduous. =a. parvifolius= (small-leaved).* _fl._ yellow, not crowded; racemes terminal; calyx clothed with glandular pubescence, with the middle segment of the lower lip longer than the lateral ones, much exceeding the upper lip. may. _l._ trifoliate, grouped, small; branches glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. france, on exposed heaths, . deciduous. =a. telonensis= (toulon).* _fl._ yellow, not crowded; racemes terminal; calyx clothed with glandless pubescence, the segments of the lower lip about equal in length, a little longer than the upper lip. june. _l._ trifoliate, grouped; branchlets smoothish. _h._ ft. to ft. south france, . deciduous. =adenophora= (from _aden_, a gland, and _phoreo_, to bear; in reference to the cylindrical nectary which girds the base of the style). ord. _campanulaceæ_. a genus of elegant hardy border perennials, very similar in habit, shape of flower, &c., to _campanula_, from which genus _adenophora_ differs in having the style surrounded by a cylindrical gland. flowers stalked, drooping, spicate. leaves broad, stalked, somewhat whorled. they grow best in light rich garden soil, with a warm sunny position, and should be increased by seeds, as dividing the roots is the sure way to lose them. they are easily raised from seeds, which may be sown as soon as ripe, or in spring, in pots placed in a cold frame. =a. coronopifolia= (buckhorn-leaved).* _fl._ blue, large, three to ten, racemose, at the top of the stem, on short pedicels. july. _l._ radical ones petiolate, ovate-roundish, cordate, crenately toothed; upper ones sessile, linear-lanceolate, nearly entire, quite glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. dahuria, . =a. denticulata= (toothed-leaved).* _fl._ blue, small, numerous, on short pedicels, disposed in a more or less loose elongated raceme. july. _l._ serrated, smoothish; radical ones petiolate, rounded; upper ones sessile, ovate-lanceolate. _h._ - / ft. dahuria, . syn. _a. tricuspidata_. =a. fischeri= (fischer's).* _fl._ blue, or whitish blue, numerous, sweet-scented, disposed in a more or less compound, elongated, and loose pyramidal panicle. august. _l._ radical ones petiolate, ovate-roundish, cordate, crenately toothed; upper ones sessile, ovate-lanceolate, coarsely serrated. _h._ - / ft. siberia, . syn. _a. liliiflora_. =a. gmelini= (gmelin's). _fl._ blue, secund, three to ten, on the top of each stem, rising from the axils of the upper leaves, disposed in a long raceme. july. _l._ upper ones erect, linear, very narrow, entire, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. dahuria, in dry stony places, . =a. intermedia= (intermediate). _fl._ pale blue, small, racemose. may. _l._ radical ones petiolate, cordate, toothed; upper ones lanceolate, tapering to a point at the base, serrated, crowded. _h._ ft. siberia, . =a. lamarckii= (lamarck's).* _fl._ blue; corolla funnel-shaped, disposed in an elongated, many-flowered, raceme, which is compound at the base. june. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acutely serrated, ciliated, glabrous, except on the margins. _h._ ft. to ft. eastern europe, . =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved). synonymous with _a. pereskiæfolia_. =a. liliiflora= (lily-flowered).* _fl._ numerous, sweet-scented, in a loose pyramidal panicle. central and eastern europe. =a. pereskiæfolia= (pereskia-leaved).* _fl._ blue, rather numerous, scattered over the upper part of the stems, rarely subverticillate; peduncles one to two, or three-flowered. july. _l._ three to five in a whorl, ovate-oblong, acuminated, coarsely serrated, roughly ciliated. _h._ - / ft. dahuria, . syn. _a. latifolia_. =a. periplocæfolia= (periploca-leaved). _fl._ pale blue, at the top of the stem, sometimes only one. june. _l._ petiolate, ovate, acute, somewhat cordate, crenately serrated. stem ascending. _h._ in. siberia, . rockery species. =a. stylosa= (long-styled).* _fl._ pale blue, small, few, disposed in a loose, naked, raceme. may. _l._ petiolate; lower ones obovate, sinuate; upper ones ovate, acuminated, glabrous. stem ascending. _h._ ft. to - / ft. eastern europe, . =a. tricuspidata= (three-cusped). synonymous with _a. denticulata_. =a. verticillata= (whorl-leaved).* _fl._ pale blue, small, irregularly disposed at the tops of the stems; lower whorls many flowered, distant; peduncles one to three-flowered. june. _l._ in whorls, serrately toothed; radical ones petiolate, roundish; upper ones ovate-lanceolate; stems simple. _h._ ft. to ft. dahuria, . =adenostoma= (from _aden_, a gland, and _stoma_, a mouth). ord. _rosaceæ_. hardy shrubs, having small racemose, five-petalled flowers. they grow freely in rich loam and peat in equal proportions. propagated in spring or autumn, by cuttings made of the young shoots, placed in sand, under glass. =a. fasciculata= (fascicled).* _fl._ white, small, produced in terminal panicles. _h._ ft. california, . a hardy, heath-like evergreen bushy plant, allied to _alchemilla_. =adesmia= (from _a_, without, _desmos_, a bond; in reference to the stamens being free). ord. _leguminosæ_. chiefly greenhouse evergreen shrubs, or trailers, from south america, with lanceolate stipulas, abruptly pinnate leaves, ending in a bristle; axillary one-flowered pedicels, or the flowers racemosely disposed at the tops of the branches, in consequence of the upper leaves being abortive. they will grow well in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. propagated by cuttings placed in sand, covered by a hand glass, in a gentle heat; or by seeds, which are generally more satisfactory. the annual species--_a. muricata_, _a. papposa_, and _a. pendula_--are not worth growing. the following are fairly representative of the most ornamental species. =a. glutinosa= (sticky).* _fl._ yellow; racemes elongated, terminal, simple, spinescent, and are (as well as the linear bracteas) clothed with white hairs. may. _l._ with about three pairs of elliptic, hairy leaflets; branches spreading, beset with glandular, glutinous hairs. stem shrubby; legumes three-jointed, very long. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. loudonii= (loudon's). _fl._ yellow. may, _h._ ft. valparaiso, . =a. microphylla= (small-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; racemes somewhat capitate, terminal, simple, spinescent. june. _l._ with six pairs of small orbicular leaflets, on short petioles, pubescent; branches spinose. stem shrubby. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. uspallatensis= (uspallatan). _fl._ yellow. july. _h._ ft. china, . =a. viscosa= (clammy). _fl._ yellow. august. _h._ ft. chili, . =adhatoda= (its native name). ord. _acanthaceæ_. allied to _justicia_. very ornamental stove shrubs, requiring a good fibrous peat and loam, with a moderate addition of silver sand. to grow them well, they require liberal treatment and plenty of heat, when the flowers will be produced in great profusion. increased by young cuttings in spring, placed in sandy soil, in bottom heat. _see_ =justicia=. =a. cydoniæfolia= (quince-leaved).* _fl._ produced in rather dense clusters at the point of every branch; tube of corolla white, the upper lip white tipped with purple; the lower lip large, rich deep purple, with a white stripe down the centre. october. _l._ opposite, ovate, dark green, and are, as well as the branches, slightly downy. brazil, . this species is an excellent subject for training up pillars or rafters; and, when in bloom, makes a pretty basket plant. it has a somewhat straggling habit, but a little care only is needed in pruning and training to grow it into an elegant shape. =a. vasica= (vasica). _fl._ purple. july. _h._ ft. india, . =adherent.= strictly signifies sticking to anything, but is more commonly employed in the sense of adnate. =adhesion.= the union of parts usually distinct. =adiantopsis.= _see_ =cheilanthes=. =adiantum= (from _adiantos_, dry, as if plunged in water it yet remains dry). maidenhair. ord. _filices_. a large genus of handsome tropical and temperate ferns. _sori_ marginal, varying in shape from globose to linear, usually numerous and distinct, sometimes confluent and continuous. involucre the same shape as the sorus, formed of the reflexed margin of the fronds, bearing the capsules on its upper side. none of the adiantums are truly hardy except the american _a. pedatum_; even our own native species requires protection. the chief requirements of this handsome genus of ferns are good drainage, and a compost of fibrous peat, loam and sand. in most cases, plenty of pot room is essential, and a larger quantity of loam will be needed for strong-growing sorts. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. =a. æmulum= (rival).* _sti._ slender, about in. long. _fronds_ slender, pyramidate, tri-subquadripinnate; pinnæ distinct, obliquely pyramidate, unequally-sided; pinnules rhomboid or oblong, tapering to the base, the terminal one distinctly cuneate, all sparingly lobate. _sori_, in. to in., circular, or nearly so. brazil, . stove or greenhouse species. =a. æthiopicum= (�thiopian).* _sti._ in. to in. long, rather slender, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, tri- or quadripinnate; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid; ultimate segments / in. to / in. across, / in. deep, suborbicular, the upper part broadly lobed; rachis and surfaces naked. _sori_ in several roundish patches. _a. chilense_ (chilian), _a. scabrum_ (scurfy), _a. sulphureum_ (sulphured) are mere forms of this species. spain, and almost cosmopolitan. a very pretty greenhouse fern. syns. _a. assimile_, _a. emarginatum_. =a. affine= (related).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ with a terminal central pinna in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, and several smaller erecto-patent lateral ones, the lowest of which are again branched; pinnules, / in. to / in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, the lower edge straight, the upper nearly parallel with it, crenate, like the oblique or bluntly rounded outer edge. _sori_ numerous, roundish. new zealand. greenhouse species. syn. _a. cunninghami_. =a. amabile= (lovely). synonymous with _a. glaucophyllum_. also a garden name for _a. moorei_. =a. am�num= (pleasing). synonymous with _a. flabellulatum_. =a. andicolum.= a synonym of _a. glaucophyllum_. =a. aneitense= (aneiteum).* _sti._ and _rachises_ castaneous, the latter glabrous beneath, ferrugino-pilose above; _fronds_ deltoid, three to four pinnate, - / ft. to ft. long, and broad; segments, about / in. long, rhomboidal, ascending, nearly sessile, inner side close to rachis, lower erecto-patent, shallowly lobed. _sori_ round, reniform, in centre of lobes, four to six to a segment. aneiteum isles, . stove or greenhouse species. =a. assimile= (assimilated). an australian form of the widely-distributed _a. æthiopicum_. =a. bausei= (bause's).* _fronds_ - / ft. to - / ft. long, spreading, triangular, tri-quadripinnate; pinnæ stalked, the lower ones obliquely triangular; pinnules broad, laterally deflexed, the basal ones obliquely ovate with a truncate base, the intermediate somewhat trapeziform, the terminal cuneate--all shallowly lobed and pedicellate. _sori_ oblong reniform, set across the apices of the lobes, . a beautiful stove or greenhouse hybrid, between _a. trapeziforme_ and _a. decorum_. =a. bellum= (handsome).* _fronds_ tufted, in. to in. high, bipinnate. ovate-lanceolate; pinnæ of three to six pinnules, / in. to - / in. long, stalked; pinnules cuneate or irregular transverse-oblong, the somewhat larger terminal ones cuneate, lobed, the margin erose, all shortly stalked. _sori_ two to three on the smaller pinnules, roundish, or sublunate. bermuda, . greenhouse or wardian case species. =a. capillus-veneris= (venus's hair).* common maidenhair. _sti._ sub-erect, rather slender, in. to in. long. _fronds_ very variable in size, with short terminal and numerous erecto-patent lateral branches on each side, the lowest slightly branched again; segments / in. to in. broad, deeply lobed, and the lobes again bluntly crenated. _sori_ placed in roundish sinuses of the crenation. great britain, and world-wide in its distribution. greenhouse, case, or frame species. =a. c.-v. cornubiense= (cornish).* _fronds_ very numerous, and dwarf, more or less oblong in general outline, with large, broad pinnules of a deep green, with finely-waved margins, and an almost pellucid, but firm texture. one of the best forms, but somewhat delicate in constitution. =a. c.-v. crispulum= (crisped).* _fronds_, with the stipes, from in. to in. long, more attenuated than those of the type, and narrower at the base; pinnules less numerous, but broad and thin, crisp, of a light green colour, more or less cut at the broadest part. a handsome variety, of vigorous growth. [illustration: fig. . adiantum capillus-veneris daphnites.] =a. c.-v. daphnites= (glistening).* _sti._ and _rachises_ dark brown, reaching a height of from in. to in. pinnæ and ultimate pinnules more or less confluent, the latter being broad, and of a dull green colour, usually forming a tufted crest at the extremities of the fronds. a charming subject for the wardian case. very distinct. see fig. . =a. c.-v. fissum= (divided). very dwarf in habit, with pinnules rather broader than those of the type, which are deeply and variously cut, so as to give the plant a distinctive appearance from most of the forms. =a. c.-v. footi= (foot's). closely allied to the variety _fissum_, having fronds a foot or more long, with very ample pinnules deeply incised, light green. vigorous. =a. c.-v. incisum= (deeply cut). very closely allied to _a. c.-v. fissum_, but rather more vigorous in growth; pinnules broad, and deeply slit into segments near the base. =a. c.-v. magnificum= (magnificent).* _fronds_ from in. to in. long, more or less elongated in outline, in. to in. across; pinnules ample, rich green, with the margins finely cut and imbricated. the arching character gives this form a most distinct appearance. a very fine variety. =a. c.-v. rotundum= (rounded). pinnules usually round, without the cuneiform base of the normal form; neither are the fronds so broad. isle of man. variable in its habit. =a. c.-v. undulatum= (wavy).* _fronds_ dense, compact, having broad, roundish dark green pinnules, which are undulated at the edges. an elegant dwarf-growing form. =a. cardiochlæna= (heart-form indusium). a synonym of _a. polyphyllum_. =a. caudatum= (tailed).* _sti._ in. to in. long, tufted, wiry. _fronds_ in. to in. long, simply pinnate, often elongated, and rooting at the extremity; pinnæ about / in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, nearly sessile, the lower line straight and horizontal, the upper rounded, more or less cut, the point usually blunt, the lower ones slightly stalked. _sori_ roundish or transversely oblong on the edge of the lobes; _rachis_ and both sides of the frond villose. _a. ciliatum_ (of gardens) is probably a mere form, if not a synonym, of this species. throughout the tropics everywhere. greenhouse or stove species; very fine for hanging baskets. =a. colpodes= (deep hollow).* _sti._ in. to in. long, slender, slightly fibrillose. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, tripinnate, light green; lower pinnæ spreading at right angles from the rachis, in. to in. long, - / in. broad, slightly branched below; ultimate segments about / in. long, / in. broad, the lower line often straight, the upper rounded, lobed, and toothed, all nearly or quite sessile. _sori_ placed in distinct teeth of the outer edge. ecuador and peru, . greenhouse species. =a. concinnum= (neat).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, tripinnate; pinnæ numerous, spreading, flexuous, the lowest in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; segments / in. to / in. across, broadly cuneate at the base, the upper edge irregularly rounded, deeply lobed, the lobes crenate, the lowest segment of each pinna and pinnule large, sessile. _sori_ numerous, ob-reniform. tropical america. a most elegant species for baskets and the rockery. =a. c. flemingi= (fleming's). this variety, of garden origin, is also very handsome. =a. c. latum= (broad).* differs from the type in being more erect and robust in habit, and broader in all its parts. it constitutes an excellent stove plant. =a. crenatum= (crenated).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ with a terminal central pinna in. to in. long and several large erecto-patent lateral ones on each side, the lowest of which are branched again; segments about / in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, the lower line upcurved, the upper nearly straight, slightly crenate. _sori_ numerous, round, placed on the upper and sometimes outer edge. this is closely allied to _a. tetraphyllum_. mexico. stove species. syn. _a. wilesianum_. [illustration: fig. . adiantum decorum.] =a. cristatum= (crested). _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect, tomentose. _fronds_ - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, with a terminal central pinna in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, and numerous rather distant lateral ones on each side, the lowest of which are sometimes again branched; segments / in. to / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, dimidiate, the lower line nearly straight, the upper nearly parallel or rounded, the point blunt. _sori_ in several oblong or linear patches. west indies and venezuela, . stove species. syn. _a. kunzeanum_. =a. cubense= (cuba).* _sti._ in. to in. long, nearly black, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, or with a single pair of short branches; pinnæ in. to in. long, and about / in. to in. broad, unilateral, the lower line slightly recurved, the upper rounded and broadly lobed, of a deep green colour, with a soft herbaceous texture. _sori_ in hollows of the lobes. cuba and jamaica. a very distinct stove species. =a. cuneatum= (wedge-shaped).* _sti._ in. to in. long, slender, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, tri- or quadripinnate; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; segments numerous, / in. to / in. broad, cuneate at the base, the upper edge deeply lobed. _sori_ four to six, obversely reniform. brazil, . this fine greenhouse species is more generally grown than any other; and a number of garden forms have received distinctive names. =a. c. dissectum= (dissected).* a pretty variety, with the pinnules more deeply lobed than in the type. =a. c. lawsonianum= (lawson's). this is a very abnormal form, curiously and finely cut, with the ultimate segments narrowly cuneate at the base, stalked, and distant. of garden origin. greenhouse variety. =a. c. mundulum= (neat).* _sti._ in. to in. high. _fronds_ dwarf, tufted, erect, hardly in. broad, deltoid, tripinnate; pinnæ and pinnules crowded; pinnules narrowly cuneate, rarely three-parted, with narrow wedge-shaped lobes; apex slightly crenate, and bears a roundish sorus set in a notch of the lobe or crenature. of garden origin, . greenhouse variety. =a. cunninghami= (cunningham's). synonymous with _a. affine_. =a. curvatum= (curved).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ dichotomous, with main divisions again once or twice forked; pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules - / in. to - / in. long, about / in. deep, not truly dimidiate, but only the lower two-thirds of the under half cut away, the upper margin rounded and broadly lobed, with the lobes finely toothed and point often lengthened out. _sori_ linear, or transversely oblong. tropical america, . stove species. =a. decorum= (decorous).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ sub-deltoid, in. to in. long, three to four pinnate; lower pinnæ and pinnules stalked, deltoid; side segments rhomboid, / in. to / in. long; outer edge distinctly lobed; lower segments equilateral, imbricated over main rachis. _sori_ round, in final lobes, four to six to a segment. this greenhouse species ranks midway between _a. concinnum_ and _a. cuneatum_. peru. syn. _a. wagneri_. see fig. . =a. deltoideum= (deltoid).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long, wiry, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. broad, with a terminal lobe and numerous sub-opposite pinnæ, the lower ones distant, distinctly stalked, / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, hastate-deltoid, cordate or cuneate at the base. _sori_ in interrupted lines along the sides of the pinnæ. west indian islands. stove species. [illustration: fig. . adiantum diaphanum.] =a. diaphanum= (transparent).* _sti._ in. to in. long, slender, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, simply pinnate, or with one to three branches at the base; pinnules / in. long, / in. broad, the lower line rather decurved, the upper nearly parallel with it, crenate like the blunt outer edge. _sori_ obversely reniform, numerous. s.e. china, new zealand, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _a. setulosum_. see fig. . =a. digitatum= (finger-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to ft. in. broad, furnished with numerous distant spreading or erecto-patent branches, gradually shortened upwards, the lowest of which are branched again; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; segments / in. to in. each way, varying from deflexed to cuneate at the base, the upper edge rounded, deeply cut, and the lobes again less deeply cut, the lower ones distinctly stalked. _sori_ in lines along the edge of the lobes. peru. it is generally cultivated under the name of _a. speciosum_. stove or greenhouse species. =a. dolabriforme= (axe-shaped). synonymous with _a. lunulatum_. =a. dolosum= (deceiving). synonymous with _a. wilsoni_. =a. edgworthii= (edgeworth's).* this differs from _caudatum_ by having more membranous texture, glabrous surfaces, and sub-entire pinnæ. himalaya and china. =a. emarginatum= (notched at the end). synonymous with _a. æthiopicum_. =a. excisum= (bluntly cut).* _sti._ in. to in. long, wiry, densely tufted. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with numerous flexuose short pinnæ on each side, the lowest of which are slightly branched again; segments two to three lines broad, cuneate at the base, the upper edge rounded and bluntly lobed. _sori_ two to four, large, obversely reniform, placed in distinct hollows on the lobes. chili. =a. e. leyi= (ley's).* this is a very dwarf, copiously crested form, of garden origin, most suitable for case culture. greenhouse variety. =a. e. multifidum= (much-cut).* a handsome garden variety; the apex of every frond is frequently divided into several branches, which oftentimes are again divided and crested, thus forming a beautiful tassel in. to in. long. greenhouse species. =a. feei= (fee's).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, scandent. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad, tripinnate, the main and secondary rachises zigzag, all the branches firm and spreading at a right angle; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules in. to in. long, / in. broad, consisting of a terminal segment and several distant suborbicular-cuneate lateral ones. _sori_ marginal, roundish, more than half line deep. tropical america. stove species. syn. _a. flexuosum_. =a. flabellulatum= (small fan-leaved).* _sti._ erect, strong. _fronds_ dichotomously branched, and the divisions once or twice branched again; central pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. broad; pinnules about / in. broad and deep, dimidiate, the lower edge nearly straight, the upper rounded, the outer blunt, both entire or slightly toothed. _sori_ in several transversely oblong notches. tropical asia. stove species. syn. _a. am�num_. =a. flexuosum= (zigzagly-bent). synonymous with _a. feei_. =a. formosum= (beautiful).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bi-, tri-, or quadripinnate; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid; pinnules deltoid; ultimate segments / in. to / in. broad, one and a half to two lines deep, dimidiate, the lower edge straight, the upper and outer rather rounded and deeply lobed, the lower ones distinctly stalked. _sori_ numerous, between obreniform and transversely oblong. australia, . greenhouse species. =a. fovearum.= synonymous with _a. intermedium_. =a. fulvum= (tawny).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid in general outline, with a terminal pinna in. to in. long, about - / in. broad, and several erecto-patent branches, the lower of which are branched again; pinnules about / in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, the lower edge nearly straight, the upper almost parallel, sharply toothed like the oblique outer edge. _sori_ large, numerous. new zealand. greenhouse species. =a. ghiesbreghti= (ghiesbreght's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, ovate, deltoid, tripinnate; pinnules large, slightly crenate on the margins. a very fine stove fern, with the habit of _a. tenerum farleyense_, but less dense. it is undoubtedly a variety of _tenerum_, having originated in mr. williams's nursery some years since. syn. _a. scutum_. =a. glaucophyllum= (grey-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, quadripinnate; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, erecto-patent; segments / in. broad, cuneate at the base, the upper edge irregularly rounded, more or less lobed. _sori_ four to six, obversely reniform, placed in distinct hollows in the apex of the lobes of the upper edge, deep green above, glaucous beneath. closely allied to _a. cuneatum_. mexico. greenhouse. syns. _a. amabile_, _a. andicolum_, _a. mexicanum_. =a. gracillimum= (most graceful).* _fronds_ deltoidly ovate, in. to in. long, and in. to in. across, decompound, rich green; ultimate pinnules distant, minute, distinctly stalked, obovate, emarginate, or two to three lobed, the sterile lobes blunt. _sori_ solitary on the entire pinnules, two to three on the larger lobed ones. one of the most graceful and beautiful of greenhouse ferns; the very numerous minute segments and the ramifications of the rachis impart to a well grown plant a very charming appearance. of garden origin. a form of _a. cuneatum_. =a. henslovianum= (henslow's).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate, tripinnate, furnished with numerous distant pinnæ on each side, the upper of which are simple, but the lowest slightly branched; segments / in. to / in. broad, / in. to / in. deep, dimidiate, the lower line nearly straight, the upper rather rounded and lobed, the point bluntly rounded. _sori_ obversely reniform, placed in the hollows of the lobes. columbia, peru, &c., . a most distinct and beautiful stove species. syns. _a. lætum_, _a. reichenbachii_, _a. sessilifolium_. =a. hewardia= (heward's). _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ simply pinnate or bipinnate, with a terminal pinna and two to four lateral ones on each side, the lowest pair of which sometimes with two to four pinnules each; pinnules in. to in. long, about in. broad, nearly equal sided, ovate lanceolate, nearly entire. _sori_ in continuous lines along both edges. jamaica, &c., occurring over a wide area. stove species. syn. _hewardia adiantoides_. =a. hispidulum= (hairyish).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ dichotomous, with the main divisions flabellately branched; central pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad; pinnules / in. to / in. long, two to four lines broad, dimidiate, subrhomboidal, the outer edge bluntly rounded, upper and outer margin finely toothed, slightly stalked. _sori_ roundish, numerous, contiguous. tropics of old world, . greenhouse. syn. _a. pubescens_. =a. intermedium= (intermediate). _sti._ in. to in. long, erect, strong. _fronds_ with a terminal pinna in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, and one to three small spreading lateral ones on each side; pinnules in. to - / in. long; / in. to / in. broad, unequal sided, but not dimidiate, the point bluntish or acute, the inner edge nearly parallel with the stem, the upper nearly straight, scarcely toothed. _sori_ in interrupted marginal patches, one to two lines across, placed round the upper and lower edges. stove. tropical america, from the antilles southwards to peru and rio janeiro, . syns. _a. fovearum_, _a. triangulatum_. =a. kunzeanum= (kunze's). synonymous with _a. cristatum_. =a. lætum= (joyful). synonymous with _a. henslovianum_. =a. lathomi= (lathom's).* a garden variety, said to be a sport from _a. ghiesbreghti_, which it closely resembles, being between it and _a. farleyense_. it is a magnificent plant, producing _fronds_ from in. to in. long, with imbricated deeply-cut pinnules. stove variety. =a. legrandi= (legrand's). very closely allied to, if not identical with, _a. pecottei_. greenhouse variety, of garden origin. =a. lindeni= (linden's).* _sti._ black, naked. _fronds_ erect, large, pentagonal, tripinnate; rachises pubescent above, naked beneath; segments sub-distant, - / in. long, oblong-rhomboidal, falcate, acuminate, outer margins closely but bluntly lobed, of a deep green colour, the lobes toothed. _sori_ oblong or reniform. amazons, . a magnificent stove species. =a. lucidum= (shiny).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, with a large terminal pinna and six to ten lateral ones on each side, or the lowest very slightly branched, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, nearly equal sided, lanceolate acuminate, slightly serrated towards the point. _sori_ in a continuous row along each side. west indian islands and tropical america. stove species. [illustration: fig. . adiantum luddemannianum.] =a. luddemannianum= (luddemann's).* a very striking variety of the common maidenhair, _a. capillus-veneris_, of garden origin, with smooth, dark, almost black stipes, branching about a third of the way up, while the pinnules are crested, usually clustered, at the extremities of the branches, of a deep green, sub-glaucous character. it is a very elegant little greenhouse variety. see fig. . =a. lunulatum= (crescent-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, tufted, wiry. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate; pinnæ / in. to in. broad, / in. to in. deep, sub-dimidiate, the lower edge nearly in a line with the petiole, the upper edge rounded and, like the sides, usually more or less lobed. _sori_ in continuous lines along the edge. hongkong, &c., widely distributed in both hemispheres. stove species. syn. _a. dolabriforme_. =a. macrocladum= (long-branched). synonymous with _a. polyphyllum_. =a. macrophyllum= (long-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect, nearly black. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate; the lower pinnæ of the barren frond in. to in. long, in. broad, ovate, so broad at the base that the opposite ones frequently overlap, the margin rather deeply lobed; fertile ones narrower. _sori_ in long continuous, or slightly interrupted, marginal lines. tropical america, . one of the finest stove species in cultivation. =a. macropterum= (long-winged). synonymous with _a. wilsoni_. =a. mexicanum= (mexican). synonymous with _a. glaucophyllum_. =a. microphyllum= (short-leaved). a synonym of _a. venustum_. =a. monochlamys= (one-covered).* _sti._ in. to in. long, wiry, erect, dark, chestnut brown; _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, tripinnate, the pinnæ rather distantly placed; segments / in. broad, cuneate at the base, the upper edge rounded, slightly toothed, of a light green colour, with a firm texture. _sori_ single, or very rarely two, in a hollow of the upper edge. japan. a very distinct and pretty greenhouse species. =a. monosorum= (uni-soriate). a pretty species, from solomon islands, not yet in cultivation. =a. moorei= (moore's).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ deltoid, in. to in. long, two to three pinnate; side segments about / in. long, rhomboid, lower edge deflexed from tip of pedicel, outer lobed half way down. _sori_ round, placed in tip of lobes. andes of peru. stove or greenhouse species. syn. _a. amabile_, under which name it is frequently grown. =a. moritzianum= (moritz's). this appears to be a stronger, more robust grower (fronds from in. to in. high), with thicker stipes and larger pinnules than the typical _a. capillus-veneris_. south america. greenhouse species. =a. neoguineense= (new guinea).* _sti._ in. to in. long, chestnut brown, erect. _fronds_ spreading, deltoid, tri-quadripinnate, dark olive green with a glaucous tinge on both surfaces; pinnæ ovate; terminal pinnules cuneate, lateral ones trapezoid, about / in. long, crenately lobed, the lobes rather large, entire. _sori_ small, in. to in., orbicular, entirely sunk in closed sinuses of the marginal lobes. new guinea, . a very charming stove species. =a. obliquum= (oblique). _sti._ in. to in. long, erect, wiry, pubescent. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with a terminal lobe and three to twelve pairs of alternate pinnæ, the lowest in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, costate nearly to the apex, the upper half the largest, rounded at the base, the lower half obliquely truncate at the base, those of the barren frond slightly toothed. _sori_ in numerous interrupted marginal patches, one to two lines broad. west indies, &c., . stove species. =a. palmatum= (palmate).* _fronds_ with elongated zigzag rachises, elongate-oblong, narrowed to the apex, tripinnate, often reaching - / ft. long, in. broad; pinnules distinct; ultimate segments large, smooth, distant, distinctly stipitate, varying from obovate wedge-shaped to semi-orbicular in outline, but all deeply, palmately cut, in. to - / in. broad. _sori_ oblong, variable in length, situate at the tips of the segments, usually one to each. this is a very beautiful and graceful stove or greenhouse species. peru, . =a. patens= (spreading). _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ dichotomously divided and the branches once or twice divided again; central pinnæ in. to in. long, - / in. broad; pinnules / in. to / in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, the two sides nearly parallel, the upper and outer ones broadly and bluntly lobed. _sori_ placed round the upper and outer edge, obversely reniform. brazil, &c., . stove species. =a. pecottei= (pecot's).* this is a charming little variety, of garden origin, with short decompound fronds, imbricated segments, comparatively large, of a deep green colour, and likely to prove one of the most useful maidenhair ferns grown. =a. pedatum= (pedate).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect, polished. _fronds_ dichotomous, with the main divisions flabellately branched; central pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad; pinnules / in. to / in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, broadest on the side nearest the stem, the upper and outer margin lobed, shortly stalked. _sori_ roundish, one to two lines broad. north hindostan, the united states, &c. hardy species. see fig. . =a. peruvianum= (peruvian).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ simply pinnate, or with one to three branches at the base, some of the latter sometimes again slightly divided; pinnules in. or more broad, - / in. deep, unequally ovate, cuneate at base, finely toothed and lobed round the upper and outer edge. _sori_ in interrupted patches round the sides of the pinnules. peru. this is one of the finest of the large growing, evergreen stove kinds. =a. polyphyllum= (many-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, the upper part simply pinnate; lower pinnæ sometimes ft. long; in. broad, with a long terminal and numerous lateral pinnules; segments / in. to in. long, / in. deep, dimidiate, with nearly parallel edges, the point obtuse, the upper edge sharply toothed. _sori_ in numerous sub-orbicular patches, placed in hollows in lobes along the upper edge. columbia. a magnificent stove species. syns. _a. cardiochlæna_ and _a. macrocladum_. =a. populifolium= (poplar-leaved). a synonym of _a. seemanni_. =a. princeps= (princely).* _sti._ in. to in. long, stout, nearly erect. _fronds_ large, in. to in. long, in. to in. across the base, deltoid, pendent, quadripinnate, pale greyish; lower pinnæ obliquely elongate, triangular, the posterior side tripinnate, the anterior bipinnate; upper ones pinnate, with a large cuneately flabellate terminal pinnule, apex of fronds pinnate; pinnules in. long, / in. broad, roundish rhomboidal or shortly trapeziform, shortly stalked; basal margin entire, slightly concave, the anterior margins and apex lobate, the lobes serrulate in the sterile parts, and, where fertile, bearing each a concave sorus, so that the lobes appear two-horned. new grenada, . a magnificent stove species. =a. prionophyllum= (saw-leaved). synonymous with _a. tetraphyllum_. =a. pubescens= (downy). synonymous with _a. hispidulum_. =a. pulverulentum= (covered with powder).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect; _fronds_ with a terminal pinna and several spreading lateral ones on each side, which are in. to in. long, in. broad; pinnules / in. long, one and a half to two lines deep, dimidiate, the lower line nearly straight, the upper one nearly parallel, both it and the outer edge finely toothed. _sori_ in a continuous line along the lower and upper edges. west indies, &c. stove species. [illustration: fig. . adiantum pedatum.] =a. reichenbachii= (reichenbach's). synonymous with _a. henslovianum_. =a. reniforme= (kidney-shaped).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ simple, orbicular, reniform, of a deep green colour, - / in. to - / in. across, with usually a broad, open sinus. _sori_ all around the edge, one and a half to three lines broad. madeira, &c., . greenhouse species. =a. r. asarifolium= (asarum-leaved). a rather larger growing variety of above species. =a. rhomboideum= (rhomboid). s. america, . probably identical with _a. villosum_. =a. rubellum= (reddish).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, deltoid, bipinnate; uppermost side of the pinnules cuneate, flabellate, nearly sessile, entire; lower rhomboid / in. long, with lower border in a line with petiole, or rather decurved, inner produced over rachis, outer deeply lobed and finely toothed; end and lowest pinnules deltoid, / in. broad. _sori_ round, placed in the tips of the lobes. this pretty species is purplish crimson when in a young state, changing to light green with age, but even then tinged with pink. allied to _a. tinctum_ and _a. decorum_. bolivia, . greenhouse species. =a. scutum= (shield). synonymous with _a. ghiesbreghti_. =a. seemanni= (seemann's).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, simply pinnate or the lower pinnæ compound; pinnæ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, ovate, acuminate; but rather unequally sided, the barren ones finely serrated, one side usually cordate at the base, the other obliquely truncate, petioles of the lowest, nearly an inch long. _sori_ in long continuous marginal lines. this is a very fine and distinct stove species. central america, . syns. _a. populifolium_, _a. zahnii_ (of gardens). =a. sessilifolium= (sessile-leaved). synonymous with _a. henslovianum_. =a. setulosum= (bristly). synonymous with _a. diaphanum_. =a. speciosum= (showy). synonymous with _a. digitatum_. =a. subvolubile= (somewhat twining). _fronds_ subscandent, ft. to ft. long, oblong, tripinnate, in. to in. broad, with naked glossy castaneous stipes and zigzag rachises; central pinnæ lanceolate, with a few short spreading pinnules; side pinnules rhomboidal, about / in. long, lower edge in a line with petiole, or deflexed, inner end touching or wrapped over rachis, outer shallowly lobed; lowest pinnules equilateral, much wrapped over rachis. _sori_ minute, round, six to twelve to a segment. e. peru. stove species. =a. tenerum= (tender).* _sti._ ft. or more high, erect. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, tri- or quadripinnate; segments / in. to / in. broad, cuneate or tending towards rhomboidal, dimidiate in shape, the upper edge rounder or somewhat angular, broadly and deeply lobed, all stalked. _sori_ placed in numerous roundish patches in the lobes of the upper half. mexico, &c., widely distributed. stove species. =a. t. farleyense= (farley's).* a subfertile, subcristate variety of the foregoing; but, is, nevertheless, one of the most magnificent of adiantums. it is nearly always known under the name of _a. farleyense_. barbados, . stove variety. =a. tetraphyllum= (four-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ nearly as broad as long, with a terminal pinna in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, and numerous spreading lateral ones; segments / in. to / in. broad, / in. deep, subdimidiate, the lower line straight or somewhat decurved, the upper nearly parallel, finely toothed, the outer oblique. _sori_ interrupted, marginal. tropical america. stove species. syn. _a. prionophyllum_. =a. t. hendersoni= (henderson's). a stove variety with small blunt pinnules. =a. tinctum= (tinted).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, deltoid, bipinnate; side pinnules rhomboid, three to four lines long, lower edge straight, inner parallel with rachis, or just wrapped over it, outer shallowly, bluntly lobed; lower pinnules equilateral, imbricated over main rachis; surfaces glabrous, when young of a delicate rose red colour, changing to a bright green. _sori_ round, placed in final lobes. tropical america. stove or greenhouse species. =a. trapeziforme= (rhomb-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, with a central pinna in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, and two to four large spreading ones on each side, the lowest of which are often branched again; segments - / in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, dimidiate, the sides nearly parallel, the outer edge oblique, both it and the upper one bluntly lobed, the lowest on stalks / in. to / in. long. _sori_ numerous, contiguous, placed round the upper and outer edge. west indies, . stove species. =a. t. cultratum= (sharpened).* outer edge of the segment bluntly rounded. =a. t. pentadactylon= (five-fingered). lower margin of the segments somewhat decurved obliquely from the petiole. =a. t. sanctæ catherinæ= (of gardens).* this is a deeply cut, rather copiously divided variety of _a. trapeziforme_. =a. t. s. c. funcki= (funck's).* a deeply lobed, drooping variety, of garden origin. =a. triangulatum= (triangle-leaved). synonymous with _a. intermedium_. =a. varium= (various). probably identical with _a. villosum_. =a. veitchianum= (veitch's).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, deltoid, bipinnate in lower half, reddish when young; side pinnules rhomboid, about / in. long, lower border straight, more or less deflexed from tip of pedicel, inner distant from rachis, upper and outer shallowly lobed; end segments / in. to / in. broad, equilateral, rounded in upper, deltoid in lower half. _sori_ eight to ten to a segment, round, minute. peruvian andes, . a very elegant and distinct stove species. =a. velutinum= (velvety).* _sti._ as long as fronds, slightly velvety. _fronds_ deltoid, - / ft. to ft. long, three to four pinnate; rachises densely pubescent on both sides; pinnæ in. to in. long; segments twenty to thirty-jugate, sub-sessile, sub-rhomboidal, in. long, / in. broad, lower border decurved, outer blunt or sub-acute, upper straight, shallowly, bluntly lobed. _sori_ straight, one to one and a half lines long at tips of lobes of upper edge, four to six to a segment. columbia, . a magnificent stove species. =a. venustum= (charming).* _sti._ in. to in. long, wiry, erect, glossy. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, tri-quadripinnate; ultimate segments about / in. across, cuneate at the base, the upper edge rounded, and usually finely toothed, of a light green colour, with a firm texture. _sori_ one to three, roundish; in hollows of the upper edge. himalayas, up to ft. greenhouse or frame, nearly hardy in sheltered places. syn. _a. microphyllum_. =a. villosum= (hairy stalked).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect. _fronds_ with a terminal central and several spreading pinnæ on each side, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; pinnules dimidiate, about in. long, / in. broad, the lower line nearly straight, the upper edge nearly parallel with it, but considerably larger, slightly toothed, and the outer edge auriculed at the base. _sori_ in a continuous line round the upper and outer edge. west indies, &c., . stove species. =a. wagneri= (wagner's). synonymous with _a. decorum_. =a. wilesianum= (wiles's). synonymous with _a. crenatum_. =a. williamsii= (williams's).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, tripinnate, triangular; pinnæ ovate, distant, pinnules sub-rotund, slightly trapeziform, the basal line rather concave, the margin entire or slightly undulated, or divided into three to four lobes, crenately notched between the _sori_, the sterile portions with an erose diaphanous margin. _sori_ eight to ten, elongate reniform or lunate, occupying the whole of the semicircular outer edge. mountains of peru, . in a young state, the stipes and fronds are dusted with a yellow powder. this is one of the most beautiful of the maidenhair ferns. greenhouse species. =a. wilsoni= (wilson's).* _sti._ in. to in. long, erect. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, with a large terminal pinna and two to six sub-sessile lateral ones on each side, which are in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate or ovate-lanceolate, acuminate, nearly entire. _sori_ in continuous lines along both edges. jamaica. stove species. syns. _a. dolosum_, _a. macropterum_. =a. zahnii= (zahn's). synonymous with _a. seemanni_. =adike.= a synonym of =pilea= (which _see_). =adina= (from _adinos_, crowded; in reference to the flowers being disposed in heads). ord. _rubiaceæ_. a very pretty evergreen cool stove shrub, with opposite terete branches, and solitary, axillary peduncles. it thrives in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat. propagated by cuttings, inserted in a rich, loamy soil, under a hand glass, in heat. =a. globifera= (globe-bearing).* _fl._ yellowish, sessile, crowded, collected into globose heads; corolla funnel-shaped; peduncles axillary, rarely terminal, solitary. july. _l._ lanceolate, glabrous, longer than the peduncles. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . =adlumia= (from _adlumino_, to fringe with purple; flowers bordered with purple). ord. _fumariaceæ_. an interesting, delicate, and nearly hardy climber from north america. flowers with four spongy, cohering petals. a warm, good soil is most suitable; sow seeds about may in a shady spot. it is a biennial, but in favourable spots is self-sowing, and thus may be treated as a perennial. if placed either against a wall or in the open it is a pretty subject for trailing over a shrub or twiggy branch. from its fragile character, it can only be seen to the best advantage under glass. =a. cirrhosa= (tendrilled).* _fl._ pale rose-coloured, about / in. long; peduncles axillary, generally four-flowered. june. _l._ triply pinnate, pale green. _h._ ft. . the maidenhair fern-like leaves are borne in profusion on the slender twining stems. syn. _corydalis fungosa_. =adnate.= grown to anything by the whole surface; anthers are said to be adnate when they are attached to the filaments by their whole length. =adonis= (name of classical derivation). ord. _ranunculaceæ_. handsome hardy herbaceous plants. flowers solitary, terminal; petals five to fifteen. leaves divided into numerous linear segments. some of the annuals are much inferior to the perennial species. the latter section constitute very ornamental subjects for rockwork, borders, margins of shrubberies, &c. all the species will grow freely in common soil, and are propagated by seeds. the perennials may be divided at the root. =a. æstivalis= (summer).* pheasant's eye. _fl._ deep crimson; petals flat, oblong, obtuse, one-half longer than the calyx. june. stem almost simple, elongated. _h._ ft. south europe, . annual. see figs. and . =a. autumnalis= (autumnal).* pheasant's eye; red morocco. _fl._ of an intense blood-red, with a black centre, rarely pale, globose from the six to eight concave conniving petals, which are scarcely larger than the calyx. may. stems branched. _h._ ft. britain. annual. =a. pyrenaica= (pyrenean).* _fl._ almost sessile, yellow; petals eight to ten, smaller and more obtuse than in _a. vernalis_. july. _l._, lower ones on long stalks, with trifid petioles and many-parted segments; upper ones sessile, multifid, with linear very entire lobules. stem ft. or more high, and usually much branched. pyrenees, . perennial. [illustration: fig. . flower of adonis �stivalis.] =a. vernalis= (spring).* _fl._ yellow, large; petals, ten to twelve, oblong, rather denticulated. march. _l._ lower ones abortive, or reduced to somewhat sheathing scales, the middle and upper ones sessile and multifid, with very entire lobes. _h._ in. to ft. europe, . charming rock plant. this handsome species requires a rich moist sandy loam, and should not be disturbed for years. perennial. [illustration: fig. . adonis �stivalis, showing habit and flowers.] =a. v. sibirica= (siberian) differs only in having larger flowers. =a. volgensis= (volga). an intermediate species between _a. vernalis_ and _a. pyrenaica_, differing from the first in the stems being branched, leaves more distant; from the last by the lower leaves being abortive, and formed like scales; and from both in the sepals being pubescent on the outside, not smooth. _fl._ yellow. _h._ ft. russia, . =adpressed.= brought into close contact with anything without adhering. =adult.= the full grown of anything. full grown leaves are termed adult. =adventitious.= developed in an unusual position. applied to buds, roots, &c. =adventure bay pine.= _see_ _phyllocladus rhomboidalis_. =adverse.= opposite. =�chmea= (from _aichme_, a point; in reference to the rigid points on the calyces, or flower-envelopes). including _pironneaua_. ord. _bromeliaceæ_. very handsome stove plants. flowers scapose, panicled; perianth six-cleft, three outer segments sepaloid, longer than the three inner or petaloid ones. leaves ligulate or sword-shaped, sometimes with marginal spines. the species thrive best in a well-drained compost of rich fibrous loam and leaf mould. they like plenty of light, which may be afforded by standing them on inverted pots, so as to raise their heads well up above the surrounding plants. propagation: when the flower-spikes, which are sent up from the heart or crown of the plant, die away, suckers or offsets are produced near the base, and from these other flowers appear the year after. if large plants are desired, these suckers should be left to grow and spread around; but to produce single plants, the suckers must be taken off and potted singly, in sharp soil, and then stood where they can get a moist heat till rooted. to enable them to do this it is necessary to strip off a few of the lower leaves, and trim the bottom with a sharp knife, in order that it may heal over and callus more readily than it otherwise would. when rooted, the plants may be shifted into larger-sized pots; but for single crowns -sized pots are large enough, as the plants, being epiphytal in their nature, do not require much soil or any great supply of water, except when growing freely or sending up their flower-spikes. in winter, they should be kept rather on the dry side, to induce partial rest; and an important point is to see that water is not allowed to lie for any length of time in the crown of the plant, as when that is the case it is likely to cause them to rot. [illustration: fig. . �chmea fulgens.] =�. calyculata= (calycled).* _fl._ bright yellow, tubular, with red bracts, borne in close roundish heads at the top of an erect scape. _l._ strap-shaped, with the ends having the appearance of being cut off, but armed with a sharp spine. _h._ in. brazil, . syn. _hoplophytum calyculatum_. =�. c�lestis= (heavenly blue).* _fl._ sky-blue, in close pyramidal panicles, on erect snipes. winter. _l._ ligulate, concave, spiny-edged, scaly beneath. brazil, . syn. _hoplophytum c�leste_. =�. c�rulescens= (bluish). _fl._ bluish. _h._ ft. south america, . this pretty species is very attractive on account of the large dense head of deep blue and pure white berries which are produced in october. syn. _lamprococcus c�rulescens_. =�. discolor= (two-coloured-leaved).* _fl._ scarlet, borne on a loose, branched panicle. june. _l._ broad, minutely toothed on the margin, deep green above, and rather purplish beneath. _h._ ft. brazil, . =�. distichantha= (two-ranked-flowered).* _fl._ sepals rose-coloured; petals bright purple; spikes densely clothed with bright red bracts. _l._ long, glaucous, linear-oblong, tapering to a sharp point, and distinctly armed with reddish brown spines. _h._ ft. south brazil, . syn. _billbergia polystachya_. =�. exudans= (exuding). _fl._ orange-coloured (exuding a white greasy substance, whence the specific name) interspersed with green bracts; scape erect, with scattered crimson lanceolate bracts, terminating in a dense head. _l._ oblong, spine-margined, grey-coated. _h._ ft. west indies, . syn. _hohenbergia capitata_. =�. fasciata= (banded).* _fl._ scape upright, clothed with leafy bracts of a rosy-pink colour; each of the pink blossoms in the dense conical head is subtended by a narrow, spiny-edged, similarly-coloured bract, longer than its own. _l._ broad, recurved, banded with white. rio janeiro, . syn. _billbergia fasciata_. lasts in perfection for a considerable length of time. =�. fulgens= (glowing).* _fl._ deep rich red, with a bluish tip, fifty or more in a large branching panicle; scape stout, erect, scarlet. august, september. _l._ somewhat sword-shaped, terminating rather abruptly. cayenne, . see fig. . =�. furstenbergi= (furstenberg's). _fl._ rose; flower spike dense, with overlapping showy pink bracts. _l._ tufted, linear, spinous at the edge, recurved. _h._ ft. bahia, . =�. glomerata= (glomerate).* _fl._ violet; scape erect, stout, in. to in. high, with glomerate branches of crowded blood-red bracts. _l._ oblong-ligulate, cuspidate, about in. long, dull green; margin with short wide-set spines. bahia, . syn. _hohenbergia erythrostachys_. =�. hystrix= (bristly).* _fl._ in very dense, oblong spikes; floral leaves and bracts scarlet. february. _l._ densely crowded, ascending, linear lanceolate, saw-toothed. _h._ - / ft. cayenne, . =�. legrelliana= (legrell's). a synonym of _portea legrelliana_. =�. lindeni= (linden's). _fl._ yellow, in dense terminal heads, with lanceolate red bracts, shorter than the flowers. _l._ linear-oblong, rounded, apiculate; margins saw-toothed; habit tufted. _h._ ft. south brazil, . =�. mariæ reginæ= (queen maria's).* _fl._ tipped with blue, changing to salmon colour with age, arranged compactly upon the upper portion of the spike; scape erect, about ft. high; half the length is clothed with large boat-shaped bracts, some in. long, intensely rich rose-pink. june, july. _l._ in. long, with a tufted habit. costa rica, . this is perhaps the best species. =�. melinoni= (melinon's). _fl._ bright scarlet, tipped with pink, cylindric; panicle dense, terminal. _l._ oblong, leathery, about in. in length, dark green; margin spiny. south america. =�. ortgiesii= (ortgies'). _fl._ red, on short spikes. _l._ numerous, channelled, recurved, spongy, broad at the base, and tapering to a point; stem short, gouty. tropical america, . syn. _ortgiesia tillandsioides_. =�. paniculigera= (panicled). _fl._ rose-coloured; petals projecting beyond the sepals, deep bright purple; panicle large, compound, ft. to ft. long; scape reddish, downy; rachides and bracts rose-coloured. _l._ ligulate, shortly acuminate. west indies, . =�. spectabilis= (showy).* _fl._ rosy; calyx fleshy, ovate; corolla in. long, rosy crimson. _l._ spreading, channelled, ligulate, - / ft. long, in. to in. broad. guatemala, . =�. veitchii= (veitch's).* _fl._ scarlet; spike densely clothed with scarlet toothed bracts, closely investing flowers. _l._ tufted, leathery in texture, broadly strap-shaped, spotted, and minutely serrulate. _h._ ft. columbia, . syn. _chevalliera veitchii_. =�giceras= (from _aix_, a goat, and _keras_, a horn; alluding to the shape of its fruit). ord. _myrsineæ_. small trees, with obovate entire leaves. flowers white, fragrant, in terminal or axillary umbels. for culture, _see_ =jacquinia=. =�. fragrans= (fragrant). _fl._ white, fragrant; umbels pedunculate, axillary, terminal. april. _l._ obovate, margin undulated, and unequally dilated, veiny; upper surface covered with saline excrescence. _h._ ft. new holland, . =�gilops.= _see_ =quercus �gilops=. =�giphila= (from _aix_, a goat, and _philos_, dear; a favourite with goats). ord. _verbenaceæ_. stove ornamental evergreen shrubs, generally with ovate-lanceolate, acuminate, smooth leaves; and flowers in axillary and terminal panicles. they require a rich sandy loam. propagated from cuttings, which will root in sand, under a glass, with bottom heat. =�. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ yellow, terminal, corymbose; corolla downy. november. berry compressed, blue. _l._ verticillate oblong, entire, sub-cordate at base. _h._ ft. havannah, . the other species are probably not now in cultivation, and this one is not generally so. =�gle= (from �gle, one of the hesperides). bengal quince. ord. _rutaceæ_. a stove evergreen tree, producing very large fruit, which much resembles an orange in general appearance, very delicious to the taste, and exquisitely fragrant. this genus differs principally from _citrus_ by its numerous disunited stamens. the pulp of the fruit is an aperient, and a valuable remedy in dysentery, the thick rind and the dried unripe fruit are astringent. it thrives best in a rich loamy soil. propagated by ripe cuttings, which, if not deprived of any of their leaves, will root in sand under a hand glass, in heat. =�. marmelos= (marmelos). _fl._ white, very fragrant; panicles axillary, terminal. april. _fr._ fifteen-celled. _l._ trifoliate; leaflets toothletted. _h._ ft. india, . =�olanthus= (from _aiollo_, to vary, and _anthos_, a flower; referring to the variableness of the flowers). ord. _labiatæ_. a genus of few herbs, with thickish leaves. flowers loosely panicled. they thrive in sandy loam, and increase freely from seeds sown in a similar compost. =�. livingstonii= (livingstone's). _fl._ brown. east africa, . =�. suaveolens= (sweet-scented). _fl._ lilac, secund; cymes axillary and terminal, erect, usually trifid, with floral leaves under the divisions. july. _l._ nearly sessile, obovate, obsoletely denticulated, thickish, pale green. _h._ ft. brazil, . a pretty stove annual, with a sweet odour. =aeranthus= (from _aer_, air, and _anthos_, a flower; referring to the habit). ord. _orchideæ_. a genus of a couple of species of remarkable stove orchids, requiring treatment similar to =anguloa=, to which they are allied. =�. arachnitis= (spider-like). _fl._ green. _l._ linear. _h._ in. madagascar, . =�. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ yellowish-green, large, solitary, terminal. _h._ in. madagascar, . =aeration.= the exposure of the soil to the free action of the air, as essential to the growth of plants. =aerides= (from _aer_, the air; in reference to the power the species have of deriving their sustenance from the atmosphere). ord. _orchideæ_. an extensive genus of epiphytal orchids, confined to the tropics of the old world, including many large and showy-flowered species. the majority of them are extremely handsome. the thick fleshy leaves are noteworthy for their characteristically distichous arrangement--that is to say, they are arranged in two opposite rows. they are usually truncate at the apex, and for the most part deeply channelled down the centre, but in some species terete or nearly cylindrical. all of them throw out large fleshy roots from various parts of their stems, by which they absorb the moisture from the atmosphere; and, in order to grow them successfully, they must be fixed upon blocks of wood. but this method should be adopted only whilst the plants are young, as it is almost an impossibility for the cultivator to maintain a sufficient amount of atmospheric moisture to meet their requirements; and, unless this is managed, the leaves will shrivel and fall off, leaving only a few at the extremity. therefore, as soon as the plants are established upon the blocks of wood, let them be removed and potted. fill the pot three parts full of broken potsherds and lumps of charcoal, and then use nothing, but clean, living sphagnum, placing a few roots in the moss and leaving the others free. by this means a greater amount of moisture can be supplied to them, and thus beautiful and symmetrical specimens obtained. the aerides are easily grown into handsome plants, which usually bloom profusely, and thus recommend themselves to all who cultivate orchids. from early spring until the end of september they should be treated liberally with water, at the same time taking care never to wet the flowers. after the above-named time, a gradual diminution in the water supply to the roots should take place; and the atmosphere, too, should be less densely charged with moisture. but drought should never be carried far enough to cause the leaves to shrivel, for, if this is done, the uniformity of the specimen is marred; and, although we are quite willing to admit the possibility of the plants producing a greater quantity of flower spikes after a thorough shrivelling, we prefer to advocate the system that gives a fair amount of flower coupled with good leafage. as before remarked, the aerides are peculiarly eastern, and therefore are usually classed amongst the orchids which require the hottest houses. this is, in one sense, correct; yet they do not require the great amount of heat which many imagine, and which has, until recently, been given them. they must not, therefore, be excluded from the amateur's collection of orchids. during the winter season many of the species may be kept in a temperature of deg. to deg.; whilst during the growing season the temperature may run up by sun heat without limit, so long as a free circulation of air and a sufficiency of moisture are secured. the following status of temperature may be observed: in spring, from deg. in the night, to deg. or deg. by day; in summer, from deg. in the night, to deg. or deg. through the day; in winter, about deg. night, and deg. day. =a. affine= (related).* _fl._ delicate rose, produced, in great profusion, on branching spikes, which are sometimes ft. in length, and continue in bloom two or three weeks; the sepals and petals equal, rounded at the apex; the lip is sharply rhomboid and three-lobed, with a short spur. _l._ light green, about ft. long. _h._ ft. a very handsome species from india, forming an excellent exhibition plant. =a. a. superbum= (superb).* an improved variety, with larger and richer coloured flowers, and more compact habit. =a. brookii= (sir a. brooke's).* _fl._ purple and white; labellum bright purple; sepals and petals white, very fragrant. _l._ very ornamental, of a glaucous (milky green) hue. bombay. this species, although one of the handsomest, is very rare. =a. crassifolium= (thick-leaved).* this is a dwarf, densely-habited plant, with broad, thick, purple-dotted obliquely-bilobed leaves. the flowers, which are borne on long and drooping spikes, are bare--larger than those of _a. falcatum_, which they resemble in form, and have the segments tipped with rich purple or amethyst, the centre or throat of the flower being ivory-white. compared with _a. falcatum_, the spur is here bent under at an angle, while in that plant it is straight; the side laciniæ of the lip are much broader and shorter in the present plant, and the two keels on the lip here stand close together at the base, and become divergent, whilst in _falcatum_ they are distant at the base, and become convergent near the middle of the lip. this species is described as being the best in the genus. it may be grown near the glass, suspended in a basket. burmah, . [illustration: fig. . flower of aerides crispum.] =a. crispum= (curled).* _fl._ white, suffused with purplish rose, nearly in. in diameter; sepals and petals ovate, acute; lip three-lobed, the middle lobe being very large, toothed at the base, and fringed at the margin; the horn-like spur is slightly incurved; racemes ascending, more than double the length of the leaves, many-flowered. _l._ deep green, flat and broad, blunt at the ends, and two-lobed, about in. or in. long. bombay, . lasts a long time in beauty. see fig. . =a. c. lindleyanum= (lindley's). a robust-growing variety, producing a large, much-branched panicle of flowers; sepals and petals white; lip large, bright rich rose-coloured. =a. c. warneri= (warner's).* the leaves are smaller, and more slender than in the species; the sepals and petals are white, with a soft, rich, rose-coloured lip. =a. cylindricum= (cylindric).* _fl._ white and pink, as large as those of _a. crispum_; sepals and petals crispy. _l._ elongate, subulate, terete, in. to in. long. east indies. a very rare and distinct species. syn. _a. vandarum_. =a. dasycarpum= (thick-fruited). _fl._ brownish, rosy. india, . =a. dasypogon.= _see_ =sarcanthus erinaceus=. =a. difforme= (deformed). _fl._ green and brown. india, . =a. dominiana= (dominy's).* this is a garden hybrid between _a. fieldingii_ and _a. affine_, with the colour of the former, but markings and shape of the latter. very rare. =a. falcatum= (sickle-leaved).* _fl._ sepals and petals white, dotted with reddish crimson, and tipped with soft rose; lip white at the sides, with a rosy-crimson centre; spur short, parallel with the lip; racemes pendulous, many flowered. _l._ closely set upon the stem, peculiar blue-green, coriaceous, obtuse and mucronate. this species is very closely allied to _a. crassifolium_. syn. _a. larpentæ_. [illustration: fig. . aerides odoratum.] =a. fieldingii= (fielding's).* the fox-brush �rides. _fl._ white, numerous, large, beautifully mottled with bright rose colour; the much branched racemes are ft. to ft. long, and continue blooming three or four weeks. _l._ in. to in. long, in some plants light green, and in others dark green; long, broad, thick, and fleshy, obliquely two-lobed at the apex. _h._ ft. to ft. assam. =a. houlletianum= (houllet's).* _fl._ sepals and petals buff, shading off into cream white at the base, with a purplish eye-spot at their tips; lip white; front part dark purplish, with some lines of the same colour on the sides; on densely crowded spikes. _l._ and growth similar to _a. virens_. cochin china. syn. _a. mendelii_. =a. japonicum= (japanese).* _fl._ white, with the lateral sepals slightly barred with brown purple; several on the pendent racemes; lip purple, spotted, marked with a dark violet central ridge. _l._ short, linear-oblong, obtusely bilobed. stems short, about in. high. a pretty cool house species from japan, . =a. larpentæ= (lady larpent's). synonymous with _a. falcatum_. =a. lobbii= (lobb's).* _fl._ white in the centre, slightly tinted with blush-rose towards the outside, somewhat spotted with violet; lip marked with a whitish central bar, and stained with a deep violet on either side; on long, dense, cylindrical, pendent spikes. _l._ ligulate, obliquely two-lobed at the apex, thick and fleshy in texture, about in. long, and of a light green hue. moulmein, . this elegant plant, of which many distinct varieties are in cultivation, is one of the most delicate of the genus. =a. maculosum= (spotted). _fl._ large, with obtuse pale rose-coloured sepals and petals, which are spotted with purple; lip flat and undivided, bluntly ovate, and of a deep rosy-purple; racemes pendulous, proceeding from among the upper leaves, somewhat lax and branching. _l._ ligulate, thick, and fleshy, obtuse at the apex, in. or in. long, dark green. a somewhat slow growing species, with a rather stiff, dwarf habit. bombay, . =a. m. schr�deri= (schr�der's).* _fl._ very delicate white, tinged with lilac and spotted with rose; labellum beautiful rose coloured. _l._ dark green, in. long. _h._ in. east indies. a very free growing and handsome variety, superior to the species, but rare in cultivation. =a. mendelii= (mendel's). synonymous with _a. houlletianum_. =a. mitratum= (mitred).* _fl._ waxy-white; lip violet coloured, on numerous dense erect racemes. april. _l._ cylindrical, attenuated, about ft. long, dark green. moulmein, . a rare but elegant species. =a. nobile= (noble).* _fl._ sepals and petals white tipped, and spotted with bright rose; lip three-lobed, the side lobes creamy yellow, and the middle lobe slightly bifid at the apex, white, dotted with rose-purple, very fragrant; racemes ft. to ft. long, pendulous, much branched, many flowered. _l._ strap-shaped, obliquely emarginate at the apex, light green, slightly spotted with brown. not unlike _a. suavissimum_, but with larger and better coloured flowers, and more robust growth. east indies. =a. odontochilum= (tooth-lipped). _h._ ft. sylhet, . =a. odoratum= (fragrant).* _fl._ sepals and petals creamy and white, tipped with pink; lip cucullate, with even side lobes, the middle lobe being ovate and inflexed, the spur conical and incurved, of the same colour as the sepals, very fragrant; racemes longer than the leaves, many-flowered, pendulous. _l._ oblique, obtuse, mucronate at the apex, and dark green. east indies, . see fig. . =a. o. cornutum= (horned). _fl._ pink and white. distinct. =a. o. majus= (greater).* like _a. odoratum_ in growth, but with larger and longer spike of flowers. =a. o. purpurascens= (purplish).* a very robust variety, with broad dark green leaves and massive spike of large flowers, which are white, tipped with bright pink. =a. pachyphyllum= (thick-leaved). _fl._ light crimson lake; spur and column white, the small laciniæ of the blade of the lip on front part of spur painted with more or less warm purple (these laciniæ are just as insignificant as the spur is preponderant); raceme short, few-flowered. _l._ fleshy, short; apex obtuse, and unequally two-lobed. burmah, . =a. quinquevulnerum= (five-wounded).* _fl._ fragrant; sepals and petals obtuse, white, marked with five reddish crimson blotches, and tipped with purple; lip cucullate and funnel-shaped, the side lobes being erect and the centre lobe oblong, incurved and serrated, of the same colour as the sepals; spur conical, green, large; racemes longer than the leaves, pendulous, and many-flowered. late summer and early autumn. _l._ ligulate, about in. long, tightly clasping the stem at the base, obliquely mucronate at the apex, bright shining green. philippines, . =a. q. farmeri= (farmer's).* a very rare variety of the above, with similar habit, but the flowers are pure white throughout, and fragrant. =a. reichenbachii= (reichenbach's).* _fl._, sepals neatly striped (not blotched); lip deep orange colour; racemes densely crowded. borneo, . a very rare species. =a. roseum= (rose-coloured).* _fl._, sepals and petals narrow, acute, pale rose colour, with darker spots; lip flat, entire, and acute, of a bright rose, freckled--like the sepals and petals--with spots of a darker hue; raceme pendulous, dense, and many-flowered, upwards of ft. in length. _l._ coriaceous, recurved, and channelled above with a blunt two-lobed apex. moulmein, . as this does not root freely, it requires less moisture than any other species. =a. r. superbum= (superb).* a fine variety, with stronger growth and larger and richer-coloured flowers. the spikes of this, as well as the typical species, are apt to die off if much water is given. =a. rubrum= (red). a synonym of _sarcanthus erinaceus_. =a. suavissimum= (sweetest). _fl._ sepals and petals obtusely ovate, white, tipped or tinged throughout with deep lilac; lip three-lobed, pressed to the column, the side lobes being oblong and denticulate, the middle lobe linear and bifid, the whole lip being of a pale lemon colour, and the spur rosy-eyed; the numerous racemes are half pendulous and branched, bearing a profusion of deliciously fragrant flowers. _l._ flaccid, about in. long, light green, profusely freckled with brown dots. malacca, . there are one or two varieties. =a. tesselatum= (chequered). _fl._ lined and streaked with green, white, and purple. east indies, . a scarce species. =a. testaceum= (testaceous). a synonym of _vanda testacea_. =a. thibautianum= (thibaut's). a synonym of _saccolabium huttoni_. =a. vandarum= (vanda). a synonym of _a. cylindricum_. =a. virens= (vigorous). _fl._ deliciously fragrant; sepals and petals ovate, obtuse, soft white, tipped with rosy-purple; lip large; side lobes toothed at the apex, white, dotted with crimson; middle lobe bearing a red inflated tongue; racemes long, drooping, many-flowered, commencing to bloom early in april, and lasting until july. _l._ broad, oblique, rounded at the apex, with a depression in the centre, and very bright green, about in. long. =a. v. ellisii= (ellis's).* _fl._ sepals and petals large, white, suffused with rose, and tipped with amethyst; the lower sepals very round and broad; lip large; side lobes white, beautifully freckled towards the base, with short lines of amethyst; middle lobe broad, and deep rich amethyst in colour; spur stout, curved upwards, and tipped with brown; racemes about in. long, bearing generally from thirty to forty, or more, large flowers. _l._ pale green. a splendid variety. =a. wightianum.= _see_ =vanda testacea=. =a. williamsii= (williams's).* _fl._ delicate pinkish white, produced in great abundance; spikes ft. to ft. long, and branched, _l._ broad, dark green, drooping. a very scarce and pretty species. =aerobion.= _see_ =angræcum=. =aerophytes.= plants that are grown entirely in the air. =�schynanthus= (from _aischuno_, to be ashamed, and _anthos_, a flower). ord. _gesneraceæ_. a genus of very beautiful twining, radicant or parasitical stove shrubs, with opposite, simple, entire leaves, and axillary, terminal, few flowered, umbellate peduncles. they possess all the qualifications worthy of extensive cultivation--handsome flowers, fine deep green leaves, an agreeable fragrance, and are easily grown on blocks, which must be covered with green moss, fastened on with small copper wire. preparatory to fastening them on, the roots should be covered with moss, and the plants secured to the block also by wire. after this, but little attention is requisite, except duly syringing and occasionally dipping in tepid water. as pot plants they are very beautiful, and in this method perfection is only obtained by growing them on fast and strong by generous treatment, which consists in frequently repotting in light rich compost till they are large enough to be trained up a trellis, formed of slender rods of willow or hazel. propagated by seeds and cuttings. the former are very unsatisfactory; the latter root readily during spring in a well-drained pot, filled with a light compost, and having a surface of pure white sand, about in. deep. the best are obtained from half-ripened wood, cut into in. or in. lengths, and all leaves, with the exception of one or two at the top, removed. the cuttings should then be covered over with a bell glass, and placed in moderate bottom heat. so soon as rooted, transfer them singly to small pots, and again place under hand glasses, until they are thoroughly established, then gradually harden off. when about twelve months old, place the plants in their permanent quarters. baskets are commonly and very effectively employed. line these with moss, and fill with a light rich compost; place the plant as near the centre as possible, and, to promote a uniform growth, fasten down the branches with small neat pegs, at equal distances. during the summer, give copious supplies of water, to produce a liberal growth, which is of the utmost importance the first season, when they should not be permitted to flower. the following winter they should be kept cool and rather dry, thus giving them a rest. the year following, if properly managed, they will bloom profusely. =�. atrosanguinea= (dark-red).* _fl._ dark red; corolla - / in. long, cylindrical, saccate at base, pilose; peduncle one-flowered. july. _l._ pilose, oblong, sub-cordate, serrated, unequal. _h._ - / ft. guatemala, . =�. aucklandi.= (lord auckland's). synonymous with _�. speciosus_. =�. boschianus= (bosch's).* _fl._ scarlet, axillary, clustered; corolla tubular, with wide throat; calyx tubular, smooth, purplish-brown. july. _l._ ovate, obtuse, entire. _h._ ft. java, . see fig. . =�. cordifolius= (heart-leaved).* _fl._ deep red, striped with black, inside of the tube orange, axillary, clustered. summer. _l._ cordate, quite smooth, dark green on the upper side, paler below. _h._ ft. borneo, . =�. fulgens= (shining).* _fl._ bright crimson, very long; throat and the under side of the tube orange; lobes striped with black, disposed in terminal umbels. october. _l._ large, oblong-lanceolate, acuminate, thick and fleshy, bright dark green. _h._ ft. east indies, . =�. grandiflorus= (large-flowered).* _fl._ deep crimson and orange, large; corolla clavate; segments obtuse, with a dark mark at top, equal; umbels many-flowered. august. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acuminated, serrated, obscurely-nerved, fleshy, dark green, _h._ ft. east indies, . =�. javanicus= (java). _fl._ bright red, stained with yellow in the throat; corolla downy, tubular; corymbs terminal, bracteate. june. _l._ small, ovate, slightly toothed, with sunk veins. java, . plant scandent. =�. lobbianus= (lobb's).* _fl._ rich scarlet; calyx large, campanulate; corolla downy; corymbs terminal, bracteate. june. _l._ elliptic, entire or slightly serrated, glaucous. java, . plant subscandent. [illustration: fig. . �schynanthus boschianus.] =�. longiflorus= (long-flowered).* _fl._ scarlet, erect, fascicled; corolla with a long clavate curved tube, and oblique constructed bilobed mouth; upper lobe bifid. summer. _l._ broad-lanceolate, acuminate, entire. java, . plant pendulous. =�. miniatus= (vermilion).* _fl._ rich vermilion; corolla tomentose; upper lip bilobed, lower one tripartite; peduncles axillary, three-flowered. june. _l._ oval acute, entire. _h._ - / ft. java, . syn. _�. radicans_. =�. pulcher= (fair).* _fl._ bright scarlet; corolla three times larger than the calyx; corymbs terminal, bracteate. june. _l._ ovate, obscurely toothed. java, . scandent. =�. radicans= (stem-fibred). synonymous with _�. miniatus_. =�. speciosus= (showy).* _fl._ rich orange-coloured; corolla with long clavate curved tube, and obliquely four-lobed limb; upper lobe bifid, terminal, numerous, downy. summer. _l._ upper ones always verticillate, ovate-lanceolate, acuminate, slightly serrate. _h._ ft. java, . syn. _�. aucklandi_. =�. splendidus= (splendid).* _fl._ bright scarlet, spotted with black on the margins; corolla clavate, in. long, in terminal fascicles. summer, lasting in perfection for a considerable time. _l._ elliptic lanceolate, acuminated, entire, rather undulated. _h._ ft. hybrid. =�. tricolor= (three-coloured).* _fl._ deep blood red, usually twin; throat and base of the lobes bright orange, the three upper lobes being striped with black. july. _l._ cordate, dark green above, paler on the under side; edges, under surface, and stem, slightly hairy. _h._ ft. borneo, . =�. zebrinus= (zebra-marked). _fl._ green, brown. autumn. java, . =�schynomene= (from _aischuno_, to be ashamed; in reference to the leaves of some of the species falling on the slightest touch, like those of the sensitive plant). ord. _leguminosæ_. stove herbs and shrubs, with impari-pinnate leaves, having many pairs of leaflets, and axillary racemes of usually yellow flowers. they thrive well in a good rich loam. propagated by cuttings, placed in sand under a bell glass, in a brisk heat. seeds of the herbaceous species require a good heat to start them into growth. the annuals are not worth growing. there are about forty other species known besides those mentioned, some of which may prove worthy of cultivation when introduced. =�. aristata= (awned). a synonym of _pictatia aristata_. =�. aspera= (rough-stemmed). _fl._ yellow; racemes compound; peduncles, bracteas, calyces, and corollas, hispid. june. _l._ with thirty to forty pairs of linear leaflets, which (as well as the legumes) are smooth. stem herbaceous, erect. _h._ ft. to ft. east indies, . perennial. =�. sensitiva= (sensitive).* _fl._ white; legumes and racemes glabrous; peduncles branched, few-flowered. june. _l._ with sixteen to twenty pairs of linear leaflets. stem smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . this shrub requires a sandy soil. =�sculus= (a name given by pliny to a kind of oak having an edible fruit; derived from _esca_, nourishment). the horse chestnut. ord. _sapindaceæ_. a genus of hardy showy trees, well adapted for lawns or parks, having a beautiful appearance when in flower. they will do well in any soil, but the more loamy the better. increased by layers, put down in the spring, or by grafting or budding on the common horse chestnut. seeds, where procurable, should be sown singly in rows in spring, where they may remain until they are of sufficient size to be permanently planted out. this genus is distinguished from _pavia_, in having its capsules echinated, _i.e._, covered with prickles, like a hedgehog; but this character is not always consistent. =�. carnea= (flesh-coloured). synonymous with _�. rubicunda_. =�. glabra= (smooth-leaved).* _fl._ greenish yellow; corolla of four spreading petals, with their claws about the length of the calyx; stamens longer than the corolla. june. _l._ with five leaflets, very smooth; foliage larger than the common species. _h._ ft. north america, . syns. _a. ohioensis_, _a. pallida_. =�. hippocastanum= (common horse-chestnut). _fl._ white, tinged with red, on very handsome terminal racemes, which are produced in great profusion; petals five. april and may. _l._ with seven obovately-cuneated, acute, toothed leaflets. asia, . this, the common horse chestnut, is well known by the beautiful parabolic form in which it grows, and during the period of its flowering no tree possesses greater beauty. it has two or three unimportant varieties, differing in the variation of their leaves, and one also with double flowers. these are increased by grafting only. =�. ohioensis= (ohio). a synonym of _a. glabra_. =�. pallida= (pale-flowered). a synonym of _a. glabra_. =�. rubicunda= (red-flowered).* _fl._ scarlet, in very fine terminal racemes; petals four, having the claws shorter than the calyx; stamens eight. june. _l._ with five to seven obovately-cuneated, acute, unequally serrated leaflets. _h._ ft. north america, . this is a very distinct and beautiful tree when in flower, and does not attain so large a size as _�. hippocastanum_. syn. _�. carnea_. =�stivation.= the manner of the folding of the calyx and corolla in the flower bud. =�thionema= (from _aitho_, to scorch, and _nema_, a filament; apparently in allusion to some tawny or burnt appearance in the stamens). ord. _cruciferæ_. a genus of elegant little plants, distinguished from allied genera in having the four larger stamens winged, and with a tooth. herbs or sub-shrubs, perennial or annual, branched from the base, diffuse or erect. flowers in crowded terminal racemes. leaves fleshy, sessile. they are well worth cultivating in sunny situations, where they form a freer flowering habit than when growing in a wild state. some of the more hardy species may be planted on rock work, which, by their dwarf growth, they are well adapted for. the annual and biennial species may either be sown on rockwork or in the front of the flower-border. a light dry soil suits them best. the shrubby kinds of this genus should be kept in pots, which should be well drained with potsherds, and treated like other alpine plants. propagated by seeds, sown in may; or by cuttings, planted in summer. =�. buxbaumii= (bauxbaum's). _fl._ pale red; racemes crowded, aggregate. june. _l._ oblong-spathulate, glaucous. _h._ in. thrace, . a pretty annual, with erect branched stems. syn. _thlaspi arabicum_. [illustration: fig. . �thionema coridifolium, showing habit and flowers.] =�. coridifolium= (coris-leaved).* _fl._ rosy lilac, small, in terminal dense rounded racemes. june. _l._ linear, glaucous, crowded. asia minor, . a pretty perennial, shrubby below, with erect stems in. to in. high. see fig. . =�. gracile= (slender). _fl._ purplish; racemes crowded, terminal; when in fruit, loose. june. _l._ lanceolate, pointed. _h._ in. branches and branchlets slender, elongated. sandy hills in carniola, . shrubby perennial. [illustration: fig. . �thionema grandiflorum, showing habit and flowers.] =�. grandiflorum= (large-flowered).* _fl._ of a warm shaded rose; racemes crowded, terminal, numerous. may to august. _l._ ovate-oblong, glaucous. mount lebanon, . this perennial species forms a spreading bush about - / ft. high, and is perhaps the handsomest of the genus. it succeeds well in the ordinary border, but is far better suited for the rockery. see fig. . =�. membranaceum= (membranous-podded). _fl._ purplish, in terminal racemes. june. _l._ linear, distant, somewhat fleshy, strictly appressed. _h._ in. to in. persia, . a small shrub, with filiform branches. =�. monospermum= (one-seeded). _fl._ purple, largish, in terminal racemes. july. _l._ oval or obovate, blunt, coriaceous; pods one-celled, one-seeded. _h._ in. to in. spain, . a pretty little biennial, with hardish branches. =�. pulchellum= (pretty).* this is said to be a new species, but it much resembles _�. coridifolium_. it is scarcely in full cultivation yet, but it proves one of the hardiest as well as one of the most handsome kinds. =�. saxatilis= (rock).* _fl._ purplish; racemes loose, terminal. may and june. _l._ lanceolate, acutish. _h._ in. spain, . a pretty annual. =african almond.= _see_ =brabejum=. =african bladder nut.= _see_ =royena lucida=. =african fleabane.= _see_ =tarchonanthus=. =african harebell.= _see_ =roella ciliata=. =african lily.= _see_ =agapanthus=. =african lotus.= _see_ =zizyphus=. =african marigold.= _see_ =tagetes erecta=. =african oak or teak.= _see_ =vitex doniana=. =african satin-bush.= _see_ =podalyria sericea=. =afzelia= (named after adam afzelius, m.d., professor of botany in the university of upsal, and for many years resident at sierra leone). ord. _leguminosæ_. a pretty stove evergreen tree. for culture, _see_ =�giphila=. =a. africana= (african).* _fl._ crimson, disposed in racemes; petals four (furnished with claws), upper one largest. june. legume ligneus, many-celled; seeds black, with scarlet aril. _l._ abruptly pinnate. _h._ ft. sierra leone, . =agalmyla= (from _agalma_, an ornament; and _hule_, a wood; the species are great ornaments to the woods in which they grow wild). ord. _gesneraceæ_. a small but very handsome genus of climbing or radicant herbs, with simple alternate leaves and axillary fascicles of flowers, something like the blooms of a gesnera. corolla limb oblique, five-lobed, scarcely two-lipped. _a. staminea_, the most generally cultivated species, is best grown in a basket, planted in a compost of rough peat, a little leaf soil, fresh sphagnum moss, and nodules of charcoal. give an abundance of moisture when growing, which should be lessened after flowering, and allow the plant to rest during winter. it may be planted out on rockwork in the stove. half-ripened cuttings will root freely in heat under a glass. the temperature in summer should not be less than deg. by day, and deg. by night. =a. longistyla= (long-styled). _fl._ crimson. java, . =a. staminea= (long-stamened).* _fl._ scarlet, disposed in axillary fascicles; corolla tubular, incurved, with a dilated throat. summer. _l._ alternate, oblong, acuminated, denticulated, nearly equal at the base, downy beneath, and on the edges. stem and petioles hairy. _h._ ft. java, . stove species. =aganisia= (from _aganos_, desirable; in reference to the beauty of these neat little plants). ord. _orchidaceæ_. a small genus of epiphytal orchids, requiring to be grown upon a block of wood suspended from the rafters of the stove. a damp atmosphere, syringing the roots and leaves freely when in a growing state, and shade during very bright sunshine, are primary points to be observed in their cultivation. increased by dividing the pseudo-bulbs just previous to starting into new growth. =a. c�rulea= (dark blue).* _fl._ peduncles axillary, few flowered. "the colour is the well known one of _vanda c�rulea_. there are, however, darker blue blotches quasi-tesselated over the flower. the lip is veiled, and has two very small basilar teeth, and then a veiled middle lacinia, that is sacciform, bordered with most remarkable long bristles, and with a deep violet blotch on its middle part beneath. the white column has two cartilaginous quadrate arms close to the stigmatic hollow." _l._ cuneate, oblong, acuminate. pseudo-bulbs distichous, depresso-ovoid. brazil, . =a. fimbriata= (fringed).* _fl._ white; lip blue. demerara, . this species has also a sacciform, fimbriate lip, but, when compared with the foregoing, its flowers, leaves, and bulbs are much smaller, and the lip is not slit up to the apex, but the sac is round. =a. graminea= (grass-leaved). a weedy looking species, of no garden value. guiana, . =a. ionoptera= (violet-winged). the flowers, not very much larger than those of the lily of the valley, are white, with violet petals, and violet tips and streaks on the sepals. peru, . =a. pulchella= (pretty).* _fl._ white, with a blotch of yellow in the centre of the lip; the spike is produced from the bottom of the bulb. _h._ in. demerara, . it blossoms at different times of the year, and lasts two or three weeks in perfection. this species is very rare and pretty, and is best grown in a pot, with peat, and good drainage; requires a liberal supply of water at the roots, and the hottest house. =aganosma= (from _aganos_, mild, and _osme_, a smell; scent of flowers). ord. _apocynaceæ_. a genus of showy stove or warm greenhouse shrubs, with opposite leaves and terminal corymbs of large funnel-shaped flowers, the coronet of which is cup-shaped or cylindrical, "having its parts so united that they appear only as lobes around the mouth of the cup." all the species mentioned are well worth cultivating. they thrive best in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat, in equal proportions. propagated by cuttings in sand, under glass, and with bottom heat. =a. acuminata= (pointed-leaved).* _fl._ large, white, fragrant; petals linear, falcate, curled; panicles axillary, longer than the leaves, scattered. _l._ from oblong to broad-lanceolate, acuminated, glabrous. sylhet. shrubby climber. =a. caryophyllata= (clove scented).* _fl._ pale yellow, tinged with red, deliciously clove scented; corymbs terminal. october. _l._ oval, acutish at both ends, tomentose beneath as well as the branches. india, . shrubby twiner. =a. cymosa= (cymose-flowered).* _fl._ small, whitish, fragrant; calyx and corolla hoary outside; cymes terminal, shorter than the leaves. _l._ elliptic, acuminated. sylhet. shrub. =a. elegans= (elegant).* _fl._ small, purple; corolla downy outside, as well as the calyces, bracteas, and pedicels; sepals longer than the tube of the corolla; corymbs terminal, crowded. _l._ elliptic, short-acuminated, glabrous. india. shrubby twiner. =a. marginata= (bordered).* _fl._ numerous, large, white, fragrant; petals linear, falcate; panicles terminal, loose, corymbose, glabrous. _l._ lanceolate, smooth. sylhet. shrubby climber. =a. roxburghii= (roxburgh's).* _fl._ pure white, large, fragrant; calyx and corolla hoary outside; petals triangular; corymbs terminal. october. _l._ ovate-cordate, acuminated; petioles and veins red, glabrous, pale beneath, and shining above. india, . shrubby twiner. =a. wallichii= (wallich's).* _fl._ white, fragrant; calyx and corolla downy outside; corymbs terminal. _l._ elliptic-acuminated, shining above and pale beneath, glabrous. india. this species differs from the last in the veins of the leaves being parallel, not longitudinal, from the base to the apex. shrubby twiner. =agapanthus= (from _agape_, love, and _anthos_, a flower). ord. _liliaceæ_. african lily. a genus, with numerous varieties, of very handsome greenhouse or conservatory herbaceous plants. flowers large, scapose; perianth tubular, tube short; stamens six, having the filaments somewhat declinate. leaves linear or lorate, arching, radical. they are of easy culture, and thrive best in strong turfy loam, leaf mould, decomposed manure, and river sand. they may be grown in large pots or tubs outside, to be removed in autumn, and placed under the stage in the greenhouse, or where they will be protected from frost, and kept moderately dry. if planted and left outside, the crowns should be well covered with cocoa-nut fibre in winter. during the summer, and especially in dry weather, the plants can hardly be over watered. they thrive admirably on the margins of lakes or running streams, and few plants, alike in flower and foliage, are more effective. clear manure water may be given previous to or when the plants are in flower, and, after flowering, gradually lessen the quantity of water, until they are stowed away for the winter. they increase very rapidly, by offsets, and, if necessary, the old plants may be divided in early spring, to any extent required. in the more southern parts of this country they are quite hardy. [illustration: fig. . agapanthus umbellatus.] =a. umbellatus= (umbelled).* _fl._ bright blue; perianth funnel-shaped, regular, deeply six-parted; tube short; scape tall, naked, bearing a many-flowered umbel. summer and autumn. _l._ numerous, radical, linear, somewhat fleshy. _h._ ft. to ft. cape of good hope, . see fig. . =a. u. albidus= (whitish).* _fl._ pure white, on large full-sized umbels, smaller than those of the species, but very showy. cape of good hope. this requires carefully drying off during the winter. =a. u. aureus= (golden). a variety in which the leaves are marked longitudinally with yellow. . =a. u. flore-pleno= (double-flowered).* identical in all respects with the species, except that it has double flowers, which are therefore, much more lasting than the single ones. a very handsome variety. =a. u. leichtlinii= (leichtlin's).* _fl._, perianth deep bright hyacinthine blue, - / in. long; scape about - / ft. long, with a more compact umbel than any other known form. june. _l._ similar in size to the species. cape of good hope, . =a. u. maximus= (larger).* _fl._ bright blue, in immense umbels. this is larger in all its parts than the type, and when well grown is truly a noble plant. there is also a white-flowered form of this variety, which is most desirable, being equally as large. =a. u. minor= (smaller).* this is smaller in all its parts, with narrow leaves, and slender scapes of deep blue flowers. a very elegant variety. =a. u. mooreanus= (moore's).* _fl._ dark blue. _h._ - / ft. . a new variety, with shorter, narrower, and more upright leaves than the species; it has a dwarf habit. perfectly hardy. =a. u. variegatus= (variegated).* where variegated-leaved plants are desired, few could be more useful than this; its leaves are almost entirely white, with a few green bands, but they are neither so broad nor so long as in the type. it is an excellent subject for the domestic garden. =agapetes= (from _agapetos_, beloved; in reference to the showy character of the plants). ord. _vacciniaceæ_. a genus containing about eighteen species of warm greenhouse or stove evergreen shrubs. flowers corymbose and racemose; corolla tubular. leaves alternate, coriaceous. they are all worthy of cultivation, but only two or three species are grown in england. peat, turfy loam, and sand, in equal parts, is the best compost for them; and young hardened cuttings will strike in sandy soil, under a hand glass, in stove temperature. =a. buxifolia= (box-leaved).* _fl._ bright red, about in. long, tubular, wax-like, disposed in corymbs. april. _l._ small, oval oblong, bright green, leathery; branches spreading, twiggy. _h._ ft. bootan. =a. setigera= (bristly). _fl._ red, about in. long, tubular, numerous, in lateral and corymbose racemes, furnished with bristly hairs. _l._ scattered, lanceolate, acuminated, on very short robust petioles. pundua mountains, . =a. variegata= (variegated). _fl._ scarlet, about in. long, tubular, lateral, corymbose. _l._ on short petioles, lanceolate, acuminated, denticulated, attenuated at the base, veiny. khasia, . =agaricus= (derived from _agaria_, the name of a town in sarmentosa). mushroom. ord. _fungi_. the most extensive genus known. it, however, contains but one or two species of cultural value. the most important ones are the common field mushroom, _a. campestris_ (fig. ), the fairy ring mushroom, _a. pratensis_, and _a. vaginatus_. familiar species are the parasol mushroom, _a. procerus_ (fig. ); st. george's mushroom, _a. gambosus_ (fig. ); and the deadly fly agaric, _a. muscarius_ (fig. ). for practical purposes the majority of this genus are poisonous, and many virulently so. great care must be exercised in experimenting with unknown species, even by experienced fungologists. _see_ =mushroom=. =agastachys= (from _agastos_, admirable, and _stachys_, a spike). ord. _proteaceæ_. a greenhouse evergreen shrub, with four sepalled apetalous flowers, which are disposed in numerous spikes. it thrives in a compost of equal parts loam, sand, and peat. cuttings of ripened wood will strike in sandy soil under a glass, in a cool house. =a. odorata= (fragrant).* _fl._ pale yellow, sweet scented, crowded; spikes in. to in. long. april. _l._ bluntly lanceolate, sub-sessile, thickish, about in. long. _h._ about ft. new holland, . =agath�a= (from _agathos_, excellent; in reference to the beauty of the flowers). ord. _compositæ_. allied to _cineraria_, and requiring the same greenhouse treatment. it makes a very pretty object for summer decoration in the flower garden. young cuttings root freely, in a gentle heat, at all times; and the plant may be had in bloom all the year round. =a. c�lestis= (sky-blue).* _fl.-heads_ blue; peduncle one-headed. june. _l._ opposite, ovate, naked. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . herbaceous perennial. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . agath�a c�lestis.] =agatha rose.= _see_ =rosa gallica agatha=. =agathis.= _see_ =dammara=. =agathophyllum= (from _agathos_, pleasant, and _phyllon_, a leaf; referring to the pleasant clove-like smell of the leaf). madagascar nutmeg. ord. _lauraceæ_. a stove evergreen tree, of economic value only, having the fruit enclosed by the persistent calyx; thriving in peat and light rich loam. of easy propagation by cuttings in sand, with a moderate bottom heat. =a. aromaticum= (aromatic). _fl._ white. _l._ stalked, alternate, obovate, obtuse, leathery, entire, smooth. _h._ ft. madagascar, . =agathosma= (from _agathos_, pleasant, and _osme_, smell; the plants contained in this genus have a pleasant smell). syns. _bucco_, _dichosma_. ord. _rutaceæ_. beautiful small heath-like greenhouse shrubs, from the cape of good hope. flowers in terminal heads, or umbels; petals five, divided, with long claws, and scattered, short, narrow leaves, usually with revolute edges. they are of easy culture, thriving best in a mixture of sand and peat, with the addition of a little turfy loam. young cuttings will strike root freely in a pot of sand, under a bell glass, in a cool house. they require to be shaded somewhat in the summer. winter temperature, deg. to deg. about forty-six species are known. =a. acuminata= (taper-pointed leaved).* _fl._ violet; calyces smooth, glandular, on terminal subcapitate heads. april. _l._ ovate, somewhat cordate, long acuminated, fringed, at length spreading. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. bruniades= (brunia-like).* _fl._ lilac or white, on terminal sub-umbellate heads; peduncles fastigiate, elongated. april. _l._ scattered, linear-trigonal, awl-shaped, dotted, and a little fringed; branches hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. cerefolia= (chervil-leaved). _fl._ white, small; pedicels and calyces beset with glandular hairs; heads terminal sub-umbellate. april. _l._ crowded, lanceolate, acute, spreading, keeled, fringed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. ciliata= (ciliated).* _fl._ white; pedicels smoothish; heads terminal sub-umbellate. april. _l._ scattered, lanceolate, acute, with toothletted-fringed, revolute edges, dotted beneath, and bearing hairs on the middle nerve, becoming at length reflexed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. erecta= (upright).* _fl._ pale violet, terminal, sub-umbellate; peduncles short, villous. april. _l._ imbricate, trigonal, blunt, dotted beneath, a little fringed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. hirta= (hairy). _fl._ purple, densely capitate; petals bearded at the claws. april. _l._ somewhat imbricate, linear, awl-shaped, channelled, hairy on the back, decurrent. _h._ ft. to ft. . [illustration: fig. . agaricus muscarius (fly agaric).] [illustration: fig. . agaricus gambosus (st. george's mushroom).] [illustration: fig. . agaricus procerus (parasol mushroom).] [illustration: fig. . agaricus campestris (common mushroom).] =a. hispida= (rough-haired). _fl._ violet, on terminal sub-umbellate heads; pedicels and sepals pubescent; petals quite smooth. may. _l._ crowded, linear, trigonal, blunt, spreading, hispid, keeled, and two-furrowed beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. imbricata= (imbricated). _fl._ pale purple, in terminal sub-capitate heads; petals with a roundish limb; sepals smoothish; pedicels pubescent. april. _l._ imbricate, crowded, ovate, acuminated, dotted, fringed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. orbicularis= (round-leaved). _fl._ white, on terminal sub-umbellate heads; stamens twice as long as the corolla; pedicels pubescent. april. _l._ scattered, spreading, orbicular, ovate, or reniform, smooth, reflexed, small, thickish, without any dots beneath; branches villous. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. prolifera= (proliferous). _fl._ white, on terminal sub-umbellate heads; sepals smooth; pedicels somewhat fastigiate, pubescent. april. _l._ spreading, lanceolate, cuspidate; keel and edges fringed, dotted; branches whorled, proliferous. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. pubescens= (downy). _fl._ white; umbels terminal; peduncles and sepals villous. april. _l._ lanceolate, trigonal, pointless, with margins and rib ciliated. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. rugosa= (coarsely-wrinkled). _fl._ white, on terminal sub-umbellate heads; sepals pubescent; pedicels capillary, clothed with glandular hairs. april. _l._ spreading, oblong or ovate, blunt, keeled, wrinkled, villous beneath, reflexed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. vestita= (clothed). _fl._ lilac, on terminal sub-capitate heads; pedicels quite smooth. may. _l._ closely imbricated, ovate, acuminated, keeled, fringed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =agathyrsus.= _see_ =mulgedium=. =agati= (its sanscrit name). ord. _leguminosæ_. ornamental stove trees from india, with lanceolate stipulas, abruptly-pinnate leaves, having many pairs of leaflets. flowers large, few, racemose. legumes - / ft. long. a mixture of loam, peat, and sand is most suitable. young cuttings will root in a pot of sand, with a hand glass over them, placed in heat. =a. coccinea= (scarlet).* _fl._ red, rather smaller than the next species. legumes rather terete. _l._ leaflets powdery. july. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered). _fl._ rosy red. july. legumes evidently compressed. _l._ leaflets glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. . =a. g. flore-albo= (white flowered). _fl._ white, double. n. australia, . =agave= (from _agauos_, admirable; referring to the stately form in which some of them flower). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. flower-scape tall, proceeding from the centre of the rosette of leaves; perianth funnel-shaped, six-parted. leaves large, fleshy, tufted. mr. b. s. williams describes them as follows: "they are noble, massive-growing plants, and form magnificent ornaments in the greenhouse or conservatory; whilst, from their slow growth, they do not rapidly get too large, even for a small greenhouse. indeed, some of the real gems of this genus are neat, compact-growing plants, seldom exceeding ft. in height. besides being fine ornamental plants for indoor decoration, the larger growing kinds are unquestionably the finest objects for the embellishment of terrace-walks, or surmounting flights of steps in the open air during the summer season, and also for plunging in rockwork, or about any rustic nooks in the pleasure-grounds, as, in such situations, they are quite in keeping, and thrive admirably. as is well known, they attain maturity very slowly; but when this condition is reached, the plant sends up a flower spike, and, after perfecting this, dies." _a. sartorii_, and a few others are, however, exceptional, and go on flowering year after year. it is certainly fallacious to suppose it takes them a hundred years to flower. agaves succeed well potted in good loam and river sand, to which may be added a little peat and leaf mould for some of the smaller-growing kinds. the drainage should be good, as they enjoy a liberal supply of water during the summer season, but during winter considerably less will be required. they can be increased by suckers when these are to be obtained, and also by seeds, to secure the production of which, in the species that do not yield suckers, the flowers should be carefully impregnated. in the following descriptive list of species, only those of horticultural value are mentioned, some of which are still rare; and in describing them we have availed ourselves of mr. j. g. baker's excellent monograph, which appeared in the columns of the _gardener's chronicle_. many are omitted, not from any deficiency in horticultural beauty, but because, in several instances, only one plant of a species is known to exist in cultivation, and such cannot, therefore, hope to become in general cultivation for many years hence. =a. albicans= (whitened). probably a variety of _a. micrantha_. [illustration: fig. . agave americana.] =a. americana= (american).* _fl._ yellowish green, in. to - / in. long; in very dense globose clusters, on pedicels / in. to / in. long; scape, including the thyrsoid panicle, ft. to ft. august. _l._ usually thirty to forty, sometimes more, in a rosette, oblanceolate-spathulate, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad above the middle, glaucous green, more or less concave all down the face, the outer leaves recurved, the dark brown pungent point in. to in. long; prickles brown tipped, / in. to / in. long. s. america, . see fig. . =a. a. mexicana= (mexican). a variety much shorter in the leaves than the species, of which it may be regarded as one of the many small forms. =a. a. picta= (painted).* _l._ ft. to ft. long, about in. wide, lower ones recurved, upper ones erect, moderately thick, rich golden yellow on both sides, bordered with dark green. a very splendid variety. syn. _a. ornata_. =a. a. variegata= (variegated). _l._ ft. or more in length, in. or in. wide, dark green in the centre, broadly margined with rich yellow. a very desirable variety. =a. am�na= (pleasing). referred to _a. scolymus_. =a. amurensis= (amur river). synonymous with _a. xylacantha_. =a. applanata= (plano-convex-leaved). _fl._ unknown. _l._ twenty to forty in a dense sessile rosette, reaching a couple of feet in diameter, oblong-spathulate, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, the lower half of the face flat, the upper half concave, suddenly terminating in a pungent brown spine above in. long, blue-green bordered with brown; prickles / in. to / in. long, bright brown. mexico, . =a. atrovirens= (dark-green). synonymous with _a. salmiana_. =a. attenuata= (attenuated).* _fl._ greenish-yellow, in. long; pedicels about / in. long, on a dense spike, ft. to ft. long, and in. in diameter; bracts overtopping the perianth. _l._ ten to twenty, in a dense rosette at the top of the stem, oblong-spathulate, ft. to - / ft. long, in. to in. broad two-thirds of the way up, narrowed to - / in. to in. above the base, persistently glaucous, one of the most fleshy of all in texture; face rather concave when young; tip not pungent, edge quite entire. stem ft. to ft. high, in. to in. thick. mexico, . a most distinct species. =a. beaucarnei= (beaucarne's). synonymous with _a. kerchovei_. =a. botterii= (botteri's).* _fl._ greenish-yellow, about in. long, on a dense spike, longer than the leaves; primary bracts lanceolate, with a long point, the lower ones as long as the flowers; scape covered with adpressed lanceolate bracts. _l._ about fifty in a rosette, oblong-spathulate, about ft. long, in. broad above the middle, narrowed to - / in. above the base; pale green, concave in the centre; spine hard, pungent, about / in. long; marginal teeth crowded, / in., upcurved at the tip. stemless. mexico, about . =a. bulbifera= (bulb-bearing). synonymous with _a. vivipara_. =a. cæspitosa= (tufted). synonymous with _a. sartorii_. =a. cantula.= synonymous with _a. vivipara_. [illustration: fig. . agave celsiana.] =a. celsiana= (cels's).* _fl._ tinged purplish-brown, in. long, in a dense spike, ft. or more long, and in. to in. in diameter when expanded; scape ft. long, the lower bract leaves lanceolate, the upper ones subulate. _l._ twenty to thirty in a rosette, oblong-spathulate, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad at the middle, narrowed to - / in. to in. above the base, persistently glaucous, the point hardly at all pungent; spines very unequal in size and shape, green, largest brown and horny at the top. mexico, . this is a beautiful species, the stem of which scarcely rises off the surface of the ground. see fig. . =a. coccinea= (scarlet). _fl._ unknown. _l._ twenty to thirty in a dense rosette, oblanceolate-spathulate, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad two-thirds of the way up, narrowed to in. above the dilated base, where it is in. to - / in. thick, deep heavy green; terminal spine - / in. or more in length, red; side prickles irregular, deltoid, unequal, nearly straight, / in. to / in. long, red. mexico, . =a. cochlearis= (cochleate). _fl._ yellowish green, above in. long, in dense clusters. _l._ forming a sessile rosette ft. broad, oblong-spathulate, ft. to ft. long, above ft. broad, in. thick at the base, opaque green, with a deeply excavated face; terminal spine very stout, pungent; side prickles curved variously, middle sized, deltoid. stems ft. high. mexico, previous to . =a. consideranti= (considerant's). synonymous with _a. victoriæ regina_. =a. corderoyi= (corderoy's).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ forty to fifty in a dense rosette, rigidly erecto-patent, ensiform, - / ft. long, / in. to in. broad, bright green; terminal spine hard, brown, in. long; side prickles moderately close, erecto-patent, dark brown, / in. long. mexico, . a very distinct and pretty species. =a. crenata= (crenated). referred to _a. scolymus_. =a. cucullata= (hooded). referred to _a. scolymus_. =a. dasylirioides= (dasylirion-like).* _fl._ yellow, about - / in. long; spike as long as the scape, often decurved; lower bracts much longer than the flowers; pedicels obsolete; scape ft. long, densely clothed with spreading subulate bract leaves, the lower ones ft. long. _l._ eighty to a hundred in a dense rosette, linear-ensiform, - / ft. to ft. long, about in. broad, narrowing gradually from the middle to a short brown pungent point, pale glaucous green, rigidly leathery; edge minutely denticulate. mexico, . =a. d. dealbata= (whitened). a variety of preceding, but with more glaucous foliage. [illustration: fig. . agave densiflora.] =a. densiflora= (close-flowered).* _fl._ yellowish-red, - / in. to in. long, on a dense spike, ft. long; pedicels very short; scape, including the spike, ft. long, the lower bracts ascending, the upper ones spreading. _l._ thirty to forty in a stemless rosette, oblanceolate-spathulate, ft. to ft. long, and - / in. to in. broad, bright green when mature; terminal spine / in. long, thick, pungent, slightly decurrent; side spines crowded, short, bright chestnut brown. mexico (previous to) . see fig. . =a. deserti= (desert's).* _fl._ yellow, under in. long, on a thyrsoid panicle, the branches very short, the lower horizontal, the upper ascending; pedicels short; scape ft. to ft. high, in. to in. thick at the base, furnished with distant lanceolate acuminate toothed bracts. _l._ few, in a rosette, oblanceolate, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad above the middle, thick, fleshy, very glaucous; face deeply concave; terminal spine in. to in. long, slender; prickles crowded, strong, hooked, horny, nearly / in. long. california, . =a. desmetiana= (de smet's). probably synonymous with _a. miradorensis_. =a. elemeetiana= (elemeet's).* _fl._ yellowish-green, in. to - / in. long, in a dense spike ft. to ft. long, in. to in. in diameter when expanded; pedicels / in. long; scape, including the spike, ft. to ft. high, stiffly erect, lower ft. to ft., barren, with squarrose lanceolate bracts. _l._ twenty to twenty-five in a rosette, lanceolate-oblong, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. wide, slightly glaucous; face flat above the middle terminal spine, not pungent, the margin pale and quite entire. stemless. a very distinct species. mexico, . =a. fenzliana= (fenzl's). synonymous with _a. hookeri_. =a. ferox= (fierce). _fl._ unknown. _l._ about twenty in a rosette, oblong-spathulate, in. to in. broad; face nearly flat, except at the top, slightly glaucous green; terminal spine above in. long, hard, pungent; margin slightly wavy between the large dark brown teeth, which are about / in. long, and curved at the top. mexico, . =a. filifera= (thread-bearing).* _fl._ greenish, about in. long; pedicels very short and stout, in a dense spike ft. to ft. long; scape ft. to ft. long, its bract-leaves subulate, the lower ones ascending, the upper squarrose. _l._ sixty to a hundred in a dense rosette, stiff, straight, ensiform, in. to in. long, in. broad at the middle, gradually narrowing to a grey pungent tip; face flat, the continuous grey edge splitting off copiously into irregular spreading grey wiry threads; outer leaves of the rosette not all recurved, but spreading stiffly. mexico. =a. f. filamentosa= (thready).* a form with larger leaves and scape; including the spike, ft. to ft. high. a well-known, handsome variety. =a. galeotti= (galeotti's). _fl._ unknown. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, ft. to ft. broad, oblong-spathulate, ft. to - / ft. long, in. to in. broad; face rather flat or convex, green; terminal spine hard, pungent; prickles close, straight, or slightly hooked, purplish-black. mexico, . =a. ghiesbreghtii= (ghiesbreght's). _fl._ unknown. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, rigid, lanceolate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bright glossy green; terminal spine / in. long, pungent; border narrow, red-brown till a late stage; side prickles numerous, irregular, two to three lines long. mexico, . very handsome dwarf species. _a. rohanii_ and _a. leguayana_ are mere varieties. =a. heteracantha= (various-spined).* _fl._ greenish, - / in. long, on a dense spike ft. long; scape ft. to ft. long. _l._ fifty to eighty in a rosette, rigid, ensiform, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to - / in. broad in the middle, dull green, with numerous darker green lines on the back; terminal point in. long; side spines numerous, strongly hooked, lanceolate. stemless. mexico. =a. hookeri= (hooker's).* _fl._ large, yellow, very numerous, in stalked panicled cymes. _l._ thirty to forty in a sessile rosette, ft. or ft. in diameter, oblanceolate-spathulate, bright green on the face, rather glaucous on the back, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, in. to in. thick; terminal spine in. long, and decurrent for nearly half a foot; face flattish or slightly concave; side prickles irregular, brown and horny, about / in. long, and curved in different directions. mexico. syn. _a. fenzliana_. a rare and noble species, very massive. =a. horrida= (horrid).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, rigid, lanceolate-spathulate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bright green; terminal spine pungent, nearly in. long; margin furnished with a continuous broad grey border, with copious prickles / in. to / in. long. =a. h. gilbeyi= (gilbey's).* _l._ about thirty, in. to in. long, in. broad, dark green with a pale stripe down the middle, three to four large spines on each side. mexico, . =a. h. lævior= (smoother). _l._ somewhat narrower, longer, with marginal spines less strongly developed, and of a paler colour. mexico, . =a. h. macrodonta= (long-toothed). _l._ fifty to sixty, - / in. broad; spines larger than in the typical form. mexico, . =a. h. micrantha= (small-toothed). border of leaf narrower, and spines smaller, than in the typical form. =a. jacobiana= (jacob's). synonymous with _a. salmiana_. =a. kerchovei= (kerchove's).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ thirty to forty in a stemless rosette, stiff, rigid, typically ensiform, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, narrowing gradually to a pungent spine in. long, dull green, with a distinct pale central band, rounded on the back, without any stripes of dark green, the margin with a continuous moderately broad grey border; side prickles irregular, grey, lanceolate, curved, / in. to / in. long. syn. _a. beaucarnei_. there are several varieties of _a. kerchovei_, of which the following are the most important:-- =a. k. diplacantha= (double-spined).* with very few distant, small teeth, often collected or united in pairs. =a. k. inermis= (unarmed). dwarf, with spines entirely obsolete. =a. k. macrodonta= (long-toothed). _l._ - / ft. long, without any distinct central band, and with copious irregular grey lanceolate prickles, about / in. long. =a. k. pectinata= (comb-like). _l._ ft. long, - / in. broad, without any central band. =a. lophantha= (crest-flowered).* _fl._ greenish, arranged in a dense spike ft. to ft. long; scape ft. to ft. long, its leaves brown, the lower ones in. long. _l._ thirty to forty in a rosette, rigid, ensiform, ft. to ft. long, - / in. broad at the middle, rather concave down the face, rounded on the back, not marked with any lines, dull green; terminal spine in. long; margins bordered by a very narrow continuous grey hoary line, furnished with distant linear falcate teeth, about / in. long, sessile. mexico. =a. l. c�rulescens= (bluish).* _l._ with a decided glaucous bloom. =a. l. longifolia= (long-leaved). a mere variety of above species. =a. macracantha= (long-spined).* _fl._ greenish, in. long, ten to twelve in a loose raceme in. long, all solitary on ascending pedicels / in. to / in. long; scape ft. to ft. long; bracts erect. _l._ thirty to fifty in a stiff rosette ft. to ft. broad, oblanceolate, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, very stiff and rigid, very glaucous; face rather thicker in the lower half; terminal spine nearly black, very pungent, / in. long; side prickles purplish-black, sub-distant, / in. long, with a large point straight or slightly hooked. with a short stem, or stemless. mexico, . it has many varieties, among which are _a. bessereriana_ and _a. flavescens_. =a. maximiliana= (maximilian's).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ about twenty in a sessile rosette, oblanceolate-spathulate, - / ft. to ft. long, - / in. to in. broad; face slightly glaucous green; terminal spine pungent, brown, in. broad; side prickles bright chestnut brown, larger and more irregular than in _a. americana_, more hooked, and furnished with longer and sharper points, reaching / in. long. mexico. a very distinct species. =a. micracantha= (small-spined). _fl._ yellowish, - / in. long, in a dense spike ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad when expanded. _l._ twenty to thirty in a shortly stalked rosette, oblanceolate oblong, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad above the middle, narrowed to in. to in. above the base, bright green; face flattish above the centre; terminal spine red brown, moderately firm; the copious close reddish-brown horny teeth about / in. long, the upper ones ascending, the lower deflexed. mexico, . =a. miradorensis= (mirador).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ about thirty in a sessile rosette, oblanceolate-spathulate, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to - / in. broad above the middle, thin but firm in texture, very glaucous, with a firm red-brown terminal spine in. long; side prickles very minute, crowded, colourless, five or six to an inch in the centre of the leaf. mexico, . syn. (probably) _a. desmetiana_. =a. noackii= (noack's). a synonym of _a. sartorii_. =a. ornata= (adorned). a synonym of _a. americana picta_. =a. ortgiesiana= (ortgies'). a dwarf form of _a. schidigera_ with a pale central band to the leaf. mexico, . a widely-distributed and desirable species. =a. pendula= (pendulous). synonymous with _a. sartorii_. =a. polyacantha= (many-spined).* _fl._ greenish-yellow, - / in. to in. long; flowering-stem ft. to ft. high, including the dense spike, which is ft. to ft. long. _l._ about thirty in a sessile rosette, oblanceolate-spathulate, rigid, ft. to ft. long, - / in. to in. broad above the middle, bright green, slightly glaucous when young; terminal spine dark brown, pungent, / in. to / in. long; side prickles crowded, deltoid, dark chestnut brown, irregular, / in. or / in. long, all sub-patent. mexico, . syns. _a. uncinata_, _a. xalapensis_. =a. poselgerii= (poselger's). _fl._ purplish, rather more than in. long; scape, including the spike, ft. to ft. _l._ twenty to thirty in a dense rosette, rigid, ensiform, ft. to - / ft. long; - / in. to in. broad at the middle, dull green, with a broad pale band down to the face, rounded and marked with numerous distinct green lines down the back; margin furnished with a continuous straight, moderately broad edge; terminal spine in. long, brown, pungent; side prickles moderately close, lanceolate, hooked, / in. long. trunk, in. to in. long. texas. =a. potatorum= (drinkers'). _fl._ greenish yellow, in. long; scape ft. high, including the thyrsoid panicle, which is ft. to ft. long. _l._ about twenty in a dense sessile rosette, ft. to ft. broad, oblong-spathulate, ft. to - / ft. long, in. to in. broad above the middle, a dull glaucous green; face slightly concave; terminal spines hard, pungent, - / in. to in. long; side prickles deltoid-cuspidate, about / in. long, with the edge slightly wavy between them. mexico, . =a. pruinosa= (frosty).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ ten to twenty in a dense rosette, spreading, oblanceolate-oblong, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad above the middle, soft and fleshy in texture, pale glaucous green; terminal spine very weak; edge furnished with minute irregular spreading deltoid serrations, not more than quarter line long. mexico, . a very distinct species. =a. roezliana= (roezl's). _fl._ unknown. _l._ twenty to thirty in a sessile rosette, stiff, ensiform, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad at the middle, bright glossy green, with a distinct pale band down the centre, broadly rounded on the back, without any darker green lines, margined with a continuous moderately broad border, red brown at first, fading into grey when old; terminal spines bright reddish brown, pungent, / in. to / in. long; side prickles copious, spreading, lanceolate, curved, / in. long. mexico, . [illustration: acacia leprosa (lemon). a. lineata (orange).] =a. salmiana= (prince salm-dyck's).* _fl._ greenish yellow, in. long; panicle thyrsoid, ft. to ft. long, with erecto-patent branches and flowers in dense clusters; scape, exclusive of the panicle, ft. high. _l._ twelve to thirty in a dense rosette, which is often ft. to ft. broad, oblanceolate-spathulate, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad above the middle, a dull, slightly glaucous green; face more or less concave; terminal spine - / in. to in. long, hard and pungent; side prickles / in. long, chestnut brown, hooked up or down. mexico, . syns. _a. atrovirens_, _a. jacobiana_, _a. tehuacensis_. =a. s. latissima= (very broad). _l._ ft. to ft. long, by in. to in. broad above the middle. =a. sartorii= (sartor's). _fl._ greenish, - / in. long; pedicels very short, in a dense spike about ft. long, in. to in. broad when expanded; scape ft. to ft. long, the green linear ascending bracts in. to in. long. _l._ thirty to forty spaced out in a loose rosette, ensiform, - / ft. to ft. long, in. broad at the middle, bright green, with a pale band down the middle; face flat; terminal spine small, not pungent; side prickles minute, crowded, spreading, tipped with red-brown. caudex ft. to ft. long, sometimes forked. syns. _a. cæspitosa_, _a. noackii_, _a. pendula_. =a. schidigera= (spine-bearing).* _fl._ almost identical with _a. filifera_. _l._ fifty to eighty in a dense sessile rosette, stiff, ensiform, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad at the middle, similar in colour and texture to those of _a. filifera_, but the grey marginal border, and splitting off into flat shavings, not mere threads. =a. schnittspahni= (schnittspahn's). referred to _a. scolymus_. =a. scolymus= (scolymus). _fl._ greenish yellow, - / in. to in. long; branches few, with the flowers at the end in very dense clusters; scape ft. to ft. high, including the thyrsoid panicle, which is ft. long and ft. broad, furnished with green bracts. _l._ twenty to thirty in a dense rosette - / ft. to ft. broad, oblong-spathulate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad above the middle, very glaucous, abruptly terminating in a pungent spine, in. or more long; side prickles chestnut brown, about / in. long; edge wavy between them; those on the lower half smaller and directed downwards. mexico, . other so-called species referred to this are _a. am�na_, _a. crenata_, _a. cucullata_, _a. schnittspahni_, and _a. verschaffeltii_. =a. s. saundersii= (saunders'). _fl._ about ft. long; teeth very large. =a. seemanni= (seemann's).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ twenty in a sessile rosette, ft. to - / ft. broad, oblong-spathulate, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad at the middle, narrowed to in. above the dilated base, slightly glaucous; face flat, except close to the top; terminal spine pungent, dark brown, / in. long; side prickles large, moderately close, slightly curved upwards or downwards. guatemala, . there are two or three garden forms of this species. =a. shawii= (shaw's).* _fl._ greenish yellow, in. to - / in. long; panicle thyrsoid, about ft. long and broad; clusters dense, composed of thirty to forty flowers, surrounded by large foliaceous fleshy bracts. _l._ fifty to sixty, or more, forming a dense globose sessile rosette ft. in diameter, oblong-spathulate, in. to in. long, - / in. to - / in. broad at the middle, deep green; terminal spine brown, in. long, the upper third or quarter entire, the rest furnished with crowded upcurved lanceolate prickles, / in. to / in. long. california, . this species is very rare at present, but is a most distinct and handsome plant. =a. sobolifera= (soboliferous). _fl._ greenish yellow, in. to - / in. long, in a deltoid panicle, of which the lower panicles are in. to in. long, and bear a hundred flowers each; pedicels / in. to in. long; scape ft. to ft. high, - / in. thick at the base. _l._ twenty to forty in a shortly caulescent rosette, oblanceolate-oblong-spathulate, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad at the middle, very bright green; face deeply channelled, the border much raised and tip often recurved; terminal spine sub-pungent, chestnut brown, / in. long; side prickles distant, brown, hooked, / in. to / in. long. west indies, . =a. striata= (striated-leaved).* _fl._ brownish green outside, yellow inside, in. to - / in. long; pedicels very short; spike dense, ft. to ft. long; bracts linear, shorter than the flowers; scape ft. to ft. high, including the spike, furnished with numerous spreading subulate bracts, which are in. to in. long. _l._ to in a dense rosette, linear-ensiform, ft. to - / ft. long, / in. to / in. broad above the deltoid dilated base, where they are / in. thick and in. broad, narrowed gradually from the top of the base to the point, rigid in texture, glaucous green; face rather keeled, and the back more so; point brown, pungent, / in. long; edges minutely serrulate. mexico, . =a. s. echinoides= (echinus-like). _l._ about in. long, / in. broad at the middle; face flat. mexico, . dwarfer and stiffer in habit than the variety _stricta_. =a. s. recurva= (recurved-leaved). _l._ longer than in the type, ft. to ft., more or less falcate, narrower, and decidedly convex on both surfaces. =a. s. stricta= (upright). _l._ about ft. long, very stiff, / in. broad at the middle, both faces convex. _a. richardsii_ comes near to this variety. =a. tehuacensis= (tehuan). synonymous with _a. salmiana_. =a. uncinata= (hooked). synonymous with _a. polyacantha_. =a. univittata= (one-striped).* _fl._ green, - / in. long (or less); spike ft. to ft. long, in. to in. thick; pedicels / in. long; scape ft. long, exclusive of the spike, its bracts dense and squarrose. _l._ fifty to eighty in a stemless rosette, rigid, ensiform, ft. to - / ft. long, in. to in. broad at the middle, narrowed slightly downwards, and very gradually upwards, dull green, with a broad pale band down the face, faintly lineate on the back; margin bordered by a narrow, continuous grey horny line, furnished with hooked lanceolate prickles, / in. long, from / in. to in. apart; terminal spine brown, pungent, in. long. mexico, . =a. utahensis= (utahan).* _fl._ yellowish, about in. long; peduncles ultimately / in. long; scapes, ft. to ft. high, including the ft. to ft. spike. _l._ stemless, ensiform, in. to in. long, in. to nearly in. broad, thick, glaucous; terminal spine channelled, pungent, about in. long; marginal prickles, / in. to / in. long, white, with a darker base. southern utah, . this is a true alpine species, perfectly hardy, and of very easy culture. =a. vanderdonckii= (vanderdonck's). synonymous with _a. xylacantha_. =a. variegata= (variegated).* _fl._ greenish, about - / in. long; spike about ft. long, fifteen to twenty flowered; bracts minute, deltoid; scape ft. long, exclusive of the spike, bearing about twelve lanceolate bract leaves. _l._ fifteen to eighteen in a sessile rosette, spreading, ligulate-lanceolate, finally in. to in. long, in. to in. broad below the middle, narrowed slightly downwards, and gradually to the point, deeply channelled down the face, and copiously spotted with brown on a green ground; edge hard and tough, very obscurely serrulate. texas, . this very desirable variegated species is extremely rare in cultivation. =a. verschaffeltii= (verschaffelt's). referred to _a. scolymus_. =a. victoriæ regina= (queen victoria).* _l._ forty to fifty in a sessile rosette, stiff, rigid, lanceolate, in. long, - / in. to nearly in. broad above the dilated base, narrowed gradually to a rather obtuse point, dead green, margined with a continuous white border, like that of _a. filifera_, not splitting up into threads, but leaving distinct white vertical bands where it is pressed against the neighbouring leaves; terminal spine / in. long, black, pungent, with usually one or two small spines on each side of it. mexico, . this is also much too rare a plant. syn. _a. consideranti_. =a. virginica= (virginian).* _fl._ greenish yellow, in. to - / in. long; spike very loose, ft. to - / ft. long; lower flowers with very short pedicels and lanceolate bracts, about / in. long; scape ft. to ft. high, exclusive of the spike, with only a few distant small bract leaves. _l._ ten to fifteen in a sessile rosette, spreading, lanceolate, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad below the middle, narrowed gradually to the point and a little downwards; face channelled, undulated, pale green, or mottled with brown spots, the narrow hard and tough margin very obscurely serrulate. north america, . _a. conduplicata_ is said to be allied to this species. =a. vivipara= (viviparous).* _fl._ greenish yellow, - / in. to in. long, often changed into bulbillæ, which bear lanceolate leaves in. long before they fall and take root; inflorescence reaching a height of ft. or more, the deltoid panicle about a quarter of the length of the scape; corymbs on stout peduncles, pedicels short. _l._ twenty to fifty in a dense, shortly caulescent rosette, ensiform, ft. to ft. long, - / in. to in. broad at the middle, whence it gradually narrows to the point, dull green when mature, thin but firm in texture, flat or channelled down the face; terminal spine firm, brown, / in. long; side teeth brown, hooked, / in. or less long. a very widely spread species throughout tropics of the old world, . syns. _a. cantula_, _a. bulbifera_. =a. warelliana= (warell's).* _l._ about thirty in a rosette, oblong-spathulate, in. to. in. long, in. broad above the middle, narrowed to in. above the dilated base; face nearly flat, green, scarcely at all glaucous, tipped with a strong brown channelled spine in. long; border margined with close, very short teeth, dark purple when mature. mexico. a rare but very handsome species. =a. wislizeni= (wislizenius's). _fl._ - / in. long; panicle thyrsoid, its branches in. to in. long; pedicels very short; scape ft. high. _l._ about thirty in a dense, rigid, sessile rosette, which is under ft. broad, oblong-spathulate, in. to - / in. broad above the middle, very glaucous, concave in the upper part; terminal spine hard, pungent, dark brown, in. long, and decurrent down the border a little; side prickles / in. long, dark purple, moderately close, those below the middle of the leaf smaller and curved downward. mexico, . =a. xalapensis.= synonymous with _a. polyacantha_. =a. xylacantha= (woody-spined).* _fl._ green, - / in. long; spike dense, rather shorter than the scape, its bracts linear-subulate; scape ft. to ft. long, its bracts subulate, all ascending, the lower ones in. to in. long. _l._ not more than twenty in a stemless rosette, ensiform, diverging irregularly and often curving, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. (rarely in.) broad at the middle, narrowed gradually upwards, a slightly glaucous dead green, marked with a few darker green lines on the back, furnished with a broad continuous horny border and a few very large irregular hooked teeth, often united or collected in pairs, / in. to / in. long, and / in. to / in. broad; terminal spine brown, pungent, in. long. mexico. a long-known, widely-spread, and distinct species. syns. _a. amurensis_ and _a. vanderdonckii_. =a. x. hybrida= is a striking dwarf variety with vittate leaves, and smaller, more crowded deltoid-cuspidate prickles than in the type. it is also commonly known as _a. x. vittata_ and _a. perbella_. [illustration: fig. . agave yucc�folia.] =a. yuccæfolia= (yucca-leaved).* _fl._ greenish yellow, - / in. to - / in. long, in a dense spike in. to in. long, about in. in diameter, sessile, solitary, or in pairs; scape ft. to ft. high. _l._ twenty to forty in a dense, shortly-stemmed rosette, linear, much recurved, - / ft. to - / ft. long, / in. to in. broad at the middle; face deeply channelled, dull, rather glaucous green, with a pale band down the centre, the tip not at all pungent, the back broadly rounded, edge entire, or obscurely serrulate. mexico, . a most distinct species. see fig. . =ageratum= (from _a_, not, and _geras_, old; in reference to the flowers being always clear). syn. _c�lestina_. ord. _compositæ_. this genus includes several american species, for the most part half-hardy annuals and biennials; or, if the seed is not allowed to ripen, they become perennials. involucre cup-shaped, of many imbricated linear bracts; receptacle naked. leaves opposite. a light rich soil is most suitable. very easily increased by cuttings or seeds; if required true, the former is the only sure method of propagation. to grow large plants for greenhouse decoration, sow the seeds in january, in heat, in sandy soil, barely covering them. as soon as the young plants are large enough, prick them off into thumb pots, and keep in heat till they grow freely, then place them into a cooler house. transfer into larger pots as soon as the others are full of roots, until they are finally shifted into in. or in. pots. when these are full of roots, the plants should be watered with liquid manure twice a week, and they soon flower well, making fine specimens. during hot weather especially, they should be well syringed with clear water daily, to keep down red spider. the plants required for bedding (for which purpose the dwarf garden varieties are mostly used) should be raised about the same time, kept in small pots, gradually hardened off, and planted out in the middle or end of june. cuttings of all the varieties strike readily in heat, treated like most soft-wooded plants, and, when rooted, may be managed as recommended for the seedlings. =a. lasseauxii= (lasseaux's). _fl.-heads_ rose-coloured, small, disposed in corymbose heads. summer. _l._ lanceolate-elliptic. _h._ - / ft. to ft. monte video, . a much-branched plant, requiring greenhouse protection in winter, and suitable for planting out in summer. =a. latifolium= (broad-leaved). a synonym of _piqueria latifolia_. =a. mexicanum= (mexican).* the commonest and most useful species, with a profusion of lilac-blue flowers. _h._ ft. mexico, . when used for bedding purposes it may be pegged down like the verbena, or be allowed to grow its full height. several very dwarf varieties of it have originated under cultivation, which supersede the species for bedding, the best of which are:--cupid,* rich blue, very dwarf and floriferous; imperial dwarf, about in. high, with porcelain blue flowers; lady jane, of the same colour, very free; queen,* silvery grey, about in. high; snowflake,* white, very free and showy; swanley blue,* very deep blue, in. to in. high. there is also a white-flowered variety of _mexicanum_, which is very showy; and a variegated form, sometimes grown for the sake of its pretty foliage. =agglomerate, agglomerated.= collected into a heap or head. =agglutinated.= glued together. =aggregate, aggregated.= gathered together; usually applied to the inflorescence. =aglaia.= (mythological: from aglaia, the name of one of the graces, and given to this genus on account of its beauty and the sweet scent of the flowers). ord. _meliaceæ_. stove evergreen trees or shrubs having very small flowers, disposed in branched axillary panicles. leaves alternate, trifoliate, or impari-pinnate. there are several species, but the undermentioned is the only one worth growing yet introduced. it thrives well in a mixture of turfy loam and peat. young cuttings ripened at the base, and taken off at a joint, will root in sand under a hand glass, in heat. =a. odorata= (sweet-scented). _fl._ yellow, small, in axillary racemes, very sweet-scented, said to be used by the chinese to scent their teas. february to may. _l._ pinnate, with five or seven glossy leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . =aglaomorpha.= _see_ =polypodium=. =aglaonema= (from _aglaos_, bright, and _nema_, a thread; supposed to refer to the shining stamens). ord. _aroideæ_. stove perennials, allied to _arum_, and requiring similar treatment to the stove species of that genus. =a. commutatum= (changed).* _fl._ white. _l._ greyish-blotched. _h._ ft. philippines, . syn. _a. marantæfolium maculatum_. =a. mannii= (mann's).* _fl._, spathe in. long, whitish, with a spadix one-third shorter, bearing white anthers and scarlet ovaries. _l._ elliptic-oblong, dark green. stems thickish, erect. _h._ - / ft. victoria mountains, . =a. marantæfolium maculatum= (maranta-leaved, spotted). a synonym of _a. commutatum_. =a. pictum= (painted).* _fl._, spathe pale creamy yellow, folded round so as to appear globular-oblong, opening at top; spadix projecting, white. august. _l._ elliptic-acuminate, light green, blotched irregularly with broadish angulate patches of grey. stems slender, erect. _h._ ft. to ft. borneo. =agnostus.= _see_ =stenocarpus=. =agraphis.= included under =scilla= (which _see_). =agrimonia= (from _argos_, white; the cataract of the eye being white. once reputed to contain medicinal qualities). agrimony. ord. _rosaceæ_. a genus of hardy herbaceous perennials, with interruptedly pinnate leaves, each accompanied by a pair of stipules united to the petioles. flowers small, numerous, spiked; calyx turbinate, involucrated by bristles; petals five. they are all of the easiest culture, growing in ordinary soil. readily increased by root-division. the most showy species in cultivation are described below. =a. eupatoria= (eupatoria). _fl._ yellow, on an elongated spike. _l._ with elliptic-oblong, coarsely serrated leaflets, odd one stalked. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. =a. nepalensis= (nepaul). _fl._ yellow, on erect, slender racemes. _l._ with ovate, serrated leaflets, odd one stalked, villous. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . =a. odorata= (sweet-scented).* _fl._ yellow; spikes several. _l._ with oblong lanceolate, deeply crenate-toothed leaflets, hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. italy, . =agrimony.= _see_ =agrimonia=. =agriotes.= _see_ =wireworm=. =agrostemma= (from _agros_, a field, and _stemma_, a crown; alluding to the beauty of the flowers, which were formerly made into crowns or garlands). rose campion. ord. _caryophyllaceæ_. hardy evergreen perennials and annuals, with broadish leaves, and one-flowered peduncles. of easy culture, and well adapted for borders. they will all grow freely in common garden soil. increased by division of the roots, and seed. _a. c�li-rosa_, and _a. flos-jovis_ are, perhaps, species of _lychnis_, but the generic name which we have adopted is the most common one. all the species of this genus are exceedingly pretty free-flowering plants, and both annuals and perennials are well worth growing. =a. c�li-rosa= (rose of heaven).* _fl._ delicate rose, white, or bright purple, solitary, terminal. summer. levant, &c., . an annual species about ft. high, not tomentose; should be grown in patches. sow the seed in april. [illustration: fig. . agrostemma c�li-rosa fimbriata.] =a. c.-r. fimbriata= (fimbriate). a form having fimbriated petals. known also as _nana_. _h._ in. see fig. . =a. c.-r. purpurea= (purple).* a very pretty form, having dark purple flowers, and compact habit. see fig. . =a. coronaria= (crowned).* _fl._ white, with the middle red; petals emarginate, crowned, serrated; peduncles elongated, one-flowered. july. _l._ lanceolate, very broad, leathery; plant woolly throughout. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . this species is admirably adapted for naturalising on dry hill sides, and in the wild garden. there are several varieties seen in gardens with a great diversity of colour, including dark crimson, white, and sometimes double flowers. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . agrostemma c�li-rosa purpurea.] [illustration: fig. . agrostemma coronaria, showing habit and flower.] =a. flos-jovis.=* flower of jove. _fl._ purple or scarlet, in umbellate heads; peduncles short, rather branched. july. _l._ lanceolate, stem-clasping, silky, tomentose. _h._ - / ft. switzerland, . plant white from tomentum. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . agrostemma flos-jovis, showing habit and flower.] =agrostis= (from _agros_, a field; the greek name for a kind of grass). bent grass. ord. _gramineæ_. annual or perennial grasses. panicle loose; spikelets compressed. several of the species are very effective, and well worth growing; and the spikes are pretty objects, when dried, for window vases, &c. they are of easy culture, in ordinary garden soil. sow seeds during spring in the open border, in tufts, among ferns, &c., or in pots for decorative purposes. =a. elegans= (elegant). _h._ ft. russia, . [illustration: fig. . agrostis nebulosa.] =a. nebulosa= (cloud).* cloud grass. _fl._ panicles resemble, when developed, a cloud resting over the ground. _h._ - / ft. very light and elegant. annual. see fig. . =a. pulchella= (pretty).* dwarfer, and with a more rigid habit than _a. nebulosa_. it is, nevertheless, a most graceful plant, and valuable for bouquet making, and for winter decorative purposes. _h._ in. to in. russia. annual. =a. spica-venti= (windward-spiked). _fl._ panicle large, silky looking, loosely spreading. england. annual. =agrotis.= _see_ =pot-herb moths= and =turnip moth=. =ailantus= (from _ailanto_, referring to its lofty growth). tree of heaven. ord. _xanthoxylaceæ_. tall deciduous trees. the stove species will grow freely in a mixture of loam and peat; and the best way to increase these is by pieces of the roots, planted in a pot with their points above the ground, and placed in a hotbed, where they will soon make fine plants. =a. excelsa= (tall). _fl._ whitish green, disposed similar to the following. _l._ abruptly pinnate, ft. long, with ten to fourteen pairs of leaflets coarsely toothed at the base, without glands. _h._ ft. india, . a stove tree. =a. glandulosa= (glandulous).* _fl._ whitish green, disposed in large branched, terminal, fascicled panicles, exhaling a disagreeable smell. august. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets coarsely toothed at the base with glands. (the leaves on vigorous young trees are sometimes ft. in length.) _h._ ft. china, . this tree grows with great rapidity for the first ten or twelve years, in favourable situations, afterwards its growth is much slower. it is quite hardy, and thrives in almost any soil, though one that is light and somewhat humid, and a sheltered situation, suits it best. it is a very desirable tree for plantations, or to stand singly on lawns, and is easily increased by slips of the roots. =ainsl�a= (in honour of dr. whitelaw ainslie, author of a work on indian drugs). ord. _compositæ_. herbaceous perennials, of recent introduction. although, no doubt, both species will prove tolerably hardy, they should have slight protection during winter. they thrive in light rich soil. propagated by divisions of the root. =a. aptera= (wingless). _fl.-head_ purple, disposed in an elongated spike-like panicle. _l._ deeply cordate, sinuately toothed; petioles wingless, whence the name. sikkim himalayas, . =a. walkeræ= (mrs. walker's).* _fl.-heads_ slender, distant, shortly stalked, borne in erect or somewhat nodding racemes; the white corolla-lobes and the red purple anthers make a pretty contrast. _h._ about ft. hong kong, . a very rare and graceful species. =air.= pure atmospheric air is composed of nitrogen, oxygen, and a very small quantity of carbonic acid gas, all of which are essential to the growth of plants. air-giving is a term used by gardeners to lessen the temperature of a greenhouse, or to equalise it with that outside. _see_ =ventilation=. =aira= (from _aira_, applied by the greeks to _lolium temulentum_). hair grass. ord. _gramineæ_. chiefly hardy grasses, of agricultural value. panicle loose; spikelet compressed, with two perfect flowers, and sometimes a neuter. of easy culture, in ordinary garden soil. sow seeds in spring. =a. flexuosa= (waved).* the waved hair grass. _fl._ shining brown; panicle erect, spreading, with waved angular branches and flower-stalks. _l._ short. stem upwards of ft. high, erect, smooth. england. a very pretty and graceful perennial. [illustration: fig. . aira pulchella.] =a. pulchella= (pretty).* _fl._ panicles loose, very delicate and graceful. _l._ very short. _h._ in. to in. south europe. an elegant plant, with tufted filiform stems. one of the best of dwarf-growing ornamental grasses. see fig. . =air-plant.= _see_ =aerides=, also =epiphytes=. =aitonia= (in honour of w. aiton, once head gardener at kew). ord. _meliaceæ_. a small and rather interesting greenhouse evergreen shrub from the cape of good hope, and thriving well in an equal mixture of sandy loam and peat. young cuttings will root in sand, under a bell glass, with bottom heat. the cuttings must not be put in very close together, and the glass should be wiped frequently, as they are apt to damp off. =a. capensis= (cape). _fl._ pink; petals four, shorter than the projecting stamens. july. _h._ ft. . =aizoon= (from _aei_, always, and _zoos_, alive; tenacious of life). ord. _portulacaceæ_. greenhouse annuals, biennials, or evergreen shrubs. flowers apetalous; calyx five-cleft, coloured on the inner surface. the undermentioned species is the only one worth growing. it requires no shade, a dry atmosphere, and light sandy soil. propagated by seeds and cuttings. =a. sarmentosum= (sarmentose). _fl._ greenish, sessile. summer. _l._ opposite, linear-filiform, rather connate, glabrous; branches rather villous, three-flowered at the apex, the two lateral flowers are bracteated, and spring from the sides of the middle one. sub-shrub, erect, diffuse, glabrous, branched. south africa, . =ajava seed.= _see_ =ptychotis=. =ajax maximus.= _see_ =narcissus=. =ajowan.= _see_ =ptychotis=. =ajuga= (from _a_, not, and _zugon_, a yoke; in reference to the calyx being equal, not bilabiate). bugle. ord. _labiatæ_. hardy annual or perennial herbaceous plants, usually procumbent or ascending, sometimes stoloniferous. whorls two or many flowered, dense, sometimes all axillary, when the floral leaves conform to those of the stem; sometimes the superior whorls are approximate into spikes, then the floral leaves are small, and of a different form from the stem ones. all the species are of easy cultivation in ordinary garden soil. perennials increased by divisions, or by seeds sown in the open border, during spring or autumn. the seeds of annual kinds may be sown in the open border in spring, where they are intended to remain. =a. alpina= (alpine). synonymous with _a. genevensis_. =a. australis= (southern). _fl._ blue; whorls six or more flowered; lower whorls remote, upper ones sub-spicate, floral leaves similar to the stem ones, exceeding the flowers. may to july. _l._ narrow-oblong, narrowed at the base, quite entire or sinuated, thickish, rather villous. stem ascending, or erect. _h._ in. new holland, . perennial. =a. chamæpitys= (ground-pine). _fl._ yellow, dotted with red, pubescent outside; whorls two-flowered; floral leaves similar to the others, exceeding the flowers. april. _l._ deeply trifid, with linear, quite entire, or trifid lobes. stem procumbent at the base, much branched, beset with long hairs, like the leaves. _h._ about in. england (rare). annual. =a. genevensis= (geneva).* _fl._ varying from blue to rose colour and white; upper whorls spicate, lower ones distant, six or more flowered. may. _l._ stem ones oblong-elliptic or obovate, narrowed at the base; lower ones petiolate; floral ones ovate or cuneated; superior ones scarcely equalling the flowers or shorter, all usually coarsely toothed, membranaceous, green on both surfaces, and beset with scattered hairs. stem erect, pilose. _h._ in. to ft. europe. a very variable species, admirably adapted as an alpine plant, and succeeds best in bog soil, where its roots will have plenty of room; it increases rapidly. perennial. syns. _a. alpina_, _a. rugosa_. =a. orientalis= (oriental).* _fl._ blue; whorls six or more flowered, distant, or the upper ones are approximate. may. _l._ lower ones large, petiolate; ovate, coarsely and sinuately toothed, narrowed at the base; floral ones sessile, broad ovate, deeply lobed or toothed, exceeding the flowers. stem ascending, pilosely woolly. _h._ ft. to - / ft. eastern europe, . this species should be grown in a dry, sunny spot. =a. pyramidalis= (pyramidal).* _fl._ blue or purple; whorls many-flowered, upper ones or all spicate. may and june. _l._ stem ones approximate, scarcely petiolate, obovate; floral ones broad-ovate, clasping the flowers, tetragonally pyramidate; the upper ones often coloured, all quite entire or obscurely sinuated. stem erect. _h._ in. scotland. perennial. of this there are several handsome garden varieties. [illustration: fig. . flower of ajuga reptans.] =a. reptans= (creeping).* _fl._ varying from blue to rose-colour; lower whorls remote; upper ones spicate, six to twenty flowered. may. _l._ ovate or obovate, quite entire or sinuated, and are, as well as the stem, nearly glabrous; radical one petiolate, stem ones nearly sessile. stem creeping. the variegated and darkest leaved forms of this are superior to the type for horticultural purposes. britain. perennial. see fig. . =a. rugosa= (wrinkled). synonymous with _a. genevensis_. =akebia= (its japanese name). syn. _rajania_. ord. _lardizabalaceæ_. a pretty twining shrub, succeeding well in the south-western counties of england, or in scotland, trained to a trellis, or rambling over other shrubs in the open; but, when so grown, it requires the protection of a mat in winter. it makes an excellent twiner for the cool greenhouse. sandy loam, leaf soil, and peat are most suitable for its culture. increased by root divisions and cuttings. =a. quinata= (five-leafletted).* _fl._ purplish brown, small, in axillary racemes, very fragrant. march. _l._ on very slender petioles, and palmately divided into usually five distinct petiolulate oval or oblong emarginate leaflets, the bottom pair smallest. _h._ ft. chusan, . =akee-tree.= _see_ =blighia sapida=. =ala.= a lateral petal of a papilionaceous flower. =alangiace�.= a very small order of trees or shrubs, usually with inconspicuous flowers, in axillary fascicles. fruit succulent, eatable. the two genera best known in this country are _alangium_ and _nyssa_. =alangium= (from _alangi_, the malabar name of the first species). ord. _alangiaceæ_. very showy stove evergreen trees, with alternate, exstipulate, entire leaves. flowers few, sessile, in axillary fascicles; calyx campanulate; petals linear, spreadingly reflexed. they thrive well in a mixture of loam and peat, or any light rich soil. cuttings root readily if planted in a pot of sand, with a hand glass placed over them, in heat. =a. decapetalum= (ten-petaled).* _fl._ pale purple, with a grateful scent, solitary, or two to three together in the axils of the leaves; petals ten or twelve. june. _l._ alternate, oblong-lanceolate, quite entire; branches glabrous, spinescent. _h._ ft. malabar, . =a. hexapetalum= (six-petaled). _fl._ purple, six-petaled. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acuminated, velvety beneath. _h._ ft. malabar, . =alatus.= furnished with a membranous or thin wing or expansion. =albescent.= growing white. =albicant.= growing whitish. =albinism.= a pale condition due to the absence of chlorophyl. =albizzia= (named after an italian). ord. _leguminosæ_. ornamental greenhouse or hardy trees or shrubs. for culture, _see_ =acacia=, to which they are often referred. =a. julibrissin= (julibrissin). _fl._ white; heads pedunculate, forming a terminal somewhat corymbose panicle. august. _l._ with eight to twelve pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing about thirty pairs of dimidiate-oblong, acute, rather ciliated leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. hardy. levant, . syn. _a. nemu_. =a. lophantha= (crest-flowered).* _fl._ yellow; racemes ovate-oblong, axillary, twin. may. _l._ with eight to ten pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing twenty-five to thirty pairs of linear, bluntish leaflets; petioles and calyces clothed with velvety down. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . a very distinct unarmed greenhouse species, and one of the best for window gardening. =a. nemu.= a synonym of _a. julibrissin_. =albuca= (from _albicans_, or _albus_, white; the colour of the earlier species). ord. _liliaceæ_. a rather extensive genus of cape of good hope bulbs, requiring ordinary greenhouse culture. closely allied to _ornithogalum_. perianth six-cleft, three outer segments spreading; three inner ones closed over the stamens. they, however, succeed admirably when grown in a warm sunny position out of doors, if covered with a hand glass, or litter, during winter. a light loamy soil, with leaf mould and sand, suits them well. propagated by offsets from the old bulb, or seeds. there are but few species worthy of cultivation. =a. angolensis= (angolan). _fl._ yellowish, large, in cylindrical racemes ft. to - / ft. long. _l._ linear-lorate, sub-erect, fleshy, pale green, - / ft. to ft. long. _h._ ft. angola. =a. aurea= (yellow).* _fl._ pale yellow, upright; peduncle very long, erect, spreading. june. _l._ linear-lanceolate, flat. _h._ ft. . =a. fastigiata= (peaked).* _fl._ white; peduncle very long, spreading. may. _l._ linear, flattish, longer than the scape. _h._ - / ft. . =a. flaccida= (weak). _fl._ pale yellow, with a green keel, drooping, six to eight in a loose raceme; peduncles spreading at right angles. july. _l._ lanceolate-linear, obliquely bent. _h._ ft. . =a. nelsoni= (nelson's).* _fl._, perianth, - / in. long, ascending, white, with a dull red stripe down the back of each segment; scape stout, ft. to ft. high. summer. _l._ bright green, very concave at the basal part, nearly flat in the upper part, ft. to - / ft. long, l- / in. to - / in. broad, at about one-third the way up, whence they are gradually narrowed to an acute point. natal, . this very handsome species is the best of the genus. =albumen.= the substance under the inner coat of the testa of seeds, surrounding the embryo. it is sometimes absent. =albuminous.= furnished with albumen. =alburnum.= the white wood of a tree; the younger wood, not choked up by sedimentary deposit, and therefore permeable to fluids. =alchemilla= (from _alkemelyeh_, the arabic name of one of the species). lady's mantle. ord. _rosaceæ_. hardy herbaceous perennials, with corymbose, apetalous flowers; calyx tubular, with the tube rather contracted at the apex. leaves palmate or lobed. of very easy culture, in common, but well drained soil. they are well adapted for rockwork and planting near the front of borders. easily increased by divisions of the roots, and seeds. all here described are hardy, except _a. sibbaldiæfolia_. =a. alpina= (alpine).* _fl._ greenish, small; corymbose. june. _l._ digitate; leaflets five to seven, lanceolate-cuneated, obtuse, serrated, clothed with white satiny down beneath. _h._ in. britain. =a. pubescens= (pubescent). _fl._ greenish; corymbs terminal, crowded, clothed with a coating of long weak hairs. june. _l._ roundish-reniform, seven-lobed, toothed, silky beneath. _h._ in. to in. caucasus (higher), . =a. sericea= (silky).* _fl._ greenish, corymbose. june. _l._ digitate; leaflets seven, lanceolate-obovate, obtuse, connected at the base, serrated at the apex, clothed with satiny down beneath. _h._ about in. caucasus, . much larger in every part than _a. alpina_, to which it is closely allied. =a. sibbaldiæfolia= (sibbaldia-leaved). _fl._ white, conglomerate; stem corymbosely many-flowered at the apex. july. _l._ deeply three-parted, clothed with adpressed pubescence beneath; segments deeply serrated, lateral ones bifid. _h._ in. mexico, . a greenhouse species, which should be grown in small well-drained pots, with a mixture of leaf soil and sandy loam. =aldea.= a synonym of =phacelia= (which _see_). =alder.= _see_ =alnus=. =aletris= (from _aletron_, meal; referring to the powdery appearance of the whole plant). the american star grass. syn. _tritonia_. ord. _hæmodoraceæ_. interesting hardy herbaceous perennials, closely allied to the _amaryllids_. perianth half-inferior, tubular; limb spreading or funnel-shaped; stamens inserted at base of perianth segments, filaments flat. they delight in a sunny but damp situation, with peat, leaf mould, and sand, and are slowly increased by division of the roots. =a. aurea= (golden).* _fl._ yellow, bell-shaped. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . similar in habit to _a. farinosa_. =a. capensis= (cape). _see_ =veltheimia viridifolia=. =a. farinosa= (mealy).* _fl._ white, bell-shaped, in a terminal spiked raceme, upon stems - / ft. to ft. high. _l._ lanceolate, ribbed. north america, . a pretty species, forming a spreading tuft, and possessing intensely bitter properties. =aleurites= (from the greek word signifying floury; all the parts of the plant seeming to be dusted with a farinaceous substance). ord. _euphorbiaceæ_. a handsome stove evergreen tree, with small, white, clustered flowers. leaves alternate, stalked, exstipulate. of easy culture in a loamy soil. ripe cuttings, with their leaves untouched, root readily in sand, under a hand-glass. =a. triloba= (three-lobed).* candleberry tree. _l._ three-lobed, in. to in. long. _h._ ft. to ft. moluccas and south pacific islands, . =alexanders.= _see_ =smyrnium=. =alexandrian laurel.= _see_ =ruscus racemosus=. =algaroba bean, or carob.= _see_ =ceratonia=. =algarobia.= included under =prosopis= (which _see_). =alhagi= (its arabian name). ord. _leguminosæ_. manna tree. greenhouse shrubs or sub-shrubs, with simple leaves, and minute stipulas. flowers few, in clusters. they thrive in pots filled with a mixture of sand, loam, and peat. young cuttings will root in sand, with a bell glass placed over them, in heat; but by seeds, if they can be procured, sown in a hotbed, is a preferable mode of increasing the plants. they may be placed out of doors during the summer months. =a. camelorum= (camels). _fl._ red, few, disposed in racemes along the peduncles. july. _l._ lanceolate, obtuse, simple; stipulas minute. stem herbaceous. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus, . =a. maurorum= (moors'). _fl._ purple in the middle, and reddish about the edges, disposed in racemes along the axillary, spinose peduncles. july. _l._ obovate-oblong, simple; spines strong, and longer than those of the above species. _h._ ft. to ft. egypt, &c. the manna is a natural exudation from the branches and leaves of this shrub, which takes place only in very hot weather. =alibertia= (in honour of m. alibert, a celebrated french chemist, author of "traite des fievres attaxiques," wherein he mentions the effects of peruvian bark). ord. _cinchonaceæ_. a small stove evergreen tree, very ornamental when in flower. flowers solitary or fascicled, di�cious; corolla leathery, tubular. a mixture of loam and peat is the best soil. cuttings strike root freely, in a similar kind of soil, under a hand glass, in a moist heat. =a. edulis= (edible). _fl._ cream-coloured, solitary or in fascicles, terminating the branches, almost sessile. june. _fr._ edible. _l._ opposite, leathery, oblong, acuminated, shining above, and bearded in the axils of the veins beneath. _h._ ft. guiana, . =alicant soda.= _see_ =salsola=. =alisma.= (from _alis_, the celtic word for water). water plantain. syn. _actinocarpus_. ord. _alismaceæ_. a genus entirely composed of hardy aquatic species. flowers three-petalled. leaves parallel-veined. increased by division or seeds. the latter should be sown in a pot immersed in water, filled with loam, peat, and sand, and the former root freely in a moist loamy soil. the british species are most easily grown. [illustration: fig. . alisma natans.] =a. natans= (floating).* _fl._ white; peduncles simple. july. _l._ elliptical-obtuse; stem ones floating, on long stalks, scarcely nerved; those at the base of the plant are long, linear-lanceolate, membranous scales, or abortive root leaves. north wales and cumberland, but very rare; abundant in other parts of europe. see fig. . =a. plantago= (plantain).* _fl._ delicate pale rose coloured; scape branched upwards. july. _l._ ovate, acute, all radical, on long stalks; branches all whorled, bracteated, compound. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. a very handsome aquatic for naturalising. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . portion of inflorescence of alisma plantago.] =a. p. lanceolata= (lance-shaped leaves). _fl._ pure white. july. _l._ lanceolate. britain. =a. ranunculoides= (ranunculus-like). in general appearance very like the last named species, but smaller. britain. =alismace�.= a small order of aquatic or marsh plants, with three-petaled flowers, on leafless scapes, and simple radical leaves. the genera best known are _alisma_ and _sagittaria_. =alkanet.= _see_ =anchusa tinctoria=. =allamanda= (named in memory of dr. allamand, of leyden, who first communicated seeds of this genus to linnæus). ord. _apocynaceæ_. elegant climbing evergreen stove plants. peduncles terminal and many-flowered; corolla funnel-shaped, with a narrow tube, gamopetalous, large, inflated, five-cleft at the apex. leaves verticillate. this genus differs from all others of the same order, in the figure of the corolla. of comparatively easy culture. to obtain their beauty of foliage and flowers, the shoots should be tied to wires placed within in. or in. of the glass that forms the roof of the structure in which the plants are growing. trained in this way, and the shoots allowed to ramble in a somewhat natural manner, the effect, when the plants are in flower, is grander and more pleasing in every respect than when the shoots are tied to a formal trellis, of whatever shape. when thoroughly established, they succeed admirably in a compost of three parts good fibry loam, and one part wood charcoal or coarse river sand, with some rotten cow manure added. when potting the plants, make the fresh compost firm round the old balls of soil, and do not fill the pots too full; leave room for plenty of water, as, when in active growth, they require a liberal daily supply. they must be pruned annually in january or february, cutting the previous year's shoots back to within a joint or two of the old wood. allamandas should be exposed to the light as much as possible at all seasons of the year. in winter months they require but little water, but the drainage must always be perfect. they are remarkably free from insect attacks of any kind. it may be also observed that the temperature should never fall below deg. this genus is easily propagated by cuttings, which will root at any time of the year in a bottom heat of from deg. to deg. the usual time is, however, in spring, when the old plants are pruned back. choose the tops of the shoots, retaining two or three joints to each cutting; place these in a compost of sand and peat or leaf mould in equal proportions, singly, in small pots. press the soil firmly around each cutting, and, when all are inserted, give a good watering, and plunge the pots in the propagating bed. attend to shading and watering, and in about three weeks' time they will have emitted roots, and started to grow at the tops. the pots should now be raised out of the plunging material, and placed upon the surface thereof, and there allowed to remain two or three weeks longer; when the young roots will have, by this time, filled the little pots, and a shift into the larger ones will be necessary. return the plants to the propagating bed, but do not plunge them therein. as soon as it is certain that the roots have commenced growth in the fresh soil, pinch the point of each plant that is intended to be grown on a trellis. this will cause the remaining buds to push out fresh shoots; and these, as soon as they have made two joints or whorls of leaves each, should have their points pinched out also. by repotting the plants as often as they fill their pots with roots during the first season of their growth, and pinching the points out of the shoots twice or thrice in the same time, a good foundation will be formed, from which the future specimens will spring. in the case of plants intended to be trained up rafters or pillars, they should not have their points pinched out until they attain to the height where it is desirable they should have more than one shoot, and be repotted as recommended above, for the first year; but, after that, they will require to be repotted only once a year, and this should be done soon after the buds have started to grow afresh in the spring. =a. aubletii= (aublet's).* _fl._ yellow, large. june. _l._ four to five in a whorl, broad-oblong, acuminated, rather hairy beneath. guiana, . =a. cathartica= (purging).* _fl._ yellow, large. june. _l._ four in a whorl, obovate, obtuse, acutish, with sub-undulated edges, glabrous. guiana, . syn. _a. linnæi_. =a. chelsoni= (chelsea).* _fl._ yellow, large. summer. this splendid plant is least suited of any for trellis training, from its wood being stiffer and harder, and is therefore best for the roof of a house; it is one of the best kinds for cutting. garden hybrid. =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ distinct pale yellow, rather large, very free bloomer. june. brazil, . =a. linnæi= (linnæus's). synonymous with _a. cathartica_. =a. neriifolia= (oleander-leaved).* _fl._ deep golden yellow, elegantly streaked with orange, between funnel and bell shaped, the tube being wide, in. long; panicle many-flowered. june. _l._ oblong, on short petioles, acuminate. _h._ ft. south america, . shrub erect, glabrous. =a. nobilis= (noble).* _fl._ bright yellow, rather deeper tinted in the throat, large, full circular form, but without streaks or any other markings. july. _l._ in whorls of four or of three, tapered to the base, sessile, oblong, abruptly acuminate, membranaceous, hairy on both surfaces, especially beneath and on the midrib. brazil, . one of the best species. =a. schottii= (schott's).* _fl._ yellow, large, throat beautifully striped with rich brown. september. _l._ oblong, acuminated, four in a whorl, quite glabrous, on both surfaces. _h._ ft. brazil, . this species is a very strong grower, and suits the roof system best; it is also a very free bloomer. =a. verticillata= (whorl-leaved). _fl._ yellow, large. june. _l._ usually six in a whorl, ovate-oblong, obtuse, quite glabrous. south america, . =a. violacea= (violet). _fl._ purple. brazil, . =allantodia= (from _allantos_, a sausage; in reference to the cylindrical form of the indusium). ord. _filices_. a greenhouse monotypic genus, differing from _asplenium_ in the dehiscence of the involucre, and it may receive similar treatment to the spleenworts. sori dorsal, linear-oblong, attached to the primary veins. involucre the same shape as the sorus and quite inclosing it, bursting in an irregular line down to the centre. =a. brunoniana= (brown's).* _fronds_ often ft. to ft. long, / ft. to ft. broad; pinnæ in. to in. long, in. broad, entire. _sori_ confined to the anterior vein of the first fork. himalayas, up to ft., &c. syn. _asplenium javanicum_. =allardtia.= _see_ =tillandsia=. =alleys.= small walks of various widths, but generally - / ft. or ft. wide, and formed in right lines, parallel to the main walks, or borders, sometimes covered with a thin coat of sand, gravel, or shells, or paved with flints, pebbles, &c. spaces left between beds of seedling plants are generally meant when alleys are referred to. =all-heal.= _see_ =prunella vulgaris=. =alliaceous.= pertaining to the _garlic_ family. =alliaria.= _see_ =sisymbrium=. =alligator apple.= _see_ =anona palustris=. =alligator pear.= _see_ =persea gratissima=. =allium= (from _all_, meaning hot or burning; in allusion to the well-known properties of the onion tribe). including _porrum_, _sch�noprasum_. ord. _liliaceæ_. hardy bulbous plants, with flat or terete radical leaves, and capitate or umbellate flowers, enclosed in a membranous spathe at the summit of a slender, naked, or leafy scape; perianth spreading or campanulate. they are of very easy culture, increasing rapidly by offsets. the little bulbs, which are produced in clusters, may be separated and replanted, in autumn or early spring, about in. deep. seeds are also easily obtainable. these may be sown thinly in light soil, in february or march, where they should remain until the autumn or following spring, when they may be transplanted to their flowering situations. during the growing season, all the attention required will be to keep the plants free of weeds, and place stakes to the tall-growing kinds. =a. acuminatum= (taper-pointed).* _fl._ deep rose, / in. to in. across, in many-flowered umbels. july and august. _l._ rather shorter than the stems, very narrow, only about a line wide. _h._ in. to in. north-west america, . =a. a. rubrum= (red). _fl._ deep red-purple; in other respects like the type. california. =a. ascalonicum= (eschallot). _fl._ purple; umbels globose; scape rounded. summer. _l._ subulate. _h._ in. palestine, . for culture, _see_ =eschallot=. =a. azureum= (sky-blue).* _fl._ deep sky-blue, with a dark line through the middle of each division; umbels dense, globular, longer than the spathes which envelop them before expanding. summer. _l._ triangular, from in. to in. long. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . one of the handsomest species grown. =a. bidwelliæ= (mrs. bidwell's).* _fl._ bright rose, about / in. across, in few-flowered umbels. july. _l._ narrow, rather longer than the stem. _h._ in. to in. sierra nevada, . a very charming little species for the rockery. =a. breweri= (brewer's).* _fl._ deep rose, nearly or quite in. across, in few-flowered umbels. july. _l._ much longer than the flower-stem, / in. or more broad. _h._ in. to in. california, . =a. cepa= (common onion). _fl._ white; scape ventricose, longer than the leaves. june, july. _l._ fistular, rounded. _h._ ft. for culture, _see_ =onion=. =a. c. aggregatum.= aggregated, tree, or potato onion. _see_ =onion=. =a. c�ruleum= (blue-flowered).* _fl._ blue, in large compact globular heads. june. _h._ in. russia, . very distinct. =a. douglasii= (douglas'). synonymous with _a. unifolium_. =a. erdelii= (erdel's). _fl._ white, keeled with green, in compact umbels. _h._ in. palestine, . a rare but pretty species, and should be planted in a warm position on the rockery. =a. falcifolium= (sickle-leaved).* _fl._ pale rose, / in. to / in. across, in few-flowered umbels. august. _l._ two in number, thick, broadly linear, falcate. _h._ in. to in. north-west america, . =a. falciforme= (sickle-formed). probably a variety of _a. unifolium_, with pure white flowers, in several-flowered umbels. _h._ in. california, . =a. flavum= (golden). _fl._ yellow, bell-shaped, and somewhat drooping, in pretty umbels; scape leafy at the base. _l._ round, not hollow, flattish above the base. _h._ about ft. italy, . a slender species. =a. fragrans.= _see_ =nothoscordum=. =a. karataviense= (karatavian). _fl._ white, in dense globose heads. may. _l._ very broad, flat, glaucous, sometimes variegated. _h._ in. turkestan, . =a. macnabianum= (macnab's).* _fl._ deep magenta, a colour quite unique in this family, in large umbels. _l._ nearly as long as the stem, channelled, about / in. broad. _h._ ft. north america. =a. magicum= (enchanting). synonymous with _a. nigrum_. [illustration: fig. . allium moly.] =a. moly= (moly).* _fl._ bright yellow, numerous, in compact umbels. spring. _l._ few, broadly lanceolate. stem sub-cylindrical. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . a very old favourite; bright-flowered and very fine in masses. see fig. . =a. murrayanum= (murray's).* _fl._ rosy purple, in large heads. _l._ narrow, longer than the stem. _h._ ft. north america. a good variety of _a. acuminatum_. =a. mutabile= (changeable). _fl._ white, changing to rose, in many-flowered umbels. july. _l._ shorter than the stem, narrow, channelled. _h._ in. to in. north america, . =a. neapolitanum= (neapolitan).* _fl._ white, with green stamens, numerous, in a loose umbel, on stems exceeding the leaves in length; pedicels much longer than the flowers. early summer. _l._ two or three, sheathing the flower stem, strap-shaped, about in. across. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . probably the most ornamental white-flowered species. =a. nevadense= (sierra nevada). _fl._ white, or pale rose, about / in. across, in several-flowered umbels. july. _l._ flat, rather longer than the stem, about / in. wide. _h._ in. to in. sierra nevada and utah, . =a. nigrum= (blackish).* _fl._ dull violet, or whitish, with a green vein, very numerous, in a large umbel. summer. _l._ thick, broadly lanceolate, acute, ciliated, toothed at the edges, at first erect and glaucescent, afterwards green and spreading, much shorter than the stem. _h._ - / ft. to - / ft. south of europe. very vigorous and free flowering. syn. _a. magicum_. =a. paradoxum= (wonderful). _fl._ white, gracefully pendulous, borne on long footstalks springing from little nests of yellow bulbils. spring. _l._ one or two, as long as the scape, linear-lanceolate, acute, keeled, striated, smooth, / in. broad, drooping and recurved. _h._ in. to in. siberia, . =a. pedemontanum= (piedmont).* _fl._ rosy-purple, large, bell-shaped, in large, graceful drooping clusters. july. _l._ lanceolate, shorter than the stem. piedmont, . a neat little plant for rockwork, or warm border. one of the handsomest species grown. =a. reticulatum= (netted). _fl._ varying from pink to white. summer. _l._ narrow, or almost filiform, shorter than the stem. _h._ in. to in. north-west america, . a rare species. =a. r. attenuifolium= (attenuate-leaved).* this may be regarded as an extremely handsome white-flowered variety. north-west america. =a. roseum= (rose-coloured).* _fl._ pale lilac-rose, large, in umbels of ten or twelve; stems round, rather longer than the leaves. summer. _l._ strap-shaped, channelled, rolled inwards at the top, not hairy. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . =a. sativum= (cultivated). garlic. _fl._ white; umbel bulbiferous. summer. _l._ flat. _h._ - / ft. sicily, . for culture, _see_ =garlic=. =a. sch�noprasum= (rush-leaved onion). chives. _fl._ purple; umbel many-flowered, globose, without bulbils. june and july. _l._ cylindrical, somewhat tapering towards the point; stem with one leaf, or naked. _h._ ft. england. for cultivation, _see_ =chives=. =a. scorodoprasum.= rocambole; sand leek. _fl._, perianth / in. long, the segments red-purple, with white margins; head loose-flowered, with purple bulbils; scape slender. may to august. _l._ in. to in. long, flat, keeled, the edges scabrid. _h._ ft. europe (britain), . _see also_ =rocambole=. =a. sphærocephalum= (globe-headed).* _fl._ densely packed in a subspherical head; in a bud state the upper ones are reddish-purple, the lower green. june. _l._ narrow, shorter than the long terete stems. _h._ - / ft. to - / ft. south europe, . =a. stramineum= (straw-coloured). _fl._ yellow, in dense globular umbels. july. _l._ narrow, shorter than the stems. _h._ - / ft. to ft. siberia. =a. striatum= (striated). _see_ =nothoscordum=. =a. triquetrum= (three-cornered). _fl._ white, somewhat bell-shaped, with a narrow streak of pure green down each petal, in a loose, slightly drooping umbel, on erect triangular stems shorter than the leaves. summer. _l._ green, broadly strap-shaped, keeled in a triangular manner, sometimes very long. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . =a. unifolium= (one-leaved). _fl._ bright rose. july. _h._ ft. to ft. california, . a handsome species, from california, resembling _a. roseum_, but differing from all known species by the circumstance that its bulbs are developed at a distance from each other, and are connected by a thread-like rhizome, / in. to in. long. syn. _a. douglasii_. [illustration: fig. . allium ursinum.] =a. ursinum= (bear). broad-leaved garlic; ramsons. _fl._ pure white, with acute perianth segments; umbel level at top; scape triangular. summer. _l._ one or two, radical, ovate-lanceolate, stalked, large, bright green. _h._ ft. britain. see fig. . =a. validum= (strong). _fl._ pure white or rose-coloured, in large, rather drooping umbels. summer. _l._ / in. to / in. broad, nearly as long as the stem. _h._ in. to in. oregon and california, . a pretty species. =a. victorialis= (victoria's). _fl._ greenish-white, in many-flowered, spicate umbels. may. _l._ broadly ovate-oblong, channelled, shorter than the stem. _h._ - / ft. to ft. southern and eastern europe, . conspicuous from its broad leaves. rare. =allobrogia.= a synonym of =paradisia= (which _see_). =allochlamys.= a synonym of =pleuropetalum= (which _see_). =allophyllus.= a synonym of =schmidelia= (which _see_). =alloplectus= (from _allos_, diverse, and _pleco_, to plait; the calyx appears as if it was plaited in diverse directions). ord. _gesneraceæ_. very handsome stove evergreen shrubs. corolla tubular or club-shaped, straightish; calyx coloured. leaves opposite, one in each pair smaller than the other, petiolate, fleshy, scattered or decumbent, or erect, the under surface generally reddish; branches opposite. for cultivation, _see_ =gesnera=. =a. bicolor= (two-coloured). _fl._ yellow, purple; corolla pilose; pedicels axillary, one-flowered. june. _l._ ovate, oblong, acuminate, denticulate, pilose above, downy beneath; branches tetragonal. _h._ ft. new grenada, . plant erect, rather woody. =a. capitatus= (headed). _fl._ capitate; sepals red, leafy; corolla silky, ventricose above the middle; peduncles axillary. march. _l._ large, ovate, serrated, downy, reddish beneath. stem bluntly tetragonal, red. _h._ ft. south america, . =a. dichrous= (two-coloured). _fl._ purple, yellow, axillary, crowded, nearly sessile. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, quite entire, pubescent. brazil, . a climber. =a. peltatus= (peltate-leaved).* _fl._ whitish, about in. long, in axillary tufts. august. _l._ opposite, one is in. to in. long, and the other in. to in. long, and in. wide, oblong, shortly acuminate, rounded, peltate at the base, and raised on stout footstalks, in. to in. long. _h._ ft. costa rica, . =a. repens= (creeping). _fl._ yellow; corolla with curved tube, four lobed; sepals ovate, spotted; peduncles axillary, solitary. february. _l._ ovate, rather fleshy, serrate, on short petioles. st. martha, . plant downy; an evergreen trailer. =a. vittatus= (striped). _fl._, calyx crimson; corolla pale yellow; terminal and fasciculate, surrounded by vivid red foliaceous bracts. _l._ large, shortly-stalked, broadly-ovate, of a deep velvety green, having a broad greyish-green band down the centre, branching off along the course of the principal veins. stems erect, fleshy. peru, . =a. zamorensis= (zamora).* _fl._ yellow; sepals orange-red. _h._ ft. columbia, . =allosorus.= _see_ =cryptogramme= and =pellæa=. =allotment gardens.= a system of assigning small portions of land to be cultivated by labourers after their ordinary day's work. the following are the most important rules to be carried out; but, should occasion arise, other rules must be made to meet particular cases:-- . each allotment should consist of a rood of land (= / acre) to be let yearly at a rent of not more than s. . the allotment to be let for one year only, to be re-let to the same occupier, provided his character has been satisfactory during the preceding year. . the rent shall be considered due at michaelmas. if it remains unpaid for one month after that date, the allotment shall be forfeited. . the allotment to be cultivated solely by spade husbandry, and the same crop shall not be planted on the same part two years in succession. . separate allotments shall be divided by a space not less than in. . any occupier trespassing on his neighbour's allotment, or in any way interfering or damaging the same, shall not be allowed to hold his allotment after the expiration of the year. =allspice.= _see_ =calycanthus=. =allspice tree.= _see_ =pimenta=. =almeidea= (in honour of j. r. p. de almeida, a brazilian, who was of great assistance to st. hilaire while travelling in brazil). ord. _rutaceæ_. stove trees or shrubs with alternate, simple, entire, stalked leaves. racemes terminal, divided at the apex into compound thyrse-like panicles. the undermentioned species will grow freely in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat. partly ripened cuttings will root in sand under a hand glass, in heat. =a. rubra= (red). _fl._ pink; petals very blunt; racemes compound. september. _l._ lanceolate, acute at base. _h._ ft. brazil, . evergreen shrub. =almond.= _see_ =amygdalus=. =almond-leaved willow.= _see_ =salix triandra=. =alnus= (from _al_, near, and _lan_, the bank of a river; general habitat of the genus). the alder tree. ord. _betulaceæ_. a genus of deciduous trees and shrubs. flowers mon�cious; barren ones in long drooping autumnal catkins, lasting through the winter; fertile ones, produced in spring, in oval catkins, resembling a fir-cone in shape, the fleshy scales of which become indurated and ligneous as they approach maturity. leaves stalked, roundish, blunt. propagated usually by seeds, which are gathered towards the end of october; they require to be well dried, in order that the cones do not become mouldy. the seeds are sprinkled lightly on the ground with the slightest possible covering. towards the end of the year, the seedlings will be about in. high. they are then planted in rows - / ft. apart, and in. from each other, where they may remain for two years, after which they can be placed out in the situations where they are intended to stand. planting is best done in november or march; and, if it is designed to make a plantation of alder, the young trees should be put in holes, made with an ordinary garden spade, about in. deep, and about ft. apart. they are also increased, but rarely, by cuttings, by suckers, and by grafting. =a. cordifolia= (heart-shaped-leaved).* _fl._ greenish-brown. march and april, before the development of the leaves. _l._ heart-shaped, acuminate, dark green, and shining. _h._ ft. to ft. calabria and naples, . a large, very distinct, and handsome round-headed tree. it grows rapidly in dry soil, and is one of the most interesting of ornamental trees. =a. firma= (firm).* _l._ oval lanceolate, acuminate, sharply serrated, many-nerved. japan. one of the most distinct of all the alders. [illustration: fig. . alnus glutinosa, showing catkins and fruit.] =a. glutinosa= (sticky).* _barren catkins_ long, large, and cylindrical, pendent, their footstalks branched. _fertile catkins_ small, ovate, with deep red scales. spring. _l._ roundish-cuneiform, obtuse lobed at the margin, and serrated, somewhat glutinous, downy in the axils of the nerves beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. the alder affects moist and damp situations, and, as it grows quickly, it is a useful tree to plant in bare situations. it is valuable as a nurse to other trees by the sea-side. see fig. . =a. g. aurea= (golden).* foliage golden colour. =a. g. incisa= (incised).* compact form, with leaves quite like those of common hawthorn. syn. _a. g. oxyacanthifolia_. =a. g. laciniata= (cut).* _l._ oblong and pinnatifid, with the lobes acute. this has elegant drooping branches and fern-like leaves, and is one of the best. =a. g. oxyacanthifolia= (sharp-prickled). synonymous with _a. g. incisa_. =a. g. quercifolia= (oak-leaved).* _l._ with a sinuate outline, like that of the common oak. a very distinct form. the variety _imperialis_ (=_asplenifolia_) slightly differs in its more or less lobed or cut foliage; _a. g. variegata_ is a variegated form. =a. incana= (hoary).* _l._ broadly oval or ovate, rounded at the base, sharply serrate, whitened, and mostly downy beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. north temperate regions. this affects drier situations than our native _a. glutinosa_. =a. viridis= (green). _fertile catkins_ slender stalked, clustered, ovoid. _l._ round oval or slightly heart-shaped, glutinous and smooth or softly downy beneath, serrate, with very sharp and closely set teeth. mountainous regions of northern hemisphere. =alocasia= (from _a_, without, and _colocasia_). allied to _colocasia_. ord. _aroideæ_. stove plants of great beauty, often with large and handsomely variegated, usually peltate, leaves, and shortly petiolate glaucous spathes. they are not difficult to grow, with a strong moist heat, and an abundant supply of water to the roots. the soil should consist of fibrous peat, with a little light fibry loam, in large lumps; to this add a good proportion of sphagnum and lumps of charcoal, with plenty of silver sand. keep the bulbs and soil raised well above the rim of the pots, and finish off with a surfacing of either sphagnum or cocoa-nut fibre. the latter will soon encourage new rootlets. crock the pot quite two-thirds up with clean, broken potsherds. water freely when in good growth, and give liquid manure once or twice a week through the growing season. shade during bright sunshine in the spring and summer months. increased by seeds and division of the stems or rhizome. winter temperature, deg. to deg.; summer, deg. to deg. _see also_ =caladium= and =colocasia=. =a. alba= (white). _fl._ white. _h._ - / ft. java, . =a. amabilis= (lovely). synonymous with _a. longiloba_. =a. chelsonii= (chelsea).* an interesting hybrid between _a. cuprea_ and _a. longiloba_. _l._ large, upper surface deep green, glossy and metallic, under side purplish, as in _a. cuprea_. =a. cucullata= (hood-leaved). _fl._ green, whitish. spring. _h._ ft. india, . =a. cuprea= (coppery).* _fl._, spathe purplish-red, with short lamina. _l._ cordate-ovate, peltate, deflexed, in. to in. long, rich bronze colour, purple beneath. _h._ ft. borneo, . syns. _a. metallica_, _xanthosoma plumbea_. =a. gigantea= (gigantic). synonymous with _a. longiloba_. =a. guttata= (spotted). _fl._, spathe white, spotted with purple. _l._ leafstalk also spotted. _h._ - / ft. borneo, . =a. hybrida= (hybrid).* a cross between _a. lowii_ and _a. cuprea_. _l._ elliptic in outline, with a very short acuminate point, and very slightly parted at the base, deep olive-tinted green on the upper surface, having stout, well-defined ribs, and the margin of an ivory white; dull purple at the back. =a. illustris= (bright). _l._ ovate-sagittate, rich green, with olive-black patches, deflexed, - / ft. long. india, . =a. jenningsii= (jennings's).* _l._ peltate, cordate-ovate, acuminate, with their blades deflexed from the top of the erect mottled stalks, ground colour green, surface marked with large wedge-shaped blotches of dark brown; veins bright green, in. to in. long. india, . a very distinct and free growing species. =a. johnstoni= (johnston's).* _l._ semi-erect, arrow-shaped, peltate, the front lobe being about in. long, and the two back lobes in. long and divergent, olive-green, prettily variegated and strikingly veined with bright rosy red. the leafstalks are furnished at intervals with irregular whorls of stiff spines, the points of which are turned upwards. stem darkly mottled with flesh-coloured bands just above the spines. solomon isles, . this plant has quite a unique appearance. =a. liervalii= (lierval's). _l._ bright green. philippines, . =a. longiloba= (long-lobed). _l._ large, sagittate, with the upper part spreading out, green, with silvery veins. _h._ ft. java, . syns. _a. amabilis_, _a. gigantea_. =a. lowii= (low's). _fl._, spathe white. _l._ cordate-sagittate, in. to in. long, peltate, deflexed, olive-green, with thick white ribs, deep purple beneath. borneo, . =a. macrorhiza= (long-rooted). _fl._ green, whitish. _h._ ft. polynesia. =a. m. variegata= (variegated). _l._ large, somewhat cordate, with slightly waved margins, bright green, blotched and marbled with white, sometimes nearly quite white; footstalks broadly streaked with pure white. ceylon. a very striking and effective large growing plant. =a. marshallii= (marshall's). _l._ green, with dark blotches, and broad central silvery band. india, . =a. metallica= (metallic). synonymous with _a. cuprea_. =a. navicularis= (boat-shaped spathe). _fl._, spathe boat-shaped, whitish. _h._ ft. india, . =a. roezlii.= _see_ =caladium marmoratum=. =a. scabriuscula= (roughish).* _fl._, spathe entirely white; limb in. long, oblong, cuspidate. _l._ spreading, not deflexed, sagittate, not in the least peltate, deep shining green above, pale green beneath, extreme length in. to in. _h._ ft. to - / ft. north-west borneo, . although this is not such an ornamental species as _a. lowii_, _a. thibautiana_, or _a. cuprea_, it has the merit of being a much larger and bolder plant than either of these, and is one of the largest species in the genus. =a. sedeni= (seden's).* a hybrid between _a. lowii_ and _a. cuprea_. _l._ oval, cordate, sagittate, deflexed, bronzy green, purple beneath, veins distinct ivory white. =a. thibautiana= (thibaut's).* _l._ ovate-acute, deeply cordate; basal lobes rounded and not sharply pointed, deep olive greyish-green, traversed by numerous grey veinlets branching from the midrib, which is greyish-white, purple beneath. borneo, . this is said to be by far the finest of the genus. =a. variegata= (variegated). _fl._ whitish. _l._ leafstalk mottled with violet. india, . =a. zebrina= (zebra).* _l._ erect, broadly sagittate, rich dark green borne upon stout footstalks, which are pale green, mottled and striped with zigzag bands of dark green. _h._ ft. or more. philippine isles, . =aloe= (from _alloeh_, its arabic name). allied genera: _apicra_, _haworthia_, _pachidendron_, _phylloma_. including _rhipodendron_. ord. _liliaceæ_. this hitherto much confused genus, and its allies, have been completely revised by mr. j. g. baker (_vide_ "journal of the linnean society," vol. xxviii. pp. - ), to whose account we are indebted for many of the following particulars:--plant with or without stems; shrubs or (rarely) trees; leaves thick, fleshy, frequently in a rosette; peduncles simple or racemed, endowed with few or many empty bracts. flowers racemed; pedicels bracteated at base, solitary; perianth-tube straight or slightly recurved; segments elongated; stamens hypogynous, as long as the perianth, or longer. mr. baker describes over eighty species, many of which, for various and important reasons, have no claim upon our space. natives of the cape of good hope, except where otherwise stated. these very interesting and curious plants thrive well in a mixture of open loam and peat, together with a small quantity of well decomposed manure. if old brick rubbish, or any other similar material is mixed with the soil to ensure perfect and rapid drainage, so much the better. water, especially during winter, must be carefully administered. they thrive in an ordinary greenhouse, and cannot have too much light at any time. =a. abyssinica= (abyssinian).* _fl._, perianth twelve to fifteen lines long; raceme dense-oblong, in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad; lower pedicels nine to twelve lines long; peduncle branched, - / ft. to ft. _l._ about twenty in a rosette, ensiform, - / ft. to - / ft. long, acuminate, green, sometimes spotted, five to six lines thick in middle; back rounded; marginal prickles distant, deltoid, one to two lines long. stem simple, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. in diameter. abyssinia, . syn. _a. maculata_. =a. a. peacockii= (peacock's). this is a rare variety. =a. africana= (african). _fl._, perianth yellow, fifteen to eighteen lines long; racemes dense, ft. in length, in. in diameter; peduncle very strong, branched. _l._ in a dense rosette, ensiform, - / ft. to ft. long, - / in. to in. broad, slowly narrowing from base to the apex, channelled above the middle, where it is four to five lines thick; marginal prickles close, one and a half to two lines long. stem simple, when fully grown, ft. =a. albispina= (white-spined).* _fl._, perianth red, - / in. long; raceme dense, nearly ft. long, in. broad; lower pedicels fifteen to eighteen lines long; peduncles simple, - / ft. _l._ loosely disposed, lanceolate, ascending, in. to in. long, in. broad, green, without spots or lines; face concave upwards; middle three to four lines thick; back sparingly tubercled; marginal prickles white, horny, two lines long. stem simple, short, in. to - / in. in diameter. . =a. albocincta= (white-banded).* _fl._, perianth brilliant red, ten to twelve lines long; racemes twenty or more, shortly capitate, in. to - / in. in diameter when expanded; pedicels ascending, six to nine lines long; scape stout, branched, - / ft. to ft. _l._ twelve to twenty in a dense rosette, outer ones recurved, lanceolate, - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, glaucous, obscurely lined and spotted; middle three to four lines thick; margin red or white tinted. stems in old specimens, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. in diameter. syns. _a. hanburyana_, _a. paniculata_, and _a. striata_. =a. arborescens= (tree-like).* _fl._, perianth red, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme dense, about ft.; pedicels ascending, twelve to fifteen lines long; peduncles strong, - / ft., simple or branched. _l._ (rosette ft. to ft. in diameter) dense, aggregate, ensiform, - / ft. to ft.; base in. broad, thence to apex attenuated, acuminated, green, rather glaucous, without spots or lines; middle three to four lines long; base five to six lines thick; upper surface beyond the base channelled; marginal prickles close, one and a half to two lines long, horny. stem simple, finally ft. to ft. long, in. to in. in diameter. . =a. a. frutescens= (shrubby). dwarfer. _l._ often loose, and shorter, intensely glaucous; peduncle simple. stem slender, sometimes racemosed. =a. aristata= (awned). _fl._, perianth red, fourteen to sixteen lines long; raceme simple, loose, in. to in. long, and about in. broad; pedicels sub-patent, thirteen to eighteen lines long; scape simple, ft. _l._ about fifty in a dense rosette, ascending, lanceolate, in. to in. long, six to eight lines broad, without spots or lines; face flat, sparingly tubercled; middle one and a half lines thick; back copiously tubercled; apex bearded with a pellucid awn; marginal teeth diffuse, white, half line long. . =a. bainesii= (baines').* _fl._, perianth fifteen to sixteen lines long, yellowish red; raceme simple, dense, oblong, - / in. to in. in diameter when expanded; pedicels thick, two to three lines long; peduncles upright, strong, eight to nine lines in diameter. _l._ closely packed at the top of the branch, ensiform, ft. to - / ft. long, in. to in. in diameter, green, spotted, deeply channelled, recurved; middle two to three lines thick; marginal prickles pale, rather distant, one to one and a half lines long. arborescent, branched. _h._ ft. to ft.; trunk ft. to ft. in diameter. syns. _a. barberæ_, _a. zeyheri_. =a. barbadensis= (barbadoes). synonymous with _a. vera_. =a. barberæ= (barber's). synonymous with _a. bainesii_. =a. brevifolia= (short-leaved).* _fl._, perianth red, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme dense, in. long, - / in. to in. in diameter; pedicels upright, six to twelve lines long; peduncles simple, hardly ft. long. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long, and in. broad at the base, glaucous, without spots or lines; face unarmed, below swollen or flat; middle three to four lines thick; back convex, sparingly tubercled; marginal teeth whitish, one to one and a half lines long. stem short, simple. syn. _a. prolifera_. =a. b. depressa= (depressed). _fl._ somewhat larger; peduncles - / ft. to ft. long. _l._ in. long; bottom - / in. to in. broad; face sometimes sparingly tubercled. =a. cæsia= (bluish-grey).* _fl._, perianth red, fifteen to sixteen lines long; racemes dense, nearly ft. long, in. to in. in diameter; pedicels twelve to fifteen lines long; scape simple, in. _l._ rather dense, lanceolate acuminate, ft. to - / ft.; bottom in. to in. broad, intensely glaucous, without spot or lines, slightly channelled upwards; middle in. to in. thick; marginal prickles red, one to one and a half lines long. stem simple, finally, in old specimens, ft. to ft. . =a. candollei= (de candolle's). a mere form of _a. humilis_. =a. chinensis= (chinese). _fl._, perianth yellow, in. long; raceme loose, simple, in. to in. long, and in. broad; pedicels one and a half to two lines long; peduncle simple, in. to in. _l._ fifteen to twenty in a dense rosette, ensiform, in. to in. long, - / in. broad at the bottom, pale green, not lined; base nearly flat; middle three to four lines thick; upper surface channelled; marginal prickles distant, pale, one to one and a half lines long. stem short, simple. china, . =a. ciliata= (ciliated).* _fl._, perianth brilliant red, twelve to fifteen lines long; raceme simple, loose, in. to in. long; pedicels three to four lines long; peduncles slender, simple. _l._ linear, widely spreading, amplexicaul, green, in. to in. long; base six to nine lines broad, slowly narrowing towards the apex, without spots or lines; middle one line thick; marginal teeth minute, white. stems long, sarmentose; branches three to four lines in diameter; internodes six to twelve lines long, obscurely striated with green. . =a. commelyni= (commelin's). a mere form of _a. mitræformis_. =a. consobrina= (related). _fl._, perianth yellowish red, twelve to fifteen lines long; raceme rather loose, oblong, cylindrical, in. to in. long, and in. in diameter; pedicels three to four lines long; scape - / ft., slender, branched. _l._ loosely disposed, ensiform, in. to in. long, and in. broad, green, spotted white; face channelled; middle three lines thick; marginal prickles minute, brownish; rosette in. to in. (sometimes ft.) in diameter; upper leaves ascending; central ones spreading half open; lower ones deflexed. stem ft., simple, in. in diameter. south africa, . =a. cooperi= (cooper's).* _fl._, perianth fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme close, in. to in. long, and in. to in. in diameter; lower pedicels in. to in. long; scape simple, - / ft. to ft. _l._ when mature, in. to in. long, distichous, falcate, lined; outer ones - / ft. to ft., above the base six to eight lines broad, greenish, deeply channelled, sparingly spotted; middle one and a half to two lines thick; marginal teeth minute, close, white. plant stemless. natal, . syn. _a. schmidtiana_. =a. dichotoma= (two-branched).* quiver-tree. _fl._, perianth oblong, ten to twelve lines long; raceme loose, in. to in. long, and in. in diameter; pedicels three to four lines long; peduncles stout, branched. _l._ closely packed, at the top of the branch, lanceolate, in. to in. long; bottom twelve to fifteen lines broad, glaucous, without spots or lines, slightly channelled above the base; middle three to four lines thick, narrow-margined with white; marginal prickles minute, pale. trunk short, sometimes ft. to ft. in diameter. _h._ ft. to ft. . arborescent, branched. =a. distans= (distant).* _fl._, perianth pale red, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme densely capitate, in. to in. in diameter; lower pedicels twelve to fifteen lines long; peduncles - / ft., usually simple. _l._ ascending, loosely disposed, ovate-lanceolate, in. to in. long, and - / in. to in. broad, green, slightly glaucous, without spots and lines; face concave; middle three to four lines thick; back sparingly tubercled; marginal prickles close, white, horny, one to one and a half lines long. stem short, simple, in. in diameter; internodes pale, striated green. . =a. glauca= (milky-green).* _fl._, perianth pale red, fifteen to sixteen lines long; peduncles simple, ft. to - / ft. long, - / in. to in. in diameter; pedicels in. to - / in. long. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long; at the base - / in. to in. broad, slowly narrowing towards the apex, intensely glaucous, spotless, obscurely lined; middle three to four lines thick; face above the base slightly concave; back tubercled at apex; marginal teeth spreading, brownish, one to one and a half lines long. stem simple, at length, about ft., - / in. to in. in diameter. . =a. gracilis= (graceful). _fl._, perianth yellow, straight, fourteen to sixteen lines long; raceme densely packed, simple, in. to in.; pedicels three to four lines long; peduncle simple, in. to in. long, two-edged at the base. _l._ loosely disposed, spreading, in. to in. long; base ten to twelve lines broad, ensiform, acuminated, glaucous, spotless and without lines; face slightly channelled; back rounded; marginal prickles close, minute. stem leafy, simple. . =a. greenii= (green's).* _fl._, perianth pale red, fourteen to fifteen lines long; raceme oblong, in. to in. long, and in. in diameter; lower pedicels five to six lines long; scape ft. long. _l._ in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long; bottom - / in. to in. broad, slowly narrowing from middle to the apex; middle three to four lines thick; face flat, shining green, obscurely lined and spotted white; marginal prickles spreading, one and a half to two lines long, horny. stem short, simple, - / in. in diameter. south africa, . =a. hanburyana= (hanbury's). synonymous with _a. albocincta_. =a. humilis= (humble).* _fl._, perianth brilliant red, eighteen lines long; raceme loose, simple, in. long, and in. to - / in. in diameter; pedicels nine to twelve lines long; peduncles about ft. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, ascending, lanceolate, acuminate, in. to in. long, six to eight lines broad, glaucous green, obscurely lined; face slightly concave above, sparingly tubercled; middle three lines thick; back convex; marginal prickles pale, one line long. plant stemless. . =a. h. acuminata= (taper-pointed). _l._ ovate-lanceolate, in. to in. long, fifteen to eighteen lines broad; marginal prickles pale, two to two and a half lines long. _a. incurva_, _a. suberecta_, and _a. subtuberculata_, of haworth; _a. candollei_, and _a. macilenta_, of baker, are mere forms of the foregoing species. =a. incurva= (incurved). a mere form of _a. humilis_. =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved).* _fl._, perianth brilliant golden scarlet, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme dense, corymbose, terminal, in. to in. long and wide; lower pedicels - / in. to in. long; peduncle robust, ft., often branched. _l._ twelve to twenty in a dense rosette, ovate-lanceolate, in. long, - / in. to - / in. broad at bottom, slowly narrowing from below the middle upwards, green, not lined, but copiously spotted white; middle three to four lines thick; marginal prickles one and a half to two lines long, horny, brownish. stem at length, ft. to ft., - / in. to in. in diameter, simple. . =a. lineata= (line-marked).* _fl._, perianth red, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme dense, in.; pedicels hardly perpendicular, fifteen to eighteen lines long; scape simple, ft. _l._ in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. long, in. broad at base, narrowing slowly from thence to the apex, pale green, spotless, lined; middle three lines thick, channelled upwards on both sides, unarmed; marginal teeth numerous, red, one and a half to two lines long. stem finally in. to ft., simple, in. in diameter. . =a. macilenta= (thin). a mere form of _a. humilis_. =a. macracantha= (long-spined). _fl._ unknown. _l._ fifteen to twenty in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad at the bottom, slightly narrowed from middle to apex; middle four lines thick; face flat, green, obscurely lined, spotted; marginal prickles horny, three to four lines long. stem simple, ft. to ft., - / in. to in. in diameter. south africa, . =a. macrocarpa= (large-fruited).* _fl._, perianth club-shaped, brilliant red, fifteen to sixteen lines long; raceme loose, terminal, in. long, and - / in. to in. in diameter; lower pedicels / in. long; peduncles ft. _l._ twelve to twenty in a dense rosette, ovate-lanceolate, less than ft. long; bottom in. to in. broad; top channelled; middle three to four lines thick, green, copiously spotted; marginal prickles spreading, half line long. stem short, simple. abyssinia, . =a. maculata= (spotted). synonymous with _a. abyssinica_. =a. margaritifera= (pearl-bearing). _see_ =haworthia margaritifera=. =a. mitræformis= (mitre-shaped).* _fl._, perianth brilliant red, eighteen to twenty-one lines long; raceme dense, corymbose, in. to in. long, and nearly as much in diameter; pedicels ascending; lower ones fifteen to eighteen lines long; peduncles strong, - / ft., sometimes branched. _l._ rather loosely disposed, ascending, lanceolate, about ft. long, in. to in. broad; green, slightly glaucous, without spots or lines; face concave; middle three to four lines thick; back convex, sparingly tubercled; apex horny, pungent; marginal prickles rather close, pale, one to one and a half lines long. stem finally ft. to ft., simple, in. to in. in diameter. =a. m. flavispina= (yellow-spined). differs from the type in having narrower and more lanceolate leaves, and yellow spines. _a. commelyni_, _a. spinulosa_, _a. pachyphylla_, and _a. xanthacantha_, are also forms of this species. =a. myriacantha= (many-spined). _fl._, perianth pale red, eight to nine lines long; racemes densely capitate, in. in diameter; pedicels four to six lines long; peduncles slender, simple, ft. _l._ ten to twelve, falcate, linear, in. to in. long, four to five lines broad, green, glaucous; face deeply channelled; back convex, spotted white; marginal teeth numerous, white. plant stemless. . =a. nobilis= (noble).* _fl._, perianth red, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme dense, or more inches long, in. broad; lower pedicels - / in. to in. long; peduncles simple, - / ft. _l._ rather loosely disposed, lanceolate, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; face green, without spots or lines, concave above the base; middle three to four lines thick; apex rather pungent; back prickly upwards; marginal prickles rather close, one and a half to two lines long, horny. stem simple, at length ft. to ft. high, - / in. to in. in diameter. . =a. pachyphylla= (thick-leaved). a mere form of _a. mitræformis_. =a. paniculata= (panicled). synonymous with _a. albocincta_. =a. perryi= (perry's).* _fl._, perianth greenish, nine to ten lines long; raceme dense, in. to in. long; pedicels three to four lines long; inflorescence - / ft. long, commonly two-headed. _l._ in a rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long, and - / in. broad, from below the middle to the apex narrowed, pale glaucous green, spotless, obscurely lined, channelled above the base; middle three to four lines thick; marginal teeth close, horny, one line long. stem simple, in. in diameter. socotra, . =a. prolifera= (proliferous). synonymous with _a. brevifolia_. =a. purpurascens= (purplish). _fl._, perianth reddish, twelve to fifteen lines long; raceme dense, in. to in. long, and about in. in diameter; pedicels nine to twelve lines long; scape strong, simple, - / ft. to ft. _l._ forty to fifty in a dense rosette, ft. to - / ft. long, ensiform, in. broad at the base, slowly narrowed towards the apex, green; base flat; middle three lines thick, slightly channelled upwards, sometimes spotted; marginal prickles small, white. stem ft. to ft., sometimes forked. . =a. rhodocincta= (red-margined), of gardens, is probably a form of _a. albocincta_. =a. saponaria= (soapy).* _fl._, perianth brilliant red, eighteen to twenty-one lines long; raceme dense, corymbose, in. to in. long and wide; lower pedicels - / in. to in. long; scape ft. to ft., simple, or sparingly branched. _l._ twelve to twenty in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long, eighteen to twenty-four lines broad, narrowed from below the middle upwards; middle three to four lines broad; face flat at bottom; back swollen, green, copiously spotted, distinctly lined; marginal prickles adjoining, horny, one and a half to two lines long. stem short, simple, - / in. to in. in diameter. . =a. schimperi= (schimper's).* _fl._, perianth bright red, eighteen to twenty-one lines long; racemes densely corymbose, in. in diameter; pedicels twelve to fifteen lines long; scape strong, ft. long, strongly branched above. _l._ twenty in a dense rosette, oblong-lanceolate, about ft. long, in. broad, glaucous green, lined, sometimes spotted, three to four lines thick at middle, above which they are channelled; teeth minute, spreading. stem short, simple. abyssinia, . =a. schmidtiana= (schmidt's). synonymous with _a. cooperi_. =a. serra= (saw). _fl._, perianth brilliant red, eighteen lines long; raceme simple, dense, in. long or more, in. to in. in diameter; pedicels six to twelve lines long; scape simple, - / ft. to ft. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long, twelve to eighteen lines broad below, without spots and lines; base swollen, concave towards the apex; middle three to four lines thick, sparingly tubercled; marginal prickles close, one to one and a half lines long. plant shortly stemmed. . =a. serratula= (finely-toothed).* _fl._, perianth red, fifteen to eighteen lines long; raceme rather dense, in. long; pedicels six to nine lines long; peduncles simple, about ft. _l._ twelve to twenty in a dense rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long; bottom - / in. to - / in. broad, pale green; face below the top flat or slightly concave, obscurely lined, spotted; margin minutely denticulated. stem simple, finally ft. to ft. high, - / in. to in. in diameter. . =a. spinulosa= (spiny). a mere form of _a. mitræformis_. =a. striata= (striated). synonymous with _a. albocincta_. =a. striatula= (slightly striped).* _fl._, perianth yellow, twelve to fifteen lines long; raceme oblong, rather dense, simple, in. to in. long, and in. in diameter; pedicels short; peduncles simple, nearly ft. _l._ linear, spreading, green, in. to in. long; base not dilated, six to eight lines broad, above the base upwards narrowed, slightly channelled; middle one line thick; marginal prickles deltoid. stem long, sarmentose; floral branches three to six lines in diameter; internodes in. to in. long. . =a. suberecta= (slightly erect). a mere form of _a. humilis_. =a. subtuberculata= (slightly knobbed). a mere form of _a. humilis_. =a. succotrina= (socotrine).* _fl._, perianth reddish, fifteen lines long; raceme dense, about ft. long, - / in. to in. in diameter; lower pedicels nine to twelve lines long; peduncles simple, - / ft. _l._ thirty to forty in a dense rosette, ensiform, acuminate, falcate, - / ft. to ft. long; base in.; middle in. broad, green, slightly glaucous, sometimes spotted, slightly channelled upwards; marginal prickles pale, one line long. stem ft. to ft., often forked. isle of socotra. . =a. tenuior= (thinned). _fl._, perianth pale yellow, five to six lines long; racemes rather loose, simple, oblong, nearly ft. in. in diameter; pedicels three to four lines long; peduncles slender, simple, in. to in. _l._ loose, linear, in. to in. long, slowly narrowing from middle towards apex, green, spotless, slightly channelled; middle one line thick; marginal prickles minute, pale. stem long, sarmentose. . =a. tricolor= (three-coloured).* _fl._, perianth coral red, fleshy; raceme loose, oblong, in. to in. long, and in. broad; pedicels ascending, three to four lines long; scape - / ft. long, glaucous purple; panicle deltoid. _l._ twelve to sixteen in a close rosette, lanceolate, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad at bottom, slowly narrowing from below the middle to apex; middle five to six lines thick; back rounded; face slightly swollen, copiously spotted, not lined; marginal prickles close, spreading, about one line long. stem short, simple. south africa, . =a. variegata= (variegated).* _fl._, perianth reddish, fifteen to sixteen lines long; raceme simple, loose, in. to in. long and about in. in diameter; pedicels three to four lines long; scape simple, tapering, in. to in. _l._ close, erecto-patent, lanceolate, in. to in. long, in. broad; face concave; back keeled, bright green, copiously spotted grey on both sides; margin whitish, denticulated. . this is the variegated aloe so frequently seen in cottage windows. [illustration: fig. . aloe vera.] =a. vera= (true).* _fl._, perianth yellow, cylindrical, / in. to in. long; raceme dense, in. to in. long; scape strong, ft. to ft. long, simple or branched. _l._ ensiform, dense, aggregate, in. to in. broad, narrowing from the base to apex, pale green; middle about / in. thick; face channelled above the base; marginal prickles subdistant, deltoid, horny. stem rarely more than ft. or ft. . syns. _a. barbadensis_, _a. vulgaris_. see fig. . =a. vulgaris= (common). synonymous with _a. vera_. =a. xanthacantha= (yellow-spined). a mere form of _a. mitræformis_. =a. zeyheri= (zeyher's). a garden synonym of _a. bainesii_. =alomia= (from _a_, not, and _loma_, a fringe). ord. _compositæ_. allied to _eupatoria_. an ornamental half-hardy evergreen plant. grows freely in sandy loam, and may be propagated by cuttings. =a. ageratoides= (ageratum-like). _fl.-heads_ white, many flowered; involucrum campanulate, imbricate; scales narrow, acute; receptacle naked, convex. july. _l._ opposite, or upper ones alternate, petiolate, denticulated. _h._ - / ft. new spain, . =alona= (primitive name, _nolana_--letters transposed; from _nola_, a little bell, in allusion to the shape of the flowers). ord. _nolanaceæ_. a genus of pretty evergreen shrubs closely allied to _nolana_, but differing principally in having several ovaries from one to six-celled, whereas _nolana_ has five four-celled ovaries. leaves fasciculate; stems woody. they require ordinary greenhouse treatment, in a peat and loam compost. cuttings root freely in sandy loam, with a very gentle bottom heat, in about a fortnight. =a. c�lestis= (sky-blue).* _fl._ pale blue, very large, axillary, solitary; peduncle elongated. july. _l._ terete, fascicled; plant nearly glabrous. _h._ ft. chili, . this pretty species is an excellent one for growing out-of-doors during summer months. =alonsoa= (in honour of z. alonso, formerly spanish secretary for santa fe de bogota). ord. _scrophularineæ_. a genus of very pretty little half-hardy shrubs, herbaceous perennials, or annuals, with axillary, sub-racemose flowers, which are resupinate, with a sub-rotate five-cleft limb. leaves opposite, or ternately whorled. they will grow freely in light rich soil; and are readily increased by cuttings in august or march, which should be placed in sandy soil in gentle heat, or by seeds sown in march. the herbaceous species may be treated as outdoor summer annuals, and should be raised in a little heat, and planted out early in may. =a. albiflora= (white-flowered).* _fl._ pure white, with yellow eye, in long terminal spikes. _h._ - / ft. to ft. mexico, . this is recommended for pot culture, as in the conservatory it will provide a succession of flowers throughout the autumn and winter. =a. caulialata= (wing-stemmed). _fl._ scarlet, racemose. june. _l._ ovate, acute, serrated. stems and branches quadrangular, winged. _h._ ft. peru, . half-hardy, herbaceous. =a. incisifolia= (cut-leaved).* _fl._ scarlet; peduncles long, alternate, disposed in terminal racemes. may to october. _l._ opposite, ovate, acute, deeply toothed, or serrate. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . glabrous greenhouse shrub. syn. _hemimeris urticifolia_. =a. linearis= (linear-leaved). _fl._ scarlet, with a dark bottom, like most of the species. may to october. _l._ opposite, or three in a whorl, linear, entire or remotely denticulated; young leaves fascicled in the axils of the old ones. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . greenhouse shrub. syn. _hemimeris coccinea_. =a. linifolia= (flax-leaved).* _fl._ scarlet. _h._ ft. to - / ft. new holland. this is an elegant little annual, forming symmetrical, graceful, and very free flowering plants, either for pot or outdoor culture. =a. matthewsii= (matthew's). _fl._ scarlet, in loose, terminal racemes. july. _l._ lanceolate, toothed, about in. long. stem slender, quadrangular. _h._ ft. peru, . greenhouse shrub. =a. myrtifolia= (myrtle-leaved). _fl._ scarlet, very large. new and pretty species. =a. warscewiczii= (warscewicz's).* _fl._ rosy scarlet. _h._ - / ft. chili, . this is probably a herbaceous variety of _a. incisifolia_, and one of the best annuals. =aloysia= (in honour of maria louisa, mother of ferdinand vii., king of spain). sweet-scented verbena. ord. _verbenaceæ_. this genus is nearly allied to _verbena_, which _see_ for generic characters. a greenhouse deciduous shrub, with a very fine perfume and graceful habit. the most satisfactory plan of culture is to obtain well-grown thrifty young plants in spring, and grow them on for the season. as the wood ripens, give less water until they are at rest, when it must be nearly withheld. about the end of january, bring into the light and warmth, and water thoroughly. as soon as the plants break, cut back to three or four eyes; and when the young shoots are about an inch long, transfer into rich sandy soil, using pots a size or two smaller than those they were in before. when the pots are full of roots, transfer to those that are to hold the plants for the season. by this mode of culture, good plants are to be maintained for any length of time. aloysias form excellent pillar subjects for either a cold greenhouse, or out-of-doors, in which latter situation they thrive remarkably well, but require thorough protection, with straw bands or mats, from november until march, and afterwards at night, until danger from severe frosts has passed. they require no summer training, their young growth being continually cut off for the many purposes of decoration to which they are applied, and to which they are so well adapted. they are easily increased by young cuttings in spring, which should be placed in sandy soil and gentle heat, when they will root in about three weeks. =a. citriodora= (lemon-scented).* _fl._ whitish or lilac, very small, in terminal panicles. august. _l._ pale green, lanceolate, agreeably scented, arranged in whorls of threes; branches slender. chili, . syns. _lippia citriodora_, _verbena triphylla_. =alpine garden.= a very interesting style of gardening, which succeeds best by imitating nature as closely as possible. the situation may be an open or a sheltered one. in building a rock or alpine garden, it should be so arranged that all aspects are secured--shady and sunny--fully or in degree only. pockets and crevices of various sizes may be made, and filled with soil suitable for the subjects to be planted therein, each one having a direct connection with the bulk of the soil; and the constructing material should be arranged with a gentle fall, so that moisture drains towards rather than from the roots. alpine plants, as a rule, flourish better on a properly constructed rockery than if placed in any other position, because thorough drainage is effected, and the long and fine roots can run down in the crevices, where the soil is cool and moist. although most alpine plants are naturally exposed to the full action of sun and wind, they should be placed out in early autumn, or early spring, so as to become thoroughly established before the approach of scorching summer weather. failing materials necessary for the construction of a rockery, many alpines are easily grown in the ordinary border, in a naturally or artificially well drained situation. excavate to the depth of in., put in a layer of stones, broken bricks, &c., in. deep; fill up with rich fibrous loam and leaf mould, adding sufficient sand to keep the soil porous. when the desired subjects are firmly planted, cover the surface with small gravel or stone chippings, which, while allowing the rain to penetrate the soil, effectually checks evaporation, and keeps it moist and cool, as well as giving the appearance of rocky _débris_. the effect will be better if the surface is slightly undulated. =alpine rose.= _see_ =rhododendron ferrugineum=. =alpinia= (in honour of prosper alpinus, an italian botanist). ord. _zingiberaceæ_. a rather large genus of stove herbaceous perennials, with considerable grace and beauty. flowers disposed in terminal spikes. leaves lanceolate, smooth, even, entire, sheathed at the base, and having transverse veins. roots fleshy, branched, having much of the smell and taste of ginger. the soil can hardly be too rich for the successful culture of these plants. a mixture of equal parts loam, peat, leaf mould, or thoroughly rotted hotbed manure, freely mixed with sharp sand or fine charcoal dust, forms an excellent compost. during the growing season, a top dressing of rotten dung, and a frequent application of weak manure water, prove excellent stimulants. they grow rapidly and consume a great deal of food in the production of so much stem and so many leaves. unless the former is vigorous and of considerable thickness, it will fail to be crowned with spikes of flower. alpinias require a high temperature, a rich, light soil, abundance of water, and not a little space, to grow them well. soon after flowering, the plants will assume the yellow leaf, when water may be gradually withheld; but no attempt should be made to dry them off too severely, even after the stems die down. nor must they be stored when at rest in a low temperature; in fact, they require as much heat to preserve them in health when resting as at any other time. the best time to divide the plants is after the young shoots have made an inch of growth in spring. =a. albo-lineata= (white-lined).* _l._ elliptic lanceolate, pale green, marked with oblique broad bands of white. _h._ ft. to ft. new guinea, . =a. mutica= (beardless). _fl._ in pairs on a spike-like raceme; calyx white; corolla duplex, consisting of three outer oblong white segments; upper lobe concave and projecting, broad; lip large, bright yellow, veined with crimson; mouth finely crispulate at the edge. borneo, . a very handsome species. =a. nutans= (nodding).* _fl._ pink, sweetly-scented; racemes drooping. may. _l._ lanceolate, smooth, even, entire. _h._ ft. india, . this species looks best in considerable masses, even larger than those shown in the illustration, grown in large pots or tubs, or planted out in borders of tropical houses. it should on no account be severely divided. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . alpinia nutans, showing form of individual flower.] =a. vittata= (striped).* _l._ in. to in. long, elliptic lanceolate, tapering to a long fine point, and also narrowed gradually towards the sheathing base, pale green, marked by broad stripes of dark green and creamy white, running off from the midrib in divergent lines, corresponding to the venation. south sea islands. see fig. , for which we are indebted to mr. bull. =alsike.= _see_ =trifolium hybridum=. =alsodeia= (from _alsodes_, leafy; plants thickly beset with leaves). ord. _violarieæ_. ornamental evergreen stove shrubs. flowers small, whitish, racemose; petals equal; racemes axillary and terminal; pedicels bracteate jointed. leaves usually alternate, feather-nerved; stipules small, deciduous. they thrive best in a mixture of loam and sand, and young cuttings root readily under a bell glass if planted in sand, in heat. =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved).* _fl._ on dense, glabrous racemes. _l._ ovate, obtusely acuminated. _h._ ft. madagascar, . =a. pauciflora= (few-flowered). _fl._ few, somewhat corymbose; pedicels reflexed. _l._ wedge-shaped, on short footstalks. _h._ ft. madagascar, . =alsophila= (from _alsos_, a grove, and _phileo_, to love; in reference to the situation which they affect in nature). ord. _filices_. a magnificent genus of tropical and temperate tree ferns. sori globose, dorsal, on a vein or in the forking of a vein; receptacle mostly elevated, frequently villous; involucre none. the species of this genus require an abundant supply of water, particularly in summer, and the young fronds must be carefully shaded from solar heat. they thrive well in a peat and loam compost. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. =a. aculeata= (prickly).* _fronds_ ample, tripinnate. _rachises_ brown-stramineous; pinnæ ovate-lanceolate, ft. to - / ft. long; pinnules sessile, ligulate, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad; segments close, ligulate, blunt, denticulate, often less than one line broad; both sides bright green, slightly hairy on the ribs, not scaly. _sori_ minute, medial; texture herbaceous. tropical america; very common. a very effective stove species. syn. _a. ferox_, &c. see fig. . =a. armata= (armed).* _fronds_ ample, tripinnatifid or tripinnate. _rachises_ stramineous, densely pilose; pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, - / ft. to ft. long; pinnules ligulate-lanceolate, sessile, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad; segments falcate, blunt, one to one and a half lines broad, sub-entire or toothed; both sides densely pilose on the ribs, not scaly. _sori_ subcostular. tropical america; extremely abundant. stove species. [illustration: fig. . alpinia vittata.] =a. aspera= (rough).* _cau._ slender, ft. to ft. high. _sti._ and _rachises_ strongly aculeated; main and partial rachis above strigillose, slightly scaly beneath and on the costa, the rest glabrous, often glossy. _fronds_ bipinnate; pinnules shortly petiolate, oblong; apex acuminated, pinnatifid half or two-thirds of the way down to the costa; lobes oblong-ovate, often acutely serrulate; costa bearing small, deciduous, bullate scales beneath. _sori_ very deciduous. west indies, &c. stove species. =a. australis= (southern).* _sti._ with very long, firm, subulate scales, - / ft. long, and as well as the main rachises, muricato-asperous, stramineous. _fronds_ ample, subglaucous beneath, more or less villous on the costæ and costule above, and very minutely bullato-paleaceous beneath, often quite naked, from ft. to ft. long; primary pinnæ - / ft. long, in. to in. wide; pinnules in. to in. long, / in. to / in. wide, oblong, acuminate, deeply pinnatifid, or towards the base even pinnate; ultimate pinnules or lobes oblong, acute, serrated, subfalcate. _sori_ copious, rather small. new holland, &c., . a very handsome greenhouse species. =a. comosa= (hairy). synonymous with _a. scottiana_. =a. contaminans= (contaminating).* _cau._ slender, growing from ft. to ft. high. _sti._ and _rachises_ purplish brown, glossy, aculeate. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ample, glabrous, deep green above, glaucous beneath; primary pinnæ ft. or more in length, oblong-ovate, acuminate; pinnules sessile, in. to in. long, / in. to in. wide, deeply pinnatifid, linear-oblong, sub-falcate, entire. _sori_ nearer the costule than the margin. java and malaya. stove species. syn. _a. glauca_. =a. cooperi= (cooper's).* _fronds_ ample, tripinnate. _rachises_ stramineous, muricated, glabrous beneath; basal scales large, linear, pale, spreading; pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, - / ft. to ft. long; pinnules ligulate, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, lowest long-stalked; segments ligulate, blunt, toothed, one and a half to two and a half lines broad. _sori_ small. queensland, &c. greenhouse. =a. excelsa= (tall).* _trunk_ about ft. high. _sti._ and main _rachises_ muricated. _fronds_ ample, dark green above, paler beneath; primary pinnæ - / ft. to ft. long, in. to in. wide; pinnules numerous, oblong-lanceolate, acuminated, deeply pinnatifid, often quite pinnate; ultimate divisions / in. to / in. long, oblong, acute or obtuse, falcate, the margins sub-recurved, serrated. _sori_ copious near the costules. norfolk island. this rapid-growing and splendid species proves nearly hardy in the neighbourhood of cornwall; and is a most effective plant for sub-tropical gardening purposes generally. greenhouse species. =a. ferox= (fierce). synonymous with _a. aculeata_. =a. gardneri= (gardner's). synonymous with _a. paleolata_. =a. gigantea= (gigantic). _cau._ growing from ft. to ft. high. _sti._ asperous; _fronds_, primary pinnæ - / ft. to ft. and more long, deeply pinnatifid at the apex; pinnules, upper ones sessile, lower ones petiolate, oblong-acuminate, in. to in. long, five to nine lines wide, deeply pinnatifid; lobes triangular or rounded, serrated. _sori_ copious. india, &c. stove species. syn. _a. glabra_. =a. glabra= (glabrous). synonymous with _a. gigantea_. =a. glauca= (grey). synonymous with _a. contaminans_. =a. infesta= (troublesome). _fronds_ ample, tripinnatifid; pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, ft. to - / ft. long; pinnules ligulate, in. long, / in. to in. broad, cut down to a narrow wing; segments / in. broad, ligulate, blunt, nearly entire; texture sub-coriaceous; colour deep green on both sides. tropical america; widely distributed. stove species. =a. leichardtiana= (leichardt's).* _cau._ ft. to ft. high. _sti._ jointed upon the caudex; main and secondary rachises purple, deciduously powdery, spiny. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, firm, dark green above, sub-glaucous beneath, naked and glaucous (or nearly so), tripinnate; primary pinnæ - / ft. to ft. long, in. wide, oblong-lanceolate, acuminate; pinnules oblong-acuminate, sessile, pinnatifid only at the apex; ultimate divisions linear-oblong, acute, spinulose-serrate. _sori_ copious, close to the costa. australia, . greenhouse species. syns. _a. macarthurii_, _a. moorei_. =a. lunulata= (moon-shaped pinnuled). _fronds_ ample, tripinnate. _rachises_ stramineous, glabrous below, densely muricated; pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, - / ft. to ft. long; pinnules close, ligulate, sessile, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad; segments close, ligulate, falcate, blunt, one line broad, obscurely crenulate. _sori_ minute. _h._ ft. polynesia. greenhouse species. =a. macarthurii= (macarthur's). synonymous with _a. leichardtiana_. =a. moorei= (moore's). synonymous with _a. leichardtiana_. =a. paleolata= (scaly).* _cau._ slender, ft. to ft. high. _fronds_ ample, tripinnatifid. _rachises_ stramineous, smooth, pubescent below; pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, - / ft. to ft. long; pinnules ligulate, sessile or shortly stalked, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, deeply cut, the segments blunt and nearly entire; texture sub-coriaceous; colour deep green, both surfaces deeply pilose, the lower scaly on the ribs. _sori_ large, medial. columbia, &c. stove species. syn. _a. gardneri_. =a. procera= (tall). _sti._ aculeated and paleaceous below, with large glossy, dark brown scales. _fronds_ bipinnate, glabrous, pinnatifid at the apex; primary pinnæ ft. or more long, the rachis winged above; pinnules in. to in. long, oblong-acuminate or obtuse, pinnatifid half way down to the costa; lobes short, sub-rotundate, often acute, mostly entire. _sori_ small on all the lobes, between the costule and the margin. tropical america. stove species. =a. pruinata= (as if hoar-frosted).* _sti._ densely woolly at the base. _fronds_ glaucous, bi-tripinnate; primary pinnæ petiolate, in. to in. long, ovate-lanceolate; pinnules in. to in. long, in. wide, petiolulate, from a broad base, oblong-acuminate, deeply pinnatifid, or again pinnate; ultimate divisions / in. long, lanceolate, very acute, deeply and sharply serrated. _sori_ solitary. tropical america, extending to chili. stove or greenhouse species. =a. radens= (rasping). _cau._ ft. high, in. diameter. _sti._ ft. to ft. long, clothed with ovate, pale brown scales. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, lanceolate-ovate, bipinnatisect; primary segments - / ft. long, elongato-oblong, acuminate; secondary ones in. to in. long, petiolulate, linear-lanceolate, pinnati-partite; segments oblong, denticulate. _sori_ between the costule and the margin. brazil. stove species. =a. rebeccæ= (rebecca's).* _cau._ slender, ft. high. _fronds_ ample, bipinnate; pinnules twenty to thirty on each side, the lower ones stalked, linear, in. to in. long, more or less inciso-crenate, apex acuminate. _sori_ principally in two rows between the midrib and edge. queensland. greenhouse species. see fig. , for which we are indebted to mr. bull. =a. sagittifolia= (arrow-leaved).* _fronds_ oblong-deltoid, ft. to ft. long, bipinnate. _rachises_ stramineous, muricated; pinnæ lanceolate, / ft. to ft. long, the lower shorter, deflexed; pinnules sessile, ligulate, crenulate, cordate on both sides at the base, in. to - / in. long, nearly / in. broad. _sori_ large. trinidad, . very handsome and distinct stove species. [illustration: fig. . alsophila aculeata.] =a. scottiana= (scott's).* _fronds_ ample, tripinnatifid. _rachises_ castaneous, naked and smooth beneath; pinnæ oblong-lanceolate, - / ft. to ft. long; pinnules sessile, in. to in. long, about / in. broad, ligulate, cut down to a narrow wing on the rachis; segments ligulate, blunt, dentate, sub-falcate, not / in. broad. _sori_ sub-costular. sikkim, . greenhouse species. syn. _a. comosa_. =a. tænitis= (tænitis-like).* _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, bipinnate; pinnules distant, in. to in. long, lanceolate, acuminate, glabrous, sub-entire, petioled; petiole articulated on the rachis. _sori_ in a single series, equidistant between the costa and the margin, mixed with long, copious hairs. brazil. an elegant stove species. =a. villosa= (villous).* _cau._ ft. to ft. high. _sti._ ft. or more long, tubercular, densely clothed at the base with ferruginous scales. _fronds_ from ft. to ft. long, bi- or sub-tripinnate, broadly lanceolate in outline; pinnules in. to in. long, oblong-lanceolate, obtusely acuminate, deeply pinnatifid; lobes oblong, obtuse, entire or coarsely serrated. _sori_ copious. tropical america. a very beautiful stove species. =alstonia= (in honour of dr. alston, once professor of botany at edinburgh). ord. _apocynaceæ_. usually tall, lactescent, or milk-bearing stove evergreen shrubs or trees, with small white flowers, which are disposed in terminal cymes. leaves entire, opposite or often whorled. of easy culture, thriving best in a mixture of peat, loam, and sand. cuttings root readily in sand, in heat. besides the one mentioned, there are eleven other species. =a. scholaris= (school). _fl._, corolla salver-shaped, white; cymes on short peduncles. march to may. _l._ five to seven in a whorl, obovate-oblong, obtuse, ribbed; upper surface glossy, under white, and having the veins approximating the margin. _h._ ft. india, . syn. _echites scholaris_. [illustration: fig. . alsophila rebecc�.] =alstr�meria= (in honour of baron alströmer, a swedish botanist and friend of linnæus). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. tall handsome hardy or half-hardy tuberous rooted plants, with leafy stems and terminal umbels of richly-coloured flowers; perianth regular, six-parted, subcampanulate; inner segments narrower, two of which are somewhat tubulose at the base; stamens included within, and inserted with perianth; stigma trifid. leaves linear, lanceolate, or ovate, and resupinate, or inverted in position by the twisting of the petiole. cultivation: few plants need less attention to grow them successfully, either in pots or planted out. the best position for those kinds which succeed outside is a deep and dry, sloping, sheltered border, in a compost of two-parts peat and leaf soil, and one loam with some sharp sand. water freely if severe drought sets in; a surface covering of common moss, or cut fern in winter, will prove an advantage. they are very effective in masses. propagation: they may be increased by seed or root division. sow the former when ripe, or in early spring, thinly in pans, pots, or boxes, and place in a cool house or frame, so that they will receive some fostering in their early stages. the seedlings should be pricked out singly, when large enough to handle, and grown on till well established under glass. a mixture of peat, leaf mould, and sandy loam, is the best compost in which to sow the seeds and grow the young plants. when sufficiently established, they may be placed in a warm sheltered spot outside, and about ft. apart. the fasciculated masses of fleshy roots are readily separated into as many pieces as there are crowns; this operation may be performed during september or october, or february and march; but it must be done carefully. except for the sake of increase, the less they are disturbed the better. they are excellent subjects for pot culture (some can only be managed thus, unless planted out in a house), and may be potted as early in the autumn as possible, in in., in., or in. pots. thorough drainage is essential; arrange the crocks carefully, and place a layer of thin turfy loam over them. a compost of equal parts turfy loam, leaf mold, and fibrous peat, with an abundance of sand, will suit them admirably. water sparingly at first, but when root-action is fully resumed, they must never be allowed to get dry. support the stems by staking when they require it, and just previous to flowering, top-dress with some rotten manure and leaf soil. occasional syringings will be necessary to keep down red spider, especially if the atmosphere is very dry. as the plants finish flowering, and the leaves fade, gradually diminish the supply of water until the stems are quite down, when they may be placed somewhere out of the way, free from frost, for the winter, but not kept dry enough to make them shrivel. in repotting, as much of the old soil as is practicable should be removed, without seriously disturbing the roots, and the plants shifted into larger or the same sized pots, according to their condition. alströmerias were at one time much more largely grown than they are at present, and the genus was represented in nearly every garden. [illustration: fig. . alstr�meria aurantiaca, showing habit and flower.] =a. aurantiaca= (golden).* _fl._ orange; two upper perianth segments lanceolate, streaked with red; arranged in a five to six stalked umbel, bearing ten to fifteen blooms. summer and autumn. _l._ numerous, linear-elliptical, obtuse, glaucous, twisted and turned back at the base, about - / in. long. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . a variable but very showy species, quite hardy. see fig. . =a. caryophyllæa= (clove-like scent).* _fl._ scarlet; very fragrant, perianth two-lipped; peduncles longer than the involucre. february and march. _l._ spathulate-oblong. stem erect. _h._ in. to in. brazil, . this stove species requires perfect rest in winter. syn. _a. ligtu_. [illustration: fig. . flower of alstr�meria pelegrina.] =a. chilensis= (chilian).* _fl._ blood-red or pink, large, the two upper interior petals longer and narrower, variegated with yellow lines; in pairs on a five to six stalked umbel. summer and autumn. _l._ scattered, obovate, spathulate; upper ones lanceolate, twisted at the base, minutely fringed on the edges, glaucescent. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . hardy. there are many varieties of this species, varying in colour from a rosy white to a deep orange or red. =a. densiflora= (thickly-flowered).* _fl._, perianth scarlet, dotted with black spots inside towards the base; umbels many-flowered, dense; pedicels pubescent, rarely bracteated. _l._ alternate, ovate, shortly acuminate, pubescent underneath. stem climbing, glabrous. peru, . tender species. =a. flos martini= (st. martin's flower). synonymous with _a. pulchra_. =a. hookeri= (hooker's). synonymous with _a. simsii_. =a. ligtu= (ligtu). synonymous with _a. caryophyllæa_. =a. pelegrina= (the native name).* _fl._ white, or pale yellow, striped with rose, and yellow spot on each segment; pedicels one-flowered, on a six or more stalked umbel. summer. _l._ lanceolate, twisted at the base. _h._ ft. chili, . rather tender. see fig. . =a. p. alba= (white).* lily of the incas. _fl._ white. perhaps this is the most chaste of all the alströmerias, and more tender than many others; it should have a specially warm spot, or the protection of glass. . =a. peruviana= (peruvian). synonymous with _a. versicolor_. =a. psittacina= (parrot-like).* _fl._ bright crimson at the base, greenish upwards, spotted with purple; upper perianth segments slightly hooded, hence the specific name; umbels many-flowered; peduncles angular. september. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acute, twisted at the base. stem erect, spotted. _h._ ft. mexico, . hardy. =a. p. erembaulti= (erembault's). _fl._ white, spotted with purple. august. _h._ ft. . a beautiful but rather tender hybrid. =a. pulchella= (pretty). synonymous with _a. simsii_. =a. pulchra= (fair).* st. martin's flower. _fl._ in umbels of from four to eight in each; the lower perianth segments purplish outside, and edges of a sulphur-white; the upper part of the upper segments of a fine yellow, dotted with deep red spots, the lower part of a flesh colour; pedicels twisted. _l._ linear lanceolate. stem erect. _h._ ft. chili, . a beautiful species, but one requiring protection. syns. _a. flos martini_, _a. tricolor_. =a. rosea= (rosy). a synonym of _a. simsii_. =a. simsii= (sims's).* _fl._ brilliant yellow, with red streaks, very showy; umbels many-flowered; peduncles two-flowered. june. _l._ spathulate, ciliated. stem weak. _h._ ft. chili, . tender species. syns. _a. hookeri_, _a. pulchella_, _a. rosea_. =a. tricolor= (three-coloured). a synonym of _a. pulchra_. [illustration: fig. . alstr�meria versicolor, showing habit and flower.] =a. versicolor= (various coloured).* _fl._ yellow, with purple marks; lowest segment the broadest; umbel of usually three shortly-stalked blooms, very floriferous. late summer. _l._ linear-lanceolate, sessile, scattered. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . this is a very robust species, with several beautiful varieties, which are both easily obtained and very cheap. syn. _a. peruviana_. see fig. . =a. v. niveo-marginata= (snowy-margined).* _fl._ rose, crimson and white, with green tips and black spots. _l._ lanceolate, stalked, white-edged. . a charming but scarce variety. =alternanthera= (in allusion to the anthers being alternately barren). ord. _amaranthaceæ_. well known ornamental-leaved half-hardy plants, with inconspicuous flowers in axillary heads. some of the undermentioned species and varieties belong, technically speaking, to _telanthera_, in which genus the five stamens are inseparate below, and alternate with as many sterile filaments. they are so universally known in gardening under the present generic name, that we have here included them for convenience' sake. where alternantheras are used in large quantities (and if they are to be used effectively, a considerable number must be provided), their economical propagation becomes a matter of importance. a good colour can only be secured by growing them in some house or pit in the full light and warmth of the sun; for, unless so grown, green or badly coloured plants will be the result. the best and quickest way of producing this class of plants in large quantities, is to make up a special hotbed for them about the end of march or beginning of april. if a pit be used, it should be filled up within in. of the glass with leaves and manure, or any other material that will produce a steady bottom heat of deg. or deg., and will last for three weeks or so at that point; which, at this season, will be an easy matter. when the heat has become regular and steady, about in. or in. of light, rich, sandy soil should be placed all over the surface, adding, at the same time, a sprinkling of silver sand on the top, and pressing it moderately firm with a flat board. the cuttings may now be prepared and dibbled in, in. apart each way. if kept close, moist, and shaded from bright sunshine, in a few days they will be forming roots, and so soon as that takes place the shading should be discontinued, and the ventilation gradually increased until they are finally hardened off and planted out. if carefully lifted, and placed in trays or baskets, with a rhubarb leaf over them, they may be taken any distance, and planted without flagging; with this advantage-�that the plants being in good colour, the beds are effective at once. april is early enough to commence striking them, and these will be fit to plant out by the middle of june. the several species quoted in various dictionaries hitherto are unknown in english gardens. =a. amabilis= (lovely).* _l._ elliptic, acuminate, greenish in some stages, with the principal ribs stained with red, but under free growth becoming almost entirely suffused with rose colour, mixed with orange, the midribs continuing to be of a deep red hue. brazil, . =a. a. am�na= (charming).* _l._ small, spathulate, orange red and purple in colour, which is shaded with deep green and bronze. brazil, . a most elegant little plant, with a spreading habit. =a. a. tricolor= (three-coloured).* _l._ broadly ovate, glabrous, dark green at the edge, and have a centre of vivid rose, traversed by purple veins, an irregular band of orange yellow intervening between the centre and margin. brazil, . =a. bettzichiana= (bettzich's). _l._ olive and red. brazil, . =a. b. spathulata= (spathulate-leaved). _l._ spathulate, but more elongated than the others; the principal colours are reddish pink and light brown; these are shaded with bronze and green. brazil, . a rather tall species. =a. ficoidea= (fig-like).* _l._ variegated with green, rose, and red. india, . =a. paronychioides= (paronychia-like).* _l._ narrow, spathulate, ground colour deep orange red, beautifully shaded with olive green. dense and compact grower, forming a little clump about in. high. =a. p. magnifica= (magnificent).* a very fine variety, with a much higher colour than the type. =a. p. major= (greater).* _l._ bronze, with rich orange tips; very effective. =a. p. m. aurea= (greater-golden).* _l._ bright golden yellow, which colour they retain all through the season. =a. versicolor= (various-colour).* _l._ medium sized, ovate, bright rosy pink and crimson, shaded with bronzy green, branching freely, and making a compact and handsome plant. brazil, . =alternate.= placed on opposite sides of an axis on a different line, as in alternate leaves. =alth�a= (from _altheo_, to cure; in reference to the medicinal qualities of some of the species). marsh mallow. ord. _malvaceæ_. hardy biennials or perennials, closely allied to _malva_. outer calyx six to nine-cleft, inner one five-cleft. most species belonging to this genus are worthy of cultivation, particularly in woods, coppices, and shrubberies; they will thrive in almost any kind of soil. they may be either increased by dividing the plants at the roots, or by seeds; the biennial species must be raised from seed every year, which may be sown in spring where they are intended to remain, or in pans placed in a cold frame, from which the young plants may be removed when large enough. =a. cannabina= (hemp-leaved).* _fl._ rose-coloured; peduncles axillary, many-flowered, loose, longer than the leaves. june. _l._ pubescent, lower ones palmately-parted, upper ones three-parted; lobes narrow, and grossly toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. south france, . perennial. =a. caribæa= (caribean).* _fl._ rose coloured, with a yellow base, solitary, almost sessile. march. _l._ cordate, roundish, lobed, crenate-serrated. stem straight, hispid. _h._ ft. caribbee islands, . biennial. =a. ficifolia= (fig-leaved). antwerp hollyhock. _fl._ generally yellow or orange coloured, in terminal spikes, large, single or double. june. _l._ divided beyond the middle into seven lobes; lobes oblong, obtuse, irregularly toothed. _h._ ft. siberia, . biennial. =a. flexuosa= (zigzag).* _fl._ scarlet, axillary, solitary, stalked; petals obcordate. june. _l._ cordate, somewhat seven-lobed, obtuse, on long footstalks. _h._ ft. to ft. north india, . perennial. =a. frutex= (shrubby). synonymous with _hibiscus syriacus_. =a. narbonensis= (narbonne).* _fl._ pale red; peduncles many-flowered, loose, longer than the leaves. august. _l._ pubescent, lower ones five or seven-lobed, upper ones three-lobed. _h._ ft. to ft. france, . perennial. [illustration: fig. . flower and buds of alth�a officinalis.] =a. officinalis= (officinal). common marsh mallow. _fl._ of a delicate, uniform blush colour; peduncles axillary, many-flowered, much shorter than the leaves. july. _l._ clothed with soft, white tomentum on both surfaces, cordate or ovate, toothed, undivided, or somewhat five-lobed. _h._ ft. to ft. marshes, britain. perennial. see fig. . =a. rosea= (rose).* hollyhock. _fl._ rose-coloured, large, axillary, sessile, somewhat spiked at the top. july. _l._ cordate, with five or seven angles, crenated, rough. stem straight, hairy. _h._ ft. china, . for special culture and varieties, _see_ =hollyhock=. =a. striata= (streaked). _fl._ white, - / in. in diameter, solitary, on short pedicels; calyx striped. july. _l._ cordate, bluntly three-lobed, crenated. stem puberulous, and somewhat scabrous. _h._ ft. biennial. =aluminous.= pertaining to, or containing alum, or alumina; as aluminous soils. =alum-root.= _see_ =heuchera=. =alyssum= (from _a_, not, and _lyssa_, rage; in reference to a fable that the plant allayed anger). madwort. including _psilonema_, _ptilotrichum_, _schivereckia_. ord. _cruciferæ_. annuals or dwarf, branching, shrubby perennials, often clothed with hoary, stellate hairs. flowers small, cruciform, white or yellow. leaves distant, or the radical ones tufted, usually entire. several of the species are very much alike. they are excellent plants for the rockery, or for the front of borders, growing freely in common but well-drained garden soil. they may be increased by cuttings, by division of the roots, or by seed. the cuttings should be made from young shoots, in. to in. in length, inserted in sandy loam, early in the season, in a shady place. seed may be raised outside, or in a frame in pans in sandy soil, most of them germinating in two or three weeks. =a. alpestre= (alpine).* _fl._ yellow; raceme simple. june. _l._ obovate, hoary. stem rather shrubby at the base, diffuse, greyish. _h._ in. south europe, . perennial. a very neat little tufted species. _a. argenteum_ (silvery), _a. bertolonii_ (bertoloni's), and _a. murale_ (wall), are larger growing species allied to the above, but of less cultural merit. [illustration: fig. . alyssum saxatile.] =a. a. obtusifolium= (obtuse-leaved). _fl._ yellow, corymbose. june. _l._ obovate-spathulate, blunt, silvery on the under surface. _h._ in. tauria, . a rare alpine. [illustration: fig. . alyssum saxatile variegatum, showing flower and habit.] =a. atlanticum= (atlantic). _fl._ yellow; raceme simple. june. _l._ lanceolate, hoary, and pilose. stems shrubby at the base, erect. _h._ in. to ft. s. europe, . _a. marschallianum_ is intermediate between _a. alpestre_ and _a. a. obtusifolium_; but is seldom met with under cultivation. =a. gemonense= (german).* _fl._ yellow, in close corymbs. april to june. _l._ lanceolate, entire, greyish-velvety from stellate down. stem shrubby at the base. _h._ ft. italy, . closely allied to _a. saxatile_, but not so hardy; it is very desirable for rockeries. =a. macrocarpum= (large-fruited). _fl._ white, racemose. june. _l._ oblong, blunt, silvery. stem shrubby, branched, somewhat spiny. _h._ in. south of france, . _a. spinosa_ (thorny), and _a. halimifolia_ (purslane-leaved), are very like this species. _a. dasycarpum_ (thick-fruited) is an annual with yellow flowers. =a. maritimum.= _see_ =k�niga=. =a. montanum= (mountain). _fl._ yellow, sweet-scented; raceme simple. may to july. _l._ somewhat hoary; lower ones obovate; upper ones oblong. stems rather herbaceous, diffuse, pubescent. _h._ in. or in. europe, . a distinct and charming species for the rockery, forming compact tufts of slightly glaucous green. _a. cuneifolium_ (wedge-leaved), _a. diffusum_ (diffuse), and _a. wulfenianum_ (wulfenius') come close to this species, the latter being the most desirable. =a. olympicum= (olympian). _fl._ deep yellow, small, in roundish corymbose heads. summer. _l._ spathulate, sessile, very small, greyish. _h._ in. to in. northern greece. =a. orientale= (oriental).* _fl._ yellow, corymbose. may. _l._ lanceolate, repandly-toothed, waved, downy. stems suffruticose at the base. _h._ ft. crete, . there is a variety with variegated leaves. =a. saxatile= (rock).* _fl._ yellow, in close corymbose heads. april. _l._ lanceolate, entire, clothed with hoary tomentum. stems shrubby at the base. _h._ ft. eastern europe, . a very common and showy spring plant. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . flower spike of amaranthus caudatus.] =a. s. variegatum= (variegated).* a constant and prettily variegated form, which is even more handsome than the type. on the rockery it does well, as it requires a sunny, well drained, position. see fig. . =a. serpyllifolium= (thyme-leaved).* _fl._ pale yellow, in simple racemes. april to june. _l._ very small, / in. to / in. long, ovate, scabrous, hoary. _h._ in. to in. branches spreading, sub-woody at the base. south europe, . =a. tortuosum= (twisted). _fl._ yellow; raceme corymbose. june. _l._ hoary, somewhat lanceolate. stem shrubby at the base, twisted, diffuse. _h._ in. hungary, . =a. wiersbeckii= (wiersbeck's).* _fl._ deep yellow, in close corymbose heads, about - / in. across. summer. _l._ in. long, oval-oblong-pointed, sessile, attenuated at the base, roughish and hairy. stems erect, scabrous, simple, rigid. _h._ - / ft. asia minor. =amaranthace�.= an extensive order of herbs or (rarely) shrubs, with opposite or alternate leaves, and inconspicuous apetalous flowers, which are spicately or capitately disposed. the majority of this order are weeds; well-known exceptions being many species of _amaranthus_. =amaranth, globe.= _see_ =gomphrena=. [illustration: fig. . flower spike of amaranthus hypochondriacus.] =amaranthus= (from _a_, not, and _maraino_, to wither; in reference to the length of time some of the flowers retain their colour). ord. _amaranthaceæ_. hardy or half-hardy annuals, with alternate entire leaves and small green or red flowers in large bracteate clustered spikes. flowers polygamous, furnished with three bracts at the base of a three or five-lobed glabrous perianth. stamens four or five. of very easy culture; they thrive best in rich loamy soil, and are largely employed for sub-tropical and other bedding, for vases and conservatory decorations, being very ornamental. the seed should be sown in april in a hotbed, and the plants thinned out in the same situation when about / in. high. about the end of may, they can be transplanted out of doors in their permanent situations. they are also very handsome when grown in pots. the young plants should be potted off early, and freely encouraged, allowing plenty of pot-room and moisture, and be kept near the glass, to bring out their brightest colouring. to develop their full beauty, plenty of room is required. there are about twelve species (indigenous to warm and tropical countries). =a. bicolor= (two-coloured). _l._ green, variously streaked with light yellow. _h._ ft. india, . this species is rather delicate, and must have a warm sunny situation. =a. b. ruber= (red).* _l._ brilliant glistening scarlet, merging into a dark violet red, mixed with green. hardier than the type. =a. caudatus= (caudate).* love lies bleeding. _fl._ dark purplish, collected in numerous whorls, which are disposed in handsome drooping spikes. august. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . a very common and vigorous growing hardy annual. there is a yellowish-flowered variety, which, though less ornamental, is an effective contrast. see fig. . =a. cruentus= (dark bloody). synonymous with _a. hypochondriacus_. =a. henderi= (hender's). _l._ lanceolate, undulated, intense rosy carmine, varying with orange buff, golden yellow, and olive green. _h._ ft. a garden hybrid, closely allied to _a. salicifolius_. pyramidal habit. =a. hypochondriacus= (hypochondriac).* prince's feather. _fl._ deep crimson, on densely packed, erect spikes. july. _l._ purplish beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. asiatic, . syn. _a. cruentus_. see fig. . =a. h. atropurpureus= (dark purple).* an improved variety of above. =a. melancholicus ruber= (melancholy-red).* _h._ about ft. japan. a compact growing variety, with large shaded crimson leaves. largely used for bedding purposes. =a. salicifolius= (willow-leaved).* _l._ in. to in. long, willow-shaped, linear, and wavy, which, by their drooping outline, present a very elegant and effective appearance. when fully grown, the leaves are brilliantly banded and tipped with orange, carmine, and bronze. _h._ ft. philippine isles, . =a. s. princess of wales.=* _l._ carmine, orange green, and bright yellow, beautifully blended. _h._ ft. a garden hybrid. =a. sanguineus= (bloody). _fl._ purple, disposed partly in small heads in the axils of the upper leaves, and partly in slender, flexible spikes, which form a more or less branching panicle. july. _l._ blood red. _h._ ft. bahama, . [illustration: fig. . amaranthus tricolor.] =a. speciosus= (showy).* _fl._ dark crimson purple, disposed in large erect spikes, forming a fine plumy panicle. july. _l._ suffused with a reddish tinge, which disappears at the time of flowering. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . =a. s. aureus= (golden). _fl._ of a fine brownish-golden hue. very effective when grown in masses. =a. tricolor= (three-coloured).* _l._ of a fine, transparent, purplish-red or dark carmine from the base to the middle; a large spot of bright yellow occupies the greater part of the upper end of the leaf; point generally green; leafstalks yellow. _h._ - / ft. east indies, . see fig. . there are several garden varieties of this species, requiring a somewhat warmer situation. =amaryllide�.= a large and important order of usually bulbous plants, sometimes with a stem. flowers solitary, umbellate, or paniculate; perianth superior, six-lobed, often with a corona at the top of the tube. leaves ensiform or linear. this order contains many very beautiful genera, including _agave_, _amaryllis_, _crinum_, _hæmanthus_, _hippeastrum_, _narcissus_, _pancratium_, and several others. =amaryllis= (from _amaryllis_, the name of a country-woman mentioned by theocritus and virgil). ord. _amaryllideæ_. half-hardy or hardy, deciduous, bulbous plants. flowers large, sweet-scented, pedicelled; spathe two-leaved; umbels few-flowered; perianth with a very short tube, funnel-shaped, six-parted, sub-regular or irregular; segments many-nerved, broad, undulate, spreading somewhat at the apices; stamens at the summit of the tube, unequal, declined; anthers fixed by the middle, incumbent, curved into a circular arch after bursting; style declined; stigma thickened, sub-three-lobed; scape tall, solid, compressed. capsule obovate; seeds globose, fleshy. leaves appearing at a different season from the scapes, numerous, strap-shaped. the following genera are sometimes arranged hereunder, but in this work are treated separately: _brunsvigia_, _crinum_, _hippeastrum_, _nerine_, _sprekelia_, _sternbergia_, _vallota_, _zephyranthes_. warm, dry, and well-drained positions in front of hothouses, or at the base of south or south-west walls, are the most suitable sites for _a. belladonna_ and its varieties. the soil should be composed of good, fibrous loam, leaf mould, and sand, in equal parts. insert the bulbs in. to in. deep, and surround with sand, after which they may be covered with the compost, which should be pressed firmly about them; they should not be again disturbed for years, when they will ultimately establish themselves, and produce grand masses of blossom. the best time to plant a fresh stock is june or july, when they commence root-action, before the flower-stems are sent up. in their growing season, and in dry weather, an occasional soaking of clear water, or liquid manure, will be greatly beneficial. the extremely ornamental plants now largely grown, and frequently classed as _amaryllis_ in nurserymen's catalogues, belong to the genus _hippeastrum_. for pot-culture of the belladonna lily, _see_ =hippeastrum=. [illustration: fig. . amaryllis belladonna, showing habit at flowering season.] =a. belladonna.=* belladonna lily. this splendid species is very variable, both in the size and colour of the flowers, frequently producing variously-shaded flowers, from almost white to a reddish or purplish hue. autumn. west indies, . see fig. . the leaves and flowers are not produced together. in fig. they are both shown in the same illustration for economy of space. =a. b. pallida= (pale).* a pale-coloured variety. _h._ ft. =amasonia= (named in honour of thomas amason, one of the earlier american travellers). syn. _taligalea_. ord. _verbenaceæ_. a genus comprising six species (which may be reduced to four) of stove sub-shrubs, natives of tropical america. flowers yellow or sulphur-coloured, racemose or panicled; calyx five-cleft; corolla five-cleft, sub-bilabiate. leaves alternate, toothed or rarely entire. for culture of the only species introduced, _see_ =clerodendron=. =a. punicea= (reddish-brown). _fl._ yellow, with pretty, brownish bracts; peduncles once or twice trifid, cymose or one-flowered. may and june. _l._ slender, in. to in. long, oblong- or elliptic-lanceolate, shortly acuminate, unequally toothed. stem erect, simple or slightly branched. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . =amateur.= this term is usually meant to refer to one who has a taste for a particular pursuit, and who is, in a pecuniary point of view, independent of it. an amateur gardener is one who rears and grows his plants, and cultivates his garden, for his own amusement--for mere love of horticulture. [illustration: fig. . amaryllis belladonna, showing bulb and flower spike.] =amber, sweet.= _see_ =hypericum androsæmum=. =amber-tree.= _see_ =anthospermum=. =ambrosinia= (commemorative of professor giacinti ambrosini, of bologna). ord. _aroideæ_ (_araceæ_). a curious, half-hardy, tuberous perennial, thriving in any light soil, with protection in winter. increased by seeds, and by divisions. the former should be sown, as soon as ripe, in a cool house; and the latter should be made just previous to new growth in spring. =a. bassii= (bass's).* _fl._, spathes prolonged into a long tail, and a tongue-shaped spadix, with the male flowers on one side, and so placed as to preclude the access of pollen to the stigma on the other side of the spathe, save by insect agency. _l._ oblong, stalked. _h._ in. corsica, sardinia, . =ambury=, or =anbury=. the name given to galls of small weevils (_ceuthorhynchus sulcicollis_) which appear on the roots of cabbages and turnips, as well as of the wild mustard, and of other weeds belonging to the genus _brassica_. the galls form swellings individually about the size of split peas, but often two or more are joined to form considerable masses. in each is a space inclosing a white grub. anbury is usually not very hurtful. it is quite distinct from clubbing. the galled roots should be collected, before the grubs emerge, and burned. =amelanchier= (savoy name of the medlar, to which this genus is closely allied). tribe _pomaceæ_ of ord. _rosaceæ_. hardy, deciduous shrubs or small trees, with racemes of white flowers, and simple, serrated leaves; bracteas linear-lanceolate. pome, when mature, three to five-celled. they are of easy cultivation, in a somewhat rich, loamy soil, and are propagated by layers or cuttings, in autumn, in sheltered situations; by seeds, and by grafting, in early spring, on the hawthorn or the quince, or the weaker on the stronger-growing species. =a. canadensis= (canadian).* grape pear. _fl._ white. april. pome purple. _l._ oblong-elliptic, cuspidate, when young rather villous, but at length glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. canada, . a very ornamental tree, having a profusion of flowers in early spring, and rich autumnal foliage. syn. _pyrus botryapium_. =a. c. florida= (flowery).* _fl._ white, numerous, in upright racemes. may. pome purple. _l._ oblong, obtuse at both ends, coarsely serrate in the terminal portion, glabrous in every state. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . =a. c. ovalis= (oval-leaved). _fl._ white; racemes pressed together. april. _l._ roundish-elliptic, acute when rather young, velvety beneath, glabrous when mature. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . =a. c. parvifolia= (small-leaved). this has a dwarfer habit, and shorter leaves, than the type. =a. sanguinea=, (bloody). _fl._ white; racemes capitate. april. pome blackish-purple. _l._ oblong, rounded at both ends, sharply serrated, always naked. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . this form differs principally from _a. canadensis_ in the fewer flowers, much shorter raceme, and shorter, broader, and more ovate petals. =a. vulgaris= (common).* _fl._ white. april. pome darkish-purple. _l._ roundish-oval, bluntish, pubescent beneath, at length glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . a desirable shrub, producing an abundance of flowers. syn. _mespilus amelanchier_. =amellus= (a name employed by virgil for a blue, aster-looking plant growing on the banks of the river mella). ord. _compositæ_. pretty, branched, ascending or diffuse, perennial herbs. flowers in solitary heads. leaves hairy, lower ones opposite, upper alternate. of very easy culture, in ordinary garden soil. increased by divisions, or cuttings, inserted under glass, in spring. =a. lychnitis= (lychnitis). _fl.-heads_ violet, solitary, terminal, and lateral. june. _l._ linear, lanceolate, entire, hoary. _h._ in. cape of good hope. evergreen, greenhouse trailer. =amentum.= a catkin. a deciduous spike of unisexual, apetalous flowers. =american almond.= _see_ =brabejum=. =american aloe.= _see_ =agave americana=. =american blight=, or =woolly aphis= (_schizoneura lanuginosa_). the white, cottony-looking matter which is found upon the bark of the apple and other trees of a similar nature, belongs to a species of aphis, which has short legs: the females are wingless, while the males are winged; the latter appear in july and august. the insects belong to a group of aphides unprovided with honey tubes on the hinder part of the body, and in which the third vein of the front wing shows only one fork the woolly coating also distinguishes them from true aphides. the blight is said to have been imported from america in , but this is uncertain. as these insects get into the cracks and under the bark of trees, they are hard to dislodge. the injury inflicted is not apparent for some time; but, in process of time, large, cankerous wounds are produced, which gradually (with the aid of the insects) destroy the branches, and render the tree useless. if young trees are attacked, they are rendered valueless in a very short time. the insects hide in crevices of the bark of the trees each autumn, and remain dormant during the winter, ascending to their old quarters as the weather becomes warm. trees which are covered with moss and lichens probably serve as places for hybernation; hence, it is desirable to remove such hiding-places, as well as all pieces of dead bark. to their being left may be frequently attributed the severe attacks of blight experienced where they exist on trees. so soon as the cottony substance makes its appearance, one of the following remedies should be applied, and, if persisted in for a few seasons, the trees will be quite cleared. _brushing and scraping._ in winter, the trees should be thoroughly cleaned; and, so long as there is a chance of the insects being in the bark, all loose pieces, moss, &c., should be brushed off, and the parts affected should be thoroughly saturated with a strong solution of soft soap or of soft soap and lime-water, applied with a stiff brush, so as to enter all the crevices. _gas liquor._ this is the ammoniacal liquor from gas works. it must be diluted with from eight to twelve times its bulk of water, or it is dangerous to the trees; in fact, after dilution, it is advisable to test it, previous to using to any great extent. as the woolly covering of the insects resists water, it is desirable that the liquor be applied with a brush, and forced amongst the blight. _infusion of tobacco leaves_ ( / lb. to gallon) kills the insects on shoots dipped into it. _paraffin or petroleum._ this is a simple and useful remedy. obtain a painter's half-worn sash-tool, free from paint, and just moisten it in the oil. then brush out each infested place as often as the blight appears, and in one season the trees will be cleared. _spent tan._ collect spent tan into a heap a month or two before it is to be used, and if it has heated well and rotted, so much the better. in winter, clear away all leaves, rubbish, grass, &c., and spread the tan at the rate of about thirty loads to the acre, taking care that it surrounds the base of each tree infested with blight. practical proof of its utility has been given. _turpentine and other spirits._ the mode of applying these is the same as for paraffin, but they frequently injure the bark, and sometimes kill young trees. to kill insects on the roots, it is well to clear away the soil as far as possible from them, and to saturate the place with soapsuds or ammoniacal solutions; soot, quicklime, or other applications to the soil would also prove useful. other remedies that have been suggested are the drainings of stables, and grafting-clay plastered over the bark. =american centaury.= _see_ =sabbatia=. =american china root.= _see_ =smilax=. =american cowslip.= _see_ =dodecatheon=. =american cranberry.= _see_ =oxycoccus macrocarpus=. =american cress.= _see_ =barbarea=. =american dewberry.= _see_ =rubus canadensis=. =american gooseberry.= _see_ =pereskia aculeata=. =american great laurel.= _see_ =rhododendron maximum=. =american high blackberry.= a common name for =rubus villosus= (which _see_). =american mandrake.= _see_ =podophyllum peltatum=. =american mountain ash.= _see_ =pyrus americana=. =american plants=. this term includes _rhododendron_, _azalea_, and several others of similar habit and constitution; indeed, any hardy, flowering shrubs requiring a moist peat border. =american spanish oak.= _see_ =quercus falcata=. =american swamp lily.= _see_ =saururus cernuus=. =american white oak.= _see_ =quercus alba=. =american wild black currant.= _see_ =ribes floridum=. =american wild red raspberry.= _see_ =rubus strigosus=. =amerimnon= (from _a_, privative, and _merinna_, care; in allusion to the little attention the plant requires; name originally applied to the house-leek). syn. _amerimnum_. ord. _leguminosæ_. ornamental, evergreen, stove shrubs, with alternate, stalked, ovate, somewhat cordate, simple leaves. for culture, _see_ =anona=. =a. brownei= (browne's).* _fl._ white, sweet-scented; peduncles axillary, ten-flowered, glabrous or puberulous. may. _l._ ovate, somewhat cordate, acute, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . requires a trellis or other support. =a. strigulosum= (strigulose). _fl._ white; racemes axillary, solitary, three times longer than the petioles. may. _l._ ovate, rather cordate, obtuse, clothed with adpressed hairs on both surfaces; branches and petioles clothed with light brown, dense, short hairs. _h._ ft. to ft. trinidad, . =amerimnum.= a synonym of =amerimnon= (which _see_). =amherstia= (commemorative of countess amherst, a zealous promoter of natural history, particularly botany). ord. _leguminosæ_. a stove, evergreen tree of almost unsurpassed magnificence and brilliancy, requiring a very high and moist temperature. it delights in a rich, strong loam, and may be propagated by cuttings of the half-ripened wood, inserted in sand, under a glass in bottom heat of about deg.; also by seeds. =a. nobilis= (noble).* _fl._ of a fine vermilion colour, diversified with yellow spots, large; racemes long, pendulous, axillary. may. _l._ large, impari-pinnate, bearing six to eight pairs of leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . the flowers are, unfortunately, somewhat ephemeral, lasting but a few days in perfection, during which period, however, no object in the whole range of the vegetable kingdom presents a more striking aspect than this tree. =amicia= (commemorative of j. b. amici, a celebrated french physician). ord. _leguminosæ_. a pretty, greenhouse or half-hardy perennial, succeeding in any warm, sheltered spot. young cuttings will root in sand, under a hand glass, in heat. =a. zygomeris= (two-jointed-podded).* _fl._ yellow, splashed with purple on the keel; peduncles axillary, five or six-flowered. autumn. legumes with two joints. _l._ abruptly pinnate, with two pairs of cuneate-obcordate, mucronate leaflets, which are full of pellucid dots; branches and petioles pubescent. _h._ ft. mexico, . =ammobium= (from _ammos_, sand, and _bio_, to live; in reference to the sandy soil in which it is found). ord. _compositæ_. this well-known everlasting is closely allied to _gnaphalium_, from which it differs principally in habit. receptacle with oblong, pointed, toothed, chaffy scales; involucre of imbricated leaflets. it may be treated as a half-hardy annual, or as a biennial, if seeds are sown in september and kept in a cool greenhouse during the winter, and this is the best way to grow it. any moderately good soil suits it. =a. alatum= (winged). _fl.-heads_ about in. across, of a silvery whiteness, with the exception of the yellow disk florets, very numerous, in loose, corymbose panicles. may to september. _l._ oblong-lanceolate; radical ones in a tufted rosette. stems winged--hence the specific name. _h._ - / ft. to ft. new holland, . see fig. . =a. a. grandiflorum= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ purer white, nearly twice the size of those in the type. this variety, which comes true from seed, is a great acquisition. =ammocharis.= _see_ =brunsvigia=. =ammodendron= (from _ammos_, sand, and _dendron_, a tree; in reference to its natural habitat). syn. _sophora_. ord. _leguminosæ_. a small, neat, hardy evergreen, silky shrub, having the petioles hardening into spines; an excellent subject for shrubberies. it thrives in an ordinary soil, with good drainage, and is propagated by layers and seeds. =a. sieversii= (sievers').* _fl._ purple, disposed in racemes. june. _l._ bifoliolate; leaflets lanceolate, silky-white on both surfaces. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . =ammyrsine.= _see_ =leiophyllum=. =amomophyllum.= _see_ =spathiphyllum=. [illustration: fig. . inflorescence of ammobium alatum.] =amomum= (from _a_, not, and _momos_, impurity; in reference to the quality of counteracting poison). ord. _zingiberaceæ_. stove, deciduous, herbaceous perennials, chiefly aromatic, formerly used in embalming. flowers produced close to the ground, in spikes or clusters, bracteate. leaves distichous, sheathing at the base, lanceolate, entire. for culture, _see_ =alpinia=. =a. angustifolium= (narrow-leaved).* _fl._ sometimes of a uniform chrome-yellow, sometimes crimson, with the labellum of a yellow colour, more or less pale, and sometimes entirely crimson; scape naked, from in. to in. in length; spike capitate. july. _l._ linear-lanceolate. _h._ ft. madagascar. =a. cardamomum= (cardamom).* _fl._ brownish; lip three-lobed, spurred; scape compound, flexuous, procumbent. august. _h._ ft. east indies, . =a. danielli= (daniel's). _fl._ in. across; outer sepals fine red; the spreading labellum whitish, tinged with rose and yellow; scape short, arising from the bottom of the stem. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, in. long. _h._ - / ft. western africa. =a. grandiflorum= (large-flowered). _fl._ white, numerous, close; spike short. june. _l._ elliptic-lanceolate, pointed. _h._ ft. sierra leone, . =a. granum paradisi.=* grains of paradise. _fl._ white, tinged with yellow and rose. _l._ elliptic-lanceolate, long-pointed. stems very red at base, and dull purplish-red above from the long, sheathing leafstalks. _h._ ft. west africa. =a. melegueta= (melegueta).* grains of paradise. _fl._ pale pink, solitary, with an orbicular, irregularly toothed lip. may. _l._ narrow, linear-elliptic, distichous, sessile. _h._ ft. to ft. sierra leone, . habit creeping. =a. sceptrum= (sceptre). _fl._ bright rose purple, large, sub-erect; the most conspicuous portion is the lip, which is - / in. in diameter; flower-scapes in. high. january. _l._ narrow, oblong-lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. old calabar, . =a. vitellinum= (yolk-of-egg-coloured). _fl._ yellow; lip oblong, obtuse, toothed; spike oblong, sessile, rather loose. april. _l._ oval. _h._ ft. east indies, . plant stemless, glabrous. =amorpha= (from _a_, not, and _morphe_, form; incomplete formation of the flowers). bastard indigo. ord. _leguminosæ_. a handsome genus of hardy deciduous shrubs with very graceful impari-pinnate leaves, and many pairs of leaflets, which are full of pellucid dots. racemes spicate, elongated, usually in fascicles at the tops of the branches; corolla without wings and keel; vexillum or standard ovate, concave. they are well adapted for small shrubberies, requiring a sheltered situation, and thrive well in common garden soil. increased by layers, or cuttings, taken off at a joint, and planted in a sheltered situation early in autumn; these should be allowed to remain undisturbed till the following autumn. amorphas produce an abundance of suckers, from which they may be readily propagated. =a. canescens= (hoary).* the lead plant. _fl._ dark blue. july. _l._, leaflets ovate-elliptic, mucronate. _h._ ft. missouri, . whole plant clothed with hoary hairs. =a. fruticosa= (shrubby).* the false indigo. _fl._ very dark bluish purple. june. _l._, leaflets elliptic-oblong; lower ones distant from the stem. _h._ ft. carolina, . shrub glabrous, or a little villous. there are several varieties, having mucronate, emarginate, or narrower leaflets, but all with purple flowers. a host of names, representing the merest forms of _a. fruticosa_, are to be found in nurserymen's catalogues. amongst them are: _caroliniana_, _crocea_, _crocea-lanata_, _dealbata_, _fragrans_, _glabra_, _herbacea_, _nana_, _pubescens_, &c. these differ so slightly from the type and from each other, that it is impossible to distinguish them. =amorphophallus= (from _amorphos_, deformed, and _phallos_, a mace; alluding to the inflorescence). syn. _pythion_. including _proteinophallus_. ord. _aroideæ (araceæ)_. a very remarkable genus, closely allied to _arum_, but distinguished therefrom by "their spreading, not convolute, spathes; by their anthers opening by pores, not by longitudinal slits; by the numerous cells to the ovary; and by the solitary, erect ovules, those of _arum_ being horizontal." a soil consisting of two-thirds good rich loam, with the additional third of sweet manure, thoroughly rotted, suits them well. other essentials are plenty of pot room, a genial atmosphere, and a temperature ranging from deg. to deg., or even deg. they require to be kept dry, and warm in winter, as nothing is more fatal to them than cold or damp. beneath a shelf or stage in the stove is an excellent spot for them, or they may be stored in sand, and kept free from frost. they are difficult to increase; the corms of most of them are of great size, and rarely make offsets. efforts should consequently be made to induce the plants to seed whenever practicable. all the species are strikingly effective in sub-tropical bedding. for fertilising and growth of seedlings, _see_ =arum=. =a. campanulatus= (bell-shaped).* similar to _a. rivieri_, but the flowers are brown, red, and black, and the scape is neither so stout nor so tall. _h._ ft. india, . syn. _arum campanulatum_. =a. grandis= (large). _fl._, spathe green, white inside; spadix purplish. _h._ ft. java, . stove species. =a. lacourii= (lacour's).* _l._ pedatisect, the ultimate segments lanceolate, yellow-spotted; petioles transversely mottled with yellow markings. cochin china, . greenhouse. the correct name of this species is _pseudodracontium lacourii_. =a. nivosus.= _see_ =dracontium asperum=. =a. rivieri= (rivier's).* _fl._, spadix, spathe, and scape, reaching ft. or more in height, appearing before the leaves; scape stout and strong, of a deep green colour, speckled or dotted with rose; spadix projecting, deep red; spathe of a rosy-green colour. march to may. _l._ solitary, decompound, in. to in. across, on tall marbled petioles. cochin china. perhaps the most useful species. syn. _proteinophallus rivieri_. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . amorphophallus rivieri, foliage and inflorescence.] =a. titanum= (titan's).* _fl._, spadix ft. high, black purple; spathe nearly ft. in diameter, campanulate in shape, with patent and deeply toothed edges. the deeper portion of the interior is pale greenish, but the limb is of a bright black purple hue; the outside is pale green, smooth in the lower portion, but thickly corrugated and crisp above; scape about - / ft. long, green, marked with small whitish orbicular spots. _l._ the divided blade covers an area of ft. in circumference. west sumatra, . as will be seen from the above, this extraordinary plant is of gigantic proportions, and, in size of the flowers, eclipsing nearly all others in the vegetable kingdom. syn. _conophallus titanum_. =amorphous.= without definite form. =ampelopsis= (from _ampelos_, a vine, and _opsis_, resemblance; resembling the grape vine in habit, and to which it is closely allied). syn. _quinaria_. ord. _ampelideæ_. a genus nearly allied to _vitis_. calyx slightly five toothed; petals concave, thick, expanding before they fall; disk none. fast growing and ornamental climbing, hardy deciduous shrubs, of very easy culture in common garden soil. cuttings, having a good eye, may be taken in september, and pricked either under handlights in sandy soil on the open border, or in pots stood on the stage or shelf in a greenhouse; they root readily, and will be fit for transplanting early in the spring. or cuttings made from the young soft wood, expressly grown for the purpose, in spring, root freely in gentle heat. this applies especially to _a. tricuspidata_. they are also easily increased by layers. most of the species will thrive with equal vigour in almost any position, however exposed. =a. aconitifolia= (aconite-leaved).* _l._ palmisect, with pinnatifid segments. china, . a slender and very elegant free-growing species, with long reddish branches. there are two or more varieties. syns. _a. lucida_, _a. triloba_, _a. tripartita_, and _vitis dissecta_. see fig. . =a. bipinnata= (bipinnate). _fl._ green, small; raceme stalked, twice bifid. berries globose. june. _l._ bipinnate, smooth; leaflets deeply lobed. _h._ ft. virginia, . =a. hederacea= (ivy-leaved). synonymous with _a. quinquefolia_. =a. japonica= (japanese). synonymous with _a. tricuspidata_. =a. lucida= (shining). synonymous with _a. aconitifolia_. =a. napiformis= (turnip-like).* greenish. china, . see fig. . =a. quinquefolia= (five-leaved).* virginian creeper. _fl._ greenish-purple; raceme corymbose. june. _l._ palmate, with three and five leaflets, smooth on both surfaces; leaflets stalked, oblong-acuminated, mucronately toothed; autumnal tint red. north america, . syn. _a. hederacea_. =a. q. hirsuta= (hairy). _l._ downy on both surfaces. =a. serjaniæfolia= (serjania-leaved).* _l._ green, palmately five-parted, or the upper ones three-parted, the intermediate division being often ternate or pinnate; leaflets obovate acute, and incisely toothed or sublobate; the rachis is articulately winged. japan, . syns. _a. tuberosa_, _cissus viticifolia_. roots tuberous; see fig. . [illustration: fig. . stem and leaves of ampelopsis aconitifolia.] =a. tricuspidata= (three-pointed).* _l._ very variable in shape; younger ones almost entire; older ones larger, roundish-cordate, divided to the middle into three deltoid lobes, which run into little tails, and are coarsely toothed at the margin. japan, . syns. _a. veitchii_, _vitis japonica_ (of gardens). =a. triloba= (three-lobed). a synonym of _a. aconitifolia_. =a. tripartita= (three-parted). a synonym of _a. aconitifolia_. =a. tuberosa= (tuberous). a synonym of _a. serjaniæfolia_. =a. veitchii= (veitch's). a synonym of _a. tricuspidata_. =amphiblemma cymosum.= _see_ =melastoma corymbosum=. =amphiblestra.= included under =pteris= (which _see_). =amphicarp�a= (from _amphi_, both, and _karpos_, a fruit; in allusion to the two kinds of pods--those of the upper flowers being scimitar-shaped, three or four-seeded; those of the lower, pear-shaped, fleshy, usually ripening but one seed; these lower pods bury themselves in the ground after fertilisation). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of ornamental annuals, with herbaceous, twining stems, and sometimes apetalous flowers, allied to _wistaria_. the species are of easy culture. seeds should be sown in the open border, in spring, in a sunny situation. =a. monoica= (mon�cious). hog pea-nut. _fl._ with a pale violet vexillum, and white keel and wings; racemes axillary, pendulous. june to august. _l._ pinnately-trifoliate; leaflets ovate, glabrous. north america. . [illustration: fig. . tubers and leaf of ampelopsis napiformis.] [illustration: fig. . roots of ampelopsis serjani�folia.] =amphicome= (from _amphi_, on both sides, and _kome_, a head of hair; in reference to the seeds being furnished with a tuft of hairs at both ends). ord. _bignoniaceæ_. flowers axillary or terminal. leaves alternate, unequally pinnate. very ornamental greenhouse or half-hardy rock herbaceous plants. if planted outside, they must be protected during the winter from wet and severe frosts. a mixture of loam, sand, and leaf soil suits them well. increased by striking the young shoots in spring in sandy soil in gentle heat; or by seed, which should be sown in early spring, in pots of sandy soil placed in a greenhouse. =a. arguta= (finely-cut).* _fl._ red, drooping; racemes axillary, terminal; corolla tubular near the base, ventricose above. august. _l._ alternate, impari-pinnate; leaflets opposite, on short petioles, three to four pairs, lanceolate, acuminated, deeply serrated. _h._ ft. himalaya, . =a. emodi= (emodian).* _fl._ rose and orange, erect; racemes axillary; corolla - / in. to in. long, bell-shaped, slightly tubular below. august to october. _l._ impari-pinnate, with numerous leaflets. _h._ ft. to - / ft. india, at high altitudes, . a very beautiful plant. =amphilophium= (from _amphilophos_, crested on all sides; limb of corolla much curled). syn. _amphilobium_. ord. _bignoniaceæ_. a handsome stove evergreen climber. corolla somewhat coriaceous, with a short tube, and a large ventricose throat. loam and peat, well mixed, suits it best; cuttings from young shoots root readily in sand, under a hand glass, with bottom heat, during the spring months. =a. paniculatum= (panicled).* _fl._ rose-coloured; panicle terminal, composed of three-flowered peduncles. june. _l._ joined by pairs, opposite; leaflets ovate-roundish, acuminated, sub-cordate. west indies, . =amplexicaulis.= embracing the stem; usually applied to leaves. =ampullaceous.= resembling a bladder or flask. =amsonia= (in honour of charles amson, a scientific traveller in america). ord. _apocynaceæ_. very pretty hardy, herbaceous perennials, with alternate leaves, and terminal panicles of pale blue flowers; corolla with linear lobes, and a narrow funnel-shaped tube. they thrive in half shady positions in borders, or the edges of shrubberies, where they will not need to be frequently transplanted. propagated by cuttings during the summer months, or by divisions of the roots in spring. =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved). synonymous with _a. tabernæmontana_. [illustration: fig. . amsonia salicifolia, showing habit and flower.] =a. salicifolia= (willow-leaved).* _fl._ light blue, in terminal corymbose cymes; corolla small, funnel-shaped, with a rounded tube; throat whitish, bearded. summer. _l._ lanceolate, smooth, acute. _h._ - / ft. to - / ft. north america, . habit less erect than the following species. see fig. . =a. tabernæmontana= (tabernæmontanus).* _fl._ pale blue, in cymes; petals lanceolate, acute, slightly hairy on the outside; sepals also lanceolate, acute. summer. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acute, shortly stalked. _h._ - / ft. to - / ft. north america, . syns. _a. latifolia_, _tabernæmontana amsonia_. =amygdalus= (from _amysso_, to lacerate; fissured channels in the stone of the fruit). almond. ord. _rosaceæ_. tribe _drupaceæ_. well known, ornamental, deciduous spring flowering shrubs. drupe clothed with velvety pubescence, with a fibrous dry rind, separating irregularly, having the stone of the fruit pitted or smooth. the larger-growing species are very excellent for shrubberies, or as specimen trees; being in blossom before most other trees, they make a fine appearance in early spring. the dwarfer kinds are also well fitted for small shrubberies or the fronts of large ones. for greenhouse culture they should be obtained in a small pyramidal shape; they are not, however, suited to a small house, as the plants, to bloom well and be effective, ought to be at least ft. or ft. high, and proportionately wide. plenty of root room is essential. after potting, water thoroughly, and place the trees in an orchard house for a few weeks, when they may be removed to their permanent station. a temperature of about deg. or deg. is sufficient to hasten the flowering; a higher temperature is apt to frustrate the object in view. after flowering, gradually harden off the plants until about the end of may, when they may be plunged out of doors for the season. repotting should be done as soon as the leaves fall. increased by budding upon seedling plum-stocks in summer. the almond is grown on the continent for its fruit. _see also_ =prunus=. =a. argentea= (silvery). a synonym of _a. orientalis_. =a. besseriana= (besser's). a synonym of _a. nana_. =a. cochinchinensis= (cochin china). _fl._ white; racemes small, sub-terminal. _fr._ ovate, ventricose, acute at the apex. march. _l._ oval, quite entire. _h._ ft. to ft. cochin china, . greenhouse. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of amygdalus communis.] =a. communis= (common).* common almond. _fl._ white or rose coloured, solitary. march. _fr._ compressed, egg-shaped, tomentose. _l._ oblong lanceolate, serrulated. _h._ ft. to ft. barbary, . see fig. . =a. c. amara= (bitter).* bitter almond. _fl._ larger, white, but rose coloured at the base. april. seeds bitter. =a. c. dulcis= (sweet). sweet almond. _fl._ red, earlier; fruit ovate, compressed, acuminated. seeds sweet. _l._ of a greyish green colour. =a. c. flore-pleno= (double-blossomed).* _fl._ flesh colour, full double, rosy in the bud. _l._ oval-elliptic, acuminate. =a. c. fragilis= (brittle). _fl._ pale rose coloured, rising with the leaves; petals broader, deeply emarginate. _l._ shorter than those of the type. =a. c. macrocarpa= (large-fruited).* _fl._ whitish rose colour, large, rising before the leaves, with broadly obcordate undulated petals. _fr._ larger than that of the type, umbilicate at the base, but acuminated at the apex. _l._ broader than the type, acuminated. there are also numerous other varieties. =a. incana= (hoary).* _fl._ red, solitary. april. drupe compressed, pubescent. _l._ obovate, serrated, clothed with white tomentum beneath. _h._ ft. a handsome dwarf shrub. caucasus, . =a. nana= (dwarf).* _fl._ rose coloured, solitary. march. _fr._ of the same form as that of _a. communis_, but much smaller. _l._ oblong-linear, attenuated at the base, serrated, quite glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. tartary, . syn. _a. besseriana_. =a. orientalis= (oriental). _fl._ rose coloured. march. _fr._ mucronate. _l._ lanceolate, quite entire, almost permanent, clothed with silvery tomentum, as well as the branches. _h._ ft. to ft. levant, . syn. _a. argentea_. =amylaceous.= starch-like. =amyridace�.= _see_ =burseraceæ=. =amyris= (from _a_, intensive, and _myron_, balm; the whole of the trees in this genus smell strongly of balm or myrrh). ord. _burseraceæ_. ornamental stove evergreen trees, abounding in a resinous fluid. flowers white, disposed in panicles. leaves unequally pinnate. they thrive well in a mixture of loam and peat; and cuttings root freely in sand, under a hand glass with bottom heat, during the spring months. =a. balsamifera= (balsam-bearing). synonymous with _a. toxifera_. =a. braziliensis= (brazilian).* _fl._ white; panicles axillary, shorter than the leaves. august. _l._ with one to three pairs of opposite leaflets; leaflets lanceolate, tapering to the base, rounded at the apex, mucronate, quite entire, veiny, shining above, discoloured beneath. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. heptaphylla= (seven-leaved). _fl._ whitish yellow; panicles branched, axillary, and terminal. _l._ with three to four pairs of alternate, simple leaflets, which are stalked, obliquely-lanceolate, acuminated, entire. _h._ ft. india, . =a. plumieri= (plumier's).* gum elemi tree. _fl._ white; panicles branched, terminal. the fruit of this species is the shape and size of an olive, but red, having an odoriferous pulp within it. _l._ leaflets three to five, all stalked, somewhat serrated, ovate, acuminate, villous beneath. _h._ ft. west indies, . =a. toxifera= (poison-bearing).* _fl._ white; racemes simple, about the length of the petioles. _fr._ the shape of a pear, and of a purple colour, hanging in bunches. _l._, leaflets five to seven, stalked, ovate, somewhat cordate, acuminated. _h._ ft. west indies, . the wood, known as rhodes wood, bears a fine polish, and has a pleasant smell. syn. _a. balsamifera_. =anacampseros= (from _anakampto_, to cause return, and _eros_, love). syn. _rulingia_. ord. _portulacaceæ_. very dwarf greenhouse succulent herbs or sub-shrubs, natives of the cape of good hope. flowers large, expanding only in the heat of the sun; petals five, very fugacious; sepals five, opposite, oblong, rather concrete at the base; pedicels one-flowered, short or elongated, disposed in racemes. leaves ovate, fleshy. they grow freely in sandy loam, mixed with some lime rubbish; but little water is needed. cuttings root freely if laid to dry a few days before planting. leaves taken off close to the plants, and also left to dry for a short time before being planted, will take root. seed, when obtainable, should be sown in the spring. =a. arachnoides= (cobwebbed).* _fl._ white; petals lanceolate; racemes simple. july. _l._ ovate, acuminated, difformed, green, shining, cobwebbed. _h._ in. to in. . =a. filamentosa= (thready). _fl._ reddish, or deep rose coloured; petals oblong. august. _l._ ovate-globose, gibbous on both sides, and cobwebbed, rather rugged above. _h._ in. to ft. . =a. intermedia= (intermediate). very like _a. filamentosa_, but has broader and more numerous leaves. =a. rubens= (reddish).* _fl._ red; racemes simple. july. _l._ ovate, difformed, shining, dark green, somewhat reflexed at the apex. _h._ in. to in. . =a. rufescens= (rusty-coloured). _fl._ reddish, similarly disposed to _a. varians_. july. _l._ crowded, expanded and recurved, ovate, acute, thick, green, usually dark purple beneath. _h._ in. . =a. telephiastrum= (telephium-like). synonymous with _a. varians_. =a. varians= (varying).* _fl._ reddish; racemes few-flowered, sub-panicled. july. _l._ ovate, difformed, glabrous. _h._ in. . syn. _a. telephiastrum_. =anacamptis.= _see_ =orchis=. =anacardiace�.= a rather large order of trees or shrubs, with a resinous, milky juice. flowers inconspicuous. leaves generally dotless. ovary containing a single ovule. this order contains, among other genera, _anacardium_, _mangifera_, and _rhus_. =anacardium= (origin doubtful; probably from _ana_, like, and _kardia_, the heart; in reference to the form of the nut). ord. _anacardiaceæ_. an ornamental stove evergreen tree with entire, feather-nerved leaves and terminal panicles of flowers; nut reniform, umbilicated, seated laterally on a fleshy, wide, pear-shaped peduncle. it requires a light loamy soil. ripened cuttings, with their leaves left on, root freely in sand under a hand glass, in heat. =a. occidentale= (western). cashew nut. _fl._ reddish, small, very sweet scented, succeeded by an edible pome-like fruit of a yellow or red colour. _l._ oval, cuneated, very blunt, somewhat emarginate, obovate-oblong, entire, smooth. _h._ ft. west indies, . =anadenia.= _see_ =grevillea=. =anagallis= (from _anagelas_, to laugh; removing despondency: meaning doubtful). pimpernel. ord. _primulaceæ_. annual or perennial trailers with angular stems, opposite or verticillate leaves, and solitary pedunculate flowers; corolla rotate or funnel-shaped, deeply five-cleft. all are very pretty and free flowering plants, of easy culture. the annuals are raised from seed sown in a sunny spot in spring; the perennials are increased by striking cuttings of the young shoots, or division, at any time, either under a hand glass or in a close frame. keep in the shade until well established, and gradually harden off. plant outside in light rich soil for summer flowering, and each year secure a stock in frames during the winter. they require, if left out of doors, a protection during the winter, except _a. tenella_. =a. fruticosa= (shrubby).* _fl._ axillary, large, vermilion, with a dark throat. may to august. _l._ verticillate, four in each whorl. _h._ ft. morocco, . a biennial. =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ very variable, but intense blue and deep vermilion red are predominant. may to autumn. _h._ in. habit very compact and neat, and very floriferous. there are several varieties. annual. =a. indica= (indian). _fl._ deep blue, small. july. _h._ ft. nepaul, . annual; trailing. [illustration: fig. . anagallis linifolia, showing habit and flowers.] =a. linifolia= (flax-leaved).* _fl._ brilliant blue, large, about / in. in diameter. july. _l._ opposite. _h._ in. to in. portugal, . perennial. there are many varieties, the best of which are the following. syn. _a. monelli_. see fig. . =a. l. brewerii= (brewer's).* _fl._ red. june. _h._ in. known also as _phillipsii_. =a. l. eugenie= (eugenie's).* _fl._ blue, margined with white. =a. l. lilacina= (lilac-flowered). _fl._ lilac. may. _h._ ft. =a. l. napoleon iii.= (napoleon's).* _fl._ crimson maroon, distinct and pretty. =a. l. parksii= (parks'). _fl._ red, large. =a. l. ph�nicea= (ph�nician).* _fl._ scarlet. may. morocco, . =a. l. sanguinea= (bloody). _fl._ bright ruby colour. =a. l. wilmoreana= (wilmore's).* _fl._ bright blue purple, with yellow eye. _h._ in. =a. monelli= (monell's). a synonym of _a. linifolia_. =a. tenella= (delicate).* _fl._ delicate pink, with deeper veins; corolla bell-shaped. summer. _l._ roundish, very small, opposite. a beautiful little native bog trailer, and one of the prettiest in the whole genus. requires a boggy and wet soil. =a. webbiana= (webb's). _fl._ blue; petals with their tops slightly denticulated. june to august. _l._ several, verticillate. _h._ in. portugal, . =anagyris= (from _ana_, backwards, and _gyros_, a circle; the pods are curved backwards at their extremities). ord. _leguminosæ_. an ornamental greenhouse or half-hardy shrub, having the two stipules placed opposite the leaves. it thrives in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat in equal proportions. young cuttings should be planted in july in a pot of sand, and placed under a hand glass. =a. f�tida= (f�tid). _fl._ yellow, hairy, like those of the laburnum; racemes short. may. _l._ trifoliate; leaflets lanceolate, acute, entire. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . this shrub is f�tid in every part when bruised. =analogy.= resembling a thing in form but not in function; or _vice versâ_. corresponding with a thing in many points, but differing in more, or in points of more importance. =ananas= (from _nanas_, the south american name for the pine apple). syn. _ananassa_. pine apple. ord. _bromeliaceæ_. stove herbaceous perennials, having the berries collected with the bracts into a compound fruit. leaves rigid; edges spiny. the variegated form is a useful plant for decorative purposes, and may be employed without the usual harmful consequences attending stove plants generally, but it must not be subjected to cold draughts. the soil should consist of two parts fibrous loam, one of peat, one of dung and leaf mould, and another of sand. those propagated from suckers, which should be laid by a day or two and then inserted in a strong heat, have, as a rule, longer and lighter-coloured leaves. offsets are often produced at the base of the fruit, and make stout plants, with high-coloured foliage. when the plants are potted in spring, plunge them in bottom heat, to hasten their growth; but this is not absolutely necessary. should it be desired to fruit the variegated form, the plants may be submitted to the same process of culture as detailed under =pine apple= (which _see_). =a. bracamorensis= (bracamora). brazil, . =a. bracteata= (bracted). _fl._ crimson. april. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. lucida= (shining). _fl._ pink. april. _h._ ft. south america, . =a. macrodonta= (large-toothed).* _fl._ reddish, tinted buff; spike elongate-ovoid, with imbricating dentate bracts. _fr._ conical, about in. long and in. wide, with conspicuous bracts, and highly perfumed. _l._ with conspicuous teeth. . syn. _bromelia undulata_. =a. mordilona= (mordilona; native name). _fr._ large, with a fine aroma. _l._ distinguished in being without spines. columbia, . =a. porteana= (porter's).* _l._ armed on the margins with sharp spines, deep olive green, with a broad band of pale yellow running down the centre from base to apex. this species has a somewhat erect habit of growth. philippines, . =a. sativa= (cultivated). pine apple. for culture, _see_ =pine apple=. =a. s. variegata= (variegated).* _l._ rosulate, finely arched, ft. or ft. long, serrated on the edges; centre bright green, sometimes with a few lines of white, broadly margined with rich creamy-yellow, tinged with red towards the margins. a very elegant variegated plant for vases, &c. =ananassa.= _see_ =ananas=. =anantherix= (from _a_, without, and _antherix_, an awn; there are no horn-formed processes from the base of the leaflets of the corona, as in _asclepias_, to which it is closely allied). ord. _asclepiadeæ_. a small genus of pretty, hardy herbs. _a. viridis_ is of easy culture in an open situation, and light soil. increased by division of the root; or by seeds, which ripen in abundance. =a. viridis= (green). _fl._ purplish-green, large; corolla sub-campanulate, five-cleft; umbels proceeding from the stem, sub-panicled, few-flowered. august. _l._ opposite, sessile, obovate-oblong, pointed, smoothish. _h._ ft. north america, . =anapeltis.= included under _polypodium_. =anarrhinum= (from _a_, without, and _rhin_, a snout; the corolla being without a spur, or furnished with a very short one). ord. _scrophularineæ_. elegant little half-hardy biennials or perennials allied to _antirrhinum_. flowers small, drooping, in long spike-formed, twiggy, and interrupted racemes. radical leaves usually in a rosette; stem and branch leaves palmate-parted, or toothed at the apex; superior ones quite entire. they are of easy culture in ordinary garden soil; seed may be sown outside in spring, or they can be increased by growing cuttings, but they require protection during severe weather. =a. bellidifolium= (daisy-leaved).* _fl._ white, or pale blue; racemes slender, elongated. june. _l._ radical ones spathulate or obovate-lanceolate, deeply toothed; branch leaves deeply three to seven-parted. _h._ ft. south europe, . =a. duriminium= (douro). a synonym of _a. hirsutum_. =a. fruticosum= (shrubby). _fl._ white, without a spur. july. _l._ lower ones mostly tridentate at the apex; superior ones oblong, quite entire. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . shrubby. =a. hirsutum= (hairy). _fl._ whitish, a little larger than those of _a. bellidifolium_, of which it is, perhaps, only a downy variety. _h._ ft. to ft. portugal, . syn. _a. duriminium_. [illustration: fig. . dry fruiting plant of anastatica hierochuntina.] =anastatica= (from _anastasis_, resurrection; plant recovering its original form, however dry it may be, on immersion in water). ord. _cruciferæ_. a very curious and interesting little annual, the leaves of which fall off from the plant after flowering, the branches and branchlets then become dry, hard, and ligneous, and rise upwards and bend inwards at their points. this plant has the remarkable property of resuming vitality on being placed in water, after being kept in a dry state for many years. seeds should be sown in heat, in the spring, and the plants afterwards potted off and plunged again in heat to hasten their growth, which cannot otherwise be fully developed with our precarious and sunless summers. [illustration: fig. . anastatica hierochuntina.] =a. hierochuntina.= rose of jericho. _fl._ small, white, sessile, disposed in spikes along the branches; petals obovate. july. _fr._, or silicle, ventricose, with the valves bearing each an appendage on the outer side at the end. _l._ obovate, with stellate hairs; lower ones entire, upper ones slightly toothed. branches crowded lattice-wise into a globular form. _h._ in. syria, &c., . supposed by some commentators to be the "_rolling thing_ before the whirlwind" mentioned by isaiah. see figs. and . =anastomose.= branching of one vein into another. =anbury.= _see_ =ambury=. =anceps.= two-edged; as the stem of an iris. =anchietea= (named in honour of p. anchietea, a celebrated brazilian writer on plants). syns. _lucinæa_, _noisettia_. ord. _violarieæ_. an ornamental, stove, evergreen climber. petals five, very unequal, two upper ones smallest, two intermediate ones longer, lowest one largest, with a spur at the base. the species thrives in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat. young cuttings root freely under a bell glass if planted in sand, and placed in a moderate heat. =a. pyrifolia= (pear-leaved). _fl._ whitish, veined with red at the base, in axillary fascicles; lower petal obovate. july. _l._ alternate, stalked, stipulate, ovate, acute, crenated. brazil, . =anchomanes= (name of doubtful origin). ord. _aroideæ_. a remarkable and beautiful stove tuberous-rooted perennial aroid, allied to _amorphophallus_, and requiring somewhat similar treatment. as soon as the leaves die down, the plants should be repotted in rich sandy loam and leaf mould, with ample drainage. they will need scarce any water or attention until growth commences the following spring, when they must have an abundance of water, and a moist atmosphere. summer temperature, deg. to deg.; winter, deg. to deg. propagated by seeds and offsets. =a. hookeri= (hooker's).* _fl._, spathe pale purple, appearing before the leaf, much expanded; spadix whitish; scape prickly, shorter than the petiole. june. _l._, petiole slender, prickly, bearing on its summit the horizontal blade, about ft. in diameter; this is divided into three primary divisions, which are again cut up into several leaflets, the largest of these being toothed. _h._ ft. fernando po, . there is a variety with a paler coloured spathe. syn. _caladium petiolatum_. =anchovy pear.= _see_ =grias cauliflora=. [illustration: fig. . anchusa capensis, showing flower and habit.] =anchusa= (from _anchousa_, paint for the skin; use of some species). ord. _boraginaceæ_. very pretty hardy annuals, biennials, or perennials. flowers in scorpoid racemes; corolla funnel-shaped; throat closed by erect, obtuse processes; nuts four, one-celled, inversely conical, with a contraction towards the point, fixed to the bottom of the calyx, perforated and concave at the base. of easy culture, in ordinary soils, and preferring a sunny situation. propagated by seeds, which should be sown in early spring in pots of sandy soil, when most of them will germinate in three or four weeks, some less. the honey-bee is very partial to this genus. =a. agardhii= (agardh's). _fl._ purple, on short pedicels, distant, disposed in terminal racemes, which are generally conjugate. july. _l._ linear-lanceolate, tubercled, strigose. _h._ ft. siberia, . perennial. rare. =a. azurea= (blue). synonymous with _a. italica_. =a. barrelieri= (barrelier's). _fl._ blue, with a white tube and yellow throat; racemes conjugate, panicled, bracteate. may. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, denticulated, hispid. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . perennial. syns. _buglossum barrelieri_, _myosotis obtusum_. =a. capensis= (cape).* _fl._ blue; racemes terminal, panicled. july. _l._ linear lanceolate, hispid. stem simple, hairy. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . requires greenhouse protection in winter. biennial. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . inflorescence of anchusa italica.] =a. italica= (italian). _fl._ bright blue or purple, in panicled racemes. summer. _l._ lanceolate, entire, shining; radical ones sometimes ft. long. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus, &c., . one of the best. syns. _a. azurea_, _a. paniculata_. see fig. . =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved). synonymous with _nonnea rosea_. =a. myosotidiflora= (myosotideum-flowered). _fl._ fine blue; throat yellow; raceme terminal, panicled, bractless. july. _l._ large, radical ones on long petioles, reniformly cordate; those of the stem sessile, ovate, hairy. _h._ ft. siberia, . a pretty plant. syn. _myosotis macrophylla_. =a. officinalis= (officinal). _fl._ blue or purple, sessile, imbricate; spikes joined by pairs, terminal. june to october. _l._ lanceolate, hispid; radical ones tufted. _h._ ft. to ft. britain, naturalised here and there. =a. o. incarnata= is a variety with flesh coloured flowers. =a. paniculata= (panicled). synonymous with _a. italica_. =a. sempervirens= (evergreen). _fl._ rich blue, in short axillary spikes, generally leafy at the base. may. _l._ broadly ovate, lower ones upon long stalks. stem erect. _h._ - / ft. to ft. perennial; here and there naturalised in britain. see fig. . =a. tinctoria= (dyers'). alkanet. _fl._ deep blue; tube blood-colour; racemes usually twin, terminal, many-flowered. june. _l._ oblong, hispid. _h._ in. south europe, . a diffuse perennial. =ancyclogyne.= a synonym of =sanchezia= (which _see_). =andersonia= (in honour of messrs. anderson, surgeons, great promoters of botany). ord. _epacridaceæ_. elegant and delicate little greenhouse shrubs. flowers terminal, solitary, or spicate; corolla sub-campanulate, hypocrateriform, five-lobed. the undermentioned, which is the only species yet introduced, grows freely in a sandy peat with perfect drainage, which latter is most essential. cuttings from the tips of young shoots may be made in autumn, winter, or spring, and planted in sand in a gentle heat, with a bell glass placed over them. =a. sprengelioides= (sprengelia-like).* _fl._ pink, furnished with two small bracteas, spicate. march. _l._ spreading, bases curved inwards, so as to resemble a hood, ending in a flat point. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . evergreen squarrose shrub. syn. _sprengelia andersoni_. =andira= (its brazilian name). ord. _leguminosæ_. large ornamental stove evergreen trees, nearly allied to =geoffroya= (which _see_ for cultivation). flowers in axillary or terminal panicles. pod drupaceous. leaves alternate, unequally pinnate. =a. inermis= (unarmed). _fl._ purple, on short pedicels; panicles terminal. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets thirteen to fifteen, ovate-lanceolate, acute, glabrous on both surfaces. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . known as the cabbage tree. =a. racemosa= (branchy). _fl._ purple, in panicled racemes. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets thirteen, ovate-oblong, acuminated, glabrous on both surfaces. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . [illustration: fig. . anchusa sempervirens.] =androcymbium= (from _aner_, a man, and _cymbos_, a cavity; the stamens are enclosed in a hollow formed by the folding of the limb of the petals). ord. _liliaceæ_. a peculiar greenhouse bulbous plant, requiring a light sandy soil, dry atmosphere, no shade, and a season of rest; during the latter period, scarcely any water is required. propagated by seeds and offsets. =a. punctatum= (dotted). _fl._ whitish, few, in a dense sessile umbel, surrounded by about four spreading lanceolate, acuminate leaves, which are in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad above the base, channelled down the centre from base to tip. south africa, . =andr�cium.= the male organ of the flower. =androgynous.= producing male and female flowers on the same spike. =androlepis= (from _aner_, a man, and _lepis_, a scale; referring to the scaly stamens). ord. _bromeliaceæ_. stove evergreen epiphyte. for culture, _see_ =�chmea=. =a. skinneri= (skinner's). _fl._ white. _h._ - / ft. guatemala, . syn. _billbergia skinneri_. =andromeda= (named after the daughter of cepheus, who was rescued from the sea monster by perseus). ord. _ericaceæ_. a dwarf, hardy shrub, found in peaty bogs in the temperate and arctic regions of the northern hemisphere. sow seeds as soon as ripe in pots or pans, very thinly, in sandy peat soil, and place in a cool frame, giving plenty of air. place the young plants out in spring. layers, pegged carefully down during september, will generally take twelve months to make sufficient roots to allow of their being separated, and thus become independent plants. for other species often included under this genus in catalogues, _see_ =cassandra=, =cassiope=, =leucothoë=, =lyonia=, =oxydendrum=, =pieris=, and =zenobia=. =a. polifolia= (polium-leaved). wild rosemary. _fl._ pinky white, drooping, sometimes tipped with red; corolla ovate, furnished with ovate, rather leafy imbricated bracteas, terminal, umbellate. june. _l._ linear-lanceolate, mucronulate, with the margins more or less revolute, quite entire, glaucous beneath, with an elevated rib, and reticulated veins. _h._ ft. the numerous varieties of this very beautiful native shrub principally differ in the colouring of the flowers. =andropogon= (from _aner_, a man, and _pogon_, a beard; tufts of hair on flowers). ord. _gramineæ_. a large genus of grasses with polygamous flowers. the majority of species are of no horticultural value; several, however, are very ornamental subjects, and thrive well in a rich, deep soil. easily propagated by seeds or by division of the roots. the south european kinds succeed in the open air if planted in a warm dry border. =a. citratum= (citrus-leaved). synonymous with _a. sch�nanthus_. =a. sch�nanthus.= lemon grass. _fl._ in threes; spikes imbricate, conjugate, panicled. a handsome species, the leaves of which emit a very fragrant odour when bruised. _h._ ft. india, . stove species. syn. _a. citratum_. other species worth growing are _furcatus_, _halepensis_, _muricatus_, _pubescens_, _scoparius_, _squarrosus_, and _strictus_. =androsace= (from _aner_, a man, and _sakos_, buckler; in reference to the resemblance of the anther to an ancient buckler). including _aretia_. ord. _primulaceæ_. dwarf annuals or perennials, entirely alpine, agreeing in most characters with _primula_, but having the tube of the corolla narrowed at the mouth. an airy, well-drained, and partially sunny position is essential in their culture. they thrive well between fissures of rocks or stones with a rich sandy peat soil. drought and a sour soil are alike fatal, and both will be greatly obviated if small pieces of sandstone are mixed with the soil. the woolly species are best arranged beneath a jutting ledge of the rockery, which will afford them protection from the hottest sunshine, and from excessive wet in winter; additional comfort will be provided from the latter ill if a piece of glass is placed over them during the autumn and winter months. they can also be well grown, and make charming little specimens, in pots, with rich sandy soil and thorough drainage. sprinkle sand among the small rosettes of leaves. they are increased by divisions, cuttings, or seed; the latter should be sown as early as possible, and raised in a frame. =a. alpina= (alpine). _fl._ purplish rose; throat and tube yellow, solitary; peduncles about / in. long. june. _l._ crowded, small, tongue-shaped, in small rosettes. _h._ in. to in. switzerland, . this species requires a rather shady aspect, and to be planted almost perpendicularly in a soil composed of leaf mould, peat, fibrous loam, and sharp sand. syn. _a. glacialis_. =a. aretia= (aretius'). synonymous with _a. helvetica_. =a. aretioides= (aretia-like). synonymous with _a. obtusifolia_. =a. argentea= (silvery).* _fl._ white, sessile, very numerous. june. _l._ densely imbricated, lanceolate, oblong, covered with short hairs, forming very pretty silvery-grey rosettes. _h._ about in. switzerland, . this requires a well drained, sunny fissure. syn. _a. imbricata_. =a. carnea= (flesh-coloured).* _fl._ pink or rose, with a yellow eye, three to seven, on hairy stalked umbels. july. _l._ awl-shaped, smooth, acuminated, not forming rosettes. stem somewhat elongated. _h._ in. or in. switzerland, . this forms charming little cushions if allowed to remain undisturbed; it is easily increased. syns. _a. lachenalii_, _a. puberula_. =a. c. eximia= (select).* larger and more robust than the typical species, and a more rapid grower. forms compact tufts of dense rosettes, bearing heads of rosy-crimson yellow-eyed flowers, on stems in. or in. high. auvergne alps, . it requires moist sunny ledges and fissures of rockwork in peat, loam, and sand. =a. chamæjasme= (rock jasmine).* _fl._ blush, ultimately deep pink, with a yellow eye, umbellate. june. _l._ lanceolate, tapering to a point towards the base, in comparatively large, not dense, rosettes. _h._ about in. to in. austria, &c., . a very free flowering species, growing freely when established, ultimately forming large tufts. it thrives best in a deep, well drained and rich loam soil. =a. ciliata= (ciliated). _fl._ deep carmine red, on stems double as long as the leaves. june. _l._ lanceolate-oblong, smooth on both surfaces, with ciliated margins, imbricated. _h._ in. to in., forming dense cushions. pyrenees. =a. coronopifolia= (buckhorn-leaved).* _fl._ pure white, on slender pedicels, umbellate on peduncles, about in. high. april to june. _l._ lanceolate, distantly serrated, smooth, in flattish rosettes. russia, . this is a charming little biennial, well worthy of a place on the rockery. a colony of it is extremely pretty; it seeds freely, and a batch of young plants almost invariably takes the place of the old ones. syn. _a. septentrionalis_. =a. glacialis= (glacial). synonymous with _a. alpina_. =a. helvetica= (swiss).* _fl._ white, nearly sessile, with a yellow eye, larger than the little rosettes of leaves on the stalk from which they spring. may. _l._ lanceolate, obtuse, closely imbricated, small, ciliated. _h._ in., forming dense cushions. switzerland, . a rare little gem, requiring a partially shaded position, and very sandy soil. syn. _a. aretia_. =a. imbricata= (imbricated). synonymous with _a. argentea_. =a. lachenalii= (lachenal's). synonymous with _a. carnea_. =a. lactea= (milk-white).* _fl._ pure white, with yellow throat, large, on long graceful stalks, umbellate. june. _l._ linear, or nearly so, in rosettes, sometimes scattered on the elongated branches. _h._ about in. austria, . very floriferous and strong growing. should have an eastern or western aspect, and be propagated from seeds. syn. _a. pauciflora_. [illustration: fig. . androsace laggeri.] =a. laggeri= (lagger's).* _fl._ pink, sessile; when approaching maturity the stem becomes elongated, and bears a tuft of stalked flowers. march. _l._ awl-shaped, sharply pointed, in tiny rosettes. _h._ in. pyrenees, &c., . very like _a. carnea_, but more delicate, earlier, and more abundant flowering, with deeper green foliage. it suffers from exposure to the sun, and therefore requires a partially shady position. should be propagated from seeds or cuttings, which latter strike freely. see fig. . =a. lanuginosa= (woolly-leaved).* _fl._ delicate rose, with a small yellow eye, umbellate. june to october. _l._ nearly in. long, clothed with shiny silken hairs. _h._ in. to in. himalaya, . a very beautiful species, with spreading or trailing shoots, easily multiplied by cuttings or layers. it requires a warm sunny spot on the rockery, with a sandy peat soil. when planted so that its shoots drape the face of a rocky ledge, it is one of the most charming plants possible to grow. a. obtusifolia (blunt-leaved). _fl._ white or rose, with yellow eye; umbels five or six-flowered. spring. _l._ lanceolate or rather spathulate, in rather large rosettes. stems downy. _h._ in. to in. european alps. a very pretty form, closely allied to _a. chamæjasme_, and differing principally in its somewhat larger rosette of leaves and stronger growth. syn. _a. aretioides_. =a. pauciflora= (few-flowered). synonymous with _a. lactea_. =a. penicillata= (finely hairy). synonymous with _a. villosa_. =a. puberula= (puberulous). synonymous with _a. carnea_. =a. pubescens= (downy). _fl._ white, with a faint yellow eye, solitary, at the ends of the branchlets, very numerous. june. _l._ oblong-ovate, ciliated, in a crowded rosette. stem with a small swelling close to the flower. _h._ in. alps, . treat like _a. chamæjasme_. =a. pyrenaica= (pyrenean). _fl._ white, with yellowish eyes, on a scape about / in high. summer. _l._ narrow-oblong, ciliated, recurved, keeled at the back. _h._ in. pyrenees. an exceedingly pretty and diminutive little alpine plant, grown, according to mr. robinson, "to great perfection in fissures between large rocks, with, however, deep rifts of sandy peat and loam in them. it will also grow on a level exposed spot, but in such a position should be surrounded by half-buried stones." =a. sarmentosa= (trailing).* _fl._ bright rose, with a white eye, in umbels of ten to twenty, on an erect scape. may and june. _l._ very silvery, forming dense rosettes, whence spring a number of runners, bearing at their extremities other tufts, which should be pegged down and covered with soil, when they will root freely. himalayas, . it requires rich sandy loam, a sunny position, and to be wedged between pieces of sandstone. cover the rosettes during winter with a sheet of glass. see fig. . =a. septentrionalis= (northern). synonymous with _a. coronopifolia_. =a. villosa= (hairy).* _fl._ rose or blush, with a deeper coloured eye, and a honey-like perfume, umbellate. may. _l._ narrow, oblong, covered with soft white down, chiefly on the under surface, in compact tufts. _h._ in. to in. pyrenees, &c., . when well grown, the flowers are produced in great abundance, almost covering the green cushions. plant in a sunny fissure of the rockery, in sandy loam and leaf soil. syn. _a. penicillata_. [illustration: fig. . androsace sarmentosa, showing habit, and the two kinds of leaves, &c.] =a. vitaliana= (vital's).* _fl._ rich yellow, comparatively large; tube inflated at the middle, almost nestling among the leaves. may to july. _l._ linear, acute, greyish. stems numerous. _h._ in. to in. pyrenees, &c., . when well grown, it produces flowers in abundance, and is the only species in cultivation having yellow flowers. a well-drained, sunny pocket is desirable, with a calcareous soil, covering the surface with nodules of sandstone. syn. _gregoria vitaliana_. =a. wulfeniana= (wulfen's).* _fl._ rosy or crimson, large. summer. _l._ oval, acuminated, in dense rosettes. _h._ in. styria. a very rare species in cultivation in this country. =andros�mum.= _see_ =hypericum=. =androstephium= (from _aner_, a man, and _stephos_, a crown; some of the stamens are barren and petaloid, forming a corona). ord. _liliaceæ_. a very pretty little hardy bulb, of dwarf habit, allied to _brodiæa_. it requires a rich sandy loam, in a sunny position, and may be propagated by offsets and seeds; the latter should be sown as soon as ripe in a cold frame. plant in. deep, when it will require no protection in winter. =a. violaceum= (violet). _fl._ violet blue, about in. long, three to six in an umbel, on pedicels about their own length; tube infundibuliform, about as long as the spreading segments; corona half as long. spring. _l._ four to six, very narrow. _h._ in. texas, . =andryala= (the meaning of this is unknown). ord. _compositæ_. these are pretty half-hardy evergreen herbaceous perennials, easily grown in ordinary well-drained garden soil. increased by seeds and divisions in spring. two species only are in cultivation. =a. lanata= (woolly).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, hieracium-like. may. _l._ white, woolly, thick, oblong-ovate; radical ones stalked; upper ones sessile. stems with a leaf at each joint. _h._ about ft. south europe, . =a. mogadorensis= (mogador). _fl.-heads_ bright yellow, as large as a half-crown; disk bright orange. april. morocco, . this species is rare in cultivation. =aneilema= (from _a_, not, and _eilema_, involucre; in reference to the absence of the involucre). ord. _commelynaceæ_. greenhouse and stove evergreen perennials, with generally a trailing habit. a genus resembling _commelyna_, from which it is distinguished by the inflorescence being sub-paniculate, and the peduncles entirely exserted from the bracts at the branching of the panicle. flowers without any involucre. they thrive in a compost of loam, peat, leaf mould, and sand, well mixed. increased by seeds and root divisions. there are a large number of species known to botanists. =a. biflora= (two-flowered).* _fl._ blue; floral stalks two-flowered. july. _l._ lanceolate. stem creeping; plant smooth. new holland, . greenhouse species. =a. sinicum= (chinese). _fl._ pale blue; racemes about seven-flowered, alternate, placed in a panicle form. may. _l._ ligulate, acuminate. stems branched, diffuse. _h._ ft. china, . greenhouse species. =anemia= (from _aneimon_, naked; in reference to the naked panicles of sporangia). including _anemidictyon_. ord. _filices_. a well-marked genus of stove and greenhouse ferns, chiefly confined to tropical america. capsules small, very abundant, forming a copiously-branched panicle, quite distinct from the leafy part of the frond. this genus of handsome dwarf-growing ferns is of easy culture, in a compost of fibrous peat, leaf soil, and sand. several species are exceedingly pretty for fern cases. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. =a. adiantifolia= (maidenhair-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, naked. _fronds_, barren portion shortly-stalked, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, bi-tripinnate; pinnæ close, lanceolate, the lowest the largest; ultimate divisions oblong or linear-cuneate, the outer toothed, with a firm texture; panicle in. to in. long, the peduncle in. to in. long. west indies, . a very handsome stove fern. =a. ciliata= (ciliated). synonymous with _a. hirsuta_. =a. collina= (hill). _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, erect, densely clothed with fine ferruginous hairs. _fronds_, barren portion sessile, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with about twelve sessile pinnæ on each side, which are in. to - / in. long, and about / in. broad, unequal-sided, obliquely-truncate below, blunt, sub-entire, with a sub-coriaceous texture; panicle in. to in. long, close, the peduncle in. to in. long. brazil, . very rare stove species. syn. _a. hirta_. =a. deltoidea= (deltoid-like). synonymous with _a. tomentosa_. =a. dregeana= (drege's).* _sti._ in. to in. long, firm, slightly villose. _fronds_, barren portion sub-sessile, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, about equal in width in the lower half, with eight to twelve pinnæ on each side, which are in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, ovate-deltoid, unequal at the base, the upper side sub-cordate, the edge inciso-crenate; panicle in. to in. long, the lower branches elongated; peduncle same length. natal. stove species. =a. flexuosa= (wavy). synonymous with _a. tomentosa_. =a. hirsuta= (hairy). _sti._ in. to in. long, slender, naked. _fronds_, barren portion in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, sessile, oblong-deltoid, bipinnatifid; pinnæ in six to eight opposite pairs, in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, varying from oblong, obtuse, sub-entire, truncate at the base on the lower side, to deeply pinnatifid with narrow divisions; panicle in. to in. long, close; peduncle in. to in. long, slender. jamaica, . very handsome stove species. syns. _a. repens_ and _a. ciliata_. =a. hirta= (hairy). synonymous with _a. collina_. =a. mandioccana= (mandioccan).* _sti._ in. to in. long, deciduously villose. _fronds_, barren portion ft. or more long, in. to in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, the lower half about equal in width; pinnæ in twenty or more close pairs, the point narrowed, but scarcely acute; edge finely serrulate, the upper base parallel with the stem, the lower obliquely truncate; rachis and surfaces finely pilose; texture sub-coriaceous; panicle very compound, in. to in. long: peduncle longer. brazil. a very beautiful and distinct stove species. =a. phyllitidis= (phyllitis-like).* _sti._ in. to in. long, stramineous, naked, or fibrillose. _fronds_, barren portion sessile, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-oblong, simply pinnate; pinnæ in four to twelve sessile pairs, the lowest the largest, ovate, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, the apex acute, the edge crenulate, the base rounded or cuneate, or unequal, with a firm texture; panicle dense, in. to in. long, the branches short; peduncles the same length. cuba, mexico, &c. syn. _anemidictyon phyllitidis_. greenhouse species. =a. p. lineata= (lined). _fronds_ with a yellowish-green central stripe down the pinnæ. south america, . =a. p. plumbea= (leaden). synonymous with _a. p. tessellata_. =a. p. tessellata= (tessellated). pinnæ dark green, with bright green centre and leaden-grey border. brazil, . the forms of this species are numerous: _fraxinifolia_ and _macrophylla_ are names often met with, but only show slight deviations. they all have a more hardy constitution than the other species, and grow well in the greenhouse. syn. _a. p. plumbea_. =a. repens= (creeping). synonymous with _a. hirsuta_. =a. tomentosa= (tomentose).* _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect, clothed with ferruginous hairs. _fronds_, barren portion in. to in. long, half as broad, ovate-deltoid, bipinnatifid or bipinnate; lowest pinnæ the largest, the blunt lobes / in. to / in. long, / in. broad, nearly entire; rachis and surfaces densely pilose, with a firm texture; panicle in. to in. long, loose; peduncle in. to in. long. tropical america. greenhouse species. syns. _a. deltoidea_, _a. flexuosa_, _a. villosa_. =a. villosa= (hairy). synonymous with _a. tomentosa_. =anemidictyon.= _see_ =anemia=. =anemone= (from _anemos_, wind; the greater part of the species grow in elevated places, much exposed to the wind). wind flower. ord. _ranunculaceæ_. an extensive genus of very ornamental hardy perennials. the generic characters of anemone proper are: involucre of three cut leaflets, distant from the flower; calyx of five to twenty petal-like sepals; petals absent. of sub-genus hepatica: involucre of three entire leaflets, just under the flowers; calyx of six to nine petal-like sepals; petals absent. for botanical purposes, they are both now included under the one generic name of anemone; but in gardens the hepaticas are frequently regarded as a distinct genus. they delight in a rich sandy loam, but most will thrive in ordinary garden soil. some are suitable for borders, while others thrive best on the rockery, most of them preferring a damp and partially shady position. for the numerous varieties of _a. coronaria_, both double and single flowered, the soil can hardly be too rich, and the position, though open, should be a sheltered one, and well drained. the tubers may be planted early in october, about in. apart, and in. deep, various colours being intermixed, when a splendid effect is produced in the following spring. after flowering, the tubers should be taken up--say in june--and spread out thinly, in a shady, airy situation, until they are dry, when they should be thoroughly cleaned, and, if necessary, divided, and finally stored away in a cool place, in pots or boxes of dry sand until the planting season. anemones make admirable pot plants if placed in a compost of two parts turfy loam, and one of leaf mould or rotten hotbed or cow manure, with about a sixth part of sharp gritty sand; but, if so grown, they should be protected through severe weather, and brought into warmth as required. the herbaceous species are propagated by root divisions or root cuttings, or by seeds, in autumn or early spring; the seeds are better sown as soon as ripe in pans in a cold frame. some, such as _a. japonica_, are freely increased by division; while others, such as _a. narcissiflora_, are very slow; and the tuberous rooted ones, by root division and seeds. the best and most rapid means of propagating the invaluable varieties of _a. coronaria_, and also of obtaining new ones, is by seed. a careful selection of flowers, and skilful hybridising, will produce results commensurate with the trouble incurred. so soon as the seed ripen, they should be gathered and sown at once in a warm sheltered situation outside, or in pans under glass, covering lightly with sandy soil, and keeping moist. they are somewhat difficult to sow on account of a mass of cotton-like down which adheres closely to them; they should be thoroughly separated therefrom by rubbing them in dry sand. of course, if the seed are sown at different times, plants will be produced which will flower at different periods, and a succession of bloom may be had from april to november--indeed, nearly all the year. =a. alba= (white). _fl._ white; pedicel solitary; sepals five, obovate, very blunt. june. _l._ ternate or quinate; segments deeply toothed at top; those of the involucre stalked. _h._ in. siberia, . =a. alpina= (alpine).* _fl._ variously coloured, sometimes white, white with the back purple, cream, yellowish or yellow with their backs paler; sepals six, spreading, elliptical, rarely ovate. may. _l._ sometimes smooth, sometimes clothed with long crowded silky hairs, biternate; segments pinnate and deeply serrated; involucre of the same form. _h._ in. middle europe, . very handsome alpine. plant on the rockery in rich deep soil, with a damp situation. syn. _pulsatilla alpina_. =a. a. sulphurea= (sulphur).* _fl._ beautiful soft yellow, in. to - / in. across when expanded, but they are usually cup-shaped; sepals six, covered with a silky down outside; anthers of a rich golden colour. may and june. _l._ radical, stalked, drooping, more than ft. long; leaflets pinnatifid, deeply toothed. a very beautiful form, thriving in ordinary garden soil, and a rather moist situation. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anemone alpina sulphurea, showing habit and flower.] =a. americana= (american). a synonym of _a. hepatica_. =a. angulosa= (angled).* _fl._ fine sky blue, over in. across, with numerous black anthers surrounding a tuft of yellow styles; sepals eight to nine, elliptical, spreading. february. _l._ palmately five-lobed; lobes serrated. _h._ in. to in. east europe. a very fine species, twice the size of _a. hepatica_ in all its parts; it is well suited for the border or rockery, enjoying a deep rich soil. syn. _hepatica angulosa_. =a. apennina= (apennine).* _fl._ blue, - / in. across; sepals ten to fourteen, oblong, obtuse, erect; pedicel one-flowered. march. _l._ binately pinnate; segments lanceolate, deeply-toothed, acute. _h._ in. england (naturalised here and there), and southern europe. an exceedingly pretty plant, with soft-looking feathery foliage. it thrives best under the partial shade of trees, where the flowers retain their colour longer. tuberous rooted. =a. baldensis= (mount baldo).* _fl._ white, clothed with adpressed hairs on the outside, and reddish tinged with blue; sepals eight to ten, oblong-oval; pedicels one-flowered. may. _l._ biternate; segments many-parted; lobes linear; involucral leaves multifid. _h._ in. switzerland, . _a. c�rulea_ is probably identical with this species. shady parts of the rockery. rare. tuberous rooted. =a. blanda= (fair).* _fl._ deep blue, nearly in. across; sepals nine to fourteen, narrow. winter or early spring. _l._ triternate; segments deeply cut and acute; involucral leaves stalked, trifid, deeply cut. _h._ in. eastern europe. a very handsome early flowering plant. it requires a rich, light, and well drained sandy loam, and a warm, sheltered position. it closely resembles _a. apennina_, of which it is merely a form, with deeper blue flowers. tuberous rooted. =a. caroliniana= (carolina). _fl._ purple or whitish, pubescent on the outside, on a long one-flowered pedicel; sepals ten to twenty, oblong-linear. may. _l._ ternate, with three-parted, or cut acutely-toothed lobes; involucral leaves trifid, with cut lobes. _h._ in. carolina, . a very slender and delicate plant. shady parts of the rockery. tuberous rooted. =a. cernua= (drooping). _fl._ somewhat drooping, dark purple; sepals six, spreading, elliptical-oblong. may. _l._ pinnate, villous underneath; segments pinnatifid; lobes cut, oblong; scapes, petioles, and peduncles clothed with downy hairs. _h._ in. japan, . rare. =a. coronaria= (garland).* poppy anemone. _fl._ very various in colouring, solitary; sepals six, oval, approximate. april to may. _l._ ternate; segments multifid; lobules linear, mucronated; involucral leaves sessile, multifid. south europe, . this is one of the species from which the majority of "florists' varieties" have originated, which can be purchased at such a cheap rate, either in named varieties, or in mixture, and are invaluable for spring flowering. it thrives best in a good loamy soil, and should be somewhat shaded from the mid-day sun. tuberous rooted. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anemone coronaria flore-pleno.] [illustration: fig. . anemone fulgens.] =a. decapetala= (ten-petaled).* _fl._ cream white or pale sulphur, about in. to in. across, erect; sepals eight to twelve, oblong, spreading. may to june. _l._ tripartite, and freely divided into numerous linear-acute segments, of a deep green colour. _h._ in. to in. north-west america, &c. a pretty free-flowering species, suitable for naturalising in woods, &c. it is less ornamental than many others, but is very distinct. [illustration: fig. . anemone hepatica.] =a. dichotoma= (forked).* _fl._ white, with a tinge of red on the under side; sepals five, elliptical; pedicels many, usually bifid. may. _l._ three parted; lobes oblong, deeply-toothed at top; those of the involucrum sessile. _h._ - / ft. siberia, north america, &c., . border, or for naturalising in woods. syn. _a. pennsylvanica._ [illustration: fig. . flower and leaf of anemone japonica.] =a. fulgens= (shining).* _fl._ of a dazzling vermilion or scarlet, with a black central patch of stamens, about in. across; sepals obovate. may. greece, south europe, &c., . a very beautiful variety, much more showy than _a. hortensis_ (of which it is generally regarded as a variety), and a universal favourite. in "hardy perennials," mr. wood says of this splendid species: "it may be grown in pots for conservatory or indoor decoration. it needs no forcing for such purposes; a cold frame will prove sufficient to bring the flowers out in winter. borders or the moist parts of rockwork are suitable for it; but perhaps it is seen to greatest advantage in irregular masses in the half shade of trees in front of a shrubbery; and, after all, it is impossible to plant this flower wrong as regards effect. to grow it well, however, it must have a moist situation and good loam." see fig. . =a. halleri= (haller's).* _fl._ purplish inside, large, erect; sepals six, oval-lanceolate. april. _l._ pinnate, very villous; segments three parted; lobes with lanceolate-linear, acuminated divisions. _h._ in. switzerland, . a sunny border or the rockery. syn. _pulsatilla halleri_. =a. hepatica= (supposed remedy for liver diseases). common hepatica. _fl._ usually blue; sepals six to nine. february. _l._ cordate, three-lobed; lobes quite entire, ovate, acutish; petioles and scapes rather hairy. _h._ in. to in. there are numerous varieties of this species. england, &c. syn. _hepatica triloba_. varieties: _alba_ has large pure white flowers; _c�rulea_ (blue), the double form of _c�rulea_ is scarce and very showy; _rubra_ produces reddish-pink flowers, and of which there is also a double variety, very bright and lasting; _barlowi_ has large sky-blue flowers. besides these there are many others. they are all charming early spring-flowering plants, preferring rich light soil, and to remain undisturbed for years, when they form grand clumps, often producing seedlings where they stand. syn. _a. americana_. see fig. . =a. honorine jobert= (honorine jobert). synonymous with _a. japonica alba_. =a. hortensis= (garden). nearly approaches _a. coronaria_, the parent of a large number of garden forms. _a. fulgens_ and _a. stellata_ are by competent authorities placed as varieties. =a. hudsoniana= (hudson's). synonymous with _a. multifida_. =a. japonica= (japanese).* _fl._ rosy carmine, from in. to - / in. across, on footstalks which spring from a whorl of three or four leaves; anthers golden yellow. autumn. _l._ ternate, with unequally lobed, toothed segments. _h._ ft. to ft. japan, . see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anemone japonica alba.] =a. j. alba= (white).* this is a splendid variety, with a profusion of large pure white flowers, which are produced from august to november. this white form is one of the handsomest of border flowers. the blooms are in. to in. across, with a centre of dense lemon coloured stamens. for cutting purposes the flowers are invaluable. it thrives best in deep soil. syn. _a. honorine jobert_. see fig. . =a. j. elegans= (elegant).* very like _a. japonica_, with broader leaves, and pale rose-coloured flowers, which are more than in. across. this is also called _rosea_ and _hybrida_. japan. =a. lancifolia= (lance-leaved). _fl._ white; sepals five, ovate-acute; scapes one-flowered. may. _l._ all stalked, ternate; segments lanceolate, crenate-toothed. _h._ in. pennsylvania, . very rare. rockery. tuberous rooted. =a. multifida= (many-cleft).* _fl._ red, whitish yellow, or citron colour, small; sepals five to ten, elliptical, obtuse; peduncles three, one-flowered, one of which is naked and earlier, the other two longer, and bearing two-leaved multifid involucels on their middle. june. _l._ radical ones ternate; segments cuneated, three parted, multifid, with linear lobes; those of the involucrum multifid, on short petioles. _h._ in. to in. north america. border or rockery. syn. _a. hudsoniana_. [illustration: fig. . anemone narcissiflora, showing habit and flower.] =a. narcissiflora= (narcissus-flowered).* _fl._ usually cream coloured, sometimes purplish on the outside; umbels generally many-flowered; pedicels in some instances twice or three times longer than the involucrum, and in others very short; sepals five or six, ovate or oval, blunt or acute. may. _l._ radical ones palmately three to five parted; lobes deeply toothed; lobules linear, acute; those of the involucrum three to five cleft. _h._ about ft. europe, north america, . an extremely variable and beautiful species. rockery. see fig. . =a. nemorosa= (grove).* wood anemone. _fl._ generally white; sepals six, elliptical; scapes one-flowered. march. _l._ ternate; segments trifid, deeply toothed, lanceolate, acute; involucral leaves stalked. _h._ in. this species varies greatly in the colour of its flowers. it is a most beautiful little plant, frequent in our native woods, and suitable for planting in shaded shrubberies, &c. tuberous rooted. =a. n. c�rulea=, (blue),* from the north-west states of america, is very near, if not identical with, the variety _robinsoniana_, of our native woods. =a. n. flore-pleno= (double-flowered).* _fl._ pure white, over in. across, solitary, double. this is an exceedingly pretty plant, and remains in beauty considerably longer than the type. it should be grown in large clumps, and in rich loam. =a. n. robinsoniana= (robinson's).* _fl._ bright azure blue, large, over - / in. in diameter. a charming variety for the rockery or border, and one of the prettiest in the whole genus. =a. n. rosea= (rosy).* a very pretty form, with rose-coloured flowers, of which there is a double flowered sub-variety; there is also a double form of the type, named _bracteata_ _fl.-pl._, white flowers, surrounded with a large involucrum. =a. obtusiloba= (blunt-lobed-leaved). _fl._ cream coloured; sepals five, obovate; peduncles two to three, one-flowered, villous, naked, or the lateral ones are bracteate. june. _l._ three lobed cordate, and are, as well as petioles, very villous; segments broadly cuneated, and deeply crenate; involucral leaves trifid. himalaya, . this species requires a warm and sheltered position. =a. palmata= (palmate).* _fl._ golden yellow; sepals ten to twelve, oblong, obtuse; scape one, rarely two, flowered. may. _l._ cordate, sub-orbicular, bluntly three to five-lobed, toothed; involucral leaves trifid. south-west europe, . a white flowered variety, though scarce, is in cultivation, and is very pretty. true alpines, which should be grown on the rockery, where the soil is both rich and deep, with a somewhat damp situation. tuberous rooted. =a. patens= (spreading).* _fl._ purplish, or rarely yellow, erect, spreading, in the involucre almost sessile; sepals five to six. june. _l._ pinnate, rising after the flowers; segments three parted; lobes toothed at the top. northern europe, &c., . =a. p. nuttalliana= (nuttall's).* _fl._ purple, sometimes cream coloured, erect, villous on the outside; sepals five or six, erect, connivent. june. _l._ three parted; segments cuneate, trifid, cut; lobes linear-lanceolate, elongated; those of the involucre with linear lobes. _h._ ft. north america, . a pretty border plant. =a. pavonina= (peacock). synonymous with _a. stellata_. =a. pennsylvanica= (pennsylvanian). synonymous with _a. dichotoma_. =a. pratensis= (meadow).* _fl._ dark purple, pendulous; sepals six, erect, reflexed at the top, acute. may. _l._ pinnate, many parted; lobes linear. _h._ in. to in. northern europe, &c., . differs chiefly from the following species in having smaller flowers, sepals narrower and more acute, connivent at base, and reflexed at apex. syn. _pulsatilla pratensis_. =a. pulsatilla= (common pulsatilla).* pasque flower. _fl._ generally violet, sub-erect; sepals six, spreading, externally silky, very handsome. april. _l._ pinnate; segments many parted; lobes linear. _h._ in. to in. england, &c. a singular and beautiful species, thriving best in a dry situation and well-drained soil of a calcareous nature. it is a very pretty plant for a border or rockery; when well grown, it forms handsome tufts, and flowers very freely. see fig. . syn. _pulsatilla vulgaris_. there are numerous varieties, the best of which are: =a. p. dahurica= (dahurian). _fl._ erect; sepals oblong, very villous. plant dwarf. sunny border or rockery. [illustration: fig. . anemone pulsatilla.] =a. p. lilacina= (lilac). _fl._ lilac. =a. p. rubra= (red). _fl._ erect; sepals blunter. plant dwarfer. =a. ranunculoides= (ranunculus-like).* _fl._ usually yellow (but in the pyrenean variety purple), generally solitary, single or double; sepals five to six, elliptical. march. _l._ radical ones three to five parted; segments subtrifid, deeply toothed; those of the involucrum on short stalks three parted, deeply toothed. _h._ in. naturalised in english woods, but rarely. tuberous rooted. [illustration: fig. . anemone stellata.] =a. rivularis= (river).* _fl._ white; anthers purple; sepals five, oval, smooth; pedicels three, one of which is naked. april. _l._ villous, as well as petioles, three parted; lobes cuneated, trifid; lobules cut, acutely toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. north india, . should be grown on the banks of running water, or in a damp situation in the border. =a. sibirica= (siberian). _fl._ white; sepals six, orbicular; scapes one-flowered. june. _l._ ternate; segments deeply toothed, ciliated, those of the involucrum on short stalks, ternate; segments lanceolate. _h._ in. siberia, . rockery; very rare. =a. stellata= (star-leaved).* _fl._ purple, or rose red, or whitish, solitary; sepals ten to twelve, oblong, bluntish. april. _l._ three parted; lobes cuneated, deeply-toothed; involucral leaves sessile, oblong. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . a pretty and gay spring flowering plant. tuberous rooted. syn. _a. pavonina_. double forms of this occur in cultivation. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anemone sylvestris.] =a. sylvestris= (wood).* snowdrop windflower. _fl._ pure satin white, slightly drooping, - / in. across when fully open, fragrant; sepals six, elliptical; pedicel solitary. april. _l._ ternate or quinate, hairy beneath; segments deeply toothed at top, those of the involucrum stalked. _h._ in. to in. europe, . this distinct and showy species thrives best in a light vegetable soil in a rather shady and moist situation. the roots are creeping, and should be allowed plenty of room, so that they may ramble without check. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anemone vernalis.] =a. trifolia= (three-leaved). _fl._ white, erect; sepals five, elliptical, obtuse. april. _l._ all stalked, ternate; segments ovate-lanceolate, acute, toothed. _h._ in. france, . this species comes close to _a. nemorosa_. =a. vernalis= (spring).* _fl._ whitish inside, violet and covered with silky down outside, erect, sub-sessile or on pedicels; sepals six, straight, elliptic-oblong. april. _l._ pinnate; segments cuneate-lanceolate, trifid; involucrum very villous. _h._ in. europe, . a curious rather than a showy species; it makes a pretty pot plant, but must not, under any consideration, be allowed to want water. it can be plunged in sand or ashes in the open, and just as the flowers commence to expand, transfer to a cool frame. it thrives best in a peat and loam compost, to which small pieces of charcoal may be added. syn. _pulsatilla vernalis_. see fig. . =a. virginiana= (virginian).* _fl._ purplish green or pale purple, small; sepals five, elliptical, silky-pubescent on the outside; pedicels often rising in pairs from the involucel. may. _l._ ternate; segments trifid, acuminated, deeply toothed; those of the involucre and involucels stalked; peduncles three to four, much elongated, middle one naked, sometimes ft. high; lateral ones bearing two-leaved involucels. _h._ ft. north america, . border or woodlands, and damp places. =a. vitifolia= (vine-leaved). _fl._ white, villous on the outside; anthers copper colour; sepals eight, oval, oblong; pedicels one-flowered. july. _l._ large, cordate, five-lobed, beneath as well as the stems clothed with white wool; lobes broadly ovate, cut, and crenate; those of the involucrum stalked, woolly underneath, smooth above, bluntly cordate, five-lobed. _h._ ft. upper nepaul, . this requires a warm sheltered position to stand the winter. very near _a. japonica alba_, and probably the progenitor of it. =anemonopsis= (from _anemone_, and _opsis_, resemblance; flowers like those of the anemone). ord. _ranunculaceæ_. a handsome and remarkable hardy herbaceous perennial, not unlike _anemone japonica_, but smaller. it thrives in any light soil. propagated by seeds and divisions of the root-stock in spring. =a. macrophylla= (large-leaved).* _fl._ in loose racemes; sepals about nine, concave, the outer three purple, internally pale lilac; petals twelve, in many rows, one-third the length of the sepals, linear-oblong. july. _l._ large, biternate, coarsely toothed, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. japan, . =anemop�gma= (from _anemos_, the wind, and _paigma_, sport). ord. _bignoniaceæ_. a handsome stove climbing shrub. for culture, _see_ =bignonia=. =a. racemosum= (racemose).* _fl._ delicate buff coloured, in axillary racemes, large. september. brazil, . this beautiful and vigorous climber is, as yet, very rare in cultivation. =anethum= (from _ano_, upwards, and _theo_, to run; in reference to its quick growth). ord. _umbelliferæ_. a genus of erect glabrous annuals. flowers yellow; involucre and involucels wanting. leaves decompound, with linear-setaceous lobes. this genus is of no ornamental value, its most important species being the garden dill (_a. graveolens_), which _see_ for culture. =angelica= (in reference to the supposed angelic medicinal virtues of some species). ord. _umbelliferæ_. perennial or biennial herbs. flowers white; umbels terminal; involucra wanting or of few leaves; involucels of many leaves. leaves bipinnate. the common angelica (_a. archangelica_) is the only species that calls for mention. it is a native biennial, and was at one time in much request for confectionery, and as a herb of supposed great medicinal value. seed should be sown in september or march in ordinary soil, and the young plants thinned out to about in. apart. =angelica tree.= _see_ =aralia spinosa=. =angelonia= (from _angelon_, the local name of _a. salicariæfolia_ in south america). syn. _schelveria_. ord. _scrophulariaceæ_. very pretty stove herbaceous perennials. flowers axillary, racemose; corolla irregular, bilabiate; lower lip saccate at the base, trifid; upper one smaller, bifid. leaves opposite. stem and branches quadrangular. a mixture of light turfy loam, peat, leaf soil, and sand, is a good compost. cuttings of young shoots in spring strike readily under a hand glass, or plunged in the propagating bed, giving plenty of air daily. =a. salicariæfolia= (willow-leaved).* _fl._ blue, hairy, axillary, solitary, pedicellate, disposed in terminal racemes. august. _l._ sessile, lanceolate, acute, serrated towards the apex, finely pubescent on both surfaces. _h._ - / ft. to ft. south america, . =angiopteris= (from _aggeion_, a vessel, and _pteris_, a wing). including _psilodochea_. ord. _filices_. a genus of gigantic greenhouse ferns. capsules eight to fifteen, opening by a slit down the side, sessile, very close but not concrete, arranged in linear-oblong or boat-shaped sori near the edge of the frond. these ferns require a very liberal supply of water, and plenty of room to fully expand. the most suitable compost is a mixture of strong loam and peat, with some sharp sand. thorough drainage must be afforded. =a. evecta= (evectic). _cau._ erect, ft. to ft. high, - / ft. to ft. thick, very fleshy. _sti._ swollen and articulated at the base, furnished with two large leathery persistent auricles. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, bi- or tripinnate; pinnæ ft. to ft. long, spreading, the lowest the largest; rachis swollen at the base; pinnules in. to in. long, / in. to - / in. broad, linear-oblong, sessile or shortly stalked, acuminate; edge entire or finely toothed. tropics of old world. this is the only clearly defined species; the others usually known as distinct species are but varieties of it, and its culture should not be attempted if plenty of room cannot be afforded it. =angophora= (from _aggos_, a vessel, and _phero_, to bear; in reference to the shape of the fruit). ord. _myrtaceæ_. australian evergreen greenhouse ornamental trees or shrubs. flowers corymbose; calyx five or six-cleft. leaves large, opposite. a mixture of leaf soil, peat, and sand suits them well. ripened cuttings will root in sandy soil under a hand glass in a cool house, in a few weeks. =a. cordifolia= (heart-leaved).* _fl._ yellowish, corymbose, large. may. _l._ sessile, ovate, cordate at the base, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . =a. lanceolata= (lanceolate-leaved).* _fl._ white, corymbose. may. _l._ petiolate, lanceolate, acuminate, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . =angr�cum= (deduced from _angurek_, a malayan name for air plants). ord. _orchidaceæ_. tribe _vandeæ_. these are among the most beautiful of epiphytal orchids. one characteristic, both remarkable and peculiar, is the long, hollow, tail-like spur depending from the base of the lip. the flowers are produced on spikes from the axils of the leaves. the leaves are evergreen, and arranged in two rows, the one opposite to the other, and, in many kinds, being curved, give the plant a very graceful appearance. the fact of these plants producing their blooms during the winter--a period when flowers are generally scarce--considerably enhances their value. they usually continue six or eight weeks in perfection, or even more. the following table of night temperatures should be almost universally adhered to for all the species enumerated, except _a. falcatum_, which thrives best in a cool house. from november to february, deg. to deg.; march to may, september and october, deg.; june to august, deg. the day temperature should be deg. or deg. higher than that of the night. a compost of crocks, charcoal, and sphagnum is best. a layer of a few large crocks at the bottom of the pot or pan will be required; over these spread another layer of charcoal and smaller crocks, just enough to allow the roots to support the plant; so that the first pair of leaves will be, in large plants, about in. above the rim of the pot, or proportionately less in the case of small plants. when the plant is carefully adjusted in its proper position, and held there with one hand, the other hand should work in among the roots more crocks and charcoal, ceasing so to do when within in. of the rim; the remaining space must be occupied with fresh sphagnum, pressed firm (this is most essential) in a cone shape, which may be built up to within / in. of the lower pair of leaves. prior to potting, which ought to be done between february and april, water should be withheld for a short time; but give a good soaking immediately after the operation. in the process of repotting, clear the roots of the old moss, all rotten stems, and particles of decayed roots. if plants are potted as we have recommended, a thorough soaking once a week only, or if grown on blocks of wood, or in suspended baskets or pans, about twice weekly will be found sufficient. excessive fumigation, drought, whether atmospherical or at the roots, will cause the leaves to drop, and prevent any growth being made, in which case the plant ought to be lowered. if the stems have emitted but few roots, a ring of moss fastened round the stems, and kept constantly wet, will induce the plant to throw out additional roots, when the lowering may be proceeded with. to keep the plants free from insect pests, frequently sponge the foliage. thrips generally prove very troublesome, and a moderate fumigation is needful, dislodging the insects that may be secreted low down in the centre of the plant, shortly before the operation, by dropping a little weak tobacco water or sulphur among them. =a. arcuatum= (curved).* _fl._ white; racemes from the axils of the two-year-old leaves, two or three being produced from a single growth, about in. long, arching. _l._ about in. long, and / in. broad. natal. syns. _listrostachys arcuata_. _a. (listrostachys) sedeni_ comes close to the above species, but is excessively rare in cultivation. =a. bilobum= (two-lobed).* _fl._ white, with a tinge of rose, about - / in. in diameter; spur in. long, produced from the side of the stem, just above the two-year-old leaves; racemes pendulous, in. or more long, bearing about a dozen flowers, which possess a slight fragrance. october to december. _l._ in. long by in. broad, two-lobed at the apex, about eight on a plant. stem erect, about in. high. cape coast, . should be grown in a basket. =a. caudatum= (tailed). _fl._ greenish yellow, mixed with brown; labellum pure white; spur thick, pale green, about in. long, two-lobed at the lowest portion; racemes arching, ft. or more long, produced from the base of the two-year-old leaves. autumn. _l._ pale green, drooping, about in. long by in. broad. _h._ - / ft. stem erect, or nearly so. sierra leone, . =a. cephalotes= (capitate).* _fl._ white. tropical africa, . =a. chailluanum= (chaillu's).* _fl._ white; sepals and petals narrow, acute; spur yellowish green, in. or more long; racemes pendulous, in. or in. long, about twelve medium sized flowers produced from the side of the stem, just above the axils of two-year-old leaves. _l._ in. long, - / in. broad, slightly wavy, two-lobed at the apex, arranged in an imbricate manner. west africa, . a rare species. =a. christyanum= (christy's). a curious species, with yellow or greenish-white flowers, having a much developed three-lobed lip. the plant has the aspect of _a. arcuatum_. . =a. citratum= (citron-like).* _fl._ creamy white, or pale yellow, nearly in. in diameter; spurs about - / in. long; racemes three, on strong plants, produced from the axils of two-year-old leaves, arched, about ft. long, bearing sometimes twenty flowers. _l._ in. to in. long and in. broad, six or eight on a plant, occupying about - / in. of stem. madagascar, . habit compact; stem nearly erect. =a. distichum= (two-rowed-leaved). _fl._ whitish, / in. across, on one-flowered pedicels, which are produced from the axils of the leaves. _l._ very short, closely imbricated, deep bright green. _h._ in. sierra leone, . a very neat growing little species, and quite distinct. =a. eburneum= (ivory-lipped).* _fl._ sepals and petals greenish white; lip uppermost, white, very large; racemes about in. long, from the axils of two-year-old leaves; footstalks erect, but gradually becoming pendulous from the commencement of the flowers. _l._ in. long by in. broad, light green, stiff. madagascar, . syn. _�robion eburneum_. _a. virens_ is an inferior variety, but _a. e. superbum_ surpasses the type in beauty; it is, however, at present extremely rare. =a. ellisii= (ellis's).* _fl._ pure white, fragrant, about in. across, with narrow reflexed sepals and petals, the column standing very prominent; spur pale brownish, in. to in.; racemes frequently ft. long, on the side of the stem just above the axils of the two-year-old leaves, bearing about twenty blossoms. _l._ dark green, in. or in. long, and in. broad, divided at the apex into two unequal lobes. madagascar, . =a. falcatum= (sickle-shaped).* _fl._ pure white, very fragrant; spur upcurved, in. long; racemes from the axils of the two-year-old leaves, short, bearing from two to five blooms. _l._ in. to in. long, very narrow and fleshy, dark green. . an elegant little cool house species, and one of the smallest belonging to this genus. it should be grown in peat, in a basket or small pot suspended about ft. from the glass, but rather shaded. =a. kotschyi= (kotschy's).* _fl._ yellowish white, perfume similar to the common white pink, in. to - / in. across; spur reddish-tinted, in. or in. long, distinguished by the two spiral twistings; racemes from the axils of the lower leaves, in. long, bearing about twelve blossoms. _l._ in. long by in. broad, of which there are generally six or more on a good plant. zanzibar, . should be grown in a basket, or on a cylindrical block of teak wood. =a. modestum= (modest).* _fl._ pure white, in. to - / in. across. _l._ distichous, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, elliptic or linear-oblong, acute, tip entire, pale bright green, leathery, nerveless. stem short. madagascar, about . =a. pellucidum= (transparent).* _fl._ white, of a delicate semi-transparent texture, and with a finely fringed labellum; racemes from the axils of the lowest leaves, hanging perpendicularly from the stems, about ft. long, bearing thirty to forty blossoms. _l._ in. long by in. or in. broad. sierra leone, . must be grown in a suspended basket. =a. pertusum= (broken).* _fl._ pure white; spur comparatively short, with a well-marked yellow tinge; racemes from the axils of two-year-old leaves, horizontal, or slightly nodding, in. to in. long, with from forty to sixty densely packed, small blossoms. _l._ dark green, arching, in. long by in. broad. _h._ ft. sierra leone, . very distinct and attractive. =a. scottianum= (scott's).* _fl._ pure white, very delicate in texture, the lip is uppermost, in. or more across; spur narrow, yellowish, in. to in. long; peduncle slender, a little longer than the spur, usually but one-flowered. _l._ narrow, terete--thus differing from most of its congeners--tapering or awl-shaped, about in. long, / in. to / in. in diameter, channelled in the upper surface and ridged below. comoro islands, . =a. sedeni= (seden's). a rare form of _a. arcuatum_. =a. sesquipedale= (foot-and-a-half).* _fl._ beautiful ivory white, on stout, solitary, axillary peduncles, with sepals and petals spreading out like rays, from in. to in. across; the whip-like spur or nectary hangs down from the labellum, often from in. to in. long. november, december, and january, and lasts about three weeks in beauty. _l._ dark green, distichous, about in. long. _h._ ft. madagascar, . it is one of the grandest of winter flowering orchids. =a. virens= (green). an inferior variety of _a. eburneum_. =angular.= having angles, or forming angles. =anguloa= (commemorative of angulo, a spanish naturalist). ord. _orchidaceæ_. a small genus containing about six species. the flowers, which are large and beautiful, are borne singly on scapes from in. to in. high, several of which are produced from the ripened pseudo-bulbs of the preceding year's growth. pseudo-bulbs from in. to in. high, as thick as a man's wrist, bearing two to three erect, broad, lanceolate leaves, ft. to ft. long. temperature, summer, day (maximum), deg.; night (minimum), deg. winter, day (maximum), deg.; night (minimum), deg. these are bold growing cool-house plants, best grown in rough fibrous peat, with good drainage. they delight in an abundant supply of water both to the roots and foliage when growing, and require to be kept in a somewhat dark or heavily-shaded place. during the season of rest, and until young shoots commence growth, they should be kept rather dry. they are propagated by dividing the pseudo-bulbs, just before they commence to grow. the flowering season is summer. =a. clowesii= (clowes's).* _fl._ fragrant; sepals and petals concave, clear golden yellow; lip pure white; whole conformation globular, or tulip-like. columbia (at ft. to ft. elevation), . this is the largest growing species, of which there are one or two rare varieties. =a. eburnea= (ivory-flowered).* _fl._, sepals and petals of the purest white; lip spotted with pink. new grenada. in other respects similar to above, but is very rare. =a. ruckeri= (rucker's).* _fl._, sepals and petals yellow, with crimson spots; lip deep crimson. columbia, . not so large a grower as either of the foregoing, but with same sized flowers. =a. r. sanguinea= (bloody).* this variety has flowers of a deep blood red colour, but is rare. =a. superba= (superb).* synonymous with _acineta humboldtii_. =a. uniflora= (one-flowered).* _fl._ sub-globose, pure white, sometimes freckled with brown, spotted profusely with pink inside. columbia, . one of the best in cultivation. =anguria= (one of the greek names for the cucumber). ord. _cucurbitaceæ_. a stove genus of evergreen climbers allied to _momordica_. flowers mon�cious; corolla joined to the calyx, ventricose, red, with a five-parted spreading border. fruit somewhat tetragonal. several species have been introduced from time to time, but they are rarely seen in our gardens. some of them are handsome plants, and well worthy of cultivation. =anhalonium.= _see_ =mammillaria=. =anigozanthus= (from _anoigo_, to expand, and _anthos_, a flower; in reference to the branching expansion of the flower stalks). syn. _schwægrichenia_. ord. _hæmodoraceæ_. greenhouse or half-hardy perennial herbs. flowers large, racemose or corymbose; perianth tubular, elongated, woolly. leaves linear ensiform. the species thrive in a turfy compost of peat and loam, three parts of the former to one of the latter; the whole intermixed with sand to make it porous. in the growing season they must be kept well watered, and somewhat dry during their period of rest in winter. they are very easily propagated by dividing the roots in spring. =a. coccineus= (scarlet).* _fl._ scarlet; perianth swelling towards the summit, hairy, segments a little reflexed; disposed in dichotomously-forked panicles; pedicels rather long. june. _l._ lanceolate, deep green. stem ciliated. _h._ ft. swan river, . [illustration: fig. . inflorescence and leaf of anigozanthus flavidus.] =a. flavidus= (yellowish-green-flowered).* _fl._ yellowish green, panicled; scapes long. may. _l._ lanceolate, smooth, as is also the stem; down of branches deciduous. _h._ ft. new holland, . there is a scarlet and green-flowered variety of this species. see fig. . =a. manglesii= (mangle's). _fl._ green; stigma capitate, projecting beyond the tube, in a short terminal spiked raceme. may. stem erect, clothed with short thick crimson persistent velvety down. _h._ ft. swan river, . =a. pulcherrimus= (beautiful).* _fl._ yellow; panicles much branched, clothed with rufous bristles. may. _l._ equitant, linear falcate, covered with stellate tomentum. _h._ ft. swan river, . =a. tyrianthinus= (purple).* _fl._ purple and white; panicle clothed with purple tomentum. may. _l._ linear, stiff, straight, glabrous. stem tall, ternate, panicled, clothed with hoary tomentum below. _h._ ft. swan river, . =anil.= _see_ =indigofera anil=. =anime resin.= _see_ =hymenæa courbaril=. =animated oat.= _see_ =avena sterilis=. =anisanthus.= _see_ =antholyza=. =anise= (_pimpinella anisum_). a hardy annual, occasionally used for garnishing or seasoning. sow seed, in ordinary garden soil, on a warm sunny border, in may, where it is intended for the plants to remain. =aniseed tree.= _see_ =illicium=. =anisochilus= (from _anisos_, unequal, and _cheilos_, a lip; in reference to the inequality of both lips of calyx and corolla). ord. _labiatæ_. a very ornamental genus of stove perennials or biennials. whorls of flowers densely imbricate into oblong cylindrical spikes; corolla with an exserted, defracted tube, inflated throat, and bilabiate limb. they thrive in any light rich soil. cuttings will root in a sandy soil under a bell glass, in heat; seeds may be sown in february in heat. =a. carnosum= (fleshy). _fl._ lilac; whorls densely imbricate into oblong cylindrical pedunculate spikes. june to september. _l._ petiolate, ovate-roundish, obtuse, crenated, cordate at the base, thick, fleshy, tomentose on both surfaces. stem erect. _h._ ft. east indies, . =anisomeles= (from _anisos_, unequal, and _melos_, a member; in reference to the anthers of the longer stamens being halved). ord. _labiatæ_. ornamental greenhouse or evergreen stove shrubs, herbaceous perennials, or annuals. whorls sometimes densely many-flowered, at others few, and loose; corolla with upper lip erect, oblong, entire; lower lip larger, spreading, and lateral lobes ovate, obtuse. they are of very easy culture in light rich soil; young cuttings strike freely in spring, in heat, under a bell glass. _a. furcata_ requires little or no artificial heat, but the protection of a bell glass is beneficial. seeds of _a. ovata_ may be sown in spring, in heat, and, after due hardening off, the seedlings may be planted outside in may. =a. furcata= (forked).* _fl._ small, elegantly variegated with white, red, and purple, in loose many-flowered racemose cymes. july. _l._ petiolate, ovate, acuminated, crenated, cordate at the base, hispid on both surfaces. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . =a. malabarica= (malabar). _fl._ purplish; whorls distant, many-flowered, dense. july. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, in. to in. in length, obtuse, serrately crenated in the upper part, quite entire at the base. _h._ ft. to ft. tropical asia, in humid places, . shrub. =a. ovata= (ovate-leaved).* _fl._ purple; lower lip of a deeper colour; whorls many-flowered, lower ones distant, upper ones interruptedly spicate. august. _l._ ovate, obtuse, broadly crenated. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . an annual. habitat similar to last. =anisomerous.= unequally-parted; unsymmetrical. =anisopetalum.= _see_ =bulbophyllum=. [illustration: thread-leaved pine, agaves, and yucca, in a guernsey garden.] =annuals.= all plants which spring from the seed, flower, and die within the course of a year. a number of things, however, which are not strictly of annual duration, but which are sown every year in preference to housing the roots before they are killed by late autumn or winter frosts, are generally classed, for the sake of convenience, under the head of annuals. hardy annuals are those which require no artificial aid to enable them to develop, but grow and flower freely in the open air. these are best sown in the spots where they are intended to remain during march and april, and care must subsequently be taken to keep the ground clear of weeds, and also to thin out the seedlings, allowing each sufficient room to develop and exhibit its true character. if allowed to remain too crowded, the plants, as a matter of course, suffer, and the size and number of the flowers and the general effect are considerably decreased. successional sowings of a good many of the showy species will be found to prolong their flowering season. in well-kept establishments, where annuals are duly appreciated, several sowings are made in pots at intervals of a few weeks. as the previously-sown clumps begin to get shabby, they are removed, and replaced by others which have still to flower. by this means a continual sheet of blossom can be maintained for a long time. it is much better to trust to plants grown in pots in order to carry out the plan just sketched, as these receive no check when placed in their new quarters; whilst transplanted clumps frequently fail, and many species do not transplant at all readily from an open border. in order to secure, in early spring, a fine show of such plants as several of the _silenes_, _myosotis_, _saponaria_, and a number of others, it is best to sow the seeds in an open, sheltered border, about the end of july or beginning of august, taking care to keep a small reserve stock in a cold frame, in case very severe weather kills the unprotected plants. half-hardy annuals are those for which our climate is not sufficiently warm, or, rather, our summer is not, as a rule, either hot enough or long enough, to allow them to grow, flower well, and ripen seeds, if sown in the open air. many of these are amongst the showiest of garden plants, so it is worth while to give them the shelter of a warm frame during their earlier stages, and gradually harden them off, planting out at the end of may or beginning of june, when danger resulting from severe weather is passed. after germination, the seedlings should have plenty of light and air, or a weak, spindly growth, and, as a consequence, poor flowers, will result. the most satisfactory method of watering very tiny seeds is to place a piece of fine muslin over the seed-pot, through which the water will be easily conveyed to the seeds, and thus prevent disturbance. tender annuals require the same treatment as the half-hardy ones, except that they need throughout their existence the protection of a glass structure. all, or nearly all, garden annuals delight in full sunlight and plenty of air. in the open, these requirements, as a rule, obtain, but sometimes mistakes are made under glass by keeping the plants too close and over much shaded, as well as too great a distance from the glass. =annular.= having a ring-like form. =annulate.= with the appearance of rings. =an�ctochilus= (from _anoiktos_, open, and _cheilos_, a lip; in reference to the spreading apex of the lip). syns. _anecochilus_, _chrysobaphus_. ord. _orchideæ_. stove terrestrial orchids, the radical leaves of which are the chief attraction, being amongst the most beautiful and delicate objects in the vegetable kingdom. the flowers, which should be pinched off so soon as they appear, are, as a rule, small and unattractive. few of the species exceed in. in height, with leaves from in. to in. long, including the fleshy petioles. they require a good deal of attention. to one part of silver sand, thoroughly washed twice or three times, add two of sphagnum, which should also be well washed and picked over, when it should be chopped into minute particles, in order that it may freely amalgamate with the sand; mix a little loam and peat with the whole. in the pots, when well drained by first placing a large piece of potsherd over the bottom and nearly half filling up with pieces broken small and of uniform size, place a thin layer of crude sphagnum, afterwards filling firmly with the mixture above mentioned, and bringing it up more or less in the form of a cone above the rim of the pot, into which the plants should be firmly fixed. plants which have been propagated by division should be carefully transferred to -sized pots. about five separate pieces might be placed evenly over the surface. make holes with a neat dibble, and into these drop the roots their entire length, pressing the soil firmly with the dibble. fix them so that they may grow inwardly, and not out over the rim of the pots, pegging each creeping root needing such attention firmly down upon the surface of the soil afterwards; after a good soaking, they may be replaced in any warm, shady situation. for propagating, a strong plant is necessary; it may be cut into pieces just below the first joint, each piece having a root. the bottom piece should have two eyes--one to root from, and the other to push into a shoot. the "bottom," or plant which has been cut, should be replaced in its pot, and then put under a bell glass. it will soon throw up a young shoot; this ought to be left on until well rooted, when it may be separated and treated similarly to the portion first removed, still leaving the old part in the pot. these plants must be grown in glass cases, or under bell glasses, but they should always have a little air, for, as mr. williams says, when too much confined, they grow up spindly, and damp off in the stem; the latter, being fleshy, requires more substance and sturdiness. air should be admitted through a space of about in. or in. the following ranges of temperature are advised: winter, night, deg. to deg.; day, deg. to deg. during march, april, and may; night, deg. to deg.; and, afterwards, a few degrees higher, with a maximum day temperature of deg. bottom heat should not be given, as it induces a weak, fast growth. great care will be needed to prevent ravages of insects. the most suitable month for repotting is march, just before growth commences, when the plants will need plenty of water up to october, excepting when it is desirous to utilise them as drawing-room ornaments, in which case they should be kept rather dry for a short time previous. _see also_ =dossinia=, =goodyera=, =hæmeria=, =macodes=, =physurus=, and =zeuxine=. [illustration: fig. . an�ctochilus friderici-augusti.] =a. argenteus pictus= (silvery-painted). a synonym of _physurus pictus_. =a. argyroneurus= (silvery-veined).* _l._ light green, dark mottled; veins forming a beautiful silvery network. java. =a. boylei= (boyle's).* _l._ ovate, acuminate, in. long and broad, olive-green, netted and pencilled with gold. india. =a. bullenii= (bullen's).* _l._ - / in. long, ground colour bronzy green, with three broad distinct lines of coppery-red, or golden stripes running the entire length. borneo, . =a. concinnus= (neat). _l._ ovate, acuminate, rounded at base, dark olive-green, netted and striped with shining coppery-red. assam. =a. dawsonianus= (dawson's).* _l._ ovate, of a dark velvety, rich olive-green, traversed by about seven longitudinal copper-coloured veins; the space on each side of the midrib being filled with fine reticulations of the same colour. malay archipelago, . the proper name of this plant is _hæmeria discolor dawsoniana_. =a. dayi= (day's). a synonym of _dossinia marmorata dayi_. =a. dominii= (dominy's). _l._ dark olive-green, streaked down the centre with pale coppery-yellow, the main ribs marked by pale lines. hybrid between _goodyera discolor_ and _a. friderici augusti_. =a. eldorado= (eldorado). _l._ dark green, with small tracery of a lighter colour, deciduous. central america. =a. friderici-augusti= (frederick augustus').* _l._ - / in. long, and - / in. broad, dark velvety green, with broad orange and green stripes down the centre, covered with a beautiful golden network. _h._ in. very distinct. see fig. . syn. _a. xanthophyllus_. =a. heriotii= (heriot's). _l._ - / in. long, - / in. broad, dark mahogany-colour, golden-reticulated, and with shadowy network. india. =a. hieroglyphicus= (hieroglyphic-marked). _l._ small, dark green, with hieroglyphic-like, silvery-grey blotches. assam. =a. intermedius= (intermediate).* _l._ - / in. long, and - / in. broad, with a silky surface, dark olive, striped and veined with gold. _h._ in. will succeed with a glass covering, in a stove, if shaded. =a. javanicus= (java). _fl._ pink, small, spicate; scape in. high. _l._ in. long, - / in. broad, dark olive-green, with lighter blotches and faint golden reticulation, pinkish beneath. java. =a. latimaculatus= (broad-spotted).* _l._ dark green, with silvery markings. borneo. a distinct and free-growing kind. =a. lowii= (low's).* _l._ in. to in. long, in. broad, dark velvety-green, shading to orange-brown, lined from base to apex with deep golden veins, crossed by lines of the same hue. _h._ in. borneo. the correct name of this plant is _dossinia marmorata_. =a. l. virescens= (greenish).* _l._ brighter green, with brighter markings over the whole surface. =a. ordianus= (ordi's).* _l._ shape and habit of _a. dawsonianus_, but the colour is a vivid green, and lined with golden veins. java, . the proper name of this plant is _hæmeria discolor ordiana_. =a. pictus= (painted). a synonym of _physurus pictus_. =a. querceticola= (forest-dwelling). a synonym of _physurus querceticolus_. =a. regalis= (royal).* king plant. _l._ in. long, - / in. broad; surface a beautiful velvety green, veined in regular lines, and covered with a network of gold. _h._ in. java, . if examined with a lens in sunshine, the beauty of the network will be plainly seen. syn. _a. setaceus_ (of gardens). there are several varieties, the best of which are: =a. r. cordatus= (heart-shaped). _l._ rounder, and gold markings broader. very rare. =a. r. grandifolius= (large-leaved).* _l._ light green, beautifully laced and banded with a network of gold. also rare. =a. r. inornatus= (unadorned). _l._ dark rich velvety, with a few slight markings, destitute of the golden reticulation. java. =a. reinwardtii= (reinwardt's).* _l._ rich, deep velvety-bronze, intersected with bright golden lines. java. =a. roxburghii= (roxburgh's).* _l._ - / in. long, - / in. broad, dark velvety-green, striated with well-defined lines of silver. _h._ in. india. the true species is very rare; several are sold as such. =a. ruckerii= (rucker's).* _l._ broadly ovate-bronzy-green, with six rows of distinct spots running from base to apex. borneo, . =a. setaceus= (bristly). a garden synonym of _a. regalis_. =a. striatus= (striated). a synonym of _zeuxine regia_. =a. turneri= (turner's).* _l._ large, rich bronze, freely golden-reticulated. one of the handsomest; a very free grower. =a. veitchii= (veitch's). a synonym of _macodes petola_. =a. xanthophyllus= (yellow-leaved). a synonym of _a. friderici-augusti_. =a. zebrinus= (striped).* _l._ ovate-lanceolate, deep olive green, with copper-coloured veins. india, . dwarf and elegant. =anomatheca= (from _anomos_, singular, and _theca_, a capsule, or seed-pod). ord. _irideæ_. very pretty little bulbous perennials. perianth hypocrateriform; tube triquetrous, constricted at the throat. the species are hardy when planted in warm sunny situations in the open border. their dwarf stature, brilliance, profusion of flowers, and habit of blossoming continuously over a long period, render them very popular subjects amongst growers of hardy perennials. although generally credited with being hardy, when cultivated out of doors they should be lifted and stored in frost-proof quarters before winter commences, until the following march. they are excellent as window garden plants, and also for pot culture. if grown in pots, they should be shaken out, and repotted in february or march. they multiply very rapidly, and may be divided in patches, not by single bulbs, once yearly. light sandy loam, mixed with a little leaf mould, is the best compost. anomathecas are sometimes increased by seed, which may be sown so soon as ripe, very thinly, in seed pans. thin out the seedlings if growing very close together; the next season they may be put out four or five in a pot. when they become crowded, shift into a much larger pot, but do not disturb the ball. the young seedlings will probably produce flowers the second season. =a. cruenta= (bloody).* _fl._ rich carmine-crimson; perianth segments elliptical, three lower ones broader than the others, with a dark blotch at the base; tube long, whitish; scapes secund, bearing about five or six flowers. summer and autumn. _l._ two-ranked, about / in. broad, sword-shape, somewhat tapering. bulb ovate, rather large. _h._ in. to in. cape of good hope, . =a. juncea= (rushy). _fl._ very bright pink, with a dark spot at the base, produced in profusion. the leaves are narrower than those of the foregoing. cape of good hope, . a rare species. =anona= (_anona_ is the name applied to these plants in st. domingo). custard apple. ord. _anonaceæ_. stove evergreen shrubs, with fragrant leaves. petals six, in two rows. carpels indefinite, joined into one fleshy, many-celled, edible, roundish fruit, with a muricated, scaly, or reticulated skin. anonas thrive best in rich loamy soil, mixed with a little peat. ripened cuttings, with leaves intact, will root if inserted in sand and placed under a hand glass, in a moist heat. when seeds are procurable, they should be sown in pots, and plunged into a hotbed. =a. cherimolia= (the cherimoyer). _fl._ outer petals somewhat concave, linear-oblong, brown on the outside, each marked with a dark spot at the base; peduncles opposite the leaves, solitary. july. _fr._ somewhat globose and scaly, dark purple; esteemed by the peruvians as one of their most delicate, and as being not inferior to any fruit in the world. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, not dotted; under surface silky tomentose, strong scented. _h._ ft. peru, . =a. glabra= (smooth-fruited).* _fl._ outer petals ovate, obtuse, brown; calyx leathery, large; peduncles opposite the leaves, two-flowered. july. _fr._ greenish-yellow, conoid, blunt, smooth. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, smooth. _h._ ft. west indies, . =a. longifolia= (long-leaved). _fl._ purplish; outer petals concave, thick, all acute, large, axillary, solitary, stalked. may. _fr._ ovate-globose, dotted, and reticulated, flesh-coloured. _l._ oblong, acuminated, mucronate, smooth. _h._ ft. guiana, . =a. muricata= (muricated-fruited).* the sour sop. _fl._ outer petals cordate, concave, thick, acuminated, green on the outside, yellow inside, and spotted; peduncles solitary, one-flowered, sweet-scented. _fr._ muricated, with fleshy points, green. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, smooth, shining. _h._ ft. west indies, . =a. palustris= (marsh). alligator apple; cork-wood. _fl._ yellow; petals all acute. _fr._ rather areolate, large, heart-shaped, sweet-scented. _l._ ovate-oblong, leathery, quite smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . =a. reticulata= (netted). the custard apple, or bullock's heart. _fl._ outer petals oblong-lanceolate, acute, somewhat concave at the base, brownish on the outside, whitish-yellow on the inside, marked with dark purple spots. _fr._ ovate-globose, reticulate, as large as a tennis ball, with yellowish soft flesh; it is much esteemed by some people. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acute, smooth, somewhat dotted. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . =a. squamosa= (scaly). sweet sop. _fl._, outer petals linear-oblong, somewhat concave at the base, nearly closing, greenish-yellow. _fr._ egg-shaped, scaly. _l._ oblong, bluntish, smooth, full of pellucid dots, rather glaucous beneath. _h._ ft. south america, . =anonace�.= an order of trees or shrubs, mostly tropical, with axillary peduncles, lateral or opposite the leaves, and with alternate, simple, entire or hardly toothed leaves, without stipules. _anona_ is the typical genus. =anonymo.= a synonym of =saururus= (which _see_). =anonymos bracteata.= _see_ =zornia tetraphylla=. =anoplanthus= (in part). a synonym of =phelipæa= (which _see_). =anoplophytum.= _see_ =schlumbergeria= and =tillandsia=. =anopterus= (from _ano_, upwards, and _pteron_, a wing; in reference to the seeds, which are winged at the apex). ord. _saxifrageæ_. a very handsome greenhouse evergreen shrub, having a free branching habit, large dark shining green leaves, and long panicles of salver-shaped flowers. it would probably prove quite hardy in the south and west of england, and parts of scotland, provided it had a slight winter protection. it grows well in sandy loam and peat. when grown in pots, it requires plenty of room and water. half-ripened cuttings root freely under a bell glass in a cool house or frame in summer. =a. glandulosa= (glandular).* _fl._ white, rose tinted, large; racemes erect, simple, terminal. april, may. _l._ alternate, rarely nearly opposite, ovate-oblong, attenuated at both ends, nearly sessile, leathery, toothed. _h._ ft. van diemen's land, . =ansellia= (named after mr. ansell, the botanical collector who accompanied the ill-fated niger expedition). ord. _orchidaceæ_. strong growing, free flowering stove epiphytal orchids. best grown in large pots, as they produce a quantity of roots. they require a compost of turfy peat, with moderate drainage. an ample supply of water during the growing season is needed; but care must be taken not to let any remain in the heart of the plants, as they are very likely to rot. during the season of rest, little or no water, but a damp atmosphere, are the chief requirements. propagated by divisions of the bulbs just after flowering. =a. africana= (african).* _fl._, sepals and petals nearly in. long, greenish yellow, spotted with brownish red; lip small, yellow; spikes large, drooping, branched, each sometimes bearing nearly a hundred blooms. stems ft. to ft. high, with light evergreen foliage. fernando po, . lasts two months in perfection. =a. a. gigantea= (gigantic).* _fl._ on upright spikes from the top of the pseudo-bulbs, but smaller, of a light yellow tint, with very few narrow, transverse, brown bars, and a deep yellow lip, without warts of any kind on its middle lobe, and with more or less crenulated keels. natal, . the perfume is very peculiar. very rare. =a. a. lutea= (yellow). not so strong a grower; producing clusters of light yellow flowers from the top of the pseudo-bulbs. natal. =a. a. nilotica= (nile district).* as a garden plant this is much superior to the type. the habit is dwarfer, the colours of the flowers brighter and more distinctly defined. the sepals and petals, too, are more spreading. eastern africa. =anserina.= _see_ =potentilla anserina=. =antenn�.= two movable, articulated organs attached to the heads of insects and crustacea, commonly called "horns" or "feelers." they are variable in form and length. antennæ seem to serve for touch, and, perhaps, for smell and hearing. [illustration: fig. . antennaria margaritacea, showing habit and inflorescence.] =antennaria= (from _antennæ_; in reference to the similarity which exists between the seed down of the plant and the antennæ, or feelers, of an insect). ord. _compositæ_. hardy herbaceous perennials, distinguished by the dry, coloured, chaffy scales encircling each head of flowers, of which the stamens and pistils are on different plants. these are charming little alpine plants, admirably adapted for rockwork, pots, edgings, or borders, in any light soil. propagated by divisions of the roots in spring, and seeds; the latter should be sown in spring in a cold frame. grown chiefly for their leaves. =a. dioica= (di�cious).* _fl.-heads_ pink, in crowded corymbs, in. to in. high. june. _l._ radical ones spathulate, woolly chiefly beneath; upper ones lanceolate. stems simple; shoots procumbent. britain. the two or three varieties of this pretty species exceed the type in beauty. syn. _gnaphalium dioicum_. =a. d. hyperborea= (northern). _l._ woolly on both surfaces. =a. d. minima= (smallest).* a very small growing variety. =a. margaritacea= (pearly).* _fl.-heads_ white, corymbose. august. _l._ linear-lanceolate, acute, alternate, cottony, especially beneath. stems branched above. _h._ ft. naturalised in england and on the continent. said to have been introduced from america about the sixteenth century. the prettier but much rarer _a. triplinervis_, from nepaul, comes close to this species. see fig. . =a. tomentosa= (downy).* _fl.-heads_ corymbose. summer. one of the dwarfest and best of silvery-leaved plants, either as an edging for small beds or for covering the higher portions of rockwork; it is much used in carpet bedding. it scarcely grows more than in. high, and forms a dense carpet in a short space of time. it should be grown separate from other plants. it is frequently known under the name of _a. candida_. =anterior.= placed in front, or outwards. =anthemis= (from _anthemon_, a flower; referring to their general floriferous character). camomile. ord. _compositæ_. receptacle convex, chaffy. involucre hemispherical or nearly flat; scales imbricated, membranaceous at the margin. pappus none; ray florets ligulate; disk tubular. this is a large genus, principally of medicinal value, and contains very few species worth the cultivator's trouble. of easy culture in any ordinary soil. propagated by divisions. =a. aizoon= (aizoon).* _fl.-heads_ resembling a white daisy; florets of the ray fourteen to eighteen, trifid, twice as long as the breadth of the disk. summer. _l._ lanceolate, or broadly so, acutely and deeply serrated, narrowed towards the base, covered with white down; lower ones crowded; stem-leaves rather acute, gradually lessening in size. _h._ in. to in. northern greece. free grower, dwarf, and compact. =a. biebersteinii= (bieberstein's).* _fl.-heads_ yellow. summer. _l._ pinnately divided into linear three-lobed segments, which are covered with white silky pubescence. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus. =a. chamomilla fl. pl.= _see_ =matricaria=. =a. nobilis= (noble). common chamomile. _fl.-heads_ solitary; disk yellow; ray white; scales of the receptacle membranaceous, scarcely longer than the disk. _l._ bipinnate, segments linear-subulate, a little downy. stem procumbent, and much branched. england. a very strong smelling plant, of great medicinal value. for culture, _see_ =chamomile=. =a. tinctoria= (dyer's). _fl._ bright yellow, in large heads. july and august. _l._ bipinnatifid, serrate, downy beneath. stem angular. _h._ - / ft. england. a very pretty plant. =anther.= the male part of a flower containing the pollen. =anthericum= (from _anthos_, a flower and _kerkos_, a hedge; in reference to the tall flower stems). syn. _phalangium_. ord. _liliaceæ_. a large genus, belonging to the capsular group of the order, and inhabiting, for the most part, the cape of good hope. flowers white, racemose or panicled, scapose; perianth segments either spreading from near the base or campanulately united; stamens short, with naked or bearded filaments. leaves radical, filiform or linear. the hardy varieties are now extensively grown, and are among the most ornamental of border plants. they thrive best in rich light soil, and are excellent subjects for pot culture; for which purpose use a compost of fibrous loam, leaf mould, or well-decayed manure, and coarse sand. the pots should be about in. across, well drained, and the plants potted just previous to, or so soon as, growth commences. during activity, plenty of water is needed, until the plants have finished flowering, when the quantity may be lessened; but never allow them to get dry. propagated by division of the roots or seeds, sowing the latter, as early as possible after they are ripe, in a cold frame. =a. graminifolium= (grass-leaved). a garden name of _a. ramosum_. =a. hookeri= (hooker's). _see_ =chrysobactron hookeri=. =a. liliago= (liliago).* st. bernard's lily. _fl._ pure white, in. to - / in. across; perianth segments spreading; style curved. may to august. _l._ tufted, narrow, channelled, in. to in. high. south europe, . a very free flowering species, of which there is a _major_ variety in gardens. syns. _phalangium_ and _watsonia liliago_. =a. liliastrum= (liliaster).* st. bruno's lily. _fl._ much larger than the last, in. long, and as much across, fragrant, of a transparent whiteness, with a delicate green spot on the point of each segment, campanulate, arranged in loose spikes. early summer. _l._ long, narrow, six or eight to each plant, about ft. to ft. long, _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . syns. _czackia liliastrum_ and _paradisia liliastrum_ (this is the correct name). see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anthericum liliastrum, showing habit and flower.] =a. l. major= (greater). _fl._ about in. larger than the type. _h._ about ft. a very desirable border plant. =a. ramosum= (branched).* _fl._ white, rather smaller than those of _a. liliago_; perianth segments narrow and spreading; style straight; flower stems much branched. june. _l._ long, narrow, channelled, grass-like. _h._ ft. south europe, . a rapid grower. syn. _a. graminifolium_ (of gardens). =a. serotinum= (late-flowering). _see_ =lloydia=. =a. variegatum= (variegated). _l._ keeled, grass-like, striped and margined with white. south africa, . half hardy. the proper name of this plant is _chlorophytum elatum variegatum_. syns. _a. williamsii_ and _phalangium argenteo-lineare_. =a. williamsii= (williams'). synonymous with _a. variegatum_. =antheridia.= the reproductive organs in cryptogamic plants, analogous to anthers in flowering plants. =antheriferous.= bearing anthers. =anthesis.= the opening period of flowers. =anthocarpous.= bearing a fruit resulting from many flowers. =anthocercis= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _kerkis_, a ray; in reference to the radiated corolla). ord. _solanaceæ_. handsome greenhouse evergreen shrubs, with alternate leaves, attenuated into the petioles or base, thick, sometimes glandularly dotted. flowers axillary, generally solitary; corolla campanulate. cuttings strike freely in sand under a bell glass, with a mild bottom heat. so soon as they have well rooted, pot off into very small pots in two-thirds good loam and one of peat. after having made a little headway, the leading shoots should be pinched off, to induce a lateral growth; they may be transferred to pots a size larger when the roots have filled the first pot. continue growing throughout the summer in frames or in the greenhouse, near the glass, allowing plenty of air. vigorous growth should be checked; thus encouraging bushy plants. =a. albicans= (whitish-leaved).* _fl._ white, streaked with bluish-purple inside the tube, fragrant; petals longer than the tube. april. _l._ oblong, obtuse, densely tomentose on both surfaces, as well as the branches. _h._ - / ft. to ft. new south wales, . =a. floribunda= (many-flowered). _fl._ white. _h._ ft. new south wales. =a. ilicifolia= (holly-leaved). _fl._ yellowish green. june. _h._ ft. swan river, . =a. littorea= (shore). _fl._ white. june. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. viscosa= (clammy).* _fl._ large, white. may. _l._ obovate, glandularly dotted with scabrous margins; young leaves and branches clothed with fine down. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . =antholoma= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _loma_, a fringe; in allusion to the fringed or crenulated limb of the corolla). ord. _tiliaceæ_. a very fine greenhouse evergreen tree; it thrives best in a light loamy soil, mixed with a little peat. cuttings of ripened wood will strike root in sand, under a hand glass. =a. montana= (mountain).* _fl._ white; corolla ovately cylindrical, with a crenate, rather toothed margin; racemes axillary, somewhat umbellate, reflexed. may. _l._ elliptical-oblong, leathery, stalked, scattered at the top of the branchlets. _h._ ft. new caledonia, . =antholyza= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _lyssa_, rage; in reference to the opening of the flowers, which resemble the mouth of an enraged animal). syn. _petamenes_. including _anisanthus_. ord. _irideæ_. a very pretty genus of bulbous plants from the cape of good hope, having narrow, erect, iris-like leaves, and flower-spikes that over-top the foliage, bearing numerous bright-coloured flowers. perianth tubular, six-cleft, unequal, the upper segments longest; stamens three. the species may be grown in a greenhouse, or planted out in a frame. they also thrive excellently out of doors, and should be planted in. or in. deep for fear of frost, or have a winter protection of several inches of cocoa-nut fibre refuse or litter. the safer plan is to raise the roots, winter them in some dry part of the greenhouse; but, previous to storing, divide the clumps, clean them, and re-plant or pot in february, or early in march. a mixture of equal parts peat, sandy loam, and leaf soil is most suitable for their culture. just previous to flowering, if in pots, frequent doses of weak manure water will be found beneficial. they may be propagated by offsets, which are produced in abundance, at almost any time. seeds are sometimes procured, which should be sown so soon as ripe, in light soil, in a cool house, where they will germinate the following spring, and will be fit to plant out in the summer of the same year. with the exception of _a. cunonia_, they all much resemble each other. only four or five species of this genus are worth cultivating. =a. æthiopica= (�thiopian).* _fl._ scarlet and green. june. _h._ ft. . syns. _a. floribunda_, _a. præalta_. =a. æ. ringens= (gaping). _fl._ red and yellow, rather smaller than those of the type. syn. _a. vittigera_. =a. bicolor= (two-coloured). synonymous with _a. cunonia_. =a. caffra= (caffrarian).* _fl._ rich scarlet; spike distichous, many-flowered. june. _l._ long, linear, or linear-ensiform. _h._ ft. . a very showy and pretty species, but rarely seen in our gardens. syn. _anisanthus splendens_. =a. cunonia= (cunon's).* _fl._ scarlet and black, a combination of colours uncommon among bulbous plants; spikes secund. june. _h._ ft. . syn. _anisanthus cunonia_. =a. floribunda= (much-flowered). a synonym of _a. æthiopica_. =a. præalta= (very tall). synonymous with _a. æthiopica_. =a. vittigera= (glandular). synonymous with _a. æ. ringens_. =anthomyia.= _see_ =beet fly=, =cabbage fly=, and =onion fly=. =anthonomus.= _see_ =grubs=. =anthospermum= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _sperma_, a seed). amber tree. ord. _rubiaceæ_. an ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrub from the cape of good hope. it thrives in peat, loam, and sand, with a summer temperature of deg. to deg., and winter, deg. to deg. increased by cuttings, in sand, under a bell glass. there are above twenty other species belonging to this genus. =a. æthiopicum= (�thiopian).* _fl._ di�cious, male brownish, and the female ones green, disposed in verticillate spikes. june. _l._ linear-lanceolate, three in a whorl, shining above, glabrous beneath, about / in. long. stem much branched, downy above. _h._ ft. to ft. . =anthotaxis.= the arrangement of flowers on an inflorescence. =anthoxanthum= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _xanthus_, yellow). spring grass. calyx of two valves, glumaceous, one-flowered; corolla double, each of two valves: the exterior awned; the interior small, awnless; stamens two, not three, as is usually the case with grasses. ord. _gramineæ_. a pretty native hardy perennial, of easy culture in common garden soil. [illustration: fig. . anthoxanthum odoratum.] =a. odoratum= (sweet). _fl._ panicle spiked, oblong, dense, becoming dullish yellow. _l._ short, pale green. _h._ ft. the pleasant smell of new-made hay is chiefly owing to this plant, which in drying emits an odour similar to that of _asperula odorata_. see fig. . =anthurium= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _oura_, a tail; referring to the inflorescence). ord. _aroideæ_. flowers densely disposed on a cylindrical spadix, at the base of which is a large bract-like spathe, that ultimately bends backwards. leaves of various shapes. this very large genus of handsome stove and greenhouse plants is remarkable both for the peculiar inflorescence and often noble leaves, and is distinguished in structure from all the european members of the order in the flowers being hermaphrodite. fibry peat, loam, sphagnum, broken crocks, or charcoal, and silver sand, form the most suitable compost. in preparing the peat, it should be broken up into small lumps, and then have most of the earthy matter knocked out of it by giving it a few raps with a stick, or by shaking it about in a sieve. to this, after so treated, add about one-fourth its bulk of sphagnum, and about half its bulk of fibrous loam, and just a sprinkling of fresh broken crocks, or small pieces of charcoal and sharp silver sand. in placing them in the pots--�which must be well drained--�carefully spread out the roots and work the mixture among them, keeping the plant well up, so that when finished it stands clear above the rim of the pot at least in. or in., and forms a kind of mound or hillock. they must then be kept freely syringed or watered, and placed in a moist atmosphere, where they can enjoy a temperature ranging between deg. and deg., or a few degrees lower for the less tender species. raising plants from seed requires patience. about a year elapses from the time the flowers are fertilised--�which should be done artificially--before the seed ripens, and often another to get up plants. sow as soon as ripe in shallow, well-drained pans or pots, filled with the potting mixture, and cover slightly, and place in a close, moist propagating case, where a temperature of from deg. to deg. is maintained, or they may be covered with bell glasses. the principal thing is to keep the air about them constantly humid, and the material in which they are sown in a uniformly moist condition; if this is done, the young seedlings will make their appearance in due course. when these are of sufficient size to handle, they should be pricked off in the same sort of compost, and be kept close and moist till they get a start, after which gradually inure them to more air. january is the best month of the year wherein to propagate these plants by divisions. this is done by carefully turning them out of their pots and shaking out what soil they have amongst their roots, which must be tenderly dealt with, so as not to bruise or injure them. this done, they may then be pulled apart, and as many plants made as there are separate crowns, or the mass may be simply halved or quartered, according to the stock required. treat now as recommended above for potting. they are all moisture-loving plants, and must have a copious supply of water at all times, although, of course, much less during the winter than spring and summer months. there is no season of the year when they can be handled for any purpose with less risk or check than january. a moderate moist stove heat is advisable for them generally. the species enumerated are selected from nearly , and will be found to be a very representative collection. _see also_ =spathiphyllum=. =a. acaule= (stemless).* _fl._, spadix blue in a young state, borne on long footstalks, sweetly scented. spring. _l._ broad, oblong, acuminate, ft. to ft. in length, erect, arranged in a rosulate manner, dark shining green on the upper surface, somewhat paler beneath. west indies, . a noble species. [illustration: fig. . anthurium andreanum.] =a. andreanum= (andré's).* _fl._, spadix about in. long, yellowish, with a broad central band of white; spathe open, cordate-ovate, orange red, leathery, in. to in. across, and in. to in. long; surface irregularly corrugated. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, deeply cordate, green. columbia, . a very beautiful species. see fig. . =a. bakeri= (baker's).* _fl._, spathe small, green, reflexed; the spadix, wherein lies the plant's principal beauty, exhibits a lovely combination of pink and bright scarlet; the fleshy rachis being pink, and the pea-sized fruits bright scarlet. july. _l._ linear, leathery, green, with stout midribs. costa rica, . =a. cordifolium= (cordate-leaved).* _l._ ft. long and in. broad, heart-shaped, deep shining green on the upper surface, and paler below. _h._ ft. new grenada. one of the best, and may be grown in a greenhouse or even in a sheltered spot of the sub-tropical garden during july and august. _a. browni_, although quite distinct, comes close to this species. =a. coriaceum= (leathery).* _l._ very thick, leathery, ovate, about ft. long; petioles stout, about the same length. brazil. an admirable sub-tropical species. [illustration: fig. . anthurium crystallinum.] =a. crystallinum= (crystalline).* _l._ large, ovate-cordate, acuminate, bright rich velvety green, principal veins elegantly banded with pure crystal white; when young, the leaves are violet colour; petioles terete. _h._ ft. columbia. see fig. . =a. cuspidatum= (cuspidate). _fl._, spathe crimson, reflexed, shorter than the purplish spadix. _l._ ovate-oblong, acuminate, in. to in. long, green. _h._ ft. to ft. columbia. _a. ferrierense_ (ferrières).* _fl._, spathe cordate, about in. long, and in. wide, bright red; spadix erect, about in. long, ivory white. _l._ large, cordate. a handsome hybrid between _a. ornatum_ and _a. andreanum_. =a. fissum= (cut-leaved). _fl._, spathe green, erect, narrowly lanceolate-acuminate. _l._ cut into four to seven elliptic oblong-acuminate segments, green; petioles longish, terete. _h._ ft. columbia, . =a. harrisii pulchrum= (beautiful).* _fl._, spathe linear-lanceolate, creamy white, deflexed, and pinkish at top; spadix erect, deep crimson; scape about ft. long, pale green. _l._ lanceolate, rounded at the base, pale green, with confluent white markings intermixed with dark green. stem short. brazil, . a beautiful variegated plant. the typical _a. harrisii_ is extremely rare. =a. hookeri= (hooker's). _fl._, spathe green; spadix green or violet. _l._ obovate-spathulate, narrowed to a wedge-shaped base, and shortly stalked, shining, about in. long and in. broad. _h._ ft. tropical america, . syns. _a. huegelii_, _pothos acaulis_. =a. huegelii= (huegel's). a synonym of _a. hookeri_. =a. insigne= (showy).* _l._ three-lobed, middle lobe lanceolate, the two lateral ones are nearly ovate, and have from three to five longitudinal ribs; when young, the leaves have a bronzy tinge; petioles terete, slightly sheathing at the base. columbia, . a very handsome species. =a. kalbreyeri= (kalbreyer's).* _l._ palmate, about - / ft. across; leaflets nine, obovate-oblong, acuminate, sinuate, thick, glabrous, rich deep green, those furthest from the stem are much larger than those next the axis; petiole cylindrical, thickened at the top. new grenada, . a very handsome climbing species. =a. lanceolatum= (lanceolate). _fl._, spathe lanceolate, deflexed, yellowish green; spadix dark brown. _l._ lanceolate, stalked, green, ft. long, narrowed to the base. there appears to be much confusion as regards this and many varieties of _a. harrisii_; and the specific designation is indiscriminately applied to lanceolate-leaved forms generally. the true species was introduced to kew from the west indies. syn. _a. wildenowii_. =a. leuconeurum= (white-nerved). green. mexico, . =a. lindenianum= (linden's).* _fl._ fragrant, spathe very pretty, white, not reflexed, but the pointed apex slightly arches over and shelters the white or purplish spadix. october. _l._ deeply cordate, of a roundish outline; petioles long. _h._ ft. columbia, . syn. _a. lindigi_ (of gardens). =a. lindigi= (lindig's). a garden synonym of _a. lindenianum_. =a. macrolobum= (large-lobed).* _l._ large, deflexed, cordate, acuminate, with an open sinus at the base, and about three acute marginal lobes, dark green, marked with about five pale green ribs; petioles green, terete. stem erect, short. a fine hybrid. =a. nymphæifolium= (nymphæa-leaved). _fl._, spathe white; spadix purplish. venezuela, . =a. ornatum= (adorned).* _fl._, spathe linear-oblong, white, in. to in. long, on terete green scapes, enclosing cylindrical purplish spadices of about the same length as the spathes, and studded with white points arranged spirally. spring. _l._ ovate or oblong-cordate, on slender terete petioles. _h._ - / ft. venezuela, . =a. regale= (royal).* _l._ large, cordate-acuminate, ft. to ft. long, dull metallic green, with white veins; young leaves tinged with rose, on long smooth footstalks. east peru, . an excellent species for conservatory or window decoration during summer. [illustration: fig. . anthurium scherzerianum.] =a. scherzerianum= (scherzer's).* _fl._ on bright red peduncles, which spring from among the base of the leafstalks; spathe ovate-oblong, in. long and nearly in. broad, intense and brilliant scarlet; spadix orange coloured. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, in. to in. long, and in. or more broad, deep rich green, leathery. costa rica. a very compact dwarf-growing evergreen about ft. high. it continues in beauty about four months. see fig. . =a. s. album= (white). a synonym of _a. scherzerianum williamsii_. [illustration: fig. . anthurium scherzerianum maximum.] =a. s. maximum= (greater).* a very fine variety, with "gigantic flower spathes, which measure about in. in length by in. in breadth, and are of the most brilliant scarlet colour." see fig. . =a. s. pygmæum= (small).* altogether smaller than the type, with narrow leaves, which are from in. to in. long, and about / in. broad. it is one of the best varieties, and produces flowers very freely. . =a. s. rothschildianum= (rothschild's). _fl._, spathe creamy white, spotted with crimson; spadix yellow. . exactly intermediate between its parent plants--the typical species and the following variety. =a. s. wardii= (ward's).* _fl._, spathe in. long, in. broad, very brilliant. _l._ broader and more robust than those of the typical species. a splendid variety. =a. s. williamsii= (williams's).* _fl._, spathe white; spadix yellowish. may. _l._ lanceolate-acuminate. costa rica, . syn. _a. scherzerianum album_. =a. signatum= (well-marked). _l._ apparently three-lobed; front lobe about ft. long and in. wide; the two side ones in. long, and about in. from the midrib to the extremity, dark green; petioles about ft. long. venezuela, . =a. spathiphyllum= (spathiphyllum). _fl._, spathe about - / in. long, and nearly as much broad, erect, boat-shaped, broadly ovate, white; spadix nearly in. long, very obtuse, pale yellow. _l._ narrow lanceolate, in. to in. long, and about in. wide, bright green above, pale greyish green beneath; midrib prominent; petiole in. to in. long, trigonous. _h._ - / ft. tropical america, . =a. splendidum= (splendid).* _l._ cordate, with an open sinus, the lobes meeting behind; "the course of the nerves is marked by a broadish band of deep lustrous velvety green, the intervening spaces of about equal width being in striking contrast, of a pale yellowish green; the leaf surface is scabrous, and the portions between the ribs strongly bullate, as if raised in papillose blisters; the veins on the under surface are angular, with tooth-like projections at intervals, while the whole under surface is punctuated with small pallid dots" (w. bull). stem short, thick. south america, . a very beautiful species, quite distinct from any others of the genus. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . anthurium splendidum.] =a. subsignatum= (nearly allied to signatum).* _l._ thick and fleshy, hastate, with blunt points, in. to in. long, and as much in breadth at the widest part; dark shining green above, paler beneath; petioles about ft. long. _h._ - / ft. costa rica, . an excellent species. =a. tetragonum= (four-angled). _l._ erect, commences very narrow, ft. wide at its broadest part; margins undulate, deep shining green on the upper surface, paler below; petioles short, quadrangular. tropical america, . an excellent sub-tropical species. =a. triumphans= (superior). _fl._, spathe narrow, green; spadix stout, greenish-white; peduncle quadrangular. _l._ alternate, elongately cordate, bright green; ribs prominent, and of a paler hue. stem erect. brazil, . a handsome plant. =a. veitchii= (veitch's).* _l._ ovate-oblong, greatly elongated, ft. to ft. long, with a breadth of less than one-third of these dimensions, leathery, deep green, with a glossy metallic surface when first expanded that becomes paler with age; the principal nerves are arched and deeply sunk, imparting a curiously waved appearance to the surface. _h._ - / ft. columbia, . rare but very handsome. =a. waluiewi= (walujew's).* _l._ broadly cordate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, olive metallic green, when young, bright reddish crimson; petioles four to five-angled. _h._ ft. venezuela, . a very distinct and noble species. =a. waroqueanum= (waroque's).* _l._ elongated, from in. to sometimes in. long, and in. to in. broad, very rich deep green, of a velvety lustre; midribs and veins light, forming a very pleasing contrast. columbia, . a very free grower. =a. wildenowii= (wildenow's). a synonym of _a. lanceolatum_. it may be here remarked that by far the majority of species enumerated in the _supplement_ of johnson's dictionary are chiefly of botanical interest, and will, therefore, never become extensively cultivated. =anthyllis= (from _anthos_, a flower, and _ioulos_, down; flowers usually downy). kidney vetch. ord. _leguminosæ_. herbaceous or sub-shrubby plants, of variable habit. flowers in spikes or heads; calyx tubular, five toothed, permanent after flowering, more or less inflated. petals nearly equal. although not extensively grown, all the species are very beautiful when in flower, the hardy sorts being admirably adapted for rockwork. the herbaceous perennials may be easily propagated by seed or division. the seeds of the annual kinds should be sown in a rather dry, warm situation in the open ground. the shrubby evergreens will need the protection of a frame or cool greenhouse in cold northern climates, and are best grown in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat. young cuttings of most species will root in a pot of sandy soil, with a bell glass placed over them, in a cool house or frame. =a. barba-jovis= (jupiter's beard).* _fl._ pale yellow, numerous, in globose, bracteate heads. march. _l._ pinnate, and are as well as the branches, clothed with silky tomentum; leaflets nine to thirteen, oblong-linear. _h._ ft. to ft. spain, . shrub. =a. erinacea= (prickly).* _fl._ bluish-purple; heads few flowered, on short peduncles, bracteate. april. _l._ very few, oval, or oblong. _h._ in. to in. spain, . a much branched, spiny, almost leafless, and slow-growing species; hardy in a dry sunny position on the rockery. syn. _erinacea hispanica_. =a. hermanniæ= (hermann's). _fl._ yellow; heads few flowered, nearly sessile in the axils of the upper leaves. april. _l._ almost sessile, simple, or trifoliate; leaflets oblong-cuneated, glabrous or clothed with adpressed pubescence. _h._ ft. to ft. corsica, . shrubby, much branched. =a. montana= (mountain).* _fl._ pink or purplish, in dense heads, on peduncles, with a leafy involucre. june. _l._ pinnate, and are as well as the branches, silky and hoary; leaflets numerous, oval-oblong, acute, small, entire. _h._ in. to in. alps of europe, . a very handsome little rock plant, with a dwarf and tufted habit. =a. tetraphylla= (four-leaved). _fl._ white; heads axillary, sessile, few flowered. july. _l._ pinnate, the terminal leaflets ovate and large, the other three small and acute. south europe, . a procumbent annual. =a. vulneraria= (common woundwort).* _fl._ generally yellow, sometimes white, red, or pinkish, in crowded twin heads. summer. _l._ pinnate, with five or more unequal leaflets; the lower ones smallest. an elegant native herbaceous, perennial, admirably adapted for rockwork. it is plentiful in most dry pastures. there are several varieties, the best of which is _alba_. =antiaris toxicaria.= this is the famous upas tree of java, from which is obtained poison of a most deadly nature. it belongs to the nat. ord. _urticaceæ_. =antigonon= (from _anti_, against, or opposite, and _gonia_, an angle). ord. _polygonaceæ_. elegant stove climbers. flowers racemose, cirrhose at the apex of the rachides; petals five, three outer ones broadly cordate, two inner oblong. leaves alternate, cordate. although extremely handsome plants, they are difficult to flower. they seem to succeed best when planted out in a very thoroughly drained border over hot-water pipes or flues, the long climbing stems being trained near the glass in full light. =a. amabile= (lovely).* _fl._ bright rose, profusely borne in axillary and terminal racemes. _l._ in. to in. long, ovate-cordate, and deeply lobed at the base. it is of free slender growth, the young shoots are pubescent, and having a slight reddish tinge. an exceedingly attractive and effective species. =a. guatemalensis= (guatemala). probably the same as _a. insigne_. =a. insigne= (remarkable).* _fl._ very numerous, borne in tufts along the sides of long racemes or panicles, which terminate in branched tendrils; the calyx, which is the showy part of the flower, has five membranous sepals, the three outer are of a beautiful rosy pink colour, about in. in length by rather less in breadth, cordate at the base, oblong, rounded towards the apex; the two inner sepals about the same length as the outer ones, but much narrower, falcate, lanceolate; pedicels / in. long. _l._ broadly ovate oblong, deeply cordate at the base, with two rounded lobes; in. by in., the upper ones smaller, supported on short terete downy stalks. stems slender, angular, pubescent. columbia, . _a. leptopus_ (slender-stemmed). _fl._ numerous; the outer three sepals of a beautiful rose colour, the centre of a much deeper tint; racemes secund, bearing several coloured bracts as well as flowers, and end in a branched tendril. _l._ alternate, cordate, petiolate. stem slender, sub-pubescent. mexico, . =antigramme.= _see_ =scolopendrium=. [illustration: fig. . antirrhinum capsule, with persistent style.] [illustration: fig. . antirrhinum asarina, showing habit and flower.] =antirrhinum= (from _anti_, like, and _rhin_, a nose or snout; alluding to the shape of the corolla). snapdragon. ord. _scrophulariaceæ_. hardy herbaceous plants. flowers in terminal racemes, or solitary and axillary; corolla personate; tube ample, saccate at the base; lobes of the upper lip erect; lower lip spreading, having the middle lobes smaller than the lateral ones, with an ample bearded palate, which closes the throat. seed pod or capsule two-celled, upper cell bursting by one pore, lower by two many-toothed pores. see fig. . leaves entire, rarely lobed. the genus contains several very handsome species, suitable for borders and the rockery, while innumerable varieties have originated from _a. majus_, which are very popular, and extremely useful for bedding purposes; these may be increased by cuttings or seeds; if it is desired to increase certain colours or varieties, the former is the only sure method to adopt. they should be taken in september, when they will readily root in a cold frame, or under a hand glass, or they may be rapidly propagated in gentle heat in spring. seeds should be sown in july or august, when they will produce good plants by the following season; or if sown in march in warmth, the plants will bloom late in the same year. the "tom thumb" strain is especially desirable for bedding, being very dwarf and free. all the other species may be increased by cuttings and seeds treated in the same way. light soil, well enriched with manure, is most suitable for all of them, especially for the varieties of _a. majus_. [illustration: fig. . flower-spike of antirrhinum majus.] =a. angustifolium= (narrow-leaved). synonymous with _a. siculum_. =a. asarina= (asarina).* _fl._ axillary, solitary; corolla - / in. long, white, sometimes tinged with red; palate yellow; tube glabrous, compressed on the back, marked by purple spots, and bearded by yellow hairs inside. june. _l._ opposite, on long petioles, five-nerved, five-lobed, cordate, and crenated. south france, &c., . a greyish clammy procumbent plant, requiring a warm position on the rockery. see fig. . =a. hispanicum= (spanish). _fl._ in loose spikes; corolla hardly an inch long, purple, with a golden yellow palate; tube villous. summer. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, contracted at the base, bluntish; lower ones opposite; superior ones alternate, narrower. _h._ ft. spain, . syn. _a. latifolium_. =a. latifolium= (broad-leaved). synonymous with _a. hispanicum_. =a. majus= (large).* greater, or common snapdragon. _fl._ racemose, approximate; corolla in. to in. long, shades infinite; palate yellow at top, very prominent; tube downy outside. spring, summer, and autumn. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, in. to in. long; upper ones narrower, attenuated at both ends, glabrous. branches erect, usually branched again. _h._ ft. europe (naturalised in britain). the named varieties are numerous, but it is unnecessary to enumerate any, as an equal amount of variation can be obtained from seed. see fig. . =a. molle= (soft).* _fl._ few, at the tops of the branchlets; corolla in. long, whitish, with a yellow palate; upper lip striped with purple. july. _l._ opposite, petiolate, clothed with glandular and clammy hairs, about / in. long, and little more than / in. broad; branches procumbent, slender, clothed with woolly hairs. pyrenees, . a very pretty plant, which should have a warm position on the rockery. _a. sempervirens_ comes close to this species. =a. orontium= (orontium). _fl._ axillary, distant; corolla rose-coloured or white, striped with purple; tube furnished with a few glandular hairs; palate veined with purple; sepals linear-lanceolate, large. june. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acutish, attenuated at both ends, glabrous, in. long. _h._ in. to in. europe (british cornfields). annual. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . antirrhinum orontium.] =a. o. grandiflorum= (large-flowered). a variety with larger, paler, and more approximate flowers, and with broader leaves, than the type. europe (british cornfields). =a. siculum= (sicilian). _fl._ in loose racemes; corolla hardly in. long, white or yellowish, rarely purple; tube rather hairy; lobes of the upper lip and the middle lobe of the lower lip emarginate. july. _l._ in. to - / in. long, linear-lanceolate, opposite, alternate or three in a whorl, narrowed into petioles at the base. branches erect. _h._ ft. to ft. sicily, . syn. _a. angustifolium_. =a. tortuosum= (twisted).* _fl._ disposed in spiked racemes, approximating by threes and fours; corolla (the largest of the genus) purple; tube short; upper lip large. june. _l._ linear, acute, opposite or three in a whorl, in. long, attenuated at both ends; upper ones very narrow. branches erect. _h._ ft. to - / ft. italy. =antonia.= a synonym of =rhynchoglossum= (which _see_). =antrophyum= (from _antron_, a cavern, and _phuo_, to grow; referring to its place of growth). including _polytænium_. ord. _filices_. a small genus of stove ferns, very rarely seen in cultivation, all with simple fronds, of firm but fleshy texture, and copious, uniform, hexagonal areolæ. sori carried along the veins, imperfectly reticulated. for culture, &c., _see_ =ferns=. =a. cayennense= (cayenne). _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, lanceolate-oblong, narrowed at both ends; edge thickened, entire; areolæ half as broad as long. _sori_ sub-superficial, often forked. guiana, &c. =a. coriaceum= (leathery). _fronds_ in. to in. long, about / in. broad, narrowed very gradually from the centre to the base, very acute at the apex, very thick; areolæ very long and narrow, distinctly raised on the upper surface. _sori_ quite immersed, sometimes confluent. himalayas, &c. =a. lanceolatum= (lance-leaved).* _fronds_ ft. or more long, / in. to / in. broad, point acute, edge entire, the lower half narrowed very gradually to the base; areolæ two or three times as long as broad, about three rows between the midrib and the edge. _sori_ slender, superficial, often joining. west indies, southwards to new grenada, . =ants= (_formicidæ_). well-known pests, easily distinguished from all other insects. there are a great number of species, differing more or less in habits; but, as a rule, they dwell underground in communities, and construct extensive ant-cities, which are occupied by three classes--the neuters or workers (by far the most numerous), the males, and the females. there are often, in addition to these, larger and stronger neuters, known as the "soldiers," or defenders of the community. ants have a long, slender body, supported on long and slender legs. the head bears a pair of elbowed horns or antennæ, constantly waving about and touching everything the insect comes across. they have powerful mandibles for cutting, sawing, and biting, and it is with these instruments that ants do mischief in gardens. the winged males and females become mature in summer, and on a warm day they ascend in a body into the air; after a short time, they fall to the ground, the females at once free themselves from the henceforth useless wings, and begin to form new colonies. vast numbers of eggs are laid, from which issue larvæ, and these soon become pupæ, and then perfect ants. some kinds are injurious from their habit (in some species) of collecting aphides together, and farming them for the sake of the honey secreted by the aphides, and that passes out from their honey-tubes (thus helping to perpetuate the stock of these most injurious insects); and also from the mechanical damage they do in pots, and other receptacles for plants. they likewise cause unsightly hills on lawns and paths, and the large black species that live in decayed wood often injure the framing of greenhouses, &c., when the woodwork has become somewhat decayed. where fruit, such as peaches or wall pears, are grown, ants will at times inflict damage, and, therefore, they should be kept away; but this is a comparatively easy matter, as the placing of an obnoxious substance along the base of the walls and around the stems of the trees will deter them. for the extirpation of ants from indoors, the arsenical solution described below is most efficacious, but it is extremely dangerous. * * * * * _lime._ air-slaked lime plentifully dusted, in warm, dry, weather, over and around the hills and other places infested, will cause the ants to vacate them in a short time. a thick chalk line drawn round a smooth tree, or across an upright board or post, will render it impassable. _arsenic._ this must be used with the utmost caution, as it is a poison most fatal to animal life. recipe: oz. of ordinary arsenic is placed in an old iron pot with a quart of water, and then boiled until reduced to a pint or a little more of liquid, to which is added / lb. of coarse sugar. this mixture can either be dropped about the runs and around the nests, or placed in saucers in the ants' haunts. _ferrocyanide of potassium._ this is also very dangerous: ferrocyanide of potassium, dr.; raspings of quassia, dr.; and enough sugar to form a syrup. use in the same way as the preceding. _calomel and sugar._ mix together one part of calomel and ten parts of finely-powdered loaf sugar, and lay it in little heaps about their nests and runs; the ants will eat it and die. spring is the best season for this method. _guano_, when fresh, if sprinkled on and around their quarters, is said to be efficacious in driving them away. _camphor._ if a piece of camphor, about the size of a filbert, be placed in two quarts of hot water, and this, when cool enough, applied to pot or other plants infested with ants, the insects will be driven off without injury to the plants. _bones._ lay a quantity of partially-picked boiled bones in the haunts, and they will be quickly covered with insects. as soon as this occurs, throw the bones into hot water. before laying them down again, let all superfluous moisture drain off. this is a cheap remedy, and, if persisted in, is very effectual. _carbolic acid._ this, if of good strength, diluted with about ten or twelve times its bulk of water, and well sprinkled over paths or other places where there is no vegetation, will keep the ants away. it has, however, an objectionable smell. _paraffin oil._ paraffin, mixed with six times its bulk of water, and sprinkled over the nests every few days, will kill and drive away ants; but the smell is disagreeable. _quassia._ oz. of quassia chips, boiled in a gallon of water for about ten minutes, and oz. of soap added to the liquor as it cools, if used like the preceding, is fairly effectual; but this, like the other remedies, must be persisted in for some time. fly pans or saucers, nearly filled with thin honey or sweet oil, attract ants, and they are drowned in them. ants are very hard to clear effectually out of a place, and therefore it is very desirable, in all attempts to be rid of them, to persist in the above remedies. when not living close to the roots or stems of plants, the best and surest remedy of all is to flood them out or scald them in with boiling water. the specifics are endless, but the best are mentioned above. =antwerp hollyhock.= _see_ =althæa ficifolia=. =aotus= (from _a_, without, and _ous_, an ear; in allusion to the absence of appendages in the calyx, which distinguishes it from its allied genus, _pultenæa_). ord. _leguminosæ_. elegant little greenhouse evergreen shrubs, with yellow flowers, and simple, linear-subulate leaves, revolute at the margins, alternate or nearly opposite, or three in a whorl. they should be grown in a compost of equal parts loam, sand, and peat, with a little charcoal, and the pots should be well drained. cuttings of half-ripened wood, made in april, root freely in sand, under a bell glass. =a. gracillima= (most slender).* _fl._ yellow and crimson, small, on long, dense, graceful spikes, which are often over a foot long; pedicels short. may. _h._ ft. new holland, . a very pretty slender growing shrub. =a. villosa= (soft-haired). _fl._ axillary, disposed in racemose spikes along the branches; calyx silky. april. _l._ smoothish on the upper surface. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . =apeiba= (the native name in guiana.) ord. _tiliaceæ_. very handsome stove evergreen trees or shrubs, clothed with starry down. flowers large, golden yellow, pedunculate, bracteate. capsule spherical, depressed, rough from rigid bristles. leaves broad, alternate, entire or serrate. they thrive in a mixture of loam and peat. the best way to induce them to flower in this country is by cutting a ring round the bark of a large branch; by this means the growth is stopped. well ripened cuttings should be planted in sand in heat, under a bell glass, which should be tilted occasionally, so as to give a little air to the cuttings, otherwise they are apt to damp off. =a. aspera= (rough).* _fl._ golden yellow; peduncles opposite the leaves, branched, many flowered. may. _l._ ovate-oblong, somewhat cordate, quite entire, smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. guiana, . =a. petoumo= (petoumo). _fl._ yellow, similarly disposed to _a. aspera_. august. _fr._ densely clothed with bristles. _l._ ovate-oblong, somewhat cordate at the base, entire, hoary beneath. _h._ ft. guiana, . =a. tibourbou= (tibourbou).* _fl._ dark yellow. august. _fr._ densely clothed with bristles. _l._ cordate, ovate-oblong, serrated, hairy beneath. _h._ ft. guiana, . =apetalous.= without petals. =apex.= the summit or point of anything. =aphelandra= (from _apheles_, simple, and _aner_, a male; the anthers being one-celled). ord. _acanthaceæ_. very handsome stove evergreen shrubs, mostly of an erect habit of growth, and having handsome shining leaves, which in some instances are variegated. flowers produced in terminal four-sided spikes-�the preponderating colours being brilliant shades of orange or scarlet�-conspicuously situated above the foliage; they are exceedingly attractive; corolla ringent, two-lipped, upper lip three-lobed; central lobe large. they bloom generally during the autumn months, and if the plants are removed to a warm dry atmosphere so soon as the flowers begin to open, they will continue much longer in perfection than if left in the moisture-laden atmosphere of the stove. from the time the flower spikes are at first seen till they bloom, the plants will derive much benefit from frequent applications of clear manure water. when the plants have finished flowering, they should be allowed to rest, by reducing the supply of water, but never allow them to shrivel. during this time they may be kept in a house or pit, where the atmosphere is rather dry, with a night temperature of deg. to deg. here they may remain till march, when they should be pruned. this operation is commenced by thinning out the weakest shoots altogether, and cutting the others back to one or two of the strongest joints or buds above the old wood in order to keep the plants dwarf and bushy. when pruned, the plants should be placed in the stove, giving moderate supplies of water at the roots, and occasionally sprinkling the stems overhead till growth commences. when the young shoots have attained an inch or so in length, the plants should be turned out of the pots, removing the crocks and as much of the old soil as can be got away easily, at the same time shortening-in any of the straggling roots. they should then be placed into smaller-sized pots, keeping them rather close, and watering them carefully for a time till growth has commenced. when fairly started, they may be transferred into larger-sized pots, in which they are to flower. during the summer, these plants require a moist atmosphere, with a temperature of deg. by night, allowing it to rise deg. or deg. by day, and whilst active growth is taking place they should be frequently supplied with moisture at the roots, keeping them well exposed on all sides to the light. after growth has commenced, it is not advisable to stop the shoots, for the stouter and stronger they grow up the finer will be the flower spikes when they appear. the compost should consist of equal parts fibry loam, leaf soil, and peat, with a good proportion of sand added. in preparing it, it should be rather lumpy, and, before using, should be warmed to about the temperature of the house in which the plants are grown. clean pots and perfect drainage are most essential. cuttings are best prepared from half ripened wood, or taken off when young with a heel. the base of each cutting should invariably be cut clean across. these may be inserted an inch apart, in pots of sandy soil, and plunged in a brisk bottom heat. to obtain young shoots for cuttings, if the old plants break freely after pruning, and very large specimens are not required, when the shoots are in. long they should be thinned out, leaving the requisite number of the strongest to form the plant. if the surplus pieces are removed with a slight heel of the older wood, they make good cuttings, and should be treated the same as the others. these cuttings strike root quickest, and when rooted, if potted into in. or in. pots, and allowed to grow up without stopping or pinching out the tops, they will flower the first season. although aphelandras can be grown into large sized specimens, it will be found to be more generally satisfactory to have specimens of neat and moderate dimensions. the mealy bug and scale insects are very troublesome, and must be kept down, otherwise they will prove most prejudicial to the plants. =a. acutifolia= (acute-leaved). _fl._ large, deep vermilion red; the upper lip of corolla concave, and projected forward, the lower one consists of three oblong-obtuse spreading lobes. october. _l._ broad, oblong-ovate, acuminate. columbia, . =a. aurantiaca= (orange-coloured).* _fl._ deep orange scarlet; upper lip of corolla erect, bidentate, concave; lower one spreading horizontally, three lobed. december. _l._ broad, ovate, opposite, dark green, somewhat wavy at the edge. _h._ ft. mexico, . =a. a. roezlii= (roezl's).* differs chiefly from the type in the curiously twisted leaves, which are dark green, shaded with a silvery hue between the primary veins; in the brighter scarlet of the flowers; and a few other, but purely technical, points. it is one of the best. mexico, . syn. _a. roezlii_. =a. cristata= (crested).* _fl._ brilliant orange scarlet, in. or in. long, in large terminal branching spikes. august to november. _l._ large, broadly ovate, and tapering to a point. _h._ ft. west indies, . a handsome and continuous bloomer. syn. _justicia pulcherrima_. =a. fascinator= (fascinating).* _fl._ bright vermilion, in very large spikes. autumn. _l._ ovate acuminate, olive green, beautifully banded with silvery white, whilst the under side is of a uniform purplish violet. _h._ - / ft. new grenada, . =a. leopoldi= (leopold's).* _fl._ citron-yellow. _l._ opposite, ovate-oblong, acuminate; ground colour on the upper surface dark green, the midrib and primary veins pure white; under surface uniformly pale green. brazil, . =a. medio-aurata= (golden-centred). _fl._ unknown. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, sinuate, bright green, with yellow central brand. brazil, . syn. _graptophyllum medio-auratum_. =a. nitens= (shining).* _fl._ glowing vermilion-scarlet, very large, in erect, simple, terminal spikes, which, after the flowers have fallen, are clothed with the imbricating, lanceolate, appressed bracts. _l._ ovate, sub-acute, leathery, brilliant glossy on the upper surface, dark vinous purple underneath. _h._ ft. to ft. columbia, . =a. porteana= (porte's).* _fl._ in fine terminal heads; corolla and bracts bright orange. _l._ rich green, with metallic silvery-white veins. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. pumila= (dwarfish).* _fl._ orange-coloured; upper lip erect, concave, entire; bracts large, purplish. _l._ large, cordate, ovate-oblong, acute. _h._ in. brazil, . very distinct from all others. =a. punctata= (dotted).* _fl._ bright yellow, in large and rather dense spikes; the spiny-edged long pointed bracts are also yellow, with the exception of the tip, which is green, and forms a pleasing contrast. november. _l._ opposite, elliptic, acuminate; the green midrib is conspicuous in the middle of a white central band, which also extends beside the green veins, this silvery band breaking up on its margin into numerous small white dots, producing a pretty and distinct form of variegation. south america, . =a. roezlii.= a synonym of _a. aurantiaca roezlii_. =a. variegata= (variegated). _fl._ yellow; spike, in. long, with bright orange-red bracts. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acuminate, dark green with white veins. _h._ - / ft. brazil. =aphelexis= (from _apheles_, simple, and _exis_, habit). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of elegant dwarf evergreen greenhouse shrubs. flower-heads large, solitary, or small and two or more together. leaves small. these plants are valuable for exhibition purposes, on account of their bright colours, and the length of time they last in perfection; they are included among what are familiarly known as "everlastings." the most suitable soil is a compost of two parts of good fibrous peat and one of leaf mould, with a liberal supply of silver sand, and a few pieces of charcoal added to it. repot the plants firmly in february, and allow thorough drainage. cuttings can be made in spring or summer; small half-ripened side shoots are best; and these will root in sandy soil, under a bell glass, in a cool greenhouse. =a. ericoides= (heath-like).* _fl.-heads_ white. april. _l._ very small, three-cornered, imbricated, appressed; branches numerous, very fine, filiform. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =a. fasciculata= (fascicled). _fl.-heads_ purplish, solitary, terminal; peduncles scaly. march. _l._ acerose linear, roundish, downy above; lower spreading; upper appressed. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . there are two or three forms of this species, varying in the colour of the flowers. =a. humilis= (humble, or dwarf).* _fl.-heads_ pink, solitary, terminal, opening only in sunshine; peduncles scaly. april. _l._ subulate, erect, imbricate. branches numerous, slender, covered with white tomentum. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . a handsome greenhouse plant, with much-branched stems, terminated by the flower-head. syns. _a. macrantha_ and _helipterum humile_. =a. h. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ rosy-purple, produced in great abundance. habit rather dwarf, and free branching. very highly esteemed. =a. h. purpurea= (purple).* _fl._ dark purple, very abundant. _l._ silvery white and shining. a vigorous grower, and perhaps the best for exhibition purposes. it is known in gardens as _a. macrantha purpurea_; also under the name of _a. spectabilis_. =a. h. rosea= (rose-coloured).* _fl.-heads_ delicate rose, very profuse. habit very compact and free-branching. a very showy and desirable variety, known in gardens as _a. macrantha rosea_. =a. macrantha= (large-flowered). synonymous with _a. humilis_. =a. sesamoides= (sesamum-like). _fl.-heads_ purple and white, sessile, solitary, terminal. april. _l._ acerose linear, keeled, smooth, appressed. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =aphides=, or =plant lice=. these belong to the order _homoptera_, meaning "same winged," and the name has reference to the fact that the fore wings are uniform in their structure from base to apex, not divided into a leathery base and a membranous tip. aphides are all minute in size, soft bodied, and generally long legged; the mouth is furnished with a curiously-constructed beak, or rostrum, for sucking the juice of plants; the antennæ, or feelers, are long and slender; the legs have usually two joints in the tarsi, one of which is generally very ill-developed; and near the tip of the abdomen, on the back of a ring, in many kinds, stand two prominent tubes, called honey-tubes, from which a sweet secretion, much sought after by ants, is emitted. they are very destructive, and nearly every plant has its own peculiar aphis; but among the worst are the cherry fly and bean fly. all these insects are very destructive to the young shoots and foliage of plants, on which they cluster in large numbers, sometimes completely hiding the stems, increasing with marvellous rapidity. they produce eggs in autumn, which lie dormant through the winter, and upon the approach of warm weather in spring, hatch and produce individuals which, during the summer, are viviparous, budding off young insects at a surprising rate, which quickly in turn become possessed of the same marvellous power; hence the enormous number which are produced in so surprisingly short a time. it has been computed that in a few weeks many millions of young might be produced directly or descended from a single female. _see also_ =black fly= and =bean fly=. the following remedies may be successfully employed: _tobacco._ this is applied, as a rule, in three forms, each of which is useful for particular purposes. tobacco powder is useful as a dry application to plants where, from any cause, the other modes of employing it are not desirable. it causes no smell, and is useful in conservatories, &c., for that reason. the mode of applying it is to dredge or dust it over the foliage of the plants affected, and to syringe off in from three to thirty hours, according to the nature of the plants. fumigation with tobacco, if done in a proper way, is very effective, but it leaves an unpleasant smell. the foliage of the plants should be quite dry, and a still day must be chosen for the work; the house should be filled with smoke, but no flame must arise in the burning. the plants should be well syringed the next morning, and full ventilation allowed; if the fumigation is repeated twice or thrice, it will prove very effectual. tobacco water is made by soaking a pound of coarse shag in gals. of hot water, to which / lb. of size or soft soap has been added. the plants should be dipped into or syringed with this mixture, and well syringed with clean tepid water about twelve hours after. it should not be employed for plants having woolly or hairy foliage. tobacco paper and cloth are used for fumigating in the same manner as tobacco; but as they vary in strength, more care is necessary, as they sometimes cause the leaves to become spotted. judiciously employed, they are cheaper than tobacco. _quassia._ boil lb. quassia chips in gals. of soft water, for about ten minutes, and after straining off the chips, add lb. of soft soap. apply in the same way as tobacco water, and syringe the plants with clean water after ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. _soft soap._ this, in proportion of lb. to gals. of rain water, and gal. of tobacco water added after it is cold, is a cheap and good remedy out of doors, and requires the same mode of application as tobacco water. _soap suds._ where bleaching powder, or much soda, is not mixed with these, they make a good insect killer for hard-foliaged plants, but should be washed off with clean water in twelve hours. no mixture containing chloride of lime should be used. _various._ fir-tree oil, gishurst's compound, and fowler's insecticide, are all serviceable, if used as directed on the labels. hardeman's beetle powder, applied with the little french powder-bellows which is sold with it, is very efficacious. for outdoor work, nothing surpasses clean cold water, applied often and forcibly with a syringe. the best mode of clearing aphis off beaus, currants, &c., is to remove the tops of the infested shoots, and to wash the plants with soapy water, or a solution of gishurst's compound. in some cases, a good dusting with soot and wood ashes, while the plants are wet, will keep them in check. the "golden eyes" or "lacewing" fly, and also ladybirds, are to be encouraged, as the larvæ of each of these wage incessant war against aphides, especially the green varieties, and thin them out considerably. =aphrophora.= _see_ =frog hopper=. =aphyllanthes= (from _aphyllos_, leafless, and _anthos_, a flower; the flowers are on rush-like branches). ord. _liliaceæ_. a very pretty rush-like hardy perennial, forming dense, erect tufts. it thrives best in sandy peat, requires a warm sunny situation, and slight protection in winter. increased by division of the roots, and seeds; the latter should be sown in pots in a cool greenhouse as soon as ripe. =a. monspeliensis= (montpelier).* _fl._, perianth six-cleft, spreading at the apex, deep blue, nearly an inch across, disposed in a small head, on slender scapes. june. _l._ absent; the very slender scapes are leaflike, with membranous sheaths at the base. south of france, . =aphyllous.= without leaves. =apicra= (from _apicros_, not bitter). ord. _liliaceæ_. a group of succulents allied to _aloe_, and having the following among other characters:--flowers small, loosely sub-spicate; perianth regular, cylindrical, with short spreading segments; peduncles simple or forked. plants small; rosette leaves always elongated. leaves thick, diffuse, never spinosely dentated. they require treatment similar to aloes, under which genus they are included by some authors. =a. aspera= (rough).* _fl._, perianth / in. long; raceme loose, in. to in.; pedicels three to four lines long; peduncle slender, simple, nearly ft. _l._ dense, in many rows, spreading, rounded, deltoid, six to seven lines long and broad; face rather flat; middle three to four lines thick; back convex hemispherical, wrinkled. cape of good hope, . =a. bicarinata= (double-keeled).* _fl._ unknown. _l._ dense, in many rows, ascending, deltoid-lanceolate, nine to twelve lines long, six lines broad, dirty green; face flat; middle two lines thick; margin scabrous; back copiously tubercled. cape of good hope, . =a. congesta= (congested). _fl._, perianth six to seven lines, whitish; raceme loose, sub-spicate, about ft.; pedicels short; peduncles in. long, simple. _l._ dense, spreading, in many rows, deltoid-lanceolate, eighteen to twenty-one lines long, three to four lines thick; back convex; top unevenly keeled towards the margins. . =a. deltoidea= (deltoid). _fl._, perianth greenish, five to six lines long; raceme about ft. long, sub-spicate; pedicels short; peduncles in., simple or branched. _l._ in five regular rows, spreading, nine to twelve lines long, deltoid, shining green; when mature, upper surface rather flat, apex pungent; middle two to three lines thick; back distinctly keeled upwards; margins and keels minutely serrated. south africa, . =a. foliolosa= (small-leafy).* _fl._, perianth greenish, five to six lines long; raceme loose, sub-spicate, about ft.; pedicels two to three lines long; peduncle in., simple. _l._ dense, spreading, in many rows, rounded deltoid, cuspidate, six to eight lines long and broad, without spots or tubercles; face rather flat; middle one and a half to two lines thick; back obliquely keeled upwards towards the margins. cape of good hope, . =a. imbricata= (imbricated). synonymous with _a. spiralis_. =a. pentagona= (five-angled).* _fl._, perianth whitish, / in. long; raceme about ft., loose; lower pedicels two to three lines long; peduncles ft., often branched. _l._ dense, regular, lower ones spreading, upper ones ascending, lanceolate-deltoid, fifteen to eighteen lines long; bottom six to eight lines broad, shining green; face flat; middle three to four lines thick; apex pungent; margin scabrous; back irregularly one to two keeled at top. cape of good hope, . =a. p. bullulata= (little-blistered). _l._ irregularly spiral, five rowed; back with spreading close wrinkled tubercles. =a. p. spirella= (small spiral). _l._ smaller and more deltoid, in. long, six to eight lines broad at the bottom, irregularly five rowed, or as if in many rows. =a. spiralis= (spiral).* _fl._, perianth reddish-white, / in. long; raceme loose, nearly ft.; pedicels ascending, two to three lines long; peduncles in., simple or branched. _l._ dense, in many rows, strong, ascending, lanceolate-deltoid, twelve to fifteen lines long, six to eight lines broad; face almost flat, without tubercles; apex pungent; back swollen, scarcely keeled; margins obscurely crenulated. cape of good hope, . syn. _a. imbricata_. =apiculate=, =apiculated=. terminated in a little point. =apios= (from _apion_, a pear; in reference to the form of the tubers of the root). ord. _leguminosæ_. an elegant little hardy twining perennial, easily trained into almost any shape. it must have a well-exposed, sunny position, and the soil should be of a warm or light sandy nature. propagated by division of the tubers. [illustration: fig. . apios tuberosa, showing habit and flower.] =a. tuberosa= (tuberous).* ground nut. _fl._ brownish-purple, sweet-scented, in axillary racemes. summer and early autumn. _l._ pinnate. tubers edible, farinaceous. habit very light and graceful. pennsylvania, . syn. _glycine apios_. see fig. . =apiospermum.= a synonym of =pistia= (which _see_). =apium= (from _apon_, celtic for water; in reference to the habitat). ord. _umbelliferæ_. this genus contains no species worth growing for ornament, and nearly all are more or less acrid and poisonous. a. _graveolens_ is the celery of gardens, for culture of which, _see_ =celery=. =aplectrum= (from _a_, without, and _plectron_, a spur; flower spurless). ord. _orchideæ_. a monotypic genus from north america. a curious, hardy, terrestrial orchid, requiring a shady spot in light loam and leaf mould, moderately damp. very difficult to cultivate. =a. hyemale= (wintry).* _fl._ greenish-brown, large, racemose, borne on a naked scape after the leaves have died down; labellum as long as the sepals; column sessile, rather long, wingless. april. stem pseudo-bulbous, with one large, broad, ribbed leaf. _h._ ft. . =aplotaxis.= included under =saussurea= (which _see_). =apocarpous.= having the carpels or fruit separate, or disunited. =apocynace�.= a large order of trees, shrubs, or rarely herbs, usually with a poisonous, milky sap. flowers regular, solitary or corymbose; corolla salver-shaped or campanulate. leaves simple, opposite, sometimes alternate or whorled. well known genera belonging to this order are: _allamanda_, _nerium_, _tabernæmontana_ and _vinca_. =apocynum= (from _apo_, away, and _kyon_, a dog; adopted by dioscorides, because the plant was supposed to be poisonous to dogs). ord. _apocynaceæ_. dog's bane. perennial erect herbs, with cymose flowers and membranous, opposite leaves. there are several species belonging to this genus, but only the one described below is worthy of being cultivated. they are of extremely easy culture, thriving in any ordinary soil; and may be propagated by suckers, divisions, or seeds. the best time to divide is just as they are starting into fresh growth in spring. =a. androsæmifolium= (tutsan-leaved).* _fl._ pale red, with darker stripes; corolla campanulate; cymes terminal and lateral. july. _l._ ovate, glabrous, petiolate, pale beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. virginia, and canada, . a very old garden favourite, thriving best in peaty soil, with azaleas, &c. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . inflorescence of apocynum andros�mifolium.] =aponogeton= (from _apon_, celtic for water, and _geiton_, neighbour; alluding to the habitat of these plants). ord. _naiadaceæ_. very ornamental aquatic perennials. there are several species, but _a. distachyon_ is superior to the others. this species may be cultivated in small tanks or aquaria; it delights in an abundance of light and air, and is perfectly hardy, having become naturalised in many parts of the country. pot the plants in rich sandy loam and rotten cow manure, using, of course, small pots, if the vessel in which it is to be grown is restricted. when introducing it to large tanks or lakes, commence with strong, previously well-established plants, in large pots, breaking the latter when the plants are immersed. place them in positions where the water is about ft. in. to ft. deep; they will then rapidly increase by offsets and seeds, and, when established, will flower nearly all the year round. the other kinds will thrive with the same treatment; but they are neither so hardy nor so vigorous, and should only be grown in small tanks or aquaria. [illustration: fig. . aponogeton distachyon, showing habit and flower-spikes.] =a. angustifolium= (narrow-leaved). _fl._ white. july. cape of good hope, . half hardy. [illustration: fig. . aponogeton distachyon, showing flower-spikes, leaf, and root.] =a. distachyon= (two-spiked).* cape pond weed; winter hawthorn. _fl._ with a delicious hawthorn-like perfume; petals none; bracts, or showy portion oval, entire, white; anthers purple-brown; scape two-spiked, each spike being from in. to in. long. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, entire, bright green, on long stalks, floating. cape of good hope, . see figs. and . =a. monostachyon= (simple-spiked). _fl._ pink. september. _h._ ft. east indies, . stove species. rare. =a. spathaceum junceum= (rush-like).* a very pretty, but rare, half-hardy aquatic plant, with the forked inflorescence having both bracts and flowers suffused with a delicate blush colour. _l._ rush-like, standing clear up out of the water. south africa, . =aporetica.= a synonym of =schmidelia= (which _see_). =appendiculate, appendiculated.= having appendages. =applanate.= flattened out. [illustration: fig. . apple blossom.] =apple= (_pyrus malus_). the apple is one of the most useful, and probably most largely cultivated, of our hardy fruits. it is known as the crab in its wild state, and is indigenous to britain and to all the temperate and warmer parts of europe. it is supposed that the progenitors of the varieties now grown were introduced to this country at various times from the continent, and not obtained here as direct improvements on the native crab. those now cultivated are extremely numerous, and include good varieties that can be made to prolong the season all the year round. apart from its great value as a fruit, the apple is a strikingly handsome tree when in flower (see fig. ). a fruiting branch is shown at fig. . [illustration: fig. . fruiting branch of apple.] _propagation._ seeds are sown extensively, chiefly for raising stocks to graft approved sorts on; also with a view to raising new varieties. the seeds do not retain their germinative properties very long, consequently they must be sown soon after being taken from the fruit. as grown in this country, they are generally sown in the autumn, transplanted the following year, and so on until they are of sufficient size for grafting purposes. the standard of excellence being at present so high, improved forms raised from seed are comparatively scarce. _grafting._ this method of propagation is the one generally adopted for most purposes, the stocks being previously prepared for size or height of tree required. cordon and other dwarf-trained trees should be worked near but not below the ground, while standards are best worked on stocks of the desired height. the practice of working standard trees low, and growing the scion to form the stem of the future tree, is not recommended, as many of the tenderer sorts will not grow straight or strong enough for the purpose. whip-grafting is the most preferable mode adopted. the scions should be selected from healthy trees not later than january, and laid in singly in the ground until the stocks have slightly advanced in growth, which is generally about the middle of april. several other methods of grafting may be adopted with success, but the one above recommended is considered the best. _budding._ apples may be successfully propagated by budding, and this method is practised much more now than formerly. it has many advantages, as it requires to be performed at a season when there is not so much work in hand. it should be done in damp, dull weather, if possible, as the weather if dry soon destroys the buds. july and august is the proper time for the purpose. the stocks and woods from which the buds are taken should be as much as possible in the same condition. _propagation by cuttings, layers, &c._ this system may be made use of in the case of new varieties or where it is desired to increase any one variety with a limited number of scions, but the results are uncertain--at least in the case of cuttings; consequently, it is much better to resort to the safer method of grafting. _pruning._ _see_ =pruning=. _training._ _see_ =training=. _planting._ the best time to plant is as soon as most of the leaves have fallen, which is generally about the end of october. the roots being then in an active state, and the ground still retaining a certain amount of heat, they will form new roots before winter, which is a material advantage. where it is impossible to plant at this time, it may be done in suitable weather any time during the winter, but it is best not deferred till spring. it is important in planting that the soil should be moderately dry and free from frost; this condition cannot always be obtained during winter. the effects of soil and situation have a very important bearing on the apple, specimens of the same sort from different places being often hardly recognisable. although not over fastidious in the matter of soil as far as growing is concerned, the best results are obtained where it is of a rich loamy character and well drained. dry, sandy soils invariably produce canker, while the trees are often overgrown with lichens in undrained land. the addition of heavier loam, or sometimes trenching and mixing the sub-soil with that at the top, will convert light soils into those suitable for apple culture; while, on the other hand, heavy soils may be improved by drainage, the addition of lime, vegetable refuse, burnt earth, and other matters. rank manure should on no account be used anywhere near the roots, but a little well-decayed manure, mixed with the soil or used as a mulching, is beneficial. the site best suited is an open, though not exposed one, with a south, south-east, or south-west aspect. shelter from north-east winds in spring, which destroys the bloom, and from west and south-west winds in autumn, which blow down the fruit, should be the aim of cultivators. planting in a valley should be avoided on account of spring frosts. in planting, care must be taken to make the bottom of the hole tolerably firm, and slightly raised under the base or bole of the tree. the roots should then be carefully spread out all round, and if any have been ruptured in transplanting, cut them clean off on the upper side, thus inducing new roots to be formed near the surface. the soil should be trodden firmly after a quantity has been filled in, if it is in a dry, suitable condition, as previously recommended. secure with stakes in proportion to the size of tree, or injury will be caused by the wind. the distance at which apple trees are planted varies considerably. standards in orchards may be planted in good soil, from ft. to ft. apart, especially if they are strong-growing culinary sorts. pyramids may be planted from ft. to ft., according to size; and similar distances will suit bush trees. the oblique cordon system of training admits of a large number of varieties being cultivated in a small space, as they may be planted as close as in. or ft. apart. horizontal cordons should be planted about ft. asunder, and one branch trained each way. watering will be necessary after planting in most cases, especially should the winter and following season be at all dry. thinning the fruit is sometimes advisable for obtaining good specimens, but it is not generally necessary, at least with many of the shy-setting sorts. if, however, the crop should be exceptionally heavy, it is best to thin the fruit, or the tree may be unable to make and ripen its wood for the crop of the succeeding year. _gathering._ the three following tests are sure indications of the gathering period: ( ) the apples will begin to fall of their own accord; ( ) their seeds will be plump and brown in colour; and ( ) the fruit will separate with a mere touch from the trees; the second test may be said to be infallible. all apples should be gathered before the end of october, for none will bear frost with impunity. they must be gathered in dry weather, and handled with the greatest care, laid gently in baskets and trays, in single file only, and conveyed to the store room. _storing._ the simplest and best method is in choosing or forming some room or place free from extremes of heat and cold, dryness or damp, where a temperature of about deg. is maintained. a current of air is not necessary. the shelves should be made of poplar, sycamore, lime, or other white wood. deal, oak, ash, elm, and almost all other woods, give a bad taste to the fruit. one sheet of paper--and paper only--should be placed under the fruit. they ripen best, and are of the highest flavour when left fully exposed to the free atmosphere of the fruit room, and in order to preserve a more even temperature the light should be shut out. early and late ripening varieties must be stored in separate places, as well as all inferior or injured fruit. the plan of isolating each fruit by packing in tissue paper, sand, burnt earth, or other substances, often destroys the flavour of the fruit, and possesses no material benefit otherwise. _diseases._ apple mussel scale, apple or codlin grub, canker, mildew, american blight, scale, and insect pests, such as caterpillars, maggots, and weevils, _see_ under their separate headings. the following are some of the best varieties in cultivation:-- =adams' pearmain.= dessert. fruit medium, very handsome; flavour juicy and sugary. december to march. =alexander.= kitchen. very large, showy, and good. september to december. =alfriston.= kitchen. very fine, large, white flesh. november to april. =ashmead's kernel=, or =cockle pippin=. dessert. fruit below medium; flavour very rich and sugary. this variety is, according to mr. rivers, much esteemed in gloucestershire. november to january. =bedfordshire foundling.= kitchen. fruit large. one of the finest and most useful sorts, a great bearer. february to may. =bess pool.= kitchen. fruit large. good late cooking apple. december to may. =betty geeson.= kitchen. fruit large, produced in great abundance. february to may. a valuable sort. =blenheim pippin.= one of the best kitchen sorts. november to february. =boston russet.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour very sugary and rich, similar to the ribston pippin. an excellent american variety. january to may. =brabant bellefleur.= kitchen. fruit large, round, pale yellow, red-streaked. a most useful cooking variety, also useful for dessert. november to april. [illustration: fig. . apple, calville blanche.] =calville blanche.= dessert. fruit large; flavour first-class. october to december. see fig. . =cellini.= kitchen. fruit perfect in form, size, colour, and quality. october to january. =claygate pearmain.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour rich, aromatic, excellent, same as ribston pippin. january to may. =coe's golden drop.= dessert. fruit small, with a crisp and juicy flavour. november to january. a delicious variety. =cornish aromatic.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour rich, juicy, and aromatic. october to december. =cornish gillyflower.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour very rich, quite aromatic. october, november to january. an excellent variety, thriving best in a warm situation. =court of wick.= dessert. fruit medium, very handsome; flavour somewhat similar to golden pippin. december to march. [illustration: fig. . apple, court pendu plat.] =court pendu plat.= dessert or kitchen. fruit medium, rich russet brown, of first-rate quality, and the tree is a good cropper. november to april. see fig. . =cox's orange pippin.= dessert. fruit medium, very handsome; flavour rich aromatic. october to december. one of the best apples grown. =cox's pomona.= kitchen. fruit very large, of superior quality. october. =devonshire quarrenden.= dessert. fruit medium, excellent quality, and handsome. july to september. a very prolific sort. =d. t. fish.= kitchen. fruit large, roundish, of a clear straw-colour, with small specks of russet, slightly flushed with crimson on the side where the sun strikes it; flavour sub-acid. november to january. a fine and handsome variety. =duchess of oldenburgh.= kitchen. fruit large, red-striped. august to october. a very desirable and handsome russian variety. =duke of devonshire.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour crisp, juicy, rich and sugary. december to march. =dumelow's seedling=, or =wellington=, or =normanton wonder=. kitchen. fruit firm, large, and somewhat acid. november to march. =early harvest.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour juicy, excellent, with a pleasant sharpness. july to september. according to mr. rivers this variety is equally good for cooking or dessert, and is a very fertile tree on the paradise stock. =french crab.= kitchen. fruit large, pale green, firm, acid. an excellent sort, and the longest keeper. =golden pippin.= dessert. fruit small, very excellent flavour. november to january. a well-known and highly-esteemed sort. =golden reinette.= dessert. fruit rather small, yellowish red, streaked with red; flavour excellent, sweet and rich. one of the best and most useful of dessert apples. october to december. =gravenstein.= kitchen. fruit large, handsome, sweet and crisp. november to january. a very prolific sort. =greenup's pippin.= kitchen. fruit very large. february to may. a vigorous grower and abundant bearer. =irish peach.= dessert. fruit medium, yellowish-green, very early; flavour juicy, excellent. july and august. a very good variety, often known as early crofton. =jolly beggar.= kitchen. fruit large, pale yellow, tender and juicy. november to january. a very desirable sort and an extraordinary cropper. =keddlestone pippin.= dessert. fruit small, yellow or golden colour, specked with russet; flavour delicious, highly aromatic. december to march. an excellent variety. =kerry pippin.= dessert. fruit medium, firm, yellow, and red; flavour sugary and rich. september to october. =keswick codlin.= kitchen. fruit large and early. august to october. an admirable sort for market purposes. =king of the pippins.= dessert. fruit medium, yellow and red; flavour juicy and rich. october to january. =lady henniker.= kitchen. fruit yellow, with crimson streaks near the sun, highly flavoured, and with a pleasant perfume. february to may. an excellent sort, suitable for dessert or kitchen. =lodgemore nonpareil.= dessert. fruit small; flavour rich, sugary, and aromatic. january to may. an excellent sort. =lord suffield.= kitchen. fruit very large, white, soft, excellent for sauce and tarts. august to september. =manx's codlin.= kitchen. fruit large. september and october. one of the finest and most useful of kitchen sorts. =mère de ménage.= kitchen. large and good. october to march. =mr. gladstone.= dessert. fruit large and handsome, very early, scarlet cheek, striped and shaded; of excellent quality. july and august. new. =new= or =winter hawthornden=. kitchen. fruit very large, excellent. november to january. an extraordinary bearer, one of the best for sauce and cooking. =nonsuch.= kitchen. fruit large, juicy. august to october. an admirable sort, unequalled for sauce and cooking. =norfolk beefing.= kitchen. large and good flavour, excellent keeper, most useful for baking whole and preserving. november to july. =norfolk greening.= kitchen. fruit medium; rather acid. keeps till april or may. =northern spy.= dessert. fruit large, tender; flavour highly aromatic. december to may. =old nonpareil.= dessert. fruit medium, tender, and juicy. november to january. a prolific variety. =pitmaston pineapple.= dessert. fruit small; flavour very rich. july to september. according to mr. rivers this variety is a very abundant bearer on the paradise stock; it is not a vigorous grower. =red astrachan.= dessert. fruit good size, bright; flavour delicate and rich. august to september. =red ingestrie.= dessert. fruit very pretty bright red next the sun, on a yellow ground, flesh pale yellow; flavour brisk and sparkling, like the golden pippin in quality. august and september. an excellent sort. =red juneating=, or =margaret=. dessert. fruit medium, early, very good quality. july and august. a well-known sort, with numerous synonyms. =red quarrenden.= dessert. fruit under medium, bright scarlet; flavour crisp and sweet. august. one of the best summer sorts. =reinette du canada.= dessert. fruit greenish-yellow and brown, large; flavour juicy, brisk, sub-acid. november to may. see fig . =reinette grise.= dessert. flesh yellowish-white, sugary, pleasant; flavour sub-acid. november to april. it does best on the paradise stock, and is an abundant cropper. see fig. . =ribston pippin.= dessert. fruit greenish-yellow and red, medium; flavour rich, aromatic, excellent. october to december. =sam young.= dessert. fruit small, yellowish with russet spots; flavour delicious, tender, and juicy. october to december. an excellent irish sort. =scarlet crofton.= dessert. fruit medium, yellow and red; flavour crisp, juicy, and sweet. october to december. =scarlet nonpareil.= dessert. fruit well coloured, large; flavour crisp and juicy. january to march. =small's admirable.= kitchen. fruit large, green, crisp, sweet, and juicy. november to january. a prolific cropper. =stamford pippin.= dessert. fruit large, with a brisk flavour and an agreeable aroma. november to january. a very desirable sort. [illustration: fig. . apple, reinette du canada.] =sturmer pippin.= dessert. fruit medium; flavour brisk and rich. february to june. =syke house russet.= dessert. fruit small; flavour very rich. january to may. an excellent sort. =tower of glammis.= kitchen. fruit yellow, very large, square-shaped, crisp, and excellent. february to may. a very excellent sort. =van mons reinette.= dessert. fruit small, with a rich, aromatic, and excellent flavour. november to january. =waltham abbey seedling.= kitchen. fruit large. november and december. an admirable sort. =warner's king.= kitchen. fruit large, handsome, and good. november to march. =worcestershire pearmain.= kitchen. fruit large, conical, of a very brilliant colour; flavour crisp and juicy. august to october. a splendid variety, said to be as prolific as lord suffield. [illustration: fig. . apple, reinette grise.] =white juneating.= dessert. fruit small, very early, and good quality, but a bad keeper. july and august. a prolific sort. =white nonpareil.= dessert. fruit medium, very delicious. march to june. a very desirable sort. =winter quoining=, or =queening=. dessert. fruit very bright, almost red; flavour excellent. november to may. an excellent sort, useful for dessert or culinary purposes. =winter strawberry.= dessert. fruit yellow, medium, striped with red; flavour brisk aromatic. november to march. a very useful sort. =wormsley pippin.= kitchen or dessert. fruit of an excellent quality, large, pale green; excellent for kitchen or dessert. september to october. =yorkshire greening.= kitchen. fruit large, juicy, tender. november to january. =for cordons= the following are the best:--betty geeson, coe's golden drop, cox's orange pippin, duke of devonshire, king of the pippins, lodgemore nonpareil, northern spy, reinette du canada, ribston pippin, scarlet nonpareil. =for pyramidal, bush, and espalier trees=, the best are:-�adams' pearmain, ashmead's kernel, boston russet, claygate pearmain, cornish gillyflower, court of wick, court pendu plat, cox's orange pippin, early harvest, golden pippin, golden reinette, irish peach, keddlestone pippin, kerry pippin, red ingestrie, red quarrenden, reinette du canada, ribston pippin, sam young, scarlet crofton, scarlet nonpareil, sturmer pippin, syke house russet, wormsley pippin. the following kitchen sorts are well adapted to this method:-�alfriston, bed-fordshire foundling, brabant bellefleur, calville blanche, cellini, cox's pomona, d. t. fish, duchess of oldenburgh, dumelow's seedling, jolly beggar, keswick codlin, lord suffield, manx's codlin, new hawthornden, nonsuch, waltham abbey seedling, warner's king. =for cold and exposed situations=, the following are the best:--bess pool, claygate pearmain, french crab, greenup's pippin, keswick codlin, nonsuch, sturmer pippin, tower of glammis, winter strawberry, wormsley pippin. =for cottage gardens=: alexander, bedfordshire foundling, blenheim pippin, king of the pippins, manx's codlin, new hawthornden, reinette du canada, ribston pippin, sturmer pippin, waltham abbey seedling, warner's king, wormsley pippin. =apple berry.= _see_ =billardiera=. =apple-blossom weevil= (_anthonomus pomorum_). this is a small beetle of a reddish-brown colour, with three inconspicuous stripes of a paler colour behind the head; the wing cases show a large pitchy-coloured blotch, with oblique striæ and yellowish spots thereon. the female busily engages herself in piercing the flower buds; while the male may be usually seen flying about the trees during the breeding season, which, of course, varies according to the earlier or later expansion of the buds. the female, by means of strong jaws at the end of the long proboscis, bores a hole in the bud, in which she lays a single egg, finally closing the opening, then passing on to other buds. the laying season lasts for two or three weeks, or, indeed, as long as the buds remain unexpanded; eggs are never laid in open blossoms. in warm weather, the eggs are hatched in six or seven days, usually about the end of april, into small, white, legless maggots, which feed upon the stamens and pistil; hence, although the petals are normally coloured, and expand, the flowers ultimately wither, and in some seasons very serious consequences have arisen from these injurious little pests. the maggot is fleshy, whitish, with a few hairs and a black, hard head; in a few days, it turns into a brown chrysalis or pupa, which, in turn, is changed into the weevil, only about a month having elapsed from the deposition of the egg till the weevil is developed. it feeds upon the foliage during summer, and hybernates in crannies of the bark, or under the soil at the base of the trees, during winter, waking up in the following spring to go through the same performances as its parents. _remedies._ some of the methods advised for the extirpation of the american blight will prove very useful for the destruction of this pest. clear away all useless portions of the bark and rubbish round about the tree during the winter, and many will be destroyed. place bandages of tarred cloth around the stem in spring; this will prevent the females crawling up, as they seldom fly. if a white cloth is placed beneath the tree affected when in bud, and the tree is severely shaken, a large number will be caught, as the weevil falls to the ground when alarmed. timely thinning of the trees, allowing the free admission of light and air, is also a very effectual preventive, as it has been proved that the greatest ravages are committed where neglect of this has been the rule; and that, on the other hand, in proportion to its being done, the pest has been lessened in numbers. =apple mussel scale= (_aspidiotus conchiformis_). this insect attacks the bark of apple and pear-trees. it is in outward appearance like the half of a mussel shell. under the scale is the insect. it is closely allied to the true scale insects, and has similar habits. the scales are about / in. long, brown, and wider at one end than at the other. the female is like a fat, green, fleshy maggot, without jointed limbs. the eggs of this curious insect are not laid, but simply remain in the body of the mother until she dies, thus leaving a protecting shield or case from which the hatched larvæ emerge. to get rid of this insect, therefore, the females containing eggs should be destroyed. it differs from most other species in the absence of the long tail filaments. if numerous, this scale causes the trees to become sickly and unfruitful. it is difficult to extirpate. _soft-soap lather._ when the leaves fall, in autumn, the trees should be treated with a stiff sash-tool, and all the scale rubbed off, keeping the brush just moist, and not rubbing the buds. applied for two seasons, this should clear the trees. all loose bark should be removed. _seal oil_ is sometimes recommended as a good remedy: but oils are rather unsafe applications to the bark of trees, especially of the young branches. [illustration: fig. . codlin moth and grub (carpocapsa pomonana).] =apple or codlin grub= (_carpocapsa pomonana_). during the month of may, the well-known codlin moth (see fig. ) lays its eggs in the calyces, usually one in each, of the young, quickly-growing apple. the moth itself is a small insect; the fore-wings are grey, prettily speckled with delicate, darker streaks, and with a curved golden mark on the hinder part, inclosing one of a reddish-brown colour. the hind wings are usually dark, as is also the body. the caterpillar, when hatched, is white, with black head and neck, and with four rows of black marks along the whole body. the colours soon, however, become less decided, taking an indistinct brownish or grey hue. after being hatched, the caterpillar gnaws its way down the fruit, keeping clear of the core, and gradually forces its gallery towards the rind of the fruit, which it finally pierces, the opening serving as the outlet for the dirt. when nearly full grown, it pierces the core and feeds upon the pips, which injury speedily causes the fruit to drop. the insect then emerges therefrom, and finds a suitable shelter in a cranny of the bark, where it spins a cocoon; and, according to british authorities, it remains in the larval state for some weeks, finally assuming the chrysalis form, and thus passing the winter; the moth emerges the following season. shortly after development, the moths pair, the female depositing eggs in the fruit in june or july, according to the season. practically, there is no preventive; but the following hints will serve to greatly reduce the numbers. all apples that fall ere they are ripe should be picked up as promptly as possible, and be given to the pigs; or pigs should be turned into the orchard to clear off the fallen fruit. the following is the only serviceable remedy: _hayband trap._ this is simply a loosely made hayband twisted around the stems of the trees, about ft. from the ground. the grubs, in searching for a suitable place in which to make a cocoon, will generally choose the bands. at the end of the season, all the haybands should be collected and burnt, and the stems of the trees from which they were removed should be cleared of any cocoons which may adhere to them. all loose bark and other rubbish should be removed from the tree trunks, and also from the ground below. =apple or codlin grub trap.= an exceedingly ingenious and effective method of alluring that obnoxious pest, the apple grub. the trap (fig. ) consists of two, three, or more thin pieces of board, in. to in. in length, and in. to in. wide, with a screw (_a_) through their centre. the screw must be long enough to be firmly driven into the trunk of the tree, so as to hold the boards in position. small slips of wood (_b_) are inserted between the boards, to keep them sufficiently open to allow of the entry of the grubs, as shown at _d_. the boards are cut on each side of the screw, as at _c_, to facilitate their separation when fastened together by the silken threads of the grubs, and to better expose the latter when the trap is opened. this handy trap, which is of american origin, is very cheap. a great number of them may be collected with little trouble, submitted to a killing heat, and replaced again; and they can be used either on the ground or on the trees. as regards killing the grubs when caught, mr weir, the inventor, says: "the quickest and best way is to have a large tin pan, bent in on one side, so as to fit closely to the trunk of the tree. when you reach the tree, drop upon your knees, place the depression in the pan against the trunk of the tree, hold it there by pressing your body against it, and you have both hands free to open the trap. when opening it, many of the pupæ or chrysalids will fall into the pan. the trap must be turned clear around, as many will be found between it and the bark. a person will open and kill the worms in from four hundred to eight hundred traps in a day." [illustration: fig. . apple or codlin grub trap. b, open. a, shut.] =apposite.= placed side by side. =approximate=, =approximated=, =approximating=. near together. =apricot= (_armeniaca vulgaris_). the apricot, or, as it was formerly written, "abricock," is a much esteemed and luscious fruit. it is said to have been introduced into this country during the reign of henry viii. the apricot is one of the earliest flowering of fruit-trees (see fig. ), and is generally in bloom during february. this fact is a great drawback, as it is a difficult matter to save the flowers from destruction by the spring winds and frosts. the fruit (see fig. ) contains less acid than most stone fruits, and in appearance it is perhaps the handsomest of all. success with its culture in many gardens is by no means certain, but with careful preparation of borders and protection of the flowers in spring, satisfactory results are often obtained. large quantities of fruit are annually imported to this country from france; but their quality and flavour cannot be compared with that of good home-grown produce. [illustration: fig. . blossom of apricot.] _propagation_ is effected by seeds or budding. the stones, selected from the best varieties, may be sown as soon as the fruit is ripe, in august or september, in light rich soil, and covered with about in. of earth, over which a little litter should be spread during winter. after one season's growth, the plants should be lifted, and the tap roots slightly cut back if the trees are intended for walls. they should then be planted in nursery lines, allowing about a yard between the rows, and ft. from plant to plant. [illustration: fig. . fruiting branch of apricot.] budding is the most general mode of propagating apricots. they are frequently budded from the beginning to the middle of june on seedling, and also on plum stocks, of which latter the mussell, saint julien, brussels, and black damson are the best. for dwarf trees, the stock should be budded about ft. from the ground. there are many disadvantages in having a great length of stem. "rider" trees require a stem from - / ft. to ft.; half-riders, - / ft. to ft. grafting by the whip method is sometimes employed, but, for many reasons, it is much inferior to budding. _planting, &c._ south-west and western aspects suit the apricot best, but the fruit has been ripened in warm localities on walls facing several points north. large areas of garden wall (see figs. and ), the walls of stables, barns, outbuildings, and two sides of at least hundreds of cottages, might thus be utilised for the cultivation of this tree. if well drained, almost any garden soil will bring these fruits to perfection; light, fibrous, rather sandy loam will, however, prove most satisfactory. there should be a considerable depth of soil; a yard is not too much, provided it be on a dry base, which is most important. heavy soils may be improved for apricot culture by the addition of an equal portion of light loam, mortar rubbish, or charred refuse. in furnishing walls, the distance apart may vary from ft. between cordons, to ft., ft., or even ft. between fan-shaped trees. the roots should be carefully arranged, interlayered at all points with fine soil, and the whole covered to a depth of in. or in. not only should the roots have a good covering of suitable earth, but a secondary one of litter, or other light material, should be added, to render them frost proof in winter, and drought and heat proof in summer. newly planted trees should, on no account, be allowed to get dry at the root. a thorough soaking of soft rain, or manure water, will often save a crop, and restore the trees, when all other surface remedies or appliances fail. surface sprinklings overhead with the garden engine, in the afternoons of bright days, are beneficial, and help to keep the foliage clean and healthy. so soon as the trees are cleared of their fruit, attention should be directed to the maturation of the wood. all superfluous shoots should be removed, any excess of growth left on the shoots cut back, and every effort made to perfect the wood already made, rather than force the tree to make more. unless the weather be very dry, water should not be applied after this stage. [illustration: fig. . apricot tree, showing method of wall training.] _protection._ it is almost hopeless to expect a crop unless the blossoms are protected, by mats or other means, from spring frosts. temporary wooden copings, from ft. to ft. wide, laid on iron brackets, are indispensable for warding off storms, and keeping other coverings away from the flowers. these should not be put up till the trees are just bursting into bloom, and may safely be removed about the end of may. a few fish or other nets, spread over the trees, afford considerable resistance to the radiation of heat. this is assuredly one of the easiest, if not one of the most efficient, modes of protection. frigi-domo and other thick shadings are sometimes used, but they require to be removed from the trees in the day time. the thinner nets mentioned are generally not in use for other purposes at this time of year, and may remain over the trees altogether. glass copings are the best, but, being rather expensive, they cannot be used by the majority of cultivators. they have, however, been applied with good results to trees that had previously failed. [illustration: fig. . apricot tree, showing method of training suitable for gable ends of cottages.] _cropping, &c._ thinning of the fruit needs early and careful attention. the average of in. apart may be chosen for a maximum yield. as the fruit approach maturity, overhanging leaves, or branches of young wood, must be removed, to admit sun and light to properly ripen and colour them. apricots for preserving should be gathered quite dry, and with the sun upon them. for dessert, they should be plucked in the morning, and placed in a cool room till wanted. _under glass._ the apricot will hardly bear forcing. it is more sensitive to heat than almost any other of our semi-hardy fruits. practically, it is found that a confined atmosphere, or the slightest excess of heat, brings its blooms off in showers, and this, of course, mars all prospect of fruit. but in cold climates and northern latitudes under glass is the best and only means of growing them. should red-spider appear, it is proof that the roots or the atmosphere, probably both, have been too dry; more moisture, and syringing over the leaves, are the surest remedies. the borders need to be about ft. or ft. in. deep, of any light rich soil. fresh planted trees should be frequently syringed overhead before and after the flowering period. after they have become fully established, less overhead sprinkling is needed. during all the earlier stages of growth, and until the fruit are stoned, an artificial temperature of deg. should not be exceeded. after that stage, the fruit will bear a heat of deg. or deg. it is hardly safe or desirable to exceed the latter under glass, and unless abundance of air is given, deg. may bring off the fruit, even at an advanced stage. a thorough soaking, at intervals of fourteen days during the height of the growing season, may be applied; and, should the trees be heavily cropped, manure water may be given at every alternate watering. it is also a good practice to mulch the surface of heavily cropped trees with in. or in. of good dung. the fruit should, however, be freely thinned to distances of from in. to in. apart at the most. there are three general methods of growing them under glass: the trees may be trained on trellises or walls; grown as natural standards, tall or dwarf; and as bushes, either planted out or in pots. _varieties._ the varieties of apricot, unlike most other fruit, are not numerous; and the following will be found in every way representative and satisfactory: =blanche=, or =white masculine=. a small and delicate fruited sort. fruit pale whitish-yellow, tinged with brownish-red next the sun, covered with a fine white down; rich, delicate, and sugary. =blenheim=, or =shipley's=.* very early and prolific. colour deep yellow; flesh medium, rich, and juicy. ripe in july. =breda.=* a small sort, of excellent quality. colour deep orange; flesh firm, juicy, and rich. hardiest sort grown. =kaisha.=* fruit round, much smaller than moorpark. colour pale citron; flesh tender, rich, juicy; flavour delicate and delicious; kernel very sweet. =large red.= the deepest coloured of all. fruit very large; colour deep reddish-orange; flesh rich and juicy; kernel bitter. =moorpark.=* the sort most generally grown; large, handsome, and of excellent quality. colour brownish-orange; flesh rich, juicy, and sweet. it is one of the best and most useful sorts in cultivation. =peach=, or =grosse peche=. distinct and very desirable. fruit very large; flesh rich, firm, and juicy. one of the very best. =royal.=* not unlike moorpark, but with a more robust constitution, and less given to limb dying. fruit large, dull, yellow, rich, and juicy. =turkey.=* a good variety. colour pale yellow; flavour rich and juicy; flesh firm. for modes of training and budding, diseases, insect pests, &c., full information will be found under each individual title. =apteranthes.= _see_ =boucerosia=. =apterous.= without wings. =aquatic plants.= the culture of aquatic plants, both indoors and in the open air, has been greatly neglected of late years; they are, therefore, rarely seen to perfection in places other than where their culture is made a speciality. generally speaking, they are most easily grown. the following stove and greenhouse genera are well worth attention: _aponogeton_, _cyperus_, _damasonium_, _herpestis_, _limnocharis_, _nelumbium_, _nymph�a_, _ouvirandra_, _pistia_, _pontederia_, _salvinia_, _thalia_, _trianea_, _victoria_. many species belonging to some of the foregoing genera are hardy, as are also the following: _alisma_, _butomus_, _calla_, _hottonia_, _menyanthes_, _nuphar_, _polygonum_, _sagittaria_, _trapa_, _typha_, _villarsia_. =aquaticus.= living in water. =aquatilis.= living under water. =aquifoliace�.= _see_ =ilicineæ=. =aquilegia= (from _aquila_, an eagle; in reference to the form of the petals). columbine. ord. _ranunculaceæ_. erect hardy perennial herbs with fibrous roots. flowers solitary or panicled, drooping; sepals five, petaloid, deciduous; petals five, concave, spurred; spurs very large, produced downwards into hollow tubes, and frequently curved at the extremity; carpels five, sessile, free. radical leaves on long stalks, twice or thrice ternate, with trifid-toothed, usually blunt segments. too much praise can scarcely be lavished upon this elegant genus of plants. they prefer a moist and sheltered situation, with exposure to the sun. the more robust species will thrive in ordinary garden soil, but the rarer and more delicate kinds require a good friable sandy loam and leaf soil, with good drainage. seed is produced in abundance, and must be sown very thinly, as soon as practicable after being ripe, in a shady place or in pans in a cold frame. when up, and strong enough to remove, the seedlings may be planted out where they are to bloom, allowing every plant at least in. each way. the strong-growing kinds may be placed in the border, the dwarf ones on the rockery. when in bloom, the inferior sorts should be weeded out, retaining only the best varieties. to obtain seed true of any species, it is absolutely necessary to plant the separate kinds far apart, and cover them with fine muslin, to prevent the access of insects to the flowers, as none are more easily cross-fertilised. division of the root is the only way to perpetuate any particular variety with certainty, unless seed is saved in the way mentioned, or imported from the native habitats of particular species. there are many beautiful hybrids, as well as species, in cultivation. =a. alpina= (alpine).* _fl._ from in. to in. in diameter when expanded, deep blue or blue and white, on leafy, two to three-flowered stems; spurs straight, but somewhat incurved at the apex, one-half shorter than the petal limb. may. _l._ with segments deeply divided into linear lobes. _h._ ft. alps of switzerland, in shady humid places, . plant this on the rockery. =a. arctica= (arctic). a form of _a. formosa_. =a. atropurpurea= (dark purple). _fl._ dark purple or bluish violet, about in. or - / in. in diameter when expanded, two or three in a head; spurs straight, equal in length with the petals' limb; sepals about as long as the petals. may. _l._ petioled, biternate. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia. border plant. =a. aurea= (golden).* a synonym of _a. chrysantha flavescens_. =a. bertoloni= (bertoloni's).* _fl._ about in. across, blue-violet throughout; sepals about / in. long, rounded; petals about the same length; spurs very short, knobbed; stems two to four flowered. june and july. _l._ small, dark green, and glaucous. a very pretty little alpine, growing about ft. high. syn. _a. reuteri_. [illustration: fig. . aquilegia c�rulea.] =a. cærulea= (sky-blue).* _fl._ several on a stem, blue and white, sometimes more or less tinted with lilac or claret, rarely pure white, when expanded - / in. to in. in diameter; spur very slender, nearly straight, green tipped, about in. long. april to july. _l._ large, biternate. _h._ in. to in. rocky mountains, . a very lovely species for the border or base of the rockery. syns. _a. leptoceras_, _a. macrantha_. see fig. . =a. c. alba= (white).* _fl._ the same size and form as the type, white throughout. rocky mountains. a very rare and lovely variety; sometimes met with under the name of _a. grandiflora_. =a. c. hybrida= (hybrid).* _fl._ blue and white, not so wide across as the type, but more numerous, and the plant has a much more vigorous habit. of garden origin. =a. californica= (californian).* a form of _a. formosa_. [illustration: fig. . aquilegia canadensis, showing habit and flower.] =a. canadensis= (canadian).* _fl._ scarlet, mixed with yellow, less than in. in diameter; spur straight, longer than the limb; styles and stamens protruding; sepals acutish, a little longer than the petals' limb. april to june. _l._, segments three-parted, bluntish, and deeply toothed at the apex. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . border or rockery; very pretty. see fig. . =a. chrysantha= (yellow-flowered).* _fl._, sepals primrose yellow, spreading horizontally in full expansion, nearly or quite in. long, tinted claret at the tip; limb of petals deeper yellow, not quite so long; spur straight, very slender, divergent, - / in. to in. long; stems many-flowered. may to august. _l._ biternate. _h._ ft. to ft. california, . one of the finest of all hardy perennials for the border. =a. c. flavescens= (yellow). _fl._ of a uniform bright canary yellow, tinged with red; spur somewhat shorter than in _a. canadensis_, and slightly incurved. california, . syn. _a. aurea_. [illustration: fig. . aquilegia glandulosa.] =a. eximia= (choice). synonymous with _a. formosa_. =a. formosa= (handsome).* _fl._, sepals bright red, usually less than in. long, with an obtuse green tip; limb of petals yellow, about half as long as the sepals; spurs / in. to / in. long, slender in the lower half, nearly straight, distinctly knobbed at the tip; stems many-flowered. may to september. _l._ biternate. _h._ ft. to ft. north america. border. the following are synonyms and varieties: _a. arctica_, _a. californica_, _a. eximia_, and _a. f. truncata_, revealing only trivial differences. there is a very beautiful hybrid known in gardens as _a. californica hybrida_, with the sepals and petals yellowish, or tinged with orange, while the long slender spurs are orange red; it is one of the handsomest of all. all the forms are very showy, and well worth growing. =a. fragrans= (fragrant).* _fl._ white or pale claret purple, finely pubescent, very fragrant; sepals about - / in. long, not reflexing, twice longer than the broad petals' limb; spur slender, slightly curved, knobbed at the top, same length as the petals; stems few-flowered. may to july. _l._ biternate. _h._ - / ft. to ft. himalayas, . this requires a warm position. =a. glandulosa= (glandular).* _fl._, sepals bright lilac blue, about - / in. long, more than twice the length of the petals' limb; petals white; spur / in. long, or but little more, stout, much incurved; stems one to three-flowered. spring. _l._ biternate. _h._ in. to in. siberia, . extremely pretty. see fig. . =a. g. jucunda= (pleasant). _fl._ rather smaller. very handsome little plants, freely hybridised, and it is necessary to keep raising fresh batches, as they are scarcely more than biennial. =a. glauca= (glaucous). _fl._ white, tinted claret, fragrant; sepals in. long, not reflexing; limb of petals / in. long; spur straight, or a little curved, about / in. long; stem three to four-flowered. june. _l._ biternate. _h._ ft. to - / ft. himalayas, . rather tender; plant in a warm dry position. =a. leptoceras= (slender-horned). a synonym of _a. cærulea_. =a. macrantha= (large-flowered). a synonym of _a. cærulea_. =a. olympica= (olympic).* _fl._ large, delicate mauve blue; petals white, rather shorter than the sepals; spur stout, short, obtuse. _l._ bi- or triternate, glaucous. _h._ - / ft. . mount olympus. see fig. . =a. pyrenaica= (pyrenean).* _fl._, sepals bright lilac blue, about in. long, but not quite as much broad; limb of petals about / in. long, and half as broad; spur slender, nearly straight, or rather incurved, nearly or quite / in. long, scarcely knobbed at the end; stem one to three-flowered, with small and little compound deep green leaves. summer. _h._ in. to in. pyrenees, . plant on the rockery. =a. reuteri= (reuter's). synonymous with _a. bertoloni_. =a. sibirica= (siberian).* _fl._ bright lilac; sepals very blunt, in. or a little more in length, spreading or slightly reflexing when fully expanded; limb of petals sometimes white, about / in. long; spur stout, much incurved, / in. to / in. long; stems many-flowered, glabrous. summer. _l._ biternate. _h._ ft. siberia, . rockery species. here are referred, by mr. baker, _a. bicolor_, _a. garnieriana_, and _a. speciosa_. see fig. . =a. thalictrifolia= (thalictrum-leaved). _fl._, sepals oblong, acute, lilac blue, about / in. long; limb of petals about as long, and rounded at the top; spurs slender, not quite as long as the sepals; stems about three-flowered. summer. _l._ with three-stalked segments cut into deep oblong lobes. _h._ ft. tyrol, . entire plant clothed with fine pubescence. =a. viridiflora= (green-flowered). _fl._, sepals oval-oblong, shorter than the petals; spurs straight and longer than the petals; stems two to three-flowered. _h._ ft. to - / ft. siberia, . border. rather a pleasing and sweet-scented green-flowered species, but not very ornamental. =a. vulgaris= (common). common columbine. _fl._ variously coloured; sepals ovate acute, about in. long, and half as broad; limb of the petal rarely exceeding / in. long, and half as much broad, rounded at the apex; spur much incurved, stout, knobbed at the end, as long as the petals; stems many-flowered. spring and early summer. _l._ biternate. england, &c. there are numerous varieties of this very handsome species, both double and single-flowered. =a. v. alba= (white). _fl._ pure white. =a. v. a. fl.-pl.= double white flowers. =a. v. cærulea nana fl.-pl.= very dwarf, with double deep blue flowers. =a. v. hybrida= (hybrid). _fl._, sepals lilac purple, oblong-lanceolate, less than in. long; limb of the petals white, about / in. long; spur scarcely incurved. =a. v. vervæneana.= this variety has pretty yellow mottled foliage. [illustration: fig. . aquilegia olympica, showing habit and flower.] [illustration: fig. . aquilegia sibirica flore-pleno, showing habit and flower.] =a. v. wittmanniana= (wittmann's). _fl._ large, bright lilac purple; sepals ovate-acute, in. to - / in. long, more than half as much broad; limb of petals white, about half the length of sepals; spur curved. a very fine variety. the following names are also met with in gardens, some of which represent specific forms, but none are effective as garden ornaments: _advena_, _burgeriana_, _haylodgensis_ (hybrid), _grata_, _longissima_, _nevadensis_, _oxysepala_, &c. =aquosus.= watery. =arabis= (origin of the word not clear). wall cress; rock cress. ord. _cruciferæ_. hardy perennial trailers, except where otherwise stated. flowers mostly white; racemes terminal; pedicels bractless. radical leaves usually stalked; cauline ones sessile or stem-clasping, entire or toothed, rarely lobed. most members of this genus are peculiarly well adapted for rockwork and the alpine garden, both from their natural hardihood as well as their early and profuse flowering habits. they are of the easiest possible culture in any dry soil. the perennial species may either be increased by divisions of the root, by cuttings, placed in a shady border during the summer, or by seed. the latter may be sown outside, or in pans, in spring, when most of them will germinate in two or three weeks. the annuals and biennials are for the most part devoid of any cultural beauty. =a. albida= (whitish).* _fl._ white; racemes terminal; pedicels longer than the calyx. january to may. _l._ few-toothed, hoary, or downy with branched hairs; radical ones obovate-oblong; cauline ones cordately sagittate, clasping the stem. _h._ in. to in. tauria and caucasus, . syn. _a. caucasica_. =a. a. variegata= (variegated).* a very pretty variegated form for edgings. [illustration: fig. . arabis alpina, showing habit and flowers.] =a. alpina= (alpine).* _fl._ white, smaller than those of _a. albida_; racemes terminal; pedicels longer than the calyx, which is smoothish. march to may. _l._ many-toothed, lanceolate, acute, villous with branched hairs; radical ones somewhat stalked; cauline ones cordate, clasping the stem. _h._ in. european rocks, in sunny places, . there are one or two varieties, including a variegated-leaved form, in cultivation. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . arabis arenosa, showing habit and flowers.] =a. arenosa= (sand-loving).* _fl._ rose coloured, very rarely white or bluish; petals obovate; pedicels spreading. april to july. _l._ villous, with forked hairs; radical ones pinnatifid, with the upper lobes much larger than the lower; cauline ones deeply toothed. stem branched, hispid, with simple hairs. _h._ in. middle europe, . see fig. . =a. blepharophylla= (fringed-leaved).* _fl._ rosy purple; petals roundish, narrowing to the base, with slender claws. spring. _l._ naked, except the margins, which are fringed with very stiff hairs; radical ones spathulate; cauline ones oblong, sessile. _h._ in. to in. california, . this succeeds best in a cool frame, where it will flower in january. =a. caucasica= (caucasus). a synonym of _a. albida_. =a. lucida= (shining).* _fl._ white; petals entire, narrowed at the base, twice as long as the calyx. summer. _l._ obovate, thickish, shining, clasping the stem. _h._ in. to in. hungary, . a very pretty species, with a dwarf habit; it is especially adapted for edgings, borders, or rockwork. =a. l. variegata= (variegated).* a great improvement upon the type, being broadly edged with yellow, and the green somewhat lighter. when grown in tufts or as edging, it is very effective, and should be prevented from flowering. this exceedingly desirable variety is a gem for the rockwork, and when seen in crevices, or in bold tufts, it is very striking. it must be increased by slips or rootlets, which should be taken in early summer. =a. mollis= (soft). _fl._ white, in terminal racemes. may to july. _l._ grossly toothed, somewhat pubescent, with small stellate hairs; lower ones on long petioles, cordate-roundish; cauline ones ovate-cordate, clasping the stem. _h._ ft. caucasus, . =a. petræa= (rock).* _fl._ white; petals ovate, with stalks. june. _l._ smooth, ciliated or scabrous, with simple or bifid radical ones on longish stalks, entire, toothed; cauline ones oblong-linear, entire, or toothed. _h._ in. or in. britain. =a. præcox= (early). _fl._ white; petals obovately cuneated, double the length of the calyx. april to june. _l._ oblong, acute, sessile, quite entire, smooth. stem covered with close pressed rigid hairs. _h._ in. to in. hungary. =a. procurrens= (procurrent). _fl._ white; petals obovate, double the length of the calyx. may and june. _l._ ovate, quite entire, smooth, ciliated with two-parted hairs; radical ones narrowed into a petiole; cauline ones sessile, pointed. stolons creeping. _h._ in. servia, . there is a brilliantly variegated form of this pretty species well worth growing. =a. rosea= (rosy).* _fl._ rosy purple; petals oblong, somewhat wedge-shaped, double the length of the calyx; pedicels longer than the calyx. may to july. _l._, cauline ones oblong, somewhat cordate, and rather stem-clasping, scabrous with branched hairs. _h._ ft. calabria, . =a. verna= (spring). _fl._ small, purple, with a white claw; pedicels shorter than the calyx. may to june. _l._, cauline ones cordate, clasping the stem, toothed, scabrous with three-parted hairs. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . the best annual species. =arace�= or =aroide�=. an extensive order of herbaceous plants, with tuberous rhizomes. flowers on a spadix, unisexual or hermaphrodite, protected by a spathe. leaves large, radical. well known genera belonging to this order are: _alocasia_, _arum_, _caladium_, _colocasia_, and _dieffenbachia_. =arachis= (from _a_, without, and _rachis_, a branch; plant branchless). ground or earth nut. ord. _leguminosæ_. a stove annual, of economical value. corolla resupinate; calyx a long tube, with a bilabiate limb; ovary stipitate, inclosed in the tube of the calyx; the stipe at first short, but afterwards becoming elongated. sandy loam is the soil most suitable for their cultivation. seeds should be sown in heat; and, when the plants have grown to a sufficient size, they should be potted off singly, and placed among other stove annuals. after the plant has finished flowering, and the pods begin to lengthen, the pedicels force them into the earth, where they ripen their seeds. =a. hypogæa= (underground). monkey nut. _fl._ yellow, five to seven together in the axils of the leaves. may. _l._ abruptly-pinnate, bearing two pairs of leaflets, without any tendril; stipulas elongated, adnate to the petioles. _h._ ft., or procumbent. south america, . see fig. . =arachnimorpha.= a synonym of =rondeletia= (which _see_). =arachnoid.= resembling a cobweb in appearance; seeming to be covered with cobweb, in consequence of the entanglement of long, white hairs. [illustration: fig. . arachis hypog�a, showing leaf, flower, &c., and cluster of short wrinkled pods.] =aralia= (meaning unknown). ord. _araliaceæ_. this widely-grown genus includes stove, greenhouse, and hardy, herbaceous and shrubby plants. flowers inconspicuous, umbellate, the umbels usually disposed in panicles; petals five, inserted on the margin of the disk; stamens five (see fig. ). leaves usually compound. these plants are of moderately free growth, and the majority are easy to manage. those requiring indoor treatment thrive well under the ordinary routine of management. one most important requirement, however, is that they must be kept well supplied with water at the roots. the finer, or stove varieties, should be potted in a mixture of sandy loam and peat, with the addition of a little fibrous leaf soil, and sufficient sand to keep the whole porous. the stronger growing kinds thrive in a richer compost. propagation by cuttings of the roots is a common and very successful method. to obtain the roots, one of the strongest plants should be turned out of the pot, and the roots should be cleared of soil by shaking or washing it out; the requisite number of pieces should then be selected. as each piece is removed, it should have the end nearest the stem cut horizontally, to distinguish it from the other or furthermost end. in planting cuttings of the roots, it is best to place the end nearest the stem uppermost. the pieces may be left about in. long, and should be inserted in pots, well drained, and filled with sandy soil, leaving the tops of the cuttings about level with the surface of the soil. a square of glass must be placed over the top of each pot, plunging them in moderate bottom heat. the stems of the plants from which the roots have been taken may be cut into pieces in. or - / in. long, leaving an eye or bud near the top; a slice of half the shoot may be taken off opposite the bud. when prepared, these pieces should be pressed into pots of sand or sandy soil, and plunged into bottom heat. the stems may be cut down without disturbing the roots; in that case, if the pots are plunged in bottom heat, and kept moderately supplied with water, they will probably throw up several suckers or shoots from the roots. these, if taken off with a portion of root to each, and placed in small sized pots, will, with a little care, soon make useful plants. all the hardy species and most of the greenhouse ones are propagated readily by cuttings or pieces of roots. some of the stove species, however, are very difficult to increase, except by grafting. among these are _a. leptophylla_, _a. veitchii_, &c. these should be worked on stocks of _a. guilfoylei_ or _a. reticulata_, the latter being the better of the two. cuttings of either of these strike readily, and stocks fit for grafting are easily procured. in sheltered and warm positions, the greenhouse species are admirably suited for sub-tropical gardening, either planted singly or in groups. _see_ also =dimorphanthus=, =fatsia=, =hedera=, =heptapleurum=, =monopanax=, =oreopanax=, and =panax=. =a. canescens= (greyish). a garden synonym of _a. chinensis_. =a. chabrierii= (chabrier's).* _l._ alternate, pinnate, about a foot long; pinnæ opposite, in. to in. long, linear-lanceolate, deep green, with a heavy crimson midrib. . suitable for table decoration. a charming stove species. [illustration: fig. . aralia chinensis.] =a. chinensis= (chinese).* _fl._ white; panicles terminal; peduncles umbelliferous. _l._ petiolate, coriaceous, woolly on both surfaces when young (only); pinnæ seven, ovate, serrated at the apex, erect and distinct. _h._ ft. to ft. . this species, if planted in a soil with a dry porous bottom, will prove to be hardy. syn. _a. canescens_, of gardens. see fig. . =a. concinna= (neat). _l._ unequally pinnate; pinnæ lobed and serrate. stem spotted. new caledonia, . a handsome stove species, but very rare. syns. _a. spectabilis_, _delarbrea spectabilis_. =a. crassifolia= (thick-leaved). a synonym of _pseudopanax crassifolium_. =a. edulis= (edible).* _fl._ numerous, white; umbels globose, axillary and terminal, united into simple or compound racemes. summer. _l._, lower ones pinnate, with five leaflets, or three pinnate, with divisions of three to five leaflets; upper ones generally simple, with stalked leaflets, having a cordate base, ovate, acute, finely toothed, downy. _h._ ft. to ft. japan, . hardy, herbaceous, perennial, hairy, and spineless. =a. elegantissima= (most elegant).* _l._ digitate, on long dark green footstalks, which are mottled with white; leaflets seven to ten, filiform, and, being pendulous, impart a very graceful character to the plant. stem straight, erect. south sea islands, . stove species, excellent for table decoration. =a. filicifolia= (fern-leaved).* _l._, leafstalks sheathing at the base, and terete in the upper part, expanding into a broad leafy limb which is impari-pinnately divided; pinnæ opposite, deeply pinnatifid, bright green, with a purplish midrib. stem and leafstalks purplish, thickly marked with oblong white spots. polynesia, . =a. gracillima= (most graceful). synonymous with _a. veitchii gracillima_. =a. guilfoylei= (guilfoyle's).* _l._ pinnate, on long smooth terete petioles; leaflets oblong-elliptic, bluntish, from three to seven, they are sometimes obscurely lobed, and irregularly spinose, serrate, varying in size from in. to in. long, neatly and evenly margined with creamy white, the surface being in addition occasionally splashed with grey. stem erect, copiously dotted with lenticular markings. south sea islands, . stove species. =a. heteromorpha= (many-formed).* _l._ sometimes ovate-lanceolate and serrated, and at others bifid or even trifid at the apex, about in. to in. or in. long, bright shining green. a very desirable species, of robust and compact habit. =a. japonica= (japanese). another name for _fatsia japonica_. =a. kerchoveana= (count kerchove's). _l._ digitate, almost circular in outline; leaflets nine to eleven, spreading, elliptic-lanceolate, conspicuously serrated or undulated margins, of a deep glossy green relieved by a pale midrib. . a very elegant slender-stemmed plant from the south sea islands, and likely to prove valuable for decorative purposes. stove species. =a. leptophylla= (slender-leaved).* _l._ compound, bearing often seven or more petiolate leaflets of a somewhat pendent character, and dark green in colour. . an elegant stove or greenhouse slender growing species. =a. longipes= (long-stalked). _l._ digitate, long stalked, and rather distant; leaflets oblanceolate acuminate, slightly undulated at the edge; petioles elongated. stems simple. north australia, . a very distinct erect-growing evergreen stove species. =a. maculata= (spotted). _l._ of a light green colour; leaflets oblong-acuminate, in about four pairs. stem erect, which, as well as the stalks of the leaves, is of a blackish-purple hue, thickly spotted with green dots. this peculiar colouring is very distinct and conspicuous. south pacific islands. stove species. =a. maximowiczii= (maximowicz's).* _l._ on long stalks, palmately five to seven-lobed; lobes lanceolate, - / in. long, serrate. japan, . an elegant and distinct hardy shrub, with erect spiny stem. syn. _acanthopanax ricinifolium_. =a. monstrosa= (monstrous).* _l._ pendent, pinnate; leaflets three to seven, oblong elliptic, deeply and irregularly serrated (this serration sometimes takes most fantastic forms), broadly margined with creamy white, the surface blotched with grey. south sea islands, . stove species. =a. nudicaulis= (naked-stemmed).* _fl._ greenish; scape trifid at the apex, shorter than the leaf, each division bearing a many-flowered umbel. june. _l._ radical, the divisions pinnately five foliate; leaflets oblong-oval, with a long tapering point, serrate. root horizontal, very long. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . quite hardy, herbaceous perennial. =a. osyana= (osyan).* resembling _a. leptophylla_, but with leaflets deeply bifid at the ends; surface colour bright green; primary veins and tips of the leaflets chocolate brown. south sea islands, . very elegant stove species. =a. pentaphylla= (five-leaved).* _l._ digitate, or sometimes only three leaflets are produced, each varying from in. to in. in length, and from in. to in. in breadth, deeply lobed or pinnatifid, bright shining green. stem arboreous, prickly. _h._ ft. japan. syn. _panax spinosa_. =a. p. variegata= (variegated). _l._ broadly edged with creamy white. japan, . =a. quercifolia= (oak-leaved).* _l._ opposite, trifoliate; leaflets deeply sinuate; lower petioles about in. long, light shining green. new britain, . very pretty stove species. [illustration: fig. . flower of aralia racemosa, enlarged.] =a. racemosa= (raceme-flowering).* _fl._ greenish-white, petals spreading; peduncles axillary, disposed in a terminal raceme, umbelliferous. june. _l._ petioles tripartite, the partitions bearing each three to five ovate or cordate, acuminated, serrated, smoothish leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . hardy herbaceous species, highly ornamental. see fig. . =a. reticulata= (netted). _l._ alternate, strap-shaped when young, becoming larger with age, dark green, reticulated with a lighter shade of the same colour. a very handsome species, requiring stove heat during winter. in spring and summer it is admirably suited for conservatory or indoor decoration, having a light and graceful aspect. =a. rotunda= (round). _l._ sometimes of a single leaflet only, which is spreading, orbicular, cordate at the base, margined with distinct white tipped teeth; at other times, especially when approaching maturity, the leaves are trifoliate, the leaflets being rounded and toothed, and the terminal one being about double the size of the lateral ones. stems erect, brownish-green, spotted when young with pale elongate blotches. polynesia, . =a. scheffleri= (scheffler's). _l._ on long petioles, digitate; leaflets five, petiolulate, lanceolate, attenuated at the base, serrulated, glabrous on both surfaces. stem shrubby, smooth. new zealand. greenhouse species. =a. spectabilis= (showy). a synonym of _a. concinna_. =a. spinosa= (thorny).* angelica tree. _l._ doubly and triply pinnate; leaflets ovate, acuminated, deeply serrated. stem simple, prickly (as are also the petioles), forming into an umbrella-like head, deciduous. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . a very fine hardy species for sheltered spots. =a. spinulosa= (small-spined). _l._ alternate, pinnate; pinnæ ovate acuminate, dark green, margined with little reddish-crimson spines or prickles. stems and petioles spotted and suffused with crimson. . a bold and robust stove plant. =a. ternata= (three-leafleted).* _l._ opposite, ternate; leaflets oblong-lanceolate; margins in some cases deeply serrate, in others sinuate, light green. new britain, . a slender growing species. =a. trifolia= (three-leaved). a synonym of _pseudopanax lessonii_. [illustration: fig. . aralia veitchii.] =a. veitchii= (veitch's).* _l._ digitate, with about eleven filiform undulated leaflets, glossy green above, dark red beneath; petioles long and slender. new caledonia, . a very handsome (said to be the best) species, with slender, erect growing stem. see fig. , for which we are indebted to messrs. veitch and sons. =a. v. gracillima= (most graceful).* _l._ alternate, spreading; leaflets nearly linear, but slightly narrowed at both ends, having a prominent ivory-white central rib. south sea islands, . an erect growing species, with an elegantly graceful habit. it is allied to _a. reticulata_, but is more handsome. this charming variety is undoubtedly the finest for table decoration, and is frequently grafted upon stocks of the typical form. it enjoys plenty of heat. syn. _a. gracillima_. =araliace�.= an order of trees, shrubs, or (rarely) herbaceous plants, often pubescent, and sometimes spiny. flowers variously disposed, hermaphrodite or unisexual, regular; petals usually five, and valvate. leaves alternate, or (rarely) opposite. this order is closely allied to _umbelliferæ_; and the best known genera are _aralia_ and _hedera_. =arar-tree.= a common name for =callitris quadrivalvis= (which _see_). =araucaria= (from _araucanos_, its name in chili). syn. _eutacta_. ord. _coniferæ_. a noble genus of di�cious or sub-di�cious evergreen trees, with usually imbricated persistent flat sessile scale-like leaves. male cones large, cylindrical, terminal; female ones very large, globular, terminal, with dense ligneous deciduous scales, each bearing a solitary seed. the majority of the species are not, unfortunately, sufficiently hardy to withstand our winters out of doors. few trees can compete with them in symmetry and elegant proportion for conservatory decoration, where they may be grown in large tubs, or planted out. small plants grown in pots are most serviceable for table and other decorative purposes. they thrive in a good fibrous loam, mixed with leaf soil and sand. propagation by means of seed is the surest and most satisfactory method; the seed should be sown in pans or boxes, or if in large quantities, in a bed, with but gentle heat; they usually take some time to germinate. cuttings are procured by taking off the leading shoots, and fixing them firmly in a pot of sand; they first require a cool place, but may afterwards be subjected to slight warmth. when rooted, they should be potted off into the soil above mentioned. the young growths which afterwards shoot from the plant, whence the cutting, may be taken off and treated in much the same manner. these are the only methods of propagation worth pursuing. =a. balansæ= (balansa's). _male cones_ cylindrical-conical, in. _female cones_ elliptic globose, in.; scales obovate, cuneate. _l._ arcuately-uncinate, ovate triangular, imbricated round the distichous, simple branchlets. _h._ ft. to ft. new caledonia, . a fine greenhouse plumosely branched tree. =a. bidwillii= (bidwill's).* bunya-bunya pine; moreton bay pine. _cones_ sub-globose, longest diameter in. to in., shortest in. to in. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, in two nearly horizontal rows, acuminated, slightly convex above, concave beneath, leathery, deep shining green. _h._ ft. moreton bay. habit very regular and symmetrical. greenhouse species. =a. brasiliensis= (brazilian). _l._ oblong-lanceolate, much attenuated at the point, loosely imbricated, deep green; lower part of the trunk usually free from branches, terminating in a rounded head. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . _a. b. gracilis_, and _a. b. ridolfiana_ are two forms of this species. =a. columnaris= (columnar). a synonym of _a. cookii_. =a. cookii= (cook's).* _l._ awl-shaped, short, densely imbricated around the frondose branches. described by mr. abbay as having "a somewhat curious habit, even when growing alone, of shedding their branches for five-sixths or more of their height, and then replacing them by a smaller and more bushy growth, so that the tree at a distance presents a very columnar appearance, the resemblance being increased by the summit being crowned with a mass of foliage somewhat like a capital." _h._ ft. new caledonia, . syn. _a. columnaris_. [illustration: fig. . araucaria excelsa.] =a. cunninghami= (cunningham's).* _l._ on the sterile branches needle-shaped, obscurely quadrangular, rigid, acute; on the fertile branches shorter, stouter, closely appressed, bright green; upper branches ascending, lower ones horizontal. _h._ ft. moreton bay. this fine species we have found to be quite hardy on the south-west coast of england. =a. c. glauca= (milky-green). a very handsome variety, with silvery glaucous leaves. =a. excelsa= (lofty).* the norfolk island pine. _l._ awl-shaped, curved, sharply acuminated, bright green, densely packed on the frondose, deltoid, horizontal, or pendulous branches. when well grown, this is a beautifully symmetrical greenhouse or conservatory species, attaining to a height of ft., and a circumference of ft. or more. norfolk island. this is especially desirable in a small state. there are several varieties known, the best being: _a. e. glauca_, having lighter green, and very glaucous foliage; and _a. e. robusta_, which is larger in all its parts. see fig. . =a. goldieana= (goldie's).* allied to _a. rulei_. _l._ produced in whorls, pendulous, dark green, varying in size. new caledonia. most distinct and elegant for conservatory decoration. =a. imbricata= (imbricated).* the monkey puzzle. _fl._, male and female catkins on separate trees; the males are six or seven in a cluster, pedunculate, yellow, and oval with numerous scales, imbricated, long, and recurved at the points; the female catkins are oval, with numerous wedge-shaped scales, with narrow oblong brittle points; they are produced at the ends of the branches. _cones_, when fully ripe globular, from in. to in. in diameter, dark brown. the branches are horizontal, inflexed, and ascending at the extremities, and are produced in whorls. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, sessile, thickened at the base, stiff, leathery, straight, somewhat keeled-shaped below, and strongly mucronate at the apex; verticillate, with seven or eight in a whorl, imbricate, and closely encircling the branches, concave, glabrous, shining, marked with longitudinal lines, dotted on both sides. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . a well known hardy tree, of striking aspect, and indispensable to arboreta and shrubberies. see fig. . =a. rulei= (rule's).* _male cones_ oblong obtuse; _female cones_ oval. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, with a prominent dorsal nerve, more closely appressed, and less sharply pointed than in the foregoing species; imbricated in four rows. branches horizontal; branchlets often quite pendulous. _h._ ft. papuan archipelago. =a. r. elegans= (elegant).* _l._ smaller; whorls of branches closer together; branchlets more slender. an elegant form; and, from its comparative dwarf and graceful habit, should be very generally grown. =arbor.= a tree. a perennial plant, having a distinct bole or trunk, from which the main branches grow. =arborescent.= having a tendency to become a tree. =arboretum.= a collection of hardy trees formed for pleasure or instruction, and which, when well managed, is a source of much interesting study. they afford shelter, improve the local climate, renovate bad soils, &c., and also, by concealing or hiding disagreeable objects, heighten the effect of agreeable ones, create beauty, and add value. a properly arranged arboretum should be constructed with a view to picturesque beauty, and not systematically, as is usually the case in botanic gardens, although scientific purposes are best served by a systematic arrangement. =arbor-vit�.= _see_ =thuja=. =arbour.= a seat surrounded by lattice work, covered by vines, wistarias, or other climbing plants. =arbutus= (from _arboise_, celtic for austere bush; in allusion to the austere quality of the fruit). strawberry tree. ord. _ericaceæ_. trees and shrubs, with evergreen alternate laurel-like leaves. corolla globose, or ovately campanulate; petals five, reflexed. very ornamental subjects for lawns and shrubberies, thriving well in a light sandy or peaty soil. they may be propagated by seeds, which should be sown in sand during march; by budding, and by inarching; the first mentioned method is the one most generally employed, with good results. the various sorts may be grafted, budded, or inarched upon _a. unedo_. the greenhouse species are rare in cultivation, but their management does not materially differ from other plants requiring a similar temperature. =a. andrachne= (andrachne).* _fl._ greenish-white; panicles terminal, erect, clothed with viscid down. march and april. _l._ oblong, bluntish, entire in some, a little serrated in others, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. greece, . a fine ornamental tree. =a. a. serratifolia= (saw-edge-leaved). _fl._ yellowish, disposed in rather large terminal clusters. _l._ serrated, and narrower than those of the species. syn. _a. serratifolia_. [illustration: fig. . araucaria imbricata.] =a. andrachnoides= (andrachne-like). a synonym of _a. hybrida_. =a. canariensis= (canary). _fl._ greenish-white; panicles erect, hispid. may. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, serrated, glaucous beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. canary islands, . greenhouse. =a. densiflora= (thickly-flowered).* _fl._ white; corolla oval; pedicels furnished with three bracteas at the base; panicle terminal, composed of closely packed racemes. _l._ in. to in. long, on long petioles, oblong, acute, sharply toothed, coriaceous, glabrous above and shining, but downy beneath, the middle nerve with rusty villi; branches angular, hairy. _h._ ft. mexico, . greenhouse. =a. hybrida= (hybrid).* _fl._ white; panicle terminal, pendulous, downy. september to december. _l._ oblong, acute, serrated, glabrous; branches pilose. _h._ ft. to ft. a half-hardy garden hybrid; it originated about . syn. _a. andrachnoides_. =a. menziesi= (menzies').* _fl._ white; racemes axillary and terminal, panicled, dense-flowered. september. _l._ broad-oval, quite entire, glabrous, on long petioles. _h._ ft. to ft. north-west america, . a noble hardy tree. _a. laurifolia_ comes close to this species. syn. _a. procera_. =a. mollis= (soft). _fl._ rosy, drooping; panicle terminal, crowded, racemose. june. _l._ oblong-acute, sharply toothed, coriaceous, clothed with soft pubescence above, and white tomentum beneath. _h._ ft. mexico. greenhouse shrub. =a. mucronata= (mucronate). a synonym of _pernettya mucronata_. =a. pilosa= (pilose). a synonym of _pernettya pilosa_. =a. procera= (tall).* a synonym of _a. menziesi_. =a. serratifolia= (saw-edge-leaved). a synonym of _a. andrachne serratifolia_. =a. unedo= (unedo).* the strawberry tree. _fl._ white, deep red in some of the varieties, nodding, in terminal racemose, bracteate panicles. september. _fr._ large, scarlet, nearly globose, granular, edible. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, glabrous, serrulated; branchlets clothed with glandular hairs. _h._ ft. to ft. west of ireland, and south europe. there are several varieties of this plant in cultivation. it is one of the greatest ornaments in the months of october and november--the season when it is in flower, and when, also, the fruit of the former year is ripe. =a. xalapensis= (xalapan). _fl._ reddish white; corolla ovate; panicle terminal, composed of many racemes. april. _l._ petiolate, oblong, acute, quite entire, about in. long, glabrous above, but clothed with brownish tomentum beneath; epidermis separating, brownish purple. young branches glabrous, but beset with ramentæ. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico. greenhouse species. =archegonium.= the female organ in ferns, &c., analogous with the ovary in flowering plants. =arctostaphylos= (from _arktos_, a bear, and _staphyle_, a grape; bears eat the fruit of some species). ord. _ericaceæ_. handsome hardy or half-hardy shrubs or sub-shrubs, agreeing in generic characters with _arbutus_, except that the fruit is five-celled and the cells one-seeded, and not granular on the outside. for culture, &c., _see_ =arbutus=. =a. alpina= (alpine).* black bearberry. _fl._ white or flesh-coloured, in terminal, reflexed racemes; pedicels rather hairy. april. _l._ obovate, acute, wrinkled, serrated, deciduous. stems procumbent, trailing. scotland (but rare), &c. syn. _arbutus alpina_. =a. nitida= (shining).* _fl._ white; racemes terminal. may. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acute, smooth on both sides and shining above. _h._ ft. mexico, . an erect half-hardy evergreen. =a. pungens= (stinging).* _fl._ white; pedicels close; racemes short, at first terminal, but at length lateral. february. _l._ ovate-oblong, acute, mucronate, rather pungent, quite entire, coriaceous, clothed with fine down on both surfaces; branchlets angular, downy. _h._ ft. mexico, . a dwarf, much branched, half-hardy evergreen shrub. =a. tomentosa= (tomentose).* _fl._ pure white, campanulately urceolate, bracteate; peduncles axillary, shorter than the leaves, somewhat capitately racemose. december. _l._ oval, acute, sub-cordate at the base, clothed with white tomentum beneath, on short petioles; branches hispid. _h._ ft. north-west america, . shrubby species; hardy. =a. uva-ursi.=* bearberry. _fl._ flesh-coloured, with a red mouth, growing in small clusters at the extremities of the branches. april. _l._ obovate, quite entire, coriaceous, shining. highlands of scotland and wales. a hardy evergreen procumbent trailer. syn. _arbutus uva-ursi_. =arctotheca= (from _arktos_, a bear, and _theke_, a capsule; so named from the roughness of the fruit). ord. _compositæ_. greenhouse herbaceous perennial, allied to _arctotis_. heads radiate; involucral scales imbricate in many rows, the outer linear, herbaceous, inner larger, scariose, very obtuse; receptacle honeycombed, bearing many little fringes; achenes ovate, somewhat four-sided, without wings or pappus. it thrives in a compost of peat, leaf soil, and loam. propagated by divisions of the plant, or cuttings, in spring. several species formerly classed in this genus are now included under _arctotis_. =a. repens= (creeping). _fl.-heads_ yellow. july. _l._ petioled, lyrate-pinnatifid, green and mostly smooth above, white-woolly beneath. cape of good hope, . a stemless, creeping or decumbent herb. =arctotis= (from _arktos_, a bear, and _ous_, an ear; in reference to the shaggy fruit). ord. _compositæ_. mostly half-hardy herbaceous perennials. involucral bracts numerous, imbricated, scariose on the margin; receptacle pitted, studded with bristles between the florets; achenes grooved, crowned with a pappus of membranous scales. the species of this genus are of easy culture in a compost of loam and leaf soil. propagated by cuttings at any time of the year; these should be pricked in pots of very sandy soil, and placed in gentle warmth; they must be kept uncovered and moderately dry, or they will rot. the arctotis are very handsome plants in sunny, dry positions outside during the summer months, but they must be protected during winter. a. acaulis (stemless).* _fl.-heads_ yellow and red. summer. _l._ hoary on each side, ternate, lyrate. stem very short, decumbent. _h._ in. cape of good hope, . very rarely met with. =a. arborescens= (tree-like).* _fl.-heads_, ray-florets white above, pink beneath; disk-florets yellow; disposed in large circular daisy-like heads. summer. _l._ linear-oblong, pinnate; upper ones amplexicaul; lower ones stalked. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =a. argentea= (silvery). _fl.-heads_ orange. august. _l._ lanceolate-linear, entire, downy. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =a. aureola= (golden). synonymous with _a. grandiflora_. =a. breviscapa= (short-stalked). synonymous with _a. speciosa_. =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ orange; outer scales of involucre reflexed, cuneate, oblong, with a broad short point, somewhat cobwebbed. july. _l._ pinnatifid, serrulate, three-nerved. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . syns. _a. aureola_ and _a. undulata_. =a. reptans= (creeping). _fl.-heads_ white, orange. july. _l._ hairy beneath; lower lyrate toothed; upper lanceolate toothed. stem ascending. _h._ in. cape of good hope, . =a. rosea= (rosy). _fl.-heads_ pink. autumn. _l._ spathulate-lanceolate, repand-toothed, hoary. stem procumbent. cape of good hope, . =a. speciosa= (showy).* _fl.-heads_ yellow; outer scales of involucre linear recurved. july. _l._ lyrate, pinnatifid, hoary beneath, three-nerved. plant stemless. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . closely allied to _a. acaulis_. syn. _a. breviscapa_. =a. undulata= (wavy). synonymous with _a. grandiflora_. =arcuate, arcuated.= curved or bent like a bow; forming an arch. =ardisia.= (from _ardis_, a point; in reference to the acute, spear-pointed anthers). syn. _pyrgus_. ord. _myrsineæ_. an extensive genus of greenhouse or stove, mostly ornamental, evergreen trees and shrubs. flowers white or rose-coloured, more or less panicled; panicles sometimes many-flowered at the extremities of the branches, and longer than the leaves, sometimes few-flowered and in the axils of the leaves. leaves alternate, rarely almost opposite, or three in a whorl, dotted. propagated by cuttings of the half-ripened wood taken from the side shoots of the plant any time from march to september; but, as the points of these side shoots bear the blossoms and fruit, they are not well adapted for making good plants. to obtain the best plants, the largest, ripest, and best-coloured berries should be sown early in spring, as soon as gathered, in a wide-mouthed pot or seed pan, well drained and filled with loam and peat in equal parts, with the addition of some sand, and plunged in bottom heat, the soil being kept moderately moist. the seeds will germinate in a few weeks after sowing, and when about in. high, the strongest seedlings should be selected and placed in in. pots, the same mixture of soil being used, with the addition of a fourth part well decomposed manure. after potting, the plants must be moistened overhead twice a day with a fine rose or syringe, and be kept in a close atmosphere until the roots have taken to the fresh soil. when the plants begin to grow again, they should be removed to a light situation in the house; and when the pots are well filled with roots, a shift into in. pots may be effected, water being given judiciously until well established, and here they may remain to fruit. until the berries are coloured, clear manure water, given once or twice a week, will be found beneficial. the plants arrive at their best when about in. or ft. high; after that, they begin to get naked at the bottom. it will then be wise to cut the worst plants down to within in. of the pots, in early spring, allowing them to become dry at the roots before this operation is performed. by giving moisture to the roots when the cut has become dry, the plants will soon break into growth again, when some of the worst placed shoots should be rubbed off, leaving only one or two of the strongest and best placed, calculated to develop into a well formed plant. when the shoots have grown in. or in., the plants should be turned out of their pots, the soil shaken out from the roots, and the long ends of the roots trimmed in a little with a knife; they must then be placed in a pot sufficiently large to hold the roots without squeezing. the plants should now occupy the warmest end of the house in which they are grown, care being taken in watering until new roots are formed, when they may have more air and somewhat liberal supplies of water. as soon as they are sufficiently advanced in growth, they should be transferred to a larger-sized pot. with proper treatment, they will flower and fruit the same season as they are cut down, and form handsome plants. although most species of this genus are classed as stove plants, they will succeed very well in a temperature that does not fall below deg. in winter; and, when so grown, they are not so liable to become infested with large brown scale and other insect pests. this is particularly the case with _a. crenulata_, and cool treatment is also favourable to the ripe berries hanging on the plants for a much longer time than when grown in a stove. moreover, they do not suffer so much when removed for decorative purposes. =a. acuminata= (taper-pointed). _fl._ nearly white; petals small, acute, dotted; panicles terminal and axillary, many-flowered. july. _l._ entire, glabrous, oblong, acuminated, attenuated at the base. _h._ ft. to ft. guiana, . [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of ardisia crenulata.] =a. crenulata= (round-notched-leaved).* _fl._ reddish violet; panicles terminal; pedicels umbellate. june. berries numerous, bright coral-like. _l._ lanceolate-ovate, tapering at both ends, repandly crenulated, pilose. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . when grown in a cool atmosphere, as previously alluded to, it is quite common for one crop of berries to hang on the plants until another crop is ripe. this is a splendid plant, superior even to the red-berried solanums for decorative purposes, for which it is largely grown. see fig. . =a. crispa= (curled). _fl._ small, drooping, red; cymes terminal, usually solitary, often compound; pedicels smooth, finely veined, umbellate, drooping. july. berries red, size of peas. _l._ bluntish, oblong-lanceolate, attenuated at both ends, with repandly crenulated glandular edges, glabrous. _h._ ft. india, . =a. humilis= (humble). _fl._ rose-coloured; peduncles solitary, bearing each a simple racemose umbel of many pretty, large, drooping flowers; petals lanceolate, first recurved, afterwards revolute. june. berries size of peas, shining, black, juicy. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acuminated at both ends, glabrous, veined, shining. _h._ ft. india, . =a. japonica= (japanese).* _fl._ white; pedicels red, sub-umbellate, secund, drooping; racemes simple, axillary. june. _l._ nearly opposite, or three to five in a whorl, on short petioles, cuneate-oblong, acute, glabrous, serrated; in. long. _h._ ft. japan. perhaps the hardiest of all the species. =a. macrocarpa= (large-fruited).* _fl._ flesh-coloured, dotted; petals ovate, obtuse; racemes terminal, corymbose, almost sessile, slightly hairy. berries vermilion coloured, as large as gooseberries. _l._ oblong, acute, tapering downwards, glandularly crenated, dotted, close together, leathery, in. to in. long, paler beneath, veinless. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . a beautiful shrub. =a. oliveri= (oliver's).* _fl._ rose pink, white eye: corolla rotate, / in. across; lobes obtuse; heads terminal, consisting of a number of stalked, many-flowered corymbs; pedicels about twice as long as the flower. july. _l._ nearly sessile, entire, glabrous, in. to in. long, by in. in the broadest portion; oblanceolate, acuminate, tapering towards the base. costa rica, . =a. paniculata= (panicled).* _fl._ rose-coloured; panicles terminal, composed of many alternate compound branches, large and elegant; petals and sepals ovate. july. berries red, smooth, size of a pea, juicy. _l._ glabrous, cuneate-oblong, almost sessile, reflexed, in. to in. long, and from in. to in. broad, crowded at the ends of the branches. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . =a. punctata= (dotted). _fl._ greyish white, sub-campanulate, secund, beset with dark dots, and the pedicels with dark lines; peduncles umbellate, terminal, and axillary; umbels involucrated by deciduous bracts. june. _l._ glabrous, lanceolate, leathery, repandly crenated, tapering to the base. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . =a. serrulata= (finely serrated).* _fl._ deep red; petals ciliated; calyces and pedicels coloured; panicles terminal; pedicels umbellate. july. _l._ glabrous, lanceolate, acuminated, wrinkled, serrulated, beset with rusty dots beneath; branches downy. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . =a. villosa= (hairy). _fl._ whitish, umbels axillary and terminal, very villous. october. berries villous. _l._ lanceolate, acuminated, villous beneath, crenulated, in. to in. long, tapering to the base, copiously dotted. china. all the upper parts of the plant are densely beset with hairs. =a. v. mollis= (soft).* this variety has very fine red berries, and is superior to the type. =a. wallichii= (wallich's). _fl._ red, in loose racemes; peduncles axillary, one-half shorter than the leaves, and are, as well as the pedicels, pilose. july. _l._ obovate, acute, or obtuse, narrowed into the marginate petioles, repandly crenulated, in. to in. long, and in. broad, thickish. _h._ ft. india. =arduina= (in honour of p. arduini, curator of the economical garden of padua, in the time of linnæus). ord. _apocynaceæ_. a singular and pretty greenhouse evergreen shrub, of easy culture in carefully drained pots of peat and loam, mixed in equal proportions. propagated by cuttings in sand, under a glass. the winter temperature should not be allowed to fall below deg. =a. bispinosa= (two-spined). _fl._ small, white, sweet-scented, terminal, corymbose. march to august. berry red. _l._ cordate-ovate, mucronate, nearly sessile, dark green, larger than those of box. spines twin, simple, but usually bifid; in this last case, one of the clefts points downwards, and the other upwards. _h._ ft. to ft. cape of good hope, . syn. _carissa arduina_. =areca= (_areec_ is its name in malabar, when an old tree). the cabbage palm. ord. _palmeæ_. this genus is now broken up into several, and many species formerly here arranged are now found under _acanthoph�nix_, _euterpe_, _hyophorbe_, _kentia_, _oncosperma_, _phænicophorum_. very ornamental and graceful stove palms, with a branching spadix, and double spathe, which incloses the flowers. flowers unisexual, borne upon the same spike; female flowers having six rudimentary stamens, and male flowers a six-cleft perianth. fruit one-seeded. they thrive in a compost of loam, peat, and leaf soil, in equal parts, with a liberal addition of sand; but when they are fully grown, loam should preponderate to the extent of about two-thirds, and some rotten cow-manure may be added. propagated from seeds, which should be sown in a compost similar to above, and placed in a moist gentle heat. they are employed, when young, with much success for the decoration of drawing rooms and dinner tables. =a. aliciæ= (princess alice's). _l._ pinnatisect; segments sessile. north australia. a very handsome species, with a comparatively dwarf habit; it is a valuable decorative plant. =a. catechu= (catechu). _l._ pinnate, from ft. to ft. long; leaflets in. to in. in length, and about in. broad, light green; petioles broadly sheathed at the base. _h._ ft. india, . one of the best and oldest species in cultivation, very effective, in a young state, for dinner table decoration. it produces the betel nut, of which enormous quantities are used in india. =a. concinna= (neat). _l._ pinnatisect, sub-glabrous; segments sickle-shaped, much acuminated. stem green, ft. to ft. high, in. to in. in diameter. ceylon. the cingalese chew the albumen of the seeds with their betel. =a. gigantea= (gigantic). a synonym of _pinanga ternatensis_. =a. glandiformis= (gland-formed). _l._ pinnatisect, ft. to ft. long when fully grown. _h._ ft. moluccas. a handsome stove palm, of bold aspect, and very suitable, when young, for decorative purposes. =a. normanbyi= (normanby's). a synonym of _ptychosperma normanbyi_. =a. triandra= (three-stamened). _l._ pinnate, like those of _a. catechu_ in size, &c. _h._ ft. india, introduced to britain about . =arenaria= (from _arena_, sand; in which most of the species are found). sandwort. ord. _caryophyllaceæ_. tribe _alsineæ_. a very large genus of hardy herbaceous plants, consisting of about species. it is distinguished by having generally three styles. the perennials only are worth growing; these are extremely pretty little alpine plants, and will thrive in any ordinary soil in exposed places; the rarer species may be grown in small pots, well drained, in a mixture of sand, loam, and leaf soil, or in well-drained crannies of the rockery. they may be increased by either division, seeds, or cuttings; the latter, placed under a hand-glass, will root freely. the best time to divide the plants is early spring, or july and august. seeds should be sown in spring in a cold frame. =a. balearica= (balearic).* _fl._ white, sepals erect; peduncles elongated, one-flowered. march to august. _l._ very small, ovate, shining, rather fleshy, ciliated. _h._ in. corsica, . a pretty little creeper, one of the best plants for covering damp borders of the rockwork. =a. cæspitosa= (tufted). synonymous with _a. verna cæspitosa_. =a. ciliata= (ciliated). _fl._ white, usually solitary; sepals ovate, acute, five to seven ribbed; petals obovate, twice as long as the sepals. july. _l._ ovate, or obovate, roughish, with a few hairs, one-nerved, and ciliated. ireland. _h._ in. a thick, tufted, spreading, procumbent plant. =a. graminifolia= (grass-leaved).* _fl._ white; panicle three-forked, hairy, loose; sepals very blunt, much shorter than the obovate petals. june. _l._ long, awl-shaped, filiform, scabrous on the margins from serratures. stem erect, simple. _h._ in. to in. caucasus, . =a. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ white, usually solitary; peduncles very long, pubescent; sepals ovate, awned, three-nerved, smaller than the petals. june. _l._ awl-shaped, broadish, flat, three-nerved, ciliated, radical ones crowded. _h._ in. to in. france, . _a. g. biflora_ is a two-flowered, and _a. g. triflora_ a three-flowered, variety. =a. laricifolia= (larch-leaved).* _fl._ white; sepals bluntish, triple nerved, hairy; petals twice as long as the sepals; stems ascending, one, three, or six flowered, somewhat scabrous; calyx cylindrical. june. _l._ awl-shaped, denticulately ciliated. _h._ in. switzerland, . =a. longifolia= (long-leaved). _fl._ white; sepals ovate, obtuse, not half the length of the obovate petals; panicle three-forked, glabrous, crowded. june. _l._ awl-shaped, filiform, serrulated. stem erect, simple. _h._ in. to in. siberia, . =a. montana= (mountain). _fl._ large, white; peduncles terminal, very long, one-flowered; sepals lanceolate, acuminated, much shorter than the corolla. april. _l._ lanceolate-linear; sterile stems very long, procumbent. _h._ in. france and spain, . =a. peploides= (peplis-like). _fl._ white; sepals ovate, shorter than the oblong petals. may to july. _l._ ovate, light green, rather fleshy; branches procumbent, fleshy, deciduous. _h._ in. to in. sea shores of britain. syn. _honckenya peploides_. =a. purpurascens= (purplish).* _fl._ purplish; pedicels tomentose, scarcely exceeding the leaves; sepals lanceolate, smooth, with shrivelled margins, longer than the corolla; branches two to three-flowered. may. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acuminated, glabrous. plant tufted, decumbent. _h._ in. higher pyrenees. =a. rotundifolia= (round-leaved).* _fl._ white, solitary; petals roundish-ovate, longer than the sepals. july and august. _l._ about / in. across, roundish, ciliated, on spreading tufted branches. _h._ in. to in. siberia. =a. tetraquetra= (four-angled). _fl._ white, somewhat capitate; sepals stiff, acute, keeled, ciliated, almost equal in length to the corolla. august. _l._ ovate, keeled, recurved, edged, imbricated in four rows. stem straight, pubescent. _h._ in. to in. france, . =a. verna= (spring-flowering). _fl._ small, white; sepals ovate, lanceolate, acuminated, with three remote equal ribs, longer than the obovate petals. may. _l._ awl-shaped, bluntish. stems panicled, elongated. _h._ about in. =a. v. cæspitosa= (turfy). a variety having very leafy stems. calyces and peduncles smoothish. europe. syn. _a. cæspitosa_. =arenga= (name of doubtful origin). syn. _saguerus_. ord. _palmæ_. an extremely useful and interesting palm. the medulla of the trunk is used as sago, and the saccharine juice forms excellent sugar. it requires a strong heat and rich mould. propagated by seeds only. =a. saccharifera= (sugar-bearing). _fl._ striped. june. _h._ ft. moluccas, . =areolate.= divided into distinct angular spaces, or areolæ. =arethusa= (mythological: named after a nymph of diana's, who was changed into a fountain; in allusion to the habit of the plants). ord. _orchideæ_. a small genus of very pretty, but rare, terrestrial orchids. they require a moist shady spot with a northern aspect, and thrive best in a compost of well-rotted manure and sphagnum. a mulching in winter, by way of protection, is needed. =a. bulbosa= (bulbous).* _fl._ large, bright rose purple, solitary, sweet-scented, terminal; lip dilated, recurved, spreading towards the summit, bearded-crested down the face; scape one-leaved. may. _l._ linear, nerved. _h._ in. carolina. =aretia.= _see_ =androsace=. =argania= (from _argam_, its aboriginal name). ord. _sapotaceæ_. a very fine greenhouse evergreen tree, said by don to flourish against a south wall, out of doors, with the protection of a mat in severe weather. it will thrive in ordinary garden soil. increased by layers and cuttings in autumn and spring, the latter requiring a bell glass covering; both operations must be performed in a moderately heated greenhouse. =a. sideroxylon= (iron-wood). _fl._, corolla greenish yellow, cup-shaped, five-parted, with ovate-lanceolate, sub-emarginate segments; lateral and axillary, scattered, crowded, sessile. _fr._ dotted with white, size of a plum, full of white, milky juice. july. _l._ lanceolate, entire, bluntish, glabrous, paler beneath; branches terminated by strong spines. _h._ ft. to ft. morocco, . as the specific name implies, the wood is excessively close and hard, so much so that it sinks in water. syns. _elæodendron argan_, _sideroxylon spinosum_. =argemone= (from _argema_, cataract of the eye; in allusion to some real or fancied medicinal properties). ord. _papaveraceæ_. very handsome annuals and perennials, abounding with yellow juice, and covered with stiff prickles. sepals two to three, concave, mucronate; petals four to eight; peduncles axillary, always erect. leaves sessile, repand-sinuated, usually spotted with white; recesses spiny-toothed. the species will thrive in almost any garden soil in the open border. seed may be sown out of doors about the end of march; those of the rarer species on a hotbed, and planted out about the end of june. =a. albiflora= (white-flowered).* _fl._ white; petals usually three. july and august. _l._ sessile, feather-nerved. _h._ ft. georgia, . hardy annual. =a. grandiflora= (great-flowered).* _fl._ large, panicled, white with yellow anthers. july. _l._ sinuated, smooth, glaucous, spiny-toothed; nerves unarmed. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . this species, when raised from seed, does not flower until october; but when the roots have existed through the winter, the plants produce flowers early in the summer. hardy perennial. see fig. . =a. hirsuta= (hairy).* _fl._ pure white, in. to in. in diameter. september. _l._ pinnatifid, bristly. _h._ ft. california, . a very beautiful hardy annual. [illustration: fig. . inflorescence of argemone grandiflora.] =a. mexicana= (mexican). devil's fig. _fl._ solitary, yellow; petals four to six. june. _l._ profoundly repand-sinuated, spiny, blotched with white. _h._ ft. mexico, . hardy annual. =a. ochroleuca= (yellowish-white).* _fl._ pale yellow, solitary; petals six. august. _l._ profoundly sinuated or pinnatifid, glaucescent nerves with prickly bristles, blotched with white. stem prickly. mexico, . hardy annual. =argenteus.= silvery. a pale colour resembling silver. =argolasia.= _see_ =lanaria=. =argiyreia= (from _argyreios_, silvery; in reference to the silvery undersides of the leaves). silver-weed. ord. _convolvulaceæ_. an elegant genus of greenhouse and stove climbers. sepals five; corolla campanulate. shrubs for the most part silvery, but sometimes silky and tomentose. the greater number of the species are robust, extensive twiners or climbers, usually requiring plenty of room to run, before they will flower. _a. cuneata_, and one or two others, are of dwarf habit, and produce their splendid blossoms in abundance. all the species grow well in light rich soil, or a mixture of peat, loam, and sand. cuttings root readily if planted in sand, with a hand glass placed over them, in a little bottom heat. =a. capitata= (headed). _fl._, corolla in. to in. long, rose coloured or purple, hairy outside; peduncles exceeding the petioles. july. _l._ cordate-ovate, acuminated, in. to in, long, and in. to in. broad, hairy on both surfaces; hairs glandular at the base. plant clothed with strigose hairs. silhet, . =a. cuneata= (wedge-leaved).* _fl._, corolla large, of a beautiful deep bright purple; peduncles downy, shorter than the leaves, three to six-flowered. july. _l._ obovate-cuneate, emarginate, glabrous above, but beset with short, crowded hairs beneath, hardly petiolate. stem clothed with powdery down at top. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . =a. cymosa= (cyme-flowered).* _fl._, corolla pale pink, tubularly funnel-shaped, villous outside; peduncles as long or longer than the leaves, leafy at top, and cymosely many-flowered. _l._ roundish-cordate, or reniformly-cordate, obtuse, terminated by a very short prickle, glabrous on both surfaces, or clothed with pruinose down. malabar (mountains), . =a. malabarica= (malabar). _fl._ rather small; bottom of the bell deep purple; throat pink, with the edges paler, almost white, and slightly ten-lobed; peduncles as long or longer than the leaves, many-flowered at the apex. june. _l._ roundish-cordate, acute, glabrous, or furnished with a few scattered hairs on both surfaces. coromandel, . =a. pomacea= (apple-fruited). _fl._ large, rose coloured; peduncles villous, exceeding the petioles a little, cymose, many-flowered. berry size of a cherry, yellow. _l._ ovate-elliptic, obtuse, clothed with cinerous, velvety down on both surfaces, but especially beneath, sometimes sub-emarginate at apex. mysore, . =a. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._, corolla nearly in. long, of a deep rose colour; peduncles about equal in length to the petioles, umbellately capitate. july. _l._ in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad, cordate, acute, glabrous above, or rarely villous, thickly nerved beneath, and clothed with silky, silvery down. india, . =a. splendens= (splendid).* _fl._, corolla tubularly campanulate, - / in. long, rather villous outside, pale red; peduncles exceeding the (hoary) petioles, corymbosely many-flowered. november. _l._ ovate-oblong or ovate-elliptic, entire or pandurately sinuated, sometimes somewhat three-lobed, smooth above, but clothed with silvery, silky down beneath, in. long, acuminated. india, . =argyroch�ta.= a synonym of =parthenium= (which _see_). =argyroxyphium= (from _argyros_, silver, and _xyphion_, a corn-flag; in allusion to the leaves). ord. _compositæ_. an ornamental greenhouse perennial herb. involucre campanulate; receptacle conical; heads pedunculate, racemose, or in thyrsoid panicles. leaves alternate; lower ones close, elongated, thick, on both sides silver-lined. stems simple or slightly branched. it thrives well in rich sandy loam and leaf mould. propagated by seed-heads. =c. sandwicense= (sandwich islands). _fl.-heads_ purplish. _l._ linear lanceolate, imbricate, clothed, like the stems, with silvery hairs. _h._ ft. sandwich islands, . syn. _argyrophyton douglasii_. =aria.= _see_ =pyrus aria=. =aris�ma= (from _aron_, arum, and _sana_, a standard; in reference to the close alliance to _arum_). ord. _aroideæ_. small tuberous rooted greenhouse (except where stated otherwise) herbaceous plants. spathe rolled round the spadix at the base; spadix bearing unisexual flowers below. and rudimentary flowers in the upper part. leaves peltate, pedate, palmate, or simple. for culture, &c., _see_ =arum=. =a. concinna= (neat).* _fl._, spathe convolute, tubular at the base; upper portion bent over at the mouth, and gradually narrowed into a tail-like appendage about in. long; spathe of the female plant longitudinally barred with white and green, the latter colour being replaced with blue-purple in the male. june. _l._ solitary, sheathing at the base, and made up of ten or twelve lanceolate, entire, light green leaflets, which radiate from the top of the petiole, the latter being ft. to ft. high. sikkim, . =a. curvatum= (curved).* _fl._ crowning a scape which overtops the foliage; tube of spathe cylindrical, green, obscurely striped with white; the elliptic blade arches forward, green on the inner surface, and brownish-red on the outer; spadix produced into a purplish-red tail, about ft. long. april. _l._ pedate. the large bracts, which sheath the base of the stem, are beautifully marbled with dark olive green, red, and light green. _h._ ft. himalayas, . syn. _a. helleborifolium_. =a. galeata= (helmeted).* _fl._, spathe about in long; tube and cylindrical side of spathe green, tinted purplish at base, with many longitudinal white lines; inside of the tube purple. july. _l._ solitary, trifoliate; middle leaflet in. long by - / in. broad; lateral ones in. long and nearly in. broad. _h._ ft. himalayas, sikkim, . =a. griffithi= (griffith's).* _fl._, spathe large, hood-like, brown-violet, with green veins; spadix brown-violet, and the barren end at the base above the flowers has a disk-like projection, while its free extremity is prolonged into a long thread-like appendage. spring. _l._ with bold roundish leaflets. _h._ ft. to - / ft. sikkim, . hardy; very handsome. syn. _a. hookerianum_. =a. helleborifolium= (hellebore-leaved). a synonym of _a. curvatum_. =a. hookerianum= (hooker's). a synonym of _a. griffithi_. =a. nepenthoides= (nepenthes-like).* _fl._, spathe above the tubular portion extended into two decided auricles, which serve to distinguish it from other species, ochre, brown, green; spadix yellowish spring. _l._ pedate, of five lanceolate or oblanceolate leaflets; central one in. long, the others shorter. _h._ ft. himalayas, . =a. præcox= (early). a synonym of _a. ringens_. =a. ringens= (gaping).* _fl._, spathe striped green and white, erect and cylindrical below, then arching suddenly over, and again contracting into a rather small deep purple orifice, with broad, reflexed margins; spadix erect, pale yellow-green. spring. _l._, leaflets three, ovate-oblong, acuminate, and produced into a filiform point; peduncle short. japan. hardy. syns. _a. præcox_ and _a. sieboldi_. =a. sieboldi= (siebold's). a. synonym of _a. ringens_. =a. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._, spadix deep glossy purple, greenish and white, with a long flexuous prolongation, sometimes nearly in. in length; spathe also terminating with a filiform elongation. march. _l._ solitary, trifoliate; leaflets petioled, dark green, conspicuously edged with blood red; petioles long, mottled with white. _h._ ft. temperate himalayas, . [illustration: fig. . aris�ma triphylla.] =a. triphylla= (three-leaved).* _fl._, spathe in. to in. long, striped with broad lines of purplish-brown, with about in. of green in the middle; spadix in. long, spotted with brown. june to july. _l._ on long stout petioles, trifoliate; leaflets entire, equal, acuminated. _h._ in. to ft. north america, . this is quite hardy. syns. _a. zebrina_ and _arum triphyllum_. see fig. . =a. zebrina= (zebra). a synonym of _a. triphylla_. =arisarum= (name of greek origin). ord. _aroideæ_. a small genus of half-hardy herbaceous plants, possessing but little horticultural interest, and allied to _arisæma_. flowers unisexual, spadix having no rudimentary flowers. leaves on long stalks, heart-shaped or spear-shaped. the only species in cultivation thrives in a sand, loam, and peat compost. propagated by seeds or divisions of the root in spring. =a. vulgate= (common). _fl._, spathe livid purple. may. _h._ ft. south europe, . =aristate.= having a beard or awn, as the glumes of barley. =aristea= (from _arista_, a point or beard; in reference to the rigid points of the leaves). ord. _iridaceæ_. a genus of greenhouse herbaceous perennials from the cape of good hope. flowers blue; perianth rotate, six-parted, twisted after flowering; scape two-edged, rigid, often branched. leaves narrow, sword-shaped. the species are more interesting than ornamental, and may be grown in a compost of three parts turfy peat, and one of loam. easily propagated by divisions and seeds. they vary in height from in. to ft., and flower generally in summer. =a. capitata= (headed). _fl._ blue. july. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =a. cyanea= (bright blue). _fl._ blue. june. _h._ in. cape of good hope, . =aristolochia= (from _aristos_, best, and _locheia_, parturition; in reference to its supposed medicinal character). birthwort. ord. _aristolochiaceæ_. a very large genus of stove, greenhouse, or hardy, evergreen or deciduous, climbing or erect shrubs. flowers axillary, clustered, or solitary, pendulous, of most extraordinary forms; perianth tubular, curved, or straight, with an oblique, cordate limb; stamens six, rarely four, or numerous, adhering to the stigma; capsule six-valved. leaves cordate entire or lobed. good loam, with a small proportion of decayed manure and a slight addition of sharp sand to secure efficient drainage, is a good compost for the whole. they will thrive when planted out in the conservatory more satisfactorily than elsewhere; for as they usually grow a considerable height before flowering, they require very long trellises in pots, and have to be trained up and down; or, better still, round a pillar of uniform circumference, a pyramid form being useless. the best way is to train them round, close down to the pot, and keep on about in. from one turn to the next. some of the larger sorts will require more room. cuttings root freely in sand under a bell glass with bottom heat. =a. anguicida= (snake-killing). _fl._ white, spotted brown; tube of perianth inflated at base, dilated and oblique at the mouth; peduncles axillary, solitary, one-flowered. december. _l._ on short petioles, cordate acuminate; stipules cordate-roundish. _h._ ft. new grenada, . an evergreen stove twiner. =a. barbata= (bearded). _fl._ purple, axillary, - / in. long; perianth straight; limb spreading; lip spathulate, bearded at the end. july. _l._ cordate, oblong. _h._ ft. caraccas, . stove evergreen. =a. caudata= (tailed).* _fl._ lurid; perianth cylindrical ventricose, and six-spurred at the base; lip cordate, cuspidate; the cusp twisted, filiform. june. _l._, lower ones reniform, lobed; upper ones three partite. _h._ ft. brazil, . deciduous stove twiner. =a. ciliosa= (fringed).* _fl._ purple-yellow; tube of perianth obliquely ventricose at base, stretched out, from the middle to the apex cylindrical, fringed; peduncles one-flowered. september. _l._ cordate reniform. plant glabrous. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. clematitis= (clematis-like). _fl._ pale yellow, upright; lip oblong, shortly acuminate. july. _l._ cordate. stem erect. _h._ ft. a hardy herbaceous perennial, naturalised here and there in britain. =a. clypeata= (shielded). _fl._ axillary; tube yellowish, cylindrical; limb elliptic, white, blotched with purple, long and large, funnel-shaped. _l._ subcordate-ovate, acuminate. columbia, . =a. cordiflora= (cordate-flowered). _fl._ axillary, very large, with broad cordiform limb, creamy yellow, with blotchy purple veining. may. _l._ cordate acuminate. _h._ ft. mexico, . =a. deltoidea variegata= (deltoid variegated variety). _l._ variegated with white. _h._ ft. columbia, . =a. duchartrei= (duchartre's).* _fl._ racemose; tube brown; limb cream colour, with purple blotches. january. _l._ reniform-cordate, acuminate. upper amazons, . _h._ ft. this stove species flowers from the old wood. syn. _a. ruiziana_. =a. floribunda= (free-flowering).* _fl._ numerous; limb purplish-red, with yellow veins, centre yellow. july. _l._ cordate ovate, acuminate. _h._ ft. brazil, . stove species. =a. galeata= (helmeted). _fl._ creamy, with reticulated veins. august. _l._ cordate, with broad open sinus. _h._ ft. new grenada, . =a. gigas= (giant). _fl._ purple; perianth large, cordate ribbed outside, reticulated, downy; tube inflated, contracted in the middle; limb large, cordate ovate, with a long tail. june. _l._ downy, cordate, acuminate; peduncles solitary, bracteate. _h._ ft. guatemala, . =a. goldieana= (goldie's).* _fl._ greenish outside, deep yellow with chocolate veins inside, bent into two unequal portions, the lower portion surmounting the ovary about in. in length, somewhat cylindrical, terminating in a club-shaped curved knob; the upper portion, commencing from this knob, is about a foot long, funnel-shaped, ribbed, dilated above into a somewhat three-lobed limb. stamens twenty-four--a very unusual number in the whole family. the enormous flowers are in. long by in. in diameter. july. _l._ ovate, or triangular-cordate, acuminated. old calabar river, . this noble climber should be repotted in fresh soil in february or march. but little water will be necessary until the young shoots have made about in. of growth; the quantity should then be increased with moderation until early in september, when the old stem dies down within a few inches of the surface of the pot--at this period, and during winter, water must be entirely withheld. this species blooms freely in a temperature of deg. to deg. =a. indica= (indian). _fl._ purple; perianth erect; peduncle many-flowered. july. _l._ elliptical, blunt, somewhat emarginate, slightly cordate. _h._ ft. india, . stove evergreen. =a. labiosa= (great-lipped).* _fl._ greenish; perianth incurved at base, saccate, two-lipped in the middle. july. _l._ reniform, roundish cordate, amplexicaul. _h._ ft. brazil, . stove evergreen. =a. leuconeura= (white-veined). _fl._ purple brown. september. _l._ cordate, acuminate. _h._ ft. magdalena, . stove species. =a. odoratissima= (sweetest-scented).* _fl._ purple, sweet-scented; peduncles one-flowered, longer than the leaf; lip cordate lanceolate, longer than the perianth. july. _l._ cordate, ovate, evergreen. stem twining. _h._ ft. jamaica, . stove evergreen. =a. ornithocephala= (bird's-head).* _fl._ purple, very large, and extremely singular. to render any description at all lucid, this species may be said to have the head of a hawk and the beak of a heron, with the wattles of a spanish fowl, which, however, are grey, netted with brown; head of the same colour, veined; and the beak grey. _l._ between cordate and reniform, obtuse. october. _h._ ft. brazil, . stove species. =a. ringens= (gaping).* _fl._ extremely grotesque, in. to in. long, pale green, marbled and reticulated with black purple. the perianth has an obovoid ventricose sac, or cup, - / in. long, which is woolly inside; tube ascending obliquely from the sac, terete, dividing into two very long lips, the upper of which (lower as the flower hangs) is oblong-lanceolate, recurved, and hairy inside below the middle, while the lower one is shorter, with recurved margins, and expanding into an orbicular or almost reniform limb. unlike many other species, the flowers are produced on the young shoots. july. _l._ bright green, glabrous, roundish-reniform. _h._ ft. brazil, . stove evergreen. =a. ruiziana= (ruiz's). a synonym of _a. duchartrei_. =a. saccata= (pouch-flowered). _fl._ purplish-red, forming a large pouch; throat circular, vertical. september. _l._ in. to in. long, and in. broad, scattered, ovate-cordate, narrowed at apex, slightly waved and sinuated, entire, more silky beneath than above. _h._ ft. sylhet, . stove evergreen. =a. sempervirens= (evergreen). _fl._ purple; perianth incurved. may. _l._ cordate, oblong, acuminate. stem prostrate, flexuous, somewhat climbing. _h._ ft. candia, . greenhouse species. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of aristolochia sipho.] =a. sipho= (tube-bearing).* _fl._ yellowish-brown; corolla ascending; limb in three equal portions, not expanding, flat, brown; bracts of the peduncle large, ovate. may and june. _l._ cordate, acute. stem twining. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . this hardy, climbing, deciduous shrub grows freely in a deep, free, rather dry soil. see fig. . =a. thwaitesii= (thwaites'). _fl._ yellow. march. _h._ ft. old calabar, . stove species. =a. tomentosa= (tomentose).* _fl._ purple; perianth with its tube twisted back, and much more deeply divided than in _a. sipho_, expanding, flat, and yellow, with the mouth of the tube of a deep purple; peduncle solitary, without a bract. july. _l._ cordate, downy beneath. _h._ ft. north america, . hardy. =a. tricandata= (three-tailed).* _fl._ dark purple-brown, solitary, split into three subulate tails. august. _l._ oblong acuminate, rugose, in. to in. long. mexico, . a curious, but pretty, stove shrub. =a. trilobata= (three-lobed). _fl._ purple; perianth cylindrical, broken saccate at base; lip cordate cuspidate. june. _l._ three-lobed. stem twining. _h._ ft. south america, . stove evergreen. =a. ungulifolia= (claw-leaved). _fl._ racemose; perianth brownish-purple, stipitate at base, above which it is swollen out in a globose or oblong form, with two thickened projections near the end; upper end of tube contracted, somewhat curved, terminating in a two-lipped limb, one lip large, ovate, the other minute. june. _l._ in. to in. long, cordate, and pedately five-nerved at the base, three-lobed below the middle, with broad sinuses, the two lateral lobes arcuate, and blunt at the apex. labuan, . stove species. =aristolochiace�.= an order of very curious plants, with singularly inflated flowers, consisting of a calyx only, of a dull, dingy colour. it is popularly known as the birthwort family, and has an english representative in _aristolochia clematitis_. =aristotelia= (said to be named in honour of aristotle, the greek philosopher). ord. _tiliaceæ_. a hardy evergreen shrub. calyx campanulate; petals five, inserted in the base of the calyx, and alternating with its lobes. easily grown, in ordinary garden soil, in the shrubbery. propagated by ripened cuttings, which root freely if placed under a hand glass; or by layers. =a. macqui= (macqui's).* _fl._ small, greenish, axillary. may. _l._ nearly opposite, stalked, oblong, acute, smooth, shining, dentate, permanent. _h._ ft. chili, . a shrub esteemed for its handsome foliage. the berries are about the size of a pea, very dark purple, at length becoming black. the variegated form is not so hardy as the type, but much more ornamental. =armeniaca= (from armenia, the native country of the apricot). apricot. ord. _rosaceæ_. tribe _drupaceæ_. small, hardy, deciduous trees. flowers appearing before the leaves from scaly buds, solitary, or few together, almost sessile. leaves, when young, convolute. drupe ovate-globose, fleshy, covered with velvety skin, containing a nut, or stone, which is acute at one end and blunt at the other, with a furrow on both sides; the rest smooth, not wrinkled. for culture, &c., _see_ =apricot= and =prunus=. =a. brigantiaca= (brigancon).* _fl._ white or pink, glomerate, almost sessile. march. _l._ somewhat cordate, acuminated, sharply toothed; the teeth numerous, and lapping over each other. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . =a. dasycarpa= (thick-fruited).* _fl._ white, pedicellate; pedicels filiform. march. _l._ ovate, acuminate, serrated; petioles glandular. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . =a. sibirica= (siberian). _fl._ rose-coloured. april. _l._ ovate, acuminate; petioles glandless. _h._ ft. to ft. dahuria, . =a. vulgaris= (common).* common apricot. _fl._ pinkish-white, sessile. february. _l._ ovate, or cordate, glabrous, glandularly serrated. _h._ ft. levant, . of this species numerous varieties, differing in the foliar outline, &c., are sometimes met with. _see_ =apricot=. =armeria.= (from _flos armeriæ_, latin name for the flowers of a species of pink). thrift; sea pink. ord. _plumbagineæ_. a very interesting and pretty group of hardy alpine tufted perennials. flowers pedicellate, collected in dense solitary heads; involucre scarious, sheathing the scape and turned downwards; petals cohering at the base, persistent; flower scapes leafless. leaves linear, radical. as the majority of the species differ in mere technical details, we have given a representative group only. they are easily cultivated in a sandy loam and leaf soil, and are increased by seeds and division, separate pieces being planted as cuttings under hand glasses; or the rarer kinds should be potted and placed in a frame. the seed should be sown in spring, in pots of sandy soil, and placed in a cold frame. although best grown as rock plants, most of them do well in pots and borders. _a. vulgaris_ makes one of the best of edging plants. =a. cephalotes= (round-headed).* _fl._ deep rose or crimson, in a large roundish head on erect stalk. autumn. _l._ broadly lanceolate, glabrous, acute; petioles channelled, sheathing at the base. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . this is perhaps the finest species, and is best raised from an annual sowing of seed, as it is somewhat difficult to increase by divisions. syns. _a. formosa_, _a. latifolia_, _a. mauritanica_, and _a. pseudo-armeria_. =a. dianthoides= (pink-like).* _fl._ light pink, in close heads about in. high. may and june. _l._ spreading, flattened, nerved, slightly downy. south europe, . =a. formosa= (handsome). synonymous with _a. cephalotes_. =a. juncea= (rush-like).* _fl._ rose pink, in small heads about in. high. june. _l._ small, erect, roundish, pointed, deep green. south europe. a very pretty little alpine species. =a. juniperifolia= (juniper-leaved).* _fl._ deep rose, in small densely packed heads. may and june. _l._ short, stiff, erect, juniper-like. _h._ in., with a dense tufted habit. spain, . plant in a warm well-drained portion of the rockery in very sandy soil, with some nodules of sandstone intermixed. =a. latifolia= (broad-leaved). synonymous with _a. cephalotes_. =a. leucantha= (white-flowered). a white-flowered variety of _a. plantaginea_. =a. maritima= (sea). synonymous with _a. vulgaris_. =a. mauritanica= (mediterranean). synonymous with _a. cephalotes_. =a. plantaginea= (plantain-leaved).* _fl._ bright rose; scapes taller than in _a. vulgaris_. _l._ broader, three to five-nerved, and with a stouter growing habit than the common species. _h._ ft. south europe, . a very pretty species. syns. _a. leucantha_, which is frequently called _a. p. alba_, and _a. scorzoneræfolia_. =a. pseudo-armeria= (false-armeria). synonymous with _a. cephalotes_. =a. scorzoneræfolia= (scorzonera-leaved). synonymous with _a. plantaginea_. =a. setacea= (bristly).* _fl._ light rose, in small heads about in. high, very freely produced from the axils of the leaves. april to june. _l._ in dense rosettes, erect, or nearly so, narrow, acute, the tufts having a bristly appearance. _h._ in. south europe. plant in a semi-perpendicular cranny of the rockery, with a sunny position. =a. vulgaris= (common).* common thrift; sea pink. _fl._ pink, rosy red, lilac, or white (the latter known as _a. v. alba_), collected into a rounded head on the top of the simple scape. june to august. _l._ all radical, numerous, linear, usually one-nerved, more or less pubescent. _h._ in. to in. britain, on the sea coasts. _a. v. alpina_ is a dwarf alpine form of this species. the white-flowered variety is very handsome. _a. v. laucheana_ is also a pretty form, with deep pink flowers in dense heads about in. high, and a very tufted habit. _crimson gem_, of garden origin, is stronger growing, with stems about in. high, carrying heads of bright crimson pink flowers, also of tufted habit. syns. _a. maritima_, _statice armeria_. =arnebia= (its arabian name). ord. _boraginaceæ_. handsome hardy herbaceous perennials or annuals, allied to _lithospermum_. cuttings should be removed with a heel in autumn, dibbled in sandy soil in small pots, and placed in a cool house, where they will ultimately, though slowly, root; they should then be gradually hardened off, and finally planted out. _a. echioides_ is also easily increased by making cuttings of the strong roots, which should be dibbled in pots of sandy soil, and placed in gentle heat; it is also raised from seed. =a. echioides= (echium-like).* _fl._ bright primrose yellow, with a purplish spot in the sinuses between the lobes of the corolla, which gradually disappears in a few days; spikes terminal, large, solitary, secund. may. _l._ sessile, alternate; margins-�as well as the stems-�ciliated. _h._ in. to in. armenia. one of the showiest of hardy perennials for the border or rockery. =a. griffithii= (griffith's). this differs from above in having narrower leaves, rather smaller flowers, which are of a more decided yellow, a differently shaped calyx, and a longer corolla. _h._ in. north-west india. equally desirable, were it a perennial; but, being an annual, it must be constantly raised from seed. =arnica= (from _arnakis_, lambskin; in reference to the texture of the leaves). ord. _compositæ_. hardy, dwarf, herbaceous perennials, allied to _senecio_. they thrive best in loam, peat, and sand; the plants are best divided in spring. seeds should be procured when possible, and sown in a cold frame, in spring. the only species worth growing are described below. =a. aronicum.= synonymous of _a. scorpioides_. =a. chamissonis= (chamisso's).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, - / in. to in. across, arranged in a corymb. july to september. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acuminate or acute, tomentose, tapering to the base. _h._ ft. to ft. north america. a rather scarce, showy species. =a. clusii= (clusius's). _fl.-heads_ yellow, solitary, terminal; stalks long, thickened towards the top, and covered with long hairs. summer. _l._ soft, radical ones entire, or nearly so, oblong, obtuse, attenuated into the petiole; cauline ones sessile, half stem-clasping, lanceolate, toothed in the lower part. _h._ ft. switzerland, . syn. _doronicum clusii_. =a. foliosa= (leafy).* _fl.-heads_ pale yellow, about in. across, from three to seven in a corymb. august. _l._ lanceolate, stalked, acute, denticulate, smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. stems springing from slender rhizome-like shoots. united states. closely allied to _a. montana_. it requires a damp situation. =a. montana= (mountain).* mountain tobacco. _fl.-heads_ yellow, three or four together, about in. in diameter; ray florets numerous. july. _l._ radical, except a few on the scape, oblong-lanceo-late, entire, smooth. habit tufted. _h._ ft. europe. . a very handsome but rare plant; excellent for a rockery. it is slowly increased. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . arnica montana, showing habit and flower-head.] =a. scorpioides= (scorpion-like).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, large, solitary; scape one to three-flowered. summer. _l._ pale green, denticulated; radical ones on long petioles, broadly ovate; the lower stem leaves shortly stalked, amplexicaul; the upper ones sessile. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . border. syns. _a. aronicum_, _aronicum scorpioides_. =arnopogon.= _see_ =urospermum=. =aroide�.= _see_ =araceæ=. =aronia.= _see_ =cratægus aronia= and =pyrus=. =aronicum.= _see_ =arnica scorpioides= and =doronicum=. =arpophyllum= (from _arpe_, a scimitar, and _phyllon_, a leaf; the leaf is sword-shaped). ord. _orchideæ_. distinct evergreen epiphytes. there are about six species known, and the genus belongs to the _epidendreæ_ division of orchidaceous plants; their general characters are: flowers small, numerous, in closely packed cylindrical spikes; anther-bed broad, shorter than the broad extension of the upper edge of the stigma; pollinia eight. stems rather long, with white sheaths. they thrive well in fibrous peat, one-third turfy loam, freely interspersed with lumps of fresh charcoal and an abundance of crocks. when growing, a liberal supply of water at the roots is essential, as is also a situation near the light, where they will blossom much more profusely than if in any way shaded. the flowers last in perfection about four weeks. =a. cardinale= (cardinal). _fl._, sepals and petals light rose; lip deep red, on upright spikes about ft. high. summer. new grenada. =a. giganteum= (gigantic).* _fl._ dark purple and rose, densely and symmetrically arranged on the cylindrical spikes, which are from in. to in. long. april and may. _l._ dark green, about ft. long, borne on slender pseudo-bulbs. mexico. =a. spicatum= (spike-flowered).* _fl._ dark red, on an upright spike about ft. long. during winter. guatemala, . =arracacha= (its spanish name in south america). ord. _umbelliferæ_. a half-hardy tuberous perennial, highly esteemed as an esculent in south america, where it yields a food, which is prepared in the same manner as potatoes, and is said to be grateful to the palate and extremely easy of digestion. it thrives best in rich loam, and is increased by divisions of the roots. =a. esculenta= (edible). _fl._ white; umbels opposite the leaves or terminal; involucre wanting. july. _l._ pinnate; leaflets broadly ovate, acuminated, deeply pinnatifid, profoundly serrated; the two lower leaflets petiolate, sub-ternate. _h._ ft. to ft. mountainous districts of northern south america, . syn. _conium arracacha_. =arrhostoxylum.= included under =ruellia= (which _see_). =arrow arum.= _see_ =peltandra virginica=. =arrowgrass.= _see_ =triglochin=. =arrow-head.= _see_ =sagittaria=. =arrowroot.= _see_ =maranta=. =artabotrys= (from _artao_, to suspend or support, and _botrys_, grapes; in reference to the way the fruit is supported by the curious tendril). ord. _anonaceæ_. a handsome stove evergreen shrub, thriving in a good sandy loam and peat, to which a little rotten dung may be added. propagated by cuttings made of ripened wood, insert in sand under a bell glass, with bottom heat, in early spring. seed, when procurable, should be sown as soon after receipt as possible. =a. odoratissimus= (sweetest-scented).* _fl._ reddish brown, extremely fragrant; peduncles opposite the leaves, hooked beneath the middle. june and july. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acuminated, smooth, shining. _h._ ft. malayan islands, . in java, the leaves are held to be invaluable as a preventive of cholera. =artanema= (from _artao_, to support, and _nema_, a filament; in reference to a tooth-like process growing on the longer filaments). ord. _scrophularineæ_. an interesting and handsome greenhouse evergreen shrub, allied to _torenia_. flowers disposed in terminal racemes, and on short pedicels. leaves opposite, sub-serrated. it may be treated as hardy during summer, for which purpose seeds should be sown in spring; but it requires the protection of a greenhouse during winter. artanema grows freely in light rich soil, and is readily increased by cuttings and seeds. =a. fimbriatum= (fringed). _fl._, corolla blue, large, tubularly funnel-shaped, clothed with minute glandular pubescence outside; lobes unequally serrated; racemes terminal, four to sixteen-flowered. june, november. _l._ lanceolate, acute, serrated, rough to the touch from numerous elevated dots. stem smooth, glossy. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland (on the banks of the brisbane river at moreton bay), . =artanthe.= _see_ =piper=. =artemisia= (from artemis, one of the names of diana). mugwort; southernwood; wormwood. ord. _compositæ_. a very large genus of mostly hardy herbaceous perennials, few of which, comparatively speaking, are worth growing. flower-heads disposed in spikes, or racemes, and these are usually arranged in panicles; pappus none; involucre few-flowered, ovate or rounded, imbricated; florets of the disk all tubular; of the ray, if any, slender, awl-shaped. leaves alternate, variously lobed. all the species are of the easiest possible culture in any dry soil. the shrubby kinds are best propagated by cuttings; the herbaceous ones, by dividing at the root; and the annuals, by seeds. =a. abrotanum= (aromatic herb).* southernwood. _fl.-heads_ yellowish. august to october. _l._, lower ones bipinnate; upper ones pinnate, with the segments hair-like. stem straight. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . a deciduous shrub; well known for its fragrance. =a. a. humile= (low). a low spreading variety. _h._ - / ft. =a. a. tobolskianum= (tobolskian). a much more vigorous growing variety than the last, and larger in all its parts than the type. =a. alpina= (alpine).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, solitary, on long slender stalks; scales of involucre lanceolate. summer. _l._ pinnate, covered with whitish silky hairs; lobes linear, entire. _h._ in. to in. caucasus, . dwarf, with a very tufted habit. =a. anethifolia= (anethum-leaved). _fl.-heads_ yellowish-green, small; panicle very large, densely packed, nearly ft. long. autumn. _l._ chiefly cauline, much divided into thread-like segments, greyish-green. stem shrubby at the base, nearly glabrous, branching at the top. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . =a. argentea= (silvery).* _fl.-heads_ pale yellow, roundish, closely packed. july. _l._ ovate-oblong, very freely divided, densely clothed with soft silvery hairs. _h._ - / ft. madeira, . a very pretty species, requiring a warm sunny position on the rockery. =a. cana= (hoary).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, small, uninteresting, ovate, in a close spiky panicle. august. _l._ silky, hoary; lower ones wedge-shaped, sharply three-cleft; cauline ones linear-lanceolate, three-nerved. stem ascending; branches erect. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . this is a very distinct species, and its silvery leaves and stems render it well worthy of cultivation. =a. c�rulescens= (bluish).* _fl.-heads_ bluish, erect, cylindrical. august. _l._ hoary, most of them lanceolate, entire, tapering at the base; lower ones variously divided. _h._ ft. south europe. an ornamental evergreen shrub. =a. dracunculus.=* tarragon. _fl.-heads_ whitish green; racemes panicled; heads sub-globose. july. _l._, radical ones three-fid; cauline ones sessile, linear or linear-oblong, acute, entire, toothed. _h._ ft. south europe, . _see_ =tarragon=. =a. frigida= (frigid). _fl.-heads_ yellow, uninteresting, small, roundish, racemosely panicled. august. _l._ pinnate; segments narrow, silvery. _h._ ft. siberia, . a pretty creeping, herbaceous plant. =a. maritima= (maritime). _fl.-heads_ brown; racemes oblong, erect or drooping. august and september. _l._ downy, bipinnatifid, oblong; segments linear. britain. a much branched, erect, or decumbent plant, excellent for rough rockwork or very dry banks, etc. =a. mutellina= (mutellina).* _fl.-heads_ yellowish-green; lower ones stalked, upper ones sessile. july. _l._ all palmate, multifid, white. stem quite simple. _h._ in. european alps, . =a. pontica= (pontine). _fl.-heads_ yellow, roundish, stalked, nodding. september. _l._ downy beneath; cauline ones bipinnate; leaflets linear. _h._ ft. austria, . =a. rupestris= (rock). _fl.-heads_ brown, globose, stalked, nodding. august. _l._ sub-pubescent; cauline ones pinnatifid; leaflets linear, acute. _h._ in. norway, &c., . =a. scoparia= (twiggy-branched). _fl.-heads_ small, whitish; panicle broad, densely packed, about - / ft. long. autumn. _l._ much divided; segments hair-like; lower branches very slender. _h._ ft. to ft. east europe. =a. spicata= (spicate). _fl.-heads_ brown, spicate. june and july. _l._ hoary; radical ones palmate multifid; cauline ones pinnatifid; upper linear, entire, blunt. stem quite simple. _h._ ft. switzerland, . =a. stelleriana= (steller's).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, uninteresting, round, somewhat erect. summer. _l._, lower ones spathulate-incised; upper ones obtusely lobed; end lobes often confluent, about in. long, silvery white. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia. =a. tanacetifolia= (tanacetum-leaved). _fl.-heads_ brownish; racemes simple, terminal. summer. _l._ bipinnate; lobes linear sub-lanceolate, entire, acuminated, rather downy. stem sometimes branching at the base, herbaceous. _h._ - / ft. siberia, . =a. vulgaris= (common).* mugwort. _fl.-heads_ yellow, somewhat racemed, ovate. august. _l._ pinnatifid; segments white, and downy beneath. stems ft. to ft. high, furrowed. britain. the variegated form of this species exhibits a very pleasing contrast. there is also a pretty variety with golden leaves. =arthrophyllum madagascariense.= _see_ =phyllarthron bojeriana=. =arthropodium= (from _arthron_, a joint, and _pous_, a foot; the footstalks of the flowers being jointed). ord. _liliaceæ_. very pretty greenhouse herbaceous perennials, allied to _anthericum_. flowers purplish or white, in loose racemes. leaves grass-like, radical. they thrive well in a compost of sandy loam and peat, and may be increased freely by divisions or seeds. =a. cirratum= (curled). _fl._ white; racemes divided; bracteas leafy. may. _l._ lanceolate, ensiform, spreading, ft. long. _h._ ft. new zealand, . =a. fimbriatum= (fringed). _fl._ white. july. _h._ - / ft. new holland, . =a. neo-caledonicum= (new caledonian).* _fl._ small, white, on a much-branched, many-flowered panicle. may. _l._ tufted, linear-lanceolate, barred with black linear markings near the base. _h._ - / ft. new caledonia, . =a. paniculatum= (panicled).* _fl._ white; racemes divided; pedicels clustered; inner sepals crenulate. may. _l._ narrowly lanceolate. _h._ ft. new south wales, . _a. minus_ is a small form of this species. =a. pendulum= (pendulous).* _fl._ white, clustered in threes, pendulous. june to august. _l._ linear, keeled, shorter than the branched scape. _h._ - / ft. new holland, . =arthropteris.= _see_ =nephrodium= and =nephrolepis=. =arthrostemma= (from _arthron_, a joint, and _stemon_, a stamen; in reference to the stamens or connectives being jointed). ord. _melastomaceæ_. beautiful stove or greenhouse evergreen shrubs. tube of calyx turbinate or campanulate, usually clothed with bristles, pili, or scales; lobes four, lanceolate, permanent, without any appendages between them; petals four. a mixture of loam, peat, and sand, suits them best; and cuttings of small firm side shoots will root, in april or august, under a hand glass in sandy soil. only three or four out of the half-dozen species belonging to this genus have been as yet introduced. =a. fragile= (brittle). _fl._ rosy; cymes loose, terminal, few-flowered; calyx glandular. july. _l._ ovate-cordate, acute, five-nerved, serrated; branches tetragonal, beset with glandular hairs. _h._ ft. mexico, . stove species. =a. nitida= (glossy-leaved). _fl._ lilac; peduncles axillary towards the top of the branches, three-flowered, longer than the petioles. june. _l._ ovate, acute, serrulated, glabrous on both surfaces, shining above, but glandularly hispid on the nerves beneath. stems shrubby, erect, and are, as well as the branches, tetragonally winged, beset with coloured hairs. _h._ ft. to ft. buenos ayres, greenhouse species. =a. versicolor= (changeable-flowered). _fl._, petals obovate, ciliated, at first white, but at length becoming reddish, terminal, solitary. september. _l._ petiolate, ovate, serrulated, five-nerved, discoloured beneath. plant shrubby; hairy. _h._ ft. brazil (on the sea shore), . stove species. =arthrotaxis.= _see_ =athrotaxis=. =artichoke, globe.= (_cynara scolymus_, a cultivated form of _c. cardunculus_). as a vegetable, the globe artichoke is cultivated for the use of the immature flower-heads, and is highly esteemed. a good open position, free from overhanging trees, is best suited for its culture generally, but, by planting successional suckers in different aspects, the season may be considerably prolonged. the soil must be of good depth, rich, and not too heavy. it may be greatly improved for artichoke culture by the addition of sea-weeds or salt applied as manure. [illustration: fig. . globe artichoke.] _preparation of soil._ trench the ground two spits deep if possible, mixing a liberal dressing of well-rotted manure in autumn, and ridge up for the winter, to sweeten. crude manure full of straw, leaves, and sticks, often induce fungoid growths, and are most injurious to the crowns of the plants. clay or stiff loam is about the worst soil on which to attempt the culture of this vegetable; this drawback may, however, to some extent be alleviated by the addition and thorough amalgamation of a light free soil or liberal dressings of sandy road drifts, or similar materials. an ill-drained soil is also fatal to good results. during hot, dry weather, the plants are greatly benefited by copious applications of clear water and dilute liquid manure; and this must be especially attended to on such soils as are liable to burn or dry up in summer. _cultivation._ when the beds have been properly prepared, the plants should be put in them in april or may. place three together in rows between ft. and ft. apart, and about ft. from plant to plant. water-in carefully to settle the soil around the roots, and apply a mulching of half-decayed manure, to prevent an undue evaporation of moisture. during hot, dry weather, give liberal supplies of water, and the plants will become established as fine stools the first season. a few heads will probably be produced the first year; but there will not be much of a crop until the second season, when five or six good heads will be got from each plant, and for three or four years the produce will be large if the beds are properly attended to; after which time it will become desirable to make up new plantations. in october or november, it will be necessary to apply a good mulching of straw or fern to the beds, to protect the plants from frost. in april, all this litter should be cleaned off, a dressing of rotten manure applied, and the beds forked over and kept clean for the rest of the season, treating as before described. great care must be taken to remove the heads as soon as they are in a fit state; and, when the whole of them are removed from the stems, cut the latter out as low as possible. globe artichokes will keep for some considerable time if laid in a cool place, although they will deteriorate in quality. these plants may be used in the background of flower borders in the kitchen garden, their handsome foliage being peculiarly well adapted for such purposes, whilst their economical value is also secured. see fig. . where there is plenty of room in light, warm sheds, orchard houses, or other places where frost can be kept out, some stools can be taken up with the root intact in the early part of november, placed in boxes of soil, and well watered-in. when drained, the boxes may be put in any of those positions for their winter quarters, and, if kept moist, will develop much earlier than the outdoor crops, provided they are planted out early in april on a warm border, and protected with mats when the weather is cold. propagation may be effected by seeds, or by suckers from the old stools, the latter being the better plan. in the former case, sow the seeds in march, on a gentle hotbed, and prick the seedlings off singly, when large enough, into small pots. harden off by the last week in may, and plant out in threes as previously recommended, protecting the plants from late frosts. during the growing season, give an abundance of water and liquid manure mulching, to prevent undue evaporation. in november, well cover with dry litter which will not heat; and, in hard frosts, or heavy snow, throw a few mats over the beds, uncovering at the same time as recommended above for the older plants. to propagate by rooted offsets or suckers, take up and divide the stools, when they have made a fair amount of growth in april or early in may, separating the suckers with as many roots and as much soil adhering to them as possible. the old woody portions are of little use, but they may be replanted to give off a fresh supply of suckers for the next year, if required. propagation by suckers, if they are to be obtained, has many advantages; but care must be taken, in removing them from old plants, that some roots are attached, or growth will be uncertain. seeds generally produce a large percentage of plants that are useless, and this is not found out until the flower-heads appear. on the other hand, suckers reproduce the parent plant, and if these are previously selected, the superior stock is thereby perpetuated. _sorts._ the green and purple are the best for ordinary purposes; and of these preference should be given to the former. _see also_ =cynara=. =artichoke, jerusalem= (_helianthus tuberosus_). a hardy tuberous-rooted herbaceous perennial, native of brazil. the roots are used as a vegetable principally during the winter, sometimes as a dish, but more generally for flavouring purposes. plants will grow in almost any position, but the best results and largest tubers are obtained where they receive plenty of room and liberal treatment. their culture has been recommended as a substitute for the potato, but they are not likely to take the place of this vegetable, the flavour being disliked by many persons. a few are, however, generally acceptable. _cultivation._ to ensure the most successful results, trench over a piece of ground in autumn, and give a light dressing of manure. fork over in march; at the same time plant good-shaped tubers (see fig. ) in rows about ft. apart, and allow from in. to ft. between the tubers in the rows. keep clear of weeds; and, as soon as the foliage is yellow, in the latter part of the autumn, the roots will be fit for use. the best plan with this crop is to leave it in the ground till wanted, or till the end of february, and then to take up every tuber, replanting those which are wanted for stock, and storing the others away in a cold dry place. when they commence growth, they turn black, and are of little use for cooking, save for flavouring soups. this vegetable has of late years grown into favour as a marketable crop, and the demand seems to be increasing. considering its very easy culture, it is fairly remunerative. _see also_ =helianthus=. [illustration: fig. . tubers of jerusalem artichoke.] =articulate, articulated.= jointed; having joints. =artillery plant.= _see_ =pilea microphylla=. =artocarpe�.= a tribe of the large order _urticaceæ_. =artocarpus= (from _artos_, bread, and _carpos_, fruit; the fruit, when baked, resembling bread). bread fruit. syns. _polyphema_, _rademachia_, _rima_. ord. _urticaceæ_. tribe _artocarpeæ_. included in this most remarkable tribe, in addition to the bread fruit tree, is the virulent poisonous _antiaris toxicaria_, and the economic cow tree (_brosimum galactodendron_), of caraccas. a genus of stove evergreen trees, requiring a high and very moist atmosphere, a copious supply of water, perfect drainage, and a compost of two parts rich loam and one of leaf mould, with the addition of a little silver sand. under all conditions, this genus is difficult to propagate; the young and slender lateral growths are adapted for cuttings; and suckers may be utilised when procurable, which is very rare. =a. cannoni= (cannon's).* _l._ alternate, petiolate; petiole and midrib bright red; upper surface glossy, of a rich, full bronzy crimson hue, beautifully tinted with purple; under surface bright vinous red. the leaves vary much in form; some are simple and cordate at the base, with the apex irregularly lobate; some have the apex regularly three-lobed, with short, entire lobes; and others, again, are deep three-lobed, being divided nearly to the base, the segments, of which the centre one is largest, being slightly sinuate-lobed. _h._ ft. society islands, . this is a most distinct and handsome ornamental-leaved plant. =a. incisa= (incised).* true bread fruit. _l._ from ft. to ft. long, deeply lobed or incised, deep green on the upper side, paler below. _h._ ft. south sea islands, . this is a noble tree when full grown, and forms a most distinct and beautiful stove plant. the extraordinary fruit is produced from the axils of the leaves in large globular heads, and is highly valued as an article of food in its native country. =a. integrifolia= (entire-leaved). _l._ oblong, undivided, sinuated, scabrous, downy beneath. _h._ ft. india, . =a. laciniata metallica= (laciniate, metallic). _l._ bronzy above, reddish purple beneath. polynesia. [illustration: fig. . arum maculatum.] =arum= (formerly _aron_, and probably of egyptian extraction). ord. _aroideæ_. a large genus of ornamental or curious, hardy, greenhouse or stove perennials, with thick rhizomes and pedate or hastate leaves. spathe large, convolute; spadix naked and club-shaped at the top. they are all of easy culture, and the indoor species will thrive with such treatment as is given to _alocasias_, _caladiums_, &c. rich soil is one of the first conditions of success. like most plants grown for the beauty of their foliage, rapid and free growth is necessary. a compost of good rich loam, with a third of sweet manure, thoroughly rotted, or leaf mould, with some sharp sand, is very suitable. plenty of moisture is necessary during the growing season, after which the tender kinds should be kept moderately dry, warm, and at rest during the winter. the hardy kinds may be left in the ground. propagated by seeds or division of the roots--usually the latter. the best time to divide them is just as they commence their new growth, securing as many roots as possible to each division. any rootless pieces should be placed in heat shortly after removal; this hastens the formation of roots and excites top growth. arums are useful in sub-tropical gardening, and are otherwise interesting plants both for indoors and outside cultivation; and the hardy kinds are very suitable for naturalising in woodlands, &c. there are many other species besides those here described, but the following list comprises the best. sub-sections of the genus will be found treated separately, such as =amorphophallus= (which _see_), &c. [illustration: fig. . arum dracunculus.] =a. bulbosum= (bulbous). synonymous with _a. ternatum_. =a. dracontium= (green dragon). _fl._, spadix subulate, longer than the oblong convolute green spathe. june. _l._ pedate, entire. _h._ ft. north america, . hardy. =a. dracunculus= (common dragon).* _fl._, spadix lanceolate, shorter than the ovate, flat, smooth, brown spathe. july. _l._ pedate, entire. _h._ ft. south europe, . hardy. syn. _dracunculus vulgaris_. see fig. . =a. indicum= (indian). _see_ =colocasia indica=. =a. italicum= (italian).* _fl._, spathe ventricose below, opening nearly flat and very broad above; apex often falling over very shortly after expansion, sometimes greenish yellow, at others nearly white; spadix yellowish or creamy white, club-shaped, about one-third as long as the spathe. spring. _l._ appearing before winter, radical, triangular-hastate. _h._ in. to ft. channel islands and cornwall, &c. hardy. =a. i. marmorata= (marbled).* _l._ marbled with yellow. a very pretty and effective hardy border plant. =a. maculatum= (spotted). lords and ladies; cuckoo pint. _fl._, spathe ventricose below and above, constricted in the middle, with inflexed edges when open, spotted with dull purple; spadix usually purple, shorter than the spathe. spring. _l._ vernal radical, hastate-sagittate, with deflexed lobes. _h._ in. britain, &c. this species is admirably adapted for a corner in the wild garden. see fig. . =a. malyi= (maly's). _fl._ whitish. montenegro, . =a. nickelli= (nickel's). levant, . a form of _a. italicum_. =a. orientale= (eastern). _fl._ resembling those of _a. maculatum_. june. _l._ brownish, simple, ovate, slightly sagittate. _h._ ft. tauria, . hardy. =a. palæstinum= (palestine).* _fl._, spathe in. to in. long, purplish blotched or spotted outside, rich velvety black inside and yellowish white at the base of the tube; spadix much shorter than the spathe; petiole usually rising in. or in. above the leaves. may. _l._ four or five, triangular-hastate, acute, from in. to in. long, and from - / in. to - / in. broad; petioles in. to in. long. jerusalem, . tender. =a. pictum= (painted). _h._ ft. corsica, . hardy. =a. proboscideum= (proboscis-like).* _fl._, spathe greenish purple, navicular, horizontal, terminated by a straight tail; scapes arising from among the petioles. may. _l._ radical, about four, cordate-elliptic, entire. _h._ in. south europe, . hardy. =a. spectabile= (showy). _fl._, spathe ovate-oblong, acuminate, dark purplish inside, longer than the purplish spadix. _l._ broadly hastate-sagittate. _h._ ft. asia minor. half-hardy. =a. spirale= (spiral). _fl._, spadix lanceolate, shorter than the oblong-lanceolate spirally twisted brown spathe. may. _l._ linear-lanceolate. plant stemless. _h._ ft. china, . tender. =a. tenuifolium= (narrow-leaved).* _fl._, spadix subulate, longer than the white lanceolate spathe. april. _l._ linear-lanceolate. plant stemless. _h._ ft. south europe, . hardy. =a. ternatum= (three-leafleted). a synonym of _pinellia tuberifera_. =a. variolatum= (variegated). dalmatia, . hardy. =a. venosum= (veined). a synonym of _sauromatum guttatum_. =a. zelebori= (zelebor's). a form of _a. maculatum_. =arum lily.= _see_ =richardia æthiopica=. =arundinaria= (altered from _arundo_, a reed). ord. _gramineæ_. a small genus of hardy or nearly hardy shrubby grasses, having strong jointed stems, and frequently included under _bambusa_. for sub-tropical gardening purposes more particularly it is exceedingly ornamental as an isolated tuft. it thrives best in a deep, rich soil, and requires plenty of water when in a growing state. increased by division of the roots. [illustration: fig. . arundinaria falcata.] =a. falcata= (sickle-shaped).* _l._ linear-lanceolate, very acute, shortly stalked, very light green. stems freely branched, deep green, and very slender. _h._ ft. to ft. india. an extremely handsome species for greenhouse decoration; also for outdoor work, particularly in the south of england, &c. syn. _bambusa gracilis_, of gardens. =a. maximowiczii= (maximowicz's). this japanese species is believed to be allied to, if not identical with, _bambusa simonii_. quite hardy. =a. metake= (metake). _l._ lanceolate, with very sharp points, dark green, persistent, narrowed into a short leafstalk, in. to in. long; sheath ample. _h._ ft. to ft. japan. a handsome, hardy, dwarf, much-branched species, forming grand specimens, and producing flowers very freely. syn. _bambusa japonica_. =arundo= (origin of word doubtful; stated by some authorities to be from _arundo_, a reed; and others as from the celtic _arn_, signifying water). reed. ord. _gramineæ_. a very ornamental group of half or quite hardy plants, of very easy culture in ordinary garden soil, preferring damp situations. panicle loose; calyx two-valved, unequal, many-flowered; corolla of two very unequal valves; all, except the lower and imperfect one, surrounded by a tuft of hairs. fruit free, covered by the corolla. arundos are very valuable either for conservatory decoration, sub*-tropical gardening, or cultivation in clumps on the turf of the flower-garden or pleasure ground, and the margins of lakes. although well worth growing, all are inferior to their ally, the pampas grass. propagated by seeds or divisions, the spring being the best time to adopt either method of increase. =a. conspicua= (conspicuous).* _fl._ silky-white, on large drooping racemes, and lasting in beauty for several months. _h._ ft. to ft., but in a good deep and sandy loam it sometimes attains the height of ft. new zealand, . this fine species grows in dense tufts, from which arise numerous leathery, narrow, smooth (or slightly rough), long curving leaves, and erect, slender culms. the plant is not sufficiently hardy to withstand a severe winter, and should, therefore, be protected with mats, or be grown in tubs, so that it can be removed under shelter before the approach of winter. these precautions are unnecessary in the more southern counties of england. =a. donax= (donax).* great reed. _fl._ reddish, ultimately whitish, in numerous spikelets, forming a large compact panicle in. to in. long. autumn. _l._ alternate, lanceolate-acute, large, and ornamental, glaucous green, arching. _h._ about ft. south europe, . this also requires protection during winter in the colder counties. see fig. . =a. d. versicolor= (various-coloured).* _h._ ft. south europe. although much smaller, this variety is far superior to the type for gardening purposes, and has its leaves ribboned with white. it requires a deep, well drained, sandy loam to thrive well, and a thorough winter protection of cocoa-fibre refuse or coal ashes. for isolated tufts or groups, few plants can equal it. it is propagated by placing a stem in water, which induces little rooted plants to start from the joints; these should be separated, potted off, and kept in frames until thoroughly established. =a. mauritanica= (mediterranean reed). this is a rare greenhouse species, closely allied to _a. donax_, but inferior to it. [illustration: fig. . arundo donax.] =arytera.= a synonym of =ratonia= (which _see_). =asaf�tida.= _see_ =narthex asaf�tida=. =asarabacca.= _see_ =asarum europæum=. =asarum= (from _a_, not, and _saron_, feminine; derivation doubtful). ord. _aristolochiaceæ_. curious hardy herbaceous perennials, with bell-shaped, three-cleft perianths. they should be planted at the foot of the rockery, or in borders or woodlands, as they are not very showy, but are, nevertheless, worth growing, and easily propagated by divisions, in spring. =a. canadense= (canadian).* _fl._ brown, campanulate, on a short peduncle, sometimes nearly buried. may and june. _l._ in pairs, broadly reniform. _h._ ft. canada, &c., . [illustration: fig. . asarum caudatum.] =a. caudatum= (tailed).* _fl._ brownish-red, with attenuated or caudate calyx lobes. july. _l_. cordate-reniform, hooded, sub-acute, or bluntish, slightly pubescent. california, . a rare and pretty species. see fig. . =a. europæum= (european). a sarabacca. _fl._ dull brown, solitary, rather large, drooping; segments of perianth incurved. may. _l._ two on each stem, roundish-reniform, stalked, slightly waved. _h._ ft. england. =ascending.= directed upwards; as the stem, which is the ascending axis. =asclepiade�.= a large order of, for the most part, lactescent, climbing shrubs. flowers sub-umbellate, fascicled or racemose, interpetiolar; pollen collected in the form of waxy masses, coalescing to the cells of the anthers; follicles two, one of which is abortive. leaves entire, usually opposite. =asclepias= (the greek name of �sculapius of the latins). swallow-wort. ord. _asclepiadeæ_. erect, hardy, herbaceous or sub-shrubby perennials, except where otherwise specified. corolla five-parted, reflexed; umbels interpetiolar; corona seated on the upper part of the tube of the filaments, five-leaved. leaves opposite, verticillate, sometimes alternate. most of the hardy species are very handsome border plants, thriving in peaty, or light rich soil, and are increased by dividing the roots in spring, and sometimes also by seeds. the doubtfully hardy or rarer species should always be grown in a peat soil, and have a little protection during severe frost, by mulching the roots. the most important of the greenhouse and stove species is _a. curassavica_. in order to obtain good bushy specimens of this, it will be necessary to cut the plants back annually, after keeping them slightly dry, and resting for a month or two in midwinter. when growth has sufficiently advanced, they should be shaken out and repotted. at this stage, a close, moist atmosphere will be needful to produce the usually very free growth. the points of the shoots must be nipped out, in order to promote a bushy habit. when the pots have become filled with roots, liquid manure may be applied; but it must be quite clear and not over strong. all the indoor species grow best in good fibry loam and leaf mould, and require to be potted firmly. cuttings should be secured in spring, struck in gentle heat, under a bell glass, and as soon as they are well rooted, potted into -size pots. a shift must be given as often as the pots become filled with roots, up to the time when the plant commences flowering. seeds may be sown in pots in spring, pricked out singly when large enough, and then treated similarly to cuttings. =a. acuminata= (taper-pointed).* _fl._ red and white; umbels lateral, solitary, erect. july. _l._ ovate, sub-cordate, acuminated, on short petioles; superior ones sessile, glabrous, but rough on the edges. stems erect, glabrous, simple. _h._ ft. new jersey, . hardy, herbaceous. =a. am�na= (pleasing).* _fl._ beautiful purple; umbels terminal, erect; appendages of corona exserted, red. july. _l._ opposite, almost sessile, oblong-oval, downy beneath, with a large purple middle nerve. stem simple, with two rows of down. _h._ ft. to ft. new england, . hardy, herbaceous. =a. cornuti= (cornuti's).* synonymous with _a. syriaca_. =a. curassavica= (curassavian). redhead. _fl._ reddish orange-scarlet; umbels erect, solitary, lateral. july to september. _l._ opposite, oblong-lanceolate, tapering at both ends. stem rather downy, simple, seldom a little branched. _h._ ft. to ft. tropical america, . the white-flowered variety is a very pretty contrast. stove herbaceous. =a. douglasii= (douglas's).* _fl._ large, waxy, purplish-lilac, sweet-scented, in many-flowered umbels. summer. _l._ opposite, ovate-cordate, acuminated, - / in. long by in. or more wide, glabrous above, downy beneath. stem thick, woolly, simple. _h._ ft. to ft. west america, . =a. hybrida= (hybrid). a synonym of _a. purpurascens_. =a. incarnata= (flesh-coloured).* _fl._ red or purplish; umbels numerous, usually twin. july. _l._ opposite, lanceolate, rather woolly on both surfaces. stem erect, branched and tomentose at the top. _h._ ft. canada (on the banks of rivers), . hardy, herbaceous. =a. mexicana= (mexican). _fl._ white; umbels many-flowered. july. _l._ verticillate, linear-lanceolate, with revolute edges; lower ones four to six in a whorl; upper ones three in a whorl, or opposite. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . greenhouse evergreen. =a. phytolaccoides= (phytolacca-like). _fl._ purple; corona white, with truncate leaflets; umbels lateral and terminal, solitary, on long peduncles, drooping. july. _l._ broad, ovate-oblong, acute, glabrous, paler beneath. stem erect, simple, spotted with purple. _h._ ft. to ft. virginia and carolina (on the mountains), . =a. purpurascens= (purplish). _fl._ purple; umbels erect. july. _l._ opposite, large, ovate, with a purplish middle nerve, villous beneath. stem simple, rather hairy at top, brownish green at bottom. _h._ ft. to ft. virginia (in shady swamps), . hardy. syn. _a. hybrida_. =a. quadrifolia= (four-leaved).* _fl._ white, small, sweet-scented, with red nectaries; umbels twin, terminal, loose-flowered; pedicels filiform. july. _l._ ovate, acuminated, petiolate; those in the middle of the stem larger, and four in a whorl; the rest opposite. stems erect, simple, glabrous. _h._ ft. new york, . hardy species. =a. rubra= (red), _fl._ red; umbels compound, july, august. _l._ alternate, ovate, acuminated. stem erect, simple. _h._ ft. to ft. virginia, . =a. sullivanti= (sullivant's). similar to _a. syriaca_, but having larger and deeper coloured flowers. =a. syriaca= (syrian).* _fl._ pale purple, sweet scented, in large, loose, drooping umbels. july. _l._ opposite, lanceolate-oblong, or oval, gradually acute, tomentose beneath. stems simple. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . syn. _a. cornuti_. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of asclepias tuberosa.] =a. tuberosa= (tuberous).* _fl._ bright orange, very showy; umbels disposed in a terminal sub-corymb. july to september. _l._ scattered, oblong-lanceolate, hairy. stems erectish, divaricately branched at top, very hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. north america (in stony, sandy fields and woods), . a desirable hardy herbaceous border plant. see fig. . =a. variegata= (variegated). _fl._, petals and foliola of corona white, fructification red, in dense umbels, very handsome; umbels almost sessile; pedicels hairy. july. _l._ opposite, ovate, petiolate, wrinkled, naked. stems simple. erect, variegated with purple. _h._ ft. to ft. new york to carolina (on dry, sandy hills), . =a. verticillata= (whorled). _fl._, corolla with yellowish green petals and white nectaries; umbels many-flowered. july and august. _l._ very narrow, linear, thick, quite glabrous, usually verticillate, but sometimes scattered. stems erect, often branched, having a downy line on one side. _h._ ft. to ft. new jersey, . =ascyron.= _see_ =hypericum ascyron=. =ascyrum= (from _a_, without, and _skyros_, hard; that is to say, a plant which is soft to the touch). ord. _hypericinæ_. a genus of elegant little herbs and sub-shrubs, with sessile, entire leaves, destitute of pellucid dots, but usually furnished with black dots beneath. flowers resembling _hypericum_. they require to be protected during winter by a frame; for this purpose they should be grown in pots, as they never exist long in the open border. a compost of peat, pure leaf soil, and sand, in equal portions, suits them well; young cuttings of the shrubby kinds will root in sand under a hand bell glass. propagated by careful divisions of the roots in spring. all may be raised from seeds. =a. amplexicaule= (stem-clasping). _fl._ yellow, few, axillary, and terminal; corymbs naked. july. _l._ stem-clasping, ovate, cordate, sinuately-curled. stem dichotomously panicled. _h._ ft. north america, . the flowers and leaves are longer in this than in any other of the species. =a. crux andreæ.=* st. andrew's cross. _fl._, petals narrow-pale, yellow, nearly sessile, in terminal corymbs. july. _l._ ovate-linear, obtuse, usually in bundles in the axils. stem shrubby, round. _h._ ft. north america (in sandy fields), . this proves to be quite hardy in many situations. =a. hypericoides= (hypericum-like). _fl._ yellow. august. _l._ linear-oblong, obtuse. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. stans= (standing). st. peter's wort. _fl._ yellow. august. _l._ oval or oblong, somewhat clasping. _h._ ft. north america, . =ashes.= the earthy or mineral particles of combustible substances, remaining after combustion. ashes are amongst the most economical manures. _vegetable ashes_ are generally the best application for manuring boggy, cold, and, consequently, sour and unprofitable land, in quantities of about forty bushels per acre, thinly and evenly distributed. the annual exhaustion of salts from large crops of grain, roots, and grass, is from lb. to more than lb. per acre; and the aggregate of a few years will so far impoverish the soil in one or more of the principles necessary to sustain a luxuriant vegetation, that it will cease to yield remunerating returns. the ashes of vegetables consist of such elements as are always required for their perfect maturity, and it is evident they must furnish one of the best saline manures which can be supplied for their growth; they contain, in fact, every element, and generally in the right proportions, for insuring a full and rapid growth. both gardener and farmer will therefore perceive the great value of ashes to their crops. _coal ashes._ the bituminous and anthracite coals afford ashes, and, although inferior in quality to those made from wood and vegetables, are, like them, a valuable manure, and they should be applied to the land in a similar manner. if they contain many cinders, from not having been thoroughly burned, they are more suited to heavy than to light soils. coal ashes, if very fine, may be sprinkled half an inch deep on the surface, over peas and beans, &c., to preserve them from mice; they may also be used for garden and greenhouse walks, where bricks or tiles are absent, being tidy in appearance, and an excellent substitute for other and more expensive material. _peat ashes._ peat approaching to purity, when thrown out of its bed and thoroughly dried, may be burned to an imperfect ash, and when it does not reach this point, it will become thoroughly charred, and reduced to cinders. the process of burning should be as slow as possible. in either form, it is a valuable dressing for the soil. =ash-tree.= _see_ =fraxinus=. =asiatic poison bulb.= _see_ =crinum asiaticum=. =asimina= (meaning unknown). ord. _anonaceæ_. hardy shrubs, with oblong, cuneated, usually deciduous leaves. flowers sometimes rising before the leaves, usually solitary and axillary. they thrive freely in a mixture of sand and peat. propagated by layers put down in the autumn, or by seed, procured from their native country. seedlings should be raised in pots, and sheltered in winter, until they have acquired a considerable size. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of asimina triloba.] =a. triloba= (three-lobed).* _fl._ campanulate, the three outer petals pale purplish, and the three inner ones smaller, purplish on the outside as well as the inside at the base and apex, with the middle yellow, about in. diameter, produced between the upper leaves. may. _l._ oblong-cuneated, often acuminated, and, as well as the branches, smoothish. _h._ ft. pennsylvania, . a small tree or shrub. see fig. . =askallon= (the eschallot). _see_ =allium ascalonicum=. =aspalathus= (from _a_, not, and _spao_, to extract; in reference to the difficulty of extracting its thorns from a wound). including _sarcophyllus_. ord. _leguminosæ_. shrubs or sub-shrubs, natives, with one exception, of the cape of good hope. flowers usually yellow, furnished with three bracteoles, or a leaf comprised of three leaflets. leaves of three to five leaflets, disposed palmately, rarely pinnately, having scarcely any or very short petioles. all the species are pretty when in flower, and thrive in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. young cuttings of half-ripened wood will strike in april, in sand, under bell glasses, which must be wiped dry occasionally. but little water is needed. over a hundred species are known; those introduced are very rarely seen in cultivation. =asparagus= (from _a_, intensive, and _sparasso_, to tear; in reference to the strong prickles of some species). ord. _liliaceæ_. erect or climbing herbs or shrubs, with very small scale-like leaves, and a profusion of numerous slender fascicled-needle, rather spiny branchlets. flowers axillary, inconspicuous. fruit baccate. the indoor species will all thrive well in a warm greenhouse temperature, provided they have partial shade, a good supply of moisture at the roots, and are not kept too close, in a moderately rich sandy compost. the hardy species are propagated chiefly by seeds and divisions of the roots. rich sandy loam is necessary, and otherwise they may be treated as ordinary perennials. some of the species belonging to this genus are among the most elegant of foliage plants for cutting purposes. _a. decumbens_ and _a. scandens_ make excellent plants for wardian cases, and may be cut in freely if they exceed their limits. asparagus (_a. officinalis_) as a vegetable. the value and importance of this plant as a vegetable cannot be over-estimated; it is extensively grown, and, when properly managed, produces a fairly lucrative crop. _soil and bed._ the first thing to be done in the preparation of an asparagus bed to stand for any length of time, is to secure an efficient drainage; and on wet soils this is best effected by placing a layer of brick rubbish over the whole of the bottom, and connecting this with a drain. on gravelly or other soils which are drained naturally, of course, this is not needed; but if really good crops are a _desideratum_, water should not stand within ft. of the surface. in all cases, the ground must be dug to a depth of in., and, if stiff, a goodly amount of road sweepings, or other gritty materials, should be well mixed with the staple soil. asparagus requires a good soil, neither too heavy nor too light. _manuring._ after the soil has been well trenched, and has lain long enough to settle down, a good dressing of manure--thoroughly rotted, and not too rank, at the rate of from twenty to thirty tons to the acre, dug into the surface of the beds-�will be found very beneficial. if possible, this should be introduced in january; and then, if the weather permits, the beds should be forked two or three times by the end of march, so as to render the soil as friable as possible. a very good manure, and one that is easily obtained, is common garden salt. this may be given annually to established beds. a moderate dressing should be applied just before growth commences in spring, but a little will do no harm at other times during the summer. it is best scattered on with the hand, and a showery day should be selected, as it will then soon disappear. salt, besides acting as a manure, has also the properties of keeping the beds cool and moist in hot weather, and of preventing the growth of weeds. _planting._ asparagus can be planted during march and april, the latter month being the best time for the work. the soil having been thoroughly prepared, the next point is to decide on the size of the beds; this depends on the size of garden, and the class of "grass" desired. when very large and fine stocks are the object in view, the best results will accrue if the plants are fully a yard apart each way; but this means a comparatively small crop. a good plan is to make the beds ft. wide, planting two rows, at a distance of ft. from each other, and allowing in. between each plant, placing them in alternate order. an in. alley should be allowed between the beds. the roots used for making the beds should be one year old, and fresh from the ground. in planting, pull out a wide drill with a hoe, or other tool, to the depth of about in. or in., and spread out the roots all round. carefully shake the soil in amongst the roots, and, if dry, apply some water through a coarse-rosed watering pot, to settle the earth around them. at intervals, as necessary, give other waterings till september, when they should be discontinued. at all times, keep the beds free from weeds, removing them by the hand to prevent injury to the crowns of the plants. if the ground is good, no liquid manure will be needed the first year. as soon as the foliage turns yellow, cut it off, cleanly rake over the beds, and leave till about january, when a top-dressing of from in. to in. of thoroughly rotted manure may be applied with advantage. at the end of february, rake off the bed all loose straw or other _debris_, and throw on them a little of the soil from the alleys, raking down, and finishing off the edges squarely and neatly. during this and succeeding years, apply liquid manure and clear water, from time to time, as required; and, provided the manure is not of too great strength, there is scarcely any limit to its application; but, in many instances, beds which have only received an annual dressing have given a good return. each year they must be cut over and dressed as before described, but care must be taken to keep them flat on the surface, otherwise the plants will die out for want of moisture. when the produce appears, the beds should be kept cut over until the th of june, after which, cutting should cease, or they will be rendered comparatively unproductive. cutting can commence the second or third year, or as soon as there is any "grass" worth taking. several methods of growing these plants could be cited, but that which we have recommended will be found most satisfactory. [illustration: fig. . asparagus, crown for lifting.] _seeds._ plants are raised by sowing seeds in rows across the kitchen garden, or selected quarter, about the month of april. the seedlings make a growth, and form good plants during the first season. in march or april of the following year, or the year after, they may be removed, and planted out permanently, as already alluded to. many cultivators prefer growing their own plants from seed; because during the transit of the roots from any distance to where they are to be grown, a frequent and injurious exhaustion takes place, and particularly so when they are carelessly packed. _forcing._ asparagus can, if properly treated, be obtained from december onwards; and at christmas time the produce is very valuable; but, in order to obtain it at this season, it will be necessary to resort to forcing. prepare some beds to secure a lasting heat, and on these place about in. of ordinary garden soil, not very stiff. then take the roots, and place them crown upwards, and moderately close together, shaking the soil well amongst the roots, and covering about a couple of inches deep. water well, to settle the whole, and put on the lights, allowing a little ventilation, to let out any steam which may arise. unless the weather be very cold indeed, give a little air at all times, and only cover the lights in actual frost. from time to time, apply fresh linings of hot manure, and in cold rains, or wind, cover the outsides of the frames with old sacks, or other things which will keep in the heat. a regular and steady temperature of deg. will force this plant with better results than a higher one. houses that are fitted with hot-water pipes to give bottom heat can be used equally as well as manure beds, and so long as the soil is kept moist, the heat thus obtained is as good as any for the purpose, and much less trouble than fermenting materials. to keep up a regular supply, a succession of beds will be necessary. asparagus can be forced, or rather forwarded, in pots or boxes, in a warm greenhouse or vinery, and, of course, when the plants are done with, they can be cast away. we give an illustration (fig. ) of a bearing crown fit for gentle forcing; but, of course, it must not be left so bare of earth as appears here, which is done for the purpose of clearness. _varieties._ connover's colossal, and giant, are the most esteemed. strains are frequently largely advertised as improvements on the sorts above-mentioned, and the charges are higher accordingly. the difference may be generally attributed to the culture the plants receive more than to an improved variety. when saving seed for home sowing, they should be taken from the strongest growths, or deterioration will ensue. =a. æthiopicus ternifolius= (ternate). _fl._ white, in shortly-stalked racemes, very profuse. august. _l._, false ones in threes, flattened, narrow, linear; prickles solitary, reversed; branches angular. _h._ ft. south africa, . a greenhouse evergreen. =a. broussoneti= (broussonet's).* _fl._ very small, succeeded by small red berries. may. _l._, lower ones solitary, the others ternate, in. long, needle-shaped, persistent, distant, glaucescent; stipules with reflected spines at the base. summer. stem tapering, streaked, shrubby. _h._ ft. canary islands, . a very pretty hardy climber. =a. cooperi= (cooper's). _fl._ axillary, one to three, from the same nodes as the false leaves; perianth cream-coloured, one line long. april and may. _l._ minute, deltoid, scariose, reddish-brown; false leaves six to fifteen to a node, subulate, moderately firm, / in. to / in. long, spreading or ascending. _h._ ft. to ft. africa, . a greenhouse climber, with a shrubby terete main stem, - / in. to in. thick at the base, sending out crowds of spreading branches, which bear abundant slender, firm, alternate branchlets; nodes of branches and branchlets, furnished with distinct red-brown, subulate prickles, those of the main stems / in. long, deflexed, but not curved. =a. decumbens= (decumbent).* stem unarmed, decumbent, much branched; branches wavy; leaves setaceous, in threes. cape of good hope, . a greenhouse evergreen herbaceous perennial. =a. falcatus= (hooked-leaved). _l._ fascicled, linear, falcate; branches round; prickles solitary, recurved; peduncles one-flowered, clustered. _h._ ft. india, . a greenhouse evergreen perennial. =a. officinalis= (officinal). common asparagus. _fl._ greenish-white, drooping. august. _l._ setaceous, fasciculate, flexible, unarmed. stem herbaceous, mostly erect, rounded, very much branched. _h._ ft. said to grow on "asparagus island," kynance cove, lizard, but we have never found it there, and it has probably long since been exterminated. =a. plumosus= (plumed).* _fl._ white, small, produced from the tips of the branchlets. spring. _l._, true ones in the form of minute deltoid scales, with an acute ultimately reflexed point; the false ones are grouped in tufts, each being / in. to / in. long, bristle-shaped, and finely pointed. south africa, . an elegant evergreen climber, with smooth stems and numerous spreading branches. it forms an excellent plant when trained in pots, and is invaluable for cutting. =a. p. nanus= (dwarf).* a very elegant dwarf variety of above. stems tufted, slender, and gracefully arching. south africa, . for bouquets, the cut sprays of both type and variety have the advantage of much greater persistency than any fern, retaining their freshness in water from three to four weeks. see fig. , for which we are indebted to messrs. veitch and sons. =a. racemosus= (racemose). _fl._ greenish-white, in many-flowered axillary racemes. may. _l._ bundled, linear-subulate, falcate; branches striated; prickles solitary. _h._ ft. india, . greenhouse evergreen shrub. [illustration: fig. . asparagus plumosus nanus.] =a. ramosissimus= (very branching). _fl._ solitary, at the tips of the branchlets; pedicels hardly perpendicular, one and a-half to two lines long; cream coloured. june. _l._ obscurely spurred at the base; false leaves three to eight-nate, flattened; linear-falcate acute, / in. to / in. long, spreading. south africa, . a wide climbing, copiously branched, slender greenhouse shrub, with very numerous spreading or ascending branches and branchlets. =a. scandens= (climbing).* _fl._ whitish, axillary on the ultimate branchlets, succeeded by round orange-coloured berries. the annual, much-branched, unarmed stems bear, usually in threes, numerous small linear-pointed leaves, which on the ultimate branches spread nearly in one plane. cape of good hope, . an elegant climbing greenhouse perennial. =a. virgatus= (twiggy).* a remarkably elegant feathery looking plant, of shrubby habit. the stems, which issue from the crown of the stout fleshy roots, are of a dark green colour, and bear at the upper end a corymbose head of erect branches, of which the lowest is the youngest or most recently developed. these branches are again twice branched, the ultimate branchlets being furnished with needle-shaped false leaves, / in. long, which usually grow in threes. south africa, . =asparagus beetle= (_crioceris asparagi_), or "cross-bearer." this beautiful little insect is blue-black or greenish; the thorax is red with two black spots, and the wing-cases are yellow, with a black cross on them; the legs and antennæ are black. the short grey larva is flat underneath, arched on the back, and covered with hairs. the sides are of an olive hue, and the little legs and head are black. it ejects a drop of blackish fluid from the mouth when touched. when full grown, which takes about a fortnight, the larva measures about two lines in length; the average length of the perfect beetle is about three lines. although this insect does not actually destroy the plants, it inflicts much damage on the foliage, and checks the growth of the stems after they have attained some size, in consequence of which the foliage becomes much less in the next season. the eggs are fixed to the shoots, and are small, dark, pointed bodies. the larvæ do the harm, as they feed on the bark and tender portions of the plants. the mature beetles should be picked off by hand, and, by commencing early enough in the season, their numbers will be greatly reduced. syringing the plants with water, heated to a temperature that will not injure the plants, is found a useful method for removing the grubs. _white hellebore._ freshly-ground white hellebore, sprinkled over the foliage while it is damp, and repeating the operation at intervals of about eight days for a season, will generally effect a riddance; but the following will usually be found better in such cases. neither must be applied until after cutting ceases, as they are very poisonous. _paris green._ this, mixed and used as for cherry fly (_see_ =black fly=), will generally got rid of the beetle, if applied about thrice each season for two years. it should, however, only be used in severe cases. _soot_, applied in the same manner as white hellebore, and in liberal quantities, will, in a season or two, clear the beds. if a bushel of salt be mixed with each twenty bushels of soot, it will enhance the effect. =asparagus knife.= the asparagus knife consists of a strong blade fixed in a handle. there are, or were, three kinds employed: in one form, the blade was blunt on both sides, straight, with a sharp tip, and not unlike a small chisel. another had its blade slightly hooked, and serrated at one end. but the best is that now almost universally employed, and which is illustrated by fig. . [illustration: fig. . asparagus knife.] =aspasia= (from _aspazomai_, i embrace; the column embraced by the labellum). ord. _orchidaceæ_. a genus of elegant stove epidendrum-like epiphytal orchids, with the lip united to the column, and broad, thin pseudo-bulbs. the name aspasia is now and then met with attached to a totally different genus. salisbury gave it to a liliaceous plant which is now referred to _ornithogalum_. for culture and propagation, _see_ =stanhopea=. =a. epidendroides= (epidendrum-like).* _fl._ whitish yellow; sepals linear oblong, acute; petals obtuse, concave, lateral lobes of lip roundish, entire, middle lobe crenated emarginate. february. pseudo-bulbs oblong, two-edged. _h._ ft. panama, . =a. lunata= (crescent-marked).* _fl._ green, white, and brown, solitary; sepals and petals linear obtuse, spreading; lip three-lobed, lateral lobes short, middle one flat, nearly square, wavy. february. pseudo-bulbs oblong, two-edged. _h._ ft. rio janeiro, . =a. papilionacea= (butterfly-like).* _fl._, sepals and petals yellowish, mottled with brown lines on their internal inferior halves; lip fiddle-shape, its back very great, elliptic, apiculate; an orange-coloured area stands at its base, a wide violet disc before and around it. _h._ in. costa rica, . distinguished from _a. lunata_ in having thirteen keels at the base of the lip, which is higher inserted, and in the echinulate anther. it is a beautiful but rare novelty. =a. psittacina= (parrot-like).* _fl._, sepals and petals light green, with brown transverse bars, which sometimes consist of separate stripes, at other times of confluent ones; the fiddle-shaped lip shows two keels and a few purplish dots over its top; the column is brown at its top, then violet, and white at the base. ecuador, . it has a raceme of several flowers, usually one-sided, bent over. =a. variegata= (variegated).* _fl._ green, spotted with yellowish red; sepals linear oblong; petals somewhat rhomboid, acute; lateral lobes of lip recurved, middle one fleshy, serrated. february. _h._ in. panama, . deliciously sweet-scented in the morning. =aspen.= _see_ =populus tremula=. =aspera.= rough, with hairs or points. =asperula= (from _asper_, rough; in allusion to the leaves). woodruff. ord. _rubiaceæ_. hardy herbs, rarely small shrubs. flowers terminal and axillary, in fascicles. leaves opposite, with one, two, or three stipulas on each side; they are therefore called four to eight in a whorl, but between the uppermost leaves there are no stipulas. stems and branches usually tetragonal. most of the species are very pretty when in flower, and are, therefore, well adapted for borders, rockwork, and shady places, in almost any garden soil. propagated by divisions of the roots during spring and early summer. herbaceous perennials, except where otherwise stated. =a. azurea-setosa= (blue-bristly). a synonym of _a. orientalis_. =a. calabrica= (calabrian). a synonym of _putoria calabrica_. =a. cynanchica= (cynanche-like). _fl._ on erect branches, forming a fastigiate corymb, white or bluish-coloured, elegantly marked with red lines, or sometimes pure white. summer. _l._ four in a whorl; floral ones lanceolate-linear, acuminately awned; lower ones small, oblong, upper ones opposite. plant glabrous, erectish. _h._ in. to in. england. =a. hirta= (hairy). _fl._ white at first, changing to pink, with oblong divisions. july and august. _l._ usually six in a whorl, four towards the upper part, linear, hairy, deep green. _h._ in. pyrenees, . a charming but rare little alpine, thriving best in a rather damp position on the rockery. =a. longiflora= (long-flowered).* _fl._ whitish, yellowish inside, and reddish outside; tube of corolla elongated; fascicles terminal, pedunculate; bracteas small, subulate. summer. _l._ four in a whorl, linear; lower ones small, obovate; upper ones opposite. stems weak, numerous, from the same neck, erectish, glabrous. _h._ in. hungary, . =a. montana= (mountain).* _fl._, corollas pink, four-cleft, scabrous externally; in fascicles. june, july. _l._ linear; lower ones six in a whorl; middle ones four; upper ones opposite; floral leaves linear. stem weak, glabrous. _h._ in. to in. hungary, . =a. odorata= (sweet-scented).* sweet woodruff. _fl._ snowy white; corymbs terminal, pedunculate, usually trifid, each division bearing about four flowers. may, june. _l._ eight in a whorl, lanceolate, smooth, with serrulately scabrous edges. stems tetragonal, simple, erect, or ascending. _h._ in. to in. britain. this very pretty little plant is scentless when fresh, but, when dried, it diffuses an odour like that of spring grass; and when kept among clothes, it not only imparts an agreeable perfume to them, but preserves them from insects. =a. orientalis= (oriental).* _fl._ sky blue, in terminal heads; bracts of involucre shorter than the flowers. summer. _l._ lanceolate, bristly, about eight in a whorl. _h._ ft. caucasus, . a charming little, profuse blooming, hardy annual, bearing clusters of fragrant flowers, admirably adapted for bouquet making. syn. _a. azurea-setosa_. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . asperula orientalis, showing habit and portion of inflorescence.] =a. taurina= (bull). _fl._, corollas white, elongated; corymbs pedunculate, axillary, fasciculately umbellate, involucrated; bracteas ciliated. april to june. _l._ four in a whorl, ovate-lanceolate, three-nerved, with finely ciliated margins. plant smoothish, erect. _h._ ft. south europe, . =a. tinctoria= (dyers'). _fl._ white, reddish on the outside; usually trifid. june. _l._ linear; lower ones six in a whorl; middle ones four; and the uppermost ones opposite; floral leaves ovate. plant procumbent, unless supported. stem ft. to ft. long, purplish. europe, . =asphalt.= artificial asphalt is now generally used in england for footpaths, &c. the recipes are various, one of the best being the following: lime rubbish two parts, coal ashes one part (both must be very dry), sifted very fine; mix them, and leave a hole in the middle of the heap, wherein pour boiling hot coal tar; mix well together. when as stiff as mortar, lay it down, in. thick, on a dry and previously well-levelled surface. a boy should follow with dry, finely-sifted sand, distributing just enough to prevent his boots sticking to the tar. two men should be employed for the tarring, whilst another should attend to the boiling operation. only just enough tar to last ten minutes must be taken from the furnace at one time, as, if it be not boiling, the walks will become soft under the action of very hot sun. this may be repeated every three years. it is imperative that the surface, lime, coal ashes and sand be perfectly dry, and that the days selected for the operation be very fine, the hotter the better. another excellent plan is that of using gas lime and coal ashes. there must be a firm foundation and smooth surface. spread the gas lime to about - / in. deep, and level with the back of a spade. over this place a thin layer of coal dust, and well roll. the work is then complete. =asphodel.= _see_ =asphodelus=. =asphodeline.= ord. _liliaceæ_. a genus of plants allied to _asphodelus_, but distinguished from it by having erect leafy stems. they thrive in any ordinary garden soil. propagated by division. =a. brevicaulis= (short-stemmed). _fl._ in lax, often panicled racemes, yellow, veined with green. _l._ subulate, ascending, lower ones in. to in. long. stem slender, often flexuose. orient. =a. damascena= (damascene). _fl._ white, in dense generally simple racemes, in. to in. long. _l._ in dense rosette, in. to in. long, subulate. stem simple, erect. _h._ - / ft. to ft. asia minor. =a. liburnica= (liburnian). _fl._ yellow, striped with green, in generally simple lax racemes, in. to in. long. stem simple, erect, strict, ft. to ft. high, upper half naked. south europe. =a. lutea= (yellow). _fl._ yellow, fragrant, in a dense, very long, straight, simple raceme, in the axils of buff-coloured bracts, which are nearly as long as the flowers. summer. _l._ numerous, awl-shaped, triangular, furrowed, smooth, dark green, marked with lines of a paler tint; root leaves tufted. stem ft. or ft. high. sicily, . the best known and handsomest species. syn. _asphodelus luteus_. =a. l. fl.-pl.= this resembles the species, but the flowers are double, and last much longer than those of the typical form; it is a very pretty plant. =a. taurica= (taurian). _fl._ white, striped with green, in generally simple dense racemes, in. to in. long, in. to in. wide. stem simple, erect, ft. to ft. high, densely leafy at base of raceme. asia minor, &c. syn. _asphodelus tauricus_. =a. tenuior= (slenderer). _fl._ yellow, in simple lax-flowered racemes, in. to in. long, in. wide. stem simple lower half leaf, upper naked, ft. orient. syn. _asphodelus tenuior_. =asphodelus= (from _a_, not, and _sphallo_, to supplant; in allusion to the beauty of the flowers). asphodel. ord. _liliaceæ_. very pretty hardy herbaceous perennials, with fleshy fasciculated roots. perianth white or yellow, of six equal spreading segments; stamens six, hypogynous, alternately long and short. leaves usually radical, tufted, narrow, or triquetrous. all the species enumerated thrive in good deep sandy loam, and are very suitable for borders and shrubberies. propagated by division of the root, which is best done in early spring. =a. æstivus= (summer). _fl._ white. summer. _h._ ft. spain, . =a. albus= (white).* _fl._ white; peduncles clustered the length of the bracts. may. _l._ linear, keeled, smooth. stem naked, simple. _h._ ft. south europe, . =a. creticus= (cretan).* _fl._ yellow. july. _l._ filiform, striated, toothed, ciliated. stem leafy, naked above, branched. _h._ ft. crete, . =a. fistulosus= (pipe-stalked). _fl._ white. july, august. _l._ upright, striated, subulate, fistular. stem naked. _h._ in. south europe, . =a. luteus= (yellow). a synonym of _asphodeline lutea_. =a. ramosus= (branchy). _fl._ large, white, with a reddish-brown line in the middle of each segment, springing from the axils of ovate-lanceolate bracts, and in very long dense racemes. summer. _l._ sword-shaped, stiff, sharply keeled below, channelled above. stem much branched. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . [illustration: fig. . asphodelus villarsii, showing habit and flower.] =a. villarsii= (villars'). _fl._ white; raceme dense, elongated; bracts dark brown. stem simple or rarely branched. _h._ ft. to ft. eastern france. see fig. . =aspidistra= (from _aspidiseon_, a little round shield; in reference to the form of the flower). syn. _porpax_ (of salisbury). including _plectogyne_. ord. _liliaceæ_. hardy, or nearly hardy, evergreen, foliage plants. flowers insignificant, produced close to the ground, remarkable for the curious mushroom-like stigma, by which this genus is characterised. they thrive in almost any ordinary garden soil, but are best grown in rich loam, leaf soil, and sand; plenty of moisture being allowed. propagated by suckers. =a. elatior= (taller).* _l._ oblong, large, on long petioles, leathery; plant stemless. _h._ - / ft. to ft. japan, . this very easily cultivated and quite hardy foliage plant is much grown for window gardening and other decorative purposes, for which it is well suited. =a. e. variegata= (variegated).* a fine variety with alternately-striped green and white leaves. [illustration: fig. . aspidistra lurida.] =a. lurida= (lurid). _fl._ purple. july. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, on long petioles. _h._ ft. to - / ft. china, . a very graceful species, with long evergreen leaves. it is an effective plant for the outdoor garden during summer, and is nearly, if not quite, hardy. see fig. . =a. punctata= (dotted). _l._ lanceolate, on long stalks. _h._ ft. china. this is very closely allied to _a. elatior_, but of inferior value. =aspidium= (from _aspidion_, a little buckler; in allusion to the form of the involucre). shield fern. ord. _filices_. including _cyclodium_, _cyclopeltis_, _cyrtomium_, _phanerophlebia_, and _polystichum_. stove, greenhouse, or hardy ferns. sori sub-globose, dorsal or terminal on the veinlets; involucre orbicular, fixed by the centre. they thrive in a compost of sandy peat with a little loam. several species are admirably adapted for the indoor fernery. the hardy species are best grown in the shade; a little sandstone should be incorporated with the soil. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. [illustration: fig. . aspidium aculeatum.] =a. acrostichoides= (acrostichum-like).* _sti._ in. to in. long, densely scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ of the lower half barren, in. to in. long, / in. broad, spinoso-serrated throughout, auricled at the base above; the pinnæ of the upper half fertile, much smaller. _sori_ occupying the whole under side. north america. syn. _polystichum acrostichoides_. hardy. =a. a. grandiceps= (large-crested).* a very handsome fern, having the apices of the fronds and pinnæ heavily crested; equally desirable for the hardy or temperate fernery. of garden origin. =a. a. incisum= (incised).* a variety with the pinnules deeply cut and acutely pointed. =a. aculeatum= (sharp-pointed).* the hard shield fern. _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, more or less scaly. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-lanceolate; lower pinnæ close, lanceolate, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad; pinnules ovate-rhomboidal, unequal sided, auricled on the upper base; teeth aristate. sori nearer the midrib than the edge. a variable and hardy species, common throughout the world. syn. _polystichum aculeatum_. _a. a. proliferum_ is a proliferous australian form. _a. a. vestitum_ has the rachis densely clothed to the point, both with reddish-brown fibrillose and large lanceolate dark brown scales. see fig. . =a. amabile= (lovely). _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long, slightly scaly below. _fronds_ ft. or more long, in. to in. broad, with a lanceolate terminal pinna, and three to six lateral ones on each side, which are in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, the lowest sometimes divided at the base; segments sub-rhomboidal, with at least half the lower side cut away, the upper side and part of the lower lobed and sharply spinuloso-serrated. sori sub-marginal. ceylon. stove species. syn. _polystichum amabile_. =a. angulare= (angular). the soft shield fern. botanically this is only a variety of _a. aculeatum_; but, to the cultivator, it is abundantly distinct. the fronds are not so tapered at the base, the pinnules are more equal in size, and the lower ones distinctly stalked, while the texture is much less rigid than in _a. aculeatum_, the caudex has a tendency to elongate. almost cosmopolitan in its distribution. syn. _polystichum angulare_. there are an enormous number of varieties, many of which are not under cultivation. amongst the best found in gardens are _alatum_, _bayliæ_, _concinnum_, _corymbiferum_, _cristatum_, _curtum_, _dissimile_, _grandiceps_, _imbricatum_, _kitsoniæ_, _lineare_, _parvissimum_, _plumosum_, _polydactylon_, _proliferum_, _rotundatum_, _wakeleyanum_, _woollastoni_. [illustration: fig. . aspidium angulare grandiceps.] =a. a. grandiceps= (large-crested). this is a narrow fronded variety, having the apices of the fronds branched and crested, ultimately producing a broad tasselled head. a very handsome fern. see fig. . =a. anomalum= (anomalous). _sti._ tufted, ft. to ft. long, densely scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, cut down in the lower part into oblong segments; teeth blunt or slightly mucronate. _sori_ placed near the sinuses of the pinnules. ceylon. stove species. syn. _polystichum anomalum_. =a. aristatum= (awned).* _rhiz._ creeping. _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long, very scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, tri- or quadripinnatifid; lower pinnæ largest, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; lowest pinnules much the largest, lanceolate-deltoid; teeth copious aristate. _sori_ small, principally in two rows near the midrib. japan, himalayas, new south wales, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum aristatum_. =a. a. coniifolium= (conium-leaved).* _fronds_ more finely divided; segments copiously toothed, with lower lobes distinct. =a. a. variegatum= (variegated).* a handsome variety, with a broad band of green running through the bases of the pinnules along the course of the rachis. =a. auriculatum= (eared).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, scaly below or throughout. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ numerous, sub-sessile, usually close, in. to in. long, about / in. broad, ovate-rhomboidal, falcate, acute, spinoso-serrated, the upper base auricled, the lower one truncate. _sori_ in two rows. india, widely distributed. stove species. syns. _a. ocellatum_, _polystichum auriculatum_. =a. a. lentum= (pliant). pinnæ cut into oblong mucronate lobes about half-way down to the rachis, the auricle sometimes quite free. =a. a. marginatum= (margined).* a variety with more coriaceous texture; upper edge of the pinnæ slightly lobed. =a. capense= (cape).* _sti._ scattered, ft. to ft. long, densely scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, sub-deltoid; lowest pinnæ the largest, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules and segments lanceolate, the latter bluntly lobed. _sori_ very large and copious. south america, new zealand, cape colony, natal, &c. greenhouse species. syns. _a. coriaceum_, _polystichum capense_. =a. confertum= (compressed). synonymous with _a. meniscioides_. =a. coriaceum= (leathery). synonymous with _a. capense_. =a. falcatum= (hooked).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, densely scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate; pinnæ numerous, the lower stalked, ovate-acuminate, falcate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; edge entire or slightly undulated, the upper side narrowed suddenly, sometimes auricled, the lower rounded or obliquely truncate at the base. _sori_ small, copious, scattered. japan, china, himalayas, &c. syn. _cyrtomium falcatum_. =a. f. caryotideum= (caryota-like) has pinnæ sometimes larger, sharply toothed, slightly lobed, sometimes auricled on both sides. syn. _cyrtomium caryotideum_. =a. f. fortunei= (fortune's).* this differs from the type in having pinnæ narrower and more opaque. all are most useful house ferns, and quite hardy in many parts of the country. syn. _cyrtomium fortunei_. =a. falcinellum= (finely-hooked).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, densely scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; central pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. broad; point acute; edge finely serrated; the upper side bluntly auricled, the lower obliquely truncate at the base. _sori_ in two long rows. madeira. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum falcinellum_. =a. flexum= (bending). _rhiz._ stout, wide-creeping. _sti._ scattered, ft. long, scaly. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; lower pinnæ lanceolate-deltoid, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate-deltoid, cut down to the rachis below into oblong bluntly-lobed segments. _sori_ large, in two rows, copious. juan fernandez. stove species. syn. _polystichum flexum_. =a. f�niculaceum= (fennel-leaved).* _rhiz._ creeping. _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long, densely scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, and in. to in. broad, lanceolate-deltoid, four to five pinnatifid; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; ultimate divisions linear, awned, with a firm texture. _sori_ solitary. greenhouse species. sikkim, , ft. to , ft. syn. _polystichum f�niculaceum_. =a. frondosum= (leafy). _sti._ scattered, ft. to ft. long, densely scaly below. _fronds_ in. to in. long, ft. or more broad, sub-deltoid; lower pinnæ much the largest, long stalked; pinnules lanceolate; segments very unequal sided, pinnatifid, with rounded mucronate lobes, obliquely truncate at the base below. _sori_ large, copious. madeira. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum frondosum_. =a. hookeri= (hooker's). _sti._ ft. or more long, naked. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long; pinnæ in. to in. long, in. broad, cut down to a broadly-winged rachis into nearly close, spreading, entire, linear-oblong lobes / in. broad. _sori_ nearer the edge than the midrib. malay archipelago. stove species. syns. _a. nephrodioides_ and _cyclodium hookeri_. =a. laserpitiifolium= (laserpitium-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long, stramineous, scaly at base. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, tripinnate; lower pinnæ the largest, with pinnules on the lower side prolonged, lanceolate, imbricated with small, distinct, bluntly-lobed segments. _sori_ in two rows, very copious. japan. a very desirable greenhouse species. syns. _lastrea standishii_ (of gardens) and _polystichum laserpitiifolium_. =a. lepidocaulon= (scaly-stemmed). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, densely clothed with large cordate scales. _fronds_ ft. or more long, in. to in. broad, sometimes elongated and rooting at the point: pinnæ in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, lanceolate-falcate, the two sides unequal, the upper one auricled at the base. _sori_ principally in two rows, near the midrib. japan. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum lepidocaulon_. =a. lonchitis= (spar-like).* the holly fern. _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long, scaly at base. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, pinnate throughout; pinnæ / in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, ovate-rhomboidal, sub-falcate, the two sides unequal, point mucronate, edge spinuloso-serrated, the upper side sharply auricled at the base, the lower obliquely truncate. britain, &c. a very widely-spread hardy species. syn. _polystichum lonchitis_. =a. meniscioides= (meniscium-like). _sti._ ft. to ft. long, scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. or more broad, pinnate; barren pinnæ sessile, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, oblong-acuminate, nearly entire; fertile pinnæ much smaller. _sori_ in two close rows between the primary veins. west indies, &c. stove species. syns. _a. confertum_ and _cyclodium meniscioides_. =a. mohrioides= (mohria-like). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, more or less densely scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bipinnate; pinnæ numerous, frequently imbricated, lanceolate, cut down below into slightly toothed, oblong-rhomboidal pinnules. _sori_ copious. patagonia and the cordilleras of chili. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum mohrioides_. =a. mucronatum= (mucronated).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, densely scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, pinnate throughout; pinnæ very numerous, often imbricated, / in. to in. long, / in. to broad, sub-rhomboidal, unequal-sided, mucronate, sub-entire, distinctly auricled at the upper base. _sori_ in a long row on each side the midrib. west indies. stove or greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum mucronatum_. =a. munitum= (armed).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, densely scaly. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ close, in. to in. long, about / in. broad, acuminate, finely spinulose and serrated throughout, the upper side auricled, and the lower obliquely truncate at the base. _sori_ in two rows near the edge. california, &c. hardy; very fine. syn. _polystichum munitum_. =a. nephrodioides= (nephrodium-like). synonymous with _a. hookeri_. =a. ocellatum= (spotted). synonymous with _a. auriculatum_. =a. pungens= (stinging). _rhiz._ stout. _sti._ scattered, ft. long, scaly below only. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules ovate-rhomboidal, unequal-sided, often deeply pinnatifid. _sori_ principally in two rows near the midrib. cape colony. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum pungens_. =a. repandum= (wavy-leaved). _sti._ ft. to ft. long, naked. _fronds_ ft. or more long, in. to in. broad, apex deeply pinnatifid, with linear-oblong, slightly sinuated lobes; lower pinnæ four to eight on each side, in. to in. long, - / in. to - / in. broad, acuminate; edge bluntly sinuated, the lowest stalked and forked. _sori_ in two distinct rows near the main vein. philippines. stove species. =a. rhizophyllum= (frond-rooting). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, slender. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. broad, with the long, narrow upper half of the frond lengthened out and rooting, the lower half cut down to a flattened fibrillose rachis into oblong-rhomboidal sub-entire lobes about / in. broad, / in. deep. _sori_ scattered. jamaica, . stove or cool house species. syn. _polystichum rhizophyllum_. =a. semicordatum= (half-cordate). _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate; pinnæ spreading, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, nearly entire, acuminate, cordate or truncate at the base. _sori_ in one to three rows on each side, the inner one close to the midrib. tropical america, &c. syn. _polystichum semicordatum_. =a. trapezioides= (trapezium-like). synonymous with _a. viviparum_. =a. triangulum= (triangular).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, base scaly. _fronds_ ft. or more long, - / in. to in. broad; pinnæ numerous, sessile, lower ones distant, central ones / in. to in. long, about / in. broad, sub-deltoid, lower side obliquely truncate; apex mucronate, edge sub-entire or slightly lobed, with blunt or spinose teeth, one or both sides auricled at the base. _sori_ principally in two rows near the edge. west indies. stove or greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum triangulum_. =a. trifoliatum= (three-leaved). _sti._ tufted, ft. or more long, base only scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with a large ovate-acuminate terminal pinna, narrowed or forked at the base, and one or two lateral ones on each side, the lowest mostly forked. _sori_ in rows near the main veins. tropical america. stove species. =a. t. heracleifolium= (heracleum-leaved). a form with pinnæ pinnatifid on both sides at the base. =a. tripteron= (three-winged). _sti._ in. to in. long, densely scaly at base. _fronds_ in. to in. long, with a large terminal and two small spreading lateral pinnæ at the base of it, the former - / in. to in. broad, with very numerous spreading pinnules on each side, - / in. long, about / in. broad, unequal sided, acute, deeply inciso-pinnatifid, the lower lobes again toothed; lateral pinnæ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad. _sori_ principally in two rows midway between midrib and edge. japan. greenhouse species. syn. _polystichum tripteron_. =a. varium= (variable).* _rhiz._ sub-creeping. _sti._ in. to in. long, densely fibrillose below. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate-deltoid; lower pinnæ much the largest, sub-deltoid, unequal sided, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, imbricated, with oblong, blunt, slightly toothed segments. _sori_ principally in two rows near the midrib. japan. greenhouse species. syns. _lastrea varia_ and _polystichum varium_. it is frequently met with in gardens under the former name. =a. viviparum= (bud-producing). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, scaly at the base. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ numerous, nearly lanceolate, the central ones in. to in. long, about / in. broad, mucronate, sometimes bud-bearing, the edge more or less deeply lobed, in the lower part sometimes quite down to the rachis, the upper side auricled. _sori_ in two or four rows. west indies. stove or greenhouse species. syns. _a. trapezioides_ and _polystichum viviparum_. =asplenium= (from _a_, not, and _splen_, spleen; referring to the medicinal properties formerly attributed to the genus). spleenwort. ord. _filices_. including _anisogonium_, _athyrium_, _ceterach_, _cænopteris_, _darea_, _diplazium_, _hemidictyum_, _neottopteris_. a very large and widely-spread genus, including species suitable for the stove, temperate, and hardy ferneries. sori dorsal or submarginal, linear or oblong. involucre similar in shape, straight or occasionally curved, single or double, plane or tumid, bursting along the outer edge. the tropical species should be grown in a compost of peat, loam, and sand; the hardy sorts in a mixture of fibrous peat and sand. good drainage is at all times required. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. [illustration: fig. . asplenium adiantum-nigrum, showing rootstock and back of fertile fronds.] =a. abscissum= (clipped). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, sometimes proliferous at the apex, with twelve to twenty horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are - / in. to in. long, about / in. broad, bluntish; edge inciso-crenate, the upper one narrowed suddenly at the base, the lower one obliquely truncate. _sori_ short, in two regular rows, falling short of both midrib and edge. tropical america. stove species. syn. _a. firmum_. =a. acuminatum= (taper-pointed).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, with very numerous close-placed lanceolate-oblong pinnæ on both sides, which are in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; pinnules numerous, unequal-sided, lanceolate, acuminate; edges sharply toothed, the lower base obliquely truncate. _sori_ in two rows in the upper part, of the pinnules, often diplazioid. sandwich islands. greenhouse species. syn. _a. polyphyllum_. =a. adiantum-nigrum= (black spleenwort). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad sub-deltoid; lower pinnæ deltoid, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; all the pinnæ pinnate. _sori_ copious, at last often occupying the whole under surface of the segments. great britain. world-wide in its distribution. hardy. _a. solidum_, from cape colony, is supposed to be a mere form of this species. there are several varieties the best of which are described below. see fig. . =a. a.-n. acutum= (acute). _fronds_ in. to in. long, deltoid, tripinnate; ultimate segments linear, and very acute. ireland. a copiously divided and very elegant variety. habit more graceful than the type. [illustration: fig. . asplenium adiantum-nigrum grandiceps.] =a. a.-n. grandiceps= (large-crested). _fronds_ in. to in. long; pinnæ comparatively short, and slightly crested; apex freely divided, and expanded into a broad crest, which gives the frond a very graceful contour. frame or greenhouse variety. see fig. . =a. a-n. oxyphyllum= (sharp-leaved). _fronds_ in. to in. long, ovate-lanceolate; ultimate segments narrow and very acute. a very pretty little variety. =a. affine= (related). _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in to in. long, in. to in. broad, bipinnate, with numerous pinnæ on each side, the lower ones lanceolate-rhomboidal; pinnules rhomboidal, inciso-serrate. _sori_ copious, linear. mascaren islands, &c. stove or warm greenhouse species. syn. _a. spathulinum_. =a. alatum= (winged).* _sti._ in. to in, long, slender, the upper part and the rachis, winged. _fronds_ ft. to - / ft. long, in. to in. broad, with twelve to twenty horizontal sessile pinnæ on each side, which are in. to - / in. long, and about / in. broad, bluntish; edge uniformly inciso-crenate, the base nearly equal on both sides. _sori_ distant, not reaching either the midrib or edge. west indies, &c. a very elegant stove species. =a. alismæfolium= (alisma-leaved). _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ varying in shape, from simple oblong-lanceolate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; apex acuminate; edges entire, to ternate or pinnate, with a large terminal and three pairs of lateral pinnæ, each like the entire frond of the simple state; texture coriaceous. isle of luzon. stove species. syn. _anisogonium alismæfolium_. =a. alternans= (alternated). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, lanceolate-oblong, cut down into numerous bluntly-rounded lobes on each side, which reach very nearly down to the rachis, the lower gradually reduced. _sori_ copious. n. w. himalayas. greenhouse species. syn. _a. dalhousiæ_. =a. alternifolium= (alternate-leaved). synonymous with _a. germanicum_. =a. angustifolium= (narrow-leaved).* _sti._ tufted, about ft. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, lanceolate-oblong, flaccid, with twenty to thirty sub-sessile pinnæ on each side, sterile ones largest, in. to in. long, / in. broad, acuminate; edge obscurely-crenate, base rounded and equal on both sides; fertile pinnæ narrower and more distant. _sori_ very close and regular, extending from the midrib nearly to the edge. canada, &c. greenhouse species. =a. anisophyllum= (unequal-leaved). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, simple pinnate, with ten to sixteen sub-sessile pinnæ on each side which are in. to in. long, about in. broad, acuminated, crenate, the two sides unequal, the upper one narrowed suddenly, the lower one obliquely truncate at the base. _sori_ distant, elliptical, reaching half-way from the edge to the margin. cape colony, &c. greenhouse species. =a. apicidens= (apex-toothed). a variety of _a. vieillardii_. =a. arborescens= (tree-like). _cau._ oblique. _sti._ ft. to ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. to ft. broad, deltoid, tripinnatifid, with numerous pinnæ, the lower ones in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules in. long, about / in. wide, acuminate, edge cut two-thirds of the way down to the rachis into nearly entire lobes, / in. deep, / in. broad. lower _sori_ / in. long. mauritius, &c., . stove species. syn. _diplazium arborescens_. =a. arnottii= (arnott's). _sti._ smooth, angular. _fronds_ ample, tripinnatifid; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules in. to in. long, in. or more broad, cut down below to a distinctly winged rachis into deeply crenate, blunt, oblong lobes, / in. deep, / in. broad. _sori_ copious, nearly all diplazioid, and filling up when mature nearly the whole surface of the lobes. sandwich islands, . greenhouse species. syns. _a. diplazioides_ and _diplazium arnottii_. =a. aspidioides= (aspidium-like). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, tripinnatifid; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, lanceolate-deltoid; pinnules lanceolate, cut down below nearly to the rachis into inciso-pinnatifid ovate segments, two lines broad. _sori_ copious, oblong, the lower ones curved. tropical america, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _a. multisectum_. =a. attenuatum= (attenuated). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ simple, linear-lanceolate, about ft. long, about / in. broad, narrowed upwards very gradually, sometimes proliferous at the point, the margin toothed; the lower third also lobed; the lowest roundish, lobes reaching down nearly or quite to the rachis. _sori_ reaching nearly to the edge. queensland, &c. greenhouse species. =a. aureum= (golden). a variety of _a. ceterach_. =a. auriculatum= (auriculated).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, lanceolate-oblong, with ten to twenty-stalked horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, lanceolate, often sub-falcate; edge deeply crenate, the two sides unequal, the upper one with a cordate auricle, the lower one obliquely truncate. _sori_ distant, not reaching either the midrib or edge. tropical america, . stove species. =a. auritum= (eared). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, with ten to fifteen stalked horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, and about / in. broad, acute or bluntish; edge sharply toothed or often lobed, especially on the upper side towards the base. _sori_ in two broad rather oblique rows. tropical america. stove species. =a. australasicum= (australian). a variety of _a. nidus_. =a. baptistii= (baptist's).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. long, bipinnate, broadly ovate; pinnæ stipitate, the lower about in. long, with four narrow stipitate linear-toothed pinnules, in. long, and a terminal lobe, - / in. long, / in. broad, furnished with distinct linear marginal teeth, pointing forwards, and terminating in a long attenuated point, which is toothed nearly to the end. _sori_ linear-oblong, straight, parallel with, and close to, the midrib. south sea islands, . a very handsome stove species. =a. belangeri= (belanger's).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bipinnate; pinnæ numerous, in. to - / in. long, / in. broad, rounded at the point, truncate at the base on the lower side; pinnules linear, erecto-patent, half line broad; one vein and sorus to each segment, the latter marginal. malayan peninsula. stove species. syns. _a. veitchianum_, _darea_, _belangeri_, &c. =a. bipartitum= (twice-partite). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bipinnate, with about ten to fifteen stalked pinnæ on each side, which are in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, bluntish, cut down at the base on the upper side into one distinctly-stalked cuneate pinnule, sometimes into two or three, the outer edge inciso-crenate, the base on the lower side obliquely truncate. _sori_ in two regular rows, reaching nearly to the edge. mascaren isles. stove species. =a. bisectum= (bisected).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bipinnatifid, with twenty to thirty horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. broad, with a very long, narrow, deeply inciso-pinnatifid upper portion, the base on the upper side narrowed suddenly, on the lower obliquely truncate. _sori_ almost all in two parallel rows close to the midrib. west indies, &c. stove species. =a. brachypteron= (broadly-winged). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, bipinnate, with twelve to twenty-four horizontal pinnæ on each side, of which from half to nearly the whole of the lower side is cut away, the largest / in. to / in. long, cut down to the rachis into simple or forked linear pinnules, in. to - / in. long. _sori_ solitary, often quite marginal. madagascar, &c. stove species. syn. _darea brachypteron_. =a. brevisorum= (shortly-soriate). _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, tripinnate; lower pinnæ ft. or more long; pinnules lanceolate, distant, in. to in. long, and - / in. broad; segments lanceolate, / in. long, two lines broad, deeply and sharply toothed. _sori_ small, six to twelve to a segment, in two rows near the midrib, the lower ones curved, often double. jamaica, &c. stove species. syn. _athyrium brevisorum_. =a. bulbiferum= (bulb-bearing). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-deltoid, with numerous horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are often proliferous from the upper surface, the largest in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate-deltoid, slightly toothed. _sori_ oblong, when mature often filling the whole breadth of the segments. new zealand, &c., very widely distributed. greenhouse species. =a. b. fabianum= (fabia's). lower segments deeply pinnatifid, with narrow divisions and sub-marginal sori. syn. _a. fabianum_. =a. b. laxum= (loose). habit more slender; segments narrow, so that the sori are often as if marginal. =a. caudatum= (tailed). probably a form of _a. falcatum_, but having the sori more confined to the centre of the pinnæ, being often restricted to two parallel rows close to the rachis. polynesia, &c. greenhouse species. [illustration: fig. . asplenium ceterach.] =a. ceterach.=* scale or scaly fern. _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long, scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in to in. broad, cut down nearly or quite to the rachis into alternate, blunt, sub-entire, broadly-oblong or roundish pinnæ, with a rounded sinus between them; upper surface naked, lower densely clothed with deep brown membranous scales. _sori_ linear oblique. britain, throughout europe, northern asia, &c. this is a variable species, but the forms do not remain constant under cultivation. it should be firmly planted in a vertical chink of the rockery in loam, lime rubbish, rock chippings, and sand, and be watered freely during the summer. syn. _ceterach officinarum_. see fig. . =a. c. aureum= (golden).* a large variety, producing fronds from in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, and pinnæ more oblong than the type; scales toothed. canaries and madeira. this is a charming fern, requiring greenhouse treatment. syn. _ceterach aureum_. =a. cicutarium= (cicuta-leaved).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, tripinnate, with ten to fifteen horizontal pinnæ on each side, the lower ones in. to in. long, in. broad, cut down to the rachis into numerous ovate-rhomboidal pinnules, which are / in. to / in. long, / in. broad, obliquely-truncate on the lower side; segments once or twice cleft at the apex. _sori_ principally in two rows along the pinnules. tropical america, &c. stove species. =a. colensoi= (colenso's). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, tripinnatifid, with numerous rather rigid erecto-patent pinnæ, the lower on stalks / in. to / in. long; lower pinnules spreading, deeply inciso-pinnatifid, with linear segments. _sori_ oblong, solitary. new zealand. a beautiful greenhouse species. syn. _a. hookerianum_. =a. compressum= (compressed). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, lanceolate-oblong, with ten to twenty sessile pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, about in. broad, acute or bluntish at the point, edge slightly dentate, the upper ones decurrent at the base upon the stout fleshy compressed rachis, the upper side narrowed suddenly at about a right angle, the lower one obliquely truncate. _sori_ broad, distant, not reaching either the midrib or edge. st. helena. stove or greenhouse species. =a. contiguum= (contiguous). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with twenty to thirty horizontal sub-falcate pinnæ on each side, which are acuminated at the apex; edge more or less serrated, the base narrowed suddenly, and sometimes auricled on the upper, obliquely truncate in a curve on the lower side. _sori_ close, copious, falling considerably short of the margin. sandwich isles. greenhouse species. =a. crenatum= (crenated).* _sti._ in. to in. long, scattered. _fronds_ in. to in. each way, deltoid, tri- or quadripinnate, with nine to twelve pinnæ on each side, the lowest much the largest, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, cut down to the rachis except towards the point on each side into four to six blunt oblong segments, two lines long, one line broad, which are bluntly toothed. _sori_ two to six to a segment, oblong, usually nearly straight, often double. scandinavia, &c. hardy species. =a. cultrifolium= (hook-leaved).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, bipinnate, deltoid-ovate, with a lobed terminal point and six to ten pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, acute; edge broadly toothed, sometimes lobed below nearly or quite to the rachis, the base nearly at a right angle on the upper, but obliquely truncate on the lower side. _sori_ falling short both of the edge and midrib. west indies, . stove species. syn. _diplazium cultrifolium_. =a. cuneatum= (wedge-shaped). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, tripinnatifid, narrow-deltoid, with numerous spreading pinnæ on each side, the lower in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, lanceolate-deltoid, cut down to the rachis into several distinct ovate-cuneate pinnules, which are dentate and cut down in the lower part nearly or quite to the rachis. _sori_ linear, sub-flabellate. west indies, and widely distributed in both hemispheres, . a very handsome stove species. =a. dalhousiæ= (dalhouse's). synonymous with _a. alternans_. =a. decussatum= (decussate). _sti._ ft. to ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, simply pinnate, with numerous pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, often proliferous in the axils; edge nearly entire. _sori_ reaching nearly to the edge, and copiously double. polynesian and malayan islands, &c. stove species. syn. _anisogonium decussatum_. =a. dentatum= (dentated).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fertile fronds_ in. to in. long, in. broad, with six to eight pairs of stalked, sub-opposite pinnæ, which are / in. broad, / in. deep, oblong-rhomboidal, the lower side at the base truncate in a curve, the outer edge irregularly crenate. _sterile fronds_ smaller, on shorter stalks. _sori_ copious, in two parallel rows. west indies, &c., . a pretty little greenhouse species. =a. dimidiatum= (unequal-sided).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, simply pinnate, with six to nine opposite pairs of pinnæ, which are in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, acuminated, sharply serrated. _sori_ radiant, narrow, long linear. tropical america. stove species. =a. dimorphum= (two-formed).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, sterile and fertile ones different or combined; lower pinnæ ovate-deltoid, in. to in. long, in. broad, bluntly toothed, and the base on the lower side obliquely truncate; fertile pinnæ the same size, but with very narrow simple or forked pinnules. _sori_ linear, solitary, marginal. norfolk island. one of the handsomest warm greenhouse species. syns. _a. diversifolium_ (of gardens), and _darea dimorpha_. =a. diplazioides= (diplazium-like). a synonym of _a. arnottii_. =a. diversifolium= (diverse-leaved). a garden synonym of _a. dimorphum_. =a. diversifolium= (diverse-leaved). synonymous with _a. maximum_. =a. ebeneum= (ebony-stalked).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, linear-lanceolate, with twenty to forty sessile pinnæ on each side, which are about in. long, / in. broad; point acute or bluntish; edge faintly serrate; base hastately auricled, often cordate. _sori_ ten to twelve on each side, oblong, short. canada, &c., widely distributed, . greenhouse species. _a. ebenoides_ is very like this, but the pinnæ are not cut down to the rachis, and the frond has an elongated point, which is only sinuated with a single row of sori on each side. =a. erectum= (erect). synonymous with _a. lunulatum_. =a. erosum= (bitten). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, with nine to fifteen pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, the edge slightly lobed and crenato-dentate, the point acuminate, the two sides unequal. _sori_ falling short of the edge. west indies. stove species. =a. esculentum= (edible).* _cau._ sub-arborescent. _sti._ ft. to ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, pinnate or bipinnate; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules in. to in. long, about in. broad, acuminate; edge more or less deeply lobed; base narrowed suddenly, often auricled; lines of _sori_ often on all the lateral veinlets. india, &c., . stove species. syn. _anisogonium esculentum_. =a. extensum= (extended). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, about in. broad, with twenty to forty sessile pinnæ on each side, which are / in. long, / in. to / in. deep, blunt and entire, the upper side rather the broadest and often cordate, the lower merely rounded at the base. _sori_ linear-oblong, two or three on each side of the midrib. andes of columbia and peru. a very rare greenhouse species, allied to our native _a. trichomanes_. =a. fabianum= (fabia's). synonymous with _a. bulbiferum fabianum_. =a. falcatum= (hooked).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate, with six to twenty stalked, nearly horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, acuminated, the edges lobed often one-third of the way down, and the lobes sharply toothed, the two sides unequal, and the lower one at the base obliquely truncate. _sori_ in long irregular lines reaching nearly to the edge. polynesian islands, &c., widely distributed. a very elegant greenhouse species. =a. fejeense= (fijian).* _rhiz._ wide-climbing. _sti._ in. long, scaly below. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, lanceolate, caudate, or acuminate at the apex, and often proliferous, narrowed below to a truncate base, the margin nearly entire. _sori_ reaching from the midrib nearly to the edges. fiji, samoa. &c. stove species. =a. fernandesianum= (juan fernandez). a variety of _a. lunulatum_. =a. filix-f�mina= (lady fern).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, with numerous pinnate pinnæ, the lower ones spreading, lanceolate, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad; pinnules deeply inciso-pinnatifid. _sori_ linear-oblong, the lower ones often curved. britain, and world-wide in its distribution. syn. _athyrium filix-f�mina_. this handsome deciduous species has a great number of varieties, the most important of which are described below: =a. f.-f. acrocladon= (summit-branched).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, slender, bi- or tripinnate, the lower part very narrow, with the apices of the pinnæ sometimes crested; upper portion of the frond freely branched, divisions narrow and crested, the whole forming a broad head. =a. f.-f. acuminatum= (taper-pointed).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, lanceolate-acuminate in outline, with closely set pinnæ, which are similarly characterised, and particularly tapering at the apices. =a. f.-f. apiculatum= (apiculate).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate-acuminate in outline, with variously furcate apices; pinnæ closely set with distinctly acuminated apices, and small roundish obtuse serrated pinnules. =a. f.-f. applebyanum= (appleby's).* _fronds_ narrow, in. to in. long, with short blunt pinnæ, while the extremities are dilated into a broad furcated crest, which is very striking upon such a narrow frond. =a. f.-f. barnesii= (barnes's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. wide, lanceolate in outline, abrupt at the top, bipinnate; pinnæ alternate, closely set, lanceolate, acutely pointed, with densely set, narrow, acutely serrate pinnules, with a very membranous texture. =a. f.-f. calothrix= (beautiful-hair).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, copiously divided into exquisitely fine segments, so that the fronds present a very light and delicate appearance. =a. f.-f. contortum= (contorted).* _fronds_ very diversified, the various pinnæ occasionally combining the characters of the varieties _applebyanum_ and _victoriæ_. =a. f.-f. coronatum= (coronate).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. wide; pinnæ distinctly forked, sometimes slightly crested at the apices; the upper extremity of the frond copiously forked, and by the ramification of the divisions a broad crest is formed, about in. to in. across. =a. f.-f. corymbiferum= (corymbose).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate-acuminate in general outline; pinnæ closely set, usually forked and crested at the apices, while the extremities of the fronds are dilated into broad crests, nearly or quite as wide at the broadest portion of the frond. =a. f.-f. crispum= (crispy or curled).* _fronds_ in. long, densely set with very finely divided pinnæ, which are thickly curled, presenting a crispy appearance. =a. f.-f. dissectum= (dissected).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, ovate or broadly lanceolate in form, with irregular and unequal pinnæ; the pinnules also differ very much, and are deeply cut, nearly down to the rachises. =a. f.-f. elworthii= (elworth's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, lanceolate, tripinnate, terminated with a very dense crest, from in. to in. across; pinnæ and frequently the pinnules also more or less forked and crested. =a. f.-f. fieldiæ= (field's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, narrow, with regular or variously-forked divided pinnæ, sometimes arranged crosswise, with a very graceful disposition. =a. f.-f. friselliæ= (frisell's).* _fronds_ pendent, sometimes ft. long, rarely exceeding in. wide, bi- or tripinnate; pinnæ alternate, imbricated, flabellate, with the margins of the pinnules or ultimate divisions dentated. =a. f.-f. grandiceps= (large-crested).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, lanceolate in outline, copiously forked both at the extremities of the pinnæ and frond. the latter is furnished with a very large globose crest, which causes the frond to present a beautifully arched appearance. =a. f-f. grantæ= (grant's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, lanceolate, or broadly so, very thickly set with pinnæ, copiously divided, with the apices of the latter turned up, so that the plant has a crisp or bristly appearance. =a. f.-f. jonesii= (jones's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, oblong-lanceolate in outline, slightly acuminate, bipinnate, furnished at the extremities with a small crest; pinnæ alternate, copiously forked and crested at the apices, even having larger crests than the one at the upper extremity of the frond; pinnules narrow, dentate, slightly crested. =a. f.-f. minimum= (smallest).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. wide, lanceolate, bipinnate; pinnules densely set, imbricated, and crispy. =a. f.-f. moorei= (moore's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, linear, terminated with a broad tasselled crest, in. or more in diameter; pinnæ small, scattered, variously forked, crested, and slender. =a. f.-f. multifidum= (many-fid).* a very vigorous growing variety, producing fronds as large as those of the type, terminated with large tasselled crests; pinnæ and pinnules narrow, the former furnished with small crested apices. a variety known as _nanum_ much resembles the foregoing, but the crests are more dense, and the fronds are usually not more than half the length. =a. f.-f. pannosum= (pannose).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, lanceolate in outline, from in. to in. in the broadest part, bi- or (rarely) tripinnate; pinnæ thickly set, closely alternated, lanceolate-acuminate in form, with deep cut pinnules, and distinctly but irregularly lobed; the whole frond is frequently tinged with reddish-purple. =a. f.-f. plumosum= (feathery).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, broadly lanceolate in outline, tripinnate, beautifully arched; pinnæ of the same form as the frond, copiously divided; pinnules again divided into very fine segments. there are several forms of this charming variety. =a. f.-f. pritchardii= (pritchard's).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, very narrow, tapering especially towards the apices; pinnæ decussate, imbricate, rather irregular, with the margins of the pinnules dentate. there is also a variety named _cristatum_, which is finely crested at the apices of the pinnæ, and is particularly striking. =a. f.-f. ramosa= (branched).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, the lower portion sparsely set with short irregular pinnæ, sharply cut into finely dentate pinnules; the upper part is divided into two main branches, which are again variously forked, and furnished with short pinnæ, the ultimate divisions furcate and slightly crested. =a. f.-f. scopæ= (heavily-crested).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, with a few scattered irregular pinnæ along the main rachis; some of the pinnæ are almost obsolete, while others are an inch long with oblong-dentate pinnules and a heavy terminal crest; the upper portion has several ramifications, each of which is copiously forked and heavily crested, the whole forming a corymbose head in. or in. in diameter, which gives the plant a pendent habit. =a. f.-f. sub-lunatum= (half-crescent-shaped).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, less than in. wide, with curious alternated, nearly crescent-shaped, much contracted pinnæ, sparingly divided, arching. =a. f.-f. victoriæ= (victoria's).* _fronds_ long, lanceolate in outline, with the apices crested, as well as those of the pinnæ; the latter are forked at the base, the divisions being divergent, and crossing those of the neighbouring pinnæ. a form named _gracilis_ has narrower fronds, is more compact, and cresting rather thicker. there is also another form named _lineare_, having very small heavily crested fronds, and an extremely elegant appearance. the foregoing are the most important varieties, but a very comparative few of the total number. although forms of an essentially hardy species, the greater number--and particularly the rarer sorts--should have a winter protection; or, what is far more preferable and satisfactory, they should be grown in the frame or temperate fernery. =a. firmum= (firm-textured). synonymous with _a. abscissum_. =a. fissum= (cut).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-deltoid, tripinnatifid, with a few distant pinnæ on each side; pinnules flabellato-cuneate, deeply pinnatifid; ultimate segments under half a line broad. _sori_ linear-oblong, when mature occupying the whole breadth of the segments. south europe. a pretty little frame or greenhouse species. =a. flabellifolium= (fan-leaved).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ procumbent, wide straggling, elongated, and rooting at the apex, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, with ten to fifteen sessile flabellate pinnæ on each side, which are / in. to / in. each way, broadly lobed; lobes sharply toothed, the base cut away in a curve on the lower side. _sori_ oblique, irregular, copious. temperate australia, &c. greenhouse species. =a. f. majus= (greater). this is a larger form, with longer fronds and broader pinnæ. =a. flaccidum= (relaxed). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, often pendent, with numerous lanceolate pinnæ, which are in. to in. long, and about / in. broad, sometimes rather rigid and recurved, sometimes quite flaccid and drooping, like the main rachis, sometimes deeply pinnatifid, but more often cut down to the thick rachis in oblique or sub-falcate linear lobes. _sori_ in the divided form quite marginal. new zealand, &c. syns. _a. odontites_ and _darea flaccida_. =a. f�niculaceum= (fennel-like). a variety of _a. fragrans_. [illustration: fig. . asplenium fontanum.] =a. fontanum= (rock).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, oblong-lanceolate; lower pinnæ short, reflexed; central ones horizontal, about / in. long; pinnules stalked, lower ones oblong, deeply inciso-pinnatifid. _sori_ copious, covering nearly the whole under surface of the pinnule. england, &c. hardy. this requires to be planted in a well-drained chink of the rockery, in rich gritty soil. syn. _a. halleri_. _a. refractum_ is a well-marked variety. see fig. . =a. formosum= (beautiful). _sti._ tufted, very short. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. broad, with twenty to thirty sessile horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are / in. long, one and a-half to two lines deep; upper edge deeply cut, point rather obtuse, lower edge truncate in a straight line. _sori_ linear-oblong, short, oblique, placed one to four on each side of the midrib. tropical america, &c., . a very elegant stove species. =a. fragrans= (fragrant).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, sub-deltoid, tripinnate, with numerous close placed deltoid pinnæ on each side, the lowest in. long, in. to - / in. broad; pinnules lanceolate-deltoid; segments sub-spathulate, one line broad, dentate round the outer edge. _sori_ copious. tropical america, . _a. f�niculaceum_ is a variety with narrowly linear ultimate segments. both are very handsome stove plants, the latter being especially beautiful. =a. franconis= (franconis).* _sti._ tufted, ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid, with numerous pinnæ on each side, the lower ones in. to in. long, much acuminated, cut down in the lower half into distinct pinnules, - / in. to in. long, / in. broad, lanceolate, unequal sided, the edge cut half-way down below into oblong sharply-toothed lobes; the lower side obliquely truncate. _sori_ in parallel rows, not reaching the edge. mexico, &c. stove species. syn. _diplazium franconis_. =a. furcatum= (forked).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with twelve to twenty pinnæ on each side, which are lanceolate-deltoid, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, nearly or quite pinnate; pinnules linear-cuneate, sharply serrated on the outer edge. _sori_ linear, distant. very widely distributed in the tropical and sub-tropical regions of both hemispheres. a most elegant greenhouse species. syn. _a. præmorsum_. =a. germanicum= (german).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, lanceolate, cut down to the rachis into a few narrow flabellato-cuneate pinnæ on each side, the lowest of which are again deeply cleft. _sori_ linear, when mature covering the whole breadth, but falling short of the point of the pinnæ. scotland and norway to hungary and dalmatia. hardy or frame species. syn. _a. alternifolium_. =a. giganteum= (gigantic). a synonym of _a. radicans_. =a. goringianum pictum= (painted).* a very pretty form of _a. macrocarpum_; the fronds are from in. to in. long, pendulous, somewhat lanceolate in form; rachis reddish, with the pinnæ next it on each side variegated, forming a central grey band throughout its entire length. japan. greenhouse species, or hardy in sheltered positions. =a. grandifolium= (large-leaved). _sti._ ft. or more long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid-lanceolate, the point pinnatifid, with twelve to twenty pinnæ on each side; the lower ones in. or more apart, distinctly stalked, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, acuminate; edge slightly toothed, and sometimes broadly lobed below, the base equally rounded on both sides. _sori_ irregular, falling slightly short of both midrib and edge. tropical america, . stove species. syn. _diplazium grandifolium_. =a. grevillei= (greville's). _fronds_ undivided, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate-spathulate, narrowed to an acute apex, and suddenly below to a broadly winged stipe, which grows very gradually narrower downwards; the margin entire. _sori_ usually extending within a short distance of the edge. india. stove species. =a. halleri= (haller's). synonymous with _a. fontanum_. =a. hemionitis= (hemionitis).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. each way, hastate, with a triangular, acute terminal lobe, and two large, cordate, acute lateral ones, again bluntly or acutely lobed at the base; the basal sinus rounded, in. or more deep, and the lobes on each side imbricated over one another and the petiole. _sori_ narrow upon the simple veins. south europe, &c. a pretty greenhouse species. syn. _a. palmatum_. =a. h. cristatum= (crested).* similar in frond form and size to the species, but the apices are crested and tasselled. where variety is sought, this should certainly be grown. =a. h. multifidum= (much-divided).* _fronds_ quite as broad as long; the main divisions again freely divided or deeply cut, so as to give them a fringed outline. azores. =a. heterocarpum= (various-fruited).* _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, narrow-lanceolate, with very numerous close-placed dimidiate pinnæ on each side, which are / in. to in. broad, / in. deep; the lower edge quite entire, the upper broadest towards the base, where it is narrowed suddenly, deeply incised throughout. _sori_ one, or rarely two, together in the teeth. himalayas, and widely distributed in south-eastern asia. a very lovely stove or greenhouse species. =a. heterodon= (variously-toothed). synonymous with _a. vulcanicum_. =a. hookerianum= (hooker's). synonymous with _a. colensoi_. =a. incisum= (incised). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, lanceolate, with numerous pinnæ on each side; lower distant and blunt, central ones in. long, / in. broad, lanceolate-deltoid; pinnules ovate-rhomboidal, pinnate, much truncated at the base on the lower side and deeply inciso-pinnatifid. _sori_ linear-oblong, one to each vein. japan, &c. greenhouse species. =a. javanicum= (javanese). _see_ =allantodia brunoniana=. =a. lanceolatum= (lanceolate).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; lower pinnæ distant, in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad; pinnules oblong-rhomboidal, sharply toothed, and often broadly lobed below. _sori_ copious, when mature covering nearly the whole under surface. south-west europe, including southern england, &c. hardy species. =a. l. crispatum= (curled).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, broadly-lanceolate, bipinnate, with the margins of the pinnules involute and sharply toothed, giving them a curled appearance. =a. l. microdon= (small-toothed).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, simply pinnate, with deeply lobed pinnæ, the margins of the lobes very finely dentated and toothed. a pretty little gem, well adapted for case culture. =a. lanceum= (lance-shaped). _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, attenuated gradually upwards and downwards, the edge entire or slightly undulated. _sori_ linear, irregular, reaching nearly to the edge, but not to the midrib. himalayas, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _a. subsinuatum_ and _diplazium lanceum_. =a. laserpitiifolium= (laserpitium-leaved).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, naked. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, deltoid-lanceolate, with numerous pinnæ on each side, in. to in. long, and from in. to in. broad, cut down to the rachis into numerous distinct pinnules, the lowest with rhomboidal-cuneate segments. _sori_ short, irregular. polynesian islands, north australia, &c. a very handsome greenhouse species. =a. laxum= (loose). a variety of _a. bulbiferum_. =a. lineatum= (streaked). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, with twenty to thirty pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, about / in. broad, acuminate, dentate, nearly or quite sessile, the base cuneate. _sori_ very regular, reaching from the midrib nearly to the edge. mauritius, &c. there are several forms of this species: those with small narrow cuneate pinnules, _inequale_; those with deeply bifid or pinnatifid pinnules, _bifida_. stove species. =a. longissimum= (longest).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate-elongate, pendulous, proliferous, and rooting at the apex, with very numerous pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. broad, acuminated, the two sides nearly equal, with a distinct central midrib; edge slightly toothed, the base on both sides often auricled. _sori_ numerous, in two regular rows on each side the midrib, and reaching nearly to the edge. malacca, &c., . a very distinct stove fern for baskets. =a. lucidum= (clear). a synonym of _a. obtusatum lucidum_. =a. lunulatum= (crescent-shaped).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, simply pinnate, narrowly lanceolate-oblong, with twelve to twenty pinnæ on each side, which are in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, bluntish or acute, more or less deeply inciso-crenate throughout, the two sides unequal; the upper one on the base narrowed suddenly, the lower one obliquely truncate; lower pinnæ often deflexed. _sori_ falling short of both edge and midrib. tropics. syn. _a. erectum_. =a. l. fernandesianum= (fernandez).* a form with a more rigid rachis and sub-coriaceous, rather narrower pinnæ. juan fernandez. =a. macrocarpum= (large-fruited). _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-lanceolate, with numerous pinnæ on each side, the lowest in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, lanceolate; pinnules oblong-rhomboidal, inciso-crenate or pinnatifid. _sori_ copious, large. himalayas. greenhouse species. syn. _athyrium macrocarpum_. =a. macrophyllum= (long-leaved). synonymous with _a. nitens_. =a. marginatum= (margined). _sti._ ft. to ft. long, strong, erect woody, about / in. thick at the base. _fronds_ simply pinnate, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ in several opposite pairs, the lowest ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, the edge entire, the base often cordate. _sori_ long, linear, confined to the free veins. tropical america. stove species. syn. _hemidictyum marginatum_. =a. marinum= (sea).* sea spleenwort. _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, apex pinnatifid; pinnæ of the lower half quite deltoid, the point acute or obtuse, margin crenato-dentate. _sori_ broad, falling short of the edge. europe, including britain. although perfectly hardy, this requires to be grown in a frame or cool house. =a. m. coronans= (crowned).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, simply pinnate; pinnæ for two-thirds of the way up variable in form, and irregularly lobed and cut; the upper third freely branched with numerous imbricated, curled, and slightly crested divisions, forming a dense head in. or more across. a dwarf and pretty form. =a. m. crenatum= (crenated). _fronds_ in. to in. long, broadly-lanceolate; pinnæ nearly trapeziform, obtuse, with deeply crenated margins. a very pretty form. =a. m. mirabile= (wonderful).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ about the same length, the rachis divided about half way down from the top into two nearly equal divisions, which are again freely forked, with the pinnules and segments obtusely lobed; the whole expanded, but not crested, into a breadth equal to the length of the frond; the lower pinnæ are more or less abnormal and bluntly lobed. =a. m. plumosum= (feathery).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, bi- or tripinnatifid, broadly-lanceolate; pinnæ very variable, closely set, and imbricated, cut nearly to the rachis into ovate or oblong divisions, which are again more or less deeply cut and lobed, the entire frond having a very elegant appearance. =a. m. ramo-plumosum= (branched and feathery).* _fronds_ divided nearly to the top of the stipes into two main branches, which are distinctly pinnate; pinnæ distant below, imbricated upwards, cut nearly to the rachis into ovate or oblong lobes, the margins of which are slightly dentated. it is a very handsome form, the width of the frond being greater than its length. =a. m. ramosum= (branched). _fronds_ from in. to in. long, branched at the apices; pinnæ oblong, with the margins obtusely-dentate, and slightly undulated. =a. m. sub-bipinnatum= (half-bipinnate). _fronds_ in. to in. long, lanceolate; pinnæ distant, deeply lobed, or cut nearly to the midribs. a very rare and pretty variety. =a. m. thompsonii= (thompson's).* _sti._ in. to in. long, smooth. _fronds_ in. to in. long, ovate-lanceolate, bipinnatifid; pinnæ closely set, sub-deltoid, unequal-sided, deeply cut into oblong, slightly undulated lobes below, gradually less divided upwards. a very rare and handsome variety. all the forms of _a. marinum_ require a very moist atmosphere, consequently they will not thrive in the open air, unless along the sea-coast. =a. maximum= (largest). _cau._ erect. _sti._ ft. or more long. _fronds_ several feet long, ft. to ft. broad, deltoid-lanceolate, with numerous pinnæ on each side, the lowest in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules sub-sessile, in. to in. long, / in. broad; edge more or less lobed. _sori_ medial, the lowest two lines long. north india. stove species. syns. _a. diversifolium_ and _diplazium decurrens_. =a. melanocaulon= (black-stiped).* _sti._ ft. to ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, in. to in. long, / in. broad, cut down two-thirds of the way to the rachis into linear-oblong, falcate, inciso-crenate lobes. _sori_ short, oblong, not touching either midrib or edge. fiji. stove species. syn. _diplazium melanocaulon_. =a. michauxii= (michaux's).* _cau._ stout. _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid, bi- or tripinnate; pinnules oblong, deeply serrate, or cut quite to the rachis. united states. a very handsome hardy species, closely related to the lady fern, of which it may be only a variety. =a. monanthemum= (one-flowered).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, about in. broad, with twenty to forty horizontal, sessile, sub-dimidiate pinnæ on each side, which are about / in. long and / in. deep, the upper side crenate, suddenly narrowed at the base, the lower more or less distinctly cut away in a straight, or, in the lower pinnæ, decurved line. _sori_ linear-oblong, usually one or two, parallel with the lower edge of the pinnæ. temperate regions of both hemispheres. greenhouse species. =a. montanum= (mountain).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. broad, lanceolate-deltoid; lowest pinnæ distinctly stalked, deltoid, sharply serrated round the outer edge. _sori_ short, copious. united states, . frame or greenhouse species. =a. multisectum= (much-cut). synonymous with _a. aspidioides_. =a. musæfolium= (musa-leaved). a variety of _a. nidus_. =a. myriophyllum= (myriad-leaved). a variety of _a. rhizophyllum_. [illustration: fig. . asplenium nidus.] =a. nidus= (nest).* bird's-nest fern. _fronds_ undivided, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate, acute or acuminate at the apex, tapering gradually below into a short stem; the edge entire, the midrib rounded on the back; veins fine and parallel, about / in. apart. _sori_ reaching about half way towards the margin. india, &c., . syn. _a. australasicum_. see fig. . =a. n. australasicum= (australian). midrib keeled on the back, often black. australia, &c. the two former are best treated in the stove; the latter thrives well in the greenhouse. syn. _thamnopteris australasicum_. =a. n. musæfolium= (musa-leaved).* _fronds_ larger, sometimes ft. long, ft. broad. _sori_ extending nearly to the edge. =a. nitens= (shining). _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long. _fronds_ - / in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with twelve to twenty ascending or sub-falcate pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, much acuminated; edge finely toothed, base broadly rounded on the upper, truncate in a curve on the lower side. _sori_ in close regular rows, not extending more than half way from the midrib to the edge. mauritius. stove species. syn. _a. macrophyllum_, of gardens only. =a. nitidum= (shining).* _sti._ ft. long, naked. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, with many lanceolate-deltoid pinnæ on each side, which are cut down to the rachis into numerous stalked deltoid pinnules, these are again cut into broad fan-shaped cuneate segments, sharply serrated round the outer edge. _sori_ short. north india, ceylon, &c. greenhouse species. =a. novæ-caledoniæ= (new caledonian).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, sub-deltoid, tripinnate; lower pinnæ and pinnules deltoid; segments rigid, scarcely flattened, / in. or more long, distant, and erecto-patent. _sori_ long, linear, marginal. new caledonia. a rare greenhouse species. syn. _darea novæ-caledoniæ_. =a. obtusatum= (obtuse). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, oblong or ovate-deltoid, with a terminal pinna not much longer than the others, and two to six pairs on each side, which are in. to in. long and about / in. broad, obtuse, edge crenate, the base truncato-cuneate, shortly stalked. _sori_ copious, broad, linear-oblong, falling short of the edge. peru. _a. difforme_ is a variety with an ovate-deltoid frond, and the pinnæ cut quite down to a narrow-winged rachis in the lower part into distinctly separated roundish or oblong-sinuated pinnules. new zealand, australia, &c. greenhouse kinds. =a. o. lucidum= (clear).* _fronds_ often ft. long, with fifteen to twenty pairs of pinnæ on each side, which are more herbaceous in texture, darker green in colour, the lowest in. long, in. to - / in. broad, narrowed gradually to a long acuminated point, edge more deeply toothed. greenhouse variety. syn. _a. lucidum_. =a. obtusifolium= (obtuse-leaved).* _sti._ almost tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-lanceo-late, with twelve to twenty stalked horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, acute; edges slightly undulato-crenate, the upper side with a distinct auricle at the base, and then narrowed suddenly, the lower side obliquely truncate. _sori_ distant, in two regular rows, falling short of the edge. west indies, &c., . stove species. =a. obtusilobum= (obtuse-lobed).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, with nine to twelve sub-deltoid pinnæ on each side, of which only the inner third on the lower side is cut away, the largest nearly in. long, / in. broad; lowest pinnules / in. deep, flabellately cut into three to five linear blunt lobes. _sori_ sub-marginal. new hebrides, . a very pretty little stove species. syn. _darea obtusiloba_. =a. odontites= (much-toothed). synonymous with _a. flaccidum_. =a. oxyphyllum= (sharp-leaved).* _sti._ firm, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate, with several pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, in the larger forms again pinnatifid; teeth mucronate. _sori_ in two rows on the pinnæ or pinnules midway between the midrib and edge. himalayas. a very variable greenhouse species. syns. _athyrium oxyphylla_ and _lastrea eburnea_. =a. paleaceum= (scaly).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long, spreading, densely scaly. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, sometimes proliferous and rooting at the apex, with twelve to twenty sub-sessile pinnæ on each side, which are in. long, about / in. broad, bluntish; edge inciso-dentate, the upper base auricled and narrowed suddenly, the lower obliquely-truncate; the lower ones stalked, and nearly as broad as long. _sori_ linear, extending nearly to the edge. tropical australia. stove or warm greenhouse species. =a. palmatum= (palmate). synonymous with _a. hemionitis_. =a. parvulum= (small). synonymous with _a. trilobum_. =a. persicifolium= (peach-leaved). _sti._ and _rachis_ grey, with a few scattered minute grey scales. _fronds_ oblong-lanceolate, ft. to ft. long, often gemmiferous at the apex; pinnæ ascending, fifteen to thirty-jugate, sub-petiolate, in. to in. long, linear-ligulate-acuminate, / in. to / in. broad, distinctly crenate throughout. _sori_ regular, reaching nearly to midrib and edge. philippine and sandwich isles. stove species. =a. petrarchæ= (petrarch's).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. broad, linear-lanceolate, with six to ten horizontal sessile pinnæ on each side, which are / in. long and nearly as much broad, cordate-ovate, blunt; edge sinuated; the base unequal, slightly truncate on the lower side. _sori_ oblong, very short, four to six on each side of the midrib. south europe, . a very rare little gem, best treated in a cool house. =a. pinnatifidum= (pinnatifid). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. or more broad at the base, lanceolate-deltoid, with a long, gradually narrowing point, which is sinuated only; the lobes below this / in. to / in. deep; the lowest ovate-oblong, / in. deep by nearly as broad, sinuated and reaching down nearly to the rachis. _sori_ copious. pennsylvania. greenhouse or sheltered places outside. =a. planicaule= (flat-stiped).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long, naked. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with twelve to twenty stalked horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, acute; edge lobed about half-way down, and deeply serrated. _sori_ copious, reaching nearly to the edge. himalayas, up to ft., &c., . greenhouse species. =a. plantagineum= (plantain-like). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, simple, acuminate, base rounded; edge slightly undulato-dentate upwards, sometimes lobed towards the base. _sori_ slender, linear, sometimes nearly touching both edge and midrib. west indies, &c., . stove species. syn. _diplazium plantagineum_. =a. polyphyllum= (many-leaved). synonymous with _a. acuminatum_. =a. præmorsum= (bitten). synonymous with _a. furcatum_. =a. prolongatum= (prolonged). synonymous with _a. rutæfolium_. =a. pulchellum= (pretty).* _sti._ tufted. in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, with twelve to eighteen pinnæ on each side, which are / in. to / in. long, two lines to three lines broad, bluntish, almost dimidiate; the upper edge crenate, and narrowed suddenly at the base. _sori_ linear, oblique, falling short of the edge. tropical america. stove species. =a. pumilum= (small). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. each way, deltoid, the upper part sinuated only, the lower cut down to the rachis into distinct pinnæ, of which the lowest pair are much the largest; the pinnules on the lower side sometimes in. long, reaching down to a slightly winged rachis, acuminate and deeply lobed. _sori_ very oblique, the lower ones sometimes in. long. west indies, &c., . a very rare and pretty stove species. =a. rachirhizon= (rachis-rooting). a variety of _a. rhizophorum_. [illustration: fig. . asplenium radicans.] =a. radicans= (rooting). _cau._ erect, sub-arborescent. _sti._ ft. to ft. long, tufted. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, ft. to ft. broad, deltoid; lower pinnæ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; pinnules lanceolate, sessile, the upper ones entire, lower ones in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, with blunt lobes, / in. broad, reaching about half way down to the rachis. lower _sori_ sometimes / in. long. tropical america. a very variable species. syns. _a. giganteum_, _diplazium radicans_, _d. umbrosum_, &c. see fig. . =a. refractum= (refracted). a variety of _a. fontanum_. =a. resectum= (cut or pared).* _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate-oblong, with ten to thirty sub-sessile horizontal pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, almost dimidiate, the point bluntish, all except the truncate part crenate, the upper half at the base narrowed nearly at a right angle. _sori_ not reaching either the midrib or edge. india, &c., widely distributed, . greenhouse species. =a. rhizophorum= (root-bearing).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, elongated, and rooting at the apex; pinnæ twelve to thirty on each side, sub-sessile, - / in. to in. long, about / in. broad, inciso-dentate throughout; the two sides unequal, the upper one auricled and narrowed, the lower one obliquely cuneate. _sori_ not reaching either to the edge or midrib. tropical america. a very variable stove species. _a. r. rachirhizon_, has distinctly separated oblong-rhomboidal pinnules, again deeply cut into narrow segments. =a. rhizophyllum= (leaf-rooting). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, cut down into numerous close-placed horizontal pinnæ on each side; central ones in. long, / in. to / in. broad, cut down throughout nearly to the centre into simple or forked erecto-patent pinnules, the lowest on the under side suppressed. _sori_ solitary, sub-marginal. _a. r. myriophyllum_ is a variety with broader fronds; central pinnæ - / in. long, with lower pinnules cut down into several simple or forked linear segments. north america, &c., . both handsome greenhouse kinds. =a. rutæfolium= (rue-leaved).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate deltoid, with twelve to twenty pinnæ on each side, the lowest sub-deltoid, in. or more long, cut down to the rachis into numerous erecto-patent distant pinnules on each side, the lowest on the upper side again cut down into erecto-patent linear segments. _sori_ small, marginal. cape colony. a beautiful greenhouse species. syns. _a. prolongatum_ and _darea rutæfolia_. =a. ruta-muraria= (wall-rue).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, about in. broad, deltoid, cut down to the rachis into a few pinnæ on each side, the lower ones again cut down into spathulato-cuneate pinnules, which are serrated round the outer edge. _sori_ copious. great britain, and almost worldwide in its distribution. hardy species. this requires a well-drained position, and a soil composed mainly of old mortar rubbish. =a. salicifolium= (willow-leaved). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, oblong, with a terminal pinna and four to ten distinctly stalked ones on each side, which are in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, acuminate; edge usually entire, the base equally truncato-cuneate on both sides. _sori_ falling short both of the edge and midrib. west indies, &c. stove species. =a. sandersoni= (sanderson's).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, linear, often gemmiferous at the apex, with twelve to twenty horizontal dimidiate pinnæ on each side, which are deeply crenate on the upper edge, and at the base narrowed suddenly into a winged petiole, the lower one nearly straight and quite entire. _sori_ oblong. natal, &c. a very rare greenhouse species. =a. schizodon= (cut-toothed). synonymous with _a. vieillardii_. =a. schkuhrii= (schkuhr's). _cau._ erect. _sti._ ft. to - / ft. long. _fronds_ deltoid, - / ft. to ft. long, tripinnatifid; lower pinnæ distant, oblong-lanceolate, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, rachis winged to base; pinnules ligulate-oblong, / in. broad, sessile, cut into shallow, close, oblong blunt lobes. _sori_ / in., medial in a single row in the pinnules. ceylon. stove species. syn. _diplazium schkuhrii_. =a. selosii= (selose's).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long, wiry. _fronds_ / in. to / in. long, palmately cleft, usually into three nearly equal forks, which are about one line broad, the edge slightly inciso-serrate. _sori_ copious, ultimately occupying the whole surface. tyrol and carinthia. a very rare and curious little species, requiring the protection of the frame or cool house; it should be firmly potted between pieces of sandstone in loam, leaf-soil, rock chippings and sand, with good drainage. =a. septentrionale= (northern).* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ simple, or cleft from the apex into two or three cuneate divisions, in. to - / in. long, one line broad, with a few sharp lateral and terminal teeth. _sori_ elongated, copious, often at last hiding the whole under surface. great britain, and widely distributed in both hemispheres. this rare little species requires to be securely planted in a well-drained elevated chink of the fernery outside, in loamy, gritty soil. =a. shepherdi= (shepherd's).* _sti._ tufted, ft. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad; lower pinnæ stalked, in. to in. long, in. to - / in. broad, point acuminate, edge lobed above, / in. broad, somewhat toothed. _sori_ linear, not reaching the edge. south america. stove species. syn. _diplazium shepherdi_. =a. s. inæquilaterum= (unequal-sided). _fronds_, texture firm, colour duller than that of the type; pinnæ much acuminated; the lobes deeper, more uniform, and falcate, the two sides unequal, the lower one unequally truncate at the base. =a. spathulinum= (spathulate). a synonym of _a. affine_. =a. spinulosum= (very spiny).* _sti._ in. to in. long, scattered. _fronds_ in. to in. each way, deltoid, tri- or quadripinnatifid, with nine to twelve pinnæ on each side, the lowest much the largest, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, ovate-lanceolate; pinnules lanceolate, cut down to the rachis on each side into six to nine oblong-rhomboidal mucronate segments, two lines long, one line broad, which are sharply toothed. _sori_ two to ten to a segment, usually round, but occasionally oblong. amur-land, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _athyrium spinulosum_ and _cystopteris spinulosa_. =a. splendens= (splendid). _rhiz._ creeping, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. _fronds_ deltoid, in. to ft. long, two to three-pinnate; lower pinnæ stalked, deltoid, in. to in. broad, pinnate or bipinnate; segments cuneate-flabellate, / in. to / in. broad, slightly lobed, sharply toothed round outer edge. _sori_ copious, slender, irregular, reaching from base nearly to tip of segments. cape colony. a very rare greenhouse species. =a. subsinuatum= (half-waved). synonymous with _a. lanceum_. =a. sundense= (sundanese). synonymous with _a. vittæforme_. =a. sylvaticum= (woods). _cau._ decumbent. _sti._ ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-lanceolate, with numerous spreading pinnæ, the largest in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, acuminated; edge broadly and briefly lobed; base narrowed suddenly on both sides. _sori_ in long slender lines, reaching nearly to the edge. india, &c. stove species. =a. thelypteroides= (thelypteris-like). _sti._ ft. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, lanceolate, with numerous spreading pinnæ, the lower ones in. to in. long, in. broad, cut down to a broadly-winged rachis into numerous nearly entire elliptical spreading pinnules. _sori_ in close regular rows, reaching nearly from the midrib to the edge, slightly curved, the lower ones often double. north america, &c., . hardy or cool house species. syn. _athyrium thelypteroides_. =a. thwaitesii= (thwaites's).* _rhiz._ wide-creeping, stout. _sti._ in. long, slender, densely clothed with strong white woolly hairs. _fronds_ ft. or more long, in. to in. broad, with eight to ten distinct pinnæ beneath the pinnatifid apex, the largest in. long, / in. broad, cut down two-thirds of the way to the rachis in oblong crenulated lobes, / in. deep, two lines across. _sori_ reaching half-way to the edge, the lowest about one line long. ceylon. very fine stove species. syn. _diplazium thwaitesii_. [illustration: fig. . asplenium trichomanes.] =a. trichomanes= (maiden-hair).* maidenhair spleenwort. _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, about / in. broad, with fifteen to thirty opposite pairs of sessile horizontal pinnæ, which are / in. to / in. broad, one and a-half to two lines deep, edge slightly crenate, the two sides unequal, the upper one the broadest, and narrowed suddenly at the base. _sori_ linear-oblong, three to six on each side of the midrib. great britain, and almost cosmopolitan. hardy species. see fig. . there are several varieties in cultivation, of which the following are the most important: [illustration: fig. . asplenium trichomanes cristatum.] =a. t. cristatum= (crested).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, simply pinnate, with roundish pinnæ, and broad crests at their extremities, sometimes divided, each fork crested. a very pretty little variety, requiring frame or greenhouse treatment. see fig. . =a. t. incisum= (deeply-cut).* _fronds_ in. to in. long; pinnæ deeply pinnatifid, the lobes again deeply cut or serrated. a very rare and pretty form. =a. t. multifidum= (much-divided).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, once, twice, thrice, or, rarely, quadri-furcate, each division terminated with a little crest. a free-growing kind. =a. t. ramosum= (branched).* _fronds_ in. to in. long, freely branched, each division being again forked; pinnæ deeply cut or crenated, or serrate. more hardy than any of the other forms. =a. trilobum= (three-lobed).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to - / in. long, in. broad, rhomboidal, apex acute, base cuneate, entire, the margin undulato-crenate, or the lower part deeply lobed, with broad inciso-crenate divisions. _sori_ broad and short. chili and south brazil. a very rare little stove species. syn. _a. parvulum_. =a. umbrosum= (shady). _sti._ ft. or more long, scaly at the base. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-deltoid; pinnæ ovate-lanceolate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with lanceolate pinnules, which are again cut down to the midribs into unequal-sided rhomboidal lobes, with the margins sharply crenated. _sori_ copious, oblong, with large tumid membranous involucres. madeira, canaries, himalayas, &c. very widely distributed. a very handsome greenhouse species. syns. _allantodia australe_, _athyrium umbrosum_. =a. varians= (variable). _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, with eight to twelve pairs of pinnæ on each side, lower ones sub-deltoid, / in. to / in. long, / in. broad, cut down to the rachis into a few cuneato-flabellate pinnules, the lowest two lines across, sharply toothed on the outer edge. _sori_ copious, when mature, covering nearly the whole under surface of the pinnules. himalayas, and widely distributed. greenhouse species. =a. veitchianum= (veitch's). synonymous with _a. belangeri_. =a. vieillardii= (vieillard's).* _sti._ tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with large linear-lanceolate terminal pinna, lengthened out at the point, and deeply serrated, and three to four pairs of erecto-patent similar lateral ones, which are in. to in. long, upwards of / in. broad, equally truncato-cuneate, and the lower ones slightly stalked at the base. _sori_ distant, falling short of both edge and margin. new caledonia. a very graceful greenhouse species. syn. _a. schizodon_. _a. apicidens_ is but a variety of this, with shortened sori and more obtuse venation. [illustration: fig. . asplenium viride, showing barren and fertile pinnæ (_a_ and _b_), sorus (_c_), and sporangium (_d_).] =a. viride= (green). green spleenwort.* _sti._ densely tufted, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, / in. broad, with twelve to twenty sub-sessile pinnæ on each side, ovate-rhomboid; upper edge narrowed suddenly at the base, the lower one obliquely truncate, outer part deeply crenated. _sori_ copious, linear-oblong, oblique. great britain, &c., widely distributed in both hemispheres. it requires to be planted in a well-drained but moist situation. hardy species. see fig. . =a. vittæforme= (narrow-fronded).* _rhiz._ creeping. _sti._ short, erect. _fronds_ entire, lanceolate, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad, narrowed to an acute point, and very gradually into the stem below; margin obscurely toothed. _sori_ copious, often reaching from the midrib nearly to the edge. java, &c. stove species. syn. _a. sundense_. =a. viviparum= (plant-bearing).* _sti._ tufted. in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate-lanceolate, with numerous close-placed erecto-patent pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, - / . to in. broad, cut down to a compressed rachis into numerous pinnatifid pinnules, the lower segments of which are again forked; ultimate segments / in. to / in. long, quarter-line broad. _sori_ solitary, marginal. mauritius, &c., . a very handsome stove species. =a. vulcanicum= (volcanic). _sti._ in. to in. long. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, oblong-lanceolate, with a linear-terminal pinna, or gemmiferous at the apex, and six to twelve lateral ones on each side; lower ones stalked, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, acuminated; edge slightly dentate; the base truncate. _sori_ very regular and parallel, falling short of the edge. malay islands. stove species. syn. _a. heterodon_. =a. zeylanicum= (ceylonese).* _sti._ scattered, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, the point acuminated, apex slightly lobed, the lower two-thirds more deeply so, and the base quite down to the rachis; lobes blunt, / in. to / in. across. _sori_ linear, two to three lines long. ceylon. stove species. syn. _diplazium zeylanicum_. =assonia= (commemorative of ignatius de asso, a distinguished spanish botanist, who wrote on the plants of arragon). ord. _sterculiaceæ_. this genus is now included by best authorities under _dombeya_. ornamental stove evergreen trees, with undivided leaves, and axillary, bifid, sub-corymbose peduncles. they are of easy culture; thriving freely in any light rich soil, or a mixture of loam and peat. young cuttings will root freely in sand, with a brisk bottom heat, if covered by a bell glass. =a. populnea= (poplar-leaved). _fl._ white, disposed in a terminal, bifid corymb; peduncles scarcely longer than the petioles. june. _l._ cordate, acuminated, smooth, a little serrated. _h._ ft. to ft. bourbon, . =a. viburnoides= (viburnum-like). _fl._ white; peduncles three times longer than the petioles. _l._ cordate, somewhat acuminate, crenated, tomentose beneath, as well as younger leaves. _h._ ft. to ft. bourbon, . =astartea= (a mythological name: astarte, the syrian venus). ord. _myrtaceæ_. an ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrub, requiring a mixture of loam, peat, leaf soil, and sand. young cuttings root readily in sand under a bell glass in gentle heat. =a. fascicularis= (bundle-flowered). _fl._ white, pedicellate, solitary, axillary. may. _l._ opposite, linear, fleshy; when young, disposed in axillary fascicles. _h._ ft. to ft. west australia, . =astelma= (from _a_, not, and _stelma_, a crown; in reference to the construction of the fruit). ord. _compositæ_. greenhouse evergreen shrubs from the cape of good hope. some species of this genus, which is now generally referred to _helipterum_, are very handsome, and thrive well in a mixture of fibrous peat, leaf soil, and sand, with thorough drainage. fill the pots one-third full of crocks; water carefully, and only when absolutely necessary; and place in a situation near the glass, allowing a free admission of air. seeds should be sown in pots of light, open soil, and placed in a gentle heat; half-ripened cuttings will strike readily in sandy soil with a hand glass placed over them. they are now but rarely seen under cultivation. =a. canescens= (hoary). _fl.-heads_ purple; scales of involucre ovate; branches one-flowered. may to june. _l._ oblong, blunt, imbricated. _h._ - / ft. . =a. eximium= (fine).* _fl.-heads_ crimson; corymbs sessile. july. _l._ sessile, ovate, close, erect, white with thick woolly pubescence. stem stout. _h._ ft. . this is a very beautiful species. =a. speciosissimum= (showiest). _fl.-heads_ white, large, solitary, terminal. july. _l._ sessile, lanceolate-obovate, acute, three-nerved, woolly. _h._ ft. . =astephanus= (from _a_, without, and _stephanos_, a corona; corona absent). ord. _asclepiadeæ_. a genus of pretty evergreen greenhouse twiners. flowers few, small, disposed in interpetiolar umbels; corolla campanulate. leaves small, opposite. they thrive in a compost of turfy peat, leaf soil, and loam, in equal parts. very little water is required when the plants are at rest. cuttings root readily in sandy soil in a moderate heat. propagation may also be effected by division. =a. linearis= (linear). _fl._ white; umbels dividing in threes, lateral and terminal. july. _l._ in. long, opposite, linear-lanceolate. stem glabrous. cape of good hope, . =a. triflorus= (three-flowered).* _fl._ white; umbels generally three-flowered. july. _l._ opposite, lanceolate, villous beneath. stems hairy. cape of good hope, . =aster= (from _aster_, a star; general shape of flower-heads). michaelmas daisy; star-wort. syn. _pinardia_ (of necker). ord. _compositæ_. hardy herbaceous perennials, except where otherwise stated. heads solitary, corymbose, or panicled, heterogamous, rayed; ray florets pistiliferous, one or two-seriate, fertile or neuter; ligule elongated, white, blue, or purple; disk florets hermaphrodite, fertile, tubular, yellow, five-cleft; involucre campanulate or hemispheric; bracts few or many-seriate, outer smaller or larger; receptacle flat or convex; pappus hairs few or copious, scabrid, outer sometimes shorter, rigid, and paleaceous. leaves alternate. this large genus contains many handsome border and alpine deciduous perennials (rarely biennials) of easy culture in ordinary soil. they may be propagated by divisions in autumn or spring, or by seeds in spring. the greenhouse species are mostly evergreen shrubs, requiring a compost of peat, leaf soil, and loam. cuttings root readily in a sandy soil, under a hand glass, with very little heat. =a. acris= (acrid). _fl.-heads_ blue; involucre imbricated, twice as short as the disk. august. _l._ linear-lanceolate, not dotted, three-nerved. _h._ ft. south europe, . =a. acuminatus= (taper-pointed).* _fl.-heads_ white; panicle corymbose. september. _l._ broad-lanceolate, narrowed at base, entire, with a very long point. stem simple, flexuous, angular. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. adulterinus= (false). _fl.-heads_ violet; involucre squarrose, shorter than the disk. september. _l._ amplexicaul, lanceolate; lower ones sub-serrate, smooth; those of the branches linear squarrose. _h._ ft. north america. =a. æstivus= (summer-flowering).* _fl.-heads_ blue. july. _l._ lanceolate, somewhat amplexicaul, narrowed at the end, scabrous at edge. stem erect, hispid; branchlets pilose. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. albescens= (whitish). _fl.-heads_ purple or whitish, nearly in. across; corymbosely panicled; scales of involucre ovate-linear, apiculate; ray twenty-flowered. august. _l._ lanceolate on short petioles, denticulate, downy. plant beset with rusty down. _h._ ft. nepal, . =a. alpinus= (alpine).* _fl.-heads_ bright purple, in. to in. across; scales of involucre nearly equal, lanceolate, bluntish. july. _l._, radical ones lanceolate-spathulate; those of the stem lanceolate. stem one-flowered. _h._ in. to in. europe, . a very attractive species, having a dwarf, stout habit; it forms a useful and handsome subject for edging, and its flowers are valuable for cutting purposes. see fig. . =a. a. albus= (white).* _fl.-heads_ white, in other respects resembling the type; but it is much less desirable, and has not nearly so vigorous a habit. europe, . =a. altaicus= (altaian).* _fl.-heads_ blue-purple, about in. across; stem simple, corymbose, downy. june, july. _l._ linear-lanceolate, entire, blunt mucronate, three-nerved at base, veiny. _h._ ft. siberia, . this, which is frequently considered a variety of _a. alpinus_, is one of the handsomest. =a. alwartensis= (alwart). _fl.-heads_ red; ray very fine; involucre loosely squarrose. may. _l._ ovate, narrowed at base, entire, about five-nerved. _h._ ft. caucasus, . =a. amellus= (amellus).* _fl.-heads_ purple, solitary, numerous; involucre imbricated squarrose; leaves blunt; inner membranous, coloured at edge. august. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, scabrous. _h._ ft. italy, . one of the best border kinds. [illustration: fig. . aster alpinus.] =a. a. bessarabicus= (bessarabian).* a most desirable variety, frequently seen in gardens; it is rather taller than the type, with larger flower-heads, of a deep purple colour. one of the showiest of all the asters. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . aster amellus bessarabicus.] =a. amplexicaulis= (stem-clasping). _fl.-heads_ violet. july. _l._ ovate-oblong, acute, amplexicaul, cordate, serrated, smooth. stem panicled, smooth; branches one to two-headed. _h._ ft. north america. =a. amygdalinus= (almond-leaved). _fl.-heads_ white; involucre closely imbricated. august. _l._ lanceolate, narrowed at base, acuminated, scabrous at edge. stem simple, corymbose at end. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. argenteus= (silvery).* _fl.-heads_ purple. august. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, silky, sessile. stem slender, decumbent, loosely branched; branches and branchlets one-headed. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. bellidiflorus= (daisy-flowered). _fl.-heads_ pale red; involucre with spreading scales. september. _l._ amplexicaul, narrow-lanceolate, scabrous above, lower sub-serrated. stem much branched. _h._ ft. north america. =a. bigelovii= (bigelow's).* _fl.-heads_ corymbose, - / in. diameter, ray-florets lilac, disk yellow. summer. _l._ scabrous pubescent, oblong-spathulate; cauline ones amplexicaul, ovate-oblong, crenate, obscurely-toothed. _h._ - / ft. colorado, . a very handsome biennial species. syn. _a. townshendi_. =a. blandus= (charming). _fl.-heads_ pale purple; racemes scarcely longer than the leaves. october. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, oblong-lanceolate, acuminate, sessile, smooth. stem pyramidal. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. canescens= (hoary). _fl.-heads_ pale purple; involucre imbricated, very acute, longer than disk. september. _l._ linear. panicle corymbose, much branched, leafy. _h._ ft. north america, . biennial or perennial. =a. cassiarabicus= (arabian cassia). _fl.-heads_ pink; panicles corymbose. september. _l._ ovate, acute, serrated, tapering at the petioles. plant erect, pilose. _h._ ft. russia, . =a. caucasicus= (caucasian).* _fl.-heads_ purple, solitary; scales of involucre nearly equal, linear. july. _l._ ovate, sessile, scabrous. _h._ ft. caucasus, . =a. ciliatus= (ciliated). _fl.-heads_ white. september. _l._ ciliated; cauline ones linear-lanceolate, nerved; those of the branches very short lanceolate, three-nerved. stem branched, downy; branches downy. _h._ ft. north america. =a. concinnus= (neat).* _fl.-heads_ purple; involucre closely imbricated. october. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, lanceolate; lower ones sub-serrate, smooth. stem simple, panicled at end. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. concolor= (one-coloured). _fl.-heads_ purple; raceme terminal. october. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, hoary on each side. stem simple, erect, downy. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. conyzioides= (conyza-like). synonymous with _seriocarpus conyzioides_. =a. cordifolius= (heart-leaved). _fl.-heads_ blue, small, disposed in crowded racemes, which are slightly drooping. july. _l._ cordate, pilose beneath, finely serrated, stalked. stem smoothish, panicled; panicle spreading. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. coridifolius= (coris-leaved). _fl.-heads_ pale blue. october. _l._ very numerous, linear, blunt, reflexed, hispid at edge. stem branched, diffuse, smooth; branches one-headed. _h._ ft. north america. [illustration: fig. . aster corymbosus, showing habit and flower-head.] =a. corymbosus= (corymbose). _fl.-heads_ corymbose, about in. in diameter; ray-florets few, narrow, white; disk-florets pale yellow. autumn. _l._ in. long, cordate acute, lobed at the base, coarsely toothed. stems brittle, blackish purple. _h._ ft. to ft. syn. _biotia corymbosa_. see fig. . =a. diffusus= (diffuse). _fl.-heads_ white; involucres imbricated. october. _l._ elliptic-lanceolate, equal, serrated, smooth. branches spreading. stem pubescent. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. douglasii= (douglas's).* _fl.-heads_ purple; involucral scales linear or spathulate-linear, loosely imbricated. august. _l._ lanceolate, acute, entire, or rarely serrate, mostly tapering at the base. stem smooth, slender, paniculately branched, leafy. _h._ ft. to ft. california, &c. =a. dracunculoides= (tarragon-like).* _fl.-heads_ white, about in. across, disposed in dense cymose clusters; involucre imbricated. september, october. _l._ linear, acuminated, entire; lower ones linear-lanceolate, sub-serrate. branches corymbose. _h._ ft. north america, . a very handsome species. =a. dumosus= (bushy).* _fl.-heads_ white, about / in. across, disposed in broad clusters; involucre cylindrical, closely imbricated. october. _l._ linear, glabrous; those of the branches very short. branches panicled. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. d. albus= (white).* _fl.-heads_ quite white, and rather smaller than those of the species. north america. =a. d. violaceus= (violet). _fl.-heads_ violet-purple. north america. =a. elegans= (elegant). _fl.-heads_ blue, small; corymb contracted, drooping; scales of involucre oblong-cuneate, blunt, squarrose. september. _l._ scabrous; cauline ones oblong-lanceolate, acute; radical ones oblong, stalked. _h._ ft. north america, . a very elegant species, having a graceful habit. =a. eminens= (eminent). _fl.-heads_ light blue. october. _l._ linear-lanceolate, acuminate, scabrous at edge; lower ones sub-serrated. stem panicled; branches one-headed. _h._ ft. north america. [illustration: fig. . aster ericoides.] =a. ericoides= (heath-like).* _fl.-heads_ white; involucre squarrose, leaflets acute. september. _l._ linear, glabrous; those of the branches subulate, close together; and those of the stem long. _h._ ft. north america, . a very pretty species. see fig. . =a. floribundus= (many-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ light purple. september. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, lanceolate; lower ones serrated. stem smooth; branches corymbose. _h._ ft. north america. =a. foliosus= (leafy). _fl.-heads_ pale blue; involucre imbricate. september. _l._ linear-lanceolate, acuminate, narrowed at each end. stem downy, panicled, erect; branches few-headed. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. fragilis= (fragile). _fl.-heads_ flesh-coloured, small; involucre imbricated. september. _l._ linear, acuminate, entire; radical ones oblong, serrate. branches in corymbose panicles. _h._ ft. north america, . [illustration: fig. . aster grandiflorus.] =a. grandiflorus= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ purple, large, terminal; scales of involucre squarrose. november. _l._ linear, rigid, acute, sub-amplexicaul; those of the branches reflexed, hispid at edge. _h._ ft. north america, . see fig. . =a. hyssopifolius= (hyssop-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ white, or purple shaded; scales of the involucre about half as long as the disk. august to october. _l._ linear-lanceolate, acute, with the margins scabrous. branches fastigiate and corymbose, smooth. _h._ - / ft. to ft. north america. =a. lævigatus= (smooth-stemmed). _fl.-heads_ flesh-coloured, about in. across, disposed in large panicles. september. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, broad-lanceolate, sub-serrate, smooth. stem glabrous. branches many-headed. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. lævis= (smooth).* _fl.-heads_ blue; involucre imbricated with cuneiform leaflets. september. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, remotely oblong, entire, lucid; radical ones sub-serrated. _h._ ft. north america, . one of the best border species. =a. laxus= (loose-flowered). _fl.-heads_ white, about in. across; clusters loose. october. _l._ linear-lanceolate, scabrous at edge; lower ones sub-serrated; stem ones reflexed. stem loosely panicled. _h._ ft. north america. =a. linarifolius= (toad-flax-leaved). _fl.-heads_ pale blue. september. _l._ numerous, linear, mucronated, nerveless, not dotted, keeled, scabrous, rigid. branches fastigiate, one-headed. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. linifolius= (flax-leaved). _fl.-heads_ white; involucre imbricated, short. july. _l._ linear, nerveless, dotted, scabrous, reflexed, spreading. branches corymbose, fastigiate, leafy. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. longifolius= (long-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ white, in. across, in dense corymbose panicles; involucre squarrose. october. _l._ linear-lanceolate, rarely toothed, very long, smooth. _h._ ft. north america, . there are several varieties of this handsome species. =a. l. formosus= (charming).* _fl.-heads_ pink, produced in dense corymbs. _h._ - / ft. to ft. =a. macrophyllus= (large-leaved). _fl.-heads_ white. august. _l._ large, ovate, stalked, serrated, scabrous; upper ones cordate, sessile. stem branched, diffuse. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. multiflorus= (many-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ white, small; corymb large, elongated; involucre imbricated; scales oblong, squarrose, acute. september. _l._ linear, glabrous. stem much branched, diffuse, downy; branchlets one-sided. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. myrtifolius= (myrtle-leaved). _fl.-heads_ white; involucre imbricated; scales length of disk. august. _l._, stem ones, amplexicaul, scabrous; those of the branches small. _h._ ft. . =a. novæ-angliæ= (new england).* _fl.-heads_ purple, in terminal clusters. september. _l._ linear-lanceolate, pilose, amplexicaul, auricled at base. stem simple, pilose, straight. _h._ ft. north america, . one of the best; having a tall and robust habit. =a. n.-a. rubra= (red).* _fl.-heads_ deep red pink, in other respects like the type. north america, . =a. novæ-belgii= (new york).* _fl.-heads_ pale blue. september. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, lanceolate, glabrous, scabrous at edge; lower ones sub-serrated. branches divided. _h._ ft. north america, . there is a variety known in gardens which belongs to this species, under the name of _amethystinus_, the flowers of which are much larger and very showy. =a. obliquus= (oblique). _fl.-heads_ numerous; ray white; disk purplish. autumn. _l._ alternate; lower ones linear-lanceolate, oblique; upper stem ones smaller. _h._ ft. north america. a very fine species, forming large tufts. =a. paniculatus= (panicled).* _fl.-heads_ light blue; involucre loose. september. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, sub-serrated, stalked, smooth; petioles naked. stem much branched, smooth. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. pannonicus= (pannonian). _fl.-heads_ violet; scales of involucre lanceolate, blunt, equal. july. _l._ linear-lanceolate, hispid at edge. stem simple, corymbose. _h._ ft. hungary, . =a. patens= (spreading). _fl.-heads_ light purple, about in. across. october. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, ciliate, cordate, amplexicaul, scabrous on each side, hairy. stem branched, hairy. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. pendulus= (drooping).* _fl.-heads_ pure white at first, ultimately rosy pink, small. september. _l._ elliptic-lanceolate, serrate, smooth, those of the branches distant. branches much spreading, pendulous. _h._ ft. north america, . a very pretty species. =a. peregrinus= (foreign).* _fl.-heads_ bluish purple, in. across. july, august. _l._ lanceolate, sub-acute, entire, smooth, those of the stem rather narrower than the radical ones. stem smooth, or nearly so, two or three-flowered. _h._ ft. north america. a very pretty little species for the rockery or border. =a. pilosus= (pilose). _fl.-heads_ pale blue; involucre oblong, loose, imbricated. september. _l._ linear-lanceolate, hoary. stem branched, villous; branchlets somewhat one-sided, one-headed. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. præcox= (early). _fl.-heads_ violet; involucre imbricated; scales nearly equal; outer scales somewhat spreading. july. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, narrowed at the base. stem hairy. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. pulchellus= (beautiful).* _fl.-heads_ purple, solitary; scales of involucre nearly equal, linear, acuminate. june. _l._, radical ones spathulate; cauline ones linear-lanceolate. _h._ ft. armenia. =a. puniceus= (red-stalked). _fl.-heads_ blue, about in. across; panicle large, pyramidal; involucre loose, longer than the disk. september. _l._ amplexicaul, lanceolate, serrate, roughish. branches panicled. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. pyrenæus= (pyrenean).* _fl.-heads_ lilac-blue (disk yellow), large, three to five in a short corymb. july. _l._ scabrous on both sides; cauline ones oblong-lanceolate, acute, sessile, sharply serrated on the upper part. _h._ ft. to - / ft. pyrenees. =a. reevesi= (reeves's). _fl.-heads_ white, with yellow centre, small; panicle dense, pyramidal. autumn. _l._ linear, acute. branches slender. _h._ in. to in. north america. a very desirable species, suitable for rockwork. =a. reticulatus= (netted). _fl.-heads_ white. july. _l._ lanceolate-oblong, acute at each end, sessile, revolute at end, netted, and three-nerved beneath. plant hoary all over. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. rubricaule= (red-stemmed). synonymous with _a. spurius_. =a. salicifolius= (willow-leaved). _fl.-heads_ flesh-coloured; involucre lanceolate, imbricate; scales acute, spreading at end. september. _l._ linear-lanceolate, nearly entire, smooth. stem smooth, panicled at end. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. salsuginosus= (salt-plains).* _fl.-heads_ violet-purple; involucral scales linear, loose, glandular. july. _l._ entire, the lower spathulate, obovate, tapering into a margined petiole; the upper ones lanceolate, acute, with broad base, usually sub-amplexicaul. stem minutely pubescent, leafy nearly to the top, few-flowered. _h._ in. to in. north america, . a very handsome species. =a. s. elatior= (tallest). this variety grows ft. or more high, and has rather larger flowers than the type. north america. =a. sericeus= (silky). _fl.-heads_ deep blue; terminal, about - / in. across. summer and autumn. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, sessile, entire, three-nerved, silky with down. _h._ ft. missouri, . this is a half-hardy evergreen shrub, and requires a warm, well-drained soil. =a. serotinus= (late-flowering). _fl.-heads_ blue. september. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acuminate, sessile, smooth, scabrous at edge; lower ones serrated; branches corymbose, smooth. _h._ ft. north america. =a. shortii= (short's). _fl.-heads_ purplish blue, about in. across; panicles long, racemose. autumn. _l._ lanceolate, elongated, acuminated, cordate at the base. _h._ ft. to ft. stem slender, spreading. north america. =a. sibiricus= (siberian). _fl.-heads_ blue; involucre loose; leaflets lanceolate, acuminate, hispid. august. _l._ lanceolate, sub-amplexicaul, serrate, pilose, scabrous. _h._ ft. siberia, . =a. sikkimensis= (sikkimese).* _fl.-heads_ purple; leaflets of involucre linear, acuminate, sub-squarrose. october. _l._ lanceolate, acuminate, spinosely denticulate; radical ones on longer petioles; cauline ones sessile; corymbs large, of many heads, leafy, erect, glabrous, branched. _h._ ft. sikkim, . =a. spectabilis= (showy).* _fl.-heads_ blue; scales of involucre loose, leafy. august. _l._ lanceolate, roughish, somewhat amplexicaul; lower ones serrate in the middle. _h._ ft. north america, . a very pretty species. =a. spurius= (spurious). _fl.-heads_ purple, large, few; inner scales of involucre coloured. september. _l._ linear-lanceolate, amplexicaul, polished. stem virgate, panicled. branches racemose. _h._ ft. north america, . syn. _a. rubricaule_. =a. tardiflorus= (late-flowering). _fl.-heads_ blue, numerous. autumn. _l._ sessile, serrated, smooth, spathulate-lanceolate, narrowed at base, and bent down towards each side. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. townshendi= (townshend's). synonymous with _a. bigelovii_. =a. tradescanti= (tradescant's).* _fl.-heads_ white; involucre imbricated. august. _l._ lanceolate-sessile, serrated, smooth; branches virgate. stem round, smooth. _h._ ft. north america, . _a. multiflorus_ is very much like this species, and, perhaps, a mere form thereof, with somewhat smaller flowers and more obovate-oblong leaves. =a. tripolium= (tripoli). michaelmas daisy. _fl.-heads_ blue; disk yellow; scales of involucre lanceolate, membranous, obtuse, imbricated. august. _l._ linear-lanceolate, fleshy, obscurely three-nerved. stem glabrous, corymbose. _h._ ft. britain. [illustration: fig. . aster turbinellus.] =a. turbinellus= (turbinate). _fl.-heads_ delicate mauve, disposed in panicles; involucre top-shaped, scales imbricate. summer and autumn. _l._ lanceolate, smooth, entire, with fringed margins, somewhat stem-clasping; those of the branchlets awl-shaped. _h._ ft. to ft. north america. a very desirable species. see fig. . =a. undulatus= (undulated). _fl.-heads_ pale blue. august. _l._ oblong-cordate, amplexicaul, entire; petioles winged. stem panicled, hispid. branchlets one-sided. _h._ ft. north america, . =a. versicolor= (various-coloured).* _fl.-heads_ white, changing to purple; scales of involucre shorter than disk. august. _l._ sub-amplexicaul, broad-lanceolate, sub-serrate, smooth. stem glabrous. _h._ ft. north america, . the annuals (_callistemma hortensis_), usually known as french, german, or china asters, are very extensively grown, both for beds and pots, and their diversity and generally compact growth render them almost universal favourites. they require a rich loamy soil, and as the roots are produced near the surface, a mulching of rotten dung will be found most beneficial. seeds may be raised in a cold frame in march or april, and, when the seedlings are large enough, they must be transplanted into beds from in. to in. apart each way. if it is desired to have them in pots, they may be removed thence with a good ball of earth adhering just before they commence flowering, liberally watered, and kept lightly shaded from the sun, until root action is resumed. those kinds required for exhibition purposes should have several of the side shoots removed, so that the whole growing energy of the plant may be centralised into from five to seven flower-heads, by which means fine blooms may be obtained. the dwarf kinds are most valuable for bedding and pots, as the taller kinds frequently require stakes for support. the following are the most important sections: =betteridge's prize.= very beautifully formed and brilliantly coloured varieties, unsurpassed for exhibition purposes. as this class has rather a straggling habit of growth, it is less suitable for bedding and borders than many of the others. =boltze's miniature bouquet pyramidal.= dwarf and elegant, in compact bouquets of six or eight; the truss of flower-heads springs directly from the ground, having only a few leaves at base. colours very varied. _h._ in. to in. [illustration: fig. . truffaut's peony-flowered aster.] [illustration: fig. . truffaut's perfection aster.] =crown.=* distinct. the central portion, or disk, of the head of flowers is pure white, surrounded by a broad margin of coloured ray florets, such as purple, violet, crimson, rose, &c. flower-heads large, flat, freely produced. _h._ ft. to - / ft. =dwarf chrysanthemum-flowered.=* in size of flower-heads and habit of growth, this surpasses all other dwarf varieties. the flowers are full, chrysanthemum-shaped, produced in clusters, or bouquets, from ten to twenty in a truss, very delicate and beautiful in colour. _h._ ft. =dwarf pyramidal= or =dwarf bouquet=. a pretty little class, and extremely floriferous, each plant producing from twenty to fifty heads of bloom. some of the colours are: exquisite carmine with white points, white with blue or carmine points, white with salmon centre, &c. _h._ ft. =improved imbricate.= the best strain of pyramidal asters with recurved florets; fine regular form of flowers, double to the centre, producing but few seeds. colours very brilliant. _h._ ft. =improved rose.= a handsome class, producing a branched head, displaying no less than fifty large double flower-heads, the outer florets finely imbricated, and filled up to the centre when quite open. the colours are of great brilliancy, and of many shades. _h._ ft. =pompone goliath.=* flower-heads globular, and florets very closely set. valuable for bouquets, as the flowers remain intact for a considerable time. =pyramidal hedgehog.= singular and unique. stems upright, and branched; each branch terminated by a single flower-head, which is filled up with quill-like florets. colours various. _h._ - / ft. =truffaut's pæony perfection.=* vigorous upright growers, having large, hemispherical-formed heads of flowers with incurved florets, in. across. the colours also are very varied. _h._ about ft. see figs. and . [illustration: fig. . victoria aster.] =victoria.=* one of the most popular classes of asters grown; flower-heads very double, imbricate, globular, in. in diameter, from ten to twenty on a plant, of various shades. _h._ ft., with a pyramidal habit. see fig. . =asteracantha= (from _aster_, a star, and _acantha_, a spine; referring to the disposition of the spines). ord. _acanthaceæ_. a handsome greenhouse herbaceous perennial, of easy culture in sandy loam. it should be grown in a sunny position, and be kept moderately dry, otherwise little but foliaceous growth will be produced; but, if thus treated, it flowers freely. propagated by divisions in spring; or by seeds, sown in august. =a. longifolia= (long-leaved). _fl._ yellow, in dense axillary fascicles. july. _l._ lanceolate, tapering to the base, narrow, sessile, serrately ciliated. stem quadrangular. plant rather hairy. _h._ ft. india, . =asterace�.= _see_ =compositæ=. =asterocephalus.= _see_ =scabiosa=. =astilbe= (from _a_, without, and _stilbe_, brilliancy; in allusion to the inconspicuous flowers of some of the species). ord. _saxifragaceæ_. tall branching herbs, with triternate or biternate leaves, allied to _spiræa_, from which they differ in having not more than three carpels, eight or ten stamens, and numerous albuminous seeds. they are all more or less graceful, and some indispensable, either when grown in isolated clumps, or intermingled with other herbaceous plants. they thrive well in almost any rich garden soil, preferring damp positions, and are easily propagated by division, which is best done in early spring. _a. japonica_ is grown very extensively for decorative purposes, its elegant spikes of pure white flowers rendering it especially valuable. the majority of the plants cultivated are imported, but they may be grown fairly well in this country in heavily manured soil. they should be potted as early as possible in the autumn, and plunged in ashes or fibre outside, when they will soon commence to root, after which they may be placed in heat, and forced as required, always giving an abundance of water. indeed, the pots may be stood in pans of water, especially when the plants are well furnished with growth. =a. barbata= (bearded). a synonym of _a. japonica_. =a. decandra= (ten-stamened). _fl._ white, in spicate racemose panicles. may. _l._ biternate; leaflets cordate, deeply lobed and serrated, glandular beneath, and on the petioles. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . [illustration: fig. . astilbe japonica.] =a. japonica= (japanese).* _fl._ small, pure white, in large branching racemose panicles. may. _l._ triternate or pinnate, serrated. _h._ ft. to ft. japan. this is best grown in pots, as early frosts generally cut it down in the open air. syns. _spiræa barbata_ and _japonica_, also _hoteia_ and _a. barbata_. see fig . =a. j. variegata= (variegated).* _l._ prettily variegated with yellow; panicles much more dense than the type; indeed, it is far superior in that respect. [illustration: fig. . astilbe rivularis.] =a. rivularis= (brook).* _fl._ yellowish-white, or reddish, in large panicled spikes. late summer. _l._ biternate; leaflets ovate, doubly serrated, villous beneath and on the petioles. _h._ ft. nepaul. a grand plant for the margins of lakes or damp woodlands. see fig. . =a. rubra= (red).* _fl._ rose, very numerous, in dense panicles. late summer and autumn. _l._ biternate; leaflets oblique, cordate, in. to in. long, with elongated, serrated points. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . a very pretty, but rare species; excellent for sub-tropical gardening. =a. thunbergi= (thunberg's).* _fl._ small, white, very numerous, in erect, much branched, pyramidal panicles, with reddish and slightly downy stalks. may. _l._ unequally pinnate or bipinnate; leaflets broad, yellowish green, sharply toothed. _h._ - / ft. japan, . this pretty little sub-shrub is extensively propagated on the continent for forcing purposes. =astragalus= (a name applied to a shrub by greek writers). milk vetch. ord. _leguminosæ_. a very large genus of hardy herbs or sub-shrubs. flowers in axillary clusters; standard larger than the wings. leaves unequally pinnate. about one hundred species have from time to time been introduced in english gardens; many of these are lost to cultivation; the comparative few here described are still generally grown, and are good representative species. they are all of easy culture. the shrubby kinds grow well in any light dry soil, and are slowly increased by cuttings placed in a cold frame, or by seeds. the herbaceous perennials prefer a dry light soil, and may be increased by divisions or seeds; the latter mode is preferable, as many species are very liable to die if transplanted or divided, which is at best but a slow method. seed should be sown in pots of sandy soil placed in a cold frame as soon as ripe, or very early in the spring, as they may lie a long time before germinating. the dwarfer species constitute admirable rockwork plants, and can be grown in pots containing a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. seeds of the two annual species, _a. cicer_ and _a. glaux_, merely require to be sown in the open border early in spring. =a. adsurgens= (adsurgent).* _fl._ bluish purple; spikes oblong, pedunculate, longer than the leaves, densely packed. june. _l._ with eleven to twelve pairs of ovate-lanceolate acute leaflets; stipules acuminated, length of leaves. plant ascending, smoothish. siberia, . a very handsome and rare perennial species. =a. aduncus= (hooked). _fl._ rose purple, in oblong spikes; peduncles rather shorter than the leaves. june and july. _l._ with numerous pairs of roundish-ovate, smooth leaflets, sometimes downy. _h._ in. to in. caucasus, . perennial. =a. alopecuroides= (foxtail-like).* _fl._ yellow, disposed in thick dense ovate-oblong spikes, on short axillary peduncles. june. _l._ with numerous ovate-lanceolate, pubescent leaflets; stipules ovate-lanceolate, acuminated. plant erect. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . one of the finest perennial species grown. =a. alpinus= (alpine). _fl._ bluish-purple, sometimes whitish, drooping, disposed in racemes of about / in. long. summer. _l._ impari-pinnate, with eight to twelve pairs of ovate or oblong leaflets. britain. a very desirable, hairy, prostrate perennial. =a. arenarius= (sand-loving).* _fl._ blue; peduncles few-flowered, rather shorter than the leaves. june. _l._ with linear-obtuse leaflets; stipules connate, opposite the leaves. plant diffuse, tomentose from white adpressed down. _h._ in. denmark, . perennial. =a. austriacus= (austrian).* _fl._ few; upper petal, or vexillum, blue, the rest purple; racemes pedunculate, longer than the leaves. may. _l._, leaflets glabrous, linear, truncately emarginate. plant diffusely procumbent. south europe, . perennial. =a. canadensis= (canadian). _fl._ yellow, disposed in spikes; peduncles about as long as the leaves. july. _l._ with ten to twelve pairs of elliptic-oblong, bluntish leaflets. plant nearly erect, rather hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . perennial. =a. cicer= (vetch-like). _fl._ pale yellow, disposed in spike-like heads; peduncles longer than the leaves. july. _l._ with ten to thirteen pairs of elliptic-oblong mucronate leaflets. plant diffusely procumbent. europe, . annual. =a. dahuricus= (dahurian). _fl._ purple, in dense racemes, which are longer than the leaves. july. _l._, leaflets, seven to nine pairs, oblong, mucronate. plant erect, pilose. _h._ ft. to ft. dahuria to china, . perennial. =a. dasyglottis= (thick-tongued).* _fl._ purple, blue, and white mixed, in capitate spikes; peduncles a little longer than the leaves. june. _l._, leaflets elliptic-oblong, somewhat emarginate; stipules connate, opposite the leaves. _h._ in. to in. plant diffuse. siberia, . a charming little alpine perennial. =a. falcatus= (hooked). _fl._ greenish yellow, in spikes; peduncles rather longer than the leaves. june. _l._ with sixteen to twenty pairs of elliptic-oblong, acute leaflets. plant erect, rather hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia (in wet, grassy places). perennial. syn. _a. virescens_. =a. galegiformis= (galega-like).* _fl._ pale yellow, pendulous, racemose; peduncles longer than the leaves. june. _l._ with twelve to thirteen pairs of elliptic-oblong leaflets. plant erect, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . a showy perennial species. =a. glaux= (milkwort). _fl._ purplish, in dense heads; peduncles longer than the leaves. june. _l._ with eight to thirteen pairs of small, oblong, acutish leaflets. spain, . procumbent annual, clothed with whitish hair. =a. glycyphyllos= (sweet-leaved).* _fl._ sulphur coloured, in ovate-oblong spikes; peduncles shorter than the leaves. june. _l._ with four, five, to seven pairs of oval, bluntish, smooth leaflets; stipules ovate-lanceolate, entire. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. a perennial prostrate trailer. =a. hypoglottis= (under-tongued).* _fl._ variegated with purplish, blue and white, disposed in roundish heads; peduncles longer than the leaves, ascending. june. _l._ with numerous little ovate, obtuse, dark green leaflets, somewhat emarginate; stipules connate, ovate. stems prostrate, rather hairy. _h._ in. britain, &c. perennial trailer. =a. h. alba= (white-flowered).* this resembles the type, except in the colour of the flowers. =a. leucophyllus= (hoary-leaved).* _fl._ pale yellow, about / in. long, in dense racemes; peduncles much longer than the leaves. july and august. _l._, leaflets in numerous pairs, broadly-linear, covered with soft, silky pubescence. _h._ ft. to ft. north america. perennial. =a. maximus= (largest).* _fl._ yellow; spike sessile, cylindrical, nearly terminal. june. _l._ with ovate-lanceolate, pubescent leaflets; stipules oblong-lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. armenia. a very handsome, erect, perennial species. [illustration: fig. . astragalus monspessulanus, showing habit and flower.] =a. monspessulanus= (montpelier).* _fl._ usually purplish, spicate; peduncles longer than the leaves. june. _l._, leaflets twenty-one to forty-one, ovate or lanceolate, outer ones rather the smallest. leaves hoary, and plant almost stemless when growing in dry exposed situations; but in rich earth or moist places the leaves are almost glabrous, and the stem becomes elongated. south europe, . this species is much appreciated, and well deserves a place in all collections. evergreen trailer. see fig. . =a. narbonensis= (narbonne). _fl._ yellow, disposed in somewhat globose spikes, on short axillary peduncles. june. _l._ with oblong-linear leaflets; stipules lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. narbonne and madrid, . an erect hairy perennial. =a. odoratus= (sweet-scented). _fl._ pale yellow, sweet-scented, disposed in spikes; peduncles same length as leaves. june. _l._ with eleven to fourteen pairs of oblong acute leaflets; stipules connate. plant erect, rather ascending. _h._ in. levant, . perennial. =a. onobrychioides= (onobrychis-like).* _fl._ beautiful purple, in capitate spikes on long peduncles. july. _l._ with eight to ten pairs of elliptic leaflets; stipules connate, opposite the leaves. plant rather diffuse, shrubby at the base, clothed with adpressed hairs. _h._ in. to in. iberia, persia, &c., . a very handsome perennial species. =a. onobrychis= (onobrychis). _fl._ purple; spikes oblong-ovate, pedunculate, longer than the leaves. june. _l._ with seven to sixteen pairs of oblong leaflets. _h._ - / ft., or procumbent. mountains southern europe, . this is an elegant perennial, and ranks among the very best. the varieties, all white flowered, are: _alpinus_, _major_, _microphyllus_ and _moldavicus_, but only the first-named is now in cultivation. =a. pannosus= (woolly).* _fl._ rose-coloured, in compact globose heads, with peduncles shorter than the leaves. july. _l._ with four, five, to nine pairs of ovate-lanceolate leaflets, thickly coated with long white woolly hairs. _h._ in. to in. siberia. perennial. =a. ponticus= (pontic). _fl._ yellow; spikes sessile, almost globose. july. _l._ oblong, smoothish; stipules lanceolate. stem rather hairy. _h._ ft. tauria, . a very showy, erect, border perennial. =a. purpureus= (purple). _fl._ purplish blue, disposed in capitate spikes; peduncles longer than the leaves. june. _l._, leaflets obovate, bidentate at the apex; stipules connate, opposite the leaves. plant diffuse, procumbent, rather hairy. _h._ in. to in. provence, . perennial. =a. sulcatus= (furrowed).* _fl._ pale violet, but with a white keel, tipped with brown; racemes pedunculate, longer than the leaves. july. _l._ with linear-lanceolate leaflets. plant erect, glabrous; stem furrowed. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . perennial. =a. tragacantha= (great goat's thorn).* gum tragacanth. _fl._ pale violet, two to five together, axillary, sessile. june. _l._ with eight to nine pairs of linear hispid leaflets; young stipules connate, clothed with silky hairs; adult ones glabrous; petioles permanent, at length becoming hardened spines. _h._ - / ft. to ft. levant, . evergreen shrub. tragacanth, a partially soluble gum, was formerly supposed to be furnished by this plant. it is, however, now known that _a. tragacantha_ yields none. several species from mountainous regions in asia minor, &c., furnish the gum. =a. vaginatus= (sheathed-stipuled). _fl._ rosy-purple, with white-tipped wings; calyx rather inflated, covered with soft white and black hairs; spikes dense. summer. _l._ impari-pinnate, with seven or eight pairs of elongated-oblong leaflets, both surfaces covered with short silvery hairs. _h._ ft. siberia. perennial. =a. vesicarius= (bladdery). _fl._, upper petal purple, the wings yellow, and the keel white, tipped with yellow; calyx clothed with black adpressed down and long white spreading hairs; peduncles longer than the leaves. july. _l._ with five to seven pairs of elliptic leaflets. plant diffusely procumbent, hoary from adpressed silky down. _h._ in. to in. france, . perennial trailer. =a viminens= (twiggy). _fl._, upper petal purplish rose, much longer than the pure white wings; calyx clothed with black hairs; spikes somewhat capitate, pedunculate, longer than the leaves. june. _l._ with four to six pairs of lanceolate acute leaflets, beset with adpressed hairs. _h._ in. to ft. siberia, . a handsome perennial. =a. virescens= (greenish). synonymous with _a. falcata_. =a. vulpinus= (fox).* _fl._ pale yellow; spikes nearly globose, on very short peduncles. june. _l._ with obovate, obtuse, emarginate, rather velvety leaflets. plant erect; stem glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus, . a handsome border perennial. =astrantia= (from _astron_, a star, and _anti_, in composition signifying comparison; in reference to the appearance of the umbels of flowers). ord. _umbelliferæ_. ornamental, hardy, herbaceous perennials, natives of europe and caucasus. universal umbels irregular, of few rays, surrounded by variable involucre; partial umbels regular, and containing many flowers, surrounded by many-leaved involucels. radical leaves petiolate, palmately lobed; cauline ones few, sessile. roots blackish. these are suited for borders, banks, and woodlands, growing well in any ordinary garden soil, but preferring a damp position. easily increased by root divisions in autumn or spring. =a. carniolica= (carniolan).* _fl._ white. may. _l._ of involucre twelve to thirteen, quite entire, white, with a green line running along the middle of each, tinged with red; radical ones palmate; lobes five to seven, oblong, acuminated, unequally serrated. _h._ in. to in. carniola, . a pretty species. =a. helleborifolia= (hellebore-leaved).* _fl._ (and involucre) pink, pedicellate. june. _l._ of involucre twelve to thirteen, ovate-lanceolate, exceeding the umbel a little, bristly; radical ones palmate; lobes three, ovate-lanceolate, unequally serrated. _h._ ft. to ft. eastern caucasus, . syn. _a. maxima_. =a. major= (greater).* _fl._ pinkish, pedicellate. may. _l._ of involucre fifteen to twenty, linear-lanceolate, quite entire, hardly longer than the umbel; radical ones palmate; lobes five, ovate-lanceolate, acute, rather trifid, toothed. _h._ ft to ft. europe, . very distinct and ornamental. =a. maxima= (greatest). synonymous with _a. helleborifolia_. =astrap�a= (from _astrape_, lightning; alluding to the brightness of the flowers). ord. _sterculiaceæ_. elegant stove evergreen trees. peduncles axillary, long, bearing on their apex an umbel of large sessile flowers, enclosed in a leafy involucre. leaves alternate, stalked, cordate, three to five-lobed. they thrive well in a mixture of loam and peat, and require a plentiful supply of water; but the best results accrue if the bottom of the pot can be stood in a saucer or tub of water. propagated by cuttings of young wood, made in april, placed in a compost of loam and peat, or sand, under a bell glass, in heat. =a. tiliæflora= (lime-tree leaved). _fl._ pink. _h._ ft. isle of bourbon, . =a. viscosa= (clammy). _fl._ pink. _h._ ft. madagascar, . =a. wallichii= (wallich's).* _fl._ scarlet; umbels drooping. july. _l._ large, cordate, angularly lobed; stipulas leafy, ovate-acuminated; peduncles long, hairy. _h._ ft. madagascar, . this splendid species has often been described as being one of the finest plants ever introduced into this country; and, when in full flower, nothing can exceed it in beauty and grandeur. =astrocaryum= (from _astron_, a star, and _karyon_, a nut; referring to the disposition of the fruit). syn. _ph�nico-phorum_. ord. _palmaceæ_. very ornamental stove palms, allied to _cocos_, having the trunk (when present), foliage, fruit-stalks, spathes, and sometimes the fruit, covered with spines. the flowers develop from the axils of the old decayed leaves. drupes oval, one-seeded, orange or yellow, in some species fragrant. leaves pinnate, with linear segments, dark green above, and often of a silvery white below. the species thrive in a compost of two-thirds rich loam and one-third vegetable mould; water may be given copiously. propagation may be effected by seeds, which should be sown in spring in a hotbed; or by suckers, if they are to be obtained. =a. acaule= (stemless). _l._ pinnate, ft. to ft. long, slender and spreading; pinnæ narrow, arranged in clusters, pendent. spines very numerous, long, flat, black. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. aculeatum= (prickly). _h._ ft. guiana, . =a. argenteum= (silvery).* _l._ arching, wedge-shaped, pinnate, distinctly plicate, bright green on the upper surface, the under surface, as well as the stalks, covered with a fine white scurf, which gives them a silvered appearance. columbia, . one of the best of silver palms. =a. filare= (thready).* _l._ erect, narrowly cuneate, with two divergent lobes; petioles covered with white scurf, both on the upper and under surfaces. distinct and elegant, with a comparatively small and slender growth. columbia, . =a. granatense= (new grenadan). _l._ pinnate, with oblong-acuminate segments; the rachis is spiny, like the petiole, both on the upper and lower surfaces; leafstalks brownish, armed with numerous scattered needle-shaped dark-coloured spines. columbia, . =a. mexicanum= (mexican). mexico, . =a. muru-muru= (murumuru). _l._ pinnate, ft. to ft. long; leaflets lanceolate, sub-falcate, dark green above, silvery white below. stem ft. to ft. high, densely clothed with strong reflexed black spines, over in. long. _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. rostratum= (beak-sheathed). _l._ irregularly pinnate, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ in. to in. long; terminal lobe much larger and bifid, dark green above, silvery white below; petioles broadly sheathing at the base, densely armed with black spines, sometimes in. long. stem slender, densely clothed with long black spines. a slow grower, ultimately becoming ft. high. brazil, . =a. vulgare= (common). _h._ ft. brazil, . =astrolobium.= _see_ =ornithopus=. =astroloma= (from _astron_, a star, and _loma_, a fringe; in reference to the bearded limb of the corolla). ord. _epacridaceæ_. very handsome, little, diffuse, greenhouse, evergreen shrubs. flowers solitary, axillary; corolla tubular, distended above the middle, and with five bundles of hairs in the inside, near its base. leaves crowded, alternate, linear, or obovate-lanceolate and mucronate. they thrive best in an equal mixture of sand, loam, and peat, with thorough drainage. propagated by young cuttings, which root readily in sandy soil, under a bell glass, in a cool house. =a. denticulatum= (finely-toothed). _fl._ axillary, erect; corolla pale red, with a ventricose tube. may to july. _l._ scattered, lanceolate, ciliated, usually procumbent, but sometimes slightly erect. _h._ ft. new holland, . =a. humifusum= (trailing). _fl._ scarlet, similar to the foregoing. may and june. _l._ lanceolate-linear, rather convex above, with ciliated edges. shrub prostrate, much branched. _h._ ft. new holland, . =astrophytum myriostigma.= _see_ =echinocactus myriostigma=. =asystasia= (meaning not clear). ord. _acanthaceæ_. stove evergreen shrubs. flowers disposed in axillary or terminal clusters; corolla somewhat funnel-shaped, five-lobed; calyx five-lobed, regular. branches slender. they require a compost of peat and loam, with a little sand, and, to induce a vigorous growth, a little dry cow-dung may be applied. propagated by cuttings of young shoots, placed in sandy soil, under a bell glass, in april, with a brisk bottom heat. =a. chelonioides= (chelonia-like).* _fl._ in terminal racemes, reddish purple, the border white. _l._ opposite, ovate-acute. _h._ ft. india, . a pretty dwarf sub-shrub. =a. coromandeliana= (coromandel). _fl._ deep lilac; racemes axillary, elongated, secund, strict. july. _l._ opposite, cordate-ovate; branches diffuse. _h._ ft. india, . syn. _justicia gangetica_. =a. macrophylla= (large-leaved).* _fl._ bilabiate, bell-shaped, rosy purple outside, and almost pure white within; spikes terminal, erect, ft. long. june. _l._ very large, obovate-lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. fernando po, . =a. scandens= (climbing).* _fl._ cream-coloured; tube of corolla widened and recurved above, lobes of limb crenately curved; racemes terminal, compact, thyrse-formed. july. _l._ obovate or ovate acute, glabrous. _h._ ft. sierra leone, . this handsome stove climber requires a high, moist temperature after shifting. syn. _henfreya scandens_. =a. violacea= (violet).* _fl._ violet purple, striped with white, in terminal racemes. _l._ shortly-stalked, ovate-acuminate, deep green, minutely hairy on both surfaces. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . a pretty dwarf plant. =ataccia cristata.= _see_ =tacca integrifolia=. =atalantia= (mythological: atalanta, the daughter of schÅ�neus). ord. _rutaceæ_. a genus of ornamental stove evergreen shrubs, having the eight stamens united below into a tube, and with undivided leaves. it comprises about ten species. they thrive well in a mixture of loam and peat. propagated by means of ripened cuttings, which will root readily if planted in sand under a hand glass, in heat. =a. monophylla= (one-leaved). _fl._ small, white, in axillary racemes. _fr._ golden yellow, about the size of a nutmeg. june. _l._ simple, ovate-oblong, emarginate at the apex. spines small, simple. _h._ ft. india, . a thorny shrub. =atamasco lily.= _see_ =zephyranthes atamasco=. =athamanta= (named from mount athamas, in sicily, where some species are found). ord. _umbelliferæ_. a genus of greenhouse or hardy herbaceous plants, usually velvety from villi on the stem, leaves, and fruit. flowers white; involucra of one or few leaves; involucel of many leaves. the undermentioned is the only species in cultivation, and is a very graceful perennial, with fennel-like foliage. it thrives well in any ordinary soil. increased by divisions, or by seeds sown in spring. =a. matthioli= (matthioli's). _fl._ white, twelve to twenty-five to an umbel. summer. _l._ three or four ternate; leaflets linear-filiform, elongated, divaricate. _h._ ft. to ft. alps of carinthia, . =athanasia= (from _a_, not, and _thanatos_, death; alluding to the length of time which the flowers last). ord. _compositæ_. rather ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrubs with yellow flowers, from the cape of good hope. they grow well in a soil consisting of three parts loam and one part peat. propagation is effected by cuttings, taken from half-ripened wood in spring, and placed in sand, under a hand glass. =a. capitata= (headed).* _fl.-heads_ yellow. march. _l._ pinnati-partite; younger hoary, older smooth. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . =a. pubescens= (downy). _fl.-heads_ yellow. july. _l._ oblong, entire (or tridentate), softly hairy on both sides; when old, sub-glabrous. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =atherosperma= (from _ather_, an awn, and _sperma_, seed; seeds awned). ord. _monimiaceæ_. a beautiful greenhouse evergreen tree, with the aspect of a stately conifer. flowers panicled, diÅ�cious; perianth five to eight-fid. leaves opposite, aromatic. a compost of loam and peat, in about equal proportions, is necessary. it can be readily propagated by cuttings. =a. moschata= (musk-scented). plume nutmeg. _fl._ white. june. _h._ ft. new holland, . =atherospermeÃ�.= _see_ =monimiaceæ=. =athrixia= (from _a_, not, and _thrix_, a hair; the receptacle being destitute of hairs). ord. _compositæ_. a greenhouse evergreen shrub. it succeeds best in turfy loam, peat, and sand, and requires to be potted firmly. propagated by cuttings of young wood, placed under a bell glass in sandy soil, and treated like _ericas_ (which _see_). =a. capensis= (cape).* _fl.-heads_ bright crimson, solitary, terminal. april. _l._ narrow, lanceolate, alternate, entire. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =athrotaxis= (from _athros_, crowded together, and _taxis_, arrangement; in reference to the disposition of the scales of the cones). ord. _coniferæ_. a small genus of tasmanian evergreen diÅ�cious trees or shrubs, with small scale-like leaves, and small globular cones of many imbricated scales, with from three to six carpels under each scale. in very sheltered situations they will probably prove hardy; but, otherwise, they are only suitable for botanical collections. increased by cuttings. this genus is almost universally misspelt _arthrotaxis_. =a. cupressoides= (cypress-like). _l._ small, thick, leathery, spirally arranged, closely imbricated, deep glossy green. _h._ ft. a small, erect, and very slow growing tree, with numerous slender branchlets. =a. doniana= (don's). a synonym of _a. laxifolia_. =a. imbricata= (imbricated). a garden synonym of _a. selaginoides_. =a. laxifolia= (loose-leaved). differing from _a. cupressoides_ in having longer, more pointed, open, and spreading leaves, which stand out from the stem in a juniper-like fashion. its lateral growths are rather pendulous. _h._ ft. to ft. syn. _a. doniana_. =a. selaginoides= (selago-like). _l._ glossy green, scale-like, spirally disposed, closely appressed to the shoots, branches and their ramifications very numerous. _h._ variable, up to ft. very interesting, and quite distinct. syn. _a. imbricata_ (of gardens). =athyrium.= _see_ =asplenium=. =atragene= (a name originally given to _clematis vitalba_ by theophrastus). ord. _ranunculaceæ_. a genus of ornamental, hardy, climbing, deciduous shrubs, closely allied to _clematis_, from which they differ in having numerous petals. they are increased by cuttings, which should be pricked in light sandy soil and placed under a hand glass; also by layering in the autumn. both methods are slow; the layers should not be separated for about a year, when they will be vigorous plants. seeds must be sown in early spring, in gentle heat; when the seedlings are large enough to handle, they should be pricked off and grown on in pots till they are strong plants. [illustration: fig. . atragene alpina, showing habit, twining leafstalk, and flower.] =a. alpina= (alpine).* _fl._ blue, varying to white; petals ten to twelve, linear at the base, but dilated at the apex; peduncles one-flowered, longer than the leaves. may. _l._ biternate; leaflets ovate-lanceolate, acuminated, serrate. mountainous parts of europe, . the white-flowered variety, named _alba_, is in cultivation. syns. _a. austriaca_ and _a. sibirica_. see fig. . =a. americana= (american).* _fl._ large, purplish-blue; petals acute; peduncles one-flowered. may. _l._ whorled, in fours, leaflets stalked, cordate, lanceolate, acuminated, entire or somewhat lobed, or serrated. north america, . syn. _clematis verticillaris_. =a. austriaca= (austrian). synonymous with _a. alpina_. =a. macropetala= (large-petaled).* _fl._ blue. manchuria, . =a. sibirica= (siberian). synonymous with _a. alpina_. =atriplex= (from _a_, not, and _traphein_, to nourish). orach. ord. _chenopodiaceæ_. a genus of, for the most part, uninteresting weeds, of very variable form and habit, and having the calyx, which encloses the fruit, enlarging after flowering. for culture, _see_ =orach=. =a. hortensis= (garden). an annual species from tartary, of no value as an ornamental plant, but considered a very desirable substitute for spinach. the leaves must be gathered for use when young. the variety _a. h. atro-sanguinea_ is a very pretty form, having handsome crimson leaves, and growing to a height of about ft. it is well worth growing with such plants as _amaranthus_, &c. =atropa= (name of mythological origin). belladonna; dwale. ord. _solanaceæ_. a small genus, having a campanulate regular corolla, and a leafy persistent calyx. the berries of this native herbaceous perennial are exceedingly poisonous. the plant is of no horticultural value. [illustration: fig. . flower of atropa belladonna.] =a. belladonna.= _fl._ green and purple, solitary, pedunculate, drooping. summer. berries about the size of a small cherry. _l._ ovate, acuminate, in. to in. long _h._ ft. to ft. britain. see fig. . =attalea= (from _attalus_, magnificent; referring to the beauty of the genus). ord. _palmaceæ_. a genus of handsome stove palm trees, distinguished from other genera in having the pinnæ arranged vertically, and not horizontally. the leaves spring up almost perpendicularly at the base, but in the upper part arch over. the pinnæ stand at right angles to the rachis--which is very narrow in proportion to its thickness--and while those of the lower side of the arch hang straight down, those of the upper side point straight up. they thrive well in a mixture of peat and loam in equal quantities, and enjoy a copious supply of water. summer temperature, deg. to deg.; winter, deg. to deg. all the species are robust trees; but, although several have been introduced, few appear to be generally grown. =a. amygdalina= (almond-fruited).* _l._ pinnate, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ in. to in. long, and about in. broad; terminal lobe broad and bifid, rich dark green. stem slender. new grenada. one of the best. syn. _a. nucifera_. =a. cohune= (cohune).* _l._ erect, ultimately spreading, pinnate, furnished with from three to four dozen dark green pinnæ, sometimes in. in length; petioles rounded, and dark brown below, flat and green upon the upper side. plant unarmed. _h._ ft. or more in its native habitat. honduras. =a. compta= (decked). _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. excelsa= (tall).* _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. funifera= (rope-bearing). the piassaba palm. _l._ vivid deep green, very ornamental, and of economic value in brazil. . the sheathing bases of the leafstalks separate into a coarse black fringe, which is collected and exported to europe, being used in the manufacture of brooms, brushes, &c. =a. nucifera= (nut-bearing). a synonym of _a. amygdalina_. =a. speciosa= (showy).* _h._ ft. brazil, . =a. spectabilis= (remarkable). _h._ ft. brazil, . =attenuated.= tapering gradually to a point. [illustration: fig. . fruiting branch of round aubergine.] [illustration: fig. . fruiting branch of long aubergine.] =aubergine=, or =egg plant= (_solanum melongena_, variety _ovigerum_). these plants, besides being useful for culinary purposes, are very ornamental, and present an attractive appearance on walls or trellises, or in the flower garden; and, as they do well in any ordinary rich garden soil, if the position is warm, they give a good variation to the general run of plants used for decorative effects. the black-fruited kind is particularly suited for this purpose. sow the seeds in a gentle heat, in the middle of april. as soon as the seedlings are large enough to handle, prick off into in. pots, replacing in heat till they root out freely. gradually harden off by june, and then transfer to the positions where they are to grow. let the plants be at least ft. apart, and place a strong stick to each one to support the fruit when it comes. for trellises, select the more moderate-sized varieties. in hot, dry weather, the application of liberal supplies of liquid manure tends to increase the size of the fruit, and also to make the foliage more vigorous and handsome. where very large fruit are needed for show or other purposes, it is well to remove all but the best one on the plant, and, by careful feeding with liquid manure, specimens of from lb. to lb. weight can be had. the foliage should not be pinched, as this would prevent the free swelling of the fruit. aubergines are not so much grown in england for culinary purposes as in france and italy, where they are largely used in stews and soups. the following are the most desirable varieties: new york purple, the largest kind grown, and although not as ornamental as the next, is quite as useful; black-fruited, large black fruit, with blackish violet leaves; and white-fruited, the sort most generally cultivated. see figs. and . =aubrietia= (named after m. aubriet, a famous french botanical draughtsman). ord. _cruciferæ_. a small genus of hardy evergreen trailers. racemes opposite the leaves, and terminal, lax, few-flowered. leaves ovate or oblong, entire or angularly toothed, hairy. they make excellent rock plants, and will thrive in a deep rich loam anywhere, excepting under the shelter of trees. cuttings struck, or seeds sown, during april or may generally make fine, dense, cushion-like growths, if transplanted on to a somewhat cool or shaded border, and carefully lifted in the autumn; the cuttings are best "drawn," or grown until they are soft, in a frame before they are removed. where a stock of old plants exist, layer the long slender branches any time after flowering, and cover with a mixture of sand and leaf soil; they will then root freely and establish themselves in time for spring blooming, for which purpose, when grown _en masse_, they are most useful. after flowering, they may be divided and transplanted. [illustration: fig. . aubrietia deltoidea.] =a. deltoidea= (deltoid).* _fl._ purple; petals twice the length of the calyx; pedicels short, filiform; racemes opposite the leaves and terminal, lax, few-flowered. early spring. _l._ with one or two large teeth on each side (therefore they are rhomboidal, not truly deltoid), scabrous, with short branchy stellate hairs. _h._ in. to in. naples, &c., . there are several garden varieties, the best of which are described below; most of them are regarded as distinct species. see fig. . (s. f. g. .) [illustration: fig. . aubrietia purpurea.] =a. d. bouganvillei= (bouganville's).* _fl._ light violet purple, with very even imbricated petals. habit very dwarf and compact, with short peduncles. a pretty form. =a. d. campbelli= (campbell's).* larger deep violet blue flowers, and of far more vigorous constitution than the typical form. _grandiflora_ comes very near this. syn. _a. hendersonii_. =a. d. eyrei= (eyre's).* a very fine variety, with a free branching habit, and large flowers of a rich violet-purple colour, rather longer than broad. _a. olympica_ is very near, if not identical with this. =a. d. græca= (grecian).* _fl._ light purple. _h._ in. greece, . one of the best and largest flowered forms; very vigorous grower, with neat compact habit. a variety of this, named _superba_, has rather deeper-coloured flowers, produced over a very extended period. (r. g. .) =a. d. purpurea= (purple).* larger flowers and more erect habit than the type. _l._ broader, with two to five teeth. stems more leafy. there is a variegated form, which is very pleasing and effective, useful for carpeting or edging small beds. see fig. . =a. d. violacea= (violet).* this is a hybrid form, even finer than _campbelli_, with large deep violet-purple flowers, fading to reddish-violet, and is more effective than any of the others. =a. hendersonii= (henderson's). a synonym of _a. d. campbelli_. =aucuba= (the japanese name of the shrub). ord. _cornaceæ_. a genus of hardy evergreen shrubs, thriving better than any other in the smoky atmosphere of dense cities. they grow in ordinary well-drained garden soil, and require no special culture. if grown in pots, they should be planted firmly in rather sandy yellow loam, with plenty of drainage. they should not be allowed too large pots, or an unfruitful growth is likely to result. during the growing season, an abundance of water is needed, which must be lessened when the plants are fully developed. if cultivated in the greenhouse or conservatory, they should be plunged out of doors during summer. to insure a good supply of the very ornamental berries, which are produced on the female plant, careful fertilising is necessary. the time for applying the pollen is when the pistil exudes a slightly gummy substance, and otherwise shows signs of maturity. when it happens, as is sometimes the case, that the male blooms are open and the pollen mature before the female blooms are ready, the pollen should be collected on a dry camel-hair pencil, transferred to a piece of glass, and covered over by another piece, both of which must also be dry. it may be applied afterwards when wanted, as it retains its power for some weeks. propagated by cuttings, inserted in any light sandy soil, with or without a covering, in spring or autumn; or readily increased from seeds, sown as soon as ripe. =a. himalaica= (himalayan).* _l._ lanceolate, or lanceolate acuminate; branches of the panicle very pilose. berries spherical, not oblong. himalaya. (f. d. s. , .) =a. japonica= (japanese).* _l._ opposite, petiolate, broad, ovate-lanceolate, acuminated, toothed, leathery, glabrous, shining, pale green, beautifully spotted with yellow, having the midrib rather prominent, the rest of the leaf reticulately veined. _h._ ft. to ft. japan, . the numerous varieties, both of the male and female forms, among which will be found many of great beauty, all differ, more or less, in the variegation of their leaves. they are in very general cultivation, and nearly every nurseryman has an assortment. among the best of them are the following: _albo-variegata_, _aurea_, _bicolor_, _latimaculata_, _limbata_, _longifolia_, _macrophylla_, _ovata_, _pygmæa_, and _pygmæa sulphurea_. =audouinia= (in honour of v. audouin, a profound entomologist). ord. _bruniaceæ_. an ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrub, thriving in a mixture of peat and sandy loam. propagated by cuttings of half-ripened wood, inserted in sand, under a bell glass, in gentle heat. =a. capitata= (headed). _fl._ purple, crowded into oblong, spike-like, terminal heads. may. _l._ spirally inserted, a little keeled. branches erect. _h._ ft. to ft. cape of good hope, . =aulacospermum.= a synonym of =pleurospermum= (which _see_). =aulax= (from _aulax_, a furrow; the under surface of the leaves of the original species being furrowed). ord. _proteaceæ_. greenhouse evergreen shrubs, from the cape of good hope, thriving best in a compost of fibrous loam, leaf soil, and sharp sand, with thorough drainage. ripened cuttings, taken off at a joint, and inserted in pots of sandy soil, will root readily under a hand glass, in a cool house. =a. pinifolia= (pine-leaved). _fl._ yellow, racemose. july. _l._ filiform, channelled. _h._ ft. . =a. umbellata= (umbelled). _fl._ yellow. june. _l._ flat, spathulate*-linear. _h._ ft. . (b. r. , .) =aurantiaceÃ�.= an order of trees or shrubs, including the orange and lemon trees. flowers fragrant. fruit fleshy, edible. leaves alternate, articulated above the stem, filled with transparent oil cysts, giving them a dotted appearance. well-known genera are _citrus_ and _limonia_. =auricula= (_primula auricula_). this favourite spring flower (see fig. ) was, at one time, almost universally cultivated, but has of late years fallen into much neglect; it is now, however, happily regaining enthusiastic admirers. although its culture is not nearly so difficult as is generally understood, a few special items of treatment are nevertheless necessary to grow it successfully. [illustration: fig. . a variety of primula auricula.] _frames_ for the reception of auriculas should be prepared, with a good bottom drainage, and an inside staging, similar to the back stage of a lean-to greenhouse, arranged as near the glass as possible. if the frames are about ft. wide, they will be very convenient; ft. deep in the front, and about ft. at the back. this will allow for a good stage arrangement. of course, it is not necessary to construct an expensive staging, as common boards can be laid upon pots of various heights, the same results being practically secured. these frames should face north from may to october, and south in winter, during which latter time it will be necessary to well cover the sides with straw or brake. when frosty, the lights must also be mated; but, unless there is absolute fear of frost, the glass should not be covered, as the more light the plants receive the better. on all suitable occasions, both during summer and winter, air must be freely admitted, and a good look-out kept during showery weather; hence it may be necessary to tilt the lights with blocks rather than remove them entirely. the latter plan should be adopted whenever practicable, especially during early spring, and after they are well established in their fresh pots in summer. this will greatly assist to ripen the crown, and produce hard, stout foliage, which will endure the winter much better than if grown with less air. many cultivators prefer small span or lean-to houses to frames; and it must be admitted that these are better, more convenient, and in every way more beneficial. simple, inexpensive structures, no higher than is absolutely necessary for convenience, with top and side ventilation, will meet all requirements; and if a in. hot-water pipe is arranged next the eaves inside, it will be a decided advantage during very severe weather. _soil._ the best compost that can be prepared for auriculas is as follows: four parts good fibrous loam, one part well-rotted cow manure, one part good leaf soil, and one part coarse river or silver sand, with a little charcoal or pounded oyster-shells added. carefully mix the whole together before using. the loam should be stored about twelve months previous to being used, and it should be selected from districts with a fine atmosphere; the turf should be cut about in. thick. cow manure that has lain for a year or so, and been subjected to sharp frosts, is most suitable, as insect life, which it very probably contains, is thereby destroyed, and the whole materially sweetened. _potting._ this operation requires to be carefully done as soon after flowering as possible, unless it is desired to save seed, when it must be deferred until the seed is ripened. may and june are the best months for general potting, and whatever the size of the pots used, they should be carefully and thoroughly drained. after a good layer of potsherds, place some charcoal, leaf mould, or spent hops. many good growers use the last very advantageously. for good flowering plants, -sized pots are used, many cultivators preferring glazed pots to the unglazed; but such are not absolutely necessary to ensure success. before repotting, remove most of the old soil, and with a sharp knife cut off any bruised or cankered portion of roots; the stout tap-root may also be cut away if devoid of fresh rootlets. do not pot very firmly. remove the plants to their summer quarters, withholding water for a few days, and keep the frames close. about a week after potting, water may be advantageously given, the plants will then soon resume root-action, and air may be admitted afterwards on all suitable occasions. the collar or neck of the plant must be left well above the surface of the soil. _watering_ is a point that requires careful attention, as neglect in this matter will result in failure. during the growing season, auriculas require an abundance of water; in fact, they must never be allowed to get dry. in the winter, they must only be watered when they are really dry, especially during a severe season. care must be taken to avoid watering the leaves, particularly in early spring, as this tends to spoil the effect of the charming farinose foliage. above all, water must not be allowed to stand in the heart of the plant, as such will inevitably cause incipient decay. hence it is necessary to keep a sharp lookout for drippings from the glass, and to maintain tightly-glazed frames. on all occasions, decaying leaves must be removed, and especially during winter. _top-dressing._ about the middle or end of february, when the plants commence new growth, the surface soil should be removed about an inch or so deep, and the pots re-filled with a rich compost made up of the following: two parts of turfy loam, one of rotten cow or hen manure, and one of leaf soil; if a little standen's manure is added, the compost will be improved. after this top-dressing, the plants may be watered freely. _propagation by offsets._ when top-dressing, any offsets with roots should be removed, and as soon after as possible the remaining ones should be taken off, as it is much more desirable to do so early than later on, when repotting; for, when making the first growth, they are the more likely to root better, and stand a greater chance of making good plants before the season is over. fill well-drained in. pots with sandy soil, and arrange about four offsets round the sides; place under a bell glass, or in a close handlight, watering very sparingly so as to prevent them damping off. they will soon establish themselves, after which air may be admitted, and the plants may ultimately be potted off singly. to induce choice varieties to make offsets, the top of the old plant should be removed and treated like the others, when, as a rule, several shoots will be produced, which in due time may be removed. by this means, a nice stock of the rarer kinds may be obtained; whereas, if such a course were not adopted, the rate of increase would be extremely slow. _flowering._ during the flowering period, watering, as already stated, must be carefully attended to, for if the plants are allowed to get dry, the flowers will quickly shrivel. they must also be kept well shaded from sunshine, which quickly destroys the delicate blossoms. as the trusses are developing, particular attention must be given to night protection. it is, perhaps, better to cover every night than to run the risk of exposing the unexpanded flowers to frost, as the effect is very prejudicial; in fact, if subject to frost, smooth even flowers may not be expected. _seed saving and sowing._ the only way to obtain new varieties is by seed; hence the value of careful seed-saving will be apparent. severe discrimination must be exercised in the selection of parents, and the flowers must be very carefully crossed. the anthers should be removed from the pistillate parent, if possible, before expansion, so as to prevent any possibility of self-fertilisation; and, when the stigma is ready, the pollen must be conveyed by means of a small camel's-hair brush, care being taken not to mistake the brushes used in different classes. it has been observed in auriculas that the issue from crossbred seed favours the pollen more than the pistillate parent; hence the necessity of selecting good pollen parents. it is best to confine hybridisation to separate classes--_i.e._, cross a self with a self, and a green-edged variety with another of the same class. the importance of selecting the best in each class scarcely needs suggestion, having regard to constitution as well as the quality of the flowers. the seed should be sown as soon as ripe, or early in march, in well-drained pots, filled with sandy soil, which must be well watered previous to sowing. when this operation is completed, the seed must be lightly covered with coarse sand, a sheet of glass placed over the pot, and the latter stood in the hand glass, where the offsets are rooted. some of the seedlings will appear in a month, but the bulk from that sown when ripe will not be seen until the following spring; while others will germinate even during the ensuing summer. the late comers should be particularly cared for, as they frequently produce the best varieties. when the seedlings are large enough, they must be pricked off in pots of sandy soil; and, when well established, potted off singly into small thumb pots, and afterwards encouraged as judgment suggests. some growers allow the seedlings to remain in the store pots till they flower, when the best are kept, and those not required disposed of. _insect pests._ green fly are often very troublesome, and should be exterminated as speedily as possible, by tobacco fumigation, or by dipping the plants in a solution of gishurst's compound, or carefully prepared fir-tree oil, all of which are effectual. many authorities denounce fumigation, while others advocate it. the roots are also attacked by a mealy louse, named _trama auriculæ_, which clusters about the roots and collar of the plants, sucking nutriment therefrom; and although, provided they do not attack the collar, they have no greatly prejudicial effect on the plant, yet it is desirable to exterminate them. the only effectual way of accomplishing this is to remove all soil, and thoroughly cleanse the roots and collar in a solution of soft soap, with a little fir-tree oil added. of course, this is most easily managed when repotting; and, unless the plants are very badly infested, it would not be advisable to run the risk of root washing later in the year. _classes._ auriculas are now arranged in five classes, four of which constitute what are known as "show or stage auriculas," while the other is known by the name of "alpines." each class is characterised by special points of distinction, which, in the opinion of the strict "florists" school, it is of the utmost importance to observe; and as there is room for systematists in this, as well as in any other branch of floriculture, we will follow the arrangement usually adopted, and describe the distinguishing features of, and enumerate some of the best varieties in, each class, with their raisers' names attached: =green-edged.= outer edge green, or but sparingly dusted with powder; next, a zone of colour known as the body colour, which varies, the darkest being most esteemed; both edges of this zone should be even, especially the inner one, but there are few flowers perfect in this respect. next to the body-colour is the paste, which occupies the space between the inner circle of the latter and the throat, this should be pure and dense, with a distinctly circular outline at the throat; the throat and tube should be bright yellow. of course, this ideal standard has not yet been reached, as there are supposed defects in all or some sections of the flowers at present known. _leading varieties_: admiral napier (campbell), alderman wisbey (headley), apollo (beeston), champion (page), colonel taylor (leigh), duke of wellington (dickson), freedom (booth), general neill (traill), highland boy (pollitt), imperator (litton), lady ann wilbraham (oliver), lord palmerston (campbell), lovely ann (oliver), lycurgus (smith), prince of greens (traill), prince of wales (ashton). =grey-edged.= edge heavily dusted with powder, so as almost to hide the normal green colour; other points same as the green-edged varieties. _leading varieties_: alexander meiklejohn (kay), chas. e. brown (headley), complete (sykes), conqueror of europe (waterhouse), dr. horner (read), f. d. horner (simonite), general bolivar (smith), george levick (walker), george lightbody (headley), john waterston (cunningham), lancashire hero (lancashire), richard headley (lightbody), robert traill (lightbody). =white-edged.= edge so heavily dusted with farina as to completely hide the green and give it a white appearance; the powder frequently as dense as on the paste portion; other points like the first. _leading varieties_: acme (read), anne smith (smith), arabella (headley), beauty (traill), bright venus (lee), catherina (summerscales), conservative (douglas), countess of wilton (cheetham), earl grosvenor (lee), favorite (taylor), frank simonite (simonite), glory (taylor), john simonite (walker), ne plus ultra (smith), regular (ashworth), smiling beauty (heap), sylvia (douglas), true briton (hepworth). =selfs.= tube bright yellow, and circular at the top; paste dense, pure, with an even edge; all the rest of the flower of one colour, without shades or edging; any colour holds good. _leading varieties_: apollo (hay), blackbird (spalding), c. j. perry (turner), duke of argyle (campbell), formosa (smith), garibaldi (pohlman), helen lancaster (pohlman), lord of lorne (campbell), mazinna (pohlman), meteor flag (lightbody), metropolitan (spalding), mrs. douglas (simonite), mrs. sturrock (martin), othello (netherwood), pizarro (campbell), topsy (kaye). =alpines.= centre golden yellow, or white, and destitute of powder; body colour various; edge one-coloured, shading off paler towards the margin. these are much hardier than any of the other classes, and will do well outside in most places. _leading varieties_: a. f. barron (turner), beatrice (turner), black prince (turner), bronze queen (turner), colonel scott (turner), diadem (gorton), duchess of connaught (turner), evening star (turner), george lightbody (turner), john leech (turner), mrs. ball (turner), mrs. dodwell (turner), mrs. llewellyn (turner), mrs. meiklejohn (meiklejohn), mrs. thomson (turner), queen victoria (turner), rubens (turner), sailor prince (turner), selina (turner), spangle (turner), sydney (turner), triumphant (turner). =auriculate.= having ear-like appendages. =austrian rose.= _see_ =rosa lutea=. =avena= (derivation obscure). the oat. ord. _gramineæ_. a genus of grasses with loose panicles and compressed spikelets. of agricultural importance only, with the following exception, which is an annual of easy culture in ordinary garden soil. propagated by seeds, sown in spring or autumn. =a. sterilis= (barren). the animated oat. _fl._ in drooping panicles of large spikelets. _h._ - / ft. to ft. barbary, . an elegant plant. =avens.= _see_ =geum=. =avenues.= in forming an avenue, the plan must neither be tortuous nor of a "tedious sameness," but a gradually winding line should, above all, be obtained, which must in no way interfere with the view from the house. about ft. is the width usually allowed for the road, but this depends upon individual taste or idea--this remark applies to planting in double rows, the trees forming a series of triangles, or in single rows. the distance across the road from one row of trees to those opposite should be at least ft. the lime is extensively used for avenues on account of its regular growth and the shade it affords. the cedar of lebanon is one of the best and most suitable evergreens. the dutch elm is used because of its rapid growth, and forms one of the best deciduous trees for this purpose. the well-known horse chestnut, in sheltered spots, is very ornamental, as is also the spanish chestnut; the latter spreads rapidly. where immediate effect is required, nothing gives more satisfaction than the white poplar; it grows in a wet soil better than anything else. deodars, araucarias, douglas pine, the mexican, chinese, and japanese cypresses, and many others, are eminently suited for avenue planting. shrubs and herbaceous plants should be introduced between the trees, and so remove any bareness that may occur. _diervilla rosea_, and its variegated form, _aucubas_, _rhododendrons_, _hypericums_, and many others, could be mentioned to serve this purpose. a moderately good soil will be found to answer generally. =averrhoa= (in honour of averrhoes, of cordova, a celebrated arabian physician, who resided in spain during the domination of the moors, about the middle of the twelfth century; he translated aristotle into arabic). ord. _geraniaceæ_. ornamental stove trees, thriving in loam and peat. half-ripened cuttings will strike in sand, under a hand glass, about april, with bottom heat. the leaves of the first-named species are irritable to the touch. [illustration: fig. azalea balsaminÃ�flora.] =a. bilimbi= (bilimbi-tree). _fl._ reddish purple, disposed in racemes, rising from the trunk. may. _fr._ oblong, somewhat resembling a small cucumber, with a thin, smooth, green rind, filled with a grateful acid juice, and the substance and seeds not unlike that of a cucumber. _l._ alternate, with from five to ten pairs of ovate-lanceolate, entire, smooth leaflets on short stalks. _h._ ft. to ft. native country unknown, . (b. f. s. .) =a. carambola.= carambola-tree. _fl._ red, scattered, disposed in short racemes, usually rising from the smaller branches, but sometimes from the larger ones, and even the trunk. _fr._ the size of a hen's egg, acutely five-cornered, with a thin, yellow rind, and a clear watery pulp. _l._ alternate, with about four to five pairs of ovate, acuminated, entire, stalked leaflets, the outer ones largest. _h._ ft. to ft. . this, as well as the first-named species, is cultivated throughout the hotter parts of india, but where it occurs truly wild is not known. =avocado pear.= _see_ =persea gratissima=. =awl-shaped.= narrow-pointed, resembling an awl. =awlwort.= _see_ =subularia=. =axil.= literally the armpit; in plants applied to the angle formed by union of the leaf and stem. =axillaria.= _see_ =polygonatum=. =axillary.= growing in the axil of anything. =ayrshire rose.= _see_ =rosa repens capreolata=. =azalea= (from _azaleos_, dry, arid; in allusion to the habitat of the plant). ord. _ericaceæ_. a genus of very popular and beautiful hardy or greenhouse plants. the species enumerated were included under _rhododendron_ by don, loudon, and others, contrary to the classification of linnæus, but the distinctive characters are not consistent. in this genus, the stamens are usually five, but in _rhododendron_ ten is the typical number. _ghent_ or _american azaleas_. these are extremely popular hardy deciduous shrubs. when plants are grown in the open, artificial crossing will be unnecessary; but this method must be employed upon those grown in the cool greenhouse, if well fertilised seeds are required. the seed should be gathered and sown when ripe in a large shallow frame containing from in. to in. of peat, over which more peat must be laid very level by means of a fine sieve; or they may be kept until early the following spring. no covering will be necessary, but a thorough watering with a fine-rosed water-pot must be given. the lights should be darkened, and the frames kept close until the young seedlings begin to appear, when they must have air (carefully admitted), shade, and a daily sprinkling of water. by the autumn, they will be large enough to transplant in small clumps into boxes of peat and coarse sand, and to place in other frames, or in the open. in each case, they will need watering, shading, and to be kept close until growth commences. the hardier the plants are before winter commences, the better; but a protection of mats or similar material will prevent the probability of their being killed by severe frosts. during the following season, they will only require water during dry weather, and no protection need be afforded this winter. the next spring, they should be planted out singly in beds, sufficiently wide apart to allow the development of two years growth. if an upright growth is being made, the leading shoot must be shortened, in order to secure dwarf, well-branched plants. the same methods should be employed on a smaller scale where but a few are wanted. grafting is largely practised to increase the stock of named varieties or choice seedlings, the stock employed being _a. pontica_. this process, of course, ensures the quicker production of flowering plants. layering in march, encasing the part buried with moss, is also some times practised; but the layer must be left two years before separating. cuttings of the last year's wood, in. or in. long, taken with a heel, root readily in sand; about the end of august is the best time for so doing. if they are pricked off in pots or pans of sandy soil, and kept in a cool frame until they are calloused, and afterwards introduced into a slight bottom heat, they root quicker, but this is not absolutely essential. when placed outside, they should be covered with a handlight for about two months, and, at the end of this time, air should be gradually given and increased. ghent azaleas are now forced extensively for the market as well as in private gardens; and, by judicious culture, they can be had in full blossom by christmas. with this end in view, they should be grown in pots, and have the growth prematurely completed soon after flowering with the aid of a little artificial heat; after which they may be placed outside. during very hot and dry weather, the north side of a wall is necessary, to prevent their flowering in the autumn. the same plants must only be forced every alternate year. commence to place the plants in heat in october, and keep up a succession until the following march. the best plants for forcing purposes are obtained from the continent, where they are grown in enormous quantities. when grown permanently out of doors, the most suitable soil is peat and rough sand mixed. failing this, leaf mould, maiden loam, and sand, will be found satisfactory. in many cases, we have known them to flourish in ordinary garden soil. the following varieties of ghent azaleas are distinct, and all worth growing; admiral de ruyter, deep red-scarlet, very fine; altaclerensis, bright yellow; amÅ�na, light pink; carnea elegans, pale pink, shaded sulphur; coccinea major, dark scarlet, very fine; cuprea splendens, rich pink, shaded yellow; decorata, lovely pink; directeur charles baumann, rich vermilion, spotted yellow; elector, rich orange-scarlet; geant des batailles, deep crimson, very fine; madame joseph baumann, bright pink, very free and good; maria verschaffelt, shaded pink and yellow; mirabilis, very lovely pink; morteri, rich yellow, shaded rosy-red; pontica macrantha, rich deep sulphur, very large and fine; princesse d'orange, salmon-pink, very fine; sanguinea, deep crimson; viscosa floribunda, pure white, very fragrant. =a. arborescens= (tree-like).* _fl._ large, reddish, not clammy, leafy; tube of corolla longer than the segments; calyx leafy, with the segments oblong and acute. may. _l._, of the flower buds large, yellowish-brown, surrounded with a fringed white border, obovate, rather obtuse, smooth on both surfaces, glaucous beneath, ciliated on the margins, and having the midrib almost smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. pennsylvania, . deciduous species. =a. balsaminæflora= (balsam-flowered).* _fl._ bright salmony red, finely double and rosette-like, the segments regularly imbricated, much resembling in general appearance the blooms of a camellia-flowered balsam. japan. it is a distinct species, and remains in bloom for a considerable period; the flowers are invaluable for bouquets. see fig. , for which we are indebted to mr. bull. =a. calendulacea= (marigold-like).* _fl._ yellow, red, orange, and copper coloured, large, not clammy, rather naked; tube of corolla hairy, shorter than the segments. may. _l._ oblong, pubescent on both surfaces, at length hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. pennsylvania to carolina, . this is said to be the handsomest shrub in north america. there are several varieties of it in cultivation. hardy; deciduous. (b. m. , .) =a. hispida= (bristly). _fl._ white, with a red border and a tinge of red on the tube, which is wide and scarcely longer than the segments, very clammy, leafy; stamens ten. july. _l._ long-lanceolate, hispid above, and smooth beneath, glaucous on both surfaces, ciliated on the margins, and having the nerve bristly beneath. branches straight, and very hispid. _h._ ft. to ft. new york, &c., . a hardy deciduous species. (w. d. b. , .) [illustration: fig. . flower of azalea ledifolia.] =a. ledifolia= (ledum-leaved).* _fl._ pure white, showy; corolla campanulate; in threes at the extremities of the branches; calyx erect, glandular, and viscid. march. _l._ elliptic-lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . the whole shrub is very hairy. hardy; evergreen. syn. _a. liliiflora_. see fig. . (b. m. .) =a. liliiflora= (lily-flowered). synonymous with _a. ledifolia_. =a. nudiflora= (naked-flowered).* _fl._ in terminal clustered racemes, appearing before the leaves, rather naked, not clammy; tube of corolla longer than the segments; teeth of calyx short, rather rounded; stamens much exserted. june. _l._ lanceolate-oblong, nearly smooth and green on both surfaces, ciliated on the margins, having the midrib bristly beneath, and woolly above. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . this species hybridises very freely with _a. calendulacea_, _a. pontica_, _a. viscosa_, &c., and descriptive lists of a host of hybrids of almost every conceivable shade, both double and single, are to be found in continental and home catalogues, to which the reader is referred. hardy. (w. f. a., t. .) =a. pontica= (pontic).* _fl._ leafy, clammy; corolla funnel-shaped; stamens very long. may. _l._ shining, ovate, oblong, pilose, ciliated. _h._ ft. to ft. levant, caucasus, &c., . the varieties of this species are also numerous, differing principally in the colour of the flowers and the hue of the leaves. the flowers are of all shades, and frequently striped. the name generally adopted, as above, must not be confounded with _rhododendron ponticum_. if the genus _azalea_ is merged into rhododendron, as is done by most systematists, this plant must be called by don's name, _rhododendron flavum_. (i. h. , .) =a. procumbens= (procumbent). _see_ =loiseleria procumbens=. =a. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._ scarlet and orange coloured; corolla silky, with obtuse, ciliated, lanceolate, undulated segments; calyx pubescent. may. _l._ lanceolate, ciliated, acute at both ends. branches hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. north america. the varieties of above are several, varying in the shape of the leaves and the colour of the flowers. (l. b. c. ) =a. viscosa= (clammy).* _fl._ white, sweet-scented, in terminal clusters, downy, clammy, leafy; tube of corolla as long as the segments. july. _l._ oblong-ovate, acute, smooth, and green on both surfaces, ciliated on the margins, having the midrib bristly. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . like nearly all species belonging to this genus, the varieties are many, varying in the colour of the flowers and otherwise. (t. s. m. .) =a. v. nitida= (shining).* _fl._ white, tinged with red, clammy, leafy; tube of corolla a little longer than the segments. april. _l._ oblanceolate, rather mucronate, leathery, smooth on both surfaces, shining above, having the nerve bristly beneath, with revolute, ciliated margins. _h._ ft. to ft. new york, . hardy; deciduous. (b. r. , .) _indian or chinese azaleas._ this is a section of greenhouse evergreen varieties obtained from _a. indica_ (which _see_), blooming continuously from november to june, or even later, and of the greatest value for all purposes, whether for decoration, cutting, or exhibition. cultivation: thorough drainage is essential, and a compost of half peat, the other half made up of fibrous loam, leaf soil, and sand, in equal quantities. they cannot have too much light and air, and may be grown to almost any size by shifting from one pot to a size larger. in repotting, the whole of the crocks should be taken away from the base of the ball of soil and roots, and the top should also be removed till the fine roots are reached. the plant should then be put in the new pot, and the additional soil rammed firm, in order to prevent the water running through it, and thus depriving the plant of any benefit therefrom. in all cases, the roots near the stem must be above the soil, so that the water may not sink in next the stem, or death will most certainly ensue. after potting, for a few days the plants should be kept close and freely syringed, and as the growth is completed, they may be well hardened off. the best time for potting is after flowering, before the new growth has been made. from october to june the plants should be in the greenhouse, and during the other months in a cold frame, or plunged in pots in the open; or, what is preferable in favoured localities, planted out in prepared beds; they will thus be kept cleaner, and the growth will be much superior. in autumn they may be lifted and repotted, placing in a shady position for a few days. water in abundance must be given throughout the blooming and growing season; and the plants must, on no account, be allowed to become dry. at the same time, a proper amount of care is most essential, as an excessive amount of moisture is equally as fatal as drought. cuttings should be placed in sand under a bell glass with moderate bottom heat; half-ripened ones are preferable. they must be cut up to a joint--the base of a leaf--the lower leaves for an inch stripped off, and the stem stuck into the sand, which should lay, about an inch thick, on the top of sandy peat soil; the bottom of the cuttings should reach, but not go quite into, the soil. the whole should be covered with a bell glass, which must be wiped dry every morning. soon after the cuttings have commenced growing, place them in small pots. they are also very largely and easily increased by grafting; indeed, this is the only satisfactory method of securing standards. seeds may be sown similar to the last section, but in the greenhouse, and, when well up, pricked out into little pots in. apart. azaleas are liable to the attacks of thrips and red spider, the latter being especially troublesome if the plants are in a dry position; frequent syringing will materially help to eradicate both pests. if insufficient, syringe with a solution of gishurst's compound. =a. amÅ�na= (pleasing). _fl._ almost campanulate, rich crimson, about - / in. across, hose-in-hose conformation, produced in great profusion. april. _l._ small, size of the common box, hairy. _h._ ft. china. this is an elegant little neat and compact growing shrub, which has proved to be quite hardy in england. (b. m. .) a very beautiful series of hybrids have been obtained by crossing this species with _a. indica_, which are most serviceable and free. the following are most desirable: lady musgrave, light carmine; miss buist, pure white; mrs. carmichael, rich magenta, shaded crimson; prime minister, soft pink, deep shaded, very free; princess beatrice, light mauve, very distinct and free; princess maude, rich magenta, rose shaded. [illustration: fig. . flower of azalea indica.] =a. indica= (indian).* _fl._ campanulate, terminal, solitary or twin; calycine teeth long-lanceolate, obtuse, ciliated, spreading. _l._ cuneate-lanceolate, finely crenelated, covered with sharp, close-pressed rigid hairs, attenuated at both ends. branches also covered with sharp, close-pressed, rigid hairs. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . see fig. . there are a great number of garden seedlings of the indian azalea, including every shade and colour. a selection to any extent may be made from the nurserymen's catalogues, but, for the guidance of the amateur, we have made a rigid selection of the best double and single varieties. _double-flowered_: a. borsig, pure white; alice, rich deep rose, blotched with vermilion, very fine; bernard andrÃ�, dark violet-purple, large, semi-double; charles leirens, dark salmon, good form and substance; comtesse eugenie de kerchove, white, flaked with red-carmine, semi-double; dominique vervaene, bright orange, very fine; dr. moore, deep rose, with white and violet shading, very fine; empereur de brÃ�sil, rich rose, banded white, the upper petals marked red; francis devos, deep crimson; imbricata, pure white, sometimes flaked with rose; madame iris lefebvre, dark orange, shaded with bright violet, and blotched with chocolate; president ghellinck de walle, intense rose, upper petals blotched with lake, and crimson-rayed; souvenir de prince albert, rich rose peach, broadly margined with pure white, very free and beautiful. _single-flowered_: charmer, rich amaranth, very large; comtesse de beaufort, rich rose, the upper petals blotched with crimson; criterion, rich salmon pink, white-margined; duc de nassau, rich rosy-purple, very free and large; eclatante, deep crimson, rose shaded; fanny ivery, deep salmon-scarlet, blotched magenta, very fine; flambeau, rich glowing crimson, extremely showy; john gould veitch, lilac-rose, netted and bordered white, and blotched with saffron, very showy; la superbe, rich lake, bordered orange, and black spotted, a very fine variety; la victoire, centre reddish, white towards the edge, the upper petals spotted with maroon-crimson; louis von baden, pure white, a grand variety; madame charles van eckhaute, pure white, with beautifully crisped edges, of excellent form and substance; madame van houtte, richly flaked with carmine and rose, very large and free; marquis of lorne, brilliant scarlet, of the finest form and substance; mrs. turner, bright pink, white-margined, and spotted with crimson; president van den hecke, white, striped and speckled with crimson, with a yellow centre; princess alice, pure white, one of the best; reine des pays-bas, rich violet-pink, margined with white; roi d'hollande, dark blood-red, spotted with black; sigismund rucker, rich rose, white bordered, with crimson blotches; wilson saunders, pure white, striped and blotched with vivid red, very fine. =a. mollis= (soft). synonymous with _a. sinensis_. =a. sinensis= (chinese). _fl._ campanulate, downy, flame coloured; stamens equal in length to the petals. may. _l._ slowly deciduous, elliptic, acutish, pilosely pubescent, feather-nerved, with ciliated margins, greyish beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. china and japan. a large number of seedlings and hybrids from this species are in cultivation, known under the name of japanese azaleas, and all are valuable for the decoration of the cool conservatory, or for outdoor work. syn. _a. mollis_. (l. b. c. .) =azara= (in honour of j. n. azara, a spanish promoter of science, but of botany in particular). ord. _bixineæ_. showy evergreen, hardy and half-hardy shrubs, with alternate, simple, stalked stipulate leaves, and fragrant flowers. they thrive well in a compost of loam, leaf soil, and sand. ripened cuttings root readily if placed in sand, under glass, in slight heat. it is believed that all the species enumerated will prove hardy if a slight winter protection in midland and northern counties be afforded. this precaution will be unnecessary in more southern parts. =a. dentata= (toothed). _fl._ yellow; corymbs sessile, few-flowered. june. _l._ ovate, serrated, scabrous, tomentose beneath; stipules leafy, unequal in size. _h._ ft. chili, . (b. r. .) =a. gillesii= (gilles').* _fl._ bright yellow; panicles axillary, densely packed. spring. _l._ large, holly-like, ovate, coarsely toothed, smooth. _h._ ft. chili, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . azara microphylla, showing habit, and foliage (half natural size).] =a. integrifolia= (entire-leaved).* _fl._ yellow, on numerous short axillary spikes, of an aromatic fragrance. autumn. _l._ obovate or oblong, entire, smooth; stipules equal, permanent. _h._ ft. chili (about conception), . the variegated-leaved form, although rare, is very ornamental. the variegation consists of greenish-yellow, with a blotch of dark green, and in a young state edged with deep pink. =a. microphylla= (small-leaved).* _fl._ greenish, corymbose, succeeded by numerous small orange-coloured berries. autumn. _l._ small, distichous, obovate, obtuse, dark-shining green. _h._ ft. chiloe and valdavia, . this shrub is very ornamental as a standard, and also excellent for covering walls. quite hardy. see fig. , for which we are indebted to messrs. veitch and sons. =babiana= (from _babianer_, the dutch for baboon; in reference to the bulbs being eaten by baboons). ord. _iridaceæ_. a genus of very ornamental bulbous plants confined to the cape of good hope, with the exception of a single species, which is found in socotra. flowers occasionally fragrant, and generally characterised by their rich self-colours, or the striking contrast of very distinct hues in the same flower; perianth regular and symmetrical, with six ovate divisions (tube varying in length). stems from in. to in. high, arising from a small bulb-like corm, and bearing tapering plaited leaves, which are usually more or less densely covered with long hairs; the scapes are racemose, each bearing about six or more simultaneously expanding flowers. they may be successfully grown in pots. by this plan there is, perhaps, less danger of loss, and their flowering season can be prolonged considerably. a light sandy compost, with a small proportion of well-decayed manure, is required, and thorough drainage is also most essential. use or -sized pots, placing four or five corms in the former, and two or three in the latter, and keep moderately dry until they commence to form roots. october is the best time to pot. as soon as the plants appear above ground, water may be carefully given, and the supply proportionately increased as the plants develop. very weak liquid manure, applied twice a week, just as the spikes are pushing up, will be beneficial. when the flowers fade, and the stems show signs of decay, the supply of water must be gradually decreased, thus inducing the thorough maturation of the corms, upon which the next season's display depends. when quite down, store the pots in a dry place till the time for repotting arrives, when the corms should be carefully cleaned, and all offsets separated, the latter being potted up in the same way as the parent corms in order to produce flowering specimens; or they may be kept in a pot of sand and planted in a warm border outside in march. outdoor culture: a sheltered, sunny, and well-drained situation is most essential to success. although not absolutely necessary, it is preferable to replant every year in early spring, placing the bulbs about in. or in. deep, with a little sand sprinkled about them. planting may, of course, be done in autumn, when it will be necessary to cover with cocoa nut fibre refuse to the depth of in. or in. in warm, sheltered situations, the corms may remain undisturbed; but, as a rule, it is desirable to remove them late in autumn, when the leaves are dead, and store them in dry sand through the winter in a cool, airy position, free of frost. mixed babianas may be purchased from dealers at a cheap rate, and, for general purposes, they are best to plant. propagation may be effected by offsets and seeds. the former is the best and quickest method. the offsets should be grown in boxes or planted out in light rich soil until large enough for flowering. seeds sown in pans, and placed in a gentle heat, will grow at almost any time; the young plants will require to be carefully transplanted each season until they develop into blooming corms. [illustration: fig. . babiana stricta rubro-cyanea.] =b. cÅ�rulescens= (bluish). synonymous with _b. plicata_. =b. disticha= (two-ranked).* _fl._ with a hyacinth-like fragrance; perianth pale blue; divisions narrow; margins undulated or crisped. june, july. _l._ lanceolate, acute. _h._ in. . (b. m. .) =b. plicata= (folded).* _fl._ with a very fragrant clove carnation-like perfume; perianth pale violet-blue; anthers blue, and stigmas yellow. may, june. _l._ lanceolate, distinctly plicate. _h._ in. . syns. _b. cÅ�rulescens_, _b. reflexa_. (b. m. .) =b. reflexa= (reflexed). synonymous with _b. plicata_. =b. ringens= (gaping).* _fl._ scarlet, irregular in form, gaping, very handsome. may, june. _l._ narrow, acute, deep green. _h._ in. to in. . (l. b. c. .) =b. sambucina= (elder-scented). _fl._ bluish-purple, with an elder-like fragrance; perianth divisions spreading. april, may. _l._ lanceolate, slightly plicate. _h._ in. to in. . syn. _gladiolus sambucinus_. (b. m. .) =b. stricta= (strict).* _fl._, perianth segments narrow, acute, outer three white, inner three lilac-blue, with a dark blotch near the base of each. may. _l._ broadly lanceolate, obtuse, ciliated. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. s. angustifolia= (narrow-leaved). _fl._ fragrant; perianth bright blue, slightly pink in the tube. may and june. _l._ linear, acute, light green. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. s. rubro-cyanea= (red-and-blue).* _fl._ in. or more in diameter; upper half of the perianth very brilliant blue, and the lower part rich crimson, forming a central zone, in striking contrast to the blue portion. may, june. _l._ broad, acuminated, downy on the under surface. _h._ in. to in. . see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. a. sulphurea= (sulphur-coloured).* _fl._ cream-coloured or pale yellow; anthers blue, and stigmas yellow; segments spreading. april, may. _l._ narrow-obtuse. _h._ in. . syns. _gladiolus sulphureus_, _g. plicatus_. (b. m. .) =b. s. villosa= (villous).* _fl._, perianth smaller than the last, with the narrower segments rather more widely spreading than in _b. s. rubro-cyanea_, brilliant crimson, with violet-blue anthers. august. _h._ in. . (b. m. .) =babingtonia= (named after c. c. babington, professor of botany at cambridge, and a distinguished botanical author). ord. _myrtaceæ_. a very pretty greenhouse evergreen shrub, allied to _bæckea_, from which it differs in having the stamens collected in groups opposite the sepals. cuttings of the young unflowering shoots may be planted in sand under a bell glass, and kept in a moderate heat until rooted, when they should be placed singly in small pots, in a compost of equal parts loam and peat, with the addition of a little sand. as the small pots fill with roots, the plants should be removed into larger ones, and the compost have less sand in it; but this should not be done until the next february. the established plants must have a good shift about march or april, and should be kept in a light, airy greenhouse; the first shoots may be topped to moderate their vigour, and to produce a greater profusion of less luxuriant ones. in may, when most plants are removed from the greenhouse, these should be set to grow under a frame which, while shielding them from heavy rains, and supporting some slight shading in the hottest parts of the sunny days, will not prevent a free circulation of air. to this end, the frame should be elevated from the rests or supports at its corners; the lights should be left off at night in fine, mild weather, and on dull, cloudy days, being only replaced during heavy rains, and when shading is necessary. towards autumn, the plants must be returned to the greenhouse. =b. camphorasmæ= (camphor-smelling).* _fl._ pinkish-white, in little cymes, disposed in long terminal racemes. summer. _l._ linear, opposite, nerved. _h._ ft. australia, . (b. r. , .) =baccate.= berried, fleshy; having a pulpy texture. =baccharis= (from bacchus, wine; referring to the spicy odour of the roots). ploughman's spikenard. ord. _compositæ_. a genus of hardy, stove, or greenhouse herbs, shrubs, or trees. flower-heads many-flowered, diÅ�cious, terminal. involucre sub-hemispherical or oblong, in many series, imbricated. leaves simple, alternate, exstipulate, deciduous, oblong-lanceolate, notched, serrated, or entire. shrubs of short duration. these plants are neither beautiful nor ornamental, but are of easy cultivation in ordinary soil. propagated by cuttings. =b. halimifolia= (halimus-leaved). groundsel tree. _fl.-heads_ white. july. _l._ oblong-cuneate, obovate, coarsely toothed; branches angular. _h._ ft. to ft. northern united states, . hardy. =bachelors' buttons.= the double-flowered forms of _ranunculus acris_, _lychnis diurna_, &c. [illustration: hybrid alstrÅ�merias] =backhousia= (commemorative of the late james backhouse, a botanical traveller in australia and south africa). ord. _myrtaceæ_. a greenhouse evergreen shrub, requiring a compost of fibry peat, loam, and a little white sand. propagated, in april, by half-ripened cuttings, inserted in sand, under a bell glass, in a cool house. =b. myrtifolia= (myrtle-leaved).* _fl._ white, disposed in corymbs, and often produced on cuttings soon after having struck root. may. _l._ ovate, acuminate, smooth. branches slender. _h._ ft. new south wales, . (b. m. .) =baconia.= a synonym of =pavetta= (which _see_). =bactris= (from _baktron_, a cane; the young stems being used for walking sticks). ord. _palmaceæ_. very ornamental, slender growing, and prickly stove palms. peduncle of the spadix bursting through about the middle of the leaf sheath. drupes small, ovate, or nearly round, and generally of a dark blue colour. leaves pinnatisect; segments generally linear and entire. instead of being confined to the apex of the trunk, the leaves are scattered over nearly the whole surface, and the lower ones retain their verdure long after the upper ones have fully developed. stems slender, varying from ft. to ft. in height. some of the species are of easy culture in a compost of loam, peat, loaf mould, and sand, in equal parts; but most of them are very difficult to manage. propagation may be effected by suckers, which are very freely produced. many species are ornamental only when in a young state. =b. baculifera= (cane-bearing). _l._ pinnate, bifid at the apex, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ arranged in clusters about ft. long and in. broad, dark green above, paler below; petioles sheathing and densely clothed with sharp brown and black spines, - / in long. south america. =b. caryotæfolia= (caryota-leaved).* _fl._, spathe ovate, prickly; branches of spadix simple, flexuous. _l._, pinnæ wedge-shaped, three-lobed, and erose; rachis, petioles, and caudex, prickly. _h._ ft. brazil, . =b. flavispina= (yellow-spined). synonymous with _b. pallidispina_. =b. major= (greater). _fl._ greenish-yellow, with a broadly ovate spathe. _h._ ft. carthagena, . =b. maraja= (maraja). maraja palm. _fl._ yellow, with a prickly spathe. _h._ ft. to ft. bahia, . =b. pallidispina= (pale-spined).* _l._ pinnate, bifid at the apex; pinnæ clustered, in. to in. long, in. wide, dark; petioles sheathing at the base and furnished with a profusion of long, yellow spines, which are tipped with black. brazil. syn. _b. flavispina_. =bacularia= (from _baculum_, a walking-stick). ord. _palmaceæ_. a small genus containing a couple of stove species, which are amongst the smallest palms of the old world. both are confined to the east coast of tropical australia. _b. monostachya_--in allusion to its slender stem, which rarely exceeds in thickness that of the thumb--is known as the walking-stick palm. =b. minor= (lesser). _l._ attaining - / ft. stems, several from same rhizome, ft. to ft. high, / in. thick. queensland. =b. monostachya= (one-spiked). _l._ pinnate, pendent, in. to in. long, bifid at the apex; pinnæ about in. across, broad, irregular in shape, with ragged and irregular ends; dark green. stem slender, petioles sheathing. _h._ ft. new south wales, . syn. _areca monostachya_. (b. m. .) =badger's bane.= _see_ =aconitum meloctonum=. =bÃ�a= (commemorative of rev. dr. beau, of toulon, brother-in-law to commerson, the discoverer of the genus). syn. _dorcoceras_. ord. _gesneraceæ_. curious and pretty greenhouse herbaceous perennials, requiring a rich sandy loam. they are easily propagated by seeds. probably the only species in cultivation is the following: =b. hygrometrica= (hygrometric).* _fl._ pale blue-coloured, yellowish at the throat; segments of the limb more or less reflexed; corolla five-lobed, somewhat resembling that of the violet; scapes numerous, naked, few-flowered. summer. _l._ in a rosette, thinly covered with coarse white hairs, ovate acute at both ends, crenate serrate. _h._ in. north china, . (b. m. .) =bÃ�ckea= (named after abraham bæck, a swedish physician, and an esteemed friend of linnæus). ord. _myrtaceæ_. very pretty greenhouse evergreen shrubs. flowers white, pedicellate, small. leaves opposite, glabrous, dotted. they thrive in a compost of sandy peat, leaf soil, and lumpy, fibrous loam. cuttings, taken from young wood, root readily, if pricked in a pot of sand, with a bell glass placed over them, in a cool house. =b. diosmæfolia= (diosma-leaved).* _fl._ axillary, solitary, approximate, sessile. august to october. _l._ oblong, rather cuneated, keeled, acute, crowded, imbricate, and are, as well as the calyces, ciliated. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . =b. frutescens= (shrubby).* _fl._ solitary; pedicels axillary. november. _l._ linear, awnless. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . (b. m. .) =b. parvula= (little). _fl._, peduncles axillary, umbelliferous. _l._ elliptic-oblong, obtuse, rather mucronate. _h._ ft. new caledonia, . this is very close to _b. virgata._ (r. g. , .) =b. virgata= (twiggy).* _fl._, peduncles axillary, umbelliferous. august to october. _l._ linear-lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. new caledonia, . (b. m. .) =bÃ�ria= (named in honour of professor baer, of the university of dorpat). ord. _compositæ_. a genus consisting of about half a dozen species. probably the only one in cultivation is that mentioned below; it is a very pretty plant, of easy culture in ordinary garden soil. propagated by seeds, sown in spring. =b. chrysostoma= (golden-mouthed). _fl.-heads_ bright yellow, solitary, terminal, about in. across; involucre of about ten leaflets, in two series. early summer. _l._ linear, opposite, entire. stems erect, downy. _h._ ft. california, . (s. b. f. g. ii. .) =bagged.= swelled like a sac or bag. =bahia= (probably from port of bahia, or san salvador, in south america). syn. _phialis_. ord. _compositæ_. an ornamental, hardy, herbaceous perennial, much branched from the base of the stem, and having a greyish appearance. it may be increased by seeds, or by divisions. =b. lanata= (woolly). _fl.-heads_ yellow, solitary, produced in great numbers. summer. _l._ alternate, or with the lower ones sometimes opposite, deeply divided, and sometimes ligulate and entire. _h._ in. to in. north america. this species thrives on borders of light and well-drained sandy soil. (b. r. .) =balanius.= _see_ =nut weevil=. =balantium= (of kaulfuss). _see_ =dicksonia=. =balantium= (of desvaux). _see_ =parinarium=. =balbisia= (commemorative of giovanni battista balbis, a professor of botany at turin). syn. _ledocarpum_. ord. _geraniaceæ_. a very ornamental half-hardy evergreen shrub, requiring a cool, dry atmosphere. as it is very liable to rot off, water must be applied with great care. propagated by cuttings of half-ripened wood, inserted in sand, under a hand glass; or by seeds. =b. verticillata= (whorled). _fl._ yellow, large, with a whorl of narrow bracts beneath. autumn. _l._ opposite, three-parted; segments linear-oblong. branches slender, glaucous. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . (b. m. .) =balcony.= a projection from the external wall of a house, usually resting on brackets, and having the sides encompassed by a balustrade. it should at all times be prettily decorated with plants, which in the summer is a comparatively easy matter. during winter, evergreens of various kinds are most serviceable, the best being arbutus, aucubas, boxes, euonymuses, hollies, irish and goldon yew, portugal laurel, retinosporas, vincas, &c. these may be grown in pots, and when replaced by the summer occupants, should be plunged in some reserve quarter, where they should receive plenty of water; by this means, they will increase in size, and keep in a healthy condition. very little water will be required during the winter. climbing plants, such as ivy, passion flower, virginian creeper, climbing roses, &c., are indispensable for covering the trellises, and draping the pillars and arches. =baldingera.= a synonym of =premna=. =ball.= this term is used in reference to the roots and mass of earth as they are moulded into form and pressed into hardness by the pot. the masses of roots and earth which, in the case of fibrous-rooted subjects (such as rhododendrons), must be taken intact when removing the plants, are also termed balls. =balm= (_melissa officinalis_). a perennial herb, often used in the manufacture of a drink for sick persons, and sometimes employed for culinary purposes. it may be grown in ordinary garden soil, and is propagated by divisions, in spring. a pretty variegated form is sometimes met with, having the additional advantage of being equal to the normal species for medicinal purposes. =balm of giliad.= _see_ =cedronella triphylla= and =populus balsamifera=. [illustration: fig. . camellia-flowered balsam.] =balsam= (_impatiens balsamina_). a well-known ornamental and tender annual, native of india. it is one of the showiest of summer and autumn flowers, and well deserves a place in every garden. although of comparatively easy cultivation, good blooms and well-grown plants are far too rarely seen. a good balsam bloom should be quite as double as a perfect camellia, and to show to the greatest advantage should appear like one in the arrangement of the petals. to secure this, seeds should only be saved from the finest and most perfect flowers, although the quantity must, of necessity, be small. they should be sown, about the third week in march, in properly prepared pans of rich sandy soil, and placed in a gentle bottom heat of about deg. as soon as the first rough leaf appears, the plants should be potted off into in. pots, care being taken to let the cotyledon, or seed leaves, be close to the soil. when the roots touch the sides of the pots, the plants should be moved into larger ones, and this should be repeated until they are in in. or in. pots. some growers place one or two seeds in small pots, so as to avoid the first shift, and a good plan it is. during the time the plants are under glass, they should be kept as near the light as possible, and be frequently turned around, so that they do not draw to one side; and careful training must be given to those that are required in fine form. disbudding is also necessary to such as are wanted at their best, removing all bloom from the main stem and base of branches until the plants are of sufficient size, and then the buds at the tops will bloom almost simultaneously. the buds that will be formed afterwards will cause a continuance of blossom for a long time, in fact, for some months, if the plants are liberally supplied with liquid manure. if it is desired for them to flower out of doors, the plants should be transferred, about may, to a frame where the heat is not above deg., and be kept in a steady growing state, air being admitted on all suitable occasions, cold winds and heavy rains avoided, and water supplied when needed; never allow them to get dry. they require training and disbudding the same as those grown in the greenhouse. about june, the plants should be fully exposed during the day; and, when danger of frost is over, the lights may be kept off altogether. these should bloom at the end of july. in all cases, plenty of drainage must be allowed, as the amount of water required is very great. insects must be sharply looked after, as well as slugs and snails. there are several sections, such as camellia-flowered (see fig. ), rose-flowered, &c., each containing variously striped, spotted, and entire coloured blooms, and it is best to pay an extra figure to secure a good strain. =balsam apple.= _see_ =momordica balsaminea=. =balsamina.= _see_ =impatiens=. [illustration: fig. . bambusa arundinacea.] =balsamineÃ�.= a tribe of plants belonging to the order _geraniaceæ_. sepals and petals all coloured, consisting of six segments, "two outer ones small, flat, and oblique; the next large, hood-shaped, ending below in a conical spur; the fourth opposite to it, small, very broad, concave; the two innermost very oblique, and more or less divided into two unequal lobes." the best known genus is _impatiens_. =balsamodendron= (from _balsamon_-Â�an old greek word used by theophrastus-Â�balm or balsam, and _dendron_, a tree). ord. _burseraceæ_. greenhouse or stove balsamiferous trees. flowers small, green, axillary, often unisexual; calyx four-toothed, permanent; petals four, linear-oblong, induplicately valvate in æstivation; stamens eight, inserted under the annular disk, having elevated warts between them. berry, or drupe, ovate, acute, one to two-celled, marked with four sutures. leaves with three to five sessile, dotless leaflets. they thrive in a compost of thoroughly drained sandy loam. propagated by cuttings of ripe young wood, taken in april, and placed under a hand glass, in bottom heat. the species named below doubtfully belongs to this genus, as the characteristics above enumerated will show. =b. zeylanicum= (ceylon).* _fl._ white, three-petaled, glomerated, involucrated; racemes interrupted, downy. _l._ impari-pinnate, with five to seven-stalked, ovate, acute leaflets. _h._ ft. ceylon. =balsam of capevi.= _see_ =copaifera=. =balsam-tree.= _see_ =clusia=. =bamboo cane.= _see_ =bambusa=. [illustration: fig. . bambusa aurea.] =bambusa= (from _bambu_, the malay name). bamboo cane. ord. _gramineæ_. a genus of ornamental, shrubby, greenhouse, half-hardy or hardy shrubs, each culm flowering but once. flowers usually hexandrous. leaves, as a rule, relatively shorter than the stems, lanceolate, and narrowed at the base. stems jointed, flexuose, branching, usually hollow, and, when mature, of a hard, woody nature. in well drained, sheltered situations, in the open, with rich, loamy soil, some of the species make extremely graceful objects, particularly so in the more southern counties of england, and in parts of scotland. unless a very severe winter is experienced, they may be left without protection. plants of all the species, however, should have the shelter of a cold greenhouse till about the end of april; when they should be gradually hardened off, and transferred to a warm, sheltered spot, such as in woodlands, by the margins of lakes, &c., as they like plenty of moisture during the summer. a good watering must be given after planting, to settle the soil. propagation is effected by careful division of well-developed plants, which should be done in early spring, just as new growth is commencing; and it is advisable to establish the divisions in pots. _see also_ =arundinaria=. [illustration: fig. . bambusa nana.] =b. arundinacea= (reed-like).* stem very stout, rising like a beautiful column to some ft. or ft. in height; the laterals producing a profusion of light green leaves, the whole presenting the appearance of a huge plume of feathers. india, . this species is best treated as a stove plant, but it may be placed out of doors in summer. see fig. . (b. f. s. .) =b. aurea= (golden).* _l._ lanceolate, acute, light green, distinguished from _b. nana_ by having their under surface less glaucescent, and the sheath always devoid of the long silky hairs. china. this very handsome species forms elegant tufts, with its slender much-branched stems, which attain a height of from ft. to ft., and are of a light green colour in a young state, ultimately changing into a yellowish hue. hardy in most parts of the country. see fig. . =b. fortunei= (fortune's).* _l._ linear-lanceolate, abruptly pointed, somewhat rounded at the base, on very short hairy stalks, serrated and often fringed with long hairs on the margin, downy on both sides, and distinctly variegated, the transverse veins often of a bottle-green colour. _h._ ft. to ft. japan. a dwarf tufted species, with very slender stem. quite hardy. there are only variegated varieties of this in cultivation, viz., _variegata_ and _argenteovittata_. (f. d. s. , t. .) =b. glauca= (milky-green). a synonym of _b. nana_. =b. japonica= (japanese). synonymous with _arundinaria metake_. =b. maximowiczii= (maximowicz's). synonymous with _arundinaria maximowiczii_. =b. metake= (metake). synonymous with _arundinaria metake_. =b. mitis= (small). _l._ deep green, lanceolate, acute, striated, clasping the stem; panicle simple, erect, close; spikes long, imbricated. stem tapering. _h._ ft. cochin china and japan. this vigorous-growing species can be cultivated out of doors during summer, and, in most localities, it may be left out all the year. =b. nana= (dwarf).* _l._ lanceolate, acute, glaucous, stoutish, with the footstalks slightly downy. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . a rather tender species, requiring to be grown in the stove or greenhouse. syns. _b. glauca_ and _b. viridi-glaucescens_. see fig. . =b. nigra= (black). _see_ =phyllostachys nigra=. =b. ragamowski= (ragamowsk's).* _l._ in. to in. long, and about in. to in. broad. china and japan. this species "can readily be recognised by the tomentose line on one side of the midrib, running nearly the whole length of the leaf on the underside, this line being always on the longer side of the leaf." hardy. syn. _b. tessellata_. =b. simonii= (simon's).* _l._ narrow, nearly in. to in. long, occasionally striped with white. stems growing with great rapidity, mealy-glaucous at the joints; branchlets numerous, rather closely crowded. _h._ ft. china and japan, . =b. striata= (striated).* _l._ linear-oblong; culms striped yellow and green. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . a very slender and graceful, rather tender, species. may be grown in the open air during summer, and in very favoured spots it is probably hardy, especially if covered with a mat in winter. it makes an excellent pot plant. syn. _b. viridi-striata_. (b. m. .) =b. tessellata= (tessellated).* a synonym of _b. ragamowski_. =b. violescens= (nearly-violet).* _l._ green above, bluish-grey beneath, with an elongated ligule, surrounded by a bundle of black hairs. stems much branched, blackish-violet. china, . this handsome and vigorous species is intermediate between _phyllostachys nigra_ and _b. nana_. it requires protection during winter. =b. viridi-glaucescens= (glaucous-green). a synonym of _b. nana_. =b. viridi-striata= (green-striped). a synonym of _b. striata_. =banana=, or =plantain=. _see_ =musa=. =baneberry.= _see_ =actæa=. =banisteria= (named after john baptist banister, a traveller in virginia in the seventeenth century, author of a catalogue of virginian plants, inserted in ray's "historia plantarum"). ord. _malpighiaceæ_. stove trees or shrubs, frequently climbing. flowers yellow; calyx five-parted; petals furnished with long stalks; stamens ten. leaves simple, stalked. they are for the most part very ornamental, but are not often seen in flower in this country. they will grow in a mixture of loam, leaf soil, and peat, with some sharp sand added. cuttings, made from ripened wood, will root freely in sandy soil, under a hand glass, in stove heat, taking about three or four weeks to do so. =b. chrysophylla= (golden-leaved).* _fl._ deep orange, axillary, corymbose. _l._ ovate, oblong, acutish, somewhat sinuated towards the top, clothed beneath with golden shining down. brazil, . climber. =b. ciliata= (ciliated).* _fl._ large, orange-coloured, umbellate. june. _l._ cordate, orbicular, smooth, ciliated. brazil, . twiner. =b. ferruginea= (rust-coloured). _fl._ yellow; racemes panicled. june. _l._ in. long, ovate, acuminated, smooth above, and shining, rusty beneath, and are, as well as the petioles, clothed with close pressed hairs. brazil, . climber. =b. fulgens= (glowing).* _fl._ yellow, in umbellate corymbs. _l._ ovate, acuminated, smooth above, and clothed with silky pubescence beneath, as well as the petioles. branches dichotomous. west indies, . climber. =b. humboldtiana= (humboldt's).* _fl._ yellow; umbels lateral and terminal, sessile. _l._ roundish-ovate, cordate, rather acuminated, mucronate, membranaceous, smoothish above, clothed beneath with soft hoary down as well as the branchlets. south america, . climber. =b. sericea= (silky). _fl._ yellow, racemose. july. _l._ ovate, obtuse, with a mucrone; younger ones downy on both surfaces, adult ones only on the under surface; down of a golden shining colour. brazil, . climber. =b. splendens= (splendid).* _fl._ yellow; racemes axillary, dichotomous, umbellate. floral leaves orbicular, and nearly sessile. _l._ cordate, kidney-shaped, orbicular, clothed with silky down beneath. south america, . climber. =banks.= these are usually formed with a view to increasing the amount of surface ground, and for the acceleration or retarding of vegetable crops, such as strawberries, &c. they should be from ft. to ft. apart, according to the depth of soil, and run from east to west. in constructing banks of a uniform size, great care, and a constant use of the garden line, will be found necessary. for the warmest side of the banks, dwarf french beans, peas, vegetable marrows, cucumbers, new zealand spinach, capsicums, &c., may be grown. on the opposite side, and when a prolonged supply is desired, cauliflower, broccoli, lettuce, turnip, spinach, &c., may be sown thinly in drills, to be thinned out, and remain. it needs but little discretion to produce valuable crops by this method. =banksia= (named in honour of sir joseph banks, once president of the royal society, and a distinguished patron of science, particularly of natural history). ord. _proteaceæ_. greenhouse evergreen shrubs, natives of australia, principally grown for the beauty of their foliage. leaves variable in form, usually dark green, clothed with white or rufous down beneath; margins deeply serrated or spinous, rarely entire. the following is the mode of culture recommended many years ago by sweet. the pots should be well drained, by placing a potsherd about half way over the hole at the bottom of the pot, then laying another piece against it that it may be hollow, afterwards putting some smaller pieces all around them, and on the top of these some others broken very small. all the plants belonging to the order _proteaceæ_ should be drained in a similar manner, as the roots are very fond of running amongst the broken potsherds, and consequently there is less danger of their being overwatered. care must also be taken not to allow them to flag, as they seldom recover if once allowed to get very dry. the plants should be placed in an airy part of the house when indoors. cuttings are generally supposed to be difficult to root, but this is not the case if properly managed. let them be well ripened before they are taken off; then cut them at a joint, and place them in pots of sand, without shortening any of the leaves, except on the part that is planted in the sand, where they should be taken off quite close. the less depth they are planted in the pots the better, so long as they stand firm when the sand is well closed round them. place them under hand glasses in the propagating house, but do not plunge them in heat. take the glasses off frequently to give them air, and dry them, or they will probably damp off. when rooted, transfer to small pots; after which, place them in a close, unheated frame, and harden by degrees. seeds are a very unsatisfactory means of multiplying the stock. =b. æmula= (rivalling).* _l._ in. to in. long, in. broad, linear-oblong, tapering slightly at the base; edges deeply toothed, deep green on both sides; midrib of under surface clothed with rich brown hairs. _h._ ft. . syn. _b. elatior_. (b. m. .) =b. australis= (southern). a synonym of _b. marginata_. =b. caleyi= (caley's). _l._ in. to in. long, linear, deeply and regularly toothed from base to apex, dark green above, paler below. _h._ ft. to ft. . said to be an elegant species. =b. collina= (hill-loving).* _l._ in. to in. long, / in. broad, linear; apex præmorse, as if bitten straight off; upper surface dark green, silvery below. _h._ ft. to ft. . this forms a dense and handsome shrub, especially with its large head of yellow flowers. syns. _b. cunninghami_, _b. ledifolia_, and _b. littoralis_. (b. m. .) =b. cunninghami= (cunningham's). a synonym of _b. collina_. =b. dryandroides= (dryandra-like).* _l._ in. to in. long, / in. broad, pinnatifid, divided almost to the midrib; lobes triangular, deep green above, and reddish-brown below. stem clothed with reddish-brown hairs. _h._ ft. . this plant is extremely graceful and elegant as a table decoration. =b. elatior= (taller). synonymous with _b. æmula_. =b. integrifolia= (whole-leaved). _l._ cuneate-oblong, in. long, nearly in. wide at the broadest part; edges entire; upper side dark green, silvery white beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. . syns. _b. macrophylla_, _b. oleifolia_. (b. m. .) =b. i. compar= (well-matched). _l._ very densely set upon the branches, oblong, tapering at the base, blunt at the apex; edges serrulate; upper side dark olive green, silvery white beneath. _h._ ft., finely branching. . =b. latifolia= (broad-leaved). _l._ in. to in. long, in. broad, obovate-oblong; edges serrated; upper surface deep green, beneath clothed with woolly greyish hairs, those on the midrib bright brown. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. ledifolia= (ledum-leaved). synonymous with _b. collina_. =b. littoralis= (shore). synonymous with _b. collina_. =b. macrophylla= (large-leaved). synonymous with _b. integrifolia_. =b. marginata= (margined). _l._ in. to in. long, / in. broad, blunt at the apex, armed with several short spines, and tapering at the base, deep green on the upper surface, snowy white beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. . syn. _b. australis_. (b. m. .) =b. occidentalis= (western).* _fl._ yellow, rather handsome, in spikes about in. long. april to august. _l._ in. to in. long, / in. broad. _h._ ft. . west coast of new holland. a beautiful species. (b. m. .) =b. oleifolia= (olive-leaved). synonymous with _b. integrifolia_. =b. solanderi= (solander's).* _l._ in. to in. long, and over in. wide, deeply pinnatifid, with three to six pairs of lobes on each leaf; apex as if bitten off; upper side dark green, under silvery white. _h._ ft. . =b. speciosa= (showy).* _l._ in. to in. long, about / in. wide, pinnatifid, but divided almost to the midrib; lobes semicircular, with a spine on the end of each; upper side deep green, beneath silvery white, with the midrib clothed with ferruginous woolly hairs. _h._ ft. . both this and the preceding species are very handsome, and highly deserving of the most extensive culture. =b. quercifolia= (oak-leaved). _l._ cuneate-oblong, deeply incised at the margins, and having a short spine upon each lobe. _h._ ft. . (b. r. .) =banksia= (of forster). a synonym of =pimelea=. =baobab-tree.= _see_ =adansonia=. =baphia= (from _baphe_, a dye; the tree produces the camwood of commerce). camwood or barwood. ord. _leguminosæ_. a stove tree, requiring a loam and peat soil. cuttings, not deprived of any of their leaves, will root in a pot of sand, under a hand glass, in heat. =b. nitida= (shining). _fl._ white; corolla with a roundish spreading vexillum, linear wings, which are about the length of the vexillum, and an acute carina; pedicels two to three together, one-flowered, axillary. june. _l._ entire, oval-oblong, acuminated, shining. _h._ ft. sierra leone, . (l. b. c. .) =baptisia.= (from _bapto_, to dye; so named from the economical use of some of the species). ord. _leguminosæ_. north american hardy herbaceous plants, with trifoliate, rarely simple leaves, and racemes of yellowish or blue flowers. they are somewhat shy bloomers, but grow freely in a loamy soil. propagated by divisions, or, more easily, by seed, which latter may be sown in sand and leaf mould in the open, or in pots placed in a cold frame. =b. alba= (white).* _fl._ white; racemes terminal. june. _l._ stalked, glabrous; leaflets elliptic-oblong, obtuse; stipules deciduous, subulate, shorter than the petioles. branches divaricate. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. australis= (southern).* _fl._ blue; racemes few-flowered, elongated, shorter than the branches. june. _l._ stalked, smooth; leaflets oblong-cuneated, obtuse, four times longer than the petiole; stipules lanceolate, acute, twice the length of the petiole. stem branched, diffuse. _h._ ft. to ft. . (flora, , ; b. m. .) =b. confusa= (confused). _fl._ dark blue, alternate, bracteate; racemes elongated. june. _l._ stalked, smooth; leaflets oblong-cuneated or obovate; stipules linear-lanceolate, twice the length of the petioles. stem branched. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. exaltata= (exalted).* _fl._ deep blue; racemes many-flowered, elongated, twice the length of the branches. june. _l._ ternate, stalked; leaflets lanceolate-obovate, five times longer than the petioles; stipules lanceolate, acuminated, three times longer than the petioles. stem erect, branched. _h._ ft. to ft. . (s. b. f. g. .) =b. leucophæa= (dusky-white). _fl._ cream-coloured; racemes many-flowered, lateral, with the flowers leaning to one side. july. _l._ sessile, somewhat villous; leaflets rhomboid-obovate; stipules and bracts ovate, acute, broad, leafy. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. minor= (less). _fl._ blue; racemes axillary, bracteate. june. _l._, leaflets rhomboid-lanceolate; stipules lanceolate, longer than the petioles. stem erect, solid. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. perfoliata= (perfoliate-leaved).* _fl._ yellow, small, axillary, solitary. august. _l._ perfoliate, roundish, quite entire, rather glaucous. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. tinctoria= (dyers').* _fl._ yellow, with wings each furnished with a callosity, or lateral tooth; racemes terminal. _l._ stalked, upper ones nearly sessile; leaflets roundish-obovate; stipules setaceous, almost obsolete. _h._ ft. to ft. . (l. b. c. .) =barbacenia.= (named after m. barbacena, a governor of minas geraes). formerly placed in ord. _hæmodoraceæ_, but now referred by bentham and hooker to _amaryllidaceæ_. very singular and pretty stove evergreen herbaceous perennials, allied to _vellozia_. flowers purple, large, showy; perianth funnel-shaped, resinosely hairy on the outside; limb spreading; scapes one-flowered, usually clothed with glandular hairs. leaves firm, spiral, spreading, acutely keeled. lindley says that they are capable of existing in a dry, hot air without contact with the earth, on which account they are favourites in south american gardens, where, with orchids and bromeliads, they are suspended in the dwelling houses, or hung to the balustrades of the balconies, in which situation they flower abundantly, filling the air with their fragrance. they are rarely seen in our gardens. they may be grown in baskets of fibrous loam and peat, with some nodules of charcoal added. [illustration: fig. . flower of barbacenia purpurea.] =b. purpurea= (purple).* _fl._ funnel-shaped, six-cleft, terminal, solitary; ovarium elongated, tuberculated. july. _l._ linear, keeled, with spiny serratures. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. rogieri= (rogers').* _fl._ purple; scape and ovaria tubercled; filaments broad, bifid. july. _l._ linear, acuminated, imbricate, with broad stem-clasping bases, finely spinely serrated on the margin, and keel recurved; caudex short. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . (l. j. f. .) =barbados cherry.= _see_ =malpighia=. =barbados gooseberry.= _see_ =pereskia aculeata=. =barbados lily.= _see_ =hippeastrum equestre=. =barbarea= (anciently called herb of st. barbara). winter cress; american cress. ord. _cruciferæ_. hardy glabrous perennial herbs. flowers yellow; racemes erect, terminal. stems erect. they are of easy culture, but scarcely worth growing in the pleasure garden. propagated by cuttings, suckers, divisions, or seeds. =b. præcox= (early). _l._, lower ones lyrate; terminal lobe ovate; upper ones pinnate-parted; lobes linear-oblong, quite entire. _h._ ft. to - / ft. commonly known as american, or black american cress. here and there on roadsides, and in dry gravelly places in great britain. an escape from cultivation. (sy. en. b. .) =b. vulgaris= (common). _l._, lower ones lyrate; terminal lobe roundish; upper ones obovate, toothed, or pinnatifid. _h._ - / ft. the double flowering form of this native species is the only one of this genus worth growing for beauty; it is generally known as double yellow rocket. the variegated form is also rather pretty, and comes true from seed. (sy. en. b. .) =barbatus.= having long weak hairs, in one or more tufts; bearded. =barberry.= _see_ =berberis=. =barbieria= (in honour of j. b. g. barbier, m.d., a french physician and naturalist, author of "principes generaux de pharmacologie ou de matière medicale," paris, ). ord. _leguminosæ_. an ornamental stove evergreen, requiring a mixture of peat, loam, and sand. propagated by cuttings of half-ripened wood, which should be placed in sand, under a glass, in stove heat. =b. polyphylla= (many-leaved).* _fl._ scarlet, in. long; racemes axillary, few-flowered, shorter than the leaves. _l._ impari-pinnate, with nine to eleven pairs of elliptic-oblong, mucronate leaflets, pubescent in an adult state. porto rico, . syns. _clitorea polyphylla_ and _galactia pinnata_. =barbs.= hooked hairs. =bark.= the outer integuments of a plant beyond the wood, and formed of tissue parallel with it. =bark-bound.= this condition is generally the result of very rich soil, or insufficient drainage. in most fruit trees a gummy exudation takes place. if caused by stagnancy, thorough drainage should immediately be effected. scrubbing the stem is also recommended. slitting the bark with a knife is likely to do more harm than good, particularly so in the hands of the inexperienced. =barkeria= (name commemorative of the late g. barker, of birmingham, an ardent cultivator of orchids). ord. _orchidaceæ_. from a scientific point of view, this genus should be included in _epidendrum_. very handsome, deciduous, epiphytal, cool-house orchids, having slender pseudo-bulbs, from in. to in. high, from the top of which the numerous flower-stems are produced. in a cool, airy temperature, these plants grow vigorously, suspended in pans or small baskets close beneath the glass, and slightly shaded with tiffany. they succeed well also on flat blocks of wood, on the top of which they should be tied, without any moss, as their freely-produced, thick, fleshy roots soon cling to the blocks. during the season of growth, a good supply of water is needed, and in hot weather it may be applied three or four times daily; the blocks and plants are best immersed in water; but when at rest, a slight watering twice or three times a week will suffice. propagated by divisions, just previous to the commencement of new growth. =b. elegans= (elegant).* _fl._ in loose racemes, four or five in each; each blossom about in. across; sepals and petals dark rose; lip reddish crimson, spotted and edged with a lighter colour. winter. _h._ ft. mexico, . of this beautiful slender-growing species, there are two or three varieties in cultivation. (b. m. .) =b. lindleyana= (lindley's).* _fl._, raceme ft. long, very slender, bearing from five to seven blossoms near its apex; sepals and petals rosy purple; lip white, with a deep purple blotch at its apex. september, remaining in beauty for a considerable time. _h._ ft. costa rica, . (b. m. .) =b. l. centeræ= (center's).* _fl._ rosy lilac; lip oblong; margins crenulated or crisped; apex blotched deep purple. costa rica, . =b. melanocaulon= (dark-stemmed).* _fl._ on an erect spike; sepals and petals rosy lilac; lip broader at the base than at the top, reddish-purple, having a blotch of green in the centre. august. _h._ ft. costa rica, . very rare. =b. skinneri= (skinner's).* _fl._ deep rose-coloured; spikes in. to in. long, from the apices of the ripened growth, often branched, forming a dense mass of deep purple blossoms, which, if kept dry, lasts from eight to ten weeks. _h._ - / ft. guatemala. (p. m. b. , .) =b. s. superbum= (superb).* _fl._ dark rose; lip somewhat deeper tinted, and marked towards the base with yellow streaks. guatemala. this far surpasses the type in size and number of flowers, as well as in brilliancy of colour. (w. s. o. .) =b. spectabilis= (showy).* _fl._ quite in. across, produced eight or ten together, on a spike issuing from the top of the pseudo-bulb; sepals and petals oblong, acuminate, rosy lilac; lip white, margined with deep lilac or rosy purple, and dotted or spotted with crimson. this very distinct and desirable species lasts from eight to ten weeks in beauty, and forms a very handsome object when placed in the drawing-room and covered over with a large glass shade. guatemala, . (b. m. .) =barking-irons.= instruments used in taking off the bark of trees. =barklya= (named after sir h. barkly, formerly governor of south australia). ord. _leguminosæ_. a large greenhouse tree, thriving in a compost of loam and leaf mould. propagated by seeds and cuttings; the latter should be half ripened, and placed in sandy soil, under a bell glass, in a cool house. =b. syringifolia= (syringa-leaved). _fl._ golden yellow, numerous, disposed in axillary or terminal racemes. _l._ alternate, simple, coriaceous. _h._ ft. moreton bay, . =bark stove.= a hothouse adapted for moisture-loving exotics, and having a pit from ft. to ft. deep, containing fermenting matter, chiefly tanners' bark, by which means a steady heat is maintained for a considerable time. the bark stove is now almost obsolete. bark is, however, still largely used in pine pits, and in some propagating beds; but such beds are generally superseded by hot-water or hot-air tanks. =barleria= (named after j. barrelier, a french botanist of the seventeenth century). ord. _acanthaceæ_. a genus of interesting and ornamental stove evergreen shrubs. flowers axillary or terminal; calyx four-sepaled, the two outer larger than the others. they thrive best if grown in loam and peat, with a little rotten dung added. propagated by cuttings made of the young wood, and placed in a similar compost, under a bell glass, in stove temperature, with bottom heat. =b. flava= (yellow).* _fl._ yellow, aggregate, terminal, tubular; bracts very narrow, setose. summer. _l._ lanceolate, hairy, entire. plant unarmed. _h._ ft. india, . syn. _b. mitis_. (b. m. .) =b. gibsoni= (gibson's). _fl._ pale purple, rather large, sub-terminal. winter. _l._ ovate or oblong-lanceolate. india, . a glabrous stove shrub, of branched habit. (b. m. .) =b. leichtensteiniana= (leichtenstein's).* _fl._ very curious; spikes axillary, in. to in. long, ovoid or oblong, consisting of a large number of closely packed overlapping bracts, all turned to the fore or lower part of the spike; bracts ovate-acuminate, mucronate, spine-toothed, one-ribbed, with prominent and curved veins, and in. to - / . long. _l._ opposite, in. to in. long, linear-lanceolate, entire, mucronate, tapering at the base into a very short stalk. branches slender, virgate, sub-angular. south africa, . this plant is covered over its whole surface with close, white, hoary down. (g. c. , p. .) =b. longifolia= (long-leaved). _fl._ white; spines of whorls six. summer. _l._ ensiform, very long, rough. _h._ ft. india, . this is a biennial. =b. lupulina= (hop-headed). _fl._ yellowish; spikes ovate; bracts ovate, concave, imbricated. august. _l._ lanceolate, quite entire; spines simple, spreading. _h._ ft. mauritius, . =b. mackenii= (macken's).* _fl._ purple, large, in a terminal raceme. spring. _l._ recurved, narrow-ovate, or elliptic-lanceolate, sub-acute, petioled. natal, . (b. m. .) =b. mitis= (small). synonymous with _b. flava_. =b. prionitis= (prionitis-like). _fl._ orange; spines axillary, pedate, in fours. summer. _l._ quite entire, lanceolate-ovate. _h._ ft. india, . =barley.= _see_ =hordeum vulgare=. =barnadesia= (named after michael barnadez, a spanish botanist). ord. _compositæ_. pretty greenhouse deciduous shrubs, requiring a dry atmosphere. they should be grown in peat, loam, and sand, in equal proportions. propagated either by seeds, sown in hotbeds in march, or by cuttings, made of half-ripened wood in april, and placed in sand under a bell glass. [illustration: fig. . barnadesia rosea.] =b. rosea= (rosy).* _fl.-heads_ rose-coloured, solitary, ovate-cylindrical, downy, sessile; florets bilabiate, one lip oblong-emarginate, villous, the other filiform; hairs on receptacle twisted; pappus stiff, plumose. may. _l._ alternate, ovate, acute at both ends. _h._ - / ft. south america, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =barnardia.= included under =scilla= (which _see_). =barometer.= an instrument for measuring the density of the atmosphere, and hence determining the probable changes of weather, or the height of any ascent. to the gardener the barometer is indispensable as a warning to take due precaution. =barosma= (from _barys_, heavy, and _osme_, smell; referring to the powerful scent of the leaves). name often incorrectly spelt _baryosma_. syn. _parapetalifera_. ord. _rutaceæ_. very pretty small, heath-like, greenhouse evergreen shrubs, from the cape of good hope. calyx equally five-parted; petals five, oblong; stamens ten. leaves opposite or scattered, coriaceous, flat, dotted, with their margins sometimes glandularly serrulated, sometimes almost entire or revolute. they thrive in a mixture of sand, peat, and a little turfy loam, with good drainage and firm potting. cuttings, taken from ripened wood, inserted in a pot of sand, and placed in a shady position in a cool house, with a bell glass over them, will root readily in a few weeks. =b. betulina= (birch-leaved). _fl._ white, axillary, solitary. february to september. _l._ opposite, obovate, serrulate, sessile, spreading. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. m. pl. .) =b. dioica= (diÅ�cious).* _fl._ purplish; peduncles axillary, usually in threes, shorter than the leaves. april. _l._ scattered; upper ones ternate, lanceolate, tapering to both ends, full of glandular dots, spreading. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. r. .) =b. latifolia= (broad-leaved). _fl._ white, usually solitary, lateral. july. _l._ opposite, ovate-oblong, sessile, serrulated, smoothish, without glandular dots; branches villous. _h._ ft. . =b. pulchella= (pretty).* _fl._ pale red or purple; peduncles axillary, usually solitary, exceeding the leaves. february. _l._ crowded, ovate, quite smooth, with thickened, crenate-glandular margins. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. serratifolia= (saw-edged-leaved).* _fl._ white; peduncles axillary, sub-divided. march to june. _l._ nearly opposite, lanceolate, stalked, glandularly serrulated, smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. m. , and b. z. , .) =barred.= marked in spaces with a paler colour, resembling bars. =barren flowers.= the male or staminate flowers of many plants, such as the cucumber, melon, &c., are popularly known as barren flowers, _i.e._, they produce no fruit. this condition is, in some respects, similar to "blind" strawberries or "blind" cabbages, so far as fruition is concerned, but structurally and functionally it is widely different. the barren flowers of the cucumber, melon, &c., are produced by what are known as monÅ�cious plants, _i.e._, having male and female organs in different flowers, but on the same plant. in the strawberry, &c., barren flowers are generally the result of unfavourable surroundings, or unskilful cultivation. a good example of barren flowers is seen in the ray-florets of many composite plants, which are frequently really neuter, having neither male nor female organs. =barren soils.= a term signifying such soils as are normally unprofitable. the term can only be correctly applied in very few cases; as almost any soil may be rendered capable of affording a basis for some kind of vegetable life, arboreal or other. the question of planting up the enormous quantity of what is now waste land, might well engage the most practical consideration. of course, the natural state of any land will, to a great extent, determine what would be its ultimate condition, after all that could be effected by mechanical agency has been accomplished. drainage, irrigation, enrichment, pulverisation, are all matters which can only be considered upon a particular basis; but we doubt not that the thousands of acres of land now practically almost useless, might, by the adoption of proper means, be rendered fairly remunerative. =barren-wort.= _see_ =epimedium=. =barringtonia= (named after the hon. daines barrington, f.r.s.). ord. _myrtaceæ_. a genus of stove evergreen trees and shrubs, very difficult to cultivate. flowers large, racemose. leaves opposite or whorled, generally obovate; margins toothed or entire. fruit one-seeded, fleshy. they require a compost of two parts loam, one peat, and one sand. water should be given in abundance, and a moist atmosphere at all times maintained, the temperature ranging from deg. to deg. propagated by cuttings obtained from the lateral shoots; these, taken off at a joint when the wood is ripe, planted in sand, with a hand glass over them, root readily. the cuttings should not be stripped of any of their leaves. =b. racemosa= (raceme-flowered). _fl._ red; racemes pendulous, very long. _l._ cuneate-oblong, acuminated, serrulated. _h._ ft. malabar, . (b. m. .) =b. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._ purple and white, large and handsome, disposed in an erect thyrse. _l._ shining, cuneate-oblong, obtuse, quite entire. _h._ in. to in. in england. this beautiful species seldom attains a height of more than ft. or ft. (g. c. , p. .) =barrow.= garden barrows are very numerous, both with and without wheels. the flower-pot barrow has a wheel and a flat surface, on which plants, pots, or leaves are placed, either directly, or, when small, in shallow baskets. the haum barrow is an open box or case, of wicker or other work, placed on, or suspended from, a pair of handles, with or without a wheel, and is useful for carrying litter, leaves, &c. the water barrow, instead of a box, contains a barrel, tub, or cistern, in which fluid manure, or ordinary water, is conveyed to different parts of the garden. the hand-barrow is a frame of wood, carried by two levers, which form four handles; for removing large pots or tubs of trees or shrubs it is very useful. [illustration: fig. . flower of bartonia aurea.] =bartlingia.= a synonym of =plocama= (which _see_). =bartonia= (in honour of benjamin s. barton, m.d., formerly professor of botany at philadelphia). ord. _loasaceæ_. hardy annuals or biennials, downy, with stiff and bearded hairs. this genus is now placed under _mentzelia_ in most standard botanical works. flowers white or yellow, large, terminal, expanding in the evening, when they are very fragrant, and becoming reddish as they fade. leaves alternate, interruptedly pinnatifid. the species are very showy, and well worth growing. any ordinary garden soil suits them. seeds should be raised in a gentle heat in spring; and, when the seedlings are sufficiently large, they should be potted singly into small, well-drained pots. in winter, they should be placed on a dry shelf in a greenhouse or frame. _b. aurea_ is one of the brightest of hardy annuals, and may be sown either in a frame, or in the open border in april. =b. albescens= (whitish).* _fl._, petals ten, pale yellow, disposed in a leafy panicle. july. _l._ sinuately toothed. stem with a white shining epidermis. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . annual or biennial. (s. b. f. g. ii., .) =b. aurea= (golden).* _fl._ two or three together, terminal, bright golden yellow, as large as a half-crown; petals five. june. _h._ ft. california, . annual. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. nuda= (naked) and =b. ornata= (adorned) are two very pretty white-flowered biennial species. _h._ ft. missouri, . =baryosma.= _see_ =barosma=. =basal=, or =basilar=. situated at the base of anything; as the embryo, when situated at the bottom of the seed. =basella= (its malabar name). malabar nightshade. ord. _basellaceæ_. annual or biennial stove trailers, with white or pinkish flowers, of no great horticultural value. in india, and elsewhere throughout the tropics, some of the species are cultivated as pot herbs, and are used as a substitute for spinach. =b. alba= (white).* _fl._ white. august. _l._ heart-shaped, pointed. _h._ in. india, . this plant, either when allowed to fall in festoons from the roof of a warm house, or treated as a basket plant, forms an elegant object when in flower. =basellaceÃ�.= a series of usually herbaceous climbers, and considered a tribe of _chenopodiaceæ_. =basil, sweet= (_ocymum basilicum_). this is a tender annual from india, and must be raised in gentle heat. the foliage is somewhat largely used for flavouring purposes. seeds should be sown in april, the seedlings pricked out into boxes to strengthen, and finally planted out about in. asunder, in beds of light rich soil, in june, being well watered until fully established. as soon as they bloom, they should be cut down to within a few inches of the ground, and the portions cut off should be tied up in small bunches and dried in the shade for winter use. some of the plants can be lifted in september, potted up, and placed in a warm greenhouse for the winter, when the fresh green leaves will be found very useful. bush basil (_ocymum minimum_) is a dwarfer plant, but may be treated in the same way. wild basil is botanically known as _calamintha clinopodium_. =basil-thyme.= _see_ =calamintha acinos=. =basi-nerved.= when the nerves of a leaf spring from the base. =basing-up.= the raising of a small bank of earth entirely round a plant, so as to retain water immediately about the root. the term is sometimes used to signify =earthing= or =moulding=, which _see_. =baskets.= few objects contribute more to the adornment of a window, or the decoration of the diningroom, drawing-room, or glass-house, than hanging baskets, tastefully filled with handsome foliaged and flowering plants. baskets are made in different forms and of various materials, such as wire, terra-cotta, wood, and cork. the wire baskets have a very light and elegant appearance, and are generally used. in filling baskets, the inside should be lined with a thick layer of moss, or _selaginella kraussiana_, next to which a layer of coarse sacking must be placed, to prevent the soil from working through. terra-cotta baskets are very pretty, and are extensively employed in domestic rooms, but they should always have one or more holes at the bottom, to facilitate drainage. rustic baskets, of cork or wood, are also very suitable for floral arrangements; those composed of teak-wood are very generally used for orchids. the compost should be prepared according to the requirements of the plant or plants intended to be grown, which can be easily ascertained on reference to such plants in this work. the soil should not be allowed to get dry; in the event of this happening, however, a thorough soaking by immersion must be given. as a rule, attention should be given in the matter of watering every other day, and light syringing every morning and evening during the spring and summer months will be most beneficial. the baskets should be examined every week, all dead or decaying leaves being removed, and any insects, which are so likely to get a foothold, destroyed. in arranging the subjects, the centre plant should be the tallest, the next outer ones shorter, and the marginal ones of a trailing or drooping habit, so that the whole may present a symmetrical, and at the same time a natural, appearance. wickerwork baskets are used for carrying or transferring plants, and are generally made in. wide by in. deep; they are extremely useful, and should be in every garden. split wood and withes are largely employed in making baskets. the planter's basket, described by loudon as a flat, rectangular utensil of wickerwork or boards, partitioned into three or more parts, for the purpose of carrying with the gardener when about to plant or remove plants, is now, unfortunately, almost obsolete. one division is for the plants, another for those taken up, and a third for the tools to be made use of, and for any decayed parts of plants, stones, weeds, or other refuse which may be collected. by using this basket, order, accuracy, and neatness are secured. the sussex "truck" baskets, made of willow-wood, are very useful, being both light and durable. _see also_ =measures=. =bassia= (named after ferdinando bassi, curator of the botanic garden at bologna). ord. _sapotaceæ_. handsome lofty-growing lactescent stove trees, with axillary, solitary, or aggregate flowers, and quite entire, smooth, coriaceous leaves. they require stove heat, and a compost of peat and loam. cuttings, taken from ripened wood, strike readily in sand, under a hand glass, in a strong moist heat. =b. butyracea= (buttery). the indian butter tree. _fl._, pedicels aggregate, and are, as well as the calyces, woolly. _l._ obovate, in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad, tomentose beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . (b. f. f. .) =b. latifolia= (broad-leaved). the mahwah tree of bengal. _fl._, corolla thick and fleshy; pedicels drooping, terminal. _l._ oblong or elliptic, smooth above, whitish beneath, in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad. _h._ ft. india, . (b. f. s. .) =b. longifolia= (long-leaved). _fl._, pedicels axillary, drooping, crowded round the ends of the branchlets. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, approximate at the tops of the branches, in. long, deciduous. _h._ ft. malabar, . (b. f. s. .) =bass= or =bast mats=. these are prepared, chiefly in russia, from the inner bark of various limes (_tilia_), and are very largely used in this country by nurserymen for packing purposes. they are also extensively employed as coverings, being excellent preventatives of the effects of frost. they are beneficial as a covering for beds of early vegetables, to prevent radiation during the night. for tying purposes they are now greatly superseded by raffia grass. archangel mats are larger, and of better quality than the st. petersburgh. dunnage mats are heavy, and generally used for covering, as they are much cheaper. =bastard acacia.= _see_ =robinia pseudo-acacia=. =bastard balm.= _see_ =melittis=. =bastard box.= _see_ =polygala chamæbuxus=. =bastard cabbage-tree.= _see_ =geoffroya=. =bastard cherry.= _see_ =cerasus pseudo-cerasus=. =bastard cinnamon.= _see_ =cinnamomum cassia=. =bastard cork tree.= _see_ =quercus pseudo-suber=. =bastard indigo.= _see_ =amorpha=. =bastard lupine.= _see_ =trifolium lupinaster=. =bastard quince.= _see_ =pyrus chamæmespilus=. =bastard vervain.= _see_ =stachytarpheta=. =bastard vetch.= _see_ =phaca=. =bastard wind-flower.= _see_ =gentiana pseudo-pneumonanthe=. =bastard wood-sage.= _see_ =teucrium pseudo-scorodonia=. =bast mats.= _see_ =bass mats=. =batatas= (its aboriginal name). ord. _convolvulaceæ_. this genus is now referred to _ipomæa_. strong, free-growing, greenhouse or stove deciduous twiners. calyx of five sepals; corolla campanulate; stamens inclosed. they are of easy culture, only requiring plenty of room to spread, and are well adapted for trellis work, or to run up pillars. they are all tuberous rooted, and therefore require to be kept dry when in a dormant state. a rich, open, loamy soil is most suitable. young cuttings strike readily under a hand glass, in heat. =b. bignonioides= (bignonia-like).* _fl._, corolla dark purple, funnel-shaped, with a curled limb; peduncles many-flowered, nutant, shorter than the petioles. july. _l._ three-lobed; hind lobes rounded, imbricate. cayenne, . (b. m. .) =b. cavanillesii= (cavanilles').* _fl._ pale whitish-red; lobes of corolla obtuse, crenulated; peduncles one to three-flowered. august. _l._ quinate; leaflets ovate, entire, unequal. native country unknown, . [illustration: fig. . batatas edulis, showing tuber.] =b. edulis= (edible).* sweet potato. _fl._, corolla in. long, white outside and purple inside; peduncles equal in length to the petioles, or exceeding them, three to four-flowered. _l._ variable, usually angular, also lobed. stem creeping, rarely climbing. east indies, . see fig. . =b. glaucifolia= (milky-green-leaved). _fl._, corolla small, purplish, with an inflated tube, and ovate, acute segments; peduncles two-flowered, length of leaves. may. _l._ sagittate, truncate behind, on long petioles. mexico, . =b. heterophylla= (various-leaved). _fl._ blue; peduncles solitary, axillary, bearing each three sessile flowers. july. _l._ quinately palmate; lobes or leaflets ovate-spathulate, acute. plant very villous. cuba, . =b. paniculata= (panicled).* _fl._ large, purple; peduncles much exceeding the petioles, many-flowered, dichotomously and corymbosely panicled. june _l._ palmate, five to seven-cleft; lobes ovate-lanceolate or elliptic, bluntish, rarely sub-acuminated. india, . (g. c. n. s., x., .) =b. senegalensis= (senegalese). _fl._ white or purplish, large; peduncles three-flowered. june. _l._ quinately palmate; lobes ovate, obtuse, middle one the largest. stem white, tubercular. guinea, . =b. venosa= (veiny). _fl._ purple; peduncles umbellate, with an ovate-cordate, solitary leaf at the base of each pedicel. july. _l._ digitately quinate; leaflets petiolate, acuminated, quite entire. france, . =batemannia= (named after mr. j. bateman, a collector and cultivator of orchids, and author of a "monograph of odontoglossum," and other works on orchidaceous plants). ord. _orchidaceæ_. a small and easily-grown genus of dwarf, compact-growing epiphytes, closely allied to _maxillaria_, but differing from that genus in having the anther-bed with a membranous border. they may be grown in pots, in a compost of peat and moss, or on blocks of wood with moss. they require an intermediate house and plenty of water in the growing season. propagated by divisions and offsets. they have generally a free-flowering habit; but some of the species are not so ornamental as many other orchids. =b. armillata= (braceleted). _fl._ green, white. . (r. x. o. .) =b. burtii= (burt's). _fl._ red-brown, yellow base, in. across; lip white, tipped chocolate. autumn. _l._ elliptic-oblong, or ligulate, sub-distichous. plant bulbless. costa rica, . (b. m. .) =b. colleyi= (colley's). _fl._ on a pendulous raceme, rising from the base of the pseudo-bulbs; sepals and petals brownish-purple within, green without; lip white. autumn. _h._ in. demerara, . (b. r. .) =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._, flower-spike coming up with the young growth, bearing three or four flowers, of curious structure; sepals and petals olive-green, striped with reddish-brown; lip white, with reddish-purple streaks, orange or yellow towards the base. pseudo-bulbs ovate, in. or in. long, and bearing two large, broad, leathery leaves. new grenada, . (b. m. .) =b. wallisii= (wallis').* _fl._, sepals light greenish-yellow outside, olive-green to chestnut-brown inside, with some yellow at the base; petals with scarlet stripes at the very base, but otherwise coloured like the sepals; lip blade greenish, with a brownish hue at the anterior part; peduncles slender, corymbose. _h._ ft. columbia, . =batschia.= _see_ =lithospermum=. =bauera= (named after francis and ferdinand bauer, german botanical draughtsmen). ord. _saxifragaceæ_. small shrubs, natives of australia, new zealand, &c. flowers axillary, solitary, pedunculate. leaves six in a whorl, approximating by threes, and therefore, as it were, opposite and ternate, exstipulate. easily cultivated in a compost of sandy loam and peat. propagated by cuttings, placed in sandy soil, under a glass. these very pretty little greenhouse evergreens flower nearly the whole year through. =b. humilis= (low). _fl._, corolla red, one-half smaller than _b. rubioides_, and the plant is altogether much smaller. july to december. _l._ oblong, crenated. _h._ ft. new south wales, . (l. b. c. .) =b. rubiæfolia= (madder-leaved). synonymous with _b. rubioides_. =b. rubioides= (madder-like).* _fl._ pale red, or pink. _l._ lanceolate, crenated. _h._ ft. to ft. new south wales, . syn. _b. rubiæfolia_. (a. b. r. .) =bauhinia= (in honour of john and caspar bauhin, two famous botanists of the sixteenth century). mountain ebony. ord. _leguminosæ_. very showy stove evergreen shrubs. flowers racemose; petals five, spreading, oblong, rather unequal, upper one usually distant from the rest. leaves two-lobed, constantly composed of two jointed leaflets at the top of the petiole, sometimes nearly free, but usually joined together, more or less, and with an awn in the recess. they succeed well in a mixture of sand, loam, and peat, requiring good drainage and moderately firm potting. propagated by cuttings, which should be taken when the wood is neither very ripe nor very young; the leaves must be dressed off, and the cuttings planted in sand, under a glass, in moist heat. although glorious objects in the tropics, few of the species flower under our comparatively sunless skies; those which hitherto have succeeded well in britain are marked with an asterisk. =b. acuminata= (taper-pointed-leaved). _fl._ pure white; petals broadly ovate, hardly stipitate. june. _l._ rather cordate at the base, smoothish; leaflets connected beyond the middle, ovate, acuminated, parallel, four-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. malabar, . =b. aurita= (eared). _fl._ white; petals ovate, on short stipes. august. _l._ glabrous, cordate at the base; leaflets connected the fourth part of their length, oblong-lanceolate, nearly parallel, six to eight-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . =b. corymbosa= (corymbose).* _fl._ in loose racemes; petals pinkish, regular, crenulated at the edge. summer. _l._, leaflets semi-oval, obtuse, parallel, connected nearly to the middle, three-nerved, cordate at the base, the nerves on the under surface, as well as the petioles, branches, and calyces, clothed with rufous villi. shrubby climber. india, . (g. c. , xvi., p. .) =b. inermis= (unarmed). _fl._ white; petals linear; racemes terminal, leafless, simple. _l._ ovate at the base, ferruginous beneath; leaflets oblong, acute, four-nerved, parallel, connected a little beyond the middle. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . =b. multinerva= (many-nerved). _fl._ snow-white; petals linear. legume in. to in. long. _l._ elliptic, rounded at the base, membranous, shining above, rather pilose beneath; nerves ferruginous; leaflets semi-ovate, obtuse, approximate, five-nerved; free. _h._ ft. caracas, . =b. natalensis= (natal).* _fl._ white, - / in. across, opposite the leaves. september. _l._ small, alternate, of two obliquely-oblong rounded leaflets. natal, . (b. m. .) =b. petiolata= (long-petioled). _fl._ white, in. long, in terminal clusters. autumn. _l._ stalked, ovate-acuminate, five-nerved, glabrous. columbia, . syn. _casparia speciosa_. (b. m. .) =b. pubescens= (downy). _fl._ white, large, much crowded; petals obovate; peduncles three to four-flowered. _l._ rather cordate at the base, pubescent beneath and on the petioles; leaflets connected beyond the middle, oval, obtuse, four-nerved, nearly parallel. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . =b. purpurea= (purple). _fl._, petals red, one of them streaked with white on the claw, lanceolate, acute. legume linear, ft. long. _l._ cordate at the base, coriaceous, ultimately glabrous; leaflets connected much above the middle, broadly ovate, obtuse, four-nerved; free. _h._ ft. india, . =b. racemosa= (racemose). _fl._ white; petals obovate, obtuse; raceme somewhat corymbose. _l._ cordate at the base, clothed with silky villi beneath, as well as on the peduncles, petioles, branches, calyces, and petals; leaflets broadly ovate, obtuse, connected to the middle, five-nerved. india, . shrubby climber. (b. f. s. .) =b. tomentosa= (tomentose). _fl._, petals pale yellow, with a red spot at the claw, obovate, obtuse; peduncles one to three-flowered. _l._ ovate or roundish at the base; under surface villous, as well as the petioles, branches, stipules, peduncles, bracts, and calyces; leaflets connected beyond the middle, oval, obtuse, three to four-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. ceylon, . =b. variegata= (variegated).* _fl._ red, marked with white, and yellow at the base, in loose terminal racemes; petals ovate, nearly sessile. june. _l._ cordate at the base, glabrous; leaflets broadly-ovate, obtuse, five-nerved, connected beyond the middle; free. _h._ ft. malabar, . =b. v. chinensis= (chinese). _fl._, petals lilac, with one purple spot at the base of each, acute. _l._ rounded at the base. china. =bawd-money.= _see_ =meum=. =bay-tree.= _see_ =laurus nobilis=. =beak.= anything resembling the beak of a bird, as in _aconitum_; the point which ends the helmet or upper sepal; hard, sharp points. =beam tree.= _see_ =pyrus aria=. =bean beetle= (_bruchus granarius_). this insect, by depositing its eggs in the seeds of beans and peas, causes a great amount of injury. it is about an eighth of an inch long, black, with brown hairs and white spots; tip of the tail prolonged, downy; front pair of legs reddish. the most effectual means of prevention is to destroy, when sowing, all seeds infested by it; and this may be detected by the skin of the seed being unusually transparent above the tunnel for exit. imported seeds of broad beans are often much infested. "dipping the beans or peas in boiling water for one minute is stated to kill the grub inside; but, as dipping for four minutes generally destroys the germinating power, the experiment is much too hazardous for general use", (ormerod). =bean caper.= _see_ =zygophyllum=. =bean fly.= _see_ =aphides= and =black fly=. =beans.= there are three sections of these in cultivation for garden purposes, viz.: the dwarf or french bean; the climbing, or scarlet runner; and the ordinary broad bean. _see also_ =faba= and =phaseolus=. [illustration: fig. . broad bean plant in flower (faba vulgaris).] _soil._ all beans like a somewhat loamy soil, which, to secure good crops, must be deeply worked and heavily manured. the kidney beans, dwarf and tall, however, do not care for so heavy a soil as the broad and long-podded kinds; and this fact should be borne in mind when selecting their respective situations. the term kidney is generally applied to both the dwarf or french and the climbing or scarlet runner. [illustration: fig. . pods of broad bean.] [illustration: fig. . broad bean seed.] broad and long-podded (_faba vulgaris_). _cultivation_: as early as possible in the autumn, deeply trench a piece of ground, and work in a heavy dressing of manure, leaving the surface of the soil in ridges, to become well aërated by winter frosts. where desired, a piece of ground on a warm, protected border, can also be deeply dug in november, and a few rows of mazagans sown to stand the winter. when up, draw a ridge of soil on either side the rows, and in frosty weather strew a few handfuls of bracken, or other light, dry litter, over them. not much is, however, gained by this winter sowing. early in january, level the ridges with a fork, working the whole of the surface soil over, and towards the end of the month, make the first sowing, choosing mazagan and other early varieties. mark out two rows, in. asunder, leave a space of in., then another two rows, and so on throughout the piece sown. if preferred, they may be sown in single rows at intervals of - / ft. the drills should be about in. deep, and the seed from in. to in. apart in the rows. where the double-row system is adopted, arrange the seed for the plants to come alternately. in march, get in the main sowing of the broad and later long-podded kinds, in the manner already described; another sowing for late use may be made in april. when the plants are about in. high, earth up as recommended for those sown in the autumn. as soon as a good crop is set, pinch out the tops of the plants, to assist the maturation of the beans, and prevent the attacks of the fly. figs. , , and are excellent representations of the flowering plant, pods, and seed of the broad bean. _sorts._ for early use: early mazagan, long-pod, marshall's early prolific, and seville long-pod. for late use: carter's mammoth long-pod, and broad windsor (white variety). these are all distinct and good varieties. [illustration: fig. . fruiting plant of dwarf or french bean (phaseolus vulgaris).] dwarf or french kidney beans (_phaseolus vulgaris_). _cultivation_: this class (see fig. ) also requires a rich and deeply trenched rather light soil. a very important point is to get the ground into a good condition, by frequently forking it over; and, as the seeds are not sown till the beginning of may, there is plenty of time for the work. the finer the soil is, and the more it is aërated, the better will it suit the crop. from the beginning of may till the end of june, at intervals, draw out drills about ft. apart, and in. deep, and in these place the beans tolerably thick, as generally they are not all certain to grow. as soon as up, carefully thin them, and slightly earth up to prevent the wind blowing them about. they should not, however, be earthed higher than the seed leaves, or they will probably rot off in wet weather. keep free from weeds, and maintain a sharp look out for slugs. in dry weather, water occasionally, giving good drenchings, and not mere sprinklings, which do more harm than good. a good mulching of half-rotted manure is very beneficial, as it prevents evaporation to a great extent, besides affording some amount of nourishment to the plants. great care must be taken to pick off the beans as soon as large enough for use, or they will exhaust the plants. where seeds are needed, a number of plants should be left for the purpose, and these should be some of the best, to prevent deterioration, or loss of the true variety. _forcing._ french beans require more heat than can be obtained in either a frame or an ordinary greenhouse; and, although easy enough to grow in a structure suited to their requirements, yet, if such does not exist, they are almost sure to fail. a good heat, from deg. to deg., with abundance of moisture, is necessary for successful results. plenty of light is also most essential. a position such as that of a cucumber house is generally a suitable one; but the plants must not be placed under the cucumbers. successional sowings in pots or boxes must be made, from the end of august till march, to keep up a supply. for soil, use good maiden loam, with a little well-rotted manure added. use in. pots, sowing five or six beans in each. the first sowing should be placed in a frame and kept well watered, bringing into heat in october; but the subsequent sowings should be placed directly in the house. keep the soil moist, and the plants free from aphides and other insect pests, and give air at every favourable opportunity. the plants should be as near the light as possible, and kept from falling about by tying or placing small pieces of birch wood round them. in dull weather, it will be found that the blooms will not set so freely as when the sun shines brightly; therefore, every care should be taken to secure both heat and ventilation when sunshine prevails. when the pots get full of roots, and the plants are bearing fruit freely, a little liquid manure is of great assistance; at no time must the plants get dry enough to flag. allow plenty of room for the full development of foliage, and maintain a minimum temperature of deg., with plenty of moisture. _sorts._ these are very numerous, among the best being black negro, canadian wonder, canterbury, fulmer's forcing, golden dun, newington wonder, osborn's early forcing, sion house, and sir joseph paxton. runners or climbing kidney beans (_phaseolus multiflorus_). _cultivation_: being tall growers, these need a greater space than the dwarf french varieties, and they also require support. rich soil is indispensable for them, and liberal supplies of water on light soils and in dry weather. a good overhead syringing from time to time is also advantageous. trench and heavily manure a piece of ground in autumn, leaving it in ridges for the winter. in march, level the ridges down, and well work the ground, to render it friable and in good condition. the plants being extremely tender, it is not safe to sow before the end of april or the first week in may. it is preferable to sow in rows, which should be from ft. to ft. apart, and crop the ground between with other vegetables. earth up and stake them as soon as ready, to prevent injury from rough wind. a good plan, which may be adopted to obtain early produce, is to raise the seeds in boxes in a cold frame, getting them ready for planting out in the middle of may. plant at the same distances, and treat afterwards as recommended for those sown out of doors. if preferred, they can be grown on the ground without stakes. under this treatment, they must have their tops pinched off when about in. high, continuing this pinching from time to time as necessary. if this plan is adopted, the rows need only be ft. apart, the ground not being otherwise cropped. in dry seasons and on light soils, there is an advantage attached to this method, namely, that those on sticks are liable to injury from drought, while the foliage of those pinched back keeps the soil moist underneath. [illustration: fig. . runner or climbing kidney bean (phaseolus multiflorus).] runner beans may also be planted to cover arches or fences, and in various places of a like description. see fig. . _sorts._ common scarlet runner, champion, painted lady, and giant white. the first two are those generally grown. =bean-tree.= _see_ =ceratonia siliqua=. =bearberry=, and =bear's grape=. _see_ =arctostaphylos uva-ursi=. =beard-tongue.= _see_ =pentstemon=. =bears breech.= _see_ =acanthus=. =bear's foot.= _see_ =helleborus fÅ�tidus=. =beatonia.= _see_ =tigridia=. =beaucarnea= (a commemorative name). ord. _liliaceæ_. a small genus of curious greenhouse plants, natives of mexico. leaves narrow, gracefully depending. stems slender, and woody, with a peculiar swollen, somewhat napiform base. mr. b. s. williams recommends that these plants be potted in rich fibrous loam and sand, with ample drainage, and, during the growing season, liberally supplied with water. propagated by cuttings, when obtainable; but chiefly by seeds, which have to be imported from their native country. beaucarneas are principally grown for the beauty of their foliage, and are grotesque, graceful, and extremely curious in habit and form. =b. glauca= (grey).* _l._ pendent, glaucous, ft. to ft. long. stem slender, the swollen base becoming woody with age. =b. g. latifolia= (broad-leaved) differs from the type only in its stouter and more robust stem and broader leaves. =b. longifolia= (long-leaved).* _l._ ft. to ft. long, narrow, pendent, dark green, forming a beautiful vase-like centre. _h._ ft. mexico, . very distinct. (g. c. , vii., .) =b. recurvata= (recurved-leaved).* _l._ very long, linear, gracefully pendulous, bright green. mexico, about . this is an excellent subject for open-air culture during the summer, as well as for the conservatory. syn. _pincenictitia tuberculata_. (g. c. , .) =b. r. rubra= (red). _l._ red at base. =b. stricta= (upright). _l._ ft. or more long, less than in. broad, very glaucous. stem stout. mexico, . =beaufortia= (commemorative of mary, duchess of beaufort, a botanical patroness). including _schizopleura_. ord. _myrtaceæ_. elegant free-flowering greenhouse australian shrubs. flowers scarlet; calyx with a turbinate tube; stamens in bundles opposite the petals. leaves sessile, opposite or scattered. beaufortias require a compost of peat, leaf soil, and loam, lightened, if necessary, by the addition of sand. cuttings of half-ripened shoots root freely in sandy soil, under a glass, with very little heat. =b. decussata= (decussate). _fl._ scarlet; bundles of stamens on very long claws; filaments radiating. may. _l._ opposite, decussate, ovate, or oval, many-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . (b. m. .) =b. purpurea= (purple).* _fl._ purplish-red, in dense globular heads. _l._ three to five-nerved, erect or spreading, ovate-lanceolate to lanceolate-linear. new holland. =b. sparsa= (few-leaved). _fl._ bright scarlet. _l._ many-nerved, scattered, ovate-elliptical, obtuse. west australia. syn. _b. splendens_. (p. f. g. xiii., .) =b. splendens= (splendid). synonymous with _b. sparsa_. =beaumontia= (in honour of mrs. beaumont, formerly of bretton hall, yorkshire). ord. _apocynaceæ_. a very ornamental stove twiner, remarkable for its handsome flowers. it succeeds best when planted out in the borders of a temperate house, in rich lumpy loam and peat. propagated by cuttings, placed in sand, with bottom heat. =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._, corolla large, white, greenish outside near the base, and dark throat, with a short tube, and a large campanulate five-lobed limb; corymbs axillary and terminal, many-flowered. june. _l._ opposite, broad, oblong-ovate, with a little point, tapering towards the base, smooth and shining above, but rather downy beneath; young leaves and branches rusty. chittagong and sylhet, . (b. m. .) =bed.= a term usually applied to pieces of ground laid out in gardens for sowing small seeds, or for the isolation and better protection of small collections of plants in the reserve ground. the oblong is the best shape for this purpose, about ft. or ft. wide, somewhat raised, and having a narrow path on each side, so that the workman may attend to the plants or seeds without having to tread on the bed. any one part of a flower-garden design, cut out in grass, or otherwise formed, is also generally termed a bed. when required to be planted for effect, as in this case, the bed should be proportionate in size to the plants that are to be put in it, always planting the highest in the centre and gradually sloping, with other sizes, to the edges, which should be the lowest. circular beds are best with one centre plant; and oblong or other shapes should have the height of the centre plants carried nearly the whole length, not, however, placing them in too formal a manner. =bedding-in.= a method of seed-sowing, now almost obsolete, and chiefly employed in nurseries. "in this method, the ground being dug and formed by alleys into beds, ft. or ft. wide, each alley being a spade's width or more between bed and bed, and the earth being drawn off the top of the bed with a rake or spade, / in. or in. deep into the alleys, the seed is then sown all over the surface of the bed; which being done, the earth in the alleys is immediately cast over the bed, again covering the seeds the same depth, and the surface is raked smooth" (johnson). in the case of small seeds, a very light covering is needed, and that only of very fine soil. =bedding-out.= the temporary placing out of doors of greenhouse and other tender plants during the summer months. it is considered by some to be the showiest, most expensive, and most unnatural of any style. the geometrical arrangement of gaudy colours is not at all times satisfactory, and under the most favourable conditions the design is rarely retained more than two or three months, say, from july to september. the method is, however, so extensively adopted as to demand due notice in this work. bedding usually commences in may. an important consideration is the proper preparation of the soil for the reception of the plants. it will be found to materially assist the growth if the soil is well dug over a fortnight before the plants are put in. by this means, it will acquire a certain amount of solidity, a point of great importance with fibrous-rooted plants that are subject to injury from the fine roots not taking a firm hold of the soil. having decided upon the arrangement of the plants, proceed to work with the planting. with round, oval, or, indeed, almost any shaped bed, begin in the centre and work towards the edge; in borders, commence at the back and finish with the front row. plant with a trowel, disturbing the balls as little as possible, and when in the holes press the soil moderately firm. after the bed is finished, give a good soaking of water to settle the soil at the roots. manure for flower-beds should always be perfectly rotten, such as that from a spent hotbed. when the plants are thoroughly established, water must only be given if they show signs of distress; and then a good soaking should be applied. a careful hoeing of the surface after planting will be most beneficial, leaving it smooth and tidy. a dutch hoe will be the best to use. injudicious use of manure and water will only cause a foliaceous growth. the proper treatment of the various bedding plants will be found under their respective headings. for spring decoration, the beds may be filled with dutch bulbs, and spring-flowering annuals and perennials _ad infinitum_; or, after the plants are removed in autumn, the beds may be filled with evergreens plunged in pots, such as aucuba, arbor vitæ, euonymus, and various little conifers, which have a bright appearance through the winter, and can be removed at any time. with the relative value, or advisability of adoption, of either or any system of gardening, it scarcely comes within the province of this work to deal. no hard-and-fast rules can be laid down as regards "style," and each individual may follow his own taste and inclination. [illustration: fig. . design for carpet bedding.] [illustration: fig. . design for carpet bedding.] _carpet bedding._ this mode of gardening, although not so generally employed as it was some few years ago, has many admirers, and small plots, geometrically arranged in multi-coloured beds on lawns, are frequently seen. in our large public parks, the system is largely adopted, and evidently proves very gratifying to the multitudes who visit these places; but probably no system is more unnatural or expensive, as such a large number of plants are necessary in order to produce a desirable effect. the illustrations (figs. and ) represent two designs for carpet beds. the numbers placed in the various compartments indicate the way the different colours should be arranged, repeats being marked by the same cypher. a very varied and large selection of plants can be used for carpet bedding, some of which are quite hardy, such as _herniaria glabra_ and _veronica repens_, two of the best dwarf green plants; _sempervivum californicum_, _sedum lydium_, _s. glaucum_, _antennaria tomentosa_, &c. these may be planted early in the season, with golden feather, and are especially valuable, as they are generally employed to a great extent. other plants, not quite so hardy, are _mentha pulegium gibraltarica_ and _echeveria secunda glauca_, both of which are extensively used; while the tenderest subjects are alternantheras of various kinds, _coleus verschaffeltii_ and _mesembryanthemum cordifolium variegatum_. these latter should not be planted till the first or second week in june. as the plants are usually small, and require to be planted thickly, the work is best accomplished with the fingers, pressing the soil moderately firm. first of all, work out the design, and plant the leading lines; afterwards fill in the "panels." [illustration: fig. . design for bedding.] _sub-tropical bedding._ this term is applied to the arrangement of tropical plants in beds or groups outside for the summer months, and if discriminately adopted a very attractive and unique display may be made, depending greatly upon position, and mainly upon the material at command. if a sheltered and partially shady situation is enjoyed, a grand effect may be produced by the grouping of tree and other large ferns with palms, cannas, aralias, dracænas, &c., avoiding, of course, formal arrangement, and yet, when finished, a symmetrical appearance should be produced. in more open positions, palms, castor oil plants, cannas, _humea elegans_, aralias, phormiums, wigandias, nicotianas, &c., may be employed, the result being, if properly arranged, most gratifying. sub-tropical bedding should not be done till the middle or end of june, and the beds should be well dug and freely manured for those that are to be planted out. [illustration: fig . design for bedding.] fig. represents a border or long piece of ground, which may be either marked out permanently with box edging, dwarf-growing silver or golden leaved plants, tiles, stones, or pebbles, and filled in with silver sand or bright-coloured stones or gravel; or the lines may be widened out into walks. the whole of the small circles not numbered are intended for specimen foliage and other plants, such as fuchsias, yuccas, aloes, cannas, solanums, variegated or plain reeds, grasses, maize (_zea_), &c. no. , tall plants of _echeveria metallica_, edged with _e. glauca_; , , yellow or orange calceolaria; , , mrs. leavers pelargonium; , , triomphe de stella ditto; , , purple or blue verbena; , , white ditto. the narrow border round the side may then be filled in with golden-feather pyrethrum, blue lobelia, or _alternanthera amabilis_. this same plan may also be treated in quite a different manner, according to the taste of those adopting it, or the stock of plants at command. [illustration: fig. . design for bedding or carpet bedding.] fig. illustrates a design admirably adapted for a rosery or small flower garden. its only fault is the number of sharp angles at the corners of some of the beds; but this can be counteracted by the predominance of curved lines. it is easily formed, and the effect is good if furnished in the following manner: the circle in the centre, , _centaurea ragusina compacta_, edged with a double line of _coleus verschaffeltii_; the four figures , , , , scarlet pelargoniums, such as vesuvius, bonfire, triomphe de stella, or others; , , mrs. pollock, golden-zoned pelargoniums, edged with _alternanthera amÅ�na_; , , lady cullum, ditto, ditto, edged with ditto; , , _lobelia speciosa_, imperial dwarf ageratum, or purple king verbena; , , white verbena or white ivy-leaved pelargonium. [illustration: fig. . arrangement of nursery for rose trees and shrubs.] [illustration: fig. . arrangement of nursery for rose trees and shrubs.] the group of beds illustrated in fig. is effective on grass or gravel. if on the latter, the lines should be defined with box, golden thyme, cerastium, or santolinas. the design is pretty on level, but is still more effective on sloping ground; in the latter case, it should rise from the straight walk (dotted line). thus each bed may be seen to the best advantage, and the group may be extended to any length. the circular beds should be planted with two distinct colours, such as good pink and scarlet pelargoniums of similar habits of growth, placing the colours in alternate beds. the beds, _a_, _a_, _a_, flower of spring, or another silver-leaved pelargonium; _b_, _b_, _b_, purple king verbena, or imperial dwarf ageratum; _c_, _c_, white perfection verbena, and silver-leaved or white-flowered ivy-leaved pelargonium; _d_, _d_, _alternanthera magnifica_; _e_, _e_, blue lobelia. the long border, _alternanthera paronychioides_, edged with _antennaria tomentosa_; or _iresine lindenii_, edged with pyrethrum, golden fleece or crystal palace gem pelargonium. the two sides may also be planted alike. the colours are reversed above to produce a greater variety and a more striking effect. this design is also well adapted for carpet bedding. [illustration: bed a. bed b. bed c. bed d. bed e. bed f. bed g. bed h. fig. . bedding-out designs.] _nursery bed._ this is merely a reserve ground or nursery for a large stock of plants of various sorts, such as roses, &c. one of the first requirements is an easy access to the individual plants, and with the least possible waste of space. this may be obtained by arranging the beds in regular geometric figures, as shown in figs. and , and, by exercising a little care and taste, the whole can be so contrived as to present an ornamental appearance. we are indebted to messrs. cannell and sons for the diagrams of bedding-out designs shown at fig. , which may be made very effective: bed a. this bed may be planted with the following: summer-flowering: , gain's yellow calceolaria or ageratum lady jane; , geranium vesuvius or another scarlet; and , viola blue-bell or purple king verbena; , edged with _gnaphalium lanatum_, or _antennaria tomentosa_, white foliaged plants. summer foliage: , _coleus verschaffeltii_; , _centaurea ragusina compacta_; and , mrs. pollock geranium; , band of any of the echeverias, or _kleinia repens_. bed b. plants mentioned for a will do for this. bed c. this is really intended for a carpet bed. , _alternanthera amabilis_, with a narrow line of _amÅ�na_ for the edge; , _mentha_, or _herniaria glabra_; , band of _mesembryanthemum cordifolium variegatum_. flowering: , any kind of scarlet geranium; , golden-leaved ditto; , blue lobelia (edge). spring: , white arabis; , _myosotis dissitiflora_; , golden feather. bed d. summer: , pink geranium; , _iresine lindenii_; , golden feather. carpet: , _alternanthera versicolor grandis_; , _mesembryanthemum cordifolium variegatum_; , _alternanthera magnifica_, edged with _sempervivum montanum_. bed e. , scarlet geranium; , pink ditto; , _lobelia speciosa_; or, , _alternanthera amÅ�na_; , _mesembryanthemum cordifolium variegatum_; , _echeveria secunda glauca_. bed f. , _dracæna_, _chamæpeuce_, or any other graceful foliage plant for the centre; and , _alternanthera amabilis_, the divided lines, , being filled with mentha or echeverias; and , _alternanthera amÅ�na_; and the outer edge, , with _sempervivum californicum_. this bed would look well if planted with any of the above-mentioned spring flowers. spring: bed might be raised to a mound, and lined out with hardy sedums, or sempervivums, placing a larger growing one in the centre; and , , , and divisions may be filled with any spring-flowering dwarf-growing plants. bed g. , small plant of yucca; , _coleus verschaffeltii_; , _alyssum variegatum_; , _lobelia pumila magnifica_. bed h. , golden feather; mesembryanthemum; , mentha; , _alternanthera amabilis_; or , _coleus verschaffeltii_; , _centaurea ragusina_; , calceolaria golden gem; , ageratum lady jane. =bedding plants.= this term applies to many half-hardy subjects which are planted out in beds for summer display, such as ageratums, calceolarias, geraniums, heliotropes, lobelias, verbenas, &c., all of which will be treated under their respective headings. they are mostly soft-wooded plants and are easily cultivated with proper means, in spring and autumn. =bedfordia= (named in honour of a former duke of bedford). ord. _compositæ_. greenhouse evergreen shrubs, allied to _cacalia_. they thrive in a mixture of sand, peat, loam, and brick rubbish, in equal proportions. propagated by cuttings, which should be dried a little before inserting them in rough, sandy soil. =b. salicina= (willow-like). _fl.-heads_ yellow, axillary and solitary, or few together. april. _l._ alternate, lanceolate, linear, glossy above, covered with white tomentum underneath. _h._ ft. victoria and tasmania, . syn. _cacalia salicina_. (b. r. .) =bedstraw.= _see_ =galium=. =beech.= _see_ =fagus=. =bees.= _see_ =honey bees=, =humble bees=, and =wasps=. =beet= (_beta_, which _see_). the present varieties of beetroot are the offspring of _beta vulgaris_, a plant of biennial duration, and a native of the sea coasts of southern europe. it was cultivated in this country about , but was probably long previously introduced by the ancient romans. beetroot is largely used as salad, more extensively on the continent than with us, also pickled; medium sized, deeply coloured roots being the chief desideratum. some varieties are largely grown for their highly-coloured foliage, being planted in bedding-out designs, and generally proving extremely effective. [illustration: fig. . long yellow beetroot.] cultivation: for obtaining the best results, an open situation should be chosen, free from the shade of trees. the ground should be light and sandy, and, if possible, that which has been previously manured for some other crop, french beans, for instance. trench the soil to a depth of ft. in the autumn, and ridge it up for the winter. as soon as dry enough to allow of working in spring, dig over the whole bed with a steel digging fork, and break the soil tolerably fine. sow any time from the last week in april to the end of may. prepare the drills about a foot or in. apart, and from in. to in. deep. the seeds grow quicker if steeped in water previous to sowing, afterwards allowing them to get dry enough to separate from each other. sow thinly, and fill in the drills with a rake. as soon as the plants are up, hoe between the rows, and keep free from weeds. in a fortnight or three weeks after this hoeing, if the weather has been favourable, the plants will be large enough for thinning. thin out to about in. apart, and carefully fill up, in dull weather, any blanks that may occur. transplanting is, however, not generally a very satisfactory method. carefully lift the roots in autumn, before frost comes, and wring off the leaves about an inch from the crowns. place the roots in a cool shed or house, and allow the soil on them to get quite dry, when they may be stored for winter use in dry sand, or soil, in a shed free from frost. it is preferable to keep the crowns free from soil, to prevent decay from the ends of the leaves left on them. if this be carefully done, the roots will keep till the next season's early crop is ready. in all processes connected with the growing, storing, or cooking of this vegetable, the greatest care must be taken to avoid bruising or otherwise injuring the roots, as deficiency of colour would be the result, especially in the case of the red-fleshed kinds, in some cases rendering them valueless for table use. seed saving: when lifting the crop in autumn, select as many of the best formed and coloured roots as required, and store them separately from the rest. in april, plant them in a spot by themselves, where there is no danger of impregnation from other varieties, and in due time good seed will ripen. if good foliaged varieties are required, the best should be selected when growing in the summer, and either be marked by some means, or have the inferior ones removed from them. _sorts._ these are somewhat numerous--almost every seedsman having a so-called "improved strain." nutting's dwarf red, chelsea, pine apple, dell's crimson and red castelnaudary, are the best of the crimson or red-fleshed kinds. the egyptian turnip-rooted is a distinct variety, with flesh of a good colour, and fine flavour; excellent for summer salads. betterave de bretagne is a continental variety; the roots grow to a good size, with a distinct outer skin of a dark colour; flesh rich purple. the best of the yellow-fleshed kinds are small yellow and long yellow (see fig. ); but these are not grown nearly so much as the deep-coloured section; in fact, they are almost useless for garden purposes. [illustration: fig. . white leaf beetroot.] _beetroot for bedding purposes_: in this case, where the foliage is the main object, the seed may be sown in a reserve bed, and the plants transferred to their positions in the flower garden. if, however, a line is required in a ribbon or other border, the best plan is to sow there, and thin out the plants to equal distances. dell's crimson is one of the best varieties for this purpose, being very compact and of a good dark colour. varieties of the leaf beet (_beta cicla_), and sea or perennial beet (_beta maritima_), are sometimes, but very seldom, cultivated for the use of the leafstalks and leaves, the roots being hard and unfit for cooking purposes. they are at the best but substitutes for other vegetables--namely, the midrib for sea-kale and the leaves for spinach. if desired, seeds may be sown in the way described for beetroot, in april for using in autumn and winter, and in august for spring use, plants of the latter sowing being protected in severe weather. the best sorts are red-stalked, yellow-stalked, and white (see fig. ) or silver leaf. =beet carrion beetle= (_silpha opaca_). this destructive insect is frequently found in dead animals, but often its grub almost destroys the leaves of beet and mangold wurzel crops. the grubs, which are black and shining, when full grown are from / in. to / in. long; the three segments next the head are rounded at the sides, but the other segments are sharp, and the tail segment has a sharp spine on each side. "when full-fed, the grubs bury themselves, and form cells at the depth of in. or in. below the surface of the earth, in which they turn to pupæ, and from these the beetle has been seen to come up in about the space of a fortnight or three weeks" (ormerod). the beetles are flattish, and about five lines long, brown-black, with a tawny down; eyes large and oval; horns club-shaped; body somewhat oval; wing-cases very flat, turned up at the outer edge, each case having three sharp ridges running along it; tip of abdomen dull red. any manures or methods of cultivation that would stimulate growth in the plants, so as to permit renovation of injuries, would be found useful. if farmyard manure were applied to the soil intended for beet _in the autumn_ instead of in spring, it would lessen the risk of attack to the beets. [illustration: fig. . common garden beetle.] [illustration: fig. . devil's coach horse.] =beetles= (_coleoptera_). beetles form one of the most extensive orders of insects, there being upwards of known british species. they vary much in appearance, but a beetle is readily recognised by its front wings, or elytra; these form a tough horny sheath or case, which lies over the real wings, and protects them when the insect is not flying. sometimes, the elytra are very short (see fig. ); the mouth is fitted with jaws for cutting. the metamorphosis is complete, _i.e._, the larva or grub is very unlike either the quiescent pupa or the perfect insect. the period that elapses before beetles arrive at their perfect state varies from a few weeks to two or three years, but is usually rather longer than in butterflies or bees. various beetles attack growing plants and roots. thus, _otiorhynchus sulcatus_ and _o. picipes_ attack vines, roses, and other plants, gnawing off the bark. some species of beetles attack mushrooms, while others bore into the wood of old trees, or eat leaves (_e.g._ turnip fly), or burrow in the leaves, or form galls on roots (cabbage-gall weevil). of some kinds, the beetles are hurtful; of others, the larvæ. many kinds, however, are beneficial, such, for instance, as the common ground beetle (_carabus_, fig. ), and the devil's coach horse (_ocypus olens_, fig. ). these live upon other insects and snails. one kind of beetle--the ladybird (see figs. and )--is very beneficial in a garden, as it preys upon the aphides, or plant lice. for instructions in dealing with the noxious kinds, _see_ =asparagus beetle=, =bean beetle=, =beet carrion beetle=, =click beetle=, =cockchafer=, =lily beetle=, =rosechafer=, and =turnip fly=. [illustration: fig. . seven-spotted ladybird.] [illustration: fig. . grub of ladybird. (enlarged).] =beet= or =mangold fly= (_anthomyia betæ_). the maggots of this fly do considerable damage by feeding on the pulp of the beet or mangold leaves. the eggs are small, white, and oval, and are laid in small patches beneath the leaves; the maggots are about / in. long, legless, cylindrical, and yellowish-white. as it is of such recent appearance in this country, specifics for its eradication are by no means numerous; but, according to miss ormerod, "the best treatment appears to be to nip it in the bud, where such treatment is possible, by destroying the infested plants, but generally by all means of good cultivation, or by special applications of artificial manure, to ensure a hearty growth, which may run the plants on past the power of average attacks to weaken the leafage to a serious extent." =befaria= (named in honour of bejar, a spanish botanist). ord. _ericareæ_. syn. _bejaria_. an elegant genus of greenhouse evergreen shrubs, closely allied to _rhododendron_. flowers bracteate; corolla very deeply seven-cleft, spreading. leaves racemose or corymbose, crowded, quite entire, coriaceous. they thrive in a compost of peat and loam. propagated by cuttings, made of the young wood, and placed in sandy soil, in gentle heat. =b. æstuans= (glowing).* _fl._ purple; corymbs terminal, simple; peduncles, pedicels, rachi, calyces, and branchlets clothed with clammy glandular hairs. _l._ elliptic, rather glabrous above, but downy and glaucous beneath, while young clothed with rusty tomentum. plant much branched; branchlets sub-verticillate. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . syn. _acunna oblonga_. (g. c. , .) =b. cinnamomea= (cinnamon-coloured). _fl._ purple; panicles close, terminal; peduncles woolly, hispid. _l._ slightly downy above, rusty tomentose beneath. branches downy, hispid. _h._ ft. peru, . =b. coarctata= (close-headed). _fl._ purple; corymbs terminal, simple; peduncles, pedicels, rachi, and calyces clothed with rusty tomentum. _l._ oblong, glabrous, glaucous beneath. shrub much branched. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . (g. c. , .) =b. glauca= (glaucous).* _fl._ flesh-coloured; racemes terminal and axillary; pedicels somewhat fastigiate. june. _l._ oblong, obtuse, glaucous beneath. shrub much branched; branchlets angular. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . =b. ledifolia= (ledum-leaved).* _fl._ purple; racemes terminal; peduncles, pedicels, rachi, branchlets, and calyces clothed with clammy glandular hairs. _l._ oblong, somewhat mucronate, with revolute edges, glaucous beneath, glandular. shrub much branched; branches purplish. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . (f. d. s. , .) =b. racemosa= (racemed). _fl._ purple, disposed in racemose terminal panicles. july. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, glabrous; branchlets smooth or hispid. _h._ ft. to ft. georgia, . =begonia= (named after m. begon, a french patron of botany). ord. _begoniaceæ_. a large genus of succulent herbs or undershrubs (a few climbers), in many of which the stem is reduced to a tuberous rhizome, whilst some are distinctly tuberous. flowers usually showy and large, white, rose, scarlet, or yellow, unisexual; perianth segments petaloid, four to five divisions, rarely two. stamens numerous, filaments free or united at the base. ovary inferior, styles two to four, free, sometimes connate, stigmas brandied or twisted. fruit capsular, rarely succulent, often winged. seeds numerous, minute. leaves alternate, more or less unequal-sided, entire, or lobed, or toothed. flower-stalks axillary, cymose. distribution: species about , in all tropical moist countries, especially south america and india; not known in australia. cultivated species (exclusive of garden hybrids and varieties) about . a large number of genera, or what were considered as such are now merged in begonia--viz., _barya_, _baryandra_, _casparya_, _pritzelia_, &c. the rich colours and beautiful form of the flowers of begonias, their prettily-marked foliage, and free-growing, free-blooming nature, have long marked them out as favourite garden plants. within the last twenty years a new race, characterised by a tuberous root-stock, annual herbaceous stem, and large handsome flowers, has been introduced from the andes of south america, from which, by means of careful cross-fertilisation and selection, a large number of beautiful and almost hardy kinds have been raised. the size, substance, and rich colours of the flowers of the majority of the plants of this race of begonias are witness to what may be done by skilful cultivation and careful cross-breeding among plants. in the same way the large-leaved, stemless section, of which _b. rex_ may be taken as the type and principal progenitor, have been improved both in the size and the coloration of their foliage, and countless forms are now in cultivation, both as garden plants and for the decoration of rooms, &c. the propagation of begonias may be accomplished by means of seeds, which are freely produced by almost all the cultivated kinds, by cuttings, by division of the rhizomes, and--in the case of the large-leaved kinds--by leaf-cuttings. for the first of these methods it is necessary that the seeds should be well ripened before they are gathered, and kept dry until sown. where it is desired to increase any particular kind of garden origin, seeds are useless, none of the hybrid or seedling forms perpetuating themselves through their seeds, although equally beautiful sorts may be raised from them. the characters of all true species are, however, reproduced in their seedlings. for the successful raising of begonia seeds it is necessary to sow them on pans or pots of well-drained, light, sandy soil, which should be well watered before the seeds are sown. the seeds should not be covered with soil, or they will fail to germinate. over the pans a pane of glass should be placed, and they should then be stood in warm house or a frame where a temperature of about deg. can be maintained, and shaded from sunshine. as soon as the plantlets are large enough to be safely manipulated, they should be pricked off into pans of light leaf-mould soil, in which they may remain until large enough to be placed singly in pots. cuttings: these strike freely if planted in small pots, in sand and leaf mould, and placed on a bottom heat of deg. where large quantities are required, a bed of cocoa nut-fibre in a stove or propagating frame may be used, and in this the cuttings may be planted and remain until well rooted. leaf cuttings succeed best when laid on sand or cocoa-nut fibre, and shaded from bright sunlight. in preparing the leaves, old, well-matured ones should be selected, and incisions made with a sharp knife across the principal nerves on the underside. they should then be placed on the sand or fibre and held down by means of a few pieces of crock. under this treatment, bulbils will form on the lower ends of the nerves of each section of the leaf, and these, when large enough, may be removed from the bed and potted. with the exception of _b. evansiana_ (_discolor_), an almost hardy species from north china, all the shrubby species require a warm or intermediate house for their cultivation, although during the summer months a frame or sheltered bed answers for most of them, provided they are removed into their warm winter quarters on the approach of cold weather. some of the species, such as _b. dregei_, _b. semperflorens_, _b. nitida_, _b. fuchsioides_, _b. lindleyana_, _b. richardsiana_, along with the hybrids _ascotensis_, _knowsleyana_, _weltoniensis_, and _ingramii_, are grown in pots out of doors all the summer, and under liberal treatment they form large handsome specimens, which are of great value as flowering plants for the conservatory in winter. the tuberous-rooted herbaceous kinds should be started in heat in february, and, when vigorous growth has commenced, be gradually hardened off, for use either as bedding plants or as pot specimens for flowering in the greenhouse. a mixture of loam and leaf mould with a little sand and rotten cow-dung is suitable for the cultivation of these plants in pots. liberal supplies of water should be given during the growing season. as the growth decays, water should be withheld until finally the tubers may be shaken out of the soil and placed in dry sand or cocoa-nut fibre, in a house or shed where a temperature above freezing can be maintained. _b. gracilis_ and its varieties, _diversifolia_ and _martiana_, are beautiful greenhouse plants, which thrive well if treated as advised for the other tuberous-rooted kinds, with the addition of a few more degrees of heat. the _rex_ section requires a light rich soil, plenty of moisture, and a shaded position in a warm greenhouse. these kinds are often employed with good effect for clothing peat-covered walls in ferneries, or as an undergrowth in large tropical houses. large specimens have been grown under the stage in a warm house, the shade and moisture of such a position being exactly what they best delight in. _b. socotrana_, an interesting species from the island of socotra, is somewhat singular in its requirements. the stem is herbaceous and annual, and about its base a cluster of bulbils are formed, from every one of which a plant will be developed the following year. the growing season for this species is from september to march, after which it goes to rest for the whole summer. a tropical temperature and all the light possible, are essential to the well-doing of this plant. it is interesting to note the apparent impossibility to cross any of the shrubby begonias with the distinctly tuberous-rooted species; and even the species of the shrubby section, whose stems are semi-tuberous, have hitherto refused to commingle with the south american tuberous kinds, of which _b. veitchii_, _b. rosæflora_, and _b. boliviensis_ may be said to be typical. the infusion of the blood of these large, handsome-flowered kinds into the tall, shrubby species, would almost certainly result in the production of a race of splendid winter-flowering greenhouse plants, and it is therefore in every way desirable that no pains should be spared to break through the obstacle to the union of the two races. explanation of contractions: t, tuberous-rooted; s, shrubby. =b. acerifolia= (acer-leaved). s. a tall-growing, thick, succulent-stemmed species, with green, lobed, serrated foliage, and large branching cymes of small white flowers; sepals of male flowers hairy; styles three, two-horned. capsule triangular, with one of the angles prolonged into an obtuse wing. spring. quito, . =b. acuminata= (taper-pointed-leaved). s. a low shrubby species, having semi-cordate, oblong, pointed leaves, with toothed margins, and the nerves on the under side and the petiole pilose. _fl._ white, in cymes, nearly in. across. capsule wings, two short, the third / in. long. spring. jamaica, . (b. m. .) =b. acutifolia= (acute-leaved). s. a smooth-stemmed, semi-erect species, ft. to ft. high, with cordate-oblong leaves, both sides and petiole glabrous, the margins denticulate. _fl._ in cymes, white and red, about in. in diameter. capsule winged, one wing twice as long as the others. spring. jamaica, . syn. _b. purpurea_. =b. acutiloba= (acute-lobed).* a species with thick fleshy rhizomes, and palmate cordate leaves which are divided into five to seven lobes, with toothed margins and pointed apices, under side thinly covered with brown hairs. flower-stalk tall, hairy, surmounted by a branching head of rather large white flowers. summer. mexico. =b. albo-coccinea= (white and red).* stemless, with a thick root-stock. _l._ broadly ovate, peltate, entire, in. to in. long; petiole in. to in., pubescent. flower-scape in. to in. long. _fl._ in dense cluster, bright rose on the outside, white within. capsule regularly triangular, with short wings. summer. india, . syn. _b. grahamiana_. (b. m. .) =b. alchemilloides= (alchemilla-like). stem fleshy, creeping. _l._ rotundate, with toothed, undulate, ciliated margins and short stalks. flower-stem slender, few-flowered. _fl._ small, rose-coloured. summer. brazil. =b. amabilis= (lovely).* stem creeping, fleshy, short. _l._ ovate, crenulate, acuminate, about in. long, tomentose, dark green, blotched with white, under side purple-red. flower-stalk in. long. _fl._ rose or white, in clustering cymes. capsule irregular. summer. assam, . the foliage sometimes comes wholly green, but, under good treatment, it is handsomely variegated. =b. amÅ�na= (pleasing).* rhizome tuberous. stem none, or very short. _l._ in. by in.; leafstalk in. flower-stem in. long, few-flowered. _fl._ medium sized, pale rose. capsule wings small, nearly equal. summer. north india, . syn. _b. erosa_. =b. ampla= (large). s. stem ft. to ft. high, very stout, woody. _l._ long-stalked, in. to in. in diameter, broadly ovate, cordate, pointed, when young densely covered with rusty stellate down. _fl._ on short petioles, rose-coloured, in. wide. fruit a succulent berry, small. summer. guinea. =b. aptera= (wingless). stem herbaceous. _l._ heart-shaped, pointed, shining green. _fl._ in short axillary cymes, white, small. capsule four-angled. spring. celebes, . =b. arborescens= (tree-like). s. a large growing species, sometimes forming a bush ft. to ft. in height. _l._ pale green, ear-shaped, in. long. _fl._ in large cymose clusters, white, small. summer. brazil. =b. argyrostigma= (silvery-spotted). synonymous with _b. maculata_. =b. arnottiana= (arnott's). synonymous with _b. cordifolia_. =b. asplenifolia= (asplenium-leaved). s. a slender-stemmed, beautifully cut-leaved species, the foliage of which is pinnatisect, giving the plant the appearance of a thalictrum rather than a begonia. _fl._ very small, white. guinea. =b. assamica= (assam). stem short, fleshy. _fl._ pinkish flesh-colour. _l._ oblique ovate, olive-green, marbled with silvery blotches above, and of a pale purplish-pink beneath; petioles pale green, softly hairy. assam, . =b. attenuata= (attenuated). synonymous with _b. herbacea_. =b. aucubæfolia= (aucuba-leaved). synonymous with _b. incarnata_. =b. auriformis= (ear-formed). synonymous with _b. incana_. =b. barbata= (bearded). s. stem short, hairy. _l._ toothed, oval-shaped, pointed, hispid beneath, in. long. _fl._ medium-sized, white or pink; flower-stalk hairy. capsule equal-winged. summer. india. =b. berkeleyi= (berkeley's).* t. a garden hybrid, with thick, fleshy stems, and long ear-shaped foliage. _fl._ in erect panicles, rose-coloured. a useful winter-flowering kind. =b. bipetala= (two-petaled). synonymous with _b. dipetala_. =b. biserrata= (doubly-serrated). s. stem erect, branched, ft. to ft. high. _l._ in. long, in. to in. wide, deeply lobed, toothed, pale green. _fl._ in loose cymes, drooping, rose-coloured, - / in. wide, serrated edges. capsule pilose, two short and one long wings. summer. guatemala, . (b. m. .) =b. boliviensis= (bolivian).* t. stem herbaceous, succulent, ft. high, branching. _l._ lanceolate, pointed, serrate, in. to in. long. _fl._ in drooping panicles, large, scarlet, males twice as large as females. capsule three-winged. summer. bolivia, . (b. m. .) =b. bowringiana= (bowring's). synonymous with _b. laciniata_. (b. m. .) =b. braziliana= (brazilian). s. stem erect, tall, succulent. _l._ oblique, ovate, toothed, slightly pubescent; principal nerves brownish; stalk hairy. _fl._ white or rose, small, in short, few-flowered cymes. capsule wing / in. long. summer. brazil. =b. bruantii= (bruant's).* b. a garden hybrid between _b. schmidti_ and _b. semperflorens_. _l._ green, with a brownish tint. _fl._ white or rose, in erect panicles. summer, . used as a bedding plant in summer. =b. bulbifera= (bulb-bearing). most likely a form of _b. gracilis_. =b. caffra= (kaffrarian). a variety of _b. dregei_. =b. carolineæfolia= (carolinea-leaved). s. stem erect, thick, fleshy. _l._ palmate, curiously divided into six to eight long ovate segments, each in. long. _fl._ in a dichotomous cyme, on long stalk, rose-coloured, small. capsule small, wings one longer than others. winter. mexico, . a singular-leaved species. (r. g. - .) =b. cathcartii= (cathcart's). s. caulescent. _l._ heart-shaped, acute, glabrous; stalks of flowers and leaves hairy; flowers and fruit as in _b. barbata_. summer. india. syn. _b. nemophila_. (c. h. p. .) =b. chelsoni= (chelsea).* t. a garden hybrid between _b. sedeni_ and _b. boliviensis_. stem fleshy, ft. high. _l._ oblique, lance-shaped, irregularly lobed. _fl._ large, orange-red, drooping. summer, . =b. cinnabarina= (vermilion).* s. stem erect, short, herbaceous. _l._ in. to in. long, oblique, toothed; peduncles in. long, few-flowered. _fl._ (male), medium, red; female flowers very small. summer. capsule irregularly-winged. bolivia, . (b. m. .) =b. cinnabarina= (vermilion). a variety of _b. fuchsioides_. =b. clarkii= (clarke's).* t. stem purplish, fleshy, stout. _l._ oblique-cordate, serrate. _fl._ in pendulous racemes, abundant, large, bright red, very handsome, nearly related to _b. veitchii_. summer. peru and bolivia, . (b. m. .) =b. coccinea= (red).* s. habit suffruticose. stem sub-erect, ft. to ft. high, thick at the base. _l._ ovate-oblong, pointed; margins undulate and toothed. _fl._ in pendulous racemes, medium-sized; flowers and peduncles red. capsule nearly regular; wings short. summer. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. conchæfolia= (shell-leaved). stem creeping, rhizomatous, thick. _l._ peltate, ovate, in. to in. long, edges almost entire; under side, along with leaf and flower-stalks, covered with ferruginous hairs; scape in. long, erect, surmounted by corymb of small whitish fragrant flowers. capsule wings, one long, two short. autumn and winter. south america, . syns. _b. scutellata_, _b. warscewiczii_. (r. b. .) =b. corallina= (coral-flowered). s. stem woody, branching, sub-erect, brownish when matured. _l._ ovate-oblong, pointed, undulate, smooth, dull green, under side purple. _fl._ in long pendent racemes, numerous, medium-sized, bright coral-red. summer. brazil (?), . a rare species, and one of the handsomest of the shrubby kinds, most likely closely related to _b. maculata_. =b. cordifolia= (heart-shaped). t. stemless; root-stock fleshy. _l._ cordate, orbicular, toothed, in. wide, pilose above, pubescent below; flower-scape in. long, dichotomous. _fl._ numerous, medium-sized. capsule with three narrow wings. winter. ceylon and india. syn. _b. arnottiana_. =b. coriacea= (leathery).* t. stem in. high, herbaceous. _l._ reniform, in. wide by in. long, smooth above, pilose below. _fl._ rose-coloured, large, in twos or threes on the end of an erect scape, in. to in. long. wings of capsule short, red. summer. bolivia. =b. coriacea= (leathery). synonymous with _b. peltata_. =b. crassicaulis= (thick-stemmed). stem short, thick, articulated, succulent. _l._ palmate; segments acuminate, toothed, under side clothed with rusty down. _fl._ in many-flowered cymes, dipetalous, white or rose-coloured, medium-sized. capsule wings unequal. near to _b. heracleifolia_. spring. guatemala, . (b. r. , .) =b. crinita= (hairy).* s. stem ft. high, fleshy, bright red, more or less hairy. _l._ ovate-cordate; margins toothed, dark green; petiole red and hairy, like the stems. _fl._ in lax, branching cymes, rose-coloured, - / in. in diameter. fruit three-winged, one long and acute, two short and rounded. spring. bolivia, . (b. m. .) =b. cucullata= (hooded). a variety of _b. semperflorens_. =b. dædalea= (adorned).* stem short, thick, succulent. _l._ large, green, thickly covered with a close network of russet-brown, scarlet when young; edges pilose. _fl._ white and rose, in loose panicles. mexico, . a handsome foliaged plant. (i. h. , .) =b. daveauana.= _see_ =pellionia daveauana=. =b. davisii= (davis's).* t. stemless, _l._ springing directly from root-stock, ovate-cordate, shining green, slightly hairy, underside red; petiole short, fleshy. flower-scapes, pedicels, and flowers bright red; scape in. high, bearing half a dozen flowers in umbel. capsule three-winged, one long, two very short. summer. peru, . a handsome tuberous-rooted species, dwarf. see fig. , for which we are indebted to messrs. veitch and sons. (b. m. .) =b. dichotoma= (branching). s. stem tall, stout, fleshy. _l._ in. long by in. wide, lobed, dull green. _fl._ white, on long axillary scapes, numerous. winter. . =b. digswelliana= (digswell's). stem short, semi-decumbent, large, green; margins red. _fl._ on long, erect scapes, pale pink, small, numerous. useful for winter flowering purposes. a garden hybrid. (f. m. .) =b. dipetala= (two-petaled). stems springing from a fleshy root-stock, erect, in. high, brown. _l._ half heart-shaped; margins toothed, upper surface thickly spotted with white, under side red. _fl._ in loose axillary cymes, two-petaled, large, pink. capsule equal-winged. spring. india, . a handsome species. (b. m. .) syn. _b. bipetala_. =b. discolor= (two-coloured). synonymous with _b. evansiana_. =b. diversifolia= (diverse-leaved). a variety of _b. gracilis_. =b. dregii= (drege's).* rootstock fleshy. stems succulent; annual, ft. high. _l._ oblique, thin, green, slightly spotted with grey, reddish on the under side. _fl._ white, about in. across, in axillary cymes. capsule three-winged, one much longer than the other two, and acute-pointed. summer. cape, . syns. _b. caffra_, _b. reniformis_. =b. echinosepala= (spiny-sepaled).* stem green, succulent, in. high. _l._ small, obliquely-oblong, serrulate. _fl._ on axillary peduncles, white, with curiously papillose sepals. summer. brazil, . (r. g. .) =b. elliptica= (elliptic). synonymous with _b. scandens_. =b. erecta multiflora= (erect, many-flowered). _fl._ bright reddish-pink, produced for several months, but especially during the winter. _l._ oblique, deep bronze coloured, very conspicuous. a decidedly handsome and very useful garden variety. =b. erosa= (bitten). synonymous with _b. amÅ�na_. =b. evansiana= (evans's).* t. stem herbaceous, branching, smooth, ft. high. _l._ oblique, ovate-acute, sub-cordate, lobed; margins denticulate, green above, under side and petioles deep red; flower-stalks branching, axillary. _fl._ numerous, flesh-coloured, large. capsule wings blunt-pointed, one longer than the others. summer. java, china, japan, . a handsome species, and almost hardy. syns. _b. discolor_, _b. grandis_. (b. m. .) =b. eximia= (excellent).* a hybrid, raised from _b. rubro-venia_ and _b. thwaitesii_. stem short, succulent. _l._ bronzy-purple, tinged with red. a handsome foliage plant. (i. h. , .) =b. falcifolia= (sickle-leaved).* s. stem ft. to ft. high, erect, branching. _l._ in. long, - / in. wide, curved, tapering to a narrow point; margins toothed, upper surface green, more or less spotted with white, under side deep red. _fl._ on short axillary peduncles, drooping, dipetalous, bright red. wings of capsule equal, / in. wide. summer. peru, . a pretty flowering plant. (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . begonia davisii.] =b. ferruginea= (rust-coloured). s. stem woody, erect, smooth branching, covered with ferruginous hairs. _l._ oblique, ovate-acute, acuminate, lobed; margins toothed. _fl._ in branching cymes, large red. capsule unequal-winged. summer. bogota. syn. _b. magnifica_. =b. fischeri= (fischer's). similar to _b. falcifolia_, except that the foliage is unspotted, and the flowers are white and small. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. foliosa= (leafy).* s. stem slender, branching, fleshy. _l._ small, ovate-oblong, dark green, numerous, distichous on stems. _fl._ small, numerous, white, tinged with pink. summer. new grenada, . useful for growing hanging baskets. syn. _b. microphylla_. (ref. b. .) =b. frigida= (frigid). s. stem ft. high, smooth, green, succulent. _l._ cordate, acuminate, lobed, serrated, slightly pilose; upper side coppery-green, beneath deep rose-red, especially upon the veins. _fl._ small, white, in erect branching cymes. capsule wings two long, one short. summer. country unknown, . (b. m. .) =b. frÅ�beli= (frÅ�bel's).* t. stemless. _l._ numerous, cordate, acuminate, green, covered with purplish-velvety hairs. _fl._ in tall, lax, drooping, branching cymes, brilliant scarlet, large. winter. ecuador, . a beautiful flowering plant, useful for conservatory work in winter. (garden, pl. .) =b. fuchsioides= (fuchsia-like).* s. stem tall, drooping, herbaceous, smooth, green, tinged with red. _l._ copious, distichous, - / in. long, oblong-ovate, slightly falcate, serrated, smooth; margins tinged with red. _fl._ in branching pendulous panicles, numerous, rich, deep scarlet. capsule wings two very short and one long. summer. new grenada, . a handsome greenhouse plant, useful for covering pillars, &c. syn. _b. miniata_. (b. m. .) =b. f. miniata= (vermilion). _l._ smaller than in type. _fl._ cinnabar red. (f. d. s. , .) =b. gemmipara= (bud-bearing). s. stem ft. high, from a tuberous root-stock, succulent, _l._ ovate-acuminate, cordate, lobed, smooth above, pilose below. _fl._ medium-sized, white, or with rose stripes, on pendulous, axillary peduncles; sometimes the peduncles bear, instead of flowers, quadrangular cups, which are closely packed with oblong viviparous bulbils. summer. himalaya. (c. h. p. .) =b. geranifolia= (geranium-leaved).* rootstock tuberous. stem ft. high, erect, angular, succulent, green, with a purplish tinge, branched dichotomously. _l._ cordate, cut into unequal serrated lobes, green; margins red, whole plant perfectly smooth; peduncles terminal, bearing two to three flowers, which are inclined, drooping while in bud; outer petals orbicular, red, the two inner obovate, waved white. summer. lima, . (b. m. .) =b. geranioides= (geranium-like).* t. rootstock fleshy. stemless. _l._ radical, somewhat reniform, lobed, serrated; surface scabrid, deep green; leafstalks red, hairy. _fl._ white, in lax, drooping panicle. summer. natal, . a pretty, though delicate, species. (b. m. .) =b. glandulosa= (glandular-leaved).* stem a stout rhizome, scaly. leafstalks thick, terete, erect, hairy, in. high. _l._ in. broad, fleshy, cordate, lobed, green; veins dark. _fl._ on tall, dark, erect scapes, numerous, greenish-white. capsule wings, one very large, blunt. costa rica, . syns. _b. hernandiæfolia_, _b. nigro-venia_. (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . begonia heracleifolia.] =b. gogoensis= (gogoan).* _l._ peltate, ovate-orbicular, oblique, acute when young, with a bronzy metallic hue, ultimately changing to a deep velvety-green, intersected by the paler midribs and veins; the under surface deep red. _fl._ pale rose, in a lax panicle. gogo, in sumatra, . a very handsome, ornamental-foliaged species. =b. gracilis= (slender).* t. stem erect, unbranched, very succulent, _l._ thinly scattered along stems, half heart-shaped, slightly hairy, lobed, denticulate-ciliate. _fl._ on short axillary peduncles; umbel of few male and female flowers, two larger petals serrate, colour pink. capsule winged, green. mexico, . in axils of leaves between stipules a cluster of bulbils are borne; these may be gathered and sown as seeds. this and its varieties, _annulata_, _diversifolia_, _martiana_, &c., are beautiful summer flowering greenhouse begonias, requiring a sandy peat soil and shade. when well grown, they are exceedingly ornamental. (b. m. .) =b. grahamiana= (graham's). synonymous with _b. albo-coccinea_. =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered). synonymous with _b. octopetala_. =b. grandis= (great). a variety of _b. rex_. =b. grandis= (great). synonymous with _b. evansiana_. =b. grandis= (great). synonymous with _b. vitifolia_. =b. griffithii= (griffith's). stemless; rhizome subterraneous. _l._ large, obliquely-cordate; margin crenate, hairy; surface granulated, colour a dark green; margin purple, zoned with grey, under side green, centre and margin deep purple. _fl._ on cymes, large, white internally, outside tinged with blush, slightly pilose. capsule tubercled, one wing large, projecting. winter. india, . (b. m. .) =b. hasskarlii= (hasskarl's). synonymous with _b. peltata_. =b. heracleifolia= (cow-parsnip leaved). rootstock thick, fleshy. _l._ radical, on long pilose stalks, palmate, large, bronzy green; margins toothed, hairy. flower-stalks long, stout, erect, hairy, many-flowered. _fl._ rose-coloured. capsule wings nearly equal. spring. mexico, . this and the following varieties are handsome both in foliage and flowers. syns. _b. jatrophæfolia_, _b. punctata_, _b. radiata_. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. h. longipila= (long-haired). _l._ greyish in middle; outer portions dark bronzy, blotched with green. whole plant covered with long, stiff, fleshy hairs. _fl._ as in the type. =b. h. nigricans= (dark). this differs from the type in having foliage of a blackish tint all round the margins of the lobes, and the petals of the flowers nearly white. (b. m. .) =b. h. punctata= (dotted). _l._ green, reddish near margin. _fl._ rose-colour, with deep red spots on the outside. =b. herbacea= (herbaceous).* rhizome creeping. _l._ oblong-acute, lanceolate, toothed, ciliated. flower-stalks shorter than leaves; male flowers in a cymose head, white, small; female flowers solitary, on very short stalks. spring. brazil, . a small species, very succulent, with the appearance of a primrose when not in flower. syn. _b. attenuata_. (g. c. , .) =b. hernandiæfolia= (hernandia-leaved). synonymous with _b. glandulosa_. (seemann.) =b. hernandiæfolia= (hernandia-leaved). synonymous with _b. nelumbiifolia_. (gardens.) =b. hernandiæfolia= (hernandia-leaved). synonymous with _b. peltata_. (b. m. .) =b. hirsuta= (hairy). synonymous with _b. humilis_. =b. hookeri= (hooker's). a variety of _b. semperflorens_. =b. hookeriana= (hooker's). s. stem woody, ft. to ft. high, branching, covered with minute rusty tomentum. _l._ ovate, unequal sided, blunt, in. long, tomentose, like the stem. _fl._ in axillary cymes, small, white. spring. brazil, . =b. humilis= (dwarf).* stem erect, fleshy, hairy. _l._ semicordate-oblong, acuminate, ciliate-serrate, hairy above, smooth beneath. _fl._ few, in cymes, small, white. capsule unequal winged. summer. trinidad, . annual. syn. _b. hirsuta_. =b. humilis= (dwarf). synonymous with _b. suaveolens_. (b. r. .) =b. hybrida floribunda= (many-flowered).* a very beautiful summer blooming hybrid between _b. fuchsioides_ and _b. multiflora_. _fl._ bright rose, medium sized, produced in abundance. summer. one of the best. =b. hydrocotylifolia= (penny-wort-leaved).* stem succulent, short, creeping. _l._ rotundate cordate, almost equal-sided; petiole short. whole plant hairy. flower-stalks ft. high, pilose. _fl._ in cymose head, medium-sized, dipetalous, rose-coloured, as also are pedicels and stalk. capsule wings equal-sized, large. summer. mexico, . (b. m. .) =b. h. asarifolia= (asarum-leaved). leaves and flowers smaller than in the type, the latter white. mexico. =b. imperialis= (imperial).* stem rhizomatous, short, thick. _l._ large, broad, ovate-acute, cordate, rugose, hairy, dark olive-green; nerves banded with greyish-green colour. _fl._ in cymes, white, medium-sized. _fr._ unequal winged. mexico, . a handsome foliage species. (i. h. , .) =b. i. smaragdina= (emerald-like). _l._ shining emerald green. =b. incana= (hoary). stem erect, fleshy, tomentose. _l._ leathery, peltate, oblong-acute, sub-angular, whitish beneath. flower-stalks long. _fl._ in small downy panicles, white. winter. mexico, . syn. _b. auriformis_. =b. i. auriformis= (ear-like). _l._ divided at the base, not peltate. _fl._ glabrous. =b. incarnata= (fleshy).* s. stem erect, fleshy, ft. high, smooth; nodes swollen, reddish, spotted. _l._ on short, smooth petioles, unequally cordate, acuminate, sinuately-serrate, green. _fl._ large, rose-coloured, handsome; peduncles terminal, nodding. capsule with unequal wings, the largest acute. winter. mexico, . syns. _b. aucubæfolia_, _b. insignis_, _b. lindleyana_. (b. m. .) =b. i. maculosa= (spotted). _l._ spotted with white. =b. i. metallica= (metallic-leaved). _l._ with a bronzy-purple metallic lustre. =b. i. papillosa= (papillose). foliage margined with bright rose; upper surface covered with little papillæ. (b. m. .) =b. i. purpurea= (purple-leaved). foliage deep bronzy-purple. =b. ingramii= (ingram's).* a garden hybrid, raised at frogmore in , from _b. fuchsioides_ and _b. nitida_. it combines the characters of the two parents. a useful winter-flowering plant; may be grown out of doors in summer. (g. m. b., p. .) =b. insignis= (remarkable). synonymous with _b. incarnata_. =b. involucrata= (involucrate). s. stem erect, tall, angular, covered with a reddish tomentum. _l._ oblique, ovate-acuminate, cordate; margins toothed and ciliate. _fl._ enclosed in a wrapper, or involucre, when young; peduncles graceful, bearing umbel of white, largish flowers. capsule wings unequal, the largest falcate. winter. central america. =b. jatrophæfolia= (jatropha-leaved). synonymous with _b. heracleifolia_. =b. josephi= (joseph's). stemless. _l._ radical, on petioles in. to in. long, ovate-acuminate, three-lobed, or orbicular, with numerous acute lobes, slightly pubescent; scape ft., branched. _fl._ small, rose-coloured. capsule wings unequal; upper margins horizontal. summer. himalaya. =b. kunthiana= (kunth's).* s. stem erect, smooth, slender, purple-brown. _l._ on short petioles, lance-shaped, acuminate, regularly serrated, smooth, dark green above, bright crimson below. _fl._ axillary, on short nodding peduncles, white, large, handsome. summer. venezuela, . a pretty species. (b. m. .) =b. laciniata= (cut-leaved).* rhizome thick, fleshy. stem short, thick, jointed, reddish, woolly. _l._ large, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, unequally cordate; margins irregularly cut, serrated; upper side green, under dull, rufous. _fl._ on short axillary peduncles, large, white, tinted with rose. capsule wings, one very long, others short. spring. nepaul to birma, south china, . syn. _b. bowringiana_. (b. m. .) =b. leopoldi= (leopold's). a hybrid from _b. griffithii_ and _b. splendida_, with large variegated foliage. . =b. lindleyana= (lindley's).* s. stem erect, fleshy, covered with ferruginous hairs. _l._ on long petioles, peltate, ovate, acute, in. to in. long, in. to in. wide, irregularly lobed, toothed, green above, tomentose below. _fl._ on branching peduncles, medium sized, white. winter. guatemala. =b. lindleyana= (lindley's). a garden synonym of _b. incarnata_. (gardens.) =b. longipes= (long-stalked). s. stem ft. or more high, stout, succulent, furrowed, covered with glands. _l._ large, rotundate-cordate; margin irregular, serrated, both sides green, pubescent when young. _fl._ numerous, small, white; peduncle ft. long, branched. winter. colombia, . (b. m. .) =b. longipila= (long-haired). a variety of _b. heracleifolia_. =b. lucida= (shining). synonymous with _b. scandens_. =b. lynchiana= (lynch's). s. stem erect, tall, succulent, smooth. _l._ fleshy, in. long, oblique, ovate-cordate, crenulate, green, smooth. _fl._ axillary, in drooping cymes, numerous, large, deep reddish-crimson. winter. mexico, . one of the finest of the tall-growing winter-flowering species. when well managed, the flower-heads are almost a foot in diameter. syn. _b. roezlii_, of gardens. (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . begonia maculata, showing habit, section of capsule, and flower.] =b. maculata= (spotted).* s. a woody shrub. stems branching, smooth. _l._ oblique, ovate-oblong, leathery, slightly undulate; margins entire, under side bright crimson, above green, with numerous large round blotches of silvery white. _fl._ in drooping panicles, coral-like, handsome. capsule with one long, narrow wing. summer. brazil, . (b. r. .) there are numerous varieties of this species, some with leaves almost green, others with the markings more striking than in the type; in the flowers they differ also, ranging from white to coral-red. the beautiful _b. corallina_ is probably a variety of this. syn. _b. argyrostigma_. see fig. . =b. magnifica= (magnificent).* s. stem erect, fleshy, smooth. _l._ ovate, unequal sided, toothed. _fl._ in terminal, cymose panicles, rosy-carmine, - / in. long. new grenada, . (r. h. , .) =b. magnifica= (magnificent). synonymous with _b. ferruginea_. =b. malabarica= (malabar).* stem thick, succulent, ft. high, branching. _l._ numerous, cordate, acute, unequal-sided, crenate or serrate, hairy above and sometimes below, or altogether glabrous, spotted white. _fl._ rose-coloured; peduncles axillary, short, few-flowered. capsule wings equal, joined above and below. summer. malabar and ceylon, . _b. dipetala_ is made a variety of this, by sir joseph hooker, in "flora of british india." (l. b. c. .) [illustration: fig. . begonia manicata.] =b. manicata= (tunicated).* stem fleshy, twisted, short. _l._ oblique, ovate-acute, cordate, dentate-ciliate, smooth on both sides, shining green nerves on under side, with fleshy, scale-like hairs. _fl._ pink, dipetalous, in branching cymes; upper portion of stalk scaly. capsule wings nearly equal. winter. mexico, . see fig. . =b. manni= (mann's). s. stem succulent, ft. to ft. high, branched, green; branchlets, young parts, petioles, and leaf-nerves clothed with rusty, furfuraceous pubescence. _l._ petioled, in. long, in. wide, lanceolate, cordate, acuminate, toothed. _fl._ numerous, rose-red, in axillary cymes; peduncle in. long. capsule linear, densely tomentose. winter. fernando po, . (b. m. .) =b. marmorea= (spotted). a variety of _b. xanthina_. =b. martiana= (martin's). a variety of _b. gracilis_. =b. maxima= (large).* rhizome thick, hairy, creeping. _l._ large, oblique, orbicular-ovate, cordate, shortly acuminate; margins denticulate ciliate; petiole long, pilose. _fl._ in branching cymes; sepals orbicular, pilose on the outside, white. summer. mexico, . =b. megaphylla= (large-leaved).* stem short, thick, fleshy. _l._ large, palmate, cordate; lobes numerous, pointed; margins hairy, under side slightly pilose; nerves with scaly hairs. _fl._ in diffuse cymes, small, white; peduncles pilose. capsule wings wide. winter. mexico. =b. metallica= (metallic). a variety of _b. incarnata_. =b. meyeri= (meyer's). s. stem erect, stout, woody when mature. _l._ large, broadly and obliquely ovate, fleshy, pale green; margin sinuate, under side tinged with rose; both petiole and blade covered with short hairs. _fl._ on long axillary peduncles, in large paniculate heads, white. capsule wings equal. summer. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. microphylla= (small-leaved). synonymous with _b. foliosa_. =b. microptera= (small-winged). stem ft. high, terete, green, pubescent, as in the rest of the plant. branches few. _l._ sub-distichous, in. to in. long, ovate-lanceolate, acuminate, serrated, dark green; petiole short; stipules as long as petiole. _fl._ in terminal panicles, medium-sized, white, tinted rose. capsule long, triangular, two angles wingless, the other with a narrow wing. winter. borneo, . (b. m. .) =b. miniata= (vermilion). a variety of _b. fuchsioides_. =b. monoptera= (single-winged).* stem erect, ft. to ft. high, rounded, swollen at the joints, dull red, papillose and downy. radical leaves on long red stalks, large, reniform, truncate at the base; caulescent leaves smaller, on short petioles, angled, crenate, dark green above, red below, and minutely papillose. _fl._ on an elongated terminal raceme, white. capsule three-angled, two wingless, the other with a long pointed wing. summer. brazil, . a distinct and pretty species. (b. m. .) =b. moritziana= (moritz's). synonymous with _b. scandens_. =b. natalensis= (natal).* t. rootstock thick, fleshy. stem - / ft. high, succulent, thick at the base, articulate, branched, smooth. _l._ unequal, semicordate, acuminate, lobed, toothed, spotted with white. _fl._ on axillary cymose peduncles, pale rose. _fr._ three-winged, two large, one small. winter. natal, . (b. m. .) =b. nelumbiifolia= (nelumbium-leaved).* rhizome thick, fleshy, creeping. _l._ on long hairy petioles; blade in. to in. long, in. to in. wide, peltate, hairy on under side; scape ft. to ft. high. _fl._ in cymose head, numerous, small, white or rose coloured. winter. mexico. a noble-foliaged plant. syn. _b. hernandiæfolia_. =b. nemophila.= synonymous with _b. cathcartii_. =b. nigro-venia= (black-veined). synonymous with _b. glandulosa_. =b. nitida= (shining).* s. stem ft. to ft. high, erect, branched, woody when aged, smooth, shining. _l._ large, glossy, green on both sides, obliquely ovate, acute, crenated at margin. _fl._ in terminal and axillary panicles, numerous, large, deep rose, handsome. capsule three-winged, one much larger than others. jamaica, . one of the best winter, and almost a perpetual, flowering species. syns. _b. obliqua_, _b. pulchra_, _b. purpurea_. (b. m. .) =b. obliqua= (oblique). synonymous with _b. nitida_. =b. octopetala= (eight-petaled).* t. stemless. _l._ on long succulent downy petioles, - / ft. or more in length, cordate, in. long, deeply lobed and serrated at the margin, bright green; scape as long as petioles, rounded, downy. _fl._ in corymbs, greenish-white, males with eight petals, females generally fewer. capsule three-angled, two wings almost suppressed, the other in. long; apex blunt, toothed. autumn. peru, . syn. _b. grandiflora_. (b. m. .) =b. odorata= (sweet-scented). synonymous with _b. suaveolens_. =b. opuliflora= (guelder-rose-flowered).* s. stem ft. high, branching, smooth. _l._ ovate oblong-acuminate, toothed, smooth above, hairy below. _fl._ white, in compact umbels, on erect scapes. spring. new grenada, . =b. ottoniana= (otton's). a hybrid from _b. conchæfolia_ and _b. coriacea_. (r. g. , p. .) =b. papillosa= (papillose). a variety of _b. incarnata_. =b. pearcei= (pearce's).* t. stem ft. high, succulent, branching. _l._ lance-shaped, cordate, pointed, toothed, glabrous above, tomentose beneath, and pale red. _fl._ in loose axillary panicles, large, bright yellow. summer. bolivia, . interesting because of its being one of the progenitors of the handsome race of garden tuberous begonias. =b. peltata= (shield-like). stem short, tomentose; leaves in. by in., peltate, ovate, densely pilose. _fl._ in branching cyme, small, white; peduncle in. to in., pilose. brazil, . interesting because of its distinctly peltate foliage and silvery appearance of whole plant. syns. _b. coriacea_, _b. hasskarlii_, _b. hernandiæfolia_, _b. peltifolia_. =b. peltifolia= (peltate-leaved). synonymous with _b. peltata_. =b. phyllomaniaca= (proliferous-stemmed). s. stem thick, fleshy, rather twisted, green, hairy, clothed, when old, with small viviparous buds bearing small leaves, by which means the plant may be multiplied. _l._ ovate, acuminate, cordate, sinuately lobed, ciliate, smooth above and below. _fl._ in axillary cymes, drooping, pale rose. capsule with one large wing. winter. guatemala, . (b. m. .) =b. picta= (ornamented).* t. stem generally smooth, succulent, in. to in. high. _l._ ovate acuminate, nearly equally cordate, serrated, hairy above and on the nerves below, sometimes variegated. _fl._ pale rose, large, handsome; peduncle hairy, erect, short, few-flowered. autumn. himalaya, . (s. e. b. .) =b. platanifolia= (plane-leaved).* s. stem ft. to ft. high, erect, robust, smooth, green; joints annulated. _l._ in. to in. in diameter, reniform, lobed, hispid on both sides, dark green; lobes acute, toothed, ciliated. _fl._ in axillary, dichotomous cymes, large, white, tinted rose, handsome. summer. brazil, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . begonia polypetala.] =b. polypetala= (many-petaled). stem about ft. high, covered with a soft whitish tomentum. _l._ ovate-acute, toothed, pubescent above, and densely tomentose below. _fl._, petals nine or ten, of a fine red colour, smooth, external ones ovate-oblong, pointed; internal ones somewhat shorter and narrower; sepals two, ovate-elliptic. capsule tomentose, three-winged, with one wing larger, ascendent. winter. andes of peru, . see fig. . (garden, dec. , .) =b. prestoniensis= (preston).* a garden hybrid between _b. cinnabarina_ and _b. nitida_. _l._ green, lobed, glabrous. _fl._ brilliant orange-red, in drooping axillary cymes, very fragrant. autumn and winter. . (g. m. b. , .) =b. prismatocarpa= (prism-fruited).* stems small, creeping, hairy; branchlets ascending. _l._ long, petioled, also hairy, obliquely cordate, ovate, three to five-lobed; lobes pointed, serrated; peduncles axillary, longer than foliage, bearing a small umbel of two to four dipetalous orange and yellow flowers, one female in each umbel. capsule four-angled, scarcely winged. summer. tropical west africa, . the smallest of cultivated begonias, and especially interesting because of its four-angled fruit. it forms a pretty cushion of bright shining green foliage, thickly studded with its brightly coloured flowers. requires a stove temperature and a stony soil. (b. m. .) =b. pruinata= (frosted).* stem short, thick, fleshy, smooth. _l._ large, peltate, ovate, angular-sinuate, minutely-toothed; surface smooth, glaucous; margins pilose, on stout, fleshy petioles. _fl._ in large dense dichotomous, or small cymes, white. winter. central america, . (r. b. .) =b. pulchra= (fair). synonymous with _b. nitida_. =b. punctata= (dotted). a variety of _b. heracleifolia_. =b. purpurea= (purple). synonymous with _b. acutifolia_. =b. purpurea= (purple). synonymous with _b. nitida_. =b. putzeysiana= (putzeys'). s. stem erect, branching, smooth. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acute, toothed, glabrous, under side spotted with white. _fl._ in copious small corymbs, white and rose, small. capsule small, with rather large obtuse wings. winter. venezuela, . =b. radiata= (rayed). synonymous with _b. heracleifolia_. =b. ramentacea= (scaly).* s. stem erect, branching, brown, scaly, as also are the leafstalks and peduncles. _l._ ovate, reniform, oblique; margins slightly angulate, recurved, under side red, scaly; peduncles branching. _fl._ drooping, pink and white, pretty. capsule, when ripe, a bright scarlet; wings large. spring. brazil, . (p. m. b. - ). =b. reniformis= (kidney-formed). synonymous with _b. dregei_. (gardens.) =b. reniformis= (kidney-formed). synonymous with _b. vitifolia_. (hook.) [illustration: fig. . begonia rex.] =b. rex= (royal).* stemless; rhizome fleshy, creeping, subterraneous. leafstalk round, red, setose. _l._ in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, ovate, oblique, sides unequal, cordate, villose; margins toothed, surface bullate, dark olive-green, with a metallic lustre, a broad silvery zone running all round, about in. from the margin. _fl._ in erect branching cyme, large, pale rose. capsule wings, two short, one long and rounded. assam, . see fig. . (b. m. .) this magnificent species is the principal progenitor of the numerous ornamental-foliaged begonias, a selection of which are given below. most of them are well worth growing, but those named have been selected from a large number: madame wagner,* _l._ large, profound green, banded by a broad silvery zone, especially fine; marshalli, _l._ very large, the margins and very centre dark green, while the greater portion of the surface is covered with a silvery-grey; regina,* _l._ rich olive-green, banded with a broad zone of bronze-red and silvery-grey, rendering it very attractive; roi leopold,* _l._ on long stout petioles, very large, deep bronze-red in the centre, with a broad border of a rather lighter shade, very effective; rollisoni,* _l._ large, on long stalks, rich velvety-green, banded with silvery-grey; splendida argentea,* _l._ large, of a greyish hue, veined with white, and tinged with bronze-red, very beautiful. the following varieties are also very good: adrien robine,* berthe proutiere, charles hovey, distinction,* julia serot,* louise chretien,* madame j. menoreau,* narga,* navala,* talisman, w. e. gumbleton. =b. richardsiana= (richards').* t. stem ft. high, erect, fleshy, with slender branches. _l._ palmately lobed, the lobes sinuate or toothed. _fl._ white, males bipetalous, females with five petals. cymes axillary near ends of branches, few-flowered. capsule three-winged, wings equal. summer. natal, . (g. c., , p. .) =b. r. diadema= (of gardens).* this is referred to here because of its close resemblance to the above. it is most likely a hybrid between _b. richardsiana_ and _b. dipetala_. _l._ palmately lobed, rather large, spotted with white. _fl._ large, rose-coloured. summer. . =b. ricinifolia= (ricinus-leaved).* a garden hybrid between _b. heracleifolia_ and _b. peponifolia_. _l._ large, bronzy green, in shape like those of the castor-oil plant. _fl._ numerous, on an erect scape. winter. . =b. roezlii= (roezl's). synonymous with _b. lynchiana_. =b. rosacea= (rosy). stem succulent, short. _l._ ovate obtuse, slightly pubescent, toothed; petioles long, pilose. _fl._ in few-flowered cymes, medium-sized, rose-coloured. new grenada, . (garden, pl. .) =b. rosæflora= (rose-flowered).* t. stemless. petioles, scapes, bracts, and stipules bright red. _l._ green, in. to in. wide, on stout hairy petioles, in. to in. long, orbicular-reniform, concave; margins lobed, red, toothed. scapes stout, villous, three-flowered. _fl._ in. across, bright rose-red. summer. peru, . one of the parents of the popular race of tuberous-rooted large-flowered begonias. (b. m. .) =b. rubricaulis= (red-stalked).* stemless. leafstalks, peduncles, pedicels, and ovaries, a deep red colour. _l._ obliquely ovate, in. to in. long, slightly hairy, bright green, wrinkled; margins toothed and ciliated. scape ft. high, erect, stout, branching at the top, forming a head of about a dozen flowers, which are large, white inside, rose-tinted outside. capsule with one large wing, the others almost suppressed. summer. peru, . (b. m. .) =b. rubro-venia= (red-veined).* rootstock thick. stems in. to in. high, red, pubescent. _l._ in. to in. long, elliptic or lanceolate acuminate, entire or slightly angular, toothed, green spotted with white above, purplish-brown below. scapes axillary, red. _fl._ in cymose head; outer segments white with rose-red veins, inner segments pure white. summer. sikkim, &c., . (b. m. .) =b. sanguinea= (blood-red). s. stems woody when old, tall, stout, red, with scattered paler spots. _l._ in. to in. long, unequally cordate, acuminate, thick and somewhat fleshy in texture, minutely crenate, green above, deep red below; peduncles axillary, long, erect, red. _fl._ in a branching cyme, rather small, white. capsule wings sub-equal. spring. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. scabrida= (rough). stem stout, erect, somewhat succulent, covered with small tubercles. _l._ in. long, oblique, ovate-acute, cordate, toothed, slightly hairy. _fl._ white, small; cyme many-flowered. capsule wings equal, large. venezuela, . =b. scandens= (climbing).* stem flexuose, fleshy, creeping or climbing, smooth. _l._ in. long, ovate acuminate, sub-cordate; margins irregularly toothed, pale shining green. _fl._ in axillary branching cymes, white, small. south america, . useful either as a basket plant or for training against moist walls. syns. _b. elliptica_, _b. lucida_, _b. moritziana_. (r. g. .) =b. sceptrum= (princely). s. _l._ obliquely ovate in outline, deeply lobed on one side; lobes oblong; obtuse, veins sunk, and the raised spaces between marked with large silvery blotches, and numerous smaller dots of silver grey. brazil, . =b. schmidtiana= (schmidt's).* stems ft. high, branching, herbaceous. _l._ obliquely cordate, ovate-acute, small, dark metallic green above, tinged with red below. _fl._ in loose drooping axillary panicles, white, small, numerous. winter. brazil, . (r. g. .) =b. scutellata= (salver-like). synonymous with _b. conchæfolia_. [illustration: fig. . begonia semperflorens frau maria brandt, showing habit and flower.] =b. sedeni= (seden's). t. a garden hybrid between _b. boliviensis_ and _b. veitchii_. summer. . a handsome plant, but much inferior to many of the more recent hybrids. (r. h. , .) =b. semperflorens= (always-flowering).* stem fleshy, erect, smooth, reddish-green. _l._ ovate-rotundate, hardly cordate; margins serrated, ciliated, surface smooth, shining green. _fl._ on axillary stalks, near apex of stems, white or rose, rather large. capsule wings two short, one long, rounded. autumn. brazil, . a useful summer and autumn flowering species, of which there are several named varieties more or less distinct from the type, either in colour or size of flowers, or in habit of plant. the varieties _carminea_, _gigantea_, and _rosea_ are perhaps the best. syn. _b. spathulata_. (b. m. .) =b. s. frau maria brandt.= a dwarf compact variety, with rose-tinted flowers. see fig. . =b. socotrana= (socotra).* stem annual, stout and succulent, forming at base a cluster of bulbils, each of which produces a plant the following year; sparsely hairy. _l._ dark green, orbicular, peltate, in. to in. across, centre depressed; margin recurved, crenate. _fl._ in terminal, few-flowered cymes, - / in. to in. wide, bright rose. capsule three-angled, one-winged. winter. socotra, . should be rested through the summer, and started in heat in september. a distinct and beautiful species. (b. m. .) =b. spathulata= (spathulate). synonymous with _b. semperflorens_. =b. stigmosa= (branded).* rhizome creeping, fleshy. _l._ in. to in. long, oblique, cordate-acute, irregularly toothed, smooth above, hairy beneath, green, with brownish-purple blotches; stalks scaly, as in _b. manicata_. _fl._ in cymose panicles, white, medium-sized, numerous. brazil, . =b. strigillosa= (strigillose).* rhizome short, fleshy, creeping, _l._ in. to in. long, oblique, ovate-acute, cordate-toothed; margins ciliate, red; stalk and blade covered with fleshy scales; blade smooth, blotched with brown. _fl._ in branching cymes, dipetalous, small, rose-coloured. summer. central america, . =b. suaveolens= (sweet-scented). s. stem branching, ft. high, smooth. _l._ in. to in. long, oblique-ovate, cordate-acute, crenulate, glabrous. _fl._ in axillary panicles, large, white. winter. central america, . resembles _b. nitida_, but may be distinguished by its distinctly crenulate leaves and smaller flowers, which are white, and not pale rose, as in _b. nitida_. syn. _b. odorata_. (l. b. c. .) =b. sutherlandi= (sutherland's).* t. stems annual, ft. to ft. high, slender, graceful, red-purple. _l._ on slender red petioles, in. to in. long; blade in. to in. long, ovate-lanceolate, deeply lobed at base; margins serrate, bright green; nerves bright red. _fl._ in axillary and terminal cymes, numerous, orange-red, shaded with dark vinous-red. capsule wings equal. summer. natal, . (b. m. .) =b. teuscheri= (teuscher's). s. a strong, erect-growing, large-leaved plant, from the dutch indies, not yet flowered. _l._ cordate-ovate, acute, olive-green above, with greyish blotches; under side rich claret-coloured. hort. linden. (i. ii. , .) =b. thwaitesii= (thwaites's).* stemless. _l._ in. to in. in diameter, obtuse or sub-acute, cordate at base, minutely toothed, slightly pubescent, very shaggy when young, rich coppery-green, red-purple and blotched with white; under side blood red. _fl._ in an umbel, medium-sized; scape short, white. capsule shaped like a beech nut; wings short. ceylon, . one of the most beautiful of coloured-leaved begonias, requiring a close, moist atmosphere in a stove. (b. m. .) =b. ulmifolia= (elm-leaved). s. stem ft. to ft. high, branching. _l._ in. to in. long, ovate-oblong, unequal-sided, toothed, rugose, hairy. _fl._ on hairy peduncles, numerous, small, white. capsule wings two small, one large, ovate. winter. venezuela, . (l. c. .) =b. undulata= (wavy-leaved). s. stem ft. to ft. high, erect, branching freely, turgid below, green, succulent until old. _l._ distichous, oblong-lanceolate, undulated, smooth, shining green. _fl._ in nodding axillary cymes, white, small. winter. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. urophylla= (caudate-leaved). stemless. leafstalks terete, succulent, clothed with scattered bristly hairs. _l._ large, in. long, broad, cordate; margin irregularly cut, toothed; apex long-pointed, green, smooth above, hairy beneath; peduncle stout, paniculate. _fl._ crowded, large, dipetalous, white. spring. brazil. (b. m. .) =b. veitchii= (veitch's).* t. stem very short, thick, fleshy, green. _l._ orbiculate, cordate, lobed and incised; margins ciliated, green, principal nerves radiating from bright carmine spot near centre; under side pale green; petiole thick, terete, with a few hairs on the upper portion; scape in. to in. high, thick, terete, pilose, two-flowered. _fl._ - / in. in diameter, cinnabar red. capsule smooth, two short, one long wings. summer. peru, . one of the species from which the popular garden tuberous-rooted begonias have been obtained. (b. m. .) =b. verschaffeltiana= (verschaffelt's).* a hybrid between _b. carolinæfolia_ and _b. manicata_, with large ovate acutely-lobed leaves and flowers in large cymes, rose-coloured and pendent. winter. (r. g. , p. .) =b. vitifolia= (vine-leaved). s. stem ft. to ft. high, thick, smooth, and fleshy. _l._ large as vine foliage, and similar in shape; peduncles axillary, erect, branching into a cymose head of small white flowers. capsules three-angled, one-winged. winter. brazil, . syns. _b. grandis_, _b. reniformis_. (b. m. .) =b. wagneriana= (wagner's). s. stem ft. to ft. high, erect, glabrous, green, succulent, branched. _l._ cordate-ovate, acuminate; margins obscurely lobed, slightly serrate, quite glabrous; peduncles axillary and terminal, cymose. _fl._ numerous, white. capsules, which are ripened in abundance, three-angled, one wing long, two short. winter. venezuela, . (b. m. .) =b. warscewiczii= (warscewicz's). synonymous with _b. conchæfolia_. =b. weltoniensis= (welton). a garden hybrid; one of the oldest of cultivated winter-flowering kinds, with light pink flowers, very free. =b. xanthina= (yellow-flowered).* stem short, thick, fleshy, horizontal, along with petioles thickly-clothed with brown scaly hairs; petioles in. to in. long, stout, terete, fleshy, reddish-brown; blade in. to in. long, cordate-ovate, acuminate, sinuate-ciliated, dark green above, purplish beneath. flower-stalks erect, ft. high, bearing a cymose head of large golden flowers. capsule with one large wing. summer. boutan, . (b. m. .) =b. x. lazuli= (lapis-lazuli).* foliage metallic purple, with a bluish tinge. =b. x. pictifolia= (ornamented-leaved).* _l._ with large silvery spots, and pale yellow flowers. the following list comprises a selection of some of the best and most distinct of the innumerable varieties now existing in gardens, and which have been obtained by crossing and re-crossing the several tuberous-rooted species found in the temperate regions of south america. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of begonia admiration.] =single-flowered varieties.= _crimson and scarlet shaded_: admiration, flowers vivid orange-scarlet, of dwarf, compact habit, and free flowering (see fig. ); arthur g. soames,* brilliant crimson scarlet, of excellent form, and very free; ball of fire,* glowing fiery-scarlet, flowers large and compact, very free; black douglas,* dark carmine crimson, flowers large, of the finest form, one of the best; brilliant, deep orange-scarlet, very free; charles baltet, rich velvety vermilion; commodore foot,* brilliant velvety crimson, very free and showy; davisii, flowers small, dazzling scarlet, habit dwarf and free; dr. masters,* flowers large, with immense spikes, deep red-crimson, very attractive; dr. sewell,* glowing crimson, grand form; exoniensis, brilliant orange-scarlet, immense flowers; f. e. laing, deep velvety crimson, full and free; hon. mrs. brassey,* deep glowing crimson, very rich and floriferous; j. h. laing,* brilliant scarlet, one of the freest; j. w. ferrand,* rich vermilion, dwarf and free, one of the finest for bedding; lothair,* dark scarlet-carmine, crimson shaded, of grand form and size; marquis of bute, brilliant carmine-crimson, of the finest form, and immense flowers; scarlet gem,* very dark scarlet, flowers medium-sized, dwarf and very floriferous; sedeni, rich rosy-crimson, dwarf, a good bedder; vesuvius,* bright orange-scarlet, compact and free, one of the finest bedders. [illustration: fig. . begonia queen of whites.] _rose-coloured_: albert croussÃ�,* bright salmon-rose, very free; annie laing,* large and free, rich pink; capt. thompson, rich salmon-rose, very free and compact; delicatum, pale flesh-rose; exquisite,* rich deep rose, very free and showy; j. aubrey clark, flowers very large, rich, deep; jessie,* soft rosy-pink, with the tips of the petals shaded carmine, a very fine, perfect variety; lady brooke,* dark rose, shaded magenta, very perfect in form, and large; lady hume campbell,* pale pink, of good form and size, an exquisite variety; madame stella,* flowers perfect in form, large, bright rosy-pink, one of the best; marchioness of bute, light rosy-pink, with an immense bloom and handsome foliage; penelope,* rich salmon-rose, very free and good; princess of wales, very delicate pink, and free; rose d'amour, rich rose, delicately shaded. _white-flowered_: alba floribunda, flowers medium-sized, very free; moonlight, very free, with good flowers and handsome foliage; mrs. laing,* flowers exquisite in form and shape, pure white, one of the best; nymph,* large and round, white, tinted with rose at the base; princess beatrice,* flowers large, of excellent form, and pure in colour; purity, flowers round, good size and colour; queen of whites,* flowers pure white, large, most freely produced (see fig. , for which we are indebted to messrs. veitch and sons); reine blanche,* one of the best, very pure; snowflake,* flowers large, in full spikes, pure white, habit compact, and very free. _yellow and orange-flowered_: chromatella,* habit dwarf and compact, pure yellow; empress of india, deep yellow, very showy; gem of yellows,* rich deep yellow, of grand form and size, one of the best; golden gem,* rich golden yellow, of excellent form and size, habit free, with prettily mottled foliage; j. l. macfarlane, rich orange, freest form, and large; lady trevor lawrence,* orange-yellow, of good form, with handsome foliage; maude churchill,* pale yellow, deeper shaded, with elegant foliage; mrs. pontifex,* rich orange yellow, very large flowers, copiously produced; pollie, pale yellow, fine round flower; sulphur queen,* pale sulphur-yellow, of good form and size. =double-flowered varieties.= _crimson and scarlet shaded_: achilles, rich dark crimson, very large and free; davisii hybrida fl.-pl.,* rich coral-red, very full and free; davisii fl.-pl. superba,* brilliant crimson-scarlet, of good size, and extremely free; dr. duke,* brilliant scarlet, very large and double, one of the best; francis buchner,* rich cerise-red, very double, perfect in form, and very large; fulgurant, rich crimson, full, with dark foliage; gloire de nancy,* rich vermilion, very free; hercules,* bright orange-scarlet, very large and extremely free, habit compact and vigorous; lemoinei, deep orange-vermilion, very floriferous; monsieur bauer, deep red, tinged with violet; nimrod,* rich red-scarlet, very large and full, with a free and very vigorous habit; president burelle,* glowing red, tinted with scarlet, very free; queen of doubles,* rich rosy-crimson, very double and floriferous, one of the best varieties; robert burns,* brilliant orange-scarlet, tinted vermilion, very double and free; sir garnet, deep orange-scarlet, very vigorous; wm. bealby,* deep velvety scarlet, immense size and perfect form, very free. _rose-coloured_: ada,* bright rosy-salmon, fringed at the edge, very full and free; comtesse h. de choiseul, pale rose, at first nearly white, very handsome; esther,* rich rosy pink, with a distinct crimson margin; formosa,* rich rosy carmine, with a white centre and crimson margin, very distinct and showy; glory of stanstead,* deep rose, with a well-defined white centre, very distinct and handsome; john t. poe,* bright rose, tinted with cerise, of excellent form and vigorous habit; madame comesse,* rich satiny salmon-rose, immense, and most profuse; madame leon simon, soft pale rose, very full and free; marie lemoine, light salmon with a rose centre; mrs. brissenden,* salmon-rose, with a cream-white centre, of excellent form and very free; pÃ�oniflora, flowers enormous, rich salmon-rose, very full; queen of scots,* satiny-pink, salmon-shaded, of a perfect form and very large, habit compact and very free; rosina,* deep rose, violet shaded, of exquisite form, very vigorous and free. _white-flowered_: antoinette querin,* pure white, cream, shaded centre, very large and full, a magnificent variety; blanche jeanpierre, pure white, cream tinted, of excellent form and very free; little gem,* pure white, of the best form and good size, habit dwarf and extremely floriferous; mrs. ludlam,* white, tinted with pink, a very handsome variety; princess of wales,* flowers very full and profuse, almost pure in colour, and immense. _yellow-flowered_: canary bird,* flowers large, of the finest form, deep yellow, habit dwarf and very free; gabriel legros,* pale sulphur, changing to yellow, very full and imbricated, extremely showy. =begoniaceÃ�.= an order comprising a large number of useful garden plants. the only genera are _begonia_ and _begoniella_ (which is not yet in cultivation). flowers apetalous; perianth single; pistillate flowers having the perianth two to eight-cleft, staminate ones two to four-cleft; stamens numerous, collected into a head. leaves alternate, stipulate. _see_ =begonia=. =bejaria.= _see_ =befaria=. =belladonna.= _see_ =atropa=. =belladonna lily.= _see_ =amaryllis belladonna=. =bellevalia= (named in honour of p. r. belleval, a french botanist). ord. _liliaceæ_. this genus is now usually placed under _hyacinthus_. hardy, bulbous-rooted plants, admirably adapted for spring bedding or forcing, and invaluable as cut flowers. flowers small, whitish, or violet, tinged with green. leaves few, radical, broadly linear. they are of extremely easy culture in ordinary garden soil. propagated by offsets; also by seeds, which should be sown as soon as ripe. =b. operculata= (lid-covered). synonymous with _b. romana_. =b. romana= (roman).* roman hyacinth. _fl._ white, racemose; perianth campanulate; pedicels longer than the flowers. april. _l._ from in. to in. long. _h._ in. italy, . a most desirable plant, and the best of the genus for forcing purposes. syns. _b. operculata_ and _hyacinthus romanus_. (b. m. , under the name of _scilla romana_.) _see_ =hyacinthus=. =b. syriaca= (syrian).* _fl._ white; peduncles spreading, racemose. may. _l._ glaucous, ft. long, channelled, rather scarious on the margins. _h._ ft. syria, . =bell-flower.= _see_ =campanula=. [illustration: fig. . french bell glass, or cloche.] [illustration: fig. . english bell glass.] =bell glasses=, or =cloches=. these are used for the purpose of protecting or accelerating the growth of a plant or plants. the french cloche (see fig. ) is largely employed for this purpose. ordinary bell glasses (see fig. ) are exceedingly useful for propagating purposes, especially for hard-wooded plants; or for placing over subjects which require a very moist atmosphere, such as filmy ferns, cephalotus, &c.; or for covering half-hardy plants or rare alpines, and thus protecting them from excessive moisture. large bell glasses, inverted, serve as miniature aquaria, and many small aquatics are easily grown in them. =bellidiastrum= (from _bellis_, a daisy, and _astrum_, a star; flower-heads being star-like). ord. _compositæ_. a pretty dwarf, hardy, herbaceous perennial, allied to _aster_. it thrives in a compost of loam, leaf soil, and peat. increased by divisions in early spring, or directly after blooming. =b. michelii= (michel's).* _fl.-heads_ white; scape one-headed, naked; involucre with equal leaves; pappus simple. june. _l._ in a rosette, shortly stalked, obovate, repand. _h._ ft. austria, . =bellis= (from _bellus_, pretty, in reference to the flowers). daisy. ord. _compositæ_. a genus of hardy herbaceous perennials, distinguished from allied genera in having conical receptacles and an absence of pappus. they grow well in all loamy soils. the garden varieties are increased by division after flowering, each crown making a separate plant. the soil must be pressed about them moderately firm. seeds may also be sown in march, but the plants thus obtained are seldom of sufficient floricultural merit to perpetuate. [illustration: fig. . bellis perennis flore-pleno.] [illustration: fig. . hen and chickens daisy (bellis perennis prolifera).] =b. perennis= (perennial).* common daisy. _fl.-heads_ white. june. _l._ numerous, lying flat on the ground, obovate, crenate, slightly hairy, tapering at the base. _h._ in. england. the varieties are very numerous, the double ones being particularly fine. see fig. . the handsome variegated form, _aucubæfolia_, has its leaves richly stained and veined with yellow. there are both red and white-flowered forms of this variety. the hen and chickens daisy is a proliferous form, rather more quaint than pretty. see fig. . good garden kinds are _b. p. conspicua_, red; crown, pink; eliza, purple; rubens, red; snowflake, white. [illustration: fig. . bellis rotundifolia cÅ�rulescens.] =b. rotundifolia cÅ�rulescens= (round-leaved, bluish).* _fl.-heads_ from / in. to - / in. in diameter, resembling those of the common daisy, but with fewer, often broader, ray-flowers, which vary from white to pale blue. _l._ more or less hairy, with slender stalks, in. to in. long; blade ovate or sub-cordate, sinuate toothed, three-nerved. morocco, . a very beautiful perennial, requiring the shelter of a cold frame during severe winters. see fig. . (b. m. .) =bellium= (from _bellis_, a daisy; the flowers resembling those of that plant). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of pretty little, free-flowering plants, differing from the common daisy only in having a pappus of six to eight broad scales, torn at the apex, alternating with a like number of long scabrous bristles. they thrive best in a mixture of sandy loam and peat. propagation is readily effected by means of seeds or divisions; the latter should be made in spring. [illustration: fig. . bellium bellidioides.] =b. bellidioides= (daisy-like).* _fl.-heads_ white, solitary. june to september. _l._ spathulate, radical. stolons creeping. _h._ in. italy, . annual. see fig. . =b. crassifolium= (thick-leaved). _fl.-heads_ whitish-yellow; scapes much exceeding the leaves, downy. june. _l._ sub-radical, thick, obovate, entire, attenuate at base, rather downy. stems many, ascending. _h._ in. sardinia, . hardy perennial. (s. b. f. g. , .) =b. minutum= (very small).* _fl.-heads_ white and yellow, / in. across, on slender stalks, longer than the foliage. june to september. _l._ narrow spathulate, attenuated at the base, slightly hairy. _h._ in. levant, . a rare little species, requiring a warm, well-drained position on the rockery. =bellows.= these were formerly employed for fumigating, but are now entirely superseded by the ordinary fumigators. the sulphur bellows is a very useful instrument for the uniform distribution of flowers of sulphur on vines and other subjects infested with mildew. in form it is very like those in common domestic use, but has a rose of small holes at the end of its nozzle, through which the sulphur is ejected. =bell-pepper.= _see_ =capsicum grossum=. =beloperone= (from _belos_, an arrow, and _peronne_, a band; in reference to the arrow-shaped connectivum). syn. _dianthera_. ord. _acanthaceæ_. very pretty stove evergreen shrubs, allied to _justicia_. flowers blue or purple, borne in secund, axillary, or terminal spikes, frequently subtended with coloured bracts; corolla gaping, the upper lip concave, the lower trifid. they are easily cultivated in a compost of loam, leaf soil, peat, and sand. propagated by young cuttings, taken in spring. beloperones may also be treated like _justicias_ (which _see_), and will succeed admirably. there are a large number of species, but few of which have been introduced. =b. oblongata= (oblong). _fl._ rosy-purple; spikes axillary; anthers calcarate at base; bracts bracteolate. summer. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, opposite. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. h. , .) =b. violacea= (violet-coloured).* _fl._ violet. _l._ lanceolate, acuminate, entire. _h._ ft. new grenada, . (b. m. .) =bending-down= the branches of fruit trees, by means of weights or string attached to pegs driven into the ground, is sometimes resorted to for the purpose of acquiring a particular shape, or fruitfulness; but authorities differ as to the usefulness of the plan for the latter purpose. young trees that are inclined to grow strong in the middle may be more evenly balanced by adopting the plan of bending the strong branches, and so diverting the sap to the weaker ones. =bengal quince.= _see_ =Ã�gle marmelos=. =benjamin-tree.= _see_ =ficus benjamina=. =bent grass.= _see_ =agrostis=. =benthamia= (in honour of george bentham, a distinguished english botanist). ord. _cornaceæ_. hardy evergreen shrubs or low trees, now referred to the genus _cornus_. the first-named species is rather tender in the neighbourhood of london, and can only be grown successfully against a wall, for which purpose it is very suitable. in cornwall and other mild places, it attains a height of ft. in the open. loudon thinks it might be rendered hardier by grafting it on _cornus sanguinea_. flowers disposed in heads, each head attended by an involucre, which consists of four petal-like parts, and resembles a corolla; calyx with a minute four-toothed limb; petals four, fleshy, wedge-shaped; stamens four; style one. leaves opposite, exstipulate, sub-evergreen, entire. fruit constituted of many pomes grown together. they thrive in rather moist, loamy soil, in a sheltered spot. propagated by seeds, sown when ripe, in a cool-house; or by layering, in autumn. =b. fragifera= (strawberry-flowered).* _fl._ large, white, sessile, densely aggregate, forming a round head. june to october. _fr._ large, about the size of that of the common arbutus, reddish. _l._ lanceolate, acuminated at both ends, on short petioles, rather rough, with small, adpressed down. branches spreading, smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . (g. c. xiv., .) =b. japonica= (japanese). _fl._ yellowish-red. spring. _h._ ft. japan, . (s. z. f. j. .) =berardia= (named after m. berard, a professor of chemistry at montpelier). ord. _compositæ_. a genus containing a single species, confined to the high mountains of western europe. it makes a pretty rock plant, and grows best in thoroughly well-drained spots amongst rocky _débris_. propagated by seeds, sown in spring. =b. subacaulis= (almost stemless). _fl.-heads_ whitish, solitary, very large. _l._ rounded oval, nearly heart-shaped at base, cottony. _h._ in. or in. (a. f. p. , .) =berberidaceÃ�.= an order of shrubs or herbaceous perennials. flowers terminal or axillary, usually racemose; sepals three, four, or six in a double row; petals as many or double in number; stamens four to eight, opposite the petals. fruit, a berry or capsule. leaves alternate, compound. the order contributes a great number of handsome plants to our gardens. well-known genera are _berberis_, _epimedium_, and _nandina_. =berberidopsis= (from _berberis_, the barberry, and _opsis_, like; resembling the barberry). ord. _berberidaceæ_. a handsome evergreen shrub, with climbing habit. sepals and petals nine to fifteen; outer small, spreading; intermediate orbicular, concave; inner obovate-cuneate, erect, inserted upon the fleshy torus. stamens eight to nine, free. with a slight winter protection, or planted at the foot of a south wall, it will prove quite hardy, being of easy culture in ordinary garden soil. it is an excellent plant for the cool greenhouse. increased by seeds, which should be sown in spring; by layering, in autumn; or by young cuttings, in spring. [illustration: fig. . flowering branches of berberidopsis corallina.] =b. corallina= (coral-red).* _fl._ crimson, in terminal, drooping racemes, leafy at the base. _l._ about in. long, alternate, simple, petiolate, oblong-cordate, obtuse or acute, spiny-toothed. chili, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =berberis= (_berberys_ is the arabic name of the fruit, signifying a shell; many authors believe this to be the original derivation of the word, because the leaves are hollow, like a shell). barberry. ord. _berberidaceæ_. including _mahonia_. a genus of hardy erect or trailing shrubs. flowers yellow or orange, racemose or fascicled; sepals and petals similar, in two series. leaves simple or compound, alternate or fascicled from the non-development of the branches, often spinose, or reduced to spines. the common sorts thrive well in any ordinary garden soil, but the rarer kinds require a compost of loam, peat, and a little sand. propagation may be effected by suckers or layers, put down in the autumn; by ripened cuttings, taken at the same time, and planted in sandy soil, in a cold frame; or by seeds, sown in the spring, or, preferably, in the autumn, when, if fresh from the pulp or berry, they will germinate in the open in the following spring. the last-named is the method generally adopted. =b. aquifolium= (holly-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; racemes nearly erect, much crowded. spring. _l._, leaflets two to three pairs, with an odd one, the lower part distant from the petiole; ovate, approximate, cordate at the base, one-nerved, spiny-toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . this is extensively planted in woodlands as an excellent covert plant. syn. _mahonia aquifolia_. (s. e. b. .) =b. aristata= (bearded). _fl._ yellow; racemes nodding, many-flowered, longer than the leaves; pedicels trifid, three-flowered. spring. _l._ obovate-oblong or lanceolate, mucronate, membranous, smooth, serrated with four or five spinulose teeth; lower spines three-parted, upper ones simple, and hardly bidentate at the base. _h._ ft. nepaul, . (b. r. , under name of _b. chitria_.) =b. asiatica= (asiatic). _fl._, racemes short, many-flowered, corymbose, shorter than the leaves; pedicels elongated, one-flowered. _l._ oval, cuneated, or elliptical, mucronate, smooth; under surface glaucous, entire, or spinulosely-toothed; spines trifid, or simple. _h._ ft. to ft. . half-hardy. =b. buxifolia= (box-leaved).* _fl._ solitary, on slender peduncles. spring. _l._ nearly sessile, oval or oblong, about / in. long, entire. _h._ ft. straits of magellan, . _nana_ is a charming little variety, not exceeding in. in height. syn. _b. dulcis_. (b. m. .) =b. canadensis= (canadian).* _fl._, racemes many-flowered, nodding. spring. _l._ obovate-oblong, remotely serrated; upper ones nearly entire; spines three-parted. _h._ ft. canada, . =b. cratægina= (hawthorn-like). _fl._, racemes many-flowered, crowded, spreading, scarcely longer than the leaves. spring. _l._ oblong, reticulated, hardly serrated; spines simple. _h._ ft. to ft. asia minor, . =b. cretica= (cretan). _fl._, racemes three to eight-flowered, rather shorter than the leaves. spring. _l._ oblong-oval, entire, or somewhat serrated; spines three to five-parted. _h._ ft. to ft. crete and cyprus, . the variety _serratifolia_ has leaves ciliately-serrated. (s. f. g. .) =b. darwinii= (darwin's).* _fl._ orange, racemose, very numerous. may, and sometimes again in autumn. _l._ oval or oblong, about in. long, with usually five spiny teeth. _h._ ft. south chili, . this very fine species is, perhaps, the best; it forms a densely-branched, spreading, evergreen bush, thus making an excellent covert plant. (b. m. .) =b. dulcis= (sweet). synonymous with _b. buxifolia_. =b. emarginata= (emarginate). _fl._, racemes scarcely pendulous, shorter than the leaves. spring. _l._ lanceolate-obovate, ciliately serrated; spines three-parted. _h._ ft. siberia, . =b. empetrifolia= (empetrum-leaved).* _fl._ few, terminal, sub-umbellate, on slender pedicels. may. _l._ in fascicles of about seven, linear, closely revolute, sharply mucronate. _h._ - / ft. to ft. straits of magellan, . (b. r. , .) =b. fascicularis= (fascicled). _fl._, racemes erect, much crowded. spring. _l._, leaflets three to six pairs, with an odd one, the lower pair distant from the base of the petiole; ovate-lanceolate, rather distant, one-nerved, spiny toothed, with four to five teeth on each side. _h._ ft. to ft. new spain, . half-hardy. syn. _mahonia fascicularis_. (b. m. .) =b. floribunda= (many-flowered).* _fl._, racemes many-flowered, loose, solitary, pendulous. june. _l._ obovate-lanceolate, or obovate-oblong, tapering much towards the base, ending in a mucrone at the apex, paler beneath, spiny-ciliated; spines three-parted, unequal. _h._ ft. nepaul. a variety of _aristata_. =b. fortunei= (fortune's).* _fl._ small, in terminal clustered racemes. _l._, leaflets about seven, linear-lanceolate, distant, with numerous small spiny teeth, lower pair remote from the base of the petiole. china. =b. glumacea= (glumaceous). a synonym of _b. nervosa_. =b. iberica= (iberian). _fl._, racemes many-flowered, pendulous. spring. _l._ obovate-oblong, quite entire; spines simple and three-parted. _h._ ft. to ft. iberia, . =b. ilicifolia= (holly-leaved). _fl._, peduncles short, four-flowered; pedicels elongated, somewhat corymbose. july. _l._ ovate, tapering at the base, coarsely and spinulosely toothed; spines three-parted. _h._ ft. to ft. tierra del fuego, . (b. m. .) =b. japonica= (japanese).* _fl._, racemes in terminal clusters. spring. _l._, leaflets usually nine, about in. long, quite sessile, broadly cordate, or rotundate at the base, oblique, with about five long spiny teeth, and a terminal one, the lowest pairs close to the base of the petiole. china and japan. very distinct, with unbranched stems and leaves about ft. long. _b. beali_ and _b. intermedia_ are mere forms of this species, the latter differing from it in having narrower leaves and longer, slender racemes. (b. m. .) =b. loxensis= (loxanese). _fl._ unusually small, erect, in panicled racemes on a long peduncle quite clear of the leaves. _l._ very shining, blunt, obovate; sides often with several teeth; spines small, palmated. _h._ ft. to ft. peru. evergreen, not hardy. (p. f. g. , p. .) [illustration: fig. . berberis nepalensis.] =b. nepalensis= (nepaulese).* _fl._ yellow; racemes few, elongated, slender. _l._ ft. to ft. long; leaflets five to nine pairs, obovate-oblong, cuspidate, rounded at the base, repand-toothed, with five to ten spiny teeth on each side, tricuspidate at the apex. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul. a very handsome species, thriving best in the southern parts of england. syn. _mahonia nepalensis_. see fig. . =b. nervosa= (large-nerved). _fl._, racemes elongated. october. _l._, leaflets five to six pairs, with an odd one, the lower pair distant from the petiole; ovate, acuminated, remotely spiny toothed, somewhat three to five-nerved, with twelve to fourteen teeth on each side. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . syns. _b. glumacea_, _mahonia nervosa_. (b. m. .) =b. repens= (creeping).* _fl._, racemes terminal, numerous, fascicled, diffuse, rising from the scaly buds. spring. _l._, leaflets, two to three pairs, with an odd one, roundish-ovate, opaque, spiny toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . syn. _mahonia repens_. (b. r. .) =b. ruscifolia= (ruscus-leaved). _fl._ a little larger than those of _b. vulgaris_; peduncles short, bearing four to five flowers at the apex. _l._ oblong, tapering at the base, mucronate, entire, or grossly and spiny toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . half-hardy. =b. sinensis= (chinese).* _fl._, racemes many-flowered, nodding. may. _l._ oblong, obtuse, entire, or the lower ones are a little toothed; spines three-parted. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . berberis stenophylla, showing habit and flowering twig.] =b. stenophylla= (naked-leaved),* with narrow mucronate leaves, is said to be a hybrid between _b. empetrifolia_ and _b. darwinii_. see fig. . =b. trifoliata= (three-leafleted). _fl._, racemes small, axillary, sessile, three to five-flowered. spring. _l._, leaflets three, sessile at the ends of the petioles, deeply scalloped, bluish-green, variegated, glaucous beneath. _h._ ft. mexico, . evergreen, not quite hardy. (p. f. g. , .) =b. trifurcata= (three-forked). _fl._, racemes compound, erect. spring. _l._ pinnate; leaflets broad, three-forked. _h._ ft. china, . evergreen. (p. f. g. , .) =b. umbellata= (umbellate). _fl._, peduncles solitary, erect, bearing at the top several umbellate pedicels. _l._ obovate-oblong, mucronate, entire, glaucous beneath; spines three-parted, long, equal. _h._ ft. nepaul, . (p. f. g. , .) =b. vulgaris= (common).* common barberry. _fl._, racemes many-flowered, pendulous. spring. _l._ somewhat obovate, ciliately-serrated; spines three-parted. _h._ ft. to ft. britain, &c. there are yellow, violet, purple, black, and white fruited, and purple-leaved forms. (sy. en. b. .) =b. wallichiana= (wallich's).* _fl._ on drooping, aggregated peduncles, six to eight or more in a cluster. spring. _l._ in alternate fascicles, in. to in. long, spreading or recurved, lanceolate, sinuato-serrate; spines deeply three-parted, slender but rigid. _h._ ft. to ft. nepaul, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =berchemia= (in honour of m. berchem, a french botanist). ord. _rhamnaceæ_. a genus of erect, or twining, deciduous, mostly greenhouse shrubs. flowers sub-umbellate, in the axils of the upper leaves, or disposed in terminal panicles. leaves alternate, many-nerved, entire. the species mentioned below is probably the only one yet in cultivation. it is quite hardy, will grow in any common soil, and is well adapted for bowers or trellis-work. propagated by ripened cuttings, and slips of the root, planted under a hand glass; or by layering the young shoots. =b. volubilis= (twining).* _fl._ greenish-white; panicles small, axillary and terminal. drupe oblong, violaceous. june. _l._ oval, mucronate, a little wavy. branches smooth. carolina, . a deciduous twiner. (g. g. .) =bergamot.= _see_ =mentha odorata=. =bergera= (named after c. j. berger, a distinguished danish botanist). ord. _rutaceæ_. interesting stove evergreen trees, now usually referred to _murraya_. leaves impari-pinnate; leaflets alternate, acuminated, pubescent. they thrive in a mixture of turfy loam and peat. propagated by ripened cuttings, taken off at a joint, and placed in sand, under a hand glass, in bottom heat; or by layers. =b. kÅ�nigi= (konig's). _fl._ whitish-yellow, small; racemes many, forming a corymb at the top of the branches. june. _l._, leaflets serrated. _h._ ft. india, . (l. b. c. .) =berkheya= (named after m. j. l. de berkhey, a dutch botanist), ord. _compositæ_. a genus of ornamental greenhouse or hardy thistle-like herbs or shrubs. flower-heads surrounded by a spiny involucre, the scales of which are united at the base only; pappus of many flat, obtuse, or pointed, scales. they are of easy cultivation in a sandy loam soil. the perennials are increased by cuttings placed under a glass; the herbaceous perennials usually by divisions of the plant in spring. the species most frequently seen in english gardens is _b. purpurea_. [illustration: fig. . berberis wallichiana.] =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ yellow; scales of involucre spiny toothed. july. _l._ opposite, lanceolate, three-nerved, spiny toothed, downy beneath. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . greenhouse evergreen. (b. m. .) =b. pinnata= (pinnate). _fl.-heads_ yellow; involucral scales spine-pointed, entire or toothed. autumn. _l._ oblong, woolly beneath, deeply cut into lance-shaped segments. syn. _stobæa pinnata_. (b. m. .) =b. purpurea= (purplish).* _fl.-heads_ numerous, pedunculate, corymbose, circular, in. across, surrounded by an involucre of spreading or reflexed linear oblong bracts. _l._, lower ones in. to in. long, in. to - / in. wide, dark green, viscid above, paler and cottony beneath. _h._ ft. south africa. a very handsome, hardy, herbaceous perennial. (g. c. , p. .) syn. _stobæa purpurea_. =b. uniflora= (one-flowered). _fl.-heads_ yellow; scales of involucre spiny toothed. june. _l._ alternate, lanceolate, three-nerved, spiny toothed, downy beneath. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . greenhouse evergreen. (b. m. .) =bermuda cedar.= _see_ =juniperus bermudiana=. =berry.= a fleshy fruit, containing seeds. =bertholletia= (in honour of louis claude berthollet, a celebrated french chemist). brazil nut tree. tribe lecythideæ of ord. _myrtaceæ_. _b. excelsa_ is a tall tree, having the young branches leafy at the apex. leaves alternate, oblong, quite entire, rather coriaceous. from this brazilian species are obtained the well-known brazil or para nuts of commerce. the tree is of no value for decorative purposes. =bertolonia= (named after a. bertoloni, an italian botanist, author of "rariorum italiæ plantarum decades," &c.). ord. _melastomaceæ_. elegant little creeping or dwarf-growing stove plants, chiefly cultivated for their exquisitely marked leaves. flowers white or purple. leaves stalked, ovate-cordate, five to eleven-nerved, crenulated; cymes corymbose, terminal. they thrive in a compost of equal parts peat, leaf mould, and sand, in a warm, close, and moist atmosphere, but are most successfully cultivated under a bell glass in the stove; in fact, the latter is the only plan of growing them where a constantly humid atmosphere cannot be otherwise obtained without such means. they are easily propagated by cuttings or seeds. =b. ænea= (coppery). _fl._ purple. _h._ in. brazil. =b. guttata= (spotted). _see_ =gravesia=. =b. maculata= (spotted).* _fl._ violet-purple; peduncles axillary, bearing at the apex a short raceme of six to seven flowers. _l._ on long petioles, cordate, ovate, quite entire, pilose on both surfaces and on the margins, five-nerved. branches, petioles, peduncles, and calyces hispid from long bristles. stem rooting at the base. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. marmorata= (marbled).* _l._ in. to in. long, ovate-oblong, hairy, five-nerved; upper side vivid bright green, beautifully marked with irregular streaks of pure white; under surface of a uniform rich purple. stem fleshy. _h._ in. brazil, . =b. pubescens= (downy).* _l._ ovate-acuminate, in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad; bright light green, with a broad chocolate-coloured band down the centre; upper surface clothed with long white hairs. ecuador. =berzelia= (named in honour of berzelius, a celebrated swedish chemist). ord. _bruniaceæ_. very pretty little greenhouse evergreen shrubs. heads of flowers naked, with three bracts at the base of each; usually crowded at the tops of the branches. leaves short, somewhat trigonal, imbricate or spreading. they require a mixture of peat, loam, and sand, with thorough drainage and moderately firm potting. young cuttings root freely in sand, under a bell glass, in gentle heat. =b. abrotanoides= (abrotanum-like). _fl.-heads_ white, the size of a filbert, terminal, crowded, sub-corymbose; bracts clavate, green, smooth, ustulate at the apex. may to july. _l._ ovate, ustulate at the apex, smooth, spreading, on short petioles. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . (l. b. c. .) =b. lanuginosa= (woolly).* _fl.-heads_ white, about the size of a pea, at the tops of lateral branches, disposed in a fastigiate panicle; bracts spathulate, callose at the apex. june to august. _l._ triquetrous, spreading, callose at the apex, rather hairy. branches erect, villous when young. _h._ ft. to ft. cape of good hope, . (l. b. c. .) =beschorneria= (in honour of h. beschorner, a german botanist). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. greenhouse evergreen succulents, allied to _littæa_ and _fourcroya_. perianth deeply six-parted; segments linear spathulate, tubulose-connivent, often spreading at the point; stamens six, about as long as the perianth. for culture, &c., _see_ =agave= and =aloe=. =b. bracteata= (bracteate). _fl._ at first green, turning yellowish-red when mature; panicle ft. to ft. long; branches many-flowered and corymbose, subtended by large scariose reddish bracts. _l._ in a dense rosette, in. to in. long, thin, glaucous green with scabrous margin. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. decosteriana= (decoster's). _fl._ green, tinged with red, pendulous, bracteate; panicle ft. to ft. long, inclined, with numerous bracts. _l._ numerous, spreading, in. to in. long, by in. to - / in. broad; edges minutely serrulate. _h._ ft. mexico, about . =b. tonelii= (tonel's).* _fl._ tubular, - / in. long, drooping, pedicellate, dark blood-red below and down the centre, the rest very bright verdigris green; panicle ft. long, slender, inclined; bracts several to each fascicle of flowers; scape ft. high, red-purple. _l._ few, spreading, in. to in. long, by - / in. broad, acuminate and keeled beneath towards the top, minutely serrulate. mexico, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . beschorneria bracteata.] =b. tubiflora= (tube-flowered). _fl._ greenish-purple, nutant, fascicled, bracteate; fascicles remote, secund; scapes erect, long, simple. may. _l._ radical, linear, channelled, recurved, spinosely denticulate. _h._ ft. mexico, . (b. m. .) =b. yuccoides= (yucca-like). _fl._ bright green, pendent, racemose, with rich rosy-red bracts; scapes slender, coral-red, simple. may and june. _l._ radical, thickish, lanceolate, acute, ft. to - / ft. long. _h._ ft. mexico. =besleria= (named in honour of basil besler, an apothecary at nuremberg). syn. _eriphia_. ord. _gesneraceæ_. very pretty stove sub-shrubs, usually erect, branched. peduncles axillary, few-flowered. leaves opposite, petiolate, thickish; nerves and veins very prominent beneath. stems sub-tetragonal. a light rich earth, or a mixture of sand, loam, and peat, and a moist atmosphere, are necessary for successful cultivation. beslerias may be increased by cuttings, which root readily in heat. =b. coccinea= (scarlet-berried).* _fl._ yellow; peduncles axillary bearing three to six flowers in an umbel at top; bracts two, at the division of the common peduncle, orbicularly cordate, toothed, scarlet. _l._ ovate, glabrous, stiff, a little toothed. guiana, . climbing shrub. (a. g. .) =b. cristata= (crested). _fl._, corolla yellowish, hairy outside; peduncles axillary, solitary, one-flowered; bracts cordate, toothed, sessile, scarlet. june. _l._ ovate, serrated. guiana, . climbing shrub. =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ large, campanulate, spotted with red; peduncles axillary, elongated, many-flowered. _l._ ovate-oblong, acuminated, crenated, densely pilose above, villous beneath, as well as on the branches. _h._ ft. brazil. =b. imrayi= (imray's). _fl._ rather small, yellow, in axillary whorls. _l._ large, lanceolate, serrate, glabrous. stems quadrangular. dominica, . herbaceous perennial. (b. m. .) =b. incarnata= (flesh-coloured-berried).* _fl._, corollas purplish; tube very long, ventricose; lobes of limb reflexed, roundish, unequal, fringed; peduncles axillary, solitary, one-flowered. _l._ oblong, crenated, tomentose on both surfaces. _h._ ft. guiana, . herbaceous perennial. =b. violacea= (purple-berried). _fl._ purple, small; corolla with a curved tube and spreading limb; peduncles racemosely panicled, terminal. berry purple, edible. _l._ ovate, acute, quite entire, stiff. guiana, . climbing shrub. (a. g. .) =besom=, or =broom=. birch-brooms are best for garden purposes, and are generally used. the most suitable for paved yards are those made of the common ling (_calluna vulgaris_). those made of bass fibres are frequently used on paths, for which they are very suitable, but their expensiveness prevents them being generally employed. whatever material is used in its composition, a besom will last much longer if soaked in water for some time before using. =bessera= (in honour of dr. besser, professor of botany at brody). ord. _liliaceæ_. an elegant little half-hardy, squill-like, bulbous plant, from mexico. perianth bell-shaped, six-parted. leaves narrow, linear. it requires a compost of loam, leaf soil, peat, and sand, with good drainage. if cultivated in pots, a plentiful supply of water must be given from the commencement of growth until ripening off. when at rest, however, it should be kept dry and cool, but secure from the effects of frost. if planted out, a well-drained sunny position must be chosen, such as close to the wall of a greenhouse with a southern aspect. propagation may be effected by offsets. =b. elegans= (elegant).* _fl._ scarlet, or scarlet and white. july to september. _l._ ft. to ft. long, narrow, furrowed on the upper side. _h._ ft. mexico, . this is the only species. the colour of the flowers varies considerably, on which account other names have originated. (b. r. , .) =beta= (from _bett_, the celtic word for red; in reference to the colour of the beet). beetroot. ord. _chenopodiaceæ_. perianth single, half-inferior, five-cleft, persistent. seed one, reniform, imbedded in the fleshy base of the calyx. _b. cicla_ is largely used as a decorative plant in sub-tropical and other styles of gardening. they require the same culture as the ordinary beet. the other sorts, with dark blood-red leaves, are largely employed in flower gardens, and the roots utilised for culinary purposes. _see also_ =beet=. [illustration: fig. . beta hortensis metallica, or victoria beet.] =b. cicla= (sicilian). _fl._ greenish, disposed in threes. august. _l._ with very thick ribs. roots scarcely any. _h._ ft. portugal, . the variety, _b. c. variegata_, usually known as the chilian beet, is a very handsome plant, having its leaves often more than a yard in length and over ft. in diameter, with a remarkably handsome variegation. the midribs are usually dark orange or scarlet. it is a most desirable and effective plant for sub-tropical gardening. =b. hortensis metallica= (metallic). victoria beet. an ornamental variety with glistening deep blood-red leaves. useful for decorative purposes in summer, either as a single specimen or in a mass. roots may also be used for cooking. see fig. . =b. maritima= (sea). _fl._ greenish, disposed in hairs. august. _l._, lower ones rhomboid-ovoid, acute; upper ones lanceolate. stem diffuse. root scarcely any. _h._ ft. britain. =b. vulgaris= (common). the common beetroot. _fl._ greenish, clustered. august. _l._, lower ones ovate. root fleshy. _h._ ft. south europe, . =betckea.= _see_ =plectritis=. =betel=, or =betle=. _see_ =piper betle=. =betonica.= this genus now forms a sub-division of _stachys_ (which _see_). betony (_stachys betonica_) is a native herb formerly much used in medicine, but now almost entirely discarded. =betony.= _see_ =stachys betonica=. =betula.= (according to some authorities, from _betu_, its celtic name; others give the derivation of the word as from _batuo_, to beat, the fasces of the roman lictors, which were made of birch rods, being used to drive back the people). birch. ord. _cupuliferæ_. tribe _betuleæ_. ornamental, hardy (except where otherwise specified), deciduous trees or shrubs, allied to _alnus_, having round, slender, often drooping branches, and the bark in most species in thin membranous layers. the flowers appear at the same time as the leaves. male catkins cylindrical, lax, imbricated all round with ternate concave scales, the middle one largest, ovate; corolla none; filaments ten to twelve, shorter than the middle scale, to which they are attached. female catkins similar, but more dense; scales horizontal, peltate, dilated outwards, three-lobed, three-flowered; corolla none. nut oblong, deciduous, winged at each side. the betulas are easily cultivated in any ordinary soil; but a light sandy loam suits them best. most of the species are best increased by seeds, which ripen in september, and need to be dried, in order to prevent fermentation. they should be sown in march, in a sandy soil, the surface of which has been previously made perfectly level. they must be spread on the surface, and not covered with soil, but pressed down with the feet. when grown in quantities, beds ft. in width are preferred, with an alley of ft. between them. in early summer, if the weather be warm and dry, the beds should be shaded with branches. the young seedlings must be transplanted when a year old. the dwarfer kinds may be propagated by layering in the autumn. the numerous beautiful varieties are best increased by grafting or budding upon seedling stocks of the common kinds, the former being done in spring, and the latter in summer when the buds are ready. those most useful as forest trees and for protection are quick-growing and very ornamental. the time of maturity of the birch depends very much upon the soil and situation, but it seldom increases in size after it is thirty years old. the common species (_b. alba_) is one of the hardiest and most useful trees in cultivation, growing quickly, and withstanding exposure better than many others; consequently it is invaluable for skirting and nursing more tender subjects, and is especially desirable for clothing mountainous and exposed districts. it is also very beautiful and picturesque. it is the commonest tree throughout russia, from the baltic to the eastern sea, frequently monopolising gigantic forests. in italy, it forms excellent forests up to ft. altitude, and in our own highlands of scotland it occurs up to a height of ft. in greenland, although much reduced in size, it holds its own as the only arboreal vegetation. [illustration: fig. . leaves and catkin of betula alba.] =b. alba= (white).* silver, white, or common birch. _fl._ whitish. february and march. _fr._ brown, ripe in september and october. _l._ ovate, acute, somewhat deltoid, unequally serrated; autumnal tints rich yellow, scarlet, or red. a diminutive shrub in the extreme north, but a tree from ft. to ft. high in the middle regions. britain. a most beautiful and invaluable forest tree, with a large number of varieties. see fig. . =b. a. alba-purpurea= (white and purple).* _l._ rich purple above, with a lustrous metallic hue, pale beneath. branches with a sub-pendulous disposition. a very effective variety. =b. a. dalecarlica= (dalecarlian).* _l._ deeply pinnatifid, with the lobes toothed. =b. a. foliis-variegatis= (variegated-leaved).* _l._ blotched with yellowish white. =b. a. laciniata pendula= (pendulous and laciniate).* _l._ rather larger than the typical form, deeply laciniated, deep green, and decidedly pendulous. it appears there are two forms of this, but that known as young's variety is the best. =b. a. macrocarpa= (large-fruited).* female catkins twice as long as those of the type. =b. a. pendula= (pendulous).* a well-known tree, distinct from the species in having the shoots more slender, smoother, and pendulous. =b. a. pontica= (pontic). _l._ somewhat larger than in the species, and the plant of more robust growth. (w. d. b. , .) =b. a. pubescens= (downy). _l._ covered with hairs. =b. a. urticifolia= (nettle-leaved).* _l._ deeply laciniated, serrated, and hairy. several others, reputed as distinct, are mere forms of the typical _b. alba_. =b. bhojpattra= (bhojpattra).* _fl._, female catkins erect, cylindrical, oblong; bracts smooth, woody, two-parted, blunt, much longer than the fruit, which has narrow wings. may. _l._ oblong-acute, with nearly simple serratures, somewhat cordate at the base; their stalks, veins, and twigs hairy; the bark is of a pale cinnamon colour. _h._ ft. himalayas, . this requires a sheltered position. =b. carpinifolia= (hornbeam-leaved). synonymous with _b. lenta_. =b. daurica= (daurian).* _fl._, catkins whitish-brown, larger than those of the common birch. february and march. _l._ ovate, narrow at the base, quite entire, unequally dentate, glabrous; scales of the strobiles ciliated on their margins; side lobes roundish. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . the variety _parvifolia_ has smaller leaves than the type. =b. excelsa= (tall). synonymous with _b. lutea_. =b. fruticosa= (shrubby).* _fl._ whitish-brown; female catkins oblong. february and march. _l._ roundish-ovate, nearly equally serrated, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. in moist situations, but much higher on mountains. eastern siberia, . (w. d. b. , .) =b. glandulosa= (glandular).* _fl._ whitish; female catkins oblong. may. _l._ obovate, serrate, quite entire at the base, glabrous, almost sessile; branches beset with glandular dots, glabrous. _h._ ft. canada, . a handsome little shrub. (f. d. .) =b. lenta= (pliant). _fl._ greenish-white. may to june. _l._ cordate, ovate, acutely serrated, acuminate; petioles and nerves hairy beneath; scales of the strobiles smooth, having the side lobes obtuse, equal, with prominent veins. _h._ ft. to ft. canada to georgia, . syn. _b. carpinifolia_. (w. d. b. , .) =b. lutea= (yellow).* _fl._ greenish-white. may. _l._ - / in. long, and - / in. broad, ovate, acute, serrated; petioles pubescent, shorter than the peduncles; young shoots and leaves, at their unfolding, downy, but ultimately quite glabrous, except the petiole, which remains covered with fine short hairs; scales of the strobiles having the side lobes roundish. _h._ ft. to ft. nova scotia, . syn. _b. excelsa_. =b. nana= (dwarf).* _fl._ whitish-green; catkins erect, stalked, cylindrical, obtuse; the barren ones lateral, and the fertile ones terminal; scales of the latter three-lobed, three-flowered, permanent. april and may. _l._ orbicular, crenate, reticulated with veins beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. scotland, lapland, sweden, russia, &c. a shrub with numerous branches, slightly downy when young, and beset with numerous little, round, firm, smooth, sharply crenated leaves, beautifully reticulated with veins, especially beneath; and furnished with short footstalks, having a pair of brown lanceolate stipules at their base. there is also a pretty variety named _pendula_, with drooping branches. =b. nigra= (black).* the black birch. _fl._ greenish-white; female catkins straight, and nearly cylindrical, about in. long. may. _l._ rhomboid-ovate, doubly serrated, acute, pubescent beneath, entire at the base; scales of the strobiles villose; segments linear, equal. _h._ ft. to ft. new jersey to carolina, . syn. _b. rubra_. (w. d. b. , .) =b. papyracea= (papery).* _fl._ greenish-white; female catkins on long footstalks, drooping; scales having the side lobes short, somewhat orbiculate. may to june. _l._ ovate, acuminate, doubly serrate; veins hairy beneath; petiole glabrous; the branches are much less flexible than those of the common birch, and are more ascending. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . (w. d. b. , .) =b. p. fusca= (brown). _l._ smaller than those of the type, and less downy. =b. p. platyphylla= (broad-leaved).* _l._ very broad. =b. p. trichoclada= (hairy-branched).* _l._ cordate. branches extremely hairy, and twigs in threes. =b. populifolia= (poplar-leaved).* _fl._ greenish-white. april, may. _l._ deltoid, much acuminated, unequally serrated, quite smooth; scales of the strobiles having roundish side lobes; petioles glabrous. _h._ ft. canada, . this species, although very closely resembling _b. alba_, grows with less vigour, and does not attain so large a size. (w. d. b. , .) =b. p. laciniata= (laciniated).* _l._ large, shining, and deeply cut. =b. p. pendula= (pendulous).* spray drooping, like that of _b. alba pendula_. =b. pumila= (dwarf).* _fl._ whitish; female catkins cylindrical. may and june. _l._ roundish ovate, on long footstalks, densely clothed with hairs on the under surface. branches pubescent, dotless. _h._ ft. to ft. canada, . a very beautiful kind, suitable for furnishing large rockeries, or planting on hill sides, or rocky ground. (w. d. b. , .) =b. rubra= (red).* synonymous with _b. nigra_. =betuleÃ�.= a tribe of deciduous shrubs or trees. perianth none, or bract-like; flowers monÅ�cious, in catkins, in twos or threes. fruit, a dry, compressed, lenticular, often winged, indehiscent nut. leaves alternate, simple, stipulated. the genera are _alnus_ and _betula_. =bi.= in compound words, this signifies twice. =biancea scandens.= _see_ =cæsalpinia sepiaria=. =biarum= (an ancient name of a plant). ord. _aroideæ_. a genus of small, hardy, tuberous-rooted perennials, much more curious than pretty, allied to _sauromatum_. this genus, according to dr. masters, differs from _arum_ in its spathe being tubular at the base, with the limb spreading. the female flowers have a distinct style, and the fruit contains only one ovule. they will thrive in any light, rich, well-drained soil, and may otherwise be treated similar to the hardy _arums_. there are several other species besides those named, but they are not yet in general cultivation. =b. constrictum= (constricted). a synonym of _b. tenuifolium_. =b. gramineum= (grassy). a synonym of _b. tenuifolium_. =b. tenuifolium= (slender-leaved).* _fl._, spathe dark brown-purple, reflexed in the upper part; spadix very long, subuliform. june. _l._ linear-lanceolate. _h._ in. south europe, . syns. _b. gramineum_ and _b. constrictum_. (b. r. , under name of _arum tenuifolium_.) =biauriculate.= having two auricles. =bibracteate.= furnished with two bracts. =bibracteolate.= furnished with two secondary bracts. =bicarinate.= two-keeled. =bicolor.= two-coloured. =biconjugate.= having two secondary petioles, each with a pair of leaflets. =bicornute.= with two horn-like processes. =bidens= (from _bis_, twice, and _dens_ a tooth; in reference to the seed). bur marigold. ord. _compositæ_. a rather large genus of mostly hardy annual and perennial herbs, distinguished by the pericarp having from two to four rigid awns, which are rough with minute deflexed points. involucre erect, of several oblong, nearly equal, parallel scales. most of the species of this genus are of no merit as garden plants. two are natives of britain, viz., _b. cernua_ and _b. tripartita_. they thrive in any ordinary garden soil. propagated by divisions of the plant; or by seeds. =b. atro-sanguinea= (dark-bloody). _fl.-heads_ black-crimson, very freely produced. late summer and autumn. leaves pinnate. root tuberous. _h._ ft. mexico. (b. m. .) =b. ferulæfolia= (ferula-leaved). _fl.-heads_ yellow. autumn. _l._ bipinnatifid. _h._ ft. mexico, . syn. _coreopsis ferulæfolia_. (b. m. .) =b. procera= (tall). _fl.-heads_ yellow, large. _l._ finely divided, deep green. a handsome perennial. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . (b. r. .) =b. striata= (striped). _fl.-heads_ rather large, in a panicled leafy corymb; ray florets white; disk yellow. _l._ ternately pinnated, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. autumn. mexico. (b. m. .) =bidentate.= with two teeth. =biebersteinia= (named after frederic marschall bieberstein, a russian naturalist, author of "flora taurico-caucasica," and other works). ord. _rutaceæ_. a genus of half-hardy herbaceous perennials. they thrive in a compost of loam, peat, and sand. propagated by cuttings, placed under a hand glass in early summer; or by seeds, sown in a slight hotbed in march or april. =b. odora= (sweet). _fl._ yellow; racemes terminal, simple; petals entire. may. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets roundish, deeply toothed. plant beset with glandular hairs. _h._ ft. altaia, . =biennial.= a term applied to plants occupying two years in the development from seed to the maturation of seed: growing one year, flowering, fruiting, and dying the next. seeds of hardy biennials are, as a rule, sown from june to august, to flower the succeeding season. tender varieties are sown in a frame or cool house, and kept there all winter, being transferred from the frames or houses to the open border, in june. wallflowers, foxgloves, canterbury bells, and sweet williams, may be taken as fair types of biennials, although they often assume more than a biennial character on light sandy soils. =bifarious.= two-ranked; arranged in two opposite rows. =bifid.= divided about half-way down into two parts; two-cleft. =bifoliate.= compound leaves with two leaflets. =bifrenaria= (from _bis_, twice, and _frænum_, a strap; in reference to a double strap or band, by means of which the pollen masses are connected with their gland). ord. _orchideæ_. a genus of pretty stove orchids, allied to _maxillaria_, and distinguished from it by having two fræna or caudicles to their pollen masses. for culture, _see_ =maxillaria=. =b. aurantiaca= (orange-coloured).* _fl._ orange; lateral lobes of lip semi-cordate, middle one transverse, sub-undulated, callous at the base; raceme erect. october. _l._ oblong, plicate. pseudo-bulb roundish, compressed, two-leaved. _h._ in. demerara, . (b. r. .) =b. aureo-fulva= (orange-tawny). _fl._ orange, on long pedicels; lip unguiculate, three-lobed; scape radical, many-flowered. october. _l._ oblong-lanceolate. pseudo-bulb roundish-ovate, wrinkled, one-leaved. _h._ ft. brazil, . =b. hadwenii= (hadwen's). _fl._ each nearly in. across; petals and sepals / in. broad, yellow green, beautifully blotched or mottled with a rich brown; lip large, above in. broad, white, with striped spots of rose. june. _l._ long, / in. broad. _h._ - / in. brazil, . syn. _scuticaria hadwenii_. (b. m. .) =b. h. bella= (charming).* a new variety with sepals and petals whitish yellow outside, brilliant shining cinnamon inside, with a few spots, bars, and blotches of whitish sulphur colour; lip wide, white, with one light brown spot behind, and a larger one in front of the callus; radiating light brown lines on lateral lobes, and mauve ones on anterior lobe. =b. h. pardalina= (leopard-marked).* a very beautiful variety, having sepals and petals with brown circles or polygonal figures on a light yellow ground; lip light ochre-coloured at its basilar part, white in front, with radiating mauve-purple streaks. this variety is extremely rare. =b. vitellina= (yolk-coloured).* _fl._ yellowish purple; lip cuneate, three-lobed; lateral lobes acute, crenulated; racemes drooping. july. _l._ lanceolate. pseudo-bulb ovate, bluntly angular, one-leaved. _h._ ft. brazil, . =bifurcate.= twice-forked. =bigelovia= (named after dr. jacob bigelow, author of "florula bostoniensis," &c.). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of hardy shrubs, sub-shrubs, or herbaceous plants, as now understood, comprising several subjects formerly referred to _chrysothamnus_, _linosyris_, &c. flower-heads disposed in corymbs; involucre imbricated, oblong, or campanulate; receptacle flat. leaves alternate, linear or lanceolate. they thrive in any ordinary garden soil. propagated by cuttings. =b. howardii= (howard's). _fl.-heads_ yellow; involucre narrow. a low shrub. syn. _linosyris howardii_. =b. nudata= (naked). _fl.-heads_ yellow. september. _l._ scattered, oblanceolate or linear. _h._ ft. to ft. new jersey. perennial. =b. paniculata= (panicled). _fl.-heads_ yellow, barely / in. long, loosely panicled, five-flowered. california. shrubby. =bigeminate.= doubly paired. =biglandularia.= _see_ =sinningia=. [illustration: fig. . branch and flowers of bignonia magnifica.] =bignonia= (so named by tournefort, in compliment to the abbé bignon, librarian to louis iv.). ord. _bignoniaceæ_. a large genus of usually scandent shrubs, furnished with tendrils; rarely erect trees or shrubs. flowers axillary and terminal, usually panicled; corolla with a short tube, a campanulate throat, and a five-lobed, bilabiate limb. leaves opposite, simple, conjugate, ternate, digitate or pinnatifid. these handsome plants are particularly suited for large houses, where, if well grown, they give great satisfaction. the primary point in their culture is to obtain free and, at the same time, sturdy growth, giving due attention to training, pruning, &c., or the plants soon exceed all limits. like all free-growing plants, bignonias thrive best planted out in the borders of the stove or greenhouse, or out of doors, as the case may be; but the space allowed should be limited, in order to restrict root production. they may either be trained to cover the back wall, or be planted in a border in front, and trained up the rafters, or on wires, arranged where most desirable. in summer, allow all the strongest shoots to grow, training them so as to have as much sunlight as possible-Â�which is absolutely necessary to well ripen the wood, and make it capable of producing flowersÂ�-without entirely shutting it out from the plants below. soil: a compost of two part fibrous loam, one part peat, one of leaf mould, and a due proportion of sand, will be found most satisfactory. the loam and peat should be used in a rough state, unsifted, as this will keep the border open for some years, and thorough drainage should be effected. propagation: seed being rarely procurable, the most satisfactory method of propagation is by cuttings, made of good strong shoots, in early spring. three joints are sufficient to make a cutting, if short-jointed; if long-jointed, two are sufficient. place them in a well-drained pot of sandy soil, under a bell glass, in bottom heat. as these cuttings are young and fleshy, they are liable to damp off; hence it is necessary, for the first two or three weeks, to wipe the moisture from the glasses every morning, and water sparingly. if well managed, they will root in about two months, and should then have the glasses left off every night for a week; they should then be transferred to small pots in the compost above described, passing it through a coarse sieve, to extract the stones and rough pieces of soil. after potting, the plants should be kept close for a short time, till they are able to bear full exposure to the light. in a year's time, they will be large enough to plant out in their permanent quarters. bignonias may also be increased by layering. =b. æquinoxialis= (equinoxial). _fl._ yellow; peduncles two-flowered, terminal ones racemose. june to october. _l._ glabrous, conjugate; leaflets oblong-lanceolate. tendrils simple, axillary. cayenne, . =b. æ. chamberlaynii= (chamberlayn's).* _fl._, corolla yellow, funnel-shaped; segments obtuse; racemes axillary, six to eight-flowered. april to october, _l._, leaflets ovate, acuminated, glabrous, shining above. tendrils strong, simple. brazil, . (b. r. .) =b. æsculifolia= (chestnut-leaved). a synonym of _tabebiua æsculifolia_. =b. apurensis= (apuran). _fl._ pedicellate, in. long; corolla yellow, funnel-shaped, with roundish, spreading, nearly equal lobes; spikes terminal, sessile. _l._ ternate; leaflets elliptic-oblong, short-acuminated, acutish at the base. shady banks of the river apures, near el diamante, . =b. argyreo-violascens= (silvery-violet). _l._ white-veined, in a young state violet. south america, . (f. m. , .) =b. aurantiaca= (orange). _fl._ orange-coloured. south america, . =b. capreolata= (tendrilled).* _fl._, corolla orange; peduncles axillary, one-flowered, crowded. april to august. _l._ conjugate; leaflets cordate oblong; lower ones simple. tendrils small, trifid. north america, . hardy in south of england. (b. m. .) =b. c. atro-sanguinea= (dark blood-red). _fl._ red-purple. summer. united states. (b. m. .) =b. cherere= (chirere).* _fl._, corollas orange, in. long; cymes axillary. june to november. _l._, lower ones ternate, upper ones conjugate, cirrhose; leaflets ovate, acuminated, sometimes sub-cordate, glabrous. guiana (in woods and on the banks of rivers), . (b. r. .) =b. chica= (chica). _fl._, corolla funnel-shaped, violaceous; limb with nearly equal, rounded segments; panicles axillary, pendulous. _l._ in. to in. long, abruptly bipinnate; leaflets conjugate, elliptic-ovate, acuminated, deeply cordate, glabrous. tendrils simple. banks of the orinoco, . =b. chrysantha= (yellow-flowered). _fl._ terminal, crowded; corolla yellow, in. long. may. _l._, leaflets five, ovate, acuminated, tomentose, on pedicels in. long. _h._ ft. to ft. caraccas, . tree. =b. chrysoleuca= (yellowish-white). _fl._, corolla yellow, with a white limb, glabrous, - / in. long; peduncles three to five-flowered. june, july. _l._ conjugate; leaflets in. to in. long, in. broad, oblong acuminated, glabrous, rounded at the base, shining. tendrils undivided. banks of the river magdalena, . =b. clematis= (clematis-like).* _fl._, corolla white, yellowish inside; lobes nearly equal, roundish, red; panicles axillary, downy. _l._ in. to in. long, conjugately pinnate, with an odd one; leaflets in. long, in. broad, ovate, narrowed at top, acute, cordate at the base, glabrous. branches quadrangular, glabrous. caraccas, . =b. diversifolia= (diverse-leaved). _fl._, corolla yellow, campanulately funnel-shaped; panicles terminal. _l._ conjugate and simple; leaflets roundish-ovate, acuminated, sub-cordate, glabrous, shining. tendrils undivided. branches quadrangular, striated. mexico, . =b. floribunda= (many-flowered).* _fl._, corolla purplish, funnel-shaped, eight lines long; panicles axillary, powdery, with opposite branches and dichotomous branchlets. _l._ conjugate; leaflets - / in. long, oblong-elliptic, acuminated, acute at the base, glabrous, shining. tendrils undivided. branches beset with white warts and fine powder. mexico, . =b. lactiflora= (milk-flowered). _fl._, corolla milk white, - / in. long, villously tomentose on the outside; racemes twin, with a petiolate bract at the base of each pedicel. april and july. _l._ conjugate; leaflets in. long, cordate, ovate, glabrous. branches striated. tendrils trifid. santa cruz, . =b. leucoxyla= (white-wooded). a synonym of _tabebiua leucoxyla_. =b. litoralis= (shore). _fl._, corolla funnel-shaped, red, downy outside; panicles axillary, dichotomously branched. may to july. _l._ ternate; leaflets roundish-ovate, acuminated, clothed with soft hair on both surfaces. branches terete, glabrous; branchlets hairy. mexico, . =b. magnifica= (magnificent).* _fl._ varying from delicate mauve to rich purplish-crimson; throat light primrose colour, very large, - / in. across; panicles large, branching. summer. _l._ opposite, on rather long petioles, broadly ovate. columbia, . a very handsome species. see fig. , for which we are indebted to mr. bull. =b. mollis= (soft). _fl._ small, downy; panicle terminal, many-flowered. _l._ trifoliate; leaflets in. long, ovate, sub-cordate, downy on both surfaces. cayenne, . =b. molissima= (very soft). _fl._, corollas somewhat funnel-shaped, downy inside; panicles axillary, dichotomously branched, downy. _l._ conjugate and simple; leaflets - / in. long, - / in. broad, ovate, acute, cordate, clothed with soft hairs above. caraccas, . =b. pallida= (pale).* _fl._ axillary, usually solitary; corolla in. long, funnel-shaped, with a yellow tube, and a pale lilac limb; lobes crenately ciliated. july. _l._ simple, opposite, oblong, obtuse, rather cordate at the base. branches terete. st. vincent, . (b. r. .) =b. picta= (painted). a synonym of _b. speciosa_. =b. radicans= (rooting). _see_ =tecoma radicans=. =b. reticulata= (netted). columbia, . =b. roezlii= (roezl's). columbia, . b. salicifolia (willow-leaved). _fl._, corolla funnel-shaped, - / in. long, copper-coloured, with a white limb; peduncles axillary, three to six-flowered, downy. summer. _l._ conjugate; leaflets lanceolate, in. long, acute at both ends, quite glabrous, shining. branches terete, sulcate. trinidad, . =b. speciosa= (beautiful).* _fl._ pink, stained with purple; calyx spathaceous, split on one side; panicles terminal. may. _l._ pinnate, ternate and verticillate; leaflets oblong-lanceolate, acuminate, shining, serrate. _h._ ft. uruguay, . a glabrous evergreen shrub. syn. _b. picta_. (b. m. .) =b. spectabilis= (showy). _fl._, corolla in. long, rather coriaceous, glabrous, purple; racemes terminal, short, having the two lower pedicels three-flowered, and the rest one-flowered. _l._ conjugate; leaflets ovate-oblong, acuminated, obtuse. santa cruz, &c., . =b. tweediana= (tweedie's). _fl._ yellow; corolla glabrous, limb deeply five-parted, ciliated; segments emarginate; peduncles one-flowered. summer. _l._ conjugate; leaflets lanceolate, acuminate; petioles downy. buenos ayres, . (b. r. , .) =b. variabilis= (variable).* _fl._, corolla in. long, with a greenish-yellow tube; limb ultimately white; racemes simple, short, many-flowered, terminal. june to august. _l._, lower ones biternate; superior ones conjugate; divisions ternate. branches tetragonal. tendrils trifid. caraccas, . =b. venusta= (lovely). _fl._, corolla crimson, clavately funnel-shaped, with a spreading border, villous inside; corymbs terminal, many-flowered. august to december. _l._, lower ones ternate; superior ones conjugate; leaflets oblong-ovate, acuminated oblique at the base. brazil, . (b. r. .) =bignoniaceÃ�.= a large order of trees, or twining or climbing shrubby plants. flowers usually trumpet-shaped; corolla usually irregular, four or five-lobed, and with a swollen portion below its mouth; stamens five, unequal. fruit, a two-valved, often pod-like capsule. leaves usually opposite, compound. the best-known genera are _bignonia_, _catalpa_, _eccremocarpus_, _jacaranda_, and _tecoma_. =bijugate.= a compound leaf, with two pairs of leaflets. =bilabiate.= having two lips. =bilberry.= _see_ =vaccinium myrtillus=. =bilimbi tree.= _see_ =averrhoa bilimbi=. =bill.= a cutting instrument, curved forward, or hook-shaped toward the point, and fitted with a handle, like a hatchet. it is used for pruning, &c. when short, it is called a hand-bill; when long, a hedge-bill, or hedge-hook. =billardiera= (in honour of jacques julien labillardiere, a celebrated french botanist and traveller). apple berry. ord. _pittosporaceæ_. very desirable greenhouse evergreen climbers. peduncles solitary from the apex of the branches, one-flowered, pendulous; calyx of five subulate sepals; petals five, combined into a tube below, generally yellow; stamens five. fruit edible. leaves alternate. they thrive either in pots or planted out in a compost of fibrous loam, leaf soil, and peat, in equal proportions, with thorough drainage. cuttings, dibbled in a pot of sandy soil, placed under a bell glass, in gentle heat, root readily. they may also be raised from seed, which several of the species produce in abundance. =b. angustifolia= (narrow-leaved). a synonym of _b. scandens_. =b. longiflora= (long-flowered).* _fl._ greenish-yellow, often changing to purple, solitary; pedicels glabrous. berries blue. may to august. _l._ lanceolate, entire. van diemen's land, . a very free-growing and profuse-flowering species. syn. _b. ovalis_. see fig. . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . fruiting portion of billardiera longiflora.] =b. mutabilis= (changeable). a synonym of _b. scandens_. =b. ovalis= (oval-leaved). a synonym of _b. longiflora_. =b. scandens= (climbing).* _fl._ cream-coloured, at length purplish, solitary; pedicels same length as the flower. june to september. _l._ lanceolate-linear, entire. branches, when young, villous. new holland, . syns. _b. mutabilis_, _b. angustifolia_. (b. m. .) =billbergia= (named after j. g. billberg, a swedish botanist). ord. _bromeliaceæ_. a genus of handsome stove plants. flowers borne on light panicles; calyx three-parted; corolla of three convolute petals, scaly at the base; stamens inserted into the base of the perianth. leaves harsh, rigid. these require much the same treatment as recommended for _Ã�chmea_. the most suitable soil is a mixture of peat, leaf soil, and loam in about equal parts, to which is added some sharp sand, to keep it open and porous. free and perfect drainage is absolutely necessary for the successful culture of this class of plants, and a layer of moss should be placed over the crocks previous to filling the pots with soil. although fond of heat, billbergias will, when in flower, bear removal to a cooler house than a stove; and, if they are kept a little dry at the same time, the change will greatly prolong their blooming period. the stronger growing kinds thrive well in rich, well-drained loam and leaf mould. propagation is effected by carefully taking off the suckers which form at the base, after the plants have done flowering; but, before doing this, they should be allowed to attain a good size. the suckers grow quickly when attached to the parent stem, from which they derive their strength, and feel the check less when severed; besides which, they become more mature, and are in better condition for rooting. the best method to adopt is as follows: take the sucker in the hand and gently twist it off the stem; next trim the base by the removal of a few of the lower leaves, and then insert each sucker separately in a small pot, in sharp soil. a bottom heat of about deg. will greatly facilitate new root-growth; failing this, they will root freely in the temperature of a stove if placed in a shaded position for two or three weeks, after which they will bear increased light and sunshine during the later part of the day. _see also_ =Ã�chmea= and =androlepis=. =b. amÅ�na= (pleasing). _fl._ greenish-white, tipped with blue, loosely panicled; bracts rose-coloured. july to winter. _l._ ligulate, abruptly acuminate, slightly spiny. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. r. .) =b. baraquiniana= (baraquin's).* _fl._ green; spikes long, the upper portion pendulous, bearing four or five large, oblong-lanceolate, bright scarlet bracts at the base of the flowers; the stem above the bracts is hoary white. early spring. _l._ ligulate, tapering to a point, where, as well as at the edges, they are armed with sharp reddish spines, arched, transversely variegated with white scurfy bars. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . (i. h. , .) =b. chlorosticta= (green-spotted). synonymous with _b. saundersii_. =b. iridifolia= (iris-leaved).* _fl._ red and yellow, tipped with blue, in drooping spikes; rachis and bracts crimson. march. _l._ lanceolate, ensiform, - / ft., grey beneath. _h._ ft. rio de janeiro, . (b. r. .) =b. liboniana= (libon's).* _fl._, outer perianth segments beautiful coral red, about half as long as the inner ones, which are whitish at the base, and a splendid purple upwards. winter. _l._ in a dense rosette. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. lietzei= (lietz's).* _fl._ in loose terminal racemes, each subtended by lanceolate pink bracts; sepals rosy pink, half as long as the greenish corolla. _l._ tufted, ligulate, acute; margin spiny. brazil, . a double-flowered variety, with petaloid stamens, is mentioned by m. morren, which is interesting in being the first double-flowered bromeliad yet recorded. (b. h. , .) =b. marmorata= (marbled).* _fl._ deep blue; calyces green, tipped with blue; bracts very large, leafy, oblong, bright scarlet; panicles erect, branched, much longer than the leaves. _l._ broadly ligulate, sheathing at the base, truncate-mucronate at the apex; edges very regularly toothed, deep green, freely blotched and barred with dull reddish-brown. (i. h. , .) =b. moreli= (morel's).* _fl._, sepals red, densely woolly, less than half as long as the purplish-violet petals; spike dense, drooping; bracts large, deep rosy red, much longer than the solitary sessile flowers. february. _l._ arching, lanceolate, shining green on both surfaces; marginal spines few and weak, _h._ ft. brazil, . an excellent basket plant. syn. _b. moreliana_. (b. h. , , .) =b. moreliana= (morel's). synonymous with _b. moreli_. [illustration: fig. . flowers of billbergia nutans.] =b. nutans= (nodding). _fl._, sepals reddish; petals yellowish-green, both with a blue margin; scapes slender, nodding, with a few large rosy bracts, terminating in a short drooping spike. winter. _l._ numerous, long, narrow, ensiform, remotely spiny. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. pallescens= (pallid). _fl._ greenish-white; ovary deeply grooved; spike pendulous; bracts lanceolate, of a beautiful rose-pink. winter. _l._ dark green, and spotted on the upper surface, paler beneath, with transverse bars. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . syns. _b. pallida_ and _b. wioti_. =b. pallida= (pale). synonymous with _b. pallescens_. =b. pyramidalis= (pyramidal). _fl._ red, with purple margin, in erect spikes; bracts lanceolate, rosy. february. _l._ curved, ligulate-lanceolate, with white bands beneath. _h._ ft. peru, . (b. h. , .) =b. quesneliana= (quesnel's).* _fl._ deep purple; bracts flesh-coloured; upper ones variegated with white. _h._ ft. guiana, . an erect growing species, possessing the same habit as _b. rosea-marginata_, but having the leaves more acuminate, and deep green in colour. syn. _quesnelia rufa_. (f. d. s. , .) =b. rosea-marginata= (rose-margined).* _fl._, inflorescence a dense oblong spike of light blue, subtended by large, broad, deep, rose-coloured bracts, with scarious margins. january. _l._ sheathing at the base, about ft. long, channelled, spiny on the margin, and marked with transverse mealy bands. _h._ - / ft. tropical america, . syns. _b. rubro-marginata_ and _quesnelia roseo-marginata_. =b. rubro-marginata= (red-margined). synonymous with _b. rosea-marginata_. =b. saundersii= (saunders').* _fl._ about in. long, disposed in a loose pendulous inflorescence; sepals crimson, half the length of the petals, which are yellow outside and blue within. _l._ tufted, ligulate, rounded at the apex, terminated by a short mucro, saw-toothed, green above, purple beneath, and spotted white on both surfaces. brazil, . syn. (according to morren) _b. chlorosticta_. (f. m. n. s. .) =b. thyrsoidea= (thyrsoid). _fl._ dense, in thyrsoid spikes, almost without bracts. june. _l._ green, ligulate, shortly acuminate, the margin toothed. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. vittata= (striped). _fl._ indigo blue, with crimson calyces and bracts; racemes nodding. _l._ banded, ligulate, elongate, shining. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . (b. h. , , .) =b. wioti= (wiot's). synonymous with _b. pallescens_ =b. zebrina= (zebra-streaked).* _fl._ greenish; scape clothed with large, pale, salmon-coloured bracts; inflorescence gracefully curved downwards. early spring. _l._ sheathing for about half their length, forming thus a sort of tube, deep green, with zones of grey, the whole deepening with age. _h._ - / ft. south america, . syn. _helicodea zebrina_. (l. b. c. .) =bilobate.= two-lobed. =binate.= in pairs. =binding.= the process of securing a graft or bud in its place by means of raffia or bast. the same term is applied to hard clay or other soil impervious to water, in summer. =bindweed.= _see_ =convolvulus=. =biophytum= (from _bios_, life, and _phyton_, a plant; the leaves of one species being sensitive to the touch). tribe _oxalideæ_ of order _geraniaceæ_. a genus of pretty and interesting perennials, differing from _oxalis_, in which genus it has been included, in the valves of the capsule being patent and separate to the base. they will thrive in a mixture of loam and peat. propagated by seeds, which should be sown in spring, on a hotbed. probably the only species in cultivation is the following: =b. sensitivum= (sensitive). _fl._ yellow, small. july. _l._, leaflets oblong, obtuse, mucronate. _h._ in. india and china, . the leaves of this plant contract on the slightest touch. syn. _oxalis sensitiva_. (b. r. , .) =biota.= _see_ =thuja=. =biotia.= _see_ =aster corymbosus=. =bipartite.= divided into two nearly to the base. =bipinnate.= twice pinnate. =bipinnatifid=, or =bipinnatiparted=. having both primary and secondary segments of a leaf divided, but not to the base. =biplicate.= having two folds or plaits. =birch.= _see_ =betula=. =bird-cherry.= _see_ =cerasus padus=. =birdlime.= a preparation made from mistletoe berries and holly bark. it is used for catching birds. =bird-pepper.= _see_ =capsicum baccatum=. =birds.= as a class, birds are very much more useful than hurtful in gardens. owls are of great use in catching mice, and night-jars in catching night-flying insects. rooks are very useful in lessening the numbers of wire-worms, and of hurtful insects in general; but, if very numerous, they may be driven to eat potatoes and other vegetable food, and may then do harm. the same may be said of starlings. blackbirds and thrushes feed much on snails and worms, but they also feed on the ripe fruits in gardens. as a rule, slender-billed birds feed almost wholly on insects or other animals, and are to be encouraged in gardens at all seasons. among these may be enumerated the tree-creeper, wryneck, warblers, and wrens of various kinds, chats, hedge-sparrow, larks, redstart, robin, titmice, and wagtails. swifts, swallows, and martins, are also great destroyers of insects. the finches feed, in part, on insects, but also eat large quantities of seeds, and often do considerable damage among plants grown for seed, _e.g._, cabbages, and in the seed-beds. sparrows are about the most troublesome, though they are often assisted by buntings, chaffinches, linnets, and others. when seed-beds or fruits have to be protected, this may be done by nets; or, more simply, by threads tied to sticks a few inches above the surface of the ground, or in front of the trees. =bird's-eye primrose.= _see_ =primula farinosa=. =bird's-foot.= _see_ =ornithopus=. =bird's-foot fern.= _see_ =pellæa ornithopus=. =bird's-nest fern.= _see_ =asplenium nidus=. =birthwort.= _see_ =aristolochia=. =biscutella= (from _bis_, double, and _scutella_, a saucer; in allusion to the form of the silicles). buckler mustard. ord. _cruciferæ_. perennial or annual herbaceous plants, usually hispid, but sometimes downy or smoothish. flowers yellow, scentless; pedicels filiform, bractless. leaves oblong, entire, toothed or pinnatifid, somewhat radical or cauline. stems round, erect, usually corymbosely branched at the top by racemes, which, when in flower, are short, but elongated at the time of fruiting. all the species produce seeds freely. the annuals should be sown in the open borders. some of the perennial kinds are well adapted for ornamenting rockwork, in a dry, sunny situation. of the annuals, _columnæ_, _lyrata_, _maritima_, and _obovata_, are best. of the perennials, _coronopifolia_, _lævigata_, and _sempervirens_ are the most desirable, but none are worth cultivation outside botanical collections. =biserial=, or =biseriate=. arranged in two parallel rows. =biserrate.= toothed in a saw-like manner, but with the primary teeth again serrated. =bisulcate.= doubly furrowed. =biternate.= twice ternate. =bitter almond.= _see_ =amygdalus communis amara=. =bitter apple.= _see_ =cucumis colocynthis=. =bitter-sweet.= _see_ =solanum dulcamara=. =bitter vetch.= _see_ =orobus=. =bituminous.= clammy, adhesive. =bivonÃ�a= (named after antonio bivona-bernardi, a sicilian botanist, author of "sicularum plantarum centuria i. et ii.," palermo, ). ord. _cruciferæ_. a pretty little monotypic genus, well adapted for ornamenting rockwork or the front of flower borders. a dry sandy soil is most suitable for its culture. propagated by seeds, sown in spring where the plants are intended to remain, thinning-out being necessary to ensure full growth. =b. lutea= (yellow).* _fl._ yellow, small; racemes terminal, elongated as they grow; pedicels filiform, bractless. april. _l._ alternate, lower ones stalked, the rest sessile, cordate, stem-clasping at the base, ovate, toothed, bluntish. stem filiform, sparingly branched. _h._ in. to in. sicily, . an annual. =bixa= (its south american name). arnatto. ord. _bixineæ_. stove evergreen trees, with dichotomous panicles of large reddish flowers, broad cordate leaves, and prickly capsules. a compost of loam and peat is well adapted to their culture. propagated by seed, sown when ripe in bottom heat; or by cuttings, which root freely in sand, under a hand glass, in heat; the latter is the better method. if grown from seed, the trees attain a large size before they flower; whereas cuttings, taken from a flowering plant and struck, may be brought to flower when small plants. =b. orellana= (orellana). _fl._ pale peach-coloured; corymbs terminal, panicled; peduncles two, three, and four-flowered. may to august. _l._ cordate, ovate, acuminated, entire or angular, smooth on both surfaces. the drug called arnatto is prepared from the red pulp which covers the seed of this species. it is used in the preparation of chocolate, and by farmers for colouring cheese, and also as an orange or yellow dye for silks. _h._ ft. west indian islands, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =bixineÃ�.= an order of smoothish tropical trees or shrubs, not remarkable for any particular beauty. flowers with or without petals, when present five and sepal-like; stamens indefinite in number, inserted in the receptacle or at the bottom of the calyx; peduncle axillary or terminal, bracteate, one or many-flowered, usually forming terminal panicles. fruit fleshy or dry. leaves alternate, simple, entire, or slightly lobed, generally full of pellucid dots. the genera best known are _azara_, _bixa_, and _flacourtia_. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of bixa orellana.] =black bearberry.= _see_ =arctostaphylos alpina=. =black beetles.= _see_ =cockroaches=. =black bryony.= _see_ =tamus communis=. =black bullace.= _see_ =prunus insititia=. =blackburnia.= _see_ =xanthoxylum=. =black fly or bean fly= (_aphis rumicis_), also called collier and black dolphin. this fly (see fig. ) is found on many herbaceous plants. it is very injurious to beans; hence, immediate means of destruction must be employed directly the insect appears. its extermination is an extremely difficult matter; but the following remedies are very effectual: _tobacco water._ this, made and applied as recommended for aphides (which _see_) is a good remedy; but it is rendered more certain by the employment of soapsuds, instead of clear water, in its manufacture. [illustration: fig. . the bean fly. _a_, female, magnified; _b_, male, natural size, and magnified.] _paris green_ (arseniate of copper). owing to its poisonous nature, this should not be used where there is fruit on the trees or vegetables under them; but there is no better destroyer of hard-dying insects. its application is very simple. mix lb. of the green with gals. of water, and well wet the infested parts of the trees, using a fine-rosed watercan or garden engine for the purpose. the operator's hands should be free from sores and scratches, or dangerous ulcerations may ensue. _gas liquor._ if this can be obtained from a gas-house, it should be diluted with twice its bulk of water, and applied in the same manner as paris green, being washed off with clean water in a few hours. if the process be repeated on two or three consecutive nights, it will be found certain in its effects; moreover, it is not very poisonous. the finger or thumb, or the aphis brush, applied early, will often exterminate these obnoxious insects at once. the first of the methods above described is perhaps the most accessible and the safest to use. poisonous insecticides are more or less dangerous, especially in the hands of the inexperienced. black fly is, however, one of the most difficult insects to eradicate, especially if allowed to multiply. a syringing of clean water should follow either of the above applications. _see also_ =aphides=. =black jack oak.= _see_ =quercus nigra=. =black maidenhair spleenwort.= _see_ =asplenium adiantum-nigrum=. =black pine.= _see_ =pinus austriaca=. =blackthorn.= _see_ =prunus spinosa=. =black varnish tree.= _see_ =melanorrhÅ�a=. =black wattle.= _see_ =callicoma serratifolia=. =bladder catchfly.= _see_ =silene inflata=. =bladder ketmia.= _see_ =hibiscus trionum=. =bladder nut.= _see_ =staphylea=. =bladder senna.= _see_ =colutea=. =bladder wort.= _see_ =utricularia=. =blade.= the lamina or expanded part of a leaf. =blÃ�ria= (named after patrick blair, m.d., f.r.s., who practised medicine at boston, in lincolnshire, and was author of "miscellaneous observations," ; "botanic essays," , &c.). ord. _ericaceæ_. pretty little greenhouse evergreen shrubs, natives of southern and tropical africa. flowers terminal, glomerate; corolla short-tubular, with a four-cleft limb, very freely branched. leaves verticillate, with revolute margins. for culture, _see_ =erica=. =b. articulata= (jointed).* _fl._ reddish; heads drooping. may. _l._ four in a whorl, ovate or linear, glabrous, and shining; bracts solitary. _h._ ft. . =b. ericoides= (heath-like). _fl._ purplish-red. august. _l._ four in a whorl, oblong, obtuse, ringed; bracts three, length of the calyx. _h._ ft. . syn. _erica orbicularis_. (l. b. c. .) =b. purpurea= (purple). _fl._ purple; heads drooping. june. _l._ four in a whorl, ovate, sub-ciliated. stem flexuous, erect. _h._ ft. . =blakea= (named after martin blake, of antigua, a great promoter of useful knowledge). ord. _melastomaceæ_. handsome stove evergreen shrubs or trees. flowers red, large, showy; peduncles axillary, terete, one-flowered, naked, opposite or solitary, shorter than the leaves, usually with brown tomentum. leaves petiolate, three to five-nerved, coriaceous, glabrous above and shining, but usually densely clothed with rusty tomentum beneath. they thrive well in peat, or a mixture of loam and peat, and require to be liberally supplied with water, particularly in spring and summer. cuttings root freely if taken from shoots that are quite ripe (otherwise they are apt to rot), planted in a pot of sand, and plunged in a moist heat, under a hand glass. =b. quinquenervia= (five-nerved). _fl._ flesh-coloured, large, with white disks; peduncles twin, shorter than the petioles. june. _l._ elliptic, acuminated, naked, and shining on both surfaces, five-nerved. _h._ ft. to ft. guiana, . (a. g. .) =b. trinervia= (three-nerved). _fl._ rose colour, large; peduncles solitary, longer than the petioles. june. _l._ oval-oblong, three-nerved, glabrous and shining on both surfaces in the adult state, and when young serrulated; petioles and branchlets clothed with rusty tomentum. roots issuing from the branches and stems. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . (b. m. .) =blanching.= this process is effected for the purpose of obtaining crispness, and for converting what would, under ordinary circumstances, be a dangerous plant--in the case of celery especially so--into a highly popular delicacy. blanching can only be accomplished by entirely excluding the light from the plants, thus depriving the colouring matters of their power to decompose water and carbonic acid gas. it is also termed etiolation. =blandfordia= (named after george, marquis of blandford). ord. _liliaceæ_. a very beautiful genus of greenhouse bulbous plants, natives of australia. flowers solitary, on recurved pedicels; perianth funnel-shaped, six-cleft; stamens six. leaves linear, elongate, striate; radical ones dilated, and somewhat sheathing at the base; others shorter and more distant, appearing on the flower-stem. the best soil in which to grow them is loam and peat in equal proportions, with a little rough silver sand added. they should be repotted moderately firm in the autumn, allowing good drainage, and should then be placed under the greenhouse stage, or in any other position where they will be free from water drippings. water must only be given when dry, until they commence to grow, when it may be gradually increased, and they may be introduced into a higher temperature, if necessary, there to remain till after flowering. when the foliage is ripened off, they may be stored away until the time for repotting. propagated by seeds and offsets, or by division of the old plants, which must be done when repotting. =b. aurea= (golden).* _fl._ - / in. to in. long; scape bearing an umbellate cluster of three to five pure golden-yellow drooping bell-shaped flowers. summer. _l._ narrow, linear, keeled or channelled, from the base of which the flower-scape arises. _h._ ft. to ft. new south wales, . (b. m. .) =b. cunninghamii= (cunningham's).* _fl._ rich coppery red, the upper part yellow; about in. long, bell-shaped, pendulous; from twelve to twenty, terminating in a stout scape ft. high. june. _l._ linear, slightly keeled at the back, about / in. broad. new south wales. this magnificent species should have a little charcoal mixed with the soil already mentioned. (b. m. .) =b. c. hybrida= (hybrid). _fl._ red, margined with clear yellow, bell-shaped, in a dense drooping umbel. =b. flammea= (fiery).* _fl._ dullish yellow, in dense umbel-like clusters; bracts ovate-lanceolate, stiff; perianth inversely conical. june. _l._ linear, bluntly keeled. _h._ ft. australia, . =b. f. elegans= (elegant).* _fl._ crimson, tipped with yellow, large, funnel-shaped. summer. _l._ long, linear-ensiform. this very handsome form is often taken for the type. =b. f. princeps= (magnificent).* _fl._ rich orange-red externally, and bright yellow within, about in. long, tubular, borne on a scape about ft. high, slightly pendulous, and arranged near the summit. summer. _l._ stiff, sub-erect, long, bright green, disposed in a distichous manner. this is a very splendid greenhouse plant, and should be in every collection. australia, . syn. _b. princeps_. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ crimson, very large; bracts as long as the pedicels, the inner much the shortest. july. _h._ ft. new south wales, . (b. r. .) =b. intermedia= (intermediate). _fl._ yellow, pendulous, funnel-shaped, in sixteen to twenty-flowered racemes; bracts leaf-formed. september. _l._ channelled, acutely keeled, scabrous on the margins. _h._ - / ft. australia. =b. marginata= (margined). _fl._ orange-red, conical, in long pendulous racemes; bracts narrow, foliaceous, about equalling in length the pedicels. july. _l._ stiff, sub-erect, with scabrous margins. _h._ ft. tasmania, . (b. r. , .) =b. nobilis= (noble).* _fl._ orange with yellow margins, on long pedicels, drooping, disposed in a terminal raceme; bracts twice as short as the pedicels. july. _l._ very narrow. _h._ ft. new south wales, . (b. m. .) =b. princeps= (magnificent). synonymous with _b. flammea princeps_. =blatta.= _see_ =cockroaches=. =bleaberry.= _see_ =vaccinium myrtillus=. =bleaching powder.= _see_ =chloride of lime=. =blechnum= (from _blechnon_, the greek name of a fern). ord. _filices_. a very attractive genus of stove and greenhouse ferns, thriving in a compost of peat, leaf soil, and loam. sori linear, continuous, or nearly so, parallel with, and usually contiguous to, the midrib. involucre distinct from the edge of the frond. fronds uniform, generally pinnate or pinnatifid. veins usually free. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. =b. australe= (southern).* _cau._ stout, creeping, scaly; _sti._ erect, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, and from in. to in. broad, lanceolate, narrowed towards both ends; pinnæ numerous, the barren ones in. to - / in. long, / in. to / in. broad, linear, hastate-cordate, or auricled at the base, especially on the upper side, with a very coriaceous texture; fertile pinnæ narrower. _sori_ in a continuous or slightly broken line, close, but not contiguous, to the midrib. south africa, &c., . greenhouse species. =b. boreale.= _see_ =lomaria spicant=. =b. braziliense= (brazilian).* _cau._ erect, stout, sub-arborescent, ft. or more long, densely clothed at the crown with dark brown scales. _sti._ short, stout, densely scaly. _fronds_ oblong-lanceolate, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, narrowing downwards very gradually; pinnæ close, linear, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, narrowed gradually towards the point, finely toothed or undulated, connected at the base. brazil and peru, . see fig. . (h. s. f. , .) there is a very pretty variety met with in gardens under the name of _corcovadense crispum_, which is not quite so strong-growing as the type, with wavy, crispy edges. they will all thrive in the cool of a stove fernery. [illustration: fig. . blandfordia flammea princeps.] =b. cartilagineum= (cartilaginous). _cau._ oblique, densely scaly at top. _sti._ strong, erect, in. to in. long, scaly, muricated in the lower part. _fronds_ ovate-oblong, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ numerous, linear, in. to in. long, about / in. broad, narrowed gradually towards the point, margin finely toothed, dilated, and connected at the base. _sori_ in a broad line close to the midrib. temperate australia, . greenhouse species. =b. hastatum= (halbert-shaped).* _rhiz._ short, stout, scaly. _sti._ in. to in. long, nearly naked. _fronds_ from in. to in. long, and in. to in. broad, lanceolate, with twenty to forty pinnæ on each side; the barren ones in. to - / in. long, lanceolate, falcate, narrowed gradually to a point, the lower side slightly truncate, and slightly lobed, the upper cordate, with a large hastate auricle; fertile pinnæ narrower. _sori_ midway between the midrib and margin; rachis and surfaces naked or slightly pubescent; texture coriaceous. temperate south america, . greenhouse species. [illustration: fig. . blechnum braziliense.] =b. lanceola= (lance-leaved). _rhiz._ slender, creeping, stoloniferous. _sti._ slender, erect, in. to in. long. _fronds_ lanceolate, undivided, in. to in. long, / in. broad, or less, narrowed gradually from the centre towards each end. tropical america, . stove species. =b. l. trifoliatum= (three-leaved). _fronds_ furnished with one or two pairs of small oblong-obtuse lateral pinnæ at the base of the large terminal one. stove variety. (h. s. f. , .) =b. longifolium= (long-leaved).* _rhiz._ slender, creeping. _sti._ firm, erect, nearly naked, in. to in. long. _fronds_ in. to in. long, with a terminal pinna, and three to six lateral ones on each side, which are in. to in. long, and / in. broad, narrowed gradually towards the point. _sori_ in broad lines close to the midrib; texture coriaceous. tropical america, . _b. l. fraxineum_ is a variety found in gardens under the name of _b. fraxiniifolium_, with a habit more close than the type; pinnæ six to eight on a side, sometimes in. broad. _b. intermedium_ (link.) and _b. gracile_ (kaulf.), often seen in gardens, are slender-growing varieties of this rather variable stove species. =b. nitidum= (shining).* _sti._ stout, erect, naked, in. to in. long. _fronds_ oblong-lanceolate, ft. or more long, in. to in. broad; pinnæ numerous, sub-falcate, linear, in. to in. long, / in. to / in. broad, narrowed gradually towards the point, dilated and connected at the base; edge undulate-dentate; texture coriaceous; both surfaces smooth. stove species. the variety _contractum_, often seen in gardens, has its pinnæ contracted, and the edge much undulated. brazil. (h. s. f. , .) =b. occidentale= (western).* _cau._ stout, erect, scaly at the top. _sti._ in. to in. long, erect, scaly below. _fronds_ ovate-acuminate, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad, with twelve to twenty-four linear pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, and about / in. broad, narrowed gradually to a point, truncate or cordate; texture coriaceous. west indies, southwards to chili and south brazil, . a very handsome stove or greenhouse fern. =b. o. multifidum= (much-cut).* a pretty variety, said to have been introduced from dominica; the apices of the pinnæ are copiously crested and tasselled, rendering it very desirable. stove variety. =b. orientale= (oriental).* _cau._ stout, erect, clothed at the crown with dark brown scales. _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect, scaly below. _fronds_ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, ovate, with very numerous nearly contiguous pinnæ on each side, which are in. to in. long, and about / in. broad, narrowed to a long point. australia, northwards to south china and the himalayas. greenhouse. =b. polypodioides= (polypodium-like). a synonym of _b. unilaterale_. =b. serrulatum= (saw-edged).* _cau._ elongated, stout, ascending. _sti._ in. to in. long, strong, erect, smooth, nearly naked. _fronds_ oblong-acuminate, ft. to ft. long, in. to in. broad, with twelve to twenty-four pairs of quite distinct articulated linear oblong pinnæ on each side, which are about in. to in. long, / in. broad, narrowed gradually towards the point, and downwards to a narrow base, the margins finely incised. florida, &c., . stove or greenhouse. syn. _b. striatum_. (h. s. f. , .) =b. striatum= (striped). a synonym of _b. serrulatum_. =b. unilaterale= (one-sided).* _cau._ elongated, densely scaly at the crown. _sti._ slender, erect, in. to in. long, slightly scaly below. _fronds_ lanceolate, in. to in. long, - / in. to in. broad; pinnæ numerous, spreading horizontally, linear, / in. to in. long, central ones / in. to / in. broad, point usually mucronate; edge entire, or nearly so, the lower part dilated to a broad base. _sori_ in a line close to the midrib. tropical america, . widely distributed. stove or greenhouse species. syn. _b. polypodioides_, under which name it is usually found in gardens. =blechum= (a greek name for an unknown plant, supposed to resemble marjoram). ord. _acanthaceæ_. stove herbaceous perennials. for culture, &c., _see_ =justicia=. =b. brownei= (browne's). _fl._ white, in a dense bracteated spike, which is four-cornered; bracts ovate, downy. summer. _l._ ovate elliptical, somewhat toothed. _h._ ft. west indies, . the other species introduced are: _angustifolium_, blue; _braziliense_, blue; and _laxiflorum_, white. =blepharis= (from _blepharis_, the eyelash; in reference to the fringed bracts of the calyx). ord. _acanthaceæ_. dwarf shrubs or herbs, often spiny and woody, allied to _acanthus_. flowers in bracteate spikes; calyx cruciately four-parted, bracteate; upper segment entire, three-nerved; lower, two-nerved; corolla-tube very short; lip five-lobed, three lobes often much larger than the others; stamens four, sub-didynamous. for culture, &c., _see_ =acanthus=. =b. boerhaaviæfolia= (boerhaavia-leaved). _fl._ blue. july. _l._ usually four in a whorl, elliptic, toothed. _h._ ft. india, . stove annual. =b. capensis= (cape colony).* _fl._ blue. july. _l._ narrow, lanceolate, spinose. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . greenhouse biennial. =b. furcata= (forked-spined). _fl._ blue. july. _l._ lanceolate, entire or spiny; bracts large, strongly spinose. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . greenhouse evergreen shrub. =b. linearifolia= (narrow-leaved). _fl._ blue. july. _l._ long, entire, linear, glabrous or hairy, not spiny. _h._ ft. guinea, . stove annual. =b. procumbens= (trailing).* _fl._ blue. july. _l._ linear lanceolate, spiny. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . greenhouse evergreen trailer. =blephilia= (from _blepharis_, the eyelash; in allusion to the ciliated bracts). ord. _labiatæ_. ornamental hardy perennials, closely allied to _monarda_, but differing from it in the calyx tube having thirteen instead of fifteen nerves, and being naked in the throat, while the corollas are much smaller and more dilated. they are of easy culture in ordinary soil. increased readily by dividing the roots in early spring. =b. ciliata= (ciliated). _fl._ blue; whorls all distinct; bracts ciliated, reddish at top. july. _l._ almost sessile, ovate-oblong, narrowed at the base, canescent beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . =b. hirsuta= (hairy). _fl._ purple or blue; whorls more numerous than in the preceding; upper ones approximate. july. _l._ petiolate, ovate, roundly cordate at the base, hairy on both surfaces. _h._ ft. to ft. virginia, . habit more branched and loose than in _b. ciliata_. =blessed thistle.= _see_ =cnicus benedictus=, properly =carbenia benedicta=. =bletia= (in honour of don louis blet, a spanish botanist). ord. _orchideæ_. a large genus of, for the most part, stove terrestrial orchids. flowers purple or whitish, in terminal racemes. leaves narrow, grass-like. pseudo-bulbs round, flattened. the flowers are freely produced when the plants are thoroughly established, and are valuable for bouquets, as well for their pleasing colour as for the time they last in perfection. bletias thrive best in a compost of loam and leaf mould. about in. of crocks, covered with a layer of moss, should be placed in the bottom of the pot, which should be filled to within in. of the top with soil. the bulbs should then be inserted, and just covered. a good supply of water during the growing season is necessary, and only a moderate amount of heat. after growth has ceased, a period of rest is required, during which time very little water should be given. propagation is effected by divisions, which should be made after the plants have finished flowering, or previous to their starting into growth. =b. campanulata= (bell-shaped). _fl._ deep purple, with a white centre, lasting a considerable time in perfection. mexico. =b. florida= (florid).* _fl._ pale rose-coloured; lip not spurred. july and august. _h._ ft. west indies, . a very pretty species. (b. r. .) =b. gracilis= (slender). _fl._ pale greenish-white; sepals and petals nearly equal, lanceolate, acuminate; lip red and yellow; scape simple. _l._ oblong, lanceolate, plicate. _h._ - / in. mexico, . (b. r. .) =b. hyacinthina= (hyacinth-like).* _fl._ purple, racemose; lip not spurred, beardless; scape about as long as the leaves. march to june. _l._ lanceolate. _h._ ft. china, . this pretty species has proved to be quite hardy. (garden, nov., .) =b. patula= (spreading-flowered). _fl._ purple, spreading; scape tall, branched. march. _l._ lanceolate. _h._ ft. hayti, . (b. m., .) =b. shepherdii= (shepherd's).* _fl._ on branching spikes, purple, marked down the centre of the lip with yellow. winter. _l._ long, lanceolate, dark green. jamaica, . (b. m. .) =b. sherrattiana= (sherratt's).* _fl._ about a dozen on a spike, rich rosy purple; petals very broad, twice the breadth of the sepals; lip deep purple in front, marked with white and yellow down the centre. _l._ three to four-plicate. pseudo-bulbs depressed. new grenada, . (b. m. .) =b. verecunda= (modest). _fl._ purple; lip not spurred. january. _h._ ft. west indies, mexico, &c., . (b. m. .) =blighia sapida.= the akee tree. this is now included under the genus =cupania= (which _see_). =blight=, or =blast=. applied to various diseases of plants which are caused or accelerated either by the presence of parasitic fungi or insects, or by atmospheric influence. blight generally proves fatal to the whole or part of the subject attacked. =blind.= a term applied to plants which fail to produce central buds. the defect is frequently noticeable in the cabbage, and other plants of the _brassica_ tribe; and is, perhaps, mainly due to the attacks of insects in a very early stage. great care should therefore be exercised in keeping the seed beds clear of insect pests, by the application of ashes, lime, and soot, or spent hops. =blood flower.= _see_ =hæmanthus=. =bloodroot.= _see_ =sanguinaria canadensis=. =bloom.= a fine powder-like substance found on grapes, cucumbers, plums, &c., and varying in colour in the different subjects. it should be carefully protected, as it improves the appearance of the fruit. the term is also generally used-Â�although incorrectly-Â�as the plural of blossom. =blossom.= the flower of a plant, or the essential organs of reproduction, with their appendages. =blue-bells.= _see_ =campanula rotundifolia= and =scilla nutans=. =blue-bottle.= _see_ =centaurea cyanus=. =blue gum tree.= _see_ =eucalyptus globulus=. =bluets.= the french name for _centaurea cyanus_. _see also_ =houstonia cÅ�rulea= and =vaccinium angustifolium=. =blumenbachia= (in honour of john frederick blumenbach, m.d., professor of medicine at göttingen, and distinguished as a comparative anatomist). ord. _loasaceæ_. elegant branched, climbing or trailing, annual, biennial, or perennial herbs, generally covered with stinging hairs, which are very objectionable. flowers axillary, solitary, bracteate, very pretty and interesting. leaves opposite, lobed. they are of easy culture in ordinary garden soil. propagated by seeds, which should be sown in pots, in spring, and placed in a gentle heat, where they will germinate in about a fortnight. when the seedlings are large enough, and after having been previously hardened off, they may be planted out in their blooming quarters, or potted on and trained to a trellis. [illustration: fig. . blumenbachia chuquitensis.] =b. chuquitensis= (chuquitan).* _fl._ solitary, axillary, with five to ten boat-shaped red petals, which are yellow within. september. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, pinnate; segments pinnatifidly lobed. peru, . half-hardy climbing perennial. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. contorta= (twisted).* _fl._ orange-red, with cup-shaped green scales within. july. _l._ oblong-ovate, pinnatifid; lobes incisely toothed. peru. greenhouse climber, but may be grown against a wall, out of doors, during the summer. (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . flower of blumenbachia coronata.] =b. coronata= (crowned).* _fl._ of pure glossy whiteness, quadrangular, crown-shaped, in. in diameter each way. june. _l._ narrow, bipinnatifid, cut into small segments. _h._ - / ft. chili, . this is an elegant dwarf, tufted, erect biennial, with the pure white blooms imbedded in the metallic lustrous foliage. syn. _caiophora coronata_. see fig. . =b. insignis= (remarkable).* _fl._ with whitish petals and reddish-yellow scales, axillary, on long peduncles, about in. in diameter. july. _l._, lower ones five to seven-lobed; upper ones deeply bipinnatifid. _h._ ft. chili, . hardy annual trailer. syn. _loasa palmata_. (b. m. .) =bobartia= (named after jacob bobart, professor of botany at oxford in the seventeenth century). ord. _irideæ_. a small genus of greenhouse or hardy bulbous plants, closely allied to _sisyrinchium_. the species in cultivation are very pretty hardy plants, but require protection from severe frosts and excessive rains. they thrive best in a warm, light soil, and make pretty plants for rockwork. propagated by separating the offsets during autumn. this genus has been much misunderstood. among the plants which have been referred to it are some which now find places in the genera _aristea_, _sisyrinchium_, _homeria_, _marica_, _moræa_, &c., &c. =b. aurantiaca.= _see_ =homeria aurantiaca=. =b. gladiata= (sword-shaped). _fl._ yellow, thinly sprinkled with purple dots near the centre, handsome, nearly in. across. _l._ linear, ensiform, narrow, slightly glaucous, ft. or more in length. . syn. _marica gladiata_. (b. r. .) =b. spathacea= (rush-like). _l._ rush-like, several feet in length; flower-stem as long as leaves, bearing near extremity a cluster of pale yellow flowers, with narrow segments. each flower lasts but one day; as a good many, however, are developed in each spathe, there is a succession which lasts some time. . syn. _xyris altissima_. (l. b. c. .) [illustration: fig. . bocconia cordata, showing habit and flower.] =bocconia= (named after paolo bocconi, m.d., a sicilian botanist, author of the "museum des plantes," and "histoire naturelle de l'ile de corse," &c.). ord. _papaveraceæ_. two of the species are greenhouse or half-hardy shrubs. flowers inconspicuous, in terminal panicles, with the branches and branchlets each furnished with one bract. leaves stalked, glaucous, large, lobed. this genus does not well agree with the rest of _papaveraceæ_, from its having one-seeded capsules and apetalous flowers. _b. cordata_ is a handsome, hardy, herbaceous plant, with a stately habit and finely-cut foliage, and, where bold subjects are desired, few will be found superior to it. as an isolated specimen on the lawn, or by frequented walks, where it will not be too closely surrounded by tall plants, it may be grown with marked effect. it also forms a good subject for pot culture, and is largely used for sub-tropical bedding. the soil most suitable for its culture is a good fat loam, of considerable depth. propagated by cuttings, taken from the axils of the larger leaves, during early summer; or by young suckers, taken from established plants, during summer, as they will then flower the following season. if the former method is employed, the cuttings should be pushed on, so that there are plenty of roots before the winter sets in. the other two species require greenhouse culture; but both are eminently suited for sub-tropical gardening, in any light rich soil, or well-drained and airy situation. they are best propagated by seeds, sown in a hotbed in spring, the seedlings being placed out from june to september. =b. cordata= (cordate).* _fl._ buff-coloured, very numerous, borne in very large terminal panicles; individually they are not showy, but the fully grown inflorescence has a very distinct and pleasing appearance. summer. _l._ large, reflexed, deeply-veined, roundish-cordate; margins lobed or sinuated. stems growing rather close together, thickly set with leaves. _h._ ft. to ft. china, , and . mr. robinson recommends its being grown in the angle of two walls which shelter it from the north and east. it runs quickly at the roots, and the suckers may be cut off to the benefit of the parent plant; each sucker will form a strong plant in a year's time. syns. _b. japonica_ and _macleaya yedoënsis_. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. frutescens= (shrubby).* _fl._ greenish. october. _l._ large, sea-green, oval-oblong, cuneated at the base, pinnatifid. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . (l. b. c. .) =b. integrifolia= (entire-leaved). _fl._ greenish; panicle crowded. _l._ flat, oblong, tapering towards each end, entire, or scarcely crenated. _h._ ft. peru, . =b. japonica= (japanese). synonymous with _b. cordata_. =bÅ�bera= (named after bÅ�ber, a russian botanist). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of evergreen greenhouse shrubs, now generally referred to _dysodia_. they are of easy culture, thriving in ordinary garden soil. propagated by cuttings, made of young, rather firm, shoots, and placed in sand, under a glass. there are several other species besides the one given below, but they are not of much horticultural value. =b. incana= (hoary).* _fl.-heads_ golden; peduncles one-headed. november. _l._ pinnate, rather hairy; leaflets linear acute, channelled, some entire, and some trifid. stem hairy. _h._ - / ft. mexico, . (b. r. .) =bÅ�hmeria= (named after george rudolph bÅ�hmer, a german botanist). ord. _urticaceæ_. a genus of shrubs or herbaceous plants, allied to _urtica_, from which it is distinguished in not having stinging hairs. _b. nivea_ is the only species having any horticultural value. this thrives best in a warm, sandy soil; and is increased by divisions. =b. nivea= (snowy). _fl._ greenish, disposed in spikes. _l._ broadly cordate, about in. long by in. broad, terminating in a long slender point; edges serrate, covered on the under side with a dense coating of white down. _h._ ft. to ft. china. a shrub-like perennial, rather more curious than beautiful. =bog bean.= _see_ =menyanthes trifoliata=. =bog-earth.= _see_ =peat=. [illustration: fig. . vertical section of cylinder boiler. a a, wrought-iron boiler, the shaded space showing the waterway; b, ashpit inside the cast base of boiler; c, fire-bars; d, flue; e, domed top; f, feeding lid; g, flow, and h, return pipe sockets. ] =boilers.= these are very important articles in all gardens where there are glass houses, and the best should always be selected. they are made in cast and wrought iron, both of which have their special advantages and disadvantages. the former are less liable to burn through when encrusted with any deposit from the water, but will crack with sudden changes of temperature, by reason of the granular form of the metal not allowing gradual contraction; the latter may burn through where there is any deposit of mud or other matter, but they will not crack, and will stand a greater pressure than those made of cast metal. it is, however, the better plan to use boilers of wrought iron, as, with careful usage, they are less liable to break down in hard frosts than are the others. as the value of the plants, as well as that of the boiler, has to be considered, should such a contingency occur, it is certainly advisable to reduce all risks to a minimum; and as the average life of a boiler is from ten to fifteen years, a slightly larger first cost is not of very serious moment. the forms of boilers are very diverse, and, in some of the patented forms, complicated. but, whatever the shape, the following points are essential: a clear and unrestricted waterway of not less than in. in thickness; the greatest exposure of surface to the direct action of the fire; a sufficient fire space; and a fire-bar area calculated to supply enough fresh air to the fire to support thorough combustion. the forms generally used for horticultural work are the following, or some modifications of them; and, however grand the name, their chief value consists in the attested heating capacity at a given cost: the saddle boiler, which is made of various sizes, with or without check ends, cross tubes, and other devices for increasing the heating surface, and also of a tubular form; the upright cylinder (a vertical section of which is shown in fig. ); the upright tubular cylinder; the horizontal tubular; and the cornish or horizontal cylinder. combinations of the various forms, and complicated patterns of different kinds, are made for particular purposes; but in no case should large boilers be used, unless they are recommended, by one competent to judge, as suitable for the purpose they are needed to fulfil. in every case, it is necessary that the boiler should be fixed in a proper manner. it is also good policy to have boilers about , or even per cent., more powerful than is actually required, when they are new, as, from various causes, their heating power falls off in a year or two in many places; and, under ordinary work, it is not desirable to stimulate the action in order to command sufficient heat. there is no doubt that, for general purposes, some modification of the saddle or cylinder boiler is by far the best, all things duly considered; but it is impossible to give any practical advice without a thorough knowledge of the requirements of any particular place. gas boilers are also useful for small places. these are made in many forms, and are, as a rule, in the shape of a cylinder, with a coned inside, against which the flames play. some gas boilers have also a superheater attached; this exhausts the heat from the air which has passed through the boiler. another good form is made of horizontal tubes, which contain the water, the flames playing over and amongst them. an atmospheric burner of approved construction should be used where gas is the heating power. a sufficient supply of gas should be assured by using supply pipes of a good size. care should be taken to keep these pipes free from water, and protected from frost by silicate cotton lagging, or some other good non-conductor. except for very small places, however, gas apparatus is almost useless, and will never supersede fuel boilers. for other particulars regarding boilers, _see_ =heating= and =stoking=. =bois-perdrix.= _see_ =heisteria=. =bolbophyllum.= _see_ =bulbophyllum=. =boletus= (from _bolos_, a mass; in reference to its massy or globular form). ord. _fungi_. the only species of this rather large genus demanding mention is _b. edulis_ (see fig. ), which is considered an excellent article of food. it is easily distinguished, and is often of large size and somewhat unshapely; the pileus is usually of a dusky yellow or brownish hue, but sometimes brighter and more of a chestnut colour; the flesh is white, and does not change to a blue colour when cut (this is a very important characteristic, and should always be noticed). it is a species common in most districts, usually growing in woods, and appearing chiefly in the autumn. [illustration: fig. . common boletus (boletus edulis).] =boleum= (from _bolos_, a ball; in reference to the shape of the seed-pods). ord. _cruciferæ_. an ornamental, hardy, evergreen shrub, well adapted for rockwork, in ordinary soil. it requires slight protection in winter if planted in very exposed situations. propagated by seed, sown in a pot, in spring, and placed in a frame, or in the open border during summer. =b. asperum= (rough).* _fl._ cream-coloured; racemes erect, elongated; pedicels very short, the lower ones bracteate. april. _l._ alternate, oblong, linear; lower ones somewhat divided. a suffruticose, erect, branched plant, hispid from stiff hairs. _h._ in. to ft. france. . =bollea.= _see_ =zygopetalum=. =bolted.= a term used in reference to plants that have prematurely run to seed. =boltonia= (named after j. b. bolton, an english professor of botany). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of rather pretty hardy herbaceous perennials. flower-heads with white or purplish rays. leaves pale green, lanceolate, sessile. they thrive in common garden soil. propagated by divisions of the roots, in march. =b. asteroides= (aster-like).* _fl.-heads_ flesh-coloured, stellate, disposed in a rather large terminal panicle. august. _l._ all entire, somewhat broadly lanceolate, narrowed at both ends. _h._ ft. north america, . (b. m. .) =b. glastifolia= (woad-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ pink. september. _l._, lower ones serrated. _h._ - / ft. north america, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . flowers of bomarea carderi.] =bomarea= (derivation of name doubtful). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. a genus of handsome half-hardy twiners, closely allied to _alströmeria_, from which it is chiefly distinguished by its twining habit and some difference in the capsule. they are of comparatively easy culture, thriving in a compost of peat, leaf mould, loam, and sand, with good drainage. manure water should be given during the season of growth. although they make fine pot plants, their full beauty is only developed when planted out in the conservatory or greenhouse border. propagated by seeds, or by careful divisions of the underground stem. in making a division, it is necessary to observe that the part taken has some roots by which to live till new ones are formed. it should be potted at first, and may, when established, be planted out or shifted on. seeds may be raised in a warm house without difficulty. they germinate in a few weeks; and when the young plants are in. or in. high, they should be placed separately in small pots, shifting them on as necessary, or planting them out. in favoured southern localities, several species have proved hardy, but they are much the best when grown in a greenhouse. =b. acutifolia ehrenbergiana= (ehrenberg's acute-leaved). _fl._ undulate, outer segments deep orange, the inner ones paler and spotted. spring. _l._ lanceolate acute, smooth. mexico, . (b. m. ). =b. caldasiana= (caldas's).* _fl._ orange yellow, spotted crimson. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acute. peruvian andes, . =b. carderi= (carder's).* _fl._ - / in. long by - / in. in breadth at the widest part, regularly bell-shaped, with six segments, the three outer rose-coloured, the three inner nearly equal in length, crenulate, and spotted with purplish-brown; inflorescence pendulous, and consisting of a large terminal umbellate cyme, surrounded at the base by a series of crowded leaves. _l._ oblong lanceolate, acuminate, about in. by - / in. columbia, . see fig. , for which we are indebted to mr. bull. =b. chontalensis= (chontalese). _fl._ - / in. long, sub-campanulate, obtusely trigonous; outer segments thick, fleshy, wavy, rose-red, with a few brown spots round the margin at the tip, very convex; inner segments a little shorter, pale yellow blotched with brown; umbels surrounded by a whorl of leaves, and composed of several peduncles, each bearing four to six nodding flowers. august. _l._ lanceolate or ovate oblong, acuminate. nicaragua, . (b. m. ). =b. conferta= (dense-flowered).* a synonym of _b. patococensis_. =b. edulis= (edible). _fl._, outer segments rose, green tipped; inner spotted with rose. st. domingo, &c. one of the oldest species in cultivation. the tubers are said by tussac to be eaten in st. domingo, like those of the jerusalem artichoke. see fig. . =b. frondea= (leafy). _fl._ in. long, tubulate-campanulate; outer segments narrow, oblong, yellow; inner segments / in. longer than the outer ones, canary yellow, spotted with red; cymes umbellate, many-flowered, about in. across, base leafy. _l._ lanceolate, acuminate. bogota, . (g. c. n. s. , p. .) =b. oligantha= (few-flowered).* _fl._ regularly funnel-shaped, about in. long; outer segments slightly shorter than the inner, oblanceolate, under / in. abroad, obtuse, unspotted, reddish on the outside, yellow within; one or two to an umbel, on simple, flexuous, glabrous pedicels, about in. long. _l._ long, acute, about in. long, bright green on the upper surface, ciliated on the ribs beneath. peru, . see fig. . [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of bomarea edulis.] =b. patococensis= (patococha). _fl._ in. to - / in. long, elongate-funnel-shaped; the three outer segments ovate lanceolate, about one-fourth shorter than the inner segments, both of a rich crimson colour; numerously borne in drooping, contracted tufts at the ends of the shoots; peduncles about in. to - / in. long, intermixed at the base with broadly ovate-acute, leafy bracts. august and september. _l._ scattered, shortly stalked, broadly lanceolate, tail pointed. bogota, . (g. c. n. s. , p. .) [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of bomarea oligantha.] =b. salsilla= (salsilla). _fl._ purple, about / in. long, the two inner segments having a darker spot at the base, and all of them tinged with green towards the points; collected into a terminal umbel. june. _l._ few, lanceolate. south america, . this has proved quite hardy under various conditions. =b. shuttleworthii= (shuttleworth's).* _fl._, perianth about in. long, funnel-shaped or elongate bell-shaped; segments nearly equal, oblong acute, outer ones orange vermilion, slightly tinged with green and dotted with small dark spots at the tips; inner ones more acutely pointed, canary yellow, with a red midrib, and green with dark spots at the tips; cymes umbellate, pendulous. _l._ ovate lanceolate, in. to in. by in., glabrous. bogota, . (g. c. n. s. , p. .) =b. williamsii= (williams's).* _fl._ rose-coloured, about in. long, elongate funnel shape; disposed in a compound umbellate cyme. _l._ lanceolate, very acute, and tapering to a very short twisted petiole. new grenada, . =bombaceÃ�.= a division of _sterculiaceæ_. =bombax= (from _bombax_, one of the greek names for cotton; the pods are filled with a fine silky substance like cotton, but which it is impossible to spin into thread, in consequence of the edges being perfectly smooth). silk cotton tree. ord. _malvaceæ_. a genus of large soft-wooded stove trees. flowers scarlet or white, large, usually rising laterally from the trunk or branches, either singly or in clusters. they grow best in a rich loamy soil. cuttings, not too ripe, taken off at a joint, placed in sand under a bell glass, in moist heat, will root readily; but plants raised from seeds brought from their natural habitats make finer trees. =b. ceiba= (ceiba). _fl._ pale red, large. _l._ palmate, with five leaflets. _fr._ turbinate, concave at the apex. _h._ ft. south america, . =bombyx neustria.= _see_ =lackey moth=. =bona-nox.= _see_ =ipomæa bona-nox=. =bonapartea.= _see_ =tillandsia=. =bonapartea juncea.= a synonym of _agave geminiflora_. =bonatea.= (in honour of m. bonato, a distinguished italian botanist, and a professor of botany at padua). ord. _orchideæ_. a handsome terrestrial stove orchid, allied to _habenaria_, and requiring similar culture. =b. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._ white, galeate; petals bipartite; raceme many-flowered, compact; bracts cucullate, acuminate. august. _l._ oblong, sub-undulate. stem leafy. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . (b. m. ; l. b. c. .) =bongardia.= (named after heinrich gustav bongard, a german botanist). ord. _berberideæ_. a very pretty hardy tuberous-rooted perennial, requiring a sandy soil, and good drainage, with protection at all seasons from excessive wet, otherwise it will rot. it should be carefully planted in a compost of loam, peat, leaf soil, and sand, in equal proportions, and covered with a handlight. =b. rauwolfii= (rauwolf's). _fl._ golden yellow, on pyramidal branched panicles; stamens and petals nearly equal in length. may. _l._ radical, pinnate; leaflets sessile, oval-oblong, three to five-cleft at the apex, glaucous, each with a dark purple blotch at the base. _h._ in. syria, persia, . syn. _leontice chrysogonum_. (b. m. .) =bonnaya= (named after bonnay, a german botanist). ord. _scrophulariaceæ_. a small genus of usually glabrous, rarely pilose, slender, creeping or erect, annual, biennial, or perennial stove plants, almost unknown in cultivation. flowers axillary, opposite, or alternate from abortion, usually pedicellate, the upper ones sometimes racemose, pinkish, or blue. leaves opposite, quite entire, or toothed. they thrive in a rich sandy loam. the annual species are propagated by seeds, the others by divisions and cuttings. =bonnetia= (commemorative of charles bonnet, a french naturalist, who wrote some botanical papers in ). ord. _ternstrÅ�miaceæ_. a genus of elegant middle-sized stove trees or shrubs. flowers large, terminal; peduncles one or many-flowered. leaves scattered, exstipulate, coriaceous, entire, one-nerved, marked with transverse veins, sub-sessile, narrowed to the base. they thrive well in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings of firm young shoots will root if placed in sand under a hand glass, in a moderate heat. =b. sessilis= (stalkless). _fl._ purplish, terminal. _l._ oblong, coriaceous, entire. _h._ ft. guiana, . =borage.= _see_ =borago officinalis=. =boraginaceÃ�.= a large order of herbs or shrubs, having spirally-coiled inflorescence; corolla usually regular and five-lobed, with an imbricated æstivation; throat generally hairy; stamens five, inserted in the corolla. leaves alternate, rough. among other genera belonging to this order may be named _anchusa_, _borago_, _cynoglossum_, _echium_, _lithospermum_, and _myosotis_. =borago= (derivation very uncertain; probably a corruption of some eastern name). borage. ord. _boraginaceæ_. a genus of hardy herbaceous perennials or annuals, excellently adapted for naturalising in dry stony places. flowers blue, panicled, drooping; corolla rotate; throat furnished with emarginate vaulted processes; anthers distinct, oblong or lanceolate, awned, fixed by the inner side, conniving into a cone. nuts four, one-celled, turbinate, fixed to the bottom of the calyx. leaves oblong or lanceolate. all the species are easily cultivated, thriving in any common soil. propagated by divisions, in spring, or by striking the young cuttings in a cold frame. they may also be raised from seed, which should be sown from march to may, in any good garden soil, and the plants, when large enough, thinned out to ft. or more apart. in hot weather, borage is generally in demand for claret cup and other drinks. =b. laxiflora= (loose-flowered).* _fl._ on long pedicels, racemose, drooping; corolla pale blue; segments ovate, bluntish, erectly spreading. may to august. _l._ oblong, and rough from strigæ; radical ones rosulate; cauline ones half stem-clasping. stem decumbent, many from the same root, hispid from retrograde bristles. corsica, . (b. m. .) =b. longifolia= (long-leaved).* _fl._ disposed in a terminal bracteate panicle; corolla blue; segments ovate, acute, spreading. july and august. _l._ linear-lanceolate, scabrous and downy beneath; cauline ones half stem-clasping. _h._ ft. numidia, . [illustration: fig. . flower of borago officinalis.] =b. officinalis= (officinal).* common borage. _fl._ blue, purple, or white; segments of the corolla limb ovate, acute, spreading. june to september. _l._, lower ones obovate, attenuated at the base; cauline ones oblong, sessile, sub-cordate at the base. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. this is the kind most cultivated in gardens for flavouring. see fig. . (sy. en. b. .) =borassus= (a name applied by linnæus to the spathe of the date palm). ord. _palmaceæ_. a very small genus of stove trees, containing two noble species, which are distinguished by unisexual flowers, produced upon distinct plants, the males being borne in dense branching catkins, and the females on simple, or, more rarely, slightly branched spikes. fruit very large, brown, three-seeded. leaves fan-shaped, with spiny petioles. trunks unarmed, often ft. high. they may be grown in good fibrous loam, leaf mould, and sand, mainly the former. increased by seeds only, which require to be sown in strong bottom heat. rarely seen in cultivation. =b. æthiopicum= (african). _l._ nearly circular, and plaited, supported upon stout petioles, ft. to ft. long. western tropical africa. this handsome, but rare, species is remarkable for the bulging out or swelling in its stem, near the middle, or about two-thirds of its height from the ground. =b. flabelliformis= (fan-shaped).* _l._ nearly circular, and plaited like a partially-open fan, with about seventy ribs, which radiate from a common centre. _h._ ft. india, . =borbonia= (named after gaston de bourbon, duke of orleans, son of henry iv. of france, a great lover and patron of botany). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of very ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrubs, natives of the cape of good hope. flowers yellow, disposed in terminal heads, axillary. leaves simple, amplexicaul, alternate, exstipulate, pungent. they thrive well in a mixture of peat, loam, and sand, with good drainage. cuttings, half-ripened, obtained in april, will root freely in sandy soil if placed under a bell glass, in a cool house. =b. barbata= (bearded).* _fl._ sessile, villous on the outside. july. _l._ narrow, lanceolate, many-nerved, complicated, ciliately-bearded, and very much acuminated; branches diverging. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. cordata= (heart-shaped). _fl._, corolla densely villous, with the vexillum obcordate. july. _l._ cordate, many-nerved, quite entire, glabrous. branches villous. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. crenata= (crenated).* _fl._ less villous than in the rest of the species. july. _l._ cordate, roundish, acute, denticulated, many nerved and reticulated between the nerves, and are, as well as the branches, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. m. .) =b. lanceolata= (lance-shaped). _fl._ densely villous. july. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, pungent, many nerved, quite entire, sessile, glabrous, as well as the stem. _h._ ft. to ft. . (l. b. c. .) =b. ruscifolia= (ruscus-leaved). _fl._ sparingly villous. july. _l._ cordate, many-nerved, minutely ciliated, but are otherwise glabrous as well as the branches. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. m. .) =borders, flower.= small beds, or a continuous bed, of greater length than width, skirting a wall or shrubbery, and containing plants of a heterogeneous character. they should be slightly raised above the surrounding level, and thoroughly drained. in the first preparation of the border, it is most essential to deeply dig or trench the ground, thoroughly incorporating a large amount of well-bodied manure; and if the soil is very stiff, wood ashes or coarse sand should be well worked in with the manure. the best time to plant such borders is in early autumn or in march. where, as is frequently the case, the borders are only ft. or ft. wide, not more than two rows of plants, either in groups or singly, will be allowable. the tall plants or shrubs should constitute the background, with dwarfer subjects in front; but formal arrangements must be avoided. the object should be to secure a continuous succession of flowers. this would entail some little trouble at first, which, however, would be amply repaid by results. no hard-and-fast rules can be laid down as to the arrangement of the plants, which depends on individual taste and means; but the best results are obtained when the border is mainly made up of hardy herbaceous perennials, as permanent occupants, assisted by liberal quantities of summer bedding plants, such as dahlias, fuchsias, geraniums, heliotrope, tropæolums, &c., as well as many hardy annuals and biennials. by this means, a very varied and beautiful display may be maintained, especially if bulbs are used for early spring effect, such as narcissi, scillas, snowdrops, tulips, &c. of course, the herbaceous perennials should be selected with much care, all weedy subjects being avoided, and variety in colour and time of flowering secured. anything like a full list of these would occupy too much space for repetition here, but the following will be found very showy and useful: achilleas, aconitums, anemones, aquilegias, armerias, asters, campanulas, carnations and picotees, delphiniums, dodecatheons, doronicums, fritillarias, funkias, gaillardias, geraniums, geums, hollyhocks, iberises, irises, liliums, pæonies, papavers, pyrethrums, double and single, ranunculus, trolliuses, &c. =borders, fruit.= these should be well drained, and if not naturally so, the soil should be excavated from ft. to ft. deep, in order to form a bottom of stones, pieces of brick, clinkers, &c. where it is convenient, draining pipes should be added, if an outfall in the vicinity can be secured. the base of the border should be sloped to the front, where the pipes should be laid, and the bottom covered with draining material, thereby effectually preventing the fruit trees rooting deep, which is detrimental to healthy growth. gross-feeding vegetables or flowers should not be grown on the surface, but shallow-rooting crops will generally do no harm. many advocate the surface being kept free from crops of any sort, simply letting it be freely exposed; whilst others equally as strenuously condemn this plan. where necessary, chalk or some other mineral constituent of good soil which is naturally absent, may be added; but much animal manure is rarely required. the depth and width of border may vary for different fruit trees, but efficient drainage is in all cases important. =borecole= (_brassica oleracea fimbriata_). an important division of the brassica tribe, often cultivated in gardens under the name of kale. it comes in very useful when hard weather has rendered cabbages, &c., unfit for use, as it endures cold better than most other green vegetables. some are also grown as ornamental foliaged plants. like all other plants of a similar description, they require rich soil, and they should be put out in june or early in july, as it is almost useless to plant this kind of vegetable after the middle of the latter month. to obtain the best results, the ground should be deeply dug and well manured; but it must not be full of crude manure at planting time, or it will make the plants too tender and succulent in wet seasons, with the result that the first sharp frost would cause them to rot. good hard-stemmed plants are the kinds most needed, especially for crops required in spring, when green vegetables are scarce. cultivation: early in april, and again a month later for succession, the seeds should be sown thinly in nursery beds, not covering them too deeply. the soil should be in a friable condition, and it is an advantage if the first beds be made under a south wall. as soon as the seedlings appear, if they are too thick, they should be thinned, as those which are drawn up weak and spindly are useless. when large enough, they should be carefully planted out, choosing showery weather, if possible, for the operation. if it is necessary to plant them in dry weather, they must be well watered-in. the rows should be from ft. to ft. apart, according to the variety, and the plants ft. apart in the rows; or, if potatoes are planted wide apart, the borecole may be arranged between them. dead leaves must be cleared away from time to time, but no green ones should be broken off. when the tops are cut for use, the stems should not be denuded of foliage, as they will soon break again and form successional crops. the plants must be kept free from weeds. after april, the kales are of little use; the stems may therefore be pulled up, and the ground planted with some other crop. they all require the same treatment, and at their various seasons come in equally useful. _sorts._ the distinct forms are somewhat limited, but being largely cultivated on the continent as well as all parts of britain on account of its hardy nature, the varieties of borecole receive a large number of names that are either synonymous with, or indistinct from, a few well-known types. dwarf green curled or scotch is probably the best and most grown; other good hardy sorts are asparagus kale (this name is applied to several different kinds, the best one being in use very late in spring), buda, cottagers', dwarf purple, imperial hearting, ragged jack, and tall green curled. melville's variegated and variegated borecole, amongst others, have fine ornamental foliage. =boronia= (named after francis boroni, an italian servant of dr. sibthorp, who perished from an accident at athens; he collected specimens of many of those plants which are figured in the "flora græca"). ord. _rutaceæ_. very elegant and useful shrubs, requiring similar treatment to ordinary greenhouse hard-wooded subjects, and much aided with a little extra heat in spring, when breaking into growth. flowers pretty, pink-purplish, or white; peduncles terminal, but usually axillary on the extreme branches, one to many-flowered; pedicels furnished at the base and middle with two opposite, short bracts, jointed, commonly dilated under the calyx. leaves opposite, simple, or impari-pinnate, entire, or a little serrulated, full of pellucid dots. they should be placed out of doors from july to the middle of september; the most convenient place for them is in pits, as there are then greater facilities for protecting them from heavy rains and thunderstorms. when first put out, boronias should not be fully exposed, but in the course of a week they may remain open to the full influence of both sun and air. potting should be performed once a year, as soon as the top growth ceases, as the roots then extend themselves in preparation for their next year's functions. the best compost for them is one of peat and maiden loam in equal parts, and about one-sixth sharp silver sand. many cultivators, however, prefer a compost consisting of good fibry peat and silver sand, together with some pieces of charcoal, smaller or larger, according to the size of the pots used. the soil should be rammed firmly in the pots, which must be well drained. the leading shoots should be pinched, to ensure good bushy specimens. propagation may be effected by young cuttings, or those made from the half-ripened wood; these should be put into a thoroughly drained pot of sandy soil, with in. of sand on the surface, and covered with a bell glass, which must be frequently taken off and wiped dry. when in the cutting state, water must be very carefully given around the rim of the pot, without taking off the glass. if placed in a temperature of about deg., and shaded from bright noonday sun, they soon root, when they may be potted off singly into small pots, and plunged in sawdust, or cocoa-nut fibre refuse, in which situation but little water is needed. pinching repeatedly, when young, is the only means to secure good ultimate growth. air must be given on all possible opportunities. =b. alata= (winged). _fl._ pale rose-colour, small; peduncles dichotomous, usually three-flowered; bracts fringed. may. _l._, leaflets three to five pairs, or more, crenate, revolute, pilose on the nerves beneath, as well as the rachis. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . (l. b. c. .) =b. anemonifolia= (anemone-leaved). _fl._ pink; peduncles axillary, solitary, one-flowered. may. _l._ stalked, trifid; segments narrow, wedge-shaped, furnished with two or three teeth at the apex, or quite entire. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . (p. m. b. , .) =b. crenulata= (crenulate).* _fl._ red, small, with a fringed calyx; pedicels axillary and terminal, one-flowered. july. _l._ obovate, mucronulate, crenulated. _h._ ft. to ft. king george's sound. (b. m. .) =b. denticulata= (finely-toothed). _fl._ rose-coloured; bracts deciduous; peduncles corymbose. march to august. _l._ linear, retuse, toothleted, terminated by a small point. _h._ ft. to ft. king george's sound, . (b. r. .) =b. drummondi= (drummond's).* _fl._ pretty rosy pink, freely produced during spring and summer. _l._ pinnatifid. _h._ ft. new holland. a very pretty species, with a slender but compact habit of growth. there is a white-flowered variety of this species (f. d. s. , .) =b. elatior= (tallest).* _fl._ pendulous, rosy carmine, very fragrant, disposed in long dense clusters along the ends of the branches. may. _l._ very prettily pinnately cut into linear segments. _h._ ft. western australia, . (b. m. .) =b. ledifolia= (ledum-leaved). _fl._ red; peduncles axillary, one-flowered, each bearing two bracts in the middle. march. _l._ linear-lanceolate, quite entire, downy beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . (p. m. b. , .) [illustration: fig. . flowering branches of boronia megastigma.] =b. megastigma= (large-stigma).* _fl._ numerous, axillary, fragrant, drooping, / in. in diameter, sub-globose, campanulate; petals nearly orbicular, concave, maroon purple outside, and yellow within. _l._ sessile, pinnate, with three to five narrow linear rigid leaflets. _h._ ft. of slender habit, with twiggy branches. south-western australia, . see fig. . =b. pinnata= (pinnate).* _fl._ pink, with a scent like that of hawthorn; peduncles dichotomous. february to may. _l._, leaflets two, three or four pairs, linear, acute, quite smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . (b. m. .) =b. polygalæfolia= (polygala-leaved). _fl._ red; peduncles axillary, solitary, one-flowered. march to july. _l._ linear-lanceolate, quite entire, opposite, alternate, and three in a whorl. _h._ ft. to ft. port jackson, . =b. serrulata= (serrulate).* _fl._ of a deep rose colour, very fragrant; peduncles aggregate, terminal. july. _l._ trapeziform, acute, serrulated in front, smooth, full of glandular dots. _h._ ft. to ft. port jackson, . (b. r. .) =b. tetrandra= (four-stamened). _fl._ pale purple; pedicels short, one-flowered. may. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets four to five pairs, linear, obtuse, smooth; branches pilose. _h._ ft. to ft. new holland, . (p. m. b. , .) =borreria= (named after william borrer, f.l.s., a profound botanist and cryptogamist). ord. _rubiaceæ_. a large genus of stove herbs or sub-shrubs, now referred to _spermacoce_. flowers small, white, rarely blue, disposed in verticillate heads, in the axils of the leaves, or on the tops of the branches, rarely cymose or corymbose. leaves opposite, or the young ones disposed in fascicles in the axils of the old ones, and therefore appearing verticillate; stipules joining with the petioles, more or less sheathing, fringed by many bristles. stems and branches usually tetragonal. the species are of easy culture, thriving in a light soil. cuttings of the perennial kinds strike root readily in the same kind of soil, in heat. the annual kinds require a similar treatment to other tender annuals. =b. stricta= (straight). a dwarf shrub, but closely allied to the next species. porto rico. =b. verticillata= (whorled-flowered). _fl._ white. july. _l._ linear lanceolate, acuminated, opposite, but appearing verticillate from the fascicles of young leaves in the axils. _h._ ft. west indies, . =boscia= (named after louis bosc, a french professor of agriculture). syn. _podoria_. ord. _capparidaceæ_. a small genus of stove plants, requiring a soil of lumpy, fibry loam and peat. propagated by cuttings of firm wood, placed in sand, under a glass, in heat. =b. senegalensis= (senegal). _fl._ white, small, apetalous, corymbose. _h._ ft. senegal, . an unarmed evergreen shrub. (l. e. m. .) =bossiÃ�a= (named after m. bossier lamartinière, a french botanist, who accompanied the unfortunate la peyrouse round the world). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of elegant australian greenhouse shrubs. flowers yellow, axillary and solitary, the base of the vexillum or the keel generally blotched or veined with purple. leaves simple, of various forms. a mixture of turfy loam, leaf mould, peat, and sand, with very free drainage, suits these plants best. half-ripened cuttings will root freely if placed in a pot of sand with a bell glass over them, in a cool house. seeds should be sown, in march, on a slight hotbed. =b. cinerea= (ashy-grey). _fl._ yellow, the vexillum furnished with a purple circle at the base, and the keel dark purple. may. _l._ nearly sessile, cordate acute, ending in a spiny mucrone, scabrous above, but pilose on the nerves beneath, with recurved margins. branches terete, crowded with leaves, vinous. _h._ ft. to ft. . syns. _b. cordifolia_, _b. tenuicaulis_. (b. m. .) =b. cordifolia= (heart-leaved). a synonym of _b. cinerea_. =b. disticha= (two-ranked).* _fl._ yellowish-red; peduncles solitary, axillary, one-flowered, longer than the leaves. march to may. _l._ distichous, ovate, obtuse. young branches terete. _h._ - / ft. swan river, . (b. r. , .) =b. ensata= (sword-shaped). _fl._ yellowish, with the back and base of the vexillum of a brownish orange-purple colour; keel brownish-purple. april. branches flat, linear, leafless, toothed, the teeth bearing the flowers; upper bracts distant from the lower ones, shorter than the pedicel. _h._ ft. to ft. . (s. f. a. .) =b. foliosa= (leafy). _fl._ yellow and orange. may to june. _l._ alternate, small, orbicular, retuse, scabrous, with revolute margins, silky beneath; stipules permanent, hooked, longer than the petioles. branches straight, terete, villous. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. lenticularis= (lentil-leaved). a synonym of _b. rhombifolia_. =b. linnæoides= (linnæa-like).* _fl._ yellow; keel dark brown; corolla about twice the length of the calyx; pedicels solitary one-flowered, elongated. may. _l._ elliptic, mucronate. branches terete, prostrate, puberulous. . a procumbent shrub. =b. linophylla= (flax-leaved).* _fl._ orange and purple. july to august. _l._ linear, with recurved margins. branches compressed, leafy. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. m. .) =b. microphylla= (small-leaved). _l._ cuneiformly obcordate, glabrous. branches terete, leafy, spinescent; young branches rather compressed and pubescent. _h._ ft. to ft. . (l. b. c. .) =b. rhombifolia= (diamond-leaved).* _fl._ yellow, the vexillum having a dark red zonate mark at the base; wings red at the base; keel brownish-purple. april. _l._ rhomboidal-orbicular, somewhat emarginate and mucronate. branches terete; branchlets compressed, leafy. _h._ ft. to ft. . syn. _b. lenticularis_. (l. b. c. .) =b. rotundifolia= (round-leaved). _l._ roundish, or broadly obovate, somewhat mucronate, flat, four to five lines long and five to six broad. branches and branchlets leafy, compressed. _h._ ft. to ft. . =b. scolopendrium= (plank-plant). _fl._ yellow, with the back of the vexillum and keel brownish-red. may. _l._ (when present) ovate and smooth. branches flat, linear, leafless, toothed, with the teeth bearing the flowers; keel naked; superior bracts permanent, imbricate, equal in length to the peduncles. _h._ ft. to ft. . (b. m. .) =b. tenuicaulis= (slender-stemmed). synonymous with _b. cinerea_. =boswellia= (named after dr. boswell, formerly of edinburgh). olibanum tree. ord. _burseraceæ_. ornamental and economic evergreen stove trees. flowers hermaphrodite; calyx five-toothed, permanent; petals five, obovate-oblong, spreading, with the margins incumbent in æstivation; disk cup-shaped, crenate; stamens ten; capsule trigonal. they are of easy culture, thriving well in loam and peat soil. cuttings root readily if placed in sand under a glass. =b. glabra= (glabrous). _fl._ white, small, with a red nectary and yellow anthers; racemes aggregate, simple, terminal, shorter than the leaves. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets broad, lanceolate, blunt, serrated, smooth. _h._ ft. coromandel, . (b. f. s. .) =b. serrata= (saw-edged-leaved).* _fl._ whitish-yellow; racemes axillary, simple. _l._ impari-pinnate; leaflets ovate-oblong, taper-pointed, serrated, pubescent. _h._ ft. india, . (t. l. s. xv., .) =botany bay gum.= _see_ =xanthorrhæa arborea=. =botany bay tea= (and =tree=). _see_ =smilax glycyphylla=. =bothy.= a residence for under-gardeners, usually built behind the hothouses, or some high wall, in what is called a back shed. the place is too frequently a cramped, ill-ventilated hovel. a bothy proper should be an independent structure, and fitted with modern conveniences; for, of all people, gardeners are the most susceptible to colds, &c. a library of standard horticultural and botanical works, as well as a few on other scientific subjects, and a moderate number of high-class books of fiction, one or more weekly gardening and other papers, should be supplied by the employer. during the winter months, for mutual improvement, lectures should be delivered, or papers read, by each gardener, on various subjects, after which a free discussion should take place upon the paper or lecture, by which means a great amount of good would be accomplished. =botrychium= (from _botrys_, a bunch; in reference to the bunch-like disposition of the indusia). moonwort. ord. _filices_. a genus of very interesting and pretty little hardy ferns. capsules sessile, arranged in two rows on the face of spikes which form a compound panicle. they require a compost of sandy loam; perfect drainage is most essential. for general culture, _see_ =ferns=. =b. australe= (southern). a variety of _b. ternatum_. =b. daucifolium= (daucus-leaved). _sti._ stout, in. to in. long; petiole of sterile segments in. to in. long, the latter in. to in. each way, deltoid, tripinnatifid or tripinnate, the lower pinnæ largest; segments lanceolate-oblong, / in. to / in. broad, finely toothed. _fertile peduncle_ equalling the sterile segments when mature; panicle in. to in. long; tripinnate, not very close. himalayas, &c. greenhouse species. syn. _b. subcarnosum_. =b. lunaria.= common moonwort.* _sti._ in. to in. long. _sterile segments_ sessile, or nearly so, in. to in. long, / in. to in. broad, base much broader than the middle, cut down to a flattened rachis into several distinct, close, entire, or notched cuneate-flabellate pinnæ on both sides. _fertile peduncle_ equalling or exceeding the sterile portion; panicle close, in. to in. long. england, &c. hardy. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . botrychium lunaria, showing habit, capsule, and spores.] =b. lunarioides= (lunaria-like). a variety of _b. ternatum_. =b. obliquum= (oblique). a variety of _b. ternatum_. =b. subcarnosum= (sub-fleshy). a synonym of _b. daucifolium_. =b. ternatum= (ternate).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _petiole_ of the sterile segments in. to in. long, the latter in. to in. each way, deltoid, tri- or quadripinnatifid; lower pinnæ much the largest. _fertile peduncle_ in. to in. long; panicle in. to in. long; deltoid, very compound. nootka and hudson's bay territory. several so-called species come very close to this, including _australe_, _lunarioides_, and _obliquum_, which are only geographical varieties. greenhouse species. =b. virginianum= (virginian).* _sti._ in. to in. long. _sterile segments_ sessile, in. to in. each way, deltoid, quadripinnatifid; lower pinnæ much the largest; pinnules oval-oblong, close, cut down to the rachis into finely cut linear-oblong segments. _fertile peduncle_ equalling or exceeding the sterile part of the plant when mature; panicle in. to in. long, loose, oblong. oregon, and north united states, . a hardy species in sheltered places. (h. g. f. .) =bottle-gourd.= _see_ =lagenaria=. =bottle-tree.= _see_ =sterculia rupestris=. =bottom heat.= this is usually secured by passing hot-water pipes through an air chamber, or a water tank, beneath a bed of plunging material. the covering of the tank or chamber is best made of slate. the heat must be regulated according to the requirements of the subjects grown; this is easily accomplished by using the valve. a thermometer should be placed in the tank or bed. bottom-heat is indispensable for propagating plants from seeds and cuttings, especially in spring. _see_ =heating= and =hotbeds=. =boucerosia= (from _boukeros_, furnished with buffaloes' horns; in reference to the curved lobes of the corona) ord. _asclepiadaceæ_. a genus of greenhouse succulent perennials, allied to _stapelia_, and requiring the same culture. flowers numerous, terminal, umbellate; corolla sub-campanulate, five-cleft; segments broadly triangular, with acute recesses; stramineous corona fifteen-lobed; lobes disposed in a double series; the five inner ones opposite the stamens and lying upon the anthers; the rest exterior, erect, or a little incurved at apex, adhering to the back of the inner ones. branches and stems tetragonal, with toothed angles. [illustration: fig. boucerosia europÃ�a.] =b. europæa= (european). _fl._ purple-brown, yellow. summer. _h._ in. sicily, . syns. _apteranthes_ and _stapelia gussoniana_. see fig. . (b. r. .) =b. maroccana= (morocco).* _fl._ dark red purple, with yellow concentric lines. summer. _l._ minute, trowel-shaped, deflexed at tip of stem angles. _h._ in. morocco, . (b. m. .) =bouchea= (named after c. and p. bouche, german naturalists). ord. _verbenaceæ_. a small genus of stove or greenhouse evergreen herbs or sub-shrubs. flowers sub-sessile, in spicate racemes, which are either terminal or in the forking of two branches; corolla funnel-shaped. leaves opposite, toothed. they thrive in a well-drained compost of loam and sandy peat. propagated by cuttings, placed in sand, under a glass, and in a gentle heat, during spring. =b. cuneifolia= (wedge-shaped-leaved). _fl._ white. april. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . a greenhouse evergreen shrub. syn. _chascanum cuneifolium_. =b. pseudogervao= (false-gervaô). _fl._ purplish, with white throat; spike terminal, in. to in. long, slender. september. _l._ opposite, ovate, or elliptic-ovate, acuminate, serrated. stems tetragonous. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . a stove perennial. (b. m. ). =bougainvillea= (named after de bougainville, a french navigator). ord. _nyctagineæ_. gorgeous warm greenhouse or conservatory plants, comprising some of the most showy climbers in cultivation. their beauty lies in the bracts, which envelop the small greenish flowers. _b. glabra_ may be grown in pots, or planted out in the greenhouse borders; the others are best planted out, as they root very freely, and plenty of space would be occupied if allowed, but it is best to limit it, as they bloom much better. strict training and pinching are not desirable, being prejudicial to the free production of bloom; indeed, the best plan is to allow the plants to ramble freely over the roof of a moderately high house, or along the upper portion of a back wall; they will then bloom profusely for several months in the year, provided proper attention be paid to watering, and that the plants are in a well-drained situation. in preparing a border for their reception, the first point to be considered is the drainage, which must be perfect. this is best effected by placing a layer of brick rubbish, in. to in. in thickness, communicating with the drain, by which means all sourness and stagnancy of the soil will be obviated. the bed should be excavated to a depth of in. or ft. three parts turfy loam, and one part leaf soil, with the admixture of a liberal quantity of sharp gritty sand, will form a suitable compost for the culture of bougainvilleas. the amount of sand incorporated must depend upon the quality of the other components, heavy loam requiring more than that which is more friable. the occasional incorporation of manure in the compost is not to be recommended; but a liberal application of liquid manure will be of material advantage, especially if the root space is limited. when the plants cease blooming each yearÂ�-about november or decemberÂ�-they should be dried off and rested; and in february they should be closely spurred in, the same as with vines, and all weak leaders removed, so that strong wood only is left. when grown in pots, they must be started in brisk heat. they are easily increased by cuttings prepared from the half-ripened wood; these should be placed in sandy soil, in a brisk bottom heat, when they will soon root. scale, red spider, and mealy bug are the only insects likely to infest the plants, and recipes for their destruction will be found under each individual name. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of bougainvillea spectabilis.] =b. glabra= (smooth).* _fl._, inflorescence panicled, smaller than that of _b. speciosa_, each branchlet producing cordate-ovate acute rosy bracts, in threes. summer. _l._ bright green, smooth. brazil, . this is by far the best species for pot culture, and forms a very showy plant when well grown. =b. speciosa= (beautiful).* _fl._, bracts large, cordate, delicate lilac rose, produced in immense panicles, which, in well grown specimens, are so freely produced as to entirely shroud the whole plant. march to june. _l._ ovate, very dark green, covered on the upper surface with small hairs. stems branched, abundantly furnished with large recurved spines. brazil, . (f. m. i., .) =b. spectabilis= (showy). _fl._, bracts of a dull brick-red, shaded with scarlet. south america, . it is very difficult to obtain bloom on this plant; and when flowers are produced, they are extremely ephemeral. the species is, for all practical purposes, much inferior to either of the foregoing. syn. _josepha augusta_. see fig. . =bourbon palm.= _see_ =latania=. =boussingaultia= (named after boussingault, a celebrated chemist). ord. _chenopodiaceæ_. very pretty half-hardy, tuberous-rooted plants, requiring a rich vegetable sandy soil, and a well-drained sunny aspect, under which conditions the first-mentioned species develops into a very luxuriant trailing plant, attaining a length of in. or more. propagated freely by means of the tubercles of the stem; these are, however, extremely brittle. =b. baselloides= (basella-like).* _fl._ white, ultimately becoming black, fragrant, small, disposed in clusters, in. to in. long, which are axillary at the ends of the branches. late autumn. _l._ alternate, cordate, smooth, shining, fleshy, slightly wavy. stems very twining, tinged red, very quick-growing, producing tubercles. south america, . (b. m. .) =b. lachaumei= (lachaume's). _fl._ rose, constantly in perfection. cuba, . a stove species. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of bouvardia.] =bouvardia= (named after dr. charles bouvard, formerly superintendent of the jardin du roi, at paris). ord. _rubiaceæ_. handsome greenhouse evergreen shrubs. peduncles terminal, three-flowered, or trichotomous and corymbose; corolla funnel-shaped, tubular, elongated, beset with velvety papillæ outside, and a four-parted, spreading, short limb. leaves opposite, or in whorls; stipules narrow, acute, adnate to the petioles on both sides. these extensively cultivated plants are among the most useful for conservatory or greenhouse decoration (see fig. . for which we are indebted to messrs. cannell and sons), and the flowers are largely employed in a cut state. perhaps only two are fragrant, viz., _jasminiflora_ and _humboldtii_. cultivation: presuming the grower to be commencing with young rooted cuttings, these should be potted off into a mixture of good fibrous loam, leaf soil, and sand, in equal proportions, to which may be added a small quantity of peat; they should then be placed in a temperature of from deg. to deg. until fully established in the small pots. it is necessary at this stage to stop the young plants back to the first joint, and as they continue to make fresh breaks, to keep on pinching them back during the whole period of cultivation, or until sufficiently bushy plants are produced. many growers neglect stopping far too much, the result being ill-shaped and almost flowerless plants. the pinching, of course, can be regulated by the time the plants are required to flower; and it is unwise, in most cases, to stop them after the end of august. when the small pots are well filled with roots, the plants should be shifted into the flowering pots, viz., large -sized, which are quite commodious enough to grow very fine plants, a similar compost as in the first potting, with a little standen's manure added, being used, and good drainage provided. a cool greenhouse, with a damp bottom for the pots to rest upon, and with a moist atmosphere, is the most suitable place in which to grow them during late spring and early summer, the moist air being very desirable as an effectual check to red spider, a pest very fond of the foliage, which it permanently disfigures. a cold pit or close frame is better during the summer months, as a moist atmosphere and cool bottom are then certain. ventilation may be effected during the greater part of the day by tilting the lights below, and on fine nights they may be removed altogether. during bright sunshine, shading will be beneficial. all through the period of active growth, it is absolutely necessary that the plants should receive plenty of water, or they will surely suffer; and when the pots are filled with roots, occasional doses of manure water will be beneficial. many cultivators plant them out about the end of june, in favoured situations, or in spent hotbeds, when they make very vigorous growth; and, if carefully pinched and watered, fine specimens are obtained. these are lifted in early autumn, with a good ball, potted, and kept shaded for a few days until the roots are again active, when they are taken to the house in which they are intended to bloom, and an enormous supply of flowers is secured. we have also seen bouvardias planted out permanently in beds, in prepared pits, in which the winter temperature was not less than deg., with very satisfactory results; the quantity of bloom being very great. of course, with the last-named treatment, it is essential to give the plants a rest and hardening-off after flowering, and when they are started into fresh growth to keep them well pinched and watered. bouvardias are liable to the attacks of red spider and green fly. the former stands little chance of existence if the plants are kept well supplied with moisture; the latter may be destroyed by fumigating with tobacco. mealy bug are also troublesome, and should be sponged off with a solution of gishurst's compound. propagation: after flowering, and a slight rest and hardening-off, the old plants should be cut back, placed in heat, in a stove or cucumber pit, and freely syringed, which will cause them to break freely, and produce a good supply of cuttings. when the young shoots are from - / in. to in. long., they are in the best condition for striking. it is not necessary that they should be cut off at a joint, as they will root from any surface of the stem; and, working economically, it is wiser to cut them off just above the first joint, as other shoots will speedily break out, which may, in their turn, be taken. pots about in. across should have previously been prepared for the cuttings, by being well drained and filled with a mixture of good fibrous loam, leaf soil, and coarse sand, in equal parts, with a copious supply of sand upon the surface, into which the cuttings should be dibbled pretty thickly. a good watering must be given without wetting, and thereby injuring, the foliage. the pots should be plunged in the cutting case, or in any bottom heat of about deg. or deg., and covered with a bell glass. all that is then necessary is to keep them moist and shady during sunshine, until they are rooted, which, as a rule, is effected in three weeks' time. when well established, they may be removed from the case, gradually hardened off, and finally potted singly into small thumb pots. =b. angustifolia= (narrow-leaved).* _fl._ pale red; corymbs somewhat trichotomous. september. _l._ three in a whorl, lanceolate, with revolute edges, glabrous above, but beset with fine hairs beneath. branches terete, smoothish. _h._ ft. mexico, . (p. m. b. , .) =b. cavanillesii= (cavanilles's). _fl._ red; peduncles terminal, trifid, three-flowered. may. _l._ opposite, ovate-lanceolate, acuminated, rather villous beneath. _h._ - / ft. mexico, . syn. _b. multiflora_. (j. h. s. , .) =b. flava= (yellow).* _fl._ yellow, drooping; racemes three to five-flowered; pedicels downy, slender. march. _l._ opposite, ovate-lanceolate, ciliated; stipules setaceous. _h._ - / ft. mexico, . (b. r. , .) =b. hirtella= (hairy). _fl._ pale red or flesh-coloured, corymbose. _l._ whorled, lanceolate, with revoluted edges, hairy on both surfaces. branches terete. mexico. =b. humboldtii corymbiflora= (humboldt's corymb-flowered).* _fl._ white, large, fragrant, disposed in terminal racemes; tubes long. autumn and winter. _l._ ovate, oblong-acuminate, dark green. . one of the finest kinds in cultivation. (g. c. , .) =b. jacquini= (jacquin's). a synonym of _b. triphylla_. =b. jasminiflora= (jasmine-flowered).* _fl._ white, fragrant, in compound cymes; very floriferous. winter. _l._ opposite, elliptic-acuminate. south america, . a very charming and largely grown species. (g. c. , .) [illustration: fig. . bouvardia leiantha.] =b. leiantha= (smooth-flowered).* _fl._ scarlet; corymbs sub-trichotomous. july to november. _l._ ternate, ovate-acuminate, slightly hairy above, downy-villous beneath. _h._ ft. mexico, . see fig. . (b. h. , .) =b. longiflora= (long-flowered).* _fl._ white, terminal, solitary, sessile, with the tube in. or in. long. _l._ opposite, oblong, acute, cuneated at the base, glabrous. branches compressedly tetragonal, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . (b. m. .) =b. multiflora= (many-flowered). a synonym of _b. cavanillesii_. =b. triphylla= (three-leaved).* _fl._ scarlet, nearly in. long; corymbs somewhat trichotomous. july. _l._ smoothish above, hairy beneath, three in a whorl, oblong. branchlets trigonal, hairy. _h._ ft. to ft. mexico, . there are numerous varieties of this species. syn. _b. jacquini_. (b. m. .) =b. versicolor= (various-coloured). _fl._, corolla with a scarlet tube, which is / in. long, but having the limb yellowish inside; corymbs three-flowered, trichotomous, drooping. july to september. _l._ opposite, lanceolate, ciliated. branches terete, glabrous, velvety while young. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . (b. r. .) the garden hybrids are very handsome. a selection is given below: alfred neuner, flowers double, white, or slightly tinged with rose (see fig. ); brilliant, flowers bright crimson, numerous, freely branching habit, and strong constitution; dazzler,* habit very bushy and compact, extremely floriferous, flowers rich scarlet, in dense clusters; hogarth, brilliant scarlet, very fine; longiflora flammea,* flowers long-tubed, blush-rose; maiden's blush,* very free and floriferous, blush-rose; president garfield, rich double, red-pink, very fine; queen of roses, rosy-pink, the tubes tinted with crimson, habit dwarf and very free; vreelandi (=davidsoni), flowers pure white, produced in great abundance; one of the most useful of them all, and grown very extensively. [illustration: fig. . bouvardia alfred neuner.] =bowenia= (commemorative of sir g. bowen, governor of queensland). ord. _cycadaceæ_. a remarkable and handsome greenhouse fern-like plant, closely allied to _zamia_, from which it is distinguished by having the leaflets decurrent to the petiole, instead of articulated, as in that genus. for culture, _see_ =cycas=. =b. spectabilis= (showy).* _fl._, male cones small, ovoid, / in. to / in. long; female oblong-globose, - / in. long. _l._ bipinnatisect, on tall, slender petioles; leaflets falcate-lanceolate, decurrent; stem short, thick, cylindrical. queensland, australia, . (b. m. and .) =b. s. serrulata= (finely-toothed).* this differs from the type in having the margins distinctly toothed or serrated. rockingham bay, . =bowiea= (named after j. bowie, a botanical collector for the royal gardens, kew). ord. _liliaceæ_. a very interesting greenhouse or half-hardy twining bulbous perennial, thriving in a sunny border, under the wall of a greenhouse, where it will require protection during winter. it does well in any light well drained soil, and may be propagated by seeds or offsets. [illustration: fig. . bowiea volubilis, showing habit, flower, and fruit.] =b. volubilis= (twining). _fl._ few, remote, pedicellate; perianth six-partite, persistent; segments equal, green, lanceolate, / in. long, at length reflexed. october. true leaves are frequently not developed for years; but the green, fleshy, mostly abortive inflorescence performs their functions. south africa, . see fig. . =box.= _see_ =buxus=. =box elder.= _see_ =negundo=. =box thorn.= _see_ =lycium=. =brabeium= (from _brabeion_, a sceptre; in reference to the racemosed flowers). african almond. ord. _proteaceæ_. an ornamental greenhouse evergreen tree. for culture, &c., _see_ =banksia=. =b. stellatifolium= (star-leaved). _fl._ white, sweet-scented, disposed in elegant, axillary, spiked racemes. august. _l._ whorled, simple, serrate. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =brachychiton= (from _brachys_, short, and _chiton_, a coat of mail; plants covered with imbricated hairs and scales). ord. _sterculiaceæ_. a genus of tropical or sub-tropical australian trees or shrubs, allied to _sterculia_, from which it differs in very minor points. they are of easy culture in a loamy soil. propagated by young cuttings, planted in sandy soil, in gentle heat. =b. acerifolium= (acer-leaved). _fl._ bright red. _l._ long-stalked, deeply five to seven-lobed. _h._ from ft. to ft. =b. bidwillii= (bidwill's).* _fl._ bright red, arranged in axillary bunches. _l._ stalked, heart-shaped, entire, or three-lobed, and covered with a soft pubescence. . (b. m. .) =b. diversifolium= (various-leaved). _l._ coriaceous, obtuse, lanceolate, entire, or three-lobed, glabrous; lobes acuminate. _h._ ft. to ft. . =brachycome= (from _brachys_, short, and _kome_, hair). swan river daisy. ord. _compositæ_. a genus of beautiful little half-hardy perennials or annuals, closely resembling _bellis_ in structure. involucral bracts membranous at the margin; receptacle pitted, naked. fruit compressed, surmounted by a very short bristly pappus. _b. iberidifolia_ is one of the prettiest of summer annuals, and in the open border it flowers profusely, if in a dry, sunny spot. towards the autumn, it may be removed to the greenhouse, where it will still continue flowering for several weeks. seeds may be sown in a gentle hotbed, early in the spring, and, when large enough, planted out in borders or beds, in. apart; or they may be sown thinly out of doors, late in april, and thinned out, when they will flower a month later than those sown in the hotbed. =b. iberidifolia= (iberis-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ blue or white, with a dark centre, about in. in diameter. summer and autumn. _l._ pinnate; segments linear. plant erect, glabrous. _h._ ft. swan river, . see fig. . [illustration: fig. . brachycome iberidifolia, showing habit and flowering branch.] =brachylÃ�na= (from _brachys_, short, and _læna_, a cloak or covering; referring to the shortness of the involucre). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of south african evergreen greenhouse shrubs, nearly allied to _baccharis_. they thrive in a compost of peat and loam. propagated by cuttings, made of half-ripened shoots, placed in a well-drained pot of sandy soil, under a bell glass. =b. dentata= (toothed). _fl.-heads_ yellow. _l._ lanceolate, acute, entire, rusty beneath when young, when adult quite glabrous. =b. nerifolia= (nerium-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, in branching racemes or panicles. august to november. _l._ lanceolate, serrated with one or two teeth forward. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . =brachyotum= (from _brachys_, short, and _otos_, the ear; in reference to the short appendages at the base of the anthers). ord. _melastomaceæ_. a handsome greenhouse evergreen shrub, with a bushy habit. allied, and requiring similar culture, to _pleroma_ (which _see_). =b. confertum= (crowded).* _fl._ purple, terminal, nodding, with cream-coloured bracts. november. _l._ oblong or ovate, small, three-nerved, with adpressed hairs. andes, peru, . (b. m. .) =brachysema= (from _brachys_, short, and _sema_, a standard; the standard of the flower is very short). ord. _leguminosæ_. elegant procumbent or climbing greenhouse, evergreen shrubs. racemes axillary and terminal, few-flowered. leaves alternate, oval or ovate, entire, mucronate, silky on the under surface. they thrive in a compost of peat, leaf soil, and loam, in equal proportions, made porous, if necessary, by the addition of sand. increased by cuttings, made of half-ripened shoots in summer, placed in sandy soil, under a bell glass, in a gentle bottom heat; or by layers. seeds may be sown in march, in heat. brachysemas require thorough drainage, whether grown in pots or planted out. _b. latifolium_ does best under the latter treatment, when it forms a magnificent climber for pillars or the roof. [illustration: the giant water lily (victoria regia).] =b. lanceolatum= (lanceolate-leaved). _fl._ rich scarlet, with the margin of the vexillum white, red at the disk, with a large yellow spot in the centre, each about in. long, disposed in axillary, sub-compound racemes. _l._ opposite, rarely alternate, ovate or ovate-lanceolate, entire, silky white beneath. _h._ ft. swan river, . (b. m. .) =b. latifolium= (broad-leaved).* _fl._ crimson-scarlet, large; vexillum oblong-ovate. april. _l._ ovate, flat, silky beneath. new holland, . a handsome climber. (b. r. .) =b. melanopetalum= (black-petaled). synonymous with _b. undulatum_. =b. undulatum= (undulated).* _fl._ deep violet-maroon, solitary or twin; vexillum oblong, cordate, convolute, and bluntish above. march. _l._ oblong-ovate, mucronate, undulated. new south wales, . a tall subscandent plant. syn. _b. melanopetalum_. (b. r. .) =brachyspatha= (from _brachys_, short, and _spatha_, a spathe; the spathe is much shorter than the spadix). ord. _aroideæ_. stove tuberous perennial, allied to, and requiring the same cultivation as, _amorphophallus_ (which _see_). =b. variabilis= (variable).* _fl._ exhaling an abominable fÅ�tor, which is, however, of very short duration; spathe much shorter than the spadix, greenish-purple, sharply acuminate, and many-nerved; spadix whitish, with female flower at the base, and above contiguous to them are the males without any intermediate neutral flowers; anthers orange red; the naked apex of the spadix is very long, wrinkled, and pitted on the surface. _l._ solitary, in. across; the spotted petiole divides at the top into three main divisions, each of which is again forked and deeply pinnately cut; the segments alternate, sessile, or decurrent, very unequal in size, ovate or oval-lanceolate, acuminate, glabrous, shining. _h._ ft. india, . (g. c. , .) =brachystelma= (from _brachys_, short, and _stelma_, a crown; in reference to the short coronal processes of the flowers). ord. _asclepiadaceæ_. extremely curious little suffruticose, tuberous, twining, greenhouse perennials. corolla campanulate, having angular sinuses; corona simple, five-cleft, lobes opposite the anthers, simple on the back. leaves opposite, membranous. they thrive best in fibry loam. propagated by cuttings, which will root in sandy soil, in heat; also by divisions of the root. =b. arnotti= (arnott's). _fl._ brown, green. _l._ in opposite pairs, nearly sessile, crisped, ovate, dull green above, densely grey, pubescent beneath. _h._ in. south africa, . (ref. b. i., .) =b. barberæ= (mrs. barber's). _fl._ dingy purple, speckled with yellow. august. _l._ large, linear-oblong, acute. _h._ in. south africa, . (b. m. .) =b. ovata= (ovate-leaved). _fl._ yellowish-green. _l._ ovate, shortly-stalked, pubescent. _h._ ft. south africa, . (ref. b. .) =b. spathulatum= (spathulate-leaved). _fl._ green. june. _l._ spathulate, oblong, hairy. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . (b. r. .) =b. tuborosum= (tuberous). _fl._ purple. june. _l._ linear-lanceolate, ciliate. _h._ - / ft. cape of good hope, . (b. m. .) =bracken=, or =brake fern=. see =pteris aquilina=. =bracteate.= having bracts. =bracteolate.= having secondary bracts between the true bracts and the flowers. =bracts.= modified leaves placed near the calyx on the peduncle or pedicel. =brahea= (named after tycho brahe, the celebrated astronomer). ord. _palmeæ_. a small genus of dwarf palms, with fan-shaped leaves, and hermaphrodite, greenish flowers. they require rich light loam and fibrous peat, in equal parts, to which may be added a good portion of washed sand; thorough drainage and liberal supplies of water are also absolutely necessary. propagated by seeds. during summer, they may be removed to the greenhouse, and can be employed with much success for sub-tropical gardening. =b. dulcis= (sweet).* _l._ nearly circular, bright shining green; petioles clothed with woolly tomentum, armed at the edges with small close-set spines, and enveloped at the base in a network of brown fibre. stem stout. mexico, . a rare and slow developing species. =b. filamentosa= (filamentose). a synonym of _washingtonia filifera_. =brainea= (commemorative of c. j. braine, esq., of hong kong, china). ord. _filices_. sori continuous along transverse veins, near the midrib, and also produced along the veins in the direction of the edge of the frond. =b. insignis= (remarkable), which is the only species, has a _trunk_ in. to in. thick; scales linear, nearly in. long. _sti._ firm, in. to in. long, scaly only at the base. _fronds_ ft to ft. long, in. to in. broad, simply pinnate; pinnæ close, numerous, linear, finely serrated. hong kong, . a very handsome and interesting greenhouse tree fern, requiring a soil of loam and peat, in equal parts, with the addition of some sharp sand, and thorough drainage. =bramble.= _see_ =rubus=. =brassavola= (named in honour of a. m. brassavola, a venetian botanist). ord. _orchideæ_. a genus of epiphytal orchids, requiring the heat of an intermediate house. flowers large, usually with narrow acuminate greenish petals and sepals, and a white lip, which is sometimes broad; column having a pair of great falcate ears on each side of the front, and eight pollen masses. leaves solitary, succulent. they are of easy culture on blocks of wood, with a little moss, suspended from the roof. water should be plentifully given during the growing season; at other times, a very small quantity will suffice. about seventeen or eighteen species have been introduced, of which the following only are worth growing: =b. acaulis= (stemless). _fl._ large; sepals and petals long, narrow, greenish and creamy-white; lip large, heart-shaped, and pure white; base of tube spotted with dull rose. september. _l._ very narrow, rush-like. _h._ in. central america, . (p. f. g. ii., .) =b. digbyana= (digby's).* _fl._ solitary, in. across, produced from the top of the bulb; sepals and petals creamy-white; lip same colour, streaked with purple down the centre, and beautifully fringed. winter. _h._ in. honduras, . a compact-growing evergreen. (b. m. .) =b. gibbsiana= (gibbs's).* _fl._ white, spotted with chocolate, large, three on each spike. _l._ rather broad and very thick. this rare, erect-growing species must be potted in peat and sphagnum. =b. glauca= (glaucous).* _fl._ solitary, produced from a sheath at the top of the bulb; sepals and petals yellow; lip orange, with a white throat. early spring. _l._ of a milky-green. _h._ ft. vera cruz, . a very handsome fragrant species, somewhat difficult to flower, but this obstacle may be overcome by liberally growing during the proper season, and giving it a severe dry rest. (b. m. .) =b. lineata= (lined).* _fl._ large, very fragrant; sepals and petals creamy-white; lip large, pure white. _l._ long, terete, channelled above, tapering to a point, very deep green. south america, . (b. m. .) =b. venosa= (veined).* _fl._ small and compact; sepals and petals cream-coloured; lip white, strongly veined. a pretty free flowering species. honduras, . (b. r. , .) =brassia= (named after mr. william brass, who was sent by sir joseph banks to cape coast and the neighbouring districts as a botanical collector, at the end of the last century). ord. _orchideæ_. a genus of tropical american orchids, very nearly allied to _oncidium_, with which, indeed, reichenbach unites it. from this genus, however, _brassia_ may be distinguished by its simple inflorescence, elongated tail-like sepals, and short column, which is quite destitute of the side lobes or ears that form a marked feature in the species of _oncidium_. there are about seventeen species, of which many are not sufficiently attractive to deserve the cultivator's attention. they will succeed either in pots or in baskets, the drainage of which must be perfect. they require to be potted in good fibrous peat, broken in pieces not less in size than a walnut, placed in the warm end of a cattleya or brazilian house, and supplied liberally with water during summer. in winter, they must still be kept in a tolerably warm place, and given sufficient water to keep the pseudo-bulbs from shrivelling. it is useless to dry off until shrivelling takes place, for experience assures us that when a plant shrivels it is generally safe to assume that it has been tried beyond its powers of endurance, and that its constitution has given way. propagated by dividing the plants, when growth has commenced. =b. antherotes= (brilliant).* _fl._ in. in diameter from tip to tip of the sepals; sepals and petals yellow, brownish-black at the base, narrow, / in. broad, tapering; petals - / in. long; lip triangular, yellow, barred with brown; spike strong, about ft. in length. tropical america, . =b. caudata= (tailed).* _fl._, sepals and petals yellow, barred with brown, from in. to in. long; lip broad and yellow, spotted with greenish-brown. when the plant is large and healthy, it produces numerous drooping spikes, in. long, and many-flowered. _h._ ft. west indies, (b. r. .) =b. gireoudiana= (gireoud's). _fl._, sepals and petals bright yellow, spotted and blotched with deep red, produced in many-flowered scapes of singular and beautiful flowers during spring and early summer. this species much resembles _b. lanceana_, but has larger flowers. costa rica. (r. x. o. , .) [illustration: fig. . single flower of brassia lanceana.] =b. lanceana= (lance's).* _fl._, sepals and petals lanceolate and tapering, bright yellow, blotched with brown, or sometimes with deep red; lip wholly yellow, slightly spotted at the base, and much waved, deliciously fragrant; scapes radical, many-flowered. in the typical species, the lip is rather more than half as long as the sepals. _l._ rich dark green. _h._ in. surinam, . see fig. . (b. r. .) =b. l. macrostachya= (large-spiked).* _fl._, sepals and petals bright rich yellow, sparingly spotted with brown, as in the type; sepals lengthened out into tail-like appendages, which are sometimes nearly in. in length; lip wholly of a clear pale yellow. demerara. =b. l. pumila= (dwarf). _fl._, sepals pale yellow, without spots or markings; petals of the same colour, tinged with purple near the base; lip about half the length of the sepals, slightly contracted in the middle, yellow, with a brownish-yellow base. caracas. =b. lawrenceana= (lawrence's).* _fl._ large, sweet-scented; sepals and petals bright yellow, spotted with cinnamon and green; lip yellow, tinged with green. june to august. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. r. , .) =b. l. longissima= (long-sepaled).* _fl._, sepals deep orange-yellow, blotched and spotted, especially towards the base, with reddish-purple, and lengthened out into tail-like appendages, which, in well-grown examples, measure in. in length; petals about - / in. long and / in. broad at the base, marked in the same manner as the sepals; lip about in. long, pale yellow, dotted and spotted towards the base with purple. august and september. costa rica, . a magnificent variety. =b. maculata= (spotted).* _fl._ large; sepals and petals pale yellow, irregularly spotted with brown; the former being short compared with those of the other species; lip white, spotted about and below the centre with brown and purple. spring and early summer. jamaica, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. m. guttata= (spotted).* _fl._ on spikes ft. or ft. long; sepals and petals yellowish-green, blotched with brown; lip broad, yellow, spotted with brown. may to august. guatemala, . syn. _b. wrayæ_. (b. m. .) =b. verrucosa= (warty-lipped).* _fl._ large; sepals and petals greenish, blotched with blackish-purple; lip white, ornamented with numerous little green protuberances or warts, hence the specific name; scape many-flowered. may and june. guatemala. =b. v. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ twice the size of, and a lighter colour than, the type. this variety is very rare, and is said to be the best of the genus. =b. wrayæ= (wray's).* a synonym of _b. maculata guttata_. =brassica= (old latin name used by pliny; from _bresic_, the celtic name for cabbage). cabbage. ord. _cruciferæ_. herbaceous, usually biennial, rarely annual or perennial, or suffrutescent plants, usually with a short caudex. flowers yellow, rarely white, but never purple nor veined. radical leaves usually stalked, lyrate, or pinnatifid; cauline ones sessile or stem-clasping, entire; racemes elongated; pedicels bractless, filiform. full cultural details will be found under the popular garden name of each variety. =b. oleracea= (herb-like). _fl._ pale yellow, large. may and june. _l._ glaucous, waved, lobed, smooth. root-stem cylindrical, fleshy. _h._ ft. to ft. england. biennial. =b. o. acephala= (headless). borecole or kale. stem round, elongated. _l._ expanded, racemes panicled. =b. o. botrytis asparagoides= (asparagus-like). the broccoli. _fl._ abortive. stem taller than that of the cauliflower. _l._ greyish-glaucous, elongated. branchlets fleshy, bearing small flower-buds at the top. =b. o. b. cauliflora= (cauliflower). heads of flower-buds thick, terminal. stem short. _l._ oblong, of a greyish-glaucous colour. =b. o. bullata gemmifera= (bud-bearing). brussels sprouts. heads small, numerous, rising from the axils of the leaves along an elongated stem. =b. o. b. major= (larger). savoy cabbage. heads of leaves loose, thick, terminal, roundish. _l._ blistered. =b. o. capitata= (headed). the cabbage. stem round, short. _l._ concave, not blistered, crowded into a head before flowering; racemes panicled. =b. o. caulo-rapa= (kohl-rabi). stem tumid and somewhat globose at the origin of the leaves. =b. rapa= (rape). the turnip. radical leaves lyrate, destitute of glaucous bloom, green, covered with bristly hairs; middle cauline ones cut; upper ones quite entire, smooth. [illustration: fig. . single flower of brassia maculata.] =brassicaceÃ�.= _see_ =cruciferæ=. =bravoa= (named after bravo, a mexican botanist). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. a pretty little graceful bulbous plant, hardy in very sheltered positions, but in exposed situations requiring a slight protection in winter. it is an admirable plant for cool-house culture, and delights in a compost of light rich loam, leaf mould, and sand. propagated by offsets, which are obtainable in autumn; or by seeds, which should be sown as soon as ripe. =b. geminiflora= (twin-flowered).* twin flower. _fl._ rich orange-red, tubular, drooping, disposed in the upper part of the flower-stems, which are sometimes ft. long. july. _l._ linear, ensiform, pale green. mexico, . (b. m. .) =brazilian tea.= _see_ =ilex paraguariensis= and =stachytarpheta jamaicensis=. =brazil nut.= _see_ =bertholletia=. =brazil wood.= _see_ =cæsalpinia brasiliensis=. =bread fruit.= _see_ =artocarpus=. =bread nut.= _see_ =brosimum=. =bredia= (named in honour of professor j. g. s. van bred). ord. _melastomaceæ_. an ornamental greenhouse shrub, thriving in rich light loam, leaf soil, and peat. propagated by cuttings of the ripened shoots, inserted in sandy loam, under a hand glass, in heat; or by seeds. =b. hirsuta= (hairy).* _fl._ rose-pink, about / in. across, disposed in loose, terminal, many-flowered cymes. autumn. _l._ ovate acuminate, hairy. japan, . (b. m. .) =breeze.= the small particles or refuse of gas coke. it constitutes a very cheap fuel, but, unless mixed with good coke, is only suitable for boilers of the saddle type, having a good draught. breeze must not, however, be confounded with coke-dust. =brevoortia coccinea.= _see_ =brodiæa coccinea=. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of brexia madagascariensis.] =brexia= (from _brexis_, rain; the large leaves afford protection against rain). ord. _saxifrageæ_. excellent stove trees. flowers green, in axillary umbels, surrounded by bracts on the outside. leaves alternate, simple, dotless, and furnished with minute stipules. stems nearly simple. they require a compost of two parts loam and one of peat, with the addition of a little sand, to keep the whole open. a liberal supply of water must be given at all seasons. cuttings, with their leaves not shortened, strike readily in sand under a hand glass, in heat; or a leaf taken off with a bud attached will grow. leaves as in accompanying illustration (fig. ), and long, narrow, spiny-toothed ones, are often produced on the same plant. probably the two species enumerated below are simply forms of one. well hardened off, strong growing plants of _b. madagascariensis_ are very suitable for sub-tropical gardening. =b. madagascariensis= (madagascar).* _l._ obovate or oblong, entire, while young minutely gland-toothed. _h._ ft. madagascar, . see fig. . =b. spinosa= (spiny). _l._ lanceolate, in. long, in. broad, spiny-toothed. _h._ ft. madagascar, . =brexiaceÃ�.= a section of _saxifrageæ_. =briar.= _see_ =rosa=. =bricks.= in england, the standard thickness of brick walls is a brick and a-half, that is, the length of one brick and the breadth of another. thirty-two paving bricks, laid flat, will form one square yard of flooring; if set on edge, eighty-four will be required for the same space. the best bricks for walls are those termed stocks, which are well burnt. grizzells and place bricks, being only partially burnt, are soft and not durable. in various parts of the kingdom, different clays and methods of manufacture cause a disparity in the weight and appearance of the finished article. several forms are made to suit various purposes, but the standard size is in. long by - / in. wide, by - / in. thick, although, since the remission of the duty, some slight variations occur, owing to shrinkage and other causes. fire bricks are made of a particular kind of clay, which will stand intense heat when once burnt, and are used in furnaces and other places where durability under great heat is a desideratum. fire-clay should always be used in place of mortar in building with these. =brillantaisia= (named after m. brillant). ord. _acanthaceæ_. a very small genus of erect, branching, stove evergreen shrubs. flowers large, in terminal panicles; corolla ringent; upper lip falcate and overarching, with a trifid apex, the lower one large, spreading, shortly trifid. leaves ovate-cordate, on long petioles. for culture, _see_ =barleria=. =b. owariensis= (owarian).* _fl._ violet-blue; cymes sub-sessile, loose; panicles terminal. march. _l._ large, opposite, petiolate. _h._ ft. western africa, . this plant, in its habit of growth, resembles some of the largest species of _salvia_. (b. m. .) =bristles.= stiff hairs. =bristly.= covered with stiff hairs. =bristly-toothed.= furnished with teeth like bristles, or with the teeth ending each in a bristle. =briza= (from _briza_, to nod). quaking grass. ord. _gramineæ_. a genus of ornamental hardy grasses. panicle loose; calyx two-valved; corolla two-valved, awnless; exterior one ventricose, interior small and flat. fruit adnate with the corolla. these extremely graceful plants delight in a soil composed of loam, leaf soil, and peat. seeds may be sown in spring or autumn. for decorative purposes, the branches should be gathered as soon as full grown, and loosely placed in flower-stands, to dry. tufts of these plants look extremely pretty on the rockery, or amongst hardy ferns. =b. gracilis= (graceful). synonymous with _b. minor_. =b. maxima= (greatest).* _fl._, spikelets oblong-cordate, thirteen to seventeen-flowered; panicle nodding at the end. june and july. _l._ long, linear-acuminate. _h._ - / ft. south europe, . see fig. . [illustration: fig. . briza maxima, showing habit and single flower.] =b. media= (middle).* common quaking grass. _fl._, spikelets broadly ovate, of about seven florets (calyx shorter than the florets), tremulous with the slightest breeze, very smooth, shining purple. branches of the panicle thread-shaped, divaricating, purple. june. _l._ short, linear acuminate. _h._ ft. britain. (s. e. b. .) =b. minima= (least). synonymous with _b. minor_. [illustration: fig. . briza minor, showing habit and small panicle of flowers.] =b. minor= (small).* little quaking grass. _fl._, spikelets triangular, seven-flowered; glumes longer than the flowers; panicle with hair-like branches. june and july. _l._ pale green, short, narrow. _h._ in. england (but very rare). an exceedingly pretty little annual or perennial grass. syns. _b. gracilis_ and _b. minima_. see fig. . (s. e. b. .) =b. spicata= (spiked). a recent introduction from brazil, described as being very graceful and quite distinct, having erect spikes about in. in height. =broadcast.= a method of sowing seeds by means of the hand, scattering them over the surface of the ground as equally as possible. it is now superseded, for the majority of garden and field crops, by drilling, which not only economises the quantity of seed used, but greatly facilitates subsequent weeding and thinning out. =broccoli= (_brassica oleracea botrytis asparagoides_). a cultivated variety of the cabbage, having the young inflorescence condensed into a fleshy, edible head (see fig. ). to grow this popular vegetable successfully, it is necessary to have rich soil of a good depth, in an open situation, where the plants can have plenty of sun and air to keep them sturdy. they succeed the autumn cauliflower, and are in season from november till may. _soil._ in preparing ground for broccoli, trench, in the autumn, to the depth of from - / ft. to ft., and during the process work in a liberal dressing of rotten farmyard manure. ground which has carried a crop of celery is very suitable for the strong-growing kinds, as, by planting where the celery rows have been, the necessity of trenching is, to a great extent, obviated. smaller kinds, however, need to be planted closer in order to obtain a profitable crop. _cultivation._ at the beginning of may, prepare seed beds on a south border, and sow the earlier and sprouting kinds. the later varieties would, perhaps, be best sown in april, but they must not be put in early and allowed to remain too long in the seed bed. sow thinly, to get the plants as sturdy as possible; and, to prevent clubbing, work in a little soot or wood ashes on the surface of the beds. care must also be taken to pick off the club excrescences at planting time, should there be any, and to destroy the grub inside. clubbing is not so frequent in ground which has been well trenched, and where the plants are not allowed to suffer from drought. showery weather should be selected for transferring them to their permanent quarters. if it is desired that they should succeed potatoes, they may be planted between every two alternate rows, and the latter crop can be removed when ready. broccoli succeed best where the ground is firm, and not recently dug or manured. planting with a crowbar is preferable to digging the ground afresh. if grown by themselves, a distance of from ft. to ft. should be allowed between the rows, and an equal distance from plant to plant. some of the early varieties will, in favourable seasons, follow the later cauliflowers, while the latest will not be fit for use until the following spring. the heads should be cut as soon as they are large enough; they will keep good for a week in a cold place, while a day or two might open them too much if allowed to remain on the plants. broccoli which have to stand the winter are liable to injury from severe frosts, and some method of protection is necessary. two plans are recommended for both large and small gardens, and either or both may be adopted, as found convenient. the first is to apply a covering of fern or other dry protective material, not using too much, but giving sufficient to break the rays of the sun, which, perhaps, do as much harm as the actual frost. the other plan is to take up the plants as soon as the flowers can be seen, and lay them in under a hedge or wall until required for use. in sheltered positions, or where there are trees to break the force of the wind, the covering with dry litter during severe weather will generally be found sufficient; still, a little precaution in lifting will frequently save a valuable crop. broccoli should never follow a crop of any other kind of cruciferous plants, particularly cabbage. [illustration: fig. . broccoli.] _sorts._ veitch's self-protecting autumn, purple and white cape, grange's early white, and snow's winter white. these are the best for autumn and mid-winter supplies. a good selection for spring and late purposes is mitchinson's penzance, knight's protecting, cooling's matchless, purple sprouting, model, willcove, leamington, and cattell's eclipse. =brodiÃ�a= (named after j. j. brodie, a scotch cryptogamist). syn. _hookera_. ord. _liliaceæ_. pretty, slender, hardy, or in some positions only half-hardy, bulbs. the flowers are usually borne in large clusters or umbels; the prevailing colour is blue; _coccinea_ is, however, an exception, the flowers being scarlet. the scape is usually straight and slender, but strong. leaves from two to four in number, enveloping the part of the scape beneath the surface, and procumbent thereon. most of them are of easy culture in rich sandy loam; if grown in pots, a mixture of loam, leaf soil, and sand, suits them well. increased freely by offsets, which should be left undisturbed with the parent bulbs till they reach a flowering state, when they may be divided and replanted in autumn. =b. capitata= (headed).* _fl._ deep violet-blue, funnel-shaped, disposed in a compact, many-flowered umbel; valves of the spathe also deep violet. may. _l._ narrow, linear. _h._ ft. to ft. california, . [illustration: fig. . brodiÃ�a coccinea, showing flower and habit.] =b. coccinea= (scarlet).* _fl._ - / in. long, tubular, rich blood-red below, the apex of the tube and the segments yellowish-green; umbels composed of five to fifteen drooping flowers. june. _l._ linear, loose, shorter than the scape. _h._ - / ft. california, . very handsome, distinct from all other species, requiring a warm, well-drained, and sunny position, and to remain undisturbed. syn. _brevoortia coccinea_. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. congesta= (close-headed).* _fl._ blue, with the crown paler; segments cleft at the top; umbel bearing six to eight blooms. the stamens in this species are metamorphosed into fleshy scales, which adhere to the mouth of the perianth. summer. _l._ few, long, slender, channelled on the inside. bulb small, roundish, and much wrinkled. _h._ ft. georgia, &c., . a very free-growing and rapidly increasing species. =b. c. alba= (white).* _fl._ white; in other respects like the type, but not so vigorous. =b. gracilis= (graceful).* _fl._ deep yellow, with brown nerves, / in. or rather more long, in few-flowered umbels. july. _l._ solitary, about / in. broad, longer than the scape. _h._ in. to in. california, . a scarce and rather tender little species, but very pretty. =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ bluish-purple, with entire pointed segments; umbels bearing two to seven somewhat scattered blooms. summer. _l._ two to three or more, linear, pointed, slender, grooved on the inside, furnished with a few membranous scales. bulb small, roundish, dry and wrinkled. _h._ - / ft. north america, . syn. _hookera coronaria_. (b. r. .) =b. howellii= (howell's).* _fl._ purplish-blue, about / in. across, sub-bell-shaped, in many-flowered umbels. july and august. _l._ narrow acute, grooved, shorter than the scape. _h._ in. to in. california, . =b. ixioides= (ixia-like). _see_ =calliprora lutea=. =b. lactea= (milky-white).* _fl._ white, usually with green midribs, / in. to / in. across, saucer-shaped, in many-flowered umbels. june and july. _l._ linear, acute, nearly as long as the scape. _h._ ft. to ft. california, . syns. _hesperoscordum lacteum_, _milla hyacinthina_. =b. multiflora= (many-flowered).* _fl._ blue-purple, very numerous, in sub-globose heads. may. _l._ linear, elongate, ft. to ft. long, rather fleshy. _h._ ft. to - / ft. california, . (b. m. .) =b. volubilis= (twining). _fl._ rose-coloured, in dense umbels, each containing fifteen to thirty blooms; scape twining, sometimes ft. long. july. _l._ narrow, linear-lanceolate, ft. long, synanthous. california, . half-hardy bulb. (b. m. .) =bromelia= (named after bromel, a swedish botanist). ord. _bromeliaceæ_. a genus of stove herbaceous perennials, allied to the pineapple. flowers, corolla three-petaled, convolute, erect, or spreading at the top. leaves densely packed, rigid, lanceolate, with spiny margins. stems short. these plants require much the same treatment as _billbergia_. allied genera are _Ã�chmea_, _ananassa_, _billbergia_, _disteganthus_, _greigia_, _karatas_, _ruckia_ (which _see_). =b. antiacantha= (opposite-spined). _fl._ purple, scarlet. brazil, . syn. _b. sceptrum_. =b. bicolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ scarlet, in a close central sessile head. march. _l._ numerous, narrow, ensiform, outer green, central crimson; elegantly radiate. chili, . syns. _b. joinvillei_, _b. pitcairniæfolia_. (b. h. .) =b. bracteata= (red-bracted).* _fl._ pink; scape elongated; raceme compound; bracts red, ovate-lanceolate. september. _l._ serrate, spiny. _h._ ft. jamaica, . =b. fernandæ= (fernanda's).* _fl._ yellowish, in ovoid heads; bracts orange-red. july. _l._ linear-ligulate, in. to in. long, recurved, spiny-edged. para, . =b. joinvillei= (joinville's). a synonym of _b. bicolor_. =b. karatas.= _see_ =karatas plumieri=. =b. pitcairniæfolia= (pitcairnia-leaved). a synonym of _b. bicolor_. =b. sceptrum= (sceptre-like). a synonym of _b. antiacantha_ and _karatas plumieri_. =bromeliaceÃ�.= an extensive order of stemless or short-stemmed plants, having rigid, channelled, and usually spiny leaves. flowers very showy; outer perianth three-cleft, persistent, inner one of three withering segments; stamens six, inserted in the tube of the perianth. to this order belongs the pineapple. the genera best known in gardens are _ananassa_, _Ã�chmea_, _billbergia_, _bromelia_, and _tillandsia_. =bromheadia= (in honour of sir edward finch bromhead). ord. _orchideæ_. a small genus of stove orchids, comprising a couple of species, with erect stems, large flowers, and cucullate lip, which is parallel with the column. for culture, _see_ =ansellia=. =b. palustris= (marsh).* _fl._, sepals and calyx white; lip white externally, within streaked with purple, and having a yellow blotch in centre; spike terminal, distichous, flexuous, many-flowered, on a long peduncle; bracts short, stiff, tooth-like. june. _l._ distichous, oblong-linear, emarginate. _h._ ft. singapore, . (b. r. , .) [illustration: fig. . bromus brizÃ�formis.] =bromus= (from _bromos_, the greek name for a wild oat). _ord._ _gramineæ_. _b. brizæformis_ (see fig. ) is an elegant biennial grass, with drooping panicles of spikelets, about as large as those of _briza maxima_. it grows about ft. high, and is of very easy culture in common garden soil. sow seeds outside in patches, in july, thinning out the plants when necessary. there are numerous other species belonging to this genus, but the above-mentioned is the only one worth growing in gardens. it forms a beautiful object in the mixed border, or among ferns. =brongniartia= (in honour of adolphe brongniart, a distinguished botanist, and one of the editors of "annales des sciences naturelles"). ord. _leguminosæ_. handsome greenhouse evergreen sub-shrubs, clothed with silky villi. flowers large, purple; pedicels twin, axillary, one-flowered. leaves impari-pinnate, with many pairs of leaflets, the terminal one not remote from the rest. they require a compost of sandy loam, leaf soil, and fibry peat, with perfect drainage. cuttings of the young shoots, if firm at the base, will root if dibbled in sand, under a bell glass, in a cool house. =b. podalyrioides= (podalyria-like).* _fl._ purple, large. september. _l._ with two to five pairs of leaflets; leaflets elliptic-oblong, rounded, and mucronate at the apex, clothed with adpressed hairs on both surfaces, but silky when young. _h._ ft. new spain, . =b. sericea= (silky).* _fl._ purple. september. _h._ ft. _l._, leaflets ovate-oblong, acute, very silky on both surfaces. mexico, . =brook-lime.= _see_ =veronica beccabunga=. =broom.= _see_ =besom=. =broom.= _see_ =cytisus scoparius=. =broom rape.= _see_ =orobanche=. =broom, spanish.= _see_ =spartium junceum=. =brosimum= (from _brosimos_, edible; fruit edible). bread nut. ord. _urticaceæ_. a genus of stove evergreen shrubs or trees, principally of economic value in their native countries. male and female flowers generally in a globular head, but sometimes borne on separate trees; calyx and corolla wanting. leaves entire. they generally thrive in a rich fibry loam. cuttings of ripe wood, with their leaves on, root if placed in sand, in moist heat. =b. alicastrum.= _fl._, catkins globose, stalked, twin, axillary. _fr._ coated. _l._ ovate-lanceolate. _h._ ft. jamaica, . =broughtonia= (named after mr. arthur broughton, an english botanist). ord. _orchideæ_. a very compact-growing stove evergreen, allied to _lælia_, succeeding best if suspended from the roof on a block of wood, with a little moss; it requires a free supply of heat and water when in a growing state. propagated by dividing the plant. the colour of the flowers is very distinct. =b. sanguinea= (blood-coloured).* _fl._ blood-coloured, rather large, disposed in a terminal panicle; scape divided; column distinct, or at the very base united with the unguiculate lip, which is lengthened at the base into a tube, connate with the ovarium. summer. _l._ twin, oblong, seated on a pseudo-bulb. _h._ - / ft. jamaica, . (b. m. .) =broussonetia= (named after p. n. v. broussonet, a french naturalist, who wrote numerous works on natural history). ord. _urticaceæ_. ornamental fast-growing, deciduous, mulberry-like trees. they require rather good open garden soil, and prove hardy in situations which are not very exposed. propagated by suckers and cuttings of ripened wood, inserted in autumn, in a cool house; and by seeds, sown when ripe, or kept till the following april. =b. papyrifera= (paper-bearing).* the paper mulberry. _fl._ greenish, diÅ�cious; males in pendulous, cylindrical catkins, each flower in the axil of a bract; females in peduncled, axillary, upright globular heads. may. _l._ simple, alternate, exstipulate, variously lobed or entire, hairy, large. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . there are several varieties, differing in the shape and character of the leaves. (b. m. ). =browallia= (named in honour of john browall, bishop of abo, who defended the sexual system of linnæus against siegesbeck, in a book entitled "examen epicriseos," &c., ). ord. _scrophularineæ_. a genus of handsome shrubs or herbs. flowers blue or white, axillary and terminal; corolla salver-shaped, resupinate from the contortion of the peduncle; tube fifteen-nerved, ventricose at top. leaves alternate, stalked, ovate in outline. they thrive best in a rich, open, sandy soil. to have strong plants in bloom by christmas and after, seeds should be sown in july, in pans or pots of light rich sandy soil, and kept in a close frame, or hand light, where they can be shaded till germination takes place. when large enough to handle, the seedlings may either be pricked out, three in a pot, or potted singly, according to the size of the specimens required. in the former way, they form fine masses for conservatory or greenhouse decoration, or to cut from; and in the latter, they are very suitable for window recesses, &c. after potting, they should be stood in a pit or frame, and syringed every morning and evening, to ward off attacks of insect pests. an abundance of well-diluted liquid manure is required as soon as the flower-buds appear. to keep the plants dwarf and bushy, it will be needful to stop them about three times during the remainder of the summer and autumn, keeping as near the glass as possible; they should be housed by the end of september. these elegant little greenhouse annuals are unrivalled for affording choice, neat sprays for bouquets during the winter and early spring months, or for growing as pot plants, to furnish warm greenhouses or sitting-room windows. many of the species and varieties are largely employed for summer decoration of the flower garden, with highly satisfactory results; for this purpose, seeds should be sown in gentle heat early in spring, and the plants transferred to the flower borders late in june, or early in july, having been previously encouraged in pots, and well hardened off. =b. abbreviata= (shortened). _fl._ light red; pedicels shorter than the calyx; calyx campanulate, with teeth as long as the tube. _l._ oval, hairy when young, quite glabrous when mature. . (r. g. .) =b. demissa= (low).* _fl._ of a bright but pale blue colour, sometimes red or purple; peduncles axillary, one-flowered, downy. june. _l._ ovate-oblong, acuminated, oblique at the base. _h._ in. to ft. panama, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . browallia elata, showing habit and flower.] =b. elata= (tall).* _fl._ deep blue; calyx beset with glandular hairs; peduncles axillary, one or many-flowered. july. _l._ oval, acuminated. _h._ - / ft. peru, . of this extensively-grown species there are two varieties, one with white flowers, and the other, _grandiflora_, with pale blue, both of which are well worth growing. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._, corolla with a greenish-yellow tube, which is clothed with glandular villi, and a white or very pale lilac limb; peduncles one-flowered, axillary, racemose at the tops of the branches. july. _l._ ovate, acute, attenuated into the petioles at the base. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . (b. m. .) =b. jamesoni= (jameson's).* _fl._ bright orange, with lighter-coloured throat, tubular. june. _h._ ft. new grenada, . this species has been recently re-introduced, after having been lost to cultivation for over thirty years. (b. m. .) =b. roezli= (roezl's). _fl._ large, either of a delicate azure blue, or white, with a yellow tube. spring to autumn. _l._ shining green. an exceedingly pretty species, having flowers double the size of any other, and forming a dense compact bush, - / ft. to ft. in height. rocky mountains. =brownea= (named after patrick browne, m.d., author of a history of jamaica). ord. _leguminosæ_. very handsome stove evergreen trees or shrubs, allied to _amherstia_. flowers of a rose-scarlet colour, rising in fascicled heads from the axillary buds. leaves abruptly-pinnate, when young flaccid, and with the leaflets revolute at the edges; leaf-bud long and stipulaceous. all the species are well worthy of the most extensive cultivation. a mixture of loam, peat, and sand, is a soil well adapted for them, and great care should be taken not to over-water the plants in winter, as too great a supply will be sure to kill them. propagated by cuttings, taken from ripened wood, planted in a pot of sand, and placed under a hand glass, in a moist heat. =b. ariza= (ariza).* _fl._ richest scarlet, produced in a large, globular, drooping head of immense size. summer. _l._ pinnate, usually with six or eight pairs of pinnæ, which are oblong-lanceolate, and sharply tapered to a point. _h._ ft. to ft. columbia, . this noble tree requires a large house to fully perfect its beauty. syn. _b. princeps_. (b. m. .) =b. birschellii= (birschell's). _fl._ rose-coloured, in drooping racemes. april to july. _l._ pinnate; leaflets oblanceolate, in. long. _h._ ft. to ft. la guayra, . (b. m. .) =b. coccinea= (scarlet).* _fl._ scarlet, fascicled. july to august. _l._ with two to three pairs of oval-oblong, acuminated leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. venezuela, . (b. m. .) =b. grandiceps= (large-headed).* _fl._ red, in dense capitate spikes. july. _l._ with usually twelve pairs of oblong-lanceolate glandless leaflets, ending in a long cuspidate acumen; branches and petioles pubescent. _h._ (in its native home) ft. caraccas, . (b. m. .) =b. latifolia= (broad-leaved). _fl._ red, in dense fascicles; involucre tomentose. _l._ with one to three pairs of ovate or obovate-cuspidate leaflets. _h._ ft. to ft. caraccas, . =b. macrophylla= (large-leaved).* _fl._ orange-scarlet, in dense heads, often measuring nearly ft. in circumference. central america, . (g. c. , p. .) =b. princeps= (chief). a synonym of _b. ariza_. =b. racemosa= (clustered).* _fl._ rose-coloured, racemose; involucre and calyx clothed with fine tomentum. _l._ with four pairs of unequal-sided, oblong, or oblong-lanceolate, cuspidately-acuminated leaflets, which are glanduliferous at the base. _h._ ft. caraccas, . =b. rosa del monte.= _fl._ scarlet, in dense heads; leaflets of the involucre roundish, imbricated, and, when in a young state, rather velvety. june. _l._ with two to three pairs of oval-oblong acuminated leaflets; branches and petioles glabrous. _h._ ft. south america, . (b. r. .) =brownlowia= (named in honour of lady brownlow, daughter of sir abraham hume, and a great patroness of botany). ord. _tiliaceæ_. very handsome greenhouse evergreen trees, thriving well in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings of ripe shoots will root if placed in sand, under a hand glass, in heat. =b. elata= (tall).* _fl._ yellow; panicle terminal, conical, spreading. may. _l._ large, cordate, acute, seven-nerved, smooth. _h._ ft. india, . (b. r. .) =brucea= (commemorative of james bruce, the celebrated african traveller). ord. _simarubeæ_. ornamental stove evergreen shrubs. flowers small, purplish inside, disposed in interrupted glomerate spikes, or racemes. leaves impari-pinnate, with six pairs of opposite, entire or serrated leaflets, without dots. branches, peduncles, petioles, and nerves of leaves, clothed with rufescent down. they thrive in a loamy soil; and cuttings from ripened wood strike freely, in a pot of sand, under a hand glass, in a moderate heat. =b. antidysenterica= (antidysenteric). _fl._, racemes simple, spike-like. may. _l._, leaflets quite entire, clothed with rusty villi on the nerves beneath. _h._ ft. abyssinia, . =b. sumatrana= (sumatra).* _fl._ dark purple; racemes usually compound. may. _l._, leaflets serrated, villous beneath. _h._ ft. sumatra, . =bruchus granarius.= _see_ =bean beetle=. =bruchus pisi.= _see_ =pea weevil=. =brugmansia.= _see_ =datura=. =brunfelsia= (named after otto brunfels, of mentz, first a carthusian monk, and afterwards a physician; he published the first good figures of plants in ). syn. _franciscea_. ord. _scrophularineæ_. elegant free-flowering stove evergreens. flowers sweet-scented; corolla large, funnel or salver-shaped, with a long tube, and a flat, five-lobed, obtuse, nearly equal limb. a light rich soil, or a compost of loam, leaf soil, and peat, is necessary to grow these plants successfully. propagated by cuttings, planted in sand, and placed under bell glasses, in a moderate heat. when rooted, they should be placed in small pots, in a compost somewhat more sandy than that already mentioned. while growing, they require to be kept in a moist stove temperature, and should be hardened by placing them in a drier, and somewhat cooler, temperature after each growth is completed; the pots should be changed as often as the roots become thick around the ball of earth. the larger plants flower freely, and should be slightly pruned in annually, before commencing their new growth, thus securing neat and compact specimens. repotting should be effected directly they have done flowering. the plants should then be placed in a temperature ranging from deg. to deg., and both the roots and foliage liberally supplied with water. when flowers appear--about october or november--the syringing must be less frequently performed. at this period, if it be desirable to prolong the flowering season, the plants should be removed to a temperature of about deg. a few administrations of weak liquid manure during the growing season are of great value. =b. acuminata= (taper-pointed-leaved).* _fl._ bluish-violet, few, sub-cymose, terminal. april. _l._ oblong, acuminated, attenuated a little at the base, glabrous; bracts lanceolate, acuminated, glabrous. _h._ ft. to ft. rio janeiro, . (b. m. .) =b. americana= (american).* _fl._ first yellow, then white, very sweet-scented; axillary flowers solitary, terminal ones numerous. june. _l._ obovate, elliptic, acuminated, longer than the petioles. _h._ ft. to ft. west indies, . there are narrow and broad-leaved varieties of this species. (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . flower of brunia nodiflora.] =b. calycina= (cup-shaped).* _fl._ purple, disposed in large trusses, which are produced in succession throughout the whole year. _l._ large, lanceolate, shining light green. _h._ ft. brazil, . one of the largest-flowered species grown. (b. m. .) =b. confertiflora= (dense-flowered). _fl._ soft blue, cymosely crowded, terminal. january to june. _l._ nearly sessile, oblong-acute, attenuated at the base, rather pilose, ciliated, yellowish-green above; bracteoles oblong, attenuated at the base, and are, as well as the calyces, clothed with rusty hairs. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil. =b. eximia= (choice).* _fl._ produced from the points of the shoots, upwards of in. in diameter, deep purple. january to july. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, dark green, but not glossy. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. grandiflora= (large-flowered). _fl._ greenish; limb of corolla in. in diameter, corymbose, terminal. june. _l._ elliptic-oblong, acuminated. branches twiggy. _h._ ft. peru. =b. hydrangeæformis= (hydrangea-like).* _fl._ beautiful bluish-violet; cymes terminal, hemispherical, large. april. _l._ oblong, acute, cuneiform at base, quite glabrous, ft. long; bracts lanceolate, aggregate. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . this is one of the most elegant species of the genus. (b. m. .) =b. latifolia= (broad-leaved). _fl._ at first lavender-colour, with a distinct white eye, eventually becoming almost white; deliciously fragrant, sub-cymose, terminal. winter to early spring. _l._ broad-elliptic, acutish, greyish-white, in. to in. long, and in. to - / in. broad. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . (b. m. .) =b. lindeniana= (linden's).* _fl._ rich purple, with a light eye. _l._ ovate-acuminate, dark green. brazil, . (b. h. , .) =b. uniflora= (one-flowered). _fl._ solitary; corolla with a whitish tube, and a bluish-violet or purple limb. winter. _l._ elliptic, acute; branches greenish, hoary, diffuse, spreading. _h._ ft. to ft. brazil, . (l. b. c. .) =brunia= (named after corneille de bruin, better known under the name of le brun, a dutchman, a traveller in the levant). ord. _bruniaceæ_. elegant little greenhouse evergreen heath-like shrubs, more or less branched, with the branches in whorls, erect or spreading. flowers capitate, furnished with three bracts each, or sometimes deficient of the two lateral ones. leaves small, closely imbricate. they require a compost of peat and sand, with a little leaf soil added, firm potting and good drainage. cuttings of young shoots root freely in sand, under a hand light, in summer. =b. nodiflora= (knot-flowered).* _fl._ white; heads globose, size of a cherry, on the tops of the branches. july. _l._ lanceolate, awl-shaped, trigonal, acute, smooth, closely imbricate, not ustulate at the apex. _h._ ft. to ft. cape of good hope, . see fig. . =bruniaceÃ�.= an order of much-branched heath-like shrubs, usually having small leaves, which are crowded and entire. flowers in terminal heads; petals five, alternating with the lobes of the calyx. the typical genus is _brunia_. =brunonia= (named after robert brown, the most eminent botanist of his time). ord. _goodenoviæ_. a stemless greenhouse perennial herb, with the habit of _scabiosa_, downy from glandless simple hairs. flowers distinct, with a whorl of five membranous bracts; corolla blue, marcescent. radical leaves quite entire, spathulate; scapes undivided, each bearing one head; head hemispherical, lobate; lobes involucrated by foliaceous bracts. it thrives in a compost of decayed manure, or leaf soil and peat, with a little loam added; thorough drainage is necessary. propagated by divisions, in early spring, previous to repotting. =b. australis= (southern)* is the only species known to be in cultivation. _h._ ft. new holland, . (b. r. .) =brunsvigia= (named after the noble house of brunswick). ord. _amaryllideæ_. very showy greenhouse bulbous plants, from the cape of good hope. flowers red, on very long pedicels. bulbs large. leaves broad, horizontal; perianth with an evident longer or shorter tube, curving upwards, funnel-shaped, deeply six-parted, deciduous; segments sub-equal, many-nerved, flat, and recurved at the apex; stamens on the tube much curved upwards; scape appearing in summer without the leaves; umbels many-flowered. propagation is effected by offsets, of which the large bulbs produce but few. these, when secured, may be removed after reaching some considerable size, carefully potted in a mixture of sandy loam and peat, with good drainage, and kept tolerably warm and close until established; water must be given but sparingly until root-action has commenced. the best place for growing the offsets into a flowering size is on a shelf near the glass, in a temperature of from deg. to deg. with an abundance of water while growing, and kept dry while semi-dormant, thus allowing them a rest, the bulbs will speedily increase in size; but it may be years before flowers are produced. culture: this may be divided into two periodsÂ�-one of growth, and one of rest. after the latter period, they should be allowed to start into fresh growth, without stimulation, and, as soon as started, liberal supplies of water should be given, and a genial temperature of from deg. to deg. maintained, to make them grow vigorously. good-sized pots are also necessary, with a mixture of loam, peat, and sand, in equal parts. they are usually confined to the greenhouse, or warm conservatory, but are sometimes successfully grown in a south border at the base of a wall, planted out in a pit, upon which the lights may be placed in winter, and matted if necessary, as they cannot endure frost. a good depth of soil, consisting of fibrous loam, peat, and sand, in equal proportions, with good drainage, should be prepared. in all cases, the bulbs should be planted somewhat deeply. one of the most satisfactory methods of ensuring the flowering of these plants consists in subjecting the bulbs, when at rest, to a hot dry heat of deg. or more, which thoroughly ripens them; but, after this treatment, it will be necessary to encourage the after-growth to the fullest possible extent. =b. ciliaris= (hair-fringed). _fl._ dull purple. _l._ strongly fringed with white hairs. _h._ ft. . (b. r. .) =b. cooperi= (cooper's).* _fl._ sulphur-coloured, edged with red; umbels twelve to sixteen-flowered. _l._ ligulate-obtuse, bifarious, fleshy. _h._ - / ft. . (ref. b. .) =b. falcata= (sickle-leaved).* _fl._ red. may. _l._ sickle-shaped, with a muricated, discoloured, cartilaginous edge. _h._ in. . (b. m. .) syn. _ammocharis falcata_. =b. josephineæ= (josephine's).* _fl._ scarlet; scape twice as long as the rays of the many-flowered umbel. _l._ strap-shaped, erect, spreading, glaucous. _h._ - / ft. this handsome species is much grown. . (b. m. .) _minor_ and _striata_ are varieties. =b. multiflora= (many-flowered).* _fl._ red, loosely umbellate. june. _l._ linguiform, smooth, lying on the ground. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =b. toxicaria= (poison-bulb).* _fl._ pink; umbel hemispherical, many-flowered. september to october. _l._ many, erect, oblique, glaucous. _h._ ft. . (b. r. .) _b. coranica_ is a variety of this. . (b. r. .) [illustration: fig. . brussels sprouts.] =brussels sprouts= (_brassica oleracea bullata gemmifera_). a cultivated variety of the cabbage (fig. ). leaves blistered. stems covered with small, close heads. to secure this vegetable in its best form, it must be grown on deeply-worked and rich ground. in addition, the seeds should be obtained from a good source, as there are many spurious stocks in cultivation. plenty of room must be allowed the plants to develop, and the tops and leaves should not be removed till after the sprouts are gathered; dead leaves, of course, excepted. it is a bad plan to plant brussels sprouts amongst potatoes or other crops, as they become unduly weakened, and never give such good returns as when grown by themselves. [illustration: fig. . bryonia laciniosa.] _soil and cultivation._ in february, and early in march, sow thinly in a cold frame, or carefully prepare seed beds on a warm south border. as soon as the plants are large enough, prick them off into prepared soil, to grow on; about the end of april, transplant into a piece of rich ground, which has been previously prepared for them, setting in rows from ft. to ft. asunder, and ft. apart in the rows. the earlier the plants are put out, the better; and they should be watered-in when planted, so that they receive as little a check as possible. they must be kept clear of weeds, and earthed up as soon an they get a good size. during severe frost, some light dry litter may with advantage be thrown over them for protection; and the less they are interfered with when frozen, the better. _sorts._ the imported is the best strain for general use; other good sorts are: sutton's matchless, the aigburth, and scrymger's giant. =brya= (from _bryo_, to sprout; the seeds germinate before falling from the tree). ord. _leguminosæ_. a small genus of stove shrubs or small trees, furnished with stipular spines, and solitary, or clustered, or pinnate leaves. the undermentioned species thrives in a rich fibry loam. propagated by seeds, or by cuttings, placed in a hotbed. =b. ebenus= (ebony). jamaica ebony. _fl._ bright yellow; peduncles two to three together, axillary, one to two-flowered, shorter than the leaves. july and august. _l._, leaflets aggregate, obovate. _h._ ft. to ft. west indies, . (b. m. .) =bryanthus= (from _bryon_, a moss, and _anthos_, a flower). ord. _ericaceæ_. a genus of small trailing shrubs, allied to _loiseleuria_. flowers terminal, somewhat racemose; calyx five-leaved, imbricate; corolla deeply five-parted, spreading. leaves crowded, spreading, flattish. for culture, _see_ =menziesia=. =b. empetriformis= (crowberry-leaved). _fl._ reddish-purple, clustered near the extremities of the branches. _l._ crowded, linear, on short adpressed petioles. _h._ in. north-west america, . syn. _menziesia empetrifolia_. (b. m. .) =b. erectus= (erect). _fl._ red, pentamerous, broadly campanulate. _l._ linear, obtuse, obscurely serrated. _h._ about ft. siberia. trailer. (l. & p. f. g. , .) =b. gmelini= (gmelin's). _fl._ red; peduncles glandular, many-flowered. _l._ with denticulated margins. _h._ in. or in. kamtschatka and behring's island. =bryonia= (from _bryo_, to sprout; in allusion to the annual growth from the tuber). bryony. ord. _cucurbitaceæ_. tuberous-rooted perennial herbaceous plants, producing annual climbing stems. the native species is well worth growing over unsightly hedges, fences, &c., and in the wild garden; it is a rapid grower, and of extremely easy culture. the stove perennial species should be grown in pots, and the stems trained up the rafters. rich loam is the soil most suitable for their cultivation. propagated by seeds, or by divisions of the tuber. =b. dioica= (diÅ�cious). _fl._ greenish-white, racemose, diÅ�cious. _fr._ globose, red. may to september. _l._ cordate, palmately five-lobed, toothed, scabrous, from callous points. england. (sy. en. b. .) =b. laciniosa= (cut-leaved). _fl._ yellow, solitary; corollas hairy inside, smooth outside. _fr._ size of a cherry, striated with white. july. _l._ palmately five-parted, cordate, rough, and blistered, with oblong-lanceolate, acuminated, serrated segments; petioles muricated. ceylon, . stove species. syn. _bryonopsis laciniosa_. see fig. . =bryony.= _see_ =bryonia=. =bryophyllum= (from _bryo_, to sprout, and _phyllon_, a leaf; plants spring from the notches on the edges of the leaves when taken off the plant, and placed in a moist situation). ord. _crassulaceæ_. this very curious stove succulent thrives in pots of rich loamy soil; perfect drainage is essential, and but little water is at any time needed. =b. calycinum= (large-cupped). _fl._ yellowish-red; cymes panicled, terminal. april. _l._ opposite, thick, petiolate; some impari-pinnate, with one or two pairs of segments, the terminal one large; others solitary; all ovate and crenated. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . a fleshy, erect, branched evergreen shrub, grown chiefly for curiosity. =bucco.= _see_ =agathosma=. =bucida.= _see_ =terminalia=. =buckbean.= _see_ =menyanthes=. =bucklandia= (named after dr. buckland, a former dean of westminster, and professor of geology at oxford). ord. _hamamelideæ_. a handsome greenhouse tree, allied to _liquidambar_. it thrives in rich sandy loam, peat, and leaf mould; or peat may be left out if the leaf soil is good; perfect drainage is also essential. cuttings of ripened shoots will strike in sandy loam, under a hand glass, with moderate heat. they must be watered carefully, or they are liable to rot off. =b. populnea= (poplar-like). _l._ pale green, large, leathery, cordate, ovate-acute, on long stalks, pinkish when young; stipules very curious, large red, consisting of two leafy oblong plates, placed face to face in an erect position between the leafstalk and the stem. _h._ ft. himalayas, . (b. m. .) =buckler mustard.= _see_ =biscutella=. =buckthorn.= _see_ =rhamnus=. =buckwheat.= _see_ =fagopyrum esculentum=. =buckwheat-tree.= _see_ =mylocaryum=. =budding.= this process consists of taking an eye or bud attached to a portion of the bark, and transferring it to another and different plant; it is an operation almost confined to woody plants, but has been practised with more or less success upon herbaceous perennials. the stock should not be budded unless the sap is in circulation, which is assured if the bark will detach itself easily, when gently lifted, from the wood. there are many ways of performing the different systems, in preparing and inserting the buds, &c., and all may prove more or less successful if undertaken when the buds and stock are both in a suitable condition. the principal methods are shield or t-budding, including the circular, square, and inverted forms; flute or tube-budding, and annular or ring-budding. the first-named method, which is fully described below, is very extensively practised for propagating roses and stone fruits. it is also coming more in use for the propagation of many other fruit trees, including apples and pears, especially new or scarce varieties, as the great advantage of making use of many more of the eyes, to form separate trees, is thereby attained. in large nurseries, where skilful propagators are employed, thousands of trees are annually budded, the majority of them with very successful results. it is, in most cases, preferable to purchase established fruit trees, as cultivators require the produce much quicker than they could get it by propagating trees themselves. the same system of budding is, however, applicable for increasing roses; and this may be adopted with every chance of success by even a cottager, if he takes the necessary care in performing the work. rare varieties of ornamental deciduous trees are largely propagated in this way; for instance, many of the acers, elms, horse chestnuts, &c. evergreen shrubs, such as rhododendrons and hollies, are also rapidly increased in some establishments by this means. in the case of fruit-frees, plump wood buds must be selected, from medium-sized branches. on some sorts these are scarce, the majority being flower-buds, and it is rather difficult to distinguish between them at the budding season. the best time for the operation is from june to the end of august; but surrounding influences, condition of buds, stocks, &c., must be taken into account. clean cuts, with gentle and skilful handling, are even more important in the budding of stone fruits than of roses or other plants, and the ties should be lightly but firmly made. in all cases, the operation must be performed as quickly as possible, as both bud and bark are injured if exposed to the air for any length of time. [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] to proceed with the ordinary system of shield-budding, the stock (see fig. _a_) should first have a longitudinal and a transverse incision made in the bark, the former about in. long. next, the bud should be prepared, removing half the leaf (see fig. ). hold the branch with the left hand, and pass the knife from about / in. below, gradually upwards and inwards under the bud, bringing it out in a similar way at a somewhat shorter distance above. a portion of wood will also be taken out, and this is generally removed the opposite way to that in which the bud has been cut. by skilful budders, it is removed by a sort of twitch from either end. great care must be taken not to pull out the base or root of the bud at the same time, as this would render it useless. should the whole come out together, leaving a hollow place under the eye of the bud, it must be thrown away, and another prepared. the bud being ready, loosen the bark at the point where the incisions meet, with the ivory knife handle, and insert it by means of the piece of leaf attached. it must then be tied in with soft matting or bast, to exclude air, but not tight enough to injure the bark. shading from bright sun is advisable for a few days afterwards, and, as soon as the union takes place, the ties must be frequently examined, and loosened if necessary. some prefer budding late in the season, in order that the bud may remain dormant during the winter, and breaking stronger the following spring. occasionally, they are inserted in spring, just at the commencement of growth. the stocks of the summer-budded trees should only be allowed a moderate amount of foliage during the autumn, and should be cut back to the established bud before growth commences in spring. _square and circular shield-budding_ consists in cutting out a piece of bark of either shape from the stock, and inserting another piece of exactly the same size, containing a bud, and covering with a bandage, or piece of sticking plaster, all except the eye. this mode is seldom made use of. inverted t or shield-budding is preferred in the south of france for propagating orange-trees, but is not otherwise much used. the only difference is that the transverse incision is made below, instead of above, the other, and the bud inserted upwards, making it fit with the bark at the point where the stock is cut across. [illustration: fig. .] _flute-budding_ is sometimes used, and answers well for some trees (see fig. ). a cylinder of bark is removed from the stock, and one of a similar size from the scion. containing buds, is fitted in its place, being carefully made air-tight by means of a bandage or grafting wax. some prefer splitting the hark, as shown in the illustration. and laying it over the tube or cylinder; but the parts cannot be fitted so well as when it is removed. _ring budding._ by this mode, it is not necessary to cut off the top of the stock. a ring of bark may be removed from any convenient part (see fig. _b_) and replaced with one containing eyes (see fig. _a_). the latter should be taken from a little larger branch than the stock, as the bark could then be made to fit better. as in flute-budding, air must be excluded by means of adhesive paper and bandages or grafting wax. budding operations may be performed at any time during the season; but dull cloudy weather, and morning or evening, are most suitable. if the branch, containing buds, cannot be obtained as required for use, the ends may be placed in water, to keep them fresh; but unnecessary delay should be avoided. [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] _stocks for budding upon._ for the cherry, the wild gean, and seedlings from the morello. make capital stocks for tall trees and those of moderate growth; and the mahaleb, or perfumed cherry, for small trees for pots, bushes, pyramids, or cordons. for the plum, the mussel, mirabelle, magnum bonum, st. julian, &c., are mostly used for stocks, the mirabelle being best for small trees. peaches and nectarines are generally budded on the mussel, st. julian, or mirabelle plums; the last are best for dwarfs. the apricot is budded on the mussel or mirabelle plums, for small plants; and the st. julian plum for standards. in france, the damas noir, or black damask, and the cerisette, are also used. they should all be raised from seeds, and not from suckers. seeds for raising plants for stocks may be sown as soon as ripe; but where quantities are used, the stones are thrown into heaps, so as to slightly ferment during winter. in the spring, they are sown in drills or beds, and transplanted the next year in rows ft. or ft. apart. and in. or in. from plant to plant. the dwarfs are generally budded the second year, and the standards the third or fourth. dwarf trees are budded from within a few inches of the ground to ft. above; standards and riders from ft. to ft.; cordons, pyramids, &c., can hardly be budded too low. _rose budding._ propagation of roses by budding is very extensively practised both with standard trees and dwarf plants. it is perhaps easier and more certain to succeed with these than with fruit trees; but the mode adopted is precisely the same--that of the shield-shaped bud with the core, or root, and the bark attached. for standards, the common briar of the dog rose is the best. the earlier these are obtained and planted in november, the better, as roots are then formed at once. for dwarf plants, the manetti stock is mostly used, being easily obtained and had in proper condition almost at any time when buds are ready. plants on this stock do not succeed in all soils, and suckers are also very liable to be produced. budding on the seedling briar is attended with good results, and is practised more than hitherto. the de la grifferaie stock is also used, more for tea roses than others, and is considered by some to produce better plants than the manetti. the shoots on standard briars should be reduced to about three of the strongest, selected as close together as possible, and near the top, the briars having been previously cut back the desired height at planting time. two buds are sufficient for a good head; but, for certainty, three may be inserted. fig. represents a tall briar with three shoots; _a_ shows the shoot slit for the bud; _b_, the bud inserted; _c_, the bud tied in. fig. is a branch showing buds, the lowest ones of which are most suitable, being in firmer wood. those at the top are often useless. fig. represents a bud taken from fig. , _a_, _b_, and fig. gives an idea of how the wood is removed. as previously remarked when describing the system, experienced budders remove the wood from either end. fig. shows its removal from the lower end. [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. . fig. .] budding as close as possible to the main stem is most desirable. raffia grass is superior in every way for tying, which should be performed as soon after the bud is inserted as possible. it requires much care, and, of course, the bud itself must be entirely free. as soon as the buds swell, the tying material should be loosened, and the top of the stock cut back to the level of the budded shoot. by budding late, the buds lie dormant till the next spring, and the necessity of tying the young shoots is dispensed with for that season. the shoots of the briar in advance of the rose buds must be cut back, as shown in fig. , so soon as the buds are safely established. the manetti and other dwarf stocks are budded on the main shoot nearly close to, or underneath the ground, and if low enough to cover part of the rose stem when grown, the latter often roots as well and assists the stock. being small, they may be grown in pots and removed to the required position at any time. [illustration: fig. .] dog roses, used for standards, are usually collected from hedgerows, and sold at about s. per hundred. manetti stocks are increased by cuttings, which, after making one season's good growth, will be fit for use. briars are raised from seed, which may be collected from hedges, and sown in the autumn, in drills. the seedlings should be transplanted the first year after sowing, and the following season they will be ready for working. =budding knives.= the best budding knives are those manufactured by messrs. saynor and co., and messrs. g. hall and son. they are made with handles of ivory, shaped in different ways at the end, for the purpose of opening the bark, in order to insert the bud. some of the blades are made with the edge rounded at the point, so as to cut the bark without the knife entering the wood underneath (see figs. and ). others, which may be used for budding, and are much better for ordinary use for cutting flowers, &c., are made with the edge of the blade carried to a point, as in ordinary knives (see figs. and ). another form has the handle made of some other material, and a piece of ivory inserted for opening the bark; this is represented in fig. . the first-named is the best, if required for budding only; the second is the most useful for ordinary purposes, and answers admirably for budding as well. none of the other shapes have any material advantages over these. [illustration: fig. . fig. . fig. . fig. . fig. . =budding knives.=] =buddleia= (named after adam buddle, who is so often mentioned in ray's "synopsis"; his collection of dried british plants is preserved in the british museum). ord. _loganiaceæ_. a large genus of stove, greenhouse, or half-hardy shrubs. flowers small, often tomentose, axillary, spicate, capitate, or thyrsoid; calyx equally four-toothed; corolla tubular-campanulate, regular; limb spreading, four-toothed. leaves opposite, reticulately veined. branches quadrangular. the species most extensively grown is _b. globosa_, which, among all our other shrubs, is quite unique; but it is only in the southern or favoured counties of england where it can be fairly termed hardy. it is readily propagated by cuttings or by seeds. the latter should be sown in a gentle heat the spring following the ripening, when they will vegetate pretty freely. with careful treatment and nurturing in pots for the first winter, in a frost-proof pit or house, they may soon be grown into elegant plants. cuttings of the ripened wood, put in under bell glasses or hand lights, in a cool but frost-proof pit, will root slowly during the winter. they will root all the surer and quicker if each cutting has a heel of older wood attached to that of the current year's growth. they are best inserted in fine sand or in very sandy soil, and require but little water until rooted. as soon as fairly calloused over or rooted, their further progress may be much advanced by potting them off, and plunging them in a bottom-heat of deg. or deg. this is by no means an essential to secure success, but it hastens it, and promotes growth in an extraordinary manner. the surface temperature should range about the same as the bottom-heat. under such treatment, the plants will be quite fit to place out about the middle of july. a warm, sheltered situation should be chosen, and a light, rich soil prepared for them; and if dry weather ensues, they only require water. south or west walls are, without doubt, the best situations for them. in all cool or unfavourable localities, much may be done to ensure success by planting on a dry bottom, and on poorish soil. a loose, free-and-easy style of training suits the plants best. this enables them to yield a great number of their peculiarly formed, distinct, and beautiful flowers; whereas, anything like a close, trim course of pruning or of training reduces the flowers to the lowest number. throughout the southern parts of england, and, indeed, in many places in the north, _b. globosa_ makes an excellent bush for the shrubbery. it is only during severe winters that it gets badly cut. for the other presumably hardy species much the same plan as the foregoing may be adopted. the greenhouse and stove kinds may have the same routine of culture usually employed with plants requiring similar temperatures. stove species, except where specified otherwise. =b. americana= (american). _fl._ yellow; spikes disposed in a terminal panicle, nearly ft. long; glomerules nearly globose, size of a sloe, on short peduncles. august. _l._ ovate, acuminated, narrowed at the base, serrately crenated. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . =b. asiatica= (asiatic).* _fl._ white, small, disposed in long, dense racemes. _l._ lanceolate, finely serrated. _h._ ft. india, . a graceful and sweet-scented shrub. syn. _b. neemda_. (b. m. .) =b. crispa= (curled). _fl._ lilac, with a white eye; numerously produced in long terminal branching spikes, forming a pyramidal head about in. long. march. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, crenately curled; lower ones cordate at the base; superior ones rounded, all thick and wrinkled, clothed with soft tomentum on both surfaces. _h._ ft. western himalayas. half-hardy. (b. m. .) =b. globosa= (globose).* _fl._ orange, or honey-colour; heads large, terminal, globose, pedunculate. may. _l._ lanceolate, acuminated, petiolate, crenated, in. long. branches sub-tetragonal, clothed with hoary tomentum, as well as the under side of the leaves. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . hardy in most places. (b. m. .) =b. lindleyana= (lindley's). _fl._ purplish-red, hairy; disposed in terminal racemose spikes. september. _l._ ovate, shortly petiolate, serrate. branches angular, glabrous. _h._ ft. china, . half-hardy. (b. r. , .) =b. neemda= (neemda). a synonym of _b. asiatica_. =buds, flower.= these are developed like leaf-buds, from which they differ chiefly in containing one or more incipient flowers within the leaves--the flowers being wrapped up in their own floral-leaves, within the ordinary leaves, which have their outer covering of scales. if a bud be gathered from a lilac or horse-chestnut very early in spring, all the rudiments of the future flowers and leaves will be found within it, though the bud itself may not be more than half-an-inch long, and the flowers not larger than the points of the smallest pins. =buds, leaf.= these consist of rudimentary leaves, surrounding a growing vital point, and appear like a collection of scales arranged symmetrically one above the other. leaf-buds universally originate in the horizontal or cellular system, and are formed under the bark at the extremity of the medullary rays, and at the margin or on the surface of leaves, whether perfect or rudimentary. deciduous trees lose their leaves, but in the axil of each a little bud previously forms, from which fresh leaves expand the following spring. in some cases, as in the horse-chestnut, the buds are covered with a gummy exudation. in privet-trees, leaf-buds are generally smaller and more elongated than flower-buds. =buettneria= (named after david sigismund augustus byttner, once a professor of botany in the university of göttingen). ord. _sterculiaceæ_. erect or scandent stove or greenhouse shrubs. flowers small, usually dark purple; calyx and corolla valvate; umbels simple, disposed in something like racemes or panicles, rarely in corymbs. leaves simple. all are of easy culture in a compost of loam and peat. _b. dasyphylla_, _hermanniæ-folia_, _microphylla_, and _scabra_, are occasionally met with, but they are hardly worth growing. =buettnerieÃ�.= a section of _sterculiaceæ_. =buff-tip moth= (_pygæra bucephala_). this large and beautiful moth is very common in many districts; it is easily recognised by the buff-coloured tips of the fore-wings--whence its common name; the head, and body between the wings and abdomen, are ochreous. according to newman's "british moths," "the caterpillars, when full grown, are about an inch and three-quarters long, and sprinkled with silky hairs; the general colour yellow, with black head, black lines running from the head to the tail, interrupted by a transverse orange band on each ring, and a black horny plate above the tail segment." they feed on the leaves of the lime, elm, and oak, among other trees, and apparently the only remedy is that generally adopted in exterminating caterpillars, viz., to shake the branches which are infested, when the pest will be quickly dislodged, and fall to the ground. miss ormerod is of opinion that "as the caterpillars come down the tree to the ground for their change to chrysalids, it might be worth while to throw a few spadefuls of gas-lime, or of anything they would not cross, in a circle at about a yard from the tree; or a rough band of any material soaked in tar, or tar and oil, which would keep wet longer, would stop them from straying off ... and they might be cleared in sufficient numbers so as to considerably lessen future attack." this plan of prevention deserves a trial in any place where the destructive caterpillars of these moths abound. it is almost a hopeless task to destroy them altogether when once established on the trees, such specimens as large oaks being often almost or wholly denuded of foliage. =bugle.= _see_ =ajuga=. =buglossum barrelieri.= _see_ =anchusa barrelieri=. =bugwort.= _see_ =cimicifuga=. =bulbiferous.= bearing bulbs. =bulbine= (from _bolbos_, a bulb). ord. _liliaceæ_. a genus of rather pretty hardy, or nearly hardy, herbaceous or bulbous plants, allied to _anthericum_. flowers showy, fragrant; perianth with spreading segments. leaves somewhat fleshy, narrow. stems short. they are all of easy culture in a compost of sandy loam. the bulbous-rooted species are increased by offsets, and the herbaceous sorts by suckers and divisions. the only species which can be grown satisfactorily in the open air is _b. annua._ all the others should be grown in the greenhouse, but may be placed in the open during the summer months. =b. alooides= (aloe-like).* _fl._ yellow, disposed in a terminal panicle. april. _l._ fleshy, tongue-shaped, lanceolate, flat on both sides. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . syn. _anthericum alooides_. (b. m. .) =b. annua= (annual). _fl._ yellow; scape racemose. may, june. _l._ fleshy, subulate, rounded. _h._ in. cape of good hope, . an annual species, the seeds of which should be sown in a gentle heat during spring, and the seedlings may be transplanted to the open when large enough to handle. syn. _anthericum annuum_. (b. m. .) =b. caulescens= (caulescent).* _fl._ yellow. march. _l._ fleshy, rounded. stem shrubby, erect, branched. _h._ ft. cape of good hope. . a shrubby species, which should be propagated by cuttings, placed under a hand glass. syn. _b. frutescens_. (b. m. .) =b. frutescens= (shrubby). synonymous with _b. caulescens_. =bulbocodium= (from _bolbos_, a bulb, and _kodion_, wool; referring to the woolly covering of the bulbs). ord. _liliaceæ_. tribe _colchiceæ_. a very pretty little bulbous plant, much resembling the _crocus_, from which it differs principally in having a superior ovary and six stamens. it is amongst the earliest of spring-flowering plants, the flowers preceding the foliage; and, like the majority of bulbs, delights in rich sandy loam. in such positions, they multiply rapidly from offsets. it is a good plan to take up the bulbs, divide, and replant them every second year, selecting in autumn, and renewing the soil or planting in new positions. few plants prove more welcome in the garden, in february, than _b. vernum_, either in beds, patches, or masses. =b. aitchisoni= (aitchison's). a synonym of _merendera aitchisoni_. =b. eichleri= (eichler's). a synonym of _merendera caucasica_. =b. trigynum.= a synonym of _merendera caucasica_. [illustration: fig. . bulbocodium vernum.] =b. vernum= (spring).* _fl._ violet-purple, with a white spot on the claw; long, tubular, funnel-shaped, two to three from each bulb; preceding the appearance of the leaves. very early spring. _l._ usually three in number, broadly strap-shaped, concave, and surrounded at the base by well-developed sheaths. bulb black, oblong. _h._ in. to in. spain, . see fig. . there is a variety with the leaves striped white, which is also desirable. =bulbophyllum= (from _bulbos_, a bulb, and _phyllon_, a leaf; referring to the leaves issuing from the apex of the pseudo-bulbs). syns. _anisopetalum_, _bolbophyllum_, _tri-brachium_. ord. _orchideæ_. of this rather large genus of orchids but few are worth cultivating except as curiosities. racemes long or spike-like, very rarely one-flowered or sub-umbellate; sepals usually nearly equal and free; lip jointed to the foot of the column. they are of easy culture when grown on small blocks of wood with a little moss, and suspended in a warm part of the house; the roots require a good supply of water. propagated by dividing the pseudo-bulbs. the following comparative few of the aggregate number of species already introduced are really all that are worth the cultivator's attention; what the botanist often regards as being very pretty, &c., does not always appear such in the eyes of the grower. =b. barbigerum= (bearded).* _fl._, sepals and petals greenish-brown; lip covered with dark-coloured hair, and so loosely attached at the base as to be moved with the slightest breath. sierra leone, . a curious dwarf-growing plant, with dark green leaves and pseudo-bulbs. (b. r. .) =b. beccarii= (beccari's). _fl._ light brownish and painted with violet; lip brown, with a violet hue, proceeding from a rhizome at the base of the leaf (just below the small pseudo-bulb), and at once turning downwards; racemes dense, cylindrical, nodding. _l._ three, in. long, in, across, very thick. rhizome in. long. brazil, . a remarkable and gigantic climbing species; the odour of this plant is intolerably fÅ�tid and the leaves are larger than those of any other known orchid. this species requires plenty of heat. (b. m. .) =b. lobbi= (lobb's).* _fl._ large; sepals and petals yellow, the upper part spotted with purple; solitary, on radical scapes. summer. java, . (b. m. .) =b. maculatum= (spotted). _fl._ prettily spotted, _l._ long, obtuse, bright green. india. =b. reticulatum= (netted-leaved).* _fl._ in pairs, white, striped inside with purple; lip spotted with the same colour. _l._ somewhat heart-shaped, with the nerves of a deeper green than the rest of the leaf, giving it a beautifully reticulated appearance. brazil, . perhaps the handsomest of the genus. (b. m. .) =b. saltatorum= (dancing). _fl._ greenish-brown, lasting some time in perfection. winter. _h._ in. sierra leone, . (b. r. .) =b. siamense= (siamese).* _fl._ pale yellow, striped with purple; lip yellow, streaked with purplish lines. a very pretty species, closely allied to _b. lobbi_, but with longer and stouter leaves. pseudo-bulbs ovate. siam, . should be grown in a pot of peat and sphagnum. =bulbostyles= (from _bolbos_, a bulb, and _stylos_, the style). ord. _compositæ_. a. small genus of stove evergreen plants, now referred to _eupatorium_. =bulbs.= a bulb is formed upon or beneath the ground, and is a swollen stock, consisting, in the first place, of a more or less fleshy disk, which below gives rise to the roots; secondly, of more or less fleshy coats, or scales, borne on the disk; thirdly, of a more or less central shoot, equally borne by the disk, protected by the coats or scales already mentioned, and formed of rudimentary leaves and flowers. in some instances, small bulbs, called cloves, are formed at the base of the scales of the original bulb; these are destined to reproduce the plant. shallot and garlic are good examples. bulbs are, in fact, storehouses, husbanding the strength and energy acquired by the plant during one season, for the exigencies of the next. they are classified under two sections--scaly and tunicated. in the former, the scales of the bulb are imbricated, as in the lily; in the latter, they form continuous coatings, one within the other, as in the hyacinth, &c. in several lilies, young bulbs are found growing in the axils of the leaves, when they are known as bulbils. bulbs is also a popular term given to dutch flower roots, mostly arriving here in the autumn for spring flowering. crocus, colchicum, cyclamen, gladiolus, and several others, are not bulbs, but corms. the flowering season varies according to the different sorts of bulbs. the majority may be lifted and kept tolerably dry during the resting period; but they wither and become exhausted if not replanted at the proper time, thereby causing many failures. dutch bulbs generally arrive in september, and the best results are obtained from those potted or planted at once, although some for succession may be kept in reserve up till the beginning of november. the failure in cultivating imported liliums and other bulbs may be often caused by their long-continued confinement in a dry atmosphere, whereby their vitality is often almost lost. the roots of some bulbs are nearly always, more or less, in action, and these, especially, should not be kept out of the ground for any length of time. =bullace.= _see_ =prunus insititia=. =bullace=, or =muscadine=. _see_ =vitis vulpina=. =bullate.= blistered or puckered. =bulrush=, or =club-rush=. _see_ =typha=. =bunchosia= (from _bunchos_, the arabic name for coffee; in allusion to the similarity between the seeds of this genus and those of coffee). ord. _malpighiaceæ_. ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrubs, nearly allied to _malpighia_, but having the racemes of flowers axillary. fruit fleshy, indehiscent, externally smooth, and containing two or three seeds. they thrive best in a compost of loam, peat, leaf soil, and sand, in about equal proportions. cuttings of ripened shoots will root in sand under a bell glass, in moist bottom heat, taking several weeks to do so. good drainage is essential, both in striking cuttings and in the cultivation of the plants. [illustration: fig. . burbidgea nitida.] =b. argentea= (silvery).* _fl._ yellow; racemes opposite, simple, pubescent. july. _l._ lanceolate, silvery beneath. branches puberulous. _h._ ft. caraccas, . =b. glandulifera= (gland-bearing). _fl._ yellow; racemes simple, axillary. march to may. _l._ elliptical-ovate, on short petioles, wavy, pubescent on both surfaces, furnished with four glands beneath at the base. _h._ ft. caraccas, . =b. nitida= (shining). _fl._ yellow; racemes elongated, almost the length of the leaves. july. _fr._ large, red; it is much eaten by turkeys and other large fowl. _l._ in. long, oblong, acuminated, smooth, glandless. _h._ ft. jamaica, . =b. odorata= (fragrant).* _fl._ yellow, sweet-scented; racemes opposite. may. _l._ ovate, emarginate, downy on both surfaces. _h._ ft. carthagena, . =buphthalmum= (from _bous_, an ox, and _ophthalmos_, the eye; the disk of the flower being ox-eye-like). oxeye. ord. _compositæ_. very showy and ornamental hardy perennial plants, thriving freely in common garden soil. they are propagated by divisions, made in autumn or spring. =b. grandiflorum= (large-flowered).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, large; involucre naked. june to october. _l._ alternate-lanceolate, somewhat toothleted, smooth. _h._ - / ft. austria, . hardy herbaceous perennial. =b. salicifolium= (willow-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ yellow, solitary, rather large, terminal; involucre naked. june. _l._ alternate, oblong-lanceolate, sub-serrated, three-nerved, villous. _h._ - / ft. austria, . hardy herbaceous perennial. =b. speciosissimum= (showiest).* _fl.-heads_ yellow. july. _h._ ft. south europe, . hardy herbaceous perennial. syn. _telekia speciosissima_. =bupleurum= (derivation not satisfactorily explained). hare's-ear. ord. _umbelliferæ_. a somewhat extensive genus of quite glabrous shrubs or herbaceous plants. flowers yellowish; umbels compound. leaves mostly quite entire. but few of this genus are worth growing, and all are of the easiest culture in common garden soil. seeds of the annuals may be sown out of doors in march or april; divisions of the herbaceous perennials made in autumn or spring; and cutting or divisions of the greenhouse species, in march or april. =b. fruticescens= (shrubby).* _fl._, umbels small, three to five-rayed; involucre of three to five, very short, subulate leaves. august. _l._ linear-subulate, stiff, striated, five to seven-nerved. branches slender, elongated, erect. _h._ ft. spain, . hardy and evergreen. =b. fruticosum= (shrubby).* leaves of involucre oblong. july. _l._ of a sea-green colour; oblong, attenuated at the base, coriaceous, one-nerved, quite entire, sessile. bark of branches purplish. _h._ ft. to ft. spain, . hardy. this is nearly the only species grown. (w. d. b. , .) =b. gibraltarica= (gibraltar). _fl._ yellow. june. _l._ lanceolate, one-nerved, coriaceous. _h._ ft. gibraltar, . evergreen, half-hardy. =b. graminifolium= (grass-leaved).* _fl._ green-yellow. june. _l._ linear, grass-like. _h._ in. switzerland, . hardy perennial. =b. longifolium= (long-leaved). _fl._ green-yellow. june. _l._ ovate-oblong; radical ones stalked; cauline ones amplexicaul. _h._ ft. switzerland, . hardy perennial. =bur.= _see_ =centotheca lappacea=. =burbidgea= (named after f. w. burbidge, the discoverer of the genus, a traveller in borneo, and author of several horticultural works). ord. _scitamineæ_. a very large, brilliant-flowered stove herbaceous perennial, allied to _hedychium_. for culture, _see_ =alpinia=. =b. nitida= (shining).* _fl._, perianth-tube in. to - / in. long, slender; outer segments - / in. to in. in diameter, bright orange-scarlet; panicle terminal, in. to in. long, many-flowered. summer. _l._ in. to in. long, elliptic-lanceolate, cordate-acuminate, rather fleshy, bright green above. stems tufted, ft. to ft. high, slender, terete, leafy. n. w. borneo, . see fig. , for which we are indebted to messrs. veitch and sons. (b. m. .) =burchardia= (named after h. burchard, m.d., a botanical author). ord. _liliaceæ_. an ornamental greenhouse herbaceous perennial, allied to _androcymbium_. it thrives best in sandy peat, or peat mixed with a little loam. propagated by offsets or divisions, made just previous to potting, in spring. it is best to repot annually. good drainage should be allowed, and the plant must not be potted too firmly. =b. umbellata= (umbelled). _fl._ white, green. august. _h._ ft. new holland, . =burchchellia= (named after w. burchell, a botanical traveller in the cape of good hope, and in brazil). ord. _rubiaceæ_. a stove evergreen shrub from the cape of good hope. flowers scarlet, disposed in heads at the tops of the branches, sessile upon a villous receptacle, intermixed with small distinct bracteoles; and each head is propped up by the ultimate pair of leaves; corolla of a clavate-funnel-shape. leaves ovate, acute, a little cordate at the base, petiolate; stipules interpetiolar, broad, cuspidate at the apex, deciduous. it grows well in a rich light soil, or a mixture of turfy loam, turfy peat, and sand. cuttings, not too ripe, root readily if planted in sand, and placed under a hand glass, in a gentle heat. =b. bubalina= (buffalo). a synonym of _b. capensis_. =b. capensis= (cape).* _fl._ deep scarlet, nearly in. long. march. _l._ ovate, acute, clothed with hispid pubescence; stipules very broad, and very short. _h._ ft. to ft.; ft. to ft. in a wild state. syn. _b. bubalina_. (b. m. .) =burlingtonia= (named after the "amiable and accomplished" countess of burlington). ord. _orchideæ_. a small genus of epiphytal orchids, all of which are beautiful and eminently well worth growing. they may be grown upon small blocks of wood, or in rustic baskets, suspended from the roof of the plant stove, where, if liberally treated with water, and a genial moisture in the air during the growing season, very little else will be required to ensure health and vigour. in the dull days of winter, they should be watered less frequently, but the plants must not be allowed to exhibit the slightest signs of distress from drought, or the consequences may be fatal to their health. when fastening these plants to blocks of wood, a little sphagnum should be used, for experience proves that they thrive best when their thin white roots can escape and hang exposed to the air. if growing them in baskets, it is preferable first to fasten them securely upon small pieces of bare cork, then to fill the basket, and finally to cover the whole thinly with a layer of sphagnum. [illustration: fig. . flower-spike, pseudo-bulb, and leaf of burlingtonia decora.] generally speaking, this genus is not a difficult one to cultivate; its great enemy is a small white scale, which secretes itself in the sheathing bases of the leaves. here it rapidly multiplies, to the great detriment of the plants; the leaves soon turn yellow at the base, and drop off; the whole plant looks sickly, and soon dies, or else requires a very long time and much trouble to achieve its recovery to health. to prevent this, the bases of the leaves must be carefully looked into every time the plants are taken down to be dipped in water; and, should the slightest sign of this pest appear, a thorough washing with soft soap and tepid water must be given, repeating the operation every day until all traces of the insect are removed. red thrip are also apt to work much mischief with these plants. they take up their abode in the same way as the white scale, and if not speedily removed or destroyed, soon make sad havoc. to put a stop to the ravages of this pest, a wash should be given, as before recommended, and after the soap has been rinsed out of the base of the leaf, a little tobacco powder should be sprinkled into the hollows, and allowed to remain for a day or two before brushing it off. this process will, however, cause a somewhat dirty appearance, but it will ensure ultimate health and vigour. propagated by dividing the plants. =b. batemanni= (bateman's).* _fl._ white, deliciously-scented; lip beautiful mauve. a very pretty south american species, resembling _b. candida_. =b. candida= (white).* _fl._ snowy-white, with a slight stain of yellow on the upper part of the lip, in substance and appearance like white satin, trimmed with gold; large, sweet-scented, in gracefully drooping three to four-blossomed racemes, produced from the axils of the leaves. april and may, lasting about three weeks in perfection, and sometimes having a second flowering season. _l._ one or two in number, dark green, and firm in texture. _h._ ft. demerara, . a very compact species, well suited for basket culture; it should never be allowed to get dry. it may be distinguished from other species by having a single row of tubercles, forming a ridge upon each side of the slightly hastate lip. (b. r. .) =b. decora= (comely).* _fl._ white or rose-coloured, spotted with red; lip pure white; scapes erect, five to ten-flowered. winter. brazil, . this species differs entirely from _b. candida_, inasmuch as it possesses a long slender-rooting stem, from different parts of which arise small oval pseudo-bulbs, each bearing a leaf; a lesser leaf appears at the base of a bulb, and from the axil of this the scape springs. it is a rather straggling but nevertheless beautiful species, and is best grown fastened upon long strips of cork, a little sphagnum being used in the operation; whilst, to prevent the plant getting too much "away from home," the young growths should be twisted back as they advance, and the practice continued until the pseudo-bulb is ultimately left near the centre, or in any spot which may appear bare. it likes strong heat and a very moist atmosphere, when growing; but during the period of rest, it should be kept cool and dry. see fig. . (b. m. .) =b. d. picta= (painted).* a beautiful variety, differing from the type in having shorter and more acute leaves; flowers produced in greater profusion, rose-coloured, beautifully mottled and blotched with dark purple. october. brazil. (b. m. .) =b. fragrans= (fragrant).* _fl._ very gratefully fragrant, disposed in erect racemes. april, remaining in perfection about three weeks. _l._ long, rigid, dark green. habit compact. brazil, . =b. pubescens= (downy). _fl._, sepals and petals snow-white; distinguished by the somewhat hastate lip, which has three yellow ridges on each side, and also by the downy column. november. _h._ in. brazil, . =b. rigida= (rigid).* _fl._ purplish-white, spotted with pink on the lip; produced in heads. _h._ ft. brazil, . a handsome plant, but difficult to flower. (l. s. o. .) =b. venusta= (charming).* _fl._ white, slightly tinted with pink; produced in heavy pendulous clusters at various seasons of the year; lip stained with yellow. _l._ rigid, dark green. brazil, . it forms a compact mass, and requires less heat than the kinds previously described. it is often confounded with _b. pubescens_, from which it may be distinguished by its larger and more loosely arranged flowers, by its smooth column, by the lip not being hastate in shape, and by the numerous shallow ridges borne near the base upon each side. (l. s. o. .) =bur marigold.= _see_ =bidens=. =burnet= (_poterium sanguisorba_; from _poterion_, a cup; being used in cooling drinks). ord. _rosaceæ_. a native perennial. the leaves are sometimes used in soups, and with borage in cooling drinks; they are also put in salads. the foliage only being useful, keep the flower-spikes removed, as this tends to increase the luxuriance of the plants. it thrives in any light soil. propagated by division. =burnet saxifrage.= _see_ =pimpinella=. =burning bush.= _see_ =euonymus atropurpureus= and =e. americanus=. =burn onion.= _see_ =potato onion=. =bur reed.= _see_ =sparganium=. =bursaria= (from _bursa_, a pouch; the capsules very much resemble those of the shepherd's purse). ord. _pittosporaceæ_. a handsome, much-branched, greenhouse evergreen shrub, forming a very pretty object when covered all over with its elegant white blossoms. it thrives well in a compost of sandy loam and peat, in equal proportions. young cuttings will root freely in sand, under a bell glass, with a little bottom heat. =b. spinosa= (thorny).* _fl._ white, small, disposed either in lateral or terminal panicles. july to december. _l._ small, oblong-cuneated, entire. _h._ ft. new holland, . (b. m. .) =bursera= (named after joachim burser, a disciple of caspar bauhin). ord. _burseraceæ_. stove balsam-bearing trees. flowers polygamous, or hermaphrodite; calyx small, four to six-toothed; petals four to six, spreading, generally valvate in æstivation; stamens eight to twelve; disk annular, with usually six to ten teeth; drupe oblong, covered by a three-valved succulent rind, containing three to five nuts. they thrive in a compost of loam and peat. propagated by cuttings, placed under a glass, with bottom heat. =b. gummifera= (gum-bearing). _fl._ whitish, hexandrous; racemes terminal and axillary. _l._ deciduous, usually impari-pinnate; leaflets ovate, acute, membranous. _h._ ft. west indies, . =b. serrata= (serrate).* _fl._ whitish, decandrous; panicles axillary, shorter than the leaves. _l._ impari-pinnate, with three to five pairs of broad-lanceolate, bluntly-acuminated, serrulated leaflets; petioles and pedicels pubescent. _h._ ft. india, . =burseraceÃ�.= an order of shrubs or trees, abounding in resinous juice; with opposite compound leaves, full of pellucid dots, and axillary and terminal fascicles of flowers. fruit indehiscent, somewhat drupaceous. the genera best known are _amyris_, _balsamodendron_, _boswellia_, _bursera_, and _canarium_. =burtonia= (named after d. burton, a plant collector for kew gardens). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of handsome greenhouse dwarf heath-like shrubs, natives of west australia. flowers axillary, often thickly gathered at the ends of the branches; corollas rich purple; keel generally of a deeper colour, and the standard having sometimes a yellow blotch at its base. leaves simple or trifoliolate, sessile, usually awl-shaped. they thrive well in a mixture of loam, peat, leaf soil, and sand, in equal proportions, with thorough drainage; but care must be taken not to give them too much water, as they require to be kept moderately dry, and are difficult to preserve in a living state. young cuttings root freely in a pot of sandy soil, in a cool house, with a bell glass placed over them; but some of the species produce seed in abundance, which are the best means of increasing them. =b. conferta= (cluster-flowered).* _fl._ violet. july. _l._ simple, very much crowded, six to eight lines long, linear-subulate, with revolute margins, and are, as well as the branches, smooth. _h._ ft. . (b. r. .) =b. minor= (smaller). a synonym of _gompholobium minus_. =b. pulchella= (beautiful). a synonym of _b. scabra_. =b. scabra= (rough).* _fl._ purple; peduncles axillary, bi-bracteate. april. _l._, leaflets glabrous, linear-mucronate. branches puberulous. _h._ ft. . syn. _b. pulchella_. (b. m. .) =b. villosa= (villose). _fl._ purple, large; peduncles axillary, bi-bracteate. may. _l._, leaflets linear-subulate, bluntish, scabrid. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =bushel.= _see_ =measures=. =butcher's broom.= _see_ =ruscus aculeatus=. =butea= (commemorative of john, earl of bute, once a munificent patron of botany). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of very ornamental stove evergreen unarmed trees. racemes many-flowered; flowers three together, on short pedicels, and furnished with two bracteoles each, under the calyx; corolla deep scarlet; down on the calyces usually black and velvety. leaves pinnately-trifoliate; leaflets large, ovate, roundish, stipellate. for culture, &c., _see_ =erythrina=. =b. frondosa= (leafy). _fl._ in. long. _l._, leaflets roundish, obtuse, or emarginate, rather velvety beneath. branches pubescent. _h._ ft. india, . (b. f. s. .) =b. superba= (superb).* _l._, leaflets roundish, obtuse, velvety beneath. branches glabrous. coromandel, . this approaches the preceding species, from which it differs mainly by its scandent habit, and not by any botanical characters. (b. f. f. .) =butomaceÃ�.= an order of aquatic plants, now usually included under _alismaceæ_. =butomus= (from _bous_, an ox, and _temno_, to cut; in reference to the sharp leaves, which injure the mouths of cattle that browze upon them). flowering rush. ord. _alismaceæ_. a very handsome hardy perennial aquatic, of extremely easy culture on the margins of ponds or muddy banks. propagated by divisions of the roots, in spring. [illustration: fig. . butomus umbellatus, showing habit and single flower.] =b. umbellatus= (umbelled).* _fl._ rose-coloured, umbellate; pedicels with scariose sheathing bracts at the base; scape naked, terete, longer than the leaves. summer. _l._ all radical, ft. to ft. long, linear, acuminate, triquetrous. ditches and ponds; frequent in england, and rare in ireland. see fig. . =butter and eggs.= the double-flowered variety of =narcissus aurantius= (which _see_). =butter and tallow tree.= _see_ =pentadesma=. =butter-bur.= _see_ =petasites vulgaris=. =buttercups.= _see_ =ranunculus=. =butterfly orchis.= _see_ =habenaria bifolia= and =h. chlorantha=. =butterfly plant.= _see_ =oncidium papilio=. =butter nut.= _see_ =caryocar= and =juglans cinerea=. =butterwort.= _see_ =pinguicula=. =button flower.= _see_ =gomphia=. =button-tree.= _see_ =conocarpus=. =button-wood.= _see_ =cephalanthus=. =buxus= (from _pyknos_, dense; referring to the hardness of the wood). box tree. ord. _euphorbiaceæ_. a genus of hardy evergreen shrubs or small trees. flowers unisexual, monÅ�cious; male flowers, calyx of four minute segments, stamens four, inserted under the rudiment of a pistil; female flowers singly, at the tips of groups of male ones. fruit, a regma, leathery, beaked with the styles. leaves simple, opposite, exstipulate, evergreen. these well-known plants thrive in any light, well-drained soil. seeds should be sown in similar situations as soon as ripe. cuttings, made of the young shoots, from in. to in. in length, inserted in a shady place, in august or september, root readily. layers of either young or old wood, made in autumn or early spring, will make good plants. they can also be increased by suckers and division. =b. balearica= (balearic).* _l._ yellowish-green, oblong-elliptical, emarginate, coriaceous, about in. long, with a cartilaginous margin. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . this is a handsome species. the cuttings will require a shelter in winter, and in exposed situations it will be better to afford the plants protection. =b. sempervirens= (evergreen).* common box. _l._ oval-oblong, retuse, convex, coriaceous, shining; stalks slightly hairy. _h._ various. england. there are numerous forms of this popular shrub: _argentea_, silver-variegated; _aurea_ has its leaves variegated with a golden colour; _marginata_ has leaves with a golden margin; _myrtifolia_ has small, oblong, narrowish leaves; _obcordate-variegata_ is a variegated variety, with obcordate leaves, from japan; _suffruticosa_ is the form usually cultivated for edgings, its leaves are small, obovate, this is readily increased by divisions, and requires to be planted firmly, in order to keep it dwarf. =byrsonima= (from _byrsa_, a hide, and _nimius_, much used; because the bark of some of the species is used in tanning, in brazil). ord. _malpighiaceæ_. ornamental stove evergreen trees or shrubs. flowers racemose, terminal, simple or branched. all the species thrive very well in any light soil, or a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings made of half-ripened shoots will root freely in sand, under a hand glass, in a moist bottom heat. =b. altissima= (tallest).* _fl._ white; racemes clothed with rufous hairs. july. _l._ ovate-oblong, covered with rufous down beneath, but beset with bristles above, which are fixed by the centre. _h._ ft. guiana, . =b. chrysophylla= (golden-leaved).* _fl._ yellow; racemes simple. august. _l._ oblong, short, acuminated, acute at the base, rather wavy on the margin, and revolute, smooth above, clothed beneath with silky down, which is of a rusty golden colour. _h._ ft. south america, . =b. coriacea= (leathery-leaved). _fl._ yellow, sweet-scented; racemes densely spiked, pubescent, erect. may. _l._ ovate, acute, quite entire and smooth. _h._ ft. jamaica, . =b. crassifolia= (thick-leaved). _fl._ yellow; racemes erect, elongated, brownish-velvety. july. _l._ ovate, acute at both ends, at length smooth above, but clothed with brownish down beneath. _h._ ft. guiana, . =b. lucida= (shining).* _fl._ pink; petals hastately kidney-shaped; pedicels hispid; racemes spiked, erect, short, smooth. may. _l._ obovate, cuneiform, obtuse, or mucronate, smooth, veinless, shining. _h._ ft. caribbee islands, . described as "a beautiful shrub." =b. verbascifolia= (verbascum-leaved). _fl._ yellow; racemes terminal. july. _l._ lanceolate-obovate, quite entire, downy on both surfaces. _h._ ft. guiana, . =bystropogon= (from _byo_, to close, and _pogon_, a beard; in reference to the throat of the flower being closed up with hairs). ord. _labiatæ_. greenhouse evergreen sub-shrubs, nearly allied to _mentha_. flowers small, in dichotomous, sub-corymbose, or panicled cymes; or else disposed in dense spicate whorls. bracts lanceolate or subulate. this genus contains easily cultivated species, which are, however, of no value for garden purposes. =caa-cuys.= _see_ =ilex paraguariensis=. =caa-mini.= _see_ =ilex paraguariensis=. =caapeba.= _see_ =cissampelos pareira=. =caapim de angola.= _see_ =panicum spectabile=. =caa-quazu.= _see_ =ilex paraguariensis=. =cabaret.= the french name of _asarum europæum_. =cabbage.= the common name for _brassica_; but especially applied to the plain-leaved hearting garden varieties of _brassica oleracea_. to obtain good tender cabbages in early spring and throughout the summer, it is necessary that they should be planted on rich, deeply-trenched ground, in a position free from the shade of fruit or other trees. stable dung or good farmyard manure is best for this crop, and should be applied when trenching is being done, burying the manure a spit below the surface. cabbages should not be planted successionally on the same ground, nor should they follow any of the other species of _brassica_, if it can be avoided. a warmer position, not too much sheltered to make the plants tender, will be found beneficial for the earliest spring crop. this should not be planted too soon in autumn, as the plants are more subject to run to seed, especially if the winter be mild. the several forms of cabbage are well known, being so much cultivated by cottagers as well as gardeners. none of those forming close hearts will bear severe frost, but the savoys are improved by a little in the early autumn. the coleworts are very useful in winter, being perhaps the hardiest of all; and, as the hearts do not get so close and hard as the savoy and other cabbages, the frost, unless it is very severe, does not injure them so much. _cultivation._ the crop obtained in april and may is usually the most important one, young cabbages being then much appreciated by everyone. the time for seed-sowing varies in different localities, from the third week in july to the middle of august. the first date would probably prove suitable for the northern parts of the country; and the latter would be early enough for the south. the seed should be sown thinly in beds of rather light, well pulverised soil, afterwards covering these with netting, to protect the seed from birds. the plants will be ready, in most cases, for placing out during september, or as soon as the ground can be cleared of other crops and prepared for their reception. the early battersea, or one of its many allied sorts, is best for sowing at this season; and, when planting out, an allowance of ft. apart each way will be sufficient. seed should again be sown on a mild hotbed in february, and occasionally afterwards, for succession; and a second crop may be obtained from the plants put out in autumn if they are allowed to remain. drumhead and other strong-growing sorts, sown in spring, will require from in. to ft. more space when planted out. these are not, however, of such good quality as the smaller-growing varieties. _savoys._ the seed of these should be sown in march or april, according to the locality, in the same way as described above, in seed beds; and the after treatment is also very similar. the young plants must not be allowed to starve in the seed bed, but should be kept watered, and planted out in june and july, choosing dull weather for the operation. the ground should occasionally be hoed between the plants, to keep the surface open and destroy weeds. distances of from in. to in. between the plants, according to the variety, must be allowed. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . savoy cabbage.] _coleworts._ seed of these should be sown about the end of june, and planted out ft. apart on a sheltered border, when large enough. rosette is one of the best varieties; but the early cabbages are often grown and used as coleworts before they have had time to form close hearts. [illustration: fig. . early york cabbage.] _pickling cabbage._ the red dutch is the variety generally grown for pickling, and is probably the best to keep its colour when so treated. seed should be sown in august, to stand the winter, and again in february for a succession; only a few plants will, in the majority of cases, be required, as, if liberally treated, they grow to a good size. [illustration: fig. . oxheart cabbage.] _sorts of white cabbage._ these are extremely numerous, and selections or improved forms are of annual appearance. some of the old types are, however, still much cultivated. the following are a selection of the best sorts for general purposes: atkins' matchless, carter's heartwell, early battersea, early york (see fig. ), ellam's early dwarf, enfield market, little pixie, oxheart (see fig. ), st. john's day (see fig. ), sugarloaf, wheeler's imperial, and portugal or couve tronchuda. the last-named variety was introduced from portugal some years ago, where it is much grown. it has a large midrib, and does not form very close hearts. it is very tender when cooked, and is only suitable for culture in summer. under the name of gilbert's cabbage broccoli, or chou de burghley, a variety of cabbage was recently distributed which produces, if left long enough, hearts resembling broccoli. although there are different opinions as to its merits, it is said to be very tender when cooked, and is considered a decided acquisition. of savoys, the best are: drumhead, dwarf green curled, early ulm, large late green, and tom thumb. [illustration: fig. . st. john's day cabbage.] _insects, &c._ the majority of the cabbage tribe is attacked by a very large number of different caterpillars and other pests, both above and below ground. the plants in their young stages are always a prey for snails and slugs, and often require a dusting of soot and lime as a protection. when planting out, many of the plants are often found with a protuberance at the root, caused by an insect, and termed "clubbing." those so injured should be thrown away if they can possibly be spared, and the others dipped in a thick solution of soot water. this is the worst kind of disease the cabbage tribe is subject to. the caterpillars of several moths and butterflies are very destructive in summer, often eating through the hearts of cabbages and cauliflowers, and so rendering them totally unfit for use. hand-picking, or dusting with lime, is apparently the only means of diminishing the numbers of these pests. =cabbage caterpillars.= _large cabbage white_ (_pieris brassicæ_). from may to july, and again in september and october, this, the most common of our butterflies, may be seen in great numbers, frequenting gardens, lanes, and fields, being especially numerous where cabbages are growing. their beautiful yellow eggs are laid singly on the under surface of the leaves, and securely fastened by a natural glue; from these, in due time, issue the small, but destructive, "green caterpillars." shortly after birth, they become quite green in front and yellow behind. they then get hairy and dotted over with black; they have eight pairs of feet, of which the three front ones only are "true" legs, or those which ultimately develop into the legs of the butterfly. they change their skin several times, and at each moult become larger in size. when full grown, they are about - / in. long, of a light green or bluish hue above, and yellow beneath; along the back of the adult caterpillar is a conspicuous yellow line, edged on each side with black dots. [illustration: fig. . caterpillar and chrysalis of large cabbage butterfly.] the chrysalis, or pupa, is commonly found on window-ledges, palings, walls, and similar places; but is sometimes attached to the plant (see fig. ). it is a rather curious object, of the colour of stone, and prettily chiselled. it is fastened to the plant by the tail and by a belt of silk round the middle. [illustration: fig. . large white cabbage butterfly.] [illustration: fig. . small white cabbage butterfly and caterpillar.] the perfect male insect has the body black and wings white on the upper side, except the tips of the fore-wings, which are black and crescent-shaped; and on the upper edge of the hinder wings there is a black spot. on the under side, the fore wings are white with yellow tips, and two black patches on each; the hind wings are yellow, with small black markings. the antennæ are alternately black and yellow, with the club black above and yellow beneath. the female (see fig. ) differs from the male in having two large black spots on each of the fore or upper wings, and a spot on the inner margin. _the small white_ (_pieris rapæ_, see fig. ) has two broods in the year, the first batch about april, and the second in july. the eggs are always placed on the upper side of the leaf, and are hatched in from ten to thirteen days, the caterpillars becoming full grown in about three weeks after emerging. the colour of the caterpillar is dark green, with a fine line of yellow, and a row of yellow spots down the sides. the chrysalis is attached by the tail and a band of silk to the place selected by the caterpillar, and varies greatly in colour, although generally it is of a whitish-brown. _cabbage moth_ (_mamestra brassicæ_). newman, in his "british moths," thus describes the cabbage moth: "the antennæ are rather long and slender, and scarcely ciliated in either sex; the fore-wings are dark, smoky, grey brown, mottled and marbled with confused markings, both darker and paler; the orbicular spot is inconspicuous, but decidedly to be traced; the reniform stigma is delicately outlined with white or whitish-grey, and has a pale anterior disc, in which the same pale grey colour predominates; the hind wings are dark, smoky brown with rather pale base, and rather darker crescentic discoidal spot and wing-rays; the head, thorax, and body have the same colour as the fore and hind wings." the eggs are laid on cabbages, or similar plants, and are hatched in a few days. the caterpillars are very voracious, feeding by day and night, and, what is worse, they spoil with their excrement, in the case of cabbages, more than they eat. they are of a dark colour, with a kind of marbling, more or less distinct, on the back, the effect being produced by a triangular mark containing two white dots on each of their segments. on being disturbed, they roll themselves into a tight ring, and so remain until they suppose that danger is over. they descend into the earth for change to smooth red-brown chrysalids, and remain there till the following spring. if the chrysalids were collected and destroyed during the autumn and winter digging, much injury would be obviated through the succeeding spring and summer. the destruction of these pests is a very troublesome matter, as the grubs of the last-named kind bore into the heart of the cabbage. hand-picking is the only sure method. anything emitting a distasteful odour will also keep them at bay. miss ormerod recommends throwing gas-lime over the plants, but it must be previously weakened by a few months' exposure. the following remedy may also be recommended: _paraffin_, or _coal oil_. mix one ounce of oil with a gallon of soapsuds, and water the plants with the mixture before the caterpillars appear. if any have appeared, an application at the rate of two ounces to the gallon will generally clear them off. of course, this operation must not be performed less than a month previous to cutting the cabbages, on account of the smell. soapsuds alone will also clear caterpillars from most smooth-leaved subjects if frequently applied. =cabbage fly= (_anthomyia brassicæ_). among the injurious insects which infest cabbages, none commit greater havoc to both stem and root, than the maggots of the cabbage fly. "they are whitish, cylindrical, and legless, tapering to the head, and blunt at the tail, which has short teeth on the lower margin, and two brown tubercles in the middle. when full grown, they are about / in. long. they then leave the plants, and turn, in the earth, to pupæ, with a few black spots at the head, and short teeth at the tail, inside which the flies form, and emerge in about a fortnight or three weeks. the fly is of an ashen-grey colour, and smaller than the onion fly, which it much resembles. the male is of a darker grey, and has a short black stripe along the back between the wings, with a curved one on each side of it, and one black stripe along the abdomen" (ormerod). the presence of these maggots may be easily detected by the flagging and change of colour of the leaves. the infested plants should be immediately removed and destroyed. the following remedy will be found beneficial: _lime._ hot lime should be soaked in water for about twenty-four hours. when clear, the infested cabbages should be well washed with the liquid. superphosphate of lime may also be applied with advantage. =cabbage gall weevil= (_ceutorrhynchus sulcicollis_). this is a pretty little beetle, about three-quarters of a line or one line in length. its colour is dark, but the insect is really of a coppery hue; on the thorax and head are rather large depressions; the wing-cases vary in colour from green to greenish-blue, or even black, and along the entire length of the elytra are parallel lines or holes, as may be seen with the aid of an ordinary lens. this insect, which causes much damage to plants of the _brassica_ family, is, in some places, very difficult to eradicate. it is also very destructive to other crops, and, therefore, any effectual remedy is valuable. the following methods may be recommended: _carbolic acid._ mix oz. calvert's no. carbolic acid with two gallons of soapsuds, and add sufficient loam or clay to make a thin paste. dip the roots of the whole of the plants into this before they are set out. well stir the mixture, and put the plants out in a damp soil, so that watering will not be necessary. _paraffin_, or _coal oil_. this, applied in the same manner as recommended for carbolic acid, is also very good. _guano, superphosphate of lime, and nitrate of soda._ a good dressing of either of these, given after the ground is dug, and in wet weather, about a month before the plants are put out, has been found very beneficial; but, although preventatives, they do not totally clear the crop from insects for the season. _soot and lime._ take equal parts of air-slaked lime and soot, and mix together. set the plants with a trowel, and, having placed some soil over the roots, throw in a little of the mixture, filling up the hole with soil. =cabbage moth.= _see_ =cabbage caterpillars=. =cabbage palm.= _see_ =euterpe oleracea=. =cabbage powdered-wing= (_aleyrodes brassicæ_). a small four-winged powdery fly, closely allied to the aphides. as implied by its name, this pest infests the various sorts of cabbages. it is more particularly prevalent in autumn. its presence may be readily detected by the partial discoloration of the leaves attacked. the head and body between the wings are black, with yellow variegation; abdomen yellow or rosy; wings white and mealy (whence its common name), the upper pair each having a darker spot, near the centre. its destructive power resides in the rostrum, or sucking-tube, with which its head is furnished. _remedies._ the only effectual means of exterminating this pest is to destroy the leaves, preferably by burning. if its presence is detected early, an application of tobacco water, or diluted soft soap, may prove beneficial. =cabbage root-eating fly.= _see_ =root-eating fly=. =cabbage-tree.= _see_ =euterpe oleracea=. =cabbage weevil.= _see_ =cabbage gall weevil=. =cabomba= (the native name in guiana). ord. _nymphæaceæ_. sub. ord. _cabombeæ_. small and very interesting aquatics. they thrive well in a cistern ft. deep, with in. of loam in the bottom, for the plants to root in, then filled up with water, and placed in a warm part of the greenhouse during summer, being allowed a rest in a cool part of the stove in winter. propagation may be effected by root division. =c. aquatica= (water-loving). _fl._ yellow, small; peduncles long, axillary, solitary, one-flowered. july. submerged leaves opposite, stalked, cut into five divisions even to the petiole; segments multifid; floating leaves alternate, on long petioles, peltate, orbicular, entire. guiana, . syn. _nectris aquatica_. =c. caroliniana= (carolina) is somewhat similar to _c. aquatica_. it is a native of the southern united states. =cacalia= (from _kakalia_, a name used by dioscorides). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of hardy herbaceous perennials, here treated as distinct from _senecio_, of which genus, from a botanical point of view, it is but a section. heads five to many-flowered; florets all tubular and perfect; scales of the involucre in a single row; receptacle naked; pappus of numerous capillary bristles. for culture, _see_ =senecio=. =c. atriplicifolia= (atriplex-leaved). _fl.-heads_ white. august. _l._, lower ones triangular-kidney shaped, or slightly cordate; the upper rhomboid, toothed. stem terete. _h._ ft. to ft. united states of america. =c. hastata= (hastate). _fl.-heads_ white, nodding, racemose. autumn. _l._ stalked, three-lobed, hastate, serrate. _h._ ft. siberia, . =c. reniformis= (reniform). _fl.-heads_ white, disposed in large corymbs. august. _l._ dilated, fan-shaped, ft. to ft. broad, repandly-toothed and angled, petiolate. stem grooved and angled. _h._ ft. to ft. new jersey, . =c. suaveolens= (sweet-scented).* _fl.-heads_ white. autumn. _l._ triangular-lanceolate, halbert-shaped, pointed, serrate; those of the stem on winged petioles. stem grooved. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . =c. tuberosa= (tuberous).* _fl.-heads_ whitish. june. _l._ thick; lower ones lanceolate or oval, nearly entire, tapering into long petioles; upper ones on short margined petioles, sometimes toothed at the apex. stem angled and grooved. _h._ ft. to ft. north america. =cacoucia= (its name in guiana). ord. _combretaceæ_. a small genus of stove twining or climbing shrubs. flowers large, showy, racemose. leaves opposite, oblong or ovate-elliptical. for culture, _see_ =combretum=. =c. coccinea= (scarlet).* _fl._ scarlet, alternate, bracteate at the base, disposed in long terminal racemes. may. _l._ ovate, acuminated, shortly petiolate. guiana. (a. g. i., .). a handsome stove climber. =cacteÃ�.= a large order of succulent plants, with remarkable spines clustered on the cylindrical, angular, two-edged, or leafy stems. flowers very variable, showy or minute, usually solitary, sessile, rarely in fascicles, ephemeral; petals disposed in two or more series, hardly distinguishable from the inner sepals, and sometimes united with them; sepals numerous, united and adnate a great length to the ovarium. fruit fleshy, one-celled, many-seeded. well-known genera are _cereus_, _melocactus_, _mammillaria_, _opuntia_, _pereskia_, and _rhipsalis_. =cactus= (from _kaktos_, a name used by theophrastus to describe a spiny plant). this generic term is popularly applied to all members of the extensive family _cacteæ_, which order may be distinguished by the following characteristics: calyx composed of many sepals, usually indefinite in number, the inner series not readily distinguishable from the petals, united and adnate a great length to the ovary; with the tube smooth in the genera _mammillaria_, _melocactus_, and _rhipsalis_; or with the lobes of the sepals crowning the fruit, and having the tube scaly, as in the genera _cereus_, _opuntia_, and _pereskia_. petals disposed in two or more series, hardly distinguishable from the inner sepals, and somewhat united to them; sometimes irregular, and disposed in a long tube at the base, but distinct at the apex, as in the genera _mammillaria_, _melocactus_, and _cereus_; sometimes equal and distinct to the very base, forming a rotate corolla, as in the genera _opuntia_, _pereskia_, and _rhipsalis_. stamens indefinite, disposed in many series, more or less cohering with the petals or inner sepals; filaments slender, filiform; anthers ovate, versatile, two-celled. ovarium obovate, fleshy, one-celled. fruit fleshy, one-celled, many seeded, either smooth and crowned by the calyx, or covered with scales, scars, or tubercles, and umbilicate at the apex. this order contains fleshy or succulent shrubs, very variable in habit and size. flowers very variable, showy, or minute, usually solitary, sessile, rarely in fascicles, ephemeral, expanding by night or day. leaves usually wanting, but, when present, small, caducous, and terete, rarely flat and expanded, sometimes alternate and disposed in a spiral order, always glabrous and fleshy. prickles or bristles disposed in fascicles, rising from the axils of the leaves. in the leafless genera, the fascicles of spines are disposed on the angles of the stem, rising from tubercles. stems usually angular, winged, or regularly beset with tubercles, rarely terete, usually jointed; joints compressed. a group of cacti is shown at fig. , for which we are indebted to herr fr. ad. haage, jun., of erfurt, germany. _see_ =cereus=, =disocactus=, =echinocactus=, =epiphyllum=, =leuchtenbergia=, =mammillaria=, =melocactus=, =nopalea=, =opuntia=, =pelecyphora=, =pereskia=, =phyllocactus=, and =rhipsalis=. _cultivation._ perhaps no class of plants more easily accommodate themselves to a general system of treatment, than do these; although certain genera would undoubtedly thrive better than when subjected to the lower temperature, suited to the requirements of those coming from cooler regions. notwithstanding that nearly all the species are natives of the western hemisphere, they occur in various geographical and altitudinal areas, in which the temperature is proportionately lessened or increased, as the case may be; yet, presuming a special house is set apart for their culture, the majority of the species may be happily suited therein. the warmest end of the structure should be selected for the tropical kinds; while those found in cooler regions may be grown in the other portions of the house; even those which are hardy in our climate are really best wintered in a house or frame. granted that several species will endure our winter outside, it is yet necessary to give them the shelter of a friendly ledge of the rockery, or frame, or to cover them in their permanent position with a hand light, or sheet of glass, in order to prevent the ill-effects of excessive moisture. generally, a winter temperature of from deg. to deg., and a summer one of from deg. to deg. during shade, or in sunshine up to deg., will be found advantageous. when thus treated, it will be necessary to keep the tropical species, on the whole, very dry during the winter. as regards soil, potting, and general treatment, all may be treated alike, except _epiphyllum_, _disocactus_, and _pereskia_ (which _see_). some growers give them the protection of a house in winter, and stand them outside during the summer, which is not, however, a very commendable plan, as, in consequence of the very variable character of our climate being especially prejudicial to several of the tender and more delicate species, the often excessive amount of moisture they would receive, will produce a weakly state of health in many, while others will be lost. it is far better if their culture is attempted at all, to give them the proper treatment. the numerous species and varieties found on the rocky mountains are a most interesting series, and may be well managed in a cold frame facing south, arranging them on shelves as close to the glass as possible, and keeping them very dry through the winter. if the weather is very severe, the lights should be matted. one of the best collections of these in the country, is in the possession of e. g. loder, esq., floore house, weedon, northampton, where a great number are admirably grown in frames, and under a large ledge of the rockery outside. amateurs may grow quantities of handsome cacti either in dwelling rooms near the window, or in small frames or greenhouses. as they are slow growing, not much space will be occupied; at the same time, a great deal of interest will be centred in their culture. as regards watering and insect pests, they are but little trouble. miniature cacti, of numerous kinds, are now often sold in small pots, and most attractive little subjects they prove. [illustration: . opuntia. . cereus. . opuntia streptacantha. . cereus candicans. . mammillaria. . cereus peruvianus monstrosus. . echinocereus electracanthus. . mammillaria. . echinopsis formosa. echinocactus visnaga. . cereus peruvianus var. . opuntia candelabriformis. . cereus strictus. . pilocereus senilis. . cereus tweedii. . cereus chilensis. fig. . group of cacti.] _soil, drainage, and potting._ good ordinary fibrous loam should form about one-half of the compost, the other half should be made up of sand, broken bricks, and lime rubbish in equal quantities; the whole to be carefully mixed together, and not used until it is moderately dry. it is absolutely necessary to ensure perfect drainage; a good "stopper" should, therefore, be placed over the hole at the bottom of the pot, and about one-third of its depth filled with draining material. the best time for potting is during february and march. turn out the plants, and remove nearly all the old soil from the roots, taking away any dead or decaying roots which may be observable. place some of the roughest soil next the crocks, and gradually fill the pots with the finer material, well working the same amongst the roots; finally press the soil moderately firm. do not water for a few days after potting, but syringe every evening, especially if the weather be fine; a little extra heat may be given after potting, to excite new, healthy growth. it will not be necessary every year to repot specimens in large vessels. a good top-dressing, with an occasional dose of weak liquid manure, is all they will require for several seasons. _watering._ this must be discriminately managed, especially during the winter; for, whatever their treatment as regards temperature during that season, they must be studiously watered, and anything like a saturated condition of the soil should be avoided. if the temperature is brisk, a little water may be given once a week, or perhaps not quite so often. if the plants are subjected to very cool treatment, water must be sparingly administered during november, december, and january; after which, they should be examined weekly, and very carefully attended to. during the summer months, when in active growth, they will not suffer if watered twice a week; and, on bright afternoons, light syringings may be advantageously given. _propagation._ three methods are adopted, viz., by cuttings or offsets, grafting, and seeds; the former is the plan generally adopted. the cuttings or offsets should be removed with a sharp cut, and laid upon a sunny shelf until the wound is healed and roots are emitted, when they should be potted in sandy soil, and placed with the others. they will thrive freely if kept syringed. grafting is resorted to with delicate kinds, which, from some reason or another, will not grow freely except upon the stock of a stronger species; and, by this means also, such delicate kinds can be kept from the damp soil, which frequently causes incipient decay. the stocks usually employed are those of _cereus tortuosus_, _c. peruvianus_, &c., according to the species intended for working; they readily unite with each other. if the scion and stock are both slender, wedge-grafting should be adopted; if both are broad, it is best to make horizontal sections, placing them together and securing in proper position by tying with matting, but not too tightly, or the surface may be injured. propagation by seeds is not often adopted, as it is a very slow method; they should be sown in very sandy soil, and placed in a semi-shady position until germination commences, when they may be exposed, and very carefully watered. =cactus dahlia.= _see_ =dahlia juarezii=. =caducous.= falling off soon; deciduous. =cÃ�nopteris.= _see_ =asplenium=. =cÃ�salpinia.= (in honour of andreas cæsalpinus, a celebrated italian botanist, - ). brasiletto. ord. _leguminosæ_. an ornamental genus of stove evergreen trees or shrubs, not much grown, on account of the space required and the time the species take to flower. flowers yellow or red, produced in racemes, having a top-shaped calyx, divided at the end into five parts, the lowest larger than the others; petals five, unequal-stalked, upper one shortest; stamens ten. a mixture of loam and leaf mould suits them best. cuttings are somewhat difficult to root, but sometimes will succeed if taken off from the mother plant in a growing state and planted in sand, with a hand glass placed over them, in heat. =c. alternifolia= (alternate-leaved). _fl._ orange, clustered. _l._ alternate, very elegant, compound. central america, . =c. brasiliensis= (brazilian). brazil wood. _fl._ orange; racemes rather panicled. _l._ with seven to nine pairs of pinnæ, each pinna bearing about fifteen or sixteen pairs of oval-oblong, obtuse, glabrous leaflets. brazil, . plant unarmed. =c. sappan= (sappan). _fl._ yellow, panicled. _l._ with ten to twelve pairs of plane, each pinna bearing ten to twelve pairs of unequal-sided, obliquely oval-oblong leaflets, which are emarginate at the apex. _h._ ft. tropical asia, . this tree furnishes the sappan-wood of commerce. =c. sepiaria= (hedge). _fl._ yellow. april. _l._ compound; pinnæ with about ten pairs of pinnules. _h._ ft. india, . syn. _biancea scandens_. =cÃ�sious.= lavender-colour, bluish-grey. =cÃ�spitose.= growing in tufts. =caffer bread.= _see_ =encephalartos caffra=. =caffer tea.= _see_ =helichrysum nudifolium=. =cafta.= _see_ =catha edulis=. =cahoun nuts.= a name applied to the fruits of _attalea cohune_, which yield a valuable oil. =caiophora.= _see_ =blumenbachia= and =loasa=. =cajan.= _see_ =cajanus=. =cajanus= (_catjang_ is the amboyna name). cajan. ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of erect stove evergreen shrubs, clothed with velvety pubescence. flowers yellow, distinctly peduncled, corymbose, racemose; standard sometimes beautifully veined with red. leaves pinnately trifoliate. a light rich soil suits these plants well. young cuttings will root in sand, with a hand glass placed over them, in heat; but plants are usually raised from seeds, obtained from the west indian islands and india. =c. indicus= (indian).* pigeon pea. _fl._ yellow, or purple-spotted, in axillary racemes. july. _l._ pinnately trifoliate; leaflets lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. india. (b. m. .) =c. i. bicolor= (two-coloured). _fl._ yellow. july. _h._ ft. india, . (b. r. , .) =c. i. flavus= (yellow). _fl._ yellow. july. _h._ ft. india, . =cajuput oil= and =cajuput-tree=. _see_ =melaleuca leucadendron minor=. =cakile= (derived from the arabic). sea rocket. ord. _cruciferæ_. a pretty hardy annual, frequently found on sea-shores. it is of easy culture in most sandy soils. propagated by seed, sown in spring. =c. maritima= (sea). _fl._ lilac, large, densely corymbose. summer and autumn. _fr._ a succulent pod, divided, when mature, by a horizontal partition into two cells, the upper containing a single erect seed, the lower a pendulous one. _l._ oblong, deeply lobed, fleshy. stem much branched. _h._ ft. sea-shores of europe and north america. =calabash nutmeg.= _see_ =monodora myristica=. =calabash, sweet.= _see_ =passiflora maliformis=. =calabash-tree.= _see_ =crescentia cujete=. =calaba-tree.= _see_ =calophyllum calaba=. =caladenia= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _aden_, a gland; in reference to the disk of the labellum being finely beset with glands). ord. _orchideæ_. a genus of pretty greenhouse terrestrial orchids from new zealand and australia. they should be kept in a cool frame or greenhouse, and carefully watered, when not in a growing state. a compost of peat, loam, and sand, in equal parts, suits them well. over thirty species are enumerated, but probably none are seen out of botanic gardens. =caladium= (derivation of name doubtful; probably of indian origin). ord. _aroideæ_. stove perennials, chiefly grown for the great beauty and varied hue of their leaves. spathe hood-like, rolled round at the base; spadix, upper portion entirely covered with stamens, but ultimately becoming bare at the extreme top, provided with blunt glands or sterile stamens in the middle, and ovaries beneath; anthers shield-shaped and one-celled; ovaries numerous, two-celled, with from two to four ascending ovules in each cell. leaves upon long petioles, more or less sagittate, ovate, and usually very richly coloured. fruit a one or two-celled berry, with few seeds. they are all of easy culture, and grow freely in a humid atmosphere. in march, when the tubers have been kept dry or rested for some time, they may be started into growth again, in small pots, placed in a stove or pit, where a night temperature of from deg. to deg. is maintained, and syringed daily once or twice at least. as soon as indications of activity are presented, they may be shifted into in., in., or in. pots, or larger ones may be used if good sized specimens are required. if the tubers should be in large pots, it is best to turn them out, dividing if necessary, and placing all the crowns in small pots, from which they can be removed when root action and growth are resumed, and they require more room. large tubers, if sound, may be divided, and the pieces placed in pots of such sizes as it is desired to grow them in. _soil._ turfy loam, leaf mould, turfy peat, and a little well decomposed manure, in equal parts (not broken up too fine), with a good sprinkling of sharp sand, form an excellent compost, the whole being well incorporated together. thorough drainage must be insured, as these plants require an abundance of water. after potting, they should be placed in a stove temperature, and kept well moistened by syringing two or three times daily. if accommodated with mild bottom heat at this time, they will make much freer and more vigorous growth than if otherwise treated. water sparingly at first, but as soon as the leaves expand, increase the supply; and, when the pots are well filled with roots, apply clear liquid manure at every other time of watering. as the season advances, the temperature and humidity of the house should be increased. during bright sunshine, caladiums should be slightly shaded for a few hours in the middle of the day, with some thin material, just to break the fierceness of the sun's rays; but the more they are exposed to the light at other times during growth, the brighter, richer, and more beautiful will the foliage be. as soon as the plants have attained a good size, some of them should be placed in the coolest part of the house, and partially hardened off; they may then be taken to the conservatory, allowing them a situation free from currents of cold air, and giving water only when really necessary. they may remain here for some time, but care must be taken to return them to the stove before they suffer from cold. small neatly grown specimens make beautiful ornaments for table decoration, and their suitability for exhibition purposes is well known, and largely taken advantage of. towards autumn, and as the foliage begins to fade, the supply of water should be gradually lessened, until all the leaves die down; the pots should then be placed under the stage in the stove, where they can be looked to now and then, and a little water given if required. by no means allow the tubers to get dried up, as is often done; for, if so, they will frequently rot away inside; whereas, kept in a semi-moist condition, even the most delicate can be preserved. in this state, they may remain until the following season. caladiums will not endure a very low temperature; from deg. to deg. is as low as they can be safely kept. very few of those known as "true species" are grown, being superseded, for general decorative purposes, by the numerous hybrids which have been raised of late, principally from _c. bicolor_. [illustration: fig. . caladium chantinii.] =c. argyrites= (silvery).* _l._ small, sagittate, round colour light green; centre and margins white, with many irregular white blotches scattered over the remaining portion. para, . one of the smallest and most elegant of the genus, and much esteemed for table decoration. (i. h. , .) =c. baraquinii= (baraquin's). _l._ from in. to in. long; centre deep red; margin dark green. para, . (i. h. , .) =c. bicolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._, spadix shorter than the hooded spathe, which is contracted in the middle. june. _l._ peltate-cordate, sagittate, coloured in the disk. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. m. .) =c. cannartii= (cannart's). _l._ green, with pale blotches; veins deep red. para, . =c. chantinii= (chantin's).* _l._ chiefly brilliant crimson, irregularly blotched with white, and margined with dark green. para, . see fig. . =c. devosianum= (devosie's).* _l._ angular, blotched white and pink. para, . =c. esculentum= (edible). synonymous with _colocasia esculenta_. =c. hardii= (hardy's). _l._ red-tinged, slightly spotted with white. para, . =c. kochii= (koch's).* _l._ spotted with white. para, . =c. lemaireanum= (lemaire's). _l._ green, with whitish venation. brazil, . (i. h. , .) =c. leopoldi= (prince leopold's).* _l._ green, marbled with red, and blotched with pink. para, . =c. macrophyllum= (large-leaved).* _l._ large, palish green, blotched with greenish-white. para, . [illustration: fig. . caladium maculatum.] =c. maculatum= (spotted).* _l._ oblong, acuminate, cuspidate, cordate at base, finely spotted with clear white. plant erect, caulescent. south america, . see fig. . =c. marmoratum= (marbled).* _l._ broad, peltate, upwards of ft. long, sagittate-ovate, acute or shortly acuminate, the two basal lobes being slightly divergent, dark bottle-green, variegated with greyish or silvery angular spots and blotches; petioles terete, greenish, mottled with purple. guayaquil. syn. _alocasia roezlii_. the variety _costata_ differs from the type in having the midrib (or costa) marked out by a tapering band of silver grey. =c. rougieri= (rougier's). _l._ green, with white spots; the centre pale green, with red veins. para, . =c. rubronervium= (red-nerved). a synonym of _c. rubrovenium_. =c. rubrovenium= (red-veined).* _l._ greyish-green in the centre, with red veins. para, . syn. _c. rubronervium_. =c. sanguinolentum= (blood-red blotched).* _l._ with a white midrib, blotched with red. amazons, . =c. schoelleri= (schoeller's). a synonym of _c. schomburgkii_. =c. schomburgkii= (schomburgk's).* _l._ green, with white veins. brazil, . syns. _c. schoelleri_ and _alocasia argyroneura_. =c. s. schmitzii= (schmitz's). _l._, centre whitish, with green network; midrib and veins red. . syn. _alocasia erythræa_. =c. sub-rotundum= (half-round). _l._ roundish, spotted with red and white. brazil. . =c. verschaffeltii= (verschaffelt's).* _l._ somewhat heart-shaped; ground colour brilliant green, entire surface irregularly spotted with bright red. para. =c. wallisii= (wallis's). _l._ dark olive green, with large irregular shaped spots and blotches of the purest white, and the veins all yellowish-white. para, . the following descriptive list of hybrid varieties is, for the most part, a selection from mr. bull's catalogue, and contains all of importance: adolphe adams, green leaf-ground, densely speckled with white, and rose-coloured midribs; adolphe audrien,* a very attractive variety, with fine large richly-coloured foliage; agrippine dimitry, leaves large, with white ground, narrow green margin and veins, and pink centre; alcibiade,* crimson-rayed centre, surrounded with pale green, and blotched with pure white, green margin; alfred bleu, leaves rich green, with pure white spots, and flesh-coloured centre; alfred mame,* carmine-red, bordered with white, and profusely spotted with rose; alphand, green, spotted with red, crimson centre; alphonse karr, rosy-carmine centre and red spots; aristide, light green, with crimson centre; auguste lemonier,* fine large leaves, with soft green centre, and rosy-crimson ribs and veins; auguste riviere, white centre and rays upon a light green ground, with crimson spots; barillet,* bright rosy-crimson centre, and ribs on green ground, with broad margin of rich green; baron de rothschild, rich blood-red centre, and spots, on mottled green leaf-ground; baronne james de rothschild,* young leaves of a bright rose colour, the more matured foliage soft rose, with red veins; barral, bright green, with a fine red centre, and large spots of rose; beethoven,* ground colour white, intersected and veined with green, centre rib delicate rose; belleymei,* fine white variegated leaves; bellini, mottled pale green ground, with rosy centre and spots; blanquÃ�rti, dark green, with grey veins and white spots; burel, dark bluish-green, veined bright rose, marked with rosy-violet, and spotted orange-red; chantinii fulgens,* rich dark metallic-green, with attractive crimson centre and white spots; chelsoni,* bright glossy green, suffused with brilliant red, and blotched with crimson; clio, ground colour deep rose, shaded white, green ribs and narrow green margin; de candolle,* rich green, with beautiful rose-coloured spots and creamy white centre rays; de humboldt, a fine variety, having glossy green leaves, spotted with scarlet; devinck, leaves heart-shaped, delicate pink centre ribs, interspersed with white spots; dr. boisduval, centre rayed crimson, snow-white blotches on a green ground; dr. lindley,* crimson centre, the green ground marked with rose blotches; duc de cleveland, deep red centre, surrounded with pea-green, largely spotted with red; duc de morny,* deep green leaf borders, with large crimson-rayed centre; duc de nassau,* brilliant red centre and ribs, white spot on emerald green leaf borders; duc de ratibor, green ground, with red midribs marked with white spots; duchartre, leaf-ground white, flushed rose, green veins and red spots; edouard andre, crimson centre, and rose blotches; edouard moreaux, mottled green ground, with lake centre; edouard rodrigues,* deep carmine, margined with light green, and spotted with rose; e. g. henderson,* green, with transparent rose spots and mottled crimson rays and centre; elvina, bright green, blotched with red, grey centre and veins; emilie verdier,* leaves of a light transparent rose colour, spotted with red; etoile d'argent,* bright green, midribs and veins creamy-white, shaded with grey; eucharis, rose centre, with violet reflections, margined with bright green, very fresh and bright looking; felicien david,* centre of leaf dark carmine, surrounded with white and beautifully veined with red on a light green ground; golden queen, leaves large, pale golden yellow, uniform in colour; gretry, carmine centre, with white spots on a dark green ground; helevy, white midribs and marked with crimson blotches, on a green ground; herold,* dark carmine veins, surrounded by light green, blotched with pure white, and margined dark green; ibis rose,* a magnificent variety, with beautiful rich rose-coloured foliage, extremely attractive; isadora leroy, rich metallic green, with crimson-red centre rays; jules duplessis, bright rose centre, shaded with rich red and bordered with green; jules putzeys, rich green, with crimson midrib and veins, centre mottled grey, and the whole surface blotched with red; laingii,* reddish-carmine centre, surrounded with yellowish-green, the whole of the leaf sprinkled with white; lamartine, deep crimson centre, with white and red spots; la perle du brÃ�sil,* exceedingly attractive, large leaves, white, delicately tinted with rose, midrib and veins dark green; leplay, leaves attractively marked with white, and beautifully veined with rosy-violet; louise duplessis, red rays and veins on a white ground, green margin; luddemannii,* deep crimson ribs, the leaf blotched with magenta and white, border pea green; madame alfred bleu, deep green, with large white blotches, and broad crimson-scarlet veins; madame alfred mame, light green, covered with large white spots, rosy-carmine centre; madame de la devansaye, leaves white, shaded rose, and veined with red and green; madame dombrain,* centre and ribs pale yellowish-green, shaded rose, surface covered with large white and rose spots; madame fritz kÅ�chlin,* white ground, with violet-rose ribs and green veins, a beautiful dwarf-growing variety; madame heine,* silvery white, stained and edged with pale green, distinct; madame hunnebelle, leaves veined with light garnet colour on a white ground, and margined with green veins; madame jules mÃ�noreau, fine large leaves, with white centre tinted rose, veined rich bright rose, and margined green; madame laforge, centre and ribs reddish-crimson, with green margin; madame marjolin scheffer,* a beautiful variety, with white foliage, charmingly veined and netted with pure rosy-lake; madame willaume, a charming variety, with transparent leaves, of a delicate salmon-rose colour; marquis de caux, red centre and veins, with rose blotches on margins; marterstyginum, crimson centre and white spots; mercadante, pale copper-coloured centre and veins, bordered with green; meyerbeer,* white leaf-ground, green veins, and red midribs; minerve,* silvery white midrib and rays, surrounded with greyish white, green margin, with snowy white spots; mithridate, ground colour crimson-lake, with darker ribs, and dark bronze-green margin; monsieur a. hardy, rich reddish-carmine veins on white ground, tinted with rose and spotted with green; monsieur j. linden,* a fine large whitish leaf, with metallic reflections, coral-rose veins, and reticulated green border; mrs. laing,* white ground, deep rose centre and veins, green margin; murillo,* centre and veins metallic-red, with large crimson blotches, broad margin of lustrous bronzy-green; napoleon iii.,* flamed crimson centre, with forked rays, and carmine spots on green ground; onslow, deep rosy-crimson centre, with broad green margin, spotted with rose; paillet, crimson centre, broad green margin, splashed with crimson, and dotted with white; paul veronesse, large leaves, with pinkish-white centre, deep scarlet ribs, and broad green margin; philippe herbert, deep mottled crimson rays, and clear white margin, spotted with crimson; pictum, green blotched, and spotted with white; prince albert,* dark emerald green, rich crimson midrib, radiating from centre to margins, the intervening spaces spotted with white; prince of wales,* a very handsome variety, with large golden-yellow leaves; princess alexandra,* rosy-salmon leaf, green centre rib, bordered with magenta-crimson, green margin, with light pink chain; princess of teck,* ground colour bright orange-yellow, the veins suffused with deep red; princess royal, leaves of a golden ground, with crimson centre; pyrrhus, centre and ribs deep crimson, pea-green margins; quadricolor, centre of leaf pale yellowish-green, ribs white, edged rosy-crimson, and margined green; ramsau, centre and ribs deep reddish-crimson, surface covered with white blotches, shaded red; raulinii, rich red centre and veins, finely spotted with white; regale, silvery grey centre, rosy-red ribs, spotted with vermilion-red; reine marie de portugal,* violet-rose centre, with red veins, dark maroon zone, and green border, very handsome; reine victoria,* green veins and margins, spotted or marbled with white and rich crimson; rossini, large leaf, with pale centre, pink midribs, and red blotches; rouillard, glossy green margin, pale green centre, midrib and rays rich violet-plum, the whole leaf spotted crimson; sanchonianthon, crimson centre, deep glossy crimson ribs, and pea-green margin; sieboldii, rich green, with fiery-red crimson-rayed centre, green spaces, spotted with claret red; souvenir de madame e. andre,* large deep green leaves, marbled with pure white, veins fine rosy crimson; spontini, pea-green, with white spots, and rosy-pink ribs and veins; thibautii, fine large leaf, with rich crimson veins on a red ground; tricolor, edges of leaves grey-green, intersected with dark green, centre red-lake, carmine midribs; triomphe de l'exposition,* crimson centre, with red ribs, and green border; verdi, crimson-lake centre with small green zone and apple-green margin; vesta, greenish-white veins, surrounded with crimson, the whole of the leaf spotted bright rose; vicomtesse de la roque-ordan, red midrib, and rays bordered with white, the margin beautiful emerald green; ville de mulhouse, a beautiful variety, with greenish-white leaves, shaded rose, and rich green centre; virginale,* clear shining white, veined with dark bluish-green, a handsome variety. =calais.= _see_ =microseris=. =calamagrostis= (from _calamos_, a reed, and _agrostis_, grass). ord. _gramineæ_. an extensive genus of grasses, for the most part hardy. panicle more or less spreading; spikelets compressed, one-flowered; empty glumes two, sub-equal, lanceolate, pointed, keeled, awnless. they thrive in any ordinary garden soil. seeds may be sown during autumn. =c. lanceolata= (lanceolate). _fl._ purple, spreading in all directions; panicle erect, loose, much branched. july. culms about ft. high, smooth, slender. britain (moist woods and hedges). (sy. en. b. .) =c. stricta= (upright). _fl._ brown, spreading in all directions; panicle erect, close. june. culm about ft. high, very slender, smooth. england, &c. (bogs and marshes), but very rare. (sy. en. b. .) =calamander wood.= _see_ =diospyros quÅ�sita=. =calamint.= _see_ =calamintha=. =calamintha= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _mintha_, mint). calamint. ord. _labiatæ_. a genus of hardy herbaceous plants, having the following essential characters: calyx two-lipped; stamens diverging; upper lip of corolla nearly flat; tube straight. rather pretty plants, with thyme-like flowers, well suited for furnishing rock gardens. they grow in almost any garden soil. increased by seeds, cuttings, or divisions of the roots, in spring. =c. acinos= (acinos). basil thyme. _fl._ bluish-purple, variegated with white and dark purple, disposed in whorls, one on each flower-stalk. july and august. _l._ acute, serrate. stems branched, ascending, leafy. _h._ in. england. annual. syns. _acinos vulgaris_ and _thymus acinos_. (sy. en. b. .) =c. alpina= (alpine). _fl._ purplish, almost sessile, four to six in a whorl, june to september. _l._ petiolate, roundish or ovate, slightly serrated. _h._ in. s. europe, . a freely branched, tufted plant. =c. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ purplish, - / in. long, in loose racemes; throat much inflated. june. _l._ petiolate, ovate, acute, coarsely toothed, rounded at the base, in. to in. long. herbaceous stems branched at the base, and decumbent. _h._ ft. . =c. patavina= (paduan). _fl._ pale or purplish-red, rather large. june. _l._ petiolate, ovate, acute, pubescent. _h._ in. to in. s. europe, . =calampelis.= _see_ =eccremocarpus=. =calamus= (from _kalamos_, a reed; old greek name used by theophrastus). ord. _palmeæ_. an elegant genus of stove palms. flowers small, usually of a rose or greenish colour, clustered upon branching spikes, each branch having a separate spathe, which is not large enough to enclose it. fruit one-seeded, and covered with smooth, shining scales. leaves pinnate. stems reed-like, in. to in. in thickness. when in a young state, these palms are most effective as drawing or diningroom decorations; and, when in a more mature condition, they are excellent as stove ornaments and for exhibition purposes. they are all of slender growth, and of easy culture in a compost of equal parts loam and vegetable mould; a copious supply of water being needed to keep them in a flourishing state. propagated by seeds. _c. rotang_, _c. viminalis_, and several other species furnish the canes usually employed in this country for the bottoms of chairs, couches, &c. =c. accedens= (yielding). _l._ long, arching, dark green, pinnate; pinnæ long, narrow, closely set; petioles with slender black spines. india. a rare, but elegant, slender-growing, miniature tree. =c. adspersus= (scattered). _l._ pinnate; pinnæ in. to in. long, narrow, deep green; petioles about in. in length, sheathing at the base, clothed with long, slender, black spines. stem not much stouter than a large wheat straw. _h._ ft. java, . =c. asperrimus= (very rough).* _l._ pinnate, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ ft. to ft. in length, in. in breadth, pendent, light green, upper side with two rows of hair-like spines; petioles broadly sheathing at the base, densely armed with long, stout, black spines. java, . a beautiful species, which attains a considerable size. (i. h. .) =c. ciliaris= (fringed).* _l._ pinnate, clothed with a quantity of soft hair-like bristles; petioles sheathing at the base. stem erect and slender. india, . from the plume-like habit of the leaves, it makes a splendid plant for table decoration, as well as being a beautiful specimen for exhibition. =c. draco= (dragon). _l._ ft. to ft. in length, beautifully arched, pinnate; pinnæ in. to in. long, narrow, slightly pendent, dark green; petioles sheathing at base, armed with long, flat, black spines. _h._ ft. to ft. india, . a very handsome species, with a robust constitution. =c. fissus= (cleft). _l._ ovate in outline, pinnate, when young bright cinnamon; leaflets pendent, dark green, bearing on the upper side a few black hair-like bristles; petioles armed with dark, stout spines. borneo. a very ornamental species. =c. flagellum= (whip-like). _l._ ft. to ft. in length when fully grown, pinnate; pinnæ pendent, about ft. in length and in. in breadth, dark green, furnished on the upper side with two rows of long, white, hair-like spines; petioles sheathing, copiously armed with stout white spines, much swollen at the base, and tipped with black. stem slender. =c. hystrix= (bristly). _l._ pinnate; petioles spiny. a compact-growing and very graceful species. =c. jenkinsianus= (jenkins's). _l._ pinnate, gracefully arched, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ in. to in. long, in. broad, rich dark green; petioles slightly sheathing at the base, armed with long flat spines. sikkim. =c. leptospadix= (slender-spadix).* _l._ pinnate; pinnules about / in. wide, and from in. to in. long, subulately acuminate; upper surface with three bristle-bearing ribs; a few smaller bristles are disposed along the midrib underneath; margins finely and regularly toothed with small ascending bristles; petiole channelled, tomentose towards the base, bearing three or four solitary needle-like spines, about in. long. india. a rare species, and described as one of the most graceful. =c. lewisianus= (lewis's).* _l._ ultimately spreading, ft. to ft. long, pinnate: pinnæ equidistant, / in. broad, and front in. to in. long: veins on the upper surface bristled, under surface smooth; margins rough, with appressed bristles; petioles white, with a broad, sheathing, blackish-brown base, densely armed with long, flat, black spines. india. a fine, but somewhat rare, species. =c. rotang= (rotang). _l._ pinnate, from ft. to ft. in length. very gracefully arched; pinnæ in. to in. long, less than in. broad; upper side dark green, with two rows of hair-like spines; petioles and stems armed sparingly with stout, slightly reversed spines. stems slender. india. when young, especially, this plant is very handsome. =c. royleanus= (royle's).* _l._ pinnate, arching; pinnæ very numerous, narrow, pendent, deep green; petioles with few spines, dark green. north-west himalayas. =c. spectabilis= (showy).* _l._ pinnate, with a few pairs of smooth linear-lanceolate, three-ribbed leaflets, measuring in. to in. long; petioles green, furnished with numerous short conical white spines, tipped with brown. malacca. a slender-growing species. =c. verticillaris= (whorled). _l._ pinnate, with a very ornamental plume-like appearance; pinnæ long, broad, drooping; petioles with the spines arranged verticillately. malacca. this beautiful species is extremely rare. =c. viminalis= (twiggy).* _l._ ft. to ft. long, pinnate; pinnæ about in. long, narrow, light green; petioles sheathing, densely armed with long flat white spines. when only ft. or ft. in height, its spiny whip-like spikes of flowers are often produced. stem slender. _h_. ft. java, . the following are other, but less-known, species: _australis_, _elegans_, _micranthus_, _niger_, _oblongus_, and _tenuis_. =calamus aromaticus.= an old name of =acorus calamus= (which _see_). =calamus odoratus.= an old name of =andropogon schÅ�nanthus= (which _see_). [illustration: fig. . calandrinia menziesii, showing flower and habit.] =calandrinia= (in honour of l. calandrini, an italian botanist, who lived in the beginning of the eighteenth century). ord. _portulaceæ_. a rather large genus of fleshy, glabrous, annual or perennial, herbaceous plants, some fourteen or fifteen species growing in australia, the rest occurring in the new world. flowers usually rose or purple, solitary, or in terminal umbels or racemes. leaves quite entire, radical or alternate. only four or five species are cultivated in this country; these are treated as half-hardy annuals--with the exception of _c. umbellata_, which is best treated as a biennial--and as such they are extensively grown in small gardens, with most satisfactory results. they should be sown in the spots where they are intended to flower, as transplantation, unless performed with more than ordinary care, will considerably check their growth or result in loss. their flowers only expand during bright sunshine, and, consequently, they are less grown than they otherwise would be. the plants thrive in a light sandy soil. _c. umbellata_ may be sown in a pan, placed in a cold frame, in may or june; and when the plants are large enough to handle, they should be potted off, or placed out in colonies where they are to bloom. =c. discolor= (two-coloured). _fl._ bright rose, with a yellow tuft of stamens in the centre, - / in. across; raceme long. july, august. _l._ fleshy, obovate, attenuated at the base, pale green above, purple beneath. _h._ ft. to - / ft. chili, . (b. m. .) =c. grandiflora= (large.flowered).* _fl._ rosy, about in. across; calyx spotted; raceme simple, loose. summer. _l._ fleshy, rhomboid, acute, petiolate. stem suffruticose. _h._ ft. chili, . (b. r. .) =c. menziesii= (menzies').* fl. deep purple-crimson, from / in. to in. across, terminal and axillary, solitary. june to september. _l._ elongated, spathulate, much attenuated at the base. stems much branched, prostrate. california, . syn. _c. speciosa_. see fig. . (b. r. .) =c. nitida= (shining). _fl._ rose-coloured, about in. across; raceme leafy, many-flowered. summer. _l._ oblong-spathulate, sub-acute, glabrous, attenuated at the base, in. to in. in length. _h._ in. chili, . a very pretty hardy annual, forming a tuft from in. to in. across. =c. speciosa= (showy). a synonym of _c. menziesii_. [illustration: fig. . calandrinia umbellata, showing flower and habit.] =c. umbellata= (umbellate).* _fl._ of a dazzling magenta-crimson, about as large as a sixpence; corymb cymose, terminal, many-flowered. summer. _l._ radical, linear, acute, pilose. _h._ in. peru, . a very charming half-hardy biennial. see fig. . (p. m. b. , .) other species occasionally met with are: _compressa_, _micrantha_, and _procumbens_; they are, however, inferior to those described above. =calanthe= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _anthos_, a flower). ord. _orchideæ_. sec. _vandæ_. a very handsome genus of stove terrestrial orchids. they may be characterised as robust-growing plants, producing large, broad, many-ribbed, or plaited leaves, which are, with one or two exceptions, evergreen, and long spikes, bearing many flowers, distinguished by their calcarate lip, which is attached to the column, and by the eight thick, waxy pollen masses adhering to a separate gland. calanthes should be special favourites with amateurs, as, in the first place, they produce an abundance of showy flowers, which last a long time in perfection; and, secondly, because they are so easily managed. in potting these plants, it will be necessary to depart from the usual style of potting orchids, and, instead of elevating them above the rim of the pot upon a cone of peat and sphagnum, they must be kept below the rim, as in potting ordinary plants. in place of the usual soil and moss, these plants should have a mixture of loam, leaf mould, and peat, broken up rough, to which may be added some silver sand and dried cow manure. during the growing season, they require abundant supply of water, and in winter even this element must be administered freely to the evergreen kinds; whilst the deciduous ones, on the contrary, enjoy a thorough rest after blooming. good drainage is essential to all. little more need be said upon the cultivation of calanthes during the summer months. when growing, they enjoy strong heat and plenty of moisture; but, when growth is complete, a cooler situation is most beneficial. they are subject to the attacks of various insects, which must be continually searched for, and, when found, destroyed; for, if neglected in this particular, the bold and handsome leaves will be much disfigured, and rendered far from ornamental. propagated by suckers and divisions. about forty species are known, of which the following are a selection: =c. curculigoides= (curculigo-like). _fl._ beautiful orange-yellow, disposed in an erect spike. summer and autumn. _l._ large, evergreen, plaited. _h._ ft. malacca, . (b. r. , .) =c. dominyi= (dominy's).* _fl._, sepals and petals lilac; lip deep purple. this fine hybrid is a cross between _c. masuca_ and _c. veratrifolia_. (b. m. .) =c. furcata= (forked). _fl._ creamy white, very freely produced; spikes erect, ft. long. june to august. luzon isles, . an excellent exhibition plant. =c. masuca= (masuca).* _fl._, sepals and petals deep violet colour, with an intense violet-purple lip; numerously produced on spikes ft. long. june to august. india, . (b. m. ). the variety _grandiflora_ differs from the type in its greater size both of spike and individual flower; the gigantic spikes are from ft. to ft. high, and continue blooming for three months. =c. petri= (peter veitch's).* _fl._ whitish-yellow. said to be very like _c. veratrifolia_, but bearing leaves a little narrower, and a system of five curious sulcate yellowish calli on the base of the lip, without the single lamella and teeth which are proper to that species. polynesia, . =c. pleiochroma= (many-coloured). _fl._ whitish, purplish, ochre, orange. japan, . =c. regnieri= (regnier's). _fl._, sepals and petals white; lip rosy-pink; middle lobe short, wedge-shaped, and emarginate. pseudo-bulbs jointed, cochin china. _fausta_ is a fine variety, with the base of the tip and column a warm crimson. =c. sieboldii= (siebold's).* _fl._ yellow, large; spikes erect. _l._ broad, dark green, plaited. _h._ ft. japan, . an elegant evergreen dwarf-growing species. (r. h. , .) =c. textori= (textor's). _fl._ cream-white, washed with violet on the petals and column, as well as on the base of lip, where the calli are brick-red, changing later on to ochre-colour, excepting the white-lilac base of sepals and petals and the column; lip very narrow. japan, . [illustration: fig. . single flower of calanthe veitchii.] =c. veitchii= (veitch's).* _fl._ rich bright rose, with a white throat; spikes often attaining a height of ft., and bearing an immense quantity of flowers. winter. _l._ large, plaited, light green, deciduous. pseudo-bulbs flask-shaped. this very beautiful hybrid is the result of a cross between _c. vestita_ and _c. rosea_ (syn. _limatodes rosea_). see fig. . (b. m. .) =c. veratrifolia= (veratrum-leaved).* _fl._ pure white, except the green tips of the sepals and the golden papillæ on the disk of the labellum; spikes ft. to ft. high, freely produced on well-grown plants. may to july. _l._ ft. or more long, dark green, broad, many-ribbed, with wavy margins. india, . see fig. . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . single flower of calanthe veratrifolia.] =c. vestita= (clothed).* _fl._, sepals and petals pure white, numerously produced in a many-flowered, nodding spike. _l._ deciduous. pseudo-bulbs large, whitish, _h._ - / ft. burmah. (b. m. .) the varieties of this species are very numerous. =c. v. igneo-oculata= (fire-eyed).* _fl._, base of the column purplish, over which is a dazzling fire-colour, the blotch in the base of the lip of the same colour. borneo, . =c. v. nivalis= (snowy).* _fl._ pure white, entirely destitute of any colour on the lip. java, . =c. v. rubro-oculata= (red-eyed).* _fl._ delicate white, with a blotch of rich crimson in the centre; upwards of in. across; spikes long, drooping, having a white downy covering, and rising from the base of the silvery-green pseudo-bulbs, when the latter are without leaves. october to february. =c. v. turneri= (turner's).* _fl._ pure white, with rose-coloured eye, larger, and produced on longer flower-spikes than the other kinds; form of flowers more compact. java. this is considered by some authorities, to be a distinct species. =calathea= (from _kalathos_, a basket; in reference to the basket-shaped stigma, or to the leaves being worked into baskets in south america). ord. _scitamineæ_. this genus of very ornamental-leaved stove plants is distinguished from _maranta_ by mere botanical characters; and the two genera are often confounded. flowers in terminal spikes, bracteate; perianth six-cleft, outer segments lanceolate, inner ones blunt and irregular; stamens three, petal-like. leaves large, springing from the contracted stem, near the root. they delight in a rich, loose, open soil, consisting of peat, loam, and leaf soil, in about equal proportions, with the addition of a good sprinkling of sand, to keep it open and porous. the mixture should be used in a rough, lumpy state, so that the roots, which are of large size, may be able to travel with freedom. nearly all the species admit of easy increase by division. july is a favourable time to set about it, or it may be carried out any time between that and the spring months. in order to make the necessary separation without damaging the roots, the plants should be shaken out from the soil, when they may be divided into as many pieces as there are separate crowns. whether an increased stock be desired or not, calatheas require fresh soil annually; and, if not reduced by division, they become much too thickly foliaged to properly develop, unless they are shifted into larger-sized pots, which can always be done if large specimens are required. when making divisions, see that each crown is well furnished with roots, so that they may at once commence sending up fresh young foliage. although calatheas require an abundant supply of water while growing, a stagnant moisture is most injurious; good drainage is, therefore, essential. to have the leaves in fine, healthy condition, plenty of atmospheric moisture must be maintained during their growth; and, if syringing is resorted to for the purpose of securing this, clear soft water should be used, or an unsightly deposit will be the result, by which the beauty of the plants, unless they are frequently sponged, will be spoiled. these plants require, in addition to plenty of moisture, moderate shade during the summer, as they dislike strong sunshine, and may, therefore, be grown among ferns, under creepers, in situations that would be of little use for other purposes. calatheas are not subject to insects if properly supplied with water while growing, and a sufficiently moist atmosphere is at all times maintained; but, if either of these are lacking, red spider soon put in an appearance, and quickly disfigure the leaves. =c. applicata= (inclined). _fl._ white. brazil, . syn. _maranta pinnato-picta_. (b. h. , .) =c. arrecta= (erect).* _l._ rich satin-green on the upper side, and heavy ruby colour on the under side. ecuador, . a fine species, with a very elegant growth. (i. h. , .) =c. bachemiana= (bachem's). _l._ silvery, with green lines and blotches. brazil, . =c. baraquinii= (baraquin's).* _l._ ovate-lanceolate; ground colour bright green, relieved by beautiful bands of silvery white. amazons, . =c. bella= (handsome).* _l._ greyish-green, with the margins and two series of central patches deep green. brazil, . syn. _maranta tessellata kegeljani_. =c. crocata= (saffron-coloured). _fl._ orange. brazil, . =c. eximia= (choice). . syn. _phrynium eximium_. (r. g. .) =c. fasciata= (banded).* _l._ in. to in. long, in. to in. wide, broadly cordate; ground colour bright green, with broad bands of white running across from midrib to the margin; the under side pale green, tinged with purple. _h._ ft. brazil, . (r. g. .) =c. hieroglyphica= (hieroglyphic). _l._ broadly obovate, obtuse; ground colour rich dark velvety green, which, towards the midrib, shades off into light emerald green; primary veins oblique, and the spaces between them ornamented with irregular streaks and bars of silvery white; under surface of a uniform dark vinous purple. columbia, . dwarf and distinct. (i. h. , .) =c. illustris= (bright).* _l._ somewhat obovate; upper surface of a bright pea-green, streaked with transverse bands of a deeper green; midrib pink, with two irregular blotches of white traversing the leaves from base to point, midway between the margin and costa; under surface deep purple. ecuador, . =c. kerchoviana= (kerchove's).* _l._ cordate, oblong, obtuse, shortly and abruptly acuminate, greyish-green, with a row of purplish blotches on each side of the midrib. _h._ in. brazil, . syn. _maranta leuconeura kerchoviana_. =c. legrelliana= (le grell's). _l._ very dark green, relieved by a feathery band of white, extending the whole length between the midrib and margin. ecuador, . =c. leitzei= (leitze's). _l._ oblong-lanceolate, deep metallic green, and shining on the upper surface, with feather-like markings of deeper colour, purplish-violet beneath. brazil, . (r. g. .) =c. leopardina= (leopard).* _l._ oblong, pale or yellowish-green, marked on each side of the costa with several oblong acuminate blotches of deep green. _h._ ft. brazil, . (r. g. .) =c. leuconeura= (white-nerved). a synonym of _maranta leuconeura_. =c. leucostachys= (white-spiked). _h._ ft. a fine species, allied to _c. warscewiczii_. costa rica, . (b. m. .) =c. lindeni= (linden's).* _l._ oblong, in. to in. long, deep green, with blotches of yellowish-green on each side of the midrib; under surface purplish-rose, through which the markings of the upper side are visible. peru, . very handsome and free-growing. (i. h. , .) =c. luciani= (lucian's). _l._ shining green, the midrib festooned with silvery white. tropical america, . =c. makoyana= (makoy's).* _l._ oblong, somewhat unequal-sided, in. to in. long, upwards of in. broad; outer margin deep green, the central portion semi-transparent, beautifully blotched with creamy-yellow and white; the central part is also ornamented between the transverse veins with oblong blotches of deep green; petioles slender, purplish-red. tropical america, . syn. _c. olivaris_. (g. c. , p. .) =c. massangeana= (massange's).* _l._ beautifully covered with rich marking, presenting a somewhat similar appearance to the wings of certain butterflies. the outer portion is olive-green; the middle, on both sides of the costa, of a delicate silvery-grey colour, from which the whitish side veins run out in a well-defined and regular manner; the portion of the leaf surrounding the silvery centre is ornamented with large blotches of dark velvety purplish-maroon, occasionally shaded with brownish-crimson; the whole of the leaf being marked with silky and sparkling reflections. brazil, . it is of neat habit, growing in close tufts, its ample foliage covering the ground. =c. medio-picta= (middle painted). _l._ oblong-acute, tapering to the base, dark green, with a feathered white central stripe. brazil, . =c. micans= (glittering).* _l._ oblong-acuminate, in. to in. long, a little over in. in breadth, dark shining green, with a white feathery stripe down the centre. tropical america. the smallest species of the genus with a spreading habit, and quickly forming dense and beautiful tufts. there is a variety of this named _amabilis_. brazil. =c. nitens= (shining).* _l._ oblong, green, with a bright glossy surface, marked on each side of the midrib with a series of oblong acute bars, alternating with numerous lines of a dark green on a pale bright green ground. brazil, . an elegant and small-growing plant. =c. olivaris= (olive-green). synonymous with _c. makoyana_. =c. ornata= (ornamented).* _l._ oblong acuminate, in. to in. long, in. or more broad, yellowish-green, relieved by broad transverse bands of dark olive-green; under side tinged with purple. _h._ ft. to ft. columbia, . =c. o. albo-lineata= (white-lined). columbia, . syn. _maranta albo-lineata_. =c. o. majestica= (majestic). rio purus, . syn. _maranta majestica_. =c. o. regalis= (royal). peru, . syns. _maranta regalis_ and _m. coriifolia_. =c. o. roseo-lineata= (rosy-lined).* _h._ ft. . syn. _maranta roseo-lineata_. =c. pacifica= (pacific). _l._ oblong ovate, of a fine dark green on the upper surface, olive-brown beneath. eastern peru, . [illustration: fig. . calathea veitchii.] =c. pardina= (leopard).* _fl._ yellow, large, handsome, produced in great abundance. _l._ in. to in. long, in. to in. wide, ovate, pale green, with dark brown blotches on each side the midrib, and which occur at regular intervals the whole length of the leaf. new grenada. (f. d. s. ii., .) =c. prasina= (leek-green). _l._ with a yellow-green central band. brazil, . =c. princeps= (magnificent).* _l._ in. to in. long; centre rich dark green, broadly margined with yellowish-green, purple beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . a superb large-growing species. =c. pulchella= (pretty). _l._ bright green, with two series of deep green blotches, alternately large and small. brazil, . this much resembles _c. zebrina_ in general appearance, but is not so strong a grower, and the leaves are not so dark. =c. rosea-picta= (rose-coloured). _l._ somewhat orbicular, of a rich glossy green; midrib of a lovely rose-colour, between the margin and midrib are two irregular bands of the same colour, traversing the entire length of the leaf. upper amazon, . (r. g. .) =c. seemanni= (seemann's). _l._ about ft. long, in. broad, satiny emerald-green; midrib whitish. nicaragua, . =c. splendida= (splendid). _l._ large, oblong-lanceolate, deflexed, in. to in. long, rich dark olive-green, with distinct blotches of greenish-yellow. brazil, . =c. tubispatha= (tube-spathed).* _l._ somewhat obovate, obtuse, in. to in. long, pale greenish-yellow, beautifully relieved by a row of rich brown oblong blotches, set in pairs on each side of the midrib, throughout the entire length of the leaf. west tropical america, . an elegant species. (b. m. .) =c. vanden heckei= (van den heck's).* _l._ rich dark glossy green, shaded with transverse bands of a lighter green; midrib broadly margined with silvery-white, two bands of the same colour traverse the leaf from base to apex, midway between midrib and margin; under side of a uniform purplish-crimson. brazil, . very distinct and handsome. =c. veitchii= (veitch's).* _l._ large, ovate elliptic, over ft. long, very rich glossy green, marked along each side the midrib with crescent-shaped blotches of yellow, softened by shades of green and white; under surface light purple. _h._ ft. w. tropical america, . probably the handsomest of the genus. see fig. . =c. virginalis= (virginal). _l._ large, broadly ovate, light green; midrib white, also with a white band on each side; the under side of a greyish-green. amazons, . habit dwarf and compact. =c vittata= (striped). _l._ ovate-acuminate, in. long, very light green, with narrow transverse bars of white on each side of the midrib. brazil, . =c. wallisii= (wallis's).* _l._ rather large, of a rich and pleasing light green, beautifully relieved with a ray of rich dark green. south america, . a handsome and distinct sort, but somewhat rare. =c. w. discolor= (two-coloured). _l._ bright velvety green, with the centre and margins grey. south america, . =c. warscewiczii= (warscewicz's).* _l._ ft. long, about in. wide, deep velvety green in colour, relieved by a feathery stripe of yellowish-green on either side the midrib, and extending from the base to the apex. _h._ ft. tropical america, . a fine sort. (r. g. .) =c. wioti= (wiot's). _l._ bright green, with two series of olive-green blotches. brazil, . [illustration: fig. . calathea zebrina.] =c. zebrina= (zebra).* _l._ ft. to ft. long, in. to in. wide, beautiful velvety light green on the upper side, barred with greenish-purple; under side of a dull greenish-purple. _h._ ft. brazil, . this is a very old inhabitant of our stoves, and, for general usefulness is not much surpassed. see fig. . (b. r. .) =calathian violet.= _see_ =gentiana pneumonanthe=. =calcarate.= spurred, or having a spur. =calceolaria= (from _calceolus_, a little slipper, in allusion to the form of the corolla; the form _calceolarius_, shoemaker, probably chosen to include a reference to f. calceolari, an italian botanist of the sixteenth century). slipperwort. ord. _scrophularineæ_. a genus of hardy or half-hardy shrubs, sub-shrubs or herbs. peduncles one or many-flowered, axillary or terminal, corymbose; corolla with a very short tube; limb bilabiate; upper lip short, truncately rounded, entire; lower lip large, concave, slipper-shaped. leaves opposite, sometimes three in a whorl, rarely alternate. shrubby section. in addition to the widely-known utility of this class for bedding purposes, they are fine decorative plants when well grown, and useful alike in conservatory or dwelling house. it will be found more convenient to grow these in a pit or frame, as in such places they are less liable to the attacks of fly, and make sturdier growth. if large plants are required, cuttings should be taken in august, placed in a cold frame facing the north, in sandy soil, and, when rooted, potted off into in. pots. they should then be placed in a light sunny frame, where they may remain until the middle of february. the points should then be pinched out. when the plants break, they must be shifted into -sized pots. if there are from four to six breaks to each plant, it will be sufficient; but, should such not be the case, the plants must be stopped again, when the requisite number will probably be obtained. directly the roots touch the pots, the plants should be transferred to in. or in. pots, in which they will flower, and the shoots must be tied out so as to develop fully. every effort should be exerted to keep the foliage green to the base of the plants, and they should be fumigated on the first appearance of green fly. as the flower-spikes are thrown up, weak liquid manure, applied two or three times a week, will prove beneficial. for potting, the following compost is most suitable: one-half good fibrous loam, one-eighth thoroughly rotted manure, and the remainder leaf soil, with enough sharp sand to keep the whole open. during frosty weather, of course, it will be necessary to protect the frames with mats, and to water judiciously, to avoid damping. those plants intended for bedding will not require to be repotted, but should be inserted, about in. apart, in sandy soil, in a cold frame. the tops must be taken off early in march; and from the middle of april to the middle of may, they may be planted out where they are to remain. should frosty weather, accompanied by drying winds, ensue, the plants will require the protection of inverted flower-pots, with pieces of slate or crock placed over the holes. a good soil, abundantly enriched with rotten manure, is most desirable for them. [illustration: fig. . herbaceous calceolaria.] _varieties._ these are very numerous. the best of them are the following: bijou, dark red, very free; gaine's yellow, rich deep yellow, extremely free; general havelock, crimson-scarlet, very fine; golden gem, bright yellow, perhaps the best; sparkler, crimson-gold, dwarf; victoria, dark maroon, very attractive. herbaceous section. these, like the preceding, are very useful, both for house and conservatory decoration (see fig. ). a packet of seed from a first-class firm will, if properly managed, produce a good percentage of excellent flowers. the seed may be sown from june to august, when large batches are required (when only one sowing is made, july will be the best month), on pans of light, sandy soil, which should be soaked with water before sowing. care must be taken to make the surface of the soil level, and also to sow the seed as evenly as possible. it is better not to cover with soil, but a sheet of glass should be laid over the pan, which must be placed in a shady part of the greenhouse or cold frame until the young plants show the first leaf. the glass can then be gradually removed. when large enough to handle, the seedlings must be pricked out, about in. asunder, in pans or boxes, and placed in a close, shaded situation. as soon as of sufficient size, they must be placed singly in in. pots, returned to the frame, kept close for a few days, and as near the glass as possible, to make them sturdy. when necessary, they should be shifted into in. pots, in which they may be kept through the winter; or the later batches may be placed in small pots. by the end of october or early in november, the plants will be strong and fit for wintering; at this stage, the best place for them is in a dry, frost-proof pit, or on an airy shelf of the greenhouse, giving them sufficient water to prevent flagging. all dead leaves must be removed. on the first appearance of green fly, the plants should be fumigated with tobacco. from the end of january onwards, in order to encourage growth, the plants should be removed into in. or in. pots, giving plenty of drainage, and a compost consisting of one-half good light fibrous loam, one-fourth thoroughly decayed sheep manure, and one-fourth leaf soil, to which must be added sufficient coarse sand to keep the whole open. after potting, the plants must be again placed in the same position, and, as they require it, plenty of room given. careful attention to watering is necessary, as they must not be allowed to get dry. air must be given on all suitable occasions. the flower-stems, as they require it, should be supported with small neat sticks. about may, the plants will commence to bloom, and continue to do so for a couple of months. the best flowers should be selected, and cross-fertilised with a camel-hair pencil, in order to produce a good strain of seed for future sowing. the attention of horticulturists appears to be almost wholly confined to the innumerable hybrids raised from _amplexicaulis_, _arachnoidea_, _corymbosa_, _integrifolia_, _purpurea_, _thyrsiflora_, and a few others. very few pure species are seen in cultivation, although most of them are well worth growing. =c. alba= (white). _fl._ white; peduncles elongated, racemose, dichotomous. june. _l._ linear, remotely serrated. plant suffruticose, clammy, and resinous. _h._ ft. chili, . shrubby. (b. m. .) =c. amplexicaulis= (stem-clasping).* _fl._ yellow, umbellately fascicled; corymbs terminal; pedicels pilose. _l._ stem-clasping, ovate-oblong, acuminated, cordate, crenately-serrated, pilose. _h._ - / ft. peru, . half-hardy, herbaceous. (b. m. .) =c. arachnoidea= (cobwebby).* _fl._ purple; peduncles terminal, twin, elongated, dichotomous. june to september. _l._ lingulately-oblong, a little toothed, narrowing downwards into long winged petioles, which are connate at the base; about in. long, wrinkled. stem herbaceous, branched, spreading, clothed with white cobwebbed wool, as well as the leaves and other parts, except the corolla. _h._ ft. chili, . (b. m. .) =c. bicolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ in large terminal cymes; upper lip yellow, small; lower lip large, gaping, conchiform, the front clear yellow, the back white. july to november. _l._ broadly-ovate, sub-acute, coarsely crenated, wrinkled. _h._ ft. to ft. stem much branched, woody at the base. peru, . syn. _c. diffusa_. (b. r. .) =c. burbidgei= (burbidge's).* _fl._ rich yellow, with large lower lip. autumn and winter. _l._ ovate, distinctly obtusely biserrate, sub-acute, with a narrow wing running down the petiole; both surfaces downy. _h._ ft. to ft. this is a handsome hybrid between _c. pavonii_ and _c. fuchsiæfolia_, raised by f. w. burbidge, esq., trinity college botanic gardens, dublin, . =c. chelidonioides= (chelidonium-like). _fl._ yellow. june. _h._ ft. peru, . annual. =c. corymbosa= (corymbose). _fl._ yellow, marked with purple dots and lines, corymbose. may to october. _l._, radical ones ovate and cordate, petiolate, doubly crenated, white beneath; cauline ones few, cordate, half amplexicaul. stems herbaceous, leafless at bottom, but dichotomous and leafy at top. plant hairy. _h._ ft. to - / ft. chili, . (b. r. .) =c. deflexa= (bending). synonymous with _c. fuchsiæfolia_. =c. diffusa= (spreading). a synonym of _c. bicolor_. =c. flexuosa= (flexuose). _fl._, corolla yellow; lower lip large, ventricose; peduncles axillary and terminal, many-flowered; pedicels umbellate. _l._ cordate, unequally and bluntly crenated, petiolate, remote. plant shrubby, rough, beset with glandular hairs. _h._ ft. peru, . (b. m. .) =c fothergillii= (fothergill's).* _fl._, upper lip of corolla yellowish; lower lip sulphur colour, having the margins spotted with red, four times the size of the upper one; peduncles scape-formed, one-flowered. may to august. _l._ spathulate, quite entire, pilose above, about in. long. stem herbaceous, a little divided near the root. _h._ in. to in. falkland islands, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . calceolaria violacea.] =c. fuchsiæfolia= (fuchsia-leaved).* _fl._ yellow, disposed in terminal panicles; upper lip nearly as large as the lower one. spring. _l._ lanceolate, glandless. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . this is a very handsome winter-flowering shrubby species, but it is difficult to keep the foliage in anything like good condition. syn. _c. deflexa_. (garden, march, .) =c. henrici= (anderson-henry's). _fl._ yellow, disposed in terminal corymbose cymes; both lips of corolla much inflated, so as to entirely close the mouth. _l._ rather large, elongate-lanceolate, downy beneath. _h._ ft. andes of cuenca, . shrubby evergreen. (b. m. .) =c. hyssopifolia= (hyssop-leaved).* _fl._ in terminal cymes; upper lip clear yellow, about half the width of the lower, and meeting closely to it; lower lip clear canary-yellow above, nearly white beneath. may to august. _l._ sessile, linear-lanceolate, sub-acute, entire. _h._ ft. to ft. chili. shrubby. (b. m. .) =c. integrifolia= (entire-leaved). synonymous with _c. rugosa_. =c. lobata= (lobed). _fl._ yellow, disposed in erect, loosely-branched cymes; lip curiously folded on itself, and spotted on the inner surface. _l._ palmately lobed. _h._ in. peru, . herbaceous species. (b. m. .) =c. pavonii= (pavon's).* _fl._ rich yellow and brown, in large terminal clusters; upper lip small; lower lip large, widely gaping. _l._ perfoliate, the petioles connected by a broad wing, running all their length; blade broadly ovate, coarsely serrate-dentate; both sides covered with soft down. _h._ ft. to ft. herbaceous. (b. m. .) =c. pinnata= (pinnate). _fl._ sulphur-coloured; peduncles twin or tern, panicled. july to september. _l._ pinnate; leaflets or segments toothed, lower ones pinnatifidly toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . annual, clothed with clammy hairs. (b. m. .) =c. pisacomensis= (pisacomanese). _fl._ rich orange-red, large; lower lip of corolla so bent upwards as to close the mouth; cymes produced from all the upper axils, forming long leafy panicles. _l._ ovate, obtuse, coarsely crenate. _h._ ft. peru, . a sub-shrubby perennial, of strong, erect habit. =c. plantaginea= (plantain-like).* _fl._ yellow; lower lip of corolla large, hemispherical; upper one small, bifid; scapes generally two to three-flowered, pilose. august. _l._ radical, ovate, rhomboid, rosulate, serrated. plant herbaceous, stemless, pubescent. _h._ ft. chili, . (b. m. .) =c. purpurea= (purple). _fl._, corolla of an uniform reddish-violet, rather small; corymbs terminal, many-flowered. july to september. _l._ wrinkled, hispid; radical ones cuneate-spathulate, serrated, quite entire behind, petiolate, acutish; cauline ones cordate, decussate, with a few long scattered hairs on their surfaces. stems herbaceous, many from the same root. _h._ ft. chili, . there are several hybrids between this and other species. (b. m. .) =c. rugosa= (wrinkled). _fl._ yellow; panicles terminal, corymbose, pedunculate. august. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, or lanceolate, denticulated, wrinkled, opaque, rusty beneath; petioles winged, connate. _h._ ft. to - / ft. chili, . shrubby species. syn. _c. integrifolia_. (b. r. .) two varieties of this are _angustifolia_, and _viscosissima_. =c. scabiosæfolia= (scabious-leaved).* _fl._, corolla pale yellow; lower lip large, ventricose; peduncles terminal, corymbose. may to october. _l._, lower ones pinnate; superior ones pinnatifid, three-lobed, or simple, the terminal segment always the largest. plant rather hairy. peru, . evergreen trailer. (b. m. .) =c. tenella= (small). _fl._ golden yellow, with orange-red spots within the lower lip; corymbs few-flowered. _l._ opposite, ovate, acuminated. _h._ in. chili, . hardy, herbaceous. (b. m. .) =c. thyrsiflora= (thyrse-flowered). _fl._ yellow, downy inside; thyrse terminal, crowded; peduncles compound, umbellate. june. _l._ linear, attenuated at both ends, serrate-toothed, sessile, in. long, and two lines broad. _h._ ft. to ft. chili, . shrubby, clammy. (b. m. .) =c. violacea= (violet).* _fl._, corolla pale violet, spotted with deeper violet beneath; lip spreading in a campanulate manner; peduncles terminal by threes, corymbose; pedicels one to two-flowered. june. _l._ petiolate, ovate-lanceolate, coarsely serrated, white beneath. _h._ ft. chili, . shrubby. (b. m. .) see fig. . =calceolate.= shaped like a slipper or round-toed shoe. =caldasia.= _see_ =galipea heterophylla=. =caldcluvia= (named after alexander caldcleugh, f.r.s. and f.l.s., who collected and sent to this country many plants from chili). ord. _saxifrageæ_. a greenhouse evergreen tree. flowers panicled, terminal. leaves opposite, simple, serrate, glabrous; pedicels jointless; stipules twin, sub-falcate, toothed, caducous. it thrives well in a compost of peat and loam, and may be propagated by cuttings of the half-ripened shoots, planted in sand, under a hand glass, and placed in a very gentle bottom heat. =c. paniculata= (panicled). _fl._ white. june. chili, . =calea= (from _kalos_, beautiful; referring to the flowers). ord. _compositæ_. a genus of stove evergreen herbs or small shrubs. pappus hairy; receptacle paleaceous; involucre imbricated. they thrive in a compost of peat and loam. side shoots root readily, if placed in sand, under glass, and with bottom heat; seeds may be sown in march. warmer parts of new world. =caleana= (named after g. caley, superintendent of the botanical garden, st. vincent). ord. _orchideæ_. a genus of greenhouse terrestrial orchids, natives of australia. flowers few, greenish-brown; column broad, thin, concave; sepals and petals narrow, reflexed; lip posticous, peltate, unguiculate, highly irritable. in fine weather, or if left undisturbed, this lip bends back, leaving the column uncovered; but in wet weather, or if the plant is shaken, the lip falls over the column, securely fastening it. leaves solitary, radical. they are of easy culture, in a compost of fibry peat, lumpy loam, and a little charcoal. =b. major= (greater). _fl._ green-brown. june. . =c. minor= (less). _fl._ green-brown. june. . =c. nigrita= (blackish-flowered). _fl._ dark. =calectasia= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _ektasis_, extension; in allusion to the star-like perianth segments). ord. _juncaceæ_. an elegant greenhouse suffruticose perennial, with dry, permanent, starry flowers. it thrives best in a compost of peat and loam. propagated by divisions. =c. cyanea= (blue). _fl._ bright blue, solitary, on short terminal branches. june. _l._ needle-shaped, sheathing at the base. australia, . (b. m. .) =calendula= (from _calendæ_, the first day of the month; in allusion to the almost perpetual flowering). marigold. ord. _compositæ_. a genus of showy greenhouse and hardy annuals, and some few greenhouse shrubby species. pappus none; receptacle naked; involucre of one or two series of sub-equal, acuminate, generally scarious-edged bracts. the shrubby species are propagated by cuttings, and thrive best in a compost of loam and peat.. for culture of the annuals, _see_ =marigold=. [illustration: fig. . flowers of calendula officinalis.] =c. arvensis= (field). _fl.-heads_ yellow. pericarps urceolate, obovate, smooth; outer lanceolate-subulate, muricated at back. _h._ ft. europe, . hardy annual. =c. maderensis= (madeira).* _fl.-heads_ orange. pericarps cymbiform, incurved, muricated; outer five ovate-lanceolate, membranous, toothed at edge. _h._ ft. madeira, . hardy. syn. _c. stellata_. =c. officinalis= (officinal).* common marigold. _fl.-heads_ orange. june to september. pericarps cymbiform, all incurved, muricated. _h._ ft. south europe, . hardy annual. see fig. . =c. o. prolifera= (proliferous). a garden form, analogous to the hen and chickens daisy. see fig. . =c. stellata= (stellate). a synonym of _c. maderensis_. [illustration: fig. . flower of calendula officinalis prolifera.] =calico bush.= _see_ =kalmia latifolia=. =californian evergreen redwood.= _see_ =sequoia sempervirens=. =californian maybush.= _see_ =photinia arbutifolia=. =californian pepper-tree.= _see_ =schinus molle=. =californian poppy.= _see_ =platystemon californicus=. =caliphruria= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _phroura_, prison; from the handsome spathe inclosing the flowers). ord. _amaryllideæ_. pretty half-hardy greenhouse bulbs. tube of perianth narrow, funnel-shaped, nearly straight; limb regular, stellate; stamens furnished with a bristle on each side. they thrive best in a compost of sandy loam, a little peat, leaf soil, and sand. propagated by offsets. after flowering, the plants should have a slight heat; and, when starting into new growth, should be repotted. =c. hartwegiana= (hartweg's).* _fl._ greenish-white; umbels seven-flowered; scape nearly terete, glaucous. may. _l._ petiolate, depressed, ovate, sub-plicate, green. _h._ ft. new grenada, . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . caliphruria subedentata.] =c. subedentata= (rarely-toothed).* _fl._ white, funnel-shaped, disposed in a truss, on a long scape. winter. _l._ stalked, ovate-oblong. _h._ - / ft. columbia, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =calisaya bark.= _see_ =cinchona calisaya=. [illustration: fig. . calla palustris, showing habit and detached inflorescence.] =calla= (from _kallos_, beauty). syn. _provenzalia_. ord. _aroideæ_ (_araceæ_). a monotypic genus. the species is a native of central and northern europe and north america, has creeping or floating stems, and cordate entire leaves. _c. palustris_ is sometimes grown in collections of aquatics or bog plants; and, although, perhaps, hardly worth cultivating as a pot plant, is well worth a place in open ornamental waters. _richardia æthiopica_ is frequently erroneously called _calla æthiopica_. =c. palustris= (marsh). _fl._, spadix protected by a flat white spathe, upper ones female, lower hermaphrodite, with numerous thread-like stamens. _l._ stalked, emerging from a sheath. _h._ in. hardy aquatic, naturalised here and there in britain. see fig. . =calli.= small callosities, or little protuberances. =calliandra= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _andros_, a stamen; referring to the elegant long, silky, purple or white stamens). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of beautiful stove evergreen shrubs. flowers usually borne on stalked globose heads; corollas small, hidden by the numerous filaments of the stamens. leaves bipinnate; leaflets varying in size and number. they thrive in a compost of peat and loam. propagated by cuttings of rather firm young wood, inserted in sand, under a hand glass, in heat. =c. harrisii= (harris's). _fl._ pink; peduncles axillary, fascicled, glandularly downy. february. _l._ bipinnate; leaflets obovate, falcate, downy; stipules small, falcate. branches puberulous. _h._ ft. mexico, . (b. m. .) =c. tweediei= (tweedie's).* _fl._ red; peduncles longer than the petioles; bracts linear. march and april. _l._ with three or four pairs of pinnæ; leaflets numerous, oblong-linear, acutish, ciliated, pilose beneath; stipules ovate, acuminate. branches and petioles pilose. _h._ ft. brazil, . (b. m. .) =callicarpa= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _karpos_, fruit; referring to the beautiful berries). syn. _porphyra_. ord. _verbenaceæ_. a genus of stove, greenhouse, or nearly hardy evergreen shrubs, closely allied to _petræa_. flowers inconspicuous, disposed in axillary cymes; corolla-tube short, with the limb four-lobed. fruit a very ornamental small juicy berry or drupe. the following mode of culture has been recommended: "after the old plants have been cut back in the spring, and started into growth, the young shoots will strike as readily as a fuchsia, and with exactly the same treatment. in order to make good plants, short-jointed cuttings should be selected; and, as soon as these are struck, they should be potted into - / in. pots, using a compost of equal parts loam and peat, with a little charcoal and river sand. when they commence to grow, after being potted, remove to a pit or house with a temperature ranging from deg. to deg. pinch out the tops of the plants as soon as they have three pairs of leaves, and whenever each of the laterals has made two pairs of leaves, pinch out their points, and continue this operation with all the rest of the shoots till the beginning of august, at the same time keeping off all the flower-buds. the next shift will be into in. or in. pots. they should always have plenty of light and air, but more especially after they come into flower." =c. americana= (american). _fl._ red, small, in axillary cymes. berries violet-coloured. _l._ ovate-oblong, toothed, silvery beneath, with a scurf of tomentum. _h._ ft. south america, . greenhouse. =c. japonica= (japanese). _fl._ pink. august. _l._ stalked, ovate, oblong, acuminate, serrate. _h._ ft. japan, . stove. (l. & p. f. g. ii., p. .) =c. lanata= (woolly). _fl._ purplish. june. berries purple. _l._ sessile, ovate, acuminate, serrate, hairy beneath. _h._ ft. india, . stove. (s. f. d. j. , p. .) =c. purpurea= (purple). _fl._ insignificant, borne in cymose clusters, upon axillary footstalks. berries very numerous, bright glossy deep violet coloured. _l._ opposite, ovate, acuminate; edges serrated; profusely clothed, as well as the stem, with hairs. _h._ ft. india, . stove. (garden, june, .) =c. rubella= (reddish). _fl._ red. may. _l._ sessile, obovate, acuminate, cordate at the base, hairy on both surfaces. _h._ ft. china, . half-hardy. (b. r. .) =callichroa= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _chroa_, colour; referring to the bright yellow colour of the flowers). ord. _compositæ_. this genus is now usually included under _layia_. hardy annual, of easy culture in common garden soil. seeds may be sown in march, on a slight hotbed, and transplanted to the open border early in may; or if sown out of doors in april, it will flower in the autumn. =c. platyglossa= (broad-tongued). _fl.-heads_ yellow, solitary, pedunculate; ray florets large, cuneate. autumn. _l._ alternate, sessile, ciliated. _h._ ft. california, . syn. _layia platyglossa_. (b. m. .) =callicoma= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _kome_, hair; in reference to the tufted heads of flowers). ord. _saxifrageæ_. a greenhouse evergreen shrub. flowers capitate; heads terminating the tops of the branchlets, pedunculate, globose. leaves simple, coarsely serrated, stalked. stipules membranous, bidentate, caducous. it thrives well in a sandy peat soil. half ripened cuttings will root if placed in the same sort of soil, under a hand glass. =c. serratifolia= (saw-leaved). black wattle. _fl._ yellow. may to august. _l._ lanceolate, acuminate, hoary beneath, attenuated at the base. _h._ ft. new south wales, . (b. m. .) =calligonum= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _gonu_, a knee-joint; in reference to its leafless joint). ord. _polygonaceæ_. syns. _pallasia_, _pterococcus_. a genus containing about a score species of very curious, erect, evergreen, hardy shrubs, found growing in dry, arid, sandy spots in northern africa and western asia. they will thrive in any well-drained sandy loam. cuttings will root in spring or autumn if placed under a hand glass. =c. pallasia= (pallas's). _fl._ whitish, in groups. may. _fr._ winged; wings membranous, curled and toothed, succulent, acid, edible. _l._ simple, alternate, exstipulate, deciduous, caducous, minute. shoots rush-like, smooth, green. _h._ ft. to ft. caspian sea, . =calliopsis.= _see_ =coreopsis=. =calliprora= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _prora_, a front; referring to the front view of the flower). ord. _liliaceæ_. a very pretty little bulbous plant, now often referred to _brodiæa_. it thrives in a well-drained spot on the lower flanks of rockwork, in dry, rich, sandy soil. propagated by offsets, which should remain on the parent bulbs until they are a good size. =c. lutea= (yellow).* pretty face. _fl._, segments purplish-brown in the middle on the outside. summer. _l._ linear-lanceolate, acuminated, channelled, longer than the flower-stem; bracts sheathing, scarious, much shorter than the pedicels. _h._ in. north california, . syns. _brodiæa ixioides_, _milla ixioides_. (b. m. .) =callipsyche= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _psyche_, a butterfly; alluding to the handsome flowers). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. ornamental greenhouse bulbs; requiring shade, and a compost of rich sandy loam and leaf mould, with good drainage. propagated by seeds and offsets. they should have plenty of water when growing, and, during the winter, be kept moderately dry, but not dried off, so as to cause them to shrivel. as the leaves wither, water should be gradually withheld. =c. aurantiaca= (orange).* _fl._ deep golden-yellow, several in an umbel, spreading, much flattened sideways; stamens green, twice the length of the perianth; scape erect, nearly ft. high. _l._ few, oblong-acute, bright green, conspicuously veined, stalked, in. long. andes of ecuador, . (ref. b. .) =c. eucrosiodes= (eucrosia-like).* _fl._ scarlet and green; stamens very long, incurved; scape about ten-flowered, glaucous. march. _l._ few, green, tessellated, pitted, in. wide. _h._ ft. mexico, . (b. r. , .) =c. mirabilis= (wonderful)*, _fl._ greenish-yellow, small, with stamens three times as long as the perianth, and spreading out on all sides; disposed in an umbellate head of about thirty blooms; scape ft. high. _l._ about two, oblong-spathulate, green, ft. long. peru, . an extremely curious plant. (ref. b. .) =callipteris= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _pteris_, a fern). ord. _filices_. a genus of stove ferns, founded upon the sub-genus _diplazium_, which is now included under _asplenium_. =callirhoe= (of mythological origin, from callirhoe, a daughter of the river-god achelous). poppy-mallow. allied to _malva_. species belonging to this genus have been erroneously referred to _malva_ and _nuttallia_. ord. _malvaceæ_. a genus of elegant annual or perennial herbs, natives of north america. they are of extremely easy cultivation, thriving in a compost of light, rich, sandy loam. propagation of the perennial species may be effected by means of both seeds and cuttings; of the annuals, by seeds only. seeds should be sown in spring, either outside, or in pans in a cold frame. young cuttings should be taken and dibbled in sandy soil in a frame. =c. digitata= (fingered).* _fl._ reddish-purple; peduncles long, axillary, one-flowered. summer. _l._ sub-peltate, six to seven-parted, with linear-entire or two-parted segments; upper ones more simple. _h._ ft. to ft. . perennial. (s. b. f. g. , under the name of _nuttallia digitata_.) =c. involucrata= (involucrate).* _fl._ crimson, nearly in. across, loosely panicled. summer. _l._ divided nearly to the base, three to five-parted; segments narrow, lanceolate, three to five-toothed, hairy on both surfaces. habit procumbent; stems hairy. _h._ in. perennial. (g. w. p. a. .) syn. _malva involucrata_ (b. m. ). =c. papaver= (poppy-like).* _fl._ violet-red; sepals ovate-acute, ciliated. summer. _l._, root leaves lobed or pedate; lower stem leaves palmato-pedate, upper digitate or simple. _h._ ft. louisiana, . perennial. syn. _nuttallia papaver_. (b. m. .) =c. pedata= (pedate-leaved). _fl._ cherry-red, panicled. august. _l._ laciniately-pedate; upper ones trifid. _h._ ft. to ft. . annual. (r. h. , .) =c. triangulata= (triangular-leaved). _fl._ pale purple. august. . perennial. syn. _nuttallia cordata_ (under which name it is figured in b. r. ). =callistachys.= _see_ =oxylobium=. =callistemma.= _see_ =callistephus=. =callistemon= (from _kallos_, beauty, and _stemon_, a stamen; in most of the species, the stamens are of a beautiful scarlet colour). ord. _myrtaceæ_. handsome greenhouse evergreen shrubs or trees, having the inflorescence rising from the old branches in crowded spikes, as in the species of _melaleuca_, but with the stamens free, as in _metrosideros_. leaves elongated, stiff, alternate, usually lanceolate. all the species of this genus are very ornamental and neat in habit. they are well adapted for a conservatory. the soil best suited for them is a mixture of loam, peat, and sand. ripened cuttings strike root in sand, under a hand glass; seeds are frequently produced on large plants, and these may also be used to increase the stock, but they do not produce flowering plants for a considerable time; whereas plants raised from cuttings, taken from flowering plants, come into flower when small. =c. linearis= (linear-leaved).* _fl._ scarlet; calyces clothed with velvety pubescence. june. _l._ linear, stiff, acute, keeled beneath, channelled above, villous when young. _h._ ft. to ft. new south wales, . =c. lophanthus= (crest-flowered). synonymous with _c. salignus_. =c. salignus= (willow). _fl._ straw-coloured, distinct, spicate, nearly terminal; petals rather pubescent, ciliated; calyx pilose. june to august. _l._ lanceolate, attenuated at both ends, mucronate, one-nerved, villous when young, as well as the branches. _h._ ft. to ft. australia, . syn. _c. lophanthus_. (l. b. c. .) =c. speciosus= (showy).* _fl._ scarlet; calyx villous. march to july. _l._ lanceolate, mucronate, flat, middle nerve rather prominent; when young, rather silky from adpressed villi, and reddish. _h._ ft. to ft. west australia, . syn. _metrosideros speciosa_. see fig. . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . callistemon speciosus.] =callistephus= (from _kallistos_, most beautiful, and _stephos_, a crown; in allusion to the appendages on the ripe fruit). china aster. syn. _callistemma_. ord. _compositæ_. a hardy annual, requiring an open situation and a rich loamy soil. involucre of many fringed bracts; receptacle naked, pitted; pappus double. propagated by seed, sown in a hotbed in march, the seedlings being hardened off and transplanted in may. for culture of these much grown plants and their varieties, _see_ =aster=. [illustration: chrysanthemum-flowered aster. truffaut's pæony-flowered aster. victoria aster. fig. . flower-heads of callistephus chinensis vars.] =c. chinensis= (chinese).* _fl-heads_ dark purple. july. _l._ ovate, coarsely toothed, stalked; stem ones sessile, cuneate at the base. stem hispid. branches with single heads. _h._ ft. china, . see fig. . =callitris= (probably altered from _kallistos_, most beautiful; referring to the whole plant). ord. _coniferæ_. syn. _frenela_. half-hardy evergreen shrubs or small trees, with long, very slender-jointed branches, and often very minute, scale-like, persistent leaves. flowers monÅ�cious. fruit globular, composed of four to six--rarely eightÂ�-unequal, woody, valvate scales, with one or two seeds at the base of each. all the species are somewhat tender, in england, except in the more southern districts. they require a sandy loam compost. propagated by cuttings, inserted under a handlight in autumn, and protected by a cold pit; or by seeds. =c. quadrivalvis= (four valved). arar-tree; sandarach gum-tree. _fl._, female catkin tetragonal, with four oval valves, each furnished with a point, and two of which bear seeds. february to may. _l._ flattened, articulate. _h._ ft. to ft. barbary, . =callixene.= _see_ =luzuriaga=. [illustration: fig. . flowers and leaves of calochortus venustus.] =callose.= callous, hardened. =callously-glandular.= having hardened glands. =callously-serrated.= having hardened serratures. =calluna= (from _kalluno_, to sweep, from the use of the plant in brooms). common ling; heather. ord. _ericaceæ_. a small hardy spreading shrub, very common throughout northern and central europe. corolla campanulate, four-lobed, shorter than the calyx. for culture, _see_ =erica=. =c. vulgaris= (common).* _fl._ disposed in long, terminal, spicate racemes. july to september. _l._ trigonal, obtuse, very short, imbricating in four rows, having the margins revolute and the base sagittate. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. there are numerous very ornamental varieties of this species, which are admirably adapted for planting in borders and clumps. the white-flowered (_alba_, _serlii_, and _hammondi_), flesh-coloured (_carnea_), and double-flowered varieties (_fl.-pl._) are all well worth growing in shrubberies; _aurea_ and _argentea_, with gold and silver coloured shoots, are also very ornamental. the value of the common form can scarcely be over-estimated for planting on barren hill sides or spaces; it affords excellent shelter for game, and food for bees. =callus.= the new formation at the end of a cutting before it puts forth roots; when the callus is formed, it shows that the cutting is in a healthy state. =calochilus= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _cheilos_, a lip; referring to the beauty of the labellum or lip). ord. _orchideæ_. interesting greenhouse terrestrial tuberous-rooted orchids, allied to _epipactis_. sepals yellowish-green; lip purple, covered with rich brown hairs. for culture, _see_ =bletia=. =c. campestris= (field). _fl._ greenish and brown. april to june. _l._ narrow, oblong, pointed. stem leafy, slender, terete. _h._ in. australia, . (b. m. .) =c. paludosus= (marsh).* _fl._ very similar in colour to those of _c. campestris_, but rather larger. may and june. _l._ rather broader. _h._ in. australia, . (f. a. o., part .) =calochortus= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _chortos_, grass; referring to the leaves). mariposa lily. ord. _liliaceæ_. handsome bulbous plants. flowers showy, on erect scapes; perianth deciduous; three outer segments sepaloid, three inner ones much larger and broader, and bearded on the inside. leaves ensiform. bulbs tunicated. these have not, hitherto, been generally grown in the open air with much success; but in warm localities and sheltered positions, they may be flowered outside. a frame, in a sunny situation, is the best possible place for their cultivation. here they may be fully exposed to the sun and air, during mild weather, through the winter; and, when expedient, they may be protected from excessive moisture, as that is the primary cause of failure, rather than cold, for they are perfectly hardy, and capable of enduring all the frost we are likely to get. from may onwards, the lights might be wholly removed. from the end of june to august, the bulbs will be in bloom, when, if necessary, the flowers should be fertilised to secure seed; and when the capsules are forming, material assistance would be given by placing the lights on again, allowing plenty of air. assuming that fresh bulbs are being planted, they should be in the soil early in the autumn, as nothing is more prejudicial than keeping them dry through the winter. a good depth of soil should be provided, composed of fibrous loam, leaf soil, and sand, in equal proportions, in a well-drained position. the bulbs must be planted in. deep, and some sand placed about them; they may be left undisturbed for years. of course, where no frame can be provided, they may be planted in a well-drained, sunny position in the same soil. they are also easily managed in pots, but it is necessary to pot in the autumn, and keep in a frame. through the winter, they must never be allowed to get dry, until the leaves are withering in the autumn, when water may be withheld. _propagation._ this may be effected by seeds or offsets, and by the tiny bulbs frequently produced on the upper portion of the stem. sow seeds in pans, in a cool house or frame, as soon as ripe, or in the early part of the year, and keep the plants close to the glass during their early stages, as they are very liable to damp off. sow thinly, so as to enable the young plants to pass a second season in the seed pots or pans. early in the third season, pot off and plant out singly, encouraging them to grow freely. propagation by offsets is the most usual method. with liberal treatment, most of the species increase pretty freely. the offsets are best removed when the plants are in a dormant state. they may be either grown in pots or pans, or planted out in pits or frames, until they reach flowering size. during the season of rest, it is the safest plan, with those in pots, to keep them in the earth in which they were grown. =c. albus= (white).* _fl._ snow-white, with a rich blotch, bearded and ciliated, large, globose, pendent; umbels many-flowered, on stems from ft. to - / ft. high. california, . this handsome species is rare. syn. _cyclobothra alba_. (b. r. .) =c. benthami= (bentham's).* _fl._ rich yellow; petals obtuse, densely covered with yellow hairs; stem three to six-flowered. july, august. _l._ linear, much elongated. _h._ in. to in. sierra nevada. syn. _c. elègans lutea_. =c. cÅ�ruleus= (bluish).* _fl._ lilac, more or less lined and dotted with dark blue, the petals covered and fringed with slender hairs; stem two to five-flowered. july. _l._ solitary, linear. _h._ in. to in. sierra nevada. =c. elegans= (elegant).* _fl._ greenish-white, purplish at base; stems three-flowered; petals not ciliate on the margin, or sparingly so. june. _h._ in. california, . this is a rare species. =c. e. lutea= (yellow). a synonym of _c. benthami_. =c. gunnisoni= (gunnison's).* _fl._ light lilac, yellowish-green below the middle, with a purple band encircling the base of the perianth; large, in. to in. in diameter. rocky mountains. =c. leichtlinii= (leichtlin's). a synonym of _c. nuttallii_. =c. lilacinus= (lilac).* _fl._ pale pink, hairy below the middle, - / in. across, with three segments narrow and three broad; scape slender, leafy, bearing one to five flowers. _l._ solitary, narrow lanceolate, radical. _h._ in. to in. california, . syn. _c. umbellatus_. (b. m. , under the name of _c. uniflorus_.) =c. luteus= (yellow).* _fl._ terminal, two or three together; exterior segments of the perianth greenish; the inner yellow, bordered with purple hairs. september. _h._ ft. california, . (b. r. .) =c. l. oculatus= (eyed). _fl._ very charming bright yellow, with a bold eye on the inside of each petal. =c. macrocarpus= (large-capsuled). _fl._ very large, lavender-coloured, on stems ft. high. august. california, . (b. r. .) =c. maweanus= (mawe's). _fl._, sepals purplish, broadly obovate acute; petals white or bluish-purple, longer than the sepals, the surfaces more or less covered with long purplish hairs. june, july. _l._ glaucous, linear. stem three to six-flowered. _h._ in. to in. san francisco, &c. (b. m. , figured under the name of _c. elegans_.) =c. nuttallii= (nuttall's).* _fl._ large, - / in. across; the three smaller segments of the perianth of a greenish colour streaked with red; the three larger segments pure white, with a purple spot at the base on the inner surface; two or three flowers on a stalk. june. _l._ linear, glaucous. _h._ in. california, . syn. _c. leichtlinii_. (b. m. .) =c. pulchellus= (beautiful).* _fl._ bright yellow, globular, drooping; umbels three to five-flowered, on stems from in. to in. high. summer. california, . a lovely species. (b. r. .) syn. _cyclobothra pulchella_. =c. purpureus= (purple).* _fl._, outer segments of the perianth green and purple outside and yellow within; inner segments purple outside and yellow within. august. _h._ ft. mexico, . (s. b. f. g. ser. ii., .) =c. splendens= (splendid).* _fl._ clear lilac, large. august. _h._ - / ft. california, . (b. r. .) =c. umbellatus= (umbelled). a synonym of _c. lilacinus_. =c. venustus= (charming).* _fl._ large, white, nearly in. in diameter, yellow at the base, deeply stained with crimson, and blotched on each segment with crimson. _h._ - / ft. california, . see fig. . (b. r. .) there are three varieties of this species, viz., _brachysepalus_ (short-sepaled), _lilacinus_ (lilac), and _purpureus_ (purple-flowered). =calodendron= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _dendron_, a tree). ord. _rutaceæ_. a very handsome greenhouse evergreen tree. flowers in terminal panicles. leaves large, opposite, simple, crenated. it will grow freely in a mixture of loam and peat. cuttings of half-ripened wood root in sand if placed under a bell glass, in gentle bottom heat. =c. capensis= (cape). _fl._ flesh-coloured; pedicels compressed, dilated under the flower; panicle trichotomously divided. branches opposite, or three in a whorl. _h._ ft. cape of good hope, . this is supposed to be one of the finest trees at the cape of good hope. (g. c., , xix., .) see fig , for which we are indebted to mr. bull. =calodracon.= _see_ =cordyline=. =calonyction.= _see_ =ipomÅ�a=. =calophaca= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _phake_, a lentil; in allusion to the beauty of the plant, and to its being one of the leguminous kind). ord. _leguminosæ_. a hardy deciduous shrub, with axillary pedunculate racemes of yellow flowers, and impari-pinnate leaves. this is well adapted for the front of shrubberies. it is somewhat difficult to propagate, except by seeds, which, however, in fine seasons, are produced in abundance. grafted high on the common laburnum, it forms an object at once singular, picturesque, and beautiful, whether covered with blossoms, or with its fine reddish pods. =c. wolgarica= (volga).* _fl._ yellow. may, june. _l._, leaflets six or seven pairs, orbicular, velvety beneath, as well as the calyces. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . (w. d. b. .) =calophanes= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _phaino_, to appear; alluding to the flowers). ord. _acanthaceæ_. a genus of about thirty species, widely distributed, principally in the tropical regions of both hemispheres. the best garden plant is that mentioned below; it is an interesting hardy herbaceous perennial, excellent for growing in borders, in loam and peat, or sandy loam soil; and may be propagated by dividing the roots, in march. =c. oblongifolia= (oblong-leaved).* _fl._ blue; corolla funnel-shaped, throat ventricose, limb bilobed, nearly equal; tube of corolla one-half longer than the calyx; pedicels axillary. august. _l._ opposite, oblong-spathulate, entire, acuminated. _h._ ft. florida, &c., . (s. b. f. g., ser. ii., .) =calophyllum= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _phyllon_, a leaf; the leaves are large, of a beautiful green, and elegantly veined). ord. _guttiferæ_. fine stove evergreen trees. flowers disposed in axillary racemes. leaves furnished with numerous transverse, parallel nerves. they thrive in a compost of loam, sand, and peat. cuttings of half-ripened shoots will root in sand, if placed under a glass, in bottom heat. =c. calaba.= calaba-tree. _fl._ white, sweet-scented, loosely racemose; racemes lateral, very short. _fr._ green. _l._ obovate or oblong, obtuse or emarginate. _h._ ft. west indies, &c., . =c. inophyllum= (fibrous-leaved). _fl._ snow-white, sweet-scented, loosely racemose; racemes axillary; peduncles one-flowered, usually opposite. _fr._ reddish, the size of a walnut. _l._ oblong or obovate, obtuse, but usually emarginate. branches round. tropics of the old world, . a medium-sized tree. [illustration: fig. . calodendron capensis.] =calopogon= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _pogon_, a beard; in reference to the fringe on the lip). ord. _orchideæ_. very pretty, hardy, tuberous-rooted orchids, admirably suited for a good shady position at the foot of the rockwork, or for an open situation in a hardy fernery. propagated by offsets, taken from the tuberous roots; but this method of increase is very uncertain. perhaps the only species in cultivation is the following: =c. pulchellus= (beautiful).* _fl._ purple, with a very pretty pale yellow beard or tuft of hairs growing from the lip; two or three to a plant. late summer. _l._ few, radical, grass-like. _h._ - / ft. north america. . syn. _limodorum tuberosum_. (s. b. f. g. .) =calosanthes indica.= a synonym of _oroxylum indicum_. =caloscordum= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _skorodon_, garlic). ord. _liliaceæ_. a genus of half-hardy bulbs, allied to _allium_, but now referred to _nothoscordum_. for culture, _see_ =calochortus=. =c. nerinæflorum= (nerine-flowered).* _fl._ rose; umbels about twelve-flowered; spathe one-valved. june and july. _l._ narrow, semi-terete, channelled above. _h._ in. chusan, . (b. r. , .) =calostemma= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _stemma_, a crown). ord. _amaryllidaceæ_. handsome greenhouse bulbous plants, natives of new holland. flowers funnel-shaped, irregular; perianth with the orifice surmounted by a corona; stamens erect, united by their dilated bases; ovary three-celled, many-seeded. leaves linear-lorate. =c. album= (white). _fl._ white. may. _l._ ovate, acute, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad. _h._ ft. . =c. luteum= (yellow). _fl._ yellow. november. _l._ strap-shaped, narrow. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =c. purpureum= (purple). _fl._ purple. november. _l._ like those of _c. luteum_. _h._ ft. . (b. m. .) =calothamnus= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _thamnos_, a shrub; in reference to the elegance of the shrubs, from their scarlet flowers and terete leaves). ord. _myrtaceæ_. greenhouse evergreen shrubs. flowers scarlet, axillary and solitary, sessile. leaves scattered, crowded, terete. they require much the same culture as _callistemon_. cuttings of young wood, firm at the base, will root in sand, if covered by a hand glass, which requires to be occasionally taken off and wiped, to prevent damp. =c. quadrifidus= (four-cleft). _fl._ scarlet, somewhat secund; bundles of stamens four, distinct, equal. july. _l._ glabrous (as well as the flowers). _h._ ft. to ft. west australia, . (b. m. .) =c. villosa= (villous). _fl._ scarlet, quinquefid; bundles of stamens equal, distinct. july to september. _l._ villous (as well as the fruit). _h._ ft. to ft. west australia, . (b. r. .) =calotis= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _ous_, _otos_, an ear; in reference to the chaffy scales of the pappus, or seed-head). allied to _bellium_. ord. _compositæ_. greenhouse or half-hardy herbaceous perennials, rarely annuals, all natives of australia. receptacle naked; involucre nearly equal, many-leaved, in a single or double row. they may be grown successfully in any ordinary garden soil. propagated by divisions of the root. =c. cuneifolia= (wedge-leaved).* _fl.-heads_ blue, solitary, terminal. july and august. _l._ cuneate, cut, toothed at end. _h._ ft. . greenhouse herbaceous perennial. (b. r. .) =calotropis= (from _kalos_, beautiful, and _tropis_, a keel; literally "beautifully twisted," apparently in reference to the corolla of _c. gigantea_). ord. _asclepiadeæ_. a genus of stove evergreen shrubs, or small trees. the three species bear large handsome flowers, in interpetiolar umbels. they thrive best in a mixture of loam, sand, and peat. young cuttings, thinly dibbled in a pot of sand, strike root freely under a hand glass, in heat. care must be taken that they do not receive an excess of moisture, or they will rot. =c. gigantea= (gigantic).* _fl._ very handsome, a mixture of rose and purple; corona shorter than the gynostegium, obtuse, circinately recurved at the base; umbels sometimes, though rarely, compound, surrounded by several involucral scales. july. _l._ decussate, broad, wedge-shaped, bearded on the upper side at the base, woolly-downy on the under side, in. to in. long, in. to in. broad. _h._ ft. to ft. india, &c., . (b. r. i. .) =c. procera= (tall). _fl._ white; petals spreading, marked at the top by a purple spot. july. _l._ obovate-oblong, on short petioles, whitish from wool. _h._ ft. persia, . (b. r. .) =calpicarpum.= _see_ =kopsia=. =calpidia.= a synonym of =pisonia= (which _see_). =caltha= (a syncope of _kalathos_, a goblet; in allusion to the form of the perianth, which may be likened to a golden cup). marsh marigold. ord. _ranunculaceæ_. hardy herbaceous perennials, of easy culture on the margin of a piece of water, or in a marshy bog, or in the ordinary border, where their showy blossoms look very brilliant. propagation is readily effected by dividing the roots, in early spring, or in summer after flowering. =c. leptosepala= (slender-sepaled).* _fl._ pure white, one to two upon erect, scape-like peduncles. may, june. _l._ radical, cordate, the margins nearly entire, or sometimes crenate. _h._ ft. northwestern america, . (h. f. b. a. , .) [illustration: fig. . caltha palustris monstrosa plena.] =c. palustris= (marsh).* _fl._ golden-coloured, large; peduncles furrowed. spring. _l._ cordate, somewhat orbicular, roundly-crenate, with rounded auricles. stems dichotomous, erect. _h._ ft. great britain. (sy. en. b. .) the double forms of this species, under the names of _nana plena_ and _monstrosa plena_ (see fig. ) are excellent plants, and, though growing best in the immediate vicinity of water, and most appropriate for rough scenery, they, like the type, do very well in ordinary well-enriched soil. a variety named _purpurascens_, from southern europe, is also showy, more erect, and branching; the shoots and pedicels purplish. =c. p. biflora= (two-flowered). a twin-flowered variety of _c. palustris_. north america, . this is not quite so tall as the type, and the flowers are rather larger. =c. p. parnassifolia= (parnassia-leaved). _fl._ yellow, on few-flowered peduncles. april, may. _l._ cordate-ovate, crenated. _h._ in. to in. north america, . =c. radicans= (rooting).* _fl._ bright yellow, several in small cyme. april, may. _l._ reniform-cordate, sharply crenate-serrate, spreading. _h._ in. scotland. (sy. en. b. .) =caltrops.= _see_ =tribulus=. =caltrops, water.= _see_ =trapa natans=. =calumba, false.= _see_ =coscinium fenestratum=. =calumba root.= _see_ =jateorrhiza calumba=. =calumba wood.= _see_ _coscinium fenestratum_. =calycanthaceÃ�.= a natural order of shrubs, with square stems, having four woody axes surrounding the central one. flowers solitary, lurid; calyx of numerous coloured sepals compounded with the petals. leaves opposite, entire, exstipulate. the two genera known are _calycanthus_ and _chimonanthus_. =calycanthus= (from _kalyx_, _kalykos_, a calyx, and _anthos_, a flower; in reference to the calyx being coloured, and appearing like a corolla). allspice. ord. _calycanthaceæ_. a genus of hardy, deciduous, north american shrubs. flowers lurid purple, axillary, and terminal, stalked, sweet-scented; stamens numerous. leaves opposite, oval or ovate-lanceolate, entire, generally rough on the surface; sweet-scented. all are handsome and well worth growing. they thrive best in a peaty compost, but grow freely in almost any soil. increased by layers, put down in the summer; or by seed, sown as soon as ripe, or in spring, in a cold frame. =c. floridus= (floridan).* carolina allspice. _fl._ with a sweet apple scent. may. _l._ ovate, downy beneath, as well as the branchlets. branches spreading. wood and roots smelling strongly of camphor. _h._ ft. to ft. carolina, . see fig. . (b. m. .) there are several varieties of this species. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of calycanthus floridus.] =c. glaucus= (glaucous).* _fl._ lurid purple, not strongly scented. may. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acuminated, glaucous and pubescent beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. carolina, . syn. _c. fertilis_. (b. r. .) _c. oblongifolius_ is a variety with ovate-lanceolate elongated leaves. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of calycanthus lÃ�vigatus.] =c. lævigatus= (smooth-leaved).* _fl._ lurid purple. may. _l._ oblong, thin, either blunt or taper-pointed, bright green, and glabrous, or nearly so, on both sides, or rather pale beneath. branches strictly erect. _h._ ft. to ft. mountains of pennsylvania, &c., . see fig. . (b. r. .) =c. macrophyllus= (large-leaved). a garden synonym of _c. occidentalis_. =c. occidentalis= (western).* _fl._ brick-red, sweet-scented, in. to in. across, each petal about in. long and / in. broad. june to october. _l._ oblong or ovate-cordate, acuminate, slightly pubescent on the veins only beneath. _h._ ft. to ft. california, . in california, this is called the sweet-scented shrub. syn. _c. macrophyllus_, of gardens. (b. m. .) =calyciflorÃ�.= a sub-division of dicotyledonous plants, having the stamens inserted on the calyx or disk. =calyciform.= formed like a calyx. =calycine.= of, or belonging to, the calyx. =calycophyllum= (from _kalyx_, a calyx, and _phyllon_, a leaf; in allusion to one of the teeth of the calyx being expanded into a large petiolate coloured leaf). ord. _rubiaceæ_. stove evergreen shrubs, requiring a compost of loam, peat, and a little sand and charcoal. cuttings of half ripe shoots will root in sand if placed under a bell glass, in bottom heat. =c. candidissimum= (whitest).* _fl._, corolla white, campanulate, with a bearded throat, three together, the middle one bearing a petiolate leaf, but the two lateral ones naked; corymbs terminal. _l._ ovate, bluntly acuminated, in. to in. long. _h._ ft. cuba, . =calycotome= (from _kalyx_, _kalykos_, calyx, and _tome_, a section; lips of calyx fall off). ord. _leguminosæ_. a small genus of hardy, divaricately-branched, spiny shrubs, formerly included as a section of _cytisus_. flowers yellow, disposed in short branched leafy fasicles. for culture, _see_ =cytisus=. =c. spinosa= (spiny). _fl._ yellow. june and july. _l._, leaflets obovate-oblong. branches angular, spiny. _h._ ft. to ft. genoa, corsica, &c., . (b. r. .) =calyculate.= having bracts so placed as to resemble an external or additional calyx. =calymmodon.= _see_ =polypodium=. =calypso= (from the beautiful nymph, _calypso_, or from greek _kalypto_, to conceal; in reference to its place of growth). ord. _orchideæ_. an elegant terrestrial monotypic genus. it thrives well in half-shady spots on the margins of a rock garden or artificial bog, in a light, moist, vegetable soil, composed of peat, leaf soil, and sand, mulched with cocoa-nut fibre refuse in winter. propagated by offsets. =c. borealis= (northern).* _fl._ solitary, delicate rose and brown, with a yellow crest on the lip; labellum longer than the sepals, the lateral lobes cohering in their upper part over the saccate central one, which is usually bifid at the tip, resembling those of a cypripedium. summer. _l._ solitary, thin, many-nerved, ovate or cordate. stems usually thickening into pseudo-bulbs. _h._ ft. high latitudes of northern hemisphere, . (b. m. .) =calyptra.= literally an extinguisher; applied to the hood which covers the theca in mosses. =calyptranthes= (from _kalyptra_, a covering, and _anthos_, a flower; in allusion to the operculum of the flower). ord. _myrtaceæ_. strong-growing stove evergreen shrubs or small trees. peduncles axillary, many-flowered. leaves feather-veined. they are of easy culture, in a compost of loam and peat, and may be propagated by layers, or by cuttings, placed in heat. =c. chytraculia= (chytraculia). _fl._ white, small, glomerate; peduncles axillary and terminal, trichotomous, panicled, and are, as well as the flowers, clothed with rufous velvety down. march. _l._ ovate, attenuated at the apex, stiffish, glabrous. _h._ ft. jamaica, . (n. s. , .) =c. syzygium= (syzygium). _fl._ white, on short pedicels; peduncles axillary, trichotomous, many-flowered. may to july. _l._ ovate, obtuse, stiff. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . =calyptraria.= _see_ =centronia=. =calyptrate.= resembling an extinguisher. =calyptriform.= shaped like an extinguisher. =calyptrion.= _see_ =corynostylis=. =calyptrocalyx= (from _kalyptra_, an extinguisher, and _kalyx_, a calyx, in allusion to the form of the outer perianth segments). ord. _palmeæ_. a monotypic genus of stove palms. for culture, _see_ =calamus=. =c. spicatus= (spiked). _fl._, spadices elongated, spicate, leafy at base; spathe opening longitudinally. _l._ terminal, pinnatisect; segments reduplicate, linear, acuminate, bifid at the apex; petiole fibrous at the base. caudex finally smooth. _h._ ft. moluccas. syns. _areca_ and _pinanga globosa_. =calyptrogyne= (from _kalyptra_, an extinguisher, and _gyne_, a woman--pistil--in allusion to the form of the pistil). including _calyptronoma_. ord. _palmeæ_. a small genus comprising five species of handsome stove palms, allied to _geonoma_ (which _see_ for cultivation). =c. ghiesbreghtiana= (ghiesbreght's). _fl._, peduncles erect, overtopping the leaves, bearing a single cylindrical, undivided spadix, in. to in. in length. _l._ pinnate, ft. to ft. long; pinnæ opposite or alternate, sessile, of unequal breadth, the narrower ones one to two-nerved, the broader ones six to ten-nerved, usually from six to twelve on each side of the rachis; the intervals between the pinnæ vary from in. to in.; petiole broadly sheathing at the base, from a few inches to - / ft. long. stem short or absent. mexico. a very elegant dwarf-growing species. syns. _geonoma ghiesbreghtiana_, _g. magnifica_ and _g. verschaffeltii_. (b. m. .) =c. spicigera= (ear-bearing). _l._ irregularly pinnate, ft. to ft. long, ft. broad, deeply bifid at apex, rich bright green; petioles short, sheathing at the base, flat on the upper side, rounded below. stems stout. _h._ ft. guatemala. a very elegant species. =c. swartzii= (swartz's). _l._ equally pinnatisect; pinnæ deeply reduplicate at the base, bifid at the top. trunk smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. jamaica, . a handsome plant when young, and useful for general decorative purposes. syn. _calyptronoma swartzii_. =calyptronoma swartzii.= _see_ =calyptrogyne swartzii=. =calystegia= (from _kalyx_, a calyx, and _stege_, a covering; in reference to the two large persistent bracts enclosing the calyx). bearbind. ord. _convolvulaceæ_. hardy, glabrous, twining or prostrate herbs. peduncles solitary, one-flowered; corolla campanulate, five-plicate. all the species are of easy cultivation in common garden soil. propagation may be effected by dividing the plants; or by seeds, sown in spring. =c. dahurica= (dahurian).* _fl._, corolla of a rosy-purple; sepals lanceolate, acute, the two outer ones broadest; peduncles tetragonal, tomentose; bracts broad-ovate, acute, longer than the calyx. july. _l._ glabrous or hairy, oblong-cordate, having the margins and nerves on the under side tomentose. dahuria, . (b. m. .) =c. inflata= (inflated). synonymous with _c. sepium incarnata_. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of calystegia pubescens flore-pleno.] =c. pubescens flore-pleno= (downy, double-flowered).* _fl._ in. to in. across; petals long, narrow, wavy, and reflexed, flesh-colour, but ultimately bright rose; pedicels - / in. to - / in. long. summer and autumn. _l._ alternate, hastate, downy. china, . see fig. . =c. sepium= (hedge). common bindweed. _fl._ white, sometimes tinged with red; peduncles tetragonal, exceeding the petioles; bracts cordate, keeled, acute, longer than the calyx, but one-half shorter than the corolla. summer. _l._ sagittate or cordate, very acute; hind lobes obtuse, or truncate, entire. britain. a very troublesome weed. (sy. en. b. .) there is a variety named _incarnata_, with rose-coloured flowers. north america. syn. _c. inflata_. (b. m. .) =c. soldanella= (soldanella-like).* sea bells. _fl._ pale red, with five longitudinal, yellowish plaits, large; peduncles angular, angles winged; bracts large, ovate, blunt, mucronate, generally shorter than the calyx. june. _l._ rather fleshy, reniform, entire or a little angular. sea-shores, britain. this pretty species can only be grown with success in a very sandy soil. (sy. en. b. .) =calythrix= (from _kalyx_, a calyx, and _thrix_, a hair; in reference to the lobes of the calyx, which each end in a long hair). ord. _myrtaceæ_. a genus of very pretty and interesting greenhouse heath-like shrubs, natives of australia. flowers small; bracteoles two under each flower; they are either free or joined together at the base, sometimes in the form of an operculum. leaves scattered, crowded, opposite, full of dots, axillary, solitary, almost sessile. they grow well in a mixture of loam, peat, and sand, with good drainage and firm potting. cuttings, made from young shoots, will root in april or may, if placed in sand, under a bell glass, in a cool house. =c. ericoides= (heath-like). a synonym of _c. tetragona_. =c. glabra= (glabrous). a synonym of _c. tetragona_. =c. tetragona= (tetragonal).* _fl._ white; bracts one-half shorter than the tube of the calyx. _l._ scattered, petiolate, glabrous; stipules deciduous. _h._ ft. . syns. _c. ericoides_, _c. glabra_. (b. r. .) _c. angulata_, _aurea_, and _breviseta_ are other species which have been introduced, but are not worth house room when that described above is grown. =calyx.= the external whorl of floral leaves. =camaridium= (from _kamara_, an arched roof; in reference to the arched tip of the stigma). ord. _orchideæ_. a pretty stove orchid, allied to _cymbidium_. it thrives best if grown in a shallow basket, or raised above the surface of the pots with sphagnum and broken pots. =c. ochroleucum= (yellowish-white).* _fl._ yellowish-white. july. _l._ ligulate. pseudo-bulbs oblong, compressed, smooth. _h._ ft. trinidad, . syn. _cymbidium ochroleucum_. (b. m. .) =camarotis.= _see_ =sarcochilus=. [illustration: fig. . camassia esculenta.] =camassia= (from _quamash_, so called by the north american indians, who eat the bulbs). syn. _sitocodium_. ord. _liliaceæ_. a small genus (two species) of handsome bulbous plants. perianth of six segments, slightly connected at base, and spreading out horizontally, but not equally. leaves narrow, about ft. long, grooved down the inside. they thrive best in a sheltered, partially-shaded situation, but will do fairly well in almost any ordinary good garden soil. a compost of loam and leaf mould, with a liberal mixture of sharp sand, suits them best. they need not be disturbed for several years; but a top-dressing of rich soil or well-rotted manure may be given yearly. propagated by offsets and seeds. the plants are so hardy that they ripen seeds in warm situations. these may be sown as soon as ripe, or the following spring, either in a warm situation out of doors, or in pots or boxes, under glass. the young plants make rapid progress, and should remain for at least two years in the seed beds. the best time for final transplanting is in february. offsets are produced very freely, and should be removed either when in a dormant condition, or just previously to starting into fresh growth, and arranged in clumps or lines, placing a little sand about them. =c. esculenta= (edible).* camash or quamash. _fl._ blue, about in. across; racemes loose, ten to twenty-flowered, borne on stout scapes; perianth six-cleft, the five upper segments close together, the sixth standing by itself. summer. _l._ linear, about ft. high. columbia, &c., . the colour of the flowers varies from a deep blue to nearly white. see fig. . (b. r. .) the white-flowered form is figured in b. m. , under the name of _scilla esculenta flore albo_. =c. e. leichtlini= (leichtlin's).* _fl._ creamy-white, larger than those of the type, with more numerous nerves in the keel of the segments of the perianth; racemes longer, and sometimes compound. spring. _h._ ft. columbia, . this also differs from the type in its more robust habit and broader leaves. syn. _chlorogalum leichtlini_. (b. m. .) =c. fraseri= (fraser's).* _fl._ pale blue, smaller than those of _c. esculenta_; pedicels and scape much more slender. _l._ narrow, acute; capsule more acutely angled. _h._ ft. eastern states of north america. a smaller and more slender plant. (b. m. , as _scilla esculenta_.) =cambessedesia= (named after james cambessedes, coadjutor of auguste st. hilaire, in his "flora brasiliæ meridionalis," and author of several botanical memoirs). ord. _melastomaceæ_. a genus of elegant, erect, or ascending, dichotomously branched stove shrubs or herbaceous plants. flowers terminal and axillary, in paniculate cymes; petals five, obovate; calyx bell-shaped. leaves sessile, opposite or verticillate, obovate, oblong or linear. they thrive best in a compost of peat and sand. propagated by half-ripened cuttings, which root freely in a similar mixture, if placed in heat and under a hand glass. there are about eight species known to science, but probably that mentioned below is the only one in cultivation. =c. paraguayensis= (paraguay). _fl._ rose-red, / in. in diameter, in terminal corymbose, glandular, hairy panicles. july. _l._ nearly in. long, sessile, ovate, acute, three-nerved, pale green, with entire ciliate margins. stem annual, herbaceous, leafy. _h._ in. to in. . (b. m. .) =cambium.= the formative fluid found between the bark and wood of exogens, in spring. =cambuy fruit.= _see_ =eugenia=. =camellia= (named in honour of george joseph camellus or kamel, a moravian jesuit and traveller in asia, who wrote a history of the plants of the isle of luzon, which is inserted in the third vol. of john ray's "historia plantarum"). japanese rose. including _thea._ ord. _ternstrÅ�miaceæ_. a genus of elegant hardy or nearly hardy evergreen shrubs or trees. flowers large; sepals five or six, gradually passing from bracts into petals, the latter slightly cohering at the base; stamens numerous. leaves coriaceous. by close attention to a few particulars in the management of these beautiful plants, much disappointment may be avoided, and a succession of flowers obtained from october till the following july. the fact of the buds frequently dropping off, deters many would-be growers from attempting the culture of the camellia. dryness of the atmosphere, and want of water at the roots, are generally the primary causes of failure; the remedy for these evils rests with the cultivator. the roots are apt to get matted together, compressing the earth around them into a hard ball, impervious to water; hence attention is necessary to see that the water poured into the pot thoroughly moistens all the soil. in order to form handsome plants, they should be trained with single stems to rods, and pruned, so as to make them throw out side branches from every part of the stem; they must not be placed too close to each other on the stage, or when planted out. a liberal supply of water is always necessary, but especially so during the flowering period. plants that are required to flower early may remain in the warm house till they commence to blossom, when they should be removed to a cold place, such as the back of a greenhouse, giving them plenty of light. those kept in a hothouse or vinery during summer, will flower in the beginning or middle of october; and a large plant, having from fifty to one hundred buds, will continue in flower till the month of january. those that are removed early, will blossom in january, and so succeed the others. the plants that have finished flowering should be brought back to the hothouse, where they will begin to make new wood, and be ready to come in succession next season. by thus shifting the plants from a warm to a cold situation, a regular succession will be secured from october to july. the soil should be kept constantly moist, and in the summer months the leaves occasionally syringed. camellias flower best when kept in small pots or tubs. in order to raise and exhibit these handsome plants to the best advantage, they should be grown in a separate house, of ample height, as they never look so well as when ft. or ft. high, trained in a conical form, with branches from the root upwards; and the plants should be raised near to the glass on a movable stage, which should be lowered as they grow. in summer, they may either be placed in the open air in a sheltered spot, or the glass roof of the house can be taken off. the hardier sorts, such as the double-red, blush, and pæony-flowered, succeed in the bed or border of a conservatory, if the roof can be taken off in summer, so as to admit air. if this cannot be managed, they are better grown in portable pots or boxes. the most suitable time for shifting camellias is directly after flowering; they should then be put into a vinery or hothouse, where there is a little heat; or the warmest part of a greenhouse. they will soon begin to make new wood, where they should be allowed to remain, amply supplied with water, till they form their flower buds, at the extremity and sides of the young growth. a few should then be removed to a cold place, and shaded during strong sunshine. in a few weeks afterwards, others may also be transferred, so as to have a regular succession of flowering plants. _propagation._ the red camellias are generally propagated by layers, but cuttings will also succeed; the single red camellia being raised by either cuttings, layers, or seeds. this latter forms suitable stocks on which to inarch or graft the rarer kinds. the ripened shoots of the preceding summer should be taken off in august, cutting them smoothly at a joint or bud. two or three of the lower leaves should be taken off, and the cuttings planted firmly in the soil with a dibble. some growers use peat earth and sand to strike in, while others prefer a loam mixed with sand and peat. the pans containing the cuttings should be kept in a plant or cold frame, without being covered with glasses, but shaded during powerful sunshine. in the following spring, such as have struck will begin to push, when they need to be placed in a gentle heat. the following september or october, the rooted plants will be fit to pot off, and in the second or third spring they may be used as stocks. inarching or grafting is done in early spring, as soon as growth commences. when this process is completed, care must be taken to fix the pot containing the stock so that it may not be disturbed during the connection of the scion with the parent plant. the grafting being clayed over, is then covered with moss, to prevent its cracking. when independent grafting is resorted to, the mode called "side grafting" is generally employed, as in the case of orange-trees; but the operation of tongueing is generally omitted, as tending to weaken the stock. liquid or other manure is not required; nor is it desirable to apply it, as it often, sooner or later, causes the destruction of the plants. as a rule, insects do not trouble this class of plants; but scale will sometimes appear, and can easily be removed by hand. thrips occasionally put in an appearance, but a little smoke will quickly get rid of them. =c. euryoides= (eurya-like). _fl._ white; peduncles lateral, one-flowered, scaly. may to july. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acuminate, serrated, silky beneath. branches hairy. _h._ ft. china, . (b. r. .) [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of camellia japonica.] =c. japonica= (japanese).* common camellia. _fl._ variously coloured, axillary, sessile. _l._ ovate, acuminate, acutely serrated. _h._ ft. japan and china, . the innumerable hybrids are chiefly the offspring of this species. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . flower of camellia japonica anemonÃ�flora.] =c. j. anemonæflora= (anemone-flowered). all, or nearly all, the stamens, &c., in this variety are transformed into small petaloid bodies, and the flower has the general aspect of a double anemone. see fig. . (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . flower of camellia oleifera.] =c. oleifera= (oil-yielding).* _fl._ white, very numerous, fragrant, solitary. november. _l._ elliptic-oblong, acute, serrated, coriaceous, shining. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . see fig. . (b. r. .) =c. reticulata= (netted-leaved). _fl._ bright rose, large, semi-double. l. oblong, acuminated, serrated, flat, reticulated. _h._ ft. china, . there is a form of this species with full double flowers. =c. theifera= (tea-bearing). _fl._ white, spreading, of five sepals and five petals, axillary. november to spring. _l._ elliptical-oblong, obtuse, serrated, more than twice as long as broad, dark green. _h._ ft. to ft. china, japan, and india, . this species varies very considerably. in different countries, it has become modified by cultivation. the green and black teas, formerly supposed to be produced by different species, are obtained from the same bushes, but subjected to different processes. less-known species are: _drupifera_, _lanceolata_, _rosæflora_, and _sasanqua_. the true species are rarely seen in cultivation. the following is a selection of the best forms of _c. japonica_; the list is a limited one, and is capable of great extension: alba plena,* double white; archiduchesse augusta, petals deep red, veined with blue, a white band; archiduchesse marie,* flowers bright red, banded with white, imbricated; auguste delfosse, bright reddish-orange, stripes down the centre of petals; augustina superba,* flowers clear rose, free bloomer; bealii rosea, one of the best and latest deep crimson varieties known; bicolor de la reine, white and rose; bonomiana,* ground colour white, banded with intense deep red; caryophylloides,* white, marbled with rosy-carmine, flowers very large; chandlerii elegans,* flowers large, light rose; comte de gomer,* petals soft rose, striped with crimson, beautifully imbricated; comte de paris, rich pink, large and full; contessa lavinia maggi, pure white, broadly flamed with rosy-cerise; contessa lavinia maggi rosea, flowers rich rosy-red, fine form, a superb variety; corradino, rose, veined with salmon, centre delicate blush pink; countess of derby,* beautifully imbricated, white, striped with rose; countess of ellesmere,* colour varying from pure white to flesh, streaked with carnation; countess of orkney, pure white, striped with carmine, sometimes pink, shaded with deep rose; cup of beauty,* pure white and rose, a beautifully imbricated flower; david boschi, clear pink, shaded with deep rose; de la reine, petals white, striped with carmine; donckelaarii,* large flowers, semi-double, rich crimson, marbled white; duchesse de nassau,* flowers light pink, very large, and of superb form; duchess of berry, pure white, and cupped, beautifully imbricated, one of the most beautiful of all the double whites; emperor of russia, large crimson; fanny bolis, white, striped and splashed with deep crimson; fimbriata alba,* similar to _alba plena_, outer petals notched at the edges; general cialdini, beautifully imbricated, bright carmine, flaked with red; henri favre, flowers rosy-salmon, finely imbricated; hovey, c. h.,* bright crimson, well imbricated; hovey, c. m.,* deep velvety crimson, darkly shaded, very distinct; hovey, mrs.,* delicate pink, very smooth in outline, medium size; il cygno, flowers pure white, petals ranunculi-formed and imbricated; il marzo, clear rose, the petals sometimes banded with white; imbricata, deep carmine, occasionally variegated; jardin d'hiver, a fine variety, flowers beautifully imbricated, colour bright rose; jeffersonii, fine crimson; jenny lind,* flowers imbricated to the extreme centre, broad, and of good substance, white, striped and marbled with rose; jubilee,* flowers very large, with broad, round, imbricated petals, white, marbled with rose, centre pure white; lady hume's blush,* flowers flesh-colour, and of excellent form; la maestosa, rose, mottled with white; leeana superba, flowers salmon-red, very fine; leon leguay, rich crimson; madame ambroise verschaffelt,* white, shaded with blush, and dotted with red; madame lebois, bright rose, finely imbricated, and of good form; mathotiana,* flowers brilliant red, and beautifully imbricated, extra fine; mathotiana alba, flowers large, finely imbricated to the centre, pure white; montironi,* a fine pure white flower; mrs. abbey wilder, ivory-white, striped with rose, well imbricated; mrs. cope,* white, delicately shaded with pink, and striped with rose; mrs. dombrain,* shape and substance excellent, colour beautiful soft pink; napoleon iii., flowers rose, beautifully veined with deep rose, and edged with pure white; prince albert, white, beautifully flaked with carmine; princess bacciocchi,* rich velvety carmine; princess frederick william,* flowers white, tipped with bright carmine; queen of roses, flowers delicate rose; reine des beautÃ�s,* very delicate clear rose, fine form, extra fine variety; reine des fleurs,* finely imbricated, petals of good substance and perfect symmetry, colour vermilion-red, flaked occasionally with white; rubens, deep rose-white stripes; saccoiana,* a finely imbricated flower, colour very variable, occasionally clear rose, at other times spotted with pure white; sarah frost, flowers bright red; storyi, outer petals bright rose, centre almost white; targioni, flowers beautifully imbricated, pure white, striped with cerise; teutonia, flowers sometimes red, at other times white, but occasionally half red and half white; thomas moore,* flowers - / in. across, perfectly round, and well imbricated, petals also round, and well filled up in the centre, colour rich carmine, shaded with crimson; tricolor de mathot, flowers red, marbled with white, semidouble; tricolor imbricata plena, blush white, flaked with carmine and rose; valtevareda, colour bright rose, often spotted with snowy white; wilderii,* soft rose, of excellent form. [illustration: . c. lactiflora. . c. rotundifolia hostii. . c. carpathica turbinata. . c. carpathica alba. fig. . group of campanulas.] =camoensia= (named in honour of luis camoens, a celebrated portuguese poet). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus containing a couple of handsome species. _c. maxima_ is the largest-flowered leguminous plant known. it thrives well in rich loam and leaf mould. cuttings root in sandy loam, in bottom heat, if placed under a bell glass. it has not yet flowered in this country. the other species has not been introduced. =c. maxima= (greatest).* _fl._ cream-colour, yellow, ft. long, in short axillary racemes. angola, . (t. l. s. , .) =camomile.= _see_ =chamomile=. =campanea= (from _campana_, a bell; alluding to the shape of the flowers). ord. _gesneraceæ_. stove herbaceous climbing perennials, the only one at present introduced being _c. grandiflora_. for cultivation, _see_ =gesnera=. =c. grandiflora= (large-flowered).* _fl._ in axillary tufts, at ends of long, axillary, and terminal peduncles; corolla white, lined and dotted with crimson. june. _l._ opposite, oval, acuminated, oblique, soft, crenated, stalked. plant hairy. _h._ ft. santa fé, . (r. h. , .) =campanula= (diminutive of _campana_, a bell; in reference to the shape of the flowers). bell-flower; slipperwort. ord. _campanulaceæ_. a genus of mostly perennial--rarely annual or biennial--herbs. flowers blue or white, for the most part pedunculate, usually racemose, rarely spicate or glomerate. radical leaves usually different in form from the cauline ones, especially in size. all the species of this genus are elegant when in flower (see fig. ), and are very largely grown. the dwarf varieties make excellent subjects for pot culture, rockeries, or the fronts of borders. a rather rich sandy loam, with plenty of drainage, suits these plants. the forms of _c. pyramidalis_ may be kept in cold frames during the winter, and firmly repotted in summer, the crown of the plant being kept just a trifle raised above the soil, or they are at times liable to damp off, through the water lodging around the necks. during hot weather, the pots should be plunged in a bed of ashes. campanulas are easily raised from seeds, which should be sown in spring. _general culture._ as a rule, few plants are so easily cultivated as these. the strong-growing kinds may be grown with the greatest success in ordinary garden soil, well enriched with manure, while the alpine kinds are easily managed on the rockery. sow seeds of the annuals in april, and of the biennials in june, in the open, or in a cold frame. the perennials are chiefly propagated by dividing the roots, or by young cuttings, in spring--the latter is by far the best method of propagation with many of the species--or by seeds. those kinds requiring special treatment are particularised, and those suitable to the rockery are so designated. perennials, except where otherwise mentioned. =c. adami= (adam's). _fl._ bluish, nearly erect, one on the top of each stem; corolla funnel-shaped. july. _l._ slightly ciliated; radical ones on long petioles, cuneate-spathulate, coarsely toothed at the apex; cauline ones sessile, obovate or linear. _h._ in. caucasus, . alpine. =c. allionii= (allioni's).* _fl._ usually blue, rarely white, subnutant, large, solitary. july to september. _l._, radical ones linear-lanceolate, nearly entire, ciliated; lower ones rosulate, bluntish. stem rather pilose. root creeping. _h._ in. to in. piedmontese alps, &c., . a little gem, requiring a well-drained position, in rich sandy loam, with plenty of grit in it, and an abundance of moisture when growing. syns. _c. alpestris_ and _c. nana_. (b. m. .) =c. alpestris= (rocky). a synonym of _c. allionii_. =c. alpina= (alpine).* _fl._ deep blue, few or numerous, scattered in a pyramidal manner along the whole stem. july. _l._ linear-lanceolate, repandly-crenate, woolly; radical ones crowded, narrowed at the base. stem glabrous or woolly. _h._ in. to in. europe, . rockery. (b. m. .) =c. americana= (american). _fl._ erect, one to three from the axil of each bract; corollas blue, a little longer than the calycine lobes. july. _l._, radical ones rosulate, ovate, acute, a little cordate, petiolate, serrated; cauline ones ovate-lanceolate, acuminated at both ends, serrulated. _h._ ft. to ft. north america, . borders. =c. barbata= (bearded).* _fl._ nutant, disposed in a loose, often secund raceme; pedicels one-flowered, rising from the axils of the superior leaves; corolla pale blue or white (in the variety _alba_), glabrous outside, but woolly in the mouth. june. _l._ villous, nearly entire; radical ones crowded, lanceolate; cauline ones few, ligulate. _h._ in. to in. european alps, . this is best grown on the rockery. the white variety is very handsome. (b. m. .) =c. barrelierii= (barrelier's). a synonym of _c. fragilis_. =c. betonicæfolia= (betony-leaved).* _fl._ terminal and axillary, the branchlets usually bearing three; corollas purplish-blue, with a pale yellow base, tubular. may. _l._ elliptic-oblong or ovate, acute, crenate-toothed; radical ones shortly petiolate. stems much branched. plant pilose. _h._ - / ft. mount olympus in bithynia, . borders. (s. f. g. .) =c. bononiensis= (bononian).* _fl._ bluish-violet, rather small, numerous, disposed in long racemes. july. _l._ serrulated, ovate, acuminate, dark green above, pale beneath; radical ones cordate, petiolate; upper ones stem-clasping. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . borders. there is also a very showy white-flowered variety. =c. cæspitosa= (tufted).* _fl._ drooping, terminal, solitary, and sometimes three to four at the top of each stem; corollas deep blue or pure white (in the variety _alba_). may to august. _l._, radical ones crowded, on short petioles, ovate, glandularly toothed, shining. stems numerous, tufted. root fibrous, creeping. _h._ in. to in. temperate parts of europe, . rockery, delighting in rich fibrous loam and leaf mould. [illustration: fig. . flowering stem of campanula carpathica.] =c. carpathica= (carpathian).* _fl._ blue, broadly campanulate, disposed in loose panicles, on long peduncles, which are elongated, naked, and terminated by an erect flower. june to august. _l._, lower ones on long petioles, ovate-roundish, cordate, toothed; upper ones on short petioles, ovate, acute. stems leafy, branched. _h._ in. transylvania, . borders or rockery. see fig. . (b. m. .) =c. c. alba= (white).* _fl._ quite white, otherwise like the type. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . campanula carpathica pelviformis.] =c. c. pelviformis= (pelvis-formed).* _fl._ lilac, nearly in. across, numerously produced in lax panicles on much-branched stems, in. to in. high; fragrant. august. _l._ ovate, cordate, toothed. a distinct seedling from _c. c. turbinata_. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . campanula carpathica turbinata.] =c. c. turbinata= (top-shaped).* _fl._ nearly in. across, erect; corolla deep purple, campanulate. summer. _l._ ovate, rigid, greyish-green, toothed, and pointed, with cordate bases, in stiff tufts. stems short, erect. _h._ in. to in. transylvania, . borders or rockery. see figs. and . there is also a desirable variety named _pallida_, with very pale purple flowers. =c. c. t. hendersoni= (henderson's). _fl._ rich mauve, in large pyramidal racemes, rather open. july to september. _l._, lower ones cordate, or ovate cordate, slightly crenulated, on long stalks; upper ones oblong, sessile. _h._ ft. very handsome hybrid for borders. =c. caucasica= (caucasian). _fl._ few, terminal and axillary, drooping; corollas glabrous outside, but bearded inside, of a violaceous-blue colour. july. _l._ crenulated; lower ones obovate, obtuse, petiolate; upper ones lanceolate, sessile. stems erect, branched, terete, scabrous, pilose. _h._ in. to in. caucasus, . rockery; very pretty. =c. celtidifolia= (nettle-tree-leaved).* a synonym of _c. lactiflora_. =c. cenisia= (mont cenis).* _fl._ deep blue, solitary, terminal, erect. june. _l._ entire; radical ones rosulate, obovate, obtuse; cauline ones ovate-oblong. stems numerous, glabrous, or slightly pilose. _h._ in. italy, &c., . a rare little rockery gem, requiring a deep gritty loam and leaf soil, between stones. (a. f. p. , .) =c. cervicaria.= throatwort. _fl._ blue, pilose outside; heads terminal, round, bracteate. july. _l._ crenately serrated; radical ones linear-lanceolate, bluntish, on short petioles; cauline ones linear-acuminated. stem simple. _h._ ft. to ft. mountains of europe, . biennial. borders. (l. b. c. .) =c. collina= (hill).* _fl._ deep blue, funnel-shaped, few, secund, disposed in a long raceme. july. _l._, lower ones on long petioles, ovate-oblong, crenulated; middle ones lanceolate; upper ones linear-acuminated. stems simple, rather pilose. _h._ ft. caucasus, . borders. (b. m. .) =c. colorata= (coloured). _fl._ purple; corolla tubular, velvety; peduncles elongated, terminal and axillary. september. _l._ scattered, lanceolate, acute, repandly denticulated. stem branched, downy. sikkim himalayas, . this requires frame protection during winter. (b. m. .) =c. dichotoma= (forked). _fl._ bluish-purple, with a paler tube, drooping, terminal, solitary in the forks of the branches and stem. july. _l._, cauline ones ovate, acute, a little crenated. stem erect, with dichotomous branches. plant clothed with stiff hairs. _h._ in. south-western europe, . annual. borders. (s. f. g. .) =c. drabifolia= (draba-leaved). _fl._ pedicellate, opposite the leaves; corolla inflated, with a white tube and a violaceous-blue limb. july. _l._ elliptic-oblong, toothed. stem many times forked, slightly erect. plant hispid. _h._ in. island of samos, . annual. rockery. (s. f. g. .) =c. elatines= (elatine).* _fl._ scattered over the upper part of the plant, sometimes racemose, and sometimes panicled; corollas bluish-purple. june to august. _l._ cordate, coarsely and acutely toothed, ovate-acute; lower ones roundish. stem branched. plant downy. _h._ in. to in. piedmont, . rockery. (a. f. p. , .) =c. erinus= (erinus).* _fl._ terminal and axillary, situated in the angles of the forks of the branches; corollas of a pale bluish-rose-colour, or white, pilose at the base, tubular. may to august. _l._ obovate or ovate, toothed. stem much branched. plant hispid. _h._ in. to in. europe, . annual. rockery. (s. f. g. .) =c. excisa= (excised). _fl._ drooping; stem one-flowered; corollas blue, funnel-shaped. june. _l._ entire, or remotely-denticulated, linear-acuminated. stems numerous, erect, slender, simple, naked at top. _h._ in. to in. switzerland and transylvania, . rockery. a rare species, requiring to be treated like _cenisia_. (l. b. c. .) =c. floribunda= (many-flowered). a synonym of _c. isophylla_. =c. fragilis= (fragile).* _fl._ clear lilac-purple, white in the centre, solitary or in pairs, axillary, erect, or nearly so, on spreading branches. july and august. _l._, radical ones reniform, or roundish-cordate, rather deeply lobed; cauline ones broadly-ovate, slightly cordate, all stalked. _h._ in. to in. south italy. syn. _c. barrelierii_. (b. m. .) =c. garganica= (gargano).* _fl._ axillary, in fascicles; corollas blue, rotate, deeply five-lobed. may to september. _l._, radical ones reniform, on long petioles; cauline ones cordate, all crenately toothed, downy. _h._ in. to in. italy, . an extremely variable species. rockery, in rich sandy loam. (b. r. .) [illustration: fig. . flower-spike of campanula glomerata.] =c. glomerata= (clustered).* _fl._ sessile, disposed in terminal heads on the branches and stems; corollas bluish-violet or white, glabrous, except the nerves outside, funnel-shaped. may to september. _l._ serrulated; radical ones ovate, acute; bracts ovate, acuminated. stems simple, or branched. _h._ ft. to ft. britain, &c. borders. see fig. . (sy. en. b. .) a double-flowered variety, and also a white-flowered form, are very desirable. there are numerous varieties of this species which are frequently described as distinct species. the following are among the number: =c. g. cervicaroides= (cervicaria-like). _fl._ bluish-violet, terminal and axillary. lower leaves on long petioles. stem flexuous, hairy. =c. g. elliptica= (elliptical). _fl._ blue, large, capitate. _l._ on long petioles, elliptic; bracts large, often longer than the flowers. =c. g. nicæensis= (nice). _fl._ bluish-violet, disposed in short, dense spikes. _l._ approximate, ovate, acute, sessile. =c. g. pusilla= (diminutive).* _fl._ few, capitate. _l._ round, cordate. _h._ in. to in. in addition to these, there are _aggregata_ and _speciosa_ (= _dahurica_). the latter is an excellent variety, with large heads of deep-coloured flowers. =c. grandiflora= (large-flowered). _see_ =platycodon grandiflorum=. =c. grandis= (large).* _fl._ pale violet-blue, broadly bell-shaped, with large pointed divisions, axillary and alternate, on the upper part of the stem. june. _l._ sessile, lanceolate, serrated. stem simple, furrowed. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . borders. there is also a very showy white-flowered variety named _alba_. =c. haylodgensis= (hay lodge). _fl._ light blue, rather open, bell-shaped, few, at the ends of the stems. august. _l._, radical ones tufted, roundish-cordate, with the margins slightly indented; cauline ones ovate-cordate, conspicuously toothed, light green. _h._ in. to in. rockery. this is a hybrid, raised by mr. anderson-henry, hay lodge, edinburgh, probably between _c. carpathica_ and _c. pusilla_. =c. hederacea= (ivy-like). _see_ =wahlenbergia hederacea=. =c. hostii= (host's).* a synonym of _c. rotundifolia hostii_. =c. isophylla= (equal-leaved).* _fl._ numerous, erect, disposed in a corymb; corolla lilac-blue, with a grey centre, large, salver-shaped, deeply five-lobed. august. _l._ broadly ovate, cordate, and toothed. stems firm. north italy, . borders and rockery. syn. _c. floribunda_. (b. m. .) c. i. alba (white).* _fl._ pure white; in other respects like the species. it is a charming rockery plant, flowering very freely. [illustration: fig. . flowers of campanula laciniata.] =c. laciniata= (cut-leaved). _fl._ long-stalked, in lax panicles. stem erect, branchy, somewhat hairy. _h._ ft. islands in grecian archipelago, . this biennial species is impatient of much moisture during winter, and is therefore best kept in a cold frame. see fig. . =c. lactiflora= (milk-coloured-flowered).* _fl._ in loose panicles; peduncles erect, short, usually three-flowered; corollas erect, milk-coloured, tinged with blue, or quite blue, as in the variety named _cÅ�rulea_. july to september. _l._ sessile. ovate-lanceolate, acutely serrated. stems branched. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus, . borders. syn. _c. celtidifolia_. see fig. . (b. r. .) [illustration: fig. . campanula langsdorffiana.] =c. langsdorffiana= (langsdorff's). _fl._ blue, either solitary or in few-flowered panicles, not unlike those of _c. rotundifolia_. _l._ either entire or toothed. _h._ in. to in. mountains of northern asia and america. perennial. see fig. . =c. latifolia= (broad-leaved). _fl._ disposed in spicate racemes; peduncles erect, one-flowered; corolla blue, but sometimes white (in the variety _alba_) campanulately funnel-shaped, large. july. _l._ large, doubly serrated; radical ones petiolate, cordate, ovate-oblong; cauline ones sessile, ovate-acuminated. stems simple, smooth. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. (sy. en. b. .) =c. l. eriocarpa= (woolly-fruited). _fl._, tube of calyx very hispid. _l._ less acuminated. stem and leaves pilose and pale. caucasus, . borders. =c. l. macrantha= (large-flowered).* _fl._, corollas purplish-blue, larger than those of the type. stem and leaves rather pilose; teeth of leaves more distinct. a hybrid. borders. =c. loefflingii= (lÅ�ffling's). _fl._ solitary, terminating the naked branchlets, loosely panicled, drooping; corolla blue or violaceous, with a deeper-coloured zone beneath the middle, white at the base, both inside and out, funnel-shaped. july. _l._ crenulated; lower ones ovate-reniform; superior ones ovate, stem-clasping. stem much branched. annual. _h._ in. to in. south-west europe, . (b. r. , .) =c. loreyi= (lorey's). a synonym of _c. ramosissima_. =c. lyrata= (lyrate). _fl._ disposed in a long, many-flowered, loose raceme; corolla blue, tubular, with rather pilose nerves. june. _l._, lower ones petiolate, cordate, ovate, acute, crenated; superior ones sessile, ovate-lanceolate, serrate-toothed. stem branched. eastern europe, levant, &c., . borders. [illustration: fig. . campanula macrostyla.] =c. macrostyla= (large-styled). _fl._ dull purple, reticulated with violet, solitary, on stout stalks; hairy towards the base. july. _l._, lower ones ovate-oblong, acute; upper ones ovate-lanceolate, recurved, small for the size of the plant, hispid on both surfaces, and ciliated with bristles. _h._ ft. to ft. taurus mountains. annual. borders. the rigid habit, bristly, almost prickly, stem and leaves, curious calyx appendages, short gaping corolla, and wonderful stigma, mark this as the most singular campanula hitherto introduced. see fig. . =c. medium= (middle-sized).* canterbury bells. _fl._ numerous, large, disposed in racemes; corolla blue, purple, and white, campanulate, inflated, single and double. july. _l._ sessile, ovate-lanceolate, crenately toothed. stem erect, branched. _h._ ft. to ft. south europe, . see fig. . a well-known and very handsome biennial, of which there are numerous varieties. borders. =c. muralis= (wall).* a synonym of _c. portenschlagiana_. =c. nana= (dwarf). a synonym of _c. allionii_. =c. nitida= (shining).* _fl._ blue or white, disposed in spicate racemes; corolla campanulately rotate. summer. _l._ in rosettes, leathery, very dark and shining green, oblong, crenated; cauline ones linear-lanceolate, almost entire. stem simple. _h._ in. to in. north america, . borders. there are also double blue and white flowered forms of this species. syn. _c. planiflora_. =c. nobilis= (noble).* _fl._ drooping, crowded towards the ends of the branchlets; corollas reddish-violet, or white, or cream-coloured, spotted, in. or more long. july. _l._ hairy; lower ones petiolate, ovate, toothed; upper ones lanceolate, nearly or quite sessile. _h._ ft. china, . borders. (b. r. , .) there is also a white-flowered variety. =c. patula= (spreading). _fl._ panicled, terminal, and axillary, on long pedicels, large, erect; corollas blue or white, funnel-shaped. july. _l._, radical ones crowded, obovate, crenated; cauline ones linear-lanceolate, sessile, nearly entire. stems branched. branches diverging. europe. borders. (sy. en. b. .) [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of campanula medium.] =c. peregrina= (foreign).* _fl._ disposed in a dense spicate raceme, sessile; corollas of a dark violet colour at the base, not so deep in the middle, and paler towards the margins, funnel-shaped. july. _l._ crenated; lower ones obovate; superior ones ovate, acute. stem simple, angular. _h._ ft. mount lebanon, . borders. (b. m. .) =c. persicæfolia= (peach-leaved).* _fl._ terminal and axillary, pedunculate, solitary, inclined, racemose; corollas blue and all the intermediate shades to white, large, broadly campanulate. july. _l._ glabrous, stiff, crenulated; radical ones lanceolate-obovate; cauline ones linear-lanceolate. stems nearly simple. _h._ ft. to ft. britain. (sy. en. b. .) the forms of _c. persicæfolia_ are very numerous in gardens. the following are well worth growing: _alba_, pure white, single-flowered; _alba coronata_, pure white, semi-double; _alba fl.-pl._, flowers very double and camellia-like, constituting one of the best hardy flowers for cutting; _cærulea coronata_, blue, in form like the white; _cærulea fl.-pl._, flowers semi-double. =c. phrygia= (phrygian). _fl._, corolla bluish-violet, spreading, having the nerves more intensely coloured. july. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, crenated; lower ones obtuse, upper acute. stem branched. branches very naked, divaricate, each terminating in a single flower. _h._ in. to in. mount olympus, . rockery annual. =c. planiflora= (flat-flowered). a synonym of _c. nitida_. =c. portenschlagiana= (portenschlag's).* _fl._ light blue-purple, erect, or nearly so, bell-shaped, with spreading segments, several at the ends of the shoots, and one or two in the upper axils. june, july. _l._, radical ones broadly reniform, conspicuously but irregularly toothed, on long slender petioles; cauline ones passing from reniform to ovate. _h._ in. to in. south europe. rockery. syn. _c. muralis_. (b. r. .) =c. primulæfolia= (primula-leaved). _fl._ disposed in a spicate raceme; corolla blue or purple, with a whitish downy bottom, campanulately rotate, nearly glabrous. july. _l._ unequally and doubly crenated; radical ones lanceolate, bluntish; cauline ones ovate-oblong, acute. stem hispid, simple. _h._ ft. to ft. portugal. borders. (b. m. .) =c. pulla= (russet).* _fl._ terminal, large for the size of the plant; corollas violaceous-blue, campanulate. june. _l._ glabrous, crenulately toothed; lower ones on short petioles, ovate-roundish; superior ones sessile, ovate, acute. stems rarely pilose at the base. _h._ in. to in. eastern europe, . rockery, in rich sandy peat and leaf soil. (l. b. c. .) =c. pumila= (dwarf). a synonym of _c. pusilla_. [illustration: fig. . upper portion of flowering stem of campanula punctata.] =c. punctata= (dotted). _fl._ whitish, spotted with red on the inner surface; large, pendulous. _l._ ovate-acute, somewhat crenate. stem simple, erect, few-flowered. _h._ - / ft. siberia, japan, &c. border perennial. see fig. . =c. pusilla= (small).* _fl._ axillary and terminal at the upper part of the slender stems, pendulous, bell-shaped, passing from deep blue to white. july, august. _l._, radical ones tufted, broadly ovate or roundish, slightly cordate, obtusely serrated, on petioles longer than the laminæ; cauline ones linear-lanceolate, distinctly toothed, sessile. _h._ in. to in. southern europe. syn. _c. pumila_. (b. m. .) there is a pale-coloured variety named _pallida_, and a pure white variety named _alba_, both of which, as well as the species, are most desirable for the embellishment of rockeries, or for planting in sandy soil as a front line for a border. [illustration: fig. . campanula pyramidalis, showing habit and flower.] =c. pyramidalis= (pyramidal).* chimney bell-flower. _fl._ very numerous, pedicellate, usually three together from the same bract, the whole disposed in a large pyramidal raceme, which is loose at the base; corollas pale blue or white, with a dark base. july. _l._ glandularly toothed; lower ones petiolate, ovate-oblong, somewhat cordate; cauline ones sessile, ovate-lanceolate. stem nearly simple, but furnished with floriferous branchlets. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . see figs. and . there are several excellent varieties, but the light and dark blue and white are the best. borders, and for pot culture. =c. raineri= (rainer's).* _fl._ blue, erect; corolla turbinate. june. _l._ almost sessile, ovate, tomentose, remotely serrated; lower ones the smallest, obovate. stems erect, firm, branched. branches one-flowered, leafy. _h._ in. to in. switzerland, italy, &c., . a beautiful little alpine, requiring a warm position in rich gritty soil; it must be religiously protected against slugs. (f. d. s. .) [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of campanula pyramidalis.] =c. ramosissima= (much-branched). _fl._, corolla with a white base; middle part or base of the lobes pale blue, and the lobes bluish-violet; peduncles long, naked, glabrous, bearing each an erect flower at the apex. june. _l._ sessile, glaucous; lower ones obovate, crenated; middle ones ovate-lanceolate; superior ones linear, entire. stem branched. _h._ in. to in. south europe, . annual. syn. _c. loreyi_. (b. m. .) =c. r. flore-albo= (white-flowered) only differs from the type in having white flowers. [illustration: fig. . campanula rapunculus.] =c. rapunculoides= (rapunculus-like).* _fl._ drooping, solitary, disposed in spike-formed racemes, secund, but usually hanging on all sides in strong garden specimens; corollas bluish-violet, funnel-shaped, and bearded a little inside. june. _l._ scabrous, ovate, acuminated; radical ones petiolate, cordate, crenulated; cauline ones serrulated. stems glabrous or scabrous, usually branched in gardens, but simple in the wild state. _h._ ft. to ft. europe. borders. (sy. en. b. .) =c. r. trachelioides= (trachelium-like). stem and leaves, but particularly the calyx, beset with stiff white hairs. =c. rapunculus= (little turnip).* rampion. _fl._ nearly sessile, or pedicellate, erect, forming a long raceme, which is branched at the base; corolla blue or white, funnel-shaped. july. _l._, lower ones obovate, on short petioles, nearly entire; cauline ones sessile, linear-lanceolate, entire. stem simple, but sometimes furnished with a few branches towards the top. _h._ ft. to ft. europe. borders. see fig. . (sy. en. b. .) =c. rhomboidalis= (rhomboidal). _fl._ usually drooping, few, disposed in loose racemes, pedunculate; corolla blue, campanulate. july. _l._ sessile, ovate, acute, serrate. stem glabrous, or a little pilose, furnished with flower-bearing branches at top. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . border. syn. _c. rhomboidea_. (l. b. c. .) =c. rhomboidea= (diamond-leaved). a synonym of _c. rhomboidalis_. =c. rotundifolia= (round-leaved).* blue-bell; hare-bell. _fl._ drooping, solitary, pedunculate, few on each stem; corolla deep blue, campanulate. june to august. _l._, radical ones petiolate, cordate roundish, crenately toothed; cauline ones linear or lanceolate. stems numerous. _h._ in. to in. britain. (sy. en. b. .) =c. r. alba= (white).* _fl._ white, the same size as those of the type. stems much more leafy. =c. r. hostii= (host's).* _fl._ rich blue, much larger than those of the type, produced on stouter profusely branched stems. july, august. _l._, radical ones roundish only in a very early state; cauline ones linear, acuminate, sometimes in. to in. long. syn. _c. hostii_. see fig. . there is a white-flowered form of this, not quite so vigorous as the blue-flowered form, but the flowers are equal in size. [illustration: fig. . flowers of campanula rotundifolia soldanellÃ�flora.] =c. r. soldanellæflora= (soldanella-flowered).* _fl._, corolla blue, semi-double, turbinate, with shallow marginal divisions, very acutely pointed. june. _l._ long, linear, acute, sessile. stem simple, slender. _h._ ft. . (r. g. .) all the forms of _rotundifolia_ are pretty, and suitable for the front of borders, or the rockery; rising from the crevices of the latter, with their slender stems laden with flowers, they are especially beautiful. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . flowers and leaves of campanula sarmatica.] =c. sarmatica= (sarmatian).* _fl._ nutant, usually secund, terminal and axillary, forming a long, loose, scattered raceme; corolla pale blue, velvety outside. july. _l._ tomentose; lower ones petiolate, cordate, rather hastate, crenately toothed; superior ones sessile, ovate-lanceolate, serrate-toothed. stems simple, straight, downy. _h._ ft. to ft. caucasus, . borders. (b. r. .) see fig. . =c. saxatilis= (rock). _fl._ three to five, disposed in a loose raceme; corolla blue, tubular, nutant. may. _l._ crenated; radical ones rosulate, somewhat spathulate; cauline ones ovate, acute. stem erect. _h._ in. crete, . rockery. very rare. =c. scheuchzeri= (scheuchzer's).* _fl._ dark blue, pendent, on slender stems, broadly bell-shaped. july, august. _l._, lower ones similar to those of _c. pusilla_; upper ones linear. _h._ in. to in. south european alps, . (l. b. c. .) =c. scouleri= (scouler's). _fl._ pale blue, paniculate, bell-shaped. july, august. _l._, lower ones ovate, on long petioles, coarsely serrated; cauline ones ovate-lanceolate. _h._ ft. north-west america, . rockery. =c. sibirica= (siberian). _fl._ panicled, numerous, drooping; corollas bluish-violet, large. july. _l._ crenulated; radical ones crowded, petiolate, obovate, obtuse; cauline ones sessile, oblong-lanceolate, undulated, acuminated. plant beset with bristle-like hairs. stem branched. _h._ ft. to - / ft. east europe, . biennial. borders. (b. m. .) =c. s. divergens= (divergent).* _fl._ violaceous, rather large, at first erect, but drooping in the expanded state; peduncles many-flowered, and, like the stem, usually trichotomous. june. _l._, radical ones sub-spathulate, crenulated, narrowed at the base; cauline ones sessile, lanceolate, acuminated. plant pilose, panicled. _h._ - / ft. siberia, . biennial. syn. _c. spathulata_. (s. b. f. g. ii., .) =c. spathulata= (spathulate). a synonym of _c. sibirica divergens_. =c. speciosa= (beautiful).* _fl._ pedicellate, disposed in a pyramidal raceme; corolla blue, purple or white, in. long, smooth outside, but often villous inside. june, july. _l._ sessile, repandly crenated; radical ones rosulate, linear-lanceolate; cauline ones linear. stem simple. _h._ in. to in. south-west europe, . borders. (b. m. .) =c. spicata= (spicate). _fl._ sessile, one to three from each bract; spike long, interrupted at the base; corolla blue, funnel-shaped. july. _l._ sessile, nearly entire; radical ones crowded, linear-lanceolate; cauline ones linear, acuminated. stem simple. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . biennial. borders. (a. f. p. , .) =c. stricta= (strict). _fl._ almost sessile, few, solitary, spicate; corolla blue, tubular. july. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, acute, serrated, pilose. stem branched, pilose. _h._ ft. to ft. armenia, . biennial. borders. [illustration: fig. . campanula thyrsoidea, showing entire plant and single flower.] =c. thyrsoidea= (thyrsoid).* _fl._ disposed in a dense pyramidal spike, sessile; corolla sulphur-coloured, oblong. july. _l._ entire, pilose; lower ones lanceolate, obtuse; cauline ones linear-lanceolate, acute. stem simple, covered with leaves and flowers. plant pilose. _h._ ft. to - / ft. alps of europe, . biennial. rockery. (b. m. .) see fig. . =c. tommasiniana= (tommasini's).* _fl._ pale blue, tubular, slightly angled, in closely set, several-flowered, axillary cymes. july, august. _l._ nearly or quite sessile, linear-lanceolate, acuminate, distinctly serrated, there being no difference between the lower and upper ones. stems at first erect, ultimately drooping through the weight of the flowers. _h._ in. to in. italy. a very handsome alpine species. (b. m. .) =c. trachelium= (throat-wort).* _fl._ drooping a little, one to four together, terminating the branchlets; corolla variously coloured, campanulate, bearded inside. july. _l._ scabrous, acuminated, coarsely and crenately toothed; radical ones petiolate, cordate. stem angular, simple or branched. _h._ ft. to ft. europe. borders. (sy. en. b. .) there are double blue, double white, and variously shaded single forms of this species. =c. trichocalycina= (hairy-calyxed). _fl._ disposed in an almost simple terminal raceme, approximate at the top, one to three rising from each axil, at the time of flowering erect, but afterwards drooping; corolla profoundly five-cleft, funnel-shaped. july. _l._ on short petioles, ovate, acute, coarsely serrated. stem simple. _h._ ft. to ft. europe, . borders. =c. van houttei= (van houtte's).* _fl._ dark blue, bell-shaped, pendulous, in. long, axillary and terminal. july, august. _l._, lower ones roundish-cordate, crenate on long stalks; cauline ones oblong-lanceolate, sessile, serrated. _h._ ft. this is a very fine hybrid. differing from it only in colour and other unimportant details is _c. burghalti_, a handsome hybrid, found in gardens; the flowers are of a pale purple colour, very large, pendent. these are two of the best border bell-flowers in cultivation. =c. versicolor= (various-coloured). _fl._ disposed in long spicate racemes; corolla of a deep violaceous colour at bottom, pale in the middle, and the lobes pale violet, companulately rotate. july to september. _l._ serrated; radical ones petiolate, ovate, acute, rather cordate; cauline ones on short petioles, ovate-lanceolate, acuminated. stems erect. _h._ ft. to ft. greece, . borders. (s. f. g. .) =c. vidalii= (vidal's). _fl._ large, racemose; corolla white, wax-like, between urceolate and campanulate, pendulous; disk singularly broad, surrounded by a thick bright orange-coloured annulus. july and august. _l._ thick and fleshy, oblong spathulate, viscid, coarsely serrated. _h._ ft. to ft. azores, . perennial. cool greenhouse or (during summer) herbaceous border. (b. m. .) [illustration: fig. . campanula waldsteiniana.] =c. waldsteiniana= (waldstein's).* _fl._ three to four at the top of each stem, one of which is terminal, and the others from the axils of the superior leaves, always looking upwards; corollas violaceous-blue, campanulate. june. _l._ greyish, sessile, lanceolate, serrated; lower ones obtuse; superior ones long-acuminated. stems erect, flexuous, stiff, simple, numerous from the same root. _h._ in. to in. hungary, . see fig. . =c. wanneri= (wanner's). a synonym of _symphyandra wanneri_. =c. zoysii= (zoys's).* _fl._ pedicellate, drooping; corolla pale blue, with five deeper-coloured lines, cylindrical, elongated. june. _l._ entire; radical ones crowded, petiolate, ovately obovate, obtuse; cauline ones obovate-lanceolate, and linear. plant small, tufted. _h._ in. carniola, . a scarce little alpine gem, thriving in a sunny chink in rich gritty soil. =campanulaceÃ�.= a large order of herbs or sub-shrubs. flowers blue or white; corolla regular, bell-shaped, usually five-lobed. leaves alternate, exstipulate. the genus best known is _campanula_; other genera are _adenophora_, _jasione_, and _phyteuma_. =campanulate.= bell-shaped. =campanumÃ�a= (altered from _campanula_). ord. _campanulaceæ_. a genus of greenhouse herbaceous, tuberous-rooted, twining perennials. flowers involucrated, solitary, on axillary and terminal peduncles. leaves opposite, petiolate, glaucescent beneath. stems and branches terete. they thrive best in a rich sandy loam, with a little peat. propagated by seeds and divisions. =c. gracilis= (graceful). _fl._ pale blue; corolla membranous, with a tubular base, dilated throat, and slightly expanded, truncated limb. _l._ on long petioles, ovate, blunt. himalayas. syn. _codonopsis gracilis_. (c. h. p. t. xvi. a.) =c. inflata= (inflated). _fl._ yellowish, with brownish veins; corolla herbaceous, ventricose; peduncles opposite the leaves, one-flowered. _l._ alternate, ovate-cordate, acute. himalayas. (c. h. p. t. xvi. c.) =c. javanica= (javan). _fl._ yellowish, with brownish veins; corolla herbaceous, very broadly campanulate, with five spreading lobes. _l._ variable, opposite and alternate, ovate-cordate, crenate. himalayas. (c. h. p. t. xvi. b.) =campeachy wood=, or =logwood=. _see_ =hæmatoxylon campechianum=. =camphora= (camphor, commercial name of its chief product). camphor-tree. ord. _laurineæ_. cool stove evergreen trees, now referred to _cinnamomum_. the true camphor of commerce is a product of the oil procured from the wood, branches, and leaves of this tree, by means of dry distillation. the species thrives in a compost of peat and loam, and may be propagated by cuttings. =c. officinalis= (officinal). _fl._ greenish-white. march to june. _l._ triple-nerved, lanceolate, ovate. _h._ ft. japan, . syn. _cinnamomum camphora_. =camphor-tree.= _see_ =camphora=. =campion.= _see_ =silene=. =campion, moss.= _see_ =silene acaulis=. =campion, rose.= _see_ =lychnis=. =campsidium= (from _kampsis_, a curving). ord. _bignoniaceæ_. a small genus, the best-known (perhaps the only) species being a handsome greenhouse climber. for culture, _see_ =bignonia=. =c. chilense= (chilian). pipil boqui. _fl._ rich orange colour; corolla tubular, almost regular; anthers parallel. _l._ pinnate, dark shining green. _h._ ft. to ft. chili. (g. c. , .) =campteria.= included under =pteris= (which _see_). =camptodium.= _see_ =nephrodium=. =camptopus= (from _kamptos_, curved, and _pous_, a foot; the flower-stalk is curved downwardly). ord. _rubiaceæ_. a curious shrub, now referred to _cephaelis_. it requires a most stove temperature. cuttings will root in sandy loam, under a hand glass, in bottom heat. =c. mannii= (mann's). _fl._ white, numerously produced in subglobose, compound heads; peduncles stout, scarlet, drooping, from in. to in. long. summer. _l._ large, opposite, obovate or obovate-lanceolate, glabrous, coriaceous; midrib thick, red beneath. _h._ ft. fernando po, . (b. m. .) =camptosorus.= _see_ =scolopendrium=. =campylanthera.= a synonym of =pronaya=. =campylia.= included under =pelargonium=. =campylobotrys.= _see_ =hoffmannia=. =campyloneuron.= _see_ polypodium. =camwood.= _see_ =baphia=. =canada balsam.= _see_ =abies balsamea=. =canada rice.= _see_ =zizania aquatica=. =canada tea.= _see_ =gaultheria procumbens=. =canaliculate.= channelled, or furrowed. =canarina= (so named from its habitat). syn. _pernettya_ (of scopoli). ord. _campanulaceæ_. a beautiful, glaucescent, greenhouse, herbaceous perennial. it thrives in a compost of loam, leaf mould, thoroughly decomposed manure, and sand, in equal parts; ample root space and perfect drainage are essential, and when new growth commences, a little extra heat will considerably accelerate the development of the flowers. water should be liberally supplied during the growing season. the plant may be propagated by divisions when repotting, in january; or by young cuttings, inserted in sandy soil, in a gentle warmth. =c. campanula= (bell-shaped).* _fl._ of a yellowish purple or orange colour, with red nerves, drooping, solitary, terminating axillary branchlets; corolla six-lobed at the apex, large, campanulate. january to march. _l._ opposite, hastately sub-cordate, irregularly toothed. _h._ ft. to ft. canary islands, . (b. m. .) =canarium= (from _canari_, its vernacular name in the malay language). ord. _burseraceæ_. a rather large genus of stove trees. flowers small, in axillary panicles; petals usually three, valvate, or slightly imbricate in the bud. drupe ovoid or ellipsoid, often three-angled. leaves large, impari-pinnate. for culture, _see_ =boswellia=. =c. commune= (common). _fl._ white, glomerate, nearly sessile, bracteate; panicle terminal. _l._, leaflets seven to nine, on long stalks, ovate-oblong, bluntly acuminated, entire. india. the fruit has a thin olive skin, and when the nuts are mature, they contain a sweet kernel, which does not become rancid, and resembles a sweet chestnut; they are also used for various economic purposes. (b. m. pl. .) =canary-bird flower.= _see_ =tropæolum peregrinum=. =canavalia= (from _canavali_, the name of one of the species in malabar). ord. _leguminosæ_. a genus of elegant twining or climbing stove herbs or subshrubs. flowers in racemes, produced from the axils of the leaves; calyx bell-shaped, two-lipped; corolla papilionaceous. leaves trifoliate. they are well adapted for training up the rafters in a stove or warm greenhouse. for culture, _see_ =dolichos=. =c. bonariensis= (buenos ayrean). _fl._ purple; racemes drooping, longer than the leaves. july and august. _l._, leaflets ovate, obtuse, coriaceous, glabrous. buenos ayres, . (b. r. .) =c. ensiformis= (ensiform).* _fl._ white, red, pendulous; racemes longer than the leaves. june. _l._, leaflets ovate, acute. india, . syn. _c. gladiata_. (b. m. .) =c. gladiata= (sword-podded). synonymous with _c. ensiformis_. =c. obtusifolia= (obtuse-leaved). _fl._ purple. july, august. _l._, leaflets ovate obtuse. malabar, . =canbia= (named in honour of w. m. canby, of wilmington, delaware). ord. _papaveraceæ_. a monotypic genus, remarkable for its persistent (not caducous) corolla. sepals three, caducous; petals six, barely / in. in length; stamens six to nine. [illustration: fig. . canbia candida.] =b. candida= (glossy white). _fl._ white, solitary, on little scapes. _l._ alternate, linear, entire. _h._ about in. discovered in sandy soil in south-east california, in . see fig. . =cancellate.= latticed; resembling lattice-work. =candelabrum= or =chandelier tree=. _see_ =pandanus candelabrum=. =candleberry myrtle.= _see_ =myrica cereifera=. =candleberry-tree.= _see_ =aleurites triloba=. =candle-tree.= _see_ =parmentiera cerifera=. =candollea= (named after augustus pyramus de candolle, formerly professor of botany, at geneva, and author of numerous botanical works). ord. _dilleniaceæ_. a genus of very ornamental greenhouse evergreen shrubs, natives of australia. flowers yellow, sub-solitary, at the tips of the branches; sepals five, oval, mucronate; petals obovate or obcordate. they thrive in a compost of equal parts loam and peat, with which sufficient sand may be mixed to render the whole porous. cuttings will root, if placed in a similar compost, under a hand glass; seeds are also sometimes obtainable. [illustration: fig. . flowers and buds of candollea cuneiformis.] =c. cuneiformis= (wedge-shaped).* _fl._ yellow. july. _l._ smooth, obovately cuneated, blunt at the top, entire. branches cinerous. _h._ ft. . see fig. . (b. m. .) =c. huegelii= (huegel's). _fl._ at tops of the branches, among the leaves, on short pedicels; sepals acuminate, hoary outside, longer than the petals. may. _l._ linear, quite entire, villous when young. _h._ ft. . =c. tetrandra= (four-stamened). _fl._ yellow, solitary; petals emarginate. june. _l._ oblong, cuneate, toothed. _h._ ft. . (b. r. , .) =candytuft.= _see_ =iberis=. =cane-brake.= a common name for different species of _arundinaria_. =canella= (a diminutive of _canna_, a reed; in allusion to the rolled bark, like cinnamon). ord. _canellaceæ_. the best-known species of this genus is a very ornamental and economically valuable stove evergreen tree, which thrives in a mixture of loam and sand. well-ripened cuttings, taken off at a joint, will root in sand, under a hand glass, with bottom heat, in april or may; but care should be taken not to deprive them of any of their leaves. sweet says that large old cuttings are best. =c. alba= (white).* _fl._ violet-colour, small, growing at the tops of branches in cluster, but upon divided peduncles. _l._ alternate, obovate, cuneated at the base, white, or glaucous beneath, somewhat coriaceous, sometimes full of pellucid dots. _h._ ft. the whole tree is very aromatic, and, when in blossom, perfumes the neighbourhood. the flowers dried, and softened again in warm water, have a fragrant odour, nearly approaching to that of musk. the leaves have a strong smell of laurel. west indies, &c., . (t. l. s. i., .) =canellaceÃ�.= a small order of tropical american aromatic shrubs, allied to _bixineæ_, from which it differs only in having the albumen firmer, and with a smaller embryo. the genera are _canella_ and _cinnamodendron_. =canescent.= hoary, approaching to white. =canicidia.= a synonym of =rourea= (which _see_). =canistrum= (from _canistrum_, a basket; in allusion to the inflorescence resembling a basket of flowers). ord. _bromeliaceæ_. stove epiphytes, with showy inflorescence, and requiring similar culture to =billbergia= (which _see_). =c. aurantiacum= (orange).* _fl._ orange-yellow, in a cup-shaped involucre of orange-red bracts; scapes erect. june to september. _l._ ligulate-lorate denticulate, deflexed. brazil, . see fig. . (b. h. , .) [illustration: fig. . canistrum aurantiacum.] =c. eburneum= (ivory).* _fl._ white, green, disposed in a depressed head, the white ovaries of which give an appearance as of eggs in a basket. may. _l._ tufted, mottled, the central ones cream-coloured, surrounding the flower-heads. _h._ ft. syns. _guzmannia fragrans_ and _nidularium lindeni_. brazil, . (b. h. , , .) =c. roseum= (rose-coloured). _fl._ white, green; bracts rosy. . =c. viride= (green). _fl._ green. _l._ green, canaliculate, acuminate, irregularly toothed. brazil, . syn. _nidularium latifolium_. (b. h. , .) =canker.= this is a disease presenting very serious difficulties, principally in the cultivation of apples and pears. both the trees and fruits, especially of some varieties, are, in many localities, so far injured as not to be worth cultivating. what causes the disease is not at all times known; indeed, it is, in most cases, but imperfectly understood. were the causes better known, the remedy might generally be much easier found. some of the primary causes are cold and undrained soil, severe and careless pruning, extreme variations of temperature, and excessive growth, made late in the season, when it has not sufficient time to get well ripened. trees that are badly cankered may often be improved by lifting, and replanting in improved or better-drained soil. immediately the disease is detected in young trees, by the cracking of the bark or the skin of the fruits, measures should be taken to find the cause, if possible, and avert its progress. some pear-trees, in various localities, will not produce fruit without canker in the open garden, but they will do so when planted against a wall; and as such may be the very best varieties, trees should be placed in the latter position. the removal of large branches, late in spring, will sometimes produce canker, at the point where mutilation has taken place; and it may be caused by severe late pruning, which induces the growth of soft shoots that are almost certain to be injured by severe frosts. the difference in the seasons, as regards the amount of moisture, is one that can scarcely be provided against. one spring may be favourable to rapid growth, and the following may be most unfavourable, thereby arresting the natural flow of the sap until the latter part of the summer, when excessive growth will probably take place. such checks invariably produce canker. at times, the disease seems caused by the punctures of insects, in an early stage, on the stems or branches. in such instances, a thorough cleansing, and a smearing of quicklime, made into a wash, often proves successful. strong tobacco water will destroy insects, and a weak solution of sulphuric acid is also fatal to lichens and mosses, which should never be allowed to obtain a footing. the chief preventatives, therefore, are: planting in well-drained soil; avoiding the use of any rank manure, to cause excessive growth; changing the old, or adding new, soil to injured trees; careful pruning, and the encouragement of early growth in spring, and subsequent well ripening in autumn. [illustration: fig. . canna indica, showing habit, flowers, and leaves.] =canna= (derivation uncertain; according to some, from _cana_, the celtic name for cane, or reed). indian shot. ord. _scitamineæ_. a large genus of stove herbaceous perennials, very extensively employed in sub-tropical and other methods of summer gardening. flowers spathaceous; anther attached to the edge of the petal-like filament. leaves very ornamental. few plants are more easily grown, or more quickly propagated. seeds of many of the finer sorts may be bought cheaply from respectable seedsmen. these should be sown in heat, in february or march. a warm house or cucumber pit is the best place for sowing the seeds, which are very hard. if soaked in tepid water for twenty-four hours, germination will be materially stimulated. a mixture of sand and leaf mould is best for them, and a covering of - / in. or in. of earth is not excessive. they should be sown thinly, in pans. as cannas are gross, and have somewhat brittle roots in a young state, it is a good plan to sow the seed singly in small pots. this method preserves all the roots intact, and prevents any check in potting off or dividing the plants out of seed pans or boxes. when this is not done, the plants must be potted off singly, as soon as they have formed two leaves, in. pots being used for the first shift. the soil can hardly be too rich and porous. equal parts rotted dung, loam, and sand, with a little peat, form a capital mixture for them. the plants must be kept in a growing temperature of deg. or so, during their earlier stages, and shifted as required into larger pots. under proper management, the roots will fill in. pots by the middle or end of may. they ought not to be planted out till the end of may or the first week in june. should fairly rich soil and a sheltered place be selected for them, they will not only grow, but flower freely during the late summer and autumn months. cannas are also very effective indoors, either for greenhouse or room decoration. for these purposes they may be grown on in in., in., or even in., pots, with rich soil, and placed either in a stove, intermediate house, warm or cool conservatory, window, or room. liberal supplies of manure water will be of very great benefit. propagation is also effected by means of divisions; they form a root-stock very like some of the commoner and more free-growing irises, each portion of which, with bud and roots attached, may be converted into an independent plant. the best mode of procedure is to divide the root-stock in early spring, when the pieces may be placed in in. pots at once; and, if plunged in a bottom heat of deg. or so, they will quickly resume root action and grow rapidly. they may also be propagated by division without bottom heat. those who grow large quantities seldom put their plants in pots at all. stored in pots or boxes for the winter, they are divided and placed singly in similar positions in the spring, and transferred from such vessels into the open air. the best open site for cannas is in a sheltered spot, with a good depth of rich soil, and plenty of moisture. in such a position, their noble leaves are not so much injured by rough winds. after flowering, or at the end of the season, they may be lifted and stored away in boxes, or in pots of earth, in dry, frost-proof sheds, or under greenhouse stages during winter. in warm, sheltered situations, with dry bottoms, they winter safely in the open, provided their crowns are covered with ft. of litter or cocoa fibre refuse. but where the soil is wet and cold, or the situation bleak and unprotected, they should be lifted and stored away, as already described. =c. achiras variegata= (variegated achiras).* _fl._ dark red. august. _l._ bright green, striped with white and yellow. better adapted for indoor culture than out. =c. annæi= (m. année's).* _fl._ salmon-colour, large, well formed. june. _l._ large, green, glaucescent, ovate-acute, ft. long by in. wide. stems vigorous, stiff, sea-green. _h._ ft. (r. h. , .) of this there are many forms, the best of which are: =c. a. discolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ rosy-yellow, few, small. late summer. _l._ lanceolate, erect, light red, - / ft. long, in. wide. stems dark red. _h._ ft. to ft. =c. a. fulgida= (red).* _fl._ orange-red, large, well-opened. _l._ in. long, in. wide, deep purple, erect. stems small, dark red. _h._ ft. to ft. =c. a. rosea= (rose).* _fl._ carmine-rose colour, small, few. late summer. _l._ ft. long, very narrow, pointed, erect. stems dark green, with a reddish base, numerous. _h._ ft. =c. auguste ferrier= (a. ferrier's).* _fl._ orange-red, medium-sized. _l._ very large, oval, erect, pointed, deep green, with narrow stripes and margins of dark purplish-red. stem green, very thick, downy. _h._ ft. =c. aurantiaca= (orange). _fl._, segments of perianth rose-coloured outside, reddish inside; upper lip orange, lower one yellow, dotted with orange. _l._ large, broadly lanceolate, pale green; margins slightly undulated. _h._ - / ft. brazil, . =c. bihorelli= (bihorell's).* _fl._ deep crimson, produced upon branching spikes in great abundance. _l._ red when young, changing to deep bronze with age. _h._ ft. to ft. one of the best. =c. daniel hooibrenk.= _fl._ bright orange, large, freely produced. _l._ large, glaucous-green, acuminate, with bronzy margin. stalks strong, green. _h._ ft. =c. depute henon.=* _fl._ pure canary-colour, with a yellowish base, large; spikes numerous, rising gracefully above the foliage to a height of - / ft. _l._ ovate-acute, erect. _h._ ft. =c. discolor= (two-coloured).* _fl._ red. _l._ very large, broad, ovate-oblong; lower ones tinged with a blood-red hue; upper ones streaked with purple. stems stout, reddish. _h._ ft. south america, . (b. r. .) =c. edulis= (edible). _fl._ large, with purple outer segments, inner ones yellowish. _l._ broadly ovate-lanceolate, green, tinged with maroon. stems deep purple tinged. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . (b. r. .) =c. expansa-rubra= (red-expanded).* _fl._ large, with rounded bright purple segments. _l._ very large, sometimes over ft. long, and nearly ft. broad, ovate, obtuse, spreading horizontally, dark red. stems numerous, very thick. _h._ ft. to ft. =c. flaccida= (flaccid). _fl._ yellow, very large, not very unlike those of the native _iris pseudo-acorus_. _l._ ovate-lanceolate, erect. _h._ - / ft. south america, . (l. b. c. .) =c. gigantea= (gigantic).* _fl._ large, very ornamental, with orange-red outer, and deep purple red inner segments. summer. _l._ about ft. long; petioles covered with a velvety down. _h._ ft. south america, . (b. r. .) =c. indica= (indian).* indian reed. _fl._ rather large, irregular; spikes erect, with light yellow and carmine-red divisions. summer. _l._ large, alternate, ovate-lanceolate. _h._ ft. to ft. west indies, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =c. insignis= (magnificent). _fl._ orange-red, few, small. _l._ ovate, spreading horizontally, green, rayed and margined with purplish-red. stems violet, downy. _h._ ft. to ft. =c. iridiflora= (iris-flowered). _fl._ rose, with a yellow spot on the lip; spikes slightly drooping, several emanating from the same spathe. summer. _l._ broadly ovate-acuminate. _h._ ft. to ft. peru, . (b. r. .) =c. i. hybrida= (hybrid). _fl._ blood-red, very large, only properly developed when grown in a greenhouse. _l._ green, very large. stem green, downy, somewhat reddish. _h._ ft. to ft. =c. limbata= (bordered).* _fl._ yellowish-red, disposed in long loose spikes; spathes glaucous. _l._ oblong-lanceolate, acute. _h._ ft. native country uncertain, . (b. r. .) =c. l. major= (larger-bordered). _fl._ orange-red, large. _l._ large, lanceolate, - / ft. long, in. wide, spreading, deep green. stems downy. _h._ ft. to - / ft. =c. nigricans= (blackish).* _l._ coppery-red, lanceolate, acuminate, erect, - / ft. long, in. to in. broad. stems purplish-red. _h._ - / ft. to ft. one of the finest kinds. _c. atro-nigricans_ has leaves of a purplish shade, passing into dark red, of a deeper hue than those of _c. nigricans_. =c. premices de nice.= _fl._ bright yellow, very large. stems and leaves like those of _c. annæi_. =c. rendatleri= (rendatler's).* _fl._ salmon-red, numerous, large. _l._ much pointed, deep green, tinged with dark red. stems purplish-red. _h._ ft. to ft. [illustration: fig. . flowering spike of canna speciosa.] =c. speciosa= (showy).* _fl._ sessile, in pairs; petals two, erect, bifid; lip spotted, revolute. august. _l._ lanceolate. _h._ ft. nepaul, . see fig. . (b. m. .) =c. van-houttei= (van houtte's).* _fl._ bright scarlet, large, very abundantly produced. _l._ lanceolate, ft. to - / ft. long, acuminated, green, rayed and margined with dark purplish-red. =c. warscewiczii= (warscewicz's).* _fl._ with brilliant scarlet inner, and purplish outer segments. _l._ ovate-elliptic, narrowed at both ends, deeply tinged with dark purple. _h._ ft. costa rica, . (b. h. , .) there are several varieties of this species, the best two are: _chatei_, with very large dark red leaves, and _nobilis_, with deep green leaves, rayed and margined with dark red. =c. zebrina= (zebra-striped).* _fl._ orange, small. _l._ very large, ovate, erect, deep green, passing into dark red, rayed with violet-purple. stems dark violet-red. _h._ ft. to ft. =cannabinaceÃ�.= this order, of which the genus _cannabis_ (hemp) is the type, is now merged into _urticaceæ_. =cannabis= (from the greek word _kannabis_, used by dioscorides, and that from sanskrit _canam_). hemp. ord. _urticaceæ_. a small genus, of but little ornamental value. flowers racemose, diÅ�cious. nut two-valved, within the closed calyx. the undermentioned species is a hardy annual, of easy culture in ordinary garden soil. propagated by seeds, sown in spring. =c. sativa= (cultivated). _fl._ greenish. june. _l._ on long stalks; leaflets from five to seven, long, lanceolate, acuminated; margins serrated. _h._ ft. to ft., or even ft. india, &c. this plant is cultivated very extensively for the sake of its valuable fibre. well-grown plants have rather an ornamental appearance during the summer months. see fig. . [illustration: fig. . head of cannabis sativa.] =cannon-ball tree.= a common name for =couroupita guianensis= (which _see_). =canscora= (from _kansgan-cora_, the malabar name of _c. perfoliata_, as yet unintroduced). syn. _pladera_. including _phyllocyclus_. ord. _gentianeæ_. small, erect, simple or branched, stove or greenhouse annuals. flowers stalked or sub-sessile. leaves opposite, sessile or amplexicaul. corolla funnel-shaped, with a four-cleft, unequal limb; the two outer segments equal, two lower ones combined a greater distance. stems tetragonal. _c. parishii_ requires similar treatment to =balsam=, and grows best in a soil to which chalk or limestone débris is added. =c. parishii= (parish's). _fl._ white. _l._ opposite, perfectly connate, so that the united two apparently form an exactly orbicular leaf. _h._ ft. moulmein, . greenhouse. (b. m. .) =canterbury bells.= _see_ =campanula medium=. =cantharellus cibarius.= _see_ =chantarelle=. =canthium.= a synonym of =plectronia=. =cantua= (from _cantu_, the peruvian name of one of the species). syn. _periphragmos_. ord. _polemoniaceæ_. very pretty erect, branched greenhouse evergreen shrubs. flowers in corymbs, at the termination of the branches, rarely solitary and axillary. leaves entire or almost pinnatifid, alternate, petiolate, elliptic, acuminated, or cuneate-oblong, glabrous, or downy on both surfaces when young. they are of easy culture in a compost of turfy loam, leaf-mould, and sand, if good drainage is allowed. propagated by cuttings, placed in sand, under a hand glass. in the western parts of england, these plants--particularly _c. buxifolia_--thrive remarkably well in sheltered situations. =c. bicolor= (two-coloured). _fl._ solitary; corolla with a short yellow tube and scarlet limb. may. _h._ ft. peru, . (b. m. .) =c. buxifolia= (box-leaved).* _fl._, corolla pale red, straight, funnel-shaped, with a very long tube; corymbs few-flowered; peduncles tomentose. april. _l._ cuneate-oblong, mucronulate, quite entire. _h._ ft. peruvian andes, . an elegant plant, having the tops of branches, calyces, and young leaves, downy. syn. _c. dependens_. see fig. . (b. m. .) =c. dependens= (hanging). synonymous with _c. buxifolia_. =c. pyrifolia= (pyrus-leaved).* _fl._, corolla yellowish-white, curved; stamens twice as long as the corolla; corymbs terminal, dense-flowered. march. _l._ elliptic or obovate acute, entire or sinuate-dentate. _h._ ft. peru, . (b. m. .) =caoutchouc.= the elastic gummy substance known as indiarubber, which is the inspissated juice of various plants growing in tropical climates in different parts of the world; such as _castilloa_, _ficus elastica_, _hevea_, various species of _landolphia_, _manihot_, &c., &c. =cape everlasting.= _see_ =helichrysum=. =cape gooseberry.= _see_ =physalis peruviana=. [illustration: fig. . flowering branch of cantua buxifolia.] =cape gum.= the gum of _acacia karroo_ or _a. capensis_. =cape jessamine.= _see_ =gardenia florida=. =caper-tree.= _see_ =capparis=. =capillary.= very slender; resembling a hair. =capitate.= growing in a head. =capitulate.= growing in small heads. =capitulum.= a close head of flowers; the inflorescence of composites. =capparideÃ�.= an order of herbs or shrubs, rarely trees. flowers clustered, or solitary; sepals four to eight, imbricate or valvate; petals four, arranged crosswise, sometimes, but rarely, five, or eight, rarely absent. leaves alternate, very rarely opposite, stipulate or exstipulate. the order is distributed throughout the tropical and warm temperate regions of both hemispheres, the frutescent species being largely represented in america. there are about twenty-three genera--the best-known being _capparis_, _cleome_, and _cratæva_--and about species. =capparis= (_kapparis_, old greek name used by dioscorides, from persian _kabar_, capers). caper-tree. ord. _capparideæ_. greenhouse or stove evergreen shrubs, of considerable beauty. calyx four-parted; petals four; stamens numerous; succeeded by a berry. they thrive best in a compost of well-drained sandy loam. cuttings of ripe shoots will root in sand, under a hand glass, in moist heat. this genus contains about species, but it is very doubtful if more than six are to be found under cultivation in this country. =c. amygdalina= (almond-like).* _fl._ white; peduncles axillary, compressed, corymbiferous. _l._ elliptical-oblong, narrowed towards both ends, with a callous point; upper surface smooth; under surface, as well as the branches, covered with silvery scaly dots. _h._ ft. west indies, . stove. =c. cynophallophora= (dog-phallus bearing). _fl._ white, large, fragrant; peduncles few-flowered, shorter than the leaves. _l._ smooth, leathery, oblong, on short petiole. _h._ ft. to ft. west indies, . stove. (r. g. , .) =c. odoratissima= (sweetest-scented).* _fl._ violet, sweet-scented, about the size of myrtle, with yellow anthers; peduncles racemiferous at the top. _l._ oblong, acuminate, on long footstalks; upper surface smooth; under surface covered with little hard scales. _h._ ft. caraccas, . stove. [illustration: fig. . flower and bud of capparis spinosa.] =c. spinosa= (spiny).* common caper. _fl._ white, tinged with red on the outside; pedicels solitary, one-flowered. june. _l._ ovate, roundish, deciduous. _h._ ft. south europe, . this is an excellent greenhouse shrub, and one which we have found perfectly hardy in the southern counties of england. see fig. . (b. m. .) =caprifoliaceÃ�.= a rather large order of shrubs or herbs, often twining. flowers terminal, corymbose, or axillary; corolla superior, regular or irregular. leaves opposite, exstipulate. well-known genera are: _linnæa_, _lonicera_, _sambucus_, and _viburnum_. =caprifolium.= _see_ =lonicera=. [illustration: fig. . fruit of long and round capsicums.] =capsicum= (from _kapto_, to bite; on account of the biting heat of the seeds and pericarp). ord. _solanaceæ_. shrubs or sub-shrubs, rarely herbs. peduncles extra-axillary, one-flowered. leaves scattered, solitary, or twin, and quite entire. many of the species, although possessing considerable beauty, are but rarely grown, either for decoration or for the use of their fruit; consequently, we confine our specific enumeration to the common capsicum, the bird pepper or chili, and the bell pepper. the first two of these have long been in cultivation, for use either in a green state for pickles and for making chili vinegar, or ripened and ground as cayenne pepper. some sorts are exceedingly ornamental for greenhouse decoration in winter, if plants are well grown in rather small pots, and the fruit ripened under glass. the varieties producing small pods are the hottest, and consequently best suited for making cayenne pepper. these are generally called chilies. all other varieties of capsicum have a more or less pungent flavour, and those bearing larger pods are more profitable for use in a green state. the fruits of all are either red or yellow when ripe, and are of various sizes and shapes. some are produced and stand erect on the upper side of the branches; others hang underneath. fig. represents hanging fruits of long and round capsicums, the shapes of which are produced by both red and yellow varieties. _cultivation._ being natives of tropical countries, capsicums cannot always be depended upon to thoroughly ripen in the open air; but a good crop of green fruits may generally be obtained by preparing the plants early in the season, and planting out in a warm situation. sow the seeds in february or early in march, in pots or pans, placing them in heat; and so soon as the plants are large enough, pot off singly into in. pots, still keeping them in heat until well rooted. place them into in. or in. pots before they become starved; and gradually harden off and plant out about ft. asunder, in june. the fruits ripen better if the plants are placed against a south wall and tacked on to it. the safest plan to obtain a crop of ripe fruits is to cultivate under glass. pots of in. diameter are large enough. rich soil must be used, and any spare frames are suitable in summer. plenty of water and frequent syringings should be applied, as the plants are very liable to injury from red spider and other insects if this is in any way neglected. the fruits will keep some time after being ripe, but are never better than when fresh gathered; they may, however, be kept on the plants for a considerable period. _sorts._ chili, long red, long yellow, small red cayenne, round red, and round yellow. good ornamental varieties are: little gem, a very dwarf variety, of comparatively recent introduction, covered with small, erect, red pods; and prince of wales, free fruiting, with hanging bright yellow pods. =c. annuum= (annual). common capsicum. _fl._ white, solitary. june. petioles glabrous. _fr._ oblong, pendulous, and erect, red or yellow, variable in shape. _h._ ft. to ft. south america, . =c. baccatum.= bird pepper or chili. _fl._ greenish; peduncles twin. june. _fr._ small, erect, almost globose. _l._ oblong, glabrous, as well as the petiole. branches angular, striated. _h._ ft. to ft. tropical america, . greenhouse shrub. =c. grossum= (large). bell pepper. _fl._ white. july. india, . =capsular.= like a capsule. =capsule.= a dry dehiscent seed vessel or fruit. =caragana= (_caragan_ is the name of _c. arborescens_ among the monguls). siberian pea-tree. ord. _leguminosæ_. very ornamental hardy deciduous trees or shrubs. flowers usually yellow, axillary, either solitary or crowded, but always single on thin stalks. leaves abruptly pinnate, the midrib ending in a bristle or spine; leaflets mucronate. they are well adapted for shrubberies, and are of the easiest culture in sandy soil. propagated by cuttings, made of the roots, or by seeds; the low-growing shrubs by seeds and layers. caraganas are generally increased by grafting on _c. arborescens_, which is easily raised from seed, sown when ripe or in spring. =c. altagana= (altagana). _fl._ yellow; pedicels solitary. april to july. _l._ with six to eight pairs of glabrous, obovate-roundish, retuse leaflets; petiole unarmed. _h._ ft. to ft. dahuria, . shrub. =c. arborescens= (tree-like).* _fl._ pale or bright yellow; pedicels in fascicles. april, may. _l._ with four to six pairs of oval-oblong villous leaflets; petiole unarmed. stipules spinescent. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . tree. (b. m. .) =c. chamlagu= (chamlagu). _fl._ yellow, at length becoming reddish, large, pendulous; pedicels solitary. may. _l._ with two pairs of distant, oval, or obovate glabrous leaflets; stipules spreading, and, as well as the petioles, spinose. _h._ ft. to ft. china, . shrub. =c. frutescens= (woody).* _fl._ yellow, resupinate; pedicels solitary. april. _l._ with two pairs of leaflets, approximating the top of the petiole, obovate-cuneated; stipules membranous; petiole furnished with a short spine at the apex. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . shrub. (s. b. f. g. , .) there are one or two varieties of this species. =c. jubata= (bearded).* _fl._ white, suffused with red, few; pedicels solitary, very short. april. _l._ with four or five pairs of oblong-lanceolate, lanuginously-ciliated leaflets; stipules setaceous; petioles somewhat spinose. _h._ ft. to ft. siberia, . shrub. syn. _robinia jubata_. (l. b. c. .) * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber notes: | | | | p. . 't rminal' under aciotis, changed to 'terminal'. | | p. . 'ternstroemiaceoe' changed to 'ternstroemiaceæ' | | p. . 'producing fronds', fronds is usually in italics. changed. | | p. . 'a synonymn of a. venustum.', changed 'synonymn' | | to 'synonym'. | | p. . 'deeply chanelled', changed 'chanelled' to 'channelled'. | | p. . 'a. wislizeni ... which is under ft. broad'; should 'broad'| | be 'long'? left as a query. | | p. . a. scorodoprasum. 'europ' changed to 'europe'. | | p. . a. ageratoides. 'receptable" changed to 'receptacle'. | | p. . 'surface is punctuate', changed 'punctuate' to 'punctuated'.| | p. . 'of less than than', taken out one 'than'. | | p. . a. umbrosum. 'laceolate' changed to 'lanceolate'. | | p. . 'caraccas', changed to 'caracas'. | | p. . 'browish when matured.', changed 'browish' to 'brownish'. | | p. . 'numerous arge round', changed 'arge' to 'large'. | | p. . 'part the day' changed to 'part of the day'. | | p. . 'rio janeiro, .' changed to 'rio de janeiro, .' | | p. . 'caraccas', changed to 'caracas'. | | p. . 'syn. b joinvillei, b. pitcairniæfolia.', changed 'syn.' | | to 'syns.' | | p. . 'there is a is a variety', removed extra 'is a'. | | p. . 'petioles sheating' changed to 'petioles sheathing'. | | p. . 'capsidium' is 'campsidium' in another volume. changed. | | fixed various punctuation. | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ unkown source note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). a woman's hardy garden * * * * * * [illustration: printer's mark.] the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan company of canada, limited toronto * * * * * * [illustration: rose arch and garden walk. from a water-color sketch by george b. bartholomew.] a woman's hardy garden by helena rutherfurd ely with illustrations from photographs taken in the author's garden by professor c. f. chandler new york the macmillan company london: macmillan & co., ltd. copyright, , by the macmillan company. all rights reserved--no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. set up and electrotyped. published january, . printed in the united states of america by berwick & smith co. dedication to the best friend of my garden, who, with heart and hands, has helped to make it what it is preface this little book is only meant to tell briefly of a few shrubs, hardy perennials, biennials and annuals of simple culture. i send it forth, hoping that my readers may find within its pages some help to plant and make their gardens grow. meadowburn farm october, table of contents chapter page i. introduction ii. hardy gardening and preparation of the soil iii. laying out a garden and borders around a house iv. how to plant a small plot v. the seed-bed vi. planting vii. annuals viii. perennials ix. biennials and a few bedding-out plants x. roses xi. lilies xii. spring-flowering bulbs xiii. shrubs xiv. water, walks, lawns, box-edgings, sun-dial and pergola xv. insecticides. tool-room xvi. conclusion list of illustrations facing page rose arch and garden walk _frontispiece_ from a water-color sketch made by george d. bartholomew garden gate, with japanese gourds september twenty-ninth broad grass walk august twenty-fifth a shady garden walk may thirty-first asters blooming in a border september fifteenth a clump of valerian june sixth _rhododendron maximum_ and ferns along north side of house, with _ampelopsis veitchii_ july fourth arch over rose-walk covered with golden honeysuckle and _clematis paniculata_ september fifteenth _rhododendron maximum_ under a cherry tree july fourth vase of delphinium (perennial larkspur) june twenty-first vase of peonies june sixth _lilium speciosum rubrum_ september fifteenth vase of altheas september sixteenth planting on the edge of lawn august second asters in rows for picking august twenty-fifth foxgloves--seedlings ready for final transplanting september twenty-ninth long grass walk, with _narcissus poeticus_ blooming in the border april twenty-sixth long grass walk, with peonies in the border june sixth long grass walk, with foxgloves blossoming in the border june thirteenth long grass walk, with hydrangeas; rudbeckias in background august twenty-fifth a single plant of asters september tenth poppies growing in rows july fourteenth a bowl of cosmos september twenty-ninth a mass of phlox; rudbeckias in the background august second hollyhocks in blossom july twelfth a single plant of delphinium (perennial larkspur) june twenty-first yuccas in blossom july twelfth bed of peonies, on edge of lawn june sixth a single plant of phlox august twenty-fifth vase of canterbury bells june twenty-first a single plant of foxgloves, white sweet william in front june thirteenth vase of foxgloves june fourteenth summer-house covered with clematis and crimson rambler roses june twenty-first rose bed carpeted with pansies june twenty-first canterbury bells blooming in a border june twenty-first _lilium auratum_ growing behind peonies and columbines that bloomed earlier august tenth vase of _lilium auratum_ august second vase of _lilium speciosum album_ and _rubrum_ september sixth garden arch, covered with japanese gourds august twenty-seventh vase of phlox; single blossoms actual size august second _spiræa van houttei_ may thirty-first _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_ august twenty-sixth vase of _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_ september tenth vase of double hardy sunflowers (_helianthus multiflorus plenus_) september fifteenth vase of monkshood september thirtieth sun-dial in center of formal garden august second the pergola (first summer) august twenty-fifth tritoma (red-hot poker plant) september twenty-eighth bringing in the flowers september sixth [illustration: garden gate, with japanese gourds september twenty-ninth] introduction chapter i introduction love of flowers and all things green and growing is with many men and women a passion so strong that it often seems to be a sort of primal instinct, coming down through generation after generation, from the first man who was put into a garden "to dress it and to keep it." people whose lives, and those of their parents before them, have been spent in dingy tenements, and whose only garden is a rickety soap-box high up on a fire-escape, share this love, which must have a plant to tend, with those whose gardens cover acres and whose plants have been gathered from all the countries of the world. how often in summer, when called to town, and when driving through the squalid streets to the ferries or riding on the elevated road, one sees these gardens of the poor. sometimes they are only a geranium or two, or the gay petunia. often a tall sunflower, or a tomato plant red with fruit. these efforts tell of the love for the growing things, and of the care that makes them live and blossom against all odds. one feels a thrill of sympathy with the owners of the plants, and wishes that some day their lot may be cast in happier places, where they too may have gardens to tend. [illustration: broad grass walk august twenty-fifth] it has always seemed to me that the punishment of the first gardener and his wife was the bitterest of all. to have lived always in a garden "where grew every tree pleasant to the sight and good for food," to have known no other place, and then to have been driven forth into the great world without hope of returning! oh! eve, had you not desired wisdom, your happy children might still be tilling the soil of that blessed eden. the first woman longed for knowledge, as do her daughters of to-day. when the serpent said that eating of the forbidden fruit would make them "as gods," what wonder that eve forgot the threatening command to leave untouched the tree of life, and, burning to be "wise," ate of the fateful apple and gave it to her adam? and then, to leave the lovely place at the loveliest of all times in a garden, the cool of the day! faint sunset hues tinting the sky, the night breeze gently stirring the trees, lilies and roses giving their sweetest perfume, brilliant venus mounting her accustomed path, while the sleepy twitter of the birds alone breaks the silence. then the voice of wrath, the cherubim, the turning flaming sword! through trials and tribulations and hardly learned patience, i have gained some of the secrets of many of our best hardy flowering plants and shrubs. many friends have asked me to tell them when to plant or transplant, when to sow this or that seed, and how to prepare the beds and borders; in fact, this has occurred so often that it has long been in my mind to write down what i know of hardy gardening, that other women might be helped to avoid the experiments and mistakes i have made, which only served to cause delay. but just this "please write it down," while sounding so easy and presenting to the mind such a fascinating picture of a well-printed, well-illustrated and prettily bound book on the garden, is quite a different matter to one who has never written. when you diffidently try to explain the chaos in your brain, family and friends say, "oh! never mind; just begin." that often-quoted "_premier pas_!" to-day is the first snow-storm of the winter, and, while sitting by the fireside, my thoughts are so upon my garden, wondering if this or that will survive, and whether the plants remember me, that it seems as though to-day i could try that first dreaded step. living all my life, six months and sometimes more of each year, in the country,--real country on a large farm,--i have from childhood been more than ordinarily interested in gardening. surrounded from babyhood with horses and dogs, my time as a little girl was spent out of doors, and whenever i could escape from a patient governess, whose eyes early became sad because of the difficulties of her task, i was either riding a black pony of wicked temper, or was to be found in a lovely garden with tall arborvitæ hedges and box-edged walks, in the company of an old gardener, one of my very best friends, who for twenty years ruled master and mistress, as well as garden and graperies. under this old gardener, i learned, even as a child, to bud roses and fruit trees, and watched the transplanting of seedlings and making of slips; watched, too, the trimming of grape-vines, fruit trees and shrubs; so that while still very young i knew more than many an older person of practical garden work. then, as i grew older, the interests of a gay girl, and, later, the claims of early married life and the care of two fat and fascinating babies, absorbed my time and thoughts to the exclusion of the garden. but as the babies grew into a big boy and girl, the garden came to the front again, and, for more than a dozen years now, it has been my joy,--joy in summer when watching the growth and bloom, and joy in winter when planning for the spring and summer's work. there is pleasure even in making lists, reading catalogues of plants and seeds, and wondering whether this year my flowers will be like the pictured ones, and always, in imagination, seeing how the sleeping plants will look when robed in fullest beauty. hardy gardening and the preparation of the soil chapter ii hardy gardening and the preparation of the soil it has not been all success. i have had to learn the soil and the location best suited to each plant; to know when each bloomed and which lived best together. mine is a garden of bulbs, annuals, biennials and hardy perennials; in addition to which there are cannas, dahlias and gladioli, whose roots can be stored, through the winter, in a cellar. all the rest of the garden goes gently to sleep in the autumn, is well covered up about thanksgiving time, and slumbers quietly through the winter; until, with the first spring rains and sunny days, the plants seem fairly to bound into life again, and the never-ceasing miracle of nature is repeated before our wondering eyes. i have no glass on my place, not even a cold-frame or hot-bed. everything is raised in the open ground, except the few bedding plants mentioned whose roots are stored through the winter. therefore, mine can truly be called a hardy garden, and is the only one i know at all approaching it in size and quantity of flowers raised, where similar conditions exist. [illustration: a shady garden walk may thirty-first] i have observed that, with few exceptions, the least success with hardy perennials is found in the gardens of those of my friends whose gardeners are supposed to be the best, because paid the most. these men will grow wonderful roses, orchids, carnations, grapes, etc., under glass, and will often have fine displays of rhododendrons. but to most of them the perennial or biennial plant, the old friend blossoming in the same place year after year, is an object unworthy of cultivation. their souls rejoice in the bedding-out plant, which must be yearly renewed, and which is beautiful for so short a time, dying with the early frost, i was astounded last summer on visiting several fine places, where the gardeners were considered masters of their art, to see the poor planting of perennials and annuals. i recall particularly two italian gardens, perfectly laid out by landscape gardeners, but which amounted to nothing because the planting was insufficient,--here a phlox, there a lily, then a rose, with perhaps a larkspur or a marigold, all rigidly set out in single plants far apart, with nothing in masses, and no colour effects. to attain success in growth, as well as in effect, plants must be so closely set that when they are developed no ground is to be seen. if so placed, their foliage shades the earth, and moisture is retained. in a border planted in this way, individual plants are far finer than those which, when grown, are six inches or a foot apart. first of all in gardening, comes the preparation of the soil. give the plants the food they need and plenty of water, and the blessed sunlight will do the rest. it is wonderful what can be done with a small space, and how from april to november there can always be a mass of bloom. i knew of one woman's garden, in a small country town,--house and ground only covering a lot hardly fifty by one hundred feet,--where, with the help of a man to work for her one day in the week and perhaps for a week each spring and fall, she raises immense quantities of flowers, both perennials and annuals. for six months of the year she has always a dozen vases full in the house, and plenty to give away. more than half the time her little garden supplies flowers for the church, while others in the same village owning large places and employing several men "have really no flowers." i remember returning once from a two weeks' trip, to find that my entire crop of asters had been destroyed by a beetle. it was a horrid black creature about an inch long, which appeared in swarms, devoured all the plants and then disappeared, touching nothing else. such a thing had never before happened in my garden. one of the men had sprayed them with both slug-shot and kerosene emulsion to no effect,--and so no asters. my friend with the little garden heard me bemoaning my loss, and the next day sent me, over the five intervening miles, a hamper--almost a small clothes-basket--full of the beautiful things. it quite took my breath away. i wondered how she could do it, and thought she must have given me every one she had. yet, upon driving over in hot haste to pour out thanks and regrets, lo! there were asters all a-blow in such quantities in her garden that it seemed as if none had been gathered. except by the sea-coast, our dry summers, with burning sun and, in many places, frequent absence of dew, are terribly hard on a garden; but with deep, rich soil, and plenty of water and proper care, it will yield an almost tropical growth. therefore, whenever a bed or border is to be made, make it right. unless one is willing to take the trouble properly to prepare the ground, there is no use in expecting success in gardening. i have but one rule: stake out the bed, and then dig out the entire space two feet in depth. often stones will be found requiring the strength and labor of several men, with crowbars and levers, to remove them; often there will be rocks that require blasting. stones and earth being all removed, put a foot of well-rotted manure in the bottom; then fill up with alternate layers, about four inches each, of the top soil, taken out of the first foot dug up, and of manure. fill the bed or border very full, as it will sink with the disintegration of the manure. finish off the top with three inches of soil. then it is ready for planting. if the natural soil is stiff or clayey, put it in a heap and mix with one-fourth sand, to lighten it, before returning to the bed. thus prepared, it will retain moisture, and not pack and become hard. [illustration: asters blooming in a border september fifteenth] laying out a garden and borders around the house [illustration: a clump of valerian june sixth] chapter iii laying out a garden and borders around the house perplexities assail a would-be gardener on every side, from the day it is decided to start a garden. the most attractive books on the subject are english; and yet, beyond the suggestions for planting, and the designs given in the illustrations, not much help is to be derived in this latitude from following their directions. in england the climate, which is without great extremes of heat and cold, and the frequent rains, with the soft moist atmosphere, not only enable the english gardener to accomplish what would be impossible for us, but permit him to grow certain flowers out of doors that here must be housed in the winter. daffodils and narcissi bloom in england, near the coast, at the end of february and early in march,--lilies-of-the-valley in march. many roses live out of doors that would perish here during our winters. gardening operations are begun there much earlier than in this part, at least, of the united states, and many of the methods for culture differ from those employed here. in england there is excess of moisture; therefore, care in securing good drainage is essential, while here, except in low places near streams, special provision for drainage is rarely necessary. it is more important to have a deep, rich preparation of the soil, so that plants may not be dried out. a serious part of the gardener's work during the average summer consists in judicious watering of the garden. one writer will say that this or that plant should have sun, another that it does best in the shade. one advocates a rich soil, another a light sandy soil; so that after all, in gardening, as in all else in life, experience is the best teacher, either your own or that of others who have already been successful under similar conditions. a garden is almost sure to be gradually increased in size, and its capacity limited only by the grounds of the owner and his pocket-book. the possibilities and capabilities of a couple of acres are great, and will give the owner unlimited pleasure and occupation. individuality is one of the most marked of american characteristics; hence, in making a place, whether it is big or little, the tastes and individuality of the owner will generally direct his efforts, and no hard and fast rules can be given. in starting a garden, the first question, of course, is where to plant. if you are a beginner in the art, and the place is new and large, go to a good landscape gardener and let him give advice and make you a plan. but don't follow it; at least not at once, nor all at one time. live there for a while, until you yourself begin to feel what you want, and where you want it. see all the gardens and places you can, and then, when you know what you want, or think you do, start in. the relation of house to grounds must always be borne in mind, and simplicity in grounds should correspond with that of the house. a craze for italian gardens is seizing upon people generally, regardless of the architecture of their houses. to my mind, an italian garden, with its balustrades, terraces, fountains and statues, is as inappropriate for surrounding a colonial or an ordinary country house as would be a louis xv drawing-room in a farm-house. [illustration: _rhododendron maximum_ and ferns along north side of house, with _ampelopsis veitchii_ july fourth] what is beautiful in one place becomes incongruous and ridiculous in another. not long ago, a woman making an afternoon visit asked me to show her the gardens. daintily balancing herself upon slippers with the highest possible heels, clad in a costume appropriate only for a fête at newport, she strolled about. she thought it all "quite lovely" and "really, very nice," but, at least ten times, while making the tour, wondered "why in the world don't you have an italian garden?" no explanation of the lack of taste that such a garden would indicate in connection with the house, had any effect. the simple, formal gardens of a hundred years ago, with box-edged paths, borders and regular box-edged beds, are always beautiful, never become tiresome, and have the additional merit of being appropriate either to the fine country-place or the simple cottage. [illustration: plan for a small plot] for a small plot of ground, like the one before mentioned, the plan of which is on page , the matter is simple, because of the natural limitations. i love to see a house bedded, as it were, in flowers. this is particularly suitable for the usual american country house, colonial in style, or low and rambling. make a bed perhaps four feet wide along three sides of the house,--south, east and west. close against the house plant the vines. every one has an individual taste in vines,--more so, perhaps, than in any other ornamental growth. if the house be of stone, and the climate not too severe, nothing is more beautiful than the english ivy. it flourishes as far north as princeton, new jersey. i have never grown it, fearing it would be winter-killed. _ampelopsis veitchii_, sometimes called boston ivy, grows rapidly, clinging closely to the wall and turning a dark red in the autumn, and is most satisfactory. the virginia creeper, and the trumpet creeper, with its scarlet flowers, are both beautiful, perfectly hardy, and of rapid growth. all of these vines cling to stone and wood, and, beyond a little help for the first two or three feet, need not be fastened to the house. care must be taken to prevent the vines growing too thickly to admit sun and air to the house. if the house be of wood, the question of repainting must be considered. both the white and the purple wistaria, which can be twined about heavy wire and fastened at the eaves, rambler roses and honeysuckles may be grown. they can be laid down, to permit painting. but, if the house be of wood and well covered with vines, put off the evil day of painting until it can be deferred no longer, and then have it done early in november. never, never permit it to be done in the spring, or before november, unless you would take the risk of killing the vines or of losing at least a season's growth. the house surrounded by my gardens is colonial, something over a hundred and fifty years old, stern and very simple. tall locusts, towering above the roof, and vines that cover it from ground to eaves, have taken away its otherwise puritanical and somewhat uncompromising aspect. these vines are mostly the ordinary virginia creeper, which i had dug from the woods and planted when the first fat baby was two months old. now their main trunks are, in places, as large as my arm. they have never been laid down. whenever the house has been repainted, i have been constantly by, and admonished the men to gently lift the heavy branches while painting under them, and not to paint the light tendrils. when the master-painter has remonstrated, that it was not a "good job" and took three times as long as if the vines were laid down, my reply has been, that "three times" was nothing in comparison with the years it had taken to grow them, and that stunting or killing the vines could never be a "good job." [illustration: arch over rose-walk, covered with golden honeysuckle and _clematis paniculata_. september fifteenth] among the creepers are the crimson rambler rose and the honeysuckle. in three years the roses have grown above the second-story windows. _clematis paniculata_, with its delicate foliage and mass of starry bloom in early autumn, is particularly good to plant by veranda posts in connection with other vines. it grows luxuriantly and is absolutely hardy. the large white-flowered henryi and purple-flowered jackmani clematis, though of slow growth, should always have a place, either about a veranda, a summer-house or a trellis, for the sake of their beautiful flowers. while waiting for the hardy vines to make their first year's growth, the seeds of the japanese morning-glory, the japanese moonflower and _coboea scandens_ may be planted. all of these will grow at least ten feet in a summer, and cover the bare places. but i would not advise sowing them among the hardy vines, except the first summer. in their luxuriance they may suffocate the roses and clematis. the seeds of the moonflower must be soaked in hot water, and left over night, before sowing. so much for the vines about a house. in front of the vines, and on the south side in the same bed, plant masses of hollyhocks, from eight to twelve in a bunch, and rudbeckia in bunches of not more than five, as they grow so large. hollyhocks and rudbeckias plant two feet apart; they will grow to a solid mass. in front of these, again, put a clump of phloxes, seven in a bunch, and larkspur, _delphinium formosum_ being the best. on either side of the delphinium have clumps of about a dozen _lilium candidum_, which bloom at the same time. edge the border with sweet williams, three kinds only,--white, pink and dark scarlet. i should not advise making all the borders around a house alike. the easterly one will be most lovely if planted with tall ferns or brakes, taken from near some stream in early april, before they begin to grow. these will become about four feet high if you get good roots and keep them wet. plant in among them everywhere auratum lilies, and you will have a border that will fill your heart with joy. on the north side of the house it is not possible to have much success with vines, as they need the sun. they will grow, but not with great luxuriance. here plant two rows of the common _rhododendron maximum_, which grows in our woods. i crave pardon for calling it "common," since none that grows is more beautiful. in front of these plant ferns of all kinds from the woods, and edge the border with columbines. if these rhododendrons do not grow in your vicinity, they can be ordered from a florist. in the hills, about five miles from us, acres of them grow wild, and twice a year i send my men with wagons to dig them up. they stand transplanting perfectly if care is taken to get all the roots, which is not difficult, as they do not grow deep. keep them quite wet for a week after planting, and never let them get very dry. a good plan is to mulch them in early june to the depth of six inches or more with the clippings of the lawn grass, or with old manure. when once well rooted, the rhododendrons will last a lifetime. they seem to bear transplanting at any season. some think they do best if taken when in full bloom. i have always done this in april or late october, and, of a wagon-load transplanted last october, all have lived. many of these were like trees, quite eight feet tall and too large to be satisfactory about the house, so they were set among the evergreens in a shrubbery. [illustration: _rhododendron maximum_ under a cherry tree july fourth] in cold localities, where the thermometer in winter falls below zero, rhododendrons should be mulched with stable litter or leaves to the depth of one foot, after the ground has frozen. they should also have some protection from the winter sun, which can be easily given them by setting evergreen boughs of any kind into the ground here and there among them. rhododendrons are as likely to be killed by alternate freezing and thawing of the ground in winter as by summer drought. the lovely _azalea mollis_, and many beautiful varieties of imported rhododendrons, are usually described as "hardy," but i cannot recommend them to those who live where the winters are severe. in such places their growth is very slow, and many perish. maidenhair, the most beautiful of the hardy ferns, is to be found in quantities in many of our woods, particularly those covering hillsides. their favorite spot is along the edges of mountain brooks. i know such a hillside, where maidenhair ferns are superb. but nothing would induce me to venture there again, since i have been told it was infested with rattlesnakes, and that the woodchoppers kill a number of them every year. this fact, too, gives me scruples about sending the men to dig them up, although it is an awful temptation. all ferns should be transplanted late in the autumn, or very early in the spring before the fronds are started, as they are very easily broken. this is particularly the case with ferns from wet places. when planted on the east or north side of a house, the tall ones at the back, and maidenhair and other low varieties in front, they make a beautiful bank of cool green. they must be kept moist, however, to be successful, and in dry weather require a daily soaking. [illustration: vase of delphinium (perennial larkspur) june twenty-first] the cardinal flower, whose natural haunt is along the banks of streams, and whose spikes are of the most beautiful red, can also be safely transplanted, and will bloom in deep, rich soil equally well in shade or sun and will be very effective among the ferns. about the end of november, after cutting the dead stalks, cover each plant with a piece of sod, laid grass-side down. remove this the first of april, and the little sprouts will soon appear above the ground. cardinal flowers bloom for nearly a month--during the last two weeks of august and first two weeks of september. how to plant a small plot chapter iv how to plant a small plot i am frequently surprised to hear people say, "oh, a flower garden is very nice, but such a trouble!" i have heard this expression several times from friends who employ a number of men and have large places with extensive lawns, shrubberies and vegetable gardens, but without flowers, except, perhaps, a few annuals growing among the vegetables. yet no one is indifferent to the beauty of garden, or unobservant of the improvement which even a few flowers can make around the humblest cottage. think of the pretty thatched cottages one sees everywhere in england and france, covered to the eaves with roses and clematis, and surrounded by flowers growing wherever they can find root in the tiny gardens. yet all this is the result of only a half hour's daily care after the long day's work is done. one should begin with a few plants--perhaps a dozen only--and the "trouble" will soon become a delight, unless one is devoid of all love for flowers. [illustration: vase of peonies june sixth] whenever i hear remarks on the "trouble" of a flower garden, i think of those peasant homes, and also of a little plot grown and cared for by a certain tenant farmer's wife i know. she has six children, and must cook and bake and clean for four men in addition; yet, some time every day, she finds a few minutes to tend her flowers. she has a border along the fence four by fifty feet, filled with perennials; a border across the front of her house with phlox and funkias, and a couple of beds with asters, poppies, balsams, portulaca and pinks. the perennials were given her, a few at a time. she separated the roots, saved the seeds to raise others, and has been able in this way to increase her borders. the seeds of the few annuals she buys do not cost more than a dollar a year. thus, for a trifling expenditure and a short time every day, this woman makes her humble surroundings beautiful, while her soul finds an object upon which to expend its love of beauty, and her thoughts have a respite from the daily cares of life. many people have the mistaken idea that a flower garden, however small, is an expensive luxury, and are so convinced of this, that they never venture any attempt at gardening, and pass their lives knowing nothing of its pleasures. let us suppose some one is starting a suburban home in a simple way, and see how flowers can be had for many months at small cost. if one has a place in a town or village, the plot of ground not over fifty by two hundred feet, still the possibilities are great, and the owner can easily gather flowers for herself and her friends from april until mid-november. a house or cottage on such a piece of ground generally stands back from twenty to fifty feet, with a gravel or flagged walk running to the street. if the owner be a beginner in gardening and expects to do most of the work herself, let her commence with a few plants in a small space. as the plants thrive and become beautiful, the care of them will give an added pleasure to life, and, little by little, the beds and borders can be increased. in beginning to plant a small plot, the most natural place first is a border, say two feet wide, on either side of the walk leading from the house to the street. have these borders dug out and made properly. then, if the owner wishes to see them continually abloom, bulbs must be planted, to give the early spring flowers. tulips can be had for eighty cents a hundred, _narcissus poeticus_ for sixty-five cents a hundred, and yellow daffodils for one dollar and twenty-five cents a hundred. hyacinths are more expensive, and cost from four dollars a hundred up. if a hundred each of the tulips, narcissi, hyacinths and daffodils were planted they would make the borders lovely from early in april until late in may. the daffodils will bloom first, then the hyacinths, followed by the narcissi, and the tulips last, if care is taken to buy a late variety. there should certainly be three or four peonies in the borders,--pink, white, and dark red; good roots of these can be had for about thirty-five cents each. once planted, they should not be disturbed for years; and, although the first season they may not yield more than two or three blossoms, in each succeeding year the flowers will increase in number. a friend told me, not long ago, that she had counted sixty blossoms upon each of several of her plants. there should also be at least a dozen columbines (aquilegias) to bloom the end of may and the first of june. the roots of these can be bought for a dollar and a half a dozen, or they can be raised from seed; in the latter case, however, they would not bloom until the second year, being perennials. no border can be complete without delphiniums (larkspur). good-sized roots of the _delphinium formosum_, lovely dark blue, are a dollar and twenty-five cents a dozen. _formosum coelistina_, the light blue variety, is two dollars and a half a dozen. then, of course, there must be other perennials,--phlox, at least a dozen plants in the different colours, which will cost a dollar and a half. a few lilies will add greatly to the beauty of the borders. tiger lilies, which are only sixty cents a dozen; auratums, which can be had from eighty-five cents a dozen up, according to the size of the bulbs; _speciosum rubrum_ from eighty-five cents a dozen up, and candidums, or madonna lilies, a dollar and a half a dozen. german iris, a dollar a dozen, and japanese iris, at a dollar and a quarter a dozen, should also have a place. [illustration: _lilium speciosum rubrum_ september fifteenth] excellent gladioli can be bought for a dollar and fifty cents a hundred, and these will be most satisfactory if planted in the border about may fifteenth in groups of six to ten. a dozen chrysanthemums of the hardiest varieties to be obtained, and costing a dollar and a half a dozen, will, with the other plants mentioned, about fill two borders two feet wide by thirty long. it would also be well to sow the seeds of some calendulas, nasturtiums and asters wherever there may be a vacant place. or better, perhaps, sow the seeds in boxes in mid-april, and transplant to the border the early part of june. the first cost will be the only expense for these borders, except in the case of the auratum lilies, which will die out in about three years, and of the few flower seeds. the only care needed is to keep the borders free from weeds, to stir the soil every week, and to water after sunset in dry weather. it will be seen, from the following list, that such borders can easily be made and planted at a cost of less than thirty dollars. this can be reduced by omitting the hyacinths. directions for planting are given elsewhere. price tulips $ narcissi daffodils hyacinths peonies columbines _delphinium formosum_ _delphinium coelestina_ phlox tiger lilies auratum _lilium rubrum_ _lilium candidum_ japanese iris _iris germanica_ chrysanthemums flower seeds three days' work, at $ . per day manure ------ total $ after a year or two, the owner of the cottage may want to increase the flower garden, and the next place to plant is close about the house. it is to be taken for granted that the house and piazzas have the proper gutters. this is necessary, of course, for the preservation of the house, and without gutters the drip from the eaves would be such that nothing could grow directly against the house. the bed might be three feet wide and run across the front of the house on either side of the steps. the owner would probably wish to plant vines over the porch or piazza, in case it has not already been done. the best for this purpose are mentioned elsewhere. should the house front the south, east or west, nearly everything can be grown; but should it face the north, nothing but ferns and rhododendrons would be successful on the front. dahlias of the cactus variety, in different colours, could be planted at the back of the bed on one side of the steps. get good-sized roots, plant them two feet apart. they will grow against the house like a tall hedge. if planted the third week in april quite deep, say eight inches, they will begin to bloom about the sixth of july, and continue to be covered with flowers until killed by frost. in front of the dahlias, plant white phlox. in front of the phlox sow a row of _centaurea_ or cornflowers, the emperor william variety. these should be sown early in april, will begin to bloom by june tenth, and, if they are not allowed to go to seed, will blossom all summer. sow in front of the cornflowers, at the same time, a row of white candytuft, of the empress variety. this also will bloom continuously if the flowers are cut as soon as they wither. on the other side of the steps, at the back of the bed, plant rudbeckia (golden glow) two feet apart. the roots should be bought and planted, preferably in october, otherwise as soon as the frost is out of the ground in the spring, as they start very early. in front of the rudbeckias plant cannas--the tarrytown, of most vivid scarlet hue, i have found the best and freest-flowering of all. the roots should be planted about may fifteenth. on the edge of the bed, sow by april fifteenth a row of salmon-pink zinnias, and when they are well up, thin out to six inches apart. they begin to blossom when very small, and will stand considerable frost. the expense of these beds will be trifling. rudbeckias of the golden glow variety, one dollar a dozen; the tarrytown canna, two dollars and a half a dozen; cactus dahlias, two dollars a dozen; phlox, one dollar and a half a dozen. the small quantity of flower seeds required will cost less than a dollar. a man can easily make the beds in three days. therefore, the cost with manure will be less than fifteen dollars. after a hard frost has killed the tops, the dahlias, cannas and gladioli should be taken up, the tops cut off, the roots well dried, and then stored in a cellar that does not freeze. the canna and dahlia roots will have grown so large that they can be divided and it will be found that there are enough to plant, the following spring, nearly twice the space they occupied before. it is impossible, if successful with the borders already planned, for the owner not to wish for more garden. she sees the neighbors' gardens with newly opened eyes; flowers and their treatment become an absorbing topic of conversation, and the exchange of plants a delightful transaction. [illustration: vase of altheas september sixteenth] it will be seen that the next places to plant are along the boundary lines of the property. even if one side only be laid out at a time, a large number of plants will be required. the owner will find great pleasure in raising as many of these herself as possible. to accomplish this, somewhere at the back of the place, a seed-bed should be made, and in april the seeds of perennials and annuals sown. the border must be made by september the twentieth and should be at least four feet wide. either a hedge can be placed at the back of the border, or tall-growing flowering shrubs, such as white and purple lilacs (not the persian), mock oranges (syringa), deutzia and roses of sharon (althea). these shrubs will grow about equally high, yield an abundance of flowers, the altheas in august, the others in may or june, and in four or five years will form a complete screen from the neighboring grounds. in front of the shrubs perennials can be planted, taller ones at the back, lower-growing ones in front, and annuals along the edge. such a border, if from fifty to a hundred feet in length, will be a garden by itself. the plants will do best if closely set, and every vacant space filled in june with annuals. weeds then have little chance to grow, and a short time every day will keep such a border in order. the border can be of any width from four to twelve feet, but when more than four feet, the front edge should be made with irregular curves to avoid a stiff appearance. shrubs should be set out not later than october tenth, and, as they or the hedge would be at the back of the bed, the planting of them will not interfere with the perennials that have already been transplanted from the seed-bed. hedges are so much more beautiful than any fence that ever was built that, in towns or villages where cattle are not allowed to run at large, hedges should, wherever possible, be used in place of fences. to prepare the ground for a hedge, make a trench eighteen inches deep, put a good layer of well-rotted manure in the bottom and fill up with earth. when the hedge is planted give it a good top-dressing of manure, and continue this top-dressing, with a little bone-meal sown on the surface of the ground, every spring. [illustration: planting on the edge of lawn august second] the best and hardiest evergreen hedge is of hemlock spruce. plants of this can be bought for fifteen dollars a hundred, and should be set eighteen inches apart. the privet is a favorite hedge in this country. it keeps green until december, and leafs out early in the spring. it is hardy and of rapid growth. good plants are six dollars a hundred, and should be planted a foot apart. catalogues say that if planted in rich soil one foot apart, a hedge five feet high can be grown in three seasons. common privet is more hardy than california privet. _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_ makes a beautiful low-growing hedge; good plants can be bought for six dollars a hundred. _berberis thunbergii_, or barberry, makes a fine hedge, on account of its beautiful foliage and scarlet fruit. it is, however, slow-growing. the owner of a small place should avoid the temptation to scatter flower beds about the lawn. keep all the planting along the edges of the property and around the house, and leave the lawn unbroken by flower beds. the years when gardening consisted only of beds of coleus, geraniums, verbenas and bedding plants have passed away, like the black walnut period of furniture. and even as the mahogany of our grandfathers is now brought forth from garrets and unused rooms, and antiquity shops and farm-houses are searched for the good old-time furniture, so we are learning to take the old gardens for our models, and the old-fashioned flowers to fill our borders. the nurseryman of to-day has greatly improved the size and colour of the old varieties of perennials, so that they are far more beautiful than formerly, and offer a much greater choice. by skilful hybridization a hundred or more kinds of phlox have been developed. in the same way, numerous varieties of delphiniums, iris, peonies, columbines, canterbury bells and foxgloves have been produced. the old-fashioned annuals also appear in many new forms. in addition to the pink and white "painted lady," the pure white and the dark purple sweet peas of our mothers' time, we may now cultivate some eighty varieties of this delicate flower. thus the garden of hardy perennials, annuals and bulbs will give us a continual sequence of flowers in every form and colour from april until november, if properly made and tended. [illustration: asters in rows for picking august twenty-fifth] the seed-bed chapter v the seed-bed the possessor of a garden, large or small, should have a seed-bed, where seeds of perennials and some of the annuals can be sown and grown until large enough to be permanently placed. not only will this bed give great pleasure in enabling one to watch the plants from the time the first tiny leaf appears, but also when laden with blossoms in fullest beauty. the knowledge that you have raised them gives a thrill of pride in the result which no bought plants, however beautiful, can impart. it is not necessary to prepare the seed-bed over a foot in depth, but the soil must be very light and fine, as well as rich. it is best, if possible, to have a portion of the bed somewhat shaded from the sun for a part of the day. if this combination cannot be had in one bed, there should be a second for plants that want less sun. biennials must, of course, be sown every year, as they bloom but once, then die. every year some perennials will disappear, killed by severe winters, by pests of one kind or another, or dying without apparent cause. to keep up the supply, therefore, some of each variety should be raised every year. foxgloves and sweet williams, if allowed to go to seed, will sow themselves and increase rapidly. the same with hollyhocks, but, except on the edges of shrubberies and in wild borders, it is better to cut the stalk just before the seed is ready to fall, and save it to sow in the seed-bed. [illustration: foxgloves--seedlings ready for final transplanting september twenty-ninth] in my garden, some seventy miles from new york, and where the spring opens ten days later, i sow my seeds,--the perennials about the tenth of april and the annuals from april twentieth to may first. buy the seeds, if the garden is large, by the ounce or half-ounce; if small, in the seedsman's packets. i always have the seeds of perennials soaked for twenty-four hours before planting, and find that by so doing they are very sure to germinate. care must be taken, when soaking a number of different kinds at the same time, to place the name of each variety of seed under the glass or bowl containing the same. when ready for planting, pour off the water and mix the wet seeds carefully with very dry earth, in a cigar-box, which is of the right size and easy to handle. then sow, not too deeply, in rows about a foot apart in the bed, covering very lightly, according to size. one-half inch is enough for the large seeds. the very fine varieties should simply have the earth sprinkled on them. if planted too deep they will never come up. seeds of annuals do not require soaking. pat the earth down firmly with the back of the trowel, sprinkle with a fine sprinkler late every afternoon, and it is not your fault if you do not have hundreds and thousands of young plants to make your own place beautiful and to give to your friends. it is a keen delight, when a friend says that she has not raised such and such plants this year, to run and get your trowel and dig a bunch of this and that from the rows of sturdy little plants. it is a pleasure to know that a bit of your garden has gone to help make another's beautiful. one of the greatest pleasures of a garden is in giving flowers and plants to your friends. every october, when arranging the borders and separating plants, i send away great boxes of them, some to fortunate friends with lovely gardens, but without the same varieties; some to humble cottage gardens, and others to friends who have never grown a flower, but would like to try. this year, having made a large new garden, i was able to give away to friends and neighbors only about seven hundred plants, not seedlings but large plants and roots. generally i can send away far more. think what a delight this is! a request for some plants came to me last autumn from the baggage-master of a railroad station some twenty miles from us, who, by the boxes of shrubs and plants that came to me, inferred that i might have some to spare. i learned that all this man's spare time was spent in his little garden plot, so great was his love of flowers. i know, too, a village expressman (another whom nature intended for a gardener), whose little plot of ground is always a mass of beauty. he has a surprising variety of plants, and every one is a fine specimen of its kind. his _anemone japonica alba_ are the finest i have ever seen, each one sending up perhaps a dozen slender stalks of the beautiful flowers. i have had great difficulty with this plant and have lost dozens of them. i always drive very slowly by the expressman's garden, burning with envy and wondering how he does it. in fact, it was only last year that i had my first success with these obdurate plants. they must grow under trees whose branches are sufficiently high to admit the sun half the day. as they bloom in september and october, the tree protects them from the frost, and in winter they should be well covered with stable litter. they are among the few plants to be set out in the spring, for if not well established they are always winter-killed. it is well not to empty the perennial seed-bed entirely in the autumn, but to leave a few plants of each variety to transplant in the spring, to take the place of those which have not survived the winter. when the bed is empty, in the spring, have a good coating of manure spaded in and proceed again with the sowing. biennials, and also most perennials, must be raised every year to keep up the supply. [illustration: long grass walk, with _narcissus poeticus_ blooming in the border april twenty-sixth] planting [illustration: long grass walk, with peonies in the border june sixth] chapter vi planting i cannot impress too strongly upon my readers the importance of ordering their plants and seeds of well-known firms. the best are always the cheapest in the end. inquiry among friends will generally give the best information as to reliable seedsmen and growers. in ordering shrubs and plants it is important to specify the precise date of delivery, that you may know in advance the day of arrival. the beds or borders should be prepared in advance, so that everything may be set out without delay. care must be taken that the roots are not exposed to the air and allowed to become dry. it is a good plan, when unpacking a box of plants, to sort them, laying each variety in a pile by itself, covering the roots with the moss and excelsior in which they were packed, and then, if at all dry, to sprinkle thoroughly. unpacking should, if possible, be done under cover--in the cellar if there be no other place. great care must also be taken in setting out plants that ample room be given; as the roots should be well spread out and never doubled up. do not be afraid of having the hole too big; see that the earth is finely pulverized and well packed about the roots; that the plant is thoroughly soaked, and, if the weather is dry, kept watered for a couple of weeks. if the plants have arrived in good condition and are carefully set out, but few should die. i have never lost a deciduous tree, and frequently, in setting out a hundred shrubs at one time, all have lived. [illustration: long grass walk, with foxgloves blossoming in the border june thirteenth] wherever there is a fence make a border, wide or narrow according to your space; if wide,--and it may be as much as twelve feet wide,--always make the edge irregular, never straight. some prefer a hedge at the back of the border. the best effect and quickest screen is made by planting, against the fence at the back of the border, white lilacs (not the persian), syringas, deutzias and the beautiful new altheas. plant these shrubs three feet apart. in good soil they will send up great canes, and in four years time should be six feet high and shut you in from all prying gaze. in planting a border, always keep in mind the fact that it should be blooming from may to november. put in the plants according to height, the tallest, of course, at the back and the lowest in front, filling the front also with spring-flowering bulbs, daffodils, tulips and narcissi, which will blossom and be over before the plants come on. you will thus have the longest succession of bloom. if the border is quite wide--from four to six feet--and perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long, it will hold a surprising number of plants. certain plants, in a long border with a background of shrubs, look best in rows, in spite of all that has been written against it: for instance, hollyhocks, a long row of plants three deep, broken every ten feet or so by a clump of a dozen, and in front of these a single row of rudbeckias, broken with clumps of six or so, and the rest of the border planted in masses, more or less according to space, of phloxes, larkspur, lilies, columbines, sweet williams, with every now and then a good clump of chrysanthemums to blossom when all other flowers are gone. in filling a border along a rather short path, the plants should always be set in clumps of from six to twelve of a kind. if the border is narrow and has no shrubs or hedge back of it, the effect will be better if the plants do not exceed three feet in height. omit from such a border hollyhocks, rudbeckias, sunflowers and cosmos. sweet williams, columbines, sweet alyssum, candytuft, nasturtiums and _phlox drummondii_ can all be grown as edging for borders. i have a border, two and a half feet wide and three hundred and fifty feet long, that is a mass of bloom from the middle of may until the last of september. it may give the reader a suggestion to know its contents. everything is in rows, the only border in my garden where the planting is done in this way. along the edge is _narcissus poeticus_; back of _narcissus poeticus_ a row of sweet williams, pink, white and very dark red; back of the sweet williams, foxgloves; back of the foxgloves, peonies and _hydrangea grandiflora_ planted alternately; and back of these, a row of hollyhocks. about two feet behind this border, a row of rudbeckia (golden glow) grows like a tall hedge. when _narcissus poeticus_ has finished blooming, the peonies come on. before the last peony has lost its petals, the sweet williams (quite two feet high) are in blossom, and the foxgloves (from three to four feet high) begin to bloom, and last for a month. while these flowers are still lovely, the tall hollyhocks begin to flower, each plant sending up from three to five stalks. then, by the time the hollyhock stalks are cut down, the hydrangeas, which are trimmed back very severely every autumn, are a mass of white. meanwhile the rudbeckias, for quite six weeks, form a yellow background. the illustrations show this row of flowers while the narcissi, peonies, foxgloves, and hydrangeas are successively in blossom. early in june, i transplant into perennial borders, wherever a spot can be found, clumps of asters, cosmos and other late annuals, which are beautiful in september and october when most flowers have ceased to bloom. from september twentieth to october fifteenth is a busy time in the garden. new beds and borders should be made then. the plants in all borders four years old should be lifted, and the beds or borders spaded deeply with plenty of manure, the plants reset, and the young perennials transplanted from the seed-bed into their final places. all perennial plants whose roots are sufficiently large, should now be divided and reset. this fall planting and transplanting should be done at about the time mentioned, for the shrubs and plants must become well rooted before the ground freezes, or they will rarely survive the winter. no matter how rich a bed or border may be, i always have the hole to receive the plant made larger than is necessary, and put a spadeful of manure in the bottom. in transplanting, my man always has a wheelbarrow of this at his side to work from. if there are bare places in lawns or grass paths, sow grass seed about the twentieth of september, then roll, and the grass will be well rooted before cold weather. it must be borne in mind that everything possible should be done in the fall. perennials start early in the spring, and it is a pity, when they are once started, to disturb them. when the frost has finally killed everything, all the dead tops should be cut off at the ground, the dead annuals pulled up, the borders made clean and neat, and, about the last of november, covered with a good layer of stable litter, leaves or straw. i have always found the plants start earlier and do better for this slight protection. whenever i tell my inquiring friends of the proper preparation of beds, and the spring top-dressing, and winter covering with manure, there is generally an exclamation of alarm at the quantity used. but much is required to make the garden grow. i call upon the farm for manure when the stable supply is insufficient, and both my farmer-husband and his manager at times look askance. but how can i live unless my garden has what it needs! the farmer-husband looks upon my gardening as a mild species of insanity, and cannot understand why a _little_ garden with a few plants is not enough for any woman. by dint of much showing and explanation through many years, he has acquired a floricultural knowledge which enables him to tell a rose, lily, sunflower and phlox, and of this knowledge he is proud. all manure should be drawn out into the garden when the ground is still frozen, in march or earlier, and placed in convenient piles, so that the ground may not be cut up, when soft, by the wagon wheels; and also to facilitate work when the first spring days come, and there are a hundred things to be done. if possible, have a spadeful of well-rotted stable manure stirred into the ground around each shrub and vine in early spring. the result will amply repay you. save all wood-ashes carefully, under cover, for the garden, and scatter them on the beds and on the grass. get well-ground fresh bone-meal, and let all plants have only a handful in the spring, and the reward in bloom is great. to have good results from the hardy chrysanthemums the soil cannot be too rich, and i generally "give them something to eat," as a boy who helps in the garden calls it, about the fifteenth of june and the fifteenth of august. care must be taken, in using bone-meal, not to put on too much, and to keep it away from contact with the rootlets. annuals chapter vii annuals there are so many annuals that i will write only about the few which are easiest to grow and are most desirable. for me a flower must have merits for decorating the house as well as for making the garden beautiful. the other day i found an english book on flowers, and at once sat down to read it, expecting enjoyment and profit from every page; but at the end of a few minutes i came upon the following paragraph: "particularly to most women one of the chief uses or functions of a garden is to provide flowers to be cut for the decoration of rooms. but i hold that a flower cut from its plant and placed in a vase is as a scalp on the walls of a wigwam." and i read no further in that book. i grow flowers to gather them, both for the house and to give away. we keep about sixty vases full in the house from late may until october, and never allow more than two colours in the same room. i have a yellow room, where only yellow and white flowers, or white and blue, are permitted; a pink room, for white and pink or pink and crimson flowers; and a hall, whose dominant tone is a rich red, where the flowers are red and white. some of the annuals, like mignonette and poppies, must be sown where they are to grow. mignonette does best in cool, rather moist soil. [illustration: long grass walk, with hydrangeas; rudbeckias in the background august twenty-fifth] poppies, and oh! have plenty of them and all kinds. get the shirley poppies, the giant double, the fringed kind, and the california with their sunny petals. sow in great numbers wherever they are wanted, here and there in the borders wherever there is space. if there is no other place, sow them in rows in the vegetable garden. they are splendid in the house, but, alas! fall too quickly. the shirley poppies are almost like fairy flowers, they are so delicate and beautiful. they are the first of the annual poppies to bloom. then comes the variety which grows wild in france and germany,--scarlet, with black blotches at the base of the petals. last to bloom are the tall, fringed double and single poppies,--white, pink and scarlet, growing on strong stems three feet high. poppies must be sown thinly and the earth only sprinkled over the seeds. sow as early in the spring as the ground can be worked, and thin out to six inches apart when the plants are well up. nasturtiums, too, should be planted where they are to grow, also sweet alyssum and candytuft. all of these make good edgings for borders. if not allowed to go to seed they will bloom all summer. sunflowers, the dwarf double, and the tall giant sunflowers, are fine in backgrounds and against fences. the following annuals should be sown in the seed-bed about april twentieth to may first _antirrhinum_, or _snapdragon_, growing eighteen inches high. if sown in early may they will bloom from august until late autumn. the same is true of the german ten-weeks stocks, which have a long period of bloom. the white ones are most lovely. _asters_, all varieties; sow a quantity. they are not only beautiful, but they give an abundance of blossoms in late september and early october, when flowers are beginning to be scarce. i prefer the giant, comet, ostrich plume and the late-flowering branching kind. of these last, "purity" (snow-white) and "daybreak" (shell-pink) are the best, often bearing thirty flowers on a plant and lasting, in water, five days. a small quantity of wood-ashes stirred into the soil of the aster bed is a fine fertilizer and destroys insects that attack the roots. transplant in june to wherever they are to blossom. [illustration: a single plant of asters september tenth] i have lately learned, that the only way to destroy the black beetle which appears upon the asters and eats the flowers, is to have them picked off morning and evening and thrown into a pan containing kerosene oil, which kills them. _cosmos._ the early-summer flowering variety of cosmos will begin to bloom in july, and, if not allowed to go to seed, will be a mass of flowers until killed by frost. in favorable soil cosmos grows luxuriantly, and resembles a small tree six or eight feet high. this plant should be staked, or it is likely to be blown down. it is very effective when transplanted to the borders, blooming gayly when there is not much else. the pink and crimson varieties are beautiful, but do not compare with the white. _calendula_, growing about a foot high in every shade of yellow from deep orange to pale ivory, is one of the best and most constant blooming of the yellow flowers. _centaurea_, or _cornflower_. these come in many colours, but i grow only the tall, ragged, blue variety. if not permitted to go to seed, they will bloom plentifully for several months. on the dinner-table with blue and white china, and in june combined with syringa, they make a beautiful and unusual decoration. _marigold_, both the double african and the double french. these flowers always give me a pricking of the conscience, for during the summer, when there are plenty of others, i give them the "go by," but in october turn to them with shame and thankfulness. _phlox drummondii_ grows about six or eight inches high, and comes in many colours. it makes beautiful borders, particularly the white, pink and dark red. _plumed celosia_, or _cockscomb_. the new varieties are very effective. [illustration: poppies growing in rows july fourteenth] _zinnias._ lately i have grown only two varieties, a vivid scarlet and a salmon-pink. they are not only lovely when growing, but make a beautiful house decoration, as the stems are long and stiff. _sweet peas_, which no garden can do without. several books say, plant in autumn, very late. i have twice sown two pounds at this time, carefully following the directions, and not one single pea came up the following spring. sweet peas should be sown in the spring the moment the frost comes out of the ground, so that they may become deeply rooted before dry weather. make a trench about a foot deep and a foot wide. have a good layer of manure in the bottom of the trench, over which put a couple of inches of earth, and over this earth put a good layer of wood-ashes, again a sprinkling of earth. then sow the peas, and cover them with a couple of inches of earth. as they grow, fill in the trench, and keep on hilling up the plants until the roots are very deep. it is well to mulch them with the clippings of lawn grass. in this way the plants are kept from drying up, and will bloom until october. sweet peas flourish best on a trellis of galvanized wire netting. it should be a permanent trellis, made of cedar posts set three feet deep, so as to be below the frost line and four feet high. to this attach the wire netting. a trench should be made on either side of the netting, so that a double row of peas may be sown. the quantity sown depends on the length of the trellis; three pounds will sow a double row one hundred and twenty-five feet long. i always sow the different colours separately. it simplifies the task of arranging them, if they can be gathered separately. a bowl of white sweet peas and maidenhair fern is indeed a "thing of beauty." _pansies_, every one loves them. they are annuals, but do best if treated as biennials. the most practical hint that i was able to get from "elizabeth's german garden" was where she spoke of carpeting her rose beds with pansies. this instantly appealed to me, as i greatly dislike to see the earth in the beds and borders, and in rose beds it always is to be seen. so i bought an ounce each of white and yellow pansy seed, sowed it about the tenth of july in the partly shaded end of the seed-bed, and by october first had splendid great plants. i did not allow these to blossom, but picked off the buds, and, after the rose beds had been given a plentiful top-dressing of manure carefully stirred in with a large trowel, i transplanted my pansy plants. of course, they had to be covered over with the roses the last of november, and often during the winter i wondered whether the dears would be smothered. on the twenty-eighth of march the beds were uncovered, and, imagine it! there were pansies in bloom. from april tenth until late in august these beds were simply a carpet of white and yellow. i never saw anything like it. it was probably due to the rich soil, perhaps also to the free watering necessary for the roses. then, in order that no pansies should go to seed, my own maid, who is very fond of flowers, undertook each morning to cut off all that were beginning to wither. this required from one to two hours, but certainly prolonged the bloom, and i could never have spared a man so long for just the pansies. sow pansy seed in the seed-bed about the tenth of july, and transplant late in october. * * * * * these are some of the more important annuals which no garden should be without. all of them are easy to raise, and blossom abundantly. i do not speak of the many others, but advise trying new flowers every year. [illustration: a bowl of cosmos september twenty-ninth] the first week in june is the time to transplant all annuals. do it, if possible, directly after a rain, always late in the afternoon, and, of course, water well after transplanting. i have a method of my own for the transplanting of seedlings, and by following it the tiny plants never wither or are set back, and in fact do not seem to know that they have been moved. take a tin box, such as biscuits come in, half fill it with water, then lift into it from the seed-bed about one hundred seedlings at a time. with a sharp-pointed stick make holes in the bed where the little plants are to go, and then put them in. soak the ground thoroughly after each patch is finished. in this way the tiny rootlets never become dry. all the beds and borders can be kept free from weeds and in good condition if gone over with a trowel every five days, or once a week, the earth stirred thoroughly, and any weeds that may have grown taken out. it is particularly necessary, for a few weeks in the spring, to keep well ahead of the weeds. i always think of my sins when i weed. they grow apace in the same way and are harder still to get rid of. it seems a pity sometimes not to nurture a pet one, just as it does to destroy a beautiful plant of wild mustard, or of queen anne's lace. list of annuals, with height, colour and period of blooming _asters_, all colours; one to two feet; august to october. _alyssum_, white, dwarf for borders; six inches; blooms all summer if not allowed to go to seed. _balsam_, camellia-flowered, pale pink, dark red, white; two to three feet; july and august. _calendula_ (pot marigold), all shades of yellow; mid-july until killed by frost. _calliopsis_ (coreopsis), yellow with red or brown center; two feet; mid-july, until killed by frost. _candytuft_, red, white, purple, empress variety white the best, fine for edging; six inches; blooms continually if not allowed to go to seed. _centaurea_ (cornflower), all shades of blue; three feet; blooms three months if kept cut. _cockscomb_, crimson and scarlet; two to three feet; august and september. _cosmos_, white, pink, crimson; three to five feet; from the fifteenth of july until killed by frost. _eschscholtzia_, yellow poppies; one foot; blooms all summer. _godetia_, pink, crimson, white; one foot; blooms all summer. _marigold_, all shades of yellow; one to two and one-half feet; mid-july until killed by frost. _mignonette_, average height one foot; blooms all summer if kept from seeding. _nasturtiums_, all shades of yellow and red; dwarf, nine inches; climbing, five feet; bloom all summer until killed by frost. _pansy_, many colours; six inches; from early spring until november, if kept well cut. _petunia_, double giant-flowered the only kind to raise; white, crimson and pink; one and one-half feet; bloom all summer. _phlox drummondii_, many colours; one foot; blooms july, august and september if not allowed to seed. _poppy_, all shades of pink and red, also white; one to three feet. if several varieties are planted can be had in bloom from three to four weeks; end of june and july. _snapdragon_, scarlet and white, white and yellow, pure white; one and one-half feet; july and august. _stocks_ (german ten-weeks), white, pink, red, purple; one and one-half feet; middle of july until middle of september. _sunflower_, yellow, dwarf and tall varieties, single and double; three to six feet; all summer. _sweet peas_, all colours; three feet; grown on bush or trellis; end of june until october if kept well cut and moist. _sweet sultan_, purple, white, yellow; one and one-half feet; june, july and august. _zinnia_, many colours; one and one-half to two feet; july, august and september. [illustration: a mass of phlox; rudbeckias in the background august second] perennials chapter viii perennials some of the perennials to be sown yearly in the seed-bed from about april first to tenth, are the following: _columbines_ of all varieties, yellow, white, shading from pink to red and from pale blue to darkest purple. of columbines every garden should have plenty. blooming about may twentieth for three weeks, they are a perfect delight. they are very hardy, germinate readily in the seed-bed, are easy to transplant and need but little care. i have never been able to get them much over three feet in height, but then i have often a dozen stalks of bloom on a single plant, which is very satisfactory. the first dozen plants were sent to me by a friend from his garden on long island; now i have hundreds of them,--single and double, white, yellow, all shades of red and pink, pale blue, and a blue one with a white center almost like an orchid; many shades of purple, also purple and white. _hollyhocks_, single and double, of all colours. in order to get the desired colour effect with these, keep each variety separate. [illustration: hollyhocks in blossom july twelfth] no one can have too many hollyhocks. plant them at the back of the borders among the shrubbery, along fences, and in great clumps in any odd corner, or around buildings; they are never amiss, and always beautiful. i find that a hollyhock cannot be counted upon to bloom more than three years. first-year stalks are about four feet high; afterwards, if in good soil, they will be from six to eight feet. there were hundreds of this size in my garden last summer, each plant with from three to five towering stalks of bloom. as soon as they have gone to seed, i save what seed i want and the stalks are then cut down and burned. by sowing the seeds as soon as thoroughly ripe and dry, plants can be raised which will be large enough to transplant in october, and will bloom the next year. these young plants should be given a slight covering the first winter, that they may not be winter-killed. when in a border, the hollyhock, which will flourish in any soil, grows to such an extent that lilies or phloxes, or anything else near by, are likely to be crowded out, unless care is taken to cut off the lower leaves, which become enormous. i have this done usually three times before they bloom, beginning early in may, and great wheelbarrow-loads of leaves are taken away at each cutting. _sweet williams_, red, white and pink. these will grow from eighteen inches to two feet. the stems are straight and stiff, and the trusses of bloom about five inches across, with individual flowers as large as a nickel; they keep well in water and make a beautiful edging for a border, or give great effect when planted in masses. they bloom for three weeks or more, and make fine decorations for church or house. _platycodon mariesi_, beautiful blue; they resemble canterbury bells, and, as they blossom after the canterbury bells, are valuable in continuing the period of blue flowers, with the advantage of being perennials. _delphiniums_, perennial larkspurs, all varieties. these seeds i have found more difficult to make germinate than any others, so i do not rely upon what i raise, but purchase many plants. my best results have come from saving the seeds from the first crop of blossoms, drying thoroughly, and then sowing at once. i have found these seeds more sure to germinate than those bought in early spring. perhaps nature intends them to be sown in this way, instead of nine months later. [illustration: a single plant of delphinium (perennial larkspur) june twenty-first] one can never say enough in praise of delphiniums. three-year-old plants will send up eight to ten beautiful great spikes of the richest blue, four feet high. the moment a blossom withers, cut the stalk down to the ground; another will immediately spring up. i had four crops of blossoms from some of my delphiniums last summer, so that, from the end of june until the middle of october, there were always some of them in blossom. some varieties of tall english delphiniums are very beautiful. among them is one, coelestinum, of the loveliest shade of light blue, with very large, double individual flowers. as i have said before, the delphinium blossoms at the same time as _lilium candidum_, and should be planted near by. great bunches of these two flowers, in tall vases, are lovely as well as unusual. there is a horrid small white worm which attacks the roots of the delphinium, and gives no sign until you see the plant dying. i have found that keeping the soil around the plant well covered with coal ashes is a preventive. delphiniums are hardy and long-lived (unless the worm gets them), and, once planted, they live a dozen years. _coreopsis_ (grandiflora). every one knows the coreopsis, which, by continual cutting, will give abundant bloom for three months. the variety with velvety maroon centers is particularly fine. _hibiscus_ is very easy to raise, and should be planted among and along the edge of shrubbery. the plants are quite hardy, grow four feet high, and masses of them in pink or white are fine. they bloom in august and september. _rockets_, white and purple. these increase tremendously from self-sowing, so be careful or they will suffocate all that grows near them. i have many plants, all of which have come from a single one that a colored woman gave me a few years ago. she is a nice comfortable old "mammy," black as the ace of spades, with a great love for flowers and a nice patch of them. we have exchanged plants several times. some of the nicest things i have in my garden came to me in this way, and it is great fun. whenever, in driving about, i see a particularly fine plant in a dooryard, i make friends with its owner, and later suggest that if she (it is usually "she") will give me a small root of this or that, i will bring her some plants or bulbs from my garden, of a kind which she has not. so we are both equally benefited. in this way i was once given a plant of _valerian_, which has a tall, beautiful white flower with a most delicious odour like vanilla. it blooms for three weeks in late may and early june. from this one plant there are now in the garden a number of large clumps several feet in diameter, and i have given away certainly fifty roots. valerian is a small white flower in good-sized clusters on long stems, seen now-a-days only in old-fashioned gardens. i am told it cannot be bought of horticulturists. one must have _chrysanthemums_, but where the thermometer falls below zero there are not many to be bought, other than the pompon varieties, that will blossom in the garden before being killed by frost, or that will survive the winter. year after year i have bought dozens of the so-called "september-flowering chrysanthemums," and have only succeeded in making them blossom by the middle of october, by planting them on the south side of a building, in richest soil, giving abundance of water, and covering on all cold nights. but i have beautiful plants of perfectly hardy, good-sized blossoms of yellow, white, pink and red, the roots of which have come from the gardens of my farmer friends. i have never been able to buy this old-fashioned hardy kind. in the spring, as soon as the plants begin to sprout, divide them, setting out three or four sprouts together. in this way the stock will increase wonderfully. chrysanthemums require very rich soil, must have sun, and do best against a building or a wall. about the first of july and the first of september have a couple of trowelfuls of manure carefully dug in about the roots of each plant. buds should not be allowed to form until september, and the new shoots should be pinched back until then, to make the plants strong and bushy. i do not envy any one who has only the great, solemn, stiff flowers of the prize-show variety. an armful of the hardy garden ones, with their delicious odour, is worth a green-house full of the unnatural things which are the professional gardener's pride. when you can keep twenty or more vases filled from your own garden with these last blossoms of the year, in all their lovely colours, and not miss one of them from the plants, you will agree with me that they are the only kind to raise. perennials, sown in rows in the seed-bed in april, will be nice little plants by july, when they should be lifted and transplanted some six inches apart. the portion of the seed-bed where the annuals were raised can be used now for the purpose. this is particularly necessary for larkspur, columbines, monkshood, platycodon, coreopsis, hibiscus and pinks. if, when transplanting, each plant is set with a trowelful of manure, the result will be plants twice as large by the first of october, when they can be again transplanted to their permanent places. _oriental poppies_ and _pinks_ should also be sown in the perennial seed-bed. oriental poppies, with great blossoms as large as a tea plate borne on strong stems, make a grand show about the end of may and beginning of june. pinks, too, should be in every garden, if only for their delicious, spicy odor. the chinensis, or china pinks, are the best. sweet williams and oriental poppies need not be moved from the time they are sown until finally transplanted in the autumn. [illustration: yuccas in blossom july twelfth] _yucca filamentosa_, the hardy native of mexico, sends up, about the tenth of july, great stalks six to eight feet high, bearing masses of white flowers. the individual blossoms are of creamy waxy texture and as beautiful as an orchid. a single stalk of yucca, in a tall vase, will last nearly a week, and is as unusual as it is beautiful for house decoration. yuccas are perfectly hardy, need no protection in winter, no fertilizer, no water in dry weather. in my garden, at least, they have not been attacked by insects and have grown placidly on, needing absolutely no care but to have the stalks cut down when they have finished blossoming. they are most effective when grown in clumps, but look very well along a fence with hollyhocks at the back. the plants are so inexpensive that i have bought mine, but see no reason why they cannot be raised from seed. small plants form near the parent stem, and these can be separated and transplanted. a late spring frost will sometimes nip the flower stalk that has just started, and there will be no bloom that year. to avoid such a disaster, whenever, in late spring, a frosty night is suspected, cover the plants with a piece of burlap. _tritomas_ (red-hot poker plant) bloom in september and october, and should always be planted in masses, and in full sun. they must be well covered with leaves or stable litter late in november, or they will be winter-killed. they increase rapidly. _gaillardias_ bloom all summer, and keep fresh in water for days. the plants are covered with long-stemmed, yellow flowers with dark crimson centers, and should also be protected in winter. _veronica longifolia_, a most beautiful dark blue flower, which grows in long spikes. veronica remains in bloom during the month of august, and is one of the most showy flowers in the garden at that time. _iris_, japanese and german, do well when naturalized in the grass. these plants increase so, that every four years they can be separated. beginning with the german iris, flowering the end of may, they can be had in bloom until the japanese iris finishes blossoming the middle of july. no orchids are more beautiful than the japanese iris. a couple of weeks before and during the period of bloom they must be kept very moist. both the german and the japanese iris are perfectly hardy and increase rapidly. the english iris, of which the white variety, known as mont blanc, is the most beautiful, and the spanish iris, in all its varieties, are not hardy. but with careful winter covering, about equal to that given to the everblooming roses, they will generally survive, and are well worth the trouble. the roots of all varieties of iris are very long, and care must be taken to give them plenty of room and to plant deep. _peonies._ for beauty and usefulness peonies rank with phloxes. large plants will frequently bear twenty great blossoms. by raising both early and late varieties, their period of bloom can be continued for a month. the old, dark crimson variety is the first to bloom; the old-fashioned double pink and double white are beautiful enough to satisfy any one, but the new varieties give immense choice as to colour and form. the japanese tree peonies do not die to the ground every year, like the herbaceous kinds, but form woody branches and grow like a small shrub. the blossoms of these tree peonies are truly wonderful; the only care needed is a little fertilizer in the autumn and a slight winter covering. they are best grown in front of the shrubbery. they blossom before the herbaceous varieties. the herbaceous peonies can be grown in large beds by themselves, in borders with other plants, or as single specimens in the grass or among the shrubs. peonies start so early in the spring that they should be manured in the fall, or there is danger of breaking the tender shoots. [illustration: bed of peonies on edge of lawn june sixth] _phlox._ there is no flower in the garden more beautiful, more easily cultivated, or giving so much bloom as the phlox. i could certainly never have a garden without it. in mine there must be a couple of thousand. i have a great mass, of probably two hundred herbaceous phloxes, growing together in one corner of my garden, the very tall varieties over four feet high. about the fifteenth of july, every year, this corner is a superb sight. most of these plants are over fifteen years old. they have been kept fine by heaviest top-dressing every year, and by lifting all the plants every three years and digging in quantities of manure, and also by separating each plant into three, by cutting the roots with a spade, or pulling apart with the fingers. the newer varieties of phlox come in the most beautiful colours,--dark crimson, fiery scarlet, many shades of pink, pink striped with white, and pink with a white eye; all shades of lilac, lilac with white and purple, the beautiful pure white, and the white with the scarlet eye. of all the varieties, my favorites are the snowy white, and the salmon-pink with the dark red eye. buy fifty large field-grown plants; at the end of three years separate them, and you have a hundred and fifty. they present a picture of progression much surer than the tale of the eggs that were to do so much. many of the individual blossoms of my phloxes are larger than a fifty-cent piece; a number of them larger by measurement than a silver dollar, and the heads also are very large. always erect, neat and smiling, never needing to be staked (such a task in a large garden), when once grown they must always be dear to a gardener's heart. by breaking off the heads of phlox immediately after blooming, a second crop of flowers will appear in about three weeks. the heads will not be so large as the first, but they will amply repay the slight trouble. every owner of a garden has certain favorites; it really cannot be helped, although the knowledge that it is so makes it seem almost as unfair as for a mother to have a favorite child. a real lover of flowers finds it difficult to cast away a plant that has bloomed its best, even though the blossom is unsatisfactory. in my garden there are, at present, some plants that i am longing to dig up and burn. there are two climbing roses that came by mistake in a large order and were set out. they have thriven as no others, cover a very large space on a trellis, and in june bear thousands of a most hideous, small, purplish crimson rose. the other plant is _scabiosia caucasica_. beware of the same. the description of it in a catalogue caused me to feel that without it the garden was nothing. a dozen were ordered and set out in a border, in two clumps. they grew and waxed strong, and fairly clambered over everything within several feet of them, seeming to be like gigantic thistles. finally in august, on stems two feet long, the eagerly looked-for blossoms appeared. these were described in the catalogue as "a large head of pale blue flowers." but, to my despair, it developed a round green ball about three inches in circumference, with white thistle-like petals. and yet the plants had surpassed themselves. it seems a poor reward to turn them out to die. _lychnis_ (london pride). i cannot now recall any perennial except the cardinal flower, which has blossoms of so brilliant a scarlet as lychnis, or london pride, growing tall and erect, with its bright colour. it is most effective when grown in large clumps. _monkshood_ (_aconitum napellus_) grows four feet high, and has a beautiful blossom of rich blue growing in quite large clusters. the name must come from the resemblance each individual blossom bears to the capuchin of a monk. these plants should be grown under tall trees, for they cannot stand too strong sun, and will blossom very late in the autumn if protected by the trees from frost. i gathered them last year in november. phloxes, rudbeckias, monkshood, valerian, lychnis, tritomas, iris, peonies and veronica are best raised, not from seed, but by buying the plants, and then after a time, as i have said before, dividing them. for instance, take a fine large plant of phlox of some choice variety, divide all the roots and set out each one separately. from one plant you may, in two years' time, get twenty splendid ones, and the same with the other varieties i have mentioned. _rudbeckias_, of the golden glow variety, grow from six to eight feet high, and must be staked, or when heavy with blossoms they will blow down or be beaten down by the rain. each plant will bear quantities of long-stemmed double yellow blossoms, which resemble a double dahlia. these will keep nearly a week in water. when the plant has finished blossoming, cut down the tops, and in october there will be a second crop of blossoms just above the ground. the golden glow should be divided every other year, and in this way it is even more remunerative than the phlox. i started with fifty plants, and think it will soon be possible to have a farm of them. list of hardy perennials, with height, colour and time and period of blooming, arranged alphabetically. _aquilegia_, or columbine, all colours; one to two and one-half feet; tenth of may to first week in june. _chrysanthemums_, all colours but blue; three feet; end of september until very cold weather. _delphiniums_, all shades of blue; three to four feet; july; later crops after cutting down. _dianthus barbatus_ (sweet william), red, pink, white; one to two feet; june. _dicentra spectabilis_ (bleeding heart), red and white; one to two feet; may. _gaillardia_, yellow, red center; two feet; july, august and september until killed by frost. [illustration: a single plant of phlox august twenty-fifth] _helianthus multiflorus plenus_, hardy double sunflower; yellow; four to five feet; all summer. _hibiscus_, pink, white; four to five feet; august and september. _hollyhocks_, all colours but blue; single, double, four to eight feet; tenth of july to middle of august; two to five stalks on a plant. _hyacinthus candicans_, white; four feet; last three weeks of august. _iris germanica_, all colours; two to three feet; end of may to first of june. _lychnis_ (london pride), scarlet; two and one-half feet; july. _oriental poppy_, scarlet, also pink; three feet; end of may and first of june. _peonies_, all colours but blue; two to two and one-half feet; end of may, for three weeks. _pentstemon_, many colours; three feet; august and september. _phlox_, all colours; two to four feet; early july until killed by frost, if the heads are cut as soon as finished flowering. _platycodon mariesi_, blue; one and one-half feet; august. _rocket_ (_hesperis matronalis_), white and purple; two feet; may. _rudbeckia_ (golden glow), yellow; five to eight feet; middle of july to september first; second crop in october. _tritoma_ (red-hot poker plant), orange-scarlet; three to four feet; september and october until killed by frost. _valerian_, white; three feet; may and june. _veronica longifolia_, blue; two feet; august. _yucca filamentosa_, white; three to five feet; second and third weeks in july. [illustration: vase of canterbury bells june twenty-first] biennials and a few bedding-out plants chapter ix biennials and a few bedding-out plants there are but few hardy biennials. the important ones, which no garden should be without, are: _digitalis_ (foxgloves) and _campanula medium_, (canterbury bells.) foxgloves and canterbury bells bloom in june and july for more than a month, and give a touch of glory to any garden. catalogues and many gardening books say that the seeds should be sown in early autumn, and the plants will bloom the following year. it is true that they will bloom when sown in the autumn, but unless kept over the winter in a cold-frame the plants will send up stalks, only about a foot in height. sow the seeds of foxgloves and canterbury bells in the shady part of the seed-bed in early april. keep the young plants moist. about the fifteenth of july, if there are a large number of plants and there be no other place, they should be transplanted to the vegetable garden, where they can follow early crops of peas or lettuce. have the ground spaded finely, and make shallow trenches, perhaps six inches deep, in which put a good layer of manure and cover this with earth, then set the plants about six inches apart. keep them well watered when the weather is dry, and the earth thoroughly stirred. by the twentieth of september or the first of october they should be transplanted to the places where they are to bloom the following year. the plants should then be a foot across, and next june will send up several stalks about three feet high. the canterbury bells should be six inches across in the fall, and the next year about two feet high. [illustration: a single plant of foxgloves; white sweet william in front june thirteenth] _foxgloves_ seed themselves with great abundance, unless the stalk is cut before the seed ripens. in the spring i have the little plants, seeded in this way from the year before, taken from the borders and transplanted in rows, and find they are larger and stronger than any others. foxgloves, white, spotted and pale lilac, are the pride of the garden. plant them back of the sweet williams, in clumps of six or eight, or else with peonies. they blossom at the same time, and the pinks or reds of sweet williams or peonies, with here and there a mass of white, and the tall, graceful spikes of the foxgloves rising above them, produce so beautiful an effect that you will simply have to go and look at them many times a day. _canterbury bells._ let any one who has been at oxford in june and july recall the canterbury bells in those loveliest of all gardens, new college and st. johns, and she will not rest until they have a place in her garden. i did not know these flowers before going to oxford, and after seeing them could not wait to raise them from seed, but bought three dozen plants to look at the first year. the roots that came to me were miserable little things, and, in spite of every care, half of them died. those which lived and bloomed were very lovely. they begin to blossom with us about the sixth of june, and last four or five weeks. in colour they are white, pink, purple and blue. canterbury bells and foxgloves are biennials. they are sown one year and grow for a year, then bloom and die. this seems a great deal of trouble for one season's flowers, but their beauty repays the gardener a hundred fold. they require a slight winter protection of leaves or stable litter, but care must be taken that the tops of the plants are not covered. the bedding-out plants and now a little about the only three bedding-out plants that i grow--dahlias, cannas and gladioli. i should have said four, for there is always a large bed of about four dozen scarlet salvia (the bonfire variety is the best), whose brilliant colour and sturdy growth cannot be spared. they begin to blossom in july. by driving a tall stake in the center, and other stakes around the edge of the bed of salvia, it can be covered with burlaps or carriage covers when the nights are frosty and preserved in all its beauty until november. _dahlias_ can be grown in rows in the vegetable garden, if there be no other place for them. they are decorative and desirable for cutting. plant two or three tubers in a hill about the third week in april. they should be planted eight inches deep and three feet apart, and kept well staked. the soil should not be too rich, or they will all grow to stalk and leaf, and blossom but little. all the varieties are lovely, the cactus kind more so, perhaps, than the others. in the autumn, when the tops have been killed by the frost, the tubers must be taken up, dried off carefully, and stored in a cellar that does not freeze. _gladioli_ can be planted from april fifteenth to june fifteenth, in beds by themselves or in clumps in the borders, so that the blossoms may be had in succession. gladioli come in many colours. _cannas_, the beautiful french varieties. these, of course, are most effectively grown in masses, and require full sun. the roots, like those of the dahlias, increase so that there is almost double the quantity to plant the next spring. it is well to have the cannas started in boxes in sunny windows, in tool-room or carriage-house, by mid-april. they can be kept through the winter with the dahlias and gladioli. [illustration: vase of foxgloves june fourteenth] roses chapter x roses the rose asserts her right to the title of the "queen of flowers" through her very exclusiveness. she insists upon being grown apart from other plants; otherwise she sulks and is coy, refusing to yield more than an occasional bloom. i speak from experience, having tried several times to grow roses in the front of wide borders, where soil and sun and everything except the proximity of other plants was propitious. but they scarcely bloomed at all. now, the same bushes, planted in rows so that a cultivator may be run between them, flourish satisfactorily. grow roses, then, in beds by themselves or in rows. if one has but half a dozen roses, let them be grown apart from other plants. pansies, however, can be grown in the rose beds, as i have elsewhere described; gladioli can also be planted among them without detriment to either. the reason for this is that the roots of these two flowers are not deep and do not interfere with the nourishment of the roses. roses on their own roots should live for years, if given proper treatment. witness the rose bushes in gardens, where with but little care they have flourished more than a generation. [illustration: summer-house, covered with clematis and crimson rambler roses june twenty-first] budded stock must be planted very deep. the joint should be at least three inches under ground. roses grown on their own roots are more expensive than the budded stock, but a far better investment. the budded stock is apt to send up from the parent root suckers or shoots of sweetbrier, buckthorn, flowering almond, or whatever it may be. these shoots must be carefully cut off. a friend told me that, when new to rose growing, his bed of budded roses sent up so many strange shoots that, not knowing what to do, he dug them all up but one. this he kept as a curiosity, and now it is a bush of flowering almond six feet in circumference. everblooming roses should be set out in the spring, about the middle of april. hybrid perpetual and hardy roses are best set out in autumn, about october tenth. when planting, always cut the plants back to about a foot in height. all roses should be lifted every three years, late in october, and plenty of manure, with fresh earth and leaf-mould, mixed with sand if the soil is heavy, dug in. after five or six years i dig up my roses about october tenth, cut the tops down to about twelve inches, cut out some of the old wood, cut off the roots considerably, trench the ground anew, and replant. the following year the roses may not bloom very profusely, but afterwards for four or five years the yield will be great. my physician in the country is a fine gardener, and particularly successful with roses. we have many delightful talks about gardening. when i told him of my surgical operations upon the roses he was horrified at such barbarity, and seemed to listen with more or less incredulity. so i asked him if, as a surgeon as well as physician, he approved, on occasion, of lopping off a patient's limbs to prolong his life, why he should not also sanction the same operation in the vegetable kingdom. he was silent. i shall not say much about roses, because there is so much to say. they need a book by themselves, and many have already been written. in my garden there are not more than five hundred roses, including the climbing varieties. they have done very well, and have not been given more care than other plants. [illustration: rose bed carpeted with pansies june twenty-first] for years i did not grow roses, fearing they would not be a success. i had read about the beetles and spiders and other creatures that attack them, and dreaded the spraying and insect-picking that all the books said must be done. but, of course, i finally yielded to the temptation of having the very flower of all flowers, in my garden, and have found the trouble slight and the reward great. i have them in beds in a little formal garden, and in rows in a picking garden. the beds and the trenches for the rows are both made in the usual way, and every fall, in late october, before the pansies are set out as already described, manure is dug in, and in the early spring, about the tenth of april, a handful of finely ground fresh bone-meal is stirred in around each plant with a trowel. they are sprayed with slug-shot three times between april tenth and may fifteenth, when they get a thorough spraying with kerosene emulsion, and, as a result, my roses are not troubled with the usual pests. in november the hardy perpetuals are all cut back to about two feet in height, and the old wood is thinned out. the everblooming roses are cut back to a foot in height. and roses! well, really, no one could ask better from a garden. i have not many varieties, but when i left the country last fall, the tenth of november, although ice nearly an inch in thickness had formed, there were roses still in bloom in the garden. the very hardy roses, which, with a few exceptions, bloom only in june and early july, with an occasional flower in the autumn, should be planted together, as they need but slight covering. in late november the hardy ones get about a foot of stable litter over the beds. the everblooming kinds have six inches of manure, then a foot of leaves, and then a good covering of cedar branches over all. but cover late and uncover early (the very minute the frost is out of the ground), or your roses will die. if asked to name, from my own experience, the best dozen roses, i should say the following were the most satisfactory: general jacqueminot, jubilee, ulrich brunner, madame plantier, clothilde soupert, kaiserin augusta victoria, la france, mrs. robert garrett, princess alice de monaco, soleil d'or, perle des jardins, and mrs. john laing or baroness rothschild. paul neyron and prince camille de rohan might also be added to the list. between mrs. john laing and baroness rothschild, it is a toss-up. mrs. john laing is a healthy, strong rose, and a most constant bloomer. but none that grows is more beautiful than the baroness rothschild. rather a shy bloomer; still each rose, on its long, strong stem, surrounded by the very fine foliage that distinguishes this variety, makes a bouquet in itself. baroness rothschild is also vigorous, and i have never seen it attacked by the enemies of most roses. climbing roses have so much use, as well as beauty, in a garden, that my advice is, wherever there is an excuse for having one, plant it there. they do finely on the south side of a house, on arches, summer-houses and trellises. i have a trellis along one side of a grass walk three hundred and fifty feet long. at each post are planted two roses, a crimson rambler and a wichuraiana. the wichuraiana blossoms when the rambler is done. imagine the beauty of this trellis when the roses are in bloom! on the other side of this walk there is a border four feet wide, with shrubs at the back, filled, all of the three hundred and fifty feet, with many varieties of perennials, also with lilies and annuals planted in wherever a foot of space can be found. all of the ramblers are good, but none blooms so luxuriantly as the crimson. the climbing clothilde soupert, baltimore belle and climbing wootton are also fine. of the wichuraiana hybrids, jersey beauty and evergreen gem are the best. the foliage is lovely, and the perfume of the flowers delicious. [illustration: canterbury bells blooming in a border june twenty-first] the climbing roses should be yearly enriched in the spring with manure and bone-meal, and, after two years, some old wood should be cut out every autumn. many of the crimson ramblers and wichuraiana in my garden made growth last summer of splendid great canes, larger around than one's thumb and from ten to fourteen feet long. monday was the day for tying and training the roses, and often it seemed impossible for them to grow so much in a week. it would have been incredible, had we not the actual proof before our eyes. list of hybrid perpetual and hardy roses blooming in june, with an occasional bloom in september _red_ general jacqueminot prince camilla de rohan, (darkest rose of all). jubilee. baron bonstetten. general washington. john hopper. ulrich brunner. victor verdier. _pink_ mrs. john laing (constant bloomer). anne de diesbach. la france (blooms all summer). magna charta. mme. gabriel luizet. baroness rothschild. paul neyron. _white_ margaret dickson. coquette des alpes. white maman cochet (blooms continually). madame plantier (blooms continually). coquette des blanches. mme. alfred carriere. marchioness of londonderry. _yellow_ i know but two hardy yellow roses: the persian yellow. soleil d'or. the monthly or everblooming roses, which need very heavy covering in winter, should be planted together. the following are a few of the best and most constant bloomers: kaiserin augusta victoria, white. bride, white. clothilde soupert, white with faint blush center. madame hoste, creamy white. perle des jardins, yellow. sunset, yellow. mlle. germaine trochon, yellow. american beauty, rich crimson. marion dingee, deep crimson. souvenir de wootton, crimson. bridesmaid, pink. hermosa, pink. madame de watteville, pink. burbank, pink. mrs. robert garrett, pink. princess alice de monaco, petals white, edged with blush-pink. lilies chapter xi lilies lilies, too, should have a book for themselves. my knowledge of them is slight. _lilium auratum_ (auratum lily), the grandest of all lilies, disappears after a few years. if large-sized bulbs are bought there will be the first year from twenty to thirty lilies on a stalk four feet high, the second year seven to ten, the third year perhaps two or three, but oftener none at all. if you then dig for the bulb, lo! it is gone. the expense, therefore, of these lilies is great, from their having to be often renewed. still, do not fail to have them, if possible, for nothing can take their place. they bloom from the middle of july for about a month. i wrote to an authority on lilies to ask the cause of this disappearance. he told me that, as soon as planted in this country, a microbe disease attacked them and they gradually disappeared under its ravages. botanists surely should find a specific, or antidote for this; but perhaps, like some of the most terrible diseases of the human being, it evades all research. miss jekyll, in her book on lilies for english gardens, in speaking of _lilium auratum_ says: "this grand lily, well planted, and left alone for three years, will probably then be at its best. after this the bulbs will be likely to have increased so much that it will be well to divide them." this would seem to imply that the auratums thrive in england. well, they have climate in england, even if we have weather, and english gardens will always fill american gardeners with despair. [illustration: _lilium auratum_ growing behind peonies and columbines that bloomed earlier august tenth] _lilium candidum_, which blooms before the other lilies, is hardy and fragrant and increases rapidly. these lilies must have full sun and light soil. about every three or four years they can be separated, which should be done as soon as the stalks turn yellow, as the bulb makes an autumn growth. for this reason the candidums must always be bought and planted by the tenth of september. other lilies may be planted in the spring, when the frost leaves the ground, or in october. _lilium speciosum rubrum_ thrives and increases in our climate, needs a partly shaded location and, therefore, does well when planted among rhododendrons. it blooms after the auratum, the end of august and first two weeks of september. _lilium speciosum album_ blooms at the same time as _lilium rubrum_. it is a beautiful pure white lily with wax-like curved petals, grows best in full sun, and averages six lilies on a stalk, although i have often counted more. _lilium longiflorum_ blooms early in july. these lilies are very much like the bermuda lily, except that they have, as a rule, about four blossoms on a stalk, and are hardy. in my garden they have not increased. _hansoni_, a japanese lily, flowering in june; bright yellow in color; perfectly hardy and very desirable. _lilium canadense_ (the meadow lily), yellow, red and orange, increases, and is very satisfactory, but likes as moist a situation as possible. _tigrinum_, the old tiger lilies, both single and double. these bloom in july, increase rapidly, and by planting, when fully ripened, the little black bulbils which form on the stalk, any number of bulbs can be raised. _funkia subcordata_ is the old-fashioned white day lily of our grandmothers' gardens. the broad leaves of this plant are almost as handsome as the spikes of bloom. these lilies flower best when grown in the sun, but then the leaves turn yellow--so give them a partly shaded place. _funkia cærulea_, with the blue blossom, is worthy of a place in the garden, though far from being as effective as the white-flowered variety. i also grow the kind with the small white and green variegated leaves for the sake of the foliage, so useful in house decoration. funkias are not, botanically speaking, lilies, but are mentioned in this chapter because popularly known as day lilies and on account of the lily-like form of their blossoms. _lily-of-the-valley_ should have a place in every garden. absolutely hardy, requiring no care, it blooms prolifically in early may, fills the air with its fragrance, and is beloved by every one. the german name for this flower, mai glöcken (may bells) is particularly appropriate. i have heard of one woman whose bed of these flowers, four feet by fifty feet, has yielded as many as twenty thousand sprays in one season. the pips can be set out the end of october or the beginning of november. if the bed is quite large, when the lilies have finished blooming, some can be lifted here and there and transplanted. as the pips increase rapidly, their places will soon be filled. lilies-of-the-valley do best in a partially shaded place, and require a deep, rich soil, well mixed with leaf-mould. * * * * * a lily bed should be prepared, if the place is damp and drainage not good, by digging out the soil for three feet, and putting a foot of cobblestones in the bottom; then fill up with a mixture of good soil, leaf-mould and sand, and very old, well-rotted manure. in the ordinary garden that is not wet, two feet are enough to dig out the bed, and the cobblestones can be omitted. lilies should always be set with a handful of sand around the bulb, to prevent any possibility of manure coming in contact with it, as the manure will destroy the bulb. [illustration: vase of _lilium auratum_ august second] in my garden there is no special place prepared for the lilies, but they are grown in all the borders, the _rubrums_ in the shade, the others in the sun, and this year there have been thousands of them. if there are no woods near, where the men can gather leaf-mould, have the rakings of the autumn leaves put in a pile, cover with boards, and occasionally during the spring and summer have them well forked over; the next autumn there will be a quantity of the finest thing for lilies, rhododendrons, ferns, or indeed any kind of plant. this should be mixed in a pile in the proportion of one wheelbarrow of mould, two of good soil, two coal-scuttlefuls of wood-ashes, one-half barrow of old manure and two spadefuls of fine bone-meal. there is also nothing better for the roses than some of this mixture. all lilies do better if well mulched with clippings of lawn grass or with very old manure. the varieties of lilies mentioned are the easiest grown and the most satisfactory. lilies should always be planted in clumps of the same kind--never less than six, and the number increased according to the size of the garden. alternate clumps of a dozen each of _lilium auratum_ and _lilium album_ planted in a border just behind foxgloves and canterbury bells will come into bloom when these two biennials have finished, the _auratum_ first, then the _album_; these four flowers will keep the border gay from early in june until the middle of september. lilies should be planted about eight inches deep, and have a covering of litter late in the autumn. [illustration: vase of _lilium speciosum album_ and _rubrum_ september sixth] spring-flowering bulbs chapter xii spring-flowering bulbs bulbs can be planted at any time in the autumn before the ground freezes; the first week in november is as good a time as any. the cost of tulips, narcissi and daffodils is not great. they multiply and need not be disturbed for three or four years. _snowdrops._ the earliest of all flowers to bloom is the snowdrop. after the long, cold winter, with the melting of the snow and the first suspicion of milder air, these frail beauties send up their graceful bells of white. with what triumph the first one is found and brought to the house, and what a thrill of joy it gives to know that spring will soon be here! snowdrops can be planted thickly in the borders and also, like crocuses, in the grass. the foliage of both will die before it is time to mow the lawn. _crocuses_, which should be planted in the grass, will begin to bloom as soon as the snowdrops pass. the gay little things make the lawn, while still brown, a carpet of bright colors. i heard of a gentleman who planted ten thousand of them in this way, and was rewarded by a most beautiful display at a time when there were no other flowers. [illustration: garden arch, covered with japanese gourds august twenty-seventh] _tulips_ i plant everywhere in the borders about four inches apart, all kinds, such as single, double, gesnerianas and parrot tulips; but always a quantity of only one kind together. the bed where later the salvias are put, has three hundred golden yellow tulips. when these have faded, the salvia plants are set out in the same bed, without disturbing the bulbs. this can be done if the men are careful, and when the tulip leaves are quite yellow they are cut off (for unless allowed to ripen the bulb does not grow and multiply). every three years all tulips are dug up in the autumn, after the salvias have died; the bed is then made very rich, and the tulips reset. there are generally more than enough to refill the bed. the same treatment is pursued in the canna bed, only here the tulips are double white. tulips will bloom from april twentieth until the last of may, if both the very early as well as the late kinds are planted. the late varieties are the parrot and gesneriana, which latter grow two feet high and are very showy. i have been constantly surprised to find that many good gardeners take up all bulbs when through flowering in the spring, store through the summer and replant in the autumn. this is not only unnecessary, but it is better for the bulbs to remain in the ground as nature intended. mine have always been so treated and have been successful. in planting bulbs in newly prepared soil, great care must be taken that they do not come in contact with manure. to prevent this, the man should have a box of sand, in a handful of which each bulb should be set. spring-flowering bulbs should be planted about four inches deep. _poeticus narcissus_ and _daffodils_, both single and double, do well when naturalized in grass that need not be cut until the foliage of the bulb has died in june. they also make a very good edging for a border along a walk. the single van sion and emperor narcissus are excellent varieties. the old-fashioned sweet-scented jonquil and double van sion, or double yellow daffodil, are as satisfactory as any of the numerous kinds named in the catalogues. one early spring, the double yellow daffodils were all in bloom on the tenth of april. narcissi and daffodils live for generations. i know some double yellow daffodils growing in my great-grandfather's garden, that were planted over seventy years ago. the place was sold and the house burned about thirty years since, and all this time has been entirely neglected. some one told me that daffodils and narcissi still bloomed there bravely in the grass. with a cousin, one lovely day last spring, i took the train out to this old place and there found quantities of the dainty yellow flowers. we had come unprovided with any gardening implements, having nothing of the kind in town, and brought only a basket for the spoils, and a steel table-knife. we quickly found the knife of no avail, so borrowed a sadly broken coal-shovel from a tumble-down sort of a man who stood gazing at us from the door of a tumble-down house. the roots of the daffodils were very deep, and neither of us could use a spade, so the driver of the ramshackle wagon taken at the station was pressed into service. handling of shovel or spade was evidently an unknown art to him. the daffodil roots were nearly a foot deep, but we finally got them, several hundreds of them, all we could carry. the driver seemed to think us somewhat mad and said "them's only some kind of weed," but when i told him the original bulbs from which all these had come were planted by my great-grandmother and her daughter, and that i wanted to carry some away, to plant in my own garden, he became interested and dug with all his heart. the bulbs were in solid clumps a foot across and had to be pulled apart and separated. they were the old double yellow daffodil and a very large double white variety, the edges of the petals faintly tinged with yellow and delightfully fragrant. my share of the spoils is now thriving in my garden. by the process of division every three years, these daffodils can be made to yield indefinitely, and perhaps some great-grandchild of my own may gather their blossoms. [illustration: vase of phlox; single blossoms actual size august second] _hyacinths_, too, should have a place in the spring garden. they are more expensive, as a rule, than tulips, narcissi and daffodils, but, in large or small quantities, are well worth the money. the single varieties are generally preferred, while, of all kinds, the white and pale blue are the loveliest. nothing in the garden gives so much pleasure as the early spring flowers. perhaps this is because they are the first to bloom. every one knows how beautiful the first lovely dandelion seems, gold-starring the new grass. many bulbs can be had for little money, and i would say to all, plant as many as you can squeeze in. from april fifteenth to may fifteenth i receive in town, twice a week, great boxes of spring flowers from my garden, enough each time to fill sixteen to twenty vases; yet my orders to the men are to cut always so that the flowers cannot be missed from the garden. shrubs [illustration: spiræa van houttei may thirty-first] chapter xiii shrubs of the hundreds of shrubs, comparatively few survive the severe winter climate of interior new york, or grow very luxuriantly. lilacs of all varieties, white and purple, single and double; deutzias, white and pink; and syringa, the improved large-flowered variety, are most beautiful. _spiræa van houttei_, sometimes called bridal wreath, with its long trails of white blossoms; and _viburnum plicatum_, or japanese snowball, which in late may bears a ball of bloom on every twig and is both healthy and hardy, are also desirable shrubs. the old variety of snowball is attacked by a blight, the leaves curl up and grow black and the blooms are imperfect. a few years ago i dug up all of mine and burned them. altheas, or rose of sharon,--not by any means the old purplish red variety, but the beautiful new double white and double pale pink kinds, with blossoms coming in august and reminding one of camellias,--are indispensable. do not fail to have _hydrangea paniculata_, with its great heads of white bloom, slowly changing to dull pink, and lasting quite six weeks. [illustration: _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_ august twenty-sixth] japanese barberry, a dwarf shrub, covered in autumn with scarlet berries which remain on the bush all winter, is very ornamental. many of us remember _calycanthus floridus_, or the sweet-scented shrub of our young days, when the children would tie two or three of the queer brown blossoms in the corner of a handkerchief to regale their less fortunate companions with a sniff of the delicious odor. _forsythia_ and _laburnum_, or golden chain, both have yellow blossoms. others are, _weigela rosea_, the well-known pink-flowering shrub; _rhus cotinus_, or purple fringe, and _cydonia japonica_, or japanese quince, deep rose-pink, flowering early in the spring. these all yield beautiful flowers, beside being hardy and of rapid growth. all shrubs should be trimmed as soon as they have finished flowering, but only enough to prevent their becoming spindling, with the exception of _hydrangea grandiflora_, which should be trimmed back, at least three-quarters of the new growth, every year. it is important, also, to thin out the old wood of most shrubs after five or six years. shrubs can be grown from cuttings if one has patience to wait for the result. but as it takes from three to four years' time and considerable care to grow a shrub that would cost but twenty cents, for which price many varieties of shrubs can be bought, few people care to raise them. on a large place it might be worth while to raise shrubs from cuttings. and where there is plenty of space, a small nursery of them might be kept. at the end of june take clippings about a foot long, make a shallow trench in good ground and plant them a couple of inches deep. they should be well rooted, in about six weeks. if the weather be dry, after planting them, they must be watered daily. the following spring they should be reset, a foot apart, where they can grow until transplanted to their final resting place. i know a beautiful hedge of _cydonia japonica_, or japanese quince, that has been grown from cuttings. privet can easily be grown from cuttings, and i have raised box from clippings. fortunately, the season was a wet one, for if allowed to become dry before being well rooted, they would probably have died. list of most satisfactory shrubs _altheas_, pink or white; blooms in august. jeanne d'arc, pure double white, the best. grows six to eight feet in five years; must be trimmed in october. _berberis thunbergii_, or barberry, of slow growth; about three feet high; desirable for its beautiful foliage and scarlet fruit in winter. _calycanthus floridus_, or sweet-scented shrub. it yields its brown blossoms the end of may; slow-growing; requires but little trimming; height, five to six feet. _cydonia japonica_, japanese quince, has brilliant red blossoms in early may; grows six to seven feet high. _deutzia crenata_, variety of pale pink, and _candidissima_, white; of rapid growth, and very high; six to eight feet in five years. _forsythia_ blooms in april with masses of yellow flowers; moderate, quick growth; seldom over six feet high. _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_, the finest of all hardy shrubs. the flowers are great panicles of white. they bloom about the first of august and remain beautiful for six weeks, slowly changing to a soft, dull pink. this shrub is most effective when grown in masses of a dozen or more, although single specimens are very fine. they must be vigorously cut back late every fall, leaving only about six inches of new growth. _lilac_, common purple and common white; also _marie legray_, a fine white lilac, and _madame lemoine_, a new double variety bearing very large trusses of flowers. all of these varieties of lilac grow high and rapidly--frequently eight feet in six years. they require little or no pruning. it is sufficient to cut the blossoms either before or after they go to seed. _lonicera rosea_ and _lonicera albida_, upright honeysuckles, in shrub form, vigorous, quick-growing, requiring but slight pruning in late autumn. they flower in may, and in midsummer are covered with beautiful berries. [illustration: vase of _hydrangea paniculata grandiflora_ september tenth] _magnolia conspicua_, with large white blossoms, blooms the middle of april; _soulangeana_ has large pink flowers and blossoms the end of april. magnolias should be pruned when set out, and should be moved only in spring. _philadelphus syringa_, or mock orange; _grandiflorus_ is the finest. the flowers are pure white, very fragrant and bloom about the middle of june. the shrub grows high, is perfectly hardy and in every way satisfactory. it should be trimmed as soon as it has finished blossoming. cut back about three-quarters of the new growth; it will then send out side shoots and become continually thicker. _privet._ the common privet is of very rapid growth and excellent for a screen. it should be trimmed the end of june, but only enough to prevent its becoming scraggly. the california privet is not so hardy. _rhus cotinus_, popularly known as smoke tree or purple fringe, grows as high as a small tree and requires almost no pruning. in midsummer it is covered with fine, mist-like, purple flowers. _spiræa van houttei._ this is one of the most satisfactory shrubs; is rather dwarf in habit, growing about five feet high. the end of may it is covered with clusters of white flowers on long, pendulous branches. trim as soon as it has finished blooming, cutting off about half of the new growth. _spiræa anthony waterer,_ another spirea, very dwarf, only about a foot in height, and covered with bright crimson flowers from june to october. _viburnum plicatum,_ japan snowball, one of the finest shrubs. it grows about six feet high, and is completely covered with its balls of snow in early june. it requires comparatively little trimming. _weigela._--the two most satisfactory varieties of this shrub are _candida_, whose blossoms are white, and _rosea_, with pink flowers. they bloom most freely about the tenth of june, when each shrub becomes a mass of flowers. care must be taken to cut out the old wood from time to time, and to trim after the shrub has finished blooming. a few evergreen shrubs of evergreen shrubs, _kalmia latifolia_, or mountain laurel, is most satisfactory, growing three to four feet high. it is covered in early june with large clusters of pale pink and white flowers. _rhododendron maximum_, the large-leaved hardy american variety. under cultivation this shrub seldom grows more than six feet high; in the woods it is found much larger. _japanese holly_, a dense-growing shrub about four feet high, with deep glossy green foliage. _tree box_, generally trimmed in standard or pyramidal form and very slow-growing. perennial vines and creepers _ampelopsis quinquefolia_, virginia creeper. _ampelopsis veitchi_, boston ivy. _aristolochia sipho_, dutchman's pipe. _bignonia radicans_, trumpet creeper. _clematis paniculata_, clusters of fine white flowers. _clematis henryi_, large white flowers. _clematis jackmani_, large purple flowers. _english ivy._ _honeysuckle_, hall's japan, golden japan. _hops._ _vitis coignetiæ_, japanese ornamental grapevine; rapid grower. _wistaria_, both purple and white. a few of the best annual vines _cobæa scandens_, purple and white. _moonflower_, white. _japanese morning-glory_, all colors. _passion flower_, blue and white; must be started very early, and if well protected will sometimes survive the winter. _japanese gourd._ this must be descended from jonah's gourd of biblical fame, as it often grows from forty to fifty feet in a summer. it has yellow flowers and gourds, and is very decorative. water, walks, lawns, box-edgings, sun-dial and pergola chapter xiv water, walks, lawns, box-edging, sun-dial and pergola it is not advisable to arrange for a garden of any size without considering the question of water. within the limits of a town supply there is only the comparatively simple matter of laying the pipes. but when the place is dependent upon its own water system, the amount to be counted upon and the situation of the garden with reference to the source of supply must be seriously considered. if possible the garden hydrants should not be more than fifty feet apart. this greatly facilitates watering. when further apart, plants are in danger of being injured by the unwieldy hose. a nozzle that will regulate the flow of water from a fine spray to a strong stream will be found convenient. opinions differ upon the best way to lay water-pipes through a place, some preferring to put them but a foot under ground, and turn off the water in winter; others lay them in trenches three and a half to four feet deep, so that they are beyond all danger from frost. this latter plan was followed in my garden and i recommend it as being most satisfactory. the watering of a garden requires nearly as much judgment as the seasoning of a soup. keep the soil well stirred and loose on the surface, going through the garden, where possible, with a rake; and if there is no room for a rake, stir gently with a trowel every five days or once a week. in this way moisture will be retained in the soil, since the loose earth acts as a mulch. [illustration: vase of double hardy sunflowers (_helianthus multiflorus plenus_) september fifteenth] when watering, be generous. soak the plants to the roots; wet all the earth around them, and do it late in the afternoon, when the sun is low. how often have i been obliged to chide the men for watering too early in the afternoon, and not doing it thoroughly, for, upon stirring the ground, i would find that the water had penetrated but a couple of inches. during long periods of dry weather, the garden, without water, will simply wither and burn. rhododendrons, ferns and lilies suffer in dry time, even though well mulched, and must be kept moist. japanese iris blooms but indifferently unless quite wet. when dry weather continues for a long period i divide the garden into three parts; one part is thoroughly watered every evening, and the following day the soil is stirred. in this way the plants suffer comparatively little. for years we had no water supply through the gardens, and really, in dry weather, life had no pleasure for me because of my unhappiness at the sight of the withered garden. i would drag watering-cans about, and beg and bribe all the family to do likewise. every afternoon, about five o'clock, one of the men would fill eight ten-gallon milk-cans with water, put them in a wagon, and drive about the place watering the flower beds and borders. frequently he would fill these cans three times in one afternoon. this, as may be imagined, was slow and unsatisfactory work, and, except in the case of a small garden, is too great a task. often in a dry time, after dinner, i bethink me of the rhododendrons or ferns or iris, or some other plants to which drought means death, and i feel sure "that boy has not watered them enough." then, in ten minutes the garden skirt, shoes and gloves are on, and those thirsty plants get a drenching to their very roots such as they would never receive from any perfunctory "boy" or gardener. i go to bed warm and weary, yet sleep is sweet from satisfaction at the thought of the garden's happiness. walks unquestionably, walks near the house should be graveled; they naturally have too hard usage to keep turf in good condition. graveled walks should be dug out a foot or more in depth, filled in with broken stone, this covered well with coarse gravel, and finished with a coating of a couple of inches of whatever fine gravel is chosen. a walk thus made will be dry and well drained and weeds have little chance to grow. the most beautiful walks of all are those of grass. strange to say, they are seldom seen in this country. through any garden, some little distance from the house, where they will be walked on only by those going to the garden, the turf-walks, with ordinary care, will last well, require only the usual cutting with the lawn-mower, and, especially if edged with box, should be the very pride and joy of the possessor's heart. the ground for such walks should be spaded deeply with plenty of manure, raked carefully and made very smooth. prepare in september, and by the fifteenth or twentieth sow, very thickly, a mixture of one-third each to the bushel of kentucky blue grass, long island bent grass and red top. roll thoroughly, and if the weather be dry have the newly sown paths sprinkled daily and kept moist. the tender grass should appear in two weeks, and will continue to grow during october. [illustration: vase of monkshood september thirtieth] about thanksgiving time of the first year, cover with a layer of straw, and uncover about the twenty-fifth of march. at this time it is well to sow thinly some more grass seed of the same kinds, and again roll, the reason for the additional spring sowing being to replace any of the grass that may have been winter-killed. about the twentieth of april spread cotton-seed meal, the best of all fertilizers for grass, all over the paths. for years we have had the lawns covered with stable manure in february and raked off the first of april, and for years i have waged war with the weeds and wild grasses. but sow cotton-seed meal early in april, and if possible give the paths a little wood-ashes in june; the result will be a hundred per cent better than from the use of manure. cotton-seed meal should not be sown too thickly, and wood-ashes must be spread thinly, so as not to burn the grass. the men tell me that a sharp-pointed mason's trowel is more satisfactory than any other tool for removing weeds from the lawns and grass paths. if this is carefully attended to the end of may, and again the latter part of june, and only artificial fertilizer used, there will be but little trouble with weeds in the grass. box-edging box-edging should be set out in the spring, that it may be thoroughly rooted before winter. great care must be taken in setting out the box, that the row be absolutely straight and even. the garden cord is carefully stretched; a shallow, narrow trench is dug with the spade, and then the little plants are placed about three inches apart, each plant against the string. the trench is half filled in with earth, then a layer of manure, and finally more earth packed down. box planted in this way should grow and thrive, especially if given, along in may, a little bone-meal. [illustration: sun-dial in center of formal garden august second] i write feelingly of box-edging to-day. last week, holy week, i spent in the country, and most of my time was passed on my knees. for, when not at church or driving the intervening five miles, i was setting out plants in the garden, and that, like one's prayers, requires kneeling. four men were working, setting out plants and trees, but the earth was so sweet and warm and brown that it was impossible to keep away from it. with trowel in hand and joy in my heart, i set out hundreds of little box plants, transplanted columbines, foxgloves and canterbury bells. big robins were hopping tamely about, calling to one another; blackbirds and meadow-larks were singing their refrains; the brave plants were pushing their way through the earth to new life, and i thought how good it was to be alive, to have a garden to dig in, and, above all, to be well and able to dig. with work in the garden care and worry vanish. the cook (as some cooks of mine have done) may announce that "'tis a woild waste of a place. i be lavin' the mornin'." the hamper of meat does not arrive on the one train from town, or somebody smashes something very dear to your heart,--just go to the garden, tie up some roses or vines, or poke about with a trowel, and though murder may have been in your thoughts, in half an hour serenity will return. and what does it all matter, anyway? another maid can cook for a few days, and there are always bacon and eggs. philosophy is inevitably learned in a garden. speaking of eggs, i think of hens. living on a farm, of course there have always been hens and chickens. these creatures were provided with houses and yards and fences, and given every inducement to remain where they belonged; yet with diabolical ingenuity they would escape from their quarters, dig under the fence, fly over it, or some one would leave a door or a gate open, and then, with one accord, all the flock would make for the gardens and scratch and roll in the borders. this sort of thing happened repeatedly, until i felt there must be a league between the farmer's wife and the hens. but the limit of endurance was reached when, one afternoon, coming out to look at a bed of several dozen chrysanthemums set out in the morning, i found the poor plants all scratched out of the ground, broken and wilted. then in wrath the fiat went forth, "no more hens on this farm, those on hand to be eaten at once." for days a patient family had hen soup, hen croquettes, hen salad and hen fricassee, until the last culprit came to her end. sun-dial there is no more charming and interesting addition to a garden than a sun-dial. for hundreds of years sun-dials have been used as timekeepers, and though some of the very old ones were occasionally set into the façade of a building, they are generally found in the _plaisaunce_ or garden, mounted upon quaint pedestals. sun-dials are supposed, by their owners, to keep accurate time, but it must be remembered that there is always a difference between clock-time and sun-time. while, to-day, our lives are frequently portioned into minutes, and it would seem as if one might loiter and be lazy in a garden, if anywhere, still even among the flowers we find a "_tempus fugit_." for a time after my sun-dial was set, it was amusing to notice how often, about half after eleven o'clock, and again at five, this late addition to the garden would claim the attention of the workmen. my sun-dial stands in the center of a formal garden where four paths meet, forming a circle twenty feet across. the pedestal is a simple column of marble, four and one-half feet high, slightly tapering toward the top, with beveled corners. this is placed on a stone foundation three and one-half feet deep, laid in cement. the pedestal i found at the yard of a second-hand building-material man, on avenue b, in new york city. after it had been set in place, i wanted it rubbed up and a chipped place smoothed. the only available man for this work, was the gravestone-cutter from the nearest town. when he was recognized at work in the garden by passing countrymen, they supposed, of course, that some one was buried there, and many have been the inquiries as to "whose be that mouny-ment." crimson rambler roses twine about the pedestal. at the corners of the four paths are standard box trees, which stand like sentinels, and between them there are bay trees in terra-cotta vases of simple shape--copies of antique ones. the dial made for the latitude bears this inscription, "_utere praesenti, memor ultimae_" (use the present hour, mindful of the last), which i found in an old book on sun-dials in the avery library, at columbia university. pergola across the end of this garden is a rustic pergola seventy feet long, made of cedar posts cut from the woods on the farm, ten posts on a side, each post being set four feet deep. a string-piece of heavy chestnut rests on the tops of each row of posts. cedar poles ten inches apart extend across the top and project two feet over each side. the pergola is eight feet wide and ten feet high, is easy to build and very effective. care must be taken to set the posts at least four feet. at each post are planted a two-year-old root of wistaria and one of virginia creeper, and i live in the hope of some day seeing the vines cover the pergola. the ground slopes gently where this is built, and the first autumn after it was made, it looked, from a little distance, so much like a section of an elevated railroad as to be very depressing. but one must possess imagination to be a gardener, and have the ability to see the garden as it will look "next year." so i refused to see the pergola except as clothed with vines, and in may, with the beautiful racemes of purple wistaria hanging from every rafter. patience and perseverance are traits necessary to the gardener. one must not be discouraged, but determined to succeed. if a set of plants die, or do not flourish this year, try them again next season, under different conditions, until the difficulties are overcome. i have known people who began gardening as a mere pastime when over forty years old, and who have told me what an absorbing interest it had become and how greatly it changed the whole aspect of life for them in the country. what a delightful tie, fondness for gardening makes between people! i know several men with beautiful places and lovely gardens in which they take the warmest personal interest. whenever i meet one of them at dinner, if by chance i am not seated next to him, i am unhappy and cannot listen sympathetically, either to the enthusiasm of the man on one side whose heart is, perhaps, bound up in golf, or to the laments of my neighbor on the other, who may be suffering from rheumatism or gout, and unable to eat or drink what he wants. insecticides--tool-room chapter xv insecticides--tool-room the enemies of growing things have certainly increased alarmingly of late years. i cannot recall that formerly any insect was to be found in either vegetable or flower garden, other than the potato bug, currant-worm, cabbage-worm, and the green worm and small black beetle on the rose; but now there are so many horrid creatures lying in wait until a plant is in perfection, to cut the stalk, or eat the root, or eat the pith from the stalk so that it falls, or to devour the leaves and eat the blossoms, that insecticides and a spraying machine are as necessary to a garden as a spade. for a small garden a spraying machine holding from a couple of quarts to a gallon, can be bought for a trifling sum, that will answer the purpose very well for a larger garden, a good air-pump, costing from five dollars upwards, will be found an excellent investment. one of the best insecticides is bordeaux mixture, which can either be bought or made. i have twenty-five gallons made at a time and keep it always on hand. the following is the receipe: three pounds of blue vitriol in coarse crystals; three pounds of unslaked lime. slake the lime in two and one-half gallons of water; pour two and one-half gallons of water over the blue vitriol in another receptacle, and let both stand over night. in the morning stir the blue vitriol until all is dissolved; then let two persons pour simultaneously the lime water and the blue vitriol into the same receptacle, and add twenty gallons of water; stir well before filling the spraying machine. [illustration: the pergola (first summer) august twenty-fifth] bordeaux mixture is to be used for rust, mildew, and all kinds of blight, whenever the leaves of plants have a tendency to turn black. hollyhocks seem to be universally attacked by rust. spraying the plants at the end of april, and again in the middle of may, should entirely prevent this. i have found that bordeaux mixture prevents the leaves of monkshood from turning black and falling off, if the plants are well sprayed with it about the middle of june and the first of july. phloxes grown in rather shady places will, in damp weather, fall victims to mildew on the leaves. spraying with bordeaux mixture the end of june and middle of july should prevent this. roses also have a tendency in warm, damp weather to mildew, which can be prevented by spraying the plants with bordeaux mixture. kerosene emulsion may also be prepared, and is excellent for killing, both the small green aphids that often cover the leaves of roses, and other hard, scaly insects. following is the receipe: put one cake of laundry soap shaved fine into one gallon of water. when dissolved, add two gallons of kerosene oil. this makes the emulsion. for spraying, use one quart of the emulsion in fourteen quarts of water. be sure that this is very thoroughly mixed before filling the sprayer. powdered hellebore, if dissolved in the proportion of one pound of powder to one gallon of water, will destroy both the green worm on the rose leaf and the small dark beetle that eats the roses. it will also dispose of green worms on other plants. slug-shot dissolved, one-half pound of powder to one gallon of water, will, if used the latter part of april and several times in may, keep the roses comparatively free from insects. slug-shot and hellebore may also be used dry and blown on to the plants with a bellows. i have used hellebore in my garden for many years without harm to anything except the worms and beetles. but recently i heard of a lady who was severely poisoned in using dry hellebore. the wind blew it into her face; perhaps some was inhaled, and serious illness resulted. i mention the fact here, to caution all who use it not to let either the spray or the powder come in contact with the skin. some persons may be susceptible to the poison while others are not,--presenting a case of what the doctors call an "idiosyncrasy." paris green, mixed in the proportion of two tablespoonfuls to three quarts of water and used as a spray, will destroy a beetle that sometimes appears upon the gourd vines. tobacco water will kill the black aphids which appear on the stems and leaves of hardy chrysanthemums. it will also kill green aphids. this spray is made by filling an ordinary pail lightly, not pressed down, with tobacco stems. pour as much cold water into the pail as it will hold; let it stand for three hours, when it is ready to use in the spraying machine. this mixture will be good for only twenty-four hours. tobacco spray will also destroy the large red aphid (i call it this for want of, perhaps, the proper name) that has recently appeared in some localities upon the stems of the rudbeckia (golden glow) and of the single hardy sunflower, just below the blossom. the enemy of the box is the white spider. the insect spins its web on the box and works from the inside. if the branches are pulled aside, the inside of the plant will be found full of dead leaves in the vicinity of the web. recently i read in a well-known gardening monthly, that this spider could be destroyed by spraying with kerosene emulsion. i have some fine box trees, and there were several white spider-webs on each. watering with a very strong force of water had been tried without effect. upon reading the article in the monthly and finding that the spider was certainly causing disaster which might be fatal, i proceeded to have the trees sprayed with kerosene emulsion, using it of the same strength as for roses. in fact, the sprayer was not re-filled, as there was enough left in it since last using it on the roses. about three days after the box had been sprayed, large, unsightly brown patches appeared on the trees, showing that the emulsion had killed the leaves wherever it touched them. the spider was not harmed. i mention this experience as an example of the danger of taking all the directions found in horticultural publications as gospel truth. nor should an amateur gardener ever be tempted to trifle with plant medicines. i have a certain friend whose affection for her roses is more profound than her knowledge of how to treat their natural diseases. observing last summer that one of her most cherished crimson ramblers was covered with aphids, she concluded to spray it with "something." a bottle of carbolic acid being most available, she tested its merits at once. the efficacy of carbolic acid as a poison was proved beyond a doubt, for the insects became singularly dead in a day or two, and so did the leaves; they fell off together. there was nothing left but the forlorn stems and branches, looking like some freak of the vegetable kingdom. tool-room [illustration: tritoma (red-hot poker plant) september twenty-eighth] it is of the greatest importance to have a tool-room or closet according to the size of the place, and to require all implements to be kept there when not in actual use. there should be shelves across one end or side, where shears, trowels, garden cord, clippers, watering-cans, mallet, various mixtures for spraying, oil-cans, keys for turning on the water, twine and all the smaller things one uses, may be found at a moment's notice. garden sticks painted green, in three sizes, three and a half and four feet long, and five-eighths of an inch in diameter, and thicker ones an inch in diameter for dahlias, should be kept on hand in barrels. they can be bought of lumber-dealers in new york, where they are known as "dowels." they come in bundles of one hundred, costing from sixty cents to a dollar and twenty-five cents a bundle, according to size, unpainted, and the men can paint them on rainy days. the lawn mowers and the roller (which should be a heavy one) can also be kept in the tool-room. rakes, both iron and wooden, hoes, spades and shovels, the latter both long-handled and short-handled, are best kept hung up along one side of the closet, where the men can see at a glance what they want. there should also be a pickaxe and a crowbar for taking out refractory stones, and, most necessary of all things in a garden, the wheelbarrow should be kept here, too. a sickle and a scythe must not be forgotten. if the garden is large, a two-wheel tip-cart will prove a great saver of labor in carting manure and soil and in the removal of debris. on a particular shelf in my tool-room i keep my private trowel and flower scissors, to which are attached long red ribbons as a warning of "hands off!" to others. there is also a clipper which i often use in walking about to trim a bit here and there from a shrub or a climbing rose. if a scrap-book be kept, in which everything of interest pertaining to the garden can be pasted or written, it will be found a great help. in this way items about fertilizers, insecticides, special treatment of plants, with copies of lists ordered, can be preserved, and also, most interesting of all, notes of when the different plants bloom each year. i find the following under date of october , : "to-day, though ice has formed three times, i have filled nineteen vases with flowers. they are phlox, larkspur, monkshood, salvia, nasturtium, roses, mignonette and chrysanthemums." after trying many kinds of gloves for gardening, including the rubber ones, i now use only old suede gloves; they give sufficient covering and permit more freedom of movement to the hands and fingers than those of heavier material. it would be quite impossible to transplant tiny seedlings while wearing gloves with clumsy finger-tips. unless a woman possesses a skin impervious to wind and sun, she is apt to come through the summer looking as red and brown as an indian; and if one is often out in the glare, about the only headgear that can be worn to prevent this, is the old-fashioned sunbonnet. with its poke before and cape behind, protecting the neck, one really cannot become sunburned, and pink ones are not so bad. retired behind its friendly shelter, you are somewhat deaf to the world; and at the distant house, people may shout to you and bells be rung at you, and, if your occupation be engrossing, the excuse "no one can hear through a sunbonnet," must be accepted. conclusion chapter xvi conclusion the character of professional gardeners seems to be changing. they have become more perfunctory, more stubborn, more opinionated, until now it is a really serious question with them of "the danger of a little knowledge." to find a man who combines sobriety and a good disposition with a fair knowledge of his business and a real liking for it, is a difficult matter. where but one man is kept to care for vegetables, flowers and lawn, he is more than likely to have little interest beyond potatoes or corn, or to be good at raising small fruits, and to consider everything else he has to do as so much waste of time. when first married, one of our gardeners was a german who took no interest in flowers, and planted half the vegetable garden with "kohlrabi" and "korn salad." we had never heard of these delicacies before, and did not care for them. i remember also his telling me that one kind of flower was enough to raise anyway. if a young man with an elementary knowledge of gardening can be found, who wants to learn, is strong, willing and intelligent, it is better to supply most of the brains yourself. you will find your own wishes more apt to be carried out than by the gardener who "knows it all," and seems to resent what he calls "interference" on the part of his employer. i remember, when a child, seeing my father's gardener walking about in the early evening after his supper, smoking a meditative pipe, tying up roses or spraying plants, and often setting out seedlings after sundown. he was never idle; he loved his work and attended to it. but now it is rare indeed to see a gardener, after hours, going about his work; _autre temps autres moeurs_. [illustration: bringing in the flowers september sixth] remember always that it is the overcoming of the difficulties in the gardener's way, the determination to succeed, that gives zest to the occupation. did everything planted grow and flourish, gardening would be too tame. rust and blight, cutworms, rose-beetles and weeds, afford the element of sport so attractive to us all. a lesson must be learned from every failure; with renewed patience persevere until success is reached. i would make the strongest plea in favor of a garden to all those who are so fortunate as to possess any land at all. the relaxation from care and toil and the benefit to health are great, beyond belief, to those who may have to work with head or hands. if you can snatch a few minutes in early morning or late afternoon, to spend among the plants, life takes on a new aspect, health is improved, care is dissipated, and you get nearer to nature, as god intended. if the rich and fashionable women of this country took more interest and spent more time in their gardens, and less in frivolity, fewer would suffer from nervous prostration, and the necessity for the multitude of sanitariums would be avoided. flower gardening is preëminently a woman's occupation and diversion. nearly every great lady in england takes a personal interest in her gardens and conservatories, and knows all about the plants and flowers. here, the majority of women having large places leave the direction of the flowers, as well as the vegetables and fruit, to the taste and discretion of the gardener, and thus miss a great and healthful pleasure. as a rule, young people do not care for gardening. they lack the necessary patience and perseverance. but in the years of middle life, when one's sun is slowly setting and interest in the world and society relaxes, the garden, with its changing bloom, grows ever dearer. [illustration] [illustration: bed edged all the way with sweet williams plan for border] [illustration: plan for border] index _aconitum napellus_, . altheas, . _ampelopsis veitchii_, . _anemone japonica alba_, difficulty with, . annuals-- list, with height, colour and period of blooming, . sowing, , . transplanting, . [_see also names of flowers._] antirrhinum, sowing, . aquilegias, _see columbines_. asters-- destruction by beetle, , . sowing, . auratum lily, . disappearance of bulb, . price, . autumn work in garden, - . _azalea mollis_, perishability of, . barberry as hedge, , . bedding-out plants, . [_see also names of plants._] beds, rule for making, . beetle destroying asters, , . biennials, . [_see also names of flowers._] bone-meal, , . bordeaux mixture, . borders-- around house, . blooming from may to september, contents of border, . planting, , - , . short path and narrow borders, . small plot borders-- boundary lines of property, - . cost, . planting, - . boston ivy, . box, white spider pest, . box-edging, - . bulbs, purchasing and planting, - , - . calendula, . _calycanthus floridus_, . _campanula medium_, . candytuft, planting, . cannas, , , . canterbury bells, , . cardinal flower, transplanting, etc., . centaurea, _see cornflower_. chrysanthemums, , . clayey soil, lightening, . _clematis paniculata_, . climbing roses, , . columbines, . planting, . sowing, . _coreopsis_, . cornflowers-- blooming, etc., . planting, . cosmos, sowing, . cost, _see expense_. creepers, _see vines_. crocuses, . daffodils, , - . dahlias, , . cost, . planting, . storage, , . delphiniums, . digitalis, . double yellow daffodils, - . "dowels," . england-- gardening seasons, etc., . gardens, small plots, . english ivy, . everblooming roses, , . evergreen shrubs, . exchange of plants, , . expense-- border planting, - . front beds, . fall work in the garden, - . ferns-- border of, . maidenhair haunts, . planting, . transplanting, . watering, , . flowers-- annuals, _see that title_. gathering, extract from english book, . perennials, _see that title_. [_see also names of flowers._] flower garden-- small plots of ground, , . foxgloves, - . france, small plots, . front of the house, planting bed, . _funkia cærulea_, . _funkia subcordata_, . gaillardias, . german iris, . gladioli, , , . purchasing, . storing, . gloves for gardening, . golden glow, , , . grandiflora, . grass walks, - . graveled walks, - . ground, _see soil_. hansoni, . hardy roses, , . list of roses blooming in june and september, . hedges-- beauty of, as fences, . preparing ground for, . quick screens, . varieties, - . [_see also names, privet, etc._] hellebore, . hemlock spruce, . henryi, . hibiscus, . hollyhocks, . planting, , . seeding, . house-- painting, - . plan of garden to suit style of house, . vines, _see that title_. hyacinths, , . hybrid perpetual roses, . list of roses blooming in june and september, . _hydrangea paniculata_, . insects and insecticides, . asters destroyed by beetle, , . bordeaux mixture, . hellebore, . kerosene emulsion, . paris green, . slug-shot, . tobacco water, . white spider on box, . iris, , , . ivy-- boston ivy, . english ivy, . jackmani clematis, . japanese barberry, , . japanese iris, , , . japanese lily, . japanese tree peonies, . japanese vines, planting, . kerosene emulsion, . laying out a garden-- beds in front of vines, . borders, _see that title_. north side of house, . plan of garden, suiting to style of house, . soil, _see that title_. vines, _see that title_. [_see also names of flowers, etc._] lilac, . lilies, - . auratum lily, _see that title_. border planting, . planting, etc., - . watering, . [_see also names, lilium, etc._] _lilium auratum, see auratum lily._ _lilium canadense_, . _lilium candidum_, . _lilium longiflorum_, . _lilium speciosum album_, . _lilium speciosum rubrum_, . lily-of-the-valley, . london pride, . lychnis, . maidenhair fern, haunts of, . mai glöcken, . marigolds, . meadow lily, . monkshood, . moonflower, japanese, . morning-glory, japanese, . narcissus, , . nasturtiums, planting, . ordering plants, . oriental poppies, . painting of house and care of vines, - . pansies, carpeting rose beds with, , . paris green, . peonies, , . perennial vines and creepers, . perennials-- development, . list, with height, colour and time of blooming, . planting, . raising in seed-bed, , . seed-bed, _see that title_. sowing seeds, , . transplanting, . [_see also names of perennials._] pergola, - . pests, _see_ insects. _philadelphus syringa_, . phlox, , , . pinks, . plan of garden, suiting to style of house, . planting, - . borders, , - , . candytuft, . cornflowers, . dahlias, . fall work, - . ferns, . hollyhocks, , . lilies, - . perennials, . roses, , . rows, , . small plot, - . starting a garden, . transplanting, _see that title_. plants-- exchange, , . ordering, . unpacking, . _platycodon mariesi_, . poeticus narcissus, , . poppies, . sowing, - . privet, purchase, etc., . professional gardeners, , . red-hot poker plant, . rhododendrons-- planting and care of, - . watering, , . rockets, . roots, purchasing, - . rose of sharon, . roses, - . best roses, list of, . budded stock, . carpeting rose bed with pansies and gladioli, , . climbing, , . everblooming, , . exclusiveness, . hardy, _see that title_. hybrid perpetual, _see that title_. list of hybrid perpetual and hardy roses blooming in june and september, . planting, , . replanting and cutting, , . rudbeckias, , , , . salvia, . _scabiosa caucasica_, . scarlet salvia, . scrap-book, . screens, quick, . seed-bed-- empty, . importance and satisfaction, , . preparing, . seeds, sowing, . setting of plants, . shirley poppies, , . shrubs, - . evergreen shrubs, . growth from cuttings, , . list of most satisfactory shrubs, . planting, . [_see also names of shrubs._] slug-shot, . small plot, planting, - . borders, _see that title_. front of the house, - . snowball, blight, . snowdrops, . soil-- beds, rules for making, . clayey, lightening, . manure, use of, - . preparation of, , , . sowing-- annuals sown in seed-bed in spring, list of, . seeds, . spider on box, . spring-flowering bulbs, - , - . starting a garden, . sticks, "dowels," . suburban gardens, . sunbonnet, . sun-dial, - . sweet peas-- sowing, . trellis, . sweet williams, . tigrinum, . tobacco water, . tools and tool-room, - . transplanting-- annuals, . cardinal flower, . fall work, - . ferns, . perennials, . tritomas, . trumpet creeper, . tulips, , . unpacking plants, . valerian, . _veronica longifolia_, . vines and creepers-- _ampelopsis veitchii_, . best annual vines, . care of, . _clematis paniculata_, . english ivy, . henryi, . jackmani clematis, . japanese vines, . north side of house, . painting of house, - . perennials, . planting, . roses, climbing, , . trumpet creeper, . virginia creeper, . walks, grass and graveled, - . water supply and watering, - . weeding, . white spider on box, . _yucca filamentosa_, . zinnias, varieties of, . f. c. printed in the united states of america. * * * * * * transcriber's note: apparent typographical errors have been corrected and hyphenation standardised, e.g., sunbonnet and sunflower are written without hyphens throughout the book. unusual punctuation and original spelling have been retained, receipe (recipe?) left as printed. the date on the title page might be a misprint for , although there was a edition. harper's a-b-c series a-b-c of vegetable gardening. by eben e. rexford a-b-c of correct speech. by florence howe hall a-b-c of architecture. by frank e. wallis a-b-c of housekeeping. by christine terhune herrick a-b-c of electricity. by william h. meadowcroft a-b-c of gardening. by eben e. rexford a-b-c of good form. by anne seymour mo, cloth harper & brothers, new york a-b-c of vegetable gardening by eben e. rexford harper & brothers publishers new york & london a-b-c of vegetable gardening copyright, , by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published february, contents chap. page foreword i. getting the garden ready ii. laying out the garden iii. planting the garden iv. seeds that give best results v. early garden work vi. vegetable plants in the house vii. standard varieties of vegetables viii. small fruits and their culture ix. hotbeds and cold-frames x. small gardens xi. left-overs xii. health in the garden. a chapter expressly for women readers a-b-c of vegetable gardening a-b-c of vegetable gardening foreword not everybody has a garden. some deny themselves the pleasure and the profit of one because they have never had any experience in gardening, and have somehow got the impression that special training is necessary to make a success of the undertaking. here is where they make a mistake. there is no special "knack" about it. any one who owns a bit of land, and has some time that can be given to garden-work, and an inclination to do so, can make a gardener of himself in a season--and a successful one, too--if he allows himself to be governed by the advice of some one who has had some experience along this line. after the first season he will not be likely to ask or need advice, for the practical knowledge which comes with one season's work among vegetables will not only be sufficient to enable him to go on with his gardening operations on his own responsibility, but it will have made him so enthusiastic over them that he will be eager to enlarge his knowledge of "the green things growing," and in doing this he will find a pleasure that will make him wonder how he ever came to consider gardening something to dread. others, who have but a small piece of land, may think it not worth while to attempt to grow vegetables on it. they labor under the impression that a garden, in order to prove a success, requires more land than is at their disposal. here is where _they_ make a mistake. of course one cannot grow a large quantity of vegetables on a small piece of ground, but the one who undertakes to make the most of a small piece will be surprised at the amount that can be grown on it. in a garden that is not more than twenty-five feet square a friend of mine grows all the summer vegetables required by his family of four persons. this calls for what the scientific people call "intensive gardening," and makes it necessary to plant and plan for a succession of vegetables; but that twenty-five feet square of ground enables him to get a good share of the summer living of his family. another notion is, that in order to have a good garden a large amount of time and labor must be expended on it. not so. a very small amount of systematized labor will be demanded by even a good-sized garden, if it is planned in such a manner that labor-saving tools can be used in its cultivation. if we look back to the gardening days of fifty or even twenty-five years ago, when everything was done at the hardest and the hand had to do a good share of the work that we now do with helpful implements, it is not to be wondered at that the old-time care of a garden discourages many from undertaking to have one. happily those days are over, and with the gardening facilities of the present it is an easy matter to accomplish more in an hour than could be done then in a day. there is really no drudgery in gardening as it is done to-day. on the contrary, there is positive pleasure in the operation of the machinery which inventive genius has furnished for the up-to-date gardener's use. those who have never had a garden of their own, but have bought vegetables in the ordinary market, are not in a position to understand the wide difference between the article we buy and the one which is taken directly from the ground and eaten at once. while it is possible to keep most vegetables looking fresh for a considerable time by the use of water and ice, it is not possible to make them retain that delicacy of flavor known only to those whose vegetables go straight from the garden to the kitchen. if you want any vegetable _at its best_ you must grow it in your own garden. the general impression seems to be that gardening is essentially man's work, and that women and children are not equal to it. this is another mistake that will rapidly be done away with, for the woman of to-day is no longer a housed-up woman. she is rapidly learning the value of fresh air, and the tonic of outdoor life is fast taking the place of the doctor's prescriptions. the writer knows of many women who have found work in the garden not only a healthful occupation, but one so delightful that they look forward to spring with most pleasurable anticipations, and long for the time to come when they can get to work out of doors. when we have tried both we learn that work in the vegetable-garden is no harder than that in the flower-garden, and that neither demands more strength or time than the average woman is able to give it if she makes use of labor-saving tools. what is true of the woman is equally true of the children. a child ten years of age can do a good deal of the work that a good-sized garden calls for. i would not be understood as advocating the giving up of garden-work to women and children. i would not deny man the pleasure of sharing in it. but i would urge the importance of interesting women and children in it, and of encouraging them to take part in it from the viewpoint of health. benefit in other respects will become so apparent, after a little, that further encouragement will not be necessary. most women who have some leisure--especially if they are of the housewife class--will be so pleased with the results of gardening that they will be glad to supplement the labors of the man of the family by what they can accomplish in it, if he is employed in work that will not allow him to devote much time to the garden. and they will find that the boys of the family--and the girls as well--can be made to take an active part in the good work with but little encouragement from their elders. it is natural for both boys and girls to dig in the soil, and it is well to encourage them to dig to some purpose. it is natural work, and healthy work, and work that will do more to keep the average child out of mischief than any other influence that can be brought to bear on it. but i would not allow the child to get the impression that i gave it garden-work to do as a mischief-preventative. that would spoil everything. aim to interest the boys and girls in the mysterious processes of nature. encourage them to plan and execute as much of the work as can safely be trusted to them. in a short time you will find that most of them are equal to all the requirements of the ordinary garden. i have often been told by those who have had years of experience in garden-work that at least half one's living for half the year can be obtained from the garden, even if it happens to be a small one, and my own experience bears out the truth of this statement. if we grow our own vegetables we are quite sure to have a greater variety to add to the daily bill of fare than would be the case if we were to buy them. we have them when we want them without making a trip to the market for them, or depending on the uncertainties of telephone orders which grocers so frequently fill by sending vegetables of a quality that would not satisfy us if we gave them personal inspection before purchasing. the entire family will be delighted with the frequent changes that can be made in the bill of fare, and no one more so than the housewife who often finds it a difficult matter to plan for a variety of food when the family income does not warrant a liberal outlay. no owner of a bit of ground that can be made into a garden can afford to let it remain unused. if he does so he does it in disregard of the economy which most of us are obliged to consider and practise in these days of high prices and the increasing cost of daily living. have a garden if you can. i getting the garden ready the amateur gardener will almost invariably be in too great a hurry to begin gardening operations in the spring. but a few warm days are not sufficient to put the ground in proper condition for seeding, or even for plowing and spading. the frost must be allowed to get out of it, and after that an opportunity must be given for surplus water from melting snows and spring rains to drain away before work can be done to any advantage. as a general thing not much can be done in gardening at the north before the first of may. it is an old saying that "haste makes waste," and the gardener who is in too great a hurry often learns the truth which underlies the saying by the failure to germinate of the seed he puts into the ground very early in the season. another old saying that should be kept in mind is that "one swallow does not make a summer." read "warm day" for "swallow" and you will get the force of the statement. it is not advisable to do much at gardening until you are reasonably sure that warm weather has come to stay. even if early-planted seed comes up, spells of cold weather, and often of frost, which we are likely to have at the north until about the first of may, will have such a debilitating effect on comparatively hardy plants that those grown from later sowings, when all conditions are favorable, will come to maturity ahead of them. therefore it will be seen that it is poor policy to be in too great a hurry, and good policy to wait for what the farmer calls "growing weather" before doing much work in the garden. if very early vegetables are wanted it will be necessary to start them in the hotbed. in another chapter i will give some directions for the making and management of this very important adjunct of gardening. the first thing to do in making a garden is to plow or spade it. plowing is not admissible on small grounds, but where there is room enough to allow a team and plow to operate i would advise it in preference to spading, because it will save a good deal of hard work, and greatly expedite matters. before plowing some system of manuring should be decided on, as whatever fertilizer is used should be worked well into the soil, and this the plow can do most effectively. barn-yard manure, if old and well rotted, is better than anything else i have any knowledge of for all kinds of vegetables, but unfortunately it is seldom obtainable by those who do not live in the country. there are many commercial fertilizers on the market, but not all kinds of them are adapted to all kinds of soil. in order to secure the best results it is advisable that the amateur gardener should consult some dealer in these fertilizers in his immediate vicinity, or some one who has had personal experience in their use, with a view to making sure that he is getting just the kind best adapted to the soil in his garden. it is absolutely necessary that he should do this, in fact, for if he buys at random he runs the risk of getting something that will fail to answer his purpose. while it is always advisable to apply whatever fertilizer is used before plowing, commercial fertilizers can be applied later with good effect; but it will be necessary to apply them in such a manner that they do not come directly into contact with the seed, as many of them are so strong that they kill it. plow the garden deeply, for by so doing you bring to the surface a stratum of soil in which there is more latent fertility than in that close to the surface. after plowing, allow the soil to remain as thrown up from the furrow for two or three days. sunshine and warm air will have a disintegrating effect on it, which will make it easy for you to reduce it under the application of hoe and iron rake to that mellow condition so necessary to the welfare of the plants you propose to grow. it should be worked over and over until not a lump is left in it. you cannot expect to grow good vegetables in a soil that has not been well pulverized before seed is planted. large grounds, or those of a size that admit of the use of horses, can be speedily mellowed with the harrow, which should be run over the ground from all directions until it is thoroughly pulverized. in the small garden the rake and hoe will have to take the place of the harrow. small pieces of ground should be spaded. let the soil remain as thrown up by the spade for two or three days before attempting to work it. i have been told by some amateur gardeners that they did not use much manure because trees and shrubs that grew in close proximity to their gardens were so thrifty without manuring that they felt confident that the soil must be quite rich enough for vegetables without resorting to the use of any fertilizer. these persons lacked the experience which would have enabled them to understand the wide difference between tree and vegetable growth. a tree or a bush sends its roots deeply and widely into the soil, and applies to its uses food that the vegetable cannot send its roots in search of. the roots of most garden plants do not extend far in any direction, nor go very deep; therefore food must be given directly to them if we would secure the best possible result. there are very few gardens in which the natural soil has a sufficient amount of nutriment to produce the effect we aim at without the addition of some kind of plant-food. a rich soil is absolutely necessary in order to hasten development. unless a vegetable makes a quick growth it is pretty sure to be lacking in tenderness and flavor. of course it is possible to apply a greater amount than a plant can make use of, thus forcing an unhealthy growth, but this is not likely to happen if we consult the wise old gardener who knows his garden and the plants he grows in it as a mechanic knows the machine he uses. ii laying out the garden there will be little "laying out" to do in the small garden. here the chief aim will be to make use of every available bit of soil; the beds will be narrow, and the paths between them will be just wide enough to walk in, and these will be the only portions of the ground in which something is not grown. not much chance for planning, you see. in the larger garden it will be not only possible, but advisable, to do considerable planning. if a garden-cultivator is used--and this should be done whenever possible--plan for rows that will enable you to run it the entire length of the garden without turning. beds are no longer in favor with gardeners who aim to reduce the work to be done to the minimum, for in them the cultivator cannot be used to advantage, and weeding cannot be done with the facility which characterizes row-planting, nor can the hoe be used as effectively. there is really no argument that can be advanced in favor of the old bedding system for gardens in which we propose to use labor-saving implements. if possible, have the rows run north and south. this enables the sun to get at the ground lengthwise of the rows, and between them, which it could not do if they ran east and west, as the plants in them would shade all the ground except that in the first and most southerly row. it is not enough that the sun should get at the tops of the plants. the soil needs its vivifying effect. plant with regard to the height and habit of the vegetables you propose to grow. give corn a place at the side of the garden. then peas which grow tall enough to require bushing, and then beans, working down through potatoes, tomatoes, and beets and other low-growing kinds to onions, radishes, and cucumbers. if the garden-cultivator is to be used, leave a space about eighteen inches wide between the rows to work in. this implement can be adjusted to fit any width desired. its teeth can be set to throw the soil toward a plant or away from it. it can be made to do deep or shallow work, as the case may require. as a general thing, after a plant has attained some size we throw the soil toward it. if the teeth are set to do this we go down one side of the row and back on the other, thus throwing the soil about the plant alike on both sides. it will probably be necessary to remove some weeds _in the row_, which cannot be reached by the cultivator. this can be done most effectively by the use of a hoe which is triangular in shape, with the handle-socket in the center of it. one side is a blade like the ordinary hoe. the other comes to a sharp point, with which it is possible to work close to a plant without running any risk of injuring it--something that cannot be done with the ordinary wide-bladed hoe. weeds that grow up side by side with vegetable seedlings can be picked away from them so easily, and without disturbing them in the least, that no hand-pulling will have to be resorted to in cleaning the rows. where the garden-cultivator is used there will be very little work to do with the hoe, as this implement stirs the soil and uproots weeds at the same time. but in the small garden either hoe or weeding-hook will come into daily use. the weeding-hook is a most important tool, though its cost is but ten or fifteen cents. it enables one to do a good deal of weeding in a short time, does its work well, and does away entirely with hand-pulling, which has heretofore been one of the chief arguments that men have advanced against gardening. iii planting the garden most persons make the serious mistake of covering garden seed too deeply. very small seed needs hardly any covering. indeed, it does its best, as a general thing, when simply scattered on the surface and pressed down into the soil by a smooth board. this embeds the seed in the soil, which is made firm enough under the pressure of the board to retain a sufficient amount of moisture to assist germination. very fine seed often fails to sprout if covered too deeply. but most of the seed of garden vegetables is not fine enough to admit of this method of planting. if a seed-sower is not used, little furrows should be made by drawing a stick through the soil, into which the seed should be dropped as evenly as possible. it should then be covered lightly and the soil should be pressed down with the hoe to make it comparatively firm. the probabilities are that many more plants will come up than it is advisable to let grow. these surplus seedlings should be removed from the rows as soon as the plants get a good start. nearly all gardeners make use of the seed-sower. this is an implement that can be adjusted to sow all kinds of seed more evenly than it can be sown by hand, and it can be sown thickly or thinly, as desired, and at any required depth. it cannot be used to much advantage in the very small garden, where only a small quantity of each kind of seed will be made use of, but in large gardens it will be found as much a labor-saver as the garden-cultivator. it is always advisable to plant for a succession if the garden is large enough to admit of it. by planting at intervals of ten days or two weeks it is possible to have fresh vegetables throughout almost the entire season. where this is done it will not be advisable to plant very much of any one kind. among almost all vegetables there are early, medium, and late varieties. some of each of these should be planted in all gardens of a size to warrant so doing. in the small garden i would advise the choice of the later varieties, as these are almost without exception superior in flavor to the earlier kinds, which are grown more on account of earliness than quality. iv seeds that give best results it is very important that seed of only the best kind should be used, if we would grow vegetables of superior quality. every gardener of experience will indorse the truth of this statement. said one amateur gardener to me when i gave him this advice: "why should one be so particular about the seed? it's the culture that you give the plant that counts. plant any kind of seed that happens to be handiest and take good care of the plants that grow from it and you'll have good vegetables." to some extent what he said was true, but he had yet to learn that there is a vast difference between ordinary seed and seed that has bred into it by careful culture the superior qualities which characterize the choicest varieties of all our garden plants. there is such a thing as aristocracy of seed, and no seed that is lacking in this feature can be expected to afford the satisfaction that results from the use of the best. no amount of culture can make a superior vegetable from plants grown from inferior seed. bear this in mind, and buy only the best seed on the market, be your garden large or small. the smaller it is, the greater the importance of using only the best. "but how are we who know very little about such things to know which _is_ the best?" some one may ask. the only answer i can make to this question is this: we have in this country many seed firms that have been in existence for years--some of them over half a century--and these have built up for themselves a reputation for handling only seed of the very best varieties of garden vegetables that it is possible to grow. inferior sorts have been discarded from time to time as those of superior merit have been produced. these firms, proud and jealous of the reputation they have gained, cannot afford to deal in anything that is not up to their standard of "the best." from these dealers you can be sure of getting seed that can always be depended on to give the highest degree of satisfaction. the seed they sell you may cost a little more than some of the newer dealers ask for theirs, but the certainty of getting _what you want_ makes it well worth while to invest some extra money in it. cheap seed--that which is advertised as being "just as good as higher-priced seed for a much smaller amount of money"--is likely to prove as cheap in quality as in price. v early garden work after planting the garden there will be a little interval of leisure while the seed that has been put into the ground is germinating. then will come the time of early warfare with the weeds. here is where the weeding-hook of which i have spoken will come into play in the small garden. this little implement is in the form of a claw, with five or six fingers, each about an inch long, and shaped so that they reach into the ground and take a firm hold of whatever plants they are placed over. it can be so operated that these fingers, working close to plants which it is not desired to uproot, will tear away the weeds without disturbing the other plants, and the soil will be left in light and mellow condition, as if a tiny rake had been drawn through it. with this tool the work can be done with great rapidity. no owner of a garden, large or small, can afford to be without it. it should be used to supplement the work of the cultivator, which can be depended upon to take care of all the weeds between the rows, but which cannot be worked among the plants _in the row_. weeding should be begun as soon as the plants are of a size that makes it possible to tell which is seedling and which is weed. by beginning the work of clearing the garden at this period, and doing it thoroughly, and continuing it at intervals thereafter, it will be a comparatively easy matter to keep weeds under control. but if they are allowed to get a strong start--as they will in an incredibly short time if let alone--it will be a difficult matter to subdue them and keep the upper hand during the rest of the season. it is very important that they should be given to understand, at the outset, that they will not be tolerated in your garden. this will necessitate early work and careful and regular attention thereafter, but it will not be the laborious work that so many persons think it is if it is begun at the right season and always carried on on the offensive. it is when weeds have been allowed to intrench themselves firmly in the garden that this work becomes disagreeable. nor is it work that will require a good deal of one's time. in the cultivation of a garden it is the little attentions, given when needed, that count, rather than the amount of labor and time expended there, as you will find when you come to have a garden of your own. if there are any vacant places in the beds or rows, fill with plants taken from places where they stand too thick. in the small garden there should be not one vacant spot. every bit of soil should be made to do its share of work in the production of some vegetable. if weeds are kept down during the early part of the season there ought not to be many during the latter part of it. but there will be no time when there will not be _some_ to wage warfare against, and every gardener should make it a rule to destroy every one that gets a start as soon as discovered, for, by preventing it from developing seed, we can save ourselves a good deal of work next season. one weed will bear seed enough to fill the whole garden with its progeny if allowed to do so. if the soil was properly fertilized at planting-time it will not be necessary to apply more fertilizer, if any, until the latter part of the season, and then only a small amount will be required--just enough to enable the soil to do its share in ripening off the plants that are growing in it. but if, at any time, the plants seem to lag or come to a standstill enough should be given to stimulate active growth. careful watch should be kept of everything in the garden, and prompt advantage should be taken of any tendency toward slow development by making fresh applications of whatever fertilizer was used at the beginning of the season. in order to attain the success that the gardener aims at in the cultivation of vegetables it is absolutely necessary to keep them going steadily ahead from start to finish, and this can only be done by supplying them with a generous amount of plant-food. there should be no alternations of liberal feeding and lack of feeding. vi vegetable plants in the house many persons would like to grow early vegetables. with a view to "getting the start of the season" and, incidentally, of their neighbors, they sow seed in pots and boxes in march and april and attempt to get an "early start" for plants that will form a basis of supply for family use while they are waiting for the development of the general crop from seed sown in the garden after the weather has become sufficiently warm to warrant outdoor gardening. in some instances comparative success has resulted from plants started into growth in the house, but nine times out of ten, it is safe to say, the result has been entire failure. the seedlings grow fairly well at first, but soon become weak and die. if, by chance, a few survive until conditions warrant putting them in the ground, they are so lacking in vitality that the change from indoors to outdoors is pretty sure to be the end of them. i would never advise trying to grow plants from seed, in the house, unless the grower understands beforehand the drawbacks to plant-growth which prevail in the average dwelling, and is willing to do all he can to overcome them. simply filling boxes or pots with earth, putting seed into them, and supplying water will not insure success. one of the unfavorable conditions which seedling plants must struggle against is too much heat, if they are kept in the living-room. an undue amount of warmth forces them into abnormal development in the early stages of their growth, and a little later on there comes a reaction from the weakness thus brought about, and this reaction is almost invariably death to the tender plant. another unfavorable condition is the result of indiscriminate watering. the soil is either kept too wet or too dry. to grow good plants there must be an even supply of moisture. a third unfortunate condition is the result of failure to give the plants a liberal supply of fresh air. it is possible, however, to overcome these conditions and grow really good plants from seed in the living-room, but it cannot be done unless the amateur gardener is sufficiently interested in the undertaking to give his plants all the attention they need. instead of keeping them in the living-room--which in most instances will have a temperature of or °--i would advise giving them place in a room opening off the sitting-room, where the temperature can be so regulated that it will not go above ° at any time. there is far less danger of plants suffering from a low temperature than of their being injured by an excess of heat. if the room in which they are kept has snug windows, in most instances it will get all the warmth that is needed by leaving open at night the door which connects it with the living-room. if the weather is very cold, the plants can be removed, temporarily, to the living-room, or they can be covered with newspapers. thick paper shades at the windows will do much to keep out cold and prevent draughts. storm-sash will do this most effectively, but it interferes with giving the young plants the fresh air they need. therefore i would prefer the shades, and depend upon removal to a warmer place on extra-cold nights. fresh air will be found a most important factor in the growth of seedling plants indoors. unless it can be given it will be almost impossible to grow any plant well in the ordinary dwelling. it should be admitted to the room on every pleasant day by opening a window at the top, or a door at some distance from the plants. the fresh, cold air should be allowed to mix with the warm air in the room before it comes in contact with the plants, as a chill will often do about as much damage as a touch of frost. watering these plants is a matter of prime importance. generally water is applied carelessly and irregularly--too much to-day, and none at all to-morrow. we saturate the soil with it while only enough is required to make it moist. an over-supply of water at the roots, combined with too much heat and lack of fresh air, will undermine the constitution of any plant, because such a combination excites unnatural development, and this means a lowering of the vital force to the danger-point. i have devised a method by which i have succeeded in controlling the supply of moisture in the soil to my complete satisfaction. i use boxes about four inches deep to start my plants in. in the bottom of these boxes i put sphagnum moss. there should be at least an inch of it after it has been pressed down by the weight of the soil above. the bottom of the seed-box is bored full of small holes. each box sets in a shallow pan of galvanized iron, on a layer of coarse gravel, which raises it enough to allow water to circulate freely under it. water is poured into the iron pan, using enough to come up about half an inch above the bottom of the seed-box, or in contact with the moss in it, and it should be kept at this height at all times. the moss absorbs the moisture like a sponge, and the soil above constantly sucks up all that is needed to keep it in a sufficiently moist condition to meet the requirements of the plants growing in it. the absorbent qualities of the moss are such that an excessive amount of moisture is never communicated to the soil above. thus i secure a steady and even supply, which does away entirely with the danger resulting from the application of water to the surface of the soil from watering-pot or basin. if the temperature can be controlled in such a way that it will not vary much from to °, if the soil can be kept moist but never wet, and fresh air can be given in generous quantity regularly, it will be found a comparatively easy matter to grow plants satisfactorily from seed in the house, and have them in such healthy condition by the time it is safe to put them out in the garden that they will average up well with the plants the professional gardener raises in hotbed and cold-frame. by the use of such plants, and such plants only, can we expect to grow early vegetables successfully. vii standard varieties of vegetables the amateur gardener will find it extremely perplexing work to make a satisfactory selection of _varieties_ of vegetables to grow in his garden. he knows quite well, as a general thing, what _kinds_ he wants to grow, but when he comes to a consultation of the seedsmen's catalogues he discovers that of each _kind_ of vegetable listed therein there are so many _varieties_ mentioned that he is bewildered. most of them are described as being so desirable that he cannot help getting the impression that if he rules out this or that one he is likely to deprive himself of the very thing from which he would obtain the highest degree of satisfaction. nine times out of ten he finds, after going through the catalogues and marking the kinds and varieties that appeal to him most forcibly, that he has a list which would furnish enough seed to supply an average-sized market-garden. i would advise the amateur gardener to attempt the culture of only a few of the many varieties described in the catalogues, and these of the very best. but what constitutes "the very best" is a hard matter for him to decide where all are described by adjectives in the superlative degree. he will find, by comparing the catalogues of the various seed firms, that there are described in most of them certain varieties of each kind of vegetable that seem common to all, along with many other varieties whose names differ greatly, though the descriptions of them indicate that there is not much difference in quality, or in other general respects. if he confines his selection to such varieties of each kind as the various dealers list _under the same names_ in their catalogues he will be making no mistake, for the fact that all leading dealers carry these varieties in stock is sufficient proof that they are standard varieties, and of such superior merit that no up-to-date dealer can afford to exclude them from his list. take, for instance, stowell's evergreen sweet-corn, and champion of england pea. _all_ dealers handle these, because they _are_ standard, and always in demand because their superior qualities have made them universal favorites wherever grown. but they have other varieties of the same vegetable of which each makes a specialty, under names which will be found in no catalogue but their own. many of these are doubtless possessors of all the good qualities claimed for them, but this we cannot be sure about. but the sorts which are common to all are those of whose merit there can be no two opinions. these are the varieties the inexperienced gardener can select with the assurance that he is getting the best thing of its kind on the market. in this chapter i propose to make mention of only such kinds of vegetables as i have grown in my own garden. i do this because so many beginners in gardening prefer to depend on the advice of some one who has familiarized himself with the merits of the various vegetables adapted to ordinary gardening. and i propose to give with each such brief cultural directions as seem of most importance, thus making it possible for the amateur to avoid some of the mistakes that might be made if he were wholly ignorant of the requirements of his plants. after having experimented with many kinds i have pinned my faith to the kinds i shall make mention of, and i have no hesitancy in recommending them to the attention of all gardeners, feeling confident that a trial of them will bear me out in the statement that no better list can be made. there _may_ be others of equal or superior merit, but if there are i have still to find out what they are. _asparagus_ taking the list alphabetically, the first vegetable to consider is asparagus. conover's colossal seems to combine all the merits of the several varieties on the market in such a degree as to give it a place at the head of the list of desirable kinds for ordinary garden culture. it is tender, fine-flavored, and very productive. a dozen plants, after becoming well established, will furnish all that will be required by a family of four or five persons. in order to secure good crops of this delicious vegetable it will be necessary to dig up the soil in which it is to be planted to the depth of two or three feet, and fill the bottom of the excavation with strong manure. pack this down firmly, and then return to the trench the soil thrown out from it, fertilizing this well as you do so. while asparagus will grow in a soil that is not at all rich, and will live on indefinitely under all kinds of neglect and abuse, it must be given plenty of strong food and good care in order to enable it to do itself justice. i would not advise attempting to grow it from seed, as it takes a long time for seedling plants to reach maturity. i would get two- or three-year-old plants. set them about eighteen inches apart and at least four inches below the surface. keep weeds and grass away from them. give the asparagus-bed a place in the garden by itself, preferably along a fence or in some location where it will not interfere with other plants which call for the frequent use of the garden-cultivator. on no account plant it in that part of the garden where it will be necessary to use a plow, for it is a plant that must be left undisturbed if you would have it do its best. cover the beds with coarse manure in the fall, and work this into the soil about the plants in spring. _beans_ mammoth stringless green pod matures early, and is very tender, fine-flavored, and productive. it is a general favorite for the home garden. golden wax is later than the green-podded variety mentioned above. it is valuable as a string-bean, and for shelling. beans are quite tender, therefore they should not be planted until the weather becomes warm and settled. plant in rows two feet apart, and about four inches apart in the row, or in hills of three or four plants each. cultivate frequently during the early part of summer, throwing the soil toward the plants. do not work among them while they are wet from dew or rain. if a pole-bean is wanted, improved lima will be found extremely satisfactory because of its productiveness and its fine, buttery flavor. this class supplies the table with shelled beans only, its pods being too tough to use as a string-bean. plant in hills of six or eight, setting a pole six or seven feet tall in the center of each hill for the plants to climb by. _beet_ i would advise two varieties of this vegetable where the garden is large enough to warrant the use of more than one. crosby's egyptian stands at the head of the list as an early variety. it is remarkably tender, and has a sugary flavor that is most delicious. as a second variety i would advise crimson globe. this is very sweet and fine-flavored, and comes to perfection during the latter part of summer. it is a good keeper, and a quantity of it should be stored in the cellar for winter use. sow seeds in rows sixteen to eighteen inches apart. sow thickly, and use the surplus plants as greens while young and tender, making use of both top and root. thin to three or four inches apart. _cabbage_ unless the garden is of considerable size i would not advise planting this vegetable, because it takes up so much room that might better be given to other kinds which the housewife will find more useful. the plants should stand at least two feet apart. seed can be put into the ground about the first of may, or plants can be started in the hotbed if wanted for very early use. seedlings can be transplanted as soon as they have made their second leaf. for a very early variety i would advise jersey wakefield. for late use late drumhead or stone mason marblehead--both excellent in all respects, and fine for winter use. care must be taken to prevent insects from injuring the plants during the various stages of their development. spray with an infusion of the tobacco extract known as nicoticide. this will effectually prevent the pests from doing harm if applied thoroughly and frequently. if cabbage is to be wintered in the cellar, it must be kept cool and dry. some prefer to bury the heads in trenches, in dry locations in the garden. the trench should be about two feet deep. spread straw in the bottom of it, and place the cabbage on it, head down, with the large leaves folded well together. then cover with three or four inches of hay, and bank up with soil. put a board over this to shed rain. the cabbage will freeze, but if left in the ground until the frost is gradually extracted from it it will be found crisp and brittle, and much more satisfactory for table use than that which is wintered in the cellar. care must be taken to exclude rain. if water gets to it it will be ruined. it is a good plan to cover the trench with oilcloth or tarred paper, both being waterproof. _cauliflower_ this is a favorite vegetable when well grown and properly cared for. it requires a rich soil, a location well exposed to the sun, and frequent applications of water if the season happens to be a dry one. cultivate as you would cabbage. for early use the plants should be started in the hotbed, and transplanted to the cold-frame as soon as they have made their third leaves. put into the open ground as soon as the soil is in good working condition. set the plants about two feet apart. when heads have formed they should be bleached by drawing the large leaves together and tying them with strips of soft cloth. for a late crop, to mature during the pickling season, start plants in open ground in may. the best early variety is dwarf erfurt. autumn giant is an excellent late variety. _carrot_ this plant likes a deep, warm, sandy soil. early short horn matures by midsummer. it is rich and sweet in flavor. red intermediate is a later variety, excellent for fall and winter use. comparatively few persons give this plant a place in their gardens, but it richly deserves a place there because of its value as an article of food, as well as because of its health-giving qualities. it adds greatly to the variety of the bill of fare, and where it appears frequently on the table a liking for it is soon developed, and thereafter it becomes a standard vegetable in the housewife's list of "must-haves." it adds a delightful flavor to vegetable soups. _celery_ the seed of early celery should be sown in the hotbed. transplant the seedlings to the cold-frame and allow them to remain there until may. then set in the richest soil at your disposal, six inches apart in the row. blanch by setting up boards a foot or more in width each side the row, allowing an opening about three inches wide at the top through which the plants can get a little light. for late and winter use, sow the seeds in open ground in may. bleach by earthing up gradually, as the stalks develop, until you have the plants buried to within a few inches of the tip of their leaves. use clean, dry soil in banking the plants. sawdust is good, but care must be taken to make use of a kind that does not have a strong odor. pine-dust will give the plants a disagreeable flavor. for winter use, take up plants, root and all, and pack close together in boxes and store in a cool, dark cellar. white plume is the best early variety. giant pascal is probably the most satisfactory winter variety, but winter queen is a favorite with many. both are so tender and have such a rich, nutty flavor that it is not an easy matter to decide between them. _cucumber_ for very early cucumbers plant the seed in the hotbed in march or april, but do not put the plants into the garden until all danger of frost is over. this plant requires a rich and mellow soil. it should be set in hills at least four feet apart. it is a good plan to start the seed in pieces of sod placed grass-side down. this enables one to move them from the hotbed without any disturbance of their roots. the cucumber- or squash-beetle often destroys the plants when they are put in the open ground if close watch is not taken and prompt effort made to rout the enemy. spray with nicoticide infusion, taking pains to have it reach the under side of the leaves. dry road-dust sifted thickly over the plants is often found quite effective, but because of the inability to apply it to the under side of the leaves the liquid insecticide will be found more effective. improved early white spine is a favorite with all who like a crisp, tender-meated, finely flavored cucumber. ever-bearing is an excellent sort for pickling as well as for use on the table during the fall, as it continues to bear until frost kills the vines. _corn_ sweet-corn is one of the most delicious of all garden vegetables, and every garden that is large enough to admit of its culture should give place to two or three varieties of it. because of its tall growth and the distance required between rows it is not adapted to culture in the very small garden, though i would willingly go without some of the other vegetables generally grown there in order to give place to a few hills of it. golden bantam produces ears only four or five inches in length, but what they lack in size they make up for in tenderness and sweetness. country gentleman is a medium variety, very tender, sweet, and juicy. but the ideal sweet-corn is stowell's evergreen. no other variety equals it in tenderness, sugary sweetness, and rich flavor. it does not come to maturity until quite late in the season, but it remains in excellent eating-condition until the plant is killed by frost. do not plant until the weather and the ground are warm--generally about may th at the extreme north. sweet-corn seed often decays if put into the ground as early as field-corn. have the soil rich and mellow, and cultivate frequently and thoroughly. if a dry spell comes along make use of the cultivator daily until the drought is broken. _endive_ this plant ought to be grown far more extensively than it is because it is one of the best salad plants we have for fall and winter use. some should be sown in april for use during the summer, and some in july, for late use. when the plants are two or three inches high transplant to rich soil, setting them about ten inches apart. when nearly full-grown, gather the leaves together and tie them with strips of cloth, thus excluding the light from the central part of the bunch. it must be blanched before it is fit for table use. this part of the work must be done while the plants are perfectly dry. if done when they are wet or even moist, they will be quite sure to rot. _lettuce_ this plant should be started in the hotbed if there is one. the seedlings should be transferred to the cold-frame before they have attained much size, and left there until the ground becomes warm. very fine lettuce, however, can be grown from seed sown directly in the open ground about the first of may, if the soil is warm and rich. a fertile soil is quite important, as it is necessary to bring on a rapid growth in order to have the plant crisp and tender. slow development gives a comparatively worthless article. the all heart variety is excellent for spring and early summer use. it forms a solid head, and is very crisp and tender, with that rich, buttery flavor that the lover of this plant insists on. mammoth salamander is one of the best late-season kinds. _melons_ these, like corn and cabbage, are not adapted to culture in the small garden because they require more room than it is possible to give them without giving up other vegetables which the housewife cannot well afford to go without. but in good-sized gardens i would advise their culture, because there is nothing else quite equal to them in delicacy of flavor and luscious sweetness. they require a light, rich soil. plant when the ground is warm, and not before, in hills four feet apart. it is a good plan to put a generous quantity of manure from the henhouse in each hill, working it well into the soil before seed is planted. put at least a dozen seed in each hill, for some of the seedlings will doubtless be destroyed by the beetle that works on cucumber- and squash-vines. spray all over with nicoticide infusion as soon as the first beetle is seen, also shower with dry road-dust. if a fungous disease attacks them spray with bordeaux mixture. rocky ford is the standard variety of muskmelon at present. it has a thick greenish-yellow flesh, is smooth-grained, is very sweet, has a most delicious flavor, and is so tender that it fairly seems to melt in the mouth. netted gem is another standard variety. among the watermelons ice-cream is a general favorite. mammoth ironclad grows to a very large size, is solid-meated, and has a peculiarly sweet and luscious flavor. _onion_ this should be sown in light, sandy soil, if possible, as it seldom does well in a heavy soil. yellow danvers is the leading variety for the home garden. silverskin has a mild flavor, and on that account it is a favorite with many. it is fine for pickling. it also keeps well in winter. _parsley_ sow this plant thickly, in april, in rows of mellow soil. as the seed germinates very slowly, it is well to soak it in warm water before sowing. if you have a light cellar, plants can be potted in fall and stored there for winter use. the cellar window is a good place for them. every housewife who prides herself on the attractive appearance of her roasts and other meat dishes and many kinds of salad will not be willing to be without this plant. dwarf perpetual is the standard variety for the home garden. its leaves are charmingly crimped and curly, and of beautiful dark green that makes them very ornamental when used as a garnish for the table. _parsnip_ this vegetable is not grown as much as it ought to be. one does not care for it until winter sets in. then it affords a much-appreciated change from other vegetables. it is an excellent keeper when stored in the cellar in winter. or the roots can be left in the ground until spring, when they will be found delightfully fresh and tender. sow in april or may, in deep, rich soil. hollow crown is the standard variety. _pea_ this vegetable is so extremely hardy that it can be planted with entire safety quite early in spring. there are varieties that come into bearing a few weeks after sowing, followed by medium early kinds, which give place, a little later, to such varieties as champion of england and telephone. champion of england is the most delicious of all peas. unless the garden is a very small one, one should plan for a succession. if this is done it will be possible to enjoy this vegetable during the greater part of the season, with possibly the exception of the very hottest part of summer. best results are secured by planting the seed two or three inches deep in furrows. the soil should be rich. if there is a little clay in it, all the better. low-growing varieties require no support, but the tall kinds must be bushed or trained on coarse-meshed wire netting. bushes suit this plant better than anything else. if the vines are allowed to crinkle down and come in contact with the ground their pods will almost always decay, and the vines will mildew and become so diseased that an end will be put to their bearing. american wonder is one of the best very early kinds. gradus is next in order. advancer i consider the best medium variety. telephone is a most excellent late variety, second only to champion of england, which is everywhere conceded to be the ideal pea so far as productiveness, size, rich flavor, and sweetness are concerned. _potato_ anybody can grow the potato, _after a fashion_. but in order to grow it _well_ it must receive more attention than is generally given it. it must have a rich and mellow soil--a sandy one is preferable--and the best of cultivation. this is one of the vegetables that require considerable room, therefore it is not adapted to small-garden culture. but when space will admit of it it should always be grown, because it is one of the garden products that can be used in so many ways that the housewife finds it one of the things she cannot well get along without. seed is obtained by cutting old potatoes in pieces, each piece having an "eye" or growing-point. the pieces should be planted in hills, four or five pieces to a hill, with hills two feet apart. cover to a depth of four inches. if plants are not watched while small, insects are likely to attack them. spray with nicoticide infusion. later in the season the colorado beetle will be quite likely to put in its appearance. then use paris green, either in infusion, or mixed with land-plaster, and applied in a dry state while the plants are moist from dew. if any fungous disease is discovered, spray with bordeaux mixture. all these insecticides can be procured from druggists or dealers in agricultural goods, or they can be obtained from the dealer from whom you buy seed. it is well to plant this vegetable for a succession. one of the best early varieties is beauty of hebron, which matures in eight to ten weeks from planting. early rose is everywhere a favorite, as is early ohio. rural new-yorker is a standard late variety. burbank's seedling is excellent as an intermediate sort. all the varieties named are of superior flavor, very productive, and sure to give complete satisfaction. _radish_ this most toothsome vegetable should be sown early, either in the hotbed or the open ground. if you have a light, warm soil and a location that is fully exposed to the sun you can raise almost as fine radishes outside of the hotbed as in it, though of course not as early in the season. a crop will develop in five or six weeks from sowing. plant at intervals of two or three weeks for a succession. cardinal globe is the standard early variety. crimson giant is a little later. both have that crisp, tender, and juicy quality which makes the radish so universal a favorite. icicle is a long-growing white variety, very crisp and brittle. this has the merit of remaining in condition for use longer than any other variety. _rhubarb_ this plant likes a deep, rich, and rather moist soil. it should be planted in permanent beds, about three feet apart. i would not advise attempting to grow it from seed. get roots one or two years old. victoria is a standard variety. _salsify_ a vegetable that ought to be grown a great deal more than it is. its popular name of "vegetable oyster" is not a misnomer, for it has a distinct oyster flavor. many persons prefer it to the bivalve, when it is cooked properly. being hardy, it can be left in the ground over winter, or it can be dug and stored in the cellar along with parsnips and carrots for use in winter. sow early. _squash_ probably the best variety of summer squash for home use is giant crook neck. for winter use the hubbard stands at the head of the list. these favorite vegetables require a rich soil. they should be planted in hills about three feet apart. have the soil rich. keep watch of them, for they are liable to attacks from beetles. it is well to sprinkle a handful of tobacco-dust about the young plants. as they become larger they can be sprayed with the nicoticide infusion heretofore spoken of. _spinach_ desirable for "greens." sow as early in the spring as the ground is in good working condition. have the soil quite rich to force a tender, succulent growth. sow for succession, a month apart. the long-season variety is the best i have any knowledge of. _tomato_ start this plant in the hotbed if you have one. if not, sow in the open ground as soon as it has become warm. to secure a very early crop the plants must be started as early as march. when three or four inches high transplant from hotbed to cold-frame, but do not put into the open ground until all danger from frost is over. if you are without hotbed facilities i would advise purchasing plants from the gardener, who tries to supply his customers with strong and healthy plants very early in the season. plants from seed sown in the open ground will be so late in ripening a crop, as a general thing, that they will not afford satisfaction. standard varieties are stone, very solid and firm-fleshed and of fine quality, and ponderosa, very large, fine-flavored, and almost seedless. viii small fruits and their culture quite as important as garden vegetables is the small-fruit department of each home that is living up to its privileges. of course there will be no room for raspberries and blackberries on the little home lot, but one can have a row of strawberries there, in almost all cases, and a few currant-bushes can be tucked away in nooks and corners where quite likely nothing else would be grown if the tiny space were not given up to them. there are places all over the country where a collection of small fruit ought to be grown, but which are without it. why? there are several answers to the question. one is: neglect to live up to the possibilities of the place because of carelessness, or possibly because the owner is distrustful of his ability to grow them successfully. another is: the impression that these plants are so exacting in their demands that none but skilled gardeners are warranted in undertaking their culture. and a third one is: the uncertainty of being unable to take them through our severe northern winters safely. the first objection is met with the argument that the man who is obliged to work for a living, and has a family to support, has no excuse for neglecting to avail himself and those dependent on him of all the good things that can be grown from the plants named, if he owns a piece of ground large enough to accommodate a small collection. the second objection is not justified, because it is an easy matter for any man to learn how to care for small fruits if he sets about it with the intention of mastering its details. there is really no basis in fact for the third one, for we have, to-day, varieties of each kind of small fruit that are entirely hardy at the north if properly cared for in the fall. there should be a strawberry-bed, large or small, in every garden, if i had my way about it. here i suppose some reader will meet me with the objection that "strawberries don't pay. they require too much care, and the beds soon run out, and then everything has to be done over again." now i claim that strawberries _do_ pay if they get the right kind of treatment. no one has a right to expect much from them if he simply sticks a plant into the soil and leaves it to take care of itself thereafter. strawberries cultivated in this manner _don't_ pay, i admit. and it is well that they do not, for no one has a right to expect much, if anything, from a plant of any kind that he isn't willing to take good care of. while the strawberry will not take care of itself, it really requires no more attention than most other crops. and as to "running out," that cuts no figure, when you come to think about it, because "doing things all over again" amounts to no more than planting vegetables each season. this has to be done yearly, and strawberries will demand only annual attention, thus putting the two classes of plants on practically the same basis. i am aware that some writers on strawberry culture have ventilated a good many far-fetched ideas of their own in print relative to the culture of this plant, and so elaborate and complicated are some of these theories that many an amateur has, after reading them, abandoned the idea of having a strawberry-bed. but it is a fact susceptible of proof by any man who gives it a trial that strawberry culture may be made a success without adopting the views of persons who seem to think that theory is more important than common sense. the simplest method of strawberry-growing that i know anything about is what is called the "one-crop system." set the plants in rows three feet apart, to allow the use of the cultivator between them. let the plants be a foot apart in the row. keep the ground between the rows well cultivated, and in the second summer, when the plants are bearing their first crop of fruit, allow them to send their runners into the space between the rows and take root there. when these young plants have fully established themselves--which will be by the end of august, as a general thing--take a spade and cut down between them and the old plants. then dig up the old plants, making the place where they grew a space between rows. next season train runners from the bearing plants back into the old row. by thus alternating the location of the plants you keep the garden supplied with one-year-old ones from which you get but one crop of fruit. this method is so simple that any one can understand it, and it has the indorsement of some of our most up-to-date gardeners who recognize the fact that one full crop of berries is about all that can be expected from the strawberry. of course older plants will bear fruit, but never of the quantity and quality which is obtained from strong, healthy young plants whose vitality has not been drawn upon by the production of a heavy first crop. this one-crop system makes it possible to grow fine berries without giving the plants more care than is required by ordinary vegetables. the soil for strawberries should be rich and mellow, and should be kept entirely free from weeds. it is a good plan to spread clean straw between the rows before the crop ripens, to keep the fruit from coming in contact with the ground or having sand washed upon it by heavy rains. the best variety of strawberry that i have ever grown is brandywine. it is very productive, bears large berries, has a most delicious flavor, and is never hollow-hearted. it ripens in mid-season. the best late variety, allowing me to be judge, is gandy. this kind requires a very rich soil. where it can be given this, no more satisfactory late-cropper can be grown. the two varieties named above combine all the best qualities of this most popular fruit. several times in the last few years the announcement has been made that a fall-bearing strawberry has been produced, but as it was of european origin it did not prove satisfactory under american conditions. of late, however, some of our most progressive small-fruit growers have succeeded in growing two varieties that promise to be really good fall-croppers. these produce, if allowed to do so, their main crop at the same time as other varieties, and keep on bearing until frost. but in order to secure a good crop late in the season it is advisable to cut away all buds that appear in june, keeping the strength of the plant in reserve for the fall crop. it is well to mulch these plants during the hot, dry weather of summer. these fall-bearing varieties are on the market under the names of superb and progressive. * * * * * the blackberry responds generously to good treatment, bearing enormous quantities of large, juicy berries of most delicious flavor when given proper care. it prefers a rather sandy soil. in order to secure a fresh stock of wood for each season's crop the old canes should be cut away as soon as they have ripened their fruit, thus throwing all the strength of the plant into the production of new canes from which fruit is to be expected next season. while the two leading varieties, kittatinny and snyder, are quite hardy, it is well to take the precaution of giving them some protection to guard against the possible loss of some of the unripened growth of the season. this is done to the best advantage by removing two or three spadefuls of soil from the base of each plant, close to its roots, and then tipping the bush over until it lies flat on the ground. this could not be done without running the risk of breaking some of the stiff and brittle canes if the excavation were not made. when the bushes are spread out on the ground, where they are held in place by laying boards across them, throw some coarse litter over the base of the plant, and scatter a covering of straw over the branches. as soon as the frost is out of the ground in the spring, lift the bushes and replace the soil that was taken away in the fall. * * * * * raspberries are second only to strawberries in deliciousness of flavor, and should have a place in all gardens where there is room for them. they do well in almost all soils, if well drained. a sandy loam, however, is the soil that seems to suit them best. their old canes, like those of the blackberry, should be cut away at the end of the fruiting season. cuthbert is the leading red variety. cumberland is the favorite black kind. i notice that one of our most prominent growers of small fruit offers an ever-bearing raspberry this season, under the name of red ranere. i have no knowledge of its merits other than that which i gain from the grower's announcement in introducing this sort to the market, but from intimate personal acquaintance with the man i am quite confident that the plant must possess real merit, for he is not a person given to exaggeration. i quote from what he has to say in reference to this variety in a leading horticultural magazine: this is not only the earliest red raspberry, but it is a perpetual fruiting one. its main crop is greater than that of any other variety i grow. it continues to bear on its old canes until late in august, at about which time the canes of the season's growth come into bearing. these produce a large amount of fine fruit until late in the fall. the berries are very attractive, being a bright, rich crimson. they are of good size, and of very superior quality, with a rich, sugary, full raspberry flavor. i would advise the amateur gardener to give this variety a trial. raspberries late in the fall would be thoroughly appreciated by those with whom this fruit is a favorite. * * * * * the currant is one of the garden's indispensables. it furnishes us with fruit of just the right degree of tart acidity to fit the season in which it is at its prime, and who does not get a deal of enjoyment out of a green-currant pie? no kind of small fruit is easier to grow successfully. worms frequently attack the bushes in spring, and often ruin the crop unless steps are taken to put a prompt end to their depredations, but spraying with nicoticide infusion will rout them in most cases. application of this insecticide should be repeated at intervals during the earlier part of the season. fay's prolific is a standard variety for home use. this is a dark, rich red, most beautiful to behold. white grape is an ideal white variety. combine the two and you have a table decoration quite as colorful as that furnished by any flowers, and almost as attractive. the currant is one of the housewife's most valued fruits for jam- and jelly-making. one enterprising dealer has recently introduced to this country a french sort known as bar-le-duc, or preserving currant. this variety has a flavor that no other variety can lay claim to, and another feature of merit peculiar to it is that it is almost seedless. for a good many years the entire output of this currant was under the control of a french fruit company who manufactured it into jam which has been extensively sold in this country under the name of confiture bar-le-duc. so superior has it been considered to home-made as well as imported jams, that it has readily sold at double the price of them. i would advise the amateur to procure a few plants of this variety and experiment with it. * * * * * the gooseberry must not be overlooked in this connection. many persons claim that the bush mildews to such an extent that the crop is oftener than not a failure. this can largely be prevented by planting the bushes farther apart than the currant, and thinning out the branches so that there will at all times be a free circulation of air about them. it is well to give a heavy mulch of coarse manure in the hot weather of summer. spray with the infusion recommended for currants to prevent injury from worms. if mildew of an apparently fungous nature attacks the plants, spray with bordeaux mixture. * * * * * this hardly seems the place in which to say much about the culture of the apple, plum, pear, and cherry, for that is a phase of gardening quite distinct from that which this little book aims to interest the homemaker in. however, the writer would urge having all these fruits when conditions are favorable to their culture. the more fruit we eat the healthier we will be. all kinds of small fruit can be planted in spring to better advantage than in fall, though the nurseryman will tell you, if you consult him, that it makes little difference whether you plant in spring or fall. the writer has tried both methods, and he has always been most successful when plants were put out in april and may, provided they were sent from the nursery that spring. if they are sent in fall they should be "heeled-in" over winter. "heeling-in" consists in burying the roots in a place where they will be kept dry during the winter. it will not be necessary to cover all the top, though there is no objection to this if the owner thinks it safer to do so. care should be taken to keep the plants well protected from storms. this can be done very effectively by spreading tarred paper over them, pains being taken to weight it down with stones or something else equally heavy to prevent its being blown out of place. plants that have been "heeled-in" over winter should be set out as soon as possible in spring. ix hotbeds and cold-frames in order to have vegetables early in the season it will be necessary to give them a start some weeks before the ground is in proper condition for the reception of seed. sometimes this is done by sowing the seed in pots and boxes in the living-room, as advised in chapter vi, but here conditions are not very favorable to healthy growth, unless great care is taken to follow the directions given in the chapter mentioned, and even then success does not always attend our efforts. in order to give our plants the early start that they must have if we want vegetables at a time when most gardeners are getting the garden ready for planting, we must make use of the hotbed. if this is done we can gain from six weeks to two months in time, and have lettuce and radishes before our neighbors who are without hotbed facilities consider it safe to put seed into the ground. at the north the first of march is quite early enough to get the hotbed under way. i am aware that many young gardeners have the impression that a hotbed is, in some respects, a mysterious thing, and because of this they do not undertake to make one. now there is nothing simpler than a hotbed when you come to a study of it. it is simply making a place in which summer conditions can be imitated by supplying it with steady, gentle heat, and in confining this heat within an inclosure. the heat is generated by the use of material which ferments, and the inclosure is nothing but a combination of boards and glass so arranged that the temperature inside it can be regulated to suit the requirements of the plants you undertake to grow in it. the heat-generating material is generally fresh manure from the horse-stable, or a mixture of that and coarse litter. because the heat from rapid fermentation is quite intense, at first the material from which it is obtained should be prepared before the hotbed is brought into use. a quantity of it should be spread on the site selected for the hotbed--which should be one that is high and dry--covering a space larger than the hotbed frame is to be. spread it in layers four or five inches deep, tramping each layer down well. when there is a foot and a half of it, cover it with something that will shed rain, and wait for fermentation to take place. a warm moisture will rise from it like steam. after two or three days fork the material over, and remove all straw, and make another heap similar to the first one, taking great pains to have it firm and compact. it is very important that it should have considerable solidity, as a heap of loose litter will never give satisfactory results. there should be at least a foot and a half of this heat-generating material. while waiting for fermentation to take place in the manure-pile, prepare the frame for your hotbed. let it be about a foot and a half in depth at the back, and eight or ten inches deep in front, with sides that slope from the wider boards to the narrower ones. cover it with glass set in sash. if possible have the sash hinged to the back-board, so that it can be lifted for ventilation without removing it. the best location for a hotbed is one facing the south, that all possible advantage can be taken of sunshine, and against a building or fence that will protect it on the north from cold winds. some persons prefer to make an excavation a foot or more in depth for the reception of the heating material, but this is not a matter of much importance. as a general thing it will not be possible to do this in a satisfactory manner while there is frost in the ground, as there will be at the north until after the first of march. when the first stages of fermentation are over, set the hotbed frame in place, and fill in with five or six inches of very fine, rich soil. this is what your seed is to be planted in. the young gardener will be surprised at the amount of heat contained in an inclosure like the one described. it will be very similar to the weather conditions of early or middle may out of doors. in it plants will grow healthily and vigorously, provided they are given plenty of fresh air. this is a matter of the greatest importance. unless your seedlings are aired daily, if the weather is pleasant, they will make a rapid but weak growth, and when the time comes to put them in the cold-frame or the open ground--provided they are alive then--they will be so lacking in vitality that the change will be pretty sure to put an end to them. on every sunny or warm day the sash should be lifted an inch or two, about ten o'clock, and left in that condition until about two. care must be taken, however, to see that the wind does not blow from a quarter that will drive the cold air in upon the plants. the admission of a cold blast will often be fatal to the tender plants. great caution must be exercised in regard to ventilation. the aim should be, at all times, to admit pure, fresh air without allowing cold to enter with it. this may seem a somewhat paradoxical statement, for at first thought it will seem impossible for air from without to come in without taking along with it the cold air which is in circulation outside, but when one takes into consideration the fact that the warm air inside the hotbed meets the air from out of doors at the point of entrance it will be understood that it repels or counteracts it to an extent that makes it safe to open the sash slightly when the outside temperature is nearly down to freezing-point. the hotbed-owner must study existing conditions and be governed accordingly. it is impossible to lay down any hard-and-fast rules to apply in this case. on cold nights the hotbed sash should be covered with blankets or old carpeting to prevent the formation of frost on the glass. if you find, in the morning, that the glass is covered with moisture on its under side, raise the sash a trifle and leave it so until the moisture clears away. if at any time you have reason to think that the warmth inside the frame is decreasing too rapidly, bank up about it with fresh fermenting material. after constructing the hotbed and putting the frame and sash in place, test the heat inside by an accurate thermometer before venturing to sow any seed. when it registers ° or ° the bed is ready for seeding. in making the frame for a hotbed care should be taken to see that all joints fit snugly. a great deal of cold can be admitted through a very small crevice. a few cracks will let out the heat faster than it is generated, therefore see to it that in constructing the frame a good piece of work is done. some persons tell me that they always bank up a hotbed with earth. this enables it to retain the heat better than it is possible for it to do without banking. a hotbed will be of no particular benefit unless supplemented by a cold-frame. this is simply a snug inclosure of boards covered with glass, into which plants from the hotbed are to be set for the purpose of hardening them off before they are put into the open ground. in other words, it is a hotbed without heat. the temperature in it ought to register from ° to °. raise the sash an inch or two on sunny days before the rays of the sun striking on the glass raise the temperature inside to a degree too intense for the good of your plants. it will be readily understood from what i have said above that in order to attain success in the management of a hotbed great care will have to be exercised at all times and frequent attention given. it is not a self-regulating thing by any means. you will have to consider the weather, the time of day when ventilation should be given, frequency of watering, and other matters which cannot be touched on here because of a more or less local character. plants in the hotbed should be watered cautiously. an over-supply will often cause the seedlings to "damp off," and a lack of sufficient moisture at the roots will speedily result in injury, if not death. whenever water is applied, use a sprinkler that throws a fine spray. if thrown on the soil in a stream the water will often wash the smaller plants out of place. it may puzzle one to tell when _just enough_ has been given. this is best determined by an examination of the soil. if moderately moist there is plenty of moisture below. x small gardens many persons who would like to grow flowers and vegetables do not attempt to grow any because they do not consider that they have a place large enough to justify them in doing so. here is where they make a mistake. a garden need not be a large one to be enjoyable. a few plants are better than none. it is possible to make a bit of garden more satisfactory than a large one because it will be more likely to get more attention than would be given to the larger one, and attention is one of the important features of any successful garden. there will, in the majority of cases, be little nooks and corners here and there about the home grounds in which some plants can be grown by those disposed to make the most of existing conditions. these, if not improved, will be pretty sure to be given over to weeds, or to the accumulation of rubbish of one kind or another, and they will detract from the tidy and clean appearance which should characterize the home everywhere. if the owners of these bits of ground--these possibilities for adding to the attractiveness of home--could be made to realize the amount of pleasure they could be made to afford with very little exertion on their part, the general work of civic improvement societies would be most beneficial, and this would be done at the very place where civic improvement ought to start--the home. there can be no real and lasting improvement in civic undertaking unless the individual home takes up the matter. the civic improvement society that starts out with the idea of improving things generally, but does not begin the good work _at the home_ is working on the idea of making clean the outside of the cup and ignoring the condition inside it. just as the home is the foundation of society, so must it be made the pivotal point at which any substantial and lasting improvement finds its beginning. because the scattered places about the small home in which few plants could be grown will not admit of bed-making, or the "designs" which many persons seem to think indispensable in gardening, is no good reason why we should not take advantage of and make the most of them. if one lives in a community where there are german families he will be surprised at the amount of vegetables they grow in each home-lot. not an inch of soil is allowed to go to waste. a large amount of the food of the family is grown in places which most americans would overlook, simply because of the prevailing idea that unless one can do things on a large scale it is not worth while to attempt doing anything. the german has been brought up to not "despise the day of small things," and he profits by the advice. as we might, if we would, and, i am glad to say, as more and more are profiting by year by year as they become aware of the fact that much can be done where conditions are limited. i would not advise much mixing of varieties. on the contrary, i would prefer to give over each little piece of ground to one plant. those of low habit i would have near the path, giving the places back of them to taller-growing kinds. of course, in the majority of small homes, there is not much chance for exercising a choice in the location of one's flowering or vegetable plants; still, it is well to study the possibilities for general effect, and do all that can be done to secure pleasing results. where plants that grow to a height of three feet are grown, the best place for them is at the rear, or along the boundary of the lot, where they will serve as a background for plants of lower habit. children should be encouraged to take an interest in the cultivation of small gardens. they will do this if the parents are willing to help them a little at the start. show them how to spade up the soil in spring, and how to work it over and over until it is fine and mellow. they will make play of this part of garden work, as it is as natural for a child to dig in the dirt as it is for a pig to wallow in a mud-puddle. add some kind of fertilizer to the soil, and explain to the boys and girls that it is food for the plants that are to be. show them how to sow seed, and tell them all you can about the processes of germination, and encourage them to watch for the appearance of the seedlings. in a short time you will have aroused in them such interest in the work they have undertaken that it will be as fascinating to them as a story, and nature will take delight in writing it out for them in daily instalments that constantly increase in interest. the ability to know plants and how to grow them ought to be a part of every child's education. don't let a bit of ground go to waste. have flowers and vegetables, even if there isn't room for more than half a dozen plants--or only _one_ plant for that matter, for that one solitary plant will be a great deal better than none at all. xi left-overs there are more ways than one to secure fertilizers and fine soil for the small garden. if sward is cut from the roadside, chopped into small pieces, and stored away in some corner of the yard that is convenient to get at, and the soapsuds from wash-day are poured over it each week, it will, in a short time, if stirred frequently, become a most excellent substitute for leaf-mold. the grassroots, when decayed, will become a vegetable fertilizer which will be found extremely valuable in the culture of such plants as require a light, rich soil, especially when small. * * * * * some quite artistic effects can be secured in the vegetable-garden by the exercise of a little thought. the large-leaved beet has foliage of a dark, rich crimson quite as ornamental as that of many plants used by gardeners to produce the "tropical effects" which many persons admire. when planted in the background, with fine-foliaged plants like carrot or parsley in front of it, the effect will be extremely pleasing because of the contrast of color, and also of habit. the red pepper, planted where it can show its brilliantly colored fruit against the green of some plant, will give a bit of brightness that will not fail to be appreciated by those who have a keen eye for color-harmony. it is well to plan for these touches of the artistic, even in the vegetable garden. * * * * * tomatoes are often grown on racks and trellises. where this is done there will be no danger of the fruit's decaying, as is often the case when the plants are given no support and their branches come in contact with the ground. it is a good idea to scatter clean, dry straw under the plants after they begin to set fruit. * * * * * it is also a good plan to pinch off the ends of some of the tomato-vines after the first liberal setting of fruit. this throws the strength of the plant into the development of the fruit that has set, instead of into the production of new branches which are not needed. it also hastens the maturity of it. if the tomato is allowed to do so it will keep on growing and blooming and setting fruit throughout the entire season, and as a natural consequence much of it will be immature when frost comes. it is well to prevent this wasting of the plant's forces by shortening the main branches of it in august and september. * * * * * in the chapter devoted to the mention of the best varieties of vegetables to plant, i neglected to say a good word for sage and summer savory, both of which the housewife will find very useful in seasoning soups, sausage, and other articles of food. if cut when in their prime and hung in the shade to dry, all their flavor will be retained. when perfectly dry, rub the leaves from the stalks, pulverize them well, and store in paper bags to prevent the loss of their flavor. * * * * * dill and caraway seed are often used in cookery, and, as "variety is the spice of life," it may be well for the housewife to grow a few plants of each. the writer has a very vivid recollection of grandmother's caraway cookies, and many of the present generation declare a liking for pickles flavored with dill. * * * * * to add to the attractive appearance of the table in winter i would advise growing a few plants of the red or purple cabbage to work up in slaws and salads. beets are capable of giving a bit of color to the table that will be as pleasing to the eye as the taste of this vegetable is delightful to the palate. a root of parsley, potted in fall, will not only afford much material for the garnishing of the various dishes to which the housewife likes to add a touch of this kind, but it can be made the basis of a really beautiful table decoration. a few bright flowers thrust in among its crinkly foliage will be quite as effective as many more pretentious decorative schemes. * * * * * the amateur gardener may begin work with the belief that one crop in a season is all he can expect from his garden. he will soon discover his mistake. the early radishes and the first crop of lettuce will mature before midsummer, and the ground they occupied can be planted to later varieties from which a fully developed second crop can be expected. or other vegetables, like beets and onions, can be planted where they grew, to furnish material for the pickling season. after the early potatoes have been dug the ground they occupied should not be allowed to lie idle. something can be planted there for fall use. to make the garden the greatest possible source of profit, not a foot of it should be suffered to go to waste at any time during the growing season. * * * * * radishes would be well worth growing for their beauty alone. a plate of them, nested in their own green foliage gives the breakfast-table a touch of bright color that adds the charm of beauty to the food with which it is associated. the writer believes in making the table as attractive in appearance as the food on it is toothsome whenever it is possible to do so. * * * * * i notice that i have overlooked the pumpkin. the oversight was unintentional, and i beg the pardon of the vegetable without which the housewife would be "lost" along about thanksgiving-time. the pumpkin is out of place in the small garden because of its rampant growth, but a few plants of the new england pie variety should be grown wherever there is room for it, to supply material for the delicious pumpkin pies most of us enjoy so much in winter. well-ripened specimens keep well when stored in cool, dry cellars, if placed on racks or shelves that will prevent them from coming in contact with the cold, damp cellar-bottom. * * * * * if frost nips the tomato-vines before all their fruit is fully ripened, pull them up and hang them against a wall where the sun can get at them. hang blankets over them if the nights are cold. here they will ripen as perfectly as on the vines in the garden, and one can enjoy fresh fruit from them until the coming of very cold weather. * * * * * before cold weather sets in go over the garden, be it large or small, and gather up every bit of rubbish that can be found. pull up the dead plants and burn them. store racks and trellises under cover for use another season. if these are properly taken care of they will last for several years, but if left exposed to the storms of winter they will be short-lived. * * * * * dig a quantity of parsnips and salsify to be stored in the cellar for winter use. cover the strawberry-bed with leaves or straw, spreading lightly. coarse litter from the barn-yard is often used for this purpose, but it is objectionable because of its containing so many weed-seeds. * * * * * many experienced gardeners advocate plowing or spading the garden in fall. this, they claim, helps to kill the larvæ which insects have deposited in the soil, and it puts the ground in good working condition earlier in spring. but it will have to be gone over in spring to incorporate with it whatever fertilizer is made use of. * * * * * fresh barn-yard manure should never be used. it ought to lie for at least a season before applying it to the vegetable-garden. give it a chance to ferment and kill many of the seeds that are in it. * * * * * if the soil of the garden contains considerable clay, and is rather stiff in consequence, the application of coarse sand, old mortar, and coal-ashes will lighten and greatly improve it. * * * * * do not allow grass or weeds to grow on any of the unused soil in or about the garden, for insects will congregate there and make it the base from which to make their raids upon the plants you set out to grow. * * * * * we are often advised to apply a dressing of salt to the asparagus-bed. i have never been able to see that the plants received any direct benefit from it, but if it is scattered quite thickly over the ground it will prevent weeds from growing, thus benefiting the plants indirectly. * * * * * asparagus is often attacked by a sporadic growth which causes the foliage to look rusty, hence the term, asparagus-rust. as soon as it is discovered, cut the tops and burn them. if allowed to remain the plants will likely be attacked next season, as the spores are not killed by cold. * * * * * if the bugs and beetles that attack young plants of cucumber, squash, and melon do not yield promptly to the application of dry road-dust, fine coal-ashes, or land-plaster, it may be well to cover frames with fine wire netting, such as door- and window-screens are made from, and put over the plants. care should be taken to see that these frames fit the ground snugly, or have earth banked up about them, to prevent the enemy from crawling under. after the plants have made their third or fourth leaves the beetle will not be likely to injure them. * * * * * i am often asked why writers on gardening matters never advise the use of home-grown seed. one answer to this query is this: in the ordinary garden plants stand close to one another, and the varieties we grow are almost sure to mix, by one variety being pollenized by another. the seed from these plants will seldom produce plants like either parent variety. sometimes they may be equal to them in most respects, but we cannot depend on their being so. therefore, if we desire to grow superior varieties that are of pure blood, it becomes necessary for us to procure fresh seed each season from dealers who take pains to see that there shall be no "mixing" among their plants. * * * * * every season some enterprising seedsman comes out with an announcement that he has developed or discovered a remarkable new variety of some standard vegetable so far superior to any other variety on the market that, as soon as its merits become fully known, it will drive all competitors out of the field. of course this new candidate for favor is offered at a fancy price, "because the supply is limited, and the demand for it is increasing to such an extent that the entire stock will soon be sold out. order at once, to avoid disappointment." don't be in a hurry to take this advice. wait until next season. the chances are that you will hear nothing more about it. we have so many very excellent varieties now that there is no reason why we should ask for anything better. if the "novelty" is the possessor of real merit you will be sure to hear about it later, but it is hardly likely to prove an improvement on what we already have, for it is hard to imagine anything superior to the standard varieties of vegetables that we have at present. * * * * * i would not advise purchasing seed at the general store. some of this may be reliable, but so much of it is inferior that one cannot afford to run the risk of experimenting with it. it is the part of wisdom to purchase where you can feel sure of getting just the variety you want. * * * * * we are likely to have a few frosty nights along about the middle of september. tender vegetables may be injured if not protected. but if covered with blankets or papers the danger may be tided over, and during the long period of pleasant weather that generally follows these early frosts we can get as much pleasure out of the garden as it afforded during the early fall. it pays to protect. * * * * * the housewife will take a great deal of delight in the preparation of piccalilli, chow-chow, and the various other condiments which have such a stimulating effect on the appetite in early spring, when "that tired feeling" is likely to make a good deal of the food that is placed before us unattractive. in the making of these good things unripe tomatoes and peppers will play an important part. so will onions that are too small to store away for winter use. she will find use for all of these things which a man would consider worthless. really, there is but little chance for waste of garden productions if there is an appreciative and prudent woman in the kitchen. * * * * * a few roots of horseradish should find a place in all gardens, preferably in some out-of-the-way corner where it can be allowed to spread without interfering with other plants. spread it will, every little piece of root that is broken off in the ground in digging the large roots becoming an independent plant as soon as thrown upon its own resources. because of this tendency to "take possession of the land" many persons who have undertaken its culture refuse to give it a place in their gardens. but it is really an easy matter to keep it within the limits assigned it by promptly uprooting any plant that may make its appearance outside the space given over to it. those who are fond of something pungent and peppery to eat with meats, either hot or cold, will not consent to be without it. it is at its best as soon as the frost is out of the ground sufficiently to admit of its being dug. it should be used as soon as possible after digging, as it loses much of its piquant quality if left exposed to the air for a short time. roots can be dug in late fall for winter use, and packed in boxes of soil, which should be stored in the cellar or some other place where they can be kept as cool as possible without actually freezing. but in order to have it in perfection roots freshly dug in spring must be depended on. * * * * * leaves of horseradish make excellent greens if used when green and tender. a few of them cooked with young beets will give the latter a flavor that will make their sweetness all the more appreciable. * * * * * speaking of greens reminds me to say that the dandelion can be cultivated to advantage in the home garden. under cultivation it improves in size, and becomes a plant quite unlike the tiny, hundred-leaved specimens we dig from the roadside in spring, of which a bushel will be required in order to secure a good "mess" for a greens-loving family, as most of such a picking will have to be discarded when it is "looked over" preparatory to cooking. in order to prevent the garden-grown dandelion from becoming a nuisance it must not be allowed to bloom and develop seed. * * * * * a most delightful salad can be made from the new growth of the dandelion, in spring, if properly bleached. this can be done by covering the plants with dry leaves as soon as they begin to grow, thus excluding light and inducing rapid development. or, if most convenient, flower-pots can be inverted over the plants. the small amount of light that comes to them through the drainage-hole in the bottom of the pot will materially assist in hastening the growth of the leaves in such a manner as to give them a crisp tenderness and deprive them of that bitter tang which characterizes the foliage when fully grown under exposure to the light and air. just enough of this spicy quality to make the salad delightfully appetizing will be found in them when grown in this way. * * * * * mention has several times been made in the preceding pages of bordeaux mixture. this is a preparation used by small-fruit growers everywhere to combat diseases of a fungous character which prevail to an alarming extent in almost all sections of the country in early spring. it is a standard remedy for many of the ills that this class of plants is heir to, and no up-to-date orchardist would think for a moment of neglecting its use if he would grow a fine crop of apples. it has not heretofore come into common use among those who grow small fruit on a small scale, because it is rather difficult to prepare it properly, but now a preparation of it that is ready for use by simply mixing it with water can be obtained from all seedsmen. the use of it in spring when fruit is setting, to prevent injury from the curculio and other enemies of small fruits, is to be encouraged. * * * * * every gardener should be provided with pruning-shears with which to prune whatever plants he or she may grow that require frequent attention of that kind. a jack-knife answers the purpose very well in the hands of a man, but up to the present time no woman is known to have made a success of its use. * * * * * currant-bushes grow readily from cuttings. insert a piece of half-ripened wood five or six inches long into the ground and it will almost invariably take root. in order to keep this plant in healthy bearing condition it should be pruned rather severely each season. cut away all weak wood, and encourage the production of strong new shoots, from which fruit will be borne next season. remove a good share of the old branches after they have ripened the present season's crop. if this is not done the bush will after a little become crowded with branches, and as all branches, old and new, will attempt to bear, you will be pretty sure to have a production of very inferior fruit, since it will be impossible for the bush to perfect all the berries that set and have them come up to the standard of superiority that should govern the grower. small currants are good, as far as they go, but the trouble is--they don't go far enough. many of them will have to be discarded when the housewife makes her selection. * * * * * if the amateur gardener desires to give some of his vegetables an early start, i would advise him to try what may be called the "sod-method" in preference to any other. sod is cut from roadside or pasture in fall and stacked up in the cellar for use in early spring. when seed is to be sown, invert the piece of sod, and scatter the seed over the surface, which, it will be understood, was _not_ the surface originally. in other words, what _was_ the surface is now the bottom of the piece which receives the seed. when it comes time to put the seedlings out of doors the sod can be cut apart in such a manner that each has its bit of soil, and this can be transferred to the garden without interfering in any way with the roots of the young plant. * * * * * while barn-yard manure--especially that which contains a good deal of cow manure--is one of the very best of all fertilizers, it is not always obtainable, and this makes it necessary to resort to some kind of commercial fertilizer. if one is not familiar with any of these fertilizers he ought not to select at random, as he may get a kind not at all adapted to his requirements. i would advise finding some one who understands the peculiarity of the soil in his locality, and who has had some experience in the use of commercial fertilizers, and being governed by his advice. experimental knowledge is often expensive, and the use of a fertilizer that is not adapted to the soil in one's garden often ruins a season's crops. * * * * * the ideal support for pea-vines is brush, but not every gardener is able to obtain it. some persons substitute binder-twine stretched from stake to stake. this answers very well as long as the weather remains dry, but as soon as a rain-storm comes along the twine absorbs so much moisture that it relaxes its tension and sags in such a manner as to endanger the vines which have taken hold of it. coarse-meshed wire netting will be found much more satisfactory, as it will not sag and cannot be blown down by winds. care must be taken to see that it _is_ coarse-meshed, as the fine-meshed sorts will not admit of the vine's working its way out and in among the meshes. if a supply of brush can be obtained, use it by all means, and at the end of the pea-season pull it up and store it away in a dry place. if this is done, it can be made to do duty for several seasons. if netting is used, do not allow it to remain out of doors in winter. by untacking it from the stakes which are set for its support, and rolling it up carefully, and storing it away from the storms of winter, it can be made to last a lifetime. * * * * * don't depend upon home-grown seed. some of it may be just as good as that which can be bought from reliable seedsmen, but the probabilities are that it is not, because of the tendencies of most plants to "mix." plants grown from seed saved from the home garden often--and generally--show some of the characteristics of several varieties of the same family, and frequently these characteristics are not the ones we would like to perpetuate. seedlings from varieties pollenized by other varieties show a decided inclination to revert to original types, and these are in most instances the very characteristics we would like to get away from. it is always advisable to procure fresh seed each season, and to procure it from men who make seed-growing a specialty. * * * * * the housewife who likes to make her table and the food she places upon it as attractive as possible, will do well to pot a few plants of parsley in early fall. choose for this purpose the smaller plants. three or four can be put into one pot if the latter is of good size. these can be kept in the kitchen window, where they will be quite as ornamental as most house plants, or they can be kept in the cellar window if frost is prevented from getting to them. from them one can always obtain material for the decoration of roasts and other dishes which require garnishment. * * * * * squashes and pumpkins will not keep well if stored in very warm places. a room that is just a little above the frost-point is the best place for them. it will be found far superior to a cellar, as the latter is generally more or less damp, and dampness is one of the worst enemies of these vegetables. a cool, dry atmosphere is what they need, and if it can be given them they can be kept in fine condition throughout the entire winter. care should be taken, in gathering them, to not break their stems. if this is done they frequently decay at the place where stem and vegetable unite, and this condition spreads rapidly to all portions of them. * * * * * the question is frequently asked: would you advise plowing or spading the garden in fall? if it could have but one season's attention, i would advise giving it in spring. but if the owner of a garden has ample time to devote to it, i would advise plowing or spading in both seasons. turning up the soil in fall exposes to the elements that portion of it which is most likely to contain worms and insects which have burrowed away for the winter, and it is desirable to make way with as many of these as possible. stirring the soil in spring will do them very little harm, as the weather will be in their favor. fall stirring of the soil is also conducive to a greater degree of mellowness than is likely to result from one operation, and that in spring, as the clods of earth that are thrown up disintegrate under the influence of frost and will be in a condition to pulverize easily when spring comes. * * * * * the average gardener doesn't seem to associate the growing of vegetables with an idea of beauty, but he will find, if he looks into the matter, that the vegetable-garden can be made really ornamental. a row of carrots with its feathery green foliage is quite as attractive as many of our decorative plants; and beets, with crimson foliage, are really tropical in their rich coloring. parsley and lettuce make excellent and ornamental edgings for beds containing other vegetables. tomatoes, trained to upright trellises, are quite as showy as many kinds of flowers, when their fruit begins to ripen. peppers work in charmingly with the colorscheme of the vegetable-garden. a little study of garden possibilities will soon convince one that it is an easy matter to make the vegetable-garden as attractive, so far as color is concerned, as the flower-garden is. and while we are at work at gardening, why not make it as attractive as possible? the pleasing appearance of it will lend additional qualities to the fine flavor of its vegetables if we believe that beauty and practicality ought to work in harmony with each other. * * * * * sage, summer savory, and other garden-grown plants used for seasoning or medicinal purposes should be gathered when in their prime. if one waits until late in the season before cutting them, much of their virtue will have been expended in the ripening process which all plants undergo after they complete their growth. cut them close to the ground, and tie them in loose bunches, and hang them in a shady place until their moisture has evaporated. then put them in paper bags and hang away in a store-room or closet for the winter. plants treated in this way will retain nearly all their original flavor, and be found far superior to the kinds you buy at the store. cucumbers that have grown to full size should be gathered if not wanted for use, as to allow them to remain on the vines after reaching maturity, and while ripening, materially affects the productiveness of the plants. * * * * * endive is the basis of one of our best and most wholesome fall and winter salads. when nearly full-grown it must be bleached, like celery. gather the leaves together and tie them in such a manner as to exclude the light. do this when they are perfectly dry. if wet or damp they are likely to rot. * * * * * some gardeners use what is called onion "sets" instead of seed. these "sets" are the result of sowing seed very thickly in spring the season before they are wanted for planting. as soon as their tops die off in summer--as they will if seed was sown thickly enough--store in a dry and airy place, and the following spring replant. by this method large onions are obtained very early in the season. most market-gardeners depend on "sets" instead of seed. * * * * * mention has been made of a few of our pot and medicinal plants. here is a larger list for those who are interested in plants of this kind: balm, sweet basil, caraway, catnip, camomile, coriander, dill, pennyroyal, peppermint, saffron, tansy, and wormwood. our grandmothers had unlimited faith in the medicinal qualities of some of these plants, and many a mother will be glad to know that she has a stock of some of them stored away for winter use when colds and coughs are prevalent among children or grown people. some of the old home remedies are far preferable to those we are accustomed to using, as they are harmless, if they do no good, which is something that cannot be said of most drugs that are taken into the system. * * * * * don't wait for the currant-worm to show itself on your bushes. you can safely count on its coming. act on the defensive in advance by spraying your plants thoroughly with an infusion of nicoticide, keeping in mind the fact that it is easier to prevent an insect from establishing itself on your plants than it is to get rid of it when it has secured a foothold there. in spraying, be sure that the infusion gets to all parts of the bush. throw it up well among the branches. simply spraying it over the plant isn't what is needed. it must reach the under side of the foliage, and all parts where insects and other enemies might hide away and escape contact with the infusion used. * * * * * when the small-fruit plants in your garden show evidence of having outlived their usefulness, don't try to renew them, but dig them up and plant new ones. you cannot make a satisfactory plant out of one that has begun to show age. it is a good plan to set a few new plants each season. if this is done there need be no gap in the fruit-supply, as there will always be some coming on to take the places of those whose days of usefulness are over. too often we neglect our gardens until they are in such a debilitated condition that we get but slight returns from them, and then we set to work to make them all over, and in this way we fail to get as much out of them as we ought to. by planting something each season we keep them up to bearing-point, and have no "off seasons." * * * * * i wonder how many housewives who may read this little book have ever dried sweet-corn for winter use. not many, i think. but if they were to do so one season i am quite confident that thereafter they would not willingly be without a generous supply of it, for it will be found far more delicious than the ordinary canned article. in drying it, some cook it for a few minutes, and then cut it from the cob and spread it out on plates to dry. others do not think it worth while to cook it, but cut it from the cob as soon as gathered, and dry it by first putting it in the oven for a few minutes before exposing it to the sun to dry. the little time in the oven is equivalent to the partial cooking spoken of. turn it on the plates on which it is spread every day, and do not consider it dry enough to store away until it appears to have parted with all its moisture. then put it into paper bags or glass jars, and set away in a cool, dark place to remain until you desire to use it. soak it for two or three hours before putting it on the stove to cook. when properly cooked it will be tender and have a more delicious flavor than canned corn. the generous use of butter and cream will make it a dish that is fit to set before a king. * * * * * those who happen to live in places where it is not possible to have cellars, because of low ground, can have places in which to store vegetables for winter use that are really preferable to the ordinary cellar, by constructing what might be called above-ground pits, for want of a better name. build up a wall four or five feet high, and bank up about it with so much earth that frost cannot penetrate it. cover with a roof that will keep out cold and rain. have a doorway opening into it from an entry built after the fashion of the little storm-vestibules we put over the front doors of our dwellings in winter. in other words, an entry into which we can step and close one door behind us before we open the one that lets us into the place where our vegetables are. such a room can be constructed with but little expense. because of its being above ground it will be drier than a cellar, and in the majority of cases it will be more convenient to get at. it should be boarded up with a good quality of matched boarding, and its walls should be lined with two or three thicknesses of sheathing paper put on in such a manner as to show no cracks or openings. * * * * * the best place for a vegetable-garden is where the soil is naturally well drained and where there is a slope to the south. such a slope enables it to get the full benefit of sunshine, and sunshine, it will be found, is an important factor in successful gardening. if such an exposure is out of the question, aim to make conditions as favorable as possible. a closely boarded fence on the north side of a garden affords excellent protection from cold winds early in the season, and helps greatly in keeping away frost in fall, when many plants are maturing. mention is made in the above paragraph of good drainage. this is quite important. if the soil of a garden is _not_ well drained, many kinds of vegetables cannot be grown in it, and few will attain to even a partial degree of success. therefore see to it that by ditching, or the use of tile, all surplus water is properly disposed of. much good can be done to a heavy soil by adding to it sharp, coarse sand, old mortar--anything that will have a tendency to counteract the heaviness resulting from undue retention of water or a naturally too close character of soil. if sand is obtainable, and your garden is one in which clay predominates, use it in generous quantities. you will find it as beneficial as manure. spread it over the surface before plowing or spading, and work it in thoroughly. a few seasons' application will bring about a very marked change for the better in any garden whose soil cannot be made fine and mellow without the addition of some disintegrating matter. good drainage must be secured in order to grow good vegetables, and the use of tile will be found a most effective remedy for the evil of a soil unduly retentive of moisture. * * * * * in almost all localities there will be families who have no garden, but who would make liberal use of vegetables if they were easily procurable. there is a chance for boys and girls to earn an "honest penny." if it is found that there is likely to be more in the home garden than the family can make use of, canvass the neighborhood for customers for the probable surplus. it will be found an easy matter to dispose of it. i know several amateur child gardeners who secure enough in this way to pay for all the seed they need. some of them have regular customers each season, and gardening begins to look to them like a profitable occupation. i don't know that they will become professional gardeners, but they will be learning something as well as earning something while they are fitting themselves for whatever occupation in life they may decide on, and what they learn in the garden will be of benefit in after-life in more ways than one. don't neglect to save everything that can be made use of for fertilizing purposes. in many a home the "suds" of washing-day are disposed of as worthless. if applied to growing things in the garden they will often prove as beneficial as the application of a fertilizer that costs quite a little sum of money. especially is this the case if the season happens to be a dry one. if there does not seem to be a need of more moisture in the soil on wash-day, save the soapy water against a time of need. it will be sure to "come handy" during the season. some families are so unfortunate as to have no cellar. few vegetables can be kept well, or for a great length of time, in ordinary rooms, unless something is done to modify the conditions usually existing there. if a large box is filled with dry sand, potatoes, parsnips, salsify, beets, and carrots can be buried in it and made to retain their freshness for an indefinite period. of course this storage-box should be kept as far as possible from artificial heat, and no dampness should be allowed to come in contact with it, as sand absorbs moisture almost as readily as a sponge, and the satisfactory keeping of the vegetables named depends upon dryness more than anything else. the lower the temperature of the place in which vegetables are stored the better, provided it never gets below the freezing-point. where boxes of sand are used, slight freezings are not likely to seriously injure vegetables, as the sand extracts the frost so gradually that but little harm is done. but hard freezing must be guarded against or premature decay will result. it is an excellent plan to bury some of the vegetables named above in a dry place in the garden, for use in spring. they will be found as fresh and crisp as when put into the ground, if covered deep enough to protect them from frost. xii health in the garden. a chapter expressly for women readers the writer of this book often finds women who seem "all run down," without being able to tell of any positive physical ailment. inquiry generally develops the fact that they have overworked; that they have been confined to the house the greater part of the time, busy with household matters, and that in caring for others they have neglected to care for themselves. though i am not an m.d. i take the liberty of prescribing for patients of this class. my prescription is a course of treatment in the garden. i insist on their getting out of doors, where the air is pure, and the sunshine bright and warm, and nature is waiting to give her pleasant companionship to whoever signifies a desire to make her acquaintance. there is health in the garden. but because one has to dig for it some persons prefer to keep on enjoying their old miserableness day after day and year after year. these are the incurables--the "chronic" cases that one cannot expect to do much with or for. but those who are willing to exert themselves in an effort to get back the tone that life has lost to a considerable extent will find that work in the garden is a better tonic than our doctors have a record of in their pharmacopoeia. the earth fairly tingles with life in spring, and by putting ourselves in contact with it we absorb some of this vitality. we breathe in the wine of a _new_ life, and we thrill with a thousand sensations that can come only from putting ourselves in close touch with nature. you can tell a woman who needs a change from indoors to outdoors that she ought to take more exercise, but if you advise walking the chances are that she won't walk much. that kind of exercise doesn't appeal to her, and to make whatever kind of exercise she takes effective it must be something that affords her pleasure--something that she enjoys more than she does doing things from a "_sense of duty_," or simply because she has been _told_ to do it. what is needed is some form of exercise that has _an object in it_--a definite object, rather than the more or less abstract one of "regaining health." give her a few packages of seeds and arouse in her the enthusiasm to have a garden and she will get the very best kind of exercise out of her attempt to carry out the plan, and the "definite object"--in other words, the garden--that she has in mind will keep her so delightfully busy that she will forget all about the health-features of the undertaking until it dawns upon her with startling suddenness some fine day that she "has got her health back." how or when it came she cannot tell you. all she knows is that she feels like a new woman. after that there will be no necessity to repeat the prescription, for one year's half-way successful work in the garden fixes "the garden habit" for all time. nothing else can afford so much pleasure and exercise in happy combination as gardening, or exert a greater fascination over the person who allows herself to come under its influence. i cannot begin to tell you what wonderful and delightful things i have learned in the garden. it is like having the book of nature opened before you and being taught its lore by the book's own author. you see magical things taking place about you every day, and every day there are more of them, to set you thinking and wondering. you may work until you are tired, but you do not realize physical wear and tear because your mind has something else that it considers of greater importance to busy itself over. only after the work of the day is done will you become conscious of physical weariness, and then it is that you find out what the luxury of rest is; to fully appreciate rest we must first understand what it is to be really tired. lassitude, ennui--these do not give us a knowledge of genuine tiredness, therefore we are not in a condition to receive the full benefit of that rest which means a reaction of the physical system until we have done some kind of work that makes reaction necessary in order to establish a normal equilibrium. the rest that comes after getting really tired is so full of delightful sensations that we admit to ourselves that it is richly worth the price we have to pay for it. there is a subtle charm about garden work from its very beginning. the seed we sow has a mystery wrapped up in it. the processes of germination are as fascinating as a fairytale. the development of the tiny seedling is a source of constant wonder to us. we watch for the first bud with eager impatience, and it has to be on the alert if it succeeds in opening without our being on hand to observe the performance. spring begins the story, summer carries it forward, and autumn seems to complete it, but there is always the promise of the retelling of the story another year to keep us interested from the end of one season to the coming of another. garden work is a sort of thousand and one days' entertainment, in which the interest is continually kept up--always something to look forward to--always something new. the woman who grows weary over the monotony of household duties, but cannot put them entirely aside, will find relaxation in the garden. the change will rest her. and the woman who has no household duties to claim her attention needs something to get interested in. both will find the necessary stimulus in growing flowers. but in order to do this it must not be "played at." set about it because you mean to accomplish something. a week after you have begun in earnest you will find yourself looking forward impatiently to the hour that takes you out of doors. you will forget about the gloves that you probably provided yourself with at the outset. you won't be bothered with veils. tan will have no terrors for you. you will look upon dirt as something pleasing because you begin to see the possibilities in it. you will go back to the house with an appetite that makes plain bread and butter delicious. have a garden. and do all the work in it yourself. that's the secret of the benefit you are to get out of it. the end transcriber's note -plain print and punctuation errors fixed. literature (images generously made available by the internet archive.) how the garden grew by maud maryon "mary, mary, quite contrairy, how does your garden grow?" _with four illustrations by gordon browne_ longmans, green, and co. paternoster row, london new york and bombay to his reverence contents page season i.--winter season ii.--spring season iii.--summer season iv.--autumn index illustrations page winter spring summer autumn [illustration: winter] how the garden grew season i winter "now is the winter of my discontent." i have not had charge of my garden very long; and i am not sure that i should have undertaken such a charge had there been anyone else to do it. but there was no one else, and it so obviously needed doing. of course there was the gardener--i shall have to allude to him occasionally--but just now i will only mention the fact that his greatest admirer could not have accused him of _taking care_ of the garden. then there was his reverence; he was by way of being in charge of everything, me included, i suppose, and of course nominally it was so. he had the parish and the church, and the rectory and his family, and the men-servants and the maid-servants, a horse and a pony _and_ the garden! he managed most things well, i will say, and the kitchen garden gave some account of itself, but in the flower garden desolation cried aloud. i was moved one day to say i thought it disgraceful. "there are no flowers anywhere; nothing but some semi-red geraniums and some poverty-stricken calceolarias and scraggy lobelias. we have none of those nice high blue things, what do you call them? or those yellow round things with red fringes, like daisies, which are not daisies; we have no sweet-williams even, though they are the sort of flowers that grow in every _cottage_ garden!" there was a twinkle in his reverence's eye. "you seem to know a good deal about flowers, mary; i can't even follow your descriptions. i try my best with the carrots and onions. you must acknowledge you have vegetables." "oh, vegetables!" i cried with a tone of contempt. "yes, vegetables! you don't seem to despise them at dinner." "no, but vegetables! anyone can buy vegetables." "anyone can buy flowers, i suppose, if they have the money to spend." "they can't buy the look of flowers in the garden," i argued; "that is what one wants; not a few cut things on the table." "well, i spend," began his reverence, and then paused, and looked through a little drawer of his table that contained account-books. an idea struck me. i waited eagerly for his next words. "let me see," continued his reverence, running his eye down long rows of figures. "ah! here is one of last year's bills for seeds, etc. just on ten pounds, you see, and half of that certainly was for the flower garden. there were new rose trees." "they are mostly dead. griggs said it was the frost," i interpolated. "and some azaleas, i remember." "they don't flower." "and bulbs." "oh! griggs buried _them_ with a vengeance." "well, anyway, five pounds at least was--" "was wasted, sir; that is what happened to that five pounds. now, look here." his reverence looked. "give me that five pounds." "that particular one?" "of course not. five pounds, and i will see if i can't get some flowers into the garden. five pounds! why, my goodness, what a lot of things one ought to get with five pounds. seeds are so cheap, sixpence a packet i have heard; and then one takes one's own seeds after the first year. come, sir, five pounds down and every penny shall go on the garden." "dear me! but according to you five pounds is a great deal too much. i can't say that it has produced very fine results under griggs's management; but at sixpence a packet!" "no, sir, it is not too much really," i said gravely. "i shall have to buy a heap of things besides seeds, i expect. but you shall see what i will do with it. i want that garden to be full of flowers." his reverence looked out of the study window. it was a bleak, windy day towards the end of november. a few brown, unhappy-looking leaves still hung on the trees; but most of them, released at last, danced riotously across the small grass plot in front of the old red brick house, until they found a damp resting-place beneath the shrubbery. the border in front looked unutterably dreary with one or two clumps of frost-bitten dahlias and some scrubby little chrysanthemums. "full of flowers!" the eye of faith was needed indeed. "i don't mean before christmas," i added, following his reverence's eye. "but there are things that come out in the spring, you know, and perhaps they ought to be put in now. is it a bargain?" "yes, mary, it shall be a bargain. here is the fiver. don't waste it, but make the best of that garden. you had better consult old griggs about bulbs and such-like. there ought to be some. i don't think the few snowdrops i saw can represent all i bought." "they never came up. i know they didn't. i believe he planted them topsy-turvy. i suppose there is a right side up to bulbs, and if so, griggs would certainly choose the wrong. it's his nature. can't we get rid of him, sir? isn't there any post besides that of gardener which he might fill?" his reverence will not always take my words of wisdom seriously. "what, more posts! why, he is clerk and grave-digger and bell-ringer! would you like me to retire in his favour?" "_i_ am speaking seriously, father. if anything is to be made of this garden it can't be done whilst that old idiot remains here." "i fear he must remain here. i have inherited him. his position is as firm as mine." "not as gardener!" "no; but he can't live on his other earnings. no, mary, put your best foot foremost and make something of old griggs and the garden and the five pounds. and now take this bulb catalogue. i have not had time to look it through, and perhaps it may not be too late to get some things in for the spring. but don't spend all the five pounds on bulbs," he shouted after me as i left the study. and so i plunged into gardening, a very ignoramus of the ignorami, and what is herein set down will be written for the edification, instruction, warning and encouragement of others belonging to that somewhat large species. * * * * * i opened the bright-coloured catalogue. oh! what fascination lurks in the pages of a bulb catalogue. the thick, highly-glazed leaves turn with a rich revelation on both sides. it scarcely needs the brilliant illustrations to lift the imagination into visions of gorgeous beauty. parterres of amazing tulips, sheets of golden daffodils, groups of graceful, nodding narcissus, the heavy, sweet scent of hyacinths comes from that glorious bloom "excellent for pot culture"; and here in more quiet letters grow the early crocus--yellow, white, blue and mixed--and snowdrops. ah! snowdrops, coming so early, bringing the promise of all the rich glory that is to follow. and scillas, aconites, chionodoxa or "glory of the snow"! what were all those lovely, to me half unheard-of names that could be had for two shillings and sixpence, three shillings or four shillings and sixpence a hundred? they bloomed in february and march, they were hardy and throve in any soil. oh! how they throve in the pages of that catalogue. and anemones! my mind rushed to the joys of the riviera, revealed in occasional wooden boxes, mostly smashed, sent by friends from that land of sunshine, and whose contents, when revived, spoke of a wealth of colour forever to be associated with the name of anemone. to grow them myself, rapture! "plant in october or november." it was still november; they must be ordered at once, "double," "mixed," "single," "fulgens"; they were "dazzling," "effective," "brilliant," and began to flower in march. i was plunged into a happy dream of month succeeding month, bringing each with it its own glory of radiant bloom, very much after the manner of walter crane's picture-books. life was going to be well worth living. so now to make my first list and secure all this treasure for the coming beautiful flower-laden year. i made a list; and then, mindful of the limited nature of even five pounds and all that would be required of it, i made up a long row of figures. this gave me an ugly jar. flowers should be given freely and graciously, not bought and sold, to everyone by everyone for the promotion of beauty and happiness upon earth. any good government should see to this. but present arrangements being so defective, i had to remodel my list considerably. i cheered up with the thought, however, that bulbs were not annuals, but on their own account, so i had heard, grew and multiplied quietly in the earth. what could have become of those planted by griggs last year? did worms eat bulbs? * * * * * i wandered round the garden, seeing possibilities and refusing to be depressed by the sadness of sodden grass, straggling rose branches bare of beauty, heavy earth that closed in dejected plants, weeds or what not; i saw them all with new eyes and scanned them closely. did they mean flowers? down in their hearts could those poor draggled, tangled specimens dream of radiant blooms turned to the sun? i had not studied my garden before; there were prisoners in it. care and attention, the right food and freedom, should bring new beauties to light. i had grumbled and growled for over two years at the hopelessness of it, and at the dearth of flowers for house decoration. now all was to be changed; the garden was to be beautiful! i thought of that catalogue. griggs was digging in the kitchen garden; not hard, not deep, still, no one could say he was unemployed. he was himself very muddy, and gave one the idea of working with all parts of his person except his brains. my former interviews with him had been short if not sweet; but there was no open quarrel. he paused as i stood near him, wiping his spade with his hands, kicking at the clods of earth round him as though they were troublesome. "is that for potatoes?" i asked, wishing to show not only interest but knowledge. he tilted his cap to one side and viewed the bare expanse of upturned earth. "oi 'ad taters in 'ere last; thought oi'd dig it a bit. diggin' allays comes in 'andy." "oh, yes;" and then i made a fresh start. "i wanted to know about those bulbs you planted last autumn. did they come up?" this was evidently an awkward question. "bulbs! oh, there wur a few wot the rector give me some toime back lars year. they didn't come to much. never knows with bulbs, you don't!" "oh! but bulbs ought to come up." "some on 'em do, some times. don't 'old myself with them furrin koinds." "what, not with dutch bulbs? why, they grow the best kind in holland." "maybe they do; over there. p'haps this soil didn't soute 'em. wot i found diggin' the beds i put in them two round beds on the lawn. they wasn't no great quantity. most on 'em perished loike, it 'pears to me." "perhaps you did not put them in right," i ventured. "how deep should you plant them?" oh! how ignorant i was. i did not feel even sure that i knew the right side up of a bulb. griggs gave a hoarse chuckle. "they don't need to go fur in; 'bout so fur," and he made a movement that might indicate an inch or a yard; "but there's lots o' contrairy things that may 'appen to bulbs same as to most things. en'mies is wot there is in gardins, all along o' the curse." griggs was clerk; he never forgot that post of vantage. he looked at me as he said the word "curse." i wondered if his mind had made the connection between eve and her daughter. but to return to the bulbs. were worms the enemies in this particular case? i knew they buried cities and raised rocks, and were our best diggers and fertilisers, because i had once read darwin on the subject; but were they the enemies of bulbs? "i am going to take the garden in hand a bit," i said after a pause. "i think it needs it." "well, i could do wi' a bit o' elp," and he wiped more mud from his spade to his hands, and from his hands to his trousers, and then back again, until i wondered what his wife did with him when she got him home. "but i reckon a boy 'ud be more 'andy loike. there's a lot o' talk," he added, half to himself. i remembered with a feeling of pain how our old cook and factotum had received the news that i was taking cooking lessons in much the same spirit; but my newly-found energy was not going to be suppressed by griggs. "i am going to order some more bulbs," i began. "ah! you might do _that_. the gardin needs things puttin' into it, that's what it needs." i looked at him sternly. "and things taken out of it too. i never knew such a place for weeds." "no more didn't i. it's fearful bad soil for weeds; but maybe if there warn't so much room for 'em they'd get sort of crowded out." "you have been here a good many years," i said, not without an afterthought. "yes; that's wot i 'ave been. i come first in ole mr wood's time; 'e was a 'and at roses, 'e was; somethin' loike we 'ad the place then, me an' 'im. then mr 'erbert took it, that's when ole woods, 'is father as 'twere, doied. but 'e didn't stay long; went fur a missunairy 'e did to them furrin parts and never come back, 'e didn't neither. then come mr cooper, ten years, no, 'levin, he was 'ere and never did a bit to the gardin; took no interes', no cuttin's, no seeds, no manure, no nothink. that's 'ow the weeds overmastered us." "but at least you might have dug up the weeds." "allays callin' me away for some'ot, they was. the bath chair for 'is sister as lived with 'im, allays some'ot. talk o' gardinin'! the weeds just come." then his tone brightened a bit; the bath chair had been an unpleasing retrospect. "but if the rector looks to spend a bit, we might get some good stuff in." a pause, and a searching look at the setting sun. "i must be going. got a bit to see to up at my place. can't never git round with these short days." griggs collected his implements and with fine independence walked off, giving me a backward nod and a "good evenin', miss. we could do wi' a few bulbs and such loike." i was to divide griggs's time with his reverence, but griggs seemed quite able to dispose of it himself. * * * * * i opened a strong wooden box with much interest and examined the result of my first venture in bulbs. brown paper bags full of little seeds in which were carefully packed the firm dry brown roots, big and little, round and oblong. how wonderful that these "dead bones" should be capable of springing up into the glories of sight and smell foretold by my catalogue. this withered brown ball a hyacinth! unfolding, unfolding, until green tips, broadening leaves, and at last a massive crown of flowers appear. and the magician's wand to work this transformation? just the good old brown earth, the common rain, and the wonderful work-a-day sun. i was soon busy in the garden depositing my various bulbs in heaps where i intended them to be buried. i called griggs and requested suitable tools for the work. "i am going to plant daffodils under these trees," i said; "and i want you to take that bag of crocuses and put them in all over the grass in front. put them anywhere and everywhere, like the daisies grow." "what! front of the rector's winder?" "yes; all over." "'ow many 'ave you got 'ere?" "three hundred; but they don't take long planting." "'ope not! i've got a good bit else to to do; can't fiddle faddle over them." "put them in the right side up. i want them to grow," i called after his retreating figure. then i eyed my pile of bulbs. of course i did know the right side up of a bulb; of course everybody did; and if anyone was likely to make a mistake it was surely griggs, so it was clearly no use asking him. nice brown thing, why had you not given just one little green sprout as the crocuses and snowdrops had done, so that there _could_ be no mistake? and what would happen if they were planted topsy-turvy? could they send up shoots from anywhere they chose? or would the perversity of such a position be too much for their budding vitality? i did not wish to try the experiment; my daffodils _must_ make their appearance next march. i ranged them out in broad circles under one or two trees, in patches at the corner of projecting borders, and walked away to see the effect from different points; the effect, not of brown specks, but of sheets of gold that were to be. his reverence found me with my head on one side taking in the future from the drawing-room windows. "you seem very busy, mary." "i am. you see, it is a great thing to place them where they can stay. i like permanent things. it will be lovely, won't it, to see that golden patch under the mulberry tree and another at the corner there; and then under the chestnut just a sheet of white?" "oh, lovely! and what kind of sheet or wet blanket is old griggs preparing for my eyes in front?" "oh, the old owl! i must run and see he is doing as i told him. you might be useful, sir, for a bit, mightn't you? and begin popping in those daffodils under that tree exactly as i have arranged them. i will be back directly." his reverence loved walking round with a tall spud prodding up weeds, but it was a new idea to set him to work in other ways. i left him for some time and came back with a heated face. "just imagine! oh, really, sir, we can't go on with that--that--unutterable idiot! he won't do as he is told. what do you think he was doing? i told him to plant all that front piece of grass with crocuses, you know--told him as plainly as i could speak--and there he was burying my crocuses, by handfuls i think, in the border." "oh, well, he doesn't understand your ideas, you see, mary; he has not seen them carried out yet." "oh, but he did understand, only he said it would take longer to plant them in the grass and they would come up better in the border. 'i want that for tulips,' i said, and stood over him while he unburied all he had done. then he said, 'can't stand cuttin' up the grass like this; better put 'em straight 'long that shady border there, give a bit o' colour to it.' 'i want them here, in the grass,' i said. 'and how 'bout my mowing? i shall cut 'em to pieces.' that was a bright idea, he thought. 'you don't begin mowing until after the crocuses are well over; that won't hurt.' and now i have spread them all over the lawn myself and left him to put them in. he can't make any further mistake i hope." his reverence was laughing. old griggs amused him much more than he did me. "how many have you done?" i asked, and i looked at the still unburied bulbs. "why, sir--" "i have done two, mary, really; but look at this pile of plantains! oh, these horrid things! you must clear the garden of them." "i can't," i said sternly. "there is too much else to do. what we want is colour, flowers everywhere. the plantains are green so they don't disturb the harmony. but you may take them up if you like." "colour! harmony! if you talk to old griggs like that he will think you are mad. and, mary, you bought _all_ these bulbs? remember there is the spring and summer to be reckoned with. how much has gone?" "two pounds. it ought to have been twenty. seeds are cheaper, you know. i must do a lot with seeds, i find. but bulbs go on, that is the comfort of them. they will be there for always!" "well, i won't interfere. don't bully my old griggs." and his reverence walked off. i proceeded, yes, i will confess it, carefully to open up one of the bulbs he had planted. yes, there it was, it had its point upward. oh! i hoped he really knew. and so all the others were placed snugly in their narrow beds, and patted down with a kind of blessing. "wake up soon and be glorious, brilliant, effective." * * * * * there were hours of deep dejection after all my planting was done. it was december, and so much ought to have been done in november, october, and even september. in fact, i ought to have begun nine months ago. and those nine months could not be caught up for another year, depressing thought! wallflowers, polyanthus, forget-me-nots, sweet-williams, all the dear, simple things of which i wanted masses, instead of the one or two stalky bushes that grew down a long herbaceous border, all these should have begun their career, it appeared, last february or march if i wanted them to flower next spring. i must wait. i had not set out on my gardening experience to learn patience, it is always being rubbed into one; but i warn you, o brother or sister ignoramus! that of all stocks you will need patience the most. my garden was now a white world. snow buried everything: hopes and depressions were equally hidden. a fine time for castle-building, for hurrying through the seasons and imagining how many treasures ought to be, might be, should be hidden beneath that cold, pure coverlid and warmly, snugly nestling in mother earth's brown bosom. what energy must be at work, what pushing, struggling, expanding of little points of life downwards, upwards, until they burst into resurrection with little green hands folded as in thanksgiving. in the meantime i turned to books, on gardening, of course. my new "fad," as the others called it, having announced itself in plenty of time for christmas, my pile of gifts presented a most learned appearance. this was my first taste of that fascinating literature. his reverence had handed over to me a brown-clad work on gardening--somewhat ancient i must say--at the beginning of my enterprise. i had scanned it critically and compared it to an ordinary cookery-book in which recipes are given, and unless you are already familiar with the art you are continually faced with difficulties. the cookery-books tell one to "make a white sauce of flour, butter and milk," but how? wherein lies the mystery of that delicately-flavoured, creamy substance or that lumpy kind of paste? just so my regular handbook to gardening. for example:-- "they vary very much in habit, but should be of easy cultivation. the compost required is rich, deep and moist. any sourness in the soil will be fatal to flowering. when planting supply liberally with manure, and occasionally mulch in dry weather." but what did it all mean? how test the soil and the sourness which would be fatal to flourishing? the proof of the pudding would be in the eating, but how prevent any tragic consequences? but these other books, this literature on gardening! they are generally better than the garden itself. practical they are not, but why ask it of them? they are the seductive catalogue turned into finest art. one wanders with some sweet, madonna-like lady of smooth fair hair, mild eyes and broad-brimmed hat, or with a courtly parson of the old school, in a garden where the sun always shines. green stretches of lawn (no plantains), trees grouped from their infancy to adorn and shade and be the necessary background to masses of flowering shrubs. through rockeries, ferneries, nut-groves, copses we wander as in a fairy dream. borders laid out to catch the sun, sheltered by old red brick walls where fruit ripens in luscious clusters. rose gardens, sunk gardens, water gardens lead on to copses where all wild things of beauty are met together to entrance the eye. broad walks between herbaceous borders, containing every flower loved from the time of eve; sheltered patches where seedlings thrive, a nursery of carefully-reared young. and in this heaven of gardening land gardeners galore flit to and fro, ever doing their master's behest, and manure and water, and time and money may be considerations but are not anxieties. i ought to have begun years ago; seven, nine, fifteen, and even twenty-five years are talked of but as yesterday. i felt out of it in every sense. my garden lay out there in the cold, grey mist; it had been neglected, it held no rippling stream, no nut-grove, it ran upward into no copse or land of pine and bracken and heather. it had a hedge one side and a sloping field the other. the straight kitchen garden was bounded by no red brick wall, and the birds from the convenient hedges ate all the fruit, unless gooseberries and currants were so plentiful that we also were allowed a share. griggs talked of an 'urbrageous' border. but what a border! evening primroses, the common yellow marigold, a few clusters of golden-rod, and other weed-like flowers that persist in growing of themselves, with griggs, five pounds a year and an ignoramus to work it! oh! why had i so cheerfully undertaken such an apparently hopeless task? but my honour was now at stake. i had said i would have flowers on five pounds a year, and i could not draw back. let me clear away the mists that had arisen. after all, that tree down there was a pink chestnut, and beneath it lay my sheet of snowdrops and blue scillas. before it burst into beauty they would have done their share of rejoicing the eye. at that corner, where the field sloped so prettily downwards, daffodils were hidden, and under the clump just over the fence more and more daffodils. a row of stately limes, dismally bare now, carried the eye down to the next field. there, where it was always shady, i pictured future ferns and early wild-flowers, and maybe groups of foxgloves. i turned again to my gardening books. i too would have a garden "to love," to "work in"; if not a "gloucestershire garden," or a "german garden," or a "surrey" one, still a garden. months with me, also, should be a successive revelation of flowers; though i knew not a latin name i would become learned in the sweet, simple, old-fashioned flowers that cottagers loved, and though i could not fit poetry on to every plant, i would have a posy for the study table right through the year. that was my dream! * * * * * the first, the very first produce of the opening year in my garden was a winter aconite. the little dead-looking roots had been planted in a sunny shrubbery border and had quickly thrust up their golden crowns, circled with the tender green collar. have you ever noticed how a winter aconite springs from its bed? its ways are most original. the sturdy little stem comes up like a hoop; at one end is the root, at the other the blossom, with its green collar drooped carefully over the yellow centre. gradually it raises itself, shakes off the loosened mould--you may help it here if you like--lays back its collar and opens its golden eye. i picked every one i could find. it seemed sinful, but occasionally pride overcomes the most modest of us. "there," i cried, "my garden is beginning already. just look at them! are they not lovely?" "what, buttercups?" asked one of the others. "no, oh, ignorant one! they are not buttercups. they are winter aconite; note the difference." "let's look!" and the brown little fist of one of the youngest of the others was thrust forth. "all that fuss about those! you wait a minute!" he ran off, returning shortly with quite a big bunch of my yellow treasures in his hand. "where did you get them? jim, you bad boy! you must not pick my flowers," i exclaimed. "_your_ flowers! and you hadn't an idea that they grew there. these are from _my_ garden, and no one has given _me_ a fiver to raise them with. come, mary, i shall cry halves. you had better square me!" "oh, jim, where did you find them?" was all i could gasp. i did square jim, but it was in "kind," and then he showed me much winter aconite hidden away in an unfrequented shrubbery, where his quick little eyes had spied it. i thought of moving it to where it would show. everything with me was for show in those early days; but these surprises hold their own delight, and i learnt to encourage them. i suffered many things at the hands of the others for spending five pounds on winter aconite when already the garden held "such heaps "--that was their way of putting it. i began to hope that more surprises of such sort might be in store for me. it is wonderful how one may avoid seeing what is really just under one's nose. the others might laugh, but i doubt if they even knew winter aconite as the yellow buttercup-looking thing before that morning. another yellow flower tried to relieve the monotony of that dead season of the year. struggling up the front of the house, through the virginian creeper and old gloire de dijon rose, were the bare branches of a yellow jasmine. from the end of december on through january and february it did its poor best to strike a note of colour in the gloom. but why was it not more successful? judging from its performance, i had formed the meanest opinion of its capabilities, until one bright day in january my eye had been caught by a mass of yellow--i say advisedly a mass--thrown over the rickety porch of old master lovell's abode. yellow jasmine! yes, there was no mistake about it, but the bare greenish stems were covered with the brilliant little star-flowers, shining and rejoicing as in the full tide of summer. i thought of my bare straggling specimen and stopped to ask for the recipe for such blossoming. old lovell and old griggs had both lived in fairleigh all their lives, and there was an old-timed and well-ripened feud between the pair. "a purty sight i calls that," said old lovell, surveying his porch, "an' yourn ain't loike it, ain't it? ah! and that's not much of a surprise to me. ever see that old griggs up at th' rectory working away wi' his shears? lor' bless you, he's a 'edging and ditching variety of gardener, that's wot i calls 'im. clip it all, that's 'is motive, autumn and spring, one with another, an' all alike, and then you 'spects winter blooming things to pay your trouble! but they don't see it, they don't." "oh! it's the clipping, is it? well, then, how do you manage yours? it is quite beautiful." i always dealt out my praise largely in return for information. "leaves it to natur', i do. you wants a show? 'ave it then and leave interfering with natur'. she knows 'er biz'ness." i did not feel quite convinced of this axiom; gardening seemed to be a continual assistance or interference with nature in her most natural moods. so i said dubiously, "yellow jasmine should never be cut at all, then?" "look you 'ere, miss, at them buds all up the stem. if i cuts the stem wot becomes of them buds, eh?" unanswerable old lovell! but as i looked at the thick matted trailings that covered his porch, it dawned on me that perhaps a judicious pruning out of old wood at the right season would help and not hinder the yellow show. "does it bloom on the new wood?" i asked with a thought most laudable in an ignoramus. "blooms! why, it blooms all over. look at it!" and having sounded the depth of old lovell's knowledge, i left him with more words of praise. so that was it! and my yellow jasmine might be blooming like that if left alone, or better, if rightly handled; and doubtless the poverty-stricken appearance of the white jasmine, the small and occasional flowers of the clematis, were due to the same cause. here was a new and important department of my work suddenly opened up. i determined nature should have a free hand until i could assist her properly. until i knew the how, when and why of the clipping process, the edict should go forth to old griggs, "don't _touch_ the shears." on examining my own decapitated climbers i found that griggs had indeed been hedging and ditching in the brutal way in which the keepers of our country lanes perform their task. it had often grieved my spirit to see the beautiful tangle late autumn produces in the hedges ruthlessly snipped and snapped by the old men, told off by some of the mysterious workings of the many councils under which we now groan, to do their deed of evil. that it ever recovers, that spring again clothes the hedges brilliantly, that the wild rose riots, the wild clematis flings itself, the honeysuckle twines, all again within the space of six or eight months, is an ever-recurring miracle. but my creepers and climbers did not so recover; their hardy brethren in the hedges outstripped them. griggs impartially clipped the face of the house in the autumn when ivy is trimmed, and, now that i noticed it, the results overpowered me with wrath. how extraordinary that people should let such things go on, should live apathetically one side of the wall when flowers were being massacred on the other; should have streamers of yellow glory within their reach in december and january, and should sit placidly by the fire when the iron jaws were at work and never shout to the destroyer, "hold!" well, it was no use carrying every tale of woe to his reverence or the others. jim was fully informed, and being, as i have often noticed, a person of immense resource, he very shortly afterwards whispered to me that the "old guffoon" would have great difficulty in finding his shears again. if i would obtain proper advice on the point it was a department, he thought, peculiarly suited to his abilities. i might grow giddy on a ladder, but as the navy was to be his profession he thought the opportunity one to be taken. there was nothing to cut of the yellow jasmine; it must grow first, and then the older stems might be judiciously trimmed after its flowering time is over. a year to wait for that, to jim's disgust, but toward the end of february we cautiously trimmed the japanese variety of "old man's beard," called by the learned "clematis flamulata." it grew on the verandah, and one of the others had driven griggs off when he approached with his shears. she said he looked like murder, and whether it was right or not it should not be done. i had to give her chapter and verse for it that this variety of clematis ought to have a very mild treatment, a sort of disentanglement, and thus help it to long streamers before she would allow jim and me and a modest pair of scissors to do ever so little work. jim sighed for the shears, and i had to warn him against the first evidence of the murderous spirit of old griggs. * * * * * in one garden book of the most precious description i read of "hellebore." now i am writing for ignoramuses. do you know what "hellebore" is? no! of course not, nor did i, but it was spoken of as forming "a complete garden full of flowers in the months of february and march," so of course i wanted it. out-door flowers are scarce in february, but i learned as time went on that most flowers announced for an early appearance generally arrive a month late, at least it is so with me. none of the others, not even his reverence, had heard of hellebore. it continued to haunt me for some time. february was near and i sighed for that "complete garden." * * * * * i was encouraging my snowdrops with welcoming smiles as they pierced through the damp grass, and dreaming of hellebore, for the name attracted me strongly, when his reverence's young man joined me. he has not much to do with the garden, though he often strayed into it--very often, in fact--so he ought to be mentioned. as my book is about my garden, only the people who either help or hinder there need be introduced. his reverence's young man was really his curate. our parish was not a large one, but very scattered, and a little distant hamlet with a tiny chapel necessitated a young man. he was a great favourite with his reverence, who would often walk about with him, leaning on his arm, and this had caused old master lovell, the village wit, to call him his young man. of course he had to see his reverence occasionally, and if he did not find him in the study he generally looked for him in the garden. "what is growing here?" he asked. "look!" i answered. "grass? it is grass, isn't it?" "it is a comfort to find some people, and clever people withal, even more ignorant than i am. snowdrops and scillas." "oh! i see, you are making progress, at least, i beg pardon, _they_ are. i positively see some white." "now can _you_ tell me what are hellebores?" "ask another!" "that is worthy of jim. you don't know?" "but wait a bit, i have heard of them, i really have. isn't it deadly nightshade, or something like that?" i shook my head. "it is worse to know wrong than not at all." "but if you don't know, how do you know i am wrong?" "because they form a complete garden in february and march--there!" "a complete garden! how wonderful. doesn't anyone know? doesn't griggs?" "i haven't asked him, of course he wouldn't know. here he is, we will see what he says. griggs, do you know what flower is called hellebore?" griggs had no spade and no mud handy; he was very much nonplussed. "el-bore!--did you say? whoi, el-bore? don't seem to have 'eeurd of 'em before; not by that name leastways. you never can tell in these days; lot o' noo-fangled words they call 'em. oi might know it right 'nuff if you could show me. dessay it's a furriner. i must be goin'." he wandered down the garden. there was not much i could give him to do, but i knew from my gardening books that he should be trimming trees, or marking those to come down, or cutting stakes, and lots of other useful things. i possessed no woods, or groves, or copses, however, so i gave griggs over unreservedly to his reverence, and he dug and banked up celery. "shall i write and ask my mother?" said the young man. "she is quite a gardener, you know; and when they divide up roots--as they do, don't they?--she would send you some, i am sure. geraniums and fuchsias and--and lilies. they always divide them up, don't they? and throw away half." "i don't think they throw away half, not always. but would she really? it would be awfully kind; and i might send her things when i had anything to send. only i don't want geraniums; i can't bear them, and old griggs has filled our one and only frame with nothing else. they seem to me a most unnecessary flower." i spoke in my ignorance, and i learnt the use of geraniums later on. his reverence's young man never smiled when i spoke of sending things back to his mother; perhaps he did inside him, for she had a lovely garden and half a dozen gardeners, but still was chief there. i was overcome when i paid her a visit and remembered my offer; but again i spoke in my ignorance and thought it showed the right gardener's spirit, and perhaps it did. his reverence's young man grew to take the greatest interest in gardening. he was one of my first converts; but i learnt about hellebore from someone else. * * * * * and now the master must be introduced. i cannot tell what particular month he came into my garden, but i remember when i first went into his. he had a genius for flowers. i do not know if he looked at children and animals with that light of fatherly love in his eyes, but i think it must have been there for all things that needed his care and protection. flowers, however, were his "dream children." his was no ideal garden, and he had never written about it. it was scarcely larger or more blessed by fate than mine, but was as perfect as could be. he knew each flower intimately; he had planted each shrub, and i never met a weed or a stone on his borders. he had but little glass, and no groves and copses and woods, or heather, or pine, or any unfair advantages in that way; but when i looked at his herbaceous border in the autumn i could not help thinking of harvest decorations. such a wealth of colour was piled up, it hardly seemed possible it could all be growing on the spot. from early spring to late autumn a succession of brilliant blooms reigned one after another in that border; to look upon it was indeed "seeing of the labour of one's hands and being satisfied." and he had said, "there is no reason why you should not have it too." i think that border sowed the first seeds of gardening love in my heart. "but when you came here was it like this?" i asked. "it was a pretty bad wilderness," he said with a look round. "oh! things take _such_ a time," i groaned. "i have been here twenty-five years. i have planted nearly everything you see, except the big trees." "twenty-five years! but i!--i can't begin planting things for twenty-five years hence. it is too bad of one's predecessors to leave one nothing but weeds and stones and griggs!" "yes. well, you have got to make things better for your successors. not but what you can get results of some sort under twenty-five years. all this"--and he waved his hand to that wonderful border--"comes, at least comes in part, with but eighteen months' careful tending." even eighteen months seemed to my impatient spirit too long; i wished for a fairy wand. but fairy effects have a way of vanishing like the frost pictures on the window pane. "well, if ever i try to make our wilderness blossom like the rose i will just grow perennial things and pop them in and have done with it." at which the master laughed. "oh, will you? i don't think i shall come to admire your garden then. why are you so afraid of time? you are young. but i suppose that is the reason." after i had made the plunge we talked again on this matter. "most of these people who write of their gardens own them. they have lived there and will live there always. but in a rectory garden one is but a stranger and a pilgrim. don't you feel this?" "no. we are growing old together, and perhaps it will be given me to stay here; anyway, my garden is better than i found it. is not that something?" "oh, yes," i said discontentedly. he laughed. "ah! the spirit will grow; you are cultivating it just as surely as you are the seeds." "there are plenty of weeds and stones to choke all the seeds everywhere," i answered. "old griggs's way of weeding is to chop off the heads, dig everything in again, and for a fortnight smile blandly over his work. then he says that it is no use weeding, 'just look at 'em again.'" "old griggs seems to afford you plenty of parables from nature, anyhow. he is instructive in his way. but can't he be retired?" "alas, no! he is a fixture." "and you the pilgrim! well, go ahead. and now come and see what the nurseries contain; there is always to spare in the nurseries." many of his spare children found their way to my garden, and it grew quite a matter of course to turn to him in any dilemma. but ignoramuses must learn, in gardens as in everything else, to work out their own salvation. so in fear and trembling, and a good deal of hope, too, i made my own experiments; for hill and dale divided the master's garden from mine, and i doubt if even he could grasp the utter ignorance of the absolutely ignorant. * * * * * ice and snow and thaw, and again thaw and ice and snow had held their sway through january and early february, and my garden slept. another year i would have violets growing in the narrow border under the verandah, and tubs--big green tubs--of christmas roses under its shelter. were they expensive, i wondered? and thus i found out, by the simple process of asking at a florist, that for one shilling and sixpence or two shillings a root i could buy--why, hellebores! but for me they will always be "christmas roses." at present the verandah was bare, oh, so bare! it needed more roses to climb up the trellis and the newness of its two years' existence to be hidden. it held attraction for the birds, however, this cold winter time; crumbs and scraps were expected by them as regularly as breakfast and dinner by us. the pert sparrow came by dozens, of course, but out of our four robins one knew himself to be master of the ceremony. he came first, at a whistle, the signal for crumbs, and he allowed the sparrows to follow, really because he could not help himself. but should another robin come--his wife or their thin-legged son--he made for them and spent the precious moments pecking them away while the sparrows gobbled. his is not a beautiful disposition, i fear, but oh! how gladly one forgives him for the sake of his bold black eye, cheering red breast and persistent joyfulness of song. the colder weather brought other pensioners, chaffinch, bullfinch, even hawfinch, and, of course, the thrush and blackbird; a magpie eyed the feast from afar, but the starlings waddled boldly up, not hopping as birds, but right-left, right-left like wobbling geese; and the tom-tits and blue and black-tits, came and continued to come as long as they found a cocoa-nut swinging for their benefit. none of the other birds would touch it. next winter they shall have hellebore for their table decoration. * * * * * oh! how lucky men are, they have so many things we women seem forever to miss. very thick, sensible boots that won't get wet through; no skirts to get muddy when gardening; the morning paper first, of course, because they are men and politics are for them; voting powers, too, which on occasions give them a certain very much appreciated weight; and money, even if poor, always more money than their wives and daughters. these reflections, and i notice you may reflect on most irrelevant matter in a garden, were called forth by a boy-man who kindly took me in to dinner one evening. i soon discovered he had a little "diggings" and was going in for gardening "like anything." yet was my soul not drawn to him. "bulbs, oh, rather! had a box over from holland the other day, just a small quantity, you know. mine isn't a large place, but five thousand or so ought to fill it up a bit; make a mass of colour, that's what i go in for. told my man to plant 'em in all over, thick as bees. then i had great luck. dropped in at an auction in the city just in the nick of time, got a box-load of splendid bulbs for half-a-crown--worth a guinea at the very least--shoved them all in too. i shall have a perfect blaze, i tell you. like you to come and look me up in april if you go in for that kind of thing." but i hated the boy-man. five thousand bulbs! without a second thought. and then--according to the rule that works so invariably among material goods, "to him that hath shall be given"--this aggressive youth also buys a guinea's worth of bulbs for half-a-crown. think what i would have given to be at that auction. but women can't "drop in" in the city. * * * * * towards the end of february my snowdrops made their appearance. the scillas followed a little later and with less regularity. they were not quite the perfect sheet i had dreamt of, but each little bulb did its duty manfully and raised one slender stem with its bell-like head. one at every few inches over a space of some yards was not wealth; and i almost wept when some of them were sacrificed for the drawing-room. the others said, "a garden should grow flowers for the house. who wanted them out there in the cold, where no one would see them!" but i did, for out there in the cold they lived for weeks and in the warm room a few days faded them. i must have more and more so that we may all be satisfied. in the master's garden i found sixteen varieties of snowdrops, not very many of each, but he has no others. what i longed for was quantity; and as for quality, each snowdrop holds its own, i think. up through the softened grass came the strong, pointed leaves of the daffodils. my mass of gold promised to be very regular, but the small crocus leaves were harder to find, and they had no sign of yellow points as yet. and the anemones! what had happened to them? i nearly dug them up to see. were the buds on the trees swelling? the birds were twittering busily on the branches, as though they knew their covering would not be long delayed, but the little brown knobs, so shiny and sticky on the chestnuts, appeared hardly to have gained in size since they pushed off the old leaf in the autumn. for in the time of scattering wind and falling leaf it is well to remember that it is the coming bud which loosens the hold of the old leaf. life, and not death, which makes the seasons and the world go round. * * * * * i was busy again with catalogues. "begin things in time," preached the master; but ah! i seem to have been born a month too late, for i never catch up time in my garden, except when there is nothing to do, and then you _can_ do nothing. nature has cried a "halt," and all the fidgeting in the world will not start the race before "time" is said. so i studied my catalogue and made my list in february. stocks. i need them in plenty, but i must walk warily amongst such luxuries with only three pounds to spend and so many other things to buy. wallflowers, red and gold; but, alas! the master has warned me these are for next year, as also many other things. the polyanthuses, that i long to see in masses like a fine persian carpet, the pansies and violas, the forget-me-nots, even the canterbury bells and campanulas and sweet-williams must be thought of now, and will need the year round before coming to flowering time. still, down they go on my list. and gaillardias, too, they look so handsome in the picture and promise so much: "showy, beautiful, brilliant, useful for cutting" (there were those others to think of), and they were perennials. blessed perennials! then larkspur or delphinium, i should say, for i did not want the annual variety. i could not wait, however, to grow those tall, beautiful spikes of bright blue, oxford and cambridge in colour, from seed, i must indulge in plants. hollyhocks must also be bought ready-made, and phlox. oh! the poverty-stricken little specimens that grew in my garden, flowers capable of such beauty. i had seen them growing in the lake country and marvelled at their upstanding mass of brilliant heads. they were a revelation as to what the phlox family could do. and there were all the magnificent possibility of lilies, of gladiolas and montbresias, and ixias. these must be bought. i must have them, but oh! the years before i could make a home for all. i turned to the annuals; they sounded as easy to grow as jack's bean-stalk. what a list! antirrhinum--that is, snapdragon, but one gets used even to spelling the other name--red, white and yellow; the taller kind call themselves half-hardy perennials, but i don't believe they would stand my winter, and the dwarf variety do their duty nobly for one summer. mignonette, that was a necessity; marguerites, annual chrysanthemums sounded inviting; "continuous blooming" would suit the others. convolvulus and heaps of nasturtium, canariensis and other little tropoeoleum. balsam and asters; no, though i liked the sound of balsam, still i could do without it, and i must do without something! but of sweet-peas i could not have too many, even though most of the "dukes" and "duchesses" cost a shilling a packet. i pictured hedges and hedges of sweet-peas in the garden, and bowls and bowls of blossom in the house. sunflowers again--"golden-nigger," "æsthetic gem," "prussian giant"--how could one help sampling such seductive names? and tagetes, the master had said, "get tagetes, it is a useful border." marigolds, too, they were not a favourite of mine, but they lasted well into the autumn, and i had to think of the failing months. zinnias i could not resist because they are so "high art" in their colouring; and salpiglosis, the master had a lovely group of these daintily-pencilled belles. then i made up my list, threepence, and sixpence, and one shilling, and one shilling and sixpence. how they mounted up. thirty shillings in seeds! and i had to buy plants and bulbs too. but i could cut out nothing, though it had been very easy to make additions. but now to get all these thousands of seeds sown. they could not all be sown in the open; i knew so much. those for coming on quickly would need little wooden boxes and a place in the one frame full of bothering geraniums; and when they were bigger they would need pricking out in more wooden boxes, and could only be planted out permanently the beginning of june. well, what for the open? sweet-peas--thank goodness for that!--and the wallflowers, canterbury bells--cup and saucer variety had taken my fancy--sweet-williams, sunflowers, nasturtium, mignonette and forget-me-nots, they could all be trusted straight to mother earth; and i had enough of the dear brown bosom, bare of all children, down in that long desolate border. and for the boxes and pricking out and glass frame i would begin with antirrhinum, stocks, violas, tagetes, zinnia, salpiglosis, lobelias, polyanthus and columbine. that must suffice for the first year. but oh! what a lot of flowers there were to be had, and how lovely a garden might be if only--well, if only one had a real gardener, money, the sunny border, good soil, and--if they all came up! and what flowers had i omitted? of simple things that even an ignoramus may have heard. there were all the poppy tribe, iceland, shirley, the big orientals, californian, though these are not poppies proper at all; verbena, the very name smelt sweet; gypsophila, a big word, but i knew the dainty, grass-like flower from london shops; penstemons, carnation, scabious, or lady's pincushions. the only way was to shut that book resolutely and go and write to veitch. the book said, and so did each little neat packet of seeds, "sow in pots or pans," or "sow in heat," and talked of a cool frame and compost, so, armed with this amount of knowledge, i took my seeds out to old griggs. "griggs, have you any wooden boxes or pans or things in which we can sow these seeds?" griggs looked at me suspiciously; he did not like my energy, there was no doubt of that, but since he was a gardener he recognised that flower seeds, or such-like, ought to be in his line. he took the packets. "p'haps i can knock up a box or two. that frame's mostly full of janiums, though. i've a nice quantity of them saved." "but we can't fill the garden with nothing but geraniums, you know. i want to have a great show this year; don't you? wouldn't it be more satisfactory to you to see the garden looking nice than like a howling wilderness?" griggs laughed, positively. "you've got to spend money if you wants flowers, and the old rector as was 'e never put 'is 'and in 'is pocket for no sich thing as flowers. i dunno 'bout a 'owling wilderness. my fancy is them janiums brightens up a place wonderful." i pushed open the lights of the long frame by which we were standing and looked at the stalky, unpromising appearance of old griggs's favourites. there were other lean and hungry-looking plantlets there, a bit yellow about the tips. "what are those?" i asked, pointing. "oh, them's marguerites, white and yellow. i got mr wright up at the 'all to give me them cuttings. they wanted a bit of water this morning so i give it em." i pressed my finger on the sodden soil of the box that held the drooping cuttings. "they have had too little, and now you have given them too much," i said sternly. how could i trust my precious seeds to this old murderer? "griggs, if you would only _love_ the flowers a bit, they would grow with you." "bless you! they'll grow, they 'aven't took no hurt. let's look at your seeds. anti--rrh--well, what's this name?" "snapdragon." "oh, and violas and polyan--thus. well, we can get 'em in. i've a box or two." but i grabbed all my packets quickly. "all right, get the boxes ready and i will come and sow them myself." the boxes were filled with a light soil, mixed with sand and leaf mould. i turned it over myself to look for worms or other beasts, and very, very thinly, as i thought, i scattered the tiny seeds over the surface and gave them a good watering. then out with some of the scraggiest of griggs's plants and in with my precious boxes. i felt griggs's hands must not touch them. he had something wrong about him, for a gardener, that is to say. he always broke the trailing branch he was supposed to be nailing up; he always trod on a plant in stepping across a border; if he picked a flower he did it with about an inch of stalk and broke some other stem; no blessing flowed from his hand when he planted out the flowers. i sowed the end of february, and in march little tiny green heads were peeping up in most of the boxes. the violas still remained hidden. if griggs had sown i should have said he had done it very irregularly, for the green heads came in thick patches and then again very sparingly; but i knew, of course, it must have been the seeds' own fault, since i had done it myself! * * * * * i was standing with his reverence at the study window watching a squirrel swing himself from bough to bough, and i think we were both envying him, when my eye caught some specks of colour on the grass plot in front, that grass plot which ought to have a sun-dial in the centre and a stately bed of flowering shrubs as a background instead of laurels! what was it growing in the grass? white, yellow, purple, a touch here and there, all across, straight across, in one horrid straight line! could it be? "look, mary, there he goes! see him spring up that tree?" "look," i said in a tragic voice, "look at them! do you think--can it be--are they my crocuses?" "where? oh, there! yes, i thought they looked like a rather straggly regiment this morning, marching single file. was that your idea?" "my idea! a straight line! oh, how can you! that old fiend of a griggs!" and then i rushed out to see the full extent of the horror. it was too true. in spite of my careful scattering the old ruffian had drawn my crocus bulbs into line. i can see how he did it, striding across the grass, clutching bulbs to right and left, sticking them in under his nose, and probably sweeping up those outside his reach with the dead leaves. what a show! many had not come up, and many had no flower, so the regiment was ragged. i could have cried. jim had joined me. "don't think much of this idea anyhow mary." "don't you know how i meant it to be? haven't you seen the park?" "can't say i've given it my undivided attention lately. shall i go and pitch into old griggs?" "it would be no good. i must do that." "that isn't fair, mary. if i'm to help you i must have some of the fun." "jim! it is no fun to me. you can't _murder_ him, and nothing else would be any good. what shall i do with them?" i looked at my poor little first-fruits. they did look so forlorn and battered. a crocus all alone, separated from its kind by a foot or so, has a most orphaned and cheerless appearance. "let's have 'em up," said jim, the man of action. "no, they mustn't be moved in flower, not even till their leaves die, and by that time the grass will be mowed and i shan't know where they are, and then it will look like this next year too." "oh rot!" said jim, "something has got to be done. can't have these stragglers roaming across the lawn and never getting home. i know," and off he was and returned with a lot of little sticks which he proceeded to plant by the side of each crocus. "now we will locate the gentlemen and have 'em up when their poverty-stricken show is over." afterwards, when jim saw in my account that crocuses were two shillings a hundred, he said i did not value his time very highly. he thought by my face we were dealing with things of value. but anyway we moved that ragged regiment on and stationed them in clumps at the foot of trees, where they will look more comfortable. * * * * * march should be a very busy month, and old griggs found employment in the kitchen garden. i should have moved plants now, and arranged the neglected herbaceous border of the autumn, but, alas! all the new green things coming up were strangers to me, and i saw quickly that in their present state griggs was as likely to make mistakes as i. he hazarded names with a scratch of the head and a pull at the tender green shoots that made me angry. "them's a phlox, and them's--oi can't quite mind, it's purple like; and them's flags, but they ain't never much to look at; too old, i reckon. that's a kind of purple flower, grows it do, and that 'ere's a wallflower." this was said with decision, and i too could recognise the poor specimen of a spring joy. so i left well, or ill, alone until the nature of the plant should be declared, and then, if useless, out it could come later. we prepared a long narrow bed alongside a row of cabbages, made a neat little trench some three inches deep, put in a layer of manure and mould on top, and there my first sowing of sweet-peas was placed, and carefully covered and watered and patted down. i felt like a mother who tucks her child in bed. surely the pat did good! february, march and april were all to have their sowing, and then the summer months should have a succession of these many-coloured fragrant joys. in march also the other annuals found resting-places; some in square patches down the long border, some in rows that looked inviting down the side and cross paths of the kitchen domain. it was encroaching, of course, but no one used the spare edges, and it seemed kind to brighten up the cabbages and onions, all now coming up in long thread-like lines of green. i had added a few more seeds to my list, so a long row of tiny seeds that were to be blue cornflowers, with another row in front of godetia, would provide, i hoped, a very bright sight and be so useful for cutting. on shirley poppies, too, i ventured. it seemed so easy just to sow a few seeds and trust to nature to do the rest. i did not then appreciate the backache caused by the process "thinning out." people may talk of sowing in february, but one cannot sow in either frozen ground or deep snow. some februarys may be possible, but it was the beginning of march that year before i committed my seeds to mother earth, and even then it seemed a very unsafe proceeding. however, a lot of tiny green pin points soon appeared, and the only havoc wrought by birds, mice and rabbits--griggs suggested every imaginable animal--was amongst the sweet-peas. these had to be protected with a network of cotton. * * * * * so the winter slipped away very gradually, for even after the first breath of spring, which comes to us from afar and thrills us as no other fragrance of air, frost, snow, rain and biting winds triumph again, and bud and sprouting green seem to shrink up and cower away. yet we know the winter is surely passing and the first trumpet-blast of spring's procession has blown. [illustration: spring] season ii spring "and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils." daffodils always make me glad. from the moment their strong, blue-green blades pierce the grass, they give one a feeling of strength, vigour, activity and determination to be up and doing, unmindful of wind or weather; in fact, using all for their own purpose, bending circumstances to their own development. and when the big golden bell bursts its sheath of pale green it does it with fine independence, and then swings on its strong stem, ringing out lustily that the spring is here, the sun is shining, for the sun always seems to shine on the daffodils, they reflect his glory under all clouds, and depression flies before their sturdy assumption of "all's well with the world." and so i felt very hopeful as i saw my circles, my clusters, my rows of daffodils, one by one, flashing up from the delicious blue-green blades. they none of them failed me, none, bless them! so plant daffodils, o friend ignoramus! the single, the double, and any other of that dear family, the narcissus. the birds were singing, and oh, so busy making late love, building and even nesting! the trees were bursting, the lilacs had a shimmer of green. the larches had colour almost too dim to be called green, they streaked the woods that still looked brown without looking bare; little catkins hung and danced, the blackthorn looked like forgotten snow, the grass was greener, and here and there a sweet primrose bud peeped up, whispering, "we are coming." down under the row of limes bordering the sloping field i found many pretty crumpled primrose leaves, and they gave me the idea to plant more and more, and to have my wild garden here, with snowdrops and cowslips, unseen things in our woods and fields. ferns, too, of the common kind must be collected, and foxgloves, the seeds of which must be bought and sown. for the present there were the little wild things that grow on their own account, and are so sparklingly green and spring-like that one hardly likes to rebuke them with the name of weed. hope was in the air. everything is young again once a year. * * * * * i felt obliged to begin the second division of my year in a hopeful voice, so i opened with my daffodils; but if march be taken as the first month of spring, then indeed i should not have written of that chime of golden bells. march holds february very tightly by the hand, and cannot make up her mind to hurry on with her work of opening the buds and encouraging the flowers. she blows cold winds in their faces, nips them with frosty nights, occasionally wraps them up in snow, then suddenly, repenting her of the evil, she opens up a blue sky and pours a hot sun down on them. a most untrustworthy month. there is plenty of work to do, particularly if february has not been an open month, and for gardening purposes i really think it ought never to be so considered, and still more particularly if much has been neglected in the foregoing november. if you are an ignoramus, and have a griggs as gardener, the chances are much will have been neglected. my attention was called to the subject of roses by the arrival of a rose-grower's catalogue. roses! i could only touch the very outer fringe of this magnificent garment, but i felt i must, positively must, have one or two of the cheaper sort of these dazzling beauties; and though they are better moved in the autumn, in early spring it is not impossible. a crimson rambler, the modest price one shilling and sixpence, tempted me to indulge in three. the deep yellow william allen richardson, delightful for buttonholes, which jim assured me no garden should be without; the thought of a red gloire de dijon or reine marie hortense was also quite overcoming. our old yellow gloire de dijon was the only rose in my neglected garden that did herself proud, and she flourished up the front of the house and festooned one of the others' windows, from which griggs and his shears had been summarily banished. "cut where you like, but never dare to come here," had been uttered in a voice that made even griggs "heed." if her red sister only equalled this "glory" that half-crown would be well expended. then two standards needed replacing, for one could not have dead sticks down so conspicuous a row; though standards were not my idea of roses, still there they were and i must make the best of them. so off went my modest order. i had indicated the whereabouts of each rose to griggs, but was unfortunately not present on their arrival. i think even an ignoramus might have helped griggs on that occasion--but more of that anon. the others could see but little improvement in the garden, this they let me know; they were full of ideas, and i found them as trying as some greek heroine must have found an unsympathetic chorus. "the verandah was so bare! was it really any use putting in that silly little twig? would it ever come to anything?" this of my new and very bare-looking crimson rambler. and then, "why had we no violets? surely _violets_ were not an impossibility? they grew of themselves. just look at the baskets full in the london streets. such a bunch for a penny! but it would be nice not to have to go to london for one's bunch of violets!" i took up the cudgels. they should see how that crimson rambler ramped, yes, i prophesied, positively ramped up the archway. they should be buried in a fragrant bower of ruby-coloured clusters, and they might cut and come again. as to violets, i was giving them my best consideration; the bed down the garden produced but a few--certainly not a pennyworth--of inferior quality, because neither violets nor anything else, save weeds, grew and flourished by the light of nature alone. the violet roots were choked with weeds, and i must have new suckers and begin all over again; and that was not possible until the violet season was over; then i intended to beg, borrow or steal some good suckers, and buy others if i had any money. "mary, you speak like a book with pictures; but i hope there will be _some_ result, and that the violets will be ready before they are needed for our funeral wreaths." i entreated them to find the patience i had thoroughly lost, and hurried out to rage over the thickly weed-wedged violet plants, with here and there a feeble bloom, and to imagine myself in years to come bending over this same bed, picking one long strong stalk after another, and scarcely lessening the store by the big bunch i should carry away. oh! a lifetime was not enough for all i should or could do in a garden. * * * * * there is a row of standard roses skirting the lawn on one side, and also a round bed of rose bushes. i had not much idea if they were any good, for roses had been to a great extent spoilt the last two years by very wet weather, still i had noticed the shoots they were sending forth with great pleasure. anyhow _they_ were growing right enough. one day, the middle of march, i found griggs busy down the row with a large knife. what was he doing? horror! all the long shoots were being ruthlessly sacrificed. "griggs, what _are_ you doing?" i gasped, and afterwards i felt very glad i said nothing stronger. griggs paid no attention to my tone; he took the words as showing a desire for enlightenment. "you 'as to cut 'em a bit in spring-time, you know; or p'haps you don't know, missy." this mode of address was one of griggs's most unpardonable sins, but i never had the strength of character to tell him not to do it. "but do you cut off _all_ the new growth?" i said, with an inner conviction that if griggs were doing it it needs must be wrong. "well, you trims 'em round a bit, starts 'em growin' more ways than one, d'ye see." "but those aren't suckers?" i said, still feebly fighting with my ignorance and incredulity. then griggs laughed. he did not like me, and i suppose i ought not to wonder, but he enjoyed laughing at me when he got the chance. "no-a, they ain't suckers; suckers come from the root, leastways, they start down there, and, bless yer! they be the ol' stock trying to have a look in as you may say. i cuts them off soon as i sees 'em, as they wastes the tree; but you _can_ see suckers as 'as got the upper 'and. that rose front of the 'ouse is all sucker now. 'twas a beautiful pink rose i mind in old rector wood's time." "that is very instructive," i remarked, feeling no gratitude to griggs for his information, as he felt no shame for the metamorphosis of the once beautiful pink rose, which was now a wild one. we had wondered how it came to be growing up with the clematis. "and can't one cut back the suckers and let the pink rose grow again?" i added. "'tain't likely," was all i could get out of griggs. i bicycled over that very day to the master's garden, a hot and tiring way of getting information, but a sure one, i knew, and one to which i often had recourse in desperate moments. the master was out, but his garden was there, and all his rose trees were clipped. so i breathed again. i had a little good luck with violets a few weeks later. a friend who had heard of my gardening efforts sent me several dozen runners of the "czar," and the master spared me some others from his frame. i was full of joy, and choosing a shady spot, saw it dug, raked, helped out with a mixture of manure and leaf-mould, planted the violets at six inches apart and liberally watered them. shade, of course, for the modest violet, i thought, carefully selecting for their home the shelter of an overhanging chestnut. well, well! one lives to learn, or for some such purpose, i suppose. the thick branches of that shadowing tree kept out sun as well as rain; and, doubt it not, brother ignoramus, violets, be they ever so modest, like the sunshine and will only pine without it. so in the autumn another move took place, and again i waited, whilst the others bought penny bunches and talked of funeral wreaths in the far future. * * * * * the long herbaceous border grew more and more interesting. a broad-leafed plant had been sending up tall stems, now it opened out and a big daisy-like blossom of yellow shone in the sun. "leopard's bane," said old griggs with decision, and "doronicum," said the master, both being right, but i know not why it was considered a bane or healing, for the banes among the flowers are surely blessings. but there it was, and very grateful and comforting at this early time of year. as though conscious that a friendly eye had begun to watch over them, the scattered old plants of polyanthus, wallflower, a group or so of tulips and some clumps of london pride brushed up this spring and cheered the eye. i was studying the shooting green clumps, lilies here and there, golden rod, autumn daisy, maybe a stray phlox, many, very much too many, evening primroses, seedlings of self-sown foxgloves, and wondering how to rearrange them and make room for the better company i intended introducing, when his reverence's young man came down the path laden with a big brown hamper. he looked quite excited. "oh, mistress mary, do come and examine the contents. i hope you may find welcome strangers here. i told my mother you needed anything and everything except geraniums. was that right? so she has sent this hamper with instructions to get them in at once." the young man was cutting away at string and fastenings, and rapidly strewing the path with big clumps of roots in which a careful hand had stuck a label. i was divided between joy and reproof. "how kind of her! but you should not have bothered her. how nice to have such big, ready-grown plants! but why did you do it?" "mayn't i help the garden to grow? my mother promises more in the autumn; it appears flowers like to move just before winter." "it is kind of you. this border is such a weight on my mind. it needs so much, i think. and what a lot the hamper holds!" "let me do the dirty work," cried the young man, as i hauled out a big root. "you shall tell me where to plant them." "the earth isn't dirty, it is beautifully, healthily clean; and don't you love its 'most excellent cordial smell'? shall i get griggs and a spade?" "oh, why bother griggs? won't i do as well? i know nearly as much and am twice as willing." "yes, but think of--" "don't say parish. there is only old mrs gunnet and she will keep. these plants demand immediate attention. my mother was most emphatic about that." it is very difficult to have a conscience as well as a garden and to keep both in good working order. i could not think mrs gunnet and her rheumatism as important as my garden; moreover, i felt i was carrying out the teaching of tolstoy in bringing man and his mother earth into direct contact. "griggs could not come anyhow, he is digging a grave," i said conclusively. "let us do it." so the young man fetched a selection of gardening implements and we both set to work, he to dig and i to instruct. "this is delphinium," i cried joyfully, handing him a big clump, "dark blue, i want it badly." and in answer to an inquiring look, for the young man knew less, much less, than i did, "that is larkspur and it is a perennial, and this jolly big root means plenty of spikes." "spikes!" he echoed, patting the roots vigorously. "those tall spikes of flowers, you know, very blue. one looks so lonely all by itself." "ah! that is a way we all have, we poor solitary ones." "these are penstemons. they are, well, i forget, but i know i want them. suppose we put them further forward; they don't look like growing so tall. gaillardias, ah! i know, they are brilliant and effective. i bought some seeds to suit the others. these will save time. now, a big hole; this is tritoma. what on earth is that? i have heard. grandis means big but tritoma?" we both studied the label. "must it have another name? is that the rule? i told my mother the gardener was an ignoramus. she might have written in the vulgar tongue." "did you mean me or griggs?" "griggs, of course." "then you were wrong. but i remember now, i was studying its picture this morning in the catalogue. tritoma stands for red-hot poker. it will look fine at the back." "well, you are getting on," said the young man, in tones of admiration. "but why won't they say 'poker' and have done with it?" "i wish they would. it is very trying of them. see what a lot you are learning. this is much more improving for a son of adam than visiting old women and babies." "_much!_ and i like it much better, which shows it is good for me." "ah, i don't know about that. still, it does strike me as absurd to send a young man fresh from college to visit old women and babies. i can't think what you say to them." "i say 'did ums was ums' to the babies. but i am not quite fresh from college, you know. i talk some kind of sense to the mothers; at least, i hope so." he was making a big hole and i was holding out a big root to fill it. "this is galega. it is rather tall and so must go at the back. i don't mean you never talk sense, though i consider it insulting to address a baby like that. they look so preternaturally grave that greek would suit them better. but i mean it isn't a man's work, it is a woman's." "galega! that means pok--no, larkspur! you see i am getting quite learned. there, it fits in beautifully." "press the roots firmly or they don't take hold," i observed. "so. i always find your conversation very improving. my mother says the same things to me, i mean about old women." i had walked down the path for another root. he went on when i came back, "but you know the old women, and young ones too, like a visit from their clergy. the clergyman and doctor are great boons in their lives." "poor souls, i know they are very hard up. even i am considered a boon, especially when i go round with puddings and things." "or without!" and he looked up quickly, "_i_ should think so if--but"--and his voice changed--"i do understand what you mean. _this_ is adam's work, eh? only the other is the vineyard too, and we, i--i mean, need the experience it gives me. they live at the root of things, touch life so nearly. it is something like coming in touch, actual touch, with the brown earth. do you see what i am trying to say?" i looked up at him from my plants, at this tall young man in a bicycling suit of semi-clerical cut, with his keen face and earnest eyes, whom we had fallen into the way of treating in almost brotherly fashion since his reverence had adopted him as his young man as well as curate. he had broken down in some midland town from overwork and come to fairleigh to recruit and study and fill in a convalescent time. as a rule we did not like the curates. "i think you are right," i said, "but somehow i feel i am right too in a way. one can't be saving souls all the time--one's own or other people's--and here, as you say, is adam's work, the brown earth." he laughed. "and here is eve naming the flowers! i am sure eve kept adam to the digging while she picked the fruit." "how men do love that old allegory! personally i don't think they come out of it so well that they need quote it so often. however, as it gives them all the backbone, i feel quite absolved when i ask them to use it!" the young man rose up. "ah! if eve had had the spirit of her daughters!" "here is a very large phlox, please dig that hole bigger," i interrupted, and as we carefully placed it in position, down the path came his reverence and the master. "oh!" i shouted, "come and see all my new arrivals; i am going to cut you out!" the master examined our work over his spectacles, and looked up and down the border critically, ending his survey with an unpromising "humph." something was very wrong, evidently. my hopeful spirits sank. "have we been doing anything very ignorant? don't you put plants straight into the earth? will they all die?" the master laughed. "let us hope things are not as desperate as all that. i was looking at your border. oh, what pauper fare! and what a lot of rubbish in it. licence has reigned here for many a long year." "for over twenty," i exclaimed savagely. "griggs has been here quite that time." "it used to look very well in mr wood's time, but that is many years ago, and he devoted himself chiefly to his roses. it is a pity you did not do it in the autumn." "oh, don't, master!" i cried dolefully. "nothing is more trying to my temper than to be told of all the things that ought to have been done months and years ago. i can't go back and do them!" "no more you can. there is a great deal of sound sense in that remark, only--" "and don't tell me to wait until the autumn again. i can't always be waiting for the other end of the year to do the things i want done now." "oh! then let us go forward at once," said the master. "what shall i do?" asked the young man, with as much energy as though the afternoon were just beginning. "shall i take out the roots we have put in to begin with?" the master again looked up and down, and i could see he was again regretting the autumn. "if you won't wait it must be done," he said at last. "have this border thoroughly well turned over, two feet deep at the least, and work in some of that savoury heap i saw in your little yard. you will find a good deal of root to cut away from those trees; they take the food from this border, but that can't be helped now. then clear out the weeds and those terrible marigolds i see springing up everywhere, and those poppy seedlings. i think your new friends will have a better chance when that is done." "and the plants that are to stay, may they be touched?" "you _must_ touch them, but do a piece at a time, and lift them in and out with a good ball of earth round the roots so as to disturb them as little as possible. press them well in afterwards and water." "should griggs put some of the savoury heap just round their roots?" "no, no, let the whole border have a dressing. later on any special plant may be mulched if it is needed." "mulched!" said the young man, turning to me. "do you know what that is?" i shook an ignorant head. "something to do with manure, i believe, but i don't know what." "griggs will show you," laughed the master. "no, he has his own vocabulary. i try the garden book words on him occasionally and he looks quite blank." "it is giving the plants a little extra food from the surface. so it sinks gradually in or the rain carries it down with it. a gentle process and the roots are not disturbed. the other process may produce indigestion, you see." adam and eve carefully replaced the unplanted roots in the hamper and gave a sigh. "oh, dear! all our work. you might as well have gone to see mrs gunnet." "oh, no," said adam, "because i have learnt a great deal and can help you another time." it was a good thing for me and the border that the master had looked so grave over it, for his reverence was duly impressed with the necessity of the case, and griggs and a helpful stranger were hard at work next day and the next, and by the end of that week the border lay smooth and brown and neat with hopeful green patches at intervals. jim and i and the young man had been very busy arranging those patches, and i hoped the front plants would not grow taller than the back, but a good deal had been left to luck. the evening primroses and marigolds and weeds had disappeared, i hoped for good. time proved that this was too hopeful a view to take of weeds. and i will never forget the master's parting injunction. "mind," with raised finger, "you ought never to take a spade near your herbaceous border, only turn it over with a little fork, for the well-established roots should not be disturbed. and good soil and sufficient water ought to be enough as a rule. to-day we have been dealing with an exceptional case, remember that!" oh! master, yes. mine is an exceptional case; but i guess there are many would-be gardeners as ignorant, and, maybe, many gardens as exceptional. * * * * * but to return to my hopefully-growing seeds. i fear they were being left anyway rather longer than was judicious, for one day about the beginning of april it struck me my wooden boxes were very full and the plantlets growing very leggy. "why is that?" i asked griggs. i hated asking griggs, but there was no one else to ask. after all it seemed _impossible_ but that griggs, during the forty odd years he had pretended to be a gardener, should not have gathered together some scraps of information concerning plants and their ways. "they wants pricking out, that's why they're so spindle-shankey. 'tain't no good asking me for more boxes, i ain't got no more; and you can't put 'em out in the open neither--leastways, they'll die if you do." "of course not," i said with all the knowledge i possessed in my tone. "but we must have boxes. they can be knocked up, can't they?" "not without wood, they can't. and just look at all them seeds wot you've sowed. why, they wants a sight o' boxes now." it was a dilemma, but jim revived my faint spirits. there were boxes--old winecases--in the cellar, he said. jim knew every nook and cranny of the house; he would just ferret them out; no one would miss them. jim never asked leave, for experience had taught him that a demand occasions a curious rise in the value of an article absolutely unknown to the possessor before it was required by someone else. and griggs knocked them together, for jim explained we had to let the fellow try his hand occasionally. we filled the new boxes with a little heavier diet than the baby seeds had enjoyed, good mould from under some shrubbery, and then carefully separated each stem; and carrying out nature's law of the survival of the fittest, i placed the most promising in the new environment. i had done one whole box, it looked so neat, the little upright shoots all about three inches apart, when jim and the young man came round. he had been away for a few days and was quite anxious to know how my garden grew. he had altered the old rhyme with which, of course, his reverence and the others were always pestering me; but i don't think his version was very original either-- "how does the garden so contrairy get on with its new mistress mary?" i was seated on the corner of the one frame and the boxes were precariously placed on the edge. the young man's face beamed. "i have been learning to prick out; now, let me see." and to my horror he began to pull up my neat little plants. "there, that's wrong, and that and that. no, that stands; but see, all these are wrong." i gasped, "what are you doing? do you call that pricking out? i don't." "by jove! you'll catch it now, my dear fellow," said jim. "oh! don't you see it's all right to do that, because it shows you you have done them all wrong." "i think you have misunderstood the idea of 'pricking out,'" i said coldly. the young man was so full of information he paid no attention to my offended dignity or jim's mirth. "i learnt it on purpose to show you. i planted a box full at home and the gardener came round and did that to my plants. i nearly whacked him on the head." "you're a parson," interrupted jim, "you've got to think of that." "i know, jim. i managed to bottle my feelings nearly as well as mistress mary did just now. i know what she is feeling." but i was still dignified. "now will you tell me," i began. "oh, it's a first-rate dodge! you see, if they are firmly put in they will stand that little pull, and if not it shows you ought to have wedged them in better." "why," said jim, "i bet i could tug out any you could wedge in." "that's the art; you must wedge right and tug just enough." "and why," i asked again, "why this tugging and this wedging?" "oh, because otherwise they don't catch hold properly and make themselves at home. i didn't mean to spoil your neat box," he continued penitently. "may i help you?" "why, of course you must," i said, brightening up. "look at all that has to be done. jim, dear, fill those boxes nicely with mould, a judicious mixture of looseness and compression." "i've other fish to fry this afternoon. if his reverence's young man will do some beastly algebra for me i will stay and mess about with you; if not, he has got to do the messing." and so jim deserted us, and we planted and pulled at each other's boxes, and i certainly tried to get some of his out. and then the fresh difficulty faced us where to put all these new boxes, for they had to be protected from the still frosty nights, and also from any too heavy rains which might, perchance, drown them. i wanted much more room than the one frame afforded, even could i turn out all the scraggy geraniums. "they must be protected somehow," i said despondingly, "and we can't carry them in and out of doors, and oh! how heavy even these little boxes are. there's the verandah, but the others will never let me crowd them out with these boxes. it is just getting sunny out there. what can we do?" the young man looked round and thought, and thought, and then it came, an idea worth patenting. "you don't want heat for them?" "oh, no, they ought to be hardened, you see." "and it's only at night, or against heavy rains, that they want protecting?" "that's all." "well, then, i have it!" and he had it, the germ of the brilliant idea that, with jim's assistance and mine, and griggs's for actual manual labour, gradually evolved into an impromptu frame and saved us even the making of new boxes. this was the plan of action. we cleared a space in the little yard where the frame lived, and the manure heap in one corner, and one sunny border which held lettuce and i intended should hold my plantlets later on. we made first a bed of cinders (this for drainage), then a layer of manure (this for heat), then good mould, and all were enclosed with four strong planks, and in this protected spot we pricked out our nurslings. at night they were covered with a plank or two and some sacking, and this also protected them during any very heavy rains, until they grew strong enough to weather them. the boxes already pricked out we protected in like manner, only making no special bed for them. it became truly a delight to see how day by day those tiny sprigs of green grew and prospered, and to watch the development of the various leaves. the pretty crinkly little round leaves of the polyanthus, the neat spiky twig of the marigold and tagetes, the sturdy, even-growing antirrhinum with pale green stalks for white, and yellow and rich brown for the red variety, and the trim, three-cornered leaves of the nasturtium, each after its kind, very wonderful when we realise all that potentiality enclosed in a pin's point of a seed, and needing no difference of treatment to produce either zinnia or lobelia. i made all the others, and everyone else too, walk round my nursery and dilated on the promising appearance of my children. "wonderfully neat! but how tiny they all are. do you mean to say you expect those little things to flower this year? why, it is like asking a baby of six months old to ride a bicycle!" said one of the others. "but they are annuals! in comparison they are now twenty years old! of course they will flower this year, and be old and done for by october." "well, you are _very_ hopeful, but _i_ don't expect much result _this_ year." "you will see!" "well, we have not seen much yet, have we?" * * * * * the packets containing my biennial seeds, which, of course, means such seeds as sown one year furnish plants for the next year's flowering and then go the way of all "grass," instructed me to sow in the open from march or april to june. from what i have so far learned i would certainly advise sowing as early as possible and not taking june into consideration at all. the little plants get forward before the really hot weather begins, and usually the clouds supply sufficient water at that time; but if not, on no account must they go thirsty. i found watering a great necessity, for my ground is as porous as a sieve; a substratum of nice cool tenacious clay must be a great boon to those who happily have it. i suppose it may have some drawbacks, but my imagination is not lively enough to suggest any. being light and poor, i usually doctored the soil before sowing the seeds. i believe it ought not to be really necessary; but a little manure mixed with leaf mould and some earth from a convenient shrubbery or background place, and all dug well in, was approved of by the plantlets. if by any chance you can lay aside, from hedgerows, corners of field or other prigable parts, some rolls of turf and let it stand aside until it rots, it makes most helpful dressing, particularly for rose roots. after the ground is ready make little straight trenches about one inch deep, and thinly, because they are certain anyway to be too close, scatter in your seeds. there for the present your work ends, and mother earth commences her never-ending miracle of death and resurrection. "thou sowest not that body which shall be, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat or some other grain," and "that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die," when, "god giveth it a body, to every seed his own body." those little brown pin points, of which you hold hundreds in a pinch on your palm, each one has its "celestial" body ready to spring into life through the dark gateway of death. surely st paul must have had his garden as a little boy, and sown his seeds, and marvelled, even as jim and i did, with eyes opening to the wonder of it all. a wonder that is passed over in the matter-of-course way of the daily round, but that startles one, almost as a revelation, when one's own hand holds the seed, sows it, and then watches for the result. to say it is just "life" or the "force of nature" or "the energy that is behind all things," these are but words, the marvel remains. irresistibly the thought arises, "with what body shall _we_ come?" not with the old earth body for sure, if my seeds are to teach me anything. so i sowed first the forget-me-nots, as this year they must come from seed. another year i will take the little shoots that are round the old plant and, separating them, will prick them out in a nursery spot, and so shall my plants for the following year be more mature, stronger, and therefore better flowering; a first year's forget-me-nots are apt to be straggling. then the sweet-williams, the wallflowers, red and gold, canterbury bells, silene, the little bright pink edging that with forget-me-nots makes a border so gay in spring time, these were my first year's venture in biennials; for though some of them may be considered perennials, the best results may be hoped for from a continuously fresh store. the big sunflower seeds i placed just where i wanted them to come up, sometimes a single one, so that the plant should have all its own way, and wear as big a head as it knew how, and others in groups of four or five. nasturtiums also i placed as a border to a lonely shrubbery. some of the seeds had been got forward in the impromptu frame, but those were for my tree stumps and for creeping up the verandah. canariensis the same; the convolvulus also were planted freely to cover up deficiencies wherever a creeping thing could grow. it is wise to sow your perennial seeds early; they get settled in life before they are called upon to face their first winter. so in another spot, judiciously cribbed from cabbage-room--crib i had to for my nursery ground--i sowed in like fashion the perennials, those which had not already begun their career in wooden boxes and frame. there were the big oriental poppies, red and orange, for my impatience had so far succumbed to the gardening spirit that i could bear to contemplate sowing seeds with the hope of no immediate return, brompton stocks, penstemons, foxgloves and gaillardias; campanulas, too, short and tall, white and blue; and those already started in boxes, the polyanthus and columbines, nice sturdy little plants by now, were moved to this division a little later, when frosty nights were a thing of the past. these for my first batch of perennials; others would surely follow with succeeding years. the thought of their permanence delighted me. dear, nice things! they would not need sowing year by year, but would yearly grow more and more "in favour with god and man." so i hoped, even as a mother hopes it for her children. that long herbaceous border should one day be full of good stuff, one day blooming with a succession of flowers; but face the fact, one day is not to-morrow. the plants must grow; so, patience, patience, though mine was threadbare. * * * * * my other nursery of annuals sown in early march were growing apace and the sweet peas needed sticking. it certainly spoils their appearance for a time but is very necessary. i noticed all my seedlings growing in bits of kitchen garden filched from his reverence's province grew with greater vigour than those down my own borders. i suspected that amongst much neglect the vegetable ground had suffered least, and so, in spite of his reverence's outcry that i was robbing him of at least a sack of potatoes, i continued to make little inroads on his property. and thus i was brought in contact with the fruit-trees bordering the pathways. they had been renewed, many of them, when first his reverence came to fairleigh. they looked healthy enough, but very few blossoms and no fruit ever accounted for their existence. i pointed this out to his reverence, and, full of newly-acquired knowledge, asked him if he had heard of tap-roots. "griggs planted them, so you may depend that is what is the matter with them, and in the autumn we will have them up." "you are poaching," said his reverence. "you ought to be full of gratitude, but i can't take them in hand myself, i only give you some of my overflowing knowledge. and we should all like to eat our own apples and pears!" jim was much interested in tap-roots; he promised himself quite a good time hacking away at them in the autumn. he wondered if the barren fig-tree had a tap-root, but i could not enlighten him. everything was growing, we had had some good rain. i can feel for the farmers now; i know what it is to _want_ rain. one of the others said she wished we would keep quiet, all we gardeners and farmers who hankered after rain. she thought perhaps if we ceased the weather might get a little settled and the sun shine week in week out. to her mind that was far better than fields of corn or beds of even luxuriant flowers. there were sure to be _some_ corn and _some_ flowers anyhow, "so do let other people enjoy the sunshine in peace." certainly if the english climate is the result of conflicting desires, it would be a good thing to have a national creed on the subject and make it obligatory. after the rain, however, in that particular month of april, came the sun, and things grew apace. though not only my seeds and flowers. the enemy, who for many a long year had sown, or allowed to be sown, weeds in my garden, had his crop likewise. "they're overmastering us agin," said griggs, who had his friendly moments; and sometimes, if we were working hard, quite enjoyed standing near and pretending to help us. "it's your fault that, you know," said jim, who minced matters with nobody. he was doubled up over the border surrounded with all kinds of implements, for jim liked everything handy. there was a big clasp knife and a spade and rake, a trowel and little fork, and then he generally used his hands. he was now "tracking home," as he said, that evil-minded weed called, i believe, the ground-elder, and pointed out with some heat, quite excusable under the circumstances, that griggs, who had just calmly and coolly cut off the head of the plant, had done not a "blooming bit of good." if you should ever want a really good back-aching job, take a trowel or a little hand fork and begin a fight with those innocent-looking, many-fingered leaves growing in and out in so friendly a fashion with your flowers. you turn up the root, but its hold is still on the earth; you pull a bit and find it belongs to that other cluster of leaves some little distance off. you attack that, very careful not to lose your underground connection, it also has sent long stringy branches in all directions. then you pull and tear and say "oh, bother!" and "what a brute of a weed!" jim and i are careful not to say anything stronger, though he has been known to indulge in "hang," but i feel sure griggs gives us the character of using "most horful languidge you never heard." still it goes on, and quite a heap of potato-like roots will be out and yet its hold is not slackened. finally it lands you in an iris or lily root; it is not particular, but i find it prefers a solid root, and there you get sadly mixed as to what is root and what is weed. but if the job is to be done finally, these roots must be all taken up and carefully disentangled, for all are twined together. this radical measure is best, or rather least injurious to lilies and irises, when their flowering time is over--july and august--and moving or dividing does not disturb them. never in all old griggs's reign of twenty years had he tracked a ground-elder weed home; but i now know the look of those potato-like roots better than any other in my garden. i cannot say i like doing it. boys are more invertebrate and do not get so red in the face; and this i pointed out to jim, suggesting a division of labour. "you do get jolly red," said jim, "but really, you know, i expect it's your stays." "jim!" "well, you needn't get up the steam. i only know when i was dressed up for those theatricals as a beastly, i mean, as a girl, the fellows got hold of some stays, i suppose they bagged their sister's, a precious tight pair, too! and i just tell you, in confidence, they made me absolutely sick. i had to retire looking like an unripe lemon. my! never again!" "you squeezed too much, jim." "that girl must have squeezed more; and you all do, that's my private opinion." in consideration, therefore, of the infirmities to which a rigorous convention condemns my sex, jim said he would do the thinning out for me. my promising annuals, designed for grand duty in the cutting line, godetias and larkspurs and chrysanthemums and shirley poppies, were all most flourishing, but coming much too thick. they ought to have been thinned out sooner, of course, but we had been too busy, so jim devoted his early morning hours to them, before the five minutes' rush on his bicycle which took him to the station for gatley, where he and some other fellows were being crammed to pass the examination for the royal navy. jim's days were always filled. he never neglected cricket, nor, in its good time, football and hockey; but he was going to see me through with my garden for the first year, he said, and his help and ideas were never-failing. on the thinning-out mornings jim got up early; very early it seemed to me when he bounced into my room and sent a flood of light full on my face, or placed a damp sponge there. "now i am going to thin, and i can't do it with any satisfaction if you are asleep. what you have to do is to think out any blooming thoughts for this blooming essay on courage. why the blooming idiot gives us such rotten subjects i can't think. but you must jot down some headings and be ready with them when i come back." "jim, what a worn-out old subject. i shall go to sleep over it." "this won't do," and jim strode to the washing stand and plunged the sponge in water. "oh, don't, jim, i am awake! there was 'the boy who stood on the burning deck,'" i shouted hurriedly. jim came back and stood over me. "open your eyes then wide, so. you see you are wasting precious time with your sluggishness." i thought of those thickly-sown seedlings growing up so leggy, and i roused myself. "well, 'the boy' will do, then; he is a good old stager." "yes, so he mustn't be left out. all the other fellows will have him in for sure, and if i don't, 'old joe' will think i don't know about him. they don't want any originality, these chaps; they want you just to stick on and learn what they learnt, then you see you can't put them in a corner. so just rout out good old standing dishes." jim turned to go. "all right; but, jim, remember to leave the strongest plant." "'survival of the fittest,' yes, i've heard that before." "and don't forget about eight inches apart." "i prefer six; you turn your thoughts to courage." "primitive instinct, difference between man and woman, one has more of the physical variety and the other of the moral," i shouted after him. "no twaddle," said jim, striding back. "think of what _i_ should be likely to say. of course we all may pick up ideas outside as we have to write the blooming thing in form, but it must sound like me, not you." "it will, jim, after it has been through your mill, never fear. and i think eight inches produces strongest plants." and then jim slid down the bannisters and i heard him whistling in the garden; but that soon ceased, for you can't whistle when you are bent double. i must say the row looked very nice when i reviewed it after breakfast. jim had selected with great care! but the heaps of rejected plantlets lying on the gravel path caused my motherly heart a pang. what a shocking waste! every tiny seed had come up and ten were growing where but one could find sufficient support for full development, so out must come the nine. nature is wasteful, and so is human nature, but we can't weed out the overcrowded families; and do the fittest there always survive? truly it would need courage to tackle that problem. * * * * * a little later, in may, i found an employment in which i tried to interest the others, but it was no good. the only one i brought up to the scratch, or rather the rose tree, fled with horror when i showed her what was needed, and vowed she would rather never smell a rose again than do such disgusting work. but his reverence took quite kindly to the job, i am glad to say, and it was a good sight in my eyes when i saw his wideawake carefully bent over the standard roses, and then a certain look of victory rose over his spectacles as he spotted the enemy. this new enemy is a very vile-looking little green grub; one variety is brown and fat, and then indeed i have felt inclined to flee myself. i suppose his mamma lands him in an invisible stage on the tender young rose leaves and he curls them round him for a cradle. then in some mysterious way, which i heartily wish dame nature had never taught him, he rocks his cradle to the side of a juicy young bud, glues himself to it and enjoys it. not much bud is left. so his reverence unfolds the green cradle and carefully ejects the baby. i simply cannot do that, i pick off the leaf; but in either case the end is rapid and final. and how prolific is that abominable butterfly! you may, in fact, you _must_, visit your rose trees daily if you would hope to see a goodly show. at least, so it is in my garden. i can but speak from a limited experience. i have often thought others may be more blessed than i am, but you may not be one of them, friend ignoramus. then there is the green fly, thickly swarming all over banksia or cluster roses, at least, more especially favouring them. jim would have little to say to the green grub, though occasionally even he and the young man had their steps gently led in that direction; and seeing his reverence's absorption, they too began and then somehow went on. a kind of fatal fascination, i suppose, "just one more!" the others would never give the spell a chance, but jim grew to take the greatest interest in green fly. the young man suggested smoke for their destruction, but his cigarettes did not seem to effect much, though he blew round a bush for quite a long time while i picked the cradle leaves off another, and of course my work was the most effectual. jim was very keen on trying this remedy too. i said the effect would be worse than his experience with the stays, at which he asked me with dignity if i supposed he was as green as all that! however, griggs came out with an old syringe, and jim said that was the work for him. soapy water and a good shove, and the young man was simply deluged. all jim said was, "what a mercy it was only you. think if it had been his reverence! winkie! what a shine there would have been." i thought the young man behaved beautifully, for a man, though he did catch jim and hold him upside down until he was gurgling. but when the green fly got the douche very strongly given they too objected, and vacated their position. afterwards i obtained a recipe for a douche which had even more effectual results. take two ounces of quassia chips (you get them from a chemist for a very small sum) and one ounce of soft soap, and pour on them about a pint of boiling water. leave it till cold and then add water to the amount of two gallons. with this concoction syringe your green fly, and its extreme bitterness will make them lose all fancy for your rosebuds. * * * * * the lilacs were out, and the white guelder rose and the ash tree; may and syringa and laburnum were soon to follow. truly even a poor neglected little garden has its happy moments! i would rest some days looking around and enjoying the green so new and fresh everywhere, and trying to shut the reformer's eye. but it was growing too strong for me; the only way to shut it was to reform. the shrubberies were terrible. laurel was rampant everywhere. a nasty greedy thing, it cannot live and let live, for it takes the nourishment needed by its better brethren. i would have no laurel in my garden, none, but that is a dream for the future. the elder tree too has no manners, it shares this failing with its namesake weed; it shoves and pushes all more gentle growth to the wall. it must be cut back hard. and the syringas also, they need the judicious knife to prune out the old wood and so give strength to the young shoots. and so does the yellow japanese rose, more learnedly called kerria japonica, which in late march and april had given but a poor little show of bloom. i guessed that its treatment had been that of the yellow jasmine. it had been clipped in the autumn on the hedging and ditching principle, and the young shoots with the promise of buds had disappeared beneath griggs's shears. better for the plant to have razed it to the ground after flowering, said the master, for the vigorous young shoots would soon have appeared; so following his instruction i this spring cut the old stems right away, leaving only the new green ones springing from the ground. i am hoping here, too, for next year. it seems a gardener must always be living in the future, "possessing their souls in patience," and "hoping all things." truly it is a liberal education, and i hope may prove very valuable to jim and the young man--and other persons. it has done no good to griggs. * * * * * spring slipped into summer. the sun shone longer and melted the iciness in the wind's breath; the tender green of the trees gave place to "leafy june" and the shade was grateful. jim found a waistcoat superfluous, and the head gardener donned a shady hat and tried to wear gloves. yes, the spring was gone, and even with summer's glories to come one turns a regretful glance back to the months when "behold, he maketh all things new." [illustration: summer] season iii summer "knee-deep in june." and knee-deep in work, too, for june will not give you anything for nothing if you are running a garden. i had my hands full, not only with the legitimate work of june, which is great, but may is sure to have left you in the lurch; this "getting forward" process so much preached by the master is not seconded by may with at all a whole heart. "march ain't never nothin' new! apriles altogether too brash fer me, and may--i jes' 'bominate its promises. little hints o' sunshine and green around the timber-land, a few blossoms and a few chip birds, and a sprout or two-- drap asleep, and it turns in 'fore daylight and snows agen!"[ ] [ ] james whitcomb riley. my poet is an american, but the complaint may be raised also in the old country; only i do not "'bominate" promises. i love them, and as i am perforce a gardener it is a good thing, for i often get nothing else. but be the garden forward or not, how lovely a garden can be, even a neglected garden, these last weeks of may and first of june. the chestnuts are scarcely over, the laburnum is raining gold, the may trees are like snow, a delicious reminder when the sun is doing its duty brilliantly; the roses are just breaking from the bud, and now we can congratulate ourselves on the wholesale slaughter of green grub and green fly, without, however, giving up the pursuit. but what was the matter with those newly-planted rose trees? the crimson rambler, for one, that was to ramp up the verandah, had not ramped an inch; it had only put forth some miserable, half-starved leaves and not one bud. the others derided it freely. william allen richardson looked unhappy too; the new standards seemed more contented, and the reine marie hortense, who also was destined to cover the verandah as rapidly as might be with pink gloire de dijon roses, had really begun her work with a will. why then had my much-vaunted crimson rambler failed me? i had been told they disliked a wall, but not a verandah. "a worm i' the root," suggested one; but i held to certain laws of the medes and persians, and one was to leave the roots alone until the right time; so if my rambler wished to flourish elsewhere it must bide until the autumn; though in the front, over an old stump, and down in the kitchen garden it was the same tale, the ramblers refused to ramble. * * * * * but the business of the month must not be kept waiting a day, in fact, we began the last week in may, and that was promoting the nurslings from their shelter to the open borders. the two large round beds that were generally devoted to griggs's semi-red geraniums and scraggy calceolarias, and which were the only regular planting-out beds the garden possessed, were now a subject of much disquieting thought to me. they were so terribly important. by them i felt my reputation must stand or fall. they were plainly visible from everywhere. they needed to be a brilliant mass of colour from june to october; no easy problem for one lot of flowers to solve. i had set my face against griggs's geraniums bordered with calceolarias and lobelias, the refuge of the destitute; any other refuge was to be mine, i resolved. and since it had been no silent resolve, it had perforce to be kept. at present those beds were an eyesore, but one for which i did not feel responsible. before i took in hand the reins of garden government, griggs had buried there a mixture of tulips and edged them with alternate polyanthuses--the poorest of specimens--and forget-me--nots that had weathered the winter in what griggs termed a "spotty" way. it was certainly a suggestive phrase for those particular plants. but i had been able to join the others in their chorus of condemnation. now the time had arrived for a change, and the responsibility appalled me. i had had visions of those two beds with many various inhabitants. at first the dream had been of violas, pale mauve deepening into the dark purple, but to complete that idea some tall things with a strong colour--red salvias or good red geraniums--were needed; these, planted some eighteen inches apart, would bring out the delicate background. but the dream vanished perforce. apart from the lack of good red anything, my violas had failed me, and some few dozen little plants were all i could reckon upon. why, i do not know; it was just this, the seeds had not come up. so then i dreamed of all my straight little antirrhinums; they would surely make a fine glaring effect. i had red, yellow, white and a good quantity. jim liked the idea; red was to be the centre, and yellow and white alternate, a broad border. griggs took his arrangement away. the dilapidated tulips were saved, of course, and kept in a dry place stored for the autumn planting out. on the polyanthus roots too i laid rescuing hands. they were not very good colours, but needing so much i dared not waste. the best of the lot i had noted, and now placed them down the shaded lime walk. they could grow where the primroses grew, and in spring i should welcome even their uncertain shades down amongst the bright green of the wild things. the beds were turned over well, and a little fresh soil and manure dug in; then, when neat, smooth and ready, i brought up the first detachment of small antirrhinums from the nursery for their adornment. these had grown to the height of from five to six inches, but had still a slender air. i think it would have helped their more rapid development had they been moved sooner from their first box. with seedlings, friend ignoramus, you cannot be _too_ particular. never let them have the slightest check; keep them watered, cared for, and as they need it give them room. they will then reward you. all one cool afternoon jim and i planted out. we began in the centre and made rings round with an impromptu compass formed by a stick and string. in the rounds thus made the plantlets were steadily and firmly placed, eight inches apart, though eight inches seemed a great deal of spare room. "they will grow," i persisted; "they are small for their age, but will soon need elbow room." "i feel i am playing with little tin soldiers, don't you?" suggested jim; "but they are strong little beggars and will grow bigger, won't they?" "oh, rather! over a foot, though they are the dwarf kind, you know; but they branch out like the wicked bay tree." "well, there's room for it," said jim, and then we worked on steadily until tea-time. "what are you sprinkling that bed with those tiny green twigs for?" asked one of the others. "we want something a trifle cheering there, you must remember, mary. we have to look at it all the summer." "we don't _want_ to have to regret griggs's semi-red 'janiums," said another of the others. "they will be a blazing mass of colour," i answered confidently as i hurried over my tea. "come, jim, they must be got in." "remember it is for _this_ summer," shouted the other. "and not to adorn our graves, my dear," came after us. what had happened in my short absence? i saw with new eyes, the eyes not of the fond mother but of the critic. "jim!" and my whisper was awful. "what's up? have we done anything wrong?" "look at them!" they looked absurd. they looked impossible. the bed so big and they so small, so like tiny tin soldiers, that my faith failed me. the others would be confronted by little green twigs all the summer and regret griggs's _régime_. it was hopeless! they could never rise to the occasion. "they must come up, jim." "oh, rot! let's put 'em a bit thicker; they will flower all right, you said so half-an-hour ago." "i don't know what i said half-an-hour ago; i feel sure now that they will take months to do anything! and what shall i do meanwhile? it's the pricking out; we were behind with that, you see. they must come up and go somewhere, where it won't matter so awfully. these beds _must_ be a success, even if i spend every farthing i possess on buying ready-made plants." we took them up. jim was impressed with my sorrow. we planted those we had disturbed in the border in front as an edging. "it won't matter so much here, they don't strike the eye, because other things are coming here in clumps, but for those two beds!" i had nightmares of tiny tin soldiers dressed in green who marched round and round and disappeared, and then two bare brown beds loomed up like giant's eyes, and the others all shouted, "isn't it hideous? what did you do it for? oh, mary, what a mess you have made of it!" * * * * * next afternoon jim and i, his reverence and the young man--who also joined the council--calculated exactly how many plants would be required to really fill those beds with a desirable effect. i could hardly believe it, the calculation ended in two hundred for each bed. i sat down on the grass and looked and looked as though looking would make the necessary quantity appear. "it can't be done," i moaned in the bluest despair. "i don't possess four hundred of anything; so there!" "you might make a kind of pattern," began the young man. "i hate a kaleidoscopic effect," i growled. "you've jolly well got to have one," said jim. "there might be a border," suggested his reverence. "really, you _may_ mix some flowers," ventured the young man, rather fearful of having his head snapped off again. "i have seen uncommonly pretty beds done that way. why, in the park this year i noticed a background of small close blue flowers, and out of them rose tall pink geraniums. the effect was excellent," said his reverence. "'you may see as good sights many times in tarts,'" i remarked, and they none of them knew, not even jim, that i was quoting the learned bacon, but thought my temper was affecting my reason. "get up off the damp grass," said jim, offering violent assistance, "and come and contemplate the nursery. great scott! after all your bragging to collapse like this. aren't the babies there still?" "i have hundreds of nothing, and they are all such tiny things it would take _thousands_ of them to fill these _hideous_ big beds." so rather a downcast procession wended their way round the shrubbery to the little yard with its frame and manure heap and enclosures of plantlets. his reverence drew out pencil and paper, and after making several very shaky rounds to represent the two beds, he began to fill in with names as suggested to him by jim and the young man. "let us start with the biggest geraniums in the centre, a group of six we will say, as they are not very big any of them. now then, a row next of those yellow daisies, that will fill up a good bit and look bright, too. then we might have those stocks, all colours are they? do famously. and then the little snapdragons, what do you call them?--anti--anti--what? snapdragon will do for me. you say they are too small! oh, but they will grow. red, then yellow, then white. why, see, mary, the round is nearly full. then a row of the smallest geraniums, don't you think, and end up with an edging of blue lobelia. that would be fine, eh?" jim saw my face and burst into laughter. i was in no laughing mood. "good heavens, sir! imagine such a higgledy-piggledy assembly as that--all sizes--all colours--all blooming anyhow!" "not at all, not at all. now, young man, what do you say? look here--" and with the warmth of an inventor his reverence read over his list and grew more in love with his colour scheme than ever. "yes," said the young man, at intervals, "yes, that fills in grandly;" and then he caught my eye, a flash of indignation, so he began to hesitate and hedge. "only, you see, your reverence, that for flowers, that is, for bedding out, it seems you need--you have to think--" and he looked at me but got no assistance. "perhaps there might be too many colours, mightn't there?" he wound up feebly. "too many colours! why, my dear fellow, it isn't for a funeral! do you want all the flowers to wear black coats like you and me?" "no, no, sir, only, you see in one bed--" "bless the man, of course they are in one bed! why, where is the harm in variety? just look here--" and we went through the scheme again. "now, come; if you don't like this, what can you suggest better, eh?" the young man looked so nonplussed and uncomfortable, and his reverence was falling deeper and deeper in love with his arrangement, i saw that i must at once take the matter in hand or it would be too late. "i know," i said suddenly. i did not know, at least, not what i would do, only what i would not, which is sometimes a great help in the other direction. "well, let us hear your idea," said his reverence, with enforced patience, looking fondly at his scheme. "the antirrhinums are too small and the violas too few," i began. "well, that is not much of an idea!" "no, but i am thinking--" and so i was, for a thought had come. then his reverence laughed. "ah, well, you _think_. in the meantime i will leave you my list and go and see after old griggs." he linked his arm in the young man's and walked him off. he, looking penitently back, found no forgiveness; i had no use for the penitence of cowards. then i began to expound to jim the idea that had come like a flash! like a revelation! until jim said, "get on, let's have the idea. i don't personally think his reverence's scheme at all bad, you know. i just laid low because i saw what a stew you were in, but _personally_ i like a bit of colour." then i explained to jim what a delirium those beds would be, and jim would have left me too had i not said he should do all the measurements for the beds as i wanted somebody with an eye! how queer men are, even in embryo. they always hang together, and it is only flattery that can overcome their prejudices. jim grew interested. the idea was to be all yellow. i had those marguerites of griggs's cuttings developed now into fair-sized plants in spite of their neglected childhood, for i had seen to them since. they should grow in the centre; then should come my marigolds, which were very thriving, two kinds of them, the big, rather clumsy african, but with handsome colouring, and the smaller, neater, darker french variety, and we would finish with a good border of tagetes. they were all bushy plants, all hardy, and would bloom steadily through the summer and autumn. a basket of scabious--lady's pincushions--arriving from the master while i was planting out were also worked into my scheme, and worked in well. the dark round balls of reds, browns, blues, with tiny white pin-points, did not disturb the yellow harmony. eventually i was proud of those beds. when first planted they did look slightly new and stalky, but they filled out daily. his reverence only remarked, "well, well, have it your own way; i suppose it is æsthetic! but my idea was more cheerful." griggs frankly said "yeller" was never his fancy. "now, them 'janiums, that gives a bit o' colour." and i quite forgave the young man his past for his present admiration was unbounded. he had been quite unable to think, he explained. so that great difficulty was settled. * * * * * griggs's geraniums turned out one or two good dark reds among the magenta hues, and these were put in the two old stumps that hitherto had been given over to mere ramping nasturtiums, and my superior seedlings of those useful flowers were encouraged to fall over the edge and ramp downwards. an old oil cask, cut in two, burnt out and painted green--jim and i and the young man enjoyed that artistic work very much--formed two capacious tubs and were filled with more geraniums, the best and pinkest, and they brightened up the shrubbery corner where the daffodils had shone. stocks and other geraniums--even the mauvy-tinted ones looked quite well away from all touch of red--with a border of lobelia, were placed under the study window in a narrow bed running along the front of the house, thus helping his reverence to realise _his_ ideal. then by degrees we arranged all the contents of my nursery, some in clumps, some in rows, down the herbaceous border, and others in the front border, the border which had looked so dismal and unpromising on that november day when i first took my garden in hand. there had been a brushing up of old inhabitants--michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums--but much was still left to be desired. you cannot do everything in the first year. it is no use thinking you can. * * * * * one day, at the very beginning of june, i visited the potting-shed, our one and only shed, which held a collection such as may be imagined after the reign of griggs for twenty years. in a dark corner i came across some queer-looking roots sprouting away in a most astoundingly lively fashion. "griggs, what on earth are these?" i called to that worthy. "them? oh! them's daylers. just stuck 'em there to keep dry for the winter. they oughter be out by now, they oughter." "oh! i should think so," and then i marvelled on the nature of dahlias. "is this a good place for them during the winter? don't they want anything to eat or drink?" "bless yer! no, they takes their fill in the summer, but they oughter be out by now; some'ow i've come to overlook them." that these dahlias forgave the overlooking has always been a wonder to me; perhaps they did not do so entirely. i believe more firmly than ever in the thoroughness of the edict which rules "that what a man soweth that shall he reap." a child or a flower starved in infancy does not recover for some time, if ever, and though my dahlias kindly bloomed and did their best, once started in as good a bed as we could give them, they ought to have been "potted up" in the beginning of may and kept from frosty nights; then at the end of may or beginning of june they should have been placed in their flowering position. so soon as frost touches them they droop, as we all well know, in their own peculiar, utterly dejected and forlorn manner. then cut them down, dig them up, let them dry, and place them for the winter in a dry and protected cellar or outhouse, there to sleep until the spring calls them to fresh life. * * * * * i watched the long herbaceous border with an anxious eye. the poppies--those dazzling papaver--opened their large green pods and shook out blazing red and rather crinkly leaves in the sunshine. they made one hot, but happy, to look at them. for that first year in my garden i think they did their duty well, but bigger clumps will look better. some little spiky leaves that i had not recognised--how should i when no label accompanied them?--turned out to be the iceland variety. they had one or two dainty blooms made of yellow butterflies' wings, but oh, dear! one or two! i needed a mass. the delphiniums looked healthy and promised a spiky bloom or two; the lupins were already in flower, nice, quite nice, when one has not much else, but the blue is too near purple. i must get some other varieties; the white would be prettier. the big thick leaves of the hollyhocks grew well at first, and then some beast of sorts began to fancy them and they developed a moth-eaten appearance. all griggs could say was, "you never could do nothing with 'olly'ocks in this gardin, you couldn't." my other wiseacre, old lovell, said, "they liked a bit o' wind through 'em." his own seemed to flourish, so mine must be moved from the sheltering hedge where i had thought they would show up. everywhere still grew and flourished the ever-present weeds. they needed no watering, nothing to promote their vitality, they grew apace; and i could mention other varieties beside that champion grower, the ground-elder. there is a sticky, burry kind of rapid, straggling growth with tenacious hot-feeling leaves. its hold on the earth is not strong, but it is brittle, and eludes its death-warrant that way; also a kind of elongated dandelion, that looks straight at you as though it had a right to be there. then the common poppy, last year's nasturtium seeds, and the offspring of last year's sunflowers are as bad as weeds, and indeed the latter gave me as much trouble. the strong tuberous roots required a vigorous pull, and were growing everywhere, through the centre of every flower; i took at least a dozen out of one clump of golden rod, and vowed i would have every sunflower up before it had a chance of seeding. of course all such things must come up or they exhaust the feeding capacity of the border. it is all very fine to say "_must_," but i believe a poor soil is composed of weed seeds. i walked down the garden with one of the others, one who loved flowers, only in her own way. she arranged them beautifully when everything was put ready to her hand; she loved picking one here and there and sticking it in her waist-band, or playing with its soft petals against her cheek, then, its brief duty done, it was forgotten. i have seen people--even mothers--love children in the same way; but flowers and children need a broader love than that. we walked down armed with scissors and with an empty basket; i had said that there _were_ flowers. "my dear girl, what on earth _have_ you? when all is said and done. you show me a green bush thing and give it a name"--i had mentioned delphinium--"and it does sound aggressively knowledgeable, of course! and then another isolated and flowerless specimen and give _it_ a name. but wherewithal am i to do the dinner-table to-night? will you tell me that?" "you have a most lovely bunch of poppies in the drawing-room, and i cut the copper-beech, which was wicked of me. very soon you shall have roses and sweet-peas and all these seedlings; and next year you shall have sweet-williams and cup and saucer canterbury bells and foxgloves and--" "_next_ year! my dear. i am wanting some flowers for _to-night_." "to-night! oh, dear, let me think. why won't the things make haste? you must have _something_, of course." what was there? a good many things in bud, but had they been out i could not have cut them. just the one first specimen! to cut from a plant you need such a big show, and all the tall perennials were no good anyway for the table decoration. the blue cornflowers were coming; the godetias held promising buds of pinkiness; the shirley poppies, too, and the sweet-peas; but for to-night! everything was for to-morrow. down the garden we walked, hope always deferred, and beyond the garden shone a field of brilliantly deep red. i caught my breath. "isn't it lovely? it is old mason's saint-foin; let us take some. and see, there are white daisies in the hay there, mine aren't out yet. and with grasses, those lovely, wavy grasses! don't you think that will do?" the table did look lovely, but small thanks to my garden, i felt; though the other one cared not for that, and comforted me by saying that gardening had certainly developed my resources if not the flowers. nature's garden is at its best in june. the wild rose and honeysuckle scent the hedges, the tall white daisies shine in the grass, the ruddy chickweed, with the setting sun behind, glows like the evening clouds; and the tall, dainty, white meadow-sweet offers itself to one's hand. were it a garden flower we should prize it almost as we do gypsophila. but nature does not mean her favourites to be promoted to the drawing-room. their rustic beauty fades at once, and it seems truly unkind to cut so short their joyous sunny day. * * * * * the dinner-table that had caused me so much anxiety was specially needed for an american friend of one of the others. she greeted the pretty effect with, "my! how cunning! do all these pretty things grow in your garden, mistress mary?" "in mine and nature's," i added. "you have a little rhyme about mary and her garden, haven't you? and her lamb, too. have you a lamb?" "oh, yes," said one of the others, "she has a lamb, the new version of that rhyme, too, 'with coat as black as soot.'" but what she meant, or why i grew hot, it passes my wisdom to say. "say now, do you grow nightingales in your garden, mistress mary? i assure you, sir," turning to his reverence, "i have never yet compassed an introduction to that much-vaunted british institooshon, the nightingale. i am just crazy till i hear those liquid tones, the jug jug and jar jar: such vurry ugly equivalents they sound to me for thrilling notes, but the best, i conclude, our poor speech can do in imitation of that divine melody." when our friend had quite finished--i noticed she landed herself without fear in the longest of sentences, and brought them always with much aplomb to the neatest of conclusions, an accomplishment in which she must find the majority of her english cousins sadly deficient--his reverence promised her the wished-for concert; and he further dilated on the beauties represented by jug jug and jar jar, until she assured him that with him for her guide she would face that dark and lonely walk of mistress mary's--she meant my lime trees--where doubtless she would find a blue or white lady flitting past, with a sigh, wasn't it? for some recalcitrant lover. however, i noticed she walked off later with the young man, who dropped in after dinner, and she asked him all about the jug jug and jar jar with ever-increasing animation. it certainly was very cool that night, as it can be in june even after a hot day. we looked round to send jim for shawls, but jim had vanished, to his work, no doubt. we strolled down the lime walk to see if the nightingales would oblige us, which i doubted, as nightingales are as careful of their throats in a cool wind as are prima donnas. "you really mustn't talk," i heard the young man say. "land's sake! but do they want it all their own way? though who could talk when the whole night is throbbing with beauty? just look at that intense blue vault above us, and the calm stars shimmering down on us. say! doesn't it make you feel just too awfully small for anything? you don't feel inclined to get up and preach now, do you? just shut your eyes and listen; that's about all one can do." the figures wandered up and down under the overhanging lime boughs, two and two, and presently the black and white ones ahead of us stopped. when we wandered off again somehow we had changed partners, and mamie was arm-in-arm with her special other one and the young man was walking with me. "i had such a lot i wanted to talk to you about," he began. this sounded interesting, but he seemed unable to get further. "about the sunday school?" i asked gently, for we were still listening for the nightingale. it was almost a cross "no" that he muttered as we passed mamie and her friend. "oh, i know," i suggested; "it is about the garden. you haven't been helping me in my garden for weeks and weeks. what can one talk of better than a garden? i think it is the most interesting subject, and you must want to know how the nurslings are turning out, now they are started in real life." i suppose mamie had caught the word garden, for she began to sing in a very high thread-of-silver voice, "if love's gardener sweet were i, i would cull the stars for thy pleasure." "say, tall and reverend sir, can you reach a star? look how they twinkle!" the young man is so very english i half feared he would not understand how to take her, but mamie's freedom was infectious. "all the stars are not up there," he said, "fortunately for my arms. they are twinkling under these trees to-night." "why, you _are_ poetical! but these lively stars of white and blue are not the kind to cull, are they, mistress mary? land's sake! but they might prove as big an undertaking as one of those fiery worlds twinkling up there. 'how i wonder what you are!' why, _we_ don't wonder, we _know_. i learnt all about them at school. but who knows what _i_ am composed of?" "'ribbons and laces and sweet pretty faces!' is what they taught me at _my_ school," said the young man, calmly. "really, the nightingale _can't_ sing if we all talk so much. do let us try and be quiet for two minutes," i said. but mamie was walking away laughing, and saying the nightingale would soon get used to her dulcet tones, and the young man stayed listening with me. "and yet it's true," he said, "what she says; how is one ever to know about another person, particularly when that other person always turns the conversation when one begins to talk about--" "you are getting mixed," i interrupted. "don't you like talking about my garden?" "not always." "well, then, there's the parish." "you only do that to annoy." "i don't! but to please you i will talk of your last sermon." the young man was very hard to please; he said he preferred to know the exact ingredients of the stars, so i stopped mamie to ask her, but she said we were becoming prosaic; the stars were really little holes in heaven's floor that the angels made to peep through. "that's what they taught at your school, didn't they, reverend young man?" "they did. my education has greatly helped me to retain my fond delusions and pet prejudices." "why, what an ideal education for a clergyman!" "since young ladies are taught to weigh the stars and won't listen for nightingales, it does seem good to me." "now, don't you get rattled. mistress mary, you have been rubbing him up the wrong way, and, mercy me! however can a poor yank hear your nightingale? that is a delusion i must part with unless he condescends to commence soon." "well, wait, do wait quietly for one minute." so for a brief pause there was silence; and the stir of the leaves and little rustle of unseen creeping things could be heard, and then, yes, there it was! we all raised a warning finger, but the throbbing note broke through the stillness; a little gurgle, a break, and then a longer effort. "oh, my! is that it? it makes me creep all over. oh, don't let us talk. will it go on?" yes, it went on. after some tentative "jugs" and "jars" it broke into a full-throated throb, and even our fair visitor's exclamation did not scare it. "it _is_ singing to-night," said one; "really, it must be in honour of you, mamie. it seldom sings with such vigour!" in the centre of the sloping field grew a fine clump of trees, birch, chestnut and one or two straight pines; the nightingale had chosen this for his stage, and now again quite distinctly rose the gurgling note, and continued, too, right through miss mamie's piercing whisper. "why! it's purfectly lovely! i guess i must take one or two back to amurica. this grove of trees, the dense blue sky, the silence of all you dear people, and just that one divine voice throbbing with love! it makes me feel like melting. if anyone proposed to me now i should just have no strength to refuse. don't feel nervous, most reverend young man. i am really thinking of that fascinating mr jim. say! has he gone to bed?" jim! where was he? i saw the young man give a start, and a quick glance showed me we had both solved the mystery of that persistently gurgling bird. "he ought to be doing his preparation," i said in firm tones. "don't, mary! how you shouted. now he has stopped. oh, what a pity!" the young man whistled softly, and after a pause a little answering whistle came from another spot. "what is that?" asked mamie. "night-jar," suggested the young man. we listened in vain for more warblings from the nightingale. he had flown for good, and they all said it was my fault. "did you have a good concert?" asked his reverence, as we returned to the drawing-room. and at the chorus of approval he laughed, and assured us the nightingale had given him a dress rehearsal, and that was why we waited so long. mamie declared his reverence was the biggest dear she had met "this side," for you never could believe a word he said. he and the young man had both been to the same school, she reckoned. next morning she had a tale to tell of her own special nightingale throbbing with love just below her window, and again in the early morning hours at her door. when she laid great stress on the "throbbing with love," jim got bashfully red. then she maintained she heard him flutter downstairs just as she was going to pipe her love tale too, and that always, always, she will love her english nightingale the best of all british institooshons. "you don't think she really knows," whispered jim to me, "because if she does, she is going rather far, isn't she?" * * * * * how lovely a garden can be by moonlight, even a poor little garden. the moon is merciful, she touches all things, even the weeds, with a soft mystery; hallows the lily and every white bloom; in her light the red and blue flowers are not faded or extinguished, but softened; distances, shadows are intenser, more suggestive than in the garish glory of the sun; soft voices, soft footsteps are needed for the moonlit garden, and one may not think of work or gardeners. the flowers are asleep, wake them not; all but those of strong sweet scent and small blossom, like the jessamine and nicotina, which fittingly star the night garden, and these are sweeter now than ever, and thus woo to them the little moths, those flitting, dusky, silent lovers. the lime-tree avenue became a favourite night walk. the path that was once gravel, and by long neglect had become green in patches, was encouraged in its overgrowth, and griggs and a scythe will turn it in time to quite a respectable grass walk, i hope. in the subdued light the feathery tall weeds gave it quite a fairy glade appearance. i can dream in my garden by moonlight, and perhaps not always of my garden. * * * * * the little perennial and biennial seeds sown in the open in april were, at the end of june, ready for thinning. they had each developed the "body" prepared for them, and nice, sturdy little "bodies" they were, but growing too close together and needing more elbow room. i do not think one ever sows seeds thinly enough, and this is not so much to be regretted for economy's sake as for the sake of the tiny plants' nourishment. here again was a great waste of plant life, though, had all been wanted, all could have been used, for they are none the worse for this shifting. still, half a row instead of two would have been sufficient for my needs. i selected the sturdiest, left some growing where they were, at about six inches apart, and moved the others to a new bed, also allowing them six inches; the rest were wasted, except a few, which found their way to a corner of some cottage gardens. but this is not the time when people are grateful for them; they like the well-grown plants in the autumn, which can then be placed in their spring bed. if the weather has been very dry it is a good plan to water the plants well before beginning to divide them, which, of course, is done by loosening the ground with a little fork and carefully selecting the young root you want from the many. water well, too, when your work is finished, and continue to watch over them unless the rain comes to bless them. for these plantlets i chose a nursery that was not exposed all day to the sun. one has to think for them; they repay it with quicker and sturdier growth, which means better flowering capacity in the spring. so all my wallflowers, forget-me-nots, canterbury-bells, sweet-williams, silene, were thus attended to, and, added to my nursery division of perennial seeds, which i now divided up in like fashion, made a grand show, or promise rather. his reverence was brought to admire, but he looked at the patch i had chosen and said, "do you know i had cauliflowers in here last year, and it is just the very spot that suits them." "i know," i said. "i hope it will suit my children too." but his reverence took quite another view of the matter, and talked of "landmarks," so i fled, for i did not want to be told i must move them all again. that was impossible. * * * * * and now, as the sun shone day by day both lustily and long, the great difficulty of watering arose. this was the time in the ideal gardens told of in my precious books when the busy garden boy rolls his clanking watering-tank, unfurls the sinuous hose, and from morning to night supplies the thirsting flowers. in the master's garden there was no lack, and his long tubes were even emptying themselves, reckless extravagance! on the velvety lawn. but for me, oh, lack-a-day! the ground felt like hot dust, the seedlings drooped, and the others told me not to pray for rain as they were doing the opposite, lawn tennis being in full swing. we had a rain-water tank, and in the stables water was laid on, but it was a far cry from the stables to the garden, especially the kitchen garden, and old griggs was a slow mover. the watering-tank groaned its way, but only the two most important beds got their daily draught. they were beginning to turn yellow in an encouraging fashion, but it takes some time for the eight inches apart to fill up and become the mass of colour dreamt of. then i disorganised the domestic economy by insisting on the contents of the household baths finding their way down to my rose bushes. at first the housemaids liked the little jaunt, but soon there were complaints of "'indering me getting on with my work, miss," and i began to inspect possibilities of converging drain-pipes and establishing receptive barrels; also i gave his reverence small peace in those days in my desire for a further laying on of water to the kitchen garden and some yards of hose, but he said that these were big undertakings, he must think, etc., and for that hot, dry summer we got no further than thoughts. griggs hated me worse than ever, an unavoidable evil. we had one pitched battle, and though it did some little good, the spirit of a defeated foe is not one easy to work with. in the dark winter evenings griggs seeks his fireside as the light fails, or even before if it suits him. against this i have nothing to say, but when the long days come with their need for more gardening care, i object to the early tea-time departure. i found my precious seedlings drooping and griggs ready to depart for his tea. i love my own tea, so a fellow-feeling made me kind. "but come back, griggs, for some watering must be done." "i can't come no more to-night, oi 'ave to see to things a bit up at 'ome." "griggs "--and my voice held dignified rebuke--"you are gardener _here_, and these flowers are your first duty." "there ain't no gettin' round with all them little plants wot you've started. i did give 'em a watering two days ago!" "two days ago! don't _you_ want your tea every day?" "maybe it'll rain soon, and that'll pull 'em round. they ain't human critturs. don't you fuss over them, miss. oi knows their ways. bless you, i've been a gardener these forty years." at this i rose. and what had been the result? would he care to have his gardening capacity judged by the dearth that reigned at the rectory? did the heavy weed crops speak well for his industry? did the underground interlacement of that pernicious ground-elder do him credit? did the roses, the jasmine, etc., etc. my pent-up indignation overflowed and griggs had the full benefit. the only impression i conveyed was that "miss mary was takin' on in a terrible unchristian spirit." clerk griggs never had a doubt of his own uttermost fulfilment of the law. in his opinion, "young ladies should play the pianny and leave gardening to them as knows." griggs meant to go home. i felt this was a decisive moment. "you will come back and do the necessary watering," i said, "and i shall be here to see it is done; you quite understand?" with this i walked away, and griggs came back. i got his reverence to support me, and we decided to give an extra hour's rest in the middle of the day and insist on the watering, without which all previous efforts are rendered, null and void. * * * * * a useful little book, procured for the modest sum of ninepence, gave me a more intimate knowledge of the dwellers in my garden. it is a plain little book, though it reads like a fairy tale, with its stories of marriage-customs and the wind and bees and flying insects as lovers. straightforward and interesting reading, and to those who begin to desire more knowledge of their plant life, highly to be recommended is this _story of the plants_, by grant allen. for surely if you love your flowers it will not be from your own more or less selfish point of view that you will regard them. their aims and objects will interest you; their growth and evolution be of importance; and, to come round again to one's own advantage, what is best for them must also be best for the garden, since flowers in their full beauty is the gardener's object, and the plants' too. but the plants go further; they wish to end in seed. all their fine show, their sweetness and light, is with this object in view; and here i for one must come in, in heartless fashion, and thwart them. my scissors in those summer days were as much employed in cutting off dying bloom as in selecting fresh ones. not a sweet-pea, not an antirrhinum, not a rose must hang fading on its stem. for i must lure my plants on to further flowering and prevent the feeling of "duty done" and a fine set of seeds with which they would fain wind up their summer's career. and it is a business, this chopping off of old heads. "no strength to go that way, if you please," i said to my flowers; "keep it all for blossoms and growing purposes, and i promise that your seed shall not cease from the earth, in spite of your particular thwarted efforts." when i happen to want a seed pod preserved, i mean to label it with brilliant worsted, but my garden must have grown indeed before that good time comes. the seedlings which, sown in the open, were now rewarding jim's matutinal thinnings-out, were a comfort and encouragement. the intensely blue cornflowers furnished many a dinner-table, and though they did not face the wind with all the backbone desirable, i had not staked them, they formed a very good background to the less tall pinky-white godetias, and these, too, in july were a boon to those others. they last very well in water, and, if diligently cut and not allowed to seed, they continue a fine show of bloom into the early autumn. the shirley poppies were pure joy. sunlight or moonlight they were a feast for the eyes; but, _n.b._, only those which had been properly thinned out and cared for. some had escaped this process, and the result was invariably miserable little starved plantlets, who would have been cut as poor relations could they have been seen by their fine, stately, well-developed, gorgeously-attired sisters in a patch of ground that they beautified with every shade of pink, and salmon, and white, and rose. so dainty, too, were the bright petals, like crumpled satin, delicately gauffered at the edges; and what matter that their day was brief, as befits such delicate beauties. there were more and more to follow; green bud on bud hanging their small heads among the sage-green leaves, until the time came for them too to "come out" and reign as beauties for a space as long as a butterfly's life. there was a chorus of praise from the others. "now, why don't you grow more of those?" "why did you not fill the two round beds with these? they make a much finer show!" "are they very difficult to grow, or very expensive? why not more?" "don't they last? won't they come again? oh, but i would make them!" "you shall do the thinning out and watering," said jim, grimly, while i tried, but quite in vain, to explain that permanence was the chief thing needed by the two round beds, and that my yellow design would go on. "they aren't half so effective," the others murmured, "but of course you will have it your own way!" * * * * * the mignonette failed me; a few straggling plants and no bloom was all that packet did for me. i thought it grew as a weed everywhere, and my soil suits weeds! but i cannot master the mystery of what happens to some things below ground. the anemones never gave a sign of life. "they've rotted, that's what they've done," said griggs, sagaciously, as he dug the spot where they had been buried and found no trace of anything. i intend to try again. someone said damp had that effect on their roots, so next time for a more open, more sunny spot; but maybe that will prove too dry. those hot days of july and august! alas and alas! how i and my flowers suffered from the "too-dry." with the exception of my blazing yellow beds and my nurslings for next year, which, after my interview with griggs, did receive a daily draught, my other flowers lifted withered faces to a piteously sunny sky and dwindled away into little dried-up sticks, all for the lack of water. a drop now and then is worse than useless; it only brings their eager roots hastily to the watered surface, and there the strong sun catches them and they are withered up for good and all. the sweet-pea hedge that had been a source of delight and use, and that i had kept most diligently picked, during three days' absence converted its blossoms into seed-pods and then gave up the ghost. i tried to pick it back to life with the destruction of pods and a good watering, but it was no good, and i had to turn my attention to the other less advanced sweet-peas and try and keep them going; the heat seemed to scorch the bloom and hurry on the pod. the established perennials may survive the drought; later rains may revive them, but to the poor little annuals it is good-bye for ever; and many a zinnia, stock, lobelia, and even marigold, though it is more hardy, had but a poor little starved life, and passed away with a tiny drooping head. it was heart-breaking. another year i must not have so large a family of these tender children. the hardy annuals which can be given straight away to mother earth's care fare better, and coming quicker to the flowering time are not so wasted. but those grown in boxes and transplanted claim more attention, and they could not have it; though to all water is a necessity, and they fade the sooner for its lack. the poor salpiglosis needs other soil; heavier, damper, i suppose, and some shade. i fear i must admire them in other people's gardens. griggs and the clanging tank on wheels was a poor substitute for the "blessed rain from heaven" that falls on all alike, while his unwilling steps could scarcely be induced to water those that lay nearest to his hand; and i could not expect him--even i could not--to water everywhere every day. if i had water laid on! if i had a hose! how i would use it! "yes, and think of my bill," said his reverence. i suppose this is the way they talk of the revenue in india when the poor people are starving. well, well, poor folk should not have more children than they can feed, so i must give my attention more especially to the deeper-rooted perennials, though even they hang limp-leaved and will reward me in the future only according to my treatment of them. it is the law of the universe. some patches of seedlings in a neighbouring garden made all my resolves to curtail expenditure in that direction fly in an instant. these were mother earth's hardy babies; no boxes or transplanting were needed. it was a mass of the bright-coloured heads of the annual phlox which excited my admiration. they are more brilliant, though smaller, than their perennial sisters, and for cutting they are quite invaluable. they last, too, through three or four months. my garden must have them. another yellow patch caught my fancy. (i have a theory yellow flowers are hardiest; it is the primitive colour.) this was eschscholtzia, californian poppy in other words. these seem to me indispensable; their grey-green leaves make the prettiest decoration. * * * * * in the master's garden peace and plenty reigned. the hose played all day long; the grass was a joy, green as perennial youth; the flowers nodded at him in full satisfaction, and he sat and smiled at them, "feeling good," as the americans say. i went home and noted the brown lawn, in which even the plantains were beginning to turn colour, and thought of my border, and "felt bad." even the brilliant yellow of my two round beds, staring like sunflowers, full among the starving, failed to comfort me. it is always the one lamb crying in the wilderness that pulls the true shepherd's heart away from the ninety and nine trim little sheep safe in the fold. * * * * * jim was very busy those days and more or less deserted me. one of the others, a mankind from sandhurst, divided his allegiance, and holidays and cricket absorbed him. "one has to slack off a bit," he said, "and old griggs can water. i'll come on again in the autumn; there will be some work with those tap-roots, you know." but when a question arose of how much to the good my reign had proved, then jim was with me at once. even "sandhurst" and the grand ideas that are a necessity of that period of development, were not allowed to be too snubbing. "you look at those two yellow beds," said jim. "that's one year's work, good. next year we will have a bit more, up to that style. you try and get up some weeds yourself and then you can talk." and indeed those two yellow beds were a satisfaction; they grew and grew until not a spare inch was left between root and root, and they flared away gorgeously in the face of the hottest sun. i kept all dead heads cut down, for they were to go on right to the end of october. the antirrhinums came on bravely, too; my little straight soldiers, now no longer so thin and leggy, but beginning to branch out, and carrying their stiff red, white or yellow spear of flowers bolt upright in the centre. but they were still small, and i was glad that i had secured a quicker effect with my yellow design. they performed a gay march past in that forlorn old border in the front, but more toward the end of the summer, owing really to the delay in pricking them out. his reverence said they consoled him for the disaster of the crocuses in spring. i bought some little plants of creeping jenny, six at threepence each, and put them in round one of the stumps holding a group of rather mauvy-coloured creeping geraniums. they took kindly to the position, and yellow and mauve go excellently well together. also i added three plants of gypsophila to my long border. i felt the others would appreciate them. i often wanted to buy ready-made flowers, and a flower shop or nursery garden became a real danger to me; but there was the five pounds to be thought of, or rather the few shillings which remained, and oh! the many things that were really necessities of the first order. in august griggs and i, friends for the moment, took cuttings of those geraniums whose colours, for some reason griggs failed to fathom, pleased me. of course those that i least liked offered the better cuttings, but i was inexorable and told griggs i had other uses for that solitary frame. we "struck" the cuttings in some big pots, six in each. they grew easily, and for next year i shall only have the colours i like. then, rather in astonishment at myself for patronising geraniums, i bought a hundred cuttings of henry jacoby, a good dark red, for six shillings. i can't help coming round to the opinion that geraniums are an excellent stand-by. a dozen pink climbing geraniums were given me. my eye of faith already sees them growing up the verandah and causing even the others to say pretty things to me. during the autumn and winter, as little cuttings they will pass their time making root in my frame. yellow daisies and white, in wooden boxes, were to join them there; and, in order to be really forward with some things, a good supply of antirrhinum and lobelia cuttings. naturally they will be more forward and stronger than the seedlings of february, but i have to face the question of room. * * * * * there comes a time of lull in the life of a garden when, if only the watering be seen to, it is possible for even the head gardener to take a holiday. in august what has been done is done and cannot be altered; and what left undone must remain so. it is too late now, and the hope of "next year" is turned to eagerly, for "next year" is the only remedy left. i had been driven to "next year" quite early in the day, for all my plants would be more established, and therefore i trusted more lavish with bloom in their second year with me. they had done their best, i doubted not, and to my eye the promise of growth at the roots began to give as much satisfaction as the few blooms sent, almost tentatively, up into their new surroundings. ah! for the time when the blue delphinium should be a massive background for the white lilies, and these shine against a thick clump of red valerian; and then the eye should catch the brilliant yellow of the tiger-lily and feel cool in the clear purple of the indian-pea. and then this scheme should repeat itself, diversified with the stately hollyhock and flaring sunflower, or the feathers of the spiræa, which should rival it in height. more forward in the border should glow the warm-scented sweet-williams and the bright-headed phlox; the pure white campanula should nod its bells, and the quaint turk's head hold its own stiffly. gaillardias and gladiolas, ixias and montbresias should strike a strong-coloured note, and clumps of canterbury-bells, stocks, zinnias, penstemons, marigolds and scabious should each in turn--and some take a good long turn--bring their share of brightness; and the flowers of the past, the irises, the bleeding heart, the columbines, the bright scarlet geum, the yellow doronicum, should be marked by a patch of green that by diligent growing gave hope of more beauty for the future. in this bright future i was apt to wander and to lose sight of the rather meagre present. but that needs must be one of the consolations of a garden. and so, hoping all things for my garden, i went to pay visits to other people's gardens. one grand garden filled me with anything but envy. it was so terribly trim, such rows of variegated geraniums, big calceolarias, featherfew and lobelia. i determined never to treat any bed or border to edgings; to mass even lobelia together and only break it with taller plants, such as geraniums, of the pure good colours quite possible i found, or salvias or fuchsias. here was line after line, pattern after pattern; surely they were the "goodly sights" bacon had seen in tarts! grand beds of coleus and begonias there were, but these were beyond me, savouring too much of the greenhouse, and all the flowers in the rooms spoke of gardeners and hot-houses. "i don't think my gardener cares much for herbaceous things," said my hostess. "what flowers _do_ live out of doors? in this climate, i mean." and i found out that a greenhouse gardener very seldom does care for herbaceous things. but another smaller garden made me envious. how the plants grew in that blessed soil, with a little river meandering through. no difficulty about water, and that was half the difficulty of flower cultivation overcome. i knew at once that all i wanted for perfect contentment was one small stream and one small conservatory, then things should march; but i suppose even that highly-blessed woman had a "but" in her lot. gardeners are so good to one another. i long for the day when i too shall say, "oh, i will send you some of that, wait until the autumn," and "you care for this? i can spare some." they must feel they are really doing so much good in the world. it was a proud moment when one said, "if you have canterbury-bells to spare, send me some; mine have failed me, they are wretched specimens, and will never do any good." and mine were sturdy; i knew that. old lovell was another of my customers. he was to have some sweet-williams and some foxgloves, and i was to have two clumps of turk's head in exchange, and some of the many young plants surrounding his big clump of that june joy, rosy red valerian. from my other friends i had promises of many good things; the small perennial sunflower, soleil d'or, some nice michaelmas daisies, the useful pink and white japanese anemone, a yellow lupin and some of the white variety. more delphiniums, too, i accepted with thankfulness, and i felt my garden growing and growing as the kind promises flowed in. * * * * * so back to my own garden with eyes terribly open to its deficiencies, "a poor thing, but mine own," at least, "mine own" for a time, and certainly "mine own" to improve; therefore the deficiencies were not to appal me, though they were still the most striking feature of my garden. the yellow beds still flared, the antirrhinums still marched, and, perhaps most consoling of all, the little plants for next year, and those for always, were well and thriving. the summer had not passed in vain as far as they were concerned. no, nor passed in vain even where it only chronicled failures, for ignoramuses must take their share of these too, as a necessary part of their education; and how the spring and summer had opened my eyes! the red ash berries strewed the ground; the birds saw to that, finding pleasure in breaking them off with a knowing jerk of the head and not a bit from hunger; the convolvulus, nasturtium and canariensis were flinging themselves in wild confusion; there was a kind of riot even among the flowers and weeds in the long border. a few roses, especially the good old "gloire," were giving a little after-show, but a touch of finality had come to my garden, and when a hush passed over it, broken only by an early falling leaf, i knew autumn had come, and i scarcely paused to say good-bye to my first summer's gardening, so eager was i for all that autumn meant in the way of work for the future. * * * * * [illustration: autumn] season iv autumn "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness." "delicious autumn! my very soul is wedded to it, and if i were a bird i would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." so said george eliot, and with all due reverence for her opinion, my soul would fly in the opposite direction, seeking the spring. if the autumn led straight on to spring i could love it more, but through its stillness i hear the winter blast; its gorgeous colouring scarce hides the baring boughs; day by day death lays a withering hand on flower and tree; day by day the sun runs quicker to its golden resting-place. have you ever noticed how great a difference there is between the sun's summer and winter march across the heavens? note the tree behind which he sinks in june and then again in november. a whole third of the heavens separates the two; and what does that not mean to us of lack in light and warmth? "ah! would that the year were always may." and yet there are days, such days of perfect beauty that the year could never spare them. they come in early autumn, and it is as though a recording angel passed, so sweet, so solemn is the hush, the pause, with which nature holds her breath and listens as she lays open her store of harvest to the "well done" of the voiceless blessing. and then, the blessed rest-day over, she turns about. "to work!" seems to be the order. "away with these old flowers! no more need for pod-making; wither up the annuals, cut down the perennials, stop those busy youngsters and their growing process for a bit, shake off the leaves, they will come in useful later on, but pile them up now and let the children scuttle through them with happy feet, and have a good clear-out before you go to sleep and wake up again in the springtime--'the merry, merry springtime.' away, you birds, and look out for yourselves those of you who stay; get your nests ready and your stores safely housed, my small friends of fur and feather, for my work is now to purge and to winnow, to try and to test, and woe betide the weaklings!" so the wind, dame nature's mighty broom-maiden, prepares her best besom, and there is soon a thorough good house-cleaning, to the great discomfort of the inhabitants. well, we have to put up with it; and the best plan is to do a little of the same work on one's own account, that so, being in harmony with nature, one's temper is less sorely tried. * * * * * there is enough to be done. i hardly consider september an autumn month, but the calendar does, so i will mention first one bit of work well worth doing. sow a good long row of sweet-peas. make a shallow trench and prepare it as was done in the spring, and before nature stops all growth above ground you will have a lusty row of little plants five to six inches high. these i should stake before the winter, as a means of protection from frost and snow; and next year, a month earlier than most of your friends, you will have sweet-peas of a height, a size and profusion to make them all envious. and that is, of course, a consummation most devoutly to be wished. some people's autumn borders are things of great joy and beauty. looking on the master's profusion, i felt like the queen of sheba, for i expect she thought her own house and grounds a very poor show when she got back to sheba. but i did not, like that celebrated queen, turn and bless him unreservedly. i felt more like--much more like--abusing griggs. let me tell you what an autumn border can be like; not in my own poor words, but as a master-hand painted a master's garden, and, though not _my_ master's garden, the description fits. "against the deep green of the laurels, the rhododendron and box are sunflowers six feet high, lit up each of them with a score of blooms, and hollyhocks, taller still, are rosetted with deep claret flowers and mulberry and strange old pink. between them bushes of cactus dahlias literally ablaze with scarlet. in front are standard roses, only crimson and damask, and now in october bright with their second bloom. hiding their barren stems, compact and solid, an exquisite combination of green and purple, are perennial asters--a single spike of them, with its hundreds of little stars, makes a noble decoration in a room--and humbler, if more vivid, companies of tritonia. here and again are old clumps of phlox, of fervent carmine or white starred with pink, and, to my mind, of singular beauty, the rudbeckias in brilliant clusters of chrome yellow. "three times in the long border japanese anemones, mixed white and terra cotta, mark noble periods in the great curve of colour; and at corresponding intervals, as you walk round, your eye catches the beautiful response, set further forward, of clumps of chrysanthemums, lemon yellow and indian red, tiny flowers, no doubt, 'for chrysanthemums', but sweetly pretty in their profusion and artless growth. is that enough? well, then, for more. there are the snapdragons in every shade of snapdragon colour, and geums now making second displays of flower, and penstemons; and salvias shaded in butterfly-blue, and iceland poppies, and the round lavender balls--like the spiked horrors which genial crusaders wore at the end of chains for the thumping of saracens and similar heathens--which the blessed thistle bears. "can you see this october garden at all?"[ ] [ ] _in garden, orchard and spinney,_ by phil robinson. indeed, that must look something like a garden border; and after all, friend ignoramus, it is not totally out of your reach. even with my disadvantages some of those glories can be mine. the sunflowers, of course, i had, and though rather roughly staked by my old enemy, yet their golden heads were there, and by diligent decapitation they continued until i "did up" the border. the dahlias did fairly, and some of the poor little water-starved annuals picked up a little and gave patches of colour, notably the marigolds. the michaelmas daisy--which is here called "perennial aster"--gave but little bloom; all my bushy perennial plants will be better next year. the golden rod, that old inhabitant, was fine and useful even this first september. it kept the big jar in the drawing-room going with dahlias and sunflowers, but the day came all too soon when even these gave out, and then i fell back on dame nature and plundered her hedgerows. such leaves, such yellows and reds, and berries, black, red and green, never was a bunch more beautiful than that provided by the country lanes; and if only a garden would go wild in such a fashion i should leave it to itself. but that is the trouble. when once civilisation has laid her hand on flower or savage there is no going back; one must progress, the primitive conditions are lost for ever. unless the new ideal be lived up to, the latter state is worse than the first. * * * * * i had been collecting ideas as well as had experience during the summer months, and some of the ideas were greatly augmented by a visitor who came into the garden during the month of october. he had had varied experiences during the years, not so many either, of his pilgrimage, and after having claimed america, australia, india as his fields of action, and ranching, mining, pearl-fishing, architecture and the stock exchange as some of his employments, i was not surprised to find he had also made a thorough study of the art of gardening; in fact, had thought of landscape gardening as a profession. his reverence had said, "get him to give you some advice; he knows all about it." so i sought this fount of knowledge. my garden looked indeed a poor thing seen through his eyes. he stood taking in the general effect. "hump!--ha!--yes!--you ought to have all that cleared away," waving a hand towards a shrubbery which indeed looked as though it needed judicious pruning; "it is in the wrong place, and it would add considerably to the size of the lawn if it were done away with. and that path, you notice the fatal curve. why in the name of reason make a curve when a straight line leads quicker between two places? curves and circles are an abomination in a garden. don't you see it?" "oh, quite, but i didn't make that path." "no, but why tolerate it? i can assure you i could not live with that silly crooked line waving itself aside like a fanciful damsel. pah! get that altered for one thing, and then, _don't_ have it gravelled. between grass, what can look so staring and hideous as that patch of yellow? not that yours is very yellow, been down some time, eh? buy some old slabs of slate, quite easy to get. go round to the old churches; you are sure to find some philistine parson removing the old slate leading through the churchyard and putting down hideous, gritty gravel! you can benefit by his crass stupidity. and then--ah, yes--don't have wire fencing between the garden and that field. prettily-laid-out field that is, too. i congratulate you on that clump of trees. very nice! yes, very nice but that aggressive railing paling thing! away with it! and have a sunk fence if you need anything." "sheep are sometimes put in that field," i said timidly, for i felt, in spite of that clump of trees, that i was responsible for a great deal of fearful ignorance. "oh, well, a sunk fence will keep them out. now let us walk on a bit. dear, dear, how those two round beds hurt one! remind one of bulls'-eyes, don't they? you must not have round beds, have them in squares; two oblongs would fit in better there. but let me see, ah, yes, that would be better. now look here. take away that hedge"--he pointed to the holly hedge dividing the lawn from the kitchen garden--"right away; make there a good border, that will give you the colour, and you can do away with those beds." "but the kitchen garden!" "don't you like the look of a kitchen garden? nothing more beautiful. border everything with flowers, and think what a vista you have from your window." "oh, i know. i want an opening somewhere." "an opening! you want it _open_, not boxed in like this. the intention of hedges was to shut out the roads or one's prying neighbours. you have neither. for goodness' sake give yourself room. what is there so attractive in that prickly hedge? but if you want a division, if you must keep the vulgar vegetables in their place, why, put up a pergola!" "oh!" i exclaimed. pergola somehow suggested fairy-land, or italian lakes at the least. "yes, pergola. now just see it. beautiful green lawn. by the way, you must have this re-turfed, it is quite hopeless; good grass leading straight down to that hedge, no pathway between," and he shuddered. "do away with the prickly hedge, have a border of bright flowers taking its place; behind that a pergola of roses, through which you get vistas of all the good sprouting green things, and clumps of flowers, hedges of sweet-peas, banks of poppies, and everything bright and beautiful, with suggestions of gooseberry bushes and strawberry beds, and feathery carrots and waving asparagus. now, how does that sound?" "delightful," i replied, sinking on a garden seat with a most doleful sigh, and looking from that picture to the one that lay before me. "ah, yes," following my eye, "and don't forget that path; straight, mind you, and slates. there is something about a wet slate bordered with grass that gives you sensations of coolness and repose that really consoles you for the rain. you try it! now, i daresay i could suggest a good many more things that need doing, but i suppose you won't manage more this autumn." "it is very kind of you," i began. "oh, not at all, not at all. i assure you it is a great pleasure to suggest improvements. now here you have a little garden, nothing much about it, you may say, but at once i see what can be made of it. my mind is full of the higher vision, until really sometimes it is a shock to me to come back to real earth, as it were, and find how far it is from the ideal." "yes, i should think so," i murmured. "of course that is what is needed for landscape gardening, to which i gave special attention at one time. flowers i have not yet taken up; but shrubs! ah, well, i think i won't begin on shrubs, for i have to catch that train." then we walked back to the house, and i wished i too had a train to catch that i might never, never look at my garden again. the others said i was very depressed for some days, but at last i resolutely faced my garden. "you are all wrong," i said, "made wrong from the beginning, and i can't alter you, but as you are the only one we have i must just make the best of you. one thing i can do, and that is to have down the old holly hedge and make a pergola." so i approached the others. they agreed at once that we wanted vistas, and jumped at the pergola, but jim shook his head. "no go," said he, and said no more. "but i am not sure about a vista of cabbages and onions," remarked a cautious one. "i don't like them in any form." "but i should have borders of flowers everywhere," and the visitor's picture rose in my mind. "you don't mind asparagus." "no, if you can keep your vistas to that." "but a pergola! mary, that sounds a large order." "yes. but this is a thing that affects us all, so we must all make an effort." "does your effort mean £ s. d.?" "something very like it." and there was a chorus of "oh's" and "that's all very fine! _but_--" "well, you are all _for_ it, anyhow?" i said. "oh, yes, we are all _for_ it." "then i am going to tackle his reverence." "there he is, then, at the bottom of the lawn, with a slaughtered bunny in his hand, so the moment should be auspicious." but it wasn't. i approached my subject delicately, mindful of the overwhelming sense of impossibility with which the visitor's suggestions had filled my soul; but when it dawned on his reverence that i wanted not only to erect a pergola but to cut down the holly hedge, it then transpired that the holly hedge was the joy of his heart and the pride of his eyes; when other things failed, and snails ate the onions, _that_ hedge was always there, always green, always solid, and always a consolation. i explained my views and he explained his, and then we both explained them together; he said i was very obstinate, and i said he was not allowing me a free hand. he said he did, and i said, "then may i do it?" he said, "certainly not," and i said, "very good, then, i resign the garden." i heard his laugh--a hearty one--as i marched with dignity back to the drawing-room. "well!" the others cried, "you look as though you had had a lively time." "i could have told you exactly what his reverence would say and saved you the trouble of a row." i tried to squash jim with a look, but nothing under many hundredweights could do that. so i said coldly, "we had no row; and little boys don't always know what their elders will say." "bet you i know what _he_ said to you. and on the whole i agree with him. it's no use taking a bigger bite than you can chew." "it isn't a bigger bite than--jim, you are very vulgar! but i don't care now, i have given up the garden." "resigned your stewardship!" said jim, tragically. "anything over of the five pounds? i wouldn't retire yet, you can't have saved enough." "don't talk nonsense, mary. at least, it doesn't matter _what_ you talk, you can't do it," said one of the others. "can't i? we shall see," hardening my heart. "what did his reverence say to your resignation?" "he--he didn't say anything." "he laughed! i heard him," said jim, "and he is splitting his sides telling the young man all about it." "he isn't! jim, go quick, interrupt them. i won't let them talk of m--my garden." jim is really a nice boy; he swaggered off with his hands in his pockets, whistling, and joined the two men. i knew he would give the conversation the turn i wished. i began to cool down. it was easy to say i would "resign" the garden, but could i? putting pride aside, was not my interest in all those young promising plants for the spring too deep for me now to desert them? had i not rooted, amongst other things, too much of myself in my garden for me now lightly to withdraw? while i pondered i strolled down the garden, and coming up the other side ran into the group of three viewing the holly hedge from the back. "it is one of the best holly hedges i have ever seen," his reverence was saying. "cut it down! why, it would be sheer madness." then the young man, without noticing me, began, "all the same, you do want an opening somewhere. it is quite true that fine hedge shuts you in very much." "i like being shut in," said his reverence; "but i might consider your idea of an opening here, an archway in the middle, particularly as the hedge is already rather thin in one place, only 'mary, mary, quite contrairy.'" "you had better not abuse me, because i am listening," i put in. "oh, here you are. i was going to say you had resigned." "if you had heard all _your_ visitor suggested you would have thrown up the living." "bumptious fellow! i should not have listened to him." "but you told me to." "because i had had enough of him." "but what he said was true. it is absolutely immoral to have that curveting path, that hideous paling, and this bisecting hedge." "well, mary, i did give you credit for _some_ common sense." "it's un-common sense i am blessed with, and i am trying to educate you up to higher ideals for the garden." but i had taken his arm. "then do it by degrees. the young man suggests a peep-hole through the hedge. will that satisfy you?" "well, may i have this gravel path up and make a border here?" "what! more borders? however will you and griggs manage those you have already?" "perhaps if i have this i won't poach any more on the kitchen garden." his reverence looked at the gravel path critically. "i don't see that we need this path very much, but it means a lot of work to take away this gravel and bring in good mould. it is no use having a bad border while you are about it. who is to do it?" "griggs and--and help," i answered boldly, "and you shall direct." "and you won't resign?" "i will think better of my decision." "and i may keep my holly hedge?" "for the present, until i have educated you up to the pergola." "oh! thank you." then i explained fully to the young man the glories and delights of a pergola and vistas; and he is quite ready to help fix the iron arches, fasten overhead the wire netting, train the clambering roses, vines and clematis, and--cut down the holly hedge. his reverence's education will take a little time, i expect. in the meanwhile the archway made in the broad gap cut in his holly hedge will help to train his eye to the beauty of vistas. but how the visitor would despise my compromising soul! it was judicious of me to give his reverence the direction of the new border. i heard nothing of expense, and, once started, he went ahead in thorough fashion. the gravel was carted away, and some feet of stony earth. then we came to a layer of good though light soil. the backs of shrubberies, a small wood at the bottom of a field, a bank in the kitchen garden were all taxed for their share of the best soil we could get, and this, finally mixed in with some old turf and manure, made a border that looked promising. there was no need to begin with a layer of broken china and sardine tins, for the drainage in my soil was more than sufficient, and this disappointed jim, who said he was ready with a fine collection, had that substratum been necessary. and then, my new border ready, i launched out. it was to be partly herbaceous, partly for bulbs and annuals. the promised plants, which began to come in, supplied me with some delphiniums and small perennial sunflowers. i moved there some of my young plants of oriental poppies, planting them near together until they should have expanded. then i selected my lilies. the auratum and other delightful varieties i had to leave out, but the white madonna lily would thrive, and croceum, an orange-coloured bloom, and the soft apricot shade of an elegans promised to be hardy. these were placed in front of the delphiniums and room left for big sunflowers in the spring. half forward the canterbury bells, sweet-williams and tall campanulas were placed in clumps, and in front of them, well buried, were groups of the spanish and english irises, meant, as they succeed each other, to keep bright patches of yellow, purple and white flowering there for some time. they are not very dear--five shillings a hundred--and i now began to reckon on a new five pounds. montbresias, too, i launched into, and left spaces for groups of gladiolas to join them in the spring. then for early flowering i introduced my thriving young wallflowers, always in groups, not rows, and some of the dear narcissi and gorgeous tulips would, i thought, be admired before other things had a chance. to end up with, and be gay to the verge of gaudy, i had forget-me-nots and pink silene. even the thought of the visitor could not disturb my satisfaction over my new border. he had not given me his views on flowers. * * * * * the archway where the holly hedge was sacrificed for my vista was formed of two iron staves bent into arches and joined with wire netting of eighteen inches wide. the village blacksmith supplied the staves; they measured some fourteen feet when they arrived, but were cut and buried until the archway was at its highest point seven feet; and the wire netting was fastened on by my usual assistants. the young man was very neat-handed. then we consulted as to its covering, and, had all suggestions been taken, it would have had to bear a vine on account of its foliage; a virginian creeper for the red leaves in autumn; a gloire de dijon since it seemed to prosper in my soil; clematis, both montana and flamulata, and any number of the coloured varieties; a wisteria, as we had none; a pink and a white banksia; a w. a. richardson and a crimson rambler. my arch having but two sides i was obliged to offend a good many voters, and, despite jeers as to my former failures, i decided on giving the crimson rambler another try. i chose also a white banksia and a clematis montana, with free promises of introducing other clematis and annual creepers later on, and carrying out all ideas when once i had my pergola. * * * * * even after this supreme effort my autumn's work was only just beginning. there was the verandah with its failures to tackle. the beginning of november i unearthed the ramblers that even still refused to ramble, and soon the cause of their stunted condition was laid bare. "pot bound! whoi," said griggs, "so they are! curious! i don't moind 'avin' see'd 'em look like that. maybe i was drefful 'urried at the toime and never paid no 'eed." as he spoke he tore at the poor roots, confined with a web-like substance just the shape of the pot they had come in. anyone, absolutely _any_ ignoramus, must have seen the hopelessness of planting a rose-tree with its roots cramped like that. it was impossible for the poor plant to strike out, make itself at home, and get enough nourishment to grow on. how it had managed to live was the marvel. and they were all the same, w. a. richardson and the other ramblers yellow and red; the standards had not come in pots, so their fate had been better. it was soon done, and i felt that prisoners had been released. we gave them turf mould and manure mixture to strengthen them. but it was not only the roses; all the creepers, excepting one clematis, had made but poor growth. at last the mystery was solved. a spreading beech threw its grateful shade over half the house and grew within three yards of one end of the verandah. how far-reaching were its roots i now discovered, and their greedy feelers taking every bit of nourishment, both deep and near the surface, my creepers fought an unequal fight for their daily bread. the condition of the roots of a poor honeysuckle reminded one of prisoners of the bastille. but how to circumvent the tree? how to teach it manners? for there it must stay, and so must the creepers and plants. we could cut the roots, but they would come again. griggs scratched his head. "it's natur', that's wot it is, an' that ere tree 'ave been 'ere longer than any of us. so you can't do nothink." "we must do something. young man, are you thinking?" "hard," was the answer. "let's build an underground wall," suggested jim. but we all shook our heads and thought again. "let's sink something," said the young man. "oh! a tub, an oil tub!" i almost shouted. "why, yes," said the young man. "i was thinking of zinc, but that sounds so airtight and stuffy." "wouldn't a wooden tub rot away, though? a coffin goes to pieces pretty quick," said jim. "well, it will give them a better chance, and perhaps the roots will get accustomed to going round. anyway they can be renewed," said the young man, cheerfully. "if no other idea is forthcoming, let us go and find some tubs." now, how long wooden tubs will last under ground i cannot say, but we did then and there sink four tubs beneath the gravel, and filled them with good mixture, making holes and placing stones at the bottom for drainage, and there the roots of the poor starvelings had, at least for a time, a good meal, and when growing time comes i expect the honeysuckle, the roses and the clematis to do justice to their fare. the further end of the verandah was almost out of reach of the greedy roots, as the long white streamers of the flamulata proved. it is a satisfaction when things grow and flower and flourish as books and catalogues have led you to expect. * * * * * two of my green tubs were now emptied of the still rampant leaves of the nasturtium and the strong-growing geraniums. it seemed a pity to cut short any vigorous life at the dying season of the year, but jack frost would feel no compunction, and i might as well try and live up to the master's maxim of "getting forward"; so after refilling my tubs with as wholesome a mixture as i could, i planted in each four good roots of my old friend hellebore, and had them placed just under the verandah. the others at first looked askance. "will they flower?" i bade them examine the already formed buds. for i bought my hellebore in promising condition at one shilling and sixpence each, and by moving them with a good solid lump of earth round the roots i hoped not to check their development. i bought the common kind of white christmas rose, niger, and also a pinky-purple kind, with tall graceful heads called atrorubens. and when the robins, the snow, the sunshine and my christmas roses all came together, my verandah realised a very pretty christmas-card effect, and the others said, "that is not at all bad." then the jasmine growing under the verandah burst also into golden stars, its growth of one year having been carefully left alone, and i received as much praise as though i had done something wonderful, which is often the way of the world. "luck was with glory wed." this, however, is very previous, and i must go back to the end of october. * * * * * i determined the others should not complain next spring of lack of colour. the sturdy little forget-me-not plants were placed all round the narrow verandah border, and bright red tulips, i allowed myself fifty for that purpose, were buried between their roots a foot apart. that effect ought to be gay. in the small inner border between the windows that open on to the verandah i placed the violets from their too shady bed. by taking them up with good balls of earth i hoped not to check any flowering aspirations they might have, and as this was done in october they did recover, and in november and december they kept the verandah sweet, and ought to do even better in march. under the study windows i planted a good mass of my red and yellow wallflowers, not only to delight the eye but to send up the fragrance that fills one with the joy of life and spring, and that his reverence might open his windows in april and say, "well, the garden _is_ growing;" i also gave him a touching border of forget-me-nots. then, too, the desolate front border needed attention. it was always a trial, for it was the poorest of my poor soil, and much robbed by laurels, laburnum and may in the background. i knew i ought to re-make the whole border, and treat it as i had treated the new one; but prudence bade me lie low and leave it for another year. i removed the old things, the clumps of seedlings, marigolds, zinnias and the gallant little antirrhinums, who had now marched their last march, also geraniums and dahlias; the latter being carefully dried and stored in an open wooden box in the potting-shed. griggs kindly gave it "a bit of a dig," and removed the stones that struck even him as being rather heavy for a border. i wish the worms could be taught to carry their useful work a little further and not only dig up the stones but place them in piles by the wayside. we supplemented the poverty of the border with a little of our manure heap diet, and here i may remark that our savoury heap was composed of all kinds of material besides that derived from the stable. the grass mowings, border trimmings, leaf sweepings, also all refuse of roots and vegetables, after having formed a bonfire, were carefully added to this store. the bonfire reduces the bulk but makes valuable diet without the danger of sowing unwelcome seeds. though to the owners of big gardens worth writing about, and limitless gardeners and purse, my one poor means of improving the soil may seem very inadequate, still it was much better than nothing at all, and about suited to my other equipment of griggs and ignorance and five pounds. griggs, who regarded me more and more as an interloper, gave grudgingly of this store. "and wot 'ull i do for _my_ wegetables?" it was always "_my_ wegetables" and "_your_ flowers." "the rector 'ull be at me if i let you finish hoff that 'ere 'eap. 'e thinks a lot more of 'es wegetables than you do. an 'e's right. you can _eat_ wegetables. so i ain't a-going to let you have no more." i felt reference to his reverence just then might be injudicious, so i soothed griggs and put up, or the border did, with pauper fare. the hardiest things were placed here. foxgloves in clumps, and white and purple canterbury-bells. further forward i tried sweet-williams and lupins. i bought some of these, both white and so-called blue, at five shillings a dozen, rather small plants, but though my friends fulfilled their promises and sent me hampers, i had so much room, and all the long border to think of. some of my tulip bulbs from last year came in handy, and i edged off with pink silene. to get a border bright in may and june did not seem an impossibility to me now, but to continue the array through the summer was brain-splitting. but though looking forward and calculating is the very essence of gardening, one must also remember that one cannot get two seasons' work into one, and i tried resolutely to put the summer from my mind and reckon only with the spring, leaving february and march to tackle the further future. i turned then to my two round beds. they had been a consolation even after our visitor had insulted them. "_si on n'a pas ce qu'on aime, il faut aimer ce qu'on a."_ theoretically i hate compromises, practically i live by them. and so i prepared two beautiful persian carpets, nothing to do with carpet bedding, for march, april and may. my polyanthuses just filled in those two round beds, and jim and i took up the yellow harmony with feelings of regret. "it was a jolly good idea," said jim, "and you and i concocted it together, you know, mary. but, would you believe it, his reverence was talking the other day as though _he_ had evolved the whole blooming show. i said, 'you had better let mary hear you.'" "why, that is the biggest compliment the beds could have had, jim. he would not have claimed them unless they had been a success. i hope my persian carpets will come off as well; i am only going to give the plants six inches to expand in. they are very neat and trim, and some are forming buds already, which is foolish of them. nip them off. but things don't grow rampantly in this soil, it is no use deceiving oneself." "i never did," said jim; "'excepting weeds' you should add." those beds had to be refreshed, and as griggs was busy down the kitchen garden, jim enlisted the young man as he left the study and made him help to wheel a barrowful of the "heap" on to the scene of action. "i tell him it's a healthy smell," said jim; "fancy, he didn't want to come." "didn't he? then, jim, it is very forward of you to make him. his reverence's young man ought not to be worried. he has _much_ more important things to do than plant polyanthuses." "oh, i dare say! but i wasn't going to lug all this smelly stuff about alone, and you know _you_ won't do it, and griggs wouldn't let you have it if i had told him to do it, so who was there?" "i am very pleased to be of any service to you, mistress mary, but i didn't want to intrude," said the young man, and there was an east wind in his voice. "when a fellow was caught by the press-gang he didn't apologise for intruding," said jim, scornfully. so the young man chased jim round, and after the latter had screamed _"peccavi!_" they both came back heated and consequently thawed, and i wondered over the boyishness of men. i don't think i am a very good hand at digging; i let jim feel the superiority of his sex to the full when it comes to hard manual labour, and i have to retract a great deal that i have said in less guarded moments about the masculine hands and feminine head. jim tried to lure the young man into the discussion, but when the opponent lies down flat there is nothing to be done. jim said it was sneaky, and the young man said, "no, feminine diplomacy," with a look that meant "that will cause a rise"; but i was giving all the little brain i had to the work in hand, and my only answer was, "oh, do dig that in quickly; if griggs comes he will cart it all away for those rapacious cabbages of his." jim is sometimes the young man's mouthpiece. "ha, ha! you funk having it out with him." "perhaps mistress mary is merciful because she is strong," said the young man. "you don't know her as i do, that's all. she is 'mary, mary, quite contrairy.'" i ignored jim and turned to the young man. "and why did you need the press-gang to make you come and help this nice hard-working kind of an afternoon?" then the reason for the east wind became clear. "i could hardly flatter myself you really wanted me. i have not seen you, not been in the garden, i mean, for five days." "oh! but whose fault is that?" i asked mildly, for the heinousness of the omission did not startle me. the young man straightened up all his six foot and looked tragic. "i offered to come last thursday, you may remember, and i was told, most politely, that i need not trouble myself." "now really that is scarcely fair! i only said, i know i said how kind you were, but that you ought not to work too hard, and that, i remember i said quite a number of nice and considerate things." "i heard through all only the 'no,'" said the young man, giving a free translation of a favourite german quotation. "you know i value your help. the garden is much indebted to you, but of course i don't like to bother people." "that is quite a new idea," interrupted jim, scraping his muddy little hands and then plunging them in among the roots again. "i can't say i have seen much result from it myself!" "don't you know it is no bother to me," continued the young man with fresh earnestness. "don't you know--" "oh, no, really i don't. i have been working so hard these last few days, and i seem able to think of nothing but roots and bulbs and--practical things like that." "i am sure i wish to be practical. i wish for nothing better," he exclaimed energetically. "then do finish that row of polyanthuses," i said, looking up with a forgiving smile. "the first sensible word either of you have spoken for the last five minutes," remarked jim, with decision. "the way you two palaver while _i_ go steady ahead!" but the young man interpreted my smile in his own way and went on cheerfully, "that's all right, then. now, jim, look to your laurels; these plantlets are going in with a rush!" weeks after, when contemplating the neat, regular little roots, my thoughts went back, as thoughts will, to the conversation attached to them, and i wondered what he meant by its being "all right." i had never felt anything was wrong. words are such clumsy mediums, and sometimes even thoughts are too definite. there is a kind of inner consciousness, vague and mystical, full of colour and sensation, but without form or sound, and i think women develop it more strongly than men. the young man has a very definite character. his energy next took the form of a large hamper of plants from his mother's garden, a godsend for that half-empty, long border. and my conscience, growing with my garden, i suppose, found a safety-valve in ornamenting the window boxes of the young man's sitting-room, lately filled with mrs jones's screen of geraniums, with some spare bulbs. i do think they will look rather nice, but his gratitude was quite absurd, for really jim did most of the work. * * * * * i am aware that to form a proper herbaceous border you should have a colour scheme, or rather several colour schemes, in your mind's eye from the very beginning. this is a counsel of perfection to which i humbly hope i may some day attain. i confess to being still at the stage where all flowers, all colours, and plenty of everything holds great attraction for me. but, ignoramus as i am, i do not want disorder to reign; one must at least grasp the height and the flowering time of each plant, and strive after a succession of bloom fairly well represented over all the border and all the months. i thought therefore of my background, the tall varieties; my middle distance of less exalted growth, and my foreground of humble height. and then i took a large sheet of paper and drew on it a long border with three divisions, and proceeded to fill in these divisions with what flowers i already had planted, and others yet to come. then i tried to imagine the plants in bloom, and what colours would look well next each other, and how to repeat them as the eye follows the length of the border. in early spring, as in late autumn, yellow is the most prevalent colour; but in spring the yellow mixed with all the budding green has a most bright and young appearance. it is the sunrise, the promise of the day that is to be; whereas in autumn, with the rich tints of departing glory surrounding it, the suggestion is of "mellow fruitfulness." the yellow doronicum in the middle distance will probably be the first to break the greenness of the herbaceous border, unless there are clumps of daffodils hidden, but i think the border may be full enough without them, and they can be massed in so many places unfit for border plants. patches of polyanthus and even snowy london pride are useful at that early season, and can be placed near the edge. i saw one lovely effect, but cannot myself undertake to repeat it; it would answer better in a more favoured garden. instead of the usual box edging the whole length of the border was given to violets, and a delightful purple line as well as delicious scent was the result. it needs more care than the trim box, but the close green leaves form a very effective edging after the flowers have departed. the "bleeding heart" should follow the doronicum very quickly, it also belongs to the middle division; but the colour scheme is still mostly green, with just these occasional breaks. then the paper border was quickly filled with a bright procession for june and july. at the back delphiniums in numerous successive clumps and all degrees of blue; valerian, several of the strong little roots placed together to form a good show of delightful rosy red blossoms. foxgloves should rear their effective spotted heads between, and later on lilies--madonna's white and tiger's yellow--would take their place. lupins were also in this division, but a little more forward, each division naturally sub-dividing itself into tall and taller. galega, both white and mauve, were to grow here, but hollyhocks well at the back. the sunflower also, soleil d'or, with the thought of the annual variety to follow in spring, and therefore a space to be left. the smaller kind i kept for the middle division; it is a useful, neat little bush, rigidus by name, and cost me sixpence a plant. spiræa, a strong, herbaceous variety, should come as a kind of break to the regularity; it should grow so bushy and tall that it must be given two divisions in which to expand. the phlox must be placed at the back, also the hardy white daisy, several old plants of which had weathered griggs's reign; also the bright and useful golden rod, and some welcome clumps of japanese anemones. my friends dealt in larger clumps than the mercenary florist, i found. we left a good space here and there for the dahlias, and thus my background seemed fairly full. i considered the iris roots for some time, and then determined to give the german variety a place all to themselves. strained political relations had nothing to do with my decision, but when not on show the knife-like leaves and twisting roots are not particularly pleasing; so, before his reverence could forbid, i had my iris row down a side border. the kitchen garden is cut by a most convenient number of paths, and griggs has no objection to my taking from his space. then for the middle division i had some of my nurslings ready. more oriental poppies, in groups of three for the present; campanulas, also in threes, but with room for each one to expand; penstemons, but these were cuttings that had been given me, and though promised a place here they were kept for their first winter in the frame and only figured on my paper border. gaillardias, most promising plants, which even in this their first year had given me one or two of their "effective" blooms, were placed singly; my small and not very satisfactory chrysanthemums were moved forward from the background, where they had been hidden. michaelmas daisies also were in this division, and my canterbury-bells and sweet-williams, though they were not to be permanent plants, and might come out year by year when their duty was done. the doronicums were there and the bleeding heart, and old lovell's two turks' heads in sturdy independence, and i added a few clumps of crown imperials. coreopsis, at five shillings a dozen, joined the show, and montbresias, those that were over from my new border, and in time gladiolas also i hoped, but i had to remember my limitations. in front came groups of columbines and iceland poppy, the small roots of campanula, the geum already there; and i collected from its scattered hiding-places all the solomon's seal i could find, and grouped it behind the geums, for i noticed how well those two bore each other company. a few patches of japanese irises i allowed myself, and again i tried the anemones. neat labels marked the burying-places of those things that prefer to pass the winter with their heads underground. i think that border, in spite of its many disadvantages, ought to make something of a show, not only on paper. there are other things i hope to have in time for this my old-fashioned border. there is honesty, almost nicer in sound than in reality; and lavender must come here, or where will be the old fashion? also the "saracen-head thumping balls" of the purple thistle, and the blue-green sea-holly. tritoma, called in the vulgar tongue "red poker," ought to have a place in the background. then rocket, purple and white, is a neat, spikey little plant that should be represented, and i have no doubt that i shall be introduced to many more. if i love them at all, and if they can become at all reconciled to my soil, they shall find a home here. of course, with so many alterations to be made, and so many new-comers to be welcomed, i had again to break all rules and regulations belonging to a herbaceous border. griggs and a spade, fatal things both of them, had to be tolerated, and roots disturbed, for in the spring my arrangements had been very happy-go-lucky. now, armed with a certain amount of information, i hoped to settle things more permanently. but when the length and depth of that border had been worked i felt that my life's task was finished, and i never went near it for three whole days. * * * * * my one and only frame presented a more cheering appearance than it had done the year before. it was a capacious frame, and possessed means for heating. this was often griggs's one duty in the winter, and a grand excuse for not chopping wood. in the summer and autumn time an ignorant gardener can always account for himself with unnecessary lawn-mowing and diligent sweeping up of leaves that are instantly replaced by others; in the winter, unless snow provides a little gentle exercise, he is sore put to it to fill up his hours with a show of use. thus the frame with its stoke-hole was a boon to griggs, and i felt that i too should be much interested in its welfare this winter. for in their winter quarters were my hundred deep red "henry jacobys" and sundry other geranium cuttings far removed from griggs's former favourites. square wooden boxes held my young penstemons, a nice lot of tiny sprigs from the bluest of the lobelias, and three varieties of antirrhinum, also cuttings of yellow daisies and white. i was trying if cuttings from the not-successful violas would make better plants than those grown from seed, so there was one box devoted to these. a few pots held hyacinth bulbs and tulips, some choice arrangements that were to astonish the others, coming in a time of dire scarcity. griggs looked in with something like pride gleaming in his old eyes. he always talked of "moi frame" and what he would allow me to put there. but we had no ructions, and i must only guard against his pride overflowing in too much water. * * * * * one day i took his reverence's arm and led him round the garden. i steered him past the plantains, for he loves prodding at their stubborn roots, and i wanted his whole attention. i pointed out the present, i referred gracefully to the past, and i dilated on the future. "now, sir, the year is nearly up, say, 'how has the garden grown?'" "grown! why, you wicked girl! i believe you have prigged yet another border!" "oh! for those irises! yes. i wasn't talking about that little path and that little border: they will look very nice there by-and-by. i was talking of the flowers." and i led him away from that unlucky path and fixed him opposite my legitimate and much-developed border. "it looks much neater, certainly. i wonder, now, have you let griggs have any time for the vegetables lately?" "do you know, sir, the uninitiated might mistake you for a most cold-hearted and callous parent. if you lived up to the ideal, you would be saying beautiful things about my industry, and the conversion of wilderness into rose, and griggs's, well, not _his_ conversion, but he has done more work this last year than for the twenty before. and you would be saying that the five pounds--" "ah! i thought we were coming to that. it's quite gone, i suppose?" "gone! goodness me! and so has a good deal of its successor. but it is all right. i practically went the year round with that first fiver. all i am doing now is for next year, you see. i have drawn you up a statement of accounts and you will see that i even kept a little money for summer bulbs, though they can only come on next year. which was generous of the first year to the second, you will perceive. but i wanted so many things that it was too late to buy last autumn or i did not know of them. and i have begged and borrowed as well as bought. don't you think the garden has grown?" "yes, mary, i really do; and i conclude from your having entered upon the second five pounds that you want it, and are not going to resign the situation." "i don't think you can do without me." and his reverence said, after a moment, "i don't want to try." the little statement of accounts that i formally laid upon the study table was as follows: bulbs £ seeds £ odd plants roses geranium cuttings summer bulbs £ his reverence eyed it critically. "how neatly it fits in. you have not been driven to arrange matters with the usual feminine etcetera." "because i have paid those etceteras myself." "really, but what were the etceteras? i thought they were always unknown quantities in ladies' accounts." "that is one of the delusions of menkind. my etceteras were all the pennies paid for hampers coming and going, for labels, for scissors, three shillings those, without whose aid i could never have cut my way through the summer; they hold the flowers as you cut and save much backache. then for sulphur, for quassia chips, for bast, for--" "hold! i will never ask what a woman's etcetera means again. i see it is much the most important part of the whole account. i wish they always paid it themselves. but why did you?" "oh, because, because five pounds is _so_ little, you can have no idea how little, to buy everything with." "yes, but you started away with the idea it was a great deal." "i said i could put _some_ flowers in the garden with it anyway, and so i have. even the others allow that." "well, shall we say six pounds for this next year?" "will you really, sir? oh, that is good! now i shall go at once and order a pound's worth of peonies. there was such an enticing advertisement in this morning's _standard_, and i have been resisting temptation, because i really had to buy herbaceous plants and a good many bulbs. they have made such a hole. but in time, you see, in time the garden will get quite full." yes, peonies with the delicious description of "blush rose," "deep carmine," "snowy queen" had held my thoughts for some time. that front border ought to be devoted to all varieties of flowering shrubs, and in time it should be. there was plenty of room for my peonies; so they were quickly ordered and the border made as good for them as i could manage. they like being well-treated. but when i thought of the watering next year my heart failed me. something must be done. that advertisement and the extra pound lured me on to further bulbs. two hundred narcissi, mixed, and so cheap! only five shillings, were buried in the grass down the shrubbery side of the lawn. how cheering they would be in spring! a sweep of sweet nodding white and yellow. "there is one thing you have utterly forgotten, mary, and really no garden should be without them," said one of the others. "i know you are going to suggest some greenhouse nursling. remember the frame is not a conservatory." and i hoped my bulbs were still a surprise. "oh, you old solomon! and since when do lilies of the valley refuse to grow out of doors?" "lilies of the valley! now, why didn't you speak sooner?" "is it too late? why? you are still grubbing in things, aren't you?" "i have shut the purse for the autumn. honestly, i must keep the rest for the spring." "well, look here, don't be alarmed, we won't do it often, but i looked at your catalogue and saw they were six shillings a hundred, so 'we' give them on the condition we may pick them." "i like you! where don't you pick? all right, i will gratefully take the six shillings." "a shady spot," i should have said a year ago, but no, not a bit of it, after my experiences with the violets. a narrow border near a little wall, but on which the sun did not flare continuously, and there we prepared the ground, though it seemed pretty good on its own account for a wonder; and the hundred fibrous roots were carefully spread out and covered over. i thought of young "sandhurst." if i give him lilies of the valley for a button-hole he will think the garden is indeed growing. though if the lilies should fail! but why should they? griggs did not touch them. * * * * * jim said, "you are a fraud, mary, that's what you are." my thoughts flew to suggestions given for an essay on "the heroic qualities" which jim and i had discussed with much energy. but it was not that. "no, it was pretty footling, that essay, anyway; but the other fellows did just as badly. you promised me a go at tap-roots, and even old griggs says we can't tackle them now. he says he thinks there are probably jolly long ones, and i do think you might have thought of it in time." "i have been so busy, jim, and it isn't my department proper. let us bike over and ask the master if it is too late. griggs doesn't really know; he generally repeats what i tell him." "he knows enough not to do things, does griggs. i have found that out. he is a champion skulker." jim was very despondent, but a good spin along the hard road, with the bright sun that late autumn sometimes sees, raised his spirits. the master was in his garden, and oh! how neat and brushed up and ready for its sleeping-time looked his garden. not empty or dead, but intentionally tucked up and ready for the snowy counterpane, and protected from the biting blast. it was late, he said, but the weather still held up; we might try taking up one at a time and replacing it so that it should not take cold. jim took the directions with great attention. "i am going to boss this, mary; you said it wasn't your department." the way he worked and ordered about griggs and the coachman, summoned to give his unwilling help, promised well for his future as an admiral. the whole roots of the young pear tree were dug up with the greatest care; the tap-root, there it was sure enough, and all the vitality of the tree going gaily to swell its dimensions, was cut away, and then it was raised into a well-doctored hole, with a broad slab-like stone under it to cut short any further aspirations after such a root again, and all other branch roots carefully spread out to encourage growth and general productiveness. jim worked himself and his men, and also the young man, hard; i was an admiring onlooker until the operation was finished and the tree standing up quite firm again. then, as jim was bent on yet another, and refused to think it too late, i wandered down my lime-tree walk, where snowdrops were now hidden. i had collected ferns there and more primroses, and clumps of foxgloves on the sunniest side, just where they would catch the eye from the garden. a feeling of peace was in the air; one bird dropped a note and another caught it up; not a ringing challenge of song, but a pleasant exchange of compliments. "going strong?" "oh, rather!" "berries look well." "prime!" "good old world!" a squirrel frisked past up a tree with a look down at me, saying, "ah! don't you wish you could do it!" and then off he went, terribly busy with his nut store. he and griggs had had a race over the small walnuts which adorned one tree, and i think the squirrel could account for the better part. it was all right, all in order, this going to sleep time, this baring of boughs, decaying of vegetation, this "season of mists." a little while, only a little while and the change would begin; after sleep would come the great awakening. i picked a brown bud from the chestnut tree and cut it in half with my knife. there was the promise, the great life spirit already at work. cushioned in the centre the embryo of the spiral-shaped bloom for may was to be plainly seen. the spring was preparing right through the winter. i heard jim's voice, cheery and ringing, "now then, you fellows, heave away! oh, i say, young man, don't scoot just yet." steps rustled behind me, and as he joined me we walked on under the lime trees and i tried to talk of my garden, but he did not appear responsive; and finally, when i could walk no further, for i was wedged in the swing gate that opened on to the field he blocked the opening and said, "i don't the least want to talk of the garden." "well, talk of this," i said, and gave him the chestnut twig i had broken off; "it is full of meaning." "it is very bare and dead-looking." "no. it is really full of life and hope. see its wonderful centre. there, i will open one to give you a parable from nature. we need hope at this time of the year." "i have been hoping so long," he would not be put off, "perhaps i am tired of mere hoping. i want to progress." "try faith then," i suggested. his eyes held mine. "there is one thing better than faith, you know." i suppose the wind was cold. i gave a little shiver and he placed his hand over mine. then i said, "i think faith ought to have its turn." "what is faith in this instance?" "waiting, i should think," i answered slowly. "but waiting with a knowledge of--" "ah! i must teach you another parable, i see. when the seed is sown in the ground we have to wait for it to spring up; it has to grow, to grow underground quite a long while before it comes to the light. it is not good to uncover it before it naturally springs up." "can i be sure the seed is there?" he asked eagerly. "some seeds take longer than others too, don't they?" i answered evasively. "the annuals come up quite quickly, but perennials are much slower. i prefer perennials, don't you?" "i will wait." "the winter is such a good time for waiting," i remarked cheerfully. "if faith be added to hope is the next step sure?" he questioned. "don't you know we cannot hurry the seasons. it is no good. if you are in winter, in the faith time, why, be content." "yes, spring will come, i will wait," he said again, and i too knew that spring would come. i loosened my hand gently and we walked back under the bared boughs of the lime trees, a tangle of grass, weeds and ferns, and a rustling of brown fallen leaves at our feet. a hush as of going to sleep was in the air, and a robin from a full throat seemed to assure us that each season in its turn is good, and that spring never quite leaves the earth. index aconite, winter, anemones, , , ; --japanese, , , annuals, , , antirrhinums, , , , , , , , asters, perennial, , begonias, biennials, bleeding heart, , , calceolarias, , campanulas, , , , , canariensis, , , canterbury-bells, , , , , , , , , christmas roses, , , chrysanthemums, annual, , ; --perennial, , , , clematis, ; --flamulata, , ; --montana, coleus, columbines, , , , convolvulus, , , coreopsis, cornflowers, , , creeping jenny, crocuses, , crown imperials, daffodils, , , , dahlias, , , ; --cactus, , daisies, autumn, , ; --white, , , ; --yellow, delphiniums, , , , , , doronicum, , , , dressing for rose roots, eschscholtzia, , elder-tree, featherfew, ferns, , forget-me-nots, , , , , , foxgloves, , , , fruit-trees, , fuchsias, gaillardias, , , , , galega, , , geraniums, , , , ; --henry jacoby, , geums, , , gladiolas, , , , godetias, , , , golden rod, , , green fly, , ground-elder, , gypsophila, , hardy annuals, hellebore, , , hollyhocks, , , , , honeysuckle, , hyacinths, , indian-pea, _see_ galega irises; english, ; --german, , , ; --spanish, , ixias, japanese rose, jasmine, white, ; --yellow, , , , _kerria japonica_, larkspur, , laurel, lavender, leopard's bane, lilies, , , ; --auratum, ; --croceum, ; --madonna, , ; --tiger, , lily-of-the-valley, lobelia, , , , london pride, , lupins, , , , marguerites, , , , , marigolds, , , , , mignonette, , , montbresias, , , , narcissi, , , nasturtium, , , , , nicotina, 'old man's beard,' pansies, papaver, _see_ poppy penstemons, , , , , , , peonies, perennials, pergola, , phlox, , , , , , ; --annual, plantains, , polyanthus, , , , , , , poppies, californian, , ; --iceland, , , , ; --oriental, , , ; --shirley, , , , , primroses, , rocket, roses, ; --crimson rambler, , , ; --gloire de dijon, , , , ; --reine marie hortense, , ; --william allen richardson, , , ; --cutting, ; --suckers, rudbeckias, saint-foin, salpiglosis, , salvias, scabious, , , scillas, , , sea-holly, silene, , , snapdragons, _see_ antirrhinums snowdrops, , , solomon's seal, spiræa, , stocks, , , , , sunflowers, , , , , , , ; --rigidus, ; --soleil d'or, sweet peas, , , , , , sweet-william, , , , , , , , , syringa, tagetes, , , , thinning plants, , thistle, purple, , tritoma, , tritonia, tropoeolum, tulips, , , , , , turk's head, , , valerian, , , verbena, viola, , , , , violets, , , virginian creeper, wall-flower, , , , , wisteria, zinnia, , , , the end file was produced from images generously made available by the library of congress) [illustration: vol·i· no· · garden and forest ·a·journal·of·horticulture· ·landscape·art·and·forestry· ·february· , .] price ten cents.] copyright, , by the garden and forest publishing company, limited. [$ . a year, in advance.] important new books. i. by william dean howells. april hopes. a novel. by william dean howells. mo, cloth, $ . _mr. howells never wrote a more bewitching book. it is useless to deny the rarity and worth of the skill that can report so perfectly and with such exquisite humor the manifold emotions of the modern maiden and her lover._--philadelphia press. modern italian poets. essays and versions. by william dean howells. author of "april hopes," &c. with portraits. mo, half cloth, uncut edges and gilt tops, $ . _a portfolio of delightsome studies.... no acute and penetrating critic surpasses mr. howells in true insight, in polished irony, in effective and yet graceful treatment of his theme, in that light and indescribable touch that fixes your eye on the true heart and soul of the theme._--critic, _n. y._ ii. conclusion of kinglake's crimean war. kinglake's crimean war. the invasion of the crimea: its origin, and an account of its progress down to the death of lord raglan. by alexander william kinglake. with maps and plans. five volumes now ready. mo, cloth, $ per vol. vol. v. from the morrow of inkerman to the fall of canrobert; _just published_.--vol. vi. from the rise of pelissier to the death of lord raglan--completing the work--_nearly ready_. _the charm of mr. kinglake's style, the wonderful beauty of his pictures, the subtle irony of his reflections, have made him so long a favorite and companion, that it is with unfeigned regret we read the word "farewell" with which these volumes close._--pall mall gazette, _london._ iii. t. adolphus trollope's autobiography. what i remember. by t. adolphus trollope. with portrait. mo, cloth, $ . _the most delightful pot-pourri that we could desire of the time just anterior to our own.... mr. trollope preserves for us delightful, racy stories of his youth and the youth of his century, and gives us glimpses of loved or worshipped faces banished before our time. hence the success of these written remembrances._--academy, _london._ iv. by the author of "self-help." life and labor; or, characteristics of men of industry, culture, and genius. by samuel smiles, ll.d., author of "self-help," &c. mo, cloth, $ . _commends itself to the entire confidence of readers. dr. smiles writes nothing that is not fresh, strong, and magnetically bracing. he is one of the most helpful authors of the victorian era.... this is just the book for young men._--n. y. journal of commerce. v. thomas w. higginson's new book. women and men. by thomas w. higginson, author of "a larger history of the united states," &c. mo, cloth, $ . _these essays are replete with common-sense ideas, expressed in well-chosen language, and reflect on every page the humor, wit, wisdom of the author._--n. y. sun. vi. plain, sensible, sturdy advice.--chicago news. big wages, and how to earn them. by a foreman. mo, cloth, cents. _the views of an intelligent observer upon some of the foremost social topics of the day. the style is simple, the logic cogent, and the tone moderate and sensible._--n. y. commercial advertiser. vii. the standard authority upon the inquisition.--philadelphia ledger. history of the inquisition of the middle ages. by henry charles lea. to be completed in three volumes. vo, cloth, uncut edges and gilt tops, $ per volume. vols. i. and ii. _now ready_. vol. iii. _nearly ready_. _characterized by the same astounding reach of historical scholarship as made mr. lea's "sacerdotal celibacy" the wonder of european scholars. but it seems even to surpass his former works in judicial repose and in the mastery of materials.... of mr. lea's predecessors no one is so like him as gibbon._--sunday-school times, _philadelphia_. viii. the navies of the united states and of europe. modern ships of war. by sir edward j. reed, m.p., late chief constructor of the british navy, and edward simpson, rear-admiral u.s.n., late president of the u.s. naval advisory board. with supplementary chapters and notes by j. d. jerrold kelley, lieutenant u.s.n. illustrated. square vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . _this is the most valuable contribution yet made to the popular literature of modern navies.... the whole country is indebted to the authors and to the publishers for a book on men-of-war that both in matter and make-up is without an equal._--n. y. herald. ix. full, from beginning to end, with good stories.--saturday review, london. my autobiography and reminiscences. by w. p. frith, r.a. portrait. mo, cloth, $ . _the whole round of english autobiography does not comprise a work more full of character, more rich in anecdote, or more fruitful in entertainment for the general reader. a delightful volume._--london daily news. x. negro troops in the rebellion. history of the negro troops in the war of the rebellion. - . by g. w. williams, ll.d. portrait. vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . _mr. williams has written an excellent book. he was one of the gallant men whose patriotic deeds he commemorates, and he has made a careful study of all the best accessible records of their achievements. his people may well be proud of the showing._--n. y. tribune. xi. $ a year for a family. family living on $ a year. a daily reference book for young and inexperienced housewives. by juliet corson. mo, cloth, extra, $ . _miss corson has rendered a valuable service by this book, in which she shows conclusively how for five hundred dollars a plentiful, appetizing and varied diet can be furnished throughout the year to a family._--n. y. sun. xii. some recent fiction. captain macdonald's daughter. by archibald campbell. mo, cloth, $ . narka, the nihilist. by kathleen o'meara. mo, cloth, extra, $ . mr. absalom billingslea, and other georgian folk. by r. m. johnston. illustrated. mo, cloth, extra, $ . a magnificent plebeian. by julia magruder. mo, cloth, extra, $ . a prince of the blood. by james payn. mo, cloth, cents. _the above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by_ harper & brothers, _postpaid, to any part of the united states and canada on receipt of price. catalogue sent on receipt of ten cents in postage stamps._ published by harper & brothers, new york. garden and forest: an illustrated weekly journal of horticulture, landscape art and forestry. garden and forest will be devoted to horticulture in all its branches, garden botany, dendrology and landscape gardening, and will discuss plant diseases and insects injurious to vegetation. professor c. s. sargent, of harvard college, will have general editorial control of garden and forest. professor wm. g. farlow, of harvard college, will have editorial charge of the department of cryptogamic botany and plant diseases. professor a. s. packard, of brown university, will have editorial charge of the department of entomology. mr. wm. a. stiles will be the managing editor. garden and forest will record all noteworthy discoveries and all progress in science and practice within its field at home and abroad. it will place scientific information clearly and simply before the public, and make available for the instruction of all persons interested in garden plants the conclusions reached by the most trustworthy investigators. arrangements have been made to figure and describe new and little-known plants (especially north american) of horticultural promise. a department will be devoted to the history and description of ornamental trees and shrubs. new florists' flowers, fruits and vegetables will be made known, and experienced gardeners will describe practical methods of cultivation. garden and forest will report the proceedings of the principal horticultural societies of the united states and the condition of the horticultural trade in the chief commercial centres of the country. garden and forest, in view of the growing taste for rural life, and of the multiplication of country residences in all parts of the united states, especially in the vicinity of the cities and of the larger towns, will make a special feature of discussing the planning and planting of private gardens and grounds, small and large, and will endeavor to assist all who desire to make their home surroundings attractive and artistic. it will be a medium of instruction for all persons interested in preserving and developing the beauty of natural scenery. it will co-operate with village improvement societies and every other organized effort to secure the proper ordering and maintenance of parks and squares, cemeteries, railroad stations, school grounds and roadsides. it will treat of landscape gardening in all its phases; reviewing its history and discussing its connection with architecture. garden and forest will give special attention to scientific and practical forestry in their various departments, including forest conservation and economic tree planting, and to all the important questions which grow out of the intimate relation of the forests of the country to its climate, soil, water supply and material development. original information on all these subjects will be furnished by numerous american and foreign correspondents. among those who have promised contributions to garden and forest are: mr. sereno watson, curator of the herbarium, harvard college. prof. geo. l. goodale, harvard college. " wolcott gibbs, " " wm. h. brewer, yale college. " d. g. eaton, " " wm. j. beal, agricultural college of michigan. " l. h. bailey, jr., " " j. l. budd, agricultural college of iowa. " b. d. halsted, " " " " e. w. hilgard, university of california. " j. t. rothrock, university of pennsylvania. " chas. e. bessey, university of nebraska. " wm. trelease, shaw school of botany, st. louis. " t. j. burrill, university of illinois. " w. w. bailey, brown university. " e. a. popenoe, agricultural college, kansas. " raphael pumpelly. united states geological survey. " james h. gardiner, director new york state survey. " wm. r. lazenby, director of the ohio agricultural experiment station. " w. w. tracy, detroit, mich. " c. v. riley, washington, d. c. mr. donald g. mitchell, new haven, conn. " frank j. scott, toledo, o. hon. adolphe leuÉ, secretary of the ohio forestry bureau. " b. g. northrop, clinton, conn. mr. g. w. hotchkiss, secretary of the lumber manufacturers' association. dr. c. l. anderson, santa cruz, cal. mr. frederick law olmsted, brookline, mass. " francis parkman, boston. dr. c. c. parry, san francisco. mr. prosper j. berckmans, president of the american pomological society. " charles a. dana, new york. " burnet landreth, philadelphia. " robert ridgeway, washington, d. c. " calvert vaux, new york. " j. b. harrison, franklin falls, n. h. dr. henry p. walcott, president of the massachusetts horticultural society. mr. c. g. pringle, charlotte, vt. " robert douglas, waukegan, ill. " h. w. s. cleveland, minneapolis, minn. " chas. w. garfield, secretary of the american pomological society. " c. r. orcutt, san diego, cal. " b. e. fernow, chief of the forestry division, washington, d. c. " john birkenbine, secretary of the pennsylvania forestry association. " josiah hoopes, west chester, pa. " peter henderson, new york. " wm. falconer, glen cove, n. y. " jackson dawson, jamaica plain, mass. " wm. h. hall, state engineer, sacramento, cal. " c. c. crozier, department of agriculture, washington, d. c. the rev. e. p. roe, cornwall, n. y. dr. c. c. abbott, trenton, n. j. mrs. schuyler van rensselaer, new york. " mary treat, vineland, n. j. dr. karl mohr, mobile, ala. hon. j. b. walker, forest commissioner of new hampshire. mr. wm. hamilton gibson, brooklyn, n. y. " edgar t. ensign, forest commissioner of colorado. " e. s. carman, editor of the _rural new yorker_. " wm. m. canby. wilmington, del. " john robinson, salem, mass. " j. d. lyman, exeter, n. h. " samuel parsons, jr., superintendent of central park, n. y. " wm. mcmillan, superintendent of parks, buffalo. n. y. " sylvester baxter, boston. " charles eliot, boston. " john thorpe, secretary of the new york horticultural society. " edwin lonsdale, secretary of the philadelphia horticultural society. " robert craig, president of the philadelphia florists' club. " samuel b. parsons, flushing, n. y. " george ellwanger, rochester. " p. h. barry, rochester. " w. j. stewart, boston, mass. " w. a. manda, botanic gardens, cambridge, mass. " david allan, mount vernon, mass. " wm. robinson, north easton, mass. " a. h. fewkes, newton highlands, mass. " f. goldring, kenwood, n. y. " c. m. atkinson, brookline, mass. * * * * * dr. maxwell t. masters, editor of the gardener's chronicle. mr. geo. nicholson, curator of the royal gardens, kew. " w. b. hemsley, herbarium, royal gardens, kew. " wm. goldring, london. mr. max leichtlin, baden baden. m. edouard andrÉ, editor of the revue horticole, paris, france. dr. g. m. dawson, geological survey of canada. prof. john macoun, " " " m. charles naudin, director of the gardens of the villa thuret, antibes. dr. chas. bolle, berlin. m. j. allard, angers, maine & loire, france. dr. h. maye, university of tokio, japan. prof. d. p. penhallow, director of the botanical gardens, montreal. mr. wm. saunders, director of the agricultural experiment station, ontario. " wm. little, montreal. single numbers, cents. subscription price, four dollars a year, in advance. the garden and forest publishing co., limited, d. a. munro, _manager_. tribune building, new york garden and forest. published weekly by the garden and forest publishing co. [limited.] office: tribune building, new york. conducted by professor c. s. sargent. entered as second-class matter at the post office at new york, n. y. new york, wednesday, february , . table of contents. page. editorial articles:--asa gray. the gardener's monthly. the white pine in europe the forests of the white mountain _francis parkman._ landscape gardening.--a definition _mrs. schuyler van rensselaer._ floriculture in the united states _peter henderson._ how to make a lawn _professor w. j. beal._ letter from london _w. goldring._ a new departure in chrysanthemums _a. h. fewkes._ new plants from afghanistan _max leichtlin._ iris tenuis, with figure _sereno watson._ hardy shrubs for forcing _wm. falconer._ plant notes _c. c. pringle; professor w. trelease._ wire netting for tree guards _a. a. crozier._ artificial water, with illustration some new roses _edwin lonsdale._ two ferns and their treatment _f. goldring._ timely hints about bulbs _john thorpe._ entomology: arsenical poisons in the orchard _professor a. s. packard._ the forest: the white pine in europe _professor h. mayr._ european larch in massachusetts thinning pine plantations _b. e. fernow._ book reviews: gray's elements of botany _professor g. l. goodale._ kansas forest trees _professor g. l. goodale._ public works:--the falls of minnehaha--a park for wilmington flower markets:--new york--philadelphia--boston * * * * * asa gray. the whole civilized world is mourning the death of asa gray with a depth of feeling and appreciation perhaps never accorded before to a scholar and man of science. to the editors of this journal the loss at the very outset of their labors is serious indeed. they lose a wise and sympathetic adviser of great experience and mature judgment to whom they could always have turned with entire freedom and in perfect confidence; and they lose a contributor whose vast stores of knowledge and graceful pen might, it was reasonable to hope, have long enriched their columns. the career of asa gray is interesting from many points of view. it is the story of the life of a man born in humble circumstances, without the advantages of early education, without inherited genius--for there is no trace in his yeoman ancestry of any germ of intellectual greatness--who succeeded in gaining through native intelligence, industry and force of character, a position in the very front rank of the scientific men of his age. among the naturalists who, since linnæus, have devoted their lives to the description and classification of plants, four or five stand out prominently in the character and importance of their work. in this little group asa gray has fairly won for himself a lasting position. but he was something more than a mere systematist. he showed himself capable of drawing broad philosophical conclusions from the dry facts he collected and elaborated with such untiring industry and zeal. this power of comprehensive generalization he showed in his paper upon the "characters of certain new species of plants collected in japan" by charles wright, published nearly thirty years ago. here he first pointed out the extraordinary similarity between the floras of eastern north america and japan, and then explained the peculiar distribution of plants through the northern hemisphere by tracing their direct descent through geological eras from ancestors which flourished in the arctic regions down to the latest tertiary period. this paper was professor gray's most remarkable and interesting contribution to science. it at once raised him to high rank among philosophical naturalists and drew the attention of the whole scientific world to the cambridge botanist. asa gray did not devote himself to abstract science alone; he wrote as successfully for the student as for the professional naturalist. his long list of educational works have no equals in accuracy and in beauty and compactness of expression. they have had a remarkable influence upon the study of botany in this country during the half century which has elapsed since the first of the series appeared. botany, moreover, did not satisfy that wonderful intellect, which hard work only stimulated but did not weary, and one of asa gray's chief claims to distinction is the prominent and commanding position he took in the great intellectual and scientific struggle of modern times, in which, almost alone and single handed he bore in america the brunt of the disbelief in the darwinian theory shared by most of the leading naturalists of the time. but the crowning labor of asa gray's life was the preparation of a descriptive work upon the plants of north america. this great undertaking occupied his attention and much of his time during the last forty years of his life. less fortunate than his greatest botanical contemporary, george bentham, who turned from the last page of corrected proof of his work upon the genera of plants to the bed from which he was never to rise again, asa gray's great work is left unfinished. the two volumes of the "synoptical flora of north america" will keep his memory green, however, as long as the human race is interested in the study of plants. but his botanical writings and his scientific fame are not the most valuable legacy which asa gray has left to the american people. more precious to us is the example of his life in this age of grasping materialism. it is a life that teaches how industry and unselfish devotion to learning can attain to the highest distinction and the most enduring fame. great as were his intellectual gifts, asa gray was greatest in the simplicity of his character and in the beauty of his pure and stainless life. * * * * * it is with genuine regret that we read the announcement of the discontinuance of the _gardener's monthly_. it is like reading of the death of an old friend. ever since we have been interested in the cultivation of flowers we have looked to the _monthly_ for inspiration and advice, and its pages have rarely been turned without finding the assistance we stood in need of. but, fortunately, the _gardener's monthly_, and its modest and accomplished editor, mr. thomas meehan, were one and the same thing. it is mr. meehan's long editorial experience, high character, great learning and varied practical knowledge, which made the _gardener's monthly_ what it was. these, we are happy to know, are not to be lost to us, as mr. meehan will, in a somewhat different field and with new associates, continue to delight and instruct the horticultural public. americans who visit europe cannot fail to remark that in the parks and pleasure grounds of the continent no coniferous tree is more graceful when young or more dignified at maturity than our white pine. the notes of dr. mayr, of the bavarian forest academy, in another column, testify that it holds a position of equal importance as a forest tree for economic planting. it thrives from northern germany to lombardy, corresponding with a range of climate in this country from new england to northern georgia. it needs bright sunshine, however, and perhaps it is for lack of this that so few good specimens are seen in england. it was among the first of our trees to be introduced there, but it has been universally pronounced an indifferent grower. the forests of the white mountains. new hampshire is not a peculiarly wealthy state, but it has some resources scarcely equaled by those of any of its sisters. the white mountains, though worth little to the farmer, are a piece of real estate which yields a sure and abundant income by attracting tourists and their money; and this revenue is certain to increase, unless blind mismanagement interposes. the white mountains are at present unique objects of attraction; but they may easily be spoiled, and the yearly tide of tourists will thus be turned towards other points of interest whose owners have had more sense and foresight. these mountains owe three-fourths of their charms to the primeval forest that still covers them. speculators have their eyes on it, and if they are permitted to work their will the state will find a most productive piece of property sadly fallen in value. if the mountains are robbed of their forests they will become like some parts of the pyrenees, which, though much higher, are without interest, because they have been stripped bare. the forests of the white mountains have a considerable commercial value, and this value need not be sacrificed. when lumber speculators get possession of forests they generally cut down all the trees and strip the land at once, with an eye to immediate profit. the more conservative, and, in the end, the more profitable management, consists in selecting and cutting out the valuable timber when it has matured, leaving the younger growth for future use. this process is not very harmful to the landscape. it is practiced extensively in maine, where the art of managing forests with a view to profit is better understood than elsewhere in this country. a fair amount of good timber may thus be drawn from the white mountains, without impairing their value as the permanent source of a vastly greater income from the attraction they will offer to an increasing influx of tourists. at the same time the streams flowing from them, and especially the pemigewasset, a main source of the merrimac, will be saved from the alternate droughts and freshets to which all streams are exposed that take their rise in mountains denuded of forests. the subject is one of the last importance to the mill owners along these rivers. _f. parkman._ landscape gardening.--a definition. some of the fine arts appeal to the ear, others to the eye. the latter are the arts of design, and they are usually named as three--architecture, sculpture and painting. a man who practices one of these in any of its branches is an artist; other men who work with forms and colors are at the best but artisans. this is the popular belief. but in fact there is a fourth art which has a right to be rated with the others, which is as fine as the finest, and which demands as much of its professors in the way of creative power and executive skill as the most difficult. this is the art whose purpose it is to create beautiful compositions upon the surface of the ground. the mere statement of its purpose is sufficient to establish its rank. it is the effort to produce organic beauty--to compose a beautiful whole with a number of related parts--which makes a man an artist; neither the production of a merely useful organism nor of a single beautiful detail suffices. a clearly told story or a single beautiful word is not a work of art--only a story told in beautifully connected words. a solidly and conveniently built house, if it is nothing more, is not a work of architecture, nor is an isolated stone, however lovely in shape and surface. a delightful tint, a graceful line, does not make a picture; and though the painter may reproduce ugly models he must put some kind of beauty into the reproduction if it is to be esteemed above any other manufactured article--if not beauty of form, then beauty of color or of meaning or at least of execution. similarly, when a man disposes the surface of the soil with an eye to crops alone he is an agriculturist; when he grows plants for their beauty as isolated objects he is a horticulturist; but when he disposes ground and plants together to produce organic beauty of effect, he is an artist with the best. yet though all the fine arts are thus akin in general purpose they differ each from each in many ways. and in the radical differences which exist between the landscape-gardener's and all the others we find some reasons why its affinity with them is so commonly ignored. one difference is that it uses the same materials as nature herself. in what is called "natural" gardening it uses them to produce effects which under fortunate conditions nature might produce without man's aid. then, the better the result, the less likely it is to be recognized as an artificial--artistic--result. the more perfectly the artist attains his aim, the more likely we are to forget that he has been at work. in "formal" gardening, on the other hand, nature's materials are disposed and treated in frankly unnatural ways; and then--as a more or less intelligent love for natural beauty is very common to-day, and an intelligent eye for art is rare--the artist's work is apt to be resented as an impertinence, denied its right to its name, called a mere contorting and disfiguring of his materials. again, the landscape-gardener's art differs from all others in the unstable character of its productions. when surfaces are modeled and plants arranged, nature and the artist must work a long time together before the true result appears; and when once it has revealed itself, day to day attention will be forever needed to preserve it from the deforming effects of time. it is easy to see how often neglect or interference must work havoc with the best intentions, how often the passage of years must travesty or destroy the best results, how rare must be the cases in which a work of landscape art really does justice to its creator. still another thing which affects popular recognition of the art as such is our lack of clearly understood terms by which to speak of it and of those who practice it. "gardens" once meant pleasure-grounds of every kind and "gardener" then had an adequately artistic sound. but as the significance of the one term has been gradually specialized, so the other has gradually come to denote a mere grower of plants. "landscape gardener" was a title first used by the artists of the eighteenth century to mark the new tendency which they represented--the search for "natural" as opposed to "formal" beauty; and it seemed to them to need an apology as savoring, perhaps, of grandiloquence or conceit. but as taste declined in england it was assumed by men who had not the slightest right, judged either by their aims or by their results, to be considered artists; and to-day it is fallen into such disesteem that it is often replaced by "landscape architect." this title has french usage to support it and is in many respects a good one. but its correlative--"landscape architecture"--is unsatisfactory; and so, on the other hand, is "landscape artist," though "landscape art" is an excellent generic term. perhaps the best we can do is to keep to "landscape gardener," and try to remember that it ought always to mean an artist and an artist only. _m. g. van rensselaer._ floriculture in the united states. at the beginning of the present century, it is not probable that there were florists in the united states, and their combined green-house structures could not have exceeded , square feet of glass. there are now more than , florists distributed through every state and territory in the union and estimating , square feet of glass to each, the total area would be , , feet, or about , acres of green-houses. the value of the bare structures, with heating apparatus, at cents per square foot would be $ , , , while the stock of plants grown in them would not be less than twice that sum. the present rate of growth in the business is about % per annum, which proves that it is keeping well abreast of our most flourishing industries. the business, too, is conducted by a better class of men. no longer than thirty years ago it was rare to find any other than a foreigner engaged in commercial floriculture. these men had usually been private gardeners, who were mostly uneducated, and without business habits. but to-day, the men of this calling compare favorably in intelligence and business capacity with any mercantile class. floriculture has attained such importance that it has taken its place as a regular branch of study in some of our agricultural colleges. of late years, too, scores of young men in all parts of the country have been apprenticing themselves to the large establishments near the cities, and already some of these have achieved a high standing; for the training so received by a lad from sixteen to twenty, better fits him for the business here than ten years of european experience, because much of what is learned there would prove worse than useless here. the english or german florist has here to contend with unfamiliar conditions of climate and a manner of doing business that is novel to him. again he has been trained to more deliberate methods of working, and when i told the story a few years ago of a workman who had potted , cuttings in two inch pots in ten consecutive hours, it was stigmatized in nearly every horticultural magazine in europe as a piece of american bragging. as a matter of fact this same workman two years later, potted , plants in ten hours, and since then several other workmen have potted plants at the rate of a thousand per hour all day long. old world conservatism is slow to adopt improvements. the practice of heating by low pressure steam will save in labor, coal and construction one-fifth of the expense by old methods, and nearly all the large green-house establishments in this country, whether private or commercial, have been for some years furnished with the best apparatus. but when visiting london, edinburgh and paris in , i neither saw nor heard of a single case where steam had been used for green-house heating. the stress of competition here has developed enterprise, encouraged invention and driven us to rapid and prudent practice, so that while labor costs at least twice as much as it does in europe, our prices both at wholesale and retail, are lower. and yet i am not aware that american florists complain that their profits compare unfavorably with those of their brethren over the sea. commercial floriculture includes two distinct branches, one for the production of flowers and the other for the production of plants. during the past twenty years the growth in the flower department of the business has outstripped the growth of the plant department. the increase in the sale of rosebuds in winter is especially noteworthy. at the present time it is safe to say that one-third of the entire glass structures in the united states are used for this purpose; many large growers having from two to three acres in houses devoted to roses alone, such erections costing from $ , to $ , each, according to the style in which they are built. more cut flowers are used for decoration in the united states than in any other country, and it is probable that there are more flowers sold in new york than in london with a population four times as great. in london and paris, however, nearly every door-yard and window of city and suburb show the householder's love for plants, while with us, particularly in the vicinity of new york (philadelphia and boston are better), the use of living plants for home decoration is far less general. there are fashions in flowers, and they continually change. thirty years ago thousands of camellia flowers were retailed in the holiday season for $ each, while rosebuds would not bring a dime. now, many of the fancy roses sell at $ each, while camellia flowers go begging at ten cents. the chrysanthemum is now rivaling the rose, as well it may, and no doubt every decade will see the rise and fall of some floral favorite. but beneath these flitting fancies is the substantial and unchanging love of flowers that seems to be an original instinct in man, and one that grows in strength with growing refinement. fashion may now and again condemn one flower or another, but the fashion of neglecting flowers altogether will never prevail, and we may safely look forward in the expectation of an ever increasing interest and demand, steady improvement in methods of cultivation, and to new and attractive developments in form, color and fragrance. _peter henderson._ how to make a lawn. "a smooth, closely shaven surface of grass is by far the most essential element of beauty on the grounds of a suburban home." this is the language of mr. f. j. scott, and it is equally true of other than suburban grounds. a good lawn then is worth working for, and if it have a substantial foundation, it will endure for generations, and improve with age. we take it for granted that the drainage is thorough, for no one would build a dwelling on water soaked land. no labor should be spared in making the soil deep, rich and fine in the full import of the words, as this is the stock from which future dividends of joy and satisfaction are to be drawn. before grading, one should read that chapter of downing's on "the beauty in ground." this will warn against terracing or leveling the whole surface, and insure a contour with "gentle curves and undulations," which is essential to the best effects. if the novice has read much of the conflicting advice in books and catalogues, he is probably in a state of bewilderment as to the kind of seed to sow. and when that point is settled it is really a difficult task to secure pure and living seeds of just such species as one orders. rarely does either seller or buyer know the grasses called for, especially the finer and rarer sorts; and more rarely still does either know their seeds. the only safe way is to have the seeds tested by an expert. mr. j. b. olcott, in a racy article in the "report of the connecticut board of agriculture for ," says, "fifteen years ago nice people were often sowing timothy, red top and clover for door-yards, and failing wretchedly with lawn-making, while seedsmen and gardeners even disputed the identity of our june grass and kentucky blue-grass." we have passed beyond that stage of ignorance, however; and to the question what shall we sow, mr. olcott replies: "rhode island bent and kentucky blue-grass are their foolish trade names, for they belong no more to kentucky or rhode island than to other northern states. two sorts of fine _agrostis_ are honestly sold under the trade name of rhode island bent, and, as trade goes, we may consider ourselves lucky if we get even the coarser one. the finest--a little the finest--_agrostis canina_--is a rather rare, valuable, and elegant grass, which should be much better known by grass farmers, as well as gardeners, than it is. these are both good lawn as well as pasture grasses." the grass usually sold as rhode island bent is _agrostis vulgaris_, the smaller red top of the east and of europe. this makes an excellent lawn. _agrostis canina_ has a short, slender, projecting awn from one of the glumes; _agrostis vulgaris_ lacks this projecting awn. in neither case have we in mind what michigan and new york people call red top. this is a tall, coarse native grass often quite abundant on low lands, botanically _agrostis alba_. sow small red top or rhode island bent, and june grass (kentucky blue grass, if you prefer that name), _poa pratensis_. if in the chaff, sow in any proportion you fancy, and in any quantity up to four bushels per acre. if evenly sown, less will answer, but the thicker it is sown the sooner the ground will be covered with fine green grass. we can add nothing else that will improve this mixture, and either alone is about as good as both. a little white clover or sweet vernal grass or sheep's fescue may be added, if you fancy them, but they will not improve the appearance of the lawn. roll the ground after seeding. sow the seeds in september or in march or april, and under no circumstance yield to the advice to sow a little oats or rye to "protect the young grass." instead of protecting, they will rob the slender grasses of what they most need. now wait a little. do not be discouraged if some ugly weeds get the start of the numerous green hairs which slowly follow. as soon as there is any thing to be cut, of weeds or grass, mow closely, and mow often, so that nothing need be raked from the ground. as olcott puts it, "leave one crop where it belongs for home consumption. the rains will wash the soluble substance of the wilted grass into the earth to feed the growing roots." during succeeding summers as the years roll on, the lawn should be perpetually enriched by the leaching of the short leaves as they are often mown. neither leave a very short growth nor a very heavy growth for winter. experience alone must guide the owner. if cut too closely, some of it may be killed or start too late in spring; if left too high during winter, the dead long grass will be hard to cut in spring and leave the stubble unsightly. after passing through one winter the annual weeds will have perished and leave the grass to take the lead. perennial weeds should be faithfully dug out or destroyed in some way. every year, add a top dressing of some commercial fertilizer or a little finely pulverized compost which may be brushed in. no one will disfigure his front yard with coarse manure spread on the lawn for five months of the year. if well made, a lawn will be a perpetual delight as long as the proprietor lives, but if the soil is thin and poor, or if the coarser grasses and clovers are sown instead of those named, he will be much perplexed, and will very likely try some expensive experiments, and at last plow up, properly fit the land and begin over again. this will make the cost and annoyance much greater than at first, because the trees and shrubs have already filled many portions of the soil. a small piece, well made and well kept, will give more satisfaction than a larger plot of inferior turf. _w. j. beal._ horticultural exhibitions in london. at a late meeting of the floral committee of the royal horticultural society at south kensington among many novelties was a group of seedling bulbous calanthes from the garden of sir trevor lawrence, who has devoted much attention to these plants and has raised some interesting hybrids. about twenty kinds were shown, ranging in color from pure white to deep crimson. the only one selected for a first-class certificate was _c. sanguinaria_, with flowers similar in size and shape to those of _c. veitchii_, but of an intensely deep crimson. it is the finest yet raised, surpassing _c. sedeni_, hitherto unequaled for richness of color. the pick of all these seedlings would be _c. sanguinaria_, _c. veitchii splendens_, _c. lactea_, _c. nivea_, and _c. porphyrea_. the adjectives well describe the different tints of each, and they will be universally popular when once they find their way into commerce. cypripedium leeanum maculatum, also shown by sir trevor lawrence, is a novelty of sterling merit. the original _c. leeanum_, which is a cross between _c. spicerianum_ and _c. insigne maulei_, is very handsome, but this variety eclipses it, the dorsal sepal of the flower being quite two and one-half inches broad, almost entirely white, heavily and copiously spotted with purple. it surpasses also _c. leeanum superbum_, which commands such high prices. i saw a small plant sold at auction lately for fifteen guineas and the nursery price is much higher. lÆlia anceps schr[oe]derÆ, is the latest addition to the now very numerous list of varieties of the popular _l. anceps_. this new form, to which the committee with one accord gave a first class certificate, surpasses in my opinion all the colored varieties, with the possible exception of the true old barkeri. the flowers are of the average size and ordinary form. the sepals are rose pink, the broad sepals very light, almost white in fact, while the labellum is of the deepest and richest velvety crimson imaginable. the golden tipped crest is a veritable beauty spot, and the pale petals act like a foil to show off the splendor of the lip. two new ferns of much promise received first class certificates. one named _pteris claphamensis_ is a chance seedling and was found growing among a lot of other sporelings in the garden of a london amateur. as it partakes of the characters of both _p. tremula_ and _p. serrulata_, old and well known ferns, it is supposed to be a natural cross between these. the new plant is of tufted growth, with a dense mass of fronds about six inches long, elegantly cut and gracefully recurved on all sides of the pot. it is looked upon by specialists as just the sort of plant that will take in the market. the other certificated fern, _adiantum reginæ_, is a good deal like _a. victoriæ_ and is supposed to be a sport from it. but _a. reginæ_, while it has broad pinnæ of a rich emerald green like _a. victoriæ_, has fronds from nine to twelve inches long, giving it a lighter and more elegant appearance. i don't know that the victoria maidenhair is grown in america yet, but i am sure those who do floral decorating will welcome it as well as the newer _a. reginæ_. a third maidenhair of a similar character is _a. rhodophyllum_ and these form a trio that will become the standard kinds for decorating. the young fronds of all three are of a beautiful coppery red tint, the contrast of which with the emerald green of the mature fronds is quite charming. they are warm green-house ferns and of easy culture, and are supposed to be hybrid forms of the old _a. scutum_. _nerine mansellii_, a new variety of the guernsey lily, was one of the loveliest flowers at the show. from the common guernsey lily it differs only in color of the flowers. these have crimpled-edged petals of clear rose tints; and the umbel of flowers is fully six inches across, borne on a stalk eighteen inches high. these guernsey lilies have of recent years come into prominence in english gardens since so many beautiful varieties have been raised, and as they flower from september onward to christmas they are found to be indispensable for the green-house, and indoor decoration. the old _n. fothergillii major_, with vivid scarlet-crimson flowers and crystalline cells in the petals which sparkle in the sunlight like myriads of tiny rubies, remains a favorite among amateurs. baron schroeder, who has the finest collection in europe, grows this one only in quantity. an entire house is filled with them, and when hundreds of spikes are in bloom at once, the display is singularly brilliant. a new vegetable, a japanese plant called choro-gi, belonging to the sage family, was exhibited. its botanical name is _stachys tuberifera_ and it was introduced first to europe by the vilmorins of paris under the name of _crosnes du japon_. the edible part of the plant is the tubers, which are produced in abundance on the tips of the wiry fibrous roots. these are one and a half inches long, pointed at both ends, and have prominent raised rings. when washed they are as white as celery and when eaten raw taste somewhat like jerusalem artichokes, but when cooked are quite soft and possess the distinct flavor of boiled chestnuts. a dish of these tubers when cooked look like a mass of large caterpillars, but the committee pronounced them excellent, and no doubt this vegetable will now receive attention from some of our enterprising seedsmen and may become a fashionable vegetable because new and unlike any common kind. the tubers were shown now for the first time in this country by sir henry thompson, the eminent surgeon. the plant is herbaceous, dying down annually leaving the tubers, which multiply very rapidly. they can be dug at any time of the year, which is an advantage. the plant is perfectly hardy here and would no doubt be so in the united states, as it remains underground in winter. [a figure of this plant with the tubers appeared in the _gardener's chronicle_, january th, .--ed.] phalÆnopsis f. l. ames, a hybrid moth orchid, the result of intercrossing _p. grandiflora_ of lindley with _p. intermedia portei_ (itself a natural hybrid between the little _p. rosea_ and _p. amabilis_), was shown at a later exhibition. the new hybrid is very beautiful. it has the same purplish green leaves as _p. amabalis_, but much narrower. the flower spikes are produced in the same way as those of _p. grandiflora_, and the flowers in form and size resemble those of that species, but the coloring of the labellum is more like that of its other parent. the sepals and petals are pure white, the latter being broadest at the lips. the labellum resembles that of _p. intermedia_, being three-lobed, the lateral lobes are erect, magenta purple in color and freckled. the middle or triangular lobe is of the same color as the lateral lobes, but pencilled with longitudinal lines of crimson, flushed with orange, and with the terminal cirrhi of a clear magenta. the column is pink, and the crest is adorned with rosy speckles. the floral committee unanimously awarded a first-class certificate of merit to the plant. a new lÆlia named _l. gouldiana_ has had an eventful history. the representative of messrs. sander, of st. albans, the great orchid importers, while traveling in america saw it blooming in new york, in the collection of messrs. siebrecht & wadley, and noting its distinctness and beauty bought the stock of it. the same week another new lælia flowered in england and was sent up to one of the london auction rooms for sale. as it so answered the description of the american novelty which messrs. sander had just secured it was bought for the st. albans collection, and now it turns out that the english novelty and the american novelty are one and the same thing, and a comparison of dates shows that they flowered on the same day, although in different hemispheres. as, however, it was first discovered in the united states, it is intended to call it an american orchid, and that is why mr. jay gould has his name attached to it, in bulb and leaf the novelty closely resembles _l. albida_, and in flower both _l. anceps_ and _l. autumnalis_. the flowers are as large as those of an average form of _l. anceps_, the sepals are rather narrow, the petals as broad as those of _l._ _anceps dawsoni_, and both petals and sepals are of a deep rose pink, intensified at the tips as if the color had collected there and was dripping out. the tip is in form between that of _l. anceps_ and _l. autumnalis_ and has the prominent ridges of the latter, while the color is a rich purple crimson. the black viscid pubescence, always seen on the ovary of _l. autumnalis_, is present on that of _l. gouldiana_. the plants i saw in the orchid nursery at st. albans lately, bore several spikes, some having three or four flowers. those who have seen it are puzzled about its origin, some considering it a hybrid between _l. anceps_ and _l. autumnalis_, others consider it a distinct species and to the latter opinion i am inclined. whatever its origin may be, it is certain we have a charming addition to midwinter flowering orchids. _w. goldring._ london, february st. [illustration: fig. .--chrysanthemum--mrs. alpheus hardy.] a new departure in chrysanthemums. the chrysanthemum of which the figure gives a good representation is one of a collection of some thirty varieties lately sent from japan to the lady for whom it has been named, mrs. alpheus hardy of boston, by a young japanese once a protégé of hers, but now returned as a teacher to his native country. as may be seen, it is quite distinct from any variety known in this country or europe, and the japanese botanist miyabe, who saw it at cambridge, pronounces it a radical departure from any with which he is acquainted. the photograph from which the engraving was made was taken just as the petals had begun to fall back from the centre, showing to good advantage the peculiarities of the variety. the flower is of pure white, with the firm, long and broad petals strongly incurved at the extremities. upon the back or outer surface of this incurved portion will be found, in the form of quite prominent hairs, the peculiarity which makes this variety unique. [illustration: fig. .--hair from petal of chrysanthemum, much enlarged. _a_--resin drop. _b_--epidermis of petal with wavy cells.] these hairs upon close examination are found to be a glandular outgrowth of the epidermis of the petals, multi-cellular in structure and with a minute drop of a yellow resinous substance at the tip. the cells at first conform to the wavy character of those of the epidermis, but gradually become prismatic with straight walls, as shown in the engraving of one of the hairs, which was made from a drawing furnished by miss grace cooley, of the department of botany at wellesley college, who made a microscopic investigation of them. this is one of those surprises that occasionally make their appearance from japan. possibly it is a chance seedling; but since one or two other specimens in the collection are striking in form, and others are distinguished for depth and purity of color, it is more probable that the best of them have been developed by careful selection. this chrysanthemum was exhibited at the boston chrysanthemum show last december by edwin fewkes & son of newton highlands, mass. _a. h. fewkes._ new plants from afghanistan. arnebia cornuta.--this is a charming novelty, an annual, native of afghanistan. the little seedling with lancet-like hairy, dark green leaves, becomes presently a widely branching plant two feet in diameter and one and one-half feet high. each branch and branchlet is terminated by a lengthening raceme of flowers. these are in form somewhat like those of an autumnal phlox, of a beautiful deep golden yellow color, adorned and brightened up by five velvety black blotches. these blotches soon become coffee brown and lose more and more their color, until after three days they have entirely disappeared. during several months the plant is very showy, the fading flowers being constantly replaced by fresh expanding ones. sown in april in the open border, it needs no care but to be thinned out and kept free from weeds. it must, however, have some soil which does not contain fresh manure. delphinium zalil.--this, also, is a native of afghanistan, but its character, whether a biennial or perennial, is not yet ascertained. the afghans call it zalil and the plant or root is used for dyeing purposes. some years ago we only knew blue, white and purple larkspurs, and then california added two species with scarlet flowers. the above is of a beautiful sulphur yellow, and, all in all, it is a plant of remarkable beauty. from a rosette of much and deeply divided leaves, rises a branched flower stem to about two feet; each branch and branchlet ending in a beautiful spike of flowers each of about an inch across and the whole spike showing all its flowers open at once. it is likely to become a first rate standard plant of our gardens. to have it in flower the very first year it must be sown very early, say in january, in seed pans, and transplanted later, when it will flower from the end of may until the end of july. moreover, it can be sown during spring and summer in the open air to flower the following year. it is quite hardy here. _max leichtlin._ baden-baden. iris tenuis.[ ] this pretty delicate species of iris, fig. , is a native of the cascade mountains of northern oregon. its long branching rootstocks are scarcely more than a line in thickness, sending up sterile leafy shoots and slender stems about a foot high. the leaves are thin and pale green, rather taller than the stems, sword-shaped and half an inch broad or more. the leaves of the stem are bract-like and distant, the upper one or two subtending slender peduncles. the spathes are short, very thin and scarious, and enclose the bases of their rather small solitary flowers, which are "white, lightly striped and blotched with yellow and purple." the sepals and petals are oblong-spatulate, from a short tube, the sepals spreading, the shorter petals erect and notched. the peculiar habitat of this species doubtless accounts in good measure for its slender habit and mode of growth. mr. l. f. henderson, of portland, oregon, who discovered it in , near a branch of the clackamas river called eagle creek, about thirty miles from portland, reports it as growing in the fir forests in broad mats, its very long rootstocks running along near the surface of the ground, just covered by moss or partly decayed fir-needles, with a light addition of soil. this also would indicate the need of special care and treatment in its cultivation. in may, , mr. henderson took great pains to procure roots for the botanic garden at cambridge, which were received in good order, but which did not survive the next winter. if taken up, however, later in the season or very early in the spring, it is probable that with due attention to soil and shade there would be little trouble in cultivating it successfully. the accompanying figure is from a drawing by mr. c. e. faxon. _sereno watson._ [footnote : tenuis. watson, _proc. amer. acad._, xvii, . rootstock elongated, very slender (a line thick); leaves thin, ensiform, about equaling the stems, four to eight lines broad; stems scarcely a foot high, or -flowered, with two or three bract-like leaves two or three inches long; lateral peduncles very slender, as long as the bracts; spathes scarious, an inch long; pedicels solitary, very short; flowers small, white marked with yellow and purple; tube two or three lines long; segments oblong-spatulate, the sepals spreading, one and one-half inches long, the petals shorter and emarginate; anthers as long as the filaments; styles with narrow entire crests; capsule oblong-ovate, obtuse, nine lines long.] hardy shrubs for forcing. shrubs for forcing should consist of early blooming kinds only. the plants should be stocky, young and healthy, well-budded and well-ripened, and in order to have first-class stock they should be grown expressly for forcing. for cut flower purposes only, we can lift large plants of lilacs, snowballs, deutzias, mock oranges and the like with all the ball of roots we can get to them and plant at once in forcing-houses. but this should not be done before new year's. we should prepare for smaller plants some months ahead of forcing time. say in the preceding april or august, by lifting them and planting in small pots, tubs or boxes as can conveniently contain their roots, and we should encourage them to root well before winter sets in. keep them out of doors and plunged till after the leaves drop off; then either mulch them where they are or bring them into a pit, shed or cool cellar, where there shall be no fear of their getting dry, or of having the roots fastened in by frost. introduce them into the green-house in succession; into a cool green-house at first for a few weeks, then as they begin to start, into a warmer one. from the time they are brought into the green-house till the flowers begin to open give a sprinkling overhead twice a day with tepid water. when they have done blooming, if worth keeping over for another time, remove them to a cool house and thus gradually harden them off, then plant them out in the garden in may, and give them two years' rest. shrubs to be forced for their cut flowers only should consist of such kinds as have flowers that look well and keep well after being cut. among these are _deutzia gracilis_, common lilacs of various colors, _staphyllea colchica_, _spiræa cantonensis_ (_reevesii_) single and double, the guelder rose, the japanese snowball and _azalea mollis_. to these may be added some of the lovely double-flowering and chinese apples, whose snowy or crimson-tinted buds and leafy twigs are very pretty. the several double-flowered forms of _prunus triloba_ are also desirable, but a healthy stock is hard to get. _andromeda floribunda_ and _a. japonica_ set their flower buds the previous summer for the next year's flowers, and are, therefore, like the laurestinus, easily forced into bloom after new year's. hardy and half-hardy rhododendrons with very little forcing may be had in bloom from march. in addition to the above, for conservatory decoration we may introduce all manner of hardy shrubs. double flowering peach and cherry trees are easily forced and showy while they last. clumps of _pyrus arbutifolia_ can easily be had in bloom in march, when their abundance of deep green leaves is an additional charm to their profusion of hawthorn-like flowers. the chinese _xanthoceras_ is extremely copious and showy, but of brief duration and ill-fitted for cutting. bushes of yellow broom and double-flowering golden furze can easily be had after january. _jasminum nudiflorum_ may be had in bloom from november till april, and forsythia from january. they look well when trained up to pillars. the early-flowering clematises may be used to capital advantage in the same way, from february onward. although the mahonias flower well, their foliage at blooming time is not always comely. out-of-doors the american red-bud makes a handsomer tree than does the japanese one; but the latter is preferable for green-house work, as the flowers are bright and the smallest plants bloom. the chinese wistaria blooms as well in the green-house as it does outside; indeed, if we introduce some branches of an out-door plant into the green-house, we can have it in bloom two months ahead of the balance of the vine still left out-of-doors. hereabout we grow wistarias as standards, and they bloom magnificently. what a sight a big standard wistaria in the green-house in february would be! among other shrubs may be mentioned shadbush, african tamarix, daphne of sorts and exochorda. we have also a good many barely hardy plants that may be wintered well in a cellar or cold pit, and forced into bloom in early spring. among these are japanese privet, pittosporum, raphiolepis, hydrangeas and the like. and for conservatory decoration we can also use with excellent advantage some of our fine-leaved shrubs, for instance our lovely japanese maples and variegated box elder. _wm. falconer._ glen cove, n. y. [illustration: fig. .--iris tenuis.--_see page ._] plant notes. a half-hardy begonia.--when botanizing last september upon the cordilleras of north mexico some two hundred miles south of the united states boundary, i found growing in black mould of shaded ledges--even in the thin humus of mossy rocks--at an elevation of , to , feet, a plant of striking beauty, which mr. sereno watson identifies as _begonia gracilis_, _hbk._, _var. martiana_, _a. dc_. from a small tuberous root it sends up to a height of one to two feet a single crimson-tinted stem, which terminates in a long raceme of scarlet flowers, large for the genus and long enduring. the plant is still further embellished by clusters of scarlet gemmæ in the axils of its leaves. mr. watson writes: "it was in cultivation fifty years and more ago, but has probably been long ago lost. it appears to be the most northern species of the genus, and should be the most hardy." certainly the earth freezes and snows fall in the high region, where it is at home. northern limit of the dahlia.--in the same district, and at the same elevation, i met with a purple flowered variety of _dahlia coccinea_, _cav._ it was growing in patches under oaks and pines in thin dry soil of summits of hills. in such exposed situations the roots must be subjected to some frost, as much certainly as under a light covering of leaves in a northern garden. the dahlia has not before been reported, as i believe, from a latitude nearly so high. _c. g. pringle._ ceanothus is a north american genus, represented in the eastern states by new jersey tea, and red root (_c. americanus_ and _c. ovalus_), and in the west and south-west by some thirty additional species. several of these pacific coast species are quite handsome and well worthy of cultivation where they will thrive. some of the more interesting of them are figured in different volumes of the _botanical magazine_, from plants grown at kew, and i believe that the genus is held in considerable repute by french gardeners. in a collection of plants made in southern oregon, last spring, by mr. thomas howell, several specimens of _ceanothus_ occur which are pretty clearly hybrids between _c. cuneatus_ and _c. prostratus_, two common species of the region. some have the spreading habit of the latter, their flowers are of the bright blue color characteristic of that species, and borne on slender blue pedicels, in an umbel-like cluster. but while many of their leaves have the abrupt three-toothed apex of _c. prostratus_, all gradations can be found from this form to the spatulate, toothless leaves of _c. cuneatus_. other specimens have the more rigid habit of the latter species, and their flowers are white or nearly so, on shorter pale pedicels, in usually smaller and denser clusters. on these plants the leaves are commonly those of _c. cuneatus_, but they pass into the truncated and toothed form proper to _c. prostratus_. according to focke (_pflanzenmischlinge_, , p. ), the french cross one or more of the blue-flowered pacific coast species on the hardier new jersey tea, a practice that may perhaps be worthy of trial by american gardeners. have any of the readers of garden and forest ever met with spontaneous hybrids? _w. trelease._ wire netting for tree guards.--on some of the street trees of washington heavy galvanized wire netting is used to protect the bark from injury by horses. it is the same material that is used for enclosing poultry yards. it comes in strips five or six feet wide, and may be cut to any length required by the size of the tree. the edges are held in place by bending together the cut ends of the wires, and the whole is sustained by staples over the heavy wires at the top and bottom. this guard appears to be an effective protection and is less unsightly than any other of which i know, in fact it can hardly be distinguished at the distance of a few rods. it is certainly an improvement on the plan of white-washing the trunks, which has been extensively practiced here since the old guards were removed. _a. a. crozier._ artificial water. one of the most difficult parts of a landscape gardener's work is the treatment of what our grandfathers called "pieces of water" in scenes where a purely natural effect is desired. the task is especially hard when the stream, pond or lake has been artificially formed; for then nature's processes must be simulated not only in the planting but in the shaping of the shores. our illustration partially reveals a successful effort of this sort--a pond on a country-seat near boston. it was formed by excavating a piece of swamp and damming a small stream which flowed through it. in the distance towards the right the land lies low by the water and gradually rises as it recedes. opposite us it forms little wooded promontories with grassy stretches between. where we stand it is higher, and beyond the limits of the picture to the left it forms a high, steep bank rising to the lawn, on the further side of which stands the house. the base of these elevated banks and the promontories opposite are planted with thick masses of rhododendrons, which flourish superbly in the moist, peaty soil, protected, as they are, from drying winds by the trees and high ground. near the low meadow a long stretch of shore is occupied by thickets of hardy azaleas. beautiful at all seasons, the pond is most beautiful in june, when the rhododendrons are ablaze with crimson and purple and white, and when the yellow of the azalea-beds--discreetly separated from the rhododendrons by a great clump of low-growing willows--finds delicate continuation in the buttercups which fringe the daisied meadow. the lifted banks then afford particularly fortunate points of view; for as we look down upon the rhododendrons, we see the opposite shore and the water with its rich reflected colors as over the edge of a splendid frame. no accent of artificiality disturbs the eye despite the unwonted profusion of bloom and variety of color. all the plants are suited to their place and in harmony with each other; and all the contours of the shore are gently modulated and softly connected with the water by luxuriant growths of water plants. the witness of the eye alone would persuade us that nature unassisted had achieved the whole result. but beauty of so suave and perfect a sort as this is never a natural product. nature's beauty is wilder if only because it includes traces of mutation and decay which here are carefully effaced. nature suggests the ideal beauty, and the artist realizes it by faithfully working out her suggestions. [illustration: a piece of artificial water.] some new roses. the following list comprises most of the newer roses that have been on trial to any extent in and about philadelphia during the present winter: puritan (h. t.) is one of mr. henry bennett's seedlings, and perhaps excites more interest than any other. it is a cross between mabel morrison and devoniensis, creamy white in color and a perpetual bloomer. its flowers have not opened satisfactorily this winter. the general opinion seems to be that it requires more heat than is needed for other forcing varieties. further trial will be required to establish its merit. meteor (h. t., bennett.)--some cultivators will not agree with me in classing this among hybrid teas. in its manner of growth it resembles some tea roses, but its coloring and scanty production of buds in winter are indications that there is hybrid remontant blood in it. it retains its crimson color after being cut longer than any rose we have, and rarely shows a tendency to become purple with age, as other varieties of this color are apt to do. for summer blooming under glass it will prove satisfactory. in winter its coloring is a rich velvety crimson, but as the sun gets stronger it assumes a more lively shade. mrs. john laing (h. r., bennett,) is a seedling from francois michelon, which it somewhat resembles in habit of growth and color of flower. it is a free bloomer out-of-doors in summer and forces readily in winter. blooms of it have been offered for sale in the stores here since the first week in december. it is a soft shade of pink in color, with a delicate lilac tint. it promises to become a general favorite, as in addition to the qualities referred to, it is a free autumnal bloomer outside. for forcing it will be tried extensively next winter. princess beatrice (t., bennett,) was distributed for the first time in this country last autumn, but has so far been a disappointment in this city. but some lots arrived from europe too late and misfortunes befell others, so that the trial can hardly be counted decisive, and we should not hastily condemn it. some have admired it for its resemblance, in form of flower, to a madame cuisin, but its color is not just what we need. in shade it somewhat resembles sunset, but is not so effective. it may, however, improve under cultivation, as some other roses have done; so far as i know it has not been tried out-of-doors. papa gontier (h. b., nabonnaud.)--this, though not properly a new rose, is on trial for the first time in this city. it has become a great favorite with growers, retailers and purchasers. in habit it is robust and free blooming, and in coloring, though similar to bon silene, is much deeper or darker. there seems to be a doubt in some quarters as to whether it blooms as freely as bon silene; personally, i think there is not much difference between the two. gontier is a good rose for outdoor planting. _edwin lonsdale._ two ferns and their treatment. adiantum farleyense.--this beautiful maidenhair is supposed to be a subfertile, plumose form of _a. tenerum_, which much resembles it, especially in a young state. for decorative purposes it is almost unrivaled, whether used in pots or for trimming baskets of flowers or bouquets. it prefers a warm, moist house and delights in abundant water. we find it does best when potted firmly in a compost of two parts loam to one of peat, and with a good sprinkling of sifted coal ashes. in this compost it grows very strong, the fronds attaining a deeper green and lasting longer than when grown in peat. when the pots are filled with roots give weak liquid manure occasionally. this fern is propagated by dividing the roots and potting in small pots, which should be placed in the warmest house, where they soon make fine plants. where it is grown expressly for cut fronds the best plan is to plant it out on a bench in about six inches of soil, taking care to give it plenty of water and heat, and it will grow like a weed. actiniopteris radiata.--a charming little fern standing in a genus by itself. in form it resembles a miniature fan palm, growing about six inches in height. it is generally distributed throughout the east indies. in cultivation it is generally looked upon as poor grower, but with us it grows as freely as any fern we have. we grow a lot to mix in with orchids, as they do not crowd at all. we pot in a compost of equal parts loam and peat with a few ashes to keep it open, and grow in the warmest house, giving at all times abundance of water both at root and overhead. it grows very freely from spores, and will make good specimens in less than a year. it is an excellent fern for small baskets. _f. goldring._ timely hints about bulbs. spring flowering bulbs in-doors, such as the dutch hyacinths, tulips and the many varieties of narcissus, should now be coming rapidly into bloom. some care is required to get well developed specimens. when first brought in from cold frames or wherever they have been stored to make roots, do not expose them either to direct sunlight or excessive heat. a temperature of not more than fifty-five degrees at night is warm enough for the first ten days, and afterwards, if they show signs of vigorous growth and are required for any particular occasion, they may be kept ten degrees warmer. it is more important that they be not exposed to too much light than to too much heat. half the short stemmed tulips, dumpy hyacinths and blind narcissus we see in the green-houses and windows of amateurs are the result of excessive light when first brought into warm quarters. where it is not possible to shade bulbs without interfering with other plants a simple and effective plan is to make funnels of paper large enough to stand inside each pot and six inches high. these may be left on the pots night and day from the time the plants are brought in until the flower spike has grown above the foliage; indeed, some of the very finest hyacinths cannot be had in perfection without some such treatment. bulbous plants should never suffer for water when growing rapidly, yet on the other hand, they are easily ruined if allowed to become sodden. when in flower a rather dry and cool temperature will preserve them the longest. of bulbs which flower in the summer and fall, gloxinias and tuberous rooted begonias are great favorites and easily managed. for early summer a few of each should be started at once--using sandy, friable soil. six-inch pots, well drained, are large enough for the very largest bulbs, while for smaller even three-inch pots will answer. in a green-house there is no difficulty in finding just the place to start them. it must be snug, rather shady and not too warm. they can be well cared for, however, in a hot-bed or even a window, but some experience is necessary to make a success. lilies, in pots, whether _l. candidum_ or _l. longiflorum_ that are desired to be in flower by easter, should now receive every attention--their condition should be that the flower buds can be easily felt in the leaf heads. a temperature of fifty-five to sixty-five at night should be maintained, giving abundance of air on bright sunny days to keep them stocky. green fly is very troublesome at this stage, and nothing is more certain to destroy this pest than to dip the plants in tobacco water which, to be effective, should be the color of strong tea. occasional waterings of weak liquid manure will be of considerable help if the pots are full of roots. _j. thorpe._ entomology. arsenical poisons in the orchard. as is well known, about fifty per cent. of the possible apple crop in the western states is sacrificed each year to the codling moth, except in sections where orchardists combine to apply bands of straw around the trunks. but as is equally well known this is rather a troublesome remedy. at all events, in illinois, professor forbes, in a bulletin lately issued from the office of the state entomologist of illinois, claims that the farmers of that state suffer an annual loss from the attacks of this single kind of insect of some two and three-quarters millions of dollars. as the results of two years' experiments in spraying the trees with a solution of paris green, only once or twice in early spring, before the young apples had drooped upon their stems, there was a saving of about seventy-five per cent. of the apples. the paris green mixture consisted of three-fourths of an ounce of the powder by weight, of a strength to contain . per cent. of metallic arsenic, simply stirred up in two and a half gallons of water. the tree was thoroughly sprayed with a hand force-pump, and with the deflector spray and solid jet-hose nozzle, manufactured in lowell, mass. the fluid was thrown in a fine mist-like spray, applied until the leaves began to drip. the trees were sprayed in may and early in june while the apples were still very small. it seems to be of little use to employ this remedy later in the season, when later broods of the moth appear, since the poison takes effect only in case it reaches the surface of the apple between the lobes of the calyx, and it can only reach this place when the apple is very small and stands upright on its stem, it should be added that spraying "after the apples have begun to hang downward is unquestionably dangerous," since even heavy winds and violent rains are not sufficient to remove the poison from the fruit at this season. at the new york experimental station last year a certain number of trees were sprayed three times with paris green with the result that sixty-nine per cent. of the apples were saved. it also seems that last year about half the damage that might have been done by the plum weevil or curculio was prevented by the use of paris green, which should be sprayed on the trees both early in the season, while the fruit is small, as well as later. the cost of this paris green application, when made on a large scale, with suitable apparatus, only once or twice a year, must, says mr. forbes, fall below an average of ten cents a tree. the use of solutions of paris green or of london purple in water, applied by spraying machines such as were invented and described in the reports of the national department of agriculture by the u. s. entomologist and his assistants, have effected a revolution in remedies against orchard and forest insects. we expect to see them, in careful hands, tried with equal success in shrubberies, lawns and flower gardens. _a. s. packard._ the forest. the white pine in europe. the white pine was among the very first american trees which came to europe, being planted in the year by lord weymouth on his grounds in chelsea. from that date, the tree has been cultivated in europe under the name of weymouth pine; in some mountain districts of northern bavaria, where it has become a real forest tree, it is called strobe, after the latin name _pinus strobus_. after general cultivation as an ornamental tree in parks this pine began to be used in the forests on account of its hardiness and rapid growth, and it is now not only scattered through most of the forests of europe, but covers in germany alone an area of some acres in a dense, pure forest. some of these are groves years old, and they yield a large proportion of the seed demanded by the increasing cultivation of the tree in europe. the white pine has proved so valuable as a forest tree that it has partly overcome the prejudices which every foreign tree has to fight against. the tree is perfectly hardy, is not injured by long and severe freezing in winter, nor by untimely frosts in spring or autumn, which sometimes do great harm to native trees in europe. on account of the softness of the leaves and the bark, it is much damaged by the nibbling of deer, but it heals quickly and throws up a new leader. the young plant can endure being partly shaded by other trees far better than any other pine tree, and even seems to enjoy being closely surrounded, a quality that makes it valuable for filling up in young forests where the native trees, on account of their slow growth, could not be brought up at all. the white pine is not so easily broken by heavy snowfall as the scotch pine, on account of the greater elasticity of its wood. the great abundance of soft needles falling from it every year better fits it for improving a worn-out soil than any european pine, therefore the tree has been tried with success as a nurse for the ground in forest plantations of oak, when the latter begin to be thinned out by nature, and grass is growing underneath them. and finally, all observations agree that the white pine is a faster growing tree than any native conifer in europe, except, perhaps, the larch. the exact facts about that point, taken from investigations on good soil in various parts of germany, are as follows: years. height. annual growth during last decade. the white pine at reaches . meters. centimeters " " . " " " " . " " " " . " " " " . " " " " . " " " " . " " " " . " " for comparison i add here the average growth on good soil, of the scotch pine, one of the most valuable and widely distributed timber trees of europe. years. height. annual growth during last decade. the scotch pine at reaches . meters. . centimeters " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " " " . " . " that is, the white pine is ahead of its relative during its entire life and attains at years a height which the scotch pine only reaches in years. it appears then that the whole volume of wood formed within a certain period by an acre of white pine forest is greater than that yielded by a forest of scotch pine within the same period. as far as reliable researches show, a forest of white pine when seventy years old gives an annual increment of cords of wood per acre. on the same area a forest of scotch pine increases every year by . cords on the best soil, cords on medium soil, and . cords on poor soil. but notwithstanding the splendid qualities which distinguish the white pine as a forest tree its wood has never been looked upon with favor in europe. many of those who are cultivating the white pine for business seem to expect that they will raise a heavy and durable wood. these are the qualities prized in their own timber trees, and they seem to think that the white pine must be so highly prized at home for the same qualities, when in fact it is the lightness and softness of the wood which are considered in america. it would seem also that some european planters believe that a pine tree exists which will yield more and at the same time heavier wood than any other tree on the same area. it is a general rule that the amount of woody substance annually formed on the same soil does not vary in any great degree with the different kinds of trees. for instance, if we have good soil we may raise , lbs. per acre of woody substance every year, from almost any kind of timber tree. if we plant a tree forming a wood of low specific gravity, we get a large volume of wood, and this is the case with the white pine. if we plant on the same ground an oak tree, we will get small volume of wood, but the weight of the woody substance will be the same, that is, , pounds of absolutely dried wood per acre. it is remarkable that there is hardly any difference in the specific gravity of the wood of the white pine grown in europe and in its native country. i collected in central wisconsin wood-sections of a tall tree and compared the specific gravity with the wood of a full-grown tree of white pine from a bavarian forest. the average specific gravity of the bavarian tree was . . the average specific gravity of the american tree was . . in both trees the specific gravity slightly increased from the base to the top. professor sargent gives as the result of his numerous and careful investigations. i was much surprised that the thickness of the sap-wood varied much in favor of the bavarian tree. the sap-wood measured in thickness: of the bavarian tree. of the american tree. at the base . centimeters centimeters. in the middle . " " within the crown . " " i am inclined to believe that on account of the generally drier climate of america a greater amount of water, and, therefore, of water-conducting sap-wood, is necessary to keep the balance between the evaporation and transportation of the water. the wood of the white pine is certainly better fitted for many purposes than any tree with which nature has provided europe, and yet one can hardly expect it to easily overcome fixed habits and prejudices. it will devolve upon the more intelligent proprietors of wood-land in europe to begin with the plantation of the white pine on a large scale. no conifer in europe can be cultivated with so little care and risk as the white pine; the frost does not injure the young plant, and the numerous insects invading the european trees during their whole life-time inflict but little harm. subterranean parasites are thinning out the plantations to some extent, but in no dangerous way. _h. mayr._ tokio, japan. abies amabilis.--professor john macoun detected this species during the past summer upon many of the mountains of vancouver's island where with _tsuga pattoniana_ it is common above , feet over the sea level. the northern distribution of this species as well as some other british columbia trees is still a matter of conjecture. it has not been noticed north of the fraser river, but it is not improbable that _abies amabilis_ will be found to extend far to the north along some of the mountain ranges of the north-west coast. european larch in massachusetts. in the trustees of the massachusetts society for the promotion of agriculture offered a premium for the best plantations of not less than five acres of european larch. the conditions of the competition were that not less than , trees should be planted to the acre, and that only poor, worn-out land, or that unfit for agricultural purposes, be used in these plantations. the prize was to be awarded at the end of ten years. the committee appointed to award the prize were c. s. sargent and john lowell. the ten years having expired, this committee lately made the following report: mr. james lawrence, of groton, and mr. j. d. w. french, of north andover, made plantations during the spring of in competition for this prize. mr. lawrence, however, at the end of one year withdrew from the contest, and mr. french is the only competitor. your committee have visited his plantation at different times during the past ten years, and have now made their final inspection. the plantation occupies a steep slope facing the south and covered with a thin coating of gravelly loam largely mixed towards the bottom of the hill with light sand. this field in was a fair sample of much of the hillside pasture land of the eastern part of the state. it had been early cleared, no doubt, of trees, and the light surface soil practically exhausted by cultivation. it was then used as a pasture, producing nothing but the scantiest growth of native grasses and sedges with a few stunted pitch pines. land of this character has no value for tillage, and has practically little value for pasturage. upon five acres of this land mr. french planted fifteen thousand european larch. the trees were one foot high, and were set in the sod four feet apart each way, except along the boundary of the field, where the plantation was made somewhat thicker. the cost of the plantation, as furnished by mr. french, has been as follows: , larch (imported), $ fencing, surveying, labor, ------- total, $ this, with compound interest at five per cent. for ten years, makes the entire cost to date of the plantation of five acres, $ . . the trees for several years grew slowly and not very satisfactorily. several lost their leaders, and in various parts of the plantation small blocks failed entirely. the trees, however, have greatly improved during the last four years, and the entire surface of the ground is now, with one or two insignificant exceptions, sufficiently covered. there appear to be from , to , larch trees now growing on the five acres. the largest tree measured is feet high, with a trunk inches in circumference at the ground, there are several specimens of this size at least, and it is believed that all the trees, including many which have not yet commenced to grow rapidly or which have been overcrowded and stunted by their more vigorous neighbors, will average feet in height, with trunks to inches in circumference at the ground. many individuals have increased over four feet in height during the present year. it is interesting to note as an indication of what massachusetts soil of poor quality is capable of producing, that various native trees have appeared spontaneously in the plantation since animals were excluded from this field. among these are white pines to feet high, pitch pines feet high, a white oak feet high and a gray birch feet high. the trustees offered this prize in the belief that it would cause a plantation to be made capable of demonstrating that unproductive lands in this state could be cheaply covered with trees, and the result of mr. french's experiment seems to be conclusive in this respect. it has shown that the european larch can be grown rapidly and cheaply in this climate upon very poor soil, but it seems to us to have failed to show that this tree has advantages for general economic planting in this state which are not possessed in an equal degree by some of our native trees. land which will produce a crop of larch will produce in the same time at least a crop of white pine. there can be no comparison in the value of these two trees in massachusetts. the white pine is more easily transplanted than the larch, it grows with equal and perhaps greater rapidity, and it produces material for which there is an assured and increasing demand. the white pine, moreover, has so far escaped serious attacks of insects and dangerous fungoid diseases which now threaten to exterminate in different parts of europe extensive plantations of larch. your committee find that mr. french has complied with all the requirements of the competition: they recommend that the premium of one thousand dollars be paid to him. answers to correspondents. when the woods are cut clean in southern new hampshire white pine comes in very, very thickly. is it best to thin out the growth or allow the trees to crowd and shade the feebler ones slowly to death? j. d. l. it is better to thin such over-crowded seedlings early, if serviceable timber is wanted in the shortest time. the statement that close growth is needed to produce long, clean timber, needs some limitation. no plant can develop satisfactorily without sufficient light, air and feeding room. when trees are too thickly crowded the vigor of every one is impaired, and the process of establishing supremacy of individuals is prolonged, to the detriment even of those which are ultimately victorious. the length is drawn out disproportionately to the diameter, and all the trees remain weak. experience has proved that plantations where space is given for proper growth in their earlier years, yield more and better wood than do nature's dense sowings. two records are added in confirmation of this statement, and many others could be given: . a pine plantation of twelve acres was made, one half by sowing, the other half by planting at proper distances. in twenty-four years the first section had yielded, including the material obtained in thinnings, , cubic feet, and the latter, , cubic feet of wood. the thinnings had been made, when appearing necessary, at ten, fifteen and eighteen years in the planted section, yielding altogether ten and three-quarter cords of round firewood and seven cords of brush; and at eight, ten and twenty years in the sowed section, with a yield of only three and one-fifth cords of round firewood at the last thinning and seven and four-fifths cords of brush wood. . a spruce growth seeded after thirty-three years was still so dense as to be impenetrable, with scarcely any increase, and the trees were covered with lichens. it was then thinned out when thirty-five, and again when forty-two years old. the appearance greatly improved, and the accretion in seven years after thinning showed per cent. increase, or more than per cent. every year. the density of growth which will give the best results in all directions depends upon the kind of timber and soil conditions. --_b. e. fernow._ washington, d. c. book reviews. gray's elements of botany. fifty-one years ago, asa gray, then only twenty-six years of age, published a treatise on botany adapted to the use of schools and colleges. it was entitled "the elements of botany." its method of arrangement was so admirably adapted to its purpose, and the treatment of all the subjects so mature and thorough, that the work served as a model for a large work which soon followed,--the well-known botanical text-book, and the same general plan has been followed in all the editions of the latter treatise. about twenty-five years after the appearance of the elements, dr. gray prepared a more elementary work for the use of schools, since the text-book had become rather too advanced and exhaustive for convenient use. this work was the "lessons in botany," a book which has been a great aid throughout the country, in introducing students to a knowledge of the principles of the science. without referring to other educational works prepared by dr. gray, such as "how plants grow," etc., it suffices now to say that for two or three years, he had been convinced that there was need of a hand-book, different in essential particulars from any of its predecessors. when we remember that all of these had been very successful from an educational point of view, as well as from the more exacting one of the publishers, we can understand how strong must have been the motive which impelled the venerable but still active botanist to give a portion of his fast-flying time to the preparation of another elementary work. in answer to remonstrances from those who believed that the remnant of his days should be wholly given to the completion of the "synoptical flora," he was wont to say pleasantly, "oh, i give only my _evenings_ to the 'elements.'" and, so, after a day's work, in which he had utilized every available moment of sunlight, he would turn with the fresh alertness which has ever characterized every motion and every thought, to the preparation of what he called fondly, his "legacy" to young botanists. that precious legacy we have now before us. in form it is much like the lessons, but more compact and yet much more comprehensive. its conciseness of expression is a study in itself. to give it the highest praise, it may be said to be french in its clearness and terseness. not a word is wasted: hence, the author has been able to touch lightly and still with firmness every important line in this sketch of the principles of botany. this work, in the words of its author, "is intended to ground beginners in structural botany and the principles of vegetable life, mainly as concerns flowering or phanerogamous plants, with which botanical instruction should always begin; also to be a companion and interpreter to the manuals and floras by which the student threads his flowery way to a clear knowledge of the surrounding vegetable creation. such a book, like a grammar, must needs abound in technical words, which thus arrayed may seem formidable; nevertheless, if rightly apprehended, this treatise should teach that the study of botany is not the learning of names and terms, but the acquisition of knowledge and ideas. no effort should be made to commit technical terms to memory. any term used in describing a plant or explaining its structure can be looked up when it is wanted, and that should suffice. on the other hand, plans of structure, types, adaptations, and modifications, once understood, are not readily forgotten; and they give meaning and interest to the technical terms used in explaining them." the specific directions given for collecting plants, for preparing herbarium specimens, and for investigating the structure of plants make this treatise of great use to those who are obliged to study without a teacher. the very extensive glossary makes the work of value not only to this class of students, but to those, as well, whose pursuits are directed in our schools. the work fills, in short, the very place which dr. gray designed it should. _g. l. goodale._ _the kansas forest trees identified by leaves and fruit_, by w. a. kellerman, ph.d., and mrs. w. a. kellerman (manhattan, kansas). this octavo pamphlet of only a dozen pages contains a convenient artificial key for the rapid determination of seventy-five species of trees. by the use of obvious characters the authors have made the work of identification comparatively easy in nearly every instance, and even in the few doubtful cases, the student will not be allowed to go far astray. the little hand-book ought to be found of use even beyond the limits of the state for which it was designed. _g. l. goodale._ public works. the falls of minnehaha.--a tract of fifty acres, beautifully located on the mississippi, opposite the mouth of the minnehaha, has been acquired by the city of st. paul, and land will most probably be secured for a drive of several miles along the river. the bank here is more than feet high, often precipitous, clothed with a rich growth of primeval forest, shrubbery and vines. it is hoped that minneapolis may secure the land immediately opposite, including the falls of minnehaha and the valley of the stream to the great river. in this event a great park could be made between the two cities, easily reached from the best part of both, with the mississippi flowing through it and the falls as one of its features. this, in connection with the park so beautifully situated on lake como, three miles from st. paul, and the neat parks of minneapolis and its superbly kept system of lake shore drives, would soon be an object worthy of the civic pride of these enterprising and friendly rivals. a park for wilmington, del.--after many delays and defeats the people of this city have secured a tract of more than acres, mostly of fine rocky woodland, with the classic brandywine flowing through it, and all within the city limits, together with two smaller tracts, one a high wooded slope, the other lying on tide water, and both convenient to those parts of the city inhabited by workingmen and their families. a topographical survey of these park lands is now in progress as preparation for a general plan of improvement. of the "brandywine glen" mr. frederick law olmsted once wrote: "it is a passage of natural scenery which, to a larger city, would be of rare value--so rare and desirable that in a number of cities several million dollars have been willingly spent to obtain results of which the best that can said is, that they somewhat distantly approach, in character and expression, such scenery as the people of wilmington have provided for them without expense." flower market. retail prices in the flower market. new york, _february d._ there is a glut of flowers, particularly of tea roses of an indifferent quality. bon silene buds cost from cts. to $ a dozen, perle des jardins, niphetos, souvenir d'un ami, and papa gontiers bring $ . a dozen. c. mermets are very fine and from to cts. each. not more than one in three la france roses is perfect; they bring from cts. to cts. each. mde. cuisin and duke of connaught are cts. each, bennets cts. each and brides cts. each. american beauties are $ to $ . each, according to the location where they are sold. puritans cost cts. each, and jacqueminots cts. magna chartas are the most popular of the hybrid roses at present. they, anna de diesbach and mad. gabriel luizet bring from $ to $ . each. mignonette is very plentiful, well grown and of the spiral variety; it brings cts. a dozen spikes retail, very large spikes bring as high as cts. each. hyacinths, lilies-of-the-valley and tulips bring $ a dozen. lilacs cost cts. for a spray of one or two tassels. violets are abundant, mostly of the marie louise variety, and bring $ a hundred. fancy long stem red carnations cost cts. a dozen; short stem carnations are cts. a dozen; the dyed carnations, named "emerald," are in brisk demand and sell for cts. each. daffodils are $ a dozen; those dyed bring cts. each. finely grown forget-me-not brought in small quantity to retail dealers sells for cts. a spray. calla lilies bring $ and $ a dozen, and longiflorum lilies $ a dozen. philadelphia, _february d._ heavy demands for flowers dropped off short on ash wednesday, and decreased each day until saturday, when the regular orders for loose flowers caused the trade to pick up again. the demand for orchids is steadily growing; a fair quantity is used at balls and parties, but nothing in comparison to roses, violets and lily-of-the-valley. violets have been in greater demand, so far, than for several years. large quantities of tulips have been used recently for table decorations, especially the pink varieties, the favorite color for dinners and lunches. the american beauty rose, when cut with long stems, and really first class in every other respect, has been in great demand, at the best prices. md. gabrielle luizet is scarce, the local growers not having commenced to cut in quantity; it is frequently asked for. carnation plateaus in solid colors have been used freely. lilacs are considered choice and have been in good demand. retail prices rule as follows: orchids, from cts. to $ each; la france, mermet, bride and bennet roses, $ per dozen; jacques, $ to $ ; american beauty, $ to $ ; puritan, $ ; anna de diesbach, $ to $ . ; papa gontier, sunset, perle des jardins and mad. cuisin, $ . ; bon silene, $ . ; niphetos, $ to $ . . lily-of-the-valley, and roman hyacinths, bring $ per dozen; mignonette, cts., and freesia the same per dozen; heliotrope, pansies, carnations, and forget-me-nots, cts. per dozen. violets bring from $ to $ . per hundred; lilium harrisii, $ . per dozen; callas $ per dozen, and lilacs $ per bunch of about eight sprays. daffodils sell briskly at from $ to $ . per dozen. boston, _february d._ the season of lent is always looked forward to by the florists with anxiety, for the rest from receptions, assemblies and balls cuts off one of the chief outlets for the choicest flowers: a few warm days are sufficient to overstock the market, and prices take a fall. buyers are learning, however, that at no period of the year can cut flowers be had in such perfection and variety as during february and march, and although not much required for party occasions they are bought for other purposes in increasing quantities every year, so that the advent of lent does not now produce utter stagnation in the flower trade. in roses there is at present a large assortment offered. from the modest bon silene, and its new competitor, papa gontier, up to the magnificent american beauty and hybrid perpetuals, may be found every gradation of color, size and fragrance. retail prices vary from cts. per dozen for bon silenes and $ . to $ for perles, niphetos, etc., up to $ and $ for the best mermets, niels and la france; hybrids and jacques of best quality bring from $ to $ per dozen. in bulbous flowers a large variety is shown. lily-of-the-valley sells for $ . per dozen sprays; narcissus of various kinds, hyacinths and tulips for $ per dozen; violets, cts. per bunch; pansies, mignonette, heliotrope, forget-me-not and calendulas, cts. per doz. long stemmed carnations are to be had in great variety at cts. per dozen; callas cts. each, and smilax cts. a string. at this season smilax is at its best, being its time of flowering, and the flowers are deliciously fragrant. publishers' note. a photogravure of mr. a. st. gaudens's bronze medallion of the late professor asa gray will be published as a supplement to the second number of garden and forest. [illustration: advertisement - rare water lilies] [illustration: advertisement - trees fruit and ornamental. roses] [illustration: advertisement - sibley's tested seed] [illustration: advertisement - barr's proven seeds] [illustration: advertisement - seeds roses plants] [illustration: advertisement - beautiful trees for lawn and cemetery planting. these can now be furnished in great variety, from our extensive collection, at reduced prices. we have now on hand a large supply of the following rare beeches, all of which have been recently transplanted, and are in consequence abundantly furnished with fine roots:-- purple-leaved beech. from to feet high; elegant specimens. all were grafted from the beautiful "rivers' variety," so justly celebrated for the intense blood-red color of its foliage. weeping beech. from to feet high, suitable for immediate effect, and well supplied with decidedly pendulous branches. crested and fern-leaved beeches. we offer a superb stock of these, averaging in height from or to feet, all well rooted and nicely furnished. in evergreens we have now in stock a large supply of american, siberian and golden arbor vitÆs, balsam firs, hemlocks and norway spruce; good, young, healthy plants, especially desirable for screens and hedges. in shrubbery our assortment is very complete, embracing many rare and elegant species. our immense stock of some kinds enables us to accept orders at very low rates. hoopes, bro. & thomas, maple avenue nurseries, west chester, pa.] [illustration: advertisement - dreer's garden calendar] [illustration: advertisement - h. w. s. cleveland, landscape gardener] [illustration: advertisement - charles eliott, landscape gardener] [illustration: advertisement - baker's breakfast cocoa] [illustration: j. laing & sons, the nurseries, forest hill, london england. leading specialties.] tuberous begonias. awarded four gold medals. gold medal collection, quite unrivaled. _tubers in a dry state_ can be safely transmitted from england until april. prices when selection is left to us: _per doz._ a collection, named, our best collection s. b " " very choice selection s. c " " choice selection s. d " " very good selection s. e " " good selection s. f " " ordinary selection s. g " unnamed best selections to color s. h " " very choice selection s. j " " best whites, distinct s. k " " choice selection s. l " " very good, selected to color for bedding s. m " " good best do. per , s., s. double varieties. prices (our selection): p collection, named, our best collection, each s. d. and s. d. _per doz._ r " " very choice ditto s. s " " choice ditto s. t " " very good ditto s. w " unnamed our very choice, selected, distinct s. x " " choice, selected in colors s. z " " mixed ditto s. begonia seed. gold medal strain from prize plants. new crop. sealed packets. choice mixed, from single varieties. s. and s. d. per packet; s. and s. extra large packets; double varieties, s., s. d. and s. per packet; large packets, s. collections-- named varieties, single, separate, s. d.; named varieties, separate, s. caladium roots. the finest collection in the world. best named varieties, per doz., s., s., s., s. and s. gloxinia roots. in dormant state till march. our unequalled collection. self colors, and spotted. best sorts to name, s., s., s., s., s. and s. per doz. unnamed, very choice, s., s. and s. per doz. gloxinia seed. saved from our prize plants; erect flowering, drooping, mixed and spotted, separate, per packet, s., s. d. and s. other flower seeds. the choicest strains of primula, cineraria, calceolaria, cyclamen, hollyhock, dahlia, pansies, asters, stocks, and every other sort. all kinds of plants, roses, fruit trees, etc., that can be imported from england, safely transmitted in wardian cases. --> remittances or london references must always accompany orders. flower seeds by post. orders should reach us soon as possible. --> catalogues gratis and post free. <-- scribner's magazine for march contains blÜcher unhorsed at ligny. drawn by r. f. zogbaum. engraved by peckwell. the campaign of waterloo. by john c. ropes. with illustrations by r. f. zogbaum, and drawings made by w. t. smedley, especially commissioned by this magazine to visit the field. a strikingly original history of this greatest of military events. a concluding article, beautifully illustrated, will appear in april. beggars. the third of the series of charming essays by robert louis stevenson. the new york _tribune_ says in referring to this series: "the matter is of itself enough to interest every person in the least interested in literature, and the manner of it is such as to make us ask again of him for the hundredth time, as it was asked of macaulay, 'where did he get that style?'" a shelf of old books.--leigh hunt. by mrs. james t. fields. illustrated with drawings, portraits and fac-similes. a charming account of some of the literary treasures owned by the late james t. fields. the electric motor and its applications. by franklin leonard pope. with illustrations. mr. pope describes the great advances recently made by which electricity takes the place of steam, or supplements it in so many directions. the nixie. a fantastic story. by mrs. robert louis stevenson. mendelssohn's letters to moscheles. from the mss. in the possession of felix moscheles. by william f. apthorp. ii. (_conclusion_.) with portraits, reproductions of drawings, musical scores, etc. "the letters are full of interest, especially in their frank observations on musical affairs of mendelssohn's day."--_boston saturday evening gazette._ the day of the cyclone. a stirring western story, founded on the grinnell (ia.) tornado. by octave thanet. first harvests.--chapters vii-x. by f. j. stimson. (to be continued.) natural selection--a novelette in three parts. by h. c. bunner. (_conclusion_.) with illustrations. poems. by thomas nelson page, c. p. cranch, bessie chandler, and charles edwin markham. "in its one year of life scribner's magazine has taken not only an exalted and permanent place in periodical literature but one that the world could in no sense spare."--_boston traveller._ _a year's subscription, consisting of twelve monthly numbers, gives more than , pages of the best, most interesting, and valuable literature. more than illustrations from designs by famous artists, reproduced by the best methods._ price, cents. $ . a year. charles scribner's sons, - broadway, new york. a brilliant new novel by the author of "the story of margaret kent." queen money. vol., mo, $ . . "this is _the strongest story that this author has yet told_. it is essentially a novel of character-painting, more even than 'margaret kent' or 'sons and daughters'. it is superior to either of these. the merits of 'queen money' are very great.... interesting and valuable and remarkably true to life. it is a book to be quoted, to be thought about, to be talked about." looking backward. - . by edward bellamy, author of "miss ludington's sister." $ . . "'the duchess emilia' and 'she' are not more strange than this story." under the southern cross. by m. m. ballou, author of "due north," "edge-tools of speech," etc. $ . . a journey, in , to australia, tasmania, samoa, new zealand and other south-sea islands. _for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post free, on receipt of price by_ ticknor & co., boston. the sun for . the year promises to be a year of splendid political development, one and all redounding to the glory and triumph of a united democracy. in the front line will be found the sun, fresh from its magnificent victory over the combined foes of democracy in its own state, true to its convictions, truthful before all else, and fearless in the cause of truth and right. the sun has six, eight, twelve, and sixteen pages, as occasion requires, and is ahead of all competition in everything that makes a newspaper. daily, $ daily and sunday, sunday, and pages, weekly, address the sun, new york. the united states mutual accident association is offering the very best accident insurance at cost. $ , for death by accident, $ weekly indemnity, and liberal indemnity for loss of eye or limb. costs $ to $ per year. membership fee, $ . & broadway, new york. charles b. peet, president. james r. pitcher, secretary and gen'l manager. for spring planting. rhododendrons, azaleas, japanese maples, and all other hardy ornamental trees, street trees, evergreens, shrubs, roses and vines of selected quality, in quantity, at lowest rates; also, all the best fruits. priced catalogue on application. fred. w. kelsey, broadway, new york. [illustration: advertisement - young and elliott's collection of choice flower seeds] some works on natural science published by henry holt & co., new york. packard's (a. s.) works. guide to the study of insects $ outlines of comparative embriology zoology--advanced course zoology--briefer course first lessons in zoology bessey's (c. e.) works. botany--advanced course $ essentials of botany sedgwick (w. t.) and wilson's (e. b.) general biology--part i $ arthur (j. c.) barnes (c. r.) and coulter's (j. m.) plant dissection $ gray's botanical text books. at once the most complete and the best botanical series published, comprising: gray's how plants grow, gray's how plants behave, gray's lessons in botany, gray's field, forest and garden botany, gray's school and field botany, apgar's plant analysis, gray's manual of botany, gray's lessons and manual, gray's structural botany, goodale's physiological botany, gray's structural and systematic botany, coulter's manual of the rocky mountains, the same, tourist's edition, gray and coulter's manual of western botany, gray's synoptical flora--the gamopetalæ, chapman's flora of southern u.s. send for our new descriptive pamphlet of gray's botanies, containing portrait and biographical sketch of the author. books for introduction or examination furnished on very favorable terms. ivison, blakeman & co., - broadway, new york, and wabash ave., chicago. a few flowers worthy of general culture. in presenting to our large and growing company of patrons this, the fifth edition of our book, our dominant feeling is one of extreme pleasure at the generous welcome given our preceding efforts. and we offer this edition in the belief and hope that it may suggest ideas that may be of use, and that may be practically carried out in the making of gardens that must be a source of delight. the wide-spread desire for better and more artistic gardening is evidenced by the articles recently published on the subject by the foremost and ablest magazines. an excellent article on "old garden plants," in harper's monthly for december, , encourages us greatly in our efforts to popularize the hardy flowers so loved by our grandmothers, together with many fine plants of more recent introduction. as we were the first in this country to gather a fine collection of hardy plants from all quarters of the earth, and to offer them when there was but small demand for such, we are pleased indeed that so much attention is now being given to them, feeling that our efforts in behalf of the almost forgotten hardy plants, will tend to the creation of gardens more permanent and beautiful, and at much smaller outlay than any that can be made with tender plants. the fifth edition of our book is now ready. it is the largest and best work on hardy plants published in this country, and contains many finely illustrated articles, among which are, "a talk about roses;" "hardy plants and modes of arranging them;" "the making of the hardy border;" "some beauties in their native wilds;" "rhododendrons, kalmias and hardy azaleas;" "hardy aquatic plants;" "tropical garden effects with hardy plants;" "a garden party;" etc., etc. the book is finely printed on the best of paper, is of real merit and rare beauty, and will be sent post-paid, bound in durable flexible covers for cents, or in leather for cents, but the price paid will be allowed on the first order for plants, making the book really free to our customers. our descriptive catalogue, containing a complete descriptive list of the best and largest collection of hardy plants in america, sent on receipt of cents in stamps. our special list of valuable, low-priced, well-grown plants mailed upon application. b. a. elliott co., no. sixth street, pittsburgh, pa. new seeds, bulbs, plants, fruits,--rare tropical fruits. grand palms from seed. we are now able to offer for the first time, both seed and plants of that king of ornamental plants, the new filifera palm. stately and beautiful beyond description, it is the finest addition that can be made to any collection of plants, and can be grown in any window or garden as easy as a geranium. it is of a compact growth with elegant large leaves, from which hang long thread-like filaments, giving the plant a most odd and beautiful appearance. in fact there is nothing like it in cultivation and good specimens sell for enormous prices. plants are easily raised as the seed are large, germinate quick and grow rapidly. per packet cts. for $ . . year old plants cts. each, for $ . , for $ . by mail post paid. will also mail storm king fuchsias for cts., excelsior pearl tuberoses for cts., choice mixed gladiolas for cts. our giant excelsior pansies, best in the world, cts. per packet. new primrose verbena, yellow, a sterling novelty. cts. per packet. true pygmas aster, cts. per packet. our seed catalogue for is the most elegant ever issued. illustrated with colored plates, stipple-litho. covers and hundreds of fine engravings. in it is offered a great variety of flower and vegetable seeds, bulbs and plants of all sorts, new fruits and rare tropical fruits suitable for pot culture, such as dwarf oranges, pine apples, bananas, figs, guavas, sugar apple, &c. this elegant and expensive catalogue will be sent for only cts., which is only a part of its cost to us. or if you order a packet of palm seed or anything here offered and ask for catalogue, it will be sent free. special offer. for cts. we will send palm, pansy, and primrose verbena seed and catalogue. write at once as this offer may not appear again. to every order we will add an elegant seed or bulb novelty free. address, john lewis childs, floral park, queens co., n. y. [illustration: filifera palm.] chrysanthemums a specialty. our catalogue for spring of , contains a select list of new and old chrysanthemums, including: "mrs. alpheus hardy," the beautiful variety figured in this paper. also a collection of fine flowering cannas. edwin fewkes & son, newton highlands, mass. a real bonanza in seeds.--being one of the largest growers of flower seeds in america, i want to induce extensive trial, and for cts. will send, postpaid, papers choice new seeds, growth of ' , to seeds & mixed colors in each. _new large & fancy pansies, the finest ever offered_, (awarded _special prize by mass. hort'l society_) distinct sorts and an endless variety of rich colors, all mixed; _double asters; japan pinks_, vars. mixed; _large a. d. phlox; double portulaca; new godelias; new white mignonette; new nivaliana; everlastings; new giant candytuft; v. stocks; new marigolds; mottled, striped and fringed petunias; verbenas, vars. mixed; new golden chrysanthemums; double larkspurs; velvet fl.; new yellow mignonette; double gaillardia; new double dwarf zinnias; double salens; new double white aster_, the finest white ever offered; _butterfly fl.; double daisies_ & other choice kinds, amounting to $ . at regular rates, but to introduce will send the whole papers for only cts. this is an honest, square offer, but if you doubt it, send cts. or letter stamps, and i will send you sample papers, my choice, but including _pansies, asters and improved prime sweet williams_, vars. mixed. am sure a trial will prove all claims. new catalogue _free_. l. w. goodell, pansy park, dwight p. o. mass. the popular science monthly, edited by w. j. youmans, is filled with scientific articles by well-known writers on subjects of popular and practical interest. its range of topics, which is widening with the advance of science, comprises: domestic and social economy. political science, or the functions of government. psychology and education. relations of science and religion. conditions of health and prevention of disease. art and architecture in practical life. race development. agriculture and food-products. natural history; exploration; discovery, etc. it contains illustrated articles, portraits, biographical sketches; records the advance made in every branch of science; is not technical; and is intended for non-scientific as well as scientific readers. no magazine in the world contains papers of a more instructive and at the same time of a more interesting character. single number, cents. yearly subscription, $ . . d. appleton & co., publishers, new york. points to advertisers. nothing is sold without pushing, unless it has a monopoly. no two articles can be pushed in exactly the same way. in advertising you want to reach possible _customers_, not merely people. the best mediums for one line of goods may be the worst for another. advertising should not be visionary, it should not be attended to as a mere pastime. success means thought, the day of chance successes is nearly over. it costs no more to publish good matter than it does poor. the preparation of an advertisement is as important as the publishing. an advertiser needs an agent, as a client does a lawyer. the agent, however, asks no retainer and saves his customer money. a merchant cannot study advertising all the time--a good agent studies nothing else. the customer's interests are the agent's. if the agent is to succeed, the business done must be successful. the undersigned want business, but not badly enough to handle what is "questionable." they are honest and capable, their customers say, and they give close personal attention to their business. herbert booth king & brother, advertising agents, broadway, n. y. (copyright, .) send for circulars. a valuable work upon american trees, which should be in every library in the united states. fourth edition, just ready. price reduced. emerson's trees and shrubs. the trees and shrubs growing naturally in the forests of massachusetts. by george b. emerson. fourth edition. superbly illustrated with nearly plates ( beautiful heliotypes and lithographs), vols. vo. cloth. price, $ . net; formerly $ . net. the same, with of the plates beautifully colored. price, $ . net; formerly $ . net. though this work nominally treats of the trees and shrubs of massachusetts, it is equally applicable to the flora of many other states; indeed all new england and a greater part of the middle states. in it is described every important tree or shrub that grows naturally in massachusetts, and in other states of the same latitude, the descriptions being the result of careful personal observation. it is, indeed, a comprehensive and convenient manual for almost every section of the union. the illustrations of these volumes constitute one of their most important and attractive features. a large number of the plates are by the eminent authority on this subject, isaac sprague. volume i. treats of the pines, oaks, beeches, chestnuts, hazels, hornbeams, walnuts, hickories, birches, alders, plane trees, poplars, and willows. volume ii. treats of the elms, ashes, locusts, maples, lindens, magnolias, liriodendrons, and the shrubs. little, brown, and company, publishers, washington street, boston. houghton mifflin & co's beautiful new books. biography. memoir of ralph waldo emerson. by james elliot cabot. with a fine new steel portrait. vols. mo, gilt top, $ . . henry clay. vols. xv. and xvi. in series of american statesmen. by carl schurz. vols. mo, gilt top, $ . ; half morocco, $ . . patrick henry. vol. xvii. of american statesmen. by moses coit tyler. mo, gilt top, $ . . benjamin franklin. vol. x. of american men of letters. by john bach mcmaster, author of "a history of the people of the united states." with a steel portrait. mo, gilt top, $ . . novels and short stories. the second son. by mrs. m. o. w. oliphant and thomas bailey aldrich. mo, $ . . the gates between. by elizabeth stuart phelps, author of "the gates ajar," "beyond the gates," etc. $ . . paul patoff. by f. marion crawford, author of "a roman singer," etc. crown vo, $ . . jack the fisherman. a powerful and pathetic temperance story. by elizabeth stuart phelps. cents. knitters in the sun. a book of excellent short stories. by octave thanet. mo, $ . . a princess of java. a novel of life, character and customs in java. by mrs. s. j. higginson, mo, $ . . the story of keedon bluffs. by charles egbert craddock. a story for young folks, and older ones. $ . . a new book by bret harte. "a phyllis of the sierras," and "a drift from redwood camp," $ . . *.* _for sale by all booksellers. sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price by the publishers_, houghton, mifflin & co., boston. east th street, new york. shady hill nurseries, cambridge, mass. the source of novelties in ornamentals! the new tree lilac (syringa japonica) was first grown commercially, and first sold from shady hill nurseries. the beautiful weeping lilac (syringa ligustrina pekinensis pendula), called by mr. samuel b. parsons, at the american pomological convention, at boston (where it was first exhibited and received a first-class certificate of merit from the mass. hort. society), "the most beautiful of all our small weeping trees." this also will be sent out in the autumn of this year. here also is grown, in large numbers, the lovely little flowering tree, called the "tea rose crab," the most exquisite of all our flowering trees. ten thousand of this tree have been ordered by messrs. v. h. hallock & son. here originated the hardy perennial gaillardia (g. aristata templeana of peter henderson's new catalogue), the most showy and only hardy gaillardia of this latitude. a full descriptive catalogue, of all the things grown at shady hill, will be issued in february, fully illustrated with engravings and containing four full page lithographs, in eight colors, of the four new trees, viz.: "tea rose crab," tree lilac, weeping lilac, and the fastigiate maiden hair tree. this will be sent free to all who will send address. f. l. temple, cambridge, mass. john saul's washington nurseries. our catalogue of new, rare and beautiful plants for will be ready in february. it contains list of all the most beautiful and rare green-house and hot-house plants in cultivation, as well as all novelties of merit. well grown and at very low prices. every plant lover should have a copy. orchids.--a very large stock of choice east indian, american, etc. also, catalogues of roses, orchids, seeds, trees, etc. all free. john saul, washington, d. c. western n. c. ornamental shrubs and trees. descriptive price list sent on application. detailed description of the _new_ rhododendron vaseyi, with each list. azalea arborescens is one of our specialties. correspondence solicited. kelsey bros., highlands nursery, highlands, n. c. gardeners.--thorough, practical man, wants situation to take charge of a good private place or institution; years' experience in europe and u. s.; english, age , married, one of family; first-class reference. address j. s., care h. a. dreer, chestnut st. philadelphia, pa. gold strawberry, a new berry of very fine quality, now offered for the first time. also, jewell, jessie, belmont, and other varieties. address. p. m. augur & sons, originators, middlefield, conn. new plants. our illustrated floral catalogue of new, rare and beautiful plants, orchids, palms, roses, bulbs, vines, trees, shrubs and seeds, also, all the novelties of the season, now ready. every lover of plants should have a copy. _prices low._ send for it; free _to all_. paul butz & son. new castle, pa. [illustration: vaughan's chicago parks flowers] you are about to write for a catalogue. no doubt you want the best--the truest descriptions, the clearest notes on plant culture, plainest type and most beautiful illustrations. we have put forth every effort to make ours such. those who have seen it, say it is. it tells many reasons why you can buy seeds and plants--so many of which are grown on the western prairies--better and cheaper at chicago than you can elsewhere. then why not do so? our chicago parks flowers and plants; our market vegetables and our gardening implements make up a book that tells the whole story, and is a work of art which will please you. send cents and receive the catalogue and a paper of the above seeds free. j. c. vaughan, state street, chicago. [illustration: japan snowball] meehan's nurseries though with the usual assortment of fruits and flowers found in all leading nurseries, we pay especial attention to ornamental trees. we have nearly fifty acres of these alone, and well on to a thousand varieties. japan maples . and . japan snowball --a specialty-- send six cents in stamps for descriptive catalogue. thomas meehan & son, germantown, philadelphia, pa. orchids palms and fine tropical plants. we have the most complete collection of fine plants in the country. descriptions of specimens and a general catalogue of stock can be had on application either at th avenue, new york city, or at the rose hill nurseries, new rochelle, n. y. siebrecht & wadley. [illustration: chrysanthemums] [illustration: lawson pomona nurseries ] [illustration: farquhars' boston seeds] [illustration: the new model--our--latest and best mower.] tried by time practical people are well pleased with the recent development in horticultural journalism by which the young american garden absorbed the old _gardener's monthly_, which included the _horticulturist_, started by andrew jackson downing, over forty-two years ago. i told our local society just what i really think the other day, that you come the nearest my ideal of a horticultural monthly for popular circulation of any of the makers of such literature.--chas. w. garfield, _sec'y michigan horticultural society_. the magazine in now clearly the best horticultural publication in america, and soon i trust i can say the best extant.--dr. e. lewis sturtevant. as much as i regret the melting away of that old landmark, the _gardener's monthly_, of which i was a reader since , as glad i feel that the transfer has been made into good hands.--r. maitre. _florist, new orleans._ i have been a subscriber to the _gardener's monthly_ from its first number. i feel sorry that the journal is going away from philadelphia, but am glad it has gone into such good hands.--chas. h. miller. _landscape gardener, fairmount park._ indispensable to the fruit growers, horticulturists, gardeners and florists (both practical and amateur) of this country.--cyrus t. fox, _state pomologist of pennsylvania._ it is a lamentable failing of horticultural educators in making the work intricate and apparently hard of execution. your new cover is in perfect accord with the contents, viz.: it expresses and teaches horticulture pure and simple.--geo. r. knapp, _rahway, n. j._ adapted to the wants of amateurs, country dwellers, practical gardeners and fruit growers, the american garden has stood the test of time, the great leveler, and receives the endorsements and support of all these classes in every section and many lands. the equal in cost and value of many $ , and $ publications, this handsome and practical illustrated magazine of horticulture costs only $ . a year. in club with garden and forest for $ . . address: e. h. libby, publisher, broadway, n. y. the american florist, a semi-monthly journal for florists, and all who grow plants or flowers under glass. it prints nothing but hard common-sense matter, the experience of practical men who have been there themselves and know what they are talking about. _liberally illustrated. price, $ . a year of numbers._ sample copy cents in stamps. american florist co., la salle st., chicago. [illustration: forest trees] [illustration: trees rochester - commercial nurseries.] [illustration: new and rare trees and shrubs] red flowering dogwood, exochorda grandiflora, weeping dogwood, euonymus latifolius, weeping beech, berberis thunbergii, purple beech, magnolias, golden syringo, chinese cypress, new conifers, japan quince, yellow wood, hydrangeas, japan gingko japanese maples, spireas, golden -<japanese umbrella and sunray pines>- golden oak. alder. -------------------------------------------- --> new and rare trees and shrubs, <-- -------------------------------------------- fruit rhododendrons yews, trees, junipers, small fruits, chinese azaleas hemlocks, tree pÆonies, arbor vitÆ, roses in variety, hardy azaleas retinosporas, american holly, camellias dwarf, blue, conical, herbaceous pÆonies, weeping and other spruces, shade trees & hedge plants. assortment of pines. ------------------------------- plans made, estimates furnished, grounds laid out, catalogues on application. parsons & sons company, limited, kissena nurseries, established . flushing, n. y. seeds, seeds, seeds. to our friends who have not already received it, we are ready to mail our new catalogue of high class seeds for , containing all the novelties of the season, both in vegetable, flower and tree seeds. j. m. thorburn & co., john street, new york. our manual of everything for the garden is this season the grandest ever issued, containing three colored plates and superb illustrations of everything that is new, useful and rare in seeds and plants, together with plain directions of "how to grow them," by peter henderson. this manual, which is a book of pages, we mail to any address on receipt of cents (in stamps.) to all so remitting cents for the manual, we will, at the same time, send free by mail, in addition, their choice of any one of the the following novelties, the price of either of which is cents: one packet of the new green and gold watermelon or one packet of new succession cabbage, or one packet of new zebra zinnia, or one packet of butterfly pansy (see illustration), or one packet of new mammoth verbena, or one plant of the beautiful moonflower, on the distinct understanding, however, that those ordering will state in what paper they saw this advertisement. peter henderson & co & cortlandt st., new york. [illustration: w. w. rawson & co.] botany classes furnished with fresh plants and flowers from the southern mountains, including all the azaleas and rhododendrons found east of the rockies, i can furnish rhododendron vastyi and shortii galacifolia, and other rare plants. order shortii early, as it blooms in march and april. t. g. harbison, principal of highlands academy, highlands, n. c. * * * * * transcriber's note: missing and/or damaged punctuation has been repaired. errata: p. : (floriculture) 'county' probably error for 'country'. "... scores of young men in all parts of the country have..." p. : (lawn) 'whch' corrected to 'which' "... finely pulverized compost which may be brushed in." p. vi: (western n. c. ornamental shrubs and trees). 'rhodendron' corrected to 'rhododendron' "descriptive price list sent on application. detailed description of the _new_ rhododendron vaseyi, with each list."